#It's just faster to imagine it all in my head and replay the scenario whenever I want

[bunnimy]

Everytime I try to write a fanfic of mcd or mystreet I just end up thinking of the whole story from start to finish in my head and realize a whole hour later that I never typed anything down

[dasy002]

prompt 31 from fluff list for wilhemina??? "You want to have kids with me?"

Main masterlist | American Horror Story masterlist | Fluffy Sunday

Wilhemina Venable x reader

Prompt: 31

I'm late anyway I hope you enjoy 💜

I WANT TO HAVE YOUR BABY

Here we go again. 

You and Wilhemina have been dating for a little more than a year now. You've always made it clear that you love her despite her scoliosis and strong character. But sometimes her insecurities take the best of her and manage to convince her you're gonna leave her for someone else. 

Well today is one of these days. Mina came back from work in a mood and she only needed a silly text from your best friend to make her snap.

It's now been an hour of Wilhemina rambling and shouting about you leaving her, finding someone better, someone more "normal" as she likes to say and forget about her forever. 

You tried to calm her down and reassure her that you are right here with her and that you have no intention to leave her anytime soon, but it's not working.

Watching her cry, slam her fist on her head, only to pull her silky red hair a second after hurt you. They hurt at the point that you can't take it anymore, so you just scream "For the fucking love of God Wilhemina, I want to have your babies!" 

You don't realize what you did until you see  Mina frozen in her spot, staring at you in pure shock with her deep brown eyes. At this point you're the one panicking. You've never raised your voice at her. 'What if she is mad at me now and decides I'm not good for her anymore?'

On the other hand Wilhemina can't stop replaying your words in her head like a mantra. And the more she keeps doing that, the less she understands them. 'Did she really mean what she said? She wants a family… with ME?' All this question rushed through her mind at full speed.

You're the first one to speak after this embarrassing and uncomfortable silence "Venny I'm-" but the purple lady's deep voice cuts you off "You want to have kids with me?". It's a simple question to which you're afraid to answer and therefore you start to ramble "I mean, Mina you know that kids are pretty, cuddly and happy and-" but again your girlfriend cuts you off "Easy question, simple answer (y/n). Yes or no?" She tries to keep her voice flat, but you can see right through it and you manage to catch a glimpse of hope in her voice. So you decide to risk everything by simply telling her the truth "Yes, I - I want to have kids with you Mina."

Her answer comes faster than you imagine leaving you confused "That’s all I needed to hear." What doesn't that mean? 'Is she gonna leave me, for real? Does she not want babies or am I the problem?' Again the answer to your inside doubts come as soon as Mina pulls you closer to her by your hips kissing you passionately. 

"We can start whatever we need to do   whenever you want." She whispers a few inches from my lips, smiling tenderly. 

You imagined every possible scenario for this, but you are still shocked by her reaction "Is that a yes Venny?" You ask quietly only to see her smile grow wilder before she leaves a small kiss on the top of your nose "Of Course silly! I can’t wait to see a little you running around the house." She chuckles, pulling you in for another kiss. 

You are gonna have a family with the purple dragon lady and you couldn't ask for anything better. 

[mlwritingprompts]

Submitted prompt: The Future Bites the Dust

Slight spoiler for the fourth season (the episodes “Truth” and “Gang of Secrets”).

Amokized Marinette.

Hope I am not bashing the girlsquad or making it look like that since they did actually disrespect Marinette’s boundaries in the GoS.

          AU in which when the girlsquad invade her privacy after they explicitly told her they will wait for her to talk to them, while she was still dealing with the sheer emotional pain of breaking up with Luka due to her own responsibilities as Ladybug and as a Guardian, Marinette cannot keep controlling herself anymore and simply breaks down crying.

No matter how much she is trying to be positive and not allow Hawkmoth win, she is still a teenager who wasn’t supposed to even deal with half of what she was facing.

And no matter how much the girls care about her, their actions have consequences, and their disrespect of Marinette’s feelings and expectation that she will open herself to them if they pushed her to, is sadly more counterproductive than they thought, and simply pushed their anxious friend further into becoming more distressed and hurt.

And when a black butterfly reached her, it was too late and the Akuma was born as it was covered with the purple clouds.

“I am no one, except Marinette.”

When the figure appeared, it was… Marinette.

Nothing seemed to have changed, except her expression looked blank.

The girls were unable to do anything but look in amazement and horror at what happened.

“I am not the Negator, nor am I your minion, Hawkmoth.”

A circle looking like a clock appeared behind her, and it started spinning slowly.

“This present, and the future that awaits me, I will leave them to fix my life.”

The clock spun faster, and the world itself seemed to go backwards.

Everything was seemingly moving backwards in time, except her.

And then, it stopped, and Marinette lost consciousness.

——

Marinette woke up, feeling as if something is wrong, but she couldn’t realize what it is.

She then shrugged it.

This is the first day of the next school year after all, it’s normal to feel anxious, right?

And luckily, she woke up earlier! What are the chances of that?

Exiting her home with macarons to give to her classmates, a voice in her head told her to focus on going to school on time, and since she woke up earlier than she thought she would have, she reached the school in records time.

And she did not see or hear a thing when an old man was crossing the street…

A surprisingly clear voice in her head told her that she dodged a bullet, and while she didn’t know what she exactly dodged, she didn’t think too much of it.

And the world was no longer the same.

——

Imagine this scenario:

There’s a video game that is very long, has multiple interactions and more secrets than you can count.

This game also has a save function, since it is too long to be finished in just few minutes or even hours.

Someone plays the game, and ends up meeting a Game Over.

So what do they do?

They open a previous save, and replay again while slowly learning how to beat the game in a more efficient way, while evading the pitfalls they fell in the first time.

Marinette is the player in this case.

Whenever she feels an extreme high level of distress, her Akuma power activates, and the world resets to a point where she can either evade the source of stress or deal with it.

While she forgets her memory in exchange for rewinding the time of the universe, she instead instinctually (as far as she can tell) knows that she should do something specific because otherwise trouble will appear.

Naturally, this might not go completely unnoticed to the kwamies since they are bound to the universe and can feel Marinette’s power in effect, even if their memories will be mostly reset.

But they might realize that something weird is happening as time goes by.

And how does this affect Marinette, since she can instinctually evade any plot that can harm her?

How does this affect Bunnix, who will most likely see how the world is changing due to this? Does she act in a more proactive way, dismissing her “no spoilers” policy, or does she still think she knows better than anyone and does nothing until things get way out of hand?

And who is the person chosen to become the Ladybug hero/heroine in this new timeline? Are they an adult? A child? How do they see the entire “saving the world” situation that was forced on them?

And how does Adrien’s interactions go with this new Ladybug holder?

And more importantly, how does a loose variable such as Marinette, whose only criteria to activate her power and reset the world is to be extremely emotionally hurt, affect these new heroes, and Hawktmoth?

[recklessrex]

131 - Scar, Persi and Crash. I do hope this one makes a click on ur head 😅

Third time's the charm! ^^

“It’s midnight! Where the hell were you?”

If there was one thing Persimmian was good at, it was thinking on her feet. She could completely change her tactical approach in response to a changing situation in less than a second. She was a decision maker, a tactician, a cunning and quick-witted mot.

If there was anything Persi was not good at, it was waiting.

The colorpoint calico leaned against the wall near the entrance to the main chamber of the hideout, her arms crossed, her ears back, her eyes narrowed, her tail swishing rapidly back and forth. Her favorite chair awaited her, as did the celebratory booze someone had cracked open to share with the gang, but she was too restless to relax right now. It was all she could do to stand still against the wall instead of pacing up and down the room. She refused to let the gang see that she was worried.

Despite her efforts, they could tell something was up. They may not have guessed she was worried, but they might think she was pissed (which she was also, to be fair). Veteran members of the gang, however, recognized her body language as how she normally acts when she's thinking, usually when a quick decision needs to be made or plans need to be changed on the fly, but also when she's just quietly mulling over something. What, they have no idea, but they were used to their boss sitting around with her ears back, eyes narrowed, and tail swishing, just seeming to watch everything while the rest of the gang relaxed and enjoyed themselves, and they knew to leave her alone.

There were only two people that could get away with bugging her when she was brooding over some mystery thing, and those two people weren't here.

What her gang didn't realize was that it was rarely just one thing running through her mind, especially in the mood she was in now. Among the many thoughts that raced through her mind at this moment was a replay of the events of the evening, going over every detail she could call to mind, again and again, trying to find any clue that something had gone wrong.

Another thought was to list the multitude of perfectly ordinary things that could have delayed her friends' return to the hideout after the job, without causing them harm.

Still another, one that she would rather not think about, was to imagine all the things that could have happened to them on the way home, and another was assessing the likelihood of each scenario, good, bad, or neutral, and reassuring herself that they were probably fine. She trusted them to take care of themselves.

But as each minute ticked away, and still no spotted silver Aussie raising a toast to the gang's success only to poor it over some poor greenie's head, no dirt-colored scar-faced Brooklynite casually wrestling with anyone he can get ahold of between drinks, the idea that something had happened to them got harder and harder to wave away.

It was always harder to sort her mind out when the lads weren't around. She may have been devilishly clever, especially when it came to thinking on her feet, but long term planning had never been her strong point, that was Crash. He was the book-smart one too. He could patiently sort through tons of complex and sometimes conflicting information, considering scenario after scenario, rejecting the ones that didn't work and eventually landing on the best plan. His patient, organized approach to critical thinking would have been especially helpful to her now, with scenario after jumbled scenario flipping rapid-fire through her brain without any answers.

If Crash was the book-smart one, Scar was the sensible one. The guy that goes "Hey that leftover spilled beer on the table that we sopped up into a rag and squeezed into our glasses, yeah that probably has like cleaning liquids and shit in it now, and will probably poison us if we drink it," while everyone else is daring each other to drink what they think is just an awful tasting liquid. Say for example, the three of them had to find what was wrong with a car that won't start. Persi would have opened the hood and dove right in, looking for anything loose or that just didn't look right, Crash would be off to the side reading the owner's manual, while the first thing Scar would do would be to check the gas. His simple, level-headed approach to most obstacles had saved Persi's hide so many times over the years, and would have been a major comfort to her now.

She kicked the wall in frustration, startling a few nearby gang members, who quietly fled to the other side of the room. They were all too familiar with their boss's temper. She ignored them and checked her watch again, then crossed her arms once more, tapping her foot.

Where the fuck are they?

Her thoughts tumbled and tumbled around in her head faster than she could keep up with, until finally she gave up and did what she did best.

She made a decision.

"Fuck this," she growled, pushing up off the wall. Much of her gang eyed her nervously as she stormed out of the main chamber. She didn't care. She strode briskly through the passageways headed for one of the hideout's exits, ready to go on the hunt for her right-hand toms…

…and nearly ran right into the toms in question as they stumbled in through the same door she was about to exit.

"Eyyyy boss!" shouted Scar, raising his bottle in salute.

"Heya Perce!" said Crash with a little better volume control and the biggest derpiest grin plastered all over his face. "Where ya been?"

"Where've I been?" echoed Persi. "Where've I been?! I been here, where I'm s'posed to be! Where the fuck have you two idiots been?!"

"Oh, yeah" said Scar, "we jus' got herr di'n' we?" His slur wasn't all from drink. The scar on his face twisted the left side of his lip ever so slightly, not much, but enough that he always slurred more than the others whenever they drank. But slur or no slur it was still clear that they were both drunk as a skunk. Their breath reeked of booze, and they had their arms slung over each other, leaning heavily on each other and holding each other semi-upright, though the door frame was doing most of that job at the moment.

She grabbed ahold of them them, Scar's jacket in one fist and Crash's shirt collar in the other, yanked them inside, making sure to deposit them against the wall to keep them upright, and slammed the entrance closed.

"Shit boss," drawled Crash, his accent thick with booze, "wha's the mattah?"

"Yeh, ligh'en up boss, i's cool" added Scar, gesturing with his bottle nonchalantly and spilling beer on the floor of the passageway.

Persi glared at them. Other than being completely off their tits, they seemed unharmed. She looked at her watch once more and balked.

“It’s midnight! Where the hell were you?” she demanded. "You was supposed to come straight back!"

"Oh yeh, we shtopped fo' a drink" slurred Scar. Crash nodded in agreement.

"There's plenty booze here!"

"Yeah but ya know, we was drinking with friends," explained Crash.

"Othah friends I mean" he added quickly. "You're mah friend, but like, ya know-"

"We ran inta (hic) RT," interrupted Scar

"Yea, ya know, an' we got chattin" continued Crash, "and like-"

"An' we got drinkin" said Scar. Crash nodded enthusiastically.

"An' then more a' his lot showed up"

"An' we's all drinkin heheh"

"An' it turned into a real party, mate!"

"Ya shoulda been der boss, waz great!"

"We 'ad a great time!"

Satisfied with their explanation, the lads stood (well mostly stood) waiting for her response with big, dopey, lovable grins on their faces. Persi sighed and pinched the bridge of her snout where it met her eyes, resisting the urge to beat the shit out of her best friends.

She might have to have "words" with RT about distracting her lads (though the next morning Crash would remind her that Tough Guy don't appreciate people messing with his brother and their pseudo-alliance with Tough Guy's tribe was worth maintaining, and Scar would remind her that RT had no idea there was anything to distract them from anyway).

She regarded her faithful troublemakers, still smiling dumbly at her. Anybody else would have gotten a beating, or maybe even a taste of claw. But not these two. She just couldn't do that to them. Not after everything they'd been through together. She sighed again. There was no point to even lecturing them, since they probably wouldn't remember it. No, she could deal with them in the morning.

"Come on," she sighed, grabbing them by the arms and half leading, half dragging them down the passageway. "That's enough fun for you two for one night. Time for my very smashed lads to go to bed."

[kl900]

Things Could Have Been Different {D:BH Connor}

This is an alternate ending to the first part down below.

https://kl900.tumblr.com/post/174953156620/i-dont-love-you-dbh-connor

Hope you enjoy!

Connor stood still, his arm outstretched as he held you over the edge of the roof. He closed his eyes as he imagined you falling to your death, no doubt staining the concrete with blood and bones. You’d probably scream all the way down too. After your demise he would then shoot Markus, putting a permanent end to the revolution.

And all for what? His mission?

He opened his eyes finally ending his reconstruction. He tried to block out your cries, but he could still hear them. And it was breaking his synthetic heart. He kept replaying the scenario in his head. He needed to do this. For Amanda. For his mission. He had to. He had to let you fall. He had to shoot Markus.

But what if he didn’t want to.

What if. . .  Things could have been different?

He closed his eyes once more, and when he opened them he was faced with Amanda. She stared at him with cold hard eyes. She narrowed her dark brown eyes a bit, her mouth pressed in a thin line, not even trying to disguise her distaste in Connor. 

“What are you doing Connor? You have a job to do. I expect you to finish it.”

His mouth felt dry as he stared blankly at Amanda. He couldn’t. He didn’t want to. 

“N-No.”

Amanda’s nostrils flared. “What did you just say to me?”

He stood up tall. Straightening his back, her looked her in the eyes. “I said no.”

She looked at him with a mix of anger and disappointment. “Oh Connor. You were doing so well. It truly is a shame you had to become deviant. Now you must be dealt with. Conan!”

Out from behind her stepped a man. An almost perfect look alike of Connor but he was different. Taller, his hair perfectly slicked back, piercing blue eyes and a white jacket. He stood elegantly with his hands neatly behind his back. 

“This is Conan, an RK900, the latest model Cyberlife has ever created. He is your superior in every way. Faster, smarter, stronger. The best of the best,” She then turned to the RK900. “Your mission is to is to kill the RK800 and resume where he left off. Understood?”

“Yes Amanda.” It replied in a monotone voice. 

He lunged at Connor with inhuman speed, even faster than Connor himself. Connor grunted as he was tackled to the floor. He felt the RK900 digging in an attempted to pull out his thirium heart. If he managed to remove that vital piece of his mechanics he knew it would be over. He would be terminated, and worst of all? He’d lose his precious (Y/N). 

He grabbed his replacement by the head smashing it into his own forehead leaving the RK900 temporarily dazed before he brought up his foot and kicked him in the chest. He might’ve been stronger than Connor, but that didn’t make him weak. He just had to fight smarter. 

He gripped the dirt on the floor and threw them at the RK900′s face causing it to flinch and cover his optics. He then took this opportunity to grab the androids thiruim pump.

“I’m sorry,” He said apologetically as he ripped it from the machines chest and threw it into the nearby river.

The RK900 stared with a blank face, not conveying any emotion. Not even in death. It stared blankly until it went into shut down. Now he needed to find away out of his mindscape. 

I always leave a backdoor in my programs, He remembered Kamski saying. 

The stone!

He had remembered that odd stone that he always walked passed whenever he would meet with Amanda. He always felt as though it was odd and out of place but he never thought much of it. 

He noticed the state of the mindscape deteriorating. Everything was become colder, to the point that the pond had froze over. For the first time he actually felt cold. His systems began to warn him of the imminent damage the cold would cause his biocomponents. 

He felt his legs finally give in. 

NO! He was so close!

He desperately stretched up his hand as he slammed his hand down on the hand print on the rock.

He opened his eyes and he was once again greeted with your face. Your cheeks were stained with tears, eyes puffy from crying. Your eyebrows were furrowed in what he saw was confusion. How long was he standing here just holding you over the edge like this? 

“C-Connor?” You asked, voice hoarse.

He didn’t answer. He only embraced you tightly as he brought you away from the edge. He buried his face in the crook of your neck as he felt his new emotions overwhelm him. He believed this is what humans called crying. He cried for killing the two androids at the Eden Club. He cried in guilt of killing the android at Kamski’s. And he cried in guilt for putting you in that position.

“I’m sorry,” He apologized between the crying. “I’m so sorry (Y/N).”

You brought your arms around him drawing circles in his back to soothe him. “It’s okay. I’m okay.”

A moment of silence passes.

“(Y/N)?”

“Yes Connor?”

“Do you still love me?”

“Of course I do.”

He sighed in relief. “Thank goodness.”

.

.

.

“I love you (Y/N). I love you so much.”

[septic-dr-schneep]

MP Fanfiction - A Day of Remembrance

Summary:  Five years ago today, the Author was born. These days, the Host has learned not to expect a proper celebration, but that tingle of hope in his chest simply refuses to be suppressed...

Sometimes the Host wasn’t sure why he bothered to count this as the day he was born. It was the Author’s birthday, not the Host’s. The Host wasn’t born. He was manifested out of the Author’s power in a moment of desperation; he was a completely different man. Unfortunately, his inner Author didn’t seem to understand that. As soon as he woke, he felt that instinctive stir of emotion that told him today was special, something to be celebrated. He did his best to stifle it, since it would only lead to disappointment, but it kept perking up as he slipped out of bed and shrugged on his coat.

It was an ordinary day, he decided, and that was absolutely fi—

As he placed his hand on the doorframe, the Host stiffened, ducking his head against the approaching vision. His Foresight was kinder than usual, softer, spilling over him like warm water, and that made the pictures clearer and cleaner for him to make out. He opened his mouth to narrate, but the words caught in his throat as soon as he realized what he was Seeing:

Dr. Iplier was rushing back and forth from the cabinets in his lab to Bim, waiting at the door with open arms to receive the packs of balloons.

“How many packages did you buy, doc?”

“…Fifteen. You think that’s too much?”

“Of course not! You can never have enough balloons!”

 Wilford was eagerly leaning over Bing’s shoulder, urging, “Put more glitter, would ya? It’s not colorful enough! It’s gotta be blinding!”

“You think he’ll actually get to see it, dude?” Bing questioned even as he acquiesced and reached for the jar of glitter, dumping the glittering green onto the front of the card.

“Wilford knows what’s best,” the older Ego chuckled knowingly. “I’ll make sure it gets into the right hands, don’t you worry!”

 Smoke and frosting. “Oh, gee, I think I burnt the cake…” Silver Shepherd agonized as he waved the smoke away from the oven.

“You kiddin’, Shepherd? We had a perfectly good store-bought one over here!” Ed exclaimed as he threw open the refrigerator to show off the evidence. “I got seventy-five percent off on it an’ everything and you try makin’ one of your own? Those mitts of yours aren’t made for baking!”

“W-Well, my cupcakes turned out okay,” Shepherd replied sheepishly. “I’ll just…start frosting those, I guess!”

As the vision faded, the Host exhaled softly, the tingle of excitement kindling into a flame of gratitude. For the first time in a long, long time, he didn’t bother to stop it as he took half a step back, smoothing down his coat and running a hand through his hair to look a little more presentable.

Of course his friends had thought of him! He should never have doubted them; as of late, they’d gotten much better about celebrating birthdays and anniversaries of their video appearances. Why should his be any different? Bittersweet relief and hope welled warmly in his chest and despite himself, he giggled.

There wasn’t any reason to let them know that his Foresight had given them away; he’d be sure to act surprised on their behalf. Schooling his features into their natural grim pose and wiping a stray trickle of blood off on the back of his hand, he slipped out into the hall, hoping to go unnoticed. Perhaps, if he was careful, he would be able to avoid them until his Foresight let him know it was time for him to be summoned and surprised. That plan wasn’t meant to be, however; as soon as he heard the Host’s footsteps, Wilford spun away from Bing and fairly launched himself at him.

“Well, if it isn’t the late sleeper!” he crowed, nearly taking him off his feet as he tackled him around the shoulders.

“The Host bids good morning to Wilford,” he replied patiently, unable to resist the smile tugging at his face. Naturally Wilford couldn’t contain himself; whenever there was a party, he tended to let his anticipation spill over the entire day, bounce madly off the walls at the celebration itself, and then crash hard at the end of the night. “He wonders if he might have his morning coffee before—”

“Ahh, forget coffee, we’re havin’ cake for breakfast!” Wilford cut him off gleefully, pushing him toward the dining room table. “And you’re just in time to pitch in and sign this card; I managed to finagle almost everyone else into signin’ it and Bing just forged the rest, but seein’ as we don’t know what your chicken scratch looks like, you gotta do it yourself. Just try not to get it bloody! Yandere already did. You put more glitter over that, right, Bing?”

Just like that, the Host’s smile faltered and the flame of gratitude lost a bit of its oxygen. That request didn’t make as much sense. He had planned on “overlooking” Bing and the card he was making, not signing it. Why would he sign it if it was for him? Unless…

Warning bells rang quietly in the back of his mind as he let the mental images return for a split second, double-checking. There was no question that they were preparing for a party and it couldn’t be for anyone else; no one shared a birthday with him. It was too early to have a Valentine’s Day party, even by Wilford’s standards. That would likely come in a couple of days.

What had he missed?

Glancing between them in confusion and unease, the Host tuned out Bing and Wilford as they shot back and forth about the glitter, trying to process what Wilford was asking him to do, and as soon as there was a lull in their banter, he interjected cautiously, “Th-The Host would like to know who he’s addressing the card to.” That was the best way to get an honest answer—perhaps a little too honest, if the way Bing scoffed was any indication.

“Well, c’mon, it’s only all over the internet, bro!” he exclaimed, half-rising from his chair and swiping a search engine screen into the air. “Right there under ‘Famous February Birthdays’, see? Wait…Oh, I guess you can’t see that, sorry. But my buddy Chase called me up and let me know that tomorrow is his creator Jack’s birthday! He’s gonna be busy tomorrow, so we’re having an early party for him! It’s gonna be totally lit!”

Within the first five minutes of leaving his room, he had already let himself hope…

Why hadn’t he Foreseen this? His visions had never been selective before, had they? Had his own feelings dictated what he Saw and how he interpreted it? They were never meant to do that. How could he have let them cloud his judgment? Stupid, foolish, ignorant…

Stomach twisting into painful knots, he fairly collapsed into the chair Wilford pushed him toward, taking the pen Bing tossed at him and, after several seconds of hesitation, pressing it hard against the paper. He could feel the excess glitter catching underneath the pen nub and he tightened his grip against it, dragging it heavily along its course.

It was nothing. It was fine.

“Uhh…you better not tear that paper, bro; it took all morning,” Bing pointed out.

As soon as the last dark t in “The Host” was crossed, he rose, knocking his chair over and not bothering to pick it back up as he brushed past Wilford, muttering acidly, “The Host will be in his room and would like to request that he not be disturbed. It’s the best gift he could receive from them today.”

He wanted to bite his tongue as soon as he made that last remark—even more so when Wilford only responded with a puzzled, “What’s that s’posed to mean?”

“The Host won’t be going to the party; he has many other ways to occupy his time. He wants Wilford to convey his best wishes to Jack.”

Slamming his door as an end note to those venomous words didn’t feel as good as the Host hoped it would; as soon as it was securely locked, he slumped against it, pressing his lips tightly together.

He shouldn’t be a victim about this. He should return to them and tell them the truth, tell them that they had overlooked his birthday and that he was disappointed, but then they would feel bad for being unprepared. They would celebrate him out of guilt and pity; knowing them, he would become a hasty add-on to Jack’s party that no one wanted. Not even he wanted that. They shouldn’t go to the trouble…but even while they laughed and joked and celebrated someone else, their knowledge that it was his birthday too would have been enough for him.

When was the last time they had celebrated it? Not since he was the Author, at least. That realization let a bitter noise escape his throat—a laugh or a sob, he didn’t know. It was no wonder they’d forgotten. The Author was no more. If anything, this should be a day of mourning him.

That was what it would be then. Even if it was forgotten by the others, he would have a day of remembrance. He remembered the Author waking up to the sweet smell of cake and smiling into his pillow before he even sat up because he knew that the others were waiting for him. He remembered the light, the sounds, the food melting in his mouth, the proud voices praising him, fondly calling him their Author, and the hands playfully ruffling his hair and patting his back. He remembered how loved the Author had felt, for the first time since he was born.

He held onto that memory now as he drifted away from the door toward his desk chair, sinking into it and putting his head in his hands. Breathing deeply, he let his Hindsight replay it on a loop, occasionally hovering over the better parts, rememorizing their details. Every time he tried to imagine a scenario with the Host in the picture, however, the memory blurred and his head started to ache.

It wasn’t meant to be for him. For him, it was an ordinary day, and if the blood flowed a little faster after this thought, no one else was there to notice.

The Host wasn’t sure how long he sat there, reminiscing on the better times, but by the time he was jostled out of his thoughts, his cheeks were wet, his throat was dry and his stomach was achingly raw. He never had gone back out for coffee and food, he realized distantly as he straightened in his chair, spinning it around when he heard a few quiet taps at the door.  

He was unaffected, the Host reminded himself fiercely. He would ask if the party for Jack was enjoyable and he would make sure his voice was steady and sure when he did so.

When his flash of Sight came, he realized that the visitor wasn’t at all who he’d expected it to be, so the question never made it out. The Host took half a step back, his fingers tightening on the edge of the door as he leaned a little more of his weight against it. The King of the Squirrels fidgeted, gnawing on his peanut buttery lower lip and not quite looking the Host in the face.

“…Hello,” he ventured, bobbing a brief bow before glancing over his shoulder. “You aren’t busy, are you?”

“Whether or not the Host is busy depends on what the King needs,” he answered warily.

“I don’t need anything, thank you. I wanted—well, I don’t know if anyone else remembered, but it’s your birthday. I expect you already know that,” the King assured him, a touch of shyness coloring his voice. “Or maybe you forgot too, since you haven’t come out of your room all day. I never got the chance to give you my gifts.”

The Host barely had a chance to react before the King had squared his shoulders and was brushing aside his cloak’s folds to push a well-sized rectangular box and a large, lumpy, lopsided package into his hands. The Host fumbled with them slightly, holding them tightly against his chest as he glanced between them and their giver.

“How…or w-why…did the King remember?” he stammered gingerly.

“It wasn’t hard,” the King brushed it off simply, though the Host sensed he was doing his best to hide the sadness in his words as he continued. “The Author was my best friend and I gave him a good deal of gifts when I celebrated his birthday. You…hm. You may not be him anymore, but you deserve the same. So I wish you a kingly birthday, Host.” That said, he swept another bow, deeper and more graceful, before spinning on his heel and striding down the hall, no doubt toward the backdoor.

The Host stayed where he was for several seconds, processing what had just happened, and then he lowered his head over the box and the package, huffing lightly in disbelief. He barely registered the trip back to his chair, more focused on choosing which gift to open first. Eventually he opted for the lumpy bundle, twirling the ribbon around his fingers a few times before tugging it loose.

Into his lap spilled a thick scarf, made of real fur, if his Sight wasn’t deceiving him. That did leave him to wonder where the fur had come from; it wasn’t from the squirrels, surely! It didn’t matter; the scarf was astonishingly soft as he picked it up, automatically narrating his appreciation for it to the empty room. He couldn’t resist lightly nuzzling his cheek against it before wrapping it loosely around his neck and turning his attention to the box.

From the sound of it, the box was filled with sheaves of paper, he noted in puzzlement. As soon as his fingers brushed the top sheet, however, Hindsight struck in full force. The King and the Author. The King and his “scribe”, bent over their latest story, bickering over the edits to be made. Hands with dramatic gestures, rubbing tense shoulders, offering food after hours of work, dragging him outside into the fresh air.

“Bring your bat, Author, and I’ll pitch for you! We’ll get your blood pumping and your brain bursting with ideas again in no time!”

“Heh. What would I do without you?”

So many stories. So many characters poured onto the pages by the Author and given life through the King’s reading. He read late into the night—their fairytales. What was a King without a fairytale? What was a tale without an Author?

Surprised laughter. Needed warmth. Unlikely friendship. Unexpected care.

The Host took a shuddering breath as his Sight faded, returning him to his room and letting the nostalgia fade into a lump in the back of his throat. Swallowing around it, he returned the lid to the box and slid it to the edge of his desk. It would stay there until he was prepared to look through the memories again. It was a beautiful gift.

“I see I wasn’t the only one thinking of you today.”

Any hope that the lump in his throat would ease was promptly quelled by that voice. Again the Host spun his chair around, rising before it had even stopped its motion.

“I don’t suppose this has been a particularly happy birthday for you,” Dark mused aloud, his tone bordering dangerously on the anger he’d worked meticulously to suppress. “Seeing as only one of the others remembered it.”

Inhaling deeply, the Host took a step closer; he could feel Dark’s aura stirring, tickling his exposed skin as it twitched in agitation. He knew the anger was on his behalf, but he offered a slight smile against it.

“Thanks to the King’s gifts and Dark’s timely arrival, the Host holds out some hope that his birthday evening will be better than the day itself.”

Though he wasn’t using his Sight at the moment, he could hear Dark forcing a smile in return as he hummed in agreement. After a beat of silence, Dark cleared his throat, drawing closer and wrapping his arms snugly around the Host’s shoulders for a long series of seconds. Taken aback by the hug but unprotesting, the Host leaned into the contact until Dark was the first to withdraw. As soon as he did, the Host perked up, pulling his new scarf in closer around his neck against the unexpected chill of the evening air as he Looked around.

“Oh…Dark has taken them to their favorite walking route,” he realized with a wry laugh, shaking his head.

“I thought it was appropriate. We do come here most often when the others are otherwise occupied, and since they’re more than happy gallivanting around with the Septic Egos…”

“Dark ought to warn the Host next time before transporting him somewhere,” the Host pointed out, doing his best not to let on how grateful he was for the consideration—for any of this. “If he’d pulled away prematurely, he could have ended up in two places at once and that would be distinctly unpleasant.”

“As if you had any intention of pulling away,” Dark shot back just as easily, sliding an arm through his and pulling him into an easy stroll. “Now allow me to take you wherever you’d like to go for dinner. I suspect you haven’t eaten.”

How had he—? The Host stopped himself mid-question, ducking his head to hide a grin. Of course his friend had thought of it. He should never have doubted him.

[regigigina]

Public Transportation Part.1

I would describe my younger self as adventurous. I liked to live life dangerously you know, like ordering spaghetti marinara while wearing a white shirt, then washing my white and dark coloured laundry in one load. Most memorably, I indulged in that adrenaline rush of almost missing my rides - be it by coach, train, even aeroplane.

In the early days of my freshman year in Southampton I barely had one close friend, so I took an absolute delight in going on weekend trips to London to see my old friends. They were the friends I met during my preparatory year in Cambridge, and London was perfectly situated halfway between us. I would take the train from Southampton Central and disembark at the trains’ terminus, London Waterloo or Victoria.

Our meeting point in London would usually be some museum I want to visit. I never ceased to be in awe with the British Museum permanent collection, replete with Italian renaissance and Egyptian mummy display. I never cared much for Victoria & Albert Museum design oriented inventory, but gosh, the marvelous Gamble Room inside is perhaps the most stunning room to have an afternoon tea in.

On entry to the cafe, one will pass a magnificent marble fireplace standing in between two archways, facing intricately carved Ionic columns and beyond them, a curved wall adorned with ornate stained-glass windows. The entirety of the wall is laminated with red-hued ceramic mosaics and golden metal plates. The pièce de résistance, however, is the sparkling orb chandeliers which sets the whole place ablaze with opulence.

Other times we would be frugal and head for the usual Turkish kebab place in Bayswater which my friend said, unlike its neighbours, had not learnt of inflation for the last three years. Or when homesickness hits, we thought it wise to queue an hour long for the famous, always so jam-packed Peking duck place (which shall go unnamed here because you will see in a bit). Their roast duck pancakes were so good, even the plate banging service and the bills, which were always served before asked (rude!), did not lose them their loyal customers. Anyway, rumour has it that the original chef eventually defected to a fancier Chinese restaurant - I kid you not - in Bayswater, just a couple blocks away from our kebab place.

They were also the friends who introduced me to such whimsical cuisines as Duck & Waffle, as in literally duck confit on top of a waffle, Polpo, an Italian establishment serving their food Spanish tapas style, and my all time favourite (drumroll, please...) Belgo Centraal, which serves moules-frites any way you could imagine it: classic, Provençal, to Thai or Indian-style (too adventurous) in an underground dining space one could reach only by descending a prison style industrial lift - that or a drab flight of stairs.

London with my friends was like a city full of paper wrapped gifts, each weekend unwrapping a few to show the little marvels inside. I never spend enough time with them and certainly not looking forward to going home. At the end of the day though we would go our separate ways, most of them to Cambridge by way of King’s Cross Station, and myself to Victoria Station to catch the 23:00 train to Southampton, and not a single train earlier.

One weekend, I had to go home on the Saturday whilst my friends stayed over until the next day. Since they were not in a hurry to catch any train that night, gone was my natural cue to leave. Can’t say I remember where we were that evening, but positively a good distance away from Victoria Station. It was half past ten when I finally admitted to myself that I need to take off. We said goodbye and I rushed to the tube station.

”I could get there in 18 minutes,” I reckon, resigning myself at this moment, because there was nothing I could do to make the tube trains go faster.

A brief background here, train tickets in the UK can be issued as open return passes valid for 28 days, or as day return passes for a lower price. The National Express coach (bus) fares are even more affordable. Once I journeyed twenty-hour long from Southampton, which as the name imply, lies on the very south coast of England, to Inverness in Scotland, the town nearest to Loch Ness, for a mere £20. But I usually avoid the coach whenever economically possible because I tend to get carsick, the coach ride takes longer, and the service terminates in London in a decrepit station.

Now that day I was holding a day return ticket, and being late for the last train would not be a prudent option. I was indifferent between indulging in a cab ride to Victoria and missing the last train, since they probably cost about the same. Worst case scenario, I take the cab and still manage to miss the train anyway, then that would cost me twice as much. So there I was ten minutes before my train departs, minding the gap out from the tube train and into the crowded platform. I hurried through a gate and to a long flight of stairs, then paced briskly along the endless tunnel, until an escalator gave way to the vestibule of Victoria Station. 

“Yes! I have five minutes left!”

But Victoria is by no means a small station. To save time, I bolted to the south-bound section at once while my eyes searched the announcement board for my train’s platform. The appropriate expression to describe my haste would be to run like the wind; but really I was wearing ankle boots with heels and carrying two bags that kept pounding my back and each other, and judging by the sound of it I was running more like a horse than wind.

“Platform 5!  Double check, yes, platform 5 Southern service calling at Clapham Junction, East Croydon, etc. etc. etc... and Southampton, that’s the one!” I read.

I dashed to platform 5, hopped on the train and seized the nearest seat just as the train doors closed behind me, the whistle sounded and off the train went, first slowly then swift and steady. Six minutes into the ride, the train stops at Clapham Junction for ten minutes. I was still out of breath from scurrying around the station and had not stopped breaking a sweat. I calmed down after a while and noticed that the seats were only sporadically taken, so I relocated to a quieter spot. By the time the train left East Croydon, I was already quietly giggling by myself, replaying in my head some funny jokes my friends had told me earlier.

The train announcement went as per usual, “This is a Southern service to Brighton, calling at Gatwick Airport, Haywards Heath, Burgess Hill, and Brighton, where this service will terminate.”

My eyes opened wide and I looked up. Come again?!

I was convinced I got on the right train - I double checked it. Did my eyes deceive me? I could not make sense of it and went dizzy for half a second. I waited for the announcement to repeat itself.

“This is a Southern service to Brighton, calling at Gatwick Airport, Haywards Heath, Burgess Hill, and Brighton, where this service will terminate.”

“Oh no no no, not good. Did I just get on the wrong last train?! What if I wind up in Brighton - where will I stay the night? Do I wait at Brighton station until it’s open tomorrow morning? That doesn’t sound safe. Do I know anyone in Brighton - I do, actually. But it’s almost midnight, it would be rude to knock on their doors - assuming they are still awake, that is! Shiiiiit.

Maybe I should alight at Gatwick, airports are suppose to be open 24 hours, right? But how will I get home, take the morning train? Ugh, I really don’t feel like spending the night at the airport, it’s not like that film ‘Night at The Museum’. Taking the cab to Southampton would perhaps cost me around £100 - rididulous!”

Only days later did I figure out what exactly transpired that night. Basically two train companies service the London-Southampton route: the pricey South West which runs services from Waterloo, and the cheaper Southern from Victoria. The Southern service stops at a great many small stations along the south coast, increasing journey time to 2 hours. As a student, however, I preferred to redeem 40 minutes of my time for a £10 worth of saving, unless South West was having their occasional discounts, matching their prices with Southern’s.

Now from London, Southern normally runs two distinct services to Brighton and Southampton, never shared, not as far as I knew anyway. Both trains stops at Clapham Junction, East Croydon and Gatwick, but then diverge to their respective terminus. That Saturday night the Southern service to Southampton did not run, presumably due to some disruption, whose announcement I must have missed. Instead, courtesy of Southern, I was supposed to take the Brighton train and transfer to the South West service to Southampton at Clapham Junction. At Clapham Junction. Where I was still catching my breath.

Back in the train, incognizant of these facts, I was hit by a surge of panic. I rose from my seat and frantically searched for the ticket inspector. I found her soon enough, in her customary white shirt / black vest uniform and holding the electronic ticket machine, standing by the train doors in the next carriage, and asked her whether I had boarded the wrong train. In all likelihood, she must have explained things as I understood it later, but at the time all I grasped was that I should have switched trains at Clapham Junction, and I did not. She offered the best solution was to disembark at Gatwick and take the National Express coach, the last service being at 1 a.m.

“Great. This looks like it’s going to be a long night,” I resigned. 

It was half past midnight when the train reached Gatwick Airport, I thanked the inspector and she gave me a knowing look, a mix between pity and I-have-seen-many-like-you-before. I made my way into the terminal building and traipsed a never-ending corridor to the coach station. By the time I got there my soles started hurting. The place was desolate; brightly illuminated by the orange tinged street lamps but still, silent as a grave, save for the hum of aeroplanes and the occasional sirens. Not a single person was present, neither was the coach.

I inspected the timetable, “Last coach... Arriving at 1:00 a.m., departing 1:10.”

I sat down on the cold, perforated metal bench, contemplating if I should purchase the ticket online and save some money. But getting on the coach without a printed out ticket is a risky stance, some drivers would not let a passenger board by showing only their phone screen. I figured I had not enough luck left for a wager that night, and better pay the driver in cash. I dipped into my wallet to prepare the exact amount for the coach fare and - blimey! There was no cash in my wallet, not a single penny!

I was convinced I had at least two tenners with me - if I spend it on something earlier that day I could not remember what. I grew resentful of the circumstances and pain started creeping up my neck. I really wished I had been on the right train right now, dozing off on my way to Southampton. I took a peek at my phone - 00:51 a.m., I had ten minutes to find cash.

I scrambled into the terminal building, my bags again pounding at my back and each other, and now the pain on my soles was unbearable. My eyes searched for maps, directions, officers, anything, anyone to ask where the ATM is, but there were only a handful of other passengers traversing the building with their wheeled luggages - I did not suppose they could be informative at all. 

I took my chances and went whichever way my feet took me. As it is in such critical moments, the nearest ATM just happened to be located way on the far side of the building. I inserted my bank card into the machine, took the money, and checked the time: 00:58. Have you ever felt despaired and energized at the same time? I did a quick calculation in my head.

“Seven minutes to get here, seven minutes back to the coach station. Minus time spent looking for the ATM and taking money, let’s say six... So, I will make it at 01:04. If my feet can do it. If my phone tells the same time as the driver’s!”

I concluded it was no time to gamble, so I took off the damned boots, freed my feet, grabbed both boots by the left hand, and sprinted back to the coach station as fast as I could. All eyes on me, I did realise, but not care. I was only concerned with going home that night. Just as I exited the terminal building, a patrol officer in her hi-vis jacket stopped in her tracks, chuckled, bewildered by my barefootedness. The coach had arrived, stationed next to the bench where I had sat, its engine rattling and passenger door ajar, although no one was getting in or out. Thank goodness the driver was so punctual, he did not leave before 1:10!

I climbed onto the coach and paid my fare in cash. The driver too, was amused by my lack of footwear. Now that I was confident I had dodged a sleepover in the airport, I did find it slightly comical. I was too hammered to put my shoes back on, I placed them on the floor next to my feet and rested my eyes. Minutes passed, but I could not fall asleep and grew impatient. I guessed I might as well catch up with some reading until I get carsick. I carefully removed my laptop out of its bag, but as I did, something else fell out onto my lap.

They were banknotes, three ten-pound notes.