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bikkinibottom · 3 years ago

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Doodles and Sketches

this one is for you <3 @eudaimmonia

words: 2.3k | percabeth

prompt: getting caught passing notes during class

I’ve been sitting on this for about a year now but I’m finally posting it! it’s barely edited so be warned of any grammar mistakes that I simply don’t care to fix </3

There were about four different things Percy was currently focusing on and none of them was the math lesson being taught at the front of the class. With his bottom lip stuck between the clip on the side of his capped pen, the teen sat reclined in his desk chair trying to get the song Tainted Love out of his head. He had half the mind to not bang his head to the two percussive beats that repeat throughout the song.

Mrs. Dodds turned her back to the class to write down some long equation, and Percy rolled his head to his left to see his best friend in much the same predicament. One leg was crossed over the other, her gaze set dead ahead and her eyes miles away. She was twirling a strand of her curly hair in one of her hands. It was her signature ‘I have succumbed to daydreaming but I still look like I’m paying attention’ pose. Same bro, Percy thought.

He studied the blonde girl for a moment and noticed the notebook void of notes sitting on her desk. One thought spiraled into another before he was reminded of middle school and doodles and comic strips and suddenly a very entertaining idea sprung up into Percy’s mind. He snapped his head back just as Mrs. Dodds turned back around to face the class again. He swears he’s developed a sixth sense to the awful teacher at this point. Who could blame him anyway, the woman had a personal vendetta against him. When he questioned her about it one day, asking “Why are you so obsessed with me?” in his best Regina George impression, it cost him a week’s worth of detention and half his dignity.

He opened his notebook to a clean page and began drawing an old cartoon character that he and Annabeth had once drawn together. Annabeth was good with dialogue and facial expressions while Percy was good at drawing body language and actions. They were quite the pair in middle school, with their comic strips and short stories. All their friends and nearly half the student body eagerly awaited any new material they could draw up.

“One day, we’ll get published and we can be in the Sunday paper, it’ll be so awesome,” he remembers Annabeth telling him, all gap-toothed and wild curls. He believed her too. But then high school came along and they both got super busy and the hype and thoughts of publishers became all too unrealistic and hopeful. They maintained their friendship, of course, but the comics and drawings were a thing of the past for Percy and Annabeth.

He tugged lightly on one of his braids as he finished up the drawing. It was a cartoonish chicken slouched back in a desk with a text bubble saying ‘Man this class-’ and wrote a side note next to the drawing asking Annabeth to fill in the blank. When Mrs. Dodds wasn’t looking, he tossed it over to the distracted blonde who flinched at the movement, grey eyes coming back into focus. She looked at the folded note and then side-eyed the Black teen who pretended not to notice.

Percy watched out of the corner of his eye as she picked up the note and watched her face brighten as the sky does when the sun appears after a storm. She bit her lip to repress a laugh and a smile. She glanced over at him and he caught her eye, a glimmer of nostalgia in the irises of her eyes. Without being obvious, she grabbed her pencil and hunched over the piece of paper, brainstorming what she would fill in the blank with. Percy couldn’t help but bounce one of his legs up and down in eager anticipation, trying his hardest to keep his eyes on the front of the class.

Movement out of the corner of his eye and the swift little Plick! of the note landing on his desk forced Percy to smother a grin, opening the note while his eyes remained on the withering Mrs. Dodds. With her back turned once again, he looked down at the note. In Annabeth’s loopy handwriting, the chicken now said,

‘Man this class makes me want to go turn myself in at KFC’.

A repressed snicker escaped the boy’s mouth and he already felt Mrs. Dodd’s eyes fixated on him before he even looked up. With a small pause and then a sneer, the math teacher turned around and Percy immediately got to work.

He sketched out a chicken holding out a white flag of surrender with its wings, its head ducked in shame, and in front of it was the KFC logo. Satisfied with his work, the teen swiftly tossed the note onto his friend’s desk, keeping his head slightly turned to the side to see her reaction. Upon opening the note discreetly, Annabeth slapped a hand over her mouth while stifling a laugh. She scribbled something onto the note, her eyes trained up on the board, then tossed over the note.

Annabeth wrote, ‘Ever notice how Mrs. Dodds looks like an old leathery chicken?’

Percy wrote back, ‘WHAT’

‘Like. Think bat and chicken and evil.’

‘LMFAO. Like this?’

Percy drew what he interpreted Annabeth envisioned their horrid math teacher as, which bordered on a Greek mythological monster. When he tossed his finished work back to the blonde she pursed her lips so tightly her skin turned white. Turning her head slowly to him a single tear was streaming down her face as she shook silently with laughter. Percy whipped his head away, coughing into his shoulder to cover up his laugh.

Recovering only slightly, Percy noticed Mrs. Dodds glaring at him from her peripheral and he immediately sobered up. A few minutes passed and Percy nearly forgot he was in mid-note conversation with Annabeth when he picked up on her lemony scent as she leaned over to toss the note back to him. Not prepared for what he was about to witness, Percy opened the note quietly, like the calm before a storm. If someone were filming Annabeth and Percy right this moment, it would be titled ‘videos taken seconds before disaster.’

Annabeth wrote, ‘No like this LOL’ and beneath her words was probably one of the funniest drawings he’s ever seen. It was a messy sketch of Mrs. Dodds’ head except her eyes were completely black and she had a forked tongue. Her head was attached to a cartoon rotisserie chicken, her feet were the bone ends of the legs, and protruding from her back were bat-like wings. A speech bubble was above her that said, “Now, honey!”

Losing all sense of self-control, Percy dropped the note onto his desk, putting his head in his hands and shaking silently with laughter. Snickers erupted out of him which he tried to mask as him having a coughing fit. Annabeth let out some kind of squeak at the sight of her friend losing it and turned her entire body away from him as she felt tears streaming down her face from laughter. From an outside perspective, it looked like the two of them were having a stroke. From Mrs. Dodd’s perspective, it looked like two students who were about to be put in detention.

Forcing himself to calm down, Percy wiped a tear from his eye and noticed what could only be the angel of death looming over him. Upon opening his eyes to be met with his untimely fate (A.K.A Mrs. Dodds) Annabeth and Percy have never sobered up so quickly in their lives. Before he could hide the note with all of their drawings on it, the older woman snatched it off of his desk and glared daggers at the teen before inspecting what was on the paper. Percy couldn’t even look at her face so he glanced at Annabeth whose face was completely pale. The class was completely silent. The sounds of the clock ticking were amplified and Percy could feel a droplet of sweat drip down his neck. Glancing up at his horrible math teacher in fear she slowly crumpled the paper in her hands before whispering in the deadliest voice ever,

“Get out of my fucking class.”

Only the sounds of two chairs screeching across the linoleum and backpacks being grabbed in a rush could be heard as the two of them scrambled out of there. Percy was almost out the door when he saw Annabeth get her foot caught in the straps of her backpack nearly falling over. Come on, he mouthed to her in a state of panic. She glared at him as she hopped forward dumbly. Her face seemed to be saying, Don’t you think I’m trying?!

Detangling her feet as she caught up to him at the door, he grabbed her wrist and basically sprinted out into the hall. They didn’t stop running until they turned a corner, slamming against some lockers once they were far away. A janitor was at the end of the hall staring at them in confusion and they both waved at him sheepishly. Turning back towards each other, Annabeth had her hands on her knees while Percy leaned back against the wall with one hand on his head as they both caught their breaths. As if on cue, they broke out into a fit of giggles, Percy practically wheezing at the ridiculousness of it all.

“We’re dead. We’re so dead and I don’t even care,” the blonde laughed beside him, sliding down to the floor.

“Not you tripping over your fucking backpack,” Percy cackled.

“Stop oh my god,” she groaned out, swatting at Percy’s legs. The sound of a pager could be heard down the hall on their left and the two of them looked up to see a security guard walking toward them.

“You two, with me, now. We’re going to 330,” the man said sternly. They didn’t waste any time grabbing their stuff and following the man up to the third floor. Mrs. Dodds must have already called the office on them.

Room 330 was the designated classroom for in-school detentions, meaning if you got kicked out of class this was the place you were sent to. After-school detentions had a different location that was a lot stricter than room 330. Here the teacher just messed around on their phone and students were allowed to be on theirs as well. Situating themselves in the back, Annabeth slid her desk right next to Percy’s and got out a paper and pen. He didn’t say anything as she scribbled away for several minutes and he scrolled through his phone, trying to find a mindless game to play. She’d nudge him periodically and he’d nudge her back until he finally put his phone down to peek at what she was concentrating on so seriously.

“Don’t look yet,” she warned him, turning away and covering the paper with her hands.

“Then quit touching me, noob,” he poked at her. All he got in response was a half-hearted “Mm-hmm”.

He rolled his eyes and leaned back in his chair, pulling lightly on her curls to watch them bounce back into place. He knew he was one of the only people to have this special privilege so he took advantage of it whenever he could.

About a minute later Annabeth was finally done. She slid the paper over to him with a proud smirk, her face practically beaming and Percy tried not to blush at the sight. Leaning forward to see what was on the paper, Percy looked at a complete recreation of their doodles and sketches from class. He could feel a lopsided grin slowly grow on his face as he stared in shock and endearment at her memory. She even wrote the conversation we had, he observed. The attention to detail made his stomach swoop.

Not trusting whatever word vomit would come out of his mouth, Percy grabbed Annabeth’s pen and decided to add on to the series they created. He showed Annabeth his work and she let out a snicker, grabbing the pen and paper from him and adding on more.

They spent the rest of the class going back and forth, trying to make the other laugh until they got in trouble again. (They were sent to the principal’s office about ten minutes later). Miraculously, but unsurprisingly, Annabeth managed to talk their way out of it. Somehow they only wound up with one after school detention which they served later that day with no issues.

By the time Percy got home that afternoon, he found the doodles they drew together folded up in his backpack. He looked over them again, tracing Annabeth’s loopy handwriting alongside his scribbled handwriting. A smile overtook his face, one that he only made when his friend crossed his mind, and he walked over to his desk. He put the paper in his designated “Annabeth drawer” which began as a collection of their old drawings but soon became a mess of objects associated with her.

Movie stubs, a half used lip balm container, a blue scrunchie, and a yellow hacky sack ball were just some of the few things arranged neatly in the drawer. He delicately placed the paper on top of the older sketches as if it was a valuable artifact. Which in a way it kind of was. Anything belonging to Annabeth Chase was almost as priceless as Annabeth herself.

Turning away from the desk, Percy realized he really needed to get started on his homework or risk falling behind. A certain blonde haired girl popped into his mind as he dialed a number, waiting for them to pick up.

“Wanna help me do my homework?” was the first thing he asked as soon as Annabeth picked up.

“Yeah yeah, I’m already on my way, loser,” he could hear her huff on the other end in a lighthearted tone.

“You’re the best, see you soon,” he smiled into the phone and hung up. He simply ignored the fluttering feeling in his chest as waited for his best friend to arrive.

#erica writes #my writing #they are such idiots I cannot stress this enough #anyslay idk what this is but it’s kind of a crack fic??#pjo #percy jackson #annabeth chase #pjo fic #percabeth #hoo #toa #fic rec #percy jackson and the olympians #riordanverse

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maybedefinitely404 · 5 years ago

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Day 29: Prinxiety/Loceit (pt 4)

Aaaand, part 4, the finale!

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

@tsshipmonth2020

Day 29: You have a telepathic link with your soulmate until the two of you meet.

Content warnings: discussion of conversion therapy/after effects, PTSD, food mentions, anxiety/panic attacks, internalized homophobia, mentions of the foster system/abuse (mental, emotional, neglect, past eating disorder), minor self harm/blood, mentions of dissociating.

Word count: 5.1k

Despite Roman’s claims that being around other people would only distract him, and he didn’t want to have to walk to the library every time he had homework, Patton’s constant pleading eventually broke him down. Now, much to his roommate’s delight, they spent every night in the middle of the study floor in the library, and Roman found that he actually looked forward to it. Sometimes someone he knew would walk by, and give him a valid reason to take a short break, and having other people around somehow motivated him to work harder. He was starting to understand the appeal of the place.

Now, Patton and him were spending their afternoon there between classes, both working on their own projects and sharing a bag of popcorn twists. It was the only oil soaked snack that didn’t leave much residue on their fingers. Roman was deep in thought, struggling to remember an especially flowery Shakespeare monologue for a mock audition next week, when Patton kicked his leg under the table.

“What, Pat?” He took another moment to finish the sentence before he tore his eyes away from the book, surprised at his roommate’s barely contained excitement.

“You’ve been humming for half an hour!”

He hadn’t even noticed. He tended to do it a lot without realizing; humming along to his soulmate’s music. Ever since he’d come back almost a year ago, an occurrence he’d never had explained but held onto with fondness, Roman’s heart jumped every time his music played. It was just like old times, their old system immediately reinstated, and more than once he’d found himself singing along to the melodies in his head. Patton knew this, and could probably tell by the genre whether Roman was listening to his soulmate’s songs, or just had his own earworm.

“No, no, no, I like your humming! That’s not the point!”

“Then what’s the-”

“The guy behind you has his earbuds loud enough to hear!”

Roman strained his ears, and yes, he could barely hear the music coming from behind him. He definitely hadn’t noticed before, too deep in thought to notice something so trivial. But Patton was always on high alert, never able to keep his mind on one thing at a time.

“Okay, but what does that ha-”

“You’ve been humming the same songs as he’s been listening to for half an hour, Ro! I think he’s your soulmate!”

Roman’s eyes widened and he spun around, effectively dropping his book onto the ground. Yeah, if he concentrated, he could tell that the song in his head was the same as the one just audible through the other’s earbuds.

“Are you sure?”

“Positive!”

That’s all the convincing Roman needed. He jumped to his feet and rounded the other table so he was face to face with the stranger and knocked on the table a couple times. When he made eye contact, he thought he saw fear in the other’s face, but that couldn’t be right. Roman was not intimidating. The man at the table reached up to pop out one of his earbuds.

“Hello lovely, I have a question for you,” Roman purred, dropping onto his elbows on the table.

“I- I don’t-”

Apparently that counted as a meeting, because in that moment, the music in Roman’s head faded into nothingness. And he could tell it wasn’t just the music being paused. He was left with a neutral emptiness he hadn’t felt in a long time, a silence that was rare, and an innate knowledge that it had happened: their link was no longer necessary and had dissipated. Roman grinned wide, barely concealing a squeal.

“You’re my soulmate!”

He didn’t know what reaction he was expecting, but he sure as hell hadn’t expected the man at the table to get up and sprint out of the building at full speed.

“Stay here, Ro,” Patton was suddenly at his side, laying a hand on his bicep, “I’ll go after him. I don’t know what just happened but I don’t want it to happen again.”

Patton scooped up the other man’s things from the table and jogged out the library door.

-----

Virgil didn’t know where he was going; he hadn’t planned on running out of the library. Dammit, he hadn’t planned to run into his soulmate. And he knew that was his soulmate, and not just some weird coincidence. Because the moment they’d locked eyes, it was as if something in his mind had snapped, like a rubber band that had always been there but the pressure was so constant he didn’t notice it there until it was gone. Their bond had snapped; it was no longer necessary, because he’d met his soulmate.

He recognized the guy, just barely. They were in the same first year math class, a course often taken by upperclassmen (probably like his soulmate) because they’d put off getting a math credit until their final years. Logan had warned Virgil of that when he was choosing his first year courses, and so he was safely getting it out of the way so he could focus on his major in the coming years.

His breathing was choppy and strained as he tried to calm down his panic attack, dropping onto the ground under a large tree. He couldn’t keep running lest he collapse and draw more attention to himself, and that was far worse than anything he could imagine. Fighting the urge to scratch at his skin, he buried his head in his hoodie clad arms, fumbling with one hand to free his phone from his pocket.

It’s actually a guy, it’s a guy, he’s gay, wrong wrong wrong-

No, not wrong. It’s not wrong.

Yes it is, it’s going to hurt, you’re going to hurt, wrong wrONG WRONG!

His hands were shaking far too hard to text but he tried anyways, begging Janus to come pick him up early. Logan wouldn’t be done work for another couple hours, and usually Virgil would be fine just doing homework until his dad was ready to drive them home, but he didn’t think he’d be able to handle being on campus much longer.

“Hey, kiddo?”

Virgil’s head jerked up just as he clicked send, fighting every urge in his body to bolt again. It wasn’t the guy… his soulmate… but someone else he hadn’t met before, panting.

“Heya, my name’s Patton! You ran out without your stuff, so I brought it!”

Oh, he was holding his backpack, and his folder under one arm. Virgil was just trying to encourage his legs to move, to stand so he could take his things, when the stranger dropped into the grass in front of him. He flinched.

“Here ya go,” He pushed it towards him like a child trying to coax out a scared cat, “I’m so sorry me and Ro scared you. He just gets over excited sometimes. I promise he’s actually very gentle.”

Virgil stared, pulling in a halting breath.

“The guy who ran up to you, that’s Roman. I’m his roommate, by the way. I’m Patton. Did I introduce myself? Doesn’t matter. I’m a third year psychology major. Roman’s in third year too, music and theatre major.”

He should probably introduce himself too, but his hands were frozen, clamped around his phone, and he found his voice wasn’t cooperating. That didn’t deter the other dude, though.

“Here, I wrote out both of our numbers. Roman feels super bad for scaring you, so you can take your time, if you want.” He delicately placed a ripped piece of notebook paper on the backpack between them, “His is the first one. But I put mine in there too, so you can text me if you want to talk. The more friends, the better.”

Virgil’s phone buzzed, alerting him of Janus’ response.

“I’ll let you be, okay? Remember to text!” With an exuberant wave, he dashed back to the library. Virgil read Janus’ panicked message, asking what had happened, in a bit of a daze. His dad agreed to come get him, so he stuffed the paper into his pocket and slung his backpack over his shoulder.

-----

Janus had asked him not to go into his room when he was so worked up, instead giving him free reign of the living room while the older restarted the dinner he’d abandoned in favor of picking his son up. He’d turned on the TV for Virgil, changing the channel to a nature documentary, given Virgil his favorite weighted blanket, and left him with strict orders to call him if he started spiraling or needed a hug.

The distraction had worked for a while, the soothing voice of the narrator almost lulling him to sleep, until his racing brain had come to the conclusion that this was the worst thing to ever happen in the history of ever and that he was going to die alone. He’d been a little hopeful that his soulmate would be a girl, to somewhat appease his trauma, but life was never that easy. A part of him had also been a little miffed about that hope, because as much as he liked to pretend, he had a preference for boys. A big preference. And his soulmate was cute.

“Everything okay, Virgil?” Janus called through the pass through window into the kitchen, taking his eyes off his food preparation to watch his son’s pacing.

“Yup!” He lied, picking and scratching at the skin of his hands out of his dad’s view. The pain settled him a little, giving him something he could control, but he knew he’d get a figurative slap on the wrist for it later. A concerned slap, not an angry one. Maybe more of ‘a cuddle on the couch and wrap the little patches of broken skin and an update with his counsellor’. So not really a slap. At all. As it usually went.

Everything was wrong. What kind of shit first impression had he given his soulmate? Getting up and running away like an actual child? And that was only part of it. He was damaged goods, a broken person, who needed more help and reassurance than any other person. How could he explain to his soulmate that he was the cause of his problems without making him feel guilty? That wasn’t the life the man had signed up for, wasn’t the soulmate burden he’d wanted. He would want someone easy, someone who wouldn’t have panic attacks when they got shocked by a door knob, who didn’t stop eating when they were scared, who pressed pause on life when he woke up in a dissociating headspace. He couldn’t say that to him. He’d lost everything, that vague musical connection to an invisible soulmate, that had given him a subtle hope. It had been a quiet illusion, a promise that he’d be fine if it were never fulfilled. Knowing there was someone out there, providing him music, had been enough. But now…

“Virgil, hold these for me.”

When had Logan gotten home? He put his hands out obediently, clenching the fingers over the ice cubes placed in each palm. The sensation startled him and sent a shiver up his spine.

“Four, seven, eight. Ready?”

He followed the breathing pattern eagerly, feeling the curls of anxiety in his stomach slowly settle into butterflies. When he was breathing normally, an overwhelming sense of dizziness almost knocked him over. Logan took his arm and led him to the couch.

The next moment, Janus was kneeling in front of him, rubbing disinfectant into his few bloody scratches, the melting water dripping through his fingers and onto the carpet.

“I should have noticed,” he murmured as he stuck a couple bandaids onto each hand, refusing to meet Virgil’s eyes.

“Don’t blame yourself, Janus. I don’t think it was happening for too long,” Logan assured, running a hand down Virgil’s spine. “Did this have to do with the reason you left school early today?”

Virgil nodded.

“Are you nonverbal?”

“No,” he choked, clearing his throat, “Just dry throat.”

“I got it,” Janus leapt to his feet and hurried to the kitchen.

With a heavy sigh, Virgil leaned into Logan’s side, the hand on his back traveling to wrap around his shoulder comfortingly. The last drops of the ice cube hit the carpet, and he dried his hands off on his jeans. “I met my soulmate today.”

“I see,” Logan said. For the umpteenth time, Virgil was beyond grateful that Logan was an expert at masking reactions. It made difficult conversations easier.

“It’s a guy.”

“How did that go?”

“I ran out of the library and had a panic attack. His roommate brought me my stuff and gave me their numbers. I made an idiot out of myself.”

Logan was quiet, giving Virgil a little squeeze. A water glass was pressed into his hands and Virgil downed the whole thing, passing it back to Janus, who placed it on the coffee table.

“I think… I think I’m magnifying. Maybe.” He described his thoughts that led to his spiral as quickly as possible, feeling slightly pleased when Logan agreed with his hypothesis.

“You are definitely magnifying. Good job for recognizing that, Virgil. You don’t even know him, much less what he thought of your interaction.”

“What’s our next step?” Janus spoke up, resting a hand on Virgil’s knee and rubbing it with his thumb.

He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“Can you sleep on it, and message him tomorrow?”

Virgil thought about for a second before shaking his head even harder, “No. I have class with him tomorrow, and we’re getting a study guide for a test. I can not miss it. But what if he comes up to me, or wants to talk, and I embarrass myself again, and-”

His dads both hushed him at the same time and he took a deep breath, closing his eyes against Logan’s side. “What do I do?”

“You could message him tonight,” Janus drawled.

“Are you crazy?” He shrieked, “No! What would I even say? ‘Hey, you freaked me out today, sorry for running like a lunatic’?!”

“Why not explain the cause for your hasty escape?” Logan piped in.

“That’s way too much to load onto him as a first conversation.”

“Not all the gory details, just a vague explanation. That’s how I started talking to Logan,” Janus stated, adjusting his position on the floor. “If he’s your soulmate, Virge, he’ll be okay to deal with this. It’ll come out eventually, and if something else happens, it will be nice for him to have some context.”

Virgil groaned. “I hate when you make sense.”

“We can help you construct an adequate message.” Logan squeezed him again, meeting Janus’ eyes with a small smile.

“Fine.” Virgil snarled, pulling out his phone and the two numbers, typing the first one into his ‘new contact’ list. “Okay, what do I say?”

-----

V: Hey, I’m Virgil. We met earlier today. In a manner of speaking.

R: OMG, hi! I’m Roman. I am SO sorry for startling you!

V: It’s okay. It wasn’t your fault.

R: I still feel bad DX

“He feels bad, what do I do?!”

“I would suggest explaining the reason you ran off to ease his concerns.”

“Me too. But ask first, and don’t give more details than you’re comfortable with.”

V: Can I be brutally honest for just a second?

R: Should I be nervous? Haha go ahead!

V: I was forced into conversion therapy about a year back, and I still carry a lot of the trauma with me. That’s why I ran. It was just gut instinct.

“He’s not responding, oh god, he’s going to block me, why isn’t he responding?!”

“I assume this news would take a moment to process. Focus on your breathing, Virgil. Don’t magnify.”

“You also sent it, like, ten seconds ago.”

R: Holy shit, that’s terrible. I’m so sorry.

“...That’s not what I expected.”

“This is a regular reaction from a human being with even a lick of common sense, Virgil.”

“Seconded.”

V: It’s okay, I have a really great support system now.

R: That’s good. I’ve never experienced anything like that, so I can only imagine how hard that was.

R: I don’t expect you to answer if you don’t want to or don’t know, so please don’t feel pressured, but do you know what kind of soulbond we have? Is it platonic?

“Shit, fuck, who do I answer that?”

“With the truth, I’d imagine. Do you have an answer to his question?”

“Remember what I told you, kid. Your own pace.”

“Logan, if I explain it, can you put it into words? Please?”

V: I’m not averse to a possible romantic relationship in the future, but at the moment I am still learning to become comfortable with myself, as I have negative connections to that part of my identity that can become problematic if not properly worked through at my own pace.

R: Give me a couple seconds to decode that

V: My dad wrote it, he’s a prof. I have both of them helping me not freak out right now.

R: You might want to date one day, but you need to take it slow because of your trauma.

V: Uhm… yeah. I could have said it like that.

R: Is talking to me upsetting you? We can always talk another time.

V: No, I’m okay.

R: Okay, then as far as I’m concerned, we move at your pace. That’s not an issue for me at all.

“I… oh. He’s… wow.”

“I agree with your sentiment.”

“I like this boy already.”

“DAD!”

R: Your dad’s a prof?

V: One of them is. He teaches at our school, Prof Sanders. 4th year chemistry?

R: Oh shit. I’m in his class.

V: Lol he thinks he knows you

R: You have two dads?

V: Yep

R: That’s so cool. I’d really love to meet them.

V: Wow, we met today and you’re already wanting to meet my parents?

R: Heeey, I want to meet them as a FRIEND.

V: My dad says after the semester’s over, you’re free to come by

One at a time, Virgil’s dads left him on the couch with an ear to ear grin, Janus to reheat dinner and Logan following him just so he could cling to his husband's waist as he moved around the kitchen. Neither of them wanted to disturb the little bubble their son was in.

-----

In the weeks following, they’d started to sit together in the one class they shared. Virgil had begun to join him and Patton on their nightly library study sessions, and after some more gentle convincing, had given in to sitting with their whole friend group during meals at the cafeteria. He was growing more comfortable with Roman, no doubt about that.

Didn’t mean he wasn’t fighting off an anxiety attack as he waited by the door to get picked up for their first outing alone.

He kept checking his phone and glancing out the peephole as Janus ran calming fingers through his hair. Virgil leaned into the touch instinctively, consciously slowing his breathing as Janus hummed. Logan was watching him from the entrance to the hall, leaning on the kitchen door frame. There wasn’t much he could do, but dammit if he wasn’t going to watch his son go off on the most anxiety inducing situation of all of their lives.

“You’ll be okay, kid,” Janus muttered, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head. “You’ve been friends with him for a while now, and he said there were no expectations. You’re in total control here.”

“What if I have a flashback, or a panic attack, or go nonverbal or something? He’s going to freak the fuck out and then all the work will be for noth-”

Logan spoke up. “You’re worried about things that may not even happen. And besides, haven’t you spoken to Roman about these things already?”

“A bit. Not in detail,” he whispered.

“I would suggest you do so, today if possible. It will make any possible situations that arise easier and less jarring to deal with.”

Virgil looked up at Janus, a pleading look in his eyes.

“He’s right, kid. The sooner you get it out of the way, the better.”

There was a knock at the door and Virgil nearly jumped out of his skin. To his disdain, Janus backed away until he was next to Logan, gesturing at the door with a small smile. Virgil growled out a curse and opened the door, the scowl on his face melting into a sickeningly authentic smile.

“How’s my favorite emo? Hi Mr. Sanders, hey Prof.”

“Hello.”

“Salutations.”

“Your favorite emo?” Virgil snarked, pulling on his jacket. It wasn’t cold, not in the slightest, but he’d rather have the extra layer.

“You’re the only emo I know, so the choice is easy.”

“By process of elimination, doesn’t that also imply I’m your least favorite emo too?”

“Don’t start this again, Mr. Son-of-a-professor.”

“I’ll start it if I want to!”

The door closed behind them with one final wave to his parents, and the house was quiet. Janus leaned into Logan’s waiting arms, resting his head on the other’s collar bone.

“He’s all grown up.”

“That he is, my love.”

-----

Virgil smirked as Roman set out a large cliche picnic blanket, gesturing for him to sit. He did, crossing his legs and leaning on his knees as the other began to unload the basket.

“Okay, so for sandwiches, I have turkey, peanut butter and jelly, and ham. Patton made me bring apple slices because he’s a dad, but I’m sure we can convince the ducks to eat them.”

To prove his point, a group of ducks paddled out from under a weeping willow half submerged in the creek.

“I like apples,” Virgil defended, grabbing a slice from the open container and shoving the whole thing in his mouth. “How many people were you intending to feed with that much food?”

Roman pouted from behind a container of potato salad. “I had to show off my food skills, duh.”

“You made that?” Virgil asked with raised eyebrows as Roman set out a tin of mini quiches and a smaller one stacked with brownies and cookies.

“The cookies were Patton’s, but he insisted I take some. And I would have bought more, but…” He tipped the basket towards Virgil, revealing the bottom absolutely filled with different canned drinks and water bottles. “I didn’t know what you wanted to drink.”

Virgil actually did laugh as he stretched forward to snag a Doctor Pepper, taking another apple slice as he sat back.

“Do you have a sandwich preference?” Roman asked, choosing a Sprite for himself.

“Turkey looks good.” Virgil said before his choice paralysis could come into play, breathing a sigh of relief as Roman handed one of the sandwiches to him. The less stress he added to his own life, the better.

Roman had been right to bring an assortment of food, because dammit, he was a really good chef. Virgil was nervous to try a quiche, since he’d never had them before and the texture was odd to him, but Roman assured that if he didn’t like it, he’d eat it instead. Apparently he wasn’t eeked out by germs. After a nibble though, Virgil ate almost half the tin. Who knew cold eggs could be good? Roman took the ham sandwich, and they split the PB&J. The ducks were more than pleased to be given Roman’s half of the apple slices but Virgil refused to share, since fresh fruits were still a treat after a life of preserves. The younger wasn’t a huge fan of the potato salad, so Roman eagerly finished it, seemingly more excited to move onto the desserts but not wanting to leave any leftovers.

They were just finishing up the frankly absurd amount of cookies and brownies when Roman broke their casual bickering, chasing a chocolate chip bite with a long swig of Sprite and tossing another apple to their swarm of awaiting ducks.

“So, tell me a bit about yourself, Virge.”

“What do you want to know?” Virgil replied, leaning back on his hands.

“Anything, really. Childhood, siblings, favorite color, darkest fear.”

“Quite a spectrum, there.” There was a lot he could talk about, but he felt it might be better to get the bigger things out of the way. Janus was sort of the leading expert on this kind of thing, so his advice had probably been sound. He brushed his hands together to get the crumbs off them as he spoke, “Okay, so I grew up in the foster system.”

Roman tried to hide his wince. “Ouch. I’ve heard a lot of bad things.”

“It’s fucked,” Virgil drawled, stretching his arms above his head with a yawn, “I spent most of my time in a group home, though, because I was called ‘difficult’. No one wanted to deal with my ass.”

“Why?”

“Mmm, ran away, didn’t listen, talked back, antagonized any biological kids.”

“So like, a normal teenager?” The last apple slice was sacrificed to the feathered hoard.

Virgil snorted, “Yeah, but I came with a receipt. And I kind of liked the group home more.”

“How many kids were in the home?”

“Never more than fifteen. It was a big home. But they circulated, and I was like a housecat. Never gone for more than a month.”

“Jeez,” Roman sighed, taking a sip of his soda.

“My foster homes weren’t better.”

“Oh?” It was a subtle encouragement to keep talking, but now it was getting into territory that Virgil liked to avoid.

“One of my foster houses was really neglectful, forgot to give us food, didn’t let us do laundry, that kind of stuff. Gave me a wicked ED. I was twelve.”

Roman grimaced.

“My next one was more emotionally and mentally manipulative. I was kind of made into a babysitter for their younger bio kids. I had to get them ready for school, make them dinner, just basically be a parent. After I ran away from them, they started having trouble placing me. I was older, had a shitty record, kind of a left over. I mean, I deserved it. I was a dick.”

“You were a kid, Virgil.”

“A kid who chose to make his own life harder.” He shrugged, “That’s why I was placed into… that home. They were a last resort place for other ‘trouble kids’.”

Virgil took a deep breath and, with Janus’ words in his mind, began to explain his attempted conversion; the slip of tongue that led to the placement, the verbal abuse, food deprivation, electroshock therapy, the snuck antipsychotics, forced isolation, ending with the day the wife had called the police behind her husband’s back out of guilt and he was rescued.

Roman was quiet for a long minute after he finished talking, staring entranced at the can in his hands. The ducks had dispersed during Virgil’s story, upset at the lack of food.

“I…”

Virgil waited for him to get up and leave, to say with false apologies that he didn’t think they would work out, that the connection was wrong. Because who would want to deal with him, his stupid trauma? But the man next to him didn’t move except to breathe, and Virgil took that as an invitation to continue, his tone quieter.

“I was super out of it for a while. Honestly, I don’t remember the rescue, or like a solid month after that, except for snippets here and there. The drugs were fucky. And then my social worker, god bless her heart, found Janus and Logan. Janus was in CT too for a while when he was younger, so they took me in. Took a long time, but I opened up to them, but by then I was eighteen. They still insisted on adopting me, though, and there’s absolutely no convincing Logan once he’s made his mind up, so… they did.” He waved his hands around a little.

“Three months,” Roman blurted out of nowhere, making Virgil flinch.

“What?”

“Were you in ther-... CT for three months?”

“Two and a bit, why?” The moment it was out of his mouth, he realized the implications, and his heart froze.

“You were gone for three months. I thought you died, or… I don’t even know.” Roman looked like he was about to cry, watching Virgil imploringly. Him going MIA must have affected his soulmate more than he’d thought.

“Two months of CT, and then another one before I got a new phone. I’m…” All the guilt he’d felt at the time came rushing back, the reminder of his soulmate’s music dwindling to almost nothing and him being helpless, “I’m sorry. Shit, I’m so sorry. That must have been…”

“No, Virgil, you don’t get to apologize. That was not your fault.” He reached out a hand as if to grab Virgil’s and immediately pulled back, wringing his fingers instead. “Sorry, my choice of comforting is physical. But I won’t.”

“Thank you,” Virgil choked out, running his hands through his hair.

“Can you look at me?”

He did, taking a shuddering breath. He was moments away from a panic attack and he was not looking forward to that disaster.

“You were being- quite literally- tortured for months. You were abused in ways that shouldn’t be legal, and you came out the other side stronger. Frankly, I’m amazed at your perseverance. You’re amazing.”

Simultaneously, Virgil felt a hot blush rise to his ears, and a sharp jolt run through his arms into his chest. He jerked violently, tipping over his own soda onto the grass.

“Shit, did I say something wrong?” Roman gasped, reaching over to pluck up the can before it could spill more. It was already half empty, thank goodness.

“No, I just… do that. Sometimes. From… CT. Kind of like ghost shocks, I guess.” Why couldn’t the ground just open up and swallow him whole, he wondered. He hadn’t done that jerk thing in front of anyone in so long. The last time had been in front of his now-parents, and they’d quickly grown used to it. He’d grown used to their own contact very soon and his twitches had stopped after he was accustomed to it, but it had never been directed towards him, and he had a feeling he’d need time to stop his impulse reactions.

“And me calling you amazing…”

“Triggered them. It’s an exposure thing though, so I’ll just need to get used to it. Don’t blame yourself.” He dug the heels of his hands into his eyes until bright white flashes of light burst into his vision. Suddenly, he was exhausted.

“Do you want me to drive you home?” Roman asked, already packing up their picnic basket. Virgil nodded, his social meter drained, and all ability to be a civil person was quickly deteriorating. His therapist said that would also begin to heal after a while.

Roman was an absolute angel though, letting the silence linger so Virgil could cradle his slowly growing headache, even opening the door of his car like a perfect gentleman. As they pulled out of the parking lot, Virgil rested his head against the seat and let a tiny smile tug at his lips. It would be a long process to retrain his brain (in theory, he was okay with being in a relationship with a man, but actually doing it? Infinitely harder), but for once, he was actually looking forward to the process.

Would you guys like a collection of one shots surrounding Virgil’s gradual warming up to his new family, a decent mix of angst and fluff? I have some ideas.

Thanks for reading! Now, a taglist.

@sapphic-satan

@anxious-logic

@wigsnatchedhoteltrivago

@extraintrovertedalien

@punk-academian-witch

@ray-does-stuff

@chimneychimney

@i-cant-find-a-good-username

@falsemood

@wtf-casper

@cpmansion

@killjoyjay

@fandomfan315

@anxious-darkwolf

@eternalmoonlight19

@winterwynd

@espepspes

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@im-an-anxious-wreck

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@quartz-z

@mikalya12

@koalas-in-coffee

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@a-ghostlight-for-roman

@existentialeggdogg

@pumpkinminette

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@wyvern-tales

@heyhalloween

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@bullet-tothefeels

@mostlikelytokillyouwithaspoon

@lovelivingmydreams

@sarcasmremovedsoul

@crofterskinnie

@blissbiscuit

@baka-monarch

@lostspacecat

@green-call

#lywrites #tsshipmonth2020 #prinxiety #roman sanders #virgil sanders #loceit #logan sanders #janus sanders #patton sanders #sanderssides #sanderssidesau #sanderssidesfanfiction #sanders sides #sanders sides au #sanders sides fanfiction #ts soulmate au

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dying-suffering-french-stalkers · 4 years ago

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Okay I know we all love talking about the beloved ’70s/’80s “sitcom” M*A*S*H but did anyone ever play a game as a kid where you wrote out those 4 letters that same way except it stood for “Mansion, Apartment, Shack, House”?

It was a game of chance: you picked a random, large number and make someone count out the whole number while tapping along the four letters, essentially a longer version of Eenie Meeny Miney Mo. No one used math to figure it out because the counting/anticipation was half the fun. Whichever one you “landed” on assigned your future living situation, with the appropriate weird class judgment passed by your friends.

There were other add-ons, such as drawing an outwardly expanding spiral or making repeated tally marks until the assignee said “stop”, thus determining your number of future children. I know there was something about your future spouse as well; if I remember correctly your friends listed various occupations (the more ludicrous and/or class disparate, the better) and did another random count cycle.

#folklore #m*a*s*h #well. kind of.

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mushykat · 4 years ago

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i am failing 4 classes

I’m sick and I don’t like it. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, and I don’t like how it hurts to wake up. I don’t like how the feeling of hearing damage is the only thing grounding me to a plain of nothing but heartache and tragedy. I hate how much I’ve let myself spiral. I’m tumbling down a black spire that I’ve built for myself. What lays at the bottom will hopefully kill me when I connect with the waters below.

Sometimes I want to draw. The picture I want to use to express the swirling mass of razors and burnt scraps of thoughts that plague my consciousness never turns out how I want them to. I don’t want to sit down and put time into something that I cannot love. It’s why I refuse to try and dig myself from the pit laden with the shreds of memories I hold on to in order to justify the horrible things I see.

I don’t want to write as a career. A career path means choosing a secondary school, and it means going and applying myself to something. I can’t put the effort into keeping myself afloat in the sea of that of which troubles me, and yet I’m expected to weigh myself down with books full of repeated sentences that will suffocate me with a bad credit score and the inability to apply for a loan.

I don’t want money to be spent on me for college. I’m going to do bad and eventually give up, like I always do. I never apply myself to anything like I should. I know better. As I sit and write, and let the crisp feeling of the screen sear the exhaustion ridden pupils I’ve tormented as such the night prior, I have assignments I haven’t turned in. If I can’t bother to not fail an 11th grade math class over my own impotence, then how am I supposed to swallow down the poison that is higher education.

What’s the point of using flowery language to cover the corpse of what I write? What will the sprouts of tulips and daisies do against the rot of myself. Why must I try and work every word into an intricate tapestry to illustrate the images my hands refuse to draw. Why do I try to form the pictures my mind refuses to accept of what I see of myself. Why am I fucking sick?

I can feel the rise and fall of my chest, and yet my lungs always feel empty. I can feel the beat of a heart cradled behind the intertwined digits of marrow that tuck it away in a forest of fleshy fat, and yet I wonder if I am truly living. Is this all life is to be? Am I expected to carry on in the future. Carry on and carrion are easy to mix up, I presume. But what a simple mistake for such a bloated carcass such as myself.

I feel like if I try to chase after the fleeting ideological wisps of smoke that arise from the coals I smother, and do in fact explore writing as a career, I fear I will run out. I think the only mirrors I can truly accept are the ones others have pointed towards me. The only thing I can see anymore is warped and distorted by the heat of a long burnt-out inferno that ate away at the only thing I could hold dear to myself.

These little mirrors sit behind my eyes, and reflex off of each other. They shine beams of light to one another, as some sick paradox that I am too shaded to partake in. I want to see the light, but I fear what I may see if I allow illumination into the crevices of where I hide. The dark is cold and safe, and lets me shelter away from that which wishes to harm me.

The world isn’t out to get you, after all. The only mantra I can remember clearer than the burning gazes of reflected disdain directed towards me. Are the shattered mirrors that try to piece my reality together warped from the heat of myself or others? I think I know who ignited me, but I would rather let the coals die away as I wish for myself. I envy the carbon lumps sitting in the sludge pooled at my feet.

I am one of the ants that get burned alive under a child’s magnifying glass. I can still feel the heat enveloping me, and can taste the smoke as it hangs around my throat in a familiar noose. I welcome it, even. Why else would letting the smog from burning leaves powder kisses of slime and tar across my lungs? I relish the taste I’m left with. It is impure.

Impurity is the only state I know. Disgrace and dissidence is the only way for me to view myself through the shattered lenses that have been scratched and dulled with age. I wish I could pry them out of my skull with the screwdriver that sits in the drawer on my desk. Maybe if I slipped them out of my head and gave them a good rinse, I could have a clean look at the world around me. Maybe I could be happy.

What’s to say they aren’t responsible? Holding tender orbs with a sheen of slime from the crevice they reside, smeared with the crimson shame that comes with self mutilation. I wonder if I could view myself with such an event. Could I get a good look? Could I watch myself desecrate the corpse that I walk in?

Maybe my eyes aren’t the problem. The ants nibbling behind my eyes made my sight throb, as if what I’m viewing of the world is wrong. It’s never right, though. Maybe the ants are just more noticeable when I decide to grace them with acknowledgement. But they’re not real, of course. The idea of something being out of place would require something to be wrong, which there isn’t. I know because you told me. :)

I hate writing. It’s horrible and I’m disgusted with anything I read from myself. I do not approve of the venom that drips from my lips, and yet I refuse to pull my fangs. Maybe I could shatter the rest of my teeth while I’m at it. I could run my tongue over the raw indents where the abused shards of enamel I refused to care for would be. But since when do I care about taking care of myself? I’m scared of what I write. Every word is a little sliver of the mirrors that have cracked behind my eyes. The tears that fall hold shards of the reflective glass, and lands upon the scarred hands with which I type. I’m scared that the mirrors will be gone, and I’ll be forced to see the reality of what is before me in its entirety. And yet, I’m more scared of running out of escaping sorrow.

Why would I pursue a career in writing when I don’t know of what I write? Why would I try to make money off of a skill I do not have? What’s the point of humoring the idea that I can write? The illness that lets the steady drip of sickly ichor flow through me is the only reason I can type as I do. It’s the one who puppeteers this horrid poppet of flesh bound sinew and bone. If I am not sick, then how will I write?

I cannot write. There is nothing to write about. Any of the scorch marks sitting heavy in my chest, and any of the burns lingering against my face from the reflected magnitude of the heat of the abhorrence of the mirrors others hold are from fault of my own. I am the reason I am sick, and I am the reason I refuse to get better. The feeling of the keys popping under my fingers is proof enough that I am not dead, and yet I let myself make allusions as to why I can only experience a dullness in place of stimulations.

Every time I try to sit down and write like this, I try to crack a piece off of the mirrors. They’re melted into a grotesque putty, and it’s not delicate work to try and pry shards of it apart. I can swing and shatter the mass of heathenry, but then I would have to stare into the space between the shards. The spaces where I can see.

How long can I chisel at a deformity before it is gone? Doesn’t the idea of writing to clear my mind imply that there's an end goal. That perhaps I can someday empty myself of the acid that eats away at the tissue behind my eyes. Doesn’t that mean that I’m the reason I’m ‘sick’? I don’t have the right to be upset. I know this. It’s my fault.

The way others see me is the same, even if they claimed to have shifted their realities. Is it so easy? Why haven’t I done it for myself? I know why. I am lazy and prefer the glorification of necrophagous fantasies over the reality that the only rot in me is my own. The only poison that reaches me comes from inside. The bed of soil I rest in is free from mites and grubs, and yet I wrote. The only desecration is my own.

As I write and try to put these pathetic ideas against a sickly backdrop of a fake shade of white, I can’t help but yawn., It seems to be tiring to do the most basic of tasks. Sometimes I wish that I could lay amongst the blankets marred with the imbecility of myself and not be roused. I want to slumber for the rest of time, and let the roots overtake me. Maybe as my flesh is eaten away and my bones are dissolved by a hundred rains, I could finally rest.

I wish that I could bash my head against the wall and shatter everything going on inside of me. If it was in pieces, maybe it would be easier to weep under the rug. I want to hide it from myself. I don’t have anything wrong with me, I am just a hypochondriac that has done too much research. I know seven people who could agree with me. I live with three of them. Even if stories change, the words that linger are the ones that left bruises. Lying can’t fix the purple and yellow that litters my mind.

Sometimes I wish I wasn’t like this. Sometimes I wished I was loved. But why would it change anything? I would be loved and broken. I would be shattered and adored. I would be coddled and ruined. What difference would circumstances make when I’m the one who sets the table against me? I’m the reason the betting is so low. I picked the numbers, and I knew what I was doing. I’m aware of the horrible things I do, and yet I do them. I know I’m failing classes, and yet I write with blurry vision to try and alleviate a fake weight keeping me from breathing.

I don’t like school. I wish I didn’t have to go. But what else would I do with my day? I’m stupid. I’m tired of being told I’m not. I don't know the things people think I do. I only know things I can remember, and things that I care about. Neither of those apply to much. My mind’s empty enough that the few thoughts I can hold are the only thing keeping me from falling back into the static burning the edges of my subconscious.

My neck hurts.

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glasyasbutch · 5 years ago

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lesser used shared backstory prompts

siblings and childhood friends are fun but oh so common, old rivals makes for a tense party dynamic, and people who share one deep dark secret only works if you can trust each other to actually keep it. but shared backstories are still so much fun to do!

not to worry, my friends and i spent the night brainstorming new shared backstory dynamics to mix up your d&d experience! (most of these are not meant to be taken seriously)

- we’re exes and we hate each other but we don’t yes we do no we don’t <3

- i was cursed by a witch to be an animal and you adopted me as a pet and the curse just got un-broken

- you once testified against me in court and told the jury a bunch of unnecessary and embarrassing details

- you pied me in the face during a festival

- i saw you lying on the road covered in blood and asked what was up and you said ‘its not my blood. i like your hat.’ i did appreciate the support of my hat choice.

- you fucked my mom

- you’re my kid’s ex (subcategories here: you’re my kids ex and you didn’t deserve them, you’re my kids ex and i actually thought you guys were really cute together, you’re my kids ex and they didn’t deserve you)

- you stared at my ass as i bent over a counter for an embarrassingly long time, especially given that i was in the act of robbing your place of business at the time

- you were dared to kiss me by your drunk friends and you tried to apologize for them but you were also very drunk and it quickly spiraled into an impromptu therapy session

- you’re on a quest to ‘vanquish the one who bears the mark’, and my son is named mark, so like, technically i Have borne a mark, and i’m getting worried because you’re taking this quest VERY seriously

- you were a performer/athlete/celebrity before adventuring and i had all your merch as a kid. you’re my hero and i short circuit whenever you say my name

- we were both on a tournament winning pub trivia team like five years ago

- you were my second grade teacher

- we’re part of the same very complicated polycule, but we’re not involved with each other, so we mostly recognize each other’s names from the dates/sex planning chat

- you officiated a wedding where i was left at the altar

- we used to be desk neighbors at the same horribly boring job and never learned your name and now the party only calls you by affectionate nicknames and i still don’t know it

- you used to work as a bartender in my family’s restaurant and were notorious for skimming tips

- we’re the twins from parent trap

- we both made deals with the same hag and she fucked up which one of us was which and now we’re living out each other’s wishes

- your old adventuring party fought me as a minor villain and i’m reformed now but i remember you being very adamant that you wanted to kill me and only backing down because the party out-voted you

- we were both part of the same dragon’s human hoard

- you live next door to my SO and got a misaddressed sexy letter from me, and you can ID me from the very detailed description of my body i wrote to them

- we were opposing candidates for mayor and ran very nasty smear campaigns. neither of us won.

- i write erotica under a pen name and you’re a huge fan and have recognized me from the turns of phrase i use in normal life

- you shot me while you were hunting in the woods and came to help me but pretended that you didn’t do it even though you were still holding the gun

- i stole this article of jewelry out of a lost and found bin because it looked cool but it turns out its one of your long lost family heirlooms

- you nude modeled in my art class and i don’t realize until i see your bare ass

and, two that have been playtested by my strahd party and are VERY funny:

- you hired me for a night of BDSM and then we showed up to the same adventuring job the next morning morning

- my sibling hired you for night time services and you’re both so bad at math that you had to come and ask me for help breaking the bill my sibling paid you with

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danishmiilk · 5 years ago

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se rencontrer 🥀🌷

pairing || huang renjun x fem!reader

genre || fluff

au || coworker!au

loosely based off || 江南逢李龟年, author’s interpretation

word count || 1k

summary || taking a break from the busy life of education planning, renjun meets her again in his hometown. (a/n: he’s from a different hometown in this fic, rather than his real one)

note || tumblr bitch my header’s so pretty why’d you murder it like this?? HUH?? anyway wrote this on a whim in math class bY HAND in like 2hrs so pls,,, excuse.

one. 岐王宅里寻常见

she smiled at him from across the office of the director. ah, good competition. how rare, really, that renjun met someone who excelled in this line of work as much as him. the education industry wasn’t easy, not when he was in charge of planning the school curriculum for exceptionally gifted, exceptionally easily-bored students of the Gifted Education Programme. poised to lead, that’s what renjun was. he was top in his department in every aspect possible, the section leader- oh, and the favourite employee of Director kim, head of the GEP department.

the girl opposite him adjusted her business suit, rising to her feet gracefully for her presentation. that was the curriculum planner for the GEP graduating class, another talented coworker of renjun’s. he felt an almost-fond smile quirk his lips up at the corners as he listened to her plans of starting on the topic of heredity for the twelve-year-olds. it wasn’t the first time renjun had met her in the director’s office, and it wouldn’t be the last. as curriculum planners, they regularly had to enter Director kim’s office for their plans to be approved, along the way becoming close enough to exchange small smiles and waves of greeting in passing.

renjun leaned back in his chair, letting her voice wash over him.

two. 崔九堂前几度闻

renjun wasn’t a main (or rather, at all) part of the gossip mill, but some things were glaringly obvious, staring him in the face like an annoying mosquito refusing to leave him alone. time and time again, he’d heard she was scheduled for a promotion. whispers of her talent and promise were passed around the office as they worked.

his coworker-friends seemed to consider her his mortal enemy, telling him every bit of information about her that they knew. when donghyuck sidled up to him for the fifth time in that hour, undoubtedly to tell him some new nugget of information, renjun only brushed his worries of the girl standing in the way of his potential promotion away. he knew that if she was chosen over him for the position, she really deserved it anyway. it wasn’t even like renjun hated her or anything ; friendly competition was always welcome. so when renjun was given the promotion instead of her, only half the office was surprised. he didn’t think she was too upset about not rising in rank, though. she still smiled at him really happily and congratulated him on his success. sincere happiness was a good look on her, renjun thought. it made her eyes light up and her cheeks flushed. maybe it was just a welcome change from seeing her uptight expressions in the director’s office.

three. 正是江南好风景

renjun opened his eyes lazily as the warm glow of sunlight filtered into his hotel room through the gaps in the window blinds. smiling to himself, he sat up in his hotel bed and sighed in content. a long-deserved break, this trip was. renjun was planning to drive to his family home on the outskirts of jiang’nan today while giving himself time to enjoy the much-missed scenery of his hometown in autumn. it was always good to be home, renjun thought to himself, donning a shirt and jacket in preparation for his drive.it was rare that renjun had spare time to return to his childhood home, but this week was a department-wide vacation week, and with the trees at jiang’nan coloured in the most ethereal hues of red and orange he’s ever seen, there was no way renjun’d pass up the opportunity to return home. the weather was perfect, too, comfortably cool with a slight breeze. closing his eyes, renjun eased himself into the seat of his mercedes.

four. 落花时节又逢君

renjun strolled around amongst the grove of trees, relishing the company of nature. in the distance, there was a short, lithe figure of a girl who even at a distance, seemed slightly lost. deciding to be a good samaritan at least once in his life, he briskly approached her and spoke in his native tongue, “hi, miss, you look lost. could i help you?” she turned to him with a hat covering half her face, speaking meekly with the slight infliction of someone whose mothertongue was mandarin, but had been raised in somewhere other than mainland china, “oh yes, please, can you help me with the directions to this restaurant? i think it’s in traditional chinese and i can’t read it well, my chinese isn’t the best- renjun?” fairly belatedly, renjun scanned her face (or the parts of her face that weren’t covered by that huge hat) and realised- it was her. his colleague in the department they were both taking a break from. switching back to english, renjun took her GPS and phone from her, promising to find her the restaurant she was having dinner at. he may have forgotten that his direction sense was the worst he knew. it was after half an hour of aimless wandering around the grove when she mentioned having seen the same tree at least thrice that led to renjun admitting sheepishly that they may just be lost. “i mean, you can always come with me to my parents’ restaurant for dinner? that’s the one place i actually know how to get to.”on the journey to his car, it hit renjun that this rock was, despite its cliche nature, dare he say it? almost… romantic, in a sense, what with the falling flowers spiralling around them and the solitude of the place. lost in his thoughts, he jerked back to the present with a shock as she reached a hand out to take his, excitedly dragging them toward his car. it wasn’t like he had any energy left to complain about it. not when his heart was competing with light for the title of object that can move at the highest speed.

©danishmiilk, 2020.

#renjun #neowritingsnet #renjun imagines #nct #nct dream #renjun fics

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windyskyes · 5 years ago

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False Alarm

Here is some dadzawa fluff I impulse wrote this morning. As a treat. (Also it’s my first time ever writing Aizawa and Izuku interacting and my second ever bnha fic in general, so gomen if it’s a little ooc lol) This fic is dedicated to @rexcorvidae bc their phenomenal dadzawa stuff directly inspired this and kills me on a regular basis lol

It was a sleepy Friday afternoon at UA Academy, and class was just about to let out for the weekend. The late summer sun bathed classroom 1-A in a warm orange glow, and dust motes floated lazily through the air from the high, open windows. Aizawa sorted the papers on his desk as he got ready to set out for the weekend, looking forward to taking advantage of the comfortable atmosphere and incoming rainstorm for a well-deserved nap with his cats once he got home. Similarly, his students were milling about and packing their bags as the final bell rang, chatting amicably amongst themselves about weekend plans and the new curfew changes.

“Don’t forget to study your math notes, there’s a test coming up soon. No slacking off on your training, either, we’ll be having a rescue exercise next week as well.” He reminded them without looking up, receiving a few affirmatives, cheers, and groans in reply. Speaking of notes.... “Ah, Midoriya, could you come see me for a moment? No, you’re not in trouble, just come here, please.” He called.

His most trouble-prone student’s head of green curls popped up from the sea of cheerful teenagers with a curious expression, and Izuku hurriedly finished stuffing his books into his bag. Aizawa set his now neatly filed paperwork aside while the boy slung his backpack over his shoulder and headed over, nudging past his classmates as they filed out the door. “Yes, sensei? Is this about the essay on capture weapons I turned in?”

“No, it’s not. Good job on your closing statement with that, though. Very strong.” He muttered. The teacher bent down under his desk to open a cabinet, and placed a small, brightly wrapped gift on the desk. “Happy early birthday, kid.” Izuku’s eyes widened in surprise, and he grinned with excitement as he picked up his present. “Wow, really? Thank you, sensei! May I...?” Aizawa nodded and hid his smirk behind a sip of cold coffee as an unsuspecting Izuku eagerly tore off the All Might themed packaging to see what was inside.

Aizawa smiled dryly as Midoriya pulled an unremarkable multi-hero themed notebook from the wreckage of paper, and said, “Be sure to use it to take notes in class, yeah?” before returning to sipping his coffee while he watched Izuku’s face with a mix of anticipation and amusement. He was expecting some mild disappointment, perhaps annoyance at the boring joke gift, (after all, what should he have expected from his teacher?) but nearly choked on his drink at how Midoriya’s eyes immediately lit up with absolute joy, and at the vehemence of his student’s reply,

“WOW! Is this a top heroes through the ages themed notebook? This paper is nice quality, oh and there’s a planner in the first section! AND-!” Midoriya actually gasped with delight aloud amid his muttering, “The bulletpoints are the hero’s faces! As little chibis, too, aw! And what is-” he paused to let out a short, poorly suppressed honest-to-god squeal of joy that turned a few classmates’ heads and made Shouta’s jaw drop in shock, “-there’s stickers for marking my own bulletpoints?! Oh, thank you, Aizawa sensei! This is wonderful! Thank you so much!” To Aizawa’s alarm, the boy’s eyes were becoming suspiciously misty, Midoriya beaming at his new notebook and bouncing on his toes excitedly as he looked it over. He barely even glanced up to meet his teacher’s eyes as he spoke, he was so enraptured with his gift.

Aizawa was...a little mortified, if he was being honest with himself. This was meant to be a small joke gift from teacher to student, not something he’d be this... invested in.

Not that he was upset that his problem child enjoyed it so much; if anything, he was pleased that he’d apparently accidentally gotten such a good gift for him. He was also, however, rather concerned by just how affected the boy was from getting a boring little notebook from his teacher for his birthday. Was he not used to getting gifts from the other adults in his life? Was receiving something as mundane as a notebook really such a momentous occasion for Izuku?

That rather dark thought and it’s implications were shelved in the back of his mind for later analysis as he saw a throng of Midoriya’s friends approaching, a new lump of worry turning in his stomach. What would they think of this? Would they be hurt if they thought he was playing favorites? The last thing he wanted was to be the cause of a rift between his students, especially on someone’s birthday.

Oblivious to his teacher’s quiet moment of crisis, Midoriya was now ranting to his friends about how it was hardcover and spiral bound so it could easily be written in without having to set it down on a flat surface and how cool the design at the front was, and the kids who had approached ‘ooh’ed and ‘ahh’ed appropriately at his observations. “Another notebook, Deku? Wow, that one looks nice!” Uraraka said, coming to his side to get a better look at it. “Ah, I see you got him a spiral bound one as well.” “Great heroes of the past! Nice choice, sensei. Very manly!” Iida and Kirishima chirped respectively to Aizawa.

...Ah. It seemed he was worried about nothing; Midoriya was simply an avid collector of notebooks, apparently, and his friends were all in on this. To his immense relief, Izuku’s intense joy at getting what some would call office supplies for his birthday didn’t stem from a bizarre, tragic reaction to neglect, but rather a bizarre, healthy reaction to a journaling obsession. Thank god.

That being said... now he’d have to start getting REAL gifts for his students, since he’d set a precedent with Izuku. Dammit. He’d have to check and see whose birthday was next, and perhaps plan a few presents out in advance so he could save up for them. He hoped Yaoyorozu’s tastes in gifts wasn’t TOO expensive...

For the moment, however, Aizawa just sighed quietly with relief that all was well with his problem child, and fondly ruffled Izuku’s hair as he stood to leave. “...you’re welcome, kid. Glad you liked it.”

#aizawa: hehe im gib boi Joak Gift #ikuku: OMFGVDKDBKCPKDND 🥺🥺🥺🥺 tysm sensei ilysm!!! 😭😭😭 im cryimg fr in the club rn omg!#aizawa: waIT SHIT WAIT REAL EMOTIONS WH #fluff #bnha #izuku midoriya #aizawa shouta #shouta aizawa #dadzawa

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descendantofthesparrow · 5 years ago

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Commission work - Harry Hook x Darling! Reader - two parter - unpredictably adorable - part 2

commissioner @thebookbakery

Since you were a child, your mind was constantly overthinking, every single possibility, good or bad, bombarding your mind about everything and nothing at the same time.

-what if I never live up to my mom's expectations-

-if I don’t pass this test everyone will hate me-

-they aren’t really my friend; they just feel sorry for me-

-I need to shut up I’m talking to much-

-they are ignoring me; they must hate me-

-everyone is faking-

-if I’m not careful I'll cut my finger and then I'll have to get surgery to remove my hand because I was too careless-

Yeah…it got tiring after a while.

Everything made sense when you were 10 and were finally diagnosed with anxiety, everything got a little bit easier to deal with after that, one of your tactics was just pretending your best friend Piper was talking you down

-I forgot to turn off the oven, and I’m going to burn my mom's house down, and I’m going to go to jail and-

‘no, you didn’t, you always check every single time, twice, you turned it off, now shut up before I smack you, I’m trying to eat this churro.’

It always loomed in the back of your mind, though hanging out with your closest friends did deafen the noise a bit, but it was always there.

You had little toys to help you focus but you were always looked at oddly when you had a little cube with millions of buttons on it so once again, your anxiety won out and you picked at your fingers, bit your lip, rubbed the fabric of your clothes between your fingers, and sometimes dug your nail into your thumb to distract yourself from your own brain.

Crushes, were one of your ultimate weakness, even the thought of someone you had a crush on sent you into a spiral, your brain would tell you they didn’t even know you existed, that they hated you and faking being nice, that your crush would never go anywhere.

Now you only had two crushes your whole life.

One from when you were little, Piper, but that didn’t last long (After you saw her eat a caterpillar bleh) and EX-prince Ben himself, that one had lasted a whole two years, and while you had been his friend before your crush grew, that didn’t stop your brain from shoving those random piercing thoughts into you.

And now, there was another one.

Harry, freaking, Hook. Son of Captain Hook himself, the villain of your mother's story.

And he was the sweetest thing you had ever encountered, you gushed to jane about his little nose scrunched when he grinned, how his tongue poked out of his lips slightly when he concentrated, when he fluffed up his already floofy hair when he was frustrated.

It was just all too much for your anxious little self, it took all your might to keep yourself from bolting away from the handsome pirate.

You sighed, splashing cold water against your face and blindly grabbing for your towel and patting your face dry. You felt your face heat up as you thought back to the day before, in study hall, when Harry ever so gently placed his thumb on your chin to stop you from chewing on your lip.

You let out a long sigh/squeak as you grabbed your bathroom counter and sunk down into a squat, puffing your cheeks as you tried to calm yourself down. “I’m so doomed” you muttered to yourself, this crush on Harry was worse than the one on Piper OR Ben.

With the two aforementioned crushes, you never imagined it going any farther than dating, so imagine your internal embarrassment when one day you realized you were daydreaming about being buried into Harry's side as you slept in on a weekend in your very own place, living together with three dogs and two cats, and four birds, with two guest rooms specifically for Uma and Gil.

It was nice to dream about but once the dark shadow that was your anxiety reared its ugly head and whispered horrid thoughts about Harry’s “true” feelings about you, it was harder to enjoy your daydreams.

-he’s just using me to get revenge~-

-he’s just like his father, a filthy, cheating pirate-

-he’s faking everything-

-he flirts with everyone; I am nothing special-

You knew it was all bullcrap, even your own mother had met harry (at her request) and happily told you that he was nothing like his dad, and one of the sweetest boys she had ever met, even piper and Peter themselves, liked harry.

But like always, your brain never liked to listen to others and always took a darker train of thought.

You shook your head out of thought and stood, walking back into your room and grabbing your bag, slinging it over your shoulder and grabbing your keys, slipping out of your dorm room and locking it behind you, checking twice to ease your mind.

“hey (y/n)” you flinched as you spun around, letting out a sharp sigh as you realized Uma was the one to call out to you, she rose her brow, a small smirk on her face “sorry, thought you heard me walk up to you”

“you-you’re fine” you smiled back, huffing as the girl tossed her arm over your shoulder and started walking with you to the cafeteria.

“hear the rumor that Mrs.Popin is pop quizzing us in algebra today?”

“she is?” you asked, calm as could be on the outside, but once again your mind started running

-what if it's something we haven’t covered yet? Or what if I wasn’t paying attention to the subject?! What if I accidentally check the wrong one! What if-

Uma tugged you into the seat next to her, picking up a clementine and peeling it open, offering you a slice, shrugging as you declined “suit yourself, yeah, I’m wondering how Harrys gonna do, with his problem with numbers after all”

“oh right, his dyscalculia” you muttered, mind now running wild worrying for harry. “I think he’ll be fine, Mrs.Popin is lenient with him, and she lets all of us take the tests over and over again until we get a passing grade”

“yeah” Uma hummed, chewing on another slice “waffles or pancakes today?”

“I heard It’ was French toast~” Harry purred, plopping down next to you and leaning into your space once again, setting your face on fire and cutting off your voice as usual. “you okay (y/n)?” you whipped around to look at Harry with wide eyes, that….that was the first time he had ever called you by your name, it was always your last name.

“I-yes?” you shrugged, looking down at the table and picking at it “I’m fine”

Harry just hummed and leaned away from you, starting a conversation with Uma about the upcoming math quiz.

Your mind whirled as you processed the fact that he called you by your first name. but thankfully it never went anywhere as the bell for breakfast being served rang throughout the room. Uma tapped your arm, hurrying you to the line to grab the hot and ready food before it was gone.

You grabbed your preferred bread and usual toppings, sighing happily as you noticed your favorite drink was in stock this morning. You grabbed the bottle and tossed in on your tray, following after Uma as she went down the sides line, grabbing a handful of bacon for herself.

After dodging the oncoming breakfast crowd, you, Harry, Gil, and Uma finally settled back at your table. Evie, Jane, and Dizzy joining you moments later “morning~” Jane sang, poking your cheek with a ‘boop’ and starting to eat her breakfast. “oh (y/n), the planning committee is needed in the gym later today, about prom n stuff”

“kay” you muttered, quickly going through your slices of French toast and gulping down your drink “still don’t know how I got roped into the planning committee in the first place” you laughed to yourself, you hardly spoke during the meetings, you were more the errand girl and the one who wrote down what needed to happen as everyone else actually planned.

Jane giggled and patted your shoulder, turning her attention back to the conversation of the table, to which you weren’t bothering to pay attention to.

You dug into your bag and pulled out your notebook, going over your previous notes for math to prepare for the quiz later that day.

Sometimes Jane and Harry would bump into you randomly, Harry's fingers brushing your arm when he would reach for something across the table, you did your best to keep the heat from your face.

At some point harry gently probed your shoulder, making you squeak from surprise, unexpecting of the touch as you looked to harry with wide eyes. He gave a soft smile and nodded towards the doors “bell rung for class darlin’, don’t want yeh ta be late” you quickly stood, yelping as your knee bashed against the table.

“ooow” you bent over slightly, palming your knee as you felt the pain bloom across it. “shit”

“wow” Harry chuckled, grabbing your bags and slinging them over his shoulder “never heard yeh swear before darlin’, come on, ill escort yeh” he placed his hand on the small of your back, and lead you toward your first class.

While you appreciated Harry's chivalry, your mind….was not helping.

-everyone is staring at me-

-they are going to think it's odd he has his hand on me-

-everyone is staring at us-

-everyone is going to think it’s weird that Harry is around me-

-EVERYONE IS STAR-

“here we are” Harry thankfully interrupted your train of thought as he handed you back your bag and gestured to your English class “I’ll see yeh later darlin’” he winked at you and strut away, leaving you with your usual burning face and fidgeting fingers.

You sighed, walking into class and hurrying to your seat, ignoring the imaginative eyes on you as you took out your notebook.

The sound of your pen quickly tapping on your clipboard was the only thing that kept you from screaming at everyone.

It was just…too…loud…so many voices at once, all speaking at different volumes and all needing different things, many of them speaking at you, all too much for you to handle.

You gave one look at jane and she nodded, taking your clipboard and walking into the crowd of planners, distracting them as you exited the gym, heading for your room to calm down.

You rubbed your chest and focused on controlled breathing. Everything felt so tight, like something was sitting on your chest as you walked through the halls, fingers gripping your skirt to ground yourself.

You stumbled a bit as a barrage of screaming hit you, you tuned a bit, seeing two of your classmates that you never bothered to learn the names of screaming at each other in the hallway.

Your ears began to ring as you stared at them, unable to continue onto your room. one of the boys looked away from his friend, glaring right at you. “OI WHAT ARE YOU LOOKIN AT!” he screamed, hands balling into fists as he seemed to look into your soul.

You let out a breathless squeak, bolting down the hall, sliding as you took a quick corner and continued to run where ever.

Your original destination was lost, mind yelling at you to hide.

-THEY ARE FOLLOWING ME-

-HIDE-

-THEY ARE GOING TO HURT ME-

-HIDE-

-IM GOING TO DIE-

-HIDE-

You gasped for breath, letting a scream as you slammed into a wall that wasn’t there a moment ago, you slid down to your side, curling up into a ball and letting out choked sobs as the world went dark around you.

You could feel yourself passing out but you couldn’t get a grip on yourself.

You were having a panic attack but you couldn’t do a thing to make it go away, whenever they happened one of your friends was always there to ground you, always helping you come back down to earth.

You couldn’t breathe, air only leaving you as you gasped. Through the ringing in your ears, you heard a voice, but you couldn’t recognize it as whoever it was grabbed onto your shoulders and tried to lift you up.

You felt yourself screech and lash out, your fist hitting something almost solid, whoever it was didn’t flinch and trailed their hands down your arms, grabbing gently onto your hands.

“hey-hey” they whispered, breaking through the chaos of your mind “hey, it's okay, you’re okay. nothings here. you’re safe. no one’s going ta hurt yeh”

You forced your eyes open, and through your blurry visions you saw Harry staring back at you with a soft smile “hey darlin’ can yeh breathe with meh?” you tried to speak but a sob ripped through your throat, you moved forward, crashing into Harry's chest and wrapping your arms around his torso. “hey hey, breathe, in-“ you felt his chest rise, and you swallowed down another sob and took a wobbly breath.

Harry continued to calm you down, soon your breath synchronizing with his “yer doin’ amazing darlin’ now, give me five things yeh can see”

You pulled back slightly from his chest, sniffing as you glanced around “um- locker, window,” a light sob choked you, but Harry just rubbed your back and continued to take deep breathes for you to follow. You glanced down slightly, seeing Harry’s red leather jacket against your shoulder “your jacket, my-my bag, and-and-the school symbol”

“good” Harry cooed, hand running up your back and fingers slipping through your hair, fingers scratching at your scalp comfortably “now name four things yeh can touch”

You looked around again, slowly feeling your body relax, and letting your headrest completely against Harry's chest “wa-water fountain, door handle, vending machine, um-jacket” Harry chuckled at the last one, but nodded.

“amazing love, name three things yeh can hear” you closed your eyes, your lip twitching as you felt your head bump up for a moment.

“your heart” you whispered, not hearing Harrys breath hitch “birds, static”

“a-awesome” Harry sighed, shifting to sit against the wall and pulling you up further into his arms “now, two things yeh can smell”

“metal and leather” you whispered, feeling the grips of the panic attack leaving your body, mentally thanking the gods that Harry had found you.

“good, now, one thing yeh can taste”

You pushed away from Harry’s chest, opening your eyes again and looking around “um-oh! Cookies!” you chirped, leaning up a little as you spotted a bag of Oreos inside the vending machine across the hall.

“amazing job lass, are yeh okay now?” you took a deep breath and looked back at Harry, giving him a tired smile.

“better but” you could still feel the tightness in your chest and your limbs felt like lead “thank you….could you help me to my room? I’m really tired and I need to take a break from everything for a bit”

“of course,” Harry nodded, helping to your feet and grabbing your bag and slinging it over his shoulder. He wrapped his arm around your waist and pulled you into his side, letting you take your pace as he helped you to your room.

He glared at anyone you passed by, tightening his grip on your waist and even snapping his teeth at Chad as he sneered at you and Harry together. You were too tired to pay attention to anything though, sighing in relief as your room appeared around the corner. Harry dug your key from your bag and quickly unlocked your room, holding onto your hand tightly as you walked into your room and towards your bed.

He released your hand as your knees hit the edge of your bed and you flopped onto the sheets, blowing out a harsh breath as he ruffled his hair.

“so yeh all good?” he asked again, tilting his head at you, you lifted your head and gave a small nod.

“I will be, thank you, Harry”

He gave a grin and walked over to you, kneeling beside your bed “I've got yer back darlin’ get some rest, and I’ll get yer homework from our classes kay?”

“okay” you whispered, flopping your head back on your bed, feeling your face heat up again as Harry leaned over and pressed a kiss to your head “um-Harry?”

“well talk about it when yer right of head love, see yeh later” he stood and walked out of the room, locking your door and tossing the key on your dresser. He smiled at you and closed the door, his heavy footsteps quickly walking away from your room.

You pressed your fingers gently to the place Harry's lips were moments ago, feeling the heat in your face reaching your ears and stretching down your neck.

‘was-he-a kiss?’ you thought, sitting up and staring at the door. ‘he-wow’

You stared at the door for a moment longer before you kicked off your shoes and just crawled under your covers, smiling as you thought back to his kind words and soft lips.

You closed your eyes and took a couple of deep breaths, forcing down the thoughts that said Harry was only being friendly, you could bear to let yourself dream for a bit.

Harry sighed, flipping through the multiple sheets of homework he held in his hands, pursing his lips as he thought back to (y/n), something had set her off to have such an intense panic attack. He was just glad he knew how to calm someone down from it after helping the smee twins through them after so many years.

He looked to his right as Jane passed by him, he reached out grabbing her shoulder, she jumped slightly, looking at him with wide eyes.

“uh, hey Harry? What's up?”

“I came across (y/n) havin’ a panic attack like-two hours ago? Any idea-woah!” Jane’s eyes widened and she grabbed onto his shirt.

“what?! Is she okay? Did-“ Harry quickly covered the girl's mouth.

“she’s fine Jane, she’s in ‘er room now restin’ I just wanted to know if this is a recurring thing or that was the first time it happened”

“recurring” Jane sighed, wrenching Harry's hand from her mouth “she has an anxiety disorder, that’s why she's always so quiet, doesn’t like to draw attention to herself and all that”

Harry furrowed his brows, fixing his bag on his shoulder “ah, is that why she’s all blushy ‘round me then? All those thoughts goin’ wild n stuff?”

“nah” Jane waved her hand nonchalantly “She's just crushing on you….oop didn’t mean to say that!” Jane looked back at him with wide eyes.

A small smile grew on Harry's face “she-she has a crush on meh?”

“I-uh-fudge, yes” Jane sighed, slapping her palm against her forehead “dangit she told me about it in confidence and I just blurt it out like tha-wait!” Harry patted Jane's shoulder with a chuckle and pushed her aside a bit.

“Thanks, Jane~ I gotta go!” Harry took off towards leaving a confused Jane in the hall.

“wait what are you going to do!” Jane yelled, huffing as no response came back “…OH!” Jane squealed, hopping in place. Harry liked (y/n) back! Ohhhh this was going to be so cute!

She had to tell the VK girls, Evie and Dizzy would die!

You sighed, smoothing down the front of your oversized hoodie and further curling into a ball on your bed, sporadically clicking the attack button on your gaming device as you fought one of the hardest mini-bosses of the game.

“come one-, die you-gah!” you seethed, cursing as your weapon broke “again?! goddammit!”

“I have’ta say, it’s weird to hear yeh curse darlin’” you screeched, halfway tossing your switch across the room, the device bouncing off your bed and landing on the pile of pillows on the floor.

You looked towards your door, pressing a hand to your chest as you let out a long sigh “Harry! Geez I’m still calming down from earlier, don’t barge in like that!”

Harry winced, closing the door behind him “sorry love, I brought yer homework and some food fer yeh” he held up his bag and a white plastic bag holding a box of food.

“oh” you felt your face heat up as he stepped closer to your bed “thank you”

“no problem darlin’” he purred, setting the bag of food next to you and tossing his bag on your desk. “so~” he started, leaning closer to you with a sly smirk on his face “I heard something really~ interesting on meh way here~”

You rose your brow and flipped open the box of food, humming at the still steaming (preferred lunch).

“little Janey said yer crushin on meh~” your entire body stopped, it felt like a bucket of ice water had been dumped on you “and before yeh freak out with all those thoughts yeh get” he leaned up, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek “it's not one-sided darlin’ “

You felt your brain short circuit, unable to think ANYTHING as you stared at harry. He chuckled softly and gave you a toothy smirk, his eyes crinkling as he looked at you like he never had before. “Cat got yer tongue love?.I’ll let yeh process it all, but just know, I do like yeh back, and I would jump off a cliff sooner than hurt yeh….” He kissed your cheek again and stood, stopping as you suddenly reached out and grabbed his arm.

“um-I-, I just wanted to say it myself” you muttered, tugging him back down to your side “I-I-I” you stuttered, feeling your face heat up as harry smiled at you with that adorable crinkled nose “ilikeyou” you gasped, grabbing his collar and pulling him towards you, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek and quickly falling back on your bed, pulling your pillow over your face and screeching into it.

Harry just chuckled and patted your knee “like yeh too darlin’ I’ll see yeh later love, okay?”

You just let out some sort of garbled response into your pillow. “okay, text me if yeh want me ta bring yeh dinner” he quickly took his back, emptied your homework from it, and left the room, locking the door behind him.

You let out a huff as you chucked your pillow at the wall, feeling a grin blooming on your face. You squealed, patting your cheeks to try to make the heat escape from it.

“he likes me back” you breathed, giggled erupting from your chest “he likes me back!!!!!” fits of laughter overtook you as you wiggled happily in your bed “he likes me!!!!”

Harry bit his lip to hide his grin as he listened to your mini-celebration “She's so adorable” he chuckled, fixing his bag and walking off, whistling a little tune as he did so.

-end-

permtaglist

@queer-cosette @sephiralorange

@lunanight2012 @daughter-of-the-stars11

@musicarose @random-thoughts-003

@remembered-license @imtryingthisout

@verboetoperee

#disney descendants #harry hook x reader #commission work #harry hook descendants #harry hook #harry hook imagine #Descendents #descendants #writing commission

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phoenixmaiden-reading · 5 years ago

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Apt Pupil Book Review

Apt Pupil by Stephen King

Read: February 14, 2020 - March 6, 2020

A really twisted piece of work, but that is what Stephen King does. It was another amazing work about a boy who discovers the truth about an old man’s horrible past, yet he wants details, not to turn him in. The boy then slowly over time loses his sense of right and wrong, good and bad and spirals until he loses control. I loved every second of the story and could really tell when the boy, Todd, starts to give in to the evil in his mind. Brilliant.

Stars: ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Spoiler Summary Ahead!!

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The book starts off with a normal All American 13-year old boy riding his bike up to a man’s house to deliver a paper, but he calls him by a different name than what is on his door. The man, Arthur Denker, is who he is going by, but Todd Bowen exposes him as a former Nazi officer, Kurt Dussander. He is initially disappointed by the old man who reeks of cigarettes and stale food, and his house doesn’t have any Nazi memorabilia as he had built up in his mind, but he continues forth. Dussander denies it at first and tells Todd he is going to call the police, but Todd doesn’t leave, just smiles at him knowingly until Dussander gives up. He really can’t believe a boy caught on to him.

Todd tells him that he had gotten interested in history by finding a bunch of old magazines from World War II at his friend’s house. He found it all fascinating; that people actually did all those things- concentration camps, bloody battles, killing people for fun- and someone let them. He wanted to know more. So he went to the library and they had a lot more information on all the Nazi’s had done. Todd had found Dussander by chance at a bus station. He hadn’t been sure at first, but when he wore a black windbreaker one time when it was raining, it looked like an old photo in a magazine when he was in his uniform. After that, he shadowed him for a while and took pictures that he developed himself at home. He also got his fingerprints. His parents had gotten him a fingerprinting kit for Christmas since they knew he wanted to be a PI. So he got some prints off Dussander’s mailbox and doorknob and compared it to an old wanted photo that had his fingerprints and it was a match.

Dussander asked what he wanted, money? He didn’t have any. He had almost been caught twice after he ran. He had been part of a network before but he had to run. He ended up buying stock and fake papers through an accountant who ended up going to jail later for killing his wife. But he ended up selling the stock after a time to buy his house. So now there is nothing. But Todd never even considered blackmail. All he wants to know is the things he did: the gas chambers, the firing squads, the ovens, all of it. Dussander doesn’t want to. He wants to keep it in the past. He didn’t want to do it, but he had to follow orders or they would have killed him. But Todd doesn’t care, he wants to hear or he will go around town telling everyone who he was. He also told him that if anything should happen to him, he wrote a letter that he gave to his friend to hold explaining everything. So Dussander had no choice but to give in.

So Todd started coming over almost every day to hear stories about what Dussander used to do in Germany as Kurt Dussander, the Blood-Fiend of Patin. He went under the guise that he was reading to the old man Mr. Denker as a favor because he enjoyed it., it made his parents proud. But when he went over, he made Dussander tell him about the uniforms they used to give the inmates that were made of paper and when they died, it was passed on to the next. About the gas chamber and the different kinds of gas they used. How they used to scream. Todd was fascinated by it all. He was going every day that his grades started to slip. His father told him he was seeing Mr. Denker too much and needed to focus on his grades, but Todd told him he didn’t want to leave Mr. Denker by himself, he enjoys having his books read to him. He agreed that he will devote his Wednesdays to studying and his father let it go.

Only it didn’t happen, in fact, it got worse. Todd was now failing most of his classes and had to change his grades on his report card so that his parents wouldn’t get suspicious. Yet it wasn’t just his grades, he was losing weight and not sleeping because he kept having dreams of Dussander’s stories where he’s in them, one of the inmates or an SS officer with the smells and the screams. It was affecting him, yet he kept going back for more. Dussander wasn’t faring much better. Since Todd had come he hadn’t been sleeping well; remembering the times from before, seeing eyes in a Jungle that wasn’t there. It was stress, but in a way he was relieved. He had been running from those memories for years and now he could finally own them. Yet the nightmares persisted. One of the only ways to get to sleep was to wear the sham SS uniform that Todd had given to him as a Christmas gift. He hated it, yet it also comforted him in a way and he was able to sleep.

One day, Dussander was brought over for dinner at Todd’s house so his parents could meet “Mr. Denker” whom their son had been spending so much time with reading so many books. Dussander was charming and played his part of the elder, partially blind older man brilliantly, but Todd was on edge the entire time as his parents spoke to him about all kinds of things, including his war in the war. But Dussander had a perfectly well thought out answer and they were none the wiser. When Todd walked Dussander home he guessed correctly that Todd had been silent because he was afraid that he would slip up. Yet, of course, he would be careful, it was his life that was at stake. He also told him that even if they found out, yes they would think him a monster for what he had done in the past, but they would be even more disgusted with Todd because he had known for eight months but didn’t say anything. Todd didn’t know what to say to that.

Over the next month, Todd didn’t come over as often as before, 4 out of the 7 he used to come, not that Dussander minded if he did or not. He still had nightmares but they got better wearing the uniform and he had found a new way. He would lure a stray cat to his yard with milk then grab it when it got close and would burn it alive in the oven. It reminded him of the past and the screaming of the cat also sounded like how a young boy would and that made him smile. When Todd would come and smell it he would simply say he had burned his dinner.

One day Todd came to his house early and he was mad and a little worried and told him everything was his fault. He showed Dussander his Quarterly Report Card and they were all pretty much D’s and F’s, plus his guidance counselor had written a note to his parents requesting a sit down to talk about Todd’s failing grades. The report card could be easily changed but the meeting was a problem. He told Dussander he had to help him or his father would get the truth out of him. His parents would make him go see a doctor or something, but Dussander said they could send him to a reformatory. It wasn’t like he would stay quiet if they did catch him, no if Dussander got caught and deported and killed for his crimes and he will tell him that Todd Bowden had known for a year and wanted to know all about the gory stuff he had done, enjoyed it. They would go down together. So he will help him. They could say that Todd’s parents were having marital troubles, fighting and yelling, and it was effecting Todd’s grades. And he will go in their place as Todd’s grandfather.

So that was what he did. Dussander dressed in his best suit and went to Todd’s school to meet his guidance counselor, Edward French. While there as “Victor Bowden” he told the counselor that his son and his wife were having problems. His daughter-in-law was a drinker and often Todd had to take care of her and of himself. His son worked long hours so, he was never around either. It was why Todd’s grades have been failing. The guidance counselor said that Todd was a good kid and had great grades at the beginning of the semester, but now he wasn’t. He may have to go to summer school and he doesn’t want that because that was when all the bad kids go, not a good environment for Todd. French advised for Todd’s parents to go to therapy, specifically one that his friend owned, for help, but Dussander said they would prefer to try to solve it themselves first. But he made him a deal, that if Todd got a Flunk Card in May, he would have his son and daughter-in-law go to counseling. French agreed.

Later when Todd came to his house, Dussander told him what they had agreed upon. Todd was not happy and got mad saying he couldn’t pull up his grades in 4 weeks! But Dussander said he will study as if his life depended on it, which it did; that at every possible moment, Todd will study. He will come over and he will study until he pulled his grades up. If he didn’t Todd will fail and the guidance counselor will call his parents and find out that he was failing all his classes and had gotten the old Mr. Denker to impersonate his grandfather. It will all come out. So Todd did as he was told and studied. And on the first math test, he took he passed with a C+. He was relieved. In the meantime, Dussander had gone down to a shelter and got a dog…that does not bode well.

One night, Todd’s mother and father were in bed and started talking about Todd. His mother was worried about him. She said she noticed he’s lost weight and was having nightmares. But his father wasn’t that concerned. He said he was a growing boy and would be probably growing a few inches like he did when he was younger. He was even at the age when he would be “experimenting” so that was what she could be hearing from Todd’s room instead of a nightmare. Even though he was only 13, kids these days were doing everything earlier. Yet she was still worried and thought Todd was seeing too much of Mr. Denker. His father said that he would be worried if his grades were falling, but they weren’t so everything was fine. He was just being a good boy reading to an old man for nothing. So they left it at that.

Todd kept up his studying under Dussander’s watchful eye with disdain. He hated being stuck like this but had to keep his grades up or his parents will find out. But one night Todd had his first wet dream of himself raping a 16-year-old Jewish girl with Dussander watching. When he woke up he was horrified and knew he had to get out and the only way was to kill Dussander, then he will be free. He then planned to push Dussander down the stairs when he went to get more alcohol in the basement. No one would suspect him. Dussander was old and a drunk, he would tell people he went inside with his key when “Mr. Denker” didn’t come to the door and found him at the bottom of the cellar stairs. With that plan in motion, he just waited for his grades to come in. And when they did, Todd got lucky and is now passing all his classes. With some minor corrections on his average, his parents will be none the wiser.

Now he just needed to get rid of Dussander. So he went over to his house after school to let him know he didn’t get a Flunk Card. When Dussander ran out of his liquor and got up to go get more he started telling Todd a story. About a frightened old man and a boy. He told him that the man and the boy had each other by death grips with the information shared between them that they wished to keep secret. They were equal in this, but the old man was starting to feel like he was losing his footing and was losing sleep over it. One day after a sleepless night, he had an idea and spent the rest of the night writing every detail and conversation he had had with the boy, for his own safety. Todd who had gotten up behind Dussander when he went to the cellar, froze. Dussander continued with his story after telling him he had heard Todd get up. He said that the old man went down to the bank and rented a safety deposit box with 2 keys, one the old man had and the other, the bank. It can only be opened by the old man unless permission is given by him; the only exception is that if the old man died then it will be opened by the bank and the IRS where they will find the document inside that they will find very interesting. Todd was hysterical, his plan about killing Dussander ruined, he was now afraid because Dussander could die at any time because he was old and smoked and drank a lot. But now he was truly stuck with Dussander’s proof binding him.

A week later, Todd was at an old train yard thinking about what to do. That he should have still killed Dussander anyway, the man was going to die sooner or later, might as well do it himself. He had a pocket knife that he had bought, one of 5 hundred a year, no one would suspect him. As he thought, he found a wino under the platform and thought about killing him. It startled him when he suddenly had an erection from the thought. So he ran off when the wino woke up.

The next month, Todd went to Dussander’s house with his report card with all passing grades. Todd had the full intention to stop coming over now that his grades were back up. Plus his family was planning to go to Hawaii for a month and he had to think about his future. So he suggested that they just forget about it all and destroy the document Dussander had in the safety deposit box and the letter that Todd’s friend had. Yet Dussander said Todd didn’t understand the situation they were in and the consequences of his actions the moment he made him talk about his past. Sure he could leave and never come back, he was not stopping him. But he was kidding himself to think that this will all go away. They could burn their respective documents but they could never truly be sure the other didn’t have another copy somewhere. There will always be that doubt. And Todd now knew he was trapped. Dussander then told him that if the truth did come out, Todd may not go to a reformatory but his future would be ruined. It would be on his record. And the longer it took to come out, the worse it would get. If it got out now, they would say he was just a child and get a slap on the wrist, but if it came out years later while he was in high school, or college or getting a job…it could ruin his entire life. Also, Dussander told Todd he didn’t even believe he had a letter. He had been watching him for the past 2 years and he gave no indication that he had any close friends he would trust with that information. He could be wrong of course, but his was no lie, if he died, everything will come out. Only when he felt that Todd’s hold over him no longer matters will he destroy the documents. Todd was truly trapped, he could not find a way out. In anger and fear, he stormed out. Yet there was one thing that Dussander didn’t say. That it was all a lie. There was on safety deposit box or documents with everything that has happened. He just said it to make sure Todd didn’t tell anyone. He was safe, it was over. But it wasn’t.

Before Todd left on his trip to Hawaii, he went down to the abandoned train station and found a wino sleeping there. He then took out a butcher knife and stabbed the wino 37 times, killing him. He threw the knife in the river and went home and washed his clothes. He was sore the next day but passed it as having pulled something playing with his friends. He then went on his Hawaii trip with his parents. While he was gone, Dussander also was up to no good. He lured a wino to his house with an invitation or a bath, food, and drink and maybe some money after; he was a lonely old man who wanted some company. It was clear what happened to him after that.

Time skipped around after that. Todd went on to high school and would occasionally visit Dussander and they were able to converse civilly but only about mundane stuff. Todd was getting good grades and Dussander had taken up rug braiding to help with his arthritis. During that time, Dussander had lured and killed 3 winos at his home and buried them in his cellar where it was just dirt. It would smell during the summer so he opened the windows. He felt oddly alive after he was done; like he was finally living after fleeing Germany. Todd, on the other hand, had felt great after killing the wino, he had the best vacation in Hawaii after. But after he came back he would get nightmares of finding the dead wino bleeding all over his mother’s kitchen. But they went away when he killed a different wino in a culvert with a hammer. He determined that he may have to do it again to keep them away.

Todd went on through high school getting good grades. In his Junior year, he made the varsity team in football and baseball and won multiple games and was awarded Athlete of the Year. During that year, he also killed 5 derelicts. He learned from the last time, so he now wore 2 pairs of pants so he would have a clean pair to wear back home. He also didn’t visit the same place twice when he went on his “hunting expeditions” wandering around neighborhoods until a wino would try to panhandle him. Dussander had killed 2 during that time, using the same lure and getting them drunk in his kitchen. The second one had been more lively and had survived the initial stab to the back of the neck. The wino had managed to make it to the front door before Dussander was able to take him down. It had scared him that he had almost gotten away but he had caught him. So he laid low for a while.

When Todd was a senior in high school he joined the Rifle Club and was able to qualify as a marksman. He made All-Conference on the Football team, got a Merit Scholarship and was accepted into Berkley, and by the end of the year knew he was going to be either Valedictorian or Salutatorian. During the last half of the year, he started getting an impulse to go out to the highway with the rifle his father had gotten him for Christmas and shoot. It was crazy and he pushed it away, but a few weeks later he was out by the highway and dry shot at cars by the highway. He didn’t really do it but it turned him on anyway.

One day Dussander had once again lured a wino into his house, got him drunk and stabbed him in the neck. He died quickly and he put him in a trash bag and kicked him down the stairs to the cellar. Then he would follow and dig a hole to bury the wino. It was a routine he had done before. Only this time, when he was digging the hole a sharp pain went through his chest and down his arm; he was having a heart attack. He was able to make it back upstairs but the pain persisted. He couldn’t call an ambulance, there was blood all over the kitchen floor and a dead body in the cellar. So he called the only one he could – Todd. When Dussander called, Todd had to play it safe and told his parents that “Mr. Denker” had gotten a letter from a distant family member and wanted Todd to read it for him. So he rode his bike out to his house. When Todd got there, he was shocked to see so much blood. Dussander said it wasn’t his and told him to go to the cellar to “clean up.” So Todd went downstairs and found the body of the wino. He was horrified and judging by the smell down there, it was not the first one. So Todd set to work burying the body and mopped up the blood on the floor in the kitchen, and cleaned the knife. He then called an ambulance and his father because it was the right thing to do. Yet when he was on his way over, Todd suddenly remembered that he was supposed to be reading a letter to him, but there was no letter. So Dussander told him about some old letters in a locked box in his room. They were in German, but even though Todd couldn’t read in, he could still attempt to and “Mr. Denker” would understand. So Todd quickly went up the stairs and found the box; he had to break it open and get back downstairs before his dad came. Yet in all the excitement no one looked at the letters. But better safe than sorry.

At the same time, Morris Heisel was admitted to the hospital with a broken back. He had been up on a ladder and the neighbor’s dog bumped it when chasing their cat. He may be paralyzed from the waist down because of it. It was bad but not as bad as when he was in the concentration camps where he lost his first wife and his daughters. He was rooming with an older man who he thinks he’s met somewhere before but doesn’t know where. It could have been in Patin, but he doesn’t like to think about that.

Todd visits Dussander in the hospital, once with his family, and another time on his own. When they are alone, Morris his roommate is asleep, Todd tells him that he is not coming to see him again, they are quits. But he does ask about what Dussander had said the night of his heart attack. Dussander had told him that he was remarkably calm when he saw the blood and the body, that he had the first-hand experience. So Dussander said that he reads the newspaper and that there was a story inside saying that there had been killing off the local homeless that had been found stabbed and bludgeoned to death that has not been found. While Dussander was responsible for 6 of them disappearing he was not for the others. It made him think of another who was having a hard time after hearing certain stories. Todd said he had never killed anyone and Dussander said sure, he could be wrong but he had taken control of the situation that night with no problem. Todd wrote it off that he had been pissed off and had to help because of what Dussander had in the safety deposit box. Dussander then confessed that there was no document or safety deposit box, it had been a lie to keep himself safe. So they had nothing on each other. But Todd didn’t believe it. He could go through Dussander’s house for the key, or call around the banks to see if Dussander had a safety deposit box somewhere, but that would call attention to him. DUssander just said that as long as they trusted each other they could be quits. But Todd didn’t know if he could do that.

Back at the hospital, Morris was having a good day. His nagging wife bruised her hip and was bedridden for the next few days and he had some peace and quiet. And his favorite baseball team had won. He busied himself in just trying to talk to the old man, Denker, and tried to guess where he had seen him before. He thinks it may have been at the camps; there had been German Jews there, so it was possible. He didn’t want to just straight out and ask, there was no fun in that especially if he was paralyzed. So as he thought about it until it was just at the tip of his tongue, but he suddenly felt a tingling in his feet and it was forgotten as the doctor came in to see; he could move his toes. Later, a candy stripper came in to bring them their food and she revealed she had just gotten engaged. Denker said that she must “sit down and tell us all about it. Tell everything. Omit nothing.” That phrase was familiar to Morris, he had heard it somewhere before. In Patin maybe? And why did he remember lamb stew? Before he could remember, his wife came in happy to hear he had feeling in his feet again. It was during the night that he remembered. It was at the camps, but not as a fellow inmate.

Morris remembered a young man dressed in an SS uniform, his name hadn’t been Denker then. He used to say that phrase from before to get information from people. He would have a pot of lamb stew in the room so that the hungry inmates, with the promise of food, would answer all of his questions. He had been one such inmate. He had spilled everything he knew about other inmates; who was hiding jewelry and who had tobacco, and who was planning to revolt. Now that he knew, he cried because he was the one who killed his first wife and daughters. He didn’t sleep for the rest of the night.

One morning, Todd came downstairs to eat breakfast where his dad was eating. They carpooled to work together, but Todd hated it. It seemed lately that everything about his parents annoyed him. They talked about Todd’s girlfriend Betty and if he was treating her right. He said yes, but inside he was thinking that she was a slut. She was the biggest slut in town. When he had first started dating her he had just done it because it was a normal thing to do, to date. When he went on their first date he assumed they would at the most just kiss, but she put out immediately. And on the other 5 dates after that. Yet the more often they did it, the harder it was to get an erection. He would fuck her and she enjoyed it but he was just starting to view her as just a bag of flesh. In order to help, he would focus on a fantasy of humiliating her, abusing her in order to get off. The last time they had done it, he hadn’t been able to get it up. Betty had asked him if he was Bisexual since he couldn’t do get it up anymore. He had wanted to shoot her with his gun. His father then said that Todd had made the top Al-Stars for the baseball team. Todd didn’t care but he mustered up a response to shut him up. He envisioned getting his gun and shooting his father between the eyes. He told himself that he had to get a hold of himself and got ready for work.

It then moved to Ed French, the guidance counselor. He was at a conference and was on a break and was bored. He had read the paper and had seen Todd’s name. And he remembered that his grandfather was in the same town he was in now. So he decided to look in the phone book and found Victor Bowden’s name and address. On a whim, he called the number, but when he answered the phone, Ed didn’t recognize the voice, it was different from what he remembered. So he asked the grandfather if he remembered coming down to the school to talk about Todd’s grades. Victor said no, that Todd was a good kid. Now curious, he asked if he could go down to his house since he was in the area. He wondered if Todd had conned him, not that it mattered now since he had already graduated. But it still bugged him, so the next day he went to Victor Bowden’s house and had an interesting conversation with him. And indeed the man that had come to his office that day had been someone else.

When Dussander woke up the next morning to a well-dressed Jewish man sitting at his side. He was confused at first because he was the only one in the room now, Morris had gone home the day before. What was more, he was calling him by his real name, Kurt Dussander. The man said his name was Weiskopf and that the roommate he had, Morris Heisel had been an inmate in Patin that Dussander had commanded. He had recognized him. Weiskopf even had an old photo of Dussander in his youth in his SS uniform. Dussander said he was mistaken and continued to say his story that he had been a factory machinist and briefly fought in the war...basically the same story he had given Todd all those years ago. Yet Weiskopf wouldn't back down, he knew who he was and said that he will be in Tel Aviv paying for his crimes by the new year. He then left. Dussander was shaken, but he knew what he had to do.

Ed French meanwhile had gone back to the school on the weekend to look at school records. He was able to find Todd Bowden's report cards from 3 years ago and confirmed what he thought. It had been doctored.

Back to Dussander, he had gotten up out of his hospital bed and down the hallway. It was a shift change and all the doctors and nurses were at the head station, so there was no one around. He pretended to get water at the fountain then went across the way to a door where they kept all the medication. If they did catch him, he would just act confused and say he was looking for the bathroom. He would have liked to stake out the door for a week or so, but he didn't have time. The whole hospital would know who he was within a few days and would watch him. So he had to do it now. Once inside the room, he grabbed some pills and made his way back to his room with no issues. When he got back to his room, he took 9 pills with water, then waited until he started feeling sleepy and took three more. As he started drifting off he was relieved that it was finally over. It was funny that after all these years he had been discovered by a man he barely spared a glance at. He kind of wished he could write the boy (Todd) a letter, he had learned to respect the boy, but it would cast suspicion on the boy and he didn't want that. The boy would have a hard time at first, of course, thinking about the nonexistent safety deposit box, but in time it would go away. There was no way for the boy to be involved in it. He just hoped that there were no dreams as he fell asleep. That was his last thought. He was found early the next morning dead of an overdose.

Later that morning, the Bowden family was sitting around the kitchen table eating Saturday breakfast when the newspaper came. When Todd's father opened it he started choking on his coffee. On the front page was the old man Mr. Denker with the caption "Fugitive Nazi Commits Suicide In Santo Donato Hospital" with side by side pictures of the old man and a different picture of him in his SS uniform. His parents were shocked and looked at Todd in concern but he wasn't paying attention. He recognized the picture in the paper, it had been at Dussander's house which meant the police had been in his house. They would find the bodies of the winos in the basement soon enough. He then fainted.

At the same time, Ed French was sitting eating breakfast when he read the paper. He recognized the old man as the one who had come to the school posing as Todd Bowden's grandfather.

Once Todd had gotten control of himself again, he had called the police to tell them about "Mr. Denker" and a detective, Richler, came to ask him questions. He told the detective that he used to read Mr. Denker books 3 years ago, but when he got to high school he didn't have the time anymore. He would stop by time to time to read him the newspaper but that was it. Richler said that they had found 5 different ID cards hidden around the house and a storage box under the bed with stock papers and old photos. Todd thought it was weird that Dussander hadn't out it in the deposit box... but he left it alone. The detective then said that he was done with his questions but that a man, Weiskopf wanted to talk to him. Specifically, the say of Dussander's heart attack since Todd had been there at the time reading him a letter. But Todd had burned it, not that he told them that. Richler said that Dussander had been a big fish and thought he may have been in contact with others. Todd said that he wished he could help but the letter had been in German and he didn't understand any of it. Yet the detectives were very interested in the letter because it was gone. It may have been stolen since the house had not been locked, but nothing else was taken. Todd understood that it didn't make sense. The detective said that they believe that someone in town knew who Dussander really was and knew the truth and may have come in and taken the letter.

Todd tried his best to be confused and properly bewildered by it all while thinking that it was all Dussander's fault for pulling him into it with the letter. Richler and the other man, Weiskopf was still sniffing around. He suddenly wished he had his gun in his hands...he quickly snapped out of it. The detective asked if Dussander had any friends, and Todd said no, no one ever came over, but that he used to get phone calls every week. It was really just wrong numbers and telemarketers but Todd told the detective that he used to say to the person on the line that his reading boy was there and to call back later. The detective was excited and thought it might be the guy. He then said that he was going to have special forces go through the house attic to cellar for anything. He then left. Todd went upstairs to lay down and thought about his gun and shooting Betty and her screaming.

Later, Richler and Weiskopf met for lunch to talk. Richler told him that the kid, Todd was in on it somehow. He had tripped him up in some places but nothing that they could use in court. The kid was a smooth talker and really creepy. Richler said that Todd had latched on to the idea of Dussander getting a phone call every week but they knew that Dussander's phone rate was low because he didn't get phone calls and especially long-distance ones. Plus, he had jumped to the conclusion that the letter was just gone. Because he had been the one to go back and take it. What they thought was that Dussander had had a heart attack while burying the fresh body in the cellar- they had found dirt on Dussander's shoes- and had called the kid who flipped out and had cleaned up the mess and made up the story about the letter. So the letter had been a prop, taken from the box upstairs that they found smashed open. They had fingerprints on the box. But his fingerprints were all over the house. It could have happened because Dussander had told him to put something in it or to use the shovel to plant a rose bush or something. He was just so smooth that he could explain anything they threw at him.

Weiskopf just couldn't understand it all. He just seemed so clean-cut. The boy had been 14 when it started and he couldn't understand how or why he had gotten involved with Dussander. It could be just dumb luck. But Richler said that most kids would have called the police and turned Dussander in, but he didn't. He had probably found out by luck and had gone to Dussander. It wasn't blackmail since the old man didn't have much, so what did he want. They both didn't want to think about it because it haunts them. They then discussed how Dussander had lured the winos to his house, but it didn’t explain the others that had been found around town. Dussander didn’t have the strength to do such a thing, but there was already a detective on the case. Yet Weiskopf said he wasn’t thinking of Dussander for the other murders, but Richler couldn’t believe that a kid would do such a thing. Yet Weiskopf was an agent of the government and only cared about finding out from the boy if he knew if there were any other contacts that Dussander knew, but as a human being, he was interested to know what else he was into.

There was some perverse fascination that drew people to horrifying events like the camps. It would churn anyone's stomach to know what happened there. But even the most normal of people could be into things like that. It could be the same thing with Todd, he could have been interested in the camps and had found Dussander by luck and went directly to the source and had simply…gone down the wrong path.

Down at the police station, a wino named Hap came in wanting to talk to a Lieutenant Bozeman. He claimed he knew who had been killing the homeless around town. He had seen a young boy, white, with blonde hair talking to the last victim; had seen him leaving with him. But it wasn’t any news to Bozeman, many of the derelicts had claimed to see the same boy, but there were no leads. Yet Hap said that he had been collecting newspapers and had seen the boy in the paper. He then showed the lieutenant the picture of the All-Stars from the baseball team and pointed out Todd Bowden as the killer. Bozeman recognized the name, but couldn’t figure out where until later when he heard Richler and Weiskopf come back. He then realized that it was the same kid that was associated with the Nazi that had been in town.

Todd was at home by himself. His parents had offered to take the day off but Todd said he would be alright, so they left to work. When they did he took his gun out to the garage and took it apart and cleaned it and put it back together, he even loaded it. Not long after did his old guidance counselor Ed French pulled up. He wanted an explanation for what he had found in the paper. That the grandfather he had met had been an old German Nazi criminal. This wasn’t good for Todd. The police would be very interested in this piece of information. He had thought he would be fine, but Richler had been slick with the tidbit about the phone calls and he had gone along with it. He didn’t know if the phone company could track how often a phone rings. But not only that, he had unintentionally told Richler that there had been no robbery at Dussander’s house meaning he had been there since then. Plus, the detective didn’t say anything about the bodies. It was warm out and in the heat, the cellar smelled really ripe, there was no way they didn’t know already. So everything was not good. But Ed French was the link the police didn’t have. He would be able to prove that Todd was in on a conspiracy. But that wouldn’t put an end to it, they would take his picture and go around identifying him with the winos on the streets. But all that would be circumstantial and with lawyers, he would get off, but by then his life would be ruined just like Dussander had said.

So when Ed French asked how it happened that a Nazi criminal had come posed as his grandfather, how it all happened. Todd just said that one thing followed another and picked up his newly cleaned, loaded gun and shot him. It took 3 shots until he died whispering his daughter's name. Todd suddenly felt better than he had felt in years, clear-headed. Everything was going to be fine. So he went back in the garage and gathered all the bullet shells he had and went to the hill overlooking the freeway with his gun. It was five hours later that the police were able to take him down.

#phoenix be reading #Apt Pupil #Stephen King #Book Review #reading #books #literature #book lover #2020 Books

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paranormalstopsign · 6 years ago

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I wrote this over 2 years ago and have faint memories of this

I found an Amerus fanfic I wrote in 2017. At least I think I wrote it, if i remember right I wrote this in math class in a purple spiral notebook.

If I am remembering wrong and this in fact someone elses story let me know //// Content Warning: Alcohol and foreplay(?)

Its also very unfinished and will never be finished unless requested because I have no memory of what my intentions with it were. //

Ivans head pounded as he woke. He normally never had an issue with hangovers but last night was different. ---- The low chatter of the other nations filled the room towards the end of the night. Alfred looked at the clock in his kitchen, squinting as his vision was blurred. He stumbled back to his living room where the of age nations were drinking, figuring out how to word things, knowing drunk Alfred is one of the worst forms of himself. "Alright guys--" He slurred as his body went past the doorframe. "Grab your sober friend and go home." Everyone laughed at the American as they always do. Each person shuffled through the front door, incoherently thanking him for the alcohol. Soft chuckles escaped the blondes mouth when he turned around to return to this bedroom. "Ivan," He whispered cracking the door a bit revealing the dusty blonde man cuddling the Americans jacket with a bottle of Vodka in his other hand. "Ivan," He said again, brushing the russians hair out of his face. Ivan groaned and cracked an eye in response. "Come on," Alfred sighed reaching a hand out to help him up. The Russian man grabbed his hand, but instead of using it to get up, he pulled the blonde on top of him, he knew exactly what buttons to press. "Но, пожалуйста" (But please) Whispered in Alfreds ear. Ivan knew that alfred loved it when he spoke in his Native language, even though he didn't understand a word that Ivan was saying. Alfred nuzzled into Ivans neck placing soft kisses on the visable skin. They both knew this was the only way to satisfy their drunken needs. The Russian grabbed his scarf and slowly pulled it off while the american worked on the buttons of Ivans coat. Once it was off and it had hit the floor they took of their own shirts, making the pool of clothes slowly grow.

/////

Thats the shit storm my brain produced 2 years ago. No clue what the goal was or my thought process behind it if it was mine, I think it was though.

#rusame #amerus #hetalia #aph russia #aph america #aphetalia #rusame fanfiction #rusame meme #shitstorm #i was a dumb child #not sure if this is even mine but if its not tell me the author please #hetalia fanfiction #hetalia meme

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phantumpoftheopera · 6 years ago

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Having a “gifted” sibling really sucks

Apologies for the length of this, but it's something that I've struggled with voicing for a while now.

I see posts all the time about how hard it is for "gifted" kids and of course there are plenty of studies about how hard school is for students who struggle academically as well, but you know what I never see?

Posts about how hard it is for the siblings of "gifted" kids.

I wonder why that is, honestly. And it bothers me, as a sibling of a former gifted kid. And here's why.

When I was a kid, I was "smart." I knew I was. I was a little full of myself, probably. My brother and I were both praised for our intelligence by family members all the time.

But something changed when I was entering fourth grade (he was entering second).

See, his first grade class had done some testing to see if any of them qualified as "gifted and talented" enough to qualify to go to the new magnet program at a different school the next year. He was one of the three in his class who got in.

And I was jealous. And once I found out I could also take the test to see if I could get in, I wanted to. I begged my mom to let me take the test. And she did. And I did not get in.

I was not "gifted" enough.

And so then, at the age of 8 (because I had not yet turned 9), I realized the difference between me and my brother. And I was jealous. And that jealousy would haunt me for a long time, and yes, continues to this day.

When he had to leave the magnet program at the end of second grade, partly because he missed his old friends, but mostly because the teacher required all assignments to be printed from a computer, which was hard for us as a family that did not own a computer until I was in middle school, I was happy. I felt guilty about it but I was happy, because it meant he was no longer "special." He was the same as me.

But he wasn't. Not really. And as years went on, not being gifted like he was hurt more and more.

Like most gifted students who aren't challenged enough academically, he slacked off. His grades were bad because he wouldn't do homework. It was a waste of time to him. He would finish assignments in class and then read a book the rest of the class instead of finding something else to do. You know, the typical gifted child burnout stuff.

Our grades were pretty similar. I did my homework more, paid more attention in class. I got mostly A's in my classes throughout elementary school. And I got praised for it. Even when I didn't get an A, it was okay because I was doing things to the best of my ability. But when he got a B, he wasn't living up to his potential.

It wasn't an intentional slight against me. My parents didn't really know what they were subconsciously teaching me. Until recently, I didn't consciously think about it either. But I learned that no matter what I did, he would always be better. My former teachers praised his abilities in ways they never praised mine, always with the caveat that he would be so successful if he just applied himself more.

Middle school came. For the first time, I almost failed a grade. A lot of things contributed to that, mostly unrelated to any of this and a lot to do with switching schools midway through the year and being bullied. My parents actually paid attention. For once, I got the "not living up to my potential" speech. This continued into seventh grade, back at my old middle school, because I had fallen into a habit of not doing homework because if my brother didn't have to, why should I? We were still in different schools. He was still in fifth grade at this point.

Then in eighth grade, suddenly, we were in the same school and I had to try again. I had to be better. Only now, I was behind. I had been "smart" before. I was still in honors classes. But now I didn't know how to study. I didn't know how to take notes. I hadn't bothered learning any of that before. And while my grades improved, I had unknowingly sent myself into a spiral I couldn't escape.

After two years of horrible grades (I actually failed math in sixth and seventh grade), the fact I was now getting Bs and Cs was enough to please my parents. An A made them ecstatic. But we were back to the old days of my grades being "the best you could do" and "at least you tried" while my brother's similar grades were "not applying himself" and "laziness."

Deep down I wanted to shout at them, to tell them that this was NOT the best I could do! I didn't try at all! But there was a lot of other stuff going on at home and it was my job to be as accommodating as possible and not act out in any way.

Instead, I wanted to prove myself, to them and to myself, and start fresh in high school. For the first time since my first term in sixth grade, I had straight As again in my freshman year. I could do it. I was finally the "smarter" kid.

But my brother still got the academic attention. My mom started asking me to type up my brother's papers for him if he dictated them. I liked writing, so of course I would agree. She acknowledged it wasn't fair to ask that of me, but I did it anyway. But God, I resented myself for agreeing.

Tenth grade was okay, I think. I had an English teacher I hated and my stubbornness won out, earning me a C in both English and Journalism that year (he taught both classes) but overall I did well.

And the rest of high school, well...I didn't really attend classes much. A lot of factors went into that. And I didn't do my homework as often as I should have. But it wasn't because of my brother by this point. I just didn't expect to live past 18 anyway or go to college, so what was the point? I have a lot of regrets about those two years, especially regarding college, but...well...it's in the past.

And college was a struggle too, since I never learned to study or take notes or manage my time. It's still a struggle, even now, after I somehow finished undergrad and am a grad student. I still can't take notes well. A lot of it is mental illness, because I mean...depression makes doing assignments very very difficult most days. But a lot is also this sense of inferiority, that there's no point since I'll never be smart enough.

I know it's not true. Intelligence does not determine your value. Being good at something or not does not determine your worth. But living your life always comparing yourself to a sibling (in my case, a younger sibling especially) who gets praised for things you thought you were good at when he doesn't even put any effort in (a college professor we shared praised an essay he wrote that he barely tried on, he got a better score on the writing section of the SAT, etc.) is discouraging. I know now that comparing yourself to someone else, even a sibling, is unfair to yourself and that person, but it's a habit that's hard to break.

Basically, I wish people would pay attention more to how hard it is for the "ungifted" child, the one who is smart but not "smart enough" to get special attention. It's so easy for those kids to get swallowed up without anyone ever noticing or caring because all the attention is given to those who shine the brightest.

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southsideserpentsblog · 7 years ago

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Play Me a Song

Summary: the serpent boys have a special little band and found themselves a songwriter to help

Characters: Sweet Pea x reader, Jughead, Fangs, Joaquin

Warnings: literally none

Genre: slow-burn (sorry to my one-shot lovers)

Word count: 2k

PART 2

I sat at my desk, staring out the window as the teacher talked about the topic set for maths. There were birds flying from tree to tree outside and it entertained me more than anything going on in the class. “Y/N,” the teacher’s voice called.

I turned to face her, finding the classes eyes on me. “Yes?” I asked.

“Are you paying attention?”

“No. Sorry.”

She sighed and grabbed a notepad, quickly scribbling on it before holding it out to me. “Detention.”

I stood up and took the slip, walking out of the room with everyone still watching me. The detention room was in the next building and as I crossed the courtyard, there was a group of kids skipping class. I walked into the detention room and sat down at the desk in the middle of the room. The room was empty and I decided now would be a good time to write some of the song lyrics that came to my mind earlier. Noting down the lyrics, I hummed a tune that would suit each of the words and came up with the main tagline.

The door to the room slammed open and I looked up as the principal dragged in four boys. They wore leather jackets with serpents embroidered on the back and skinny jeans that made them look taller despite them already being tall. The principal left, leaving us locked in the room. One of them turned to sit down and spotted me, tilting his head curiously. “Look what we have here, boys,” he said, licking his lips.

“Dude, leave her alone. Clearly, this is her first time in detention,” one of the boys, who was wearing a beanie, said.

The boy in front of me cracked a menacing smirk and sat down beside me. “I’m Sweet Pea,” he said. “What’s your name?”

“Y/N,” I replied, looking at all them.

“Well, I’m Jughead, that’s Fangs and that one is Joaquin,” the boy in the beanie introduced.

“Are you guys in a gang or something?” I asked, eyeing off Sweet Pea’s jacket.

He snickered, his eyes sweeping over me. “Something like that.”

I nodded my head and continued to jot down notes, ignoring all of them. Sweet Pea shifted in his seat beside me and indicated to me that he was gesturing to the boys in front of us. The paper under my pencil was whipped out from under me and I looked up to see Jughead reading over the page. “Are these lyrics?” he asked.

“Isn’t it obvious?” I snapped.

Sweet Pea chuckled. “She’s a feisty one.”

“Yeah… And apparently good at writing song lyrics. Check this out,” Jughead said, handing the paper to Sweet Pea.

He looked at me from the corner of his eye and read over it. His body language shifted and I leaned back in my chair. When he finished reading it over, he looked at me with a glint in his eye. Fangs took the paper next. “They’re good,” Sweet Pea said.

“Get to the point,” I replied.

“You know how you asked if we were in a gang-” Jughead started.

“We’re actually a band. We play at the Whyte Wyrm on Friday and Saturday nights,” Sweet Pea interrupted.

“What do want from me?” I furrowed my eyebrows as they looked at each other.

Jughead snickered and sat on the desk in front of me. “To write us a song. If it’s not too much trouble,” Jughead answered.

“What do I get out of it?”

“Anything you want,” Sweet Pea piped up, looking me over.

I rolled my eyes and looked back at Jughead. “Okay. What kind of song?”

“What do you have?”

I grabbed my satchel from the floor and opened it, pulling out a folder filled with previous songs I had written. “There’s about twenty here that are actually good but I have another fifty at home that are okay.”

Sweet Pea looked at my folder and pulled it out from under me. “These songs don’t have titles,” he commented.

“I can never settle on a title.”

“Is there any you would rather we didn’t use?” Jughead asked.

I snatched my folder off Sweet Pea and flipped through to the middle of the pages. Looking over the page, I pointed at it. “This one. I want to perform this one.”

Jughead gestured for me to give him the folder and I handed it to him. He moved back to the front of the folder and looked over the pages, reading through the lyrics and leaving me with the current lyrics I was writing. I added a few more lines and looked up as Jughead chatted to Fangs and Joaquin about this one song. They set the folder in front of me, open to a song I wrote about two months ago and I fiddled with my pen, waiting for them to say something. “We agreed that this song is probably best suited to our style of music,” Jughead said.

“Great. What are you going to name it?” I asked.

“Name it?”

“Yes. I’m giving you the song, so what are you going to call it?”

They looked at each other. “Regret,” Sweet Pea said.

I looked at him and for once, he looked at me with a gentle gaze.

“The song is about how you went out on a limb with someone you cared deeply about and it ended in such a bad way but it’s an experience you’ll never regret,” Sweet Pea explained.

Jughead nodded his head and looked at the others. “Alright,” he muttered. “It’s settled. The song is called Regret.”

I looked at Sweet Pea one final time as Jughead wrote the title on the page and our eyes connected, something deep in his eyes understanding every word I wrote before I looked at Jughead. Jughead dropped the pen onto the table. He then turned to the boys and ushered them to sit down. “Come on. We’ve got another half an hour in this dump,” he said.

***

I wandered down the school steps and crossed the parking lot, noticing the four boys standing beside their motorbikes. “Hey!” Sweet Pea called out.

I walked over and furrowed my eyebrows. “What?”

“We’re playing tonight and we were wondering if you’d like to watch. See your song finally debut,” Sweet Pea asked, his hands sitting deep in his pockets as he looked down at me.

I looked at each of them. “Um, yeah, yeah. That’d be cool. What time is it?”

“It’s at seven but I’d like your help for the sound check and that it sounds exactly how you envisioned it.”

I bit my lip and looked at the ground. “I’ll need a ride then.”

“Easy done.” He walked over to his bike and gestured for me to sit on it. I stared at him with raised eyebrows. “Don’t tell me you're scared to ride on my ‘death trap?’”

“No. I was more wondering why your seat is so big because your ass isn’t that big.”

The other boys chuckled. I walked over and put the helmet on, sliding onto his bike. He shook his head and slid on in front of me. I wrapped my arms around his waist and we drove onto the street, the other boys following. He drove fast. The wind whipped around my clothes and hair while I felt the air send chills over my body. We headed towards the south of Riverdale and stopped out the front of an old bar. He parked the bike and slid off. I took the helmet off and ran a hand through my hair. Sweet Pea looked at me and rolled his eyes as I slid off the bike.

We walked into the Whyte Wyrm and the place was empty apart from people behind the bar. Sweet Pea led me to the back room where they kept their instruments. The room was soundproofed and contained a set of drums, two electric guitars and a bass guitar. I picked up an electric guitar and looked at Sweet Pea. “I feel like you’re a drummer,” I said.

He chuckled and took the guitar. “I’m actually the lead singer and guitarist,” he replied.

“Wow. Aren’t you fancy?”

The other boys walked in and grabbed their instruments. They tuned their instruments and I sat down on the couch, watching them and reading over my lyrics. I tapped my foot. Joaquin noticed and started playing the kick drum to the same beat. He looked at me and played on the snare with the same beat, adding in the high-hat symbols on the offbeat. “Keep that going,” I said. I stood and walked to Jughead with his bass. “Play me a D.” He plucked the D cord to the same rhythm and then added in a G on the third count. “Keep that going.” I walked to Fangs and took his electric guitar from him. Plucking the notes, I arranged a beat that I liked and handed it back, getting him to play it. I stood in front of Sweet Pea. He stared at me and I bobbed my head to the beat. “You remember the cords from Highway To Hell? Play that.” He started to play it and I nodded my head before scrunching my nose up. “Sweets stop. Play C, G, E, and B. In that pattern.”

They played in front of me and I grabbed the page with the song. I bobbed my head. Sweet Pea stopped playing and walked over to me, taking the page from my hand. He placed it on a music stand and started singing the lyrics. I sat down and watched them, listening to the music. They had energy as they played and some parts of the songs, they improvised and played notes that worked. I bobbed my head and grabbed another microphone. “For months and nights on end, I always thought you’d be the one to leave, but turns out I was stronger than I hoped to be, sending me in a spiral, you thought I’d be in denial, bless my heart and hope to survive, I’ll never regret another day of my life,” I rapped, stopping Sweet Pea from rapping.

They stopped playing and looked at me. “You can rap?” Jughead said.

“Yes,” I said, speaking into the microphone. “I can also sing.”

Sweet Pea stepped to the side of his microphone and gestured for me to step in his place. I took his spot and they played the chorus. “Of all the things you say, counting out the days, till I left you, till I left you, but the time we stayed together, thinking it’ll be now and forever, I’ll never forget, I’ll never regret, oh,” I sang, drawing out the last note.

They cut the music and clapped. I bowed and sat back down. “Why don’t you sing? You’re really good,” Fangs said.

I shrugged. “Never had the opportunity.”

“You do now,” Jughead said.

I shook my head. “It’s fine. I’ll write songs for you guys.”

“The spot is always there if you decide you want it,” Sweet Pea said.

I smiled and let them rehearse several more times. Each time they played, they added new sounds to improve the sound and suggested things. It was drawing closer to the time to perform and they decided now would be a good time to have a break. I stood up as Jughead, Fangs and Joaquin left, leaving me and Sweet Pea alone. He placed his guitar back. I looked at him and bit my lip. “Hey, Y/N,” he said.

“Yeah?” I replied.

“I just wanted to say that your song is really good and I appreciate you letting us play it.”

I felt my cheeks heat up. “It’s really not a big deal. If you guys need any help with anything, let me know.”

He smiled and placed his hand on my shoulder. “I will.” He walked to the door and stopped. “Hey, Y/N.”

“Yeah?”

“I was just wondering, would you like to maybe, go on a date with me?”

My mouth dropped open as I tried to form words. “I-I…”

“I know we’ve only really known each other for a week or whatever but I feel like we have a real connection. It’s okay to say no.”

I bit my lip. “I want to. I mean, I would like to go on a date with you.”

He smiled and pulled me in for a hug. “Okay, I need to go. We’re performing in less than ten minutes. Wish us luck!”

He raced out of the room and I couldn’t fight the smile on my face as I followed out into the bar. They stood on the stage. Jughead chatted with the other boys and then nodded at Sweet Pea. I leaned against the bench and watched, mesmerized by how smooth and deep Sweet Pea’s voice was. A smile formed on my lips when our eyes connected and he smiled back.

#riverdale #sweet pea #slow burn #smut #fluff #quote #prompt #writing #story #writblr

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pisati · 6 years ago

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I keep getting that feeling I always get when I feel like I need to write something, but it’s all played out. I’ve gone over all of it. old feelings I don’t care to rehash because they’re gone, all the bullshit with my mom, feeling like I want to leave, waiting til something happens.

something feels blank. blanker than usual. I didn’t start the 150 XR wellbutrin until last tuesday, but I’ve been feeling pretty bad all month so far. the first week of the month was PMS week, and usually I give myself a little space because I know it’s always at least one of the moods or the cramps or the nausea that week. but it never picked back up. I did have a rough go of it last week and I feel like I’m still recovering. any little thing is enough to put me in a mood. my mood tracker has shown pretty consistently low marks the last 3 weeks and I don’t know what that’s about. I can’t correlate it to anything in particular.

the root of it comes down to fear. not an anxiety fear; a dread fear. I’m scared things won’t work out, but I’m not anxious, if that makes sense. I know something will work out one way or another, but beyond that I’m scared of never being where I want to be. never being able to do something I enjoy, never being able to earn enough, never being able to even physically feel better. I have to hope that something will improve; I don’t want to look at things as so black and white. but the concept of “never” is still a very real possibility and I can’t ignore it. I’d take even marginally better, but it’s still kind of depressing to think that I might not ever be back to the way I used to be before I “got sick”. or whatever the fuck happened to me. I don’t remember being healthy and it breaks my heart to think that I may never be able to feel it again.

I went on a walk the other day and I came back in much more pain than when I left. I had a rough night as far as my jaw, and I took 400mg ibuprofen to stave off the headache I woke up with. I came back home after 2.5 miles to my entire face hurting. pounding headache, my nose burning and everything around it hurt. I smelled blood. I even felt a little drippy so I blew my nose (once I could pull myself off the floor), but there was no blood. I’ve never gotten a nosebleed. maybe I was mistaking the rats’ cage smell for something metallic.

I didn’t even have the energy to be upset that I came home from yet another walk and all I could do was curl up on my floor with my eyes closed. once I could open them I went to open twitter on my phone and hit a random app, only realizing it wasn’t twitter a second or two after it opened. I opened my closet and then tried to throw my tissue in the laundry hamper, because for some reason my brain confused my desire to put my clothes in the hamper with the tissue I was holding. only realized my mistake once the tissue was in midair. once I pulled myself off the floor I took another 400mg of ibuprofen, changed, and got back into bed. I hate crashing like that. I didn’t think my cognitive function got noticeably worse after exertion but apparently it does. thankfully it doesn’t last for long, but... this has never happened before. maybe in a year or two it’ll take me even longer to recover. god only knows.

that’s scary. I’m already waking up almost every day with a headache. I can’t control how much sleep I get, even when I take something for it. and nothing works for more than a few days at a time. my jaw’s been hurting for just about a year now, and that causes all kinds of head pain. when everything in my head hurts for no reason and ibuprofen doesn’t make it all go away... that alone is enough to make me hate existing.

I feel like I shouldn’t ask myself “what if I get worse?” and just focus on my day-to-day. but the fact is, it’s already gotten worse. I’m doing the best I can, though sometimes it doesn’t feel like the best I can do. I suppose instead I could ask myself “what if I plateau?” what if it stops getting worse? that’s at least semi-hopeful. but what if I never get better? I can’t just ignore that possibility. the thought that I may never be able to support myself in the kind of society we’ve created is so fucking depressing. I’m still remembering that time either last year or in 2017 when it hit me very suddenly that I also may never have someone with me and I may need to be okay alone. I don’t have a plan for the possibility that I get worse.

I used to hope one day I’d get married. I guess I still have that hope, but it’s a much more nebulous concept at this point. it almost doesn’t seem like a realistic thing for me to set as a goal. I will say it’s probably spared me a lot of anguish to essentially have written it off. if it does happen it’ll just be one of those nice things, I guess. I remember being in middle and high school, being so incredibly jealous of my best friend for always being in a relationship, all my friends who would talk to their crushes and get close enough to date them. I’d had some moments, but they never went anywhere. I’m sure I spent all those years pining over some dumb boy or another. one to the next. I remember how devastated I was when I thought this one kid in my math class might have liked me back and he asked another girl to junior prom. I didn’t even go that year. charlotte had her boyfriend, everyone else was asking everyone else. I went to senior prom just because I felt like I should at least go to one high school prom in my life, but nobody asked me. it felt like a waste of time and money anyway. I still have my dress, I don’t know what to do with it.

just... all that pain I was in. and I don’t feel any of it anymore. I’m not all that jealous of anyone. maybe it’s because I’ve since learned that being in a relationship doesn’t entail being in a good relationship. I’ve learned over and over again. from friends, from my parents. it would be nice, in theory, I think. a good one. I like going to the store with someone and actually enjoying shopping (but when was the last time I did that?). I don’t think I’d like any of the sappy stuff (have I ever?) but the idea of someone who likes me enough to even try, that’s.. wow. I haven’t even entertained those thoughts in a long time. I guess I feel it’s almost pointless to. I hurt myself enough in the past over lacking it, why keep that up? maybe I had this ideal in my head, and now I’m not even sure it’s possible. I don’t know what a secure, loving relationship is like. it’s like when people tell me I don’t know what I’m missing when they try to get me to eat some food I’ve already refused. you’re right; I don’t know. and I will never have to know if I never try it. nothing for me to be all that upset about.

but then I think about my future. what if I don’t have anyone, ever? the incident that sparked that existential spiral was so benign. I was sitting at a stoplight and watched a van turn out of the cross-street; a woman driving and an older woman in the passenger seat. I flashed forward to my future. couldn’t picture myself having anyone to drive me around when I got old. I don’t mind being alone now, but what happens if I get older and have nobody? I couldn’t even be like my dad; he at least had me and my brother as crutches. what if I get worse and I’m alone?

I know I see things differently than I used to. I feel differently. I know I’ve been feeling blank most recently; the lows still hit pretty hard but I just feel stuck in them. rather than needing to fight myself or find a way out of them. I let them run their course. I remember feeling less skeptical of people’s intentions with me. I guess it didn’t occur to me that other people could experience attraction to me but not to me. because that’s not how I am. I remember being amazed the first time a boy went down on me. wow, he must really like me if he’s willing to do that. amazing how I’ve managed to backtrack on that idea entirely. oh god, this again. I know that look. I feel every hesitation in movement, every second too long the eyes land on any part of me. please don’t put your hand there. please don’t want me. you don’t actually. you think you do for now but you don’t. you don’t mean anything you’re doing. you want what you want and once you’ve got it that’s it. it’s got nothing to do with me and in fact you wouldn’t even be thinking like that if you knew me and on and on. do I value myself that little? or do I trust other people’s intentions that little? do I have good reason to?

that kind of thinking contributed to the blankness. I don’t feel at all the way I used to. I’m not sure I know how to. could be that I just haven’t had the opportunity to, but it’s hard to know. sometimes I ask myself if I see it as a loss of innocence; I’m sure that’s part of it. I at least understand now that not everyone likes people for who they are and are attracted to them in that way if they like them enough. I don’t know why that should prevent me from being able to feel how I did before. why it should make me so distrustful. so stressed at the prospect of someone being interested in me. I used to want that. very much. there’s a chance that one of these days it’ll happen and it’ll be good and healthy and not painful, and yet... I don’t seem to believe that it’s possible. I put a stop to just about everything before it even starts. I can’t even begin to reason out why, besides self-defense. self-preservation. but what’s left to preserve?

bad experiences in the past might be a reason, sure, but I’ve accepted at this point that I let myself get hurt. other people don’t see things the way I do. it is what it is. I’ve honestly forgotten a lot of it; how bad it hurt. I wrote post after post about it while I was in it; paragraph after paragraph and never resolving anything. it just hurt so bad. I can barely remember it but the fear is still there. kind of like with my mom. I forgot a lot of the shit she did to me in high school. I forgot that all of that was probably the reason I don’t feel comfortable telling her anything, even now. I forgot the reason, I kept the fear.

sometimes I like writing with no objective. it’s nice to get some of the running narrative out of my head. sometimes I get close to whatever it is I feel like I need to write about, but sometimes it’s just a feeling that doesn’t quite go away. these are things I know I’ve thought about and haven’t ever really expressed; sometimes it’s just nice to find the right words. sometimes it’s the same things, and I feel like I need to get them out over and over.

I really do need to focus on the few good things I have coming up. I’m seeing one of my favorite bands on sunday, and maybe if I stay late I’ll get to meet them. maybe. I’m not looking forward to all the grown-ass men who are likely going to make the audience annoying at best to be in, because that’s been the case both other times I’ve seen them, but if I can get to the venue early enough and get up front hopefully I’ll be alright.

one of my best friends is coming down next week for a show; he said he can come down wednesday and maybe stay til friday, but I reminded him there’s a book store of sorts in baltimore that we really like and they’re apparently overflowing with books; he was already aware of this and the fact that they’re only open on weekends, so he said he’d check his calendar and see if he could stick around til saturday or sunday. that’ll hopefully be nice. just getting to spend time with a friend. I don’t really have anything in mind to do for all that time, though, besides the show. we’ve always managed to figure something out. I’m not really sure how I feel about it. spending time with him used to be a really nice thing for me but ever since the latter half of 2017 I’ve been even sort of nervous about it. it’s weird to be so distant from someone you’ve been so close to; this person’s seen me naked and yet I’m a little unsure of how to act with them. maybe because it was never clear-cut. because I got hurt and pulled back. because he told me he missed talking to me. I’m not sure how to be much of anything but blank around him at this point. we can still talk and joke like we always have. I just feel weird about all of it. I just need to focus on the fact that he’s a friend who’s coming to visit and it’ll be a nice few days. that’s it. digging up the past doesn’t serve much purpose at this point anyhow.

pride’s coming up; Aria and I are going to do the parade with the ace meetup she found again, and she wanted to do a craft day, so I’m going to have to decide on a shirt design I want. I like the shirt I made years ago and wore to pride last year, but I think it’s time for something else. I’m excited to plan outfits and all that with a fellow ace. I’m still amazed after all these years we still vibe so well and we both ended up ace, ha

farm jam’s coming up too, and I’m trying to plan a little better than I have in previous years. I need a new tent; I want one of my own that’s taller and at least a little bigger; I have a cot this year and I don’t think it would fit very well in the tent I have now. not to mention it’s a tent we’ve had for years, it’s not even mine, and I used it last year and it was really hard to deal with. the queen air mattress I’d been able to borrow filled the whole tent so it was near impossible to get in and out, plus it didn’t even fill all the way so I was really struggling to get up from it. it was almost impossible to change clothes. plus I had The Bucket, and there was almost no room to use it comfortably. also not ideal when you need a light in the tent, and then people can see all the shadows inside. it would be nice to get one of those darkening tents. but the ones I’ve found are all pretty low to the ground. maybe I’ll go to the sporting goods store one of these days, instead of searching the same few tents on amazon. I need to figure out my food situation too, but I think I know how I can be better prepared this year. meal prep is easy enough, and I can always pack snacks that can be taken home in case I don’t get around to eating them there. the challenge is going to be finding things that either don’t need to be cooked or don’t need much in the way of cooking. we have a fire pit every year but it’s very hard to cook over an open fire, contrary to what you’d think. it took me at least an hour last year to get water hot enough to cook the ramen I brought, and even then I don’t think it boiled. I know there’s things I can make that don’t need to be cooked, but I’ll definitely have to prep it all beforehand. we’ve had issues in the past where everyone in the group will pack enough for themselves and also for everyone else, thinking people will want to share. then we all have so much extra food we end up having to bring home. I did better last year, but still had extra. I need to think of other things to bring to the farm too, so I won’t be bored. I didn’t think I was all that bored last year, and I didn’t even use most of what I brought. maybe just a crochet thing or some other craft (maybe my stones for wrapping?), and my guitar. a book too; it was nice having The Book Thief last year. I think I brought it my first year too, and it was nice to have as company while my anxiety was doing what it does. I’m sure I could pack lighter this year, but I also don’t want to bring too little, you know? one thing I won’t skimp on is blankets. I brought as many as I could last year and I was still cold at night. it gets into the 50s at night. maybe I should see if I can find a little cordless space heater? or something that can keep my tent warm at night that won’t catch everything on fire, lol. [a quick google search told me that portable tent heaters do exist. that might have to go on my shopping list. I get entirely too cold at night and this year I won’t have a queen-sized mattress to hold all my blankets]

then of course scotland. I haven’t traveled internationally... well, I’d say in a few years, but I did just go to Cozumel last year. it didn’t quite feel like international travel, though. we went to a resort, with a bunch of other white people vacationing and the Mexican staff catering to us. the last genuine experience I had was Iceland. it doesn’t feel like it’s been 3.5 years, but it also does. I miss it a ton. I don’t know how my anxiety’s going to do with this. I already know I’m going to struggle a little through farm jam. it’s happened every year. then I’m going to have to come home and, within a few days, get on a plane. two planes. alone, for the first time in my life. I know I’ll be nervous once I stop moving. I’m not sure why that is. I want to say it’s got something to do with unfamiliarity. once I stop moving I can become more aware of where I am and what’s around me. I don’t know where the issue comes from with unfamiliarity, but I’ve always had that. something like neophobia, but not quite. I don’t really feel afraid of new things, necessarily. just some deep-rooted discomfort with it. I feel like most people have some level of discomfort with things they’re unfamiliar with; that’s only natural. but not everyone gets anxiety attacks over it. could be partly because anxiety triggers nausea, and from there the emeto anxiety takes over. it’s hard to know. I’m just glad I have a pretty decent handle over it. I could be in much worse shape mentally, for sure. so many people I know have issues much more complex than mine and while mine aren’t exactly easy to deal with, I’ve been able to power through a lot of them without help. and I think doing that made me stronger in some ways too. I don’t want to know where I’d be if I had some kind of vice as a crutch.

I would say I forget where I was going with this, but it never had a direction to begin with.

tomorrow I need to clean the rats’ cage, and I need to write a letter back to my friend in jail. I got his letter maybe a week ago and I need to just sit down and come up with something to write in response.

seems like a lot of my time lately is spent waiting to get through the day. I’m nervous to come back from scotland. I’m nervous that I’ll have heard back from this job by then, and I’m nervous either way it goes. I’m of course nervous I won’t get it, but I’m also not ready to lose my down time if I do. I feel like these last 10 and a half months have breezed by. like they didn’t even happen. I still don’t feel rested enough. I’m already kind of dreading going, because I’m dreading coming back. I hate being so bothered by the fact that everything ends.

I don’t really have much after that to look forward to. my birthday, maybe. I don’t have the energy to do anything for it this year. I don’t have anything I want to do. nobody I really care to spend it with. just a few years ago I was sad thinking my friends forgot and I tried to make plans to be around them for my birthday so it wouldn’t completely suck. I just don’t care anymore. sad to already be so disenchanted with the few little things in life people seem to care about. I would say, well, maybe I’ll have a job by then, but it’s a saturday this year. cool.

I’m not looking forward to winter. already. barely out of this last one and I’m already dreading the next. I really need to move somewhere where it’s warm year-round. everything about existing feels so much worse when it’s cloudy and grey and cold.

it’ll be a year in september since my dad passed. a month and a day after my birthday. we told some of his friends that we wanted to do a celebration of life for him, but that still hasn’t happened. I’m not sure if it’s going to, and I’m not sure how that’ll look to friends and family. I almost don’t care at this point. I should have told people to mourn how they saw fit. I’m sure that’s what he would’ve wanted anyway. a celebration of life if nothing else, but dad wasn’t really one for parties either. I know he wanted some of his ashes scattered in Iceland. one of these days I’ll be able to do it. but I know he’d have been just fine with people remembering him in their own ways. I miss him a ton. I knew I would, of course, but it never really hit me how permanent it’d be once it happened. I really would never be able to talk to him again. as frustrating as it could be, I do miss his random calls and rambling to me for an hour. his text puns. how he’d sometimes bring me a bowl of ice cream at some point in the evening when we were watching something or I was on my computer.

sometimes it hits me how different things are in my life already. I never saw them like this, and I can’t say I really like it. I’m 24 and I don’t have my dad anymore. I knew since I was 13 that one day this was going to happen. but still somehow it didn’t seem real. I still had my dad, after all. he was sick, but he was there. I don’t even have my sick dad anymore. I watched him dying. I felt his cold, stiff hands. I didn’t get to say goodbye. sometimes I still look at the box of ashes at the foot of my bed and it hits me like a truck again.

I’m honestly a little scared that no matter how good things get for me, it’ll never be good enough. I don’t know what to do about that feeling. I do feel like I appreciate where I am and what I have and how lucky I’ve been, but maybe I need to work harder at that.

I’m tired of this feeling. I don’t know what it is. besides blank, it’s just... unpleasant. it’s not even melancholy. something does feel bad, but it’s not quite sad either. maybe it’s just all these little worries eating at me. I’m sure I’d feel a lot lighter not having to worry. but wouldn’t everyone?

I’m tired of thinking. I spent all day wanting to get up and do something and I didn’t. I wanted to work on my crochet bag, and I didn’t. I wanted to work on that letter, and I didn’t. I took a nap, I watched a lot of hulu, I did some crosswords, I ate a few things, I stayed in bed. I just don’t feel up to much. I don’t like much of anything about the person I’ve been lately, but I don’t know what to do about it. I can’t induce energy. sometimes a shower and picking up my room do make me feel a good bit better, but man. I don’t feel up to showering every day while I don’t have to, but I feel so gross if I don’t. my hair’s been a pretty big source of distress for me lately. there’s nothing I can do about it and that makes me feel even worse. it’s so thin and it looks worse when it gets greasy, which it does very quickly because of 1. how thin and fine it is, and 2. how naturally oily my fucking skin is. sometimes I wish I could lose a bunch of weight so I wouldn’t look so big with such thin hair. maybe with a skinnier frame it wouldn’t look so bad. I don’t know.

I guess I should61ry to sleep. I’m afraid it’ll be just another one of those nights. the last few I’ve only managed to keep myself out for 4 hours max at a time. could just be one of those phases I’m in. yesterday I was so fucking tired. going for 15-16 hours on 5-ish total hours of sleep, and I was out quicker than usual just before midnight. still felt half-awake by the time my phone dinged at 4:30 ish. I’m pretty sure I woke up at 2-something having to pee. hard to remember.

I’m just kind of tired of existing right now. I can’t say everything sucks, but I feel just so beat up. I don’t think I have a purpose here, but it’s hard to even find anything that makes me feel like my existing is worth it at all. I don’t know.

#more long rambly posts #I do miss writing to write #getting it all out; whatever it is

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