#like . do they not fucking understand the reason i own a minifridge is because i am so terrified of running out of food
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whats the nicest way i can explain the concept of rationing to my family without calling them stupid cunts and whores and reminding them about that one time i was literally starving because of them
#they ate all the fucking cookies from my aunts which you would think is not a big deal but ohoho!#i have literally said out loud to them many times this week that they never leave food for me and its exhausting#i thought they got the message#and what do i find going downstairs excited to eat the special treat my aunts give us once a year?#nothing.#they didnt even leave the shitty ass baby candy canes for me.#i had 1 cookie. out of 15. in a house with 6 people in it.#because they cant give enough of a shit about me to remember i exist#***after i explained this to them MULTIPLE. MULTIPLE TIMES THIS WEEK***#BECAUSE IT WAS THANKSGIVING AND THEY NEVER LEAVE LEFTOVERS AND I WAS AFRAID#AFRAID BECAUSE THAT COULD BE SOME MEALS FOR A WEEK OR TWO AND MY RATIONS WOULD LAST LONGER#AFRAID THAT THEY WOULD EAT EVERYTHING AND I WOULD STARVE AGAIN#the only reason the Thanksgiving food isnt gone is because im the only one with the patience to crack open crab legs with a butter knife#like . do they not fucking understand the reason i own a minifridge is because i am so terrified of running out of food#so i need a place to hide it away before they can take it from me#they clearly fucking don't.#i know its just some cookies i know i know i know but oh my God they're going to kill me some day#just like they nearly did a year ago#and the worst part is its not actively malicious.#they just dont care to remember i exist.#vent post#negative#anyways advice on how to confront them without stabbing them to death would be awesome
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Galactica, Chapter 19 (Group Fic) - TheDane/Veronica
A/N: Hi friends! We’re gonna slow down with posting a little bit for awhile, but we’ll still try to get out a chapter a week. This is a good time to catch up if you’ve fallen behind! XOXO Click here if you’re looking for previous chapters (or here if you’d rather read on AO3). 💫
Last Chapter: Violet confronted her worst fear when Sutan showed up at Galactica and learned the truth about her job.
This Chapter: Sutan has a heart to hearts with both Violet and his twin sister. Courtney makes a new friend, and Pearl makes herself useful as everyone finishes the Fashion Week preparations.
***
“So.” The door closed behind them, “This isn’t how I imagined the day going.”
Violet tried to keep her tears back, her nails digging into her palm.
“When Raj asked me to come by, I had hoped for lunch,” Sutan sat down on the edge of Courtney’s desk, everything about him too grand, too good for her little assistants office, “maybe even dinner even though you told me you’re busy.”
None of this made any sense.
“A kiss or two if the night really took off.”
Sutan wasn’t mad, hadn’t yelled at her, hadn’t called her stupid or wothless or torn her apart for essentially lying to him.
“Please don’t do this.”
“Do what, lovely eyes?”
The nickname hit her like a slap in the face, Sutan completely calm.
“Pretend like we’re okay.”
“Are we not?” Sutan crossed his arms, his suit jacket pulling at the elbows, and Violet wanted to scold him for messing with the fabric, sorrow welling up in her that she’d never be allowed to again. “And why is that?”
“I lied to you.” Violet wished she was dead. “I’m not a designer, not yet, but I-”
“Violet. I know I’m not the most observant man in the universe-” Sutan huffed, like he had just told a joke, “but maybe I should have asked about your job, instead of just assuming that you were a designer.”
“That’s still a lie-”
“Is it? Did you lie? Or did you just not say anything?”
“What’s the difference?” Violet couldn’t understand him, what Sutan was saying still not making any sense.
“A whole lot?” Sutan stood up, forcing her to tilt her neck to look at him. “Violet-“ Sutan took a step forward, “when people usually lie to me, it’s a lot more serious than this.”
Violet hadn’t looked into Sutan’s past, hadn’t googled him or gone through his social media, the idea that she even could like a gross violation, but his words made a cold shiver run down her back.
“You’re climbing the corporate ladder? So is everyone else in this city.” Sutan shrugged. “So what if you’re an assistant? If you can keep Fame in check, you must be pretty remarkable.”
“I didn’t- I thought you’d be ashamed, that you wouldn’t want to see me anymore-” Violet twisted a handful of her jacket, the zipper digging into her palm.
“You’re weird, Violet.”
Violet froze. “Wha-?”
Sutan had just insulted her, weird never a good thing to be, but somehow, somehow it didn’t sound bad coming from him.
“You’re really, really weird, and I like that about you.” Sutan smiled, surprising Violet once again as he continued speaking, and continued praising her.
“I like how you want to go to the museum, instead of whatever spot that’s in on Instagram. I like how smart you are, how you carry yourself.”
Violet felt hot all over, her interest in the exhibition not something she had even consider as remarkable.
“I enjoy your company, actually, I enjoy it immensely.” Sutan smirked, a glint in his eyes.
“If I said no to all of that, all of this, just because you’re an assistant, which is a perfectly respectable fucking job, I wouldn’t deserve you.”
Violet had no idea how she had found Sutan, had no idea how she had been blessed enough for a man like him to walk into her life, but as she closed the distance between them, as she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him, she was so happy she had.
***
[I know who you liiiike], Raja laughed, the words sung by her in fluent Indonesian as she and Sutan walked down the hall of Galactica on their way to Raja’s office.
Sutan had gone back to finish the meeting, Violet actually hugging the strange little blonde and whispering something in her ear when she had returned with the coffees.
[Given the circumstances, I don’t think that’s very impressive.]
It had been incredibly hard to concentrate, Violet an ever present presence in the corner, and while Sutan tried not to pay too much attention to her, the gigantic smug smirk on his sister’s face had told him she had seen right through him.
[Give me a moment to enjoy the fact that Violet Chachki has your attention,] Raja smirked, the teasing tone still in her voice as she sat down on the couch in her inner office, toeing off her shoes Sutan immediately taking the seat right beside her, unbuttoning his jacket.
[I like her for you,] Raja twirled a bit of her hair, a lazy drawl in her voice as she leaned back, [she’s competent.]
[Thanks?] Sutan smiled. Competent from Raja was a high praise, his sister hating the majority of the population.
Violet was competent, very competent, watching her work actually pretty sexy, the woman catching every question or ridiculous demand Fame had thrown her way, though Sutan had seen bosses who were a lot worse than his friend.
[Do you want a drink?] Raja pointed towards the drink station in the corner of her office.
[In the middle of the day?] Sutan squeezed Raja’s knee, his sisters assistant out to get their lunch, the look in her eyes when he had returned instantly telling Sutan that he was expected to spill his guts.
[Don’t give me attitude, young man.]
[You’re only 7 minutes older than me.] Sutan got up and walked over to the little bar. Raja had probably asked for wine from the minifridge she also had installed in her office, but he knew his sister and knew that when she smelled gossip, she was like a shark after blood, and Sutan wasn’t facing any of that without hard liquor in his blood.
[7 very important minutes.]
Sutan poured two glasses, topping his own off very generously before he made his way back to his sister.
[So,] Raja smirked, taking her glass as she sat up on the couch. [I assume Violet is the one you’ve been texting?]
[Maybe.]
[No!] Raja hit him, her flat palm connecting with his upper arm.
[Hey-]
[When did this become a thing?!] Raja almost giggled, his sister humming with excitement as she practically crawled into his personal space, her legs swung over his lap. [I want every single detail!]
Sutan guessed that his sister's enthusiasm made sense. It had been a depressingly long time since he had found anyone anywhere near as interesting as he had found Violet.
[It wasn’t exactly...planned…] Sutan touched Raja’s calf, kneading the used muscles he could feel, Raja always insisting on sky high heels. [I met her at the Fashion Fund.]
[What? Seriously?] Raja’s eyes widened. [The one year I don’t go?!]
Sutan chuckled. Raja had had an invite, but she had stayed home with Raven, all of the upcoming work during Fashion Week and their new engagement meaning that Raja had opted for a night in instead, regret now radiating from his sister.
[I saw her at the bar, and…]
Sutan paused. He and Raja shared everything. It was who they were, two parts of one whole, each other's soulmates, but for some reason, it didn’t feel right to tell Raja that Violet had been crying.
Violet had told him that she wasn’t a crier, that it wasn’t something she usually did, and even though Sutan had seen it twice now, those words still rang true to him.
There was something about Violet, her poise and her pride, how she carried herself, that told him she was immensely private, so for once, he kept his mouth shut, skipping the small but crucial piece of information as he continued his story.
[We started talking and before I knew it she just… She captivated me. She’s stayed over at my apartment-]
[No!] Raja’s jaw dropped, and she picked up one of her pillows, hitting Sutan who laughed.
[Raj!] Sutan held a hand in front of his face, shielding it from his sister’s attack.
[I told you to get new furniture! I told you to!]
It was true that Raja had been on his dick about him getting new furniture for years now, but Sutan hadn’t been able to find the motivation. He guessed it was sort of embarrassing that his apartment hadn’t changed at all since his sister moved out, but what did it matter?
He had lived with Raja for most of his life - they had been roomies through what little they did of college, had shared a one bedroom apartment when Raja had gotten discovered and they’d moved from L.A to New York, the two of them slowly but painfully upgrading together until they had finally been able to buy their own place, both of their names on the contract.
It wasn’t until Raja had fallen in love with Raven, and all three of them had lived together over a year in the apartment Sutan had now, that Raja had moved out.
She hadn’t moved far though, his sister and Raven simply purchasing the exact same apartment two floors up.
[Violet doesn’t seem to mind.]
“That’s because you got her dickmatised.” Raja sighed, falling back on the couch.
[Please don’t use that word.] Sutan smiled, rolling his eyes at her slang. [It’s not like that.]
[No?] Raja’s eyes narrowed. [What’s it like then?]
Sutan hit a snort. It was so typical of his sister to be jealous of anyone who took even the smallest part of him, nevermind the fact that Raja herself was engaged to be married.
[Time will tell Raj. Time will tell.]
***
Violet was running, her feet hitting the belt tracker over and over again. It was early morning, the gym practically empty except for the other regulars, everyone giving each other space for whatever they needed done.
She had a near endless day in front of her at the office, everything closing in, final preparations taking place.
Violet was gasping, but for once she was in control of the lack of air, the exercise pushing her towards that glorious place where her mind was quiet, where nothing existed except the rhythmic move of her body, and where everything else ceased to matter.
***
Courtney entered the cafeteria with a deep sigh. Upstairs, it was pretty much chaos as everyone desperately tried to finish the last few days of prep for Fashion Week. She couldn’t help but be a bit insulted that Violet had sent her down for an early lunch. She knew that the other girl wasn’t just trying to be nice to her, but in fact wanted her out of the way.
Even though she’d be the first one to admit that she had lots of room for improvement in this job, it still stung. After all, she wasn’t an idiot, and she knew that she could be helpful if given the chance. But maybe it was better this way, since she was pretty sure that her next mistake would result in Violet murdering her.
The cafeteria was almost empty, except for a couple of suits that she wasn’t allowed to socialize with.
Normally, she would be irritated at being told who she was allowed to talk to, but her few brief interactions with the suits told her that in fact, it was just very good advice to stay away. They reminded Courtney so much of all the worst frat boys that she’d known (and regrettably, dated) back in college. Entitled little shits who thought the world was their playground, interested in nothing but a good time--for themselves.
Courtney actually hadn’t dated anyone since she’d moved to New York. For the first time since high school, she was enjoying the freedom of being single, unconcerned with boys altogether. It was nice, actually, and when her friends would whine about how hard it was to find decent guys in the city, she found herself shrugging, unbothered by this alleged lack of datable men.
She purchased some tempeh tacos and her favorite coconut water, pointedly ignoring the suits who eyed her up and down, the bolder ones offering friendly waves. One of them even gave her a little wink as she slid into her seat. (Which, she had to admit, she did enjoy. After all, she was only human, and even though she had no interest in dating them, it was still nice to know she looked cute.)
Ironically, it was just when she was sighing happily over the relief of having no boyfriend to answer to when a boy stopped at the table in front of her, clearing his throat.
She looked up at him. Definitely not a suit, in his denim jacket and sandy blonde curls falling into his eyes, a neatly trimmed beard covering his face. He grinned charmingly, asking, “Is this seat taken?”
Courtney paused for a moment. He wasn’t a suit...in fact, the way he was dressed, he looked like he might be a Galactica employee, although she didn’t recognize him. She supposed there was no harm in letting him sit down, though.
“Yes –I mean no. Go ahead...Sorry.”
“Thank you.” He slid onto the bench, still smiling, and asked, “So, why’s a gorgeous girl like you eating lunch alone?”
“Because I don’t like to get roofied while it’s still daylight outside,” Courtney snarked, shoving a bite of tempeh into her mouth.
The boy burst out laughing, clearly taken aback by her dark humor, and Courtney hid a bit of a smile.
“I’m Willam,” he extended a hand over their trays. “No extra i,” he added with a wink.
“Courtney. Nice to meet you.” Courtney grabbed Willam’s hand, giving it a firm shake--he should know right away that she wasn’t some simpering pushover. “Do you work here? Or, for us I mean?”
“No.” Willam shook his head. “I’m a journalist with OK! Magazine.”
“Oh! They’re on our approved list!” Courtney said with a grin, and Willam smiled back.
“Yeah, I have an interview with your head of social media today.”
“Pearl! I know her!”
“She’s kind of late, and I’m kind of glad.”
“Yeah… Pearl isn’t the best at being anywhere on time…She’s cool, though.”
“Well, if she arrived on time, I wouldn’t have met you.”
Courtney snorted. This kid was certainly laying it on thick, and while he wasn’t the type she normally went for, the attention was nice. And he did have pretty blue eyes, framed by the longest lashes that Courtney had ever seen on a boy.
“Well...thanks, Willam.”
“So, Courtney. What do you do?”
“I’m an assistant in Miss Fame’s office.”
“Whoa! That’s cool. She seems like a really, uh, interesting person.”
“Yeah. She’s...um…”
“...eccentric?” Willam asked with a chuckle. “Rich people are always a bit weird.”
It wasn’t until that moment that Courtney realized how much she’d been dying to vent to someone about her job. Adore was off limits for obvious reasons, and she was even nervous to say anything to their mutual friends for fear that someone would accidentally tell Adore if she complained about Fame too much. But this guy didn’t know Fame, or have any personal relationships with the people who were driving her crazy. So Courtney took a deep breath and started talking, telling him all about her job, not even once thinking about the confidentiality agreement she had signed on her first day.
***
“I look like an egg.”
Trixie turned in the mirror, watching his reflection.
“No you don’t.” Katya was sitting in a pile of clothes, a courier coming by with several bags.
Trixie was dressed in a black long sleeved shirt, Fame unrelenting in her demands for his fashion week wardrobe. There would be cameras backstage at their show, Raja running most of it, but Trixie still had to be there, and while Fame didn’t normally care about his clothes at work, Trixie knew she would personally kill him if any photos of him in an aloha shirt showed up in Vogue.
“I do.” Trixie ran a hand over his head, his hair trimmed to it’s very minimum to disguise his bald spots.
“Okay, so maybe you do look a bit like an egg.” Katya smiled. Her blonde hair was crimped and pulled up in a scrunchie, and Trixie desperately wished he could match her fun and colorful dress.
“Try this one.” Katya held up a forest green t-shirt. “I think there might be a hat somewhere that matches.”
***
“And so the entire week ends with you in the front row at Oscar De La Renta and drinks at the Chester at the Gansevoort Hotel.”
Fame nodded, looking at Pearl with a small smile on her face. The two of them were on the sofa in Fame’s office, the leftovers of their dinner still sitting on the coffee table. Violet was at Bryant Park, having a production meeting for next week’s shows, and Fame had suggested that she take Courtney along to learn the ropes, effectively getting them both out of the office. “Well done. Does the timetable hold?”
“Violet made it herself, so I’m betting on it.”
Fame nodded once again; there was a slight pounding in her temple as a headache tried to bloom. She couldn’t remember the last time she had been so anxious for so long, her mind working in overdrive every time she wasn’t specifically focused on keeping it in check.
“Miss.”
Fame looked at Pearl, a smile growing on her face.
“Yes, Pearl?”
Pearl said nothing else, just gazed at her with that cocky half-smile, the one that Fame could never resist, and Fame felt her knees weaken along with her resolve.
It was the same look that she'd given her three years ago, the day they first met. Alyssa had hired Pearl to help with their social media and branding presence, an edgy, rebellious former model who had a reputation for always being a step ahead of the trends. Galactica had always been a prestigious label, but in an industry obsessed with youth and innovation and the next big thing, they all had a fear of being branded stodgy or worse, passé.
Pearl was a breath of fresh air - for the company and for Fame, who’d found to her dismay that she’d lost some of the creative passion that drove her to create in the first place.
Fingers sliding teasingly up her thighs brought Fame back to the present. She’d have been lying if she claimed that this turn of events was a surprise, that it wasn’t the thing she’d been hoping for when she planned a Friday evening meeting with Pearl and got rid of the staff.
“Pearl…” Fame’s breath hitched as Pearl’s hand disappeared under her skirt.
“Yes, Miss?” Pearl’s face was temptingly close, and Fame’s lips parted in anticipation along with her thighs.
She pressed a hand to Pearl’s soft cheek, and said, “Don’t rush.”
A lazy smile spread across Pearl’s face, that victorious glimmer in her eyes.
“Yes, Miss.”
A small whimper escaped Fame’s lips as Pearl toyed with the edge of her panties, warm breath on her neck. Her thighs spread more, making her skirt ride up.
Pearl moved down to her knees, settling between Fame’s legs. She peeled off her already wet, sticky panties, sliding them down her legs. But the torture was far from over. Fame’s head fell back, losing herself in the simple indulgence of Pearl’s generous ministrations.
She started out slow, teasing, alternating between soft wet kisses and sharp bites, up and down her thighs. Fame sighed and shivered with anticipation, the warm feeling in her belly spreading, especially when Pearl tugged open the little buttons on her blouse, reaching inside to toy with her achingly hard nipples. She pulled down one of the delicate lace cups, pinching Fame’s nipple between her thumb and forefinger, sending sparks straight to her core.
By the time her hot mouth finally brushed against Fame’s pussy, she was dripping wet and trembling, hands balled into white-knuckled fists as she arched up into every lick. Pearl took her sweet time, swirling her tongue in lazy, indulgent circles. Smiling against her as Fame’s thighs pressed into her ears.
Fame was never very vocal during sex, prefering instead to let her body give more subtle clues as to what she liked. And Pearl, bless her, was an absolute virtuoso at reading every shift, every intake of breath. Playing her until every cell was singing, racked with the most delicious agony.
Her hands found their way into Pearl’s tousled hair, grabbing hold of the thick blond locks to regain some semblance of control. Though at this point, with Pearl’s tongue buried deep inside her, thumb grazing her clit, she was a lost cause. Pearl was running the show; she was simply along for the ride, breathlessly denying herself as long as she possibly could, holding out until the last possible second.
Then, with one decisive swipe of Pearl’s thumb against her clit, she was gone. Every muscle tensed, her back arched, and the relief came flooding over her as she came. But Pearl never let her off easy, coaxing soft moans from her, not back down until she was squirming in pain. And then, there was only a brief pause, less than a second for Fame to catch her breath, until Pearl pushed two fingers inside her.
Fame strained against Pearl’s fingers as the younger woman fucked her, deep and rough, first matching the rhythm of Fame’s rocking hips and then speeding up, pushing her faster and faster until her quiet moans turned to pitiful whimpers and she clawed at Pearl’s forearm, begging for a reprieve.
Which is when Pearl—that infuriating, beautiful monster—laughed. Fame wanted to slap the smug right off her face, but of course couldn’t, since she was too busy gasping for air. Finally, she eased her fingers out, immediately dipping her head back down to gently lick Fame clean, tongue soft and gentle.
Fame’s fingers loosened their grip on her hair, body turning slack and pliant. When she lifted her head to proudly assess her work, Fame couldn’t help but let out a chuckle. Her entire face was glistening wet, makeup an absolutely travesty. Fame reached out to touch her cheek.
“Thank you, pet.”
“I aim to please, Miss.”
***
@WillamB: Hey cutie. ;)
@CourtneyActJenek: Hi!
@WillamB: Can I confess something?
@CourtneyActJenek: Ok?
@WillamB: I really hate Instagram. I only made this account to talk to you.
@CourtneyActJenek: Lol. I’m on Facebook too.
@WillamB: Ugh, Facebook is even WORSE.
@CourtneyActJenek: Haha
@WillamB: But your adorable face makes social media worth it.
@CourtneyActJenek: Thanks, I think. Lol
@WillamB: When am I gonna see you again?
@CourtneyActJenek: Definitely not this week. It’s Fashion Week and I’m so stressed out. D:
@WillamB: Aww, bummer.
@CourtneyActJenek: Sorry
@WillamB: That’s okay, I totally get it. Work’s gotta come first, right?
@CourtneyActJenek: Something like that ;P
@WillamB: Well, no worries. I’ll hit you up after things settle down a bit.
***
Violet took a step back, admiring her work, her steamer in hand. She had spent the afternoon preparing her outfits for the week ahead, everything preselected right down to her underwear and jewelry.
Violet had spent most of Friday trying to imprint in Courtney’s mind how important it was that they looked presentable for the upcoming week, but as always, the blonde had refused to understand anything, Courtney somehow not grasping that pastels and rainbows weren’t appropriate.
There was a real risk that her and Courtney would be caught on photos, the fashion week journalists all over everyone entering and exiting the high profile shows, and as one of America’s most influential fashion designers, Fame was on every guest list that mattered.
Violet usually did everything she could to avoid getting photographed, the idea of a camera turned on her making her nauseous, everything in her screaming to get away, but it was part of her job, and something that had to be done.
In the end, Violet had given up and sent Courtney down to Ivy, the two of them jiving on a level Violet couldn’t replicate, no matter how much she tried to relate to Courtney, to make her understand that they were supposed to be on the same team.
Violet hoped that Ivy had succeeded in imprinting the information, the idea of dealing with and cover up a typical Courtney related fuck up really not something she had the emotional energy for during the grueling and near endless Fashion Week work days.
***
“Court, are you sure this is what you want?”
“Of course it is!”
“Okay, okay!” Adore laughed. The girls were sitting on the bath mat in her small bathroom, an abandoned pizza box on the toilet seat.
Courtney had called Adore earlier that day since she had been unable to sleep the night before. Whenever she drifted off, she apparently had a nightmare about the upcoming week. The first fashion show started tomorrow and though she claimed to be excited, Adore could tell that her friend was actually terrified.
Courtney was the one to suggest this hair dyeing activity. She just needed to do something, anything, to take back control. And Adore was never one to say no to a fresh hair color, even if she was dubious about the intentions behind it.
“Okay, so!” Adore took a large sip of her beer before she snapped on a pair of rubber gloves. “Do you want Cleo Rose, or Cotton Candy pink?”
“Cotton Candy of course! Duh!”
Adore grinned, mixing the solution in her well-used plastic bowl.
“You’re gonna look so fucking badass, girl.”
Courtney nodded, a drunk giggle leaving her as she smeared vaseline around her hairline, the faint smell of chemicals filling the room.
“Are you gonna do yours, too?” she asked.
Adore glanced at herself in the mirror. She hadn’t dyed her own hair for a few months. The green was almost all faded, leaving just the bleached parts behind, along with her dark brown roots.
“Maybe. What color should I do?”
“Purple!”
Adore tilted her head, squinting her eyes to try and picture it. She hadn’t had purple since she was a teenager. It could be pretty cool, especially if she used a dark, royal purple and framed her face with some lighter highlights in the front.
“Maybe…”
“Yayyy!” Courtney clapped her hands excitedly. “Do it, do it, do it!”
#rpdr fanfiction#thedane#veronica#galactica#fashion au#lesbian au#smut#vitan#witney#trixya#fame x pearl#violet chachki#raja gemini#courtney act#willam belli#trixie mattel#katya zamolodchikova#pearl liaison#miss fame#adore delano
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Seven: Chapter Eight
ChApt3r EigHt
I’m not sure why, but I feel like something so unsettling I can’t define it the next few days. I keep running diagnostics to see if I can find a reason in my numbers as to why I let Bryan go. My report always comes back the same. I am fully functional. There are no anomalies.
I think I wish that I did find an anomaly. Then maybe I would have something to report to Adelicia, but I don’t. I can already tell she’ll have nothing good to say to me though. Even if there was a good, practical reason for what I had done, she would’ve found something wrong with it I’m sure.
I am more scared of Adelicia than anyone else in the world. When I was first created, she was the first one I talked to. Even though I’m taller than her, her and her shadow seems to loom over me coldly. There has always been an unspoken rapport between us: she, the master- the handler, and I, the servant of her will. I am terrified of disappointing her. She makes me want to do better… or something like that.
I think Cal might suspect what I did. He doesn’t say it or really show it, but occasionally his eyes will linger on me a while longer than they should before he snaps at me. When this happens, Officer Shovelman is usually in the background, offering me sympathetic smile.
But I think me and Cal’s relationship is improving. Slowly, and not by much, but it is. “Robocop” seems to have become a normal nickname for me with him. Others include “Tin Fuck”, “Scraps”, “Dippy-Doo”, and “Circuits de Soleil”. I find the last one to be particularly clever. I continue to refer to him as his name and title- either Detective Kennedy or just Cal.
Cal comes in at different times every day. Sometimes, it’s only a little past nine. Other times, it’s closer to twelve. He usually carries a coffee cup with him, reeking of alcohol and musk. His shirt is the only thing that seems to change in his outfit. He wears the same hooded jacket and jeans, same dusty sneakers he’s had for years. His shirt is always in dark, muted colors. Never neon. I like guessing which color he will wear each day. Today, it’s a navy blue. I think it looks nice against his olive skin tone, but I know better than to say that to him.
I really don’t think Cal likes me at all. It’s discouraging. I was made to work directly with humans and integrate peacefully as part of the ‘perfect team’, but I can’t seem to handle this one, grumpy detective.
It’s not even the kind of grumpy that works well on him. Cal is a young guy. He’s turning 27 in a few days. He’s not an older man with wispy grey hair who’s always ready with some kind of racial comment. Cal is angry at everyone and everything, especially Androids. I have no reasoning behind this.
However discouraging Cal Kennedy is to me, I find solace in the fact that he likes me more than Celeste.
I can’t prove it. It’s just something I feel. It’s a kind of social truth that everyone seems to know- even Shovelman and Ho-Kim and I’m sure Blackwell. I know Blaise and Tom laugh about it for sure, though they seem to laugh about everything.
Still, all of these things I’ve come to observe do nothing to quench my unsettling feeling.
Something must be wrong with me. I had an Exception Android right in front of me- actively breaking the law and hiding from it. I could’ve taken him. So why didn’t I?
I thought I knew what I had to do. But now, something inside of me is questioning if it’s really that simple. I don’t think it is anymore.
That Android… he killed humans. But he killed humans who were going to do bad things. He felt a sense of… a sense of injustice. And maybe he was right about it. Have I ever felt a sense of injustice? Is something wrong with my software? It must be. Or maybe I’m just overthinking it. I must be overthinking it. I’m no Exception Android. I’m a state of the art prototype. I always accomplish my mission.
And yet, I chose to fail at a task given to me because something inside told me it was the right thing to do. Ridiculous. How ridiculous of me.
Tonight though, I’ll have a chance to redeem myself. Detective Kennedy has assembled a sort of team for a stakeout, and he’s forced to bring me along. I know because Captain Ericson yelled at him for it. I guess all that really means is that I’ll be the only one content with the circumstances.
I have all the information for the stakeout in my memory. We are checking out an old apartment building like the one Bryan was in, searching to see if any Androids come the way. Apparently, reports of defective Androids have increased in the area, and it would be the best space to ‘lay low’ in. I’ve tried to mention to Cal that there are other, more logical places for an Android to hide, but Cal insists that this is the best option. He calls it a hunch. It is something I wouldn’t understand. I know, because he snaps it at me.
We are scheduled to leave at approximately 6 pm. It is already 5. Cal has made no attempt at moving or packing. It’s awfully annoying.
“Detective, don’t you think you should begin preparing for the stakeout?” I ask, leaning forward in my chair.
“Nope,” Cal says, popping the ‘p’. His eyes don’t even flit up to look at me. They stay glued to a book he’s reading.
Up til this point, I’d never seen Cal read anything except for case files. But here he is, clear as a statistic, holding a book with his feet kicked onto the desk. I’ve identified the book to be none other than ‘The Art Have Nots’ by Chase Jeremy. Even though the detective seems to be reading it to simply piss off everybody around him and be somewhat obnoxious and smug, he does seem to be enjoying the book. His pupils are dilated enough for me to observe this.
“But it’s scheduled to start soon,” I say because I’m confused.
“And I’m scheduled to punch you right in your face soon. Fuck outta here.”
I frown. There is no reason for Cal to be so aggressive and angry towards me, and yet he is. However, I know better than to push his buttons and make matters worse right before a case. I remove myself from my chair and grab a small backpack lent to me by the department from under my desk.
For a moment, I think Cal is going to glance up at me. The human eye is drawn to movement, after all. But there is nothing. I’ll save myself the equivalent of Android embarrassment and walk away.
Once I’ve entered the bathroom, I place the backpack on the ground. Unzipping it, I find dull colored clothes that remind me a lot of Cal’s, and the comparison makes me smile a little. These are the clothes I’ve been ordered to wear for the stakeout, to look less suspicious should an Android pass by.
I’m not worried about privacy. I wouldn’t feel ashamed or embarrassed if some woman walked into the bathroom and saw me changing clothes. I’m not a person, I’m an Android. My form has nothing to it but my makers aesthetic. They would have nothing to be jealous of.
No woman interrupts me while I’m changing. Soon, I stand in front of the mirror, observing my outfit. I’m wearing a baggy, slightly distressed leather jacket with a grey hoodie attached. Under is a black turtleneck which is also a little to big for me. The jeans hug my thighs, but then become looser and torn around my knees. To match the grunge appearance are some brown boots and a dark beanie that reminds me an awful lot of the one Bryan was wearing. I keep my hair in it’s bun though, with the wisps of my bangs hanging out.
My led flashes yellow as I analyze the jacket. I can see coffee stains, marks from a blue sharpie, and a little cartoon penis drawn right under my elbow. The size and all the other pieces of evidence point to this being Detective Cal Kennedy’s jacket.
Out of something I can’t explain, I lean forward and sniff the collar. It smells just like Cal. A hint of smoke from cigarettes, something like cologne, and gasoline. Not overly strong, but identifiable and unique to him.
I scrunch my eyebrows together at myself in the mirror. My led goes red.
Why Did I Do That?
I have no answer for myself. I would rather not think about it much longer though, because then Adelicia might see and she’d be very upset with me. I shake my head, grab the backpack, and push the bathroom door open.
As I’m making my way back to the bullpin, a woman smiles at me. A real, genuine smile. I don’t know if it’s because she can’t see my led, or because she’s just a polite person, but it throws me off a little for second.
Name: Sophia Syphers
Date of Birth: April 30th, 2017- Age 24
Height: 5’1
Weight: 131 lbs
Race: White, European-American
Birthplace: Seattle, Washington
Occupation: H.R Psychologist at Seattle Police Department
I make a note of her occupation and appearance in my memory and continue on my way, not even pausing to look at her. I’m sure she’s made a mistake. Nobody really smiles at Androids, unless they are a small child or the Android is their own.
It is only when I’m approaching Cal’s desk when I decide to analyze his coffee cup. It’s nearly empty, and I’ve already calculated multiple scenarios where he complains about what his lack of coffee tonight.
It is 5:11. I have time.
I make a quick swerve to the left, and enter into the break room. It is quiet now, and empty. Most everyone has gone home except for a few officers who are logging out. Celeste is still here, but that’s only because she’ll be joining us tonight. I don’t like that very much. I would much rather have Blaise, or Tom.
I’m glad though, for the moment, that Celeste isn’t here.
I appreciate the silence. Even as I place my bag on one of the tall tables and shuffle over to the counters against the wall in my baggy jeans, I feel more at peace. Just in the moment. Just kind of existing. I could almost pretend that I’m a human in this minute.
First I observe that the coffee filter is empty. Because of this, I open the minifridge and remove one of the water bottles from it. It must be placed their newly, because it’s not yet cold. I poor the water into the filter, then grab the coffee grounds and add them. Last step is to turn the machine on and let it do it’s business. Shouldn’t take too long.
I cross my arms and take a step back, looking at the ugly wall color of the room. It’s a sort of blue, vomit colored green I don’t think looks too nice. It would’ve been better with a mustard gold color, or even a plain grey.
The synthetic hair on my arms prick up. I turn my head to the left, and see that just outside the glass walls of the room, Cal has been watching me. He looks calm for a second. Then he processes that I’ve seen him and turns back around.
But this is a win, because he didn’t look so angry with me. I’m sure he will appreciate me bringing him his coffee. The thought makes me smile, just a little.
Software Instability ^
Cal has turned his attention back to his book, so I return mine to the coffee pot. I’m happy to see that it’s done, and looks rather perfect.
I take one of the plastic cups stacked on the counter, and poor in the coffee. I can feel how hot it is, but it doesn’t make me flinch at all. I’m built to withstand every condition. After, I put a lid on the cup. Cal takes his coffee black, so there’s no need for me to remember a crazy list of things to add.
When I turn around to present the coffee to Cal and grab my pack, I am met face to face with none other than Celeste herself. Her face is slightly flushed, but that is from anger I assume.
“Hey scraps,” she says with poison.
“Hello, Officer Amora,” I say politely. My voice is calm, as usual.
“What is that?” Celeste hisses, glancing to the steaming cup in my hands.
“It’s a cup of coffee for Detective Kennedy. I saw he was low and decided to make some for him.”
Celeste scoffs. “You made an entire new pot of coffee just for Cal?”
“Correct. I thought he would enjoy it.”
“Well he wouldn’t.” Celeste snaps her hand up and knocks the cup from my hands. It spills onto the floor, the bitter liquid spreading around and creating quite the mess. I don’t flinch.
“I’m sorry. I thought you would be pleased to know Detective Kennedy had received his caffeine for the night.”
Celeste gets closer to me. She’s glaring into my eyes, watching for any reason to pounce. I can smell her overly flowery perfume. She must’ve worn it specially for Cal. Her face is laced into a sneer, brown eyes narrowed in anger.
“Who the fuck do you think you are?” she whispers, her breath hitting my plastic face.
“Aleksandra. I’m the Android sent me Icarus.”
This quip (which wasn’t meant as a quip at all), does me know good. Celeste’s hand balls into a fist, and comes up to meet my stomach.
Androids don’t feel pain, but they do feel pressure. They feel sensations that are the equivalent of pain, or the closest to pain that they could feel. So when Celeste punched me, I didn’t feel ‘pain’, but I did feel something hard come up against my abdomen. In fact, I think it might’ve lightly knocked against my biocomponent.
My led cycles red, and my vision flickers darkly. My legs buckle under me, and I drop to a kneel, clutching my plastic belly. The jeans I’m wearing become soiled in the dark coffee on the floor. Through the hole in them, I can feel the warmth against my knee.
“You’re just a piece of plastic,” Celeste bites. “When you’re done with this, clean up the mess you made. You better not let me see you again tonight.” Then she leaves.
I stay down, waiting for my Binary Blood to become regulated once again. Once it is, I run a diagnostic. All systems are functional, even though part of me doesn’t believe it.
It’s 5:21. I still have time to make Cal some coffee if I hurry.
I push myself off the floor at 5:23. With some paper towels, the floor is clean of coffee at 5:27. The last thing to do is pick up the plastic cup and toss it away. After that, I poor Cal a fresh cup of hot coffee and put a top on it. Uninterrupted this time, I grab my backpack and leave the break room at 5:29.
I can’t help the frown that graces my features at 5:30. Cal’s desk is empty. I had wanted to present this cup to him and watch him take it, maybe receive a bit of a smile. He probably just took my advice to go and finally prepare himself. His book is still here, so I’m sure he’ll be back.
I put the cup down on his desk near the book, careful to avoid the messily strewn trinkets. Then I round myself to my own desk, sitting down politely.
Cal emerges from the elevator at 5:38. I perk up upon seeing him, inhaling his scent of smoke and faded cologne. Rubbing the back of his head tiredly, I notice he’s wearing the same outfit as he was. I don’t mind this, though. I realize that Cal doesn’t really need to change clothes for a stakeout, because he already looks nothing like a cop. I assume that Celeste, who is joining us, is off in the girls bathroom now.
“Hello, Detective,” I greet. I can’t explain why I’m so much happier to see him instead of Celeste.
“Tin-Fuck?” Cal replies, tiredly and squinting his eyes at me. “Could’ve sworn you were a human for a second.”
We both know that’s not true. He saw me in the break room, making coffee for him earlier.
“Yes. These clothes are quite different from my normal ones. I think I like it.”
Cal grunts and sits in his chair. He swivels the chair around childishly, but then slows when his eyes lock with the cup of coffee I had placed down. He stops, plants his feet firmly on the ground and perks up. His hand stretches out to touch it, but then he stops himself. “Who made this?”
“I-”
“Hey, Cal!”
Cal turns to the direction of the voice. My smile and warmer atmosphere falters, diminished because I know exactly how unpleasant the next few moments will be.
The voice belongs to none other than Celeste Amora, who currently looks like a ‘painted whore’. She’s let her hair down, and is wearing a black bra with a light white jacket. Paired with shorts, fish net tights, and heeled boots. I do not really care for this look at all. Still, I detect an increase in Cal’s heartbeat. I can’t see it, but I bet his eyes look her up and down just then.
“Celeste,” Cal greets, dryly.
“You look like a prostitute,” I say. Cal coughs suddenly and Celeste snaps to look at me, nostrils flaring.
“It’s my disguise.”
At that point, a line pops into my head that I have to stop myself from saying. However, the line was something like “if you wanted to look like a prostitute, you didn’t need much of a disguise”.
But I don’t. I’m an Android. I am polite to humans.
Still, I can’t help the very human like twitch of sadness in my stomach when I see that Cal has left his coffee behind. He doesn’t even take it with him when we leave for his car.
#story#fanfiction#dbh#detroit: become human fanfiction#detroit: become human#dbh fanfiction#dbh story#android#androids#technology
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no more vanilla bean ice cream
they were out of vanilla bean ice cream, they had vanilla, french vanilla, sweet cream vanilla and cheesecake vanilla, but not vanilla bean, when did everyone all of a sudden get into vanilla bean, everyone was a pig they could not care less about the bean in the vanilla or not, but now apparently everyone was into vanilla bean ice cream because last week there was a full row of umpqua vanilla bean ice cream and now there was none
so I’m waiting in line at safeway with my subpar vanilla ice cream after I had gone on a much needed quarantine run right after spending two hours texting my friend and she was telling me about how google owns all the data in the world and not only has enough data to know me better than myself, but since they know everyone else’s data too, they know my friends data so they know me in context, the whole thing was very depressing so depressing i didnt even want to use a period in my writing anymore because what the fuck was the point of punctuation anyway in this world, i would still be nice and use commas, just to give my fingers a break and be able to get a thought in or so.
i guess i could also accommodate for paragraphs break at visually appropriate times, it didn't matter if it was contextually appropriate or not, i was going to drop a paragraph break because i know people like paragraphs, charles dickens and dostoevsky and jane austen and leo tolstoy never made paragraph breaks that's why no one ever read their books, people just say they read them to seem smart but they never really read them they just knew it was the right thing to say that they were literary geniuses because their books were so long, see people like to lie and say they know the work of a great author even though they only read a few quotes by them, but that was enough to say good and bad things about writers without ever knowing what the hell they did, few understand the theory of relativity but everyone calls einstein a genius.
the thing about quarantine was that at this point i had gotten used to seeing very few people in my life and i was enjoying it so whenever i had to go to the supermarket i had to see all these people and boy were they gross, maybe i would not have seen them as so gross if had gotten my vanilla bean ice cream but i had not so, they were gross, they were all getting so fat, and fat in like weird ways, not like fat on the sides like the michelin tire guy or a cute belly like the pillsbury dough boy or like that kinda funny superfat like homer simpson or peter griffin they were just gross fat, like it looked like they had just been eating garbage and watching netflix fat, like this one guy seemed like if you got a pillowcase filled it up with hot lard and then poked two pool cues on the bottom of it, this other lady looked like a minifridge emptied into a potato sack.
the asses were the worst part, it was kinda hot so everyone was wearing shorts and it was not appropriate when they wear shorts always have that like red line right under the shorts and it does not look that great, the oddest one was the skinny ass but with fat legs, i did not get that one, the person would have no ass mass at all but then the legs were super fat i did not understand what they were doing to get their bodies to look this way, a lot of people were also walking around with wedgies, a lot of people were also walking around in pajamas covered in animal hair and it was gross, its like you have nowhere to go, you are all complaining about not having the right to go out, so when you do go out why not maybe spruce things up, honour life, honour your fellow human, no, screw that we are all going to behave like the whole entire public sphere is a big ass pijama party,
the whole facemask thing, wait before, i start talking about the facemask thing, everytime i start a new paragraph, google is trying to force me into capitalizing the first letter, it doesn't even ask me if i want to capitalize it, it just goes ahead and does it, google is such an presumptuous douche sometimes, now when i write in gmail, it autocompletes all my sentences, great so we can all sound like robots, and it does it like automatically, so i ending having to erase the lame sentence it wrote, i mean i would have probably come up with something similar or exactly the same too, after all there are only so many ways to say goodbye, but id like to think it was my idea, these engineers had no savoir faire, just so you know, so now i hope that everytime you start to read a new paragraph you imagine me hitting the backspace button to delete their fascist capital letters, and its frustrating because im really trying to write as fast as i can, i bet you can tell
see it happened again, and its not that i just have to hit the delete, i have to get my mouse and put my cursor there so it like detects its not just on mistake i am trying to delete their smartass capital letter, so yeah to the facemask thing, the whole facemask thing was pretty dumb, i mean if the facemask was the windshield to the coronavirus i didnt get how casual people were being about, they would just pull it right down under their noise, oh great now you have all your coronavirus on your nostrils, what the hell, i didnt get it, im pretty sure noone in that safeway store had coronavirus, and it was coronavirus not covid19, what is it about us having to find dandy little names for things, it was the coronavirus and thats that, so yeah we were all carrying about these facemasks that if they were really protecting us from the coronavirus lingering in the air then we were being flagrantly irresponsible in our use, but deep down we all felt it wasnt, but we just had to wear one because it was the rule, but we all knew noone in the store had coronavirus
it may sound weird, but i think you know when someone has coronavirus, its like you can just tell, you know like other things you can just tell about a person, i remember i once went up to san francisco about a month ago, and i saw this guy on the muni line headed to the bayview that for sure had coronavirus, he wasnt coughing or anything, but i saw him and i knew he definitely had coronavirus, it wasnt because he was black or chinese or anything, this isnt like a hidden racist joke, i could just tell, i freaked out , and i havent gone up to the city since then, and then, lo and behold they announced that a muni driver got the corona and that the bayview district had the most corona cases in the cities, see sometimes you can just tell
im pretty sure that day i even had the corona on me, i mean i didnt get it, but im pretty sure it landed on my hand, but i washed it before i touched any of my mucous parts, but it was there with me, i dont think it was from the guy on the bus thought, i think it landed from this other guy, i went to a deli to buy water, bananas, coca cola and chocolate and this guy was kinda drunk and talking real loud and coming real close and i could feel the air get really moist when he passed by me and my hand was exposed and i know that at that moment some of it got on my hand, but i didnt panic, i knew i couldnt lose my cool, i had to just play it smooth, and wait till i could get to the studio and wash my hand and everything else, i was really thorough i walked the whole way back to the studio with my hand outstretched so it wouldnt touch my jacket or anything, i could feel it was there, it was for sure there, but i played it cool and washed it and nothing happen, but i was that close
and thats why you have to wash your hands because you could be that close too to having coronavirus, so see im not that crazy, that the reason they recommend us all to wash our hands, because at some point it could be that close to you, and if you don't wash your hand before your touch your eye, boom you got coronavirus, crazy to think that you too could have had coronavirus on you, and you could have, but now i think there isnt that much coronavirus on things anywhere, i think the coronavirus is like hiding or something, i think the coronavirus are like finding their niches and stuff, like if you ask me i think the coronavirus right now is probably somewhere where the sun dont shine, i bet it like flew to a a dirty dive bar that was totally shut down windows boarded and everything, but its there just chilling on the sticky counter, waiting to come back in the summer, i also think it might be at like some nasty to-go food place, like there is this wing place open till midnite around my house, i bet there is a little coronavirus there, but only a little bit, and its like one of the lazy ones, so i dont think it feels like jumping on anyone
at work i have to tell the staff how to wash their hands, i tell them they have to wash on top of their hand, palm of their hand, each finger, in between fingers, under the finger nails, and up to the elbow, but i mean if they have coronavirus, and their touching my food, i think its going to get on the to go box anyway, but its the rules so i play along, i even translated the rules, and told them to sign a paper, the paper also said that they had to wear a facemask, its not like they have multiple facemasks, i mean we are going to give them a few, but its up to them to wash it, one guy asked me if he could use the same one for a few days, i told him no, but i mean even if he washes his facemask before work and then lets say he puts it in his pocket, what if his jacket has corona but his facemask doesnt, itd be a real shame if his corona jacket infected his noncorona facemask, but i saw him and i dont think he had corona anyway
im repeating the same point and the rant is losing steam, so i gotta ramp it back up, or maybe no, maybe its not all just about ranting, maybe i should tell you some good things, like ill tell you about my run, the day was so nice, it was bright and sunny, and thats really all i gotta say, the point that i have more to say about right now is that i feel like im writing like that kid from catcher in the rye, that kid was a real case, i cant say i disliked the kid, but i wouldnt hang out with him, i mean in general i wouldnt be hanging out with high schoolers, but i might hang out with him after he grows up, i think we were all like that kid at some point, and the ones that arent, are soul dead and just go to work and drink craft beer and probably become those engineers without savoir faire that figure out the code to finish my email sentences
but i also feel that i am writing likes james joyce in ulysses, those are two books that i read from cover to cover ulysses and catcher in the rye, all it takes is a good fucked up guy to write something honest and you can get me to finish it, james joyce was all about stream of consciousness, crazy to think that ulysses is regularly named the best book of the century, and it wasnt even that bad of a century for books, it was a crazy book, and it was daring and new to just expose how he felt a person thought, and i mean it was pretty smart, because that is how we think, we jump around and we get nervous and self conscious and horny and we think in simple letters, and our memories associate things weirdly, i mean dante was the best writer of all the time, but i dont know anyone that thinks inside their brain in metered stanzas, if there was such a person, i dont know if id like to meet him, it would be a lot to handle good novels have taught me a lot, they've confused me too, but overall taught me things, see life is a grey thing, like there arent absolute values,
for us human beings, its easy to think of things as black and white, good and bad, yes or no, but thats not how it goes, there is a lot of grey area, and thats why i guess i liked ulysses, see the whole book is about this guy that is roaming around dublin, while he knows his wife is cheating on him, the last chapter is a stream of consciousness from his wifes mind, in which she just goes through her mind thinking about her past lovers and this guy she is cheating on her husband with, and ultimately she feels bad and when her husband climbs back into bed with her, shes like thinking oh there he is again, old leopold, but hes my leopold and she i guess kinda does admit to loving him, life hurts like that sometimes, a woman can still love you but cheat on you, a man can do it too, anyone can cheat on you, but still love you, anyone can hurt you and still love you, its a rough reality, remember i wrote an essay on this book, and the teacher said that i should save it and give it to the woman i marry it was so good, i didnt save it so i guess that wont ever happen, i cant even remember what i said, probably something about forgiveness and the abstract beauty of love, i was only twenty, i could have said anything
i wish i could remember what i wrote though, nowadays a lot of people are walking around with fear of intimacy issues, they are scared to open up to people, you know a lot of people are saying that they have intimacy issues, so i wanted to figure out more, i looked it up on wikipedia and it said there were four types of people, normal people that love themselves and can share intimacy with others, people that think themselves unworthy of intimacy but seek it, people that are scared of being intimate with others out of fear of rejection, and people that have self worth but think others are undeserving of intimacy, i think the whole thing probably comes from parental stuff, that's always the freudian way of looking at things, its kind of a shame because i think people really do like laying in bed and talking comfortably with someone after a wild fuck, when i wrote the essay i didnt have intimacy issues, but i might now, i dont know, and even if i did i dont know what type of of person i am, i guess sometimes people do say some stupid things, and stupid things out of a naked person are the worst kind of stupid things, whatever its wikipedia, anyone could have written, just like the original science study it supposedly based on,
ok this all getting too gooey and it lost its sharp vibe, i think that we were on a roll, when we were on the coronavirus landing places part, but then i get too serious and stuff, i do still want to talk about books i like, you know like thats one of the favorite things english teachers like to do, they like to analyze all the references that an authour made to other books, normally its the bible or the odyssey or some other greek or roman classic, like ulysses was modeled after the odyssey, i remember the teacher always talked about that, ive never read the odyssey or the iliad, ive heard they are great books, but i try not to say it myself, i do say that homer was a great poet though, but i never read his stuff, i mean ive read the first line, but i dont know the whole story or anything, i guess we are all hypocrites at some point or another, i do know however that ulysses was in one of dantes circles of hell, because he was advisor to deceit, the deceit of having that big horse full of soldiers go into to troy, so he ended up in hell, talking about hell that was another book they loved to reference, the bible, the bible doesnt see things grey, they see it black or white, this morning i woke up at four in the morning, and i couldnt get back to bed, so i pulled to a random spot and started reading proverbs, they make it seem so simple, this is good, that is is bad, i wish it were that simple, it used to be that simple like that when i was little kid, maybe it still is but, i just refuse to see it that way
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((thank you to guest writer @actualbird !!!))
See the thing about Evangeline is that it's pretty much as old as Jeremy and Michael's entire friendship. Probably older, actually. Evangeline, of course, being the minifridge in their dorm that houses the Jeremy’s fantastic stock of Mountain Dew Red.
It was passed down into the Mell household from a distant relative before landing in Michael's basement for prime snacking purposes. There, high on sentimentality and weed, teen Jeremy and Michael named the fridge after roughly an hour of scrolling through baby names while Evie ("Holy shit," Jeremy remembers saying to the ceiling. "Evie can be its nickname. That's so cute. Evie.") kept watch in the corner.
They take Evie with them when they go to college ("Ohana means family," Michael had said. "And family means no fridge gets left behind.") and it's been smooth sailing ever since. Evie doubles as a bedside desk. Evie's fridge door is home to various post its, three weird magnets, and the loving “P1” sign. Evie's soft, steady hum rings out through their dorm without fail.
Well, without fail until a few weeks ago when Evie's hum sputters from a constant thrum to an erratic buzz. Jeremy didn't think it was a problem because Evie was still refrigerating and a good smack usually set the it back on track for a few hours, but when the smacking stopped working, he just gets used to the weird buzzing beat. At one point, Michael says he could probably make a sick song from the beats, but before he can help Michael record Evie, Evie makes a final, desperate, pathetic sounding thunk.
The next day, Evie is nothing more than a lukewarm cupboard filled with equally lukewarm soda.
Which is how they end up at a Target that weekend, staring down at the overwhelming magnitude of the kitchen appliances section. Jeremy, in the face of an entire aisle of minifridges, feels uneasy. Out of depth. Intimidated. Out of everything he's faced in his life, right now, slowly walking past fridges that look cooler than he is, this feels like war. Which it absolutely isn't but the connotations of buying a fridge seem monumental at the moment. This is a life milestone. Buying a fridge.
Jeremy says none of this. Instead, he looks at a fridge, turns to Michael, and very intelligently says, "Fridge."
"Fuck, man," Michael nods sagely, placing a hand on Jeremy's shoulder. "They sure do."
They indulge in maybe three seconds of solemn eye contact before Michael breaks, his poker face splitting into a smile before turning into straight up cackles.
"Shut uuuup," Jeremy rolls his eyes, trying to shove Michael but he slings an arm around his shoulder, still snickering.
"Nah, dude. Do you have like, any other wise words to tell me?"
"Yeah, two. 'Fuck' and 'off'." Jeremy sticks his tongue out because he's like five, whatever. "Look at the fridges, dude. We have to pick a fridge."
"We have to pick a fridge," Michael repeats, but his words have a rhythm to it. Jeremy's seen this happen enough to know what'll happen next. "We have to. Have to pick a fridge," Michael says, bobbing his head to the beat he's making. Michael can turn anything into a jingle. Jeremy once read him the ingredient list on a box of Nerds and he turned it into a theme song. Dextrose, sugar, malic aaaaaacid, corn, corn, corn syrup. It was awesome. It was catchy. It was stuck in Jeremy's head for days. "Gotta pick a fridge. A fridge. A fridge." Michael croons, turning his gaze to Jeremy. "Because we are---take it away, Jer."
"Uhhhh," Jeremy thinks, hoping real hard that he doesn't just say 'fridge' again. "Fffff--" he says. Fuck. Salvage the situation. "Fffffridgehunters. We are Fridgehunters."
"Oh, shit, that sounds rad.” Michael grins, high fiving Jeremy. “Fridgehunters. Hunting for a fridge.”
For the lack of anything better to do, Jeremy adds some harmony. “Hunting for a fridge,” he sings before realizing they do have something better to be doing. “Dude, we can’t be singing about hunting for a fridge if we aren’t even looking at the fridges.”
“Compelling point,” Michael says valiantly. “But consider that, for some reason, I feel really intimidated by all these fridges.”
“Oh, thank fuck. Me too.” Jeremy sighs in relief. “Inheriting fridges is one thing but like, getting one? Choosing one? We’re going to die here.”
“No. No we won’t,” Michael says, suddenly determined. He lets go of Jeremy and stomps to a nearby fridge. “Come on, Jeremy. Let’s fucking do this. For Evie.”
They both look at the fridge. Jeremy reads the, what, the fridge stats (?) printed on the little card on the door. “These sure are words.”
“Yep,” he pops the ‘p’ and offers nothing more. They’re going to die here.
Jeremy belatedly realizes this all is ridiculous, but this is never a surprise. He'd be more worried the day he and Michael sit down and do something sensible and serious. Jeremy says, "We should've brought somebody else with us. An adult."
"We are adults," Michael winces. Yeah, he knows. Terrifying concept.
"An adult-ier adult," Jeremy explains, before he backtracks and realizes that they know nobody who fits that criteria at all. "Or just anybody who'd be helpful. We should've brought Rich."
"That would be entertaining, but not helpful." Michael opens a nearby fridge for no apparent reason, seeing as he’s looking at Jeremy and not the fridge. "Though, he'd make a great backup singer for the Fridgehunters theme. Have you heard him beatbox?"
"I mean, I've heard him choke on milk, so close enough." Jeremy looks into the fridge. It's got some heavy compartment stuff going on in there. Advanced shit. Too advanced, so Jeremy closes the fridge.
"We could've brought PJ. She seems like she'd know how to...fridge."
"Wrong," Michael opens the fridge again. "You see what I'm doing here? The weird nervous opening and closing this fridge thing?"
"Yeah?"
"PJ would open every single fridge in this aisle. And she'd do it out of glee," he shuts the fridge for emphasis. "Face it, man. Nobody's got it together. Collectively, I figure we could like, Voltron our way into becoming a singular functional human, but individually?" Michael pulls open the fridge door with a flourish. "Nah."
Jeremy nods, until he feels a literal lightbulb go off in his head. "Jake."
"Oh, fuck. Yeah. Yeah, absolutely,” Michael takes Jeremy by the shoulders. “We should've brought Jake. God, we're idiots. Jake could buy a fridge. Jake looks like he could put together IKEA furniture correctly."
"He's been doing that thing with the Rubik's cube." Jeremy says, moving him and Michael to a different part of the aisle, one with simpler looking fridges, hopefully.
"What, solving it?"
"Yeah."
"Who the fuck actually solves it?"
"Jake. He caught me staring and explained, like, algorithms."
"Burn the witch." He hears Michael mutter as they walk. “Dude, is it just me or are these fridges like--”
“Needlessly complicated? Totally,” Jeremy says. Thankfully, it seems like the fridges are getting more and more reasonable. “Evie was a good, cold cube. Probably from eighties, but still straightforward.”
“No nonsense whatsoev---FUCK.” Michael yells directly in his ear.
“Agh, holy shit, what?” He whips his head to Michael. Michael who is pointing at a fridge like it committed a murder right in front of him, but when Jeremy sees it, he understand. “No way.”
“Yes way.” Michael smiles, walking over to open the fridge. “Jeremy,” he says. “Same fridge.”
“Same fridge,” he murmurs in disbelief, looking at a fridge that was pretty much exactly Evie sans the bit where he hopes it’ll work. What are the goddamn odds. “So like. Evangeline the second?”
“You read my mind, man,” Michael crouches down to look inside the fridge. “But uh. Evie the second who is also the P1 fridge. So P1 the second? Player one two? Twelve?”
Jeremy crouches down due to peer pressure caused by literally one person and shrugs, “Don’t make us do numbers, Michael.”
“Fair enough,” Michael nudges Jeremy and raises a fist. “The Fridgehunters have a fridge.”
He laughs, solemnly tapping his own to Michael’s before saying, “I mean, technically, we haven’t bought it yet.”
“You’re ruining the moment.”
“We probably need to go find somebody and---”
“The moment, Jeremiah.”
“Reality, Michaelmiah.”
They do end up finding an employee, or rather an employee finds Michael mid-tackle and they try to make themselves presentable in under three seconds, scrambling from the floor and standing up. Because they’re adults. Who are going to get this fridge right here.
We wanna get this fridge, Jeremy thinks. What Jeremy ends up saying to the employee, “Uh, fridge.”
To his left, he hears Michael do a terrible job at holding in laughter, and Jeremy jabs him in the side with his elbow.
Just another day in the life.
#be more chill#michael mell#jeremy heere#askguestslikeus#hey i cried reading this fic cause#they were able to capture guyslikeus so well and their CHARACTERIZATIONS ARE DEAD ON#i love this so goddam much
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Walking the line (II)
I had a request on ao3 for a second part of Walking the line, with Clarke taking care of a drunk Bellamy.
“You guys coming?” Miller asked.
“Go on ahead,” Clarke called back. “I’ve got half a beer to finish and I’m not up for chugging it.” She raised her bottle up and sloshed it around for proof. Bellamy was busy at the sink, rinsing out the remaining glasses because of course he would do the dishes before going out to a bar.
“Didn’t take you for a quitter,” Miller teased and then grabbed his keys from the table near the door. She thought she caught him throwing a look at Bellamy, but it happened so fast she couldn’t be sure.
Clarke leaned her hip against the counter. “You could do those tomorrow,” she pointed out.
Bellamy killed the stream of water and set the last glass on the drying rack. “Washing glasses that have the remnants of alcohol in them when you’re hungover is a special kind of torture,” he said. “I’d rather just get it out of the way now.”
“You planning on getting drunk enough you’ll be hungover? You’ve had like, two beers.”
Bellamy opened the fridge and twisted off the cap of a bottle. “Make that three,” he said with a familiar grin.
“Just be careful— I’m making no promises about babysitting you again.” Clarke smiled back and lifted her bottle to her lips.
Bellamy shrugged. “Whatever, you owed me.”
“I owed you? That was three years ago,” she protested. “You said you were just being nice."
“And I was. But you still owed me, and now we’re even.”
Clarke rolled her eyes at him, but a part of her did feel like they were finally even, thanks to his Echo-induced meltdown four months ago. He and Echo had been on-and-off for ages, and Clarke assumed he was fine with that— and she understood the appeal, as she was a human with eyes who had seen Echo— but the night after he called it off for good he’d gotten drunker than she had ever seen him. He ended up puking in her bathroom (first the sink and then the toilet) and in repayment for that night summer before her freshman year, Clarke had spent the night sitting on the cool tile, his head in her lap as he spilled out the whole story. About how neither of them could decide if they wanted something more, and how every time they broke up the sex drew him back in. (Again, Clarke understood— Echo was stunning on a level rarely achieved by mere mortals.)
“But I do want more,” Bellamy had sighed. She scratched her nails soothingly across his scalp and his eyes fluttered shut. “I don’t want to do the hook up shit anymore. I want something real and sometimes I think we’d have it, but then we’d get into a fight and…” he trailed off and Clarke wondered if he’d passed out, but then he cleared his throat. “I guess I wanted more, just not with her.”
Clarke made an understanding noise and her stomach twisted, but now-- with him drunk and pathetic and vomitty-- was not the time for her to address a years-old crush.
Because that was all it was, really— a crush on her friend’s older brother. And Clarke was reasonably sure some part of him still saw her as his little sister’s friend who he had to watch out for. When she had moved in freshman year he was true to his word, and even showed up to help carry her minifridge up five flights of stairs, much to the delight of most of the women and a sizable portion of the men in her dorm. But in October when she texted him to tell him she’d run into Finn and his girlfriend in the cafeteria he’d offered to meet her at a coffee shop with his new girlfriend. Gina was exceedingly sympathetic and encouraged Clarke to draw dozens of cathartic cartoons of Finn getting hit by a bus, but Clarke caught Bellamy’s message loud and clear. Whatever she thought had passed between them on the bathroom floor that night was just in her head, borne of too much vodka and a stupid crush.
So she tucked her memories of that night away and moved on. She was mostly successful, but sometimes it would flare up unexpectedly and she’d wish he’d see her differently. They were friends now— real friends, who texted all the time and hung out together most weekends— but he had a habit of mentioning how much older he was than her in a way she knew meant I’m not interested. It sucked, but she could deal.
Mostly.
She finished her beer and took another one from the fridge, hoisting herself up onto the island and letting her heels bang against the cabinets. She watched Bellamy open another beer and quietly preened that he would rather just stand around his kitchen with her, drinking and talking, than go out to the bars with their friends.
Bellamy was telling her a story about one of his professors, laughing at her ribbing and throwing it right back at her, when it hit her: something was different about tonight. He was standing just a little closer to her than usual, and when she flirted with him he was definitely flirting back. She’d had just enough beer to feel bold so when he finished with his story she leaned back on her palms and cocked her head to the side. “So when are we going to do something about this?” she asked.
“This?”
Clarke stuck her leg out and hooked her ankle around his back, nudging him closer. “This,” she said pointedly, and his eyes widened.
Bellamy licked his lips and his hand came to rest on her ankle, curling around the bone and then sliding up her calf as he moved towards her. She hadn’t shaved in awhile and her stubble prickled under his palm. He stopped just millimeters from the hem of her shorts and he looked down at her. “It feels— it feels like something I shouldn’t want,” he said, but his fingers were burning into her upper thigh and his eyes were locked on her mouth.
“Why? Because I’m younger than you?”
“Yeah, that’s basically it,” he said with a breathless laugh. “But Miller keeps pointing out that you’re twenty-one, so it’s not like I’m robbing the cradle.”
“You’ve been talking to Miller about me?” she said and sat up straighter. This brought her lips closer to his, but she sensed this was something he needed to come to on his own so she didn't kiss him, not yet. But that didn’t stop her from curling her finger in his belt loop and tugging him infinitesimally closer. Her knees penned him in on either side and his hand came up to cup her jaw.
“More like he’s been yelling at me to get over my hang-ups,” he said, studying her face. He tucked her hair back behind her ear and swept his thumb across her lower lip. He looked mesmerized, dazed by their closeness, and she wanted him to look at her like that forever.
“You’re not a creep, you know,” she said even though being this close to him made it hard to breathe. “You’ve been a perfect gentleman. Possibly too perfect.”
“And if I kiss you now? What will that make me?”
“I'm not sure, but I do know that if you don’t kiss me you’re a dead man,” she threatened. Bellamy huffed out a laugh and drew her face up to his, their lips meeting carefully. But when she swept her tongue into his mouth he lost all pretense of restraint. He pressed into her as if he couldn’t bear to have even a hairsbreadth of space between them.
His phone beeped from his pocket and he swore, tearing himself away. Clarke whined at the loss and he pulled his phone out. “It’s fucking Miller,” he growled. “He wants to know where we are, and if I don’t respond he’s going to just keep texting.”
Clarke tugged him back for a kiss. “Tell him we’re not coming,” she said, and Bellamy’s lips curved into a grin against hers. He cupped her face in his hands and nipped at her lower lip, and then pulled back once more to tap something out on his phone.
“There,” he said triumphantly. “Where were we?”
Clarke wrapped her arms around his neck and placed a kiss on the corner of his mouth. “Making up for lost time.”
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