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icyharrington · 5 years ago

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Is It Wrong?- THE PREQUEL- Part 1 (Michael Langdon X Reader)

so basically,,,, i took my adhd meds for class this morning, and then suddenly got super inspired to write this, so i figured i couldnt waste the focus and wrote this whole ass thing in a few hours. this is the first part of a 3-part prequel series, which details the events leading up to the first part of iiw! just a whole lot more teen angst, drama, fuckboy michael, and more... there isn’t going to be any SMUT smut for obvious reasons, but in a future part there is going to be some dirty stuff ;) anyway i know this will prob flop but this is the first full length fic i’ve written in months and i had a lot of fun writing it, so ima post regardless ^__^

plot: things are turning upside for you now that the biggest fuckboy in school, michael langdon, is about to become your stepbrother. if you think shit is crazy now, wait til you find out that this is just the prequel 😏

warnings: underage drinking, talk of sexual shit, teen angst, sexual tension, taboo relationships

wc: 4.2k

It wasn’t like you didn’t want your dad to be happy.

You did, of course you did.

You’d seen him, engulfed in his loneliness, floating from day to listless day like some kind of cheesy Victorian spectre. Too many times you’d found him alone at night, one hand cradling a glass of sewer-brown liquor, the other thumbing through worn photo albums extracted from dust-ridden shelves in the living room. You hadn’t known your mother well- she’d died back when you were still in diapers, but what you did know was that she’d been a vibrant light in your father’s world that had been unjustly snuffed out in its prime. He was a good father to you, and you knew you made him happy despite the dull ache ever-present in his heart, but it was evident that deep down he craved a companionship you could never provide.

So of course you were glad when he met Miriam. Of course you were glad when you’d seen his beaming smile, sharing the news, with the giddiness of a teenage girl in love, that he’d found somebody. He was practically glowing, that night he’d gone out for their first date. You’d known it’d been special to him, because he’d shelled out a few hundred to treat them both to a fancy dinner; he’d even gotten her a bouquet of flowers on the drive there.

You hadn’t said anything when he’d gushed to you the next day about how he’d found the one, despite having known her for only a week; sure, he was rushing into things, but at least he was happy! And that was all you wanted- for him to be happy.

That was why you were especially crushed when you finally met Miriam’s teenage son, whom your father had briefly mentioned with a passing “he goes to your high school, maybe you know him”.

There were so many boys at your school that it was impossible to guess who your potential stepbrother might be. The prospect that you might know him didn’t bother you too much, though you did think it might be a little awkward upon first meeting, but really what did it matter? A little bit of teenage shyness was a small price to pay for your father’s newfound happiness.

That is, until you met him.

So really, it wasn’t like you didn’t want your dad to be happy.

That wasn’t the case at all.

You just really, really, wished he’d fallen in love with anyone other than the mother of Michael fucking Langdon.

ii.

“Oh, you’re so pretty,” Miriam gushed over a glass of Chardonnay, which had already been defaced with aubergine lip prints around the golden rim. “Gosh, I just wish I had your hair. Mine was fried from years of coloring, so I just chopped it all off!”

You smiled sweetly, observing your father’s glimmering eyes as he hung onto every word that rolled off her tongue, menus still stacked neatly in the middle of the table as you awaited the fourth and final guest. The three of you had been there for fifteen minutes already, and still her son had not arrived.

I guess his study session is running late, she’d explained, after seeing your furrowed brows at her lack of accompaniment. It was the first time you were meeting your father’s new love interest and her son, and you were rapidly growing more and more anxious in anticipation of the big reveal.

Studying, you’d thought, racking your brain. So maybe he’s one of the nerdy teacher’s pet types? You could certainly live with that; there were a great deal of others you could think of who would be far worse to potentially become step-siblings with.

“Thanks, Ms… Mead, did you say it was?”

You weren’t sure you knew of any boys whose last name was Mead; he definitely had to be someone you hardly knew.

“Oh, honey, call me Miriam,” she said warmly, and you nodded, unsure of what to say next.

Miriam was certainly not what you’d imagined your father’s girlfriend to be like, not that you cared either way; she sported short, dark hair with vampy makeup, clad in all black with a tasteful leather jacket to match. She was also a bit older than you’d anticipated, with fine lines adorning her rounded face, but again, none of that mattered to you at all. She seemed perfectly sweet, and you had no complaints about her thus far.

“Okay, Miriam,” you said, feeling somewhat peculiar addressing an adult by their first name, “so, remind me, how’d you guys meet again?”

“Well, it’s a funny story, really,” Miriam chuckled, plucking a dinner roll from the woven basket across from her and dropping it onto her plate. Her dark eyes shifted from you to your father, poising an impeccably groomed raven brow. “Should you tell it, or should I?”

“Oh, you should, definitely,” your father said, sipping his wine.

“Okay, okay. Well, we were in the meat section at the grocery store when we both reached for the last steak on sale. So I looked at him, and I told him- oh my, this is embarrassing- (your dad’s name), you finish!”

Your father looked like he was about to bust out into laughter, and, suppressing a snort, he blurted, “she said she’d cut off my hands if I took it!”

Immediately after the words left his lips, the two fell into boisterous hysterics that ushered forward a few disapproving glances from the stuffy rich assholes at the next table over, and you couldn’t help but laugh a little yourself. Well… she definitely was a character, but as long as your father was being kept entertained…

“Hey mom,” came a sudden, inappropriately loud male voice from behind you, so out of place that you nearly jumped from your seat. “I was helping Dan with the world war three chapter in our textbook, he sucks at geography shit.”

The voice’s owner revealed himself as a tall, blond boy, who promptly slid into the empty chair beside you, chiseled face slightly obscured by the deep shadows resulting from the dimness of the restaurant’s ambient lighting.

This was, indeed, somebody that you knew, and you blinked twice to be sure that your eyes weren’t playing tricks on you.

It took you a few seconds to register the direness of the situation at hand, but once the thought processed in your mind, you about descended into an out-of-body experience.

This couldn’t be.

No way.

No motherfucking way.

You’d never been all too much of a religious person, but in that moment, you found yourself silently begging whatever higher power was out there that this was all just some sick, cosmic prank.

The boy turned his head to give you a good, uncomfortably long look, stupidly perfect mouth twisting into an amused sideways grin, and then he spoke. “Ohh shit, (y/n)? (Y/n) (y/l/n)?”

He spoke your name like it was a punchline, tongue darting out to lick his teeth like a lizard about to gobble up some poor, helpless cricket as you sat there with your jaw unhinged. You were at a loss for words, or at least almost, managing to croak out a pathetic, puny, “Michael.”

“Oh, good! You guys know each other already!” Miriam exclaimed, seemingly oblivious to the complete and utter horror that had just about finished swallowing you whole.

Michael let out a snort, roughly translating to ‘uhh, yeah, not that well… I’d never be caught dead hanging around with someone like (y/n)’, and you grimaced. “Yeah, a little bit. You were in math class with me last year, right?”

You cleared your throat, forcing yourself to regain your composure for fear of feeding into this complete asshole’s already massive ego. Yeah, in fact, you had been in math class with him last year, and, not-so-coincidentally, that very same class had turned out to be the one you dreaded the most.

Michael Langdon was the most insufferable, mind-numbing, self-obsessed asshole that you’d ever had the displeasure of knowing; he was easily the most popular boy in the grade, and it was clear he was fully aware of his own high school bullshit prestige. He was loud, cocky and obnoxious; the type of fuckboy- yes, you knew the word fuckboy was overplayed, but in this case there was no other way to describe him- who’d loudly brag about his sexual escapades in the middle of the hallway to his flock of adoring fuckboy minions. He was an I-don’t-do-relationships type, a U-up-text-at-3am type, a Yo-dude-did-you-see-Zoe-Benson’s-tits-today type, a bro-I’m-so-fucking-baked-right-now type. Just the sound of his voice from across a crowded hallway was enough to make you physically recoil. And the worst part?

Every-fucking-body loved him.

Your complaints about him during lunch would only result in your friends cooing dreamily, as though he were some kind of sympathetic creature that needed babying: But he’s so cute, they’d say, twirling locks of their hair and fiddling with their bracelets. I’m sure he’s not that bad.

But he was that bad, and if they took off their shit-stained, teenage hormone-clouded rose tinted glasses for only a second, they’d see exactly what you saw.

It wasn’t only the students, either. He was able to get away with everything and anything he pleased, whether it be sneaking sips of vodka in a water bottle between classes or ditching class to smoke a joint behind the bleachers. There’d even been rumors that he’d fucked some senior girl in the handicap stall during the autumn pep rally while the rest of the student body was packed like sardines in the sticky-hot gymnasium, subjected to incremental barks from the football coach to scream louder and louder.

How the hell was somebody as pleasant as Miriam the mother of such an incurable douchebag? And how, in all the unholy realms of hell, did your luck get so miserably bad that she ended up with your father?

It was all so fucking unfortunate that you almost wanted to laugh. And you probably would have, if not for the chance that you might puke all over your nice new sweater if you opened your mouth.

“You smell funny, hon,” said Miriam before you could reply. “Was Dan burning incense in his room?”

Oh, god. So she was one of those oblivious parents. You rolled your eyes; it made a lot of sense when you thought about it.

“Huh? Oh. Um, yeah. Incense,” Michael said, before suddenly extending his arm across the table to your father. “Oh shit, how rude of me. I’m Michael. Nice to meet you, man.”

Your father seemed unfazed my Michael’s distinct lack of manners as he accepted the boy’s hand and shook it, and you felt yet another knot twist up in the pit of your stomach as you realized that your father, too, had somehow been cast under Michael’s spell.

“Michael, we talked about this,” Miriam said under her breath, like she was scolding a child who didn’t know any better. “Keep the potty mouth to a minimal when we’re out in public, especially while we’re in such a nice restaurant.”

“Oh, sh…oot, sorry, mom,” Michael said with a faux-sheepish smile, his eyes flickering with amusement despite his supposed remorse. “And sorry to you too, sir. Bad habits.”

“Don’t worry about it, Mike- can I call you Mike?” your father said as they released hands, moving his to rest atop Miriam’s on the cloth-sheathed table. “I remember what it was like being a boy your age.”

You scoffed, loud enough that the table fell silent for a moment, and quickly you disguised it with a cough. Your cheeks went hot as all eyes laid on you, and you frantically scanned your brain for something to fill the silence with.

“So, um,” you said, clearing your throat. “Michael’s, uh, how come Michael’s last name isn’t Mead?”

Fuck. That sounded so fucking stupid. Instinctively, you felt your eyes wander to Michael to see if he was laughing at you, which you hated yourself for; why should his stupid, pea-brained opinion mean anything to you anyway? As much as you wanted to distance yourself from that idiotic, made-up high school hierarchy, you always wound up finding yourself being sucked back in, it seemed.

“Well, my late husband’s last name was Langdon, and since he was kind of a dirtbag, I decided not to keep his name after he passed,” Miriam said slowly, as if taking very careful thought to word herself correctly. You took in a breath; this seemed like a whole new can of worms that you hadn’t meant to open up.

“Hey, c’mon, don’t talk about dad like that,” said Michael, his tone only half-playful, eyebrow cocking as he flashed his mother a knowing look.

“You try being cheated on multiple times, Michael. Then you’ll see that dirtbag is really a nice way of putting it.”

Oh, sure, you thought bitterly. As if Michael fucking Langdon is even remotely capable of understanding someone else’s pain.

You took this as your cue to stand up from your seat, mumbling something about needing to use the restroom before scurrying off in the opposite direction as fast as you could without drawing attention to yourself. If ten minutes with Michael as your psuedo-stepbrother got to you this badly, you could only imagine how awful your life was about to get.

You could only hope that your father would find some reason to nip things in the bud with Miriam, but right now, that appeared to be an unlikely prospect.

iii.

“Give me one good reason I shouldn’t end my shit right here and now,” you griped to your best friend, who sat crosslegged on your bed as you stood idly before your floor-length mirror, arms dangling limply at your sides in an unintentional stance of defeat. Your face was one that you hardly recognized anymore, forehead creased with worry and eyes shadowed by bruise-colored rings from a seemingly endless barrage of sleepless nights; a week ago, your father had gleefully announced his and Miriam’s engagement; you of course, as his loving daughter, had to behave as though you hadn’t just received the worst news of your life, which somehow you’d pulled off (for a second you wondered why you’d never taken up theater, seeing at how convincing your acting could be sometimes). It was like you’d been plucked from the familiarity of your boring, normal world and dropped into your own personally tailored hell without any warning at all, though you couldn’t think of a single thing you’d done bad enough to warrant you deserving this. “The worst person on the planet is about to be my fucking stepbrother and nobody else seems to think this is a big deal!”

Your best friend shook her head, letting out a snort as if any of this was even remotely funny in the slightest. “So your stepbrother is hot and cool and he pisses you off. They literally make porn about that.”

You resisted the urge to take her by the shoulders and shake her until some semblance of sense entered her head, instead shoving your hands into the pockets of your jeans with a loud huff. “Yeah, but this isn’t fucking pornhub, (best friend’s name), this is real life! And I’d rather skin myself alive than sleep with that walking STD.”

“You have a lot more self respect than I do. It’s admirable,” she said, still startlingly calm for your liking, and you were beginning to believe that she’d never understand the mental turmoil you were currently suffering with. “Personally I’d ride him into the sunset, whether he had a herpes dick or not.”

You gagged, shaking your head with adamant disgust. Was she really that fucking horny? “You’re sick, you know that?”

“Sick for diiiiick,” she sang back, batting her eyelashes playfully at you. You turned away, scrounging up every weary shred of self restraint within you not to scream.

“Look, (b/f/n). I’m being serious right now. If you fuck him, or suck his dick, or whatever, I will literally never speak to you again.” Your tone was stern, and you faced her again to see whether your seriousness had computed in the hormonal wasteland that was her brain. There was an extended pause as she blinked at you, tilting her head to one side thoughtfully as she chewed her lipgloss-slick bottom lip.

“I mean, he wouldn’t fuck me anyways,” she finally said, still infuriatingly chipper. “I’m nobody. And he’s, like, royalty.”

“Jesus fucking Christ! I don’t care whether you think you have a chance with him!” You realized too late that you were nearly shouting, so you took in a shaky gulp of oxygen and coaxed yourself to soften your tone. The last thing you needed right now was for people to think you were losing your mind, although sometimes that was exactly what you felt like was happening. “Please, just promise me you won’t? I just need one aspect of my life not to involve him. Please?”

“Okay, fine,” she said, drawing her knees to her chest and settling her chin on top. “If it really matters that much to you, I’ll just shift my thirst to Dan Mott instead. That boy is a fucking snack and a half.”

A wave of almost-relief cascaded over your body, and you closed your eyes, letting yourself become one with this momentary victory.

One year. Just one stupid, insignificant year until I can go away to college and forget all about him.

If you could survive that much, you told yourself, you’d be able survive anything.

You just hoped that intoxicating spell of his wasn’t strong enough to bring your best friend into his web of bullshit, alongside all the other girls who’d become entangled along the way.

If she did, you’d be stranded, left to run from Michael and his ever-expanding army all on your own.

iv.

In what seemed like a blink of an eye, the dreaded date of your father’s wedding ceremony arrived; now you stood amidst a small group of distant relatives at the subdued reception party, seeking refuge from the disturbing thought that, legally, Michael Langdon was now your brother, at the open bar.

You and your best friend had decided to make something of a game out of how many drinks you could finagle from the bartender without any adults noticing, which had ultimately proved to be pointless- an hour into the reception, your father had staggered over with two overflowing dirty Shirleys, thrusting them towards the two of you with a big, sloppy grin on his face.

To say he was in a good mood would be a severe understatement- the man was jovial, and you almost felt guilty for hating the circumstances of his marriage so much. By the raised-brow looks your best friend had been shooting at you all night, you knew she was thinking the same thing: that you were being selfish for worrying so much about yourself when this was the best thing that’d happened to your father in years. And maybe it was true; maybe you’d been so wrapped up in your own teen angst bullshit that you’d willingly blinded yourself from the truth. So, with your father’s beaming face dancing in the back of your mind, you pushed any thought about Michael back to the dredges where they belonged.

Fuck Michael Langdon. You couldn’t allow him the satisfaction of knowing that you were distraught, though you’d surely already made that pretty obvious over the past few months (he’d wasted no time in taunting you about it, seeming to relish in your death glares and eye rolls- hey, future sis! he’d crooned at you as you passed his table in the cafeteria one afternoon, nearly causing you to trip and spill your perfectly mediocre iced coffee all over yourself as his friends cackled like demented hyenas).

I’m not gonna let him bother me anymore.

I’m not-

“SIS-TERRRRRR!”

Okay, this had to be some kind of divine test of will.

A blazer-glad arm flung itself around your shoulders and you flinched, immediately jerking away from your intoxicated stepbrother (god, it felt weird to refer to him that way) whose brash motions had sent you both stumbling.

“Getting shitfaced at your mom’s wedding… classy,” you spat, crossing your arms in front of your chest and narrowing your eyes at the blond-haired boy.

He was, admittedly, good-looking (only by conventional standards, of course); his lightly gelled blond hair had long since come undone, now soft and unkempt from hours of attention-whorish dancing, but you thought the disheveled look suited him better anyway (since his whole thing was to look like a grimy, rugged fuckboy, not because you personally found it attractive, obviously). He’d undone the top few buttons of his white top (no doubt the only formal article of clothing he owned), which was now stained beyond foreseeable repair with a colorful variety of liquids, and there was a bead of sweat traveling from his slick forehead to his model-sharp jaw. Even in disarray, he looked good, and you couldn’t help but hate him for it.

“God, you are so uptight,” he said, pale eyes flickering towards the multicolored ceiling in exaggerated annoyance as he dragged out his syllables with leisure. “You need to relax, set up a dick appointment or something. Or pussy appointment, I don’t know what you’re into.”

Your mouth fell open at this remark, too stunned by his vulgarity to even get angry with your friend, who had dissolved into a fit of giggles beside you; it wasn’t that you were some pearl-clutching grandmother- you had no issue discussing sexual matters with your friends, and in fact some would even say you had a perverted sense of humor. But this? This was different: something about the way those words had fallen from Michael’s mouth made you feel dirty.

At your lack of response, Michael flashed a pearly grin that could only be categorized as evil, and he crossed his arms to mimic your stance. “Oh, sorry. I forgot that you’re probably still a virgin.”

He glanced over to your friend, whose feeble attempts to suppress her second wave of laughter had proven unsuccessful, before averting his gaze back to you. “Aw, don’t feel bad, (y/n). There’s nothing wrong with being a late bloomer.”

Then, as if to punctuate his words, he smirked.

Your mouth pressed into a thin line, you felt something like a storm swirling inside of you, winds thick and unyielding and relentless, and you were almost positive that you’d tear him apart once the feeling aligned with the rest of your body.

It was then that the song blaring through the speakers switched to something inappropriately upbeat, each thump of the dance-friendly bass feeling like punches to the gut.

The storm inside you hadn’t been giving way to anger at all; it was sadness you were feeling in your belly, hopeless and humiliated sadness, though you couldn’t quite understand why: he’d made some stupid, generic joke to try and get a rise out of you- what else was new these days? Maybe it was the fact that your best friend was, by her passiveness and obvious amusement at your expense, encouraging his taunts when she was supposed to be there for you. Or maybe the reality had finally, finally sunken in, that this kind of interaction with Michael would now consume your life for the next year.

Either way, it didn’t make a difference, and as if on cue, the familiar sting of unshed tears arrived patiently at the back of your eyes.

All at once you were were dizzy; Michael’s perfect face was doubling and distorting before your eyes, and your friend’s pitched laughter rang like incessant, robotic television static in your ears.

With very last straw of self preservation you could grasp, you said nothing at all, walking away with the dazed sluggishness of a zombie on autopilot.

You considered yourself lucky; soon enough, you wouldn’t have the luxury of walking away at all.

“She’s too sensitive,” you heard your friend say, faintly, in the background of your thoughts.

You didn’t have the energy to wonder why she wasn’t coming with you, much less the energy to chastise her for being a bad friend, which was what you knew she deserved. If she cared more about getting Michael’s attention than preserving her friendship with you, you supposed there was no use in trying to stop her anymore.

He’s like a disease, you thought as you ambled your way towards the bathroom, surrounded by people but yet still so alone. He’s like a disease, infecting everyone he touches.

It was only a matter of time, you supposed, before he got to you, too.

Who knew? Maybe he already had.

tagging some people from my old iiw tag list!: (i’m sorry if i tagged anyone twice, i’m literally half asleep right now cuz i got like 2 hours of sleep in the past 24 hrs lol) @wroteclassicaly @ritualmichael @sloppy-little-witch-bitch26 @trelaney @kissydevil @sloppy-wrist @michael-langdon-appreciation @ccodyfern @sojournmichael @starwlkers @maso-xchrist @space-princesssss @ahslangdon101 @isabellaserpentiawesson @stupidocupido @bademliimagnum @nana15774 @urlocalgothb @hexqueensupreme @gold-dragon-slayer @langdonsboots @langdonstrash @fckinsupreme @hisgirlwonder @venusxxlangdon @obsessivenostalgicbaby @kleinegamerin @lambofcairo @kiiteiru @littledemondani @beriveri @grossgayartist @featherpool-852 @discocalico @cryptid-coalition @nu-tt @diamcndscarred @chocolateandhorror @michaelsfrenchtoast @sarcasticbxtch20 @ringpop-poppy @imjustasadhoe @melodylangdon @codycrazy @perfect-ginger-maniac @baphomet-wears-gucci @bigstudentpatrolbonk @jazzcowgirl @a-n-t-s @langdonsblood @ritualmichael @myluciferiscody @fentycoven @gracebtw @bongwaternation @king-of-mischief-and-bitchez @hoseokchild @witchywcmans @satanicbimbo @lvngdvns @langdonskillerqueen @aradevil @anemia-doll @muralskins @funtomimagines @mrssgtjamesbuckybarnes @our-mrlangdon @lotsofhunny @sevenwonderwitch @horrorstreet @kpopmademedo-it @naughtygranger @codyshands @krazycags01 @skullag

#michael langdon #is it wrong #michael langdon x reader #mine #michael langdon fic #ahs #american horror story #apocalypse #ahs apocalypse #cody fern #x reader #ahs x reader

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snowdice · 5 years ago

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Road Trips and Missing Persons (Part 8)

Fandom: Sanders Sides

Relationships: Patton & Virgil, Virgil & Deceit, Logan & Patton, Emile & Remy, Roman & Remus & Janus

Characters: Patton, Virgil, Deceit, Remus, Roman, Logan, Emile, Remy

Summary: Patton was just getting groceries. The next thing he knew, there was a knife at his throat and he was an unwilling uber driver. Virgil’s on the run after the murder of his dad, and it’s not just his paranoia that’s telling him he’s being chased down. He has to get somewhere safe, somewhere he can trust, and all he has is a couple of stories from his dad and a name: “Green Bellow Foods and Dispensary.”

Notes: Secret Agents AU, knives, carjacking, kidnapping, murder mentioned, guns mentioned, pepper spray, blood mentioned, drugs mentioned (more to be added)

This is a fic I’ve been writing on study breaks that you have probably all already seen at this point. I’ve affectionately named it the Goblin Brain Fic because it’s helping my brain actually get motivated for studying. I’ve slightly edited it for wording and grammar, but not for content from my previous posts. Feel free to send in asks to direct it because I’m not 100% sure where this is going and you can help decide if you feel so inclined! You can see the process I went through to build this at this link.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 My Master Post

“What the fuck do you mean Virgil is missing?” Remy asked.

“That’s the second thing Logan said to me!” Emile said. “When he heard you died, he sent an agent over to check on Virgil, but there’d been signs of a break in and Virgil was gone. They don’t think he actually got kidnapped though because the car of whoever broke in was still there.”

“Well, then where the hell is my kid?!!” Remy yelled.

Emile flinched at his suddenly loud voice. “Leaping lizards Remy, I don’t know. I thought you did since you’re not actually dead.”

“Well I don’t!”

“Yeah, I’m getting that, calm down for a second.”

“Okay, right now is not a good time to tell me to calm down,” Remy said. “My kid is missing.”

“I know Remy,” Emile said in his professionally soothing voice, “but we have to think in order to do something about that.” Oh, he was thinking. He was thinking really hard right about now. He was thinking about how the person who sent someone to kidnap his son was the woman who’d just tried to have him fucking executed. God, Remy hadn’t even wanted her around his fucking kid when she’d just been a bitch and not an enemy agent out for his blood.

“We should call Logan back,” Emile suggested. “He might have more information.”

“No,” Remy said. “It’s still too risky.”

“Remy.”

“I said no, Emile,” Remy snapped. “What if she has him and intercepts the phone call. She doesn’t have any reason to hurt him right now,” other than the fact that he had quite the mouth on him and would probably piss her off by being a little shit especially if she wouldn’t tell him where Remy was, “but if she knows I’m alive she might.”

“Would she really…?”

“The woman just tried to shoot me with poisoned bullets. I wouldn’t put it past her.”

“Poison bull-? It’s not important,” Emile said. “If we’re not going to get information from Logan then how are we supposed to even start with finding Virgil?”

“Easy,” Remy said. “The tracker I put on him.”

“I’m sorry you put what on Virgil?” Emile asked.

“A tracker,” Remy said. “It’s in that bracelet he always wears. I don’t really want to go back to the house, but I think I left one of the devices to find him in here in case of emergencies.” He started digging through Emile’s glove box.

“Jiminy Crickets, you can’t just put a tracker on your teenage son Remy!”

“Why not?” Remy asked, still digging through the papers. Did Emile ever get rid of old insurance cards and also how many drive-through napkins did he need to keep?

“It’s an invasion of privacy,” Emile sputtered.

Remy waved him off. “Oh, please. I’m a secret agent, a (usually) off duty one, but still a secret agent. Sometimes I need to know where my kid’s at. Like now. Besides, I told him what it was when I gave it to him, and it lights up when activated. He can just chuck it out a window if he doesn’t want me knowing where he is.”

“Oh, well that’s okay then,” Emile said.

Remy hummed as his hand closed around the phone sized device hidden at the back of the glove box. “Ah, here it is.”

“When exactly did you put that in here.”

“Like two years ago,” Remy said. “Clean your car every once in a while.”

“Remington, I have seen your garage.”

“Maybe, but I never claim to be responsible.”

The thing was out of charge, so he plugged it into the car, and it booted up pretty quickly. Emile leaned over to look at the map that popped up. Remy pushed a couple of buttons to activate the tracker.

A red dot appeared on the map and Remy blinked at it. “Where the fuck?” he asked. He pushed another button and the device beeped, finding Remy’s current location on the map and putting a green dot there. The map had to zoom out quite a bit to fit both dots on the screen. A number appeared at the top of the map. “Shit.”

“Please tell me that’s feet,” Emile groaned.

“How the hell did he manage to get 50 miles away? I’ve been ‘dead’ for less than an hour and a half!”

“Did one of Barbara’s people get to him?”

“I’m not… he’s moving in the wrong direction if that’s the case,” Remy said. “Her house is in town and the secret base I know of is north of here. He’s going south east on the interstate.” He squinted at the map.

“Well then where is he going and how is he going there?” Emile asked.

“I’m not sure, but you need to start driving.” Emile hesitated for a moment. “Now.”

He nodded and put the car in reverse before pulling out of the parking lot and turning toward the interstate.

“Hey, Emile,” Remy said pleasantly after about 2 minutes. “Remember how mother said to not speed unless it was absolutely necessary?” Emile glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. “It’s absolutely necessary today.”

Emile gave him a slightly disapproving frown, but the car did speed up.

“So, what about poisoned bullets?” Emile asked.

“I’ve had a long day,” Remy said.

“Nope, no, you’re not getting away with that,” Emile said.

“We’re busy,” Remy tried.

“Assuming he continues to move in the same direction, we have over an hour car ride in front of us. So, talk.”

“You and talking,” Remy mumbled. “Why couldn’t you just be a secretive, suppressed secret agent like everyone else in our family.”

Emile shot him a glare.

“Emmmmmmmyyyyyyy,” Remy whined.

“Remington.”

“Okay… so it may have, sort of been, my idea.”

“Remy.”

“See, this is why I didn’t want to talk about it.”

“Please, tell me this is not why you wanted me to watch Virgil tonight,” Emile said.

Oh, yeah… Remy winced.

“Remy, you have to at least tell me if you’re getting me and Virgil involved in this sort of thing. Or better yet, not do that. What was I supposed to do if someone had come to the door to kidnap Virgil? Which they did, by the way!”

Remy shifted in his seat. “To be fair, the plan didn’t exactly go how I expected it to. You were just a precaution in case it took too long. I didn’t expect to ‘die.’ Or at least if she was going to try to kill me I though she’d hesitate more than 0 seconds.”

Emile spared him a glare as he merged onto the interstate.

“Okay, fine, so maybe I should have,” Remy admitted, “but she was up to no good! And I know I’m supposed to still be on desk duty, but I’d heard through the grapevine about her plans and, I mean, I was in the neighborhood. How was I supposed to know she’d see right through my lie about asking for money to buy Virgil a car?”

“Maybe because you’ve never asked the woman for anything, ever, especially in relation to Virgil and Virgil hasn’t even taken drivers ed because he’s still too scared to try to drive after the golf cart incident.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever babe,” Remy brushed him off. “Anyway, we were talking, and I think she maybe got a little pissy that I wasn’t drinking the wine she gave me. It was probably poisoned now that I’m thinkin’ about it. Anyway, she must have finally gotten tired of me and pushed a button. Suddenly a bunch of guards were storming the room and, man, they were definitely the shoot first, ask question types ‘cause they immediately started shooting at me. Luckily I was wearing the light weight bullet proof vest Logan’d gotten me and I dove under her desk and, let me tell you, for how organized she is about her criminal empire and how clean the rest of the house is, she doesn’t clean much under her desk. I think it’s probably ‘cause she doesn’t let any of the maids in there to clean. Honestly, that might be where Janus gets the whole leaving snack wrappers and tissues all over the house. Because gee her desk. And-”

“Remy.”

“Right, so, there I was under her absolutely filthy desk and I look up and she’s standing there staring at me and she just takes out a gun and bang shoots at my head. Luckily it missed, but it ricocheted off her desk and ended up in my calf.”

“You were shot in the calf!”

“It’s not a big deal, I’m fine,” Remy said. “Anyway, those were the poisoned bullets.”

“You got shot with a poisoned bullet?!”

“Yeah, so, luckily it was a poison I got doused with once in Italy in my 20s and if you manage to survive it once, you’re good forever or whatevs, but like, I knew she thought it would kill me so I played dead. So, then after that, she called in Gilbert, you know Gilbert, the butler with the little trapezoid shaped beard? Yeah, so Gilbert comes in and she’s like, “get rid of his body” and he’s like “cool beans” or something to that extent. Anyway, he drags me out’a there, but the thing is Gilbert’s cool or maybe not cool because he’d totally bury my body without flinching, but he’s cool enough not to kill me himself or even run and tattle. So, I go, ‘yeah, not dead,’ and he’s like ‘Kay, but don’t tell her I knew that,’ and I’m like ‘jolly good, mate.’ Then I run off to her office (the secret one, not the one her and the armed guards are in) and steal the flashdrive. I go to get in my car, but she already ordered it to get blown up! I mean, rude, bitch! At least give my body time to cool. So, I end up hiding in the back of the catering company van that had come to get the kitchen ready for the gala she’s throwing later tonight which, I mean really, you’re serving shrimp and salmon, what type of monster are you? You do seafood and steak, not seafood and seafood. Ugh. Why did I ever have sex with her again? Anyway, I ride in the van to town and then bolt out of there before they can see me. Then, I get on a bus because I have a bus token in my wallet, but the bus driver is a bit chatty and this is a covert mission so I tell him my name is Gilbert, since Gilbert the butler was on my mind and that I am visiting my new granddaughter in the states but I’m actually from Quebec and I spoke French to prove it. I was going to get off near the one clothes shop on third, but then we drove by your office and I saw your car so I got off at the corner and picked your lock to get in your car and waited for you to come out because I thought that’d be quicker.”

“You’re doing the thing,” Emile said.

“What thing?” Remy asked flippantly.

“The thing where you use misdirection and slang to attempt to distract people from serious issues.”

Remy slunk down in his seat. “Ah, that thing.” Damn him and his stupid fancy psychology degrees.

“Is your leg okay?”

“Smarts like a bitch, but it was just a graze. I already bandaged it up and disinfected it.”

“Good,” Emile said. “Would you prefer if I yelled at you in chronological or alphabetical order.”

“I’d like to see you try out alphabetical.”

“Well,” Emile started. “First of all…”

Want to read more? Click below!

AO3 Part 9

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horrible-monstrosity · 4 years ago

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mothermom 3 is a baaad animine

part 1: fuck these characters I thought the bit about not being able to go through a certain way because there's ants (that the player can't see) you wouldn't want to trample was going to introduce a theme of kindness and gentleness, but the game sure... tramples that early on by having your oh-so-kindhearted-and-mournable mother trample the fuck out of a sentient talking mole cricket to death right the fuck afterwards. Like, you were just talking to and playfighting with that mole mere seconds ago, and now it's thoughtlessly and meaninglessly dead, and it's supposed to be funny. And then you're supposed to forget all about it when mom dead because care and have emotions for this characters you've barely known for like one minute worth of interactions dragged out over like an hour. ok Then after bumbling along being a hollow little bag of nothing for like ten hours Lucas suddenly proves himself a detestable little cunt by just straight up stealing something he's told was a precious item, a yo-yo belonging to Porky's friend. Because, like... fuck Porky, I guess, in this geame franchise about love and heart and healing there's just this one fat kid we're all supposed to just disregard and piss and shit on and detest by default for no fucking reason just because the game narrative said so. Porky's existence was pretty weird already in Earthbound- he's apparently being abused by his fat parents, and aside from being a bit snotty and show-offy, he does at least make sure his little brother gets home safely at the beginning. He just seems like someone who needs a friend, which... actually makes Ness look like an asshole in retrospect for not just giving him some kind of help. It was kind of fine in that game because he was just a minor character, but making him some supervillain in the next game just because he was some dumpy abused kid is just... what the fuck. But anyway, whenever the plot expects us to care about Loocus and his dumb dead mom I just think about things like the yo-yo and the mole cricket and I lose all empathy. These people are assholes. You're trying to make sympathetic victims out of assholes and an asshole out of a sympathetic victim. Get your meaningless fucking sunflowers the fuck off my screen you bitch fuck

And then on the other hand there's Duster. The character who's absolutely the most deserving of empathy out of all these cunts and we're supposed to see him reembracing his shitty old life as something he should be really happy about. Like for one thing, the entire plot where he reenters the cast is stupid and makes no sense. When we hear he's at the club playing with the band, I could think of a lot of reasons for it- he could be laying low to protect the egg (seeing as how Tamzilly got pozzed and going back there would accomplish nothing), he could have just decided to fuck off and do something he actually enjoyed rather than go back to his shitty asshole dad, he could have somehow ended up far far away from the town and joined the band to make his way back home travelling with them/earn a living so he could get back. But no, before we even get to see him and see how he's acting Strong Female McDerpa Character tells us that he most definitely has amnesia. Because, like, why would he ever give up on his jackass dad and that braindead town otherwise? And then we meet him and it's exactly what we were unceremonously told it was, how rivetting. Then for some reason he decides that if he's really who you say he is he needs to... give up his life as a band member entirely to get the egg back. Can't just come with you to get the egg or until the adventure's over, nooo he needs to abandon his new life forever and ever and just go get fucked and fuck himself. fuck. let my man play guitar and also that "thiefs but good somehow because derp" shit is retarded and I hate it

Finally there's Girl Character who I refuse to even remember the name of because she's... nothing. Even her being kinda cunty about how she's sTrOnG and nOt lIkE ThoSe OthEr gIrlS is just bland. The other girls from the past two games were cute and girly and still credit to team with their strong psychic powers, why the fuck is she like this?

part 2: i've stopped giving a fuck about making this into parts fuck you What the fuck is the story of this game? You spend hours dicking around with a fucking timeskip and a ghost mansion or some shit and the game randomly namedrops the needles at some point, and then... the six or seventh chapter is just titled GUYS THE NEEDLES ARE ACTUALLY REALLY IMPORTANT YOU GUYS. Six or seven fucking chapters in, and we've barely gotten to anything resembling a coherent plot. What the fuck have we been doing up until this point again? Why the fuck do we even need the dragon needles plot anyway? Just have the main cast move from one pigmeng plot to another with things like the thunder tower, slowly working their way up the chain of command until they reach the final boss and his ultimate plan. You don't need to introduce an entire plot worth of fucking shit a third of the way into the game you fucking fuckers

The themes are a fucking dumpsterfire. Just plop some fucktarded work bad money bad bullshit in there and call it a day... Evil monkey man could have given that fucktard anything and got him to hide it in the well and it would have caused a ruckus when he came back and stole it. He could have convinced him to hide his grandma's ashes in the well- would the takeaway from that have been that honoring the dead bad? That's how fucking flat it is. If anything it just comes off as if the people of Tamzilly are just a bunch of mindkilled retards with no defence against humanity's own nature aside from shutting themselves off from the outside world entirely- the slightest contact with normal human interactions like money or having to contribute to society for a living, they all self-destruct. It's not le capitalism that made the old people home bad, it's whoever the fuck actually built it... which, if the outside world weren't basically strawmanned with the le evil pigmans and monkey abuser guy, would have been Tamzilly themselves. Which, because the strawmanning is so unbelievably absurd, makes it seem like Tazmilly is just a retarded place that somehow managed to make the old people's home this bad on their own or some shit I don't know I just can't buy it

Speaking of empathy, the game somehow manages to make the Pig Heil guys endearing even while they're actively working on the thunder tower that's cooking the dumbass town residents. Are they supposed to be abusing the electric catfish when they're cutely telling the things to hang in there and do their best? When Lucas got a jerb hustling the golems around and they managed to make it like a positive thing (the pigmangs encourage you, seemingly pay a decent wage, and even the doggo enjoys running on the treadmill once he gets into it), I thought there was going to be a tweest or at least some nuance, but the absurdity of the nice ol' piglins in the evil tower just makes it seem like it's just entirely unintentional, by writers who just have no idea what the fuck they're doing. The generic braindead modern-bad messaging and the generic brainless funny-characters-ha-ha sides of the writing clash horribly and somehow manage to mangle each other even worse than they already were.

The whimsicality is fucking dead. It's just all so forced and one-note... or, very consistently two-note in every single thing, because absolutely every single monster you meet is just two things funny stuck together. The first two games could glide smoothly between fighting enraged possessed zoo animals and weirdo people, weirdo fucking blended monsters that don't look like anything in particular, and then just sometimes the taxis that're used for decoration on roads will veer off course and engage you in battle. It's simultaneously wildly unpredictable and smoothly cohesive. And it's wonderful. But M3 is just... it leans over, shoves a megaphone down your throat and loudly informs you that "the PIGMEN have FUSED the THINGS toGETHER" and proceeds to beat you over the head with "this thing is THAT thing and THAT thing" over and over again. It's forced, mechanical, hamfisted and just not whimsical at all. And it's not just because the pigmengs aren't Giiigigigigiyasass (which could have been fixed by having them harness traces of Gig's power if that was the problem anyway), because it extends to absolutely everything- the ghosts at the mansion for example are just all absolutely fucking nothing. Like the main big bad boss is just "he's GHOST who THROWS FURNITURE and is BEETHOVEN and plays BEETHOVEN MUSIC". Because Beethoven is old thing therefore old mansion and ghosts, geddit? How fucking pathetic. Oh there's another thing, the weird aliens/conspiracy bent the first two games had is gone entirely. That's something that really helped it feel so wild yet at the same time cohesive... Actually, the game also seems to have done away with the surprise overworld sprite encounters like the aforementioned taxis. ... No wait that's right, they blew their load in the first levels with the rock lizards, which were fucking boring.

The dialogue fucking sucks. just fucking drags the fuck on endlessly for fucking ever to say barely anything, and barely anything you need to actually hear. Did Earthbound ever stop you to inform you that the TAXIS are AFFECTED by GIGUDUGDSAS like you couldn't figure that out yourself? No, they say Gigi's affected shit in a couple sentences near the beginning and let the rest of it speak for itself, pretty much. It's hard to give exact examples because I can't fucking remember any of this shit because it just slides right off my brain like ducks off of water, it's so bland and pointless. The sparrows drone on endlessly with worthless tutorial shit and then take an entire extra sentence to chirp at you and remind you that it's talking animals oh wow wacky!!!!!!! And when Duster decides he really is what you say he is he stands there going "ME IS DUSTER" over and over again like he's fucking Bimpson. You don't have anything interesting to say about finally figuring out who you really are? Okay... There's multiple fucking scenes of slow-scrolling walls of fucking text telling you absolutely nothng you don't already know except that the writers are wanking the fuck off over their own dumbass writing where in Earthbound there was like one scene of this towards the end that really just set up the emotions of the final sequences and underlined how far you'd come and shit and was a good moment of reflection and shit.

I also find it exceptionally intersting that all the people in Tazmilly before the timeskip have names and unique appearances, but anyone who only shows up after is just some generic design called "Man" or "Woman" or what have you. It feels weirdly dehumanizing towards outsiders.

This game fucking feels like the writers just fucking dumped a bunch of absolute shit down like they expected everyone to just eat it up, either because of the success of the previous games or because of the emotional manipulation the plot is laced with. The characters are all either detestable cunts or desperately need to be airlifted out into a better game pronto. And it's unsettlingly... modern in what's wrong with it. The capitalism-bad-tradition-good-mindkill-yourself messaging, the spunky female character(tm) who rubs it in your face how strongk she is (and who keeps talking even when you're controlling her while the other characters all become silent protagonists)... even the weirdly random spite towards characters the narrative has decided aren't "deserving" enough, or characters only being allowed to handle said spite and retain sympathy by cucking to it completely (Duster)... I suppose that's just a sign that these sorts of writing problems and hangups are older than that and have just become more popular/visible in recent times, but it's still really fucking weird to see.

I feel like I should be concerned that the team behind the Earthbound series also started Gamefreak and created Pokemon, though since the split obviously happened before Mo 3 I don't know how much overlap there is between staff members there specifically... seeing as how these exact same sort of writing problems have started to rear their heads in the Pokemon franchise, starting weakly in gen 6 (cough zinnia cough abandoned ship plotline cough) and absolutely fucking exploding in 7 (cough LILLIE COUHG FUCKING TAPUS COUGH AGAG V HIC CUFGH VOMIT AAGHK); I haven't yet fully witnessed gen 8 but everything I've seen of it so far looks no better, except there's no shill character (Marnie is just kinda... there), just suffering. But that's all for another post.

welp time to go watch the remainder of the game until my brain rots off

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sergeant-morozov · 4 years ago

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The two bandits had been laying down on their backs on a rotting tank at the vehicle graveyard, looking at the stars and talking for hours. It was usual for Bat to go on and on about crazy things his brain could come up with on the go, mostly ridiculous stuff but sometimes something actually useful would come up. Few ideas had actually helped them out of deep trouble. Gecko liked the nights when Bat wasn't drunk, they could have a fun talk which wasn't going to end up with both beating the living shit out of each other.

"Do you really think there's something out there?" Gecko sounded sceptical towards what his friend thought about the universe.

"Yeah, dude! There could be lizard people!-- living on a planet that's literally just a giant ruby floating in fucking space!" Bat flailed his arms up towards the star filled night sky, his friend just giggled at his imagination.

"Sure, they even have their own culture, they drive in their little cars to go to their little work places to earn a payment that's a bag of alien meal worms!" Gecko lightly punched Bat's shoulder and heard a gasp from him.

"You think they work for food or they use worms like paper money?!" Bat sat up and with rounded eyes stared at Gecko who had an amused look on his face.

"What if it's both?" Gecko smiled at Bat before looking back up to the sky. He could hear his friend slowly lay back down on his side, facing Gecko with a puzzled look.

"They have to eat their income?.. that fucking sucks.." Bat sighed deeply before going silent. Gecko had his smile wiped down after hearing Bat, maybe he shouldn't have said that.

Gecko turned to his side and saw Bat thinking about something new, he waited for him to say his idea but only saw his eyes light up for a second before going back to normal. Bat turned to lay on his back and kept his eyes up to the sky.

"Hm? You had something to add to the space ruby lizard-- uhh.. thing??" Gecko grabbed Bat's hand and pulled it closer to him.

"Yeah, like, what if there's two lizards looking up to their night sky and thinking that there might be two hairless apes thinking about them existing out in space? What if they think we drive waffle cars and earn cubes of jelly??" Bat was zoning out while explaining his new idea related to the lizard idea. He could feel Gecko's grip on his hand loosen.

"That.. that's making me trip out. So.. uhh.. what if there's giants looking down at our planet?? Thinking if we're sentient beings or just bacteria doing funny shit down here?" Gecko felt uncomfortable thinking about it and could sense Bat still zoning out next to him.

"Fuuuck dude, WHAT IF there's some giants dictating our lives without us knowing! What if THEY make OUR money out of some alien jelly and the government just tells us that it's made from paper! It already smells weird!!" Bat snapped out of his brain and saw Gecko looking at him all concerned.

"Shut up, money smells like it does because it's money! Gasoline smells like gasoline because it's fucking gasoline!!" Gecko sounded annoyed with Bat's theory but the tone just made Bat to become more eager to continue his thoughts.

"But do you really know WHY it smells the way it does? Hm??" Bat pulled his hand back and crossed his arms on his chest. Gecko was getting more and more annoyed at his friend but his rising frustration stopped as he heard Bat whisper loudly and shaking his opened palms: "Alien jelly!".

"Tch, whatever.." Gecko turned back to look at the stars, he could hear Bat giggle before both went silent again. Only the crickets and occasional owl hoots filled the night ambience.

"Y'know, sometimes I forget that there's life outside the zone who have no idea what radiation feels like or how scary emissions are. We used to be like them." Gecko sighed in a sorrowful tone, his friend only chuckling back; "Yeah, but they also don't know how much fun it is to live here. No cops, no rules- just guns, chaos and anarchy. That's better than paying a fine for public intoxication.. fuck that stupid shit.." With that Bat could hear another sigh but this time an amused one, he turned to look at Gecko who shook his head with a wide smile.

"You've paid a fine like that once?" Gecko turned to his side and saw Bat relaxing next to him with his eyes shut. "Once. And that was with couple of my friends but they didn't have to pay shit although they were also drunk."

The silence continued only for a minute as Bat's eyes shot open with a new idea sparkling through them and Gecko knew immediately that the idea was a wild one, even he got excited to hear it. "Do the space lizards have to pay stupid fines?! And did the space giants create cops because they couldn't slap us without squishing us under their fingertips?!?" It wasn't quite what Gecko had expected to hear and caught mixed feelings from it.

"The giants created me to drag you both back to bed.." Both bandits flinched from the sudden deep, tired voice coming from next to the tank and got up to see Owl standing with his hands in his pockets. "...The space lizards have to sleep too?" Owl felt awkward by the stares but then reassured as Gecko jumped down from the tank before barking back at Bat; "Oh noo, this giant's creation has..uhh.. Mind reading powers!" Gecko laughed before continuing to walk towards the train station, Owl shaking his head but then hearing Bat yell back: "Don't make me paranoid!!"

"You don't actually know what I'm thinking?" Owl heard his friend's uncomfortable whisper to which he groaned; "No.. I wasn't created by any other beings than by my parents outside the zone.. No mind reading powers." He went after Gecko who was now waving for the two to speed up, Bat got down from the tank and walked after Owl.

#stalker oc #oc stuff #had this for a long time in the drafts. maybe the first ever writing about the bandits??#can't sleep so I finished it.. I wanna write so bad but.. idk..

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falloutforties · 4 years ago

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Five Years {Chapter Two}

Description: Nora meets some new friends, and encounters some of the worst creatures the wasteland has to offer. But it’s no big deal, really. Lemons into lemonade, right?

Warnings: Again, no real warnings for this chapter aside from language and some violence.

Note from the Author: This story is also on ao3, if you’d rather read it there, but I will continue to post it here as well! Writing and publishing this story has given me something exciting to do during quarantine, so I hope that someone sees it and also finds some excitement.

II. BAD RADS

From the second she hit the ground, she decisively ignored the pang in the soles of her feet and sprinted across the mottled street, dodging upturned cars and pieces of unsettled tar that littered the road. The thing was moving fast, faster than she would ever have imagined, sweeping great gusts of wind across the city as it moved.

It was beautiful in an incredibly terrifying way, she had to give it that. If it were stuffed and displayed behind a glass case in a museum, she would have gawked at it, but it wasn’t stuffed, its heart was still beating, and she was losing stamina.

“Fuck it!” She shouted and hoisted the mini-gun onto her hip with a wretched groan. Everything she did hurt her physically, but the thought of being ripped limb from limb by the creature seemed to hurt more, so she suffered the massive bruise that would certainly grow from her hip bone into her ribcage where the mini-gun sat spinning idly.

“RED BUTTON!” Screamed Garvey from the museum’s balcony. “THERE’S A RED BUTTON! PRESS THE RED BUTTON! RED BUTTON!”

He kept repeating it, over and over, and it took her mind a few seconds to process before she spotted it, and the mini-gun began to whir at a frightening pace. As it heated up, the creature lunged towards her with the bloody debris of a raider stuck between its teeth and on its horns, dripping bits of lung onto the street. She could have vomited, but there was no time. She would have to reschedule.

“GET FUCKED, YOU SLIMY BASTARD!” If her plan didn’t work, she would have looked foolish screaming such harsh words just before getting ripped apart. They would have been excellent last words, but they wouldn’t look very pretty printed on a marble tombstone. Much to her surprise, and the aesthetic benefit of her epitaph, the gun began firing right into the monster’s chest, finally sending it sprawling out across the street.

As the ringing in her ears died, she watched the monster’s enormous chest heave ragged breaths as it died. The mini-gun still spun in front of her, ready in case the monster had a friend, but the streets grew an eerie quiet that replaced the ringing with a stale, audible silence.

“Fucking shit, fuck, fuck, shit, fucking fuck,” she muttered. The mini-gun finally gave way and crashed into the gravel beneath her as her knees buckled, sending her face-forward into the rubble. She heard Garvey’s feet hit the pavement and the frantic calls of Sturges behind him.

“I’m fine, guys,” she assured. In her mind, she was waving her hand at them as a sign of life, but her physical body was unaware of her intentions as it lay limp and crumpled like a rag doll. “Don’t worry, I’m alive. Just a little tired. Just gonna take a little nap here, right on the road. No worries, no worries.”

“Get her off the ground, Sturges, we’ve got to get her inside.”

“I’m on it, boss.”

She felt Sturges’s roughened hands scoop beneath her armpits, hoisting her from her pathetic position into his arms. She vaguely understood that this was the first real human contact she had in so long, but she couldn’t help but feel embarrassed by it. She imagined Nate’s face, scornfully watching her as another man carried her to safety.

“Thank you,” she said as she was set on a cushion on the lobby’s floor. The Minutemen surrounded her, watching to see if her eyes would shut permanently. “I’m fine, folks. Don’t worry about me.”

“That was some show, ma’am. I’ve been handling a gun as long as I can remember, but I don’t think I would last that long against a Deathclaw.”

“Is that what it’s called? Man. I guess that makes sense, though.”

“Never seen a Deathclaw before?”

“Nah, never had the pleasure,” she intoned with a dreamy smile. Nora was just happy to be alive, even if it meant she might live to see another Satan-Lizard hybrid. The sight of Preston Garvey sat in front of her with a concerned expression on his kind face made her swell with pride, and Sturges posted by the front door made her feel safe. She liked the wastelanders. She liked all the people she’d met— she even liked the raiders, in a weird way. Everyone was plucky and happy to just be alive.

“Once you’re feeling up to it, you ought to come with us. We heard of an old neighborhood close by that would make a good spot for a settlement. Sanctuary Hills. Appropriate name, huh?”

“Are you sure this is a good idea, Garvey?” Marcy questioned from her place against the far wall. “We might be safer holed up in this place.”

“We’ll never know unless we try. Sanctuary might be exactly the kind of place we need.”

“Sanctuary will be good for you,” Nora interrupted, and Garvey turned to her in surprise. “I used to live there. Before the war, that is.”

“The war? What war?”

“The war. It’s a long story. I’ll tell you when I’m not at death’s doorstep, but I think Sanctuary Hills would be a perfect home for the Minutemen.”

She closed her eyes and pictured the little settlement in her mind, but for the first time, she saw it as it was, the wrecked little suburban paradise that sat just below the looming hill of Vault 111. She saw the skeletons of houses and the spindly arms of irradiated trees that grew through the empty windows. She saw the empty beds, the dirty halls, the rusted doorframes. And she saw life in that. She saw Preston Garvey stepping lively down the neighborhood streets at night with his hands in his pockets, whistling a song no one knew the name of. She saw Marcy and Jun huddled together in bed on a cold night, listening to the crickets chirp in the woods outside.

There was life in Sanctuary Hills. It was hidden in the darkened corners of ruined houses, but it was there, and it was perhaps even more meaningful than before the war.

“Alright then. Everyone rest up. By morning, we’ll move on to Sanctuary Hills.”

On the afternoon of the next day, she sat cross-legged on the floor of her Sanctuary home, where she once would have kneeled on the sticky plasticky linoleum, scrubbing at grout because the Hawthorne’s were coming over for Sunday brunch the next day, and they would be keenly inspecting the grout.

Recently, she had been practicing a train-of-thought exercise in which she let her thoughts go wherever they wanted. Most times, she kept a strict adherence to thought-rules. She couldn’t afford to think with too much sentimentality or hope, because the word no longer conformed to such things, but she allowed herself moments of wildness when she felt that her feelings could no longer be restricted to the dusty back corners of her head.

My brain hurt like a warehouse, it had no room to spare. I had to cram so many things to store everything in there.

She wondered where she would be in five years, and for the first time, she seemed to notice that her prescience did not extend to the rest of the year, even. She would just have to wait and see the next morning, and then the next, and the next, until she woke up and knew she would die.

Assuming she would be alive in five years, would she have wasted away? Turned to chems in her misery, taking hits of jet between grand Nietzschean thoughts about the meaninglessness of life? Would she succumb to the horrors of radiated life, her skin beginning to pool in rough gauntlets down to the tips of her fingers?

I do have to admit— being irradiated enough to glow green would look cool as fuck.

Fuck, fuck. FUCK.

She loved swearing. Even in her head, it felt liberating. Before the bombs fell, she had never once swore aloud, much less for people to hear. The language of the wasteland was beautifully rough, and she loved hearing even the most profane raiders spit vitriol at her, even as she shot back from behind an old Gunner’s barrier.

“FUCK!” She yelled out loud, with a smile. She wasn’t sure if Codsworth heard her, or if he was appalled at her sudden outburst of foul language, but she didn’t care. He would understand.

She wondered errantly if he was programmed graciously enough to be able to swear so violently himself.

If Codsworth said ‘fuck’, that would make this whole thing worth it, I think.

It had been three weeks since she had pulled herself from that damned vault, and so far, she had to give the Nuclear Apocalypse credit. It had really done a number on good ole Planet Earth, and it was certainly creative in its exploits.

Two-headed cows? Beautiful, brilliant, exceptional storytelling. Conceptually, it was all very nice. In practice? She thought it could do better.

Three weeks out of cryogenic storage, and the worst the wasteland had done to her thus far was get a switchblade stuck in her leg, which she in turn stuck into a raider’s leg. She was turning radioactive lemons into radioactive lemonade, and it was spicy in ways that lemonade shouldn’t be, but at least she wasn’t dead.

“Mum,” Codsworth interrupted her train of thought as he meandered into the living room. He had a few spots of rust on him now, an addition she was sure would infuriate him if she knew whether he was able to see himself in a mirror.

He’s not a vampire, he’s a robot. Of course he can see himself in a mirror. Just like he can see me.

“Hi, Codsworth,” she replied. She stood up from the floor and her joints creaked. That was a fun new problem that came with being over 200 years old, she had discovered. Her joints now sounded like the sputtering of an old car engine. She wasn’t built for this apocalypse business.

“Your friends from Concord have arrived, and their leader requests your presence.”

“Thank you, Codsworth.”

She wiped a stray tear from her eye that she hadn’t been aware of prior and headed towards the door to see her new ragtag group of friends making their way across the bridge to Sanctuary Hills, the Red Rocket Truck Stop looming behind them.

She hadn’t been completely useless in her three weeks in the wasteland. In fact, Nora was quite proud of herself. She had always wondered if she would survive in one of those tacky zombie movies that ran on weekends on Channel 42— “The Commonwealth’s Home for All Things Sci-Fi and Horror!”— and now she knew for a fact that she would survive.

In three weeks, Nora had restored the necessary parts of her old Sanctuary home, given her old robot butler a dusty bowler hat, traveled to Concord, beat the Ever-Loving Shit out of some giant glowing cockroaches, fought a Satanic Lizard, and met a really cool dog. The dog was now sleeping in a little red doghouse she had moved to her front lawn.

She had always wanted a dog. Having a baby, Nora had once thought, would be a gateway drug to getting a dog. That was Pro #4 on her list of Pros and Cons of baby-having. Now, she could have a dog, totally baby-free.

Take that, Nate.

As soon as Preston stood square-shouldered before the first house on the street, a menacing roar of thunder split the sky, and nauseous yellow clouds rolled in over the horizon. Nora wanted to think that it looked like the end of the world, but the apocalypse had already happened. This was just another awful thing she would have to live through.

She stood up and gazed at the sky under the shade of her palm as Garvey approached.

“Radstorm coming,” he mentioned casually.

“Radstorm?”

“Radiation storm. Bad news for anyone without a gas mask.”

“Radiation storm,” she muttered under her breath. “Of course there are radiation storms. What do people typically do during a radiation storm?”

“Stay inside, if you can. In your case, I would recommend getting a good sleep. You don’t look so good.”

“You sure you don’t need my help?” She asked, praying that the answer was no, but she couldn’t bring herself to go to sleep without at least asking. Damned maternal instincts.

Preston chuckled, “No, you go ahead to sleep, ma’am. You’ve already done more than we could ask for.”

Nora wondered if she would be able to sleep in her old bed. She hadn’t even tried, opting always for the Hawthorne’s old queen bed, now doubly-stuffed with Bloatfly larvae in the seems. Every time she walked into her old bedroom, she had to walk down the hall, and when she walked down the hall, she had to walk by Shaun’s room.

The child haunted her in so many ways, and she decided, after breaking out of a high-security vault and killing a Deathclaw in the middle of Concord, perhaps she was more able than she thought. She was going to find that child. Shaun was going to come home.

#deacon x sole survivor #deacon fo4 #fallout 4 deacon #fallout 4 fanfiction #female sole survivor #also i've never tagged a fic before?#if anyone is reading this and has tips on how to properly tag a fic... let me know bb

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inikavulpixelreviews · 5 years ago

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Let’s Talk About Pokemon - The Bug Type

Oh boy, it is indeed TIME for the finale of all these type reviews. Covering my absolute favorite type of them all: Bug!

I had always had a loving fascination with insects and arthropods since I was a young child. I'd not be shy to let them crawl on me so long as they weren't outright menacing like a particularly dangerous spider or some variety of ant with some mean chompers. I was THAT KID that caught caterpillars, fed them until they became butterflies, and then let them go. The kid that tried (and sadly failed) to keep an ant farm. I only kill bugs in my house that are being particularly invasive (and even then I always feel awful doing it); the rest I just escort outside. I don't care what any “whoa kill it with FIRE!!!!” kinda commenter says, spiders are pretty much welcome to stay in my room.

How sad is it that as I see it, one of the perks of having an outdoors day-job is I regularly get to make friends with insects?

Point is, bugs are good. They're good for the environment, and important to Pokemon's history itself. The man credited with creating Pokemon, Satoshi Tajiri, cited the major inspiration for Pokemon being his childhood memories of collecting bugs. OF COURSE bug would get its own dedicated element in this sort of RPG! As well as being one of the more populated types in the series.

It's just sad that it's not exactly THE most meta type out there. It's weak to a lot of types that are bad to be weak to like Fire, Rock, and Flying, but don't have much in the way of resistances or type advantages. The one real perk they have resistance-wise is blocking Fighting. They're at least good against some types that are handy to have a counter to. Either way, I pretty much CAN'T go a whole playthrough without picking up a bug buddy. It's impossible.

It also comes to light to me that, when you look over the whole roster of buggies like this, it turns out not one Bug is really designed to be “gross” or unappealing outright. I mean, I guess shed cicada skin can be uncomfortably crusty to the touch, but other than that, hmm. Nah, the closest we get is “arthropod menace” and that's about it. How do was have a COCKROACH Pokemon in the series at this point and the type is more or less squeaky clean as ever?! I guess I kinda do appreciate that Gamefreak rather legitimately celebrates insects as some really neat and fascinating creatures. Bugs aren't gross, they're cool! Bugs aren't nasty, they're neat! It's heartwarming to know a series as big as Pokemon sees insects and arthropods in more or less the same light as I do. Heck, I'm sure you could credit the series to warming up PLENTY of other people to be less squeamish toward bugs. Or at the very least think twice before they go squashing one that's minding its own business.

...That said, I wouldn't say no to them making more gross-looking bugs.

Top 10 Favorite Bug Types:

HNNNGH. This is too difficult. I can't. I gotta highlight more.

The Other Top Favorites:

There. My heart is a little more at peace now.

The Bottom 10 Least Favorite Bug Types:

Okay Fine

The 10 Bug Types I Wish Were A Little Bit Better:

Because the only Bugs in the whole type that just outright aren't my jam are Volbeat and Illumise, and that's it. The rest have just a little tidbit or two that I'd change or do a slight redesigning outright to get em to be up to par with other Bugs. Additional mention to Mega Heracross just because I'd almost rather Mega Heracross was its own, unique Pokemon instead of an alternate form of Heracross.

The Cutest:

Gen 5 is so good with adorable Bugs oh my goodness.

The Coolest:

The Prettiest:

The Spookiest:

...See what I mean? There is a CRIMINAL lack of spooky bugs in the Bug type!

Weirdest/Most Unique:

Shuckle is still a mystery.

Most Inventive Use of the Type:

How many times have I gushed about Shedinja's design throughout this whole review series? It's hard to make “the fact that it's a Bug” a real inventive thing by itself since it's a rather matter-of fact state of being for monsters like this. But these bunch in particular REALLY take advantage of their bughood and really show the designers at Gamefreak did their homework or just in general had some really neat ideas. Araquanid being a reverse of a real-life diving bell spider, a mosquito that sucks blood to increase its FLEXING capabilities, a cockroach that is a self-grooming neat freak just like real cockroaches are. Escavalier and Accelgor lumped together because of their specific interaction reflecting a real-life interaction between a beetle and its snail prey; albeit the ending is a little bit happier for this snail than in real life. Kricketune is a sadly unsung little stroke of minor genius in how a violin beetle gets to actually BE a violinist that plays its own violin body. Kricketune's just overshadowed by its own memey cry, sadly.

The Buggiest of them All:

I'm always perfectly fine with stylized body types when it comes to bugs, but I can also take a moment to appreciate the Bug types that are convincingly insectoid. Plus y’know. It helps when the odd bug type has the correct number of legs.

BUG TYPE WISH LIST:

NOTE: These Type Wishlists were written out before any news on new Pokemon from Sword and Shield. The Pokemon revealed over time will not affect these wishlists. Just to present them unaltered despite spoilers and in the interest of getting the wishlist out there, and to see which items on said wishlists get fulfilled by Sword and Shield!

[Inhale]

A Grasshopper/Cricket:

Despite their english names, Kricketot and Kricketune aren't actually crickets, but are actually moreso designed after beetles. So we've still yet to have any true orthoptera species of insect in Pokemon yet!! And that is a CRIME because Grasshoppers and Crickets are criminally underrated just because they're fairly common insects. God I could comprise of list of just some neat orthoptera I like. You could even kill two birds with one stone here by having an inter-species evolutionary line where a cricket evolves into a grasshopper!

Termites:

I'm still bummed Durant's evolutionary path is painfully underwhelming compared to actual ants. Where's like, the Queens?! And big-headed Majors?!? Either an expansion of Durant's current forms or a new set of Termite-mons would be really nice!

A Fly:

How weird is it that we've still yet to get a common house fly?! We technically have Cutiefly, but I'd love to see a more traditional-looking house fly. Or any other number of fly species if you're feeling adventurous!

A More Traditional Mosquito:

Buzzwole is absolute gold and I don't at all mind it, but I'm still feeling a bit of an itch (hah) for a more traditional looking mosquito. My first shot at making a mosquito monster in the form of my own Fakemon was incorporating the aquatic larval form as a scuba-diver that eventually evolves into a water-drinking and squirting big mosquito. MAINLY because I didn't think Gamefreak would ever even slightly elude to blood if they ever made a mosquitomon, yet here we are.

A Wheel Bug/Assassin Bug in general:

I just point out Wheel Bugs because they're easily my favorite kind of assassin bug, distinguished by the big gear-shaped hump on their back. But I'd love any assassin bug, really. Just look at their goofy faces.

A Giraffe Weevil:

I'm sure tons of people have seen pictures of this thing around the internet. And if you still haven't there it is. You will lay your eyes on this stupid thing and you will immediately understand why we needed a Giraffe Weevil Pokemon like, four generations ago.

A Bombardier Beetle:

While it may not look like much of the surface, this beetle is packing a venomous spray that it ejects from its abdomen to ward off predators! We could always use more Bug/Fire types, so why not pick this thing up and a flame-spewing or actual-bomb-chucking beetle!

A Dragonhead Caterpillar:

There is an irritating lack of insectoid dragons in the Pokedex that are actually classified as insects. You passed up DRAGONflies multiple times, guys! So fine, I guess I gotta pull out a more obscure wish; one of these bad boys! The Dragonhead Caterpillar is easily one of the sickest looking caterpillars out there, and totally befitting a Bug/Dragon type as is! The one sad thing about this is, like the antlions, it's another case where something's larval stage is a lot more neat looking than its adult form; for A Dragonhead Caterpillar would eventually become one of these:

...Yeah, while the Plain Nawab is pretty, its significantly less impressive looking than its caterpillar form, huh? Still no reason you couldn't just elect to give us a draconian butterfly while you're also at it! I guess I wouldn't be TOO upset even if an official Pokemon version of this bug wound up with a more fun base stage than its final stage.

Any Wooly Caterpillar:

I don't care which one you pick, a big ol fuzzy caterpillar is something CRIMINALLY missing from Pokemon at the moment!!

A Devil's Flower Mantis:

Mantids are some of the micro-world's coolest monsters. It's a shame then that the three mantid monsters in Pokemon so far are 1. A lizard with some mantis parts on, 2. More of a lobster, and 3. Not actually a mantis. And that sadly the latter means orchid mantids are out. While I'd be overjoyed to see any new mantis Pokemon, I think a Devil's Flower Mantis would be my personal go-to for a new mantis. It's just so god dang WICKED looking!

This Mind-Controlled Snail:

Because this thing has to be demonstrated in gif form to really portray the oddity of what's going on here. Although, the description is on the gross side, so here's a fair warning to skip past if you're squeamish.

This particular species of parasitic flatworm preys on snails. When they're eaten up by these unsuspecting mollusks, they'll soon find themselves getting their brain taken over by the pulsating worms that wriggle inside the snail's now-bloated eyestalks precisely to make the snail more enticing to birds to eat. Not only that, but the parasite also hijacks the snail's brain. Snails normally prefer damp and dark areas where they're relatively well-hidden away from any predators. These parasites force the snail into bright and wide-open areas like the tops of bushes specifically to make it as easy a meal as possible. They multiply in the bird's stomach before beginning the cycle anew when the bird, ahem, “drops” them off.

Obviously there's a lot of parallels to draw here from this and Parasect. But heck to it if I'd say no to a new, freaky mind-controlled hypno-snail. It'd be such a cool effect on an ingame model to see their eyes pulsating in color. You could even go ahead and make it a candidate for our first Bug/Psychic type!

A Stick Bug:

It's not super pressing that one gets in. I just think stick bugs are neat.

A Black Widow:

I know we got Ariados, but something feels missing from the spider roster in that we don't have a traditional creepy crawly-type spider. A Black Widow is about the most stereotypically creepy spider out there, but I'd love to see it for its potential either way.

A Peacock Spider:

One more spider while we're on the subject of spiders. And offset a spooky spider with a cute one! There's all sorts of fun takes to have on a peacock spiders.

A Pelican Spider:

No hold up. Wait a second. One more spider because I had literally discovered this thing as I was writing this very list. Look at this thing. Look at this spider. What the hell. What the actual hell. What is happening. What. I want one now.

APPARENTLY this Pelican Spider is a species of spider that specifically evolved to eat other spiders. Its weirdly long “neck” and extended mandibles are designed to keep its prey at a long length away from itself so they the spiders it catches can't retaliate with their own bites. That's so neat. I could see how you can intemperate that into a gameplay sense; make it specialize in biting moves and have an ability that makes all biting moves no longer make contact. Maybe that's not HUGE but.

A Dobsonfly:

Again, no pressing reason I can think of other than dobsonfly are underrated, and getting a nice Pokemon to go with em would be cool.

Gah, there's probably a good billion or so I could continue to think up but I SUPPOSE it's gotta stop at some point.

“How on Earth did we wind up with some internet person talking about insects for about half an hour's worth of reading?”

ANYWAY, that's the final of the type reviews. Sword and Shield are just two weeks away, believe it or not. It’ll be a while before I’m back into the funk of making reviews. As I’ve said before, I’d like to take a month or two to really absorb all the new Pokemon they have on offer. For a brief little preview-opinion, the new Pokemon are overall pretty dang good so far. There’s already a couple I’ll be excited to talk about, but if preview event-goers are to be believed, there's’ apparently a TON of new Pokemon to look forward to.

ANYWAY Future-talk:

I dunno if I’ll do something in the meantime review-wise. I would go back to look at the recently discovered Beta Pokemon from Red and Green and Gold and Silver, but I feel like I’ve not got a ton to add to that conversation in particular. (Literally the only hot take I can really come up with is the Baby Vulpix is kinda lame)

I MIGHT look into doing character design reviews for some non-Pokemon properties. I felt like it was eventually gonna happen at some point, I’m just not sure about it happening YET given SwSh are so close and once I’m ready for those reviews I’d have to put the non-Pokemon project on hold. Tell me what sorta series y’all would like to hear my thoughts on for character design. My personal biggest candidates are looking at the creatures from the Pikmin series, the various boss characters from all the various Mega Man games, and looking over the Champions from League of Legends, as well as reviewing the monster cards of Yu-Gi-Oh.

Mega Man would probably be the easiest. Robot Masters don’t exactly require deep analysis to critique their designs. (Though that wouldn’t stop me from getting rambly.) It wouldn’t be until the X, Zero, ZX, and Battle Network/Starforce series that the designs get crazy detailed.

YGO and Pikmin would be easy too, the only issue would be figuring out a format for what order to do them in.

League would easily be the hardest to do. Cause being the completionist that I am, I would want to cover EVERYTHING. Old versions of the characters, NEW versions, as well as every single skin. The problem is figuring out an order to put it all in. The easiest would just to do iit in alphabetical order and cover the skins of each champ as we come across them. But I’d ideally like to do everything in chronological order. Start with the first 40 champions and then pan out to cover each one in order of release, skins included. It’s just really difficult to find a consistent timeline on League content, especially for skins. I dunno. That’d be something I’d have to look into.

Either way, no matter what I end up going with, I’ll see you next time!

[Archive]

#Pokemon #bug type #The Bug Type #Pokemon Reviews

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writethehousedown · 4 years ago

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When the Sun Sets on Us: Chapter 4 (Scyvie) — Phryne

A/N: Hey y'all! I’m back with the fourth chapter of When the Sun Sets on Us, a beach town romance between hopeless romantic Scarlet and cynical about romance Yvie.

Last Chapter: Yvie fought her feelings throughout the date, but kissed Scarlet in the end.

This chapter: Yvie’s back on her bullshit.

Enjoy!

“You’re full of shit, Yvangeline.”

This was at least the twentieth time Vanjie had said that to her. Sometimes she yelled it at her. Sometimes she whispered it in her ear as Yvie was waking up, first adjusting to the sunlight streaming through open curtains, then adjusting to Vanjie crouched down, inches from her face. Sometimes it was passive aggressive, yet implied, as it was when Yvie reached for her toothbrush and Vanjie smacked it off the counter like a disgruntled cat.

It would hurt less to hear if Vanjie were entirely wrong.

Yvie was in fact, full of shit when she walked back into the motel last night — finding all her friends still awake, snapping up to face her like a hoard of hungry lizards, all laid out over the beds, waiting for Yvie to shake some crickets into their tank — and told them she kissed Scarlet, but that it wasn’t a big deal and she probably wouldn’t see her again, so don’t ask.

They asked many questions, none of which Yvie answered. Instead, she went out to the motel balcony, locked the door behind her, leaned over the railing, and smoked a cigarette.

And Yvie knew she was full of shit too. She knew from the smile she held as she told them, the way her heart felt unbearably full when she said they kissed, the way she immediately thought of Scarlet dripping with pearly light when they parted, how Scarlet then pressed a chaste kiss to Yvie’s cheek and played with the hem of her shirt.

But Yvie simply chalked it up to the heat of the moment still spreading like a wildfire she hadn’t had the time to extinguish yet. Oh, how she tried.

And really, liking someone doesn’t mean anything more than liking them. She did like her, of course. Yvie couldn’t figure out a way to deny that, though she did try. But it was better to ignore her feelings. Nothing would ever come of them anyway, and she was sure Scarlet knew that as well. Yvie was nothing more than someone passing through Scarlet’s life, a person resigned to memory while still here, in the present.

“Yvie!” Vanjie yelled once more, standing in the doorway. “Earth to Yvie!”

Brooke poked her head through the doorway. “What the hell is she doing?”

“Probably thinking about Scarlet,” Vanjie replied, exasperated. “Like she been doing every fucking waking minute.”

“Is she coming to the beach?” Yvie heard Silky yell from down the hall, followed by Nina loudly shushing her.

Vanjie tilted her head. She jutted out her chin, waiting.

“What?” Yvie acted as though she hadn’t heard Silky. Really, she didn’t want to answer, because she didn’t want the chance of running into Scarlet and having to explain why she hadn’t texted her back this morning, or worse, see her and feel those same feelings from last night surging through her, sparking like a live wire, causing her to revisit the kiss: Scarlet’s head on her shoulder, Yvie’s arm around her shoulder, Scarlet nuzzling closer, Yvie’s thumb grazing Scarlet’s cheek, Scarlet’s plush lips moving so gracefully hers. All this, cloaked in the inky night spread around them.

“Come on,” Brooke took Vanjie’s hand, pulling her away from the door. “She’s not coming right now.”

“Bitch, you need to stop running away from love,” Vanjie called out before Brooke stepped in front of her.

Yvie sighed, her nostrils flaring. She needed Vanjie to stop insisting it was love so she wouldn’t have a good reason to think it was love herself.

Brooke cast her a sympathetic glance before closing the door. Yvie could still hear Vanjie yell that she was being stupid, and Brooke tell her she just needed time to figure it all out.

Yvie threw herself back onto the haphazardly made bed, covering her eyes with her forearm. She wished she didn’t have anything to figure out. Though she lost the ability to be thoughtless and carefree the moment she saw Scarlet clearing off that table, her heart lurching before a great fall.

Yvie groaned performatively and rolled over.

Her phone, still on the nightstand, neglected, dinged.

It was probably Scarlet again.

She had to figure this out.

***

Scarlet set her phone down and rounded the bar, leaning forward on her elbows and propping her face up. She let out a great sigh. She didn’t want to be clingy, of course, but she couldn’t understand why Yvie hadn’t texted her back. It was weird — and not in a good way.

“Kiki, when someone kisses you, do they usually text you back?” Scarlet asked, watching A’keria intricately fold the napkins.

“Always,” she replied easily. “It’s more like whether I respond or not, keep all this out of arm’s reach, you know,” A’keria ran her hands down her body.

“What if I don’t want to be out of arm’s reach though? What if I want to be in her arms? Like really bad?” Scarlet mused. “Ki, I want that so bad.”

A’keria gave a half-suppressed laugh. “You’re too needy.” She placed her freshly rolled napkin to the side, looking up at Scarlet. “And you need to start skewering that pineapple.”

“Oh right.” She picked up the skewer and sighed.

She unlocked her phone. No responses.

“Why won’t she text me back,” Scarlet whined, taking a pineapple chunk and skewering it.

“Maybe she knows how needy you are,” A’keria muttered, looking past Scarlet, probably watching the news on the tv behind her. “She can smell it on you.”

“Maybe she’s not answering because she didn’t like the date?” Another pineapple chunk. “But if she didn’t like the date then why would she kiss me? I mean, she was the one who initiated it, so she wanted to do it.”

“Uh huh.” A’keria continued rolling the napkin.

“Or maybe she wanted to keep the fish?” She set the pineapple skewer aside, beginning another. “We named him F Scott Fishgerald. Was that too dorky?”

A’keria took the fan and turned it entirely toward her. Scarlet barely missed the breeze staving off the heat.

“I thought it was very nice that we gave the fish to that kid. Also, Yvie didn’t look like she wanted to take care of a fish. They’re a lot of responsibility. You have to buy a bowl and feed it. That’s a lot. And F Scott Fishgerald seemed feisty,” Scarlet pondered, setting another completed skewer aside.

“Yeah, maybe,” A’keria replied aimlessly, readjusting herself on the barstool before grabbing another knife and fork.

“Or maybe she hates me,” Scarlet asked herself, finding her tone a shade darker. Her words were now running on uneven ground, tumbling out before she could remember to repress those thoughts. “I told her so much, Ki. I told her all about here and how being here sucked and how everyone leaves. Maybe she hates my sad sack of a life? She knows she’s going to leave too. She might just be saving me the trouble.” Scarlet sighed, feeling her vision glaze over as she stared at the pineapple chunk in her hand.

A’keria looked up. “Scar, I don’t know.”

Scarlet began skewering again. “I had a good time with her though. Really.” Scarlet looked up at the fluorescent panels, blinking rapidly. She didn’t want to cry. “I thought it was perfect.”

She reached for another pineapple chunk, now peering out of the restaurant, noticing a pigeon waddling away with a popsicle stick.

“I just felt understood. And she listened like everything I said made sense, like it had weight to her. And the kiss…” Scarlet ran through the scene in her mind, the way Yvie repeated her name like she didn’t know what to do with her besides kiss her, like Scarlet was the only word she knew, and she spoke it freely. God it made Scarlet feel wanted.

“I know, Scar.” A’keria gave a small smile. “I know.”

It made Scarlet feel like she was living out a fantasy, like she was the leading lady in a romance novel so well worn the spine had cracked and the cover image had started peeling. She finally felt like something beloved, cherished, precious. She thought of how Yvie held her hand, the gorgeous heat of their skin together, how their lips met gently — timidly at first, then sweet and slow as molasses — how when they parted, Scarlet’s lips had found their way to Yvie’s cheek instinctively, feeling Yvie’s dumbstruck smile in the fullness of her cheek, reciprocating with her own.

She set the finished skewer on the tray, the pineapple messy and unaligned.

“I just…” Scarlet sucked in her bottom lip, contemplating. “I don’t want to be saved the trouble.”

***

Yvie now found herself roaming aimlessly around the room like a caged animal. She had a few cigarettes, hoping they’d help calm her nerves, but she found herself contemplating the way Scarlet teased, how she stood up on her tippy-toes, just to whisper in a whiny, bratty tone that made the ground beneath her sway, until the cigarette burning down to the filter without even once raising it to her lips. Then she smoked the next with such urgency that the tobacco grew stale and tasteless.

She found distracting herself difficult.

So now she took to anxious pacing, her body now matching her restless brain. She paced and she thought about how she could simply respond to Scarlet and this would all be over. She could respond that she had a nice time but didn’t want to start anything serious. She could simply repeat some line about avoiding feelings to avoid heartbreak. She would be telling the truth as honestly as she knew how if she did that.

But she didn’t. Or rather, she couldn’t.

Not when she knew she would be hurting Scarlet by pulling away. But by not pulling away, she’d still be hurting Scarlet through the same means, only a couple days later.

Yvie eyed the floor. Then, pushing away a couple of discarded towels and throw pillows with her foot, she laid down, staring up at the ceiling fan whirling above her. It’s steadiness reassuring, affirming.

She wouldn’t have this problem, she decided, if the date hadn’t been too good. She’d tried to deny it ardently last night, as questions about her night were shouted at her from all directions, all while Yvie tore apart her duffle bag, searching for her oversized t-shirt, which was already on the floor. Every question about what Scarlet wore, what they did, what they talked about, how it felt to kiss her, if she was going to see Scarlet again, how such a moron could be the one to manage to find a girlfriend on their girls trip, if Scarlet was her girlfriend now. Yvie had denied it all, alternating between “it was fine” and “no” to answer their questions before turning off all the lights and stumbling to bed, passive aggressively sending the message that she would not answer any more questions.

Instead, she would lay in bed, a stupid grin struck across her face, and hold the image of Scarlet and all that neon light in her mind’s eye, play through the date once, twice, three more times, before falling asleep.

It was so good, in fact, that Yvie had to rethink her understanding of what constituted deep feelings, whether or not she had them, and to what extent she’d hurt when all she had was the memory of Scarlet and none of the warmth.

And now Yvie found herself here, laying on the matted carpet, saddened by excessive, elusive joy, thinking away her day when she should be having fun with her friends. Which was why she didn’t want to have deep feelings in the first place. There was nothing harmful about a crush on a waitress; the harm was in learning her name and reciting it over and over like a prayer.

***

Scarlet went to put her sloppily made pineapple skewers in the refrigerator, only to come back and find Yvie’s friends walking up to the counter.

She craned her head out the kitchen door, trying to see if Yvie was there with them, but coming up short.

Maybe something happened to her? It was weird that she wasn’t texting back and even weirder that she wasn’t here with her friends. Not talking to Scarlet was one thing, but the kiss wouldn’t have given Yvie any reason not to hang out with her friends.

Scarlet found herself growing concerned, her mind littered with thoughts of accidents Yvie could have fallen into, dreaming up scenarios that scared her senseless, made her heart race.

Maybe her friends would have an answer, Scarlet wondered, walking over to the counter.

“Scarlet,” A’keria warned. “Don’t bother those nice people.”

Scarlet stepped up to the counter, swiping her ID at the register, waiting for them to approach. Scarlet was prepared to bother those nice people.

“Where’s Yvie? Is something going on with her? I really hope she’s okay,” Scarlet blurted out the moment Yvie’s friends reached the counter, ambushing them with her anxious ramblings. “Oh, also hi, hello, what would you like to order?”

Brooke looked at Scarlet perplexed, yet disinterested.

“Uh, just two waters and two frozen margaritas, to go,” Brooke muttered, scanning the cards in her wallet before fishing one out.

Scarlet rang her up and took the credit card.

“So, is Yvie doing okay?” Scarlet tried again, swiping the card.

“She’s fine, she just didn’t feel like coming out today,” Nina replied, offering Scarlet a small smile. “Nothing to worry about.”

Scarlet found herself fidgeting as she tore off the receipt and dug around for a pen. Nothing to worry about sounded exactly like something she should worry about

Or it did to Scarlet, who already decided she was going to worry about Yvie for the following reasons: She wasn’t responding; She wasn’t with her friends; Scarlet missed her; Brooke didn’t respond to her question; Nina smiled at her like she was a child of divorce; She wanted to hold Yvie’s hand and was currently not doing so; and Silky and Vanjie, who seemed to be the loudest and most open of the bunch, were dead silent.

Brooke signed the receipt, sliding it back across the sticky counter to Scarlet, who took her time methodically folding it before sticking it under the cash box.

“Thanks.” Brooke threw her wallet back into her bag.

With that they turned away, surely headed to the beach. Vanjie looked back at Scarlet, inhaling deeply, contemplatively before turning back around.

“I’ll wait for the water bottles and bring them over,” she called back to her friends, though they were only inches away. “You guys go set up.”

Vanjie looked behind her and when satisfied, threw her bag on the counter, shoving her hand inside, searching urgently.

“Oh, we can bring them to you guys—”

“No, shut up,” Vanjie snapped up to look at Scarlet, who was confused by the sudden shift in tone. “Sorry, I mean be quieter.”

“Oh,” Scarlet breathed out. “What’s going—”

Vanjie threw her head back once more. “Don’t you hos go and get sand on my towel!” Vanjie finally pulled something out of her bag, what looked like a zip top baggie filled with cards and loose dollar bills.

Scarlet laughed to herself. “You know, it’s really telling that Brooke has a nice leather wallet and you keep your money in a bag.”

“Observant,” Vanjie noted while shuffling through her cards. “She also organizes her money by serial number, but don’t tell her I said that.”

“I won’t.” Scarlet giggled.

“You gonna get the waters?” Vanjie looked up before huffing, looking through her cards again.

“Oh right, sorry.” Scarlet pulled two waters out of the fridge, placing them next to Vanjie’s bag.

“Gotcha.” Vanjie pulled a card out and held it out to Scarlet.

Between the secrecy and the card, really this whole encounter, Scarlet was growing confused, which wasn’t sitting well on all the anxiety. “Brooke already paid.”

“It’s my room key.” Vanjie took Scarlet’s hand and placed the key in her palm, wrapping her fingers around it. “If I know Yvie, she’s probably still in our room, laying on the carpet or some shit like that, thinking herself to death. But she’d want to see you and talk to you and sort out her feelings for you.”

Feelings for you? So Yvie was okay, or at least she could assume Yvie was okay if Vanjie thought she was in their room. But what was she thinking about? And what did Vanjie mean by feelings? Scarlet almost hoped Yvie felt the same way about her as she did about Yvie before stopping herself, knowing that getting attached to someone else’s hypothetical feelings was a dangerous game.

“Wait, so what do you want me to do with this?”

Vanjie grabbed the waters and stuck them in her bag. “Go to her.”

And with that, she walked away, leaving Scarlet with the room key and a fragile sense of hope.

#rpdr fanfiction #scyvie #scarlet envy #yvie oddly #vanessa vanjie mateo #brooke lynn hytes #silky nutmeg ganache #nina west #when the sun sets on us #phryne #beach au #lesbian au #concrit welcome #summer lovin' 2020 #day 4: heat #submission

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winchester90210 · 5 years ago

Text

The BH 90210 Rewrite. 1x03: Every Dream Has It’s Price Tag

Rewrite Masterlist

Read the previous chapter here!

Chapter Summary: Y/N pays a visit to Brandon at his new job.

Pairing: Patience is a virtue, guys.

Warning: Swearing, feelings, minimal editing

Disclaimer: My work is not to be reposted or edited without my expressed written consent. (Reblogging is fine and encouraged!!)

Word Count: Roughly 2,700

A/N: Third episode is up! It’s a little short this time, but I enjoyed getting into romance novel territory with the descriptions this time. Next episode is a doozy, it’s one of my favorites. The First Time– Brandon’s old girlfriend from Minneapolis pays a visit.

The bell rings as Ms. Rye finishes her lecture,

“Okay, papers due on Monday. Remember, I want you to explore how…one decision, one event can change one’s whole life.”

You and Brenda both shuffle to get your things in order before standing up. She turns to Tiff as she and Kelly walk out of the room.

“Hey, Tiff, that was really funny what you said,”

“Who was trying to be funny?” She responds, mocking tone in her voice. You weren’t sure who Tiff was, exactly. Rumors say she was best friends with Kelly until they had a blowout over some guy and it didn’t end well. You didn’t have the best feeling about her, whoever she is.

“Male, female, root for your school, West Beverly’s team on against Beverly High, no fail! And don’t get lured by that sweet sweet nitro sale s-s-sale sale sale!” Once again, the D.J’s voice calls out, which marks the end of another glamorous day at West Beverly.

You spot Brandon, taking down names and numbers off the corkboard, hair blowing lightly in the breeze.

“You job hunting?” You ask, looking up at the different flyers and ads sprawled out amongst the board.

“Yeah, I’m just doing my bit for car insurance, you know,” He studies the board, writing things down as he goes.

“Anything looking good yet?”

“Well, I got uh, “Garden Graphics, Veggie Heaven Produce, This Town Restaurant.” I think we’re talking slam dunk here, Y/N/N,“ He jokes, tapping his pencil on his notepad.

You laugh, brushing a piece of hair behind your ear. “Hey, if your mom is anything like mine, she’d kill for a discount at Veggie Heaven,” you jest,“I gotta run, I promised Brenda I’d go shopping with her and Kelly. Good luck!” You tap your hand on his arm before walking off.

“Thank, Y/N/N.”

“‘Inverted Nipple Trouble?’ Pass. ‘Are you always attracted to losers? Here’s how to break the cycle,’” Tiff laughs at the magazine in her hand while Kelly searches through the tracks.

“Ugh, here is the cycle,” Kelly groans as she walks past Steve, with David Silver at his side.

“Trust me, dude. They’ll drool over this stuff,” Steve convinces, spraying a little black bottle of cologne on the collar of the much younger boy.

“Aw, finally found someone your own maturity level to play with, Steve?” You tease, joining Brenda at the other set of racks. Steve rolls his eyes and turns away from you.

“Oh, hey Tiff. How is that waterbed?” He smirks, turning back to the gold cologne wall.

“Kelly and Tiffany got nuclear over Steve,” Kelly’s friend gossips. Wow. Steve was the guy that tore them apart? Who would fight over him? Doesn’t exactly sound worth it.

“Details, please!” Brenda leans into her, interest piqued.

“But It was intense fallout. They just started speaking this semester in English class.”

You all grab the things you want to try on, and all five of you scurry into the freshly painted dressing rooms. You find a blue floral mini dress with cropped sleeves. It was so cute. And so two hundred dollars. Bummer.

“Do you really think one event can change your whole life?” Brenda asks, muffled by the white doors of the dressing rooms.

“Sure, like in pretty woman? Sorry Julia Roberts, but I’d wear this on the plane with Richard Gere.” Kelly responds. Such a deep thinker, that girl.

“No, I mean like what Ms. Rye was talking about– one thing you do ruining your entire life… I dont know, forget it.” Brenda continues.

“I don’t know, maybe,” You ponder. Your mind runs through the events of that night at the Bel Age. What would have happened if you stayed? Just being there for 30 more minutes probably would’ve caused you to bang Dylan’s brains out. That couldn’t be a good thing. You barely knew him, for one. You had to handle one confusing crush at a time. I mean, not that your thing with Brandon was really a crush, more of an appreciation… for a friend… that happens to be attractive. You didn’t like him like him.

“Maybe it wasn’t ruined,” Tiff calls out, “Maybe he wanted it that way.”

You change back into your normal clothes, fighting with yourself over the dress. Your parents would kill you if you spent all of your money on one dress. It was a totally cute, show-stopping dress, though. Go for it.

You walk over to the check-out counter with Kelly. You may be smart, but at this very moment you’re feeling weak.

The next morning you trot into english class, setting your bag down with a thud.

“Do you remember, Jake kissed like a wall?” Kelly giggles, practically linked at the hip with Tiff.

“OMG yeah, but he was better than the Lizard remember?” She sticks out her tongue, making a gross slurping noise while she walks to her desk.

You sit at yours, next to Brenda.

Tiff turns to both of you, “Hey!”

“Hey,” You give her a half smile, taking your book out from your bag.

“Hey, cool dress!” Brenda smiles, a nervous tick in her voice.

“Yeah, it’s a kick for sure!” Tiff spins around, posing before sliding into her seat. You notice Kelly roll her eyes in annoyance before sitting down.

“How nice of you to model for us,” Ms. Rye jokes.

“Ms. Rye?” Brenda asks, sneaking over to the teacher, “Um, I was just wondering, who’s more guilty– someone like in Les Mis who didn’t want to steal but had to, or someone who wanted to but didn’t?”

“That’s an interesting moral twister, um, and we’ll get to that,” She’s cut off by the bell, “now.”

You’re lying on your bed, eyes closed, finally getting some wel deserved peace and quiet. Away from all the gossipy peers, drama, and Tiffany. She exhausted you. You feel yourself drifting off to sleep, but the deafening ring of the phone jolts you up. Who could be calling this late? Why?

You sit up and grab your phone, answering it with a groggy “Hello?”

“Did I wake you up? I’m sorry, I can call someone-” You can’t help but smile sleepily at the sound of his voice.

“Brandon?”

“Yeah…listen, can you pick me up? I took the bus to work today and they don’t run this late at night,”

“So… You need a ride? I can do that. This Town?”

“Yeah,”

“See you in 10,” You hang up, frantically fix your hair, and throw on that $200 dress. You tiptoe down the stairs and out the door, not wanting to wake up your parents. Hopping in your brother’s 1990 Red Mustang Covertible, you slowly back out of the driveway and over to the bistro.

You pull into the parking lot, and see Brandon anxiously pacing back and forth, muttering to himself. You step out of the car, the cool nighttime air almost cold enough to leave you shivering.

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t Brandon Walsh, Beverly Hills’ own Working Girl,” you tease, a smile on your face. He smiles back, pushing the long blue sleeves of his sweater up his arms. “You ready to go?”

“Yeah,”

Your tired eyes meet his own. You get lost in the blue of them, admiring the way the moonlight looks on his face… Until the clearing of a throat shakes you out of your trance. You both silently get in the car, and you pull out of the parking lot.

“How was it?”

“I’m beat, the job’s a total bitch,” He confides.

“Really? It at least pays well, though. Right?”

“You know, that’s what I thought walking in there…but I make next to nothing, and these guys I work with, these– Vietnamese, Portuguese, Israelites, they’re coming here with no money and they’re getting completely exploited. They’re working for pine nuts,” He explains, a frustrated tone in his voice. He’s always looking to make things better for other people, it’s something you picked up on quickly since moving to Beverly Hls. It’s one of the things you quickly grew to love about him… Something that shines brightly in times like these.

“Wow…is there anything you can do?”

He sighs, resting his head against the seat. “I don’t know,”

The streets are totally dead, totally quiet. Peaceful. Only the occasional car comes around every so often. The crickets are loud tonight, though. Filling up the empty space. You see something as you stop at a red light.

“Hey, Bran? What’s that?” You smirk.

You point over to it, a large automobile, stopped at a red light with “Beverly Hills Transit” painted on the side. He looks over, and a smile– a goofy, nervous one, spreads across his face.

He stays quiet for a moment, the smile sticking to his face, shaking his head slightly. “It’s a bus.” You both look at each other and then back at the bus, slowly. You start breaking into a fit of tired giggles. You slowly get Brandon, who’s majorly exhausted from work, going too. So now you’re both sitting at a red light, giggling ike idiots. At a bus. A bus that wasn’t supposed to be there, according to Brandon.

Instead of overthinking the situation, you just drive him home, both of you giddy from exhaustion. You pull into his driveway, putting the car in neutral. This has been a weird night. Fun, but weird.

“Thanks for driving me home,” he says, his voice soft and barely above a whisper. You give him a soft “mhmm,” in return. And, like earlier, you’re staring into his eyes again, and he’s staring into yours. You’re drifting closer and closer…

And then his mom comes out. “I’ll see you tomorrow?” You nod in response, leaning back to your normal sitting position.

“Goodnight, Brandon,” You sigh. Happily, sleepily, defeated.

“Goodnight, Y/N,”

Sunday night came, and you were getting ready to go out to This Town with Dylan for dinner, to go pay Brandon a visit. You had told your parents you were going to study at the library with a friend, which…okay, this time it was a total lie, but you weren’t doing anything illegal. So it’s okay. You apply your red lipstick before heading out the door. You see Dylan in his black Porsche Speedster ,parked down the street. Just far enough to avoid creating suspicion from your parents. Perfect.

“So, was this place any good when you went?” You ask, perusing the menu.

“It was alright. Small portions, fancy plates. Good cumin,”

“Brandon’s been running the entire time we’ve been here, I don’t think I’ve even seen him take a breath,” You chuckle, watching him make his rounds. He was nothing if not a hard worker.

“You really like him, don’t you?” Dylan inquires, watching you watch Brandon.

“Come on, we’ve been over this. Brandon’s one of my best friends,” you insist, setting down your menu. You pause. “Okay. maybe I…I do like him. But I wouldn’t ever act on it. He’s kind of attractive, so what? He’s still my friend.” Brandon makes his way closer to your table.

“Yo, boy!” Dylan gets Brandon’s attention, who’s getting swamped with dishes from other employees.

“Hey!” He calls back, turning around. You admire him in his all-white uniform. It shouldn’t look so good on him, yet you’re breathless.

“'This Town,’” Dylan begins, reading the restaurant’s menu, “'This Town is an eating experience for the morning moments, a medley of sages, cumin bouquets, fragrant vegetable jewels,’” he drops the menu onto the table, then proceeds to drop his head, fake snoring. You and Brandon laugh at his antics, but Brandon’s interrupted by his boss not long after.

“Many people would love your job,” She states, black curls hair-sprayed into place as she moves along.

“Yeah, love that minimum wage,” He remarks, sarcasm rolling off his tongue. An asian man steps beside him, helping him with his work.

“You get minimum wage? Congratulations,”

“Yeah, right, same to you,” Brandon responds, raising his eyebrows.

“None of us do,” The man replies. Brandon cocks his head at that, turning to the man.

“That’s illegal!”

“So? Who’s going to do anything?” His coworker walks back into the kitchen. You see the look on Brandon’s face and you can tell…shit’s about to hit the fan. He stomps over to his boss at the counter.

“Listen–”

“I loathe apologies, make it up to me, Brendon, the cumins need filling,” his boss nags, putting on makeup in a compact mirror.

“It’s Brandon! Brandon Walsh! I’m an investigative reporter for the West Beverly newspaper–”

You watch Brandon rant and rave from your table, not able to quite make out what he’s saying because of the loud music. He starts unbuttoning his white coat while he vents.

“Uh oh…uh oh…Dylan, why is he stripping?” You tap him on the arm frantically to get his attention.

“What, I thought you’d like that,” Dylan jokes, playful grin on his lips.

“Oh, shut up!” You laugh, taking the little ball of paper from your straw and throwing it at his face. “I hate you.” You manage to catch the last bit of the conversation.

“…How you scam your help for under minimum wage! So you can take your cumin, and you can shove it,” Brandon slams his white coat down on the counter, walking back to you guys. Wow. You don’t know whether to be amused, proud, or incredibly turned on. All three?

“Take a load off, Minnesota. ‘Dinner Delectable’ is on me,” Dylan encourages, pulling out a seat for Brandon. You can almost see the adrenaline pumping through his veins.

“Whew, free at last, free at last. Thank god almighty–” he stops the waitress, “Excuse me, can I get a round cup and a round saucer? And I’d like it before the second coming please,” Dylan shakes his head and silently laughs, while your jaw is slightly slack, loving whatever mood Brandon’s in right now. “Come on, let’s get out of here. ”

“Done deal, I know just the place,” all three of you catwalk out.

The Peach Pit

Brandon takes a spoonful of apple pie, “The job wasn’t just to support my car insurance habit,” he tells you. “My dad’s always worked.”

The owner of the diner leans in, both hands on the counter, “He sounds as bonkers as me.” You take a bite of your own pie as he continues, “I was 10 when I worked my first big character part in an old bogie film. There was a real pro with a sweet tooth,”

“Now I know why you dragged me all the way out here,” Brandon turns to Dylan, who’s on the other side of you.

“Best pie in L.A., food for real people,”

“Here’s to real cups and real saucers,” you quip, and all three of you raise your glasses. You look around the diner, pictures upon pictures on the walls, pink wallpaper, and rock and roll music.

“Take it or leave it,” The owner, Nat smiles.

“What I like, is you get a real cross-section of people, you know?” Dylan comments, bringing his tea to his lips.

“This really is a nice place you’ve got here,” You smile fondly.

“Listen, uh, Dylan here has been bugging me about hiring someone to help me out, I figure who would be nuts enough to want this bit? Take you, you look nuts enough,” He faces Brandon, raising his eyebrows.

“Take me!” Brandon exclaims. Oh, those were words you dreamt of hearing come out of this mouth. “I’m nuts enough!” Dammit. He’s so cute.

“I’ll vouch for that,” you giggle.

“Me too, I’ll even waive my commission,” Dylan says.

“So, when do I start?”

“How about right now?” All three of you exchange cheeky smiles.

The night ends after a few slices of pie, some milkshakes, and a curfew that’s about to break.

“Thanks for coming out with me tonight, Y/N/N,” Dylan thanks as you slide into the passengers seat. You smile at him as he pulls out of the diner’s parking lot, and turns down the street, his engine humming and the crickets chirping. You look at him for a moment, lost in your thoughts. You admire him, the night sky, and the fresh, cool, nighttime air. You speak up.

“I don’t want to go home yet,”

Tags: @be-patient-be-good @fangirl-imagines @lilo-1988 @bevelyhills90210

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hermannsthumb · 6 years ago

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concept/prompt idea if you feel so inclined: newt had a cute but incredibly shitty local public access show as a little kid where he screeches about frogs and lizards and whatnot like a tiny coyote peterson, hermann finds out somehow and never lets him live it down ever but is also endeared because oh my GOD

hehehehe....

“You’ll be fine,” Newton says, as he struggles, in vain, to do up Hermann’s bowtie. “Really. It’s a piece of cake. I’ve done it a million times.” He drops his hands in frustration. “Jesus, how does this thing work?”

Hermann tsks, and then begins to fret a bit, one-handed, over the bow tie himself. Fretting is second nature to Hermann. Today has him fretting even more than usual: there were early alarms to be set, dry-cleaning to be picked up (Newton’s singular good suit had a large splotch of cocktail sauce on the lapel from years ago, Hermann’s good trousers had chalk on the seat and cocktail sauce from where Newton, incensed at Hermann for mocking him over his spilled cocktail sauce, smeared it in retaliation), cabs to be hailed, and, in nine minutes and twenty-five seconds, a television interview to be had. “Oh, we should’ve gone with the clip-on.”

“Clip-on’s not professional enough,” Newton says. “Everyone would be able to tell.”

The irony of Newton pointing something out as unprofessional is not lost on Hermann. Nor is the full meaning of Newton’s earlier statement; realization hits Hermann belatedly, but it still hits him. “What do you mean you’ve done it ‘a million times’?”

“Oh,” Newton says, airily. “You know.”

“I don’t,” Hermann says.

“TV,” Newton says. He finally manages to correctly knot Hermann’s bow tie, and cuts off Hermann’s attempts to question just what, exactly, he’s referring to by TV, by crowing in triumph. “Ha! There.” He curls up onto the toes of his boots--no amount of sweet-talking from Hermann could coerce him into wearing dress shoes, or even scraping off a little bit of mud from the soles--and plants a kiss on Hermann’s cheek. “Looking good, hottie.”

Hermann begins to flush. “Newton,” he half-chastises, because they’re in plain view of the backstage crew.

Newton plants another kiss at the corner of his mouth, this time, and smooths his palms down the front of Hermann’s dress jacket. “Looking really good.” He noses at Hermann’s neck, and lowers his voice, “I can’t wait to until we get back to the hotel, and I can—”

“Newton,” Hermann hisses, and Newton merely grins.

The interview goes smoothly. For Newton, anyway; Hermann’s sure he sat stiff-as-a-board for all of it, his eyes wandering everywhere, twisting the head of his cane over and over in his fingers, startling and stuttering for ten seconds whenever a question was posed to him before launching into a meandering and confusing response. But Newton really did seem at home: he smiled, he joked, he bantered, he touched Hermann’s knee, flung an arm around him at one point, had an answer prepared for every single question and then some.

Hermann would chalk it all up to Newton’s rock-star flamboyance bravado if Newton hadn’t led him to suspect otherwise. As it is, it’s clear that he has done this sort of thing before.

Hermann waits until they make it back to their hotel room, and Newton is cracking open the overpriced minibar--for celebratory off-brand sodas, he said--before he accosts Newton.

“So,” he says, at Newton’s hunched-over back. “Will you tell me what you meant now?”

Newton rises to his feet too quickly and knocks his head on the top of the fridge. “Fuck,” he says, and Hermann winces in sympathy. “Ow. Tell you what I meant about what?” He presses one of the soda cans to the spot he’d just hit.

“Being on television before,” Hermann says.

A very strange look flits across Newton’s face. “Uh,” he says. “You know. Those interviews I did years ago, back in 2013 or something.”

Hermann does remember, now that Newton mentions it. It’d been around the time they’d started corresponding. Newton had gone on television to voice his support for the kaiju being extraterrestrial in origin, and everyone’d taken one look at him--twenty-three, short, pink streaks in his hair, piercings, Buddy Holly glasses with a crack running across the bottom of one lens--and ruthlessly mocked him for weeks to come. Then invited him back to more talk shows to mock him some more. “Ah,” Hermann says. “I do remember.”

It doesn’t feel entirely the truth--Newton still looks oddly shifty, like he’s concealing something from Hermann--but Hermann feels guilty for making Newton relive a bad memory anyway, so he drops it.

“Soda?” Newton says. He offers the one not pressed to his forehead, but the act seems to remind him of why he pressed the other to his forehead in the first place. “Fucking hope this doesn’t bruise,” he says, darkly. Then he bats his eyelashes. “Will you kiss it for me?”

Hermann beckons Newton over.

Two years later, the conversation has slipped from Hermann’s mind entirely. He and Newton have better things to do, after all, besides give television interviews about their work during the war and make appearances at galas which require them to buy new ties and dryclean out cocktail sauce. They’re teaching again, and working on compiling their wartime research in their free time (three books--individual and joint), and, most importantly, enjoying each other. (Newton is skilled in a lot of areas in which Hermann is not, and he’s more than happy to share those skills with Hermann.)

Then one day, Hermann walks in to his eleven-AM lecture to find half of his students huddled around a single cell phone. They snap up, guiltily, to his attention, but only after Hermann has to resort to knocking his cane against the wood of his podium and clearing his throat repeatedly.

“...Yes?” Hermann says.

None of them speak. Then, after a few shared glances, the boy who’s phone it is says “We found your husband’s old TV show.”

Hermann furrows his brow. “You must be mistaken,” he says. “Newton’s never—”

The boy holds up his phone.

“When were you going to tell me?” Hermann says, the instant he walks through their apartment door that afternoon. Newton had off today, which means he spent the day running errands and finishing up household chores (taking out the trash, loading the dishwasher). He’s also started dinner, as the pot boiling over on the stove and Newton’s bright pink apron suggest.

“Hi, babe,” Newton says. He turns down the burner and smiles over his shoulder. “Tell you what?”

“Into the Wild with Newt,” Hermann says, ominously, and Newton blanches.

The video had not, truthfully, been very embarrassing. More endearing than anything, though with terrifically poor camera quality. (Nothing like the clips of Newton at twenty-three they’d featured on Buzzfeed for days after word got out that that was the Dr. Newton Geiszler who almost fried his brain to help save the world.) Newton had been no older than ten, with coke-bottle glasses and a missing front tooth, and it’d featured him on a cheap soundstage with equally cheap (and clearly hand-painted) cardboard safari sets, along with a few oversized ferns, as he squeaked excitedly about a type of iguana. The whole thing had been no longer than twenty minutes.

What more: there were more of them. Nearly thirty more. All featuring a tiny, freckled Newton going on and on about different amphibians and reptiles and insects, often with the amphibian or reptile or insect in question resting in the palm of his hand or (in the case of a lazy-looking snake) curled around his shoulders.

Hermann is charmed. Newton is not.

“I was eight,” he moans, hiding his face in his hands as Hermann clicks play on yet another. “It was a public access thing. My uncle made the sets.”

On Hermann’s laptop screen, Newton laughs as a fat tree frog eats a dead cricket from his fingers.

“You were adorable, darling,” Hermann teases. “Look at your safari hat.”

Newton swipes for the laptop, but Hermann holds it out of his reach; meanwhile, eight-year-old Newton kisses the frog’s head with a big grin. “How’d you even find this, anyway?” Newton huffs, even redder than before. “I deleted them off everywhere.”

“My students showed me,” Hermann says. He pauses the video to scroll to the YouTube channel name; it looks as if it might be the network Newton’s television show aired on decades ago. The uploads themselves are only a few months old. “I reckon they found the old recordings and uploaded them.” He adds, heavily sarcastic, “Since you’re such a rockstar now.”

Newton hides his face in Hermann’s shoulder. “Turn it offfff.”

Hermann shuts the laptop. For now. He doesn’t stop grinning. “You should revive it. Do you still have the sets?”

“You’re the worst,” Newton says. “Oh my God. I can’t believe I married you.”

#newmann #maria's fanfiction tag #hehe this was so fun to write #frogmuppet

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