#chews through a telephone wire

[rileyclaw]

I LOVE THEM !!!!!

[bumblingbabooshka]

That thing Tuvok does where someone is talking over his shoulder and he doesn’t turn his head fully around but just inclines it slightly or moves his eyes in their direction like...okay

[analiise]

meet the parents - steve harrington

description : steve is ready to meet the parents, and so are you. you think?

steve harrington x fem!reader

cw : fluff!!!!!

word count : 970~

“Steve, just wear something nice and be giddy.” You state, as you lie on your bed twirling your finger on your telephone wire. “Okay, but you do understand why I’m nervous, right?” He asks. You believe you're more nervous than him.

“No, my parents love you already.” You lied. Your parents weren’t big fans of your boyfriend. But they were your parents. What's the worst they would do?

During breakfast, you brought the topic up to your mom, privately. “I’m bringing Steve over for dinner. Is that okay with you?” You quietly ask as you chew your soft pancakes.

Your mom stops pouring her coffee and looks up at you. “This early?” She asked. You rolled your eyes. “You know, me and Steve have been dating for a while now mom.”

“I know, but the things I’ve heard sweetheart. The things I’ve heard.” She trailed off. What could a middle-aged woman hear about a teenage boy? “What did you hear mom?” You question, furrowing your eyebrows

“You know, just the girls at the book club telling me how he broke their daughters' hearts. Plural.” You scoff. “Are you kidding me?” You were going to defend Steve no matter what, they didn’t know the real Steve and you wanted to show them so badly.

She walks up to you and cups your cheeks in a motherly way. “Darling I just don’t want to see you hurt.” “He won’t hurt me mom. I promise.”

Now, bringing this up to your father was a different story. Your dad was the chief editor of The Hawkins Post. He knew gossip more than a lady getting her hair done. So when you brought up the last name, he was quick to judge.

“The Harrington boy?” He chuckles. “Y/n, you are not bringing home a highschool dropout.” His words caught you by surprise, but did it really?

“I can't believe you right now.” You cross your arms as you stand in his study. He looks up from his papers and continues. “The Harringtons are a phenomenal family, but with a son like that.” He makes a surprised expression. “It’s hard to keep their family name honorable.”

“That wasn’t so nice dad.” You frown. You wanted to argue even more, and say how Steve was the best person you’ve ever met. How he snuck you back home when you were drunk, and how he knew how passionate you were about Emily Dickens and bought you exclusive copies. But you couldn’t, cause it was just teenage love.

Your dad studies your sad face and finally sighs. “He can come, but if he ever-” “Yea, yea, if he ever hurts me you’ll murder him.” You walk behind his desk and give him a great big hug.

“Thank you dad, this means a lot.”

٭٭٭

The doorbell rings, and you rush to get it. You flatten out your shirt like this was your first impression on Steve. When you open the door you see an awkward Steve in a collared shirt and khaki jeans. He’s carrying roses and a slim wooden box. You can’t help but choke a laugh.

“Oh thank god it’s you.” He said as he walked inside. You give him a small peck on the cheek. Your parents are sitting in the living room and stand up when they see you both.

Your mom comes rushing with a hug. “Why hello! You must be Steve.” She smiles. Steve returns the hug and the look on his face is genuine.

“Hi ma’am. These are for you.” He says, and he hands her the bouquet of roses. “You shouldn’t have!” She adds, gently slapping his shoulder. “This guy won't even buy me flowers anymore.” She looks back at my dad.

He chucked and gave Steve a firm handshake. “Steve Harrington.” Your dad says. “Sir.” Steve grins. He gives him the wooden box and my dad looks at me, “Put this in my study sweetheart.”

You take the box and rush to his office, placing it on his desk. You sigh, Thank god this was running smoothly. Now only to get through dinner.

Steve and your dad talk about football as you and your mom bring out dinner. You hope Steve is finally calm and acting like himself.

Your mom whispers behind you. “Maybe he isn’t that bad.” She walks across the kitchen and into the dining room. “Dinner is served.” Your smile reaches your ears.

Everything is going smoothly, your moms asking him about work, your dads insisting he checks out his new car, and your boasting about all his kindness towards you.

Sooner or later, you knew your dad was going to ask. When you take your last bite of food, he questions Steve. “If you don’t mind me asking, why didn’t you continue with school?”

You know the real answer, because Mr. Harrington was a dick and didn’t want his son to live happily. You were about to speak for Steve until he spoke for himself.

“My dad wanted me to earn my own money like a man.” He giggles. “It’s silly, but it’s working. I’m planning on going to college at Tech next year.”

Your dad smiles. “That is great to hear, son.”

٭٭٭

“Did you hear that? SON! He called me son.” Steve fell back onto your bed. It was getting late, and he was bound to leave soon.

You giggled as you sat next to him. “If you guys are that close, convince him to let you stay the night.” Your hands glide up and down his shirt.

“I wish, but I’m still scared of him. As much as I am his son.” He got up and kissed your lips.

“This was such a good plan.” He sighs. “I'm glad you enjoyed it as much as I did.” You interlock your finger with Steve’s, and embrace the warm feeling as you smile at your boyfriend.

a/n : just something small i had in my drafts!!send in requests for one shots im dying of bordemmm

[atimodeus]

alright, that's it. i need fellow bakudeku enjoyers to hit my line and be unhinged with me because i'm about to chew through a fuckin' telephone wire

i didn't think getting back into writing fanfiction would activate my hyper-fixation this intensely, but boys, that ship had sailed and is now permanently anchored in the middle of the pacific

[lala1267]

Who is she (Part 3)

As the weeks flew by, their love for eachover grew stronger. They were toughether almost every day. Elvis could never take his gaze of Carmen. It was impossible for him. But Pricilla was overshadowed. She was left behind to rot in the dark as Carmen and Elvis enjoyed the sunlight. Pricilla would spend long, lonely nights in tears as she looked at the empty space next to her in bed. War was raging inside of her, ready to come out. She wore her shame like a tattoo. Elvis stopped taking her to events. Instead, he took Carmen. The tabloids and press had a blast, creating rumours.

"Elvis has a new girlfriend!"

"Elvis divorced Pricilla!"

But were they just 'romours'?

Carmen was a taste of sanity to Elvis, Pricilla was a taste of the past, the dark past.

1971- Graceland

Carmen sat opposite Elvis, who was slouched on a chair.

"Elvis, you need to tell her."

Carmen said as her beady eyes searched for an ounce of remorse in Elvis's eyes.

"She doesn't need to know about us, relax."

Elvis said slightly giggling.

"Do you think this is funny? If I was Pricilla I would-"

"Would do what?"

Elvis said as he immediately sat up from his chair as anger rose upon his face. Carmen just closed her smart mouth and looked to the floor.

"That's what I thought.

Elvis whispered under his breath before relaxing his tense muscles. Elvis had been cheating on Pricilla with Carmen for a good few months.

"Elvis, how would you feel if I was getting cheated on. You would want me to know about it, wouldn't you?"

"Yes, I would."

"So, tell Pricilla. If you don't, things will only get worse."

She said as she leaned forward to look into Elvis's eyes.

"Fine."

Elvis grunted.

Just ten minutes later, Elvis was telephoning Pricilla.

"Pricilla, I'm sorry. We just weren't meant to be."

He said as his hands twisted around the spiralled telephone wire. His face scrunched as he heard Pricilla scream and cry.

"You're a fucking joke! You leave me for that bitch who doesn't even know how to speak. You can have your god damn ring back, I don't need that shit!"

Carmen could hear her cruel words peirce through the phone. She took her words to heart. She just bowed her head down as she tried to hide the tears in her eyes. She felt sorry for Pricilla, but her words punched a hole through her heart. Once Elvis had finished his heated phone call, he made his way back to the room where Carmen sat with her head in her hands as her teardrops absorbed in the white fluffy carpet. He instantly rushed over to her side. He held her close as she continued to sob.

"Hush, hush darling."

Elvis whispered as he stroked her hair.

"Why would she say that about me, Elvis why?"

"She's just angry, her words mean nothing."

They infact meant everything to Carmen. She was only a young girl who didn't know how to process her emotions properly.

All Elvis ever needed was here, in his arms. Carmen gave him hope, she gave him will, she gave him light. He tilted her head up to face his with his index finger.

"Look at me, lil girl. You are better than Pricilla ever was, I wouldn't trade one of you for a hundred of her. I love you."

Elvis watched the gleam in her eyes, and the sides of her lips rose up to form a slight smile. He remained in silence for a few seconds before a suspicious smile appeared.

"Let me take you out of this town, we can get away from everyone, including Pricilla. We can be alone."

Carmen nodded happily as her excitement built up.

Now that Pricilla was gone, there were no more obstacles. The fun was about to begin.

1971- summer

Driving in a Mercury down to Wayamaya. The radio was on full volume, and the windows were rolled down. Carmen's green eyes twinkled in the morning sunlight as the breeze invaded her long curly hair. Elvis sang a sweet song whilst chewing a toothpick with his American white teeth. The trees and nature flew past the vintage car that was driving at a high speed. Elvis turned to look at the gorgeous godess that was lost in her thoughts. He placed his large hand on her thigh, slightly squeezing it like a toy. Carmen batted her long eyelashes at the handsome man before a pretty smile attacked her face. She planted her small hand on top of his, she played with each and every one of his jewelled-out rings. Her fingers carresed the twenty-four carrot gold before she ran her fingernails along the diamonds that were studded onto the shiny gold. Elvis looked at the flawless girl next to him with pure lust in his deep blue eyes.

"Ya like what ya see?"

He inquired sarcastically before letting a small chuckle escape his plump lips. Carmen looked up at him before replying.

"As long as it's you that I see."

She said flirtatiously before a captivating smile lurked on her face. Her eyes lit up at the sight of Elvis. He patted the empty space in his lap as he glared at her. She layed her body over the two front seats. Her head rested on his thigh as her hair covered his legs like a blanket. He bent his head down to look into her eyes as he carressed her face and interlocked his fingers with her messy curls.

Carmen dominated Elvis's thoughts like a dream. Ten minutes could go past without her brushing his thoughts. The way she flipped her hair and made him stare was all so seducing, yet cute to him. They would kiss until the sun rose and play until the moon appeared in the night sky. Carmen's innocence set a spell over Elvis. She was so pure and kind that she was filled with passion and grace.

Their surroundings became more tropical the further they drove. The bushy trees turned into palm trees as the daisies turned into beautiful Hibiscus flowers that would be used to make great necklaces. The countryside view turned into a large marine blue ocean with golden sand. Carmen sat up, eager to see the tropical area that they were peacefully driving through. She climbed out of the open window until her whole top half was exposed to the summer breeze. She held onto the edge of the car for support as she admired the wildlife and ecosystems. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath in as her hair was flying everywhere like a lions main. Elvis reached his arm out to grip her thigh just in case she would accidentally fall. He was protective over who he loved, he didn't want to lose anyone, especially Carmen. She sat back down into the cream lever seat. Elvis giggled as he saw the state of her messy hair.

"Oh, I love you, darling."

The sunlight shot diamonds from his eyes as he stated happily before focusing on the rocky road.

Not long after, the car came to a complete stop outside of a cabin that rested along the shore of a beautiful beach. Carmen eagerly opened the door and stepped out. Elvis walked to her, planting a palm on her shoulder.

"Ladies first. Or shall I say girls first."

He said sarcastically as his hand led the way to the wooden steps that led up to the cabin. Carmen rolled her eyes before jokingly smacking him on his chest.

"Just because I'm young doesn't mean I'm not a lady."

She said as her beady eyes locked with his glassy ones. She was only young but that didn't stop their love from growing stronger. Elvis bent his head down towards hers. He puckered up his lips before they met in a passionate kiss. He pulled away before patting her back, urging her to make her way to the cabin. She took a few steps in the hot sand before her feet met the wooden step. The wood creaked slightly as her feet took turns in meeting the surface. Her dress hiked up along her thighs as she skipped up the steps like a child. Elvis watched her with admiration. Her eyes widened at the sight of the wooden cabin that was painted a coral blue. She made her way to the door as Elvis followed behind. Her hand stook out to reach the handle but was stopped as she turned to Elvis for reassurance.

"Go ahead, honey."

He said as his eyes filled with lust. Her smile rose upon her face before she took a step inside. The walls were pastel blue and white. The furniture was handmade and had beautiful designs engraved into them. She looked around the room for a moment before making her way to the hammock that hung in the balcony. The veiw was wonderful. The ocean stretched across Carmen's sight. Her eyes widened at the sight as a smile appeared on her pretty face. She felt Elvis's large hands wrap around her waist as his body pressed into hers lightly.

"C'mon, let's unpack."

His deep voice spoke into her ears.

An hour later

Carmen was seated on Elvis's lap, watching the TV that was before them. Her head leaned into his chest as his cigar rested between his lips. His hands traced her back, making little circles with his fingers.

She sat up so that she was straddling Elvis like a horse. She managed to put up her best puppy eyes whilst batting her eyelashes a few times. Her hands played with his slightly unbuttoned shirt as she spoke.

"Elvis?"

She asked quietly.

"What now, dear?"

He inquired as his hands played with her curls that hugged her body.

"Can we have a picnic on the beach?"

Elvis's eyes widened slightly as he leaned his head closer to hers, almost as if he was waiting for her to say something else.

"Please?"

A smile lit up his face before he spoke.

"Of course baby."

She huddled up in his large arms as her giggles escaped her mouth. She pulled away and ran into the kitchen eagerly. She grabbed a beach bag from the counter before scavenger hunting for food. She grabbed fruits and some pre made sandwiches as well as some chocolates. Once she had finished raiding the kitchen, she made her way back to the living room. Elvis was no longer sat on the sofa, he wasn't there. She sat herself down, patiently awaiting his return. He walked down the stairs with a pink blanket. His eyes met hers as he walked towards her figure.

"What are ya waitin' for?"

He asked. Carmen stood up quickly before they both made there way to shore. Carmen skipped down the wooden steps and onto the hot sand like a happy child. She waited for Elvis to catch up. She took the blanket from his grasp and layed it out neatly onto the golden sand that shimmered in the sunlight. She plopped herself down before Elvis followed. She placed the bag of food in the middle of both of themselves before she tipped all of the food out.

"Slow down hun, we have a lot of time."

Elvis chuckled. Carmen laughed with him before munching on a ham sandwich. She looked at Elvis who was also eating a sandwich. His legs were crossed as his head bent down to bit into the food. They chatted for a while before finishing the food.

"Let's go swim!"

Carmen said excitedly as she stood up. She grabbed his hand, almost forcing him to stand up. He furrowed his brows as his eyes shot her ego down.

"I thought we only came out her for a picnic? And besides, I don't have any swimming clothes."

Carmen's eyes dimmed before they rolled.

"Don't be like that. Just take your clothes off, no ones here."

She said before completely stripping off until she was bare infront of him. His eyes widened as he examined her figure.

"You make me do some crazy things girl."

He said whilst shaking his head. Carmen giggled before watching him strip off. She pulled his hand as they both ran into the marine water. The coolness sent chills down Carmen's spine. She played and jumped in the water as she tried to dodge the water that Elvis splashed onto her. The water glistened on her tanned body. Her smile made Elvis's whole day. It was like she was his escape. She jumped into his large arms. She glared deeply into his loving gaze. Her head moved closer and closer until their lips met on a lustfull kiss. Her hands played with his wet hair as his traced along her bare back.

The evening

They sat on the beach, the beach that was dimly lit by the fairy lights that hung from the plam trees. The sun was slowly lowering as the moon quickly rose. Carmen's hands intwined with Elvis's as her hips bagan to sway and her legs began to move.

"What are ya doin?"

Elvis asked in confusion as she continued to move.

"Lets dance baby."

She said as her eyes met with his. He followed her instructions whilst the cigar smoke escaped his lips. Her sexy movements bagan to increase in energy. Her hips jolted from side to side. She flicked her hair, making him stare. Her dress hiked up to her panties as she moved seductively. She moved closer to his warm body while maintaining a steady pace with her movements. He cupped her face as her hands landed onto his chest. He inched closer. Their lips landed onto eachovers before their tongues lapped around like a carousel. He pulled away and they carried on damcing until the sun disappeared and the stars rose. They were in love. No one was getting between them even if they tried.

[sundaeaddams]

i’m calling to let you know i ate some of your grandfather’s ashes with my sunny side up eggs

a. swallowed too many tangerine floral arrangements at my uncle’s funeral, and my mother told me to grow up… since then i can’t stand watching late nineties hop music videos through three dimensional glasses and daffodil shopping bags.

b. after bruising my posterior on my neighbors tempestuous weather and low-sodium telephone wires, he chewed on last year’s calendars and passionately lied to me about the local news… thinking about a hideous man whose shoulders are scented like mildewy library shelves and dimly lit hospital sidewalks.

i hope he’s okay.

[popitdontdropitwrites]

"Mx. Sinister" Engineer/Medic - Chapter 8

Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7

CW: Restraints, stalking, obsession and things of that nature.

The space in Joseph’s head pulsed so violently that he feared that it would crack and fall apart. Even before he opened his eyes, hammers pounded against his temple, crushing all thought under their might. With every passing moment, the searing, burning epicentre in the side of his head sent sharp shocks of pain through his brain. The fall had not been kind to him, as slight abrasions and cuts stung his skin, sticky with small droplets of blood. Though he knew that it would be agony, he sat up to get some painkillers. At least, Joseph wanted to do that. Restraints bit back at his hands with a clink, holding him completely still and he opened his eyes, coming to a horrific realisation.

This was not his bed, and the clothes draping from his body were not his own. The room around him, laden with metal, scrap parts, wiring and empty canisters made him feel as though he was trapped in a cage, destined to meet a horrible death. The stale air stunk of oil, varnish and dirt and the open window did little to counter it. A lone light dangled from the ceiling, swaying ever so slightly back and forth, ticking down towards his doom. His breaths quickened, his eyes darting around the room, searching for tools, potential weapons, anything that could help him to escape.

The worst was yet to come. His gaze fixed upon a rustic chair by the bed and more importantly, the vile human being sitting on it, if he could even be called that. The calmness of his expression and the affection in Dell’s gaze made him want to pin him to the ground and strangle him.

“Good mornin’.” His tone angered Joseph to no end and loathing bubbled within him, getting closer and closer to boiling point.

The heat rushed to his ears, turning them a vibrant, furious red. “You better let me go right now.” He snarled, teeth bared. “If you don’t, I will scream and yell until someone comes to help me and then you will be locked up for the rest of your miserable life to rot!”

“Aw, shucks, don’t be like that, pumpkin.” Dell’s fingers ran through his hair in what was supposed to be a caring gesture. It only made him more uncomfortable. “Besides, we’re way out from your part of town. There’s only dirt and corn for miles. Even if you hollered and carried on for twenty years, odds are, no-one would ever hear ya.”

“You are insane!” He screamed, struggling against his restraints.

“Ah… I figured you’d be mighty annoyed when ya woke up.” He chewed on a toothpick as he talked. “I was hopin’ some friendliness might get me a bit in kind, y’know?”

“If there is even a sliver of humanity inside of you, you will let me go!”

“And why would I do that?” He asked it as if it were a genuine question.

“I have responsibilities. When I fail to come to work tomorrow morning, they will come looking for me.” He warned. “And I bet they would find traces of you all over my apartment.”

“’bout that,” Dell clicked his tongue, pulling something from out of sight onto his lap. “You’re resignin’.” He said, patting a bulky telephone. “You’re nearly old enough to retire, ain’t ya? They won’t know any different, really.” He began to input the number. “When your boss picks up, you better tell him that you’re puttin’ yourself out to pasture.”

“Or what?”

“Consider it a trust exercise, alright, sugar?”

For his own sanity, he chose to ignore the revolting pet name. “Dell.” He flattened his voice. “I have worked for decades to climb the ladder to my position. I can’t just give it up, not for you.”

“I s’pose your restraints ain’t comin’ off then.”

“But I have rent to pay! And I need my—” Dell placed a fat finger to his lips and hushed him.

“—Joseph, I’ve got more patents than I do fingers. Believe me, I can keep ya fed and pay the bills.”

“I don’t care. I am not staying here!”

The Texan paid him no mind. Instead, he finished dialling the number. He heard it ring, once, twice and on the third, his employer picked up. Their dull, monotone voice was instantly recognisable. He instantly wished they hadn’t picked up at all.

“Hello? Who is this?”

A deathly silence followed. Dell’s grey eyes bore into him, waiting for him to respond. Joseph bit his lip. He forced his broken, shattered thoughts to reassemble themselves and to collaborate on even a single cohesive thought. He focused them, sharpening them like gleaming daggers before throwing them exactly where he wanted them. He needed to make a choice. He couldn’t just give up his entire life for the mere prospect of freedom. It was hardly freedom, anyhow. The removal of his restraints for his life’s work hardly seemed fair. But even so, Joseph began to wonder what would happen if he refused to comply with Dell’s command. He wondered if he wound be bound forever, leaving his muscles to atrophy until he was defenceless. If he refused, he could never be free at all, and he would never even return to work. By refusing to comply, he would be killing his future. He would be accepting the role of a house pet.  

He found the courage to speak. “…My apologies, this is Joseph Humboldt speaking.” He swallowed nervously, noting how a sly, sickeningly smug smile had spread on Dell’s lips.

“It’s unusual for you to call me on weekends, Joseph. Is something wrong?”

“I’m quite alright. Actually, I… I called because I would like to resign from my position.” Hearing those words from his own mouth made him want to throw up. “It’s… it’s for medical reasons, the same reasons you were informed about some time ago.” He bit his lip, attempting to wake himself from this nightmare. “Age has not been kind to me, and I think it would be best for my condition if I took the time to relax more often.” His heart pounded in his chest. He regretted picking such a reasonable explanation. If he had said that he wanted to retire voluntarily, a person like them would have immediately realised something was amiss.

A long, agonising silence followed. “Oh… I see. Would you like to come to me in person to make the arrangements?”

He glanced to Dell, and he shook his head. “No thank you, that won’t be necessary.”

Though their tone remained professional, they sounded shocked, maybe even a little offended. “Thank you for everything Joseph. I will sort this out as soon as I am able.” With that, the call abruptly ended and Joseph’s life had ended with it.

“Couldn’t’ve done it better myself.” Dell said as he ripped the wiring out of the telephone, making it a useless husk.

Joseph resisted the urge to sob, convincing himself that shedding tears now would be showing his captor weakness. He sat silently, focusing on his breath and the sounds outside – anything to avoid the monster in the room with him.

Dell perked up, remembering something. “Right, lemme get those nasty varmints off ya.”

He sat by his side on the bed and came uncomfortably close to him. Dell’s hand – no doubt intentionally – brushed his forearms before moving to his wrists. Soft beeps sounded, as if Dell was inputting a code of some sort. The cuffs on his hands whirred before popping open and he rubbed the sore spots, trying to relieve the pain. Despite being free to move far more than before, he knew better than to pounce on his captor. In the rare event that he could knock him down and run away without having his skull crushed by that metal prosthesis, he would not get far in this state. With the dizziness that spun his world, he’d likely fall before he even got out of the door. And to add insult to injury, he would wind back up in restraints.

He waited for Dell to undo the mechanical clasp around his leg, but he moved away. “Dell.” He thought to remind him of what he had forgotten. “You promised to unchain me.”

“I never said I’d undo all of ‘em.” Dell explained. “That one is a lil’ different, anyways. It’s not a ‘chain’ or even remotely like one.” He gestured to the device around his leg that resembled a band. “It doesn’t actually lock ya down or nothin’.”

“If I am not tethered to this room, how can it possibly keep me in here?” He asked, genuinely puzzled.

“Well… what ya don’t know is that there’s a lovely lil’ machine outside that’ll activate the moment it detects this little thing within its range.”

“…And what will it do, exactly?”

“It’ll immobilise ya faster than ya can blink.” He sounded proud of the fact. “You’re welcome to try if ya like.”

“When did you have the time to design this horrible contraption?” Processing so much horrifying information at once made his guts churn, as if he was about to be sick.

“Ya were out for a while.” Dell replied nonchalantly as if it had been no trouble at all. “Speakin’ of, do ya need anythin’? Food, water?”

Joseph rubbed his temples, desperately trying to relieve his headache. “Painkillers.” He demanded.

“How ‘bout I kiss it better for ya?”

“No.” He growled, instinctively backing away on the bed.

Dell rose his hands in a faux surrender. “Alright, alright. I’ll be back in a jiff…” He left the room, leaving the door wide open to taunt him.

He carefully stepped out of bed, placing his hand against the wall to steady himself. The world spun in circles and yet more pain exploded behind his eyes. Even so, he kept going, curious to see if Dell had been bluffing. He took slow, cautious steps until he finally reached the open door. He peered out, craning his neck out ever so slightly to look outside. The grass was overgrown, with humble wildflowers hidden in the blades. A shining metal disc protruded from the ground, with a flickering red light on the top, like a watchful eye.

He dared to stick his leg out of the door to see how it would react. The red light began to flicker faster and brighter and pulled away when the hair on his leg began to stand up. It was only then that Joseph accepted the truth.

He was completely and utterly trapped.

Next Chapter

[vcnatorr]

Creeping under the door || Self-para

15th August, 2022 In which Clayton receives an important phone call

TW: terminal illness, mentions of death, rich people Notes: I need everyone to go on youtube and look up how Lord Grantham says ‘mama’ in Downton Abbey bc u will need it for reference for this para

Clayton could count on one hand the number of times he had received a telephone call from his mother. He was never one to call her, either, not after the first time he’d spoken to her over the telephone. Back when he had first gone off to boarding school and had been sick with missing home, huddling down under the covers of his dormitory bed and refusing to get out until he spoke to his mother. Octavia had told him to pull himself together and get on with it; lying around in bed wasn’t going to help him feel any better and he wasn’t coming home so he might as well go to school and do his studies and it might just take his mind off it. She had hung up before he could get a word in, and Clayton, all of six years old had thought to himself, well. I’m never doing that again.

To his knowledge, his mother didn’t even have his office phone number. He was obliged to give her his new address and landline when he moved, of course, but he had never given her his mobile number, nor his office phone. He never could’ve reasonably expected his mother’s voice on the other end of the line when the phone on his desk rang - but there it was, as clear and snippy as ever, when he answered the phone with a curt, “Sheriff Clayton.”

“You’re playing policeman now?”

Clayton blinked, frowning at the wall in front of his desk. He pushed his desk chair along a little to look out of the window on his office door; his secretary, who had been watching him with furrowed brow, looked quickly back at her computer.

“Mama,” He said cheerily, getting up from his desk to push the door shut. The coiled wire stretched, threatening to knock over his coffee mug before he carefully retreated from the door. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Your father is very ill,” Octavia said simply, never one to mince her words. “I think you should come home.”

Clayton sat down heavily in his chair. He frowned down at his desk, feeling like he was being scolded for something despite not knowing what he’d done.

“How ill?”

“William.”

“What?” Clayton sighed, spinning in his chair just a little. He always felt restless when he was talking to his mother, itching to get out from under her piercing gaze even when she wasn’t in the room with him. He could feel it now, down the phone, Medusa slowly turning him to stone through the landline. “He’s an old man, mama. Old men get ill. If you drag me all the way back to the estate for a cold--”

“It’s not a cold.” Silence at the other end. She was debating whether or not to tell him, he supposed. She’d better, though - he wasn’t going to just leave Swynlake without a decent explanation. “Come home.”

He resisted the urge to sigh - his mother had never been one to lay all her cards on the table.

“You said it yourself, mama, I’m playing policeman now. I can’t just drop everything I’ve got a job. Responsibility--”

“Come home, William. I’m telling you, not asking.”

He debated arguing further, chewing his lip. This time he didn’t resist; he sighed softly. He hadn’t won an argument with his mother in 50 years, he probably wasn’t going to win this one. When Octavia wanted something, she tended to get it. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“You had better.” Came the reply. The line went dead, the tone ringing in his ear. Slowly, Clayton set the receiver down, and walked to his office window.

His father dying meant one thing, as far as he was concerned: he was about to get his inheritance. Which would be fine if it was just enough cash to piss away before he eventually dropped dead himself in some casino or brothel or yacht somewhere, but it was far more than that. The estate required work. It required effort. Two things that Clayton absolutely despised.

And he didn’t have the headstart his father had: namely, a wife. Clayton’s mother was domineering and oppressive at the best of times which meant she was perfect to run a grand house like Islip. Clayton was not going to be good at running such a house. He didn’t have the experience, the current staff all hated him, and more importantly, he couldn’t have cared less.

So something was going to need to be done, he supposed. Between now and his father dying, whenever that would be. Soon, presumably, because Octavia was many things but she had never been one to worry unnecessarily. He would have to move quickly, then. 

He wasn’t going home, that was for certain. He had to do something he had resisted doing for the last thirty years of his life:

He was going to have to find a wife. 

[astroaries98]

This is very different to anything I’ve written before, it’s a character study for a modern/muggle au idea I have which would follow the reconnection of the Black siblings after the death of Walburga. It will probably never see the light of day. Includes my OC Celeste Black

TW: drugs, swearing, withdrawal

*Where are you?*

Celeste ignored the notification, adding it to the pile of unopened text messages that had been coming through all morning. She let her head drop back on to the headrest of her seat and closed her eyes while she took a deep breath in, her knee jittered up and down.

“Are you alright Miss?” her driver asked.

She opened her eyes and caught his worried gaze looking back at her in the mirror.

“hum hum” she replied nodding her head breathing out slowly.

Her phone buzzed again and she put in face down on the seat next to her. She turned to look out the window as the car stopped at a red light and Celeste instantly recognised where they were.

Fuck it.

“Actually, Percy...I don’t think I am, any chance we can pull over?” She asked as she chewed on her lip, her fingers twisting in one another.

Her driver sighed and looked back at her, a whisper of disappointment crossed his face before it was replaced with concern. “Miss, I promised your brothers I’d take you straight there we are already running an hour late and I don’t think it’s fair to keep em’ waiting do you?”

Celeste could feel her chest moving quickly, her heart felt like a drum. Her eyes darted between the traffic lights and her door handle. Percy was still looking back and didn’t see the change in the lights. Celeste grabbed at her opportunity, she whipped off her belt and dashed out the car. She ran down the familiar alley and didn’t look back leaving the car door open and her phone behind.

She ran until she knew Percy wouldn’t be able to find her. She lent against a brick wall panting, her whole head spinning, her chest still beating hard. She let herself slip down till she was sat on the floor, knees against her chest. She closed her eyes and counted to ten, trying to regulate her breathing.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” The voice was harsh but with a glimmer of amusement.

Celeste snapped open her eyes and saw the boy in front of her. “B…Barty” she whispered.

Barty Crouch had a wicked smile across his face. His dark hair stuck out from under a black hoodie, he was wearing baggy black jeans that had a sliver chain from the belt loop into his pocket, it matched the one around his neck and the stud in his eyebrow.

Celeste opened her mouth to speak but nothing came out, she threw her hands to her face trying to stop herself from crying.

“hey...hey, Ce it’s okay, I didn’t mean to scare ya” He sat down beside her and took out a packet of fags putting one in his mouth, he nudged her and held up the packet to offer one. Celeste shook her head and Barty shrugged as he lit his.

He took one long draw, letting the smoke slowly curl around his lips as he exhaled. “What are you doing here Ce? It’s dangerous, you of all people can’t just run around these streets, what if someone else found ya? They’d take you for ransom.” He slightly scolded.

Celeste took the cigarette from Barty’s fingers, her hands were shaking as she took it up to her lips.

“I knew where I was going” Her gaze looked forward but she gestured up with her head.

Barty followed the gesture to the pair of dark green converse tied over a telephone wire above, they had been decorated with sharpie doodles of skulls, stars and roses. Barty exhaled a laugh and shook his head. “Gonna have to change my signage aint I?”

A small smile crossed Celeste lips but it quickly vanished as she looked over to Barty. “I’ve tried you know? I really have, but I don’t think I can do it anymore, maybe just a little bump, just half a pill? Anything please, anything...”

Barty sighed and looked at Celeste. “Celeste no, I’ve made promises and so have you. You have done so well, you have worked so hard don’t throw it away now” He took her face between his hands and looked intensely at her.

Celeste shook free and jumped back. Anger filling her eyes, her mouth falling into a frown. “Why is it just me that has to do this? Why do you get to carry on, nothing changed for you.” She shouted.

Barty took a deep breath but it didn’t stop his frustrating from growing. “Because I don’t have the future you have, I don’t get the outs, the fifth and sixth bloody changes you get...because I know when to stop.” Instant regret crossed his face he opened his mouth to speak but Celeste cut him off jabbing her finger into his chest.

“Fuck you, fuck you Barty... you did this to me, it was you.” Celeste couldn’t control herself now, tears ran down her cheeks.

Barty clamped his lips together and pulled Celeste in close, hugging her tight. He rested his chin on her head and screwed his eyes tight. “I know I did.”

“You have ruined my life” Celeste sobbed into Barty’s chest, surrendering herself to the embrace.

“I know I have.” Barty replied sadly. “I know”.

[olivia-soffey-author]

Painting The San Diego Sky

The San Diego sky is beautiful tonight. Vibrant hues of tangerine melt into a deep shade of magenta over the San Diego Skyline. I peered through a crack in the door to the back porch as I intently studied my new foster mom. Her dark brown skin glowed in the rays of the sun. She carefully spread oil paint across the canvas with a pallet knife while humming a happy tune to herself.

When you're a foster teen, you cycle through a lot of moms, but I've never met anyone quite like her before. Her name is Penelope Kingston. I don't know what kind of job she has, but she wears a pink suit every single day. She owns one in every shade from blush to cerise. Some were covered in various prints and patterns while others were plain. Her closet looked more like it belonged to a Barbie doll than it did a person. Tonight, she was wearing a rose-colored sundress, and she'd woven a flower crown of fresh carnations into her boho braids. She joyously danced along to the tune in her head as she added more color. I've never met someone who is so unabashedly themselves before. I wonder how it feels not to care what anyone thinks of you.

During my deep contemplation, Penelope caught sight of me spying and beckoned me outside. I trudged outside with a guilty expression, resembling that of a puppy that had been caught chewing on its owner's shoes.

She giggled. "Don't look at me like that, Fierro. You're not in trouble."

The corners of my lips turned upward in a half smile.

She proudly showed off her painting. "What do you think?"

"It's pretty," I said honestly. The painting was a vibrant interpretation of the sun setting over the San Diego skyline.

She stroked her chin thoughtfully. "You're right. It is pretty, but it's missing something." She handed me a fine-tipped paintbrush. "Here, add something."

I shook my head and tried to give the brush back to her. "No way, I can't do that. I'll probably do it all wrong and ruin your artwork."

"There's no wrong way to express yourself creatively," She chided. "Besides I have plenty more paintings."

I hesitantly dipped the tip of my brush into brown paint and added two small birds sitting on a telephone wire.

"It's perfect!" She squealed, pulling me into a tight hug. "You've got a real artistic eye."

"I barely did anything."

"That's alright! Everyone's artistic journey starts somewhere." She reached behind her easel and pulled out a blank mixed-media sketchbook. "Here

"You can ask me anything."

"Why do you wear your hair like that? What's the point of all the flowers?"

She paused for a long moment. "Well, how did you pick your current hairstyle?”

I ran a hand over my buzz cut. "I don't know. I've never really thought about it before. I guess it's because it's easier to take care of, and I'm less likely to get lice in a group home."

"Does your appearance make you feel confident?"

I gave an indifferent shrug.

"For me, my look is about more than convenience. It's about self-expression. My hair makes me feel like me, you know?"

"I don't think I know who I am," I confessed.

Well then, we need to help you find yourself.

In the following weeks, I took Penelope's sketchbook with me to school and tried to draw some random objects I saw. So far, I had drawn a pen, a service dog, a basketball, a 3-D model of the human brain, and a bag of chips stuck in the vending machine. They all looked terrible. The lines were all wonky, the depth was all wrong. Oh well, I tried. I tucked the sketchbook in the back corner of my closet. In other news, I started growing my hair out. I couldn't stop thinking about my conversation with Penelope. Did I feel confident in my own skin? Should I? I didn't have answers to those questions, but a change of style couldn't hurt. Right now, my hair is spiked up in several different directions. It was still too short to properly style, so I was stuck looking like a chicken for the time being. Did I feel more like myself? Maybe. I don't know what myself is supposed to feel like. When you spend your entire life just trying to survive, you don't always have the time to discover yourself.

On the last Saturday in May, I came downstairs to find Penelope eagerly waiting for me. "Put your shoes on. We're going on an adventure." She threw a tote bag at me, which I caught in midair. I peeked inside to find it full of art supplies. "Your sketchbook has been collecting dust for too long. Let's fill it up today!"

"But I'm not any good at drawing. I don't think I'm meant to be making art."

"Don't be ridiculous. All expression is art and expression is for everyone," She insisted. "The most important question is, do you have fun when you're creating?"

I thought about it for a long time, then said. "I had fun painting with you on the patio."

"Perfect! Let's make something together!" She led me to her strawberry-pink Mercedes and hopped in. "Alright Fierro, if you don't like art what kind of things do you like to do?"

"Napping," I said without hesitation.

She laughed. "Okay, what else?"

"I like to go for walks."

"Great! What do you enjoy about the walks?"

"I guess I enjoy being outside in the fresh air and watching the birds."

"Buckle up, I know exactly where we're going."

We drove in silence for several minutes. I could tell the lack of conversation was killing her, but I was too shy to say anything. Eventually, she couldn't bear it any longer and spoke up, "So I've been thinking, we should decorate your room. It's so empty and depressing right now."

To her, my room probably looked like a barren wasteland. In comparison to the rest of the house, it was pretty desolate. Penelope's home was a lot like her. It was filled with color and personality, and decorated with love. Every room was themed after a different color of the rainbow and adorned with vibrant floral wallpaper and an eclectic collection of up-cycled furniture. Every surface was littered with trinkets and knick-knacks. The word Minimalism was not in her vocabulary. My room was the opposite of hers, it was completely bare apart from a twin-sized bed and an old trash bag filled with my humble belongings. "No, thank you. I want to keep it the way it is. It will be easier to pack up when I have to leave." I stared blankly out the window, so I wouldn't have to make eye contact with her as I spoke.

"Fierro," she whispered with so much sadness in her voice it broke my heart. "You know I care about you, right?"

I nodded.

"I know it will be hard for you to ever feel fully at home somewhere, but I want you to know I don't have any plans to get rid of you. So you can relax, alright?"

"Alright," I said, just to appease her. I'd heard that one before and I know how it ends. If I know one thing for sure, It's that parents never stay. Even if Penelope is telling the truth, and she won't transfer me to another home, I'm still sixteen rapidly approaching eighteen. Once I age out of the system I’ll be all on my own. If I let myself love her, I don't think I'll be able to live with the pain of letting her go.

We pulled into the parking lot and I read the large green sign. San Diego Zoo.

Woah, isn't this place crazy expensive?" I remarked. I can't afford this. My bank account has negative ten dollars in it!"

She placed a comforting hand on my shoulder. "Chillax. This is my treat. You need to learn to let lose a little bit."

We purchased our tickets and entered the park. I glanced at Penelope expectantly as she studied the map. "Where are we going first?"

"That's up to you. Where is your artist's intuition leading you?"

I pointed to the aviaries on the map.

She beamed. "Excellent choice."

We stepped into the elegant glass dome and the birds erupted into a cacophony of chirps and caws to welcome us to their habitat. First, I tried to sketch the hummingbirds, but they moved too fast for me to capture their likeness. I opted to try drawing the peacock instead. His slow strides and lack of flight made him the perfect model. I crouched down to his level while being careful not to touch the feces-covered ground. I took out my sketchbook and a pencil and Penelope did the same. I was unsure where to begin, so I glanced at her page for inspiration.

He noticed my wandering gaze and decided to assist me. "Let's start with simple shapes. What basic shapes can you identify?"

"The body kind of looks like an oval, and the neck is sort of S-shaped like a snake. The head is round, but pointy at the same time, like a teardrop," I observed.

"You have a great eye! Now, etch those shapes onto the page as lightly as you can and darken them once you're satisfied with the way it looks."

I followed her instructions, and soon I had a basic sketch of the body head, and neck that looked halfway decent.

“Let’s start working on those feathers. Start with the largest ones at the base of the tail and work your way to the smaller ones at the tip.”

I sketched the long curved shapes and tried to mimic the pattern to the best of my abilities. I also added the legs and feet along with some details on the face. I flipped the sketch around, so the peacock could view it. He pecked it and then let out a squawk of approval.

Penelope began coloring in her sketch with an indigo pencil.

I carefully mirrored her light strokes. “How do you make the colors look so vibrant?”

“Try blending different colors, start with the lightest hue, and fade into the darkest shade.”

For the next hour, my focus was zeroed in on the drawing. I seamlessly blended shades of indigo, midnight blue, cerulean, turquoise, lime, gold, and emerald until I was satisfied with the results. I wiped the sweat off my brow and rushed over to Penelope to show off my work.

She let out a delighted gasp and pulled me into a tight hug. “Fierro! It’s beautiful! You should be so proud of yourself!”

An overwhelming sense of warmth flared in my chest. Is this what little kids feel like when their parents hang their artwork on the fridge? I wouldn’t know. For the brief time, I knew my birth parents; they weren’t the type to show any approval or support for my accomplishments. They claimed they were too busy for coddling. Somehow they always found the time to tell me I was worthless and would never amount to anything. I shook my head to wake myself from the terrible memories. It didn’t matter what was said in the past. They were dead to me. I swallowed the lump in my throat and said, “Thank you, Penelope. Your kindness means a lot to me.”

We spent the rest of our time at the zoo in the aviaries sketching the different birds. By the end of the day, I had drawn a toucan, a macaw, a lovebird, an African pygmy goose, and a flamingo. With every sketch, my skills improved. Every new drawing looked slightly more accurate than the last. We worked on our sketches until the zookeepers came to kick us out at closing time.

On our way back to the car I apologized for using up all of our time in the aviary.

Penelope waved her hand dismissively. “Never apologize for being in a creative state of flow.”

When we got home I taped all of my artwork to the wall above my bed in a noticeable place for everyone to admire.

In the following weeks, school let out for the summer and I spent my days sleeping in and going for long walks around the city, doodling the sights whenever I felt inspired. I got a summer job hauling bags of food at the pet store. It was grueling work, but I enjoyed visiting the animals every day. Penelope and I started hosting Mario Kart tournaments in our condo every Tuesday night. Don’t be fooled by Penelope’s kind demeanor; she is one of the fiercest competitors I’ve ever met. She doesn’t just want to win, she seeks to obliterate the competition. Lucky for me, I am also a merciless force of nature when I’m on the racetrack. In the group homes where I grew up, the Wii was my foster parents’ favorite tool for keeping the kids busy and out of trouble. I was the master of every game they had. It got to the point where none of the other children would play with me because they were too afraid of my awesomeness. Penelope was not intimidated by my skills. Our tournaments typically ended with us throwing all of our shells at each other until there was only one person left standing. She won some races, I almost won others. Someday I was finally going to win, then her reign of terror would finally be over. As time passed by I felt myself changing. After every day I spent with Penelope, I became a little less shy and I felt more secure. I found myself smiling and laughing a lot more than I ever did before. My hair now reached my eyebrow and was finally long enough to tame. It took some practice to find a style that looked good on me, but once I did I seemed to get compliments everywhere I went.

“It looks like you’re becoming a local heartthrob, Fierro,” Penelope teased.

I would act humble, but deep down I loved the rush of satisfaction that came with being noticed. That June and July had been the happiest time of my life. It was the closest I’d ever come to being a normal kid. When August rolled around things took a turn for the worst.

It started late one night as I was dragging the trash out to the dumpster. Even after dark, the California heat was brutal and unforgiving. The sweltering humidity further exacerbated the foul odors emanating from the dumpster. When I went to open the lid, I spotted a flier for a community art gallery. I knew Penelope would love that, so I reached down to pick it up. Before I had the chance to grab it, someone else picked it up.

He let out a scoff and read it aloud. “We invite all members of the community to showcase their artistic talents in our free open community art gallery. Whether you're a seasoned artist or just starting, we want to see your interpretation of landscapes with emotions. All types of paintings, from oils to watercolors, acrylics to pastels, are welcome. We want to celebrate the diversity of our community and the richness of its artistic expression.” He crumpled up the flier and threw it at me. “Is this the kind of garbage you’re into now? Are you the kind of guy who paints his feelings? I thought I raised you to be tougher than that.”

I looked up to see my father standing in front of me with a belittling expression on his face. My heart pounded so violently, I thought I might be having a heart attack. “What the hell are you doing here? You’re supposed to be doing four more years. Please tell me you didn’t break out!”

“Don’t be absurd. They let me out early, on good behavior. I tried to call you, but you didn’t answer. You left me no choice but to track you down.”

After my mother died, my father was granted custody of me. He didn’t know the first thing about raising children, and he barely had enough money to take care of himself, much less a child. This led him to take part in a major money laundering scheme, so he could afford to send me to daycare. Everything was going fine until the FBI caught wind of what he was doing, and sent him to prison. That’s how I ended up in foster care. He was supposed to be in the middle of a fifteen-year sentence, but it appears that is no longer the case.

I crossed my arms and tried to act tough. “What do you want from me?”

He leaned against the dumpster and lit a cigar. “I want to see my son. Is that too much to ask? I haven’t seen you in ages.”

I’d done my best to stay as far away from him as I could. I hadn’t seen him since my social worker stopped forcing me to go to visitations. She noticed how miserable the visits made me and chose to spare me the pain.

My father scanned me up and down appraisingly. “You’ve gotten fat,” he remarked, his voice laced with disdain.

I had put on some weight since he’d seen me last. My ribs no longer protruded from malnourishment and neglect. My shoulders grew broader and my arms became thicker. I was no longer the fragile wisp of a child he could bully and demean however he felt like. Every pound I had gained was a blessing because it meant I was no longer starving. “My weight is none of your business. I’m not having this conversation with you.”

“It was just an observation. You need to learn how to accept criticism. You’ll never get anywhere in life if you keep being so sensitive.”

"It's better to be sensitive than a convicted felon."

“Don’t disrespect me!”

“Or what? You’ll hit me like you used to?”

He took a step forward, his cigar smoke wafting into my face. "You have no idea what you're talking about."

"I know exactly what I'm talking about. I remember every time you hit me, every time you belittled me, and made me feel worthless."

He looked away, a hint of shame flickering across his face. "I was a different person back then. I'm trying to fix things right now."

I scoffed. “Is that why you came here? To deliver a half-assed apology.”

He hesitated. “Not, entirely. I need to ask you for something.”

“What?” I said through clenched teeth, losing all patience for the good-for-nothing deadbeat I call dad.

“Listen, I need to borrow some money.”

I let out a laugh so loud I startled myself. “You’re delusional. What on earth makes you think I would ever give you a single cent?”

He took a long drag of his cigar and released it in a pungent cloud of smoke. “My girlfriend is pregnant, and we can’t afford to pay her medical bills. We have nothing, Fierro. I wouldn't be asking if it wasn’t desperate.”

“Is the baby yours?” Was my dad having another child? He couldn’t even care for the one he had! I threw my hands up in the air. “You know what? I don’t care! You abandoned me, and then you have the audacity to track me down and beg for money!”

He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out.

“I never want to speak to you again!”

“Son.” He took a step forward toward me.

“Didn’t you hear me the first time? Get out!” I threw an empty soda can at him.

He raised his hands in surrender and began walking away. He didn’t say a word, but he turned back to look at me one last time.

“If I ever see you snooping around here again, I’ll file a restraining order! Do you hear me?” I screamed into the darkness, but it was no use. He was already gone.

I didn't tell Penelope about the confrontation with my father, but she could sense that I was quieter than usual. She didn’t force me to share, and I appreciated that. I didn’t want to talk about it. A feeling of guilt clawed at my gut. Maybe I should have given my dad some money. It’s not the baby’s fault my dad is a deadbeat and a dirtbag.

I tried my best to forget all about my father and the conversation we’d had. I was doing a decent job at ignoring his existence until I got the phone call that changed everything. It happened in the middle of the night. I was too hot to sleep, so I sat at my desk making a watercolor painting of the night sky. Then my phone rang, startling me out of my deep concentration. I picked up my phone to see who was calling me at such an ungodly hour of the night. It was my social worker, Mindy. I felt a rising wave of anxiety in the pit of my stomach. It was uncharacteristic of her to call me so late. I knew something was wrong. My entire body trembled as I pressed the answer button. “Hey, Mindy. What’s going on?”

“Hello, Fierro. I’m sorry to call you this late, but I have some upsetting news to share with you.”

My heart pounded violently in a fast rhythm. I suddenly felt like I was going to vomit. Was I going to have to move again? “What’s going on?”

“It’s about your father. He was run over by a drunk driver earlier tonight. He died on the way to the hospital. I’m so sorry.”

My entire body went numb. I had no idea how I was expected to respond to this information, so I said, “Thank you for telling me.”

“I’m going to speak with your foster mom to make sure you’re receiving proper support during this difficult time. Please let me know if there’s anything I can do for you.”

“Thanks. Have a good night.”

“Fierro, wait!”

I hung up on her. I didn’t want to talk. I needed to be alone with my thoughts for a while. As terrible as it sounds, the first emotion I felt was a relief. I wasn’t being taken away from Penelope. I could stay here with her, but at what cost? My father was dead and one of the last things I ever said was, “I never want to see you again.” I sat alone in silence, waiting to feel some overwhelming sense of grief or guilt, or any emotion at all, but deep down I felt nothing. Inside I just felt hollow. I expected Mindy to call back and scold me for hanging up on her, but she never did. Once I got tired of blankly staring at my bedroom ceiling, I tiptoed downstairs for a change of scenery.

Penelope stood at the kitchen counter stirring a mug of coffee with a far-off look in her eyes. Once she heard me enter the kitchen, she rushed over and pulled me into the warmest of hugs. Tears dripped from her eyes as she held me close. “Fierro, Mindy told me the news. I’m so sorry. I know how you must be feeling right now.

She didn’t have a clue how I was feeling. I barely knew how I felt. Whatever emotion it was certainly wasn’t sorrow. She seemed more upset about the loss than I was at the moment. And yet, after about a minute of silence, something overcame me. I hugged her back and let the tears fill my eyes. I wasn’t crying for my father. I was crying for myself. I cried for my past self, the lonely child whose father was never there. I cried for my present self, who only wanted to be loved. I cried for my future self, who would never have the chance to make things right.

Penelope stroked my hair as I sobbed into her shoulder. “You’re going to be okay. I’m here. I got you.”

I stayed in my room for several days only coming out for occasional meals. I wasn’t hungry most of the time. I took the week off from work. told my boss I’d be going out of town for the funeral. That was a lie, I had no intention of going to the funeral. I’d already missed the wake. It felt disrespectful to go see him after the way I ended things. I rolled over in bed and stared at the exotic bird calendar Penelope had bought for me. Today was August 5th, the day I’d been dreading. Not only was it the day of my father’s funeral, but it was also my seventeenth birthday. Happy birthday to me, I guess. I used all my willpower to drag myself out of bed and down the stairs.

When I came downstairs I was greeted with a stack of pancakes with a birthday candle sticking out of it. The words happy birthday were spelled out in maple syrup. I guess Penelope remembered what day it was. She'd gone out with friends last night. I had hoped she would sleep in and forget all about it. I had to practically push her out the door last night, so I could cry myself to sleep in peace.

Penelope sat in the chair directly across from me and gave a comforting reassuring smile. Happy birthday, sweetheart.”

I forced a smile in return. “You remembered.”

“I would never forget it.”

Of course she wouldn’t, she was too good of a mom to ever let it slip from her memory.

She gently rubbed my wrist. “Listen, I’m not going to force you to go anywhere or do anything today, but if there is something you’d like to do, let me know, and I’ll make it happen.”

I stared down at my plate of pancakes. “I’m not really in the mood to do anything special.”

She gave an understanding nod. "Alright, how about a walk?"

"Just a walk? No surprises?"

"No surprises," She promised.

After breakfast, we slipped on our shoes and began our walk to the pier. The weather was perfect. The sky was a brilliant shade of baby blue that stretched as far as the eye could see, not a single cloud could be spotted along the horizon. Warm rays of golden sunlight illuminated the city in a warm glow. I cursed the sky for being so blue. How could everything be so beautiful on the day my father is going to be buried? Locals walked their dogs and tourists took selfies by the waterfront. Isn’t it cruel how life goes on like nothing happened after you’ve lost everything? I stood at the end of the pier and watched as a father lifted his young son onto his shoulders so he could enjoy the ocean view. I averted my gaze and stared out at the still waters instead. It felt like the universe was giving me a colossal middle finger for ever believing I could’ve had a father like that.

“Do you mind if we stop for a moment?” Penelope asked.

“That’s fine,” I said as I gazed vacantly at the tranquil turquoise waters.

She sat on a wooden bench and pulled out her sketchbook along with a set of oil pastels. She motioned for me to sit next to her as she began sketching.

She ripped out a blank page and handed it to me without saying a word.

I glanced between the empty page and the peaceful sea. I wasn’t in the mood to draw it as it was. I felt wrong to draw such a happy sight on a day like today. Instead, I chose the darkest, murkiest shades of gray, green, and navy. With harsh, powerful strokes I drew fierce powerful tidal waves crashing into sharp, jagged rocks beneath a blackened sky. Using the white pastel I added fragmented bolts of lightning tearing through the sky. I focused all the anger and heartbreak I felt toward my father and directed it into the piece. Once the drawing was completed I let out an exhausted breath. I felt like I had just fought a war.

Penelope glanced over at my work. She didn’t say anything, but she gave me an approving nod. We spent the rest of our time together enjoying each other's company in silence until we began our walk home. Penelope finally broke the silence as we walked past the cemetery. “Do you mind if we stop for a moment?”

I eyed her wearily, but I didn’t argue. I didn’t know what to expect when she led me deep into the cemetery. I feared maybe she’d force me to attend my father’s burial, but instead, she led me to a joint tombstone that read, Jeffrey and Maria Kingston. Loving Mother and Father. Penelope set down a drawing of a dark-skinned little girl being held in a loving embrace by her parents on top of the grave. She shed a single tear and then continued our walk home as if nothing had happened.

“You’re an orphan,” I said. It wasn’t a question, it was an observation.

She nodded. “I am. My father was a soldier. He gave his life in the line of duty. My mother died of cancer not long after. I grew up in foster care just like you. I never had anyone to care for me. That’s why I became a foster mom; so I could make sure another orphan could have a better life than I did.”

Hearing her story made me view Penelope in a new light. I always believed her joy and kindness came from a place of naivety. I thought she was happy because she didn’t know what it was like to suffer, but I was wrong. She understood pain more intimately than most people do and she chose to be happy despite everything she’d been through. “Thank you for giving me a chance. I can hardly remember what my mother was like, but if I did have a mom I would want her to be exactly like you.”

“You don’t need to thank me. It’s been an honor to call you my son.”

As we walked back to her house, I couldn't help but think about the drawing she had left on her parents' grave. It was a powerful reminder of the love and connection that existed between families, even when they were separated by death. And it made me realize that, in some small way, I had found a new family with Penelope.

When we got home, Peneolpe set the crumpled flyer for the community gallery on the table. Without any preamble, she said, “I think you should submit one of your pieces to the gallery.”

“Me? No. I brought that flyer home for you. I’m not any good.”

“You don’t need to be modest. I’ve seen your recent work. You’re very talented. Besides, this gallery is open for everyone, you don’t have to be a pro to submit.”

“I’ll think about it.”

She smiled. “That’s all I ask.”

For the fifth night in a row, I couldn’t sleep. So I dug through my portfolio for something worthy of being displayed in a gallery. My eyes caught on the drawing of the stormy sea I made today. Plenty of my drawings were pretty, but one was meaningful. It was infused with all of the grief, anger, and sorrow, I was experiencing, and that made it significant. At that moment, I decided this was the piece I needed to submit to the gallery.

Over the next few days, I worked on the drawing, refining and perfecting it until it felt like a true representation of everything I was feeling. Finally, I mustered up the courage to submit it to the community gallery, feeling a mix of excitement and nervousness. A few weeks went by, and I received an email that left me ecstatic - my piece had been accepted for the gallery exhibition. I couldn't believe it. On the day of the exhibition, I arrived early, dressed in my best clothes, my heart pounding with anticipation. As I walked through the gallery, I saw my drawing on display alongside other beautiful pieces of art. It was a surreal moment, one that I had never imagined possible. I looked around and saw Penelope beaming at me from across the room, her eyes full of pride. For the first time in a long time, I felt like I had accomplished something truly meaningful.

I looked at the empty spot by my beside my painting where my father could have been standing in another life If things were different. If he were a better father, a better man. Now the thought of him didn’t fill me with the same level of rage and sorrow like it used to, and that was a start. I wasn’t plagued with the same sense of hopelessness I used to feel because I knew Penelope would never abandon me like he did.

A professional-looking man, wearing a sharp business suit and designer glasses stopped in front of my painting to carefully appraise it. He stared at it for a long time, not saying a word or showing any kind of emotion.

“Is it any good?” I asked nervously, unsure of how to react when someone scrutinizes your artwork.

“Did you make this?” He asked.

I nodded.

“You know, I see a dozen paintings of the pier a day. They all want to paint the pretty scenery. Yours is special, It’s not just pretty I can tell there’s a deeper meaning buried in here. I’d like to buy it.”

I raised my eyebrows in surprise. “You really want to buy it?”

“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t mean it. You’ve got a bright future, kid,”

I smiled at Penelope and for once I believed that was true.

[unseenlife]

The Hours Machine

Swarrel made the hours. He fashioned them in the engine room of a metal ship that had crashed into the docks, where he kept a desk, a cot and a machine like a typewriter. He fed thick paper through the machine and it gave him a punch card, which was then placed into a hideous wall of wires and steam pipes and valves in a sparse office across town and from this he made hours for a world that had since run out. He was unpaid and threatened to quit but no one else knew the job. It was an old system, once used for a different purpose and was not an art but a trade like butchery. He hoped it would make him rich. Fat chance, he though, sucking his pipe and typing out the shape and meaning of another hour. Dings and bangs and groans echoed between the massive, still engines, shifting metal in dark corners.

Swarrel finished an hour, pulled it fresh from the machine, drove over broken glass and torn up roads, put his card in the wall and was back for lunch by midnight. He chewed cod and liver around his pipe and stared at the machine on the table and thought there was nothing to be done about it and made his decision. For an hour he flipped dials on telephones scattered throughout the husk until a phone in an officer's quarters yielded a tone. So Hell had been here, then. He called the ship's guts using a moth eaten directory and another phone rang.

Deep in the abyss of rust and moaning metal Hell andswerd, their hand guided by a single flashing emergency light above the receiver. Hell said nothing but Swarrel heard them breathing. Hell suspended from a wire in a tight chasm of wiring, toiling with the ship. Swarrel made the hours and Hell made their meals and revived the ship with nothing to go on but half a manual. Why Hell did it Swarrel never knew and Hell never told him. So far the two phones and a few lamps were the sum of Hell's work.

Speak your piece, said Hell.

Get up here, he said and hung up.

Hell sighed, pulling off goggles fogged by sweat and looked up and took the first hand hold of a long upward climb. When they reached the engine room Swarrel hunched at his desk, silent and obsorbed and said nothing so Hell lounged atop a huge cold pipe that felt good on their soaked skin and sorted polaroids. Hell stretched in their scant clothes, showing midriff and leg. Swarrel admired the slim musculature, drenched in sweat and dirt and without passion made a few more hours.

I found a new park today, said Hell, approaching with the photos. Near the store. I took pictures.

Hell had plenty of time for these things. Because they wanted for nothing finding work proved impossible so they scratched by in the ship eating sea monsters. If they could hold down no more rubbery meat they hooked birds on lines and roasted them in the kitchens where they first met the hours man. He didn't like to work in the office and moved in without asking and Hell didn't care. This was not bad living for either. Swarrel typed and smoked and pulled a card from the machine and studied it a long time and stuffed it into a ratty briefcase.

Fat chance, he said, but I think that's done it.

I found a new park today. You hear me?

I always hear you. There's no concept of gravity in you so you keep talking.

Hell planted the stack of black and white photos on the desk. Swarrel sorted them, which were mostly of fog and horrendous figures just out of frame.

Excellent. Just expetional work.

Hell snatched them back. It's not an art exhibit. I was bored, you prick. Are you done?

I'm done. Didn't you notice? Do you ever notice anything?

I like you to suffer. It turns me on.

No one cares what turns you on. No one cares what I do or about my work.

I do and it's obviously getting to you.

I send a letter every week.

To who?

The office.

Maybe they didn't get them. Offices close. You think of that? Hell lifted a leg and planted it on his desk and Swarrel swiped it off.

I'll think of something. Always do.

What do you think of?

Hmm?

You know what I mean.

I think of you sometimes.

You're full of it. Do you want to know about your surprise?

Hadn't crossed my mind.

What do you want? I'm going back to work.

Hold on a minute.

Not long after Hell scrounged on hands and knees searching the bedroll and under the desk for little pieces of the hours machine. They handed up a twisty glass tube between Swarrel's legs who sat at the desk and worked on the machine. Well, any good?

You tell me.

Dunno, said Hell, pulling themselves up. Seems like a problem.

It's a problem.

What'll you do?

Look for parts at the office.

You're going all the way there?

Damn straight.

You'll find them.

I really doubt it.

Take the car.

Think I'll walk. It's nice out.

When will you get back?

There's eleven hours there in the case. It's plenty of time for me but maybe not for you. Or anyone else. If I can't find the parts or decide I've quit while walking there's nothing for it.

You quit every day and we're still here. You'd miss too much.

Only these actually, and he stroked a finger down the muscles on Hell's stomach. Hell batted his hand.

I'm scared.

Scared?

Of the hours running out.

Swarrel nodded, remembering about the hours. Oh. Well that would be a thing to worry over.

And you're quitting this time.

Swarrel raised the pipe to his lips as if tosmoke but couldn't open his mouth. The pipe lingered and he stood and his eyes were on the floor. He shook his head.

It's hard to say. The parts. Lots of boxes to search.

Hell took his favorite mug and tossed it with such force it chipped paint from one of the engines. Swarrel flinched at the sharp crash and watched Hell shrink down a long rusted hallway.

Hell really truly decided he wouldn't come back while ramming mascara on in a cracked mirror. Their stomach tightened and they vomited into the sink's remains. Eleven hours and counting. It was fair and it made Hell feel worse. No one asked him to work, no one paid him, no one forced him. Little compelled him. Hell thought they compelled him but after they knocked down the machine they weren't sure anymore. Everything was so simple and routine and guarded on that ship. It all fit so well together. Aimless, thoughtless, sexless, genius Hell and the hours man. His surprise churned away below the waterline. Hell might have mentiioned it before he left but Swarrel might have marched right down there and got himself killed or ran instead of walked from the ship. They had to make the way safe, had to make sure it worked, had to be sure and be sure of being sure before telling him. And it was too late.

Hell crossed the massive deck and climbed the watchtower, all seven mangled stories and looked out over the gloom and city and salty air and wondered where he was at by now and three hours had ticked away without Hell noticing.

So they swam against a current of acid water, repelled down a tunnel of needles and fashing lights, crawled miles of hot air ducts, three times fought and nearly died to sea life that lives in cold, metal places. The control room stank of mold and rust. Blood poured from sucker wounds covering Hell all over. Their watch read seven minutes to midnight. They were shocked they made the trip with minutes remaining, having only done it once before, which had been several weeks of nightmare and suffering. You look like Hell the hours man had told her when they met. Just after the ordeal, their mind blasted, eyes wild, world shattered.

The floor rushed Hell halfway across the room and they awoke five minutes later, delerious. Hell wondered what the end looked like. No one knew what the hours running out meant, on;y that it had happened. And thank to him people forgot. A control console took Hell's weight. They heaved up and pushed their face into the keys and dials. They pressed them in no order, not bothering to raise their head. The machine was dead. They slid down and pulled a panel from under the machine. Wires and dust spilled out like innards. One minute till midnight.

Hell's eyes closed and they let it come. Little thought or worry in the last minute. Twelve o'clock and many things happened at once. A rat erupted from the console screeching bloody murder and the room heaved and some great portion of the ship rent apart and fell into the harbor. Filing cabnets toppled and all this took about two minutes past the end of the world. Their arm reached up to grasp a lever and they yanked it and pulled themself up again. Lights and oscillosopes and radars and guages blinked and figured they might as well get to work. Time faltered and failed to pass. Saltwater crept in inch by inch and Hell's wounds festered and stung. Not an hours machine, not a days machine, not even a months machine but a years machine gave its last effort. A machiune from the old old days which could never be rebuilt and never understood, even by Swarrel most likely. A slimy and hard and slippery and sharp thing pulled Hell to the ground, stung her with something and slithered from the room. Hell fashioned a spear from salvage, passing out in blood and vomit while working, awoke, limped down the hall, killed the creature and returned to the control room, having lost their mind. The machine cranked out its last few moments, left unused all this time. Cardboard paper fell out in reams. Hell watched, face blank. Their body would die on a trip back through those same horros. And yet they had to make it and so it was done. They crept up a hill of flattened skulls, pushed through worlds of collapsed engine, leaped across a moaning and windy split down the ship's middle and slinked to the car.

Hell came to behind the wheel and the car jumped a curb and crunched into the office wall. A golden sign loomed above. Hell leaned over the dashboard abd drolled and stared at the sign. The driver side door opened and they crumpled onto the pavement. Of course no one was out.

Hell trailed dirt and blood across the marble floor. The building was clean and unused and neat and the hours machine was on a desk in the back. Swarrel sat at the desk and typed and it was obvious he'd been making hours for some time. He looked almost professional, proper, his posture straaight and suit buttoned. He measured his hours against the chart, did it by the book. He didn't need to but wanted to feel the ritual of it all. He didn't smoke as he worked. He had on his glasses and was very absorbed, like a younger man first learning his craft. Hell passed him, not looking his way. Swarrel fell off his seat and skidded back from the sight of them.

Kid! Kid, fuck, look at you.

Hell fed the tattered, bloodied readout into the wall. It turned to dust as it entered. The machine lit up and a dial filled with liquid read ERROR, ZERO YEARS. So Hell sat on his stool, holding their hands over two wounds while all the rest bled and bled.

You get to talk to anyone from the office?

No, there was no one around.

Looks good in here.

I cleaned up some.

I just feel weird, and Hell collapsed.

A monitor beeped and Hell roused to their heart's easy cadence. Above, a tiled ceiling and dingy bulbs and no memory about getting there. The room was cold and sterile and dirty and cluttered. Outside the sun poked over the jagged skyline. The halls were empty and quiet. Hell founds the lobby, afraid to make noise though there was no one around. They wanted to leave so they did. The wounds seemed well enough under the bandages.

The ship, a great rent monster in the pale morning, smelling of saltwater. They waded inside. He was nowhere around. His desk and briefcase and machine were there but the feeling of him had gone. Hell's camera sat on the desk by the machine and their polaroids around it. Hell snapped photos at the park which fell from the camera and collected on the ground. They flipped them over as they developed in the light and in one of them stood the hours man, waving. But of course the park was empty. Hell dug fingertips into their skull and stared at the picture of him and didn't know where to go. They snorted and a smile broke their face and Hell felt pretty good about things just then.

But a static screech, like so many screams they'd endured in the ship, assaulted them. Two shadows, long and tall outlines reached toward her from somewhere ahead. Hell kept their head down. In their hand was the last picture taken, its face turned away. They dropped it and shut their eyes so they wouldn't see the other side. And Hell ran from the park and through the fog and down to the docks where the mammoth lay stranded on the beach, smashed by waves. The thought of entering that bored hole in the hull sickened them. They were about to toss their head back and scream when hands reached across their bare waist and the hands felt familiar.

In the park. In the park, it...

I know, said Swarrel.

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[dustednotepad]

THE REVOLUTION WILL BE SUBTWEETED

the censors have blocked all except "LOVE YOUR NATION, WORSHIP YOUR ROUTER" their subtlety has become endearing in the newspaper articles we fall asleep with screenshots burned onto the back of our eyelids, exploring our timelines even as we sleep i think of the tetris effect as i wake up again, thumb scrolling against my thigh, tapping freckles instead of likes i come to the thought of the number of engagements the livestream of my execution will get my fifteen minutes will trend via "#THEWITCHISDEAD", tacked onto sponsored Target tweets and Wendy's roasts Salem is an instruction manual, after all, spliced with doja cat and justin bieber as our overlords throw it back on tiktok we pause to leave our houses, waiting for the "SKIP" button to appear on the thirty-second health supplement ad the smart kids know to hit the info button and mark it as "REPETITIVE" the next ad will be for new shoes my lover smiles at me, and we bump our watches together, updating our heart rates to match when we fuck, they tie my wrists with charger cords and kiss me with a mouth that tastes like tin foil we livestream it and receive three thumbs down and thirty cents of ad revenue we add it to our spotify subscription fund and create another email for netflix trials another screen goes on my ceiling and now i can watch my breakdown streamed in curved 4k we figure out the blacklist is case-sensitive and only type in aLterNAtE raNdOM CaSes, mixing in greek letters and emojis to fill the gaps our next protest has instagram buffering for twenty-eight minutes straight, and we take to discord to celebrate another follower defects and dissapears, only to come back two days later with a new nose and blue hair i shave off half my eyebrow and replace it with a qr code that causes phones to vibrate and emit whale noises the bathroom walls inside of applebees are covered in protest scrawl reading "FUCK YOUR FOREFATHERS, FIND YOUR TRUTH" and we giggle and scribble "OKAY, DADDY" in loopy, lipstick letters underneath it at dawn we stay in bed, awake but unmoving, the sun rising in the corners of our eyes as we check for war and shark week updates i choke on tv static seltzers as the world ends not with a bang, but a loud voice followed by nothing but silence, nothing but bright blue light punctuated by broken code and frowny faces under the cover of dead airwaves we burn down the last of the radio towers and decorate the telephone poles like christmas trees, complete with faulty wiring and endlessly blinking lights my lover dies and i fail to fit their eulogy in 280 characters or less i write it on a green electric box anyway and post the audio to soundcloud another white boy of the month is martyred, his intestines a red smear across monument steps, and all i can think of is chewing aluminum foil between my teeth eventually, they shut off our hotspots and kill our bluetooth connections, and i can't remember how to get to the safehome i've been to a thousand times before we create a time machine and it quickly becomes a suicide box, sending ourselves back in time and dying long before we're born no one comes back, at least nothing here changes, or maybe it already had the sunsets are more colorful now, and the air we breathe tastes like cinnamon and orange juice, filtered through our gas masks another country kills itself off and i create a new pinterest board in memorium eventually, riot gear and talks of revolution fall out of style, and we fall into thrift stores and dumpsters, others in body bags and unmarked graves i set my cremation date, and they stamp it on me along with a matching bag of shredded cheese, both of us reading "USE BY" after it's over, i return home, make a pot of cold coffee, and wait for the next trend to rise

[alright-gay-two]

On hold with the dmv for 1 hour 36 minutes and 54 seconds (during this current call ((#6 since 9:30 am this morning)) where they havent hung up on me) and I'm rapidly declining. I am going to start chewing through telephone wires

[iznsfw]

Film Shooting

Part Two of Oneiric Theater

Prev. Chapter | Next Chapter

IZ*ONE's Kwon Eunbi x Male Reader Smut

Categories: a lot of angry Eunbi, face-sitting, mommy kink, thighjo- yeah, just read the whole thing to know

Also written because of inspiration from this request

Merry Christmas! Here's Oneiric Theater Part Two. Hope you guys enjoy your Christmas and this queued scheduled piece.

It has been a week after the incident and you still haven't recovered from it. Not even a good helping of your favorite food or a thirteen-hour “nap” could help you feel any better about the situation you've gotten yourself into.

You have a bad feeling that the events would stay on your mind forever.

One day, you'll be eighty years old in a retirement home peeing your pants, having traumatic flashbacks of a pretty short-haired woman with an arrogant smirk.

Couldn't she have stolen some part of those memories instead?

You grumble to yourself, head in your hands. You have never hated someone more in your life.

Your hate would have been more intense if she weren't so pretty.

Why the hell is she so pretty by the way?

You throw your head back in frustration. Doing so causes you to hit it against the wall. "Gah! Son of a bitch!" The pain dulling the back of your head is an added tree log in the fireplace of your anger.

Massage your head in your hands and try to make sense of it all. But all that comes to mind are repeated questions:

Who really is Kwon Eunbi? How did she own that theater? How could she have these little powers of looking into people's minds and rob them of their life, dreams… everything?

And most importantly, how could she have done that to you?

You, out of all people? She must be kidding! How are you of any significance to a director who makes billions off of her films? You're just a guy who wanted to watch one of them worth his while!

Seriously, Kwon Eunbi, what the hell do you want from me?

How did you get into this cycle of cat and mouse with her? You don't remember, but you suspect that that's another memory she's stolen.

You wonder if she can read your mind right now even if you are far away from the Oneiric Theater. Maybe she's in her bedroom, laughing and kicking her feet in her sheets knowing she's got you wrapped around her little finger. She could be peeking through your memories as if she were scanning folders, shocked at its contents and laughing at the others.

You just want to tear your hair out. Fuck Kwon Eunbi! Figuratively and… literally?

Well, you did do so literally. And you enjoyed every second of it.

But for god's sake, she's your enemy! She's a selfish, greedy director who doesn't care about you at all! Why do you find her so attractive?

The sound of your phone ringing interrupts your thoughts. The screen lights up to a black screen with the red and green answer buttons, an unknown number flashed above them.

Weird. Nobody ever calls you.

Click the green button and press your phone to your ear. "Hello? Who is this?"

"Hi, sweetheart. Did you miss me?"

Oh.

Anger wraps your heart in its tight fist. You don't need to ask further to know who the caller is:

"Eunbi," you say spitefully. Grind your teeth together to handle the irritation overcoming your body right now. You should have expected this. "What do you want?"

She lets out an exaggerated sigh of boredom. "You promised Mommy you'd come visit her after a week, right?" she reminds you with a sickening sweet tone. You could tell she's twisting the telephone wire between her fingers as she speaks. "Did you really forget?"

"I didn't promise you anything. You just told me to do that."

"Ahh, so you do remember."

You don't respond. You are too overcome by anger to even mumble out an answer. You know that if you do, Eunbi might put more on your plate than you can chew.

"It's already 3:00, baby. I'm starting to miss you."

Why does the last statement sound so genuine to you? She really knows how to play with your emotions.

Swallowing a shuddering breath, you try to make your voice sound steady. "I can't visit you right now, Eunbi. I'm busy."

She giggles. "Aww, don't lie to me now. I know you're just having breakdown after breakdown on the couch. Really nice living room, by the way. Is that phone of yours a Samsung? Real cheap."

You almost scream. "Eunbi! What the hell!"

You look around the living room, hands tightening around the fabric of your sofa.

How the hell did she know that? Does she have stalkers hired to keep a hawk's eye on you? Did she magically put up CCTVs or something while you were asleep?

"Didn't I tell you that nothing bad would happen if you just didn't lie to me? You seem to keep forgetting that."

"I would have an easier time remembering things if you weren't a fucking mind reader!"

"But you remember what I told you," she points out once more. "Same place, 4:29 PM. If you're not here before that… oh, you wouldn't want to know the things I'd do to you."

±

Ridding yourself of all common sense, you have arrived at the Oneiric Theater again. Though the long ride in the the taxi has left more of a pain on your ass than your legs, they still feel like they've run a marathon when you finally reach Eunbi down the sidewalk.

You recognized her because of the gray dress. The sides of it hug her curves and are lined with black, cut just at the starts of her thighs.

Okay, fine, you recognized her because of her thighs.

But who cares? You're back in this fiasco with Ms. I Have Eyes Everywhere here and she still would not give you an explanation or at least a blunt answer to your various questions.

"Hey! I'm here! You owe me an explanation!"

"Oh my god, you just arrived and I'm already tired of you."

Today the director seems to have changed style. Gone is the pant suit and short hair from a week ago. What comes to replace it is a simple gray dress that is cut too high for decency, one that has round buttons running down the center and a lacy two-piece collar. Her short hair has grown to be able to hang below her shoulders. Two black ribbons grace both sides of her head.

Damn mommy. For a moment, you almost forget that this is the woman who ruined your life.

She turns to you with a smile that could break hearts from a mile away. "But since you're here now, come with me."

"Wait!"

She raises an eyebrow.

You suck in a deep breath. "Will you answer my questions?"

She taps her chin. "Hmmm, only after a few… drastic measures."

"What do you mean?"

"Like I said, come with me."

You do not trust her at all. Not after all she's done to you. What if she kills you this time? Or scam you into another frisky situation you wouldn't be able to fuck your way out anymore?

But as you watch her walk into the theater again, you realize you have no choice. Whatever you do, you will always be left wondering about the mysteries of the Oneiric Theater, and its owner who seems to have you wrapped around her little finger at all times.

You sigh. Fine, you'll bite.

You follow the directress into the theater. Everything looks the same as the last time you visited: the floor is still carpeted with a clever illusion that makes it difficult to walk on it without getting dizzy. The walls still have posters of upcoming films. One poster is for a movie entitled “La Vie en Rose”. The title is printed in large elegant font above twelve girls all dressed in red. Roses decorate the poster while feathers do so to the poster taped next to it. That one's title is… “Secret Story of The Swan”? What an odd name.

The moment you look away from the poster you realize that Eunbi is already far up ahead of you. You quickly shake your head to get yourself focused and run after her.

She pauses at a doorway. When you catch up with her, confusion fills your senses.

"We're here again?" you say in disbelief. "I thought you said you had a new movie prepared for me."

The doorway leads to the exact same room you've watched the last time. Aisles of velvet chairs line the familiar room, while the same projector stands at the farthest back part of the theater. Hell, even the movie playing is the same. There isn't anything new at all!

"I have!"

"Then why are we—"

You are swiftly pinned to one of the walls. Let out a sound mixing between a groan and a yelp. Your back suffers most of the impact, but it seems like your dick will go through even more of that, seeing Kwon Eunbi's evil gaze raking down your body.

"You're so fucking gullible, aren't you?" she asks. Her hands trail to your neck and squeeze there, rendering you gasping for breath as you try to stutter out your words. "You really didn't learn from the last time you went here."

You wheeze, your hands trying to tug her own away from your neck. But Eunbi, despite her small height and slim frame, is stronger than you. And she always will be.

"Fuck you. I should have—I should have called the police when I had the chance."

She chuckles. "Oh, you definitely should have."

A powerful shove from her causes you to fall onto the floor. You try to move away, but your back only meets the corner of a wall while your fate is trapped into the directress' hands.

"I always keep promises though…"

Now she lifts you onto a plush sofa. It's a welcome comfort compared to the dirty carpeted floor, but Eunbi still manages to make it tight for you. Straddling you, she tugs a ribbon loose from her hair and gathers your wrists into one knot with them. "So you'll get to see the film you want so badly."

"W-Where is it then?" You struggle to breathe as Eunbi seals the second ribbon around your neck.

She shrugs playfully. "Somewhere, someday, maybe sometime."

"I'm not fucking around, Eunbi. Where is the film?"

"I'll give it to you after I have my way with you. Mommy needs her release after all."

"What the fu—"

Suddenly Eunbi is sitting on your face, her soaked lips muffling the words that come out of your own. Strong hands sealed onto your hair, she grinds herself onto your mouth, thighs clamping around your head to keep you in place.

This is when you realize why she is clad ina dress cut so high.

Grumbling, you give her a tentative lick to test the waters; the little shiver she does is a good enough response for you. Tuck your tongue into her warm wetness, swirling it inside her at unsteady patterns. When she begins to ride your mouth for more, you stop completely. Your inconsistency causes her to pull at your hair.

"Fucking—! If you keep slacking I'll never give you the goddamn film!"

"Someone's impatient," you say, grinning. You mess with my head? I'll mess up your orgasm. It will do little damage to her that isn't equal to what she's done to you, but the little rebellion against her keeps you going.

"Oh, you think I'm not serious?"

"I don't think you're shit."

"0927 Avenue, 95th Stree—ahhh, that's much better."

Your own home address?! Seriously? What else does this woman know?

Just to keep yourself safe, you dart your tongue out again. Eunbi's heated sex rocks to and fro onto your mouth, and everytime she lifts her hips you try to catch your breath. She doesn't allow that, of course; she ruts her core on your tongue harder, curses leaving her mouth like a dizzying chant while your tongue slides in her clenching hole and retreats just as quickly.

Her moans start to grace the atmosphere more often. You suppose she's been holding them back to keep up her tough guise, but the moans that keep spilling out of her mouth like a waterfall make the guise falter. Kind of similar to her center that drips continuously into your mouth.

"Shit," she hisses. Another hard clamp of her legs around your head doesn't stop you from licking greedily at her. "You're being such a good boy right now. Mommy feels so fucking good."

The pet name makes your heart pump a little faster. You whine, but Eunbi pays no mind to that. She starts to ride your tongue, the rolls of her hips guiding your pointed muscle into her wet orifice. Kiss her clitoris and purse your lips, licking at it from side to side. Eunbi shakes like a leaf under rain as high-pitched moans are driven out of her hair with each lap, each suck, each lick.

"Your mouth has some good use after all," the directress says weakly. Now her voice isn't the matter-of-fact tone it usually is—it's a wavery one, one that's labored with heavy breathing and whines. "I hate to, hah, admit it but—you're q-quite good at this, aren't you?"

Maybe you are; everytime you impale Eunbi with your tongue another rush of wetness floods your mouth and dribbles down your chin. Her thighs quiver next to the sides of your head while you flick your wet muscle into her equally wet walls.

"I'll do—mmm, an even better job if you free my hands," you promise in between laps at her cunt.

"You must think I'm a fool to fall for that."

Her words suddenly make you recall the last time you visited the theater—when all chaos were unleashed upon you and your dick after you freed Eunbi's hands of the belt you tied around them. You sorely want to pull a trick like that as well, but the promise of the film to answer all your questions is too tempting that you wouldn't dare.

And besides, you do not want to hear her gasps of pleasure stop for just a minute. You want her to break.

"Gah"—you release your lips from suckling fervently on her pulsing clit—"please, mommy."

That word is the first crack. Though she has never actually confirmed she likes being called so, you could easily verify it as a fact seeing the way she winces when you say it. The way she whimpers, the way more wetness leaks from her pussy.

"Fuck, alright." She tugs away the ribbon. "But if you try to be funny, mommy will make sure you never—ahh!"

No more threats or arrogance from her; the moment your hands are freed, you clamp your hands over her milky legs and nuzzle your mouth completely in between them. Your nose tickles her nub while your tongue lathers her folds with saliva and unfalteringly fucks her hole. Eunbi's screams are blocked out by her thighs tightly pressing against your ears.

"That's it, baby. Fuck mommy's pussy with your filthy little tongue. Fuck her until she can't tak- hahh, she's so close—"

Wave after wave of pleasure washes over Eunbi as she wriggles and writhes above you. Her cries are rendered soundless once again because of her convenient thighmuffs. Her legs try to wring themselves out of your grip but you hold on to them relentlessly, eating Eunbi out with much gusto while her juices flood your face.

She quivers as you clean her up, tongue prodding and pushing at the sensitive core. When she cannot take any more of your laps, she dismounts your face with a gasp and falls on your lap.

You try to catch your breath, attempting to get used to breathing without being interrupted with another hump on your mouth from Eunbi. Doing so feels like rising from the pool after swimming deep underwater till your hand could easily glide the tiled floor.

In between heavy pants, Eunbi smirks. "See? Isn't it much better when you're being good for me?"

"No 'thank you'?" you ask, wiping your lips on your sleeve. "God, your heart is as hard as a rock."

"And it seems like you are too, hotshot. Just look at yourself."

Eunbi shifts in her place on your lap to show you how your bulge is practically fighting against the fabric of your pants. Red fills your cheeks as she palms it slowly, the friction from her hand forming tight heat in your crotch.

You whimper. "Mommy, please."

"Oh, would you look at that. I knew you'd warm up to mommy quickly."

Humiliation rings clear in your face as she tugs your cock out of your pants, hand wrapping tightly around your length.

"Because you're being such a good boy right now"—Eunbi twists herself on your lap to face you and crosses her legs, throwing her legs to the side of the sofa—"I'll let you have your fun. I would have rewarded you with a titjob, but mommy's thighs will suffice for now, won't they, baby boy?"

Fuck, not that nickname again. You swear that if you didn't hold back you would have come just from her words.

Forget that she's your mortal enemy. Forget about your grudges and everything terrible she's done to you. Your mind can only wrap around this gorgeous woman wrapping her godly thighs around your cock, soft skin squeezing your length and rubbing its veins as she starts to bounce up and down.

Up down, up down, up down. It's a heavenly repetition with Eunbi squeezing her thighs around your dick just like she did to your head, but now it's for your own pleasure. Her tits, though still hidden under the buttoned lapels of her dress, bounce along with her thighs, rippling the fabric and looking absolutely tempting to grope.

You give in to the temptation. Your groans and the sounds of her lap meeting yours are background music to the scene of you daringly squeezing your hand over her breast. Quickly finding out that they're sensitive just by running your hand over them and seeing the desperate look on Eunbi's face when you do, you take things up a notch by slipping your hand under her dress.

Eunbi's eyes shoot you a warning, but they close almost immediately when you cup her bust over her bra. They're massive, soft mounds of flesh that are apparently very sensitive, seeing as the director clamps her thighs harder around your length each time you squeeze.

So you squeeze and squeeze and squeeze. The more you do, the more whimpers come out from Eunbi just as her wetness leaks even more onto your bare lap. Unable to hold it in anymore hearing her girlish moans and feeling her gorgeous thighs rub tight around you, ropes of cum shoot from your dick and onto Eunbi's milky skin. Groans and grunts of your own grace the air as the merciless Eunbi keeps bouncing slightly on your lap, milking your cock again and again till her thick thighs are almost covered completely in your cum.

"Holy shit, you came so much." She sticks a finger into the puddles of white and tastes it. "Yummy. Didn't know your cum tasted this good."

"Eunbi, I don't think I—"

"Shhh, mommy wants more."

With just one shift on your lap, your cock slips from between her thighs and sheathes itself deep into her pussy. You whine at the remaining sensitivity that causes you to writhe and shift underneath Eunbi, but she pays no mind to it all.

"F-Fuck, you're stretching me out so well." Eunbi's words are stammered out in gasps.  Though the constant stimulation on your aching cock is difficult and nearly impossible to bear, what makes up for it is the expression on Eunbi's face as she sinks down onto you. Oh, and how her firm ass meets your lap everytime her hips rise.

She must have known you were thinking of her ass since her fingers wrap around your shivering hand and guide it to her buttcheek. She squeals when you slap it, walls clenching tighter around your cock. Another slap, her breath hitches. The third is what she makes sure is the last one for she grabs your hand and places it on her boob instead.

Alright, this could work too. Sweat rolling down your face and its scent mixing in with the smell of sex, your upward thrusts stutter as a burst of cum shoots into the director's wet hole. Tug the lapel of her dress away from the other to reveal her bouncing tits to you—"oh, that's it, baby. Breed mommy—fucking fill her pussy with your cum"—and pull her bra down. Without the support of the underclothing her boobs shake with her movements, two large mounds of flesh bouncing in the air which you grope and squeeze. She whispers curses underneath her breath as you play with her sensitive tits as much as you can.

The whispers turn into uncontrolled screams when you close the little distance in between you and latch onto her nipple. She pulls on your hair and humps you faster, crying out with every swirl of your tongue around her erect nipple and suck on her full breasts. "Fuck, baby, don't stop! Mommy's cum—"

Nails digging in your scalp, she pulls you closers till your mouth is sucking and biting at almost all of her breast. Your other hand plays with the other, and when you pinch her nipple in between your fingers, she explodes.

A scream pierces the air as her body spasms and tightens around you. Swears come out as weak stutters while her walls tighten hard enough to draw another orgasm out of you. Your semen splashes into her cunt and drips out of it too, staining the little gray dress and the couch.

"Mommy's so full, baby. Can't believe how much you came."

You could; the director's tight little cunt and addictive moans drive you insane. Her pretty silk voice has a special way of affecting you, especially with the pet names.

Eunbi tries to move away, but when she rises from her place she whimpers and returns to her original position instead. Carefully lifting her body and unsheathing your used dick, white rolls down her milky thighs and creates splotches on her dress.

"I hope the camera caught how you almost made me cum just from your knee. That would be interesting to see."

Your comprehension is steadily lowering to a zero as exhaustion begins to take over you, but you're pretty sure she just said something about a camera.

Your body slides down and lies flat on the sofa. Eunbi still sits on your lap—at least, that's what your blurring eyes can detect—so you try to ask her about it.

"W-What camera?"

"For a special film. You see, the Oneiric Diary isn't the only film I prepared for you."

Oneiric Diary? What the hell was that? And what did she mean by the special film?

"But I see you're too tired to watch them with me. We shall view them when you wake up, do you understand?"

Eunbi's voice has returned to its usual formal tone. You can't tell if yours has become normal again as well because you are too weak to even mumble out a word. All that comes out is groans.

As your eyes flicker close and the world turns black around you, you could feel a pair of plump lips press against your cheek. It might have been pre-slumber delusions, but you swear you heard Eunbi whisper "Sweet dreams, darling" before everything disappears completely.

±

"Are you sure you can trust him, unnie? He seems weak."

A chuckle from the older woman as she stands in the way of the projected film, two shadows lurking in the now-dark theater. Her arms are crossed while her eyes stay on the man passed out on the sofa.

"He doesn't even trust me," Eunbi says with a grin. "But I'm sure of it. There are too many coincidences for all of it to be nothing."

"You know what happened last time, unnie. You can't risk it."

The grin disappears from Eunbi's face. Her eyes unlock from him as she turns to the younger girl, a warning in her glare. "What did I tell you about mentioning The Nightmare?"

"I'm sorry."

"You better be. You of all people should know how bad it affected the theater."

"I'm sorry, unnie."

"Save the apologies, Sakura. And turn off the projector; I want him to sleep well."

"So you could fuck him till he passes out again?" Sakura asks sarcastically.

"That, and another thing: I want him to be ready for what he sees in the Oneiric Diary."

[kookiecrumb]

kth || Transitions and Positions: Ch. 1 (m)

header by: @jjkeverlast

wc: 600 words:)

summary: Taehyung is a beast on the field, but what happens when his body begins to undergo rather unprecedented-- and supernatural--changes? He consults you, the walking encyclopedia for all things spooky!

Ch.1 summary: Taehyung is almost late for the bus after practice, meanwhile Y/N falls asleep while doing her assignments only to have a very peculiar, yet arousing dream.

LINK TO CHAPTER 2

warnings: explicit language, intense scenes, eventual smut~ (18+)

tags: quarterback/werewolf!taehyung x fem/classmate/werewolf enthusiast!reader

betaed by the lovely: @destructiveasparagus

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Pulling off his football helmet, Taehyung struts into the locker room after an exhausting practice. Leaning against a cubby, he unravels the tape wrapped around his knuckles. He squeezes out the rest of his water, save for a finger or two. It squirts from his Gatorade bottle onto his hair as he shakes his head, spraying water the floor. He takes a towel and dries it off before pouring a little bit on the towel and wiping his face.

Sitting down on the bench, he peels off his sockets and shoes, liberating his feet before everything else. Next comes the jersey and the pads underneath. His number hits the floor, a neon orange "13." Below it, his name in  the classic font, outlined in black: "Kim." 

His face lifts to listen to the bell indicating that the after school activity bus would leave in approximately 10 minutes. Taehyung curses under his breath, wiggling into his true religion denim and throwing on a simple black tee shirt. Grabbing his duffel bag and his backpack, he speed walks toward the only bus left in the lot, shuffling between his team members to get on the bus home.

A paper ninja star sits between his fingers. He fiddles with it as he daydreams out the window with his wire earbuds in. He mouths the word to every song, unwinding. 

His  mates congregate in groups together. Some make clicking noises with their mouths, others slap the back of the seats to create a makeshift "freestyle" cypher beat. Some pull up their work and stare at their assignments for fifteen minutes before slowly closing their laptops and scrolling on their phones. Taehyung slides his fingers into his pocket to fish out his phone. 

It flashes on, indicating to him that it is just shy of 7:00PM. At least he wasn't a band kid.  

About twenty miles away, you're sitting on your bed, chewing on the end of a pen, trying to conjure up another stupid annotation to make on your rhetorical analysis packet. 

Falling back on your bed, you grunt. What the fuck is your teacher on, honestly? You're just trying to get through the last semester of highschool in one piece. What was the reason for giving such ridiculously difficult work? 

You toss your work across the bed, and it lands on the mattress with a dull thump. Giving into your need for an after school nap, you doze off in a starfish position, your pen dropping to the floor as you lose consciousness. 

Your eyes snap open in a daze. Surrounding you are woods for miles. A single spotlight, the silver moon, drenches you in its light, in the middle of a shadowy wood. Your skin pebbles, the overbearing presence of something ungodly possessing you. You writhe and, in mindless desperation, turn your head to meet a pair of amber eyes glowing in a sea of shadows. 

Your head jerks down toward your feet, your breath quivering. You're helpless, your psychology has been transformed into bare, primal sense. A thrilling feeling forms in the pit of your stomach. That thing-- that creature exudes an energy you could only describe as predatory.

You thrust your body forward, only to realize you've been tied to a telephone pole-like edifice with twine.You lean against the pole in surrender. "Fuck," you cry out through fearful tears. "What are you here for, what do you need?!" You sob. 

Eyes fluttering open, your heart pounds in your throat as you yank the curtains open. The moon only smirks at you with a mocking grin. 

You throw your feet over the side of the bed and go to retrieve a glass of water. 

~~~

a/n: requests are open and encouraged (it is my pleasure to write them, it is so much more fun for me~

When's the next chapter, Isa?!: Scroll all the way up.