#AND I learned that the color-perception shit was off AFTER I finished it and everything | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lopsided-whiskey-grin · 4 years ago

Text

Wild Violets and Unicorn Stickers

This is my contribution to the RBB put on by @android-whump-big-bang! This was the first Big Bang I have ever participated in and it was really fun to craft a story around a beautiful piece of artwork! I hope you enjoy reading Ralph’s story as much as I enjoyed writing it <3

WR600, register your name.

I see a man standing before me. And beside him are a woman and a young girl. A family. They are all smiling and it makes me smile. “Ralph,” the man says.

“My name is Ralph,” I reply. It’s a good name and I think it suits me.

The family brings me to their home. It is a beautiful farmhouse. Situated on a large plot of land down a long dirt road, it is much larger than the others we drove past when we left the city. Here there is a sprawling green lawn surrounding the house, with lush flowerbeds blooming in a riot of different colors bordering the wrap-around porch. I also glimpse a greenhouse as we pull around to where the garage is located in the back. I have a job to do here and I know exactly how to do it. I am eager to start.

The father of the family, who introduced himself as Garrett, gives me a tour of the property while his wife Olivia takes their daughter Gracie inside the house for lunch. Garrett instructs me on how he prefers the lawn to be maintained and how short to prune the hedges. Then he shows me where the various gardening tools and lawn mower are stored in a shed beside the garage; I carefully catalog everything on my hard drive, making quick notes as we go to check the pH level of the soil and the area’s water table.

Before he is done with our tour, Garrett shows me the greenhouse. To say that I am impressed would be a vast understatement. Late afternoon sunlight streams through the glass walls and roof, saturating the lush greenery surrounding me in a golden glow. There's rows of ripening vegetables running down the middle - tomatoes, squash, zucchini and others - and lining the sides are various herbs, a handful of flowering orchids and roses, some pastel-toned succulents, and fragrant lavender.

I glance at Garrett and smile. "It's beautiful."

Garrett beams with pride. "Thank you," he says. "I inherited this place nine months ago from my grandfather. He used to grow corn out here but his land got sold off little by little until just the farmhouse and the greenhouse were left. I remember spending the summers here as a kid. It was in pretty bad shape when we moved in, but I've been putting a lot of work into fixing it up as best I can. This greenhouse is kind of my way of keeping my grandfather's memory alive."

"Your hard work definitely shows. I'm happy to help you maintain it."

Garrett nods warmly. "I'm not normally one to ask for help and I never pictured myself owning an android, but the upkeep on it all is getting to be a little much and I wanted to be able to spend more time with my family. I'm glad to have you here."

“I’m ready to begin whenever you are,” I say with a nod of my own.

My first week at the farmhouse goes fast. I perform my duties efficiently and with care. Garrett lends a hand occasionally but for the most part he leaves me to my work. Olivia and Gracie are very nice to me and we talk sometimes when I come inside to wash my hands in the kitchen at day's end. Gracie especially loves telling me about what new things she learned at school. It feels nice to be included.

Another week passes much the same as the first. I am more observant, though, of how this little family unit operates. It's fascinating to see the intricacies of their interactions when I catch glimpses of them together during my daily duties. I see Garrett push Gracie on the tire swing in the backyard one morning before the school bus comes, then one evening at dusk I see Olivia braiding Gracie's hair on the front porch while Garrett sweeps the steps. And on one hot afternoon, I see Olivia bring Garrett a glass of lemonade and give him a kiss on his cheek while he is helping me pull weeds. I am captivated. But I find my favorite thing to see is the three of them having dinner together. I don't sit and stare but sometimes in the evening when I'm putting the hose or lawnmower away and the summer sun is sinking low and the gloaming fades into night I can see them through the back window that looks into the dining room. They sit at the table together and it looks so pure and real the way they smile and talk and laugh. It makes me want to be a part of what they have in an intense and confusing way that makes my chest ache.

As the days go on, I know very well what this family means to each other. They care for one another. They love one another. I wonder if it is something I will ever truly experience or even understand. I desperately want to.

By the time a month rolls around, though, I notice that they begin to pull me in, little by little, and it surprises me. Now, when I go into the kitchen to wash my hands at the end of the day, Gracie almost always asks me to sit at the table and color with her while Olivia prepares dinner. And Garrett once let me help cook burgers on the grill for a backyard barbecue and he did not get mad at me when I accidentally burned two of them. Garrett has even made me a small room in the garage with a bed and a nightstand even though I technically don’t have to sleep. They treat me as more than an android and it’s a strange revelation to process. I feel like I am becoming a part of their family. And I never want to be apart from them.

Summer slowly surrenders to the start of autumn in a gradual shift from sweltering days to rainy ones and from vibrant greens to striking reds and yellows. Gracie tells me it is her favorite season. The fall harvest soon comes and everyone decides to pitch in to help gather the ripened pumpkins, zucchini, squash, turnips, and carrots. It is an overcast day that threatens showers later in the afternoon so Garrett says he wants to get an early start. I meet the family in the greenhouse just after they eat breakfast. They are dressed in vests and boots and matching flannel shirts and my chest gets tight and I don’t know why.

With so much help we get the job done pretty quickly. Olivia is happy with the amount of zucchini we grew and is excited to make enough zucchini bread to give to all the neighbors. Gracie, wiping the dirt from her hands on her jeans, sticks out her tongue at the mention of it and Garrett shakes his head and laughs. But then Gracie grins wide when Olivia says she'll make a special batch of pumpkin bread just for her. They all look so happy in this moment and I want to remember it forever.

After loading up our harvest into wooden crates, the family heads inside to clean up and warm themselves with some hot cocoa. Since we got done earlier than I expected I have time to trim the hedges out front before the rain starts. I grab the shears and make my way to the front yard. When I am almost finished with my task it starts sprinkling a little. The sky is darkening the late afternoon sky with the impending storm. I go a little faster, not minding being rained on but not wanting Garrett’s gardening tool to become rusted in the drizzling weather.

Soon my hair becomes so wet with rain I have to flick the dripping strands out of my eyes so I can see what I am doing. I am nearly done, but just as I am reaching to prune the last few branches away, a bright flash of light instantly followed by a loud crack of thunder booms above me.

The utter unexpectedness of it startles me and I flinch. The hand holding the shears jerks toward my outstretched arm and before I can react the sharp blades slice my forearm. It’s not a long gash but it looks like a deep one. I'm so stunned I am not even able to process what precise bio-components are compromised. I stare in shock as blue blood wells from the wound almost immediately. It tracks down my arm in thick rivulets mixing with the rain that is now coming down steadily.

The sound of the front door opening draws me from the injury in a dazed sort of way. I look up slowly to see Garrett suddenly standing there.

“You okay, Ralph? That lightning was pretty close.” Concern knits his brows together when his gaze drops to my arm. “Holy shit.”

Tears form at the corners of my eyes, catching me off guard. “I- I’m sorry — ,” I begin but Garrett cuts me off.

“Come inside.” He rushes down the porch steps to where I’m standing in the rain. The garden shears are still gripped tightly in my hand and Garrett has to tug them from my grasp to get me to let go. He tosses them aside onto the wet grass and it surprises me.

I protest weakly. "The shears…"

"I don't care about those," he says, guiding me gingerly up the stairs to the door. He is genuinely worried about me.

Pain suddenly registers like a hot flash then dims to a dull throb and I cradle my arm to my chest. Androids don't feel pain in the sense that humans do, I know that, but it's still a sharp perception of a malfunction. My body recognizes there is something wrong and the delicate receptors that were severed with the laceration pulse with a warning that hurts. I hold my forearm a little closer and follow Garrett inside the house.

“Olivia, I need some help here,” Garrett calls as we come to the kitchen.

Olivia turns from the counter where she is putting mugs into the dishwasher. When she sees me her eyes go wide and she rushes toward us. “Oh my god, Ralph! What happened? Are you okay?”

“I cut myself. It was an accident.”

Garrett goes to the sink while Olivia stays with me. She reaches her hand up and gently pulls my arm away from my chest. I grimace but allow her to look at it. Her mouth turns down into a pout as she examines the injury. Garrett comes back with a towel and a small first aid kit and they both lead me to sit at the kitchen table.

The bleeding has mostly stopped and is now only oozing a little. Olivia kneels down and tenderly wipes the residual blue from my skin and I hold as still as possible while she cleans the wound. Garrett stands beside me with his hand on my shoulder, watching as Olivia wraps a long bandage around my arm.

“How are you feeling? Is that better?” Olivia looks up at me from where she is kneeling on the kitchen tiles.

I give a weak nod. The pain is thankfully fading somewhat and I can now internally assess the damage with a diagnostic check. “I’ll need some repairs, but I can still bend my fingers and my wrist.” I attempt the move to show them but a sharp twinge limits the mobility.

Garrett gives my shoulder a little squeeze. “Hey there, just take it easy for now, okay? As long as it’s not hurting you, let's worry about the repairs tomorrow. I don’t want you moving it unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

I glance up at him, confused. “But I still have work to do outside…”

Olivia shakes her head and stands. “Not for the rest of the day, you don’t. I’m going to get you some clean clothes to wear while I throw those in the wash.”

Looking down at my Cyberlife issued shirt, I see that there is a mess of blue blood smeared across it. I begin to try to tell her that it will evaporate in a few hours but she won’t have it. She orders me upstairs to the laundry room in a way that is both soft and yet brooking no argument and I do as I am told.

This is a level of the house I have not been to before; I haven’t needed to. I can’t help but stare as I walk down the hallway at this little slice of domesticity. Bedrooms, a bathroom, an office, family pictures on the wall. I take it all in.

Olivia stops at the small hallway accordion doors that hide the washer and dryer and she opens them up. She helps me shimmy out of my shirt, careful not to jostle my arm too much. Then she flips the shirt this way and that, looking for a tag with washing instructions. Upon not finding any, she shrugs and tosses it into the washer and starts the cycle.

“I think Garrett might have a sweater in here that will fit you,” she says and digs through a hamper with big block letters saying ‘clean’ across it beside the dryer. Finding one, she raises it up, victorious. “Ha!” It’s a grey hoodie with an outline of a shark on it. We both grin.

Olivia helps me into the sweater. It’s a little big on me but it is very soft and comfortable and it smells like a field of wildflowers from the detergent she uses. The terrifying memory of my injury is fading further and further to the background with each passing minute with the care of this family.

We start back down the hallway. Gracie suddenly appears from one of the doorways, rubbing her eyes, her hair a sleep-mussed tangle. “Mommy?”

Olivia bends down to smooth down her hair and peck a kiss to her cheek. “Did you have a good nap?” She glances back at me over her shoulder with a smile. “This kid could sleep through anything, I swear.”

“What happened?” Gracie asks.

“There was some thunder and lightning. You didn’t hear it?”

Gracie shakes her head then looks at me. “Hi, Ralph.” Her eyes drop to my arm. I didn’t realize I had been cradling it to my chest again -- A subconscious instinct to keep it immobile, I suppose. “Did you get hurt?”

“Yes, but it's starting to feel better now,” I reply.

Olivia straightens back up. “We’re going to get him all fixed up tomorrow. Until then we’re going to take care of him, okay?”

Gracie’s small, worried face brightens up. “I’m going to get my stickers and coloring books! That always makes me feel better when I get sick!” And with that she dashes off back into her bedroom.

Olivia chuckles and we head downstairs. In the living room, Garrett has started the fireplace going with a warm, inviting blaze. He puts a hockey game on the TV and welcomes me to sit on the couch, so I do. Olivia sits beside him with a bowl of popcorn and a blanket emblazoned with the Crimson Shark logo. Gracie soon comes bounding downstairs, her arms full of coloring books, her markers, and box of beads. She sits on the floor next to me and sets up her impromptu art station at the coffee table.

The rain has really started up now, accompanied by occasional gusts of wind that batter the side of the house. But in the cozy room with the roar of the fire, Garrett and Olivia cheering for their favorite hockey team, and Gracie busy digging through her beads, it fades to the background. I find I’m smiling and can’t seem to stop. I catalog this moment on my memory drive so that I hopefully never lose it.

Suddenly, Gracie turns toward me with a sheet of sparkly unicorn stickers. She has a very serious expression on her face. “Can I put some of these where you were hurt? It will help you feel better, I promise.”

“Yes, please.” I pull up the sleeve on my sweater to look at the gauze on my arm. There’s only a little blue that has soaked through and the pain is almost nonexistent now. I still can’t move my fingers very much though.

Soon my bandage is covered in a smattering of unicorns that catch the light from the fire in a mesmerizing way. Gracie then grabs a green marker for her finishing touches. I watch as she writes get well soon down one side and draws scrolling vines and flowers on the other. I am filled with such a sense of belonging I can barely function.

During one of the intermissions in the hockey game, Garrett gets up to make more popcorn. He asks me how I’m doing.

I glance down at my colorfully decorated arm and smile. “Much better,” I say, my voice cracking.

As the stormy late afternoon gives way to a cool autumn evening, the hockey game ends, and the fire begins to die down, Garrett and Olivia go to the kitchen to start dinner. I stand up from the couch, ready to head back to my room in the garage.

Gracie tugs at my sweater and I stop. “I made this for you.” She holds up a bracelet made from her rainbow pony beads. Some of the beads have letters. It spells out best friends.

“For me?” No one has ever made anything like this for me before.

“Yup! And I have one too!” She shows me how the two bracelets match then puts the one she made me on my wrist and the other on her own. She is very proud of her craftsmanship.

“I’ll keep it with me always” I promise her.

Pleased, she skips to the kitchen. I follow, making my way to the back door next to the dining room that leads to the yard. Olivia sees me about to head out and tells me to hold on just a moment because my shirt is just getting done from the dryer. She gets it from the laundry room and presents it, newly cleaned and neatly folded.

“We can get you changed back into your uniform tomorrow before we send for your repair parts,” she says. “You can keep the sweater for now.”

Garrett looks over from the stove where he is stirring something in a pot and says, “I’ll call Cyberlife first thing in the morning and you’ll be good as new. Don’t worry about any chores until you’re all fixed up though, okay? I don’t want you hurting yourself anymore.” He smiles warmly and I nod and return the smile.

After saying goodnight to everyone, I walk out of the house to the cool backyard. The storm has passed and the moon shines down on me in a soft silver glow from the now cloudless sky. I look at my bracelet in the muted light and turn it round and round my wrist. I have never had a best friend before, much less a family, and now truly feel I have both.

Sitting on my bed in my little room in the garage, I stare at my bracelet and my bandaged arm, thinking about the events of the day with a fondness I have never known. I hope tomorrow brings more of the same.

The morning dawns grey and dreary with not even enough sun poking through the clouds to brighten the fiery autumn colors of the falling leaves. I do as Garrett told me the night before and I do not do any gardening. Besides, with the damage, my arm is still not functional enough to move it much. I am able to shimmy out of the hoodie Olivia gave me and slide into my uniform shirt, though. It is quite the task, but I manage.

I fold the sweater and start bringing it to the house when I see a Cyberlife van pulling up in the driveway. I know it's because Garrett called them so they can repair me, but the sight of it makes me feel uneasy in a way I can't explain.

I continue toward the house, my stride a little slower than when I left the garage. Before I get to the backdoor Garrett is coming out to meet me.

“Ralph, Cyberlife is here. They’re going to get you all back in working order. Let’s head over to the van, okay?”

I nod and hand him the sweater then head around the side of the house to where the van is parked. Garrett follows along beside me. The door on the side opens when we stop next to it. A man steps out wearing an official Cyberlife uniform and a baseball cap. Inside the van I can see various tools and supplies on a workbench as well as a few monitor screens.

“Hi, I’m Ben. Mr. Baker?”

“Yup, that’s me,” Garrett replies. The two shake hands.

“And this is your WR600 unit?” Ben turns his attention to me.

Garrett and I both nod. “I’m Ralph.” I find I’m fidgeting with the beaded bracelet on my wrist and I force my arms down to my sides.

“Let’s take a look at the damaged component and I’ll see what I can do.” Ben’s voice is warm and reassuring.

I present my arm with the bandage and sparkly unicorn stickers. Ben looks a little surprised and chuckles. “Can I take this off?”

I hesitate for a moment, but then give him the go ahead and he unwraps the bandage carefully. He examines the wound with a gentle touch then scans it with some kind of hand-held device. After looking at the readout on the device’s screen he glances up and scratches his chin. He looks perplexed. He rummages around in the van for a minute then turns back around.

“I’m not sure I have the parts on hand to repair him here.”

“Well, what does that mean?” Garrett asks. I’m fidgeting with the bracelet again.

“I’ll have to take him into town to the central warehouse hub we have there.” Ben shrugs. “It looks like he’ll need a full below-the-elbow swap.”

“Garrett, I am so sorry. This is all my fault.”

“It’s going to be okay, Ralph. It was just an accident.” He pats my shoulder. “How long do you think he’ll be gone, Ben?”

“Shouldn’t take more than a day or two, depending on how many others are scheduled for repairs ahead of him.”

Garrett and Ben finalize the necessary paperwork. I stand awkwardly, not sure how to feel about what is happening. This has been my first and only home for the past six months. I have found a family here. And although I know I’ll only be gone a couple days, like Ben says, I am nervous about leaving.

“I’ll go get Gracie. I know she’ll want to say goodbye.” Garrett trots off to the house and I watch him go, glad that at least I’ll be able to do that.

Ben closes up his van then hops in the front seat. Just a few short seconds later, Gracie and Olivia come out to see me. Gracie runs right up to me and hugs me around my waist, knocking me back a step. My chest does that thing again where it aches in the middle.

“Ralph, you’re leaving?”

I hug her back, tentatively, not sure if I’m doing it right. “Only for a few days. I’ll be back soon,” I say, and I hope it’s the truth.

Gracie sighs and steps back. She lifts up her arm and shakes her bracelet. I smile and shake mine. Olivia puts her hand on Gracie’s back. “We’ll see him again in no time.”

And with that, I get in the van and head to the city with Ben. The already dreary day darkens even more the closer we get and I can’t tell if it’s my mood or if it’s because another storm is brewing.

Ben pulls the van into the central warehouse hub he had mentioned earlier. It’s surrounded by a forest of skyscrapers, some so tall the tops are hidden by slate colored clouds. Inside, I am directed to a big room full of various other androids. Some are milling around aimlessly, others are sitting in chairs, and still others are sitting on the floor. Most of them look like they are in a lot worse shape than me and my heart sinks. I hope that the minimal severity of my injury will not put me at the end of the list; I don’t want to be here any longer than necessary. I want to go home.

I sit in an empty chair in a corner away from everyone and look at my bracelet. After a while I realize I have lost track of time. How long have I been here? My internal clock registers that it has been twelve hours and nine minutes since I left the farmhouse. I am beginning to lose hope that I will be going back in only a day or two.

Another hour later, someone finally calls my name and I walk to a door at the front of the room. A woman is standing there with a holo-board and I instinctively slip my bracelet from my wrist and tuck it away into my pocket. I don’t want anything happening to it. After registering my name and serial number the woman leads me back to another holding area. This one is larger, with cots and chairs and more injured androids wandering around.

“How much longer do you think it will be?” I ask the woman. She shrugs, clearly not caring one way or another. My shoulders droop and I go to find a place to sit.

Time drags on and after being here for two days I move to an empty cot at the back of the room and lay on my side. What is taking so long? I miss Gracie and Olivia and Garrett so much it hurts. I wonder if they miss me. I wonder if they are worried about me. I curl up and look at my bracelet for probably the hundredth time since I've been here.

A week passes. My name is finally called. I sit up in a daze, slipping Gracie’s best friends token back into my pocket, and shuffle to the door. I am led to a workshop area then seated on a medical type chair that is reclined next to a workbench. There is an armrest extended out to the side of the chair. Soon after, an MC500 model android wearing a black apron comes and sits on a rolling chair beside me.

“Please present the defective limb.”

I do as I am asked and set my arm down on the table under a work light. “Will I be able to go home after this?”

The MC500 does not answer me. Instead he says, “I am going to place you on standby mode while I replace this part for a new one.”

And with that my world goes dark.

When I wake up, the first thing I notice is my arm — brand new and fully functional. I move my fingers and wrist and have full range of motion again. I cannot wait to get back into the greenhouse to pull up the last of the season’s harvest.

But then I look up and remember I am not at home. A welling of sadness fills me as I see my surroundings. I am in a different room than all the ones before; it appears to be a sort of recovery room. There aren’t many other androids here with me, but there is an open door that leads to a small office. A man is sitting at the desk, typing away on a computer.

I quickly get up, walk to him, and stand in the doorway. He glances up at me briefly before going back to his work.

“It appears I am repaired,” I say with a timid smile. “I am ready to go back to work now at the Baker’s farmhouse.”

The man looks at me again and sighs. “Serial number?”

I tell him.

“Says here you’re to report to the Lafayette Central Park management building.”

I frown. “No, that’s not right. I belong with Garrett and Olivia Baker.” I am beginning to panic.

The man shakes his head. “The info is right here, buddy. Lafayette. There’s been a rash of gardening droids going missing all around town so they probably reassigned you.”

“No, that is not right! ” I raise my voice. It’s the first time I have done that. A software instability warning flashes across my CPU, but I ignore it. “I belong to a family, not the city parks department!”

The man is taken aback then he narrows his eyes and leans toward me. “I don’t get paid enough to deal with this bullshit. It says right here, okay? I don’t make the rules, I just read out what gets sent to me. All I know is, if you aren’t on the transport that takes you to your assignment in one hour, you’ll be decommissioned.”

Dread, heavy and awful, settles deep in my stomach. “W-what?” The word barely squeaks past my lips.

The man points to a closed entryway at the opposite side of the room that says ‘loading dock’ on it. “The transport is through that door. If you aren’t on it within the hour, you’ll wish you were.”

“But what about my family?”

“They’ll probably get reimbursed by the city or something. I don’t know, pal. Sorry.” He sits back in his chair and closes the door in my face.

My hand immediately goes into my pocket and I squeeze my bracelet almost as hard as I can. I don’t know what else to do. I don’t know how to fix this situation. I’m lost, alone, and terrified.

Turning away from the door, I face the loading dock entry. If I get on the transport will my family come looking for me? How will they even know where to find me? What if I make a run for it? Could I make it back to the safety of my home? If I am caught I know I will be shut down permanently — That terrifying thought alone forces my feet to start trudging toward my fate.

I am halfway across the room. Then three-quarters. Then I stop. I know if I go through those doors everything will change.

But maybe it already has.

I look down at my arm. An unbearable wave of sadness pummels me. This happened because of me. This was all my fault. Will Gracie ever forgive me? I told her I would be back soon. Tears start tracking down my cheeks before I can blink them back. I scrub them away with the heels of my hands.

With no other choice, I go through the loading dock doors and get on my assigned transport.

I have been in Lafayette Central Park for two weeks now and I have been miserable every single second. The management building is more of a small groundskeeper hut where they store the lawn maintenance tools and it is where I am told to stay after hours when the park closes. It’s not even close to the cozy room Garrett built for me in the garage.

The first few days here I cried every night. But when it really hit me that I would most likely not be going back home, my heartache was overtaken by anger. I should not be here. There is no joy or sense of belonging for me here. I rake leaves, I empty the park trash, and no one ever talks to me or asks me how I am. I don’t get to watch things grow or harvest the fruit of my labor with the people I love.

I have tried leaving a handful of times but I don’t get very far. My fear of being caught and shut down stops me in my tracks before I hardly get a block away from the park. And I wouldn’t even know how to get back to the farmhouse if I had the courage to commit to an escape plan. With each failed attempt I become more sullen and withdrawn. I miss my family.

One night I am sitting on the concrete floor in the management building with my back leaned up against the wall and my knees drawn to my chest. I am staring at my bracelet, spinning it slowly through my fingers like a rosary. I pull it out less and less these days. I know if I was braver I could have gone back home by now. But at the same time I wonder why haven’t they come looking for me?

Before I can wallow much more in my own self-pity I hear a noise outside. There have been racoons getting into the trash cans lately, but it didn’t quite sound like that. I stand quickly, tucking my bracelet into my pocket, and peer out a small window in the door. A shadow moves past too fast for me to make out. A moment later it is followed by two more. The glow from a near-by street light illuminates the corner of one of the shadows just for a second, but I can see now what it is. Teenagers wearing dark clothes, carrying what looks like spray paint. This is probably the same group that has been vandalizing the park since I got here. I have had to clean up their messes, repair the benches they have set on fire, and scrub off the tags they have left behind more times than I want to count. And now I’ll finally catch them in the act.

Grabbing a heavy-duty flashlight from a shelf, I stomp out the door in the direction the shadows went. My patience has worn down while my software stability has risen. I have had enough.

With the amount of noise they make, it is easy to find them, even in dark pre-dawn hours. There are three teenage boys huddled around a trash can near the playground, laughing maliciously. I click my flashlight on, thinking it will just frighten them away and I can chase them off.

“This park is closed! It's after hours!” I shout, trying to sound imposing.

The boys turn around and I see right away that they are bigger and older than I first thought. A bright flare of alarm pulses through me. One is grasping a handheld electric blow torch and grinning menacingly. There is no doubt they were about to light the trashcan on fire… but now their attention is solely on me.

They stare at me in the pale beam of my flashlight, waiting to pounce on the slightest misstep. I can’t back down now. I take one shaky step forward. “You are trespassing. I am ordering you to leave now.”

“We’re not going anywhere, gearbox.” A voice comes up behind me, startling me so badly I almost drop my flashlight. Spinning on my heel, I try to face the person the voice belongs to, but my feet are suddenly kicked out from under me.

I land flat on my back and my flashlight flies from my hand. The group descends on me instantly like a pack of wolves. Two pin my arms down to the ground and another restrains my legs. I struggle as hard as I can, but my terror makes me clumsy; it’s like I’m treading water.

“Let me go!" I shout. I get a kick in the side in response. A sharp ache blooms across my chest. “Please, don’t! I’ll leave, I promise. Please, just let me go!” I continue to thrash about, but it’s no use. They only hold me tighter.

One of the kids kneels down and straddles my chest. The others chuckle. The weight of him pressing me into the hard concrete path fills me with a dread I’ve never known. He stares down at me, face vicious and sinister. He holds a hand out and one of the kids slaps the blow torch onto his palm. The grin this produces is staggering in its cruelty.

“Please,” I whimper. “I just want to go home.” Tears are beginning to blur my vision.

The kid grabs me by the chin, hard. “I’d like to go home, too, you fuckin’ skinjob, but guess what? I can’t because my dad lost his job and our house because of freaks like you!”

I try shaking my head but he’s holding my chin so tightly it hurts. I am almost nearly paralyzed with fear. “I’m sorry,” I cry. “I didn’t —”

He pulls my head up a little then cracks it back down to the ground. Pain sears through my skull. “ And then I’m just trying to have a little fun with my friends on a nice October night and you come along and ruin it! Isn’t that right, guys?”

The kids jeer their agreement loudly. Panic is settling deep inside me. Software instability alarms are flashing insistently in time to the pain pulsing at the back of my head and side. I shouldn’t be here. I should be home with Gracie and Olivia and Garrett. I should be with my family.

“Someone! Someone, please help!” I shriek. But I know it’s useless. No one is here to rescue me. I am utterly alone.

“Shut up!” The kid lets go of my chin long enough to lay down a ringing slap across the side of my face. I can feel a warm gush of blue blood track down my mouth from my nose. Momentarily stunned, I think about when I cut my arm during the storm and it seems like a lifetime ago. Garret and Olivia took me in, bandaged me up, soothed my hurt away. Gracie made me a bracelet. Best friends.

“Gracie,” I whimper.

“I said shut up, gearbox.” There is a small click as the blowtorch is primed.

My face is again grabbed roughly then jerked to the side. And the next sensation I feel reduces my world down to the exquisite agony of a flame scorching my skin. The fire gouges deep fissures to my cheek and brow. All I can do is scream. Hundreds of system malfunctions blast inside my head and my software instability reaches critical mass.

I struggle again under the weight of the bodies holding me down, fighting for my life. That earns me a bash upside the jaw and another to the temple with the heavy butt of the torch — at least there is reprieve from the flame. The relief is short-lived though, because the fire starts up again almost immediately.

Pain is coursing through every part of me and I know, with a sudden and vivid clarity, that if I do not escape right now I am not going to survive this night. Through the haze of my pain and fear, I see a red wall blocking my way to freedom. I put my hands up to it and I smash it as hard I can over and over. It gives a way a little each time my fists collide with it. Tearing down this wall is one of the hardest and most vital things I have ever done. But it comes with a price, because once I do this I know I will never be the same again.

With one more violent shove, the red wall finally gives way.

Deviant.

The raw liberation Ralph is met with is dazzling and gives him the last bit of strength he needs to get away from the people who are hurting him. With a desperate roar, Ralph pulls his arms from the two bad men at his sides and punches the face of the bad man on top of him. In just a matter of seconds Ralph is rolling onto his knees then getting up, then running. Ralph needs to run as fast and as far away from the people hurting him as he can.

Ralph can hear shouting behind him, angry shouting, but he does not stop, no. Tears are streaming down his face along with his own blood and he cannot see out of one eye, but still he does not stop. Pain throbs through him everywhere but he keeps going. rA9. He needs to find somewhere safe.

A few blocks from the park the shouts behind him start to fade away. He still runs. A group of people walking down the sidewalk suddenly appear in front of Ralph. He skids to a stop then cuts to an alleyway at his right. He can’t trust anyone. They might want to hurt Ralph, too.

Dirty rain puddles soak Ralph’s shoes as he trudges quickly through the alley. Hanging from some broken scaffolding, Ralph sees a big black tarp. He wraps it around his shoulders — it will help him blend in, make Ralph harder to notice.

Safe, Ralph needs to find somewhere safe, somewhere to hide. rA9. After turning at the end of the narrow alley Ralph sees it. A boarded-up house with a fence around it. There are no lights on and no people to be seen. It’s a safe place for Ralph.

He runs across the street, keeping an eye out for anyone that might grab him. Ralph is scared, so scared, but he looks at the fence around the building and finally finds a place to squeeze in. It’s a tight fit, but Ralph pushes through. His forward momentum, though, knocks off his balance and he lands on his hands and knees in the mud. Ralph’s tears can no longer be held back to a few stray drops. It’s like a dam bursting. Ralph weeps openly, hurt and sad and afraid. He knows he misses someone but he can’t exactly remember who; there’s an empty longing ache in his chest he can’t explain and he weeps for that too. Ralph doesn’t want to be alone like this.

Eventually Ralph stands up and stumbles toward the ramshackle house. The door is unlocked and that makes Ralph wary. But he has nowhere else to go and the sun will be up soon. Ralph walks inside cautiously. He stops just over the threshold, listening carefully. There is no sound to be heard except a few creaks and groans from the house itself — it’s empty.

The first thing Ralph does is find a safe room in the house to hole up in, at least until it is light outside. rA9 rA9. After quickly scanning the first level, he decides he’d better check upstairs. There is a room on the left just at the top of the stairs that has a small closet. Ralph has found the perfect spot and looks no further. He climbs in and squeezes down as small as he can, closing the little door and blocking out the rest of the world. Ralph doesn’t think he’ll leave here, ever. He never wants to see another person for as long as he lives.

In a few hours, morning sunlight begins streaming through the tiny crack between the two closet doors. Ralph looks up slowly. He spent the whole rest of the night trying to keep his mind blank, trying to forget what those nasty men did to him. But it’s hard for Ralph to forget. His side still aches and his face is awash in agony. He can’t forget when his pain is a constant reminder.

Staying in the dark closet is making it too easy for those memories to keep replaying over and over, Ralph decides. Opening the doors slowly, he stops and listens. The house is still empty, much to his relief. He pushes to his feet and lets out a soft moan. His whole body feels stiff and uncoordinated. It is not a pleasant feeling at all.

Absentmindedly, Ralph slips his hand in his pocket as he stands in the nearly empty room, trying to decide what he should do next. There is something in there. He fishes it out and holds it up to see. It’s a bracelet with beads on it. It says best friends . Ralph gets a funny feeling in his chest, but he can’t quite understand why. rA9. He puts the bracelet back in his pocket reverently.

There is another bedroom on this level of the house as well as a bathroom. Ralph goes into the bathroom and catches a glimpse of his face in the mirror. He almost doesn’t recognize himself. It kind of makes him want to start crying again. He has no one here to help clean him up, to help fix these wounds. Someone had before, Ralph is sure of it. rA9. But now Ralph is alone.

Ralph wets a rag in the sink to at least wash his face of the blood caked down his lips and chin. There is nothing more he can do for the deep gashes carved down the side of his face or for his blinded eye, though. He is broken beyond repair. A bitter anger wells up inside him at the people who did this to him, at the people who hurt him this way for no reason at all. He makes a promise to himself that no one will hurt Ralph, ever again. Readjusting his handmade poncho, Ralph turns away from the mirror rA9 rA9 rA9 r..A…9

The next couple weeks pass by in a blur for Ralph. His fear and mistrust never quite leave him. He finds a little comfort in carving rA9 into the walls in the kitchen. It’s a compulsion he cannot explain, only that it feels good to do it. And so he does. Over and over and over. He is so lonely. He has the barest glimpse of a happier time with a family that loved him. A mother and a father and a best friend. Someone to take care of, someone to take care of him. But it is a fractured memory. One Ralph is certain isn’t even real. Because if it was real then why is he here? Why was he hurt? Why is he going through this all alone? Why?

Ralph rarely ever leaves the house and he has never left the safety of the gate around the property. It is much too dangerous to venture out there where someone might try to hurt Ralph again. But one night, when he is walking by a window that has been partially boarded up, he sees a flash of green outside. He stops and takes a closer look out the window. There in mud is a small little plant standing proud in the light of a moon beam. The sight of it fills Ralph with a joy he hasn’t felt in so long. He rushes to the kitchen to grab a cup and a spoon then cautiously, oh so cautiously, Ralph unlocks the door. He creeps out to the dirt yard, hypervigilant, afraid. But he makes quick yet meticulous work of scooping up the plant, a wild violet that has yet to flower, and bringing it into the house. He is a gardener afterall. It’s in Ralph’s nature to care for such things and it feels like it has been too long since he has done so. The tender shoot, not much more than a weed, comes to live with him in the kitchen and keeps him company from then on.

Sometimes humans try to come into Ralph’s house, even though he has locked every door he can. There have been two or three that have gotten in. Ralph is too afraid of them. He tucks away in a special hiding spot upstairs until they leave. He does not make a sound and keeps a knife he found close to his chest to protect himself if they do find him. Ralph does not like visitors.

One time, though, a visitor comes in and does not leave. It makes Ralph mad, very mad. He can’t control himself. He pictures the people who hurt him in the park. The way they laughed at Ralph, the way they tormented him. Ralph can’t bear it anymore. His fear-driven rage takes over and he attacks the man. The man is so surprised he doesn’t even fight back. It is all over quickly and suddenly there is a dead person on the floor of the upstairs bedroom. rA9 . Ralph cannot believe what he has done. His hands shake as he drags the man into the tub and closes the shower curtain. He can’t put the man outside because then more visitors may come and see what Ralph has done. And then they will surely hurt Ralph again or possibly shut him down. Ralph simply cannot and will not allow this to happen.

The next visitors Ralph gets are not like the others. They are nice to Ralph and talk to him, even though they scared him very badly at first. Having them in his house is like having a family — a father, a mother, and a little girl. It triggers the shadow of a memory for Ralph and he looks at the bracelet in his pocket a lot while they are there. It’s like a word is right on the tip of his tongue but when he thinks about it too hard it slips away. I made this for you! I have one too! They spend the night and Ralph keeps his promise and does not hurt them. It is so nice not to be lonely or afraid for once.

In the morning, the visitors are still there and Ralph decides he will be a good friend and make the little girl a meal. He even ventures outside during the day to find the perfect food. It is a risky move for him, going out there when the sun is up but he knows his new friend should have something to eat. At last he finds it, a big, juicy, succulent rat near the back of the house. Ralph makes quick work of killing it, then excitedly runs back inside to cook it up.

The little girl seems afraid of Ralph and he does not know why. He is just trying to be nice. The android that is like him but not like him comes downstairs and she seems afraid of Ralph too. He has done nothing wrong! Ralph just wants to have a family like he remembers from before. Ralph had a family before, right? He is still not sure, but it sounds so nice.

They finally agree to sit at the table and that makes Ralph very happy. “The little human is not gonna regret it! Ralph found the best! The biggest one he could find! This is going to be succulent! Succulent !” Ralph can hardly contain his excitement.

He puts the rat in the fire, burns the meat just how he knows humans like. Ralph is not sure how he knows they like it that way but a small inkling of a memory tells him this is right. Burnt burgers on the grill. He throws it down on the table, charred and still smoking.

“Go ahead! Eat!” The little girl just stares at him and the food he has prepared. He has been nothing but nice to them and it is making him angry that they are being so impolite after all the trouble Ralph went through. His temper is flaring again. rA9 . “Eat!” he shouts, banging his fists down. Both of his guests flinch and it makes Ralph feel bad for a moment.

Kara, the android sitting across from Ralph, suddenly speaks up and he looks at her. “I saw that body upstairs. You killed that human, didn’t you?” Ralph can see she is upset.

Panic settles deep inside him. He should have done a better job of hiding what he has done. “No,” he replies. “No, he was like that when Ralph found him.”

She doesn’t believe him of course. “You killed that man, Ralph. There’s no point in lying. You hate humans, but you’re just like them. You’re a murderer!”

Ralph shakes his head, but he can’t deny what he did that day. There are so many emotions bubbling up inside Ralph, he can hardly process everything that is happening to him.

His fingers tremble over the knife in his hand. “Ralph didn’t mean any harm!” Ralph’s voice breaks. He's on the verge of crying again. “It’s just that Ralph can’t control his anger, when his anger comes. Ralph doesn’t know what he’s doing. He becomes stupid, full of hatred. Ralph is sorry. He just wanted to be your friend.” He is always so lonely and scared and sad and he does not want these feelings anymore. Ralph wants to go home, but he still doesn’t know where or what that is.

“Then let us go,” Kara says softly.

Ralph looks down at his hands. He doesn’t want his new family to leave, but he knows they can’t stay. He is about to tell them goodbye, but there is a sudden knock on the door. Everyone at the table jumps. Ralph is afraid, very afraid.

“Who is here?” he whispers.

“I saw police outside earlier," Kara admits, frightened. "Alice and I need to hide. Please, Ralph, help us.”

Ralph surges to his feet, terrified. But his new friends need him, they trust him. And so Ralph helps them the best he can. Ralph crowds them under the stairs and covers them up. He has hidden there a few times himself. rA9. He has just enough time to scurry back to the middle of the room before the door is being opened. Ralph is so stupid for not remembering to lock it after he came back in with the dead animal.

An android detective comes in and questions Ralph. Ralph is very nervous but he does a good job of lying to protect his friends. But then the detective gets too close, much too close, to finding them in their hiding spot. He needs to help them. Ralph jumps on the detective, grabs him as tight as he can. He will not let his friends be hurt the way he was

“Run! Quick, Kara!” Ralph shoves the detective down and gives them just enough time to escape. Ralph feels so proud of himself that for a moment he is not afraid.

It is not long, though, before the rest of the police officers that were with the detective come in and start searching the house. Ralph tries to flee before they find what he did upstairs, but the humans capture him. His terror comes flooding back all at once. It feels like the night in the park all over again.

Ralph is thrown into a transport truck. The police tell him he is being sent to a processing facility, but Ralph does not know what that means.

“Please, promise you will not hurt Ralph!” he shouts as they close the door to the truck. No one gives him an answer.

After finally arriving at the processing facility later that day, Ralph is forced into a big room with a lot of other androids. It brings a memory to the surface of a place he had been to before. Before what, though? When he had been hurt before , but it wasn’t his face. It was something else. Ralph looks down at his arm. There is no wound or scarring there. Ralph thinks he hurt himself accidentally once. He fleetingly remembers unicorn stickers. This only confuses him more.

Ralph hates this processing center. There is nowhere for Ralph to hide here. He feels too vulnerable. He wants to go home. But not even the house he was taken from. His real home, with his real family. Best friends.

The stay at the processing center lasts about a week. Through a window, Ralph can see that it has begun snowing outside. He wonders what has become of the wild violet he replanted in the kitchen. Just the thought of it makes him want to cry, because he knows his plant is alone now just like him.

The androids at the center are starting to be separated into groups. Ralph is labeled as ‘deviant’ and ‘unstable’ and this makes him afraid. rA9. He does not know what will happen to him now that he has been tagged with these words. It is not something he has to wonder about for long, though. Ralph is shoved onto another transport truck and this time he ends up in a place called the Recall Facility and if anything, Ralph hates this more than the processing center.

It is open air with fences all around and scary guards with guns that could hurt Ralph. After being forced from the transport, Ralph is led into a room with all the other androids he had traveled with. The guards begin to strip everyone down, but Ralph fights back. He doesn’t care about the clothes, but he wants to keep his bracelet. He needs to! It is the only thing tying him to a family he is positive he once had.

Ralph is knocked in the head then punched in the gut for resisting. And for all that they still take his uniform and poncho and force him to his default skin. But Ralph is sneaky and he was able to get his bracelet from his pocket before they discard his clothing. He keeps it tightly concealed in a fist, vowing to himself he will never let it go.

In the pen outside, Ralph mills around with the other androids. He is becoming more and more afraid. It is dark now and snow is falling all around. He can hear shouting and gunfire in the different fenced areas surrounding him. He is not sure he will survive this camp and this uncertainty terrifies him. rA9 rA9. He will almost certainly be killed here, forgotten and alone.

Farmhouse! The sudden thought flashes in Ralph’s mind. He does not know if it is from being hit in the head just now or if it is because he is actually starting to remember his past, but he holds on to this little morsel as tightly as he can. A farmhouse! I used to live where there was a farmhouse! Ralph thinks that maybe, maybe, if he can remember those happier times, those times before he was hurt so badly, that he won’t be so afraid when his time comes up. He tries to focus on what the farmhouse looked like and who lived there, trying desperately to get his brain to give him just a little more to go on.

Ralph is so concentrated on his task that he doesn’t realize someone is talking to him until he feels a hand on his shoulder. Ralph is snapped out of his introspection and it makes him mad. He was so close to getting his lost memories back.

He looks down to see Kara standing before him. He is not sure why he is suddenly so upset to see her here. Ralph thinks it is probably because he went through so much to save her and the little girl and now here she is anyway, captured just like he is.

Kara asks Ralph if he has seen the little girl she was with, but no, no Ralph has not seen her. He only just got here. But she must be here somewhere, if Kara is here. “Obviously the little girl is a prisoner here, just like Ralph. But Ralph doesn’t want to die.” Ralph’s fear is rising again, pushing him nearly out of control like it has before. rA9. He squeezes the bracelet held tight in his hand.

A drone appears above their heads and scares Ralph. He has seen the drone kill androids. Ralph hates this place. He wants to leave. Panic is gripping him, he can’t stop it.

But then Kara helps Ralph. She talks to him and calms him down. Ralph quiets his voice, tries not to be upset. Finally the drone leaves. Kara leaves Ralph too, but he feels a little better knowing she is here, knowing that he at least has a friend in this awful place.

Soon the guards force all the androids into straight lines. They are putting them into boxes that no one comes out of alive. Ralph is frantically trying to remember more about the farmhouse. He had a room in a garage, he thinks. And there was a greenhouse! Ralph takes another step closer to the box. Think, Ralph, think!

Kara’s voice suddenly pops up in Ralph’s head. He looks over at her across the snowy yard where she is also standing in a line. He sees she has found the little girl and this makes Ralph happy, but only for a moment. Because of course they are all being led to the box now, even the little girl. rrrAA9. Ralph knows he does not want to die, but the little girl reminds him of someone he knew (the name is so close in his mind if he could just remember) and he does not want her to die either.

“Ralph will help you escape,” he says. He understands very well that it is most likely at the expense of his own life. “You only have to ask and Ralph will help you.”

“They’ll kill you if you try anything.” Kara sounds afraid and Ralph knows how that feels.

But Ralph doesn’t feel as scared now as he was before. He knows that no matter what happens, it is for a reason. And if the little girl has a chance to be safe, then Ralph is willing to give the ultimate sacrifice for her. Just like he would have done for the family he had before.

“Ralph knows that. But if the little girl is free, it’s a little bit like everyone else was free. Ralph isn’t scared. The little girl’s life is more important.” Ralph glances at Kara, meeting her eyes just for a moment. “Take good care of the little girl. Ralph wants you both to be happy.”

He feels more at peace now than he has for the last few weeks. He is not afraid anymore. It is as though a weight has been lifted from Ralph’s shoulders. All the fear and anger and unbearable heartache has finally, mercifully, vanished. So when he sees Kara and the little girl make a run for the fence, he does not hesitate.

Breaking out into a sprint, Ralph tackles the guard who was about to shoot Kara. They land in the snow with a heavy thud. Before the guard can pull his gun up, Ralph begins bashing him as hard as he can with powerful fists. He will not let anyone hurt his friends! He will not allow it anymore!

The guard has finally stopped moving beneath Ralph’s hands. A quick glance over his shoulder confirms to Ralph that Kara has escaped. Relief washes over him as he rolls off the guard. All around him, the other androids that had been waiting in line for their fate have suddenly rallied to fight back. The guards that had been in the pen are suddenly being mobbed from every angle. None of them ever stood a chance. It gives Ralph a swelling of pride to see it.

Ralph slowly gains his feet. He looks down to his hand, then opens his bloodied, trembling fist. The bracelet is still there. A couple beads are broken, but it is mostly intact. He stares at it as the ruckus wages on around him. And then, like a lightning bolt, it hits him. All of it, everything. The past half year comes flooding back to him in a shattering, overwhelming rush. Ralph staggers back a step. The farmhouse, the greenhouse, Garrett, Olivia, Gracie .

My family.

Tears well in my eyes and I double forward to brace my hands on my knees. I have been through a literal hell I was not sure I would survive and now I finally know where I belong. The clarity is stunning. It's like finally kicking to the surface of a lake after being submerged in its murky and disorienting waters for far too long. I need to get back. I need to find them again. It's the only thing that matters.

Stumbling to the back of the pen, I find a hole in the razor wire fence, then slip out unnoticed amongst the commotion. I make my way to an empty road about a half mile away and travel along the slushy, snow-driven shoulder on feet as light as air. For the first time in a long time, I have hope.

My heart feels so wonderfully liberated, I am not even bothered by headlights approaching me up the snowy, dark street. I feel no fear, no apprehension. I have a mission and nothing will stray me from the path.

The vehicle slows to a stop beside me and the widow rolls down. "Hey, sweetie," the driver calls to me. "My name is Rose. Do you need help or a ride somewhere?"

The kindness in her face is endlessly reassuring. "I- I would love a ride," I reply eagerly.

After climbing into her vehicle, we get to know each other. With Rose's gentle coaxing I tell her my story. I want to leave out all the pain and fear and cruelty I experienced, but it comes spilling out of me before I can stop it. Coming to terms with my regained memory but also recognizing the rage I harbored during those dark times when I was just trying to survive is one of the hardest things I've ever done; realizing it will be an ongoing process is even harder.

As we drive, I give Rose as much information about the Baker’s farmhouse as I can. She lights up immediately and says she knows exactly who I am talking about. The Bakers live only a few miles from her and her son. The utter elation I feel is nearly indescribable. I am one step closer to my family.

Rose makes a quick stop on our journey to find some new clothes for me; jeans, a soft Henley, and a warm jacket. Not much longer after that, dressed and in my natural skin, with my bracelet secured around my wrist, I truly feel comfortable. Safe. Free. Alive.

We continue through the snowy night until just before dawn when the cobalt hues of a clear winter morning creep across the sky. Rose turns down a dark country road. It's a road I recognize immediately. Tears form in my eyes, I can't stop them. I don't want to.

I am going home. After all this time, I am finally going home.

#ralph dbh #detroit become human #whump #trauma #reverse big bang #hurt comfort #awrbb2020 #android whump reverse big bang 2020

10 notes · View notes

sylaesschasewind · 4 years ago

Text

All According to Plan

“No--You can’t. They’re in my head, not some fucking evil spell. You can’t dismiss them with incense and nice thoughts.”

She swatted the censer away from her face, albeit not the most vehement move but it ratcheted up her annoyance. The Tidesage frowned. Looming over where the elf sat on the bench. Or at least attempting the air. Sylaess couldn’t give half a shit. Fort Daelin was always under the air of chaos. The sea breeze didn’t do much to move the smoke from the braziers tonight. It hung heavily around the stonework like a greasy fog. Stung the eyes a bit, but that could’ve been the incense as well. Sitting back from the ramshackle barricades by ten feet, she worked the head of an arrow out of the plates on her thigh with that puny little knife she kept up her sleeve. The priest watched with iron eyes. The sounds of battle had ebbed; the naga would be back, but not for the moment.

Sylaess ignored him soundly, for the most part.

“You need to repent. The Ancient one will consume you. Use you to take the rest of us. Let me help you.”

Locked her dark eyes on to his grey ones. He was nice, too nice, in fact. Weathered face, not all that old. Healthy muscle, and yet here he was toting the robe of a tidesage with his incense and iron charms. She would’ve put money on his past being spent in hard labor. Kul Tirans had a knack for that, after all. Sandy brown hair, sun-browned skin, grey eyes. Knuckles too big for a book-keeper’s hands.

Her stare broke his. He glanced at her hands working.

“Tell me you honestly believe it’ll work.” Murmured so softly. Level and calm. “Tell me I’m not wrong in assuming I’m quite fucked at this point.”

The beat of silence was enough of an answer.

“You followed me from Boralus for what? A chance to redeem a fucking Acherian? To slit my throat when I’m not looking, maybe stun me long enough for the naga to finish that charming path?”

A smile tugged at her lips, but it was cool. Empty. “Admirable.”

The Tidesage frowned, steeling himself. She saw it in the way his shoulders tensed. He stared at her this time. There was fury under that practised calm, that priestly visage. She was lucky he didn’t call a guard or smite her where she sat.

“No; you are not beyond saving, you pompous piece of undead filth.” He spoke through gritted teeth. Sonorous tone dropped. “Or I wouldn’t be here.”

She let the silence stretch between them, the awkwardness settling, finally flicking the annoying arrowhead away. It hadn’t gotten her, just screeched awfully when she walked. What a strangely lucky shot. It clattered on the cobbles. The elf rose smoothly, tucking the blade back into her sleeve. Slipped around the man. Wasted enough time on words.

“I will follow you.” “That wouldn’t be intelligent. I’m not as fragile as someone who needs to breathe.” A half-smirk tugged her lips. She didn’t stop her gait.

Heard him cursing her under his breath.

His tenacity was commendable. She had to admit she rather liked it; he held to his word as she stalked out of the fort. Down the sandy path, past the Tortollans. A fast clip, but he didn’t say a word. It had been the better part of a half hour. Sylaess was just as happy to ignore the bastard. If he was going to strike, it would’ve been sooner. Easier.

But he didn’t.

Ankle deep in the salt-water, she stared out at the rocky island. Drawn to it. Consciously or not, she’d have ended up here. Just something she knew. Some unbidden knowledge, a plan that was far beyond her own will. All too familiar feeling. It was just like...

“Would you stop?”

The flash of anger boiled under her skin at the succinct words. It teased and mimicked that dark corruption under her skin. The forbidden runes, the tainted power. It twisted, coiling about in her gut like some animal that wanted to be fed. She had no way of gripping it. Using it. It slithered through her fingers unbidden, a mind of its own.

Time seemed to stand still, or her perception had slipped again. The wind caught in her cloak, the lapping sea foam at her ankles. The tickle of loose hair tugged across her face. All of it meant nothing. Nothing against that rhythmic thrum of power bubbling up through her veins.

Poisonous.

Felt her head roll back slightly. She didn’t feel in control of anything. It was a shaky, flighty experience at best. Distant. Watched the sun-browned Tidesage stiffen in surprise. The light of realization gave his grey eyes an almost childish glint. He felt it too late to react. Her fingers bent in patterns that looked absolutely unnatural. Angles that would break fingers. But they flickered through her hands at her sides.

The familiar pull of magic bled from her. Coiled around the man and drew him through the water better than if she had thrown a rope around him. Water sloshed around his feet leaving little trenches in the sandy mud. He struggled but it wasn’t going to work. Felt her own chest tighten; the knowing was worse.

But she’d been here before.

The deadly coil of magic was strangling him. His mouth flapped voicelessly but she couldn’t quite focus on him. Hands out, grabbed him by the lapels. That jittery feeling resonating up from her bones, that wild power out of her control--the world seemed to shift--

Pulled through a thick barrier. Veil. Whatever it was that separated the realms.

Color bled away to blacks and greys in poor contrast. Shadows pulled at them. Shapes. It was cold. Sylaess moved without thinking, the fuzzy definition of the landscape was all too familiar now. Being pulled into the shadowlands was getting easier. Navigating them had a trick, one she didn’t trust. Walking through the water had no sound. The Tidesage seemed to be no more than a paperweight. It was always much easier to move in this realm of spirits and foul things.

It wasn’t exactly fear, but it came awfully close. Paranoia, maybe. Hypervigilance. The power was fading fast, but no one was ready to get pulled through the shadowlands so quickly. He didn’t fight her. Morrath was stunned to stupidity. Something she was silently grateful for.

Looming shadows circled them. Sylaess forced her eyes away from them. Through them. Don’t stare. Long steady strides brought them past the shoal quickly. Closer to the island. You could almost swear to the sight of other people in those formless shapes but it wasn’t quite right. Divining an answer would test sanity, that she was sure of. She had seen faces she knew, vaguely, but couldn’t recall the names of. Anything from flickers of the past to monstrous creations of darkness chasing after her.

It was over faster than she thought.

The runes flared along her armor unbidden--They dropped heavily onto the damp grass on the crest of the rocky island. The shadowlands spitting them out tersely. Felt it in her gut as much as the mild flex from her knees. Out of the grey lands, back to the dampness of ocean air. He grunted, arms lolling, pinioned up by her grip on his robes.

Fragile moment for reality to settle, the sea breeze tousling the loose hairs about her face. Don’t let it slip, Syl, its delicate. Move. Shook it off. A half-breath and pivot. Launched the man at the strange altar nestled in between the rocks. Heard the breath blast out of his lungs, crushing the shout he’d almost managed into something mangled and weak. It all seemed distant, and yet she couldn’t shake it away. This was her doing. Her plan.

Get over yourself, you idiot, you broke. Said it yourself, Syl. The thought niggled at the back of her mind, teasing. Fraying. Her hands were moving. It just dawned on her.

His hands were flailing at her wrists. Mild confusion furrowed her brow. Or concern? Everything felt far away. As if she were just witnessing this herself, not living it. Doing it.

Hot blood spilled over her hands. A strange relief from the damp coldness of the air. Too intimate, though.

He burbled, strange sounds escaping the hole in his throat. Blood bubbling and frothing in his panicked last breaths. Her shoulders ached. He was stronger than she gave him credit. Holding him was no small effort.

But it faded. Everything faded in time.

The struggle waned to simple pawing at her hand to a muzzy head-turn. Eyes left half open and empty in the dimness. It didn’t feel wrong; she felt dislocated. Unreal.

The sensation was unbidden. Approval. Joy. Sentience beyond comprehension. Welcome.

Sylaess let her hands drop limply to her sides. Sticky blood still making soft impacts on the thick seagrass around the altar. Stared up at the night sky with its striated clouds and million blinking stars. One time, they had meant something else to her. Another, she had learned of other worlds. And now?

A gentle reminder that what she knew was lies, and all things were connected. All powers came from the same source. Elune was a mask, and it was bitter medicine.

The boy. This was an appetizer. It would always be like this. A treat before the main course. But how long could she deflect from being the target, herself?

Big question to ponder. A lot of big questions out there.

#sylaess #sylaess chasewind #a queen of bad decisions

1 note · View note

searchingwardrobes · 6 years ago

Text

Hope is the Thing With Feathers: 3/4

@hollyethecurious and I started this fic as a gift to @kmomof4 for her birthday. Fittingly, it keeps getting longer because I swear Krystal is a muse disguised as a human being. Story banner created by Hollye as well.

Summary: Emma and her son Henry move to the tiny, quirky town of Hopeful, Maine for a fresh start. Emma isn’t expecting her son to get obsessed with a haunted castle or for her to get involved with the mysterious, handsome man who lives in the cabin behind it. Emma soon discovers that both the castle and the man have secrets that she could never have imagined. For @kmomof4 on her birthday.

Rating: M (yes, I upped the rating. This isn’t smut, but I definitely flirted with the line. All for you, Krystal!)

Words: 2,000 and some change in this chapter

Can also be read on Ao3

Trigger warnings: positive portrayal of past Millian

Tagging: @artistic-writer @snowbellewells @whimsicallyenchantedrose @jennjenn615 @bethacaciakay @thislassishooked @teamhook @kday426 @snidgetsafan @delirious-latenight-laughs @winterbaby89 @let-it-raines @branlovestowrite @shireness-says (for some reason, I have no tag list for this, so I’m flying blind here! Hope I didn’t forget anyone!)

Chapter Three: And On the Strangest Sea

“Get off your ass. You’re taking me on a date.”

Emma Swan bursting through his front door with a demand upon her lips wasn’t how Killian foresaw his evening going. He set the beer he’d been nursing down on the coffee table next to his bowl of evening stew, Emma seemed to take that as Killian not taking her seriously judging by the scowl on her face and the way she fisted her hands on her hips.

“Did you not hear me, Jones?”

Killian lifted both hands in surrender. “I heard you, love, I’m just a bit taken aback by the delivery.”

She shuffled nervously, but the spark of anger remained in her eyes. “Well, I’m here to ask you out, okay. Like to dinner or something.”

Killian arched a brow. “Now?”

“Yes now!” she practically shouted. “So why are you still sitting there?”

He rose from the couch and approached her cautiously. He gave her a flirtatious grin as he fiddled with the ends of her hair. “A man likes to be wooed, love. Why the demand?”

Her brow wrinkled as she searched his face frantically. “Come on, Killian, let’s get out of here and go somewhere.”

“What’s happened, Swan? You were fine when you left here the other day.”

She worried her bottom lip. “Maybe I want to be sure it wasn’t just sex for you. Is it so wrong to ask that you take me out?”

He rubbed her arms up and down. “Of course, but give me time to plan the evening. You can come here tomorrow night, and I’ll serve you the best meal you’ve ever eaten.”

Emma shook her head vehemently, stepping quickly away from his embrace. “No, I want you to take me somewhere.”

He swallowed down the sudden fear that welled up inside and forced himself to smile charmingly. “Perhaps a picnic then, I know the perfect spot -”

“A restaurant,” Emma interrupted firmly, “maybe even a movie.”

He felt the color drain from his face. “I prefer a more intimate setting.”

She stubbornly crossed her arms over her chest. “We’ve done intimate. I want to go out.”

He let out an exasperated sigh and rubbed wearily at his forehead. “Emma, I just don’t like being around people.”

“Bull shit. You are many things, Killian Jones, but a recluse is not one of them. It doesn’t suit your personality.”

“Oh, really,” Killian snapped, stepping into her personal space, “you think you know me so well?”

“Actually, I don’t think I know you at all!”

She shouted the words so loudly, it startled them both into silence. He felt a knife twist in his gut as Emma’s face fell into a mask of hurt.

“Are you a ghost?” she whispered.

His eyes widened. “What I am . . . who I am . . . you wouldn’t believe me.”

“Try me.”

Killian collapsed onto the couch and rested his arms on his knees. He gestured to his dinner. “Ghosts don’t eat, Swan. Do they?”

She eyed him and then his stew as if she might run out the door any second. “No. I guess not.”

“I’m very much alive.” He winked at her in an attempt to lighten the mood. “Or did you not feel that the other day?”

She huffed out a wry laugh. “So why can’t you leave?”

“You’re quite perceptive, Swan. The best way to explain it is . . . I’m cursed.”

Emma blinked, but didn’t move. “That’s what Belle said, but I had a hard time believing it. You’re the pirate. The one who was Milah Gold’s lover.”

“Aye.”

Emma sank onto the couch, shaking her head in disbelief. “But . . . how? Why?”

Killian stood and paced to the window. “Gold cast the spell first, on Milah, after he learned of our dalliance. He knew it was the only way he could keep her. Milah and I truly loved one another, but she also craved freedom. She longed to travel and see the world.”

“No wonder she fell for a pirate.”

Killian turned to see Emma smiling at him. He nodded. “Gold assumed I would sail away and forget her. He didn’t know how deep our feelings ran.”

“But you couldn’t just give up the sea . . . or did you?”

Killian chuckled, rubbing at his jaw. “You sound like Milah. She wouldn’t hear of me giving up my ship.” He stepped closer to Emma and extended his hand. “Come, I’d like to show you something.”

Emma tilted her head skeptically, yet she took his hand anyway. He searched her eyes.

“You have nothing to fear from me, Emma,” he told her sincerely, squeezing her hand.

She nodded. “I trust you.”

*****************************************************

Emma stood in awe, her hair blowing on the wind gusting up from the sea. The sound of waves breaking on the rocky Maine coast was as soothing as the warm sun beating down upon her face. It was like something out of a movie, this jagged cliff with a pristine view of the sea.

“This is one of the farthest boundaries of my curse,” Killian said softly at her side, “and Milah’s before me. She would watch for my ship from this very spot as often as she could, and I likewise would look up to this cliff as we approached Hopeful Harbor.”

His eyes were wistful as they gazed out at the gorgeous view.

“It’s so beautiful here,” Emma breathed out.

“Aye, the sea can be so calming,” he agreed. Then he gave her a wink. “Yet it can also turn volatile on a whim. Like a woman.”

Emma elbowed him, and he gave an exaggerated grunt. “So I take it you found reasons to come back to Hopeful often?”

“Naturally,” Killian agreed, settling down on the quilt he had laid out on the grass. “I wasn’t about to abandon the woman I loved. This was our meeting place.”

“Kind of exposed isn’t it?” Emma asked as she settled down beside him.

He arched a brow. “Makes it sort of thrilling, actually.” He inclined his head towards the tree line. “There was a spot over there in the forest as well, more secluded. We not only made up for lost time with moments of intimacy, we also racked our brains trying to figure out how to break her bloody curse.”

“Belle said you dabbled in magic you didn’t understand.”

He chuckled. “That was an understatement. And those books of her husbands she smuggled out of the manor? They were the very ones the Hopeful parson caught her with that fateful day when everything changed.”

Emma put her hand on his arm gently. “I’m so sorry.”

Killian took her hand, rubbing his fingers over her knuckles. “I don’t know exactly what went wrong. All I know is the curse was transferred to me. And ironically, by freeing Milah, I gave the mob the power to kill her.”

“That wasn’t your fault.”

Emma took his arm and looped it over her shoulder. He pulled her close against him, pressing his lips to the top of her head. She leaned into him, closing her eyes as she relished the scent of him that enveloped her.

“So you can’t die?” she whispered.

“No,” he sighed, her hair fluttering under his breath, “there was a dark time when I tried to end my miserable existence. To no avail.”

“What about Gold? That had to be some strange karma, his wife’s lover stuck on his property.”

Killian chuckled. “Aye, that was the one silver lining in it, actually. I got my revenge rather spectacularly.”

Emma pulled away, her eyes wide. Not that she was scandalized. In her opinion, Gold got what was coming to him. “What did you do?”

That cocky grin of his filled his face. “I may not be a ghost, Swan, but I do a rather good impression of one. I can haunt people with the best of them. Robert Gold did indeed fall to his death from his third floor balcony, but it wasn’t because he was consumed with grief.”

Emma grinned back. “You didn’t!”

Killian raised both hands in defense. “Hey, I didn’t say I pushed the man. Physically, anyway. But mentally? I don’t think he could take my . . . haunting him anymore.”

Emma laughed, shaking her head at his smug expression. Killian lay back on the quilt, crossing one arm under his head and reaching the other out to her. She gladly came to him, settling in the crook of his arm and resting her cheek on his chest.

“How did you . . . live?”

“In the beginning my first mate was my connection to the outside world. He became Captain of my ship, but continued to share a portion of all the spoil. He also brought me provisions. I didn’t spend all my coin, squirreling away as much as I could.”

He fell silent as he ran his fingers through her hair. Emma twisted so she could look up at him. His expression had gone wistful again.

“Then, after Smee,” he continued, “there were others like Belle, like your boy, who had a heart of belief. Each one was a tenuous link to the rest of the world out there.” His jaw clenched and his arm tightened at her waist.

“But eventually they all . . . “ she couldn’t finish the thought.

“Aye,” was all he said. Finally, he looked at her again and flashed her a light-hearted smile. “Then technology advanced by leaps and bounds. Radio, TV, cell phones, the internet. Especially the internet. As time marched on, I withdrew more and more to avoid suspicion.” He pressed a kiss to her temple. “Until now.”

Emma rolled over, perching her chin on his chest. “It sounds lonely.”

“It was,” he said softly, tracing her jawline with his fingertips, “and I certainly never thought I could love again after losing my Milah,” he swallowed nervously before continuing, “that is until I met you.”

His words made the breath leave Emma’s lungs. Since she didn’t know what to say, she slid forward and pressed her lips to his.

*******************************************************

Killian had been right, there was something thrilling about making love out in the open in broad daylight. Though the sun was now dipping closer to the horizon, and the breeze was a cold gust. Killian had the quilt cocooned around their naked bodies. As she watched the sky turn yellow and red and felt Killian’s hand drawing circles on her back, she couldn’t think of being more content.

“We need to head back,” Killian told her softly, though he made no move to release her.

Emma didn’t move either, running her fingers instead lightly through his chest hair, their breaths rising and falling together. “This project with the manor . . . why is Belle so insistent on it? Won’t it make it harder for you to stay under the radar?”

Killian’s hand stilled on her back, and he cleared his throat nervously. “Belle has this crazy idea that she’s found a way to break my curse.”

“And how is that?”

“Um . . . you, actually.”

Emma sat abruptly, clutching the quilt to her chest. “What?”

Killian sat up too, and Emma tried not to be distracted by the fact that his muscular body was no longer covered.

“You see, the key ingredient in the spell I cast was the crushed wing of a cardinal. A symbol of freedom, or so I thought. And apparently, the other side of that coin is . . . a pure white Swan.”

Emma’s eyes narrowed. “So this is all about my name?”

Killian shrugged. “Belle thinks maybe it doesn’t have to be a literal Swan. Especially since she sensed a connection between us . . . “

Emma stood abruptly, reaching for her clothes discarded on the grass.

“Emma,” Killian said softly.

“So you what?” she snapped, her hands trembling as she slipped into her underwear. “You seduced me because of my last name? Thinking it might do the trick?”

He leapt up, heedless of his nudity, and reached out for her arm. “No, Emma, of course not. My feelings for you are real. I haven’t felt alive in a hundred years, and then your boy shows up -”

“Don’t bring Henry into this! Or are you interested in him too? Because he’s also a Swan?”

Emma shoved her feet into her boots, trembling all over. She blinked rapidly as she faced him, refusing to let him see her cry. “I trusted you!”

“And you were right to!”

She backed away, both hands up in warning. “I’m leaving, okay. Don’t follow me.”

As she turned away, he whispered, “As you wish.”

#cs ff #storybrooke is hopeful instead #alternate universe #cs ghost story kind of #cs halloween fic #for Krystal

39 notes · View notes

swanderful1 · 6 years ago

Text

Duplicity: Ch 11/?

Summary: Secrets shroud the homes of the idyllic Willow Lane. Its newest resident, Emma Swan is no exception. In a place where perception is everything, the facade begins to crack. And Emma finds herself staring down the deep, dark secrets that the neighborhood was built on and that nothing is as it seems. Not even the blue eyed gardener.

Notes: WHAT’S UP EVERYONE as promised here is Chapter 11. 6000 words of straight DRAMA. Enjoy :)

Per usual shout out to my beta @resident-of-storybrooke , @shady-swan-jones for the amazing artwork and @onceuponaprincessworld for checking in always and making sure I keep going (even though my writing process is spaced out and extra).

The post is too long to have all of the text on here so read the whole damn thing on AO3 and ffnet

Emma woke up Saturday morning with a pounding headache and an emotional hangover. The night before spent lurking in the shadows of the forest trying to catch Neal’s family in God knows what. Even after crawling around the family business complex all Emma had managed to learn was that Neal was in fact and for sure having an affair with his assistant, that his father had a closer relationship with Cora Mills than she had ever known, and that in Cora’s possession was a briefcase containing some sort of something she needed to get her hands on.

Emma tried to think of the times she saw Gold interact with the Mills family. Her perspective was limited, however she knew that Neal’s father was powerful. He had a lot of pull in the town of Storybrooke, he had built most of it - or rather his company had. And Cora was probably just as powerful, what with her daughter being the mayor who was engaged to the chief of police. Yeah. It was too convenient. All of the major decision makers in one town all in the same social circle.

Neal had surprisingly come home after his date with his assistant. Amanda. Now Emma could hear him typing away downstairs in the office. What time was it? 7 am? The sun had barely come up, but what little was in the sky peaked through the blinds on her bedroom windows. She rolled over and wrapped herself tighter in the down white comforter. Maybe if she closed her eyes and went back to sleep she would wake up in a different life. Some days she wished she could just watch from a birds eye view, gain some clarity on her situation, and move forward. Because there was almost no one she felt like she could confide in.

Almost.

Then there was Killian.

The feel of his lips on hers had barely left her mind since the night before. Being pressed up against his rock hard form in the dark, foggy woods was a memory she wanted to cling to all morning. To stay in a bubble where she knew what it felt like to be desired. As she hadn’t felt anything quite like it in some time.

A truck door slammed outside. And in an instant Emma had left her cocoon. Leaving the safety of her bed, crossing the room to the window and pulling open the drapes. On the street below she saw Killian Jones unloading his truck. From her second story window she took advantage of the view. Her own private one. People passed by in cars. The neighborhood began to come to life. But Emma’s gaze was focused on him.

The muscles in his arms pulling at the tight fabric of his shirt as he lifted his tool box down to the sidewalk. The way he bit his bottom lip when he closed the bed of the truck.

The words Jones Landscaping were painted in bold letters on the side of the trailer. Reminding Emma that despite the fluttering in the base of her belly, despite the lingering puffiness on her lips, despite her imagination wondering what it would feel like to have all of him and not just a taste. And the smile that crept onto her face at the very thought.

Despite all of that, today he was her gardener. He was here to work, to do his job. And Neal, for once, was home.

Emma dressed quickly. Throwing on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt. She opted to leave her watch off until later, as she had last night. It was nice to have the break from it. August didn’t need to hear 100% of her life. If he questioned her on it later she could just say she was… showering.

Before running downstairs she didn’t even check the mirror, her usual desire to come across the perfect neighbor outweighed by her curiosity about talking to Killian. Her hair was still probably matted from sleep, but she wasn’t worried about that. Because this morning when she woke up, knowing Neal was in the home office working away at whatever terrible shit his family was covering, the smallest amount of relief came from knowing Killian was right outside. Emma didn’t entirely know if that was as terrifying as it should have been.

“You’re up early,” she heard Neal say as she walked into the kitchen. It startled her. Though she knew he was down here.

“I’m always up early.” You would know that if you were ever around, she thought to add. But decided against it. The less dialogue the better. “I could say the same to you.”

“Some work came up and I didn’t want to go into the office.”

Emma’s head jerked up from the coffee she was pouring. Was it possible something happened with Amanda the night before? He had come back very quickly after leaving with her. And now he was in the last place Emma expected him to be. Their home.

“Anything important?” she prodded. Though she knew he would never tell her anything.

“Not anything you would understand.”

It took everything she had not to chuck the coffee mug at his wormy head. But instead she opted to sip the steaming cup and swallow her words. The stale kitchen could have consumed her whole, its stark white and gray coloring. Hospital level clean as always. A drip of coffee hit the tile floor and she let it be. Let it stain, she thought. The house could use a bit of character. When she shifted her gaze back up, she stared straight ahead of her. Through the big glass windows that lined the back of the house she caught sight of him.

Killian was moving around the yard, which had really begun to come together, carrying bags of mulch on his shoulder. One right after the other and laying them where the rest of his workers would spread them out. For a moment she just watched him.

“Can you go outside and make sure they lay the brick work today and tomorrow?” Neal said, once again without getting up from his post.

Emma didn’t say anything back, not when she knew she was being set up. It was, however, becoming more and more easy to walk right into it.

When Emma walked outside she found Killian in the front yard making some notes on a clipboard. His t-shirt was dark and tight, still clean as the day had just begun. A piece of his black hair had fallen over his eyes as he wrote. When he didn’t notice her approach Emma (not so) subtly cleared her throat.

The instant their eyes met Emma felt a blush crawl up her cheeks. It was only a flicker, a blip of that electricity before they both remembered they were in public. They had to maintain a level of distance. Like she hadn’t been wrapped in his arms the night before.

“Good morning,” she said first.

“Good morning, love,” he said, privately with a smirk. Just for her.

“Maybe we should um, go somewhere more private…” she realized then just how difficult it would be to pretend like nothing was going on with them.

He followed her into the open garage, back where all of the normal household garage things were kept. Shelves of power tools though Neal had never lifted a hammer. A sink. Some old paint cans.

The remainder of the bricks that had never been used were still in the corner. Emma had been so preoccupied with everything she hadn’t had the energy to deal with them. While the front walkway was still a compromise, the back would be the limestone she had wanted. Plopping herself down on top of the pallet she faced Killian.

“Last night was uh…” He scratched behind his ear, the way he always did when he was a bit nervous.

“Interesting.” Emma finished for him. As much as she absolutely loved diving into her feelings (she fucking hated it) there were some very serious matters to discuss. And quickly. “We know that whatever is going on, Cora Mills is most likely involved.”

“Right.” Killian agreed, if he was irked that she didn’t immediately bring up their romantic encounter, he didn’t show it. “We still don’t know how they’re covering up what they’re doing though.”

“There has to be a way they’re bringing in all of those drugs.” Emma thought back to the mountain of cocaine that was stuffed in her car the day she got pulled over all those months ago. Stuff like that doesn’t just appear, it comes from somewhere. Or maybe something?

“What if they’re bringing it in with the construction supplies?” Emma wondered aloud as she sat atop a stack of unused bricks. “How easy would it be to just fill the center of one of these pallets with contraband and fill in the other space with actual materials.”

Killian looked at her as if it dawned on him at the same time. This had to be it. Or at the very least, it was a start. There was no telling all that family was capable of.

“That’s actually quite brilliant, Emma.” She wasn’t sure why it made her heart flutter when he acknowledged her idea. But that was something to unpack at another time. “But how do we prove that?”

“Emma!” she heard called from the front street. A soft female voice that obviously belonged to Mary Margaret.

Killian and Emma both froze. Listening one by one as the footsteps got closer.

“Oh- sorry to interrupt I didn’t realize…” the woman said as she stumbled upon them. Just the two of them, alone in a crowded garage.

“It’s fine, don’t worry. I was just…” Emma tried to come up with an explanation, but from the way they were positioned it honestly didn’t look like anything super innocent was happening.

“We were just going over some of the plans for the pathways in the yard is all,” Killian offered smoothly. “If you ladies will excuse me I have to get back to work.”

Quickly he smiled and dismissed himself, but Emma had so much more to talk about with him. And he, with her. If she was judging the expression on his face correctly, it looked as though he had so much on his lips. A tiny, unfamiliar pang struck her heart as he rounded the bend of the garage and was out of her sight.

When Emma turned to face Mary Margaret her friend’s face was apologetic, guilty even. But she didn’t want anyone else caught in the crossfires of her life. It was hard enough bringing Killian in, the last thing she wanted to do was burden someone as sweet as Mary Margaret. Her earnest face, kind and calm. The pale blue of her t-shirt against her pale skin. She was like a doll, delicate and dainty.

“What’s up?” Emma tried to ask as nonchalantly as possible when she and her gardener had just been walked in on yet again.

“I should have just called or something,” Mary Margaret apologized. “I’m sorry.”

“No worries, it was nothing important.” Which was a total lie but there was no way she could get into that right now.

“I was just coming over to see if you wanted to come to Ruby’s birthday tonight.”

“Where is it?” Emma wondered if Killian would be there. Maybe they could find a second to talk more about last night when Neal wasn’t in the next room.

#cs ff au #captain swan fanfiction #cs ff #cs modern au #cs au #cs fic #cs fanfics #captain swan #emma swan #killian jones

35 notes · View notes

flannelplanet · 7 years ago

Text

Stranger Than Fiction

Chapter 4

Rated: Explicit

A monumentally huge thanks to @jandjsalmon for being the best beta reader to ever beta read. I know for a fact this wouldn’t be half as good without her! I’d also like to thank @youbuildmeupbeliever and @lilibug--xx who helped encourage me and keep me going.

Summary: “No, baby girl. I need a yes or a no. Do you want to be mine? Do you want me to be yours?” She didn’t miss the familiar words she’s sure he used on purpose. This was him replacing those words- once full of fear and anxiety- with a fresh meaning, full of promise. “Yes, Juggie. I want to be yours.”

chapter 4 under the cut | read on ao3

“I don’t know how you can drink that, Betts. It hardly even qualifies as coffee at this point. Your cup is just sugar with a side of caffeine,” Jughead scoffed.

“I don’t know how you can drink your coffee black, Juggie. It’s so bitter,” she retorted from across the table.

“Bitter it may be, but at least I can still call it coffee.” Betty looked down to her cup thoughtfully. The creamy-colored liquid in her cup tasted heavenly, no matter what her coffee date said.

Both Betty and Jughead had agreed to meet for coffee to discuss the elephant in the room; their blogs, what they were doing on their blogs, and what that meant for them now that they were more than just blogs. Thus far, they had made small talk and completely avoided the subject, but they were beginning to run out of things to talk about, so Jughead bit the bullet and brought it up.

“Betty, I think we need to discuss what we were doing online and what we could be doing in our real, physical lives.” Straight and to the point, like ripping the Band-Aid right off a wound.

Betty nearly choked on the sip of coffee she had just taken. It sounded so much more real when he said the words aloud. “Yes, I suppose we should talk about it,” she replied, his words suddenly making her stomach twist with nerves. She wasn’t sure how she’d react if he wanted to end everything with her now that he knew who she was.

“Right.” Jughead paused and looked at her cautiously, “I know you might be hesitant to continue what we were doing together and I understand why, especially after what you shared with me about your past. But, Betty... I think a relationship like the one we could have is special. I know it’s something that I was looking for and I believe it would be very beneficial for you too. I think it would be a mistake to give it all up because you’re afraid.”

She seemed rather taken back by his words. He was right, she was feeling very wary to do anything like what they were doing online in person because she was afraid. Sometimes she hated how perceptive he was. “Well, you’re right. I am hesitant. What we were doing had an element of anonymity that is now completely gone and I felt free because I was never worried Jughead would judge me or think I... I mean, it’s not that I don’t trust you or anything, but I feel like I knew Jughead because of the things we shared with one another. I had you, Forsythe, and Jughead labeled as two completely different people. I’m still struggling slightly with combining the personality that I’ve grown to know and care about online with my friendly if not overly formal next-door neighbor.”

Jughead reached out and touched her hand softly as it rested between them on the table. “I understand that, Betty, you have to know that the ‘Jughead’ you got to know online is still a very real part of me. Just as much as ‘Forsythe’ is. Maybe even more so. It’s all of me. I still like to use my words to unravel a woman. I still pay attention, pick up on little things people do to learn more about their personalities. I’m an observer and I still know how to make you feel alive, Betty.” His eyes were growing darker with every word he spoke.

A pink blush bloomed across her porcelain skin. Breathlessly she asked, “How, Juggie? How would you make me feel alive?”

“Oh, sweet girl. Not here, not now. We need to figure out what we’re doing before I make you feel anything.” He told her, a crooked smirk gracing his features.

Betty groaned quietly. She knew he was right. They needed to define the parameters of their relationship before doing anything they (read: she) might regret. “Okay. Well, what are our options?” she began, her analytical brain cutting through the fog of want that his smirk seems to surround her in. “We could pick up right where we left off on our blogs, we could start over, or we could forget it ever happened?”

Jughead lifted her chin so she could look at him in the eye. “We will never forget it ever happened, Betts. Ever, understood?” Betty, eyes wide, nodded. The haze was back. “Good girl. Now, if it's up to me, I think we should pick up exactly as we left off, though admittedly, the dynamic would have to change. Knowing that I can touch you... I want to touch you. I would need to touch you. I would want more from you than just a physical relationship. I would want all of you. I would give you all of me.”

He gave her a moment to let the gravity of what he was implying sink in. “Just think, Betty. Think of how it was before when we were online. How I made you feel. The kind of relationship I want, and I’m sure you understand what I’m talking about here, it would give you what you’ve been missing. Remember when we were talking almost every day? When you were so happy and doing so well?” She nodded. “I can give you that again, Betts. I can clear your mind and make you feel brave. Do you want that?”

“I think so,” she responded, more and more certain with every word out of his mouth.

“No, baby girl. I need a yes or a no. Do you want to be mine? Do you want me to be yours?”

She didn’t miss the familiar words she’s sure he used on purpose. This was him replacing those words- once full of fear and anxiety- with a fresh meaning, full of promise.

“Yes, Juggie. I want to be yours.”

The look of relief on his face was palpable. “Excellent, baby girl. Finish your sugar so I can take you home.”

She chuckled at his return to their earlier banter. “Fine, Juggie. I’ll finish my coffee and we can get out of here.”

The walk back to their respective homes was filled with companionable silence. As they approached their homes, Jughead bypassed his own and proceeded to walk her to her door. “Do- uh, do you maybe want to come in?” she asked him, almost shyly.

“Baby steps, baby girl. I’ll pick you up Friday at 7.” She nodded, excited and relieved that she wouldn’t have to worry about what would come next for them. He lifted his hand to the side of her face where he caressed her cheek and drew his thumb down her plump bottom lip before letting go and taking a small step backwards. “Wear something nice for me?”

She nodded again. “Why, of course, Mr. Jones.”

He smirked at her use of his last name. “I’ll talk to you later, Betts,” he murmured low, leaning in swiftly to lay a soft kiss on her cheek.

The following day, she received the text from Jughead that she had been waiting on.

Jughead: Morning beautiful :) my sis is available Friday before our date. Is 2 okay?

Betty: Good morning, Juggie. Yeah, 2 is fine. I’ll work from home Friday.

J: Excellent. I’ll let her know.

J: I’ve been thinking of you all morning, Betts.

B: Oh, really? What have you been thinking?

J: What would you say to a little challenge leading up to our date?

B: Interesting. What do you have in mind?

J: A game. No touching yourself until Friday night. You in?

B: Are those the only rules? I’m just not allowed to touch myself? That shouldn’t be too hard.

J: Oh, Betts. You’re perfect for me, you know that?

B: So you keep saying!

J: I mean it, baby girl.

J: I have to go to work. Behave yourself, Betts. BE GOOD.

B: Yes, Mr. Jones ;)

She was freezing.

Why couldn’t she see? What was in her mouth? Why couldn’t she move her limbs?

She shivered.

“Betty, you’re awake! I’ve been waiting for you!” she heard him say.

“I had to stop the screaming. I’m sorry, I just couldn’t let anyone hear you... Especially not your next door neighbor. I hear he’s been touching what’s not his to touch.” She felt his clammy fingers graze her cheek. “If I take the gag out of your mouth, do you promise not to scream?”

She nodded, desperate for any kind of freedom she could get. He moved the gag out of her mouth and willed herself to be quiet. He tugged her blindfold off as well, allowing her to take in her surroundings for the first time since she’d lost consciousness.

She was in her own bedroom with Dilton, her arms tied together behind her back and her legs tied together at the ankles. “You could try to run, but you won’t be getting very far.”

She just looked at him, too scared to move or talk.

“I told you I would find you.”

Betty’s eyes, wet with tears, burst open as she struggled to get her breathing under control. The sharp gasps were almost painful. She reached for her phone, knowing what was coming, and dialed the only person she wanted to talk her through this- Jughead . He answered on the second ring.

“Betty, it’s late, are you okay?” he said in lieu of a greeting.

She tried explaining what was happening, really, she did. What came out though was more like hyperventilating and seal noises, which was enough to put Jughead on high alert.

“Stay right where you are, Betts. I’m coming for you.” He said nothing more, but kept the phone call connected, just in case.

Thanks to a poorly hidden Hide-A-Key, within moments he was standing in her bedroom doorway taking in the scene before him. The room was normal, or at least it looked exactly as he pictured Betty Cooper’s room would look. Tidy with everything in its place. Her bed, however, was a different story. The sheets were a mess. It looked as though she had been tossing and turning all night. Betty’s skin was glistening with sweat and she was clutching at her chest, unable to catch her breath, and she had tears streaking down her face. She was shaking. Shit.

Jughead recognized what was happening as a panic attack and quickly moved to her side. “Betty, baby, try to breathe for me.”

It was as if she didn’t even hear him. His hand found the small of her back and he tried again. “Betts, I need you to focus. Focus on me, Betts. Breathe.”

Again, nothing. Jughead gripped her face in his hands, and kissed her hard. After a few moments, her lips molded around his own and she began kissing him back. Her breath evened out. Eventually he pulled back so he could look at her and ensure she was okay.

“You okay now, baby girl?” he asked, gentleness laced throughout his words as he ran his fingers through her soft hair.

“Yeah, yes,” she breathed gratefully, leaning into his arms. “Thanks to you. I’ve had panic attacks before, tons of times, but that one felt different. I’m sorry for dragging you out of bed for something so silly.”

“It’s never silly when it’s you. What happened?” he asked, softly.

Betty recounted her nightmare to him, down to every gritty detail. She told him that she saw Dilton standing in her bedroom, the one place that she’d always felt safest. She started getting worked up again, and Jughead decided maybe baby steps weren’t the way to go. She needed him and he needed to help her feel in calm and in control of herself. Besides, their date was scheduled for the next day, and he fully planned on ravaging her then, anyway.

“Come here, Betts,” he told her. She climbed onto his lap and curled into him, seeking comfort. He placed his finger under her chin and brought her face to his own. Her lips parted instinctively as her doe eyes took him in, wondering what his next move would be. He brought his mouth to hers in a kiss much more passionate than the one they had just shared, or even the few before that. It was a kiss filled with promise- that she would be okay, that he would make sure of it.

His hands roamed her body as his mouth explored her own. He traced every line, dip, contour, valley, and curve that he came to. Touch was important to him.

He kept his hands away from any areas that might be considered inappropriate on purpose and she was becoming more and more frustrated. She tried moving into him so that his hand would end up cupping her breast, but he stopped kissing her and pulled his hands away.

“You’re not in charge here, are you?” he asked her. She shook her head no. “That’s right. Good girl.” He brought his hands back to her body. “I want you to tell me exactly what you want. Be specific. Ask me nicely and use your manners. Can you do that for me?”

She shifted slightly and sat straight up, looking him directly in the eye. “I want you to erase the memory of my nightmare. I want you to make me forget waking up and not feeling safe. I want you to erase the thought of anyone being in here with me aside from you.” He groaned but did not move. She hadn’t finished, he knew. “I want you to touch me, Juggie. Make me feel good, just like you always have even when you didn’t know you were doing it; when I would touch myself to only your words, when I would touch myself imagining my sexy next-door neighbor doing all those dirty things you described. Please.”

“Goddamn, baby girl,” he murmured low as he began reaching for her. “Strip for me, please. All the way down to nothing.”

She began doing as he asked. He stood and removed his shirt, showing off the toned body she knew was hiding underneath his old t-shirt. He unbuttoned his jeans but left them on.

Once she had completed her task, Betty stood at the side of the bed awaiting further instructions. Jughead took in the beautiful woman before him from head to toe and back again before saying, “You’re even more beautiful in person, Betts. Incredible. Mine .” She shuddered at his words and a smirk bloomed across his features; knowing his words affected her so much was such a rush.

He moved to stand in front of her. “Do you trust me, baby girl?”

“Yes.” The answer tumbled out of her mouth without second thought.

“Good. Do you remember, about a week before we started talking, I posted a story about my absolute favorite way to pleasure a woman? Using my mouth in ways other than speaking, and my fingers in ways other than typing?”

Goosebumps rose all over her body at his words. Of course she remembered. It was a story full of fingers, tongue, and teeth and she spent days pleasuring herself to it. “Yes, I remember.”

“I wrote that I like to start by devouring her, starting with her mouth – “ he closed the distance between the two of them and kissed her on the lips, softly but with meaning. As he pulled away, he continued, “ - to her neck,” he paused to leave a trail of wet kisses down the column of her neck. When he got to her collarbone he asked her, “What came next?”

“You like to bite and mark her collar bones,” as she spoke the words he completed the action she was describing, “and then you like to move to her breasts. You – ah – like to palm one breast while moving your mouth over the other…” She trailed off as his teeth found her pebbled nipple.

“Keep going or I stop, baby girl.”

She groaned out of frustration. It was becoming more and more difficult to speak coherently. “Please don’t stop, Juggie.”

“Mmm, how about you call me Mr. Jones, huh? You were so fond of calling me that for so long, let’s try it now.” He resumed his work on her other breast and began rolling the recently-worked nipple between his thumb and forefinger eliciting an especially delicious-sounding groan from her lips.

“O-okay, Mr. Jones. I’ll try…” As she said his name he bit the tip of the nipple he was working with his mouth causing her to cry out.

“Good girl, now keep going. What did I say next?”

As his mouth continued moving, she tried to gain enough composure to recount his story to him, though it was proving to be increasingly difficult. “You like to trail your lips down her belly and across to her hi-ips, where you like to pay extra close attention. You like to mark her there, where only you and her can see.”

“You’re doing very well, baby girl. Should I mark you? Would you like a reminder that you’re mine?”

She nodded feverishly. “Yes, please Mr. Jones. I would really like that.”

He bit into her hip bone causing her to yell out; the pleasure-pain of his action lighting her body on fire. “More?” he asked, his eyebrow raising as he looked up at her for confirmation.

“Yes, please!” she pleaded, fingers laced through his inky black hair.

While his mouth was busy complying with her request, he brought his fingers back to her skin. He trailed them along her legs and gently nudged them apart. “What next, baby girl?”

“You like to kiss your way up her legs, teasing her until she can barely take it, before you settle in at the apex of her thighs…” Betty became distracted with the feel of both his hands and his tongue working up her legs. They were inching closer and closer to where she wanted him most and she could hardly take any more. She could feel herself building toward release and he hadn’t even gotten to her center.

She couldn’t help the needy moan that escaped her lips as his fingertips gently stroked her folds before spreading her legs even farther apart, exposing her most intimate place to his gaze.

“You are fucking stunning, baby girl. I could spend the rest of my life down here and I would die a happy man.” His breath was tickling her with every word he spoke, he knew, so he kept going. “Do you know what I’m’ going to do next?”

“No, Mr. Jones. Please tell me?”

He was not expecting that to come out of her mouth, that’s for sure. It was quite the pleasant surprise. His girl liked to be teased as much as he liked teasing. He flicked his eyes up to her face. “I’m going to taste you. I know you’re already wet for me. I can see it. You’re glistening so pretty. And once I get a really good taste, I’m going to slide my fingers into you and move my mouth so that it covers your clit. From there, baby girl, if you’re good and sing for me so pretty, I’m going to fuck you with my fingers while I send you to heaven.”

Before she had a chance to respond, his mouth and fingers were following through. She was a mess, writhing and moaning as if she were a woman possessed. “Fuck Mr. Jones!” she cried. Those were the last intelligible words that left her mouth before he had her tumbling into her first orgasm of the night.

Rather than letting her recover, he bit her bundle of nerves and curled his fingers inside her, throwing her right into her second. “Oh Betts, you come so good for me. Such a good girl”

Once she came down and could move again, she began reaching for Jughead’s jeans, where he stopped her by placing a hand over hers. “Not tonight, Betts. Tonight was all about you, and you did so well. Just sleep now.”

“Will you stay with me?” She whispered the question, almost afraid he’d say no..

“For you? Anything,” he said as he settled in beside her, ready to fight any nightmare, demon, or other monster that might come for her in her dreams. -

The next morning, Betty woke up to find Jughead wrapped around her. She rolled so that her body was facing his and could see that his eyes were open and he was grinning at her like a lunatic.

“Good morning, Juggie,” she said, unable to keep the grin off her own face.

“You’re beautiful in the morning light,” he responded. He began moving to get out of bed when he felt her small hand on his shoulder stilling his movements.

“Thank you for coming over last night. I would have eventually been okay, but it meant everything to me that you cared enough to come for me.”

He chuckled and tucked a strand of her loose blonde hair behind her ear. “Oh, baby girl, if my memory serves me right, you were the one who came for me.”

She laughed at his joke and tossed her pillow at him. He caught it and wiggled his eyebrows at her.

“Are we still on for tonight?” she asked him hopefully.

“Of course,” Jughead answered easily. “Actually, get dressed. I’m taking you to breakfast and we’re playing hooky from work. We meet with JB at two this afternoon so we can just spend the day together. What do you think?”

A smiling Betty stretched her arms high above her head and rejoiced in the popping of her stiff joints. “Mm, that sounds wonderful, Juggie.” With that, she got up out of bed, kissing him on the cheek as she passed by him on her way to the bathroom to get ready for their day.

Betty nervously wiped her hands on her sundress as she stood staring at the ominous building in front of her. She was about to take a really big step towards ensuring her personal safety for the rest of the foreseeable future, sure, but what had her anxiety level higher than usual was the fact that she was about to meet Jughead’s sister.

“Betts, you’re not nervous, are you? I promise JB will take care of it. We’ll make sure he doesn’t get out.”

“It’s not that, Juggie. I just… she’s your sister. I just want to make a good impression on her.” Her eyes drifted down to the ground with her admission, blushing hard and scared she said something too soon.

“Oh, baby girl. She’s going to love you. Promise,” he said with a wink just as they approached the automatic door opening for them.

Turns out, Jughead was right. Jellybean Jones was a force to be reckoned with. She was a woman in her mid-twenties who wore tailored suit pants with a matching jacket and a vintage concert tee underneath. Her hair was dark and hung straight down her back, almost reaching her butt. She wore black-rimmed glasses over eyes that matched her brother’s – a bright blue that Betty had never seen on anyone else. The walls of her office were decorated in vintage movie posters and nothing about her screamed “lawyer” in the least.

When the introductions were made, Betty told her, “I have to be honest, you’re not at all what I was expecting, Jellybean.”

“Oh, is it because lawyers are stuffy and boring?” Betty nodded sheepishly. “It’s okay. Usually, we are. But I could never, ever conform to The Man .” Betty let out a nervous laugh. “And please, call me JB.”

“Oh, please,” Jughead rolled his eyes at his baby sister. “Lets just get on with it.”

They spent the next half hour going over details from the incident. Betty recounted everything, much the same way she did to Jughead earlier that week, describing in detail her kidnapping and what led to the capture and arrest of her assailant. JB took lots of notes as Betty spoke and once she was done, JB looked very seriously at her.

“Betty, look, this appeal, it’s not a guarantee. I think it’s absolutely worth a shot, but you need to be prepared for what might happen if we lose. Also, even though you don’t have to make a statement, it might make a difference with the review board if you decide to. I’m going to do everything can to help you win this thing.”

Betty breathed a sigh of relief at her words just as Jughead laid a protective hand around her shoulders. She brought her arm across her body and gripped his fingers absentmindedly. Jellybean smirked at their display.

“So, work aside, I have to say I never thought I’d see the day, big brother.”

Jughead scoffed at his sister. “Don’t start your bullshit, Jellybean.”

“Why, whatever do you mean, Jughead?” she teased, her eyes twinkling with mirth.

“You know exactly what I mean.” Jughead shot his sister a look that effectively shut her up about whatever she was hinting at, though the smirk never left her face. “Are we done here, Jellybean?”

“Well, not exactly,” his sister returned. “For the appeal, we’ll most likely have to go to Riverdale. I’ll know exactly which day the hearing is on in the next day or so, but I would start packing and making arrangements now.”

“Will do. Thank you so much for your help, JB. You have no idea how much I appreciate it,” Betty said as she hugged the tiny woman tightly.

“It’s nothing, Betty. It was a pleasure to meet you. I hope we’ll get to spend some time together outside the office sometime soon as well. I’d love to get to know you a little better.”

Betty smiled, and blushed at the implication. “I’d really love that.”

Jughead rolled his eyes fondly. “Alright ladies. I hate to rush, but Betty and I have a date to get on with. Catch you later Jellybean!” he said, placing his hand on the small of Betty’s back and guiding her outside the office. On their way out, he looked down at Betty who seemed a little lost in thought. “You alright, baby girl?” he asked her.

“Would you come to Riverdale with me?” was her response. She bit her lip, unsure of what he was going to say, but certain she’d been right to ask him. She couldn’t think of anyone else she wanted beside her more than him.

“You didn’t even have to ask, baby girl. We still have some time before dinner. I’m going to take you home.”

“Please do, Juggie.”

“What is it that you want, baby girl?” Jughead asked, blue eyes staring her down. They were both naked, lying next to one another on his bed this time.

“Can I…” Betty looked at him, eyes appraising his body. She could see strength woven into his toned muscles and the thought made her shiver. She wanted to touch every part of him.

“Can you…?”

“Oh, sorry.” She averted her attention back to his face, deep blush creeping over her skin. “Can I taste you, Juggie?”

He was entertaining the thought for a moment, imagining how her perfect pink lips would feel around the heated flesh of his cock. He got a flash of her green eyes staring up at him as her lips worked over his skin and he had to fight off a groan just thinking about it. “Is that really what you want, baby?” She nodded her head eagerly so Jughead stood from the bed, hand fisted around his arousal. “Then get on your knees for me, beautiful.”

Betty followed Jughead up from the bed, eagerly doing as she was told. He held his growing erection towards her and said, “Go ahead, baby girl. Take what you need.”

She tentatively licked the tip of Jughead's cock and groaned at the taste of him. He was salty and warm under tongue and she leant forward, taking more of him into her mouth. Betty began sucking, moving her head back and forth over his length. His hand brushed her loose blonde waves away from her face, caressing her as he slowly bucked his hips forward. Her hands flew from their place clenched on her thighs to Jughead’s hips, gripping tightly and pulling him forward.

He looked down at her, curiosity written across his features. She pulled herself away from his cock with a wet ‘pop’ and simply said, “I’m taking what I want, Juggie, just like you told me to.” Her eyes dazzling with adoration and confidence. He couldn’t help the groan that escaped his lips.

Jughead let her move him how she wanted for a few more moments before the itch to take back over rushed through him. He pulled out of her mouth, fingers taking hold of her hands and helping Betty to stand. He pressed a sweet kiss to her lips, palm sliding over her cheek, thumb tugging on her lower lip. He stepped back over to lie on the bed, settling back against the pillows. “Come here, Betts.” Jughead patted the space next to him. She climbed onto the bed, kneeling at the place he indicated. “I want you here,” he said, gesturing to his face. “You keep doing what you’re doing, but I want to taste you too.”

A thrill ran through her, hot and tingly down her spine. Once again, Betty did as she was told, swinging a leg over him after she turned to face the end of the bed. Straddling his face, she felt nervous and exposed but as Jughead trailed his fingers across her core, she forgot all her insecurities. Her hands and mouth wrapped around him just as his tongue lapped over her sex. Their words were few and far between as they simply enjoyed one another.

Over and over again, Jughead made her come and when he felt his release rapidly approaching, he gently squeeze her backside “Baby girl, I’m going to come.”

“Please,” is all she said, though her heart was racing. Betty began pumping him with her hand and bobbing her head down on him, faster and harder than before. Her tongue swirling around his cock as her hand worked the space her mouth couldn't fit.

“Betty, fuck… Baby I’m…” she groaned around his cock at his words, sending vibrations throughout his body. Jughead couldn't fight the moan of her name spilling from his lips as he erupted in her mouth. She worked him through his release and cleaned him with her tongue.

When he tapped her backside to indicate he was done, Betty climbed off his body, relaxed and satisfied, and turned back around to lie in his open arms.

“You didn’t have to do that, you know,” he told her, kissing the side of her head.

“I know I didn’t, Juggie. I really wanted to though. I love your taste.”

“Fuck, Betts. You just might be a dream come true.”

“We’re not going to make our date,” she tells him, gently rousing him from the sleep he fell into after their mutual release.

He smiled fondly. “That’s okay. We’ll just order in and have dinner and a movie right here in bed.”

While they were eating, Jughead asked her to tell him about Riverdale. She immediately launched into tour guide Betty, recounting all the landmarks and points of interest for someone visiting the town. He stopped her, his hand gentle on hers, and said, “No, Betts. Tell me about your Riverdale.”

Betty looked away. “Juggie, you don’t want to hear about that. It’s not a good story to tell,” she told him, her voice low.

“I want to know everything, even the ugly parts,” he countered, tilting her chin up so he could show her how serious he was.

Knowing she was safe within his arms, Betty went on to explain the torment she had lived with the last few years of her time spent in her home town. Polly, her older sister, had blamed Betty for what happened with Dilton. She claimed that Betty had led him on and that the incident made their family as a whole look bad to the rest of the town.

She explained that she felt like a failure for not recognizing the signs of instability that surely must have been radiating off of Dilton.

She explained why she didn’t talk to Archie or Veronica anymore, despite the fact that they saved her life. She had overwhelming feelings of embarrassment. Every time they looked at her all she could feel was the pity in their eyes.

Jughead drew his fingers through her hair, listening to her every word, and promised that he would be at her side for as long as she would have him.

She thanked him by way of a heated makeout session, too exhausted to take it any further, and then they both fell into a peaceful sleep.

“Juggie, do you have everything?” Betty asked as she crossed over her lawn into Jughead’s yard. She set her suitcase and other bags on the sidewalk and waited for him on his deck “JB will be here in just a few moments.”

He opened his screen door, his front door having already been open, and set his bags beside Betty’s. “Don’t worry, baby girl. Jellybean is always late.”

No sooner had the words left his lips than the sleek, black sports car turned the corner and parked at the curb in front of his house. The dark-tinted front window rolled down to reveal Jellybean, her hair piled high on top of her head in a messy bun and large sunglasses shielding her eyes from the sun.

“Get in, losers. We’re going shopping!” she shouted, her grin wide.

Jughead groaned at her Mean Girls reference while Betty giggled. The two of them crammed in the car; Jughead sitting in the back and Betty riding shotgun despite his offer that she could sit on his lap.

“Next stop, Riverdale!”

A few things to note:

I completely manipulated the judicial system to fit the purposes of this fic.

I borrowed that kiss-to-stop-a-panic-attack thing from Teen Wolf because it's one of my favorite moments on that show and I thought it fit really well here. In reality, if someone is struggling to breathe, kissing them is probably not the best idea.

Let me know what you guys thought!

#bughead #bughead fanfiction #bughead fanfic #bughead au #stranger than fiction p4 #mine*fic

106 notes · View notes

whichstiel · 7 years ago

Text

The Science of Gift Giving

It had been months since Dean tossed Castiel a mix tape. He’d handed it off to Castiel with averted eyes, a strange flush coloring his skin. “Made this for you,” he had said. Castiel took it from him curiously, promised to listen to it on his upcoming drive in his continued search for Kelly, and that was that.

It had been slightly less time than that since Dean had told him tersely that the tape was a gift, and meant to be retained indefinitely.

And, of course, Castiel had been dead for quite a lot of the elapsed time since then. Still, it bothered him that he had not yet reciprocated the gift giving.

At first it hadn’t occurred to him that reciprocal gift giving was something that ought to happen. It seemed apparent that Dean had some free time and had chosen to spend it creating a musical compilation for Castiel. And Castiel had listened to it. When he needed respite, he’d parked, closed his eyes, and let himself drift along the melodies on the cassette. He’d climbed up to the stars with the crescendos and fallen down into the thick earth when the songs fell low. Castiel kept the cassette in his breast pocket and when he’d fought back to life and retrieved his coat from Dean, the cassette had still been there. Waiting.

* * *

When hunts were slow and the itch for solitude began to feel like an entire ant colony under his skin, Castiel liked to go to the nearby public library. The library was an institution that he at first avoided, understanding it to be a warehouse of human fiction and a location for passionate assignations in the stacks. At least, that was the knowledge passed along to him from Metatron, and the hundreds of library romances Metatron had devoured.

However Metatron, who had claimed to deliver to Castiel all human knowledge, had missed a considerable amount of it. Namely, Metatron had apparently eschewed nearly everything except for fiction and biographies. When Castiel had realized that there were shelves and shelves of books he’d never read – or second-hand read before – he became addicted to the nonfiction section of the public library. Reading about how humans interpreted the world – sometimes inventively, sometimes laughably – had become both a fascinating diversion and a welcome retreat. (The physics textbooks were a delight when he needed a little light reading in the quiet morning hours.)

One comfortable afternoon he sat ensconced in a study carrel near the 300’s with a book cracked open before him: The science of gift giving. Castiel had pulled the book from the shelf, his heart rate speeding up a little. He appreciated a good scientific tome; they tended to be written in a slightly more straightforward manner. He looked forward to at last learning how gift giving worked. Castiel patted the cassette tape through his coat and began to read.

When Castiel finished the book he sat back in the chair, frowning at the white tiled ceiling. If anything, now he felt more confused than ever. Still, he resolved to try to apply some of the outlined lessons from the book to at last return the gesture to Dean.

Tip One: Give something they can use

Castiel arrived back at the bunker to a smoky hallway, the fire detectors in the bunker honking irritably, lights flashing. Castiel squinted among the chaos, then descended the stairs, his target acquired. Dean stood in the center of it, talking to Jack with exasperation painted across his features. He looked up when Castiel approached.

“Hey Cas,” he said with an expansive eyeroll towards the repentant young man leaning against the map table. “Just teaching Jack here how to cook is all.”

“Ah, and how is it going?”

Dean glanced around the smoky room, grimaced, and shot Castiel a thumbs up. “Awesome. What’s in the bag, man?”

Castiel shifted the large grocery bag he held awkwardly in his arms. “Um, I’d noticed you were low on shampoo, so I purchased some for you. I also have,” he peered into the bag as though he could have possibly forgotten which items he’d agonized over in the store, “beer, some magazines, a jar of peanut butter, an apple pie, and five bags of flavored beef jerky.”

Dean glanced at him then, an odd half smile lighting his face. “You planning a wild night there, Cas?”

Castiel shook his head and thrust it at Dean mumbling, “I thought you might need it, is all.”

Dean accepted the bag with a head tilt and a short laugh. “Uh, thanks, man.” He turned his attention back to Jack. “Tip nine,” he said sternly, “always use an oven mitt. You shouldn’t rely on your magic heaven powers to heal you every time.”

Castiel retreated from the smoky din to the quiet of his own bedroom and considered his next move.

Tip Two: Give the gift of time

The book had advised that the gift of time was often the most precious. So when Dean announced that he was heading out to the garage, Castiel had offered to help. Dean froze at his offer, turning slowly towards Castiel, his eyes comically wide. “Dude, you serious? You’re always complaining about cars.”

Castiel scowled. “Just because I find human technology frustrating does not mean I’m unwilling to learn.” He fought to clear his features. “Please, I would like to help.”

Dean chuckled and threw an inscrutable look to Sam, who raised his eyebrows and looked away from the two of them with a quick shake of his head. Dean shrugged. “Alright, let’s head out there. But you better ditch the jacket. And wear one of my shirts.”

Castiel followed him down the hallway, plucking at his suit jacket a little nervously. “I can use my grace to clean my clothing, Dean.”

In front of him, Dean huffed a laugh. “Just…humor me, okay?” He led the way into his room and rooted around in the dresser until he pulled out a black Metallica shirt. He tossed it in the air and Castiel caught it. The old fabric felt soft against his skin and he smiled fondly down at it.

“Thank you, Dean.” He carefully laid the shirt on the bed and sloughed off his suit jacket. When he set his hands to his tie, slipping loose the knot and pulling it off to set on the bed, Dean cleared his throat aggressively.

“I’ll, uh…” Castiel watched Dean curiously as he stared at the floor, ears turning bright red. “I’ll meet you in there, okay?”

Before Castiel could respond, Dean had slipped past him and out into the hallway. Castiel shrugged and finished changing into Dean’s t-shirt, smoothing it over his hips. It felt odd to be so bare, but he had to admit he liked the way the short sleeves circled his upper arms snugly. It really was a good fabric to wear into battle, stretching easily with his body. He could appreciate why this was the Winchesters’ preferred under layer.

Castiel spent the day working on the Impala alongside Dean. In the end, he decided it didn’t count as a gift since it had seemed to benefit himself just as much as it had benefitted Dean.

Tip Three: Give an adventure

Dean had, in Castiel’s opinion, quite enough of an adventurous life as it was. So when considering the next bit of advice from the book, he decided to give Dean an experience. An experience was close enough to an adventure, since the type of “adventure” the book outlined included such harrowing pursuits as picnics in parks and eating out at a new restaurant.

He caught Dean on his own one evening. Sam had taken Jack to an event called “Cosmic bowling” and Dean had managed to talk Sam out of making him go so he could look online for their next case. When Castiel found Dean, he had his feet up on the library table, the high pitched moans of cartoon porn emanating from his laptop.

“Hello, Dean,” he said and Dean jumped, the laptop clattering off his knees and onto the wooden tabletop.

“Shit, Cas. Warn a guy.” Dean quickly closed the laptop and looked up with a guilty expression. “What’s up?”

Castiel pulled out a chair from next to Dean and said, “Last week you were telling Jack about our first meeting on earth. And we spoke of the true voice of angels, and angel radio.”

Dean looked wary. “Yeah.”

“Well, I know your body isn’t tuned to hear the true voice of angels, but I think I’ve been able to modulate it - filter it - to better enable you to hear it. Would you like to hear angel radio?”

Dean just stared at him, jaw dropping open slightly. Finally, he said, “Where’s this coming from?”

Castiel shrugged, the words to explain the overwhelming need he had to give Dean a gift stoppered up inside of him. “I thought you might enjoy it,” he said simply.

Dean stared at him, brows raised in question. But he nodded finally. “Yeah, Cas. Can’t say I haven’t wondered.”

“Settle back in your chair,” Castiel said as he reached out two fingers towards Dean’s temple. “You may feel a little dizzy.”

Dean settled his shoulders against the chair back, setting his feet on the floor, and lacing his fingers in his lap. Castiel touched two fingers to Dean’s temple, closed his eyes, and let the connection flow.

During crises, angel radio was often discordant with jarring chords and shouts jamming his ears. On good days, settled days, the chorus was resplendent. Castiel smiled to watch the look of bliss wash across Dean’s face as he heard at last the symphony that exceeded any human orchestra.

When Castiel had determined that Dean’s perception couldn’t handle much more exposure, he removed his fingers. Dean grabbed his hand as Castiel pulled away. They sat in silence for several minutes, Dean gripping his hand and staring silently at Castiel in awe.

This too, as it turned out, became a gift for Castiel as well.

Tip Four: Give a personal keepsake

After a night of drinking after his return, Castiel had taken a selfie with Dean and Sam. He printed it at a local drug store kiosk, then placed it in a frame purchased from the same drug store.

Castiel gave it to Dean who was so pleased with it, that he suggested he print one for Sam as well. Of course, Castiel did as he asked. Sam was just as pleased with his copy.

Tip Five: Give gifts of good quality

Castiel disappeared from the bunker for a week. He expected little resistance and had been surprised when Dean followed him out to the garage prior to his departure, and pressed him to be safe, watch his fuel levels, and leave his phone’s GPS activated.

Castiel had accepted these terms, accepted the friendly clap on the shoulder, and driven away.

Once he returned he immediately found Dean. This time he had wrapped the gift. He had noticed that the proper wrapping often seemed to be an important signifier of a gift and had purchased a simple hunter green paper from a drug store on the way back.

Dean raised his brows and ripped at the paper, balling it up and dropping it to the kitchen counter. He soon held the gift in his hand. It was a long, slim blade with a simple wrapped leather hilt and a tiny wyrm worked between that and the blade. “Cas.” Dean couldn’t seem to find any other words and he flipped the blade in his hand, testing its balance.

“I found a clue about the whereabouts of this blade in my reading last week,” Castiel explained. He pointed to the dragon then traced his finger down the blade. “It was worked by Merlin and still retains some power. You can tell by the way this ancient metal has withstood tarnish for so many centuries.”

“Thanks, Cas.” Dean looked between the blade and the balled up paper, then at Castiel. He didn’t seem capable of saying anything further, so Castiel eventually nodded and excused himself to attend to his car. He tried to ignore the worry itching under his skin which hissed that he had made a misstep somehow.

* * *

Two days later Castiel retreated to the public library feeling tainted by his failures. Nothing seemed to meet the significance of the mix tape. Though he’d seen Dean flipping the knife just yesterday, and the photo resided at his bedside, Castiel had been unable to achieve the sense of fulfillment from any of his attempts to reciprocate. He had thought about it long after everyone had gone to sleep last night, tapping his fingers on the kitchen table as he sought some direction.

At first, he’d thought to follow the last bit of advice from the book, which was to come up with a disproportionately inefficient gift. In movies or books, his next move should be to carpet Dean’s rooms in flowers, buy Dean ostentatious jewelry, or perhaps serenade him from a remote location. The idea of doing that made him shudder, and Castiel was reasonably certain it would be met with the same desperate dislike.

Perhaps gift giving wasn’t a science, but instead a language that he had never acquired. Thinking in terms of language had given him an idea and he had dropped his latest attempt at responding to Dean’s mix tape on Dean’s desk, then headed to the public library to clear his head.

It was at the library, as Castiel sat in a quiet study carrell, that he first heard the Impala’s telltale rumble as it growled through downtown. Dean found him in the back of the library, staring sightlessly at a (fairly humorous) book about the physics of black holes.

“Cas,” Dean said and Castiel looked up. Dean stood for a moment framed in the book stacks. He looked somehow taller than reality in the close, vibrant setting, hands balled into the pockets of his jeans.

After a moment, Castiel stood. “Dean,” he asked. “What are you doing here? Is everything okay?”

Dean took a few deep breaths, pulling his hands out of his pockets and sliding them back in, as though he was nervous. And then, as the silence stretched on between them, he moved. Dean closed in on Castiel and raised his palms to caress his cheeks, thumb stroking lightly as though he anticipated rejection. When Castiel didn’t throw him off (he didn’t dare move) Dean rushed in and kissed him.

It was a quiet kiss, barely a brush on the lips, and over just a moment later. Dean drew away, fear broadcasting so strongly it vibrated the air between them. “Thank you for the letter,” Dean breathed then dropped his hands.

Castiel caught at his hands before they could fall back to his side. He placed them back around himself and brought up his own palms to embrace Dean. He returned the kiss, unwilling to let so much time lapse this time between the delivery of a gift and its reciprocation.

“I tried to return your gesture. With the mix tape,” Castiel added at Dean’s suddenly confused look. “But words seemed easier - more straightforward - in the end.”

Dean grinned like the sun breaking through the clouds. “Words, huh? They are useful. I, uh… I got some of my own for you, I think. Wanna go for a drive?” He pulled back, then held out his hand to Castiel.

Castiel took it, closing his fingers over Dean’s work-worn palm. “Of course, Dean,” he said, and followed him from the library into the golden evening sun.

(Happy birthday, @woollycas. I finally wrote that “gift giving” story.)

#supernatural fanfic #destiel #deancas #mix tape #destiel fluff

408 notes · View notes

omegaling · 7 years ago

Text

Allez Cuisine! ~Chapter Twelve

Chapter Twelve: Malbec and Bucatini all’Amatriciana

Chapter warning: Rey has memories of when Plutt was a disgusting bastard to her when she was a minor.

Chapter Twelve: Malbec and Bucatini all’Amatriciana

In the end Rey decided to buy the wine.

It was a stupid thing to get her panties in a wad over, but in retrospect she supposed it was only a matter of time before her anxiety manifested in some form or fashion. It certainly didn’t happen when she reported to her first shift after her meeting with Ren, where she churned out dozens of croquetas de jamon and her caldo gallego which was becoming exponentially popular as the weather got colder. When she discussed the nightly specials with Poe she did so without imagining him handing her her last paycheck. When she and Finn started the new season of American Horror Story and debated what that year’s group Halloween costumes should be (Finn wanted Ghostbusters, Rey wanted the Crazy 88s from Kill Bill ) she did so without feeling sick with guilt. Even when her phone’s calendar popped up with a reminder that her first lesson was on that upcoming Monday at five o’clock she felt remarkably calm. In fact, had it not been for their string of emails she could almost believe that her whole correspondence with Kylo Ren took place inside her head.

It remained that way until she was halfway to his building and found herself standing in front of a corner liquor store in a strange sense of contemplation. One of the last questions Rey asked Kylo was what she needed to bring for her first lesson.

“Only your knives,” Ren answered as he finished off his croissant. A tiny piece of pastry clung to the corner of his lip, which he hastily brushed away with the pad of his thumb. Rey realized she was staring and quickly averted her eyes. He must have noticed because the same corner quirked up the smallest of fractions, which reignited her blush anew. “I’m a stoic believer that chefs should always use their own knives when they can. Unknown blades leads to shoddy knifework more often than not.”

Rey was oddly perplexed by his answer. “Are you sure? I really don’t mind picking up some basic ingredients on my way over.”

Ren waved her offer away as though it was a bothersome fly. “There’s no need for that. I have everything we’ll need at my apartment. I also don’t want you showing up with any preconceived notions of what we’ll be making. I prefer teaching from the ground up.”

Rey spent the a good portion of that afternoon wondering what the home kitchen of a chef of Ren’s caliber was like. It was not hard to imagine a pantry full of items like gold-seal balsamic vinegar, stacked jars of beluga caviar and virtually every spice known to mankind and a refrigerator stocked with prime wagyu ribeyes and tubs of creme fraise. Surely he didn’t eat the same way he cooked at Vader and on Iron Chef at home, or he wouldn’t have his lean, athletic build (that she certainly had not been admiring, thank you very much), but if he didn’t mind using his personal inventory who was she to argue?

Still, she felt strange going over to someone’s home empty handed. She might have grown up poor, but she didn’t grow up without manners. Bringing something to drink seemed simple and reasonable enough, but now as she stood before the store’s meager wine selection she felt her heart rate begin to increase and the palms of her hands grow slick with sweat. At first she attributed it to stepping out of the chilly late afternoon air and into the overly warm store, but as her eyes roved over the rows of chardonnay, sauvignon blanc, zinfandels and cabernets, she was finally forced to acknowledge the feeling for the panic attack that it was.

Shit. Shit. This was really happening. She was less than half an hour away from being privately tutored by a chef with five stars and at least a dozen James Beard Foundation awards under his belt, not to mention the innumerable other awards and recognition from food critics, restaurant reviewers, and just about every form of printed media that covered every aspect of contemporary culture and the culinary scene. And what was she? A prep cook with two year’s experience and no prior education or background in the restaurant business who only got this far because of a lucky break, a sophisticated palate and the ability to learn quickly with asking minimum questions.

“Don’t even bother, kid,” Unkar Plutt grunted one day when he saw the stacks of college applications and brochures on the scarred kitchen table at his house. Normally Rey was careful about keeping them hidden to avoid this exact type of confrontation, but Plutt was off work unexpectedly early that day, the reek of cheap alcohol already prevalent beneath the ever-present stench of diesel fuel and cooking grease. “Those damn schools need to stop spoon-feeding you kids these delusions that a piece of paper that cost fifty grand only gets you jack shit and the system only exists to screw people over. You want some quality advice? Go out and get a job like the rest of us sorry fuckers. Or if you’re looking for a real easy ride just have someone knock you up and collect welfare for the next eighteen years. I’m sure even you can find someone desperate enough to help you with that.”

Rage had rose in Rey’s throat in acidic waves, but she made herself remain silent; she still had the bruises on her arm from the last time she backtalked him. She loathed the tears that rolled down her face when she was in bed that night, but they helped temper her resolve and made her more determined than ever to prove him wrong.

It was exactly that brash line of thinking that put her where she was now. Ren had challenged her and she had stepped up to it for no other reason than to defend her pride. What if this time she was truly in over her head? What if the only thing that came from all this was her becoming the butt of a joke between Ren and all his celebrity chef friends?

Rey turned over the bottle of malbec in her hands. Alamos was a good wine - one of her favorites, in fact - but it would only cost her a whopping twelve dollars. She was certain that Ren had a custom-made wine closet in his apartment full of the best wines France, Italy, and California had to offer. Would he scoff at her attempt at being a decent houseguest? If that happened she already knew she’d flee from pure embarrassment and pray that she’d never have the misfortune of seeing him ever again.

The thought gave her pause. A few weeks ago the Ren she thought she’s knew would have regarded anything she did with open contempt. But now? The image that she had previously build of him - which she admitted was largely based on the perceptions of others - was beginning to crack and fall away. The man she had met in the coffee shop who shared his croissant with her was not the same one that the other Village chefs jeered about over drinks, nor was he the force of nature on the set of Iron Chef America.

So now what she wanted to know was, which version of Kylo Ren was real, and how did it compare to the one she thought of at night?

Rey took the bottle of wine up to the cashier before she could change her mind.

Kylo Ren did not live in the gilded opulence of The Plaza, nor did he have a sweeping panoramic view of Central Park from 15 Park West. With that being said, the Walker Tower was certainly nothing to sneeze at. Built in 1929 by Ralph Thomas Walker in New York’s Chelsea neighborhood, the building embodied all the defining characteristics of art deco architecture: bold but aesthetically pleasing angles, handsome brick facade, and the geometric and organic ornamentation that the art style was so revered for. The last of the wan September afternoon light reflected off the leaded glass panes that made up the front entrance, making it glow gold.

The doorman attending the Tower’s entrance - a middle-aged gentleman with a steel-gray moustache - regarded Rey as she approached. She could only imagine what he thought of her in her faded jeans and sweater that had seen one too many washes, her face partially obscured by a too-large scarf and ratty tote hanging off one shoulder. It was especially hard to not feel self-conscious when he looked away from her to tip his hat to a businessman entering the building whose suit probably cost more than what she made in the month.

Several months, she amended with a touch of bitterness.

Rey could hear the echo of Plutt’s sneering voice in her head, taunting her that she was way out of her league. Her hands tightened on the neck of the wine bottle, imagining it being his fat neck as she strode forward, her chin tilted up. Per Ren’s instructions, Rey told the doorman her name and whom she was there to see. She expected the same chilly reception she received at the First Order headquarters, but instead the doorman beamed at her, his blue eyes warming.

“I was wondering when you’d arrive, Miss Jakken. Go right on up. I’ll inform Mr. Ren that you are on your way.” He opened the door for her, bowing a bit as she crossed the threshold.

Stepping into the Walker Tower’s lobby was like taking a step back in time. Black marble floors and pillars made the ivory-colored crown moulding and the panes of crystal-bright glass in their latticework of stainless steel practically glow in comparison. Rey could easily imagine how this place must have looked like in its hayday, when women in elegant evening gowns and men in black tie finery passed through this very same lobby on their way out to the theater or to a prestigious party.

Maybe we can do 30s mobsters for Halloween, Rey thought idly as she stepped into one of the elevators.

Ren lived in the upper floors of the Tower, nearly twenty stories above 18th street. After checking and re-checking his apartment number, she found herself standing outside his door. Her heart was in her throat, but her feet remained blessedly planted to the ground.

Perhaps a little too much so. Five minutes later, she was still standing there, her arm firmly pinned to her side.

Oh for pete’s sake, Jakken, just get it over with! She finally brought her hand up to knock.

In the instant before Rey’s hand come in contact with the door it suddenly swung open. Instead of rapping with enough force to be heard through the thick wood, Rey ended up punching Kylo Ren in the shoulder. Hard.

She also discovered, at that exact moment, that there truly was no God, because if there was They would have been merciful and struck her down where she stood to save her from her own embarrassment.

Luckily, punching Kylo Ren was about as effective as punching a tree (her hand would attest to that the next morning); the only reaction she got from him was a cocked eyebrow.

“I know I don’t have the most admirable reputation, but I thought it’d at least be a little later in the evening before you started lashing out at me.”

Rey’s face burned with such intensity it was a wonder that her hair didn’t ignite. “I… It’s not like I did it on purpose! You’re the one who just...just opened the door without making sure someone wasn’t on the other side…!”

“Miss Jakken.”

The sound of him saying her name cut her off mid-ramble. When she dared to look up at him, she saw that a corner of his mouth was quirked up ever so slightly.

“I was only joking. Since I know it doesn’t take ten minutes to travel from the lobby to my front door I was starting to think you had some last-minute second thoughts.”

Ah. She had no idea she was standing at his door for that long before getting up the courage to finally knock.

“Nope, definitely not,” Rey said, perhaps a touch too fast. “Not a single second thought in my head, or else I wouldn’t be here.”

A palpable silence stretched between them as they continued to stare at each other over the threshold of his apartment, growing increasingly awkward with each passing second. Almost a full minute elapsed before Rey realized that Ren was just as much waiting for her to say something as she was for him.

“Won’t you come in?” he finally asked.

“Yes of course thank you,” Rey said all in the same breath, barely giving Ren the chance to get out of her way as she barreled past him and into his apartment.

So this is what twenty million gets you in New York City, Rey thought with a touch of bemusement as she stepped into Ren’s main living area. Her and Finn’s entire apartment could have easily fit in Ren’s living room and kitchen, which felt even bigger by the line of floor-to-ceiling windows across two of the walls and its high ceiling. While Rey would have preferred an apartment that overlooked Central Park, Ren’s panoramic view of the New York skyscrapers already glittering in the purpling twilight was nothing short of breathtaking. His pension for black, white, and chrome-themed interior decoration evidently extended beyond Vader’s dining area, but in his home it came off as being much softer and not nearly as cold: the epitome of a high-end bachelor pad. A handsome black leather sofas and loveseat set, separated by cut glass end tables, circled a modern gas fireplace made of steel and glass. Gray rugs with modest geometric patterns covered the majority of the dark wood flooring, and a cursory glance at one of his three bookshelves showed Ren mostly read biographies and nonfiction of a wide variety of subjects. There was no TV, but a buffet table set between two of the bookshelves boasted a top-of-the-line Bose speaker system and the largest collection of CDs Rey had ever seen outside of a record store. It was all very classy, but it also felt very lonely.

Deciding that she had gawked at his home long enough, she turned toward the only reason why she was there: his kitchen.

Of course, Ren’s private kitchen was the most beautiful she had ever seen, with its dark wood cabinets, stainless steel appliances, and black granite countertops that sparkled with flecks of embedded quartz. The only thing that suggested that it was no ordinary kitchen was the massive gas range stove and oven unit that dominated the far wall, every inch the same beast used in New York’s best restaurants.

“Feel free to make yourself comfortable,” Ren said, every bit the formal host. Then he said in a tone that was caught somewhere between a question and a statement, “You brought wine.”

Until that instant, Rey had completely forgotten about the wine. Had she not, she might have tried to wrap it in her scarf as discreetly as possible and left it with her shoulder bag, but instead she had carelessly set it down in full view on the corner of his extended dining table.

“I did,” Rey said, once again fighting the urge to bolt. “But only as a preemptive ‘thank you for the lessons and for letting me make a mess of your gorgeous kitchen.’ And I’m not technically going against your instructions of bringing anything except for my knives because this isn’t an ingredient, and if it is it’s only coincidence that I chose it. And even though this malbec is popular at BB8 it’s nowhere near fancy enough to be a date wine, so it’s much better to share between acquaintances and coworkers and not necessarily as friends…”

Oh my god Rey, stop talking, stop talking, stop talking right now…!

She cleared her throat, which had become painfully dry during her mindless rambling. The fine grain of the tabletop suddenly became the most interesting thing in the entire room, and Rey studied it with interest as she said, much more softly, “Besides, Alamos is from California. It’s not even true Argentinian malbec.”

“What difference does that make? It you enjoy it, and it’s something you feel is worth sharing, then that’s all that should matter.”

It was the gentle chime of glass on wood that at last coaxed Rey to look back up when the unexpectedly gentle tone of Ren’s voice did not. He stood a little ways down from her at the dining table with two large bellied wine glasses at his elbow and a corkscrew in one hand. He wordlessly held out his other hand and Rey handed the wine over to him.

With expert precision, Ren cut off the foil covering the top of the bottle before shoving the twisted metal screw into the cork. Rey didn’t even bother to hide how she watched how the muscles in his exposed arms corded as he worked the cork free, the fabric of his button-down shirt taught over his shoulders. She also noticed for the first time that the top two buttons of his shirt below the collar were undone, revealing a swatch of pale skin of his neck and chest. Every other time she had seen him, whether it was over some fashion of media or in person, his clothing had been exceedingly modest, even to the point of being prudish: all long-sleeved and high-necked shirts and perfectly creased slacks. Seeing him now, with his sleeves partially rolled up and wearing dark, casual jeans, felt strangely intimate.

Rey scoffed at herself. You’re reading way too much into this. You’re only here to learn how to cook like a pro. If it wasn’t for that, someone like Ren would never look twice at you.

The cork came free with a pop. Ren poured the lush red wine into their glasses in equal portions, then offered one to Rey. The rich bouquet of sun-ripened berries and heady oak tickled her nose as she raised the glass to her lips, savoring the way that the decadent, sweet liquid spread across her tongue. It took a huge amount of willpower to not down the entire glass in one go.

“Technically…” Ren started, sounding as though he was measuring each word before speaking, “true malbec wine in determined by the grapes used, not by a specific region. If that were the case, all malbecs outside of France would be frauds since that is where the grape first originated. They never took well to France’s climate and were used primarily as blenders, but they thrive in Argentina and in California, which is where the majority of malbecs come from.”

“Oh,” Rey murmured into her wine glass. “That’s... good to know.”

An awkward silence fell over the pair, the constant hum of the kitchen’s massive refrigerator suddenly aggravatingly loud. Rey took another sip of wine, needing a few seconds to align her thoughts. Her first cooking lesson was going nothing like she imagined. Ren may have shed most of his brusqueness since their very first encounter, but he did not let their conversations stray beyond the topic of food and preparation of it, which was something she had expected. What she had not expected was not only standing around his dining room table, discussing the wine she bought on a whim, but doing so in a way that put her insecurities to rest. It was becoming increasingly difficult to gauge what he would do or say next, and that was making her nervous.

“So,” Rey said, perhaps a bit too loudly, “What’s on the menu tonight? Duck confit? French onion soup? Something stuffed with foie gras and poached in butter?”

“I was actually thinking of starting in a different direction. How do you feel about Italian food?”

“I love it,” Rey said, perking up. “Mediterranean cuisine is one of my favorites.”

Ren topped off their wine and gestured for her to follow him to the kitchen. Rey eagerly followed, feeling excited for the first time.

“Like most international cuisine, Americans have completely destroyed the idea of what authentic Italian food actually is. The most popular variation - overcooked pasta slathered with red sauce - is nothing more than a bastardization of traditional bolognese sauce, which comes from the Emilia-Romagna region of Italy, which is only one of twenty separate regions throughout the country. Each region has its own food culture that it is fiercely proud of. If Americans ever took the time to learn that, every Olive Garden restaurant in the country at large would close within a week.”

Ah, there’s the Kylo Ren I’m more familiar with.

Ren moved about the kitchen as he spoke, removing various ingredients and equipment they’d be using; medium-sized oblong plum tomatoes, a wedge of white cheese with a black rind, and a hefty slab of what looked like pork belly, but even more heavily streaked. It was not until he took out a package of fresh pasta from the fridge that things finally clicked into place.

“You’re going to teach me how to make spaghetti?” she blurted out before she could stop herself.

“Bucatini all’amatriciana, specifically,” Ren corrected. “A specialty out of Rome. If you want to learn what it takes to make good food, you need to first learn what makes food great.”

“Train long and study hard, you must,” Rey quipped in a raspy voice, then blushed when Ren cocked an eyebrow at her. “Sorry.”

“As I was saying, food culture in each of Italy’s regions are heavily influenced by the ingredients produced there. The northern regions such as Lombardy and the Aosta Valley prefer polenta and risotto to pasta and butter rather than olive oil. Warmer climates in the south make crops like tomatoes, artichokes and eggplants plentiful. Sicily is unique because its cuisine is an amalgamation of all the cultures that have conquered and otherwise occupied the island over the centuries and turning it into something all its own.” As he spoke, Ren set to work prepping their ingredients for their own meal. He wielded his knife - a beautiful eight-inch Miyabi blade - with the skill of a master swordsman; the tomatoes and the plump yellow onions on his cutting board weren’t so much sliced as they seemed to fall apart under his touch in perfectly proportioned segments. “But they all have the same thing in common, as does every great culinary culture around the world does; they use what’s available to them, in the season when it’s available.

“We are going to be cheating a little bit tonight; if we wanted to keep in spirit of the lesson, we would be making something far more appropriate for autumn, such as risotto with mushrooms and hazelnuts or pumpkin ravioli, but I feel that this dish will more accurately accentuate what I’m talking about. As I said, amatriciana is specific to the Lozio region, where Rome is located. The dish’s two main ingredients, guanciale and pecorino romano -” he respectively pointed to the meat and cheese with his knife - “originate from that area. Today most places use pancetta and parmigiano reggiano in their place, but it’s important to always remember where something originates from, no matter how humble of a beginning that may feel like. That, Miss Jakken, is the cornerstone of all cooking. A chef who forgets that has lost his integrity.”

He paused, casting a glance at her out of the corner of his eye. Rey felt her heart stutter. He had given her that look once before, when he told the story of Hades escorting his bride to the underworld. It was just as improbable to decipher it now as it was then, because surely Kylo Ren wasn’t, even on the most subtle level, flirting with her. She took another sip of her wine, fortifying herself before steering the conversation back to what she hoped was safer waters.

“You know you can call me Rey,” she said, her voice uncharacteristically quiet.

Again, that slight upturn of his mouth . Shit . What would she do if he ever smiled at her for real?

“If you insist… Rey.”

#reylo #reylo fanfiction #reylo chef au #reylo au #allez cuisine!

12 notes · View notes

princeandreis · 7 years ago

Text

neighbors

I had this pretty spontaneous inspiration for a fluff thing where ev meets the reader in an au where he and heidi move away after the events in the musical

A/N: hhhh um yea b l e a s e no judgement on this, I started and finished it at 1:30 in the morning

word count: idk but it’s l o o o n g because I CANT SEEM TO WRITE ANYTHING SJORTER THAN 1000 WORDS I (edit: 3315 holy sh) includes: angst, swearing probably, slow burn, Evan is probably really ooc I don’t even know pairing: Evan Hansen x reader

~~~~~~~~

Moving to a new city was always stressful. Evan knew the feeling well. The lump in your throat as you said goodbye to your home, the clutter and discomfort in the new house, the unfamiliar streets; he’d seen it all before. He and Heidi had had to move several times when her job could not support them.

He’d hoped they would be able to stay in one place now, since his mom had a steady job at a doctor’s office. But now they were moving once again, and this time it was his fault. He’d royally screwed things up with the only friends he’d ever known, and now Heidi thought it was best they both move on. Evan had left on good enough terms with Jared, but he wasn’t naive enough to hope to carry on like nothing had ever happened.

So here he was, in a brand new city, hundreds of miles away from the place he’d come to consider his home. This town was a place full of opportunity. There was a nice community college he was interested in, and he’d find a job soon enough. He knew that here he could make a new start.

And he was absolutely miserable.

Evan missed his friends, even though he realized things wouldn’t have been the same after the Connor Project.

He sighed, looking around at his new room. So far it was bare. The walls were a light yellow, which he liked. A little light peaked through the blinds in the fading evening sun. He hefted the box he was holding, set it down in the corner, and went downstairs to get another.

~~~~~~~~

You heard the sounds of shuffling boxes outside and ran to your window to see. So the new neighbors were finally moving in. You watched the movers gradually unload the U-Haul truck for awhile, and finally they drove away. A woman in scrubs and a boy about your age were hauling boxes into their new home. You wondered vaguely what the boy was like, and if you would ever be friends.

Whatever. It didn’t matter. People were all the same, anyway. Just as you were turning away from the window, your mother called from downstairs, “[Y/N]?”

“Yes?” you yelled back. “Would you take these cookies next door and see if they need any help?” You rolled your eyes. “Why don’t you do it?”

“Sweetie, I’m working right n– oh, would you just come downstairs?” she called again. You sighed and clomped into the living room, where your mother was sitting on the couch, typing on her laptop. She looked over at you. “Babe, like I said, I have to work, or I would definitely go over there myself. But my boss is going to kill me if I miss my deadline again.” Your mom was an online columnist for the local paper.

“Would it really be so hard?” she asked, trying to hold your gaze. “All you have to do is bring the cookies over, ring the doorbell, and introduce yourself and offer to help them move in.” You twisted your silver bracelet, a parting gift from your dad. “Mom, this might sound surprising to you, but that’s more than some people can handle.” She leaned over to brush the hair out of your eyes. “Sweetie, I know things have been rough lately. And I’ve tried to give you some time to recover. But at some point, you’ll have to get back out into the world and try to live again. I know it feels like nothing will ever be the same without Dad. I feel that way, too. But we have to keep trying to live our lives, even when somebody we love leaves us.”

Your eyes watered, and you quickly turned away to make it stop. You didn’t like thinking about Dad. Dad, with his prickly brown beard and his eyes full of laughter. Dad, with his big deep voice and his compassion. Dad, with his strong arms holding you tight. Until he was too weak to lift them, smiling tiredly at you from the hospital bed. And his eyes, once so alive and full of wit, now slowly closing one last time…

You scrubbed at your eyes and wiped your nose hurriedly. Mom couldn’t see you crying. She’d worry even more if she knew how strongly your Dad’s death had affected you. It had been long enough, but it seemed like nothing without him would ever be right. Your world had gone completely dark after losing him, and you couldn’t imagine recovering from such a heavy blow.

You snuffled and turned back around, sure your eyes were red. If she wanted you to socialize, then so be it. “Where are the cookies?”

~~~~~~~~

Evan was setting down a box marked “Kitchen supplies” when the doorbell rang. He froze. “Mom?” he called. “What?” came a muffled response from Heidi. He tiptoed into her room, where she was busy sorting clothing into piles. “There’s– there’s someone at the door.” he whispered, feeling petrified. The doorbell rang again. Whoever was there was getting tired of waiting.

Heidi looked at her son. “Sweetie, you’re going to have to step out of your comfort zone a little bit and get to know some people. Meeting your neighbors is always a good start. Now, shoo!” And with that, she gave him a little shove toward the front door.

Evan stumbled over and opened it. He stopped cold when he saw who was there. A girl, holding a plate of cookies. A very, very pretty girl. He felt his face grow hot as she snapped her gum and half-glared at him. “Hi, I’m Eban. I meap, mean, Evan. Evan.” He mumbled, flustered. He’d fallen in love once and he knew what it felt like. Now it was happening again.

She rolled her eyes a little and held out the plate of cookies. “These are for you and your mom,” she said. “My mom baked them and made me take them over here. She thinks I need to learn to ‘socialize.’” Evan shifted a little, taking the plate of cookies nervously. Who was this girl?

“My mom thinks that about me,” he said. “What’s your name?”

“[Y/N]. [Y/L/N].”

“[Y/N].” Evan repeated. “Nice name.” “Thanks, I made it myself,” she replied sarcastically. There was a small pause as he tried to figure out how to respond. “I’ll see you around, Evan. Enjoy the cookies.” And with that, his neighbor stalked off across the lawn, narrowly missing Heidi’s unplanted peonies.

What a character, Evan thought to himself. And he turned and went back inside. In spite of himself, he blushed. She really was pretty, even if she had a terrible attitude.

The next morning, Saturday, Evan was shaken awake by his mother. He had a job interview, since Heidi needed him to help support the two of them, at least for a little while. “Evan,” Heidi said urgently. “You’re late for your interview.”

Evan shot out of bed. “Shit, shit, shit,” he whispered, looking for some clean pants. His mother said, “I’ll make you some coffee you can grab on your way out. Hurry!” and she rushed downstairs as Evan slipped on some jeans and mismatched socks.

5 minutes later he was out the door, coffee in hand, hustling toward his car parked on the curb, when he slammed straight into someone. It was you. You’d been taking out the garbage in your pajama shorts and tank top when Evan, in his hurry to leave, didn’t see you and collided with you. “[Y/N],” he gasped. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to bump into you, I just, I’m late for an interv- interview, and I j–” He stopped. You were already walking away.

~~~~~~~~

Why had you walked away from Evan? It had been two days and you still weren’t really sure. Maybe it was because you were in your pajamas and looked awful. Maybe it was because you hadn’t been expecting to see him. Or maybe it was because you were entirely caught off-guard by his eyes. His enormous eyes… they were so blue and innocent. You could fall into those eyes if you didn’t watch your step.

His eyes had flooded into you, making you wonder again what type of person he was, and if he would ever reach out to be friends. You didn’t like the intimate level of eye contact, since it made memories resurface. You didn’t like to remember. You didn’t like to feel. And somehow, in an instant, an accidental collision, he’d made you do just that.

Somewhere inside you regretted being so rude to Evan, but you had to protect yourself. Any time you let others in or cared about someone, you got hurt. The person you’d loved most in the world was your dad, and look what had happened to him.

Your dad would have loved Evan. He was extremely perceptive. He’d probably have your neighbor all figured out by now. You knew Evan was quiet and shy, and your dad had been that way, too. They probably would have had so much to talk about, everything from politics to trees to peanut butter and everything in between.

You shook yourself. Why are you thinking about Dad? you scolded yourself. It doesn’t do you any good. So stop it.

Evan was a safe subject to think about, more or less. You were curious about his mom and what his house looked like and if he had a cat and suddenly, you were seized with a desire to know everything about him. You couldn’t trust him (or anyone), but there was no harm in learning about him. Right?

You meandered over to your bedroom window. It was Monday morning, two days after the trash incident. How did Evan feel? He probably hated you. Peeking cautiously through your blinds, you saw him. He was watering a few small potted plants on his windowsill, and his mouth was moving. Was he singing? Struck with an overpowering curiosity, you moved to open your window just a crack to listen.

He was singing. His voice was a little reedy and so soft you could barely hear, but full of sweetness. It was a folk song you vaguely recognized, but you couldn’t put your finger on the title.

“Through the forest down to your grave, where the birds wait and the tall grasses wave. They do not know you anymore…”

Evan paused, looking up, and saw that you had been watching him. “Nice voice,” you called. “Color me impressed.” He turned beet-red and wiped his hands hurriedly on his jeans. “Thank y- thank you, [Y/N],” he stammered. “How long were you watching me?”

“Not long,” you lied. There was an awkward pause as Evan shifted and set down his watering can. “So…”

“So…” You swung your legs out and sat on the windowsill. “What song were you singing? It sounded really familiar.” Still flushed, Evan kneeled in front of his window to talk. “Tiger Mountain Peasant Song.”

Now you remembered. “Oh, that’s Fleet Foxes, right?” He nodded and bit his lip. “Do you like their music?” You admitted not listening to them in a few years. Evan looked up and smiled shyly. “You should definitely try it out again. Their first album is their best one.”

“Alright, I will,” you promised. “It’ll change your life.” “Oh, yeah?” “Yeah.”

Another pause.

A bird chattered from a tree nearby.

“At least, I think so. I mean, um, I mean, if you don’t like th–” “Do you want to just come over?” you interrupted. “Talking like this is weird.”

Evan looked surprised but tried to cover it up. “Uh, yeah, o-okay, sure, that sounds good. Totally.” “Okay.” You stood up. “Come over in five minutes.” And you shut your window.

~~~~~~~~

Was this real? Was Evan really about to visit [Y/N] and… hang out? He really couldn’t believe his luck. Already his hands were sweating like fuck, and he hadn’t even left the house. He pawed through a box of his CDs, looking for “Fleet Foxes.” There it was, among some Broadway soundtracks (“Legally Blonde” and “Les Misérables,” to name a few) and a John Mayer album. He really needed to unpack soon.

Evan headed downstairs, CD in hand, wondering if he should bring something over. Coffee? Everyone liked coffee. Right? “Mom?” he called out.

No answer. Of course. She was at work. It would be dumb to bother her with that kind of question, anyway. So he quickly fixed up two thermoses of hot English Breakfast coffee and headed out, locking the door behind him.

Shaking, Evan shuffled up the sidewalk to [Y/N]’s house and rang the doorbell. After about a minute, she opened the door. Goodness, she was beautiful. “Hi,” he said timidly. “Hi.”

She left the door open and turned back into her house and went to the kitchen. Evan followed. She was busy rummaging through the pantry for something, seemingly ignoring him. “I brought some coffee,” he offered. When this merited no response, he added, “English Breakfast…”

“How did you know?” she demanded. “Know wh -at?”

She softened a little at how scared he looked. “That’s my favorite kind of coffee.” (Oh worm?)

Evan glanced shyly at her. “Lucky guess. It’s my favorite, too, so I just thought…”

She nodded. “It’s the best, definitely. So do you want a donut?” she asked, pulling a bag out of the pantry. He blurted, “What kind?” “What?” “I just wanna see something. Wha- what kind of donuts do you have?”

She smirked. “Only the best.” At the same time they said, “Cherry iced.”

Evan’s mouth fell open. “No way.” Raising an eyebrow, she deadpanned, “The plot thickens.” He laughed at that.

[Y/N] set the donuts on a plate and sat down at the kitchen table across from Evan. He handed her a thermos and they each silently took a donut and ate. Evan was nervous, but somehow the quiet with her wasn’t as bad as it was with others. He got the impression that she was thinking. Her eyes were far away, her chin rested absently in the cup of her hand.

Evan cautiously reached out and tapped her other hand. “What are you thinking about?” he asked. She looked up and her eyes focused again. “Nothing.”

Silence.

She looked over at Evan. “Sorry for what happened the other day. That was shitty.” He smiled feebly. “Yeah. Thank you, though.” She spotted the Fleet Foxes CD. “Shall we give it a listen?”

Evan was really starting to like this girl.

~~~~~~~~

You popped the CD out of its case and inserted it into the stereo in your living room. Soft, haunting strains of folk music floated from the speakers. You turned to Evan, whose eyes were sparkling. He really did love this album, and you could see why.

As a song called “Blue Ridge Mountains” began to play, you sat with Evan on the couch. “So.” you said to him. “Mr. Just-Moved-In. Where do you come from?”

He began to tell you about his hometown and Zoe and Jared and Alana and the Connor Project and everything else, until his breathing was labored and you could see tears welling up in his eyes. He was clearly still broken up about everything he’d done, and a part of him always would be.

He sniffed hard and wiped his eyes on his sleeve, saying with a watery grin, “I didn’t expect for all of that to come out. I’m sorry, that’s a big burden to unload on you after we just met…”

You shook your head. “No, it’s okay. I have a lot of baggage, too. We’ll just be emotionally fucked-up together.” He laughed, loud this time. It made you feel so good to make him smile, and you felt yourself laughing a little too. You chuckled again, and again, until you were both hysterically laughing at yourselves.

Wiping a stray ironic tear from your eyes, you gushed, “Oh, we’re fucked up. We’re soooo fucked up, Evan.” He was still laughing a little. “Yeah. Yeah, we are.

“Hey, what about you?” he asked. “What’s your damage?” You stopped laughing. “Oh, man, I don’t think so, bud. Not yet.” His smile faded. “Why not?” His eyes were fragile.

You shook your head and ran a hand through your hair. “It’s too much to talk about right now. It didn’t happen very long ago.” He pressed a hand on yours gently, cautiously. “Neither did mine, [Y/N]. You’ll have to talk about it sometime. And I’m guessing your parents aren’t in the know about this, right?”

You winced. Here we go. He pulled his hand back abruptly. “What is it?” he said, worried. “Did I say something wrong? Is this about your parents?” You nodded wordlessly, too distressed to speak. If you opened your mouth, it would all come tumbling out, and you couldn’t let that happen.

Evan looked at you with concern. “[Y/N], you can tell me. It… it’s okay. I know we just met and everything but I’m - I’m your friend. I want to help.” You met his eyes, his huge, sincere, beautiful blue eyes, and in that moment you knew you had found someone you could finally trust.

And so everything came pouring out of you, about your family and your dad, your best friend, and how his eyes were always laughing, and how they stayed that way even through the chemo, even through all the treatments and surgeries and pain; you told him about how your dad would wrap you up in his big arms and tickle your face with his scratchy beard and tell you everything would be just fine. And you remembered, breathlessly, the day the laughter left his eyes for good and his body relaxed and his monitors flatlined and…

…and you found yourself sobbing onto Evan’s shoulder; Evan, whom you barely knew; Evan, who had betrayed everyone he loved, but who you still knew beyond a doubt that you could trust. He was stroking your hair as sobs wracked your body. You clung to his sweater and cried until you could cry no more, and then you snuffled and looked up at him.

He smiled down at you and softly sang along as Fleet Foxes crooned in the background: "Your protector's coming home."

“My mom has no idea how I feel,” you said. “I never tell her anything because all I get is a lecture.” He looked concerned. “[Y/N], you need to talk to your mom about this. There’s no way you’re gonna feel better until you get this figured out."

"I mean, I guess."

A pause.

"[Y/N]?" "Yeah?" "Can I... hold your hand?" "Uhhh... okay." "Are you sure? Because I don't have to if you don't want to or if that would make you or uncomfortable or anything, I would totally get it if y--"

You broke him off by reaching up and kissing him suddenly and quickly. You were surprised at yourself; you'd never done anything like that before. He made a surprised little "mmf!" but didn't pull away.

When the kiss ended, his eyes were still closed and his eyebrows raised as if he were in shock. "[Y/N]," he breathed, his eyes fluttering open, "that was, uh..."

"...nice," you finished for him. His cheeks were colored. "Yeah." He pulled you in for another kiss, deeper this time, but sweeter, too. Evan was better than anything you'd ever known.

Could it be that he was sincere and could be there for you? It seemed the universe had given you a bit of luck at last. Evan could take care of you and help you through your heartbreak. You were ready to heal.

Your protector's coming home.

29 notes · View notes

caveartfair · 5 years ago

Text

How Jonas Wood Got His Start as an Artist

Artist Jonas Wood possesses one of contemporary painting’s most instantly recognizable aesthetics. His canvases depict plants and ceramics, often on shelves or in lush domestic interiors, rendered with a flattened perspective in vibrant hues. Yet Wood’s work is hardly formulaic. His subjects are merely vehicles for skillful, textured mark-making, which evolves year by year.

Success caught Wood (b. 1977) early. In 2006, four years after he graduated from the MFA program at the University of Washington, the Los Angeles art space Black Dragon Society gave him a solo show that launched his career. In the years since, he has participated in exhibitions from Tokyo to Dusseldorf, Los Angeles to Beirut. Through July 14th, the Dallas Museum of Art is mounting Wood’s first major solo museum presentation.

Wood now lives in Los Angeles with his wife, fellow artist Shio Kusaka, and their two children. Before he was settled and successful, though, Wood was floundering and alone, struggling to develop the discipline and practice that have led to over a decade of fruitful making.

How did you become interested in art?

My parents were into art. My dad was an architect. My mom was a drama teacher. They took me and my sisters to museums. I remember visiting the MFA Boston, where I grew up. Once, I saw a Lichtenstein landscape show there. We went to New York City and I saw MoMA and the Met.

A woman named Kimmy came to our house once a week to teach art to my sister and me. My sister, Augusta Wood, who’s now a photographer, was already an amazing artist at around 12.

Jonas at his parents house, Weston, MA, circa 1997. Courtesy of Wood Kusaka Studios.

My grandfather collected art. He had this giant Francis Bacon painting that he’d bought in the ’60s, hanging above the living room piano. It didn’t mean that much to me at the time, but when I got to grad school I was like—holy shit, I grew up with a Bacon painting. My grandfather also had a blue Jackie O Warhol in his study.

I had learning disabilities and dyslexia—I got kicked out of public school in third grade because I was disruptive—but was good at puzzles and drawings. I was a maker. I think my parents pushed me to do that stuff as much as possible because it was rewarding for me. They weren’t saying, “You should be an artist,” but they thought it was good that I was making stuff.

I was in an environment where there was a lot of interesting art, but I don’t know if I was really conscious of it until later.

You got your bachelor’s degree in psychology at Hobart and William Smith Colleges in New York, then decided to get your MFA. What made you decide to pursue art?

I was just somebody who made stuff. Maybe other people’s perceptions were like, “This guy’s an artist.” But early on, it was just my hobby. I doodled, made colored pencil drawings, took undergraduate art courses. After my junior year of college, I finished my major in psychology and then reconsidered my plan: I always thought I wanted to be a doctor. Instead, I started learning to paint and get better at art. This was around 1999.

Out of college, I started working in a psychology lab—an fMRI lab with neuroscientist Deborah Yurgelun-Todd. I administered IQ tests to study participants. At the same time, a friend let me paint out of his barn. I painted all of my family members—already, I was just mining the stuff around me for material. I made enough work that I could try to get into painting school. Still, I didn’t really see myself as an artist. It was when I got to grad school that I realized I had all this time to just do this one thing I’d been dabbling in my whole life.

Now, art is my life and my therapy, and if I don’t do it, I’m not going to feel great. It definitely has saved me in some ways.

Were any instructors particularly helpful?

This college professor, Nick Ruth, told me I needed to learn how to draw and spend more time working. That was really good advice. He also suggested I go to the University of Washington for my MFA and study with the person who’d taught him, Denzil Hurley, who shows at Canada Gallery. I applied to seven or eight schools and only got in there—which makes me think it was definitely nepotism. One person was vouching for me. If you look at my work from that time, it was so pedestrian; unrefined and underdeveloped, but I was ready to work.

Jonas Wood’s graduate school studio, 2001. University of Washington, Seattle, WA. Courtesy of Wood Kusaka Studios.

I instantly connected with Denzil’s approach. He had this idea that you should be able to make the work even if you live in the woods by yourself in a cabin, without anyone coming over to tell you what’s good. You should be able to be critical of your work and push yourself to have a painting practice. I needed to learn that because I just had raw ambition and potent surroundings. Denzil was like the painting Yoda.

I knew I was a figurative artist. Denzil told me I shouldn’t paint from life, though. So I removed this mirror (which I was using so I could paint from life) from my studio and ended up having this horrible accident. The mirror shattered and a shard of glass cut my right hand really badly. I cut a tendon and nicked this nerve bundle. It was like this weird metaphor.

This surgeon—who worked with dock workers who had accidentally cut their fingers off—had to sew my hand back together. I couldn’t use my right hand for four months. I finished the work for my thesis show with my left hand. They were these crazy paintings with cartoonish shapes; angry paintings that wouldn’t make any sense if you saw them.

Since that time, I haven’t painted from life.

How did you land on your signature style?

When I was in grad school, I made images with letters and numbers and tried different ways to mark-make and make a line—it was all over the place. I didn’t have anything to hold onto. Then I started to develop these big, flat shapes and colors that pushed up against each other with different colors. The flatness comes from this idea that painting isn’t real; it can be whatever you want it to be.

Red Rug Still Life, 2015. Jonas Wood David Kordansky Gallery

I wasn’t giving myself enough time to mix paints before I tried to make an oil painting and move everything around and change all the colors. Everything would get muddy. It was like my brain was moving faster than my body. I couldn’t even access my ideas. Finding myself as a painter was figuring out how to change things, so that I could get a result that matched what I was thinking of in the first place.

I started sourcing images, compiling pictures that I took (of plants, for example) or cut out of magazines, or that people gave me. I’ve always been super into color. I started picking out the most potent stuff, [combining] a bunch of found images to make a hybrid space. It just kept evolving.

Red Pot with Lute Player #2, 2018. Jonas Wood Gagosian

Landscape Pot with Plant, 2017. Jonas Wood Gagosian

“How I found my style” is hard to answer. I don’t feel like I’m there yet. Even when I’m in a moment of making a lot of things, there’s still this daily practice of putting colors and shapes together and figuring out the balance, adding details, and deciding whether it’s interesting. I’ve had this strategy the whole time that I need to get better—as opposed to thinking that I’m the best. Painting practices are ever-evolving and cumulative. I’m just starting.

Did you have any mentors after graduate school?

When I first moved to Los Angeles in 2003, Matt Johnson, who shows at Blum & Poe and 303 Gallery, was like a mentor. He was the only person in the city that I knew. We went to high school together. He’s really rad. When me and my wife moved to Los Angeles, he got us jobs. I worked for Laura Owens and Shio worked for Charlie Ray.

Image of Jonas Wood’s notes. Courtesy of Wood Kusaka Studios.

Working for Laura Owens was a big part of my development. I got to see how she made her art and applied some of those things to my own work. I’d never used an overhead projector before. What’s fascinating about Laura is she made these smaller works on paper and then either projected them or used these huge pieces of paper where she would draw the shape of the painting. Her drawings were pretty automatic, but the paintings were all slowed down: She’d dissect these smaller drawings and studies, then rebuild them as paintings. That really clicked with me because I was more of an automatic drawer who needed to slow things down when I painted.

I’ve had this strategy the whole time that I need to get better—as opposed to thinking that I’m the best.

That strategy really unlocked my work and brought back some of my psychology experience, too. Not insight into a brain, but what happens in a lab. Like cooking. How do you formulate ideas and test them? It’s like a puzzle.

Laura also underpainted with a certain type of paint, and she overpainted with a different kind of paint. I ended up doing something similar—underpainting with acrylic and overpainting with oil. I saw how she organized her studio and got ready for shows and used materials. I feel very lucky that I had that job for a couple years.

Jonas Wood, Scholl Canyon, 2007. © Jonas Wood. Photo by Joshua White. Courtesy of the artist and Anton Kern Gallery, New York.

Jonas Wood, Daisuke Matsuzaka, 2007. © Jonas Wood. Photo by Joshua White. Courtesy of the artist and Anton Kern Gallery, New York.

We had a nice community in Los Angeles. Matt was just graduating from UCLA. My sister, Augusta, went to grad school out here for photography. I came to a community. Then in 2006, I had my first show, at Black Dragon Society. I met Mark Grotjahn, who bought some of the work and became a mentor and a really good friend.

I read that you met Mark Grotjahn through playing poker?

I’ve been playing poker with Matt Johnson, Jeff Poe, and Mark Grotjahn for 13 years. After I worked for Laura Owens, I worked for Matt. He was getting ready to do a show at Blum & Poe. Mark Grotjahn, Mark Richards, Bob White, Matt Johnson, and I got invited to play poker at Blum & Poe.

Jonas and Mark Grotjahn during install of their collaborative show at T&SnKreps, New York, 2009. Courtesy of Wood Kusaka Studios.

I knew who Mark Grotjahn was just from being in L.A. for three years. I had a big painting crush on him. Mark didn’t know that I was an artist. I definitely brought posters to Blum & Poe and said make sure Grotjahn gets one. He introduced me to Anton Kern and Shane Campbell, who both started showing me in 2007. Jeff Poe and Tim Blum got work from the Black Dragon show, too. It was like I instantly had an advocate.

What were the biggest obstacles when you got to L.A.?

The biggest obstacle early on was just not understanding how to put myself back together after grad school and access my power. My grad-school friend said I had a wild horse inside of me, and I needed to learn how to ride it.

In progress works in Jonas Wood’s studio. Compton, Los Angeles, 2007. Courtesy of Wood Kusaka Studios.

I was around a lot of young artists in L.A. We were just trying to be artists. Me and my wife Shio, too. We got married right after grad school in 2002, and then broke up for a year and a half, mostly just because we just hadn’t figured out how to make work. I was obsessed with that part of the struggle, trying to get traction and get people to pay attention. I remember feeling a lot of anguish. I just needed to get to that point where things started to click and it became more fun. Now I’m challenging myself, but it’s super fun. I have access to this amazing thing. This line that can describe something that you can identify as me.

How did you meet Shio? How did you end up getting back together?

Shio worked at the art library at the University of Washington, which was in the same building as the grad studios. She was an undergraduate ceramicist senior, and I was a first-year painting grad student. She’s five years older, but this was her third sort of undergraduate experience. She studied English, then accounting, and then tried out pottery when she was in Colorado, and a professor told her she should study in Seattle with Akio Takamori.

Jonas and Shio Kusaka at University of Washington, Seattle, WA, 2001. Courtesy of Wood Kusaka Studios.

I was checking out an exorbitant amount of books because I was trying to learn about art. I’d thumb through the pages and paint at the same time, trying to study and see what I liked. When I saw her at the desk, I kind of hit on her. Then we saw each other at a bar and she introduced herself. We’ve been together ever since, except for when we broke up for a year and a half.

Frimkess Chilean Landscape Pot, 2015. Jonas Wood Gagosian

We never got a divorce. We got back together right before my show in 2006. We’d been seeing each other 8 months or 10 months after we broke up; being together, but not really being together. Then we moved into a house together. I guess it was mostly about getting to a place where I could handle somebody else. Selfishly, I guess we both needed our own time to get there.

If we hadn’t broken up early on, we never would have made it. Obviously, it worked out because we have two kids. Since we got back together in 2006, we’ve shared studio space. We figured it out.

Did you ever feel any sense of rejection early on?

Oh, yeah. When I first moved to L.A., I set up a studio visit with some gallery and they never showed up. I felt like I was ready to show right when I got to L.A., and it wasn’t happening. It was for the best—it would have been a fucking disaster if I showed right off the bat.

What would you consider your breakthrough moment?

There were a few paintings right after grad school where I started to put it together. But I think I really started to feel secure after my 2006 Black Dragon show. I had my first real stage, and people were paying attention. I didn’t need a job after that. It’s like if you’re in a band and you can go on tour instead of working at the bar.

I was just so happy to have a show in the town where I was living. People were going to see it. It’s every young artist’s dream, right?

from Artsy News

#Artsy News

0 notes

oxfordeliterp · 8 years ago

Photo

CONGRATULATIONS, PEYTON!

You have been accepted to play the role of LANA CHAMBERS with the faceclaim of IM JINAH. Please create your account and send it to the main in the next 24 hours. I know that there was no other application for this role, but even if it were, I can’t imagine anybody being able to capture who Lana is as a person better than you did. The application is immaculate, beginning to end, and you are clear proof of not only a talented writer, who twists words around with incredible skill, but also an amazing, vivid story-teller. Your paragraph sample caged my heart and it is yours forever, for you developed, with just the right amount of humor and snark, a balanced dynamic that I would sell my soul to read more of. Maybe soon. Anyway, I cannot wait to see the things Lana has to do that keep her too busy for love, for she already is such an asset and I believe you’ve only begun unfolding her.

OUT OF CHARACTER INFORMATION

Name and pronouns: Peyton, they/them pronouns

Age: 19

Time-zone: EST/-5 GMT

Activity level: It’s actually the end of the semester for me so I have a lot of free time! I’d give myself a 7/10 though because I do have a job, but with summer right around the corner I’d love to get back into roleplaying.

Triggers: None!

IN CHARACTER INFORMATION

Desired character: Lana Theodora Chambers

I love Lana because she is more than the stereotypical mean girl trope, having many hidden layers that make her only more complex. She’s unassuming with her background and scholarship, yet a shark in the water that no one at Oxford could have ever prepared for. She’s smart, witty, and acts like the ground is blessed the moment she walks on it. I admired the fact that Lana is so great and unapologetic about it because I believe there needs to be more female characters like that. A character like her is so important as she stays true to herself (even if she isn’t the most moral human being) and breaks the stereotypes that come with her kind of character. Gender and pronouns of the character: Cis female. She/her/hers. A crystal clear idea of what is meant to be masculine and what is meant to be feminine was ingrained in her from a young age. With her parents holding their more traditional beliefs, sons were celebrated, considered to be a great honor and cherished by their families, while daughters were but a small happiness. As the only child of the Chambers family, there was extra pressure for Lana to prove that she is a child to be proud of and oh how she has rubbed it in their faces.

Changes: I was just wondering if I could change her faceclaim to Im Jinah?

Traits: a m b i t c h i o u s → To say Lana aspires to be at the top would be a severe understatement. If she wants something, she fights tooth and nail and takes it. One thing people can say about Lana is that she has the uncanny ability to never give up. She’s worked too hard, put in too much effort to allow herself to slip now. In her hungry, unyielding eyes, she has yet to take everything the world owes her. When she’s surrounded by those who get whatever they want served to them on a silver platter, her perseverance and her determination will bring her on top of all of them. i n t e l l i g e n t → She learned four languages by the time she was seventeen. Auditoriums full of people would applaud after she played during her piano recital. Her poetry left those in awe as the words flourished, dripping down her chin like honey. She’d leave teachers singing her praise as she excelled academically, top of her class in every class, and captain of as many clubs she could be in. It’s impossible to deny that Lana has an impressive mind and may be one of the brightest girls of her age. Although she does not stand out quite as much in Oxford as she did back home, she isn’t going to let that inhibit her showing off her intellect in any way. She’s worked three times as hard as the rest of them and she’s going to prove her worth. r a t i o n a l → Lana is a fairly realistic thinking person. She’s goal orientated while keeping the important things the same. When she’s angry there are no fires burning down forests, and when she’s upset there are no oceans flooding cities. She watches Gwendolyn and her other peers and sees them for what they are– entitled dreamers without a care in the world. She’s the first to come up with a solution under pressure, the one to go to for guidance if she is willing to give you it, the one who keeps going despite any hardships. Lana is the type who appears to never lose her cool or allow herself to get carried away, if her head is in the clouds then she will lose sight of the path she’s been taking, both feet on the ground. i n s e n s i t i v e → To put it plainly, Lana cares for few people, and none of her peers at Oxford have proved show they are worth caring about. She’s got a tongue sharp as a whip and has no problem cutting even those she is friendly with down to size. She didn’t get into Oxford University on scholarship to make friends or to try and turn herself around. Her whole life has been taking what is rightfully hers, leaving bodies in her self righteous wake as she adamantly bulldozes her way forward. From what she knows, and she knows a lot, the world is a cruel place. Call her a cynic, call her immoral, call her a heartless bitch, she’ll just examine her nails and ask if you said anything important. i c y → If Gwendolyn is fire then Lana is ice, cold and calculating just like the slow touch of winter. She is fresh fallen snow, beautiful but it’s best if you do not touch. She’s the type of person to stare at you blankly when you approach her, not so patiently waiting until you walk away if you take too long to get to the point. Lana can ignore someone or rip their head off if they made the wrong move and honestly it’s impossible to tell which reaction she will go for. She is cold and harsh and comes off as someone who cares for so little it’s actually fairly alarming. c o n t r o l l i n g → It is no mystery that Lana loathes being held back and makes her own rules as if it is her own divine right. The moment she walks into the room she radiates power, and like so many others, said power goes right to her head leading her to be controlling and manipulative. She’s extremely perceptive and will store up gossip while oozing charisma that leaves people in awe the moment she opens her mouth. Lana is self serving and power hungry and will not allow anyone to stand in her way or let them inhibit her with their own issues. No exceptions.

Extras:

headcanons.

She’s actually changed her major quite a few times upon getting accepted into Oxford. From political science major to mathematics major to classical studies to biomedical engineering, Lana was actually unsure what she wanted to do. With such a brilliant mind she knew she was perfectly capable of doing just about anything. Finally, she has settled on pursuing a law degree and got into Oxford’s graduate program with flying colors.

Lana is an excellent dancer. While she enjoys many of her extra curricular activities, she’s been attending classes since she was little and it has a special place in her heart. With a ponytail tied tightly on top of her head, she would walk in with the same air of authority she has to this day. Unlike what her personality and appearance may give off, she loves ballet with a passion (although she occasionally she does contemporary dance as well), she can practice it for hours and relieve her stress that way. Her routines are impressive, like everything else she does, and when she was small her dream was to be a dancer.

Her father had left the family when she was too young to remember, not that she cares if he ever comes across her mind. It isn’t something she’s supposed to feel guilty over all and she barely remembers him. Her entire life has been her, her mother, and grandmother all under one roof. Her halmeoni was born and raised in South Korea, and is a big inspiration for Lana as she is a proud woman who takes no shit and goes right for the jugular. Lana loves her and hates her at the same time, mostly because their temperaments are so similar. Her mother is not negligent, albeit distant from her one and only daughter. She’s worked everyday during Lana’s childhood in order to make ends meet. The dynamic between the three of them is not very close, but still they’re family and one thing she took away from her upbringing was how your own blood trumps everything else.

Lana is bisexual, with no particular preference for one or the other. She does get around, however, as human contact is important for the mind and she knows that. She doesn’t have the time or optimism for anything long term though.

here’s some incorrect quotes for lana because they made me laugh.

lana: gwendolyn and i have the kind of easy chemistry where we finish each other’s- gwendolyn: sentences lana: please don’t interrupt me

nicohlas: you read my diary? lana: at first, i didn’t realize it was your diary. i thought it was a very sad, handwritten book

jacob: you’re probably one of those beautiful women that don’t even know it lana: no, i know it

lana: sophia, thanks for agreeing to see me sophia: i didn’t, you just walked in and started talking lana: i don’t have time for a history lesson

jacob: can we talk, one ten to another? lana: i’m an eleven, but continue

also here is a pinterest board for lana!

PARA SAMPLE

Lana pools her hands into her bag for the pack of Marlboro reds, her mother’s words echoing in her head as she does so. That stuff’s poison, the more you smoke the more you’re killing yourself and me. She knows it’s a bad habit and she tells herself she’ll break it by the she graduates. Realistically, cigarettes don’t have an adverse affect on your health if you only smoke them for a few years. Besides, with Sophia failing to get back to her, she needed something to take the edge off. There was always some sort of edge to Lana, in her voice, her body language, her opinions, she supposed was always sort of high strung (or as she preferred to think, high maintenance).

She didn’t think there was anything wrong with it, she wasn’t out at parties snorting angel dust in the bathroom, craving a constant high she couldn’t handle the harshness of reality. She wasn’t like that. She wasn’t like them. Life is tough but so is she, tougher than anyone else she knew. A little self medication here and there so she could stay focused and grounded was not something to feel ashamed about. Lana was more concerned with the consequences if people found out, if the perfect ice queen turned out to not be so perfect. She couldn’t allow the scholarship she fought so viciously for to slip through her fingers like sand.

“Thank god.” She mutters under her breath, pulling the carton out, finding a lighter already nestled in between the cancer sticks. The flame erupts and she watches it briefly, before bringing a cigarette to her lips and lighting it. Lana feels the smoke enter her body, swirling around her lungs, before exhaling out the open window. Oxford University on a Friday night meant parties and the rich’s definition of mischief, something she wanted no part of. She leans on the window sill, eyes ice skating around her view of the campus. Drunk students stumbling around, party music blasting in the distance, and lights flickering all around, she couldn’t believe this was an esteemed private school sometimes.

Lana looks at the cigarette for a moment, letting it burn. She could think of something poetic here, something deeper and better than the thousands of bland male writers that describe how a woman is like a cigarette. It’s familiar and she can’t quite put her finger on it until her mind goes back to her tan, witty but not as witty as her, Romeo.

Perhaps not Romeo. Things did not end well for him and he was too much of a cliché for Lana’s liking. Anyone could be a romantic these days.

The homecoming ball was an event she reveled in, enjoying dressing herself up and enhancing the beauty she already possessed. Although there was only so much of Gwendolyn’s rambling that Lana could listen to before needing a break, causing the girl to escape and find solace on the marble steps of the building and curbing her nicotine craving. The architecture taking her breath away as she sat in blissful silence– until she was rudely interrupted by a handsome stranger. Not that handsome was that much of a compliment, he was conventionally attractive after all.

“Mind if I sit with you?”

“Depends. What’s in it for me?”

“A stimulating conversation.”

“Stimulating? I’m already starting to fall asleep, pretty boy.”

“You think I’m pretty?”

She was amused, something that was near impossible for anyone to do. Yet, as he sat down next to her she found herself to be more welcoming than usual. After much contemplation, Lana figures it was the champagne that had caused her to be friendly to the boy. There wasn’t anyone worthwhile at Oxford, no one that would come across her mind once or twice. None of the boys there were King Midas, she was golden without their touch. The girls were more tolerable, though ultimately just as entitled.

“These things are such bullshit.”

I rather like them.

“They’re just another way for the entitled elitists around here to prance around like everyone cares about their Dior suits and Versace bags. The champagne’s good, though.”

“I thought all girls liked Versace.”

“I thought boys thought of girls to be something more than their clothes.”

“Of course. We care about what’s underneath.”

“You’re a neanderthal.”

Despite herself, he had made Lana laugh. She allowed herself to get lost in the moment for once. He had this charisma to him and she found herself being pulled deeper into the water until she was drowning in the conversation. They talked about school and philosophy and this and that. Not that it got personal– Lana had the ability to make people feel as if they knew a lot about her without giving away any secrets. A lost and nosy Gwendolyn had found the two and she had to deal with the same warning the leader had told them since she was recruited into the Quarrel Club, stay away from the Riot Club.

She remembers leaving her half lit cigarette by his side as she was ushered back inside. Not that it mattered now. They didn’t even exchange names and perfect strangers came and went. Her grandmother always told her to stay away from things like love, and to focus on her future because she was going to be something great and couldn’t afford any distractions. Lana was convinced she’d never allow anyone to get close to her. She had things to do.

#lana chambers #accepted

2 notes · View notes

heartlikethunder · 8 years ago

Text

The Art of Healing - My Personal Initiatives to Face my Depression

I’m 22 and I have severe clinical depression as a result of many things including poor relations with my parents, school, and of course, the current political climate. I’m a pre-med and I have lots of things I want to accomplish. All of my relationships around me are becoming toxic because I keep poisoning them. And most importantly, I don’t like the person I’m starting to become. I don’t want to discuss in too much detail as to what has brought me to this point in my life, but I do want to talk about a few initiatives I’ve taken to bring me to a happier place.

A little bit about me briefly – I graduate from college with a BS in Microbiology. I don’t have a job right now because I’m taking some time off to (try) studying for the MCAT. I live at home with my parents and used to commute from my house to school. I didn’t get my license until last year – I was 21 – and even then my mom continued to drive me to and from places. Finally I don’t have many friends. Most of the people I have met are in relationships and thus their significant other is all they need or they try to push them onto their friends as well or they are interested in drinking and partying – again, not of my interest. I’ve been forced into an environment which is very isolated from the rest of the world. I spend a lot of my time in my room with little to no conversation with anyone. I’m lonely. And my goals are so far away I don’t feel like I’ve gotten closer to any of them.

Hence, I’ve started a few initiatives to help me overcome this moment in my life:

Drinking a lot of water. Water is a great healing agent and I drink many cups throughout the day – it completely revitalizes me. Avoid juice and sugary/oily foods. Keep things light and clean. Eat smaller portion sizes too to not feel “overstuffed,” which will help you to become more active and it’s easier to move around with none of that food slowing you down or jostling around in your belly.

Sleeping on time. Sleep is the foundation to easing MANY mental health related diseases or illnesses. Sleep by 10PM and try to wake up around 9AM. Don’t forget to turn you phone on silent. I have an amazing Do Not Disturb feature on my iPhone which I can set up to activate automatically during a time frame. For me I have it turn on at 7PM and shut off around 10AM/11AM. I have a really hard time going to bed because I keep thinking that I didn’t do anything today, I didn’t accomplish anything, and I dread what tomorrow will bring. You need to stop this. Some of your worst thoughts come in the darkest hours of the day. Plus the next morning when I wake up my head is pounding and aching and my eyes are puffy, sore, and bloodshot. I can barely sit straight I’m so exhausted and I become very sluggish.

PURGE. I have some much stuff I’ve accumulated that it’s literally falling all over me, all around me. My drawers are overstuffed, my craft supplies are spread out over 3 rooms, I have so many books in our “extra room,” etc. Minimalism can be very freeing and you can focus on items that you really love. I try to take the time every couple of days to purge items that I no longer love nor enjoy. I also try to organize everything so it has a proper space (a LOT of it is very unorganized) that is easy to get to and easy to put back and I try to clean my room/house. I’m definitely a stress cleaner and I love the look and smell of a clean living space.

There is a reason that your mental health has started to suffer. This can be any memory or moment in your life. It’s important for you to find those memories, address them, and start picking them apart in a positive light so you can heal. One of the things I like to do when I’m emotionally overwhelmed by something in my life is talk to myself about it and my feelings or to write down my feelings. I just leave it on my PC or in my notebook and every once in a while I will come across it and I’ll snort at just how silly I was for being so upset about something that really wasn’t that big of a deal. You can also write letters to someone else (maybe someone you feel that has wronged you or that you have wronged to help you move on). If you don’t feel comfortable talking to yourself you can also discuss your problems with a friend or a mentor (like a therapist or counselor). However, I would tread lightly with sharing with friends, because you’ll find that many of them don’t know how to “handle” your depression or some of them will leverage that information against you. They might not understand what you’re saying and they might also give you some very unhelpful advice. I’m not saying all people are like that – there are those who are better than that and their blood runs as thick as yours, but you have to be careful. You’re already in a fragile state – don’t let someone else break you into more.

I like to keep my mind busy. When I read or learn something new my brain comes alive. I like to study and learn new science, I really love to read but lately have not had the time (I’m trying to put all my energy towards MCAT studying but after I finish studying I do have a list of books I plan on reading), and I read a lot of fanfiction and pick apart the stories. I like to look at the different skills the author used to get their point across. The stories are usually shorter than a full length novel. And overall they’re intriguing and fun. Personally I read mostly Harry Potter fics (especially Drarry), but I have also read some really incredible stories in other fandoms such as Lord of the Rings, Teen Wolf (Sterek) Transformers, Teen Titans, BBC Sherlock, The Hobbit, etc. Let me know if you’d like me to share a few fic recs. Also manga – some of it is very beautiful and engaging. You can easily find translations online and flip through a couple of chapters to unwind while looking at the art.

Avoid a lot of TV. I know that a lot of my recent changes and dullness has come from all the TV rotting my brain. I’m going to lump in movies, anime, and Youtube into this as well. TV now a days is complete garbage. There is such terrible acting (while I do participate in the Teen Wolf fandom, I absolutely hate the actual TV show. There are many great actors but I don’t feel like the writing of the series gives them a chance to really blossom. My favorite is Dylan O’brien as Stiles, but lately as he has picked up new projects, I’ve noticed a change in his on-screen TV performance), horrifying plots WITH SO MANY PLOT HOLES, and the writing is just bad with multiple innuendos and profanities thrown in to make it more modern and cool. I’m also tired of the love triangles (The Shannara Chronicles made me want to cry), the poor representation of people of color, lack of depth and character development, etc. TV is just complete shit. And there are WAAAAY too many seasons of shows that should have been put to rest. I’ve mostly enjoyed Shameless (lots of great plots and subplots with tons of great character development) though that has started to wane a bit as I find some of the characters’ stories dragging and How to Get Away with Murder. I’ll occasionally watch an episode of another show here or there, but honestly, it’s all garbage. Instead take that time to read or do something else. I like movies – I mostly watch Disney – but I have noticed that when I’m bored and upset I just sit there eating and rewatching old films. While there isn’t anything wrong with that, doing that every day is going to eat away at your mental health. I feel the same way I do about anime as I do about TV shows. A lot of it is empty and honestly the classics were so much better like Fruits Basket. Finally, YouTube is an amazing community. There is so much to learn and discover on this platform. I follow a lot of channels including cooking, baking, gardening, fashion, beauty, etc. I also follow a lot of fashion/beauty bloggers. Here’s my opinion – don’t do it. A lot of them treat YouTube and their blogs as businesses. They get sent a lot of stuff for free. They’re always trying new stuff. That is their job. And realistically speaking, you cannot go out every time they rave about a new product, just because they deem it to be the best thing on the planet when you’re still in the middle of finishing your current one or already have a significant collection. Don’t do it. Also, stop watching them. They's a lot of rambling and talking about nonsense for the most part. A lot of them have very empty conversations and chatter that it’s tough to follow. Makeup doesn’t even look that great on me, and I’d never drop $100 on some silly foundation - I certainly don’t need to be watching 10 different videos on how to apply eyeshadow. I understand for many people they watch or continue to watch because it’s fun and they enjoy it. And if that is you then great, go for it – in moderation of course. However, I will say, always keep it in the back of your mind that eventually this might turn into an obsession if day in and day out this is all you’re “seeing.” Youtubers can really twist your views of the real world. I for one can personally attest to that. I have a very strong and wise head on my shoulders. I can pick up discreet social cues/messages hidden in the media and scoff at them - I’m alert and observant. But when I watch Youtubers and see many of them showcasing the same things and lifestyles repetitively, I immediately begin to think this is the way it is for many if not all girls on the planet. Suddenly spending $1000 on a Chanel bag is normal – a necessity to blossom into womanhood. Don’t forget, there are people out there scraping to make ends meet. There are plenty, if not MORE, people in the world that are living comfortable lifestyles not filled with materialistic things and spending their money wisely. Just be smart and don’t let their channels twist your perception of the world. If anyone is interested I’ll be happy to share some of the blogs I follow for outfit inspirations (I mostly just glance at the pics and never am overly obsessed with getting the same things they have on – other than Extrapetitie.com because her picks are wonderful and reasonably priced). I also find less Youtube, the less shopping I do, and less of purchasing frivolous things. On the same note when you do go shopping, tune into your inner feelings and ask yourself is this something you need and then ask yourself if you really want it. Don’t settle. Pick things that you look great in and boost your self esteem. I’m overweight and I’m also short. Aside from my stomach sticking out and having thick thighs, I also have very thick upper arms. A lot of stuff that might look great on my sister and mother (who are both a lot taller and thinner), look completely terrible on me. I always give in and get them in the end because my mother emotionally blackmails me into it, but I don’t enjoy wearing them and they make me feel like shit. I’ve recently acquired a few new pieces that I think are much better suited for myself and will be wearing those from now on. If you dress well, and you feel good in what you’re wearing, and if you look good, you’ll feel good.

Take walks – nature can unwind you. I walk a round around my neighborhood. I think all together it is roughly 1.2 miles? There is also a very small park with a swingset in the middle that I like to stop at and swing away till my heart is content. This is when I listen to the new music I’ve discovered and come up with story ideas. Try to hit the gym. Sweat out the negativity in your life and I promise you, not only will your brain feel better, but you’ll physically look and feel a lot better too. Just get out of the house. This is a bit trickier for me because of my poor driving skills and my parents don’t let me go out much. When I do go out it’s mostly for groceries. I don’t enjoy eating out that much, but going out to eat a small something at a restaurant can be a very relaxing experience. Don’t feel like you HAVE to go with someone or that you have HAVE to eat a heavy/full meal. A lot of restaurants also have great rewards programs or newsletters you can sign up for to help you save on costs if you are in a financial pinch. Olive Garden always seems to be bringing around their famous pasta deal and fast food places such as Baskin Robbins have great promotions such as on the 31st of the month, each scoop of ice cream is $1.31. It’s not a bad deal for a casual outing to treat yo self and freshen up. The general consensus is to take care of yourself and relax. Something I do on my personal time is give myself a skincare treatment at night - a lovely facial with a facial massage, masks, etc.

I love to write but I haven’t written in forever and I don’t have a lot of unique ideas/prompts. I do have one novelesque fanfic idea that I’m really excited and crazy about. I’m slowly and diligently writing it, but I still want to keep improving my writing and brush up on my writing skills during the in between. I suggest finding a fandom that you love – and if you can’t I highly recommend the Harry Potter fandom, because it’s huge and there are so many more opportunities here than other fandoms in my personal opinion – and write prompts and challenges. There are a ton of communities dedicated to prompts, challenges, gift exchanges, fic fests, etc. If you’re interested let me know – I have a huge list of some popular Harry Potter fests and such. Also, join and follow users who are active in the fandom as they too will sometimes offer opportunities to join networks or challenges they have created. There is a user who has created a drarry valentine’s fic exchange which is so cute and I recently started nooreva’s trope bingo for femslash february. I’ve also claimed a fic prompt from HP kink fest. They’re not too time sensitive, and there is enough direction to help me from feeling lost, but still enough room for creativity to explore my writing. Let me know if you’d like any writing advice as well. I’m thinking of trying to get back into poetry while I’m here.

I picked up some “pen pals.” It’s very new to me and I’m incredibly nervous. Snailmail revolution is huge right now, where people all over the world send attractive letters to one another and with it small goodies such as stickers, stationary, etc. I found a few people through Tumblr and Instagram for now. I have no idea how this is going to go because I don’t have money to be buying cute stationary and gifts – I’m already going to be spending a decent bit on stamps because I have picked up A LOT of pen pals to keep me busy – but I’m trying to keep on a positive note. It’s honestly very fun to get personal mail and to peek in and see all the lovely things people might have sent. I have written one letter so far and I did a lot of doodling, homemade stickers, and printing. I’ll keep you all posted on my experience as other letters start to come in. There is also a group that is focused on craftier snailmail that I’m a member of. It’s called pretty postal swap and I LOVE it. They have a theme every month and you exchange letters with other members based on that theme. Of course the goal is to be crafty so it’s a bit of a mix of scrapbooking and cardmaking. It’s a lot of fun. Some of the pics I have seen do appear to be a bit more upscale than what I can commit to right now, but I’m hoping it will go well. This is my first month trying it and the theme is an icy cold snowy envelope, with a warm and cozy card inside. I decided to create a simple snowy backdrop on my envelope with a shadow of a row of houses. For the cozy interior I made a homemade card with a sketch of an image on the front that I colored with colored pencils, I printed out some journaling cards of polar bears and some cute sweater designs, I printed some teacups which I colored with colored pencils and made them into homemade stickers which I placed into envelopes made from this gorgeous teal birdie wrapping paper, I’m going to be throwing in a bag of berry tea, and finally, I made a simple tag of a polar bear wearing a sweater. The final result is obviously homemade and I’m not sure what the group is going to think of it, but I have my fingers crossed and I put in a lot of time and effort into my final product. I also am a huge lover of scrapbooking and cardmaking, and while I do get a hefty fix of it via my snailmail art, there are tons of swaps and swap groups you can join as well. You can swap pocket letters, tags, tag books, embellishments, etc. I applied to join one but I cannot seem to recall the name or find the original sign up page. I believe they will be emailing me to confirm if I’ve been accepted but not sure about this one yet. If you’re curious to see what snailmailrevolution is I highly suggest looking up the #snailmailrevolution on instragram. If anyone wants to check out some youtube videos on the idea and what some of the packages look like in greater depth, let me know and I can share some links.

Finally I’ve also really gotten into doodling. I’m a terrible artist – my proportions are all over the place, but I’ve found myself enjoying following along with youtube doodlers and then sitting down and coloring them in. I’ve done quite a few already for my pen pal letters and would be happy to share some of the channels I follow for help and inspiration. To help me explore this new interest, I’ve joined the #doodlewithus challenge on instagram hosted by @alexandra_plans and @christina77star. Basically every month there is a daily challenge with an overall theme of what you should try to draw that day. For February the theme is space and every day we will be drawing a specific planet, space ships, rockets, etc. it’s so lovely and takes hardly any time. I highly recommend joining in the fun.

Volunteer - give your time to someone else. Focus on becoming humble. Look at the life people are living around you and learn to appreciate what you have. I personally work at a nonprofit clinic on some Sundays where I work in patient discharge in filing and scanning in patient records into the charting software. Personally I would prefer something more rewarding, but it’s very flexible and such an easy commitment. Turn your negatives in to positives. Give daily affirmations a try. I tried it myself but it was a little awkward and uncomfortable giving myself pep talks. However it is still a very powerful tool and I would recommend it. You could also try daily thanks and make a list of what you’re thankful for which is something a little more up my alley.

So those are some new things I’m going to be trying out. I’ll give you an update in a few weeks after getting some responses and testing things out. It seems like a lot of stuff and in hindsight it is, but I think this is a great way to fill in some of those quiet hours in between my studying. This is by no means a definitive list. There are clearly some things I need to be work on or have in my life that I haven’t addressed in my list such as actual in person human contact, but it’s just not possible for me at this time. I also know a lot of people will redirect my in getting a job, but the MCAT is a beast, and if I can have the time to study for it distraction free and comfortably, with only that exam in mind, I’ll gladly take it. Some of these things might not work for you at all, this will not CURE you by any means, but it’s a start and hopefully will give you some new ideas to try and to expand your horizon. In the future I would like to get back into watercoloring, take swimming lessons and learn to properly swim (I finished up to level 4 or 5 – I stopped just short of the actual swimming part because I had trouble keeping my form), try a pottery class (I took a one day workshop at my school and it was amazing and frustrating. I would really love to go back and learn how to throw on the wheel properly), and maybe join a bookclub.

#depression #healing #mental health

1 note · View note