#an exercise in writing and then sharing said writing even if it sucks
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The Five Times I Hooked Up with Mary Goore (and the One Time I Couldn’t) - Chapter 4
stunning artwork of a scene from chapter 1 by @dominaarts that I've been dying to share!
Summary: A miscommunication between Thomas and Des results in a night of Dahlia and Mary dog sitting together. When a record breaking storm rolls in, Dahlia's faced with the decision on exactly how much vulnerability she wants to reveal.
Rating: Explicit, 18+ MDNI
Mary Goore x OFC / 15.4k words
Warnings: language, thigh-riding, p in v sex, mentions of recreational drug use, alcohol, storms, thunder, slight angst
A/N: Thank you for your patience and support as I've taken the time to write this. This was a difficult chapter to write as it starts building the foundation for the turning point of the story and I wanted to get it just right. Leave a comment if you'd like to be added to the taglist 🥰
1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5
ao3 link
Hook-up #4: Thomas’ Room
Codependency was something I tried really, really hard to avoid. I’d long prided myself on my
feral independent streak and would be damned if anyone, man or woman, made me reliant.
But I had to admit, I really missed Des.
This was the shitty part of relationships. It seemed that when the people you love found someone that they wanted to devote themselves to, their time seemed to be sucked along with it. I understood where she was coming from. The novelty of a budding relationship is a unique and addictive feeling. I don’t blame her for chasing the high.
While she tended the fire that she and Thomas were building, she was opting for spurts of lighter fluid rather than bits of soul-sourced kindling. And now her fire was growing and spreading, sometimes out of control, and it seemed like all of her time and resources were devoted to managing it. Which meant that some of her other relationships had to be put on the backburner until the flames could be brought to a dull roar.
As if a sign from the universe, the stars finally aligned (or perhaps just our schedules), and Des and I were able to spend the afternoon together. It was exactly what I needed: some time with my best friend.
After grabbing a couple of iced coffees from the boutique coffee shop downtown (at her insistence, of course, because the higher price was reflected in the quality of the roast, or something like that), we walked to one of our favorite thrift stores to pillage through the inventory. I felt a certain warmth creep through my chest as we entered the store. The smell was a bit musty, perfume-like, a permeating oxymoron of both dirt and cleanliness. It reminded me of our friendship: unlikely, brutally opposite at times, but unique and complimentary.
The shop worker greeted us with a nod and a smile from the front counter and went back to browsing through her magazine as she sat on her high-rise stool, painted fingertips skimming over something about interior design. Des and I beelined to the back racks in the furthest room from the front of the shop. We knew that this was usually where they kept the good stuff.
Thrifting was an exercise of equal parts skill and patience. It was best to go in with zero expectations of both finding anything or looking for a specific piece. My most successful trips had been ones where I’d happened upon things I didn’t even know I’d wanted (or like, for that matter). In fact, I’d long ago learned not to become discouraged when a trip turned out to be a bust. Busts were to be expected. The goldmines, however, outweighed the insolvencies.
“It feels like forever since we’ve gotten to do this,” Des said as she stopped in front of a circular rack of short-sleeve knit shirts. She began sliding the hangers across the scraped metal, pausing to glance over each shirt as she did so.
“It has been,” I replied. It wasn’t said with malice; more so, my tone conveyed a neutral honesty that I knew we’d come to appreciate about each other. Despite this, I could tell I’d struck a cord at the slight fall of her facial features.
Des took a half-step back and turned to me with a sad smile. “I know I haven’t been around as much. I’m sorry.”
“I understand.” And I did. She knew I did. But the morose feeling was still etched into her features in soft hatched lines and so I quickly added, “Not everyone can be a hot musician with Heraculan biceps. I’ll take my spot in line.” I gave her a wink, which seemed to soften her expression.
I turned back to the rack and started thumbing through the medium-sized graphic tees. Quite a few were worn crewnecks of casinos or bars from around the state, though a couple school spirit shirts were peppered in. I nearly shuddered at the smiling beaver mascot that reminded me of puberty.
Des broke my focus. “What about this one?” She held up a small white t-shirt with an image of Strawberry Shortcake on it. “Your muse!”
“One time I tell you about my obsession with Strawberry Shortcake and the Big Apple City as a child…” I mumbled, rolling my eyes as I continued culling through the rack. Des laughed and set the shirt back.
“I don’t think your tits would fit in a small, anyway. Plus, it had a stain.” She pushed a couple more shirts to the side before turning her torso to me. “Speaking of cake, I heard you and Mary had a get together last week.”
A week had passed since I’d last seen Mary. I’d received another text a few days after our night of baking telling me that the cake was killer and his mom was impressed, but it’d been radio silence since. In any other situation with any other person, I’d probably feel irritation or some sort of anger; an inward creeping as to why this guy wasn’t at all interested in seeing me after a weirdly uncharacteristic close-knit evening. But this was Mary. He wasn’t known for punctuality or routine. On the contrary, Mary was a bit of an enigma, coming and going as he pleased, with zero rhyme or reason to his decision making. He seemed to do what felt right to him in the moment — whatever that may be. Or at least that’s how things appeared.
The hanger I was sliding across the rack stilted, the fabric of the shirt still pinched between my fingers. My eyes widened slightly, and I failed to control the blush that crept into my cheeks. I refused to meet her stare, but knowing Des, she was giving me an all-knowing look.
“You know, when I suggested that you make a cake for his mom’s birthday, I didn’t think that meant that you’d be doing it together,” she teased.
“Neither did I!” I said. Although I’d meant for it to come out nonchalantly, I’d sounded more defensive than intended. I tried to brush it off by swirling the iced coffee in my hand, ice cubes clinking and clashing as I brought the straw to my lips to take a sip.
“I didn’t know you and Mary were that close,” she speculated.
I choked on the watery coffee that had been midway down my throat and brought a hand up to wipe at my mouth, coughing a little into my palm.
Before I had a chance to respond, she cut me off, wide-eyed, a smile tugging at her mouth. “Wait, no. Doll, you didn’t!”
I looked over at her with a surprised defensiveness that completely gave away the truth. Shit. Time for damage control. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
Des’ smile only widened. “Dahlia, did you sleep with him?”
I didn’t know how to answer. It wasn’t as if I was ashamed to admit it. Mary was attractive. Sure, his reputation was a bit strange and extreme, but to those in the metal scene, it wasn’t anything too out of the ordinary. But there was something that I liked about keeping Mary and I’s friendship hidden. Or were we friends with benefits? Was it even a friendship?
“You totally did!” Des said in response to my silent rabbit hole. I sighed and started to aimlessly shuffle through some sweaters on the next rack. Des began to laugh and looked at me coyly.
She walked over to the same rack that I was currently stationed at and rested her hand against the metal bar, leaning into it. “I swore I saw you two making out on the couch a while back at Thomas’, but he told me I was seeing shit,” she added, shaking her head in disbelief.
I hummed a noise in response, barely audible. My fingertips traced along a loose thread of a knit sweater and I rolled it between them, trying to focus on the scratchy acrylic yarn instead of the beet red burning in my face.
“That WAS you two! How long has this been going on?” I didn’t think it was possible for her eyes to get any bigger. They reminded me of saucers. Or satellite dishes. Maybe of the middle-aged woman at my work that thrived on office gossip and smelled like cat piss.
I rolled my eyes and pulled a sweater off the rack to pretend to check the tag. “Nothing is going on,” I said. 80% Polyester, 20% Cotton. “We’ve just hooked up a few times. That’s it.”
Des cocked a curious brow. “A few? Wow, add that to my list of shit I didn’t expect.” She brought her half-drank iced coffee to her pink lips and took a slurp of the drink. I couldn’t tell if I was more annoyed at the sound or at her.
“So, what’s he like?” She grabbed a cardigan from the small section and pulled it up to inspect it, holding it to her thin frame to gauge the fit. “I bet he’s into some spooky, dark shit, like bloodletting or autoerotic asphyxiation or something. Oh! Or a piss kink!”
The garment I was holding was slammed back into the rack with more force than I’d meant. “Des! What the fuck?” I whispered loudly, trying to make a point that this was not something I wanted to talk about in public. Sure, no one else was in the back of the store, but that was besides the point.
She held up a hand in defense. “Sorry! He looks like the kind of guy that’d be into that stuff.”
I brought the hand to my face that wasn’t holding the slippery, condensation-covered cup of coffee. With a sigh, I rubbed my left eye. “I am not having this conversation.”
Des brought her hands down and tilted her head with a look of disagreement. “Oh, come on! Why are you always so uptight about talking about this stuff?”
I took a step towards her and lowered my voice just slightly. “Unlike you, I don’t feel the need to advertise my sex life, thank you.”
“I don’t advertise it, I just…reflect on it. It’s what normal girlfriends do — talk about the guys they’re with.” She turned to the next rack that was uncomfortably close to the one we had been rifling through and pulled a pair of corduroys out to give them a look over. “Who else would I talk to about it?”
She had a point. I breathed out a sigh and set my cup on the display atop the circular rack. “I guess you’re right.”
I looked up at her to see her sporting her signature smirk. “I’m always right. Now tell me, what’s he got hiding in those tight jeans?” She waggled her eyebrows for emphasis and I let out a chuckle, shaking my head.
“You are the last person I need to explain the intricacies of the male anatomy to.”
“Come on, Doll. I need details!” She whined, tossing the corduroys back onto the rack.
“Curiosity killed the cat, you know.”
“Good thing cats have nine lives.” She stuck out her tongue at me and I reached over to make a swipe at grabbing it, earning me a chuckle and a shove.
I laughed too, and if I was honest, I felt a semblance of relief that the weight of my secret had been lifted from my shoulders, even if just minutely.
She took another annoyingly loud slurp of her iced coffee, the drink now edging the bottom line of the cup. Peering at me from above the lid, she broke contact with the straw.
“Now, spill.”
🜏🜏🜏
It was early evening on a Friday. I’d managed to get off of work a little earlier than expected — a relief given that I’d worked overtime these past few weeks to try to save up enough money for an unexpected car repair. The extra time turned out to be just what I needed to pack some last minute items in my backpack for the weekend.
Des had asked — practically begged — for me to “do her a solid” and pet sit for her for a couple days over the weekend. My confusion rang heavy in the air when I realized that one, she didn’t have any pets, and two, neither did Thomas.
“It’s his parents’ dog. He’s supposed to watch it this weekend, but he was able to book a couple last minute shows out of town that would be really good for the band,” she’d explained. Then, in almost overly characteristic Des-fashion, she gave me the eyes. The fucking Puss in Boots look.
And those damn Dreamworks eyes had me hesitantly agreeing to watch the pawned pooch at Thomas’ place.
It didn’t sit well with me. He was supposed to be watching his parents’ dog. But instead, he was having a friend of his girlfriend stay at his place to watch a dog she’d never met. I’d just hoped the dog was nice.
After walking my bike to the back porch to lean it against the siding hidden from view from the street, I rounded back to the front door and gave it a few cursory knocks. As if on cue, loud barks began to sound — distant at first, but louder as the seconds went on — and I could just make out the scuffle of feet and claws against the hard floor.
The door swung open and Des was restraining a black blur of tail and tongue and teeth. He wasn’t overly big, per se, but from what I could tell from his overexcited movements, he had to be at least forty or fifty pounds.
“Hey! Come in—” she strained, holding the excited dog back as it wagged and wiggled in her arms.
I slipped past the dog and kicked off my shoes on the hinged side of the door as she slammed it shut. “Brutus!” Des grunted as she tried to crouch over him and use her body weight as leverage.
I straightened up and watched with choked giggles as she tried, and nearly failed, to keep him from charging me. “He’s — umph — he loves people —” said grumbled as the dog, presumably named Brutus, broke from her grasp and hounded over to me with a tail so violently wagging that I was afraid his hips would fly right off. He knocked into me with surprising force for his size and I toppled over to the ground. A slimy, velvety tongue began to attack my face and neck and I shrieked out in laughter as we rolled around on the floor.
“Brutie! Brutus, off!” Des yelled. I could barely hear her over my screeches and giggles.
A couple of moments passed and the dog calmed, crawling comically into my lap before curling up and looking at me with a panting smile. I ran my hand along the top of its head, scratching behind his pointed black ears.
“Sorry, he really, really likes people. Not much of a watchdog,” Des said.
“It’s fine. He’s cute,” I replied, moving to scratch under his chin. “What breed is he?”
Des snorted. “Fuck if I know. Thomas says he’s a mutt. I think he’s a rescue.”
“Those are always the best ones,” I countered, earning a nuzzle into my hand from the furry canine nearly falling out of my lap.
After a while of chit chat and petting the mammoth-sized wannabe cat splayed in my lap, I peeled my backpack off and set it against the wall and stood up to follow Des into the kitchen. She explained Brutus’ feeding schedule (“He will try to convince you that he’s starving to death. Do not fall for it.”) and his typical routine, then showed me where Thomas’ parents had left the vet info in case of emergencies. It seemed pretty straightforward (easier than I’d expected, honestly), and I felt grateful that Thomas’ backyard was fenced off. A lost dog was the last thing I needed in life right now.
Just as Des was setting the written feeding instructions back down on the counter, the door leading to the garage opened from down the hallway, and a pair of heavy footsteps came thunking toward us.
Thomas came into view. He ran a hand through his hair, pulling at the locks a little as he glanced around the kitchen and dining area, turning a bit in his spot as if running through an imaginary list in his brain. By now, I’d seen Thomas in a variety of moods: ecstatic, embarrassed, exhausted, angry, piss drunk, and of course, the moments where he was absolutely enamored with Des, but I’d never seen him look so stressed before. His eyes looked tired yet his pupils were wide, countering the lines that were settling in around the corners of his eyelids. I’m not sure that he even noticed his shirt was inside out.
“We found the pedalboard at the guys’ apartment. Some asshole put it on top of the fridge,” he sighed and put his hands on his hips as he looked up at the ceiling as if he were trying to visualize what he needed to do next. After a beat, he looked back down and his eyes met Des’ quizzical look.
“Don’t ask. I don’t even fucking know.” He seemed to finally register that it wasn’t just his girlfriend in front of him and his demeanor changed a little. He straightened, almost toughened, and gave me a confused quirk of the eyebrows. “…Dahlia, what are you doing here?”
I mirrored his look. “Uh, Des said you needed me to house sit?”
Thomas looked between myself and Des, his face moving from a look of confusion to a look of what could be argued as annoyance. “Really?” he asked, taking another step closer to Des. “I thought I mentioned I’d figured all that out, babe.”
Desiree looked up at him with an innocent smile and rolled her lips between her teeth. “Whoops. Must have slipped my mind.”
He sized her reaction, clearly unconvinced. “Okay. Sure.” I was certain he was going to add something, but his potential dialogue with Des was cut off when the garage door opened again and the telltale sound of clunking boots against hard flooring cut through the air. I felt my heart simultaneously drop and expand in my chest. I had come to know that sound.
“Everything is tied and tarped. I feel like fucking Patrick Bateman sans nailgun and Huey Lewis and the News.”
I had really come to know that voice.
Mary rounded Thomas and Des and joined the impromptu party in the dining area. I shoved my hands into my pockets and rocked back and forth on my feet as I felt his stare bore into me from feet away. It was clear there had been a mix up, and although I couldn’t be certain that Des had something to do with it, I had a pretty good idea of what had happened.
“What’s going on?” Mary asked as he looked around the uneven circle of his friends. Brutus trotted over and began to sniff at his pant legs and Mary reached down to scratch the hound’s forehead. Mary’s long hair hung around him in strands, the ends clumped together in damp sections as it fell from around his shoulders and back.
“Why is your hair wet?” Des asked him. I was sure it was her way of breaking the awkwardness.
Mary looked at her with an air of obviousness. “Shower,” he replied.
“Oh…weird,” she said, and I had to stifle a giggle by turning it into a cough.
Thomas rolled his eyes. “He’s full of shit. It’s raining outside and he’s been helping me load and tarp equipment in the truck.” Thomas reached out and clasped a hand to Mary’s shoulder, which to be fair, was dotted with what appeared to be wet raindrop marks. “We all know you hate bathing,” he added.
Mary scoffed and shoved Thomas. “Fuck you guys.”
The air turned uncomfortable again, bordering sour, and it was Thomas who broke the silence.
“Well, it looks like there’s been a miscommunication on who’s looking after this asshole,” Thomas started, looking directly at Des as he spoke although it was clear he was referring to the dog. She continued flashing her innocent smile, eyes still large as if concurrently seeking forgiveness and feigning ignorance.
I felt compelled to speak up. I hated awkward silences, and I especially hated being the butt of one. “It’s not a big deal. I can head out if Mary’s got this,” I said with a shrug.
“—It’s pouring out there!” Des quickly countered, looking between Thomas and I.
Her defensive quip caused me to crinkle my eyebrows in response. “Bullshit, I was just outside and it was fine.”
I looked over at the sliding glass door to my left and sure as shit, the glass was coated in fine droplets sliding down to puddle at the deck below. The sky hadn’t been much more than overcast on my ride over, but it now swirled with tones of ash and charcoal. A storm was approaching.
I sighed and rubbed my eyes. “Shit, well…I rode my bike over here.”
I could tell that the cogs were turning in Des’ mind as she tried to decide if she’d respond with comfort and support of her best friend or her boyfriend: the ever present dilemma. I felt a pang of guilt plague my stomach.
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll figure it out. You guys go,” I offered with a small smile. Forced, of course, because now I was stranded at someone else’s house with someone else’s dog and of course a particular…someone else.
“You sure?” she asked. I could see Thomas eyeing me from behind her, his own expression mirroring her words. It was clear this was just as much of a surprise to him as it was to Mary and I.
My gut told me to stay focused on the couple ahead of me, but my impulsiveness won over, and I glanced at Mary. He was watching with a look of amusement, arms crossed over his chest as his head batted to and fro between speakers. I swallowed lightly.
“Yeah, go. Go! It’s fine.” The voice was mine, but the words were clearly not my own.
A few uncomfortable and quick words were shared, and both Des and Thomas grabbed their overnight bags and popped them into the cab of the truck before driving off down the quiet residential street towards the gig a few towns over. And I was stuck in the ranch-style home with Mary Goore, an overexcited rescue dog, and an approaching storm.
🜏🜏🜏
After piling into the car and sloshing down the road en route to the gig a few cities over, Des and Thomas were mid conversation about the situation that had happened just moments before.
“Don’t tell me you’re doing what I think you’re doing.” Thomas started, fingertips tapping against the wheel as they sped down the interstate.
Des rolled her eyes. “They’ve been fucking!” Her voice was defensive. She quickly added, “Did you know that?”
Thomas kept his eyes on the road and drummed his fingers along to the song playing in the background. “No, and I don’t—” he sighed, removing one hand from the wheel to grasp at the back of his neck, “Jesus Christ, Desiree, you can’t play matchmaker on this one.”
Des crossed her arms over her chest. “Why not? Have you seen the way they look at each other?”
Thomas briefly turned his head and gave her a serious look, sternness that nearly reminded her of her father. “Don’t stick your nose in where it doesn’t belong,” he said.
“What is that supposed to mean?” Des shot him a look that dripped in sass. Any other time it would have spurred a different set of emotions in him, but not this time. He held his ground.
“Just — fuck, baby, I’ve known Mary for a long time and he’s not really one to settle.”
Des scoffed. “You think getting with Dahlia would be settling?”
“No, not like that.” Thomas sighed again in frustration. “He’s not big into commitment. Doesn’t like to be tied down. Mary’s…not a relationship kind of guy.”
It was quiet for a few seconds as Des pondered his response. “Well, I’m not saying they need to get married or anything,” she reasoned, “I’m just giving them a little push, is all. A weekend together, alone, no one to barge in and no expectations. It’s the perfect recipe for them to realize what they have going on.”
Another silence filled the cab of the truck. The sound of steady rain pelted against the windshield, only for the squeaky wipers to flick it off rhythmically, creating its own song and dance that counteracted the punk tune on the stereo system.
After a moment, Thomas relented. “Don’t come crawling to me with those big, sad eyes when this ploy of yours blows up in your face.”
“What big eyes?!” Des craned her neck over and stared him down, though it was clear she couldn’t hide the smile bursting through her tough facade.
“You know exactly what I’m talking about, babe.”
Des winked in his direction and the tension seemed to melt away. She reached over to grasp at his hand — the one that had fallen to his lap after drumming on the steering wheel — and laced their fingers together.
He let out a long breath and relaxed into the touch before grumbling, “They better not fuck on my bed.”
🜏🜏🜏
When Des and Thomas left, it was like they sucked what little comfort there had been straight out of the room. Sure, the house was occupied by two people and a dog (which some would even consider to be too crowded; three’s company and four’s a party and all that), but there was a timidness that I felt that seemed to have grown since my other outings with Mary. Maybe it was the unexpectedness of it all. Or perhaps it was my own lack of control in the situation. Regardless, I’d planned on staying a couple of days anyway — what was so bad about waiting out the storm to ride home?
I stood there, hands in my pockets as I continued to rock on my heels, before deciding to break the tension. “I should probably pick up my stuff,” I motioned to the general area my backpack was in and then quickly turned to retrieve my things.
Backpack in hand, I headed to the bathroom to unpack. I’d packed light (because in all honesty, who did I have to impress), but I was searching for any and all excuses to put some distance between myself and the awkward situation I’d been thrust into. I pulled a toothbrush and toothpaste out of a plastic bag I’d jammed into the front pocket of my rucksack, mirroring the action with my face wash, moisturizer, and small bag of makeup essentials. I futzed for too long with the placement of the items, moving them from sinkside to against the wall and back again, before I gave up and sat back against the wall opposite the vanity.
A few minutes went by and I felt a low growl erupt in my stomach. It was nearly six o’clock and I’d had yet to eat anything. I pulled out my phone, deciding to order takeout, and scrolled through the suggested nearby restaurants before settling on a well-rated Chinese place down the street.
I was ready to press send on my order, but I remembered the elephant in the room and groaned, heaving myself up and making my way out to the main area of the home. Mary was nowhere to be seen. I turned around and upon noticing the garage door was ajar, I walked the short distance down the hallway and slipped into the adjoining garage.
Mary was sitting in a camper chair in the empty space, lit cigarette between his fingers, with Brutus at his side. He was tossing a rope toy to the dog somewhat lazily, taking drags of the lit stick every so often. The garage was partially opened, just enough to let in the cool, damp air of the storm, and raindrops pittered in at the edge of the threshold.
As soon as I shut the door to the house, his eyes shot up to meet my own and he nodded in greeting before tossing the toy to the opposite end of the garage for Brutus.
“I’m ordering Chinese — you want anything?” I eventually spoke, body still against the steps connecting the sunken garage to the house.
Mary let out an exhale of smoke and tapped the cigarette into a coffee can on the ground. “Whatever’s fine. I’m easy to please.” His telltale smirk painted his lips and I could see the mischief swirling behind his eyes. “But you already know that,” he added.
I felt my eyes nearly roll out of my head and hopped down off the step, rounding him to sit in another nearby chair. As uncomfortable as his digs were supposed to be, they had the opposite effect. I didn’t do “awkward” with Mary that well. Sexual tension was another story.
I added a few more items to the order and typed in my card information from memory before submitting the order, quickly clicking my phone off and stashing it in my pocket. My focus was broken when Mary interrupted the silence.
“How’d you get roped into this?” he asked, head turning to glance at me.
I sighed and rubbed the side of my face, showing my slight annoyance. “Desiree.”
Mary laughed, a warm chuckle that I’d grown to appreciate, and he ashed the cigarette into the can below him. “You’d think they’d learn to communicate with how they fucking act around each other.”
I stretched out my legs, sinking back into the camper chair. “Oh, I’m sure it was communicated…” I remarked.
Mary looked at me quizzically, head turned towards me again to flash those phthalocyanine eyes that somehow looked brighter in the odd lighting of the garage. I brushed off his look, not wanting to get into the specifics of the conversation I had with Desiree or the fact that she knew about our history. “The dog seems to like you.”
“Brutus and I go way back,” he said.
“Really?” I said with raised brows.
Mary laughed out again in response, that ever-present balmy giggle that pulled at the corners of his lips sending a wave of warmth through my body. “No, I’m just fucking with you. I’m good with animals,” he paused and his lips curled into a grin, ”when I’m not microwaving them, of course.”
My mind raced back to our first encounter together. The streetlights on the walk towards the abandoned warehouse. Paper bags with shaved ice and forties. Shitty gas station snacks. And our conversation about reputation. Namely, his reputation. “Oh, of course.” My tone was one of mock seriousness, and I couldn’t help but giggle at the memory.
I watched as he took another drag from the dwindling cigarette and then turned to look out at the half-closed garage door. The raindrops pelting against the shingled roof and cracked concrete driveway were the only audio that suffused the space, with the occasional exhale of pillowy smoke from the musician next to me.
It was Mary that broke the silence again. He always seemed to be the one to do that. “Thanks again,” he started, hand waving around aimlessly as he spoke, “y’know, for the cake and shit.”
“Yeah, of course. I’m glad your mom liked it.” I spoke earnestly and my expression was one of sincerity. It felt foreign.
“She fucking loved it. She was surprised I had anything to do with making it,” he laughed and tapped his cigarette into the can.
“Oh come on, you can’t be that bad of a cook,” I replied.
He raised an eyebrow at me as he turned to face me. “I’ve burned water.”
My jaw dropped just enough that I was sure it looked like I’d catch flies. “I…didn’t think that was possible.”
He shrugged and turned back to face forward, the cigarette now a stubby, crinkled nub between his middle and pointer fingers. “You should know by now that I’m full of impossible surprises.”
I leaned forward, turning my torso to point towards him while I pulled my legs criss-cross into the camper chair. “How on earth do you woo a woman if you can’t even cook fucking Kraft Mac n’ Cheese?”
“Women aren’t typically after my cooking skills. Or lack thereof,” he flicked the remaining ash of the cigarette down and it missed the can. He didn’t notice. “I’ve got other talents,” he paused, “Wooing isn’t really my style.”
I let his admission ring in the dampened air. It wasn’t surprising. From what I’d heard, he’d never had trouble landing women — particularly after gigs. “The life of a musician…” I trailed off.
Another silence built as the rain colored the absence of our conversation. I could hear Brutus’ slight snores as he lay curled at Mary’s feet, seemingly tired from their earlier game of fetch. A breeze broke through the cracked garage door and swirled around us, bringing a chill into the otherwise comfortable space. I pulled my hoodie a little closer, feeling the cool air dance across my cheeks and the skin peeking through the jacket.
“I think I’m gonna head in. I’ll let you know when the food is here.”
Mary didn’t say anything in response — merely nodding and taking out another cigarette from the worn Marlboro carton — and I made my way back inside with a heavier mind than I’d come out with.
🜏🜏🜏
I’d puttered around the house for what had seemed like ages, but in reality was likely only a handful of minutes. As familiar as I was with some of the rooms at Thomas’, I had to admit that there were areas I’d never been to, namely his room or the basement. As rude as it might have been, I’d given myself a self-directed tour of the place, noting the half-completed projects he seemed to be working on to fix up the house. I wasn’t sure if that was a sign of Des domesticating him or if the house really was a secret pride-and-joy.
Eventually, I found myself in the den, sinking into the worn plaid couch that already held too many memories. I pushed them down and reached for the remote to the TV, opting just to hold it as my thoughts zoomed. I could probably put on a movie to kill some time until dinner arrived. It wouldn’t be long and it would serve as a nice distraction.
I got up and thumbed through the impressive number of DVDs stacked next to the TV. Most of them were action or horror (no surprise there), and I settled on a film I’d never seen before: The Amityville Horror. I told myself that the fact that a young Ryan Reynolds was on the cover had absolutely nothing to do with the choice.
After some cajoling, I figured out how Thomas’ TV and DVD player were set up and popped in the disc, pressing play on the machine before sinking back into the couch. The blue screen transformed to darkness as the credits played and I waited to be taken to the home screen.
Mere seconds into the film, I heard a knock at the door and I paused the movie to jog up and out of the sunken den to the front door. I was met with an absolutely drenched delivery driver holding out a large brown bag in one hand and a soaked receipt and pen in the other. I shot him a look of apology and took the receipt, signing and adding on a much more generous tip than I’d originally intended, before trading him for the food. His eyes lit up when he saw the receipt and he dashed back to his clunker parked out front.
I ended up parking the heavy bag of Chinese on the kitchen table. My thoughts were broken when I heard Mary coming in from the garage, heavy footsteps once again thunking down the hallway. A pitter of claws trotted behind him.
“Food’s here,” I said, already opening the bag to take out the various containers.
We grabbed our respective containers and utensils and made our way to the den, me sitting on the couch while Mary sat on the floor, his back against the edge of the couch with his legs spread out wide. I opened up my container of sweet and sour pork and doused it in sweet and sour sauce, mixing it up with the cheap excuse for chopsticks that they provided before settling into the back corner of the couch and pressing play.
“You’re watching this trash?” Mary said, words muffled by a mouthful of Beijing beef.
I rolled my eyes, though he couldn’t see it from his position on the floor. “I’ve never seen it.”
“It’s a shit remake.”
I grabbed a piece of pork between my chopsticks and lathered it in sauce before popping it into my mouth. “Well,” I said while chewing, “no one’s making you watch it.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve got nothing better to do.”
“Gee, thanks,” I said with a hint of facetiousness.
“Don’t get your panties in a twist,” he all but grumbled, reaching in the container to grab a piece of beef with his fingers.“You knew what I meant.”
I shuddered as I watched him pop the piece of meat into his mouth with his fingers. “Are you…eating that with your bare hands?” I asked with a surprised chuckle.
He shrugged his shoulders again. “Chopsticks are frustrating. Why use those when I have built in chopsticks right here?” He pinched his fingers in the air, just high enough that I could see them from my spot on the sofa.
I paused, reaching into the takeout container to fish around for some sort of accompanying vegetable. “I…don’t know how I feel about that, to be honest.”
“You didn’t seem to mind my fingers the last time you were on that couch,” he retorted, tone dripping with cheekiness that I knew was accompanied by a smirk I couldn’t see from my vantage point.
I sighed, trying to pay no mind to his constant coquettishness. “Well, they weren’t covered in Chinese food when that happened.”
“They could have been.”
I reached over and grabbed one of Thomas’ throw pillows from across the sofa and tossed it down directly at his head. Mary yowled and grabbed at the back of his head.
“Hey, ow- fuck, you almost made me spill!”
I waved my chopstick dismissively. “Shh, I’m missing what’s happening.”
“Not missing much…” he grumbled, grabbing another piece of beef with his fingers. I looked down and dug into my food again, picking at some snow peas, and took a bite to keep me from my desire to respond with something sarcastic.
I watched the screen as the beginning of the movie continued to unfold with the dreary undertone of music and darkened filter plastered over shots of the house and rainfall outside.
I knew that in fiction, rain was often used to signal something darker, uncontrollable, and innately scary. While a gentle storm could symbolize rebirth or the washing away of something unclean to show a new beginning, a thunderstorm was different. Thunderstorms were brash, explosive, and undeniably cacophonous — a symbol of power, wrath, danger, and darkness. As the scene cut to a shot of the rainy setting, I couldn’t help but liken it to the rain pelting the windowpanes of the window behind the couch. They were both intense storms and I wondered what symbolism life could be trying to show me, if any at all.
We watched mostly in silence, with the occasional jolt from me during a poorly timed jumpscare or a shake of the head and grumble from Mary (which after the third shove of my foot into his shoulder, he got the message that he was being obnoxious).
Unbeknownst to me, the movie had a quick sex scene, which with anyone else would have been a non-issue watching. But with Mary, I felt oddly different. I found myself wondering what he was thinking as we watched the main characters move intimately against one another. Because, if my memory served me right, the last movie we watched together had something similar, and he had reacted in very specific—
My thoughts were interrupted by yet another jumpscare and I squeaked in surprise, nearly dropping my empty takeout container. Mary chuckled and turned around with a smug smile.
“Everything okay back there?” he asked.
“Just fine. ‘Surprised me…” I grumbled, pretending to dig around in the empty container for more food. I was sure he could see right through me. I was easy to spook.
Eventually, I set my empty container on the side table and reclined back into the couch again. It felt weirdly quiet, and I noticed that Mary had gotten up at some point and left.
“Seems he found something better to do with his time,” I thought. Not that it mattered, anyway. I hated the kind of people that talked constantly during movies, and I could tell Mary was doing his best not to criticize nearly every piece of dialogue and every scene.
“Here.” The voice snapped me from my thoughts and my eyes refocused to the space in front of me, noticing an uncapped beer just in my line of sight. I took it with a thank you, noticing Mary had one of his own as he decided to sit opposite to me on the edge of the couch instead of on the floor. I tried not to think anything of the change and cast my eyes towards the movie.
“Did….did she just put a whole ass bong into her purse?” I asked after watching the babysitter in the film try to hide her bong after smoking in the bathroom. I took a swig of the beer Mary gifted me and looked over at him.
He laughed. “I’m telling you — this movie is idiotic at best.”
“I hate that I’m invested enough that I want to see how it ends,” I replied after a minute, adjusting my position on the couch to spread out a leg, my foot barely missing the side of Mary’s thigh.
“I’m happy to tell you how it ends,” Mary countered, taking a pull from his own bottle.
I shook my head in reply. “Might as well finish it. In your words, we’ve ‘got nothing better to do,’” I grinned at him with a chuckle and set my eyes back on the screen.
After the movie finished, we both stretched out our limbs, and I stood to collect the empty containers.
“That’s 90 minutes of my life I’ll never get back,” Mary grunted with a sigh.
I rolled my eyes. With how things were going, I’d be surprised if they didn’t roll straight out of my head and onto the shitty shag carpet on the floor. “Oh come on,” I began, “It wasn’t THAT bad…”
“Well, it sure as shit wasn’t good,” he chuckled sarcastically.
I let out a defeated breath. “Okay, I’ll admit that it wasn’t the best movie I’ve seen.”
“Clear from it,” he postured, lounging back a little as he took a swig from his beer “The original does a much better job of staying true to the book and creating that building suspense th—”
His words were cut off by another loud crack of lightning. This one sounded close, and by the looks of the fulmination that painted the windows, it was.
I let out a shriek when the lightning and its ancillary crash cracked through the den and beyond. My hand flew to my mouth in surprise and I soon rubbed it over my eyes bashfully.
“Shit, I didn’t know you could make that noise,” Mary chuckled, eyebrows raised in an expression of slight surprise. I looked over and flashed him the middle finger, a scowl on my face, which only increased his laughter.
“How about we put on another movie,” he suggested, then added quickly “—but I pick.” I thought about it, pondering the many choices of movies that Mary could choose on a night like tonight, and shook my head.
“Maybe music is a better idea?” I replied. I walked to the edge of the den and started up the few stairs that connected it to the hallway. “I’ll toss these while you get it set up,” I called over my shoulder.
When I returned, Mary was finished messing with the stereo system and Sonic Youth’s Daydream Nation was playing softly through the speakers. I took a seat on the floor, copying Mary’s earlier posture with my back against the front of the plush furniture, and spread my legs out and crossed them at the ankles.
“Didn’t take you as a Sonic Youth fan,” I said as I settled into the space.
Mary smiled and turned his head towards me. “I told you I’m full of interesting surprises.”
I suppressed a giggle. “I was thinking of other types of surprises when you said that.”
“What kinds of things were you thinking of?” he asked, brow quirked.
I felt my cheeks flush at the coy look on his face and looked away, trying to figure out a way to change the conversation. Mary just laughed.
“Wow, doll face, I didn’t expect to take up that much real estate in your mind. I’m flattered.” He put a hand to his chest and stared over me with a broad smile.
“Stop it.”
He cast me a look of confusion. “Stop what?”
“That thing you do!” I began. My voice raised a little in volume and pitch. “The thing where you act all smug and ooze sex appeal!”
This seemed to intrigue him and he turned to face me from his spot in front of the entertainment system. I knew that if his shirt was off, I’d be able to see the flexion of the muscles in his abdomen. I mentally kicked myself for even thinking that.
“Sex appeal? I didn’t know you were so pious.”
I felt myself bristle and sat up a little straighter. “What? No, it’s not about piety.” I ran my hand through my hair in frustration. “You just don’t have to make everything an innuendo!”
At this, the crusty metalhead in front of me had the audacity to laugh. “Wow,” he chuckled, “way to act like a total prude.”
“I am not!” My eyes shot daggers at him and I’d hope they’d materialize and hit him straight in his smirking face.
“I’m surprised you made it through that sex scene…” he looked up at me from under a raised brow.
I huffed. “You of all people should know that sex doesn’t bother m—” I cut myself off as I felt fire heat my cheeks.
“You were saying?” he snickered.
“Oh, fuck off Goore.”
“Sure thing. Wanna watch?”
“I’ll leave that to Brutus.”
As soon as his name was said, Brutus’ ears perked up and he let out a whine. I realized it had probably been hours since he’d been outside.
“We should probably let the dog out,” I said. As soon as he heard the word ‘out,’ Brutus sprung up and began trotting to the sliding glass door in the kitchen. I got up with a slight groan, muscles stiff from sitting on the floor, and Mary followed.
“I can take the dog out by myself, y’know,”
“Yeah, but the view is so much better if I come with.”
I felt frustration pool in my chest at this and he seemed to sense it as well, adding, “Chill out, I was just grabbing a couple more beers.”
After coaxing Brutus outside with some choice words said in the nicest voice I could muster (and maybe a push on the bum), I waited at the sliding glass door for him to return from doing his business. A towel was thrown by slider and I grabbed it to wipe down the dog on his re-entry.
I watched through the window as the storm really began to rage. Fat water droplets ricocheted off the glass pane like rubber bullets and thunder rumbled a low death rattle. Mary came up behind me and put the two bottles on the kitchen table. He fished around in his pockets for his bottle opener on his key chain.
A loud, booming sound followed by a high pitched crack and a monstrous thud rattled the foundation of the house. I let out an embarrassingly loud scream and jumped back from the sliding door. My body collided with Mary’s more solid one behind me, and immediately his hands found my upper arms to steady the both of us. I leaned back into him, not caring enough about self-restraint as my head tipped back against his shoulder.
My chest heaved as my adrenaline dissipated, and I could feel Mary’s hands rubbing up and down the lengths of my arms. I swallowed thickly, then clenched my eyes tight. I felt his breath arm against my ear as he leaned in.
“You good, Doll?”
His voice was smooth, oddly soothing, and the reverberations that pulsed through my ear and into my chest were much different than the shaking of the foundation from the subsonic boom moments prior.
I nodded and looked out the window. A mature tree limb, one measuring at least 15 feet long, had fallen to the ground in the backyard from the force of the thunderstorm. My immediate thought went to Brutus and I feared for the worst, but as if on cue, his body came running towards the door like a bullet. His little black body began pawing at the door and yet, I felt frozen in my spot to Mary. His body stayed pressed against the back of mine, hands still rubbing little circles against my triceps. Neither of us moved to open the door.
Brutus’ bark seemed to jolt us both from the haze. I slid the door open and immediately wrapped the medium-sized dog in the towel to dry him off. The little black mutt followed me as I walked back into the wood-paneled den and I sunk down on the couch next to Mary with a sigh.
Mary handed me another beer and I graciously accepted. “You know,” he started after taking a sip of his own, “I’m not used to women screaming around me unless my name is involved somehow.”
“Is it usually preceded by ‘fuck off’ or ‘get the fuck away from me’?”
“I was thinking it comes after ‘harder’ or ‘fuck me,’ actually,” he said, pausing a beat before casting a look of cautious puzzlement. “Who pissed in your Cheerios?”
I chewed on my cheek as I picked at the label of the beer bottle. “I hate storms,” I admitted with a sigh.
“I hadn’t noticed.”
The squall of the storm caused the windows behind the weathered old sofa to vellicate. Stills from the movie of torrential downpour around the boathouse flashed into thought. I recalled the swirling blackened sky from the sliding glass door from moments before and found myself comparing the dread from the film to my stomach sinking the moment the tree limb fell heavy against the hard ground. What if it had fallen on the house, or the dog? What if it had been a consequence of a lightning strike and started a fire?
I shook myself from spiraling. “I’m not afraid of a lot of things,” I pointed out, “but storms...they freak me out. They have ever since I was little. Loud noises and all.”
Mary chuckled at this. “You listen to thrash metal,” he countered.
“That’s different!” I ran my hand through my hair, gripping at the back of my scalp in frustration. “Storms are destructive. One minute it’s a normal day and the next - bam - people lose their homes, their jobs, their communities…decades and centuries of history even. It’s chaotic and terrible and…unpredictable. It’s fucking armageddon.”
Mary had turned to face me from his spot on the couch, one leg semi-crossed over the other. “Big bad metal chick like you afraid of some thunder and lightning? Color me surprised, dollface.”
The asshole had the audacity to smirk at me. So, I reached out and smacked him in the shoulder.
“Ow! I was being serious!” His tone was playful as rubbed at the spot on his shoulder. “You’re not the kind of person to let a lot of emotion show.”
I felt myself bristle. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He shrugged. “I dunno…you just don’t seem afraid of anything. Kinda just ‘go with the flow’. It’s weird to see ya all panicked and shit.”
I scoffed and clicked my tongue. “You obviously don’t know me very well.”
“Oh, I know you inside and out, dollface,” he grinned.
My cheeks blushed garnet. “Only some of me,” I grumbled.
“Really? What else you got hiding?” he chided, sitting up a little straighter, a little closer. “Got any secret pockets in those pants?”
Now, it felt like my whole face was on fire. I remembered the cargo pants he made fun of me for on our first excursion, and the tongue-in-cheek wording was absolutely purposeful. I rolled my eyes.
Any other time I would have had a quick quip or nonverbal response lined up to banter with him, but another crackle of thunder roared through the sky, and instead, my body physically flung itself up an inch off the cushions in a reactive jolt. My hands gripped onto whatever was near me — which in this case, was the right arm of the couch and coincidentally, the right arm of Mary.
The sound of the thunder was replaced with the onslaught of water against the windows behind the sofa and I let out a breath I didn’t remember inhaling. I looked down at my hand gripping onto Mary’s forearm, fingers digging into the demon ink staring up at me across otherwise pale flesh, and I quickly retreated.
I cleared my throat. “S-sorry,” I choked, “Reflex.”
Mary didn’t seem phased at all. He turned towards me, his upper torso craning to meet mine perpendicularly, and a hand came to my knee. “What helps?” he asked plainly.
“I…what?”
“What helps?” he repeated, his tone still matter-of-fact.
“Oh. Um…” I swallowed and looked down at his hand resting on my left knee, right over the fabric of my pants. I wracked my brain in a feeble attempt to think of something that had aided my fear in the past.
But I couldn’t think. I couldn’t even breathe properly as the heat from his hand sunk through to my covered skin. I imagined that hand six inches higher, resting on my thigh as he spread them apart on the rooftop all those weeks ago—
“Distraction!” I blurted out. I hardly even recognize my voice as I did so. I finally looked over to meet the stare I’d felt carving into my irrationally fearful form and saw those fucking eyes, green and honey and framed with brows that were pursed in a way that conveyed allure. I finished letting out my caged breath. “Something to keep my mind off things and give me another sense to focus on. My parents used to, uh, read to me. Make up stories. When I was old enough, I’d hum songs or picture scenes from movies…”
Embarrassment flooded my bones. I felt childish, weakened, exposed like a raw nerve or a root scabbing from crisp air. We didn’t talk much about our pasts and he wasn’t somewhat I typically indulged with this kind of vulnerability. But as I searched his eyes for a crinkle of amusement or a flash of judgment, I found none. Instead, I found focused pupils and a heady stare.
He broke the pregnant pause. “Maybe I could distract you with something different.”
I rolled my lips in and stilted the air in my lungs. His hand weighed heavily on my leg.
“We’ve tried music. And movies,” he began, briefly casting his glance towards the middle of the living room where the TV sat against the wall and we’d sat and listened to Sonic Youth. “We drank shitty beer and ate shitty Chinese—”
“—I liked the Chinese—” I interrupted in a murmur, still watching as he soaked in the visual of my legs pressed together, his hand firm and steady.
“—so in my eyes, we’ve used sight, hearing, taste, and by association, scent. Which means, we’re missing one…”
Touch, I thought to myself. A shiver whispered down my spine. While his words trailed off, he mimicked the action with his hand. The firm hand that once sat solid on my knee began to travel up the expanse of my left leg. His fingertips ghosted my inner thigh with just enough pressure to make a point.
I gathered up the courage to look up at him again and this time, the verdant hue of his eyes was overtaken by wide pupils that bore into me like he was clawing his way to comfort.
I’m not exactly sure what happened next. The haze in my brain matched the low visibility from the storm outside. But before I knew it, I could feel the warmth of his proximity, the grip of his hand tightening on my leg as his other one gripped the nape of my neck, tugging and pulling me into him like a life preserver.
His kiss was exactly as I had remembered. Soft yet slightly chapped, starting as a fervent pressing of lips on lips that moved into tilted heads and the drag of a tongue against my own parted mouth. I reveled in the feeling and gripped onto his shirt with both hands, fisting it like he’d float away if I let go.
Had I been more cognizant, I’d have laughed at the fact that his action was much more than touch. It was scent (cheap cologne and leather and musk) and it was taste (cheap beer and filmy cigarette residue that I was surprised I could crave) and sight (technicolor behind my eyelids that erupted against dark) and it was sound (of the smacking of lips on lips and the occasional clang of teeth, the rustle of fabric and the springs of the couch as we shifted to accommodate one another).
And down we fell, my twisted torso mirroring his own as I lay plush against the flat seat of the couch. Mary moved to encapsulate my form with his own, knees brushing the worn plaid upholstery as I parted my legs to gift him space. My hands found the tops of his shoulders and as I gripped, his own hand moved from its entrapment on the nape of my neck to cup my jaw, thumb bruising against bone. I fought the urge to wrap my legs around his body and hold him in like he was to me. Touch. I didn’t care.
But before I could, he slotted one of his legs between my own, the other digging between my left thigh and the seam of the couch. I let out a groan as he pressed the meat of his thigh against my center and he smiled against my lips, nipping at the bottom one.
Touch. I craved that movement as heat built deep within my abdomen and pooled down past my navel. Shamelessly, I rocked my hips against his leg to chase the feeling of pressure, of grazed fabric on fabric. Testing the proverbial waters.
Again, a smirk against my lips. His free hand gripped squarely onto my hip. But instead of a teasing nip or squeeze, he pulled away just barely, breath ghosting against my face.
“That feel good, Doll?”
I couldn’t begin to think of how to respond. Instead, I canted my hips up again, slower this time, enjoying the friction of denim against my own clothed core. I suppose that was enough of an answer, because he held his leg firm and pressed a kiss to the corner of my mouth.
He hummed. “You gonna use me to get yourself off, dollface?” he breathed in question. His voice was lust-dipped and low, barely above a whisper yet it rang so heavy in my chest that I could swear it was deeper than the thunder.
I let out a noise in response (something like a mix between a whimper and a hum) and again rocked up into the muscle of his leg as I pressed my forehead to his, eyes squeezing shut to focus on the sensation blooming between my thighs.
“Use your words,” Mary all but tutted, voice still low in timbre.
“Yes,” I sputtered. Fuck dignity.
He hummed in response and captured my lips with his again, pressing hard as he kissed me with purpose. His hand on my jaw moved to grab my other hip and he let his body fall into mine as he pulled my body up into his leg in time with my own movements. “Keep going,” he murmured against my mouth. Touch. Sound.
Unabashedly, I moved my hips into his thigh with the help of his strong grasp. The friction changed as I felt my own arousal begin to dampen the fabric of my panties and I groaned into the kiss at the feel of the cotton gliding over my clit with each quickening movement.
Mary’s mouth moved across my jaw and down to the crook of my neck and shoulder, and he began to work at the skin there, biting and sucking along the sensitive areas he’d been cataloging since our last time on this couch. My eyes fluttered open half-lidded in the darkness and I raked my hand through his long hair, gripping it against the scalp as I moved senselessly against him, chasing a release I knew he could provide me.
“Fuck, you’re so eager,” he growled out against my skin. I swear I could feel the pounding of his pulse through our mashed chests and his words only increased a need that I’d been suppressing since he’d fucked me breathless against my kitchen countertop.
Mary’s distinct scent clouded me, wet-straw colored hair hung in my peripherals, cigarettes and cheap beer and the taste of his kiss covered my lips and tongue, fabric rubbed against fabric and wet mouths primed heated skin, and every explosion of his body rocked and pulled and ground against mine into a sensory explosion. Smell. Sight. Taste. Sound. Touch.
No more storm. No more thunder. No more rain. We made our own natural disaster.
And I was distracted. Fully distracted in that I didn’t recognize it was my voice that let out a breathy ‘so good’. So successfully distracted that the beeping of the notification on my phone was easily discounted. In fact, the subsequent beeping that followed seconds later was also minimized. And the one after that. I could feel the fuzzy feeling building deep below my navel and I chased it with every movement of my body against Mary’s, and the feeling of his own hardness growing against my thigh made me that much more desperate. He was clearly getting something out of this, too.
“Take what you need,” Mary’s muffled voice sounded against my clavicle. “Take whatever —fuck— take whatever you want, babydoll.”
So, I did. I ground furiously against him and reached for the peak of my climb, oblivious to the buzzing and chiming of my phone on the coffee table beside us. Except, we’d forgotten we weren’t alone, and not everyone was able to ignore the phone’s noises.
Brutus’ deep, loud barking rang through the sunken den unexpectedly, causing both Mary and I to jump in surprise, Mary’s head knocking against the side of my jaw. He rose up on his forearms instantaneously and gripped his forehead with a loud ‘fuck’ and I matched his reaction as I cupped my jaw and let out a slew of expletives.
The light from my screen illuminated the once sleeping dog’s face and I groaned out as I haphazardly reached an arm towards the table to feel for my phone. I unlocked the device and was met with a litany of notifications from Des. I groaned and slammed my head back against the couch cushion. For working so hard to get Mary and I alone together, Desiree sure knew how to cock block.
I brought the phone up and with squinted eyes, I read over the text messages that had gathered over the last hour.
Des: how’s it going over there?
Des: i heard the storm is supposed to get even worse
Des: is brutie doing okay? He gets whiny with loud noises sometimes
Des: shit someone on instagram posted that the power is out for like 5,000 people. you still okay?
Des: wow. okay. don’t answer me. you guys must be really busy 😏
Des: there are condoms in the bedside drawer 😘 cum stains wash out best with cold water ❤
Des: you still never told me about his dick btw
By now, Mary had sat back on his haunches and the pressure of his thigh was completely gone from where I most wanted it to be. “Who is it?” he asked, rubbing at his forehead.
“Desiree,” I replied in a neutral tone.
Mary let out a sarcastic laugh. “What does she want?” He leaned down to try to get a peek at the phone screen and I snapped it to my chest tightly.
“Just checking in to see how we’re faring the storm!” I said a little too quickly. I cleared my throat to try to force down the nervous lump that was forming. “And wanted to see how Brutus is doing with the thunder.”
I expected Mary to eye me suspiciously, but if he had caught on to anything, he surely didn’t show it. I typed out a quick response to Des, explaining that yes, we were okay, and no, Brutus wasn’t being a handful, before adding a quick ‘fuck you’ and an eyeroll emoji to her later comments.
I set the phone down on the table and looked up at the man currently straddling my body. My heart began to speed up again as I took in my surroundings. It was dark in the room, but the light from the storm outside and the glow of the kitchen nearby illuminated him with chiaroscuro that any Renaissance painter would envy. Judging by the bulge in his jeans, the interruption wasn’t enough to sully his erection, and he looked down at me as if he was waiting for me to say the words to continue.
I felt my chest tighten and another crackle of lightning peppered the room in flushed white. What was I doing? This was Mary: resident bad boy, metal enthusiast, best friend of my best friend’s boyfriend, and come to think of it, a guy who never seemed to show up with the same girl at his side. I didn’t sleep around purely from the fact that it was impossible for me to avoid catching feelings. Blame it on the oxytocin release.
But nothing we had done was wrong and nothing had been the result of deeper feelings, right? We were two consenting adults, two friends that enjoyed each other’s company. Couldn’t that be enough? Sex didn’t have to equal commitment or a deeper connection. It could be loose, free, fun. It was what Des always encouraged me to explore, anyway. Right?
Despite my reasoning, I felt a weight pressing on my sternum and threatening to rise up my throat. His stare was piercing, and all I could smell was leather and cologne and cigarettes, and the taste of him on my bottom lip, and his weight on my legs, and my breath felt like it was going to rip my lungs open and—
“We should turn in for the night,” I blurted out.
I searched his face for any sort of reaction and was met with a split second of confusion before his demeanor went calm.
“Sure, if that’s what you want.”
Take what you want rang heavy in my ears from just moments before.
“Y-yeah, it’s getting late and I worked today, so…”
He stood up from his position over me and I sat up against the arm of the sofa. I chewed my lip, battling the decision I’d just made for the both of us.
“I’ll take the couch, you can have Tommy’s bed,” Mary said nonchalantly as he took a swig from the forgotten beer bottle on the coffee table. Oddly chivalrous.
I shook my head almost immediately. “No, I’ll take the couch.” Mary opened his mouth to protest, but I held firm. “I am not sleeping in Thomas’ bed. That sounds like the 7th circle of hell. My best friend is frequently naked in that bed and who knows when those sheets were last washed.”
Mary laughed at this. A deep chuckle and a shake of his head as he motioned towards me with the beer bottle between pointer finger and thumb.
“Oh, don’t tell me you’ve never seen her naked.”
Embarrassed, flustered, and wholly unsatisfied from practically humping the metalhead in front of me, I scoffed. “Not like that and not by choice.”
Mary grinned in enjoyment of my response. “Stay up late and play with each others’ tits after a pillow fight?”
A frustrated groan breached my lips. “You’ve been watching way too much porn, Goore,” I said. I reached for one of the long discarded throw pillows and lobbed it at him, feeling a hint of disappointment when he dodged it easily.
He held up both hands, one still holding the bottle. “Suit yourself,” he began, backing up while still facing me, then adding with a smirk, “don’t get too scared with the storm.”
I watched as he turned and made his way down the hallway, beer in hand as he ventured to Thomas’ room. Leaning back into the cushions of the couch, I sighed.
🜏🜏🜏
My fingers curled around the stiff microfiber blanket that I’d lazily thrown over myself as I’d sunk into Thomas’ well-worn plaid couch.
I tried to coat myself in the scratchy throw to avoid the feeling of the couch cushions on the exposed skin of my legs and arms. It was a touch-memory that brought me back to flying high in the same den, legs straddling the man that now slept peacefully down the hallway in the master bedroom.
As much as I didn’t want to reconcile with the feelings of fear, I was on edge. The movie set my panic into motion, but the worsening storm was what lit the engine. It had progressed from the percussive pelting drops against the windows and siding to roars of wind and sprays of harsh rain that sounded like fire hoses. Thunder boomed every so often and I heard its fallout whip through the trees with horrid whistles — true cries of the damned.
I let out a shaky breath and reached my hand down to pet the dog curled on the bed on the floor. Focus on the fur. Soft. Spindle it between your fingertips. Smooth. Warm. My heartbeat started to calm and my lizard brain crept back into its recesses.
My eyes relaxed in their shut state and I nuzzled a bit harder into the pillow. I felt my exhaustion begin to take hold. And just as I began to float into the downward spiral of sleep, a boisterous crack sliced through the sky. It reminded me of the jet planes that flew at the air shows when I was little - the ones that broke the sound barrier - and my shriek that followed rivaled in volume.
Bright white lightning strobed through the windows of the house. A quick succession of flashes flickered like a searchlight on the fritz. The house went dark again.
The dog's ears perked as he sat up and I followed suit, blanket bunched around my knees and clutched with firm fists to my chest. Just like after a blinding camera flash, my eyes were shot. I could just barely make out the shapes of the furniture and walls.
“You okay?” a voice asked mere feet away from me.
Startled, I let out another quick scream before slamming my palm tight against my mouth. My eyes continued to adjust and I noticed the figure turned from swirling black mass to humanoid to Mary within a split second.
“I’m fine,” I breathed out. I brought my hands down to grip onto the couch cushions. Mary stood before me in his boxers. Messy hair tousled around his shoulders and chest in waves a la 1980s glam rock (though I was certain that bedhead was a more likely culprit) and willed myself not to search through the inky black of the den to determine if he was wearing a shirt or not.
“Do you usually scream like a banshee when you’re fine?” he quipped as he crossed his arms over his chest.
No shirt I noted.
I rubbed my hands against my face, pressing my fingertips into the sockets of my eyes. “Just not a fan of storms.”
“Yeah, so you said.” A moment passed. The only sound in the air was the howling wind from outside until he broke the quiet. “You sure you’re good out here?”
“I’ve got Brutie.”
“Alright,” he sighed. After a moment, I could feel he’d left again, and I willed myself back into the couch cocoon I’d built myself.
I must have fallen asleep. Be it the adrenaline crash or the exhaustion, I wasn’t sure how I’d finally managed. It was in vain, however, when another loud burst of lightning and thunder rumbled through the house. The same strobe of light pulsated briefly, and in the distance, a booming crash. Before I knew it, I was on my feet.
Fuck this fuck this fuck this I whispered to myself as I sped through the house. My hands reached out in front of me as bumpers to the still unfamiliar landscape, and after padding down the hallway in bare feet, I reached around for the doorknob to Thomas’ room.
His room was better lit than the living room. The orange-y glow of the one working street lamp in the distance painted the walls with a near apocalyptic hue and illuminated Mary’s sleeping form on the bed. He was facing away from me, but I could tell he was out (shocking considering the resonance of the lightning and thunder).
I bit my lip and crossed my arms over my shoulders as I shifted my weight from foot to foot. I didn’t even know what I was doing here. I sure as hell didn’t want to sleep in Thomas’ bed, and the thought of sleeping next to Mary made me more anxious than anything. Well, except the storm. What was I thinking? I felt like a child standing at the foot of their parents’ bed after having a nightmare, waiting with fearful eyes and too-small pajamas for them to invite me in for the night.
Duller thunder hummed outside and I was reminded of the fear that had clenched my chest just minutes prior. I suppose it wouldn’t hurt having another person with me, could it? Clearly, the dog wasn’t enough.
I slowly sank onto the opposite edge of the bed, making myself featherlight, and lifted one leg up along the mattress as my other foot held firm against the floor. Mary didn’t move. I swung the other leg up onto the bed and pulled the covers down before sliding under, the shifting sheets whisper silent, and leaned back against the pillow.
I lay board stiff, hand on my chest, and watched as the tree branches dappled the streetlight in whooshing patterns across the ceiling. Like dark sparkles, it lulled me into a sense of calm, and I let my eyes fall shut again. The bed shifted and I felt Mary turn over, arm flopping out towards the middle of the bed to land hand first into my arm. His eyebrows crinkled in his sleep and his eyelids fluttered wearily at the feeling of his skin against my own.
“Doll?” he asked, eyes stained with sleep.
I turned my head to face him, hands still clasped against my chest. “Sorry, I—” I began, taking a moment to let out a shaky breath, “ — I freaked out.”
I braced for a chuckle, eyeroll, anything that was typical of Mary, but it never came. Instead, he lifted up the blankets as if to silently beckon me over. “C’mere,” he croaked, voice clearly still lethargic.
In any other situation, I’d take pause, but this wasn’t any situation. I scrambled over like a child. He tucked his arm around me and brought me to his bare chest. I could smell the fragrance
of the shampoo he used as I rested my head in the crook of his neck (I guess he’d been telling the truth about that shower), and my own arms came up to curl against his skin. An arm flopped around my middle, pulling me impossibly close, and our knees brushed under the blanket.
Surprisingly, I felt calmness wash over me. I likened it to the bear-like embrace, skin-on-skin, some sort of instinctual response to the comfort of another human. But his heartbeat pumped strongly beneath my fingertips and I could feel his steady breath floating across the top of my hair and down my neck, and in that moment, I wondered if it was a little more than just human instinct.
A beat percussed in time. I traced my fingertips along the skin of his arm, ghost-light, dipping down the valleys and peaks of muscle that I knew flexed taut when he strummed his Epiphone SG. Goosebumps appeared under my digits and he shifted under the sheet.
“Tickles,” he murmured atop my head.
“Sorry,” I whispered, bringing my hands back to rest against his torso. Sandwiching them between the cotton of my oversized tee and the smooth skin of his pecs would have to do.
It was quiet — so quiet that I assumed he had fallen asleep again. But his soft breaths were broken by his even softer voice. “You’re cute when you’re scared,” he said.
I let out a chuckle. “Gee, thanks.”
He hummed and although I couldn’t see it, I could hear his tongue wet his lips, jaw pressing against the top of my head from the movement. “It’s different from the typical Dahlia.”
My mind raced back to our earlier conversation, the one where he’d accused me of hiding my emotions. Is this what he meant? Was fear what he considered transparency? I looked up at him quizzically, breaking the connection of his chin using my crown as an actual headrest.
His eyes were open, and despite the foreglow of the streetlights and darkness, I could better feel his stare than see it. His hair was still a step down from a rat’s nest, tangled from sleep, and strands hung down around his angular face. His cheeks were beginning to stubble with five o’clock shadow. Breaths pushed past his lips steadily, even, but beneath the pads of my fingers, I could sense his heart pumping solidly in his chest. Only a hairline fracture separated our faces.
Outside, a whistle of strong wind thwipped against the siding of the house like a widow’s cry and my body instinctively tensed. His arm that had lethargically slung across my waist impulsively tightened and he pulled me even closer.
“Hey…” he soothed. His brows were drawn in concern, and his hand traveled from the c-bout of my waist and up, up, up my tricep. It was less of a greeting and more of a reminder to land back in the present, to focus on my senses (touch, taste, smell, sight, sound), to remember I was right here, right in this moment, and I wasn’t alone.
The mortar holding the bricks built around my heart began to disintegrate. Every block melded in a bond pattern to cage in my overcommitting self, to protect from obsession, from the inevitable swoon that I had felt with Brody and had ripped out from under me — they began to fall, piece by piece.
It was the both of us that drew our mouths to meet. The kiss was lazy, sleepy, languid at first, morphing into prolonged pecks that added a harmony to the pattering rain, gusts of wind, and bouts of thunder rumbling the outside earth. His hand continued to rub against my upper arm and beat by beat, the kiss heightened, and slowly, surely, lips met tongue, and then teeth, and I was angling my neck to the right to keep him from digging into the pillow.
Mary shifted. His fingers gripped my arm as he moved to lay halfway on top of me. Our legs tangled together, and as he slid his own against my calf, barely stilling, I was certain he’d just discovered that my nightwear consisted of only an oversized t-shirt and panties.
I could sense his erection pressing through the thin cotton of his boxers against my thigh. My brain zapped back to hours prior when he had boxed me in on the couch and let me take pleasure from his strong quads. A fire raged within me that rivaled my hair spilling across Thomas’ pillows like a red sea.
Mary’s hand moved to skim under the hem of my shirt, tracing against my hip bone before it, too, went up, up, up, hovering just over the curve of my breast before cupping it. His finger traced the outline of my nipple. Once again, surroundings faded. Nothing else existed at this moment, here, right now.
I exhaled shakily against him. Our lips were still passionately pendulating in a rhythm that the both of us had mastered by now. I took a leap of faith and pressed my thigh to his crotch, earning me a squeeze to my chest and his own shaky exhale.
Releasing my breast, Mary swept his hand to the waistband of my panties. His fingers, rough and calloused from frets and strings, dipped underneath. He sat up slightly and broke the kiss. The smooth cotton was seesawed down my legs in a series of yanks from the free hand, and he quickly repeated the action on his own boxers, tossing them aside before returning his hand back to my chest.
“Mary,” I breathed out.
“What?” he echoed. His eyes searched for something as he drank in my expression.
I swallowed lightly. “I-” I began, not knowing exactly what I was saying.
But he did. “I’ve got you,” he said. His other hand came up to brush a strand of hair from my eyes.
He kissed me again and fully framed my body with his own. I relaxed back into the pillow and he sat back to dip his hands underneath my shirt, pushing it up and off with a temporary break in our lips’ union. As he slotted himself between my legs, I looked up at him, body completely bare. I felt the anxiety creep into my chest and I was certain I looked visibly unsure — not at the prospect of what was to happen, no, but what would follow. How this would, or could, change things.
“So goddamn pretty when you’re spread out like this,” he murmured as his hands roamed up and down my torso. I took the moment to soak up the image in front of me. His lean torso was flexed as he ran his hands along my breasts and stomach, and his cock stood heavy against his pelvis, bobbing with every movement of his touch.
He gripped himself with a soft moan, stroking slowly, methodically, and his eyes raked over my form. This wasn’t our first encounter, no, but I felt truly naked for the first time.
With oddly found confidence, I reached forward to grasp at the junction of his shoulder and neck. I pulled him towards me and his other hand shot out to brace himself against the squeaking mattress. His stroking continued and I jolted when his knuckles came in contact with the ache between my legs. Without any spoken words, he lined himself up and then embraced me, hand on my shoulder as we met chest to chest, covering me like a blanket.
His pause was obvious — an unspoken ask of consent to proceed which I answered with a soft kiss. I trusted him, and I assumed he trusted me. We both craved the connection, to complete the incomplete.
As Mary pushed in, I melted beneath him. His tip pushed past and he groaned and buried his face in the curve of my neck. My hands darted out to grip onto his back and pull him close. I wanted to feel him take up space in my ribs.
Inch by inch he sank before canting steadily. I could feel every bit of him as he rocked in and out, pulling and pushing as my heat gripped him, and for some reason it felt different. Not just raw, but whole. I took in every bit of him physically, but as we moved together in the nightglow, I also consumed the parts he’d been dressing up in leather and denim and metal and dissolved it into my flesh. I took him.
And through my euphoria of connection, I barely registered my small eruptions of noises that highlighted each stroke of his cock to my core. I focused on the sensation of sprinkled electricity spreading from my cunt outwards, and his hot breath on my neck that I drank in like I was oxygen-starved.
Mary’s hips began to stutter as he thrusted a little harder into my own and my legs moved to wrap instinctively around him. I keened out louder, and he lifted his head to look at me again.
The eye contact was searing. Hot. It charred my retinas, but this time, I didn’t care. He must have sensed the vulnerability because his hand cupped my jaw and he ran his thumb across my cheekbone before our foreheads met together.
“I’ve got you,” he repeated, “Fuck, I’ve got you.”
Like his own hail Mary. I believed him. He had me now — I was in his clutches, both literally and figuratively.
His pace increased to match my ever-racing pulse. It was still steadied, sleepily focused, and I dug my fingers into the flesh of his back as I clenched down against the movement of his length, nearly trembling at the pull at my navel as each drag of him spurred fire. It was building, and I let it. My breath began to stutter and I felt tears at my waterline. The sensory overload was rhapsody and the simple, obvious connection was juxtaposed by the chaotic climax lapping at my center. I was so close it almost hurt.
I moaned his name in a half-whimper and he must have felt my urgency and desperation and the increased slick coating our joined union because he crushed his lips to mine. His thumb dug into the side of my chin as he drove firmly into my aching need. But the jerking of his hips was almost too much and I could tell he wasn’t far behind me.
As my thighs began to tremble at his sides, he broke the kiss. I looked at him with desperate longing.
“Let it go, Doll,” he murmured to me.
And unlike every other situation in life where I found myself stubbornly resisting direction, I obeyed. I followed his demand and allowed the fuzzy heat of my release to unfurl around him. I cried out in rapture and he swallowed the sound with an opened mouth kiss at the moment of impact. I tensed around him and my pussy spasmed with every lunge of his hard cock.
“Good girl,” Mary praised as gripped hard onto my shoulder and pressed his head to mine, lips separated, and I was enveloped in a curtain of golden-brown tangled strands. He began to move faster against me and I knew my orgasm had spurred something deep within him as he moaned out, “So good for me, taking me so damn well.”
His thumb brushed the breadth of my lip and dipped into my mouth, pulling down just barely against my tongue and teeth. I looked up at him with full eyes, grey hues drowned by pupils swimming from release, and I inwardly begged him to complete me as aftershocks of a violent orgasm short circuited.
“So tight,” he grunted in response. “Fuck— feel so good around me, babydoll.” His hands moved to grip my hips and with a few more jolts of his hips, his cock twitched and he groaned, features melting as he spilled inside of me. His body jerked with each spurt and his fingers dug into the flesh covering my pelvic bone as he rode out his high.
Mary collapsed into me and I allowed my eyes to close as we savored the aftermath. I’m not sure how long it was, minutes, maybe more, but eventually he pulled his softened dick from me and I let out a long breath of satisfaction. My hand moved to rest against my chest as I digested the gnawing deep within me that questioned what this was.
Mary fell to his side and pressed a quick peck to my lips before rolling onto his back and mimicking my sigh. A brief silence filled the sweat-scented air, and I moved my hand to grasp at his, squeezing it, only to receive a slight squeeze back.
Our ragged breaths eventually calmed and I opened my eyes to the textured plaster of the ceiling.
“You good?” Mary asked after a minute. I rolled my lips inward as I thought about the weight of those two words.
“Yeah, I’m…I’m good— I’m great,” I replied. It was the truth.
He hummed in response and pulled the flat sheet over himself.
“Glad I could distract you,” He said as he nestled into the right side of the bed. Before turning, he added, “get some sleep.”
My eyes searched for patterns in the swirls of the painted gypsum of the ceiling as stillness settled in. Mary’s quiet breathing turned to soft snores. Despite the calm, serene relief from a shared orgasm, my chest was tight from the inward battle of how unbelievably intimate that experience was and how deeply I was freefalling into a mess of adoration for the man next to me.
I wondered how he could so easily turn to the side and fall asleep.
🜏🜏🜏
Despite the after effects of the record-breaking storm, Des and Thomas were able to make it home a couple of days after they’d left, right on schedule.
They greeted Mary with their normal affections (a pat on the back from Thomas and a warm wave from Des), and the conversation immediately turned from a Brutus report to a play-by-play of Thomas’ shows out of town.
Des noted there was no sign of her best friend, which wasn’t a surprise. She’d received my text the day before that I was heading home and that Mary was fine staying the additional time. And despite her prodding, I’d remained tightlipped.
Both she and Thomas were unaware of the telltale morning after where I’d woken up to sunbeams instead of lightning, choosing to pack up my belongings and head out early to check on my own pet at home.
They were also unaware of the brief goodbye between Mary and I as I readied to leave — him, acting cool, aloof, and casual, as if nothing had changed, while I tried my best to mirror his demeanor with little success. Because as much as I tried to build the bricks back up, I’d let him in the night before, and he’d taken root inside the boundaries of my chest.
I suppose that just like a day spent thrifting, I’d gone into every interaction with Mary with no expectations, and each time I’d come out with something I didn’t anticipate. The goldmines outweighed the insolvencies. I didn’t know if I wanted him to be aware of this.
Above all, I was happy for my momentary blissful unawareness (at least until later during a phone call with Des) of Thomas’ outburst upon entering his bedroom after Mary had left. His exclamation of “god damn it!” rang as loud as the thunder two nights previous, causing Des to dart in with a “what?” on her lips and the expectation of disaster.
Thomas sighed, stained top sheet in hand. “They fucked on my bed.”
taglist: @soup-14 @copiasghoulfriend @thew0man @na1ven3vy @portaltothevoid @copias-juicebox @the-lisechen @anamelessfool @discountdemonwarehouse @oaksdottir
#mary goore#mary goore x oc#mary goore x ofc#repugnant#repugnant fanfiction#repugnant band#repugnant fanfic#mary goore smut#mary goore fanfic#mary goore fanfiction#the band ghost fanfic#ghost band fanfic#ghost bc fanfic#ghost fandom#my writing#5 times with mary goore#5+1 things#5 + 1 fic
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Some Sentences Monday?
Tagged by the ever-awesome @priincebutt
Okay, so I know this is meant for Sundays, but ya boi was destroyed from work and completely overstimulated so I had nothing in the tank. But after hibernating most of today, I am emerging ready to share a new project I have in the works. Getting such amazing response for Love on the Menu has really invigorated my desire to work, and now my mind is running with ideas. I've been toying with the idea of writing a historical AU for a while now, so allow me to introduce:
I don't have an official summary for it yet, but to overhype myself, this story has everything: childhood sweethearts separated by tragedy, rivaling nations full of political intrigue, magick because I've been dying to write a fantasy AU as well so por que no los dos, a tournament where the grand prize of the joust is the hand in marriage of our sweet Henry, a cliffhanger that I am so excited to write but that I know will enrage everyone that reads it...get ready, yall!
Below the cut is a massively long teaser. Forgive the roughness of it. I am just so geeked to share it, but just know I'll be working on it until it's ready. Enjoy! (If you'd like a soundtrack for this, might I suggest Surrender by Natalie Taylor?)
The air was perfumed with the scent of springtime blossoms. Beneath the shade of a great willow tree were two young lovers. One was flaxen-haired, his ivory skin rosy from the sun and littered with constellations of freckles. His body and limbs were slender and knobbly, still in that awkward phase between boy and man. His light blue eyes studied his companion with unguarded adoration. The other young man was shorter in stature, but rigorous exercise had already defined his physique. Atop his head was an untamed mass of sable curls, still wet from swimming. His unblemished skin gleamed a rich russet shade that his fairer companion couldn't stop touching. The pair had completed their lessons for the day and decided to take a refreshing dip in the lake near their school. They were naked, hidden among the willow branches, like two woodland nymphs from a fable and not two princes from separate nations. The dark-haired boy Alex lifted his lover Henry's hand and kissed the signet ring on his pinkie finger. The ring's face held not a family crest but their initials. A promise.
"When we are married-"
"You mustn't say such things!" Henry laughed even as his stomach fluttered at the very prospect. "It isn't proper."
Alex leaned down to press a kiss against rose-petal lips. "A man must state his intentions plainly, and mine are to marry you, cariño."
"You are not yet seventeen, cariad," Henry said as Alex trailed kisses along his jaw and neck. In this sacred space, it was easy to get lost in the rose-tinted fantasy of their future together. He tangled his fingers in Alex's curls, tugging at the roots. "Our parents would say it is unwise to speak of such things at our age."
"Why," Alex hissed as he climbed over Henry's body, "are you mentioning our parents when I am trying to ravish you?"
Henry arched his body into that of his beloved, gasping, "You have ravished me twice already this afternoon. Is that not enough?"
"Never."
As the twin suns began their steady descents into the horizons, the young lovers got dressed and made their way back to the school. Fireflies glowed in hues of pink, orange, and yellow as the pair discussed their plans for the following day. Given their disheveled states of dress, they were wary of running into Headmistress Beaufort or one of their professors as they made their way back to their dormitory. Unfortunately, fate was not on their side, and they rounded a corner and nearly crashed into Professor Wagner. He was a squat toad of a man who taught history and hated Alex for his frequent interruptions during lessons. His face held a perpetual bitter expression, as though he had just sucked on an unripen lemon. He berated them for looking and acting beneath their station and gave them detention for the following fortnight working in the stables with Gerald the groundskeeper. (It wasn't the punishment the man thought it was. They enjoyed Gerald's company, especially when he was joined by Julian, the music professor. Henry was convinced they were in love, but Alex said he was delusional.)
They scrambled upstairs to their shared dorm room to change. Dinner was already in progress when they joined their social set in the dining hall. Alex's older sister June was discussing a novel with Henry's twin sister Beatrice while their best friends Percy and Nora played cards. As Henry took his spot between Bea and Pez, his sister poked at the poorly concealed love mark Alex had gifted him earlier and teased, "My dear brother, it would appear you have been mauled by pixies. Should we alert Gerald of a possible infestation?"
Alex, seated across from him between June and Nora, snorted into his goblet, and Henry kicked his skin beneath the table. Giving his sister a tight smile that told her he knew exactly at what she was playing, he said defensively, "It was only a single, annoying pixie. Hardly cause for alarm."
"Annoying?" Henry's stomach filled with regret the moment the words left his mouth at Alex's fallen expression. He looked away from Henry. "Perhaps the pixie will direct their attention elsewhere if they are such a nuisance."
Alex would not meet his eye for the remainder of the meal. Once Headmistress Beaufort dismissed the students for the evening, Alex was up like a shot. Henry felt the disapproval of their friends and loved ones as he stood and trailed after Alex like a lovesick puppy. When Henry reached the common room of their dormitory, he found Alex chatting with Liam, the son of a nobleman from his home country. While he knew there was no danger of them forming an attachment, jealousy sparked in his chest, hot and ugly. He strode over to them and said, "Alex, I wish to speak with you."
Alex's expression was that of cool indifference. "Yes?"
Ignoring Liam and tugging on Alex's arm, Henry insisted, "In private."
Alex rolled his eyes but stood, shoving past Henry to their dorm room. Henry didn't look at Liam but hurried after Alex. He passed some of their classmates roughhousing in the hallway. Alex's ire was quick to be provoked, but Henry hoped he could dampen it with gentle words of apology and a gift. Their dorm room was on the far end of the hallway to the right. When Henry entered, Alex was sitting on the window seal. Henry closed the door.
"Cariad-"
"You would be wise not to call me that right now," Alex snapped, not looking at him.
Henry bit his bottom lip. Pushing away from the door, he crossed the cross to retrieve a parcel he received earlier that day from his bedside table. Though he protested Alex's pure words down by the lake, Henry's heart ached at the very thought that Alex thought himself alone in this affection. Henry was naturally cautious when it came to matters of the heart. While his parents had a romance for the bards to write neverending songs about and supported his inclinations, his grandmother Queen Mary still held final sway over who her grandchildren would marry. While Alex's country was a rising power, full of untapped resources and potential, Mary looked down her nose at their progressive politics and rising status among the nations. But despite the perceived impossibility of their future together, Henry found himself desperately in love with Alex all the time.
Henry knelt in front of his wounded lover and placed the parcel in his lap. Alex finally looked at him before glancing down and asking, "What is this?"
"An apology and response."
Alex picked it up and tore away the plain brown paper. Revealed was a red velvet bag. Henry's heart raced as Alex opened the bag and pulled out a small golden key on a silver chain. The bow of the key, intertwined in delicate filigree, was their initials, much like the ring that rested on Henry's hand.
As Alex studied it, Henry said, "My words earlier were foolish and hurtful. The truth is that I am afraid of the end of term. Things as they are now seem too perfect and golden. I...I fear once we are parted, reality will make you realize I am not worthy, that you will find someone more suitable for-"
"You believe me to be easily swayed?" Alex snapped. Henry looked up to see frustration and sadness in his eyes. He reached down to yank Henry's hand that held the signet ring to eye level. "Is this not proof enough of my love for you? Is it not enough that I say I love you? If this is an apology, it is a very poor one, Henry."
Henry climbed on the window seal with Alex, desperate to be understood, tears in his eyes. "It is an explanation. I am scared, Alex. I know we are young, but I know in my heart I will never feel for another what I feel for you. But when my grandmother finds out about us, she will stop at nothing to keep us apart. Does that challenge not give you pause?"
"Cariño," Alex whispered, cupping Henry's face, the necklace dangling from his fingers, "I would slay a thousand dragons, cross the Great Salt Desert, and brave the bitterest frozen peaks if that's what it took to make you mine. You may fear your grandmother, but I do not. There is no one else for me but you."
Henry took the chain from Alex's hand and placed it around his neck. Pressing his hand over the key, Henry said, "As you are for me. I want to be brave like you. I want you to know you are not alone. This key is a symbolic gesture, the key to my heart. My promise to be true."
Two young lovers, bathed in moonlight and their love for one another, making a vow as true as the gods had ever heard. Perhaps it was their youth that gave them pause, or the sincerity in which the vows were given. Whatever it was, the gods took note and, in their mercurial way, decided to put that devotion to the test.
The skies were clear that night as Alex and Henry clung to each other, but they could not see the storm brewing on the distant horizon. A challenge.
Tagging @dragonflylady77 @onthewaytosomewhere @theplayfulfairy and anyone else who scribbles and is interested.
#yall are not ready#a tournament for his heart#some sentence sunday#tagging game#red white and royal blue#rwrb movie#rwrb#firstprince#alex claremont diaz#henry fox mountchristen windsor#WIP
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kim minji x f!reader
# tw ; none
# genre ; fluff, tiny bit of angst
you agreed to the outing. a vial of antidote in your pocket and kim minji’s bright smile, how could you choose between the two?
the date was settled. your outing would be carried out on a tuesday and one of minji’s maids had delivered a handwritten letter to you.
you could only make out some parts of the writing, with minji’s scribbles and scrawled penmanship. something about how she was incredibly nervous… happy and excited… and more about how she fawned over your dress that you had worn during her birthday banquet. at the end, a tiny note read, ‘wear something fit for exercise, yet casual.’ and you were meant to meet her at the crack of dawn, the letter stating something about how it was more romantic.
despite all the sweet innuendos, a frown overtook your face. exercise? it wouldn’t be a surprise to anyone but physical activity wasn’t really your strong suit. your talent belonged behind books and cauldrons. to be put simply, you sucked. sucked horribly at sports.
the perpetrator who had caused this whole ordeal had merely brushed you off, saying, “c’mon y/n, put on your big boy boots and snog her or something!” you had thrown haerin out immediately.
your outfit was a simple blue vest with a collared shirt underneath and a random pair of trousers that you found in hyewon’s closet. you also slipped a vial of the antidote into your pocket. once you had deemed it acceptable for any type of activity minji would have prepared, you left the cottage.
to your surprise, minji was just a few feet away, her eyes gleaming once she caught sight of you.
“y/n!” minji exclaimed, “i was waiting for you.” you blinked. the princess looked… extremely gorgeous. her outfit was almost the same as yours but instead she had an adorable beret that sat on top of her head.
“how’d you find where i stayed?” you asked, shocked. hyewon’s cottage was deep into the woods and most people wouldn’t have even ventured down the forest.
minji eyed you awkwardly, shifting her weight between her feet, “i kind of, followed you.” you gaped. if it was anyone else, you would have murdered them on the spot. but this was kim minji. the princess.
obviously you couldn’t slaughter the princess. that would cause so many political issues. and a minji-shaped gap in your heart would occur, your inner thoughts shared.
cursing your mind, you put on an equally sheepish grin.
“it’s all right… shall we head off then?” you supplied, already wanting to escape the nerve wracking conversation. minji’s eyes lit up and she nodded enthusiastically.
the princess held out a hand, her lips curled up into a smile. and for a few seconds, you stared blankly at the open palm, minji secretly wondered if you were just going to leave her there. putting on a brave front, you intertwined your fingers with hers and gripped it softly.
your simple action had boosted minji’s confidence as she rambled on about her princess duties and how her elder cousins would be visiting the kingdom soon.
“they would require another banquet,” she groaned, “and i would be the designated planner once again. i’m not really sure why the princess’s duty consists of party planning!” you giggled at her.
“don’t you rich people have personal party planners?”
minji turned to you, faux disgust on her face as she led you into a carriage, “that’s outrageous. too much confidential information would be revealed. there’s a high risk of sabotage.”
“on a party?”
“yes! did you know that a few decades ago, my great grandfather's coronation was sabotaged by a hired mercenary that spiked the grape wine?” minji said, “it was simply petrifying for all the guests when one of the food tasters dropped dead.”
you could only listen nervously. you were pretty sure that the attempted assasination was your ancestor’s fault, once hearing a similar story from hyewon.
“and also, it had caused a new law that was set, about how banquet’s now needed to be authorised by the royal court! in 1927, another law was created because one of the maids had— sorry, am i boring you?” minji widened her eyes. you tilted your head, “no? not at all.”
the princess swallowed audibly, “i just feel like i’m rambling on, you don’t look like you’d be interested in decrees and laws.” you rolled your eyes playfully.
“just because i break a lot of them, doesn’t mean i’m not interested, silly. i think it’s cute how a princess like you is so fond of royal decrees,” you smiled, “ever think of joining that royal court of yours?”
minji opened her mouth then instantly closed it, blushing a violent red all across her cheeks.
“well, no. but i think i might reconsider,” she muttered before spinning her head around and smiling widely.
“y/n, we’re here.” you peered out the window, a gasp escaping your lips. a plain field of grass spread before the sunrise, and horses equipped with saddles awaited you.
“wow,” you blurted out, “it’s amazing.” you heard minji humming in agreement but when you turned to her, you found her eyes tracking your face.
you scoffed when she sent a playful wink at you.
“you’re such a flirt.”
“only for you,” minji said. at times like this, you could feel the guilt clawing at you. minji shouldn’t have to plan all these elaborate dates out for someone that she doesn’t even have actual feelings for. she shouldn’t have to flirt and laugh with someone who was taking advantage of her. she didn’t need to do that all. but you forced her to. these weren’t her true intentions. why did that cause such a strange feeling in your chest?
because you like her, stupid, future you would retort.
feeling minji’s eyes on you once more, you shot her a small smile. as if saying you were fine. albeit slightly more conscious now, minji brought you to one of the ponies and ran through all the safety instructions.
“i’ve ridden a horse before, minji,” you laughed, “i know how to saddle it, don’t worry so much.”
minji shot you a sheepish grin as she rubbed the back of her neck, “i just want you to be safe.” you send a soft smile back before saddling the white horse beside you.
once seated, you and minji rode around the grass plains for a good hour, minji constantly sharing stories about her family and you just listening.
“this was really fun,” you remarked, slowing your horse’s pace as you headed back to minji.
“i’m glad you liked it, y/n.” minji turned around, beaming at you.
you halter in your steps, heart racing a mile. her hair gleamed under the sun and her eyes held stars. you travel your gaze further down to her lips. pink, luscious lips that would definitely be softer than anyone’s bed. you felt as if your heart was in your throat.
“you’re… so pretty,” you blurted out, not being able to control yourself. the princess raised her eyebrows.
“really?”
you nodded stiffly, “yes. you’re the prettiest girl i’ve ever seen.”
“that’s such a compliment, especially from you,” minji winked. you tried to let out a laugh, but the only thing you could feel was guilt.
you shouldn’t be the one here complimenting minji. you shouldn’t be the one riding off on horses with the princess. and you definitely shouldn’t feel anything for her.
you made a decision as the two of you led the horses back.
“minji,” you started out, “are you sure you actually like me?” minji opened her mouth to retort but you continued, “on the day we met, i gave you a love potion. your feelings for me are fake. you’re under the love potion, that’s why you like me.”
the princess frowned, “no i’m not.”
“you are! that’s the only reason why you’re acting like this! listen minji… i… i’m sorry, for deceiving you and taking advantage of your kindness. but i really don’t deserve this. you deserve better!” you exclaimed.
minji sighed, “y/n, i really don’t know what you’re talking about. you’re all that i want.”
you groaned, getting more and more frustrated, “i’m all that you want? even if you weren’t under the love potion, you don’t know me! you don’t know what i like, dislike or anything!”
“then let me get to know you.”
“minji, it doesn’t work like that. i reckon you just take this, and we forget everything between us, all right?” you shoved the vial into her hands and watched intently as she observed it.
“y/n, what’s this?”
“the antidote. for the love potion. please drink it and we can forget anything that happened today.” you glanced at the princess, feeling your stomach tighten as hurt flashed across her face.
minji narrowed her eyes, “if you think that a silly antidote could rid my feelings for you, then you’re wrong. but fine, if that is what you desire…” she popped open the cork and chugged the blue liquid down.
you almost sighed in relief, but the inner part of your heart was screaming.
“how… how do you feel?” you asked nervously.
minji turned to you, a scowl on her face, “i feel the same. is this just an elaborate joke? are you shaming me for liking someone of the same gender?”
you looked at her, mortified, “no! i could never shame you for doing so.”
“well i feel the same. your stupid antidote didn’t work,” minji scoffed, “since you’re so intent on forgetting, i’ll bring you back and leave you alone.”
“minji…” you pleaded, “i’m not kidding! seriously, i threw a love potion at you!”
the princess rolled her eyes, “and i just drank your antidote. i feel as usual and i still have feelings for you. but it’s fine, let’s forget today even existed.” you internally gasped at the realisation, but your blank stare must have answered some questions for minji, who spared a final glance at you before almost sprinting to the carriage.
you chased after her. you couldn’t let minji think that this was all just a scheme to humiliate her. you managed to get a grip of minji’s wrist and you pulled her back to face you.
“what do you want now?”
“i like you, kim minji,” you stated, “and it’s not because of a love potion.”
minji’s gaze softened.
“you’re not kidding, right?”
“no. i like you. i have feelings for you,” you repeated.
after a moment of silence, you wondered if minji was going to reject you. after all, you did invalidate her feelings. closing your eyes, you braced for the rejection. but you only felt a weight on your shoulder.
“please never do that again,” minji said, her voice muffled against your shoulder, “you don’t know how heartbroken i was when you accused me of having fake feelings.”
you sighed at your past self’s obliviousness.
“i’m terribly sorry, my princess.”
“my princess? is that my new nickname?”
“yes it is,” you smiled, holding minji’s body close to yours, enjoying the warm embrace minji gave.
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Legacy feminization blog: Seattle Jasmine
Do you remember her? She used to be a prolific feminization caption uploader here on Tumblr. This was back in the time Tumblr had pr0n content in abundance and arguably, when the site was in its heyday. Many blogs like hers got taken down around the late 2010s and based on the blog’s name, it was struck down in 2017, which I believe is when the site started placing content restrictions.
In retrospect, the content wasn’t appealing to me due to a heavy emphasis on forced sissy feminization. In fact, most feminization blogs at the time heavily catered to sissies and others at the BDSM community. I was more into gender swapping and dress-up feminization (without the chastity and torture, of course). Even before I figured out I was trans, I always disliked being called a “sissy”, “f@ggit”, or any of those words.
Despite all of that, there were a few captions that I did like from her and I’ll be honest: Out of all the feminization blogs that existed during that time period, she was one of the better ones. Here are a few captions from her that are personally my faves. Some of them were even used of my captions. Enjoy the throwback!
(Captioned pictures and its writing belong to Seattle Jasmine and the person behind the deactivated account. Pictures belong to perspective owners. I am just the one posting them and claim no ownership of them)
It’s a tough question that needs an answer. And that answers needs to be said now!
Imagine how beautiful and cascading your hair would look if you let it grow. You can be so gorgeous like her.
Don’t let the woman inside die out! Let her energy revive your spirit! She’s a wild one, so be careful! (This is my third favorite due to the hot girl in the pic.)
The only thing stopping you from transitioning into a girl is you, dear.
When you’re dressed in that satin purple dress with all that makeup and wig placed on, and you see a woman looking back in the mirror, doesn’t it feel so euphoric?
Cat ears look so adorable on you. It shows there’s a cute girl inside waiting to come out.
It’s who you truly are. Don’t be afraid of feminization. It’s the key to your inner happiness.
You already came out as transgender to your friends. But a side effect of taking HRT for 2+yrs and several surgeries is a changing sexual orientation. You knew they were quite the looker, but never this hot! You were never a gay man, but you certainly would not mind being a straight woman. You can’t wait to have a boyfriend! (This one is my second favorite caption from her. One of my captions is a tribute to this one. The flirty woman is hot, but becoming her and gaining her flirty, extroverted personality is a dream!)
It’s time to start treating your dysphoria. Start planning transition now.
With feminizing results from HRT and exercise, you too can become like her.
To your friends, you turned “gay”. But you’re a woman now and only like men. Wouldn’t the right word be straight? It’s time to embrace your feminine sexuality... your sexuality! Go for it, girl! It doesn’t hurt to feel so right... (This one is by far my favorite! When you let your femininity take over and experience the ecstasy that is womanhood, you start developing feelings never experienced as a guy. At first, you’re scared and try to repress it. But you shouldn’t, because those feelings are what your feminine gender craves and loves. Don’t be afraid to try new things. If you love men, go ahead, suck their d!ck, get f*ckd behind, let him bite you all over. Same with women, let them feel you and lose to their sense of touch. Okay, it’s getting a little hot here, but you get the point.)
So, what were your favorites from Seattle Jasmine? I shared mines.
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I honestly think writing fanfic is really important for a writing journey.
I used (and still sometimes!) write fanfic. I wrote fanfic for years. From the age of 16-21/22. And yes, obviously writing and posting fanfic can help your writing chops in terms of keeping characters, well, in-character, stretching new ideas, and just help you polish up your writing in general.
But in general? Fanfic helped me get over sharing my writing with others and worrying about negative backlash to what I write.
I was someone usually in "problematic" spaces and ships. And I was there, Gandalf. I was there at the height of "an/tis" vs "pr/oshi/ppers" war here on tumblr.
I had callout posts written and shared about me. I had discord groups trash my writing and personhood. I got all manner of threats imaginable, including being told I was insane and I should kill myself. I got this both in the comment sections of my writing as well as in my ask box.
But I've also had interactions with people in fandom space that were just... weird. And not just people plagiarizing me. People who rewrote my fics in the comment section (why) people who wrote NEW fic in my comment section (okay...) people getting way too personal with me. People justifying to others why they're allowed to read it. People telling other people what my own life story is (they've never talked to me in their entire life?) and everything in between. I've had comments written like GoodReads reviews as if I'd never read it.
I say this because it seems like every day I see authors getting pissy at readers for negative reviews. Throwing fits online and going after said readers in weird and inappropriate ways.
Yeah. It sucks when people assume who you are. It sucks being told you're horrible for writing X, Y, or Z. It sucks when your work is bashed or when people clearly do not have reading comprehension, ironically, and you're wondering how the hell they interpreted your story so wrong. It sucks getting negative comments and reviews.
But that's just life whenever you publish your works for the wider world. Without the risk of putting your writing out there, you also do not get the reward of touching others with your writing and sharing your stories. You cannot have one without the other.
I'm not saying it was acceptable for people to be cruel to me online. I should not have been bullied, harassed, and threatened for writing my blorbos kissing in a Bad TM way. But being told why my writing was bad (whether or not I agreed) or people sharing what they did not like about my writing or why it failed for them (and not being able to delete said comments) was good for me. Sometimes it did help my writing. But honestly more than that it was exposure to what it will be like when I do decide to publish, whether its indie or trad.
The same dynamic happened when I took a creative writing class in college too. Even though the professor told us we had to be nice with our criticisms and also explain things we did like about others works, I still had a classmate tell me they hated everything about my writing and there was nothing redeeming about it. But at that time? I had already gone through all of the above.
So when I got that comment? I laughed. And the other classmates I had who read my story? Got so defensive for me regarding my work, calling that person out. It was nice, but overall not needed. Because I realized at that time that I had the tools to move on from scathing reviews and assumptions.
It's a skill. And an incredibly important skill to have now that its so easy to find spaces with readers talking about your work. And like all skills, its something you have to work on and exercise to get good at it.
Fanfic was the one who helped me develop such a skill. Not writing workshops and not my creative writing class. Because people aren't going to be so nice when they have internet anonymity on their side. That's just the way of the internet and sharing your work, and I do not see the landscape changing anytime soon. Nor should it; readers have the right to review works they do not like. Just as readers have the right to review works that they love.
It's scary. But what I've learned is that the reward I get from sharing my work, from knowing its out there, knowing that I've inspired other people or that many others have enjoyed my work is a far greater reward than any of the risk from negative backlash I've gotten.
#and that includes the threats btw but I'm a kinda chill person so its like. heh. ok scrub. when i see those comments#shutuplanx#personal#about me#long post#im so sorry this is rambly my kitten kept jumping on the keyboard and interrupting my already rambly flow
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Hey I wanted to say how much i love your fics. Kagehina is my go to pairing and your fics have a quality maybe like what one anon said abt Ghibli. I keep longing to read something like tht, a setting that steals your heart like a book cover that intrigues you and you want to be sucked into the verse. There's the melancholy to it, then a feeling akin to reading haikyuu itself. As nostalgic, refreshing and that you achieved something in life. Your Brazil shoyo is something imprinted in my heart. It's a blessing u write for kagehina. Ik u don't ship them and some anon even implied abt how annoying kghn fans were lol still I'd love to say hah but she gets their dynamics so good or yayyy she writes for kagehina. Your recent nyc fic blew my mind away. I got chills reading the last part abt hinata like YOU GET HIM. How do you nail characters WITH setting so well?? The environment we grow up in is so important to shape our views Like nyc Brazil Japan literally you are amazing! Also do you have any hc for Kageyama in Italy👀
Also if you ever right og fiction, I'm ur number one fan. You will have so many fans with your content! Sorry for long ask sjshjjshhjjj
Take care.
Hello, anon!!! And *sobs* thank you!!!! My fics are just a drop in the incredibly immense ocean of works in the fandom, but I'm glad my stories found you and resonated with you so much. It's such a huge accomplishment ;-; ;-; ;-;
AHHHH you want me to share my headcanons of Kageyama in Italy? Well, DON'T MIND IF I DO :D
Kageyama lived with Ali Roma's assistant coach (I've always liked the name Gino, so let's go with that) for his first year in Serie A to help him integrate better. Gino's eldest son moved away to Antwerp for university so he had the spare room. A portion of Kageyama's starting salary was supposed to go to Coach Gino for his living expenses, but Gino insisted for Kageyama to use that money to buy stuff for himself instead since he brought so little when he came to Italy. In return, Kageyama helped with mowing the lawn and walking the dogs and washing the dishes. Gino had two other boys, Elio (7) and Dino (6), and they took turns harassing Kageyama into playing football with them in their backyard. Kageyama usually acquiesced if they played volleyball with him afterwards.
When he became more comfortable with the language and the people, Kageyama moved out of Gino's home during his second year, much to the family's dismay. Especially Elio and Dino---they were buzzing around Kageyama like wasps when he was straightening his luggage at the doorstep ("Are you leaving us because I kept stealing your team jackets?" Dino asked mournfully. "No," Kageyama said, totally bewildered at the children's tear-streaked faces). Little did they know that Kageyama rented an apartment so comically close to their home, just three blocks away from theirs.
One time during a match against Perugia, Kageyama had this disconcerting feeling that something was wrong with his vision. He consulted with the team's doctor, who referred him to an ophthalmologist. He found out he had a mild case of myopia (nearsightedness); it wasn't serious and he didn't need any corrective lenses, but Kageyama badgered the poor doctor with questions that the consult lasted for an hour and a half. The doctor gave him an extensive list on how to prevent it from getting worse: diet, exercise, less screentime, and loads and loads of sunshine. So now, Kageyama spent most of his free time outdoors: cycling, running, mountain climbing, reading sports monthly magazines at the park, playing pick-up games with his teammates, or walking Gino's dogs around the neighborhood. Whenever Kageyama's parents called to check on him, he was always out and about. It surprised them at first; they hadn't known their son to be the outdoor-sy type, but it did put their mind at ease. Kageyama had always been noticeably more cheerful when he's under the sun.
Beat reporters found Kageyama particularly frustrating to interview, though they weren't sure if it was a matter of his personality, his nationality, him being media-trained af by the team's comms department, or all three. Talented and an exciting player on the orange court, for sure, but outside of it he rarely had anything interesting to say. Always calm, always poised, always with the cliché responses. He was once ambushed in a family restaurant by a sports podcaster who asked for his opinion about the sudden spike in female Ali Roma fans, and Kageyama answered with a cool, "Volleyball is the greatest sport in the world. I'm glad more people are realizing that now and tuning in to our games. I'm grateful for any support the sport and our team gets, wherever it's coming from". ("Gah, he's so unaffected!" the podcaster grieved. "No girls, no scandalous rendezvous, no skeevy thoughts, no openings, nada. Zero. Zilch. Like what the hell? Is he a cyborg? It's always volleyball 100%.").
But one journalist sniffed around Kageyama's early career happenings and she managed to find something that'd generate a reaction. Compare Kageyama's stats to a certain undersized Japanese player in Brazil's Superlega, and you'd find unassailable proof that Kageyama Tobio is, indeed, human ("Yeah? And how many service aces and solo blocks does he have?" Kageyama scoffed when the reporter said his longtime rival held São Paolo's team lead in kills and total swings. "Not that many, I'm sure. Not that I watch his games anyway.").
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And the lights are not fluorescent, and there are no words on the page. - Literary Communities Essay
Author's Preface and Ch. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, and 7
Description: My final portfolio for one of the creative writing courses I took based around exploring the creative nonfiction essay in its many literary forms, with any and all identifying names or signifiers censored out.
In my many years as the daughter of a full-time teacher (in companion with my few years as the daughter of two full-time teachers), I have bore unwitting witness to a myriad of violations of the human spirit. One wide and ever-expanding enough to fuel one of those documentaries that makes people tear up in the theater and leave telling each other something along the lines of “Wow, that was so deep.”, over and over and back and forth.
I’ve seen class disparities become educational disparities, the breakdown of the overarching student drive and the subsequent breakdown of the heart of teaching (aka the literal teachers themselves, the deterioration of licensing standards for teachers across the board. I was even (un)lucky enough to gather around the dinner table, each and every sorry night, to be sorely reminded of most below-the-college grade level educator’s mainly shared experience of taking second retail or service jobs to balance out their salaries that are blatantly below minimum wage, intense and inescapable job creep, and their time wasted by the endless meeting and group exercises and always unraveling assignments and requirements, always at the cruel hand of the undeniably cruel act of having each and every decision they make in regards to their own classroom scrutinized, critiqued, and forcibly “mended” by politicians, principals, and committees with absolutely no experience in their line of work, nor clue what the everliving heck they are on about.
I will not even bother, my dear School Superintendent, with the regurgitation of my dear mother’s testimony of the grueling and degrading reality of teaching Pre-K within the state of Florida today, along with the past 25+ years. You do not, I presume, need that burden of knowledge anymore than I do.
However, just like the previously mentioned theoretical documentary, awareness of these issues is usually meant with the proverbial “Damn, that sucks dude.”, followed by the gradual chatter of resumed conversations and the scattering of unfazed individuals.
In the interest of actually having something done about even just a tiny, miniscule part of literally any of this, I am writing to you today an introduction of a concrete proposal concerning the overwhelming need for a comprehensive writing program in [REDACTED] elementary schools’ shared [REDACTED]’s curriculum. For years, teachers have used antiquated means and methods to teach creative writing, failing to teach anything that truly sticks with their students outside of the educational environment, let alone anything that applies to the world of creative writing outside of said environment. My proposal calls for a group of reading/literacy coaches and experts, experienced in the field of creative writing and training and instructing others, to direct work and collaborate with teachers to train them for the effects of the implementation of a proposed replacement writing program.
With your approval, this proposal will be later presented to the School Board and all teachers and principals statewide, for funding and/or collaboration with this plan. Thank you for your time.
#creative nonfiction#essay#creative writing#creativity#teaching#education#educational#education and learning#proposal#school boards#schools#teachers#letters#persuasive#nonfiction#family dynamics#school#learning#prekindergarten#writing
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god this took an hour but here you go. The Black-Vampyre, in actually readable text.
I haven't even read it. I have no warnings to offer you until I read it tomorrow.
"how can you edit text without reading it" strategically blurring my eyes. so I could edit the Astounding Stories of Super-Science stories without getting spoiled for the very end of the thing.
The Black-Vampyre was published in 1819, and according to wikipedia and the other tumblr post I just reblogged, it's about a slave who is murdered, comes back as a vampire, and gets revenge.
what else happens? IDk. There's a really fucking long poem at the end though. this was apparently published under a pseudonym so I guess we don't actually know who wrote it.
so, it could be super racist. I'll find out tomorrow. sorry if you read it now and it turns out it is super racist. I'd like to hope the people on the original post would mention that if that were the case but. well.
anyways this is public domain. download it. please. save it. share it. email it to yourself and your friends. print it out. it's fucking readable. Here's the original PDF for your nightmarish comparison.
the names were originally in all caps like in a play, and I'll make a version without that tomorrow. but like I said. I would like to go to sleep.
enjoy. hopefully. goodnight.
The Black Vampyre;
A Legend of St. Domingo.
By Uriah Derick D’arcy
So have I seen, upon another shore,
Another Lion give a grievous roar;
And the last Lion thought the first—A BOAR!
-Bombast. Furios
_______
SECOND EDITION, WITH ADDITIONS.
NEW -YORK: PRINTED FOR THE AUTHOR.
1819.
TO THE
AUTHOR OF “WALL-STREET.”
MY DEAR SIR,
CHARMED with the success of your anomalous drama, which, without aspiring even to the character of nonsense, has already seen three editions, I have been myself induced to venture on publishing; with the sanguine hope of also scraping together a few shillings, in these hard times. Permit me to inscribe this tale to you, with a fellow-feeling for your lack of genius; and a fervent hope, that our names may be encircled by the same evergreen in the temple of the Muses; and that we may long flourish together, on the same pedestal, embellishing and elevating the literature of the Auction Room.
I remain,
My dear Sir,
Your affectionate Friend,
And obedient Servant,
THE AUTHOR.
Introduction
If any person should have patience to read the following narrative, and can discover the Author’s drift, it is more than he can do himself. If it be thought exquisite nonsense, it is more than the writer dares hope: and if it be pronounced simple, stupid, and unadulterated absurdity, his own private opinion will perfectly coincide with that of the public. He began to write without any fable, and before he had found any had spun out the thread of his ideas.
This tangled skein of absurdities is now exposed to criticism, from the laudable motive of showing, of how much nonsense an individual may be delivered, in the short space of two afternoons; without any excuse but idleness, or any object but amusement.
The prominent descriptions, which it is here attempted to ridicule, are fresh in the memory of all who have read the “White Vampyre;” and to those who have not, the Superstition must be so familiar, that it is unnecessary to make useless extracts.
That the Author may not, however, be misunderstood, it may be necessary to state, that in the speech of the Vampyre, he had no design of descending to that meanest of all intellectual exercises, a travestie on authors who are justly admired: but meant, if any thing, simply to show how passages, which were fine in their original use, when garbelled by the ignorant and tasteless, become a melancholy rhapsody of nonsense.
“But first on earth, as Vampyre sent,
Thy corse shall from its tomb be rent;
Then ghastly haunt thy native place,
And suck the blood of all thy race;
There from thy daughter, sister, wife,
At midnight drain the stream of life;
Yet loathe the banquet, which perforce
Must feed thy livid living corse.
Thy victims, ere they yet expire,
Shall know the demon for their sire;
As cursing thee, thou cursing them,
Thy flowers are withered on the stem.
But one that for thy crime must fall,
The youngest, best beloved of all,
Shall bless thee with a father’s name—
That word shall wrap thy heart in flame!
Yet thou must end thy task and mark
Her cheek’s last tinge—her eye’s last spark,
And the last glassy glance must view
Which freezes o’er its lifeless blue;
Then with unhallowed hand shall tear
The tresses of her yellow hair,
Of which, in life a lock when shorn
Affection’s fondest pledge was worn—
But now is borne away by thee
Memorial of thine agony!
Yet with thine own best blood shall drip
Thy gnashing tooth, and haggard lip;
Then stalking to thy sullen grave,
Go—and with Gouls and Afrits rave,
Till these in horror shrink away
From spectre more accursed than they.”
-BYRON.
The Black Vampyre
Mr. ANTHONY GIBBONS was a gentleman of African extraction. His ancestors emigrated from the eastern coast of GUINEA, in a French ship, and were sold in ST. DOMINGO remarkably cheap; as they were reduced to mere skeletons by the yaws on the passage; and all died shortly after their arrival, except one small negro, of a very slender constitution, and fit for no work whatever. The gentleman who purchased him, charitably knocked out his brains; and the body was thrown into the ocean. The tide returning in the night, it was washed upon the sands; and the moon then shining bright, the gentleman was taking a walk to enjoy the coolness of the evening; judge of his surprise, when the little corpse got up, and complaining of a pain in its bowels, begged for some bread and butter!
The PLANTER supposing his business to have been but half done, kicked him back in the water. The element seemed very familiar to him; and he swam back with much grace and agility; parting the sparkling waves with his jet black members, polished like ebony, but reflecting no sin- gle beam of light. His complexion was a dead black;—his eyes a pure white;—the iris was flame colour;—and the pupils of a clear, moonshiny lustre;—but so peculiarly constructed, that, though prominent, they seemed to look into his own head. His hair was neither curled nor straight; but feathery, like the plumage of a crow. Having paddled again on shore, he came crawling crab fashion, to the feet of Mr. PERSONNE.The latter gentleman, in considerable alarm, (not knowing whether it was Satan, Obi, or some other worthy, with whom he had to deal,) mustered up sufficient resolution, to tie a large stone round the boy’s middle: then, with a main exertion of strength, he hurled him into the sparkling ocean. He fell where the reflection of the moon was brightest, and sunk like lead; but immediately rose again like cork, perpendicularly, with the stone under his arm; while the radiant lustre of the planet retreated from his dark figure, exhibiting in its most striking contrast its utter blackness!
In this predicament, he came buoyant to land; surrounded, as he seemed, by a sphere of magic lustre. He now walked up to the Frenchman, with his arms a-kimbo, and looking remarkably fierce. Mr. PERSONNE’S particular hairs stood up on end,but being ashamed that a little negro of ten years old, should put him in bodily fear, he knocked him down. The Guinea-man rose again, without bending a joint; as fast as Mr. PERSONNE could upset him, he recovered his altitude; just like one of those small toys, fabricated from pith, tipt with lead, called witches and hobgoblins by the rising generation!
The PLANTER, in utter amazement and despair, took hold of the child by both his extremities; and pressing him to the earth, set down upon him! Then, halloing for is attendants, he ordered a tremendous fire to be kindled on the sand!! This was accordingly done. The GAUL congratulated himself on his perseverance and sagacity; and as he had never heard of ignaqueous animals, was confident that though the water fiend was so expert in his own element, he could not stand the fiery ordeal. The boy, meanwhile, lay perfectly passive, as if he had been a mere log; but presently, when the pile was all in a light blaze, with a sudden expansion, like that of a compressed Indian Rubber, he popped Mr. PERSONNE up into the air many yards, and he alighted head-foremost into the fire, where he had intended to have dedicated the sable brat, with his nine lives, to Moloch!!!
Whatever the negro was, it is notorious that Mr. PERSONNE was no salamander. He was rescued from the pyre, which, like Hercules, he had, (though unwittingly,) erected for himself; looking like a squizzed cat, and having apparently no life left in his body. The attention of the domestics was drawn entirely to their master; who soon betrayed signs of animation, though he exhibited a most awful. spectacle: being one continual sore and blister. “His whole body was one wound,” as Virgil or some other poet has hyperbolically expressed himself.
Mr. PERSONNE, when he perfectly recovered his senses, found himself in his own bed, wrapt in greasy sheets, and smarting as if in a Cayenne bath. He called for a glass of brandy,—his dear wife EUPHEMIA,—and his infant son, who had not yet been christened. His lady, with streaming eyes, presented herself before him; and, after tenderly inquiring into the state of his health, told him, (with a voice interrupted with sobs and hiccups,) that when she went in the morning to see her baby, whom she had left in the cradle, there was nothing to be seen, but the skin, hair, and nails!!! She declared that there never was such another object; except, indeed, the exsiccation in Scudder’s Museum!
On the receipt of this horrid intelligence, Mr. PERSONNE was seized with a violent spasmodic affection; and shortly after expired, muttering something about sacre, and the Guinea-negro!
The amiable, but unfortunate Euphemia, was thrown into several hysterical convulsions; as well she might be, poor woman! when her husband had been made a holocaust, and served up like a broiled and peppered chicken, to feed the grim maw of death; and her interesting infant, the first pledge of her pure and perfect love, had been precociously sucked, like an unripe orange, and nothing left but its beautiful and tender skin. The disconsolate widow caused her husband to be embalmed; and he was buried amid the lamentations and tears of all the funeral; much regretted by all who had the honour of his acquaintance, particularly by his negroes; who could not soon forget him; as he had left too many sincere marks of his regard upon their backs, to be ever obliterated from their recollections.
Time, as all the Greek tragedians, Solomon, and others have remarked, is a benevolent deity. Mrs. PERSONNE’S grief yielded to the soothing hand of the consoling power; and her bloom and spirits returned with more lustre and elasticity than they had before exhibited: as the rose, that had drooped in the fury of the passing storm, erects its blushing honours, and shows more beautiful and vivid tints, when the squall is over!
Many years after these occurrences took place, while EUPHEMIA was in second mourning for her third husband, she was indulging in the luxury of solitary grief; and reading Burton’s Anatomy of Melancholy, and The Melancholy Poems of Dr. Farmer, in an orangerie. The refreshing breezes from the ocean, which now tempered the sultry heats of the declining day,—the soft perfume of the opening blossoms;—and the mellow tints of the evening sky, shedding that holy light, so dear to sensitive hearts, diffused a calm over her soul, wrapt in the contemplation of departed days. While lost in this pensive reverie, she perceived two strangers approaching her, in the extremity of the long vista of the grove. One of them was a coloured gentleman, of remarkable height, and deep jetty blackness; a perfect model of the CONGO Apollo. He was drest in the rich garb of a Moorish Prince; and led by the hand a pale European boy, in an Asiatic dress; whose languid countenance, slender form and tristful gait, were strongly contrasted with the portly appearance and majestic step of his conductor!
They both saluted the lovely widow, and after an interchange of compliments, accepted her polite invitation to set down, and take tea with her in the bower. She learned from the elder stranger, that he had brought out a cargo of slaves, whom his subjects had lately taken prisoners in war; and whom he had resolved to dispose of himself; as he was desirous of seeing the world. His Page, he said, was an orphan, left by a slave merchant in Africa.
The manners and conversation of the PRINCE had an irresistible charm. The regal port was manifest in his gigantic and well proportioned frame; and majesty was conspicuous on his brow, without its diadem. The turban and crescent had never graced a nobler front; but the win- ning condescension of his tones and language, while they could not banish the feeling of the presence of royalty, removed every restraint incident to that consciousness. He criticised the works, which EUPHEMIA had been perusing, with masterly precision; and displayed more knowledge than even the accomplished ideologist of Lady Morgan; with infinitely more discretion and good sense.
It is remarked by the Abbe Reynal, that there is a peculiar elegance and beauty in the complexion of the Africans, (when the eyes and nose are accustomed to their hue and odour.) This truth was realized by EUPHEMIA, as she gazed on the open visage of her illustrious guest. She thought surely that in him Nature might stand up and say “This was a man!” And certainly it is only the weakness and imperfection of our human senses, which, penetrating no further than the surface, is for ever deceived by superficial shadows. The empyrean is always blue, whatever vapours may float in our contracted atmosphere. And if we gaze on the rows of skulls, which festoon and garnish Surgeon’s Hall, we can apply no standard, to determine their relative beauty. They are all equally ugly; and the block of Helen might be mistaken for that of Medusa. Shakspeare, true to nature, has also remarked, “Black men are pearls in beauteous ladies’ eyes.”
The beauty then, the royalty, gentility, and various accomplishments of the BAMBUCK monarch, made captive the too sensible heart of the French widow. She forgot her ogles, graces, and even her loquacity; rooted to her seat, and fixed in immoveable contemplation of the AFRICAN’S face. What peculiar feature or lineament attracted her attention, she knew not: his eyes, though bright, did not sparkle; and the iris, though of a more vivid red than the roseate line in the rainbow, emitted no scintillations. In fact, his whole countenance seemed to look, and to perambulate her own.
The conversation gradually assumed a more empassioned and amorous complexion; and the little page, (who, though meagre and emaciated, evidently showed that he was no gump for his years,) taking certain broad hints, cast a mournful and intelligent look on the widow, said he would fetch a short walk in the plantation, and left the orangerie.
The PRINCE then spreading his glittering sash upon the grass, went down on his knees upon it; and broke out into the most ardent exclamations, of love and admiration; and professions of constant attachment. He said that the flat-nosed beauties of Zara; the scarred, squab figures of the golden coast; the well proportioned Zilias, Calypsos, and Zamas on the banks of the Niger; and even the great Hottentot Venus herself, had never for a moment made the least impression on his heart! His passion was a mystery to himself; its origin secret as the sources of the Nile ; but full and impetuous as its ample channel, when replenished from the celestial fountains of ABYSSINIA; while if Mrs. DUBOIS would shine upon its waves, its enlivened currents would fertilize his vast dominions, in the luxuriant realms of central Africa; making them to fructify yet more abundantly, with burning gold, and radiant diamonds!!!
What female heart could resist such pleadings, and the compliment implied in such a preference? When ZEMBO (the page) returned, the parties had agreed to be privately united on the same evening. The ceremony was accordingly performed, on the spot, by the family chaplain of Mrs. DUBOIS: not without many remonstrances on his part, as to the impropriety of marrying a negro. The PRINCE did not see to resent the affront; which, by the by, he had no right to do; as the priest got nothing for the job. ZEMBO, too, was extremely restless; till Mrs. DUBOIS gave him some sweetmeats, which seemed to quiet his conscience; after which he took some stiff punch, and fell asleep!
About midnight, the PRINCE came to him; and, shaking him by the ears, bad him rise and follow him. His bride was hanging on his arm, in an enchanting dishabille; and did not seem to be in perfect possession of her right senses. ZEMBO mournfully followed the new married pair.
They went silently out of the back door, with cautious steps, and proceeded through the orangerie. No breath of wind was stirring. The moon was on the zenith, surrounded by a pale halo of ghostly lustre. When they had crossed the plantation, they came to a place of sepulture; where the dark cypresses, and lugubrious mahogany, admitted but sparse and glimmering streaks of funereal light; which, falling on the rank foliage, the white monuments and broken ground beneath, presented a thousand dusky shapes, flitting in the dim uncertainty dear to superstition.
Vague terrors seized on the mind of the bride; and she began very naturally to inquire, what was the use of getting out of a comfortable bed, and trailing through the heavy dew, in her undress, to such an unusual spot for midnight recreation.
They now stood near the spot, where her three husbands, several children, and the skin, hair and nails of her first baby, were deposited in a row. At the foot of a tamarind, lay her third son; whose christian name was SPOONER, and who died, according to the tombstone, in a fit of intoxication, aged seven years and six months. On him she had bestowed a greater share of tenderness, than any of her other offspring; and his loss had caused her most affliction. The African, making observations on the grave, began to strip himself very expeditiously, assisted by ZEMBO; who seemed to recover from his blues; and by his activity and eagerness, manifested his expectation of soon seeing some fine sport.
Presently the two genii, or gentlemen, or whatever they were, turned towards the East, and performed certain antic prostrations; throwing handfuls of earth three times over their heads. Then returning to the tomb, they tore up the sods with ravenous fury; and soon drew out the last- mentioned son of the Lady, and threw him on the grass, beside the grave. ZEMBO fell as fiercely upon the corpse, as a hungry dog upon his dinner; but was arrested by the AFRICAN, who lent him a severe box on the ear, which sent him blubbering to a corner of the cemetery.
What added both to the mother’s horrors and admiration, was, that the body of her child was perfectly fresh, and the olfactory nerves experienced no unsavoury sensation from its proximity; while its cheeks were diffused with so deep a tinge of scarlet, that they shone like ruddy fireballs in the darkness of the spot. Her husband drew a golden goblet from beneath a large stone; then, bending over the corse, he scooped out the heart, with his long and polished nails; and, having pressed the blood into the chalice, mingled with it some dark particles, gathered from the newly turned up earth. From the pure and scanty lymph, which gushed near by and flickered like a streak of quicksilvery-light in the moonbeam, he added a third ingredient of the potion. Then seizing his passive and trembling spouse by the throat, and presenting the unnatural mixture to her lips; he cried in a hollow voice, whose very inflection thrilled through each fibre of its victim,—“Swear, or if that is against your principles, affirm, by this dirty blood,—and bloody dirt;—by this watery blood,—and bloody water;—by this watery dirt, and dirty water;—that you will never disclose in any manner, aught of what you have seen and shall see this night. Call them all to witness your wish, that in the moment when you even conceive the thought of perjury, your bowels may burst out, and your bones rot! Swear and drink!”
The affrighted woman murmured, (as articulately as the iron gripe of the monster would suffer her,) that she was not thirsty; and had not breath enough to aspirate such a terrible conjuration. “No trifling;” roared the fiend, “you have not a moment to deliberate.” But his bellowing and threats were vain; and he found to his mortification that he had gotten the wrong sow by the ear, or rather by the throat. She stuttered out, in the most pitiful accents, which would have softened any heart (but a Vampyre has none,) that though she was by no means partial to the delectable confectionary of the pharmacopeia, calomel and jalap, ipecacuanha, rhubarb, and tartar-emetic, she would rather take them all, collectively and individually, than the unchristian decoction he held against her teeth.
Foaming with madness, till the white slaver flowed down his sable limbs, the African hurled MRS. PERSONNE, DUBOIS, &c. &c. on the grave of her first husband, and stamping violently on the earth, it seemed to heave as with the throes of an earthquake. Immediately the tumuli yawned. The ponderous stones and slabs were shaken from their ancient sockets; and the ghastly dead, in uncouth attitudes, crawled from their nooks; with their hair curling in tortuous and serpent twinings; and their eyeballs of fire bursting from their heads; while, as they extended their withered arms, and tapering fingers, furnished with blood-hound claws, their gory shrouds fell in wild drapery around them, transiently revealing their forms, bloated as if to bursting, and often incarnadined with clotted blood, yet warm and dripping!!!
The Lady, (as those who have been in similar predicaments may suppose,) soon lost her recollection; not, however, before she had seen ZEMBO busily employed in tearing up the grave of her first husband; she saw herself surrounded by the spectres, and lost all consciousness.
When reason and sense returned, she found herself in the same place; and it was also the midnight hour. She was laying by the grave of Mr. PERSONNE, and her breast was stained with blood. A wide wound appeared to have been inflicted there, but was now cicatrized. Imagine if you can, her surprise; when, by a certain carniverous craving in her maw, and by putting this and that together, she found she was a—VAMPYRE!!! and gathered from her indistinct reminiscences, of the preceding night, that she had been then sucked; and that it was now her turn to eject the peaceful tenants of the grave!
With this delightful prospect of immortality before her, she began to examine the graves, for subject to a satisfy her furious appetite. When she had selected one to her mind, a new marvel arrested her attention. Her first husband got up out his coffin, and with all the grace so natural to his countrymen, made her a low bow in the last fashion, and opened his arms to receive her!
What were the emotions of this fond couple, when, after a lingering separation for sixteen years, they again embraced each other, with the ardour of an affection equal to their earliest transports, and which their long divorce served only to increase; tenderly inquiring into the state of each other’s health; and the accidents which had befallen them during their disjunction. They forgot even their hunger and thirst; and sitting down on a tombstone, made a thousand inquiries; which, however, they related to family concerns, might not be as interesting to the reader as they were to the parties concerned.
Mr. PERSONNE, however, looked rather glum, when he learned that his Lady had been thrice married, since his decease. But she assured him, that she would never more tolerate the addresses of another suitor: and as for the two husbands, they were rotten enough by this time; as she was confident they had not attended the Vampyre Ball, on the preceding night. As for her sable spouse, she trusted that he would never again appear to interrupt their happiness. But while she was expressing this hope, the gentleman in question, (like his relation below, according to the old proverb,) came upon the ground, with ZEMBO. Mr. PERSONNE, having neither sword nor pistols at hand, armed himself with a gigantic thigh-bone; and warned the BLACK PRINCE to stand upon his guard as he meant to punish him severely.
But ZEMBO, rushing between the parties, raised his hands in a supplicating posture; while the generous monarch, making a Salam to his antagonist, begged him, keep himself quiet, and look behind him. They both turned round on this intimation, when, to the utter confusion of the Lady, her second and third husbands, Messieurs MARQUAND and DUBOIS, arose from the graves, where they had been lovingly deposited by the side of each other. They both advanced to salute their wife; but Mr. PERSONNE, brandishing his thigh-bone, warned them to stand off, as he had the first title to the Lady. Much confusion would have ensued, had not the African Prince interfered. He told the gentlemen that so delicate a point could only be settled in an honourable way; and proposed that Mr. MARQUAND and Mr. DUBOIS should first settle their difference in a personal encounter; after which Mr. PERSONNE might give the survivor gentlemanly satisfaction. To this all parties assented.
As they were already stripped, the combatants shook hands, to show their mutual good-will; and proceeded to action, without further ceremony. Mr. DuBois soon brought claret from Mr. MARQUAND; who, in returning the compliment, fibbed Mr. DUBOIS so severely in the bowels, that he lost his wind; and gasping for breath, smote the air on all sides, without any of his blows telling. He came to the ground, and his bones rattled as he fell. But soon recovering his breath, he made a desperate attack on Mr. MARQUAND’S sconce; and favoured him with so terrible a facer under the gills, that he fell incontinently like a bull smitten in his front; but entangling his own heels with those of Mr. DUBOIS, they both came simultaneously to the ground; striking their heads against different tombstones; and knocking out their own brains.
They rose again, refreshed like the giant of old, by their grappling with the earth, and all the better for the loss of their wits, which, indeed, was a mere trifle. But the AFRICAN, who had no time to see more sport, fixed them to the sod by his superior strength; and ZEMBO dexterously pinned them fast, by driving stakes through their hearts, with a large sledge hammer, (which he carried about his person for such emergencies.) During the opera- tion, their roaring surpassed that which is performed by the Lioness, when bereft of her whelps; but as soon as they were fairly nailed to the counter, they lay motionless and breathless—a horrible pair of spectacles of sin and misery!
The AFRICAN assured the Lady, that she need never fear their second resurrection; and Mr. PERSONNE politely offered to settle their controversy, in any mode most agreeable to the PRINCE:—either to box with him on the spot, or appoint a meeting in future, with pistols, rifles, small or broad sword; or else they might toss up, who should set fire to a barrel of gunpowder. The PRINCE said that quarrelling was all nonsense, and offered his hand; but Mr. PERSONNE refused, saying, “Don’t be too familiar, Blackey;” and renewing his threats of cracking him over the noddle with the thigh-bone.
The generous monarch pocketed the affront. “You have been,” he said, “sufficiently rewarded, for the cruelties you practised upon my person, several years ago. I forgive you, my dear sir, what you performed, and intended to perform on me. Here is your son, who has grown considerably, as you may observe; and I assure you that his education has not been neglected. To his exertions last night you are indebted for your revivification. And as, you may remember, you were embalmed, you have kept quite sweet and fresh ever since your interment. Amiable and virtuous VAMPYRES! may you long enjoy that tranquillity and contentment, which your merit and accomplishments so eminently deserve! A vessel lies in the port, ready to sail for Europe in an hour. The Island is no longer a place for you. Here is money to pay your passages, and all I have to say, is, that the sooner you’re off the better.—Farewell!” So saying he departed, without waiting for the acknow- ledgments of the party.
Mr. PERSONNE and his Lady, whom we shall again call by her first marriage name, did not exactly comprehend what their dingy benefactor meant, by bidding them take French leave of the Island, like pickpockets and outlaws; but, as they were yet wondering at their own existence, like Adam and Eve, the first day of their creation, and as they had reason to believe the PRINCE a potent magician, who could rouse the dead from their searments, and turn the planets from their courses;—for these reasons, they concluded to follow his bidding, without any impertinent scruples. But as the keen edge of their hunger had been whetted by delay, they would fain have taken supper, and digested a little something wherewithal to strengthen them, before they set out.
ZEMBO, who had filled his own breadbasket very lately, and was in no such urgent necessity, protested with all the vehemence which filial reverence would permit, against the unseasonable gratification of their unnatural craving; and recited with just emphasis and good discretion, an extract from Counsellor Phillips’s harangue, about “the cannibal appetite of his rejected altar;” which his parents did not understand, and of course thought very sublime! But even this master-piece of mystical eloquence would have been delivered in vain; had not the boy given other reasons of such cogency, that they licked their lips—cast a longing, lingering look at the grave-yard,—and followed him without more opposition.
They prosecuted their nocturnal march, through closely woven and solemn groves; until they descended into a profound valley, where the light of the pale planet of magic adoration, streamed and quivered on serried files of bright armoury. The leader of the band seemed to have expected their arrival; and mutual tokens of recognition passed between him and ZEMBO. The whole company then set forward their array in silence;—
No cymbal clash’d, no clarion rang, Still were the pipe and drum; Save heavy tread, and armour’s clang, The sullen march was dumb.
By continual descent, they seemed to have penetrated the bowels of a cavern, whose ramifications ran under the sea; as they heard a murmuring roar, as of the ocean, above their heads. The party, by the instructions of ZEMBO, dispersed themselves in different directions; until they had enclosed the interior of the rock where its largest chamber was, to speak catachrestically, so artfully concealed by nature, that no one, not instructed by an adept in its subterranean topography, could ever have detected the secret of its existence. It had been, in former days, a place of deposit and asylum for the Buccaniers; and its situation had been since known only to the Professors of the OBEAH art, who held here their midnight orgies.
Mr. and Mrs. PERSONNE, guided by their son, were placed in a situation, where, through the crevices of the inner partition of the rock, they could observe what was passing in the interior.
It seemed, at first view, a vast hall of Arabian romance; supported by immense shafts, and studded with precious stones; so various and beautiful were the hues, which the different spars assumed, in the light of an hundred torches, blazing in every quarter, and illuminating the farthest recesses of the cave. The walls were decorated with other appendages, which added to the mystery, if not to the embellishment of the scene; being irregularly stained with blood; decorated with rude tapestry of many coloured plumage;—and stuccoed with the beaks of parrots;—the teeth of dogs, and alligators;—bones of cats;—broken glass and eggshells; plastered with a composition of rum and grave-dirt, the implements of NEGRO witchcraft!
At one extremity of the extensive apartment, on a kind of natural throne, sat several blackamoors in sumptuous Moorish apparel; whom, by their swollen forms, and remarkable eyes, Mrs. PERSONNE knew to be GOULS; and among whom she recognised her late husband. The whole range of this vast amphitheatre, sweeping from before the throne, was occupied by slaves, rudely attired, and imperfectly armed with clubs and missiles; a decent platoon of black-guards were posted be- fore the Vampyre monarchs; and, in the centre, a band of musicians performed an exquisite symphony. The soft strains of the MERRIWANG;—the lively notes of the DUNDO;—and the martial accompaniment of the GOOMBAY, made, with their united noises, a discordant harmony, whose powers the lyre of Orpheus could not equal; and which would certainly be enough to frighten all the hosts of Pandemonium.
The oratorio being finished, the AFRICAN PRINCE arose, and making an obeisance to the company,—cleared his throat, and began to address them as follows:—“Gentlemen and Vampyres!”—but the VAMPYRES expressing their resentment against this breach of etiquette, he corrected himself: —“Vampyres and Gentlemen!”—but the NEGROES were no more willing to come last, than the Vampyres, and a loud growl accompanied by a slight hiss, again interrupted the orator. He was not, however, disconcerted, but like Mr. Burke, thundered out an iteration of the offensive sentence.
“Yes,” said he, “I repeat it, Vampyres and Gentlemen? Shall not the immortal precede the mortal?— Shall not those whose diet surpasses the nectar and ambrosia of celestials, precede the ephemeral race, who fatten on the unclean juice of brutes,—the rank essence of esculent productions,—or the nauseous liquor of the distillery? (applause—hear! hear! and see-boy! from the Vampyres—groans from the negroes!) Gentlemen of colour! I appeal to yourselves; shall not the descendants of the Gods be named before the offspring of the earth-born image, whom Titan impregnated with celestial fire?—For Prometheus was the first Vampyre. You must all know, as you have undoubtedly read Æschylus, that the vulture, who preyed on his liver, was neither fish, flesh, nor fowl. He is called a dog, which makes him a quadruped;—he is represented as ερπωυ, creeping, which proves him an insect; and is said to have wings, which shows that he was a bird. Now, from this amphibious monster have descended the Crows,—the Jackalls,—and the Bloodhounds;—the pirate Bat of Madagascar,—and the man-killing Ivunches of Chili;—the Sharks;—the Crocodiles;—the Krakens;—the Horse-leeches;—the Cape-cod Sea Serpents;—the Mermaids;—the Incubi;—and the Succubi!!! (loud cheering from the Vampyres.) From Titan himself, descended the Cy- clopes, and all other ancient and modern Anthropophagi; and, in lineal descent, the Moco tribe of our own EBOES, to whom I have the honour of being related. Those of you, too, are his posterity, who, after your deaths, return to your native land—the true Elysium; where the balmy bowl of the Coco, the soft bloom of the ANANA, and the coal-black beauties of the clime of love, shall for ever reward your fortitude, and steep in forgetfulness the memory of your wrongs. (hear! hear! from the negroes.) But none of these genera or species of our order, must longer engage your dignified and charitable attention. I come to ourselves, full- blooded—unadulterated—immortal bloodsuckers!—To ourselves—whether Gouls,—or Afrits,—or Vampyres;— Vroucolochas,—Vardoulachos,—or Broucolokas—To ourselves—the terror of the living and of the dead, and the participants of the nature of both;—To ourselves—the emblems at once of corruption and of vitality;—blotted from the records of existence, and replenished to repletion with circulating life;—abandoned by the quick, and unrecognised by the dead:—‘at once relics and relicts;— rocked on the bases of our own eternities;—the chronicles of what was—the solemn and sublime mementoes of what must be!’ unqualified approbation from both sides of the house.)
“The estate of Vampyrism is a fee-tail, and may be docked in two different ways. The first mode is the sanguinary practice of perforating the subject with a stake; and this is final. The other is produced by the gentler operation of the narcotic potion you behold in this phial; by whose lenient and opiate influence, the individual is restored to the plight, in which he was previous to his death, or his becoming a Vampyre, and belongs to the OBEAH mysteries.
“But to come to the object of our present meeting. Sublime and soul-elevating theme!—The emancipation of the Negroes!—The consecration of the soil of ST. DOMINGO to the manes of murdered patriots in all ages!—No matter whether the bill of sale was scrawled in French or in English;—No matter whether we were taken prisoners, in a battle between the LEOPHARES and the JAKOFFS, or in a skirmish between the SAMBOES and the SAWPITS;—No matter whether we were bought for calico and cotton, or for gunpowder or for shot;—No matter whether we were transported in chains or in ropes—in a brig, or a schooner, or a seventy-four—the first moment we come ashore on ST. DOMINGO, our souls shall swell like a sponge in the liquid element;—our bodies shall burst from their fetters, glorious as a curculio from its shell;—our minds shall soar like the car of the æronaut, when its ligaments are cut; in a word, O my brethren, we shall be free!—Our fetters discandied, and our chains dissolved, we shall stand liberated,—redeemed,— emancipated,—and disenthralled by the irresistible genius of UNIVERSAL EMANCIPATION!!!” (Unparalleled bursts of unprecedented applause!!!)
Such was the report of this oration, taken down in short hand by ZEMBO; of whose extraordinary sagacity so many proofs have been exhibited; and who was never unprovided with materials for any emergency. The fiery oratory of the Prince communicated such inspiration to the auditors, that the whole mass of their thick blood leaped up with the quickening pulse of anticipated freedom; they danced and sung, with violent gesticulations, like perfect Corybantes; but unfortunately, their Phyrricks were interrupted by the glittering bayonets of the soldiery; who poured in upon them from every quarter, and hemmed them in, with a bristling chevaux-de-frise of steel. The Vampyres, surprised but undaunted, unsheathed their sabres, and drew up in a gallant style, as if determined to die game; being, indeed, assured, that like so many Phœnixes, they would rise from their own ashes, as often as they might be cut down.
A desperate conflict ensued, during which Mrs. PERSONNE observed the phial, mentioned by the Prince, lying on the ground; and very thoughtfully put it in her ridicule. The slaves, seeing how the business was likely to terminate, prudently sneaked off, while the attention of the military was occupied by the Vampyres. The former were violently exasperated to find all their labour so unprofitable; since while they themselves were wounded by every blow of their opponents, the latter, like so many ninepins, were set up, as fast as they were bowled down; bending to the storm, like masts on a tempestuous ocean, and rising again upon the billow in perpendicular triumph.
But, being instructed by ZEMBO, the soldiers pinioned them as fast as they fell; and prevented their rising, by sitting in great numbers on their bodies; though the task was somewhat like that of detaining quicksilver beneath the fingers. The PRINCE, however, still fought desperately. Brandishing a huge scimitar in either hand, he swayed his arms like the sails of a windmill; while limbs, heads, and bodies flew about him, curvetting and dancing in the air; as when the ingenious Mr. MAFFEY pulls to pieces a coach, or an old woman, children, chickens, friars, and petticoats dance about in wild confusion, till the artist’s hand again brings order out of chaos:—Or, as when the renowned knight of the BED-CHAMBER, whose name eternal vases shall record, saw the ungenerous caricature on the wall, wielding a ponderous jug, he smote the innocent tables, chairs, and bed-posts, and strode victorious over the gory field: So fought the PRINCE; till being neatly pricked in the spine, unexpectedly, he soused (as Johannes Porco Latinus remarks) “in principia fundimentalia,” and was immediately set upon by a host. So when a Gœtulian lion is pierced by the light bamboo, overpowered by the hunters, he struggles in his thrall like an Enceladus under Ætna, and dies at last with heart-wrung tears of anguish, and re- verberating roars of hatred!!!
Stakes were immediately procured, and the whole infernal fraternity securely disposed of: as their compeers, described by Homer,
With burning chains fixed to the brazen floors And lock’d by hell’s inexorable doors.
With their bellowings, the vast chambers of the subterranean rung like the caverns of Delphos, when the inflammable air was fired by the crafty priests. The Inhabi- tants of the Island started up from their slumbers in shuddering terror, and believed that an earthquake was rumbling beneath their feet.
Mr. and Mrs. PERSONNE and ZEMBO lost no time in trying the effects of the African’s stolen prescription. Being thrown into a tranquil slumber they were conveyed to their plantation; and awoke the next morning, perfectly well, excepting slight colds in the head. Mr. PERSONNE, having been in statu quo, for sixteen years, was now much younger than his lady; a circumstance, for which she was not at all sorry; and which he himself declared by no means displeased him. The remainder of their life was serene as a tropic night; —illumined by the mild effulgence of domestic love;—fanned by the soft aspirations of peaceful bosoms;—and enlivened by the fire- fly scintillations of rapture!!!
ZEMBO, to whose taste and ingenuity they were indebted for their happiness, and who was baptized with the Christian name of BARABBAS, after an uncle of his mother’s, recorded what the reader has perused. One only circumstance, like one of those claps of thunder, frequently heard in the unclouded sky, passed over the tranquillity of their bosoms. Mrs. PERSONNE’S fourth husband’s child was a mulatto, and of Vampyrish propensities; of which his mother and Mr. PERSONNE were never able entirely to cure him, having used up all the African’s preparation.
The intelligent reader, (if any such there be,) will remember that this narrative commenced with the name of Mr. ANTHONY GIBBONS, of whom nothing has since been said; and whose adventures (to use a FORUM trope) “must remain buried in the bowels of futurity,” until a more convenient opportunity. He is a lineal descendant from the last-mentioned mulatto; and the manuscript, which is now given to the public, was transmitted to him from his ancestors. He is a resident in Essex county, New- Jersey; and candour requires us to state, that he is no relation to his celebrated namesake at ELIZABETH- TOWN; as it is notorious to all who have had the pleasure of witnessing the size of the latter gentleman’s waist, that he has too much bowels for so diabolical a profession; and it is to be hoped in charity, that though he is such a delicate morsel, when he is laid in the sepulchre of his fathers, he may not prove a titbit, to GLUT THE THIRST OF A VAMPYRE!!!
Moral.
N this happy land of liberty and equality, we are free from all traditional superstitions, whether political, religious, or otherwise. Fiction has no materials for machinery;—Romance no horrors for a tale of mystery. Yet in a figurative sense, and in the moral world, our climate is perhaps more prolific than any other, in enchanters,—Vampyres,—and the whole infernal brood of sorcery and witchcraft.
The accomplished dandy, who in maintaining his horses,—his taylor, &c.—absorbs in the forced and unnatural excitement of his senseless orgies, the life-blood of that wealth which his prudent Sire had accumulated by a long devotion to the counter,—What is he but a Vampyre?
The fraudulent trafficker in stock and merchandize, who, having sucked the whole substance of an hundred honest men, is consigned for a few weeks to the sepulchre of the jail; and then, by the potent magic of an insolvent law, stalks forth, triumphant with bloated villany, more elated in his shameless resurrection to renew his career of iniquity and of disgrace,—what is he but a Vampyre?
The corrupted and senseless Clerk, who being placed near the vitals of a moneyed institution, himself exhausted to feed the appetite of sharpers, drains, in his turn, the coffers he was appointed to guard,—is he not, I appeal to the Stockholders,—is he not a Vampyre?
Brokers, Country Bank Directors, and their disciples—all whose hunger and thirst for money, unsatisfied with the tardy progression of honest industry, by creating fictitious and delusive credit, has preyed on the heart and liver of public confidence, and poisoned the currents of public morals, are they not all Vampyres?
The whole tribe of Plagiarists, under every denomination;—The Critic, who. by eviscerating authors, and stuffing his own meagre show of learning with the pilfered entrails, ekes out his periodical fulmination against public taste;—the Forum Orator, who, without compunction, barbarously exenterates Burke, and Curran, and Phillips,—the Second- handed Lawyer,—Scholar,—Theologue,—who quote from quotations, and steal stolen property:—the Divine, who preaches Tillotson and Toplady;—what are they all but Vampyres?
The Empiric, who fills his own stomach, while he empties his shop into the bowels of the hypochondriac;—the Bibliopolist, “who guts the fobs” of the whole reading community, by ascribing to Lord Byron works which that author never saw; the philanthropic Contractor for the Army, who charges more for lime and horse-beef, than his quantum- meruit for the best provisions; who sets up his carriage and his palace, by blistering the mouths and destroying the intestines of thousands,— what are these but Vampyres?
The Professors and Disciples of Surgeon’s Hall, who, when a fine fat corse is rolled out of the resurrectionist’s budget, set up a howl of horrible transport, like he anthropophagous Caribs in Robinson Crusoe;—glut their gloating eyes with the pinguidity and unctuousness of the subject; and whet their blades like Shylock, impatient to attack the ilia,—what are they but Vampyres?
And I, who, as Johnson said of an hypochondriac Lady, “have spun this discourse out of my own bowels,” and made as free with those of others—I am a VAMPYRE!
Vampyrism; a poem
Utrum horum mavis accipe.
SOLOMON LANG & LAUNCELOT LANG
- STAFF, Esquires.
GENTLEMEN, FROM the Gazette of August 17th, I am happy to learn, that you have entered into an alliance, offensive and defensive. The ties of kindred and the attraction of sympathy, one would think, ought to have brought about this union much sooner. You are, I believe, of one family;—although I am ignorant from whence LAUNCELOT has taken the Agnomen of STAFF: and I am equally unable to divine, why you have both docked the Nomen of your ancestors, which hath been written LANGEARS from time immemorial. Whatever may be your reasons for disowning your consanguinity to the great GENTILE family, the literary and political worlds rejoice, at least, in this consolidation of the talents of their two most distinguished members. The parity of intellect,—the similarity of taste,—the pungency of sarcasm possessed by both parties, justify the expectations formed by the public, from this conjunction of two such great luminaries. Both are imbued with that modest confidence, connected with the consciousness of superior talent. SOLOMON is formed, perhaps, of more impenetrable stuff: LAUNCELOT has more of the irritability and exquisite sensibility of genius.—Ira quidem communiter urit utrumque; but SOLOMON taketh the driest knocks with a good grace; LAUNCELOT is sooner thrown into a fever, and frets, to use a classic quotation of his own, “like a bear, with a sore head.”—SOLOMON is the better grammarian: LAUNCELOT hath, occasionally, greater command of language. Solomon, as he states, composes ideas and types simultaneously, a la mode de Wooler; Launcelot has the advantage of seeing his ideas embodied in black and white, in their flight from his brains to the printing office.— LAUNCELOT the FIERY, may be likened to the mad ORESTES: SOLOMON the PATIENT, to the faithful PYLADES.— SOLOMON is original in his own way: LAUNCELOT purloins from Swift, and Rabelais and others.—SOLOMON, pilloried in his own press, with no ally but the gray mare, bravely receives the missiles of the whole legion of editors; LAUNCELOT has only to open his mouth, or saw the air, or make a leg, on the literary stage; and all the gods of the Philadelphia gallery, pipe their shrill catcalls in discordant unison.—The castigation of both is equally dreadful. SOLOMON, with his “Good morning, Mr. Coleman,” and “Rot the sarpent,” condenses all his wrath into a laconic sarcasm: LAUNCELOT elaborates books, to the great terror and discomfiture of Gifford, Southey, and Scott. The Quarterly Reviewers received a death blow, because they could not find out the wit of the Scottish Fiddle; and the translator of Juvenal has never dared to show his face, since Mr. LANGSTAFF promulgated to the world, the secret of his origin. Poor Mr. Hall, the editor of the Port Folio,— because he criticised that Poem, (than which, in the language of Croaker, “nothing can be flatter or funnier;”) according to the canons of Martinus Scriblerus,—said Hall has been severely bemauled for his temerity. Many a heart-burning hath he experienced, from the caustic of Salmagundi Redivivus—Godwot!—magni nominis umbra!—On the whole, “none but yourselves can be your parallels.”
Allow me to dedicate the following rhymes to your firm; which will, I have no doubt, stand secure, amid all the present wreck of matters, and crashes of credit. Profound ignorance, bolstered by vanity, sits firmly on it own fundamental principles. Farewell, Gentlemen, accept the considerations of my high esteem—
Fortunati ambo—si quid mea carmina possunt, Nulla dies unquam memori vos eximet aevo!
-URIAH DERICK D’ARCY.
VAMPYRISM;
A POEM,
I.
IN this blest land, where valour burst
The links which bound his children erst,
And rent the vail whose darkness hid
Legitimacy’s monstrous creed;—
Where all that since the world began
Had sway’d the sacred rights of man,
With ancient dreams had past away,
And bare in all its weakness lay;—
Here reason, in triumphal hour,
Asserted too her conquering power:
From mountain, valley, plain and flood,
She exorcised the shadowy brood
II.
When freshening gales had swept the mists,
That wildly wreath’d the mountain crests,
No cloudy spectre o’er the storm
Reveal’d the terrors of his form;—
When evening breezes curl’d the wave
No wraiths disturb’d the wandering brave,—
When lost in darkness, down the side
Of craggy mount their path they tried,
And stunn’d by torrents deafening roar,
Downward were hurl’d, to rise no more;
Men said their balance they had lost,
But never laid it to a ghost.
III.
No more, around the guarded gold,
Their wake were pirates seen to hold;—
No elves the midnight circle tript;
No fairies lunar vigils kept;
Genii nor devils rose—except,
Indeed, that once in godly Salem,
Blue laws and preachings seem’d to fail ’em;
Bed bugs and rats their slumbers broke,
On Beelzebub they laid the joke;
Took brandy to expel the fiend,
Which answered quite another end!
Old ladies then to swim were taught,
In amorous league with Satan caught;—
And some were hang’d:—but now no more
’Tis fit to rake up that old sore.
IV.
Of late the pole its fiends has sent,
The ‘tarnal Yankees to torment;
By water witchcraft long distrest,
In vain with all their might they guest;
Till when their gumption seem’d to fail
One captain got him by the tail;
But metamorphos’d, (such their story,)
The wizard gave the man the go-by
Turn’d out a tunny fish to be,
The “shallowest monster” of the sea.
V.
And now they swear with might and main,
That Monsieur Tonson’s come again:
And Marshal Prince, his wife and daughters,
Off Nahant, saw him walk the waters.
The coachman there and Mrs. Prince
Got at the odd fish several squints;
But Mr. Prince, for weak his eye was,
Look’d at him through a mast-head spy-glass;
And took, lest men his word should doubt,
An ugly likeness of his snout,
With all the bumps the monster bore—
He says, thirteen—his wife, two more.
VI.
In Morristown we’ve heard a ghost
Wrought wonders to the people’s cost.
’Tis not long since, on New Year’s night,
The devil gave three bad boys a fright;
Who o’er their whiskey took to cursing,
Spoke disrespectfully of his person,
His government began to libel,
And on the back-log put the bible.—
But these things are of little moment,
Unworthy of a further comment.
VII.
Yet SUPERSTITION! though thy throne
Be rear’d in wilds and woods alone,
Where the rude wanderer of the glen
Invokes the souls of martial men;—
Adores the torrent thundering loud;
Calls on the spirits of the cloud;—
And o’er the black and bursting heaven,
Sees Ariouski’s chariot driven;—
Yet, queen of terror’s sheetedband!
Fiends worse than thine affright our land,
While, stalking from their ghastly homes,
The VAMPYRE host infuriate roams!
VIII.
Behold that EXQUISITE divine,
Fit to hang up for fashion’s sign.
In classic mould his wig is shear’d—
SO SAUNDERS says—by all rever’d—
(Yet much, with deference, due I doubt
If Saunders’ science could make out
Apollo’s nob, if slic’d off well,
From J—n G. B—t’s bust to tell—
Both are stuck up in the Academy—
Yet for this query think not bad o’ me.)
But to the Dandy—’neath his chin
Hog’s bristles fiercely fence him in;
One corset back his shoulders throws;
His bowels other bones enclose;
His ample chest is bullet proof,
With cotton cram’d and such like stuff;
And for his clothes—but here’s enough.
For ere the printer’s tardy imp,
Shall bid in type this doggrel limp,
The swifter ninth part of a man
Shall change the passing mode again;
And waists now short shall then be long.
All that’s now right shall then be wrong!
IX.
How came that puppy by his gig?
What taught him how to look so big?
For this behind the measur’d board
His father scrap’d the growing hoard—
Like him the pyramids who rear’d,
To leave behind no name rever’d
For, on the bowels of the heap,
His revels shall this Vampyre keep;
Till vigils late—and generous wine,
And—things that suit no lay of mine;
Have left him soon to die and rot,
Be laugh’d at, pitied, and forgot!
His species and his line to trace,
And count the honours of his race,
Let Mr. Wynkoop soar as high,
As Scythia’s Cynocephali,
And Mr. Langstaff dive as low
As he, and he alone, can go;”
Let this quote Greek—that crack stale jokes,
The theme is worthy of such folks.
X.
Lo! thro’ the bustling world of trade,
What monsters march in long parade;
Gorg’d with the substance of a host,
Swelling they strut with empty boast;
The bubble burst, and credit fled,
The money’d quack proclaims them dead;—
Bailiffs in haste the corpse escort;—
The turnkey says his service short;—
Awhile in jail their bones repose,
Till lo! the dungeon doors unclose!
Insolvent laws, with potent spell,
Have wrought the wondrous miracle;
Their words of might the dead restore;
And even more bloated than before,
From that deep sepulchre, to prey
On all the gudgeons in his way,
Of shameless resurrection vain,
The VAMPYRE BANKRUPT stalks again!
XI.
Temples of Mammon! O beware
What priests the golden chalice bear!
And let not hands profane approach
The tempting, costly shrines to touch!
Have we not seen what secret stealth
Has suck’d the vitals of your wealth,
When the weak dupe, quite drain’d himself,
Grew hungry for the luscious pelf;
Nor did his secret orgies end,
Till fail’d a whole year’s dividend.
And now once more in open air,
Have we not seen the Vampyre pair,
Stalk forth, from jails and juries free,
In all the pride of infamy?
XII.
O HERMES of these latter times,
I hail thee in unworthy rhymes!
Great ALCHYMIST, whose art alone
Has found the philosophic stone!
Thou arch magician! to whose hand
Alone is given the hazel wand,
That finds the veins of glittering ores,
Great DOUSTERSWIVEL of conjurors!
What though thine art itself despair,
And all the pageant fade in air?
While harmless mobs thy doors assail,
And blustering butchers curse and rail,
Above thine own Flaminian roll’d,
Shall thy triumphal chariot hold
Its course majestical along,
Before the whole admiring throng!
XIII.
O JACOB! JACOB! thou art keen,
As thy great namesake;—him, I mean.
Who manag’d for himself to keep
The best of crafty Laban’s sheep.
Immortal VAMPYRE of our age!
O might this unassuming page
Be read by all, whose fobs must bleed,
Thy ravenous appetite to feed
Behind thy coach and four might I
Roll in an humbler tilbury;
Beneath thy wings might D’ARCY’s name
Soar to the solar blaze of fame!
XIV.
Plumb from the giddy height I fall,
Amid whole herds of Vampyres small,
CRITICS, who worn out common place
With Author’s pilfer’d entrails grace;
The FORUM spouter—barbarous Turk!
Who rips up Curran, Phillips, Burke,
And thunders forth bombastic centos,
Of wasted time the sad mementoes;
All those who QUOTE at second hand,
And what they quote don’t understand;
The PARSON who in sleepy tone
Evangelizes Tillotson;
All PLAGIARISTS,—concise to be,—
Are GOULs of high or low degree.
XV.
The QUACK with brick dust who provides,
Wherewith to line his own insides;
Who fills up all his hungry chinks,
While to a ghost his patient shrinks;
THOMAS who vends as Byron’s own
The works of doggrelists unknown;
Honest CONTRACTORS, who are able
To cheat both government and rabble;
Who, worthy of the scourge and gallows,
Set up their equipage and palace;
While blister’d mouths deep curses pour
And tortur’d soldiers writhe and roar,
Who eat the beef of horses dead,
And craunch corroding lime for bread—
These, as the sufferers all agree,
Are of the GOULE fraternity.
XVI.
There are whose tongues around them throw
The gall with which their hearts o’erflow,
Like those from old Medusa’s head,
Where’er its venom’d drops are shed,
Earth’s verdure fades;—rank poison springs;
Snakes hiss, and dragons spread their wings.
Pale Dian’s hopeless votary old,
Crabb’d, ancient dames, and bachelors cold,
Nay e’en the blooming maid—will hie
To the foul feast of calumny;
On wisdom, worth, and reverend age,
Beauty and wit, they glut their rage;
And fondly hope, that as they tear
The limbs of murder’d character,
Their own fair fame shall prouder swell,
Fatten’d upon the feast of hell!
XV.
There is a spot, unknown to fame,
Where Vampyres haunt their hold of shame
When ENVY left her noxious cave,
Along Passaic’s winding wave,
(Though Ovid has this fact forgot,)
She linger’d by one cherish’d spot;
She left her benediction here,
The ground became for ever sere;
Infected by her scatter’d slime
And tainted to all after time;
Whoever tastes its baleful food,
A Vampyre longs to feed on blood—
The blood of honour, virtue free,
Fame, confidence and chastity!
XVIII.
But wouldst thou, in thy purpose bold
The demon orgies foul behold—
Mark where the SONS of SURGEON’S HALL,
Upon their foul purveyor call;
And lo, the plunderer of the tomb
Brings up his budget in the room;
Rolls out, their ardent gaze before,
A huge, fat negress on the floor;
Then with a savage howl they roar!
Like cannibals, prepar’d to roast
Their pris’ners on some barbarous coast;
Like Shakspeare’s Jew, the joyous band
Whet their keen blades with eager band;
While all the putrid limbs excite
Their foul and Vampyre appetite.—
XIX.
And what am I, whose spider skill
Has thus contrived this sheet to fill;
From my own bowels spun the lay,
Until I find no more to say?
Before to all I bid adieu,
Confess,—I AM A VAMPYRE TOO!
#The Black-Vampyre#Public Domain#Public domain stories#Public Domain poems#Poetry#Black Vampires#Uriah Derick D’arcy#Rjalker transcribes The Black-Vampyre#didn't actually have to transcribe in this case#just fix all the fuckups and get rid of all the bullshit
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The Taste of Revenge (13)
Warnings: canon typical violence, cursing, mentions of non-consensual drugging, descriptions of character death, mentions and descriptions of jail, car crashes, descriptions of drowning, lying, manipulation, guns, yandere themes, cursing, mafia AU, mafia Rafael Barba (trust me, he needs the warning), spoilers for Hannibal, references to Leverage, past Frederick Chilton/Rafael Barba, NSFW moments and angst.
Spanish translation:
Cariño - Sweetheart.
Chapter 13
“Welcome back to NCIS.” Gibbs greeted you, “We have a mandatory sexual harassment meeting.”
You groaned and Tim patted you on the shoulder consolingly with one hand while the other held a piece of paper and a pen.
Realising the strategy that Tim was planning to use to pass the time in the meeting, you grinned at him.
“You’re going to need a partner for that.”
“Yeah, I was thinking Tony.” He teased.
“You were thinking Tony for what?” The agent asked.
“How I could pass the time during the mandatory meeting today.”
“That’s today?” Tony exclaimed, “Boss, I’ve got the flu and I need to go home.”
“Suck it up DiNozzo. McGee, (Surname), keep that paper out of the presenter’s sight.”
Your team filed into the room where the meeting was being held and after introducing herself, the presenter asked for the lights to be turned off. Her assistant turned them off and the presentation began.
Tim twisted his arm behind his back and handed you the piece of paper. Unfolding it, you saw the grid that he had drawn and the circle he had placed in the middle. You drew a cross in the top left corner of the grid, folded up the paper and placed it in his open, waiting hand.
While Tim was pondering his next move, your phone vibrated against your thigh. You pulled it out from your pocket and hid it underneath the desk. When you were sure it was out of sight, you unlocked your phone to read the text message.
Rafael 9:04am: He kicked me out of the bedroom and locked the door.
You 9:04am: Why?
You then noticed that your name, Rafael’s name, and Frederick’s name were all on the top of the screen on the messages app.
“That’s what Frederick wanted my number and phone for this morning.”
Three dots appeared on your phone but Tim shook his hand impatiently, distracting you from your phone. You put your phone on your leg and after checking it was still hidden from sight, you grabbed the paper from Tim, put a cross on the bottom left corner of the grid, and gave the folded bit of paper back to Tim.
Frederick 9:05am: He was being uncooperative. I need help wording a paragraph and all he said was to use the thesaurus on the computer.
Rafael 9:05am: How is that a bad suggestion?
Frederick 9:06am: I need to invoke emotion and the thesaurus is too clinical.
Rafael 9:06am: That’s what you get for using a thesaurus that caters to a specific audience.
You 9:07am: Are you aiming for positive or negative emotion?
Frederick 9:07am: Positive. I want to talk about the connections between endorphins and illegal drugs in my first college lecture.
You 9:08am: Endorphins are incredibly similar to illegal substances in the sense that they can both induce extreme highs. Both substances can affect the memory but only endorphins have the capacity to manage your pain and stress in a healthy manner while contributing to a positive sense of wellbeing. They are most commonly released through exercise, eating chocolate, and having sex.
You hit send and lifted your gaze to see that Tim was still deciding his next move. Your gaze returned to your phone and as you reread what you had typed, your mind flashed back to the conversation that you had with Emily, JJ, and Penelope.
Frederick 9:10am: Did that knowledge come from your time at the BAU or with NCIS?
Rafael 9:10am: Don’t be a brat, Frederick.
Frederick 9:11am: I am not being a brat!
Rafael 9:11am: You are. You chose not to thank (Name) for sharing her knowledge and helping you to write the paragraph. Even if you don’t end up using what she typed, you should at least express gratitude for her assistance. I’m sure she has other things to focus on.
Frederick 9:11am: Focusing on me is just as important as what she is working on at NCIS.
You 9:12am: Nope. I’m stuck in a pointless mandatory sexual harassment meeting.
Frederick 9:12am: That does sound pointless.
“Lights please.” The presenter called out and the lights were switched on almost immediately. You blinked as your eyes adjusted to the sudden brightness. Your presenter began droning on about different touches in the workplace and once again, you wondered about the purpose of these meetings.
You 9:14am: Now our presenter is talking about different touches in the workplace that could be classified as unwanted. She’s just moved onto the fact that these guidelines will also affect how we interact with suspects and criminals. This is bordering on ridiculous. It’s not as if a suspect is very likely to stay still and say “Yes, you have my permission to put me in handcuffs.”
Frederick 9:15am: If they do, they’re either extremely guilty and have a conscience or they are interested in being restrained in a sexual situation.
You 9:16am: Trust me, I’ve had a few people hinting that they would like to be handcuffed in the bedroom as an NCIS agent. You would think it would have happened in my BAU days but no. They weren’t even people of interest.
You 9:16am: Rafael’s been quiet for a while. Is everything all right on your end?
Rafael 9:17am: Worried that I would burn down the house, cariño?
You 9:17am: The thought did cross my mind.
Frederick 9:17am: He’s cooking. I can smell it from here.
Rafael 9:20am: That had better be a compliment Frederick. These empanadas are vegetarian.
When no more messages popped up on your screen, you realised that the conversation was finished and as you slid your phone back into your pocket, you grinned with amusement at the turn that the texts between you, Frederick and Rafael had taken. Thankfully, the meeting ended quite soon after that and there was a rush to exit the room.
“Having to sit through that meeting would be the perfect retribution for Sterling’s Interpol team for everything they did to us,” Torres stated.
“Hang on. Is Sterling still the leader of that team? What happened in his trial with the Naval Court?” Bishop inquired.
All of your team turned to face you and you shrugged, “I didn’t exactly ask what happened to Sterling in his trial. The Naval Court isn’t the most welcoming of places. However, I did see Sterling the day after we had our trial and he gave me a replacement carton of eggs.”
You half expected someone on your team to make a comment about ‘better late than never’ in reference to the eggs you received but it didn’t come.
“Test the eggs before you use them,” Tony ordered while pointing his pen at you.
“I still can’t believe how lenient the Naval Court was when it came to Barba and Chilton,” Tim complained. “You would think they would have a little bit more sympathy for the conditions and situations that one of their own found themselves in.”
“It comes down to politics McGee. That in itself is a complicated subject.”
“When was the last time that you met with the Naval Court Tony?”
“Mother, I’m sure that you remember the team that I work with.” Ducky’s voice stopped the two men from continuing their bickering.
“Yes, I do. I am not senile Donald. These two are new.” She declared, pointing at Torres and Bishop.
Ducky introduced them and you nodded in greeting to Ducky’s mother. The last time that she visited, you had found out the hard way that she didn’t like it when people waved to her.
“I heard someone talking about the Naval Court.”
“That was us, ma’am.” Tim indicated the three of you.
“Didn’t your mother tell you not to point? It’s quite rude, you know.”
Deciding to assist your partner, you jumped into the conversation, “You were saying how we were talking about the Naval Court?”
“Oh, yes. My godson is an Admiral who presides over the Naval Court. Why were you there? Are you a felon?”
“MOTHER!”
“No ma’am. If I was a felon, the Naval Court wouldn’t let me work here anymore.”
“Special Agent (Name) is one of the best, mother. The Naval Court knows that and like she said, if the Naval Court had found her even the tiniest bit guilty, she would not have been allowed to return to her job.”
Ducky escorted his mother away from the bullpen and into the lift. You all waited for the lift doors to close before any of you chose to speak.
“Well, she’s something.” Bishop eventually stated.
“If you think what just happened was bad then you should be grateful that you missed the time when she asked Abby if she and Ducky were together.”
Torres who had just taken a sip of water, spat it out on reflex. “She what?” He coughed.
“It gets better!” Ziva guffawed, “She advised Abby to ‘get a move on because she wants grandchildren and Ducky’s not getting any younger.’ I think it’s safe to say that that was awkward for Abby and Ducky.”
“I’d forgotten about that!”
“I didn’t,” Abby glared at you with her bag on her shoulder.
“What are you all still doing here?” Gibbs called from the top of the stairs that led to the MTAC room, “Go home!”
“Don’t have to tell us twice boss!” Bishop assured him.
The bullpen was quite noisy as chairs were moved and bags were hoisted onto shoulders. Your team chatted amongst yourselves as you filed into the lift and although it was a bit cramped, none of you complained as Ziva pressed the down button.
You walked into your house and were greeted by multiple smells that made your mouth water instantly. Frederick and Rafael were sitting at the dining room table and both of them turned around to face you.
“You’re home earlier than we thought you would be.” Frederick greeted you. You heard the worry and the question in his statement.
“Boss let us out early. He was probably being nice because of the meeting we had to endure.” You explained.
“As you know, Rafael cooked and there are some empanadas left.”
“I haven’t had an empanada before,” you revealed, shrugging your bag off of your shoulder.
“Would you like to try one?” Rafael asked quietly with his eyes intently focused on you.
“Yes, I would.”
#my writing#my fics#the taste of revenge#rafael barba x reader x frederick chilton#female reader#rafael barba#frederick chilton#jethro gibbs#anthony dinozzo#ducky mallard#abby sciuto#ziva david#ellie bishop#nick torres#enemies to friends to lovers
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I see the anons are out in full force tonight, so let me just contribute my two cents that no one asked for in terms of interaction:
I find it very weird that people are getting upset that people that are friends on here share each other's works frequently. Of course they do. That's what friends do. I am not personally close friends with a ton of writers on here (I would like to be, but that doesn't happen immediately), but the people that I have become friends with took time, and I absolutely share the people's stuff that I'm closer to. That's what friends do. And of course I want to grow that friend circle, but friendships don't happen immediately, especially online, where a certain degree of caution should always be exercised. And yes, I want to share more writers' fics, but there are only so many hours in the day.
Now I'm only going to speak for me personally and let everyone else do their own talking: I get most annoyed about interaction when I get the question "When is your next update?" or "Why don't you update more?" Well, because I spend hours of my free time researching stuff, putting a lot of myself into these fics, and then when I put them out there, the people that ask these questions are nowhere to be found. Putting something you create online is terrifying, especially if it's something that means a lot to you, so hoping for positive reception when you share something like that shouldn't be unexpected. It's like when you are talking about anything you're passionate about with someone; you want them to be passionate about it too, and to have that thing be something you created? Even more so.
For interaction, I do try to respond to as many of the comment reblogs as I can. I try to share new fics I enjoy when they roll across my dash. But here's the thing: I spend hours writing fics, I spend hours editing them, I spend a significant amount of time replying to comments I receive, and then I try to find time to read fics and leave comments I feel are adequate (no half-assing anything because hey that sucks). Writers dedicate a lot of their time to writing (shocking, I know), so being upset that writers aren't creating and sharing and replying to your comments and then reading every new thing sent to them and commenting on those and reblogging things is... a lot. Can you not see that?
This whole ecosystem on this site depends on everyone sharing, and yes, that burden does fall largely on readers that aren't also writers. There's no way around that. I don't get responses to every comment I leave, and that's alright. Writers are busy. I can't get to every fic that's recommended to me, and that's got to be ok too. My to-read list on here is a mile long. I literally have multiple tabs open on fics I am trying to get caught back up on RIGHT NOW. I also have a whole ass job and life outside of writing. This isn't a job for people; it's a hobby that we do for free because we enjoy it.
I'm sure I've missed things I wanted to say and not said things correctly here, but I'm annoyed and this is where I'm ending the rant.
Anyway, quit being shitty in people's inboxes tonight. It's fucking weird, and quite frankly, fan behavior when you continue to target the same subset of authors over and over again. Go touch some grass and stop being shitty on the Internet to people that wouldn't hang out with you in real life either.
#karrde bitches about things#I'm cranky and in a mood tonight#and while some of this dialogue absolutely has merit#and there are absolutely constructive conversations to be had about both sides of interaction#people need to quit being fucking shitty
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grace no need to apologize i love hearing about your college experience so far and all your opinions on everything!!!
i get that math is a subject that most people don't like or enjoy but is needed in life. i'm excited to hear your input on them!!
i think i have an idea since mys sister had her first year of college so i kind of get it but probably never experience it personally through college. i'm starting to get a little bit of a feeling like that through my high school and i'm not even physically in school! grace i get that 100% you have all these assignments but you just want to sleep and forget life. oh really that's not terrible but no great either it seems walking that distance will give you quite the exercise oh no that's terrible to hear that you might be getting sick!! i get that feeling as well like i hate it and never want to go back but i lowkey do really well in it.
i am the same way!! i think that the things they assign are so boring and uninteresting to me that i can not focus on them which then makes me put 10x the amount the effort into it. i did more planning of the stories and just recharging my creative mindset since school will probably destroy that than school it was just like 4 assignments anyway i hope you got to just relax a bit!!
oh my skunks are kind of intimidating i get feeling on edge all night!! my family once a possum inside our shed it was terrifying for my mother. oh damn why are the cute ones always so shitty immediate turn off if you see him again give him the biggest side eye imaginable if i were you i would've strangled him but that of lead to probably getting kicked out and we do not want that. keep me updated on any boy encounters or crushes!!
i'm glad to hear about it being chill!! great idea i don't want you freezing or turning into an icicle out there in the winter!! i understand the math hatred math is totally not chill at all. grace that amazing to hear!! same here for me 4 days off as well!! i'm really happy you're enjoying college right now grace!! there'll probably be a few bumps in the road in college but overall i hope it all goes well for you!!
:) thank you, it's nice to share it with someone. I know, math really does suck, and like you said it is needed in life. But sometimes it is hard for me to understand why we can't use calculators and such when we will have access to those. Also I have dyscalculia, its kind of like dyslexia but with numbers instead. It sucks. But I've lived with it for 18 years so I think I can push through this. It is just a matter of doing it.
Oh wow, good on her! I think college is a great idea, but only if you want to go for something big. It is a loooooot of money for some education and papers. I get that, school and just living in general is exhausting. I hope you can find some ways to rejuvenate your energy! Yeah, I think I'll get used to the walking, it is just going to take a bit. Thankfully I have enough time between classes to not have to run to them. Yeah, being sick isn't fun. I think at first it was elevation sickness, however I need to reach out to my allergist now. Exactly! School sucks, but you're good in it, but it sucks.
YES!! I 100% agree! I think it is just better when you decide what you are learning and at what pace you are learning it. Oh yay!! I'm glad, I know how hard it can be to balance that personal enjoyment of writing and then the school work aspect.
They so are!! We haven't seen it since, thankfully. And I'm hoping we don't ever see it again. Ahhhh! Not a possum! Those things are terrifying sometimes!
No for real!! I literally wanted to choke him out. My roommate and I have this plan to like evilly stare at him and do the mock laugh? Though he probably won't remember when we do see them again. I most definitely will!
Lol, I am hoping to figure it out very soon, it is just a matter of getting on the bus! I know! Everything seems to go by so quickly. I mean my birthday is this week, and it was 8 months ago that I lost my brother. But it all feels like just yesterday, you know? I think this whole college thing is really good, and like you said, there will definitely be some bumps. But I'll overcome them!
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Hii, how are ya?about the recents ask on kirishima and as a formally mha manga fan well... it makes me really sad and reflexive to think about the wasted potential and the negative way bakugo affects other characters :/ if only bakugo had actually changed and develop at least the situation would be more understable. Anyways recently re reading the manga i just wanted to say all those ask bring really good points, yet im sorry as an still kiri fan these days and feeling attachment to him i don't completly agree and have to defend him a little </3 can't really speak about other mha media but in the manga at least more clearly in the beginning kirishima wasn't in my opinion the yes man to bkg or dormant to his bad attitude, maybe these instants aren't very significant but they are still there, calling out all might to stop the exercise saying bkg is crazy and wanted to kill izuku, calling a jerk when he turn the other students agains 1-A, telling him not to be rude to shinsou, calling him an idiot for going his own way in the license exam, like idk it's frustrating because back in the day it really seem their relationship was going to be significant and develop so much more, kamino was the first significant step towards a right direction, it had an emphaisis in the story but then..well nothing happened after that, and that's were the problem starts which was really sad cause at that time their bond(never ship them) seem very sweet to me, bkg was still an horrible person and needed to do so much more to improve but in these instants it seem he still kinda had a soft spot for someone and gave a little reciprocity or a "kind" action(giving kr money), encouragement(the rappa fight flasback)at least in "his way" it was the only positive thing he had going on for me and i think so much more had to have happened after all of this, but then hori seem to forget completely about these two so we just had to assume they were friends now because we were told so thought never actually really shown except for the few(i can testify to this) interactions they have which all can paint this bad image of kr's purpose just to be bkg cheerleader and remind us that he "changed".
Excuse my english and all this blabler that became this really long ass essay but just wanted to share this with u, can't really hold some things against kr cause i still love him from a far and i'm sad that his closeness to that gary stue harmed his potential and sweet character that he still is cause he's not the only one that suffer from this bkg influence(that still doesn't make this situation better) will still read and love fix it's were they show him directly confront bakugou and take real actions that make bkg really change, take responsibilty and atone for all he's done
You bring up a very good point and it’s that Ejiro wasn’t always Katsuki’s “yes man”. Same thing with Denki. They vocalized disagreements with things Katsuki did. Sadly it’s once we hit the post-Sports Festival arc that the characters lose their sense of agency. Where they would normally voice their disagreement (even if it was brushed aside) became them supporting Katsuki every step of the way. Like I’ve said before Ejiro has some of the best writing in the series but it’s unfortunately sucked away by Katsuki the leech.
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I hate being an adult. I hate even more when I have to be the Asshole, but you know what? Sometimes, people suck. And if they don’t want a bad referral on their public reviewing platform, maybe they should’ve done a better job to begin with.
We just had half our windows replaced, by the same company who replaced the first half, and the ones who put vinyl siding on the house some years ago. The first two jobs they were fantastic.
This last one, I am fully prepared to choke a bitch out. They assured us multiple times that after telling us they had different companies they were subtracting to that while they didn’t have the exact shade of the older windows, they had a very close one that would be almost imperceptible. Fine, none of the windows share a room, so a minimal difference shouldn’t be that bad. Two guys came to install the windows while I was home and my parents were on a long overdue vacation. At first, things seemed fine. I had to work from home so I wasn’t watching them the whole time, but they got the windows installed at the old ones removed and seemed to clean up as they went, but after they left, I went arounnt to inspect all the windows.
One doesn’t even fucking open. They left pieces of the old windows everywhere outside, including huge metal pieces on the roof where I couldn’t reach. The screens don’t come out. The framing in is the cheapest looking shit I have ever seen, with caulking just smeared everywhere like this was seventh grade shop class and your only experience was an eight second YouTube tutorial you watched once a year ago. The caps on the outside are the compeltely wrong color, smashed to hell where they attempted to nail them in, cut incorrectly, and the windows themselves are the wrong color.
If it was like a $5000 job, I would be understanding, because that’s the shit that happens when you hire sub par contractors who don’t care about quality and that’s refelcted in the price.
For $17,000, I am fucking livid. So I said as much on their business page, with essentially what could be summarized as “if you want crap work, pay a crap price with someone else. At least then you’ll get what you paid for. Crap work at a premium price? We’ll never do work with them again, and already contacted our friends that we had recommended them to to warn them away.”
They called us back and asked us to take down the review, as it’s harmful to their business. After like five minutes of talking to my mother, who is a saint, she simply hands the phone to me. My mother and I have almost identical voices. We know this, because we have blind friends who can’t tell us apart, and literally anyone who calls us and reaches me starts immediately talking like I’m my mother.
Imagine their surprise when my mother went from “Well, we’d really like to sort something out where you can repair what you got wrong” to “Listen here, shitbird. You want a fucking glowing review? I’ll write every fucking thing you did wrong. I’ll include the pictures I took from the mess your guys made, the colors you fucked up, the dents, the tears, the absolute goddamn shit fuck you assholes left behind. I’ll include your email responses, highlighted to show it was your fucking CEO who admitted to sending a goddamn color blind motherfucker to pick out colors to match, and switched the colors between the windows and the trim caps. Your amateur contractors who made an almost 20k job look like a kindergartner’s finger painting exercise, and I will also include your sound byte of asking us to remove an unfavorable review so you can fleece other people, and we’ll see who doesn’t have a fucking company by the end of the year. Tell you what - you want a favorable review? You come and do the job we fucking paid you for.
They’re coming Tuesday to fix it.
#my company does not regret putting me in charge of vendor accounts#apparently some small part of my military training survived
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Honestly, it all seems ridiculous, but I’ll add my two cents I guess.
I feel for those who rely on making sims custom content for income, I do. But from where I’m standing, this community has been extremely privileged. That privilege was abused and now it’s gone. It doesn’t matter if you abused it or not. We’re a community, which means we get rewarded and punished as one. Is that fair? No. Welcome to life. You’ll find unfairness is a recurrent theme here. But what ISN’T unfair is EA’s decision. We won’t talk about their execution of said decision. They never execute anything right.
I’ve been a content creator for anime and book fandoms far longer than I’ve been in this community. It can take months or even years to complete a fanfiction work. The stories can be just as complex and involve just as much research as a New York Bestseller, and they can be two or three times as long. Art can take hours or weeks and requires supplies, which is rarely cheap. I’ve spent countless hours and poured my blood, sweat, and tears, into some of the things I’ve created.
I don’t make a single cent. I can’t. I can’t even ask for donations on the sites where I post my stories. I don’t get money from ads either. It sucks, but it’s necessary. The fact that I am even allowed to write and share my stories or draw the characters is a privilege, and it’s one that we nearly lost for good. I can write about volleyball players working in a coffee shop because the people went to court and fought for the right to do so. Because the people currently in the communities are still fighting to keep that right. And if I put my work behind paywalls, I threaten that right. And if others followed my example, the days of cease and desist letters, site shut downs, and fandom deaths could easily return. I don’t have a right to profit off of someone else’s work, regardless of how much effort I put into my own work.
And that’s okay. Fandoms aren’t supposed to be your job. They’re supposed to be your HOBBY. You’re supposed to put the time, effort, and resources into them because you want to, not because you get paid to. You’re supposed to make content for yourself, not for capitalism.
The sims 4 belongs to EA. Whether the game would be half as good without mods and cc isn’t the point. Whether you used their meshes and textures isn’t the point. Your work requires their game. Their game isn’t entirely worthless without you. Your nice coffee table would be worthless without their game. Your nice coffee table requires their hard work to have any value. Have I rephrased this enough yet?
Unlike Disney and J.K. Rowling, EA is still allowing you to make money off of their hard work, because cc and mods make the game better, which means they indirectly profit off of you just as you indirectly profit off of them. But it’s their right and responsibility to regulate the market and maintain a sustainable balance. They’ve exercised that right.
Making money off of their creation was never your right. It was a privilege. No one is disrespecting you as a creator. You weren't hired by EA. It's not your job to make cc for their game and it's not their job to make sure you get paid for it. If you wanted them to care about whether or not you can pay your bills, you should have applied for a job with them.
And on that note.... THE MAKERS OF THE GAME ARE CREATORS TOO. Just because they work for EA, doesn't mean you get to disrespect their time and effort, which is what you're doing when you make money piggybacking off of their creation without their permission!
Because, I repeat, the game has worth without you. Your cc doesn't have worth without the game. They will sell their game even if you stop creating cc for it. You can't sell cc for a game that doesn't exist. You are not the victim here. You are not the one being disrespected.
Or are you saying it's okay for everyone to disregard your policies? Can I take your creations, modify them a bit, and sell them as my own? No? That would make me an asshole? Interesting....
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Ever found yourself staring at a blank page or canvas, wondering where your creativity just vanished? This has happened to the best of us.
Creativity blockage is like hitting a wall (i mean in your imagination) and you try to do anything to get it back !! The good news is you can beat it !! You just need a system in place .
Tips:
✅ When you are stuck , step away from your work for a bit.
Why: Because It clears your mind, helps you see things in a fresh way
Example : Go for a short walk, do something fun.
✅ If you still feel stuck change the environment you are in.
Why; Because a new surrounding will spark creativity.
Example: Work in a different room or try a different corner or a cafe.
✅ Set aside time to brainstorm ideas. Write down any ideas no matter how small.
Why: Because it will opens up new possibilities even if they seem silly.
Example: Grab a notebook & jot down anything that comes to your mind (you’ll always go back to that & thank yourself later .. believe me)
✅ Work with others who share your interests.
Why: Because different perspectives bring fresh ideas.
Example: Talk to a friend or join a creative group.
✅ To be creative, keep doing it regularly.
Why: Because it builds your creative muscles over time.
Example : Write, draw , play music , whatever creative activities and you’ll see it gets easier to be creative over time.
And here’s the most important thing, be patient with yourself. Get enough sleep, stay hydrated, eat healthy & yes exercise !!
Here’s what Jonathan Maan said “change your mindset with the 70-20-10 rule”
70% of your work will be mediocre
20% will suck
10% will be amazing
Keep believing in yourself!!
If you want to dive deeper , i recommend these books on creativity
✅ Bird by bird . Anne Lamott
✅ Deep Work . Cal Newport
Hit that like button. Follow for more tips & insights on personal development . Comment ✍️ and share your tips . Would love to know !!
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Wednesday is therapy, my second of the twelve sessions I agreed to. I am still trying to rid myself of some guilt around what feels like monologuing at somebody for an hour and later paying them. After a couple of years of not having a space to do that, it feels extremely rude. But I do what’s asked of me, which is, in essence, to spill tea. I talk about Christmas, and my family, and the family I saw, and the family I don’t see at Christmas and why. I trust that these are important lines of inquiry, but I have talked about my family to therapists for almost 20 years. This I will never not be proficient in. My parents are very divorced, and I’m probably still not over it. It’s dull, and I worry talking about my parents just keeps one of my feet eternally in the quicksand of childhood. I want to talk about the catastrophe that is DATING, I tell M. As you wish, she says. I’m guessing she already knows that my parents’ divorce and the catastrophe that is dating are inextricably linked
You are confusing wanting and needing, M tells me after I summarise the last few days with D. I suck my teeth. I zone out briefly, and M asks where I was, and I don’t have the heart to tell her that I was wondering how the characters in the Harry Potter series stay in shape: they are always on brooms, travelling via chimney soot, and the rooms tidy themselves. There is no gym at Hogwarts that we know of. It is not lost on me that when met with this inconvenient therapeutic commentary, I not only escape into fantasy, but somehow attach exercise and weight to said fantasy. M has her work cut out. How was the sex with him? she asks. Oh we didn’t have sex, I say, because I didn’t want to. I am irritated when M seems unimpressed by what I see as vouching for myself, not doing something I didn’t want to do out of politeness, which is how much British intercourse happens. But I guess she is used to her clients (mostly eating disorder-addled women) not getting laid. She is always poker-faced. Sometimes I swear I see flashes of pity from her, but this may as well be an optical illusion
After the hour is through, I am sluggish. J texts asking how therapy was, and I ask what he’s up to, then struggle to find the will to make a concrete plan. “Tease”, J writes. I vow to wake myself up and meet him at a cafe. The cafe is closed. I drop my thank you notes in the nearest postbox in the rain. D is in Paris and sending me compliments on my show. All I can think about is when I told him he was “so hot it should be illegal” while holding his whole head in my giant hands two nights prior, and he laughed, and thanked me, but didn’t say anything back. “Not a word”, I later tell N, “I am mortified”. I wince at the postbox. Because I already know my show in Paris is good. What I want (need, crave) is to be told my face is good. My body is good. I want this elusive compliment so badly I am fixating on its absence, being driven mad by it. I drink two cups of mint tea and share 9 million cigarettes with J near my kitchen window, my toes gripping the ledge. D texts to ask me to coffee the following day before his flight home. Not, I notice, an evening plan. When J comes back from the bathroom I am hugging my knees on the floor. “It is my belief that I’m being friendzoned”, I tell him. I let J put his arms around me as I feel the familiar feeling of rejection and not knowing why and needing to close my eyes. I think of D, the former D, leaving me amongst the room service in my hotel room in LA with no explanation. Who the hell knows how much I even want any of these men, but give me the chance to feel inferior to them and I will say don’t threaten me a good time. If I’m emanating some kind of cold unlovability without knowing it, it’s probably (hilariously) just a product of the last hurt. The more it happens, the harder it is to open myself, the bigger a deal it is to open myself, the greater the hurt of being shot down, the denser the resentment, the more guarded I am diving back in. J holds me til I get hungry, and he asks what I’ll eat when he leaves. “I bought some fancy tuna from Eataly”, I say, sadly. We laugh. He makes me promise I’ll call if I feel bad again. I say I will but I know I won’t. I can’t believe I have only known J for 5 months, how rare our instant ease around one another is. Until one friend has seen another cry, is it even a friendship?
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