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nikethestatue · 11 months

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The Paperman

Elriel Month 2023

I don't even know what the prompt is, but I wrote this. Thanks to @gracie-rosee for suggesting Paperman.

It's short and has language.

For A.

Always the man of my dreams

When you know, you know, right?

And I knew.

I knew that the girl with the big brown cow eyes–maybe doe eyes would be more appropriate–would be irreversibly tied to me. In some strange, cosmic way, in that sugary sweet Nicholas Sparks loopy, wordy nonsense, I just felt it. In my gut. My dick. My brain. Don’t want to say heart, but I have to admit, in my heart too.

Brown-eyed girl was the girl.

Only problem is, I didn’t know who the girl with the cow eyes was. Or how to find her.

It was a blustery day, so common in April, in Chicago. The weather playing mind games with the occupants of the city, taunting them with warmth and sunshine in the morning, only to plunge the temperatures to near freezing by the afternoon. Ha. Ha. Ha. Suckers!

I was standing on the CTA platform that morning, opting not to take the car to work, and now berating myself for that. ‘It’s a nice spring day’ they said. ‘A little windy’ they lied. It wasn’t nice and it wasn’t a ‘little windy’. Like a dumbass, I decided to walk to work, and not 3 blocks in, I was fucking freezing. Now, I am a big guy. I am 6”6 (like I said, I am a big guy), and you’d think that big guys, with 4% body fat and a couple of stints in Afghanistan back in the 2000s would be okay with the wind and the cold that was coming off the lake. I don’t know what it was about me–maybe it was that back then, I was in my early 20s, running hot all the time, or maybe it was my huge ass beard, or all the velcro gear that I had to schlep around on my body–but now that I was 34, I sure couldn’t tolerate the cold quite as well as I did back then.

Hence, me standing on the open platform, waiting for the train. Freezing my nuts off.

And then, Miss Thing saunters in. And to me, she is the best thing since…forever. Forget sliced bread. All I hear in my head is ‘Thunderstruck’ by AC/DC. Or AccaDacca as my Aussie friends call it.

So I stand there, in the howling wind, under the shade of the old timey skyscrapers, shivering like a wet poodle in only my suit…and…

I am falling in love.

Like, legit falling in love.

Tumbling.

Because cow-eyes is perfection.

I find myself thinking that she is everything that I’d ever wanted.

I am not a white picket fence kind of a guy, but if there was a girl that i’d trade my loft for, and end up in the suburbs with, mowing the lawn every Sunday and going to Costco to pick up 96 rolls of toilet paper–this is the girl I’d do it for.

I am hoping she is not one for the Costco trips: because if she is perfect, if she is mine, if she is carved out of my own damn rib, if she was placed here, on this platform because she belongs to me, then Miss Cow Eyes isn’t a Costco girl.

But I don’t even care.

I stare like a creeper, because if I close my eyes, I fear that she’d just disappear and I’d have to be committed, due to some intense nervous breakdown, because I let MY GIRL go and didn’t approach her.

Now, here’s where being 6”6 sucks.

Yeah, I got a nice Italian bespoke suit on, and my watch costs more than a house, but I also got neck tattoos, hand tattoos, Freddy Kreuger-level scarred hands, and I am 6”6 and I scare the ladies even on a good day. Yeah, I fucked a lot, still do–though now that I am in love with Cow-Eyes, I am going to be faithful forever–but the girls I fuck(ed) were still cautious, and only found their courage after the help of some alcoholic liquids. They are never disappointed when they say ‘yes’ and take a walk on the wild side with yours truly, but Cow-Eyes doesn’t seem like that kind of a girl.

She is like…pure.

Not sure.

Maybe she is not pure, but she is a good girl.

She’s got a cute pink and gray checkered coat on, she’s got cute white Adidas skater shoes on, cute jeans, and a cute pink beanie, on her extremely cute head. Waves of golden brown hair whip around her perfect face, smacking around the red-painted lips that I am absolutely sure I will kiss one day. And do some other very objectionable, but very hot things with. The sight of her makes me think depraved thoughts, even though she is just standing there, being all cute, clutching a leather folder to her chest. The chest–I also want to do unmentionable things with.

Here I am, suffocating with love and lust, and Cow-Eyes has no idea and the wind is just brutal.

A gust hits us so hard, it almost knocks her off her feet. She takes an awkward Bambi step, trying to hold on to all her crap, and I, being a gentleman and a dick, let her fall right into me. Into my ever-loving arms she stumbles, clutches my biceps with her little hands that have short, imperfect nails, and her sweet Altoids-y breath washes over me, as I hold her up. She smiles at me, all cute and flustered, and I smile like a shark, because I smell the delicious scent of fresh meat. My meat. This will all be mine, very soon.

The rumble of the upcoming train sends me into a sudden panic.

Are we sharing the same train?

Is she hopping on one and I am on the other?

Are we destined to miss each other like two ships in the night? Nope. Not if I have anything to do with it.

Cow-Eyes is blushing like a virgin, touched for the very first time, and I don’t want to let her go, but I also don’t want it to be weird.

It’s already weird, because I am in love with her, and she doesn’t know it. She doesn’t know that she will be in love with me too. Like this is how weird this is–here I am, staring at the future mother of my children (I am hoping for twins, boy and girl, but I am flexible), and the love of my life is trembling in my arms, not knowing that I will be attempting to impregnate her pretty soon (with consent, don’t worry).

The crowds swell and she separates from me, while another gust of wind almost fells us all down. In this instance, all it does is it makes her lose hold on her folder, and out flies a piece of paper that smacks her right in her perfect face.

I am losing her. She is fleeing my arms and I am feeling hollow and fucking empty, like she just tore a piece of my soul and took it with her. Dismayed, I watch her shoulder her way inside the train car, and she gives me a look…And I fucking freeze. Because the look is raw and full of understanding. Like she’d known me all of my life. Like she understands every strand of my being and every fucked up thought in my head. Cow Eyes blink at me, and the doors close and I watch her go. Away. Without me.

I am so discombobulated, I feel as if a limb was severed and her phantom presence is still with me, the scent of perfume and Altoids marks my skin, my shirt, but she is not here.

Dazed. I am dazed and confused, and I watch the train snake forward, feeling like a new bride watching her lover go off to war never to see him again.

Fuck.

How do I find a girl in the city of 5 million?

My girl.

My Cow Eyes.

My beautiful girl who is cute head to toe and who’ll have me as a husband, and will never lose me in the crowd, because she can always spot a 6”6 monstrosity with neck tats.

Now, who is dry humping my leg?

I look down, and there is a piece of paper wrapped around my pant, stuck there and held up by the wind. Thanks buddy! Never loved the wind as much as I love it right now. There is a rowdy looking pigeon that’s eyeing my paper like a bastard, or maybe it’s the remnants of the burrito that someone graciously tossed right on the platform, because throwing it out in a garbage bin is too much work apparently. Anyway, I don’t care, because I beat the pigeon to it and sweep the paper up in my hand, before he flies into my leg like a bull attacking a matador. I nudge the burrito towards him–buon appetito, pal–and look at the paper.

First thing–there is a perfect imprint of my girl’s lovely lips right on the paper. It’s smeared a bit, as she’s been sucki-

Okay, focus. Time for that later. The pouty outline of her lips is pure deliciousness, but I am not after spank bank material right now. Priorities and all.

It’s an invoice of some kind. To a tattoo shop.

What?

My girl looks like she’d faint at the sight of needles, but maybe I am totally misreading her? What if babygirl has a sleeve going? I mean, even I am doubting that this is the case, but why the heck would she have an invoice for some dude named Martin Scalia for $350 from Jade Eyes Tattoo and Piercing Parlour, LTD. Props to the British spelling of ‘parlor’--a classy move–but Jade Eyes??? They literally have some kind of unfathomable connection to Cow-Eyed Girl and they call it ‘Jade Eyes’? Dumb.

I am pensive and kind of an asshole for the rest of the day.

I have Martin Scalia’s invoice sitting on my desk in my office, and I am staring at the slightly smeared lipstick imprint like I am deranged.

I am deranged.

I have an 800 million deal that I am working on, but all I can think of is my girl. I look out at the vast expanse of the city, its skyline dotted with an endless number of skyscrapers, all looking like overly erect dicks, the dickest of which is of course the Trump Tower. And somewhere, in this Forest of Dicks, is my girl. Who is currently not with me, and that’s just throwing me. She should be resting her sweet ass on my lap right now, looking at me adoringly, calling me ‘my love’ or ‘master’ and eagerly thinking of what I would do with her once we get home. Instead, she is gallivanting somewhere unknown to me and it’s irritating as fuck.

My buddy Cass sticks his big head in the door of my office and asks me if I am in love, because I am, apparently, mooney-eyed. He snags a look at Martin’s invoice and the lipstick smear, then grins like an asshole and leaves me be, while whistling ‘Strangers in the Night’. I love him as much as I hate him. But mostly love. I only love two people–Cow-Eyes and Cass.

I am sprinting out of the office and onto the street like a young buck. I am a young buck. Or maybe, a middle-aged buck, but I have a plan and it’s giving me wings. I get into an Uber and we drive all the way to UIC, which, in my opinion, is still a neighbourhood that’s shady as fuck. I hope that my girl is safe walking around here.

The car drops me off at the infamous Jade Eyes Tattoo shop.

I am gonna be honest here, I didn’t give this too much thought.

My brain is so full of my Cow-Eyed girl, that there is absolutely no space left for anything else. Like planning. Like not being a creeper and just barging in. Or considering that she might not even be there. Why would she be? Maybe she is an accountant and this is her client? I guess I can beat the shit out of the tattoo guys and demand to know the whereabouts of their sexy, gorgeous, perfect, incredible, stunning accountant who will be my wife, though I prefer not to go that route. I try to be peaceful. Usually.

Also, she cannot be an accountant.

She is definitely a writer. Yes. She writes dark romances. I can feel it.

So….I actually don’t have a plan.

But I walk in anyway and figure I’d play it by ear.

And there she is. The beanie is off and her golden hair is gilded by the light, gleaming light the sun at dawn.

Those large brown eyes flicker and blink, and she recongises me. The moment is right there. Seared into my memory forever. She blinks. And she knows me. She knows me through time and space, like I know her. She is my girl. It’s inevitable.

When you know, you know. Right?

“Go on a date with me,” I order.

“Okay,” she says.

#elriel-month #elriel #elain x azriel #elain and azriel #pro elriel #my fanfiction #Elriel fanfiction #The Paperman #elriel month #elriel month 2023 #elriel fanfic #azriel #elain archeron #azriel and elain

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historia-vitae-magistras · 5 months

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Do the baby rats ever return to the bilges? And by that do they spend much time with the old man? Are they free to drop in and make themselves at home?

I think it varies between them and over time.

Alfred drops in a lot. God knows there's hardly a spot in the world he hasn't made himself known but I still couldn't quite believe how many statues and memorials. The eagle squadron, the Eisenhower statue, the Reagan statue, the 9/11 memorial garden. Mark Twain, James McNeil Whistler, Harry Selfridge, FDR, Abraham Lincoln. Like goddamn I'm not sure why I was surprised but whoo. So many statues of Yanks paid for by the British.

Anyway: In the 19th century he'd actually spent time in England indulging his need for the latest technology and satiating whatever advances François or Gilbert wouldn't keep him abreast of. Nowadays, especially since the age of flight, he travels a lot and has no shame in rolling up, insulting the food but savoring the whiskey, crashing wherever he likes and drunkenly asking his father's advice. He's very free in how much space he takes up and how much time he feels entitled too. If he's jet lagged he'll just conk out on the old man's spare room and complain it smells like sheep but very much appreciate a night's sleep in a place he once called home.

Matt... He should be very comfortable in that space but he's a dipshit so imposing feels illegal. He kind of knows he can but he's also not willing to test his luck the vast majority of the time. If he's invited he'll show up on time, clean up after himself and promptly leave without causing a fuss. At least the cat's happy he's back to visit lmao. He got permission to pay for a wee fountain in the green park memorial. There was a gate we bought when Victoria locked it and we were still first dominion (Australia was still in the process of confederating.) But yeah he's welcome? Arthur doesn't mind him around if he's not underfoot. But it really was kind of a sign Jan had no idea what Matt's life was like anymore when he asked him to go stay at his dad's in the aftermath of their break up.

Jack lmao he's shameless when he wants some of the old man's attention. I don't think it's all the time, but there are a lot of links there. I swear to God I met so many Australians in England. I tumbled out of a test pit off a corner off a Hadrian's wall fortlet and there were like 6 Australians in every pub in fricken Yorkshire. He will just kind of show up with a very casual but somehow kind of prickly invitation to go to a cultural event of his artists or bands in England and the old fart isn't objecting. It took Arthur a minute to figure out that "Accadacca" meant they were going to go see AC/DC but he wasn't mad about it! Two manic fucks can have a lot of fun. They party quite hard sometimes. Jack was also very responsible for the old man's cooking improving by a metric and imperial fuck tonne. The espresso machine under the cabinet is his baby.

Zee I think is the easiest. She's as independent as Jack but that not quite dead idea that daughters are kind of allowed to be more in and out of the house makes it slightly easier for them. She rolls up and flops on the sofa demanding to be fed and watered. A full fifth of the NZ population lives overseas with Australia and the UK topping the list and if there's things she can't really do in New Zealand or she just doesn't want to live alone she'll just hop over. I feel like she goes in cycles of how independent and revolutionary she's feeling and will just kind of make herself at home if she wants another degree or something similar. She spent time in London without the old man too especially during the peak punk years and they ran into each other at a sex pistols concert. She had a full set of tattoos, an undercut and half a blunt in her system, Arthur had green hair and absolutely ripped on god knows what. She's never seen him so panicked. They stumbled home together having a hoot and throwing beer bottles at cops. Grade a hooligans, those two.

#the ask box || probis pateo #Arthur and the children || bilge rat and his bouncing baby bilge rats

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