#as if I’m in the wrong for not unconditionally loving their awful fucking dog
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I really fuckin hate dogs and I fuckin hate dog people
#this is goggles#dog people really do not give a fuck about what their dogs destroy#nor what they destroy either#between my idiot boss breaking my handmade side table#and his idiot dog tearing up my carebear#and my idiot ex who broke all kinds of shit#his idiot dog who also broke all kinds of shit#my idiot sister who broke so much shit#and her idiot dog who ate everything#I fucking hate dogs and their people#every single goddamn dog person insists that their dog is the best dog on earth who will cute my PTSD#and then are distraught and upset when their idiot dog ruins something dear to me and I don’t want it in my goddamn house again#as if I’m in the wrong for not unconditionally loving their awful fucking dog#no you’re in the wrong for not having that shit animal under control#fuckin hate dogs and that’s all dogs including yours
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12/2/19, 7:20 PM
(Five years ago now)
I guess this whole time it’s just kind of felt like, “what the fuck is point?” because I had a good life. I had a good support system. I had my mom, and my dad, and my sister, and my dog and I didn’t really care about anybody else. I used to feel like I had a best friend who understood me, but then she grew up and became a different person and stopped trying to understand me so she could start to understand herself. Which is fair, I guess. Except she stopped even asking me about me and started talking over me. It’s okay to dive deeper into yourself, as long as you don’t reflect that on the outside, too. As long as you share some air with people around you.
Anyways. When it’s the holidays and everybody is home, I feel so full. Like I have everything I need. My mom takes care of us because she’s an angel and I really don’t have to do anything for myself besides basic grooming. She plans out our days. She feeds us. I tag along with whatever somebody else is doing. I don’t even have to fucking think for myself.
And I know that’s wrong and I know I shouldn’t let her take care of me like that, but holy shit it feels so fucking good to be taken care of. I cannot stress enough how hard it is to even feed myself. I don’t know how everybody does it. I don’t know where they get the energy.
And then I go back to my apartment and the ripped siding by my window scratches against my wall and keeps me up all night. There’s no coffee in the cupboard. There’s some food, but nothing good. Nothing I haven’t already made for myself a hundred times. When you’ve eaten the same thing a hundred times in a row, what’s even the point? I’d rather not even eat. Which I don’t.
And then you also realize there’s no one around you to fill the silence. No one in the morning. No one to share the bathroom with. No one to accompany you on the ride to school. There’s people in your classes, but you feel alone anyways.
I don’t like my friends. I don’t talk to my friends. And when I do, I feel deeply ashamed. When I do it’s just complaints and I hate myself more for complaining.
I don’t see them outside of school because I want to push them away. My roommate is never home. We haven’t really spoken in three months and I’ve known her my entire life. We were so close last year. Now it’s just really quiet. Everything is so, so quiet.
I feel like I’ve already lived a full life. The life I wanted. I don’t want to go off on my own anymore. I don’t want to fall in love because at this point I don’t think that exists for me. I can’t even keep a single friend that I like.
I feel whole and real when I’m home with my family. Maybe not all the way full, but more than when I’m alone. I feel like I belong to something. And now we’re all getting old and my sister is in another state with her boyfriend and my dog will probably die soon. I haven’t known a father figure in my family that’s lived past sixty years old. Our house won’t always be there.
What I’m afraid of most is the one person I really love leaving this earth. The one person who helped me through the hardest times in my life, who takes care of me without giving me reason to feel remorse. Who loves me unconditionally and will always love me unconditionally. My best friend in the entire world. I know she won’t be around forever. Being with her feels like being next to a ticking time bomb. That’s not fair to her. Though none of this is.
I can pretend these wounds are healing with time and I can write about them a million more times but I don’t think this will ever change. Maybe in four days I’ll feel better for a little while again but what about after Christmas? What about next semester? What about after graduation? What about the rest of my life?
Where does this leave me? When all of this is actually gone for good, what does that make me? Everything I love the most is so impermanent. And that’s so unfair.
Each day takes me further and further away from the person I was. I know I wasn’t happy then either, but at least I was safe. At least I knew what was coming the next day and the next and I knew I’d never have to go through it alone.
I just don’t know anymore. I just don’t know…
#from my notes#words#five years later#this one really hurt to reread#for so many reasons#poem#poetry
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A family man
Summary: What happens when Steve is not happy with his decisions?
Pairing: Steve Rogers x fem!reader, Sam x Reader (platonic), Bucky x Reader (platonic)
Characters: Wanda Maximoff, Clint Barton
Warnings: angst, language, pregnant reader, heartbreak, abandonment, Daddy!Steve, angry Sam (yes, he can get angry too), Sam & Bucky being good friends, fluff
Catch up here:
Part 1 - No, you won’t
Part 2 - Some kind of love
Divider by @writeyourmindaway
“Goodbye, Steve Grant Rogers, my love, my heart, my everything…”
It’s a new beginning for you. You left your old life behind to start a new one.
When you sit on your front porch, watching the sunset you run one hand over your belly. “Only four months left, baby girl,” you whisper holding back the tears. “One day I’ll tell you about your father, the hero who saved the world more than once.”
“Y/N,” Sam watches you stare into the distance as you do so often lately. “We should talk about a few things. Bucky and I need to tell you something.”
“You’re going to marry,” you tease, giving Sam a wink. “We all know it’s a matter of time,” Sam sits next to you, laughing at your words. “You’re a good team.”
“A great one,” Sam exclaims. He slings one arm around your shoulders to offer comfort. “Buck and I will be on a mission for two or three weeks. Wanda will come around and check on you to make sure you’ve got all you need.”
“I’m a grown woman, you know,” Bucky nods, still, he’s worried to leave you alone. It’s the first time since Steve left that he and Sam can’t be around. “I depended on you way too long. We are friends, and I appreciate all you have done for me as Steve…,” your voice cracks and you need to wipe a few tears away.
“Nothing will change, doll. Sam and I will come around as often as we can. While we are away, Wanda will take over,” Bucky smirks when you roll your eyes. “Don’t talk back, Y/N. We are family, this means we will suffocate you with love…”
The moment Steve stepped onto the platform and didn’t see you he knew; just knew he made the wrong decision.
Whilst the quantum realm particles sent him back in time, all he could think about was the sadness in your eyes when you stood your ground against him.
Steve knew you played a role. He knew that you cried yourself to sleep that night, but he didn’t find it in him to crawl back to you.
Instead, he stepped onto the platform the next day, straightened his back, and looked his friends straight in the eyes.
Sam held his gaze but Bucky, well Steve’s oldest friend, the one he promised ‘till the end of the line’, looked away.
The world he found on the other side of time isn’t the one he wanted to live in, but Steve had no other choice – right? He burned all the bridges days ago, lost the woman who always loved him unconditionally for a dream.
“I can’t stay, Peggy,” Steve tried for six months to adapt to a life with Peggy, but he soon realized, there is no love on both ends.
Steve stuffs his hands into the pockets of his suit, shuffling on his feet as he feels something dig into the palm of his hand. Waking up to reality is cold, hard, and heartbreaking. Even worse when you find a positive pregnancy test in the pocket of your suit.
With shaking fingers Steve looks at the test in his hands, choking out a sob.
“How?” he whispers, wishing he never left you. “Doll—oh god, no. You’re all alone, my love.”
Steve doesn’t know Bucky hid the test he stole from your bin to make his best friend see – someone is relying on him.
“You’ve got to go, Steven,” Peggy whispers, gently cupping Steve’s cheek. “I know you believed we belong together, I did so too. But,” Steve gives Peggy a cracked smile, nodding silently. “If she’s with your child, you can’t leave her, Steve. You should’ve never left her for me.”
“I know, Peggy. I was a fool believing that I belong anywhere but by her side. I want to be a father,” Steve chokes out. “I still got time left.”
“Where do you want me to put this?” Wanda watches you place a picture frame onto one of the shelves at the nursery. “That’s one of Steve and you,” she whispers, not missing your pained expression.
“He’s her father, Wanda,” you swallow the lump in your throat, looking at a framed ultrasound picture. “One day my baby girl will ask me about her father, and I want her to know about him. He left me, not her. I was not enough, not my girl.”
“Y/N don’t say things like that,” Wanda watches you place another picture frame onto the shelf you nod, knowing it’s the ugly truth. “Steve didn’t know what he got when he had it.”
“Do you think I should get a dog?” you look around the room, watching Wanda hold back the words stuck on the back of her tongue. “Don’t, Wanda. I know you want to assure me I was enough, but I wasn’t. If not, Steve would be here.”
“A dog would be great. I always wanted to have one,” Wanda smiles when you tell her you grew up with dogs. “Aw, I’m jealous, Y/N.”
“Don’t be,” you laugh. “Most of the time they chased after me and stole my food,” you grin, remembering your dogs.
“Fuck,” Clint snickers at Sam’s outburst. “You’ve got to be shitting me, Steve! You left! Six months ago, you left your girl and now you are back in town and ask me about her whereabouts!”
“Sam let Steve explain why he’s back,” Bucky eyes his friend warily, knowing he must’ve found the pregnancy test. “Why did you come back, Stevie?”
“I regretted my decision the moment I heard Y/N close the door behind her. I was just too stubborn to admit that I can’t be without her,” Steve huffs. “I tried to make things work with Peggy but had to admit, she’s not the woman on my mind.”
“Great for you,” Sam is not amused. “I mean, you left Y/N six months ago for another woman. Now you come back here and intend to do what?”
“Get my girl back and raise my child with her,” Steve puffs his chest when he gets the pregnancy test out of his pocket. “Something tells me that a friend wanted me to know I am going to be a father.”
“It was for sure not me,” storming out of the room Sam slams the door shut. “Y/N deserves better…”
“You must understand, it was Sam helping Y/N to keep ongoing. He was the one driving her to the first ultrasound as I was away on yet another mission. Sam was the one seeing your baby first,” Bucky huffs. “I thought you would find the test before you leave. I had hoped you would change your mind not come back months later…”
“I had to give Peggy and me a chance, Buck,” Steve doesn’t believe his own words. “Shit, no. Maybe I was just afraid to come back and find Y/N in another man’s arms. I didn’t think that she’s pregnant with my child.”
“I mean,” Bucky huffs. “You are adults, had sex, unprotected if I recall right according to your naughty confessions and you wonder she got pregnant?”
“That’s not what I mean, Bucky…”
“I like the colors,” Sam looks around your almost finished nursery. Wanda did a great job,” you nod, looking at the kittens Wanda painted on one of the walls. “The kittens are cute.”
“Wanda’s idea. The tree and the family were my ideas,” you painted a family of bears under a tree. They are having a picnic. Sam smiles when he sees a ladybug sits on the little bear's nose. “What do you think Sam?”
“Hmm…” you watch Sam nervously chewing on his lower lip, not meeting your gaze. He seems to hide something from you. “We need to talk, Y/N.”
“Is it Bucky? Did he get hurt? Or one of the others? Sam?” Wanda’s eyes widen and she grasps for your hand when Sam tries to tell you Steve is back. “Sam, just tell me what’s going on.”
“He’s back,” Sam chokes out. You blink a few times in confusion, look at Sam for confirmation before your legs are about to give in. “Shit, Y/N.” Sam catches your fall before you can hit the floor. “Wanda, a chair and a glass of water.”
“Y/N, no…”
“Is this a joke, Sam? This isn’t funny, you know,” you sniffle. Wanda offers you a glass of water whilst Sam tries to calm you. “I finally adapted to a life without Steve. He can’t just come around after he lived a life with Peggy to check on me. I don’t want to see the ‘old’ Steve.”
“That’s not what I meant, Y/N,” Sam kneels next to you, gently squeezing your right hand. He looks up at you, giving you a soft smile. “He came back.”
“I don’t understand, Sam. Why would he come back? It’s not as if anything he wants waits in our time. Peggy is centuries away, just like the other Bucky,” Wanda watches you slump into yourself, not wanting anyone to see you are still heartbroken. “What does he want?”
“I am afraid he wants you,” Sam whispers, hand gently holding yours. “I told him to fuck off or something.” you laugh, squeezing Sam’s hand. He barely curses but if he does, Sam looks adorable. “I mean it, Y/N. You don’t have to see him.”
“Doll,” Steve sighs when you don’t open the door. Sam and Wanda guarded your house like hawks, didn’t let Steve get even close to your new home for over a week.
Today, Sam had to go on a mission and Wanda went for a grocery run so Steve took the opportunity and sneaked toward your house the moment Wanda left.
“Please, baby girl. I…I need to talk to you.”
“Why?” weakly you press the palms of your hands against the door. “I tried to move on and almost didn’t break down anymore only for you to come here and ruin my life once again.”
“Y/N, please. I know I fucked up, okay. Leaving you for a woman I barely knew was cruel, stupid, and the worst thing I ever did in my life. Please, let me at least see your face,” Steve begs, knocking at your door. “Please, doll.”
“You don’t deserve to see me,” you choke on your words when you turn your back toward the door, resting your back against the cool wood. “I don’t know why you came here, Steve. I am not enough…never was.”
“No, Y/N. I was never enough. I am a weak and pathetic coward, doll. It was me not deserving you but, please open the door,” your hands shake when you turn around to unlock the door. You take a deep breath before you face the man leaving you behind.
“What do you want, Steve? I don’t think there is anything I can offer,” you shriek when Steve kneels to wrap his arms around your waist. He peppers soft kisses to your swollen belly, sniffling your name repeatedly. “Steve…”
“Sam didn’t let me come here. Wanda was the same,” he pants, face nuzzling your belly. “Please, I want to be a better man for you. I will give the shield to Sam. From now on I’ll do anything to be the man you deserve. I want to be a family man,” you don’t know what to do as Steve is too strong for you to fend him off.
“Why now? When you left you were sure that you want to spend your life with Peggy, not me,” you sniffle, wiping a few tears off your cheeks. “Is it because you got to know I’m pregnant? Does Captain America feel responsible for the poor girl he impregnated? Is it your guilty conscience telling you to come here and take care of the disposed of girl you left behind?”
“Oh-Y/N,” Steve sighs, finally looking up at you. “I should have never left you, doll. I hurt you so deeply that you believe you never meant the world to me. I am so sorry, baby girl,” he whispers, getting up to wrap his arms around you.
Steve buries his face into your hair, inhales your scent deeply. He runs one hand over your back to soothe you when you start to cry.
“I love you so much, doll. How can I explain to you that I don’t know why I left you for Peggy? I don’t know how I could do so, but I regretted my decision the moment you closed the door behind you. I should’ve stayed but I was too blinded by my past to see my present.”
“You will leave again,” sobbing you hide your face in Steve’s chest. I was at my apartment a few days ago. I couldn’t forget about the shirt on the floor and your pillow. I…I sleep with your pillow to smell your cologne.”
“Sweetheart,” Steve’s heart breaks when you start to shake in his arms. “I hate myself for hurting you. I swear, I left to come here before I even knew you are pregnant. I told Peggy we will never work out. I never had sex with her.”
“Steve,” Sam storms into the house, Wanda, and Bucky hot on his heels as you hold tight onto Steve for dear life. “I told you to leave Y/N alone! Can you not for once think about someone else than yourself?”
“Sam,” Bucky places one hand onto Sam’s shoulder to calm his friend. “Look,” Bucky whispers, pointing toward you in Steve’s arms. “Let them talk things out. We can still kick Steve out when Y/N tells us so. It’s on her to decide if she wants to give him a second chance or not…”
Five years later...
“Daddy, daddy!” your daughter runs after Bucky, laughing as he acts as if he’s scared. “Look, I hunt Uncle Bucky and he’s scared,” Steve laughs watching Natasha Sofia run after his friend. “I bet I can catch Uncle Sammy too.”
“I know you can, sweetheart,” you smile, watching your five-year-old daughter chase after your friends. Sam runs slower to make sure Natasha can catch him, faking he’s too slow to run away. “Just don’t stumble again, Nat.”
“I won’t mommy! Daddy showed me how to run faster than Uncle Sam,” Sam makes a face, looking at Steve. “To your left, Uncle Sammy…” Natasha squeals, finally catching up with Sam.
“How do you feel, doll?” Steve runs one hand over your huge belly, humming as you close your eyes to enjoy his touch.
“How are Sam jr. and Bucky jr.?” Bucky asks. “Can we finally decide on a name? “Maybe we can name both after me.”
“I want one to wear my name,” Sam interjects. “Now let Y/N rest a bit before she agrees to name both after me.”
“Hey! I never agreed to name my boys after one of you,” pointing toward both men you narrow your eyes.
“We can make more and name them after our friends,” grinning Steve looks at you, something dirty in mind. “Just saying, we can always have more kids.”
“You’re lucky if I ever let you touch me again.” you huff. “I got one daughter chasing after our friends. A baby boy sleeping in his crib and two baby boys in my belly.”
“Doll,” your husband grins, hands running over your baby bump again. “I can’t help myself; I love seeing you full of my babies.” Steve whispers something dirty into your ear, making you giggle. “I’ll check on Steve jr. and you can sit here to enjoy our baby girl’s birthday and I’ll be right back.”
Watching Steve walk into your house you smile. Over the last five years, he showed you that he deserved a second chance.
The first months after he came back were difficult to you. You needed time to adjust to life with Steve being around again.
“He changed for you,” Bucky bounces your daughter on his leg, smiling as his friend carries your baby boy out of the house, smiling widely.
“I know. He became a family man for me…”
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#A family man#steve rogers#steve x reader#steve rogers x reader#steve rogers x you#steve x y/n#steve x fem!reader#steve rogers x fem!reader#pregnant reader#daddy!Steve Rogers#angst#sam wilson#wanda maximoff#bucky barnes
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Potential AU: Long lost sisters in an arranged marriage AU
*spits drink* did you mean my furry east of the sun west of the moon AU?
Wait no no don't go I'll be normal about it i promise.
Ok i LOVE this concept. Accidental i/ncest. That's such a perfect recipe for angst. Here's what I have (assuming you mean elsanna, anon):
The girls were separated when they were really, really young. Like, Elsa was like 6? She barely remembers Anna but she knows she loved her once. Anna doesn't remember Elsa at all. I don't know what led them to be separated, but I like to think Anna somehow ended up being princess of the Southern Isles. Let's say Agnarr doesn't know how to dad so when Elsa's powers got out of control, he gave his baby up for adoption to the Southern Islander royal family because, hey, the queen always wanted a daughter and they have like 13 kids already, what's one more? They pretty much do tell Elsa that "her sister is living with a different family now" but to Elsa, that sounds like the equivalent of "the dog left to live in a farm" or something. She's convinced Anna is dead but Idk if she's at a point in which she blames herself for it. Maybe? Depending on how shitty A&I are in this AU. And speaking of shitty families oh boy Anna would have such an awful time as the youngest one of the Southern Islander siblings. I mean, Hans spent 16 years bullying her without her noticing and making her feel dumb for not picking up on it, so like, multiply that for 13. Let's say Anna doesn't have a good relationship with big siblings. Idk she feels intimidated by them. I assume that, being the youngest and a girl, she'd be mom's favorite, so maybe that kinda makes up for it? It makes her life in the Southern Isles not awful? Idk she's still super traumatized, but she doesn't realize until much later (what do you mean normal people aren't terrified of their own success? What do you mean normal people don't feel ashamed and guilty all the time?). Her self-esteem is so low, Hades needs to grab a shovel to reach it. She might or might not have trust issues after a lifetime of her brothers pulling some very cruel and malicious pranks on her. If they say "hey look i found a puppy" you can be guaranteed they just have like, a bucket of cold water they're gonna throw at your face (Idk they're not very creative and neither am i).
Anna visits on Elsa's coronation because she's the least likely one to start like, a war with Arendelle or something. A&I are dead (f 😔) and maaaaybe her adoptive parents are planning on telling her the truth since she's 18 and all. And she meets Elsa and it's fucking love at first sight dude. She's hopeless, this poor tiny lesbian. You know how flustered she gets in the movie? Well she's just like that, poor girl. And Elsa finds her so sweet and cute and endearing but she can't put a finger on why. They talk a lot during the party and Anna begins to tell her about her fucked up family life and Elsa's big sister instincts go mad. This is NOT how you treat a little sister. No. Wrong. Bad Hans. Her head is like 🚩🚩🚩🚩🚩🚩 red flags everywhere! And Anna doesn't seem to notice how this fucked her up? But Elsa is Concerned^TM and she maaaaaaybe mentions something about Anna staying in Arendelle? Surely the Southern Islander ambassy could offer her a bed. But Anna being Anna is thinking about MARRIAGE and she's not the one to bring it up, but she's not complaining when some member of Elsa's council mentions the positive political implications of marrying a Southern Islander princess or something idk. Let's say her powers are not a secret and she has a good grasp on them, but she's still Elsa and she's not 100% comfortable with marrying SOME GIRL SHE JUST MET. But also, she can't see herself falling in love anytime soon and she always knew she'd marry for political reasons, and she really likes Anna and feels very protective of her already. And if it helps her... well, she can go along with it.
The wedding is a bit awkward (ESPECIALLY for Anna's adoptive southern islander parents 😬), and Elsa does offer Anna a room of her own. Awkward awkward awkward. But they slowly begin to feel more and more comfortable with each other. Anna loves Arendelle and she loves not dealing with her brothers all the time. She feels weirdly safe. Elsa treats her very kindly and with a lot of respect, and she's not even that distant anymore. Maybe its because it's the way she's always identified as, but she kinda does feel like a little sister when she's with her. Like she has someone who loves her unconditionally looking after her. ESPECIALLY after Elsa tells her she had a little sister once, and Anna does remind her of her (they even have the same name and look alike, who would have thought! Denial? I don't know her). Ngl Elsa mothers her a little bit, because she kiiiiiinda wants to make up for what she lost. She knows how messed up Anna's older siblings were so she's trying to both fix that and recuperate what is missing in her life by being a good big sister figure to Anna. Kinda. It's not weird because they're not *in* love and their union is entirely political and platonic, right, right? Hahahahahahah anyway, they're both happy with their dynamic.
I'd assume Anna's adoptive parents don't tell her the truth because they don't want to hurt her, but lmao her asshole brothers sure do lol. Like, they just corner her one day with all the documents and proof and whatever and the "you're adopted" joke never hurt this badly. No wait it really does hurt her. A lot. She's absolutely devastated. Her bio parents didn't want her, her adoptive parents lied to her, and the one person in the world she loves the most is the one she's been doing an oedipus with, so she can't turn to her for comfort either. She feels really stupid for not picking up on it earlier, and she find herself so gross and dumb and dirty. Maybe when she does gather the courage to tell Elsa, they have one of those cheesy "no-you-go-first" exchanges and that's when Elsa (who's still in some hardcore denial lmao) tells her she's in love with her, truly and completely. She's been doing some soul searching offscreen dw about it. And that's when Anna breaks into tears again and tells her everything.
It takes them some time, and they talk about it a lot, but they love each other in more ways than one and don't want to sacrifice either their newly recovered sisterhood nor their romantic relationship. But before that is the ANGST. Let's have Elsa be super avoidant. Let's have Anna be EVEN MORE avoidant. Let's have them sleep in separate rooms again. Insert that sweet sweet i/ncest guilt (censoring so tumblr won't do it's thing). Shit maybe Elsa invents divorce? But doesn't actually do anything with it because she and Anna works things out together :) it takes lots of cuddling (because i love cuddling) and comfort for then to slowly grow comfortable in their relationship. They just love each other dude. They continue to work on learning to be sisters as well as lovers. Elsa tells Anna about their parents and their life before she was taken away and look at 19th century family photo albums. Anna begins to feel a new sense of happiness and comfort. Like, oh, this is what having a good big sibling is like. She likes it. And Elsa is just so so so happy to have her little sister back. She thought she'd lost her entire family but she didn't. She still has Anna and she vows to look after her. And also they go on cute dates and Idk do the frick frack every once in a while or whatever the kids call it these days. It's unusual but they're happy with it.
Idk if this is what the ask game was supposed to be but lmao i got carried away. It's a neat AU! I don't think I've ever seen it but I'm weak for accidental sibling i/ncest.
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Casual moths - chapter nine
Find the other parts on my masterlist here.
If you liked this part and wanna help me out, please consider a reblog. Thank you.
Chapter nine - mothers and bears
The sun falls in thick golden rays through the white curtains of Callie’s bedroom, casting it in a warm glow. There’s a wave of serenity washing over them as Angel pulls her closer to his body, trying to savour the peace and quiet of a Saturday morning.
“ We should get up, Daisy is gonna come knocking any moment now. She needs her cereal.”
Angel buries his head further into her hair, getting lost in the scent of her hair. The scent of flowers. The scent of her.
“ You gotta teach your kid how to properly make some cereal. Who puts the milk first. “
“ This is something that won’t leave your head, huh?”
“ Nah. It’s wrong.”
Callie’s body shakes with silent laughter. “ You know what? You just let her watch you do it your way a few times and she’ll copy it soon enough. She adores you. “
“ Does she? “ Angel says and tries to keep his voice as nonchalant as possible.
“ Uh-huh. It’s always Angel this and Angel that. You’d think you’re her boyfriend. “
“ Aw, you jealous mamí? “
“ Nah “ Callie responds before turning around and cradling his face in between her hands “ I’m happy you guys have such a strong connection. She’s my life. The most important person for me. There would be no you and I if she didn’t get along with you.”
“ Yeah, I’m glad she likes me too. “
“ Mama! “ a little voice calls out from the room across the hall. It’s not something Angel ever thought he would appreciate, having a kid around but something about this little routine him and the girls have established in the last few weeks feels — right.
Travis hasn’t shown his face since the run-in at the carnicería but somehow the situation still weighs heavy on both of them. Angel hopes and prays that this is it. That Travis has learned his lesson and has pissed off. But this is Angel Reyes and his life is never that easy. Things don’t just go right for him. If they do they don’t stay that way for very long. He’s constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop and things to nosedive.
“ Mamaaa! “ Daisy’s little voice calls out again making Callie let out a sigh before slipping on her pyjama pants and Angel’s shirt left discarded on the floor.
“ I’m gonna go feed the little monster, you go take a shower then join us. “
Her lips are smiling and so are her eyes and Angel can’t help but notice the flutter it sends through his heart. He hasn’t felt this way since fucking high school. It’s silly but it’s so so nice to feel this way again.
“ Alright. “
“ Alright. “
Callie throws him a wink before walking out into the hallway leaving him alone tangled in the sheets that still smell like her, that still hold the warmth of her skin. If heaven really is a place, he thinks, this must be it.
The kitchen smells like bacon and eggs and toast and a burst of laughter carries through the air coming from the open dining room.
Daisy is devouring a bowl of cereal, watching some cartoon playing on the tv in the living room as Callie puts some bacon on a plate.
“ Man, you girls are already throwing a party without me huh? “ Angel exclaims as he steps into the room, making the girls look at him with smiles playing on their faces.
“ Good morning, Angel “ Daisy says as she waves at him then focuses her attention back on the show and her cereal.
“ Morning princess. “ he replies then walks up beside Callie, placing soft kisses up and down her neck. “ and good morning to you too. “
Something about being with her is different than being with any other woman, Angel realises. Even the most mundane things feel remarkable, special.
“ Sit down, you goof. I made you breakfast. “
“ So you get really strong. “ Daisy chimes in, clearly having caught a small part of their conversation.
“ You don’t think I’m strong enough? “ Angel asks as he walks up beside Daisy and starts tickling her and ruffling her hair. “ You think I’m weak, huh? Huh, little monster? “
Laughter fills the air, fills the entire house. Joy lives here, in every corner and every room. It’s something Angel isn’t used to. It’s something he knew back when he was a kid but something that seemed to have gotten lost along the way. For a long time, he thought that’s what growing up is, losing a bit of happiness as you experience the world for what it is. Being here now though, he realises he was wrong. Joy and love can live everywhere, at all times. Life doesn’t have to make you bitter and angry and sad. Sometimes it just makes you stronger. Love harder. Hold on tighter to the people you love. The people that love you back.
Maybe, if he tries hard enough and believes in himself, in the man he can be, maybe then he can let go of some of his demons and let love in.
That morning they sit at the dining table and have breakfast together and laugh and talk and just exist together in a world where bad things don’t happen and the sun filters through the curtains and the world has a golden tint to it.
Angel remembers then, what it felt like to have a family. One that loves unconditionally. One where secrets don’t exist and you don’t have to wonder if they’re keeping stuff from you, for your sake or theirs.
“ So, there’s a party later tonight. Do you wanna come? “ Angel asks Callie as he stuffs the last piece of bacon into his mouth. He hopes his words come of nonchalantly and casual though they are anything but. The club, that’s his family, his brothers. Up until he’s met her, it’s been the biggest part of his life, the most important thing. Recently though the priorities kinda shifted. It’s scary and confusing and he knows that the club should come first, always. But though his head knows it, his heart seems to not give a fuck. His heart is with his flower girls.
“ At the clubhouse? “
“ Mmh.”
“ Do you want me to come? “
“ Wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t. “
“ Then yes. I’d love to. “
“ Can I come? “ Daisy asks, eyes sparkling with hope and adventure.
“ Aw babes, “ Callie replies, “ It’s a party for adults. “
The defeated “oh” that leaves Daisy’s lips almost breaks Angel’s heart. For a moment, Angel lets his mind wander to a future where there’s another little girl sitting at the table with them. One that looks a little like him. He’s honestly not sure his heart could deal with all that love. Having his own kid was never an idea he liked to entertain. It never felt like something he wanted or needed. Now that thought doesn’t seem all that delusional.
“ You can stay with grandma though, and play with the dog. And maybe go in the pool while it’s still light out. “ Callie tries to reason though all she gets in return is a sad shrug.” But Angel isn’t there. “
Yup. That’s it. He’s officially wrapped around this little girl’s finger. Completely smitten with her and the way she breaks his heart with her words.
“ Princess, how about this. Tonight mommy and I are going to a party and you stay with your grandma and then next week I’ll take you out somewhere. You can choose. “
“ Disneyland? “
He honestly should’ve expected that one.
“ Ah that’s a bit far but how about the carnival? “
“ Yeess !! “ Daisy cheers and enthusiastically claps her little hands in excitement. “ I wanna go on all the fast rides.”
“ A little daredevil huh? “
“ I don’t know what that means. “
“It means you’re brave and you like fun. “
“ It means I’m prone to suffer a heart attack at an early age, “ Callie murmurs around the rim of her coffee mug making Angel crack a grin.
A warmth settles around his heart as he lets himself take in this moment. Bad things exist, they are very real and very scary and they wait around every corner and Angel is still waiting for the other shoe to drop but right here and right now with his girls, life is sweet. And bad things don’t exist here. Not on a perfect golden Saturday morning.
“ There’s no reason for you to be this nervous. We’re only dropping the little one off. We’ll only be there for a few minutes“
“ I’m not nervous. What are you talking about? “
Callie doesn’t answer instead, she raises her eyebrow in mock disbelieve.
Okay, maybe he is nervous. So what? This whole meet the parents thing, it’s not something he’s done a lot before. There have only been two girlfriends that brought him home to meet their parents and both of those were high school girlfriends. Those relationships didn’t hold nearly as much importance to him as this one does. What if her mom realises the kind of person he is? What if she doesn’t think he’s good enough. Which he isn’t but — it’s one thing to be aware of it, it’s a whole nother thing to have her mother know it too.
The red door to the little one story home swings open, revealing the smiling face of a woman that looks just like Callie but older. She has the same warm eyes, the same kind smile. Something about the Cordell women makes you feel — home.
“ Hello. “ she says then glances towards Daisy who wraps her arms around the older woman’s waist. “ hello my princess. I’m so excited for our girls night. “
“ Grandmaaaa. Grandma look this is Angel. “
He tries to swallow the knot that’s building in his throat at the mention of his name. Being included feels incredible but being put in the metaphorical spotlight in front of Callie’s mom feels — terrifying.
“ It’s so nice to meet you, Angel. This little one won’t shut up about you. And this one “ she says and nods towards Callie “ hasn’t stopped talking about you either. “
Angel is well aware of how crazy he is about Callie. Of the fact that she never fully leaves his mind. That whatever he does he wonders what she’s doing at that moment. To hear that she thinks about him in return, it gives him a sense of pride, of validation.
“ Nice to meet you too. Yeah, I don’t know why they want to keep me around but I ain’t complaining. They’re — the best. “
“ They are. “ Mrs. Cordell agrees and grants him another warm smile. There’s no fakeness there. It’s sincere and comforting and motherly and he realises then, how much he’s missed a presence like this in his life.
“ oookay, we gotta go. “ Callie chimes in and Angel can’t help but smile at the red tint sweeping across her cheek.
“ You kids have fun alright? Me and the little miss here are gonna make pizza and watch frozen. “
Angel can’t help but admire the love these women have for their little girl, for their family. It really puts things into perspective.
Callie leans down to place a big smooch on her daughter’s cheek and tells her to be good and behave which Daisy only replies to with a charming smile and an “I’m always good”.
Angel doesn’t doubt it. This kid can do no wrong in his eyes.
Just as they bid Mrs Cordell goodbye and are about to turn away from the door, a pair of small arms wrap around Angel’s leg. “Byeeeee” Daisy mumbles against his jeans as she presses her face against him “I’ll miss you.”
Yup, definitely wrapped around her finger. “I’ll miss you too, kid.” And it’s the god honest truth.
As the scenery of Santo Padre moves past the window, Callie notices that wherever they’re going, it’s not the direction of the clubhouse.
“ Are you kidnapping me? “
“ What? “ Angel chuckles. “ Why would I do that?”
“ I don’t know. We’re not going in the direction of the scrapyard though. I know that much.”
“ Yeah … maybe I wanna take you on a little detour. “
“ Do you now? “
“ Mmmh. “
For a moment they let a comfortable silence wash over them, to relish in the knowledge that they’re existing together in this very moment. Hearts beating in sync.
“ Hey, Angel? “
“ Yeah?”
“ Are you happy?”
And for the first time in a really really long time he doesn’t have to think about it, doesn’t even hesitate as he answers.
“ Yeah, I am.”
She rests her hand on top of his and locks their fingers together. It’s tiny signs of affection like this one that he never thought he wanted but no never wants to miss ever again.
A few minutes later Angel pulls the car into a parking spot in front of a very familiar facade.
“ The shop! Oh, it looks almost finished, you guys did a great job! You told me the windows aren’t done yet. “ Callie gasps as she gets out of the car and walks towards the front door of the flower shop.
The windows are new, no cracks anywhere. There’s a decal on one window saying “Daisy’s flowers” in a swirly font surrounded by little daisies stencils.
“ Yeaaah I might’ve lied about that. Shop’s finished, babe.”
“ No way?!”
The look on her face makes all the work so worth it. He’s used to women looking at him as if they adore him but this is different. It’s usually either because they wanna fuck him or because they like the privileges that come with hanging around a patched member of the Mayans. Callie looks at him and she really sees him. All that he is and all that he can be. Callie adores him for his personality, for his actions. Callie likes Angel Reyes. Not the Mayan. Just Angel.
“ Let’s go inside. “ he says and unlocks the door, leading her inside by placing a hand on her lower back.
“ Wow, Angel! This looks even better than before, I — “ Callie stops in her tracks as her eyes fall onto the wall that, the last time she’d been here, had been smeared with a threatening message that still makes her skin crawl.
“ Do you like it? “ there a nervous edge to his words. He’s pretty sure she likes what he did to the place though he needs to hear the words. He needs the confirmation.
“ Did — did you do this? “ she points at her wall.
Where the treat had been scribbled, there’s now a beautiful mural of a bear and cub on a field of daisies underneath a starry sky. It’s incredibly detailed and colourful and — it’s perfect.
“ I did.”
“ This is incredible.”
“ It’s nothing, Callie. Honestly. I’m not much of a painter, honestly but I didn’t trust anyone else to do it. Trust me I tried finding someone but ... “
Before he even realises what’s happening, she’s got her lips locked on his, her fingers combing through his hair, her body pressed up against his. Angel Reyes has shared a lot of kisses in his life and yet not a single one can compare to her kisses. They always mean something deeper. Something real.
“ Angel Reyes?” she whispers as she pulls way.
“ huh? “
“ I’m in love with you.”
He’s heard those words so many times from so many different girls. Those words were always empty, hollow and fake. They never mattered.
They matter now though. More than anything else ever did. And for the first time in his life, he says it back.
“ I’m in love with you too. “
#angel reyes fanfiction#angel reyes fanfic#angel reyes x reader#angel reyes imagine#angel reyes x oc#angel reyes x ofc#mayans fanfic#mayans mc fanfic#mayans imagine#mayans mc imagine#mayans mc fanfiction#casualmothsstory
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macdennis fluff plz - Mac has a nightmare and has to sleep with Dennis for the night (obviously) and has a story read to him maybe whist cuddling?
Mac’s having that dream again.
He’s in a recurring nightmare and he knows it’s anightmare, but he doesn’t know how to wake up. He’s not strong enough to stopit from playing out.
The room is on fire. It’s on fire and he’s sitting on thesofa beside his mom, nursing a road-rashed knee. He’s maybe eight or nine or ten-he doesn’t know, but he knows he doesn’t feel like a kid at all anymore. Hetries to tell his mom he loves her and she chokes on her cigarette, coughs likeshe’s dying, asks him why he hasn’t put the groceries away. He tries to tellher again, that he loves her, and she nags him to shut up and take the dog out,clean the garbage off the lawn, fix the leak in the bathroom- because his dadisn’t around anymore and that’s his job now. She doesn’t love him, but sheneeds him, and that’s as good as it’s going to get.
The fire envelops him, burning a hole through the floor,and suddenly he’s sitting across from his father, divided by a pane of glass,phone pressed to his ear. He’s maybe fifteen or sixteen, but he doesn’t feellike a teenager. The prison is in flames and there’s nobody else in the roombut the two of them, and before he can stop it, he’s telling his dad he loveshim through the receiver. He responds like he didn’t hear it, tells him heneeds to get a message to a friend of his on the outside, and that he has tolisten carefully to every word he says, because he doesn’t have a lot of time-not one of those words is “I love you, too” or anything close. This is his jobnow and it doesn’t matter if he loves him, because he needs him, and that’s asgood as it gets.
The phone melts and the glass splinters and everythingdrips away until Mac is sitting in the pews of his church, all alone, hands claspedtogether and telling God that he loves him and pleading for a response, a sign,any kind of answer. He knows he’s not supposed to ask for an answer, he’s notsupposed to expect a reward- that’s what the church has taught him all hislife. He’s supposed to love unconditionally and just know that he’s loved back,to trust it, and that’s supposed to be good enough, that’s as good as it gets.He knows it would be blasphemous to admit out loud that it’s never actuallyfelt like enough, that he wants to hear it back from someone, anyone. He asksfor a reply out loud and it’s too late to stop it, the flames are rising upfrom underneath the pews, wrapping around his legs, scorching him until a hand with long, sharp talons rises up and grabs him by the arm to yank him downinto hell.
The flames die down, but don’t disappear, and he’s on theother side of the bar with Dennis’ fingers in his arm. Suddenly he’s an adult- he’salways felt like an adult, he’s always had to be, but now he’s really one- notjust mentally, but physically. He doesn’t know why, but he feels like a burden,he feels weaker than he’s ever felt. It’s so fucking hot and Dennis isignoring the fire, and Mac tries to tell him that he loves him, but before heeven finishes saying it, Dennis is going on about how annoying it is to livewith him and how loud he snores and how he never does the laundry and how heleaves a mess everywhere he goes and how much he hates him. But Dennis needshim, he needs him to make his coffee in the morning and bring him pills for hisheadaches and remind him to eat and put a blanket over him when he falls asleepon the couch- he needs him, and he doesn’t know he needs him, but he does, andthat’s as good as it’s ever going to get. He tries to reach out and touch him,but his skin is peeling off, his flesh is molting, and everything around him isconsumed by fire.
Mac shoots up in bed, hyperventilating and clutching at thesheets.
He’s still registering what’s happening, but he knows heneeds to steady himself. He needs to find something to anchor onto, somethingto remind him he’s awake and he’s safe and he isn’t burning.
The room is dark- so dark he isn’t sure it is hisroom- and his heart is pounding so loud it seems like it’s coming from thewalls. His head feels hot and his ears are ringing, and all he knows to do isknead the blanket in his hands until the haze starts to clear.
It takes a few minutes, but eventually, Mac’s panting slowsdown and his heart stops beating so rapidly. The anxious knot in his stomach doesn’t untwist, though. He feels small and the room feels small and hedoesn’t know how to fix it when he’s alone like this.
He misses when he and Dennis were sleeping in the same bed,and he could roll over and tap him on the nose and tell him all about his baddreams- even if there were four of them crammed onto the same mattress back in those days.
Mac’s had this nightmare before, lots of times, but Dennishas never been in it. Some nights, someone out of the ordinary- Carmen orCharlie or one of his estranged cousins- would make an appearance, but… it wasnever Dennis. He never used to worry that he was a burden to him, that he madehis life worse, that he didn’t love him with the fury of a thousand suns orwhatever- but that was before things got all weird between them.
He tries to stay put, but he knows the only thing that’sgoing to soothe his anxiety is to go talk to Dennis and get some reassurancethat everything is fine. But it’s the middle of the night, and he shouldreally forget it and go back to bed, but he can’t sleep and his lungsare still shaky and he feels strange in his own skin.
Before he can tell himself he definitely shouldn’t gowake Dennis up, Mac is shuffling off the bed and making his way out into theliving room.
——---
Dennis is busy rifling through a box of old mementos, staring at photographs that feel like they were taken centuries ago andtrying to convince himself he hasn’t peaked yet, when he hears the door open.
“Why’re the lights on, man?”
He slams the yearbook he’s holding shut- drops it back inwith the rest of the bygone, dust-sheathed crap- and glances up at Mac, who’sjust waltzed right in for some reason. What business of his is it if he choosesto have the lights on at this hour? It is his room, damn it.
Dennis rolls his teeth over his lips before he speaks.
“What, uh…” he stumbles softly. “What’s up?”
Instead of answering, Mac shuts the door behind him and sitson the edge of the bed. He’s facing the wall, but just by watching the waythe muscles in his back move, just from hearing the hitching of his breath, Dennis cantell something is wrong. He doesn’t know what to say, though, because hedoesn’t know what the problem is- so he simply sits there and listens to thesound.
“Can I just,” Mac says and sounds so far away, “stay here…for a little while?”
Dennis has known Mac for more than twenty years now, and heknows him well enough to recognize when his anxiety is off the shits. But it’sbeen a long time, and Mac isn’t so helpless anymore. He’s a lot biggerthan he used to be. He’s a lot stronger. He’s gotten himself together in waysDennis can’t even begin to process, and only knows to react to with anger.
Right now, though, he looks kind of small again.
Slowly, but not at all hesitant, Dennis reaches out andplaces a hand on Mac’s shoulder blade. He presses his palm against himhard and digs his fingers into his shirt, reminding him that he’s there, buthis hand looks so little and fragile compared to the muscles in Mac’s back, andthings are so different than they used to be. He knew how to deal with thisbefore, and in turn, Mac knew how to handle him when he had his episodes, butnow…
Dennis isn’t so sure who they are or how they fit aroundeach other anymore.
He sinks his hand into Mac harder, because it’s all he knows.
“Mac-”
“It’s cool… I’m fine.” He doesn’t sound fine, hesounds fucking awful. “I don’t wanna bother you.”
“Well, you sort of already barged in, so…”
Dennis feels him shudder underneath his fingers andknows right away that he’s said the wrong thing.
“Fuck, I’m sorry, man,” Mac whimpers.
“I was just,” -he clears his throat- “just joking.”
That sounds so stupid and shitty out loud.
Dennis slips his hand off of Mac and returns to the cardboardbox in his lap, trying to ignore his presence and give him the space he soclearly wants. He rifles through Polaroids and scrap papers and notes andthings he’s not sure why he still has, but that make him feel so disconnectedfrom who he used to be, like a stranger in his own body.
He and Mac and Charlie and Dee… they were all so small andmessy and confused and young, but they had each other and that madeeverything make sense. Now, Dennis has been away from them for a year, and hefeels smaller and messier and more confused than he’s ever felt- but he doesn’tfeel young. He feels so, so old. He feels like so much time has gone by that hecan’t recapture, so much potential has slipped through his hands, so many morewrinkles have made a home on his face, and he’s losing all his chances and losinghis friends and losing Mac.
It’s getting harder and harder to convince himself he’sstill got charisma and looks, that women still want him, that everyone stilllooks up to him, that he’s still got time to figure his life out and be a realperson. He feels like he’s on the far side of a hill, but when he looks aroundat his accomplishments, they’re no more than they were ten years ago or twentyyears ago or… well, ever. He feels like this is as good as his life is going toget.
Mac’s panting starts to pick up again, and Dennis sets hispapers down and quirks an eyebrow at him. He opens his mouth to ask what’swrong, but before he can say anything, Mac is getting up off the bed.
“Wait, Mac, goddamn it, just-”
Dennis leans over to wrap his fingers around his arm and tughim back down.
“I don’t wanna bug you-”
“You’re not- I’m just…” -he realizes he’s snapping andlowers his voice- “going through some old shit.”
Mac glances at him over his shoulder, and his eyes are allglassy and distant, like he’s there, but he’s not really there, because he’sall up in his own fucking head.
“What’s all that stuff?” he mumbles.
With the distraction of Mac’s hyperventilating gone, Dennis suddenlyrealizes how ridiculous this must look. What sort of patheticman sits in bed and sorts through his forgotten junk from high school at twoin the morning?
“Here,” Dennis says rather than explaining, passing the box tohim.
Mac doesn’t question it- likely because he’s still too fuzzyto make fun of him- and starts digging. He flips through their yearbook and stopsto chuckle at a couple of stupid pictures while Dennis observes him in silence.Eventually, his muscles soften and his breath planes out as the tensionin his body unwinds.
A quiet sense of relief washes over Dennis as he watches Macreturn to reality.
That is, until he snorts and waves a tattered green notebookin his face.
“Bro, is this your diary?”
“It is not-” Dennis snatches it in his talons like abird scooping up a field mouse. “It is a journal, Mac. A boyish sort ofjournal, the kind young men keep!”
Mac rolls his eyes and huffs, and part of Dennis is thankfulhe’s acting like himself again, but the other part of him wants to shove himright off the edge of the bed.
“Well, can I read it?” he pesters.
Dennis clutches the dia- journal to his chest. “Absolutelynot.”
“Why not?”
“It’s personal.”
“What are you afraid of-”
“I am not afraid-”
“Then let me see it, dude!”
With a deep breath, in and out, Dennis takes a long momentto contemplate the situation. He certainly can’t hand the notebook over to Mac,it would be embarrassing- not because it’s a diary, but because he wasnowhere near the stallion he is today when he wrote it. To know of hisconquests now and look back on this… it would seem ridiculous in comparison.
Besides, there’s… there’s a lot of private stuff in there. Alot of stuff about his parents and Dee and Ms. Klinsky and… a lot of stuffabout Mac.
He comes up with a compromise.
“I will read you a couple of pages…” Dennis agrees, carefully,like he’s handling a spooked horse, “if you settle down.”
Mac zips his mouth shut, actually makes the motion with hishand like he’s a damned toddler, and cozies against the pillows.
He clears his throat and flips through ten or so pages, thefirst of which he’s dedicated and signed for some reason. Clearly, he assumed hisbelongings would be worth money at this point. The next few are allintroductory- no doubt describing himself as a lost, misunderstood soul wisebeyond his years and far too superior for the highs and lows of high school-which he was, but there’s no need to recount it aloud.
“All right, here we go.” Dennis zeroes in on an entry,prodding at it with his finger. “I skipped algebra today and got high withMac and Charlie. Is it really skipping, though, if you never intended to go?And who’s to say that living in the moment is less important than math? Ithink, if you show up to class every day, you’re skipping life.”
Mac snorts with laughter. “Who talks like that?”
“I thought it was profound, Mac, but if you’re going tointerrupt-”
“No, no, Dennis, I’m sorry!” he whines. “I won’t sayanything.”
Dennis pretends not to notice him scooting closer as he readson.
“Charlie came up with an idea for something he calledfinger-bread, but I think it was essentially just a bagel. He tried to do ademonstration and caught my shirt on fire. The whole sleeve burned before wecould put it out. He has no idea how much that shirt cost. Mac let meborrow his hoodie for the rest of the day, but it smelled like a pickup truck andthere was ash in the pockets. It was humiliating.”
“You never gave that back,” Mac chimes in.
“I’m certain I did,” Dennis lies through his teeth, rememberingall the nights he spent tucked away in it, using it as a pillow, throwing itover him like a blanket- because things were shitty at home and Mac was acomfort, because it smelled like cigarettes and gasoline, but cigarettes andgasoline smelled like Mac, so it didn’t bother him, “and if I didn’t, it’sbecause I burned the thing. It was absolutely repulsive. I mean, had you everwashed it?”
“You don’t wash jackets, Den. They don’t touch your skin.”
“It’s not about the skin, Mac, it’s-”
Dennis sighs and goes back to hunting for the next suitable entry. “Wouldyou be quiet?”
He skips the all-too-personal shit and reads the lighterpages, relating his teenage prose about staying home to take care of Dee whenshe had the flu, going to the movies with Schmitty and getting bored because hedidn’t want to talk in the theater, pointing out the flaws in his Englishteacher’s lecture and somehow ending up with detention, getting rejectedby a few potential homecoming dates… typical high school days. Mac interruptswith a laugh or a passing comment now and then- “I remember that” or“You were so lame!” or “I wonder what she’s doing now”, and his voicegets louder and more comfortable each time.
It all seems a bit trivial in hindsight (except for the bit abouthis English teacher, Dennis is still outraged by that), but it wasall big enough back then that he felt the need to write it out as soon as hegot home. He wishes he could go back to when getting high and listening toCharlie talk about some strange invention and obsessing over girls were the majorevents in his life.
Even a few years ago, things were still like that- but it’sall been so complicated lately…
Dennis feels Mac shuffle uncomfortably against his shoulderand wraps an arm around him, only because it’s irritating to have his headdigging into his arm. Absentmindedly, he works his fingers into the fabric ofMac’s sweatshirt as he flips the page.
“Dear dia-” He clears his throat and skips that line,and if Mac notices, he doesn’t say anything. “I have a problem. It’s aboutMac- of course it is.” Mac lets out a short grunt, but doesn’t complainlike Dennis expects him to, so he continues. “He’s pretty cool for a weeddealer. Actually, I think he’s probably my best friend.” Charlie was hisbest friend, too, though, and Schmitty was in the mix somewhere, as well… sothat’s not really as sappy as teenage Dennis made it sound. It didn’t mean muchof anything, really. “Sometimes when we hang out, just the two of us, it’slike everything else in the worlds sucks, but we’re going to be okay.”
Ah, shit.
Dennis doesn’t know why he keeps reading- it’s like tyinghis own noose tighter with every word- but he’s searching desperately for thepart where he finally complains about Mac and salvages this sentimental backwash.
“He brought over some whiskey he swiped from his dad’s oldshit and we got wasted last night, and I almost messed up really bad. We weresitting on the floor and it got quiet and I tried to…”
His throat closes up like he’s gone underwater, and hestops reading, but it’s too late to avoid it, because he’s already started tosay it. It’s like he’s balancing on the edge of a cliff, and if he breathesout, he’s going to topple one way or the other- and he doesn’t know which wayhe’s going to fall.
I tried to kiss him and it was totally stupid, but Ididn’t know how else to tell him I love him.
Dennis’ fingernails crinkle the edges of the page.
He needs to say something, anything. He needs to look over.He needs to come up with an explanation for himself before he’s completelymortified.
He stammers, “I’m- uh- it’s hard to read- the pencil-”
Mac snores thunderously in his ear and, somehow, it’s themost relieving sound Dennis has ever heard.
Phew.
Briefly, he considers stowing the journal away again-but he figures he’s gotten his fill of it, and it’s humiliating, anyhow- so hetosses it in the garbage can beside the bed. Good riddance.
Dennis glances over at what’s essentially a half-ton rhinosleeping against his shoulder, listens to his savage snoring, watches his eyelidstwitch, feels the rise and fall of his breathing against his hand. I don’tknow how else to tell him I love him echoes in his head, and he wants topretend that’s long-forgotten nonsense from his angsty teenage years, but heknows what he was trying to say.
He has trouble expressing his feelings like that. With Dee,it always bursts out of him at the worst times- and she always shuts him down.With his mother, I love you was such a habitual phrase that it lost itsmeaning eventually. With every woman he’s ever been with, it’s been an act,part of a system to get them into bed with him as easily as possible.
Dennis doesn’t know how to tell people what they mean to himuntil it’s too late. He doesn’t know how to talk about his feelings unless hecan write them off as part of some elaborate hoax.
Mac, on the other hand, simply blurts out whatever he’sthinking or feeling, all the time, constantly. It’s annoying, but Dennis sort of enviesit, though he’ll never admit to that. It’s so easy for Mac to love people so loudly. Dennis doesn’t think anyone’s ever loved himback, though.
At least, Mac doesn’t think anyone’s ever loved him back.
He sighs to himself and slips his arm free, getting up toturn off the light. On his way back to bed, he tosses a throw blanket over Mac.It’s a struggle to yank the covers out from under his elephant body, but Dennismanages to wriggle into them. He could wake Mac up and kick him out, or atleast shove at him to roll over further, but… it’s simply not worth thestruggle.
It’s good that he forgot about that night. It’s good that heburied it. It’ll be gone, again, in a week tops- stuffed deep down inside ofhim like everything else. He reminds himself that he was probably justplastered, that he might have confused Mac with someone else- and pretends hedoesn’t remember the way their legs brushed together as they sat on the carpet,the smell of cigarettes and whiskey on Mac’s lips every time he laughed, theway his hoodie felt wrapped around him, how everything- for one short moment,the kind of moment they play Air Supply songs over in the movies- everythingwas just Mac.
He gets weird on whiskey, Dennis reminds himself. He wasyoung and confused and whipping through puberty like a tornado. He would havedone the same with anyone. It meant nothing then and it means nothing now.
… He’s not sure who he’s arguing with.
Rolling to his other side, he waits for his eyes to adjustand watches Mac sleep. His sloppy, uncomfortable position doesn’t seem tobother him any, and his mouth has dropped open so his snoring can reallyecho through the room.
He doesn’t know what Mac was so anxious about earlier, buthe seems all right now- if only because he’s passed out. It was probably justsome stupid, shitty nightmare.
Dennis reaches out and pulls the blanket up around Mac’sshoulder to keep him from having another one.
Before he drifts off to sleep, he thinks that, maybe, this isn’tas good as it gets. Maybe there’s still one thing left in his future.
#i promise this gets silly eventually#also this will probably be my last prompt for the rest of the month cause i've got a long one i wanna finish before s14#it's always sunny in philadelphia#it's always sunny#iasip#dennis reynolds#mac mcdonald#macdennis#fics#my writing#asks#anon#yeah sorry if there are typos i didn't do a final walkthrough
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I should’ve known. Well, I did know, I had that gut feeling, but I desperately wanted it to be wrong. All those years ago when we first met you glanced over me every time, always interested in my friends or some other girl who was better in some way. I always felt like you got with me out of pity - or that I was an easy option, because when I looked at you my eyes got wide and puppy dog like and everybody knew how I had felt about you. You always intended it to be a fling, though you deny it until you’re blue in the face, and in some ways I feel like me getting pregnant so fast and suddenly ruined your life. I know how hard it was for you to spend all those hours at uni, coming home to study for hours on end while taking care of little Harry and feeding him while I had postnatal depression. I know that. I know that you worked long and hard hours to make money, juggling uni, a child, work and a girlfriend you didn’t really want. I know that you proposed because it was the right thing to do in the eyes of your family. I mean, how dare you have children out of wedlock in this century or any other? I knew you had a wandering eye but I just always wanted more from you. I loved you unconditionally and I turned a blind eye time and time again. I know I wasn’t perfect, I stooped low and I did awful things for revenge. I know you struggle to forgive me for them, every time you look at me I know you’re still not over it. You never ever saw things from my point of view. I was scared, pregnant and in love with a fuck boy at seventeen. Seventeen. I was smart, I had potential. I put off going to university that year for you. I moved for you. In the end, I moved myself and our children THREE times to different countries for you. Three times. Isn’t that ridiculous, to move three children under ten years old so many times because their daddy got bored of the one place? I know the way you were raised. I know you wanted a housewife, a girl to stay in and make the beds, have your dinner ready for 6pm on the dot no matter what and do then drop to her knees whenever you see fit. I’m sorry that I’m not that girl, and that I’m career driven and want more for my life. I’m sorry for it I am but I always thought there’d be part of you inside that was bursting with pride that a little scheme girl had managed to work so hard for her degree and make it to where I am now. I am grateful for the funds you and your dad gave me to go to such a good university I really am but I would’ve gotten to where I am regardless. I was out of place in England, my accent stuck out, I didn’t come from money. I was lonely. I was a mum. I had three small kids and they saw it as ridiculous that I should want to start a career in something with long gruelling hours. What kind of mother would do such a thing, right? I always wanted you to change your mind and think “yep, that’s the girl for me.” Your family loved me, your Nona approved of me. She didn’t approve of your little mistress and that killed you. I remember once recently I scrolled through your camera roll. A couple of pictures of the kids, loads of her and plenty of you. One or two of me done up nice, and a few of me naked. Whereas you check my phone, thousands of photos of our memories. Holidays. Trips to Paris, Christmas at your family’s in Naples. You napping with the kids. Us. My life revolves around you and them whereas you just fit us in and around your life. I tried so hard to be what you wanted, and now you don’t want either of us. I don’t really blame her because she was young and you have a way of luring girls in. You know what to say, what to do, how to act. You know when to be a dickhead, when to be loving, when to give space and when to fight. I don’t blame her for loving you, or breaking up our family or my fairytale ending, I blame you for leading us both on. For so fucking long. Years. I uprooted my entire life for you but now I’m going home to where I belong and I’m terrified you won’t fight to see your children that love you so, so much.
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Kingsman: A Trainee’s Mission (Pt. VIII)
PREQUEL FIC, this section ~2,300w
pt. I | pt. II | pt. III | pt. IV | pt. V | pt. VI | pt. VII
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It’s four of them left at the end. Harry, Hamish, and their final hurdles, Derrington and William. He thinks back to the moment they stood there, proposing agents at their shoulders, and listened to Arthur inform them they’d reached the final stage.
Everything had rung in his ears for the remainder of the night. Possibly it might’ve had a thing or two to do with being drugged, but there’s plenty reason enough to doubt it was only that. Surreality, for one thing. Utter surreality.
One sentence, and his goal was within reach. No other candidate craves this the way he does. They haven’t had the chance.
He’s finally reached the stage that’s going to change his life forever. One way or another.
Harry glances anxiously around the drawing room where he was told to wait, kneading his hands, minding Mr. Pickle at his feet. He’s trying to conjure up a focused mental review of his past twenty-four hours with Martin. There’d been plenty of advice, he was sure. Peppered with years of a seasoned field agent’s wisdom, cautionary tales, and all sorts of things like that. The problem is, the only thing he can seem to remember is the proper way to make a martini. Ice, gin, vermouth, shake, pour, garnish. It’s not very helpful at the moment.
His gaze jumps up when the door opens, expecting Arthur. Instead, it’s Hamish, Ainsley loping obediently at his heels. He shuts the door behind him and comes to sit, settling on the far end of Harry’s divan.
The two hold a shared look for a beat or two, capped off with singular nods. It’s a heavy moment, and that’s acknowledgment enough of that.
Until it isn’t, because who are they to kid themselves at this point.
“Are you nervous?” Hamish asks quietly. It’s the most pensive Harry’s ever heard him.
He can’t give that anything but honesty. He lets his head bob. “Yes. Very much.” Then he looks left, watching his friend contemplate his hands. “You?”
The silence lasts far longer than he expected it to. Hamish doesn’t look up. He hardly moves at all, in fact. It lasts until Harry is tempted to ask what the matter is.
Then, without preamble, he doesn’t have to.
“My aunt died three years ago,” Hamish says.
Immediately, Harry’s empathy is lead in his stomach. He wouldn’t dream of prodding this time.
“I was just a tyke when my parents’ car wrecked in the highlands. Didn’t even think twice before she took me in.”
He has to pause. Harry’s overwhelmingly compelled to let him off the hook.
“You don’t have to tell me any of this,” he insists softly.
Hamish’s head shakes. His hands cover his knees, and his glance finds the window. He continues. “We lived in Edinburgh. Got by all right on her pension, and she’d patch up the neighbors’ clothes for a discount whenever we needed a little extra. Worked her fingers to the bone for me, she did. Then, one day… Pneumonia. Ten days in hospital, and that was it. It was foster homes after that. Four, maybe five of them. Shit ones, mostly.”
The more of this he says out loud, the more vulnerability his stoic face betrays. Harry knows what’s coming. It doesn’t take a genius to get there.
“I turned eighteen a week ago,” Hamish reveals, and it’s the softest part of all. His eyes drift somewhere far away. “If this…”
He doesn’t say any more. They both know he doesn’t have to. Harry works out the rest on his own. There won’t be another foster home. Or any funds to follow his intern work to Berlin, either.
There’s nothing left for Hamish out there. Nowhere to go.
Maybe he’s not the one who wants this the most after all.
Harry wracks his brain for something to say. It takes several moments, but he lands on something he thinks might hit the right note. His inspiration licks her paw.
“Is Ainsley named after her?” he asks.
Hamish nods again. It’s hard to spot at first, but one side of his mouth shows signs of twisting toward amusement. “What’d you study at Oxford, anyway? Let me guess: psychology?”
“Political science major with a minor in entomology, specializing in lepidoptery.”
“Lepi-what-the-fuck?”
“It’s the study of butterflies.”
“I was right, you’re something the fuck else.” Grinning faintly now, Hamish sighs, and he retraces his mental steps, idly scratching behind his bloodhound’s ear. “Mrs. Ainsley. Her and my mother’s maiden name. That’s what she liked everyone to call her. God help the sod who didn’t. It was Aunt Ainsley to me, too, no exceptions.”
Hopefully it’s in good taste to ask questions again, because he can’t resist poking at the pattern he’s seeing. He’s a shit, after all. “Why was that?”
“Oh, her first name was Agathe. She fucking hated the thing.”
Harry’s urge to laugh slips free before he can temper it. Slowly, it catches, and by the time Arthur appears in the doorway, the two of them are confusing the hell out of the dogs, employing sleeves to rid the tears from their eyes.
“We’re ready for the both of you,” Arthur says. “If and when you’re quite finished.” He gives nothing more to their antics past a single peaked eyebrow. It’s very evidently not his first foray, but he looks like he’d love for it to be the last. Harry straightens quickly, aware of Hamish doing the same.
The adjacent doors have opened as well. One to the right, the other left. Lamorak is framed in one. Lancelot in the other.
There’s one order of business left before he takes his summons. Standing tall, Harry protrudes his hand to Hamish.
“Good luck, friend.”
Hamish clasps it, shaking heartily.
“And to you.”
Whatever awaits, may we both be Kingsman when it’s through with.
Turning apart, they go their separate ways. Harry hears the shutting of doors behind him, comforted by Mr. Pickle’s loyal trot as he meets Agent Lamorak, entering a sunlit parlor. It’s the sort of room he’d love to read a book in. Maybe he will, once he’s an agent. Because he’s going to be an agent. He’s going to be.
“Have a seat,” Martin instructs. Harry does, and so does Mr. Pickle. Just look at you. You couldn’t possibly be better behaved. I hope you know how much I appreciate you making me look good on this.
After all this time, he knows better than to expect his instructions straightforwardly. He knows to wait for them. He’s still waiting when Martin reaches into his jacket, pulling out his handgun. Extending it to him.
“Take it,” he says.
The sinking feeling in the pit of his gut knows something that he doesn’t. He wishes it would tell him sooner than later. Harry takes the weapon cautiously, eyes plastered to the agent’s face, seeking out the answer.
“That’s a full clip.”
It seems a little obvious to point out. You don’t say? I’d have expected most Kingsman to carry around empties for the fun of it. The fact that he’s deflecting even in his own head is a fairly severe warning sign.
Something is wrong. Something awful is coming. He just doesn’t know what.
Until Martin calmly finishes his sip of liquor.
“Shoot the dog,” he says.
Harry’s world narrows to a single frame, zooming nauseously to a point, and that point is Mr. Pickle’s trusting face. He wants to retch. He wants to turn the gun on Martin, just for the suggestion, and fuck all he’s done for him. All he can do is stare at him in shock.
How can this be what you want from me? How can this be what you’re asking?
He wonders if his mother would fault him if he left this room and never looked back. He wonders how long it would take him to fault himself.
He rips his appalled gape away from Lamorak, landing it where it belongs, letting it soften to something between pure love and despair. Mr. Pickle shifts his weight patiently to new paws, unaware of any of this. Unaware that he… That this could…
He can’t even think it. He can’t imagine a world in which obeying that order is okay. In which he can live with himself in the aftermath. Every suit would be blood red to him. Every one of his triumphs tainted with the sickest form of selfishness, the murder of something that had unconditionally loved and trusted him, who hadn’t done a thing to anyone. A completely–
Harry’s mind reboots itself.
A completely innocent being.
A Kingsman only condones the risking of one life to save another.
Things begin to click faster than he knows what to do with them.
The net in the gorge.
The bombs that stopped at zero.
Why specifically tell me the gun was loaded, unless…?
The danger was never real. All this time, it was never real. We were only meant to think it was.
Martin isn’t asking mindless obedience. Kingsman aren’t killing machines, and they don’t want them. He’s asking for comprehension. He’s asking if he’s understood.
Harry bolts to his feet, hands quivering. He has to do it before his nerve fails him. He has to do it now. It has to be now.
His trembling aim rises. Then steadies, by force. Mr. Pickle’s amber eyes glint up at him from over the barrel. His revelation didn’t end his insides’ churn, and neither does that.
Please, please God, let me be right. Don’t let me hurt this dog. Please, I beg of you, don’t let me have gotten this wrong. Don’t let me be wrong…
He fires.
The pellet bounces off Mr. Pickle’s fur. He staggers backward with a whimper.
Nothing more.
The gun is on the ground and Harry’s dog is in his arms before he registers, even remotely, that the sound of his gunshot was doubled by the room across the way.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, sweetheart, did that nasty thing hit you?” Mr. Pickle is wriggling like mad, stretching to reach his face and lick every inch of it, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. Laughter bubbles out of him with tears, and it’s hard to tell which came first. “Oh, yes, I know. I know. I would never hurt you. I would never, ever hurt you, Mr. Pickle. Not for all the money in the world. Not for a thing.”
Martin rises while Harry’s still pressing soothing kisses to Mr. Pickle’s scruff. After another half-dozen or so, he finally senses he should pay attention, and looks over in time to see Martin replace his weapon, straighten his jacket, and offer his hand.
It’s then that it happens. He’s unprepared to commit it to memory, but he’s going to anyway.
“Welcome,” says Martin, “to Kingsman. Agent Galahad.”
Welcome to Kingsman.
Gently, Harry plops Mr. Pickle back to the floor. His eyes are full this time, and he makes no excuse for them. Reflex takes Martin’s hand for him. He barely feels his arm move.
Thank you, sir. His brain sends the command to his mouth. “And Derrington…?” is what incredulously comes out instead.
Please don’t let there be a chance of losing this. Don’t let there be an asterisk.
“Shot the dog, too,” Martin says, pumping his hand. Harry’s heart nearly stops, and so does the handshake. It’s Martin’s look that saves it. “Then thought the blank must be some mistake. Tried to take Geraint’s sidepiece and finish the job. I hear Molly bit him. No one stopped her, either. He’ll be on his way home once the dart wears off.”
Harry exhales so heavily his lungs might as well be raisins. Never in his life has he been so grateful a human being turned out that depraved.
“You’ve done it, Harry,” Martin confirms with a grin. “We all knew you could. Your mother will be extraordinarily proud.”
Mother… He’s got to phone her. He’s got to get to a telephone. He’s got to…
No, not yet. Not yet.
There was a second gunshot.
He grabs his mentor’s hand again, rattling away at his elbow like a lineman in a lever factory. “Thank you, sir. Thank you, I’m honored. I… May I be excused?”
There’s something knowing in Martin’s expression, and he nods. “Go on.”
Scooping up Mr. Pickle, Harry all but throws open the door. The one on the other side is already open, framing Lancelot again, only this time, smiling in the background. Hamish is already charging to the middle of the drawing room.
Grinning ear-to-ear.
“William?” Harry demands.
“Couldn’t do it; Kay sent him home.”
“Ainsley?”
“She’s all right.”
If there’s anything his memory allows him to keep about this day, anything that holds its clarity instead of fading to the blur of awe and adrenaline, Harry wants it to be this. The moment that he extends his hand again, this time brimming with the glee of a ten-year-old boy, standing tall in a Kingsman agent’s shoes.
“It’s an honor to be working with you, Merlin.”
No one else knows the relief on his friend’s face like he does. Hamish shakes, blinking back tears of his own. “And with you, Agent Galahad.”
“Agent Galahad!”
There’s no parrot in the room. It’s Martin again, emerging from the parlor holding a sheet of fax paper, radiating alarm.
“Don’t get comfortable. I’m going to need backup. Come with me. Your suit’s on the plane.”
“Merlin, to the control room, quickly. Arthur will meet you there,” Lancelot orders.
There’s only time for a sharp nod each, and Hamish claps Harry’s shoulder. Then the two of them are off down the corridors, scored by the sound of a piped-in radio broadcast.
For those of you just tuning in, the date is Wednesday, twenty-nine July, and what a beautifully clear morning for the wedding of the century…
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pt. IX
#Kingsman#Harry Hart#Agent Merlin#Kingsman: The Secret Service#Kingsman: The Golden Circle#fanfic#oh look Aud did a thing#p.s. nobody asked but in case anyone's wondering: his mother's Peggy Carter of SHIELD and his other one is Angie Martinelli#it's @faeriviera's fault and now it's law so there#I leave it vague in this on purpose so y'all can speculate however you want but there it is so have fun
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BLOGGING BIBLE PART 1!
Warning: If you’re religious, or easily offended, I’d recommend that you leave now and forget that this ever happened. I REPEAT: this is the Bible from the view of an atheist, and no amount of hate-anons or spiritual messages will convert me to anything other than my self-proclaimed atheistic-Satanism.
Today on Blogging Bible – I beat up the 10 Commandments and call out their rules as bullshit!
Lucy here. Dude, I am fucking ready to read a bible. (Cue the into to song “Vampire Money” by the late, extremely satanic punk band, My Chemical Romance. Shudder, I’m definitely going to hell because of my music selection.)
Stuff to know before you start reading:
Yeah, I’m a girl. And a lowkey feminist. And yeah, I know I’m gonna get butthurt over the extremely disgusting treatment of women in this “book”.
Yeah, I know people are gonna get butthurt over me getting butthurt over this 2,000-page book made of tissue paper and incredibly bad binding. But I’ve got a brick that weighs five pounds with the word Bible on it and I’m not afraid to use it. (This thing could cause some pretty wicked blunt force trauma, y’all.)
I am an atheist. However, I have no problem adhering to the eleven rules of Satanism as stated at the official Church of Satan website. So, you could call me an Atheistic Satanist. Please don’t yell at me, I know that’s not the most popular label to identify under, but frankly, I don’t care.
I don’t have any problem outright bashing this book. Figuratively and literally. It’s a fucking book, I can throw it into the wall if I want to. (I wouldn’t do that with any other book, tbh. This one is a special case.) Also, I’ve already thought of some sick burns to use, so once again, if you easily get offended, please leave now.
Yeah. So. Got all that stuff covered. Now… time to get out the Bible.
First Impression:
God, this thing is heavy.
I picked this thing up at the free pile in the public library, and I can understand why nobody wanted it. There’s this awful plastic cover on the front that’s wrinkly enough to be my grandma’s face. NIrV, The Adventure BIBLE FOR YOUNG READERS.
Yeah, I’m reading the young-readers version because I would not, I repeat not, be able to make it through a normal one. Also, I am young and must be protected from the word “sex”. (JK. But seriously, this book seems to have a problem with the word sex. Couldn’t they just say, “Adam and Eve had some sweet, sweet baby-making bangin’”? It would make much more sense than “They made love. Then she went through an excruciatingly painful birth and had a child.” I think God had a thing against humor.)
Okay… first page. Looks like some sort of diary thing, because there’s lots of lines and bad little kid handwriting. Once again, I am painfully reminded of the fact that I’m reading the watered-down kid’s version.
This NIrV bible was given to…
Name: Caleb Grant Speight
On: 2-22-05
By: Daddy and Mama
Okay, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel bad for this kid, because this whole page has a “Son, this is your entire birthday present” vibe. Also – 2005? God, do you remember what computers looked like back then? Jeez. (I now realize that I just said the Lord’s name in vain twice in one go, so yeah, I’m definitely going to hell.)
Next page. I still feel bad for this kid, who’s probably 20 by now. I wonder if he still lives here. I wonder if he’s still alive. I wonder if he’s still brainwashed by… okay, here we are, the 10 Commandments for Kids! Joy, joy! These are sure to be good.
1. You may not love anyone or anything more than you love God.
Okay but… what if you’re dyslexic? “I agree, I don’t love anything more than I love… my dog…” To be clear here, I definitely love my dog more than I love God, because she’s beautiful, loving, and always there for me. The dog, I mean. God could be some ugly troll in the sky for all I care, he hasn’t done batshit for me. This rule is bullshit.
2. You may not worship, or put more importance on any person or thing, other than God. You must worship only the Lord, not your parents, not a friend, not a movie star or sports hero, not a car or a boat or skateboard. Nothing.
Oh, jeez. I have to worship my parents more than I worship God, ‘kay? My parents work hard every single day to put dinner on the table and put a roof over my head. God has nothing to do with that, it’s all them. My parents are wonderful people who’ve been raising me since the day I was born. Yeah, they make me do this dishes, (gross gross gross!) but God hasn’t even given me two dollars in my life. This rule is bullshit.
3. You may not swear. Use God’s holy name only in a loving way, never to express anger or frustration.
Why the ever loving fuck can’t I swear? Why can’t I fucking use God’s name in an angry way? God, I’m using it now. This is a rule that not even the most Christian-y of Christians follow because I’ve seen them say it in a not-nice way, okay? If you want me to use a different word, then tell me which word you want me to fucking use, God. This rule is bullshit.
4. One day of your week should be set aside for rest and the worship of God. Work six days of the week only. You need a special day set aside to relax and meet with other Christians.
Relax, my ass. Have you ever been to church? I went once for a funeral and it was fucking stressful. The pews are like fucking cold ice slabs under your ass and the hymns?? God, it’s stressful to try and sing hymns when you don’t know the fucking lyrics or what the hell they’re about. It’s not relaxing at all. This rule is bullshit.
5. Be respectful to your parents. Love them, and the Lord will reward you with a long life.
Huh. The first part of this rule makes sense. However, I think the Bible’s absolutely retarded for talking like this. Tell this to my fucking friend who has a child molester as a father. What if one of your parents is a serial killer? Rapist? What if your parents abuse you!? Are you just supposed to unconditionally love everyone who fucking wrongs you? This is BULLSHIT, you don’t get a long life for loving people that hurt you, you get Stockholm Syndrome. This rule is bullshit.
6. You may not hate other people, don’t ever think of hurting someone else in any way.
Okay, I’m just gonna say this: Genesis 4:17 – CAIN FUCKING MURDERS HIS BROTHER FOR ABOLUTELY NO FUCKING REASON, AND HE BECOMES PRACTICALLY IMMORTAL WITH A REVENGE SPELL ON HIM, AND HE HAS SEX WITH HIS WIFE AND GETS CHILDREN AND BUILDS A FUCKING CITY. This is saying that it’s OKAY to hurt people, or at least that’s what I’m getting from it. Also, don’t even let me get started on self-defense. This rule is bullshit.
7. Keep your thoughts and actions pure. Sex is a gift of God to married couples.
Um, no. I could go and have sex with a random person I’m not married to and it would just be SEX, not a gift from God. God isn’t fucking gifting me with anything, he’s gifting me with monthly period cramps and hell 12 weeks of the year. My thoughts are not pure, that’s a byproduct of having teenage friends – friends that are perverted boys – at school. There’s no way to stop horny teenagers, ‘kay? The only thing that’s gonna come from sheltering your kids is rebellious sex and STDs. This rule is bullshit.
8. You may not take and keep anything that doesn’t belong to you.
This rule may be the only one that makes any fucking sense to me at all. However, I know for a fact that many notorious Christian people don’t follow this rule. THEY WANT GAY PEOPLE KILLED FOR THEIR SEXUALITY, OKAY? Gay people’s lives don’t belong to Christians, yet they’re still taking them through hate crimes. Same goes for the other people that they heartlessly murder and destroy. This rule is bullshit.
9. You may not tell lies, especially when that lie will hurt someone else.
This is ridiculous. In my humble Atheist opinion, Christians lie to themselves and others on that one special rest day every week. Honestly, most of the things in this book are gonna be big fat lies and exaggerations, and I’m gonna remember this Commandment as I read it. This rule is bullshit.
10. You may not be jealous of what others have. You may not be jealous of your friend’s new toy or clothes or the big house your neighbor lives in. Be satisfied with what you have.
Once again, my friends come to mind. They’re a pretty fucked-up set of individuals and they have every fucking right to be jealous of other stuff, because if God really exists, he dealt them a fucking shitty hand in the Card Game of Life. Also, tell this to the thousands of starving, neglected children around the globe. God could just wave his fucking hand and make our earth bigger and add more food, but no, he’s just gonna sit there and let everyone die. This rule is absolute and utter BULLSHIT!
That’s all for now! Tune in next time for more Blogging Bible, where I’ll start reading Genesis!
#bible#atheism#atheist#bible reading#im reading the bible#NOT NICE#this isnt very nice at all#book#reading#read#book review#book blogging#book blog#satan#satanism#satanist#atheistic satanist#atheistic#opinion#the ten commandments#evil#sin#bad
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More Of The Same - fic
Characters: Dick Grayson, Bruce Wayne
Summary: Dick never even realized. Though apparently Bruce had.
A/N: This didn’t turn out exactly how I wanted to but. Oh well. Basically, this is Bruce being aware of how fucked up their family is, and how much Damian suffers loving them, and how important Dick is to him, how Dick kind of takes him for granted, and Bruce wanting to be a protective dad. After the current arc in Nightwing obvi, where Dick’s been kind of a huge tool to Damian the whole time. I feel like Damian would internalize a lot of Dick’s attitude towards him as being Dick doesn’t care about him, and he’s a burden. Dick will be allowed near Damian again eventually, but for now, Bruce is in mama bear mode.
~~
The door’s creak was loud when Dick walked in the door. He called, and his voice echoed through the halls. Alfred gave a greeting hum in response from somewhere upstairs.
Dick grinned, moving towards the kitchen. He glanced into the sitting room as he passed it, and found himself pausing in the doorway.
Damian was sprawled out on the sofa, cat on his chest, dog on his legs, fast asleep. There was still the shadow of a bruise on his forehead from their most recent adventure.
Dick felt his grin widen, and he twisted on his heel to take a detour into the room. But suddenly there was a low voice behind him:
“Leave him alone.”
Dick looked over his shoulder, found Bruce strolling towards him from the kitchen, a bottle of water in his hand.
“Aw, B, I wasn’t going to wake him.” Dick chuckled. “I was just gonna kiss his cute little face.”
Dick turned back, took a step towards Damian, but instantly, there was a grip on his elbow.
“I said,” Bruce growled, yanking Dick backwards. “Leave him alone.”
Dick frowned, jerking his arm from the overly harsh grip. “What the hell’s your problem, Bruce? Joker piss on your car last night?”
“So what, are you saying you wouldn’t be a little annoyed?” Bruce asked sarcastically. It was almost his damn Batman voice. “If someone upset one of your kids?”
“Who upset him?” Dick asked. “Did him and Jon fight again? Or was it Jason? I can talk to him if you-”
“You, Dick.” Bruce hissed. “It was you.”
“…What?”
“Oh, don’t play dumb.” Bruce rolled his eyes, turned away, back towards the kitchen. It wasn’t said, but Dick knew he was expected to follow. Despite wanting to be difficult in his own sudden annoyance, he did just that. “On your last mission. Where he helped you find your girlfriend?”
“Yeah, I remember the mission. We worked together fine. Great even.” Dick shrugged. “Reminded me of the old days, actually. Reminded me how much I…I miss him.”
“Is that so?” Bruce hummed as they made it to the kitchen. He leaned on one side of the center island. Dick leaned on the other. “Because that’s not what he got out of it.”
“What are you…” And then Dick scoffed sourly. “What, am I supposed to believe that your son talked to you?”
Bruce ignored the barb. “He mentioned it. Said you’d made it clear you didn’t want him there, or his help.” Bruce looked guiltily down at his water. “Said he didn’t feel like that much of an unwanted burden since…well, since me.”
They both remained silent, thinking about that.
“He clammed up after that, so.” Bruce inhaled. “I looked at the footage from both of your mask cameras.”
“And?”
Bruce looked back up. “And it confirmed his story.”
“You’re kidding me.” Dick laughed incredulously. “Bruce, you know how Damian is, he sees the worst in-”
“You’re not that dense, Dick. Don’t pretend to be.” Bruce repeated. Dick just stared. “Or do you really not realize?”
“Realize what?” Dick asked, exasperated.
“Everything he said, you countered. Every time he tried to help, you ignored him. Shouted at him.” Bruce leaned forward. “You got him thrown into a goddamn tomb, and the second he got out – with his own face – he still did everything he could to save you.”
Dick opened his mouth to respond, but suddenly Bruce was digging in his pocket, pulling out a small device. Hit a few buttons and then slid it across the counter.
Footage from Damian’s mask.
But it wasn’t a moment Dick remembered. Damian kneeling in front of him, grabbing the front of his uniform. Yelling at him.
Then Dick saw his own eyes. Completely black. He realized that it was after Deathwing had put him in that trance, where he couldn’t remember who he was, where he was.
When he woke up to find Damian leaning over him, forehead bleeding. When he asked Damian what had happened, and Damian quietly told him, “Nothing.”
He couldn’t see Damian’s face, obviously, but he could hear him. He sounded desperate. Near tears. So…not Damian.
“…Finding a new life. Considering having a child to replace me. I don’t know what I will be…” Damian whispered. “…Alone.”
Dick…had no idea that’s what Damian thought of everything.
Then Damian leaned back, to the position Dick remembered waking up to.
“I need you here, Richard.” Damian breathed, sounding so lost. So scared. So small.
Then Dick woke up. Then they were fighting. Then Dick was dealing with their Dollotron copies. Then Pyg, then Shawn.
Damian’s video showed him always yards away. Never talking to Dick directly. Trying, but getting shot down, getting ignored. For Pyg’s other victims, for his girlfriend. And the video showed him taking it. Taking it and still jumping at the chance to help Dick in his mission, help protect Dick any way he could.
His gut was churning when Bruce finally took his device back.
“I expected better of you, Dick.” Bruce growled. “I expected so much better.”
“Wha…Bruce.” Dick frowned. “Okay, you’re right. I was a jerk. And I didn’t…I didn’t know about that moment. I didn’t realize he’d saved me from that…thing. But you set me straight, okay. You showed me the truth. So just let me go talk to him. Let me go apologize-”
“No, Dick.” Bruce glared. “You still don’t get it. You still don’t understand what you did.”
“…What I did?” Dick asked softly. The churning in his stomach turned to nausea. “…Bruce. What did I do?”
“…You treated him like I did. …Do.” Bruce whispered back, looking away. “He loves you more than anyone on the planet – more than me or Talia, even. …And you treated him like we do.”
Dick blinked, looked towards the doorway, towards the sitting room he couldn’t quite see.
“You were the first one to love him unconditionally. Respect him, treat him like a person. He let his walls down for you. He trusted you. You were always there for him, no one else. No one else. You could do no wrong to him.” Bruce sounded almost sad, almost jealous about this. Definitely disappointed. “And then you did. Then you fell off that pedestal he put you on.”
Dick felt his eyes mist, and closed them.
“…I’ve always been happy you were in his life, Dick. Thrilled, even. Because you loved him like I never could. You treated him like he deserved. I always believed you’d never hurt him like I have. Because you were supposed to be the best of us. You are the best of us, Dick. Of all of us. Especially to him.” Bruce continued. “But…now you have.”
“Bruce.” Dick looked back desperately. “Bruce, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You know I didn’t-”
“Now you have hurt him, and…you’re just like the rest of us. You treated him just like the rest of us do. You pushed him aside,” Bruce repeated. “And…I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to make him feel wanted anymore.”
“Let me talk to him.” Dick begged. “Let me…let me fix things with him.” His guilt raged as he reminded, both Bruce and himself: “I have before.”
Bruce sighed, and looked him in the eye. His father figure suddenly looked old. Tired. Worried. “…Go home, Dick.”
“Bruce-”
“Please. Just go home.” Bruce reiterated sleepily. “Leave Damian alone. For now.”
“Bruce, I can fix this.” Dick pushed. “I can. I have be-”
“You have before. I know, Dick. And knowing him, he’d forgive you in a second, like he always does. Everything would be great, and the incident would be forgotten.” Bruce suddenly pushed off the counter, and turned back towards the hall. “But have you ever played baseball?”
Dick blinked, confused. “Baseball?”
“The three strike rule.”
“…Bruce.”
“Strike one: you gave up Batman and left him with me.” Bruce slowly walked away, clutching his water bottle in his hand. “Strike two: You – we – let him believe you were dead, and you stayed away from him for months. Arguably when he may have needed you most. And I will take partial blame on that.”
Dick could only watch him leave, knowing the truth of Bruce’s simply analogy. Dick had gotten a lot of chances. Damian had given him a lot of chances.
Some he didn’t deserve.
(A lot he didn’t deserve.)
“…I’m sorry, son. But right now he thinks you don’t love him. And, true or not, I can’t let you hurt him like this anymore.” Bruce whispered over his shoulder as he disappeared into the hallway. “This is strike three, Dick. And it looks like you’re out.”
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So, as you may or may not be aware, this month has been all about the darkness that is noir novels. No one wants to hear about how many chocolate covered strawberries you plan on eating while your partner whispers sweet nothings into your ear, we want to hear about the latest psycho, bloody and murderous noir book that you’ve purchased and reviewed for #Fahrenbruary, now THAT’S what I call a perfect Valentine’s month. Wouldn’t you agree?
This week is an extra special week because (as I like to call it) it’s the #WeekOfAriana. If you’re hoping for Ariana Grande, turn back now because you are most definitely in the wrong place! You’ve been warned. This week some cracking posts have been published by Matt, over at It’s An Indie Book Blog and Kelly at From Belgium With Book Love. This week begun with a fantastic review of Red Hands and a guest post from Ariana herself, that you can find here AND here. Kelly then swooped in with a cracking Q & A with Ariana, focusing on how she pronounces the word scone and her writing process that you can find here. Kelly has also recently read and reviewed Ariana’s novella Dark Water that you can find here! I think between the three of us, we’ve made quite a team!
I have been totally in awe of all the bloggers and readers who have taken part in Fahrenbruary, I’m also happy because I’ve been able to find authors that I wouldn’t have, if it wasn’t for this bookish event! My first read was in fact on of Ariana’s masterpieces, in the form of Red Hands (Review here) and that was it, I was hooked on Fahrenheit Press and F13Noir books hook, line and sinker!
Well today, I have had the amazing opportunity of partaking in a Q & A with the person who has got me hooked on dark noir novels! Everyone meet Ariana!
Good afternoon Ariana, or afternoon / evening, I’m not sure of our time difference but i’d like to thank you for taking the time to answer my questions, especially Mart’s… How are you?
Hi Danielle, it’s 8:18am here!
Wow that’s early! Well we best start, we both know that a bearded blogger is just dying to have his questions answered, I can see him now; sitting at the computer screen like a child at Christmas! So, here goes! The first question is shortcrust or puff pastry?
Though I understand they’re called Linzer Tortes across the pond, here they’re simply called Linzer Tarts, a simple cookie with jam filling and powder sugar on top.
Oh wow, they sound absolutely delicious! Possibly a baked relative of an English Jammy Dodger, without the powdered sugar, if you took it away the resemblance is uncanny!
While we are on the subject, Kelly has asked you about the baked good that is Scones, how do you prepare yours? Jam first, or cream?
I like ‘em naked, er dry.
Well, there you go, you read it here first; Ariana loves her scones naked! The next question, quite like the preparation and pronunciation of the scone has been some what of a twitter debate between myself, Kelly and Mart. In the UK many people keep the tradition of purchasing chocolates called ‘Quality Streets’. The selection of chocolate contains orange and strawberry creams; fruity cream covered in dark chocolate. They are my favourite! What’s your favourite Quality Street chocolate?
Well, based on my research (um, Google search), we don’t have anything like this in the states. If I were to pick a chocolate in a box of chocolates over here, I’d choose the chocolate covered cherry.
They sound yummy, and also high five for loving fruit dipped in chocolate. Now this is the final question that Mart kindly demanded that I ask you. What are your favourite slippers?
Well, I wish that I could give a cute answer, like fluffy purple slippers or even a more practical answer like isotoner ballet slippers, but honestly, I prefer my bare feet. Wearing footwear of any type to me is like using a condom during sex – it takes away all the pleasure and sensation of feeling what’s natural. I think there is something to be said about being able to feel all the textures and surfaces your feet touch. Socks leave my feet too hot and sweaty, and anything else is too cumbersome.
Ariana, this is my most favourite answer ever! I will always hold it close to my heart for when I need something to make me smile. That and the thought of Mart cringing because he HATES feet, not just yours, EVERYONES! I personally agree with you, I hate covering my feet unless I wear trainers or boots! Out of my pure curiosity, are you a dog or cat person?
I’m a cat person. Dogs will always love you unconditionally, I think, but cats make you work for it—no matter how many times they tell you to go fuck yourself, you’re going to continue to coo all over them, and they thrive on it.
I feel the same, I admire the feline trait of being independent! Anyway, I think we have covered all the ‘getting to know you’ introductory basis, not it’s time to get into the nitty gritty! I mulled over the questions that I wanted to ask and I really appreciate you giving your straight cut. no bullshitting answers! What i’d love to know, is how did you came up with the concept for Red Hands?
After a suicide attempt in 2012, I vowed to myself to never make the fact that I’ve been diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder I w/Psychotic Features a secret. I am always open with it. When I created Garrison, I injected pieces of me into his character in the sense that I could write his illness, PTSD, and psychosis authentically while still separating myself from his madness. Yes, he’s a serial killer and I am not, but there is a part of Garrison I wanted the reader to feel sorry for; and, you partially see this side of him in his therapy sessions with Dr. Wright. In the scientific battle between mental illness being either genetically or environmentally born, some will view it all or nothing or a combination of the two. I believe Garrison wants to be a good person who may have more environmental influences than genetic, in that he vaguely opens up to his psychiatrist and splits his psyche between two characters to embrace the good parts of himself, but in the end can’t help himself because both psyches work for a common cause. I guess in the end I was aiming to tell a story of a serial killer who might just not be as psychopathic as one might think.
That is amazing, how you’ve used various life experiences and channelled it into a creative foundation. Would you say that by doing so, it has helped you confront your diagnosis head on by using it as a creative foundation?
I’ve been battling my diagnosis for close to 20 years and due to its chronic nature, that battle will never end until I die. I have other books that tackle self-identity and illness, prosthesis, an experimental memoir on splitting the self to create a better self-understanding within my diagnosis, and Finger : Knuckle : Palm, which is an experimental literary/genre novelette that was written as part of a narrative therapy goal set by my therapist for me to learn more about myself in channelling all the dark corners of my being, the recesses that were preventing me from moving forward in life. Oddly enough, the structure is a hypnosis therapy session that travels through a host of dream sequences. There are many literary elements employed throughout the book that bring the story full circle in the end. It is dark, and it is a platform from which I launched Garrison.
You’ve said that you wrote a novelette as part of a therapy goal; when you began the RH manuscript it was a therapy session between Garrison and his therapist, you then developed the full storyline upon that. Was the writing of ‘Red Hands’ also a type of therapy for you?
Yes, there are certainly pieces of my psyche mirrored in Garrison—fear, torment, psychosis, and an inability to conquer trauma in order to move forward. I think if a reader can connect with Garrison as a human being there can be a tinge of forgiveness for his transgressions. I don’t think he’s so much a psychopath as he is psychotic and suffering from regression and stunted growth. Short of me being a psychopathic serial killer myself, there are pieces of my own truth floating around the narrative, but that’s where it ends, and yes, I did personally grow a bit in determining what he could or couldn’t overcome or what I could or could not overcome.
What was your writing process for Red Hands?
Red Hands was written in three parts or plots, Garrison’s semi-revealing therapy sessions, Garrison’s descent into madness, and Garrison’s psyche split, and were woven together into a timeline that followed the progression of Garrison’s self-destruction. However, when I first set out to write this novella, the manuscript solely consisted of the therapy sessions with psychiatrist Dr. Wright. As I developed Garrison’s personality and backstory, the other two parts seemingly fell into place.
As the readers of this Q & A may have already come to the conclusion, Red Hands is of a dark and twisty nature. I’ve read it and i’m still getting over it! You obviously have a talent for noir writing. What do you enjoy the most about noir writing?
Noir, much like the literary movement my writing is most influenced by, Dark Romanticism, is filled with melancholia, insanity, crime, stories of personal torment, punishment, judgement, social outcasts, the nature of man, fallibility, and proneness to sin and self-destruction. It’s a place to mirror a world where many people unknowingly living torment and hubris to their own detriment. For me, the nature of being human, in all its facets is enough to fill millions of pages of noir. Noir is a place where the darkest parts of the mind has seen over time emerges—into characters and worlds without boundaries. In noir there exists a world of escapism where one can submerge themselves into darkness and safely experience a fictional world that might lend itself to making sense of the darkness of everyday reality.
I think that is such a beautiful and poetic answer, you can really tell that you’re head over heals in love with the genre. Would there be any other genre that you’d like to dip your toes in?
For those of you who haven’t read Red Hands, this is the blurb and cover;
“Garrison is a predator.
Garrison hunts his prey methodically, hiding his true nature beneath the most respectable of disguises. Garrison’s victims never suspect him until it’s already too late and when he strikes, he strikes quickly and viciously.
This psychological tour de force is noir at it’s very blackest. Ariana D. Den Bleyker takes her readers on a journey into the terrifying psychology of a twisted violent mind.
Red Hands is both the story of a man obsessed with the thrill of the kill and a warning that the most dangerous psychopaths live among us, hiding in plain sight.”
Ariana, how would you describe Red Hands in three words?
What the fuck?
At first, I thought this was in relation to the question that I asked but very quickly realised that these are the words that I myself was muttering the whole way through reading Red Hands, therefore I totally agree with the three that you’ve chosen! If I were to ask you to create a three song playlist for ‘red Hands’, what would you include?
‘Plowed’ by Sponge
‘One’ by Metallica
‘X Amount of Words’ by Blue October
They are fantastic choices! Why would you choose these songs specifically? Would they be included in the film soundtrack? What order would you place them?
First, I am inebriated by music, and I have an extensive library that spans quite a few genres. And, I’m really drawn to music by lyrics over sound.
These are some of the lyrics to “Plowed” by Sponge:
“Will I wake up
Is it a dream I made up
No I guess it’s reality
What will change us
Or will we mess up
Our only chance to connect With a dream”
I chose this song, and I would open with it if it were a soundtrack, because it sums up Garrison and all of his personal turmoil. It’s just a simple yet loud track to set-up the rest of the narrative.
These are some of the lyrics to “One” by Metallica:
“I can’t remember anything
Can’t tell if this is true or dream
Deep down inside I feel to scream
This terrible silence stops me
Now that the war is through with me I’m waking up,
I cannot see
That there is not much left of me
Nothing is real but pain now
Hold my breath as I wish for death
Oh please God, wake me“
This piece certainly captures Garrison’s descent into pure madness. If I played it, I would insert it into the scene “watch” scene in the basement.
These are some of the lyrics to “X Amount of Words” by Blue October:
“Relapse
Prevent trigger intent
Now drown
High strung
Say X amount of words
You’re solar, bipolar
Panic disorder
Seems harder and harder and harder
Still you try to control it”
I would play this during one particular therapy session I won’t summarize as to not give away the plot.
The songs you’ve chosen are extremely fitting, especially in the order that you’ve put them! While talking about film soundtracks / playlists, if ‘Red Hands’ was to be developed into a film for the big screen, who would you choose to play Garrison? And why?
Edward Norton. First of all he’s a juggernaut of emotional range and complexity. Think Fight Club. Norton’s ability to portray a role disassociated from reality, to split his psyche is very impressing. How could he not play Garrison?
Here’s a picture of the man himself, and I have to completely agree with you on your casting choices Ariana! He’s also just as I imagined Garrison looking also.
You’ve written 17 chapbooks, 3 collections, 3 novellas and you’ve also grown up writing poetry. When did you realize that you wanted to become a writer? And if you hadn’t, what other career path would you have taken and why?
I realized I wanted to write when I was a teenager, but my influence was mostly poetry. Though I majored in creative writing in college, it took a long time for me to settle into writing and getting published regularly because for 15 years I had a career as a Commercial Lines Insurance Underwriter.
Wow, you never gave up on your calling. I, for one am so glad that you persevered and published your work! Are there any available published collections, other than Dark Water and Red Hands, that fans of your writing can purchase?
Finger : Knuckle : Palm is a very short read and is available online for free. I know it reads a bit odd in its disjointed narrative, but it’s gotten favourable reviews in the past.
It sounds very interesting and has been described as:
“a thrill and a treat to read a writer who isn’t afraid of pushing their reader to the edge by testing their audience’s limits. Only by being stretched further than we think we can go do we experience new and original ideas/feelings. The writer in such an instance needs to take their reader out to a place where there are no stars, where they must rely only on the unique strength of their singular vision to try and light the way.”
You’ve even been kind enough to provide us with a cheeky excerpt!
““Do you know how old you are?”
“I’m a child.”
“What are you doing?”
“Restless, I feel the need to move my hands and fiddle with objects. I’m unable to keep still. I’m impulsive. I touch everything that isn’t mine. The impulse is innate. I can’t feel or even notice my own movements. My fingers twist and contort. I call out. I tap my fingers on every solid surface. It becomes a habit. Over time my fingers become more noticeable than any other part of my body. They drag, curl, rapidly spread apart and close, I’m compelled to tighten and stretch them. I attempt to restrain them. I wrap both of them in duct tape, force each joint and knuckle into a tight, immobile fist. They shake under the tape, rub against it, generate a mix of cold sweat and burns. I force my arms down to my sides, sweat excessively as my fists begin to itch, burn, ache. I rip off the tape with my teeth when the pain spreads up my wrists. My freed hands twitch and jerk, every muscle and bone moves all at once.”
To continue reading, you can access ‘Finger : Knuckle : Palm’ here!
Since your first published novel, how do you feel that you’ve developed as an author / person.
Writing and publishing anything teaches you to be humble. Not everyone is going to like your work; you’ll get your fair share of criticism, but you’ll also get your fair share of praise. It’s learning how to balance the two without taking any of it to heart that keeps you writing the next thing.
The development of a thick skin must be a difficult trait to develop, especially when you’re putting your heart and soul into something that you want everyone to love as much as you do. What is your motivation to continue writing after any criticism?
I’m by far a very sensitive person in general, and I frequently suffer from imposter syndrome. I’d say the positivity of favourable reviews and the support of very engaging and caring editors often carries me through.
A great support system is always key! If you could give your past self any advise, in hindsight, what would it be?
I can honestly say the advice I would give my past self and present self is the same because I never learn: stop being so hard on yourself, there’s enough people in this world doing it for you already.
Those are the words that everyone should live by, but you’re doing great and as you know there are so many of us that love your work, we can’t wait for your next book. Speaking of which, it’s called ‘Sins Of The Father’, would it be possible for you to give us a sneaky excerpt please?
Sins of the Father, is a hardboiled story that diverges from my comfort zone.
Excerpt from the end of chapter one:
“Nathaniel asked the stranger to drop him off a mile outside of Pedgrove. It was a long walk in the dark, but when he got back to the house, he stopped by the master bedroom, hoping to hear Doreen but heard nothing, then proceed to walk down the hall toward the guest bedroom. He entered the bedroom and turned the lights on, pulling his black had down over his face.
In the recent weeks, he would just sit up at night, seeing on the girls, unable to sleep. His father had been a cop, and he just like his father before he became Mayor, and sometimes he was left to wonder if he’d done his father justice in the lucrative trouble, he’d gotten himself into in the recent years. He’d seen how broken some criminals are, how he though humanity didn’t have any hope.
The first time he’d seen a trafficked, incarcerated young woman beaten beyond recognition, no longer innocently beautiful—breasts exposed, genitalia bruised, hands and legs twisted in an impossible position, he’d nearly expelled all the contents of his stomach. He could not believe there was a person, a living, breathing human being, capable of such a heinous act. They were girls, young woman, prostitutes, all beaten and raped, kidnapped and sold to religious cults throughout the west.
It’s only in the manuscript phase and I am super excited to read the full book when it is published! We all love books here, if you were sent to a desert island, what would be the one book you’d take with you? And why?
‘Intensity’ by Dean Koontz scares the shit out of me everytime. ‘Intensity’ is basically a two-character novel. You have a young psychology student and a homicidal maniac killer, Edgler Vess, who revels in pain or pleasure, the intensity of an experience. It’s the kind of story that can give you whiplash, as it’s a viscerally exciting thriller of cat and mouse. The book certainly lives up to the title of the book. I read it in one sitting the first time.
I think that’s a book that I should add to my TBR pile, I haven’t read any of Dean Koontz books but if they’re all as dark and twisty as Intensity sounds, maybe I should! Thank you Ariana for answering my questions so honestly, it was lovely to get to know the person behind the books! Would you like to add anything? Any last words?
Fahrenheit Press is, by far, the best press I’ve ever worked with, and I feel tremendously honoured to have been published by them twice. I admire both Chris’ greatly. Plus, the authors are warm and there’s real community. I wouldn’t trade my experience(s) for the world.
I’d like to add to that and say that us bloggers and readers have thoroughly enjoyed interacting with you all this month, as well as reading out Fahrenhauls! Thank you again for agreeing to take part in your third guest type post this week Ariana! I think you deserve a Linzer Tart or two!
That’s it folks! I highly recommend reading all of Ariana’s work, especially ‘Red Hands’ and ‘Dark Water’. You can also go and read ‘Finger : Knuckle : Palm’ for free! I’ve included purchasing links, social media links, as well as the #Fahrenbruary page where you can catch up on all the reviews, Q&As and guest posts that you may have missed this month. Help us spread the Fahrenlove this month!
Okay, that’s all from me and my terrible (?) Fahren-puns! Let me know if you’ve read any of Ariana’s work, what did you think? How do you say scone; like ‘gone’ or ‘stone’? Leave me a comment!
Links
Red Hands https://www.fahrenheit-press.com/books_red_hands.html
Dark Water https://www.fahrenheit-press.com/books_dark_water.html
Twitter @ADenBleyker15
Fahrenbruary page where you can catch up on this months reviews, Q&As, guest posts etc https://www.fahrenheit-press.com/fahrenbruary.html
#Fahrenbruary Q&A with Ariana D.Den Bleyker @ADenBleyker @FahrenheitPress @F13Noir So, as you may or may not be aware, this month has been all about the darkness that is noir novels.
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