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collecting-stories · 4 years

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Peace - pt. 04 - Rafe Cameron

Summary: The moments leading up to your wedding to Rafe.

A/N: I’m so sad to see this series end honestly, I’ve so loved writing this version of Rafe. Could probably write him like this forever😂 (I should note that I truly hate the Reagan’s but I do admire the love they had for each other and that’s why I reference them.)

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Rafe’s first apartment in Boston was a little generic. It was sleek though, modern, like someone had plucked it right out of a magazine and stuck it, piece for piece, into his living space. And it stayed that way for almost three years and then you left your coat hanging in the hall closet. It was banana yellow and looked like it belonged in a Paddington Bear book. But it was just one jacket and when he closed the closet door no one could tell the difference.

But then a toothbrush popped up, green against his color coordinated grays. A pair of sneakers you wore to the gym sat in his bedroom, a pastel rainbow of colors highlighting the white of everything else. They were small though, little minute changes that he could hide away until slowly, maybe without him even realizing it, you were all over the apartment. A dog bed for Fivel, throw blankets that you somehow smuggled into his place and never took home, by New Years his apartment looked more lived in than it had in three years prior.

It wasn’t just your things that made their way into Rafe’s apartment though. It was you. Somewhere between a one-night stand in college, a first date, and your second New Years eve together, you had made room for yourself in Rafe’s life. The somewhat generic party boy that had coasted through every other aspect of his life, relationships included, was suddenly thinking more than a week in advance.

He was thinking about houses, about where you could live together. A place that was yours and his, that was a space you both chose, you both decorated, you both lived in together. He thought about actual schedules, yours and his, but he thought far in advance to. What it would be like to come home from work at night and spend time with you. Watching dumb TV shows and eating take out and trying to cook and buying groceries together. It was all on his mind, all the time.

He’d taken up showing you houses now, brownstones in Beacon Hill that had enough bedrooms for kids, “I liked the one with the garden.” You said, passing Rafe his phone back.

That was new, at least in the last year that you were together. Topper had been the first one to say something about it when he’d been up to visit for Rafe’s 27th birthday. Sitting there on the couch watching the game, talking about what bars they were going to hit up.

“I can check...” Rafe patted his pocket for his phone, “babe, do you have my phone?”

“Oh yeah, sorry. Mine died and I plugged it in the bathroom.” You had walked into the room like it was nothing and handed over Rafe’s phone and Topper just sat there in mild shock. There hadn’t been a time in their friendship that Topper could pinpoint Rafe ever letting anyone use his phone. Just looking at the lock screen ran the risk of incrimination.

“He lets you use his phone?”

“As long as I don’t look at the messages his other girlfriends send him.” You joked, your sentence dissolving into laughter when Rafe tripped you and pulled you down into his lap.

“I don’t want to sound like a broken record here but...you’re just totally different man.” Topper confessed later once the two of them went out bar hopping. A school day the next morning demanded that you stay in but you waved them off and told them to have fun. Topper had been friends with Rafe since high school and he had seen all the bad sides of him. The excessive drinking, the recreational drug use, “I’ve never even known you to be monogamous.”

Rafe shrugged. It was probably true but there in the bar, where any other time, regardless of a girlfriend, he would’ve been more than happy to get some attention, he was just drinking, texting you sporadically. “I don’t know. I gave her a key to my place over Christmas.” He admitted, “I think I'm losing my mind.”

“That might not be a bad thing.”

“It definitely isn’t.”

Two months later, in March, when Rafe suggested, for the first time, that you should live together you had assumed he meant in one of your apartments. Yours was smaller than his so you figured it would be ruled out immediately. But you didn’t necessarily love his apartment building and the co-op that owned it could be a little strict for your taste. But Rafe didn’t mention either apartment. Or anything more on the matter until April when he asked what you thought about a brownstone while you were walking Fivel.

“Kind of big for two people and a dog.” You joked, slowing down in front of one of the brownstones in Beacon Hill. They were beautiful, the epitome of Boston life, a dream you’d definitely let yourself have before.

“What if we’re not two people and a dog forever?”

Rafe had a way of asking questions that sent your head spinning with all the giddy hope and optimism you thought you’d packed away when you decided that traditional life and milestones weren’t for you. When you knew for sure that people who got married for 30, 40, 50 years were just flukes, it wasn’t something to aspire to because it was never going to happen to you. The cynicism had been easy for a long time but then, whenever you were with Rafe, you felt like it was melting away.

He told you to look at brownstones, see if there were any for sale that the two of you thought could fit into your life. You looked on the cheaper side of things while Rafe was more realistic about his finances. And yours, you had told him around the same time as Ian’s wedding that your grandparents had set up a substantial trust for you that deposited to your account monthly. Enough that working was just because you wanted to.

It was no surprise that it was Rafe who found a house. A beautiful brownstone right in Beacon Hill with a garden entry, nestled back from the street, between two other homes, the courtyard in the front. It was gutted inside, closer to your proposed budget but it would require enough of an overhaul that you and Rafe would be putting a decent amount into renovations.

“You said you liked the one with the garden.” And somehow it became the second real argument you had. Silly, because you both loved the place. But you seemed willing to resist, to hold out even though he knew you wanted it.

You had sent pictures to your mom, saved images on Pinterest boards of all the house inspiration you could find, had bookmarked different tiles and wallpapers and furniture stores. And yet every time he mentioned it you said you weren’t sure.

“We’re supposed to sign today to buy it.” Rafe complained as you stalled. He was pulling his coat on and his scarf, the temperature drop in Boston was a nightmare, especially for Rafe. He hated the winter, and the fall, and part of the spring.

“I’m just not positive.”

“What’s the matter with it this time?” He asked, a little more than exasperated honestly.

You sighed, sitting down on the bar stool in Rafe’s kitchen. You knew what was the matter, the same thing that was the problem every time that you thought about the brownstone a little too long. “What if something happens?”

“What do you mean?”

“What if something happens between us? What if we start renovating and you hate all the stuff I like or what if we move in and you break up with me-“

“Can I ask why I’m doing all these things?” He asked, walking back over to where you were sitting, turning the seat of your stool so that he could cage you in a little. “What if you hate the stuff I like or you break up with me?”

“That’s ridiculous.” You dismissed.

“Yeah and it’s ridiculous for you to think that stuff about me.” He replied, “look, I get it. I’ve never taken anything seriously before. All the shit my dad says about me is true but this,” He waved his hand between the two of you, “there’s nothing I want more than this. Okay?”

“Okay,” you nodded, “but I want pink cabinets in the kitchen or no deal.”

Rafe smiled, shaking his head before. “Whatever you want.”

“That’s dangerous.” You teased, leaning forward in your chair and tilting your head up a little, silently asking him for a kiss which he happily reciprocated. “I love you, I just freak myself out sometimes.”

The brownstone took six months to finish, six months of meetings with a contractor, six months of walking through half finished abstractions and picking out tile and flooring and cabinets and paint. Six months of talking about color schemes and trying to convince Rafe that the pink velvet sofa was moving into the house.

And somehow, during those six months, it wasn’t Rafe’s modern, spacious, sleek apartment that you co-habituated in but your apartment. Smaller, brighter, more homely. Rafe’s lease ended before yours and he wasn’t sure how you convinced him but he moved out of his apartment, sold furniture he didn’t care about, and moved into yours.

The brownstone wasn’t the only thing that occupied Rafe’s mind during those six months. Between work and renovations Rafe had started spending an unhealthy amount of time looking at rings. There was a significant difference between what he knew you would like (which he had to base solely on what he knew about you because damn it if you never brought up a wedding at all) and what he would’ve liked to give you. He considered asking but he thought that might be in bad taste, who asks someone to help with their own proposal. So he did the next best thing he could think of.

“This is so exciting.” Nina’s high pitched whisper was hardly a whisper at all, far too invested in this ‘no one could see them talking’ conspiracy. She claimed it was for your benefit, to keep the secret a little longer, but Rafe had a better idea that it was just so she could boast about having helped after the fact. “God, this one is beautiful.”

“I thought she’d like it, it’s not very traditional and it’s something she’d feel comfortable wearing at work.” Rafe replied. He decided that was an important criteria. You didn’t wear a lot of jewellery solely because you worried about six year old hands grabbing at it or losing it throughout the day.

“I like it, I think she’d really love it.” Nina replied honestly, “you should just go with your gut, you know what she likes.”

“I just second guess myself.”

“Well don’t, you guys are…it’s nice, to see her with someone that makes her happy. She used to be so stressed all the time with Ian and he was always such a dick to her.” Nina commented. She let Rafe take his laptop back, the two of them sitting at a table in the Starbucks near your apartment.

The ring was modest and, for lack of a better word, delicate. It had been the first one he’d seen that he’d felt confident about and hearing Nina confirm that you would love it reassured that anxious feeling in his gut. He didn’t know how to explain it in a way that made sense, that didn’t sound like some cliché sound bite, but this wasn’t something he ever thought about it. He had friends who thought about stuff like that, who made plans or thought further ahead than a week but he had never been one of them. Topper had been right, this wasn’t him. Or, not the version of him that he had been before.

“You have plans to propose?” Nina asked, sipping her latte and watching Rafe so casually ordering the ring right there in Starbucks like it was a pair of shoes.

“The house is done in two months so, I was thinking about waiting until then.” He shrugged.

“You’re gonna ask her to marry you just, in your house?”

“It’ll be first thing, kinda a ‘here’s our house, marry me’ thing. Why?” He asked. Rafe thought it was a pretty good idea. Take you to the house for one last walk through before you officially moved and ask you to marry right on the rooftop deck that you loved so much.

“Just wondered,” Nina replied. “You were so worried about the ring, I expected you to be more unsure about everything.”

“I knew the brownstone was the spot when we toured it with the realtor.” He replied, matter of fact. “Obviously don’t say anything.”

“I won’t, I promise.”

Rafe could’ve asked you about a ring, a wedding, future kids, and you probably still wouldn’t have put two and two together. It wasn’t that you didn’t think about those things because you did. It was like flipping on a TV that was only playing a series of ex machina broadcasts. Even if you weren’t thinking about it immediately it crept in. When Anya had told you about her honeymoon you immediately wondered what your own might be like, if it would ever happen. When a new class of kids started and a name stuck out to you as one you liked you’d start to wonder about your own future children.

You thought about the future to an overwhelming degree and you always had. But you didn’t think that Rafe did. Or, more accurately, you didn’t want to think about whether or not he did. What if dating was enough? What if the brownstone was enough? Your mom always spooked you with the same advice, “never move in with a guy before you’re engaged or you’ll never get married”.

You only broached the subject once, laying on the couch after a day of parent-teacher conferences and watching the Bachelorette because it was ridiculous and you needed ridiculous television.

“You could audition for this show.” You called as Rafe came out of the bedroom, changed out of his work clothes (slacks, button downs, you were truly blessed to see both sides of his wardrobe as often as you did).

“For…” he looked at the screen as he pulled his Duke University shirt over his head, “for the bachelorette?”

“Yeah, I bet you’d be like, a fan favorite.”

“I don’t know how you watch this, it’s all manufactured.”

“It’s kinda nice though, I mean they all get right to the point.” You replied.

“Saying ‘I wanna marry that person’ before they even know each other is dumb. Very rarely does that happen in real life.” Rafe said, walking into the kitchen.

“Will you make me popcorn? Also, it’s not dumb…you’ve never met someone and been like ‘that’s the one’ right off the bat?” You called.

Rafe grabbed the popcorn out of the cabinet, Fivel appearing at his feet at the sound of rattling. “Did you feed Five?” He asked, already opening the fridge to grab his food.

“Only dry food before I walked him.” You called back, “you didn’t answer my question.”

“Your question is a trap.” He replied.

You sat up, leaning over the back of the couch so that you could see him in the kitchen. “It is not!”

Rafe only hummed, ignoring you as you flopped back onto the couch to watch Chris Harrison announce that the guys were flying to Ireland for the next leg of the competition. Rafe looked back over at the TV before putting your popcorn in the microwave. Fivel ate and then headed into the living room, jumping up on the wing chair that you always kept a heating pad and blankets on. Somewhere in all the domesticity of his life Rafe had stopped thinking so much about the differences. He didn’t dwell too much on the kid he’d been in North Carolina and just let himself enjoy doing absolutely nothing with you on a Tuesday night, watch trash TV and talking about all the stuff you had to do in the upcoming weeks.

He carried the bowl of popcorn into the living room with a beer and a diet coke, depositing everything on the coffee table. He turned the heating pad on for Fivel before sitting on the other end of the couch from you, your socked feet tucking under his thigh. “College,” Rafe said, glancing over at you.

“What?” You sat up a little bit, moving away from him only to move closer.

“When I saw you in the stairwell at Duke. I was pretty sure.” He replied. Pretty sure was an understatement. If there was one thing that Rafe was positive about it was that he had known then and there, as you stood on the other side of the door in the cold, or maybe before that even, when you first walked into his line of view, that you were it. He would’ve chased that feeling forever if he’d never gotten a second chance at it.

“I was so nervous that night...I thought like worse case, you were gonna try to take advantage of me,” you pointed out.

“There goes my credibility.”

“Well, in hindsight, we did sleep together. But you’re just…I don’t know. Especially in college. I don’t think I’ve ever met a person in my entire life who so embodies the phrase ‘I get what I want’ but you certainly did then.” You replied. He still did now but you didn’t want to give him too much of an ego boost.

“I’d say I can’t argue but you never did call me back.”

“Yeah well you’ve got me now.” You teased.

Rafe had told Nina he had it all figured out. In two months he would propose to you, in the house you bought together, and it would be romantic and thoughtful and planned. And all of it went out the window for a Tuesday night in a cramped apartment watching the Bachelorette and eating popcorn.

“Marry me.”

“What?” You looked away from the group date that was dissolving into chaos on the screen. You had to shift back a little to look at him because when you’d moved you’d leaned your whole body against his.

“Marry me.” He repeated, that same confidence that had been seeped in every word that he spoke when he flirted with you in college was there now, as if he was just so incredibly sure of himself. “I was gonna wait another two months to ask but I’d rather not.”

“Okay, yea, yes.” You nodded. You felt like a whirlwind was going in your mind, all the things you wanted to happen, the things you pretended not to think about, that you spent far too much time on, came rushing forward as you kissed him, unconcerned with the TV or anything other than your boyfriend in that moment.

Rafe kissed you back, pulling you over his lap, hands on your hips. He was all for a quiet Tuesday but he certainly wouldn’t complain about having this instead. “Bedroom?”

“Yes sir.” You replied, arms wrapped around his shoulders and smiling against his mouth. Your grip tightened when Rafe stood suddenly, your legs locking around his waist as he carried you into the bedroom.

You had teased him the first time you toured your future home that he would have to buy a really good couch for the living room so he wouldn’t have to carry you up a flight of stairs. He’d only replied that he would have to put an elevator in.

“You didn’t ask about a ring,” Rafe pointed out, laying in bed with you, hand holding yours over his chest.

“What do you mean?”

“People usually propose with a ring.”

“Oh,” you scrunched your nose up and pressed your forehead against his shoulder, you hadn’t even thought about a ring. Anything that wasn’t solely Rafe had gone out of your head without much effort, your sole focus on him and the fact that he’d asked you to marry him. There was nothing else you could even imagine thinking of in that moment. “I totally forgot.”

“I was going to propose at the house, when we moved in,” he commented, tightening his grip around your waist as if he could pull you any closer.

“That would’ve been really nice.”

“I know.” He had it all planned perfectly, “so I won’t have a ring for another month or so.”

“You shouldn’t have mentioned it then! I might not’ve even realized it.” You teased.

“Oh, I’m sure you wouldn’t have.” Rafe replied, “you probably would’ve forgotten we were engaged. I could’ve re-proposed.”

“You should’ve, you could’ve made it more romantic.”

“What can I say,” he shrugged, “I’m impatient.”

“That’s okay,” you reasoned because honestly it was fine. This was good enough, “you just couldn’t resist me.”

“Yeah that’s what it was.”

“Hey!” You laughed, untangling yourself to sit up in bed, “hey, did you have a speech and everything? Was it gonna be like, really sappy?”

“I did have a speech, yes.” Rafe replied. “It was pretty good too.” And it should’ve been, he had drafts saved on his phone of different possible speeches he could’ve given you.

“Are you gonna not read it to me now?”

“It’s on my phone.”

“Easy fix.” Before he could grab you, you had gotten off the bed, running out to the living room. You made it to the other side of the door before you ducked back in, grabbing Rafe’s shirt off the ground. “Mrs. Murphy is home.”

“Flash her, she’d love it.” Rafe joked, laughing when you threw up the middle finger at him as you left the room.

Your window ‘neighbor’ was a retired older lady who liked to sit in her living room and pretend to watch TV. In actuality she had angled her TV just so that she would be able to watch all the windows on the building beside hers, your building, and she’d caught you in some fairly compromising positions since you had started dating Rafe. She was happy to peep and you were pretty sure Rafe purposely walked around the living room naked or next to naked just to give her a show but you most definitely were not.

“Is it in your notes?” You asked, coming back into the room with Rafe’s phone in your hands, swiping through apps.

“I’ll get it, give me my phone.” He offered, holding his hand out.

“I wanna read it.”

“I’ll read it to you.” Rafe replied.

“Fine.” You climbed up on the bed, hand pressed against the arched ceiling above your head to keep your balance, Rafe’s shirt riding up. When you got close enough he wrapped a hand around the back of your thigh, pulling and causing you to fall into his lap, knees on either side of him. “I was this close to kneeing you,” you said, holding your thumb and forefinger almost together as indication.

“But you didn’t.” Rafe took the phone from you, searching his notes to find the speech he’d drafted.

Though you were sure Mrs. Murphy was sad to see you go you were practically bouncing at the prospect of the new house. A house. The word felt so foreign. And maybe because you’d packed up all those silly childhood dreams ages ago when you decided that you would never be the type of person to meet someone that felt so wholly part of you. Nina got the childhood sweetheart life you’d wanted for so long and when you finally cancelled those plans and put your focus on a life that revolved around you and Fivel things like houses felt silly.

But there it was, something you’d only ever walked passed before. Three stories of space, four bedrooms, an office space, a kitchen that looked fit for the pages of a magazine. Rafe was sorting through books to put on the shelves in the living room space, and you were tackling the kitchen while Fivel napped on the back patio space.

“We should have an engagement party here.” You called over the music you had turned on. “Honestly we could have the whole wedding here.”

“I think we might need a little bit more space for a wedding.” Rafe replied, leaving the books in boxes momentarily to find you in the kitchen. You were on the floor, unpacking the pots and pans and loading them into the lower cabinets.

“I saw this post that this woman and her partner had a small wedding and did a lot of diy stuff and then saved all their money for the honeymoon.” You replied. “If we time it right we could honeymoon in the summer.”

“That’s fine with me.” Rafe shrugged, “you’ll be planning by yourself though, I’m going to Beijing in May, for the-“

“For that whatever thing your boss is having you do.” You cut him off, leaning back against his legs, “Lucky you. And don’t think for a second that I won’t harass you every day with emails and texts and facetime asking about what venue should we rent, where should we get pictures, what should we eat.”

“Can’t wait,” Rafe laughed, “we’ll figure something out. Though I do like this small wedding you're talking about.”

“That’s cause you hate everyone.” You replied.

Rafe was a party person in the sense that he liked showing off and parties gave him the opportunity but he was not fond of too many people. Polite, friendly even, sure, but he wasn’t rushing to plan too many outings that didn’t immediately benefit him in some way. The only close friends he had were from childhood.

“Fine then, we’ll have a big wedding.” He shrugged, stepping away from you and causing you to grab the floor before you fell on your back.

“No,” you groaned, “I don’t like people either.”

“I’ll only be gone a month; we’ll figure out the wedding details and all that shit.”

“All that shit.” You repeated, getting up off the ground and walking over to him.

“What?” He asked, skeptical as you smiled at him, wrapping your arms around his waist and tilting your head back slightly to get him to kiss you.

“We’re living together.”

“We have been living together.” He pointed out, just barely kissing you, nose brushing yours.

“Yeah, but this is our house.”

The wedding was small, exactly the way you both wanted. Rafe’s sisters were there by Ward and Rose stayed in North Carolina. Your family came and a few friends, you skipped inviting anyone from work aside from Anya, who came alone. The small church in was in Western Massachusetts, in your hometown, decorated with wild flowers and greens.

“Topper,” you whispered, waving your soon-to-be husband’s best friend, and best man, over to where you were, peeking out of the pastor’s office. You were almost completely ready, all you needed was your veil and you’d be ready to walk down the aisle. Rafe was already in the chapel, talking with your family as they waited for the pression to start.

“Hey,” Topper came over, giving you a quick hug. He’d arrived yesterday and you hadn’t gotten the chance to seen him because you were staying at your sister’s. You had made Rafe swear that the two of you were going to spend your pre-wedding night separate. “Cold feet? Want me to stall so you can make a getaway?” He teased.

“No.” You laughed, “will you get Rafe for me though?”

“Yeah.” He squeezed you in a hug one more time, kissing your forehead before pulling away, “you look beautiful by the way.”

“Thank you.”

Topper disappeared back into the chapel, walking up the aisle to where Rafe was, whispering in his best friend’s ear that you wanted him. Rafe glanced down the aisle, as if he could see you through the doors. He clapped Topper on the shoulder and headed down the aisle into the vestibule where the pastor’s office was. A few stragglers were chatting as he passed them, coming to the door and knocking.

You opened the door enough that he could just see you, your robe obscuring the dress you were wearing. “Hi.”

“Hey, you trying to cancel the wedding on me?” He teased.

“No, god, don’t listen to Topper.” You laughed, “I just wanted to see you. I missed you.”

“I saw you yesterday.”

“Rafe!” You pouted, glaring at him.

He placed his hand on the back of your neck, leaning in to kiss you, “hey, I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“I’ll see you soon.” Rafe promised, kissing you one last time before letting go, heading back into the chapel.

Everything felt like a blur that fast forwarded to the vows, standing there at the top of the church, pastor in front of you and crowd of family and friends sitting, watching, as Rafe read off the index cards he’d written his vows on. He’d obsessed over them, from the moment you said yes until now, he’d gone over them and over them and back over them. What if he said the wrong thing, what if he sounded stupid or insincere? But you were looking at him like he’d hung the stars, like no one had ever looked at him before.

He took a deep breath before beginning, “one time at your parents' house you tried to tell me about something Nancy Reagan said to her husband and I know I cut you off then but when we went home afterward, I read up on the President and his wife and I don’t know exactly what you intended to say but in a letter to Nancy, Reagan said ‘I more than love you, I’m not whole without you. You are life itself to me. When you are gone I’m waiting for you to return so I can start living again.’ When I saw you across the street, waiting outside the restaurant on our first date that was it for me. I knew in the stairwell of Duke that you were it and when you messaged me the first time after that I knew I was never letting this go…”

You listened to his vows, blinking furiously as you tried not to cry. It was a useless attempt, by the second sentence you could feel the tears, probably soaking through makeup that you’d have to redo before pictures.

“You never told me you read that,” you laughed, trying your best not to cry, “damn it.”

Rafe smiled, that same smugness he always had when he did something he knew you would undeniably love. You pressed the folded piece of paper to your chest, taking a breath before steadily unfolding it and looking down at your handwriting scrawled in successive paragraphs, all collections of feelings.

“Okay,” you breathed, looking up at the ceiling in an attempt to stop crying and then down again at the papers...

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castielchitaqua · 3 years

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kaddish, allen ginsberg

I Strange now to think of you, gone without corsets & eyes, while I walk on the sunny pavement of Greenwich Village. downtown Manhattan, clear winter noon, and I’ve been up all night, talking, talking, reading the Kaddish aloud, listening to Ray Charles blues shout blind on the phonograph the rhythm the rhythm—and your memory in my head three years after—And read Adonais’ last triumphant stanzas aloud—wept, realizing how we suffer— And how Death is that remedy all singers dream of, sing, remember, prophesy as in the Hebrew Anthem, or the Buddhist Book of Answers—and my own imagination of a withered leaf—at dawn— Dreaming back thru life, Your time—and mine accelerating toward Apocalypse, the final moment—the flower burning in the Day—and what comes after, looking back on the mind itself that saw an American city a flash away, and the great dream of Me or China, or you and a phantom Russia, or a crumpled bed that never existed— like a poem in the dark—escaped back to Oblivion— No more to say, and nothing to weep for but the Beings in the Dream, trapped in its disappearance, sighing, screaming with it, buying and selling pieces of phantom, worshipping each other, worshipping the God included in it all—longing or inevitability?—while it lasts, a Vision—anything more? It leaps about me, as I go out and walk the street, look back over my shoulder, Seventh Avenue, the battlements of window office buildings shouldering each other high, under a cloud, tall as the sky an instant—and the sky above—an old blue place. or down the Avenue to the south, to—as I walk toward the Lower East Side—where you walked 50 years ago, little girl—from Russia, eating the first poisonous tomatoes of America—frightened on the dock— then struggling in the crowds of Orchard Street toward what?—toward Newark— toward candy store, first home-made sodas of the century, hand-churned ice cream in backroom on musty brownfloor boards— Toward education marriage nervous breakdown, operation, teaching school, and learning to be mad, in a dream—what is this life? Toward the Key in the window—and the great Key lays its head of light on top of Manhattan, and over the floor, and lays down on the sidewalk—in a single vast beam, moving, as I walk down First toward the Yiddish Theater—and the place of poverty you knew, and I know, but without caring now—Strange to have moved thru Paterson, and the West, and Europe and here again, with the cries of Spaniards now in the doorstoops doors and dark boys on the street, fire escapes old as you -Tho you’re not old now, that’s left here with me— Myself, anyhow, maybe as old as the universe—and I guess that dies with us—enough to cancel all that comes—What came is gone forever every time— That’s good! That leaves it open for no regret—no fear radiators, lacklove, torture even toothache in the end— Though while it comes it is a lion that eats the soul—and the lamb, the soul, in us, alas, offering itself in sacrifice to change’s fierce hunger—hair and teeth—and the roar of bonepain, skull bare, break rib, rot-skin, braintricked Implacability. Ai! ai! we do worse! We are in a fix! And you’re out, Death let you out, Death had the Mercy, you’re done with your century, done with God, done with the path thru it—Done with yourself at last—Pure—Back to the Babe dark before your Father, before us all—before the world— There, rest. No more suffering for you. I know where you’ve gone, it’s good. No more flowers in the summer fields of New York, no joy now, no more fear of Louis, and no more of his sweetness and glasses, his high school decades, debts, loves, frightened telephone calls, conception beds, relatives, hands— No more of sister Elanor,.—she gone before you—we kept it secret—you killed her—or she killed herself to bear with you—an arthritic heart—But Death’s killed you both—No matter— Nor your memory of your mother, 1915 tears in silent movies weeks and weeks—forgetting, aggrieve watching Marie Dressler address humanity, Chaplin dance in youth, or Boris Godunov, Chaliapin’s at the Met, hailing his voice of a weeping Czar—by standing

room with Elanor & Max—watching also the Capitalists take seats in Orchestra, white furs, diamonds, with the YPSL’s hitch-hiking thru Pennsylvania, in black baggy gym skirts pants, photograph of 4 girls holding each other round the waste, and laughing eye, too coy, virginal solitude of 1920 all girls grown old, or dead, now, and that long hair in the grave—lucky to have husbands later— You made it—I came too—Eugene my brother before (still grieving now and will gream on to his last stiff hand, as he goes thru his cancer—or kill—later perhaps—soon he will think—) And it’s the last moment I remember, which I see them all, thru myself, now—tho not you I didn’t foresee what you felt—what more hideous gape of bad mouth came first—to you—and were you prepared? To go where? In that Dark—that—in that God? a radiance? A Lord in the Void? Like an eye in the black cloud in a dream? Adonoi at last, with you? Beyond my remembrance! Incapable to guess! Not merely the yellow skull in the grave, or a box of worm dust, and a stained ribbon—Deathshead with Halo? can you believe it? Is it only the sun that shines once for the mind, only the flash of existence, than none ever was? Nothing beyond what we have—what you had—that so pitiful—yet Triumph, to have been here, and changed, like a tree, broken, or flower—fed to the ground—but mad, with its petals, colored, thinking Great Universe, shaken, cut in the head, leaf stript, hid in an egg crate hospital, cloth wrapped, sore—freaked in the moon brain, Naughtless. No flower like that flower, which knew itself in the garden, and fought the knife—lost Cut down by an idiot Snowman’s icy—even in the Spring—strange ghost thought—some Death—Sharp icicle in his hand—crowned with old roses—a dog for his eyes—cock of a sweatshop—heart of electric irons. All the accumulations of life, that wear us out—clocks, bodies, consciousness, shoes, breasts—begotten sons—your Communism—‘Paranoia’ into hospitals. You once kicked Elanor in the leg, she died of heart failure later. You of stroke. Asleep? within a year, the two of you, sisters in death. Is Elanor happy? Max grieves alive in an office on Lower Broadway, lone large mustache over midnight Accountings, not sure. l His life passes—as he sees—and what does he doubt now? Still dream of making money, or that might have made money, hired nurse, had children, found even your Immortality, Naomi? I’ll see him soon. Now I’ve got to cut through—to talk to you—as I didn’t when you had a mouth. Forever. And we’re bound for that, Forever—like Emily Dickinson’s horses—headed to the End. They know the way—These Steeds—run faster than we think—it’s our own life they cross—and take with them. Magnificent, mourned no more, marred of heart, mind behind, married dreamed, mortal changed—Ass and face done with murder. In the world, given, flower maddened, made no Utopia, shut under pine, almed in Earth, balmed in Lone, Jehovah, accept. Nameless, One Faced, Forever beyond me, beginningless, endless, Father in death. Tho I am not there for this Prophecy, I am unmarried, I’m hymnless, I’m Heavenless, headless in blisshood I would still adore Thee, Heaven, after Death, only One blessed in Nothingness, not light or darkness, Dayless Eternity— Take this, this Psalm, from me, burst from my hand in a day, some of my Time, now given to Nothing—to praise Thee—But Death This is the end, the redemption from Wilderness, way for the Wonderer, House sought for All, black handkerchief washed clean by weeping—page beyond Psalm—Last change of mine and Naomi—to God’s perfect Darkness—Death, stay thy phantoms! II Over and over—refrain—of the Hospitals—still haven’t written your history—leave it abstract—a few images run thru the mind—like the saxophone chorus of houses and years—remembrance of electrical shocks. By long nites as a child in Paterson apartment, watching over your nervousness—you were fat—your next move— By that afternoon I stayed home from school to take care of you—once and for all—when I vowed forever that once man disagreed with my opinion of the cosmos, I was lost— By my

later burden—vow to illuminate mankind—this is release of particulars—(mad as you)—(sanity a trick of agreement)— But you stared out the window on the Broadway Church corner, and spied a mystical assassin from Newark, So phoned the Doctor—‘OK go way for a rest’—so I put on my coat and walked you downstreet—On the way a grammarschool boy screamed, unaccountably—‘Where you goin Lady to Death’? I shuddered— and you covered your nose with motheaten fur collar, gas mask against poison sneaked into downtown atmosphere, sprayed by Grandma— And was the driver of the cheesebox Public Service bus a member of the gang? You shuddered at his face, I could hardly get you on—to New York, very Times Square, to grab another Greyhound— where we hung around 2 hours fighting invisible bugs and jewish sickness—breeze poisoned by Roosevelt— out to get you—and me tagging along, hoping it would end in a quiet room in a Victorian house by a lake. Ride 3 hours thru tunnels past all American industry, Bayonne preparing for World War II, tanks, gas fields, soda factories, diners, loco-motive roundhouse fortress—into piney woods New Jersey Indians—calm towns—long roads thru sandy tree fields— Bridges by deerless creeks, old wampum loading the streambeddown there a tomahawk or Pocahontas bone—and a million old ladies voting for Roosevelt in brown small houses, roads off the Madness highway— perhaps a hawk in a tree, or a hermit looking for an owl-filled branch— All the time arguing—afraid of strangers in the forward double seat, snoring regardless—what busride they snore on now? ‘Allen, you don’t understand—it’s—ever since those 3 big sticks up my back—they did something to me in Hospital, they poisoned me, they want to see me dead—3 big sticks, 3 big sticks— ‘The Bitch! Old Grandma! Last week I saw her, dressed in pants like an old man, with a sack on her back, climbing up the brick side of the apartment ‘On the fire escape, with poison germs, to throw on me—at night—maybe Louis is helping her—he’s under her power— ‘I’m your mother, take me to Lakewood’ (near where Graf Zeppelin had crashed before, all Hitler in Explosion) ‘where I can hide.’ We got there—Dr. Whatzis rest home—she hid behind a closet—demanded a blood transfusion. We were kicked out—tramping with Valise to unknown shady lawn houses—dusk, pine trees after dark—long dead street filled with crickets and poison ivy— I shut her up by now—big house REST HOME ROOMS—gave the landlady her money for the week—carried up the iron valise—sat on bed waiting to escape— Neat room in attic with friendly bedcover—lace curtains—spinning wheel rug—Stained wallpaper old as Naomi. We were home. I left on the next bus to New York—laid my head back in the last seat, depressed—the worst yet to come?—abandoning her, rode in torpor—I was only 12. Would she hide in her room and come out cheerful for breakfast? Or lock her door and stare thru the window for sidestreet spies? Listen at keyholes for Hitlerian invisible gas? Dream in a chair—or mock me, by—in front of a mirror, alone? 12 riding the bus at nite thru New Jersey, have left Naomi to Parcae in Lakewood’s haunted house—left to my own fate bus—sunk in a seat—all violins broken—my heart sore in my ribs—mind was empty—Would she were safe in her coffin— Or back at Normal School in Newark, studying up on America in a black skirt—winter on the street without lunch—a penny a pickle—home at night to take care of Elanor in the bedroom— First nervous breakdown was 1919—she stayed home from school and lay in a dark room for three weeks—something bad—never said what—every noise hurt—dreams of the creaks of Wall Street— Before the gray Depression—went upstate New York—recovered—Lou took photo of her sitting crossleg on the grass—her long hair wound with flowers—smiling—playing lullabies on mandolin—poison ivy smoke in left-wing summer camps and me in infancy saw trees— or back teaching school, laughing with idiots, the backward classes—her Russian specialty—morons with dreamy lips, great eyes, thin feet & sicky fingers, swaybacked, rachitic— great heads pendulous

over Alice in Wonderland, a blackboard full of C A T. Naomi reading patiently, story out of a Communist fairy book—Tale of the Sudden Sweetness of the Dictator—Forgiveness of Warlocks—Armies Kissing— Deathsheads Around the Green Table—The King & the Workers—Paterson Press printed them up in the ’30s till she went mad, or they folded, both. O Paterson! I got home late that nite. Louis was worried. How could I be so—didn’t I think? I shouldn’t have left her. Mad in Lakewood. Call the Doctor. Phone the home in the pines. Too late. Went to bed exhausted, wanting to leave the world (probably that year newly in love with R my high school mind hero, jewish boy who came a doctor later—then silent neat kid— I later laying down life for him, moved to Manhattan—followed him to college—Prayed on ferry to help mankind if admitted—vowed, the day I journeyed to Entrance Exam— by being honest revolutionary labor lawyer—would train for that—inspired by Sacco Vanzetti, Norman Thomas, Debs, Altgeld, Sand-burg, Poe—Little Blue Books. I wanted to be President, or Senator. ignorant woe—later dreams of kneeling by R’s shocked knees declaring my love of 1941—What sweetness he’d have shown me, tho, that I’d wished him & despaired—first love—a crush— Later a mortal avalanche, whole mountains of homosexuality, Matterhorns of cock, Grand Canyons of asshole—weight on my melancholy head— meanwhile I walked on Broadway imagining Infinity like a rubber ball without space beyond—what’s outside?—coming home to Graham Avenue still melancholy passing the lone green hedges across the street, dreaming after the movies—) The telephone rang at 2 A.M.—Emergency—she’d gone mad—Naomi hiding under the bed screaming bugs of Mussolini—Help! Louis! Buba! Fascists! Death!—the landlady frightened—old fag attendant screaming back at her— Terror, that woke the neighbors—old ladies on the second floor recovering from menopause—all those rags between thighs, clean sheets, sorry over lost babies—husbands ashen—children sneering at Yale, or putting oil in hair at CCNY—or trembling in Montclair State Teachers College like Eugene— Her big leg crouched to her breast, hand outstretched Keep Away, wool dress on her thighs, fur coat dragged under the bed—she barricaded herself under bedspring with suitcases. Louis in pajamas listening to phone, frightened—do now?—Who could know?—my fault, delivering her to solitude?—sitting in the dark room on the sofa, trembling, to figure out— He took the morning train to Lakewood, Naomi still under bed—thought he brought poison Cops—Naomi screaming—Louis what happened to your heart then? Have you been killed by Naomi’s ecstasy? Dragged her out, around the corner, a cab, forced her in with valise, but the driver left them off at drugstore. Bus stop, two hours’ wait. I lay in bed nervous in the 4-room apartment, the big bed in living room, next to Louis’ desk—shaking—he came home that nite, late, told me what happened. Naomi at the prescription counter defending herself from the enemy—racks of children’s books, douche bags, aspirins, pots, blood—‘Don’t come near me—murderers! Keep away! Promise not to kill me!’ Louis in horror at the soda fountain—with Lakewood girlscouts—Coke addicts—nurses—busmen hung on schedule—Police from country precinct, dumbed—and a priest dreaming of pigs on an ancient cliff? Smelling the air—Louis pointing to emptiness?—Customers vomiting their Cokes—or staring—Louis humiliated—Naomi triumphant—The Announcement of the Plot. Bus arrives, the drivers won’t have them on trip to New York. Phonecalls to Dr. Whatzis, ‘She needs a rest,’ The mental hospital—State Greystone Doctors—‘Bring her here, Mr. Ginsberg.’ Naomi, Naomi—sweating, bulge-eyed, fat, the dress unbuttoned at one side—hair over brow, her stocking hanging evilly on her legs—screaming for a blood transfusion—one righteous hand upraised—a shoe in it—barefoot in the Pharmacy— The enemies approach—what poisons? Tape recorders? FBI? Zhdanov hiding behind the counter? Trotsky mixing rat bacteria in the back of the store? Uncle Sam in Newark, plotting deathly

perfumes in the Negro district? Uncle Ephraim, drunk with murder in the politician’s bar, scheming of Hague? Aunt Rose passing water thru the needles of the Spanish Civil War? till the hired $35 ambulance came from Red Bank——Grabbed her arms—strapped her on the stretcher—moaning, poisoned by imaginaries, vomiting chemicals thru Jersey, begging mercy from Essex County to Morristown— And back to Greystone where she lay three years—that was the last breakthrough, delivered her to Madhouse again— On what wards—I walked there later, oft—old catatonic ladies, gray as cloud or ash or walls—sit crooning over floorspace—Chairs—and the wrinkled hags acreep, accusing—begging my 13-year-old mercy— ‘Take me home’—I went alone sometimes looking for the lost Naomi, taking Shock—and I’d say, ‘No, you’re crazy Mama,—Trust the Drs.’— And Eugene, my brother, her elder son, away studying Law in a furnished room in Newark— came Paterson-ward next day—and he sat on the broken-down couch in the living room—‘We had to send her back to Greystone’— —his face perplexed, so young, then eyes with tears—then crept weeping all over his face—‘What for?’ wail vibrating in his cheekbones, eyes closed up, high voice—Eugene’s face of pain. Him faraway, escaped to an Elevator in the Newark Library, his bottle daily milk on windowsill of $5 week furn room downtown at trolley tracks— He worked 8 hrs. a day for $20/wk—thru Law School years—stayed by himself innocent near negro whorehouses. Unlaid, poor virgin—writing poems about Ideals and politics letters to the editor Pat Eve News—(we both wrote, denouncing Senator Borah and Isolationists—and felt mysterious toward Paterson City Hall— I sneaked inside it once—local Moloch tower with phallus spire & cap o’ ornament, strange gothic Poetry that stood on Market Street—replica Lyons’ Hotel de Ville— wings, balcony & scrollwork portals, gateway to the giant city clock, secret map room full of Hawthorne—dark Debs in the Board of Tax—Rembrandt smoking in the gloom— Silent polished desks in the great committee room—Aldermen? Bd of Finance? Mosca the hairdresser aplot—Crapp the gangster issuing orders from the john—The madmen struggling over Zone, Fire, Cops & Backroom Metaphysics—we’re all dead—outside by the bus stop Eugene stared thru childhood— where the Evangelist preached madly for 3 decades, hard-haired, cracked & true to his mean Bible—chalked Prepare to Meet Thy God on civic pave— or God is Love on the railroad overpass concrete—he raved like I would rave, the lone Evangelist—Death on City Hall—) But Gene, young,—been Montclair Teachers College 4 years—taught half year & quit to go ahead in life—afraid of Discipline Problems—dark sex Italian students, raw girls getting laid, no English, sonnets disregarded—and he did not know much—just that he lost— so broke his life in two and paid for Law—read huge blue books and rode the ancient elevator 13 miles away in Newark & studied up hard for the future just found the Scream of Naomi on his failure doorstep, for the final time, Naomi gone, us lonely—home—him sitting there— Then have some chicken soup, Eugene. The Man of Evangel wails in front of City Hall. And this year Lou has poetic loves of suburb middle age—in secret—music from his 1937 book—Sincere—he longs for beauty— No love since Naomi screamed—since 1923?—now lost in Greystone ward—new shock for her—Electricity, following the 40 Insulin. And Metrazol had made her fat. So that a few years later she came home again—we’d much advanced and planned—I waited for that day—my Mother again to cook & —play the piano—sing at mandolin—Lung Stew, & Stenka Razin, & the communist line on the war with Finland—and Louis in debt—,uspected to he poisoned money—mysterious capitalisms —& walked down the long front hall & looked at the furniture. She never remembered it all. Some amnesia. Examined the doilies—and the dining room set was sold— the Mahogany table—20 years love—gone to the junk man—we still had the piano—and the book of Poe—and the Mandolin, tho needed some string, dusty— She went to the backroom to lie down in

bed and ruminate, or nap, hide—I went in with her, not leave her by herself—lay in bed next to her—shades pulled, dusky, late afternoon—Louis in front room at desk, waiting—perhaps boiling chicken for supper— ‘Don’t be afraid of me because I’m just coming back home from the mental hospital—I’m your mother—’ Poor love, lost—a fear—I lay there—Said, ‘I love you Naomi,’—stiff, next to her arm. I would have cried, was this the comfortless lone union?—Nervous, and she got up soon. Was she ever satisfied? And—by herself sat on the new couch by the front windows, uneasy—cheek leaning on her hand—narrowing eye—at what fate that day— Picking her tooth with her nail, lips formed an O, suspicion—thought’s old worn vagina—absent sideglance of eye—some evil debt written in the wall, unpaid—& the aged breasts of Newark come near— May have heard radio gossip thru the wires in her head, controlled by 3 big sticks left in her back by gangsters in amnesia, thru the hospital—caused pain between her shoulders— Into her head—Roosevelt should know her case, she told me—Afraid to kill her, now, that the government knew their names—traced back to Hitler—wanted to leave Louis’ house forever. One night, sudden attack—her noise in the bathroom—like croaking up her soul—convulsions and red vomit coming out of her mouth—diarrhea water exploding from her behind—on all fours in front of the toilet—urine running between her legs—left retching on the tile floor smeared with her black feces—unfainted— At forty, varicosed, nude, fat, doomed, hiding outside the apartment door near the elevator calling Police, yelling for her girlfriend Rose to help— Once locked herself in with razor or iodine—could hear her cough in tears at sink—Lou broke through glass green-painted door, we pulled her out to the bedroom. Then quiet for months that winter—walks, alone, nearby on Broadway, read Daily Worker—Broke her arm, fell on icy street— Began to scheme escape from cosmic financial murder-plots—later she ran away to the Bronx to her sister Elanor. And there’s another saga of late Naomi in New York. Or thru Elanor or the Workmen’s Circle, where she worked, ad-dressing envelopes, she made out—went shopping for Campbell’s tomato soup—saved money Louis mailed her— Later she found a boyfriend, and he was a doctor—Dr. Isaac worked for National Maritime Union—now Italian bald and pudgy old doll—who was himself an orphan—but they kicked him out—Old cruelties— Sloppier, sat around on bed or chair, in corset dreaming to herself—‘I’m hot—I’m getting fat—I used to have such a beautiful figure before I went to the hospital—You should have seen me in Woodbine—’ This in a furnished room around the NMU hall, 1943. Looking at naked baby pictures in the magazine—baby powder advertisements, strained lamb carrots—‘I will think nothing but beautiful thoughts.’ Revolving her head round and round on her neck at window light in summertime, in hypnotize, in doven-dream recall— ‘I touch his cheek, I touch his cheek, he touches my lips with his hand, I think beautiful thoughts, the baby has a beautiful hand.’— Or a No-shake of her body, disgust—some thought of Buchenwald—some insulin passes thru her head—a grimace nerve shudder at Involuntary (as shudder when I piss)—bad chemical in her cortex—‘No don’t think of that. He’s a rat.’ Naomi: ‘And when we die we become an onion, a cabbage, a carrot, or a squash, a vegetable.’ I come downtown from Columbia and agree. She reads the Bible, thinks beautiful thoughts all day. ‘Yesterday I saw God. What did he look like? Well, in the afternoon I climbed up a ladder—he has a cheap cabin in the country, like Monroe, N.Y. the chicken farms in the wood. He was a lonely old man with a white beard. ‘I cooked supper for him. I made him a nice supper—lentil soup, vegetables, bread & butter—miltz—he sat down at the table and ate, he was sad. ‘I told him, Look at all those fightings and killings down there, What’s the matter? Why don’t you put a stop to it? ‘I try, he said—That’s all he could do, he looked tired. He’s a bachelor so long, and he likes lentil

soup.’ Serving me meanwhile, a plate of cold fish—chopped raw cabbage dript with tapwater—smelly tomatoes—week-old health food—grated beets & carrots with leaky juice, warm—more and more disconsolate food—I can’t eat it for nausea sometimes—the Charity of her hands stinking with Manhattan, madness, desire to please me, cold undercooked fish—pale red near the bones. Her smells—and oft naked in the room, so that I stare ahead, or turn a book ignoring her. One time I thought she was trying to make me come lay her—flirting to herself at sink—lay back on huge bed that filled most of the room, dress up round her hips, big slash of hair, scars of operations, pancreas, belly wounds, abortions, appendix, stitching of incisions pulling down in the fat like hideous thick zippers—ragged long lips between her legs—What, even, smell of asshole? I was cold—later revolted a little, not much—seemed perhaps a good idea to try—know the Monster of the Beginning Womb—Perhaps—that way. Would she care? She needs a lover. Yisborach, v’yistabach, v’yispoar, v’yisroman, v’yisnaseh, v’yishador, v’yishalleh, v’yishallol, sh’meh d’kudsho, b’rich hu. And Louis reestablishing himself in Paterson grimy apartment in negro district—living in dark rooms—but found himself a girl he later married, falling in love again—tho sere & shy—hurt with 20 years Naomi’s mad idealism. Once I came home, after longtime in N.Y., he’s lonely—sitting in the bedroom, he at desk chair turned round to face me—weeps, tears in red eyes under his glasses— That we’d left him—Gene gone strangely into army—she out on her own in N.Y., almost childish in her furnished room. So Louis walked downtown to postoffice to get mail, taught in highschool—stayed at poetry desk, forlorn—ate grief at Bickford’s all these years—are gone. Eugene got out of the Army, came home changed and lone—cut off his nose in jewish operation—for years stopped girls on Broadway for cups of coffee to get laid—Went to NYU, serious there, to finish Law.— And Gene lived with her, ate naked fishcakes, cheap, while she got crazier—He got thin, or felt helpless, Naomi striking 1920 poses at the moon, half-naked in the next bed. bit his nails and studied—was the weird nurse-son—Next year he moved to a room near Columbia—though she wanted to live with her children— ‘Listen to your mother’s plea, I beg you’—Louis still sending her checks—I was in bughouse that year 8 months—my own visions unmentioned in this here Lament— But then went half mad—Hitler in her room, she saw his mustache in the sink—afraid of Dr. Isaac now, suspecting that he was in on the Newark plot—went up to Bronx to live near Elanor’s Rheumatic Heart— And Uncle Max never got up before noon, tho Naomi at 6 A.M. was listening to the radio for spies—or searching the windowsill, for in the empty lot downstairs, an old man creeps with his bag stuffing packages of garbage in his hanging black overcoat. Max’s sister Edie works—17 years bookkeeper at Gimbels—lived downstairs in apartment house, divorced—so Edie took in Naomi on Rochambeau Ave— Woodlawn Cemetery across the street, vast dale of graves where Poe once—Last stop on Bronx subway—lots of communists in that area. Who enrolled for painting classes at night in Bronx Adult High School—walked alone under Van Cortlandt Elevated line to class—paints Naomiisms— Humans sitting on the grass in some Camp No-Worry summers yore—saints with droopy faces and long-ill-fitting pants, from hospital— Brides in front of Lower East Side with short grooms—lost El trains running over the Babylonian apartment rooftops in the Bronx— Sad paintings—but she expressed herself. Her mandolin gone, all strings broke in her head, she tried. Toward Beauty? or some old life Message? But started kicking Elanor, and Elanor had heart trouble—came upstairs and asked her about Spydom for hours,—Elanor frazzled. Max away at office, accounting for cigar stores till at night. ‘I am a great woman—am truly a beautiful soul—and because of that they (Hitler, Grandma, Hearst, the Capitalists, Franco, Daily News, the ’20s, Mussolini, the living

dead) want to shut me up—Buba’s the head of a spider network—’ Kicking the girls, Edie & Elanor—Woke Edie at midnite to tell her she was a spy and Elanor a rat. Edie worked all day and couldn’t take it—She was organizing the union.—And Elanor began dying, upstairs in bed. The relatives call me up, she’s getting worse—I was the only one left—Went on the subway with Eugene to see her, ate stale fish— ‘My sister whispers in the radio—Louis must be in the apartment—his mother tells him what to say—LIARS!—I cooked for my two children—I played the mandolin—’ Last night the nightingale woke me / Last night when all was still / it sang in the golden moonlight / from on the wintry hill. She did. I pushed her against the door and shouted ‘DON’T KICK ELANOR!’—she stared at me—Contempt—die—disbelief her sons are so naive, so dumb—‘Elanor is the worst spy! She’s taking orders!’ ‘—No wires in the room!’—I’m yelling at her—last ditch, Eugene listening on the bed—what can he do to escape that fatal Mama—‘You’ve been away from Louis years already—Grandma’s too old to walk—’ We’re all alive at once then—even me & Gene & Naomi in one mythological Cousinesque room—screaming at each other in the Forever—I in Columbia jacket, she half undressed. I banging against her head which saw Radios, Sticks, Hitlers—the gamut of Hallucinations—for real—her own universe—no road that goes elsewhere—to my own—No America, not even a world— That you go as all men, as Van Gogh, as mad Hannah, all the same—to the last doom—Thunder, Spirits, lightning! I’ve seen your grave! O strange Naomi! My own—cracked grave! Shema Y’Israel—I am Svul Avrum—you—in death? Your last night in the darkness of the Bronx—I phonecalled—thru hospital to secret police that came, when you and I were alone, shrieking at Elanor in my ear—who breathed hard in her own bed, got thin— Nor will forget, the doorknock, at your fright of spies,—Law advancing, on my honor—Eternity entering the room—you running to the bathroom undressed, hiding in protest from the last heroic fate— staring at my eyes, betrayed—the final cops of madness rescuing me—from your foot against the broken heart of Elanor, your voice at Edie weary of Gimbels coming home to broken radio—and Louis needing a poor divorce, he wants to get married soon—Eugene dreaming, hiding at 125 St., suing negroes for money on crud furniture, defending black girls— Protests from the bathroom—Said you were sane—dressing in a cotton robe, your shoes, then new, your purse and newspaper clippingsno—your honesty— as you vainly made your lips more real with lipstick, looking in the mirror to see if the Insanity was Me or a earful of police. or Grandma spying at 78—Your vision—Her climbing over the walls of the cemetery with political kidnapper’s bag—or what you saw on the walls of the Bronx, in pink nightgown at midnight, staring out the window on the empty lot— Ah Rochambeau Ave.—Playground of Phantoms—last apartment in the Bronx for spies—last home for Elanor or Naomi, here these communist sisters lost their revolution— ‘All right—put on your coat Mrs.—let’s go—We have the wagon downstairs—you want to come with her to the station?’ The ride then—held Naomi’s hand, and held her head to my breast, I’m taller—kissed her and said I did it for the best—Elanor sick—and Max with heart condition—Needs— To me—‘Why did you do this?’—‘Yes Mrs., your son will have to leave you in an hour’—The Ambulance came in a few hours—drove off at 4 A.M. to some Bellevue in the night downtown—gone to the hospital forever. I saw her led away—she waved, tears in her eyes. Two years, after a trip to Mexico—bleak in the flat plain near Brentwood, scrub brush and grass around the unused RR train track to the crazyhouse— new brick 20 story central building—lost on the vast lawns of madtown on Long Island—huge cities of the moon. Asylum spreads out giant wings above the path to a minute black hole—the door—entrance thru crotch— I went in—smelt funny—the halls again—up elevator—to a glass door on a Women’s Ward—to Naomi—Two nurses buxom white—They led her out, Naomi

stared—and I gaspt—She’d had a stroke— Too thin, shrunk on her bones—age come to Naomi—now broken into white hair—loose dress on her skeleton—face sunk, old! withered—cheek of crone— One hand stiff—heaviness of forties & menopause reduced by one heart stroke, lame now—wrinkles—a scar on her head, the lobotomy—ruin, the hand dipping downwards to death— O Russian faced, woman on the grass, your long black hair is crowned with flowers, the mandolin is on your knees— Communist beauty, sit here married in the summer among daisies, promised happiness at hand— holy mother, now you smile on your love, your world is born anew, children run naked in the field spotted with dandelions, they eat in the plum tree grove at the end of the meadow and find a cabin where a white-haired negro teaches the mystery of his rainbarrel— blessed daughter come to America, I long to hear your voice again, remembering your mother’s music, in the Song of the Natural Front— O glorious muse that bore me from the womb, gave suck first mystic life & taught me talk and music, from whose pained head I first took Vision— Tortured and beaten in the skull—What mad hallucinations of the damned that drive me out of my own skull to seek Eternity till I find Peace for Thee, O Poetry—and for all humankind call on the Origin Death which is the mother of the universe!—Now wear your nakedness forever, white flowers in your hair, your marriage sealed behind the sky—no revolution might destroy that maidenhood— O beautiful Garbo of my Karma—all photographs from 1920 in Camp Nicht-Gedeiget here unchanged—with all the teachers from Vewark—Nor Elanor be gone, nor Max await his specter—nor Louis retire from this High School— Back! You! Naomi! Skull on you! Gaunt immortality and revolution come—small broken woman—the ashen indoor eyes of hospitals, ward grayness on skin— ‘Are you a spy?’ I sat at the sour table, eyes filling with tears—‘Who are you? Did Louis send you?—The wires—’ in her hair, as she beat on her head—‘I’m not a bad girl—don’t murder me!—I hear the ceiling—I raised two children—’ Two years since I’d been there—I started to cry—She stared—nurse broke up the meeting a moment—I went into the bathroom to hide, against the toilet white walls ‘The Horror’ I weeping—to see her again—‘The Horror’—as if she were dead thru funeral rot in—‘The Horror!’ I came back she yelled more—they led her away—‘You’re not Allen—’ I watched her face—but she passed by me, not looking— Opened the door to the ward,—she went thru without a glance back, quiet suddenly—I stared out—she looked old—the verge of the grave—‘All the Horror!’ Another year, I left N.Y.—on West Coast in Berkeley cottage dreamed of her soul—that, thru life, in what form it stood in that body, ashen or manic, gone beyond joy— near its death—with eyes—was my own love in its form, the Naomi, my mother on earth still—sent her long letter—& wrote hymns to the mad—Work of the merciful Lord of Poetry. that causes the broken grass to be green, or the rock to break in grass—or the Sun to be constant to earth—Sun of all sunflowers and days on bright iron bridges—what shines on old hospitals—as on my yard— Returning from San Francisco one night, Orlovsky in my room—Whalen in his peaceful chair—a telegram from Gene, Naomi dead— Outside I bent my head to the ground under the bushes near the garage—knew she was better— at last—not left to look on Earth alone—2 years of solitude—no one, at age nearing 60—old woman of skulls—once long-tressed Naomi of Bible— or Ruth who wept in America—Rebecca aged in Newark—David remembering his Harp, now lawyer at Yale or Srul Avrum—Israel Abraham—myself—to sing in the wilderness toward God—O Elohim!—so to the end—2 days after her death I got her letter— Strange Prophecies anew! She wrote—‘The key is in the window, the key is in the sunlight at the window—I have the key—Get married Allen don’t take drugs—the key is in the bars, in the sunlight in the window. Love, your mother’ which is Naomi— Hymmnn In the world which He has created according to his will Blessed Praised Magnified Lauded

Exalted the Name of the Holy One Blessed is He! In the house in Newark Blessed is He! In the madhouse Blessed is He! In the house of Death Blessed is He! Blessed be He in homosexuality! Blessed be He in Paranoia! Blessed be He in the city! Blessed be He in the Book! Blessed be He who dwells in the shadow! Blessed be He! Blessed be He! Blessed be you Naomi in tears! Blessed be you Naomi in fears! Blessed Blessed Blessed in sickness! Blessed be you Naomi in Hospitals! Blessed be you Naomi in solitude! Blest be your triumph! Blest be your bars! Blest be your last years’ loneliness! Blest be your failure! Best be your stroke! Blest be the close of your eye! Blest be the gaunt of your cheek! Blest be your withered thighs! Blessed be Thee Naomi in Death! Blessed be Death! Blessed be Death! Blessed be He Who leads all sorrow to Heaven! Blessed be He in the end! Blessed be He who builds Heaven in Darkness! Blessed Blessed Blessed be He! Blessed be He! Blessed be Death on us All! III Only to have not forgotten the beginning in which she drank cheap sodas in the morgues of Newark, only to have seen her weeping on gray tables in long wards of her universe only to have known the weird ideas of Hitler at the door, the wires in her head, the three big sticks rammed down her back, the voices in the ceiling shrieking out her ugly early lays for 30 years, only to have seen the time-jumps, memory lapse, the crash of wars, the roar and silence of a vast electric shock, only to have seen her painting crude pictures of Elevateds running over the rooftops of the Bronx her brothers dead in Riverside or Russia, her lone in Long Island writing a last letter—and her image in the sunlight at the window ‘The key is in the sunlight at the window in the bars the key is in the sunlight,’ only to have come to that dark night on iron bed by stroke when the sun gone down on Long Island and the vast Atlantic roars outside the great call of Being to its own to come back out of the Nightmare—divided creation—with her head lain on a pillow of the hospital to die —in one last glimpse—all Earth one everlasting Light in the familiar black-out—no tears for this vision— But that the key should be left behind—at the window—the key in the sunlight—to the living—that can take that slice of light in hand—and turn the door—and look back see Creation glistening backwards to the same grave, size of universe, size of the tick of the hospital's clock on the archway over the white door— IV O mother what have I left out O mother what have I forgotten O mother farewell with a long black shoe farewell with Communist Party and a broken stocking farewell with six dark hairs on the wen of your breast farewell with your old dress and a long black beard around the vagina farewell with your sagging belly with your fear of Hitler with your mouth of bad short stories with your fingers of rotten mandolins with your arms of fat Paterson porches with your belly of strikes and smokestacks with your chin of Trotsky and the Spanish War with your voice singing for the decaying overbroken workers with your nose of bad lay with your nose of the smell of the pickles of Newark with your eyes with your eyes of Russia with your eyes of no money with your eyes of false China with your eyes of Aunt Elanor with your eyes of starving India with your eyes pissing in the park with your eyes of America taking a fall with your eyes of your failure at the piano with your eyes of your relatives in California with your eyes of Ma Rainey dying in an aumbulance with your eyes of Czechoslovakia attacked by robots with your eyes going to painting class at night in the Bronx with your eyes of the killer Grandma you see on the horizon from the Fire-Escape with your eyes running naked out of the apartment screaming into the hall with your eyes being led away by policemen to an aumbulance with your eyes strapped down on the operating table with your eyes with the pancreas removed with your eyes of appendix operation with your eyes of abortion with your eyes of ovaries removed with your eyes of shock with your

eyes of lobotomy with your eyes of divorce with your eyes of stroke with your eyes alone with your eyes with your eyes with your Death full of Flowers V Caw caw caw crows shriek in the white sun over grave stones in Long Island Lord Lord Lord Naomi underneath this grass my halflife and my own as hers caw caw my eye be buried in the same Ground where I stand in Angel Lord Lord great Eye that stares on All and moves in a black cloud caw caw strange cry of Beings flung up into sky over the waving trees Lord Lord O Grinder of giant Beyonds my voice in a boundless field in Sheol Caw caw the call of Time rent out of foot and wing an instant in the universe Lord Lord an echo in the sky the wind through ragged leaves the roar of memory caw caw all years my birth a dream caw caw New York the bus the broken shoe the vast highschool caw caw all Visions of the Lord Lord Lord Lord caw caw caw Lord Lord Lord caw caw caw Lord Paris, December 1957—New York, 1959

#im a collector im a maniac #poetry #not mine

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yourdeepestfathoms · 4 years

Text

Born a Rat, Burn a Rat

[2002]

Word count: 4561

Prompt: You need to stop making her laugh! You’re ruining her makeup!

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

“You need to stop making her laugh! You’re ruining her makeup!”

All the laughter that had once been rebounding through the locker room stopped abruptly. Everyone turned their heads slowly to face Carrie White, who was blinking innocently at them from her locker. She looked absolutely clueless, as she always did when she wasn’t dead-eyed or spazzing out. She didn’t seem to understand why she was being stared at.

“What did you just say?” Tina said.

“H-her makeup,” Carrie stammered, suddenly very uncomfortable under their gazes. “Chris’s. It’s--going to run. If she keeps laughing. I’m trying to save it.”

“Oh, so you think I’m ugly without any makeup on, huh? Is that it?” Chris strode up to her, eyes flashing like a hungry puma’s, and Carrie backed up against the lockers, blinking dumbly.

“What? No!” Carrie said. She gripped her fingers in the locker air holes tightly in some sort of scrabble for grounding.

“You hesitated,” Fern put in helpfully.

“I didn’t!” Carrie cried, eyes wide.

“Maybe I should try out some new makeup,” Chris mused. “Your blood will be a nice shade!” A second later, she raised her fist and sent it flying at Carrie’s face.

Carrie barely had time to react. She ducked and dove left, stumbling awkwardly through a pair of girls. There was a loud clang of metal from behind, followed by a shout of pain and a few gasps and snickers, and she spun around on her heels to see Chris rubbing her reddened knuckles tentatively with a look of murder on her face.

“You goddamn bitch.” She seethed.

Carrie tried to stutter out an apology, she really did, but then the entire left side of her face exploded into bright, colorful bursts of pain as a fist that seemed to be the size and solidity of a small boulder came smashing upwards and her whole body popped backwards in a fashion that was almost cartoonish. A near-perfect arc, like those old animated shorts she’d been deprived of as a little girl where Daffy Duck or Wile E. Coyote were getting nailed in the face with spring-loaded punching gloves left and right.

However, there was a very significant difference between those cartoons and real life, and the difference was that in real life, it hurt. It hurt a lot.

The punch had such force that Carrie thought for one petrified instant that she might do a full flip—but then her back met the floor with an unforgiving THUNK.

She barely had time to clap a hand to the smarting flesh on the side of her face, which she could already feel starting to get puffy, before she heard sneakers squeaking against tile and looked up to see that she was surrounded by all her gym classmates in various stages of dressed. She swallowed down a mouthful of blood thickly and awkwardly scooted backwards, only to have Chris reach down with alarming swiftness and wrap her perfectly manicured fingers into her shirt-collar, gathering a crimson-knuckled fistful of fabric and sending cuts scattered across the girl’s back alight with pain once more as they were exposed to the cool air when her lightweight body was effortlessly jerked to its feet.

“You just made the biggest mistake of your miserable little life, pig.” Chris spat.

“Chris,” Sue hissed cautiously. She cast an uneasy glance towards the front of the locker room, expecting Miss Desjardin to suddenly materialize inside and blow her ear-piercingly loud whistle before raining hellfire on them all.

“What?” Chris snapped. “She DESERVES this! If you’re that worried, then keep watch or lock the door or something!”

“Chris!” Sue said again, but this time as a much more alarmed warning. Because Carrie is tugging backwards and snapping at Chris’s hands around her collar like a contagious rat in the midst of the Black Plague.

“What the fuck!?” Chris yelled, startled.

Carrie’s hands shot up and they’re like the skeletal fingers of death around Chris’s wrists. She had exactly zero muscles in her arms, so it was pretty impressive that she was able to pry the grip off of her pale yellow sweater’s collar and totter backwards into safety.

And then there’s a hissing sound, like the warning of a rattlesnake.

Something splatters against Carrie’s face and neck and open mouth, and she flinched in surprise. She raised a hand to wipe her eyes, but it only got halfway up before it suddenly felt like she got a red hot fire poker jammed into her sockets.

Then, she screamed.

------

Rita Desjardin has heard screaming before. In her senior year of high school, she vividly remembers watching a school football game and one of the players from the other team, she believed they were the Pumas if her memory was correct, broke his arm so savagely it almost looked like it was on backwards. He had dropped to the ground in a blur of black and maroon, bellowing in agony, and at the time Rita had thought that it was the worst sound she would ever hear in her entire life.

And then she heard the ricochet of a cry rattle from the girl’s locker room, so loud that she could hear it from outside in the gym, and the first place spot for “Worst Noise She’s Ever Heard” was quickly snatched away from the football player.

He had screamed. But not like this.

This scream was piercing, bloodcurdling, and memory-haunting, and it only got worse when Rita charged into the locker room, leaving a gaggle of wide-eyed students already dressed out behind in startled shock.

Opening the door and passing through the doorway was like coming out of water in the midst of a war- the scream suddenly became ten times louder and much more ear-splitting. She actually had to clamp her hands over her ears and stop her forward stride to shudder in pain at the intensity of the noise that made her feel like she was going deaf. What could very possibly be 140 to 150 decibels of volume jammed its way directly into her eardrums, stabbing over and over and over again until a ringing was sent jangling through her skull like the aftermath of an explosion.

To be in the same room as such an outburst of agony, so close to the cause of deafening distress, was so much more bone-chilling than listening to it from stadium bleachers.

Rita staggered forward, pulling her hands away from her ears and crossing the corridor threshold into the open space of lockers. There, her current class was huddled in a group of abstract horror around one row, eyes so wide they were nearly popping out of sockets and shaking in abject pant-pissing fear. Rita wasn’t quite sure who looked more terrified: them, Helen Shyres holding a can of pepper spray, or Carrie White frenzying around with her hands over her face, screeching.

“WHAT IS GOING ON IN HERE?” Rita roared over the commotion, and everyone except Carrie whirled around to face her with ogling bug eyes. They apparently hadn’t heard her come in over the noise. Carrie keened again, a loud, drawn-out sound like the cry of a crow being gutted alive.

“Sh-she--” One girl tried to say, but the words got stuck in her throat when she glanced back at Carrie writhing, slamming into the lockers, and scratching desperately at her face.

“WHAT HAPPENED?” Rita demanded.

“I--got startled.” Helen choked out.

“Is that PEPPER SPRAY?!” Rita shouted.

Helen looked down at the canister in her hand as if it were an active bomb and suddenly appeared very sick. She doesn’t answer- she can’t. She’s shocked into silence.

“WHY do you even HAVE IT at SCHOOL?!” Rita bellowed. Her eyes are wide now, too, as she put the pieces together.

“I’m sorry!” Helen said.

Carrie wailed tumultuously. She dropped to the ground, screaming helplessly at the ceiling and squirming like she was trying to wriggle out of her own skin. Her hands are still fervently clawing at her eyes as if she were trying to scoop them out of their sockets, and there’s spots of red mixed in with the translucent sheen of pepper spray spattered across her pale face. Rita quickly pushed Helen aside, practically throwing the other girls out of the way to get to the panicking student rolling on the floor.

“Carrie! Carrie!” Rita called over the screaming. Carrie doesn’t appear to hear her- she just continued to caterwaul and claw like a burning black cat. “Carietta White!” Not even that got through to her, and if it did, it only made her even more distressed. “Carrie!!”

Rita finally grabbed the girl by the wrists and yanked her hands away. Without the spindly fingers itching incessantly, she could see her reddened face, gashed skin, and eyes filled with blood.

“Oh my god,” Someone from behind, Sue Snell, maybe, muttered.

“IT HURTS!!” Carrie’s screams have finally morphed into words, and Rita isn’t sure which was worse because the screams may have been nightmare-inducing, but the words were like a punch to the stomach with a spiked iron gauntlet. They come out hoarse and high pitched, vowels stretched out in whines and keens of pain, and Rita’s heart clenched tightly in her chest when they reach her ears. “IT HURTS!! IT BURNS!!!!”

Carrie writhed beneath Rita, flailing her arms in the grip that holds them. Her dark eyes are upturned in their puckered sockets, saturating in blood, and the whites weren’t even white anymore, rather an awful crimson color with throbbing scarlet veins lacing through them like smoldering snakes. The shredded, bloody eyelids soon slam shut and remain shut, swelling so badly that Carrie was temporarily blinded, and that makes her panic even harder.

“It burns! It burns! IT BURNS!!!” Carrie screeched. Her voice became garbled after her final cry and she dissolved into body-breaking coughs that manage to rock Rita’s own frame from where she’s crouched over her.

“What do we do?!” Another girl, Frieda Jason, yawped. She flinched backwards in fright into the arm-locked duo of Mary and Donna Thibodeau when Rita whipped her head around to her, icy blue eyes flashing like jagged glaciers in the arctic sunlight.

“NOW you care?” Rita snarled, loading her voice with as much venom as possible. “Now you care about her? When she’s been fucking pepper sprayed?”

All the girls flinch this time. It’s obvious that they’ve never been cussed at by a teacher before, and it gives Rita just a tiny swell of pleasure. But then Carrie sobs audibly again and it’s replaced with seething rage.

“It- it was an accident!” Ruth Gogan tried to defend. “R-really! Helen didn’t know!”

“Oh really?” Rita said. “I’m sure spraying a kid with fucking pepper spray, which shouldn’t even be brought to school, by the way, is really easy to do om accident!” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Chris Hargensen clench her jaw and she rounded on her. “Do you have something you want to say, Hargensen?”

Chris opened her mouth as if to snark, took one look at Carrie’s bloody, burned face, and realized this was not something her father could fix with his lawyer status. Even if she told him that Carrie had snapped at her, he would have to agree that being pepper sprayed for it was much, much worse. She grit her teeth and looked away.

“It hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts,” Carrie wept. Rita looked back down at her and felt a sharp stab of guilt when she realized how much time she had wasted scolding the other girls when she should have been treating Carrie.

“It’s okay, Carrie,” She told her softly, smoothing down the barbs and thorns in her voice until it’s more like warm honey or silken velvet. “It’s okay… You’re going to be okay.”

Carrie’s lolling head froze in its process of sweeping back and forth across the scuffed locker room tile. Her brow twitched and her eyelids flutter like she was trying to open them but can’t, and only bloody tears are able to squeeze their way out of the scrunched up sockets. She ‘looked’ in the direction of Rita’s voice, lips quivering.

“M-Miss Desjardin?” She whispered hoarsely.

“Yes, it’s me, Carrie. It’s just me.” Rita moved to hold both wrists in one hand and used the other to brush Carrie’s cheek tenderly--which was instantly the wrong thing to do because she grazed over a spatter of pepper spray and tiny burning teeth latched onto her fingers and began eating away at her flesh. She bit back a hiss of discomfort to avoid stressing out Carrie even more. “It’s okay. You’re going to be okay.”

“It hurts,” Carrie sobbed. Her eyes screwed shut even tighter, like she thought that it may help block out the pain. “I-it hurts, Miss Desjardin. M-make it stop!”

“I will, Carrie, don’t worry,” Rita assured her. “Just take deep breaths for me. Can you do that? Deep breaths, sweetheart.” She swiveled her head around to the group of quavering onlookers. Helen backed up behind Tina Blake and Norma Watson when her glaring eyes skim by, still white-knuckling the canister of pepper spray. “Sue.”

Sue jolted, but raised her head in an obedient, listening way.

“Make yourself useful and get a bottle of water and a rag from the showers. Wet it.” Rita ordered.

Sue nodded, but didn’t dare speak up. She scurried off, clipping her shoulder on one of the lockers and tottering sideways for a moment before regaining her balance and continuing with her task. Rita can hear her tinker with the padlock of her locker in another row, open the door, pull something out, and then hurry into the bathroom area without fully closing the door. She stopped listening after hearing the running water of a sink to glower at the rest of the girls.

“Get to class.” She said coldly.

The girls exchanged glances. They seem surprised that they hadn’t been struck dead or something (although Rita really, REALLY wanted to do so). Then, they disperse without another warning, with Helen hightailing it out the door first. Sue returns shortly after with a folded, pulpy paper towel that drips water on the floor and a water bottle. She looked down at Carrie as she passed them over and Rita saw that she was genuinely worried.

“Is she...going to be okay?” She asked.

Rita was conflicted- she wanted to say yes to make them all feel better, but she really didn’t know. Carrie had rubbed her eyes viciously enough to smear the pepper spray further into her sockets and the open cuts she carved into her skin was probably exposed to any lingering residue, too, which would only deepen her anguish. But she didn’t want to say no either because that would just induce panic, so instead she just said, “I’ll take care of her.”

Sue seemed to catch her avoidance of the question by the pinch at her brow and frown on her lips, but she just nodded instead of pointing it out, much to Rita’s relief.

“Okay,” She said. She cast one more glance at Carrie, who appeared to be trying to figure out where she was, then turned around, gathered her belongings, and walked out.

“Okay, Carrie,” Rita looked down at her student. “I’m going to pour some water over your eyes, okay? Just keep breathing for me. You’re doing so good.”

Carrie whimpered. She jolted when the contents of the water bottle were poured over her face, crying out in shock and pain, and a light bulb overhead shattered in millions of burgeoning pieces. Rita jumped and looked up at it, then back down at Carrie, who was now panting and wheezing heavily.

“H-hurts to b-b--reathe,” She uttered.

“Oh, Carrie…” Rita murmured. She carefully wiped away the pepper spray residue on Carrie’s face with the paper towel, finding that the girl’s skin was suddenly very cold. Her breathing wasn’t normal anymore. She can feel her heartbeat thump heavily beneath her flesh; it’s too fast for even someone in the midst of a panic attack.

Something was sizzling in Carrie White’s skin, and it wasn’t just the pepper spray.

There’s a clamor from the front of the locker room- Rita’s next period class started to bustle inside to change out before their minimal time limit was up. Rita jumped up, causing Carrie to whimper in distress at the loss of her presence, and stormed to the entrance corridor. The girls inside stopped, easily picking up that she was on edge, and took a small step back in near-perfect synchronization.

“You don’t have to change out today.” Rita said hurriedly. “Or do anything. Just sit in the gym and do whatever. As long as you don’t kill each other or set something on fire, I really don’t care what you do.”

The girls blink and exchange looks.

“Everything okay?” One asked.

“Fine.” Rita said, squaring her shoulders and straightening her shoulders. Her posture nearly faltered and crumbled when she heard Carrie whimper again. “Go on. Out!”

The girls obey, quickly exiting in a flurry of binders and backpacks. Once they’re all gone, Rita hurried back to Carrie, who was trying to get up. She yelped and flinched so badly she knocked herself back over when Rita touched her shoulder, and another light in the first aisle of lockers popped and fizzed out.

“It’s just me, Carrie.” Rita said. “It’s Miss Desjardin.”

“Miss Desjardin,” Carrie repeated to herself in a voice that was barely above a whisper.

“That’s right,” Rita nodded, although she knew Carrie couldn’t see it. “Carrie, I’m going to help you stand up and we’re going to walk over to the showers, okay? The water bottle isn’t working as well as I had hoped. Running water will help flush out your eyes better.” She gently touched Carrie’s face and she ‘looked’ up at her. “It’ll make it hurt less.”

Carrie nodded. She grit her teeth as she’s helped to her feet, staggering, but staying upright. A jewel of blood welled up from a scratch dividing her left eyebrow in two and lazily made its way down her face. She twitched when it tickled her skin and she reached up to swipe it away, but Rita snatched her hand before she could make contact. Carrie jumped and instantly tried to jerk away.

“Don’t touch your face.” Rita scolded lightly. “It’ll only make the burning worse.”

Carrie swallowed thickly, but didn’t say anything. She just nodded silently and obeyed.

The short walk to the bathroom and shower area was much clumsier than it should have been, with Carrie stumbling over her ankles and hitting every outcrop of lockers, even with Rita guiding her. Lack of sight was numbing her senses and making it hard to listen. Rita didn’t ever get mad at her, though; blindness, even temporary blindness, would make her a complete nervous, bumbling wreck, too.

“M-Miss Desjardin?” Carrie croaked as Rita cranked the nozzle to a middle-row shower. She turned her head in the direction of the sound of spraying water.

“Yes?” Rita gently touched her shoulder to let her know she was there. “I’m right here, honey.”

“I’m sorry,” Carrie whispered.

Rita’s heart sunk into her stomach. Oh, Carrie, please please don’t--

“I-I didn’t mean to.”

A wave of guilt slammed into Rita, alongside a rumbling riptide of pure rage that roiled through her insides like a storm at sea. She clenched her teeth until she thought they may shatter and wished that she had exacted punishment on all those girls, especially Helen, instead of sending them to their next class to deal with them later.

“I’m sorry,” Carrie said again, this time much more choked up. Her skin was frigid cold. “M-Miss Desjardin?” She reached up a blind hand and lightly touched Rita’s, which she must have forgotten was on her shoulder. She grabbed it in a way that sent shockwaves of desperation up Rita’s arm. “I’m sorry…”

“Don’t apologize, Carrie.” Rita said firmly. “This wasn’t your fault.”

“Okay,” Carrie said, but Rita knew she didn’t believe it. She lowered her voice and rasped out, “It really, really hurts…”

“Come on,” Miss Desjardin lowered Carrie to her knees and tilted her into the warm rain of water shooting from the showerhead. She lifted her chin so the spray would directly hit her face. “There we go... Good girl.”

Carrie took a deep breath, spitting out water. Streams ran red when they touched her numerous cuts and the blood oozing from her tightly shut eyes turned into puffing clouds of crimson along her cheeks, but at least everything was getting flushed out.

Rita risked getting wet when she reached over and began to rub soothing circles against Carrie’s back. She swore the girl arched her spine into her touch, exhaling a soft sigh of relief--or maybe contentment. She wasn’t quite sure, but at least it wasn’t a sad or angry sigh, although Carrie had every reason to be sad and/or angry.

“It felt like a hot knife.”

Carrie’s rough, husky voice jarred Rita out of her thoughts. Silence had descended upon the two of them for about five minutes, the only sound being the hiss of the overhead faucet and the low creak of pipes. Rita blinked a haze of black spots out of her vision; her hand was still on Carrie’s back, no longer rubbing, but the fingers were still grazing up and down tenderly, with the thumb gliding in soothing strokes.

“Or a fire poker. Like the ones you use for fireplaces.”

“What?” Rita said.

Carrie craned her neck to look at her, and her eyes were open. They were reddish-brown jewels in a nest full of restless red snakes. Trails of water cascading over her face cause the dozens of cuts around the sockets to glow in hues of neon pink and burning scarlet. She tilted her head at Rita.

“When I got sprayed,” She specified. “And you know what I thought when it happened?”

“What?” Rita said again, this time with dread pooled in the pit of her stomach like a dark oil spill.

“‘Thank God,’” Carrie said. A small, weak smile twitched at the corner of her lips and she looked down at her hands, where bits of her flesh still clung beneath her nails. “I wasn’t angry. Or upset. It did hurt, though. Really badly. But after everything--after everything I’ve been through--” Her arms dropped limply to her sides and she turned her head back to Rita. “It felt good to not have to see.”

Rita was silent. Her breath is caught in her throat in horror.

How could a child think like that? How could they be treated so poorly that they have to think like that?

“I’ve never been blinded before,” Carrie went on, musing her words like she didn’t realize how traumatic they were. She lifted a hand and gently touched one eye, as if she were reminding herself that it was still there. “It was--scary. Really scary. I’m--used to darkness, but--that was different. It wasn’t black, but really, really bright. So bright my head started to hurt--still hurts--and there were these flashes of color and it all mixed together into this big mess. But still-” She shifted on her knees, sloshing water around her. “I thought that not seeing anymore would make things better. Somehow. Maybe then I would be pathetic enough for people to leave me alone.” Her eyes gleam; Carrie is crying. “But it wouldn’t end up being like that, would it? I’m never granted such mercy.” She flicked the water around her bitterly, then had to scrunch her eyes shut again when the pain registered again.

“Were you--” Carrie cocked her head in the direction of Rita’s head to let her know that she was listening. Rita’s hand on her back clenched a fistful of soggy pale yellow sweater. “Are you happy?”

“Now?”

“Ever.”

Carrie ‘looked’ up at the ceiling like she was deep in thought, and Rita already had her answer.

Fury bubbled in Rita’s stomach, while pity and grief squeezed her heart to the point of nearly bursting apart. It wasn’t fair. It was so unfair for a child to have to live like this.

Carrie had tipped her head down and apparently stopped thinking by the time Rita was finished stewing in anger and conflict. And that’s when Rita realized that Carrie didn’t look even a little angry or conflicted. Or upset or sorrowful or anguished or vengeful.

She just looked tired.

Not just tried, though- Jaded.

“How are your eyes?” Rita asked.

Carrie gently touched one. “They still burn. Badly. But not as bad as before.”

“Yeah, they’re probably going to hurt for awhile.” Rita frowned. She cupped Carrie’s cheeks, which felt so hollow and sunken beneath her fingers, and she cradled her head. “Can you open your eyes, honey? So I can see them?”

Carrie struggled, but managed to pry open her eyelids and keep them open for Rita to inspect. They were bloodshot and definitely looked like they were hurting, but at least they weren’t bleeding anymore. Rita gently stroked her thumb across her cheekbone.

“Maybe I’m not happy,” Carrie blurted.

Rita frowned at her. Carrie flicked her gaze to examine a cracked piece of tile flooring. She clenched her hands in the hem of her sweater.

“I don’t--blame you.” Rita said. “You’ve been through a lot.”

Carrie just nodded silently. She’s crying again. Hot tears seep through Rita’s fingers.

“I’m sorry.” Rita said. “For everything you’ve been through. You don’t deserve any of that.” Carrie’s eyes went wide at that and she blinked at Rita in shock.

“You don’t...you don’t think I’m a freak? Or a pig? Or the devil’s child?”

“Oh no, honey, no.” Rita said. “Not at all. You’re a smart, wonderful girl.”

Carrie’s eyes are hungry, now. Rita has never seen that look before, but she instantly knows what it means: “Do you love me?”

Rita pulled Carrie against her and the girl began to openly weep into her chest. She rocked her back and forth in the shower stall, whispering sweet things in her ear and stroking her messy hair (which really needed to be brushed). And Carrie clung to her in return, blubbering and sniffling and whimpering until she’s exhausted and can only hiccup weakly. Rita smoothed down a stubborn cowlick on the top of her head.

“You’re going to be okay, sweetheart,” Rita cooed to the girl in her arms. “I’ve got you.”

Carrie nuzzled closer, curling her knees in until she was a soggy ball in Rita’s lap. She breathed out a sigh, and this time Rita knows it’s of contentment.

“Don’t let me go,” She whispered. “Please.”

“I won’t.” Rita promised.

But she did.

To move Carrie into her office, where she signed a pass for her to skip her remaining classes for ‘mandatory physical health workout’ and spent the rest of the school day brushing out her hair and letting her relax. It’s the first time she thinks she’s seen Carrie really smile, like she thought this was the most delightful thing in the entire world, and Rita’s heart melted.

“Thank you,” Carrie whispered. The tune of smooth jazz is playing from the small speaker on Rita’s desk. A dark purple brush glided through her long hair and she gave a soft coo of bliss at the sensation. “You’re--more of a mom than mine ever is.”

#carrie #carrie 2002 #carrie fanfiction #carrie white #rita desjardin #sue snell #chris hargensen #helen shyres #tina jason #norma watson #my writing #born a rat burn a rat #slasher #stephen king

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strawberriestyles · 5 years

Text

Part 3: The Chills

(BANNER BY THE GODDESS HERSELF @adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy)

Harry X Reader (AU)

In which you try to resolve the case of a fraternity’s haunting in a single night.

Read previous parts here.

Word count: 2.3k

Author’s note: TWO POSTS IN ONE WEEK. :O Two parts left. Hope y’all are enjoying this! This part is a treat for y’all. ;)

When Harry closes the door, the only light that remains in his bedroom is the red glow of an alarm clock. No moonlight, no substantial starlight.

“Let me get this,” he says, reaching toward a lamp. The lightbulb flickers to life, casting a ghostly glow across his features as he turns to look at you.

There are two beds, two desks. It’s just like a dorm on campus. You glance around at the posters of cars and bands plastered to the walls and the books stacked up beside one of the desks—all biology course books. There are a few odd pieces of dirty clothing scattered across the floor but for the most part you’re surprised at how clean the room is.

“Which closet’s yours?” you ask, pretending not to notice the way Harry’s ogling you. He’s trying to be subtle, scratching the back of his neck so he has an excuse to tip his head forward and lower his eyes to your bare legs. You feel like you could use another drink.

He nods toward the accordion door on your left and stays silent for a beat before his eyes finally meet your face once more. He clears his throat when he sees how closely you’re watching him. “Take anythin’ yeh want."

“Anything?”

He grins at you. “Would appreciate it if yeh left my jersey alone, but yes, anythin’ else.”

“And if I wanted to wear the jersey?”

His eyes narrow. “I would need collateral.”

“Ah.” You have a sneaking suspicion that his request for collateral would be the same as his request for an entrance fee. With a dramatic sigh, you reach under the hem of your skirt, just far enough that you see Harry’s smile slip. His jaw strains and his throat bobs. You grin. “Just kidding."

You retract your hands and spin toward the closet, opening up the door. There is a shelf packed with thick crewnecks and hoodies, some with the college’s logo emblazoned upon the chest and others sporting the names of businesses or gyms. You pick out a black, print-free hoodie with colorful paint dried across the front like an abstract art piece. When you turn around, Harry has his arms crossed and he’s standing in front of the door.

“That was quite rude of you,” he says.

“What was?”

“Yeh’re bein’ a tease.”

You tip your head to the side and shrug. “Which bed is yours?”

Harry nods again toward the mattress topped with a navy blue comforter and you cross the room to drop your chosen sweatshirt onto it. He’s staring at the ceiling the next time you look at him, as if willing himself to keep his wandering eyes in check.

“Is your roommate here tonight?”

“I dunno. Haven’ looked for him.”

You take a few steps toward Harry, chewing on your cheek. He looks down at you as you move closer.

“How long have you lived here?”

“Two years. ‘M a senior.”

“Oh yeah? Are you planning on grad school?”

He smiles and tips his head to look out the window into the black night. There’s something about that smile, the soft lilt of it and the dimple that peeks out from one cheek that draws you even closer. His body is relaxed and loose, crossed arms sliding down his abdomen, and you want to see him tense up again. You want to watch him rise back up to full height with his shoulders pulled taut. And you still want to run your hands through his hair.

“Uh huh.” Harry is beginning to say something else when your fingers close around the collar of his flannel and your lips silence his. He doesn’t even take a moment to recover. He fists your costume at the small of your back, pulling you forward until your torso stretches along his. Your skirt is hiked up your hips and you can feel cold air along the lines of your underwear. You shiver, but you don’t protest the chill.

There’s a huff of breath down your chin as Harry breaks the kiss to reposition his mouth, head tilted and nose grazing your cheekbone. His arm snakes around your waist, pulling you tighter against his body as he leans back against the door behind him. You can feel his ribcage expanding with each intake of breath. One hand shifts down the side of your body, over your hip. He hunches forward, arching your spine until his fingers drag at the skin of your thigh and catch on a fraying string at the hem of your costume.

Harry groans, deep and feral in the back of his throat, at the rough graze of your teeth along his lower lip. His hand drags your skirt up even higher until you can feel air along the end of your spine, and then his fingers curl around the lace at the side of your panties. He twists them tight around his middle finger. You gasp when he gives a sharp yank and your hips are jerked forward. Your underwear shifts against your clit. The pressure is heady and your teeth nearly sink into Harry’s tongue when he yanks upward. Instead, you careen against the friction and sigh, a hushed but high-pitched breath, as your hands rake down Harry’s chest to the end of his ribcage.

He lifts his mouth from yours. There’s an echoing huff in your ear and the resounding click of the door’s lock turning before he’s leading you blindly backward. Your legs meet a desk. The icy handle of a drawer almost makes you shriek as it grazes your thigh, but Harry lifts you up and onto the surface of the desk before a sound can leave your mouth. Your hand sprawls out to catch yourself and your fingers find a cold pane of the window beside you. Your shoulder blades press into a poster.

“What happened to tellin’ me to fuck off?”

“Guess I changed my mind,” you breathe, sliding your hips forward until you can hook your legs around Harry.

“Well, thank God for that.”

There’s a mindless clamoring of fingers as you attempt to reach beneath Harry’s shirt and he peels back the costume strap from your tweaked shoulder, running his open mouth along the skin that he pressed closed lips to so gently not even an hour ago. Your fingertips inch along the hard planes of his lower stomach, his muscles contracting at your touch until you meet the soft flesh at his hips. His tongue is licking at the artery in the side of your neck, tasting your pulse.

Harry shifts forward until he’s pressed up against your underwear and your skirt is slipping up around your ass. There’s a hiccup in your thought process when he jerks forward to chase the pressure between you. Your head lolls to the side. You work your hands free of his shirt to finally bury them in his hair, and it’s just as soft and thick between your fingers as you imagined. He lets out a guttural moan when your fingers scrape against his scalp.

There’s a loud bang as someone crashes into the bedroom door. Your body tenses, hands dragging down to the nape of Harry’s neck. He pauses. There’s mumbling outside, but the music and your pulse are too loud to hear over.

“Relax.” Harry’s thumbs stroke the outsides of your thighs, just below the thick of your hips. Goosebumps are drawn up from your flesh. His teeth nibble at the corner of your jaw, just below your ear, and your fingers clamp instinctively onto the damp curls at the back of his head again as his words hum against your skin. “Yeh’re safe”

His pelvis works against you again, stiff denim catching on the soft cotton of your panties. You gulp down a desperate lungful of air and your eyes flutter shut. Your ankles twist around his legs just above the backs of his knees. He takes this as an invitation to buck harder against you. The threads of his jean pockets burn against your bare thighs but your body still shifts needily toward him. Any thought of shedding clothes has long since been abandoned. You’re unwilling to take the time and it seems as though Harry is just as unwilling.

As your muscles begin to uncoil, you shift forward on the desk, grinding up to meet Harry’s staggered thrusts. You turn your head to the side to catch his lips, taste the beer on his breath as he dips his tongue into your mouth. Your legs tighten around his body. One arm curves around your waist and his fingers drag up your costume again before fitting below the lace band at the back of your panties and curling into the flesh of your ass.

“Oh,” he moans against your chin. His lips drag to the base of your throat, the crown of his head nudging your chin back until the length of your neck opens up to him. “Feel good?”

“Yes. Fuck, yes. Feels so good.” You tremble at the way he chuckles against your collarbone.

“Oh, baby, 'm not even tryin’.”

A rush of air leaves your lungs as his hips clap against you hard enough to send you jolting backward. You cling to his shoulders, gasping as he slams against you again. The desk rocks back into the wall and your lower stomach begins to tighten up. The hand that Harry doesn’t have tangled up in your underwear closes around your thigh.

“Close,” you mumble against the hair that tickles your chin. His teeth scrape against your throat. “So close.”

Harry leans you backward until your head meets the wall and he’s curved over the desk. He grinds against your core, rough but unsteady, like his feet are losing purchase on the carpeted floor. It’s enough to send you toppling over the edge.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you whine, slipping sideways and grappling at the back of Harry’s flannel. Your cheek presses into the condensation on the icy window. Your eyes peel open and the lamp fizzles out. You’re left in the dark once more.

“What the fuck?” Harry grunts against your chest. He lifts his head and all you can see are his eyes in the bit of light the dull stars grant you. "Again?”

You huff into empty air as he unwinds himself from you, retracting his hand from your damp underwear and stepping away from the desk. Your legs spill over the edge, dangling against the drawers as you come down from your high. That’s when cold begins to seep deep beneath your skin, into your bones. Your head spins and a shiver rolls up your spine.

“Harry,” you whisper into the darkness, into the silence. You can’t bring yourself to sit up.

“Yeah.” His voice sounds distant, like you’re hearing it through a barrier.

“I don’t feel good.”

“What? Wha’s wrong?”

“My head. I—” The desk shakes beneath you and you gasp.

“Sorry. ’S me. I kicked the desk.”

“I feel dizzy.”

“Okay. D’yeh wanna sit up?”

The leather of his gloves slides up your thighs. He’s pulling you up from the desk before you can answer. When you’re sitting your head spins again. You lean forward into Harry’s chest, closing your hands into fists atop your knees, and he wraps his arms around you, smoothing the back of your dress down your waist.

“Yeh feel clammy,” he whispers. You shiver in response. “Christ, what happened?”

“I don’t know.” You swallow against the swimming in your head and breathe in the scent of him. “I’m sorry. You didn’t—”

“It’s fine, love. Don’ need to. Watchin’ you come was enough.”

There’s a banging on the door again and this time you can hear someone shouting at the two of you to get out. Harry laughs into your hair. He rubs at your spine.

“D’yeh wanna put that sweatshirt on?”

You nod against his chest and he backs away from you. You hear him pacing across the floor to his bed and back, and then the hoodie you chose is slipping over your head. Harry helps to fit your arms through the holes.

“Does that help at all?” he asks.

“Yes. Thank you.”

“Of course.” He nudges your nose and presses a lingering kiss to your lips, then to your cheek. His forehead rests against your temple and it all feels so natural that it’s a shock to remember you only met him a couple of hours ago. “Think yeh wanna stand up?”

“Sure.”

Harry helps you to your feet and you shimmy the skirt of your costume down over your hips. You blink into the darkness. His fingers find your jaw and his thumb strokes your skin. Your underwear are uncomfortably wet, but you’re not willing to take them off, so you suffer silently.

“If yeh’re not feelin’ well we don’ have to check out the basement,” he whispers. "Could walk yeh home.”

“No, no, I’m fine.”

“Y/N, don’—”

“Harry, seriously.” You don’t think you’ll find anything, but the weird occurrences are enough to pique your interest. Imagine the report you could write if something came of tonight. Besides, you’re feeling better already, whether it’s the soft brush of Harry’s skin or the warmth of his sweatshirt. And you’re not ready to say goodnight.

“Okay.” You can’t see him, but you can almost hear the smile on his lips. He backs toward the door, pulling you with him. Quietly, he unlocks the door and leads you out into the equally dark hallway. You’re grateful that whoever was banging on the door seems to have disappeared.

“To the basement?” he asks, waiting for one last confirmation.

“To the basement,” you agree. And he pulls you in the direction of the staircase.

Part 4: The Gap

#harry styles #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fan fiction #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fan fic #harry styles fic #harry styles one shot #harry styles smut #harry styles angst #see through

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cubeswhump · 4 years

Text

Will Not be a Victim for my character, Blondie.

The neglected Blondie. I need to get back to my Powers Verse too. And the immortal bitches. I have a Sweetie and Michelle story drafted though.

Warnings for mentions of violence, referenced torture, bit of ableism. Pretty tame compared to what I usually write.

The phone rang from her nightstand, and again, and again. Then it started pinging with texts: Terry-Ellen has spoken to me but my own daughter won’t answer her phone.

I’ll be arriving at your house at 6PM.

Blondiw growled and dialled the number. The phone rang only twice before the deep voice came on the other line: “Oh, so you’ve decided to stop ignoring me?”

“Fucking hell, Dad. I’m twenty-three,” Blondie reminded him. “Chill.’

"Language, Melinda,” he scolded lightly. “I don’t care of you’re eighty-three. You’re still my daughter and we just got you back. I need to be sure that you’re okay.”

"I'm fine, Dad."

"Are you really?"

Blondie pinched the bridge of her nose. Don't call him a nosy twat, don't call your dad a nosy twat. She breathed out. "You hired a fucking bodyguard for me. "That's humiliating enough, and now you're prying into my life like I'm a child."

"Language. Good lord, you take after your mother," he sighed. "Who are you embarrassed in front of? You haven't left your house in more than two weeks." His voice was so even and annoyingly calm. Blondie swallowed back the snarl crawling up her throat. "Is it really prying to be concerned about my daughter? I just want to know that you're okay. I haven't seen you since-"

"Okay, okay, I'll stop by tomorrow. No need to stop by." She knew her father would have some words if she saw the state her house was in. Tej wasn't hired to clean after the slob, and no one had patched up the hole Blondie punched in the living room.

"Are you sure? If I come over you can stay home and rest," he offered.

"You just got on my ass for staying in my house!"

"You know that is not what happened, Melinda."

"I'll be there at eleven in the morning, okay?"

"I'll expect you by twelve."

Blondie huffed and hung up as he chuckled.

***

Tej was prodding her. "Get up. We've gotta go soon."

Blondie lifted her head abd ahot rhe other wonan a glare. "There's no we. You're staying home."

"You know that's not how it works," she said, unfazed. "I'll make you coffee."

"Don't." Blondie pyr one foot on the floor and grabbed one crutch. The other must have fallen over at some point in the night, and Blondie whacked Tej with the crutch in her hand when the thin woman tried to help her retrieve the fallen one. "Scram, bitch."

"Very nice, " Tej said sarcastically, handing her the crutch anyway. She caught the crutch Blondie swung at her. "Have you ever considered treating the help like people?"

"Go on, call me a bitch. There's nothing in your contract that says you can't insult me, yeah?"

"I'll leave you to get dreased," Tej said dryly. "Your hair looks nice. Did you wash it?"

She shut the door behind her just in time for the television remote to crash into the wood.

Blondie had only worn bath robes and undergarments for the last few weeks and she hadn't gotten to modifying any pants to her new body. Skirts? No, fighting in a skirt wasn't a great idea - if she needed to fight. Fights were always possible.

Shorts. A pair of shorts, one sock, one combat boot. The left bood sat all alone and sad. She kicked it over. Hair in a bun.

"Your coffee, Blondie." Tej shoved the steaming mug right in her face while Blondie was trying to sneak out the front door.

"I told you not to make me coffee," Blondie grumbled.

"Coconut creamer and one Sweet-N-Low," Tej tempted her, voice sing-song.

"I'm getting coffee on the way to my dad's, shithead." And she was out tje door, slamming it behind her - or trying to. Tej caught it just before it closed and slipped out after her.

"Want me to drive? You can relax," Tej offered, reaching for the keyring in Blondie's hand. Blondie jerked it away.

"I'll relax when you're dead. It's my fucking car."

"Cool, cool."

Tej was in the passenger's seat before Blondie had even opened her door so she couldn't even lock her out. Tej smiled at her knowingly. Blondie gripped the steering wheel sp hard her fingers turned white.

Tej tried to make conversation throughout the drive and Blondie turned the volume up a few notches every time she opened her mouth. After a million years, she pulled up in front of the coffee shop.

"I'll get you an iced mocha cappuccino," Blondie said as she got out of the car. Tej was stepping out too.

"Nah, I wanna look at the menu," she replied. Blondie squeezed her eyes shut and clenched her teeth, reciting the "calming phrases" from her counseling sessions as a teenager.

When was this place ever this busy? Blondie sighed as she joined the line, Tej at her side. "You know, you're paying for your own shit."

"That's fair," Tej shrugged. "Your daddy pays me weekly."

Blondie sneered at her.

The line inched forward. A woman and her child joined. Seriously, did the entire fucking town want coffee right now?

"Wow..." the woman said, her voice hushed. "What happened?"

Blondie didn't realize the woman was talking to her until she felt a tap on her shoulder.she turned around, finding the woman's wide eyes on her still-bandaged stump. The little girl stared too, reaching for Blondie's crutch. Blondie jerked it away from her sticky hand and scowled, but neither noticed.

"What happened?" the woman asled again. "Why don't you get a prosthetic leg?"

"I pesteres someone with intrusive questions and she pulled out a machete," Blondie snapped. The woman recoiled.

"Ma'am, you're being very insensitive, and you should teach your child not to touch anyone's mobility aids." Tej launched right into a lecture. "Please treat my friend as you would treat-"

Blondie's temper boiled over. She raised one crutch and bashed it into the woman's knee. Tej's hand clamped over her own mouth as the woman fell over with a screech, dragging her daughter down with her.

"Oops. My bad." Blondie turned her back on the pair.

"Did you see that?" the woman cried as she got back to her feet. The cashier looked over from the customer he was dealing with, frowning.

"I'll be out fast," Blondie promised the cashier. "No trouble."

They walked out with their coffees and gluten-filled breakfast, Blondie's coffee spouting steam that smelled of coconut... Something she could have gotten at home. Tej predictably got a mocha cappuccino.

"I mean," Tej finally said during their resumed drive, mouth full of bagel, "not that I blame you much, but public battery isn't a food luck."

Blondie turned the radio up higher.

The guard let them into the gated, cookie cutter community. Towering houses were identical, painted a cream not a shade lighter or darker than the house nextdoor. Perfect gardens, no blade of grass even a centimeter overgrown. One house had flowers a different shade of pink than the rest. Blondie might have struggled to differentiate the houses if Chase weren't waving frantically at the end of one driveway.

"Melinda, love, how are you?" The large man was coming at her with open arms as she stepped out of the car. She was too slow thinking of an excuse to get out of hugging her stepdad, and he squeezed her tight.

"Peachy," she told him.

He hugged Tej too before letting both women into the house. He was talking a mile a minute and Blondie let Tej handle the conversation.

"I see you brought beverages. No tea then?" he asked. Blondie shook her head. "Oliver's in his study."

"Tell him hi for me," Tej chirped, and Blondie decided she would not do that. She hurried away when the other two started discussing how much they lift at the gym.

115 pounds? Unimpressive, Tej.

She didn't bother knocking on the mahogany door, throwing it right open. "Yo."

Oliver swiveled around in his chair like a James Bond villain. He even looked the part with his coiffed grey hair and serious expression. "Good morning, Melinda. You were almost on time. Have a seat."

"Nice to see you too," Blondie said sarcastically, falling back ontp the plump sofa.

"Oh, no, you're covered in crumbs! Why didn't you brush yourself off outside?"

"Just vacuum later. I had a muffin."

Oliver sighed, turning back to his laptop. "Depending on your recovery time, we'll get you fitted for prosthesis." He flicked through images. Some were very realistic and even matching her skin color, others clunky and robotic, some abstract and hardly resembling a limb. "We should find a design that fits your activity level, preferably a more realistic one. No one has to know. At that point we'll get you to that physical therapist I've been talking to, and-"

"Whoa, hold on a minure. Don't I get a say?" Blondie snapped. "And who said I want a realiatic one? Maybe I don't want to pretend I'm fucking normal."

"Whatever you want, darling. But I'm not going to let you hold yourself back."

"You tell me to take it easy abd slow down and then you get on my ass for being behind the curve. The fuck is that?"

Oliver sighed. He turned back tp his daughter, choosing his next words carefully. "I know how much you enjoy your hobbies. I think it'll be better for your mental health if you get back into dance and martial arts soon."

Back into dance. She was already the largest girl in the studio, dwarfing the tiny instructor even when she was twelve. Skilled as she was, she never had a ballerina's body and her instructor's main complaints were her thundering footsteps and "unladylike gait". Well, at least pointe shoes wouldn't hurt a prosthetic leg.

"It's my body and my life," Blondie reminded him.

"And it's my money that pqid your medical bills," he shot back. She rolled her eyes. "Melinda, you know I just want what's best for you. I want to help you. I need to help you."

"Help yourself first," Blondie snarled. "How's your boytoy?"

"I've been married to Chase since you were eight. Stop calling him my boytoy," Oliver sighed. Any other time, Blondie might have laughed at how annoyed her dad got when she mocked his husband. "And fifteen years isn't such a significant age difference when you're out of your twenties."

"He's a gold-digger."

"He's well worth what he costs, and he loves you like his own daughter. Come on, stop changing the subject. You mean so much to me. You were the victim of such a-"

"I'm not a victim," she hissed, leaning forward in her seat. Her eyes narrowed. "If anyone's a victim, it's that bitch Camilla. You know, queen of the cabbage patch."

Oliver's eyebrows knit together. "Cabbage patch?"

"Because she's a vegetable," Blondie said, and her father sighed heavily.

"I'm not denying that she's a bad person, but you don't need to be discriminatory. Other, much nicer people live with brain damage."

"Dad, shut the fuck up and listen to me," Blondie demanded. "I fought my way out. I'm not a victim!"

"Yes, yes, you're a survivor," he said in a voice like he was placating a toddler.

"No, I'm Melinda fucking Van Doren."

He lifted his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Before anything, you're my daughter and I want what's best for you."

"I actually know what's best for me because I am me."

"I'm your father. I know you pretty damn well."

"Yeah, okay. I'll keep in tough." Blondie started to stand, but Oliver held a hand up.

"Stay for lunch. Samantha made two extra plates."

It still weirded her out that her father had a cook. Her mother missed having servants after the divorce, but Blondie tried her best to keep her home free of employees. And she got stuck with Tej, the most intrusive Van Doren employee.

Chase brought two plates of chicken parmesan to the damn study.

"Workaholic," he said and rolled his eyes, kissing Oliver on the cheek. Blondie rolled her eyes. "Well, I've been having a lovely chat with Miss Tej while you two have been bonding."

Bonding. Sure.

Blondie stabbed into her chicken. She imagined it was the Queen - no, Camilla - that she was stabbing over and over, making sure she never recovered. Because she wasn't the Queen's victim.

She was Melinda "Blondie" Van Doren. She was a fucking hero and people would know that soon.

#bthb #bthb card #bth bingo #bad things happen bingo #bad things bingo #my writing #my characters #blondie #tej #whump #female whump #female whumpee #lady whump #past trauma #ableism tw

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thewildwaffle · 5 years

Text

Abduction - Chapter 27

Would you look at that? Got it posted on time! Thanks for the motivation everyone! especially @cyberstrikebeast - you don’t need to hunt me down, we good! :D I’m not sure if I’ll get another chapter out before the new year, I will for sure be writing in it since I’m taking time off work, but we’ll see how it goes!

First Chapter Previous Next

“For the sake of sanity, ”Simmo hissed, “would you hurry it up!”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Mike whispered back, “am I taking too long? Would you like to do this instead?”

Simmo sighed and clicked her mandibles faintly.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Mike grumbled under his breath as he turned back to the task at hand.

The task was, to be honest, one that 7-year-old Mike would have absolutely loved. They needed to find where Jeb was being held. To do that, they needed a computer that could grant them access to confidential information. To get to a computer that had the right authorization, they needed to break into an information control room. The ship was currently in what Mike referred to as “night mode,” so the control room would be empty. However, that didn’t mean it was easy to get to. Hence the high security in the corridor.

And what a fun security system it was too! Obviously, it must seem impossibly daunting to most- otherwise, the Burnti would never have installed it, but to Mike, it was straight out of his childhood games where he’d imagine he was a secret agent and had to infiltrate the bad guys’ lair. There were lasers to avoid and everything. He could see them, dimly, but they were definitely there. When they’d arrived, he’d had to stop Simmo from walking right into them. She stayed behind as he carefully wove under, over, and around the beams of light, quietly humming the Mission Impossible theme song, much to Simmo’s annoyance.

Currently, he was standing in front of the gate that blocked the hall. He’d climbed up to where it looked like there was a locking mechanism. No luck there. He was stumped for a moment until he noticed the small colored pins inset along the wall. He picked at them, poked at them, twisted, pulled. It was clear they were mechanized. If he tried hard enough, they probably could be moved by hand.

“Do you know if there’s some sort of pattern or whatever for these pins? Like, do I need to match up the blues, or…” He trailed off. He forgot she wouldn’t be much help with this. Simmo, and apparently all Montauk are colorblind. Seeing in color was something only a handful of species could do, or at least, only a handful of species in the Galactic Confederation. Maybe more could see color in the Burnti Empire. That might explain why there’s some sort of color-coding something on this stupid gate.

It took a bit, but eventually, he was able to figure out how the pins were supposed to move when the locks were engaged or disengaged. Moving the first pin out was hard - they were so small! Thankfully, due to the fact that he hadn’t had access to any clippers or files, his nails had grown long enough to pick out the pins so he could work them along their grooves and out of the way. Once he moved a few, it became easier to move the rest.

He grabbed one of the horizontal bars and pulled. It budged, but just barely. He tried again. It rose maybe two inches. Dang, this was heavier than it looked. It didn’t help either that he didn’t have much room to lift - there were two lasers he had to avoid right behind him. Mike turned around and leaned against the gate, trying to figure out the best move.

“Don’t look at me,” Simmo grumbled. “Even if there weren’t all these light sensors, I wouldn’t be much help lifting that thing. Why do you think I brought you along?”

Mike turned back to the gate. “And here I thought it was for my winning personality,” he sighed. He widened his stance and carefully squatted down to the level of the bar he needed. He’d taken a weight-lifting class once in school. He’d been pretty good at it then, and he did his best to keep good form- not that he had much choice. One wrong move and he’d set off the sensors. He grabbed the bar, locked his elbows and lifted with his legs.

Oh boy. If they got out of this, he was going to hit the gym, get back in shape!

The gate lifted enough that he could shuffle his knee under it and give his arms a break. He lifted again and repeated with his shoulders. He carefully stepped over a beam of light on the other side to try to give himself a better stance as he lowered the gate back down. The angle was a bit awkward and it slipped halfway down and slammed loudly against the floor.

Both Mike and Simmo winced involuntarily. Simmo glanced down the hall they had come before turning back to glare at Mike.

He sighed and pretended to brush it off by continuing the rest of the way over the lasers. He was glad Simmo couldn’t see his hands or legs shake, or hear how fast his heart was beating.

He was able to maneuver the rest of the way without incident. A little stumbling, and a lot of shaking, sure, but he made it.

He let himself take a bit of a breather at the other end, shaking his legs so they’d stop feeling like jelly. “Wow,” he muttered to himself. “Always wanted to do that. Always thought it’d be more fun. Life and death situations seem to suck the fun out of everything.”

He entered the code on the panel like Simmo showed him. The laser light show sensors turned off. Mike’s mind was starting to wander as he thought of what the differences there must be between his and Simmo’s - and whoever designed these things, eyes. Why could he see the beams that were supposed to be invisible? Was it with the cones or rods in the eyes? Was it because of how the brain processed the light? He didn’t get very far in thinking though. A loud clang nearly made him jump out of his skin. The gate was raising. That was the loudest gate he’d ever heard. Why did everything always so loud when you were trying to be quiet? After getting over his initial scare, he cringed as it continued its way up loudly. He really hoped no one else was nearby. They would get caught all because of a stupid gate that desperately needed some WD40. Or whatever the Burnti used.

Simmo quickly made her way over and entered the command to restart the security protocols. Mike wasn’t keen on the idea of having the dang gate move around again, but Simmo assured him it was necessary to maintain their cover while they were in the control room. Thankfully, the mechanism that moved the gate was a lot quieter going down than it was going up.

The control room itself was not exactly what Mike had been expecting. As soon as they opened the door, he anticipated seeing a few cramped desks or tables covered with computers and monitors, star maps, electrical displays, the works. Instead, it was a rather spacious room with large decorative tapestries with several inlets and nooks along the walls. In the middle of the room was an impressively large, round computer console. A few steps away was a set of shelves storing everything from datapads, books, what looked like scrolls, and cylinder can things of various sizes and colors.

“So,” Mike drew out the word as he walked in and looked around and up. This place had a vaulted ceiling? On a spaceship? Classy. “Is this like some sort of library, or…?”

“A what?” Simmo marched immediately towards the computer console. She opened up the holographic display and began entering information.

“You know, a library,” Mike circled the room, checking out the inlets and tapestries. “A place where people keep lots of books and movies and old magazines or whatever. You can read there, or study, or research things?”

Simmo didn’t answer. She was now moving through the readouts on the display and scrolling through what didn’t seem important. Mike ran a hand over one of the tapestries. It swayed with his touch. Behind it, there was a small nook tucked away. Nice. He grabbed the tapestry again to steady it. It was huge - it hung all the way from the ceiling to the floor, and it was beautiful. He wasn’t sure the shapes on it meant anything, they were a little abstract and there were symbols he couldn’t read, but it was beautiful nonetheless. He stared at it a while longer, admiring the handiwork and skill that had gone into its creation before walked back to where Simmo was still looking up where Jeb was being held.

“Any luck?”

“He was put in the brig two levels up from us and in the rear of the ship.”

“Okay. Great! That was fast,” Mike nodded and headed toward the door. “Let’s go get him, let’s… Simmo?”

Simmo didn’t move from her spot. Her antenna flicked slightly, but she kept searching the hologram.

“Uh, Simmo, we’re on a bit of a time crunch here, let’s get a move on.”

“And how do you plan on getting out of here without a ship?”

Mike stopped. “I thought we’re taking yours.” He paused for a moment, waiting for a response. Simmo just continued swiping and searching the computer. “Do you… not know where yours is?”

“It’s been missing for about a partec now. It was supposed to be moved to bay 9 after it was done with some repairs, but it never showed up. Rozar told me to not worry about it, that the repairs were probably just taking longer than expected. Thing is, he never checked into it further. Every time I try to do so myself, I never have clearance.”

Mike’s stomach dropped. That didn’t sound good. They had to find the Junk Lego, it had to be somewhere.

He stepped over to Simmo to help her look. He couldn’t really read many of the symbols on the display but moving felt like something he could do. He needed something to do, needed some way to help. Before he could get far, however, he heard the loud gate outside the corridor being raised again.

“Simmo, someone’s coming! We know where they’re keeping Jeb, let’s get out of here! We’ll figure out where your ship is later.”

But Simmo didn’t move from her spot. Files and reports continued coming up and she kept sifting through each one at incredible speed. Mike stepped closer to her, sizing up how best to grab her and pull her along in a way that wouldn’t end up with him getting cut up by her sharp hands. Suddenly, the screen froze. Mike glanced at the topmost file on display. He still couldn’t read it, and for several tense moments, Simmo couldn’t stop reading it.

“Simmo,” Mike ground out. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears and all this standing around business was beginning to feel torturous. They had to hide!

“My ship,” Simmo whispered without taking her eyes off the display. “It’s gone.”

The loud clanging noises of the gate stopped. Shoot. Mike looked back at Simmo. She must have heard it, even with the control room door being closed. She was still fixated on the screen.

“Simmo!” Mike hissed through his teeth. The voices were right outside the door now, muffled and talking quietly, but getting closer.

Mike slapped at the screen’s controls, shutting it down and all but tackled Simmo and dragged her behind the tapestry. Just in time too - the tapestry was still moving and swaying a bit when the door slid open. Thankfully, the new arrivals were too deep in their conversation to notice. Mike didn’t dare look around to see who it was, but he could swear he recognized the voice of one of the speakers.

“This is not what my people were told,” a silvery voice entered the room. “We’ve waited long enough. The Burnti aren’t the only ones with whom we can make deals.”

“We’ll have the truminium soon now that the Galactic Confederation out of our way.”

Mike shrunk back farther. He knew that second voice. Commander Rozar had one of those very distinct voices.

“That’s been partecs now. You’ve sure been taking your time since,” the silvery voice countered. “Having too much time with your galactic streamings about your little prizes, perhaps?”

Mike tentatively inched to the edge to get a look, being careful to not be seen. Sure enough, there was that grand, feathered sloth jerk himself, talking to an alien Mike had never seen before. She looked very catlike. Larger than a booka, but larger and with a much longer torso with thick spotted gray fur and long antenna-like whiskers all over her body. She was standing on her hind legs, or maybe standing was too generous a term. It was more like she was balancing on her back legs. It’s long, thick tail helped to keep her balanced.

Mike ducked back behind the tapestry. ”What ith that?” he lisped to try to avoid being overheard.

Simmo leaned over to peer around the corner. “Priso. They’re not with the Burnti. They’re from some coalition near the Green Mallak nebula.” “Ok. That doesthn’t help. I have no idea what any of that ith.”

Simmo made some sort of gesture that Mike had to assume was Montauk sign language for ‘shut up.’

Rozar and the priso hadn’t yet noticed they weren’t alone. The priso had said something which caused Rozar to flatten the feathers at the back of his head cooly. “If you’re going to be keeping up with your delightful attitude, you can always spend another cycle or two in a cell.”

The priso shot him an icy glare. “Your diplomacy leaves much to be desired.”

“And what, do tell, are you going to do about it? Complain about me to your superiors? I’m sure they’d applaud the lengths I’ve gone to not outright strangle you.” The priso’s fur ruffled. “Is that a threat?”

“No,” Rozar said calmly, “a statement. Though I’m sure many of your superiors wouldn’t mind if it were. I’m surprised you don’t hear more of them.”

The priso’s ears went flat against her skull, the same with its whisker-like antenna. She bared her teeth and let out a low growl.

“Oh do calm down, Sitran my dear,” Rozar sighed. “That’s what got you in trouble before.” He turned to the computer console and pulled up the display. Mike tensed. He hoped that whatever Simmo had been looking at before wasn’t still there, or if it was, it wouldn’t tip Rozar off that something was wrong. Thankfully, the display had reset itself when they closed it down in their rush.

“Ah, here we are,” Rozar looks closely at the display before turning toward a set of shelves. Picking up a datapad, he activated the display and handed it to the angry priso. “Perhaps this will help allay some ill will. This datapad should include the pertinent communications we’ve had with Earth. Or at least with the governments that have been expressing an interest.”

Sitran took it and began scrolling through with a paw. Her ears came forward and the offended expression on her face melted away into a mix of curiosity and wonder. “These are just the ones that...” she continued to scroll. “How many governments does Earth have?!”

Rozar stepped back toward the main computer console chuckling lightly. “My understanding is that humans just wandered around their planet. When they got too far from each other, they started doing their own things, made their own cultures, formed new languages, and even their widespread appearances changed in some cases to adapt to new environments. In short, there are enough for everyone to share.”

Mike felt a mix of confusion, alarm, and anger. He wished he could just step out there and wipe that smug look right off Rozar’s face. Like he knew anything important about humans! What was that jerk planning?

Rozar,still very much unaware of Mike and Simmo’s presence, was very much enjoying showing off his human-related knowledge.

“There’s a file with everything you need near the top. Several files actually. I’d recommend reviewing the health and safety files thoroughly. There are things you wouldn’t think would pose a health hazard. You wouldn’t want to get something in your paw broken during a customary human hand greeting.”

Simmo leaned into Mike’s ear, “Please tell me that’s not a real thing.”

Mike turned back to her and thought for a moment. “Uh, handshake? I think he’s talking about handshake-th. That’th tho dumb. They don’t hurt”

Simmo didn’t look comforted in the slightest.

The priso was still looking through the files, fascinated. Her wide eyes were darting across the screen. “I thought most of this was just rumor. Humans sure don’t mess around, do they?”

“Oh no. They certainly do,” Rozar corrected. “That’s part of the problem with working with them. But I imagine that if the Galactic Confederation has been successful at integrating them, then it’s obviously manageable. The rewards vastly outweigh the risks, as you can see in the next file.”

Simmo leaned into Mike’s ear again. “I want a copy of that datapad.”

Mike pushed her face away from his and peeked back out.

“You’ll want to read through the behavioral files as well,” Rozar had now moved over near Sitran and was pointing out the folder in question. “We’ve tried to log as much information as extensively as we can, but it’s very much an ongoing endeavor. Our own humans have been exceptionally-”

The door slid open again. Mike jumped back a bit out of habit to avoid detection. He didn’t really need to, the new arrivals, a pair of yellow guards immediately rushed in and saluted Rozar.

“Commander,” the shorter of the pair rushed, she sounded like she was out of breath, “We have apprehended a ship, sir.”

“The escaped prisoners?”

“No sir, a Galactic Confederation ship.” That got Rozar’s full attention.

Rozar ignored a quirked look from Sitran. “Come again? A Galactic Confederation ship?”

“Yes sir, we were in pursuit of the escaped prisoners and they came out of nowhere sir. By the time we had them, the prisoners had gone to hyperspeed.” “A diversion perhaps?” Sitran mused.

“Quite possible. Two of the three missing prisoners were Confederation officers, I believe.” Rozar’s tail swayed dramatically from side to side, red and purple feathers brushed lightly on the floor. “They helped them get away and let themselves be captured. We’ll know for sure after we’ve interrogated them. And then we’ll make an example of them for the rest of the meddlesome Confederation fools.”

The guards suddenly looked rather sheepish. “Ah, yes, about that,” the second, taller guard started. Rozar snapped his head towards him, which only disconcerted the guard more. “Their ship is still in docking bay 4, but they themselves… aren’t.”

Rozar stared at the pair of them silently for what seemed like forever. Mike leaned out a bit more from behind the tapestry.

“They aren’t… what?” Rozar nearly spat.

The guards shifted uncomfortably. “They… aren’t on their ship anymore. Ah, a few moments after the air seal locks disengaged, three of them rushed the doors and were able to break through the ranks. They, ah, well they are now loose aboard the Arum Bloom, sir.”

Silence.

“They... broke the ranks?”

“Ah, yes… sir. The guards were not prepared for them to leave their ship like that, or leave willingly at all. Several have had to be taken to the infirmary. Two granims have serious concussions and are in critical condi-.”

“How many?”

“Uh, sir?”

“How many Galactic Confederation soldiers are now running amok on my ship?”

The first guard paused nervously. The second piped up, “From the reports we’ve received, there are three, sir.”

Rozar stepped away from the computer console and began pacing slowly, sharp claws clacking against his jaw. Mike slipped a bit back behind his hiding spot as Rozar walked by. The Burnti Fleet Commander had his eyes closed, sure, but he still felt dangerous. Mike could feel the anger and tension building up. He was pretty sure everyone in the room could. Even Simmo, who had barely moved from her hiding spot at all, scooted almost imperceptibly closer to Mike’s side.

“Three.” Rozar sighed deeply. “Three soldiers were able to ‘break your ranks,’ injure several guards, and avoid capture?” Rozar stopped in front of the guards, his feathers puffed out a bit as he arched his neck to look down at the guards. “Please illuminate to me how, by all that is bright and shining, three soldiers were able to, thus far, elude you all.”

Mike did not envy the guards’ position. He knew it was silly, they were Burnti- his captors- but part of him even felt a little bad for them.

One of them, the second one, managed to gather a bit more courage and straighten up. “Two of them were human sir.”

Mike gasped. Simmo glowered at him.

No one must have heard, thankfully, because the guard continued, “We had scanned their ship as we brought them aboard, but something was interfering with the scan. Before we could completely set up for boarding protocols, two humans and a booka attacked and got away.”

“Well, Commander,” Sitran drawled out dramatically, “It seems you certainly are busy. I can make sure my superiors take this,” he closed the display of the datapad, “as a gift of good faith for the truminium trade, shall I?”

Rozar made a sound that was a mix between a grunt and a growl.

Sitran walked toward the door. The two guards hesitated, unsure if they should try to stop her or not.

“I’ll just see myself out then,” Sitran stepped around them and toward the door, calling back smugly, “Don’t worry, I remember where my ship is, unless of course it’s been moved or stolen in all the commotion lately.”

Mike ducked back to hiding as Rozar stormed by. He was definitely growling now. After a moment, he heard the blips and hums of the computer console as he pulled up the report readouts the guards had brought him. More reports were sent in as the search for the intruders went on.

Simmo quietly thunked her head against the wall. “They are never going to leave. We need to get out of here,” she hissed under her breath.

“There are humans,” Mike whispered back. “They’ve probably come to rescue us!”

“Two humans. Two humans came. Oh, and a booka. Great.” Simmo started to roll her eyes but stopped herself once she realized what she was doing. “Against everyone else aboard the Arum Bloom? They’re idiots for coming at all.”

Mike sighed and leaned to spy on what the other occupants in the room were doing, but before he could, Simmo grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back.

“Now look here you little monster,” her face was right in Mike’s again, “don’t you go getting any stupid ideas. We’re getting out of here as soon as we can. I agreed to take you, Wenona, and for some reason, Jebannuck, but I draw the line there. We are not risking our plans to save more humans on a doomed mission.”

Mike smiled. “Aw, Simmo, you said our plan. Like we’re a team,” he teased. Simmo hissed quietly and pushed him back. It’d been a soft push, sure, but as Mike stepped back from it, he tripped over his other foot and stumbled back, landing on his butt past the tapestry.

He froze. He felt like he could feel every. Single. Heartbeat.

Frewan.

He turned his head to the middle of the room. Maybe Rozar hadn’t seen. Maybe he’d had his back turned and didn’t notice.

Yeah, no such luck.

Rozar stared back at him, surprise coloring his wide golden eyes.

After a few tense heartbeats, the two guards finally snapped out of their shock and pulled their blasters, leveling them right at Mike.

Before any of them could react further, the control room door opened again. A huge hairy mass raced towards Mike. Booming barks felt like they were shaking the entire room.

“No one shoot!” a familiar voice commanded. “Put your weapons down!”

Mike had his hands full of massive, hairy, very excited dog. By the time he was able to sit back up and wipe the slobber off his face, Wenona had disarmed the guards and was handing their weapons to Jebannuck. She kept her blaster pointed directly at Rozar, but carefully, her eyes wandered to where Mike was trying to settle down Carson.

“Oh, Mike,” her voice bounced cheerily, “I’m glad you’re still alive. Because I’m about ready to kill you.” She dropped the smile. “Where have you been?!”

“Uh,” Mike stood back up, “with Simmo.” He motioned for her to step out from behind the tapestry. She was hesitant, but as soon as Mike had acknowledged her, Carson started sniffing. Then growling. Mike stroked the dog’s head. “It’s ok boy, she’s a friend.” Which earned a simultaneous scoff from Simmo and a quiet “Well…” from Jebannuck.

Simmo cautiously took a step out from behind the tapestry. Carson sniffed eagerly at her while Mike held his collar.

“What is that thing?!”

“That’s Carson,” Mike scratched the dog’s ears. “He’s our unofficial pet until we can get him home to his real owners back on Earth.”

Simmo’s antenna were flat against her head and her mandibles clicked quietly, but she didn’t stop the canine and instead stood stiffly, waiting for it to be over. When Carson was done, he huffed loudly and stood resolutely between Simmo and Mike.

“Simmo,” Rozar’s voice broke the tense silence, “I assume I’m to hold you responsible for at least most of this mess.”

“Quite likely.”

Rozar looked like he was trying to kill Simmo just by glaring at her. He looked like he might say more, but Jebannuck spoke first. “Simmo, are you the one who opened the cells?”

Simmo tilted her head stiffly. “Yeah, whatever. You’re welcome.”

Jebannuck stared at her. “You opened the entire cell block. There were more than just prisoners in there. You almost got me killed.”

“If I’d known it was your cell block, believe me, I would have found another distraction.”

Mike waved them both down. “Okay, fine, it’s fine. I mean, now we don’t need to break Jebannuck out.” Simmo made a long grunting noise and looked away. Mike looked at her, but shook his head and chose to ignore whatever she meant by that. They were together now, and they had to act quickly. “Simmo, you said something earlier about your ship?”

Simmo looked to Rozar who gave the smallest hint of a grin.

“It’s gone.” Simmo clenched her sharp claws. Mike, Jeb, and Wenona glanced at each other. Simmo only had eyes for Rozar Silence. Finally, Wenona, still aiming a blaster at his chest, took a warning step closer.

Rozar sighed. “The parts were useful. Plus,” he sneered, “we didn’t want you getting any bright ideas. Apparently, I was right to be concerned.”

“So we steal another ship. We get out of here,” Wenona said matter-of-factly.

Jebannuck shook his head. “That may be impossible. They’ll have increased guard duty since the last prisoners did that.” “We can take them, we have the blasters.”

“We don’t need to.” Mike jumped in. “There’s a ship, a Galactic Confederation ship.” He nodded at Rozar. “I overheard them earlier.”

“Yeah,” Simmo scoffed, “with its crew now wandering somewhere on the ship.”

Rozar chuckled. Wenona readjusted her aim on him that had been slipping during the conversation. “So what will you do now? Will you steal their ship and save yourselves, or will you get yourselves captured by trying to find them?”

“Shut up, Rozar, no one asked you.” Wenona gave him her iconic glare.

“Shoot him,” Simmo growled. “We don’t need him overhearing our plans so he can stop us once we leave.”

“And give the Burnti a reason to go to war against the Galactic Confederation?” Jebannuck countered. “He’s not just some guard, he’s a fleet commander, and we wouldn’t be doing it in self-defense!”

Wenona sighed and looked back at Jeb. “We can’t just leave him either.”

Rozar used the momentary distraction and dove behind the computer console. Wenona shot a blast which barely missed him as he went, brushing over the feather tips of his tail. Carson barked wildly, pulling Mike who was still holding his collar with him a few steps before Mike could regain footing.

The entire control room erupted with noise and no small amount of panic. The guards, even without weapons, rushed them in order to protect their commander. Wenona swore and tried to move to get another shot at Rozar, but her limp slowed her down. Jeb was able to shoot one of the guards, but the other crashed into Wenona and both of them fell to the floor.

Carson was still barking wildly but was now trying to pull Mike along to defend Wenona. He let go of the dog’s collar and yelled to Jeb to throw him one of the spare blasters. The guard that had attacked Wenona screamed as Carson bit its arm.

A loud tonal beep blared from speakers that must have been installed in the walls or ceiling. Rozar’s voice echoed in the room, outside in the hall, and Mike assumed, everywhere in the ship, “This is Fleet Commander Rozar. Humans have escaped. Armed and dangerous. Kill on sight.”

Mike felt like a bucket of ice water had just been dumped on him. We need to go. We need to go! WE NEED TO GO! He wasn’t sure if he had yelled any of that as he rushed forward and pulled Carson off the alien guard who quickly scrambled away holding its arm tightly to try to stop the purple blood from where they’d been bitten.

Simmo picked up one of the dropped blasters and tried a few more shots towards the computer console at Rozar as Jeb helped Wenona to her feet. She stumbled and gasped in pain.

“For my ship!” Simmo roared as she blasted away at the console. “For my crew!” She rushed the side to get a better angle. Mike couldn’t see if she got him or not as he struggled to pull Carson towards the door. He wished he had some sort of leash to help guide the dog away from the now-cowering guard and toward the door.

“Carson, come!” The dog grudgingly let Mike pull him along.

Jebannuck was trying to pick up Wenona who was almost bent over with pain.

“What’s wrong?” Mike yelled. “What happened?”

“No time, hold this,” Jeb handed him an extra blaster so he could lift Wenona over his shoulder, using his now free hand to hold her in place as he ran to the door. “Simmo,” he shouted back, “We’re leaving! NOW!”

The montauk was already at his side. She frowned as they headed for the door, “What’s wrong with her?”

Jebannuck didn’t answer immediately. He led the way down the corridor and paused at the next turn. “Did either of you happen to overhear where the Confederation ship is being held?”

Mike thought back for a moment, trying to remember. “Docking bay 4,” He turned to Simmo. “Do you know where that is?”

Simmo paused then nodded and took the lead down the corridor.

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#abduction #humans are weird #humans are space orcs #aliens #space #jebannuck #mike #wenona #simmo #montauk #burnti #original writing #writeblr #novel #oh my gosh this took forever to write!#just need to get it written

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j-hoseok94 · 5 years

Text

Book: House of Cards

Author: Rey Rey

01•02•03•04•05•06•07•08•09•10•11

ELEVEN

The week was fairly boring the only real difference was that i had ran into Jungkook when i left Yoongi's house. He had a bruise on his face. Naturally i asked him what happened, he brushed it off and said some guy got jealous that his girlfriend was with him. He seemed different, almost like he didn't wanna talk to me. At the time i just wanted to go home so i went about my day.

I ran into Aphrodite as well and i was actually glad to have a girl around that i could speak my mind with. She was really nice and gave me a very 'Bad Bitch' vibe and i honestly wanted to be more like her. More confident and well i guess you could say demanding. She knew what she wanted and just how to get it. Oooh girl she was thick and i mean a good kind of thick with her skinny jeans on leaving no surprises. She decided to take me under her wing after i told her about my 'situation' with Yoongi.

"You have to be more assertive." She said to me "You gotta show him that he ain't the only one tryna get his hand in the cookie jar."

I laughed at the time but now that i think of it that could actually work and i knew one person who he absolutely hated me being around.

"C'mon Jungkook pleeeease." I practically had to beg him in the middle of the hallway. He glanced down at me his black hair falling over his left eye. It had taken me so long for me to get him to finally stop and listen to my idea.

"Fuck no Rose. Do you want me to die?" He rolled his eyes and walked past me. I followed him like the lost puppy i was. I grabbed his arm and tugged on his long sleeve white shirt. He had little suspenders connected to his black jeans and these nice black combat boots on. It looked cute on him.

"Pretty please it would just be for a little bit and i promise to behave. I won't try anything it's just to see what would happen." I gave him my best puppy dog eyes and sad face i could.

"Aiishhh, Fine but i swear i am not gonna get fucked up for this." I jumped up and down squealing like a fan girl. I pulled him into a hug and thanked him probably a million times over. He pushed me away gently. "C'mon i have an idea. Follow me."

He grabbed my wrist and pulled me all the way across the lawn to the parking lot. We ended up at a very nice car which just so happened to be next to Yoongi's car. I tried not to look at it. The thought of Yoongi only made me sad and i always wanted to break down when i shouldn't. I kept my eyes on Kookie's car. His car was a nice cherry red and more of a sporty type well, as far as i saw all the boys in this group had sporty type cars. It was bright compared to Yoongi's black on black car, though i loved his dark color scheme he always seemed to have.

"Get in. We're going to my house." I snapped my attention to him suddenly feeling shy. I rubbed my hand on my arm.

"What about school? I mean isn't it bad to miss. I also have that project due today and i don't think leaving Yoongi in charge is a good idea."

He looked over at me with a face that was like 'really'. "Didn't you just say you were avoiding him? Besides it's Little Meow Meow you already aced it." I just laughed it off and tried to shake off the uneasy feeling i had about being alone with Kookie. I hopped in his car and we headed to his house.

We were in his room now it was red and white. More like white with red sections almost like stripes slanted across his walls. He had these fluffy ass pillows and his bed was comfy. I lay across his bed admiring the ceiling fan and amazing view of the ocean he had.

"You're so fucking lucky you get to wake up to this everyday." I sat up on his bed and looked at him. He was sitting in the far corner of the room fixing his hair and texting. He hopped up and jumped on the bed next to me.

"I have an idea it's very subtle but i think he will notice."

"Yeah yeah what is it?" I asked him eagerly glad that he decided to help me make Yoongi jealous.

"Well YOU lucky miss are the only female in the school with that backpack." He pointed to my backpack sitting on his love seat in the corner. I looked back at him confused. "If i took a picture of me but with that backpack in the background. Hmpff he would be so fucking mad." He smiled at me and my stomach clenched. It was a weird reaction to say the least and i couldn't pin point what caused it.

"Okay well where do you want it?" I got up to place the backpack in a very strategic place in his background. I moved it over to the door and he told me to place it there and get out of the shot. I did as was told and he laid back and took a picture of his legs with his bed and door in the background. It was simple but not too obvious that my backpack was there. "Do you think he will notice? I mean does he even pay attention to details like that?" He looked over at me almost like he was speechless. Why am i questioning him he's known Yoongi for how many years now?

"Trust me that boy won't be able to miss it." He chuckled and returned to what he was doing beforehand. "Oh actually did you wanna go home? I could drop you off i know if Yoongi headed here things would get messy." He was being so considerate i nodded and started gathering my things.

-Yoongi-

I was furious after seeing that picture that driving with Namjin was very difficult. I didn't wanna have them start being concerned for me. Knowing Jin he would try to cheer me up or get me to tell him and i really didn't feel like divulging such information to him right now. I glanced in the rear view mirror and Jin was leaning on Namjoon's shoulder and they were talking to each other. The way Namjoon looked down at him and kissed his head made my heart ache. I wanted that, 'Look at me i'm turning into a damn fool. A damn head over heels fool.' I shook my head laughing to myself.

I dropped off Namjin explaining to them that i didn't feel like hanging out today and that i'd talk to them later. I headed back to school and decided to let my anger out in the only safe way i knew how. I didn't wanna hit my best friend again but i would if i had to. This was the only option i saw fit and i got exercise from it too.

I headed to the school gym changing into some basketball shorts and a loose shirt. I headed to the basketball court and grabbed a ball. Bouncing it a few times and doing some quick layups i was so focused on those i didn't hear him.

"Well i'm guessing something had to of happened if Little Meow Meow is shooting hoops after school without everyone else." I grabbed the bouncing basketball and turned to find Taehyung standing only a few feet away from me.

"No. I just wanted to shoot some hoops, is that a crime?" I passed him the ball he bounced a few times and broke right as he pushed me off his shoulder he made a layup. He ran his fingers through his hair and licked his lips.

"No it's not a crime but you hate extra exercise you even wiggle your way out of P.E. almost everyday." He laughed and stood there waiting for a response. I drew circles and abstract drawing on the basketball with my finger. I didn't look at him, our group was close most of us knew each other for many years. Taehyung and Jungkook knew me the longest and i couldn't keep anything from them. They read my moods like a book and knew all my coping mechanisms. I sighed and rolled my eyes. I had to tell him cause if i didn't he would pester me and i didn't wanna deal with it. Hobi and Tae were the persistent ones to the point where it was easier to give in than to try and outlast them.

"It's Rose..I-I like her and i told her and she thinks i said it just to get her in bed." I sat down on the wood floor and rolled the ball to Tae who also sat down. He sat there thinking for a second.

"Yoongi that doesn't sound like you at all."

"I know i tried.."

"No i mean you've only ever confessed to one other girl and she broke your heart. You've never confessed to anyone after that. Ever. It's been 6 years and you still don't talk about it. I mean i'm guessing she doesn't know this about you but, i mean man you gotta fight for her." I unwillingly considered his words. He was right i needed to fight but i didn't know how. Just thinking of her with someone else pissed me off but thinking of that person being Kookie infuriated me. "If you don't do it soon someone else will and then you'll regret it forever. Take the leap it will be worth it. If it backfires i take full responsibility." He chuckled and that made me smile, i knew that i had to at least try.

"Okay okay i'll talk to her. I swear if this backfires Tae.." He patted my shoulder and stood up helping me up too.

"Yeah yeah you'll beat my ass i'm well aware." I laughed as we headed out the gymnasium and for a moment my problems seemed solved.

Oh how wrong i was.

#bts fanfic #bts smut #smutty #houseofcardsbook #smuttyfanfic #army #bts #wattpad

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phaedrecameron · 6 years

Text

House of Fraser, Chpt 10 - The Tate Modern

Jamie rolled his broad shoulders as he stepped from his steaming shower. He wiped the mirror with his fist and felt a slight twinge near his left shoulder blade. He needed to lay off the row machine. Ever since Claire had dropped into his life, he’d been spending much of his free time in the gym or logging miles on the road with Fergus. He’d already replaced his running shoes a month early and even Fergus’s unending supply of energy seemed to be waning.

Jamie reached for his razor as he watched the sink fill with water. Geneva had responded to his text by phoning him an hour later.

Well, hello Jamie. So you want to talk? That’s brilliant!” Her voice full of sarcasm. “Point of order, we could have spoken this morning! At the meeting with the executive VPs – the one I scheduled two months ago – the ONE you were supposed to be at. Where were you? I called the studio and John said you hadn’t checked in?”

“I overslept.”

Her voice, incredulous, turned to ice, “you wake up every morning at five to run with your dog and you had a lie in?”

“I overslept,” Jamie kept his voice even. “Geneva, I need to speak with you. Perhaps a bite to eat?”

At hearing her full name, Geneva’s voice turned from ice to stone, “later. I’ve last minute preparations for tomorrow’s gala.”

Jamie groaned.

You forgot, didn’t you?” She asked.

“Geneva ..”

“Jamie,” she cut him off, “this is important to HF and it should be important to you. I’m trying to position to you at the forefront of a progressive global brand,” her voice softened, “and it’s important to me. I know you think me but a hindrance to your work, but you couldn’t design clothes if I didn’t get the right eyes to see them.” Her voice wavered, “I’ve worked six months on this.” Silence. “But, if you need to tell me something this instant, just tell me, otherwise I’ll see you at the Gala.

Jamie had felt a pang of guilt at her words. She had worked hard and she was helping him, but all he could think about was Claire. He’d ended the call by agreeing to see her at the Gala. Frankly, he had no idea what he was about. He was going to break up with his girlfriend to be available for a woman who was about to wed another? Jamie foamed the soap on his face and took one long swipe with the razor. And where was Randall when Claire was crying with cold pizza and crap American beer as her only companion. Jamie lifted the razor from his neck. The thought of Randall comforting Claire would cause him to slice his throat. He swished the razor in the sink. Regardless, being with Geneva was untenable and she deserved better than a man wishing she were someone she wasn’t.

Jamie finished his shave, toweled off his face and body and began to walk down the hall to his guest bedroom. He passed Fergus on the way and playfully threw his wet towel on the dog’s head. Fergus shimmied out the towel, gave him a quick yip, and went back to his afternoon nap. Jamie casually scratched his left arse cheek and continued, naked, to the guest bedroom. He found his formal kilt attire hanging behind the closet door. Despite it being there for the past week, Geneva was right, he had forgotten about the Gala. It was the black tie fundraising event scheduled this evening at the Tate Modern; its aim was to promote diversity in the arts and HF was one of the co sponsors. Jamie brushed his hand over the plush woolen cloth of Fraser colors. He sighed as he looked down and cupped his balls. “Well there’s no help for it.” It would be cold tonight and he was going full Scotsman.

**********

And we’ll be slow dancing through the rock in the road// And I promise that I’m catching you, if ever you fall

Scotswoman Emeli Sandé’s voice oozed from the high tech sound equipment peppered throughout the Tate Modern’s abstract installations.

You’re every single little piece of me// You’re every tear and every drop I bleed

Jamie plucked a stray ginger strand from his Prince Charlie jacket as he perused the piss poor selection of Scottish whisky at one of the Gala’s open bar stations. Jamie’s nose crinkled when he reached the section of American bourbon. Sassenachs.

He definitely need assistance to make it through the evening. He selected a mediocre single malt and took a sip. He turned to see Geneva in a far corner amongst a small cluster of people. She was pretending to laugh at a joke. He hated her laugh. It always came with an edge of mocking condescension.

And if we run into trouble, no, I won’t disappear//While you’ve been spinning in circles I’ve been standing right here

He took another sip and scanned the eveningwear on display. Some hits, but quite a few misses. Jamie moved to take another sip. His mouth fell open and his hand jerked up as his fingers tightened around the glass that had almost slipped from his grip.

Claire had entered the hall at the opposite end. She was wearing a black floor length gown. Its plunging black leather bodice revealed the full inner curve of her breasts. Her hair was slicked back and her lips the color of blood. Jamie stood transfixed, waiting for her to turn to the side. He watched as her tongue briefly darted out to moisten her lips as she scanned the crowd. His eyes dropped to her legs. Waiting. Waiting for it. He didn’t want to so much as blink and miss it. He’d designed the dress after all. He knew exactly how the gown would respond to her movements. He knew a visible silver zipper ran down her spine from her nape to her arse. Knew she must have struggled to zip the dress on her own. Knew she hadn’t asked for Randall’s help and wore it anyway. He smiled at the thought.

Claire started to move. There it was. Jamie’s breath caught as the full length of her leg was revealed through the gown’s slit which sat high on her thigh. Her leg went from from visible to hidden and back again as the fabric accommodated her stride. The definition of her calf was accentuated by a pair of perfectly chosen silver strappy heels. Jamie felt a swell of pride at how good she looked. His eyes continued to track her as she made her way to a bar station. Several men were openly admiring her to which she seemed oblivious.

Claire had just received her extra dry, extra dirty martini when she felt Frank’s hand on her arm. “What are you wearing?” He spat. “Where’s the dress I sent?”

Claire looked him in the eye as she slowly took her first sip. She examined the red imprint of her lips on the glass. She closed her eyes and licked the brine from her lower lip. She could feel Frank seething next to her. “Let go of my arm,” she spoke slowly as her eyes opened. Frank glanced around nervously as though he were apologizing for a toddler’s tantrum in a grocery. “Let. Go. Of. My. Arm.” She repeated, voice restrained, like a viper coiling to strike. Frank dropped his hand. “I told you I would find my own dress. I chose this one. Some men might think to greet their betrothed with a compliment.” She took another sip.

Frank stared at her. “Claire, of course you’re a vision, beautiful always, but,” his face contorted as though he were speaking to a stranger, “I was planning on pitching to investors with you by my side…and..”

Claire’s response died in her throat when she saw Jamie approach.

He was in full regalia. She had time to catch his knees, the kilt, the brooch, and his clean shaven face before she averted her eyes to suppress the grin threatening to break free.

“Fraser, surprise seeing you here.” Frank extended his hand. He was wearing an unimaginative, ill fitting tuxedo with a crooked bow tie. Jamie shook his hand; fighting to control his own smile at seeing Claire feign interest in a martini olive while trying to look at his sporran.

“Quite the grip you’ve got there, Fraser. I don’t remember that last we met.” Frank smiled his smug smile.

The image of Claire hugging herself flooded Jamie’s mind; he thought of strangling Randall with his bow tie and then breaking his face with his fist.

Frank stepped back to examine Jamie’s formal kilt.

“Is there a parade?” Randall laughed at his own joke. He and Geneva had the same laugh.

Jamie leaned forward, “the theme of this event is diversity. I’m sure ye were taught the meaning of that word at Cambridge.”

Frank’s face darkened as Claire struggled not to laugh.

Jamie eyes softened as he looked to Claire, “it is a surprise to see ye here,” turning to Randall he continued, “‘’tis a blessing that ye somehow found the time to help others.” Jamie took a long sip of whisky . “Philanthropy, I mean.” Frank swirled what suspiciously looked to be an apple martini in his hand. “My company is a co sponsor; it’s a worthwhile cause and good PR,” he smiled.

Jamie watched as Randall’s attention began to drift to the crowd. He realized Randall was unaware that Claire had been at his flat.

And all these stars, I reached out, collected for you// All these nights I prayed and I dreamt about you

Jamie brought his eyes to Claire’s. She smiled shyly and looked back at her olive. Jamie eyes swept over her body and when she looked back to him, he noticed a slight flush had started to spread across her chest and neck. She let out a small exhale and trapped her lower lip in her teeth as the flush moved to her cheeks.

Jamie began to speak when he noticed Claire flinch and draw closer to Randall. He instinctively began to move toward her when he felt Geneva’s hand around his own.

“Isn’t it glorious,” Geneva began, “I..” She looked at Claire’s dress then to Jamie.

Geneva’s abrupt silence returned Randall’s attention to the conversation. “Is this your dress, Fraser?”

“Aye.” Jamie replied.

“I hired you to design a wedding dress, not be my fiancée’s stylist! She..”

The lights dimmed, indicating the speeches were to begin.

Claire quickly left with Randall and Jamie followed Geneva to a nearby table.

After an interminable amount of speeches and a silent auction, the crowd was free to mingle. Geneva introduced Jamie to the chairwoman of the British Fashion Council, but he couldn’t manage the small talk. He ignored Geneva’s look of warning and excused himself in search of another dram.

He spotted Claire and Randall near the back. He watched as Randall left her alone to join a pair of equally unimaginatively dressed men.

I once kneeled in shaken thrill//I chase a memory of it still, of every chill

The music had returned. No more than ten seconds passed before a man asked Claire to dance. Jamie watched as Claire looked around, but not for Randall. She returned her attention to the man and offered her hand in acceptance.

Jamie was upon them before he realized he’d started to walk. He wasn’t accustomed to using his size to intimidate others, but this time he did. The man turned to see the wall that was Jamie’s body. Claire politely shrugged and the man demurred.

Staring in the blackness at some distant star// The thrill of knowing how alone we are, unknown we are

With the man gone, Jamie held out his hand. Claire looked conflicted, but took his hand and stepped into his embrace.

To the wild and to the both of us//I confess the longing I was dreaming of

Jamie’s thumb rubbed the zipper that sat on her lower back. Her hand tightened around his.

“Nice dress.” He said.

“You think so? I heard the designer is up and coming.”

He chuckled, “ye’ll have to tell me their name.”

She smiled. “I like your….socks?”

“Hose, lass.” His face serious.

Claire laughed in his arms. “You’re adding this to the list aren’t you?”

“Aye, most definitely.”

But there’s no better love//Beckons above me and there’s no better love// That ever has loved me, there’s no better love

He wanted to tell her she looked like a fucking goddess, but settled on, “ye look beautiful.”

So darling, feel better love

She smiled as she shook her head, “well it is your dress.”

“Nae, everyone knows it’s the woman that makes the dress. Ye design the dress to highlight what’s already there, not the other way ‘round.”

Know that my love would burn with me// We’ll live eternally//‘Cause there’s no better love

She looked down and didn’t reply.

“Claire, are ye happy?”

“I, yes, I mean mostly.” Her voice low.

Jamie looked around. They’d stopped dancing and she stepped back.

“I know it’s no my place,” Jamie wanted to be careful, he knew her temper, “but where was Frank?” Her hawk-like eyes narrowed and her jaw set. Jamie was afraid he’d said more than he should. When she didn’t answer, he closed his eyes and continued, “ye deserve a man who would give ye all his time, all his attention; to lay the world at your feet.” When he heard nothing, he opened his eyes to find Claire staring at him.

“Is that what you do for Geneva?”

His brow knitted, “No. Yes. No!” His right hand adjusted the broach on his left shoulder, while the fingers of his left hand tapped his kilt. “Claire, Geneva and I aren’t..”

“Aren’t what?” Geneva placed her arm around Jamie’s elbow.

Claire smiled at the couple and excused herself. She ordered a second dirty martini and waited near the coat room. Frank appeared soon thereafter. “You embarrassed me tonight,” Frank said over his shoulder as he handed a ticket to the coat attendant.

“Embarrassed?” Claire felt her temper rise.

Frank whipped around, “yes embarrassed! I needed you to help with the investors—“

“You mean sit quietly by your side in clothes you deem appropriate?!”

“Yes. That’s preferable to you looking like a whore! Seriously Claire! All because I wouldn’t fuck you on my desk. You’re behaving like a child.”

Claire threw her martini in his face, the olive landing square on his forehead. Frank brushed at the gin in his eyes. “Don’t patronize me!” She hissed as she slapped him across the face.

She backed up. “I’m done with this. This isn’t what I want. You never see me! You don’t care how I feel! You don’t care what I want!” She sat the martini glass down. “If I ever owed you anything, I’ve paid my debt in full.” She slipped off her ring and placed it in the glass.

She didn’t wait for his response. She turned and walked away; unconsciously walking to the last place she’d seen Jamie.

***********

“Aren’t what?” Geneva placed her arm around Jamie’s elbow.

“Oh, if you’ll excuse me. I see someone I know.” Claire smiled weakly and walked away.

“Stop it.” Jamie tried to pull his arm from Geneva’s grasp.

“Why, love?” Geneva smiled and reached for his hand.

Jamie snatched his hand back. ‘Ye’ve never called me ‘love,’ I know what yer doing.”

“Do you?” She purred. “That makes two of us. You were calling to break up with me weren’t you? Do you think me stupid? You overslept?! You were with that curly haired bitch.”

Jamie realized she’d had too much to drink and was about to make a scene. He grabbed her arm and guided her to an alcove near the toilets. “Yer drunk.” He tried to get her to sit on a plush chair in the alcove.

She brushed his arm away. “No, Jamie, I’m not, and I see you aren’t denying it.” She held up her hand to stop him from speaking. “Jamie, I don’t care. I know what we have and what we don’t. I know you love your clothes more than you could ever love me.”

She seemed to regain her balance and Jamie stepped back.

Geneva pulled at the top of her sleeveless gown, “but that was alright because I chose you and you chose me.” She sighed. “But then you didn’t. I saw the way you looked at her that day at HF. I knew you loved her more than your clothes. I won’t be second choice! I knew she’d be here with that wanker Randall. I wanted to be sure.”

“G, I’m sorry,” Jamie said. “I didna realize at the time that…I wasna cheating on ye.”

She laughed at that. “I know. You were probably helping her with a flat tire. Wait, no. Her flat burned down and she needed a place to stay.”

Jamie smirked, “somethin’ like that.”

She laughed again. “See, I do know you Fraser!” She unbalanced and Jamie grabbed her about the waist and placed her in the seat.

“Ugh,” she reached to take off her shoes.

Jamie kneeled down to help her. “I’m sorry G.”

“Don’t be, I’m getting the better end of the deal. I can find someone who wants what I want. You’re in love with a woman you’ll never have.” She leaned down and kissed his cheek.

Jamie smiled, “same ‘ole Geneva, I see.” He stood, offering her his arm, “come, I’ll see ye home.”

She hooked her arm through his and leaned on his shoulder as they started to walk. Geneva stopped and looked behind them. Jamie followed her gaze but saw nothing. Geneva shook her head, “I thought I saw someone, but it was no one.” Jamie nodded and led her out.

*********

Claire’s hand hurt from striking Frank. She ran inside and saw Jamie in an alcove with Geneva. He was kneeling before her, his hand on her calf, removing her shoes. Claire felt like she’d been hit with a steel pipe in the throat; it was instantly painful to breath. She watched him smile as Geneva kissed his cheek. Her vision blurred with tears. She swiped at her eyes and saw Jamie leading Geneva by the arm to the exit. Claire watched as Geneva turned and smiled at her. Claire ran from their view. She felt a cold numbness settle over her heart. She dried her eyes and exited the back, leaving behind her coat, Frank, Geneva and Jamie.

#house of fraser #outlander fanfic #outlanderprompts #thekingparrot #hozier is HoF’s Jamie #emeli sande is claire’s old soul

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alitheamateur · 5 years

Text

The Grind- Chapter 27

Warnings: Violence. Language.

I had put it for a week time of vacation from the office beginning three days from fight night. I wanted, more so needed, to spend hours upon hours at Temple Fitness racking up as much ring practice as possible, making time with my parents slim while they visited. I was barely maintaining weight, so lavish dinners were out of the question, and I had no intentions of slacking to attend a game, or other local sights with them, no matter how much I fought myself internally. However, with The Pilot being one less worry for a few days, I could work out early, notching several devoted hours under my belt, then cut out around late afternoon for some family time with Colt and my visiting parents.

Today, despite my steadfast arguments, they came in to observe how my routine played out with training. Tia was available for the day, so the crew and myself decided it’d be best apt for my now crucial preparations to let her play into the role of sparring partner. Stepping in with Colton was better suited for educational, phycological reasons seeing as he was the most seasoned member of my corner roster. But with Tia, a fellow female, things could get more physically involved, and squaring up with her would simulate more relative to the possibilities with my unfamiliar opponent.

“Well, were you surprised when you saw your parents? You had to suspect him doing all that.” Tia spoke while mirroring some of my stretches.

“I was absolutely clueless, T. I’m actually sorta glad they’re here, to be honest.”

“The fucker pestered me all week about ‘making sure I do this’ and ‘don’t forget to say that.’ He was wound tight, I know that.” she rolled her eyes with a puffing exhale.

I was warmed at the realization of how seemingly decent the usual ignitable pair had worked together to execute the planning without a hiccup. But, I strategically kept the sappy gushes inside my own private thoughts, knowing Tia would whine and baulk at the subject. Throughout training, Colton and she kept on their most polite behavior (well, ‘best behavior’ for those two thick-skulled, impetuous individuals, let’s say) and only nearly killed the other once. The tumultuous exchange was something vaguely involving the weight of gloves, and Colton wanting to trim the bout down to only 3 rounds. Cal snarled that the two of them should just have it out in the cage and settle things the only way they knew how, and end the ongoing ‘dick measuring contest’ as he put it, for everyone’s sanity.

“Well thanks, Tia. For helping him out and doing your part. I’m sure he’s grateful.” I assured her lightheartedly, turning back to face her as she followed me under the dipped open ring rope.

“He gave me 50 bucks, and he may’ve even said ‘thank you’ or somethin’. It’s whatever. I did it for you, LC. Not him. So, don’t start with those doe-y eyes.” She spat lightening defenses behind baring teeth.

Tia and I danced our usual relaxed waltz around each other when Willow gave the go-ahead, Colton standing arms crossed on the outside of the ropes, and my parents seated in cushioned stools from the therapists’ office. Riled grunts, and the forceful air whips of efforted swings fell upon listening ears as my partner tested me with slivered eyes. I kept my hands fastened meticulously near my nose to protect it from any unforeseen assaults and ducked quickly to try and take Tia’s legs. With my face now downward turned and arms opened to attack, my skull was only for a fleeting second left unprotected, leaving me to suffer the costs.

The bridge of my nose was met to Tia’s apparently very solid kneecap, and my teeth nearly gnashed my gummy-like tongue in half. A black explosion resembling an abstract firework filled my retinas, and suddenly I got the irresistible urge to nap. Unconsciousness threatened me, but by some luck I only teetered the line and never fully fell into its’ caress. Once the haze cleared and colors were recognizable again, a crimson flow dispersed like melted butter underneath my rested, near lifeless body.

“WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT, TIA?!! FUCK!! Have you lost your damn mind?!” Colton’s stinging shrieks echoed through the entire gym like a wild, murderous banshee.

He verbally attacked Tia with persevering hysteria, spitting venomous strings of saliva into her detached, cold face. I couldn’t swear to it, but I was pretty certain those thumping veins on both sides of his neck were almost rupturing beneath his flesh. This was the wicked, sinful anguish that he always cautioned me was living inside him, and it had clawed it’s way to the light of day for the world to see.

“She’s gotta be more careful than that, Ritter. I was just trying to make her understand what could happen to her. She needs to understand that Katrina wants to hurt her, she’s gonna be out for blood. It was harsh, but I’m not sorry.” Tia shrugged haphazardly upon her explanation. Her words resonated just enough to piss me off to extreme measures, and make complete, and total sense.

I’m not even sure Colt comprehended her controversial explanation, nor the fact that she was even talking at all, as he hurled his weight in entirety to the ground beside me. He pulled off his t-shirt, doubling it as a rag to soak up some of the blood pool I was gurgling face down in. I sat up without assistance and felt undeniably woozy trying to hold up my head that now felt like the weight of a bowling ball. This instance was the closest I’d ever came to being knocked out, and I tried to process all the strange aftereffects while my fiercely concerned boyfriend gently moved my noggin around by the chin to observe the motion of my eyes.

“Livvy, baby? Hey, look at me, okay. Do you know where ya’ are? What’s my name, sweetheart?” He stroked repetitively on top of my head, clearing the hair from my eyes.

“I’m fine, Colt. Calm down, I don’t even think it’s broken,” I faked a smile hoping to lower the intensity of his brimming adrenaline.

Upon rising onto my own two very unsure feet, I fell dizzily into the wall of Colton’s warm-fleshed chest, and heard a gasping wince come from my perceiving left. Mom was standing at the foot of the ring, resting one hand there to balance her alarmed body, and the other squeezed over her mouth to try and kill the desire to sob. A collision with another player on the court, or the routine ‘floor burn’ to the knees had been common happenings throughout my childhood. But, seeing their flesh and blood, only child being unforgivingly rocked to the face by a bare, violent knee was a sight any parent would struggle with.

“Cal, grab the doc for me, will ya’?” Willow gestured a thumb to the direction of the Temples’ on-staff physician’s office down the hall. “Think we oughta go ahead and have her checked for concussion symptoms.”

“Ah, for fucks sake. Everybody needs to calm the hell down! She’s fine. Just give her a minute to get her bearings. You feel ok, Liv. Right?”

Was she trying to convince me, the other obviously concerned witnesses, or herself? My thoughts may have moved through my head at the speed of hot glue oozing stubbornly from the tip of a gun, but moving, nonetheless. I tried rationalizing with Tia’s abrupt, reckless attack, and the more I searched for some sense on the moment the angrier I grew. My match was one hand count of days away, and she thought reasonable to risk breaking my nose, or giving me an unnecessary concussion? It was irresponsible, thoughtless, and frankly downright asinine. Fury, combined with the pulsating echoes of pain from my throbbing nose, and the effort it took just to try and use simple brain power had me feeling like a smashed bug on the grill of a semi.

“Take me home, Colt. Please… I need a bath, and a bottle of anything to put me out for 36 hours.” I whined, erratically batting my eyelids trying to adjust to the seemingly now high voltage lighting of the room.

Any healing wounds I may have recognized up to this point between Colton and Tia was a very distant memory now. My fearless mate would shred anyone who he may have viewed as even a potential enemy, much less an individual he just witnessed almost knock me needlessly unconscious.

“We gotta have doc check ya’ out, Liv. He can probably get ‘chu somethin’ for the pain, too.” Colton answered softly, continuing his attempts to clean the crusting, web of blood all over my face and crane of my neck. “Then, I promise I’m gonna take you home and put you straight in the tub for a soak in some’a those fizzy things you always buyin’, ‘ight?”

The hurt of my swelling nose was too much of a distraction for me to completely bask in all the ways I knew my loyal man would be coddling me the upcoming days.

Amidst the doctors’ perpetual astonishment, I passed his exam and questioning with flying colors, and he dismissed me that night with the green light to go about my evening as normal. Thankfully, despite my nose not being in fact broken, he instructed me to ice as much as I could physically stand and prescribed me a gentle painkiller for the soreness and headaches to come. Tia lingered idly in the training room until I packed up for the evening and let my panicked with concern mother hold my hand through the exit. I didn’t so much as bother her with a second look nor give her the satisfaction of a goodbye, still feeling grudgingly nauseous with her very inexistence.

The nose injury came with barely noticeable plum-shaded bruising in the corners of my eyes that covered easily with a thicker application of concealer. The swelling had ceased due to the repetitive regime of icing and anti-inflammatories, so I didn’t have to see the light of day looking like a complete ogre. Weigh-ins were the first excuse I had to force Colton to allow me out of the house after remaining under his watchful, loving eye, and the smothering care of my parents as well. I not dare complain or push aside their gracious concerns for me, so I politely smiled, thanked, and kissed the obvious appropriate party and focused on the fight.

The event of my weigh-in was no where closely related the ones I was used to writing about for work, and probably wouldn’t even be categorized as an event to begin with. There was no hype or advertising buzz floating around the streets for the fight between Kat and myself, so a big to-do with our weight checks seemed definitely unnecessary. Colton suggested a simple meeting at Temple Fitness with a well-respected referee from Pittsburgh, my team, and my opponents the Friday evening before we were scheduled for a dance in the cage.

My parents arguably agreed to wait back at the house after I reasoned we’d only be gone for a couple hours, give or take. Mom insisted on concocting my favorite pot of always delicious jambalaya for a late dinner after my numbers had been approved for competition. My mouth seeped in anticipation with thoughts of the steaming pot as we made the turn into the gyms’ lot around 7:00 that evening.

“What the hell is she doin’ here, Liv. Did you tell ‘er to come?” Colton scowled and spat seeing Tia’s car parked near the street light in the parking lot. I felt his grip under my fingers stiffen at the mention of her name.

“She’s probably just here working out. Or, Willow mentioned it to her. Either way, just let it be, babe. Please? Let’s just do what we came here to do and get out calmly in one piece. Deal?”

His silence amongst bull like puffing from his nostrils alluded those weren’t exactly his intensions if Tia decided to make herself known tonight. A short-film of the two hotheads beating each other bloody looped in my mind.

“Ritter………” I pressured him sternly, demanding he agree to my terms.

“I hear you, baby. But, I’m tellin’ ya, if she starts that mouthy shit I ain’t promisin’ ya’ I can control myself.”

We parked, and I marched straight for the locker room for one last bathroom break before stepping up to the scales. I felt confident in the discipline I kept with my diet, and my dedicated hours on the weights, but now that the moment had arrived, self-doubt rolled in like a spring thunderstorm. I shed whatever bladder continents I had left, my windbreaker, and the capri sweats I was wearing before heading to join the waiting bodies.

The cranked temperature of the A/C caused me to shudder off a cold-chill as the spandex shorts and sports bra exposed me to the cool air. Amongst Willow, Colt, Cal and regretfully Tia were four unrecognizable faces. Everyone chatted informally, broken into a few swarming huddles except two. The two pouting bodies stood caddy-cornered from the other, wide-stances and hands crossed into their armpits. Tia and Colton were so much alike, and both too blindly obstinate to see it.

I went trembling with nerves to Colton’s side, as Willow quickly hastened to him as well.

“Bex wants us to take the first weigh if that’s alright with you guys?” She asked kindly and professionally. She had played a hugely important role in my fight-preparation, but upon his re-entering to the picture, let Colton somewhat run the show knowing I probably felt most comfortable in his molding hands.

“Up to you, Livvy baby. If you want her to step up first, just say the word and I’ll make it happen.” Colt turned to face me, warming my chilling arms with his enormous heater like hands.

“I mean, I guess it’s alright. I… I don’t mind.” I looked to smile crookedly at the murmuring bodies across the room.

Colton approached who I concluded to be the official he invited as the unbiased party in the matter and shook his hand kindly with a relaxed meeting. The two men nodded their heads with words I couldn’t make out and parted ways with Colton returning to my nervously tapping feet, and the ref stepping to Katrina and her coach.

“’Ight, it’s nothin’ to get all fuckin’ antsy about, baby girl. All you gonna do is step up on the scale, he’ll call out your official weight and we’re all done. Simple as that, okay? You were at 129 or so this mornin’, right? So nothin’ to worry that big ol’ head about.” He gestured with his hands, steadily explaining the cut-and-dry process to come.

My bare feet treaded lightly towards the smile of the friendly man planted next to the upright standing physicians scale. My shoulders tensed and appeared to coil higher into my stiff neck as every set of eyes in the room landed on me. Mimicking what I had seen Colton and many other competitors do, I pushed the airy content from my lungs, and stepped upon the scale one foot at a time. He tapped gently on the pointer, careful to ensure his reading would be accurate before announcing the crucial number.

“Looks like you’re set at 129.5, Miss Elliott. You guys wanna come take a look?” He offered a firsthand sight at the scale with me standing on it for Katrina, wanting no speculation of funny business on fight night. But, she passed the opportunity and instead began shedding any extra clothing weight she could.

“Way to go, LC. Even down at couple pounds since we started this shit. I see you, girl!” Tia was on my heels with empty praise, talking towards the back of my head since I refused to give her the satisfaction of acknowledgment.

Colton stood at attention holding open my jacket and sweats, as Willow gave my shoulders a quick squeeze of support.

“What’s on the post weigh-in menu, Liv. All fighters got that craving while they’re training. Whatcha’ gonna reward yourself with, babe?” She smiled proudly.

“Oh, it’s gonna be somethin’ fulla’ carbs knowing this girl, Willow,” Tia butt in. Willow only looked with a blank, awkward glance, still very much sensing the tension within the Ritter-Elliott-Larkin camp.

“Tia, just fuck off, ‘ight. Liv may be too nice to say it, but we both know I sure as hell ain’t. She don’t wanna talk to ya’, and frankly, I don’t know why the fuck you’re even here.” Colton held off best he could, bless his heart. But her forced comments into our conversation only amped him further to unleash on her.

Tia’s smile turned to a sneer in an unapproving reaction to her once again mortal enemy’s comment, and eyeballed me searching for some sort of back-up, or teammate in the matter. Normally, I’d be the ‘Switzerland’ regarding matters of the heart between she and Colton. But, the desire to defend her right now just simply wasn’t present.

“Willow mentioned it to me. And if Liv doesn’t want me here, I think she’s grown and perfectly capable of telling me that herself. Asshole.”

“I don’t want you here.”

My quick snap admittance looked to hit her like a sack of bricks. The flesh tone of her face heated like the igniting of fiery embers and her nails seemed to pierce the inside of her palms between clenched, wrathful fists.

“I don’t want you here, and I think it’s best of you just stay out of my corner Saturday night, too. Willow and Colt can handle it just fine.”

Truly, I wasn’t as fitful with her as I let on, but for my mental sanity on fight night, I figured it best to just squander any possible altercations between she and Colton now. The two of them intently bickering outside the cage would only distract me, and I’d end up with double the damage that Tia caused. This time, Colton was genuinely lacking fault, so it indeed wouldn’t be fair to shove him from ringside.

“You don’t fuckin’ mean that, LC. This whole thing was my idea to begin with.” she protested with gritty objection.

“Hey Colt, you and your girl wanna come check the scale before she steps down?” The ref interjected.

“Yeah, that’s be great. C’mon, babe.”

I slid into my shoes, and disregarded Tia wholly.

TAGS: @torialeysha @eap1935 @mollybegger-blog @littleluna98

#Tom Hardy #tom hardy fanfiction #tomhardy #tomhardyfanfic #tomhardyfanfiction #tommy conlon #elizabeth olsen #thegrind

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overenthusiasticcartoonlover · 6 years

Text

Salty Marinette Magic AU: Part 4

(Canon Divergent Chameleon Magic AU)

Alya raises her eyebrow at the little visitor badge she was given, feeling pretty silly about it.

“At least the other students won’t be forcing you off campus now.” Rebel seems to read her thoughts, earning a surprised and wary look from Alya.

“How did-”

“I’m an emotional magic. I can read all your emotions, instead of just the basic emotions every magic sees.” Rebel explains, watching the boys get their badges, before escorting them down the hall and out of the building.

Alya has a million and one questions about that, before settling on the one that makes her feel the worst, “So, does that mean Marinette’s gut feeling was just her magic telling her that Lila was lying?”

“Yes. Deceit is one of those necessary to read emotions, that every magic can detect. It keeps our politics clean, and shows you who you can trust.” Angel speaks up this time, his hands in his pockets as they walk, “You really should have believed her, or at least been suspicious. Marinette says that their lies were really outlandish, and could easily be debunked by a quick fact check. Nette doesn’t go after people for no reason.”

Alya just winces, for once not having a response to that.

Rebel leads them out to another building, which she calls the physical building. They follow her up a flight of stairs, coming out on a balcony-like section, about six or seven meters above a regular gym floor, with a single tightrope set at least nine meters above it. Someone’s out on the tightrope right now, a small group of people settled down on the edge of the railing-less balcony.

Rey and Mona are there, settled along the edge with two other people, no doubt talking about what happened to them today.

“Where’s Marinette?” Alya leans forward to whisper to Rebel.

Rebel just grins in response, settling down in an open spot near the end of the balcony, “She’s just about to start her performance. Come and sit down, and no talking during the performance.”

“What performance? And how can we see her from here?” Alya settles down behind her, the boys following suit, before being met with a, shh, from a redheaded boy.

��You’ll see, now hush.” The redhead whispers back at her, leaning into Rebel’s space.

Music filters into the gymnasium, as the person on the tightrope jumps down, a huge pink and white spotted ribbon manifesting below and catching her, acting like a floor. Different colors of ribbons manifest around her immediately afterwards, a collection of thirteen different colored ribbons circling underneath her, and seventeen solid colored ribbons, with one black and green one just hanging above her.

Alya finally recognizes Marinette, hardly believing her eyes, when she sees her normally clumsy friend start moving, easily keeping her balance on the pink-spotted ribbon.

The words of the song start, and a soft blue and green ribbon flies up from the spiraling ribbons below her. Marinette dances in a circle around her ribbon, which is moving itself, the blue and green ribbon twirling around her. Marinette reaches out to the ribbon, letting it hold her weight, and pull her from her own ribbon, as she does a series of acrobatic moves, causing Adrien, Alya, and Nino’s jaws to drop.

The ribbon starts slipping a little, before a red-orange ribbon flies into her path, and causes her to fully lose her grip. She falls right past her spotted ribbon, into the fray of the ribbons below her. She tries to hold onto the other ribbons, each slipping away from her, after she catches and spins or lands on them, until the black and green ribbon flies out from above her, moving into her reach. Marinette grabs onto it, and pulls herself up, while it molds itself into a flat surface, from which she back springs back up to her ribbon with.

She bows to the black and green ribbon, the ribbon doing the same, before she continues with her dance, adding a few different moves and flips into it. The ribbon follows her for a couple of beats, then returns to its spot above her.

Two ribbons fly up from below her this time, a red and blue one, and a flannel one. She flips up, hanging off the flannel one with her legs, and using her momentum to swing her up onto said ribbon. Rebel makes a proud noise at that.

Marinette dances atop the flannel ribbon, the blue and red ribbon moving to wind around the other one, until the ribbons start to wobble under her.

A dark green and a dark blue ribbon fly out towards her, just as the other two give out. She just barely falls past her own ribbon again, before grasping onto both ribbons coming to her aid. They help her get back down to her ribbon, the rest of the ribbons from above her coming down and letting her do a couple of flips and acrobatic feats off them, as the ribbons below her start to fall away one by one.

Her movements wind down with the end of the song, the ribbons all melting into one big ribbon below her, which she settles into happily, as it forms a swing, attaching to the tight wire.

She finishes out her performance by manifesting a sewing needle and thread, stitching a heart, that gets bigger, then shrinks and flies to attach itself to her chest.

The song ends, and the group on the balcony gives out a cheer, Rebel letting out a breath, in an imitation of a low whistle. She leans back and looks at Alya, Nino, and Adrien, “I think it’s safe to say she’s pretty upset with you guys.”

Alya just groans and presses a hand to her forehead, “If I’m guessing what the ribbons represent right, then yeah. We’ve got a lot of apologizing to do.”

“Wow. I didn’t know Marinette could move like that.” Adrien watches Marinette get back up to the tightrope, then walk along a ledge on the wall, back over to them.

“Bro, did you even catch how mad Mari is at us?” Nino waves a hand in front of his face, Adrien looking back at him from Marinette.

“Kinda, but I planned on apologizing to her for the next couple of days anyway. I’d apologize for years if I have to.” Adrien leans his head on his hand, letting his sight trail back to Marinette.

Rebel giggles at the aura around him, leaning back on her hands, “Wow, he’s rather gone for her, isn’t he?”

“Finally. We’ve been trying all year to get them together, to no avail.” Alya rolls her eyes, before pinching the bridge of her nose, “If she’s even still into him.”

“Nice job, Nette. I thought you were going with a seductress theme though?” A girl with dark skin and curly hair raises an eyebrow at the half-chinese girl.

“I am, that was just me working out my frustrations this week. I’m still trying to figure out if the stitched heart looks like a good ending signature.” Marinette takes out her pigtails, before retying them again.

“I think it looks great.” Rey jumps up and wraps Marinette in a hug, before nervously side-eyeing Alya, Nino, and Adrien, “We’re all here for you, remember that.”

“I know you are.” Marinette squishes Rey in an enthusiastic hug. She turns to look for Rebel, her expression immediately plummeting, as she crosses her arms, “Rebel. How did they get into the school?”

“The blond one dragged them in.” Mona leans back on her hands with a huff, “Not Rebel’s interference for once.”

Rebel pulls herself up from her spot, the redheaded boy standing with her, “To be fair, I did authorize them with Lucie. They seem to want to apologise, Nette.”

“Yeah? Well, I don’t want to hear it.” Marinette goes over to the edge of the balcony and sits herself down in between Mona and the curly haired girl, “Whose turn is it next?”

“Mine, but I wanna know what’s the deal with the non-magics.” A girl with half shaved short red hair pulls herself up from hanging upside-down off the balcony, grinning over at the three newcomers, “Are these the supposed friends you keep talking about?”

“Please just go, Cerise.” Marinette fixes her with an exasperated look.

Mona snorts at that, pushing herself up into a standing position “I’ll go instead. I think we all know Cerise won’t go until she’s got her answers.”

“Awh! Come on, Mona. Don’t you wanna know more about the jerks that abandoned our Nette?” Cerise jumps up from her spot, leaning on Mona’s shoulder.

“No.” Mona shrugs her off, heading for the ledge, so she can cross to the tightrope.

“Wait! I didn’t get to do notes!” Rebel holds her hand out to Mona, looking over at Marinette and opening her mouth to do so.

Marinette cuts her off before she can get into it, “Don’t worry about it. I’m not doing that routine for competitions anyway. Go ahead, Mona!”

Mona looks between the two, before shaking her head and starting for the tightrope again.

Alya, Nino, and Adrien stay for all of practice, two people wearing makeup masks joining them mid-way through, and drawing questions from Alya, who’s moved closer to Cerise, for the pure reason that she’s the only one who’ll answer all her questions.

“Alright guys! Does anyone want to work with Rey, while we start on our group exercises?” Rebel stands up after the majority of the group shows off their single performances, the group providing constructive criticism for everyone.

“I’d love to.” Jasmine grins over at the brunette girl, causing her cheeks to redden.

“Well, why don’t I work with her today? We’ve got a similar theme.” Script Writer, one of the two in a mask, speaks up, offering Rey a shy smile.

“I think that’s a wonderful idea. It’ll help you get used to the more abstract manifestations, hermana.” Rebel sneaks over to her sister and scoops her up in a hug, before turning to Marinette, “I think you ought to sit this one out, florecilla. You’ve got some people to talk to.”

Marinette crosses her arms firmly across her chest, “I told you. I don’t want to talk to them.”

“Would you rather them hunt you down without us here?” Angel raises an eyebrow at her, from where he’s helping Rapunzel tie up her hair.

Marinette looks in between the others for support, finding similar, encouraging looks from them.

Jasmine comes over and pats her shoulder, “You know you can’t leave them hanging, Nette. They came all this way to see you.”

“Fine, but if any of them dare try to pull the I’m jealous of Lila card again, then I’m making one of you push them back over the enchantment line.” Marinette turns on her heel, starting for the three still sitting down.

The magic students all share a look, before shrugging and heading out to the floor.

Marinette plops down on the ground in front of her three supposed friends, glaring at each of them in turn, “How did you get past the enchantment line?”

None of them speak up for a minute, until Adrien finally breaks, clearing his throat nervously, “I-It was me. I brought them over the enchantment line.”

Marinette narrows her eyes at him, searching his aura, before finding a very weak magic signature, “And how did you know I’d be here?”

“I got Marc to tell us what school you transferred to.” Alya fiddles with her phone charm, before looking up at Marinette, “I understand why you couldn’t tell us that you knew Lila was lying now, and I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you, or double check the facts. I’ve been a bad friend, and I should have trusted you over the new girl no matter what. I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry too, dude. We shouldn’t have moved seats in a way that would make you feel excluded.” Nino bows his head to her.

“And I’m sorry for being passive about all of this. I know first hand that Lila’s been lying, and I did nothing to help the situation.” Adrien follows suit with Nino, earning a snort from Marinette.

“Okay, enough with the bowing. I’m still mad at you, but I accept your apologies.” Marinette’s relaxes in her spot, watching them with something close to a smile, “So how much did Rebel tell you?”

<-- Part 3 - Part 5 (?)

(Author’s note: The ribbons each represent a person. Try and guess which ones represent who. Also the redheaded boy leaning on Rebel that isn’t mentioned by name this chapter is Nash. He’s Rebel’s best friend. Oh, and if you’re wondering what song Marinette was performing to, or at least what I modeled her dance after, because it’s an english song, and idk if she’d listen to an english song, it’s called The Edge (ft. Nevve) by Grant.)

#part four #ml spoilers #ml fanfic #miraculous ladybug fanfiction #magic au #chameleon canon divergence #ml salt #Over's stories #you can pry the gymnastic marinette headcanon from my cold dead hands #It might take me a little longer to put up the next chapter #apologies in advance

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a-sad-excuse-of-everything · 6 years

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Hard Candies, Hard Life

Hard candies, hard life

Pidge x Reader

Description: Pidge helps a rather odd senior at the school fair, and knowing her comes in handy in the end

Prompt: Your main character is a young woman in her late teens, who can be quite secretive. The story begins at a fairground. Someone is driven out of their home. It's a story about pride. Your character attempts to keep a low profile.

Fair day was always interesting.

The last day of school before winter break, fair day always took place. All of the students gathered round and made booths for various reasons, college applicants, clubs, businesses, vendors, food, crafts, games, fundraisers, and more. It was something the entire school got involved in. If you were a senor getting some award or you had been a fair volunteer from day one, you got your own booth to do whatever. Some people made theirs into a garage sale, others just made it a hang out spot. But when (Y/N) (L/N) was asked if she wanted to do a booth, no one knew what to expect.

She was a great student, top of her class, but she was a bit spooky. She had no friends whatsoever, read mysterious, old books all the time, and was rumored to be seen walking alone in the woods at night talking to herself. She was an oddball, but everyone was quite curious to see what she would whip up. Since freshman year she was a manager of the fair doing whatever she could, so whatever was going to happen was going to be well executed.

The day of the fair approached, and all was silent throughout the school as the seniors and others set up for the fair take place. The second half of school was going to be hectic, so everyone was running around and getting things done quickly, while also trying to be quiet enough not to disturb the students outside the gymnasium. In the farthest corner to the left side was (Y/N) setting up tables and taping colored paper to the wall. She turned at the sound of the door opening, relieved to see the freshman helpers had arrived.

Certain freshman who signed up could help seniors with their booths during fair week. Depending on the table, someone could have one partner to ten. Freshman signed up for the booths they wanted to help, so of course (Y/N) was expecting for no one to show up due to the favor to the more popular and sociable seniors. As they were given general directions to their selective booths. A few minutes passed and the volume in the gym had increased, and so did a voice behind (Y/N).

“Um, excuse me?”

She turned around to see a boy with auburn hair and circular glasses staring up at her from the step ladder.

“Yes? Are you looking for your booth?”

The boy laughed slightly and shook his head. “I signed up to help your booth, your (Y/N) right?”

They stood in silence for a little bit, (Y/N) registering that someone actually signed up to help her booth. Giving a small smile and excited for some interaction, she nodded.

“Alright, could you refill the tape dispenser?”

It stayed like this for about an hour. (Y/N) giving orders and the boy, who she found out was named Pidge, obliging to her requests. Some small talk was spoken in between, but other than that their interactions were quite bland. Eventually (Y/N) stepped off of her step ladder and wiped her hands on her pants, looking up. Pidge slightly gasped at the display.

The paper had formed an abstract river scene similar to ‘Starry Night’ by van gogh. The color scheme was purples and blacks, however, and the boy was confused. He turned to ask the senior he had partnered with, but she had disappeared under one of her three tables, dragging out heavy boxes behind her. Jumping slightly, he rushed to help the girl out. As he approached she waved vaguely at the box next to her.

“Start opening that one and unpacking the stuff in order to be sold, and don't break anything.”

He nodded and opened the box in front of him. Lifting the cardboard he looked inside and was surprised at what he saw. At this dark themed booth with this goth teenager, there were cupcakes upon cupcakes wrapped in their individual boxes ready to be sold, all being different and having a different ‘magic’ effect. He lifted one up and turned.

“Cupcakes?”

She got up from her own box, filled with pie slices, and nodded. “I made some witchcraft themed sweets for today. I have sold them before and they tend to sell, especially the ones with spells attached to them.”

He nodded and started to line them up.

Another hour later the three blank tables form the previous hour had been filled with gothic goods and the descriptions of what they’d do. Some cupcakes guaranteed true love, some slices of pie said to give you a mark to see your soul mate, and so on and so forth. Candy bracelets, cookies, chocolates, and more, and all for a reasonable price as well. They both looked back and smiled at their work.

Minutes later, the school was about to be let loose into the gymnasium. (Y/N) turned to Pidge and handed him a box.

“Ÿou are on register, I will tell people about the sweets. If you take anything I will find out about it.”

Pidge smiled and nodded at her request, getting ready to serve the hundreds of students about to be released into the area. Immediately things were not as bad as he thought. Looking around, only around five people crowded the spacious booth made by (Y/N), all surprised at her friendly atmosphere and excellent speaking skills. She entranced their heads with a silky soft voice and a small smile that could let her get away with anything. Pidge saw this and observed, ringing all who approached the booth up with the various sweets they intended to buy. The way her legs moved gracefully across the floor and her crisp yet dark clothes seemed to bring people in.

Soon, however, many busy hours passed and most of the treats on the table had vanished. The school bells had rung, and the regular students were set free onto their winter break, leaving the seniors and freshmen to clean the gymnasium of the afternoons activities. Pidge started to put some leftover baked goods into some boxes while (Y/N) counted the money received from a hard day’s work. She smiled at the fruits of her efforts, and tucked the bills safely into her wallet, hanging around fifty dollars in the boy’s direction.

“Here, as thanks for helping me today.”

He looked shocked, and pushed her hand away. “No thank you (Y/N), I signed up for volunteer work, you do not have to pay me.”

She smiled and shook her head, jabbing the money in his direction. “Take it.”

He shook his head once more, an idea popping into his head. “I don’t want your money, but I sure will take some of these sweets.”

She looked a little shocked at his reply, but nodded. Opening the only two boxes the leftovers filled (smaller ones then how she had received the sweets in the beginning) she pulled out many different cupcakes, pies, and candies, putting them into a custom bag with her sweets logo on it. She put it aside and continued to work in the pale light of the gym lights.

Soon the two were done, and they both stood outside of her car in silence. With a slight rinkle, she handed Pidge’s sweets to him in a purple paper bag. He smiled in reply.

“Thank you for your help today, Pidge, I really appreciate it.”

He nodded. “Thank you as well, (Y/N), I am sure me and my family will love your sweets.”

“Well I hope so.” She responded.

The two said their final farewells and went their separate ways. (Y/N) went home to her apartment and organized her things, happy that with the money from the sales she did not have to worry about rent for the next few months, while Pidge went home to his brother and father who were eager to hear about his day. As (Y/N) fell back on her bed in tiredness, Pidge spent all his time with his brother and father with a movie night to have something to remember them by as they were leaving the next day for a trip. All was well in their separate worlds.

Weeks had passed since the fair, and school was back in session. Since seniors and freshman did not have much long term contact, Pidge and (Y/N) had many encounters in the hall where a smile and wave showed their acquaintanceship. As (Y/N) made more and more videos and packaged sweet orders for her online shop, Pidge was at home alone studying and living by himself. Weeks went by and their only contact was a smile and a wave, not knowing what was to come soon enough.

Pidge was at home one Saturday afternoon, a book in one hand and a bowl of (Y/N)’s hard candies in the other. He and his family had eaten all the more perishable items early on despite looking very thin for the amount they consumed, but when he looked into the large paper bag one night urging to satisfy his sweet tooth, he found a bag of hard candies. He had hit the jackpot with these, the candies being his favorite out of all of her sweets (it was a tough call due to them all being so good however). While he was supposed to be reading his book, however, his mind drifted off into wonder. His father and brother worked in the military for quite a long time, and often came home late from missions before, but it never ceased to worry him. As he continued reading, in another short burst of focus, he heard a knock on his apartment’s door.

Getting up and placing the book and candies down, he reluctantly adjusted his glasses and went towards the door. Opening it casually, he was shocked to see two officers standing at his door, both being vaguely familiar from the rare parties he attended with his sibling and dad relating to their workplace. Looking up, he spoke.

“Can I help you?”

One man, known as Ryan, cleared his throat and looked at the short boy in front of him.

“Pidge, I am sorry to say this, but your father’s aircraft has disappeared. They have been announced disease at ten this morning. I am sorry for your loss.”

Pidge looked at the two men in shock, looking down when they handed him a few belongings relating to his father. Closing the door when the exchange was finished, he went to the couch and tried to withhold the sob that were inevitable. At that moment he had refused to believe they were dead.

It had been around a month, and (Y/N) was living her life well. She had seen Pidge in the halls around class, looking stressed and tired, but always seemed to brighten slightly at the sight of her. She was curious to ask what was going on, but did not dare due to only knowing the boy so much. She continued with her sales and eating alone at lunch, thinking and reading. Her mind often wandered towards family, but she shook her head and smiled, paying attention to whatever else was around her. As time progressed her worry for the auburn boy in the freshman class worried her. He had bags under his eyes and seemed to get sadder by the day. He seemed to have some friends, you had seen them in the halls before, but they even had yet to lift his mood.

Walking down the street another Saturday, (Y/N) twirled the lact parasol in her hand while walking about a local park. she adjusted the bag on her shoulder and looked around for a good spot to draw in. (Y/N) had gotten some brand new art supplies that day and wanted to draw some pigeons that resided by an ornate fountain she frequented quite often. Smiling when she saw the fountain in view, she walked towards it and noticed a familiar face there as well.

Pidge sat on the wooden bench in front of the fountain, staring deeply into its bubbling waters. He had a backpack next to him, and his head rested firmly between his hands. Sitting down next to him, she closed her parasol and looked over. He looked up when feeling the bench lean to the opposite side of him and seemed to be relieved to see (Y/N) staring intently at him. He wiped his eyes with the forest green sweater he was wearing and smiled weakly at her. She smiled faintly back, getting out her sketchbook and beginning a sketch of some friendly pigeons pecking at the ground below the two of them. Some even came by and pecked at her feet. (Y/N) giggled while doodling, but grew more and more curious towards why Pidge seemed to be so sad. Once again, however, she refrained from asking and continued to draw until the sun started to set.

Closing her sketchbook, she turned towards Pidge, still sitting there despite three hours of drawing. Thinking something was off, and the fact he seemed to have nowhere to be, she cleared her throat grabbing the boys attention.

“Would you like to come to my apartment for dinner? I just got some wonderful looking breads.”

He sighed and contemplated her offer. He did not want to intrude, especially if family was involved, but not having a good meal in awhile hit him hard. Getting up, Pidge replied.

“Sure, as long as I am not intruding.”

She smiled and shook her head.

“No, not at all! I live by myself, so some company would be greatly appreciated.”

She seemed to perk up at the thought of having a guest over for dinner, and he seemed to be relieved when he learned she lived alone. Walking back to her house, she invited him in and started prepping dinner. Two steaks, a few rolls, and some cheesy broccoli later, they both were talking comfortably. Pidge seemed to still be sad, but happier having a decent conversation with her. Her interest with what was going on still nagged at her, and she decided to ask despite the obvious consequences.

She placed down her napkin and looked at the table before looking Pidge in the eyes. “I have a question for you, Pidge.”

The boy looked a little taken back, but it was barely noticable. “Yes?”

She seemed to stall a little, clearing her throat and taking a sip of her water. “Well, I was curious to why you have been so sad as of late.”

He froze slightly, contemplating what to do. His initial reaction was to excuse himself and leave, but something about her seemed to keep him in his seat. Seeing his reluctant demeanor, (Y/N) apologised profusely.

“I’m sorry if I was being intrusive, you do not have to answer if you do not want to.”

He was about to take up that offer, but stopped. He could not keep this in forever, especially towards his friends who seemed to ask the same question every time they were around him. Sighing, he decided to tell her, thinking her three year seniorship would help guide him in this rough time.

“Well, my brother and father were recently lost on a mission, they work for the military. They were declared deceased, so of course I was left with everything. The rest of their savings were put in a trust declared by will, but it is not enough to pay rent. If I can't pay rent, then I will be taken away by child protective services, and I have too much here. I have considered working, but even after a full time minimum wage job it is still not enough.”

He rubbed his face in aggravation and worry, and (Y/N) looked at him with slight sympathy. Seeing the worry in his face, an idea popped into her head.

“You can live with me, I have an extra bedroom and I am sure whatever you can give to pitch in will be enough.”

He looked up out of his hands in victory, but decided to keep modest. “I would not want to invade, that is a lot to give to someone you barely know.”

She smiled and shook her head as she often does. “It would be nice. It’s lonely here alone, and your company would be appreciated. I trust you clean up after yourself and will not steal from me.”

Pidge smiled gratefully and reached his hand across the small table they sat at. She took his hand in hers and shook it, agreeing then and there they would be housemates.

The following Sunday you moved Pidge’s valuables into your rather spacious apartment and settled him into a bedroom. She learned he really enjoyed the color green, and was quite sentimental. He was settled into a room with an adjacent side room and a bathroom, so he had his own privacy. While (Y/N) learned about Pidge, however, Pidge learned about (Y/N). She seemed to be very gothic, yet bright at the same time. She did not have many mirrors, but had many photos from antique stores around town of people from the 1800’s. Why she lived alone he did not know just yet, but he was content with being here anyways.

And that is what started an amazing new friendship

#pidge #pidge x reader #voltron #voltron x reade #voltron reader insert

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architectnews · 2 years

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Hercules Fitness, Kunming City Gym

Hercules Fitness Space, Kunming City Gym, Yunnan Province Interior, Chinese Architecture Development, Images

Hercules Fitness in Kunming City

20 Apr 2022

Architecture: CUN FF

Location: 7th Floor, Zone C, Haile World Shopping Center, Kunming, China

Photos by INSPACE

Hercules Fitness

Cun FF Fang Fei l Exercise and leave blank for life – Hercules Fitness World Store Abstract: When exercise becomes a way of life.

Fitness is regarded as the embodiment of “progressive” concepts such as self-discipline and restraint, and gym is usually regarded as the physical training ground for contemporary people, who are looking forward to solving their physical anxieties and health problems in this venue to fatigue their body.

Hercules (Greek: Ηρακλής, Hēraklēs) is a legendary Greek hero and the immortal half-god with extraordinary strength, courage, wisdom, and skill. It is said that “he made the world safe for mankind.” Founded in 2021, Hercules Fitness has adhered to the business philosophy of “Sports, Life, and Warmth”.

CUN FF Fang Fei took over the design task of the tenth store of Hercules Fitness. Through communication with the client, the designer Fang Fei has an in-depth understanding of the business philosophy of “Sports, Life, and Warmth”, making Hercules Fitness a place to create a difference in daily life. It is another attempt to break the routine and ignite a new spark for design.

Exercise and leave blank for life There are a lot of trivial things in life, and people are busy sending emails, meeting, making records, and eating. When we are too busy to breathe, we need to exercise even more.

Let’s move, detach from your surroundings, and leave space for your own life. Designer Fang Fei believes that the space for exercise is different from other commercial spaces. It does not need too much eye-catching decoration but should return the space to the people who exercise, which should be controlled, rational, and reserved, just like sports. Therefore, the 4,500-square-meter sports space features minimalist lines, a restrained black and white palette, and clear functional divisions. All the design is based on the concept of “leaving blank”.

The 4,500-square-meter area serves as Pilates classroom, countercurrent swimming pool, free strength area, rest area, and multi-functional training room. Among them, the design highlight is the front desk and the ceiling of the free strength area where the geometric blocks made of profiled steel plates with a strong sense of shape transform the power and speed of sports into a concrete design language, creating a sports scene with great visual impact and spiritual power. The ceiling lamp built into the pure white blocks solves the problem of lighting.

In addition to the combined geometric blocks at the ceiling, mirrored glass can be seen everywhere in the space, which blurs the boundaries of the space and extends the vision.

Enclosed by high-transparency glass, the Pilates classroom has a natural wood floor and wood-colored walls, creating a friendly, warm, and comfortable atmosphere. The space is as simple, calm, and amiable as Pilates exercise.

Life with warmth When exercise become a way of life, people will also gain a more active social field. At this moment, sports are not just sports. Considering the social needs of the younger generation, designer Fang Fei has set several “social spaces” in Hercules Fitness. In the multi-functional training room, black and white are continuously used as the main tone of the space, and the benches are specially added at the entrance side to provide a space for rest, waiting for friends, taking a break, or talking.

The semi-standard countercurrent swimming pool is an important part of the fitness space. Designer Fang Fei has made a rich layered ceiling design where the linear light is reflected in the swimming pool, making the water move and shine like a galaxy.

After exercising, it is the changing area. The 2-meter super-large whole wardrobe can easily hold large belongings and fit the wall perfectly, maintaining the sense of order in the space. The specially equipped self-service laundry makes guests feel a warm service.

In fact, it is not the first collaboration between Fang Fei and Hercules Fitness. Last year, Fang Fei designed the Hercules Fitness Gemdale Store. It is just because of the previous cooperation, Hercules Fitness has obtained a very clear and recognizable brand image, thus gaining more loyal customers with the same interests.

Therefore, the Hercules Fitness World Store is a re-start on the basis of the Gemdale Store. Through the re-cooperation between the designer and the owner, the 4,500-square-meter Hercules Fitness World Store will carry more fit people and bring better fitness services. At the same time, it will also attract more customers, enhance the commercial value of the space, and promote more business goals for the owner.

Hercules Fitness in Kunming City, China – Building Information

Project name: Hercules Fitness Project location: 7th Floor, Zone C, Haile World Shopping Center, Kunming, China Project area: 8000㎡ Chief Designer: Fang Fei Design company: CUN FF Design team: Yang Xiaolin, Wang Da, He Bing Design time: May 2021 Completion time: January 2022

Photography: INSPACE

Hercules Fitness, Kunming City images / information received 200422

Location: 7th Floor, Zone C, Haile World Shopping Center, Kunming, China

Yunnan Architecture Designs

Villafound Jade Hotel Lijiang Lodge Architect: Nie Jianping photograph : Chen Weizhong © Nie Jianping Villafound Jade Hotel Lijiang Lodge in Yunnan

Pu Zao Restaurant, Tongde Plaza, Kunming Architect: Yiduan Shanghai Interior Design photograph : Xu Xu-Juns Pu Zao Restaurant in Yunnan

Museum of Handcraft Paper, Gaoligong, Yunnan Province, China Design: Trace Architecture Office photo : AKAA Museum of Handcraft Paper Yunnan Building

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Jilin Financial Centre Commercial Complex, Jilin Province Architects: Aedas image courtesy of architects office Jilin Financial Centre Commercial Complex Building

Industrial Service Centre in Jinwan Aviation City, Zhuhai Architects: 10 DESIGN image courtesy of architects office Industrial Service Centre in Jinwan Aviation City

Sanya Block 5, Hainan Province, Southern China NL Architects Sanya Block 5

China Southern Airport City , Guangzhou Woods Bagot China Southern Airport City Guangzhou

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Comments / photos for the Hercules Fitness, Kunming City page welcome

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nightingaledarling · 7 years

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FIC: My Kind’s Your Kind

Fandom: Samurai Love Ballad Party Timeline/Continuity: Modern AU Pairing: Maeda Toshiie/MC (unnamed) Genre: Angst, but does it really count as angst since you know they get together later?? Probably. Oops. So much for ‘I will never write Puppy angst!’ Word Count: ~1800 Rating: PG-13 Notes: Let’s play “guess the character this description alludes to,” lol. This goes before “Like I Need You Then” in the Nostalgia ‘verse.

@hajeema @han-pan @stars-over-omori @kawa-akarin @all-my-cuffs-have-buttons @saizoswifey @pseudofaux @sengokugenkigirl

And anyone else who expressed interest in the rest of this series. Thanks for your beautiful comments on the previous work, loves! Y’all have been so great with putting out quality content that I was inspired to finish this one off. I have about three more planned. If you would like to go sans tag in the future, please let me know!

“What if I was your boyfriend?”

His phone buzzes with a text reading ‘SOS’ and he’s off like a shot, striding toward the bar with purpose.

The dim lights and throngs of people at various levels of inebriation make movement more difficult than it should be, but he sees her instantly. She’s got her arms crossed tightly in front of her, phone clutched in a white-knuckle grip. Her smile is so fake it’s painful to look at, and her upper body is leaning away as far as she can get from the creeper who’s leaning into her space. The man’s got a bit of a heavier build, his balding head slick with sweat from the body heat inside the building. Neither of these do much to detract from the man’s slimy, leery gaze.

What was the phrase again? ‘It’s all fun and games until someone loses an eye’?

Toshiie pushes forward and steps right in between the two, thumping his hand down on the bar top for good measure as he turns his back to the creeper and looks down at his friend.

“Hey Gorgeous,” he says, the pet name rolling off his tongue as naturally as if he were saying her name instead. “Was wondering where you went.”

The relief ebbing from her is almost palpable, her eyes warm with a silent thank-you. She uncrosses her arms and lifts a hand to rest on his bicep. “Just wanted another drink. Thanks, Babe.”

An internal shiver goes through him when he hears that. But before he can enjoy it much, the man behind him clears his throat rather loudly.

Toshiie turns. He makes a show of cracking his knuckles with an impressive pop. “Sorry bro, did you have something you want to say to my girlfriend?”

The color drains from the man’s face at the gesture, and he shakes his head, spluttering his words out, “N-no! Nevermind!” He makes a hasty retreat, tripping over himself on the way.

Her hand drops from Toshiie’s arm, and he immediately misses the touch.

“Thank you,” she says earnestly. “He wouldn’t go away.”

He shrugs. “Don’t worry about it. Perks of having a guy friend. But I still think you should’ve been born ugly, because you probably wouldn’t have this ongoing problem of creeps hitting on you in bars.”

“I’m gonna ignore your implication that the creep problem is my fault. You realize you basically just called me pretty, right?”

...He walked right into that one. “Well, it’s not like it’s a secret,” he huffs, looking away. “You are. Pretty, I mean.”

When he glances back at her, she’s trying hard to fight back a laugh. “Careful. Don’t strain something trying to compliment me.”

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Quit while you’re ahead.” He inclines his head toward the bar’s entrance. “Feel like getting out of here?”

“Sure. Let’s just go find Umeko and…” Her eyes roam the interior before stopping by the pool tables, and she giggles.

Toshiie follows her line of sight to see Umeko and her boyfriend pressed up against the wall in a rather compromising position.

He shakes his head, chuckling. “Maybe just text her that we went ahead.”

“Yeah.” She taps out a message on her phone. He takes the opportunity to send off a quick good night text to Sayuri too, and together they head to the door.

The cold air outside is a shock straight to their bones. It’s more instinct than conscious thought when he pulls her to his side so she can share the warmth of his jacket. It’s probably just as automatic for her to huddle into him and loop an arm around his back to get even closer.

“If I wasn’t sober before, I am now,” she laughs, her breath coming out in tiny pale puffs.

Another gust slams into their skin, and Toshiie shudders.

The bar is about a fifteen minute walk from their apartment. At such close distance, it’s kind of stupid to get a taxi or rideshare. On the other hand, he really isn’t interested in dying from the biting cold, despite knowing that his body does tend to run on the warmer side.

“Just pretend you’re in Hawaii,” she says suddenly.

Briefly he wonders if she can read minds. But he probably shouldn’t be surprised; they’ve always been so in sync with each other. “By myself? That’s sad.”

“Not by yourself,” she huffs. “Pretend that you’re on your honeymoon or something. I don’t know.”

“If I was on my honeymoon, I’d rather it not be with you,” Toshiie deadpans, only to wince when she thumps him in the flank with the side of her fist.

“That goes double for me, jackass.” There’s no malice in her words, just a fond teasing that only she can get away with.

He smiles, first taking it at face value, but then he starts to think.

From acting as her boyfriend at the bar to cuddling her to ward off the chill to joking about honeymoons - it’s not Toshiie’s first time for any of these. For almost anyone else, those actions would be a surefire indicator of romance, but for the two of them, it’s just out of familiarity and having been so comfortable with each other for so long that they can get away with it.

It’s no wonder that people always assume they’re dating.

He won’t lie. That what-if question had hovered in the back of his mind since their early teens when she started developing noticeably different body parts than him, but he never really gave it much thought until they entered high school.

Even then, the what-if was only a transient thought between relationships.

She’d been with her first love for a good year. When they ultimately called it quits, she’d said something about how he was kind-hearted and ideal but just a little too proper, and Toshiie had wondered, ‘what if it were me?’ for a minute before leaving the thought alone and treating her to a junk food day.

He had a similar thought when he became the unwilling owner of a broken nose in their senior year for sleeping with an underclassman who turned out to be the class president’s younger sister. When the president wrung out his fist and went on with his day, Toshiie had thought, ‘this wouldn’t have been a problem if it were her’ before stumbling away to the nurse’s office.

So the concept of dating his closest friend was always a fanciful idea, an abstract notion that he’d considered but never actually thought to be within the realm of possibility.

At least, not until they moved in together.

Now that they’re under one roof, their relationship has changed - solidified, almost. There’s something about their involvement in each other’s lives that can’t really be touched, no matter how many blind dates she goes on, no matter how far he gets with Sayuri.

Because now, things like cooking together and movie marathons on the couch and sharing a beer on the balcony are a little less hangout-ish and a whole lot more domestic. She makes him scrub the toilet on Sundays, but in return he makes her take out the trash. He’ll be at the store debating between his favored laundry detergent scent of spring blossom and her favored lavender fields and decide to go with the latter, only because the former gives her a headache.

He thinks about how these exchanges are probably much more common with couples - couples who live together, to be specific.

The fact that they have a joint bank account specifically for rent and utilities is just the icing on the cake.

That what-if question… it’s not such a farfetched idea anymore.

He doesn’t have much more time to think about it, because somehow, in all his contemplation, they’ve already reached the apartment. She ushers him inside, shutting the door and the cold behind them. But he doesn’t want to lose this closeness. Not yet.

He holds her fast, one hand to the back of her head, another to her shoulder blades. Her keys clatter to the floor in her surprise.

“Toshiie? What’s wrong?”

It could be real.

“...What if I was your boyfriend?”

She stiffens in his arms, then relaxes, breathing out a laugh. “You might as well be, for all the time we spend together.”

“I’m serious.” Toshiie draws back a little, leveling his gaze to hers. He can see the mirth and jest in her eyes slowly dim, dim, then vanish at the gravity of his tone.

She swallows, closing her eyes for a long beat and then opening them again, wearily focusing on him. “I guess…” she begins in a whisper, and although he can hear her perfectly in the stillness of their apartment, he leans in close anyway. “We just never tried to be anything more.”

“Why didn’t we try?” He murmurs.

She shrugs helplessly. “Didn’t make sense to?”

“Really?” Toshiie lets out a low, self-deprecating chuckle. “Cause sometimes, I swear - you’re the only thing that does make sense to me.”

There would be no interview time, no break-in period. He already knows that it takes five alarms to wake her up in the morning, and she already knows that Thursday is his back and biceps day at the gym. He already knows that she seasons all her food with an atrocious amount of hot sauce because ‘it’s not a meal without it, Toshiie,’ and she already knows that he bought a motorcycle because he can’t be bothered to operate on bus schedules. He already knows that she’ll cry at the drop of a hat when she gets angry, and she already knows that it’s best to leave him alone for a day or two when he’s feeling down.

She gets him, just like he gets her.

It could be real.

Her eyes flutter closed, slow and arresting, but before he can inch forward, she mumbles a single name -

“Sayuri.”

And it feels like someone’s dumped ice water over his head. He takes a step back. Just one step, but it might as well be a mile.

Sayuri, who’s out of town for a friend’s birthday and probably missing him. Sayuri, who’s kind and selfless and likes him and trusts him.

Sayuri, who he swore he’d give it a shot with, no matter how on-again off-again they’ve been lately.

He says nothing, just lets his hands fall to the side. In measured movements, she crouches down, picks up her keys and puts them in her pocket. She can’t seem to meet his eyes, not that he can blame her.

“It’s getting late,” she says, voice small and resigned, and she retreats to her room.

The sound of her door closing echoes into the foyer. Toshiie slumps against the wall with a sigh, raking a hand through his hair.

It could be so, so real.

But not now.

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