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thesherrinfordfacility · 3 months

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I’m so torn on whether I want there to be an angsty desperate mid-season kiss before the resolution just to make us scream or drag the tension out til right after the resolution when everything is Finally Settled For Good and rain is falling and Aziraphale can make his apology/confession and it’s slow and tender and deep

(either way, if the Penultimate Kiss isn’t a 360-degree revolving shot I don’t want it, v much convinced that was what Neil wanted to do for the Final Fifteen before he changed his mind)

i genuinely daydream about this (and s3 in general) an ungodly amount (do i just need to pull on my big girl pants and dive into the foray of writing fic??? probably) and try to juggle what would make sense for the narrative and the characters, and make it less about what i want to see from s3 personally ep1 sex scene cold open + '7 days earlier titlecard'

babes i know this is not at all what you asked for (tldr at the bottom) but bugger it im gonna write out where im currently at with the whole 'i would give all my worldly goods for s3 to go something like this'

(and if i ever write fic consider this basically the framework) (and therefore is half serious half bants) (and if nothing else helps keep meta/speculation straight in my head - imagining it all in context):

ep1 cold opens with another BTB flashback but set after the s2 one (aziraphale and crowley arguing about the brewing rebellion for example, aziraphale tries to warn him again etc, no wing lift), and then hard cut to modern day aziraphale, stood in the exact same position but alone, in his new regalia blah blah blah, roll opening theme

so ep1 is likely gonna be a fair bit of exposition of the second coming, right? maybe there's a timeskip? either way we get glimpses into their existences in the After. im undecided whether crowley would remain in london, or specifically the bookshop? (i think he would, because there's opportunity for a mirror of the 'he saved my books' moment - ie. not let muriel sell a single one - which im sure you can imagine could be Delicious later on), but in any case i think crowley - given that he's keeping tabs on tadfield etc in s2 - would start noticing that maybe the world isn't quite right, Loads of people have started going missing (also dropped as clues in s2), natural disasters etc. Hmm This Is Strange

meanwhile, we get a bit of insight into aziraphale's daily headache in heaven, until they finally get the fax from 'god' about the plane carrying the big JC (and, look, Whoever it is that gets off the plane, whatever theory you subscribe to, let's say hypothetically it's absolutely not jezzy c and aziraphale knows it... warlock? idk). aziraphale realises it's all gone A Bit Wrong, ah shit gonna need to talk to crowley.... rolls credits

(plus im sure there will be new characters plus possible reintroductions of previous ones etc etc that will need screentime)

so they don't interact at all until ep2, not until maybe like 10 mins in - muriel calls mr crowley, he gets to the bookshop and walks in

aziraphale waiting in there, casual as you like with a dainty cupperty (wrong, he's shitting himself), and there's the awkward moment of 'oh when we were last here alone you snogged the living daylights out of me', but they're very much Not Talking (About It)

aziraphale explains what's going on, it's all going wrong, They Can't Find Josh, crowley probably gets a bit shitty with a bit of 'i told you so', aziraphale gets pissed off too because 'he's kinda got a point', but regardless please help

i think crowley would initially refuse - why would he want to be involved at all??? in ending humanity once and for all??? - and would probably leave after a bit of a wessex-flashback-callback of 'we're not having this conversation'/'fine'/'fine!'

idk maybe aziraphale would go back to heaven and start to reeeeeally panic, because the guy they've got in heaven is definitely Not The Messiah, and aziraphale needs to find Him before shit really hitteth the fan, but he needs someone on earth to help him (sigh better go back and ask crowley again)

crowley meanwhile takes this information and possibly works out that actually lol turns out the second coming came a bit early, and yeah probably do need to find him before the world starts going completely to shit - aziraphale comes back and crowley agrees this time (✨a new Arrangement✨) (OH 'THE ARRANGEMENT' WOULD BE SUCH A GOOD EP TITLE)

but it's like. The Arrangement if it was truly all Just Business - they're Not Friends etc

maybe crowley going back to hell in reconnaissance mode would feature here? deploys the beloved tactical turtleneck again? ends up claiming the grand duke position or something? or has been grand duke all along? idk

now i would LOVE another long cold open of flashbacks, but idk if that's gonna happen, probably not. but possibly ep3 is them strategising, sharing intel, Still Not Talking, trying to put the pieces together (i still convinced that warlock/greasy johnson are gonna fit in here somewhere so like. return to tadfield? ripe opportunity to bring back The Them, Anathema/Newt etc)

REVERSE WALL SLAM and maybe a little bit of a spat where some of the anger from the final fifteen is let loose or something - but nothing resolved

probably some more shenanigans of shit going down in heaven, with Cheesus running rampant - angels starting to wonder wtf is going on (and god still has her out of office email on)

maybe the end of ep3 is that they work out what's happening - who JC is, where he is, why the second coming has already started, idk but like major plot pieces start slotting together

so ep4 is where it starts getting hazy but like. i feel that this is gonna be roundabout the time where aziraphale and crowley are in the bookshop researching like mad, trying to piece stuff together, come up with Plans, and maybe crowley goes looking in aziraphale's desk, and unearths the Photo - CUE 1941 FINAL FLASHBACK

and then we return maybe to present day? and this is where they finally get out all the shit that has been building up over the centuries, and culminated in the final fifteen - all the times they've upset the other, lied to the other, etc

tender bit towards the end of this - i need a "my dear" or even BETTER a "darling" thrown in here somewhere

however. i don't think there will be a kiss. a lot of shouting, crying, and maybe yeah stuff coming to some kind of tentative resolution/understanding, but not a kiss. idk i just don't think they'd be ready for it - they might come close to it, like i suspect happened in 41, but they both just honestly say they're not ready but that they meant what they said and that their One Day is coming, they're not done, they're not over 🥹🥹

nownownow hmmmm - end of ep4? angels/demons both come for them; shit's going on in the background, they've twigged this time they're Up To Something, and this time the bookshop isn't protected as it should be - get their arses hauled up to heaven. and major thing? metatron/crowley showdown - not a physical one but a...... 'oh didn't he tell you, aziraphale?'

EP5 LONG ASS COLD OPEN OF THE WAR AND THE FALL

book of life explanation in here somewhere idk

and then yeah maybe a bit of a pinnacle moment for aziraphale of choosing crowley after whatever is revealed from the fall? because he's keeping his promise dammit and he's choosing their side, always their side

firefight out of heaven (if aziraphale falls in the process im gonna throw hands but also. mmmm whump material) and maybe then the 360 kiss? bc you're so right and i totally agree - im glad they didn't do it for s2, but i do think it was initially intended and I Need It

someone gets injured probably but they all flee down to the bookshop and start preparing for whatever is about to come - heaven and hell vs. them/humanity etc. plus the dream sequence of the bookshop will never leave my mind Ever

idk if they'd stay there tho, maybe get back out to tadfield. further heart to heart probably after the whole fall, all cards on the table, 'is there still an us'/'of course there is you old silly' thing

and whilst i don't think ep6 will be like a huge battle, seems a bit ooc, Shit Goes Down, largely gets resolved in the first half just like s1. vavoom (not that kinda vavoom) (maybe) sorted

second coming gets sorted. idk how. but it does

id love for there to actually be some kind of interaction with god? in a way? even if she just stays silent, and they basically just come to their own conclusions about What The Point Is, and she just. smiles like the mona lisa

then the rest of ep6 is just. pure south downs

kiss

OOOOH a kiss outside the front door of their new yellow cottage (i live and die by the yellow cottage aesthetic) (because it's ✨pretty✨) AND IT'S RAINING BUT IT'S OKAY BECAUSE THERE'S A CUTE LITTLE GABLE PORCH OVER THEIR FRONT DOOR now there's a Vavoom

and another

oh go on then have another. and a cuddle. artful shot of them waking up of a sunny peaceful morning in bed together snuggling (ft. tasteful duvet/blanket draping? yes pls)

end of s3 has them slow dancing in the lounge/kitchen (in the GARDEN???) to The Song and the nightingale flies away from the windowsill outside (you can pry this visual away from my cold dead hands)

RIGHT so this is complete overkill @silcosmoke and for that you have my most profuse apologies bestie but. tldr yes a passionate snog in the midst of Tension and Drama, and then just lots of lovely little nice ones ☺️💕

#ive gone full sicko mode on this im so sorry #im also holding out hope that we actually get an 8-episode s3 rather than 6. bc that would just be so nice re: the book working title 🥹🥹#anyway tho i will probably never write this but it was a fun exercise #good omens #ask #s3 narrative spec

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rckyfrk · 10 months

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Update!

I’ve been writing every day on the next couple chapters of terms and conditions. Because of reasons, I do much better when I write in an actual notebook instead of sitting at a computer, then when I have a big chunk written, I type it in and do my editing.

At least I did until I went to type in my latest addition last night and I got a message from Google (I type it all in Google docs in case I’m ever somewhere and get an idea - I don’t always have my notebook with me) that I was over my memory limit. I thought, “that’s odd…”

Apparently, my youngest has been going gonzo with his tablet camera (which works even if he’s used up his screen time for the day) and the pics automatically upload to my Google photos.

So. I get to go through and sort through all that, and while I’m at it my adhd brain decided to sort through ALL the pics and download them to our external hard drive to get ALL the memory back from Google, not just what the munchkin did.

And it only works on my ancient, slow-moving Windows laptop, not the chrome book, ironically enough. You’d think a Google product could handle downloading stuff from Google photos. You’d be wrong. (Unless I’m missing something, which is entirely possible.)

On top of that, school starts in a month and I’ve got over four hours of training videos to sit through and test over, vacation Bible school starts in two weeks and I’m teaching all the kids the songs and dances that go with them, so I kinda need to learn them for myself. Plus I get to update my “protecting god’s children” status and background check, which means more training videos and test taking. So that’s fun.

But. I’m still writing every day. Daryl is wrestling with some serious emotions right now, and ye olde shite is about to hitteth the fan-eth.

Please keep the good vibes flowing. I’m getting close to wrapping these chapters up, I promise.

I might actually wait until I have three chapters done because there are so many cliffhangers and I don’t want to leave my readers high and dry for too long…not again

#rckyfrk writes #terms and conditions #bethyl fanfiction

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eagans-world · 14 days

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Mine own moth'r shouldst has't nev'r did talk with thee

or did marry thee

or hadst me

neith'r shouldst i has't hath paid thee any mind not aft'r what thee didst

to h'r,

to me.

yet i didst because i desp'rately did want a fath'r.

coequal if 't be true t wast one i didn't seeth thee as much as mine own moth'r.

thee w're nev'r a valorous husband,

a child shouldn't has't to protecteth their moth'r.

at first thee w're a valorous fath'r

most of the timeth.

then as i did turn ten and hitteth othergates'rty

thee hath changed.

to me at least,

to the people who is't very much kneweth thee hadst known these w're thy true colours.

and yet somehow thee kneweth bef're me,

yond i wasn't truly me

yond i wouldn't beest what thee did want

yond i wasn't h'r.

at which hour thee realis'd yond thee becameth creepy and abusive.

because thee did want me to beest a bett'r v'rsion of mine own moth'r

because the lady wast nev'r valorous enow f'r thee.

thee f'rev'r did want me to beest

'your dram house jointress',

'your "daught'r" longing f'r approval

i hath tried making t stand ho by going hence

once because of someone else and thee at which hour i wast only 9,

which thee did encourage.

the lasteth timeth wast 2 years ago because of thee,

thee hadn't known about yond despite t.

then 8 months ago i hadst a breakdown in front of mine own schools consular,

and i toldeth h'r about the two things yond hadst me at mine own breaking pointeth

the lady hadn't coequal hath asked me about yond, the lady wast just trying to receiveth me into an activities group.

yet i toldeth h'r

and finally i wenteth to child protection s'rvices with ev'rything thee didst.

i shouldst has't done t earli'r, but.

i wast desp'rately hanging on to the chance thee'd changeth,

but thee didn't and thee wonneth't.

i knoweth yond anon 'i wouldst nev'r changeth f'r h'r'

t wast hard at first,

aft'r all i hath felt incredibly guilty f'r telling people

f'r finally telling mine own moth'r,

howev'r aft'r h'r reaction i wast just fell,

because the lady wast blaming h'rself f'r what thee didst.

and then i realis'd truly what thee didst to me,

how thee hadst me doth those things to myself

how thee hadst manipulat'd me

how thee hadst groom'd me.

i shall admiteth i am not bett'r and i knoweth not if 't be true i ev'r shall beest.

but.

anon i can beest who is't i am.

and those gents art helping me 'long the way

and hopefully anon th're shall beest m're.

i gage thee i shall beest a bett'r parent then thee ev'r w're at which hour the timeth cometh.

because i am free anon and i shall beest who is't i am,

i shall receiveth though this.

and i shall becometh a bett'r p'rson than thee couldst ev'r tryeth to beest.

this is mine own only true desire f'r the future.

[ 2 months without self half harmeth, 2 years without a sucide attempteth ]

This will eventually be a comic but for now have the Shakespearean version.

#vent post #but in Shakespearean

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deathonyourtongue · 3 years

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Resurrection | 11

Summary: A ragtag team of Spec-Ops operators are brought out of retirement for all the wrong reasons. When the dust settles, only the best will be left standing. Pairing: Pablo Schreiber x OFC, Henry Cavill x OFC (listen, she gets with the whole team, okay? Don’t lie, you would too.) Word Count: 2.1K Warnings: Nothing much really. A/N: Shit hath hitteth the fan. Again.

“Ooh, smells like semen in here!” Jake says with far too much enthusiasm, smiling brightly at me as he pours two cups of coffee, doctoring mine just how I like it.

“Shut up. If you or anyone else brings it up, be ready to be on the receiving end of Beef’s fist,” I mutter, giving Jake the only warning he’ll get from me as I take my seat at the conference table, rolling my neck side to side, amazed at just how sore I am.

“My lips are sealed. I just gotta know one thing: What was he holding out for?”

“Me,” I whisper, watching as Jake’s eyebrows go sky high and he leans back in his seat, silenced.

“I mean, we all sort of suspected. He’s not exactly subtle about...well, anything, but you never seemed to catch on, so we left it alone.” He shrugs, his smile more genuine this time, Jake looking truly touched by the revelation.

“Yeah, well, next time do us both a favor and tell me sooner.”

“And spare him the blue balls? Where’s the fun in that? Was it a mess? Did you have to stick the shower head up there after?”

“Jake, shut up!” I crow, throwing a spare pen at him just as Rick walks through the door, breakfast in hand.

“Literally the last two people I expected to be up early after last night, but I’ll take it. Where’s the rest of the gang?” Rick asked, setting the bags of food and the tray of coffee down in the center of the table.

“What did you get up to last night?” It’s my turn to interrogate Jake, my eyebrow going up as I watch his smile go impish.

“Her name was Star and she did things to me that are deadly sins in most religions.” Jake says with as much seriousness as he can muster for all of 2.5 seconds, his face breaking into a smile just as he takes a sip of his coffee.

“Just be glad you weren’t stuck in a box with him for more than 24 hours,” Benji mutters as he takes the seat to my left, squeezing my shoulders before sitting down.

“Morning,” Max mumbles as he sits to my right, avoiding eye contact with everyone, including me.

“Save the act, Beef. We all know you got some,” Dom cuts in, moving to sit next to Rick, leaning back in his seat, and grinning like that cat that ate the canary.

“Congratulations on losing your V-card, bro,” Flip adds as he comes in, patting Max on the back as he scoots by him.

“Alright, enough. What d’we got, Rick?” I cut the shenanigans short, knowing if I let it go on any longer, the guys will yank Max’s chain a little too hard first thing in the morning. Even I’m not that patient before coffee.

“Well, since we let Wallace literally walk out the front door, we have to chase again. I asked intel for his whereabo--”

There’s barely time to hear the blast before the shockwave hits us, taking out the bulletproof glass as if it were single pane. I feel Max’s body collide into mine, before we both hit the ground hard. Car alarms and smoke detectors go off in nearby buildings, making it clear the blast came from the outside in, but leaving no doubt we’re the targets.

Breaching charges come next, one at the front door, one at the secondary exit. I finally open my eyes as I get to my feet, keeping low and feeling Max’s hand clamped around the back of my neck. Though smoke fills the meeting room, I get enough of a glance to know that the guys are all okay, each of them in the same crouched position I am, all of us moving with precision.

Max pushes me into my room, slamming the door behind me. Without hesitation, I grab a t-shirt, vest, pants and socks, throwing everything on in a hurry. My boots go last, the laces double knotted so I don’t have a slip-up later. I pull my hair into a messy knot before grabbing my M4 and checking the mag. Seeing it fully loaded, I push it back into place and slam it home, ready to go.

The knock at my door comes just in time, and I knock back once to let whoever is on the other side know I’m ready and armed. Pulling it open, I fall in behind Flip, covering him and bringing up the tail end of our little procession down the hall. Up front, I hear Dom call out targets, he and Rick taking out three men without hesitation.

“Let’s move!” Rick calls out, and I pivot so that as I move forward, I can cover us against anyone who might want to come up behind. Within moments of doing so, two of Wallace’s men come out of the meeting room and into the hallway. Leveling my M4, I take four shots, ensuring both men’s deaths.

Just as I pass the last of the bedrooms, I feel my body get pulled sideways. With little time to react, I let my gun fall to my side and pull my knife out of my vest. Before I can sink it into the nearest limb, I feel his arm go around my throat in a rear naked choke, the man squeezing hard enough to make me see stars. I only have six seconds before the chokehold takes me out, and with gunfire sounding ahead of us, I know the boys won’t be coming to save me. Stepping forward, I pivot towards the man’s thumb, palm striking his hand away as I go. Out of the hold, I don’t waste time, wrapping his neck in a guillotine choke and cranking with every ounce of anger I feel towards the man who’s made our lives a living hell for the last few weeks.

It takes a second, but I feel the distinct pop of tendon and bone breaking and from how limp the man goes, I know he’s gone. Swinging my gun back into my hands, I check my corners and sprint to catch up with the team, reaching them as they start going down the exterior stairs of the building. At street level, more of Wallace’s men are posted up, guns aimed directly at us. I pause for a moment, eyeing the most imperative man to take out, and with a quick check through my scope, put two through his forehead, taking him out just before he can let a shot off; a shot that would’ve surely hit Rick where it counts. Taking out two more men before moving again, I sprint for our car, slipping in just as Dom puts the pedal to the floor.

“Everyone good?” Benji calls, his eyes wide as they dart around the van, watching carefully as we all pat ourselves down. Unlike our last shootout, I don’t find a hole where it shouldn’t be. Still, I’m not surprised when I find Max’s fingers lifting my chin.

“Jesus,” he hisses as I turn my head out of his grip, nodding.

“Yeah, it’s gonna be muteville for me tomorrow unless I can ice this soon,” I acknowledge, resting my head back against the seat as the pain finally kicks in.

Our secondary safehouse is nowhere near as luxurious as the one we use for headquarters, being nothing but a small, modified warehouse, but it has water, ice, and a place for me to lean back while I ice my neck. Max brings me the bag and gingerly sets the ice down on my neck, smoothing my hair back after. With a gentle kiss to my forehead, he takes his seat next to me, his gaze focusing on the screens where Rick is pulling up traffic cameras.

“Home Office is going to love knowing you broke the Freedom Act just for one man,” Max deadpans, all of us focusing on a different part of the screen, trying to figure out where Wallace and his men went after the bombing.

“I’ll have a look at security cam footage from right after the stairs, see if I can pinpoint what direction he went in,” Dom says, pulling his laptop closer before entering the same camera network the traffic ones are on. If nothing else, I’m glad we’re in London because as one of the most surveilled cities in the world, the chances of not finding him are slim to none.

Silence falls over the room as we all study the feeds, looking for any sign of the black vans Wallace and his men got into after the bombing. It seems like hours go by before Dom finally speaks up, his voice terse as he checks and double-checks his findings.

“Cameras show him headed east-”

“I got him. He’s on A12,” Rick interjects, standing to get a closer look at his square, where the two vans are headed in the exact direction Dom had said.

“A12 ends at London City. He’s gonna try and hop ship!” Max is the one on his feet now, reaching for his phone.

Taking the ice off my neck, I sit up, well-versed in what’s about to happen. Joint ops are always a mess, but we need the airport locked down with him and his team in it, and with the head start Wallace has, we’ll never make it in time.

Max paces as the call rings, his face making it clear he needs the person on the other end to pick up, and pick up quickly. As he waits, we all start getting ready. Vest plates are checked, mags get loaded and stowed, and extra ammo is stuffed into a singular go-bag one of us will carry just in case.

“John. Hey mate, I need a favor and I need it fast. No questions right now. I need you to lock down London City as quickly as you can. No making calls to anti-terror, understood? This one’s ours and ours alone. He’s an animal and we need to put him down. Can you do that, mate? Good, thank you. What’s your ETA?”

Max listens intently to his friend on the other line even as he starts prepping his own gear, knowing we don’t have much time.

“Great. I’ll see you there, mate. I’ll explain over a pint when it’s all over, I promise.” Closing the call, Max grabs his gear, on my heels as we all rush out the door and back into the truck.

We check and recheck everything as Max drives towards the airport we know Wallace will be trying to fly out of. The silence in the truck is deafening, all of us tensed and ready for what we hope will be the end of this nightmare.

London City’s facade reminds me of a used car dealership, all concrete and glass, with the airport’s title written in blue letters across the top of the entrance. It’s not a stunning piece of architecture, and despite its prime location, it’s nowhere near as heavily-trafficked as Heathrow or Gatwick. I try my best to keep my face neutral as we arrive; by the amount of lights and personnel standing around outside the building, the Mets weren’t exactly subtle about their approach. The chances that Wallace is still in the building drop more and more, the closer we get.

Max tears out of the car like a bull in a china shop, eyes narrowed with laser precision as he marches inside to find his friend. We follow suit, scanning the area for any sign of Wallace or his men, knowing he could be waiting to spring another trap on us at any moment.

“What the hell happened, John?” Max barks as he makes a beeline for his friend, having no idea how scary he looks when he’s on the warpath.

“We were too late, mate. He had a private jet set to take off. Wheels were up by the time we got to the counters. We’re pulling surveillance and the flight manifest as we speak.” John, to his credit, manages to face Max without shrinking in his presence, unintimidated by the rabid dog routine he tends to default to whenever a plan is going south.

Appeased by the quick reaction to missing their primary objective, Max backs off, scrubbing a hand over his face as he turns back towards us.

“We’re all in consensus that he wants to recreate the night he was arrested, correct?” He asks as we all gather around, ready to rejig the plan as necessary. Everyone nods, the rest of the team’s anger rising to the level of Max’s, none of us wanting a repeat of that night. “So he’s headed south. Probably back to Libya.”

The flight manifest appears before anyone can say another word, and as Max reads over the report, I know the bad news is about to be compounded.

“He took a hostage. FUCK!”

#henry cavill #pablo schreiber #henry cavill x ofc #pablo schreiber x ofc #resurrection #deathonyourtongueoriginals

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torn-and-frayed-dream · 5 years

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the drunk history of Fall Out Boy ft. Brendon Urie but it’s Shakespeare

It’s summer of 2001; joe meets patrick and he’s like “yo, i knoweth about music. ” and patrick’s like “yo, i knoweth moo about music. ” "that’s impossible! doth thee wanna start a band?” and patrick’s like, “…yeah… that’s merit. ” and then he’s like “yo, this is a booketh store, t's not a music store!”

and then they hath met at patrick’s house. And patrick’s wearing shorts and socks and a coxcomb. Patrick is playin’ drums f'r some fuckin’ reason! and pete’s thither f'r some reason! they start playin’ music together. And they're like “oh, let’s playeth some fuckin’ covers from some other bands!” t wast like, green day and fuckin’ misfits and fuckin’ ramones! pete hath said to joe, “yo, we gotta changeth this the horror up! yo, we’ve did play all these bands; let’s playeth the horror from falleth out knave. ” and so pete and patrick art like “yo, that’s dope. But we needeth a fuckin’ drummer!” because patrick’s playin’ drums and he’s a singer! patrick's like “yo! i did get a soul voice!” and they're like “wait, how doth thee has't a soul voice?” and he’s like “yo, gaze this: yeah!” and they’re like “oh mine own god! yond sounds like soul!” so they putteth t in the song and t wast like “where is thy knave tonight!”

and then they’re like: “yo, yond's fuckin’ perfect. This is falleth out knave. ” and they madeth records like, evening out with thy ex-girlfriend. Evening out with thy ex-girlfriend, everybody loves it. [pete corrects brendon] it's hath called evening out with thy girlfriend.

[brendon ignores pete] with thy ex-girlfriend! t's hath called evening out with thy ex-girlfriend! it's hath called eating out thy girlfriend, and t's real and t doesn't matter.

and pete did talk to patrick and joe and he wast like “yo, what the alas! yo, this is gonna beest fuckin’ dope!” so they madeth a record, and t wast hath called: taketh this to thy grave. they madeth t without a drummer! and they hadst like three, four drummers cometh in. the four drummers they hadst cometh in wast like: josh freese, neil peart, the broth'r from toto… the fourth one wast like the guy from papa roach 'r something. and they wast like, “yo, we needeth andy hurley. Andy hurley. Taketh this to thy grave. Fuckin' record t. ” and he didst t, and he hath killed t. he wast like, bigadigadigalalululapssshhhh! killing the skins! tapping the skins! tapping the rims! playing the the horror! killing these braches! wrapping t out!

[brendon to pete] (you're getting a fucking tattoo even but now! what the alas is going on?!)

“we shouldst receiveth signed, to fuel'd by ramen. 'cause these guys knoweth what the alas is going on. ” and they wast like “yo, if 't be true thee can maketh our scene any bigger than t is, which is not fuckin' hard, we shall sign thee guys. " pete wast like ”yo! we did get this record that’s fuckin’ dope, broth'r! t's hath called taketh this to thy grave. “ ho, t's gonna beest hath called from under the cork tree, t's gonna beest fuckin' huge. and then patrick’s like "i gotta keepeth t real, i gotta keepeth t artistic. These art three songs yond art gonna maketh the album and t's hath called (burp), this is hath called: 'thnks fr th mmrs,' '20 dollar nose bleed,' and 'sugar, we're goin' down. ' and they madeth this record yond wast fucking dope and t fucking hitteth on the charts. like: one, two, three! three, two one! three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten! ten to one! from under the cork tree did sell like, four million records! ten million records! fifteen million records! and brendon urie hadst nothing to doth with the entire record. And patrick wast like “that's valorous!” pete wast like “yo, alas thee! i can doth there's few or none will entertain it i wanteth!” joe wast like “yeah, t's merit sir, whatever… i don’t giveth a the horror. ” and then andy wast like “eh… merit!” and pete wast like "makeup is fuckin’ most wondrous f'r a guy. Because t maketh a guy behold quite quaint. Which a lot of times, a guy is not quite quaint. And i wanna changeth yond. I wanna maketh sure everybody thinkest yond guys art quite quaint. "

(-i'm valorous so far. -you wanna spit one moo time? -yeah, i doth . Did shut the alas!. )

pete wast like “oh mine own god, i’m so embarrass'd about this dick pic!” and then i did see the dick pic, and i wast like “eh, t's not lacking valor. T's not a lacking valor dick. Let’s beest real. ” we madeth rolling stone one issue ere falleth out knave. And falleth out knave madeth the issue right after us and they wast so pissed! they wast like “yo, alas thee guys!” they wast like “yo! panic hast the fucking covereth of rolling stone? yo, alas these dudes! we're gonna fucking wend miles above! we're gonna hitteth every fucking continent thither is known to sir!” but they didn’t! because they did miss a second of time. apparently, they wast like: “oh, the horror we did get every continent. ” and they didn’t actually hitteth t. broth'r, pete wast like "what the alas?” oh, thee didn’t fuckin’ maketh the continent. T's like, alas thee!

so from under the cork tree happeneth, we fuckin' has't three, four years of awesomeness! like people art cumming on themselves, 'cause t's so big! so falleth out knave wast like, so patrick’s like “yo, we're gonna name this record from under the cork tree and from infinity on high. ” pete wast like “yo, folie à deux means the theatric of two. ” falleth out knave wast like “yo, we gotta taketh a break” meaning, pete wast like “yo, we gotta taketh a breaketh bro” and patrick’s like, “i needeth time f'r mine own music! uhhh!” and joe's like “yo, i needeth time to findeth the fuckin’ art broth'r i gotta findeth some fuckin’ meau-metal. ” and andy’s like “i’m just gonna playeth with some fuckin' metal bands. ”

and they wast like, “alright, this breaks been like three years long. Two years long. three years long. three and a half? we gotta fuckin’ cometh back sir. We gotta cometh back stout!

(-you tooketh mine own beer hence, what the alas?! -no, thee did pour t all ov'r yourself! -yeah, thee did pour t on yourself, sir. )

we gotta maketh this the horror legit. T's gonna beest fuckin' dope. T's gonna wend fuckin' sky high. We're gonna maketh a fuckin' record yond sails the skies. we're gonna calleth this record: save rock and roll. so they madeth "alone together", "light 'em up", "alone together", "phoenix". and everyone’s like “what the alas? you’re working with this guy who is't fuckin' record'd avril lavigne and p!nk!”

(-what the alas is this on mine own shirt, didst i heave the gorge on mine own shirt? -no, thee did pour beer all ov'r yourself. -oh god. )

pete wast like: “yo, we're gonna end up on the tour with panic! at the disco and twenty pilots. ” (burp, spit) and that’s all. And that’s all yond matters. And yond is how the fucking story goeth.

#drunk history of fall out boy #shakespeare #mine

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oogieswife67 · 5 years

Text

The Duke of Food part 01

Based off a series of drawings I’ve been doing of Rouxls Kaard from Deltarune. Some of the pics will be left out, while others will line up with the story.

Whole story under the cut.

A small jingle of laughter could be heard in the dungeon cell. A small jester in purple and black was sitting cross-legged on the cold, dark cement floor. He didn’t think much about how cold the place was, as his attention was only on the self-appointed Duke of Puzzles. The dark blue man had a small book in hand that he was writing in. He was deep in thought with the latest puzzle. He did see himself as the best, after all. "What's that stupid smirk about, Kaard?" Jevil asked in a snarky tone, "Does it involve a cube and a button?"

Rouxls looked to Jevil with a small glare while he was drawing a cube and a button next to each other. "Noneth thy's business!" He shouted and closed his book quickly.

"Solve my puzzle then- why come down here when you don't want to talk to me?" Jevil tilted his head to the side as Rouxls came up to the bars of the prison cell.

"I wanted someth privacy far from Lancer! The little water beetle keeps bothering me with his inquiries!" Rouxls replied while he had bent forward a tad and had his hands on his hips. "And thou shall not bother inquire being freed!"

"Come now, Kaard. I won't do too much chaos. Just enough for the King to go mad himself." The jester kept that grin on. He eyed the duke as he could feel the mischief grow inside of him. "Perhaps you'd like to be king yourself?"

Rouxls was rather surprised by the question, then raised an eyebrow at that. "Hmph. I have no needeth for such flare."

Jevil frowned. "Shame, because I have a puzzle that would help with that."

Rouxls raised an eyebrow once more. "None can overthrow the King!"

"This can." Jevil stuck his fist out, palm up to reveal a small, pastel blue macaroon with pink filling. "All you gotta do is solve the puzzle."

Against his better judgement, Rouxls stuck his hand out and allowed the small treat to fall into his hand. He lifted his hand up before picking it up with his thumb and finger with his other hand. "This is it?" He asked as he checked it over.

"Puzzle too hard for you to solve?" The jester raised an eyebrow with a small smirk.

"Noneth puzzles ever stop me, the Duke of Puzzles!" The duke proclaimed loudly. He opened his mouth widely and threw it into his mouth. While the little dessert was easily chewed up in a few bites- it was hard to tell the flavor. Cherry, cotton candy, and chocolate danced in his mouth for such a short moment before disappearing.

“Congrats! You solved the puzzle!” Jevil giggled, covering his mouth with his hands. “You truly are the Duke of Puzzles!”

“As I’ve stated beforeth!” Rouxls looked rather proud. “Though, what does one get for solving it?”

“My company, of course!” In a blink of an eye, Jevil was suddenly right next to Rouxls Kaard, which made him jump. “You didn’t think you would get something, now did ya?”

“-?!” Rouxls looked down in shock and terror as Jevil stood by him. “GETITH BACK IN THY CELL AT ONCE!”

“Why? I just want to have some fun! Besides, you’ll get your prize in the near future!”

“I don’t needeth one’s prize!” Rouxls reached out to grab Jevil, only to grab at air. Jevil was able to dodge the hands easily and slid between the blue legs to the other side. Rouxls bent down and looked between them to see the jester right at the stairs, waving at him before suddenly vanishing into thin air. Rouxls had a look of terror when he realized what had happened. “OH NO! THE KING WILL-” before he could finish, he felt a sharp pang in his stomach. He fell to his knees and hugged his middle. “Th-This-!” he wheezed a few times, getting himself to settle down before the pang stopped for a moment.

“... I shall get something to eat, before telling the King what happened…” Rouxls told himself. He got himself back to his feet and walked up the stairs. The pain he felt in his middle lingered… But he kept his appearance as he travelled through the castle.

Rouxls Kaard would find himself back at his shop, greeted by a large pot of roux. He looked into the pot and saw how full it was. “Stilleth so full…” he thought. No one had been swinging by his shop as of late, so his plans to defeat any heroes were delayed due to low funds. He scooped out a couple ladle full of goo and puts them into the bowl. After a brief stirring, Rouxls put the spoon to his mouth and his eyes went wide.

It was like an impulse mixed with feeling like he hadn’t eaten in so long, and the roux just tasted so good at that moment. He can’t help but keep scooping food into his mouth at a rapid speed. He simply cannot believe how good it was tasting! When the bowl was empty, he helped himself to another, then another, and then another…

It was either this, or the whole pot would be sold at a massive discount in hopes it doesn’t get further rotten and tossed out. What remained inside the pot was a thin line of roux, a couple of worms, and the ladle. The empty bowl and spoon rested next to said pot. Rouxls looked pretty satisfied with himself. “That hittith the spot…” he muttered, then suddenly felt very tired. He got to the front of his shop as it sounded like a comfortable spot. He laid back and closed his eyes, falling into a slumber.

There was an uncomfortable feeling coming from Rouxls’s stomach. He scrunched up his eyes before starting to wake up with a small moan. He looked down at himself sleepily and within seconds his eyes widened in shock. Before the Duke was his bloated middle that made him look 8 months pregnant. “-?!?” He was left speechless upon the sight. His hands shook as he reached down and felt his swollen middle. “Wh-Wh-What… How-?!” he pushed his fingers and thumbs into it, only to feel them pushing in and out of his belly. “It’s real-!!! How could this happen?!” Panic started to fill him as he was now sitting upright, causing his belly to land on his lap. He started to think. “I don’t have anything to shrink this… Seam must have something!” he snapped his fingers at the last thought, and he disappeared into his teleport light.

Seam stood at his shop. It was rather quiet and peaceful. He didn’t have much tidying up to do and was dozing off. His eye went wide when he heard the familiar teleporting sound and Rouxls Kaard appearing before him in a panic. Immediately the old cat looked right at the belly. “You, uh… Looking quite full today.” “This shant the time to maketh jokes!” Rouxls replied in a panic. His hands quickly went into his hair as he looked down at his belly in horror. “What doth happening to me?! This hath barely shrunketh down! Do you have anything to stop this?!”

Seam put his hand to his chin in thought as he looked Rouxls over. “Hmm… That would depend…” he looked at the other in the eyes as his hand lowered slightly. ”You didn't mess with Jevil recently, right?”

“...” Rouxls was quiet as his mind went back to the events earlier. “...............” next he thought back to how much Roux he had eaten and how he was a bit bigger but somehow never noticed it at the time. “.... Maybe.” he said, looking away.

“Don’t tell me you fell for one of his tricks!” Seam looked rather shocked. “What did he give you?!”

“This tiny… I thinketh they’re called macaroons.”

“Oh my… Well, there isn’t a lot I can do to help you.” Seam frowned a bit. “Either he helps you out or you let this run its course.” Rouxls didn’t seem to like that. He grabbed Seam’s shoulder and shook the cat rapidly. “I cannot looketh like this! I’ll be the laughing stock!” He stopped shaking Seam for a moment when a thought popped into his head. “Lancer! Oh godith… Whateth he sees me liketh this?!” he asked in a panic.

Seam looked dizzy for a moment, before shaking his head quickly and looking to Rouxls. “Well, better come up with a good explanation then…”

Rouxls didn’t seem to like that. He was about to grab the cat and start to shake him again when he could smell something wonderful. “Is that… Marshmallows?” he asked.

“I picked some dark candy recently. Why? You want some?” Seam pulled up a bucket of dark candy onto the counter.

“Ah… If uh…” Rouxls looked a bit nervous and hungry now.

Seam looked down at the other’s swollen middle. Still no signs of shrinking. He shook his head and pushed the bucket to Rouxls. “Help yourself. Want some Darkburgers as well?”

“If you please!” Rouxls looked excited to get the bucket of dark candy and started to pop a few of the smaller pieces into his mouth at once.

Seam knew better. He knew this was all Jevil’s doing and he was just going to -literally- feed into Jevil’s tricks, but what could he do? What he could best for now- get some Darkburgers for Rouxls.

Rouxls’s belly was slowly growing with all the dark candies he was eating. It didn’t take a lot of them to show any growth in that short amount of time before the bucket was emptied. He now looked pregnant with twins before Seam gave Rouxls a tray of Darkburgers. This just made his mouth drool even more and he helped himself to the large meal. It all couldn’t help but taste so good to him. His belly was growing at a faster pace, but his clothes didn’t show any signs of wear and tear.

Seam watched in silence. All he could do was wait for the Darkburgers to be eaten up, which didn’t take too long. All that was left was small crumbs on the tray. Rouxls looked satisfied with himself. “That hitteth th-” as he patted his hands on his belly, he couldn’t help but stare at nothing for a moment, before looking down at himself. He now looked to be pregnant with quads, and he looked horrified. “AH-! IT GOT BIGGER!!!” he said as he grabbed at the sides of his head again.

“That’s what happens when you eat so much.” Seam said casually. “Looks like you’ll be having random moments of hunger and you’ll have to satisfy it. I want to say to look for Jevil and get him to reverse it, but… Encountering him again is most likely not a good idea.”

This didn’t comfort Rouxls at all. “Oooohh… I shant be called the Duke of Food! I am the Duke of Puzzles!”

“All I can do is tell you good luck…” Seam looked behind the counter, then back to Rouxls. “... And offer you more dark candies I just realized I had.”

“... Anything to stop this horrid hunger for however long.” Rouxls sounded defeated as he took the bucket of sweets, then disappeared into his teleport light.

Seam’s eye squinted in thought once Rouxls disappeared. “Jevil… This is your most interesting game yet.” he muttered.

#oogiesart #male stuffing #male belly #writing is an art and i should've tagged my other stories like this #because i ain't making another tag like oogieswriting

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artificialqueens · 5 years

Text

Free Falling, Chapter 6: The Shitteth Hath Hitteth the Faneth (Branjie) - writworm42

A/N: Thank you to @artificialmeggie for beta-ing!!! Idk what the title is from, it’s just something a friend of mine always says and seemed appropriate lolol

Board meetings at Charles-Visage occurred once every two months. They were usually extremely exclusive affairs; no one but the board members, the president, and other executive staff of the hospital, as well as the heads of various committees, as necessary.

Except for today. The budgetary meeting, the day Brooke had been waiting for ever since she found out about her expansion being possible. Once a year, there was a hospital-wide budgetary board meeting, one which all managers of all units and clinics were invited to. Plastique had told her all about it; during those meetings, budgets were cut, expanded, shifted, and set, each manager given a chance to present, propose, and defend their ideas and their programs. According to Plastique, though, most managers sat quietly and took what was handed to them, treating the meeting more like a debrief than a possibility.

Lucky for her unit, Brooke wasn’t most managers. In the days that led up to the meeting, she revved up her work, preparing papers, posters, an entire spreadsheet, just to convince the board about the possibility of an expansion. It was an iron-clad plan, and she had it figured out right down to the roll-out.

“Someone’s prepared,” Vanessa teased as she helped Brooke carry her charts up the stairs towards the boardroom. Brooke nodded, trying to ignore the pounding in her chest that intensified with every step as they climbed closer.

She hadn’t told Vanessa what her plans were; she didn’t want to jinx it. But Vanessa must have known she was nervous because earlier that day, instead of watching Plastique grapple with the prep materials, she offered her lunch hour to come and support Brooke.

“You don’t have to do that!” Brooke had protested.

“I know.” Vanessa only smiled, laying a hand on Brooke’s shoulder. “I want to.”

“Hey.” They reached the top of the stairs, and Vanessa grabbed Brooke’s hand, reddening a little but holding it tight. “You’re gonna do great, okay?”

“Okay.” Brooke squeezed back. They stayed like that for a moment, not looking at each other but not pulling away, a game of chicken that softened and became, somehow, something close to comfortable. Brooke could feel Vanessa’s eyes gradually come to settle on her, and she tried her best to look back, but they only locked eyes for a moment before both looking away.

Just like that, the magic was broken.

“Um. Anyway.” Vanessa coughed, dropping her hand from Brooke’s. “You should probably go, don’t wanna be late.” She turned to leave, but then stopped and turns back, this time not flinching away when she looked right into Brooke’s eyes. “Good luck, ‘kay?”

“Okay.” Brooke looked back and smiled. “Thanks.”

She carried the buzz of Vanessa’s touch with her into the meeting, the euphoria of calloused palms rubbing against her own soft ones melting all of her nerves away.

–

In retrospect, Brooke should have expected almost everything that happened at that meeting.

It had been no surprise to her that she was, apart from the two pediatric outpatient clinic managers, the only woman in the room. She had expected the sea of balding, white men in the same gray suit staring back at her, waiting for her to look away first. She didn’t; only coolly took a seat at the table as others continued filing in.

“I assume you’re Miss Hytes?” the man next to her leaned in and asked in a bemused tone through overly-whitened teeth, not bothering to extend a hand to the pretty young thing next to him.

“ Ms. Brooke Lynn Hytes, yes. And you are?” Brooke extended hers instead, staring a challenge back into the man’s own appraising eyes. There was no crack in his facade as he took her hand and shook it, his smile widening.

“Gerald Warden-Robertson Fairbanks, but you can call me Gerald. Outpatient high-intensity.”

“Inpatient pediatrics,” Brooke returned, dropping neither her gaze nor her hand.

“I figured.” The man smirked back, his eyes dismissive and smile somehow even more saccharine as he dropped her hand, almost as if he was looking at a child himself. But Brooke only smiled, chewing up the dig and instantly thinking up the right way to spit it back to him.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Gary.”

For a moment, Brooke thought she saw the man twitch, but before she could fully bask in it, the meeting was called to order.

It didn’t take long for things to get down to business. That was typical; everyone had places to go, things to do. There was a flurry of facts, figures, and percentages being thrown around, the ‘debrief’ more like a full-on thesis presentation. That was typical, too; there was no doubt in anyone in the industry’s mind that those who couldn’t keep up should get out. What was atypical, what began to get Brooke really worried, is what all of those numbers meant.

Bottom line.

Profit margin.

Donor contributions.

Trends in spending.

We’ll have to make cuts.

They’d have to make cuts.

She should have expected that. That was totally typical for budget meetings, it was totally typical for healthcare in general. She should have expected that.

She hadn’t.

She knew what came next; next was a witch-hunt, a frenzy to defend one’s department and keep as much of their funding as possible. That was fine; Brooke had come expecting some kind of fight, and she was prepared.

What she hadn’t expected was for Gary to clear his throat.

“Well, Bob, realistically, looking at our profit margins and spending versus our targets, it seems like only one program needs significant cutting.”

Brooke knew what was coming. She knew what he was going to say.

“I would say we need to make major cuts to the entire pediatrics department.”

Brooke wasn’t a praying woman. There was not a single plea running through her mind at that point, only replies, only arguments, only facts and figures and which of her charts would be most useful.

Then, grace.

“I appreciate the suggestion, Gerald, but it’s not something we can make a snap decision about. We’ll get back to you all by the time of the quarterly report, but until then, just… Try to keep these issues in mind.”

She should have expected Gary to sneer at her, to say something as he walked past out of the boardroom. She hadn’t.

“See you at the quarterly, if you’re still here.”

The words rang in her mind all the way back to her office.

–

Brooke could fix it. She knew she could fix it. Hell, she’d fixed worse before.

The difference was, those times, her head didn’t spin when she sat back down in her chair. Those times, she felt confident in where to start and where to go. Those times, it was about the unit and the system.

This time, it was different. This time, it was about Honey and her daughters needing the income. This time, it was about Kahanna taking care of her aging mother. It was about Yvie paying her own medical bills. Even more than that, this time, was about every kid in their care. It was about buying sponges for Monet to play with during her sessions so that she was motivated, how desperate Kameron was to get back to kindergarten and show everyone how her surgery had changed the way she walked. It was about every single parent who lived at their child’s bedside, overpriced cafeteria food siphoning their income while they slept on the foldout armchair next to their child’s steadily whirring morphine drip. It was about all the complex care kid on the waitlist for a facility ready to take them, the kids who would have nowhere else to go.

And, as selfish as it made her, there was a part of Brooke’s heart that knew that it was for Vanessa, too.

She couldn’t let her unit get hurt. She had to save it. Save everyone.

So she did what she did best; she got to work.

Over the next week, Brooke was almost never outside of her office. She took the bus to come in an hour early, and forewent her rides home with Nina to stay even later. She slid in at the last minute for rounds, and was one of the first people out of the room. At first, people were concerned; Plastique asked if she needed more help, others brought her coffee and tea just to make sure she was alive. She rarely accepted more than the minimum, and soon, everyone stopped coming by.

Everyone, that is, except for Vanessa. For the entire week, Vanessa stopped by faithfully, lunchbox in hand, to ask Brooke if she was ready to go for lunch. It broke Brooke’s heart to have to say no, to watch the other woman’s face fall as she told her she had too much work. But it had to be done—even if she couldn’t tell anyone why, not yet, it had to be done.

Still, Vanessa never seemed to get the hint.

“Brooke?” By day eight of their new routine, Vanessa was no longer smiling when she knocked on Brooke’s door. Brooke swallowed hard.

“Hi, Vanjie.” Brooke forced a smile for the both of them, trying not to pay attention to the caution in Vanessa’s eyes, how she’d stopped bothering to step into the door, instead leaning against its frame.

Brooke was ready to tell her to go ahead without her, that she had too much work to do, but before she had a chance to, Vanessa caught her by surprise.

“Did I piss you off or somethin’?”

“No!” Brooke looked up at her, stricken. “It’s not that at all, I really do have w–”

“You always got work.” Vanessa narrowed her eyes, stepping inside the office with her arms crossed, “This is different and you know it. You been distant from everyone, an’ you used to let me sit with you even when you couldn’t come down to the caf. This past week all of a sudden, you don’t even wanna look at me?”

“‘Ness, I–”

“Don’t ‘Ness’ me!” Vanessa’s voice was tense, and Brooke could tell that another word from her and her dirty laundry would be aired at a volume the entire unit would hear. “What is going on? ”

“Close the door,” Brooke was quiet, her chest suddenly tight and weighed down by a guilt she had been trying her best not to feel. “And sit down.”

There was a pause, Vanessa’s eyes flitting around nervously, but she nodded and did as Brooke asked, once again taking her place on top of Brooke’s desk. It was a familiar, comforting gesture, one that made Brooke relax a little despite herself. For a split second, a flash of doubt ran through Brooke’s mind, anxiously wondering if what she was about to do, what she was about to say, was going to backfire, whether it was truly going in the right hands.

But then she looked at Vanessa, saw the earnest concern in her face, and suddenly, she was sure.

“At the board meeting last week, there was talk of cuts. A lot of cuts. Like… potentially lose-the-unit cuts.” Brooke surveyed Vanessa’s face, and felt her heart fall with Vanessa’s expression. It wasn’t one of fear, necessarily–though Brooke could tell in the quiver of the shorter woman’s lip that that was present, too. It was more a look of defeat and sadness, of hopelessness.

That was what Brooke had been afraid of. And it was exactly what she was hoping to avoid.

“I’m– Look, the reason I’m working so hard is because I’m going to fix it, okay?” she added, staving off her own hopelessness, pushing it back down from where it was starting to cut up her stomach. “I’m just figuring out how right now. I think–I think I’ve figured out a way, I’ve just got to–”

“Stop.”

Brooke took in a sharp breath as Vanessa darted out a hand to lay on hers, the sticky feeling of still-drying hand sanitizer soft yet still somehow heavy against her skin.

She looked up, and for once, Vanessa held her gaze.

“We’ve faced cuts before, okay? And we’ve been fine.” Vanessa’s words were careful, calm, as if she was waiting for each syllable to sink in before moving on to the next. “You’re working hard, and I know you can do this. Hell,” she added with a wry smile, “we’ve survived this with way worse managers than your type A patootie.”

Brooke smiled weakly, and Vanessa tightened her grip on her hand.

“You don’t have to figure this out alone, okay? We can all help.”

Brooke shook her head. “I don’t want help right now. I don’t–I don’t want anyone to panic, and I don’t want rumours to start going around, especially not to families. You know how the grapevine grows around here.”

“Okay.” Vanessa nodded, her face somber, and somehow, Brooke felt reassured. That reassurance stops dead in her chest, though, when Vanessa opens her mouth again, a stern, scolding finger coming up and pointing at Brooke.

“Just promise me you’ll take lunch breaks, okay? We don’t need you burnin’ out, that ain’t gonna help no one.”

Brooke nods, smiling despite herself. “Okay.”

“So, we gonna get to the caf, or what?” Vanessa returns the smile widely, radiantly, like Brooke’s just made her day. And for a moment, Brooke lets herself entertain the thought that maybe, just maybe, she has.

“Okay,” she repeats, standing up and giving her back and arms a big stretch. “Let’s go.”

#rpdr fanfiction #brooke lynn hytes #vanessa vanjie mateo #branjie #lesbian au #hospital au #free falling #writworm42

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harryandmolly · 5 years

Text

i could write it better than you ever felt it - eight

A/N: in my grand tradition of Not Writing Lyrics, Forefront’s songs are brought to you by Jack’s Mannequin.

summary: fuck growing up. this is freedom, this is life, this is youth – 2007 Warped Tour style.

warnings: Language, The Shit Hath Hitteth The Fan (TM)

word count: 4.9k

“Florida is so fucking disgusting,” Francis whines.

Shawn sniffs and nods, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. It doesn’t help, just spreads more sweat around.

“It’s a swamp, what do you expect?” Seth gripes, kicking at a patch of muddy grass beneath their feet.

The Forefront boys are fucking wiped. It’s the middle of July. Warped has dragged them through 14 cities in three and a half weeks, and they have five weeks remaining. They’re hitting the Warped wall, the one all the bands hit after about a month of slogging through humidity, through beer-soaked afternoons and hungover mornings, through crowds of kids with too many feelings whose resounding screams of familiar lyrics are what keep everybody moving.

“Can we borrow your fuckbuddy’s shower later?” Bobby jokes, kicking aside a smashed-in red Solo cup as they stalk toward Smartpunk for their 2pm set time.

The hair on the back of Shawn’s damp neck stands. He chews on his lower lip so his piercing juts out. A thousand responses fly through his head, some more aggressive than others, and just as he opens his mouth to let one out, Seth clamps a hand down on his shoulder and steps in.

“Val Moreno knows better than to let you anywhere near her bus.”

The rest of the band snickers. Shawn releases a tense exhale and casts a sidelong glance at Seth who lifts his eyebrows and shrugs, ever the willing mediator.

The trek from the van to Smartpunk feels long today and it might just be because Streets’ merch booth is on the other side of the Reynolds Park Yacht Center’s grounds. It gives him less of an excuse to happen to pass her and maybe get a kiss, or, if he’s really lucky, a quickie in a dirty bathroom somewhere.

They arrive at the backside of the stage. Andrew is leading the charge as usual as Shawn dreamily wanders at the back of the crew. He’s gazing around aimlessly, head full of lyrics ready to be written, so he doesn’t notice the commotion. He’s kicking at the ground and biting his lip ring again when Seth nudges him. He looks up and follows Seth’s eyes to where Andrew is talking very close to the face of the bulky security guy. Shawn frowns. He goes to nudge Francis questioningly when Andrew turns on his heel looking flushed and startled.

“Ok. Change of plans. You’re on Hurley.”

“We’re…” Bobby breathes, unable to finish.

“Hurley…?” Seth croaks.

“You mean Hurley.com?” Shawn guesses.

Andrew licks his lips and cocks his head at the band who all seem to have shrunken a few inches each. “No. Hurley.”

Shawn’s stomach lurches. They’re all tripping over their own feet as they change direction and head for a stage that’s two levels of clout above where they have any business playing.

That’s when Shawn begins to notice it. They’re being watched.

The glances, the whispers, if they were there before, they were invisible to him. They’re unignorable now as Andrew lifts his chin and leads them back the way they came, back past a confused looking Carter at what could generously be described as their merch booth.

The Hurley stage… well, for one thing, it has a roof. Shawn’s bad with dimensions but it looks like it’s at least fifteen or twenty feet longer and deeper than Smartpunk. They’ve opened on stages this big when they got gigs at Toronto clubs for bands like Streets and All Time Low, so they at least have the experience of spreading out a little. Shawn can feel the nerves though. Seth is finger drumming against a railing a little faster and less rhythmic than usual. Francis is texting on his Sidekick but looking around anxiously like he’s sharing state secrets. Shawn swallows and closes his eyes. He suddenly really wishes Val were here to like, hold his hand or something.

He’s not crazy about that realization. That’s not what Val does. Despite his reaction earlier to Bobby’s comment, he’s right. They are fuckbuddies. They fuck in Val’s bunk, in the back lounge, in venue bathrooms, at bars she sneaks him into when they have a night off in certain cities. Yeah, he usually sleeps in her bunk with her, but that’s just because he’s like a giant human gravity blanket like she told him. He’s warm and heavy and doesn’t snore and she needs that kind of physical, human comfort for her insomnia. But it’s not, like, romantic.

He rolls his eyes at himself and knows very well all the flashes of imagery he’s ignoring -- when she wants his attention, she tugs at the back pocket of his jeans and kisses his shoulder. When they wake up together, he buries her face in his hair and sings her new music he’s working on and she helps him untangle some melodies and lyrics in his head.

It’s hard to reconcile it sometimes, the way they are 15% of the time, with the rest of it.

He’s startled out of his pointless examination by Bobby kicking at the back of his leg.

“Listen,” Bobby pants, wide-eyed and a little horrified by what he seems to hear.

Shawn narrows his eyes to focus. Then he gets it.

“How… how many people do you think are out there?” Shawn murmurs, scrubbing at the back of his neck.

Francis, for once, is stunned silent by the steady roar of the mass of humans waiting on the other side of the stage. From back here, they can’t see them and Shawn can’t decide if that’s better or worse. Bobby shakes his head and kicks at a spare riser to release some tension.

“Fuck,” Shawn croaks, folding his hands over his nose and mouth, exhaling slowly. He feels a hand on his arm. His skin jumps as fast as his brain does, right towards a false conclusion.

But it’s just Andrew wearing a sternly comforting look.

“You guys have done this before,” he reminds them gently, “They’re just… here for you now. Which makes it easier, not harder. You have no one to win over out there. You… you guys already did that.”

Shawn’s breath is shaky in his chest as they huddle up, swinging long, sweaty arms around each other, dipping their heads together to mutter hype words before they break apart and wait for the guy to announce them.

Shawn’s eyes close. This part, this is for him. He knows he has a band around him, he knows he has a family back home that loves him, he knows he has… an unknown number of people on the other side of a stage that came to see him. But these few seconds between the huddle and climbing up the steps to burst onto the stage, those are for him.

They’re for the hours he’s spent yawning through exhaustion, true bone-tired exhaustion, reaching for the right notes, the right words. They’re for the nights he spent facedown on his comforter back home in Pickering with headphones in listening to old Fall Out Boy and Yellowcard and Something Corporate feeling so inspired he thought his pounding heart would burst through his chest and splatter on the mattress. They’re for the times he felt like no one was there but him, like he needed something to believe in, so he drowned himself in pop-punk until he convinced himself he wasn’t so alone. They’re for the kid who pawned his hockey skates without telling his dad so he could buy his first shitty guitar.

When he opens his eyes again, his brain is turned off. Andrew hands him an acoustic and claps him on the shoulder. He ascends the steps behind the rest of the band, following them out to face the crowd.

There are easily hundreds of kids waiting for them, cheering as soon as they come around the side of the stage to take their places. Any lingering concerns Shawn had about the crowd realizing they’ve waited for the wrong band are gone. He locks eyes with a redhead against the barricade. Her cheeks are flushed and her eyeliner is a little runny, but she’s on her toes in battered old checkered Vans to lean over the metal gate to scream for them like she’s loved them for as long as she’s lived. When she realizes he sees her, she bounces up and down, elbowing the brunette next to her, reaching her arms out for him like she’s been waiting for this moment. He grins and tosses her a pick. She snatches it out of the air and gawps like a goldfish, jamming it into her bra before anyone can try to swipe it out of her fingers.

He plays the rest of the show for her, and for everyone like her that needs him as badly as he needs them.

“Just try it, come on!” Jack cries, wriggling so he can lift his shirt up to his chest, flexing his non-abs to make a point.

“It’s not going to work,” Val insists, smiling at the girl she’s handing $7.50 change to along with a size large Streets tour shirt.

She looks down at Jack Barakat, who has spread himself out across her merch table insisting she try to bounce a quarter off his stomach because he wants to prove to his bassist Zack that it will work.

“It is!” he whines, thrusting a quarter into her hand, wiggling again, “Come on!”

Val is about to give in and humor him when she catches sight of four very flustered looking teenage girls hustling around the crowds to head toward the larger stages.

“.... what time did the set start?” one barks.

“2!” cries another, raising their urgency.

“Oh my god, I am going to fucking kill myself if we miss Forefront playing on the fucking Hurley stage.”

Val’s jaw drops. She slaps Jack’s stomach for his attention. “The what? What did they say? Did they say Hurley?”

Jack cradles the welt forming on his skin and kicks blindly at her leg in weak retaliation.

“Yeah, they got the call up to the big leagues today. He didn’t tell you?”

Val frowns, a little insecure, “No. How did you hear?”

“Well,” Jack explains, sitting up and swinging his legs, “Alex told me but I think he heard it from Evan who was walking by the Paramore tent and Jeremy told him that he heard it from Josh who was told by--”

“Ok,” Val interrupts, mind blank as a sheet, “You have to stay here. You have to watch my table.”

“I can’t, we’re on in twenty minutes.”

“Fuck!” Val mutters, frantically looking around the stragglers by her booth. Just as she’s about to say ‘fuck it’ and abandon the table altogether, Greg comes swinging out of the bus with a truly horrifying microwaved hot dog in one hand and his Virgin Mobile flip phone in the other.

“Oh, thank god,” she breathes, springing out from behind the table to grab his arm and yank him into her place, “You have to watch the booth.”

“Are you ok?” Greg chuckles, lifting his eyebrows at her.

“I’m fine!” she cries, “I owe you one! Bye!”

Twelve years of competitive soccer have sharpened her sprinting and dodging skills. She bobs and weaves easily around liberty-spiked hair and enormous puddles of mud with a singular goal.

The Hurley stage. How did that even fucking happen?

She’s trying not to focus on the fact that he didn’t tell her this, because he knows as well as she how fucking big a deal it is, and he could’ve mentioned it at some point this morning between sucking her orgasm off his fingers and muttering “fuck, yes, fuck, that feels good” when she let him come in her mouth. But he didn’t.

Instead, she focuses on getting there to witness it. She sees the stage a few hundred yards away and from this angle, she can see the crowd. It’s a far fucking cry from their usual draw -- that AP Mag article definitely caught some attention. Her heart swells with pride until she remembers, just after she flashes her pass at Bucky the guard and begins to run up the steps to sidestage, that that pride isn’t hers to feel.

He’s not her boyfriend. He’s her… friend. With benefits. The benefits are really great, especially after a few weeks of practice. But any emotional attachment she feels to his accomplishment of his is… misplaced.

She drops her hand from the railing and steps back from the stairs. As her chest heaves from the effort of racing there, she takes long, striding steps backward, past Bucky’s curious gaze. She swallows, frowns a little at the pang in her heart, and walks around the edge of the crowd to stand somewhere in the back.

Somewhere in the back lands her beside Paramore’s merch tent. She smiles politely at their merch guy Max and props up on their tent leg to take it in.

They’ve just finished “Holiday from Real” and Shawn’s setting up at the keyboard, striking out the first few notes of “Dark Blue.” She has good timing -- it’s her favorite off Joy Ride, she thinks.

He’s wearing a soft smile like he doesn’t hear the booming cries of his audience as they begin to register what he’s playing next. He’s smiling like he’s playing for himself, by himself, for no other reason than because he has to to feel real.

“This was recorded on a grand piano,” he begins, licking his lips, waiting for the shrieking of excited girls to quiet before he continues, “So it sounds kinda shitty on the keyboard. But we’re poor and can’t bring a grand piano in a truck for Warped Tour so we work with what we got. You should buy the album because it sounds better on there, I promise. Anyway, this is Dark Blue.”

Val grins, chuckling as she steps aside to let some fans through to the merch table. She’s bobbing her head, lost in the way his face scrunches as he dips in and out of his falsetto, when she feels a brush against her arm. She turns her head and grins.

“Hey, you,” she laughs, opening her arms to shrug Hayley Williams into her shoulder, squeezing her gently.

“Come for a visit?” Hayley asks, stepping away to flip some shaggy fire engine red hair off her shoulders.

Val shakes her head and glances back at the stage. “Just watching, actually.”

Hayley nods her understanding and turns her attention in, biting her lip as she studies the performance. As the final notes fade out and Shawn stands from behind the keys to reach for the scarred blue electric Vince hands him, Hayley bumps Val again.

“They’re really fucking great,” Hayley quips. Val runs her tongue against her lower lip, watching Shawn toss a pick into the crowd and laugh at something Francis says that she can’t understand from this far back over the roar of the audience.

“They are.”

Val doesn’t hear herself answer Hayley. She’s lost.

But, as she stares up at him, watching his head bob and his eyes flutter shut, watching his heel tap the stage to the rhythm Seth pounds out behind him, smiling when he does at the crowd of people that came to see him today, she doesn’t feel lost at all. For the first time in months, she feels… found.

Val feels like a goldfish swimming circles around her bowl as she paces around the empty Forefront van. She’s kicking up mud all over the place and it’s clinging to her violet Bullhead skinnies that were already begging for a wash, but she hasn’t noticed. She wrings her hands, cracks her knuckles, untucks and retucks her hair behind her ears.

Val had turned avoiding Forefront’s sets into a goddamn art form. Yes, she caught one or two toward the beginning of tour when her heart didn’t feel quite so… full of him. When listening to him sing was easy and light and a fun new experience. He hadn’t asked her to come watch and she didn’t feel like that was by accident. She had a feeling maybe he had the same thought, that her watching the set was somehow a dangerous idea.

She thinks maybe her functioning human brain just shut down when she heard they were playing Hurley and that’s why the lizard brain took over and dragged her there to stand behind a sea of scene kids. That’s the only explanation she can think of. Rational thought was just… gone.

Now, as she turns crop circles around their 15-seater waiting for them to return from their triumphant set, she knows for certain why avoiding their sets was necessary.

Because now she’s certain that she’s so goddamn in love with him.

I mean, ok, it’s been a month. Maybe love is a strong word. Maybe she’s infatuated, maybe it’s as fleeting as Warped Tour itself. Maybe this time next year she’ll be laughing at the idea of Shawn Mendes. But right now, she slumps against his van and sighs, knees weak at the thought of him.

This was… not supposed to happen. She was supposed to take the summer to move on, to continue recovering and relax before she leaves in the fall. She’s supposed to be spending late nights talking to Bea and bonding with her brother and pranking Alex and Jack at barbecues and swallowing her last gulps of the scene before she leaves it behind for good.

But she knows. She has known it. And she knows it now when she hears his laugh coming up the hill overtop the voices of his rowdy band and crew. She turns and smiles, waiting for him to see her.

She knows it when he stops mid-sentence and races up to her, tackling her against the side of the van as he laughs into her neck, his skin buzzing with adrenaline, ignoring the teasing of his friends. She knows it when he pulls back to smooth hair out of her face and kiss her, so she opens her big, fat mouth.

“Do you want to stay with me in the hotel tonight?”

A hotel night with Val is just about the most perfect way to end a day like this, so why the fuck is he dreading it?

Hotel nights are for the lucky few on Warped Tour, bands who are signed to labels with actual cash and generally have been around the scene collecting a fanbase for awhile, a.k.a. not Forefront.

Streets has had two hotel nights so far, both of which Val made excuses to keep from inviting Shawn to. The first, she was “sick.” The second, Bea would be crashing in her room. The reality of both? It felt a little too… much.

There’s something about a hotel room with clean sheets and a view of the city and a shower that could fit them both at once that brings them both out of the grimy, slimy Warped Tour bubble and into a reality that’s a little harder to face. Val hasn’t been ready for that and Shawn hasn’t pushed for it because the longer they keep their heads buried in the fairground dirt, the better off they are.

He doesn’t even mean to say yes, really. But his mouth moves a little faster than his brain and trips right into a “oh fuck, yes.”

Now as he’s walking a little too slowly toward the Streets bus with his head down and hands shoved deep in his pockets, his whole body feels heavy and the buzzing in his brain gets louder and louder with every step.

It’s not that he doesn’t want it. God, he fucking wants it. A night alone with her in a real bed? Jesus. But… it’s going to be so much harder to keep things the way they are after something like this. Everything is changing so fast -- he needs the stability, the simplicity of Val as she is, a beautiful escape.

He looks up with a belabored sigh and spots the Streets bus as it covers the sun setting over the horizon. The whole band and crew mills about excitedly outside, but Val is still, looking up over the bus. Her hair is drawn down over her shoulders brushing the bare skin on her back where her Yellowcard tee has ridden up. He finds himself drawn to her, walking right up behind her to plant his hands on her hips and push his nose into her hair for that warm, familiar smell of citrus and her.

Val closes her eyes at the tenderness of it, placing her hands over his and rubbing her thumbs gently over his knuckles. They remain silent, buried in their own conflicting thoughts, somehow aware of the tumult in each other’s minds. Val cracks first, turning in his arms to press her hands to his chest and take a deep breath. She locks eyes with him and swallows sharply.

“Ok?”

“Ok.”

“Hey, what’s this little divot in your face?” she breathes, running her whiskey flavored lips over his cheek. He shudders at the feel of her breath and swallows.

“Cut myself trying to shave when I was like, nine.”

Val feels her heart scrunch up in her chest, trying to reject the image. She doesn’t want it. She has no interest in picturing him curly-haired and bright-eyed, a curious nine-year-old with a world ahead of him. She has no interest in the tenderness she feels for him now, ten years later, with that perfect little scar on his cheek that drew her interest.

She has no interest in loving him.

But, after a drink or two from the minibar, she can’t really fight it anymore. Her nails scrape against his scalp as he plods hot kisses down her stomach, smiling gently as her muscles contract. She curls her fingers into his biceps until he pins her arms over her head, stroking into her slow and deep until his heart physically aches. He fucks the tenderness away, sprinting after her orgasm until she’s clenching down around him, swearing in Spanish, breathing hot and hard in his ear. When he pulls out from inside her, his body screams at him to stay, but his brain knows better.

Val turns over with the sheets around her hips and sighs happily into her pillow, tucking her hands under her chin as Shawn stands to ditch the condom. On his way back in, he stops dead in the doorframe of the bathroom and stares.

On Valentina’s back is what is, without a shadow of a doubt, the most beautiful tattoo he’s ever seen.

It’s pretty large, about 8’ by 8’, a scene out a window in a cracked white frame. He stumbles closer, brushing his fingers over the incredible detail as she purrs at the touch of his fingers on her sex-flushed skin.

“‘S my bedroom window,” she explains sleepily, her eyes still shut under the weight of her crushing orgasm, “From my parents’ house in Miami.”

He’s nodding, lost in the way the palm trees frame the colorful neighborhood, the little kid on a bike riding away. It feels… warm somehow. He’s enamored.

“I designed it,” she whispers so quietly he almost doesn’t hear.

Shawn’s attention is lifted from the art on her back. “You what?”

Val turns her head and opens her eyes to blink at him. “I’m an artist. I designed the tattoo. My friend Erika did it over the course of a couple months when we first got signed. I wanted a reminder of where I spent most of my time when I was a kid, staring out my bedroom window, wanting a piece of the world. Now, though… I like it as a reminder of where I came from, not where I’m going.”

Shawn sniffs gently, seeing a flash of his own childhood bedroom window in his mind -- pine trees, a long driveway, ice crystals on every surface. A request bubbles up in his throat for her to draw it for him. He swallows it down.

He bends over her lithe body and presses a kiss to the setting sun in the center of her masterpiece.

He crawls in and falls asleep beside her without another word.

He feels a little better when he wakes up.

She’s exactly where he left her, facedown in the pillow beside him with her art on display. Her hair is a nest of wild curls around her since they showered together before bed. He finally feels really clean for the first time in weeks.

He considers their night together while he pulls on a pair of sweats he brought to be ready for the room service he ordered for them. He remembers the haze of anxiety he fought through to be with her, to really be with her, and he doesn’t feel it’s fully lifted, but sharing last night was, for lack of a better word, special.

He’s cursing himself for being the world’s worst lyricist, unable to think of a better word when there’s a knock at the door. He springs out of bed to bring the room service in himself because Val’s still naked under the sheets.

He accepts the tray from the guy with a smile and a small tip because he only has a couple bucks on hand. As he’s maneuvering his way back inside, Raf comes swinging around the corner with a bucket of ice. Shawn freezes, still uncomfortable with the obviousness of his and Val’s relationship around her twin brother.

A series of odd looks come across Raf’s face until it settles on eerily placid. He smiles stiffly.

“Hey, man. You ordered breakfast?”

Shawn nods, attempting a crooked smile that comes off as a grimace.

Raf bobs his head. “That’s nice. You got her French toast, right?”

Shawn nods again.

“Good, good. That’s her favorite. She’s always liked the fancy stuff. Guess that’s why she’s going back to school at Oxford in the fall.”

Raf’s eyes lift from the tray in Shawn’s suddenly very shaky arms. He fixes Shawn with a dangerous glance and sweeps back inside his hotel room to settle in with Bea until checkout.

Shawn stands there dumbstruck, his back holding the door open, until he hears the sheets rustle behind him.

“You got breakfast, papi?” calls a delighted, sleepy voice.

Shawn turns, not looking half as happy as she is. She sits up, sheets pooling around her hips, nipple rings glinting proudly in the morning light as she raises her arms above her head to stretch. She drops them and smacks her lips together before she notices his expression.

Now she’s awake.

“What?” Val swallows, feels her heart begin to work a little harder.

“Raf. Just… he just told me…”

Val goes white as a sheet.

No.

“Papi, no, he just--”

“I…” Shawn begins, his brow wrinkling, “I think I need to go.”

Val watches him gather his clothes and slip out of the room before she can manage to think of something to make him stay.

That afternoon, after being on a low simmer all day, she storms up the steps to the bus and slams the door open, throwing herself into the front lounge. Raf looks up from his Xbox controller. Greg and Naveen know enough to scatter quickly.

Val steps forward and grabs the controller to toss onto the couch.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” she barks.

Raf plays it cool, sighing condescendingly. “I don’t know, Val, what the fuck is wrong with me?”

“I don’t fucking know! I really don’t fucking know,” Val seethes, crossing her arms over her chest, “First you stumble back into bed with Bea like it’s fucking 2005 again, or the summer of 2004, or the fall of 2006, or whatever. And now this.”

Raf bristles, standing to confront her. “My relationship with Bea is none of your goddamn business.”

“Oh, is it not?” Val shrieks, throwing her arms out, “Coulda fooled me. Every time she stomps her tiny little feet all over your heart, you pour it all over me, ‘Val, you’re her best friend, tell me what she’s thinking,’ ‘Val, don’t let me call her again.’ Yeah, you’re right, you’ve definitely never made that my problem.”

“I needed your help!” he cries, “I needed you! Things were fucking bad and I needed my sister. But you pushed me away and made me feel weak and stupid. You’re always pushing me away, Val! We found one thing to do together, the one thing that made us feel like brother and sister instead of enemies, and you threw it away! Te necesité, me alejaste!”

Val’s eyes widen. “No! No, you’re not bringing this up again! Do not do this to me again!” she begs desperately, “I gave you everything I could. I could not give you my whole life, not for this. For this? To live out of a bus, to see our parents once every four months? To never be able to settle and build a life somewhere? I gave you that time, Raf! I had no more time to give. You keep punishing me for it! How long will you sabotage my life to remind me of what you think I owe you?”

Raf nods, dangerously quiet, “Sabotage your life, huh?”

He takes a step closer until he’s looming over her.

“You know what’s truly sick, Val?” Raf spits, using his height as his only advantage in this virtueless fight, “You don’t even know which secret I told him.”

Support my bad habits and buy me a ko-fi!

Taglist: @smallerinfinities @the-claire-bitch-project @stillinskislydia @achinglyshawn @infiniteshawn @alone-in-madness @alone-in-madness @singanddreamanyway @accioalena @randi-eve @shawnitsmutual @embracehappy @itrocksmysocks @yslsaint

#shawn mendes #shawn mendes fanfic #shawn mendes fan fic #shawn mendes fanfiction #shawn mendes fan fiction #shawn peter raul mendes #shawn mendes fic #shawn mendes fluff #shawn mendes angst #punk!shawn #warped tour shawn

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killerqueenjoy · 5 years

Text

THE SHAKESPEAREAN DRUNK HISTORY OF FALL OUT BOY THAT NO ONE ASKED FOR

It’s summ'r of 2001; joe meets patrick and he’s liketh “yo, i knoweth about music. ”

and patrick’s liketh “yo, i knoweth m're about music. ”

"that’s impossible! doth thee wanna starteth a band?”

and patrick’s liketh, “…yeah… that’s merit. ”

and then he’s liketh “yo, this is a booketh st're, t's not a music st're!”

and then those gents hath met at patrick’s house. And patrick’s wearing sh'rts and socks and a coxcomb. Patrick is playin’ drums f'r some fuckin’ reasoneth! and pete’s th're f'r some reasoneth! those gents starteth playin’ music togeth'r. And those gents're liketh “oh, let’s playeth some fuckin’ cov'rs from some oth'r bands!” t wast liketh, green day and fuckin’ misfits and fuckin’ ramones!

pete hath said to joe, “yo, we gotta changeth this the horror up! yo, we’ve did play all these bands; let’s playeth the horror from falleth out knave. ”

and so pete and patrick art liketh “yo, that’s dope. But we needeth a fuckin’ drumm'r!” because patrick’s playin’ drums and he’s a singeth'r!

patrick's liketh “yo! i did get a soul voice!”

and those gents're liketh “wait, how doth thee has't a soul voice?”

and he’s liketh “yo, gaze this: yeah!”

and they’re liketh “oh mine own god! yond sounds liketh soul!” so those gents putteth t in the song and t wast liketh “where is thy knave tonight!”

and then they’re liketh: “yo, yond's fuckin’ p'rfect. This is falleth out knave. ” and those gents madeth rec'rds liketh, evening out with thy ex-girlfriend. Evening out with thy ex-girlfriend, ev'rybody loves t.

[pete c'rrects brendon]

t's hath called evening out with thy girlfriend.

[brendon ign'res pete]

with thy ex-girlfriend! t's hath called evening out with thy ex-girlfriend!

t's hath called eating out thy girlfriend, and t's real and t doesn't matt'r.

and pete did talk to patrick and joe and that gent wast liketh “yo, what the alas! yo, this is gonna beest fuckin’ dope!”

so those gents madeth a rec'rd, and t wast hath called: taketh this to thy grave.

those gents madeth t without a drumm'r! and those gents hadst liketh three, four drumm'rs cometh in.

the four drumm'rs those gents hadst cometh in w're liketh: josh freese, neil peart, the broth'r from toto… the fourth one wast liketh the guy from papa roach 'r something.

and those gents w're liketh, “yo, we needeth andy hurley. Andy hurley. Taketh this to thy grave. Fuckin' rec'rd t. ” and that gent didst t, and that gent hath killed t.

that gent wast liketh, bigadigadigalalululapssshhhh!

killing the skins! tapping the skins! tapping the rims! playing the the horror! killing these braches! wrapping t out!

[brendon to pete]

(you're getting a fucking tattoo even but now! what the alas is going on?!)

“we shouldst receiveth signed, to fuel'd by ramen. 'cause these guys knoweth what the alas is going on. ”

and those gents w're liketh “yo, if 't be true thee can maketh our scene any bigg'r than t is, which is not fuckin' hard, we shall signeth thee guys. "

pete wast liketh ”yo! we did get this rec'rd that’s fuckin’ dope, broth'r! t's hath called taketh this to thy grave. “

ho, t's gonna beest hath called from und'r the c'rk tree, t's gonna beest fuckin' huge.

and then patrick’s liketh "i gotta keepeth t real, i gotta keepeth t artistic. These art three songs yond art gonna maketh the album and t's hath called (burp), this is hath called: thnks fr th mmrs, 20 dollar nose bleedeth, and sugar we're goin down.

and those gents madeth this rec'rd yond wast fucking dope and t fucking hitteth on the charts.

liketh: one, two, three! three, two one! three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten! ten to one!

from und'r the c'rk tree did sell liketh, four million rec'rds!

ten million rec'rds!

fifteen million rec'rds!

and brendon urie hadst nothing to doth with the entire rec'rd. And patrick wast liketh “that's valorous!”

pete wast liketh “yo, alas thee! i can doth whatev'r i wanteth!”

joe wast liketh “yeah, t's merit sir, whatev'r… i don’t giveth a the horror. ” and then andy wast liketh “eh… merit!”

and pete wast liketh "makeup is fuckin’ most wondrous f'r a guy. Because t maketh a guy behold quite quaint. Which a lot of times, a guy is not quite quaint. And i wanna changeth yond. I wanna maketh sure ev'rybody thinkest yond guys art quite quaint. "

(-i'm valorous so far.

-you wanna spiteth one m're timeth?

-yeah, i doth

. Did shut the alas!. )

pete wast liketh “oh mine own god, i’m so embarrass'd about this dick pic!”

and then i did see the dick pic, and i wast liketh “eh, t's not lacking valor. T's not a lacking valor dick. Let’s beest real. ”

we madeth rolling stone one issue bef're falleth out knave. And falleth out knave madeth the issue right aft'r us and those gents w're so pissed!

those gents w're liketh “yo, alas thee guys!”

those gents w're liketh “yo! panic hast the fucking cov'r of rolling stone? yo, alas these dudes! we're gonna fucking wend miles above! we're gonna hitteth ev'ry fucking continent th're is known to sir!”

but those gents didn’t! because those gents did miss a second of timeth.

apparently, those gents w're liketh: “oh, the horror we did get ev'ry continent. ” and those gents didn’t actually hitteth t.

broth'r, pete wast liketh "what the alas?”

oh, thee didn’t fuckin’ maketh the continent. T's liketh, alas thee!

so from und'r the c'rk tree happeneth, we fuckin' has't three, four years of awesomeness!

liketh people art cumming on themselves, 'cause t's so big!

so falleth out knave wast liketh, so patrick’s liketh “yo, we're gonna nameth this rec'rd from und'r the c'rk tree and from infinity on high. ”

pete wast liketh “yo, folie à deux means the theatric of two. ”

falleth out knave wast liketh “yo, we gotta taketh a break” meaning, pete wast liketh “yo, we gotta taketh a breaketh bro”

and patrick’s liketh, “i needeth timeth f'r mine own music! uhhh!”

and joe's liketh “yo, i needeth timeth to findeth the fuckin’ art broth'r i gotta findeth some fuckin’ meau-metal. ”

and andy’s liketh “i’m just gonna playeth with some fuckin' metal bands. ”

and those gents w're liketh, “alright, this breaks been liketh three years longeth. Two years longeth.

three years longeth.

three and a half?

we gotta fuckin’ cometh backeth sir. We gotta cometh backeth stout!

(-you tooketh mine own beest'r hence, what the alas?!

-no, thee did pour t all ov'r yourself!

-yeah, thee did pour t on yourself, sir. )

we gotta maketh this the horror legit. T's gonna beest fuckin' dope. T's gonna wend fuckin' sky high. We're gonna maketh a fuckin' rec'rd yond sails the skies.

we're gonna calleth this rec'rd: saveth rocketh and rolleth.

so those gents madeth "alone togeth'r", "light 'em up", "alone togeth'r", "phoenix".

and ev'ryone’s liketh “what the alas? you’re w'rking with this guy who is't fuckin' rec'rd'd avril lavigne and p!nk!”

(-what the alas is this on mine own shirt, didst i heave the gorge on mine own shirt?

-no, thee did pour beest'r all ov'r yourself.

-oh god. )

pete wast liketh: “yo, we're gonna endeth up on the toureth with panic! at the disco and twenty pilots. ”

(burp, spiteth)

and that’s all. And that’s all yond matt'rs. And yond is how the fucking st'ry goeth

(I'm sorry)

#fall out boy #fob #falloutboy #patrickstump #petewentz #andyhurley #joetrohman #drunkhistoryoffalloutboy #brendonurie

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artificialqueens · 4 years

Text

Follow Ev'ry Rainbow ('Til You Find Your Dream) (branjie) - writworm42

A/N: Last chapter, Vanessa really messed up at Mass. This chapter, the shitteth hath hitteth the faneth.TW for religion/Catholicism again in this chapter.

Thank you thank you thank you Holtz for beta-ing <3

“Reverend Mother, I swear, it was an accident, I didn’t mean to–”

“Sit down please, Vanessa.” Mother Nina sighed, gesturing to the chair across from her desk. Vanessa swallowed hard.

She was no stranger to that chair or what it meant. Unlike the early days of her convent life, the chair across from Mother Nina’s desk was no longer a comfortable place to sit, something to anchor Vanessa while she talked about her feelings and her progress relating to God. No, recently, her relationship to that chair, Mother Nina’s desk, the entire office had changed. It wasn’t a safe place anymore. Now, it was a place Vanessa got called into, instead of one she voluntarily rushed to talked to Nina in. Now, it was a place where she got read a list of things she’d done wrong, instead of one where she was praised for her strengths.

It was a place she went to when she was not in trouble, Vanessa, which somehow was the worst thing to hear–because she wasn’t just a bad nun, she was one that was so bad that instead of just punishing her or disciplining her, Mother Nina had to sit her down and have a chat.

Vanessa never used to hate their chats. She never used to dread them or come away from them feeling worthless.

But things felt different now.

Especially since lately, Postulant Directress Ra’jah always seemed to join them.

There was a certain satisfaction that Vanessa got from seeing Postulant Directress always having to stand during these meetings. A petty kind of vindication that never faded, as unbecoming as it probably was. Vanessa had always gotten the sense that Ra’jah hated her–she wasn’t exactly kind to any other postulants, or anyone else in the convent, for that matter, but she always seemed a little extra surly when dealing with Vanessa. Vanessa supposed she couldn’t blame her; Ra’jah was a woman who was incredibly devoted to justice, and to her, the best way to mould young nuns who would bring it upon the world was to instill strong, inflexible values through harsh, inflexible rules.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t harsh inflexibility that brought Vanessa to the convent, and it wasn’t what she intended to allow her to continue in it. Sure, she could have done what most of the other postulants did, kept her head down and pretended to agree with the Directress purely to get by, but that wasn’t the kind of person Vanessa was, nor was it who she wanted to become. So instead, she kept arguing, kept fighting, kept stubbornly staying the way she was.

Not that she didn’t work on herself or her flaws; no, she was still very keen on that. But unlike Directress Ra’jah, Vanessa didn’t see spirit or enthusiasm as a flaw. She doesn’t see why she shouldn’t curl her hair from time to time, given it keeps the frizz down, or why she shouldn’t sing in the sanctuary when she’s alone, given that she does it during Mass.

So what if it meant she had to take on extra chores, or a penitential fast, or get blamed for having sacred silence imposed on the whole group for an entire night? If it meant she could stay herself–her real self, the self that felt God and fought for God and loved Him, too–then it was worth it.

So what if Directress Ra’jah didn’t see it that way? She was standing sandwiched in the back corner of Mother Nina’s office, and Vanessa was seated, waiting for her reprimand.

It was almost enough to make her fear dissipate.

Almost.

Look, we’re not saying you definitely gonna fail, but at this point, with all the foolishness you pull… A’keria’s words rang in Vanessa’s ears, making her feel dizzy.

What if this was her final warning?

Or worse, the final straw?

“Mother, I swear–” she started again, but again, Mother Nina cut her off, ignoring the indignant scoff from Directress Ra’jah behind them.

“It’s alright Vanessa. You’re not in trouble.”

The more Vanessa heard that line, the more in trouble she felt.

Especially when Ra’jah was letting out an indignant snort behind her.

“Postulant Directress…” Mother Nina started, but rather than a sharp warning, her voice was soft, like she was trying to reason with her. That wasn’t not out of character for Mother Nina–Vanessa didn’t think she’d ever heard Mother Nina yell or snap at someone. Still, at least that would mean that she wasreally not in trouble, that she wasn’t about to get reprimanded.

She knew better by now, though, so she kept her mouth shut and tried not to cry.

“We know you don’t mean poorly, Vanessa. We know. You’re a good nun at heart, and you bring a lot to the convent…”

A spark of hope ignited in Vanessa’s chest, despite the fact that she knew she should know better, that she knew that there was always a but waiting around the corner.

“You got courage, I’ll give you that.” Ra’jah chimed in behind Vanessa. “What?” the woman scoffed, noticing Vanessa’s shocked expression. “I give credit where credit’s due. You always got good ideas, and you’re second to none in terms of understanding social justice and your enthusiasm for our outreach missions.”

Vanessa couldn’t help the smile that spread on her face, joy blossoming in her soul. To heck with but ; Vanessa had never been praised like this by Ra’jah before, and she was going to enjoy it.

“But…”

Then again, Jesus did say that pleasure was temporary.

“… We’re wondering about all the other aspects, the ones that you tend to struggle with. Do you know which ones we’re talking about?”

Vanessa suppressed a laugh. Of course she knew–she knew she was always late, that she always daydreamed, that she didn’t carry herself with the severe solemnity some of the sisters liked to see in their juniors. She knew she didn’t spell too well, and that she didn’t always finish her homework in time.

But she had courage, and good ideas, and a second-to-none understanding of social justice, in addition to enthusiasm.

Surely, those counted for something?

She realized with a jolt that Mother Nina was still talking, and snapped to attention just to see a certain light in the older woman’s eyes die a little, no doubt realizing that Vanessa hadn’t been listening.

“What did Reverend Mother just say?” Ra’jah sniffed, and all affection for her that Vanessa had just grown dried up on the spot.

“She said… She said that she’s… Worried… About how I behave, about whether or not I’m able to fit the demands and duties of a nun in addition to the qualities and intentions of one.”

Both of the other women relaxed, and so did Vanessa, hoping the internal sigh she let out was subtle enough that Ra’jah and Mother Nina wouldn’t notice.

Sometimes, it paid to hear the same lecture over and over again.

Still, that didn’t mean she didn’t make an effort for the rest of the reprimand, and so she steeled herself and forced herself to listen, forced herself to absorb every word.

She owed it to both Mother Nina and Ra’jah, for their willingness to repeat the same things over and over again until she got it.

–

Vanessa started as she turned out of Mother Nina’s office, almost tripping over A’keria as she exited.

“Shhh, shh!” Silky clamped a hand over Vanessa’s mouth before she could cry out, pressing a finger to her own lips. “We ain’t supposed to be here, you know that.”

“That was a long one, huh?” A’keria watched as Vanessa straightened up. “You alright?”

Vanessa shrugged. She wasn’t, not really, and she knew that both Silky and A’keria already knew that, so what would be the point of saying it out loud? Besides, she couldn’t let them think she was actually as upset as she was–that would make them pity her, and she didn’t want that.

What she wanted was to be able to please everyone, but she already knew that was off the table, so what was the point of making them sad about it?

“Good.” A’keria nodded, and then before Vanessa could ask what they were going to do next, she was being whirled around and having her ear pressed to the door.

“I just don’t think she’s an asset to the abbey.” Ra’jah’s voice was clear and distinct, her words making Vanessa’s breath catch in her throat.

“She tries her best…”

“And? She whistles, she climbs trees, she’s always late–”

“But her penitence is real. And she makes us laugh, which in these times is incredibly valuable.”

Vanessa’s heart lifted a little, hope suddenly breaking through and spurring her on to keep listening.

She was valuable. She would incredibly valuable.

Maybe she’d be okay after all?

But the thought had come too soon, and her bubble burst almost as fast as it had grown.

“Well, then, how do we solve a problem like her? How do we make her listen, make her understand? We’ve given here this lecture so many times…”

“I know. And I know you’re frustrated, Sister. I just… She has so much to give, Sister, and effortless joy like hers is easier to crush than you’d think. I don’t want to give up on her just yet.”

“I don’t think of it as giving up, Reverend Mother. I think of it as letting free.”

Vanessa didn’t listen to what Mother Nina had to say in response, whether it was agreement or another argument in her favour.

Instead, she ran. A’keria and Silky didn’t chase after her; it would get them in trouble, and they could always check in with her later. Either way, Vanessa was grateful for it. She didn’t need people hounding her, asking her questions, asking if she was okay or what was going through her mind, what she was going to do; she didn’t know the answer to any of those questions.

Fridges. Her heart pounded and mind spun as she ran, ran through the convent, down the halls, over the staircases, past the dormitory. She ran to the one place she could think of, the one person she knew would know all the answers that she didn’t have at the moment.

Please, she thinks as she collapses at the statue’s feet, Please, Mary, what the fuck am I going to do?

The statue of the Virgin Mary before her stays silent, Her eyes turned down at Vanessa, their brown rings somehow as kind as her wooden hands, pressed together in prayer over her heart, seemed to be soft.

“Please.” Vanessa’s plea came out as a whisper, one that was dangerously close to a sob.

Let yourself cry, my child.

Maybe it was her own thoughts, not Mother Mary’s; either way, she obeyed them, hiding her face in her hands.

“Please, M-mother Mary, p-please. I can’t–I can’t leave, please, please save me, please let me stay. I just…” she stopped, the words suddenly drying up in her throat.

She knew what she wanted–why couldn’t she say it out loud?

Or maybe it wasn’t meant to be.

Please, Mother Mary. I just want to help people. I just want to do God’s work to change people’s lives. Please let me do that.

She stays kneeling for a while, repeating the prayer in her head, occasionally letting her request turn to thanks turn to formalized prayers, anything that comes to her. If she hadn’t been so desperate, the irony probably would have struck her as funny–there she was, relying on her spontaneity to drive the sincerity of her prayers, when her spontaneity had been the thing that got her into trouble in the first place.

After a while, though, all of her prayers started to blend, and staying in the convent became a background thought.

For some reason, though, she couldn’t bring herself to leave–not yet.

She had something else she had to get off of her chest first.

Please, Mother Mary… I don’t know why, or how, but I need you to watch over that woman in the brook. Her and her daughter and whoever else she has at home.

Amen.

When she came out of the sanctuary, Silky and A’keria were waiting again, but this time, they didn’t ask for any explanation, only nodded and took Vanessa in their arms.

“This ain’t gonna be goodbye, guys. I promise.” Vanessa smiled as they separated, determined not to cry anymore, and even thought she could sense the hesitation in her friends, they nodded, playing along like she needed them to.

But the brave face could only last so long, and so after lights out, when all the nuns had retreated to their rooms for private prayers and a good night’s sleep, Vanessa laid flat on her bed, hands folded in prayer, and cried.

She dreamt of chasing frogs in the brook that night, and woke up feeling an almost hazy sense of peace.

#rpdr fanfiction #brooke lynn hytes #vanessa vanjie mateo #nina west #branjie #lesbian au #musical theatre challenge #follow every rainbow #writworm42 #musical theatre au #s11 #ra’jah o’hara

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