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fruitcoops · 4 years

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Can you do one where it turns out greyback injuring Remus way back years ago was actually caught on camera and that video of young remus getting his shoulder ripped is like released at a hockey game on the screen or maybe just put online and everyone sees what happens Omg please I'm begging you to do this!!! ILYYY

Hello anon! This is a really interesting idea and I’ve been thinking about it for a while--the NHL doesn’t allow security cameras in locker rooms, but I assumed there would be audio somewhere from one nearby. People who leak ~scandalous information~ on the internet are literally the worst.

Sweater Weather credit goes to @lumosinlove!

TW for graphic descriptions of injury (mostly the sounds)

“How did this happen?” Remus asked, wincing internally at the tremor in his voice. He was shaking from head to toe; it was a miracle he hadn’t started screaming yet. Then again, he wasn’t sure that he would be able to stop. “How the hell did this happen?”

“We don’t know,” Alice said quietly in the chair across from him. “This information was confidential and we haven’t even presented it to the NHL board for review. Someone must have leaked it to the press.”

“Why does this keep happening to me? First Sirius, and now—” He pressed his lips together as his voice cracked. There were a few beats of silence. “Why did you call me in here? I already saw it on the internet.”

“We need you to confirm it was you and Fenrir.” Alice looked him in the eyes. “If you don’t think you can listen to this, Remus, that’s okay, but it will help us build a stronger case to get him punished.”

He took a deep breath. “Can—can Sirius come and sit with me for it?”

“Of course.” She stood and left the room, leaving him alone with the coach.

“You’ve listened to it, haven’t you.”

Arthur nodded. “I’m so sorry, Remus.”

“I don’t need you to be sorry, I need people to not look at me like some sob story.” Bitter fury rose in his throat, though he wasn’t angry with Arthur. “I worked hard to get there and even harder to come back. I’m done dwelling on the past. This is going to undo everything and I’m sick of it.”

“Did the team know?”

“I told some of them when Sirius was at All-Stars.” Remus knew Arthur remembered the fight; he had chewed Sirius out for it as soon as practices resumed. “Didn’t tell my parents, though.”

Arthur closed his eyes and let out a long breath. The door clicked open behind him. “Re?”

“Hey, baby.” Instant relief washed over Remus, though he still felt like he would lose it at any moment.

Sirius settled into the chair next to him and held out his hand—Remus took it immediately, scooting their chairs closer together so their shoulders touched. “Are you ready?” Alice asked, picking up a remote. Remus nodded.

The video was grainy, but the audio was pristine. A few voices—familiar voices, I remember them clear as day—jumbled together as the last members of the team filtered out of the locker room. “See you tomorrow, Moony!” one called over his shoulder. “Great game!”

“Bye, Tags!” Remus said from inside. Did I really sound that young?

The hallway outside the locker room was empty; he heard himself shifting around inside as he stretched out. Left thigh, right thigh, left calf, right calf, reach and roll. “Hey, Lupin.” Fenrir’s gravelly voice made him freeze and Sirius rested his other hand on top of theirs.

“Sup, Backer.” A light smack signaled their fistbump. “That was a beautiful goal you had at the end of the third, by the way. The scouts definitely saw.”

“They certainly did. Are your folks here tonight?”

“Yeah, Jules was so excited. He’s been bouncing off the walls for the past couple days.” The unbridled fondness in his younger voice was a balm. Jules had been convinced that he would be drafted to the NHL right after that game.

“They’re saying you’ll be number one.”

“Really?” Young Remus laughed. “I dunno, man, there are a lot of players this year. You and me are neck and neck, right?”

Dumbass! he wanted to shout. Just shut up for once! “Neck and neck,” Fenrir muttered, barely loud enough for the camera to pick up. “Hey, do you need a hand with your stretches?”

“Sure, thanks. Might have a bruise from your pads tomorrow, eh?” The friendly joke made him wince. More shuffling noises followed. The hall stayed empty.

“Here?” Fenrir asked. There was a dangerous edge to his voice and Remus swallowed around the sudden dryness of his mouth.

“Yeah, that’s—okay, that’s actually a bit too far, can you let up a bit? Fenrir, you’re pulling too hard.” Panic seeped in. “Fenrir, stop, you’re hurting me—”

There was a horrible cracking noise and younger Remus’ strangled shout cut off abruptly as his shoulder came out of the socket. He squeezed his eyes shut and gripped Sirius’ hand. If he focused, he could still feel Fenrir’s fingers pressing his face into the mats.

“‘Look at me, I’m Remus Lupin, I’m the fastest player on the ice and I’ll be number one’,” Fenrir mimicked as Remus’ agonized whines continued. “You think you’re so clever. So perfect. You’ve never had to work a day in your life. I’m the best player out there and the scouts are fucking idiots if they think you’re better.”

A muffled wail ended with a gasp and a series of pops. “Please—”

“Shut the fuck up,” Fenrir growled. “Look at you now, crying like a girl. You’re never going to tell anybody about this, because I know your secret.” Remus’ breath shuddered. “Oh, yeah, I know all about you. If you even think about tattling, everyone is going to know.”

“Ple—ah.” Sirius’ grip tightened around his fingers as Remus’ sharp cry caught in his chest. The green-tinted video fuzzed out for a moment, but still nobody walked past. Fenrir had planned this well.

“You’re nothing now, Lupin. You are damaged goods and you’ll never set foot on the ice again.” His voice lowered. “If you do, I’ll find you.”

There was a thud as he finally released Remus’ arm and quiet, wheezing sobs filled the silence. “What did you do to me? Oh my god, oh my god, it hurts so much, what the hell did you do?”

Remus tasted something salty on the edge of his lips and pressed his thumb against Sirius’ ring. This was real. This was his. Sirius loved him. The team loved him.

“I did what I had to do. Say hi to Jules for me.”

The locker room door opened a few seconds later and Fenrir walked out, flexing his hand. With the open door, Remus’ hoarse weeping was clearer as he was left alone on the floor. The video ended.

“Remus.” Alice held out a box of tissues, her voice gentle as the screen went dark. He reached out for one, but his hand was shaking too bad to grab it; Sirius took one and carefully wiped his cheeks dry with feather-light touches.

“That was him,” Remus managed around the boulder in his throat. “That was Fenrir Greyback, and that was me.”

“Would you be able to swear it in court?”

“What the fuck do you think?” Remus snarled. Sirius ran his thumb over his knuckles. “Do you want to see the scars on my shoulder, too? What reason do I have to lie?”

“I meant are you prepared to talk about this in front of people?” Alice rephrased, calm and collected as ever. “This is a traumatic event and I don’t want to force you into anything.”

“Remus, you’re a valued player on the team,” Arthur said. “I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure you’re safe in this league.”

“Don’t look at me differently. Now that you know this, now that everyone knows, people will treat me like I’m fragile. I’m the same person I was two days ago and this will not change how I play.”

“I know.” Arthur folded his hands on the desk. “You’re a fighter, Loops. That’s one of the reasons I wanted you on my team.”

“Do you two need a moment before you head back out?” Alice asked, glancing between him and Sirius. “We’re going to kick the reporters out and then everyone’s going to go home for the day while we talk to the board.”

“We do, yeah.” Remus’ voice wavered and coach stood, following Alice into the hall.

“Oh, mon loup,” Sirius murmured, standing and pulling him into a hug. A kiss pressed against the top of his head and Remus grabbed the back of his soft shirt like it was the only thing holding him steady. “I am so sorry.”

“You already knew.”

“No, I didn’t. You told me, but—” Sirius faltered. “I had no idea how bad it was. The things he said to you…”

“Were wrong.” Remus finished. He had spent so many long nights and dark days convincing himself of that.

“They were wrong. You are not damaged goods,” Sirius said fiercely, pulling back to hold his face in his hands. His eyes were fiery. “Listen to me, Remus. You are not damaged. You are everything to me and I love you for exactly who you are.”

“I love you, too.” Remus’ lower lip wobbled and he rested his forehead on Sirius’ chest again. “Hearing it—I already knew what happened, but hearing it was horrible.”

“It was.”

“I’m sorry I made you listen with me.”

“Don’t be sorry, mon amour. I’m with you through the good, the bad, and everything else. I’m glad I was with you for this.”

“The team…” He trailed off and sighed. “I don’t want them to see that. My folks, too.”

“I think they already have,” Sirius admitted. “But they love you so much and they’ll be here for whatever you need.”

“We have to go sometime.” He took a deep breath and stepped back, rubbing his eyes and kissing Sirius quickly. “Alright, let’s go.”

They made it four steps down the hall before James appeared and engulfed Remus in a hug. “Holy shit, I’m so angry,” he choked out on a harsh breath. “I love you, man.”

“Love you too, J. Where’s everyone else?”

“Inside. I called dibs on first hug.”

“Have they all seen it?”

“Some of it. I don’t know if anyone watched it all the way through.” He sniffled and squeezed Remus tighter. “I don’t know how you came back from that.”

“PT helped.” He closed his eyes and leaned into James. “So did you guys. I couldn’t have made it this far without you.”

“Neither could we.” James pulled back. “Do you want to see them or are you heading out?”

“Heading h—”

“I want to see them,” Remus interrupted quietly. Sirius raised his eyebrows. “It’s going to happen sometime. Might as well be now.”

James nodded and walked over to the locker room door. “Ready?”

Remus laced his fingers with Sirius’. “Let’s do it.”

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vampiresuns · 3 years

Text

Interlude 1: Do Not Stand Over My Grave And Weep, Part 2

⟡ PART 2: FRIENDS ARE THE FAMILY YOU CHOOSE ⟡

2.2k words. In which Anatole’s friends start uncovering the mystery of his death and sudden reappearance.

CW: Death and discussions of it.

What to catch up with Anatole’s Apprentice series? You can do that here.

He had met him at University. He had been his friend since he was 18 years old. Anatole and Medea had been Leonore’s first lasting friends, the first people who outside of his family, had taught him permanence was not entrapment. They had filled his life with growth and laughter; he had suffered their woes, he had celebrated their triumphs, he had followed them into Vesuvia despite his original wish to travel the world.

He still travelled, but he always came back to them. Medea and Anatole weren’t just friends: they were family now. When Leonore closed his eyes he could see them holding hands and jumping into the water one summer evening in Prakra. He could see Medea using his thigh as a pillow under a tree. He could see Anatole dancing. He could see Medea and Anatole dressed to the nines for their new Court jobs.

He would know them anywhere. He would know them by the way their steps sounded alone.

It took Leonore some moments to remember where he was, Octavia gently nudging him. Sabine, who he didn’t realise had gone, announced themselves again, saying they had lost Anatole’s doppelgänger in the crowd.

Only it hadn’t been a doppelgänger. Leonore knew his best friend, he knew Anatole when he saw him.

“No,” he said at last. “No, that’s him. That’s him, Octavia. That was him, and I need to find him.”

“Leonore, wait! Anatole’s dead.”

They began bickering about it, Octavia trying to stop Leonore from head diving into a wild goose chase, not realising Selasi, the Baker, was listening to them.

“Excuse me, forgive me for overhearing, but are you talking about Anatole Radošević? The magician from Moonstone and Jasmine?”

“Yes! His aunt owned that shop,” Leonore said, jumping to talk to Selasi, who inspected him with a careful eye.

“I don’t know what prank you’re playing, but he’s alive as can be. I opened a little after the plague subsided and he and Asra have been getting bread from me for three years, almost. They’re attached at the hip, so if you know Asra—“

Leonore leaped to shake his hand. “I do know, Asra! Thank you, thank you so much.”

Selasi tried to tell him Asra wasn’t around, that he was on a journey, but that he could tell him where to find Anatole if he promised he was a friend, but Leonore sprinted towards the shop without letting him finish. Sabine set off to follow Leonore as Octavia called to both of them, which left her standing alone with Selasi. She made some apologies, and Selasi told her not to worry.

“Where did you say you knew him?”

“Leonore went to University with him,” she said, thinking the least she could do was to assure the man they were Anatole’s friends, not some random people with weird motivations. “I know him through his cousin.”

The baker hummed. “I didn’t know Anatole had any family besides his late Aunt and Asra.”

Something about the way he said it, the casual certainty of it, gave Octavia a chill. She thanked him, and tried to catch up with Sabine and Leonore, not wanting to say anything Selasi might not know. She risked him stopping them, or worse, telling Anatole, which she didn’t think would be a good idea. Octavia just had a bad feeling about it: she didn’t expect people to just know who Anatole was, or had been, that could be conceited. Anatole himself hated being anticipated by his job, wanting to have the opportunity to present himself and do the best he could do.

Yet from there to the sureness Selasi had had when he said he didn’t know Anatole had any family besides Paris and Asra? It was weird. The Radošević-Cassano weren’t meant to be separated; if Octavia knew anything about them from Milenko, it was that they were very close knit. The only people in their families that Octavia could think of as not being regarded ever, were Matilda and Krešmir, Vlad’s and Valerius’ late parents, who hadn’t even raised the siblings. All she knew about them was that they were neglectful and Matilda had the idle ennui of someone who was too used to having everything, and was used to using cruelty for fun.

Milenko had only talked about them a couple of times, and she had never heard the Consul even mention them, let alone Vlad, Anatole’s father. One way or another, the Cassano didn’t detach themselves from their family, nor did the Radošević, and Anatole had only ever been extremely proud of the people who had raised him. That had been their way since the days of Cassano Arianamenzi, the first of them, and she could testify that legacy had not washed away with time. If anything, it had become stronger. So why would Anatole not speak of it?

Unless he didn’t remember them. She had read about such a thing once, doing research for one of her most early plays. A shiver went down her back, making her hug her arms around herself and walk faster.

When Octavia reached the Moonstone Leonore and Sabine were talking to a tall man who seemed to guard the shop. None of them had seen him before, but he seemed to know them; he called them ‘people from before’.

“You used to give Anatole clementines, which he doesn’t like—” he said. He was tall, covered in a cloak, and had moss green eyes, though they were barely visible.

“He says they taste fake,” Leonore completed.

“So he gave them to me, before— it doesn’t matter. You won’t find him here.”

The only thing stranger than the stranger was that none of them could remember him as they tried to piece their afternoon together. However, Octavia had heard Selasi say Anatole was occupied in the Palace, and perhaps they could try their luck there.

“Then let’s go,” Leonore said, already standing up. “Maybe Medea knows something we don’t.”

Medea Pryce was the daughter of two archaeologists and the granddaughter of another one. Both her father’s and her mother’s family had settled in Vesuvia some generations ago because its cultural diversity and rich history was good for the archaeological craft. Anatole wasn’t the first Radošević-Cassano she had met — her Grandmother was acquainted with Bastiste Cassano, one of the Cassano elders, and thus with Consul Valerius, whom Batiste called her spoiled grandnephew. Medea’s parents, on the other hand, were acquainted with Atanasie Radošević and Aurora Tesfaye, uncle and mother of Anatole’s cousin Milenko.

So when she met him at University, which she had begun in Prakra, just as he had done, the surname called to her immediately. Discovering they would course the exact same program, even if they had different aspirations and goals, another pleasant surprise. It would be nice to have someone to know, as Medea liked making friends.

What a friend she had made of him and Leonore, who shared housing with them. Anatole was one of those people who had the energy of a handsome stranger one shared enlightening conversation with, yet then never saw again. Debonair and hopeful, he was passionate and inspiring, a devoted friend and nothing if not extraordinary. He had his shortcomings, like everyone, but that wasn’t the way one measured their friends.

Seasons came and time passed. They both studied and apprenticed in Balkovia for six months, and then they moved on into Vesuvia, Leonore following them, to their surprise. They laughed and hurt, they fell in love with their own people, they held each other, and Medea and Anatole drafted their plans for the future. It would be a great future, they were sure of it. Anatole’s self-introductory speech for the Vesuvian Court was a gem, Medea believed it so. They liked to fantasise about one day becoming Consul and Head of Staff, with all the things they thought they could help with, working together for the people of their City.

No matter the crashes and reality checks, the hardships or how many times Medea had seen Anatole stand up to the Count and the new Courtiers, they held hands through it and continued onwards: The World and it’s calling of completion met its perfect match in Anatole’s Ace of Swords coloured Strength.

Then the Plague came and Anatole died, and Medea was left with all their plans, and no one to implement them with.

After his death, things only got worse. She could tell something was going on with the Consul, but she wasn’t close enough to him to know what. She was somewhat closer to Councilwoman Cassiopeia, but she didn’t seem to know what was going on with her cousin either. The Courtiers hadn’t done anything of value for the City in three years, and all that Valerius ever seemed to do was to keep it afloat. The Court was destroyed, and with the Countess as lost as they all were, Medea didn’t know where they would end.

When she heard the Countess had found a new advisor she was thrilled. Fresh air was what the Court needed, and by the first weeks of this advisor around the Countess, it was clear they were doing her good, even if she had heard the advisor had had a rocky introduction with the Court. It seemed like it, because she knew from first hand experience that the Consul had come in furious to his office, refusing to speak to anyone, except to Cassiopeia, whom Medea was sure forced him to speak rather than him wilfully giving her any information.

He had only said something about something in poor taste, and how had he let the Countess know he would not tolerate it, but he didn’t say anything else.

Her turn to meet the advisor came the next morning. It happened by accident, when she was delivering some documents to the Council of Vesuvia. Meet was a lax word for it, ‘seeing’ him, was much more appropiate: with his light golden blond hair, and bespoke clothes. The same unmistakable black eyes and the scar across the bridge of his nose. The same stride, the same height, the same face, the same looks.

Her friend, her own dearest Aelius Anatole had walked into the Consul’s office seeking for an explanation about the way he had been received in Court. From there on, the morning was mayhem, absolute mayhem, and only now that Medea was sitting alone she could finally process it.

“Anatole” had introduced himself fully, his name the right name, but the Consul wouldn’t hear it, immediately throwing himself at the throat of the “second-rate witch” for daring to use that name. Anatole continued to insist that was his name. The more the argument extended, it was clear to everyone involved that that was Anatole, even to the headstrong Consul — his panicked eyes gave him away.

Medea knew her friend, her friend had always had a presence, even if he wasn’t always aware of it. He still had it, he still stood in the same way the Consul did, he still turned his eyebrows in the same way, and the way he spoke.

What he spoke of, too.

The breaking point came when the Consul grabbed him from the shoulders, demanding to know what he wanted from him. Then, Medea saw him do something he hadn’t done in years: she heard the Consul speak Balkovian in public. Medea’s grasp with the language was enough to know he asked two things, two crucial things, that anyone who wasn’t Anatole couldn’t answer.

Anatole answered the first one, something about a sword’s name, in his perfectly native Balkovian, looking pale and sickly-greenish. Cassiopeia tried to interject, but the Consul wouldn’t listen to anyone. Then the Consul asked his second question, something about ‘what was the tree’, or ‘what was the name of the tree’, and nothing else. Medea wasn’t sure.

Anatole replied both of the questions: His first reply being ‘grapevine’, followed by a choked up ‘cult of Dionysus’; the second reply was ‘a beech tree’, looking like he was about to vomit after the words left his mouth.

“Valeriy?” He said, as the Consul looked at him in horror, still holding him by the shoulders. “I think I’m going to pass out.”

Anatole did pass out, and the Consul, blushing cherry red as he realised the whole scene had been in front of half the Court office at his care, yelled at them to know what the hell were they doing, if not call for someone to take this boy to a bed. After it, the Consul stormed off, Cassiopeia power-walking behind him as she demanded an explanation from her cousin, an explanation the Consul refused to give, waving dismissively at her.

“Don’t you wave like that at me, Valeriy, unlike you, I know my own damn nephew when I see him.”

“Don’t call me that here.”

“Valeriy Radošević, I will call you however I damn please! Come back here!”

Medea didn’t stay to watch the rest. The Court was in unrest, it was so much that it had stirred the four other weirdos into watching and making the oddest commentary for anyone to hear. Medea didn’t need an in with them to know they knew something they all didn’t, and simply thought of the Court Staff too inconsequential for them to spare them half a thought.

As if possessed by a thunderbolt, Medea stood up from where she was sitting as she ruminated. She needed answers, and she needed to talk about this to someone. She had an idea: if anyone she was close enough knew a considerable amount of death and ghosts, it was Amparo Cassano, but first she needed to talk to Leonore. They had supported each other in these 4 years Anatole had been dead, or presumed as much. Anything she did, it would be with Leonore.

As she turned around after grabbing her coat, Leonore was calling her name.

“Sabine is waiting for us at our place, they wanted to ask some questions first so I ran here. Octavia is trying to find Amparo, or anyone really. There’s something I need to tell you.”

“Good,” she said, as she grabbed his arm and began walking out of the Palace, “so do I, but not here. The Courtiers are around, and they cannot be trusted.”

#the arcana #my writing #the arcana oc #apprentice anatole #anatole's apprentice rewrites #aelius anatole #selasi the baker #leonore #medea #octavia rei #sabine rei #the radosevic-cassano #beautiful powerful and stubborn as a ram #consul valerius

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sunnysviolin · 4 years

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currently having so many thoughts about aubrey getting sick of her moms mess one day and packing her bunny into her carrier and just leaving... she drifts about friends houses for a while before basil braves up to ask if she's okay :(( she's all out of energy + too stubborn to go home so she doesn't bother arguing and lets him take her to see polly (sorry me again with aubrey ramblings pls tell me to shush if you dont vibe w it)

Wow....I love this so much so I’m gonna combine it with that ask I got the other day and noodle on this a bit. Hope you don’t mind me taking your idea and running nonnie!!!

This got really long and kind of intense, so I’m putting it under a Read More. There’s also gonna be way more ahead!! This AU has caught me. But y’all Serious warning for emotional child abuse and neglect. Aubrey’s mother is decidedly not a good person, and their relationship is very damaged. Read only if you know you mentally can handle it, and no shame in skipping this. This part of it is heavy. TW: Child abuse and neglect. TW: Alcoholism TW: Running Away TW: Homelessness

In the end it’s the rain that does it. The rain, the drafts in their weary old house, and the bucket that sits in the corner of her room next to her half broken laundry basket

On the last night Aubrey spends in her mother’s house the rain is coming down in freezing icy sheets. It’s bitterly cold, and she is weary.

The summer of her 16th year has come and gone, and they are firm into the grip of September. It was a summer that had changed everything in her life. A summer where she found her way back to her chosen family, while becoming more isolated than ever from her real family. She had spent almost every hour out of the house- riding scooters with her gang, reconnecting with Basil, finding her way back into Kel’s loyal heart, letting her walls down around Hero, even discovering a hidden strength within her to forgive Sunny.

It was the best summer of her life, even beating out the perfect summers spent in her childhood with Mari. In those days Aubrey had been naive. She didn’t know what she had, she just assumed she would always have it. This summer she had seen every experience for what it was- a gift.

Fall coming had been difficult. Really almost nothing had changed, except it had.

Hero had gone back to college, promising to visit at every chance he could. Aubrey had pushed down the spike of jaded denial that had risen up inside her at his words, and put her arm around Kel who was misty eyed saying goodbye to his brother.

Sunny had spent most days in Faraway at either Kel or Basil’s house over the summer, but now he only came on weekends. He had started school again, a new school where no one knew his name or his face. He didn’t say much about it, but he hadn’t stopped going yet, so Aubrey considered it progress.

Kel and Basil had stuck close to her, and she was thankful for it. Aubrey knew now that nothing would ever separate the five of them again, but there was still the irrational fear inside of her that they would all leave her sooner or later. Her gang must’ve seen something too, because they had been awkwardly affectionate in a way that both irritated and comforted her.

But her mother....

Her mother had changed too.

By sixteen Aubrey knew her mothers rhythms like the back of her hand. She knew the cycles that played out. Her mother would circle through various moods- cleaning, ignoring, depressing, drinking, regretting, promising, and then cleaning again.

The regularity of it all had numbed her to the terrible conditions of her childhood home, and Aubrey spent most of her time out of the house anyway. (She had never been so grateful for nine hours at school, four hours after school goofing off in a big group, and the usual invitation to dinner with Polly or Kel’s mother. Aubrey usually only went home to sleep these days)

But her mother had added and taken away from her cycle. There was a new cycle now, and it was impossible to deal with.

Ignoring, Depressing, Drinking, Angry, Regretting. Rinse and Repeat.

Angry was new. Angry was (terrifying)....Angry was new.

Aubrey had never tried to disrupt her mother’s cycle before, but Angry was enough to get her to try. She would clean the house top to bottom, putting in an effort she had never put in before to make things nice. She had thrown away bottles, cleaned dishes, cooked food, on and on all in an effort to change what she knew was coming. It still came. Her mother still wailed like a banshee, shrieking and hollering loud enough neighbors had called.

The calls were the worst part. The low humiliation that sat in her stomach as she assured these people who didn’t really care that everything was fine, all while her mother continued to scream in the background.

With Angry, Regretting was also different too. Aubrey, never one to take things lying down, screamed back until angry tears burst from her eyes. She would break down and sob in front of her mother, her walls finally ripped apart brick by brick by the woman who was supposed to love her most.

Then her mom would hold her tight and promise things would be different. Regretting had mixed with Promising, and as much as Aubrey wanted to shove away the confusing affection, she couldn’t bring herself to.

Screaming at each other was the only time that Aubrey’s mother looked at her. Curled in her mother’s arms weeping was the only time that her mother had a kind word. Aubrey couldn’t resist what she always craved, and some sick twisted part of her even longed for the point where her mother would snap and start yelling, just because she knew the release of emotions was soon to follow.

That last night in her house was one of those nights. Her mother was yelling, too incoherent for Aubrey to even make out the words, but the tone said everything. Her mother had lost it over the dishes in the sink piling up. Aubrey had done them this morning, yet somehow she came home to a sink full of chipped dirty dishes. Those dishes felt like an ironic symbol of her life. No matter how many times she wiped it away. The dishes would be dirty the second she turned around.

Aubrey was already in tears, her fists bunched at her sides and her teeth grinding down against each other. Soon enough it would be time for her to start yelling back, and the cycle would go on and on and on. The dishes would never be clean.

Aubrey didn’t want it to go on. Not even her mother holding her was worth how torn apart her heart was becoming. She fled upstairs, slamming the door to attic and locking it tight. It didn’t matter anyway. By this point of drinking, her mother could barely stand, let alone climb a ladder.

The rain was slamming against her windows, a steady drip already starting in the bucket in her room. It was freezing cold, and goosebumps rose on her bare arms. Maribelle was sitting in her pen, her nose twitching as she watched her Aubrey. Aubrey brushed at her damp cheeks and picked her bunny up, snuggling the tiny white creature close to her chest.

Maribelle was too cold. Her mother hadn’t paid the heating bill again. The rain was too loud, and the wind sneaking in wrapped Aubrey in a tight grip. Aubrey sat on the edge of the bed and rocked her bun, trying in vain to warm them both up. A single thought ran through her head over and over

This wasn’t worth it. This wasn’t worth the love she craved from a woman who couldn’t give it. This wasn’t worth her pride at keeping things together. This wasn’t worth trying to fix over and over with no results.

The rain began to slow to a quieter drizzle. Her mother was silent below. In the cold wet of her tiny attic room, Aubrey decided.

No. This really just...wasn’t worth it.

Aubrey slipped onto her knees, keeping Maribelle close as she pulled her backpack towards her and began to empty it out. She kept only her English textbook and her history notes. Everything else she could get a spare of. in her bag went two spare shirts and one pair of jeans. She packed in underwear and socks into the smaller front pouch. Aubrey stood and pulled the false bottom out of her desk drawer, taking the cash and the pack of cigarettes she had pinched off her mom and throwing them in as well.

Finally there were the pictures. The frame of her photo of her and Kim had to be abandoned, but the actual picture was placed carefully inside her backpack. She had never been more happy to have her tiny carrier for Maribelle. The bunny happily hopped inside and burrowed deep in the soft downy blanket Aubrey put inside for her.

It was depressingly easy to pack up her important things. Shockingly simple to write a note to her mother (I’m leaving. I’m not coming back. Two short sentences and that was it) It hadn’t even been hard to sneak out. After the hour or so it took to gather the rest of her necessities from the house and steal whatever money was in her mother’s purse, said woman had passed out on the couch in an alcoholic haze.

Aubrey locked the door and stared at the silver key gleaming in her palm. She had only her backpack, a messenger bag, and her tiny bunny carrier. Her whole life fit into two bags. Aubrey left her key on the doorstep.

She wouldn’t need it anymore.

The rain had let up, but a harsh breeze whipped around her as she walked, pushing Aubrey to move faster. She took the sidewalks she had taken since she was little, letting her feet move as her mind went blank. Before she knew it she was standing on another street, one more familiar to her than her own.

Aubrey spared a long look at Kel’s hosue. The lights were on inside, bathing their front yard in a warm golden glow. She stared at it for a moment, considering, and then the chill became too great.

Aubrey bypassed Kel’s house and quietly snuck into the backyard of Sunny’s old home. The elderly couple that owned the house now was sure to be asleep. Kel said that they were quiet and almost never noticed anything going on. Perfect.

Aubrey knew exactly where she was going. It was still standing. Faded and beaten down, probably rickety too, but it would be safe for her and her Belle.

Besides only four other people even knew this treehouse existed. No one would ever find her here.

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dkniade · 3 years

Text

“Re-education” English Translyrics

Original Japanese lyrics: Neru / @neru_sleep

English translyrics and rap: Dusk / @DKniade

Referenced English translation: vocaloidlyrics.fandom.com

Note: I also translated and interpreted some lines again myself with my Japanese skills

Content Note

main theme contains suicide / suicidal thoughts

mentions blood, violence, gambling

Author’s Comment

I started drafting the 1st verse some time ago so I picked it up recently and finished the rest of it within a few days!

“Re-education” was one of the first Neru MVs I watched when I first got into his songs years ago. After first listening to “Lost One’s Weeping” I stumbled upon “Re-education” and fell in love with the visuals (thanks sidu) and song. So this time, I’ve taken a close look at the lyrics and themes, and wrote English translyrics for it.

I also wrote the bridge mostly in rap (because I was having trouble writing singable lyrics, haha)! Please check it out and sing & rap along!

[1st verse]

One last meeting with tomorrow,

Then upon that fast-paced highway I’ll go

If I jump off and bid goodbye,

Surely nobody will heed to my cries?

Morals can go die, left untold

Like a can that’s kicked. A sight to behold

And teens say “Well, guess that is life”

Yet again these words, for how many nights?

[1st pre-chorus]

Grew sick of life, the girl snuck away

And reached a warehouse just yesterday, then

Sought for release, sought for relief

She wrapped tape ‘round her neck

And took a final breath

[chorus]

At the end of that blade

there stand our dreams, nowhere to hide

Yet it’s our tomorrow who’s screaming from the inside

“Someone help me! Don’t just leave me here!”

For the loneliness is far too great to bear

At the end of that justice,

there lies our dreams, cold and dead

Yet it’s our tomorrow who’s got no blood left to shed

Strike a match. Light it up. Had enough

Return to ash, those days I threw out with the trash

[2nd verse]

Oh, that’s right

No goals, no hope, constant replays

Ain’t that how you felt then, back in the days?

Should our past selves see us right now,

Surely they will laugh, “You’re way beyond help!”

[2nd pre-chorus]

The living, breathing scumbag burned all his cash

To try his hand yet again at Blackjack, but

If you rewind time you will find

A loving daughter and wife

Despite his loser’s life

[chorus]

At the end of that blade

there stand our dreams, nowhere to hide

Yet it’s our tomorrow who’s screaming from the inside

“Someone help me! Don’t just leave me here!”

For the loneliness is far too great to bear

At the end of that justice,

there lies our dreams, cold and dead

Yet it’s our tomorrow who’s got no blood left to shed

Strike a match. Light it up. Had enough

Return to ash, those days I threw out with the trash

[bridge: rap]

Never gonna heal. Never gonna prevail

Loneliness is a sickness with no pill

“Don’t you kill yourself. Don’t you give up on help.”

Help me? Really? Does it ever go well?!

Happiness? Never seen. So just tell me

What it’s like with a life with no worries

[bridge: sing]

I say to you with a sigh, “I just wanna go die”

[bridge: rap]

God, I hate this life. Gonna say a “bye-bye”

Feeling sad. Off the map with no “next time”

Kinda tellin’ lies. Gonna stay a while, guys

But the voice. Can’t avoid. It’s so HiFi

[bridge: sing]

“You never listen to what you’re told,” sensei says

It’s better if you’re dead

[chorus]

At the end of that blade

there stand our dreams, nowhere to hide

Yet it’s our tomorrow who’s screaming from the inside

“Someone help me! Don’t just leave me here!”

For the loneliness is far too great to bear

At the end of that justice,

there lies our dreams, cold and dead

Yet it’s our tomorrow who’s got no blood left to shed

Strike a match. Light it up. Had enough

Return to ash, those days I threw out with the trash

#neruke #reeducation #neru #vocaloid #english translyrics #vocaloid translyrics #translyrics #saikyouiku #dusk translation #Neru家 #再教育 #ボカロ曲 #ボカロ #dusk lyrics

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unmanageable-day · 4 years

Text

you can read the first part here but i think it’s not that necessary lol

Pairing. Mingyu x y/n x Wonwoo

Genre. angst / ugly break up, mention of accusing of cheating

Summary. Mingyu doesn’t want to be that person he hates the most, who regrets everything later and realizes how precious one is after that person is not within his reach anymore. Unfortunately it is probably already too late

a/n: i used to have the longer version of his in my draft but tumblr didn’t let me save it and it got lost just like that.

He had been declining your intention to meet in person. It had been 5 days since he got discharged and went back home. You sent text messages to him everyday, asking if you could come over. He kept making excuses, saying he wanted to rest or he didn't feel good. Frankly he never felt good since Wonwoo visited him in the hospital. He knew once he agreed to meet you, it would be over that instant. It was difficult to get a wink of sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, Wonwoo's words kept echoing in his ears.

It's now a waiting game. She wouldn't want to be associated with you. She probably regrets knowing a Kim Mingyu. It's now a waiting game. Enjoy while it lasts. Being Y/N's boyfriend.

One day, it seemed you had reached the peak of frustration and it showed in your most recent text. 'Mingyu, I don't know how to put it into words. But I really need to talk to you and I don't think I can hold it any longer. If we can't meet, then I think I should just tell you through text.' Even Mingyu could hear the way you talked.

Without thinking, Mingyu called you right away. He was afraid to receive more texts from you because he knew what you would say. The idea of being dumped through text was scarier than he thought.

"Y/N?" "How are you doing?" "I'm.. good, I guess." "Look, I..." "After lunch. Is that okay?" he asked weakly. "Okay. I'll bring your favorite bread pudding." "No need to. I'm good." Mingyu tried hard not to choke himself when he realized tears were ready to stream down his cheeks. "But still.." "Y/N?" "Yeah?" "I love you." It was odd even for him to say it now. "Oh.." You sounded taken aback. You paused, not knowing what to say. "Anyway, I'm hanging up first," Mingyu continued. He knew he can’t take it anymore.

He dragged his feet to wash his face. His mother was excited to hear that you would come over. She had no idea that you coming just for one purpose only; to end everything with her son. Mingyu had to force a smile and lie that he and you were fine.

Mingyu’s mother escorted you directly to the son’s room as you arrived. You found Mingyu sitting up on his bed, staring at nothing. His mother had to call him to snap him back to reality before leaving his bedroom.

You sat on the other edge of his bed. "Mingyu, I’ll just be straight to the point. About us..."

“Wait,” he interrupted with a weak voice. “I'll get you some cake Joshua brought yesterday. You'll love it.” Then he got up, leaving you in his bedroom for a moment.

You sighed. This should be easy.

Mingyu came back with a little smile, two plates of strawberry cake were on his hands. "Joshua is learning to bake. He's not on my level yet but the taste is not bad."

You smiled listening to him.

"Seungkwan just arrived from Jeju yesterday and brought some tangerines. I think my mom has prepared some for you too." He kept on going about his friends. Jeonghan finally going official with his girl friend. Seungcheol planning to go mount climbing with his gym buddies. Seokmin making new friends with some guys in the office. Until he was running out of his friends' life updates, Mingyu eventually slowed down talking.

"Can I have my turn to talk?" you asked, trying to read his mood carefully. He had been smiling a lot when he rambled about his buddies. You just didn't know—or maybe you just didn't care that much anymore that the smiley face was just a disguise.

No. Don't.. Mingyu now wore an expressionless face, his eyes locked on yours. He wished you could read his mind. He didn't dare to say 'don't say a word' right into your face.

"Mingyu, I.. I don't think we can, I can.. now it's just..." Why was it so hard to you to complete your sentence? It used to be easy with your previous boyfriends.

"Don't.." he mumbled.

"What?"

He shook his head slowly. His jaw was clenched, teeth gritted as he almost blurted it out. Don't continue. Don't speak a word..

Inhaling deeply, you continued. "Mingyu, don’t you think it would be better to end—"

"Y/N, please tell me we'll be alright," he cut in. His eyes looked desperate, searching for mercy while gazing deeply directly at yours. He gripped your hands, continuing, "I was wrong. We should have never fought. I messed up. The fault was all mine."

"Mingyu.."

"I'll do anything. Anything for you to forgive me. I will not ask anything about you and Wonwoo anymore. If you want to hang out with Wonwoo on weekends, you can go and I won't say anything. If you guys want to have your exclusive movie night, or game night, or even sleepover, it's okay, I won't question you anymore." He put his head down as he started to sniffle.

‘Seriously? You never got jealous over Chaeyeon just once?’ Mingyu asked one day, fascinated by the fact that you were his first girlfriend that never questioned about his best friend who was a girl.

‘Why should I?’ you chuckled. ‘I also have Wonwoo, remember?’

‘We’re definitely the coolest couple,’ he cheered happily.

Both Mingyu and you had been understanding about your respective best friends. You had no problem with Mingyu going out with Chaeyeon even when it was just the two of them. Mingyu also used to be fine when you had to cancel your dates because Wonwoo needed you. Until it didn’t work that way anymore one day.

"Mingyu, don't be like this."

"I'm sorry," he sobbed harder as he squeezed your hands. "If I have to beg on my knees, I will. So, please, let this stay in the past and we'll start anew."

You stayed still, feeling uneasy as you watched Mingyu weeping his eyes out. He kept mumbling 'I'm sorry's and 'this is all my fault's desperately.

"Mingyu, stop crying. Your mother will think I'm being violent to you." You reached out your thumbs to wipe off the tears all over his face. Contrasting the affectionate gestures, your tone sounded cold and your expression was dull. Or maybe irritated. That was what he thought judging from your frown.

Mingyu held your hands cupping his own cheeks. "Y/N, please?"

You quickly pulled your hands away. "Mingyu, let's give ourselves some more time to think, okay?"

—

"Mingyu?" You were flustered to see him in front of your door. More than a week had passed and you hadn’t seen him again to finish the last hanging conversation. You never expected him to come to you first like this.

"Y/N.." A smile—a bittersweet one—slowly crept up his lips, showing off his canine. He didn't look as content like he used to. His eyes couldn't even hide his sadness and he looked unsure of what he was doing. But from the way he called your name, there was a longing feeling in his voice.

"I'm sorry but you should go home, Mingyu," was all you could say.

He should know better that his presence was unexpected and probably unwanted. "I don't want to. It kills me inside to be home alone. It feels like dying to think that you're not within my reach, that you're so distant from me. Y/N, if you want to despise me, you can. If yelling at me can relieve your frustration, yell at me and I won't talk back. Y/N, please, just hate me for the rest of your life but please don't be like this. I can't stand this cold shoulders, it's torturing me. I just want to be a part of your life, as a person who can have all your trust, as a person who will always believe in you and be by your side, as a person who loves you with all my heart."

A cynical tsk was suddenly heard. Without making a sound, Wonwoo was approaching your side with his light steps just like a cat. "You finish with your words?"

"Jeon Wonwoo.. what—" He choked on his own words, effectively stopping himself from doing what he used to do; questioning your intimate friendship with Wonwoo. A train of memories of you and him arguing in a big fight suddenly slipped across his mind.

'What is exactly your relationship with Wonwoo? You often ditch me for him. Is he really that important and I'm not? I'm your boyfriend, Y/N.' 'Are you seeing him behind my back? Are you fucking him?' You thought you could hold it in, but not with him accusing you like this. 'Mingyu, you sound crazy, do you know that? Are you hearing yourself?' you snapped. 'I sound crazy right now? How about you always saying 'Wonwoo this' and 'Wonwoo that', when I am literally your boyfriend who puts you, my girlfriend, on top of my priority list?' 'Do you know how many times I have to hold myself back, because I don't want to be that insecure bitch saying 'don't go with Wonwoo', 'do you have to go with Wonwoo?' and 'I don't like it when you go out with Wonwoo'?' 'Are you playing with me now? Am I just a toy?' 'Is it fun two-timing me over your so-called best friend?' 'Two-tim— Mingyu, you—' That was the first time you raised your voice to him that you wanted to slap him hard. But you didn’t. 'Okay. Let's do this. Is it me or is it Wonwoo?' 'Mingyu, you're out of your mind!' you almost shrieked. 'I ask you one more time, is it me or is it Wonwoo?' 'I really can't do this. Fine if you really want to hear my answer. Sorry, Mingyu, good bye.' It hit him. 'Y/N! You didn't mean it, did you?' 'Sorry, Mingyu.. Wonwoo and I value our friendship in a way you will never understand. Wonwoo it is,’ you told him as you started to walk away. It hit him hard. He quickly reached your arms. The last thing he would want was regretting his decision and realizing how precious one is after losing her. 'Y/N! No, no, no. Forget what I asked. I can't lose you like this!' A heavy sigh escaped your mouth along with tears streaming down your cheek. 'Mingyu, I'm tired. I don't want to hurt you anymore. You're tired of that too, right?' you weakly said as you wiped your tears. With him not saying anything anymore, you left him without turning back.

Mingyu recalled one of the ugliest fight between you. It was painful to remember all the following parts when you gave up talking to him. When you chose Wonwoo over him. When you said you were tired of hurting him. When he just realized what he did wrong when you disappeared from his sight.

"If your business is done here, you should go home. Or are you going to ask why I'm here?" Wonwoo cooed.

Mingyu tried to ignore him. He turned to look at you, but you still looked unfazed, looking away as you crossed your arms. "I.. didn't know Wonwoo was here.."

A mocking chuckle escaped his mouth, scratching another wound to Mingyu's pride. "I am her best friend. I am here all the time. As a matter of fact, we were fucking. But you disturbed us."

To be honest, you were shocked to hear Wonwoo talking like that. On a normal daily basis, he was calm and speak nothing but good words. He never got himself involved in a cat fight. Except, when it comes to you, he will never hesitate to throw hands at anyone who dares messing up with you.

"No need to be surprised, right?" Wonwoo continued. "You said it yourself. You asked Y/N once, right? I guess you were very curious about whether she and I fuck each other. We do, Mingyu. We do."

You remained silent. Partially it was because you were taken aback at Wonwoo's odd behavior. He didn't usually get mad easily. You knew he would always take your side. But at the same time, maybe Wonwoo being like this would help to make Mingyu go away.

Mingyu was trembling on his spot. "Y/N, please say something," he weakly pleaded. At this moment he couldn't even tell if Wonwoo was just talking bullshit or it was actually the truth. Back in the days, when he confronted you about it, you immediately said no. For now he just wanted to believe what you said weeks ago.

Your mouth was sealed. Your eyes travel to take a glance at the tall guy just to flash him a dark, cold expression of yours before looking at the ground again.

“Y/N, please..” He was on the brink of crying.

You looked up and found his teary eyes. “You didn’t believe me when I said no. So what makes it different if you do now? It won’t change anything anyways.”

"The real question is, Mingyu, what are you doing here?" Again, Wonwoo retorted, smirking, folding his arms on his chest. Surprisingly this gesture made him even more intimidating despite his slim figure. His victorious, confident smile definitely was what made him look superior. “Oh, right!” he continued, chuckling—mocking, “After a lot of things happened, I almost forget you’re still Y/N’s boyfriend. Or are you not anymore?”

You noticed how uncomfortable Mingyu was standing before you. At the same time, you were also reminded how he doubted your friendship with Wonwoo, how he always suspected you and Wonwoo, until he wrongfully accused you. Then you remembered what he said days ago, about him not saying anything about Wonwoo anymore. It turned out you still have a heart to not let Mingyu break down completely. The big, tall guy clearly had no idea what to do, or what to say. He was tense, nervous and restless, knowing that his presence unwanted. Even the habit of brushing his fringe back was only done once since he came; usually he did it thousands times and you used to mimic him on behalf of his friend, Seokmin.

You softly asked Wonwoo to go back to your kitchen to check on the scone you two made, and thankfully he obeyed you. Even when he left you, his victorious smrik wouldn't disappear as he kept eyeing the taller guy.

"Mingyu, it's not healthy for us—for you, to keep it this way," you uttered. "You should stop apologize too. It's already in the past. Even I won't bring it up again. You will be forgiven, I promise, but not now. For now, I think it’s best for us to go on our own."

"Please, give us another chance," he sobbed, his voice cracking.

You heard Wonwoo calling your name, followed by an unclear mumbles. But you sure did hear that your scone was failing.

"Mingyu, I'm sorry but I'm running late for Wonwoo's mom's birthday dinner." You looked concerned, but definitely not apologetic.

All energy in Mingyu's legs felt like vanishing totally. His stomach was filled by lots of emotion—mostly anger to himself, that he felt sick. He wasn't sure if he could support himself to stand straight and walk properly. Why did he even pick up a fight with you and vomit hurtful words, that you can't bear with him anymore?

"You see, there are some of your stuff here, and I should give it back to you but it's a mess right now. I'll have your stuff delivered to your house tomorrow."

Eventually Mingyu went down on his knees, still crying.

Wonwoo just shouted your name again. "Coming!" you exclaimed.

“What are those?” he asked between his sniffles, rather in horror as he noticed a box filled with various things. What he saw there shook him even more.

Confused why he suddenly talked about anything else, you looked at the box as if it was nothing. The only thing visible to your eyes was an old scarf that Wonwoo unintentionally burned one day. So you assumed it was just a pile of useless stuff he found in your house. “I don’t know. Wonwoo has been decluttering the whole day. I think he’s going to throw them away.”

Mingyu’s heart sank again. How can you not see what was in that box? A snow globe he got for you when he traveled to Japan. A couple bracelet that he made it himself. Mini photo frames that had him and you in the pictures, smiling so happily. There were still other small stuff that he noticed which were gifts from him. And you said so easily that they were going to end in a dump.

"Mingyu, please?" Squatting down to be in the same eye level with him, finally you looked at him in the eyes, hoping that he would get it that him leaving was one thing you were expecting at the moment. "If there is any other way, I would look for it. But if it means I have to cut Wonwoo off, I can't. I hope I have made myself clear, Mingyu."

"There must be some other way and you don’t have to cut Wonwoo off. Let's look for it, together. Please?"

Shoulders shrugging and head tilting slowly at your side, you looked unsure with your brows furrowed. "I don't think so, Mingyu," you said, shaking your head. "You said it yourself, that we were a mistake."

"That— I don't mean—"

"Mingyu, you should never repeat the same mistake. You don’t want to get hurt for the second time."

#seventeen imagines #seventeen scenarios #seventeen au #seventeen drabbles #seventeen angst #seventeen mingyu #mingyu imagines #mingyu angst #seventeen wonwoo #wonwoo imagines #seventeen fics #post by yourblinkies

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mrskurono · 4 years

Note

i’ll get u to spill about kageyama’s senpai kink one day 👁

no but i totally get what u mean with osamu tho, i just rlly want to see him cry from being so aroused 😃. idk, like i ain’t that horny or anything i kinda just wanna see him crack you know. i want to see him writhe on the bed and pulling at the sheets 😩 atsumu on the other hand acts tough but wants to be babied ✋🏼🙄

(ok but imagine plugging up osamu with a vibrating buttplug while he cooks breakfast or smth lol)

- 🪢 i read over that threesome thirst too many times and lost confidence so it’s going into the drafts to never see the light of day again thanks 😙

I may or may not be hemming and hawing over just writing the senpai kink + threesome idea in my head so you might get me to break sooner than you think bc my impulse control rn is 0% as we head into Aries season 👁👄👁

Just want some mental, emotional and physical corruption kinky shit going on with ‘Samu ok. Ain’t nothing serious, I just like, wanna see him break and become my bitch is all. Y’know, normal things 😏

(aye literally can’t stop thinking about fucking him stupid then making him make me breakfast in nothing but and apron + the cutest little plug (maybe it has a tail idk) in him. Nice dorito shaped man having to grip the counter for composure in the middle of making me breakfast bc he has to <3)

*weeps in horny* Tuck me away in the dark with the threesome idea I need to be fed and now I’ll starve T^T jk (do people still say that? Am I old?) It’s probably not bad!! I mean...it’s bout my husband, I’m a glutton, sometimes I just stare at him bc well why not, so you know, feed me Kageyama content any day 😏

#your thirsts are immaculate so i know its good dont you fib to me #god no one says jk anymore im so old #anyways #babe ilysm #🪢#anon #three.talks #hq thirst #osamu smut #osamu miya

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myfeetkeepdancing · 4 years

Text

Blurred Lines | Tom Holland x Male!Reader

Words: 2198

Request: hello, if the requests are open (because I really don't know where I can see that) and if it's not too much to ask, you could do one where Tom is trying to learn some lines for a movie but as he has dyslexia (something I discovered from a photo on Instagram), Tom becomes sensitive so the reader helps him with that, then Tom cries and the rest I leave it to you as you want😅

-----

With his back to the door, Tom sat behind his desk. From the doorpost, you watch dark clouds gather above him. You could sense the frustration hanging about him—his chin resting on a tightly clenched fist. Once in a while, his other hand laced through his curls. Murmuring inaudible things to himself. Gaze stuck to the pages with endless lines for his next project. The fact that Tom didn't learn his lines on the coffee table or in the corner of your big, cozy couch was a definitive red flag. Usually, he would be all around the house. Practicing his lines, sharing his thoughts. His enthusiasm dragging you into enacting his favorite scenes with you. But not this time.

You take careful steps into the room, taking a seat beside the desk. "I've made you tea." Sliding the cup slowly across the wooden surface, resting your chin on the palm of your hand, quietly observing Tom, letting your presence sink in.

"Thanks..." He mumbled with his eyes stuck to the paper. Not paying you any attention. Watching him retrace the same line over and over again with his finger. A big draw of breath moves his hunched and depressing pose. "You know…" The mutters in a downcast tone you already dread hearing. It's gut-wrenching to see Tom like this. Quiet and turned to himself. "... I'm not-" Releasing a long sigh of frustration while shaking his head. Swallowing half his sentence. As sharp as his jawline already was, it sharpened even more as his jaw clenched hard. Struggling to regain his temper. His feet tapping the floor unimpeded. With a quick turn of his head, he eyed the door you came through. Rushing from his seat to close it. Just a tad bit too harsh as it collided with the frame. The loud slam resonating through the room and into the hallway. Poor Tessa. You only manage to catch a few fleeting words as he utters something about a draft before returning to this seat. His figure more hunched and leaning into the desk.

"Tom…" You try to reach him again. "What's bothering you?" With one hand, you slowly rub his shoulder.

By now, you got to know Tom well. You have to let him fume, release his frustrations. There were never personally directed at you. But stressful times could bare down hard on him. And even Tom had his limits. His sleep became irregular, mood swings to the extreme. And self-esteem at an all-time low. Tom became sensitive to so many things. Irritated by the simplest things. Sounds, simple gusts of wind, beams of light, reflections off surfaces. Stirring your coffee with a spoon could set something off. Everything was distracting him. The only remedy was allowing him to vent.

"It's just…!" He snarls, throwing his pencil to the wall. "I can't do it!" His voice boomed. Full of rage and frustration. Slamming his fist onto the paper, as if to punish it. "The words!" Tom wheezes while his nostrils flares angrily. "I have four more days, two of which are travel." He hangs back in his chair. Raking his fingers through his curls in frustration. "And I can't get these fucking lines into my bloody brain." Knocking a few papers from the stack with an aggravated swoop of his hand. He continues to avert any sort of contact with you. Staring at the ceiling while combing his fingers through his curls. They were unkempt. Tom didn't even bother to. A mess. That's what he was. His shirt was wrinkled, litter all-around—cups and wrappers from candy. Tom's shirt hangs loosely around his frame, his shoulders hanging low.

You re-seat yourself on the chair. Allowing your eyes to run across the lines. But before you are able to utter another word, Tom's ramble continues. His emotions finally let loose because of one thing. His eyes connect with yours. You stare into his eyes for a moment. Captivated by his pain. His misery. You only respond with a small smile—a reassuring one. Words wouldn't help.

"I won't!" He yells out. "I… just, I... can't do it!" Rubbing his hands across his face, shielding them from you. His breathing is heavy as everything else turns quiet. Just the two of you. He seemed so conflicted, shaking his head. Mumbling things to himself. "Everyone expects so much from me… and -and…" His voice suddenly breaks, seeing his chest heave up and down. Slow sobs begin to rack his frame. "I… can't." Tears start to stream freely down his cheek as you take his hands away. They tremble uncontrollably. Revealing his red teared up eyes. "I can't do it (Y/N)." He said while his whole body was taken over by the shaking from his sobs.

"Poor thing." You manage to get out as lump formed in your throat. "C' mere." Pulling him towards you, taking his shaking body on your lap, as he locks his arms around you. Burying his face against the side of your neck. Slow sobs turn into long sorrowful wails. Paused by moments of him recovering his breath. "It's going to be alright." Stroking your hand along his back. "It's ok, Tom…" Whispering soothing words into his ear.

"T-The words… they j-just d-don't stick." He snickers, clinging onto you for dear life. Seeking safety and comfort. Like a terrified infant. Rocking him slowly to and through. He felt broken. All his defenses washed away into tears. And you let him weep, howling at his insecurities. It's difficult to make out words as he continues to sob in between hicked breaths. "One moment they dance, the other they make no sense." Hugging himself tightly against you. "It takes so much energy. I… I can't do it." He weeps. "I just can't…"

"That's ok." Combing his curled up locks of beautiful brown hair with your fingers. You press a gentle kiss behind his ear. Tom was all warm to the touch, your shirt all wet and moist from his tears. The sobs trembling his frame to his very core. "Hey…" You whisper. "Listen…" Trying to get his attention as he slowly begins to calm down. Pushing the strands of brown curled hair from his forehead. Planting a kiss there. "Let's take a break." Lifting his face by his chin. Tom's gaze full of sorrow and misery. "Clear your mind. Find some fresh motivation, renew your energy, and start over."

"But, there's simply no time." No more tears came, but his lip jutted out, trembling.

"I'm here for you, Tom." Stroking your hand through his luscious curls. Feeling his breathing slow down. The tension in his frame subsiding. "I'm going to help."

"B-But... how?" Rubbing his nose with the back of his hand, being all runny. "I… don't know how."

"Hop in the gym. Release your frustration." You give him a reassuring smile, pressing your lips on his. "It'll help."

"Are you sure…?" Looking at you with big sad puppy eyes. "Don't you hate working out…?"

"I'm not going to." You chuckle. "You some time alone. I'll be here. I'll help you."

For a while, he said nothing, rising to his feet, standing there, digesting the information. His head hanging low. Gaze plastered to the floor. The exhaustion evident on him, as he weighed up the words. He looked hollowed out. "Ok…" He nodded, followed by a long weary sigh. Dragging his feet across the floor. With that, he disappears from the room. You turn your attention to his script. Highlighting his lines, putting on straps of paper, and more. It pained you to see Tom like this. But this time, you were prepared. Moments later, you hear the sound of progress. Sporting equipment being used vigorously, a boxing ball getting punished, and heavy weights slamming up and down.

"Babe!" Tom rounds the corner into the living room. Eyes glued to his script. "How'd… you-?" Reading through the many edited pages. "This is amazing!" To your relief, you see that cute smile returning to his features. Tom finally being himself again. Outgoing and joyful.

"Once you feel like it, let me hear your lines." You say with a growing smile. His happy response made the whole place light up again. The darkened mood finally gone from the air. "I've got plenty of space on this couch." Giving him a wink while opening a spot for him. The L shaped couch had this perfect spot in the corner. Cushions and blankets, space to stretch your legs. From day one, it's been a battle who sat there first.

"You're a lifesaver, you know that?" Jumping on the couch, thanking you with a long deep kiss. Before curling into your embrace between the blankets and cushions. His back snuggled up tight against your chest, allowing you to put an arm around his torso. "How did you figure this out?" He asks, pulling the blankets back into position.

"I knew it hindered you. I've seen you struggle before. But I wasn't aware how much more it affected you on set."

"I'm not proud of it." He sighs. "But please understand I wasn't trying to hide that from you on purpose. I... just didn't want you to worry."

"It's alright." Resting your head against his. "I'm just glad Harrison told me." Feeling all dreamy and happy Tom was himself again. "That's why I took a sort of course on it."

"Are you... for real?" He turned and raised himself on his arms, hovering mere inches away from you. A look of wonder painted across his face.

"I am, I've got the certificate lying around here somewhere." You said with a stretching smile. Actually feeling a bit proud of it. "I did because I wanted to get a better understanding of it all. The differences and variants and all that. But most importantly, how to help someone who has it. To help you. To lend you a hand. Give you tips and tricks. Because for me, it's been incredibly difficult to see you struggle. I've felt helpless for long enough."

"Darling." Tom lying on top of your chest, dragging himself upwards to kiss you. "That's incredible. But how'd you manage that besides the rest you do? You already have so little time for yourself. If you'd ask-..."

"Tom, I know you. If I'd ask you... you would have said no. I mean… you can be quite stubborn." Booping his nose with your finger. "You're a hardworking guy. You can take on the whole world if you need to. You played in the biggest movies with the greatest of actors. And turned into one. You became a role model for an entire generation. You're at the top of your career." Combing your fingers through his lovely brown curls, sighing dreamily. "And you deserve every bit of it. Yet there's so much weight on your shoulders. The eyes of the world are on you all the time. So, if there's one thing that hinders you from doing the things you love. I'll do anything to help you with that."

"Oh my God, babe..." His eyes sparkled with life, staring deep into yours with adoration, joy, and pride. You pull him closer to you. Feeling so comfortable together. Watching him, sucking on his lower lip, eyes slowly turning red, rubbing his face with one hand. Slow and steady, a small tear began to roll down his cheeks. You manage to catch it with the pad of your thumb before Tom connects his lips with yours. A passionate and loving kiss, deepening it by the grace of this hands on your cheek. "That is the sweetest thing you ever said to me." Crossing his arm on your chest, head on top, swaying with the heaves off your breathing.

"Tom, what does it say about a person, who faces his personal dilemma every single day, head-on, so he can do the thing he loves doing most?" Pressing a kiss on his forehead. "That takes guts. Determination. And a ton of it as well. I admire that in you. I really do."

"Shit..." Pushing the tears from his eyes. "I… I never knew you thought of me like that. I feel even more terrible about today. I'm so sorry." Kissing your lips in rapid succession.

"Don't stress it, we all have our off days." Pulling his soft lips back onto yours. "Even Spiderman."

"Tell me, love, what's your secret?" Snuggling closer to you. "You're always so calm. Always smiling. You radiate peace. How do you do it? It's like you don't have bad days."

"It's because of you, Tommy. I have you…"

"That leaves me with little to top that." A smile of pure joy and pride beamed onto you. "You're really special to me, you realize that?" He is cupping your cheeks with both his hands, leaning into you, and taking your lips onto his. Following into a long, tender kiss to strengthen his words. "I love you so much."

"I'll always be there for you, Tom." Feeling a small tear roll down your cheek. "Always."

The brown-eyed boy's gaze was so intense, so unbroken. Full of love. "I'll be with you." He whispers back. "Till' the very end."

#tom holland x reader #tom holland x male reader #tom holland x male!reader #tom holland x you #tom holland one shot #tom holland male reader #tom holland male!reader #male reader #male!reader #tom holland request #requests #male reader request

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nazyalenskyism · 4 years

Text

Shadows in My Mind

Summary: It wasn't supposed to happen like this, not yet. A/N: I really don't know how to tag this fic but it's been sitting in my drafts for a few months and I hope you like it! As always feedback appreciated, and thanks for taking the time to read! <3 The rest of the fic is under the cut!

Ao3: Shadows in My Mind

“No,” she hissed, pressing all of her weight into her hands but the pallor of his skin kept worsening despite her efforts. “No. Hey. Stay awake!” Zoya snapped, tapping his cheek with her blood stained fingers. She fought back a wince as she left scarlet prints on his face, his unfocused eyes fluttering open at the sharp pain she’d dealt him. “I won’t let you leave me, you idiot. You’re not allowed to leave.” Zoya couldn’t even summon the horror that would usually wash over her when tears rose in her eyes. She rarely let them fall, but now, they streamed down her face as her best efforts yielded no results. She continued pushing down on the wound, feeling Nikolai’s weary gaze on her when she paused for a moment, using her Squallers’ abilities to throw her voice, calling for someone, anyone, even though she knew there would be no answer. ‘This can’t be how this ends,’ Zoya let herself despair for a moment before turning back to Nikolai, ‘he was supposed to have more time.’ She steeled herself, ripping off a sleeve of her bloodied and torn shirt, pressing it into the wound. Her bones were tired, her powers screaming, she wanted nothing more than to curl up on the ground and close her eyes, but she couldn’t afford that-- not until she’d saved Nikolai. ‘If I save him, then everything will be fine.’

“Okay,” she whispered, “okay, we can do this. I just have to reapply pressure before I get you onto your feet.” She reached out, faltering when warm fingers wrapped around her wrist. Nikolai looked up at her, pale, bloodied and beaten, but his eyes were still bright. “Nikolai you need to stand up, if you can walk, we’ll do that, or I’ll carry you.” ‘Whatever it takes,’ she thought, trying to pull herself from his grip, but he was surprisingly strong.

“Zoya,” he said hoarsely, “it’s no use, dear.”

“No,” she snapped, looking at him incredulously, “you’re always the one babbling on about hope and optimism, you do not get to tell me it’s futile. Not now,” but in her heart, she realized that she was at yet another funeral, being left behind again. He was going to leave her. He had promised that he would come back. He was leaving her.

“Nazyalensky,” Nikolai muttered, fingers brushing away the tears that had spilled from her eyes. “Don’t shed tears for me, I don’t like seeing you cry.”

“Well I don’t like seeing you--” she broke off, she couldn’t do this.

“Hey,” he said softly, “I need you to go back to the others, there’s a document with the finance minister, and another with Tolya. I need you to put them into action immediately, don’t give anyone a chance to hurt our country.”

‘Our country’. “You’re not thinking about Ravka, not right now.”

“I’m running low on moments,” he replied, and to her horror his eyes were shining too.

“We can try,” she insisted, “we can’t be too far from the others.”

“No,” he said firmly, “I’m fine where I am. I need you to do something for me.” She nodded without hesitation and he continued, “let’s pretend we’re an old married couple.”

“What?” Zoya croaked.

“Tell me a lie. Tell me it will be alright,” his eyes were wide, imploring.

She pulled on her best guise, what he’d taught her, how to play the part. “Don’t be daft, of course you’ll be fine. You think that your best general would let you d--” she choked back a sob. “That she would let you die? No, you’re going to make it back to the camp, and the healers will patch you up perfectly, or else they’ll have me to deal with. You’ll ride back to a capital on your favourite horse in your best coat, the victorious king of a resilient country.”

“Will there be a ball in my honour?” the corners of his lips pulled up, “I would’ve loved to dance with every lady in the country.”

“Of course,” she replied, clinging on to the moment, this moment that was just them as if nothing was wrong, as if this was not their last moment like this. “They’ll write ballads in your honour, and perform hours into the night, the festivities will last for weeks, until you can’t stomach any more parties. All the ladies will be fawning over a chance to dance with their handsome king”

“Handsome?” he let out a laugh, wincing immediately, clutching at the wound in his side. Zoya carefully peeled his hand back, replacing it with her own over the injury. She tried not to think about how feverish his skin was under her hand, how his blood had soaked through the fabric of her balled shirt sleeve. ‘I need to remember everything about this moment.’

“Yes. Handsome.”

His eyes found hers, a steadfast sincerity behind them. “You’re forgetting how the king may dance with every woman in the country, but the entire evening, his eyes will only be on one.”

“You will meet a nice girl, fall hopelessly in love, have too many children to inherit your throne, and you will grow old with a family and country that love you as you deserve, ” Zoya continued, attempting to ignore his words, the look in his eyes.

“The woman whose name the wind whispers in his dreams.”

She pushed on, “you will be a fantastic king, you will--”

“And if he never summoned the courage to follow his heart, he would spend every day of the rest of his life wondering what could have been if he had been able to make a queen out of his ruthless general.”

“Nikolai--”

“Zoya,” he whispered, “I fear that I don’t have much time left. Can I ask of one more favour from you?”

“I thought kings never begged.” She bit out as Nikolai pushed aside new tears, his hand warm against her cheek.

He gave her a sad smile, “is it truly begging when asking something of a queen? If not, then it will be our secret.” His voice was growing fainter with each word and Zoya felt her heart lurching. She was not ready. ‘Help me’ she implored to the dragon inside her, but the Saints were quiet, like they always were. No one would be coming to save her, they never did.

She nodded resolutely, “what do you need?”

“Will you kiss me sweetly? In my dreams you always do, and this seems like nothing if not a dream of mine.”

“Nikolai you--”

“Nazyalensky, humour me please. I know you don’t share my sentiments but--”

He was cut off as Zoya dipped down, pressing her lips against his fiercely with years worth of longing, hope, desperation combined with her heart’s mournful goodbye to a future they would never see. His arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her closer, kissing her harder until she felt like she couldn’t breathe.

She pulled back slightly, her forehead resting against his. “That was sweeter than I ever dreamed,” he said quietly.

Zoya took his hand in hers, “don’t go.”

“I have to,” his voice was barely there now. She drew back, his fluttering eyelids racking another sob from her chest. “I’ll see you again one day, I hope.” He pushed open his eyes, gazing at her intently, as if struggling to commit each detail to memory, to hold onto the picture for a moment longer. “Don’t forget me.” Nikolai drew their intertwined hands towards him, pressing a brief kiss against her knuckles.

“I won’t.”

“I know,” he smiled up at her, before closing his eyes. “I’m only going to take a short nap, Zoya dear. Wake me up when our friends are here.”

She was fully weeping now, “I will, Nikolai. I will.”

The world was quiet for a few moments, Nikolai’s slowing breaths the only sound.

Then, as quick as sleep, he was gone.

For a shining moment, she didn’t believe it, but it shattered all too quickly when she pressed her fingers to his neck. Nothing. He was truly gone.

“No, no, no,” she murmured, throwing herself over his warm body, crying out as she felt the wind knock out of her chest, her lungs aching from impact. A searing bright light and stars engulfed her vision and she fell back, breathless, cold, smooth tile delivering another blow to her battered body.

She blinked rapidly, attempting to right herself, her surroundings only just beginning to register in her mind. She was in a secret cell hidden behind the Darkling’s, now Nikolai’s war room in the Little Palace. It was the place that they were keeping the Darkling— or at least had been— until he had escaped, wreaking havoc and delivering the fatal blow to Nikolai.

‘Nikolai,’ Zoya thought, scrambling to her feet despite the pain. How had she gotten here? She had been in the middle of a barren battlefield, her body thrown over her king’s lifeless one… had she been captured? Where was his body? Zoya glanced down at the broken skin on her hands that had braced her fall backwards. They were clean, no trace blood. She frowned, her shirt was whole, her kefta clasped overtop of it. Last she’d remembered, it had been torn off her back as she fought in battle. Looking up, Zoya found a chair that had toppled over laying at her feet, and a metal table before her, and behind it, was the Darkling, a predatory smile playing at his lips.

“Did you like that little dream?” his voice was as smooth as glass, his hands bound together before him. “All those tears for your little boy king, did you cry like that for me, Zoya?”

She said nothing, her head still fuzzy. ‘What was happening?’

“No,” he continued, his eyes fixed on her, trying to gauge her emotions. She knew this game, he found the gaps in your armor and twisted the knife until you were writhing on the floor and he was satisfied with his work. “I don’t suppose you did, you were pretending to hate me at the time, what with the way that you turned against me,” he sneered, raising an eyebrow at her unflinching demeanor. So it had all been fake? Then why did it feel so real? She could feel Nikolai’s lifeless presence over her like an enormous weight, even now.

“What was that?” Zoya asked, pushing to make her tone as even as possible. Her fingers dug into her crossed arms, forcing herself to stay in place. She needed answers, she couldn’t afford to run out of the room and make sure that Nikolai was actually okay. As her head cleared, she began to remember what had happened. She’d volunteered to try to get the Darkling to talk, she hadn’t wanted anyone else to have to deal with him. It was her fault that he was back and she refused to let him hurt her friends again. Nikolai had been hesitant, and the look he’d given her at the meeting was puzzling. She had assumed it was because of the story she’d told him that night in the Fold, about what the Darkling had said to her. But now, after whatever she had just experienced, she wasn’t so sure.

“That,” the Darkling began, pulling Zoya’s attention back to him. “That was a little glimpse into your future.”

Zoya rolled her eyes, unable to help herself, “let me guess, that’s what’ll happen if I don’t let you go?”

“No,” he leaned back in his chair, “it’s inevitable now, that’s the only outcome left after what you and your prince did in the fold.”

“King,” she replied absently. She didn’t believe him for a second, but the vision had been so real-- she could still feel Nikolai’s blood on her hands, his lips pressing against hers, his lack of a pulse under her frantic fingers. It wasn’t real, and it wasn’t her future. The Saints hadn’t been able to determine this for her and she sure as hell wasn’t going to let the man in front of her try to.

“So it can’t be stopped then?”

He looked up at her, “oh noble Zoya, so desperate to save everyone. First it was those cubs, then your aunt, Juris, and now the Lantsov pup. As much as you try, they all die in the end. The sooner you learn that, the easier it will be.”

‘No. No. You don’t let him play these games.’ Her inner thoughts were echoed by the dragon inside of her, and it took everything to stop herself from slamming the Darkling’s face into the table. As she took a step towards him, planning her next move with blood roaring in her ears, the door behind her flung open.

“Zoya, we need you.”

She frowned, she needed answers. “ Give me a minute,” she called.

“Now, Commander.”

“Ask your little king how he felt about that vision.”

Zoya spun around on him, unable to hide her shock. “You showed it to him?

“Why don’t you ask him what it felt like to die? He should remember that feeling, it’s going to happen again sooner than later.”

Zoya forced her feet out the door, slamming it behind her as she followed Tolya into the viewing room, where a mirror looked out at their prisoner.

“What is it?”

“What happened in there? You froze, and the next thing I knew you were crashing to the ground.”

She waved him off impatiently, her heart still racing from the Darkling’s parting words, “where’s Nikolai?”

“He’s with Ehri in the gardens, why?”

“Go check,” she said, her chest tightening, “go check on them now.”

“What’s wrong?” he asked, briefly touching her arm. His face was full of concern and Zoya couldn’t take anymore heartbreak now. She couldn’t imagine the possibility that anything might take her friends from her.

“I’m fine,” she snapped. “Go now, and check on David and Genya and Tamar too, that’s an order.”

He shot her another puzzled look before leaving her alone in the observation room, while the quiet slowly began to consume her. She didn’t order her friends around, not like that, but with every passing second she felt more of her control slip away. Her heart was full of pain, she couldn’t see anything but red.

He’s fine, it’s alright. They’re all unharmed. But it wasn’t enough. She sank to the floor, knees drawn to her chest, numb as the dream repeated itself again and again in her mind. All the while her king strolled through the gardens, entertaining his future queen at his side, unaware that all she could feel was his lifeless body under her, as she watched him die over and over again.

#zoyalai #zoya nazyalensky #nikolai lantsov #zoyalai fic #tgt #the grishaverse #king of scars #king of scars fic #rule of wolves #row fic #kos #row

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coffeeandcalligraphy · 4 years

Text

Weeping Statue | Feeding Habits Update #6 & let’s chat about quitting writing

Hello! Are we back for another Feeding Habits update (finally)?? Let’s chat chapter 7, Weeping Statue.

Just a reminder: This is my original work and plagiarism of any form will not be tolerated.

Can we talk about struggle? Because this chapter was IT. I believe I started it in late July and finished it earlier this month. I’ve taken my time with chapters before, but this was next level--the amounts of changes I went through in one chapter was astronomical, and reminded me of drafting chapter three earlier in the summer. I went through so many stages writing this chapter: from enjoying it, to feeling no joy from writing at all, to nearly quitting this book altogether!

Scene A:

Harrison and his mother Suzanna simultaneously avoid each other over breakfast after he failed to return home the night previous

She lowkey calls him out (calling out his denial of missing Lonan)

Scene B:

Harrison goes to a farmhouse owned by Theodore Harvey, a friend of his mother’s, to drop off the rescued litter of kittens from chapter 6. He realizes he is missing one kitten and concludes Reeve has stolen one after dinner the night previous.

Scene C:

Harvey invites Harrison inside for coffee where he admits his coffee machine is broken.

Harrison fixes the coffee machine, and is hired by Harvey to flip the rest of the farmhouse as he and his wife are moving.

Scene D:

On his way home, Harrison stops at a gas station where he buys a bouquet of tulips for his mother, a dog collar for the puppy he found in the kitten litter, a pack of gum, pastries, and sunscreen before heading to a beach.

At the onset of a lightning storm, Harrison swims in the ocean and has an epiphany--he decides to accept his miserable life (a development!)

Scene E:

After the beach ordeal, Harrison returns to his apartment ready to accept the plainness of his daily life when an old ghost from his past (his! ex!) Lonan appears to be having dinner with Suzanna

This chapter brought so many things. A) many... breakdowns lol (I cried a lot!), B) many false epiphanies that wound me back into ruts, C) a desire to quit this series that was just as terrifying as it sounds and D) an ideology I never would’ve gotten on my own. Just have to thank my sister Sarah for telling me a few weeks ago after I insisted that I knew what needed to logically happen but couldn’t write it no matter how hard I tried. She said: “It’s not about what works, it’s about what you want” << literally changed my philosophy on writing, even as someone who tries their best to advocate for care and enjoyment in writing. Not sure if it’s because of the timing when she said this, but I’d probably never had made it out of the rut without having this said to me.

I was *not* planning at all to have my boys reunite so soon in the book. Technically, it is not very soon and we are almost done the book, but for some reason, I really didn’t think it would work so early because I felt Harrison’s POV was so undeveloped already (I still think it is). HOWEVER, the fact of the matter is: it was not working at all. I knew exactly what I needed to do to get to point A to Z but the thing about writing is, it is not formulaic! I tried to make fit what I thought worked, but as time progressed and I immensely struggled, less and less did I want what worked. Writing was miserable and that’s not what I want writing to be for me. So I took Sarah’s advice, and I did what would make me happy, and that was, and has always been, seeing my boys interact.

Now that I’ve finished this chapter, I’m not sure if I made the right decision! I have yet to write the boys interacting so I don’t know if it will work, but what I liked about this method is that it freed me from this constriction I’d written myself into and opened a new avenue to do something that DOESN’T “work” for the story but that does work for me. To me, this project, this series, is more important to me than making something “work”. Sustaining my health and happiness (which were declining on the path I was on) is critical for me and my writing journey.

EDIT: by the time I’m editing this post, I have written the boys interacting and haha yep this was the right decision! Was doubting myself for a sec, added in a lil robbery, and now it’s all good (oops)

Excerpts:

I don’t have too many for you because this chapter does need an edit to “set” it in place (right now it feels like liquid Jello that has been in the fridge but is yet to set up). I know it needs one more scene but I cannot :) write :) what :) it :) needs :) no matter how hard I have tried, and so I am giving that section of the story a break instead of over-kneading it and toughening up the dough unnecessarily.

Here is part of the opening scene! There are things I don’t like about this but I am trying not to self-hate, so !!!

The next morning, Harrison gets up at dawn to drop the kittens off at the farm, and Suzanna makes coffee for one. This is unusual for both—Harrison rarely leaves the apartment, and Suzanna always makes coffee for two. In his room, Harrison combs his hair and twists his earring, its blue gem pearling in dribbles of sunlight. In the kitchen, Suzanna stirs coffee like it’s wronged her. Harrison dabs cologne onto his throat and blinks off his hangover. Suzanna flecks her spoon onto the tabletop so it leaves an egg of amber on the surface.

When he approaches the kitchen, Harrison pretends he does not see his mother and his mother pretends she does not see him. They move like this, repelled, one moving left, the other moving right, one opening the top cupboard, the other opening the bottom.

Harrison stops at a convenience store and buys a hodge-podge of things (also the beach scene which yes mirrors the last scene in Lonan’s POV hehe I indulge myself):

He picks up the best bouquet of fuchsia tulips, a collar for the dog he left in his bedroom even though it’ll be weeks until she’s big enough to fit in it, a pack of spearmint gum he doesn’t need, a package of pastries, and a tube of sunscreen—SPF 30. He almost drops every item at least once on his way up to the register, and definitely drops them when his receipt is spitting from the machine and the store clerk says she likes his earring—is it vintage—and he nearly vomits in the parking lot, trained against the hood of the taxi—is it even his taxi—the plastic bag teetering from his wrist, rain coiling against his cheek, the air so humid, his clothes so heavy, it is no wonder the next place he ends up is the beach.

It is never smart to swim during a storm. If he thinks hard enough, his mother’s voice warns him to keep from the shore, stand behind the yellow line, stay safe, stay where you are, don’t run under a tree, and even more, don’t run into the water. He does everything wrong in an even worse order—dollops sunscreen into his palm before opening the pastry so his teeth freckles with zinc, chews the gum and the pastry at the same time so his tongue becomes a slime of crumbs, rests the tulips too close to the shoreline so they wilt under a wave, misplaces the dog collar in his own left hand, and dives into the water fully-clothed.

Harrison getting very angsty about Lonan’s future (which he’s predicted completely wrong haha):

He will die alone. Reeve will not think of him again and he will deserve that. Somewhere in the city with the missing kitten, drinking bottles of holy water because there is no drink more fitting for a woman so sacred. His mother will miss him only briefly, and then return to her daily life of no longer needing to clean up after him. Maybe she’ll find the tulips. Put them on display until they wither, then use their carcasses as fertilizer. Save electricity. Use the coffee machine less. Downsize to a smaller, cheaper, prettier apartment with arched walkways and stained-glass windows. Harvey will think he is a fluke who missed his first day of work and will never think of him again. The dog isn’t old enough to recognize him. Suzanna will give her the collar. And Lonan will continue his life in Las Vegas, tottering after Eliza, refilling her wine, getting neon at house parties, watching French silent films without captions because he’s probably learned another language, cut his hair, gotten a tattoo, learned how to cross-stitch, bought life insurance, a yacht, a coastal summer home, learned how to play the mandolin, perfected his lamb sous vide. He’s probably married. Him and Eliza family-planning. He’ll expand a future, and Harrison will do the opposite. There is something freeing in being unmissed.

Lightning snaps across the sky like a wishbone, sounds like the prick of tambourines from under the water. Everything turns violet—the clouds, his skin, the waves. Tomorrow will be a better day, as he sinks lower into the current, tomorrow will be a better day, as the light fades and dissolves into blackness, tomorrow will be a better day, as seaweed wraps his throat, as the freezing water impales his ribs, as he burrows under and simultaneously, rises up.

This next part comes right after!

In the stomach of a tidal wave, the sky is so much bluer. An unrolling of cyan like fractals of a baked marble. There is so little to remember. No grocery lists, no fresh turmeric, no shift of portabella mushrooms. No outstanding to-dos—no kibble to by, no resume to update. Harrison folds in blue and lets it gorge his eardrums. He gives his body to that wide chasm of water and breaststrokes not into a second life, but a third.

Here is the last bit:

He buzzes back into the apartment at 3:00AM, tracking in saltwater and SPF, puff-pastry gummed to his palm, a dog collar wound around his ring finger, a sheath of tulips shedding into the elevator behind him.

He hits every floor button twice and is undisturbed when the elevator lurches and reopens in sixty-second intervals. A man rotating a jade cuff on his wrist gets on at the fourth stop and gets off at the sixth. A woman wearing a lynx cape gets on at the eighth stop, breaks up with two girlfriends, and gets off at the eleventh. Two children in coveralls tail in after she leaves and throw jacks at each other’s eyes until one of them bleeds, and by then, they are on the fifteenth floor and the children are leaving like they have not left behind accidental shell casings. On the sixteenth floor, a deer head chihuahua patters in with no owner and barks at the door chime the moment it releases and lets him out. A mother and daughter shell pistachios on the twentieth, a maintenance man introduces himself as David though his nametag says Maxwell on the twenty-second, a flock of teenage girls in whirl about a new way to blend oil pastel on the twenty-third. So it is no wonder by the twenty-fifth floor, Harrison misses his stop and becomes one of these people too—the man with zinc down his eyes like a weeping statue, juggling pastry and a dog collar and a seedy bouquet of tulips.

He tracks seawater in that hallway, parts of him scattering with the zinc, the petals, the crumbs. Like a way to get back home even though he hasn’t started at his destination, he moves through the labyrinth of halls, both starving and nauseated. Tomorrow he will rise at dawn and taxi to Brooklyn and hammer four nails into two pieces of plywood and repeat. He will feed his dog. Learn how to cook something that will impress his mother, something French that he can’t pronounce like brasillé or oeufs cocotte. Find liberation in the constrict of routine or at least pretend to. It will be good for him, the rising, the taxis, the hammers, the nails, the dog food, the cooking—it will all be good.

By the time he gets to their door, his fingers are oiled and dripping with sunscreen. Rising, taxis, hammers, nails, dog food, cooking. He nearly drops the house keys. Rising, taxis, hammers, nails, dog food, cooking. Tomorrow will be his arrival. Rising, taxis, hammers, nails, dog food, cooking. His beginning swelling as he turns the lock. Rising, taxis, hammers, nails, dog food, cooking. There is no other way out.

The apartment is dark when he tracks in. The scent of cinnamon steeping the air like Suzanna’s pulled a saucepan of papas off the stove. At first he doesn’t hear it, but he should, the voices leafing the kitchen like a flit of moths. He steps out of his shoes but never sets anything down, even after he passes the coffee table. Two plates ringing the centre, streaked with and caldeirada and bayleaf. A pitcher of lemonade sweating onto the glass. It is almost like he never left, like he and his mother shared dinner, sipped from each other’s cups, cleaned the tines of each other’s fishbones. And he almost believes it. He never went to the farm. The kittens are where he left them, just a few feet away, not in Brooklyn. He doesn’t have a job to tend to. He never fixed the coffee machine. He didn’t go to the convenience store. He is not slathered in sunscreen, not holding a dog collar or pastries or a bouquet of tulips. He never dove into the ocean like it was some port to asylum and didn’t emerge soaked and walking half-dead to his apartment because he never left. This reality is so easy to believe, he is unfazed by the voices and how they get louder when he reaches the kitchen, when one says “Were you shopping for the apocalypse?” and the other one chokes on its drink and apologizes for its rudeness and stares at him in daydream, those eyes like forget-me-nots, gas fires, seafoam, the wing of a starling, his drop earring.

Harrison is grateful he is soaking wet when he enters that kitchen and Suzanna and Lonan sit at the table sharing a box of petit fours. At least he has an excuse when he drops everything.

That’s it for this update! The tea starts HERE!

--Rachel

#writing #amwriting #writeblr #writerblr #writingupdates #fostered #mothwork #feedinghabits

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westerhos · 4 years

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Our Story: Chapter 5

Here marks the middle of our tale, that vast, perilous land between the beginning and the end. The going is treacherous in these parts—the wayward couple must heal on their own, tread the sea of two decades with arms and souls akimbo—but still, it is not unnecessary. The middle is never aimless. Always, always, it has one goal: the ending.

When the lights go up and the curtains close, you clap—perhaps, should the couple reunite (which, of course, they will), you shout “Encore, encore!” But then, at last, you return to your car. You catch the train, or you grab a taxi. At last, having started at the beginning and waded through the middle, you reach the final destination. The night is over; you go home.

Home. Whether a place, a person, a feeling, or a thing—it does not matter. Home is always the goal and the ending, the northernmost star we pray to and walk towards.

[December 24th, 1996]

Two weeks’ vacation in a cabin, tucked deep inside a fold of mountains. Here, amongst the stretches of living nothingness, even the silence has a voice. Owls hoot in the night. The pines’ chatter, their needle-whispers pierced by caws and shifted air—a hawk swooping to ensnare her prey. And if one listens closely enough, one can hear the hunter's a shaky, traitorous breath, which launches the doe across the snow—the echo of his heartsong, the drum to which the doe’s hooves beat. Come back, come back, come back.

This is why Jamie has come here: for the endless conversation between man and mountain, more steadfast than the chill in his heart. In the past four years, Jamie has sold the twin cot (it lies in a salvage yard somewhere, all broken springs and dreams). A different couple has moved into the studio, and when they had spoken of paint jobs—“Perhaps mint green, what d’ye say, hon?”— Jamie had thought, Thank God. He’d happily offered them the keys when they turned to him, pupils dilated with youthful optimism. By that point, there was no space for Jamie and Claire inside that Edinburgh Eden, and so he’d chimed in, “Aye, a bonny color.” (Indeed, the walls are mint now, though a forgotten strip of marigold shines in the northern corner.)

For two years, Jamie has lived with Murtagh in Glasgow, having shed not just his home but his editorial career in publishing. He has grown tired of fixing other’s mistakes—too many of his own in need of correction—and so here he sits on this Christmas Eve, writing towards redemption.

The Grampians are a peaceful place, big hulks of rock scattered with trees—bouquets of fir, oak, and pine cradling other cabins. At dark, their windows flicker, candlelit with the dreams of the aspiring novelists, essayists, playwrights therein. Men and women, all bowed before the cleansing hum of nature’s speech. Like Jamie, they had seen the fliers: WRITER’S RETREAT, TWO WEEKS IN THE MOUNTAINS—and so it was. They were small colony taking its temporary leave, hoping to reconstruct the world according to their own, more favorable terms.

Over supper, the group gathers and shares their ideas: outlines, pieces of dialogue, an inspiring poem they’ve loved since childhood. And while Jamie is generous with his advice, he holds his notebooks against his chest. Enraptured by this warm aloofness (for is it not the way of all great wordsmiths?), the others whisper behind their palms, “Have you read Fraser’s story?” Into napkins, “No, have you?”

But among the fifteen guests, only one has read Jamie’s story—and tonight, Jamie waits for her inside his cabin. His latest draft is fanned around him, some sections highlighted and others slashed. They are not unlike Claire’s old strike-throughs, which had snipped the would-be Dalhousie and eventually, Jamie’s own name, from her life (a reclamation of Beauchamp, a transformation to Randall). Among Jamie’s scribbles are his friend’s edits, which are much more forgiving, much less forceful than the lines of his own red pen. Each comment reads like a bashful request: “More clarity?”, “Switch the verb here?”, “Too many adjectives?” as if she needs permission to occupy the margins. Should I really be reading this?, she seems to say, the bare-backed rawness making her squirm.

But she is helping him, his friend. And so she sees Jamie’s drafts before John, his agent, and before Fergus, his assistant and most loyal advocate. With each comment, she brings him closer to understanding, to the better beginning, middle and end. Note by note, to the way his story (their story, for it can never be Jamie’s alone) should be. All rhymes and logic, had it not veered off-course.

Is Alexander too cold here? Shouldn’t he say something? (He should have.)

It seems out of character for Alexander to never visit his daughter’s grave? (Grief carves cowards out of heroes.)

Shouldn’t he try to win Elizabeth back? (God, yes. He should have tried harder.)

The knock comes three minutes later, as expected.

“Hello?”

“Door’s unlocked.”

“Oh!” A muffled apology, embarrassment for the delay. “Sorry,” the visitor says. “It’s late. Didna ken if ye still wanted to talk or not. I brought—well, I finished reading your last chapter.”

And now another player enters this fifth act, tip-toes quietly onto the stage. Only a slip of a thing in the cabin’s doorway, cheeks pinked by the storm’s sharp nip. She is Jamie’s friend-slash-critique partner, and even her entrance is punctuated by a question mark. The score of owl, pine, hawk and hunter swells, buffeted now by new notes: the crack of chapped lips smiling, the anxious shuffle of papers, and—

“Dinna fash, I couldna sleep anyways,” Jamie assures her. “Did ye like it, though? The new ending?”

His friend inhales sharply, stealing as much oxygen as the room will allow. Everything—the threadbare futon, the TV’s antennae, the welcome mat and Jamie’s body—bends towards some invisible presence. A ghost between between all.

“It was…a bit different from the last one.”

“I’ll take that as a ‘Nay, I didna like it.’”

She looks shyly at the ground, one foot treading nervous circles into the planks.

“It was a bit too sentimental is all. After everything. All that time and silence…D’ye really think Alex and Lizzie could make it?”

Her words are a blow to Jamie’s stomach, and the pages are fire in his hands. He puts them down, wants to thrust himself under a blanket of snow to freeze the flames.

“In a fairy tale, maybe, but life isna a fairy tale. And d’ye no want to write truths?” She looks up, and her eyes gore him. “This story isna a fairy tale either, Jamie. Yours never are.”

“Aye…aye, I s’pose they’re not,” he replies, thinking of his other novels and short stories, essays and poems. Each accepted by John’s gimlet eye, only to meet their end in a publisher’s slush pile. (“Too dark, too wallowing,” an editor once wrote.)

“Give it another go. I’ll help ye tomorrow, if ye’d like,” his friend offers. “Three days left. I reckon we’ve time to sort the kinks, right the wrongs.” (Three days will never be enough for Jamie’s wrongs.)

“I’d appreciate that, lass. Verra much.”

His friend looks behind her and at the moon, a shy sickle in the sky. It draws her toward the door and the snow-covered mountainside.

“Weel, it’s a long walk back,” she says. “Wanted to give ye that before the morning, so I guess I’ll just…”

“Will ye stay with me tonight?” Jamie blurts. And he hates himself for saying this, the way it sounds outside his mouth and inside his cabin, landing on the unmade bed. Its despair makes it ugly. But.

But if his friend stays, Jamie thinks, perhaps the emptiness will leave. If his friend stays, perhaps his story will correct itself, falling into its natural rhythm, by the force of whatever solace she can give him.

“It’s Christmas Eve,” he continues, “and I…I dinna want to be alone.”

She pauses, thinks it over before saying, “Okay. Just for a bit?” (Just for a bit? Another loaded question, and one he doesn’t want to answer.)

“Thank you,” Jamie whispers, and Mary McNab removes her coat.

____

Long before daybreak, Jamie wakes. He gathers his draft, made complete by that final failing chapter, into a single stack. He retrieves a box from his suitcase, which is swathed in his old holiday sweater, and it speaks to him. A quiet loudness, like the murmur of the Grampians. You mean your lager-stained pullover? With the Santa looks that looks like he’s got vomit in his beard?

Inside the box is a gift—a vase, azure porcelain—though Jamie has no plans to send it across the Atlantic, to the Boston apartment where his ex-wife kisses another man. No. This vase will stay with Jamie, forever hidden on the high shelf of a closet, or exiled to the back corner of a desk drawer. Like his grief, it is something that he owns—this small cut from a cloth of unraveled dreams—to be kept and locked safely away. There, there, always there. All fancy people have vases.

Jamie wraps the box with his manuscript. One by one, he folds the pages over and under, seals the edges with tape to form an inch-thick layer. So much history around this small, delicate thing—their story, with the ending Jamie cannot use and which cannot be the truth. At last, he cuts the string of wool, which still drips from his sweater after all these years, and it rasps, Do we have time? Of course we do.

Finally, Jamie weeps—a mournful sound that joins the chorus of this great, big mountain—and ties a frayed, red bow.

____

(Jamie does not realize that Mary watches him from the bed. “Tell me about her,” she wants to say—for once a statement and not a question—but she does not. Instead, she calls to Jamie, presses her goosefleshed nakedness to his. And as they move together, slow but unfeeling, she pretends she is a vessel. Closes her eyes. Makes room for the ghost. I’m Claire Beauchamp. Just plain Claire Beauchamp.)

____

Here, the idea of a writer’s retreat, the introduction, and the parentheticals (although those are also inspired by one of my favorite authors Kate Atkinson) are my lame attempts at trying to be Lauren Groff. Actually, the next handful of chapters are the result of my obsession with her novel Fates and Furies—which you should absolutely go read, right now.

One of my favorite parts about writing a modern AU is finding ways to fit in canon characters or references. I started this chapter having no idea who Jamie’s critique partner was, but it very quickly came together once there was a remote cabin, Jamie inside it, and a woman coming to visit him. I hope the reveal is at least somewhat...fun? The vase is also obviously a nod to Outlander, and, well, I’m assuming y’all caught on to Jamie’s character names (a bit on the nose, lmao).

I’m not crazy about this introduction (it’s...a bit much...but it’s meant to tie into the introduction of Chapter 1), but the final paragraph from Mary’s POV is actually one of my favorite paragraphs in the whole fic.

I also think I wrote this during a snowstorm, wheeeee!

#myfic #outlander #claire beauchamp #jamie fraser

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k7l4d4 · 3 years

Text

Midnight Striga: Fairy Tail/Owl House Cross Fic Episode 5 Part 9

Hello all, I am back with another exciting segment of Midnight Striga!! Admittedly, this one is slower than the prior chapter, but I still hope you all enjoy it.

Lilith strode forth, Eda hot on her heels. They circled through the Covention, spotting the representatives from the Major Nine assisting. The Construction Coven workers were rapidly working on structural damage dealt to key pillars and walls, members of the invading force held tightly by hastily assembled cells and chains, the Construction Head, and Lilith was genuinely puzzled as to where he had come from, looming over the invaders, personally guarding them. The Oracle, Healing, and Illusion Covens were working in concert, with the Oracles tracking down trapped or injured citizens while Illusionists either guided them to safety, or rescue workers to their locations, and the Healers had set up a clinic to attend to the injured.

The Plant and Abomination Covens worked to root out and capture the remaining attackers, many of whom were thrown into those same cells she had passed alongside the Construction Coven. The Beast Keeping Coven members used their abilities to track down and locate those stuck in areas inaccessible to the abilities of Oracles, allowing rescue workers to bring them to safety, the Bards using their magic to manipulate the pieces that the Construction members couldn’t move safely. The sight of the Covens working together, in harmony, brought a melancholy smile to Lilith’s face. Her mood plummeted further, however, when she saw the bodies.

Piles of corpses, so many they couldn’t lay them out properly and were overlapping in awkward lumps, were arranged before the Healers’ Clinic, families weeping over their loved ones, the ones who had been present with them at least. The rest would need to be informed. And not to mention the numerous corpses of Guards, some having died cleanly… others not so much. Titan, she really was a failure, wasn’t she? Shaking herself from her self-loathing, she turned to her sister. “Edalyn, I must ask, but do you have any idea what has occurred?”

“Well, from the looks of it, a huge fight.” Eda said, faux-humorously. Before Lilith could snap at her, she continued. “But seriously, while you were stuck in la-la land, that guy, Rudolph he called himself, said he and his group were part of the ‘Black Dog Squadron’ whatever that means, and that they were here to kill everyone for someone or something called Oroboros. Beyond that, I couldn’t say.” She recalled, face grave.

Lilith bit back a curse. Taking a deep, calming breath, she attempted to draw more information out of her sister; out of all the adults on the Isles, Eda’s knowledge of humans was estimated to be some of the best, by virtue of her regularly full stores of ‘treasures’ to sell. “Edalyn, I am begging you, if you have any knowledge of how this…” She gestured, to the corpses, to the crying parents and children, the ruined stands and damaged walls, ”all happened, I need you to tell me!” She pleaded.

Eda leveled an even stare on her sister, before slowly replying. “Lily, I had no idea how this happened, or what went into it occurring. As much as I hate Bonehead, if I had ANY idea that something like this was going on, I would’ve either let you know, or tried to stop it beforehand myself, maybe both.” Lilith searched her eyes, an almost desperate light burning within her, before sighing, accepting Eda’s words.

“As much as it pains me to say this, I will likely need your help for the moment.” Lilith said as evenly as she could, the bitter sting of acknowledging just how much her sister still outclassed her rearing its ugly head. “If any of these scavengers are still lurking about that are on the level of that maniac Rudolph, I will likely need your skill to defeat them before they can wreak further havoc.”

“Heh, glad to see you finally admitting my skills,” Eda preened, oblivious to Lilith's mood plummeting at her statement, before growing serious. “And yeah, of course. We may have had our differences, but I’m not gonna cut and run when kids are in the crossfire.”

Lilith nodded, relieved. She hated that she felt relieved; it was just another admittance of how Eda was better than her. Still, Lilith took in the sight of the dead guards, the mutilated children, and felt her resolve harden. It didn’t matter if Eda was better than her right now; justice was what was needed, and she would bring about that justice. She felt her eyes mist. It was the least she could do, as penance for failing them.

Throwing up her arms in confusion, Lilith exclaimed. “What I truly wish to know is how did Humans gain the ability to wield magic!? It should be impossible!! They lack a bile sack, so how did that-that maniac cast those spells!” She whirled on her sister. “Please tell me you didn’t know about this?”

Eda shrugged, feeling guiltily amused at Lilith’s flustered panic. “Eh, only for a few weeks or so. And let me tell you, it sure caught me by surprise!” She laughed. Eda paused, a thought occurring to her, but it was one she was hesitant to share. Biting her lip, she carefully broached the topic. “You know, I think I might know someone who could shed a little light on this whole mess.” She said cautiously.

Lilith zipped into Eda’s personal space, tightly gripping the front of her dress. “Truly!?” She asked, pleading honestly. “Where are they? Who are they!?”

“Well first off, personal space sis,” Eda bluntly stated, lightly pushing Lilith out of her comfort zone. Taking a breath, she added, “As to where they are, they honestly should be right here in the Covention.”

Lilith’s face fell, already fearing the worst. “But, if they were here, then wouldn’t they have had to face…” she gestured to one of the attackers being led to the cells, cackling insanely, “ Them?”

“Pffft! If goons like that were a serious problem, I’d be a little worried, but she’s crafty enough to stay alive, heck, she probably beat a few of them!” Eda cackled, before adding, with a hint of nervousness, “And, well, I hate that I got to ask this, Lily, but please keep an open mind when you meet her? Please?”

Lilith gave her sister a flat stare. “Edalyn, I have just had a rather large portion of my worldview regarding humans and the power and stability of the Isles torn out from under me, as have a large group of others. When word starts spreading, I have no doubt that more than a few people will either go into denial or mass hysteria.” She placed her hands on her hips. “Very little could properly phase me at the moment. So yes, Edalyn, I will keep an open mind.” She said the last part so dry and sarcastically that, if this weren’t serious, Eda would’ve been so proud to call them sisters. Eda nodded grudgingly, accepting her promise. With that, the two headed out. Eda really hoped the kid was okay.

Luz gasped and sputtered, nearly choking on her tears. Willow slowly rubbed circles on her back, calming some of her heaving and screams. Gus and Amity stood on the side, both feeling lost and awkward; neither was as close to Luz as Willow, but neither wanted to see the girl in such despair either. All three just wanted to know what was going on.

“Sshh… sshh… it’s gonna be okay.” Willow whispered, unbothered by the tears staining her dress; it had already been ruined from the blood and grime of the battlefield the Covention had turned into, but even if it was fresh and clean, Willow would gladly soil it for a friend to cry on. “You can talk to us, okay? And if you don’t want to, we’ll be here anyway.”

“She-She can’t be alive!!” Luz spluttered, tears clogging her throat. “She can’t be!! I can’t have abandoned her!” She wailed. It had to be a lie, it had to be!! Because, if it wasn’t… Luz would never be able to stop until she saved her, no matter what she’d have to do in order to do it.

“Who?” Amity hesitantly asked.

“My hostage.” Luz said glumly, her tears drying up for the moment. She reached into her jacket, pulling out a photo tucked inside, showing it to them, a watery smile forming on her face. “My sister.”

“Sister?” The group echoed, leaning forward. Staring back at them was a picture of Luz and, well, Luz! Or rather, they saw Luz standing by what they presumed was her identical twin. The two were still very much distinguishable from one another. The one on the left was clearly the Luz they knew, having a similar style, a wild and reckless grin stretched across her face. The one on the right, however, was shyly glancing away, a nervous smile on her face, hair tied back neatly with a pair of clips.

“Yeah, Vee.” Luz said, a melancholy look of remembrance on her face. “She was always my leash, even before I got drafted into Oroboros. Whenever I had some crazy idea, she’d talk me through it before I did something stupid.”

Willow and Gus sat down beside her, leaning close, Amity standing a respectful distance behind them, clearly listening. Luz continued. “One time, I got this idea to make home-made Lacrimas by shoving a bunch of magic into one spot, and Vee reminded me that neither of us knew how Lacrimas formed, and just stuffing magic into things blew them up.” She snickered, a tear tracing down her cheek. “And this one time, I was gonna try and tame a Wyvern, I actually went out and did it even! But then, Vee reminded me we had nowhere to keep it, and no way to feed it, so I found it a nice hunting ground, and convinced it to defend a nearby town.” She laughed out loud, a heavy, full-belly laugh that sent her sprawling, tears leaking.

She paused, tears in her eyes. “She was my best friend, the person who made every day away from home something bearable. She was my anchor, my rock, and Oroboros used her against me.” Her fingers dug into her hand, a pained look crossing her features. “If she’s actually been alive this whole time…” Her tears were cut off when Willow and Gus hugged her, both having tears of their own.

“Hey, it’s okay. We’ll get through this.” Willow stated, pulling away and looking Luz straight in the eye. “Oroboros is going to keep coming after the Isles, so you’ll probably get an answer one way or another. And either way, I’ll be right by your side.”

“And the same goes for me!” Gus chimed in. “Plus, my dad’s a reporter, so I can help find out new info for you to go off of!”

“And if I am available, I would not be averse to using my magic to fight against those who’ve threatened the Isles. Rescuing an innocent will be a nice bonus, I’d say.” Amity primly stated, sporting a confident look.

Luz gave the three an almost awestruck look. “You guys.”

“GET AWAY FROM THEM!!” A voice screamed, drawing their attention. Luz’s eyes widened as Lilith Clawthorne, Eda’s apparent sister, rocketed towards her, staff glowing with magic, her eyes burning with rage. Before she could smash Luz’s face in, however, Eda jumped in, tackling her sister to the ground.

“Sheesh, Lily! Chill out!” Eda cried, desperately wrestling her sister to the ground. “I told you to keep an open mind, remember?”

“What does that have to do with-” Lilith ranted, only to pause, eyes widening in realization. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.” She groaned, hanging her head as Eda sheepishly chuckled.

“U-um… Eda, what’s happening?” Luz tentatively asked.

Eda really wanted to ask Luz why she’d been crying, but decided to put it off, focusing on the current issue. “Well,” She drawled, “My prissy sis here wanted info on everything that happened. And after thinking it over, I thought you’d be the best person to give it to her.” Eda stated, pointing at Luz decisively. As unbalanced as Luz’s emotions were at the moment, she could see the logic in that.

“Seriously!?” Gus cried, incredulous. “After what she just learned!?”

Eda blinked. “What? What’d she learn?” She asked, figuring that whatever it was was the reason behind Luz’s tears.

“Something we can talk about later. In. Private.” Luz stated, her face screaming ‘let it go for now!’ Eda grudgingly agreed.

“Ugh, can we please move back on to the topic of information?” Lilith growled, pulling herself up. She loomed over Luz, a suspicious glare emblazoned across her features. “I have a great many questions for you, human.”

“And I’m perfectly willing to answer them, Miss Clawthorne.” Luz replied, unblinking. She glanced around, taking note of the damage around them. “But maybe it’d be better if we went somewhere more private for this?”

Lilith nodded, seeing the logic in that. “Indeed, better we not be interrupted.” She turned to her sister. “If that is acceptable for you, Edalyn?” She asked, getting a shrug and a nod in return, the Witchlings following Eda’s lead. Lilith clapped her hands. “Well then, we’d better be going back to the main center, as I recall seeing the Covens building something of a camp there to deal with the aftermath of this mess. The Healer’s Clinic should have a room we can use.” And with that the group set off, a tension running through them after their collective ordeal.

Emira paced, frantically glancing about the interior of the Healer’s Station, Edric gloomily slumped next to her. Her eyes scanned the nearby groups, hoping to spot something, anything, that could give her some hint as to where her sister was. She and Edric knew she was here, but where had she disappeared to after being displayed up there with Lilith was the real question.

“Could you please stop pacing, sis?” Edric groaned, clutching his head. “It’s not going to just make her appear if you keep doing it.”

Emira whirled on her brother, fire in her eyes. “Well what do you expect me to do!? Maniacs barged into the Covention, massacred who knows how many people, and OUR SISTER IS MISSING!!! I don’t have a lot of options right now, now do I?” She brutally snapped, briefly yelling in the middle of it, before fading into a broken tiredness. All those people, those kids, all gone. If her sister was gone like that, and her only memories were of her and Edric pranking her… She looked into Edric’s eyes, and saw the same fear, the hopeless, helpless realization that Amity may be gone, and her only memories of them would be of all the times they gave her trouble.

Edric sighed, tiredly rubbing his eyes. “Believe me sis, I get it, but all we can do is wait, and hope she’s okay.” He patted the spot next to him, a clear invitation to sit. Emira gave one last furtive look around, and glumly complied. The two briefly wondered just how their parents would take all of this.

Bria bit her lip, glancing over at Gavin and Angmar. She didn’t consider them friends, not really. Maybe she’d change that? She wasn’t sure. She wasn’t sure about much right now. She… had been made helpless. Magic like nothing she’d ever seen had been on display, and a LOT of people were dead. She, Gavin, and Angmar WOULD be dead. If it hadn’t been for Matty. Matty; goofy, clumsy, always taking the fall, boasting about his skills Matty, had saved their lives. Tears pricked her eyes, as she remembered how close she’d come to death, the sheer heartlessness on display. Was that what she was like? Some kind of monster? ...Was that what everyone was like at Glandus, behind all the excuses about being powerful?

“Hey, I got your drink!” Matty cheerfully replied, holding a glass out to her.

Bria shot him a half-hearted smile. “Thanks Matty.”

“Eh, it’s no problem.” He said, waving it off. “After all, we’re friends, right?”

“Yeah, friends.” Bria muttered, sipping her drink. Maybe… they really were friends. She’d have to talk to Angmar and Gavin about this. Maybe Hexside was still taking transfers.

Skara listlessly handed supplies to Bo, who was frantically patching up as many injuries as she could. Skara just felt so tired, so hollow. So many people had died. She’d seen little kids ripped apart, their parents crying over their bodies. She’d seen the opposite too, parents being cried over by their kids and family members.

Skara only had eyes for one thing, though. Boscha. Boscha was propped up on a bunk, at least two rows away, but still in Skara’s line of sight. She’d been brought in by a little demon, screaming and demanding that someone help her. Skara felt a twinge of jealousy at the thought that it wasn’t her demanding that someone heal her friend. Oh, wait, they weren’t friends anymore. It still hurt to think about, even though talking with Amity helped. The demon was hovering around Boscha, ranting and ordering around anyone and everyone who got close. In the back of her mind, Skara was honestly impressed at how unrelenting and exacting he was with his demands, even if no one was following them.

Then, Skara caught sight of another body brought in, another corpse. It was Batthew, a nice guy who had flirted with her a few times before. He was sweet, in his own way, and was really fond of going over the top. His throat had been slashed open. Skara didn’t fight the tears as they came.

Lilith pulled up a seat, eyes glaring daggers at the human seated before her. One way or another, she was going to get the answers she needed. She briefly spared a glance at Perry Porter, a known and well-viewed reporter upon the Isles, and one known for being unabashedly honest and direct in his reporting, something that earned him several points with the populous, as they knew they could trust his information. The boy, Augustus, had called him in after they’d gotten to the emergency clinic the Healers had established, citing a need for the people to understand what had happened. Thinking of her own impending reveal to the public, Lilith had agreed. If all turned out well, both could be accomplished together.

Lilith leaned forward. “Now then, human, it’s time for you to answer my questions. The People of the Isles are dying to hear what you have to say.” She said, eyes half-lidded.

Luz placed her hands on her chin, a brave smile on her face. “Ask away. I’m all ears.”

6 notes · View notes

obsidiancreates · 4 years

Text

Shame On a Billboard (Actor Mark)

Mark takes a deep breath, nervously reaching for his bow tie again.

Celine stops his arm, smiling softly. “You’ll make it crooked again.”

Mark sighs. “It’s just-”

“A big moment, I know,” Celine says.

She links her arm with his.

“But I’ll be right beside you.”

Mark smiles gratefully at her.

They share a quick kiss, and face the door.

Together they step out onto that red carpet for the first time.

And the camera lights flash.

When they say; "You and what army?" I guess they're talking about you and me

“Taking the world by storm, Hollywood’s latest power couple,” Damien reads from the paper.

He looks up at The DA over the headline. “That’s my sister,” he says proudly. “My sister and my best friend, taking the world by storm. Can you believe it?”

The DA rolls their eyes fondly.

Damien can’t stop grinning. “Mark’s always been a one-man show in and of himself, and my sister is a one-woman army. Honestly, I’d have been surprised if they didn’t make headlines, working together.”

The DA wads up a bit of paper and tosses it at him. “Yes, yes, you’re very proud. I know.”

Damien laughs when the wad of paper hits him. “They’re going to be able to take over the world, I swear. Power couple indeed.”

Baby, nobody will love you Nobody will love you like, like I do

Mark uncovers his wife’s eyes, and she gasps.

“Mark, this is-”

“Nothing compared to what I want to gift you,” Mark says. She slaps his arm.

“This is outrageous, even for you,” she says, nothing but love in her voice.

“Go ahead, try it out.”

Celine laughs. “This is crazy.”

“Well, I am crazy about you.”

She pretends to gag. “If I take a seat will you stop with the cheesy lines?”

“I’m an actor, my dearest love. You know I can’t. But, for you, I’ll try.”

She gives him a kiss, and walks towards the gift.

A plush, deep red and velvet-cushioned, gold framed throne.

Celine laughs as she sits down, feeling overwhelmed and ridiculous.

She brushes her hand over the armrest, and notices two words, raised just a bit from the rest of the rest.

My Love

Mark beams.

I guess that's half true

William grins, dropping his bags and running up to the steps of his childhood home, to the arms of his his childhood friend, standing next to his childhood cru-

Mark’s wedding ring is cold against William’s arm, and Celine’s glints in the light.

“I’ve missed you,” Mark says, hugging William tightly.

“We both have,” Celine says, smiling with her divine smile.

... Oh.

Oh, William would give her the world to be able to always see that smile.

Come down, come down Come down from your holy mountain

“Already?”

Mark sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I asked to delay filming, but... yes.”

Celine swallows. “How long?”

“... Six months.”

“Six months?! Mark, you’ll miss our anniversary!”

“I’m sorry! You know I don’t want to miss it! But my agent, he says this role could be my big step into breaking away from just... romantic films, into some real works of art.”

Celine sets her jaw. “Mark, please. You’re gone so often now, just- just turn down the role!”

Mark stares at her. “I can’t just turn it down!”

“You can’t miss our anniversary!”

I'm down, I'm down

It would be a hit. A terrible hit. His agent will be furious.

“Celine-”

“I won’t be second to your career,” she says firmly.

The words pierce Mark’s heart like a dagger.

“No, no of course you’re not second.”

... It’ll hurt his career.

...

“I’ll... turn down the role. And we’ll take a trip. Just the two of us.”

Celine’s expression softens. “You mean it?”

Mark steps closer, taking her hands in his, same as he did on their wedding day. “I do. You’re the most important thing in my life. I-I never want to hurt you for some lousy hero role.”

So put your shame on a billboard for a second

Mark tries not to look at the billboard as he drives by it.

... It should be his face up there. His spotlight.

...

The trip had been nice.

Though he’d ached to get home to The Manor the whole time.

Sometimes, sometimes The only way out is through

Mark drags his hands down his face.

The fireplace crackles and flicks, but the room feels oddly cold.

“It’s just a bump in the road,” he says, voice tired.

“How many bumps will there be?” Celine asks, pacing the room. “This bump is a year long, Mark.”

“You could always come with me, you know.”

Celine sighs. “I-I could never-”

“Leave Damien behind for that long,” Mark finishes, rubbing a hair through his messy hair. “I know. You said it last time.”

“... I... could take a few trips out, I suppose.”

Mark nods. “If that’s your ideal solution.”

They’re both quiet for a long while.

'Cause everyone loves Bob Dylan! I just want you to love me like that, yeah

Mark laughs, a practiced and empty laugh, as the fan asks for an autograph.

Celine stands next to him, smile plastered on her face, eyes cold.

Mark’s own plastered on smile droops a bit.

The fan gazes at him adoringly.

Celine looks at him tiredly.

...

He finishes signing.

“Let’s just go home,” he mutters to her once the fan has walked away, clutching their precious piece of paper.

Would you bury me next to Johnny Cash? I'm obsessed Do you love me like that?

“What?”

Mark’s throat feels dry.

“Am I your favorite actor?”

Celine sits up. “Of course. What brought that on?”

... Mark isn’t sure, really. He just...

...

He got... jealous. Of... something.

He’s not sure what.

“You’re telling the truth?”

Celine’s frown deepens. “Yes. Mark, is something wrong?”

You smell different.

I swear you smell like cologne.

That isn’t mine.

I’m not imagining it, I know it.

“... Nothing.”

Yeah

Celine almost pries a bit more... but she gets a sudden chill.

...

There’s no draft. The fireplace is lit.

She goes back to her book.

... Witches, hmm?

So what fates do we share? Windows down, wind in your hair

Celine sighs. “Thank you for this, William. It’s been ages since I’ve been out of that stuffy Manor. I swear the air is thicker in there.”

William tries to keep his eyes on the road, and not her hair, loose around her face, let out of the bun, blown gently by the wind...

“It’s always had it’s own atmosphere,” William says, trying to pay attention to the ring on her finger.

Celine scoffs. “Mark claims to not notice anything. He says it’s easier to breathe in there.”

“... Maybe he’s just homesick. From all the traveling.”

Celine stares out the window, at passing trees and fields. “... Maybe.”

Baby, no one ever thinks of you No one ever thinks of you as much as I do

Mark paces the den floor.

... She and William have been gone... an awfully long time.

No. No, she wouldn’t- he wouldn’t- they wouldn’t-

He ignores the ringing phone.

Where are they? He didn’t even ask where they were going. William just said “on a drive”.

He shakes his head.

He’s just being paranoid. It’s his wife. His best friend, practically brother.

He feels a chill go up his spine, in the windowless room.

...

But what if...

Not, not even you

Celine laughs as she’s dragged up the hill by William.

“I told you a little fresh air was the solution!” he boasts.

Celine hasn’t smiled this genuinely in ages.

“I forgot what freedom feels like,” she says with a laugh.

“Now now, it’s your husband’s job to be in the dramatics. You can go anywhere you want, whenever! Sounds rather free to me.”

Celine sighs, looking out at the grass fields around them. “Mark’s schedule is... filled. Always. And when we do go out... we can never just... be out as us. As Mark and Celine. It’s always as... Markiplier and his loving wife.”

She scowls at the title the headlines so often mistake for her name.

“... That sounds awful,” William says.

She turns to look at him.

Oh, oh, he’d fight a thousand men if it would erase the pain in her eyes.

“... I miss the old days. When we were just... us. Carefree. Deeply in love. Butterflies in our chests whenever we locked eyes...”

William’s heart pounds in his chest as a breeze gently runs it’s hands through Celine’s hair, and he’s sure he’s feeling jealous of the wind.

But then... she sniffs.

William’s eyes leave her locks... and find tears on her cheeks.

“He’s always gone, William. Even when he’s home. And-and I- I miss feeling...”

He steps closer, slightly opening his arms to her.

She accepts.

“I miss feeling loved,” she says into his shoulder.

William’s breath catches.

He hugs her back. Cards a hand through her hair.

She melts deeper into his embrace, and weeps.

They stand like that for a long while, the breeze picking up a bit, the sun beginning to set behind them.

Celine pulls away, and look at him.

William looks at her.

Their eyes meet.

... Celine... feels butterflies.

She shouldn’t.

He shouldn’t.

But they do.

Their lips meet as the sun dips behind the hill.

For a moment, she stops thinking about how it looks. How it might appear to others.

She stop thinking about being The Actor Markiplier’s Lovely Wife.

And for a moment, Celine feels as she once did.

Come down, come down

Mark watches the car roll into the driveway. Standing on the balcony, he watches William and Celine step out.

William bows. Bids her farewell.

She bids him farewell.

Something’s wrong.

He can’t tell why he’s suspicious.

But he is.

Deeply.

Come down from your holy mountain

He cut filming short.

He left filming early. To surprise Celine.

She’s been... more accepting of the distances lately, and the overtime, and...

And she...

She’s been put in second place for far too long.

Mark pulls into the driveway. He makes sure to grab the roses he bought on the way, their petals blood red and beautiful, fresh as can be.

He opens the door.

Walks up to the bedroom.

It’s late, after all. She’s usually in bed reading by this hour.

“Celine, I ended the session early-”

The roses fall to the ground.

I'm down, I'm down

... A note?

After all they’d been through?

She just left a note?

... Her jewelry... gone with her.

With him.

With them.

The house is cold with her gone.

Mark puts on his warmest robe.

He still feels numb.

So put your shame on a billboard for a second

“Yes. Yes, I want you to take it down,” Damien says. “Because it’s just immoral! He’s a man, same as us! He doesn’t need his personal life plastered on the tops of buildings for all to know!”

Damien glares at the photo in the paper.

Power Couple Splits, Markiplier Gives No Comments

“It’s bad enough the news has it! Just take it down, now!”

Sometimes, sometimes

Mark looks in the mirror.

He slicks his unwashed hair out of his face.

His ring glints at him.

Mocking.

He leaves the bathroom.

...

Something else glints at him, sitting on the table.

The only way out is through

His eyes stare, unblinking, at the photos on the table.

A dagger lays in his limp hand.

A hole in his heart. Left behind by her.

... And by his own hand.

'Cause everyone loves Bob Dylan I just want you to love me like that, yeah

Her throne sits in the living room, collecting dust.

Her jewelry is collecting dust elsewhere. Pawned. Traded for freedom.

He lays in his- their- bedroom.

Collecting dust.

Would you bury me next to Johnny Cash?

His body lays there for hours.

His eyes stare at the pictures.

He’s written a note.

It details what the funeral is to be like.

...

And then.

He blinks.

I'm obsessed

He rolls the dagger casually in his hands.

Which one is this? Number thirty? Must be, by now.

He stopped counting a little while back.

He raises it, looking excited.

Oh, he can’t wait to go back.

Do you love me like that? Yeah

He watches them dance in the downstairs, the gray and decaying world matching his gray and decaying form.

Oh, what times.

When love seemed... real.

When she swore to love him.

Only him.

Only him...

He gifted her as much as he could...

His love... all of it... his whole heart...

...

It’s not fair.

Woah, oh, oh, oh, oh Woah, oh, oh, oh, oh 'Cause everyone loves Bob Dylan! I just want you to love me like that, yeah

Mark flattens down his robe.

He grins into the mirror.

The role of a lifetime.

His final role.

His eternal role.

Beloved hero. With people devoted to him. People who won’t leave for something more exciting.

Would you bury me next to Johnny Cash?

Damien has the only satisfying reaction.

No matter.

That corpse will go in the ground. Mark won’t be joining it.

I'm obsessed

His characters are set.

The actors are playing their roles.

He has lost his mind.

She has lost her self.

They can’t betray him again.

Time to be the hero.

Do you love me like that?

Yeah

#Markiplier #Markiplier egos #Who Killed Markiplier #Actor Mark #WKM Celine #WKM Damien #WKM William #fanfic #my attempts at fanfic #suicide tw #suicide mention

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grim-faux · 3 years

Text

18_Collecting Days

First

Fool child. What business did he get up to in his absence? Rhetorical question, he had a suspicion of what he could be up to when left to his own devices.

However, he admitted only to himself that he was relieved that the boy hadn’t been physically harmed. That made his shutdown all the more annoying. Nonetheless, that much blood was reason for concern, and it had been one of the key leads he followed to wander close to Mono’s proximity. Perhaps he tricked another adult to their demise. Often, children did whatever was necessary to safeguard their survival and welfare. He shared in those experiences.

In the least, he seemed recovered in that regard since the… treachery.

The Thin Man dithered in his wandering to shift his stance and check the Signal Tower, far in the distance. Clouds swarmed the spire above, gravitating to an electrical current or frequency the lost denizens were drawn to. On the roof ledge below his perch, Viewers gawped, enthralled by the mesmerizing siren call. Hopelessly lost, aimless and unable to return to the television screens that would deliver them to that fantasy realm they craved more than air or foods.

What had the child been up to? If not for that tempering pull, he might never have the opportunity to realize a direction. In the entirety of the city, and stall of current pulsing through the televisions. Perhaps this was all blown out of proportion. The blood. It might’ve been some animal, the city had an abundance of rats. Not that it mattered where it came from. It still unsettled him, the child’s reaction.

It would be wise to keep tabs on him. The paradox continued its work, nothing had been ceased as of yet. No diversion, stall, or corruption – this he remained steadfast certain of. Alas, without the sanctuary the Tower provided, the young Mono was susceptible to the threats that all children faced. He couldn’t speculate clearly if this was indeed the case, his knowledge extended only to the point of resignation to the alure of protection – his fantasy and solitude. Mono did not share that fate as of yet, and what this meant at all… perplexed him. Had there been a point of time that the Thin Man and Mono existed simultaneously, until destiny wound them into a concurrent fixture?

He sighed and stepped away from the ledge. Below, one of the Viewers plunged.

Avoidance could be the answer he sought. Or not. The cycle could continue its sad trill, he wanted no more part of it. If he could help it.

The corridors winding through the building are hushed, with only the creaks and groan of the walls was they sway against the harrowing gust outside. Some rooms have sprung leaks, and water trickled down the walls – a sinking ship, weeping of its fate. Discarded items lay about, some suitcases, duffle bags partially emptied. In a room, the snow flashed across a pair of trousers and shirt, laid out neatly as if set aside for a short spell.

At a breach in the wall, a lonely stuffed toy sat upright. Some of the threads in its head have come loose, it sagged sideways. Its been hours, it might’ve been abandoned. However, it could await till the end of time, or until the building collapsed entirely. Whatever came first.

Within the heart of the hole, a shadow fluttered. Then a head popped out, dark scraggily hair matted and dusty. The shape ducked back shortly, in order to evaluate the hallway once over. There was no such thing as being too careful. After a moment of checking that all the gloom was in place, the cracks were unchanged, and no door had shifted; the boy crawled out fully.

Mono hurtled into the plush and hauled it off the floor. The legs dragged as he marched down the corridor, flittering between dark spaces in the wall. He had a light stride, swift. He made his to the passage that led to the jammed room, the bear he dragged all the way through.

Over the last few days, he preoccupied the time with scouting through this place. Browsing through all the rooms he could access easily, bypassing those that seemed permanently sealed. Every so often he patrolled through, assuring himself no noises and televisions lingered within. He found this one corridor on this floor was practically deserted. The floors below it, only where the elevator reached up to… that is where the danger lurked. There wasn’t much a reason to visit those places, unless he wanted to take stock how many televisions were in the place. He reserved trips to the ground floor, and the café. When he was in the mood, he did check the abandoned rooms, and sometimes found treasures.

Like the small wooden cart thing he carried under his arm.

He shoved the bear against the side of the recliner, and then sat with the little wooden cart. Other toys littered the familiar room, such as a large top, a flashlight, some wooden animals, this faded boat. Items he pilfered from the rooms he could get into, and were relatively safe.

The familiar room wasn’t his first choice of shelter, but it was accessible only to him. It also had no windows, for wicked towers to peer into, or lights. It didn’t stave of insomnia, but it did make him feel more at ease.

Most days he spent dozing in the dark, while he had that precious time to recuperate. Venturing to the ground floor was always suspenseful, he didn’t know what would be there. Viewers were frequent visitors, and that might be the reason why no other children stayed in this place. And also, it was a hazard to remain too long in a single location. Foods shortage was a serious issue.

He carried the bear around to the backside of the recliner, and set him down. He tucked the flashlight against the plush waist, so that it offered clear light to the wall. The bear observed, while Mono added some more pictures to the hard wood. He could tolerate the bear, and the bear could tolerate him. He’s not very good at keeping track of days. In the speek he recounts some of the scenery he’s seen, the pleasant views. The sky and the trees, the different colors of tepid water. On the wall would be some buildings, far in the distance and tiny; a place he could never hope to reach. Even some landscape he caught eye of, in some flimsy paper thing.

Time blurred. He subsisted in the familiar room, venturing out when he was hungry, exploring sometimes, but always returning. Never leaving, unless gnawing hunger gave him absolutely no other choice. He played with the toys. Sometimes, he climbed onto the arm of the recliner and dropped the top. He wanted to see how long it could whirl on the carpet. Sometimes, his hardwired sense of wandering forced him to roam endless and slow paced laps around the room, where he explored every inch of the wood and rotted wallpaper with a hyper critical eye. He knew the room so well he could navigate with the toys present, and not stumble a fraction.

The room across from the familiar room, had an open doorway with a balcony. The bear sat in the doorway of the room, watching a barricaded door. In case someone came in unannounced.

Sometimes Mono liked to sit out there, even in the rain. It washed the dust from his wanderings out of his coat, and plastered his hair to his scalp. Cold water. Of course, this side didn’t face the Signal Tower, or he wouldn’t bother. He liked to sit and watch the clouds during the night, enjoyed the way colors shifted, the way the sky was ever changing. The city was such a dreary place. No hope, no stars, not even a moon. But clouds, they were nice too.

Then the downstairs room ran low on foods. He’d watched his dwindling supply, eating less and less of the meagers scraps that hadn’t gone rancid.

For what had to the ninetieth time, he scrounged deep onto the cabinets searching for a missing box or canister, anything to ward off the inevitable. It was no use. There wasn’t a point, nothing changed what was no longer present. If he prolonged this, he would get too weak to wonder. Where would he find the next substantial foods? No one knew.

He perched on the counter chewing on the cardboard that still smelled of biscuits. That only served to make him hungrier, but it alleviated some tension for a while to chew on something.

The bear was waiting for him, faithful as always, when he crawled out of the breach in the wall. The toy was rough along the edges and losing thread from all his rough treatment, but the stuffing held tight within.

He shoved the bear onto the recliner seat first, then hauled himself up. The bear sat at the edge, tall and to attention. Even though he didn’t have eyes. Mono ripped the eyes out, leaving only thread tethers. He didn’t like the bear watching.

Mono curled down behind his companion. The fitful sleep isn’t pleasant. A sound alerted him, a creak of the wall. Shifting shadows, his eyes seeing things that are not there. Sometimes, it’s a shift in the stall air, a brisk draft. More than once he has to get up and take a brief hike around the outer rooms, confirm with his own muggy eyes that nothing is present. Crisis averted, he returned to the familiar room and the bear. It’s like this every night. The plush toy is a marvelous guard, but he still has no eyes.

When Mono can’t stand the restlessness, he takes the bear and checked the balcony room to judge the day. It’s not raining which he knows won’t last, but for now that is nice. It is a good day to set out, though the moment he is well on his way, it should start the intense showers again.

Before he can leave though, he has to take the bear out on another patrol. Just the one floor they nest on, the safe floor. They visit all the usual rooms, though he knew well nothing occupied them. He wondered, did the people on the higher floor vanish first? He had so many questions, doubts and curiosities that would never be satisfied. That might be for the best, though.

Once they gave the safe floor the usual safety stamp, Mono hauled the bear back to the familiar room. It was weird hauling him back through the crawlspace he knew so well, he could zip through without a thought. He pushed the bear out and towed him through the doorway and, beneath the desk. He goes off and collected the crayons, from the various places he discarded them. Aside from the flashlight, which will be useful later, there isn’t anything else in the familiar room he should take. Not even the crayons, they’d weight him down and take space.

Then, between he and the bear, he clicked on the flashlight. He took a breath and sighed.

“I have… I'm in leave. I’m….” He shrugged. Squat on his knees, he inched over to the clear space of the wall and pried away some of the wallpaper. “This is hard. I don’t want, but if… I take you. Not safe. Understand?” He switched colors, carefully filling in the outline. “You're’n safe here. I’m… not safe. Not there.” He colored quietly for a while, concentrating, taking his time. When he finished the picture, he scooted back.

“But not alone. See.” He dragged the bear over, and showed him the picture. “Remember you. I’m in remember. S’not for good. I'm here. Right here.”

He didn’t want to go. He didn’t want to leave. This was more like a good place now. This was the familiar place.

“S’not safe,” he repeated. And pulled the bear in and wrapped his arms tightly about its horrid head. He almost popped the seams in its neck. Hot tears soaked the grungy fiber. “I wish you come with. I want you come. I don’t not want you. It hurt, in leave. I won’t forget.”

When it was time, he ushered the bear away and set him next to the picture. He fluffed its head a bit, poked some of the stuffing back into its face. Then, took the flashlight and clicked it off.

Silent as always, cautious as ever, Mono crept down the corridor. It was so empty and menacing, without his bear. The garish thing made everything feel a little less imposing, even thought he couldn’t risk him in the lower floors. Something about that short distance, with it, dissolved fear.

He did stop a few times, to look back. A slow biding glimpse, just to make sure the passage remained clear and unchanged. As if it might’ve warped into a ghastly hollow or writhing flesh, so many eyes, and teeth like squirming zippers.

Nothing was there, the empty hall was nothing but decrepit and miserable. It wouldn’t be safe, he reminded himself. He had to let him go.

That was the last he’d spare a look. Mono dried his face with a sleeve and went on, to the breach in the wall. He only liked it because it was warm, and still smelled like smoke. He’d be better off without it.

#little nightmares #mono #the thin man #little nightmares fanfic #little nightmares fanfiction #fanfic #fanfiction #the man in the hat #viewers

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penaltybox14 · 4 years

Text

Decofiremen: The leaving, and a return

Or: feelings are hard. In which Josiah travels to the city to see Silky, ill with pneumonia, for the first time since [redacted].

@zeitheist @darknight-brightstar @squad51goals

The leaving aches more than the journey, even as every jolt of the train coach mule-kicks his leg, even as there are hours yet to go. It scours him to think on it, how he had promised Davey, how Davey had hovered as he packed a change or two of clothes, his shaving kit, spare bolts and straps to his brace. Davey had seemed to be holding his breath, there in the doorway - blinking and wary, as he had back in autumn at the County. Questions caught up in his teeth like a slow, warm wind across dried leaves. If he were a better man, perhaps, a more tender man like Eddy or a wiser man as Lufty, he might have known the things to say.

A pad of paper and a half-book of stamps, into the case, then. As the boy watched.

He'd looked for Davey that morning, early, when the youngest of them should still have been rousting himself with the rest, splashing water on his face and shining his boots (as he did) for morning bell. Jules said he didn't know where the boy was, and Bertram said he was down by the pond, and Jules had given Bertram a look for that.

But the pond - cupped gently in a curve of the land, and down a narrow, winding path - was where the boy went when he wanted to be alone, wanted his thoughts to float out serenely on the calm face of the water (still dense with ice) and not out into the sear-shot of others. Josiah could've gone down. He could've - but there was a train to catch. And he wouldn't have known what to said except his helpless promise that he'd come back.

At a stop in a little town called Selkirk, he'd gotten up to try and stretch his legs. He was not used to travel, now, and no longer curled up like a beetle in his quarters while the rest of Wynantskill went about its day, and he did ache. Standing up in the train compartment, he'd nearly fallen from the sand in one leg and the charley horse in the other, and he'd knocked his case off the rack shouting and clutching for balance. The case had popped a latch, and, catching his breath and biting his curses, he paused to snap it shut again. It was heavier than he had recollected packing, and when he looked again, there in the middle of his things was a small book and a blue pocketknife, tied up in twine.

That was Davey's knife, deep blue bakelite with stainless trim, a gift from Antoine before he'd graduated. A pride of a knife, well-oiled, a keen balance, two blades, an awl, and a can opener. The book is Whitman - Leaves of Grass. Davey had dredged up recitations in him long left over from Hudson Classical, pushed him to read choice stanzas over and over. A page was dog-eared: a bad habit of his that Davey had clumsily scolded him over, playing at being grown. It didn't need to be - the book fell open, loose from many readings. Josiah paused over the poem there, thoughtful. Shut the book and returned it to the case.

Many hours yet to the city, where he had arranged a room near the hospital. From Selkirk south to Ravena, to Coxsackie, Catskill and Saguerties, down through the Hudson Valley, until the very edges of the city unraveled themselves toward the oncoming train, and he saw bridges and skylines and viaducts and things he remembered, stout five-story walkups like blunt teeth, the dull rust of railyards, at last into the belly of Manhattan.

He is so pale.

Silks was always fair, even in summer, when his skin would tighten and brighten like a lobster fresh from the pot, and the sun splashed copper on his auburn hair. Fair, and strong-boned, his Jesuit manners a soft varnish over his city-boy laugh.

But now he seems to disappear almost into the linens, nothing but soft twilight shadows, his veins trailing over his thin body like spidery blue cataracts. Shadow, and breath, ragged breath that slows, then catches, into a dry cough that mule-kicks him half off the bed.

There are only a hand of men in the long white ward. A police officer sits murmuring softly by another man's bedside. A fellow with a busted arm reads a colorful magazine. A few are asleep. One, like Silks, has a needle in his arm and a bottle hung up by the bedside. Josiah remembers that dreadful morphine sleep, the way it dragged him as if it had teeth or hooks, how his dreams caught on the secrets and the spirits of the city. The days cracked like the spine of a dusty tome, and the centuries split like soft, fine vellum, breathless and translucent. His breath and his blood blood flowed into the streets and her smoke and iron filled up his bones and every time a fellow came to see him he tumbled headlong into his shy or sorrowed heart.

He would take the pain any rank and reeking day, over the poppy fields and the black smoke.

Silks, four beds in, across from a window where the evening light is just cresting the white-enameled iron of his bedstead, coughs again, and hard. Struggles to catch his wind.

(They were young men. Smoke-eaters, the Times called them. Silks caught him against his shoulder while he coughed up ash that tasted like beef-gristle and blood, and vomited in the street. Silks caught him, and steadied him, away from the clamoring press.)

He can't do this. He can't, not even lurking in the safety of his long coat, his hat low over his eyes, he can't. Silks won't even recognize him, probably. It's been so long. Been too long. They had not even spoken at the promotion, when he had stood stiff and sweating with the pain of his leg - how it sang, still, the nerves sheared like feathers from a buck-shot wing. He had stood the whole long ceremony, for the higher your rank, the nearer to the end, and he was there to get his captain's coat and brass for all the good it did. Right to the cab from there, to Grand Central and up to Troy, his neck still alight with misgiving eyes.

Josiah had felt him there, Silks, like the tumult of a fire's breath, a sudden draft, the snorting of a horse all lathered from its run up the grand boulevard. Felt him there at his side, across the room, as surely as he'd been there every off-day he had right here in the casualty ward. Birchy, he would say. Birchy, wake up. Have some water, Birch. Gotta eat, Birchy, your leg'll never patch up with you starved.

(and as he drove, gasping, through the poppy fields and the dark morphine sea, Silks bowed his head and prayed, and said that he was sorry.)

He can't do this.

(The first steps he took out of bed, he fell, and cussed the nurses and the nuns.)

He cannot.

(When they fitted him for the brace, he felt its sheen and its click and its creak like laughter.)

He cannot do this.

(It held him upright, but it would never hold him on the boards.)

He is walking, as steady as he can, down the aisle between the beds. He thinks, it's not at all unlike the men's ward at the county, the empty beds, the empty eyes, the soft weeping that might just be the sear at the back of his mind. He is walking with a limp, he is walking toward the last door, he is walking down a dark hallway, he is in the smoke, he is under the give of the ceiling and he doesn't know it.

Each bed has to it one hard, high-backed chair, and he collapses down and bows his head, taking his hat off, smoothing his hair, looking everywhere but the bed.

Silks is coughing again. He sounds like the roar of a train in a tunnel just beyond the light's reach, the way the hot, rank air drafts back toward the engine.

He lays his hand on Silky's shoulder.

"Silks - "

Just that cough. That godawful cough.

"Deep breath, Silks. Hold on to it."

Like they were back in the smoke. Back on the cobbles.

He feels Silky looking in his sear before he feels the eyes, and he can't bring himself to look.

"I'm dead, aren't I." Silky wheezes. "I'm dead, you can't be here."

The fever is palpable on him. The sweat. He is so, so pale.

"God would send me you, I do suppose." Quick gasps between each word, he struggles, and his eyes are glassier than Josiah remembers.

"Your god would send you better."

"No," Silks whispers, and Josiah catches his flailing hand. "No, it is you, isn't it."

"Hastings sent a wire. Eddy told me."

"Oh." Silks breathes deeply - a struggle deep in his chest. "Oh." Looks sharply at once: "Where's the young fella?"

Josiah balks. "At home."

"What a fool you are, my Birchy." Silks pats his arm, weakly, softly. The fever has cracked his lips, and Josiah brushes the damp hair off his brow.

"I've heard that."

"You gone thinking I'd die?"

"I came to be sure you didn't."

"Fool, Birchy."

"I know, Silks. I know. And I'm sorry."

Silks shakes his head wearily. "Don't. Don't be sorry. Nothing - " that gasp again. " - nothing sorry. Just here. You're here."

"Yeah, pal, I'm here."

"That's good, Birchy. That's good."

It aches to watch him breathe. Josiah finds his body, unwitting, matching each struggling inhale, each slow and rattling exhale. He sees the pulse beat rapidly in Silky's long, pale neck. Feels it matched in his wrist. "Take a rest, Silks," he says. "I'm here."

Silky nods, distantly, his eyes soft and glassy. Turns his face against the pillow, and shuts his eyes.

#decofire #decofiremen #found family #feelings are complicated

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mwolf0epsilon · 4 years

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Story on Norman catching Sammy in Joey cult ?

It's been twice now that I've written Norman's demise. Y'all really like killing people uh?

Summary: Sammy was weird in many ways, but this? This was just crazy.

---

Back when Norman was still a little tot, his great nanna used to tell him and his brothers and sisters about their great poppop. How he'd been raised in some sort of cult that indoctrinated its disciples from birth. She related to them how, even though he'd managed to escape them, their constant drilling of ideals had never truly left him. Which was why nanna had gotten rid of him. Love him as she did, she knew he was a crazy dangerous man. Little five year old Norman had been very curious about those tales his mama begged nanna not to tell them. He especially found it curious when she described his eyes. Having a condition like the one he had, had made him a prime target for neighbourhood bullies that called him "Crazy-Eye". So hearing about someone who had actual insanity behind what most considered to be the windows to the soul... It had given him a sort of relief, because at least there was a spark of life behind his own unsynchronized peepers. "N'aw child, don't yous go be tellin' ya mama 'bout what ol' nanna be tellin' you 'bout ya poppop, ya hear?" "Ok nanna. Won't tell a soul." "Yous is a clever one, boy. An' don't forget ta keep an eye out... Crazy can hide in plain sight. Sure did for poppop." Insanity could hide in plain sight. That was perhaps the most valuable lesson to take from his nanna's tales. What she could never get across was how hard it was to see someone you cared for slowly be afflicted with it.

Sammy was a weird man. Had been from day one of Norman meeting him, and never quite changed even when he put a reign on his deplorable attitude. He wasn't a bad person per say. Misguided by a parent with that typical southern brand of white superiority complex. A man who thought his skin color made him better than all the other folk, and who taught his boy to think it was just as sacred an idea as the damn gospel he also tried to drill into Sammy's head. But Sammy was admittedly clever, and much more curious than his father had been. He asked questions and he tried to change when he realized his own crappy behaviour didn't please him all that much. But then things started getting unsettling in the studio. Little things popped up, and the world's own agenda got in the way of Joey Drew's plans. Turns out Joey wasn't about to fold for anything or anyone. Those who were drafted were the lucky ones. Those who were socially outcasts or liabilities in the military's eyes, were not so lucky. They stayed, so the wrongness affected them. The wrongness... Norman had felt something was not right for a long while, but now that he had to get acquainted with so many new hires and the such? He'd been preoccupied. So when the ones he knew suddenly started acting unlike themselves he'd been caught by surprise. "I don't understand how Mr. Drew has no trouble with him... He's just so..." He'd found Buddy in the bathroom, trying to clean the obvious ink stains on his clothing. "Why did I think helping him would make him less nasty?" "Sammy tends ta blow up at minor things. If it was as bad as yous say it was, then he was just freaked out from nearly drowning." He got as many paper towels as he could to help the poor kid get rid of as much of the ink as he could. "Doesn't excuse what he says to me... Or the other Jewish employees..." Buddy murmured sadly. "What did he say?" "Not important... Just makes me uneasy. It's like I'm specifically not worth anything just because of my... Mr. Polk?" Buddy blinked once the projectionist dropped everything he was doing to stalk out the door. "Yous ain't the first he's gone and played that card on. Was a long while ago but I can refresh Sammy's memory for the folks he's been barkin' at." "Oh! Uh, you don't have to! It's not going to fix anything." "Trust me, a hard knock on the noggin' works just fine ta sorte Sammy's bullshit." Norman smiled in passing at Dot who paused to watch him and then look at Buddy in concern once he peered out the bathroom door. "You two kids run along now. I'll see yous around." He tried not to laugh when he heard Buddy fretting over potentially getting fired for starting a fight. Kid still had a lot to learn about how Joey Drew Studios ran for all these years. Sometimes tough love was all it needed. But not this time.

His nanna's tales rushed back to him when he'd cornered Sammy in his office. Norman didn't like roughing people up, but he'd promised the music director that if he stepped on any toes for the wrong reasons he'd give him a whooping like the one the blond had been begging for, back when he'd first harassed the projectionist. He had half a mind to start hollering until he'd caught sight of Sammy's eyes. Nanna had described insanity in great detail. The unfeeling and unfocused darkness in poppop's eyes that consumed the man she'd loved and left nothing behind. Sammy's eyes were a soft hazel, the nice flicker of green so full of the essence that made Sammy Lawrence who he was. What Norman saw instead of those pretty peepers were dark pools, a sickly grayish brown with flecks of blackness like tar. Like ink... Norman completely forgot what he was to say. He couldn't bring himself to talk when he saw the same thing that had tormented his nanna's dreams. It just wasn't right.

Joey Drew was up to something, and Sammy was involved somehow. By his own volition, Norman wasn't too sure. The kid was acting mighty strange since Norman had noticed his eyes had inexplicably changed color, and whatever progress for positive change he'd made was completely gone. If anything, Sammy had become an incredibly volatile and aggressive husk. Very few people noticed, which was what was so concerning. "It can't be a coincidence... Joey barely showin' his face 'round the departments and Sammy actin' up like the devil bit him in the ass..." He'd paced as he watched Jack drink what was likely the 5th cup of coffee he'd in the morning. "Whatever it is, Sammy's more enthusiastic about his songs for a change..." He sounded nonchalant about it. "He complained about all the pieces Drew forced him to change... Now he's less, angry about those. Seems to love them actually." "Those little annoying jigs? He said they was garbage!" "And they are. Putting lyrics to those was dang awful but... Well if he's happy, I'm happy..." Jack gave a weak smile before coughing a rather wet sounding cough. He took another sip of his coffee to sooth his throat. "You comin' down with somethin'?" "Must be... This gross cough has been popping up a lot. And my nose is awfully stuffy. Can't smell or taste nothing, which is good considering I gotta hide away in the sewers to work..." Norman huffs. People were getting sick from being forced to do overtime with no rest. Jack getting sick wasn't entirely out of the question. But the stench of something acrid coming from his mug did give him cause for concern. Best check to see if Wally hadn't accidentally stored the coffee beans with the cleaning supplies again. A week later he forgets about it once he instead finds himself making a list of the people he stops seeing around the Studio not long after he noticed something up with Joey and Sammy.

There's Jack, who he hadn't noticed gone at first until he'd gone poking around the sewers and not caught sight of the shorter lyricist. There was Johnny Brokehart, who's organ was completely abandoned in its little corner. No one dared touch it, in case the man returned and found so much as a pipe out of place. There was Julian Whitaker, the tall gangly cellist that often sat with the resident art critic, that Vernon fellow who liked to stare at the cartoon posters like they were masterpieces on display at a museum. Susie Campbell had gone too. Wally insisted she hadn't quit, and was awfully worried about her. Allison and Thomas had also up and split after they'd made a scene at one of them fancy parties Joey used to get investors to dump money into his lap. Shawn Flynn, Grant Cohen, Bertrum Piedmont, Lacie Benton, Emma LaMonte... People were vanishing left and right and there was no say of them being fired. Norman had a theory, and he didn't like it one bit. He tried to do his best to inform the younger hires to run before something inevitably happened to them. He told Buddy and Dot it was dangerous, in as little words he could so not to let Joey catch wind of what he did know. He prayed to whatever god was out there that no bad befell those two kids. And then he'd grabbed his light and went down, where the groaning and moaning came from.

Norman ran. Ran as fast as he could, trying not to look at the things trapped in those tubes. The creatures that were tall, gangly, and vaguely humanoid. Weeping faces pressed to the glass, begging to be let out. The disgusting sludge creatures, barely holding themselves together and clawing at the glass in obvious suffering. The thing that had Sammy's voice and that was rushing after him, axe in hand and Bendy mask covering its face. Screaming at him to accept the "Lord's" blessing. He ran and dodged strikes that nicked his elbows, his legs, grazed his ankle and back... He came to a full stop before what could only be described as a throne. Horrified to find something twisted that looked like a humanoid corpse-like Bendy bound in chains. And then he was knocked onto the floor, air escaping his lungs from the sudden collision. The Sammy thing was on top of him, overjoyed to have caught him. And then all around, Joey Drew's voice filled the room... The thing on the throne shook and hissed. "Excellent... You know what to do Prophet. Baptize this non-believer in the name of your lord." "Anything for you my lord. Anything!" Norman tried to fight him off, knocked that silly mask off his face even. Except there was no face. Not even eyes. Windows to the soul... If he had none, then did Sammy even have a soul anymore? The axe raised, and Norman Polk didn't even have time to scream before it plunged into his chest, destroyed his ribcage, and obliterated his heart.

#Eps Writes:#Bendy and the Ink Machine #BATIM #Norman Polk #Sammy Lawrence

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