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victoria-daydreams · 3 years

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The Long Way Home

Chapter Five: A Summer Place

AN: Claudia is back babyyyy!!!

Trigger Warnings: none

Word Count: 1.8k

Taglist: @iloveeverything-09, @eiferundruhe, @greatscott--wrongdecade

Chapter Six: Hell Hath No Fury

Claudia's POV

This was not what I was expecting today.

Today was supposed to be another ordinary day, I just returned from the airport an hour ago after dropping my parents off, it was a lovely week of fun spending time with my parents. And at that moment, nothing felt better than falling into a deep sleep, but the weather was too nice for me to nap the day away. The sun was warm enough, watery in the way it was just before the heat of the evening, but there was a slight chill on the breeze that would make you shiver for sure once you got out of the water wet, still it was perfect swimming weather.

Underneath my umbrella, I sat in my chair sipping from my glass of lemonade absently in one hand while my other hand held the latest copy of Jet magazine. This is how a summer day should always be. Refreshing. Cool. And with Andy Williams soothing voice as background noise, god, I almost wanted to dance and laugh and smile and sing all at the same time. For once, I was glad that none of the neighborhood children were begging to play in the pool.

Everything was perfect.

And then it happened.

I was enjoying the serene moment until a sudden rush of emotions gushed up to the forefront of my consciousness. Thrill, excitement, determination, annoyance, and curiosity they all flooded my senses. I could almost feel the tingling of my powers tickling me on my fingertips. But one stood out above all of them.

Guilt.

With the slightest of movement I flicked my fingers immobilizing four out of the five men in my backyard. "Now Hank," I called out, setting down my glass and magazine on a small table next to me. "When I invited you to stop by my house whenever you please, that invitation wasn't extended to a stranger, a wanted criminal, a drug abuser, and a..." I paused, loudly sniffing the air twice. "A dog," I finished, not bothering to turn around.

"I wouldn't have brought them along if this wasn't important," Hank explained. "We need your help Claudia," he added.

"You've go to be kidding me?" I breathed, as released my telekinetic hold. I swung my legs over the side of my lounge chair and slipped on the silk robe that was on back of it. "I let the maids take off one day and look what happens," I complained, rolling my eyes before lifting the needle of my recorder player.

I rose from my seat, sliding my shoes on and with a slow sauntering gait, I walked towards the group. I was thankful for the round, oversized sunglasses that I was wearing, for the dark brown frames hid how my eyes slightly widened at Charles' appearance. Charles looked...well he looked god awful, to be honest. He had always kept himself cleanly shaved, but now he had let his facial hair grow wildly on his face, even his shortly kept brown hair had grown out. And the dark bags under his eyes, it seemed like Charles hasn't a had good night's rest in years.

And Erik, for someone that's been imprisoned underneath The Pentagon he still managed to maintain his handsome, clean shaven, and chiseled face. You would think that the roles had been reversed, that Charles was the one who had been locked up and not Erik by their appearances. Numerous thoughts and feelings threatened to flood my mind, but I didn't allow it. Not yet. I just needed to focus on how to get them to leave.

"Wow, your lady friend is smokin' hot," the silver-haired boy stated, gawking at me in my v-cut one piece swimsuit which had the sides cutout.

I stopped in front of them with my hand on my hip, looking from the unknown man with sideburns to Charles and then Erik. Slowly, I used my free hand to remove my sunglasses from my face, my eyes narrowed.

"Charles," I greeted simply, as Hank shuffled slightly.

Charles stood in shock for a moment staring at me dumbly, probably just in as much shock from seeing me after all these years and how I changed. My long, black locks no longer fell down to my shoulders, but now floated above it in thick, tight curls of my afro. My chestnut brown skin was tanned from the warm summer sun, but still as radiant as ever.

"Y-You look well," Charles complimented smiling slightly, recovering from his lapse of silence, as he stared at me.

"You look like shit," I snorted, letting out a chuckle as I folded my sunglasses up and putting them into my pocket "The years haven't been kind to you have they?" I asked rhetorically, folding my arms together. "Tell me Charles, are you happier now that I'm gone?" I asked mockingly. "It sure doesn't seem like it," I added, really laying it on thick.

"Claudia, we are not here for this," 'Sideburns' grumbled.

I tuned my head slightly to the man, leveling him with a venomous look,"I'm sorry, but who the hell are you?" I questioned, arching a brow.

My eyes scanned over the man's appearance, he was a little more than six feet tall, and was probably in his early or mid thirties. He had to be military or ex-military because he was built like a soldier, his muscles seemed to be harder than a tree from the way his clothes clung to him. Dark brown sideburns came down his face which reached his cheeks along with a five o'clock shadow. Anger seemed to ooze out of this man's pores. I knew he could take care of his self in a fight if such an event were to ever occur.

"My name is Logan," he answered, his blue eyes burning like two hot coals as he stared into mine.

"Are you sure it's not Dog?" I asked, a wry grin appearing on my lips as I watched this man's jaw clench. "You know with the sideburns the similarities are...uncanny," I stated, shaking my head and focusing my attention to Hank who was next to me, and was about to open his mouth. "I could call the authorities you know?" I said, cutting Hank off. "Erik's bounty would fetch a substantial payout," I noted, tapping my index finger on my cheek, thinking.

"You seem to be getting on well enough as it is," Erik replied, flicking his chin out in regards to my home.

I raised my eyebrow, "So why settle for less?" I asked cheekily.

He scoffed in disbelief, "You would actually sell me out?" Erik asked, crossing his arms.

"I'm just doing my patriotic duty Erik," I answered, raising my hands up and shrugging.

"Claudia," Hank called softly, and I looked back over to him. "I know that you have every reason to be upset right now, but please hear us out," Hank pleaded.

"We need your help Claudia," Logan stated.

"Then go hire a maid," I retorted, waving him off.

Logan growled in frustration, "Do you know how much trouble we been through just to break Erik out of the Pentagon and now to get you?" he asked, furrowing his brows.

I slid my hands into my robe pockets, "Sounds like a personal problem," I replied, shrugging again. "I didn't force you to do any of this," I pointed out with a grin.

Logan's hand clenched itself in a tight fist, "Listen lady, I've had-" He gritted out.

"No, you listen!" I interrupted, stepping closer to him. "I don't know who the hell you think are to think that you can waltz into my backyard and start making demands of me," I sassed, looking Logan up and down. I stepped in front of Hank and put a hand on his shoulder. "Hank, under any other circumstance I would be happy to see you, or even help you. But due to the fact that there are some..." I trailed, looking back at Erik and Charles. "Undesirable individuals with you," I continued, focusing my attention back to Hank. "If I were to join this little party of yours it would never work. You see Hank, I live a very comfortable life now and I'm not giving it up for the likes of them," I finished, shaking my head.

"But it's not for them Claudia, it's for humanity itself. We're trying to save the world," Hank explained, giving me a pleading look.

"Hmmm," I hummed, a sardonic smile on my lips as I shook my head again. "Funny, they said the same thing in 1962," I remembered. "Truly Hank, it was nice to see you after all these years," I smiled, giving his shoulder a reassuring squeeze before removing my hand and turning to face the men behind me. "But, it's time for you and your guests to leave. You have overstayed your welcome," I said, gesturing to the backyard gate. "Safe travels," I added, spinning on my heel and moving past Hank toward my backdoor.

"You're just going to let her go?" I heard Logan ask. "To hell with this," he grumbled.

"Logan don't-"

I went to take another step forward, but a calloused hand roughly grabbed my wrist, spinning me around and making our bodies bump into each other.

"We're not going anywhere until you fully hear us out!" Logan exclaimed, as I glared at him. "I'm not sure what it is about you that makes Charles and Erik so subdue, but I'm not them. I'm not afraid of you!" he announced, keeping his grip tight around my wrist.

Instinctively, my free hand bawled itself into a fist cloaked in a violet aura as a scowl made its way onto my face.

"Uhh...mister her hand is glowing," The silver-haired boy informed, as I swung a powerful blow to Logan's jaw, his body crumpling on the lawn.

"They're not scared, they just know better," I corrected, spreading my fingers out and the aura spread from my hand to encasing Logan's limbs. Forcefully, I planted my foot down onto Logan's chest, tilting my head as I looked down at him. "But you? Why in the world would you be? I'm nothing to be afraid of, as you can obviously tell. I'm far too small to be any threat to a big, strong man like you," I mocked, pressing my foot down even harder and Logan glared daggers at me.

"Claudia-" Charles began, but I just lifted one finger silencing him.

"Typically, I wouldn't be opposed to ripping your limbs off right now," I explained, stretching my fingers out slightly and Logan grunted at the modest tugs at his extremities. "But, I would hate to get this freshly mowed lawn all bloody. One of the neighborhood boys worked so hard on it," I commented. "Now, like I said before, it's time for you to go," I enunciated slowly, hoping that it would get through that thick skull of his.

I removed my foot from Logan's chest, shooting him one more glare before I walked to the backdoor. As I opened the backdoor to my home I released my hold on Logan's appendages.

"Wow Charles, you sure know how to pick them," Logan drawled sarcastically.

And with a wave of my hand I forcefully shut the door behind me.

Chapter Seven: A Woman Scorned

#x-men fanfiction #black fanfiction #x-men fanfic #charles xavier fanfiction #charles xavier x oc #black!oc #magneto x oc #charles xavier #erik lehnsherr fanfiction #erik lehnsherr x oc #erik lehnsherr x reader #charles xavier x reader #black!reader #x men fanfiction #marvel fanfiction #marvel fanfic

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psychovigilantewrites · 5 years

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I Need You

Pairing: Dick Grayson/Reader Genre: Smut Summary: The moment you fell in love with him was when he smiled at you as Robin. But now that Bruce adopted you, Dick has become your older adoptive brother who sometimes sleeps with you in the same bed. What will you do when your lust overpowers you, and you start to touch yourself while he’s right there, sleeping?

You didn’t have a tragic backstory.

There were no hungry nights, or abusive parents.

There were no parents, full stop. You never knew them. And you were really okay with that. Life happens. You didn’t blame them for anything, except maybe not considering birth control.

You were just an orphan, living in an orphanage, and doing orphan things like sneak out at night for little “adventures” as you liked to call it. The orphanage wasn’t bad either. The people who ran it were nice people, although perhaps just a little boring.

Which is why you liked to walk around at night. You didn’t have game consoles and the books inside the mini library you had read time and time again.

So there you were at 14, just wandering around Gotham at night, giggling at men trying to pick up prostitutes in cars, and avoiding the drunken homeless who liked to get a little aggressive when asking for spare change.

When you walked around, you felt like a different person. Your imagination was what kept you entertained, and honestly, optimistic about the world.

You could pretend to be whoever you wanted to be. That night, you were a secret Russian spy, walking by the blocks of loud club music and neon lights, trying to identify the man who was working with the Americans, planning to kill the Russian president.

You stood outside the club from across the street, waiting for someone to come out. Someone who would look like a traitor to the Motherland.

And there you found your culprit, a man in his mid-30s, with blond hair slicked back, a white shirt that plunged down to reveal his hairy chest, and a pair of sunglasses- at night. You thought he looked villainy enough.

Fueling your imagination, you followed the man from the club. He walked a couple of blocks down, and then turned inside an alley. Smiling to yourself at the excitement you felt, you crossed the road and followed him into the darkness.

You pouted.

You had lost him. The alley was empty except for a pair of cats hissing at each other in front of a metal trash can. Sighing to yourself, you decided to give up on your little fantasy and head back to the orphanage before anyone noticed you were missing.

“Why are you following me?” you heard the sudden threatening voice first before you felt a hand grab your arm tightly, spinning you around and pushing you up against the alley wall.

Your eyes widen and started pooling with tears when you saw the same man in front of you, holding your neck now with a hand, and the other, a gun pointed at your face.

“I’ll ask you again, bitch,” he spat, “Why are you following me? Who paid you? Tell me!”

You yelped out loud when he slammed your head against the wall.

“No- no one!” you sobbed, “I’m sorry! I was just bored!”

“The truth, before I shoot you in the knee!” he growled.

“I swear!” you cried, “Please, I swear. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

Stupid. You were stupid. Curse your boredom, and curse your imagination. Who were you kidding? You weren’t a Russian spy, nor were you an undercover celebrity, or an investigative journalist. You were just a bored girl with no parents.

“I will shoot your cunt off,” he roared, “And then I’ll fuck whatever’s left of-”

The sound of sudden wind interrupted him mid-sentence. The pressure on your neck disappeared, and so was the man in front of you.

Instead, he was four feet in front of you, on the ground, face bloodied and unconscious. Over him was a tall, dark shadow.

You whimpered in fear, and backed into the wall, praying for it to swallow you up. You slumped to the ground, cowering up at the shape.

“Are you hurt?” a gravelly voice said, coming from the dark shadow.

You didn’t dare answer.

“B!” a chirpy young voice suddenly appeared from above you. A blur of red and green dropped from the sky and landed in front of the shadow.

“Why didn’t you wait for me, B?” the boy you knew was called Robin panted. That’s right. Robin. Then the tall, dark, shadow must be-

“Earth to Batman?” you saw the back of his head cock to the side. He turned around and finally saw you. “Oh! Sorry, I didn’t see you there! Are you okay?”

Robin walked over to you. He was taller than you, and muscular. He looked more like a man than Boy Wonder. To you that is.

“I’m Robin, and this is Batman. You’re safe now, okay?” he gave you a warm smile that made your stomach tighten. Even through the white lenses of his mask, you could tell that he was being genuine. He offered you a hand to help you up.

“O-okay,” you gulped, you took his hand and allowed him to pull you up with strength you did not expect. You were standing closer to him now, and you realised that he couldn’t have been much older than you.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

You told him.

“Hey, I’ve seen you before haven’t I?” he queried.

“Robin,” Batman suddenly said in a cautionary voice, stepping forward. You finally saw him properly. Indeed, he looked exactly like the blurred photos in the news.

“No, no,” Robin shook his head, “We’ve seen her before. Around.”

Batman took a look at you.

“Yeah, I’ve definitely seen you. You’re usually alone, though,” Robin said again.

“I like to walk around,” you answered sheepishly.

“At night?” Batman disproved, “Where do you live?”

“At the orphanage on Murphy Street,” you told him.

Silence.

“Why were you following that man?” Batman broke the silence.

“Well,” you started blushing, embarrassed, “It’s stupid. I was just bored.”

“You like to follow people when you’re bored?” Robin chuckled.

“It’s not like that!” you huffed defensively. Even though it was kind of like that.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make fun of you,” Robin apologized.

“It’s okay,” you shuffled your feet, “I should get going before they find out I sneaked out again.”

“Okay,” Robin nodded, “Stay safe.”

“Th-thank you,” you looked at him, and then at Batman, “For saving me earlier, too.”

Batman gave you a quick nod, and you hurried back to the orphanage, unaware of the two jumping from roof to roof behind you, making sure you got back okay.

Bruce Wayne waltzed into your orphanage two days after that, with the proper paperwork to officially adopt you.

It was revealed to you after the first 6 months of living with Bruce Wayne and his adopted son Dick Grayson that they were Batman and Robin, the very same ones who saved you that night. You didn’t believe it at first, but they showed you to the Cave behind the old clock, and you couldn’t deny it anymore.

Fast forward 4 years later, you were now a Wayne, with an adoptive older brother and an adoptive younger brother. Bruce adopted Jason Todd two years after you, and he became Robin while Dick had moved on to being Nightwing. You weren’t interested in the vigilante life, despite your previous fantasies that you were one.

You were very happy where you were, as a normal girl in a not-so-normal household.

The four years you spent with Dick, you got close to him. He was still warm and chirpy outside as the day you met him, yet you knew that he had changed drastically inside. He aged- not in the physical sense. There was just a look in his eye that said he had gone through a lot.

Yet despite how busy he was as Nightwing, he always spent a lot of time with you. You were his dear little sister after all. He made you feel safe, as he had all those years ago when Batman had saved you.

You would watch movies together, fall asleep together, cuddle together in front of the fire during winter, and spent the summer splashing around in the pool outside.

Your relationship with the younger Robin was good too. You loved him dearly, and tried to be a good older sister to him, constantly giving him advice and being a listening ear if he ever needed one.

You were lucky.

You didn’t have a tragic backstory.

The only tragedy that you faced was the developing feelings for your older adoptive brother.

You probably fell in love with his smile the first time you met him. The smile that warmed you up and calmed you down. When Bruce took you in and introduced you to Dick Grayson, your breath hitched when you stared into his beautiful, perfect face and bright blue eyes.

And then your already wild imagination went ahead and got dirtier the more time you spent with him.

Summer was your favorite time of the year, because Dick Grayson during summer was a sight to behold.

The first reason was his skin. His skin got a bit tan during the summer due to the sun- and the fact that he liked to workout shirtless. He jogged shirtless, he swam shirtless, he helped Alfred mow the lawn shirtless. And so, the darker warm shade of his skin accentuated the contours of his muscles. At his face, his tanner skin made his blue eyes looked even more striking due to the contrast.

The second was due to the heat. The heat, on top of making him take off his shirt more, also made him sweat. His already tan, already magnificent body would glisten in the light from his sweat that made you feel like licking something. The sweat also made his musk stronger. It wasn’t body odour, but it was his smell. He smelt like citrus and candy lemon drops and for some reason, a scent that reminded you of rain. The heat also made him jump into the pool more with you, and you were able to appreciate him even more.

The third was his hair. Summer usually left you with greasy hair because of the excess sweat, but for some reason, Dick Fucking Grayson’s wavy hair was more alive and bouncy in the summer. It made you want to run your fingers in and pull and tug.

His hair was currently wet, though. Slicked to the back and dripping droplets of water down his defined cheekbones, you subconsciously licked your lips at the obscene way his mouth was slightly parted, panting as he finished his lap.

He looked at you from the pool and grinned widely, waving at you. You had just walked out to the pool to tell him something.

“Hey, sis!” he greeted. You hated when he called you that.

“Hey,” you walked over to the edge of the pool where he was and squatted down to his eye level, “Wanna watch a movie tonight? They just added this new horror movie on Netflix.”

You saw him frown and bite his lower lip, running a hand through his wet hair. It was the look he made when he was thinking of something, or deciding.

“Unless you have Nightwing duties,” you hurriedly added, forgetting that the rest of your family had their nights usually occupied.

“No, no,” he shook his head and smiled at you, “I can take a night off.”

“Are you sure?” you asked again, “I don’t wanna hold you back from your responsibilities, or anything.”

“Not at all, sweetheart,” he assured you, “I like to watch movies with you. It’s a Friday night after all. I don’t want to leave you alone on your favorite night of the week.”

There it was. You loved it when he called you that.

“Okay!” you made a star jump from where you were, giggling in excitement, “Let’s watch it after dinner. We can make some popcorn, too.”

“Sounds great, sis!” he grinned at you. You forced your smile to stay where it was until he dived back underwater to continue his laps.

Your heart ached whenever he called you that.

You stared at him longingly as he did his butterfly, his back muscles flexing in the sun.

As much as you wanted him to think otherwise, he still saw you as his little sister, and nothing you could do can change that.

Not the short skirts and low tops, not by being touchy and clingy, and certainly not by wishing.

*** You heard Dick’s soft snores in your ear.

You couldn’t sleep, your heart was beating too fast.

After the movie, the two of you fell asleep on your bed, legs tangled, heads on the same pillow. You were facing him. You saw the outline of his face barely illuminated by the moonlight outside. You smiled.

His sleeping face was adorable.

He frowned slightly as he slept. It wasn’t because he was having a nightmare, it was just how he was. His lips were in a slight pout, his lower jutting out slightly.

You gulped.

You always imagined his lips on yours, and how soft they must feel.

You closed your eyes and took a deep breath.

You always slept together like this, and some nights were harder than most. Most of the time, you could sleep soundly, even if he was spooning you from behind. You felt comfortable, and warm, and safe with him engulfing you into his heat.

Some of the nights, though, your brain went on hyperdrive, and you could feel your heartbeat in your ears. Your imagination was running wild.

You imagined those lips on your flushed skin, or around your nipples, suckling, or kissing your sweet spot between your legs.

Your pussy was aching.

You opened your eyes to look at him, making sure that he was completely asleep. You then let your hand travel down your body and slip underneath the band of your shorts and panties, to between your folds.

You were surprised at how wet you already were. You didn’t expect to be dry, but you didn’t expect to be dripping either.

Your eyes were set on his lips as you rubbed your clit, sparking pleasure throughout your body. You wanted to close the distance and press your lips against his so bad, but your willpower was strong enough to resist.

You stopped rubbing, but slowly inserted your middle finger inside your entrance.

“Mmm,” you moaned before you could stop yourself. You paused in panic, and looked at Dick’s eyes, to see if they were open.

Thankfully, he was still fast asleep, his frown still evidently present.

You continued to take the risk and pump in another finger.

“Fuck,” you hissed. You were being reckless at this point, really. You knew that you found it hard to keep quiet when pleasuring yourself, yet here you were masturbating right in front of your adoptive brother.

You thanked whatever higher being there was that Dick was a heavy sleeper and miraculously have not woken up yet despite your heavy breaths, occasional moans, and squirming.

You felt your juices leak even more at the prospect of getting caught by him.

It was stupid, beyond insane, but somehow you were even more aroused that you were fucking yourself in front of him while he slept.

Your thoughts were hazy, a fire was pooling slowly at your core, and you knew you were going to come soon.

You sped your fingers up, closing your eyes.

“Ah, Dick,” you groaned softly, chasing your high, “I need you.”

But suddenly, you felt a hand around your moving wrist that forced your eyes open and made you jump.

“What,” Dick was looking at you intensely, his eyes hooded from sleep, “Are you doing?”

“Dick,” you breathed in panic, “Not- nothing. I was scratching my leg.”

“It didn’t sound like you were scratching your leg,” he said in a low voice.

Fuck.

“I was,” you lied desperately, “Sorry for waking you up. Go back to sleep.”

You hurriedly turned your back towards him, your heart felt like it was beating out of your chest.

“Hmm,” you heard him sigh behind you. He snaked his arm around your waist and pulled you into his chest.

“How do you expect me to fall asleep now, sweetheart,” he muttered, hand suddenly gripping your hip so tight that it almost hurt.

You gasped when you felt something hard poking your ass. You heard him groan in frustration.

“This isn’t fair,” he choked, grinding his hard on into you once more, “This isn’t fucking fair.”

You’ve never heard him like this before. You’ve heard him mad, frustrated, tired. But not this. This was different.

“What isn’t?” you dared to ask.

You felt him still, a tired sigh, and then-

“Nothing,” he released you and then turned his back towards you too, “Go back to bed, sis.”

You remained quiet.

It took you almost the whole night to finally drift back to sleep.

***

You blinked yourself awake and immediately cringed at the light that poured through your pulled curtains. The warmth you felt behind you last night was absent, which meant Dick must have woken up earlier and intentionally pulled back the curtains for you. You groaned in your pillow at the reminded of what happened last night.

You got ready for the day and went down for breakfast, which you had in the kitchen on the island that Bruce made into a sort of breakfast bar.

When you were close to finishing, you heard the main door open and close, and in came Dick Grayson shirtless, sweaty, and panting right after his morning jog.

You made a point to ignore him and looked at your phone while gobbling up your scrambled eggs.

“Good morning, sis!” he chirped, pouring himself a glass of cold orange juice from the fridge, as if whatever happened last night didn’t happen.

“Mornin’,” you mumbled back with your mouth full.

“What’re you up to today?” he asked, pulling up a chair next to you. You tried to reel in your nerves. There was no reason to be jittery. If he was going to act like nothing happened, then you’ll gladly follow his lead.

“Nothing much,” you shrugged, “Work out a bit. Read a bit. Watch some TV?”

“Don’t you have friends to go out with or something?” he jested.

“Hey, I like staying home and lazing around,” you defended, finally turning away from your phone to look at him.

An action you regretted instantly.

He was looking at you with a slight smirk on his lips- which was glistening with orange juice. His hair was damp, some curls sticking to his sweaty forehead that made him look more boyish than usual.

The warm light that entered through the windows added on to his overall glow. He was like a bubbling ray of sunshine that made your breath hitch.

You tried hard to maintain eye contact, pretending to give him a slight glare by narrowing your eyes at him.

“Oh, really?” he teased, “And here I thought it’s because you don’t have any friends to go out with.”

“I do,” you huffed, “They invite me out sometimes. I choose to stay home.”

“Whatever you say, sweetheart. But it’s okay if you don’t. I’m here. I’ll be your friend,” he grinned, adding a flirty wink.

Wait, a flirty wink?

You rolled your eyes at him and went back to your phone.

No, Dick is naturally flirty, you convinced yourself. He doesn’t realise it, but he’s like that to everyone.

“Anyway, I think I’ll be down in the Cave for a bit,” he told you, “If you need anything, just text me.”

“And what would I need from you, Dick Grayson?” you raised an eyebrow condescendingly at him.

He didn’t answer right away. His gaze had changed to that of an intense stare, his jaw clenching and unclenching. And then-

“If you need someone to lift anything, or open jars, or do anything manly,” he suddenly changed into his usual cheerful self, even flexing and kissing his biceps for exaggeration, “These guns will help you out.”

You couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Whatever, Dick,” you shook your head at his idiocy and went back to your breakfast.

You did exactly what you said you would. You worked out, you read, and now you were lounging on the sofa in the living room watching TV. It was already in the late evening at the time Dick came and joined you.

He sat next to you, further away than usual.

After about ten minutes, he said, “Why are you so far away? Come here.”

“You’re the one who sat down far away,” you muttered to yourself, yet cuddled up next to him anyway.

You rested your head on his chest and leaned into him, as usual.

Another ten minutes passed by.

“We should talk about last night,” he suddenly brought up.

You tensed.

“What about last night?” you cautiously replied.

“You know,” he simply said.

You pulled away from him to look at him directly, showing him your fake confused face.

“I don’t?” you lied.

He sighed in frustration.

“You can’t lie to me, you know that right?” he told you, “I’m trained to detect lies, remember?”

“I still don’t know what you’re talking about,” you denied. Deny, deny, deny. You didn’t care if it was obvious or not. You needed to keep denying.

“Okay, how about I start over then,” he gave you the same intense stare as before, “We should talk about how I caught you touching yourself.”

Your brain short circuited. You hadn’t expected him to be so blunt and straightforward about it. But you needed to respond before he realises that he hit the mark.

You burst out into laughter.

“Is that what you thought I was doing?” you chortled, “Holy shit!”

He narrowed his eyes at you.

“What?” you continued to force yourself to laugh, “It’s funny! I told you that I was scratching.”

“Do you usually moan my name when you scratch yourself?” he snickered.

You almost dropped your smile the way your heart dropped to your stomach.

“Dick,” you smirked, “What dreams did you have last night? Are you sure you were even fully awake?”

“I’m pretty sure I can differentiate reality and my dreams, sweetheart,” he assured, “But you know what? Forget it. I shouldn’t have brought it up anyway.”

He grabbed your head with his hand and pushed your head to his chest like you were before.

“There’s nothing to even bring up Dick,” you bit your lip in worry now that he wasn’t looking at you, “You’re delusional.”

“Don’t push it,” he quipped.

You couldn’t help but chuckle.

***

The next time Dick ended up in your bed was 2 weeks later.

It was again, after a movie. The two of you fell asleep after under the covers, just like usual.

Dick had been acting normally, and in turn you did as well. It was as if that night had never happened. So, you could drift to sleep easily, despite him being there.

But something woke you up that night.

Your mind was still cloudy from sleep, and you weren’t sure whether you were dreaming or not. Now, you couldn’t tell if it was the slight movement of the bed that woke you up, or if it was the sounds you thought Dick was making.

Your back was facing him, so you couldn’t see him even if the moon shone a little bit brighter that night. But the bed was shaking very slightly, as if someone was absentmindedly jiggling their foot while lying down.

You frowned in the dark. Dick never really had the whole restless leg syndrome. You jiggled your knee while sitting down way more than he did.

But then you heard his soft sighs and moans. And then the haze in your mind cleared up completely, like a rush of cold water that woke you up, and you knew exactly what he was doing.

“Fuck,” you heard him whisper in a desperate tone you’ve never heard before.

Your heart was racing, thumping against your chest as if it was going to burst. You couldn’t believe what he was doing. He was doing the same thing you were two weeks ago.

You strained your ears even more.

You heard it now, the slick, wet sound of what you assumed was him jerking off his cock. You bit your lip. You wanted so much to see it.

Wait a second, a thought occurred to you. It wasn’t fair that he caught you and then acted all smug about it. No, you wanted to get him back as well.

You hurriedly thought hard about a smart thing to say that would leave him just as embarrassed as he made you.

“You know that I can hear you, Dick,” you finally voiced out, internally smacking your head for such a boring opening line.

You felt Dick still behind you.

“How long have you been listening?” he rasped.

“About a minute,” you gulped nervously.

A beat. And then-

“Shit,” he groaned, “That’s hot.”

He continued his movements.

Your eyes were opened wide, your mouth gaping at the shock of how easy he took it. That fucker even continued masturbating.

You’ve never witnessed this side of him before- ever. You didn’t even know he had this side. You thought he was just sunshines and rainbows, the warm older brother who incorrectly thought you were this innocent little girl he sworn to protect.

“Surprised?” he chuckled, “I wouldn’t be doing this if you hadn’t in the first place.”

You made a move to turn around to face him.

“What are you- no, no, don’t,” Dick panicked.

“Don’t worry, I’ll keep my eyes up here,” you replied, now facing him.

He was lying on his back. Your eyes had adjusted to the darkness and you could faintly see the outline of his face, his mouth slightly parted, panting. You were lying on his left side.

You saw a movement on his right, and then you heard the wet sounds again. Another sigh from Dick.

“You’re shameless,” you told him, “I wanted to embarrass you the same way you embarrassed me.”

“There’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” he stated, “Masturbating is healthy.”

“Masturbating in front of your adoptive sibling is healthy?” you chuckled.

“Only if the feeling’s mutual,” he gave what you thought was a smirk. It was hard to read his face in the dark.

“Fuck,” he swore again, and then a little calmer added, “But you’re right. I shouldn’t be doing this.”

“Then why aren’t you stopping?” you whispered.

“Because,” he paused, “Because it’s especially fucking hard to stop now that you’re watching.”

“Craving the centre of attention, just like always,” you teased.

You were surprisingly keeping it cool despite feeling wetness gush between your legs. If Dick can do it, why can’t you?

You brought a hand down under your waistband.

“No,” he suddenly protested, “You can’t do it with me.”

“Why not?” you moaned when you rubbed between your folds. You’ve never been that wet before.

“It’s wrong,” he choked.

“Oh, now it’s wrong?” you scoffed, “Fuck off, Dick. I’m going to touch myself with you.”

“Fuck,” he gasped, “Don’t say it like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because you sound sexy,” he breathed hard, hand pumping harder.

“Mmm,” you hummed, feeling yourself getting slicker and slicker as you circled your sensitive nub.

You watched him intensely with hooded eyes. He was frowning as if he was deep in thought, and was now biting his lower lip.

“Don’t look at me like that, sweetheart,” he groaned again, “You’re going to make me come.”

“Isn’t that- fuck- isn’t that the point?” you retorted, breath hitching.

He sped up even faster, and pumping even harder now that he didn’t need to hide it from you. You wanted so much to glance down, but you promised that you wouldn’t look. He was panting as if he was sprinting now.

You copied his actions, spreading your legs further apart to rub yourself. You felt the familiar heat pool at your lower stomach, the tingling in your toes.

“Fuck, I’m close,” he whined.

“Me too,” you echoed.

“Don’t come with me,” he urged, “Please, don’t come with me.”

“I’m going to come, Dick,” you huffed, “I’m going to come with you.”

“No,” he protested, “Shit! I’m- fuck. Fuck.”

You felt his pumps became more erratic and messy, and he was moaning and groaning- as were you. The heat from your centre burst into waves of fire, feeling you clench and unclench your pussy.

You watched as Dick came. His eyes were shut tight, his eyebrows furrowed, and his sound, god.

He didn’t come with a groan or a moan. He came in whimpers and whines. It sounded vulnerable, and desperate, and needy.

And then the two of you were panting in the darkness, wrapping your head around what had just happened.

You felt the bed shift, and saw Dick take off his shirt to wipe what you assumed was his cum from his stomach. You wanted to steal a look at his cock, but he had already pulled his sweatpants up. He threw the shirt to the floor and got beneath the blankets again with you.

Silence.

He sighed, and then pulled you closer to him. You rested your head on his chest and he slung an arm around your waist.

“I’m disgusting,” he whispered sadly.

“Then so am I,” you replied.

“It’s just- I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t stop myself,” he confessed, “When I heard you that night, moaning my name. Fuck. It wasn’t fair.”

Now you knew what tone of voice he used when he said that. It was him holding back, repressing himself.

“I don’t understand what you mean by it’s not fair,” you stated.

“It’s not fair that you can just- just go around looking like you do,” he elaborated, “Walking around with almost nothing on, squatting in front of me in your skirt while I’m in the pool, fucking masturbate next to me while I slept. It’s not fair that you can affect me so much, and I can’t do anything about it.”

You were so shocked by his confession that you couldn’t even think of retorting him by saying that he did the same.

“And then I’m in the same bed as you again,” he continued, “And you’re just there in your shorts and your tank top, and all I can think about is how you sound when you moaned my name. How long have you been touching yourself to me?”

“Uhm,” you hesitated, blushing slightly to yourself at the embarrassment, “Maybe one or two years.”

“Fuck,” he swore, “And I thought you were so fucking innocent. I felt bad for having dirty thoughts of you.

“Far from it,” you giggled.

He sighed again.

“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with this, Dick,” you tried to assure him, “We’ve only met 4 years ago. There’s nothing relating us to each other except documents. You don’t even have the Wayne name.”

“Still,” he weakly argued back, “I’m still as much your brother as Jason is mine.”

“But you don’t see me as a sister,” you debated.

“No, I don’t. Just- just go to bed okay? I love you,” he kissed you on your forehead.

“Love you too, Dick.”

And so, it started. Whenever Dick slept in your room, the both of you would sometimes masturbate together, never looking anywhere but each other’s faces. But sometimes you would sleep throughout the whole night, and sometimes you would end up touching yourself alone and once you were done, you would feel Dick press up his hard on against your ass but do nothing about it until the both of you fell asleep again.

And during the day, you would act like how you always acted. Like there was nothing going on at night between the sheets. Dick would be his usual cheerful, brotherly self. You didn’t have any other talks like you did again. It was mainly silence or single word answers, swears, and moans and his needy whines.

The longest sentence exchanged between the both of you at night would probably be Dick’s “You done? Go back to sleep.” He would, of course, cuddle up against you and maybe grind himself on you a few times.

But then that night happened.

The two of you had been doing this for 6 months already.

One night, you were in bed, not sleeping soundly but not fully awake either. You faintly heard the door opened and close. You opened your eyes and voiced out in the darkness.

“Dick?” you mumbled.

“Yeah, it’s me,” he replied softly, “I’m sorry. Did I wake you?”

You heard his footsteps come closer to your bed. You blinked yourself awake.

“No, I wasn’t really sleeping,” you explained. He was standing by the side of your bed dressed in a plain white shirt and boxers. “What’s wrong?”

“I- I need you,” he whispered, “Can I sleep with you tonight?”

“Of course,” you immediately sat up and pulled the covers, “Get in here.”

He snuggled up next to you, now lying down on his side facing you.

“What time is it?” you asked.

“Almost four in the morning.”

“You just got back from patrol?” you enquired.

“Yeah,” he simply said.

Your eyes darted across his face to see him in the dark. You noticed he had a butterfly BandAid across a cut on his right cheekbone. Your hands immediately went to caress it.

“Oh my god,” you whispered excitedly, “Nightwing got injured?”

“I’m not invincible you know,” he scoffed.

“Could have fooled me,” you smiled softly at him.

He didn’t reply, but you could feel his intense stare. You continued caressing his cheek.

“So who did it? Pyg? Zsaz?” you paused before you jokingly added, “Condiment King?”

Dick let out a chuckle at that.

“No,” he replied, his smile faltering, “It was Deathstroke.”

No wonder he had his panties in a bunch.

“Oh,” you simply responded, “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” he sighed, wrapping you with his arms and pulling you into his heat by your waist, “I just need you.”

You were so close to him, you could feel his warm breath on your face, his chest rise and fall against yours. Your lips were inches away from each other, and you suddenly felt some sort of pull.

You knew the term electricity sparking between two people was cheesy and overused, but it really was how you felt then. It was like some sort of static that pulled you in closer and closer to him, all the while your heartbeat felt like like it was drumming in your ears.

You suddenly felt hot, too hot. You had your air conditioner switched on and yet you felt like you were sweating. You were suddenly aware of his arms around you. He’s cuddled you like that many times before, but it seemed different tonight.

You noticed his toned biceps flexing around you, how his large warm hand settled at your lower back, burning the small patch of skin that was exposed from your shirt hiking up. You noticed one of his thighs were in between yours, and that your leg had subconsciously found its way up to his hips, almost straddling him sideways.

And you noticed how your core was pressed against his thigh, the pressure making you feel tingly. As if he read your mind, he pressed his thigh between yours harder.

“Dick,” you moaned.

“I need you,” he breathed, and repeated the action again.

You were both staring at each other’s lips. You saw his tongue quickly dart out to wet his lower lip. You both knew what was going to happen next, but it seemed like forever before he actually kissed you.

It didn’t really start out as a kiss at first. He simply pressed his lips against yours gently, like he was testing to see if it was okay. When you reciprocated by adding pressure to the kiss, then he started to ease into it, taking your lower lip into his mouth, adding small licks here and there.

But when you opened your mouth to give him access, it was like he snapped. He thrusted his tongue inside your mouth to taste you, and suddenly flipped you over, climbing on top of you.

He grabbed your hands and pinned them above your head, all the while tongue fucking your mouth. You started mewling at the growing intensity of the kiss, and how he completely dominated it.

He broke off the kiss to rasp “I need you” once more, and then started going lower to suck and lick on the skin above your pulse. You felt him let go of your hands only for him to start feeling you up from beneath your shirt, bunching it up in the process. You let out a groan when he started massaging your breasts, playing with your nipples.

In one swift motion, he pulled your top over your head and tossed it onto the floor. He then immediately went to your nipple and took it into his mouth, circling it with his tongue, all the while pulling and pinching the other with his finger.

He traveled lower again, and forced your thighs apart with his hands, immediately burying his face in between your thighs. He started mouthing you over your sleeping shorts, making it grow damper with both your slick and his saliva.

“Dick,” you begged.

He took them off smoothly.

“Fuck,” he gasped, “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

You felt your face heat up when he complimented you. You felt a bit vulnerable, your legs spread and fully exposed to him. But all the nervousness disappeared when he licked a strip from your hole to your clit, making you shudder in the intense, unfamiliar pleasure.

“I’ve always wanted to taste you,” he teased, his hot breaths sending bolts of electricity over your pussy. He dove in again.

He groaned around your sensitive bud, his vibrations almost completely unraveling you. Suddenly you felt him insert a finger into you while lapping at your clit.

“Oh, God,” you whined, “Fuck, Dick, please.”

He curled his finger upwards to massage the sweet spot inside you, causing you to thrash about, your hands flying from above your head to his soft curls. You tugged on his hair as he continued to drink you up, making him moan as well.

He added a second finger.

You felt the familiar heat build and build as he worked your pussy with his mouth and hands.

He added a third.

“Dick,” you choked, “I’m gonna-”

And then everything you felt was gone. Dick was now kneeling on the bed in between your legs, suddenly shirtless and grinning, his mouth glistening with your juices.

“No,” you whimpered, “More.”

You started bucking your hips in vain to relieve some of the tension that he built.

“Not yet, sweetheart,” his voice was suddenly at your ear, “I need you. I need to feel you. Can I?”

“Please,” you whined, canting your hips to meet his. You felt his hard on poking at you through his boxers, begging for attention.

“You want my cock, baby?” he purred, “You want me to fill you up?”

“Please,” you repeated, your mind was hazy, and it was like the only word you knew how to say.

“Okay, baby, I’ll give you my cock,” his breath tickled your ear.

You felt the bed shift, and you didn’t even realise that your eyes were closed. You opened them and saw Dick position himself between your spread legs, his shorts gone. Suddenly, you felt nervous again.

“Uhm, Dick?” you voiced out.

“Yeah, sweetheart?” he replied, one hand wrapped around his leaking shaft, the tip wet and reflecting what little light there was.

“Is… that normal?” you pointed to his cock.

“What?” he asked, confused.

“Is it normal for a penis to be that big?”

He grinned at you and chuckled.

“Don’t worry, babe,” he winked, “I know it’s your first time, so I’ll take it slow, okay?”

“O-okay,” you stuttered.

He aligned his cock at your hole, pushed in slightly, but then took it away to rub it between your wet folds.

Your breath hitched.

He repeated what he did, pushed in a bit more, only to take it out again.

“Jesus, Dick,” you gasped, “I know you said to take it slow, but-”

You let out a long moan when he finally pushed it in beyond the bell of his head, causing you to wince slightly at the stretch.

“Shit, you’re so fucking tight,” he groaned, still pushing it in dangerously slow.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck,” you panted, “Oh fuck, you’re huge. Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

He stilled as soon as he bottomed out in you, a thumb rubbing your clit to distract you from the almost pleasurable but still painful stretch.

But god, the sensations you felt.

You felt so full, and so good, and like your whole body was on fire. The way he filled you up meant that he was touching every single spot inside you that gave you pleasure.

You weren’t the only one who was whimpering.

You saw Dick with his eyes shut, his eyebrows furrowed, his lower lip bit. He was breathing hard.

“Fuck,” he choked, “Fuck. You feel- fuck.”

“You can move, please,” you instructed.

“You sure?” he whispered.

“Yes, Dick, please.”

He pulled out slowly, but not completely, and he pushed back in.

“Your walls are clinging onto my cock, fuck,” he described.

Indeed, you felt it too. It was like your body didn’t ever want his cock to leave you.

He leaned over you and propped his elbows at either side of your face, his hips still thrusting in and out. You could see the droplets of sweat on his forehead, and smell his familiar citrusy scent along with his salty musk.

You adjusted to his size quickly enough, because soon, you needed more.

“Faster, please,” you told him.

His pace quickened ever so slightly.

It was better, but still not enough. You wanted to feel him, every inch of him. You were greedy for his cock, and greedy for your high.

“Faster,” you pleaded.

He obeyed, but it still wasn’t enough. You knew he was still holding back.

“God dammit, Dick Grayson,” you angrily cried out, “I’m not going to fucking break, so go the fuck faster.”

“Fine,” he panted above you, “You want fast? I’ll give you fast.”

He snapped his hips, and you got the breath knocked out of you.

He started pummeling into you, drilling his cock violently into your pussy.

You bit your lip so you wouldn’t scream your lungs out at the intense pleasure you felt as he pounded you.

“This fast enough for you, sweetheart?” he breathed.

You couldn’t form a snarky reply, hell, you couldn’t form any words at all. The only word you knew was his name and ‘Please’, which you chanted like a mantra, all the while not even knowing what you were pleading for.

The sound of the room was filled with your heavy breaths and vulgar sounds, the slapping of his cock into you and the wet slick that you knew came from your dripping slit.

“Fuck, I need you,” he suddenly crashed his lips into you, violating your mouth with his tongue, his thrusts never faltering.

You felt the previous orgasm build again, but this time it was different from any other you’ve felt. You felt like your vision was getting narrower, like you were seeing white light, slowly building and building its intensity.

“Dick,” you choked.

“Me too, baby, me too,” he muttered, his rhythm now getting sloppy, his moans and groans now replaced with new sounds, the sounds you knew he made when he came.

And then it finally came, you felt yourself flutter around his length, a hand covering your mouth which meant that you must have been making a lot of noise that you didn’t notice.

And then you didn’t hear nor see anything but white static, and an electrical fire that burst throughout your whole body. When you were slowly coming down, you heard him.

His whines and whimpers.

You felt him pull out from your cunt, the sudden emptiness slightly surprising you, and he came all over your stomach in streaks of white.

Your vision was still cloudy, but you could see clearly that he was still hovering above your body, propped up with one arm next to your head, sweating with his eyes closed and breathing hard.

With a groan, he sat up and took his shirt he discarded from before to wipe you clean.

He collapsed next to you and pulled you close, giving you a kiss on the nose.

“That was- wow,” he chuckled.

“Agreed,” you giggled, looking at him endearingly. He looked completely wiped out.

“I love you,” he said, “But no one can know about us, okay? At least, for now.”

“Okay,” you nodded, “But, Dick?”

“Hmm?”

“I don’t want us to pretend like this never happened in the morning,” you whispered, “I don’t want us to act like normal even when we’re alone.”

“Me neither,” he sighed, caressing your cheek, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that before. I just wanted to live in denial. I didn’t want to face my issues.”

“I know,” you smiled softly, “It’s okay. I know it’ll take time for you to get over your guilt or whatever.”

“Or whatever?” he scoffed, “It’s complicated, you know, seeing that I’m supposed to be the responsible one.”

“Whatever,” you lightly teased, “As long as you stop calling me ‘sis’, I’ll be good.”

“Yeah, I only called you that to try to tell myself what you’re supposed to be for me,” he confessed, “But now that’s obviously out the window, I’ll stop.”

“Thanks, Dick.”

“No problem, bro.”

The last sound you heard him make before you drifted to sleep was a yelp that you elicited from him by smacking him on his head.

#Dick Grayson x reader #dick grayson reader imagine #dick grayson #nightwing #bruce wayne #batman #robin #jason todd #dc #dc comics #dc universe

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sublimestarker · 5 years

Text

Starker smut - Trim my hedges

Peter Parker was loaded. Most of it was family money, inherited by his parents and his uncle, but he still managed to double that amount. He worked on apps, and sometimes invested in properties and stock, with his aunt’s permission. “You’re only 19, Peter live your life while you’re young” she’d say and if he had a penny for every time he heard it and rolled his eyes, he’d be even richer. But even she couldn’t deny that their luxurious lifestyle had it’s perks - a nice apartment in Queens and a vacation home in the Hamptons. They were currently there, the July sun shining on Peter’s Ray-Bans as he watched his aunt showing the new gardener around. He knew that the staff never stuck around for too long, so he opted for scrolling through his phone instead of watching the man. Peter was forced to meet him later, when May introduced them.

“Peter, this is our new gardener, Anthony Stark.”

“Please call me Tony.” He said and stretched his hand out to the younger man. Tony, in his tank top and his dirty gardening gloves shaking hands with Peter who was dressed in Gucci pants and had a new Rolex on his wrist was a sight.

“Alright boys, play nice.” May ordered, before going back in the house.

“Kid, you should go in too, I’m gonna trim the hedges and it will get pretty loud.”

“Don’t worry, I have these.” Peter fished out a pair of Airpods from his pocket, and placed them in his ears, his music on low volume, so that he stayed focused. He wanted to observe the gardener a bit more. That guy wasn’t May’s usual type - tall, blonde, with muscles and blue eyes, like the precious ones. Peter particularly missed Steve Rogers, or Captain America,as they called him and a guy who he just called Thor. He had fucked them both, leading to their unemployment, thanks to his aunt. He still remembers the vicious arguments they got in.

“If you didn’t want me to have sex with guys who are twice my age you shouldn’t bring them over.” Peter yelled as he saw that May had fired Steve. His nerves got the best of him and he knew it.

“I didn’t bring them over, I asked them to work for me. You should really think of who you’re seen with, your little hookups can lead to bad press.” May shouted back. He hadn’t seen her this angry with him since he gambled last year.

“Bad press? What is this the 60s. I can sleep with whomever I want and the paparazzi won’t bat an eyelash.”

“Though you should be free to do whatever you want with your body, I’m still the adult here, Peter. There should be some limits. I just want the best for you, I don’t want you to get hurt like last time.”

“We’re still on that. I told you it was just a one time thing.”

“Is that why you were cooped up crying in your room for months. Because of a one time thing. Look I don’t want another Bucky breaking your heart.”

“Don’t call him that. Only I can say that. To you and everyone else he’s James.”

“But he wasn’t, wasn’t he. He was Bucky to his wife and kids, wasn’t he.”

“Get out.”

“Peter I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to overstep my boundaries.”

“I said get out.” He screamed, face red and tears welling up in his eyes. He even threw a framed picture at where May stood moments ago.

Peter was snapped out of that memory when he felt his gardener tapping him on the shoulder.

“You’re so deep in thoughts that you didn’t feel that the first few times, huh kid. Anyway, I need to mow the lawn, so I’d suggest you move.”

“You don’t make the suggestions here. If I wanted I could get you fired right here on the spot.”

“Nice try kid, but I know that your aunt’s the boss here. Plus what are you going to do after you fire me? Replace me with a blonde, blue eyed muscular jock.”

Peter clenched his fist in anger.

“May told you.”

“Yeah, she didn’t want me making the same mistakes as the previous gardeners. Though looking at your attitude, I’m sure she won’t have a problem.”

“You don’t know anything about me.”

“Oh, I know everything about you. Because I was you. I was a rich brat, with lots of cash and lots of fuck buddies.”

“Anthony Stark, Tony Stark, my father used to know your father. Wait, the Wikipedia article said that you ran away from home one night and that you’ve been MIA ever since.”

“Yeah kid, I know what it says, I wrote it. The truth isn’t that glamorous or mysterious. One night my old man saw me sneaking in my boyfriend. He banished me, it was a different time then. And I’ve been on my own since then. I was 18 and on the street, it was literally rags to riches, but well riches to rags. I tried a lot of things. Took a few odd jobs, went to community college, even tried to get back into the family business after my dad passed. Well nothing worked and here I am, in what I’m convinced is my personal hell on earth.”

“Why did you take this job then? You knew what you were getting into.”

“Because it’s the only way I can get money.”

“You see that little garden over there - Steve planted marigolds for me when he was still here. They should bloom in a week. If you stay at your job until then, you’re free to leave and I’ll even give you an extra 10 k. But if i seduce you before that, you’ll have to work here, all summer, every year. Do we have a deal?”

“Sure kid. Just don’t go crying when you can’t afford to get a new Audi because I can keep it in my pants.”

The next day Peter set his plan in motion, thanking God that May had to go back to New York to handle some unexpected business. He was going simple - sunbathing while Tony was working. So he sat in his chaise lounge, Versace sunglasses on and a tiny pink thong. Better to leave somethings to the imagination. Plus skinny dipping in his pool was one of his other options.

Seeing that his gardener was coming, Peter rubbed some tanning lotion on his milky white skin, before saying seductively.

“Hey, can you help me with the back.”

“Sure kid.”

He spread the lotion down the younger man’s back, obeying every command to go lower.

Tony’s hands were millimeters from Peter’s ass, when the older man leaned in and whispered in his ear.

“Why don’t you get dressed before your neighbor comes over to greet you.”

“Neighbor? Wait someone’s coming over for the summer? Which house is it, the one on the left of the right?” Peter asked frantically as he covered himself with a towel. It couldn’t be, right. He wouldn’t come back here again.

“Right. Why?”

“Did you see who was there? Was it just a woman, or a man, or a couple with kids?”

“It was a couple. What don’t you know your neighbors? If it helps jog your memory, the man had a sleeve tattoo of a biomechanical arm, can’t miss it.”

“Bucky.”

“You do know them. So, what is Bucky some old guy, whose son you fucked or something?.”

“He’s my ex. And he absolutely mustn’t see me.”

As if on que, there was a ring on the doorbell.

“Please get it.”

“Kid you have to reap what you sew. I’m not bailing you out.”

“I’ll pay you.”

“Get in the house before he can see you.” Peter flashed him a smile, before jogging into the house. Locking himself in his room, he peaked through the curtains to see what was going on. He could spot Bucky and Tony arguing, then his ex leaving. His gardener then climbed up the stairs and knocked on Peter’s door.

“Thank Tony. I owe you one.”

“Cash rules everything around me, kid. Now come on, give me the money, Parker.”

“How about a blowjob, it’s worth more than I could ever give you in cash.” Peter tried his luck.

“The money, now.” Tony said through his teeth, one hand gripping Peter’s throat.

“Yes daddy.” The younger man replied instinctively, and made a mental note of how Tony bit his lip at that. Peter grabbed a pen and his checkbook, writing a quick cheque to Tony.

“There’s an extra grand for your silence on everything that happened.”

“Pleasure working with you kid.”

Peter could see Bucky’s car driving away, thanks to someone telling Ms. Barnes exactly where her husband had been earlier.

A few days passed and Peter tried his best to seduce Tony. From skimpy outfits to touches that lingered on for more that they should have, nothing seemed to work. But he had some tricks up his sleeve.

Tony had almost forgotten about the younger man’s seduction attempts and didn’t think much before accepting his proposal of a movie night. He was lounging on the expensive white couch with Peter in gray sweatpants beside him. The movie was Beach rats, Pete’s pick of course. But when them first sex scene started on the screen, Tony noticed something unusual, Parker was moaning. Taking his eyes from the screen Stark noticed that not only was the younger man moaning, he was touching himself. He didn’t stop stroking his cock when he noticed the gaze on him, he even started thrusting faster.

“Peter that’s indecent exposure.”

“But I’m not exposing anything, Mr. Stark. There’s a perfectly good movie and you’re watching me. Seems like you want to sleep with me.”

“Fine, if that’s how you wanna play it, I’ll watch the movie.” Tony said as he glued his eyes to the tv. He was staying focused until

“Tony” a desperate breathy moan cane from Peter’s lips. Ignore it, your will is strong.

“Mr. Stark, please.”. He’s just some little bratty twink.

“Fuck me, Tony.” You could be his dad.

“Daddy”. With that Peter came, his eyes were closed and his cheeks were a rosy shade of pink. Tony still kept his eyes on the screen, but there was a bulge in his jeans. Peter didn’t miss that and quickly came up with a plan on how to work with that.

“Well I’ll have to do laundry now. Mind if I squeeze past?” He said and accidentally fell into Tony’s lap, grinding his hips, feeling the throbbing member beneath him.

“Wow, Mr. Stark, you’re packing. You know I usually don’t care about size, but damn I’m sure you.” Before he could finish his sentence, Tony pushed him away.

“Don’t touch me, kid.”. Well plan failed.

Tomorrow was Peter’s only chance to seduce Tony. It wasn’t about the money anymore, nor was it a matter of pride. The younger man was genuinely in love and that terrified him.

Maybe if Peter fucked Tony all these feelings would just disappear. He was determined to find out. That morning they didn’t even exchange words. Tony was working by the pool when Peter jumped in. He swam a lap, before tossing his swimming trunks by the other man. Then he decided to practice his backstroke, showing off his “technique”.

“Care to join me? You don’t need a swimsuit. Come on daddy.”

Tony just sighed and started stripping. Peter’s eyes sparked up with joy. He was winning. And more importantly he was going to be fucked in his pool. Looking his crush up and down, he bit his lip. For an old man Tony had a nice body. Toned abs, big biceps, that perfect v that drove the guys crazy and his dick. Peter couldn’t wait to have it in his mouth, running his tongue over the uncircumcised length.

“Earth to Parker.” Tony was right next to him, oh god, he was so hard for the older man. “You know this week I realized that you get flustered by me. You, Peter Parker the handsome rich boy who can have any guy, likes me, an old man.”

“You’re not that old.”

Tony took steps forward and Peter backwards, until his back hit a wall. Peter’s breath hitched and Tony leaned into him, their lips millimeters apart.

“Is it worth it, if you loose all the money.” Peter asked, clearly taunting the other man.

“Everything’s worth it for you, baby boy.”

Peter closed his eyes and pressed his soft lips against Tony. But instead of feeling lips, he felt a hand. Anthony had placed his large palm between them.

“Psych.”. He said, before exiting the pool and drying off with Peter’s towel. Peter shamelessly rutted his hips against that same towel before cuming with Tony’s name on his lips.

The next day the marigolds had bloomed. Peter picked one and placed it behind his ear, as a sigh of defeat.

When Tony arrived he wasn’t dressed in his usual gardening clothes, but instead he was in a rainbow crop top and booty shorts.

“Parker where’s my cheque. I’m dying to go to the bank like this.”

“Oh, I was prepared to give you cash.” Peter said, opening his Balenciaga fanny pack to reveal stacks of 100 dollar bills.

“I want a cheque. I want to have physical proof that Peter Parker couldn’t seduce me.”

“Fine.” Peter pouted, stomping his feet up to his bedroom, followed by Tony. When he wrote the cheque, he handed it to the older man.

“Oh, Peter, one more thing.”. Before Peter could say anything, Tony pressed his lips against his. The kiss was hungry and sloppy, all tongue and teeth clashing together. The older man almost ripped off the buttons of Peter’s shirt, playing with his nipples. Tony pulled down his lover’s pants.

“Going commando? I bet you were watch me work and play with yourself, wishing that I was touching your sensitive cock, huh baby.”

“Yes, daddy.”

“Well you don’t have to wish for it any more, cause it just came true.”. Tony palmed Peter’s erection, swirling the precum from his head to the base.

“Need to taste you, baby boy.”. With one bob of his head Tony could deepthroath Peter. His cock was sensitive, he was ready to come just from that.

“Daddy please.”

“Fuck, baby boy, you have to be needier than that. As much as I like having your pretty cock in my mouth, I want you. Get on your hands and knees for daddy.”

“Lube and condoms are in the bedside drawer.”

Tony kissed Peter reassuringly, then coated his fingers in lube. His finger slid in easily.

“Baby boy, did you play with yourself this morning?”

“Yes.”

“And who did you think about?”

“You, daddy.”

“You know that bad boys get punished. Count how many spanks I’m gonna give you.”

Tony’s hand struck Peter’s bottom, loving how the younger man’s hole tightened around him. After 5 spanks Peter was a mess. His ass was red and he was drooling on the pillow, begging for Tony’s cock inside of him.

“Just a but more, baby.” said the older man. He couldn’t take the teasing either. He had to have his baby boy, now. So he just added two fingers and scissored them, opening up Peter. As the younger man moaned, Tony opened the condom and lubed it up, before entering his lover.

“Fuck, baby boy, you’re so tight for me.”

“Daddy, you’re so big, you feel so good.”

“Beg for me, Peter.”

“Daddy, please harder. I need you, please.”

“Okay, baby.”. Tony bottomed out, causing Peter to let out an almost pornographic moan.

“Right there. I’m gonna cum.”

“Say my name.”

“Tony.”

“Try again, baby boy.”

“Mr.Stark.”

“I won’t let you cum if you’re wrong one more time.”

“Daddy.”

“That’s right, baby boy. Now come for me.”. Peter came, making a mess on his bedsheets. He rode it out quickly, cock softening.

“Help daddy come, Peter. Touch yourself.”

“But I’m still sensitive, it hurts.”

“Do you want me to feel good?”

“Yes daddy.”. Peter touching himself and let out a whimper, his hard cock already twitching in his hand. Tony wrapped his fist against him, causing him to groan out and slow his pace.

“Don’t stop ,baby, I’m almost there.”. Just as Tony came, he could feel Peter’s hole tightening, the boy had come again.

“You did so good, baby boy. I’m proud of you.”

“Thank you daddy. Can you help me wash off, all this cum is sticky.”

#starker #tony stark #peter parker #ironspider #iron man #spiderman #peter parker x tony stark #tony stark x peter parker #starker smut #smut #lemon

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thechocoboos · 5 years

Text

Strawberries

I’ve had Stardew Valley and Harvest Moon on the brain thanks to @angelic-guardienne and so this was born. I’m a slut for farming sims, but I’m also a wh0re for Cor, so enjoy.

Courting your love interest? More like CORting him

Pairing: Cor/Reader Words: 1886 Genre: Fluff

Cor was a simple man with a simple life. He woke up at dawn every morning just to stand out under the sun, clearing his fields and tending to his crops and cattle as he had done his whole life. It was all he cared about, doing the best he could to have a successful farm.

At least, it was all he cared about until you came along.

He hadn’t thought much of the new person in town, not even when he met you. But then, you approached him one day, introducing yourself once more and asking him for some advice on growing strawberries. There was a bright look in your eyes and the cutest smile on your face, all of which radiated the utmost excitement and interest. He thought it was refreshing, someone actually interested in the care that goes into growing crops. However, having it come from the newest arrival in town left him more confused than not, but a certain sense of curiosity came with it.

The next time he passed your house, there was a fresh patch of strawberry plants growing in your yard, and the old house had a nice yard for the first time in twenty years. It had caught him off guard, seeing new flowers and bushes growing and the lawn freshly mowed, but the sight left him pleasantly surprised. His curiosity grew.

Cor didn’t have another conversation with you for a while beyond brief nods on his part and smiles from you as you two locked eyes across the street.

However, as that spring came to a close, there was a knock on his front door one afternoon. He had finished up his morning chores early and was finally taking some time to himself, only to open his door to you standing there.

There was light sunburn coating your cheeks, your eyes bright and a basket of familiar red berries hanging from your hands. “Hi, Cor!”

He was surprised, his blue eyes widened slightly and his lips parted in a small “o” of surprise.

“So, I got my first batch of strawberries and there were a lot of them…” You let out a nervous chuckle, slightly intimidated by the farmer in front of you. He looked nice in a thin red flannel and jeans, but you tried not to think about that. “As a thank you for your advice, I wanted to bring some by?” You held the basket out to him, your cheeks flushing for reasons other than your sunburn.

Cor wasn’t met with situations like this. He was a lone farmer who didn’t really hang around anyone, beyond maybe Regis and Clarus who were usually busy with their own town functions. He gingerly took the basket, looking rather stunned. It wasn’t often someone did something this kind for him. “Thank you,” He said, voice warm, a small smile appearing on his face.

“Well, uh, that’s it, so--I’ll just head out then.” You managed to say, not thinking this far into the plan. Bobbing your head awkwardly, turned to leave, giving him a small wave and praying that you didn’t do something weird.

Cor watched you leave, the basket in one hand as he vaguely wondered why his heart was beating so fast.

He went for the strawberries later that evening and found a note attached to them. It was written in messy handwriting, the letters uneven and sloppy, but the words themselves endearing.

“Cor, thanks for your tips on the strawberries! Clarus mentioned that you were a big fan of them, so I thought it might be nice to give you some as a thank you. Forever thankful, your neighbor and their new green thumb”

It was cute. And so was the tiny strawberry doodled in the corner of the index card. Cor wasn’t even aware of his small smile until he bit into the first strawberry, his smile growing. It wasn’t the best strawberry in the world, but it was sweet and not too firm--very good for a beginner. The thought of your bashful smile as you presented the thoughtful gift to him made him smile even more, and he hoped that he could cross paths with you again soon.

A week later, Cor was harvesting some crops of his own. He recalled Clarus mentioning how “that new kid” was struggling with growing vegetables, knowing that the “new kid” was most certainly you. Setting a few turnips and cabbages aside, he made a mental note to return the strawberry favor, and he did.

A few days later, there was a basket at your front door. Cor was admittedly too nervous to give it to you in person, but he told himself that he was simply too busy to try and track you down, trying to squash the butterflies in his stomach the whole time.

The basket was full of turnips and cabbages, and as you dug further into it, there were a few turnip seeds and even a couple cabbage seeds, all attached to a note of his own. His handwriting was surprisingly neat, describing in detail how to care for turnips and cabbages.

“Clarus mentioned you were having trouble, thought these might help.” He wrote, signing off with a simple “Cor”. The note was simple, but the fully grown vegetables in the basket warmed your heart.

It was with that gift that a habit was formed between the two of you. You both began to swap crops and notes, hardly ever in person. You gave him blueberries and cranberries, cookies and muffins (especially after you found out that he had a soft spot for berry muffins). In return, he liked to leave fresh dairy products from his animals on your doorstep. Sometimes he left you other produce as well: fresh corn, plump tomatoes, soft peaches, and sweet potatoes. There wasn’t always a note, but when there was, it was always treasured.

You two grew closer through your gift-giving, and when you saw each other in person, your conversations were enjoyable on both sides, despite how warm your blushing cheeks were.

A year of gift exchanges passed before a gift was given to you in person.

One of the spring festivals had been approaching, and a few days before the annual spring dance, someone came knocking at your front door. You were surprised to find Cor standing there, a slightly sheepish look on his face as he held his own basket of strawberries.

There was a light blush on his cheeks, barely visible through his tan. He was wearing one of his stupidly cute flannels, the sleeves just rolled up past his elbows. The sight of his farmer’s tan made you want to giggle slightly, although the serious look in his blue eyes kept you on your toes.

He cleared his throat, “Morning, He coughed awkwardly, trying to keep his eyes on you.

“Morning, Cor.” You smiled, your eyes sparkling as you looked up at him. “It’s not often I get to see you.”

He nodded, clearing his throat again. “I, uh, figured I should stop by in person for this,” He told you, holding out the basket of freshly picked strawberries. “Just got my first harvest for this spring, and I, uh, thought you might like to try the strawberries.”

You gingerly took the basket from him, smiling. The strawberries were bright and plump, looking absolutely wonderful. “Thank you, Cor, that’s really nice of you,” You told him, trying to squander your blush. Just a year ago, you had been the one in his place, giving him your first strawberries as you stood awkwardly on his own porch. It was nice having the roles reversed. You glanced back up at him, smiling, “I might try my hand at making some strawberry cake with these for the festival.”

The perfect segway.

“About the festival,” Cor began, feeling his cheeks growing warmer and his heart beat faster. He tried to squash those stupid butterflies in his stomach, but the second you looked back up at him, your gaze so curious, he fell even harder. “It’s pretty customary for folks to go to the dance in pairs--and, uh,” Astrals, why was he so bad at this? “I was wondering if you’d like to go with me. It--it doesn’t have to be a date, but…” He left the sentence hanging.

There was a beat of silence. Honestly, you were surprised, your eyes slightly wide and stunned. You never thought that he’d ask you--honestly, you thought you would’ve had to ask him.

Cor felt himself panicking as the seconds ticked by, your lack of response terrifying him. He only found relief as your shock morphed into a smile, your cheeks glowing with a bright pink blush as you nodded. “Yeah, that’d be great.” You said, your own stomach filling with butterflies and your eyes even brighter. “As a date, if you’d be comfortable with that.” You added, your blush growing as your smile grew shy.

Cor’s face broke out into a smile, “I’d like that,” He said, letting out a breath of relief. His heart was hammering against his chest, and as he left, a stupidly big smile on his face, he couldn’t wait for the festival.

Your date went swimmingly. That day, you two danced together, his calloused hands warm against your waist. With each step, you two grew closer and closer, your smiles both shy but your eyes bright.

And that evening, you both kissed; it was the first of many. His lips were slightly chapped, but the kiss was soft and delicate in the moonlight, his rough hands so gentle on your cheeks and you found yourself wishing for more as he left you breathless. Luckily, you did get more over the years, many, many more kisses with embraces to accompany them.

Cor is still a simple man with a simple life, but now, he has you with him.

He still wakes up at the crack of dawn, but he likes to linger in bed with his arm over your waist, your soft breath warm against his chest and the thought of leaving you in the morning enough to make him just a bit late to let the cattle out.

He loves to see you working on your beautiful garden outside of your shared house, smiling as you pat down the dirt around fresh flowers and guiltily rip weeds out from between the bushes.

The two of you spend the evenings curled up in the living room, quietly leaning against each other as you two read and occasionally watch the television, the house sometimes filled with quiet music or your hushed voices.

He now likes to take many, many breaks throughout the day just to go inside and see your cute smile and to get soft kisses. It always gives him just enough of his energy back to finish his chores, and those few days where he didn’t take frequent breaks for your hugs, you made sure to go out yourself to give them.

Now, he doesn’t only care about tending to crops and caring for his cattle. He still loves it, just as much as he always has, but now he lives his life to care about you, too. And he still leaves out baskets of strawberries on the counter every morning, just for you.

#ffxv #final fantasy #final fantasy xv #ff15 #final fantasy 15 #ffxv cor #cor leonis

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faveficarchive · 5 years

Text

Venezia

By Vivian "Mambo Italiano" Darkbloom

Pairing: Mel/Janice

Rating: Mature

Synopsis: In the third installment of Vivian Darkbloom’s Mel/Janice series, Mel travels to Venice to mourn, and to remember.

You will come in any case, so why not now? Life is very hard: I'm waiting for you. I have turned off the lights and thrown the door wide open For you, so simple and so marvelous. Take on any form you like.

—Anna Akhmatova, from "Requiem"

1969

The map flutters in Mel's grasp; the autumn wind twirls the corners, soft with age.

She knows this much: She is on the Fondamente Nuove, it is late afternoon and the low sunlight slashes across her sight - she blinks, even the dark sunglasses can barely restrain the power of Italian light - and all the whores, male and female, are staring at her boldly. The women and girls are curious, and the boys eager for her to pick one of them, for they are certain it is a man she wants.

She wants nothing. She's not even certain how she has managed to wander all the way from Piazza San Marco to this, the city's edge. But, like the past five years, everything is a black blur. She tucks the map away into a pocket of her skirt, and walks along a boardwalk. A young man leans against a railing, watching her appreciatively. He is too well-dressed to be a prostitute, unlike many of the people loitering in this particular location; he carries a leather satchel brimming with books and papers. Occasionally she feels his dark eyes on her - but then he looks away, frowning, perhaps contemplating what he could say to her, a worldly, older woman, that would suitably impress her. It is vaguely flattering that others still find her attractive; her dark hair is threaded with some gray, but her figure is still impressive, and few wrinkles crease her handsome face. In her youth, compliments were pleasing yet hardly unexpected. Now they feel truly meaningless.

Dead inside. She closes her eyes. Some days were better than others. Some days she did not feel death pulling at her, did not want to put Janice Covington's .38 pistol to her head and pull the trigger, did not want to throw herself out a window or into an ocean, did not want to cry herself to sleep and pray that she would never wake.

It is not one of those days.

Why? Why did I come back here? I should have stayed in Tuscany, I should have gotten on a train in the opposite direction. The reasons were tangled up in masochistic desire and flawed logic. Come back here, where you spent a "honeymoon" of sorts...where she gave you a ring, where she said she would never leave again, where you were happy. That was...1948. The trip had filled her with expectations; she had not been in the country, let alone Venice, since she was a teenager: How had the war changed everything? Would a certain café still exist? What buildings were destroyed or lost? Would Janice get seasick and throw up in a gondola? She still remembered, vividly, the look of disgust on Janice's face as she first peered into the murky waters of the Grand Canal, from a vantage point on the Rialto Bridge. "Isn't it wonderful?" she had gushed.

"It stinks," Janice retorted, her compact nose scrunched in sensory horror.

"You'll love it," Mel had assured her.

"I love you," Janice had replied, face alit with the reflected light of the water.

Mel had dropped her head in a happy blush, staring at the stones of the bridge, dark and damp, slowly curving, glistening. It looked like an elephant's back.

"Still can't get used to it, huh?" Janice remarked wryly, with a silly grin that indicated she, too, had not adjusted to the concept: They were alive, the war was over, they were in love. So many things had gotten in the way before. But then, it was just them. History was forgotten. They were in Venice on another holy-grail search for a scroll - a lead had emerged, about an Italian nobleman who had possessed one during the war - but time seemed languorous, and this business was secondary, as was the archaeology conference they were attending.

Idiot, she berates herself. You drag yourself here, knowing it's Venice, knowing it's where you were the happiest with her...what did you expect?

I thought it might make me feel better somehow.

You damned fool.

"Signora?" the boy says.

It pulls her out of the darkness. She stares at him, startled.

"Are you not cold?" he asks in Italian.

"No, thank you, I'm fine," she responds, voice low and polite.

Many years of living both abroad and in the Northern United States has tamed Mel's accent, despite occasional terms of residence in the South; nonetheless, it lingers lightly in her speech, like a delicate perfume, and the alert young man can detect it even through her impeccable, impressive Italian.

"You're not Italian!" he exclaims.

She smiles weakly. "No."

"British?" he ventures.

"American," she supplies absently, watching the water.

He is surprised. "Really? All Americans are fat and ugly, and wear bad clothes, no?"

"Not quite," she corrects gently.

She looks away from him, in the other direction. Down the long boardwalk.

"You are on a vacation, then?" he asks. He leans closer to her, the wind battering the brown curls of his long hair. Young men have long hair now, Mel thinks. She can't quite get used to it. She feels the pressure build up in her skull again. A headache. She is tired, so very tired, of other people's conversation. Of questions. The same old questions. Who are you, where are you from, why are you here? Everything possessed a repetitive quality that once upon a time soothed her, assuaged her, even amused her - the patterns of a life. Now? It bores her, exasperates her. Makes her envision the mystery of death. And just what is it about Venice and death, she mused. Now there's a book I haven't read in years. How depressing it was.

Janice, of course, never had time to read novels. Or so she claimed. She would rather watch a baseball game, drink a beer, mow the lawn.... How did we stay together as long as we did without killing each other?

His hand shifts along the leather strap of his bag, and the movement draws her back into the present.

"You are very far away." His voice is grave and his smile slight.

"Si," she murmurs.

"If," he begins cautiously, "you would like to stay in this world for a while..."

She looks at him in surprise.

"...I would like to buy you a drink."

Silly, she thinks, it's silly to assume that simply because he is young enough to be her son, that he cannot detect these things: a sorrow that hangs about her like a cloak. Like dirt.

Wouldn't it be nice to be among the young? The living? You're still alive, Melinda.

Again, she looks off down the boardwalk. She yearns to move. The fever of wandering has consumed her for many years. Somehow - perhaps in a kiss, or a touch - Janice transferred that desire to her. The golden-haired archaeologist was never one for settling down for long. Even standing still, or asleep, her body shimmered with motion, a barely restrained vibration...each way free, to quote Herrick.

Oh, how that glittering taketh me.

"Perhaps..." she manages, and he stands straighter in happy anticipation. "Perhaps another time."

He bows his head, a respectful gesture, gathers up his easy smile and slightly wounded amour propre, and leaves, quietly bidding her a good evening.

She stands alone for a few more minutes, then heads in the direction of the waning sun.

Is it too early to go back to the hotel? she wonders. Do they all think she is strange, because she leaves before daybreak and returns before dusk, just when the city begins to live, and always alone? Who the hell cares?

After many years of living with Covington, the swearing comes naturally. If only in her thoughts.

Four women are clustered around a bench. Two are dressed in garish miniskirts and ludicrously patterned tops that reveal bare midriffs, another is dressed in jeans and a white t-shirt, and the last one, sitting atop the back of the bench, is obscured from Mel's view. But a corona of orange light catches her eye, and she slows her pace as she starts to walk by. And stops.

A girl, about 16 or 17, is perched among these older females. She is obviously entertaining her friends with a story, and her rapid, slangy Italian and heavy Venetian dialect render it almost impossible for Mel to understand what she is saying. Not that she cares. The language washes over her in its familiar currents and eddies as she stares in disbelief: The girl looks almost exactly like Janice Covington - a very young Janice, as when she and Mel first met. The youth of that face....It had been her very first thought upon that fateful meeting, almost 30 years ago, when the notorious Dr. Covington stuck a gun in her face: Dear Lord, she looks like she's 18 if a day.

It is uncanny. The hair the same burnished gold, the tanned skin, the smile, the eyes.

Her pulse thuds, its beat almost deafening - in the roar of blood her sanity swims, flailing, her heart drowning. She closes her eyes for a moment, willing the mirage to disappear. She pulls off the sunglasses and lays a hand across her face, the cold dampness of a palm meeting a hot, dry cheek.

Through the sliver of two fingers, framing the scene like a camera, Mel sees them all staring at her, the young girl who resembles Janice right in the middle. Madness. Her fingers close, shuttering off the image.

I can't. I won't. The urge - to die, to scream, to run, to do something - is choking her.

High heels nicker rhythmically across the pavement, growing louder until she senses a presence. "Signora?" A husky female voice demands her attention.

Mel allows her hand to slide down her face. One of the women from the bench is in front of her, a brunette, slathered in makeup, day-old mascara clinging stubbornly to the slender stalks of eyelashes, the brown eyes dark and hard, yet oddly sympathetic. Unbidden, the thought occurs to Mel that the prostitute resembles a man trying - and failing miserably - to impersonate Maria Callas.

"Are you all right?" the woman asks solicitously, in Italian. "Would you like to sit down?"

Mel's eyes dart nervously over to the bench, to the girl, who stares at her with blatant curiosity, unlike the others, who mask their interest with looks of disdain.

"No," Mel blurts. She won't permit herself to get too close.

The whore touches her arm. "Please, you are as pale as snow. You must be ill. Come sit on the bench. We'll move." She snares Mel's arm and, before Mel can dig in her heels like a stubborn mare, steers the tall Southerner over to the others. "Francesca! Move your fat ass!" she barks at the golden-haired girl, who immediately jumps off the back of the bench.

Francesca. She is about Janice's height, perhaps an inch taller, wearing a t-shirt with brown and blue stripes, ragged, cut-off denim shorts, her bare feet jammed into brown, hippie-ish leather sandals. As Mel walks to the bench she stops and stares at the girl, who returns her frank interest with pale, gray-green eyes.

No sooner is she sitting on the bench than the dark-haired whore claps a rough hand across Mel's forehead. "Si, you are feverish!" she declares.

"Signora," coos another woman - a platinum blonde - in venomous teasing, "I swear, we have not seen your husband!" The third, a girl in blue jeans, closer to Francesca's age and with mousy brown hair, laughs.

Francesca continues to stare at Mel, a smile on her lips and puzzlement in her eyes, as she hesitates to join her friends in the teasing.

"Ah, shut up," grunts the brunette, who is fussing over Mel as if she is a child. "Can't you see, something is wrong? Signora, do you need anything? Some water? Some aspirin?"

"Dottore Sofia!" crows the fake blonde.

Finally, Mel manages to speak. "Please, I will be fine. I am only a little tired."

"If you are looking for the boys, they are further down," the blonde says to her, pointing in the direction from which Mel came. They laugh again, save for Francesca and Sofia.

Mel extracts a handkerchief from her purse and mops her brow with it. "I don't want a boy," she mutters, more to herself than the others.

Sofia has heard her, however. And raises an eyebrow. "Well," she asks ingenuously, "what do you want?"

"I don't want anything," she replies perfunctorily. Nonetheless her gaze is riveted to the young, tanned woman. Oh, don't look....But she is helpless.

Francesca is smiling at her. Almost as if she knows. Impossible. Or is it?

Mel hangs her head in acute embarrassment.

But it is too late. The look has passed between them - an acknowledgment of desire, an offering of services - and the raven-haired whore has caught it. Her overplucked eyebrows arch in surprise. "Well!" she drawls. And laughs.

It takes a moment for the others to catch on. "Mamma mia!" shrieks the platinum blonde.

"The English are so funny that way. Both the men and women, I guess," the brown-haired girl observes philosophically.

Mel neglects to correct the mistake in her nationality, as Francesca feigns surprise, coquettishly touching her chest in mock disbelief. "Me?" she squeaks. The women titter nervously.

You? I've spent the past five years looking at your face embodied in old photographs, yearning to hear your voice again, your laugh, missing your touch, your kiss, the smell of your body...the feel of you, lying across me...the leather, the cigars, the cigarettes, the teasing, your hair upon a pillow, the way you would caress an old book, the taste of bourbon on your lips, seeing you throw a baseball, pitch a tent, wield a pick ax, fix a car, argue with me, cry on my shoulder, give yourself to me....you said once that if you ever left me again, you would surely come back.

But it's not you, is it, Janice?

The apparition - no, you fool, she is real, dear God, she is real - resembling her lover smiles, a lascivious, cocky grin, and knowingly folds her arms over her chest.

"No, not for that," Mel says quickly. Liar!

Francesca raises an eyebrow expectantly.

"Just to talk," Mel says.

The raucous laughter of all four women is almost deafening.

"Talk, eh?" Sofia finally gasps through her giggle fit. "It still costs the same, Signora...no, wait..." - she raises a hand imperiously, making it up as she goes along - "it's double, since this is a special situation."

Mel shrugs. She knows whatever the price is, she can afford it. What the hell are you doing? a niggling voice intrudes on her thoughts. Buying a prostitute? Are you insane?

Just...to be with her a little. That's all, she reassures herself - and the demanding voice.

But, like a car crash, the situation has escalated quickly into something beyond her control, something she has not really thought about. All she knows is that she wants to spend time with the girl. Suddenly, she does not want to be alone.

"Well, Francesca, what do you think?" Sofia asks. The brunette frankly inspects Mel with her eyes. "She is good-looking, obviously has money and" - she bends down and quickly sniffs with comical loudness at Mel's hair and the nape of her neck - "she is clean. I don't think you'll do much better than this."

While Mel is not exactly experienced in this type of interaction, she wonders if, perhaps, it is a little unusual for the buyer to be scrutinized by the product.

Francesca's mouth is an o of wonder, as if she too cannot believe the rapid transaction, which belies the super-confident facade she wore just a moment ago. She can't have done this very often, Mel thinks. Or rather, hopes. The young woman pauses, shifting her weight on to one hip, and somehow manages to stuff her hands into the tight pockets of her shorts. "All right," she says softly.

The deed is done. Mel blinks, as if waking from some strange dream. Her head is swimming in the low sunlight.

Sofia holds out a hand, wiggling the fingers almost obscenely; the whore with a heart of gold is replaced by the practical businesswoman. "100,000 lire," she demands.

***

Sunset. The sky is violet, rent through with scarlet and orange, like a wound.

"For someone who wants to talk, you do not say much," Francesca says, in slow yet precise English, breaking the silence.

Mel raises an eyebrow. "You speak English." And rather well, at that. She studies the profile, so astonishingly familiar, and shudders at the sudden ache to touch the bow-shaped lips, remembers all too well the way that Janice, eyes closed, sighing, would take fingers into her mouth, a gesture of delicious surrender. What else do you do well? Tell me.

"Yes, I do. We can speak in English, if that is okay with you. I like to practice." The girl's accent is pleasingly heavy, the rolling vowels hanging off her tongue, threatening to fall from her speech like ripe pears.

"That's fine," Mel says.

"But please, do not misunderstand. Your Italian is very good."

"Thank you."

Suddenly, the whore stops walking. "Why?" Francesca blurts.

Mel too stops, and looks at her. "Why what?" Her voice is hoarse, roughened by desire and the jagged bits of her heart.

The young woman's brows collide as she attempts to undo Mel with the power of her gaze. "Why do you want to...'talk' to me?"

It almost works. "You remind me of someone."

She watches as the girl processes this, her body restless in her movements, the motion of youth. "Tell me more," she says softly, eagerly, as if anticipating some fantastic story.

We did have a wonderful life together, didn't we? We had a story to tell. It wasn't just the story of Gabrielle and Xena, it encompassed so much more.

"Perhaps later." Mel glances away, then starts to walk again. Francesca catches up with her, and they fall into step together.

"We go to your hotel?"

"Yes." Mel studiously ignores looking at the young woman, and her gaze remains fixed on the pace of her shoes along the cobblestones. What are you doing? Tell her to go away!

Francesca takes the awkward tension streaming off of Mel as inexperience. "Do not worry," she proclaims, touching Mel's hand gently, "I have done this before."

The tall woman flinches as the fingers brush her knuckles, then hopes the whore hasn't noticed. As the words settle in, she looks at Francesca in surprise. "You've..."

"With a woman? Si. Sofia taught me everything," she replies with pride, as if Sofia were Sappho herself.

"I...see." Mel pauses, flustered. "We aren't going to do anything. Just..."

"Talk?" the young woman responds, with a wry smile. "Whatever you want. I am yours for the night," she says in the tone of an indulgent parent.

The street is filled with stores, restaurants, and people. Francesca stops walking, and touches Mel's arm. "Wait here," the girl says, and darts quickly through the crowd.

Mel feels a stab of panic. Was she being deserted? Had the girl decided it was all too much, too strange, she didn't want to go through with it? It's for the best. Stupidly, she stands there for a few minutes, passers-by jostling her, until she catches sight of the coppery head moving through the crowd and toward her.

Francesca holds a brown paper bag shaped like a bottle. "Andiamo," she says. Mel nods. As they walk down the street, she tries to combat the jolt of surprise and desire as the young woman takes her hand. The warmth is overwhelming; to be touched again is like a drug. But she fights it, perversely, wanting to luxuriate in it and yet not trusting it, not wanting it...unless it was Janice. But that's impossible.

"Does this bother you?" Francesca asks.

"No," Mel lies tightly.

"Yes, it does." The girl chuckles. "Do not worry. Everyone will think you are my mother."

The reminder of her age is annoying to the older woman. "We don't really look alike."

"Tell them I look like papa," retorts the whore.

Mel says nothing as a blush travels along her face.

The facade of the Hotel Cavalletto becomes visible, a brilliant ochre shining even more ostentatiously in the fading light. Mel takes a deep breath as the door is held open for her and she sails in, relying on the drama of her height, her bearing, and her still considerable beauty to distract anyone from the fact that a young, raggedly woman is trailing in her wake and following her to the elevator. But the concierge, loitering discreetly nearby, bars Francesca with his arm. Mel turns sharply once she feels the girl is no longer on her heels.

The concierge is about to read the riot act (or its Italian equivalent) to the young prostitute, when Mel says, in clipped tones, "É con me."

She is with me. His eyebrows shoot up. He looks at Francesca is disbelief; this little hippie-slut? He recovers, nods, and allows Francesca to follow.

In the elevator, the girl giggles. Mel is mortified. It's not too late, a voice warns inside her, as the door opens and they walk down the still corridor.

Her hands shake as she removes the key from her pocket and unlocks the door to her room, all the time aware of the girl's green eyes on her. It is ludicrous, she thinks, bringing a common prostitute here. And an underage one at that. She looks quickly at Francesca, who delivers a voracious, lusty grin on cue. Crinkles deepen around her eyes, lines that - she's not even sure anymore and it pains her - Janice probably didn't have until she hit her 40s. You are far too young to have those kinds of wrinkles. A memory comes to mind, of the last excavation: Janice, tilting her hat back, squinting in the sun, laughing with Fayed, the foreman. Her hair still golden. She had often teased Mel about that - the fact that the black-haired translator had gone gray and she hadn't. The gray hairs had appeared the year that dreadful movie came out - the cartoon about the Dalmatians - and Janice had made some remark about Mel resembling the film's villainess, Cruella DeVille. There had been "Southern-fried hell to pay" (as Janice phrased it) after that comment.

The room is large and airy, simple and elegant, with tones of red and gold. The hotel's literature refers to it as "classically Venetian, with hints of Orientalism." Mel has no idea what it means. She drops her purse on a table, and turns to the girl, hand extended. Wordlessly, as she gawks around the room, Francesca hands the bottle to Mel.

Mel sheds the skin of the unknown bottle in her grasp. It is bourbon, the Covington drink of choice. She doesn't know whether to laugh, cry, or smash the bottle and draw a broken shard across her wrists. Unbidden, an image of the chakram slicing a throat flashes in her mind. Not me. Ironic. After so many years, Janice became comfortable with the idea of being the bard's descendent. But I, more than ever, fought against my own lineage. Xena.

"Bore-bom," says the young whore. "You like?"

I'm not a killer. I'm not a heroine. But I am a wanderer.

She hates whiskey of all kinds. But Janice....hadn't it all started with a bottle of the stuff, that bottle of Bushmill's that Janice half-consumed at her house? "Fine." Mel feigns casualness. She sits the bottle on the table. A phone call downstairs will yield a bucket of ice and glasses within five minutes. As she cradles the phone receiver against her shoulder, Mel watches the girl prowl around the room, restless, taking in everything, from the tasteful framed prints, to the new couch, the expensive rug, the mahogany sitting table. Francesca is half in awe, yet half outraged that such extravagant living is the province of very few. Janice was like that too, but she usually managed to deflect how impressed she was with her smart-ass remarks. Jesus, Mel, another dump!

A knock at the door announces the arrival of the ice and tumblers. With a grunt and a quick tip, the bellboy disappears. Mel prepares the drink automatically, having done so countless times for her lover, without thinking to ask how Francesca really takes it. But the whore says nothing as she offers the drink; she accepts it gratefully and downs it in one gulp. "Bah!" Francesca cries with hoarse enjoyment, eyes watering. "I hate it so much I like it."

What else do you feel that way about? Mel sips at her drink. The girl laughs at her. "Come, you are not an old lady. Drink like a real person."

Well, the sooner it's over with, the better. She shrugs. She pitches the drink down her throat, the burning trail contrasting neatly with the ice cubes pressed against her lips. She almost gags at the taste; experiencing the flavor via the alchemy of Janice's mouth had been much more enjoyable - the hot power of the alcohol held a sweetness it lacked otherwise.

"What is your name?" Francesca asks.

"Melinda."

"Bella. Bee-you-tee-fool." She drawled the English word comically and smiled flirtatiously. "Like you."

For the first time in years - probably since the early years of her involvement with Janice - Mel ducks her head in embarrassment at a compliment. "You don't have to flatter me," she mutters.

"Che cosa?"

The blue eyes look up at her sharply. "I said you don't have to talk to me like that."

"Silly. You do not like when people say nice things to you?"

The older woman glowers at her, resisting the charm.

"Merda, lady. Please don't act like people never say, 'Ah, Melinda! She is lovely!' " In mock melodramatics, Francesca flings a forearm against her face. "She blinds me with her beauty!"

In spite of it all, Mel grins and chuckles. "Now who's being silly?"

"Me. I am always silly. My brother says so."

"Your brother?"

"Si. He works at a cafe. Ottavio." Mel is uncertain for a moment, not knowing if she is referring to her brother or the place where he works. But the girl smiles wistfully, and Mel realizes it's the name of the brother. "We save money, together. We want to start a café of our own. Soon."

Mel sits, gestures for the girl to do the same, but Francesca remains standing, leaning against the mantelpiece, staring off into space. "This is why I do what I do," she murmurs, almost to herself, as a reassurance, a prayer.

"There are other things you could do," Mel counters.

The girl snorts derisively. "Not for this kind of money." Uncomfortable, she decides to turn the focus on Mel, and does so with unerring tactlessness. "You always fuck women, yes?"

The glass, beaded with moisture, slips in Mel's hands, but she recovers just in time to prevent it crashing to the floor, and tightens her grip accordingly. "You're very blunt," she replies, avoiding the question.

"Scuzi?"

Mel sighs and ransacks her weary mind for an appropriate translation. "Esplicito." That'll do, she thinks.

"I do not mean to offend you." Francesca relents in her brute assault as an apologetic tone creeps into her voice. "I am curious."

Mel clears her throat nervously, feeling as if she is being interrogated by the IRS. "It's all right. Yes, I've made love to women before." Do I get a deduction for that?

"Ah. And men? Have you ever - "

"No," responds Mel. "Close, but no cigar."

"Cosa...?" Francesca frowns again, as her limited English rubs up against yet another strange expression.

"Never mind." She sits the glass on the end table. Their eyes meet. Involuntarily, she feels her lips part, her mouth hanging open in disbelief; it's a silent cry, an ache that this doppelganger has brought and laid at her feet, like an offering. For Francesca stands, hand on a jutting hip, in a pose so reminiscent of Janice she cannot believe it to be true. Right down to the sunset-colored hair and the clear eyes, as pure as morning light.

The girl knows - she has been told so many times by Sofia - that while it is acceptable to feel a fondness for certain customers, one cannot afford to grow seriously attached to any. She is soft-hearted; Sofia knows this, hence the volume and hysteria of the warnings. And Francesca, thus far, has heeded the advice of her mentor. But she does feel an empathy for this tall, lovely woman who sits in front her, almost crying, an emotion she has never quite experienced with any customer before. She feels an awe at the power of the love that brings this proud, aristocratic woman to the brink of tears, that made her buy a bucaiola, that makes her beautiful blue eyes flash with pain and remembrance. It is a mystery. She wants to know the woman's story. "What is it about me...?" the whore begins slowly, in a gentle, wondrous voice.

"You..." Mel drops her head, cannot say anything further.

"I look like someone you know." She takes a step toward Mel. "Someone you loved, si?"

"Yes." The Southerner cannot believe the raw, husky tone to be her own voice.

Another step. "Did she not love you back?"

"No, no, she did. But now she's gone."

"Gone?" the young woman echoes. She is now sitting on the arm of the chair, and Mel can feel the heat of her body, can smell the sun in her hair and clothes.

Mel finally looks up at her. "Don't ask me any more questions. I can't -"

She is silenced by the woman's hand on her face, the fingertips mapping the lines of her jaw, still strong and firm, her touch traveling and dipping into the shadows along her neck. Mel's breath buffets the thumb that lingers near her lips. The fact that she is feeling something - desire - other than pain is a temporary haven, but she remembers the one she wanted so long ago - and still wants. The tears that have been perched on the edge of release for the past hour or so finally fall. She is crying as the girl crawls into her lap and proceeds to catch the shimmering drops with both fingers and mouth.

Francesca is going shhh, soothing her like a child, kissing her forehead and pulling her against a breast, so that her wet face soaks the striped t-shirt.

"Mel?"

Was it 24 years ago?

"Am I alive?"

She had barely managed a response before starting to cry, rising from the chair but then falling to her knees on the floor next to Janice's bed, hating herself for being weak and breaking down as she gasped and sobbed into the white sheets, her body heaving convulsively. Janice's strong fingers burrowed into her hair, her husky, lovely voice saying over and over again: "Mel. Mel. Melinda. It's okay. I'm here. I'm here."

The kiss is uncertain, feeling all the more intimate for its delicacy, the fragile brushing of lips. The next one is stronger, as is the one that follows after that. Mel arches into it, tasting the bourbon and the salt of her own tears.

I'm here.

***

Morning is revealed gradually, like a gauze bandage stripped away from her senses. First, the sounds of the street below, the ever-present lull of the water, the loud cries and the songs of the gondoliers, a church bell, other voices, ghost-like, on the wind. Then, Mel grows aware of the body next to her, the deep breathing, the warm skin.

She opens her eyes, utterly unbelieving. The girl is curled fetally, clutching a spare pillow. Nude, of course. As is she. And if any doubts remain concerning what activities occurred during the night - the smell of sex, the wetness between her legs, the ache of unused muscles, and the violently twisted sheets dispatch them with alacrity.

Mel tries to sit up for a moment, then falls back onto the pillow. "Oh, God," she moans aloud. That particular quality of morning - the brightness that discounts the night's mysterious elements, the bluntness that can reveal details harshly - has a bracing effect, like cold water splashing her face. You are a middle-aged woman in bed with a teenaged prostitute. Probably the most deplorable thing you've ever done in your life. This is the stuff that scandals are made of.

But it felt good, didn't it?

She examines the bronzed back just within her reach. Slowly, as if fighting the urge to touch, she reaches out and lets her fingers brush against the firm, warm flesh. This skin, this body, was all so similar to the one she slept beside for twenty years. Similar, but not the same. The curves are softer, the arms and shoulders lacking the hard muscles lurking underneath the tan. Her hand wanders and traces imaginary lines along the bare thigh. Here, Mel thinks, the pads of her fingers gliding over an unmarred expanse of skin, was where Janice had two jagged, intersecting scars, from gunshot wounds during the war. Another scar on the leg from an SS dagger. And here - her fingers continue their journey down, beyond the knee to the calf - is where she broke her leg, falling out of the back of a truck, in Morocco, in 1938. (And Harry had told her - how many times? - never stand up in moving vehicle.)

And on the stomach - eluding the time travel of her fingertips - was a souvenir of a near-fatal bullet wound. The war and its generous bounty. The scars that never went away, the cries from dreams that plagued her in the night. Mel slides her palm along the upper arm. And here was a razor-thin white scar, from falling rocks during a tunnel excavation in 1956. Her gaze falls to the hands - young and uncalloused - clutching a pillow. Two fingers on Janice's left hand had been slightly crooked, having been broken, and one knuckle permanently flattened below the skin's surface - courtesy of a knockout punch delivered to a Belgian archaeologist during a conference - Where was it? London? Cairo? No, Amsterdam. 1951. The unlucky young man had insisted that Xena was a mere myth, created by a "society of matriarchal wanderers" - in a word, Amazons. It would have been fine had he stopped there - she and Janice were not so rigid that they did not respect someone else's right to believe otherwise - but a certain lewd comment directed at the archaeologist had prompted Mel to throw her drink (mineral water with lime) in his face. Outraged, he had slapped the translator, not hard, and didn't see the fist flying at him from the little blonde he coveted.

Afterwards, in the taxi heading to the hospital, Janice was elated, relaxed, as she usually was after a fight, and Mel was sullen, guilty, at having started one. Can't blame this one on me entirely, Mel.

Even with broken bones and threats of imprisonment (the Belgian was quite annoying and relentless about pressing charges), they still made love, quick and laughing, back at the hotel, before a reception.

Five years without sex. Without this pleasure. After spending twenty years with someone, where hardly a week went by....Except on the digs. She smiles at the memory: No fucking around during a dig, Janice had declared. Or we'll jinx it. That was her superstition. All the weapons in Mel's arsenal seemed powerless against this irrationality: She tried a different perfume, oysters, a tight black slip (which, she was happy to note, almost did the trick), various garter belts....But to her immense surprise Janice did not cave in.

"Dames are always trouble on site." Janice would mindlessly recite the questionable wisdom of her father while conveniently neglecting the irreversible fact that she herself was a "dame."

"We met on site," Mel would mumble the protest, her eager tongue boxing an earlobe, her hands grappling with a belt buckle, before Janice would skitter away from her attentions.

"Sure we did. And look what happened. We resurrected an evil god and almost got killed."

It wasn't until much later when the archaeologist admitted another motivating factor: fear of getting caught by one of the workers. And, in a Muslim nation (where they were, most of the time), it wouldn't be a mere small scandal, or tacitly accepted.

Reluctantly, Mel rises. A sense of shame burns through her, something she hasn't felt in years. She whips her robe around her nude form, the familiar coolness of the satin soothing. Her legs feel unsteady and there is a faint throbbing at her temple - am I really such an old ninny that a glass of bourbon has made me hung over?

She indulges in a long shower. She washes carefully, thinking that the traces of last night are riding a whirlpool into the drain. But there is a slight soreness between her legs that she will keep as a reminder of the night. The ache blends seamlessly into pleasure and roams an emptiness inside her. She had encouraged the girl thus: Harder. Faster. Deeper. Sometimes in Italian, sometimes not.

Afterwards, as she dries off, a sudden fear hits her as she towels her hair. It takes the form of a practical voice, sounding like Janice: Let's see here, now...You left a strange prostitute alone in your room, with your cash, your passport, your watch, your ring....

Her toes clench the soft mat under her damp feet.

That wasn't smart, sweetheart.

It isn't that she truly cares about the money, or even the passport for that matter - the latter, she knows from experience, can be replaced soon enough. The Cartier watch, however, is old, and had been a gift from her father, and the ring, its Celtic whorls mimicking the design of Xena's armor, was, of course, from Janice. Maybe I can't marry you, but I can give you a goddamn ring at least. That's not a crime.

She throws the robe back on. With a concerted effort to appear neither melodramatic nor accusing, yet nonetheless failing, she flings open the bathroom door and stalks into the room.

Francesca sits, naked and cross-legged, in the middle of the bed, consuming the hotel's complimentary bowl of fruit. A banana skin lies near the soft, wrinkled bottom of one foot. Bits of orange peels are scattered in the bed, like blossoms. At Mel's sudden entrance she looks up, alarmed, but then, very matter-of-fact, slides a slice of orange into her mouth. She chews while watching Mel very intently, expectantly. She swipes her mouth with the back of her arm.

With some relief, the older woman notes that the watch and ring are still on the nightstand, where she had placed them last evening. After removing the watch Francesca had snared her arm and wetly kissed the pale band of skin, sucking gently, as if attempting to undo the tangle of veins pulsing within.

Her wrist tingles at the memory.

"I'm very hungry," the girl declares.

A light-headedness overtakes Mel. She feels giddy, perhaps because of how unreal the situation appears, how funny, and how strange it all seems. And, at the same time, how very like Janice this girl was acting. "I'll buy you breakfast," she replies.

"Thank you." They continue to stare at each other. Francesca then consumes the final orange slice. "You enjoyed what we did during the night?" She smirks; her lips glisten.

"Couldn't you tell?"

"I like to hear."

"Well, I...yes."

"Yet you run away this morning. Are you in a hurry?"

"No," Mel admits.

"But you feel bad. You wanted to wash it all away." Francesca shrugs. "Many are like that. It is okay, I understand."

But I want more.

A wry, knowing smile pulls at the girl's lips. She lies back, propping herself up on an elbow, casually displaying her body: the firm breasts, the smooth, slightly rounded stomach, the sex camouflaged by a triangle of curled golden hair. "So you are clean now." She sounds amused.

"Si." Mel feels lust crawling, prickling her skin, as her heartbeat picks up. She knows the desire is visible upon her face; apparently Janice Covington was not the only person who could read her like this.

"Do you want me to make you dirty again?" She is half-mocking, half-seductive.

Oh God, yes.

***

Still panting, she places her head against the taut belly, slick with sweat.

"Non sono io stesso." It seems apropos to say this - I am not myself - in a language not her own.

"But you said you have done this before," the girl says, breathless.

"Everything is not about sex. That wasn't what I was talking about."

"Tell me what you were talking about."

Mel wonders why the girl can't just relax...but this is business to her, no matter how pleasurable.

"You are very mysterious, Melinda." She feels the whore toying with her hair. "I think..." Francesca begins.

Mel looks up at her expectantly, letting her hand caress a hip in an absentminded, almost proprietary way.

"...Sofia did not teach me everything."

The translator laughs, and is inwardly amazed. How long has it been since I really laughed?

"You have many skills," the young woman says.

"Tell me about it," Mel murmurs, temporarily sated and happy, into the haven of tanned, soft skin. She knows enough about a woman's body to know that her young companion was not faking the orgasm.

Francesca slips out from under her gracefully; Mel lies back, and the girl straddles her. "I like you. You are different from the others."

"Ovviamente." Obviously.

"No, not that. But no one I fuck is concerned with my pleasure. Except you." The blonde grins. "You are nice, you are smart. You are not disgusting, like some old man."

No, I am a disgusting old woman. "Old man? You've done that?"

"Bah! Some old fascio. He makes me wear a German uniform. Tira seghe, I am paid much money, we are all happy." She shudders involuntarily. Mel frowns, unfamiliar with the expression, but too embarrassed to ask what it means; if it means what she thinks it means, then he...relieves himself. "I am glad I do not have to touch him."

Mel realizes that she is feeling relief - that the girl doesn't have to actually fuck the old coot. Why? Jealousy? Temporary insanity: She imagines trying to make a life with this girl. I am 53 years old, no doubt a good three times older than she. I know nothing about her.

She closes her eyes for a moment. Memory strips her of time, of age, but not of the name of the one she loves.

"Tell me again," Janice had urged in a whisper, body moving restlessly against her own, ceaselessly, as if trying to break the barrier of blood, skin, and muscle between them, and crawl inside her. The archaeologist's warm, damp face is pressed against Mel's cheek.

Her fingers strum across the small of the back, playing a glissando of silent exhilaration. She loves this part of Janice's body, the ridge of muscle poised and ready to plunge into the gentle swell of the hips. "Tell you what?" she asks, confused yet knowing she would say anything, do anything right now.

"What you said - in the doorway." Janice gasps. There is a thread of pleading in the tone, tangible to her, that she can grasp and follow through the maze of defenses and rejections, of harsh words, of other obstacles...to this heart, laid bare, not for taking, but for giving.

Earlier they had stood at the threshold to Mel's bedroom, and, not daring to confess her love quite yet, Mel had opted for another truth upon her lips and yearning for release.

And now she says it again. "You're beautiful, Janice."

In the dark she could feel the soft, fair brows clench, and the startling, cool splash of a tear. She could hear the catch in Janice's voice.

"Nobody's ever said that to me before."

How I hated the world for letting you think that, and how I loved that I was the first to tell you.

She opens her eyes, having fallen asleep. The girl is curled up against her, almost protectively; a slender, tanned arm is around her waist.

A faint rumbling vibrates against her. It is not snoring, but, pitched lower, in the abdomen. She knows it is not her own stomach; she abolished hunger long ago. At least I thought I had: Hunger for food, for living...maybe not the hunger for this.

She touches the crown of golden hair. Francesca jerks awake. "Ach!" she cries with a growl, stretching. "I am so hungry now." She twists in Mel's loose embrace, trails a hot tongue along the carotid artery that pulses in the translator's neck, earning a sharp gasp from Mel.

"You'll feed me," she murmurs to Mel, "then fuck me again."

"You're awfully fond of that word," Mel manages to respond. And so was Janice.

"What? Fuck? It is a good word. Fuck, fuck, fuck..." she chants it softly against Mel's ear.

Mel finds herself smiling. Certain elements of her admitted prissiness, her priggishness, went out the window years ago, along with common sense and her neatly ordered life, when she fell in love. "It is no longer night," Mel reminds the whore cautiously. My time has run out, hasn't it?

"Sofia charged you too much," Francesca intones solemnly.

"I see. Perhaps...if I am teaching you new things, then you should be paying me?" Mel retorts, deadpan.

The girl's eyes go wide. For a moment she tries to picture telling Sofia this. I had to pay her, Sofi...she really knew what she was doing, more than me.... knowing the older whore will slap her silly and chase her up and down the street, cursing worse than a blue-balled sailor...then she notices the mischievous glint in Mel's eyes. And she laughs.

Her laugh is something rough, voluptuous, full of life. Filthy, even. It is suitable to the city she lives in. The mistake that visitors always make is this: They assume the city courts death and decay, Mel thinks. It is easy to think that, within the marbled ruins, stained and old, the murky lagoons, the rotting canals. But among it all, life goes on, life is here. The ruins are here because they have survived; they are a testament to life. They live. I live.

The white curtain along the balcony door flutters. She strokes the young woman's cheek. In a few hours she will be alone again. She accepts this. It's the best she can do.

***

1948

The city had a deceptive stillness that unnerved Janice. She was well experienced in the rhythms of cities throughout the world, and always expected some sort of noise no matter what the hour, but this was odd: It was quiet, yet there was some perpetual undertone, a murmur that she could not identify.

It must be the canals, she thought. This was a city on the water. It was an island unto itself.

She balanced her chin on the edge of Mel's broad, smooth shoulder. The translator, still asleep, gave a slight moan. She smiled. It would be fun to wake her up - again - and make love - again - but as it was, Mel would only get a couple hours of sleep, and Janice wanted her to be at least coherent for the meeting tomorrow.

But temptation beckoned. She aimed a light, nipping kiss in between Mel's shoulder blades, striking a sensory bullseye - automatically a firm butt was ground into her thighs. Did Pavlov use a dog or a Southern woman? Janice grinned. What would happen with a higher kiss, at the back of the neck? Dr. Covington investigates! "Steak tartar," Mel mumbled. Obviously her companion had not recovered from the disappointment of not having dead cow for dinner - the café had no steaks. This is too easy. She slid out of the bed and threw on Mel's robe. So she carried her lover's scent with her - it was not enough to have it on her fingers, on her face, on her belly - as she went to the balcony.

The dawn was fair. The colors of the sunrise trickled across the sky. Birds swooped wildly in the sky with faint cries. I am happy, she thought. Would I dare admit that to anyone? She fingered the elaborate patterns of the scrolled, iron banister, one swirl leading into another, seemingly endless, a world leading into another world.

She hung over the railing, smiling. Even the canal was beginning to smell good to her. Or maybe it's just the bathrobe. The water appeared to mimic the motions of her fingers curling around the black edges of iron. With a free hand she pushed back her loose gold hair and watched, fascinated, the motion of the water, its mysterious swell, receding, then returning.

The End

#xena #xena warrior princess #mel/janice #mel/janice fanfiction #author: vivian darkbloom #mature #femslash #fanfiction

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radreactions · 7 years

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Aww heck another Queenslander! I graduated last week and I’m still so bitter about the 5-star QCS question, but I digress. So, um... if you’re taking requests, what Peak Ozzie Things would you associate the companions and other major NPCs with, stereotypical or otherwise?

Congratulations on graduating, my friend! I guess the QCS hasn’t gotten any better, huh? I hated that damn thing, although that’s probably attributed to the fact that I skipped the two practice days XD

Anyway, I hope this is what you wanted because I was kinda stumped on this one for a while! Enjoy!

Ada – Everybody loves muscle cars and like to *ahem* discuss in a friendly manner which one of them is the best am I right? But here in Australia we have an everlasting feud as who is better: Ford or Holden, and practically everyone down under wants a Holden Maloo. Personally? Holden wipes the floor with Ford, but Ada for some reason strikes me as a Ford gal. It’s why she breaks down all the damn time!

Cait – Obviously a natural born drinker who might be able to keep up with us Aussies. Might. Although she definitely keeps up with our swearing, probably learning a word or two in the process. Her favourite has got to be ‘drongo’ or even how most of us regularly use the word ‘cunt’ as a way of showing affection to our mates.

Codsworth – Australia being the rebellious child of England full of convicts. It’s not our fault Britain decided to send their prisoners here. If anything, we should get payback considering the amounts of classes in primary school based solely on convicts that literally bored us all to tears! Honestly. Merely mention the word ‘convict’ to any Australian kid and I guarantee you, they’ll shudder like Sideshow Bob from the Simpsons. If I never even think of that word again it’ll be too soon…

Curie – Koalas. I mean – the cuteness! Argh! I’ve had the absolute pleasure to hold one and oh my God it was like, the second best moment of my life! Seriously look at them and worship their cuteness!

Danse – Our famed meat pies with the dollop of tomato sauce in the centre in the shape of our wonderful country. Seems to me that Danse in particular would love these, I mean the big guy definitely comes across as a pie eater. Heh. Pun intended XD

Dogmeat – The typical farm scene where the loyal pooch loves riding on the back of the quad bike when really he should be out there herding the sheep. Lazy little bastard. Won’t be gettin’ any beer for a good long while now!

Deacon – Good ol’ Deacon strikes me as a total thongs guy and likely has a pretty noticeable sun tan on his feet too, like most of us here. We can never sneak up on anyone because you can hear the thongs slapping from a mile away, but the good thing about them is in winter time, just put them on over your socks! (I’m totally kidding, don’t do that, you’ll look like a bogan)

Hancock – Dropbears. Mangily coat, blood soaked teeth and crazed look in the eyes, the whole shebang. They suddenly go from harmless little Koala’s to blood-crazed man-eaters in the blink of an eye and we’ve lost a lot of good people to those monsters, so remember while passing under doorframes and low branches – to look up and live.

Gage – Crocodile wrestling of course. I mean come on, what Aussie hasn’t wrestled a croc once in a while? They’re just poor misunderstood creatures that are often mistaken for dangerous killing machines (probably due to their teeth which are totally not sharp all) who just need a good tender hug. Try it. It’s very therapeutic. You’ll make a best friend for life, guaranteed.

MacCready – Our sarcasm levels so high that it’s hard to tell whether or not we’re being for real or just joking with you. It’s always funny when you see someone from another country’s eyes glaze over in indecision because they don’t know if they should believe you or not when you say something here could kill you (like the time I convinced my Dutch friend that blue butterflies are poisonous) *devious laughter*

Nick Valentine – Ned Kelly. The famed outlaw turned hero, now being immortalised in custom made mailboxes, bumper stickers and television shows blowing his legend way out of proportion. He’s almost made out to be the Australian equivalent of Robin Hood, but let’s not forget that the guy was a bloody criminal.

Old Longfellow – Australia as one giant red desert with all sorts of monstrous creatures trying to kill you. I mean yeah we are flattest country in the world apparently and yeah we have a gorgeous big red rock smack dab in the centre of a seemingly endless beautiful red desert and I guess some of our fauna are a bit… well… unfriendly at times, but the only real danger happens when you’re careless. Main rules are to always look where you are stepping outside, never leave shoes outdoors, never leave doors open without flyscreen, don’t lift old tin, don’t sit on garden retainer walls, always mow the damn lawn, always have flyscreen on your windows because seriously fuck those damn flies and if you get bit by a snake, if it ain’t green get your ass to a hospital pronto. Basic stuff. Oh and I almost forgot, always look up when walking under doorways and branches, those Dropbears are relentless.

Piper Wright – Neighbours. The Goddamn television show that everyone knows about even though you’ve never watched a single episode in your life because the ads are on every. Single. Night. With the latest on who’s banging who. Apparently it’s a big hit overseas and I have a sneaking suspicious that it would be the exact type of show Piper would guiltily watch. If someone comes in when it’s on she’d quickly turn the TV off and peg the remote across the room.

Preston Garvey – Our friendly attitudes and neighbourly nature that this guy encapsulates which, I guess, isn’t exactly a stereotype considering it’s true for the most part. Except of course when the footy is on. Go Cowboys!

Strong – I’ve heard that some people think that we eat all our wildlife? Like all of it including grubs, snakes, crocs, emu and kangaroo which – for the most part, yeah it is available – but Koala’s are most certainly off limits. At least in my head anyway. Don’t correct me, I like living in ignorant bliss. Seriously I love those furry little babies, only monsters would eat them like Strong. Fucking Strong.

X6-88 – The whole country of Australia loves AC/DC which – for all intents and purposes – is actually true for yours truly. Personal favourites of mine are Hell’s Bells, For Those About to Rock and Whole Lotta Rosie, whereas X6 has Back in Black written all over him. Seriously.

#fallout 4 #cait #ada #curie #codsworth #danse #deacon #dogmeat #hancock #maccready #nick valentine #paladin danse #porter gage #gage #piper wright #preston garvey #x6-88 #strong

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mileenadelanoche · 7 years

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Japanese Vending Machines are Amazing (Ch. 6 update)

Read it on AO3

Like sweet angels’ wings, strong gusts of wind caressed Yuuri’s body as he was slowly pulled from his deep slumber. His frame shivered as he felt the warmth being stolen from him by the cool air. Rudolf Clausius and William Thomson smiled down from the heavens, happy to know that the Second Law of Thermodynamics still applies. Their life’s work having reached the hearts and texts of any respectable and stressed science major.

As Yuuri’s eyes opened to half-moons, the first thing that he noticed was how beautiful Tokyo looked at night from a bird eye’s view. Monsters made of carefully laid steel and shining glass reflecting the weak rays of the gibbous moon, the flashing signs and rolling late-night cars, the dark sparkling waters of the Pacific, the gyre of marine debris and plastic that make up the Great Pacific Trash Vortex… ah the universal law of equivalent exchange floated into his subconscious: humankind cannot gain anything without somehow f*cking shit up in return.

As the hideous result of the folly of humankind floated its way into Yuuri’s mind’s eye, he was startled awake and was so shaken by what he saw that his entire body froze. At least 10,000 feet, his mind supplied, he had to have been floating at least 10,000 feet in the air and it was only climbing—the city where he once was grounded rapidly becoming a spec as he was pulled up by what felt like the suction of a typhoon. His hair went wild with the force of the winds.

The land and sea disappeared from his sight as he passed through a cloud, nothing but thick wispy water vapor. With eyes larger than a seal staring down the maw of a great white, Yuuri started yelling. Covering his eyes while balling himself up into the fetal position, he braced himself as he saw the nose of a Boeing 787 racing towards him.

He barreled through the cabin as he was swallowed by the murmur of hundreds of passengers. A customer on the JAL sanctioned flight asked for dinner set A but, there were none left—we are sorry to inform you. As the words whizzed by him, Yuuri was overtaken by a sudden calm as he was ejected out the butt of the plane. Somehow, that was all the confirmation that he needed. This was probably a lucid dream.

Floating to the outer reaches of the troposphere, the clouds became thinner and lighter until he broke through some invisible barrier. Eyes burning from the sudden light, he squinted to see that there was a glittery man dressed in red waiting for him at the pristine gates—the silver gates to what Yuuri assumed was supposed to be the afterlife or the planes of reincarnation.

It felt like his body had lost all its mass as he began to walk towards the man—probably the guard of the gates. The clouds felt like quality alpaca wool beneath his feet-squishing lovingly between his toes, leaping to lick at his toned calves. Although aware of his phantom heart hammering away in his chest at the awe-inspiring sight, Yuuri felt some sort of unsettling peace flow up from his legs.

That is, until he got close enough to the guard that he was noticed. The guard’s entire face dropped to the floor as he saw Yuuri before slowly morphing into one of euphoria, smile so wide that it could stretch from sea to shining sea. Something about that was extremely unsettling but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. The guard looked like he knew him. But, Yuuri didn’t think he’d ever encountered such a person in his life. He would have remembered such a flashy individual.

Yuuri froze like a pole once the guard began to squeal—jumping up and down in excitement before speeding towards him like a bullet. A bullet with a stylish bowl-cut for a head.

Ecstatic, the guard let out a happy shout before mowing down frozen Yuuri like a goat before a field of overgrown yet helpless grass. The air was forcefully removed from Yuuri’s lungs as he let out an ‘ack!’.They both bounced across the clouds before sliding to a stop. Yuuri hissed painfully as the air mercifully returned to his body. What was the point of dreaming if he still felt pain? Wasn’t that a part of the deal? In exchange for suffering through daily life you were supposed to be able to escape to a nice fantasy at night. What did he do so wrong for the world to break rules just so his suffering could be prolonged?

“YUURI!!!!” the guard on top blasted the stream of conscious right out of Yuuri’s head before having the conscious to pull away. Excited eyes looked down into bewildered eyes, Yuuri’s hair had spread around him like a faux crown from the force of the impact. “What are you doing here?! Last I checked you still had a good amount of time going for you, what happened? Wait, sorry I’ll get off you. Here, grab my hand.”

Yuuri still looked disoriented as he was pulled onto his feet and dragged back to the golden gates. His eyes were still rolling from the fall as they looked in opposite directions. Stumbling a little, he sat upright as he was unceremoniously dumped onto a raised cloud lump.

He felt a weight in his right hand and found that his blue-rimmed frames were being held there. Rubbing them a bit, he put them on wondering if they had always been there. The world regained its clarity. The guard who had been blurry before focused into a man with nice sun-tanned skin wearing a loose, over-the-shoulder red robe with gold accents. This close, Yuuri could see that his eyeliner was impeccable—gold swooping out to dark black wings. He was grinning widely so his pearly whites were shining. Even his eyes seemed to be smiling and he looked at Yuuri like a long-lost friend.

“Who are you?” he asked confused before slapping his hand over his mouth in shock. That’s not japanese! “What?!” He closed his mouth again as the beginnings of an identity crisis began to unfold. “What?!”

The guard just laughed his loud laugh as Yuuri became more and more troubled. “Yeah it always shocks people when they get up here but don’t worry about it!” He reached behind him to grab two long drink glasses and let them fill under the small ambrosial waterfall suddenly manifesting from out of the aether. He took a long sip from one and sighed in bliss. He handed one to Yuuri who looked like he wasn’t sure what to do with it as he held it nervously with both hands.

“I don’t get paid at all to translate so I just make everyone default to a universal language up here. This language—that just happens to read like English—was conveniently imparted to your soul, spirit—your whatevertheheck—when you died! Congratulations! You know what? We should toast.” The guard, still smiling like the sun, wiggled his fingers before ‘Presto!’ a piece of golden brown toast exploded into existence right in front of Yuuri’s eyes.

Yuuri went cross-eyed. His head was spinning. His dreams tended to be weird, but this was pushing it.

“Did you like that, Yuuri? Looked like I was a handsome magician for a second, right? I wish David Blaine could have died to see this, he would have lost his shit!” The guard cackled before sighing. “Aaahh, too bad magic’s not the same up here. Anyways, I’m getting off-topic.” He lifted his glass to Yuuri who still looked shell shocked. He didn’t look like he could process language in his bewildered state.

“You’re supposed to cut me off when that happens, Yuuri! Now toast! Don’t give me that look, I know that you, of all people, should know how to toast!” The guard’s smile faltered a bit. “Fine then, I’ll show you. All’s you gotta do is gravitate the glasses together-like magnets.” He leaned forward and moved his glass slowly as to not further alarm the frightened creature. As the lips of the glasses clinked together he finished his narration. “Yep, just like that. Softly, like when two sexually repressed college dudes make their dicks kiss on a double-dog dare.” The guard sighed as he pulled back, eyes far away and full of nostalgia. “Ahh, the infinite stupidity of youth.”

Yuuri looked more than mildly disturbed as he finally asked the question that had been bugging him for a while.

“I’m dead?” he asked; the face of skepticism. “Then, are you supposed to be some sort of St. Peter?”

The guard looked most offended at this remark. “Uuuhh, that’s Saint Phichit, to you. Do I even look like-“ the gatekeeper—Saint Phichit—looked like he was rearing to go into a rant about how no single man named Peter could pull off his look before he stopped himself. “-Actually, you know what? That’s fair. I’ll let you off the hook with that one. I’m more offended that you don’t remember me.” Phichit pouted as he sipped on his drink.

“Have me met before?” Yuuri asked, trying to look back into his memories to see if he could recall anything. He kicked at the clouds gathering around his feet. “I can’t remember meeting you before…”

Phichit just waved him off as if swatting away annoying flies. “It’s alright. Memories from past lives generally don’t carry over but, I know you are my Yuuri! I’m surprised you kept the same name—there must be some of you that’s left.” Phichit paused. “Ah, I wasn’t supposed to disclose any of that information. Forget I said anything.” He pointed at Yuuri’s untouched drink. “Take a sip of ambrosia, we have a lot to do!”

With so much metaphysical knowledge entering his head, Yuuri’s head began to ache. From everything that he’d unwittingly gathered, he’d been good friends with Saint Phichit in a past life. That means either he used to be an angel or something or Phichit was a human beforehand. But more than that, apparently some kind of reincarnation exists. Did destiny exist? Why was he taking this in like it’s real? Wasn’t this supposed to be some elaborate dream? With all these thoughts storming his brain, Phichit’s cool ambrosia seemed more and more appealing. He took a refreshing sip. Sweet, slightly bitter, caffeinated milky goodness exploded in his mouth.

“I think…” He took another sip. “Isn’t this just Thai coffee? I thought you said this was ambrosia.” He kept on sipping. It was helping his headache to recede after all.

Phichit tapped on his chin as he adopted a suave look. “A rose by any other name.” Yuuri felt a sudden weight on his head. It only elicited mild surprise when he felt the soft rose petals of his new flower crown.

“Ambrosia’s good right?” Wait. He knew that Yuuri was working as a coffee man before he died. Did he just induce a form of cannibalism by having Yuuri drink coffee? It sounded far-fetched but whatever the case he hoped he hadn’t. “Anyways!” He clapped his hands together, rubbing them before throwing them up into the air. “Let’s get to the bottom of this mystery! You weren’t supposed to be here for a while. Shall we playback the footage of your life?”

Yuuri nearly spit out his coffee as his recent night-time activities came to mind. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, coughing. “No, you don’t have to do that…”

But Yuuri would be far too late. Phichit had already produced a tablet from the fabric of reality. He blew off the leftover cloud from the surface and the disturbed mist made him look like a winter dragon. Seconds later, the screen came to life.

A fire had started in his eyes as he shoved his cloud tablet at Yuuri’s face. “Look at how fancy! This model isn’t even out on earth, yet.” Phichit gushed before tsking to himself as he pulled back to look for Yuuri’s archives. “Can you believe that—before I lost my shit and yelled at the higher ups—they used to use filing cabinets for this? You know, those old-ass alphabetical drawers with the file dividers from the last ice age? From when Homo fucking habilis was still trying to learn how to walk?” Phichit shook his head. “Unbelievable, absolutely unbelievable. I almost died my first week and I’m practically immortal.”

Phichit typed Yuuri’s name and date of birth into the search engine. “Aha, here you are. Man, look at your profile picture. Beautiful, I think I might have to cry.” Phichit wiped a few fake tears away as he showed Yuuri the same picture that he had on his driver’s license. Yuuri’s hair was in a clean job interview comb-over and he looked frozen in a state of shock like a cat being introduced to a stalk of catnip. The camera man must have not given him any warning.

“Beautiful…?” Yuuri asked, with a look that questioned Phichit’s eyesight. ‘Where?’ he seemed to be asking with his eyes.

Phichit made an unimpressed face. “Yuuri…I swear you’re always so hell-bent on making my job as a loving friend difficult in every. Single. Alternate. Universe. That exists! Just accept the truth, angsty pants. Gee whiz. You’re killing my vibes.” Phichit breathed out and his sunny demeanor returned.

“Now, let’s look at how you died, shall we?” said Phichit, in the most inhumanly refreshing way possible.

Yuuri started shaking his head and hands in the most visceral movement of PLEASE DON’T in all of history. “No, no, no! Let’s not watch that.”

Phichit nodded as if in understanding. “I got you, Yuuri. It must have been traumatic for you. Sorry, I’ve been insensitive.”

Yuuri relaxed but, it was too soon as Phichit continued. “It’s okay, we don’t have to watch it if it makes you uncomfortable. That’s my job anyways! You just sit tight, okay Yuuri?”

Yuuri’s eyes nearly popped out of his head as Phichit pressed play. He could only sit tight and maybe ask for a miracle. Buddha, Amaterasu, god, whatever higher power… if you’re out there, please let me rest in peace.

In a rather anticlimactic way, the video began to load and Phichit made an annoyed noise grumbling about how they needed to get fiber optics. Internally, Yuuri was hoping that his small prayer had actually worked. Long story short, it did NOT as the video pulled up seconds later.

“It’s kind of a shame…” Phichit started as the thumbnail which showed Yuuri’s hotel room loaded. “I was gonna show you all the cool features like zoom and the tilt-controlled panoramic video feature, ah, on second-thought I see why you wouldn’t want to see your own death played out in high-def 360 degree video footage. Good call.”

Yuuri put his head in his hands as Phichit clicked the play button. Like a pig before slaughter, he waited for his impending death by embarrassment. In the farthest reaches of his soul, he still had a tiny glimmer of hope that what he thought was going to happen would not happen despite all signs pointing to yes this is happening. Some internet troll was probably typing out how he brought this on himself. Wait, why was nothing happening yet?

Peaking out from between his fingers, Yuuri saw that Phichit was fiddling with his tablet as he saw a familiar scene from when he and Viktor had first began to explore the love hotel room. If his memory serves, soon after they’d explore each other.

“Aha!” Phichit shouted in triumph as he flicked on a switch on the side. Muffled sound began playing from the device. “People always put these things on mute, and I will never understand why. Hmmm…” He watched the footage for a few minutes. “Viktor, huh? You can never trust the handsome ones, I tell ya. Let’s just go to the scene right before the crime. Tablet, show me when the dying begins.”

“Showing when the dying begins.” Echoed the robotic feminine voice of the tablet.

Putting aside how nonchalant Phichit sounded which clashed with how disturbing the actual words coming out of his mouth were, Yuuri had never felt such an urge to knock himself unconscious in his entire life. As he was contemplating how to do that with nothing but soft cloud around him, they began. The sounds.

They couldn’t have been much louder than the rest of the video, but they sounded like a sexual operatic concierto blaring into the sacred air of the heavens. Yuuri’s face grew hot with first-hand embarrassment.

“Aaahhhh~ nnggghh~ *SLUUURRRP* ah, haaa… *slap* *slap* haaa…!” Yuuri wishes that he had four hands so he could cover his ears too but he just wasn’t lucky enough to be a mutant. The wet slapping sounds of rough lovemaking and the occasional snippets of unfortunate dirty talk flooded into Yuuri’s ears and disrupted all his thinking processes. Yuuri couldn’t see it, but he knew that if he peered over to look at Phichit he’d see the horror of finding what was essentially his friend’s sex tapes.

“Oh wow, hello.” Phichit said in the most suppressed form of surprise Yuuri had ever heard. “Sorry about that, lemme just uhh turn down the volume.”

The sounds slowly faded away but the will to turn to dust that was in Yuuri did not.

Out of morbid curiosity, and morbid curiosity alone, Phichit turned on the tilt controls. When Yuuri wasn’t looking, which was almost all the time, he angled the tablet down and… a little to the side now, ah, perfect. He really couldn’t help himself. After all, he had wanted to be a producer at one point and wow. These tilt controls were really something. This angle, that angle, pinch-in here and the video didn’t pixelate at all! The cinematography was just breathtaking; it could rival hit motion picture Inception directed by Christopher Nolan. Here, make no mistake, Yuuri was Leonardo Dicaprio.

Dang, didn’t Yuuri feel any lactic acid build-up at all? He was wolfing down that german sausage like Takeru Kobayashi who currently holds the world record for most bratwurst consumed in 10 minutes. We’re talking 58 bratwurst sausages here. That’s like six sausages in a minute. Could he submit this video to Guiness? More importantly, where was all of that going? It looked like it was disappearing like a good magician should. Elephant imagery stampeded into Phichit’s mind and he found that it was really fitting.

Human bodies shouldn’t do that. OH MY, WORD. This violated everything that Phichit knew about the limits of the human body and basic arithmetic. You can’t just keep packing a car that’s full. You can’t fit two balls into a box that only allows one. Unless Yuuri was a black hole and he was bending the fabric of space and time which of course Yuuri would do that.

Yeah! That’s just like his best friend: doing the impossible in every single aspect of life. Someone give him a medal. Someone give him two medals! Because he treasured all his relationships, he secretly readjusted his robes into a more strategic position. Just in case of course. Phichit was a good person and it didn’t hurt to be prepared. Or at least that’s what he kept telling himself as he listened to several variations of moaning over the course of a few minutes. He tried to skip around the repetitive parts to get to the erm, important points.

The video was nearing its end and currently Yuuri was on the floor trying to smash himself into the clouds. In the video, Phichit saw Yuuri’s soul, battered and weary, escape from under the covers as naked Viktor crinkled his nose smelling something putrid and kept snoozing away. He fought the strange urge to clap as the screen faded to black and instead joined his horrified friend on the cloud floors.

With as must gentleness as he could muster, he pulled Yuuri from out of his cramped tornado-drill position to sit up until they were shoulder to shoulder. Right now, Yuuri probably didn’t want to look him in the eyes so they both just stared out into the ocean of endless cloud cover. The light of death was blinding, but Phichit knew he would never be able to un-see that. Yuuri contemplated whether it was good or bad that you could not die of embarrassment as he squinted out at the golden whiteness of the bright clouds that continued into infinity in every direction.

It was silent for a while. Phichit never really had training to deal with these situations. He grabbed a handful of airy cloud and looked at it closely as it floated out from his hands. Maybe they would hold the answers to the world. Nothing was coming to mind, so Phichit did something he was good at: break the silence.

“Sooo…” he began whilst drawing out the ‘o’ sound, “funny thing, I kind of assumed that Viktor was your murderer but nothing could have quite prepared me for how you were murdered.”

Yuuri made a strange face and chose not to follow up on that. Phichit understood, after all most people don’t like to think on death. He let the silence hang for a while until he couldn’t take it. He had to say it. He was dying to say it.

“What a… interesting weapon, am I right?” Phichit bit his lip, trying not to grin. He looked over at Yuuri who looked like he was making a constipated expression. That was probably a sign to continue.

“You know.” Phichit fought down his giggles as he kept talking, “When he first pulled it out I was like, what? Is that a gun? That can’t be a gun.” Phichit’s lips were wobbling so hard, he couldn’t take it anymore he had to let loose. “But then, but then,” Phichit paused so he could turn to look Yuuri dead in the eye, “he fucking cocks it.” Phichit goes completely nuts. Yuuri has the most offended look on his face- mouth open in shock, eyebrows raised.

“HAHAHAHAHA!!! HE COCKS IT!! GET IT???? YUURI I’M DYING” Phichit’s bowled over, there are tears coming out of his eyes.

“Phichit!” Yuuri screams, “Oh my gosh, I can’t believe you!”

“Hey, hey, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I shouldn’t have said that.” Phichit recovers enough to rest a reassuring hand on his decimated friend’s shoulder. “But, you know what?”

“What?” Yuuri asks genuinely confused as to what could possibly be the silver lining here.

“Well,” Phichit starts, “at least you went out with a bang.”

Phichit laughs harder when he sees the way Yuuri’s looking at him. Yuuri’s got the deepest pouting frowny-face on; the one that’s wobbly at the edges because he’s trying so hard not to smile at terrible puns and Phichit knows he’s won him over.

Exasperated, Yuuri just sighs as he can’t help but smile at this stupid saint’s antics. “Alright, alright. Stop before I actually hit you.”

Phichit puts his hands up in surrender. “Ok, ok, I’m stopping so no hitting!”

“So now what happens? I’m dead so, do I get to go to the afterlife now or are you going to send me back as a flea?” Yuuri asks, half-joking.

Phichit adopts the thinkers pose as he thinks about how best to pass judgement. “Well, all things considered with your early demise, the way you died, and your fateful reunion with me I can only come to one conclusion.” Yuuri waits, a bit nervous. He really didn’t want to be reborn as a bug, if possible.

“And that conclusion is…” Phichit draws out the sentence like a game show host as Yuuri hopes with all his might. “You are far away from god.” Phichit says it while winking like it’s a good thing but Yuuri doesn’t look at all amused.

“Really, Phichit?”

“No, No! I know it sounds bad but just hear me out Yuuri, this is actually a very auspicious thing for you!”

Yuuri stares at him, searching his eyes before he relents. “Alright, you’ve got my attention.”

“So, if my theory is correct and your death was an unpredicted death, this means that you are off the grid right now. That means, none of the important people in administration have caught wind that you’re up here which means you might still have the power to go back.” There’s a light in Phichit’s eyes as he says it, his hands are clenched in excitement in front of his face as Yuuri lights up in return.

“Really!” Yuuri says, all excitement.

“Really, really.” Phichit says, 10,000 watt grin on his face. “All’s you have to do is find something that ties you strongly to the physical world. Can you think of anything? I’ll take care of all the rest.”

“Wait, won’t you get fired?” Yuuri asks a little worried for his new supernatural buddy.

“You want to go back, don’t you? Just be selfish for once in your life; I know you need to go back, c’mon Yuuri.” Phichit snorts as he gestures to his tablet. “Besides, it’s not like any of those old farts could afford to lose me over someone who’s not supposed to be dead anyways. I’m one of the only tech-savvy gatekeepers there are so don’t worry about it.” The clouds began to stir in front of him. “So, tell me who it is that you want to return to?” Phichit has a knowing glint in his eyes even as he inquires.

“You already know who it is, but, can I see Viktor again? I only knew him for a night but I feel like I’ve known him forever. I know it’s hard to believe, but I really have no one besides him. I was alone before him. Every day was monotonous as I did my job, spreading the love of canned coffee. Viktor’s the only one who’s ever loved me back…” Yuuri felt the beginnings of tears spring to his eyes. “I can’t die yet Phichit, I miss him so much and I don’t know why.”

Wrapping an arm around Yuuri, Phichit shushed him as the clouds in front of them slowly cleared. “Awww. Yuuri, don’t cry. If it makes you feel any better, I think he misses you just as much. Let’s see what he’s up to shall we?”

Once the clouds vanished leaving a reflective barrier, the busy city of Tokyo was projected on the faux screen before zooming in on a frazzled silver-headed man. Viktor could be seen gesturing to his phone and trying to communicate to the locals who shook their heads and walked away. This continued several times, Viktor seeming to sag more and more in dejection. Before long, he made it to a park and sat down on a bench before putting his head in his hands. It zoomed in on him, he was probably crying.

“Oh, that’s so sad.” Phichit commented. “He’s gotta be crying, oh no, he’s shaking. Look, even the ducks are starting to collect around him, they probably think he’s going to make a pond for them to play in.”

“Viktor!” Yuuri shouted as he tried to touch the man on the cloud screen. He felt helpless when he realized he couldn’t comfort him as his hands just stopped on the image like the glass of a television. He turned to look at his friend, both hands on Viktor’s projected face. “Phichit, look, he needs me! How do I go to him?!” he said, desperation in his voice.

Hypnotizing like a desert haze, Phichit’s image began to distort and bleed into the surroundings.

“Phichit! What’s happening?”

The clouds began to swirl in on each other and Yuuri was overcome with a feeling of nausea. “Oh Yuuri,” Phichit said, voice sounding faint and distorted, “have you already forgotten what you are?”

Yuuri’s stomach dropped into his guts as he began sinking into what used to be firm cloud. His struggles to get out were in vain as he was pulled under like a horse stuck in quicksand.

“Phichit!” he screamed terrified, “Help me!”

Phichit’s distorted face just smiled at him as he sank lower and lower until the clouds began to obscure his vision. “Next time you come up here you better not forget me!”

#jvmaa #going to post them on tumblr now #yoi fanfic #viktuuri

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eilidhink · 8 years

Text

in a week

[Ames tells Eilidh about his scars.]

eilidhink:

The grass was warm and sharp under them, tall because nobody ever mowed here by the pond; few people even knew it was here. That was why she’d dragged Ames here–to be away from people for a while, to enjoy the sun without the windows of the bar dimming it for once. They’d worn themselves out with swimming, and she thought she may have fallen asleep in the sun, because the light seemed different now than it had been when she closed her eyes, and her swimsuit was almost dry. That was alright; they could sleep here all day if they wanted, bees buzzing overhead and a breeze rustling the leaves of the trees. It was the good kind of quiet.

Eilidh sat up and stretched, glancing down at Ames beside her and smiling at the contrast between her skin, deep tan and splashed with tattoos, and his, lighter and more plain. Except for that place on his leg, the one that always made her sad. Though she didn’t know the story of how he’d gotten it, she knew it couldn’t be a happy story. Gently, she brushed her fingers over the skin beside the scar, wondering whether there was a tattoo that could hide or change or heal it, and whatever it stood for.

notyourshrink

Everything was peaceful and the silence that lingered was a comfort that Ames hadn’t realized he was missing. This was different from the usual silence he was used to, because in truth the world around him was more alive than ever. He could hear everything, birds, insects, Eilidh’s steady breathing beside him. The world was so loud, and yet it didn’t feel threatening in any way. He didn’t feel on edge here and with that revelation he knew he would have to thank Eilidh later for dragging him away.

That was the thought he was left with before his mind was jolted from its dreams from the touch of another. He immediate felt his body tense up before he remembered where he was. The grass beneath him was damp and the air was cooler from the shade that had increased from the Sun’s movement. He was still by the pond, which meant Eilidh was surely still with him. He assured himself of that fact by slowly opening his eyes and blinking up at her. Once he saw her familiar features, he smiled. He was all too aware of her fingers on his skin and was doing the best that he could to ignore the sensation to brush her hand away. She meant him no harm.

eilidhink:

“I didnae mean to wake you,” she said apologetically, pulling her hand away as though maybe she’d hurt him and that’s what made him wake up. “I was just… I was thinkin’ about your tattoos again. I’m still tryin’ to figure you out.”

He’d obviously been startled, but the way he smiled when he realized it was only her was reassuring, and she smiled back. He used to look up and see her and get a frown on his face like he’d sucked a lemon, she remembered fondly. Still did sometimes, though she often caught a corner of his mouth twitching like he wanted to smile now. It was nice—it made it easier to believe that she really did, despite all her worries, make him happy. Happier than he had been, anyway.

She wondered, though, if she’s crossed a line, touching him like that while he slept. He might be angry, and he’d have a right to be, she supposed. Scars were sensitive in more ways than one, and just because he put up with a lot from her didn’t mean this would be alright. “Did I hurt you?”

notyourshrink:

As per usual, his smile faded when he saw the worry in her expression. He knew she would pick up on his discomfort. She was good at reading others in that way. Picking up on physical signals from others was something she was an expert at, in the same way that he could read people in other ways. He thought her withdrawing her hand would be what he wanted, but her missing touch—even so close to his scar—was sorely missed.

Quickly, without thinking, he reached up and captured her hand in his. There was a moment of hesitation before he brought it to his lips and pressed a light kiss to her knuckles. “You didn’t hurt me,” he reassured her with his lips still close enough to brush against her skin. He let silence linger on for a few more seconds before he held both their hands against his chest. “I was just surprised.” He tried to lighten the atmosphere with another smile.

eilidhink:

She might not have believed him—she wasn’t in the habit of believing him when he was trying to ease her worry—but the way he touched her echoed his words. It was a romantic gesture, there was no way around that, but the water and the sun and the way he hesitated first, like he knew she might not like it, made her want to go easy on him. Besides, it was sweet, and she liked that he held onto her hand after. So she decided to believe him, that it hadn’t hurt. But that didn’t mean everything was alright.

The right thing to do would be to pretend nothing had happened, to lie back down in the grass and watch the clouds overhead and not say anything to spoil the peace of the afternoon. But maybe it was the same combination of sun and water and him that had her wanting to ask questions. If not now, when would she ever be able to? Maybe never, and she didn’t like that at all. She wanted to be able to ask.

“Are you ever goin’ to tell me how it happened? Fuck, I mean… not that you have to.” She bit her cheek in frustration, glancing away to try to collect her thoughts but leaving her hand in his to anchor them both. She wanted to know. She didn’t want to make him feel guilty for not telling her, but not knowing frustrated her, and she hated that he had so much shite he carried around in his head without help. “I just mean I’d like to know, if you ever want to tell me,” she finally said, looking down at him with a small smile, hoping she hadn’t fucked up too badly.

notyourshrink:

Blood went rushing in his ears and his heart started pounding in his chest all before she even asked. Watching her, he could tell by her expression that it was coming. He’d skirted the topic of his past for as long as he could remember—it shouldn’t surprise him that she would ask him his story again at some point. He just… He wasn’t expecting it now. That lack of preparation forced his mind into a quiet place and he hesitated in answering her.

Could he really talk about it? He’d told pieces of what he’d gone through to Chris and Dom had found out through similar means. Surely Truck knew more than he let on—or at least had guessed there were darker parts that he was hiding. They all knew portions of the story, but thankfully they hadn’t pressed for much more. They understood the pain of telling, or at least he hoped that was their reasoning. They were soldiers and it was reasonably safer to reveal things to them. They wouldn’t push where it wasn’t necessary.

But this was Eilidh—and she was a different person entirely. She would push where she felt necessary and she would no doubt manage to get information from him that he would much rather not tell. Would she be able to take in what he had to tell? He could barely handle everything himself and he was used to the pain of it all. But her? She was light and hope, and Ames was afraid his story would put a darkness in her that would never be snuffed. The very thought put a deep frown on him and he squeezed her hand, finally coming out of his thoughts. His free hand brushed thoughtlessly against the scar on his leg and he looked into her eyes. “Eilidh, I… I don’t want to put that on you.” He wanted to say that he couldn’t do it to her, but he was reminded that he promised he would try one day. She would surely remind him of that too.

eilidhink:

He was always breaking her heart, and he had no idea he was doing it. The way he fought himself and argued with himself before sharing anything with her—she hated it. She hated that he couldn’t trust her yet, but she couldn’t blame him. She was unpredictable and emotional, and she had a tendency to lay blame where it didn’t belong. Why should he trust her?

“Alright,” she said quietly. His hold on her hand was starting to feel restricting, like a reminder that he didn’t want her taking care of him, and she pulled her hand away gently. After a second’s hesitation, she laid it on his leg again, beside the scar, brushing her thumb over the damaged skin. She was trying to let him know she was going to do what she could, even if he wouldn’t tell her the whole story. If he wanted her to stop, she was sure he’d let her know.

She shouldn’t be angry with him; she knew that. He’d been a soldier, and he’d been hurt in ways he was scared to talk about. She shouldn’t take it personally. It was just really fucking hard to remember that sometimes, when she wanted to be there for him and all he’d let her do didn’t feel like nearly enough.

“I just want to know you, Ames,” she finally added, looking into his eyes, hoping she was saying the right thing in the right way to make him understand. “I feel like there are all these pieces of you I dinnae get to see, and that’s your right, but still. It rubs me the wrong way. I’m stronger than I look, you know,” she added with a small smile.

notyourshrink:

He released a slow breath that he hadn’t realized he had been holding and slowly, his eyes cautiously focused on the sky above rather than on her own eyes, sat up and ran his hands over his face. He kept his head in his hands for a brief moment, not sure of what to do anymore. The only clear thought in his mind was the realization of how calming it was to have her touching him like that. He’d thought it would have been a much darker feeling to have her brushing her thumb across his scar, but it wasn’t. It was light and he felt relaxed, despite his inner turmoil.

He owed it to her to try and trust her, didn’t he? He had said he would try, and yet here he was telling her no and proving just how little the confidence he had in her was. It unsettled his stomach and gave him another reason to be angry at himself. Try. He just needed to try.

He dropped his hands down to his lap and stared out at the pond before them, watching the water ripple with the breeze. He wanted to try for her, to prove to her that he did trust her, he just didn’t know where to begin.

“My grandparents raised me,” he reminded her softly, “they were the only family I had growing up. They taught me most of what I know. My grandmother passed right after enrolled in University. After that it was just myself and my grandfather.” He frowned and started picking at the grass beside him. “It was just us until I graduated. I really was alone after that. I had myself and a degree in linguistique that I didn’t know what to do with.” His brow furrowed as he remembered how lost he felt during that time. “I didn’t know what to do after that. I remember coming across a military recruiter one day, and I guess I thought that there wasn’t anything better I could do with myself.” He glanced over at her, just to see if she was paying attention. “A very long story short, I became part of the French Special Forces.” A sad look passed over him. “That’s where I met Jerard.” He paused to make sure she was keeping up.

eilidhink:

If he’d refused to say anything, she wouldn’t have been surprised, and she wouldn’t have forced him. It had happened before, where he’d seemed about to say something and changed his mind, locked it away again, deciding he just couldn’t yet. Maybe he still would; the whole afternoon felt fragile around her, like if she said the wrong thing or moved the wrong way, he’d decide it wasn’t safe to say anything yet, and he’d stop, change the subject, ask her to forget he’d said anything at all.

But he didn’t stop her from touching him, didn’t shy away or stiffen under her hand, and she decided to trust that, smoothing her hand over his skin, slowly, sometimes up to his hip or down to his knee but always coming back to the scar. She didn’t look at it, though. She watched his face, as if she could see when it became to much and stop him. Maybe she could, or maybe she just wanted to be able to.

It was painful to imagine him as he described himself, not very much younger, really, but young enough that he should have had more hope, more people helping him figure things out. She hated thinking of him being alone, and that only made it worse when he mentioned Jerard. Because she knew that Jerard had been lost along the way.

“And you werenae alone anymore.” She hadn’t meant to speak at all, and her voice was tentative, like the sound of the breeze. She regretted it right away, biting her cheek and looking down. Her hand covered the scar, and she let it rest there, squeezing gently like an apology for interrupting, for saying things that were painful and could have gone without saying at all.

notyourshrink:

“And I wasn’t alone anymore…” He whispered the words as though they were a reminder, even if the memories were painful to bring to the surface. His fingers tangled in the grace next to him and he started pulling on the blades, some of them snapping off in a satisfying jerk. It was a good distraction, since he was preparing to force himself to continue on.

He knew she wouldn’t force him to talk, that he could stop whenever he felt it necessary. She was good like that, even if his silence did bother her at times. He knew it did. She had told him as much, and even if she hadn’t he would be able to tell easily that it did. She would put all of that aside though, if talking became too difficult. The more he thought about it, the harder it became too.

Still, her touch was a much needed comfort and, when combined with the distractions all around him, it somehow made this whole conversation easier to stomach. Easier as it was though, he couldn’t stop himself from looking down at her hand on his leg. The scar made the memories easier to see.

“He wasn’t the only one. My unit became a new family and they all meant something to me. In a place like that, you grow close. We did lose people from time to time, but we were all there for each other to pick up the pieces.” There was a lengthy pause and the air around them seemed to fill with the anxiety building in his chest. He swallowed hard and his hold on the grass tightened. “We were special forces, which meant we were charged with a lot of dangerous tasks. I knew going out each mission meant that someone might not come home, but I convinced myself we would be okay. There was… There was this one mission, just a simple information retrieval from an informant. In and out with no issues. That was what we were told.” As he spoke, his voice grew more quiet, more forced. “It didn’t happen that way. We met the informant and got our information, but before we could leave, our convoy was attacked. An IED of some kind, I don’t really know for sure. I… I wasn’t with everyone else, but I was close enough to watch everything happen. I remember being shot and I remember the explosion.” His voice cracked involuntarily and he took in a shuddering breath before his breathing became labored. “Eilidh, I remember seeing all of them and—I was the only one left.”

eilidhink:

She wanted to stop him from pulling at the grass, except that wasn’t it at all. She wanted him not to need to–because she could understand needing to tear something apart to hold yourself together, but she didn’t want him to feel that way. She hated that he felt that way, and that there was nothing she could do but listen. What good was listening? His yanking out the grass probably helped more than Eilidh just sitting there and hearing it all did.

She listened, though. She imagined him with his friends, his family, leaning on them and letting them lean on him. She tried to imagine what he was like, then, before his heart got ripped out like the grass. They must have loved him so much, she thought, if he was the man she knew but less afraid and more willing to be open with people. People he loved, who were taken away from him like they were nothing.

The more she listened, the angrier Eilidh got. The way his voice cracked made her whole body go rigid, and her hands tightened into fists, one resting over his scar, and she stared at it for a moment, wanting so badly to hit something or to yell at someone, but not him. Not him, she told herself, swallowing the urge but having trouble looking at him, because if she saw the sadness in his face, she was afraid she wouldn’t be able to stop herself from yelling, and she’d never forgive herself if she did that.

But she couldn’t keep it all in; it was too much, it was too sad, too fucking unfair, and she didn’t know what to do. So she fucked up. She looked at him, and she tried to say, “I’m sorry,” but her own voice broke, and she realized she was crying now. Fuck, don’t make this about yourself, you selfish bastard. He shouldn’t be made to fucking comfort her after all this, but she couldn’t stop the tears from falling, and she was apologizing again, this time for not being able to fucking hold herself together. You’re supposed to be strong for him, she reprimanded herself, but she didn’t feel strong at all. She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes for a second, trying to calm herself the fuck down. Trying to breathe so he’d know she was alright.

notyourshrink:

The moment he heard her breathing change, he knew he shouldn’t have said anything. It was a mistake on his part. He felt her hands move and her body became tense in a way that he recognized all too well. She was clearly upset and he couldn’t help but blame himself. His gaze shot upward to her and he watched in silence as she did her best to calm down, but the tears were still there.

She was too bright for this, too used to the world she knew and not the life he lived. Deep down he knew that she wouldn’t take his story well, but still he pushed it onto her and he was met with a reaction that almost hurt more than the memories in his head. He kept repeating in his head how he should have kept it to himself, despite her urging him to talk. He shouldn’t have listened, not about this. Now he was stuck watching her, feeling the guilt settle in his gut and not sure what else to do.

He knew he was frowning, and he knew that wouldn’t help, but he couldn’t stop himself. To make up for it, he reached over and took hold of her arm gently. Ignoring any protest she might have, he guided her into his lap and wrapped his arms around her, burying his face in her neck and kissing her, hoping it would help in some way. It wasn’t much, but it was a gesture he knew she would respond well too. She always responded better to physical actions. He held her tightly, unwilling to let go.

“I’m sorry, Eilidh. I shouldn’t have said anything else. It’s not… It’s not a story I like to share.” He kissed her again before he pulled away to look at her. “I’m sorry.” He paused, running a hand up and down her arm. “I won’t say anything else. I shouldn’t say anything else anyway.”

eilidhink:

The gentleness of his touch made it better but also worse, as it reminded her of how unfair it was that he’d suffered and lost so fucking much. He didn’t deserve any of it, and he sure as hell didn’t deserve the pain he still lived with because of it. Her anger was still there, a twisting mess inside her, but she let him pull her onto his lap and hold her, because she couldn’t push him away. She just fucking couldn’t. And only part of her wanted to.

“I’m sorry,” she said again when he kissed her. He held her like he needed her, and she did the same, wrapping her arms around him and leaning into him. “I’m alright, really. I didnae mean to stop you, I promise. I’m sorry.” Breathe, Eilidh. She held still for a moment, trying to give back to him what he was giving her, listening to the wind and feeling the sun on her skin, feeling him against her, alive and present. She was trying to pull herself together, trying to put the lid back on all the shite his pain had brought to the surface. But the anger gnawed away at her, and she knew she was frowning as he pulled back to look at her; she couldn’t help it.

“Don’t say that.“ She shook her head, taking a deep breath to steady herself. “You can trust me. I’m alright, I’m just… It isnae fuckin’ fair, and I’m fuckin’ angry alright? You shouldnae be alone, you should have your fuckin’ family, it isnae right that you don’t.” Her lip trembled a little, but she’d stopped crying, and she was determined not to start again. Her emotions were intense and real, but she had to fucking learn when they’d just get in the way. This was about Ames, and her being a sobbing mess wasn’t going to help anything. “You can tell me the rest. I can take it, and if I start fuckin’ crying again, just ignore me.”

notyourshrink:

He wanted to believe her, trust that she would be able to take whatever it was that he could throw at her, but the unsettling feeling in the pit of his stomach at even the thought of what he had left to say had him worried. What would she do? The story he had left to tell included things that he refused to forgive himself of. Eilidh, for all of her beauty and the soul that he loved so much, was just as much lion as she was lamb. She could turn in an instant, and she would have every right to do so.

He was afraid, and that fear had him tightening his hold on her. He could feel his hands shaking, despite being pressed against her body. He could refuse to continue, claim that the rest didn’t matter, but she would never accept that as an answer. She saw through his bullshit better than anyone and she was no doubt tired of his lies and excuses.

But still he was afraid. He didn’t want to remember, but he already was. The heat, the wind, while they were feeling present in the world around them now, he still remembered feeling them then too. Take a breath and talk. He pushed himself closer to the edge and assured her he had listened and was ready to continue. He clung even tighter to her before even attempting to speak and he looked everywhere but directly at her.

“I was the only one that survived,” he continued, “but I didn’t know that until later. I… I woke up and I remember asking about them, but then I realized that I wasn’t in a place I recognized.” He took a deep breath, the sound of it a pathetic shutter. “The extremists that attacked us, the ones we were supposed to be stopping, they took me and they did things to me. They wanted information or something, they wanted things I couldn’t give them, but they never stopped asking.” A shiver ran up his spine and he tried to hide it by pressing closer to her, reminding himself of where he was. “I remember wishing I had died with them,” he whispered, “that they had just killed me too. I guess they found out I spoke their language. I had value but I wished I didn’t, because if I didn’t then I wouldn’t have lived.”

eilidhink:

She’d been sure he’d refuse, shut it all back up inside himself rather than keep talking, and she was startled when he didn’t. If she was being honest, wanting him to keep going wasn’t just about him–it was about proving that she could be there for him in this, despite everything she’d put him through and all the things she couldn’t promise. And here he was, giving her a chance, and maybe it meant that he was letting himself need her more than she was strictly comfortable with, but in the moment, with the way he was holding her and shaking but still trusting her enough to keep talking, that didn’t matter. It was a problem for another time.

She hovered on the edge of tears, and her instinct was to cling to him as he did to her, but she made herself keep breathing, made herself be gentle with him. She ran one hand through his hair, slowly, moving from his temple to the back of his neck, over and over. It was one of the things that soothed both of them, something she could do for him that would make her feel better, too.

It was harder and harder to keep herself from shaking like he did, though. When he mentioned that they did things to him, she froze for a second, and she could swear her heart stopped in her chest. He held her too close to see the tears that fell from her eyes then, but she turned to kiss his hair for a long moment before she went back to running her fingers through it. She was selfishly glad he wasn’t telling her everything, wasn’t telling her exactly what they did to him, because she wasn’t sure she could control how she reacted if he did.

She was afraid to ask the question that came to mind, but it didn’t matter in any case. The answer had been obvious for a long time–he’d never really stopped wishing he’d died with his friends. Nothing scared her more or made her feel more helpless; compared to that, letting him fall in love with her was nothing. She took a shaky breath and held him tighter, hiding her face against his neck. “I’m glad you lived,” she said quietly. “I know it’s selfish, but I dinnae care. I’m glad.” He’d been through hell, she shouldn’t be glad for that, and she wasn’t exactly. But she was glad he was here, alive and safe and in her arms. She could only hope he’d understand.

notyourshrink:

Maybe he should have been crying too, matching the wetness her tears left on his skin. He didn’t cry though, a cruel realization in itself. Perhaps, he thought, it was a lack of pity for himself that did it. He couldn’t weep for his own past because he didn’t deserve the sorrow. He’d done things to erase any belief he might have had in himself a long time ago, and as a result the tears wouldn’t come.

Still, he wouldn’t stop her. Part of it was because she had asked him not too, but the main reason was because he was afraid to try. If he did and tried to explain why he didn’t deserve her tears, he was afraid she would never come back. He’d rather have her pity than have her afraid of him. It was one big mess in his mind really, one that had him constantly battling over whether or not he should keep being around her or not, among other things. His mind was as confused as ever and he hated it.

He wished he could ignore it entirely, hoping that doing so would make it so he could stop shaking. He doubted that possible though. It had been years and the shaking hadn’t stopped yet. Even with Eilidh in his arms, he knew it would continue on with the memories. It was a curse he convinced himself he deserved, just like his solitude. Unfortunately the latter hadn’t been working to his liking.

Was he glad he lived? The question was one he asked himself daily and the answer, to this day, was still no. It’s why he had clung to alcohol so tightly. At least when he was drunk he could pretend it were possible to forget he survived. Then Eilidh came into the picture and requested he put down the bottle–when she became something that did the opposite of what he had wanted by making him feel more alive than ever, he had to be reminded of his survival more often and his feelings towards it were becoming conflicted.

He kissed the top of her head and took a moment to collect himself before even daring to answer her, and even then he knew it wasn’t enough. “I know you are.”

eilidhink:

She shook her head. “I need to say it, though. I dinnae know if you really understand how I feel, because I’m so fuckin’ chicken about usin’ my words about things like this.” She made him talk, all the fucking time, even–especially–when he didn’t want to. She made him dig up all these memories, and he was brave enough to let her, and still she struggled to explain the most basic things about what was going on in her head. It wasn’t fair.

She looked at him for a long moment, her fingers running through his hair, wondering how he could keep from crying. Wondering if they’d broken him so badly that he just couldn’t anymore, like they’d taken out that part of him and replaced it with anger or hate or just emptiness. She wanted to make it better, but she had no idea whether anything she did made a difference. “I’m selfish, Ames. I’m sittin’ here, listening to you talk about how people took away your family and hurt you and used you, and all I can think of is what a terrible person I am for bein’ glad you lived through it all. For bein’ glad that you keep living through it every fuckin’ day, because I cannae stand the thought of losing you.” She looked down, embarrassed by her own vulnerability.

“I wish you’d be selfish, too. Just sometimes. Just that you’d sometimes be glad you’re still alive, so I dinnae have to feel like I’m alone in this.”

notyourshrink:

But he was selfish, just not in the same way. He had been at one point, back when pain greeted him in the morning and he was willing to do anything to be thrown back into the darkness. Everything was a strange mixture of complicated simplicity back then. The choices he made to survive were simple, but the repercussions were complex. One simple choice for him could mean a string of complex outcomes for another. He’d worked hard to forget about the things he had a hand in, but it would seem those wrongs still held tightly to him.

That weight made it hard to accept everything he was told by others. They would tell him he was kind and gentle and so many other things, but he always found those revelations hard to believe. Being selfish put him into the position he was in now. He was tired of being that way.

His hold on her tightened further and he leaned into her touch, granting himself a chance to feel something good before the self loathing set in again. Before the pain returned. “Being selfish hasn’t always been a good thing for me. I’ve… i’ve hurt people by being that way. It’s why I’m so… It’s why I’m so broken now. I should feel upset and I should feel sad, but I just feel content.” He hesitated before he chanced looking into her eyes. “I am trying to be more grateful,” he added. “I’m trying, but sometimes I don’t know if I can be.” He brushed his fingers along her cheek and offered her a smile. “I’m trying because of you and the others.” But mostly because of you.

#archive #notyourshrink #eilidh and ames #queued

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in-the-bookish-dark · 4 years

Text

Snake Charms - RL

My brother Kyle and I had been throwing the football around in the front yard and were resting when he brought up our neighbor again. The McKellan’s stupid terrier had come yapping at us while we were throwing, so we were playing keep away from it. It would race back and forth, but still wouldn’t shut up until we put the football on the ground. Then it lost interest and ran off.

“They should keep that mutt inside before someone gets tired of it and barbeques it, right, Timmy?”

“Don’t call me Timmy!

“Alright, Timmy Tim McTimmerson, I won’t call you Timmy anymore. So anyway, Timford, about Ms. Naylor …”

“You’re so full of it, Kyle.”

“Full of what, Timbert?”

“You know … bs.”

“You mean bullshit? Come on, little Timosaurus, mommy’s not here. You can say big boy words without worrying about getting spankies.”

“I’m not … shut up, butthole.”

“There ya go. Now would I steer you wrong?”

“Always.”

“Hey, that time in kindergarten doesn’t count. Or all the other times. Besides, you’re a fourth grader now. You’re almost an almost man. At very least, you’re almost a real boy."

“I don’t care – she’s not part snake. That’s just stupid!”

“I have proof.”

“You can’t have proof because it’s not true.”

“I have pictures of piles of old snake skin she pulled off – just sitting in her garage. One piece is shaped like a foot and even has a piece of toenail attached. You remember that first time she had me mow her lawn ‘cause her mower was broken?”

I did remember that. Not that it helped his case any. Miss Naylor was about the first customer he had when he started earning summer money by mowing lawns in April. Pretty good for an eighth grader, but he was tall and friendly and talkative and that got people trusting him easily. Plus, people knew her and liked her perfect yard, so if he was alright with her, they figured he was alright.

“You still don't believe me? Here, I’ll show you the pictures.”

“That’s stupid.”

He swiped his cell phone and opened up straight to the pictures. Dark garage, dark garage with a wall of lawn equipment, dark garage with trash bins and a really bright window, dark garage with really bright window and rolls of bubble wrap on the floor, but it didn’t look exactly like bubble wrap. He saw my reaction and went on to the next picture. His flash was on for this one and sure enough, that looked like sheets of snake skin. Big sheets.

“Yeah, ok, so she has a snake.”

“No snake. You could ask her.”

I didn’t say anything, and neither did he. After waiting a moment, he got up from the ground and brushed his pants.

“Go ask her, squirt, and then you’ll believe me.”

Three days later, I was at our neighbor’s door with my best friend Steve and the perfect plan. We’d tell her that Steve's cat is missing and we’re asking around, has anyone seen it and all that, then we’ll say we hope nobody’s pet snake has eaten it and see what she says.

One ring of the doorbell and a pause, and I was ready to go. Away. Steve grabbed my arm as I turned to run and said “I hear footsteps” and that just made me want to leave more – and faster.

She opened the door and I suddenly wished I was twenty years older, or at least in puberty and had some clue what to do with it. I had no idea what sex is like, but I was pretty certain it involved her. She smelled like flowers and coconut milk and her blouse was open just a little narrow bit, but it went down almost to her bra.

“Yes ……..?”

I realized that I was supposed to be talking, saying something meaningful with words, but didn’t have a clue what I was supposed to be talking about. Suddenly, I erupted. “Do you have a snake? I mean we think we saw a snake loose in your yard, and was wondering if maybe one of yours got away.”

Her eyebrows squeezed together. “A snake in my yard?” She glanced toward the back of her house, and I realized she was thinking we’d been peeking at her in her back yard.

“In the front yard, ma’am. Over there, and then it was gone.” I pointed somewhere to the left, between our houses.

She gave me a funny smile, though, and said, “No – I don’t have any snakes – and I’m not missing any, either.” She looked over at Steve, who had been openly staring at her breasts the entire time. She glanced down at them, then up at me, then back at Steve, then back at me again.

Her smile got a little tighter and she said, “Y’all two run along now” and as she was closing the door, I heard her mutter “... boys and men, they just get younger …” to herself.

I caught my brother later and told him that she has no snakes, like it somehow proved my point, but he saw through it. “Yeah. I know, Sherlock. Now let’s talk more about the skins.”

Like good detectives, we looked at the pictures of the skins again, zoom in and zoom out, and he even printed one off of his computer. “C’mere” he said to me.

So I followed him to our back yard and we peeked between slats of the wooden fence between our yard and hers. We looked straight out on to her lawn and the edge of her patio area. She was actually out there, getting ready to tan, and she had smeared lotion on her body. Her body was ... well, just what young boys dream about.

“What are snakes, Timmy?”

“They are … huh?” I didn’t know what he was asking, what he wanted me to say there.

“ … cold-blooded. They're cold-blooded, simp. And what do cold-blooded animals do to stay warm?”

“They lay in the sun.”

“Uh-huh. And what’s she about to do, Timmy?”

“Lay in the sun.” I made the “you’re still an idiot” face, but he didn’t back down.

I walked away, but Kyle stayed at the fence, watching her.

That night, I had a dream that my friends and I were playing out in her back yard, throwing the football around. I tossed it to my friend Danny and it bounced into a big bunch of bushes. She didn’t really have bushes like that, but in the dream, she did. We waited, but Danny didn’t come back out. We waited a little longer and we started calling him, but still no Danny. We figured he was playing a trick on us, so we all went over to the bushes and looked in. Not too far back was the ball, punctured flat and covered in slime. We were scared, but we went in looking for Danny. We kept going back and back and back in this endless bunch of bushes until we came to a clearing and there was Miss Naylor. She was laying on a rock in just her bikini bottoms, and soaking up the sun, and she had got the most enormous belly I’d ever seen, in a dream or out. Danny’s clothes were nicely folded right next to her, with his underwear on top. She turned to look at us, and her jaw was hanging open wide. It snapped shut and she said, “Can I help you boys with something? I just had lunch, but I can give you a snack” and she started throwing handfuls of mice at us.

I woke up before any of the mice hit me.

I thought about that dream most of the next day, and when I wasn’t thinking about it, I was thinking about her, no mice or enormous belly, just her and her bikini.

After that, a couple of days went by, and Kyle had been watching me the whole time, waiting for me to say something.

After dinner, we were taking out the garbage bins when I told him. "I want to see them myself."

"Heh-heh, yeah, I wanna see ‘em too. Oh, you mean the skins? You’re startin' to see the light, huh, poindexter?"

I sneered at him. "Yes, the skins, you pervert. I just wanna see them myself."

"I'll take you tomorrow. I'll tell her I think I left something in her garage and you're going to help me look for it. A wrench or something."

I had another dream about her that night. She was sunbathing and every now and then, she peeled a layer of skin off and rubbed her whole body down with sunscreen. Her whole body - bikini area and all.

I woke up really not wanting to go to school. I didn't even want to get out of bed. I wasn’t sick. but I didn't feel right. All that got me, though, was one of those looks from mom, so I went to school.

I was sitting at the dining room table doing homework when Kyle came in and slapped me on my arm. "Come on, sparky. Let’s go before it gets dark. I worry about you, and I don't want you to be in the garage after dark."

We were walking up the driveway when he said "Hey-hey-hey … better idea. I'll keep her busy at the front door and you go check out the skins. I know she leaves the side door on the garage unlocked after she’s home – the one facing the yard."

That sounded even better to me, so while he continued to the front door, I snuck down the side of the house, and under her carport. The big door was wide open, but it was also completely exposed to view. I gave Kyle time to knock on the door and for her to start that way. I counted to ten, then ran between the kitchen windows and the garage and slipped inside.

There were two windows on the side of the garage facing her yard and the skins weren’t under the first one. I found them on a shelf under the second window. They were stretched out over long plank shelves just under the window. They were smaller than they looked in the pictures – the longest maybe two feet long - but they were still from something big. There were also long tubes of skin and some random patches. It was all flat, as far as I can see. Nothing like Kyle was saying – no hand or foot shapes in the skins. I tried to picture her arms. I tried to imagine her legs. I knew it was stupid, but I could imagine where each of these pieces might have come from. At the end of the top shelf were what had to be rattlesnake rattles, and big ones, too, I was sure. I was feeling around on the lower shelves and still trying to keep watch out the side window when I heard “Ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch!” I ducked down and held my breath until I realized it was the sound of the big impact sprinkler in our back yard starting up. I reached over and touch the rattles just to make sure they were still there, though, and not magically reattached to a snake. My fingers were suddenly a little shaky, and my knees felt like I’d just spent half an hour running bleachers.

On the far end of the third shelf, there was a piece about as wide as my hand and maybe a little longer. I ran my fingers down it and around the edges. It was thin, like a little slice of air folded over itself. I ran two fingers back and forth, stroking it. My eyes were closed and I was just imagining … the imagining was working so well that it was like she was standing there in front of me. It was soft and silky to the touch and I could practically smell the milk and flowers from her perfume.

The smell just hung there in the air as I caressed the skin with my fingertips, and then the light changed in the window. A shadow crosseed left to right, then back to the center. I knew I was done for.

She spoke. “What in the ~” and I stumbled out of there. The rest of the words must’ve just bounced off the window or fallen out on the floor, ‘cause they sure didn’t make it to my ears. I skidded a little getting started, like a stupid cartoon character, and part of me just knew that she was going to wrap her tail around me and drag me under her Tahoe. I swear to God I would’ve peed, if there had been any in my body at the moment. Right before Kyle had come to get me, I’d gone, so I was dry. Fortunately. So, other than the pea gravel on the garage floor, there was nothing to slow me down and distract me. I barreled down the length of her Tahoe and jumped over a pile of lawn bags next to the garage door, and just kept going. I didn’t even stop at our house, but ran three houses down to the end of the block, then looped around behind the Simpson’s big bushes. I waited and listened for a slithering sound, even though I knew she’d never chase me like a snake. “It’s five o’clock in the afternoon, stupid. She’s not going to change into a snake in the middle of the street in the middle of the day. Moron.” Somehow, that made me feel better, like everything was going to go back to “normal” and start to make sense again.

I sat there for a good ten minutes, expecting the Simpson’s to come give me heck for messing around in their shrubs, but they never appeared, and I never even saw their curtains move. Finally, I slunk back home and went in the house on the far side, away from Miss Naylor’s house.

Kyle had to have waited forever for me to come back, because the moment I went into the hall from the kitchen, Kyle jumped out at me. “Boo! She’s gonna swallow you whole!” He laughed and laughed while I pounded him pointlessly with my fists. I’ll admit I cried a little, just from being so mad. Honestly, I’m so stupid that I didn’t realize I was being set up until right that moment.

Once he stopped laughing, though, it was like it had never happened. He got up and tugged me up, called me Squirt, and told me to help set the table.

That night, in my room, I was changing into pajamas when I found that palm-sized piece of snake skin in my pocket. I hadn’t even realized I’d tucked it away. That scared the crap out of me, even while, at the same time, I was pleased. I had a trophy. She might come for me in the middle of the night, kill me and take it back, but for the rest of the day, I had a trophy. I took my trophy and slipped it into an old sandwich bag and hid it under my dress socks.

I laid in my bed for a while, listening for the wrong kind of sounds in the house, or outside my window. I imagined what those sounds would be, and what she’d have to be doing to make them. I shivered, but I also was excited. I mean parts of me were excited, you know. I got up after laying there forever, and it was only 11:20, but it felt like almost time to get up, I was so awake and so tired at the same time. I went in to pee, sneaking down the hall so I didn’t wake Kyle or attract attention from my parents, or get eaten by our neighbor, then came straight back.

Before tumbling back into bed, I dug the skin out of my sock drawer. I held it up to the pale light coming in through the window. I smelled it. I ran my fingers down it and tried to go back up, but it’s against the grain. I fell asleep rubbing it slowly down my arm again and again and again.

In the morning, when I woke up, it was flattened between my cheek and pillow, and I was sure it had left sleep marks on my face, but the first thing I noticed was the smell, then I reached up and felt its texture again. It was Saturday morning, and I didn’t have to get up any particular time, so I just laid there, running it all over my body, and just as it was starting to get very personal, my mom knocked on the door and immediately walked in. I knew she couldn’t see anything, but I knew she was already mad at me. She never looked over her glasses us like that unless we were already in serious trouble about something. She stood over my bed and gave me the third degree about “ransacking our neighbor’s garage in search of God knows what” and I knew better than to either argue or try to explain.

“Did she come over ~”

“No, young man, I haven’t seen any sign of her so far this morning. Your brother was concerned about what you were doing and filled me in on everything this morning over breakfast, which you missed.”

I started to open my mouth, then remembered there was nothing I could say right then that was useful or helpful or productive or not going to get my head taken off.

I nodded and kept nodding for a while as her lecture wound down.

The only thing I could really do to redeem myself at that point – start redeeming myself anyway – was to take the initiative.

“Yeah, so I feel bad about yesterday, and I think I should go over and …”

I didn’t know what it was I was supposed to do. The right step to start with was apologize, but that was only going to get me partial credit. What else did I want to say?

“ … apologize and ask her if there’s something I can do to make up for it.” I said the words, but as they came out, they chilled me. Offering to spend time in the snake lady’s yard, letting her size me up and decide what kind of snack I would make, was just terrifying. I wanted to not believe any of this, but part of me I knew was going to insist on it, whatever I might say. Plus, as much as I was dreading going back and committing to spending time there, I was also excited in a creepy kind of way. That would let me spend time around the skins, and around her boobs, and I knew Steve was going to be jealous. Heck, every boy I knew was going to be jealous of getting to spend time around her – however much time was necessary.

So, yeah, I was excited and terrified when I crossed over into her yard. She opened the door in a tank top that was even more distracting than her blouse the day before. I looked directly into her eyes, and tried hard to focus on her face, but there was part of my brain that only was aware of what was dangling not far from my face.

“Uhh … I just came over to apologize for being in your garage yesterday. I wasn’t stealing anything. I was … looking … for …” seriously – was I going to tell her I was looking for evidence she was a snake woman? “… my baseball. We were playing catch and I thought … and we lost it and I thought maybe it had gone in there, since the door was open and all … and my brother was supposed to be asking if it was okay.”

“Your brother?”

“When he went to your door.”

“He never came to my door yesterday, umm ….” She left the sentence hanging. She wanted me to add my name at the end. “Why don’t you come in, uhh …?”

“Uhh … Tim. It’s Tim or Timmy, but I really should be going.”

“It’s okay, Tim, I just made pizza and you can have a slice while you explain.”

It did smell really good, so obviously I was going in. I could have pizza and be around her boobs and the only risk was my life and maybe my eternal soul? Easy decision.

Walking through the foyer to the kitchen, my own brilliance struck me full in the face, “My mom knows I’m over here.”

“Uhhh … okay, Tim … good for her.”

“Well, you know, ‘cause … umm … I don’t know.” I can’t think of an excuse for saying that, so I just quit. What could I say? “Uh, just in case you are a snake lady that eats little boys, someone knows where I am.”

“She sent you over to apologize, is what you’re saying?”

“Yeah, I mean … yeah, that’s what I was trying to say.”

“Uh-huh …”

Why’d she hand me the line if she wasn’t going to believe it?

We sat and ate pizza, which, it turned out, really had just come out of the oven and wasn’t some kind of trick to lure me in to my death.

We talked about why I was in the garage, and I stuck with the baseball story, and she seemed okay with that. I was pretty sure she though the real reason I’d snuck into her garage and was hanging out by the window was I wanted to watch her sunbathe. As long as she wasn’t mad about that, I figured it was safe to let it go. We also talked about big brothers and what a pain in the butt they are. She gestured a lot while she talked, and I watched-without-watching a lot as she jiggled with each gesture.

I couldn’t help notice, though, how wide her mouth opened and how much pizza she could bite off whenever she took a bite. She never did bite off a lot, but it was like she was ready to. That made my heart race a little. She chewed slowly before swallowing, and then dabbed the corners of her mouth with her napkin. She’d take a little sip of her Diet Coke, and then dab her lips again. There was never anything there, and she never even messed up her lipstick, not in the eating or the drinking or the dabbing. It was as perfect at the end as it was when we started.

I offered to do chores for her to make up for being in her garage without permission, but she just laughed and said that wouldn’t be necessary. She gave me that look again as she said it, the “I know what you really are wanting to do in my yard” look.

I had two pieces and I thanked her, then I washed it down with the rest of my Dr Pepper, and jumped from the table and raced out. I didn’t need her seeing me to the door – or seeing anything else for that matter. She’d never let a little perv like me in her yard again.

Mom gave me the third degree when I got back and made me promise I was telling the truth about being invited in for pizza and her not even wanting me to do anything for her as penance.

That night, I was lying in bed, trying to shut my brain down, when I reached over for the skin on my bedside table. It was cool and silky, but it warmed up fast. It was just a little more dried out than the day before, but it still felt good. I thought about her as I rubbed it on my cheeks and my boner came back – the one the made me run out of her house in a panic. The skin felt so good on my face, I started rubbing it on my chest and arms, and I imagined it was her hand that was rubbing me, touching me. My window was open and the moonlight and the wind were coming in. I imagined her coming in silently through the window, shushing me as she got to my bed, her snakey hand caressing me, her fingers wrapping around my arm in a way only she could, and then she’d kiss me and slide her hand into my shorts. I must’ve fallen asleep right then, and taken my fantasy into the dream. My eyes were open. Her hand was moving around in my shorts, caressing me like she had a hundred fingers all wiggling and swirling around, and her breasts swayed back and forth in the moonlight. She stroked me and kissed me and flicked me with a snakey tongue. Just before I … you know … her other hand, with its really long and slender fingers, wrapped itself all the way around my throat and tightened a little. She said, “Never tell, Timmy. Never-ever” and her fingers tightened more. She kept tightening them around my neck, and shaking her head. She said, “It can be our secret” just as I closed my eyes and exploded in my shorts.

That was the first time, ever, I’d had that happen. If I’d known it just took a little of the right kind of stroking, I’d have discovered it by the time I was three. I just laid there, with my eyes closed, and my breath slowly catching up. The breeze smelled like flowers and coconut milk. I drifted off to sleep. When I woke next morning, I couldn’t find the snake skin for a moment, then I remembered.

I had that dream a lot over the next couple of years, and went through a number of snake skins. Miss Naylor moved to Houston when I was in 7th grade and got married to a herpetologist. Go figure. In fact, I ran into her and her husband years later at a Texas herpetologist conference where I was presenting a paper. Imagine that.

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propheticsinner · 5 years

Text

The Ballad of Cato

“You either die a hero, or live long enough to see yourself become the villain.” -Harvey Dent

Cato felt the sun on his skin and flinched even though his eyes were still closed. He heard the rustling of his brothers getting ready for training. Flint, his twin brother, was making his bed, and by the sound of it, not very well.

“Brother, is that my blanket,” questioned Tan, their younger brother.

“Hell if I know.” Flint continued to wrestle his sheets, failing more every second.

Tan started over toward Flint’s side of the room. He took over the cleaning from his brother and decided that he would just wash Flint’s sheets because he doubted that they had been washed in months. Cato reluctantly got up out of bed. Unlike his brothers, he was not a fan of the early morning sun. He walked towards the washroom and greeted his younger brother on the way.

“Sleep well?” Tan was stumbling through the halls with sheets dragging behind him. Cato picked up the slack.

“Can’t complain. The quality of my sleep is never the issue, though. It’s that my slumber is always cut short by that window.”

“We can switch bunks if you’d like, the sun doesn’t hit the top bunk. And I don’t mind waking up early,” Tan suggested.

“Always a saint. But I couldn’t. You need your sleep if you’re to start training with me and Flint.” They dropped off the sheets at the servant’s quarters and went their separate ways to get ready for the day.

If it was up to the twins, Tan was still too young to start preparing for battle with them. Cato didn’t even want to fight. He found it ridiculous that they were still milking a centuries long feud. Flint didn’t mind too much. He figured that if he was a good fighter then he should fight. And their father, Nobleman Miller, insisted that having three sons in the war would boost his favor with the king. It doesn’t surprise Cato since he and Flint were forced to train at an even younger age than Tan but he figured that they could dissuade their father from pushing the boy too hard. He still blamed Tan for the death of their mother, who died in childbirth.

Being five years his elder, though, Tan always looked up to and tried to imitate his brothers, and this training stuff was no exception. Most of the time the twins were perfectly fine with his admiration, but this, they thought, was too much.

Cato and Flint took Tan out to the arena their father had built to train. The 20 year old twins had been sparring with each other for 8 years and had become proficient in sword fighting, axe throwing, archery, and hand-to-hand combat. Miller had hired experts to train the twins but gave them free rein with their younger brother.

While teaching the boy how to properly hold several different weapons, Cato heard the distant echoing of horns blowing. He and Flint exchanged confused looks. Neither of them had ever heard a horn like that blown in Derarbor. They hurried Tan in the house and Flint called out for their father.

“What is happening father?”

“Enemy war horns,” Nobleman Miller replied. “They’ve crossed into our territory. You and your brothers must go and protect the city! Find the general army and make me proud.”

The servants put armor on the three brothers and led them to the stables. Cato didn’t even get a chance to suggest leaving behind Tan. But he made sure that his brothers were secured before getting on a horse himself and as they were getting ready to leave, he addressed the servants.

“Be sure to stay safe. Protect yourselves before you protect that man.” Cato pointed to the estate his father owned. And with that, he shook the reigns and started off towards the town square.

When they arrived in the center of Derarbor, it seemed like every father in the city had the same idea that Nobleman Miller did. Able young men swarmed the streets, though they were less prepared for battle than the Miller brothers were. Suddenly, the king’s people started to usher everyone to the sides of the streets.

“Citizens!” King Laybir’s voice boomed. “It seems that the Archester army has crossed into our borders. There is no need to fear because so many of you, have already volunteered to meet them in battle and prove yourselves to our enemies! Fight well and come back victorious!”

His call to battle was met with cheers and shouts from what must have been 500 soldiers. Cato took this moment to tell Tan to leave but his words got lost in the commotion. He gestured for his brothers to follow him to a side street away from the forming army.

“Tan it’s time for you to go home. The horse knows the way. Find the servants and tell them a battle is coming for Derarbor.”

“No, I want to fight. Dad said I was ready and that I should have been ages ago,” countered Tan.

Cato could tell their fathers snide comments had gotten to the kid. He felt that fighting in this war could win him favor with his father but Cato knew better. Nobleman Miller didn’t care for the boy at all.

“Cato, father isn’t going to be happy if he sees him come home before the battle’s even begun. It might not seem like it but the safest place for Tan is with us right now.”

“The middle of battlefield with two of the best fighters in either arsenal hardly seems like the place for an unprepared child.” Cato was getting more and more anxious by the second. He didn’t know what to do with his brother.

“But don’t you think we’d have a better chance at keeping him safe if he’s with us?” The stampede of warriors started moving East toward Archester. Flint made up his mind. “I’m leaving to fight and I’m taking Tan with me. I have faith in us brother. We can keep him safe.”

“Fine. But we are not taking the horses. Being above the rest would make us easy pickings for a stray arrow.” Cato dismounted and removed his knife from his belt.

“You need to stay with us at all times. That’s the only way you’re getting out of this alive.” Cato decided not to be gentle with his words. He continued, “If you get separated from us, show this blade to anyone wearing red and hopefully they’ll protect you as we would. It has our family crest engraved in its hilt.”

“Hell, just use it if you get separated from us. Out there, you can only trust us and yourself,” Flint added, somewhat helpfully. Tan grabbed the dagger and the brothers headed out for battle.

Cato and Flint mowed down enemy soldiers effortlessly. They moved like a well oiled machine. Cato would parry while his twin would swing with his axe. If an enemy soldier landed blow on either brother, he would be met with an axe in the chest or a hilt in the helmet. Flint felt no remorse for his actions. Archester invaded, they should be greeted with no mercy. Cato, on the other hand, couldn’t help but feel bad for his enemies. They probably had no clue as to why they were in this war. The Miller brothers didn’t either, and they had been brought up in a military household. No one alive started this feud and thus, Cato felt, no one alive should answer for the crimes of the past.

“These are the people we’ve been are war with for the past three hundred years? Why haven’t we ended this already?” Flint laughed. He hurled his axe as hard as he could and hit a man square in the chest, his sheer strength knocking him back a couple yards.

“We fight for no reason, we can at least agree on that part brother.” Cato bashed his shield into an enemy soldier and punched another in the gut. Tan yelled and charged the man Cato had just knocked out with his knife. He grabbed Tan by the straps of his chest plate. “Now, now. He’s down. He’s not hurting anybody. What if he has a younger brother waiting for him to come home? Or a little baby? If he’s knocked out, he can’t fight. No need for pointless slaughter.”

It didn’t help that Flint was 30 feet to the left swinging his sword at someone’s chest and laughing like a maniac. Cato joined the fray once again, trying to keep Tan safe and Flint from unnecessarily maiming some poor guy. After a while, he was getting tired. He wished he could just turn off his brain and mindlessly fight like Flint but he knew he had to be strong for Tan.

The Derarban army had pushed the fight back into enemy territory. Cato was about to turn to Tan to tell him to stay on their side of the border. Maybe even to run back home. It had been long enough that their father shouldn’t have been angry. But just then, the Archester horn blew once again.

The battle intensified by tenfold. Enemies surged forward and forced the Derarban army back. Flint kept wandering farther and father away with each toss of his axe. It was beginning to get harder to keep track of Tan. Cato fought for what seemed like forever. At one point, he almost felt his anxiety get the better of him. He couldn’t see either of his brothers anymore. He scanned the battlefield for the blond hair of his twin brother and even though it hurt, he scanned the ground harder for Tan’s body. He trusted that Flint could hold his own. But Tan... He should’ve kept better track of his younger brother. He could barely hear over the fight, but he couldn’t help but think he heard both of his brothers screaming his name. Tan sounded lost and confused. Flint sounded like he was struggling.

Cato suddenly didn’t care about the fight. All he could see in his mind was someone looking exactly like him being dragged away in chains and a young boy in the midst of a raging battle. He couldn’t make a decision and struggled to listen for his name being called again. He heard Flint’s voice above the rest. He heard his name be cut short by a painful shout. He ran towards his brother, hoping to save him. He ran away from the fighting, deeper into enemy territory.

“No! No! What are you doing? Cato, where’s Tan? He was screaming your name. Why didn’t you-,” Flint yelled. Cato arrived just in time to see him get a sword pommel to his temple and taken by Archester soldiers. He couldn’t do anything but he couldn’t dwell on his twin. Flint was right. He had to find Tan.

He arrived too late. Just barely too late. Cato found Tan lying on the ground, gasping for air. With his hand gripping an arrow sprouting from his ribs. Cato ran to his side and cried into his younger brothers oversized armor. He apologized in between sobs. Cato searched Tan’s brown eyes for some type of recognition, but despite being open, they didn’t have the same light in them as before. Cato screamed like his heart was being ripped out of his chest. He had suffered many injuries over his 8 years of training. He broke a rib falling from a tree trying to retrieve his axe, he broke his fingers punching a target dummy, and Flint slashed too hard and tore through his chain mail leggings, leaving a gash in his thigh. But nothing compared to this. He cried for Tan, for Flint, for their mother and for their father. Cato cried for longer than what was safe. He left himself vulnerable. He couldn’t hear over his gasps and sobs and his eyes became too puffy to see even Tan right next to him. He made sure Tan knew he was there for him until the end.

Once Cato composed himself, he noticed a figure leaning up against a tree to his left. He took the knife he gave Tan and threw it as hard as he could at whoever dared stand watch over his grief. If he had been trying, he might’ve hit his mark. But he missed. The man picked up the knife and brought it over to Cato.

“You seemed to have dropped this,” he said. His voice was soft but sounded like it was strained. Cato looked up and saw the most beautiful man he’d ever saw. He was the same height as he was maybe a little taller. The man squatted down other the other side of Tan’s body.

“Tragic. War takes so much from us, and what for?” He tried to make conversation but Cato wasn’t having any of it.

“This wasn’t war. It was arrogance, anger and pure stupidity that took him from me.”

“Well, we drove them back,” the man responded. “The Archesters, I mean. We won today. He didn’t die in vain. He will be given a warrior’s welcome when you return to the city.”

“I’m not taking him to the city. I’m taking him to our father. He deserves to know what fate he forced upon his son.”

“I’ll accompany you then.” The stranger didn’t want to let him walk alone. Surely he was going to get lost or ambushed on his way back. “I’ll make sure you both get back to your father.”

Along the way back home, Cato learned a lot about the man. He offered what conversation he could, but he wasn’t in the right mood to socialize. The stranger, Gus his name was, didn’t press, though. He kept Cato distracted from the task at hand, which he appreciated. If he had to make the journey back alone, he would’ve cried the whole way and made a fool of himself in front of his father.

When they arrived, Cato asked Gus to stay outside. Gus understood that this was going to be a family moment and went and sat under a tree. Cato carried Tan through the gates of the Miller estate. Almost immediately, he was met by the servants. They laid eyes upon the beaten up brothers and offered to carry Tan’s body to their father but Cato refused. He couldn’t let go. He had to be the one to lay Tan to rest.

“Oh Cato, I’m so glad you made it back safely,” Nobleman Miller came though the Gust wing doors. “No! My little boy, what happened to you?”

Cato’s father approached Tan, still in Cato’s arms. Cato recoiled and laid Tan on the sofa in the foyer. He looked his father in the eyes, didn’t say a word, and retreated to his shared room. He gathered some spare cloths, cash and rations in a knapsack and looked around the room. It seems impossible that just 16 hours ago he was complaining about waking up, that Tan was making the room look tidy. It seemed like an abandoned space. He noticed Flint’s favorite earring. He removed his own and decided to put his in until he got his twin back. He then remembered something.

Cato went back out into the main hall of the house to find the servants cleaning Tan’s body, getting it ready for the funeral process. One of the women had tears in her eyes and the others had blank expressions, like they couldn’t believe their eyes. Gus was standing near the doorway, trying not to impose on the grieving of yet another person.

Cato walked over to Tan to say goodbye one last time. He grasped his brother’s hand and removed the ring from his finger. The servants didn’t say a word and neither did he.

“Where are we going now?”

“Oh, I figured you had a family to go back to. I really don’t know where I’m headed but I have to get my twin brother back,” Cato replied.

“And where is he,” asked Gus. “Was he in the battle too?”

“Yes. But I saw him get taken by the enemy. They knocked him out and dragged him towards Archester.”Cato started walking East towards Archester. “I’m going to get him back.”

“By yourself? Armed only with a dagger?” Gus followed closely behind. “I don’t know if you know this, but they have great archers if nothing else. Oh—.”

Cato stopped walking, causing Gus to bump into him.

“Choose your next words wisely,” Cato warned.

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. But it’s true, you’d get shot down before you even get close.” Cato knew he was right but he couldn’t just sit around while they were probably torturing his brother right then.

“Well what would you suggest we do?”

The pair waited until the next morning to come up with a plan. They rented a room down in the city because Cato refused to return to the Miller estate. However, because most of Derarbor was celebrating the victory over Archester, they choices were limited. Only a room with a single bed was available. Once they set down their limited belongings, Gus went to clean himself up. While he was alone, Cato sat on the bed and began silently crying, once again over the events of the day. He didn’t plan on crying for long, but in what seemed like seconds, Gus came out of the washroom. Cato tried to compose himself quickly but Gus saw and sat down next to him trying his best to comfort the other man. Cato, clearly emotional, turned and kissed Gus, shocking both of them. It only lasted seconds but both men were left speechless.

“I-I’m sorry, I didn-.” Cato tried to explain himself but Gus left the room in a hurry. And Cato was once again left alone with his tears.

The next morning, Cato woke up alone after crying himself to sleep. He looked around the room for a sign that Gus had come back last night. After not finding anything, Cato gathered his things, wrote a note trying to explain what had happened and opened the door to leave. Gus was standing there looking like a mess.

“I needed time to think,” he said.

“Of course.” Cato scratched the back of his neck. “Look, I’m sorry about last night. I was emotio—”

“No no! Not about the— not about that. I figured I should give you your space. And I needed to make a plan to get your brother back. I just didn’t think I’d get much time to think if I stayed in the room last night.” Gus was just as uncomfortable as Cato was so it seemed like they were just trying not to upset the other.

“Oh uh... Did you come up with anything?”

“Yeah actually! I’ll tell you about it.” Gus brushed past Cato and started writing on the notepad Cato just wrote his explanation on.

They decided to head out a few nights later, using the darkness to their advantage. In that time, they had purchased black clothing from one of the shops in the square, practiced their story if one got captured, and Gus taught Cato to gain mastery over his emotions. They tried to enjoy themselves and act normal, as if they weren’t planning to infiltrate Archester and break Flint out of jail. They got closer and began exploring a relationship together. It was foreign to both men because neither had time for a relationship before. They shared childhood stories, dreams for the future and some things that maybe they shouldn’t have. But they had a happy few days before they chose to go through with their plan.

They were going to find some guards along the border and steal their armor and uniforms. After that, they’d spend as long as needed in enemy territory trying to find Flint and the other prisoners of war, and hopefully bring them back home. Cato decided that they should leave their bigger weapons at the inn so that they wouldn’t give away their position with the polished iron. The men traveled slowly through the woods towards Archester territory so that they wouldn’t be heard. They weren’t in a hurry, they were prepared to take as long as needed to get Flint back. Finally, Gus spotted a building lit by torches.

“Cato, you make noise on the left and lead as many as you can away. I’ll pick off the ones that fall behind,” he whispered.

“I’m not a very fast runner, but I can hit hard. You distract,” Cato suggested.

“Alright, move ten seconds after I throw.”

Cato wasn’t sure what that meant but Gus was too far to follow up with questions. But within seconds a rock is hurled at one of the guards. It hits him in the shoulder but it wasn’t big enough to do damage. Two of the guards leave in the direction the rock came from, leaving three for Cato to deal with. He didn’t mind, he had the upper hand. A three-on-one wasn’t going to be difficult at all. He slowly moved toward the right of the building. He heard the guards talking but he couldn’t quite make out the actual words. But just as he was about to charge in to fight, the one on the left started in the direction the others had.

Cato snuck up behind the two left behind but was caught off guard when the man he was about to attack suddenly turned around and punched him in the gut. He flinched, not because of the pain, but because of the surprise. But the few moments of reaction gave the guard the chance to land three good hits; one in the gut and two to the head. Cato threw a punch and it connected with the guards jaw, knocking him down pretty quick. He quickly turned to face the second guard. He stood alert and started analyzing his opponent’s movements. With a few more well placed strikes, the second guard was on the ground too.

Cato heard rustling in the darkness on his left and prepared himself for another brawl. He was certainly surprised when Gus’ shape appeared. Cato almost felt ashamed that he didn’t worry about Gus’ wellbeing. He did take on three men when Cato should have been the one to do so.

“Don’t worry, I’m alright,” he said as he approached the conflicted man.

“I knew you would be, but the third guard did have me doubting,” Cato replied.

“I was already on my way back when he showed up. Poor guy didn’t see what hit him.” Gus laughed but seemed put off by the situation. “Did either of these guys have weapons?”

“Huh. I hadn’t noticed. That might’ve made things more difficult for sure.” He started to take one’s armor off.

“But don’t you think that’s unusual? Why would you leave your first line of defense defenseless?” He broke down the door to the building. Shack was a better for word for it though. It was only one room with three chairs and one bed. The entire thing was made out of wood with holes in the planks.

“Ughhughhhgnnnnggh,” one of the guards started to come to. He removed his helmet and his blond hair fell into his face. Cato rushed forward to his brother and held him close, both on the verge of tears.

“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,” Cato repeated, over and over until his voice hurt.

They spent the next few hours talking about the last week. Cato listened to Flint’s story first before telling him about Tan. Archester took him and about 20 other men and set them up around the border. The enemy figured that the Derarbans would attack first and ask questions second so they placed “guards” as fodder. As far as Flint knew, this was the first attack on Archester since the last major battle.

Cato couldn’t hold it in any longer. He told him that he found Tan too late, that he had been shot in the heart with an arrow. Flint hid his emotions as best he could. He refused to make eye contact with Cato and clenched his fists.

“I told you, I told you to go to him. Why did you come to me?” Flint began crying. But they weren’t angry tears. It sounded like he was broken inside. Cato just held him until he stopped crying.

“You need to head back. Be strong for them, they need someone to get them home safely.” Cato patted his brother on the back and helped him get his feet. Within minutes they were on their way. Cato steeled his nerves and turned to Gus.

“I’m sorry but I’m changing the plan. I’m going right now and I’m breaking into Archester Castle. I need to make a statement. I’m not expecting you to come with me. Just make—”

“You’re not going in there alone. I’m following you wherever you go.” And with that they headed back into the trees, leaving the torchlight behind.

Cato and Gus entered the city, still in their black camouflage. They would’ve been caught ten times over if Gus hadn’t stopped Cato from rushing out into the busy streets. Cato had no clue how to get to the castle from where they were but it was so massive that it was visible from anywhere in the city. Gus took him through the backstreets to avoid the Archester citizens. Cato wondered how he knew where they were going. Gus claimed it was just lucky, that he assumed it followed the same basic infrastructure that Derarbor had.

“What do you plan on doing once you get in there? And if you get in, how do you expect to get out?” Cato hadn’t thought that through yet, but he didn’t care right now. He had to hurt these people like they’d hurt him.

“If you kill the king, you’re not going to make it out alive. And I’m pretty sure I read somewhere that if you kill the entire bloodline, you become the monarch,” Gus said, trying to scare Cato out of this plan.

“Then I’ll become king and end this war once and for all. They can’t stop me, I’ve had a sword in my hand since I was a child. I can do this.” Cato didn’t seem to even flinch at the though of leading the enemy.

“And here I stand above you all. With your king kneeling before me. What can you do now?” Cato stood on the king’s grand balcony with a sword pointed at the his throat. “I don’t want to kill you old man. Abdicate and I’ll let you live.”

“I’d rather die than give up my kingdom to someone like you. Go ahead, strike, I’ll gladly die as an honorable Archester man,” the king replied, thinking that no Archester person could ever kill his king.

Gus broke through the doors Cato had barricaded. He stepped in with an axe in his hands and his mask around his neck.

“Nephew! Help me, this man is insane.” Cato dropped his sword. Nephew?

“Cato I’m sorry but I can’t let you do this. I never should have let you get this far.”

“You liar!” Cato rushed over to Gus and shoved up against a wall. “How could you let me believe you like that? How much of it was fake?”

Gus tried to respond but Cato cut him off. “No, I take it back, I don’t want to hear anything from you.” Cato picked the sword back up and started towards the king again, who was now cowering in the corner. Gus snatched the decorative bow and arrow off the wall and threatened to shoot if Cato didn’t back down.

“Yes! Shoot him, August! Show him how long you’ve trained with a bow!” The king screeched but Cato silenced him with a swift kick to the jaw.

“I didn’t know you could shoot. That wasn’t in any of stories you told.” Cato was on the verge of tears but he turned to face Gus, sword in hand.

“Please. Put that down. I know you are good with a sword, but you couldn’t possibly deflect one of my arrows. I don’t want to have to shoot you.”

“Did you shoot my brother? Is that why you didn’t mention your skills? You couldn’t face me like a man and tell me of your crime!” Cato raised his voice and made it known how angry he was.

“I wasn’t aiming for him. He had one of my soldiers bearing down on him. He picked up a nearby axe and swung it. It was impossibly heavy for him but somehow his aim was true. Struck the man right in the rib cage.” Gus’ voice cracked. He didn’t think he could continue but he forced himself too. “The man fell right as I let go, and it hit Tan.”

Cato couldn’t contain his rage. He turned back towards the king and swung his sword as hard he could. He dropped the sword with a clang and the king’s head fell to the floor. The crowd roared and Cato couldn’t tell if they were angry or excited. “I forgive you.”

Cato surged forward. Gus let his arrow fly. The arrow sprouted from Cato’s shoulder but he snapped it off like it was nothing. They wrestled on the ground, each fighting to overpower the other. But Cato’s rage was the decider. He beat Gus savagely and ultimately caved in his skull with his fists.

Once again, Cato addressed the crowd. He picked the sword back up and raised it above his head. The crowd screamed again, but this time Cato could tell they were cheering. They were ready for a change, ready for carnage. Cato doubted he could control them, he doubted anyone could control them. But he was excited to take his anger out on someone. He’d take it out on the entire kingdom if it distracted from his grief.

#pls give me attention #pls give me suggestions

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ephemeralavalon · 6 years

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It was past midnight when I realized that I had missed Mama’s call. I was surprised. She usually never called me after ten at night, and in the loud Houston downtown bar I hadn’t heard my cell ring. The Thirsty Monkey wasn’t the type of place I wanted to find myself drinking in late at night. In the sordid yellow light of cheap low hanging ceiling lights, everything had an impermanent quality to it. We were all just hollowed out people, dimming lamps and drawing shades in small apartments.

I hadn’t checked my phone until I awoke from my drunken slumber in the middle of the night. There was no voicemail, just a cryptic text message: call me.

She picked up on the third ring. “Where are you?”

I looked over at the mysterious young man lying in my bed. “I’m home.”

Her voice sounded thin and strained as if she was trying to talk through thick velvet. A seamstress with words, she’d learned how to bind her own words into smaller stitches until they vanished into the fabric. “Your Uela’s in the hospital. They’re telling us we should come by.”

By this point death didn’t shock me. It was routine for my family; Uela and Tito both grew up on farms, watched their mothers wring the necks of chickens till blood spattered; seen rabid dogs and possums shot; and assisted their mothers with last-minute abortions. I too had been raised around death, and was accustomed to the evanescence of existence. My first lesson was watching the annual death of Uela’s zinnia flowers. In the extreme Texas heat they’d wrinkle and shrink until the last petal fell. Then, Uela would plant the next batch.

My second lesson was with my Tito. He was out in the backyard mowing the grass. Like the flowers he too began to wither in the summer heat. He suddenly stood up straight, gripped his arm, and silently fell to the ground. After the heart attack, we were all hyper vigilant for any further signs of deterioration. The doctor prescribed him a mountain of pills. When I was younger I use to sit by Uela’s feet and watch her meticulously count Tito’s vitamins for him. One red. Two yellow. One white. Her hard and wrinkled fingers would gingerly trace over the shape before shoveling them in to his weekly pillbox. With each plop into the plastic box I prayed that Tito’s heart would grow stronger. Uela did this every day until Tito passed away.

“Will you drive down?” Her question hung like a noose around my neck. Physically we were hundreds of miles apart, but it felt as if she was standing in the room, leaning her weight into me.

“Mama, I don’t—”

“Of course. You never can Ofelia.” As her voice rang in my ear, I felt the searing sting of her words stab me in the stomach. There was a string of worry attached to her entreaty, and I imagined Mama standing alone in a dark room shivering to herself as she waited for my reply.

After Tito’s funeral, I’d left Pharr and my family behind for a waitressing job in Houston. We never got many customers to come down to Phil’s Diner, but sometimes amongst the slow lunch hour I found myself disappearing behind stacks of orders and unclean white plates. Yet, everyone could still sense my small town roots. They use to see it in my way, in the silk web-like bits of threads stuck to all my clothes.

“I’ll be down tomorrow night.”

I put my cell down on the nightstand and crawled back into bed with a stranger.

That night I dreamt of the garden in front of Uela and Tito’s home. The fuchsia flower petals of the crepe myrtle weighed the branches down till they bowed down to the floor. When I looked down, I realized I was a child, running through the crepe myrtle as if they were stage curtains, swerving in and out. At the end of the infinite row of trees, I came upon a large seed the size of my thumb. Over my shoulder I heard Tito’s voice.

“Your Uela would know how to plant that.” But when I tried to see his face, there was no one there, just a black void.

Then the whole dream burst into smaller bubbles and floated away into the recess of my mind.

The early morning sunlight filtering in from the window shades shocked me out of my sleep. Dancing in the ray of light were tiny specks of dust. My skin prickled from the heat. Though in contrast to last night my apartment was calm and quiet, Mama’s voice silently sat heavy in the air. I turned to my side. The man from last night was still lying in my bed, face down buried in the dirty pillowcase. After a while, his breathing became noticeable, a loud hiss of air coming in and out of his large nostrils. With my thumb and forefinger I pinched his nose, trying to stop the sound. He struggled for a second, his body was looking for some other way to breathe, and then he opened his mouth. I kept playing with his face until I heard my stomach growl.

I left the man in my bed, who I was now referring to as Tim, and got up to make myself breakfast. The egg yolk hit the pan and began to fry in the bubbling oil. Putting my head down on the granite counter top, I tried listening to the crackling sound. When I had a hangover the feel of the cold granite and the comforting sound of cooking use to calm me down. It was a now a habit for any time I was stressed.

After breakfast, I was halfway through packing when Tim woke up.

“Morning.” He watched me as I packed a black dress into my suitcase. “Going somewhere?”

“Sorry Tim. I’ve got to drive home tonight.” I shoved random toiletries inside.

“I’m Tom.” He paused for a second.

I looked at him once more. His messy strawberry blonde hair was parted in a pretentious way. He was definitely a Tim.

“Sorry Tom. I’ve got to be on the road soon.” I quickly dressed in some discarded jeans and a wrinkled t-shirt as an incentive for him to leave. “There’s coffee in the kitchen.”

Tom stood confused in nothing but his underwear. He kept turning his head from the kitchen to me, trying to find an answer.

Finally I said, “My grandmother’s dying Tom. You have to go.” He looked like he wanted to hug me for a second, but I pushed him out my apartment door with the rest of his clothes.

It was a routine I had picked up from Mama. She’d never been able to settle down either. There were numerous suitors—all nice well-educated white men—and three engagements, but as the wedding date came near things always seemed to pop-up. Then she’d met my father, and decided to skip the whole marriage and forever after crap. So she wasn’t all that surprised when he returned back to his wife.

Mama never had a dream. She’d only been taught to take care of her family. She knew nothing else. Even when the opportunity to leave Uela and Tito behind arrived at her feet, she simply stepped over and let the chance pass by. After all, someone had to take care of them in their old age.

After I was born, Mama got a job as receptionist for a law firm in town. While my mother worked my grandparents raised me. During the day I spent time with Tito and Uela, and at night I saw Mama.

The first image I had of Uela was of her back. No matter what time of the day, she seemed to always be hunched over the kitchen counter making something. I used to watch her as she made tortillas from scratch. Her tan hands would beat the flour dough into submission. Whack. Whack. Whack. The staccato sound of her wooden rolling pin filled the off-pink 50’s style small kitchen. A sweet smell of butter and flour filled the room, brushing against my nostrils. I would lean into the aroma and imagine the taste of the fluffy treats lying on my tongue.

Uela loved to cook, but she didn’t like having me in the kitchen. A wooden chair in the corner of the room was my space. I was not allowed to get up from it. Sitting in that small chair my back standing up straight, a strange desire to hug her back would come over me. The hungry need to love her scared me.

As a child, I wanted to be like Uela. Her and Tito’s bedroom was a frilly pink with white wooden furniture. Against one wall was an ornate vanity bursting with sparkling jewelry. When Uela was busy at work, I would sneak into her room and try on her things. My favorite was a beautiful white sun hat with pink trim she wore for gardening. The wide rim made my eight-year-old head look tiny and ridiculous, but in the inside lining of the hat I could feel where her damp head had touched the light fabric. Her sweat was still drying. That was the closest I ever got to her.

After the fifth time, she caught me sneaking into her stuff. I stumbled over my words trying to explain, but the words were caught in my throat. She stood over me, her shadow engulfing my tiny body. I began to sob to myself uncontrollably. She reached for one of Tito’s belts lying on the bed and pulled me onto her knee. I winced when the fist strike landed on me. Mama had never hit me once. I was unaccustomed to the feel of leather against my naked skin, but I soon memorized the sound. That day she only dealt me five blows. In the light, the welts that rose up from where the notch holes had hit me shined like the spider webs on the crepe myrtle.

Loving Uela was hard.

Tito was much easier to get along with. During his lunch break Tito would leave the office and take me to an old cowboy shop across the way from where he worked. When we walked in all the female store clerks stopped what they were doing and said hello to us. Caught in the spotlight, Tito smiled and told them all to treat his granddaughter like a princess, “mi princesa.” All the attention made my cheeks burn. With all the female clerks eyes fixed on me, I couldn’t find my voice. Tito turned, looked over at me and winked. My whole body relaxed as if I was wrapped in the softest blanket.

The women pulled out a chair for me to sit in. From there, I watched Tito as he tried on his white Stetson hat and shiny belt buckles. Seeing him in the mirror, reminded me of all those old cowboy movies he use to watch. Afterwards, he’d take me out for vanilla ice cream. We’d sit outside on wooden benches, eating our cones. That was our routine.

Even as I got older, things with Uela never got easier. Sometimes I wish my childhood were compacted into those memories of us sitting outside in the summer heat eating ice cream in silence. I’d open them up relive my childhood as only a series of happy memories with my Tito.

Before Tito passed away Uela asked me to write the Epitaph for his gravestone. Alone in her barely lit Pepto-Bismol pink kitchen we sat across from each other, a full tortilla warmer between us. Suddenly, Uela got up from her wooden chair, making a squeaky creak as the leg moved across the floor. She told me she needed to get something. She hobbled over to the stove, and began cooking something new.

“What are you making?” I asked.

She shrugged her shoulders in response. It’s nothing really she reassured me, but I watched as she began to pull out avocados, tomatoes, onions, cilantro, and cumin. With the avocado in the palm of her hand she drove a knife into the hard black skin, cutting it open. She stabbed at the pit, and laid it aside. She reached for her grey rock mortar and began to mash the avocado inside. The smell of guacamole filled the room. I wanted to know what it was for. Perhaps she was going to make us a little snack. After all, I had driven all the way over here just to sit and chat with her.

She remained silent as she continued to mix the avocado with the tomatoes and onions. After a great pause she finally answered me. The guacamole was for my cousin, Oralia. She was down from college for the weekend and Uela wanted to make her favorite food. The tortillas in front of me were also for her.

I asked if I could have a tortilla, but Uela said I had to wait. Those were for Oralia, not for me.

“You never liked my cooking much anyway,” she said.

Sensing I was getting ready to leave, Uela stopped me. She explained about the VA, how they needed a copy of every gravestone in advance, in case something sudden were to happen.

“I thought you should be the one to write something.” She spoke fast, stumbling across the words as they poured from her mouth.

We could only afford the basic package, twenty letters, that’s all we could give to Tito. You can’t say much in twenty letters, at least not a real goodbye. I tried to keep the message clear: Father, and Husband.

With her wrinkled hands, Uela turned over the written form with my epitaph on it. She let the idea sink into her thoughts. Her mouth was pulled back into a thin-lipped grimace. For a second, I thought she was going to ask me to write something different.

Instead, she turned to me and said, “ok.”

We didn’t speak of the epitaph again till Tito’s funeral. It was a small Catholic Church service with family and friends. A father who hardly knew my Tito, lead us all in prayers of forgiveness and blessings. There’s a part after the mass where everyone gets a chance to walk by the open casket. When it was my turn I took a long look at my Tito lying inside his red velvet lined pine wood casket. They had slicked his hair back, and put him in a black suit with a red tie. None of it made any sense. Where was his cowboy hat and belt buckle?

My uncle Jose and my uncle Roel loaded the closed casket into the black hearse. A trail of cars followed behind the hearse as it headed to the VA cemetery.

After the service, and after burying the casket, Uela stood by my side.

“They won’t be able to put the grave stone up until a month after he’s buried.” She said.

“It doesn’t matter. The whole process just makes it all feel too real.” Tears started to form in the corners of my eyes.

Without looking at me she said, “You’ve never loved me like you’ve loved your grandfather.” It came out almost like a whisper, a whisper that had been building strength in a dark corner of Uela’s mind for years. Her words echoed inside my body like the rush of a waterfall. I was caught up in them, drowning in the immense weight of my family. They strangled me and held me down. I felt Uela’s two hands reaching out from the darkness inside me. Scared I left. The day after Tito’s funeral, I packed everything I could inside a small suitcase and drove for seven hours straight till I ran out of gas in Houston.

Years later, arriving once again in my hometown, Pharr, the same fear suddenly came over me. The blue sky dissolved to darkness, and the town looked forgotten in the lonely light of the bright stars. From all the years of cotton picking and crop cleaning, there was a dust that permeated over everyone and everything here. Sewn from the shattered dreams and smashed remains of possibilities, the stale dust of impotence blanketed the town. You could see it even in the nighttime.

Nothing had changed in the last five years, except for the amount of for sale and going out of business signs in the town square. Passing through downtown, everything looked dead, except for the hospital, the largest complex in the whole town. The flashing lights and hundreds of parked cars out front alit the hospital in a beige glow like dead skin.

In the crowded waiting room my family stood out. The room was awash in off-white wallpaper with faded seashells. People were sitting in bright purple cushioned chairs. While everyone else cried and prayed for their loved ones, my family stood strong, unwavering in their resolute decision not to be emotional at times like these.

Mama was leaning back in her chair, looking up at the ceiling when she finally turned and saw me.

“Ofelia’s here,” she announced.

They swarmed around me, crowding me as they all gave me obligatory hugs and how-are-yous. In five years no one besides my mother had reached out to me in Houston, but I smiled out of politeness and continued the charade.

Mama pulled me aside. She kept her voice quiet and low but slowly explained everything to me. Yesterday night Uela had a heart attack. It was sudden and unprecedented. According to her doctor she was in perfect health. It happened while she was gardening they said. Earlier in the week she’d realized her crepe myrtle was dying.

“It doesn’t make any sense though,” mom continued “it’s a perennial, she’d only planted it last year.”

While she was digging the bed for the new seed, her heart’s pulse quickened, and she’d felt a tight squeeze before falling.

“No one was with her though. Thank god the dog started barking. That alerted the neighbors.” She looked back up at me. “But the damage to her heart looks severe.” She walked over to a chair and sat down. I took the one next to her.

“Is she up?”

“No. They’ll let us see her in the morning.”

It was only ten at night.

It’s never really quiet inside a hospital waiting room. The stray sounds from machines and instruments sifter through the walls and permeate empty spaces. Even if no one is sitting behind you, on your exposed neck you feel a warm breath cowering over you.

Even for people familiar with death, like my family, the weight of uncertainty plagued us in the sterile waiting room. The woman sitting in the chair next to me was hunched over, sobbing to herself. In her hands she clenched a wadded up pink tissue paper, so used it was falling to pieces. I looked over at my mother. She was asleep in her chair.

I felt my eyelids getting heavy, and my head naturally began to fall back against the chair headrest.

My eyes closed and everything went dark inside my head. In the distance I saw a fuchsia colored petal falling to the ground. As I got closer more petals began to fall. Petal after petal rained down from an invisible sky. Soon my mind was overflowing with flowers. Then I appeared, as a child once again. I ran through bunches of petals and played with the falling flowers, trying to catch them with my tongue.

“You’re missing it.” From behind me I could hear Tito’s voice. The child me turned to face him. In cowboy boots and a white Stetson hat, Tito began striding over to where I was playing. He took me into his arms and carried me like a princess.

A sudden gust of wind blew the petals aside. Underneath where there was darkness there was now grass. Suddenly the invisible sky dissipated into a baby blue. As we walked on I could see Uela and Tito’s house in the distance. When we arrived, Tito set me back down on to the ground. He stuck his hand into his pant pocket and pulled from it a seed.

“You forgot this.” He bent down and placed the seed into my hand. With his other arm he pointed to the crepe myrtle tree growing in the front garden. The ground underneath me seemed to shift under my feet. It was moving me closer to the crepe myrtle. The tree began to stir and shake. Its buried roots popped up from the ground, and became legs, taking the crepe myrtle away. Left in its wake, was a cavernous hole, waiting to be filled.

When I awoke the crepe myrtle was gone. Tito and Uela’s house had dissolved into the reality of the waiting room. Even though the dream was over, I sensed traces of it still in the room. Light poured into the dreary room from a window, and in the brightness a fine filigree of dust twinkled. I traced the web of dust with my eyes. It landed on my two sleeping uncles, Jose and Roel, my cousin, Oralia, and Mama.

Aware of my gaze, Mama turned to me and said, “Do you want to see your Uela.”

I hesitated for a second. I was afraid to leave my chair. “What will happen if I get up?” I wondered.

On the way to Uela’s hospital room, we passed by nurses pushing sick patients in wheelchairs, and families crying amongst themselves. There was the familiar hospital faint hum of machinery that canceled out the sound of any particular heart monitor. The hospital was just one surreptitious heartbeat, concealed by concrete and tile. My head hurt and I felt light headed by the time we got to Uela’s room.

Inside her room, all outside sound grew dull. All I could hear was her single heart monitor beeping softly then loudly at times. My own heart matched the pace. Uela’s eyes kept opening and shutting uncontrollably. She seemed to be wincing in pain each time they did. Under the white sheets her body seemed so small and fragile. I walked over to her and took her hand in mine. Her bony hand clasped onto my wrist. I felt her fingers digging into my skin.

It was a familiar feeling. Her long and outstretched fingers, the same ones I’d seen gripping a leather belt, pulled me into a protective embrace. I was eight when I tried to teach my Oralia how to swim. I thought I could hold her body up above the water by standing on my tippy-toes, but my cousin began to panic in the water. With her in my arms flailing, I quickly lost balance and found my whole head submerged into the cerulean pool water. My cousin kept pushing my head further down in order to keep herself afloat. I opened my eyes underwater and saw legs splashing rushing to get out, to get help. I tried to push myself up, for one small breath of air, but things started to get dark; the light from the summer sun was slowly disappearing along with the oxygen in my lungs. Then I felt Uela’s hands pulling me out of the water, taking me into her arms, and patting my back until I calmed down.

She saved my life.

When I was younger Uela seemed so big. I imagined that she stood at least two feet taller than me when she held Tito’s belt in her hands. But now, lying on sweat stained sheets in a sanitized hospital room she looked beaten down and weathered. Her bony fingers felt like they could break. Her round face had shrunk down into nothing but bones. I could make out the hollows of her cheeks underneath the wrinkles; I could see the layers of Uela.

Uela opened her eyes fully. She looked over at me and tried to open her mouth. She looked like a child gasping for air. Her hand gripped my wrist further. I tried not to wince.

“Uela, do you want anything?” I ask.

She blinks once then twice. Her mouth kept shutting. Open. Close. Open. She was searching for the right words.

I wanted to look away in disgust. She was moving like an animal does right before it dies. The image of Uela watching her mama strangle a chicken appeared in my mind. Mama was nodding at me, encouraging me to talk more.

“I’m sorry about the crepe myrtle.”

At first her voice was faint. I couldn’t make out what she was saying.

“What?” I leaned in, putting my ear close to her mouth. As she whispered in my ear, I felt the warmth from her breath on my skin.

“The seed,” She susurrated.

Her fingers released my wrist, and Uela closed her eyes shut this time. I was left with just the sound of the heart monitor. Beep…beep.

With Uela’s words still ringing in my ear, I drove out to her home. The front garden still looked the same, beautiful and maintained. That’s when I saw it, out of the corner of my eye: the crepe myrtle tree’s naked branches. The long brown limbs reached up to the sky, but their purple pink petal flowers were gone. Even the dried-up bulbs of the flower had fallen off. The tree was rotting. Against the blue sky the branches looked like lonely hands reaching up from the earth’s soil.

The tools Uela had been using were still lying on the ground by the new seedbed where she had left them. A large hole of dirt looked up at me. There was nothing inside of it; there was no seed for the new crepe myrtle. I’d have to chop down the old tree and find some seeds in order for the new tree to take. That was the trouble with perennials; if they weren’t planted just right rot could easily take over again.

Tito kept his tools in the backyard shed. I hopped the steel fence and broke into the small wooden shed. I pilfered a single axe from his collection. With the axe I began to chop the thin tree trunk down. As I was cutting into it, I saw how rotted the tree looked on the inside. A black fungus stained the revealed wood. Even as the sun began to set, I continue to hack up the dead crepe myrtle. Beads of sweat formed around my head. They rolled down my face into my eyes, stinging me, but I continued. The axe began to feel heavy in my hands. Each swing started to take a part of me with it.

By nighttime, I managed to clear most of the area. The new bed was ready, but I still hadn’t found the seed Uela and Tito were talking about. Desperately I scoured the ground with my hand, looking for the seeds. I dug deep into the dirt, until there was nothing but bits of leaves and soil trapped under my finger beds. But in the darkness the cut grass all looks the same, a blot of dark green upon the earth.

I looked up at the night sky. Houston is over run with shopping malls and tall buildings. All the commercial lights ruin the night sky; you can never see the stars. But out here, away from the city the stars are a swarm of firefly squids in the ocean, their bright bioluminescence decorating the blue sea.

The starlight shined down on me, and in that instant I saw a flash of light illuminating from the ground. Rifling through the grass, I felt the smooth warm touch of a single seed. In the deep hole Uela dug, I planted the last seed, and with the remaining dirt I covered the hole and gently patted it down.

With my hand, I leveled the dirt. It’s hard and smooth. Like a child I crumbled up into a ball on the freshly planted soil. It felt cold against my skin. Scattered around my body are the fallen branches of the dead crepe myrtle. As my eyes began to open and shut, I imagined the cold hard ground was my grandmother’s lap, and that the branches were her fingertips.

It's been so long since I updated this website. Hopefully, with more time coming in, I'll continue to write. For fun! It was past midnight when I realized that I had missed Mama’s call. I was surprised. She usually never called me after ten at night, and in the loud Houston downtown bar I hadn’t heard my cell ring.

#comic #family #fiction #hispanic #literature #manga #original drawings #original work #personal #Texas

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unlikelyanthology-blog · 6 years

Text

Excerpt four.

“Make a wish, any wish,” Jess says and shoves the dandelion in my face.

A wish, if I could make one wish what would it be? There are many things I could wish for a lot of money, a boyfriend, more money, good grades.

“Let me hold on to that, and then make a wish. I can’t decide what I want to wish for,” I say and take the ugly flower from her hand.

Jess has always been like this, she loved pointless myths and stuff like that. Every time she saw a dandelion, even when we were kids she would pick it up and make a wish. She never told me her wishes, other than one time when she said she wished Mr. Thomas would give her an in history because she was his third cousin. In the end, she got a fifty and boy did she rip him apart at the family reunion that summer. This all happened in middle school, we are in grade eleven now, going into grade twelve and she is still making me go along with her mumbo jumbo.

“Sara! You always do this, just make a wish, come on, I know you have something to wish for,” she says and tugs my arm, making me walk faster.

“I wish that you wouldn’t rip my arm off actually,” I smirk at her as she rolls her eyes.

These types of things come so easy to her since she believes in skeptics like this. I don’t, and my grandmother always told me that skeptics were called skeptics for a reason. You aren’t supposed to believe in them, the odd times though was okay. Jess was so excited when she heard my grandmother say that, she used it against me every time she tried to get me to do something.

We continued to walk around the large park, the sun was setting. This was our favorite time of night to visit the park, even though we were sixteen, we loved coming to swing on the swings. Coming later at night meant no annoying, booger nose filled little kids. There was one kid, maybe about twelve that we ran into a little while back, he said that we needed a real man like him. What a kid. We sat down and slowly pushed ourselves back and forth.

“Aren’t you excited, Sar? We are going into grade twelve, we are finally getting our shit together. We are going to be going off to university, think about it. This time next year we’ll be getting packed to move into our dorms. I’ll be going to Queen’s and you’ll be going to wherever you decide to go. We’ll finally be in charge of our lives, we can do what we want, not what our parents want. And then we’ll finish, and I’ll be a leading physio-therapist with my own business and you’ll be running the business,” Jess said as she kicked her legs out. She got higher and higher on the swing.

Jess had money, so much money. We lived right beside each other our whole lives, grew up together. But we lived very different lives. My dad was a single dad, my mom left when I was five to marry some rich guy. My dad struggled to keep me in a loving home with food on the table and involved in sports; like a normal kid. I wasn’t a normal kid at all. I tried to help my dad the best I could, I started a paper route at ten years old and worked all summer mowing lawns in our neighborhood and taking dogs out for walks for various people in the neighborhood. Jess knew my financial struggles yet that never stopped her from building this fantasy life for us when we were older. The truth was I could never afford to go to school, not matter how much I saved, there was no way I could go. My mom never gave my dad anything and hasn’t contacted me in years. My dad tried to save for me but over the eleven years and a bit he has only been able to save 6000 dollars. Which isn’t enough to pay for tuition. It’s not his fault by any means and I don’t blame him, it’s just shitty. People who have money don’t understand what it’s like to have money. Weird right? It is at their disposal, so they don’t think about it. But when you don’t have money you have money cause you’re always saving and spending as little as possible. You work with what you have and save as much as possible. It is a complicated theory and I can’t explain how it exactly works, it hasn’t completely formed in my mind.

Jess snaps her fingers in my face, yelling at me for zoning out again. I do that often, usually I can pull myself out of it, but it is hard sometimes.

“Sara, seriously? I was trying to tell you about how my uncle Bob tried to fight my dad, and you zoned out and now I can’t remember where I was at in the story and oh! I remember okay, so my dad was barbequing, right? And my uncle was a bit tipsy and he was like, ‘Tim! Let me hit the barbie, I’m a real man, you’re just half of one.’ And you KNOW how my dad is with his hypermasculinity and what not. So, he yelled at him and was like oh Tim shut up, and blah blah blah,” She talks in a deeper voice to really exaggerate the situation. I laugh because I can picture her uncle Bob and her dad yelling at each other and having to get held back from one another.

“Uncle Bob comes to visit every once and a while. Every time he visits he always starts problems, he’s honestly just like my dad,” Jess wraps up the story and jumps off the swing, dusting her hands off on her black shorts.

Her mom and uncle Bob were from Australia, her mom moved here after meeting Jess’ father at Queens during her exchange program. They got married right after university and then had Jess shortly after. She looked like an Australian beauty, right out of the womb. She has long blonde bleachy waves and blue eyes to match, she got her tan skin from her mom. Jess has her dad’s build though, tall and slender. Her mom is short and stubby. Jess is a beautiful girl none the less. I’ve always been jealous of her, she had everything I wished to have. Two parents, a great family, money, and good attention from people.

When we first got to high-school, people tried to take Jess away from me, to separate us from each other. She never let that happen, me neither. We would never leave each other no matter what. Don’t get me wrong even though I wished I had the things Jess had, I was happy with what I had. My dad was the best one around and I was beautiful and did well in school. I even had my first kiss before Jess, not that that matters but I like to remember it.

“We should probably go home, I have work tomorrow at 8 am,” I say as I check my phone. My dad texted me three times, I opened the messages.

‘Hey kiddo, working an extra shift tonight, lock the doors.’

‘All good? You never messaged my message earlier. Text me back when you get this. Love u.’

‘Hey, I figured you were out with Jess. Okay, I texted her mom, she said you guys went for a walk. I’ll be home before you leave for work. Love u, lock the doors kiddo.’

My dad was a natural born worrier. After my mom left he became worse, always texting me asking where I was, what I was doing and who I was with. He let me go out though, he wanted me to experience what is was like to be a normal teenager and do stupid things. But with that meant texting him when I got there, throughout the night and when I was going to be home or where I would be staying for the night. Honestly, I think my dad was worried I was going to run away on him or leave like my mom did. I loved him too much to do that though. I answered with a love you too dad. He knew that I’d reply like that no matter what.

I said my final goodbyes to Jess and walk into my house. I locked the door behind me and let out a big sigh. My room was at the end of the hall, I flicked the light and looked at the mess the was on the floor.

“I should clean this up now,” I say to myself.

I cleaned the clothes from my floor, keeping my uniform out for tomorrow morning so I wouldn’t be stressed when looking for it. Good ol’ Walmart, or Wally-World as my dad called it.

***

“Will that be all for today, do you have any coupons you would like to use?” I ask my man in front of me. His three kids were running around and chasing after each other. He seemed very frazzled and stressed.

“I-I’m actually not done, my wife she’s just picking up from the makeup section she should be back in a second. Sorry, we never come to this Walmart and I think she got confused, I hope it’s okay. There isn’t anyone behind me anyways,” he smiled apologetically.

“It’s okay, I’m done after this transaction any ways,” I give him a warm smile and he relaxes.

I turn my head to see what I presume is his wife speed walking towards my lane, she’s short, middle-aged looking, younger than him though. She blinks at me and then speaks.

“Sorry, I-I got lost, here just this please,” she says and puts down the makeup products, I cash them through.

I feel this woman’s eyes on me, watching my every move. Maybe she’s high up in Walmart and is observing her employee’s costumer service skills under-cover. No, maybe she was just a weirdo with a staring problem, who knows? It’s starting to make me uncomfortable, I give her a small smile and she immediately stops staring. Strange.

“Your total is 159.65, will it be debit, credit or cash?” I ask. The man holds up his credit card.

This is a huge pet peeve of mine, cards look the same. I don’t understand how you can’t form a simple sentence, like what is wrong with some people.

“Have a good weekend,” He says and grabs the bags. His wife carries a few and gives on to each kid.

I have never been so thankful to be leaving work. Working Saturday mornings were the worst, I’d rather work the day before Halloween, which is saying something because it is so busy. I make my way to my locker and grab my stuff from it.

“Hey, how was your shift?” Jack, the newish stock boy asks.

Jack just started working here about two weeks ago or so, he is your typical teenage boy. He has blonde shaggy hair, brown eyes, tall and buff. He plays hockey for the local team and is the captain. I was surprised he had time for a job. Jack is popular around school, mostly because he’s already been drafted for some of the feeder teams for OHL teams. We never talk at school, for some reason he always wants to talk at work.

“It was okay, some lady kept staring at me though. It was kind of weird, anyway have a good shift,” I say and close my locker. I smile at him before leaving, I can feel his eyes on me as I leave the employee area.

Jess was supposed to pick me up today, but she forgot she already had plans with her brother and sister, they wanted to go to some water park that was two hours away. I was supposed to go but I didn’t have time to book it off. As the consequence, I have to wait for my dad to come at four-thirty or walk home. Walking home sounds awful but waiting an extra thirty minutes seemed awful too. Plus, my boss has this really weird policy that after your shift you are no longer allowed to stay in the employee section. Our store doesn’t have a McDonald’s or Tim’s so if you have to wait for a ride you have to wait outside.

‘Hey dad, going to walk home. Could probably use the exercise. LOL’

‘Perfect, was asked to stay until 7 anyways. Love u.’

‘love u too.’

It was hard having my dad work so much, but I knew he had to. There wasn’t an option. His work was always asking him to stay over everyone else. My dad has worked at the car repair for so long and they have been there for us through everything. I appreciate how the have helped my dad provide for me and for himself, I just wish I could spend more time with him.

***

“Just admit it, you like Jack,” Jess says as she picks out an outfit.

“Oh my, no. I’m just saying he’s weird at work. We talked for two weeks in grade nine, and now he always stares at me at work and tries to come to my lane. Stay in stock, boy,” I say and laugh, playing with the pillow she has on her bed.

Jess gives me one of her ‘oh sure’ looks. Truth is I don’t like Jack at all, yeah, we talked for two weeks in grade nine, but it was grade nine. It doesn’t even count, not at all. But to try to prove me wrong, try to prove my own feelings wrong Jess is dragging me to Jack’s brother’s friend’s party, a mouth-full or what? Jess is sort of friends with Jack, but best friends with his brother if you know what I mean.

“So, this or this?” She holds up two different options, I point to the one she was going to go with regardless. Black jeans and her white bodysuit, her classic party outfit and one of Jeremy’s favorite outfit on her.

“Good choice,” Jess winks. I roll my eyes at her, she was always going to go with that outfit anyways.

Jess had a lot of good things about her no doubt, but her fashion sense was fairly basic, and she knew that. Myself on my other hand, I was into fashion and trends. I followed them to the best of my ability and my bank accounts ability. Jess always came to me for help with fashion yet would end up not being comfortable with what I had picked out for her, and I understood that.

“Why are we going so early anyways?” I question as we get into our uber.

“Jer, said that we should come over earlier to help set up some of the party stuff, I don’t know,” Jess tells me.

The driver is telling us how her friends and her would always go to house parties and that she was happy to see that they were still on. I laughed along with Jess, this was more than a house party, it was two house parties. There were college boys beside Jeremy and Jack and they always came together to see how big of a party they could have. I think the highest number of guests they’ve had was eight hundred. Crazy.

“Jesus buddy stay in your line!” The driver yells at a car beside us, they were coming way to close to the line that separated us and them.

I feel the car tip on my side, we flip over into the side of the highway, the car spinning around and around. I feel like the driver is saying a prayer and Jess is screaming out for Jeremy. I am silent. Every atom in my body is still.

***

When I wake up in the hospital room, I get up quickly and look around. I yell out for a nurse or a doctor, I see one come in, but it is like they are ignoring me. I am screaming now. I look at what the doctor is doing.

I see my body laying on the hospital bed. I look dead, but the monitor tells me I am alive. Jess and my dad are sitting next to me. My dad looks broken, lifeless while Jess is talking to my body about something that happened with Jeremy. I want to wake up and tell them I love them, but I don’t know how.

“My wish is that I’d wake up.” I say.

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dudewritesstuff-blog · 7 years

Text

Shadows

Paul Weber looked up at the bright blue sky covered by green palm trees. He closed his eyes and tried to think of his farm in Des Moines. He tried envisioning rows of golden wheat before him as he stood in his fields letting the sun grace his tanned skin. It wasn't like this awful, sticky, hell called Guadalcanal. "Hey, Weber!" Paul snapped out of it and looked behind him to see a broad-shouldered, brown-haired blue-eyed New Yorker he knew as Luke Giovanni "You done being lost in thought over there, pal?" Paul shrugged "At least something was going through my mind" he said with a smirk. Luke rolled his eyes "Very funny, farm boy. Just get back to shoveling. I'd like to get these fighting positions set up before Tojo comes a knocking." Paul looked down at the hole he was helping Luke with and promptly got back to work. "Aw, shucks." The resident slim, brown-eyed Virginian named Jackson Lee piped up. "Lay off of him, would 'ya Luke? I mean, don't you miss the city?" "Yeah, sure. I do." Luke replied "But I don't waste my time thinking about it, I'm thinking about digging this fucking trench so I can mow down Japs so I can go home a lot sooner!" Luke replied.

"Well, I find that thinking about home every once in a while, helps me through all of my troubles." Jackson said "What's the city like, Luke?" Luke looked up for a moment "Better than this shitty place, that's for sure." Luke continued as he shoveled "It's got lights, there's always something to do" Luke stopped and smiled as he thoughts of home entered his head "and there's always these pretty dames making eyes at ya." Paul chuckled "Any of those dames your girl back home?" Luke grinned "When I get back, that'll be the case." Luke paused "What about you, Paul? Jackson your cousin doesn't count." Jackson rolled his eyes in response.

Paul thought back to the night before he shipped out to San Diego for basic training. He remembered Anna nestling her head against his shoulder as they lay in bed. Paul spent that night staring at the slowly spinning ceiling fan trying to sleep. He remembered their tearful goodbye as he went on the train to San Diego. "Come back to me" her words echoed in his head. "I sure do, fellas." Paul spoke as he gazed at the blue sky. "Yeah? What's her name? Is she skinny? Fat?" Luke smiled and chuckled mischievously "Yeah, I knew it. You like fat chicks don't you Paul? I bet she's got-" "Aw, hush, Luke! Let him talk!" Jackson interjected. Paul laughed it off and refocused his mind on Anna. He pictured her smile that lit up her eyes, her slim figure in a blue floral dress. Paul noticed that both the men's jaws dropped as he described her. Paul looked back to happier times.

As he recounted his experiences to his squadmates, he remembered the first day her bright blue eyes met his while he was out in town that weekend. He remembered how he worked up the courage to ask her to the movies that night. He remembered her red lipstick, white gloves, curled brown hair, and her bright red dress that night. He remembered their first kiss in the night when nobody else was around. "Damn, Paul! You know you are way too lucky of a guy, you know that?" Luke interjected. "That's enough about her, fellas. What about you Jackson?" Jackson gave a hearty laugh "Well, unlike what this city boy thinks, there's plenty of pretty girls out where I'm from." He described a blonde-haired, green-eyed beauty who moved from Alabama. "I asked her out to the coffee shop, and we talked for a while and, well, the rest is history."

Paul smiled and raised an eyebrow "That can't be all, man. I mean, what happened after that?" The smile faded from the Virginian "She found out I was going to San Diego and called it off. Didn't want to deal with the shadow that would follow her should something happen to me." Paul looked down. "Well, come home alive and she might change her mind." Jackson shrugged "It was only one date, not a marriage proposal. I was heartbroken at first, but I figured there's plenty 'o girls out there."

A tall, gruff, marine with a holding a Tommy gun with one hand came up to their little home away from home. His entire body eclipsed the sun from their perspective looking like he was a tall shadow looking down at them. "Are we working here? Or are we screwing around?" The men replied that they were doing both. "Well, less yapping and more digging. Tojo can hear you guys with that racket you're making. Get to work" the shadow growled. "Yes, Sergeant!" The men replied as they got back to their shovels. Paul and his friends got back to digging. They finished digging and started mounting and making adjustments to their Browning M1917 water-cooled machine gun.

When it seemed like they were in the clear, Paul turned to the New Yorker. "You know, Luke. I've never really been to the city before. I like my farm and all, but it's a little quiet sometimes. A visit or two to the city would be nice. Any pointers?" Luke's eyes lit up "Aw, yeah man! There's cabarets, fancy restaurants, theaters, anything you could want! Hey, you should bring Anna with you! She'll love you for it!" Paul smiled "I supposed you don't mind taking us around?" "What else do you think I was going to do?" Luke replied with clap on Paul's shoulder. Jackson shrugged as he brought a box of ammo. "I'm not sure, fellas. I've heard stories from some of my friends. It seems all noisy, smelly, and dirty. I like my quiet life out back in town, honestly." Luke raised an eyebrow "You need to find a new set of friends then, pal. So, they had one bad experience. So, what! They didn't have me to take them around!" Paul laughed and turned to Jackson "I'd trust this guy to take me around the city. Come with us, Jackson. See it for yourself."

Jackson looked down for a moment. The Virginian was a refreshing contrast to the boisterous Luke, whom one would worry if he was quiet. With Jackson, it was almost the opposite; you would be worried if he spoke as quickly as Luke did. The sergeant returned to their fighting position with a cigarette hanging from his lips. "Well, it looks like I'll be joining you boys for this little scrap." He said as he set down the radio next to them and scraped some dirt off of the upper receiver of his Thompson. This time, the shadow from the brim of his helmet completely covered his eyes. The only feature he could make out was his square jawline. "Make like first squad over there and gather some bamboo and build a little bunker for the machine gun. Make it happen." The men leapt from their fighting position and went about their duties. Jackson chopped down some bamboo strands and tied them together over their fighting position. It was wide enough for them and the sergeant to stick their weapons out.

About 25 yards down the line lay an opening. That opening was guarded rows of sharpened bamboo pikes backed up by a line of concertina wire. Along that 25-yard open stretch was a minefield that was further backed up by 10 marines with rifles and machine guns. Paul kept an eye out for rustling in the trees and bushes. He opened the action slightly to make sure he had a round chambered before closing it. By the time it was sunset, they were finally done constructing their fighting position.

Night soon followed. Long hours of quiet followed, save for the wind blowing against the trees and the soft cooing of tropical birds. Paul took a sip out of his canteen that shimmered in the pale moonlight, the cool water soothing his dry throat. Paul looked to find Jackson asleep, his eyes softly shut in restful sleep. He turned to Luke on the Browning, who scanned attentively for anything unnatural in the jungle. Luke gave Paul a nod as he continued to scan. Paul couldn't find where the sergeant was. It felt as if he was a shadowy presence than an actual flesh and blood man in their bunker. If the sun couldn't make out his features, the moonlight surely couldn't either.

The silence was penetrated by a terrible shrieking noise. Paul ducked down into this makeshift bunker as a shell exploded close to him throwing dirt into his bunker. He saw that Jackson was now jostled awake and ducked down with him. More shells howled into the night and lit up the night with their fiery explosions. Paul turned to find Jackson laughing off the whole affair "Just like the county fair back home!" Paul couldn't help but smile at his friend's comparison of the danger they faced from the bombs to the colorful celebration of light. Luke's eyes were wide with fear as he held tightly to the machine gun. "C'mon you Jap bastards! Quit fucking shelling us and come out here!"

When the howl of the last shell found its explosive mark, the sergeant called for the squads to sound off. Everyone sounded off. Paul said a quick prayer as he clutched the cross he was wearing and shouldered his Springfield from his fighting position. Squinting into the darkness, Paul saw amorphous shadows moving at the perimeter. At that moment, a bright, white light shot above them to reveal men in khaki uniforms and pith helmets with rifles in hand trying to cut the wire. Paul wasted no time putting the sights on the chest of one of them. His target's face was shrouded in darkness, but he could feel his gaze moments before Paul pulled the trigger. The shot echoed throughout the camp as the man crumpled to the ground.

"Japs!" A marine called out. The roar of machine guns drowned out the crack of rifle fire and the baying of the Japanese soldiers as they barred toward their position. The charging soldiers held their rifles at their waist bayonets at the ready. Paul felt rounds whiz by as he frantically shot at moving shadows, cycling his rifle as fast as he could with each shot. Luke continually fired bursts until his machine gun ran silent. "Loading!" Luke called out. Paul rushed to grab an ammo belt to feed it into the machine gun. With a metallic clanging of the charging handle, soon the machine gun was roaring again.

Paul picked up his rifle and sent rounds down range. Errant bullets whizzing by as he prayed their makeshift bunker would hold. Paul glanced at muzzle flash from the sergeants' Thompson as he made his weapon sing. Even the light could not lay a shadow on their leader. He heard a howl of pain close by in the din of battle. Paul checked to see if Luke and Jackson were okay, he thanked God that they were, but he could no longer see the muzzle flash from the sergeants' Thompson. Paul snapped back to reality and loaded his own weapon before returning to shoot at amorphous shadows howling and running at them.

The din of battle continued into the night. Day had finally dawned by the time the last shot cracked into the morning. The pungent smell of gunpowder and death filled the air. The light of the sun revealed a scene of gruesome carnage. Craters from exploded mines and shells were punctuated by the bloody, torn corpses of men in khaki strewn about the field like discarded rag dolls. Paul surveyed the carnage as he turned to Jackson who clapped him on the shoulder and gave him a reassuring nod. He turned to see Luke staring in horror at the scene. His eyes wide with shock at the destruction that man was capable of.

Paul glanced at the sergeant, whose body lay crumpled at the bottom of their fighting position his face covered by his helmet. A bloody wound marked where a bullet connected with his chest. Paul removed his helmet to reveal the sergeants' face. His icy blue eyes remained open as they gazed into the bright blue sky. His expression was neutral, almost as if they felt nothing of the fear they all felt during the battle.

All of the men looked at each other and silently knew what to do. Paul closed his eyes and asked his squadmates to help gather wood to make a makeshift cross for his grave. As they were digging, Jackson noticed that he could no longer make out Pauls' features, as they were covered by the shadow made by the brim of his helmet.

#writing #ww2 #pacific #marines

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