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strawberrylemonz · 3 years

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Masked Crowns

Part 16

Part 17 [CURRENT]

Part 18

@petrichormeraki @applepie1000 @artistconk @ivorylin @sydneys-sketches @snapdragonfirefly @bargledblocks

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“Theo, stop moving around! Clem, stop fucking around and quite biting my ankle! Hey, don’t use that tone with me, young lad- Clementine!”

Fundy appeared half dead as he laid on the couch, exhausted. He watched as both Theo and Clementine hounded Tommy, who was just trying to make adjustments to their formal wear. Groaning as he hoisted himself into a sitting position, Fundy rubbed his eyes as he addressed his uncle.

“Give it up, Tommy, they aren’t gonna sit still. Wilbur gave them candy this morning.”

“I know, Fundy. Jesus, what the fuck was Wil thinking?!”

“Look at the bright side, you were able to quickly make adjustments to the bot-boys.”

“Only because Grumbot and Jrumbot are saints. I swear, Grian is a better father than I am at times. Don’t fucking tell him I said that- Clementine! What the fuck?!”

Both Fundy and Tommy looked down to the two children, who both appeared to be offended. Clementine huffed as she stomped her kicking foot on the ground, her arms crossed as she glared at her father. Theo did his best to match his cousin’s level of intimidating energy, giving an annoyed looks at his father and great uncle.

“No!”

“No what?”

“Noooo!”

“Ender- Clem, I can’t understand what's wrong when you throw fits, okay? Take a deep breath, collect yourself, then tell me what’s wrong.”

“Hnnnn”

Tommy frowned as he stared at the younger girl, who seemed to grow more irritated by the second. He knew her, though, could read her body language perfectly. She wasn’t angry or irritated, she was hurt and upset. Kneeling down, he held his hands out to his daughter, who glared at them in fury. After realizing her father’s hands weren’t going to combust, she sighed as she placed her tiny hands in Tommy’s bigger ones. Slumping her shoulders in defeat, she frowned down at her feet. Giving a frown of his own, Tommy lowered his head to try and make eye contact with Clementine, to no avail.

“Hey, look at me. Please?”

He watched with slight appeasement as she tilted her head up, her eyes slowly meeting Tommy’s. He gave her a hesitant smile, gently rubbing her tiny hands in a comforting manner as he did so.

“What’s wrong, little moth?”

Clementine didn’t talk much, opting to use her growls and grunts to communicate. This, however, wasn’t a situation where that form of communication would help things run smoothly. Moving her eyes from her dad’s face down to their joined hands, she frowned as her bottom lip began to quiver.

“I’m bad.”

“...What?”

“No good. Bad. Not nice. Not calm.”

As he stared at the sad expression resting on the girl’s face, Tommy suddenly felt small once again. He felt the same way he did when his father complained about him, not realizing his youngest was listening. He remembered the self doubt he felt and the hurt in his chest when his dad would compare him to his older brothers. It had fucking hurt when he was a kid, and it still did. And now? Now he was doing the same to his daughter. He was the fucking worst.

“No-Clementine, that isn’t true. Fuck, I- That’s not what I- Listen-”

Tommy sat down completely as he leaned forward, peering into the sad eyes of his daughter. Fuck, who knew being a parent would hurt his heart so fucking much? He was in his fucking feels at the moment, and it was all because of the toddler that stood before him. He was so scared of hurting her, of giving her reasons to despise and disown him as her father. He had to fix this, he needed to.

“The day I found you, I felt a piece of me return. It’s okay that you’re not like your cousins. You know what? I’m glad you’re not like them. You’re you, and you are being the best you there is. You’re not bad, Clementine, you’re fucking lovely. Don’t ever doubt yourself, okay? You’re a fucking badass, a brilliant one, too. I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean to compare you to your cousins.”

The small smile that graced Clementine’s lips was enough to fill Tommy with relief. Pulling her into a hug, he smiled as he felt her cling onto his shirt for comfort. Looking to the side, he hummed as he motioned for his great nephew to join in on the hug. Theo, who was quietly watching it all, happily ran into the hug, pulling his father along with him. So much had happened in such little time that Tommy forgot that kids were easily overwhelmed. From discovering new family, the park’s opening, house renovations, and then personal schedules, it was too much for the two to handle. They got along and enjoyed their cousins, but Tommy and Fundy had forgotten that they needed more than just that. They needed reassurance that they were enough.

“Now, can you two please let Tommy make final adjustments to your outfits? We have a ball to attend to, after all.”

--------

Attending the ball was truly a blast from the past. Tommy snickered as Kristin gushed about the matching outfits her grandbabies and youngest son were wearing, alongside with her own. Most of the members from the Dream SMP just gawked in silence as Lani, who was matching with both Drista and Tubbo, twirled and bragged about how wonderful of a designer and tailor Tommy was.

“Tommy made those?”

“Yup! He sure did!”

“But they’re so...elegant.”

“Oi! Fuck you!”

Laughter erupted from the group as the music played in the background. As the group conversed among one another, pairs began to break off to dance.

“Pa!”

Tommy peered down at Clementine, who held her hands up expectedly. Letting out a laugh, he scooped her up into his arms, smiling as she giggled with every bounce her father caused with his laughter. She smiled brightly at him as he fixed the tiara on her head. She laid her head on his shoulder as he swayed along to the music, both content. After a moment, Tommy felt his daughter’s head lift from his shoulder.

“Cousins.”

He turned to follow her line of sight to see Theo, Grumbot and Jrumbot all waving at him, their suits and hair fixed appropriately for the occasion. Returning the wave, he smiled at his daughter, setting her down with a nod.

“Yeah, you four go dance and have fun. Be careful.”

He couldn’t help but smile as her curls bounced as she squealed in excitement. Giving Tommy a hug, she quickly grabbed a hold of her cousins and rushed to the dance floor, smiling as her cousins argued as to which pair should dance with who. As he watched his only child scurry away with her cousins, he couldn’t help but sigh. The feeling of a hand on his forearm caught his attention. Turning to the side, he saw Tubbo smile at him, Lani and Drista right behind him.

“C’mon, let’s go dance.”

----------

Tommy and Lani were doing their best to not disrupt their dancing with silent wheezes of laughter, they really were. It’s not their fault, everyone was making it so hard for them!

“It’s like he’s dancing with Mount Everest!”

“Holy shit, this is hilarious.”

The pair watched in amusement as Tubbo bossed an awkward, but happy, Ranboo around the dance floor. The height difference in itself was enough to make the sight laughable.

“Tommy, over there.”

Following Lani’s line of sight, Tommy damn near belted out laughter as a grumpy Drista was stuck paired with one of the park’s guests, who would not shut up about her relation to Dream.

“Poor girl, losing her sanity.”

“She’s about to break, it’s fucking hilarious. Should have given her a fork.”

“We’re here to dance, Tommy, not commit a felony.”

“Rich coming from a girl with multiple knife pockets installed into her dress.”

“You installed them!”

“You commissioned them!”

The two began to bicker like the besties they were as their friends and family danced around them. Phil and Kristin danced and twirled as they shared whispers to each other, their smiles brighter than ever. Wilbur and Techno were awkwardly dancing with one another, their empty insults to one another growing louder the longer the brothers were with each other. Grian was teaching Grumbot the proper way to waltz, Bad and Skeppy goofingly twirling around them. Clementine and Jrumbot happily danced off beat, no one even daring to teach them the proper moves. Quackity, Karl and Sapnap laughed as they spun around together, the three pulling George in from the sidelines. Just as Tommy was about to make a comment, a sharp elbow jabbed his side.

“Ow! Lani, what the fuc-”

“Shh! Look!”

“What are you-”

“Just look, it’s important!”

And important it was. There, standing at the food tables, was Fundy. He wasn’t alone, though, not at all. There, making the hybrid blush and stutter, stood a guy. Lani and Tommy exchanged knowingly looks, before dashing over to the nearest hiding spot.

“Move over!”

“No, you!”

“Shh, listen!”

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“Go away.”

Theo frowned as the words left his mouth. He crossed his arms as he glared up at the emotionless mask before him, the face behind it hidden well. That didn’t stop Theo from being able to read body language, and the vibes he was getting weren’t necessarily hostile, but they weren’t welcoming as well.

“I just wanted to get a good look at you, to know you. Makes sense, doesn’t it? You are my son after all.”

The word sounded so wrong coming out of the unseen mouth. Son. As far as Theo was concerned, Dream was no father to him. His only dad was Fundy, and Fundy was all he needed for a parent.

“Your crown looks very nice, did you design it yourself? And I like your suit. I noticed that it matches Fundy’s perfectly. In fact, both of your crowns match perfectly with one another.”

Theo wasn’t planning on responding to any of the comments, not that he’d have to try. Dream just didn’t seem to catch the child’s drift, continuing to talk despite the boy not responding.

“You have my hair color, it looks good on you. You’re obviously a shapeshift, like Fundy. Have you tried shifting to your more humanoid form? Oh, your eyes. You have-”

“My eyes.”

He may have been young, but Theo wasn’t daft. He knew that Dream (he would not call him father) was the reason for him having to live in the burrows up until then. He didn’t know what all Dream did, but he knew that it was enough to make his papa and uncle Tommy hurt very badly. He wasn’t going to let Dream see him with his guard down, not around him. He just stood and glared at the older man, who seemed to not have taken a hint to the child’s body language. Theo just confidently stood his ground as he watched Dream kneel before him, reaching over to gently pat his head, not seeming to care about pushing the crown around. Theo was quick to catch his crown, which fell off his head the moment Dream pushed it off. Much to Theo’s relief, the unwelcomed form of affection didn’t last long.

“Ow!”

“Dickhead! Dickhead!”

Dream pulled his arm back as Theo hid a laugh behind his hand. Standing in confidence was Clementine, who had just bitten Dream’s hand. She just growled and hissed at Dream, taking a protective stance in front of Theo as Grumbot and Jrumbot stood by his side, ready to defend their cousin. Dream just rubbed his hand, before pointing at the emerald jewel dangling from the girl’s necklace.

“I only know one person with an emerald cut exactly like that. You must be Tommy’s brat. What did he name ya again? Clementine? Figured. I guess it’s true after all, trouble attracts trouble. Don’t tell me that you’re just as problematic as your dad-”

“Shut up!”

Theo huffed as he yelled at Dream, who wasn’t expecting such an outburst from the quiet child. Grumbot narrowed his eyes as the man, pulling Theo behind him as he did so. Jrumbot, on the other hand, just mocked the masked warrior.

“-meanie mask man!”

“Fine! We’ll talk once you’ve all calmed down. I’ll see you around, Theo.”

Dream let out an annoyed huff as he walked off, giving a half-wave to Theo. Once he was completely out of sight, Theo was mobbed by his concerned cousins, who were quick to assess him. Clementine began to sniff for any off scents while Jrumbot clung onto his arm, whines escaping his artificial mouth as his older brother inspected Theo. Whilst checking for any possible injuries, Grumbot began to question the younger boy.

“Were you hurt?”

“No.”

“Did he threaten you?”

“Nuh uh.”

“Well, is he as big of a jerk as Uncle Tommy said he was?”

Theo blinked a few times before laughing, causing the worried faces of his cousins to morph into confusion. After a moment, an amused look graced Grumbot’s features. Clementine and Jrumbot only continued to watch in confusion. Finally calming down, Theo responded with a nod.

“Yeah, he is. He tried acting like he was my dad.”

“We should tell your dad.”

“Are you kidding me?! He’s talking to a potential dad! Let’s just go bother Uncle Tommy.”

“No! Spy. Uncle Grian!”

“I’m sure dad won’t mind us bothering him. Let’s get going.”

Making sure they all had their belongings, the four children scurried off towards Grian. As they happily spoke with the father of the bot boys, Theo felt a chill down his spine. Turning around to peer behind him, he noticed a familiar white mask. If he clung onto his uncle a bit tighter than usual, Grian didn’t mention.

#memories in the stars #memories in the stars au #fwt fankid #fwt fankid theo #hermit!Tommy fankid #hermit!tommy fankid clem #dadinnit au #sbi is a family pog #hermit!fundy #hermit!Kristin #hermit!tommy au

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mc-lukanette · 4 years

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42 Lukanette Thoughts

Marinette waiting until Luka’s birthday to give him a response to his confession. He’s absolutely “offended” and she’s just grinning at him.

Luka not being able to swim despite living on a boat. Bonus if Marinette invites him and Juleka out to the swimming pool one day and the absolute love-struck dork finds himself unable to say “no” to her. Juleka thinks it’s hilarious that he can’t just admit to Marinette that he can’t swim, so she has a blast constantly making everything worse, like telling Marinette that Luka doesn’t have a swimsuit so Marinette’ll end up making one for him.

Marinette thinking about the whole “LadyNoir” situation while she’s sketching in her notebook. She finds that she doesn’t even like the way her name meshes with Chat’s. One thought leads to another and she - while not even thinking - ends up writing “Lukanette” in her sketchbook. Cut to her hanging out with Luka later and showing him the designs she came up with that day, meaning that Luka ends up seeing “Lukanette” so casually written in her sketchbook.

Luka Knows™️ but also has to hide it because he can’t have Marinette thinking that he’s crushing on Ladybug. This eventually leads to him telling Ladybug that she can come to him at any time, which leads to nights of Ladybug giving him the snake so he can go on patrol with her. He’s not ready for her lowkey flirting and has to keep reminding himself that he’s not supposed to react since she doesn’t know that he Knows™️.

AU where Kitty Section never became a thing, but it turns out that Marinette’s good at writing lyrics. She actually ends up singing along to a song that Luka never had lyrics for and that’s how she becomes his lyricist.

A concept: switching around “Frozer” and “Captain Hardrock,” meaning that, when Luka goes to comfort this “stranger” walking onto deck, he might not even hear about the ice rink. If he does, they’re not close enough for her to ask him to come with her but he offers her some quick ice skating lessons before the “third-wheeling date.” If he doesn’t and thus gives Marinette no lessons, Adrimi ends up happening due to Marinette staying mostly off the ice due to clumsiness and constantly feeling bad over seeing Adrien and Kagami there, which leads into “Captain Hardrock” where she meets Luka again without any sort of Adrien influence (outside of her getting over him).

Marinette always being made fun of and called “funny” due to her clumsiness when she was little. Likewise, Luka was always considered too “soft” so he began to see it as an insult. Once they’re older, they end up calling each other “funny”/“soft” and suddenly find that it hits very different when it’s THEM saying it to each other because they can tell that there’s no maliciousness there.

Post-reveal friendly shenanigans where Luka is somewhere, idling on his phone, when a flash of red and black swoops down and snatches it out of his hand. He looks around, confused, then manages to catch the sight of Ladybug this time as she swoops back the other way and hands his phone back. He sees that she took a picture of herself winking + sticking her tongue out with his phone and now he can’t stop grinning stupidly to himself.

Marinette waking up after a stressful/exhausting day, then seeing the time and frantically calling Luka, worried that she’d missed an event or something. There’s a light chuckle on the other line as Luka reminds her that it’s Sunday and nothing’s going on so she should get back to sleep.

Post-Guardian Marinette things where Luka is her confidant who she told about her guardian status. Marinette occasionally lets the kwami free whenever she knows that Tom and Sabine won’t come up to disturb them, but it leads to a “problem” of sorts. Pollen, of course, calls Marinette her “queen,” but now that Luka is there also, Pollen calls him her “king” and Marinette and Luka are collectively dying.

Silly thing: snakes of all kinds being attached to Marinette. She’ll go to pet stores and they’ll boop their noses against the glass, wanting her attention. Luka feels unnecessarily smug post-dating because he’s her snake and no one else is.

Luka Knows™️ and finds a way for Marinette to vent about her Ladybug duties without her having to tell him her identity, like mentioning things that happened with Ladybug that day and giving her an opening to talk about them, if only from a faux-outsider’s perspective.

Luka having a terrible day, to the point where he’s legitimately worried about being akumatized. He decides to call Marinette as an akuma starts flying past the window, and just hearing Marinette’s voice alone fills Luka with such positive energy that the akuma is immediately repelled like wow ok i’m out. He watches the akuma leave with a smile and whispers, ”You’re amazing, Marinette.” “W-what?? Did you call just to tell me that?” “No, but it’s true.”

Marinette decides that she wants a challenge and asks Luka if she can make a full guitar for him. He knows he’d be stupid not to agree, but then Marinette shyly adds a condition: he has to name the guitar after her. Luka has no idea how to explain to her that he’s already named a guitar after her so she might have to settle for her guitar being “Marinette 2.”

Luka Knowing™️ and it makes him legitimately upset at how much stress and responsibility has been placed on her. He ends up getting akumatized so he can take her earrings, not to bring them to Hawk Moth, but to “save” her.

Viperion in a particularly tough akuma-related battle. Ladybug legitimately doesn’t know if they’re going to make it out okay, so she ends up finding a moment to confess to him. Cut to later when he ends up having to go back with Second Chance, erasing the moment from time, and apparently he’s just supposed to focus and pretend like he’s okay and he is SO getting her back when this fight is over.

Marinette being afraid to confess to Luka directly, so she’s constantly dropping hints that she likes him and Luka is picking up on none of them because he’s convinced that she still likes Adrien. The rest of Kitty Section is constantly getting on his case for not pursuing Marinette and he’s just like, “But she likes Adrien?” while having like 3984723748234 texts from Marinette just from that day alone.

Marinette deciding to use her Instagram to ramble, leading her to post some pictures of Luka and talk about how nice/sweet/handsome he is because surely he doesn’t follow her account so it’ll be fine (spoiler alert: he follows her account very much and Juleka makes a game out of trying to catch his reaction every time Marinette posts about him).

Post-dating, Marinette insisting to Luka that she “doesn’t want to mess up their first kiss,” and therefore they have to practice kissing each other first, apparently missing the point that it won’t be their first kiss if they’ve kissed each other before. Luka tries to explain the fault in logic but she’s not backing down and, really, who is he to refuse if she wants to kiss him a bunch?

Adulthood Lukanette “cruelty” on Marinette’s part where she decides that she wants to propose to Luka and puts the box with the wedding ring inside one of his guitars with the excuse that she was replacing the strings for him, then leaving Luka to realize what she did later.

Juleka asking Marinette who her favorite hero is because she was getting into a debate with Luka about it and they couldn’t agree. Marinette shyly peeks up because Luka is right there, but nonetheless admits that her favorite is Viperion.

Marinette visiting the Liberty and noticing Luka not playing his guitar and just staring off into space, a soft, loving look on his face. She asks Juleka about it, who casually brushes it off as, “Oh, he always does that when he’s thinking of you.” “When he’s thinking of WHO now????”

Post-dating in which Marinette freaks out over even the smallest contact with Luka just because she’s on a happy emotional high. (”You wanna hold hands??? Like--my hand??? Holding yours??? And our fingers will be intertwining and everything?? And we--stop laughing, Luka, these are important questions!!!”) Bonus if what gets her to take a huge step forward and just passionately kiss Luka is someone mocking their relationship and her proving them otherwise thusly.

Marinette gets a pet snake, names it “Viperion,” and happily uses it as an opportunity to gush about Viperion the second Luka questions why she chose a snake as a pet.

Marinette complains sometimes about Luka being “too tall” but really, it’s perfect for hugs, so-- (even if she still pouts about the fact that she can’t kiss him simply by being on her tip-toes).

Lowkey headcanon that Juleka and Rose purposefully set Marinette up with Luka since they’re like, “Luka’s missing!” in “Captain Hardrock” when Luka is in his room that Juleka shares with him and it would’ve been the first place to go look for him.

Luka being so used to messes and just leaving them alone thanks to living on the Liberty for so long and being around his mother. It’s a really hard habit to break when he starts living with Marinette and he’s extremely apologetic about it.

Luka posting a lot about Marinette/him and Marinette on Instagram and Marinette “fighting back” (bonus if she doesn’t do it intentionally) with posts about Luka/her and Luka/Kitty Section.

Why limit oneself to balcony scenes when you can have houseboat scenes too???

Marinette being offended by any polls where Ladybug wins over Viperion except Luka is offended by her opinion and it’s just them going back and forth about why Ladybug/Viperion should be more popular.

Tikki agreeing with Master Fu that Marinette and Adrien are “made for each other” but being a closet Lukanette fan in secret. That tiny Kitty Section shirt that Marinette made on Instagram is hers.

Pre-”Captain Hardrock,” Luka thinking he’s subtle asking for details about “the girl who broke his sister’s photo curse.” He’s not.

Marinette taking a music class and of course she asks Luka to help with things that she doesn’t understand. Bonus if she’s so into trying to learn that she doesn’t notice when she’s making him blush, like her casually sitting on his lap and asking him to physically instruct her on where her hands should be.

Post-dating, Marinette “bribing” Luka to do things using kisses. Bold of her to assume he wouldn’t have done it anyway, though he won’t say “no” to kisses either.

Marinette, being carried/protected by Viperion, knowing that she needs to leave to transform but also he’s very warm and nice so maybe just a little longer, this akuma isn’t that dangerous/disruptive anyway. (Viperion may also be indulging himself too but she’ll never know.)

“It's amazing how you can be so composed all the time, Luka! It feels like it's impossible to know what you're thinking!“ “Really? But I just think about you all the time, Marinette.“ “*DOESN’T KNOW WHETHER TO BE FLUSTERED OR OFFENDED BECAUSE HOW DARE--*”

Whenever Marinette does that thing where she closes her eyes and raises her head proudly... I feel like Luka gets the sudden urge to either kiss her or cup her cheeks.

Marinette and Luka having “silence challenges” in adulthood where they give each other affection and the first one to make a noise loses. The challenge never lasts long.

I just presume that Luka has sixth senses that go off the second Marinette is completely over Adrien.

Post-reveal and post-dating where Luka expresses concern to Marinette about the whole “destiny” nonsense with Adrien being Chat Noir and Marinette lets Luka know how she feels about that by showering Luka with lots of kisses.

Luka not realizing what he said to Marinette in “Silencer” until he goes home and Juleka asks him what they’d been talking about. His face turns progressively redder as he makes the realization.

Post-dating, Marinette not being used to the abundance of affection that Luka’s going to give her due to how many times she failed with Adrien.

#type: thoughts #Flower Arrangement Shipping #type: prompt set #((Not really but I could see people viewing it as one.))#Pro LukaMari #Lukanette

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maribatshipper · 3 years

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Miraculous 39 Clues

Lillian glares with her dark eyes at the picture of the Ladybug-themed heroine. The heroine was lying on the ground with her arm twisted into an unnatural shape after a fight with one of these akumas. Lillian picks up her phone & calls a cousin of hers.

"Dan, I'm going to Paris. I need to speak to Stone." Lillian growls.

Dan asks, "Why? What's wrong with him?"

Lillian frowns, "Not what's wrong with him, what's wrong with the city he lives in. Check a site called the Ladyblog. You'll see why. I have to look out for my fellow Janus."

Lillian hangs up as she buys a ticket to Paris, running her hair through her burnt amber hair.

***

"STONE!"

Jagged Stone winces. He's always known about his heritage & everything that went on. He preferred the love he got from people when they heard his music compared to the backstabbers he called his family & their obsession with the clues.

"Lily, what are you doing here? In Paris?" Jagged asks, his pale-green eyes hidden by some glasses with 2 Eiffel towers & Paris' flag incorporated into it.

"Why didn't you tell the Cahill's about the situation in Paris? Those of us who are good could have done something to help the heroes of this city. They clearly need all the help they can get, & who better to help than an entire family of spies, inventors, artists, & jocks?" Lillian glares at the much older man.

Jagged sighs, "The Lucians have a base here & said nothing. You've seen the reports, Lillian. The heroes are just kids. I was turned into a rockin' villain. What was I supposed to do? Call the entire family over to get us all akumatised when they find out what's going on?"

Lillian glares, "No, you're supposed to warn us about Paris & about keeping emotions in check! The Lucians here are fools for not bringing this to our attention! Our branch is supposed to share information with the rest of our branch! This is something that has to be taken to the head of our family! This Hawk Moth character could be a rogue Cahill, or a Vesper! If this guy is a Vesper, our whole family needs to be warned about him! No matter how much we hate each other, we don't leave other Cahill's to deal with Vespers. What if he's like Peirce? What then, Stone?"

Jagged sighs, "You're right. I haven't been thinking clearly. So un-rock'n'roll of me. But this isn't something that can be fixed with the master serum. Cahill's can't face against the power of these jewels called Miraculous. Even with that serum. These Miraculous are more powerful than anything, & they should be kept out of our family's greedy hands."

Lillian frowns, "But we could help. We've had exper-"

Jagged whirls around, "Not with this! We've never had any experience with this! This is dangerous, Lily! No matter how genuine our talents, we can't help them against this! I know it's un-rock'n'roll, but that's what it is, Lillian!"

A knock comes from the door. Jagged breathes a few times & opens the door to see a familiar face. Jagged's face stretches into a giant grin.

"Marinette! There's my Rockin' designer! Whatcha got for me this time?" Jagged asks.

Marinette smiles, "Well, I designed you some new glasses, because the ones you have right now are starting to fall apart, since I didn't really have the best materials when I started that, but these new ones should last at least for a few years, & I have a small-scale of that poster you asked me to do, & I need to just adjust your outfit for your show tomorrow. Oh, I also have some stuff for Fang. It's all in my backpack."

Lillian walks up to Marinette & studies her, a suspicious glint in her eyes.

"Who's this, Stone?" Lillian asks, not taking her eyes off of the teen.

Jagged smiles, "Lily, this is my best designer, Marinette Dupain-Cheng. Marinette, this is a relative of mine, Lillian."

Marinette smiles & holds her hand out to shake with Lillian's, only to fall when her backpack bursts from being overfilled. Lillian's eyes widen as Marinette collides with the ground. She crouches down to help Marinette pick the stuff up, only to catch her eye on an open design book. She picks up the design book. Her eyes widen at every design. Marinette panics as she sees this & grabs the design book quickly.

"I'm so sorry. I'm madly clumsy. Those are just rough sketches-"

Lillian smirks, "Rough sketches? If those are rough sketches, the finished product must be good enough to go to heaven, Dupain-Cheng."

Jagged stares at Lillian in shock. She is harsh, cold, & not one you'd expect compliments from, even if she is a Janus.

"Stone, I need to talk to you." Lillian grabs Jagged's arm & drags him away from the confused blue-eyed teenager.

"What is it?" Jagged asks, rubbing his sore arm where Lillian's nails were digging into his skin.

Lillian frowns, "She's got the skill of a Cahill with the Janus serum. Does she know anything about the Cahills?"

Jagged shakes his head, "Not a thing. Her mother is most likely a Tomas from China, even though she is small. I saw her in action when Penny was akumatised. Her father is a French baker, & she designs clothes, posters, glasses, she could design a coat for Fang if she wanted to."

Lillian holds a dark coloured hair between her fingers & smirks, "Let's see if she is a Cahill."

Jagged gapes, "How did you get that?"

Lillian laughs, "Stone, I'm a Janus who's been taught at each of our branches bases & in each art. Canada, Hollywood, Venice, any base there was, I've been there. I've done what our ancestors did. We test this. If it comes back positive, we train her in the Janus ways. If not, you don't have to worry about anything."

***

Marinette was confused when this strange teenager who was somewhat older than her dragged her favourite singer away with such authority.

"What was that, Tikki?" She whispers to her little purse attached to her hip.

The quiet being in her purse answers, "I don't know Marinette. She radiates an artists' soul, but she seems so..."

Marinette offers, "Standoffish?"

Tikki chuckles, "Yeah, but there's something more to her than that."

The two older artists come back, Jagged cowering slightly when Lillian looks towards him. Tikki stays hidden in the purse.

"Do I wanna know what that was?" Marinette asks.

Jagged laughs, "It wasn't really anything Rock'n'roll to talk about."

Lillian nods, keeping an eye on the teen.

"So, Marinette, what are your interests?" Lillian asks.

Marinette smiles, "Well, I'm really into fashion, I even design & sew my own clothes. I'm really good at video games, especially Ultimate Mecha Strike 3. Then of course there is music, I mean, I listen to Jagged's music all the time while I'm sketching out designs, his music inspires me! Unlike XY. Bleh! I even designed the costumes for Kitty Section, & I've made so many different outfits, & I'm starting my own website, but I really don't know if it's a great idea with so much stress at school, & akumas, & of course I'm class representative for my class."

Lillian smirks, "I think I'll visit your school, kid. See how well you do in a place like that."

Marinette panics, "It's really no biggie, I just have a lot on my plate."

Lillian smiles, "Either way, I'll be visiting. I gotta go to my apartment. Remember, Stone. I will be telling."

Jagged nods, confusing Marinette.

"Am I missing something here?" Marinette asks.

Lillian smiles, "Nothing to worry about, kid. See you at your school, Dupain-Cheng."

Lillian walks away with a dangerous looking smile on, which scares Marinette slightly.

Marinette suddenly asks, "Does she even know which school I go to?"

***

Lillian checks the test results of the hair she plucked from Marinette's head earlier. Lillian calls Jagged.

Jagged sighs, "Well?"

"It's a match. She's Janus alright. But she's also Lucian & Tomas. Test result says 5% Lucian, 5% Tomas, & 90% Janus." Lillian smiles.

Jagged sighs, "Check her classmates & parents too."

***

A month has passed, & Lillian gathered as much information about the Dupain-Chengs as she could. Marinette's mother, Sabine, is the Cahill with genes. The father, Tom, is a Tomas, which Lillian thought was funny. The only issue? Neither parent knew that they were part of a giant family spreading all across the world. Marinette's grandmother Gina seemed to at least know something of the Cahill name.

Lillian sighs, "I can't believe they don't know a thing about us."

She looks at her research notes on the classmates. All of them have tiny bits of Cahill DNA except Cesaire and Bourgeois. When she visited with Marinette that one day, the kids seemed sweet, but Lillian's a Janus. She can tell when someone's acting. There was one that was acting the most. Her acting was spot on, except for one small issue. She couldn't keep her stories straight.

"Well, miss Rossi, you are about to get a few dozen lawsuits delivered right to your school in the middle of your class. You shouldn't have messed with Marinette. You mess with a Janus, you mess with a powerful enemy. Now to get the kid trained like a Janus."

***

Lillian shows up to Marinette's school again & points out a flaw in one of Lila's stories. She then walks to the bathroom, where she has laid a trap for the fox.

"Hello. Lillian, right?" Lila fakely smiles.

"& you must be Splenda." Lillian smirks.

Lila asks, "What?"

Lillian explains, "Artificially Sweet. Like Splenda. Fake sugar. Drop the act, I can smell the Lucian on you!"

Lila actually seems surprised, & asks, "What's a Lucian?"

Lillian looks through Lila for any sign of deception, but she sees that Lila actually has no idea what she's talking about.

"Of course. That makes this so much easier. Keep away from Marinette, or I can guarantee all your fame will disappear."

Lila drops her Façade & smirks, "How could you possibly do that? Everyone here can't resist when they hear what they want to hear. There's nothing you can do about it anyway. You don't want to be my friend, fine, but I'll make sure no one here wants to be your friend at all. You're a little less dumb than the others, so I'll give you one chance. You're either with me, or against me. You only have until the end of class to decide, Lillian."

Lillian giggles, then full out laughs.

"Oh you poor, delusional soul! I don't want to be friends with anyone here except Marinette! & thanks for saying that. Now I have all the proof I need!" Lillian smirks.

Lila asks, "What do you mean?"

Lillian smirks, "You'll find out."

***

Months passed, & Lila's entire empire toppled once lawsuits were coming to her in public for defamation & slander, & Lila was also sued for abuse. Marinette got paparazzi swamping her, asking about how long Lila had threatened her, but Lillian kept Marinette away from the Paparazzi with practiced ease. Marinette had found out how she was related to many important people. Lillian trained her, causing Ladybug to defeat villains much quicker, & Cat Noir stopped showing, not that it bothered her. Cat Noir stopped even helping, acting childish every time Ladybug denied his feelings. Ladybug decided to pick a new hero, a new fox. The new fox made everything easier on Ladybug, & even stole Cat Noir's ring & gave it to Ladybug after his first week.

Ladybug smiles, "You ready for patrol, Corsac?"

The new Fox smiles, his red hair with white tips blowing in the wind. He was also a Janus, which is why Ladybug chose him for the fox. One needs a really good artistic mind to use the fox power.

Corsac's blue eyes widen in happiness.

(I couldn't find one with white tips. Imagine they're white.)

"Of course, Ladybug."

A/N: While reading Miraculous Salt fics, I suddenly had the thought, “What if the 39 Clues universe was part of the Miraculous Universe?” And this came to life with a prompt. I can’t remember the prompt, but I’m happy with how this came out.

Okay... so... I ran out of really cool fox names, so I actually googled Fox species, and there was only 2 cool sounding ones. Culpeo and Corsac. Can anyone guess who Corsac is?

#Miraculous salt #39 clues #Marinette's a Cahill #Unpopular crossover

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thiswasinevitableid · 3 years

Note

for monster march, ghost + indruck + nsfw?

Here you go! I borrowed some ideas we’ve tossed around on the Discord

A sketchbook, new pens, a Hershey bar, and a bag of jumbo marshmallows. A small but lively fire. And a new, huge, fuzzy sleeping bag waiting for him in the tent.

Not a bad camping set up for a city-boy art goth (as Barclay likes to call him).

Indrid sticks another marshmallow on the fork, roasting it until it’s deep brown, the smell of burning sugar curling through the air and settling in his hair. He’s never liked Graham Crackers, so he jams a square of chocolate into the molten center of the marshmallow and shoves the entire thing into his mouth.

Kepler is small. Barclay hadn’t been kidding about that. He’d also been right that one of the two tattoo shops in town was willing to hire Indrid after looking through photos of his work and confirming he completed his apprenticeship.

He’s been living in the Eastwoods campground in the Monongahela National Forest while he apartment hunts, and the tattoos he’s done so far netted him enough cash to buy his luxurious new sleeping bag. He might be waiting on a place for some time, so he may as well camp in style.

Three “s’mores” later, the moon is up and the night is chilly enough that he wants his sweatshirt. Ducking into the tent, he can’t find it on his pillow, where he swears he left it this morning. Maybe he accidentally buried it getting dressed.

A splashhiss interrupts his rummaging. Scrambling from the tent, he discovers his fire is now a pile of soaked ashes and logs being angrily stirred by a thick piece of kindling.

“Excuse me, but what the fuck?”

A man in a ranger uniform appears, the stick falling through his hand as he gives Indrid a disapproving stare.

“Look here, I know you’re new here, maybe to campin entirely. But you can’t just leave a fire burnin when you go to bed.” He doesn’t sound mad, more like he’s a disappointed big brother scolding his sibling.

“I wasn’t-”

“And all this” he gestures to the food on the table, “has gotta go in the bear box. Black bears are real good foragers and we don’t want ‘em comin’ into camp and gettin to comfy around humans.”

“Of course, but-”

“You didn’t take any food into the tent, right? Wouldn’t want somethin to decide to join you ‘cause it smelled a snack.”

Indrid pinches the bridge of his nose, “I am aware of all of these rules, and plan to follow them. Once I actually go to bed instead of ducking into the tent for my sweater. But since my evening appears to be over…” he grabs the marshmallows, roasting fork, and chocolate, carries them to the bear box, and slams it closed.

When he whirls back around, the ghost is still there, chagrined.

“Uh, sorry. I kinda jumpy about people leavin fires alone.” In the lantern light, his smile is as charming as his drawl. His stocky, bearish shape and unassumingly handsome face command Indrid’s focus, which is why his revelation comes so quickly.

“You...there’s a statue of you at the visitor center. Which makes you, ah, damn it what was the name-”

“Duck. Duck Newton. They put my legal name on there, even though Juno tried to stop ‘em. But my name’s Duck.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Duck. I’m Indrid.”

“Nice to meet you too. Uh, sorry for ruinin your campfire, looks like you were havin a nice time.”

“It’s alright. I suppose I’m grateful there’s someone haunting the campsites to keep them in order.”

“You’re takin me bein’ a ghost surprisingly well.”

“I’ve always been interested in strange things, to the point that I earned the nickname ‘mothman’ in high school.”

“Huh” Duck watches him a moment, then shrugs, “well, guess I better be goin’. Have a nice night, mothman.”

With that, he’s gone.

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

“Hello again.” Indrid says as the campfire smoke curls around a human form, “Doing your rounds?”

“More or less. I like my job, and ain’t about to give it up just because I beefed it and turned into a ghost.” A creak as Duck joins him on the picnic bench. When he materializes, he floats slightly above the worn wood, watching Indrid draw.

“That’s incredible, it’s so realistic it’s like you pressed the leaves into the pages instead of colored them.”

“Thank you.” adds depth to the leaf, “you know, I looked at the statue again today. It hardly does you justice.”

From this close, he can see a blush spread up semi-opaque cheeks. Then he starts fading.

“Oh, ah, I’m sorry. I was aiming for a benign compliment, not to make you uncomfortable.”

“S’alright, just surprised me. Not many folks wanna flirt with a dead guy.”

“I’m more interested in what the ‘dead guy’ wants.” Indrid smiles, hoping to convey he would submit to spectral touches as readily as he’d keep talking.

Duck floats closer, “Kinda curious about your other drawin’s.”

Indrid turns the sketchbook back to the beginning, “they’re half portfolio and half travelogue. Here” he holds up a fade, detached piece of paper, covered by an Morpho Butterfly that looks ready to fly away, “this is the first tattoo I ever designed.”

“Damn. Guessin’ that means you did this one” he touches the Rosy Maple Moth on Indrid’s forearm (or tries to). It’s chilly, but not in the way Indrid feared. More like taking a cool shower on a sweltering day.

“I did. Here, it gave me an idea for my first series of flash tattoos…”

They go over the illustrations page by page. Slowly, Indrid weaves in questions to Duck who, instead of recoiling from discussion of his mortal life, tells him rambling stories about the woods and which places serve the best food in town.

The conversation doesn’t end until the fire goes out on it’s own, Duck standing automatically, grabbing a water bottle, swearing, and then disappearing so he can pick the bottle up.

“Do you think that’s part of why you’re still here? Some unfinished business having to do with the woods?”

“Nah.” The water bottle thunks back on the table as Duck reappears, “I tried to live a normal life, improve the world the way I knew how, make some kind of difference to this town. Then I had to go play the goddamn hero.”

“I would say saving two dozen people from a forest fire makes a considerable difference in the world.”

A sad huff of a laugh, “Yeah, guess you’re right. Just...I meant to do somethin’ with my life, not my death, even if it was a small somethin’, and the closest thing I got to unfinished business is a model ship.”

“I...what?”

“It was four-masted and everything! I had Leo order it in special and everything and then I never, I never got to-” He tilts his head up, sniffs once, “never mind. I better let you get to sleep.”

By the time Indrid calls “goodnight,” the ghost is gone.

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

“Please tell me you’re gettin a place soon so you stop eatin everythin outta a can?” Leo bags the last of groceries.

“No such luck. Ah well, there are worse things than canned soup and Pop-Tarts.”

“At least let Barclay feed you, half the point of havin a friend who can cook is to let ‘em do it for you. You need stamps or anything?”

“N-” A box behind the counter catches his eye. It’s at an odd angle, as if whoever put it there is hoping no one will see it. Indrid can just make out an illustration of a four-masted ship.

“Is that for sale?”

Leo looks where he’s pointing, and for a moment something in his gruff affability wavers. Then he nods, “Yeah, suppose it is.”

“Can you ring it up for me?” Indrid nearly bounces on his toes when Leo sets the box on the counter and confirms his hunch.

The older man sets a gentle hand on the cardboard, sliding it across to Indrid, “Don’t worry about that, kid. It’s yours.”

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

“Duck?” Indrid turns in a circle by the picnic table, “Duck, I have something for you!”

He saw the ranger briefly last night, but he didn’t hang around. Gingerly, he sets the box on the table, tearing off a piece of sketch paper to write a note in case the ghost stops by while he’s asleep.

“Holy fuck.” Duck floats across the table from him, “‘Drid, where did, how did--why?��

“Leo still had it. As for why I, ah, it seemed like you still wanted it. If you can douse a fire and over my camp stove, I figure you can build a model ship.”

Duck disappears and Indrid’s heart sinks; that must have been too much. Then he’s squished in an invisible, wonderful bear hug.

“Thanks, ‘Drid.”

From then on, Duck spends every night at his campsite, building the ship while Indrid draws, reads, or talks with him. The model lives in the safest corner of the tent during the day.

“I mean, I’m up durin the day too, but I scared a few folks on accident and I don’t want people avoid the forest because of me.”

Indrid also learns that Duck is stuck within a certain radius of where he died, and that his attempts to talk with Juno when she was in his part of the woods only lead to his friend thinking she was hallucinating and Duck feeling miserable for three solid days. Indrid offers to act as messenger and invite Duck’s friends (many of whom have, by chance and by proximity to Barclay, become his friends) to the campsite to see him. The ranger is quiet for some time after that offer.

“Not yet. Maybe someday, but not yet. I, it ain’t even been a year, ‘Drid. I think a lot of ‘em are still hurtin. And, and maybe this is selfish but...I ain’t ready to deal with them findin’ out I aint fully gone. It’d be so much all at once.”

Indrid doesn’t bring it up again. More than once, when Aubrey tells a story about Duck only for her eyes to sadden halfway through, or when he sees Juno looking at Duck’s statue a little too long, he struggles to keep his promise.

A cold front blows into town and, since he’s still in the tent, he pops into Kepler Thrift N Find in search of an extra sweatshirt. Tucked in between one reading “Ranchos” and one with a picture of Garfield is a soft, well-loved hoodie with “Monongahela National Forest” on the front. He buys it and wears it home, the fact it’s loose in the arms making it even easier to tuck in his hands when he gets cold.

He stops by the visitor center out of habit, checking out the new plush wild animals. There are also hints of Duck here and there; his name on displays, his face in group photos. As he contemplates a small, squishy black bear, he notices Juno looking at him more than usual.

“Hello again” he sets the bear on the counter.

“Howdy. This all?

“Yes, please. Are you alright? You look, ah, tired.”

“Yep. Or, uh, just noticed that sweatshirt. It was one that got made special for staff a few years ago.”

Indrid fidgets with the cat-bitten drawstring, “It was Duck’s, wasn’t it?”

“Uh huh. He put that patch on the sleeve. Guess it startled me to see it on someone else.”

“I understand.”

“Knew him since we were kids. Hell, he’s my daughter’s godfather. Still don’t feel right, bein’ here without him.”

Indrid pushes the bear towards her and she pets it.

“What was he like?”

In the empty visitor center, Juno tells him. In her stories are echos of every conversation he’s ever had with anyone who knew Duck. When it’s time to close up, she asks if she can hug him, and thanks him for listening to her.

“Guess you weren’t kiddin about wanting to sleep with a bear” Duck teases as Indrid sets his new purchase inside the tent. Indrid whaps at him, arm going through his torso. The ranger floats nearby as Indrid heats up ravioli and opens a can of Mountain Dew. Indrid tells him about the conversation with Juno.

“Huh, guess that is my old one. Glad someone is gettin some use outta it. And it looks good on you.”

Indrid sets down his bowl, “We talked a lot, Duck. And it made me think about what you said to me one of the night after we met. You said you wanted a chance to make the world, the town, a little better. Everyone I’ve talked to, and I mean every one, has a story about you. How you helped them, how Kepler is worse off with you gone. You did so much, even with your time cut short. I, I wanted you to know that.”

The ghost looks away, “I wasn’t done tryin to help.”

“You still aren’t. You do what you can to keep the forest and the visitors safe. And you, you’ve made my life immeasurably better Duck. Seeing you is the best part of my day and I think I’m falling--ah, that is, you’re not done making a difference.”

Duck hasn’t moved since Indrid started talking about his feelings. When Indrid tries to meet his eyes, he disappears. Hurried, he reaches out to offer a reassuring touch and gets only air.

“Duck?”

Nothing, even after he calls his name three more times.

He slumps onto the bench, “well, fuck me I guess.”

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

This is a terrible idea. But it’s his last, and therefore his best.

Indrid even asked Barclay’s boyfriend, Joseph, if anything in his impressive library of the paranormal advised the reader on dealing with upset ghosts. A few did, always from the perspective of trying to get the specter to go away. They said nothing about what to do if your upset ghost was missing, leaving an ache in your heart you didn’t know you were capable of feeling.

Instead, after a week of silence, Indrid changes tactics: if he can’t coax Duck back, maybe he can annoy him into appearing.

Tonight, he finishes dinner and cleans his dishes, puts the bulk of the food in the bear box, and then tears open a bag of chips, scattering them across the table. He eats one, then leaves the open bag laying amongst the potato shards.

Next, he dumps his remaining water on the fire, which takes it down to embers but does not extinguish it. When none of that gets a reaction, he decides to narrate.

“Hmm, that should be fine, it’s not that dry and I don’t think sparks can go over the edge.”

“Should I leave these juice pouches out? Yes, I think I should, in case I get thirsty at night. Maybe I’ll take one into the tent, just to be safe.”

He already feels silly and like no one is listening, and so he escalates.

“I know I shouldn’t leave food out for the wildlife, but since there’s no handsome, ghostly ranger here to punish me for my transgressions, I am just going to leave some nuts out for the raccoons. I like raccoons. They deserve nice things. Hell, how about I just leave them a whole buffet since no one is stopping me!”

All he gets in reply are the few bugs awake this early in the spring and the crack of brush as a small mammal runs away from the weird bipedal thing yelling at his camp fire. He doesn’t leave out food for the raccoons; he climbs into his tent in a huff. What a bad idea, to think this of all things would bring Duck back to him. He’s being childish and bratty and selfish; Duck doesn’t deserve that, no more than he owes Indrid his company.

He changes into his pajamas pants and sleep shirt, intending to go back out to make the site safe and tidy. Except.

Except something just opened the bear box. The chip bag crinkles and the fire hisses out a minute later. He should be running outside to apologize, but his mind has simultaneously registered the full darkness of the night , the possibility that Duck is not the only paranormal thing in these woods, and the fact the nearest other campers are on the other side of the campground, meaning he is very, very alone.

The zipper on the tent moves, the flap falling open so his lantern shines on nothing but April air.

“Duck? Please say that’s you.”

A low chuckle, “It’s me, ‘Drid.” The fly zips shut, “mighty peeved about that trick you pulled.”

“I’m, I’m sorry. I missed you, but that was a bad way to communicate that.” He can’t see him, and the lantern only picks up the odd shift of sleeping bag or tent floor, so Indrid’s eyes’ dart about trying to pinpoint him.

“Oh, you communicated plenty, sugar. Like what you want a certain, uh, ghostly ranger to do to you.”

“Oh god” he winces, “please, forget I said that, it’s humiliating.”

“Not all that surprisin, truth be told. I mean, you and I flirted now and then. And you told me enough about yourself for me to suspect that you’re a kinky little weirdo who’s dyin to get fucked by a ghost.”

“I, I feel I should point out that I only want to fuck one ghost. You. I want to fuck you and that means fucking a ghoOOOst.” He gasps as cold lips press into his neck.

“I can make that happen, darlin, all you gotta do is say it. You were a pain in the neck earlier, so now I expect you to be real polite and use your words.” Duck’s voice has never been like this before, rough and possessive yet still, under all of it, the same warmth draws Indrid in like a flame.

“I want you, Duck.”

A bite to his ear, strong arms wrapping around his waist from behind him, “Want me to do what?”

“Fuck me” this is like every wet dream he had as a teenager, the supernatural being coming for a fellow outsider.

That gets him a tender kiss on the cheek, “That’s better. Though, if I’m rememberin correctly, word you used was punish.”

Indrid yelps as Duck turns and shoves him to lay across his lap, kicks his legs out in surprise when his waistband slides down to his upper thighs.

“Yesss” he wiggles his ass as Duck palms it, “yes, Duck, pleaseAHgod” the first strike stings, and Duck doesn’t let him recover before delivering five more, three to each side. His cock perks up at the pain. Stranger still, because Duck is invisible, all Indrid has to do is tilt his head to watch it harden and twitch with each slap.

Twenty strikes later Duck pauses, hand rubbing soothing, cool circles on the burning skin, “Learned your lesson?”

“Mmhmm.” Indrid presses an awkward kiss to Duck’s knee.

“Glad to hear it.” Duck hauls him up onto his knees, slides a hand under his shirt and up his chest, “I’m rarin’ to feel more of you--holy fuck”

“AH!” Indrid arches as Duck toys with his left nipple piercing, his other hand quickly finding the right.

“God, fuck, you’re fuckin hot, if I were alive I woulda taken you home first time I saw you.” Messy kisses cover his neck as Duck tugs the piercings.

“Gaahnnyes, that’s, that’s very flattering.”

“Ain’t flattery, sugar, it’s the truth. Never could turn down some skinny punk with piercin’s and messy hair, not when I was a teen burnout hidin in the woods and sure as hell not now.” He moves Indrid onto his back, rucking up his shirt as his legs twist in his half-down pants. The ranger cups his face, and Indrid is positive he’s meeting his eyes, “tell me what you want sugar, tell me so I can treat you right.”

“Marks, I want marks anywhere you’ll give them.”

A growl from above him, then lips smashing into his, drinking him in before continuing down his throat, biting and sucking hard enough that he cries out every time. Duck pauses, teasing his nipples with his tongue as he rakes his nails up his sides. He sits up and for a horrible moment Indrid loses him. Then with glee he watches five red marks drag down his chest. He moans, rolling his hips and discovering just how closer Duck’s clothed cock is to his own. The contact only feeds the rangers eagerness, and Indrid is tosses and turns as he sucks, bites, and scratches, laying claim to the illustrated expanse of his body.

“More, please, god that all feels so good.”

“Don’t worry darlin, still got plenty of you to mark up, but we’re gonna do somethin else while I do.” He eases Indrid onto his stomach, slaps his ass fondly, “don’t go nowhere.”

Indrid’s duffel bag unzips, clothes and pens moved aside until a bottle of lube hovers in the air. The tube compresses and drips coat the rough outline of fingers. When the two digits press into him he sighs, eyes closing as he melts under Ducks watchful eyes.

“That’s it ‘Drid, relax for me. Got well over a year of horny to work out, so this cute ass needs to be ready to take it.”

Indrid pushes his hips back in reply, taking as far as the fingers will go and whimpering excitedly when he presses in the tip of the third. Duck works that one more carefully, kissing Indrid’s face and shoulders as he whispers about how good he is, how much he’s wanted this.

“I want it too so for, for goodness sake please fuck me soon or I’ll leave my entire cooler out for the bears.”

“Only one bear in this campsite tonight darlin.” Duck laves his tongue down the base of his spine, bites down hard on his ass. Indrid’s still moaning from the pain when his cock pushes in.

“Fuuuckme that’s good. Shoulda snuck into your tent sooner, sugar, made you a fuckin cocksleeve you feel so fuckin good.”

“Ohgod” is all Indrid, voice muffled by the sleeping bag he’s biting, manages before Duck adjusts them so Indrid is on his knees. The ranger isn’t gentle, pounds into him like he’s nothing but a warm hole and chuckles whenever Indrid moans.

“H-handprints, Duck, want hand prints GAHyesyesyes” he struggles to move in time with the ghost as the air fills with ear-splitting slaps. He’s so close, the pain and the sensation of phantom fingers claiming his body making his body beg for release. When he slides a hand down to jerk himself off, the arm twists up and stays trapped against his back.

“You wanna cum, you know what to do.”

He blinks away the ecstatic tears, words raw in his throat, “Please let me cum, Duck. I want to, need to cum while you fuck me pleaseplease-” he cuts off into whine as the ghost works his cock hard, all the while jamming into him hard enough that the smooth fabric of the sleeping bag burns his knees. When he cums it’s with a weak cry of Duck’s name, which is swallowed up by hungry lips as Duck kisses him over and over, repeating Indrid’s name like an incantation as he pumps his hips and cums, pulling out as he does so it splatters on the reddened patches of his ass.

A final kiss to the top of his head, and then there’s no contact between them and the zipper is moving.

“Oh no you don’t” Indrid scrambles, sweaty and exhausted, between the tent fly and the invisible man somewhere in front of him, “for goodness sake, Duck, I thought you liked me enough to at least let me fall asleep before you ran.”

The ranger finally appears, hair a mess and cheeks noticeably pink, “‘Drid, all that was amazing, but it’s all I can give you. I, I can’t...you said you were fallin for me and I can’t give you that.”

Indrid cocks his head, “Why not?”

“Because I’m a fuckin ghost, ‘Drid! You deserve to be with a livin’ fella, you deserve someone who can be a real part of your life.”

He crosses his arms, “Duck, you are a real part of my life. Honestly, what part of all the nights we spent together, all the ways we take care of each other, all of this” he points at the rumpled sleeping bag, “suggests otherwise?”

The ghost doesn’t speak, simply hugs himself (or tries to).

“If this is too much, if I’m offering something you do not want, then please tell me. But if this is you thinking that some paranormal quirks keep you from being a worthy partner for me, kindly think again.”

Duck disappears and Indrid is gearing up to try and tackle a supernatural entity when a familiar face buries itself in the crook of his neck. The ghost clings to him, and Indrid clings right back.

“You really wanna give it a go?”

“More than anything.”

Duck lifts his head so their cheeks rest together, “Then fuck it. Let’s see what happens.”

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

Indrid finishes hooking up his lightly used Winnebago, AKA his solution to the lack of available apartments. He’s in a different section of Eastwoods, but he’s happy with his new spot. He opens one of his few boxes, gently lifts the completed model ship into a place of honor, and waits, humming happily, for an unseen hand to knock on his door.

#indruck #monster march #indrid cold/duck newton #reader request #ghost au

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seokiloquy · 4 years

Text

Lost In- What Word? Pt 2 - Akaashi Keiji

AU: Single Parent

Requested

Word Count: 2.7k+

Disclaimer: Fem! Reader, Time skip spoilers, just fluff

Pt 1 | Pt 2 | Pt 3

Another Saturday rolled around and the open field of the nearby park was close to empty. It was partially cloudy outside, letting the sun pour out periodically onto the grassy field. You kicked back, keeping a lackadaisical watch over your bags while trying not to fall asleep from the warm blanket that the sun gave you. The gentle heat that was settled into your stomach wrapped around your sides in a hug, it made it difficult to keep your eyes open and watch your son practice. It definitely didn’t help that in the moments when your eyes were open, your attention was mostly captured by the sturdy movements Akaashi made as he coached Naoko, and not Naoko himself.

This was one of those moments. Back facing you, the older man fell into a deep lunge, one leg stretching out further than the other. With his hands clasped together in an arrowhead shape and arms strengthened underneath his slim-fitting t-shirt, the ball fell right into the fleshy part of his forearm, bouncing high into the air with a satisfying smack. You quickly turned your gaze away toward the incoming dark clouds, biting the inside of your cheek.

“Nice spike, Naoko!” Akaashi encouraged.

You looked back to the rally that was taking place before you, smiling at Naoko’s large grin as he hit every ball with the near-perfect ability that had been developing over the past few weeks. Something hitting your cheek stopped you from spouting your own support for your boy. Looking up to the sky, your eye was assaulted by the same light sensation. Within seconds it began to pelt your skin harshly.

“Mama, it’s raining!” Naoko cheered, spinning with a large grin in his quickly soaking clothes.

You screeched at the feeling of cold water seep through your shirt to roll down your spine. Quickly, you grabbed the three bags off the ground, wrapping your arms as tightly around them as you could. From the corner of your eye, you could see Akaashi swipe a giggling Naoko off the lawn and point in the direction of the street. Naoko thrashed around happily in the older man’s arms.

The strong rain continued to stab into your skin as the three of you sprinted. Once at the dark-haired man’s car, he set Naoko down and began patting down at the non-existent pockets of his track shorts. “Keys,” he muttered repeatedly before spinning to pull his back out from your arms.

With the back door quickly swinging the door open, Akaashi lifted the young boy off the ground and pushed him into the back seats before helping you load the bags. The rain continued to pour down your back in small, cold waves. You shivered as the last bag was thrown in and the two of you began to round the sides of the car, hoping into the front seat.

Akaashi turned on the engine and cranked up the heat as you spun in your chair to try and dry off your son’s face, using your thumbs to wipe at his cheeks. “Keiji, do you have any— uh, clothes.. no, towels in here?” you asked.

He groaned, ruffling his hair to shake the water out. “Sadly no.”

A dissatisfied hum escaped you, as you spun back to face the front of the vehicle, listening to the rain as it bounced off the metal exterior. A roll of thunder echoed in the distance, soon followed by a flash of lighting. You sighed, “I guess we’re stuck here for a bit.”

Akaashi pulled the dar out of its lane, hand coming to rest behind your seat’s shoulder as he reversed. “I’ll drive you two home,” he said, smiling at Naoko as his eyes skimmed over the boy’s damp cheeks, “how are you doing bud, cold back there?”

Naoko hummed defiantly, shaking his head quickly, sending a few stray droplets of water Akaashi’s way. “Can we go play in the rain some more?”

You tried not to laugh.

Akaashi shook his head, finally pulling into the open lane, and faced the steering wheel. “Sorry kiddo, no can do.”

Akaashi felt a tingle tickle the back of his neck as he flipped through the storyboard sketches that Udai had prepared. The pages were messily put together and had misspelt notes covering the margins. Akaashi stared at a crude sketch of a newly introduced character on the page, trying not to laugh at the silly expression before flipping the sheet over.

"I think it looks good," he said, eyes skimming over the last page.

"Really? Not too bland? It is sort of a filler chapter," Udai yawned quietly as he splayed out on his chair as much as possible.

"I think you've included enough information that it isn't redundant."

"Wow. Thanks," the artist scoffed.

Early morning checks-ins, though required in the name of productivity, often left the undesirable feeling of doing a whole day's work in just under an hour. So when Akaashi stepped out of the small meeting space and saw that the sun was still high in the sky, he couldn't stop the audible groan that escaped him.

Chiyo laughed lightly, "long day?"

"The day's hardly started," Akaashi sighed, carding a hand through his hair, ruffling it at the back of his head. "I just want to sleep. I had a long weekend."

Ena gave the editor a smirk, "had fun with (Y/N) I presume."

"Oh shut up, Ena," Chiyo chuckled.

Akaashi slumped into his spinny chair, making it squeak at the fast movement and extra weight. Despite facing the other way, the light pouring through the window was incredibly bright, making him squint uncomfortably as he glared Ena's way. The other man gave him a conniving smirk.

"I wish that were the case. But not quite, I was dragged out by one of my friends to play volleyball yesterday. Apparently, their setter got bailed out and they needed a substitute. Everything's sore." Akaashi let out a pained groan, stretching his casual blazer covered arms above his head. He peaked a look over to your cubicle glancing at the unruly organization of sticky notes and pens that touched every surface except for your frames and monitor screen. "Where's (Y/N) anyway?"

"Naoko caught a cold, so (Y/N) is working from home today." Chiyo let out a pitiful whine.

The door to Udai's office opened slowly as the artist finished her sentence. It creaked as a mop of wavy black hair poked through. His nose pushed against the edge of the door as his eyes peaked over. "Poor baby Naoko is sick?" He asked, voice curling upwards. “If I could, I would make him some warm stew.”

“If you don’t get back to work you’ll fall behind,” Chiyo warned, not taking her eyes off of the large screen she drew on. With his frown becoming an unsightly grimace, Udai rushed back into his little office, berating himself for taking his eyes off of the paper for even a second.

Akaashi continued to stare at the empty seat on the other side of the frosted cubicle, biting his lip. He sighed, turning on the monitor on his desk, just barely ready to face the work he had to do for the next few hours.

Yukie opened the door, giving the taller man a familiar curled grin as she gestured for him to enter the apartment. He noticed the tall ceiling that had a fan hanging down from it and the plain couches that were covered with a soft-looking blanket. To his left was the open kitchen, where he carried over the stiff bag that he had been holding tightly onto. Yukie coughed, still holding the door open as she kicked on her shoes, umbrella in hand.

“I’m off to see some old friends,” she said. “I would say not to burn the place down, but it seems you brought food. See you.” The door shut gently behind her.

Down the hall, in Naoko’s room, you placed a cool towel against the boy’s forehead. “You really shouldn’t have played in the rain when Keiji dropped us off, now you’re sick.”

He moaned tiredly in response, trying to turn his head to feel more comfortable, nearly letting the towel slip. Shimmying the heavy fabric back into place, you let the tips of your finger trail along his hairline, feeling for his raised temperature as you soothed him. “Oh sweetie, it’ll be okay.” You pecked his forehead lightly, grabbing the empty glass that sat on his bedside table and tucking his soft orange blanket over his shoulders. “Go to sleep, it’s okay.” His eyes were already half-closed and you were rising to your feet when the door opened.

“I hope I’m not interrupting,” Akaashi pitched, having waited a few moments in the hallway to listen to the melting tone of your voice as you spoke to your son in words the editor couldn’t understand.

Awe immediately filled your stomach, fluttering like little moths trying to find the nearest light. You watch as the man bowed slightly in the doorway before taking a few steps to meet your side. Leaning down, the back of his hand came to cup the younger boy’s cheek. Your eyes widened as Naoko's head fell limp in Akaashi’s palm, nuzzling into the strong muscle beneath the man’s skin. The strange feeling nagged at you again, making your lips pull into a pursed smile.

“He played in the rain didn’t he?”

“Even after I told him not to. Maybe he would’ve listened to you better,” you chuckled, crossing your arms against your stomach as your brain took a moment to switch back to the staccato paced language, different from your native tongue.

“It’s a shame though,” Akaashi said, walking to the door, hand coming up to hover behind your back. “I brought some warm soup for him to eat, I guess it’s just us then.”

The both of you walked toward the kitchen/livingroom split, and Akaashi gestured for you to sit down as if he were the host instead of the other way around. He reached into the cabinets to pull out two bowls.

“Let me help yo—”

“You’ve done enough today by taking care of Naoko. Let me at least do this for you.”

The light soup, despite not being the sick one in the house, warmed you up easily as it’s delicate flavour ran over your taste buds with each spoonful. The two of you ate in silence, listening to the rain that spat against your windows with every gust of wind. You didn’t even realize that you had asked for seconds before the bowl was once again placed in front of you by one of his sturdy hands.

You quickly looked up to inspect the sharp corners of his eyes that smiled at you without needing any assistance from his mouth. The stare you were holding was quickly diverted to the bowl in front of you.

Before you even had the chance to notice Akaashi’s adoring gaze or the syllables that were about to fall off his lips, you blurted out.

“Thank you, Keiji. For everything.” You looked up just in time to see his mouth shut, waiting. “I honestly couldn’t be more thankful for everything you’ve done for us, I can’t put it into words.” You furrowed your brow as you maintained eye contact with him. “No, I seriously don’t know the words in Japanese. Don’t expect me to start spouting out a haiku for you just yet.”

He chuckled lightly, letting the melodic sound dance into your ears, making it even more difficult to put the right words together. You could feel heat burn the skin of your cheeks.

“I want to repay you somehow, so how abo—”

“How about I take you on a date?” he asked, leaning his elbows onto the counter.

You gulped, completely unable to get the words to escape you, and nodded.

Naoko, as you noticed over time since his initial meeting of Akaashi, has grown in unprecedented ways. Now, seven years since he was born, those small insignificant memories from when he was little had slowly faded into your subconscious, despite their images being engraved into your brain in those earlier years.

Your lip swelled from the bite mark you left as you watched him bounce on the wooden court, heals never planting into the ground.

Yukie, the sports-loving and nutrition enthusiast, was the first substance added to this boy of a chemical reaction; introducing Naoko (and by association you) to the keep up sport at the ripe age of three. Working with athletes on a day to day basis and being near them since middle school gave the maroon haired woman a leg up in understanding in comparison to non-sporty parents. As soon as she was able, she took on the position of something akin to a soccer-mom. Helping you enroll Naoko in sports as soon as he was able to walk.

At the time, Naoko never seemed all too interested in volleyball itself. More attracted to the notion of being able to bounce something around. It at least kept him away from your phone. But as he grew older, and people began to notice that he wasn’t originally from Japan, Naoko’s outer shell seemed to build a bit, only opening the door for a stray volleyball to roll in. He was so shy.

Akaashi, so similar in some respects, made an unknowing catalyst in the young boy’s reaction. Suddenly and rapidly evolving the young, shy boy into one whose outer shell had carved out a bigger door, letting more things in, and a lot more out.

At the beginning of the volleyball season, only a couple weeks ago, Naoko’s coach came up to you after a practice, asking if the young player would be interested in moving up a level in the club, joining the representative (Or Rep) team for his age group. Naoko had stared at you like a tiny tawny owl until you agreed.

Now, you sat on the small metal bleachers set up for parents to watch their kids play, letting the excitement bubble in your stomach as your eyes trained on the young boy set a ball up into the air for his teammate to spike into the opposing club’s side of the court. The blue and yellow ball smacked into the floor after flying over the short net.

“Good Job!”

Your vision, as the players set up for the next serve, shot to Akaashi who was standing next to you, hands open on either side of his mouth as he yelled out in support. You smiled as he sat down again.

“Thank you for inviting me to come watch him play.”

A laugh escaped you as your hand waved defiantly. “To be honest, it was Naoko’s request. I was just the messenger. Besides,” you prompted, gesturing slightly to your son, who’s smile tore at the corner of his squishable cheeks, the largest you’ve ever seen from him. “He wanted you to see his first ‘real’ game.”

Akaashi’s charming grin was hard to look away from and at.

“You know,” you continued, nodding over at the larger man that stood on the opposite side of the court with the rest of the players. “His coach told me that Naoko was a true prodigy after his try-out.” You bit your lip as you looked down at your fiddling fingers, feeling the light throbs begin to push against the back of your eyes. “Volleyball makes him so happy, and for him to know that he has talent is only pushing him further. God, he’s only seven and he’s already told me that he wants to be a volleyball player.”

You sniffled, hands clenching each other tightly. “I owe you so much Akaashi, you don’t even realize.”

His larger hand came to pull yours apart before holding the closest one gently in his palm. Letting his thumb swipe over the back of it. “You don’t owe me a single Yen, (Y/N). But hey,” he said, making you pick your chin up to face him. “If he wants to be a professional, I know a few cool guys he might want to meet.”

Sometimes I think about the fact that some of the people that have read our one-shots might share them with their friends or have a platform where they are popular, and it scares me and makes me happy at the same time.

Also, we changed our upload date to Sunday because it works better for Kiwi. - Bacon

Posted: 13/09/2020

#akaashi keiji #akaashi x reader #Haikyuu x reader #Haikyuu #x reader #oneshot #oneshots #haikyuu oneshots #haikyuu reader insert #reader insert #aus #haikyuu aus #fluff #haikyu #anime x reader #anime #manga x reader #manga

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nikkzwrites · 3 years

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(They Long to Be) Close to You | Dark Fix-It Fic Series Part 2 | Chapter 5

A/N: This fic is one that I started with my OC because honestly, I personally didn’t like how season 3 ended. So I am rewriting all of Dark with my OC Annalise Dahlheim. I hope you all like it. Some things will be expanded more on just for more depth to Dark that season 3 kinda skipped over so…. yeah. This is part two of the series! You can start the full series here!

CW: Canon Typical Triggers: Smoking, Sex, Language, Drugs, Drinking, Death, Violence.

Word Count: 4.5k

[First Chapter] [Previous Chapter] [Next Chapter]

The forest was quiet as Tronte walked through to get home. This was one of the few days Claudia wasn’t with him, yet he still felt as if a presence was following him. He stopped and looked into the cave with wonder. As he stared he heard a man’s voice behind him, the voice said, “We are attracted to the dark like moths to the light.”

The Unknown stood looking at his son and spoke again, “The dark is what we’re born of, and so we return to it.” He walked closer to him and spoke, “You’ve grown Tronte.”

“Do I know you,” The teenager asked, closed off to the idea.

The Unknown shook his head, “I knew your mother, but that was long ago. You take after her. Your eyes.”

“Who are you,” Tronte demanded.

“I do not have a name,” the man explained, “I was never given one by my original mother. Some call me David though. But back then, it was me who chose what to call you.” His other ages appeared as the man held out a serpent bracelet to the boy, “It belonged to your mother.” He put it into the boy’s hand and said, “I think you should have it now.”

Tronte shook his head and said, “I’ve got to go.” Then walked away from the man.

Hannah and Egon both released a sigh after their activity. They got out of bed and started to get ready for the day. The man smiled at her and said, “I love you.”

Hannah smiled and giggled as a response to him before going back to the mirror to continue putting on her make up.

Egon smiled and bolstered up his courage to walked over to her. He pulled out a small box from his pocket while he spoke, “II don’t know if you’ll like it, but... Can I put it on you?” He slowly put the necklace on the woman and asked, “You don’t like it?”

Hannah looked down nervously and tried to explain, “No, I… I do. It’s gorgeous. I don’t know. I haven’t felt like myself all week.”

“You look pale,” Egon noted. His brain flashed back to another time he remembered seeing someone this pale, but it was years ago now. A small boy was running through the wood for what seemed like his life. Egon had tried to catch him, but the boy seemed to disappear from him before he could help the small boy. He shook his head of it and focused on the woman in front of him once again. “Maybe you should see a doctor,” he asked.

Hannah looked at him and asked, “Will you come back here?”

“I…” Egon stuttered, “I don’t know yet. It’s… It might be best for me to stay home tonight.” When he saw her dejected, he plead, “Katharina. I’m glad you decided to stay here. In Winden.” He caressed her cheek, “You’re beautiful.” He thought for a moment before walking out.

It was September 24th in 1954. Claudia sat with Ines looking at the porn magazine. Jana stood awkwardly towards the side as they laughed about the images. Claudia turned to Ines and asked, “Where did you get this?”

Ines admitted, “It was in my father’s things.” She didn’t want to admit why she was snooping there nor to the end that it had to deal with a boy who was so far away from them now. Across the ocean.

Jana spoke up and told the two, “Ines, Claudia… We’re already late.”

Ines looked up and said, “David and my father said that you don’t learn anything at school. You learn from life.”

“Why don’t they have these with men in them,” Claudia asked. She looked up at Ines and said, “A bit unfair don’t you think?”

Jana shook her head, “You’re crazy.” She was speaking to both of them, but she really didn’t want to call out her best friend about how she regarded that boy who left for America leaving all of them behind.

Ines looked between the two girls and asked, “Have you ever seen one? One that’s not your father’s.”

“Ines,” Jana exclaimed.

Claudia giggled, “Jana. Come on.” She looked towards Ines and nodded after rolling her eyes.

Ines’ eyes widened and she asked, “What did it look like?”

“A bit odd,” Claudia admitted, “Like it wasn’t a part of him.”

Ines smiled and questioned, “Tronte?” When Claudia confirmed with a small nod, the girl spied her best friend looking disappointed. Ines’ smile faded and she said, “I think he’s kind of weird. Has his mother returned?” When Claudia shook her head, Ines continued, “Strange, don’t you think? To just vanish like that.”

At the police station, Doris sat at her husband’s desk. Egon blinked in surprise, “Doris, what are you doing here?” He felt as if he had this conversation before… like he could almost predict what she was going to say next.

“I wanted to talk. And Kahnwald let me in here,” she explained, “Where have you been? I thought you left early to write reports.”

Egon stuttered, “It’s...uh… Well… There’s something that came up.”

“Today, I was washing clothes and I found something.” She walked over to her purse and grabbed a handkerchief, “It was in her blouses. I thought it could be important.” As Egon stared at the cloth in his hand with the initials HT on them, he looked at her picture. Doris continued, “She said her husband was with the church and it may be a coincidence, but the minister who disappeared at the same time… His name is Hanno Tauber.” She slapped down a newspaper article clipping and pointed at it.

There was a picture with Hanno and David staring at him. Seeing the boy, it made his heart ache. He squinted, he felt as though he knew him from somewhere, but from a long time ago, maybe in another life. He heard a very distant voice saying, “Hey dad, Clauds and I are going out to a movie. I’ll walk everyone home. I promise,” and several different, “I love you”s, to suddenly, “I hate you! You’re not my real dad!” Egon shook his head. He finally read the title reading, ‘Winden welcomes its new minister Hanno Tauber (42) from Vechta to take over for Amt von Sigurd Molch (74).’

Egon looked up at her and commented, “I thought her husband was dead.”

Doris shrugged and shook her head, “It’s been three months now. You don’t just leave your child alone without saying a word.”

Egon turned the paper over and looked at Doris, “You should go home. We’ll take care of it.”

Doris stood up and snapped, “Egon, I know something’s going on here! Why would she have left all this behind?!” She shook her head. She felt as if they had this argument before. This all felt like a weird case of deja vu.

Egon sat back and asked, “Who knows what goes on inside a woman’s head?” Seeing his wife huff at him and leave, Egon stood up and called after her, “Doris!” He shook his head and sighed before going back to look at Agnes’ missing poster.

Agnes stared at the swirling blob. The God particle in front of her and Adam. The man turned and spoke to her, “Agnes, you have chosen the correct side. Don’t forget that.” He handed her a newspaper clipping of a sketch of Claudia in the woods and said, “You must give this to Claudia. When it’s time.” When Agnes nodded, Adam spoke to her, “To live is a gift for those who know how to use it.”

Agnes looked at him and asked, “You’ll tell Martha then? What the origin really is?”

Adam turned and stared at the God particle.

Martha shot awake. She gasped for air. Beside her was an older man. She didn’t recognize him until he spoke.

“After all these years I’ve wondered,” Magnus spoke, “why you abandoned us in 1888. Why you gave us the material to create it… and then just disappeared.” He watched as tears streamed down the girl who shared his sister’s face cheeks. “Who would’ve thought 33 years later that it would be us who gave you the order…”

Martha shook her head, “Magnus…I’m so sorry.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” the man told her. He stood and walked a bit away from her, “Adam is waiting for us.”

Back in the other world, it was November 6, 2052. The older Martha spoke, “This is your future.” She watched as her younger self stared at all the scribbling on the walls, “Thirty-Three years from your yesterday.”

Martha shook her head, “That door in the cave...What was that?”

“It is a path that connects the past and future,” she explained.

The young Martha saw several of her family’s names crossed out. She turned and asked, “Why are these names crossed out?”

“That means they will die,” Older Martha explained, “All of them.”

Martha turned to look to see if she could find any more names. She turned back and asked, “what does ‘all’ mean?”

“In two days,” the older woman explained, “The apocalypse in his world. It also happens in ours.”

“This is not real,” Martha concluded. She panted trying to suppress the anxiety attack growing within her, “You’re not real.”

The older Martha shook her head, “This is your future. If you… If both of you fail to stop the apocalypse.”

“You are new to Winden,” the doctor called Hannah.

The woman nodded, “Three months, yes. I like it here. It’s less complicated than where I come from.” She approached as she finished tying her belt on her dress.

The man spoke, “Well that may be about to change.” He looked up from his microscope and spoke, “You’re pregnant. At your age, a pregnancy is not without its risks. You should take care of yourself. No strenuous activity.”

“That can’t be right.”

The doctor lit his cigarette and took a long drag before speaking again, “Listen, some gifts come into our lives unexpectedly. And yet they are still gifts.”

Egon looked at his family picture and lifted it up. As he caressed the image, the emptiness of someone missing filled him more. He heard himself in his head speaking to someone in a soft voice he often reserved for Claudia saying, “Isn’t she beautiful? That’s your little sister now. You have to protect her and be a good older brother, okay?” He tried to focus on it. His eyes squeezed shut as his mind reached for that elusive memory that just escaped him. He looked back at the picture of only him, Doris, and Claudia. Soon, the door opened.

Greta walked into the officer’s office and sat. She stared at him intently as if waiting for something.

Egon put the picture away and stared back at her for a moment. “How can I help you,” he asked her.

“I would like to know if any news has come in.”

“Sadly,” Egon shook his head, “Sadly no. Unless Helge decides to tell us where he was… That is… who he was with, we’re not going to get anywhere with this.”

Greta shook her head, “This isn’t about Helge.” When Egon looked at the woman confused, she continued, “This is about the missing minister. If no one looks after the church, it leaves the door open for the devil.”

“You knew the man,” Egon questioned, “The minister?” He paused and asked, “Have you ever seen him in company with a woman?”

Greta bared her teeth at him and shook her head in disdain, “How dare you ask that? I want you to find the man. Hanno Tauber.”

The church bell tolled as Doris walked into the church.

A woman sat next to a young boy. Across from them sat a younger girl and an old man. They all turned to her as the middle aged man in the middle of the church turned towards the interrupting woman.

“Are you the new minister,” Doris asked the man trying to ignore the eerie people all sitting together.

“I used to be,” The Unknown spoke, “But that was long ago.”

Doris stuttered and walked towards him, “The thing is, I’m looking for someone. Um… My husband and I are… Our daughter is very talented. Last winter, we sublet the guest room. So we could save up money for Claudia for when she goes to college. The lady who lived with us… Well… she vanished, three months ago. Her husband was a man of God. She said her husband was dead, but, I don’t know why…. I just felt like that wasn’t true. And… the man who worked here vanished at the same time...along with a boy he kept a few months earlier… so… What if he was her husband, and she went back to him?I don’t think she liked him very much.”

The Unknown spoke to her, “Not all human bonds are the result of fondness.”

Doris shook her head, “Well, it’s about the child… I mean… it’s about her boy and… I think a boy needs his mother.”

“Each lie we tell,” the man spoke, “comes at the cost of the human soul.”

“I don’t understand,” she took a step back from him.

“You are not interested in the boy,” the man spoke, “You’re interested in the woman.”

Doris shook her head, “I don’t think you understood what I--”

“The ways of the heart cannot be explained,” The Unknown interrupted her. The rest of his presence surrounded her, “It wants what it wants. Just ask your husband. He’ll tell you the same thing.”

Doris swallowed. She didn’t think she heard the man right. She blinked and asked the man, “My husband?”

“Haven’t you asked yourself why he’s been leaving the house so early,” the man asked, “and working so late? What if there’s another woman there?” The men enclosed on her more, “It’s difficult for us to let go of our deepest desires inside.

Doris swallowed and backed away. She hurried out of the church.

Young Jana walked through the woods alone. She thought to herself how much Ines was changing to become more like Claudia. It annoyed her. She kicked the leaves as she walked. Crows cawed overhead. She turned her head hearing the sound to see Tronte sitting by himself on a log near the lake. She looked around before walking towards him. “Hello Tronte,” she greeted him.

Tronte looked up from the bracelet of the snake in his hands. He sighed deeply as he thought about his options for a second before settling on just greeting the girl as well.

Jana slowly approached and sat next to the boy. She watched as he intently looked at a bracelet in his hands. Curious, she asked, “What’s that? It’s beautiful.”

Tronte looked at her for a moment then put the bracelet in his pocket. He didn’t respond to her.

“Why weren’t you in school today,” Jana asked, changing the subject hoping to get him talking, “What are you doing here?”

“I like it here,” Tronte shrugged, “It’s so… desolate.” When Jana turned her face away from him after that comment, he tried to lighten the mood. “I like to write, you know,” he smiled at the girl, “Stories.”

Jana giggled.

“You have a nice smile,” he commented. He looked out to the lake again.

Back at the police station, Hannah walked into Egon’s office. Egon jumped seeing her. He rushed towards her whispering, “What are you doing here?” He locked the door behind her and in a hushed tone spoke once more, “You can’t just show up here. What if someone sees you?” When she was quiet, Egon paused then asked, “Are you alright?”

“I’m pregnant,” Hannah broke the news to him.

Martha stared at the supposed older version of herself.

“You can change it,” the older Martha spoke, “You both can change it. The barrels at the nuclear plant. They start the apocalypse.” Jonas leaned against the far wall listening to everything that was happening as she continued, “You must prevent them from being opened.”

Jonas pushed himself away from the wall and asked, “What do we do then?” He wanted nothing more than to stop this… to save his world and his Annalise… even if it meant he wouldn’t be able to exist, “Eve said there’s a way to undo this knot. There’s a way to let everyone live. To let my love live!”

Older Martha stood and spoke, “She lied to you. There is no way to save both worlds. You must choose one of them. The apocalypse is in two days. It can be stopped here. You both have to stop it. They can live. All of them. Mikkel can live. Isn’t that what you wanted? But you have to let her go. Your Annalise… Your world. You’ve seen what becomes of you there. What you’ll do there. What Adam will do. What you continually do through each cycle.”

The younger Martha stood up hyperventilating. She took a breath and spoke, “Both of you lost it.” She wiped her tears trying to get over her heartbreak about hearing Annalise’s name over and over again while thinking she knew exactly what, who, the other girl was doing. She spat, “I’ll go to the house and wake up in my bed and realize this was all just a shitty dream.” She stopped herself from saying that Annalise would be tangled up with her. She stormed out the bunker.

Jonas blinked and chased her down, “Wait.”

The older Martha spoke to him stopping him for a moment, “Jonas, this is exactly what you wanted originally. You and Martha. In this world, the two of you can work.”

Jonas glared and shook his head before chasing after the girl, “Martha!”

Martha tried to run up the sand dune desperate to get away from all of this. She looked up at him and yelled, “Do you believe all of this? That they’re all doomed?” Martha started to cry, “That’s crazy. I’m crazy… That’s...”

Jonas looked down at her in pity. He felt a kin to her in that moment. His heart ached for the poor girl. He sat down next to her, “Trust me… I know exactly what it feels like.”

“It’s all true,” she pleaded. She wished, hoped, it wasn’t. She asked again, “All the things she said are real?” She didn’t want it to be true. She wanted Annalise. She needed her with her always. Annalise couldn’t, wouldn’t, betray her like this.

Jonas nodded, “But I know there’s a way. A way to make all of this right again.” He was comforting her, but really, he was trying to comfort the past him. The him that had felt that feeling before. The him that was his own past. He earnestly promised, “And I want to continue looking for that way. I think she does too. The Martha that brought me here.”

The young Martha looked at him desperately believing every word he said.

In the other world, Martha stared as every person started to wish the other one goodbye to start the next part of the cycle. She stared at the particle as Agnes went through to do her duty.

Jonas and Martha walked towards the cave. Jonas led the way with Martha following him.

The older Martha stoob back after putting up the chalk that she correctly did her job. The Unknown… her son was going to be conceived today.

Hannah walked towards a door and spoke to the young girl who answered it. She said, “I...I’m here to see Mrs. Obendorf.”

The girl stood back and allowed her into the waiting room. She looked at the woman and spoke, “You must wait.” She went and sat down herself.

Hannah sat on the other wall of the hallway outside the woman’s office.

“My mother says,” the girl spoke, “they’ll be in hell. The ones… the ones that are gotten rid of.”

“I don’t believe in hell,” Hannah spoke quickly, “Hell’s what we make for ourselves here.”

The girl debated with herself for a second before speaking again, “I’m Helene. Helene Albers.” She held her hand out to the older woman.

Hannah looked upon her. She took her hand knowing exactly who this was now and what, who, was inside this poor girl, “Katharina.” Hannah knew for once, she was going to do a good thing.

“That’s such a nice name,” Helene smiled.

Hannah laughed.

Ms. Obendorf called for the girl inside.

Hannah stood and gave the girl a small gift of money on her coat before leaving, deciding against the horrid idea of getting rid of the baby.

Claudia walked inside the Tiedemann house, “Hello Papa.”

Egon sat at the table drinking his sorrows away.

Claudia blinked, “Where’s Momma?”

Egon sighed, “The ways of the heart cannot be explained. It wants what it wants.”

Claudia looked towards Tronte looking for comfort. The boy looked back at her with a shrug as Egon took another shot.

Tronte took the initiative, “Come on.” He coaxed Claudia to follow him, “Let him be.”

Claudia looked at the boy and saw in her mind's eye, another boy. One older than Tronte… One she hadn’t seen for a year. She could almost hear his voice comforting her. She turned to look at Egon trying to figure everything out before following Tronte up the stairs.

Egon sat with only his thoughts and a drink.

Adam stared at the picture of his son. He sighed as he looked back at the particle.

Martha walked in and said, “You made me a promise. I’ve kept up my end of the deal. Now you have to keep up yours.”

Adam turned and smiled at her, “You want to know where the origin is and how you might destroy it. You will do it.” He turned back to the swirling muck with a sigh. He spoke again and said, “It took me 66 years before I finally understood… how everything is bound together.” He looked at her once again and chuckled, “you’re right. It’s time you understood, too.”

Martha walked into her room with Jonas following behind her. She looked around. Everything reminded her of Annalise. Everything reminded her of just how broken and unloved she was. “At school,” she whispered walking over to him, “At the door you came in… I got this feeling...It was as if we knew each other.” She panted trying not to cry, “From a dream.”

“I’m sorry,” Jonas spoke, “For everything.” He felt his own self tearing up. This room reminded him so much of his own. He knew exactly how she felt. The teenager finally understood how Annalise felt for him. He walked closer to her and studied her. He wanted nothing more than to make her feel loved and like she wasn’t alone… even if it were just because he wished in his world Annalise would continue doing the same for him.

“In your world…” Martha asked, “What was I like?” She wanted to know if she felt just as broken there. If there was any hope for her to not be so desperately in love with someone who would never love her back. “Was I different,” she pleaded.

Jonas carefully wiped her tears away not answering the question. Not really knowing how to answer. As he wiped away her tears, she kissed him. Jonas allowed himself to give in. He allowed himself to think about the love back in his world and how much he missed her. How much he loved her.

The Unknown sat staring at the book he stole. He opened it up and started to finish writing it. He closed it up.

Hannah stood and took the time machine with her as she left.

Martha continued the passion with the boy. She just wanted to feel loved. She wanted to forget about the girl she loved who was screwing her ex who’s mother died causing them to break up. She groaned against Jonas’ affections knowing his mind was elsewhere too, but craving the feeling of feeling cherished. Someone’s one and only thing.

Egon sat at the table drinking away his sorrows. He looked at the table around him and saw the boy from the newspaper laughing and showing Doris something. Doris sitting across from him and Claudia sitting next to him smiling watching as the boy went on and on about some story he was telling.

Doris took out Agnes’ jacket and cried into it. Allowing herself to feel all the emotions.

Jonas refused to look at the girl he was allowing himself to be intimate with. He just wanted to pretend that it was who he wanted under him. He tried to push out of his head that his own was dead and all the while Eve's world her was probably being fucked by a mirror of his best friend. He growled as he tried to just focus on his fantasy.

Tronte sat alone in his room. He raised up his pajama shirt to look at his scars as Claudia snuck into his room.

Claudia undressed in front of the boy.

Jana layed in bed caressing the bracelet Tronte had given her. Thinking about what he must be doing tonight and if he was thinking of her as well.

Bartosz turned over to smile at Annalise. He moved some of the hair from her face gently. He looked at her fully clothed and sleeping peacefully. His heart was so full of love. He wanted to wait until the perfect moment for them to come together as one. Bartosz could feel it in his chest. He would never love anyone quite like he loved the girl asleep safe and sound next to him.

Adam walked into his old home. He looked around while Martha followed him.

“Why are we here,” She asked the man.

“Because here is where everything began,” He spoke as he looked at a picture of Bartosz, Martha, and the younger him on his desk. “In your world.”

Martha walked up to him and sneered, “What are you saying?”

Adam walked to her and pulled out the book. He handed it to her and said, “your older self, she sent you and Jonas back for a single purpose.”

Martha started to cry as she made the realization of what was going on. Her entire inner thoughts. Her inward sins. They created this.

“You were never supposed to stop the apocalypse,” Adam spoke, drilling the point home, “You were to create the seed.”

Martha panted. She glared at him angry.

Adam walked over to her and put her hand over her womb, “This is the origin. What’s going on inside you is the bridge between both worlds.”

“No, you’re wrong,” Martha sneered.

Adam shrugged, “It is the beginning of the knot. And eventually also its end.” He let go of her hand and spoke, “Your son. He is the origin.”

The Unknown walked to the family tree and looked up at the faces of Adam and Eve when he heard a voice behind him call, “David!”

#yesterday once more fanfic #(they long to be) close to you fanfic #dark fanfic #dark fanfiction #dark (netflix) fanfic

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officiallytox · 3 years

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hey everyone, any artists that are bored out there? i need help designing a new oc based off an old character of mine. while i am capable of drawing him myself, i am having a hard time settling on a design i love.

the character is a sollux character (solbee, if you're familiar with him!) and the new oc im turning him into is a fairy moth; that is, a fairy that is extremely mothlike. The design i'm working with right now is completely just an anthro moth but im not opposed to a little more humanoid design and I'm struggling drawing with my current tablet so it's hard to get concept sketches down

i've never designed a bug oc before so that's what i'm caught up on, and i'm using the mith from flight rising as a species base currently. in addition to shape, i'm struggling to find colors that really capture both what i want and his essence. i want something colorful and fun, but he's sort of a grumpy, goofy, tired character (the contrast was intentional but nothing has felt right)

i want to be clear that i am in no way asking for free polished art, i'm looking for concept sketches and maybe colors (though I won't oppose more finished designs) from artists who might be interested in helping me figure out this design, i intend on drawing the fully rendered finished design myself once its been settled upon, and if someone offers a design that i end up using (even if it's just the color scheme) they'll get a linked mention on his toyhouse profile as credit for it

images below the cut:

this is my current concept art, i want to make the legs more buggy and i forgot to put detailing on the wings to look like moth/butterfly wings. nothing is finalized, but i do want to keep the four arms, and the colors of his eyes. i'm open to more humanized designs, but short and fat is the goal (he's gonna be all of two feet tall in his natural form), and god knows how to design clothes since solbee prefers slacks/jeans with tshirt/hoodie and that doesn't feel like a fairy aesthetic while at the same time, he would Not go for super fancy

this is an older art that rather captures his essence, except since he's alive now, he has the normal red and blue eyes, that's the only difference.

#tox talks #tox does art #honestly i'll even accept text suggestions #i've just been struggling with this design

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rilenerocks · 5 years

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Growing up I watched a lot of movies and a lot of television. Choices back then were more limited and tended to be family-oriented for the most part. Seems like you watched the same ones over and over again. I often find myself thinking lines that came from the ones that stuck, either because of their dramatic power or more often, because of their humor. Having a partner who was so similar to me was great because we shared a lot of the same cultural influences and often spoke in code. I still remember when our kids figured out that a good portion of our conversations were lines stolen from movies. When Michael was teaching, he incorporated many of his favorites into lesson plans.

I don’t know what I want to do, what I need to do or what I should do. It’s kind of like freeze tag, the kids’ game when you get touched and have to hold your position. My position has been in my recliner lately. The facts of my life kind of belie that image. Objectively I’ve been doing a lot, some things by necessity and others by choice. But there’s an aimless quality about all the activities when taken together, as if they’re just reactive behaviors rather than part of a bigger plan. And I suppose that’s because I don’t really have a bigger plan, which was one of the essential ideas pounded into my head by my dad who repeated like a mantra, “you have to have a plan, you have to have a plan.”

One sketch was from the famous Abbott and Costello, a comedic duo from the late 1940’s and 1950’s – “Who’s on First?” Through the use of pronouns they wind up with a hilarious dialogue about a fantasy baseball team that goes in circles and is laugh-out-loud funny. Michael and my daughter adapted it into a political skit about characters from the George W. Bush era and performed it each semester in his history class. A big hit, pun intended. I found myself thinking about it today because “I don’t know” played third base in the original skit and after the recent past, I feel like I’m on third. I don’t know. Usually I know a lot, certainly enough to keep ahead of most games. Lately, though, I’m getting stuck because of a seemingly relentless series of events that just feels like too much. My brain is still operational but emotionally I’m frequently feeling like I’m in a paralytic state. I’ve misplaced my mojo.

He didn’t mean an inflexible unchanging one but rather a central guideline to help you shape the direction of your life. How do you do that when so many different things, out of your control, just happen and don’t fit into the plan’s framework? I feel like more of shock troop member, getting sent in to respond to some unexpected situation, rather than someone who’s following a designed pathway. Or maybe like a firefighter, waiting for the bell to sound, announcing where the next emergency is and letting you know that it’s time to fly out the door and do your best. I don’t know. Certainly not much that’s happened in the past seven and a half years has been part of what I thought my plan was. Things just happened. And I’ve reacted.

First, there was Michael’s cancer and I reacted to that, along with him, for over five years until he finally succumbed to the disease. As I recovered from that, I had a plan, a plan for honoring him in a exhibition of his life, which took some months and turned out well. But in the midst of that planning, my daughter who is federal public defender, was assigned a tough and sensational murder case. Her job is to provide the best defense possible for all of her clients as is clearly stated in the Constitution. Even though we live in a state where the death penalty doesn’t exist, the attorney general assigned a death penalty to this federal case.

So suddenly, just months after Michael’s death, my kid was bearing the burden of being responsible for another person’s life. This much publicized case was a heavy load for our family to carry on the heels of our personal loss and everyone, from her own husband and children to her brother and me felt the weight of her job which went on until mid-July of this year, almost two years since she received the assignment. All of us hoped to find a way to some kind of “normal,” as we continued to adapt to a life without Michael, something none of us thought would happen when he was only 67, a good thirty years younger than the lifespans of his parents and virtually all the older members of his family. So we were recovering. Some weeks passed. My grandkids started school, the youngest beginning kindergarten. I was recovering well from my second knee surgery and started taking a few classes to give my days structure, to learn new things to enrich my life and begin a new regimen for myself.

The first week of my “plan” had begun when my five year old grandson began feeling sick. My kids took him to convenient care, ostensibly our first line of defense for garden variety illnesses which pop up unexpectedly. When the examining doctor said he couldn’t find any evidence of a physical illness, my daughter asked, “are you implying he might have something terrible like lymphoma, he implied that a very sizable swelling on the little one’s neck might indeed be indicative of a life-threatening disease. How terrifying and crazy is that? What ensued were several days of miscommunication with our little guy getting sicker and sicker until finally, he was hospitalized, placed on IV antibiotics and painkillers, and ultimately CT scanned.

What was unearthed was an abscess that required surgery. I’ll never know if the abscess would’ve gotten so large and scary had he only been prescribed antibiotics the first night he was examined. In these days of antibiotics as a last resort because of their having been over-prescribed in the past, now it seems that a logical bit of doctoring has become the proverbial baby thrown out with the bath water. He’s made it through his ordeal as have all the rest of us, but “plans” certainly were kicked to the curb as we all responded to the immediate need. Every family member here in our town tossed aside regular activities to do our part as we fearfully watched a healthy, active kid turn into an exhausted, feverish listless little person.

I don’t know. Standing here on third base. Now the crisis seems to be past us. But it’s our third test in two years, three months and fifteen days since Michael left us. What’s next? We’re all trying to do our things. There is school and there are jobs and projects to be done around our houses. The seasons are going to change soon and with that will come a variety of chores. Every day I look at my lists and my assignments and note how many I haven’t done a thing about in weeks. Still trying to get off third base. I can flee into nature. I have managed, despite the polar vortex of January and a strangely cold April, to create an environment in my garden which has drawn beautiful butterflies, moths and birds.

My biologist son gave me high praise by noting the variety of species appearing in the yard. We’ve had fledgling wrens, cardinals and robins this year. Also too many rabbits and squirrels who’ve eaten their way through most of my tomatoes, apples and pears. Still, the ground where Michael cultivated his vegetables and herbs, is now a place for pollinators to feast as they move through their life cycles. His perennial herbs remain and release heavenly scents although I rarely cook with them. Cooking has fallen to the bottom of my “plan” list.

I’m working with my rocks and placing them around my yard, labeled with the part of the world they came from. I’m replacing those plants that were lost to the deep freeze and hoping for a healthy return next spring. Sitting in my recliner will feel less like “I don’t know” when it’s cold outside. At least I hope so. I don’t want to be stuck on third base. I need a home run. Maybe if the world cuts my clan a little slack for awhile, I’ll get out of this old school comedy routine. There’s a lot going on in the world that’s pressing and more important than my little universe. But that’s easy to forget sometimes. I don’t ever want to get so self-involved that I ignore the big picture. Third base. Either someone bats me in or I find my mojo and steal home plate. Sometime soon.

If you’re interested in this routine, here’s a link for your viewing pleasure.

https://youtu.be/kTcRRaXV-fg

Third Base Growing up I watched a lot of movies and a lot of television. Choices back then were more limited and tended to be family-oriented for the most part.

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jennybee443 · 4 years

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Chapter 1

The morning of May thirteenth, a Saturday, found Virginia Sinclair – known also as Ginny, because seriously, who names their daughter Virginia anymore? – trekking up a steep, forested hill just north of an old fort in the state of New Hanover. She discovered about fifteen minutes into the hike that her backpack weighed more than it needed to, and perhaps she should have unpacked it the night before, rather than immediately going to sleep and leaving some clothes, her toiletries, her cellphone charger and an old, leather-bound journal in the bag. She'd barely taken the time to get changed, brush her teeth and throw her long dark hair into a ponytail before rushing out of her aunt's house with an obligatory “thank you” and “see you later!”

She took a swig from her water bottle and soldiered on, huffing and grumbling under her breath as the climb continued to grow steeper. She did have to admit, though, that the scenery really was something else. Especially once she made it to the top of the great hill and saw what had to be most of the state laid open in front of her. The Dakota River snaked between high cliff faces and rushed south, towards the small city of Valentine. Mountains reached for the clouds in the distance, the tallest of which were still coated in snow, even in the unseasonable warmth that had been covering the state and much of this part of the country since about mid-March.

The drive north from Valentine had been quiet first thing in the morning, once she got out of the city proper. Her aunt Ellen lived in a small apartment above what had – at one point in history – been a doctor's office in the city center. Now it was a humble four story, narrow brick apartment complex undergoing renovations to install some more “modern” amenities, likely in an effort to draw in the younger folks – or so her aunt says. Ginny had learned as she had gotten older that her aunt Ellen was one of those people: the townies who complain about change like it's their job, particularly when it comes to “historic landmarks” being repurposed or torn down to make room for a modern upgrade. As much as Ginny could understand the need to preserve history, she also rather enjoyed updated indoor plumbing, and really, would a private pool be that bad?

She'd visited with her aunt many times growing up, but never without her mother traveling with her. She had been hoping to share this little exploration with her mom, especially after learning that her mother had a shared interest in the strange rock carvings and other odd discoveries highlighted in the musty old journal they had found in Ginny's grandmother's belongings that had been left in storage since her passing. Many of the fading ramblings in the journal had made little sense, but learning that the journal had in fact belonged to Ginny's great-grandfather had made the sketches and wild theories seem so much more adventurous. So Ginny and her mom had tried mapping out a couple of the locations from what had been written in the journal, and planned to visit the two closest to where her mom's sister, Ellen, was living in Valentine. They were to fly from Portland, Maine down to the small airport near Valentine, rent a car, and then spend the next few days with her aunt as they saw the sights and tried to locate the old carvings.

At least, that had been the plan. And then her mom's boss had scheduled some important mandatory meeting that she couldn't miss without risking her job security, and Ginny was left scheduling the trip alone. As much as she wished it could have played out differently, it really hadn't been much of a surprise. Many mother-daughter plans had been put on hold over the years as her mom moved up the corporate ladder, and Ginny understood the need to maintain momentum and curry favor with higher-ups.

Still, she thought as she surveyed the panoramic view before her, it would have been nice to have shared all of this adventuring with her mom.

In studying the journal, her great-grandfather had mentioned a path between two pines near the cliff before her. She looked around carefully for several long moments, and tried to imagine the flora surrounding her as it would have appeared nearly ninety years ago. She walked carefully along the edge of the drop-off and glanced down every now and then for a possible path.

She was about to give up and turn back to hike down to the rental when she turned and saw two huge pines and a weed-choked path between them. It seemed promising, and she carefully passed between the trees and down a small decline to a lower section of the cliff face. “It said to turn left immediately,” she muttered aloud. She turned to her left, and sure enough, there was a wide enough pass for her to easily walk along the wall of rock and exposed roots.

It quickly grew quite hazardous, but Ginny – possibly very stupidly... okay, she'd admit, definitely stupidly – channeled her inner Indiana Jones and tackled it with determination and no small amount of luck. There was no way she flew over fifteen-hundred miles just to chicken out when the journey called for a little bit of rock climbing over what would surely be a fall to her death if she slipped up. Easy as pie, no big deal. Twenty-five wasn't a terrible age to go, anyways, she joked inwardly. Though, it would've been cool to at least make it into the twenty-seven club...

A few heart-pounding minutes later, she made it. The Flying Man, as her great-grandfather had called it, a larger-than-life image of a man with what appeared to be wings flared out from his back roughly carved into the stone just above her head. What a strange spot for such a work of art, she mused, wiping away the sheen of sweat that had gathered at her brow.

She pulled out her phone and captured a few photos to attach to a text message to her mom.

“Made it! It's huuuuuge, Ma. Bigger than me, though I guess that doesn't say much. Alsooo probably a good thing you couldn't make it. The path was maybe just a little bit dangerous...”

She hit send and paused, typing out one more message.

“I'm safe, though. Don't worry. Love you.”

She turned to take one more photo, this one a selfie with a big grin on her face as she faced the drop-off with the carving at her back. Tucking her phone away into her backpack, Ginny paused to admire the carving one last time.

It was strange here, the atmosphere. Maybe it was because she was standing in the exact spot one of her ancestors stood, likely one of only a handful of people over the centuries. Maybe it was because the carving was ancient and shrouded in mystery. Whatever it was, the air felt charged with... something. It felt all at once anticipatory and foreboding, and it pulled her in like a moth to the flame. It felt compelling, beckoning, almost hypnotizing. She drew closer to the carving, the thick tread of her hiking boots catching on small bits of rubble and debris as her feet scuffed against the rock beneath her.

The pockmarks and discolorations in the stone of the carving drew into intense focus, almost seeming hyper-realistic, too sharp for reality. Ants skirted the border of the carving, avoiding the carving itself as they marched single-file up towards the trees and bushes above. Moss had grown in a few spots, dark and plush and standing out in stark relief beside the deep border of the carving. Mint-green lichen coated irregular areas bigger than her hand all over the rock-face, but not anywhere near the Flying Man. Nothing living touched it, she realized distantly, but didn't examine the thought any closer.

What would happen, she wondered? What would happen if she touched it?

The logical part of her brain – the part that seemed to be speaking from far away, through a steadily-increasing fog – said that nothing should happen, and what kind of nonsensical thought was that? It's a rock. Rocks don't do anything.

And yet, as she reached out, fingers grazing the rough stone, something shifted. Time seemed to hold its breath, and the sounds around her – the birds up above her, the river down below, and the wind brushing past – suddenly stopped. It felt like that tiniest of moments just before the pin breaks the surface tension of a balloon, drawn out into a handful of seconds.

And then it popped. And she was falling. And she was screaming. And then there was nothing.

Full chapter available on AO3

#we're more ghosts than people #rdr2 #fanfiction #rdr2 fanfiction #jennybee #jennybee443 #ao3 #ao3 author #chapter 1 #arthur morgan #arthur x oc #arthur morgan x oc #dutch van der linde #van der linde gang #time travel fic

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theliterateape · 5 years

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Farewell to Chicago [1989–2019]

By Don Hall

Thirty years. Almost to the month. Like my ten years with the Chicago Public Schools (closer to nine), my decade in the public radio mines (shy by two months) and my five years hosting The Moth (just short by a month), I’ll round up and if that bothers you, consider yourself a pedant and kin to that fucker who corrects your grammar while in line at a CVS.

No one in Chicago knew a goddamned thing about me on April 7, 1989. I didn’t know anyone in Chicago that day as I drove my blue and grey 1984 Bronco II onto a crowded Lake Shore Drive in Friday afternoon rush hour. Having spent my years growing up jumping from place to place, new wasn’t intimidating but that traffic was something I had yet to encounter. Christ, it took me two days in Chicago to figure out that when other drivers were honking at you, they weren’t waving but flipping you off.

I had no clue on that day that I’d spend the next thirty years of my life in Chicago.

A recitation of accomplishments, jobs, marriages (three), personal and public wars, and lessons learned easy and hard wouldn’t do it justice. I might as well list the cash amounts paid out to rent and utilities. There are, however, moments that help sum up and define what became known as my Chicago.

1989

“Are you the new librarian?”

“No. I’m the music sub but they didn’t have a music position open so I’m being paid as the library sub.”

“Oh. Well, can you bring the book cart to my classroom at 10:45 anyway?”

“Sure.”

“By the way, you know you can’t sleep in your truck in the school parking lot, right?”

“Oh. Yeah. Got it.”

BIG FISH

1990

Marty DeMaat welcomes the Level One students to the Second City Training Program. I look around at the new faces and see Alida Vitas, whom I steamrolled through in our audition scene a few weeks ago. I wave “Hi” and she smiles. Joe Janes is there. He auditioned right after I did so he was in the room during mine. He seems slightly surprised to see me.

“Oh.” he says drily. “They let you in?”

Weeks later, he and I and a cast of other trainees concoct a sketch show entitled “Attack of the Fifty-Foot Woman” that we produce in Andersonville later in the year.

1991

“I can’t believe you’ve never had a Lincoln Breakfast,” he mused.

Carey Goldenberg, a Jewish Deadhead who had performed at Second City with Julia Louis-Dreyfus and Dan Castelleneta and was now an eighth grade math teacher, sat down at the booth.

“Try the The Monitor Skillet Eggs.”

“Monitor?”

“Named after an Ironsides ship from the Civil War.”

“Oh. Weird.”

“So what’s the big number for the choir next week?”

“We’re doing a tribute to Journey.”

“And the kids dig it?”

“They love it. It’s all new to them. They think ‘Don’t Stop Believing’ was written with them in mind.”

“It kind of was.”

“Yup.”

“You aren't Going to Tell My Mom, are You?"

1992

Jeff Hoover, Joe Janes and I, sitting in the grass just behind the Chicago History Museum. Each of us have cigars and are smoking them.

Weeks earlier, Jeff and I saw “Cannibal Cheerleaders on Crack” on Broadway and, in a slightly drunken haze, decided we could could probably do better.

“Let’s call Joe,” Hoover slurred, tipping his Modelo just enough to dribble some on his shoes.

In the grass, amidst the stinky clouds of barely smoked Romeo and Juliettas, the three of us decide to start our own theater company. Weeks later, we hold auditions in the Neo-Futurarium and cast Level 6, an ensemble of improvisers and sketch comedians with aspirations of something more.

Peculiar Journeys Ep. 28

1993

From the Chicago Reader when they reviewed shows every week, every show:

A MEAN WATUSI

Level 6 and Free Pickles

at Shay's

Only suckers and wimps do just one show at a time: that seems to be the spirit behind the two new revues being hosted by the comedy group Level 6, and for chutzpah alone they deserve credit. While running their straight improv show A Mean Watusi every Sunday night at Shay's bar, they've also put together a scripted show, Silence of the Frogs, a so-called "nonrevue of unimprovisation," which they perform Wednesday nights. Unfortunately, the young group's ambition has overreached their talents, and what might make a fresh 90-minute show has been inflated into two overlong evenings.

The group's biggest mistake is failing to isolate its real creative strength. In A Mean Watusi Level 6 shows what it does best with new twists on the standard improvisational games and some quick wit. While not all the scenes are winners, the group's good humor and high energy make the clunky moments easier to take.

SILENCE OF THE FROGS

Level 6

at Puszh Studios

In Silence of the Frogs, the creative limitations of Level 6 really begin to show. One would think the luxury of a script would prompt them to weed out some of the dross, but instead their material only seems worse. After an interesting introduction in which actor Don Hall plays a muted trumpet to an audio background of croaking frogs, the show screeches to a halt in the first scene.

Cliched dialogue, nondescript characters, and half-realized situations, the sketches end before anything really happens. To make things worse, Joe Janes's direction is so uncertain that the actors appear uncomfortable as they carry out silly stage business (such as when the workmen begin scrubbing an el platform, a spectacle I have never witnessed in all my years as a commuter).

The rest of the scripted material suffers from the same problems. The choppy structure and uneven quality of material give the revue a sluggish pace that is often hard to follow. While a lack of communication between people seems to be the vague thematic thread, it is never clearly outlined and comes across as a lazy afterthought. The show picks up, though, after Silence of the Frogs, when the group returns to do some improv.

In their press release, the group makes a revealing statement: "In Silence we're out to create good art. That doesn't mean it's not entertaining, it's just not our primary objective." Maybe they should abandon their pretensions and stick to what they're good at. At least in improvisation there's not enough time to think about making good art.

— Tim Sheridan

Government Cheesh

1994

Closing up the band room after teaching from 7:30am til 3:30pm and then having after school band until 5:00pm. One of my students, a drummer, helps put things away.

“What do you do after school, Mr. Hall?”

“Some nights I have shows with my theater company. Other nights I perform improv comedy with ComedySportz.”

“Ain’t you married?”

“I am.”

“Prolly not for long.”

✶

As one gets older it becomes more difficult to make friends. At least that’s been the case for me. In my experience, the friends whom I can say I’ve cemented a lifelong bond with have all come from making art together. Sure, many have come and gone in that theater immediacy of sort of falling in love with each other during the rehearsals and run of the show, the promises to keep in touch after the show closes, only to move on and be friendly acquaintances. Faceborg connections.

Chicago is one of those places in the world, like the bizarre tourist attractions that give power to Gaiman’s American Gods, that draws amazing artists to her embrace. I have met and worked with so many extraordinary humans within the gates of this town it boggles my mind to reflect upon the sheer number. Because art is a dramatic and contentious preoccupation, there are some whom the explosion of ideas and execution burned away from the raw electricity. The burning of those connections are always a bit sad but the celebration is of the creation.

One friendship that has remained intact and with the gravity of true family across my time in Chicago is that which I have with Joe Janes. He and I have been a part of so many artistic experiments — from the early days of Level 6 to the producing of his first full-length play to the spectacle of putting up all 365 sketches he wrote in a year — despite some dark patches and irreconcilable differences along our nearly thirty years, he is the closest thing to a brother I’ve ever had. I hope I can convince him to move to Vegas but even if I don’t I will always consider him the best of friends (not to mention one of the kindest humans I’ve ever run across from and the Spock to my Kirk.)

✶

1995

We held a yard sale. We sold bars of chocolate. I managed to snag us an Air Canada sponsorship for ridiculously cheap flights and booked a 17 room three-flat just minutes from the Fringe Central ticket center for around $50.00 per person for the month.

“The Armageddon Radio Hour” and ComedySportz. 26 shows in the month of the largest theater and arts festival in the world. While Chicago roasted that summer, the gang of WNEP Theater performed and saw more awesome, bizarre, experimental stagecraft than we could’ve imagined. We stole so many of those ideas and employed them back in Chicago it is no exaggeration to say that a month at the Edinburgh Fringe is better than a theater degree.

All Sandwiches Matter

1996

Joe Bill (of the Annoyance Theater) and I sit in the court room, waiting for my name to be called. We were there because a few months prior, in an act of guerrilla marketing, I instigated the fly posting of thousands of ‘teaser posters’ for the newest WNEP play and wasn’t smart enough to realize that once we put up the real posters, we’d get busted by the city.

For a few weeks in our little circle of artists and theatergoers, the question was “What the fuck is ‘Metaluna’?” Posters featuring the word and a photo of Sigmund Freud in a slip were plastered everywhere. I had multiple conversations about the mystery always with a smirk in my brain because we were in rehearsals for this ridiculous, massive show that made no sense spawned from the cracked mind of Joe Janes and directed by the equally off-balance Bob Wilson.

Five stages. Two constructed fat suits. Expanding arms. Muttonchops. A theremin. DADA poetry on vaudeville stages. Giant circus-like posters painted by Kevin Colby. It was the most ambitious show we had created to date and caught the eye of Jen Ellison, who after seeing the show, decided she wanted to be the artistic director of the company responsible.

The city fined us $20.00 but warned that they could’ve fined us $10,000. It was not the last time we would come into contention with Chicago but it was definitely the lightest sentence.

In Nonsense Is Strength

1997

Mr. Jose Barrias was the beginning of a trend.

Hired by Sharon Hayes to come in and teach music at District One Middle School, my predominant skill she prized was my tendency to bend both the rules and the expectations placed upon the role of music teacher.

My classroom had no desks or chairs. We had rugs and pillows. We didn’t spend any time learning to play plastic recorders. We listened to and discussed music and musicians and read from my college music history text. I had the HOT ROOM across the hall. I had a wall of gum that the students (not supposed to chew gum in school but did anyway) would add to every day.

In 1996, Sharon left. Barrias was hired. Jose did not appreciate my less than orthodox approach and, while he did his best to get me to follow a more traditional protocol, it didn’t take.

A year later, my teaching career was over. The trend was set — get hired to shake things up creatively, person who hires me leaves, bureaucrat comes in who wants a by-the-book approach, I stay a year longer than I should then split.

Did I Say Hot Room?

1998

“I think I want a divorce. We’ve been this for a while since college and I’m pretty sure you hate Chicago and I love it and we’re both kind of miserable.”

“That’s what my grandma said marriage was.”

“Seriously? I didn’t know that. I’m sorry.”

“What will you do?”

“I’ll probably get a bachelor apartment in a crummy neighborhood, jump right back into another relationship, get marginally suicidal but mom will talk me through it. The theater company will kind of blow up because I’ll spend too much time drinking because the idea of being divorced is a bit intense for me and I’ll be a total fuckwad. We’ll do some shows but I’ll be mailing it in for the most part. It’ll cause a huge rift between Joe and I but we’ll repair it a while later. How about you?”

“I’ll get the fuck out of Chicago, move back to Texas, get remarried, he’ll die a year later but then I’ll meet the man of my dreams, we’ll get married and have two children. Oh, and I’m keeping both the dog and the cat. You can see them on Facebook in ten years.”

1999

FOR WNEP, IT'S `APOCALYPSE' NOT YET

THE FOUR HORSEMEN ARE READY TO RIDE

It was always about Keith Whipple. Sure, we had a massive cast and spent more money on this ridiculous, ambitious monstrosity. Twenty-five working televisions, five VCRs connected, amazing costumes, and a dark satire on Christianity. Cathleen Carr, one of our producers, broke her pelvis during load-in. Joe Kaplan built a set that could actually withstand the apocalypse.

Whipple, however, stood out on Lincoln Avenue before every show improvising riffs on Revelations with a megaphone to an unsuspecting pedestrian audience before crashing the start of the play. He endured eggs thrown at him, physical threats, and the police called on him. And he never once flagged or complained.

✶

The wonderful cesspool that is Chicago holds a special place for the transplant. Sure, there are the diehard Chicago natives, stuck in their neighborhoods and allegiance to their high schools and local digs, but the transplant has this wide open space to navigate. Chicago has been a magical playground, like a hardcore Midwestern Disneyworld with different “lands” to go to and experiment within.

I was always the new kid in school because we moved around a lot. As much as anything else, it is this foundation upon which my many career moves were made while surfing across Lake Michigan’s shores.

Public school music teacher. Off Loop Theater Producer, Director, And Actor. Improvisational Comedian. Playwright. Improv Coach and Teacher. Venue Manager and Landlord. Retail Tobacconist. Massage School Facilities Manager. Public Radio Events Director. NPR House Manager. StorySlam Host. Digital Publisher and Writer. Independent Events Consultant & Producer. Front of House Manager of Millennium Park.

Only in Chicago could I bounce around so sporadically, learning from each experience and growing in my skills. Only in Chicago could I have that many shifts in vocation without adding “Unemployment” or McDonald’s to my resume.

✶

2000

She was both excited and incredulous.

“You signed a lease on a theater?”

“I did. It was about time we had our own clubhouse.”

“Can we afford it?”

“We have to. I mean, we don’t really have a choice now.”

“How much is in the company bank account right now?”

“$18.00.”

“…”

2001

I woke up late. Jen was in the front room. She was crying. I came in and she was staring at the TV. The footage was live and it was off a disaster of some sort in New York. As I sat next to her, neither of us spoke. We sat like that for almost an hour as the non-stop feed kept informing us of the attack.

Later that day, she and I went shopping for props for her one-woman show that was in tech rehearsals. We went to a vintage toy store on Broadway. The streets were mostly deserted.

Later, I started getting emails and phone calls from the cast and crew of “Lives of the Monster Dogs” and “Soiree DADA.” We were scheduled to open the Monster Dog play on September 12. We had a DADA show that night. What were we going to do? Should we cancel the DADA? Should we postpone the play?

Jen was of no help. So I decided. I sent out an email to everyone in the theater company. If people felt strongly enough that they couldn’t perform, that was fine but we would do the shows despite the attack. We would do what we do. We would entertain as best we could.

I’ll never forget Bob Wilson, in full DADA costume, reading the ending monologue from The Armageddon Radio Hour and sending chills throughout the room.

2002

I lived across the street from our theater which meant I was on call whenever any one of the thirteen shows per week was running

A random Friday night. A midnight show by a renting organization. I’m in the back, watching to make sure everything is copacetic. I notice a guy, solo, in the back row. He’s jerking himself off. No one else in the audience or onstage is the wiser.

“Yo. You get two choices, bub. Unclench your pud and quietly get the fuck out of my theater or continue to choke it as I drag your ass out of here by your hair. Choose now.”

Just a day in the life.

Nothing is Sacred. Not Even You

2003

I was upstairs when I got the call. The DoR was downstairs. They wanted to see our Public Place of Amusement license. “It’s on the wall. In the nice frame.” Three minutes later, the phone rang again. There was a problem. I threw on my pants and came downstairs.

The next morning, the Sun-Times ran a short story about the DoR sweep of six or seven small, Off Loop theaters that had been shut down due to licensing violations. We were among the list. Adding insult to injury, our theater was saddled with the only full paragraph and quote, saying that our license had been forged. I called to see what they were talking about. I called my landlords who didn’t return my calls. I called the League of Chicago Theaters and was told they couldn’t help us because it was reported that we — I — had forged the license.

Outside, there was a huge red sticker on our place — CEASE AND DESIST. We were being shuttered. I spoke to an attorney and was cautioned about what I might say to the press. “Don’t piss these people off. Play nice.” I was told. So when I was interviewed for the Reader, I played nice. When I was interviewed on WBEZ, I played nice. I’m not particularly good at playing nice, at watching what I say. And it made me seem guilty. The expectation of those around me was that I wouldn’t sit still for this. That, if I were in the right, I would tear off my shirt, march down to City Hall and raise bloody fucking hell. A natural born brawler, I tried to dance the political Foxtrot.

Three of my best friends — who had stood up with me at my wedding — became convinced that I had, indeed, forged the license. That, while they were performing shows, I was out in a back alley, selling forged documents to strangers using Photoshop and a color printer so kids could get into bars and underage girls could get abortions. They started working with the landlords to transfer the lease to a member of our Board who was ALSO a member of a theater company that had also been shut down.

My books were audited. Every dime, every receipt. It was concluded that everything was kosher — that there was no malfeasance. In fact, it was this audit that uncovered the fact that I had “donated” over $35,000 of my own money over three years to keep the place afloat. But, said my friends, I was pretty clever and could have figured out how to cook the books ahead of time. In the span of a month, I had gone from the guy who made sure the stage was painted and the lights worked to a criminal mastermind. It was like Kafka.

At a meeting of the majority of the 48 members and associates of the theater, I broke down in tears. I felt trapped and maligned. The tears were hot and angry and impotent. I was failing on an epic scale and could not find a way to make things right. The Three Groomsmen had successfully negotiated the transfer of the lease to the other theater behind my back; it was up to us whether or not we wanted to try to fight it out. We didn’t because I didn’t.

Getting Up the Eighth Time

2004

From the New York Times (top of fold on the cover of the Arts Section in the print version):

“John Huston's ''Let There Be Light'' (1946), a meticulously shot government-sponsored documentary that presented psychiatrists curing World War II veterans of mental ailments with such absurd quickness that many suspected it was rehearsed, now appears like more of a piece of propaganda for Freudian psychoanalysis than for the United States military.

Jen Ellison and Dave Stinton's adaptation of this fascinating movie, which was banned by the United States for over three decades, is one of the most curious shows in this year's fringe festival. It's a staged version of a documentary that may have been staged itself. Instead of commenting on or contextualizing the material, the creators of the play, which concentrates on four of the soldiers, play the material as straight as if it were a kitchen-sink drama. While the style can be stiff, the sensitive actors playing the soldiers -- Peter James Zielinski, Peter De Giglio, Chad Reinhart and James Yeater -- manage to tease emotional depth and nuance out of their thinly drawn parts.

Still, the show's optimism about the government's treatment of its veterans is jarring, especially when compared with more cynical recent moves like ''Born on the Fourth of July'' or ''The Manchurian Candidate.'' It's almost comic when Cpl. Joe Hardy (Mr. Reinhart) regains the feeling in his legs after a few moments of hypnosis.

Ms. Ellison and Mr. Stinson seem to acknowledge this anachronism in their one major departure from the film -- Mr. Zielinski's sensitive and beautifully realized portrayal of a depressed grunt who never recovers from an unspecified psychological sickness. He adds a dour tone to the drama, reminding us that the talking cure has its limitations.”

2005

One fall day, I substitute taught at a school in Humboldt Park. It is a neighborhood filled with culture and vibrancy but is one of those in Chicago left mostly out of the resources loop but I discovered that I am, as a teacher at least, at my absolute best when working in the classic "troubled inner-city school" filled with kids who America has chosen to leave behind.

I bopped around the school in the early morning, providing prep periods for fourth and sixth grade teachers - strictly high priced babysitting. Then I landed in Room 102. Seventh Grade Science. For the rest of the day.

Most teachers I know fear nothing more than seventh and eighth grade. The kids are just swimming in the chemical dump of their overloaded hormones and their emotions and bodies are careening at a breakneck pace without the experience to guide it away from the fourth turn wall. I love this age. They crack me up; every time I work with them I have new stories to tell and feel like I successfully navigated a rudderless boat through the most violent of storms and lived to tell about it. (Jesus - a NASCAR metaphor and a sailing metaphor in one paragraph - what you got to say to me now, motherfucker?)

The day was interesting. I had enough time during the day to talk to a couple of the teachers, all of whom looked tired and stretched a bit too thin and who spoke in the slow, hushed tones of the shellshocked. They told me of the gentrification on either side of the local neighborhood and the resulting dramatic rise in drug dealers and gangs in their school over the past few years. They quietly railed against the sense of entitlement their students were trained to have in an environment that dictates that teachers could not punish children in nearly any way whatsoever for increasingly violent behavior - the idea that flunking, suspending, or holding back a kid who has no perceived use for school in the first place is like fighting a wooly mammoth with a loaf of bread. While the kids were away, they would talk with a worn but slightly amused look on their faces which immediately hardened into a disgusted scowl as soon as any kid appeared.

Excerpts of my day include:

"I forgot to tell you," I gleefully stopped the class in the mid-riot of getting prepared to switch classes. "Look at this look on my face." I deadpanned. "It says 'I don't care.' You say you absolutely have. to go to the washroom or you'll die and you must have your friend with you? 'I don't care.' Your friend jabbed you in the eye and you can't see? 'I don't care.' Your teacher said that you sit in the corner with six others while 'doing your science' together? 'I don't care.'" "You say you need to KNOW something or are looking to LEARN something? Then I care."

"Mr. Hall, why are you so happy?" "Because teaching you guys is like a day at the zoo! And who doesn't like the zoo?"

"Pardon me. (a beat) Excuse me. (a beat) I need your attention! (a beat) I don't want to yell over you, folks. (a beat) Excuse me! (a beat) GOOD GOD - THE SKY! LOOK AT THE SKY!! OK, listen up really quickly -" "Mr. Hall - you're weird."

At one point, I run into Antoine. Antoine is a 15-year old, six-foot-three inch, drug dealer's son. He is a huge white kid who somewhere along the line decided he would mimic a stereotyped black kid. He is in the behavior disorder class and, according to his teachers, pretty much has the run of the school. He is what most teachers know to be a hopeless case - no pragmatic use for education, no respect for any adults except those that can pummel him, and the realization that nothing, absolutely nothing can be done to him until he's eighteen.

He came in during a class switch and was chatting up one of the girls. I had no idea he wasn't supposed to be there and was actually mystified that he simply would not shut up for me (I'm actually pretty good at that sort of thing). He literally acted as if I wasn't there. After ten minutes of attempting to explain the science lesson (Matter, Mass, Volume, and Density), he gets up and makes for the door. I intercept.

"Where are you going, Antoine?"

"This ain't my class."

"Then why have you been here for ten minutes?"

"Ah bumbbges digghuff chaetky mumblemumblemumble...."

"What?"

"Nothin. Get out my way."

"How about we wait for the security guard to swing by and take you to the class you're supposed to be in - I don't get a thrill at the prospect of you roaming the hall freely."

"What?" He tries to shove me out of the way of the door, getting right up in my face. "Don't you lay your hands on me!"

This is a trick. Antoine knows that this is the phrase that freezes the blood in most teachers' hearts. In a time where parents file lawsuits against teachers for failing grades, the stigma attached to a corporal punishment charge is career suicide.

"I didn't lay a hand on you, Antoine. In fact, it was you who laid your hands on me. We now have two choices." I get quiet enough for only Antoine to hear. "We can wait for the guard to come by and pick you up and escort you out of here so I can teach some seventh grade science. Or. I'm gonna beat the crap out of you and then have you arrested for assault. Make your choice."

His face reflects a number of conflicting emotions and finally he flashes a shit-eating grin and asks, "We cool. right?"

It turns out that the kids don't really care much for Antoine. They're afraid of him. The teachers are, too. I think it's a shame that things have come to this - it's only October. The atmosphere for the rest of the day slows down to a mere category 2 hurricane and the day breezes by.

✶

In thirty years, I’ve lived in a lot of the neighborhoods in the city. Again, in the laundry list version:

Edgewater Rogers Park Bridgeport Lakeview Avondale Northcenter Portage Park Bucktown Uptown Wicker Park

Every neighborhood has its own flavor and people and businesses. The cornucopia of experiences based entirely upon your immediate surroundings is extraordinary. All of it connected by the train (and busses if you go to where their are fewer rich, white people...)

The best part? Local businesses. My guess is that Vegas will be populated more with chain restaurants, bookstores, etc. It is the local dives and boutiques and coffee shops that make Chicago one of the most amazing places on Earth.

My Chicago is:

The Lincoln Restaurant Haymarket Pub & Brewery The Green Mill The Metro Chicago Comix The Athenaeum Old Town Tobacco Bang Bang Pies The Red Lion Victory Gardens Theater at The Biograph Quenchers The NeoFuturarium G Man Tavern Smoke BBQ The Chopin Theatre Pequod’s Pizza Easy Bar Uncharted Books The Music Box Theatre Empty Bottle Lem’s BBQ Dollop Coffee Black Dog Gelato

Sure there are more but I’m old and can’t remember everything. Calm down.

✶

2006

“Did you hear that Hall kicked Bernie Sahlins out of the Athenaeum lobby last night?”

“What? Why?”

“One of his Chicago Improv Festival stage managers pulled the lights on some Los Angeles group because they were going way over time and Sahlins lost it. Found Don and tried to dress him down in front of a crowd getting tickets. Hall stood by his stage manager and Bernie was not having that. Finally, he snapped an told him to get his old motherfucking ass out of the theater.”

“Holy shit.”

“Yeah, Pitts got heavy pressure from Second City so he had to fire Don.”

“He’s been with CIF for, what, five years?”

“Not any more.”

2007

“Can I ask you a question I’m not legally supposed to ask? You seem like you’d be alright with it but I want to check.”

“Shoot.”

“You’re twenty years older than every other applicant for this job. Why do you want it?”

I laugh. “First, I like Wait Wait...Don’t Tell Me!” Second, I like NPR and WBEZ. Third, if I do a great job house managing for peanuts, maybe you decide to offer me a full time gig.”

Four months later, he offered the full time gig.

2008

“Are you Jackie’s son? She’s right. You got fat.”

Betrayal in Tornado Alley��

2009

Monday morning at WBEZ. Eighteen voicemails. Not so many until you understand that the outgoing message specifically instructs people to NOT leave voice messages and that these eighteen recordings were from the same person.

“Hello! My name is [REDACTED] and I’m here to see “Wait Wait...Don’t Tell Me!” I have a ticket and I’m at the Chase Bank but I can’t find the auditorium. Can someone call me back?” - “Hello. [REDACTED] again. I’m wandering around the bank and no one seems to know where the show is being taped. Please call me back. I don’t want to miss a minute!” - “I’m in my car right now and I can hear that you’ve started the show! Where am I supposed to go? There are no signs and nothing on the ticket page. Where are you?” - “Goddamn it! I can HEAR THE SHOW RIGHT NOW! LISTEN! Someone needs to call me right the fuck now or I’m going to lose it!”

This went on for an hour, all the way up to voicemail number seventeen which was apoplectic. Voicemail number eighteen was the next day, Sunday.

“Hello. This [REDACTED] and I am so sorry I left all of those messages. Oh my. I’m so embarrassed. My husband pointed out to me that the ticket to your show was for Thursday night, not Saturday morning. I’m so used to hearing it on Saturday, I thought... Well, you can guess what I thought. Please accept my apologies.”

I called her back and gave her tickets to the following Thursday. VIP. But only if I could tell the story.

2010

For part of 2008 and all of 2009, Jen worked with a team of nineteen writers on a project that involved them writing short one-act plays or scenes inspired by the artwork of Edward Hopper.

Following the divorce and her resignation from WNEP Theater, these writers came at me.

“Are we going to do anything with these pieces or was it all just wasted time?”

So I hunkered down, stitched together 24 scenes to create a ridiculously huge theater piece, cast 18 actors, 4 understudies, booked the Storefront Theater on Randolph Street, and hired a few brilliant designers

It was the last show I produced for WNEP. It was the last theater piece I directed for WNEP. Unbeknownst to me, included in the sold out run’s audience were Jen and her new husband, Lois Weisberg, the acting Chairs of the MCA, The Art Institute and the Driehaus Museum, and a woman who hadn’t been in Chicago for very long but heard about the show and came with a friend. This mystery woman also went to the play’s off-night series and reconnected with her college roommate, Scott Whitehair.

Four years later, I’d marry her in Las Vegas.

2011

“There’s no electricity in this warehouse.”

“What? It’s 4:30am. Why are you calling me?”

“The warehouse where I’m supposed to set up the movies, the spoken word, the B-Boy/B-Girl Dance Battles? I have no electricity and the door between spaces is welded shut.”

“The Block Party starts at noon. It’s 20 below zero. What are you going to do?”

“I suppose I’ll find an old breaker box that seems to still be connected to juice and try to hotwire it. I’ll electrocute myself the first time and my fingers will turn black from it. The second try will knock me unconscious for around seven minutes and make my mouth taste like pennies. The third time — because I’m both tenacious and stupid — will work. Though later tonight when I get home, my feet will be bizarrely bruised and look like dark purple beets with toes.”

“Oh. Good plan.”

“Breeze?”

“Yeah?”

“WBEZ doesn’t pay me enough.”

2012

“Your story was amazing. We loved it. We wanted to know if you were interested in hosting the story slam at Haymarket?”

“Hosting? Why not have Tyler do it?”

“He’s the producer. We love him but he’s not really host material.”

“Yeah. OK. Sounds good.”

The back room at the Haymarket Pub & Brewery is packed to the point that people are sitting on the floor. Tyler introduces me with platitudes about being the House Manager for WWDTM — it’s a touchpoint the largely NPR crowd can cheer.

“According to the legend, The American feud begin over notches on the ears of a hog Exchanges of retribution from this humiliating start Gaining traction to equal the obsession of two warring families

The thirst for vengeance, once fomented Is unquenchable, irresistible, all-consuming The Klingons say revenge is a dish best served cold But most of the meal involves the heat of righteous anger.

Someone became stridently political Someone else cheated with your boyfriend Yet another spread rumors about you There is no end to the razor-sharp slights you have endured. Time slipping through your fingers, wasted on rage That thing that got the revenge ball rolling Lost in a cacophony of calls for justice and "It's not right"

Revealed to be, in the end, nothing more than notches on a hog's ear.

Tonight’s theme is GRUDGE. Welcome to The Moth!

Like a Burning Moth Without a Clue as to How He Caught on Fire: A Collection of Word Jazz

Of The Seven, Americans Suffer Sloth More Than the Other Six

✶

The act of reflection upon a thirty year period forces perspective. In writing this, one of the choices to make has been to determine which moments are worth hanging onto and which ones are better left erased. Sure, these erased moments are still visible but like a heavily used white board, the remnants of the words are almost scrubbed off, slightly visible but unimportant.

The odd, highly passionate fights that occurred are not limited to one or two years but peppered throughout like scars that look like faces if you squint. The betrayals are lower in volume, a tune you remember from way back when but can’t quite recall the lyrics. The specifics and details behind divorces and other failed relationships might be juicy in that Buzzfeed sort of view but aren’t truly relevant.

I scaled a mountain and, during the journey, broke few bones, got hypothermia, and lost some of my equipment but no one wants to hear the tale of those things but rather the feeling of epic transformation that such a path includes. I’ll not use my platform for therapy, gang.

I know people who tend to stare back into the rear view mirror and wax nostalgic as if the best times (or worst) are behind them. I am not one of those people. What’s past informs the navigation but does not determine the destination. I have very few regrets and I think that’s the best way to live.

✶

2013

“You were involved with the Global Activism Expo?”

“Yeah. I produced it.”

“The 5K Fun Run with Peter Sagal?”

“Produced it.”

“The Chicago Chef Battle at Kendall College? The WBEZ Day of Service? The Winter Block Party for Chicago’s Hip Hop Arts? The Year in Review at Park West? The Sound Opinions Summer BBQ?”

“Produced them all.”

“Did you have a favorite?”

“Oh yeah. The Richard Steele Holiday Party at House of Blues with featured performers Billy Bragg and the Sons of the Blues. That was seriously one of the highlights of the year.”

2014

“Hey. How about you shut the fuck up?”

Three dates later.

“Will you marry me?”

“Yes.”

How to Jump Out of a Plane and Survive

2015

Along the road, there was General Admission. It was a WBEZ podcast co-hosted by my Events Assistant and myself. We interviewed local artists as well as a handful of national talents (including Kate Mulgrew, Steven Yuen, Taylor Mac, and, of course, Henry Rollins.) A true highlight of 2015 was getting to sit down with a personal hero of mine, Chuck Palahniuk, and ask him questions. The interviews for these are long since deleted but the memories remain.

Half a Century

2016

A meeting at the bar below my apartment. Commiseration over the online trolling I’d endured from unfriending a psychopath and her army of aggrieved idiots. A pitch — how about an online magazine? Something cool and interesting and featuring all kinds off writing? Something that Himmel could sink his own Angry White Guy voice into like a fetid beef sandwich with so much mustard it covered up the gristle and the rot?

“Well, I’ve recently updated my 10-year blog (Angry White Guy in Chicago) to something less Trump-centric sounding. I’m calling it Literate Ape. Whaddya think?”

“Sounds perfect.”

2017

“In the nearly five years I've hosted The Moth (58 regular slams, 8 Grand slams and nearly 700 stories in that time) I've had a real ball.

I started every single slam with the admonition that while we are each snowflakes, unique in every way with our individual crystalline natures, we are all just made of fucking snow. With the onslaught of identity politics and partisan bickering, I hope that is something people remember.

I closed every single slam with a quote: "If you want to change the world, have a meal with someone who doesn't look like you." - Chef Coco Winbush.”

Farewell to The Moth

”In parting ways, I can say that my decade working for WBEZ, Vocalo, and especially NPR's Wait Wait... Don't Tell Me! was thrilling, challenging, inspiring and worth every moment. I got to watch Obama's first speech as president on multiple televisions in a bona fide newsroom. I got to meet Michael Moore, Denis Leary, speak to Bill Clinton and hang out with Tom Hanks. I produced events for as many as 5,000 people (as well as had a hand in producing a record-breaking performance of WWDTM at Millennium Park for 17,000 people). I produced events at the House of Blues, Victory Gardens, Adler Planetarium, Metro Chicago, City Winery, Chicago History Museum, Chopin Theater and hundreds of other excellent venues.

I was there to assist in orchestrating the 10th Anniversary of WWDTM at Adler Planetarium. I was there for Carl Kassell's final show in D.C. I directed Ira Glass, Scott Simon and Peter Sagal in a gala performance. I have been privileged to work with Bill Kurtis. I got to throw Richard Steele and Claude Cunningham their retirement parties. Winter Block Parties with YCA, New Year's Eve Parties with The Moth, Pi Day, the brilliant town hall meetings for the Race Out Loud series. Jim and Greg of Sound Opinionswith Frankie Knuckles on the MCA stage. Drive-In movies in West Chicago. 5K Runs with Peter Sagal. Running front of house for WWDTM with Kate Kinser by my side almost every single night. Laughing and planning things with the amazing Vanessa Harris.

The list of amazing experiences and incredible people is a bit mind-boggling in hindsight. And Good Christ, the Pledge Drives..“

Farewell to the Public Radio Mines

2018

“In the park, there is only one we, the collective patronage of the thousands of multicultural Homo sapiens gathered to hear an orchestra or a jazz ensemble or the blues or a rock band. It is a larger and more lovely we and, therefore, a stronger foundation from which to find solutions to the seemingly insurmountable obstacles to society.”

All the World’s a Stage and Identity is Just Another Costume

“"Tiffany to Don."

The terrible analogue radio crackles in my left ear.

"This is Don. Go."

I'm on the southwest end of the park. It's hot. Really hot. Hot enough that one begins to question the sanity of standing out here, wearing all black, amidst 11,000 people listening to a world-class orchestra play Tchaikovsky. Tiffany is one of my 50 ushers. She has encountered an older couple who came out to the park to hear the music yet hadn't really thought through the difficulties of being post-70 years of age in heat that can only be described as Global Warming Hot as Balls HOT. The gentlemen is so overheated that he can no longer walk. They need a wheelchair.

"Copy that. I'm on my way."

I walk quickly to the Welcome Center on Randolph, check out a wheelchair, then navigate the unwieldy thing through throngs of casual walkers around to the east side of the the stage. It takes me around eight minutes and I'm sweating like I'd been in the volcano room at King Spa. The old man sits in the chair after navigating the fear of just falling on his ass while sitting down. They need to go to their car in the parking garage.

Tiffany shrugs. "I don't drive. I don't know the parking garage."

"I got it," I say with a forced smile.

I wheel the man and his wife through the bowels of the building. We get to the elevator and they can't quite remember what floor they parked on. They left their ticket in the car. We sit for a moment, as the garage is huge and the prospect of finding their vehicle with no concept of even what floor (of the seven levels) it is on is an impossible task.

"It's on three." "How sure are you?" "I'm pretty sure it's on three."

We go to three. No idea what section (3A? 3B? 3C? Jesus Christ…) they give me a description of the car and a license plate number and we set out through each aisle, each row, looking for the car. Thirty-five minutes later — with frequent radio calls for assistance that I direct while seeking an end to the labyrinthian journey I'm on — I spy their ride. They are relieved and thrilled. So am I.

The wife wants to tip me and offers me a dollar. I politely decline and send them on their way. I return just as the concert ends and just in time to set up the two recycling bins in the arcade for the ushers to dispose of the now outdated programs leftover from the weekend.”

Managing a House for 50,000 People

2019

Seven weeks. 2019 in Chicago has been spent doing side gigs, hanging out with people who have meant something to me in the past thirty years, and driving to old neighborhoods and reflecting upon the time here.

My last night in Chicago is spent on the Haymarket Pub & Brewery stage doing BUGHOUSE! And drinking myself stupid on Mathias Ale.

✶

And that, as they say, is that.

If you made it all the way down to this sentence and clicked enough half of the links, I applaud you. Writing this freaking tome took me most of the final seven weeks and occupied more of my brain space than most things I can recall. I’ve spent the entirety of my adult life in Chicago, a feat that I could never have predicted in 1989.

Chicago has shaped me, taking the doughy calzone that crashed upon the shores of Lake Michigan and baking me until I was a golden brown with tons of gooey melted cheese and some questionable meat product. While not born here, I can and do call myself a native. A Chicagoan.

Certainly, I won’t miss the weather — I’m quite certain there is no such thing as dibs or a viable need for shoveling and salting your walk in Las Vegas. There will be things I will be happy to shed my daily grind of: the incredibly high cost of living, the taxes, the corrupt government, the fucking parking issues, the baked-in tribal mentality of neighborhood cultures, the extreme segregation, the crap school system. Dana and I are riding the crest of a wave of deserters as Chicago continues to bleed residents like she goes through restaurants.

I will, however, miss the grit of the people. I’ll miss the almost blissfully ignorant pride in the city. I’ll miss the transit system that binds us together like arteries and the theater and spoken word scene that blossoms even under the auspices of the interminable social justice rage profiteers. I’ll miss my friends especially those who have stood by through good times and harsh times and, while always challenging me, never gave up on me either. Just like the city.

There is so much I did not include in this Dear John letter it’s hard to fathom but that’s the nature of something like this. Plenty left out but always stuck to me.

Just like the city.

#thirty years #Farewell to Chicago #memories

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strawberrylemonz · 3 years

Text

And I Shall Name Her Clementine

Part 6

Part7 [CURRENT]

Part 8

DT: @petrichormeraki @applepie1000 @jump-in-the-cadillac

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

Tommy did not think this through. Grian thought it was hilarious, while Kristin thought it was adorable. The Hermits did their best and fucking failed at hiding their amusement. He just wanted to help the poor girl, for fucks sake! She was an orphan that escaped the cruel conditions of 2b2t, a server that the Phil fucking Minecraft warned all his children to steer clear from. And her bear had a tear in it! It looked pathetic, flopping around with its stuffing falling out! Of course Tommy was going to clean it up and replace the stuffing and resew the messed up seams! Now, the nameless child refused to detach from him. Everywhere Tommy went, she wordlessly followed closely behind. Finally, after many attempts to get the child to go with an older adult, the two made it back to Tommy’s house.

“Alright, kid, I made you a bed. Your rooms construction will be finished tomorrow, so you’ll be in the guest room tonight. G’night”

After changing into comfortable sleep wear, Tommy flopped onto his bed. Letting out a huffy sigh, he turned around to his backside and stared at the ceiling. Letting out a hum, he closed his eyes and prepared to sleep.

Only to be awoken by rustling.

Opening his eyes, he turned to his side to face the door to his room. There, timid as ever, stood the young girl. Clutching her bear to her chest, she quietly walked up to the side of his bed, staring at him with scared eyes. Rubbing his face, he propped himself up and looked back at her.

“What’s wrong?”

She didn’t answer him, but the trembling spoke loud enough for him. She was scared. How could he be so stupid? Of course she was scared, she faced the terrors of 2b2t all by herself. Humming, he scooped her up and moved over, placing her beside him. Throwing the covers over her, he turned to face the wall. He momentarily froze as he felt her small hands cling to his shirt, as if that alone would save her from her monsters. Humming a little song, he faded to sleep thinking that maybe, just maybe, it really could. Maybe he could.

--------

Morning could not come soon enough. As he put up the freshly washed sheets and comforters to dry outside, he noted another task to put on this task wall. Once he finished, he walked inside and to his wall. Putting up a sign, he added more for him to do.

-make/buy the kid more clothes

-find out her name

-potty train [Kristin better help]

-start adjusting her to her room

Sighing, he looked over at his crafting table. Picking up the newly made dress, he walk over to the bathroom. There, Kristin was bathing the child. She had come over early that morning to check on him, and offered help with bathing the child. He placed the dress down and prepared to leave, but was stopped by both girls. Kristin spoke up as the child began to whine, grabbing the air for Tommy.

“Where do you think you’re going? I can’t come everyday to help clean her. I’ll teach you how to bathe her.”

She must have saw the hesitation in his eyes, because her tone changed to a calmer tone.

“You won’t hurt her, don’t worry.”

Sighing, Tommy nodded as he joined the two girls. Kristin hummed, smiling at him before explaining what to do. As he listened and watched, he peered over at the kid. The child was happily staring at him, only looking away to close her eyes when Kristin warned her to do so. After she was washed and dry, Kristin helped her slip into her new dress.

“Well, I better go. I have a garden to start.”

“A garden? I can help you with that later, if you want. My brothers, aside from Grian, and Phil don’t really know, but I’m pretty knowledgeable with plants.”

Giving him a hug, Kristin informed him that she’d message him if she needed help. As she closed the front door behind her, Tommy turned around and faced the child, who was staring up at him in silence. Sighing, he motioned for her to follow him into his kitchen.

“I learned to braid from Wilbur. I’ll fix up your hair, and then we’ll have breakfast.”

--------

“So you don’t know your name?”

A small head shake from the child confirmed his question. As she munched on her toast, Tommy asked her simple yes or no questions. Some she would move her head to answer, others she would point at objects to help him piece together the puzzle. He had learned that her parents were murdered after she had just began learning to walk. She had overheard players mention the hub portal, so she traveled across the server to get there. She and her parents had escaped from being experimented on. She was a young, inexperienced shapeshifter that preferred bugs she squealed when he got excited over her fuzzy moth form. She didn’t know how to speak, didn’t know her name.

“Well, we can’t leave you nameless. I’ll start giving names, and you let me know which one you like the most.”

A small nod let him know that she understood what to do.

“Alright, then. Samantha”

Shake.

“Peony”

Shake.

“Lily”

Shake.

“Lavender”

Shake.

“Fiona”

Shake.

“Robyn”

Shake.

“Clementine”

Tommy bursted out in laughter as the girl squealed, waving her toast around in excitement. She hopped up and down in her seat, nodded ferociously at the name. Wiping a joyous tear, Tommy let out a sigh as he poured juice for both of them. Placing a cup in front of her, he watched as she carefully picked up the cup, slowly sipping the juice.

“Clementine? I like it.”

She smiled brightly at him, and he returned the gesture. As he finished his breakfast, he put his dishes in the sink. As he prepared to wash dishes, he felt a tug. Peering down, he saw Clementine point at a table chair. Quirking an eyebrow, he shrugged as he went over to the chair. As he picked it up, he followed the girl as she silently directed him in front of the sink, right next to where he stood. As he set it down, he watched as grabbed her empty dishes, climbed onto the chair, and dumped her dishes into the sink.

“You want to help me clean the dishes? Really? If you want”

As he showed her how to wash the dishes, Clementine watched with intense eyes. Shaking his head in amusement, he turned to place the second plate on the drying rack. As he faced the child once more, he nearly had a heart attack.

“No! Clem, don’t drink that water!”

--------

As quiet and secluded as the kid was, she was unpredictable. One moment she's quiet and sweet, the next she's trying to eat whatever she gets her hands on edible or not. Tommy sighed as he placed a leather journal in his satchel, along with all the other items he needed. Looking over at Clem, he hummed in approval as she placed her bear in her small backpack. Chuckling as she struggled to get it on, he kneeled down and helped secure it on her back.

“Ready to go?”

A small nod from her was all he needed. Putting on his satchel, he held out a hand to her. Clementine brightened up as she grabbed onto his hand, grasping it with both of her tiny hands. As they made their way through the server, they enjoyed the quiet morning and small breeze. It was still fairly early, so no one was really out and about in the area they were walking through. As the approached the Hub, Clementine tightened her grip on Tommy’s hand. Crouching down to her level, Tommy gave her a smile.

“It’s okay, Clem. I’ll bring you back safely. Just stick with me, okay? Trust me.”

She slipped her hands out of his and opened her arms to him. It took him a while, but he nodded once he understood. Scooping her up, he adjusted her in his arms and entered the portal.

Stampy was working on the appearance of the portal in the Hub when Tommy approach.

“Hey! Big man, what’s up?”

“Oh, hello!!! How are you this morning? Oh! And who is this lovely lady?”

Stampy and Tommy smiled as Clem hid her face in Tommy’s arms. Shaking his head, Tommy spoke up.

“This is Clementine, or Clem. I’m watching over her due to, uh, unfortunate event.”

Nodding in understandment at Tommy’s tone and wording Stampy allowed Clem access to the world. Before Tommy walked in, however, Stampy pulled out a flower from his inventory. Holding it out to Clementine, he smiled to the girl, who kept changing her gaze from the flower and to his face.

“Here you are, Clementine! I hope you enjoy your stay! Do have fun!”

She peered up at Tommy, who nodded back to her. Letting out a timid smile, Clem slowly accepted the flower. Nodding in appreciation, her smile grew as the man gently patted her head.

--------

“You have a kid?!”

“When did this happen?!”

“I like her dress.”

“Thank you, Lani. And for the last time, stop asking the same questions over and over again!”

Clem giggled as Lani twirled her around, the two ignoring the other three’s bickering.

“You said her name is Clementine?”

“Yeah, she chose it herself.”

“Really? That’s amusing, given that that’s your favorite name around.”

“I know. Are you guys ready for me to finally take your measurements, or not? Or would you rather show up to the gala in bed sheets.”

“Sorry, we just didn’t think that you, of all people, would have a kid with you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

After some bickering, Tommy was finally able to take measurements of all three of his friends. After jotting them down, he pulled out the different sketches of outfits that he made for all of them, letting them pick and choose what they liked and didn’t like so that they could craft their outfits alongside him. Tommy, on the other hand, was showing Clementine the bees that were buzzing around. Clem giggled, before poofing into a small bee, herself. The other three stared in shock as Tommy clapped, catching her as fell. Since she had to stay in hiding while on the run, she never learned to properly fly in any form. As she poofed back into a little girl, she clung onto Tommy with a smile. As the three quickly finished picking out the details for their designs, Drista, Lani, and Tubbo took mental notes of questions to ask over their lunch picnic.

--------

Clementine took a liking towards Tommy’s friends, as well as Stampy. Throughout the week, she enjoyed joining Tommy on his travels to Stampy’s world. She also warmed up to everyone else in Hermitcraft. Grian nearly yelled out in joy as Clementine mimicked his wings, hers being slightly more pastel than his. Tommy was more than grateful to have Grian there, as he began to teach the girl how to fly with her wings. Kristin, on the other hand, enjoyed playing with the girl as Tommy busied himself with the outfits for his friends. Once he finished the outfits and gave them to his friends, he began the outfits for Grian and Kristin. Since they were a part of the empire, he matched their outfits with his. Once he finally finished Kristin’s, he sighed as he sat back in his seat. Tugging eventually brought him back to reality.

“Hm? What is it Clementine?”

He watched as her small fingers pointed to the elegant dress, and then back to her. Understanding her form of communication, Tommy nodded. Sitting up, he propped her up onto his leg.

“You can have a gala dress, too, yeah. What do you want? Flowers? To match Kristin?”

She denied every suggestion he gave. Finally, not being able to think of anything else, he spoke up.

“Well, what design do you want for your dress?”

He followed her line of sight to the side of the room. He couldn’t help but acknowledge the warmth growing in his chest as he saw what she was showing him. His own royal outfit.

“You wanna match me?”

Nod.

“Yeah, okay. You can match me.”

--------

She adored her dress. She made him set up her dress next to his outfit, waiting for the day they can wear them together. Tommy just laughed at the child’s excitement.

They were currently at the shops with Kristin. Kristin had suggested commissioning a crown for herself to wear during the gala, and invited the two to join her. Clementine’s smile only grew as she had a tiara commissioned for herself as well. Just as Tommy adjusted her tiara, Mumbo approached him.

“Tommy! Xisuma needs to see you! Says there’s someone at the entrance of the portal waiting for you!”

Tommy quickly handed Clementine to Kristin, promising to return, before heading over to the portal in a hurry. As he stepped through the portal and into the Hub, he fidgeted nervously. Who would need to see him? Tubbo? No, he had access to come visit anytime. Lani? Drista? No, not them, either. He got his answer, however, once he stepped into the Hub.

“Ah, there you are. Do you recognize this man? He says he knows you?”

And as Xisuma moved out of Tommy’s view, Tommy felt himself freeze. Blinking a few times, he spoke with unsure words.

“Fundy?”

#Memories in the stars au #memories in the stars #hermit!tommy au #hermit!Tommy fankid #Mumza #kristin minecraft #lovely!tubbo au #lovely!drista au #lovely!lani au #lanusky #drista #hermit!fundy

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