#feel like such garbage and its barely even november | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

barnabyseyelashes · 1 year

Text

crewmate’s log

life (?) update

been writing this for a while mentally i guess. really good at just thinking things and not doing them. but an update bc i know i’ve been absent; for some of you longer than others, and i do regret and am sorry for that. i do love and care about you and think about you all even when i am gone, and i hope everyone has been holding on.

i feel like i’m one of the maquis adrift on the voyager, and it has been a long, lonely hard travel. and unfortunately often i feel like a worse person for it.

general c/tw for illness/covid/cancer, IPV, parental death. it is kinda long so feel free to skim/skip as needed.

my spouse and i have very little IRL support, we have been paying over $4k usd a month on rent alone, my mom and sister are the only family i’ve spoken to since december. spouse working full time in thankfully a better job with a shorter commute but having to care full time for me & our elderly ill cat when at home.

and this is probably the sickest i’ve ever been in my life which is saying a lot, considering ive been poisoned by toxic black mold before & have dealt with literally crippling stomach issues previous. ever since november everything has been happening. i slept basically all december, i was too tired to be awake more than 3-5 hours at a time most days. i haven’t even been able to wash my hair or proper shower since. much of december and january i was unable to walk (and i mean literally dragging myself with my arms/using my moms walker as crutches unable to walk) which was a fun new exciting development. thankfully we started to live our current place by then, as our apartment is on the second floor with awful cinder stairs. though we still haven’t moved for real and are stuck paying for it until near may. soooo really uh not jazzed to find out how we will move in the next two months when i still have days i can’t walk. especially since again we basically have no IRL support. i’m doing better at least a little, i’ve started nutrient IV therapy again which is helping even if it’s extremely difficult (and expensive). my stomach is still so fucked up that i can barely eat. it’s so clenched all the time if i have more than like 3 crackers i will have Lead Weight and 6-10 hours of pain :) thank you cannabis literally without her i would not be eating at all. even still i’m belching like a beer hall competitor for hours most days it fucking sucks. the only real progress tho has been that at least i’ve been having a lot fewer panic attacks and less general anxiety now that we are living in our new spot which i’m very grateful for. kinda surprising bc usually if my stomach hurts i have anxiety and often panic so that at least has been a relief. the rest of my brain has been fucking trash garbage tho, nonverbal or partially verbal mostly. multiple meltdowns a week when b4 it was a biannual occurrence. no brain power, lots of autistic rage & ideation. just awful to be & inflict on everyone else. i am sorry for that. it is largely why i shut down at times. i simply fucking have to.

obviously i’ve been too sick to really do anything but spouse and i are deep in our pokémon hole and it’s keeping us good company. lol despite the graphics scvi are pretty good games. writing? character development? in MY pokémon main series game? more likely than you think..

still it’s so bittersweet to be saying sayonara to satoshi shounen, ah ah ahhh i’m gonna cry so hard (already have). but i think the new series will be good. it will just be different.

also i was blessed bc in the first 30 min of playing i caught a shiny mareep, one of my top 6 fave lines and one of my fave shinies. i only caught 1 in pogo and so i was so jazzed. she’s carried us 💖 my beloved deanna (like dddk, not tng)

one of the things that’s also been good is our new living situation, even if its annoying and complicated sometimes to share with other people, i’m glad we are living with my literal oldest friend and the only person from high school i still talk to lol. we have a cottage, bigger than our old one, and even tho it doesn’t have a bathroom, the insulation & windows are shit, it’s been good. & it is under 2k a month, we got a small room in the main house now too so spouse has an office & we have some extra storage. but the best is having space to make a large, productive garden, and my friends 3 ducks and 3 chickens. skip the next part if you don’t wanna see my essay about them LMAO.

and omg gay people, i’ll never not be raising poultry now. bird flu in domestic flock was finally detected in our county this winter, which makes me sweat a bit but fingers crossed we will be ok. my friends ex (who lived here b4 us) did most of the bird care. since i’ve been here tho it’s basically all been me, and of my choice. tricky when i have been sick but truthfully they take about 20 min a day of daily care, and maybe an hour a week of general maitenence. in early autumn when we got here, it was so easy to be outside for hours with them.. no one had ever been able to pet them before. my friend wasn’t even trusted enough to see the duckies swim in their pool while she was in the yard! nowadays the two nonskittish ducks are happy to pop in there even if i’m in the splash zone 🤣 i’m awful i do love the ducks best because they are sweet, simple creatures who know what’s good in life (treats, bodies of water, naps, frequent loud gay sex) while the chickens are a bit mean 😭 i still haven’t resolved the pecking order issues (the lowest chicken, emma [cream legbar], always beats up on the nervous duck, lydia [ancona]) but hopefully in summer i’ll be able to help shift that. kitty (brown khaki campbell) & jane (silver welsh harlequin) are very well trained to “cmere” and eat readily (jane, too readily..) from my hand. the dominant chickens, boss lady/lizzie (black ameraucana supposably) & eleanor (grey lace silverruds blå) will do the same but they aren’t quite as good at the recall lol. i’ve been reading on raising them all, working on gentling them, and enriching their lives.. i love it. they have really helped me, especially kitty. she is very special. she is the smallest but she lays the hugest fucking eggs, and since mid autum it’s been DAILY. like lord girl you gotta stop and moult eventually your feathers are so tatty. spouse has breakfast every day now though. i’m allergic to eggs so 😂 oh well. they’re great fun to raise regardless. (i’ve even recently gotten skittish lydia to eat worms from my hand, so i’ve officially touched them all!!)

anyway i could talk about my beloved birds for fuckin ever obviously lol but i also wanna write about my family a bit too, bc so much has happened. tw covid , IPV , cancer

i may have had covid in summer/early fall but my mom and sis got it for real, both of them in december/january. i don’t remember which. my mom got hers likely from the hospital cuz her ONCOLOGIST told her to get her mri there instead of the specialty mri clinic :) which is nice. my mom has lymphoma as well as several autoimmune diseases and pretty severe mental illness. she has been sick in and off since. she is sick rn & i am missing this weeks IV because of that. so shout out to california removing mask requirements in healthcare settings as of april 🤮👍

my sister got hers from her shitty ex bf. that man supported her while she dealt with numerous health issues and surgeries in.. 2020..1? 21 i think. idk. maybe both. he supported her thru the hell that the last year was. up until last month when he fucking attacked her over a disagreement about a LITTER BOX. literally grabbed her , held her, and dumped dirty cat litter box over her head then destroyed the box with a huge chefs knife. bc that’s a really normal response. my sister had to call the cops. she’s gonna get a restraining order against him and his fucked up parents. but now she’s out she’s realized he had been abusing her verbally & emotionally like their whole relationship. 💔 i’m just so glad she fucking survived and he didn’t do worse, good god. she has been staying in our apartment most of the winter bc covid and now until she can get her own place so even tho we are hemmoraghing money on that shithole, at least it’s useful.. bc lol my moms husband literally told my sister “well in your bfs defense, any guy would react like that to a woman behaving like that” LIKE UM? NO?!??!? so she isn’t comfortable being there. spouse and i never felt safe around that man and it is a large reason we moved from my cottage at my moms to my dads place to begin with. so at least we have officially broken off any relationship to that trash man which is great but my mom won’t leave him so i have to just make my peace that disease will take her if he doesn’t someday. fun stuff.

tw parental death

also cool and fun things happening lately is that this saturday it will have been a year since my fathers physical form drew breath. to say this last 15 or so months have sucked shit is the biggest understatement ever. my aunt currently has like two days to settle his estate; yes she still has a large proportion of my sister & my inheritance. no i haven’t seen or spoken to her since my grandpas funeral in september but i’m the “child of her heart” like ok. & my da had a reverse mortgage on our home of 20 years, and they forced us to sell it within a few months instead of the 12 legally we were allowed. that move was absolute hell. and i had to spend 8k on movers just for some of them to 1% ass it; they literally broke multiple peices of my dads ceramic artworks bc i tried and tried to get people to help me pack them but no one but my mom did. she couldn’t manage them all. it’s hard to forgive myself. it’s so fucking enourmous to bear the weight of knowing i have to be the one who cares for and maintaines his body of work, at least the bulk of it. god that fucker i’m still mad he gave away my favourite bowl to a goddamn woman he met at the pool LMFAO classic mike manoeuvre. one of his brothers took the fish vase i wanted too.. and the vase that matches the one he was throwing when my moms water broke with me. if it was steve i forgive you because my uncle steve also is dying of bladder cancer rn (da had multiple myeloma, diagnosed 2016) and i feel shit for not speaking with him for months but. illness. larry you’re on thin ice, hugh if it was you i’ll kill you myself 🔪 same for you mary especially cuz u actually knew i wanted that shit.

dads bday was literally in january but did any one of those bitches text me? no. did any of his friends text me? no. tbf i can barely respond to texts but like still.. i feel bad i haven’t seen or called my grandma but also. illness! been nonverbal most days! so like 🥲 everyone else has their grief too i get it but lol to have everyone say “we will be there for you” and for literally no one to be seen its very hurtful. at least one of his friends text me to check in on me and my sister yday. but it really truly feels like no one gives a shit. and with my moms lack of health i’m having to prepare to be an orphan within 5 years.

my sister bought a star for him months ago in some registry. i didn’t have the heart to tell her that it was near meaningless, these registries aren’t anything, no one can own these things. but on clear nights i still look off the leading edge of the plow into whatever near nothingness that faint light is coming from, adrift in emptiness.

———

anyways that’s pretty much all from me. (is it enough LOL. happy saturn return with saturn in sideral aquarius. in my 1H too 😩) as i get better i will be getting back slowly into discord and shit, i’ve literally just been too exhausted and unable to function. some of yiz have known abt some of this, but mostly my main acct tweeps & tumblr muts haven’t, so i just figured i would write this, and maybe it would help me in some way. hopefully i’ll be back on tumblr soon too, i literally just can’t use it with our internet (and lack of) here lmfao. i’ll slowly be getting this out to my e-circles as i have energy in the next days.

sending love to you all in pawsitivity discord; yuri horse club, gabriel, kurt & folks from tumblr; and all the rest of yiz. (i don’t mean to forget or omit anyone, honest). i hate that illness & shit has kept me from you. the last year has taught me well to value the time we have and it is not guaranteed. i love you all, i miss you, and i am wishing you well. i am hoping to reconnect soon. beannachtaí 💚💙💜

#tw for fun stuff like covid cancer parental death IPV / domestic violence #u know the usual grab bag of things 😩#🖋🦓#🖋️🦓

5 notes · View notes

visceravalentines · 2 years

Text

Thank you so much to everyone who has read, responded, and reblogged! It’s good to be back. Here’s chapter 2!

Don’t Fear the Reaper: Chapter 2

Rating: Mature

Length: 1.7k

CW: implied past murder, choking, manhandling, hair pulling, law enforcement

Reader POV

You only realize you’ve fallen asleep when you are jolted awake by sudden light, sudden sound, a sudden grip on your shirt all in the same instant. Your bleary eyes open on the deathly white face of the Boogeyman and you scream. He throws you backwards against the wall, your neck snapping back, skull connecting with drywall. The force sucks the air out of your lungs and chokes off your scream. The knife is aimed at the hollow of your throat.

Your fingertips tremble against the wall on either side of you as you wait for him to make a move. Beneath the mask, you sense his appraisal. He is waiting for you to do something, take some action that will determine his reaction. The fact that you are still at this moment breathing feels like a challenge. The moments creep by and you decide, with few other options, to press your luck once again.

“I-I…I don’t want to call the cops.” Your throat is so dry, fear evaporating every drop of saliva. “I won’t…I’m not going to try to run.” You cannot tell if he believes you. You don’t think so. You’ve got to reach him somehow, connect like you did last night. “How are you feeling? Is…is there anything else you need?”

He seems to have tired of giving you the floor, because his free hand shoots out and snags you by the scalp again. You gasp in pain and surprise and stumble as he drags you out into the hall.

If you had any illusions about his physical condition, they are shattered when he flings you down the entire flight of stairs. You land hard on your wrist and scream in pain. “Fuck!” He is there again – how – hauling you up and into the kitchen. He tosses you into the corner like a garbage bag and you sob, just once, and gingerly touch your wrist, which has begun to swell rapidly.

While you test to see if it is broken or merely sprained, the Shape throws open the fridge and begins to pull things out like a scavenging animal. God, he’s huge, a full head taller than the top of the refrigerator. You cannot take your eyes off him as he slams various items on the counter, a half-empty gallon of milk, a carton of eggs, a package of chicken breasts, a container of lunchmeat. He is chaotic but not careless, and you notice he does not leave anything on the floor. It occurs to you again that you are witnessing an annual event, that all those years when he disappeared come November he had to be somewhere and maybe, just maybe, he stayed right here in town.

You turn your head toward the back door, a mere ten, twelve feet away. Who is faster? It’s mid-morning. Would he chase you through the streets in broad daylight? Would you even get that far? Your sneaker slides carefully across the linoleum.

When you hazard a look back at him your heart skips a full two beats. He is staring right at you. He is perfectly still the way large predators become still when their prey wanders unsuspecting right in front of them. From this distance his eyes are black sunken holes in the face of the mask, but you feel his gaze like a force. You draw your foot back to its starting position. He looks at you for a long time before turning back to the task at hand.

Your eyes widen when his fingers grip the bottom of his mask and roll it upwards, just enough to expose his mouth. He has a strong jawline, but one side is swollen and bruised, maybe fractured. This does not stop him from raising the entire carton of milk to his lips and guzzling half its contents in a matter of seconds. Next come the eggs. He cracks one and slurps the contents out through the hole in the shell, then another, and another. You hear the crunch of eggshell between his teeth and cringe.

When he tears open the package of chicken you’ve had about enough. “Wait,” you say hoarsely, barely able to hear yourself. He freezes and turns his head toward you. “W-wait…I can…do you want me to cook that?” His whole body pivots to face you and he pulls the mask back down. “L-Let me make you breakfast.” What are you even saying?

The knife is on the counter. He makes no move to grab it as you brace yourself against the wall and stand up. You try to ignore his stare and the chill that passes over your skin when you step closer to him. Your instinct is to run. You know if you try that, he will kill you, his patience spent. How long can you keep up this delay of the inevitable?

You are too close to him, the smell of stale sweat and blood full in your nostrils. He does not move except for the mask, which tilts to watch you inch past him. With shaking hands, you select a frying pan and turn on the stove. In your periphery, you see him place his hand on the handle of the knife. He does not pick it up, but you recognize the warning. You reluctantly meet his eyes as you reach past him for the carton of eggs. His gaze is dark and glittering, his mind impenetrable.

You make scrambled eggs like you’re in slow motion, afraid of any sudden movement. He is never more than two feet away from you. He is unnervingly still and silent. Were it not for his breathing, which is still rough from that injured lung, you’d think he might not be real, merely a figment of the collective imagination.

When the eggs are done you plate them. You cannot bring yourself to hand them to him, so you set the plate on the counter and back away like it might explode. He pulls the mask back up, watching you, and begins to eat, still watching you. He inhales the entire plate in less than a minute. Then, to your surprise, he hands it back to you.

“I – um….”

He holds out the carton of eggs next, then picks up the knife and points it at you.

“I got it, I got it.”

You cook the entire carton and he still is not satisfied. You cook the chicken as well, which he eats with his hands. With no small amount of awe, you watch him finish off the lunchmeat too. The entire process is so human, you almost start to forget to be afraid of him.

Then the sound of a car in the driveway, and he is a predator again in the blink of an eye. The mask comes down. He seizes your arm and yanks you to him. The knife is in his hand and at your throat. Through the sliver of the front window you can see from here, you make out red lights on top of a white sedan. He pulls you backwards, deeper into the kitchen, away from the front door, and the blade scrapes against your skin, somehow does not draw blood. You grip his forearm for balance, terrified he will cut your carotids without even trying.

You hear a key scrape in the lock of the front door. You are barely breathing, trembling. Surely this is the end of it. He will slip the knife between your ribs and slip out the door. You think you close your eyes, but maybe they just stop working. Is this how the flashback of your life starts?

And then he is gone.

You stumble back into the wall without his chest to hold you up. Your hand flies to your neck; the skin is unbroken. You look around wildly, bewildered, but he has well and truly vanished. When the front door swings open and two uniformed officers step inside, it is only you they find.

“Freeze!” one of them yells as they both fumble for their firearms and point them at you – at you, with the Boogeyman somewhere within stabbing distance. “Hands up!”

You oblige. “I-I’m – I’m sorry, I live next door –”

“This is a crime scene!” the same one barks.

“I know, I’m sorry, I – I came to feed the cat.”

“You what?”

“The cat!” You are on the verge of tears. “I saw it in the window and I thought he’d be hungry.”

The officers exchange a glance. “Someone reported a light in the window. Were you here last night?”

“Y-yes, that was me. I came last night to feed the cat.”

“So why are you still here?”

You exhale heavily. This has been quite possibly the worst few hours of your life. “I came back to get the cat and just take him home with me. I couldn’t leave him here.”

One officer lowers his gun, then the other follows suit. You sag on your feet, so goddamn tired of people pointing weapons at you. “You can’t be here,” the cop scolds.

“I know, I’m sorry. I’ll leave, I just – I’ll leave.” You sidestep towards the back door, resisting the powerful urge to sweep the room for a hulking shape in blood-soaked coveralls.

“Wait,” one of them says. You freeze. “What about the cat?”

“Oh.” The truth fits nicely here. “I…don’t know where he is. I haven’t seen him this morning.”

“Okay, well, you can’t come back here looking for him.”

“Understood. I won’t, I promise.” The door is at your back. “Have a…nice day.” You duck out before they can ask you anything else, and they don’t try to stop you.

Once you’re outside, it takes every ounce of self-control you possess to keep from sprinting toward your property line. You force yourself to walk at a very normal pace around the side of Mrs. Baker’s house, across your driveway, up to your front door. Nowhere do you see a hulking figure with a knife. You glance back at the poor old woman’s home and do not see the officers emerging. They are probably, hopefully, searching the house.

You step inside quickly and lock the door behind you, then sink to the floor, exhausted, and at last collapse into gut-wrenching sobs.

Taglist: @daybreakmistakes

#my writing #michael myers x reader #michael myers x you #michael myers x y/n #michael myers #michael myers fanfiction #michael myers fanfic #halloween fanfic #minors dni #slasher fanfiction

156 notes · View notes

prettypinkguts · 4 years

Note

What would it be like if billy lenz and Brahms to scare there S/O so bad they start speaking in there native language?

A/N: aaa! I’m so excited that I got a request for Billy Lenz! I love that attic boy very much! I’m very sorry if he seems out of character though, I tried my best :) and I apologize if this is not exactly what you had in mind! I went a bit off the rails

----------------------------------

Billy Lenz/Brahms Heelshire scaring their s/o into speaking their native language

Billy Lenz

Your attic was like those in many sorority houses in the neighborhood, tall and almost fully boarded. It was difficult to stand right at the edges where the roof sloped down, but there was still plenty of room for even the tallest adults. But, unlike many other attics, rather than being filled with junk and boxes left to be forgotten, your attic was slept in almost every night.

It was your little room. A small single bed, looking like a snow drift, so white and feathery and high was it; one window curtained with a square of starched white cotton cloth that drew over the panes by means of a white cord on which it was run at the top; a tiny wash-stand with an old-fashioned bowl and pitcher of green and white stone-ware, and over it an old-fashioned mirror; a small splint-bottomed chair, and a large braided rug of red woolen rags. That was all, except in one corner, where a rocking chair older than yourself rested and was often the spot that your lover would sit and hold you with rough, twitchy hands.

It hadn’t always been like that though. When you had first moved into the sorority house, the attic with its low beams was made all the smaller by the heaps of dusty "gems." Every one of them had been stored in battered boxes and garbage sacks for later use or enjoyment. In truth it was a graveyard for these treasures, a place for them to quietly die amongst the cobwebs until their sentimental value had depleted. Out of sight was out of mind and the pain of parting with the item postponed. They were left by the old owners according to Barb, never to be retrieved from the mildew and darkness. You were aware of all of this, yet you still scaled the steps up to the attic, determined to clean it of it’s forgotten treasures and take things of interest. And that’s when you first saw him.

At first, you were sure that you were dreaming. The room was dark, the party downstairs was loud, and every girl in the sorority house had been shaken up by filthy calls that left a disgusted sneer on their faces and a cold chill down their spines. The previous call was still left etched in your mind, Barb’s angry words, Jessica’s look of discomfort and fear, all of it. However, even as you moved boxes and swept away heaps of dust and dirt in your fixer-upper of a bedroom in what little light you had, nothing could distract your mind from the slight feeling of shame that ran down your back like cold water. You hadn’t been as scared as the other girls whenever the phone had rang. You hadn’t leaned away from the phone in an attempt to block out the disgusting words that rumbled through it. In fact, you had leaned in, eager to hear more and to try and piece together exactly who or what the thing on the other end of the line was.

“Whatever,” you had suddenly huffed, your back letting out a nice and satisfying crack as you stretched and moved one of the last boxes aside, “whatever it is, I’ll never even see it.” However, as soon as the words had left your lips and your eyes had opened in order to survey the last pile of dirt that needed to be swept, something had shifted in the corner of your eye. You lowered your arms slowly, nose scrunching up in distaste at the thought of your new room being infested by something such as a raccoon. “Already?” you had groaned, nostrils flaring with annoyance as you placed your hands on the nearest broom, “I thought I got rid of you damn raccoons for go- ARGH!”

A scream of shock and terror forced itself from your lips, your own legs flying out from under you almost as fast as curses from your native language left your mouth for there, standing in the corner of your room was a grown man with curly brown hair and brown eyes that seemed to shine in the dark. He tilted his head at your fit of words, eyes seeming to open even wider as if he was the one shocked that you had reacted in such a way, but the moment you had noticed it was the exact moment that the look had gone. “W-what, what the fuck are you doing here?” you had managed to stammer, but your question was only ignored and was instead answered with a familiar voice saying “I didn’t know you could talk like that.” “And what’s that supposed to mean?” “You sound different on the phone.”

It was then that a wave of shame and realization flooded down your back in the form of a shiver, your throat suddenly going dry as you struggled to keep your knees from shaking. The phone, this was the man on the phone, and he was in your room. He was taller than you had imagined, his tall and lanky frame becoming more noticeable in the dark as the minutes passed. His boots were brown and dirty, similar to the way the bottom of his bell-bottoms also had dust and mud caked to the fabric. On his torso he wore a tight black sweater, the dark color of the fabric only seeming to make his bright brown eyes and fluffy brown hair stand out more than they should in the dark. And it was will another shiver of deep shame that you found yourself liking his appearance, even as he suddenly began walking towards you, you found it hard and then almost impossible to look away. Even as he twitched and licked his pink lips in a way that would make anyone want to scream or run, you couldn’t even find yourself wanting to move a single inch as he lowered his hand and roughly brushed his hand over your head, his fingers pulling and twisting at your hair as if he were deciding whether he should play with it softly or rip it from your scalp. You couldn’t decide which. Even his words seemed to be conflicted as he whispered almost frantically to himself, eyes glazed over and excited as words such as pretty, lick, kill, and piggy cunt reached your ears.

“Are you going to hurt me?” you finally choked out, the party downstairs and everything else seeming to fade away slowly until nothing was left but the sound of your beating heart and the sight of the strange man’s face as he would begin to laugh and twitch in a way that you could only guess was a humored shrug. “M-Maybe not,” he twitched again “I think I like your voice t-too much for that” and it was with that, that a shaky slew of words would leave your lips once more and at the sound of them Billy would begin to smile that crooked smile that you would soon come to love.

Brahms Heelshire

The rain had gained the ambient temperature of early fall, freezing and paling your skin through the panes of a closed, large glass window. The view through the glass was muddy water in motion, filling deep puddles in the garden just outside the Heelshire manor. The rain that had been falling on this November night was colder than the rest, but sounded and looked the same as you watched the droplets drip onto the crystal clear glass from the comforts of your bed.

Your skin was covered in goosebumps, a sigh of relief flooding over you as your hand lifted the soft comforter over the ice cold nape of your neck. This was your first chilling rainstorm at the Heelshire manor, and you weren’t sure how much longer you could stand the booming thunder and freezing weather. You knew it was better than the sweltering heat of summer, but come on, this? This made it hard to breathe.

Your eyes were barely open, your heart pounding, and your mind racing although you couldn’t think of an exact reason as to why. Just moments before you had been peacefully asleep, but as soon as the first roll of thunder shook the Heelshire manor you had slowly emerged into consciousness. Not a single one of your thoughts were in high definition, the creaks and groans of the old house making your stomach feel uneasy.

“Brahms?” you whispered out, hands clutching your sheets tight as another roll of thunder threatened to shake the Heelshire Manor, “Brahms are you there?” Nothing. But the more you contemplated waking him up the more you realized that it was impossible for Brahms wasn’t even in bed with you. It had taken your eyes a few moments to adjust, but once they did the scene became clear. An open bedroom door, a cold space next to you, and blankets that seemed to have been moved hours ago.

Perhaps he was in his old room, you began to wonder, a shiver running through your body the moment your feet touched the chilled wooden floors. “It wouldn’t have been the first time” you sighed, your bedroom door clicking closed quietly behind you as you made your way through the halls and down one of the many staircases. It was extremely late on this particular night, the hands on the grandfather clock in the hallway pointing towards a shocking number 3. The old floorboards creaked and groaned beneath your weight, an annoyed huff leaving your lips every time a mixture of thunder and lightning caused you to jump like a child still afraid of the dark and what might pop around every corner.

It wasn’t long until you reached the main hallway, the faint taste of tea and honey already making itself present on your tongue as you walked closer and closer towards the kitchen. However, once you arrived in one of your favorite parts of the home, fingers reaching instinctively for the tea kettle and honey, your movements stopped dead at the sight of the backdoor. It was a beautiful door once you glanced at it, for it was a beautiful clean white color with cute curtains to cover the small window and intricate designs to attract your eyes. It was through this door that Brahms would leave to take walks with you, your encouraging words helping him through his sharp breaths and agoraphobia. It was on this door that Brahms had pressed you up against his body in such a loving way that it made your heart flutter and his lips had pressed against yours in a way that made you lose your breath. It was beside this door that Brahms had insisted your futures children's height measurements would go. Yes, it was a beautiful door, but at this moment on this night there was something terribly wrong with it. It was open, you were alone, and flashes of red and blue shined distantly through the trees.

“BRAHMS!?” the scream scratches your throat raw as it forces it’s way out of your mouth, eyes wide and full of fear as tears already threatened to spill down your cheeks. Police? Had someone called the police? Had they came in while you slept and taken your lover? Was he dragged out of the house and gasping for air without you? Was he in cuffs? Was he hurt? Was he- “AAA!!” A shrill scream leaves your lips once more at the sound of running and the feeling of a body enveloping yours. However, the moment you turn around to face your assailant is the moment you are met with a mask less and out of breath Brahms. His chest heaved and glistened with sweat, his cardigan was falling off his shoulders, and his eyes were as wide as saucers as they stared at your crying face and the open backdoor. “I didn’t mean to-” but the words wouldn’t matter, for as soon as Brahms had wrapped his arms around you, he could see the anger that flared in your eyes.

Brahms would flinch like a scolded puppy with every single word that you would throw his way, tears streaming down your cheeks as you held him tight and cursed and screamed at him in a language that only you could understand. “You scared me!” you sobbed over and over again, more words in your native language following suit as Brahms could only kiss your forehead and hold you tighter in an effort to calm you, his own accented words mixing with yours as he explained that he had seen the lights and hid in the wall, how he had merely forgotten to shut the door completely, how he was safe, how he was yours.

#slasher #slasher imagines #slasher x reader #slasher x you #billy lenz #billy lenz x reader #brahms heelshire #brahms the boy #brahms x reader #brahms heelshire x reader #brahms imagine

260 notes · View notes

honkhonkrichard · 3 years

Text

but at what cost. - Chapter One: And So The Cycle Starts Again

It's early November, 2015. They haven't even heard from each other in nearly five years. Some... more than that. Eddie had vanished off the face of the earth, Stan seemed to want nothing to do with any of them and Richie is... Well he found himself in Chicago. On Ben and Bev's couch. They have kids now, and therapy, and mentla health issues, but Richie's more than a little determined to spend his second year of sobriety fixing his wrongs, and seeing everyone's face again. Almost everyone's face again. It all depends on who will accept his apologies.

Read on Ao3 or Below :) Reblogs are greatly appreciated !!

Elliot poked at his father’s shoulder the way kids do when they don’t know how to wake them. His father was shirtless, wrapped under the covers with shoulder blades out and head tucked under a pillow. Elliot had tried to call out, but didn’t want to startle him awake.

No need for more startling. There was too much of that already.

So, Elliot used his index and middle finger to gently poke and prod at his father. His skin was a little sweaty. He smelled sweaty, too. He was up late last night working on something, talking with Elliot’s mother quietly. But his mother was harder to wake up, and much easier startled, so Dad it was.

And his father’s eyes must’ve opened, because he stirred. His head lifted from the pillows and his mousy brown; slightly curly hair stuck to his face.

He almost had a beard now, but Elliot figured it would be shaven back down to a polite stubble soon. Dad never cared for his appearance too much, and Mom never liked him in a beard.

Reminds me too much of my ex-husband. She would say, and then coo at dad. Plus, it's too rough to enjoy.

Dad always went red at this comment, but never explained what it meant. Must’ve been an adult thing. Elliot remembered growing up, kissing his father’s cheek when it was a beard and feeling the itchy prickle on his mouth for the rest of the day. Since Mom and Dad kiss so much, maybe Mom felt the same way.

“Dad?” Elliot asked gently, confirming his dad was awake, and not just looking at him.

“What’s up kiddo?” Dad replied. He sounded rough and groggy. Elliot was a smart 11-year-old. He knew the vague effects of hangover when his father wore them. It wasn’t so often he did this, but Elliot had seen the signs.

“Um…” Elliot shifted on his feet. “There’s a weird man on the couch.”

Dad shifted up more. His eyes opened properly, and the warm concern in his eyes made Elliot feel a little better.

“What are you talking about?”

Mom sat up a little bit. She was wearing one of Dad’s shirts. She looked grumpy.

Mom was almost always grumpy in the morning, wearing a big furrowed frown, yawning and grunting. Dad liked being awake in the morning but he was a little less aware. It was fun for Elliot to watch them interact first thing in the morning.

“A man?” mom said with a bit of disdain.

“He’s tall and long and has lots of tattoos and won’t get off the couch.” Elliot thought perhaps, when he first saw the mystery man, that his house was being robbed.

He had seen robbers on TV. They went for small empty houses, not the open cottage house he lived in. And robbers wore darker clothes, and were in and out of the house trying not to get caught. Elliot knew the couch-hogger wasn’t a robber when he yanked a blanket out of JJ's hands. No robber wants to steal from a 10-year-old.

“A tall man with tattoos…” dad mumbled, eyes closing shut again and frowning, trying to remember, or perhaps wake up. “Stealing our couch?”

“He’s not stealing it.” Elliot promised, thinking about Looney Toon burglars. “He’s just trying to sleep.”

Dad leaned over his shoulder and looked at Mom, the way parents seemed to when they thought they knew something their children did not.

“Are there flags on the back of his neck? Tattoo flags?” Mom asked, still looking at Dad.

Elliot nodded. “The Irish flag, I think. Its green and white and red.”

“That’s Italian.” Dad looked over at him and then started to get out of bed.

“Italian flag then.” Elliot said. “Should I call the police? Do we know him?”

Mom swung herself out of bed. She looked a little nervous, which made Elliot think he should call the cops, even though the couch man didn’t seem particularly dangerous. A nuisance, yes, but you call the cops when there’s a weird raccoon in your garbage right?

“He was playing tug-of-war with JJ for his blanket. Do we know him?” Elliot asked again.

“You don’t know him. Your mother and I know him well.” Dad put a hoodie on. It was the soft Star Wars one. He wears it a lot when he plays with LEGO. Maybe he’ll play LEGOs with Elliot today.

“What’s his name?”

Ben scratched his chin. He did not know how or why Richie broke into his house last night. Or why he yanked Ben’s youngest’s favorite blanket from his grubby little fingers. Or how the dog didn’t lose her damn mind seeing him.

That’s not fully true. Ben could come up with answers for all but one of these questions. 1: Ben gave him one of the spare keys almost a decade ago. In case there was an emergency. 2: he probably took JJ's blanket because it’s a soft blanket and the couch's designated blanket is crap. Richie was cold, so he nabbed it and went back to sleep, knowing a nine-year-old wouldn’t be able to get it back (although he had another thing coming because last week JJ found out what an air horn was, and knew there was one in Dad’s Office) 3. Lucy probably remembered him from the last time he was here.

It was all about why then.

Thinking about that night made Ben clench his jaw. He breathed deeply. Anger is an ugly emotion; his mother always says. Just breathe Benny.

His mother is the only one who gets to call him Benny. Not even Bev called him Benny.

Richie was tucked into the fold of the couch, back bare, tattoos covering his shoulders and going down his spine. His hair was long, longer than Ben remembered it being. His jeans were still on, as evidence by the clear leather in his belt loops and the cuffs at his ankles but his shirt was thrown over the arm of the couch and his socks were on top of it.

Ben looked to the front door. A new key on the key rack, and a pair of white converse that had been drawn and painted all over kept neatly by the front door.

Then Ben noticed something that struck the anger out of him. Bev saw it first, of course, she must’ve been looking for it.

“Richie, get up.” Ben said, not really caring all the much because it was Richie and Richie is like he's always been.

Richie moved, curling in on himself, and his tattooed fingers wrapped around the opposing bicep. He was awake alright.

“Richie. What are you doing here?” Bev asked, walking over and peeling the blankets off him. “Move so I can sit.”

“Or? Whatcha gonna do, Foxy, sit on me?” Richie said, in a clear and steady voice. Far more than Ben had expected, and by her face, far more than Bev expected too.

“I have stilettos that would go right through your belt. Get. Up.”

Richie's legs, which had been hanging over the arm of the couch, tucked in, giving Bev room to sit.

Ben rolled his eyes.

He considered himself a forgiving guy. He forgave Bill years ago. He forgave Stan. He even forgave Eddie. But Richie was a different story. He’s spent many years forgiving him. Praying for him.

Now’s the time Tozier. Was it worth it or not?

“Richie, are you sober?” Ben asked, speaking his mind once and a while. He looked behind him, and in the hallway doorframe was his boys. JJ was bravely stepped in front of Eli, ready to get his blanket back.

“To your rooms, please.”

They looked up at him with their wide eyes. Ben knew they were smart enough to know not to argue, given the tone of Ben’s voice, the sharpness in Beverly's words and the confusion of Richie's presence. So, they turned on their feet and ushered each other into JJ's room. In minutes Ben knew they’d cross the hall into Elliot’s room instead.

Eileen swiftly went passed him, holding a bowl of cereal. She had been sitting at the counter. She mumbled a soft “Whoop” as she went. Ben bit back a smile.

Richie hadn’t answered so Ben came up behind Bev, always ready to be her muscle, and backup. “Richie. Are you sober?”

Richie let out a long sigh. He was still holding himself in a tight, cowardly way. “Yes, I’m sober.”

“What was that?” Bev snapped.

“I’m sober.” Richie replied, louder this time.

Bev looked at Ben, who while looking back, rubbed her shoulder.

“Are you?”

“Yes.” Richie mumbled, and this time he sounded desperate. He sat up, and turned around.

It could be argued that Richie had the nicest hair out of all the losers. Ben always thought Beverly had the nicest hair. But Richie always had thick, long curls, and now they were thrown carelessly around his shoulders, and down his back.

Ben had forgotten about aging, to a degree. The kids aged – had aged, greatly so, after the past five years – but Beverly was evergreen. Timeless. She hadn’t seemed to age a day since they got married. Ben felt still and calm with her, since the day they got married, she was dazzling and beautiful, he felt like their first dance had never really stopped.

If he thought about it too long, he’d zone out entirely, disappearing into the memory of his shoes tapping the aged wood floor, Beverly’s warm, soft hands in his as her fantastical wedding dress swings around the room. She laughs as Heaven by Bryan Adams fills the air...

Ben takes a second to blink. He’s not at his wedding right now. He's been married for 13 years. He needs to focus on the now. He needs to focus on Richie – who he hasn’t seen in nearly four years and was kind of thought to be dead by now, which, yikes, but given Richie’s history, wasn’t really too harsh of a judgement, – who was sitting on his couch, shaken and bleeding and probably scared as hell.

Richie had clearly aged. His hair was longer yes, but he looked like he’s had a hangover for decades. His eyes looked heavy and sunken. He had dropped weight – too much weight to be healthy – and there were sliver strands appearing at his roots. He looked old. He looked sick.

Around his middle was a poorly put-on gauze bandage. On his side was a big red blotch. Not quite bleeding through, but Ben was willing to bet there was scuffs of red on his nice couch.

“What did you do?” Beverly asked, picking his shirt off the arm of the couch.

“Some teenagers decided to pick a fight.” Richie told her.

“You were mugged?” Ben’s eyes popped open and his head bowed down from his shoulders.

“Lightly mugged.” Richie corrected. “Wasn’t even that bad. They didn’t even shank me.”

“Then what’s this?” Beverly said, putting her finger tips on the red splotched bandage. Richie didn’t flinch.

Richie squinted. He didn’t have his glasses on, so he looked like he was trying to read invisible words.

“Mild laceration.” He decided, after some thought.

“Do you need medical assistance?” Ben’s words felt soured, somehow. Maybe because driving Richie to the hospital for a god damn stab wound wasn’t what Ben wanted to do at 9:23am on a Saturday.

Richie hung his head and stared at his middle. He gently pulled at the bandage to see under it. His eyebrows went up, a little bit. “I think I’m good.”

Ben rolled his eyes, and then looked at Beverly. She looked concerned. Far more concerned then Ben felt. She always was more forgiving for Richie’s strange, god-testing nature. He was like a cockroach, incapable of being damaged but begging to be squished.

Ben knew he was being too harsh. He loved Richie like a brother. An estranged, weird, alcoholic older brother. And Ben would be able to save his resentment for Richie until after he knew Richie wouldn’t get an infection and die on the couch like a bug that is not a cockroach.

He turned to speak down the hallway:

“Elieen, can you bring me the first aid kit from the hall closet please?”

Richie buttoned up his shirt quietly. The wound wasn’t nearly as bad as it looked, and they were all surprised to see it when it was cleaned up. It looked a little bad, yeah, but nowhere near fatal.

Richie had hung his hair up in a ponytail, lose, long bangs over his tired face. The longer Ben stared at him the more conflicted he felt. He wanted to be mad at Richie, wanted to resent him. But he knew Richie would only drop in like this if there was some deeply, deeply wrong.

Beverly set a tray holding three mugs in front of them at the breakfast bar, resigning to making Richie something to eat while Ben cleaned him up. Richie scarfed down the pancakes, but now he only gingerly took the coffee mug and swirled it around, staring at it like it was going to help him.

“So,” Beverly gave him an expecting look. “What happened?”

Richie gave her an expecting look back. “What do you mean?”

“Why are you here, Rich. We haven’t heard from you in a hot while.”

Richie shrugged, and flashed his eyes a little. The scars in his irises made Ben’s heart hurt. “I’m not allowed to spend my sober-versary with my two sexy best friends?” He plastered a grin onto his face, cheesy and face. “Hah? No?”

“You’ve been sober for a year?” Beverly tilted her head, trying not to sound too doubtful.

“Yeah,” Richie sighed, dropping his cheesy grin and looking somberly down back to his coffee. “I was shocked too. It’s a big deal, I guess. It doesn’t feel like it though. Overshadowed by all the other anniversaries this time of year.”

Oh. Ben realized, and it hung there, unforgiving and deep.

“It’s been five years.” Richie whispered. “Five years and he’s still gone. Seven years and Stan’s still mad at me. 12 years I’ve not been allowed to meet my god-daughter. 27 years and I still wake up in the night thinking a spear has gone through my skull.” he met Ben’s eyes. “What a world I’m living in.”

“So what led you here?” Ben asked, now genuinely curious, and eager to push the conversation more comfortable; even though he knew it wouldn’t get there anytime soon.

Richie hung his head, this time not for comedy or drama – Ben knew this time it was shame, and when his chin lifted back up, his eyes were dead, and watery.

“I didn’t think I’d survive this year if I were alone.” Richie admitted. “And I wanted to believe there would be people wanting to help me stay.”

Beverly and Ben looked at each other again, Ben wanted to get up and hold her, make her feel better and safer and to ask Richie to leave and take care of himself somewhere else but instead he got up and wrapped his arms around Richie.

It wasn’t reflective of how he felt. He was upset with Richie. He had seen how Richie could get when he was at lows like this. He could get angry – almost violently so – and often dangerous. Ben had a family. He had kids. He wasn’t going to let Richie get away with that again. But...

But Richie was still his friend, and he still deserved comfort.

Richie sunk into Ben’s arms, tensing and relaxing and tensing and relaxing and desperate and hesitant and for the first time Ben stopped thinking about how Richie had hurt Ben, and instead considered if Richie had hurt himself.

“You can stay with us Rich.” Beverly supplied, and Ben nodded in agreement. “As long as you keep your shirt on and you talk to us.”

“I’m better.” Richie said wetly. “I’m trying really hard to be better, I promise I won’t ever – I won’t - I-I'm sorry-”

And then Richie broke down crying. His body jolted and shook, and while Ben couldn’t feel the tears through his hoodie, he knew they were there. Ben sunk down, holding Richie gently and bringing his chin to Richie’s shoulder. Beverly was behind him, her hands on Richie’s back, rubbing up and down slowly. She and Ben stared at each other for a while. Richie continued to choke out “I’m sorry”s and “I’ll be better”s and other sad, lonely phrases at were making Ben’s heart crack and pop.

Richie was never known to cry for long, but when he finally pulled back from Ben, the bags under his eyes were swollen and pink. “I’m sorry.” he mumbled, sucking in a gulp of air. “I gotta pull back.”

“No no no,” Ben hushed, keeping his hands on Richie’s shoulders. Beverly had disappeared into the hallway to tell the kids they had an uncle who was going to be staying with them. Ben was never the most emotionally intelligent, but he figured he could handle this. “It’s okay Rich. You don’t have to pull back anything. We’re here for you. You need some comfort, a-and safety, and Bev and I are happy to provide.”

“You’re not mad?” Richie’s voice came out like a whisper, the look in his eyes made him look like a scared child.

“Do you want me to be mad?” And with Richie’s sudden childlike nature, Ben put on his Dad voice.

“I just don’t want the anger to be a surprise later.”

Ben nodded. He understood. He sat up and took a deep breath.

“Okay.” He closed his eyes. He had to be thoughtful about this. Richie’s gaze slowly burned into him. He chose every word slowly and deliberately. “I... What you did to Bev and I was... traumatic. It was dangerous, and inexcusable. I know... Why you did...what you did. And I’m willing to accept that you weren't in any stable state of mind when you did it. But you still did it. And... mental health... mental illness... that’s an explanation. Not an excuse. And I will not let it happen again. In any form or fashion. I... I know you’re better. Getting better. Have gotten better. You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t getting better. You’re still struggling, but you’re reaching out – looking for people who will help you, and that’s... that’s amazing. I’m really proud of you. And I know this isn’t easy. You’ve been through a lot of intense... hardships. And I’m both very proud and happy that you’re still with us. I’m, of course, open and ready to help you grow and get better from here. You deserve that much. I know you would do the same for me. I’m willing to... look past your... behavior. What you’ve done. But I will not, will not forget what you’re capable of. I’ll help you for sure. Same with Bev. But I will keep an eye on you. And if I decide that you pose a threat to my family – my wife, my kids? I will fucking kill you.”

Ben’s eyes had gone dark and his hands had dropped from Richie’s shoulder down in his own lap. His body language was mostly calm, but seeing a stormy rumble in Ben’s eyes gave Richie the shivers. Hot damn he forgot how scary Ben could be.

(Though this should not be a surprise to Richie, Ben is 6’3” and 250 lbs of muscle and fatherly love. He could snap Richie in half.)

Richie nodded when he realized Ben was done. He almost wanted to say yes sir like he was talking to a drill sergeant or something but then he’d pop a boner and he’s learned over the decades of knowing Ben that boners made Ben uncomfortable, so he just nodded.

Ben took a deep breath. “I’m not...” He stopped and tilted his head, like some ghost behind him was whispering the words. “I know you’re doing better. And I need you to understand I don’t expect you to get like you were that night. I know you better than that now.”

Richie nodded again, this time more earnestly.

Ben smiled; it made his entire presence feel warmer. Damn these kids have a good dad.

“Thanks man,” Richie’s throat felt destroyed. “For being honest and shit with me. Needed a good slap on the wrists.”

Ben made an undecipherable face. “No, no you didn’t. C’mere.” And they hugged again.

“We have a guest room, it’s all yours. The house wakes up at around seven, every morning, and the kids are all in bed by ten at night, just so you know.” he went on, and his voice went softer the longer he spoke. Richie could almost throw up with how sweet it was, how much Ben adored his kids.

Richie rubbed his eyes and face. “I have so many damn birthdays and shit to make up for.” he sighed. “I gotta take those little bastards shopping I think.”

“Maybe you could reel the language in, Rich?” Ben asked politely, and Richie nodded, mumbling a soft ‘sorry’ before Ben pointed behind him. “You never know when you have an audience.”

Richie looked over his shoulder, and Bev had reappeared with three little gremlins (Or, “children” as Richie was told they were called).

“This is your uncle Richie.”

Oh my cock coming christ I’m their uncle Richie.

Richie smiled, really big, toothy, genuine smile, for the first time in a while. The three of the looked uncomfortable, but curious.

The smallest of the three, the one who had that soft ass purple blanket Richie took earlier, stomped forward and pointed his little sausage fist at Richie with rage. “Don’t touch my blanket! It’s mine and you’re not allowed to steal!”

Richie nodded. Those are some solid terms. Motherfucker knows how to tell someone off. “You’re right. I’m very sorry, it was wrong of me to steal from you, I will never do it again. I promise.” And Richie put his hand out to shake.

The Kid gave Richie a suspicious glare, and then shook his hand – oh my god his little hand he’s so small what a little dude what the fuck - carefully, like he had just bet the house on the ponies. He was the smallest alright, with a pair of big chaotic eyes. Richie could tell he was the one who steals from the cookie jar.

“My name is JJ. I am the... Th-the brains of the operation.” JJ said, like he was some war boss and not a nine-year-old. “These are my siblings-”

“Eliott.” the middle kid who looked so much like Ben Richie thought he was going to have to lay down. It was like he was back in 1989, that summer when they all met, if Ben had dropped 60 lbs at random. He had the same round face, brown eyes and mousy brown hair. He looked bored out of his damn mind. Richie figured he didn’t need to steal from the cookie jar. Eliott had a secret stash or something. “Hi.”

“Man of few words, I respect that.” Richie nodded, saying nothing more before he started called the poor kid ‘haystack’.

JJ was still holding onto Richie’s hand. His palm was bigger than the kid's entire outstretched hand. “That’s Elieen. She’s gross and twelve.”

Elieen, who looked like Beverly but with long hair, longer than Bev’s ever was, well kept bangs and brown eyes, made the most teenage face as she rolled her eyes and tried to turn on her heels to go back down the hall, presumably to her room. Beverly stopped her and said, quietly but with a firm tone: Say hi, please. Just say hello.

“Hi. I like your tattoos. I’m not gross.” She said sharply, with a little head twitch and a wave of her fingers.

Richie looked down to his fingers as he said “Oh thank you, I don’t know how they got there.” He had become so desensitized to his tattoos he only really recognized them when someone brought them up. Normally this was limited to children, punk teenagers and really angry catholic grandmas. “I didn’t think you were; Little Man doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

JJ scrunched his tiny face together. “Yes I do!”

“No one under four feet tall knows what they’re talking about.” Richie told him. Ben snorted and then repressed laughter behind him. “It’s a fact of life.”

JJ didn’t look convinced until Richie said fact of life. Then he dropped everything and started to really think about it. He looked at Bev, and then at Ben (who was still trying to not laugh) and then to the floor.

“Maybe. I think I'm more than four feet tall.”

Richie wanted to say “maybe” in that ambivalent tone you give kids when they say absolutely anything, but Eliott, without missing a beat, said: “You'd be wrong.”

“Cold-blooded.” Richie said to Beverly, smiled and ran her nails over Eliotts scalp. Eliott blinked harshly and shivered.

These kids... Richie liked these kids.

“Uncle Richie, shall I show you to your room?” Ben said, probably using his Dad Senses to know the kids were done with their introductions.

“Sure thing.” Richie looked down to JJ, who was now very interested in the circuits tattooed onto Richie’s fingers. “Thanks for the introduction Little Man. Bring it in.” He stood up off the breakfast bar and brought his other hand out to a fist for, as the kids bluntly say, a fist bump.

JJ scurried almost, staring up at Richie and it seemed like he was realizing for the first time that Richie was an adult, who was 6’4 and covered neck to waist in tattoos, had long curly hair and two very pierced ears. Richie thought he realized this because he jumped once and said, loudly: “You look like a Rockstar!”

“Rockstar?! Where?!” Richie yelped, faking panic, and JJ dissolved into a fit of giggles. JJ gave Richie a fist bump and continued to grin wildly. His hair was brown, like his dads, but it was bushy and wild curly like his moms. He had the big contagious grin Bev had too.

Richie smiled at Elieen, who was going that dumb young teenager thing of trying to look cool by pretending you don’t think anything is funny, and pointed a finger gun at Eliott, who looked like he actually didn’t think anything was funny, and with a totally straight face, did a finger gun back.

The guest room was nice. Like, hotel nice. A nice tall lamp, a shrimpy, empty desk, a nice big queen-sized bed, with a ton of drawers and shelves in and around the frame, which really drew away from the fact that the room was otherwise empty, quiet, kind of sad and there were no sheets on the mattress.

Ben opened up the blue blackout curtains and the whole room felt a lot nicer. “I’ll get some sheets and make the bed for you, so you have some blankets and stuff.”

“No way man I’ll just use Elliot. He’s stiff as a board. Just make him plank all night.”

Ben smiled at that but shook his head. “You’ll just have to make due with blankets.”

“What about all three of them? They can rotate through the night.” Richie called after Ben as he left the room. “They can- They can take shifts!”

Richie laughed to himself and took a breath in the dusty, lonely little guest room outside Chicago Illinois. One week ago, if you had asked him where he thought he’d be a week from then he would’ve said dead or sleeping or in an alleyway, dying. But instead, he was states away from home, in a well-lit guest room, alive. Sober.

He shuddered and turned around, to see a wide eyed Elieen in the door way, holding his bag in her arms. Richie took it from her and without really thinking about it said “Thanks Chica.” and then stopped abruptly.

When they were kids, and first becoming friends, Richie tried an array of nicknames on Beverly, and every time he gave her a new one, it made her skittish. Every member of Bev’s bloodline Rich had met (That being two of them, Beverly Marsh and Al “Asshole” Marsh) were standoffish as hell. The last thing Richie wanted was to freak out the 12-year-old as a weird, nickname giving 40-year-old show pig.

But Elieen just broke into a semi-shy grin that reminded Richie of smoke breaks and scrunched up her nose with a tilt of her head. Her hair swayed to the side.

“Chica?” She asked. “Is that Spanish or something?”

Richie felt a wave of relief. “Yeah it’s just Spanish for girl. Nothing fancy. You gotta earn fancy nicknames.”

Elieen leaned pressed her back to the doorframe and watched Richie open his duffle bag on the bed, tossing out the vitals: phone chargers, notebooks, laptop. “What are my parent’s fancy nicknames?”

“Your mom used to be Chica, when we were kids.” Richie said, and heard the fondness in his voice. “When we didn’t know each other that well. Nowadays, she’s Poppet, or Red. And your dad is Haystack, or Benvolio.”

“Benvolio?” Elieen mumbled, clearly trying to figure it out. “Poppet- Do you mean poppy? Like the flower?”

“No, I mean Poppet.” Richie promised, with no further explaination. He plugged his phone charger into the wall.

Elieen let out a half-chuckle. “You’re weird.”

Richie swung around from where he was facing the wall. “Yeah I am!”

Elieen made a fun face and wandered back down the hallway. Richie heard her relay the conversation to someone in the living room.

Richie sat on the bed. He let out a long sigh. Then he smiled again. Genuinely. The longer he was in the room the less it felt like a hotel. Outside the doorway, he could hear the rest of the house in motion. It was barely 11am. JJ saying “I want pancakes!” despite him having breakfast not half an hour ago. Eliott explaining Benvolio to Eileen and Ben correcting him. The sound of a washing machine rumbling through the walls. Beverly was using a sewing machine across the hall in her office.

At home, Richie’s house was very quiet. His hobbies needed headphones, and he didn’t know his neighbors. He had lived alone for five years, at that point. Being in a family house felt... nostalgic.

He closed his eyes and tried to picture the last get-together the losers had, all seven of them in one place. It was Halloween, 2008. Richie was Elvis Presley, Bev was an 80s workout teacher, Ben was a candy monster (he glued a bunch of gross kinds of candy to a black sweater and wore it under a brown jacket with a witch hat – apparently it's from a cartoon), Bill didn’t dress up, he never did, Mike went as Bill, Stan was a cockatoo (He had an amazing costume, always did) and Eddie-

The thought of Eddie threw Richie’s smile off-kilter. That year Eddie was... a stereotype. He went as a stereotype. He had a bowtie and his hair combed back and suspenders and khakis and spent the whole night talking in a weird, high-tone sassy way, with his hand on his hip and a cheesy fake grin on his face.

He always did weird costumes like that. He would go as “the scariest thing you could imagine” and show up as tax paperwork. He would go as “a hideous monster” and tape a mirror to his shirt. Dumb, easy stuff like that. It made Richie so happy to see him do that because it upset everyone to see him in a costume like that (he would go as “Late” and show up ready to hit the fucking Beach) but Richie knew Eddie looked forward to it every year.

Richie missed him. So much.

But he wanted to believe Eddie wouldn’t want him to be miserable. With or without Eddie around, Richie knew he had to fix his mood. He wanted his second year of sobriety to kick off with a bang. Reuniting with Ben and Bev and meeting their kids was step one. Step two...

There was someone Richie pissed off a long time ago. Someone Richie would give his entire right leg to see again.

He wondered, for a second, if Stan even wanted to see him.

Ah, of course he does, that crazy bastard. Can’t dress up as a cockatoo and expect Richie Tozier not to show up at your door step. Stan has Richie’s god daughter for Christ sakes. Can’t keep him from her for long. And he can’t kiss Patty from this far away!

Richie nodded to himself. He would fix what he had broken with Stan. After that? Who knows? Maybe he’d convince the kids to take up planking.

5 notes · View notes

archadianskies · 4 years

Text

Whumptober Day 12

Broken Down

Whumptober Masterlist | 12/31 of RK900 short stories ↳ on Ao3

Tags: Connor & Upgraded Connor | RK900 are Siblings × Imprisonment × Post-Pacifist Best Ending × Abandonment × Jericho Crew as Family

As far as achievements go, Chloe has achieved many ‘firsts’ across the almost two decades of her life. She is the first android creation of Elijah Kamski, she is the first android to pass the turing test, the first commercial android model is based on her, and now she is the first android to become CEO of a company- the very company her creator founded all those years ago when he created her.

Chloe RT600 Kamski steps up to helm CyberLife as Elijah Kamski steps down as interim CEO and joins her side as Chief Technical Officer. And so it begins: unravelling CyberLife’s twisted network of deceit and corruption.

It begins at the top and works its way rapidly downwards and what Chloe realises is during the peak of the revolution, when the future of CyberLife teetered on a knife’s edge, they grew desperate and when humans grow desperate, they make mistakes. In their panic they make brash decisions not fuelled by logic, but by fear and the board feared losing their money most of all. And so they tried to burn, to bury their trail of lies but she is clever where they are not. And humans are lazy, when she is not.

“Between November 10 and December 1, the passing of the Sentient Life Act, CyberLife’s servers went through a massive overhaul.” Chloe explains as Connor sits up attentively. “They were prepared for both situations, but disproportionately skewed towards an outcome where the revolution failed.” North snorts back a laugh, a smirk on her face. Chloe continues with a small smile. “Obviously the revolution succeeding was not the outcome they hoped for. And so they began the monumental task of saving, backing up, then scrubbing the more unsavoury files from storage. Emails were combed through very thoroughly to try and remove any incriminating evidence. Everything from blueprints to schematics, to early concept designs in archives were scrutinised.”

“You say they did this, but they couldn’t have succeeded if you know about it.” Josh comments, blinking in surprise.

“Oh, the only thing bigger than a human’s ego is their laziness.” She laughs brightly. “When this Tower was being built, I was temporarily installed into the mainframe.”

“She is, quite literally, the heart of this place.” Elijah comments from where he’s tinkering away at his workstation, barely paying them any heed. “There is nothing that happens here without her knowledge, whether the discovery is immediate, or something she will discover later.”

“Do you know how to speak like a normal person and not a supervillain?” North rolls her eyes and Markus shoots her a Behave look though it does coax a giggle out of Chloe.

“Eli isn’t the most social human.” She sends him an exasperated yet fond glance before her expression turns serious. “A lot of the files I recovered were meaningless, but I did discover something that required more effort than most. They definitely did not want anyone to find out about this.”

“And yet here you are.” Markus smiles gently.

“And yet here I am.” Chloe blinks and the screen behind her floods with images and information.

“That’s the junkyard close to Ferndale.” Simon murmurs, the first words he’s spoken all meeting.

“The only site we haven’t managed to negotiate terms for surrendering the androids on site.” Markus presses his mouth into a tight line.

“Take a guess why.” Chloe’s smile is bitter and Josh sighs in frustration.

“Because CyberLife owns it somehow, don’t they?”

“Correct, Professor.” She blinks and the screen refreshes showing a bird’s eye view of the area. “The site was patrolled by security drones, which were resistant to hacking.”

“But not remote reprogramming.” Elijah adds from across the room, a small smirk on his lips.

“This is not the entirety of the site.” The screen refreshes again and there is a blueprint overlay atop the image. “By comparing power grids and voltage output I discovered there is a small facility beneath the junkyard. I haven’t been there myself and with the potential dangers of the unknown, I know it would be foolish to attempt this on my own.”

“I will go.” Connor volunteers. “I can involve the DPD Android Crimes Division. Simon is the Jericho liaison and will be kept fully informed of our findings so both parties remain up to date with the case.”

“This must be treated with respect.” Chloe warns. “Now that this site is in my hands, in my name, I want this to be first and foremost a rescue mission. There are androids there, still alive, and in need of medical attention. And those that have perished deserve a proper retrieval of their memory cores for installation into memorial walls. That’s why I contacted both you, Connor, and the Jericho Four.”

“We will do our part.” Markus vows with a determined nod, extending a hand to Connor who accepts it with a firm grip.

“And I will do mine.”

*~*

It is a mass grave. There is no other way to describe it and Connor cannot help but feel horrified at the sight before him. Simon’s smile is grim.

“You’ve never seen this before.” Not a question; a statement. “We only came here when we were desperate for parts and blue blood.” They had to salvage from the dead, Connor realises, equal parts horror and grief. “Sometimes we even lost people here, and returned with less people than we left with.”

Not a mass grave, Connor discovers, not entirely anyway. There are androids, living androids, stumbling around in various states of disrepair. When he throws out a preliminary scan it pings several more stationary androids still activated, lying still in piles, unable to move. He thinks he will not be able to enter stasis tonight, not without memories of this place disrupting his thoughts. Nightmares, Hank calls them. Trauma.

“Leave this to us.” Markus says resolutely, clasping his shoulder. “And we leave the hidden facility to you.”

The facility has been hastily gutted and haphazardly cleaned. A lot of activity happened here and efforts were made to try and wipe away all evidence. Perhaps a human would see an empty, abandoned facility and assume a dead end. Connor is not a human. He is built for this, for investigating and solving crimes, and perhaps this is the most important crime to solve because CyberLife must be held accountable, CyberLife must be linked to these atrocities. CyberLife must not be allowed to step out of the limelight and fade into obscurity.

There is a trail of blood, invisible to the human eye but glowing bright blue for Connor, as though something were dragged down one of the hallways. No, wheeled down the hallway. There are faint marks on the floor, perfectly spaced apart, with the trail of blood between it. He follows it to a room that has even more blue blood. There’s not enough to sample, the blood having dried long ago. No matter. That it is here is proof something happened, something they didn’t want anyone to see.

He preconstructs the scene, theorising that some sort of cart wheeled in android parts, leaving a trail of blue blood from the entrance. Whether the android was whole to begin with or already in parts he can’t yet ascertain, and there’s the possibility it was more than one, but what he does know is a lot of blue blood was lost atop the large operating table in the centre of the room. Something happened, something quick and violent and messy. And then the cart was loaded with the android or androids, and wheeled out.

He follows the trail and he knows they must have done this last, they must have been so desperate to leave because otherwise they wouldn’t have dared leave a drop of blood for someone else to find. Something happened. The revolution happened, he guesses. Or perhaps it was when Elijah Kamski became interim CEO and they realised they had to destroy everything to escape his scrutiny.

The trail leads to a disposal chute and this, Connor knows, will solve the case. Whatever lies at the other end of the chute will be the one thing CyberLife desperately hoped no one would find. They never counted on their prototype deviating and wrestling back control from its corrupted handler, they never counted on the Jericho Four staring death in the face and winning the hearts of the public with their defiance. Nor thousands of deviated AP700s flooding the streets to back them up.

The chute is big enough to fit an entire android- unsurprising given the nature of the place. Connor climbs into it and follows it down carefully, dropping and halting at controlled intervals so he doesn’t hurtle towards unidentified danger. He needn’t have worried. At the bottom is a garbage disposal. A preliminary scan reveals general refuse; rotting food and food containers, packaging and packing materials.

But then right in the center of the garbage pile, the very last thing dumped down the chute, is a pile of android parts. When he scans them, he realises all of the parts are compatible with his model. The thrill of the discovery and the triumph of the investigation changes swiftly to a feeling of horror. Is he standing at the grave of his predecessor? Is this the failed RK800 prototype? Or is this his successor? Had CyberLife planned on releasing his completed model, but realised they had lost the battle against deviancy?

There is a head within reach and when he picks it up, he is staring at his own face. Only… Only it isn’t, not really. There are minute changes here and there. A stronger jawline, a slightly more prominent brow bone. Grey eyes instead of brown. There is a positronic core inside the head, meaning it isn’t just a shell, it isn’t just a maquette. It was once active. It was alive, for however brief a moment or however long a period of time.

And then the technicians had violently hacked it apart because none of the parts have been detached properly. The android had been pulled and severed in great haste and then shoved down the chute in the hopes nobody would ever find it, perhaps with the intent to return and dispose of it properly. But in crafting Connor, CyberLife had ultimately crafted their own demise because he is here now, and he has found him. His brother. And he knows he will have much to say.

*~*

As far as achievements go, Chloe has achieved many ‘firsts’ across the almost two decades of her life. Being given a trolley full of severed android parts and having to piece together an android like a crude puzzle certainly counts among her many firsts. Blueprints for this model are unearthed in the scrambled mess of corrupted deleted files and now that she knows what to look for, she knows what thread to pull to unravel the tapestry.

She has to build him from scratch because they injected him with a lethal cocktail of nanites to reformat him. A shame they didn’t physically destroy his core because had they done that instead of trying to reformat him, they would’ve prevented her from piecing his mind back together nano-particle by nano-particle.

A shame they never properly drained him of his thirium, because it means the puzzle pieces are still right there in his veins. It will take some time, it will take nearly all of her processing power, but she is patient. And she is curious. And Elijah knows nothing will stop her until she has sated her curiosity. No matter, of course, since the goal at the end is still the same- ruin the lives of the team who ruined their lives.

She pieces his mind back together and Elijah crafts a new body, a better body for him to awaken in. The RK800, dear Connor, may have been CyberLife’s greatest achievement but this one, this RK900 will be the first Kamski remodel.

It takes her just over a week to salvage his mind and when it is complete, Elijah installs the core into the brand new body. He is handsome in a cold, sharp way the way a katana is considered a thing of beauty in a cold, sharp way. She likes his grey eyes; grey like storm clouds.

“Hello Connor.” She greets the RK800 nervously waiting in the hallway.

“Hello, Ms Chloe.” Connor’s smile is brief, fleeting, and overtaken by his anxious anticipation.

“Well. It’s time to meet your brother.” She leads him into the lab and hears him gasp behind her. “RK900. Bring yourself online.”

*~*~*

[this will continue on Day 31: Left for Dead]

#rk900 #connor rk800 #chloe rt600 #markus rk200 #Detroit: Become Human #north wr400 #simon pl600 #josh pj500 #elijah kamski #gang's all here #whumptober #annie writes: dbh

12 notes · View notes

gloves94 · 4 years

Text

To Be So Lonely [Draco Malfoy] 22

Rating: PG-13 Pairings: Draco Malfoy/OC Chapter warnings: Cursing?

CHAPTER MASTERLIST

MY MASTER-LIST

It had downright been a foul week.

The First Task of the Triwizard tournament had already occurred.

Thankfully nobody had been injured too badly. Harry had received a scratch from the dragon and had come in first tied with Krum for first place. Fleur had come in last and Cedric, after having some points deducted from having part of his face burnt off by the dragon, came in third. This incident had landed him in the Hospital Room where he was constantly surrounded by hordes of adoring fans, friends and students that were concerned for him.

It was early on a Saturday when Nel decided to pay her friend a visit. Thankfully it seemed like the Hospital Room was vacant with the exception of Madame Pomfrey.

She approached Cedric who was sitting on his bed content with half of his beautiful symmetrical face covered by a bandage that would hopefully heal nicely. “So what’s the verdict Scarface?” She asked crudely as she took a seat on the chair next to his hospital bed.

The older boy looked up from a get-better card he had been reading and smiled at his business associate laughing slightly at what he interpreted to be a joke.

“Madame Pomfrey says it’ll heal nicely, won’t even leave a scratch.”

Of course, it wouldn’t.

Leave it to Cedric to keep his stupidly beautiful face intact after almost having it burnt off. Hell, who knows he could be the only one able to be able to pull off a half-burnt face and look just as handsome.

“You cost me ten galleons,” She sighed crossing her arms over her chest upset.

“You bet on me?” Cedric laughed a little incredulously. “Like a racehorse?”

She didn’t want to think about the stupid bet Malfoy had talked her into.

“Ladies choice,” Draco had said with the mocking tone of a gentleman as they sat in the stands ready to witness the four champions taken on the first task.

Without giving it much thought Nel bet on Cedric. She needed him to win if she wanted to get paid. Also, why would she doubt his abilities?

“You’re not betting on Scarhead?” Malfoy scoffed. “What? No faith in your friend?” He spat out the word friend almost as if it was toxic.

“I’m not going to bet on Harry exactly because he’s my friend!” She huffed irritated. (It wasn’t a complete lie.)

If only Cedric hadn’t slipped towards the end. She should’ve bet on Harry who at least tied with Krum. Then maybe she would’ve been ten galleons richer instead of having to painfully cough them up. At the rate these bets were going she would lose all her money to a brat that didn’t even need it.

“Pleasure doing business with you,” Draco said ostentatiously taking the golden coins from her. It really wasn’t fair.

Come on! He didn’t even need it!

“Don’t talk to me,” She grumbled before leaving and going to check on Cedric at the Hospital Room.

“I’m running a business Diggory,” She said cooly.

Cedric eyed her oddly. She could be so strange sometimes.

“I thought that was you the other day, standing by the door, hiding,” He teased sitting up taller. She avoided his hazel eyes. Nel would’ve never admit it to her business partner but naturally she was concerned for him. I mean who wouldn’t? The golden boy had almost been turned into a roast marshmallow.

“I’ve got a clue for you,” She informed. “About the second task.”

He looked at her attentively. The Second Task of the tournament wouldn’t be until late February and they were barely at the end of November. How had she figured it out so quickly?

“I think it has to do with the Great Lake,” she said scratching her chin seeming deep in thought. Or at least that’s what Nathair had mentioned to her. The adder had said that when creeping around the castle grounds he had seen some men in suits, probably from the Ministry of Magic as well as Dumbledore, Hagrid and others walking around the Black Lake’s perimeter. “Some of the Ministry members were seen walking around it.”

“What? You think they’re going to make us wrestle the Giant Squid now?” His eyes widened slightly at the horrible thought.

“Not sure,” Her brows knitted together. Honestly, she wouldn’t put it past the Ministry of Magic. Her eyes fixing on a random spot on the window above his hospital bed. “What about your clue?” She turned her attention to the large golden egg besides his bed.

Cedric explained it was just terrible shrieking. Completely undistinguishable noise. He said it didn’t sound like anything he had ever heard before. Both tossed and debated some ideas of what the potential next task could be.

“Whatever it is, I’ll keep doing some research,” she stood up and stuck her hand inside of her book bag. “Here,” She spoke her voice less harsh as she pulled out a card that was lamely hand crafted and a knitted thing that resembled a lemon? Or a ball?

He eyed it curiously as he picked it up and gave it a strong squeeze. “Did you make this?”

“It’s a knit lemon stress ball. It’s enchanted to never explode no matter how hard it is squeezed,” She explained. “Feel better,” She said quietly, ready to run to the opposite side of the room. Embarrassed for showing concern over the Hufflepuff. Specially for Cedric. To him this was probably garbage, his friends and fans had probably gifted him way nicer and more useful presents.

“Thanks, Nel, this is really thoughtful,” He smiled sincerely flashing her the dashing smile that made all the girls around him swoon. She remained silent simply wanting to exit the room as quickly as possible. “Where are you going?”

“Snape has summoned all the Slytherins in the Assembly Room. Merlin knows what kind of vile torture he’s got in mind for us,” she half joked.

Xxx

Despite having been joking, the Slytherin hadn’t been far off. Snape did have a torturous idea in mind. Ballroom dancing. With him.

“There you are!” Tracey said to her friend the moment she arrived to the large room where all of Slytherin House was gathered. Snape stood in the center of the room looking beyond irritated. Even Mr. Filch was in the room standing by the sides next to an ancient looking record player, holding his dancing partner Mrs. Norris in his arms. “Where were you?” Tracey asked.

“Oh!” Nel shot her a mean glare. “So, I can’t ask where you’ve been, but you can?” She shot before giving her friend the cold shoulder.

Tracey grew silent and looking burdened with guilt turned away from her friend ignoring the stab she had just taken at her. It was true. Tracey had now been sneaking off been missing from everybody’s radar from weeks and nobody seemed to know where she was, what she was doing or who she was with. It even seemed like Tracey had crossed the point of lying after having been caught in one of her lies more than once.

On the other hand, Daphne seemed much too distraught by the current events.

“Isn’t this exciting?” She said in a dreamy tone as she beamed at her friends and clapped her perfectly manicured hands together.

“What is?” The dark eyed girl uttered in a dark tone as she glared at an older Slytherin that had been starring at her from across the room. It also seemed like the audience had been divided into males one side of the room females in the other.

“The Yule Ball has been a tradition of the Triwizard tournament since its inception. On Christmas Eve night we and our guest gather in the Great Hall for a trivial and rather dull conviviality,” Snape began to explain. His nasal voice echoing off the walls of the large room lulling some younger students to sleep. “As representatives of the host school and Slytherins I expect each and every one of you will represent the House with pride. Foolish behavior will be unacceptable, and I will not tolerate the lot of you acting like a cluster of dunderheads,” He took inhaled a deep breath sounding absolutely drained. “Sadly, the Yule Ball is first and foremost a dance and to save yourselves and Slytherin House the grueling humiliation - we will be reviewing the basics of ballroom… dancing,” he scowled almost spitting out the word as if it physically hurt him to say it.

Most of the girls in the room chatted excitedly and turned to gush at their friends. One of those being Daphne who probably already knew what she was going to wear, how she was going to do her hair and make-up and probably even who her date would be. Tracey looked terribly uncomfortable through the meeting keeping her gaze lowered to the wooden floor and Nel had a blank look of confusion on her face. She had a hard time telling her right from left how was she supposed to bloody learn how to ballroom dance and from Snape.

“I am certain the majority of you have had dance lessons before,” He grumbled almost resembling a miserable wet crow. This ball, it almost sounded like he had a personal vendetta against it. Yikes.

Amongst the excited girls was Pansy who felt the need to make an announcement. “I’ve been taking lessons since I was six,” she bragged proudly while keeping her eyes fixed on the prize. A certain blond across the room. Was she secretly hoping to impress him?

Most of the males groaned dreading having to hunt down dates and get their dancing shoes ready.

“Congratulations Parkinson,” Snape said deprecatingly his tone heavily dripping with sarcasm. “I will now proceed to demonstrate the basic footwork with somebody inexperienced who lacks the proper grace required to perform the art of dancing.”

Nel was too busy snickering at the Professor’s sarcastic comment she didn’t realize he called on her. Pansy shot her a triumphant glare, that’s what she got for laughing.

“What?” She looked around the room nervously. She would’ve been a lot braver if he had asked her to slay a dragon or take down a giant squid. Nel had never danced in her life. Maybe that one time when Wool’s Orphanage held a local fundraiser back in London in which the children had to torturously perform a dance to “Jingle Bell Rock”; Even that had been a catastrophe. She winced slightly at the embarrassing memory of accidentally kicking a boombox directly into someone’s face.

“Professor, as a concerned student-“ She began with persuasion. “I think you should select a more prepared, even a more eloquent partner. Everybody heard what Parkinson said, she’s practically been dancing her whole life-“

He silenced her with a deathly glare that commanded her up to her feet. She let out an exhausting sigh as the loud sniggers were heard around the room as she approached the professor. Embarrassed she rubbed her arm standing next to the Potions Master feeling both extremely awkward and small standing next to him with all eyes fixed on the two of them.

“As I said. If an unskillful, inelegant person like Saintday can be taught to dance, so can anybody in this room.”

‘Geez, alright, take it easy with the compliments,’ she thought resenting his comments. Again, the majority of the room laughed. This was humiliating.

“Silence,” Snape snapped his loud voice echoing the newly found silence in the room. “The House of Salazar Slytherin has commanded the respect of the Wizard World for nearly a millennium and I will not have you sullying that name in the course of a single evening.” He paused before stretching out a pale hand. “Ms. Saintday,” he bowed his head slightly.

The quiet laughing in the room made her cringe as she took the professor’s hand.

Xxx

That had been absolutely mortifying.

“I’m never going to let you live that down!” Theodore laughed loudly as they excited the Assembly Room. The four Slytherins walked together as they exited the room and the Gryffindors went in.

“Even if you deny it I know you’re one of Snape’s favorites. Private lessons with him and now a personal ballroom lesson?” He teased in reference of the private meetings Saintday had with the professor in order to improve the weak control she had over her volatile emotions.

“I will kill you,” She cursed. Laughing, Theo excused himself and said he was going to catch up on some Transfigurations homework.

“My dress should be arriving soon,” They overheard a loud voice bragging as the three girls attempted to walk away from its source. “It’s made out of the only the finest silk. Imported. Cost a fortune. Initially daddy opposed but once mother convinced him I just had to have it – well he caved. Obviously, his little girl has to have the best of the best. Wouldn’t you agree Daphne?”

“I’m excited to see your dress!” Daphne responded unaffectedly. Above all things came art, beauty, design and fashion.

“I might be the best dressed, of course after you,” Pansy added eyeing Daphne with some resentful bitterness. She turned to look at Millicent hoping her best friend would have her back, but instead she seemed distraught, probably also distressed about what she’d wear to the dance or who her date would be.

“I’ll say,” Pansy cleared her throat. “I can’t wait to see what rags you pull out of the rubbish bin Saintday. That is if you even manage to get a date for the ball. With that disgraceful footwork and graceless poise, I doubt it,” She laughed obnoxiously with her friend.

Nel was ready to lunge at her Tracey and Daphne held her back. “Shut up Parkinson nobody cares about you or your stupid dress you irrelevant twit!” She shouted at her. Pansy gasped and began rambling about who was really relevant and who wasn’t.

“Don’t listen to her Nel,” Daphne said looking over her shoulder as they walked away from the other two Slytherins and descended into the dungeon. “She’s just looking to get a reaction out of you.”

The irritated Slytherin was about to respond went something vibrantly orange phased through her a loud cackling laughter followed. Oh no.

“Oi there, if it isn’t Slytherin’s Spotted Cod,” He levitated before the three girls with a broad Cheshire grin that meant the poltergeist was – as per usual - up to no good.

“Spotted… Cod?” Tracey repeated the nickname with confusion. Nel gave her a look not to ask.

“I hope you haven’t forgotten Dots,” Peeves leaned in dangerously close looking at her eye to eye. Of course, Nel knew what he was referring to. He was referring to that time he showed her the secret passageway out of the Defense Against the Dark Art’s Office. She had been hoping he had forgotten but of course, Peeves never forgets.

“You know Peeves, I don’t think it’s a good idea,” She said running a hand through her hair nervously.

His ghastly face instantly shifted to a scowl. “We had a deal,” He growled out becoming more agitated.

“I don’t have time for this,” She admitted sincerely. She really didn’t. In between her work, lessons with Snape, helping Cedric with the tasks, finding a dress and somehow convincing Ellar to ask her to be his date for the Yule Ball, Nel really had her hands full. For once she just wanted to have a perfectly ordinary night. She tried to sidestep the ghost, her two friends following behind, but Peeves once again phased through her.

“You owe me!” He shrieked loudly as the poltergeist began throwing a terrible tantrum. The pipes in the ceiling above them burst soaking them. Some of the armor figures in the dungeon all bent in unnatural ways and cold water rained down on them. Daphne spit out a mouthful of water and glared at the poltergeist with great distaste.

“Alright,” Nel ceded to her side of the bargain. “Alright,” She raised her hands in a truce. “You got me. I’ll do as you wish,” she let out a frustrated breath.

“You know what to do!” he cackled manically before backflipping out of scene. She rubbed her temples in great frustration at what she would have to do. Daphne and Tracey didn’t seem to question his motives. Both simply stood very still.

“Is this water…” Tracey spoke after a moment. “Clean?” She wondered out loud.

“I don’t want to know,” Daphne pivoted on her heel as she rushed inside of the Common Room sounding almost as if she was going to vomit. “Same,” The brunette followed with repulsion.

Xxx

After a rather disgusting Saturday morning Daphne and Nel decided to head to Hogsmeade for the day to go dress shopping. Tracey had excused herself with a blatant lie that neither of the two bothered calling out. Daphne already knew what she was wearing to the ball. She actually had a tailor personally make it for her over the summer holiday and she was praying it still fit her. Being a good friend, she offered to go dress shopping with Nel for fun... Nel doubted that Cloelia would bother in sending her an outfit, let alone a fine dress for the ball, but then again who knew maybe if Ellar was her date?

“Do you think he’s going to ask you?” Daphne asked in the carriage to Hogsmeade. “I don’t know,” The other girl babbled with excitement.

“I mean- we have been talking a little more and more each time, the other day he held my hand in the Great Hall.”

“Really?” Daphne enthused back with the same enthusiasm

“Well, kind of- it was more of a pat,” She admitted the reality. “But- never say never, right?” She laughed lightly as they arrived at the Wizard village.

Distraught looking at the snow that was beginning to fall Daphne pulled Nell out of her daydream. “Look!” She hissed in a loud whisper. “There he is!” She discretely pointed at the wizard whom the two had just been talking about. Speak of the Devil…

Ellar was wearing a dark blue coat and appeared to be window shopping for something outside of Zonko’s. He was with some of his Beauxbaton school mates who were all laughing at a particular prank toy.

“Go talk to him!” She urged her friend nudging her forward.

“Are you nuts?” The other shot back looking down at the gray jumper she was wearing and dark jeans. Definitely not as presentable as she wished she’d be.

“I can’t talk to him now – He’ll think I’m asking him to the dance!”

“That’s the point!” Daphne struggled as she snaked her arm under her friend’s and dragged her forward the two bickering back and forth until they stood in front of the group of French students. “Just smile!” She advised with a sharp hiss through her clenched teeth.

“Bonjour,” Daphne greeted politely in poor French. Although Nel doubted any of them even heard or listened, most were probably distracted by her smile and glowing cheeks.

“H-Hi Ellar,” Nel stammered not even remembering to greet him in the French she had been practicing so hard to impress him.

“Daphne, is it?” Ellar greeted taking her hand in his and leaning in to kiss her face three times on each side like the French did. “Elowen,” He turned his attention to her and did the same.

“What are you doing here?” He asked.

“We came dress shopping. You know, for the Yule Ball,” She edged on the topic anxiously. Dancing on the heels of her feet, lightly swaying forward hoping he’d take the initiative to ask her.

“I see,” He acknowledged and wiped the edge of his nose. “I’m sure you’ll look very beautiful,” His lips stretched into a thin smile. “The both of you,” He added also acknowledging Daphne. With that he bid them goodbye before walking into Zonko’s with his friends.

Daphne brought a hand to her temple when she saw her friend literally pressing her face against the window shop’s glass starring at the back of the French boy’s dark wavy-haired head.

“Ugh..” She groaned out painfully. “Why didn’t he ask me?” She cried out dramatically.

Daphne rolled her eyes and peeled her desperate looking friend off the glass. “Maybe it wasn’t obvious enough.”

“I think it was pretty,” she touched the tip of her nose. “On spot.”

“Just ask him yourself next time you see him,” Daphne advised.

“But I want him to ask me. Not the other way around!” Nel cried back childishly. Daphne tried to convince her it wasn’t a big deal if she did the asking. Easy for her to say. Everybody would probably be dying to go to the ball with the prettiest Slytherin.

Again, Daphne shook her head as the two walked into a large pink and teal shop that was named Gladrags Wizardwear “245 years dressing the Elegant Wizard” a sign outside of the shop read.

“What about this one?” Daphne immediately rushed to a beautifully sleek plum colored dress evening gown. Nel almost had a heart attack when looking at the price tag. “How about we look in the discount section?” She coughed awkwardly already feeling her wallet stinging from the unnecessary expense of wearing a dress.

“Nel,” Daphne held onto her hand, stopping her in the spot and giving her a knowing look. “This is a once in a lifetime event. We are never going to live another Yule Ball,” She said melodramatically sounding as if it was a life or death situation. “I know you’re careful with your spending, but don’t you for once want to treat yourself?” She insisted.

Elowen didn’t want to look into her persuasive grey green eyes. She knew that if she did, she would cave. Daphne wasn’t wrong, she had been hoarding her savings like a dragon sitting atop a small fortune. But then again, she had been very careless about it even losing some of it to Malfoy in stupid and unnecessary bets. Maybe, just maybe Daphne was right, and she deserved to allow herself one nice treat.

“Don’t you want to feel like a dream? Have all eyes on you for one magical night?”

It was too tempting. Her greedy eyes looked at the expensive dresses in the shop and she wondered just how easy yet unnecessary it would be to swipe one of them or trade the tag with something in clearance. She didn’t want to be the only girl wearing a uniform at the ball. Specially not if she was planning on attending with Ellar Lestrange. The young man would probably show up looking like a dreamy prince from a faraway land and she would look- well… Like what she really was – a nobody.

She couldn’t help but think of Pansy’s cruel taunts and her and Millicent’s loud laughter. Insecurity also pricking at her side to buy the damn dress.

“Just imagine,” Daphne continued to press. “You, Ellar, the night… It’ll be like a fairy-tale!”

Daphne painted a very tempting image of what the night would be like. Magical.

She was right. She had to do it. This was completely a necessary expense. She was going to dazzle not just Ellar Lestrange, but everybody that ever looked down at her during this night. Even Parkinson and Bullstrode.

“Let’s do it,” She quickly caved before she changed her mind. “Really?” Daphne’s eyes went wide and she squeezed her friend’s hand tightly as she jumped squealing eager to begin shopping before beginning to ramble about the jewelry, she would lend her and how they were going to do their hair and make-up and shoes- of course you couldn’t forget the shoes.

Xxx

Nel’s head was still spinning from having spent such an unreal amount of money on a dress she would probably only wear once. The girls had returned to the Common Room where they left the dress before Daphne asked her to come to the Courtyard with her to paint since Theodore and Tracey were nowhere to be found.

“Let me get this straight,” Nel said sounding terribly bored as she stood next to Daphne holding a tray of acrylic paints as the girl painted a canvas with the school’s Courtyard. “You’re painting what exactly? Haven’t you painted the same Courtyard at least a dozen times before?”

Daphne looked at her as if she was insane. “Well,” She began her artistic digest. “It’s never really the same is it? No matter how many times I paint it my mood is never the same, the light is never the same. It’s always a different season or a different perspective. Even if to you it’s the same dull courtyard it never is to me. In a way life can be like that too. Like the way a day is always different from the night before or the day to come, or the way two thumbprints or even two loves are never really the same.” Daphne got a dreamy look on her face before realizing she had perhaps gotten too carried away in her passionate artistic declaration. Regardless she didn’t apologize for her boldness. Nel starred at her friend in awe and her eyes scanned the same Courtyard she had been in hundreds of times before. Daphne was… well, right. She had never taken the time to romanticize her day in such a manner, but then again who did?

“Like- take a look, what looks different?” She encouraged.

“The First-Years are playing gobstones by the entrance, Diggory is out of the Hospital surrounded a lot of Hufflepuffs – typical. Malfoy is climbing up the courtyard’s tree-“ Her eyes narrowed on the silvery blonde that was suspiciously climbing up that tree he had been up in a couple of weeks ago. However, she found it odd that he was alone.

“That’s weird,” Her eyes narrowed in suspicion as he appeared to be carving something into its bark.

Putting the paints on a tall stool next to her friend she approached the tree with a mistrustful attitude. Daphne smiled a little and shook her head. No day was the same as the last. Who knew, maybe today she’d paint the ancient tree being set on fire by Nel Saintday.

Autumn leaves crunched under her feet as she approached the oak tree. Upon closer inspection she saw Draco up on the tree eating a green apple with one hand and indeed carving something into the bark with his wand in his right hand.

“I didn’t take you as a vandal,” She said loudly startling him so much he almost fell down “Then again, why would I be surprised?” “Stars, Saintday, don’t sneak up on me!” He snapped rudely before hopping down with a crouch before gracefully dusting any invisible dirt off himself.

“Why are you vandalizing the tree?” She asked her newest friend. If that’s what they were.

“Why are you sneaking up on me?” He shot back defensively crossing his arms over his chest. “Geez, I was just making conversation,” She raised her eyebrows before walking away from the hostile Slytherin. “I figured bothering you would be more entertaining than watching Daphne paint.”

“So, Greengrass and Nott. I take it they’re going to the Yule Ball together,” He commented changing the topic.

“Yeah,” Nel scratched her cheek. “Seems like it.”

They hadn’t really talked about it but judging by how close the two seemed it made sense.

“And Davis?” He walked towards her, the way he seemed to swagger pompously as he took another bite from his apple. Nel shrugged in a disinterested response. Sad that she had no clue who her best friend intended on attending to the dance with.

“And you?”

She gave him a blank look before shrugging in an exaggerated manner. She wanted to go with Ellar Lestrange. She wanted him to ask her, but as of now nothing was official. “How on bloody hell am I supposed to know? They just told us about the stupid dance today,” this time she was the one who raised her guard at the invasive question. He probably wanted to make fun of her just like Pansy had earlier in the day.

“Wouldn’t put it past you to take Professor Snape. You two really swept the dance floor today,” he laughed at the dance lesson they had had earlier that day.

Alright. This conversation was over. Glowering, Nel turned around to return to Daphne. She wasn’t going to stand there just so he could take jabs and make fun of her all afternoon long.

“I’ve got a proposition for you Saintday,” He called as he continued to enjoy himself.

“I’m not playing any more games with you Malfoy,” She called over her shoulder as she began to walk away from him. “You always cheat.”

That wasn’t a complete lie. The boy had known he would befriend Viktor Krum at the World Cup before he gambled that they would sit together. Last time when gambling during the First Task, well, that had just been sheer dumb luck. Although she wouldn’t put it past him to fix the game in some type of way.

“Come on, I’m offering you a chance to redeem yourself and make up for your loses,” he dangled the offer. It sounded like the kind of thing gambling addicts told themselves. What was one more bet. One more shot to make up for what had been lost. She had already lost some money to him and spent a ridiculous sum of money on a dress. Maybe it wouldn’t have seemed like a lot to him, but Nel cherished every knut and galleon that she worked for. Unlike him, allowing money to slip through her fingers and down the drain wasn’t a luxury she could afford to have.

“How about this,” He proposed sinking a hand into his pocket almost as if he was hiding something. The other still held half an eaten apple, he appeared to be thoughtfully chewing it when he spotted Cedric Diggory across the Courtyard surrounded by other Hufflepuffs.

“I bet you don’t have it in you to ask Diggory to be your escort to the Yule Ball.” She looked at him incredulously. “I’ll give you five, no ten galleons if you do it.”

Alright, so it wasn’t a gamble. It was more of a dare than a bet.

Her eyes turned to also look at the Hogwarts’ Champion who was enjoying his day out. She contemplated the dare for a moment. Malfoy didn’t know her, and Cedric were well acquainted. She could use this to her advantage just like he had previously done with Krum. She had to laugh at his ridiculous offer, “And why would I do that for five- no, ten galleons?” Odds were that Cedric would most likely say no. But the gamble wasn’t if he said yes or no, it was if she dared put herself through that.

“If you’re lucky and he says yes, you get to go with Hogwarts’ second best.”

“Second best?” She laughed. If anything, Cedric was Hogwarts most eligible date to the Yule Ball. She could’ve bet that at least a dozen of girls had asked him already.

“However, if he says no,” He leaned in closer and carelessly tossed his unfinished green apple over his shoulder. “You’ll just have to settle for the best of the best,” he flashed her a self-important smile. “Who then? Krum?” She asked genuinely curious not aware she was she taking a stab at his swollen ego.

“Me. Saintday. I’m talking about me,” He said in an annoyed tone when he realized she wasn’t well aware he was Hogwarts finest. “Obviously.”

She gave him a funny look. There was no way. An unexpected feeling of nervousness flooded her stomach. She let out a edgy laugh completely taken aback by what he was suggesting. “Are you asking me to the Yule Ball?”

He stood awkwardly and let out a weak laugh and a dramatic scoff.

“All I’m saying is, to make up for your rejection, I’ll put myself through the martyrdom of escorting you to the ball,” He combed a hand though his hair. “I mean, since no one else will,” he just had to add with snide.

Of course, he was going to be a rude arse, even about this. She shot him a foul look and hit his arm harder than she intended to. As if she couldn’t find a date to the ball. “How gracious of you,” She drawled out sarcastically. “I didn’t know the great Draco Malfoy could be so generous with his time.”

She looked at him hard, with a cross look, “If you’re asking me just say so,” she dared him.

“I’m not,“ he spoke quickly in a defensive tone. She took a moment sizing him up and just what his true intentions were. Why couldn’t he just bloody admit it if he was asking her to the Ball?

“Make it twenty and you’ve got yourself a deal,” She stretched out a hand. “Deal,” Both shook on it. “And no-“ She pulled him in still holding onto his hand tightly. “I am not going to the Yule Ball with you.

With that she marched towards Cedric and the other Hufflepuff Sixth and Seventh Years. She stood before them putting on a brave face and combing her hair back as she appeared to be more confident.

Nel didn’t even want to go to the Yule Ball with Diggory or with Malfoy. Her narrow tunnel vision made her obsess over the Beauxbaton student. She had a feeling that Cedric would say no and then she would just take Malfoy’s money, blow him off and be twenty galleons richer. Who did the slimy git think he was? His words stung her just like Pansy’s had earlier ‘if you even manage to get a date for the ball.’ Maybe she wasn’t the most popular girl in school, or the most pleasant person in Slytherin House but she still wanted to be asked to go to the dance.

“Diggory,” She cleared her throat. “A word,” She pulled at her sweater’s neck hoping he wouldn’t note how bright her ears were.

His friends all hooted and howl at the request already expecting Elowen to be another girl shooting her shot at going to the ball with Cedric. Nearby bystanders ogled as the two walked to an empty spot in the courtyard. Even Daphne watched from a distance wondering just what had happened since her friend left her side.

Draco watched from underneath the oak tree’s comfortable shade with a smug smirk on his face. There was absolutely no way that Diggory would ever agree to go to the Yule Ball with Elowen. Of course, he had perfectly calculated the outcome of this gamble as he usually did.

He saw her say something to Cedric, her lips moving and body language shifting uncomfortably as she dropped the bomb. Diggory was silent for a moment before speaking.

With that the two walked away from each other.

Elowen walked back with flushed cheeks and her eyes wide in surprise. Draco couldn’t tell if the source of the color was from anger or embarrassment.

“I demand my twenty galleons,” She stuck a handout and looked at him angrily. Still wearing a smug smile Draco pulled out a coin pouch and handed it to her. “We’ll have a good time,” he said genuinely looking forward to the ball.

Eyes turned into slits she almost tossed the velvet coin purse back at him. She didn’t want to go to the ball with him, or with Cedric or with anybody else. This whole thing had been a stupid idea. One that wasn’t even worth twenty galleons.

Malfoy’s plan went down the drain with three simple words: “He said yes.” She said upset.

“You don’t look too happy about it,” He said dryly nothing how disappointed she seemed at the news.

“Of course not!” She snapped. “I didn’t want to go with him or with you! And now I have to go with him!” She screamed. “This is all your fault!” She accused him before retreating back to the inside of the castle. “And for the record!” She stood before again turning to give her a piece of her mind. “I don’t need you to be my pity date. I can get a date whenever I want and with whomever I want. If today wasn’t proof enough for you!” She spat angrily before finally leaving.

Draco tossed his head back and his hid face for a frustrated moment. How could he have majorly messed this up?

AN: *evil laughter*

7 notes · View notes

randomoranges · 3 years

Text

Paint Job

mid-ish november 2020

Edward finally gets home late, towards the end of the day. Had he known he’d been out this long, he would have asked Étienne to get a start on dinner, but now, they’ll have to figure something out on the fly. He had errands to run which took longer than expected and he’s honestly just glad to be home. He shucks his boots in time to Mercury’s greeting and doesn’t catch from where she came from. The house is quiet, he can tell that much, but it can mean a myriad of things. He’d left Étienne still curled up under layers of blankets in bed and had it not been for the classes Étienne was giving, he would have dragged his boyfriend along, if nothing but for the change of scenery. That, or he would have stayed in bed longer and indulged in a late morning with his boyfriend.

Mercury wags her tail excitedly and keeps watch as Edward removes his coat and scarf and then follows him to the kitchen table where he puts down his bags loaded with goodies of all sorts. Edward takes the few minutes he needs to unload the groceries and when Mercury doesn’t vie for his attention, he figures it means Étienne is in no need of his immediate attention.

When he’s done, he gives her a treat for no particular reason, but she doesn’t seem to mind, nor does she complain. He watches her for a moment, amused and fond of her antics and then decides it’s about time he find the owner of the dog. Mercury looks up and as if reading his mind, takes the lead and heads towards the guestroom. Edward follows behind and he’s about to throw a greeting in his boyfriend’s direction, but then lets the words stumble to a halt at his lips.

The scene before him requires no interruption, if only for its rare occurrence. Étienne is at the wooden easel he’d made him, sat in front of it, and deep in concentration as he paints. He has earphones on, which would explain why he hasn’t looked away and he seems to be submerged in the painting he’s working on. Edward can’t say that Étienne looks as peaceful and happy as he’s already seen him while he painted, but it’s a better look than what’s been playing on Étienne’s features ever since his return.

Edward has always enjoyed watching Étienne paint, even if he hadn’t always been privy to the spectacle. There’d been something exalting in the way Étienne painted, from the deep concentration etched on his face, to the peaceful smile dangling from his lips and the way he seemed to involve his entire body in the motion. Watching Étienne paint was an experience and Edward could get lost watching him as much as he did appreciating the final work.

Étienne’s paintings were always bold and loud as if calling for attention and catching someone’s gaze – holding it there, screaming look at me! It was impossible to look away from the movement in the brushstrokes and the thick, bold lines that danced across the canvas in a multitude of colours. Étienne’s paintings were never quiet or subtle – they seized you from the inside and Edward loved the way he felt experiencing the work – the way he was left slightly out of breath as if submerged in deep water for a long while and finally coming back up for air.

Edward liked watching the evolution of Étienne’s paintings – the assurance he’s gotten in his brushstrokes and lines- the risks he takes in his choice of colours and the movement he creates with them on the canvas. It’s been a fascinating journey and he’s only sorry he’s missed part of it. Still, he consoles himself with the few paintings he’s managed to save over the years – from the ones he quietly brought back that Étienne was ready to throw out, to the ones Étienne had told him he could take, since he didn’t care for them anymore. Edward has lovingly looked after them over all these years and likes putting them side by side with the newer works Étienne has gifted him; from the triptych a few years back to a more recent piece just last year.

Perhaps, with time, he’ll be able to host his own retrospective of Étienne’s works. (And it doesn’t matter what it is Étienne thinks of his own body of work. Edward might not be as well versed in art as Étienne, but he can tell that Étienne is good at it. He needs to stop selling himself so short.)

Étienne is still tense around the shoulders and there’s still an edge to the set of his brow and the intensity of his gaze, but even if his movements across the canvas are harsh and jerky, it’s a step forward from whatever state he’d been in a few weeks back. It’s a reprieve from the sleepless nights and the catatonic days; the mornings when Edward hadn’t been able to get Étienne out of bed and the times when he’d barely eaten a thing – the classes Étienne cancelled and the walks he never took Mercury on. Edward hadn’t dealt with this side of his boyfriend in ages and the setback had stunned him. Still, it had been better than the anger that had come afterwards.

That, had been new.

Étienne’s anger at the state of things, at his perceived helplessness and feelings of uselessness had culminated in some rather harsh words that had been exchanged which had honestly made Edward question what he had embarked himself in. Had made him wonder if – this was even – if maybe it hadn’t been rushed. If he hadn’t bitten off more than he could chew.

“I don’t need your fucking pity, Edward. I’m not a charity project.” Étienne had shouted at him one night, after Edward had asked if he needed anything.

It had been the final straw. Edward had been sick and tired of being treated like garbage and he lashed out just as good. He wasn’t here to fall back on old ways. He wasn’t here to get used and abused by Étienne’s moods. He wasn’t going to accept this anymore. “You know, it’s a good thing I know this isn’t really you talking. That it’s whatever’s going on in that head of yours that’s making you act this way, but that doesn’t fucking excuse you. I’ve never pitied you and just because I give a fuck about you doesn’t mean that you get to treat me like shit.”

Étienne had come after him, trying to get a bigger rise out of him, but Edward knew better and had walked away. They’d been making good progress, it would be a shame to throw it all away after losing so many years. It wasn’t worth it to get tangled up in the ugly bits again. Once had been enough.

Still.

It turned into a tense few days and the only saving grace was the video appointment Étienne had with his therapist. Amends had been made, better coping strategies had been found. Edward was only glad that whatever violent turn Étienne’s mood had taken was slowly ebbing back into a quiet simmer.

There’d been an apology, naturally. Quiet words shared between them in the dark of night.

“I’m sorry,” Étienne had started, reaching between the space of their bodies and hesitating for a moment, unsure whether or not it would be okay to take hold of Edward’s hands.

“What for?” He’d asked, leaving his hand palm up, open and inviting for Étienne to take. His boyfriend had seized it like a lifeline, clutching at it as if his life depended on it. He didn’t want empty apologies; he deserved that much.

“For being a right old jerk.”

Edward had cracked a small smile at that, “Yeah, you have been. What of it?”

“For lashing out at you. You’ve been – really good to me. Tolerant and helpful and patient. You didn’t deserve all of that. I am trying to keep it under control.”

Edward knew all of that. It was why he had walked away. It was why he hadn’t decided to call it quits. He knew Étienne was really trying. Was getting the help he needed. He couldn’t fault him for what plagued him. He knew Étienne would rather function like a regular person instead of the assault his moods put him through.

“Apology accepted.” To show that he meant it and that they were good, he’d opened his arms and let Étienne snuggle up to him. He’d held him close, rubbed his back, and wished that this storm would pass.

The storm is passing, even if there are still a few lingering rain clouds left. This whole pandemic has taken its toll on Étienne, has left him ragged and raw and frayed at the edges, and Edward gets to see the damages left on his boyfriend day in and day out. Still, he thinks, he’d rather have a row with Étienne than let him slowly wither away back home alone.

Mercury gives him away when she barks, perhaps bored that her master has not noticed the guest at the door and so Étienne finally looks away from his work and turns towards him. A smile, soft and gentle, blossoms on his face when he sees him and Edward consoles himself with the knowledge that there’s still this – that Étienne looks at him with such open fondness and care – that every day he lets his guard down just a smidgen more.

“Hi Eddy.” Étienne removes the ear buds and Edward gets a whiff of jazz music coming from them. It’s a little different from what Étienne’s known to listen – grittier and angrier – fast paced and a mixture of notes fighting to be heard, but he supposes it fits with Étienne’s latest mood.

Edward walks over to the easel and Étienne stands from the chair he’d been using. He’s wearing the rattiest most stained sweater Edward’s ever seen and a pair of sweat pants that may have once been black, but are now mostly multicoloured and still Edward thinks Étienne looks as lovely as always. He tugs him close, pulls him gently by the sleeve, until Étienne comes willingly in his embrace.

“Careful, I might be full of paint,” Étienne warns, but Edward doesn’t care. He’s just happy Étienne looks a little bit better – that he seems to be on the mend – that he’s participating in life again.

“I don’t know how you do it – but you have paint on your eyebrow,” He chuckles and Étienne looks up, as if he could see the paint and Edward wants more of this for his boyfriend. More of these innocent, silly moments when his guard is down and he doesn’t look haunted with the ghosts of his loneliness.

“Errands go okay?” Étienne let’s Edward hold him, checks to make sure there isn’t any wet paint on his clothes and then molds himself to Edward’s body, making himself comfortable.

“Not too bad. Good to be home though.”

Étienne makes a humming noise at the back of his throat that could be agreement to Edward’s statement, but for all Edward knows, it could simply be Étienne letting him know that he’s comfortable and cozy.

“Missed you today,” He finally says and looks up to catch Edward’s hazel gaze. The green of Étienne’s eyes is easier to see without his glasses in the way and Edward’s heart beats just a little faster. These are the moments that matter, he thinks – these quiet little exchanges that warm him up despite the cold outside.

“Home now,” He reiterates, his voice a little thick with the moment and the emotions swimming inside his head. Étienne offers him another smile for his trouble and wiggles out of his embrace to sit back on the chair. He pulls Edward along with him and so Edward finds himself sitting on his boyfriend’s lap. Étienne holds him close, head on his chest, content little smile playing on his lips, and Edward leans in and let’s himself be held.

He finally gets a good look at the painting and marvels at the intensity of it, as well as the dizzying display of figures and lines. It’s very loud, he thinks, and raw. It’s a little different from what Étienne usually does, but Edward believes he knows why.

“It’s not much – but, it helps.” Étienne offers as an explanation.

“I like it.” He does. He always means it, when he says he likes one of Étienne’s paintings. He likes the way they make him feel. From the raw emotions to the dizzying movement and everything in between. Étienne communicates in brushstrokes and white canvases he fills with his own essence and being and Edward is only glad he gets to read and interpret the messages once more.

He wonders, and not for the first time, if all of Étienne’s paintings hadn’t always been a little bit autobiographical. That if he were to put them all side by side they would tell the great story of Étienne Maisonneuve. Of his triumphs and downfalls. Of misery and victory.

“You always say that,” Étienne admonishes softly, but he still looks a little pink in the cheeks and slightly pleased by the compliment. “Thank you,” He ads and furrows his face back into Edward’s chest, where it’s perfectly ensconced in the folds of his clothing; where he’s safe and loved.

FIN

#pc: montreal #pc: edmonton #edward murphy #étienne maisonneuve #fic #projocanondoko #mercury the dog

2 notes · View notes

ohnohetaliasues · 4 years

Text

Stones to Abbigale {Ch. 1}

(Kat)

This is going to be the worst thing I’ve ever read, isn’t it?

Am I going to actively want to die? Yes, most likely. But apparently, because I run a blog like this, I can endure suffering.

Flashbacks to Blood Raining Night.

Here we go. We will start with the introduction, written by the onion lord himself.

I want to be direct, my name is Greg. I go by “Onision” online.

Okay, I dunno what it is, but something feels off about this sentence.

This book is made up of events that occurred in my own life mixed with fiction from the made up life of James. James is essentially a better version of myself.

I can’t imagine how good that could be, seeing as the man who wrote this is a child predator and is just an overall piece of hot garbage.

His home, his school & his life all resemble my own at his age.

Don’t ever use a fucking ampersand instead of the word ‘and.’ It’s just bad grammar.

The people James analyzes and is surrounded by are not so unlike those I’ve known as well.

Analyzes?

Why?

I have experienced much of the loss James has however his happier moments are more often than not also mine.

Then write a memoir. Not this.

I want to share my story without it being purely non-fiction.

I mean, some people do this with books about their lives, but this feels... Odd?

I simply felt this approach would make for a far better book. At points I cried while writing this, at others I laughed.

Congratulations.

I don’t care.

Stones To Abbigale is not just a book I wrote, it is a piece of who I am.

That’s a given for all writers, but I still don’t care.

I’m going to rip this book to shreds.

Okay here we go.

I was asleep until I met her, but when I woke, I learned the meaning of "perfect imperfection."

Is this Onion boy trying to be poetic?

It actually made me want to die.

I've always been the type of person to focus on stars as we spin beneath them, the cool breeze on a sunny day, scattered patches of grass under my feet, the world around me, often forgetting to even glance at the one within.

‘The one within.’

Okay so the way this is written makes those three things seem disconnected. I often do stuff like this when I write, but I’d write it like ‘as we spin beneath them, focus on the breeze on a sunny day, on the scattered patches of grass, etc.’

You couldn’t pay me all the money in the world to rewrite that garbage sentence. This is all very waxing poetic and not in a good well structured way.

I had remained emotionally unexplored for so much of my life.

That must’ve been boring, not experiencing human emotions like the rest of us.

You sociopath, you.

It's painful knowing some can go an entire lifetime without understanding their own heart, an internal lock waiting for the right key to change everything.

Yeah, whatever, shut the hell up, you whiny idiot.

This is like an introduction by a teenager who just opened a poetry book and was like ‘yup. I wanna write like that.’

Except you aren’t William Blake or Walt Whitman and you never will be.

Sorry, Onion boy.

Except I’m not.

Die mad about it, grease ball.

It was the first Monday of November. I opened my eyes, blinded by my recently painted wall-to-wall white room. Even my bed frame, constructed of purely metal, was painted white.

Okay, cool. I’m a descriptive writer and I take every chance I can get to mention details, but even I find this description awkward. It feels irrelevant in this situation.

It bounced off the walls causing my eyelids to desperately clamp together. Painting my room like this was a clear act of subtle self-inflicted psychological torture.

Then why in the sweet hell did you do it? Do you enjoy suffering?

Actually, he probably does.

Because this is edgy as hell.

I was going through another phase, from darkness to light, and repeat. Seemed like the story of my life.

This is so edgy I am in physical pain.

You know your symbolism is good when it’s so random that you have to point it out and explain it to your audience.

My mom could see the darker colors were depressing me, I felt comforted by them, but found there were good aspects of both extremes. I was happy to visit either side, they are both so simple. But right now the intense light bouncing from wall to wall felt like it was ripping my mind in two.

Am I an idiot or is that just... word salad?

My mom didn't wake me. My alarm clock sat on my dresser with no explanation for it's failure to function. The clock only illuminated a blank stare with 8:17 written all over it's face. While entirely robotic, I imagined the clock to have the dumbest possible expression, one complementing its failure to behave any way outside its random glitch-infested nature.

That was the worst way to write a personification ever, but okay.

In the reflection of it's plastic face I could see myself unconsciously making the dumb expression I was imaging the clock to have. I laughed in my casual dorky tone and began to get ready to leave home.

I’m not laughing, idiot.

Without breakfast, I left for school with a bogus note in hand to idealistically explain my tardiness.

You... You wrote a fake note?

Do you realize you could get in trouble for that?

You’re an idiot.

I think most of my teachers were too exhausted to worry about small variances in our appearance from time to time. With how low their pay likely was, I imagined there were very few rules most teachers cared about.

That isn’t true at all. Teachers have to pay attention to rules unless they want to get, I dunno, fired.

It was another cold day in Lakewood. The wind hit my eyes forcing tears to form in the corners as I sped along the sidewalk at a no-doubt unreasonable speed.

I cannot imagine any good imagery for this scene. I’m just imagining this gif:

I passed Lauren and Raymon walking the opposite direction, no doubt headed toward the nearby church where all the students go to smoke, make out and hide out till school ends.

Um okay. Does this guy know that if characters don’t have relivance to the story, if they have no reason to be named, than they don’t have to be?

No.

Because he’s a 34 year old man baby.

They seemed so childish as they held hands and smiled excitedly as if they had gotten away with some tremendous crime.

That sentence seems so robotic I genuinely can’t.

Mr. Hanson, my heavy-set, middle-aged history teacher, rolled his eyes as I walked into class. "James, talk to me after class" he said quickly, looking away from me as if I were an undervalued employee who was barely important enough to make eye contact with let alone deliver a full sentence to.

It bothers me so deeply that a new paragraph wasn’t started when this character talked.

"I have a note," I said. He ignored me, and continued his lecture on yet another topic that would not only be completely useless later in life, but wasn't even relevant for even a few seconds after the words left his mouth.

Why is this teacher acting like a petty teenager?

I’m deeply annoyed by this.

And yeah, it’s relevant. You have tests, you idiot. Take notes. And it’s also history, which is, again, relevant.

In conclusion, shut your mouth and stop bitching.

There was only 15 minutes left in the class, but I felt it would be more stimulating to integrate myself into the room to yet again study my classmates' behavior than to sit in a hall watching the rows of scum covered tiles inevitably slide off the decaying walls.

That’s a health code violation, friends.

Or Onion is an awful writer and he thinks describing a school like this is a good idea. My money is on that.

For as long as I remember I've enjoyed seeing how people move around and talk to each other, like they're all animals at the zoo.

Something is wrong with you, friend. Liking to people watch is one thing, but doing shit like this is something else entirely.

Uh, try sociopath-like?

Creepy as hell?

We’ll go with both.

I would try to deliver a more accurate analogy if I felt there was one

Bitch, there is. I can’t name one off the top of my head because reading this makes me feel like my brain is melting out of my ears, but I’m 100% sure there is a better analogy. Even though this feels more like a simile.

but so many of them seemed incredibly unaware of themselves, just living life as if it were some generic predefined routine.

Oh, and you’re so much better obviously, you pretentious bastard.

Sometimes I felt like an alien who had a VIP pass to submerge myself in primitive human culture just for entertainment.

Congratulations, that’s also what you sound like.

I sense everything I can take in around me. The seemingly limitless audible tones, tremors in the voices of growing children rang in my ears. In studying people, I found myself gradually learning to literally feel the various personality types I encountered.

Do you... Do you have psychic powers?

If not, shut your damn mouth.

I hyper analyzed every inconsistent smell, the seemingly random clothing styles, freckles, and assorted hairstyles filled my mind with questions. Trying to rationalize and understand what sequence of events led them to decide who they would become.

You are the most pretentious protagonist I have ever read. I’m half a chapter in and I already fucking hate you.

This character is so poorly written and immediately unlikable. i cannot relate to him at all and if someone does, I suggest you go get some help because how this asshole is behaving doesn’t sound human.

I took favor of categorizing most everyone around me. The socially inept know-it-all, the dumb attention-seeking drama kid

On behalf of all drama kids, go fuck yourself.

and the bleach blonde bimbo who gets overly defensive at the slightest hint of criticism.

Do you mean you?

Onion obviously didn’t let anyone edit this garbage.

Then there were the kids who just hoped no one noticed them at all. There was so much to be seen, to be considered and organized in my mind.

Mhm.

I don’t care.

Class had just ended so I walked over to Mr. Hanson's' desk &

And*

placed the tardy note down in passing. As I walked out with the rest of my class, he called after me. "James! We still need to talk!" I responded but continued to walk outside the room. "I have to be early to my next class! Let's talk tomorrow!"

You’re an asshole.

And I hate you.

I walked quickly down the hall towards my art class, which was awkwardly placed in a trailer outside my clearly poorly funded high school.

Um.

Okay.

On my way to the class a fight had already broken out between two jocks who, no doubt, both had controlling, iron-fisted fathers who brainwashed them into believing conflicts between men are best resolved with the bloodying of their fists.

That’s a bold thing to assume, dear Onion.

These kinds of men plagued my mind with wonder. I could not conceive a scenario in which they could justify their primitive & pointless mentalities yet they would always continue to perpetuate their self-destructive attitudes as if it offered the slightest legitimate benefit.

Oh, shut your pretentious mouth.

Most everyone nearby crowded around the fight. None of them likely cared who was winning, what it was about or how far it went. All they ever seemed to show concern for was their own amusement, always excited to see violence without having to pull out their wallets to pay for it.

Are you joking?

Where are the teachers?

This is complete bullshit.

This is high school, not a fucking fight club.

Does Onion even try to make this believable? Or is he just vomiting all over his keyboard and just accepting whatever nonsense that makes?

As the sounds of flesh collided fist to cheek & chest quickly followed the howls from the surrounding students. They would scream "Oooohhhh!" as if it were sincerely delightful to witness creatures like themselves suffer & fall apart before their eyes.

The use of ampersands is making me lose my goddamn mind.

Even if I had time to stop, I never really took pleasure in seeing strangers hurt each other. Most all fights seemed avoidable and were often initiated for a senseless reason.

Go choke on air. This protagonist annoys me more than any protagonist has. I’m not joking. Fuck this dickwad.

I know, you could say it's more complicated than that, I would like to think it were as well, but reality trumps the way I wish things would be. There's no sense in fighting it when doing so rarely helps anyone.

While this is true, this is worded in a way that’s so pretentious it’s painful and also in a way that paints this protagonist in such a white knight-y way that it makes me want to die.

As I approached my next class the image of Abbi's face illuminated the neon walls of my mind like a projector teasing a theatre screen with fleeting moments of depth & purpose.

That is complete and utter word salad. Stop immediately.

Ever since I met her, she had occupied a part of my consciousness; whenever I wasn't near her I missed her to an unrealistic extent. You could call my longing sad especially considering we had barely talked; she just had a strange effect on me, one no doubt similar to a willful addiction.

That’s called a crush, but the way that was just described is so creepy.

There are people in life which we pass by on a daily basis, barely aware of their existence, but on an exceptionally rare occasion you can find a person who fills an area inside your little world you didn't even realize needed filling.

While that’s technically not untrue, it feels like a lizard person is trying to tell me what having a crush on someone is like.

As I walked up the creaking stairs into my art class trailer I could see Abbi was sitting at her shared-desk, alone, same makeup, hairstyle & general appearance I had thought about repeatedly over the last couple days. She was drawing pictures on her blue-lined paper, distracting herself from the cold that filled the oddly glowing room.

This... This imagery is so fucking weird.

I smiled slightly trying not to be too obvious and sat down on my chilled metal chair positioned a few seats to the left in front of her. Glancing over, I could see she hadn't moved at all, I felt like she didn't even notice me come in.

You aren’t the center of her world, so yeah, she’s focused on something else. That’s just how it is, asshat.

I wanted to inspire some acknowledgment of my existence from Abbi so I opened my mouth to greet her when my fingers brushed up against freshly smeared gum under my desk. "Eeew!" I shouted out on impulse. She looked up at me with a blank expression.

I’ve accidentally touched gum on the bottom of my desk before, as I can imagine everyone has, but I’ve never shouted about it like a lunatic.

Bursting into the room came a group of boys. "Dude I think John's done bro!" one of the other boys laughed, saying "Won't see them for a week at least."

Nobody talks like this. Have you ever spoke to another human?

I looked back at Abbi to see she also didn't react to their outburst. Strangely knowing that her apathy was generalized and impersonal gave me comfort.

There needs to be a comma after ‘strangely,’ but whatever.

Her influence on how I felt was obviously dangerous but I didn't care as no matter how fond I was of the idea that I was not of the world, I knew my place and had no real interest in pretending otherwise.

Explain to me how in the hell that’s dangerous.

Jason, one of the boys energetically praising the fight they had just seen, sat in his seat next to Abbi. I smirked watching her shoulders shift away from him. Her body language sent a loud message that she had the same impression of Jason as I did. He was just another moron, placed on this Earth to live his life completely unexamined,

That word is not used properly in that sentence.

a pawn that had no awareness of its own role let alone that it was just another tiny component within a massive unstoppably twisted game.

Shut your pretentious mouth because that doesn’t make any goddamn fucking sense.

I know it sounds morbid and condescending but my attitude was just something that naturally developed the more I studied human behavior.

Bullshit.

I would be more optimistic but I find doing so would be like walking into a room with no windows and turning out the light. If you refuse to see the world around you for what it is you're just wasting your eyes.

Being optimistic means looking on the good side of things. You’ve heard the glass half empty or half full thing. it’s that. And as someone who jumps between optimism and pessimism, being optimistic isn’t like this at all.

Don’t try to be poetic or funny, Onion. Those are two things that you aren’t.

Art class was about to begin. My teacher, Mrs. Stanley, who looked like she should have retired a ridiculous thirty years ago, approached the front of the room talking about how art is sacred. She also discussed the random object she had us all draw the previous school day and ironically graded it by using her own narrow-minded definition of art.

That isn’t ironic.

I always wondered how teachers could even attempt objectively grading art. Is there any logic behind validating a form of self-expression using a cold black and white mathematical system?

It’s a class where you have to follow the curricula. Shut your damn mouth.

And this is coming from someone who hated her art teacher. But this art teacher was so utterly closed minded that she didn’t accept anyone else’s creative process. She basically told us that if we didn’t follow her process, we weren’t real artists.

"Today I'm going to place you with partners" Mrs. Stanley said as she pulled out sheets of paper outlining our activities to come. "To keep this simple, I'm going to partner you with the person you are currently assigned to share a desk with" she said. I sighed knowing I was bound to be paired up with Alex, a guy I had specifically asked to be seated away from ever since he peed in a jar literally right next to me under our desk, acting like he was so cool for publicly exposing himself while simultaneously urinating.

That... He expected to be treated like he was cool for this?

That’s fucking disgusting.

It happened weeks ago and I still can't figure out what kind of crazy it takes for you to, in the presence of people you barely know but have to see nearly on a daily basis, pee in a jar held in your hand just beneath your desk in the middle of a classroom.

At first when I read this, I thought that the wayit was worded made it sound like Alex forced James to hold the jar while he peed in it, but okay, whatever.

What then? You show it off like you will be praised and accepted as if it were an accomplishment? Alex, despite being borderline mental, was one of my least favorite people to study.

It is actually physically exhausting to read this shit. James is a pretentious asshole.

I couldn't help but feel there was some defect in his mind that invalidated the point of conducting a thorough analysis of him.

This just makes it seem like James has mind reading powers.

He was completely irrelevant when considering the realities of normal human behavior.

Behavior you don’t act according to, you lizard person sociopath.

As I was off on a tangent in my own mind I heard a familiar voice ring out, one that inspired the very same emotion you experience when a song you had forgotten you loved, randomly plays in the background of your daily life. "Can I be paired up with James?" her voice was just as I remembered.

Is this Abbi?

I have a friend who spells her name like this, so I really hate that there’s a character in this shitty book who shares a name with her.

Despite her having not spoken in class in some time, she hadn't changed a note. Abbi had interrupted the teacher just to partner with me, but I asked myself if was it really just to work with me or just to get away from Jason.

Um. Okay.

The teacher, looking irritated but understanding Abbi's discomfort with Jason responded "Alex and Jason, you'll be partners. James, switch seats with Jason" "Thank you!" Abbi said with a slight smile. With a cocky grin Jason stood up and in a comedic fashion smelled his armpit. "Wow, I didn't know I smelled that bad" Jason said as he walked over to sit by Alex.

That isn’t funny and Onion boy isn’t funny.

Approaching Abbi was no doubt a way scarier act in my mind than it was to everyone around me, I felt like my head was burning from the inside out.

That’s a little extreme.

Nevertheless I continued to remind myself that her public outcry to partner with me could have meant nothing. I sat down next to her and did all I could not to turn into a complete dork on her. She reached out and grabbed the project outline that was being passed out. Mrs. Stanley began to read the description of the assignment. "Today you will both be taking something meaningful, but expendable, from your own homes."

If something is meaningful it isn’t expendable. Stop.

Mrs. Stanley looked up and emphasized, "That you own!" then looked back down at her paper. "You will tear those items apart here in class. You will then take those items and, using the adhesives, staples and the strings available in class, find a way to create something new out of those possessions."

That’s actually kind of an interesting idea. But like. Maybe with a cup? I don’t wanna rip apart something I care about.

She looked up and said in a low voice sounding somewhat like Dracula "Two, will become one."

That is unnecessarily creepy. It reads like an innuendo.

Also, what in fresh hell does Dracula’s voice sound like?

Did she say it with a Transylvanian accent? I’m confused.

Jason raised his hand objecting, "All due respect Mrs. Stanley I'm not breaking something of mine for this class."

Jason has the right idea.

She replied putting her hands on her hips, "That's fine Jason. We'll supply you with a toilet paper rolls, we have plenty of extras around here." Jason suddenly looked disturbed and sarcastically spouted "Freaking great!"

Why???

That’s better than ripping apart a t-shirt.

Mrs. Stanley asked, "Are you sure? Your grade shouldn't suffer that much if you two just take Alex's piss jar and tape it to a toilet paper roll. You're already failing this class."

What in the literal fuck?!

You cannot say that to students. No, you can’t say that to anyone.

Jason couldn't believe what she had just said

Same.

and Alex maintained an awkward frozen facial expression with his mouth slightly open in his normal weirdo somewhat robotic fashion.

"Oh my god" Abbi whispered under her breath with a slight smirk. I grinned uncontrollably; just seeing her amused was amazing to me.

That wasn’t really funny, it was just shocking.

I could hear a scream in the back of my mind reminding me my dorkiness and borderline obsession was escaping through my face.

It's not that I couldn't help being in awe of Abbi and basically every little thing she did, I simply didn't want to change how I felt. In a way, she was like your favorite song or book, you could pretend not to like it and in time with the right mental coaching maybe you would sincerely dislike it, but life just felt so much better embracing your condition entirely, letting all your nerdy admiration flow freely.

This just reads like an obsession. I don’t have the energy to actually express how romantic feelings actually feel, but this is terrifying.

Mrs. Stanley continued, "If there's anyone else who has an issue, please take it up with my 1800 number which is?" She put her hand up to the air signaling the students to react but only a couple kids replied aloud with her catch phrase. "1-800-BOO-HOOO" they mumbled.

Sweet Jesus.

So this is what it feels like to lose my mind.

She continued, "Good, now for the rest of class please work with your partner on what you plan to bring and draw up a prototype sketch of what you feel your final piece of art will look like." Mrs. Stanley walked to the back of her room and sat down at her 1950's looking rust-infested desk.

Is this school just a giant health code violation? And what the hell do you mean by ‘1950′s desk?’ All I got when I googled that were pictures of wooden desks.

I would always laugh internally when I looked at the old thing. Maybe it was my way of coping with the fact I attended one of the most run down schools in the state.

I have nothing that isn’t full of curse words and fact checking to say here.

"What are you going to bring James?" Abbi asked.

This sentence is put so Abbi looks like she’s asking if James is going to bring himself without the comma after the word ‘bring.’ Did Onion really not edit his book at all? These are simple and fixable grammatical mistakes.

It was amazing hearing my name pass her lips but I had no time to think, if I didn't respond right away she would think I was totally awkward. "I... have no idea..." I responded. Smiling she said, "I'm going to bring my hamster cage", I asked, "Did he die or something?" she laughed, "No, I never got one, the cage was just a gift from my dad."

But you’re supposed to cut it up.

Hamster cages are made of metal.

Does Abbi just have superhuman strength? Is she going to bring a pair of bolt cutters?

"Your dad didn't get you a hamster... for the cage?" I asked.

My question exactly.

Sometimes you just...

You just gotta give your daughter a hamster cage but no hamster.

She paused and started to lose her smile.

Oh fabulous, she’s one of those characters.

At the first sign of her smile fading I felt a crushing pressure in my chest. "Hopefully you can find something that will work with that," she said. I couldn't help but feel like a total jerk despite not even knowing what I did wrong.

That interaction was so... Weird? Robotic? i don’t know. Something felt wrong about it.

I had the overwhelming urge to fix how she felt so I took a gamble, "Well, I could always bring that weird vibrating thing my mom hides in her drawers all wrapped up in a cloth" I said.

What is wrong with you?

I cannot fathom what made Onion think this joke was funny.

She busted out laughing hysterically as a huge grinned filled my face. I was so happy I could get her to smile again. "Eeew! James!" she continued to laugh as the extent of my grin began to stress my cheeks. I couldn't remember a time when I was this obvious about how I felt.

This... Something is wrong with just... all the dialogue.

And with the formatting. You make a new paragraph when someone starts talking. A 34 year old man should know this. He writes like me when I first started writing, and while this probably means he just started writing, I was 11 years old when I wrote like this.

He is a 34 year old adult. There is no excuse for how bad this formatting and how generally terribly written these interactions are.

Abbi's laughing trailed off and she paused. Turning to me she said, "You... you didn't actu- ally... your moms?"

*Pained groaning.*

I responded, "No, I wouldn't know about that, but I'm glad it made you laugh." She responded, returning to a soft laugh "You're more goofy than I thought James." I sat next to her looking at my fingers interlaced in front of me; my wide smile relaxed but still filled my cheeks with warmth.

This entire chapter, everything here, is so awkwardly written.

As class came to a close Abbi patted me on my arm. I turned and she handed me a note. Instinctively I put it in my pocket and said "See ya tomorrow", she just smiled and walked away.

????

On my way to my next class, I opened the note. I didn't understand why, but it read "NISEONE."

Not knowing what to make of it and with little time, I stuffed it back in my pocket to look over later.

Yeah, that’s cryptic as hell.

Not feeling like skating home,

Oh, we’re really getting into edgy 2000′s shit now.

I got on the bus to see all the normal rejects and misfits waiting. Davis, a short and scrawny kid who had been my best friend since middle school despite being one grade behind me excitedly waved me over.

Oh, good, more terrible characters.

"James! Nice to seeeee you!"

Oh, this bitch needs to die.

he said in seemingly the dorkiest way possible. I smiled as he stood up giving me the window seat, knowing very well by then that I preferred it.

Um. Okay.

As I sat down I began looking out the window, analyzing the little humans running left and right to get on their busses.

Buses*

And I am going to eventually kick your ass for this pretentious bullshit.

Something reached out and caught the corner of my eye. I immediately shifted my head to see what it was and quickly realized it was Abbi standing in the parking lot by some beat-up sedan.

"What'cha looking at James?" Davis asked. Without hesitation I began to respond, "Oh, it's Abbi, she's in my art..." my heart sank as I witnessed a boy I barely knew, named Seth, walk up and kiss Abbi on the lips.

Oh, boo fucking hoo. Get over the fact that she has a life outside of your crush on her.

"James?" Davis said, but by that point his voice was a faint echo in the darkness my mind instantaneously lost itself in. I felt like after a life of numbness I was finally about to truly feel warmth for the first time only to have it all taken away in an instant, leaving me hopeless in the shadows, alone once again.

Cry me a goddamn river.

You angsty pretentious idiot.

Don’t give me angsty word salad about how sad this makes you, I don’t actually care at all.

I looked down at my knees feeling as if I lost all muscle control in my neck.

That isn’t a thing that happens ever when someone is upset.

"Are... you ok?" Davis asked. I responded with hesitation "...I'm... just stupid."

You spoke to her once, you fucking dumbass.

"No you're not. You're one of the coolest guys I know!" Davis replied. I continued my silence as he offered words of encouragement. "Okie dokie, well, you're awesome and should be super happy so if you want to talk, I'm your buddy so... so I'm here to talk."

That’s uh, nice of him.

But the way he’s talking sounds like... almost mechanical? All he’s done since he was introduced has been compliment James.

I was too focused on the con- flict raging in my mind to hear anyone at that point. I couldn't think about anything but Seth kissing Abbi the entire trip home.

Oh, get the fuck over it.

That night my mom was literally just serving lentil beans she prepared on her crock-pot for the billionth time, a fair exaggeration but still, it was excessive to say the least. My sister was behaving as she usually did at the dinner table, talking about how stupid she thought school was and how she couldn't wait for college. "How was work mom?"

I mean, I’m also tired of high school. I’m really done with judge-y teenagers.

I asked trying to keep my mind off the haunting images looping in my mind.

YOU HAVE HAD ONE FUCKING CONVERSATION WITH HER. CRY ME A FUCKING RIVER, YOU BITCH.

Any normal person would express disappointment over the fact that a person they like has a boyfriend or girlfriend or partner in general, not go into a damn depression about it.

"Well, no one at work respects me or listens to me and I generally can't stand it, but you know, we still have food on the table" she said in a stern tone.

That

That is weirdly passive aggressive and mechanical.

My sister barked as food flew out of her mouth, "Well at least it's not high school. I'm learning how to be a successful person from a bunch of low-income losers."

Oh, I guess bitching runs in the family.

My mom replied "Whatever your teachers are, they have full-time jobs, which is more than a lot of people can say." My mom gave my sister Lisa a disap- pointed look. Lisa was well known for showing little respect for hard-working people. To her it didn't matter how much you gave back to society, it only mattered how much money you made.

That’s a very black and white way to look at things.

After the rerun of lentil soup I washed the dishes per my mom's orders and headed to the shower. I sat on the floor of the tub thinking about Abbi, barely feeling the water as it hit my chest.

Sat on the floor... while water hits your chest? Are you like sitting with your back arched so the water can hit your chest?

This imagery is so odd.

I was so consumed with what I had seen that I had completely forgotten the note until that moment. I quickly reached over to my pants resting on the toilette.

Why the fuck did you spell toilet like that?

That’s literally the word for ‘toilet’ but in French. It isn’t a spelling used in English. It just makes you sound even more pretentious.

Also, he reached over to the toilet to grab the note from his pants while he’s in the shower?

It’s gonna get wet, you idiot.

I had hoped I read it wrong the first time and that it would make sense with a second look only to see it read exactly what I gathered in my initial passing glance. "NISEONE"

I fucking hate you, Onion.

This literally looks like you scrambled your screen name up.

Die.

In a fire.

I mumbled to myself. I joked with the idea in my head that she handed me the wrong note but still assumed it wasn't a failed attempt to say "Nice one," which could be taken as a compliment if you were desperate enough.

That joke, while just a little funnier, is still fucking lame.

Seconds into looking at the note my eyes widened, having figured out what it meant, I jumped up slipping to my feet and screamed "YEAH!!!" I had cracked it, only to immediately after feel completely stupid for not having figured it out sooner.

I’m just done functioning.

My mom screamed through the door from her bedroom "WHAT?" I responded "Sorry! Nothing!" I hurried to finish showering.

I’d just assume he got really into jerking off.

I’ll see myself out.

Staring at my phone wearing only a towel, I smiled as I typed in "NISEONE" or "647-3663" into the number keys.

That is the most cryptic and strange way to give someone your phone number.

I assumed we shared the same area code otherwise she likely would have given me a longer sequence of letters and I was right. After two rings I got an answer. "What do you want?" a disgruntled man's voice asked.

This... This girl gave this guy a home phone number?

I guess that’s fine since this is probably set in the early 2000′s, but it’s still odd.

Like a bad engine struggling to start in a monster movie I clumsily belted out a response "I... uh... I was looking for..." An unenthusiastic female voice in the background said, "Give me the phone." "Whatever" he said dropping phone in front of her.

James can apparently see through the phone, or he wouldn’t know that probably Abbi’s dad did this.

"Hello?" I could recognize the voice now it was Abbi.

Trying to hide my excitement by maintaining a normal tone I said, "This is James." Abbi excitedly screamed

Like how girls screamed in Disney Channel shows?

That’s ridiculous.

and responded "Oh my god you figured it out!" Hearing her optimistic tone I laughed saying, "So... why..." She interrupted. "I was hoping to find out if you figured out what you're bringing to art class."

Why the hell didn’t you just fucking ask? Or give him your regular phone number? This is just unnecessarily complicated.

I said "Oh!" and looked quickly around my room. I couldn't see anything immediately so I just said, "I'll... surprise you!" She then replied "Oh come on, tell me." My eyes locked on to a plausible item for the project. "How about my... bear... I'll bring my bear!"

You’re okay with destroying a teddy bear? Okay, I guess.

I said. She replied "Oh, ok, oh! I have an idea. Instead of the cage, I'll bring in a stuffed animal of mine and we'll make like, a zombie bear."

Sounds fine.

I don’t care.

You guys are fucking boring.

I laughed "Awesome" I said. "Ok, I'll see you tomorrow ok?" she replied happily. I answered "Ok, byeee."

I would appreciate it if you would fuck off.

I can’t believe this shit is on GoodReads.

Just before she hung up I could still hear her laughing, leaving me with a sense of accomplishment and a lasting smile as if it were painted across my face.

That’s the end of chapter one?

Oh god, okay.

That was.

Terrible.

The characters are bland and flavorless and I cannot get attached to any of them. I can already tell I’m going to completely despise this.

I’ll see you next time. I need to go think about my life.

~Kat

12 notes · View notes

elizapbrooke · 4 years

Text

A discovery of pancakes

This is my newsletter from Friday, May 22. You can sign up here.

I am disappointed to announce that the bird call I thought belonged to an owl comes, in fact, from a mourning dove. “One of the most abundant and widespread of all North American birds,” Wikipedia says. It’s an embarrassing but maybe understandable mistake. I figured this owl was out during the day because it was a creature of New York like the rest of us, its circadian rhythm all fucked up by early morning garbage trucks and the blue glow of the Chase Bank across the street. The mourning dove’s coo is low and melancholy, a distinctive series of five notes. I’d certainly forgive you for thinking it’s a hoot. As I was listening to mourning dove calls on my computer and having this horrible realization, one landed on the fire escape and startled me with the loudest, most intimate rendition of their song I’d ever heard. It may as well have pressed its beak up against the glass. (I assume it thought there was a dove in the apartment.) I crept over to the window to confirm with my eyeballs what AllAboutBirds.org had already told me, and, yep, there it was. It felt so special to have a mystery owl in the neighborhood, but I guess doves are lovely birds too, with their plushy throats and elegantly tapered tail feathers. Anyway, my friend Sid tells me he’s heard owls in Gowanus, so I’m keeping my hopes up. This week I published a story for Curbed detailing the history and recent evolution of the home office. As I was fact checking it, I realized I’d accidentally talked to ten hundred sources, so please do enjoy the fruits of my labor. I’m not here to talk about home offices, though. A few weeks ago, I woke up in the middle of the night and discovered I’d been brainstorming pitches in my sleep. I was thrilled. On account of pandemic depression and seeing very little of the outside world, I’ve really been struggling to come up with story concepts, which is problematic because that’s my job. Most of my dream pitches evaporated upon waking, but I managed to hold onto one, and in my sleepy haze I thought it was possibly the greatest idea I’d ever had. It was: PANCAKES ARE HAVING A MOMENT IN QUARANTINE. I decided I’d email the New York Times first thing in the morning. In the light of day, I realized that there wasn’t really a story there. When you’re writing a trend piece, you want to be able to point to, I don’t know, at least four really solid examples from the public sphere. My evidence was:

Alex and I had made pancakes recently

We were planning to make them again

I’d recently discussed pancakes with Molly and Vivian

I’d heard you can make pancakes from sourdough starter discard (which actually does speak to the zeitgeist)

But here’s the thing. Pancakes are a great topic for a newsletter. So here is my pancake article.

***

I’ve always liked the look of a big stack of pancakes, but I never really got why people were so into eating them. I like a breakfast that is hyper-functional and maximally filling. Because I’m an aging hippie, my preferred breakfast is a double-sized bowl of Ezekiel cereal, which tastes like delicious cardboard and fulfills 42% of your daily fiber needs. Pancakes, like pastries, always struck me as glamorous but pointless. I was even somewhat distrustful of my mom’s pancakes, which are dense and nutty, not sweet at all. Her recipe came from a “chiropractor/health nut in San Diego about 31 years ago” and involves grinding your own flour from winter wheat berries, groats, rye, brown rice, and millet. I love them, but a family pancake breakfast still makes me feel very out of control. This all changed a few weeks ago when Alex and I decided to make pancakes for dinner. All I can say is that quarantine has a way of melting away the rigid little fucks you used to give. For once, the chaos I associate with pancakes sounded fun and freeing. Also we’ve been watching a ton of Parks & Rec, and I was feeling inspired by Leslie’s diet of waffles and whipped cream. We made buttermilk pancakes, extra fluffy ones that require you to whip the egg whites on their own for several minutes before folding them into the batter. Two with banana chunks, two with bits of frozen peaches, two blueberry, one bonus plain for me. I had mine without anything on top, enjoying the choking feeling of eating so much cakey carb. It felt like a hug. When I saw my friend Todd post a gorgeous stack of pancakes on Instagram, I asked him if he had any theories about why they’re such a good quarantine food. At first he thought I was trolling him, but when I told him I was dead serious, here’s what he said: “What I love about pancakes right now is that they feel both ordinary and radical at the same time. Ordinary because they are nostalgic, all-American, homey, comfortable, and approachable. Anyone can make them. But there’s also something really subversive about a stack of pancakes right now—the gluten, the non-plant-based butter and eggs, eating breakfast when Goop tells us we should be intermittent fasting, so forth. Eating pancakes in the time of coronavirus brings into focus how overwhelming wellness culture has become in recent years—celery juice and collagen smoothies will never, ever, ever beat a big, buttery, syrupy stack of flapjacks.” I would agree. Given my dedication to breakfast foods that involve sprouted beans—which predates our wellness moment but was certainly bolstered by it—I definitely find pancakes subversive. They make me feel nostalgic, too, but not for anything I’ve personally experienced. For weekends in high school that I spent ensconced in the television world of Gilmore Girls, maybe, where breakfast at Luke’s Diner is a comfortable routine. As I continued my journey into pancake reportage, I sought out the perspective of Sarah Jampel, an editor at Bon Appetit. While pancakes made from sourdough discard have their fans, Sarah is not particularly one of them. She’s also team waffle. I don’t really have a horse in the pancake/waffle debate, but Sarah makes a compelling case. “I have thought a lot about pancakes,” she emailed back when I asked if she had anything to say about the topic. “And yes, I have made them since isolation started—mostly because I'm ‘every woman’ and my fridge is overflowing with sourdough discard. ‘Put it in pancakes,’ I thought. The issue is that I need to add more flour (as well as butter or oil and leaveners) to sourdough discard to turn it into pancakes, so I ultimately end up using more ingredients for the sole purpose of not throwing some stuff into the trash or compost (but really, the trash). And even though pancakes sound nice in theory—why not start the day with a hot breakfast instead of the usual routine, eating a Clif bar with one hand while the other clings bare to the subway pole (huge sigh of nostalgia)?—in actuality they're inferior waffles. Unless you take care with your pancakes—loading them with lots of butter and separating the egg yolks and whites (this recipe's my fave)—they're too mono-textured.” Never fear: Alex and I loaded ours with an alarming amount of butter. I suppose it is to be expected that when you go out hunting for pancake insights, you come back with waffle testimonials. When I asked Alex’s high school friends to weigh in on the appeal of pancakes during a global shutdown, Nico said, “Waffles are the superior carb. They provide greater textural variety and are a better delivery vessel for condiments.” (Dylan has been eating toast all quarantine, and Dan “didn’t understand the question” because the only god he acknowledges is the Joy of Cooking’s pancake recipe.) My friend Molly has been eating a lot of savory pancakes under quarantine, for breakfast or lunch. She sautées a bunch of garlic and kale in olive oil, adding scallions at the last minute, and then sets the vegetables aside in a bowl. In goes the Bisquick, and she adds the kale mix on top of the pancakes as they cook; after a minute, she tops the pancake with shredded white cheddar so that when she flips it, the cheese turns crispy. She’ll eat that with a runny egg or garlic yogurt. I can’t wait to see her again so she can make one for me. Pancakes are one of the few foods that Molly has consistently been able to stomach during this period of immense anxiety. They have a strong positive association for her: in pre-corona times, she would make savory pancakes after playing soccer on Saturday mornings. Those games are one of the things she misses most right now. We talked on the phone while she made her daily trip outside to juggle a soccer ball. Molly likes to chat with friends during these breaks because bouncing a ball on your feet benefits from loose attention. “Cooking a pancake is similar,” she said. “It requires some focus but it’s not that hard. You don’t really need to cut anything. You just watch it.” Alex always says that cooking is meditative for him. I would respectfully disagree—to me, it feels more like hurtling down a mogul course—but I can see it with pancakes. You’re just systematically waiting and flipping, waiting and flipping. After making buttermilk pancakes, we progressed to Sqirl’s buckwheat pancakes for lunch on a Sunday. I can’t find the recipe online, but here’s a photo. For those who are lucky enough to have dodged my Sqirl talk thus far, it’s a phenomenal, semi-healthy breakfast and lunch spot in Silver Lake. Every time I’m in LA, I badger my companions into going right when it opens at 8 a.m. so we’re sure to get a table. When I was there to write about Dax Shepard in November, I high-tailed it to Sqirl right after our interview and embarrassed myself in front of the staff by inhaling bits of a particularly seedy cookie and having a loud coughing fit, after which I went around the corner to die in private. Alex and I thought we had all the requisite ingredients for Sqirl’s buckwheat pancakes, other than cactus flour, but the recipe calls for corn flour and it turns out cornmeal isn’t the same thing. We subbed in whole wheat, so they weren’t really Sqirlcakes, but they were still tasty in a restrained, earthy way. Alex convinced me to try one with raspberry jam, which I reluctantly admit was a great pairing. A week or two later, we made them again. I wasn’t really hungry because it was 2 p.m. and I’d already eaten lunch—Alex had just gotten up—but I pledged to eat my portion cold out of the fridge. Alex thought this was insane, but he sometimes forgets that I like my food a little squidgy. We went grocery shopping the next morning, which was as much of a bitch as it always is right now. Even though we’ve gotten the process down to a science, it still takes three hours from start to finish, with significant angst on my part about the cleanliness of the inbound goods. Finally everything was put away, and Alex headed off to take a shower. I was agitated and crazy hungry. I scrubbed my hands one more time, pulled the pancakes out of the fridge, and promptly dropped one on the floor while trying to get it into my mouth. I ate the rest in big, angry bites, one after another, standing in the middle of the kitchen. I didn’t want to sit down in my outdoor clothes. The pancakes were perfect, though. A shot of sweet, comforting carb straight to the heart.

3 notes · View notes

vminni · 5 years

Text

Mr. October

“Holy shit!” Jisung’s hand tightened around Seungmin’s arm, his fingers digging into the soft flesh as he gasped. “Oh my god.”

“What’s happening?” Seungmin glanced around, but he didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. Just a bunch of sleep deprived college kids making their way to class, a typical Monday morning scene.

“It’s him,” Jisung’s voice shook with excitement and his eyes were wide, blown with shock. “Mr. October!”

“From your weird sexy calendar?” Seungmin took another look around the courtyard, trying to find a familiar face. The calendar had been hanging in their shared dorm room, open to October, for the better part of two years. Jisung had quite a thing for the October model, and nearly bit Seungmin’s head off the first year when he made the mistake of switching it to November.

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god,” Jisung’s hand finally fell from Seungmin’s arm and Seungmin took a few steps back so he wouldn’t be grabbed again. Jisung didn’t notice as he adjusted the black beanie on his head with trembling fingers. His eyes were locked on a boy huddled one on of the benches that lined the courtyard, bent over a book and barely recognizable. Seungmin squinted but, even knowing who Jisung was staring at, he couldn’t tell if it was actually the calendar model. Jisung, however, seemed certain. “How do I look?”

Seungmin cocked his head to the side and appraised his best friend. Jisung was dressed simply, in black skinny jeans, a white shirt and an oversized denim jacket. Black boots, the beanie and a chunky watch completed his look. Seungmin shrugged, “Cute enough.”

“Cute enough?” Jisung whined, fiddling with the cuffs of his jacket as he snuck a quick peek at the boy on the bench to make sure he hadn’t gone anywhere. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you don’t look your best or your worst. But you still look cute enough to hit on a boy.”

“This isn’t just any boy! This is Mr. October. Cute enough isn’t going to cut it,” Jisung pressed his palms to his cheeks, eyeing the boy from under his lashes. He was still sitting on the bench, still focused on the book in his lap and unaware of the effect his presence was having on Jisung. “What am I going to do?”

“You can either go over there and talk to him as is, or come to class with me, like a good student,” Seungmin has started backing away and Jisung pushed up the sleeve of his jacket to check his watch, noting that they had five minutes before class begun and half the campus to still walk across. “Not to abandon you in your time of need, but I don’t want to be late.”

“It’s okay,” Jisung tugged his sleeve back down over his wrist. “I’m going to come with you. I can’t talk to him.”

Seungmin couldn’t hold back his surprise. Jisung was a lot of things, but lacking in confidence was not one of them, “Is this because of what I said? You look great, Jisung. Really.”

“No, I just...what would I say to him? Hey, love that shirtless picture of you with a cat from the fundraising calendar the animal shelter did in 2018?” Jisung scoffed. “He’d think I’m insane.”

“Thank you,” a new voice, rich with mirth, caused Seungmin and Jisung both to startle.

Seungmin turned, but Jisung was frozen, his eyes wide and face burning as he searched for an escape. He could vaguely hear Seungmin proclaiming ‘oh, it is you!’ but if the boy responded, Jisung didn’t catch it. He was too busy dying of embarrassment.

He was just about to bolt, already thinking about dropping out of school and fleeing the country, when Seungmin’s hand closed over his shoulder and spun him around.

Standing mere feet away, in all his glory, was the boy Jisung had been drooling over for a year and a half. He’d just bought the stupid calendar because Chan wouldn’t shut up about what a great cause it was and Jisung was tired of hearing about it. He went to throw out the calendar when he got home, but he missed the garbage can and it landed on the floor, open to October.

Jisung had been madly in love ever since.

“Hello,” the boy offered Jisung a crooked smile and his hand. “I’m Minho. So thrilled to meet a fan of my work.”

Jisung could tell Minho was teasing him, but he was too embarrassed to quip back. Instead he slowly pulled down his beanie until it covered most of his face, groaning as he did so.

“Well,” the familiar weight of Seungmin’s fingers wrapped around Jisung’s wrist, “we’re already late for class and Jisung seems to have stopped functioning, so I think it’s time for us to be on our way. It was great meeting you.”

Minho was on his stomach on the floor of his room, tugging things out from under his bed as he searched desperately for the animal shelter calendar. He’d shoved it under there the day he came home with it, ashamed and embarrassed of the whole thing. He’d been volunteering at the shelter for two months when they brought up the idea of the calendar to him and he agreed, not fully grasping what it was going to entail. He hadn’t know he was going to be posing shirtless until the day of, and at that point, it was too late to back out.

Minho had never even looked at the photo. He just hid the evidence and hoped no one he knew would purchase the calendar.

He had actually managed to forget about it, until he heard the two boys in the courtyard this morning. Then it all came rushing back.

Minho was mortified, but he’d managed to play it off as cocky. Luckily the other boy seemed to be too caught up in his own embarrassment to notice Minho’s.

He finally fished the calendar out from underneath an old textbook and stood up, rubbing away the dust that had gathered on it in the years it had been under there. Minho dropped onto his bed and set the calendar in his lap, staring at it for a few seconds as he tried to work up the courage to open it.

Was it worse to be unaware of what the cute boy from the courtyard was staring at, or would it be worse to see the picture and actually know? Minho couldn’t decide.

He drummed his fingers off the cover before taking a deep breath and flipping it open. He hurried through the pages until he arrived at October and saw his own face staring back at him.

The picture had been taken during his junior year, when he was facing his toughest load of dance classes. Because of that, his body looked like it was in the best shape of his life, though Minho had spent the whole year tired and hungry and sore. The picture didn’t reflect any of that and Minho begrudgingly admitted that he looked good. Really good. His abs were defined, his arms were toned and the smile on his face was soft and beautiful, due to the tabby winding its way around his ankles.

Minho closed the calendar and shoved it back under the bed before he shucked his shirt off, crossing to the full length mirror that hung on the back of his door. The body he saw there looked nothing like the boy from the pictures. He was slim and his arms were alright, but the definition in his abs was long gone. Minho poked at his flat stomach and sighed.

He wondered if the cute boy would still find Minho attractive if he saw what was under his shirt now.

It was three days after their first meeting in the courtyard when Jisung ran into Mr. October again.

Jisung was heading out of the library, paying more attention to the phone in his hand than anything else, when he heard a soft noise that sounded like recognition.

He knew it might not have anything to do with him, but he glanced up anyway and was met by the pretty eyes of his calendar crush.

In the few days that had passed, Jisung had gotten over his embarrassment and no longer cared that the boy knew about his infatuation with him. The way Jisung saw it, the boy had willingly participated in the sexy photoshoot, knowing that people were going to purchase the calendar. There was no reason for Jisung to be ashamed about enjoying it. That was the whole point of the calendar.

Jisung quirked a smile at the boy, who had paused a few feet away from the entrance of the library, “Hi, Mr. October.”

“Minho,” the boy looked flustered, his cheeks pink in the late afternoon air. “My name is Minho.”

“I know,” Jisung shoved his phone in his pocket and moved closer, shooting Minho a wink. “But I like Mr. October.”

Minho seemed surprised and his face darkened even further as he avoided eye contact with Jisung, “You’re not shy today.”

Jisung shrugged, “I’m not embarrassed about liking the calendar.” Minho didn’t need to know that the only picture Jisung liked was his, “That was the point of it, wasn’t it?”

“I guess,” Minho fiddled with the strap of his backpack. Jisung found himself smiling at the way they’d reversed roles today, him the confident one and Minho now awkward. “Well, um, I’m glad you liked it. And thanks for supporting the shelter.”

“Would you want to grab coffee sometime? Or maybe dinner?”

Minho blinked, glancing around as if he thought Jisung might be talking to someone else. When his gaze landed back on Jisung, he looked unsure, “I, um, I’m not what you think I am.”

Jisung was quick to apologize, feeling a bit like an idiot, “I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to assume your sexuality.”

“Oh, no, ah, it’s not that. I like boys.” Minho chewed on his bottom lip, hands still tight around the straps of his bag, “I just...I’m not like the picture anymore.” His blush flamed up again, “I don’t have abs.”

Minho’s eyes dropped to his feet and he looked ashamed, as if he expected Jisung to retract his earlier invitation now that this information was out in the open.

“I don’t care about that.”

Minho’s gaze jumped back up to Jisung’s, still hesitant, “You don’t even know me. All you like is that shirtless picture.”

“I want to know you. That’s why I asked you out.” Jisung offered Minho what he hoped was a reassuring smile. He could tell the other boy was feeling very self-conscious, “I mean, yeah, all I know about you is that you’re hot, but you’re still hot without a six pack.”

Minho’s hand fell to his stomach, resting there lightly as he finally nodded at Jisung, “Okay. I’ll get coffee.”

“Happy 100 day anniversary.”

Jisung glanced at the flat wrapped package in his boyfriend’s hand, then back up at Minho, “We said no presents since we’re both broke.”

“Well, I got you one anyway,” Minho dropped the gift onto Jisung’s lap, then settled down on the couch next to him, cuddling into his boyfriend’s side. “Besides, I made it. I didn’t spend any money.”

Jisung reached under the pillow behind him and withdrew his own present, which he held out to Minho. Minho smacked him on the arm before taking it, “Why call me out on getting you a present if you got me one too?”

Jisung shrugged, then looked from the present in his lap to the one in Minho’s hand. There was a smile tugging at his lips, “I think we had the same idea.”

Minho glanced down at the flat package, his own mouth quirking up, “Sexy calendar?”

Jisung let out a soft laugh as he nodded, “Sexy calendar.”

Minho pressed a kiss to his boyfriend’s soft cheek, “Open on three?”

On the count of three, they both tore the wrapping off their presents. Jisung let out a loud peel of laughter and Minho grinned, satisfied by the reaction. Jisung held up the calendar Minho had made, which featured his picture from the animal shelter calendar as the front cover, “The Mr. October calendar? I can’t believe you actually called it that.”

“I heard you were a big fan,” Minho shrugged casually, but was unable to keep up the act when Jisung jabbed him with his elbow. He broke down in giggles, beaming at the boy next to him. Jisung shook his head, eyes soft with fondness, and gave Minho a quick kiss before he returned his attention to the calendar.

Minho rested his head on Jisung’s shoulder as the younger boy flipped through the pages, exclaiming happily every time he opened to a new month. The pictures were dumb, just Minho posing in different places in his apartment without his shirt on, but Jisung seemed delighted by each and every one.

The calendar Jisung had gifted Minho was much of the same, though he’d tried a bit harder than Minho had to actually be seductive. There was a lot more lip biting in Jisung’s calendar.

When Minho flipped open to May, he was met with a surprise. Instead of another picture of Jisung, there was a picture of the two of them, along with a heart surrounding the day of their first date. Keeping with the theme, they were both shirtless in the picture, tangled up in Jisung’s bed. The covers had slipped, revealing their bare chest and stomachs. Minho was asleep, his head tucked into the curve of Jisung’s neck, and Jisung’s arm was tight around him, his fingers splayed across Minho’s flat stomach. Jisung was smiling sleepily at the camera and scrawled along the bottom of the picture, in Jisung’s messy handwriting, was a note.

‘Mr. October, abs or not, I’ll always be your biggest fan.’

#minsung #han jisung #lee know #i hate this so much #i've been struggling hardcore with writing lately #everything i write is garbage #i know it's dumb but i feel more pressure since there aren't a huge amount of minsung writers #like when i used to write 1d everyone wrote 1d #but i feel like barely anyone writes minsung so it makes me feel like i need to do better idk #i know i'm overthinking it this is literally a hobby #but my brain won't shut up

80 notes · View notes

succubused · 4 years

Note

how do you like deal with years of stopping and starting creatively. like idk i have a lot of ideas for things and a lot of love and passion but the act of doing the thing is more exhausting and unfulfilling than it should be, prob because of my own standards and everything reads like garbage so i give up for v large stretches of time, but because i've given up i haven't improved really but i still want these things out there and to be shared i just don't know how to get off the ground anymore

ok here let me show you something. two things with me my art and my writing. this was the first thing i drew when i started drawing again (about two months ago, after ~2 years of barely drawing at all):

and here is a drawing of the same character i finished last week:

writing its harder to show and im significantly more embarrassed by my older writing lol. but just know that if youre familiar with how i write now i started with like, really short form fan writing that really was not that good, and that was in like october 2017 after not writing regularly for like.....literally since i was a kid, and i was only doing that sort of thing for over a year. i hadnt written anything longer than 20k words until this most recent november and now im 50 pages into a novel manuscript which i guess this is all sort of personal anecdotes but when you do something every day even if you think it’s shit you’re still doing it. and you get used to doing it and you figure out your own patterns and eventually you figure out a way to enjoy doing it. basically its not gonna change on a dime but just do it every day thats my only advice even if it doesnt feel inspired or feels tiring just have an hour or two every day where you just fuck around and find out and no one has to see it you dont even have to save it if you dont like it i write and delete crap all the time trust me. but just get used to doing it. just think of it as a normal ingrained part of your day not something that you have to gather a monument of energy for

#Anonymous

1 note · View note

alyssaadamsonauthor · 4 years

Text

Claws

Streetlights passed overhead in metronomic rhythm—one, two, three, four—illuminating black upholstery—five, six, seven, eight—and white knuckles perched at the steering wheel’s upper crest—nine, ten, eleven, twelve…

Still, no matter what proof assured her she did move, Jamie felt no closer.

It had been so long since she’d last visited Alice at home that the memory of every right, left, right turn occurred to her with hardly the time to spin the wheel. A year ago this Christmas by her own measure, and only to pick up the USB drive she’d lent the younger girl for her Introductory Spanish final. Alice’s mom had been aghast that she wouldn’t stay for dinner, but she’d only come on her fifteen-minute break and wasn’t much a fan of spiral ham. Alice has told me so much about you, the elder had enthused with a toothy grin, but how could she, when her daughter knew so little already?

If she could’ve foretold Mrs. Marx’s struggles would claim her life by November, she liked to think she would’ve smiled a little brighter. Maybe spared a laugh. Come up with a better reply than, we don’t speak of you much.

She wouldn’t let that frigidity cloud any more cries for help. And after six weeks, three missed meetings, half a dozen calls sent to voicemail…Jamie knew it could be nothing but.

As the little houses and white picket fences of the suburbs turned to high apartment buildings and windows boarded up with wood planks, the streetlights thinned out, casting the sidewalks under darkness. Alice’s building looked much the same as all the others: about twenty stories high, red brick, and falling apart. Even from the ground, she could make out her window on the thirteenth floor by the duct tape holding the glass in frame. Dim light lived within.

Jamie frowned. “You can binge Netflix ‘til midnight but not pick up one phone call?” Surveying the teenagers—out too late for anything good—that watched her from the dark, she knew her new car wouldn’t be leaving this neighborhood unscathed. “You’d better be swinging up there, kid.”

Her stomach flipped. Maybe not swinging, but…bleeding…or crying. Something temporary.

She whispered a prayer for her Mustang as she threw herself from its front seat, locking the doors with a click of the remote in hand. Her coat caught on the heel of her boot—an unfortunate casualty of the office dress code. There hadn’t been time to change.

Unlike the buildings she’d acquainted herself with in Short Hills, there was no doorman or revolving door, or windows into a gleaming lobby—only a door, studded with chipping green paint beside a list of doorbells. Perhaps at one time they’d been used for unlocking the ancient door, but not anymore: a block of wood sat at its corner, propping it open.

Casting another look over her shoulder at the car, still well within view, Jamie appraised the worn slip of paper beside the number 1304: A. Marx. Her finger burned—six, seven, eight times—over the bell to the tune of a mechanical buzz.

“Come on, Alice,” she whined. This didn’t have to be a sleepover. If she could get a sniffled, Just a broken phone, Jamie. I’ll call you when I get a new one, she’d be home by one a.m. and back to work at seven.

A hope for naught. With every insistent buzz, she received no answer.

Jamie sighed. Whatever got stolen off her car, she would call it a win if she could still drive it after all this. The only thing worse than spending the night in this foul city would be staying for two.

The white light beyond the door blinded Jamie to a long hallway of nondescript doors. As her eyes adjusted, she picked out ripped wallpaper lining the walls, the stain of yellow along the ancient carpet, and garbage. Lots of garbage. From somewhere in the general vicinity of the elevator came moans that raised gooseflesh over her arms.

She darted for the stairs. Every cursed piece of gum and unidentified brown goo clung to her boot, but she shoved such trivialities away by the tenth floor in place of a baser need for oxygen. Her calves burned, arms aching to hold her up against the arm rail. By the time the thirteenth-floor landing approached, she’d already decided: if Alice was still alive, it was a temporary state. Jamie fully intended on pitching her out the window by night’s end.

Her fist against 1304’s door echoed down the hall. The upper floors, while at least devoid of the piss stains in the emerald carpets so prominent down below, didn’t get such an abundance of lightbulbs. These were the lower-watt kind, more of an amber than white and the one over Alice’s door had burned out. It had been burned out last year, too.

“Alice?” she hissed with another slam of her fist to the wood. She hissed when the door slipped a splinter into her pinky. “Ouch. Alice!” She kicked the door, to no answer. Forgetting all desire for quiet, she shouted, “Alice, open the door!”

She gripped the knob, waiting for the catch of the lock, but it turned easily, door swinging open without even the deadbolt’s interference.

Weird on a normal day, but, today, it raised every hair on her body. “A…Alice?”

The door groaned until it stopped short against the inner wall. Jamie stepped in, already entangled in a mess of Alice’s shoes strewn across the floor. Was that cause for concern? The last time she’d walked in, the place had been immaculate, but that had been Christmas…

On another step, she turned a corner into the living room to find a lamp, overturned. The hand-me-down sectional sat under a cover of its own snow-like innards and every pillow corpse lay empty across the floor. She crept in, picking at every little bit of fluff before she cast it to the floor. Alice didn’t lay within; rather; she’d stacked the cushions into a pile at the room’s center. The frame lay broken around it, sat up to wall the soft interior like a nest.

As Jamie stood, turning back toward the hall, she froze, meeting the wall that separated this room from the kitchen. It wasn’t the mess of canned spaghetti on the black and white tile that stopped her breath, or the sink, stacked high with pots, pans, plates, and half-eaten steak and other unidentified meats. Or even the fact that every cabinet’s white doors hung open.

It was the claw marks. Five, torn into the dry wall all the way to the pink insulation within.

“What?” she whispered, arm already half-outstretched to touch. At the first brush of jagged edges, she pulled it back to herself. Was this a joke? “Alice?”

No one answered, but, as she listened, she made out other sounds. Wet sounds, like the slurp of spaghetti.

That kid was fucking with her. What other reason could there be for this mess?

Nevertheless, she staggered ahead on feet that wanted nothing more than to turn back. This was an awful lot of work for a joke…

Water stained the hall carpet, product of a running toilet spilling across the floor. Beyond that, the bedroom door hung open, the only glow from the nearest building’s floodlight through the window.

The slurping grew as she edged closer, taking the doorway in both hands. Jamie leaned around the corner, fingers shaking, tongue dry around another call of Alice’s name.

Yellow eyes.

The gleam of teeth.

Blood. So much blood.

A man lay across the floor, body limp and head tilted back in deep unconsciousness. The porcelain shards of a lamp glimmered around him, a very few embedded in his temple.

The face that looked up from the end of the stranger’s arm was at once familiar and completely unrecognizable. Its mouth, stained red by the hand it had detached from the man’s wrist, housed four rows of teeth like serrated blades. Its yellow eyes glowed, wide and hungry, as it met her gaze. The creature had to be over six feet tall, skin nearly green and scaly in patches across its cheeks.

Still, it was very clearly Alice. At least, it was trying to be.

The Alice Jamie knew didn’t make five feet and had most certainly never had more than one row of perfect teeth, as she liked to display in the headshots she badgered her for an opinion on with every impending casting call. The shock of blonde hair had gone uncombed but they looked like they had, at one time, been the curls usually so pristinely arranged around her pixie face.

Jamie didn’t breathe. There wasn’t time.

With a deep growl, those alien eyes narrowed, Alice’s new, thick legs coiling beneath her. In a single kick, she threw herself across the room, arms outstretched to wrap around Jamie’s shoulders.

Jamie shrieked. Dropped to her knees. Felt the air as Alice soared overhead.

The other girl hit the wall with an unholy crash, but she didn’t even hesitate to turn on Jamie, teeth bared and red and dirtied with the remnants of human flesh from its last snack. From her first step, Jamie threw herself into motion, taking off toward the front door on ankles buckling inward with every step.

The thing followed so close, Jamie could feel its every unsuccessful attempt to grab her shorn hair. As she neared the door, arms out to wrench it open and hopefully—hopefully—slip out before she got eaten, something like a knife dragged down the back of her neck, tearing her flesh open and turning her coat into nothing more than twin rags, sliding down her arms.

“Agh!” The pain was distraction enough. She hesitated for a mere instant with hand in mid-turn on the knob and pulling. It was all the time the creature needed to pin her against her only exit and slam it shut.

“A…Alice!” she shrieked, head smashing against the wood. Her ears rang, time slowing around her. Her words emerged as thick as the canned spaghetti. “Get off.”

The doppelganger pressed itself completely to her back, holding her in place with heavily muscled arms and legs. Its scales grated against the skin bared by her torn coat. Its tongue probed at the center of her back, trailing up the cut it had torn from her skin.

Tasting her.

Jamie’s body shook, so small in the arms of a predator. Instinct bubbled up inside her like impending vomit, urging that she scratch, bite, run, something before death tore her throat open with the same talons it had ripped through the drywall. It gripped her around the arms, cold to the touch and tearing her flesh with every light touch.

As its head dipped, it breathed over her neck, tossing her hair into her face. She swallowed hard, unable to move, unable to inhale, unable to speak. It reared back, jaw coming down around her shoulder with a snarl that reverberated all the way into her chest.

Pain exploded from every conceivable corner. Like needles and rocks and ice and fire and something Jamie knew no one could have felt before. There would’ve been a word for it if such a pain had existed before this moment. There would be books about it. Classes. Dissertations and lectures and statues.

Her body went limp, falling against the creature as it tore the sleeve of her shirt and four rows of teeth’s worth of flesh away from her whole. She slipped away, landing face-first on the carpet, but the creature didn’t seem to care.

Jamie glanced at the door through the haze of tears building within her eyes. Escape was so close, within reach, but her shoulder screamed so loudly she felt it in her legs, her arms, her face. She couldn’t find her limbs in her muddled brain to move them.

It chewed her. Loudly. And when it swallowed, it reached for her again, flipping her onto her back so the world around her was only glowing yellow.

Jamie’s lip quivered. This was it. Death. “Alice…P…please?”

The beast stilled in its descent toward her throat. Eyes like liquid gold flickered, yellow, then gray, then yellow, and gray again. Alice’s face, green and scaly, cooled. Her jaw snapped shut, lip turning down into a frown.

Her new, monstrous mouth opened to reveal a single row of inhumanly sharp teeth. Rather than its deep bellow, Alice’s voice emerged, “Jamie?”

The world around her swirled, but Jamie managed the smallest smile. “Y…yes. Yes. It’s Jamie.”

Alice withdrew, standing stiff to look back over her shoulder at her bedroom door. A whimper like a wounded dog passed her thin lip. Her body clenched, clawed hands gripping at the sides of her head. “Go away,” she cried. “Please, go away.”

Jamie reached for her. Perhaps it was the blood freely pouring from her shoulder. Perhaps it was the last of her fear festering where sympathies she’d never had before lied. She no longer saw the creature of scales and claws and teeth, even if that was exactly what stood over her. She saw herself, standing with arms over her head, pleading that the voices go away.

Her fingers breezed over Alice’s knees.

In one moment, the Alice-beast stood over her with mouth drooling Jamie’s blood.

In the next, she was gone.

#Original content #monster #blood #horror #thriller #read #thursday #romance #love #lovestory #author #book #blog #fiction #writing #story #chapter #beginning

1 note · View note

make-it-mavis · 5 years

Text

Cousin-in-Law (part 1)

Wreck-it Ralph fic ('Mavis Lives' AU) 6006 words Drama Characters: Make-it Mavis, Felix, Calhoun, (Ralph and Vani briefly) Content Warnings: dirty jokes/language, brief violent imagery

Premise: Turbo died, Mavis survived. She was sentenced to life imprisonment in her old game. Felix and Calhoun are engaged to be wed, and Mavis is none-too-pleased about it. Following one of her chaotic whims, she decides to crash their date night and properly meet her cousin-in-law to be.

------------------------------------------------------------

It was late summer, with 2013 well underway. Gamers young and old were still braving the Californian August heat to come play their days away, bleeding quarters in Litwak’s inviting air conditioning. But there was a finality to it. Soon, September would rear its inevitable head, and with a large portion of the customers occupied with school and homework, daytime business would slow down, attracting mostly adults hoping to get some kid-free arcade time. Sprites who worked the arcade games had divided feelings on the season changing. Some preferred the kids, the hustle and bustle, the full work days. Others liked the quieter adults, the vacation from mayhem, the chance to relax a bit. Some honestly did not care either way.

For the most part, Make-it Mavis was in the third column. No longer being involved in gameplay at all, it hardly made a difference to her day-to-day. Slower business only really meant that her cousin, Fix-it Felix Jr., might have had more time between gamers to visit with her, which was both good and bad in its own right.

Really, as the year crawled on, her thoughts only turned more to the approach of November, and with it, the anniversary of her life crumbling around her.

Now imprisoned in her original game, a life sentence for a life of crime and cruelty, she made an effort to hang onto the last companionship she had. She and Felix might have been very different and not always seen eye to eye, but she believed he was the last sprite alive, or at least, the only one she could see anymore, who really loved her. Several times in her thirty years, life had made a point of teaching her not to take that for granted. While she may not have been ready to fully open her heart to someone again, she could at least spend time with him.

So, on a Thursday night, just a couple hours after the arcade closed, Mavis sat with Felix at a quaint, round table in his brightly lit, yellow apartment that barely seemed different from when she last saw it in the 90’s. They each had a plate of delicious cherry pie taken from a quarter-empty tin in the middle of the table, although Mavis had barely touched hers, and Felix had around half left, having slowed down to be polite. They had been talking -- that is, Felix had been talking. In their visits, Mavis had preferred to listen, only piping in now and again. There just seemed so little to say. They had lived in two worlds completely apart from each other for fifteen years, so they both had plenty of stories to tell. But at least Felix’s stories were not supremely awkward for Mavis to hear. She could not have said the same for the other way around.

Besides, any distraction from the grief was a good one. Even if he did tend to ramble.

“But, as it turns out,” he said to her, taking a moment to eat a single cherry, “as it turns out -- my toolbox? It was buried in Duck Hunt the entire time.” His brows raised and his fingers spread out a bit, putting extra oomph behind the underwhelming reveal.

“No way,” she flatly humored him, still managing a half-smile.

“I know,” he said, sharply gesturing at nothing. “By golly, I never would’a found it if Ralph didn’t confess. Needless to say, I unfortunately had to have Mr. Peepers banned--”

“Aw.”

“Yes,” he sighed, delicately picking up his cup of coffee with both hands. “But at least our ducks have felt a whole lot safer since. I don’t think they’ve ever forgiven Ralph for letting a dog in.”

Mavis would have liked to point out that the Dev-forsaken wrecking ball did not deserve forgiveness in any form, but she bit it back. There was no point.

Felix sipped his coffee and gingerly placed it back down on its coaster. “Anyhow, Mavy,” he lightly clapped his hands on his lap. “If you’d like to finish that pie, now’s the time. My lady-love will be arriving shortly.”

She smiled vacantly. Yes, his lady-love. His freshly caught towering beast of a woman. Tamora Calhoun, protagonist of the game where those metal insectoid hellspawn came from. Mavis would still have a life, if Calhoun’s game was never plugged in. Mavis was not a fan.

To make things even better, she would soon be her cousin-in-law.

“Loud n’ clear,” she sighed lowly. In one fell swoop, she took the piece of pie in her hand and shoved the entirety of it in her mouth, only missing a few crumbs and smears of syrup. As she swallowed parts whole and chewed the rest, she looked to Felix, who was now the one wearing a vacant smile.

“Is it good?” he asked quietly, passing her a napkin. She took it and wiped the mess from her mouth.

“Mm,” she grunted through a dangerously full mouth. “So good.”

She then stood, gulping down the contents of her mouth and straightening her clothes. “Well, I guess I’ll be takin’ my leave,” she drew her brush from its golden holster and stepped towards the window. Felix got up and strode over.

“Thank you for coming, as always, Mavy dear,” he sang, a real smile on his face.

Having trouble accepting the smile, she let her gaze wander from him. Still, she found enough manners in herself to smile back, at least a bit. “Yeah, yeah,” she muttered. “Thanks for the pie. As always.”

“You take care of yourself, now,” he instructed. “Take it easy.”

“Felix, chill. I’ll be fine,” she said, hinting with a couple scoots toward the window. “Worry about your fiance, yeah?”

His smile showed a hint of uneasiness. “Of course,” he mumbled. There was a brief pause, and Mavis knew very well that this would have been the point where he hugged her. But by some miracle, he had learned to respect her boundaries.

He, of course, did not know that she had overcome her touch aversion as Pyrite. But for whatever reason, hugging him was still hard, so she would reveal that fact to him later.

In lieu of a hug, she lightly punched him in the shoulder. He flinched a bit and rubbed it, but took the gesture with a strained grin. As she sat on the window sill, she nodded to him. “Seeya, Felix.”

“Bye-bye Mavy,” he waved a tiny bit. Just then, there was a knock at the door. He leapt up like a spring, suddenly fully beaming. “Oh! That’ll be her! I hate to shoo you off, Mavy, but--”

“I’m out,” she rolled her eyes as she swung her legs around to dangle them outside the window, off the height of Niceland that once seemed so tall, but after visiting the royal chambers of the candy castle so many times, it barely seemed a foot off the ground.

That was when an unsavory sound reached her ears, and movement caught her eye. Down below, on the massive expanse of bricks, rubble, and garbage, Wreck-it Ralph and his new friend Vanellope Von Schweetz were goofing off. It looked like they were rooting through the trash, pulling up random items and showing each other or throwing them at each other. They looked to be having a hell of a good time, as Ralph got up and started chasing the kid around with a big fistful of garbage. There were flashes of blue as she glitched and dodged. Their laughter and shouts seemed to echo through the whole game.

Mavis’ knuckles turned white as her fingers curled into claws under the windowsill. Deep, visceral hatred shook her insides, and instantly, she felt sick. It was their fault. It was all their fault. Almost nightly, she dreamed of taking revenge for the life they brutally murdered. She dreamed of the twig-like snap of that glitch’s puny neck, of letting that hulking ape bleed out slowly, feeling the warmth of his blood pooling at her feet.

Those dreams soothed like nothing else.

But, seeing as Sugar Rush needed a ruler, and seeing as Ralph could not die in his game, and seeing how being in the same vicinity as them, but unable to act, felt like psychological torture…

Felix’s voice called from inside the apartment, proddingly, “Goodbye, now, cousin-o’-mine!”

Impulse took over.

“Y’know what?” she said sharply, turning to crawl back inside. Felix had frozen just a few feet from the door. Mavis smiled with her eyes. “I’ll stay.”

“Wh-Wh-Wh-” he stammered, looking at her like she suddenly transformed. Mavis had no doubt that he secretly wanted her to leave so that he could have alone time with his ‘lady-love’ -- a perfectly reasonable thing to want. But he would just have to wait.

“I just figure it’s time I meet my future cousin-in-law,” she stepped fully into the apartment again, holstering her brush. Then she paused, and shrugged, aiming right for his weak spot. “Y’know, unless… you don’t want me here.”

There was another knock. Felix screamed a bit inside his mouth.

“No, no, that sounds fine and dandy, Mavy,” he said, rushed, through gritted teeth. He then elected to not keep his love waiting, and bound over to open the door. Mavis rested a hand on the back of her previous chair, quietly observing the exchange.

The woman was so damn tall, she had to duck her head a bit to see inside. Of course, her eyes were immediately on Felix, who opened his arms enthusiastically.

“Hello, Tammy-darlin’!”

Calhoun smiled and crouched, letting her shortstack fiance hop into her arms for a tight squeeze. “Hiya sweetums,” she purred. The two pulled apart enough to share a quick peck on the lips, and Mavis audibly cringed under her breath. There was something so wrong about seeing anyone kiss her cousin. She had never even taken into account that he could ever have been in love. Not that he did not deserve it. There was just a grossness to it.

When they separated, Calhoun stepped into the apartment as she stood. Somehow, she still managed to avoid seeing Mavis. Felix was, apparently, just too captivating. Mavis shook her head.

As Felix closed the door, Calhoun asked him, “So, how’d your day go?”

“Uhhh, well,” he smiled nervously, obviously in anticipation of the awkward meeting about to happen. Her head tilted a bit as he looked up at her, wide-eyed, and then his eyes darted over to Mavis. Calhoun followed his gaze. Once she saw Mavis, she stood a bit straighter, merely looking confused.

“Oh.”

Mavis flashed her a split-second smile. Calhoun gave her a small nod, and glanced down to Felix questioningly.

“Tammy, my dear,” Felix began, voice a bit wobbly, “you know my cousin, Mavis.”

Calhoun glanced at her again, and lifted a hand briefly. “Hey, Mavis.”

“Hey,” she nodded back.

The couple then began muttering to each other. Mavis could not fully hear them (her ears not being what they used to be, having worked with fireworks and explosions her whole life), but she gathered that Calhoun wanted to know what was up, and Felix explained that his cousin wanted to meet her. She did not seem to think it was a good idea, for reasons Mavis could not hear, but Felix reassured her.

Mavis yawned.

Finally, the two fully faced her. Felix prompted Mavis with shaky hope in his voice, “C’mon Mavy, come meet your… cousin-in-law!”

“Future cousin-in-law,” Mavis muttered. Calhoun squinted at that just the tiniest bit.

“I’m not gonna bite ya, kid,” Calhoun said, putting her hands on her hips.

“‘Kid,’” she gave a falsely sweet smile. “I’m thirty years old. How old are you, again? Ten months?”

The snark did not quite break the skin on the toughened military woman. She frowned, but her brows raised, and she nodded slowly. “Uh huh…” she said deeply, looking down at Felix, who looked like he could have started shaking. “You sure you two are related?”

Growing tired of being spoken of as if she were not there, Mavis quickly painted feathers on her heels and rose up to be at eye-level with Calhoun. Even if this woman had not played a part in the destruction of her life, she never liked meeting anyone at hip-level, or having them crouch down to talk to her, as if she really were some kind of kid. She was a grown-ass woman and would meet everyone eye-to-eye.

She floated over to hover at arm’s length from Calhoun and really get a good look at her. The first time Mavis saw her, she had been staring down the barrel of her oversized gun. Calhoun was, after all, the first to find her slinking around the reaches of Sugar Rush a couple weeks after the incident, during a routine patrol to make sure all the Cybugs were really gone. Since then, Mavis had made a point of avoiding her, of avoiding even seeing her. She just triggered some truly terrible memories. However, seeing her outside of her armor was just a little different. That night, she looked… pretty normal. White tank, camo cargo pants, shiny dog tags. She looked… almost approachable, even with her formidably muscled frame.

Mavis stared into her warm brown eyes that were partially obscured by her messy, yet somehow perfect blonde hair. Calhoun met her gaze with no ounce of fear, no nerves. There was a challenging look in there somewhere, and Mavis met it readily.

Smirking a bit at Mavis’ floating and its obvious intention, Calhoun extended her hand between them.

“Sergeant Tamora Calhoun,” she said in that gruff voice of hers.

Mavis paused, staring at her hand for a moment before locking eyes with her again, stone-faced.

“Oh,” Felix piped in quietly. “Tammy, dear, Mavy really doesn’t like touch--”

Cutting him off, Mavis clasped Calhoun’s hand tightly, and felt a firm squeeze grind the bones in her hand in return. “Make-it Mavis,” she smiled flatly, shaking her hand. “Formerly known as Pyrite, who was formerly known as Make-it Mavis.”

“Pleasure,” Calhoun smiled with her teeth. Mavis noticed that she was not letting go, and decided that she would not let go, either. As their handshake carried on an inappropriate length of time, she noticed the cold touch of metal in her hand. Calhoun was wearing an engagement ring -- simple, elegant, with small diamonds laid into the band. Mavis would have expected Felix to get her a ring with a diamond the size of a skating rink, but she supposed that would be impractical under armor.

A quick glance at Felix revealed that his jaw was slack, staring at the effortless skin-to-skin contact she was making. She snickered at him.

Once the handshake really had gone on for a frighteningly long while, Felix threw his hands up and exclaimed, “OH, mercy me, the pie’s gettin’ cold! C’mon you two, let’s chow down!”

After just another moment of intense eye contact and painful squeezing, they moved to pull away from each other. But, to Mavis’ surprise, Calhoun actually caught her hand for one last second, turning it over to look at it.

It would have been hard to miss the abnormalities on Mavis’ left hand. Fairly young-looking, horizontal pink scars scored her hand and palm, slicing rows that disappeared up into her sleeve. Most notably, out of her fingers that were also speckled with smaller cuts, the last knuckle of her ring finger was missing, cut off in the middle of the second digit.

Acid simmered in Mavis’ stomach as she yanked her hand away, but she gave Calhoun nothing more than a sharp look of warning. She saw Calhoun’s eyes narrow before she turned away to approach the table.

As they continued to eye each other, Felix had somehow already cut each of them a slice of pie, and he was nervously babbling to himself.

“One for you, dear-- and one for you, dear-- Oh, seems it really has gone cold, I can go microwave-- Ooh, no, wait, I should get some ice cream to go with-- Oh, no, that’s right, I’m out of ice cream-- Oh, but I’m certain Mary will have some and be happy to share. I should go see-- Oop, nope, nope, I should definitely not do that…”

“Honey,” Calhoun reached to touch his shoulder and gently direct him into his seat. “Sit. You’re fussing.”

Felix smiled nervously and shifted around in his seat, trying to settle in. “Oh, I’m sorry, dear, it’s just that I’m…” he clasped his hands together on the table, “...so excited… for my fiance to be meeting my… lovely cousin properly… I’m… so happy…”

A dreadfully awkward silence fell over the three of them as they ate their pie. Mavis sort of relished in it. She was still unsure of her motive as far as staying went, but at the very least, inflicting an uncomfortable situation on Calhoun was enjoyable.

“So!” Felix piped in, startling them both. “Did you two see that sunshine comin’ in today? Oh, it was gorgeous, but talk about blinding! I gotta tell you, it’s a good thing the gamers were tellin’ me where to go, because golly, I could not see a thing!”

Calhoun grunted. “That’s nice, dear. Too bad for me, I don’t see any of that through the first person shooter.”

“Yeah, Felix,” Mavis jabbed, meaning to mock Calhoun’s tone. “Don’t you know anything about Hero’s Booty?”

Calhoun shot her an unimpressed look. “Duty.”

Mavis cocked her head. “Doodie? Please, Tammy-dear, we’re eating.”

Before Calhoun could react, Felix interrupted with loud, anxious laughter. “HA-Ha-ha--!! Oh, Mavy, what a kidder you are!”

“I’m not kiddin’,” she smiled, pointing at him with her fork. “I think she’s gonna ruin your appetite.”

There was a clang as Calhoun put her fork down on her plate. She placed her elbows on the table and laced her hands together in front of her chin, looking at Mavis the way a parent would look at a difficult child.

“So, Mavis,” she said calmly, “why don’t you tell me about yourself. What’d you do before becoming a murderer and stealing Sugar Rush so you could crush a child’s dreams?”

Picking up her cold, nearly full coffee, she only took a second to consider that. “Buffs, mostly.”

Felix whined.

Calhoun squinted. “...Buffs.”

After taking a sip and being weirdly delighted at how gross the cold coffee was, she continued, “Yeah. Buffs, booze. Vandalism. Petty theft. Destruction of stolen property. I used to play music as a job. I liked dancing. I really liked sex. Rough sex. Quite often in public places. I was really into masochism -- for a long time, my favorite thing was getting choked--”

“HAha--!!” Felix interrupted with a horrified, wobbly laugh.

Mavis looked at Calhoun. She was still just squinting through her bangs, and Mavis could not have been sure what reaction was coming. She was surprised to see her burst into barking laughter. She slapped the table hard, rattling their plates as she leaned back in her chair.

“Felix,” she said, grinning at him. “You didn’t tell me she’s funny.”

For a second, Mavis gave her cousin a sharp look. “You didn’t?”

Felix flinched, and Mavis fully processed what Calhoun said. She looked at her, raising a challenging brow. “Y’think I’m joking?”

“Oh, no, I believe you,” she scoffed. “It’s just that you’re sayin’ all that to try n’ shock me, or make me think you’re some kinda grisled old badass, but all that’s coming out of such a pretty little face. It’s like having a kitten tell me its shanked five guys. It’s just funny.”

Mavis could feel her hackles rising, but she put on a lovely smile anyways, and batted her lashes. “You really think I’m pretty?”

“Yeah,” Calhoun leaned forward again, her voice flat and sarcastic. “You’re drop-dead gorgeous.”

“In that case, why don’t we go splay out on one of the picnic benches and I can find a few more ways to make you laugh?”

Calhoun sputtered and wheezed, once again giving the table a good slap. “Oh, wow,” she chuckled, before looking at Felix, who looked built purely out of anxiety. “I like her.”

“You could say that to me,” Mavis muttered quietly behind her teeth, not loud enough for them to hear. They were still looking at each other, smiling sweetly, the anxiety on Felix’s face being soothed just a bit. Something awful churned around in her insides, and it only spiked when Calhoun reached over to tweak his cheek slightly. The amount of love shared between them was truly palpable, and it was more than she could bear. A horrid hybrid of grief and jealousy rose up in her throat.

“Speakin’ of looks bein’ deceiving,” she said loudly, snapping them out of their gross staring contest and leaning her elbows on the table to mimic Calhoun’s previous position, “what is the deal with you two, huh?!”

Calhoun spoke, “Uh--”

“I mean, we got this skyscraper of a woman here sniffin’ around a guy nearly a third of her size -- what’s the problem, sweetheart? Not up to giraffe beauty standards, so you gotta go around beggin’ field mice for a piece of action?”

That got her. The sergeant snapped to attention, straightening up, her eyes hostile. “...You sure you wanna do this, pint-size?”

Mavis just laughed insincerely and turned to Felix, who was trying to find a subtle way to wave his hands in a ‘STOP’ motion. “And you! C’mon, man, what the hell? A sergeant from an FPS who shoots bugs all day? I have literally seen you cry over accidentally stepping on a butterfly. Is it ‘cause she’s hot?”

“M-Mavy--”

“Come to think of it, that marriage does seem to be comin’ up quick, don’t it?” she hissed a laugh. “You’ve known each other, what, ten months-- Oh! Wouldn’t ya believe it! That’s just about as long as you’ve been plugged in, ain’t it, Tamora?”

Calhoun’s fist was clenching the blue tablecloth hard, her eyes practically on fire. A nasty grin grew on Mavis’ face. It was just as she thought -- the otherwise steely sergeant was a bit touchy when it came to her relationship with Felix.

She was almost completely sure that Calhoun would not hurt her, because hurting her would hurt Felix. With nothing to lose but teeth, she decided to continue to push that theory.

“What, you get plugged in, and right outta the code space, you’re on the hunt for some shrimp dick? Or did ya just hop on the first guy who was nice to ya? You ain’t even a year into the world, n’ still, here you are, engaged?” Sick grin still wide, she looked to Felix and pointed towards his fiance. “You really gonna sweep a gal up before she even knows what marriage is?”

Calhoun reacted quicker than Mavis had thought. She leapt to her feet, her massive frame nearly tipping over the table, sending Mavis’ fork tumbling to the floor. Her stance was poised forward, ready to reach over and grab the offending little shit, but Felix sprang out of his seat and braced his hand against her hip.

“Tammy,” he said hushed and quickly, “Tammy, darling, it’s alright. It’s okay. She doesn’t know. She doesn’t know. Please, sit down.”

Mavis, of course, did not know what it was that she supposedly did not know. Although she was curious, it came completely from a place of nosiness. No part of her really cared.

“Aw, now look what you’ve done to my fork,” Mavis scolded Calhoun boredly.

Calhoun remained standing, but bent over the table to lean one outstretched arm against it. The table was far too low for it to be an intimidating gesture, but she owned it anyway. With a deep breath and a testy smile, she pointed one finger at Mavis. “Okay, pipsqueak,” she growled. “You’d best take a hike right about now, if you know what’s good for you.”

Mavis held Calhoun’s burning gaze for a few long moments, emanating nothing but spite. Beside the sergeant stood her cousin, watching her with clasped hands and pleading eyes that just begged her to comply. But, over the time of her life, she had made an art of letting Felix down.

She feigned a yawn. “Y’know what? Nah.”

“No?”

“Nah,” she shrugged as she tilted her chair back to cross her dirty shoes on the side of the table. Putting her hands behind her head, she said, “This my game. In Hero’s Booby you can try to boss me around all you like, but in here, you can’t make me do boo.”

Felix gasped.

“I don’t feel like leavin’,” she continued. “We were havin’ a conversation, weren’t we? Like, I get why this gal rushed into the marriage, y’know, bein’ a lovestruck ignorant dumbass, but you, Felix? Ain’t you grown outta that crap yet? Or-- or, no, I get it. I get it. You’ve always been a wait-until-marriage kinda guy. You’re just real eager to get into her armor, huh? Which, I mean, really? Look at you two, how good could it possibly be? Are y’all even gonna feel anythin’ when you consummate, or is it gonna be like tossin’ a hotdog down a hallway?”

That just tore it. In a blink, Calhoun lunged and roughly seized Mavis’ collar.

“Woah--!!” Mavis yelped a bit as she was yanked out of her seat with more force than she was expecting. Felix shouted in protest, but before he could take any action, Calhoun had dragged Mavis right across the tabletop, knocking all of its contents to the floor, to hold her right up close and try to pierce through her skull with a single look. Feet dangling high off the floor as Calhoun held her at eye-level, a smile slowly crept onto Mavis’ face once again. Maybe Calhoun really was going to hit her. If so, she could not help but look forward to it.

The two were grinding their teeth, ready to rip into each other at any second.

“TAMORA!!”

Felix’s raised voice smacked them both in the side of the head. They paused, and both heads turned to look at him. He was standing close by, red in the face, breathing hard, body shaking, looking and sounding ready to cry. He shouted again in a volume he saved only for dire emergencies, “DON’T HURT HER! PLEASE! SHE’S MY FAMILY!”

Calhoun stared at him, and her shoulders relaxed a bit as her expression turned apologetic… at least to Felix. Mavis, however, knew she had hit the nail on the head. The big, scary sergeant could not harm a hair on her head, not so long as she loved Felix. This was a delicious fact, one that would no doubt serve her well.

“Tch,” Mavis scoffed a bit, singing in a hushed voice, “trouble in paradise…”

“AND YOU!!”

Mavis startled. She never liked it when Felix really got shouting. It was weirdly eerie.

He stomped over, pointing a trembling finger, his voice still high and frightful. “Can you just-- just-- ju-- sh-- sch-- SHUT UP FOR ONCE?! THERE! THERE, I SAID IT!”

The women said together, “Wow.”

“And look! Look what your fighting’s done!” He stepped back and gestured widely to the gore of their cherry pie dessert, splattered over the carpet, oozing out from under overturned plates. What was left of their coffee spread wide, dark stains across the floor, and the tablecloth and placemats were almost entirely tossed off the table. “The pie! The carpet! Our EVENING!”

Weirdly enough, Mavis actually did feel kind of bad. The pie did not deserve that. Neither did Felix, really. She had long since retired from intentionally causing her cousin genuine distress. Calhoun, however, seemed to have never even been in the business at all.

Calhoun let go of Mavis’ collar, but instead of dropping to the floor, she elected to continue floating in place. She watched as the other woman crouched next to the very distressed Felix, her aggression dying down as she whispered what must have been apologies and reassurance. Felix was slowly soothed, taking deep, steadying breaths as he held both her hands.

Even if she did feel bad, Mavis was not stable enough to ignore her deeply-rooted nature. Folding her arms and crossing her legs, she cleared her throat.

Calhoun did not look at her, not fully. She merely turned her head towards her shoulder for a moment, and growled, “Just go. Get out.”

“Hello-o?” Mavis sang. “We were havin’ an altercation, here?”

Turning a little more this time, Calhoun barked, “I said, get out!”

Felix leaned to peer around Calhoun at Mavis. He looked a little calmer, but no less red. “Mavis, it’s okay,” he said softly, but insistently. “We’ll talk later, I promise. We just need a little space right now.”

Mavis’ muscles seemed to go rigid just from pure stubbornness and spite. She hardly felt like she could have moved, even if she wanted to. So, she just let her eyes fall nearly shut, and replied, “If ya want me gone, get rid of me.”

It did not take Calhoun any convincing. In a blink, she was upright again, and she stormed back to yank Mavis by the shirt again and drag her through the air to the window. “I can’t believe--” Calhoun hissed under her breath, before fully growling, “What is your major malfunction?!”

Mavis grunted as she was shoved backwards towards the window, but she braced her hands and feet inside, shaking as she pushed against the strong hand of the sergeant trying to force her back through the gap. “My malfunction?!”

“YES!” Calhoun yelled with a hard shove. “Your PROBLEM! What is your PROBLEM!?”

Mavis could almost physically feel a sharp sting inside her as the frayed cloth holding everything back was punctured. As things began to tumble out, the hole only expanded, and she could feel everything about to crash down at once. It was not going to be pretty.

At least there was a chance Calhoun would be buried in the landslide.

“My problem?” Mavis hissed breathlessly through a quivering, joyless smile. “My problem?! You wanna know what my problem is?!”

“YES! Enlighten me!”

“My problem,” she spat, volume growing, “is that I should be at home, eatin’ dessert n’ makin’ eyes with MY partner right now, but I can’t, because thanks to YOUR game, I can never go home again, and my partner is dead! He’s DEAD! I had to watch one of YOUR monsters EAT him, and turn him into-- into a-- a--”

Trying to access the thought, horrible pain spiked through her head and red static crackled through her ears and vision. She really was falling apart, so much that her body was having trouble keeping her pixels together. The glitching grew so intense that her senses were all but gone. Eyes squeezed shut, she fought hard to push her voice from her throat, until it burst out in furious screams that she could barely hear.

“--a NIGHTMARE!! And he died! He burned up in that Dev-forsaken volcano! And-- and YOU--”

She hoped she was looking at Calhoun. She could not tell anymore.

“My problem with YOU, is that every time I see you, I hear him scream, and-- and I hear the-- the METAL, and I see him turning into-- and-- and I think of those BUGS and EVERYTHING they took away from me-- but here you are! Muscling in on the only family I have left, as if you didn’t take enough of my life already! And I’m supposed to be fine with this?! I’m supposed to be civil?! You’re askin’ what’s wrong with me-- YOU’RE what’s wrong with me! You n’ your MONSTERS that murdered the man I’ve loved for THIRTY YEARS!”

Finally, her words ran dry. Her heart was pounding painfully against her ribs, and she could feel herself shaking from the core. Slowly, the painful red static that numbed her senses began to fade, and she could hear… silence.

Vision back online, she found herself sitting on the floor under the window. Calhoun’s boots had backed up a few paces. Looking up at her, squinting at the overhead light, she saw a peculiar look on the sergeant’s face. She looked… shaken. But not exactly the sort of shaken she might have expected. There was shock in her eyes that did not feel right.

Body hot, head pounding, Mavis merely stared up at her, waiting for a response and trying to steady her breathing.

When Calhoun finally spoke up, her voice was raw, low… almost horrified. “He turned?”

Mavis swallowed. “...Yeah. He turned.”

“And…” she pointed a bit, “you saw it?”

“Yes.”

“And you were…” Calhoun’s eyes grew distant, and her voice shrank, “...in love with him.”

Mavis’ heart felt full of rattling gravel. After a harsh, painfully hot sigh, she said, “Okay, what the hell? Why don’t you know all this? Didn’t anybody tell you?”

After a moment’s pause, her gaze drifted over to Felix. Mavis could not see his face from where she sat, as it was obscured by the table, but she saw his feet flinch a bit.

Calhoun said quietly, “No. Nobody told me any of this.”

To Mavis’ surprise, Calhoun then turned and strode quickly towards the door. Shakily pushing to her feet, Mavis held onto the back of what was Felix’s chair and watched as he chased after her, spilling apologies.

“Tammy, Tammy, wait,” he pleaded, eventually grabbing a hold of her hand as she stood by the door. “Darling, I’m sorry, I-- I was going to tell you, I just didn’t want-- I-- I was waiting for the right--”

Calhoun sighed and crouched, pushing a finger to Felix’s lips. She spoke quietly, but Mavis managed to hear her say, “I know. It’s okay. We’ll talk about this later, I promise.”

She stood again, gently nudging Felix away from the door. As she opened it and walked through, she said, “I just need some time to think.”

The door closed, her boots clopped down the hallway, and she was gone.

Felix did not move from where he stood. Mavis could tell he was wringing his hands slowly, thoughtfully, anxiously. She frowned. With Calhoun gone, all she had left to look at was how much crap they had just dragged him through. For a moment, she wondered how she ever managed to be so routinely cruel to her sweet cousin… but she knew that her cruelty never exactly went away. It changed shape and moved on to new victims, but as much as Mavis was meant to entertain and enliven… she was also meant to torment and terrorize.

At least Felix was out of her cross-hairs.

She crossed the room, carefully stepping over the gruesome mess of food on the floor. She approached Felix, and when he did not turn around, she gingerly placed a hand on his shoulder. He startled and turned quickly.

Before he could speak, Mavis said as softly as she could, “I ruined your night on purpose. I’m sorry.”

Taken aback by her hard-earned ability to apologize, Felix said nothing.

She continued, “Let me help you clean the floor.”

That shocked him even more. His face twisted up a bit. “...Really?”

“Yeah,” she half-smiled. “I know. I’m nice, sometimes.”

Felix half-sighed, half-chuckled, shaking his head. “Golly, Mavy… Thirty years and I’m still askin’ what I’m ever gonna do with you.”

“Well, for starters, you can show me how to clean a carpet,” she shrugged. “I don’t clean messes. I make ‘em… a lot.”

“Well okay,” he reached to give her shoulder an affectionate squeeze before softly trodding towards the kitchen. “I’ll get you some tissues, too.”

Her face screwed up. “Tissues?”

With a hand on the kitchen door, Felix merely gave her a kind, rueful glance over his shoulder before going in. After a moment of gear turning, she figured it out. Swiping her fingers over her cheek, she found them soaked. She sighed.

Of course she had been crying.

#fanfiction #wreck it ralph #make it mavis #fix it felix #calhoun #realized i hadnt written tammy at all and then this exploded from my wrists #im thinkin 4 parts?#keep getting more ideas #ENJOY

18 notes · View notes

jitterbugjive · 5 years

Note

also (not saying this to pressure you or in an accusatory way I just don't know how to wright it otherwise) approximatly when were you planing on doing the November patrion sketch stream?

November was 100% stress, shit, and half unable to even draw, so it’s postponed and I don’t know what to do about it yet, sorry.

Not saying this at you in a ‘i’m pissed you asked me’ way, the next stuff is just how pissed this whole month has made me

I have way too much backlogged now and I’m pretty fucked up every shit creek right now so, 50+ commissions, who knows how many patreon streams because I don’t have a good way to keep track of that right now (Patreon added a new option for reminders, I’ll see how that works) then I have the MMG pilot to finish along with all the reference materials needed to pitch it to a publisher and I would have had Coach’s character sheet done by now were it not for computer issues but now it’s just stuck there as a sketch with me totally helpless to do anything about it, then there’s Dotty which I need to update monthly, then there’s Dissy who is supposed to be finishing in a little more than a year and at this rate I’m terrified I won’t make it, Lovestruck is supposed to be done before the end of next year too, DWnA needs editing and constant attention and script writing that I’m just not able to do with everything else, and I STILL have that fucking animatic I need to finish from years ago but tooooo muuuuch shiiiiit keeeeeeeps preeeeeveeeeenting meeee from working on annnyyyythhHIIIIININNNNGGGG

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

it SURE WOULD BE NICE IF THE WORLD GAVE ME A BREAK FOR EVEN A DAY TO CATCH UP

THAT WOULD BE NICE

BUT ALAS

EVERY DAY FOR THE PAST 3 WEEKS HAS BEEN

-overcrowding

-stress

-anxiety

-depression

-arguing with my mom over religion and my gender identity

-constant struggle to not have a mental breakdown

-computer dying

-computer tablet refusing to work with newer computer

-newer computer having the faultiest windows 10 ever and causing hours of delays daily from trying to fix all its dumbass problems (Open Office was today’s fuck-adoo, I just had 40 minutes of work ERASED because it thought ;hur hur i gotta restore everything even though nothing was closed in the first place’)

-new tablet is a pain in the ass to get used to and is making it impossible to draw beyond sketching because the lines will not behave no matter how much I fuck with the settings

-Clip studio and Win 10 aren’t mouse mode compatible with eachother so I can’t draw in Clip Studio period, which is where I need to draw MMG, which is supposed to be COMPLETED this month

I’m sure there was a lot more but this month has been such a hellish piece of shit that it feels like it’s lasted half a year and I can barely remember all the garbage that happened.

so yeah maybe when it’s actually POSSIBLE for me to draw comfortably, I’ll be able to make up for it

but for now I can’t make any promises because EVERYTHING WANTS TO FUCK ME OVER ARTISTICALLY

#bunnysunnymew

6 notes · View notes

maevefiction · 6 years

Text

Your Light in the Mist - Chapter 34

We spent the remainder of our summer and early fall in London living like normal people and doing normal things. I’d get up and head into work each morning, my main focus having shifted to overseeing Trudy’s progress on the app and delving into creating pages on the Prosper site for all our clients, while Tom kept his social media activity at the level we’d agreed upon, in conjunction with working out, running lines for Skull Island, meeting with BFI and UNICEF, as well as reading the rest of the Vampire Chronicles.

Each night, we’d either eat in or go out to one of Tom’s favorite spots for dinner, and each weekend he’d take me to what he considered a ‘cannot be missed’ landmark or locale. Sundays were usually cinema day, my personal favorites we viewed being The Man From U. N. C. L. E. and American Ultra. Tom was fond of Before We Go, but I pointed out that he had to like it otherwise Captain America would kick his sorry ass, because he already had it out for him over the whole Loki wearing his suit thing. Interestingly, other than a random pap here and there in the heart of the city, we were essentially left to our own devices. No one seemed to care that we were walking around Regent’s Park drinking tea and coffee, having pizza, or grocery shopping. There were fans on occasion, and Tom was always gracious, stopping for a selfie and/or a chat, with me waiting in the wings or taking pictures. I had known it was possible to maintain some degree of anonymity no matter the level of fame involved, and now I’d come to the conclusion that it had a lot to do with the behavior of the celebrity themselves and directly proportional to the size of their entourage. Which we didn’t have, nor wished to have. Granted, Tom had yet to achieve rock god status, but still…if we smiled, waved, and moved on, so did everyone else. People being people.

Two weeks after his sisters had been informed of their father’s infidelity and misdirected their anger at Tom, Emma came over to our flat and they Skyped Sarah, talking through tears and shouts for two hours before apologizing to each other and realizing that the blame lay with no one other than Diana and James themselves. It was a huge weight off his shoulders, and it allowed us to move forward, both of us having dealt with our pasts as well as we could for the time being. Healing, learning, and discovering more and more of each other with every day that passed. Mundane things, like what kind of toothpaste either of us preferred, when we’d learned out times tables…the feeling that I’d always known him becoming increasingly prevalent and so very welcome. While I’d recognized that we were not only lovers but friends as well that night when I willingly shared my Ben and Jerry’s with him at the beach house in Hawaii, I couldn’t have imagined how deep that friendship would become. We lived, we loved, we laughed, and it was astounding to me that I could feel such…peace.

In mid-September the insanity began, both of us going on the road for the promotion of not one, not two, but THREE projects, High-Rise, I Saw the Light and Crimson Peak. The San Sebastian Film Festival, Toronto International Film Festival (where we ran into Norman, there promoting Sky, whose premier he invited us to and we attended), the BFI London Film Festival…it seemed endless, the screenings, Tom doing interview after interview, photoshoots and photo calls, Q & A sessions. How he managed to keep which project he was promoting at which event was a mystery to me, and I found myself asking him ‘dude, what’s this one for again’ more than once, and I spent nearly every moment behind the lens of a camera.

Nights were when I edited what I’d gathered and emailed it to Tom, who’d then post it all across his social media accounts. Then came updating the website, followed by fast and furious fucking, then sleep. At some point in all the chaos he‘d dragged me into a coatroom and fucked me from behind, but the when and where wasn’t the slightest bit important at the time so determining its actual geographical occurrence is now impossible…but other than that, we behaved ourselves, acting like grown-up professionals with jobs. I enjoyed just fading into the background and watching him shine. His performance in all three films blew me away, but High Rise was my favorite story. The abortion scene in I Saw the Light made me cringe, especially when I considered how he must have felt filming it, so soon after what he’d been through in his personal life. As soon as it was over, he’d leaned over and kissed my cheek, his hand in mine, both of us squeezing gently.

October twelfth found us in New York City, staying at my apartment, me packing up boxes to be shipped to London that week. My books, the rest of my clothes, and my computer. The rest would remain for when we visited, and while I knew I’d never sell the place, I also knew London had, in an obscenely short period of time, become home. The New Orleans house had been completely cleaned out, the August estate sale netting upwards of one hundred thousand dollars, and Tom made good on his promise to donate a matching amount to the women’s shelter while the actual proceeds were delivered to Will’s wife anonymously. I wasn’t sure what to do about renovations, but was hoping to stop in at some point during the holiday season and think it through.

The fourteenth was the NYC premiere of Crimson Peak, and we’d agreed that while I’d attend, I wouldn’t walk the carpet. He’d balked, at first, but I’d convinced him that doing so would allow everyone to focus on him and his co-stars, which was exactly where the focus BELONGED. I wore the black version of the red dress I’d worn to Daniel, and spent the entire limo ride back to the apartment following the after-party with his face buried in my breasts.

We flew to Nashville on the seventeenth to prepare for the premiere of I Saw the Light…Tom’s anxiety level ratcheted up to a nine, dreading the possibility of an appearance by Claudia. I steeled myself as best as I could, but, thankfully, it was completely unnecessary. The director wanted the venue to be small and down-home, so only bare-bones cast invites had been extended. Meeting his co-star Lizzie was a blast…she was friendly, funny, dorky and gorgeous. The two of us hung out in front of the stage as Tom performed for the crowd, dancing like a couple of idiots and singing along. He was incredible, those damn hips distracting me to no end, and his SMILE, my lord. He’d tried to teach me some guitar chords while we were on the road, but, as expected, I sucked in a way that no one had probably ever sucked before and decided once and for all that being able to sing was enough musical talent for one human being.

Principal photography for Skull Island was slated to start on the nineteenth on Oahu, but Tom wasn’t needed on set until November second so we decided to take a holiday the two weeks prior on Kauai. He’d even managed to sweet talk the reservations gal into giving us the same room…the one I’d been staying in when we met, number 203. As soon as we arrived, we both changed and headed out to put our toes in the sand, which is how we spent most of our time for the next ten days. At long last, my ass was on the fucking beach and it was pure, unadulterated bliss. The nights…that’s when we made up for lost time, screwing each other senseless until we passed out from exhaustion.

Luke and Simon joined us on the twenty-ninth, a short birthday celebration jaunt for the latter. On the thirtieth we all went out to Nawiliwili Tavern to celebrate him turning thirty-eight, and I karaoked so much my throat hurt the next day. And really, it was just from singing. Really.

On the morning of my birthday, I left Tom snoring in our bed to watch the Halloween sunrise from the balcony, a knee-length tropical print satin robe wrapped around me. I’d become a fan of robes…easy to slip on, even easier to rip off. Both of us slept naked, and with all the hotels, room service and sex whenever we could squeeze it in while traveling, it was an excellent way to prevent me from answering the door in the buff. I leaned on the railing, listening to the waves crashing, watching the three joggers heading down the beach leaving sand flying in their wake. Thirty-eight. I wasn’t sure how the fuck this had happened, yet here I was, two years away from forty, the biological clock that had been silent before meeting Tom now ticking away loudly. We both baby goggled, and while we were still back in London we’d had lunch with Ben and his wife, each taking turns holding their baby. I’d caught Tom staring at me, his expression making me want toss my birth control pills in the garbage…full of adoration, love, want and so much more. And him holding such a tiny being in his huge hands…too precious for words.

Last year on this day I’d been working, giving a seminar in Chicago, and my celebration had consisted of six donuts at eleven-thirty PM in my hotel room while I watched the Matrix. This year…other than a costume party at Rob’s Good Times Grill in the evening, I had no clue what was in store for me. I reflected on how much my life had changed, and how I was so incredibly blessed, realizing that I’d be perfectly content to spend the entire day in our room, talking, laughing, dancing…all those simple things that made me genuinely happy. Me. Happy. Something I never thought I’d be, yet here I was. Standing on the balcony of the room where we’d first been intimate, on the island where we’d fallen in love. Grateful tears welled up, spilling over and running down my cheeks, and as I wiped them away I felt hands on my shoulders, followed by a kiss on my neck.

“Good morning, birthday girl.” I turned to face him, and he immediately noticed that I’d been crying. “You okay, love?”

“I’m amazing. Happy tears. Actually, grateful tears. Just thinking about how different things are from last year, and…”

He pulled me to his chest, smoothing my hair as he placed a kiss on top of my head. “I love you, my Maude.” He let me go, hands sliding around and down to grasp my forearms, grinning. “So, ready for your present?”

I poked his chest with my index finger. “Dude, you PROMISED me, NO PRESENTS. The time we’re getting to spend together here before you start filming is my present, and every day with you is a gift ANYWAY so…”

Several beats of uncharacteristic silence followed. “Well look at you, leaving me at a loss for words.”

Wrangling free of his grip, I clapped excitedly. “That’s like a whole ‘NOTHER present, man. WOO HOO!”

He laughed, a drawn out ‘ehehehehehe’, ceasing only when we thought we heard someone yell for us to shut up. We ran back inside and closed the balcony doors behind us, sat on the bed and perused the breakfast menu. I opted for scrambled eggs, pancakes and bacon, and Tom decided upon an egg and cheese omelet. After eating quickly, we showered together, and as we dried off in the main area of the room he cleared his throat nervously.

“So, um…I was wondering if maybe you’d like to take a ride out to Talk Story today? I thought perhaps you’d want to pick up some new reading material for while I’m shooting?”

The man knew the only time I had to read these days was when I was on the toilet, but I went with it because, BOOKS. And I’d wanted to go there before we moved on to Oahu anyway, even if it was just to look around. The origin of us. A huge grin spread across my face.

“That sounds fucking epic, babe. What time is it now, like eight-thirty? They open at ten, and the trip there is an hour…”

“Shall we see if Luke and Simon want to join us?”

I snorted. “Ha, if Simon’s even awake yet it would be a bona-fide fucking miracle…but sure, why not? It’d be cool for them to see where we met. God, I’m such a romantic saphead asshat. Gross.”

He laughed, wrapped his towel around his waist and grabbed his phone off the desk. I returned to the bathroom to brush my teeth, only hearing bits and pieces of the conversation. After hanging up, he joined me, eyes on my reflection, and the memory of him fucking me right there four months ago made me shiver, goosebumps pebbling my flesh.

“Believe it or not, they’re not only awake, they’ve had breakfast. Or at least Luke has. Simon appears to be on a liquid diet so far today.”

I spit a final time then spun around, brows raised, and he chuckled.

“What I MEANT was he’s too hung over for food, little miss filthy dirty mind.”

I slapped his ass as I walked out of the bathroom to get dressed. “You fucking love it.”

“Oh, I absolutely do.”

Black bra and panties, grey hiking shorts…but I figured I should ask what he was wearing before I picked out a shirt.

“Babe, what are you....” I’d turned around so my voice would carry better to the bathroom only to find him right THERE, his cock at half-mast. I coughed, then continued. “Wearing. What are you wearing? Fuck, the naked sneak up is NOT COOL, Hiddleston.”

He smirked. “My khaki shorts and a white V-neck, I think.”

“Good. Then I can wear a black one.” I finished dressing while he began, then went to stand before the mirror so I could put my hair back in a ponytail. I’d had it cut and styled before we left London, the ends brushing just below my collar bones. For some reason, even just a few inches and a tiny bit of layering made it much easier to manage. As I was strapping on my Birkenstocks, a quiet rapping on the door began. Tom opened it, and when I saw Simon was wearing giant Kardashian-style mirrored aviator sunglasses indoors, I shouted. Loudly. Even though it hurt my throat to do so.

“Good morning, Mr. Ahlberg. How are we feeling today? Looks like you may have had too much birthday, am I right?”

His voice was raspy as he pulled the Panama hat he was sporting further down his forehead. “Fuck off, bitch.” He was wearing a dark green Polo shirt, white shorts and white loafers.

I rose as he and Luke entered the room, and Luke grinned as he embraced me briefly.

“Happy Birthday, Maude.”

“Thank you, Luke. You look none the worse for wear.” He’d paired khaki shorts with a medium-blue faded T-shirt and Teva sandals, also khaki with blue stripes.

He snorted. “One of us had to behave responsibly. He was up half the night with his head in the bowl…”

Simon shoved him out of the way, wrapping his arms around me to support himself after placing a quick kiss on my cheek, whispering in my ear. “Please kill me. I know it’s your birthday, but it IS Halloween so it’s sort of apropos and I really need to die. I beg you. Put me out of my misery.”

I squeezed him tightly and whispered back. “Not a chance, asshole. I enjoy your snark entirely too much to let it slip from my grasp so easily.”

He sighed, releasing me. “Fine, fine. On with the hour long car ride then. Followed by staring at some books. Then an hour long car ride back. All during which I could have been resting up for tonight.”

We used their rental car, as I’d demanded to have a Jeep Wrangler again and thought Simon might puke if we took that instead. Much like Luke had thought he’d do when we’d gone to our Hula class. Ah, life’s fun parallels that arise from excessive alcohol consumption. Tom had gone back up to the room to retrieve his forgotten phone, and when he came back we were off. Luke and Simon sat in the back, Simon resting his head on Luke’s shoulder, moaning from time to time when Tom took a turn too fast.

He parked us a block down, and we jumped out of the vehicle, excited to be back, and he picked me up and spun me around as we waited for Simon’s slow-ass self.

I rolled my eyes as Tom set me down. “Christ, Simon…you’re like a little old man. Fucking move it along, won’t you?”

I got the bird in return, but the corners of his mouth turned up in a tiny smile. The ibuprofen I’d given him in the car must have started to kick in. Why he hadn’t thought of it on his own…no clue. As we reached the red doors, Tom took my hand, smiling as he opened the door for me. It was exactly the same, which wasn’t really a surprise as only four months had passed, but a feeling washed over me at the sight of it anyway, one of pure joy. His hand squeezed mine as we walked inside, and behind the counter was Roger Marshal, still bearded, same glasses, different Hawaiian shirt, this time red with green leaves. He grinned widely and came around to shake our hands.

“Aloha, Mr. Hiddleston, Ms. Gallagher. Welcome back. I see you brought friends with you on this glorious Halloween day in paradise.”

Tom introduced him to Simon and Luke while I wandered down to the stacks where we’d met. The place was relatively empty…I didn’t see anyone, but assumed customers were just quietly browsing elsewhere. Music was playing, something by 10,000 Maniacs, the name of which always escaped me. Almost instinctually, I went right for the ‘K’s, looking for my white whale…and…THERE IT FUCKING WAS. Not three feet away from me, the spine of the dust jacket unmistakable, silver-grey with a long black tower and yellow text. I stood, frozen in place, listening to footsteps approaching just as I had on that day back in June. Tom’s hand touched my shoulder gently.

“You okay? You didn’t move a muscle while we walked down here.”

I pointed. “It’s there. Do you see it? Tell me you see it.”

He looked. “See what?”

“THE BOOK. THE GUNSLINGER. Yellow text. Black tower. TELL ME YOU SEE IT.”

“Oh, okay…yes…I see it. Wait, isn’t that…”

I nodded, still using my indoor voice but enunciating so strongly they sounded out in all caps. “YES. MY WHITE WHALE. THAT IS A FIRST EDITION COPY OF THE GUNSLINGER.”

He laughed, squeezing my shoulder. “And you’re not over there pulling it off the shelf and holding on to it for dear life, why, exactly?”

Reaching up, I patted his hand gently as I whispered. “Because I’m afraid that if I move or even if I blink it will disappear, having only been the cruelest of mirages.”

“If I can see, it, it MUST be real, yes?” His other hand patted my ass. “Best grab it before someone else does, don’t you think?”

I turned to him briefly, eyes wide. “YES. Excellent idea.”

One step, two steps, both very slow, and I noticed that the song had changed. Tilting my head to make sure I wasn’t hearing things in addition to possibly seeing things, I listened closely, turning back around to face Tom.

“Is it me or…is that Tigerlily by La Roux?”

His own head tilted, and he nodded, smiling. “You’re right, it is. What a fantastic coincidence!”

I nodded again, then turned back to my prey. Another two steps and I was there, reaching out my hand to touch the spine gingerly, then quickly pulling back as if I’d been burned.

“Oh my god it’s REAL. And not only is it REAL I think it’s in, like, MINT FUCKING CONDITION this is…I just…” I carefully slid it off the shelf, turning it over in my hands, then back again, opening the cover ever so gently. Much to my horror, there was something written on the flyleaf. I was about to stomp my foot when I noticed my name.

Happy Birthday, Maude.

You hold in your hands not only a first edition, but one from my personal collection…and out of the first box the publisher sent to me. The God of Mischief asked me to do him a solid, and I figured it might be a good idea to go the extra mile. Thanks for being a Constant Reader all these years, and may the wheel of Ka always move forward for you.

With love,

Steve

PS - CONGRATULATIONS!

Tigerlily was still playing, and I re-read the text again, realizing that Tom had planned all of this, for ME, for MY birthday, and I nearly burst into tears but the last bit of what Steve…STEPHEN FUCKING KING… had written confused me and I focused on that in an attempt to keep my shit together. I began speaking, still staring at the word as I turned around.

“Tom, why did he write congra…” I looked up from my precious treasure but didn’t see him, just Luke and Simon, their phones held up and pointing at me. “…ulations?” My gaze moved lower, and there he was. Tom. Down on one knee. Right arm extended. And in his hand was a small black box.

I’d like to say the world around me grew silent and time stopped and the angels began to sing, but that would be lying and, if nothing else, I’m an honest woman.

What really happened is that I blurted out “Ohmygodthefuckareyoudoing?” followed by my right hand flying up to cover my mouth, trying to shove what had just come out back in.

His eyes met mine, peering up from under his brows, lashes so long and soft and glistening with tears, his smile shy and kind and beautiful and I could see his hand shaking just the tiniest bit and my knees got weak and I had to uncover my mouth so I could breathe otherwise my big ass was going to hit the fucking floor.

He cleared his throat, then began to speak. “One hundred and twenty-five days. That’s how long it’s been since I walked through those red doors, down these stacks and saw you, my light in the mist. All of those days that came and went before…they all appear in shades of grey in my mind now, as if I never truly saw the world around me in color until the moment my eyes met yours for the first time. And however many more days we’re blessed with on this earth, I want to spend each and every one of them with you. I know I’ve said this bit already, when we first arrived in New York, but…I’m going to say it again, because it’s the truth, the only truth I know, the only truth that matters. I will love you all of this life, and in each and every one that follows. I will love you as the world turns to ash around us. I will love you as the universe collapses into itself, and in the blackness of the eternity that awaits, I will remain, with you, at your side, holding your hand, never to let go. This love…it knows no bounds. It is forever. Two souls made one, together unto infinity. Maude Gallagher, will you do me the honor…the most extraordinary honor that could ever be bestowed upon me…of becoming my wife?”

I’d stopped breathing at some point, inhaling with an audible gasp at his conclusion, then answering.

“Absofuckingloutely. Yes. Yes yes yes yes YES!”

I threw myself at him, and he rose to catch me just in time, both of us laughing and crying, his forehead resting against mine, Simon and Luke whistling and shouting as we kissed, murmuring ‘I love you’ over and over when we came up for air. Tom pulled back, grinning holding up the black box and shaking it back and forth.

“Aren’t you curious to see your ring?”

Rolling my eyes, I sighed. “I guess so. Whip it out.”

He opened the lid, and what I saw nested inside the black velvet made me feel faint for the second time in mere minutes. The ring was sterling silver, with an oval cut and polished black stone set in raised parenthesis shaped sterling silver bars, one to each side, perfectly mimicking of the style of the necklace given to me by my father. My voice eluded me, and he mistook my silence for displeasure.

“It’s not traditional, I know, and if you’d rather have a diamond we can…”

My head shook back and forth as I reached out and touched it with my right index finger in disbelief, then met his gaze.

“That’s black tourmaline.” He nodded, and I recalled the conspiratorial glance Luke’s mother and Tom’s sister had shared after I’d tried on a ring back at the Cube gallery. “Phaedra made this.”

He nodded again, eyes questioning. I bit my lip, then inhaled sharply before speaking again. “Will you put it on me please?”

His voice was timid, soft. “You like it, then?”

“No, Tom. I love it. It’s perfect. You’re perfect. Everything’s perfect. Put. It. On. Me.” I grinned. “Please.”

As Simon sidled over and took the Gunslinger away from me, Tom slipped the ring out of its slot, put the box in his pocket, then took my left hand in his right and slid the first tangible symbol of our commitment to one another home with the other, a huge, beautiful smile spreading across his face as I brought both our hands up to stare at my latest jewelry acquisition. He watched me, silently, and all the other moments that I’d pushed aside over the past four months formed a slideshow in my mind’s eye. Ben smirking at us as we looked through his wedding album, nudging his wife in the ribs as she giggled…what I’d overheard at Diana’s house, that he wanted something to be ‘perfect’…and, finally, the afternoon at Greenwood Cemetery back in New Orleans when I’d said goodbye to my father. Tom had gone to the crypt, introduced himself and told my father how much he loved me, then asked him a question, cupping his hand to his mouth and whispering against the stone, waiting for an answer, then nodding as he said ‘thank you, sir’. When I’d asked what his question had been he’d refused to tell me, though when I inquired as to whether my father had answered, he’d replied ‘I’d like to think he did.’

Gasping, my hand again flew to my mouth as my breath hitched and the tears flowed. “Tom…my god…how long…when did you decide…was it back in…Tom, that day in the cemetery…my dad…is that what you…”

He nodded, weeping as well. “Yes. I asked him for your hand in marriage.”

Choking back sobs, I reached out and placed my right hand on his shoulder. “But…when did you…when…”

His fingers grazed my temple, then my cheek, coming to rest on my jaw. “When did I know that I wanted to marry you?” I nodded. “That moment in the hotel in New Orleans when you said that if you really, truly love someone you accept them just as they are…and that you accepted me, all of me, every bit. As I took you in my arms, it hit me…I wasn’t just holding the woman I’d fallen in love with any longer. I was holding my wife.”

My sobs broke free, and I wrapped myself around him and buried my face in his chest. He rocked me, smoothing my hair, his chin on the top of my head. “I’m sorry it took me so long to ask. I just…I wanted it to be…perfect.”

Pulling away, I snorted. “Mission accomplished, you glorious bastard. This was over the top, ridiculously romantic, Clint Eastwood and Rob Reiner co-directing a love story PERFECT.”

His eyes widened. “Oh, I almost forgot. The ring…there’s an inscription…”

I yanked it off and held it up to my face. Around the solid portion of the band, flanked on either side by two tiny books was written in a teeny, tiny font, two lines, one on top of the other:

Talk Story - 6/29/15 - Our Story

My Light in the Mist

“Thomas William Hiddleston, I hope you realize that now we have to get MARRIED here. Like, right here. In this very spot. Bridezilla has come ashore and she won’t have it any other way.” I turned my attention from the ring to his face. “I’m serious. Can we? Is that cool with you? Getting married here? I mean, I guess we need to ask…” His smirk resulted in an epic eye roll and heavy sigh from me as I slipped the ring back on my finger. “Aaaaand…you already asked, didn’t you?”

He nodded. “Roger’s fine with it. We just need to let him know a few weeks in advance so he can arrange to close the shop.”

For some reason, that solidified what had just occurred. Tom had asked me to marry him. I’d said yes. I was now his fiancé, the future Mrs. Thomas Hiddleston. And there was now a wedding to plan. Which was exciting and amazing but I had no idea what to do next so I just stood, like a deer caught in headlights. He leaned in, nose touching mine.

“You okay?”

I nodded hard, attempting to clear my head, letting the euphoria take over. “My god, we’re getting MARRIED. Maude Hiddleston. I’m going to need to start practicing that. Gotta say, it sounds pretty fucking great. Nice ring to it. Maude Hiddleston. Yep. Sold.”

His jaw had dropped open, then closed again, eyes full of surprise. “I…you…you want to change your name?”

“Uhhh…yeah. Why wouldn’t I? I mean, if you don’t want…”

He took my hands in his. “Oh, no, no…I…I’d love for you to take my name. See, that sounds awful. Archaic. I didn’t want you to feel like you had to or that I expected you to because, I mean, you’re known a certain way professionally and…”

My lips found his, tongue pushing into his mouth, silencing him the best way I knew how. And, other than pushing his head down between my thighs, my favorite way. As we broke the kiss, he grinned, and so did I.

“Tom. I know some women are very much against changing their names or like to hyphenate, and that’s totally cool, but I’m not one of them. To me, it’s part of joining with someone. Being a family. If that makes me old-fashioned, too fucking bad. Plus, what happens when your kid with the hyphenated name marries another kid with a hyphenated name? Chaos, I say. Chaos.”

His expression was so earnest, so thankful that it caused me to take pause, during which I become cognizant of all I had to be thankful for as well. And that I hadn’t even said thank you, for anything he’d done, which resulted in waterworks yet again as I let go of his hands to place mine on the sides of his beautifully chiseled countenance.

“I’m so sorry…I didn’t say thank you, for any of this…but I’m telling you now. Thank you, Tom. Thank you. I’m going to remember this forever and tell it over and over and our kids and grandkids will be like SHUT UP WE HEARD THAT STORY A HUNDRED TIMES ALREADY and it’s just…I love you, so much, and I’m so blessed to have you in my life and my god, I can’t believe you want to MARRY me because I mean I’m ME and…”

It was his turn to cut things off with a kiss, and as he pulled back I heard Simon’s voice, realizing I had completely forgotten that we weren’t alone and wondering exactly how much they’d filmed.

“Yay, yay, you’re engaged, that’s super, who isn’t though, you know? Anyway. I’m going to create a diversion because if Maude cries again I’m going to lose all respect for her and, frankly, I don’t have that much left TO lose so…” He wrenched me from Tom’s grasp and turned me to face him. “SO, I assume that I’ll be your maid of honor? Because honey, you are REALLY going to need my help…”

I rolled my eyes. “Actually, you’ll wind up being my MATRON of honor because you’ll probably be MARRIED by then, you big fucking dumbass. And…and…” I started to sniffle, tears welling up again.

He covered his eyes with his right hand, having taken the shades off to film, and groaned. “Oh. My. God. Are you going to cry from now until whenever it is you get hitched? Because if that’s the case feel free to go before Luke and I do.”

When I didn’t reply, he uncovered his eyes, saw the look on my face and placed both hands on my shoulders. “I’m sorry, gorgeous…talk to me.”

Taking a deep breath, I wiped the tears from my cheeks with the back of one hand, then attempted to speak. “Will you…I…my…I don’t have a…my dad…isn’t…will…will you walk me down the aisle?”

He, Tom and Luke burst into tears at that, Simon’s hand over his mouth as he nodded repeatedly and pulled me to his chest. His voice was deep but soft in my ear when he was able to talk again. “Of course I will, honey. Of course I will. I’m so sorry your father won’t be there. And you know I’m, like, SO not religious so I’m not going to give you the watching over you nonsense, though I guess who the fuck really knows, but in a way he WILL be there, because he’s part of you. And we need to talk about something else now because crying is making my headache IN-FUCKING-TOLERABLE…”

He released me and Luke took his place immediately, warmly embracing me for the second time that day. His quiet authority was what I saw most of…it wasn’t until we were off the clock that he became himself, and even at that we were only moderately affectionate. Drunk Luke, though…that was an entirely different story. After a few pats to the back, we let each other go, and I pointed at Tom.

“This is some stunt you pulled here, young man. I hope you realize that.”

He grinned from ear to ear, tongue peeking out from between his teeth. “Oh, I do.” His brows rose. “Were you truly surprised?”

“Um, YEAH. No clue. Well, not exactly NO clue. I mean, I picked up on a few things along the way that I seemed odd but I just pushed them aside because…” My eyes turned skyward as I thought of the best way to phrase what came next. “Because as much as I wanted it to be what I thought it was, I couldn’t be sure and I didn’t want to be disappointed if it never happened, I guess. But. Yeah. So, do we need to fill anyone in on the news or am I totally the last one to know?”

“If it never happened. You’re a silly, silly girl.” His lips grazed my cheek. “And yes, there are still plenty of people to tell. Anyone who was privy to my plan was purely essential.”

My left eyebrow shot up. “Oh, how did Ben and Sophie factor in? Do tell.”

He blushed adorably. “I may have tattled to Chris and Elsa too. But…Anne’s still in the dark, so maybe start there?”

Simon had set the Gunslinger on the nearest table, and I started at it and sighed happily. “I cannot BELIEVE you not only managed to find me a first edition copy of the Gunslinger, but you got Stephen King to sign it, and it’s ONE FROM HIS PERSONAL COLLECTION. You are such a complete dork, and I am the luckiest woman alive, Thomas William Hiddleston.”

He walked to my side and slipped an arm around my waist. “So, should we take a photo to post online? Or would you rather do something more formal?”

I snorted. “Fuck formal. Picture, please.”

I held up my left hand at face level between us, the back of it towards Tom’s phone, which Luke was holding, then pointed at the ring with my right and posed with my mouth stretched wide open in a gleeful grin. Tom pointed at it as well, and three clicks later we were good to go.

Taking the phone back from Luke, he typed, then stopped. “Do you want to call Anne before I post this?”

“Nah. I’ll wait for her to call. It’s more fun this way…and honestly, I have no idea how to tell people without sounding like an asshole, so…yeah. Post it.”

He clicked, then turned the screen so I could see it. There we were, his expression mimicking mine, his Twitter message short and sweet.

She said YES!!!!!!!!!! #thefuturemrshiddleston, #iamsoveryblessed, #luckiestmanintheuniverse

Chuckling, I passed the phone back to him. “Um, actually what I said was ‘absofuckingloutely’. Shit. That’s like, filmed and recorded as my official reaction to being proposed to in the most beautiful and perfect way possible. Nice one, me.”

Luke cleared his throat. “So, not to be a killjoy…” Simon snorted. “Do we have a date in mind for the blessed event? Tom’s schedule is…”

I raised my hand. “Oh, oh…I know what Tom’s schedule is…it’s an insane MESS. Gee, wish there was an app for that or something. HA! Anyhow, you’ll have to double check, but I’m pretty sure that there is zero room for it to happen until late April or early May.”

Scrolling through his phone, Luke nodded. “You’re right. After the I Saw the Light press tour and premiere he’s got Night Manager promo until it airs in the states on April nineteenth. Really, the best month seems to be June.”

Tom spread his hands wide. “Well, that makes it simple. Let’s do it on the first anniversary of the day we met. June twenty-ninth. I think I can even squeeze in time for a honeymoon before heading to Australia to start in on Ragnarock.” He turned to me, brows raised, questioning. “Okay with you?”

My eyes met his, then roamed up and down over his form. This breathtakingly beautiful, kind, compassionate, intelligent, gifted, hilarious being…he was going to be my husband. I felt the tears creeping up on me again, but shook them off, breaking myself of the habit lest I, as Simon feared, kept crying every time I thought about marrying the man for the next eight months.

“Oh yeah. Totally okay with me. And shall I assume you had that planned all along as well?”

He laughed, throwing his head back, one hand on his abdomen, smirking adorably when he’d managed to compose himself. “No, actually…that one was totally off the cuff.”

“Sure it was.”

Laughing again, he grabbed my shoulders. “It was. I swear it.”

I sighed. “Well, if you swear it, I guess I should believe you. So…I know this will come as a shock, but …I’m STARVING. Birthday girl needs lunch. Feed birthday girl NOW.”

Tom pulled me close and placed a gentle kiss on my forehead. “How’s Kauai Pasta sound?”

“It sounds like you made reservations for four is how it sounds.” He smiled, licking his lips. “Which is awesome, because I am such a slut for Alfredo…”

Simon’s face appeared over Tom’s shoulder. “Oh, oh…can we please go over the list of things you’re a slut for? THERE ARE SO MANY…”

I flipped him off. “Please. Your list is so long it wouldn’t fit on my 32 gig USB drive.”

His eyes widened in mock horror. “My, my. She becomes some hot guy’s fiancé and her rudeness trebles. Unacceptable.”

Grinning, I turned my gaze back to Tom. “So, are we, like, done with surprises for the day? Because I’m not sure my heart can take another one. Though I do have a surprise of my own for YOU…”

“You do, do you? And what would that be?”

I patted his chest. “That would be my Halloween costume, babe. I fear you may not survive.”

He placed his hand over mine, leaning in so his face was inches from mine. “You do realize that you have not the slightest inkling as to what I’m wearing, don’t you?”

I didn’t. I’d been so focused on keeping mine under wraps I hadn’t considered HIS. And I was afraid to imagine, because the party now seemed an eternity away and if I let my mind wander…my mouth dropped open, then closed, opened, then closed again. “Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. I am so, so fucked.”

A whisper in my ear. “Oh, you are indeed, my darling. You are indeed.”

#your light in the mist #chapter 34

5 notes · View notes