#I never posted them since the signature is my name in cursive and I don’t want that on the internet | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

horribletestsubject · 4 years ago

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Fic I just wrote based on These Two art pieces that I’ve drawn and THIS POST by @body-utensil-travels-terrain

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You’ve spent your life being told you couldn’t. Now there’s a voice telling you that you can.

You remember it distinctly. You were fourteen at the time, just really starting to figure out what you wanted to do with your life (it certainly isn’t what society expected from you— but then, society doesn’t expect someone like you anyway, does it?) when you first heard her voice over the radio in your living room. The words she said resonated with you, the promise and ambition that she spoke with. It was almost like she was talking directly to you.

You do your research. You study hard. You tinker away at things in your garage, supplementing your studies in your own way. And five years later, after you’ve graduated, you put in your application.

A letter arrives a few weeks later, emblazoned with the circular symbol you’ve kept in your mind’s eye all this time, and bold lettering on the front— Aperture Science Innovators. It’s addressed to you. You open it, and your fingers tighten around the smooth paper— “congratulations” it says. You’ve been accepted. At the bottom is Her signature. You trace over it with your fingers. Delicately, as gently as you’d handle an irreplaceable machine part.

Two weeks later your bags are packed and you’re boarding a flight to Detroit. The attendant greets you. You hold up your boarding pass and get on. You land a few hours later. Getting a cab would be too complicated— people don’t like to take the time to read, and most can’t speak the way you do. So you walk to the train station, it’s not too far. Just an hour or two. You’ve walked further before.

Flat fields flow by endlessly as the train rattles down its tracks. You lean your head against the window, watching the hues of gold rush by, blurring on into infinity.

The sun is gone when you pull up outside a strange little town, surrounded by chain link fence. You fish through your bag for the packet you’d been sent— and pull out the temporary ID you’d been given. You show it to the gate guard. He lets you in. A man is waiting to show you your dormitory. You shake your head at his offer of a tour— you’ll explore the place yourself tomorrow. There are a few days before you’re actually needed for orientation.

The room is small and plain. A bed, desk, and dresser, and a small closet. That’s alright. You don’t need much. You hang up your few articles of clothing and tuck your shoes next to the door. The bed isn’t soft, but it isn’t hard. You fall asleep quickly, exhausted from your travels.

The next few days are spent wandering. Visiting the little shops, the stations. Peering into labs where you can. Climbing over fences (they could never keep you out) before quickly retreating as a security guard passed. You don’t want to get in trouble before your internship even begins. You wonder if you’ll see her. But you only hear her voice in announcements as you trigger motion sensors throughout the complex.

When work actually starts, it’s tedious. Getting coffee. Taking documents to the shredder and the incinerator. You don’t usually see the labs. Or, well, much of anything. It’s just a lot of running here and there, back and forth at your superiors’ beck and call. It’s tiring. But you do it— after all, you want to be here, you want to do this— and you never give up.

It’s a few months before you see her— before your internship takes you to the main complex. Now you’re checking inventory, sorting mail, sorting records (and chucking the casualty lists into the incinerator as instructed). Occasionally they’ll call you in to fix the coffee maker or the refrigerator.

You hear her voice once, muffled— she’s talking to someone, to a group it seems, just outside the room you’re in. You look over your shoulder and catch a glimpse. Rosy cheeks and bright-red lips, wavy dark hair flowing around her shoulder, a smile on her face (manufactured, you can tell with just this glance that she’s concealing so very much), a bright red scarf tied around her neck.

Your eyes lock for just a second, and the corner of her mouth creases, dimpling her cheeks. Your heart races— that, that was a hint of a true smile. Warmth flushes your own cheeks and you tear your gaze away. Suddenly shy— much shyer than you’ve ever been before.

It doesn’t make sense to you. Not yet. Not until you start seeing her more. Not until her smiles become more frequent and pointed. Not until her gaze lingers on you a little longer than before each time. The fluttery feeling doesn’t go away— and you’re determined more than ever to reach her.

Of course, it happens sooner and easier than you think. She starts requesting you specifically to bring her her coffee. You take a red pen and draw a little smiley face next to her name before giving it to her. When you come up to her office, there’s a sticky note left on the monitor, in that oh-so-hard to read yet absolutely beautiful cursive of hers. At the end of it is a smiley face, so much more elegant and less childish than yours. You keep the note. On her next cup, you add a heart to the dot of the ‘i’ in her name. You start responding to her notes with little notes of your own, your rounded, sometimes scratchy handwriting a stark contrast.

The notes are never there when you get back. You like to think she kept them. You’re pretty sure she did.

A year after you arrive, your internship is over, and you’re up for a promotion— junior mechanic. Probably still more of the same, but you’ll be getting a salary now (not that you really have any use for it since Aperture provides your housing) and you’ll have a permanent place. But you’ll see her less. You’ll miss that, of course— but you’re finally moving beyond your station, moving up in the company.

The day before your internship ends, you get another note. “Wanna get coffee together tomorrow?” Your heart leaps. You scribble out your answer just beneath her writing.

You’re sitting across from her at the cafe table. The cafe serves the same stuff as the cafeteria, but it’s decorated more quaintly, and always costs more for some reason. Maybe because there’s sunlight coming through the windows.

“So, headed up the ladder,” she begins after the two of you sip your drinks (well, she sips her drink, you’re too caught up in the crimson of her lips). “I guess I won’t be seeing as much of you now.”

There’s something behind her cheery voice, a sadness that you’ve caught glimpses of before, a wistfulness deeper than her words. You look up, catching her gaze for a moment and nod in response.

“Well, this is nice. Maybe we should do this more often. Once a week, at least? Or you could come over to my place. We could spend time together. As friends, or something.” With that, she gives you a wink. Your cheeks flush bright red.

You catch the implication right away. Your hero, your inspiration— and now here you are sitting across from her at a cafe while she all but outright asks you out.

You thought you’d be excited for things to grow beyond the notes and the gestures. But you feel different than that. After the initial jolt, the initial flutter, you look back over at her and you see the chasm yawning out between the two of you. The mountain she’s perched on, the valley you’re standing in. Your scratchy print against her elegant cursive, your short, bitten nails against her sharp manicure, your messy ponytail against her shiny waves. You look down at your simple intern’s badge, then over at her emblazoned one. She doesn’t even have a title listed— everyone knows who she is.

You’re miles apart, even if you might have seemed to be closer.

You stand up, your throat knotting up as you shake your head. You can’t look at her now, but you can practically feel the disappointment in her face as she murmurs “oh.” You want to explain but you can’t, your thoughts racing a mile a minute. The last thing you want is to turn Her, your idol, the one who makes your heart flutter, the reason you came here in the first place, down.

But you can’t do this now. Not yet. Not until you’ve reached the top of the mountain. Not until you’re close enough for her to reach out her hand and pull you the rest of the way up.

“Let me know if you change your mind,” she says.

You pause, halfway to the door. You turn back just enough so that you can glimpse her, and give a tiny nod.

After that you throw yourself into your work. Up to senior mechanic, then technician, then engineer— you’re working on Aperture’s new technology now, its most important projects. But you’re still not close enough. Into the test chambers you go at the CEO’s behest, defying death and physics at breakneck speeds, trusting in the tech you’ve helped create to ensure your survival.

Sometimes you look up and see her watching from the observation room, the tell-tale flash of red. You don’t look too long.

The CEO falls ill. He leaves a disturbing message. You try not to think too much of it— you’re almost there.

Your superior fails a test. You’re not surprised. Not hurt, not sad. It just happens and now you’re in the upper echelon. Now you’re at the top— now, you can reach out to her again. Tell her you’ve changed your mind. You can be equals now.

You go to her office. She isn’t there to answer the door. “Don’t you remember Mr. Johnson’s last request?” They say to you. You tried to block it out, but you remember.

You use your pass on a high security door. It opens. Your name is emblazoned too now. Just like hers was.

Before you is a massive operating system. On the screen reads a message: “transfer complete. transfer successful. writing data : do not disconnect subject.”

She’s lying inside a tube-like compartment. A transparent coffin. Wires hooked up to her. Eyes closed. Lips still ruby red.

You reach out and touch the glass. There’s no response. There won’t be a response.

This technology is untested. This is the first human-AI interfacing project Aperture has conducted. There’s only a fifty percent chance it will work, and even if it does, it doesn’t change the fact that she’s gone. You’ll never clasp her small hands inside your own calloused ones, tuck your head against her shoulder, press your lips against hers.

You’ve finally reached the top of the mountain. Finally reached her. But it was too late. When you crested the summit, she was already gone, and there was only a spatter of crimson left behind to show that she was ever there at all.

#portal #fanfiction #portal fanfic #portal fanfiction #chell #chell portal #portal chell #caroline portal #portal caroline #chelline #cheroline #chell x caroline #portal au #intern chell #intern chell au #my writing #cinna writes #might edit and post to AO3 at some point #but for now have the rough draft

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writer-k-pop · 4 years ago

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The Teacher (l.d.k) - Waning Crescent Hotel

Please read this (W.C.Hotel) if this is the first post of this series that you see. Warnings: Swearing, Mentions of death Genre: Angst, Hotel Del Luna AU, Choose your own adventure, SVT x Fem! Reader Staff: Yong (Spirit General Manager) / Jiwoo (Human General Manager) / Soon Bok (Room Manager) / Mun Hee (Front Desk Receptionist) / Shin (Grim Reaper assigned to Waning Crescent) Word Count: Ending A - 4.4k / Ending B - 4.2k

W.C.Hotel | Seventeen Masterlist | Masterlists

After Mun Hee runs away from me, I'm left to search for someone who can give me the answers that I want to know. In the lobby I search everywhere for Jiwoo, Yong, or Soon Bok but they're not around. Deeply exhaling, I begin to search the halls for them seeing as I, stupidly, left my only communication device in the garden. The main floor yields no results, forcing me to search the 100 level.

As I near the 160 rooms, Soon Bok's aggressive instructor voice reaches my ears. I pick up my walking pace and near the room that she's in. 168.

"The left side of the corner goes UNDER the right side." Soon Bok demonstrates with her hands. "No, no, under. UNDER."

I lean against the door frame and, with amusement, watch her get fed up and take the sheet corner from the employee and fold it herself.

"Under." She repeats the instruction and rises to full height. Picking up her clipboard again, Soon Bok turns on her heels and nearly jumps out of her shoes when she sees me standing in the doorway. "(y/n)!" The other employees in the room shoot into an upright position at the mention of my name.

I wave a hand at them, dismissing them back to the duties at hand. "I don't need that. Don't do that again." I tell the employees, letting a tiny ounce of annoyance slip in to emphasize my distaste for the attention.

"Can I help you with something?" Soon Bok asks without malice and steps closer to me.

"Mmm," I hum, "What room did you put Dokyeom in?" I ask, tapping her clipboard.

She glances down for a second, "218."

"How long is here for?" I continue to ask for information.

"9 days." Soon Bok states simply.

I nod, "Good to know." Then I glance behind her at the trying-not-to-be-obvious obvious gazes from the employees, "And I think the manual says left over right, Soon Bok." I say loud enough for the room to hear.

Soon Bok pushes me out of the room, "(y/n), stop it."

I let out a short laugh and notice the employees in the room stop moving, shocked that their cold CEO can let out a laugh. Some of their eyes even grow large. Others don't really know how to process the new information. I, on the other hand, enjoy their confusion immensely.

"Hey!" Soon Bok looks over her shoulders at her mannequin employees, "Get this room ready. And it's UNDER." She instructs with an underlying threat that they all understand.

With another small push, I'm standing in the hall and Soon Bok closes the door behind her.

"Will you stop messing with my employees, please?" She pleads, readjusting her clipboard against her body. "At least give them a few months before you pull stunts like that."

"But where's the fun in that?" I ask, playing innocent.

"You're going to confuse them and send this hotel into a downward spiral." Soon Bok explains, walking away from me.

I quickly catch up to her and match pace. "The Gods would never allow that." I reason. "When I'm gone, they'll keep this hotel running swimmingly. And instead of hearing my annoying voice, you'll get to read instructions off of little notecards left ominously on your office desk." I say with a cold chill.

Soon Bok just blinks blankly at me before nodding her head to the side, "But I won't be able to joke with anyone."

"Mun Hee and Yong will still be here." I remind her.

"Mun Hee doesn't understand half of my jokes and Yong is really busy with the rest of the hotel." She says with a sigh.

"Oh." I'm at a loss for words.

We reach the elevators and Soon Bok presses the 'up' button.

"I'm headed to the 800's, do you want to come with me?" She inquires, watching the number in the little square above the elevator doors decrease.

I shake my head, "No. I have some champagne to finish in the garden."

"Alright, enjoy your champagne." Soon Bok smiles warmly at me as the elevator reaches us.

Now, I watch as the number above the elevator doors increases until it stops on 8. Just one less than the amount of days I have to wait for Dokyeom.

~The Ninth Day~

Thunder booms through my ears, lightening cracks across the dark sky, and rain hurtles at the windows of the conference room. I needed a change of scenery for today's form signing and decided this was a good, quiet place. My fingers drums against the table as I rest my hands on either side of a stack of boring forms with another stack a little further away. I stare at the pen laying on top of the stack in front of me.

Sighing, I pucker my lips and give into my hotel duties. I pick up the pen and start scanning the top paper.

"And if the blah blah blah creates an un-blah blah blah with the blah..." I mutter under my breath. I fight the urge to roll my eyes.

I finally reach the bottom of the page and a small 'x' next to a blank line tells me that's where I need to put my signature. Putting the pen to paper, my muscles pull my signature from memory. Two seconds later, I pull the pen away and reveal the signature that I consider retched but other seem to consider beautiful.

Thunder claps again, this time so close that the walls rumble. I sigh and place the signed paper on top on the other signed papers. Then I work on reading the next one, and it's a stapled packet.

The door opens quietly but I think nothing of it as it's probably Yong coming to check up on me. But it's not Yong's voice I hear.

I hear giggling. A child's giggling. Children giggling. And pattering footsteps.

"Hi." A young girl runs up to my right side with a smile.

"What are you doing?" A young boy asks from my left side.

"Yeah, what are you doing?" Another child asks and as I look around, more children crowd around me.

"Hey, give her some room." Dokyeom's voice says to the children from the doorway. "Be polite. Remember what we learned." The children back away a few steps but stay relatively close by.

I raise my head up and meet his eyes. He smiles brightly with his eyes squinty.

"Sorry, they wanted to come and visit." Dokyeom says sheepishly, "And I couldn't say no to that."

I hum with amusement and look down at the children who all smile up at me with bright smiles. "You can come visit me anyti-"

As I lift my head up to Dokyeom's, a crack of lightening flashes through the room and I'm left alone. Like I've always been. They were never here. My brain just created them and my eyes thought...

I sigh and rub my hands over my eyes. I should've known it wasn't real. I wasn't allowed to interact with his students but that didn't mean he couldn't tell me countless stories about them.

Refocusing, I reread the first section of the stapled packet and trudge my way through the rest of it. On the last page, there's a spot for me to put my signature.

My hand floats just above the paper when the echo of Dokyoem's hand guiding mine takes over.

'You may have better cursive than most of my students.' He chuckles, 'But you'll never have better cursive than me. Let me show you how it's done.'

I remember the smirk he had on his face when I glared at him. The ghost of his chest pressed against my back grows more prominent and I can feel his warmth as he guides my hands through the loops and straights of the cursive of my name.

'See?' Dokyeom's voice whispers, 'Doesn't that look so much better?'

I look down at the paper and notice I've signed my name in the way that Dokyeom showed me. Something I haven't done since I left him. Running my hands over the dried ink, a smile full of warm memories grows on my face.

I set the pen down on the table and hold the papers in my hands while resting my elbows on the table. Tilting my head side to side, my eyes trace over the ink and after all these years, I think I finally see the beauty in Dokyeom's version of my signature. There's a childish vibe tangling with a chic one. Much like his real personality. It's why he was such a good teacher. Playful with the students and polite with the parents.

Flipping the packet to the first page, I place it on top of the signed pile with one hand while the other picks the pen back up.

As I near the bottom of the final form, somebody actually knocks against the conference room doors.

"Come in." I say, while signing the form.

"You're still signing those?" Jiwoo asks, stepping into the room and I set the pen down.

Looking up at him, I smirk, "Actually I just finished."

Jiwoo nods, impressed, "I actually thought it would've taken you longer."

"You underestimate the magic in these hands." I raise my hand and wave my fingers at him.

He laughs out loud, "There's no denying that you have magic."

"Do you need anything?" I ask, thinking that not much time has passed since he gave me the forms at nightfall.

"Just your presence in the garden." Jiwoo says calmly.

"It is not..." I trail off, looking around for a clock but of course, I never set one up in here.

Jiwoo pulls out his phone and shows me the time, "Oh, it is." He smiles warmly and replaces his phone in his pocket.

I push back from the table and walk to the doors. "I guess the storm screwed up my timing."

"Well, you can't see the moon so it makes sense that you lost track of time." Jiwoo comments.

"The moon doesn't dictate that." I argue as I reach him at the doors.

He raises his eyebrows like the answer is obvious, "For you, the moon dictates everything. Including your mood."

I open my mouth to defend myself but Jiwoo speaks before I can even form a word.

"You know it's true so don't even argue. Crescent moons you're in your best moods. Full moons require 2 bottles of champagne and Blue moons require a minimum of 4 bottles." He lists off the reasons and I have to admit, it is true. The moon reminds me why I'm here and I retaliate by swinging my moods to the different phases.

I sigh and lower my head in defeat, "Alright, you win. Just be prepared for the next Blue moon, I will not be so kind." I threaten him.

"If you're still here." He points out and then nods his head towards the hallway, "He's waiting for you."

My head rises and I happily smile, "I'll be going then."

Jiwoo waves goodbye and I make my way through the halls. My feet continue to walk me to my garden while my heartbeat beats harder. By the time I'm a few feet away, I can hear and feel my heartbeat in my ears.

"You are a tree. T. R. E. E." Dokyeom's voice trails out from the garden. "A really pretty tree."

I walk in and find Dokeyom facing the tree with his hands clasped behind his back.

"I think that's the first compliment it's gotten in its entire life." I say while holding back a giggle.

But Dokyeom is startled by my 'sudden' presence and nearly jumps out of his skin.

"AH!" He screams, jumping to face me. With eyes wide and blinking like a deer in headlights, Dokyeom just stares at me.

I cover my mouth with my hands and try so very hard not to laugh.

"Why would you sneak up on me like that!?" He screeches when he's collected himself.

"I'm sorry." I stifle out, really trying not to laugh because I should be feeling kind of guilty but... it's Dokyeom. "I forgot how easily you scare."

"Has it really been that long?" Dokyeom pouts.

I lower my hands and smile sweetly, "I guess it has."

Dokyeom instantly wraps me up in a tight hug and my arms instinctively wraps around his waist, resting snugly against his form.

"I'm sorry for making you wait so long." He whispers into my ear, all traces of his earlier scare gone.

"I'm the one who should be sorry." I tell him, glancing over at the bare tree.

"No way." Dokyeom pulls back and holds me by the shoulders at arms length, "You don't have to be sorry. I guess neither of us have to be sorry." He realizes with scrunched eyebrows.

I hold his hands that are still at my shoulders reassuringly, "I guess I won't be sorry if you won't be sorry."

He straightens up and nods, "Fine by me." Dokyeom then walks behind me and wraps his arms around my shoulders, his chin resting on my shoulder. "Though, you did wait a long time."

"Dokyeom." I warn him and turn my head to glance at him.

"Just saying." He mumbles through a pout, then he wonders, "Where did you go?"

"Back here." I tell him and hang my hands from his arms.

"Just here?" Dokyeom wonders, looking around the garden.

"Just here." I confirm. "Someone has to run this hotel."

"Who's going to run it when you leave?" He asks, giving me a small squeeze.

I shrug, "Whoever the Gods pick."

"Ah, I see." Dokyeom says softly.

I tap his arms to release me and begin to walk forward towards the bench. Dokyeom follows but keeps his arms wrapped around me.

"You know that Yong lady?" He asks as we settle onto the bench.

I chuckle, "Yes, I know her."

"She reminds me of you." Dokyeom says.

"How so?" I question.

"Well," He clears his throat, "She's got this like cool, unbothered aura around her but when you get her talking, I can sense she's softer and more relaxed. Like you. And, and, I told her a joke once and she laughed but then a guest arrived and it was like someone flipped a switch. She changed her resolve so fast." He explains.

"This is a hotel." I remind him, "We have to be on our best behaviors for the guests."

"We? I never saw you out on the floor though." Dokyeom comments innocently.

I give him a questioning look.

He readjusts his posture so he's angled towards me, "In the nine days I was here, I never really saw you out in the hotel helping guests."

"I, I don't really do that work." I stutter. "I'm usually in my office... or here." I nod towards the tree.

"So then 'they.'" Dokyeom giggles.

"What?" I ask.

"They have to be on their best behaviors for the guests." He corrects my earlier statement. "Since you're in your office or here."

"No, I mean, yes, but I occasionally help guests too." I defend myself, stumbling over my words a bit.

"Wish I could've seen it." He puckers his lips.

I roll my eyes before saying, "You know what I wish I could've seen?"

Dokyeom looks over at me with curiosity, "What?"

"You teaching." I nod at him with a small smile.

"Why?" He asks, his eyebrows scrunching together.

I shrug, "Why not? You always talked about how much you loved it and you were always going on and on about your students. So I've always wanted to see you in your element."

"You remember all of those?" Dokyeom wonders, "Like all the stories I told you?"

"Maybe not all of them, but a good majority." I tell him, "I never forgot them."

"Even with 12 others you didn't forget them?" He asks, looking at the bare tree.

I smile and link my arm with his, "You're a little difficult to forget."

"I am, aren't I?" Dokyeom looks back with a playful smirk. I laugh at his ability to switch moods so quickly.

Pulling him closer, it's now my turn to rest my chin on his shoulder. "Will you tell me more?" I ask, batting my eyes at him.

"More stories?" He asks and I nod. "There's not really much to tell."

"I still want to know." I tell him and his shoulders relax while he inhales deeply.

"Alright, let's see." Dokyeom grabs my hand and laces his fingers through mine. "I will say that it was a bit difficult after you left."

"A bit?" I question his wording.

"Okay, extremely." He corrects himself, "But I couldn't really show it in front of my young students. I kept teaching though, for a lot of years. When I retired, I think I was the teacher highest number of years at the school. My kids were nagging at me for years to retire because they could take care of me and their mother but I guess I was kind of stubborn." He chuckles, "Eventually I left the teaching world though."

"You married?" I ask with relief, "And had kids?"

Dokyeom nods happily, "I did. My relationship with my wife took some years but then the kids came quickly."

"How many did you have?" I question, pressing his arm tighter into my chest.

"3 kiddos." He says proudly, "My first son grew up to be a chef. My daughter went on to be a doctor. And my youngest son followed my middle child, he became a doctor."

"You must've been proud. Having children who could support you once you retired." I sigh happily that his children lived comfortable lives.

"I was. I am." Dokyeom says and nods. "Though I never understood how my oldest became a chef. He was always so clumsy and then he went on to choose the career with some pretty big and sharp knives."

"He didn't every hurt himself, did he?" I ask, suddenly worried for a soul I had only ever seen from a distance.

Dokyeom shakes his head, "A few knicks here and there but no, he was never seriously injured from his job. His silliness did cost him a few bruises though."

"Oh no." I breath out but Dokyeom simply laughs.

"Like once, he was playing with my daughter's daughter and somehow got his feet tangled in her toys and face planted onto the floor." Dokyeom recalls, "My youngest son gave him shit about it for weeks. The poor kid couldn't live it down until the next time he clutzed up."

I let out a breathy chuckle and he continues with stories.

"My daughter was so aggressive towards my oldest sun but she was an absolute protective angel to my youngest son." He say with a smile. "But my youngest would always try to combat it and protect her from any and all things dangerous. Including her future husband." Dokyeom suddenly points a figure at me, "And no, I did not tell him to do it."

I raise my free hand up in the air, "I wasn't going to ask." I say with a giggle.

He narrows his eyes at me, "But you were thinking it."

My eyebrows lift slightly. "Maybe."

Dokyeom barks out a small laugh and his eyes sparkle with delight. Just like they did back then when I could pull laughter from him like a magician pulls the scarf from his sleeve. With ease.

"Were there any more stories from your teaching?" I ask, "Those were always my favorite."

"That I do remember." Dokyeom says and squeezes my hand. "Mmm, let's see." He thinks for a couple seconds before telling the story of a school picnic that somehow ended in a large water fight.

I listen in awe and wonder as he retells the tales of his classroom where everything from stuttering presentations to wild test answers were seen. He tells me about how some single parents were super, super nice to him and I have to point out that I'm sure they had some other motive. Dokyeom, of course, doesn't believe me until I point out that the super, super nice single parents were usually mothers. His face of realization is pure gold and I memorize it in a flash, not wanting to forget it.

From school stories, we move to stories of his household. The quiet years when it was just him and his wife to the chaos of raising three kids. He vividly remembers when his daughter went to her first school dance and how fast his heart was beating because his precious princess was growing up. Dokyeom swears he was not that protective but his sons were telling everyone about his 'over'-protectiveness.

Dokyeom says he did a lot after he retired and his stories certainly prove it. He has stories from his simple life, from his experience with grandchildren, and from the outings he had with his friends as they all aged together.

Throughout all the stories, Dokyeom's warm smile never fades and I hold onto that warmth, even when the sun's warmth begins to disappear below the horizon.

"I hope it's going to be warm." Dokyeom shivers and presses closer to me.

"It will be." I say softly. "It's simply perfect."

"Do you think any of my students will be there?" He wonders, staring at the chrysanthemums sitting at the base of the bare tree.

I run a hand through his hair, "Maybe. Depends on how many lives the Gods gave them."

"I hope none of them are there yet." He wishes, "They all deserved to live many, many lives."

"I'm sure they lived a great many." I tell him, "After all, they crossed paths with you."

"They did, didn't they?" Dokyeom lets the thought lift his spirits a bit. "Will you walk with me?" He asks, gripping my hand tighter.

"Of course. I will go as far as I can go but I will go with you." I reassure him.

He nods and we stand up together. With my hand wrapped securely with his, we walk out of the garden. One foot in front of the other and I feel like each step gets heavier and heavier the closer we get.

"You won't forget, will you?" Dokyeom asks but doesn't look at me. Instead he looks straight ahead with his head held high.

"Forget what?" I ask, watching his face closely.

"That I have a mole on my left cheek." He lists off the items he doesn't want me to forget, "That I'm afraid of lady bugs. That I'm a movie nerd. That you can't be trusted with the directions because that one time you got us lost for 3 hours. That I still remember the night you tried to surprise me for my birthday but you tripped over your own feet and spoiled it. That I was one of the 13. And that I love you."

We stop in front of the departures door as he finishes. I turn to him and lift the corners of my lips in a small smile.

"I won't forget." I tell him, "And that means you also can't forget that I love you."

Dokyeom gives a single curt nod, "I would never." He grabs the door handle and swings the door open, "Wow, the sun sets fast." He comments at the darkened sky.

"She's got places to be." I joke and step out, "And I like the moon better anyway."

"Everyone always told me I was like the sun," Dokyeom says, "But secretly, I always did like the moon better."

"I do remember you telling me that." I say as we get closer to Shin and the waiting car.

"February 18th." Dokyeom blurts out suddenly.

"Your birthday..." I trail off in confusion.

He nods, "That's the one thing you need to remember. You can forget the others if you can't remember them but please remember my birthday."

"I remember all 13 birthdays." I grab both of his hands in comfort, "I never forget birthdays."

Dokyeom presses his lips together, "Just, just make sure you eat an apple on my birthday."

"An appl- why?" I'm taken aback at his request.

"You know," He looks at me with wide eyes, "Apples are things you give to teachers and I was a teacher so you should eat an apple every year on my birthday. To remember your teacher."

I glance over at Shin and he also has a look of confusion, though not as obvious as mine. "I-"

Dokyeom giggles, "I was joking."

My confusion dissipates and a small smile reaches my face. I reach out and cup his cheek in my hand, "I'm going to miss you. You and your jokes."

He grabs my hand and presses a kiss into my palm, "I'm going to miss you, too." Dokyeom then pulls me into a tight hug and nuzzles his face into my neck.

I close my eyes and breath in his comforting scent. The one that could always settle whatever storm the Gods had brewed up. The one that would wrap around me on the coldest of days.

All too soon, Dokyeom pulls away and presses a kiss onto my lips. Then he pulls away completely.

"I love you, (y/n)." He says confidently, not caring who may or may not hear.

"I love you, Dokyeom." I smile and wrap my arms around my waist.

Dokyeom smiles happily and walks to the car. Shin waits until every last bit of him is inside the car before he definitively shuts the door. The car begins to drive away and in the back seat, Dokyeom turns around and waves at me. I raise an arm and wave back, hoping he can't see the tears filled with sadness that line my eyes.

Only when the car is completely swallowed by the forest fog do I lower my hand and replace it at my waist. It is then that a white chrysanthemum waves its final goodbye before withering away.

I wait at the forest's edge for a few more minutes and let the tears fall. But the hotel's glow grows bigger and I know the hotel is in full swing. Which means I have more work to do and more loves to wait for.

Return to the Navigation Page (Waning Crescent Hotel) to choose the next guest.

"What's the first thing you're going to do on the other side?" Dokyeom asks, looking towards the setting sun.

I shrug, "I honestly have no idea. What are you going to do?" I throw the question back at him.

"I'm going to try," He emphasizes 'try,' "To find you and win you over."

I giggle, "You might just succeed."

Dokyeom hops onto his feet, "Then let's go test this theory." I stand up next to him and he grabs my hand.

"Not just yet." I tap the top of his hand with my free hand, "I have to say goodbye to my people first. They're technically my family."

"Of course. I always knew they were close to you but I never realized how close." Dokyeom says thoughtfully.

"It's hard to know when you didn't have the whole story." I tell him with a knowing smile.

We walk hand in hand to the lobby where Yong, Mun Hee, Soon Bok, and Jiwoo stand solemnly.

"So this is it?" Mun Hee asks with tears in his eyes. "This is the day you leave us?"

I wrap him up in a hug, only a tiny bit annoyed that he's being so sappy. "Maybe I'll get punished again and be back here by the end of the year." I try to joke but Mun Hee abruptly pushes back from me.

"Don't you dare say that. You better not return here." He says angrily through his tears.

I chuckle, "I won't come back. I promise."

Turning to Soon Bok, I thank her for her service and her amazing work. Something I never did and should've done more.

Next onto Jiwoo. I also thank him for his and his entire family's service then I unclip the bracelet that has held him to this place.

"When you leave today, you won't be able to find this place again." I inform him, "I hope that you'll be able to go and live your life happily."

Jiwoo nods, "Thank you for letting me work with you. I won't ever forget you."

I smile sadly, "You will. But thank you."

Finally I reach Yong who is sniffling and trying so very hard not cry.

"You'd think after all these years of waiting that I'd be prepared for this day." She says through sniffles.

"Thank you, Yong." I rests my hands on her shoulders, "For everything. Thank you."

With lips pursed together, she leans forward and wraps me in an unexpected hug. But I soon wrap my arms around her and squeeze her tightly.

We pull apart after a couple seconds and I wipe the few tears that have escaped from her eyes.

"Keep this hotel running beautifully." I tell her before Dokyeom grabs my hand again.

With final waves of goodbye, Dokyeom and I walk out to the foggy forest that will take us to our resting place.

At the edge of the forest, Shin stands next to an idling car, a somber look on his face.

"(y/n)." He says when we reach him, "It has been an honor working with you. I wish you both a peaceful rest." Shin bows his head and I pat his arm.

"The honor was mine." I tell him with a smile. Now the tears start to line my eyes as the realization fully sets in.

I'm free. I served my years of punishment and now I'm free to let my soul rest.

I turn back towards the hotel and look up to the top where the rooftop patio is outlined with bright string lights. Then to the mid floors where random room lights are turned on, some guests staying in while others opting to experience the hotel's many services. Then to grand base where guests would be milling around, waiting their turns to leave this world.

"(y/n)?" Dokyeom softly asks pulling my attention to where he sits just inside the car, "Are you ready?"

I take one last quick look at the hotel before turning away from it. "Yeah, I'm ready. Let's go."

I lower myself into the car and Shin securely closes the door after I am completely inside. As the car begins to drive forward, Dokyeom securely grabs my hand and I let his warmth guide me towards our final destination.

In the garden, the final chrysanthemum withers and dies so that no more stand at the base of the bare tree.

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tinydragonstories · 4 years ago

Text

Heat vs Steele Pt 2

Masterpost

After the servants cleared away the leftover food and used dishes, Logan’s father sends the two boys off to, hopefully, bond. It doesn’t take Roman long to start a conversation, hoping to engage Logan and entice him to add his thoughts; but much to his dismay, the other just nods and looks out the window. He nearly plows Logan over when he stops at a door and opens it for him,” here’s your room. I am under the impression you’d like to freshen yourself before tomorrow?”

It takes Roman a moment to snap out of his candlelight-and-Logan trance,” oh, yes, I’d appreciate that.”

��Very well. Guards will be posted outside your room as well as your men’s dorms. If you require anything, you can ask them; however” Roman looks up at Logan’s neutral expression,” I ask that you not disturb me this evening. There’s a blood moon and I’d appreciate being left alone to study its appearance.”

“Will your lovely face match its color by the end of my visit?~” He purrs to the object of his affections as he’s let into the room. Logan merely stands in the doorway, back as straight as Roman was gay.

“I don’t believe so, but I cannot see the future. I bid you good night, Roman.”

“Good night, Prince Logan.”

And with that, Logan gently shuts the door behind him and Roman is left alone with his thoughts. He grins and falls onto the plump covers of his bed,” gods above, he’s gorgeous!”

Logan, on the other hand, steps lightly through the halls of his castle, heading towards his favorite place in the entire kingdom. The lonely footsteps echo through the corridor as his shadow passes window after window. Why his ancestors insisted on every outer wall having at least two windows, he’ll never know, but at least it allows him to see the night sky from wherever he is in the castle. Logan takes a torch from a basket at the stairs leading to the ground floor and lights it with one on the wall before continuing his trek to the southern tower. His walk isn’t long, and soon enough he arrives at the tower. The fire’s light bounces off of the stone walls as he slips into a room and closes the door behind him. He slides the torch into a slot on the wall and pulls down the trapdoor on the ceiling, dodging the ladder that comes sliding down. He climbs the stairs and heads straight to the table with papers covering every inch of the wooden surface. After checking and gathering what he needed, Logan passes through the curtain and closes it behind him so any light coming from the ladder room would be negated. The brass telescope shone in the little light he had from the stars as he takes a seat on the stool at the lens. His nimble fingers mess with knobs and dials until the moon was in perfect clarity. He makes a note of the color and sits at the stool, examining the strange occurrence throughout the night.

The color of the moon was strange, even for a blood moon. It was an almost exact match to Roman’s cloak and the banner of his country’s flag. Such a strange coincidence…

Logan shakes it off and makes a few notes, examining the sky throughout the night. It isn’t until he notices the moon starting to go down does he stop his work and head to bed. Luckily for his eyes, his room was near the telescope and he was soon under his covers with a dying fire in the fireplace. He stares at the ceiling for a moment, thinking about this strange suitor.

Roman Adalbert, prince of Hungoria. He had never met the royal children of other countries as he preferred the safe solitude of his home, and when his family held the yearly ball, he hid in his observatory. From this behavior, rumors started to spread about the Elmarian prince, about how he was deformed and hidden until his hand was given away.

Obviously, this was false information, however the damage was already done. The other royals were already suspicious of the sudden improvement in his kingdom but when they heard that Logan wasn’t participating in the politics of his own accord, it sealed the metaphorical deal. They started sending their second born or younger children, despite the horrid of an adult marrying a child, and were offended when Logan sent them back with a hard refusal. He never felt bad about it, since they were LITERAL CHILDREN, but he always felt a pang when he saw tears in their eyes. They were innocent, had no clue what they were doing, and Logan was looking out for them.

He shakes his head and turns onto his side to rest. Perhaps he would wake and it would all have been a dream.

It was not all a dream.

When Logan wakes up, the first thing he sees is that a vase of roses were delivered to his rooms with a cursive signature claiming that they were for him. He groans and puts them by the window before dressing himself. He manages to get most of it on correctly before he slides the corset on over his white tunic. He frowns, finding that he couldn’t reach the ribbons he needed to tie.

“Virgil!”

“Already here, Lo.” He feels the corset tighten as experienced fingers tie up the ribbons holding it together. He takes in a breath and relaxes after a moment.

“You surprised me, Virgil. You’re usually already here.”

“Yeah, well, princey needed extra help with his outfit today so he grabbed me out of the hall.”

“...”

“You just wanted to watch me struggle without you.”

“Damn right.”

Logan chuckles as Virgil fusses over the few wrinkles and fixes the whole attire. He shoves some leather boots onto Logan’s feet, despite his protests of doing it himself. (“You can’t do it without wrinkling your outfit. So just let me, dammit!”)

Virgil finishes his outfit with his insignia ring and a silver necklace with a deep blue stone set in the center. Logan looks at himself in the mirror,” this is satisfactory, Virgil. Well done.”

“Yeah, it’s not a big deal, sir.”

“I’ve told you before that my name is fine. We’ve been friends long enough.” Logan grabs his bag before setting it back down with a sigh. He wouldn’t be allowed to engage in his books until Roman left. How unfortunate.

“You want your weapon today?”

“Just the dagger, I suppose. It should seem inconspicuous at my hip.”

Virgil nods and wraps the belt around Logan’s waist, strapping the blade in its sheath. It isn’t long after when a knock sounds from the door and Virgil is instantly on alert. Logan opens the door and internally groans when he sees peppy hazel eyes looking into his own.

“Your dad said you like coffee in the morning!” A mug is put into his hands and he glares at Roman when he notices that the other is holding his hands closed around the warm drink.

“I suppose you were sent here for breakfast.” He steps back to allow him inside.

Roman shakes his head as he steps in,” no, my love. I came of my own accord. WOAH-“

He barely dodges out of the way of the flying purple blur as Logan thanks Virgil silently for his interference.

“He’s got good reflexes, not bad, princey.” The guard smirks and sheathes his dagger

“You’re the one who helped me choose my jewelry this morning.”

“Yeah, and thanks to that, I was late to my lord’s bedside. So not too happy with ya.” Virgil returns to Logan’s side, grinning as Logan lets the cartboy bring in their breakfast. Roman sputters and just glares at the guard,” well, can I at least eat breakfast with my love without you here?”

“I’m his personal guard, so that’s gonna be a negatory.” He plops down on the couch and kicks his feet up on the coffee table,” besides, I’m wonderful company.”

Logan keeps himself from laughing and simply takes a seat in the armchair, watching the cartboy set the plates down on the table,” here, for your efforts.”

His brown eyes widen at the shimmering copper pieces in his hand,” for me sir?”

“Sure, you’re dismissed.”

“Thank you, my lord!” He giggles and wheels the cart out happily, practically skipping.

“You know, he probably has enough to buy a house with what you’ve given him by now.” Virgil chuckles

“Perhaps, but he’s a kid. He won’t think of that. Now eat, I need my guard in his best condition.”

“Yes sir, Prince Logie,” he grins and dodges the pillow aimed for his head.

“Logie? That’s adorable! Please tell me I can us-“ Roman squeals.

“No.”

“Absolutely not.”

The red-clad prince whines,” why not? Your guard gets to-“

“He’s also my childhood best friend and the only one allowed to be alone with me so yes, he gets nickname privileges. You do not.” Logan set the pillow behind his back and started serving himself. He sighs at the meat tray and focuses on the other foods available to him. Logan’s fingers wrap around a peach and he leans back to enjoy his fruit.

Roman had served himself a heavy helping of eggs with cheese and bacon and his goblet was filled with orange juice freshly squeezed only a few hours ago. He frowns wgen he notices Virgil just sitting and watching over the two princes. Logan nudges him and motions to the food with his head. Virgil shakes his and crosses his arms over his scrawny form. Logan rolls his eyes and makes a balanced plate before handing it to Virgil along with some silverware. He shakes his head and tries to hand it back, but Logan crosses his arms stubbornly and looks at him. Virgil stares back at him for a minute before stabbing an egg angrily and shoving it in his mouth.

Satisfied, Logan leans back to see Roman staring at him,” yes?”

“How did you do that?”

“Do what?” Logan takes a bowl of grapes from the table and pops one in his mouth.

“Get him to eat! Neither of you said a word!”

Logan swallows his grape,” Virgil has been my guard since we were children so we’ve developed a form of silent communication. Originally, it was to be used during meetings when we were bored, but we’ve ended up using it whenever we have something to tell the other that we don’t want other people to know.”

“So why did you use it now?”

“Merely to avoid disturbing your breakfast. No other reason.” He hums and pops another grape into his mouth, chewing contently.

Roman frowns inwardly at his lack of emotion. Logan really was emotionless, or at the very least, he has amazing control over them. His fingers twirl his fork thoughtfully,” Logan, do you not eat meat?”

“No, I do not respect the method of acquiring it.”

Roman nods,” so you only eat fruit?”

“For breakfast. I’ll eat vegetables and grains later on during the day. Why?”

“Oh, I’m just curious! I want to get to know my husband before I marry him, after all!”

Logan resists the urge to groan and ignores the comment

“You didn’t say no!”

“He didn’t say yes, either.”

Roman whines and glares at the guard, who’s smirking and twirling his fork in the eggs. Logan watches them bicker back and forth until a knock interrupts them. He stands and answers the door, ignoring the pair behind him,” yes?”

“Roman wasn’t in his room when the cartboy brought him breakfast. I thought I would check here first.” A nervous looking man with big blue eyes looks up at him.

Logan opens the door wider to show the missing prince on his couch and the arrival rushes into his unexpected arms,” why didn’t you tell me you were leaving?! I was so worried!”

“Patton, I assure you, I’m fine.”

“I don’t care! Well, I do, but that’s not the point! You didn’t tell anyone where you were going and scared us!”

“I’m pretty sure you were the only one worried enough to come find me.” He chuckles and rubs Patton’s back. Logan closes the door and returns to his seat to finish his meal.

When he looks up again, Patton is sitting next to Roman and looking at Logan sheepishly,” I suppose I should apologize for running in without your permission, your highness. I was just so worried that Roman had run off again without his guards and was going to get hurt!”

“It’s quite alright, Patton. Raise your head, I’m not upset.”

“But-”

“I said it was fine. Now, have you eaten today? We have quite a bit of food left over if you want any.” Logan sips at his juice and looks at the servant.

“Well, no, but-”

“Then eat. We won’t stop you.”

“I can’t possibly-” He shakes his head and stands back up.

“Patton, I insist.”

They’re quiet for a moment as they look at each other, and Patton relents,” yes sir. As you wish.”

He seats himself down and nibbles on some bread as Logan picks up his book from the previous night to read a bit. He notices Roman watching him out of the corner of his eye, but chooses to ignore him.

“Is reading all you do for fun?”

“Pardon?” Logan looks up in surprise, feeling the familiar tingling on his shoulder.

“Do you do anything beyond those pages? I’m curious!” He defends himself and Logan glares slightly as the tingling spreads down his chest.

“Curiosity kills the cat, Roman. Please leave my chambers.” He stands and opens the door for him.

Roman looks at him with wide eyes,” you can’t be-”

“Leave.”

A scowl pulls at Roman’s lips, but he stands and stalks out,” Patton, return to my chambers once you’ve finished your breakfast. I’ll be waiting.”

Logan softly closes the door after him and settles his strangely upset stomach. He didn’t understand the feeling and simply seats himself down on the armchair in front of the fire.

“I should probably go…” Patton mumbles and sets his fork down on the plate. He looks regretfully at the food left over and sets his plate down on the cart.

“You don’t have to leave yet, Patton.”

The servant looks up at the crown prince in shock,” but-”

“I insist, Patton, if you wish for more, then indulge yourself. I don’t mind in the least and I’m sure if Roman cares for his employees, he’ll allow you to at least finish eating.” Logan pours himself a cup of tea and leans back into the plush cushions,” after all, the purpose of a prince is to care for the people he rules over.”

Patton sits in stunned silence before nodding and taking some more eggs. The three eat in silence until Patton stands and bows,” well, I must go. Please excuse me, your highness.”

He leaves and softly closes the door behind him.

#logince #roman sanders #logan sanders #patton sanders

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surveys-at-your-service · 3 years ago

Text

Survey #475

(from two days ago, oops)

What is your favorite background noise? (Ex. Water dripping, people talking.) I really like a steady rain tapping on the windows. Do you like taking selfies? Why or why not? No, because I'm ugly. It's annoying because I've been wanting to take pics with Girt considering even as just friends literally none exist of us, but yeah. I fucking hate taking pictures of myself and it takes a billion and two tries to get a picture I deem "acceptable" anyway. Were you named after anyone? No. What was the last comic book you read? I don't and never have read comic books. What is your heritage? German, Irish, and Polish. Describe the worst friend you have ever befriended. All things considered, somehow my former best friend was the worst. She was homophobic, racist, extremely self-centered, drama-driven, excessively bossy, ungrateful... I will never be able to explain how our friendship ever worked. If you found the recipe for immortality, would you sell it or would you burn it? Burn it. With certainty. We just aren't meant to live forever. What is the most embarrassing, cringe-worthy thing you have ever done? 99% of my life has been Cringe. What is the worst thing someone could do on a date? Be distracted/not pay attention to the other, like by constantly using their phone. It's so rude. That would immediately make me lose interest in you. If you could turn one legal thing illegal, what would it be? I dunno. What is something you swore you would never do when you grew up, but you did anyway? I was absolutely going to college as a kid. Fast-forward to the future, I've dropped out three times and am going nowhere. Little me saw me as so, so much more successful. Do you actually iron your clothes? No. Unless it's a formal occasion. Do you rent or own your current home? We rent. Have you ever used cursive after school, aside from your signature? My handwriting is naturally mostly cursive. Do you have your groceries delivered or do you buy them yourself? We order our groceries for pick-up, so we have to go to the store, but not in. Do you have a gym membership? Sigh. I do, but Mom and I have really been neglecting going since my time with my personal trainer ran out... What’s your favorite computer game genre? Horror, of course. Do you have any exes your parents never liked? No. Have you ever been severely mentally ill? I am. What was the last thing you purchased from a small local business? I don't know. Have you ever used chewing tobacco? EW no, that shit grosses me out so much. If someone’s laughing, do you instantly think they’re laughing at you? Suuuure do. How would you react if your parents told you they were having another baby? Well, they're divorced, Mom cannot stand my dad, and she also had a complete hysterectomy when she had ovarian cancer, so like... Have you ever had a garage or yard sale before? How much did you make? Over the course of my life, we've had a few yard sales. I don't remember how much we made at any. Have you ever had to evacuate your home for any reason? No. Which mythological creature is your favorite? DRAGONS. I love dragons. Have you ever been to a butterfly garden before? No, but that sounds amazing. What's the biggest bird you've ever seen up close? Oh my god y'all, when I volunteered once at a wildlife rehab center, I was FEET away from some sort of falcon. Guys, you would not believe JUST how big birds of prey are. I was shocked and in total awe. Have you ever seen a double rainbow before? More than once. Were you ever afraid of the dark as a child? I don't THINK I was? What is the strangest thing you’ve been asked? Something inappropriate that really pissed me off. What was your favorite game as a child? I was obsessed with the original Spryo trilogy and would play all three obsessively. What is the darkest thing you have seen on the internet? I don't know, dark shit. Do you crack your knuckles, neck or toes constantly? No, but ugh Girt does that with his neck and it drives me insane alsdkjfaljdlfkwe. Are you constantly catching colds or other sicknesses? No, my immune system is a legend. Are you afraid of mice? No, they're precious. What type of souvenir do you usually purchase when on vacation? I go on vacations so irregularly that I can't really answer this. I've been on a vacation maybe twice in my entire life. Do you own more than one copy or edition of a book? No. If you could see any musical on Broadway right now, what would it be? I don't like musicals. Will you willingly sing in front of other people besides your family? God no. Do you eat soup when you’re sick? No. I don't like soup. Who can never fail to make you laugh? Absolutely my boyfriend. He's the funniest person I know. Have you ever been on a tour bus? No. Do you prefer listening to things through headphones or speakers? Earplugs. Are you listening to music right now? No; I'm watching Gab play The Evil Within. Have you ever unbuttoned your ex’s pants? Just one of them, but we were together at the time. What are you planning on eating for dinner tonight if you haven’t already? Mom made pizza. What was the worst news you’ve heard this entire week? Girt's mother has Covid. He's vaccinated, but nevertheless, he's still getting a test done just to be safe, and also because if he's contracted it, I might have it. And that means my mother could get it, which just cannot happen, even if she's vaccinated, too. The poor guy is really freaking out about it, but ASTONISHINGLY, I'm not panicking yet. Girt's health has seemed fine, I'm fine, so... We'll just have to wait to see what his test says. Do you have a lot of trees around your house? What about buildings? No; yes. I hate living in the suburbs, it sucks here. Would you say either one of your parents are 'pack-rats?' No. Have you ever disowned anyone in your family? For what reasons? No. Has anyone ever called you a sociopath before? No. Do you have freckles? Do you like/dislike them? Not on my face, no. I have a few randomly on my body though. Would you ever consider getting dreadlocks? No. Have you downloaded extra fonts for your computer? Oh, plenty. Who is the latest great YouTuber you’ve discovered? The latest, uhhhh. I'd probably say John Wolfe as a truly "great" one considering I watch him regularly now. Do you read the Bible regularly? Yeah, no. All the Bible does is piss me off, frankly. Name three patriotic songs you like. I don't know about three, but I do shockingly like this one country song with a name I can't remember. All I know is it has "red, white, and blue" in the title. ... I think. Oh! There's "Deutschland" by Rammstein, even though it's not about my own country. Has it ever snowed on your birthday? Maybe at some point as a kid? Idr. Do you like the way your name is spelled? No, actually. I wish it was "Brittney." It's more true to the pronunciation. Do you believe in astrology? Not in the slightest, and while I really shouldn't care, like believe what you want, it's a genuine pet peeve of mine when others base their fucking lives around what positions some goddamn stars are in in an infinite universe. They make decisions based on bullshit being spat at them that might not be suitable. I know, it's stupid to care, but I can never seem to NOT roll my eyes when I see/hear people blaming their flaws and shit on this stuff. Are you one of those people who has like a hundred apps on their phone? No; I have very few. What’s the band that you love even though you know they’re awful? I can't help but love some Blood on the Dance Floor songs. :x Do you coo over other people’s babies? No, not really. Like I can acknowledge a cute picture and be like "awww," but it's nothing I lose my mind over at all. What is something that makes you very squeamish? VOMIT. If you’re out of high school, have you stayed in touch with your high school friends? If you’re still in school, do you think you will? The only high school friend of mine I'm still actively friends with/is still in my life is Girt, obviously. Like I have HS friends on Facebook that I still very much love and will react to what they post and sometimes comment, but we don't really talk-talk. Do you dye your hair regularly? No. :/ That's not something I can afford to do. Do you have an alter ego? Describe them: No. Do you know both of your biological parents? Which one do you prefer? I do, and I love them both. Do you store a lot of pictures you’ve taken that no one else has seen? I'm a wanna-be photographer, of course I do. If you had to name your kid after an American state, which would you choose? Probably "Dakota" for either gender. What do you use to dry your clothes? (Tumble dryer, radiator, etc) We have your normal dryer. Do you ever play the built-in games on your computer? Which ones? Nah. Do/did you doodle on your books at school? My notebooks and binders, ohhhh yes. Actual school textbooks, absolutely not. Who’d you last see in a tux? The groom and groomsmen of the last wedding I shot. Who’s the bravest person you know? Sara. Have you ever dated someone who was real sportsy? No.

#survey #surveys #random questions

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veiledpeaches · 5 years ago

Text

chance encounters | part iii: what i mean when i say

Summary: Between pages of meddling friends and societal expectations, all she actually wants is to find a happily ever after with Doyoung, even if it feels like that is no longer possible.

part i x part ii x part iii x part iv x part v x part vi

word count: 4k

GIF originally posted by @lukhei

Haewon’s day starts briefly like this – a backache verging on cataclysmic, a phone that is ringing off the hook and a thunderous sizzle from the kitchen that could be an auditory representation of Johnny cooking up a storm for no particular reason on a Saturday morning.

“Johnny Suh, you know you’re not allowed to touch the kitchen as long as I am in the house.” She gripes as she walks out of her bedroom upon washing up.

“It’s my house,” Johnny argues, just as he places a fork and knife on either side of the dish he has prepared for her. “And - you’re welcome. Johnny’s homemade blueberry pancakes.”

“Please, you should be thanking me,” she says, sliding all her hair across one shoulder and digging into the pancakes. “Plus, what if I wanted waffles? That would void your compensation.”

“I can make you waffles later if you want,” Johnny winks. “Although, we can argue that pancakes really don’t deserve such discrimination if waffles aren’t accorded the same breakfast ghettoization - they’re practically made of the same ingredients.”

Haewon studies him with narrowed eyes. “That good, huh?”

“Whaddya mean?” Johnny’s expression turns sheepish.

“Ghettoization?” She returns the question, moving her hair behind her shoulder and smirking, “you’re rambling, it’s written all over your face, you sad sad man-child.”

He jauntily sits himself on the chair in front of her, the grin on his face too pleased to be contrite. “It was good.”

“We really ought to soundproof your room, she literally woke me up-”

The lady in question chooses this opportune moment to make her presence known, sauntering up to Haewon and Johnny as she buckles her watch to her wrist. Haewon’s head whips towards Johnny with glaring eyes, while Johnny discreetly mouths an apology back to her. They had laid down the quintessential rule (the rule that makes all ground rules obsolete) when Haewon had moved in in early 2017 - staying over’s only okay after the fifth date; if you want to have a one-night stand, book yourself a hotel. This is Johnny’s second infraction of the year (not that Haewon is counting, she has too much of a life for that). She hears Johnny’s date of four times stop short in front of them.

“Youngho-ah, who’s this lady and what’s she doing eating your pancakes in her underwear?”

Haewon drops her gaze onto herself as Johnny stands to give the accuser a kiss on the temple. It’s clearly just a camisole that’s in question, though given what Johnny’s lover is planning to wear out of the apartment, it’s sort of audacious of her to bring this up when she’s really giving Haewon a run for her money.

“This is Haewon, baby, my roommate. I grew up with her back in the U.S.”

“Ah,” Said lover reaches her hand out to shake Haewon’s in an oddly formal manner, her coffin nails digging slightly into the back of her hand. Haewon guesses the sigh that emits from her lips right after she studies her has more to do with relief than recognition.

Shrugging internally, Haewon sits back down to finish her breakfast as she hears Johnny and his partner-she-can’t-give-a-name-to-‘cause-Johnny-said-no-labels kiss noisily and bid goodbye, as she eyes said partner’s figure. Yeap, Johnny’s definitely a titties man.

“It was a crime of passion, your honor!” Johnny dramatically pleads once the door shuts as Haewon shakes her head vigorously and mutters, “that’s not how you use it”.

“You’re cleaning the apartment the whole of next month,” Haewon insists, before her eyes widen as a thought flits into her head, “oh my God, you guys didn’t do it on the couch, did you-”

“Of course not! I’m not an animal!” Johnny pretends to be scandalized, “and, come on. It was 2am. I couldn’t kick her out of bed - what can I say, I’m a gentleman. A modern romantic.”

“I think you catastrophically misinterpret the word ‘romantic’.”

Despite the inflection, Johnny is, one-hundred percent, a hopeless romantic - something Haewon quickly learnt after witnessing the poor man get dumped over the phone a while after she had relocated to Seoul. Johnny believes in the concept of soulmates, the proverbial ‘one’, and an ancient concept that most people would currently refer to as ‘destiny’. The manifestation of his soulmate pursuit is countless dates and relationships, grandiose expressions of love and a penchant for serenading his lovers with roses from their windows - a gesture not every Korean woman appreciates especially at 11pm on a Thursday night.

“I think I’m gonna marry her, Haewon,” Johnny tells her now, with a sparkle in his eye, “I think she's the one.”

Haewon looks at him disbelievingly. “You’ve been on four dates, John.”

“I know, but it feels so right, you know?” He smiles softly in a moment of clairvoyance, standing up to clear their plates. “Speaking of marrying someone, isn’t there something you need to do on Monday?”

Haewon rolls her eyes. Subtlety has never been his strong suit.

There’s a reason Johnny has been calling Monday D-day for the past week, and repeatedly using phrases that border on annoying such as ‘it’s go time’ and ‘let’s get it’. Monday would mark the return of a highly anticipated Kim Doyoung, and Johnny is adamant that Haewon should tell Doyoung, especially since Inhee has not confessed about what she's done.

“Isn’t it possible that she might want to tell him face-to-face?”

“If it was me,” Johnny straddles the chair in mock confrontation, balancing his arms on the seat. “If this was me, would you be saying something so naïve?”

“But it’s not you-”

“If the conditions were the same, but it was me instead of Doyoung, you know you would tell me in a heartbeat. And I would appreciate it, Haewon, just as he would.”

“You’re not doing this for yourself,” he looks at Haewon with a seriousness that silences her. “Don’t beat yourself up over something you have no reason to. You’re doing it for Doyoung.”

“The moment he reaches work, you march into his office, and you tell him truthfully what you saw. No one can accuse you of anything when you’re just being truthful.”

There’s a sign on the wall at the far right corner of the office that says “There’s no room for losers”. It’s a signature Fulworth saying, especially when things get tough at work.

Haewon has never felt particularly perturbed by it until now. She can almost hear the enunciation of the word ‘losers’ in his low, gruff voice.

Unlike Johnny’s prediction, Haewon’s will isn’t the only thing stopping her from talking to Doyoung about his fiancée when Monday comes. The issue turns out to be a lot less 1980s-movie-dramatic than they had expected – a case of timing.

Doyoung has been in and out of meetings since he entered the office after lunch.

It’s not even like Haewon has been systematically avoiding him. Doyoung barely had a chance to say hi to her and update her about the situation at Bertsman when he had been whisked away by a very anxious Lee Donghyuck, who had been held in trepidation for the last two weeks due to the declining sales figures. Haewon had laughed, gotten back to the copy she had been working on for Cho Young Jun’s book press release, her stomach lurching at the thought of what she had to do later.

There's no room for losers, the neat cursive print stares back at her from the wall.

It’s only hours later, when the sky has turned pitch black and the hour hand on the clock has pointed to ten, that Haewon begrudgingly creaked her joints into motion as she made her way to the Managing Editor’s office, cursing Johnny and all that he stood for as a person.

“Haewon!” Doyoung’s lips breaks into a smile and stands up suddenly, with only the harsh light from the desk lamp illuminating his face. “I thought I told you to leave at six, I don’t even know when I can leave the office…”

“Doyoung works late every night. We hardly spend much time in the same room anymore. We don’t even talk anymore, about our lives and our work.”

“Boss, you just got back late last night. You should rest.” She tries, “and, well, your fiancée might be waiting up…”

“It’s okay, Inhee understands,” Doyoung laughs, “besides, I sort of have to undo literally everything the Bertsman employees have done. That’s what I’ve been saying, you can’t trust any one of their employees, they don’t do things the way we do,” he smirks.

Haewon smiles softly at him, even if he cannot see, his eyes trailing after the lines on the paper in front of him.

“Ah, but what can I do? I’m just a worker ant.” He flops his arms around, as if mimicking an actual worker ant.

This action doesn’t bring Haewon laughter as she had expected. Instead, her heart feels like it’s been wrung, the sudden tightening in her chest inexplicable. She doesn’t know if it’s a biological reaction, but tears have started to fill her eyes, and there seems to be nothing else she can do but blink them back.

This is the Doyoung that Haewon has fallen in love with, all five foot ten of him, gummy smile and square shoulders, a kind boss and a workaholic - but how real her feelings are doesn’t and cannot negate how ill-placed the same feelings are in their situation. Here he is, looking at her, grinning at her, as her vision blurs. In that moment, she swears she hears something in her break; a small, clean sound, like the snapping of a flower’s stem.

“Oh by the way, you really need to get back to me on the wedding,” he laughs breathily, “I really need that RSVP-”

“I can’t go.” The words leave her before she realizes, breath seeming to return to her lungs temporarily. “I… I can’t attend your wedding.”

His face falls.

“Oh, you have something that day?” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

“No, I…” She looks down, licking her lips and inhaling shakily. “I can't attend your wedding, because…”

“Haewon.”

“Because… Because I like you.”

She hears more than sees his reaction, the pen in his hand slipping through his fingers and thudding gently onto the carpeted floor. “Haewon.”

“Because I like you,” her voice is still shaky, but there’s a part of her that’s calmer than ever before. “I can’t attend your wedding.”

She lifts her gaze to meet his, but Doyoung’s expression remains unreadable. She feels her jaw start to quiver, and clenches down on it.

“I like you, Doyoung. I like you so much that I can’t sleep, can’t think. I like you, I want to be with you, but you know what I also want?” She lets out a shaky breath, “I want you to be happy…”

It’s not like a leaky faucet, or a dam breaking. Instead, it’s like the little Dutch boy had pulled his finger out of her chest, because suddenly everything inside her is spilling out at once.

“But I see you everyday,” she shuts her eyes, and the tears flow at their will, “I don’t… know… what to do. Believe me, if I could will these feelings away, I would. I don’t want to feel so pathetic, I don’t want to like you like this.

“But I’ve also realized that I can’t be that… person, who stands on the sidelines and watches as you marry someone else - I can’t, I couldn’t do that to myself. I’m sorry. This is so out of line and you probably don’t want to hear this.” She inhales shakily, shutting her eyes as she pauses. “I’m sorry for telling you this… I just… I just needed you to know.”

Doyoung looks at her as if in a daze, his own lips quivering, until almost immediately, his head falls and he inhales sharply, as if giant invisible scissors had cut off his marionette strings.

“Why… Why now.”

Her eyes widen. “What do you-”

“Why are you telling me this, Haewon?” Doyoung looks at her like she’s missing a point, like she’s the most breakable thing in the world. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

Her eyes sting with fresh tears. She can feel something rising in her throat - a sob, a scream - but she bites it back, shutting her eyes so tightly there are almost tears that refuse to escape. She hates herself for crying, for showing any weakness here, for thinking she ever had a shot with someone like him.

There's no room for losers, but in that moment, she can’t help but feel like she has become one.

It’s Friday, finally the end of the week.

She softly clicks the pen in her hand open and close, drifting in and out as Huang Renjun drones on and on about the press kits they are planning to prepare for the media and why the Marketing Department needed more of the budget to be allocated to them.

This meeting has lasted way too long, and it feels even longer with Doyoung right next to her, the sleeve of his jacket inches away from hers. He's scribbling down notes diligently, making her existence in the meeting obsolete - it’s been like this the whole week, and Haewon is exhausted. She knows what Doyoung is doing, how he’s taking meeting minutes down like someone who doesn’t have an assistant so he doesn’t have to ask her for them later. Despite the promise of putting what happened behind them on Monday, she’s entirely aware that things will never be the same again.

The envelope sitting in her bag is still warm, its contents only freshly printed this morning. She vaguely hears Kim Jungwoo asking a question before all eyes are suddenly turned towards her.

All, but Doyoung's.

She looks around the room, befuddled, while feeling Yuta’s foot nudge hers gently, presumably to get her to speak.

“I’m so sorry,” she finally says.

“Manager Kim asked if you had too much on your plate,” the timid intern next to Kim Jungwoo speaks up, “and if you were willing to undertake more of the comms with Cho Young Jun himself.”

She opens her mouth, surprised, and turns to Kim Jungwoo.

“As we were saying, before you spaced out on us,” he laughs good-naturedly, “we let him read the copy you wrote and he likes it. He specified that he wants to work with you.”

Haewon’s gaze drops to her notebook, where a messily scrawled question blinks back at her. Today or next week? She blinks, momentarily realizing that the decision presented to her now accounted for more in the future than she had thought.

“I… That would be a great opportunity for me, thank you.”

Kim Jungwoo grins. “Don’t thank me, your boss told the boy that you were highly supportive of his work. Of course he would be excited to work with you.”

She turns towards Doyoung, a wide-eyed Doyoung, a Doyoung who only looks back at her now, his eyes not betraying any emotion.

There’s something about placing the envelope on his desk that makes it so official, a breath of fresh air that comes from a gesture that’s so unabashedly melodramatic and passé. Doyoung eyes the envelope warily, clearly this was not something he had imagined.

“Why is it… addressed to me? Why isn’t it in an email?” Doyoung drops his glasses onto his desk, pressing his fingers gently against his eyelids. “Why… What is this, Haewon?”

“I just…” She licks her lips. “I just wanted to make sure you received it, is all.”

Doyoung looks at her for a moment, then gets up and shuts the door of his office, before clicking on the button below his desk, rendering the glass office translucent.

“Tell me, Haewon, what is this about? Is it because of Monday?”

She winces, remembering the state of mess she had reduced herself to that night. The only thing more pathetic than confessing to someone who’s engaged, is confessing to someone who’s engaged while crying.

“No, boss, of course not. I thought we agreed to put it behind us.”

“I thought we did too,” he says, sighing and standing with his hands on his waist. “Then what’s this about? I mean, do you want… a raise? What can I-”

“No no no, please don’t think that way. I applied for a Literary Arts Masters’ at Brown University,” Doyoung’s remains bewildered. “I want to be a writer, and, I want to study for it.”

Doyoung inhales shakily. “I mean, I know you wanted to write, but… You should have told me about this. I would’ve written you a letter of recommendation…”

“Well I got in,” she shrugs and smiles, “and… I want to do it. I’ll be admitted in the fall, so I’m moving soon.”

It’s almost like she can see the gears shifting in Doyoung’s head, the mental calculations as apparent. “Is that what you wanted to tell me on Monday? When you came into my office, is that the, well,” he licks his lips, “more technical reason why you can’t come to my wedding?”

Not entirely, she thinks. “Well, it’s one of them.”

Doyoung settles himself back into his chair, absentmindedly rearranging the stationery on his desk. “I don’t want a new assistant.”

Her heart sinks. “I know you’re stressed. I’m sorry, and… this feels irresponsible, that I didn’t tell you this earlier. Thing is, I didn’t really believe I would get in, and I got my letter so late, so now I only have the next three months…” She pauses, realizing that none of this should be important in the discussion. “That’s why I’m giving you a month’s notice instead of the required two weeks, I’m sorry that this is what I can only leave you with, but I want to help as much as I can. I swear, boss, I’ll get handovers done as best as I can, whether the recruitment is internal or external, I’ll make sure the transition is as smooth as possible for you-”

“No, I mean…” Doyoung stands up, the pinstripes of his suit bouncing against the light as he does, and walks slowly towards Haewon, standing right in front of her.

“I don’t want to lose you.”

If there's anything she'll miss, it's how Doyoung always leaves her breathless. The sincerity in his eyes twinkling like unshed tears, the way he just looks softly at her like this, his lips pursed tightly and making the small, almost unnoticeable scar by the corner of his lips more prominent. This is the Doyoung that makes her heart soar, an unspoken tenderness dancing across his features. But with this Doyoung also comes an unmistakable truth glaring right back at her.

“No one is irreplaceable, Doyoung,” she starts, a lump rising in her throat, “especially not me. And I think it’s clear that this week has proven that we are no longer able to work together properly because of my feelings and the awkwardness that it has caused.”

“I was trying to give you space-”

“I don’t need space, Doyoung!”

“What was I supposed to say? What am I supposed to say, Haewon? I’m engaged!”

He looks at her for a long time, then sighs and turns away exasperatedly, tears darting in his eyes.

And there it is - the bubble that has popped, the pink elephant in the room. Because the truth is, from start to finish, as selfish and morally repugnant as it is, Haewon had foolishly hoped for a future with this man somehow in some way, even when it had never been possible.

“You’re right,” Haewon feels her eyes sting, but she has promised herself that she is not going to cry in front of Doyoung ever again. They aren’t close enough for that.

“No, you’re right, I’m sorry, I don't know what I was expecting, why I said what I said.” She shakes her head, attempting to breathe again.

“Besides, your engagement isn’t the only thing standing in the way of anything happening between us.”

Doyoung looks up immediately. “What do you mean by that?”

Haewon winces and swallows, unwilling to spell it out. “I mean, you don’t… feel the same way, at all.”

There comes a point when things are undeniable and can't be hidden any longer, even from yourself.

“I never should have told you about it,” her voice comes out as a whisper this time, unintentionally intimate.

“I’m sorry - even with everything that I said that day, it only occurred to me after, how truly stupid and inappropriate it was… in the office, no less.” Doyoung begins to shake his head, but she continues. “I don't have an excuse for it, I’m sorry - but I swear I’m not… for the lack of a better word, punishing you or anyone else with my resignation. Even before telling you, I was bent on moving overseas for the degree. So Doyoung, you really don’t have to feel guilty or anything - you don’t owe me anything, I shouldn’t have said anything.

“At the same time… The chance for me to pursue my dream is too rare to give up on.

“You’ve done so well before I came into your life, you’re gonna be okay.”

Doyoung averts his gaze away once again, putting his hands into his pockets, and alternating between resting his weight on his left and right foot.

“You’re wrong, you know, you’ve never been more wrong.”

“I’m sorry?”

He finally looks up, his eyes filled with sadness enough to keep Haewon from taking a step out of his office. Outside, phones are ringing and people are talking, noisy and continuous and completely unaware. But here, there is a Doyoung who looks at her like she could break easily, as he contemplates whether or not the next words have to be said, if at all.

“You said no one is irreplaceable, but you’re irreplaceable to me.”

It’s finally down to the last week of her work - and a part of Haewon feels guilty to admit that it is a relief.

This is what Doyoung and Haewon has been reduced to - two people who would rather send each other emails than talk face-to-face, even if it’s about work. On the bright side - if there is one - the diminished duties mean that Haewon has been given ample time to interview, recruit and train Doyoung’s new assistant - a dogged 25-year-old fresh graduate with a double major in Journalism and Communications who has an unhealthy obsession with cars, whom the younger estrogen-infused female interns label “daddy material”.

“Ready?” Johnny smiles as he shoves his keys in his pants pocket.

She slides her bag across her shoulder and looks at him up and down. “Johnny, you’re not ready.”

“Oh right! Shit,” Johnny mumbles to himself, rushing to his room to get his shirt.

It’s 8.25am, which means that Johnny’s definitely going to be late, since he’ll drop Haewon off at her office first, but Johnny doesn’t really seem to care. She laughs to herself, picking up her phone just as a message notification chimes.

Haewon, I’m so sorry I can’t tell you this myself, but I will be on personal leave for the entire week. I know you’re mostly done with handovers and training Jeno, but I’ll need you to hold the fort for this last week - just check your email, you’ll understand everything. I’m so sorry I can’t be here for your last week. Thank you.

Personal leave? What kind of emergency would-

“Haewon!” Johnny jogs out of his room, his phone and shirt in his hands. “Did you know?”

His eyes are wide with shock, his mouth open. He swallows, taking in Haewon’s equally baffled expression.

“I just got a call from my Mom. The wedding’s off…”

w/n: dear friends, please do not zone out in meetings. it doth not helpeth thee.

also, johnny is a giant teddy bear

come scream at me!! here :-)

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klynn-stormz · 5 years ago

Text

Legally Swan

Chapter 5

Look at me posting two weeks in a row! And I even have a bunch of chapter 6 written, I am on a roll! Anyway, here is the next chapter of Legally Swan, let me know what you think :)

AO3: 1 I 2 I 3 I 4 I 5

She wasn’t sure where she was running too until she was inside the salon. It was roughly 10 minutes from campus, a smaller stand-alone building on the street, the outside showed age, but in a cozy homey way. It had a red brick front, cracked and washed from time, a cursive open sign with a smiley face hung on the inside of the door. Walking inside, the smell of nail polish, hair color, and rubbing alcohol immediately calmed her. The salon seemed frozen in time. Stuck in the unfortunate year of 1976, blue and white checkered tiles lay across the walls, the floor the same retro blue as the tile with a swirly design that, if stared at for too long, could make one throw up or faint. The ceiling was normal, save for the harsh florescent lights and one large globe light (it was a few shiny mirrors away from a disco ball). Emma loved all of it. No one came over to greet her, so she took it upon herself to find an available technician and sit down, hands out.

“A manicure please.” She sniffed, her heart was still hurting from the encounter with Neal and his fiancé.

“Rough day?” The technician quietly asked. Her black hair was cut into a cute pixie cut that complemented her jaw line. She had pale skin, nearly milk white, and rosy lips. Emma noticed how kind her chocolate brown eyes seemed as she began to soak Emma’s nails.

“You have no idea.” Emma sighed.

“Manicures are for getting all the bad out and keeping the good in. If you want to rant to me you can, it’ll make you feel better.” Her smile was shy and soft, warming Emma, who was in desperate need for a confidant and friend.

“Well get ready for an insanely stupid story. I’ll tell you as long as you promise to give me an honest answer on how stupid I am.” After the technician nodded, Emma began her story.

---

After about an hour or so, with her nails looking fantastic, Emma was finished speaking, now waiting for the technician to say something. The woman studied Emma’s nails, finishing up the hand massage and making sure there were no flaws.

“So, in conclusion, you followed your ex, who broke up with you because he thought you were to pretty and dumb to be with him, to Harvard. You wanted to prove to him you are pretty AND smart, and maybe he would take you back. But, instead, you find that you love the classes, met a super-hot smart British, lawyer in training, found your ex was a tool who cheated on you because you didn’t count, and has a bitchy fiance who looks like a goddess, dresses like she’s at a funeral, and has a vendetta against you for being here.”

Emma blinked. That was the perfect summary of everything that had happened.

“Um, yeah pretty much. Sound horrible hearing it from someone else.” She felt another pang of humiliation.

“Not horrible.” The woman smiled kindly, “You wanted to feel seen and loved.”

“How did you know that?” Emma asked, stunned. What was it with the random strangers she met here reading her so easily?

“I know a little bit about that. Had someone I thought I loved, he decided he didn’t love me and kicked me out. That wasn’t the worst part though! I could handle him making me leave, but he kept my dog.” She turned her sad gaze to a picture frame on the counter, it was a picture of a little golden retriever puppy.

“That’s horrible.” Emma glanced down at Henry, who was curled up in her purse, content to watch the goings on and his person. “I can’t imagine what I would do without Henry.”

The technician smiled softly, wistfully and agreed. “It’s been nine months and it still hurts to think about my poor pup with him. I hope he’s being treated right.”

“I’m so sorry, that is the worst. I’m Emma, by the way.” Emma introduced herself. Realizing she still didn’t know this woman’s name.

“It’s nice to meet you Emma, I’m Mary Margaret.”

---

They talked for a while, Mary Margaret decided to give him a full spa treatment—besides the manicure she was getting a facial and pedicure—so they could talk more. Emma felt like she had found a close friend in Mary Margaret, someone she could confide in and laugh with. It was in the middle of them talking about Emma’s encounter with Killian that a UPS delivery man walked in the door. The change in Mary Margaret was immediate. She stiffened and tried to hide behind her hair, seemingly forgetting her pixie cut. She must have had long hair at one point, and Emma made a note to ask her that story later. When she realized that hiding wasn’t working, she turned her back to face him and made herself busy sorting through her workstation, much to Emma’s bemusement.

In the meantime, she studied Mary Margaret’s reaction, she was definitely trying to hide from the delivery man. The man was glancing around the salon as he waited for signatures. When he saw Mary Margaret, he straitened up and a hopeful look came into his eyes. With a quick look at the receptionist, who was lagging on the signature, too busy on her phone to do much, he walked towards them. Emma was fascinated by the scene unfolding in front of her, she felt like she was watching a movie, on the edge of her seat to see what happened next.

“Mary Margaret!” The man greeted happily. “It’s been a long time, over a year, right?”

“David.” Mary Margaret greeted quietly, nervously moving to tuck her hair behind her ear, and blushing when she realized it was too short to do so. “How are you?”

“I’m great! Picking up extra shifts at the animal shelter still, and delivering packages in the meantime. How are you? Your hair is shorter than last time I saw you.” He paused, slight worry crossing his face. “Not that it doesn’t look good, I mean really you look amazing, not that you don’t always look amazing. I mean to say it’s a good look on you, not there there’s a look that’s bad on you, and I see that you’re still doing nails and hair. Oh, that’s not a bad think though! You were always fantastic at it, I just thought I’d see how you’re doing and say that it’s really good to see you, and now that I know you’re here maybe we could catch up sometime.” Emma could see all the nerves fluttering around him as he stumbled over his words.

“That would be um, yeah maybe sometime soon.” Mary Margaret blushed again and looked at her work station. The receptionist called for David, finally having signed for the packages, and he somewhat reluctantly said his goodbyes and left.

Emma and Mary Margaret were silent for a moment. Then Emma broke it. “Soooo, what’s the story there?”

“No story!” Mary Margaret blurted out. “I mean I’ve known David since I was in eighth grade and we were friends for a little bit. Why? Did it look like there was a story?”

Emma chuckled at the nerves Mary Margaret was showing. “It definitely looks like there’s a story. He totally likes you, and you obviously like him. What’s holding you back?”

“It’s a really long story.” Mary Margaret started to brush it off, until she saw Emma’s skeptical expression and raised eyebrow. “Fine, we still have ten minutes left on your facial.”

It turned out to be a great story. Mary Margaret had met David when she was in eighth grade, right after he had moved to the area, and they had taken to each other quickly; though not before Mary Margaret had punched him in the face for making fun of her. They had started dating in tenth grade, when they both finally admitted how in love they were with the other. Unfortunately, David had an overbearing father that loved to control all aspects of his life, so, their senior year, he had forced David to breakup with Mary Margaret to date someone from a respectable background. David and Kathryn had dated for a few years, then gotten engaged. Mary Margaret had been devastated, naively thinking that David would jump ship at 18 to go back to her. When she heard the news, she had cried, gotten drunk and ended up sleeping with a good friend of David’s. She still couldn’t look Victor in the eyes after that.

David and Kathryn had been married for about five years before the gossip mill started turning about them not having kids and never being in public together. However, it wasn’t until their seventh year of marriage (nine years of being together), that they officially separated and divorced. Mary Margaret had always held out hope that true love, as she put it, would prevail. But it never did. Now whenever they saw each other there was this stilted awkward conversation, both desperately in love with the other yet so afraid to say it. The latter was an observation on Emma’s part, Mary Margaret convinced that David had no feelings for her anymore. She had met Lance three years before, not long after accepting that nothing would ever happen with David, and tried to move on with her life. When she saw David in town, she did everything she could to hide from him, hence him not having seen her for a year. Turned out that Mary Margaret was very stealthy.

Lance was everything she thought she deserved, and that wasn’t a good thing. Mary Margaret had grown up with a harsh step mother that belittled her and tried to control her. After the heartbreak that was David, a lot of her hold out confidence had vanished, she had found Lance, a man that played on her insecurities, verbally abused her on a daily basis, isolated her from friends and family, and when he got bored, threw her out of their house. So, there she was, without love, without family, without many friends, and without her precious dog.

Emma listened to all of this (the story well over 10 minutes by the end) with an abject sorrow and fascination. If she was being honest with herself (something that only seemed to happened when it wasn’t about herself) she found it much like the soap operas she would watch with her mother. So many interconnecting stories, all very dramatic, but in this case, no less real. She felt empathy for Mary Margaret, and felt a kindred bond. Both of them had gone through a lot, and now were trying to make themselves better. When Mary Margaret mentioned that she wished Lance would take her back, if only so she wouldn’t be so lonely at times, Emma spoke up.

“Don’t sell yourself short Mary Margaret, you deserve more than that kind of life. You deserve happiness with someone who loves you for you.” She wasn’t sure if that helped as Mary Margaret immediately teared up.

“Thank you, and don’t forget Emma.” She paused to compose herself. “You deserve the same. There’s always hope for a better future.”

---

Emma was thinking about that later that week. It was Friday night and she had gone through all of her classes with nerves and piles of homework to show for it. Her desk was currently piled high with her textbooks and books borrowed from the school library to study more. ‘You deserve the same’, Mary Margaret’s voice echoed as she reflected on her week. She knew deep down that she was right, and maybe that meant letting Neal go, but she still had to try right? She owed it to herself to keep going and to keep trying to be the best she could be.

Her phone rang on her nightstand. The cell itself was a standard phone, but the case was something else. Ana had given her the case for her birthday, saying Emma’s phone needed more personality. It was pink, fuzzy and sparkly. Honestly, Emma wasn’t quite sure where Ana had gotten it, but it must have cost a lot, but it made her smile when she saw it. The name on the screen made her smile even more, it was Rapunzel.

“Hey! I’ve missed you guys this week!” Emma said after she answered.

“Emma!!!” She heard at least three different voices screaming her name.

“Guess where we are?” Ana cried; her excitement almost visible through face-time. Emma couldn’t tell where they were, besides it being a clothing store.

“Where? Shopping?”

“I’m getting MARRIED!” Rapunzel screeched, coming into view on the phone in a white gown. She was jumping up and down so much that she ended up falling off the pedestal with a loud thump.

“What?” Emma asked, surprised. “To whom?”

“Oh my gosh, his name is Eugene and he is the most adorable guy ever. Emma you will love him!” Rapunzel was getting up off the floor, with some difficulty due to the tight mermaid style dress. “I met him like a month ago and he was this ‘bad boy’ going by Flynn, but he is the biggest sweetheart!”

“Wow, that’s crazy.” Emma wasn’t sure what to say, she didn’t even know who this guy was and Rapunzel had only known him for a little bit. Worry for her friend temporarily replaced her own issues.

“Don’t worry.” Ana whispered into the phone after Rapunzel went to try on a new dress. “I totally had one of my friends to a background check on him, Kristoff knows this guy who knows a cop. He came up clean, Eugene did that is. Kristoff did too, but well this isn’t about him. And I put him through my tests. You know the ones where I make R like an hour late to a date or call with and emergency to see how he would react. He passed! He even let R and I drag him shopping, he sat in the mall for like 3 hours for her. I had to have a talk with R because there was no way I was going to let her marry a man she just met, not after my Hans debacle, and of course you remember me telling you about my sister and how mad she was! Yikes. But I promise he’s good! Besides, if he’s not we know how to get rid of him and you can be my lawyer! Won’t that be fun?” By the end of Ana’s monologue Emma was laughing. She had missed her friends fiercely and hearing them made everything better.

She talked to both of them for a while longer, helping critique the wedding dressed and catching up on their lives. When she hung up, she laid on her bed a stared at the ceiling. Not for the first time, loneliness swelled in her heart. She was thousands of miles away from her mother, from her friends, from her life. She tried not to cry while thinking about her family, she had had to fight for it, but somehow, she got one. What was she doing so far away from it? Then she thought about the past week and how much she was enjoying her classes, sure she met a few bumps in the road, but what was that compared to doing something she knew in her soul would be a part of her life. While trying to dispel the melancholy she heard a soft knock came on her door.

Emma curiously moved to the door and opened it. On the other side stood a young woman in muted colors. Her hair was blonde and pin straight, she had kind blue eyes that gave away the nerves she was feeling, she wore a gray Harvard sweatshirt and simple black leggings. Shifting her hips, she opened and closed her mouth a few times before going for it.

“Hi, are you um, are you Emma Swan?” She asked shyly, her eyes moved to a point out of Emma’s vision, before returning to hers.

“Yeah, that’s me.” Emma responded.

“Hi, yeah, I’m um Ashley.”

“Hi.” Emma was confused as to why she was at her door. She had met a few of the girls in the dorm but they were all busy with classes, so there wasn’t much of a chance to socialize with them.

“So, with it being the new semester and all, a few of us wanted to get together and have a party. You know, one more before the year gets crazy.” She laughed, but it was a high pitch nervous laughter that set Emma on edge, especially when her eyes once again moved to a point out of Emma’s field of vision.

“A party? That sounds fun.” Emma said slowly, wondering what was going on.

“Yeah, it’s going to be very fun. And well I wanted to invite you. I know it’s your first year and I wanted to make you feel welcome.” Ashley stumbled over her words a bit, her eyes darting between Emma and the unknown point. “It’s going to be tomorrow and well, here’s the address.” She shoved a piece of paper into Emma’s hand.

“Um, yeah that sounds fun. I’ll definitely be there.” She was still wary about the whole thing, but a party might help her get a little bit of the homesickness gone.

“Oh!” Ashely paused and gulped. “I almost forgot one thing.”

“Yeah?” Emma’s lie detector was flashing red in her mind.

“It’s a costume party!” Ashley tried for excitement but her voice squeaked out, breaking. “You know, something to really help everyone let loose before the whole semester.”

“A costume party?” Emma echoed.

“Yup, so have fun with a costume, I’ll see you tomorrow night.” Ashley practically ran away as soon as the sentence finished.

Emma took a moment to take in what just happened. She leaned casually on her door frame and moved her head minutely to see what Ashley had been glancing at, or in this case, who. Tamara stood at the end of the hall, smirking towards Emma, a trembling Ashely next to her. Emma pretended to look at the address on the slip of paper while her mind raced. Then all at once everything calmed and a grim determination settled in her. She wasn’t going to be put off by this, she was going to show them she didn’t care what they thought of her

#cs fic #captian swan #cs ff #captain swan fanfiction #legally blonde au #legally swan

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smolfangirl · 6 years ago

Text

Drawing the line

For a fic I had no plot idea for, this turned out quite long :D It’s an artist au with some inspiration from @over-the-pink-moon lovely moodboards *-* Also thanks to @miris-xo for helping me to find anything related to a plot. I hope you enjoy this, especially since I might not have a lot of internet to post new things over the next two months at the end of the world ^^

Word count: 2.9k

///

She always leaves a trace when she walks out of his place. A pencil or a brush on the kitchen table, a quick sketch or color study left to dry on his desk. Once he finds a cup with paint water forgotten by the sink. Her thoughts remind Matteo of the TV screens in a tech store – five different movies playing and without the sound, nothing makes sense. As soon as she begins to pack up, new ideas flicker through her mind, so she simply forgets what remains out of her immediate sight.

But he doesn’t mind cleaning up after her.

Instead, he puts on the playlist inspired by her and wanders through every room, searching for her clues. If he’s lucky she forgot something important and asks him to meet up between classes. Some days (mostly Tuesdays) she even asks him if he wants to tag along to the cafeteria. He never says no.

Today, she forgot her notebook on the couch. Luna has been doodling in it while he discussed the grocery list with Gastón, and the moment he walked up to the couch again, she tossed it away like it was on fire. Before he could ask, she pretended to be deeply lost in filling the canvas with colors.

In moments like these he’d trade his first guitar for a glance into her mind.

The notebook feels heavy in his hands as he picks it up. It’s not the small sketchbook she uses for first drafts and carries around everywhere. And, from experience, forgets everywhere too. He’s only seen the fancy sketchbook two times before, and both times she threatened him to not even blink at it or she’ll ruin his mom’s gift the night before her birthday.

Nothing tempts him more than to sneak a glimpse at whatever Luna is trying to hide from him.

///

To Luna: How much is your nice sketchbook worth to you?

///

The moment she holds it in her hands again, she sighs so loud that the people around them turn around and stare. “And you didn’t look inside? Not even once?”

“Is that how little faith you have in me? After all the times I brought you your other sketchbook, or your brushes, or those funny little sponges and…”

“Okay, okay,” Luna mutters, one hand playing with her hair, “I get it. I shouldn’t come over to work on that painting for your mom anymore, given how much stuff I forget every time.”

She wants to walk right past him, into the cafeteria, but Matteo follows her with ease. A smirk rests on his mouth. “That’s not what we agreed on, and you know that.”

With an eyeroll, she takes a step back to let three guys leave the aisle with their heavy trays. When she’s by Matteo’s side again, a corner of her mouth twitches slightly upward. “Just for the record, none of the people I made commissions for so far asked to watch me while I’m working. Only you did.”

“Because I’m curious to see how the magic happens. And didn’t you say you usually don’t do commissions? That this was an exception for being the hero who gave you your sketchbook back?” Five times, to be exact. How anyone could forget the same thing, in the same classroom, five weeks in a row, remains a miracle to Matteo. But no matter the reasons why, he’s happy to have found her along with the book.

They reach the dessert bar. Luna begins to heap chocolate pudding into a bowl, one arm awkwardly clenching her sketchbook. Matteo watches her for a moment, then snickers. “Do you want me to hold this for…”

“No!” She doesn’t even let him get to the end of the question. “I’m good, you don’t have to.” Realizing she had just shouted at him, she flinches. “Thanks, but no. Just pick a dessert, okay? I’ll pay.”

He chooses a strawberry cheesecake.

///

“So, did you cook this or did your mom make that for you?” he asks after they sit down at the only free table for two, nodding towards her lunchbox.

“My mom. If I tried this, everything would look like a giant mess of green pasta.”

Matteo shakes his head in amusement and chews on his homemade sandwich. “Damn, the poor spinach.”

“How’s your sandwich?” She drowns the latest bite with a sip from her water bottle, and her eyes linger on his cheesecake long enough for him to consider teasing her about it.

Instead, he puts on a smirk. “Good, of course. I just prepared it before my first class.”

They eat in silence. It’s a nice contrast, Matteo thinks, because so far, they have always been interrupted by one of her friends. And they were nice, they chatted and laughed with him, but he’d rather sit in silence with Luna alone than to engage in meaningless small talk with her friends.

“So, you haven’t answered my question yet.”

The first spoon with chocolate pudding just went into her mouth, and she looks at him out of wide, beautiful eyes. “Huh?”

“I asked you if you lied to me when you said you didn’t do commissions.”

“Oh.” Another spoon of pudding. She’s still staring at him, half lost in thought again. He wonders if she’d let him get away with stealing a taste of her dessert. (Or of her lips.) “Well, I didn’t lie. I used to make a few back in high school. But I’ve only drawn for fun since I started uni.”

“Then I’m glad you made that exception for me.”

“You mean for your mom?”

“Yeah.”

///

She’s biting her lip again. She always does when she’s thinking about which part to paint next, and in those moments, Matteo has to remind himself that he should appear interested in what she’s doing, and not in her. Perhaps she believes he actually wants to learn about the right paper, or proper colors, but mostly he wants to learn about her. About the dimples in her cheek when she laughs, and the sensation of her fingertips on his skin. One time she forgot her hair tie, so some strands of her opened curls kept falling into her face, like a frame to a masterpiece, and in that moment, he wished he knew how to pin her beauty down on paper.

“Do you draw people too?”

“Is that your way of asking if I would draw you?” She doesn’t even look up from her canvas, just frowns at it as she dips her brush into her mixed shade of light blue again.

Matteo huffs, robbing an inch closer to her with his chair while he scans her face for a reaction. “Is that your way of telling me you thought about drawing me? Because I was just curious, to be honest.” And if, in fact, she did want to stare at him for hours to get the most delicate lines of his smile right, he’d be the last person to object.

No reply. The movements of her brush are the only sound in the living room. By now Matteo finds a rhythm in those movements, a melody he misses when she’s gone, sometimes.

Luna sighs. The brush pauses in its dance over the canvas. “Your curls would be a nightmare to sketch.”

“Wow, thanks. What have I done for you to be in such a good mood today?” (So far, she barely smiled at him, and he longs for a fraction of her focus.)

For the first time this afternoon, she turns away from her painting and gives him her full attention. “I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant. I like your hair.”

“You do?”

Her eyes pin down the paper on the table. “Yeah. I mean, the curls suit you, and they look super soft somehow. But I couldn’t do them justice on paper.”

Luckily, she already focuses on her painting again before he can’t contain the smile on his lips.

///

He thinks of her constantly. Not as much when he has a task to focus on, or when he’s with his friends or classmates. His imagination waits for him to be alone, when he stands in the middle of the supermarket aisle and can’t decide on what kind of pasta to buy, when his thoughts stray away from the lecture he’s supposed to follow. As soon as he’s alone with his mind, she’s everywhere.

Right now, Matteo walks home from the bus stop down the street and plays through a conversation where she admits she likes him just as much. Then, he makes up a scene where he catches her drawing him. As he opens the door to the apartment building and fumbles with the key for his mailbox, the Luna from his imagination is blushing wildly while he tells her how wonderful exactly he thinks she is.

There’s a yellow envelope in his mailbox. Bright yellow, the color of sunflowers in August, and no post stamp. It surprises him enough to shush every thought of Luna, at least for a moment. As he takes the stairs, he reads his name written in neat, cursive letters again and again, as if they’d reveal their secret like that. Finally, he glances at the back of the envelope, to discover Luna’s signature.

His feet freeze on the spot.

She sent him something, and it’s definitely not his mom’s birthday gift. They had lunch together yesterday, and she didn’t mention anything that could explain why she left an envelope in his mailbox. He has no idea what it hides, and now his heart is beating against his chest as he takes two steps at a time.

///

It’s a sketch. Of him.

There’s no note attached, not even a date. Just his face on an otherwise blank sheet. The smile she drew radiates the same feeling he gets in his stomach every time she laughs, and she added a sparkle to his eyes he never found in them himself. He wonders how she managed to make his curls look like they’re about to bounce out of the paper, and how long she studied him without him noticing. The mere idea heats his chest up.

If this is how Luna sees him, he might be the luckiest guy in this world.

///

Matteo thanks her for this drawing five times, and one more time as she walks through his door two days later. A smile graces her lips, and her hug surrounds him with her scent that never quite seems like perfume.

“How are you?” she asks, spreading brushes on the living room table.

“Fine. And you?” Do you randomly draw your friends all the time? Or is there the tiniest chance I’m more than just a weird guy who pays you for drawing a picture in front of him?

Those questions don’t leave his mouth. Instead, Matteo sits down next to her and listens to her explanations on drawing open water. Meanwhile, he imagines taking her to his parents’ beach house in Italy.

“So, I think I could be finished with this next week. When was your mom’s birthday again?”

In the last moment, he holds back the sigh that tries to slip over his lips. “In two weeks.” In two weeks, this will be over. Luna will draw at her desk at her home, and exams will be inching too close to waste a full hour with him in the cafeteria. The semester is coming to an end, merciless in its rush of time, and he still has no idea how he’s going to see her again.

“What’s your favorite color?”

“Yellow,” Luna replies. “And yours?”

Matteo twirls his spoon in the coffee cup. (She almost dipped her brush into it three times today.) “Blue. Mixed with yellow, it’d be green, right?”

She rewards him with a smile along with her nod. “Yeah.” While she goes on about green and turquoise and color names he never heard of before, his gaze gets lost on her, dragging his thoughts along to the moon. The delicate skin around her eyes wrinkles because she’s smiling so much. Between teal and seaweed green, he stumbles upon the realization of how bright and clear her iris is. Like a gem stone carved out of the earth, polished just so the light could bring his miniature reflection in them alive.

“Like your eyes”, he mumbles, not fully aware his mouth turned his thoughts into words for her to hear.

Luna pauses. “What?”

Matteo clears his throat. “They’re super green.” Quieter, he adds, “And they’re beautiful.”

“Thanks.” Nothing more than a whisper, but her blushing cheeks say enough.

///

The week passes too quickly. He can’t afford to daydream during classes yet curses himself for letting time run out of his hands. Friday night brings him dreams of her, and he shrieks up an hour before his alarm clock. His mind is a Ferris wheel, high and low, Luna and his finals take turns riding it up to the moment she finally rings his door.

For the first time since they met, she’s wearing a dress. Mentally, he congratulates himself for changing into jeans and a decent shirt a few minutes ago, while he also has to fight the urge to stare at her for too long. He’s almost afraid of embracing her during their hug.

“That dress looks amazing,” he says. She hugs him tighter.

///

“I’m gonna miss you sitting here.”

Luna is almost finished, the last strokes of the brush, the last corrections and soon, she’ll scribble her signature into the corner. He doesn’t want her to leave, he doesn’t want to say goodbye to her after handing her the money he still owes her, and he doesn’t want to admit to himself that he screwed this up. It’s a desperate statement he lets slip out in resignation, and it’s of little comfort that his voice doesn’t tremble.

A hesitant smile sits on her lips as she glances at him. “I’m gonna miss you too.” Her honesty catches him off guard, allows him to hope, to search for right way to ask her out, but before he gathers a single word, she clears her throat. “It’s gonna be weird not having you watch me anymore. I mean, not that I’ll have time to draw during finals.”

Matteo silently nods. Inside, everything screams at him to take a chance before the paint dries and the ending can’t be changed anymore. “What’s the weirdest thing for you about drawing?”

A few seconds pass before she answers. Their knees bump into each other under the table, and he apologizes without meaning it one bit.

“Sometimes, when I look at people, I don’t really see them because I start to think about how I’d draw them. It’s like… picking them apart into single shades. Circles and squares and all that.”

His eyes dart towards the window, to buildings hiding the clear blue sky. He holds the air in his lungs, thinks twice, then jumps into the cold water. “Is that what you did too when you drew me?”

“Kinda.”

Silence. He catches her gaze. His breath hitches. “Drawing you was… different.”

“How so?” He knows they’re tip-toeing around each other, round and round, closer to a moment that’ll inevitably change something. Maybe even them. Hopefully.

“I’m not sure I can explain it.”

He doesn’t ask a second time.

///

The last brush is clean, the sketchbook back in her bag. He watches her as she puts on her shoes, heart racing in his chest. The clock next to the wardrobe ticks mercilessly, he can count along when Luna faces him, and they stare at each other out of words. Out of time.

“Thank you.”

She smiles. “Thank you too. I hope your mom will like it.”

“I’m sure she will.”

Her arms around his neck, one last time. Her scent in his nose, her curls falling into her face as they break apart. She hasn’t even left, and he already misses her.

“So, I guess I’m gonna go home now.” Her hand lingers on the doorknob.

“Good luck for studying,” he replies. The door opens. Ask her, say it, keep her here, if only for a second. With one step, she’s in the hallway. Turns around, grimaces. “Bye, then.”

His voice sounds hoarse. “Bye.”

The door closes. He let her go, he didn’t do any of the things he’s been dreaming, hoping for, and he’s the only one to blame. Matteo sighs, closes his eyes, curses.

The doorbell rings. With a frown on his forehead, he opens.

“Luna?”

“I forgot my bag.”

He steps away, and she hushes inside. “I’m sorry, sometimes I don’t know where my head is,” she says. Rambles. Her cheeks have turned into a soft pink. “Anyway, I’m gonna leave you alone now. Greet Gastón from me, okay?”

“Wait.” A plea, crossing his lips at the speed of light. Suddenly, Matteo feels afraid and brave at once, hesitant and determined. If this is his last chance, he won’t waste it. “Can I see you again?”

///

He still searches for her traces when she leaves. They’re not scattered around his apartment anymore, though, they’re all over his skin. A soft kiss, a delicate touch. Sometimes, a hint of paint when he got a little too impatient. Once, between his bedsheets, she whispers that he could be her new canvas. Matteo presses his lips on her temple and prays that she’ll never be done with him.

#soy luna #lutteo #my sl fanfiction #mandy gives no ducks #It took embarrassingly long to finish this but also I am not surprised with all the things I had to do lately #also thinking of a stupid title was way too hard

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ohlovelywar · 7 years ago

Text

Movie Night

a/n: okay LISTEN i was going to bed when my brain decided to be an ass and give me a cuteass story idea and now we’re here sooo enjoy if this is crap i never posted it

Summary: Even superheros love movie nights

Parings: Peter Parker x Stark! Reader

Warnings: some cursing cause i’m good at that, infinity war doesn’t exist here woo, too much writing but who really cares

Movie nights at the Avengers compound were Peter's favorite. In fact, they were everyone's favorite. The teams of enhanced and highly trained adults never got a minute to settle and do humane things, bond. Times like these were their favorites; where they could just sit and relax in their pajamas, enjoy some random comedy movie or sitcom with the people they fight side by side along with the added bonus of sharing this time with one of the people the team cares about most: Y/N Stark.

Y/N came into Tony's life at a rather unusual time. He remembers it vividly, wishing his 38 year old self hadn't freaked out so much.

****

Tony sat in the bar of his house. His freshly poured scotch on the rocks in his hand as he played around with the circular ice floating in the amber liquid. Nick Fury's words played in his head. "Avengers Initiative," "using your work to save people along with others just like you," "help fight the battles that the average civilian can't," what a load of bullshit. He scoffed as he sipped his drink. Yes, Tony wanted to use Iron-Man for good, to help others, but a team? No, Tony worked best on his own. He didn't need a team nor did he need to be babysat. And "fighting the battles that the average civilian cant"? This isn't Godzilla. There aren't aliens or gods or monsters. Just humans with corrupt hearts and minds. Boy was he wrong.

The loud chime of his home's door bell rang throughout, making Tony sigh.

"Pepper will you be a dear and get that for me thanks," he took another sip of his drink, wishing to just be alone. He listened as her heels moved across the titled floor, as she opened the door to the mysterious person outside his house.

"Uh Tony?" Pepper's usually calm and in charge voice was now replaced with one of uncertainty and concern. "I-I think you should come see this."

"Not now Pep," he grit his teeth. God, why won't anyone get the message.

"No, now Tony." He let another sigh as he dragged himself to the door, scotch still in hand.

"What's the point of having you open the door for me if you're just going to..." he stopped himself after looking outside. A girl, no older than six or seven, stood at his doorstep with nothing but a backpack on her back, a letter in hand, and tears in her eyes that somehow still seemed hopeful.

"Daddy?" Her tiny voice let out once meeting his eyes. Tony's heart stopped. Daddy? Daddy. No one ever said anything about him possibly being a dad to any child.

"What's your name?" Pepper asked the small child, kneeling so she was eye level with her.

"Y/N. Y/N Stark." Pepper's blue eyes met Tony's brown ones. Stark. She's a Stark.

"There's no way..."

"Tony...just look at her." You didn't need a rocket scientist to see that Y/N and Tony were in fact related. She was almost an exact copy of him: dark brown hair, brown eyes, slightly tanned white skin, a face that could get anything she wants. The nose though, the nose wasn't his. Who's was it?

Tony's eyes moved to the letter in his "daughter's" hands. The name "Tony" was written out in beautiful cursive across the front of the folded lined paper. The handwriting seemed familiar to Tony, he just couldn't pinpoint where he's seen it before.

"Can I see that, Y/N?" He asked in a small voice, fear rippling through his normally steady voice. Y/N handed him the letter without hesitation. Her mommy told her that it was very very important for her daddy to read that letter. His breathing slowed as he read it:

Dear Tony,

Wow, it's been a while, hasn't it. Six, almost seven years now. You probably don't remember me. I mean, of course you don't remember me. You're a "billionaire, philanthropist, playboy" who "doesn't have time nor want women like me wearing him down". It's Lily, Lily Sharp, in case you somehow remember that name. After our little "reunion" in Italy that one spring day in 2002, I found out I was pregnant. And I haven't been with a man for months so, it had to have been yours. But, after your blow up I decided not to burden you with your own child. So, I kept her a secret. But you were not secret to her. No, I wanted her to grow up knowing who her father was and how great he is. Because even though you're a jerk Tony Stark, you're a genius who's going to change the world someday. And I wanted her to know that she has that in her blood.

Now, you're probably wondering "why the hell did you wait six years to tell me this?" The truth is... I never planned on telling you. But, life has a funny way of changing plans because, I'm bankrupt. And I can't take care of Y/N anymore. The bank was threatening to take her away to some orphanage upstate. I couldn't do that to her Tony. So, I did the best I could. I gave her to the man who will be able to take care of her: her own father.

She's dying to know you Tony. She loves you. And I know you're probably thinking that I'm lying about her being yours (but just look at her, she's you with my nose), you can go ahead and as many DNA tests as you want to prove that I'm wrong. But you'll find that she's yours. She loves you Tony. And she wants your love more than anything in the world. She wants to know about the great man that I always told her about, the one we would always watch on TV together as that was the closest she could ever get being in the same room as you, the one I lied for, the one I lied about to keep her safe. Please, give her a chance. She's a great kid and deserves so much more than either of us could give her, but at least you have the money to at least try.

Love, Lily

PS Tell Y/N that I love her so so much and that I'll see her soon.

She never did.

Tony was scared out of his mind. His own father failed him, he had gone six years without knowing the existence of his own daughter, he had Nick Fury on his back wanting him to join some superhero team, up until two minutes ago Iron-Man and Stark Industries were his number one priority, so how the hell was he supposed to all of a sudden be a good father to this innocent child. Tony hesitated in taking her in. Not to be a jerk, not because he didn't care about her, but because he didn't think he could do it. He didn't think that he could be the father that Y/N thinks he is, the father that he knows Y/N deserves.

"Tony, now's your chance!" Pepper told him as she followed him into the bar. Y/N was left behind in the living room with Happy. The bodyguard tried to kept the young girl entertained, but failed miserably, kids are not his forte. "You can end this bad parenting cycle."

"No I can't Pepper!" Tony yelled as he slammed his glass on the bar, turning around to face her. "I can't be the parent that she needs. She's expecting some great man to be her dad, and that's not me. I will only fail her."

"No you won't. You're just saying that because you're scared."

"I have every right to be! I'm not good for her. I-I can't do this. I'm all alone. I can't even take care of myself."

"Who said anything about doing this alone?" Pepper's words sank into Tony's head. "You aren't going to do this alone. I will help you. Happy will help you. Rhodey will help you. You aren't alone Tony," she stepped closer to him with every word. "We aren't going to let you do this alone. Okay?"

"Okay," he pulled her in for an unexpected hug. He wasn't alone. He will never be alone. He was going to be the best he could be for Y/N. Everything was going to be okay

****

Since that day, Tony has been forever grateful to Pepper, Happy, and Rhodey. They helped him raise his precious daughter Y/N. Sure it was hard, parenting is never easy, let alone when your child suddenly enters your life, you have an act to clean, AND your Iron-Man, but they worked it out. Tony and Y/N were a power duo and nothing could stand in their way; not Vanko, not AIM, not the Mandarin, not Killian, not Ultron, not any aliens from space. Tony promised to always keep Y/N as a top priority, to keep her safe, to always come back home. And Y/N always promised to trust her dad, no matter how unsteady his plan may seem, things always seemed to work out.

Tony sat on the white couch with Steve and Rhodey, looking to the right on the matching white Lay-Z-Boy where his daughter was curled up against her loving boyfriend, Peter Parker. She wasn't a kid anymore. She wasn't the six year old girl who showed up motherless on his doorstep. She was a teenager now, falling in love and making mistakes. As much as he wished time would stop so he could hold on to her for just a little longer, he knew he couldn't.

Y/N sat with her boyfriend as her eyes grew more and more tired and she took in the warmth that her personal cushion provided and his signature scent: vanilla and mint. She was aware of her father's gaze on her back. She knows that he was worried about her, he always is he's a parent.

"Worrying means you suffer twice," she teased him.

"You got that from Harry Potter," he pointed out. She rolled her eyes at her father, the two of them sharing a similar stance: arms crossed in front of their chest and a rise brow. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

"Technically Newt Scamander, but he isn't wrong you know!"

She always said this to him. And he knew she was right, though he never admitted it. But didn't stop him from "suffering twice". She thinks that he likes worrying now. And yes, there is an ever so slight distrust in Peter, he is dating his precious baby girl daughter after all, but Tony trusted Peter whole-heartedly, everyone knew that. Peter has done nothing but prove himself worthy since Tony first saw a clip of the teenage boy from Queens stopping a bus with his bare hands.

Y/N Stark and Peter Parker were inseparable, even before they met each other. Y/N had always heard stories from the team about "a teen in spandex who stole Cap's shield", and was constantly quoting ridiculous pop culture references. Y/N wanted to meet the boy, finding him entertaining and wanting to be his friend. Peter on the other hand, had no knowledge of Y/N existence, barely anyone did. Tony kept her a secret to keep her safe. And she didn't mind, being in the shadows has it's perks. The team didn't know if they were ever going to meet, until Tony invited Peter to the compound.

****

The elevator doors opened, revealing the hallways of the Avenger's compound.

"Holy shit! I'm really in their compound!" Peter excitedly whispered to himself. Be cool Parker, be cool for once in your god damn life.

He walked out of the elevator and down the hall, taking in his surroundings: several costumes for each Avenger was on display. Several different models of Hawkeye’s bow and arrows. Different models of Falcon's wings, each lighter and more efficient than the last. Different costumes for Scarlet Witch, each one enhancing different aspects of her powers. Different costumes for Black Widows including all of her weapons. Nothing for The Hulk or Thor, not like they'd be able to showcase anything. Different models of War Machine's suit, each changing as Stark Industries tech. became more advanced. Different costumes that Captain America has had throughout the years as well as his iconic shield.

"Ha, I stole that," Peter smiled to himself.

And finally, some of Iron-Man's suits. From the first suit he ever used up until his most recent one: Mark 48. Peter stood in front of it in awe. That's the suit that Tony used during the battle with the other Avengers, the civil war if you will, the one that Peter was a part of.

"Hey kid!" Tony's voice suddenly appeared out of nowhere.

"Hey Mr. Stark!" Peter jumped back, pretending that Tony Stark totally just caught him fanboying over his suits. Tony let out a small chuckle, it's been five months and he's still calling him "Mr. Stark".

"Come on. I want to show you something."

Tony led Peter further down the hall, telling Peter things that went over his head. He lost track after "I'm proud of you from stopping that guy...". Proud. Tony Stark was proud of him.

"And that's why I want to give you, this." Tony revealed the surprise to Peter; a brand new suit. This suit was way more advanced than his current one, which is saying a lot. It still had the red and blue that Peter has come to love, just slightly darker, giving it a more mature look.

"Mr. Stark, this is...this is AMAZING! But I can't take it."

"What? Why not?"

"I've given a lot of thought about what you've said and I think I'm good sticking with just some more low profile work. I mean, don't get me wrong, taking down huge bad guys is fun and all but, I'm not sure that I'm ready for it yet."

"Oh...okay kid. Sure. Yeah! That's...that's okay. You keep doing what you're doing and we'll be right here if you need us."

Peter made his way back to the elevator, Tony's words still sinking in. He's proud of me.

Making her way towards where her dad's press conference would be, Y/N also made her way down the hall, but the opposite direction. She recognized the slightly curled brown hair the minute she saw it.

"Oh my god," she whispered. "Peter!" she called out, gaining his attention. "Hi! I'm Y/N" she politely stuck her hand out for him to shake.

"Uh, hi," Peter breathed out. Why does a pretty girl my age want to talk to me in the Avengers Compound?

"I'm guess Tony already showed you the suit?"

"What? Oh! Yeah! Yeah yeah, he did." Peter was very confused, how did this girl know about him and the suit?

"What did you think?" a nervous smile played on her lips. Please say that you liked it. Please say that you liked it.

"It was amazing! Absolutely incredible!"

"Really!?" a full smile took over Y/N face. Peter didn't understand why, but he was more than happy talking about the suit that Mr. Stark had made him.

"Yeah! Mr. Stark really out did himself this time."

"Yeah. He sure did," she chuckled, looking down.

"Too bad I can't use it."

"What! Why not?" her eyes snapped up to his.

"Hey kid, you're still here?" Tony interrupted the two kids. "Oh, and I see you've met my daughter."

"What?! Daughter?" Peter's eyes widened. He never knew Tony had a kid.

"Yeah, surprise!" Y/N joked, looking at her dad with a smile. "How did the press conference go?"

"Great, as per usual."

"Cocky much?"

"That's where you get it from sweetheart."

"Wait," Peter now interrupted, "I never knew you had a kid."

"No one did! Not even him," Y/N gestured at her father.

"She is right. I decided to keep her from the media. You know, our line of work isn't exactly ideal."

"I'm cool with it though. I mean, not every kid gets to grow up and say that they basically live with the Avengers."

"Wait so...you know?" Peter asked cautiously.

"I do Spiderling," the girl teased. Peter rolled his eyes jokingly.

"Oh great you too."

"I get it from him," she nudged her dad.

"She's actually the one who designed your suit."

"Wait really?" Peter's eyes widened again. Y/N laughed.

"Yeah. After dad told me what your costume was, I knew I couldn't let New York's friendly neighborhood Spider-Man fight crime in a onesie."

"It..It wasn't a onesie. But thank you, the suit is amazing. KAREN is fantastic."

"Who's KAREN?" Tony asked, very confused.

"His AI," Y/N informed him, "the one I helped created. You know, the one you wanted to be really encouraging because.."

"Okay that's enough oh child of mine!" Tony stopped his daughter before she purposefully revealed too much. "We have to get going Spiderling, but you're welcome back here any time."

"Bye! I'll see you again?" Y/N asked, hopefully.

"Yeah yeah. Definitely." She smiled at him before following her dad into the lab. Yup, they were going to be seeing each other a lot more often.

****

Y/N and Peter's relationship quickly evolved from friends to boyfriend and girlfriend, not that the team minded in anyway. They all absolutely adored the two. Sure some believed that the two were just two teens blinded by love and were eventually going to break-up, but the team truly believed that the couple was in it for the long haul.

The rest of the team was beginning to grow tired; Wanda, Nat, and Bucky were on the floor in front of the couch while Clint was in the other Lay-Z-Boy to the left of the couch. The current episode of Brooklyn 99 ended, the show only on per Y/N's demanding request. The next episode began to load until Tony's Hulu account as yawns from the tired superhero's and their favorite girl began to fill the family room.

"What do we say team? Call it a night?" Steve asked the group.

"I don't know. Why don't we ask our Brooklyn 99 sponsor: Ms. Y/N Stark?" Clint teased. But Y/N was fast asleep in Peter's arms, content.

"Y/N?" Peter gently shook her. Small whimpers fell from her lips from the action as she stirred in Peter's arms, getting comfortable again. "Yeah, she's out."

"Alright, well I guess we'll call it a night!" The team began to get up and stretch as Peter questioned what to do about the sleeping girl in his arms. Tony looked over at the two and his heart swelled.

"Why don't we all sleep out here tonight?" He suggested, his eyes never once leaving the two sleepy teens. "We haven't done that in a while."

"The last time we did it was before Wanda, Bucky, Sam, and Peter joined, when Y/N was ten," Nat brought up.

"All the more reason to do it," Rhodey concluded, already grabbing the blankets and pillows. Tony grabbed a blanket and laid it on his daughter and Peter.

"Good night you two," he whispered, mostly to Peter.

"Good night Mr. Stark," Peter whispered back, his eyes beginning to close as the warmth from the blanket and his girlfriend was pulling him into a deep sleep. Tony shook his head with a smile.

"It's Tony, Peter, Tony." He left to his designated spot on the couch as Peter pulled Y/N closer with a smile on his face. Y/N nuzzled her head into the crook of his neck and pressed a sleepy kiss on his skin. Yeah, movie nights were Peter's favorite.

#peter parker x reader #peter parker fanfiction #peter parker x y/n #peter parker x stark!reader #stark!reader #stark!daughter #fanfiction #spiderman fanfiction #tom holland fanfiction #tom holland x reader #tom holland x y/n #peter parker #spiderman #tom holland #spiderman x reader #spiderman x y/n #spiderman x stark!reader #marvel

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themurphyzone · 7 years ago

Text

Mystery at McDuck Manor Ch 2

Ch 2- Interrogation

To recap for the absentminded, I, the do-gooder Darkwing Duck, have been called out of my territory to investigate the theft of a painting at the McDuck Manor. I am currently holding a green post-it note and a pair of goggles as evidence. It will take wits, skill, and a little help from Starducks’ Triple Chocolate Mocha with three extra shots of espresso to close this case. I pace in front of all the occupants as I contemplate the best course of action....

“Would you get on with it already?” Donald snaps. “The boys are going to keel over any second now!”

Only the green one seems remotely close to falling asleep. The other two appear extra happy at staying up past their bedtime.

“Fine, fine. People just don’t appreciate a good expository monologue these days,” I grumble. “Now, where did you last see the painting?”

“It was in the garage,” Scrooge replies, pacing back and forth. At this rate he would wear out the carpet within the next hour.

“And you are absolutely certain that you didn’t move it elsewhere and forget?” I ask.

That mere slip of the tongue earns me a jab to the jaw with his cane. “I may be old, but my memory is sharper than a dozen African elephants,” he snaps.

If he disfigures my rather prominent and dashing bill, I’ll be sure to send him the medical costs.

“Noted,” I say, backing up. “Now, I shall have to question the children. With their valuable information, I can catch our suspect red handed!”

“I get to help in an investigation? So cool!” The little girl exclaims.

An elderly woman glares at me. “Questions only. They will not be helping you catch the thief if they’re still skulking around.”

I nod. As a general rule, I don’t care for tact. But if the woman in question looks like she could squish me into a ball with her thumb, then perhaps a bit of tact is in order.

Or a lot.

“I don’t like this. He’s accusing my boys,” Donald mutters. “Nobody accuses my boys.”

“Get it over with already. Just answer the best you can,” Scrooge sighs.

I clap my hands. “Great! Do I have any volunteers?”

No response. Huh. You’d think children would be happy to spend a little time with the daring and dangerously handsome Darkwing Duck.

I am currently in the kitchen area with the red triplet. He watches me as I sharpen my pencil in preparation for note taking, eagerly awaiting the moment I drop my guard so he can gather reinforcements and overpower my otherwise indomitable will....

“Is Huey Duck your full legal name?” I ask.

“Well, as far as I know it’s spelled Hubert on my birth certificate,” Huey replies, scratching his head. “I can pull up the document for you if you’d like. The Junior Woodchuck guidebook states that it’s important to at least have two forms of official documentation at all times.”

Oh, he’s a Junior Woodchuck. I assume he knows how to tie knots, set traps, and make friendship bracelets out of paperclips and bubblegum. He could very well be a crafty individual....

I shall proceed with caution.

“Where were you at the time of the theft?” I ask.

Huey thinks, scratching his chin as he comes up with his carefully crafted answer designed to cover up his involvement. “Webby was showing us the proper way to slide down the banister of the stairs. Please don’t tell Uncle Donald we were doing something that could’ve resulted in a broken arm if done incorrectly.”

“HUEY! YOU AND YOUR BROTHERS WERE DOING WHAT?” A raspy snarl sounds from behind me. Huey flinches and laughs nervously.

I tap my foot to get Donald’s attention. “Excuse me, good sir. I was in the middle of a very important matter. Away with you, and I’ll fill you in on the results when my interrogation is complete.”

“Interrogation, my tailfeathers!” For the sensitive eyes of any youngsters viewing this file, I shall not record the resulting tirade of quacks, swearing, and onomatopoeia that occur when two angry ducks duke it out on a stress-filled night.

(The following is an afterward for my archives at the tower. Let this be a lesson to myself: Make sure prying, short tempered uncles cannot eavesdrop on any future interrogations.)

I humbly apologize to Scrooge McDuck and I have purchased a new pressure cooker that I will send off tomorrow to get his lawyer to stop staking out on the walkway of the Audubon Bay Bridge. How does he even know where my lair is?

Enclosed in the package is an photograph of me posing heroically in front of a defeated Steelbeak. I even perfected my signature for the occasion! It’s a loopy cursive style, my preferred choice of penmanship, by the way.)

Huey Duck admits to being in the same vicinity as the aviator goggles. This is a most peculiar development.

I shall now proceed to the blue triplet.

After I drag myself to the nearest pharmacy for some painkillers....

There is now a screen set up by yours truly that separates the kitchen and parlor to prevent Donald from interrupting my investigation with his irate inanities.

The blue triplet grabs a handful of cookies for a midnight snack. A rebel I presume.

“So do you have a secret identity and stuff?” he asks through a beakful of crumbs. “Maybe I should adopt one myself. But until then, I’m just plain ol’ Dewey.”

I keep my distance so the crumbs don’t hit my newly ironed cape. “A secret identity?” I laugh. “Crimefighting is a 24/7 job, kid. I don’t need one as long as there are criminals to bust.”

“I’ve seen my Uncle Scrooge turn a dragon to stone,” Dewey says, leaning casually on the back of his chair. “I bet you can’t turn a dragon to stone.”

“Hah! I don’t need to!” I growl. Is he challenging my abilities as a vigilante? Well, he had another coming! “I defeated Eggmen with nothing but sunflower oil and a vase! I bested the likes of St. Canard’s thieves, litterbugs, and supervillains time and time again! Can your uncle do that, kid?”

Dewey yawns. “Sure he can.”

I decided to change the subject before my pride as a hero gets dragged through the mud, run over by a dump truck, and thrown into Davy Jones’ Locker.

“What were you doing the night of the theft?” I ask.

“Wait, is this an interrogation?” Dewey looks around, flipping the tablecloth as he looks underneath it for something.

How unusual.

Some might call it suspicious.

“Where are the lights? Did you bug the room?” Dewey asks. “This can’t be an interrogation if I’m not tied to a chair! Oh, maybe I could do the James Pond thing and escape with a laser ballpoint pen! Do you have one of those?”

“Answer the question,” I say, waiting for a response. “Your uncle will tar and feather me if I tie you up.”

Dewey blinks. “Fine. We were sliding down the banister.”

So the story checks out then. “Anything else?” I ask.

“It was pretty funny when Louie went down the banister just as this strangely shaped trenchcoat tumbled down the stairs. He thought it was Uncle Donald in disguise,” Dewey snickers.

A strangely shaped trenchcoat? Now we’re getting somewhere.

“And did you see who was in the trenchcoat?” I ask, clicking my pen as I jot down all the new information. “Or their height? Distinguishing characteristics?”

Dewey shakes his head. “Um, it was kinda long. It was a really big trenchcoat, but whoever was inside it was definitely about average size since we never saw their face.”

“And does this look familiar to you?” I hold out the aviator goggles.

He nods. “That fell out from underneath the trenchcoat when they fell down the stairs.”

“I see. Well, that concludes this round of questioning. Your contribution is much appreciated,” I say proudly.

Dewey huffs. “Uncle Scrooge can burrow through gold like a gopher. Bet you can’t do that.”

I take back what I said about appreciating his contribution.

There’s something shifty about the green one. It must lie in how his hands remain in his pockets as he slumps against the chair. Or how he yawns every few seconds without expressing any strong emotion. Or the half-lidded gaze he gives me when my cape flutters.

“And you are?” I ask.

“Louie. Hey,” he says, as if I was nothing more than his bestie.

“Louie. Do you know what this is?” I dump a crumpled green post it in front of him.

“It’s a post it,” he says.

I must resist the urge to slap my forehead. “I know it’s a post it.”

Louie shrugs. “So why were you asking me then? I mean, I guess you’re old and stuff, not as old as Uncle Scrooge but still a lot older than me.”

He did not just call me a senile senior citizen who slowly walks down the hallway of an assisted care center with a walker and spends the rest of his days playing bingo and gin.

I mean, my feathers aren’t turning gray or anything! I’m not that old!

“Look, kid. I’ll let bygones be bygones. Now, tell me what the post it note was doing near the painting.”

Louie scoffs, folding his arms. “I just put the post its on cool stuff I want to inherit when I’m older. I put them there a few weeks ago. Nothing to do with the theft.”

A red herring. Or a green herring in this case. Seems plausible enough.

“One more question before I let you go,” I say. “Did you happen to see who was in the trenchcoat?”

He shakes his head. “I was kinda more focused on getting back at Dewey for laughing at me when I fell off the banister.”

I sigh. “Fine. Thanks for your help.”

A gas gun falls out of his hoodie.

“Hehe. I thought it needed a little cleaning. There’s a bit of dust on the barrel,” Louie chuckles.

A hero’s intuition is never wrong. I was right to suspect he was up to no good!

“Oh my gosh an actual investigation!” the girl shrieks. She stands on the table in an action pose. I have to admit, she doesn’t look half bad. “And I get to help! I’ve never done this thing before! Can I be your sidekick? Temporary sidekick? I’ll organize any files you have! I’m the best when it comes to organizing!”

“Sorry,” I say. “Darkwing Duck is a loner who bravely champions the moonless nights, weathers through the thunderstorms, and stalks prey with hardly a sound. A tag-along would only slow me down.”

She nods, only looking slightly crestfallen. “Well, I’m Webby, for future reference. So, anything I can help you with then? I mean, there’s got to be something, right?”

“What happened after whoever was in the trenchcoat tumbled down the stairs?” I ask.

“They opened the front door and ran outside,” Webby replies.

Eureka! Then they stole the painting!

“Thanks, kid!” I exclaim. “Now, let us reconvene at the parlor to catch ourselves a thief! But first, you want a picture together? I’m trying to reach out to a younger audience here. It’ll help for marketing in the future.”

She grins.

How Webby hid a selfie stick on her person, I will never figure out.

“I’m done with my questions!” I say, waiting for the onslaught of questions and shouts from my enraptured audience.

Ahem.

“And?” Scrooge taps his foot impatiently.

Tough crowd. People don’t react like they used to.

“From these questions, I have concluded that the thief came in through the upstairs. They would’ve put the trenchcoat on after they entered the manor, though I don’t know why they took the roundabout way instead of just directly heading for the garage. From there, they tumbled down the stairs and made a beeline for the garage, where they stole the painting.”

Donald huffs. “Perfect. As if I didn’t have enough to deal with already. Kids, go back to bed. I don’t want you being all cranky in the morning.”

They groan and protest, begging for a chance to capture the thief.

“Please! I’ll donate a kidney if you’d let me!”

“No one steals from us! We can catch them!”

“I know how to set traps! I just need a lot of rope and duct tape!”

Scrooge taps his cane against the ground, and they instantly quiet down. “We’re dealing with someone who knows their way around the manor. They’ll be back soon enough. Now, I have a plan to catch them....”

As Scrooge announces his plan to reclaim the pilfered painting, I sit back to contemplate the events that transpired during the interrogation.

And I have come to a single conclusion.

I am never having kids. Not even if you bound and gagged me on an exploding motorcycle.

Not now or ever.

#ducktales 2017 #darkwing duck #huey dewey and louie #webby vanderquack

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lovemesomesurveys · 7 years ago

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Have you made a list of things you want to do before you’re 30? Nooo I wouldn’t have wanted to put that kind of pressure on myself. Good thing, too, seeing how I’ll be 30 in 2 years and haven’t done much. Do you wish you were taller? Yes. Do you wish you were shorter? Well, no. Do you like “just girly things” on Pinterest? I see those posts on here, and I like the ones I relate to. If we’re referring to the same thing that is.

What do you think is a good name for a cat? There isn’t just like one good name. I’d have to decide when I got said cat.

Do you ever feel insecure about going out without makeup? I used to not leave the house without makeup, but over the past couple years that has since changed. I’m still self-conscious and insecure, I just don’t put in much effort anymore. Are you avoiding something painful right now? Yes. Do you have anyone who supports your dreams? I have a family who supports me and would support my dreams if I had any, ha. Does thinking about your past make you sad? Yes. Do you have more good memories or bad ones? More bad than good, but there are good ones. I look back now and think about how things weren’t always as bad as I thought in comparison to how things are now. What would you name a puppy? Again, I’d name said puppy when I saw them. Do you make bucket lists? No. How does caffeine affect you? It doesn’t much anymore, but I can’t go without it. I will say I’m definitely more cranky if I don’t have it when I get up. Is anyone in your family colorblind? Not that I know of. How many different natural hair colors are there in your immediate family? Two. Do you own galaxy leggings? No. Do you have a habit of forgetting your password? Nah. What is your favorite message board site to post on? This is the only site I post on. Well I mean, besides Facebook and Twitter. I don’t go on any message boards anymore. What is your favorite online game? I don’t have a favorite online game. Would you ever want to be famous and sign autographs? No, but fun fact when I was a kid I used to practice my signature like I was signing autographs haha. What do you think is a good name for a band? I don’t know, man. Do you own a pair of jeggings? Yes. In your opinion, what is the best current fashion trend? I wouldn’t really know. Also, what do you think is the worst current fashion trend? *shrug* Do you like your shirt to be loose or tight? I like my shirts to be fitting, but I like oversized sweatshirts. Do you think for yourself? Yes. Do you know anyone with two middle names? Yes. What is your favorite Spanish name? I don’t have one. Would you rather visit Asia or Europe? Europe. Are there any Asians in your family? Yes. Who in your family looks like you? My brothers and I have similarities and I’ve been told I look like my mom. Have you ever had colored braces? I’ve never had braces. Well, not for my teeth anyway. Do you wear glasses? Yes. Do you think glasses are cool? I like my black rimmed glasses. I do think it’s funny how people want to wear glasses now when back when I first got them (I was 9 years old) it was definitely not considered cool. Would you call yourself hipster? No. What color Converse do you own? I have the classic black and white pair and a pair of teal ones. What school subject do you hate the most? I always hated math. Do you drink coffee every morning? Yes I do. Are you participating in NaNoWriMo? No, I’m not a writer. Have you ever ran a 5k? No. Have you ever ran a 10k? Nooo. What do your favorite pair of pajamas look like? All my lounge clothes/pjs are my favorite. Do you have Christmas lights hung up in your room? I do! I have a strand that stays around my headboard all year long and currently I also have a strand that goes across my dresser and shelf. Do you meditate on Scripture? Yes. What did you order the last time you went to Starbucks? A creme brulee latte. Do you eat at Denny’s on your birthday? I did as a kid. Do you drink herbal tea? Very, very rarely. Do you do yoga? No. What does your favorite pair of underwear look like? I don’t have a particular favorite. Do you keep up to date with the latest technology? Yes. Are you happy with your social class? I mean, it would be nice to be more financially stable, sure, but we have a roof over our heads, clothes to keep warm, and food to eat, so I am thankful for that.

Do you take birth control pills? No. If you live in the USA: do you feel free and safe? In a lot of ways, I do.

Have you ever felt discriminated against? No. Do you remember Nick Jr. with Face? Yesss. Have you ever been sick on your birthday? Yes. I always feel sick right before something like that, like before holidays or trips or anything. Do you hate being cooped up inside for too long in the winter? I’m a homebody, so it doesn’t have to do with the weather. It’s not like it snows here, either. I just stay home a lot. What color is your favorite sweater? Black. Do you wear infinity scarves? No. When was the last time you made a thankfulness list? Uhhh. Are you confused about something right now? Yes. Do you use the happy birthday emoticon? *<:-) I used to before emojis. When was your birthday? My birthday is July 28th. Are you avoiding a painful memory right now? No. Is talking about your past painful for you? It can be. Do you believe good therapists exist? Yes. Do you have trust issues? No, not really. Do you like the names Skylar and Skye? Yeah. What’s your favorite frosting flavor? Vanilla and strawberry. Have you ever made a sushi salad? Ew, no. Would you rather eat at a Chinese, Japanese, Mexican, or Italian restaurant? Mexican or Italian. Do you own an apron? No. Are you a member of any support groups online? No. Have you ever called a suicide hotline? No. What was one of your childhood imaginary friends’ names? I didn’t have one. Now, do you have any real friends? Barely. Do you enjoy writing in cursive? No, my cursive sucks. Not like my regular handwriting is any better, though. What moment in time would you like to go back to? My childhood. Is your life messed up? :( Do you own an oversized sweater? Yess.

#personal #text #survey #surveys

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rememberstilinski · 8 years ago

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this sucks || isaac lahey

word count: 3680

warnings: none

prompt: “At birth, everyone has the date they will die tattooed on their arm. I was supposed to die yesterday.”

author’s note: posted before, but my old blog was deleted. here ya go! oh, and i got all the vamp stuff from the vampire diaries.

Death. It's an unstoppable force of nature. It was also something everyone in our world greeted with open arms. We feared it, yes, but we welcomed it when the time arrived. That's why we have the small tattoo on our wrists. The date you would meet your end. The date of your death was perfectly written in black cursive.

When you come into this world, you have one purpose. That's to live your life and live it to the fullest. I would forever remember the words my mother always told me, “live life with grace and beauty.” For us, it didn't matter how long you lived. Most people lived long and healthy lives, surely going into their 70’s and 80’s. Me, I would only live until I was 17.

There was no way of telling how you would be taken out of this world or who would take you out. I didn't know that my death would be because of a supernatural creature. I didn't know that when I died I would leave behind a boyfriend and a pack.

The latest supernatural threat rolling through Beacon Hills was a group of vampires. I'd never once thought that there would be vampires in the world, but since werewolves are real, I guess anything is possible. Our pack was dealing with them, but we knew nothing of this species, so we were extra careful with these beings. The McCall pack consists of myself, Scott, Stiles, Lydia, Allison, Malia, Kira, Liam, and my boyfriend, Isaac Lahey.

Days leading up to my death, the once dark ink on my skin was beginning to fade. Isaac was deeply concerned and didn't let me leave his side. The day that I was supposed to die was worse. He kept his eyes on me at all times. I get that he didn't want to let me go, but it was inevitable. It was going to happen no matter what.

We'd spent the night together, absorbing the warmth that radiated from our bodies one last time, before I was gone. Other than that, the day continued on as normal. The pack was planning something big, that could potentially get the vampire problem figured out. I went along, not letting my fate be a handicap.

The vampires had been all over town. They looked like normal people and walked around in sunlight. You wouldn't have been able to single them out unless you knew their scent. The smell of death and the cold air that surrounds them.

The pack realized most of them had taken up residence in Derek's building. Derek kept the building empty, but he'd been gone for a while so he didn't know who was there. We all went, prepared to fight. I may have been human, but I was a hunter. Strong and intelligent. Brave and determined.

Isaac and I were currently waiting for the rest of the pack to show up. We sat in my car, waiting for Stiles’ jeep or Scott’s bike to come into sight. For this mission, Allison and I would be teamed up. It was usually Isaac and I, but I denied because he would be distracted.

“Be safe today.” Isaac reminded me. I looked from the entrance of the parking lot to the curly haired boy sitting next to me. He was looking the same way I was, eyes squinted because the sun was in his eyes.

“I always am. You know that.” I said softly. Isaac’s gaze moved to me. His normally bright, blue eyes were dull and sad. Small specks of grey along his iris. That was a color in his eyes I'd never seen. All the time I've spent looking into his eyes and I'd never once seen any grey. There was usually specks of green or even orange, but never that grim color.

“You know what today is, Y/N.”

“I do. I'm okay with it, Isaac. You should be too.”

His eyes widened. “Okay with it? How could I possibly be okay with you leaving me?” He exclaimed, turning to me. He grabbed my hands and continued staring into my eyes. “With you dying?”

“I know, baby. I don't want to leave. But I can't stop it. It's inevitable, Isaac.” I cupped his strong jaw.

“I don't want to let you go, Y/N. I don't want you to die. I'm not me without you.” His slight accented voice broke.

My free hand moved to his chest, right over his heart. “Then keep me in here. Keep me in you heart.”

“I love you, Y/N. So, so much.” His broken voice muttered.

“I love you too, Lahey.” I mumbled, but he hear clear as day. At my words, I felt his heart rate increase under my palm. I loved seeing that I could make his pulse raise in this way. I pulled him in for a kiss.

His soft pink lips caress mine in the passionate movement filled with love as our eyes flutter shut. When he ran his lip over my lip in an attempt of entrance, I granted. My hand gripping the fabric of his white t-shirt tight. The feeling of his tongue running moving against mine sending chills down my spine and causing goosebumps to rise on my warm skin.

Isaac’s cologne filled my nose. The simple yet pleasing smell addicting and comfortable. A smell that would forever be my favorite. I wouldn't ever forget this particular smell. It was all over my sheets and on every single piece of clothing I owned.

We broke the kiss, needing air to fill our lungs once again. My eyes slowly opened and I saw him staring back at me, his signature smirk planted on his beautiful face. I smiled, biting my lip.

“You take my breath away.” I breathed out.

“Good.” His smirk still on his face as he placed a couple pecks on my lips. There was a knock at my window, startling the both of us. I turned around and saw the familiar face of my best friend, Allison.

She smiled and gestured for us to come with her. Isaac and I stepped out of the car and rounded to the trunk. I popped the hood, grabbing my wooden bullet gun. The bullets were laced in vervain, an herb that was similar to wolfsbane. I placed one of them behind my back and tucked it under my shirt. I grabbed the crossbow that would shoot out wooden stakes and made sure I had enough. Sticking a couple in my jacket, I closed the trunk and head over to the pack.

“Everyone knows the plan?” Scott asked, looking around for any uncertain expressions. I looked around and only saw determination and preparation on everyone’s face. Scott nodded and gestured to follow into the building. All the humans had vervain in their system, it would keep the vampires from killing anyone by drinking their blood.

I took my place by Allison and we walked up the stairs. She held her bow and had a bundle of arrows on her back. One arrow was placed on the bow, ready to shoot when the opportunity presented itself. I held my gun out and my grip was tight. “Stay by me.” Allison said suddenly.

I looked to her and rolled my eyes. “Did Isaac say something to you?”

Allison stopped walking and faced me. “No, Scott did. The date on your wrist is fading. You’re going to die soon. We can’t let you get hurt.” Her voice sympathetic and caring.

“Allison, you know it’s gonna happen anyway. This is something we have no control of.” I looked into her eyes. They were teary and full of hurt.

“I know.” Her voice broke. “I can’t stand losing you. I can’t lose my best friend.” She cried. I pulled her into a hug, the tears now filling my eyes.

“Don’t cry. You’ll make me cry.” I sniffled.

“I can’t help it. I’m gonna miss you so much. I mean, it has always been me, you, and Lydia.” Allison whispered in my ear. I closed my eyes and hugged her tighter.

“I love you, Allison. You were like the sister I never had.” After a few seconds, we pulled away and wiped our tears.

“I love you, too, Y/N.” I sent a smiled to her and she sent one back to me. We continued walking down the hall, weapons still in hand. All of a sudden, we heard a bang. The two of us turned around, eyebrows furrowed.

Then a blur raced pass up. I quickly turned around, and took the safety off my gun. Allison and I walked backwards toward each other, backs eventually pressing together. “Are you ready?” I asked, my voice shaky.

“Yeah. Are you?” Allison replied.

“You know it.” I smirked, ready to fight and be badass as always. The blur, got closer and it was shaped as a person. We knew that vampires moved fast, but we had an upper hand with the vervain laced bullets and arrows.

I felt the person push me into the wall, and heard Allison grunt. I only assumed that the same thing happened to her. I opened my eyes and saw my gun was on the other side of the hallway. Allison stood up and walked towards her bow, slowly; probably still in pain from the push.

Suddenly, a hand gripped my arm. I looked up and was meant with a man. The usual white in a person’s eyes was replaced with red, his pupils blown up and taking over the iris. Veins surrounding the skin, making them red and appear swollen. He flashed his white fangs. The sharpness of the teeth made me nervous. He pulled me up forcefully and held me against his chest.

“Ah, the hunters.” His accented voice said. “I’ve heard all about you guys. Argent and Y/L/N, I presume?” He only needed one arm to hold me close due to his strength.

Allison advanced towards us, bow and arrow in hand. “We’ve heard nothing of you. What’s your name?”

The man gasped, “How rude of me! I didn’t even introduce myself. My name is Christian. Christian Norwood.”

“Wish we could say it was nice to meet you.” I said, venom laced in my words. His hand suddenly moved to my throat, gripping tight and restricting my airflow.

“Well, it’s lovely to meet you. Especially someone has breathtaking,” at the word, his hand squeezed tighter. “as yourselves.”

“Let her go!” Allison demanded. My hands flew to his hands, trying to pry his fingers from my throat, but it was no use.

“I’d rather not.”

“I said let her go!” Allison yelled, her bow in full preparation to shoot. She pulled the arrow back further.

“As you wish.” I heard the smirk in his voice. As if all time stopped, Christian bit into his wrist, drawing blood and bringing the blood to my mouth. I closed my lips tight, but he forced his wrist over my mouth and my mouth unwillingly opened. I felt the warm, rustic tasting liquid on my tongue, soon after feeling it travel down my throat. Without any warning, he snapped my neck.

“No!” Allison screamed, the tears falling down her face. The same time Allison screamed, I heard a very high-pitched voice scream my name. Lydia.

“You said let her go.” Christian spoke nonchalantly, letting my body fall from his grip and to the cold, hard cement floor.

Third Person Point of View

He took off and left the two girls in the hallway alone. Allison quickly ran to her best friend’s body. She dropped to the floor, leaving her bow next to her. The huntress brought the body into her arms. “No! No, what did he do to you?” Allison sobbed. A pair of running footsteps began echoing among the walls. Allison turned and saw Isaac standing in the entrance of the hall.

“How did you know?” Allison asked, tears falling down her high cheekbones.

“I-I heard her he-heart stop b-b-beating.” Isaac stuttered. He slowly walked to the body of his true love. He saw the crimson liquid sitting around her lips, and dropping onto her shirt. His knees gave in when he listened for any trace of a beating heart and heard nothing. Her heartbeat was usually steady, but when he walked into the room, it sounded like a sledgehammer against her chest.

Isaac took her body from Allison holding her in his strong embrace. “No, baby. Please don’t leave. Don’t leave. Come back.” He sobbed. His hand went to her cheek and he stroked her cheekbone. “I was supposed to be with you. You were supposed to go easy.”

Isaac’s head slowly turned toward Allison and saw that her face was in her hands. “I’m sorry, Isaac. I’m so so sorry. Scott told me to keep her safe, and I failed. I failed Scott. I failed you. I failed her.” Allison sobbed, her voice muffled by her palms.

“Allison, I need you to tell me what happened.” Isaac’s voice broke. She looked up, and her eyes were swollen. Isaac was sure he looked the same.

“We were walking down the hall and one of them pushed us against the wall, but he took Y/N in his arms and started choking her.” Allison noticed his jaw clench at the mention of her being choked, but she continued anyway. “I-I told him to let h-her go, but he dug his fangs into his wrist and shoved the blood down her mouth, then he snapped her neck.”

Isaac looked from Allison to Y/N. Her hair was disheveled, but her skin somehow looked flawless. He continued stroking her cheek, and staring at her. He wouldn’t ever be ready to let her go. Scott ran into the hall, but stopped when he saw Y/N laying in Isaac’s lap and Allison letting out choked sobs. “I-is she--” Scott began, but what was cut off by Isaac.

“Yeah.” Isaac’s voice cracked. He looked up to the alpha. “How did you know?”

“I heard Lydia scream.” Scott whispered. “Take her to the house, we’re done here.”

“Scott, she’s gone. Shouldn’t we be taking her to the hospital?” Allison asked in a whisper, still looking at her best friend’s body.

“Isaac needs time with her.” Scott told her before looking back to the curly haired boy. Isaac nodded and mouthed a thank you. Isaac scooped the body of his girlfriend in his arms and carried her out of the building and to her car. He put her in backseat, and gave her a kiss on the forehead before closing the door.

Isaac made his way back to the McCall household and took her body to the living room, setting her on the couch carefully. Even in death she looked peaceful, and somehow still full of life. Her skin was still the warm and toned color it was before, showing no signs of decay. Isaac didn’t think of the fact that she looked more asleep than dead, he just thought of how every memory with her is now just that; a memory.

There would be no more dates. No more goodnight kisses. No more good morning texts. No more spending the night together. There wouldn’t be anymore cuddles and hugs. There would be no more of her. The relationship was gone, and there was no way to get it back.

Isaac sat on a chair by the couch staring at her. The pack came back after about an hour of Isaac being there alone. Everyone came back. Isaac appreciated the support and was happy to have them there, but he just wanted to cry. He just wanted to cry and stay in her company. Isaac didn’t want anyone to eventually tell him that he needed to let them take her. The time never came. Isaac didn’t know whether he thought time was moving slower, or the pack didn’t want to let her go either, but he was happy to keep her longer.

After continuously staring at her with tear stained cheeks, he began to hear something. He heard another heartbeat in the room. It was faint, but surely there. He perked up from his hunched position, trying to get a better listen at the beating. Everyone in the room noticed his movements. Stiles began to say something, but was cut off by Isaac. “Isaac, are you--”

Isaac held out his finger, telling Stiles to be quiet. Isaac looked down to Y/N. Her hands were resting on her stomach, and her hair flowed over her shoulders, spreading across the pillow. In a way, she looked better. Her skin looked brighter, having a natural glow. The color of her hair somehow looked more vibrant, as if she had just dyed it.

“Guys, do you hear that?” Isaac heard Malia’s voice ask.

“Another heartbeat.” Liam said. So they did hear it, too.

“What does that mean?” Malia asked.

“I don’t know.” Scott said, furrowing his eyebrows.

Lydia and Allison’s looked to the girl on the couch. They noticed everything Isaac did. Her hair, her skin, everything. “Look at Y/N.” Lydia said.

Everyone in the room looked to Y/N. Her eyes were still closed, but her mouth was open slightly and she looked perfect. They all thought so. She was a naturally beautiful girl, but she looked really different. Everything that was already appealing to the eye about her looked better and more defined.

“Why does she look like that? Shouldn’t her skin be a little discolored?” Kira asked, trying to grip the fact that something was out of place.

“She looks perfect.” Malia whispered. Isaac nodded to himself, in agreement with Malia. Suddenly her chest started moving up and down as if she was breathing.

“What the hell?” Isaac whispered.

Y/N’s Point of View

I felt my eyes shoot open, and as soon as they did, I took a big gasp of air. My lungs burned, as if I had been holding my breath for a long time and I was just now getting air. My body shot up from where I was laying. I could feel my breathing was heavy, and I felt my heart pounding against my chest. I could hear not only my heart beating, but I could hear a whole room of heart beats and blood rushing through veins.

I looked around and saw I was in Scott’s house. I was laying on the couch, and they were all standing in the living room. Every single pair of eyes were wide open, and shock took over every single one of their faces. I saw another figure in the corner of my eyes, so my gaze moved there. It was Isaac. His blue eyes were wide with shock, and his mouth was slightly parted.

“What’s going on? What happened?” I asked, standing up from the couch. “Where is he? W-where’s Christian? Where’s the vampire?” I panicked, I didn’t want him to come get me. Not after what he did.

“He’s not here. He can’t get you anymore.” Isaac assured, he stepped closer and pulled me into his warm embrace.

“What happened to me? Why can I hear your heart beating? Why can I hear the blood rushing through your guys’ veins?” I asked, scared of the answer.

“You can hear everything?” Lydia asked me.

“I can smell it, too.” Isaac pulled away and looked at me with furrowed eyebrows. He brought his thumb to my top lip and pushed it up, so he could inspect the inside of my mouth.

“Lydia, come look at this.” Isaac whispered loud enough for Lydia to hear. She walked over to the two of us and looked at my teeth.

“Isaac, my teeth hurt.” I cried, tears stinging at my eyes. “My whole mouth hurts. My head hurts.” Isaac let my lip down and looked at Lydia. He pulled me back into his embrace, my tears falling onto his shirt.

“What was it?” Liam asked. “What’s wrong with her teeth?”

“Her gums are swollen. And…” Lydia sighed, not sure how to finish the sentence. She looked to me, a small frown on her face. I realized what was going on. The new hearing, the new ability to smell everything, a pounding headache. Christian killed me. But I’m not dead, so that means he turned me. I’m a vampire.

“I have fangs.” I finished for Lydia. She sucked her lips under her teeth. “I’m a vampire.” I whispered. I softly pushed myself away from Isaac, afraid I might hurt him.

“Yeah. You died with his blood in your system, you’re a vampire.” Allison remembered. Suddenly I felt sick to my stomach, but I wasn’t sure if that was because of the nervousness or the hunger.

“Well, what do we do?” I asked, chewing on my bottom lip anxiously.

“We’ll help you.” Scott said, finality in his voice. Everyone nodded.

“No. No, what if I hurt one of you? What if I kill someone? How will I walk outside during the day?”

“Yeah. We’ll get Deaton to make you a ring that allows you to walk in the sun.” Stiles offered, soft smile on his face.

“We’ll find a way for you to control your thirst.” Kira nodded.

“We’ll help you.” Lydia said.

“You’ve got us, Y/N. You always will.” Isaac smiled. “You’ve got me. Always and forever.”

“I guess I’ve gotta take that forever seriously now, don’t I?” I said, taking a deep breath. I looked down the wrist where the date usually was. It was gone now. The date was completely faded, but something had replaced it. A small circle within a big circle. I didn’t get what it meant until I remembered. It was the same tattoo Scott had on his arm. This was the symbol of our pack.

I smiled at the newly placed ink, and touched it with my fingers. I looked up from my wrist and everyone was looking back at me with hopeful smiles. “Okay.” I whispered, smiling at the pack. “Let’s do this.”

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alexanderhamiltonfool · 4 years ago

Text

long post

One night in June 2014, Derek Broaddus had just finished an evening of painting at his new home in Westfield, New Jersey, when he went outside to check the mail. Derek and his wife, Maria, had closed on the six-bedroom house at 657 Boulevard three days earlier and were doing some renovations before they moved in, so there wasn’t much in the mail except a few bills and a white, card-shaped envelope. It was addressed in thick, clunky handwriting to “The New Owner,” and the typed note inside began warmly:

Dearest new neighbor at 657 Boulevard,

Allow me to welcome you to the neighborhood.

My Week In New York

A week-in-review newsletter from the people who make New York Magazine.

For the Broadduses, buying 657 Boulevard had fulfilled a dream. Maria was raised in Westfield, and the house was a few blocks from her childhood home. Derek grew up working class in Maine, then moved his way up the ladder at an insurance company in Manhattan to become a senior vice-president with a salary large enough to afford the $1.3 million house. The Broadduses had bought 657 Boulevard just after Derek celebrated his 40th birthday, and their three kids were already debating which of the house’s fireplaces Santa Claus would use.

But as Derek kept reading the letter from his new neighbor, it took a turn. “How did you end up here?” the writer asked. “Did 657 Boulevard call to you with its force within?” The letter went on:

657 Boulevard has been the subject of my family for decades now and as it approaches its 110th birthday, I have been put in charge of watching and waiting for its second coming. My grandfather watched the house in the 1920s and my father watched in the 1960s. It is now my time. Do you know the history of the house? Do you know what lies within the walls of 657 Boulevard? Why are you here? I will find out.

The author’s reconnaissance had apparently already begun. The letter identified the Broadduses’ Honda minivan, as well as the workers renovating the home. “I see already that you have flooded 657 Boulevard with contractors so that you can destroy the house as it was supposed to be,” the person wrote. “Tsk, tsk, tsk … bad move. You don’t want to make 657 Boulevard unhappy.” Earlier in the week, Derek and Maria had gone to the house and chatted with their new neighbors while their children, who were 5, 8, and 10 years old, ran around the backyard with several kids from the neighborhood. The letter writer seemed to have noticed. “You have children. I have seen them. So far I think there are three that I have counted,” the anonymous correspondent wrote, before asking if there were “more on the way”:

Do you need to fill the house with the young blood I requested? Better for me. Was your old house too small for the growing family? Or was it greed to bring me your children? Once I know their names I will call to them and draw them too [sic] me.

The envelope had no return address. “Who am I?” the person wrote. “There are hundreds and hundreds of cars that drive by 657 Boulevard each day. Maybe I am in one. Look at all the windows you can see from 657 Boulevard. Maybe I am in one. Look out any of the many windows in 657 Boulevard at all the people who stroll by each day. Maybe I am one.” The letter concluded with a suggestion that this message would not be the last — “Welcome my friends, welcome. Let the party begin” — followed by a signature typed in a cursive font: “The Watcher.”

It was after 10 p.m., and Derek Broaddus was alone. He raced around the house, turning off lights so no one could see inside, then called the Westfield Police Department. An officer came to the house, read the letter, and said, “What the fuck is this?” He asked Derek if he had enemies and recommended moving a piece of construction equipment from the back porch in case The Watcher tried to toss it through a window.

Derek rushed back to his wife and kids, who were living at their old home elsewhere in Westfield. That night, Derek and Maria wrote an email to John and Andrea Woods, the couple who sold them 657 Boulevard, to ask if they had any idea who The Watcher might be or why he or she had written, “I asked the Woods to bring me young blood and it looks like they listened.”

Was your old house too small for the growing family? Or was it greed to bring me your children? Once I know their names I will call to them and draw them too [sic] me.

Andrea Woods replied the next morning: A few days before moving out, the Woodses had also received a letter from “The Watcher.” The note had been “odd,” she said, and made similar mention of The Watcher’s family observing the house over time, but Andrea said she and her husband had never received anything like it in their 23 years in the house and had thrown the letter away without much thought. That day, the Woodses went with Maria to the police station, where Detective Leonard Lugo told her not to tell anyone about the letters, including her new neighbors, most of whom she had never met — and all of whom were now suspects.

The Broadduses spent the coming weeks on high alert. Derek canceled a work trip, and whenever Maria took the kids to their new house, she would yell their names if they wandered into a corner of the yard. When Derek gave a tour of the renovation to a couple on the block, he froze when the wife said, “It’ll be nice to have some young blood in the neighborhood.” The Broadduses’ general contractor arrived one morning to find that a heavy sign he’d hammered into the front yard had been ripped out overnight.

Two weeks after the letter arrived, Maria stopped by the house to look at some paint samples and check the mail. She recognized the thick black lettering on a card-shaped envelope and called the police. “Welcome again to your new home at 657 Boulevard,” The Watcher wrote. “The workers have been busy and I have been watching you unload carfuls of your personal belongings. The dumpster is a nice touch. Have they found what is in the walls yet? In time they will.”

This time, The Watcher had addressed Derek and Maria directly, misspelling their names as “Mr. and Mrs. Braddus.” Had The Watcher been close enough to hear one of the Broadduses’ contractors addressing them? The Watcher boasted of having learned a lot about the family in the preceding weeks, especially about their children. The letter identified the Broadduses’ three kids by birth order and by their nicknames — the ones Maria had been yelling. “I am pleased to know your names now and the name of the young blood you have brought to me,” it said. “You certainly say their names often.” The letter asked about one child in particular, whom the writer had seen using an easel inside an enclosed porch: “Is she the artist in the family?”

The letter continued:

657 Boulevard is anxious for you to move in. It has been years and years since the young blood ruled the hallways of the house. Have you found all of the secrets it holds yet? Will the young blood play in the basement? Or are they too afraid to go down there alone. I would [be] very afraid if I were them. It is far away from the rest of the house. If you were upstairs you would never hear them scream.

Will they sleep in the attic? Or will you all sleep on the second floor? Who has the bedrooms facing the street? I’ll know as soon as you move in. It will help me to know who is in which bedroom. Then I can plan better.

All of the windows and doors in 657 Boulevard allow me to watch you and track you as you move through the house. Who am I? I am the Watcher and have been in control of 657 Boulevard for the better part of two decades now. The Woods family turned it over to you. It was their time to move on and kindly sold it when I asked them to.

I pass by many times a day. 657 Boulevard is my job, my life, my obsession. And now you are too Braddus family. Welcome to the product of your greed! Greed is what brought the past three families to 657 Boulevard and now it has brought you to me.

Have a happy moving in day. You know I will be watching.

Derek and Maria stopped bringing their kids to the house. They were no longer sure when, or if, they would move in. Several weeks later, a third letter arrived. “Where have you gone to?” The Watcher wrote. “657 Boulevard is missing you.”

Many Westfield residents compare their town to Mayberry, the idyllic setting for The Andy Griffith Show — the kind of place where a new neighbor might greet you with a welcoming note. Westfield is 45 minutes from New York and a bit too slow for singles, meaning the town’s 30,000 residents are largely well-to-do families. This year, Bloomberg ranked Westfield the 99th-richest city in America — but only the 18th wealthiest in New Jersey — and in 2014, when The Watcher struck, the website NeighborhoodScout named it the country’s 30th-safest town. The most pressing local issues of late, according to residents, have been the temporary closure of Trader Joe’s after a roof collapse and the rampant scourge of “unconstitutional policing,” by which they mean aggressive parking enforcement. (Westfield is 86 percent white.)

One activity all locals recognized as treacherous is trying to buy a house. “There’s a lot of money and a lot of ego,” one resident, who requested anonymity before discussing Westfield real estate, told me. “I’ve seen bidding wars where friends lost by $300,000.” The Broadduses’ house was on the Boulevard, a wide, tree-lined street with some of the more desirable homes in town, as The Watcher had noted: “The Boulevard used to be THE street to live on … You made it if you lived on the Boulevard.”

Built in 1905, 657 Boulevard was perhaps the grandest home on the block, and when the Woodses put it on the market, they had received multiple offers above their asking price. That led the Broadduses to initially suspect that The Watcher might be someone upset over losing out on the house. But the Woodses said one interested buyer had backed out after a bad medical diagnosis, while another had already found a different home. In an email to the Broadduses, Andrea Woods proposed another theory: “Would the mention of the contractor trucks [and] your children suggest that it was someone in the neighborhood?”

The letters did indicate proximity. They had been processed in Kearny, the U.S. Postal Service’s distribution center in northern New Jersey. The first was postmarked June 4, before the sale was public — the Woodses had never put up a for sale sign — and only a day after the contractors arrived. The renovations were mostly interior, and people who lived nearby say they didn’t notice an unusual commotion, even from the jackhammering in the basement. When Derek and Maria walked Detective Lugo around the house, they showed him that the easel on the porch was hidden from the street by vegetation, making it difficult to see unless someone was behind the house or right next door.

A few days after the first letter, Maria and Derek went to a barbecue across the street welcoming them and another new homeowner to the block. The Broadduses hadn’t told anyone about The Watcher, as the police had instructed, and found themselves scanning the party for clues while keeping tabs on their kids, who ran guilelessly through a crowd that made up much of the suspect pool. “We kept screaming at them to stay close,” Maria said. “People must have thought we were crazy.”

At one point, Derek was chatting with John Schmidt, who lived two doors down, when Schmidt told him about the Langfords, who lived between them. Peggy Langford was in her 90s, and several of her adult children, all in their 60s, lived with her. The family was a bit odd, Schmidt said, but harmless. He described one of the younger Langfords, Michael, who didn’t work and had a beard like Ernest Hemingway, as “kind of a Boo Radley character.”

Derek thought the case was solved. The Langford house was right next to the easel on the porch. The family had lived there since the 1960s, when The Watcher’s father, the letters said, had begun observing 657 Boulevard. Richard Langford, the family patriarch, had died 12 years earlier, and the current Watcher claimed to have been on the job for “the better part of two decades.”

When the Broadduses told Lugo about the family, he said he already knew, and a week after the first letter arrived, he brought Michael Langford to police headquarters for an interview. Michael denied knowing anything about the letters, but the Broadduses say that Lugo told them that “the narrative” of what he said matched things mentioned in the letters. “This isn’t CSI: Westfield,” Lugo later told the Broadduses. “When the wife is dead, it’s the husband.”

But there wasn’t much hard evidence, and after a few weeks, the police chief told the Broadduses that, short of an admission, there wasn’t much the department could do. “This is someone who threatened my kids, and the police are saying, ‘Probably nothing’s gonna happen,’ ” Derek said. “Probably isn’t good enough for me.” After the second letter, Derek told the cops that if they didn’t take care of the situation, they would have a different kind of case on their hands. “This person attacked my family, and where I’m from, if you do that, you get your ass beat,” Derek told me.

Frustrated, the Broadduses began their own investigation. Derek became especially obsessed. He set up webcams in 657 Boulevard and spent nights crouched in the dark, watching to see if anyone was watching the house at close range. “Maria thought I was crazy,” he told me recently at a coffee shop in Manhattan, where he covered a table with documents relating to the case, including copies of the letters, which he and his wife had shared with only a few friends and family members. He showed me a map displaying when each of 657’s neighbors had moved in — the Langfords were the only ones there since the ’60s — with overlays marking possible sight lines for the easel and a circle for “Approximate Range of ‘Ear Shot’ ” to estimate who might have heard Maria yelling their kids’ names. Only a few homes fit both criteria.

The Broadduses also turned to several experts. They employed a private investigator, who staked out the neighborhood and ran background checks on the Langfords but didn’t find anything noteworthy. Derek reached out to a former FBI agent who served as the inspiration for Clarice Starling in The Silence of the Lambs — they were on a high-school board of trustees together — and they also hired Robert Lenehan, another former FBI agent, to conduct a threat assessment. Lenehan recognized several old-fashioned tics in the letters that pointed to an older writer. The envelope was addressed to “M/M Braddus,” the salutations included the day’s weather — “Warm and humid,” “Sunny and cool for a summer day” — and the sentences had double spaces between them. The letters had a certain literary panache, which suggested a “voracious reader,” and a surprising lack of profanity given the level of anger, which Lenehan thought meant a “less macho” writer. Maybe, he wondered, The Watcher had seen The Watcher, starring Keanu Reeves as a serial killer who stalks the detective trying to catch him?

Lenehan didn’t think The Watcher was likely to act on the threats, but the letters had enough typos and errors to imply a certain erraticism. (The first letter was dated “Tuesday, June 4th,” but that day was a Wednesday.) There was also a “seething anger” directed at the wealthy in particular. The Watcher was upset by new money moving into town — “Are you one of those Hoboken transplants who are ruining Westfield?” — and by the Broadduses’ relatively modest renovations:

The house is crying from all of the pain it is going through. You have changed it and made it so fancy. You are stealing it’s [sic] history. It cries for the past and what used to be in the time when I roamed it’s [sic] halls. The 1960s were a good time for 657 Boulevard when I ran from room to room imagining the life with the rich occupants there. The house was full of life and young blood. Then it got old and so did my father. But he kept watching until the day he died. And now I watch and wait for the day when the young blood will be mine again.

Lenehan recommended looking into former housekeepers or their descendants. Perhaps The Watcher was jealous that the Broadduses had bought a home that the writer couldn’t afford.

But the focus remained on the Langfords. In cooperation with Westfield police, the Broadduses sent a letter to the Langfords announcing plans to tear down the house, hoping to prompt a response. (Nothing happened.) Detective Lugo brought Michael Langford in for a second interview but got nowhere, and his sister, Abby, accused the police of harassing their family. Eventually, the Broadduses hired Lee Levitt, a lawyer, who met with several members of the Langford family, as well as their attorney, to show them the letters, along with photos explaining how their home was one of the few vantage points from which the easel could be seen. The meeting grew tense, Levitt told me, and the Langfords insisted Michael was innocent. One night, Derek had a dream in which he confronted Peggy, the eldest Langford, and demanded she build an eight-foot fence between the properties.

Maria was having other kinds of dreams. One night, she woke up to an especially vivid one about a man who lived nearby. “He was wearing these boots and carrying a pitchfork and calling to the kids and I couldn’t get to them in time,” Maria said. She thought almost anyone could be The Watcher, which made daily life feel like navigating a labyrinth of threats. She probed the faces of shoppers at Trader Joe’s to see if they looked strangely at her kids and spent hours Googling anyone who seemed suspicious.

There were reasons to consider other suspects. For one thing, the police spoke to Michael before the second letter was sent, which would make sending two more especially reckless. (The Broadduses say that Lugo told them they wouldn’t receive any more letters after he spoke to Michael.) Then there was the rest of the neighborhood to consider. The private investigator found two child sex offenders within a few blocks. Bill Woodward, the Broadduses’ housepainter, had also noticed something strange. The couple behind 657 Boulevard kept a pair of lawn chairs strangely close to the Broadduses’ property. “One day, I was looking out the window and I saw this older guy sitting in one of the chairs,” Woodward told me. “He wasn’t facing his house — he was facing the Broadduses.’ ”

But by the end of 2014, the investigation had stalled. The Watcher had left no digital trail, no fingerprints, and no way to place someone at the scene of a crime that could have been hatched from pretty much any mailbox in northern New Jersey. The letters could be read closely for possible clues, or dismissed as the nonsensical ramblings of a sociopath. “It was like trying to find a needle in a haystack,” said Scott Kraus, who helped investigate the case for the Union County Prosecutor’s Office. In December, the Westfield police told the Broadduses they had run out of options. Derek showed

the letters to his priest, who agreed to bless the house.

Photo-Illustration: Gerald Slota

The renovations to 657 Boulevard, including a new alarm system, were finished within a few months. But the idea of moving in filled the Broadduses with overwhelming anxiety. Could they let their kids play outside or have friends over? Would they get a new letter every week? Derek priced out trained German shepherds and posted a job on a website for military veterans — “All you have to do is work out in the backyard every day” — but the Broadduses hadn’t bought 657 to feel bunkered in a fortress. “At the end of the day, it came down to, What are you willing to risk?” Maria told me. “We weren’t going to put our kids in harm’s way.” Derek had been responding to occasional alarms at the house, sometimes in the middle of the night, bringing a knife with him just in case. “They were so joyous about their new home, and then within days, they were petrified,” Bill Woodward, the painter, said. “I’m a stranger, and Maria was crying and shaking in my arms.” It didn’t help that The Watcher seemed to be getting more and more unhinged:

657 Boulevard is turning on me. It is coming after me. I don’t understand why. What spell did you cast on it? It used to be my friend and now it is my enemy. I am in charge of 657 Boulevard. It is not in charge of me. I will fend off its bad things and wait for it to become good again. It will not punish me. I will rise again. I will be patient and wait for this to pass and for you to bring the young blood back to me. 657 Boulevard needs young blood. It needs you. Come back. Let the young blood play again like I once did. Let the young blood sleep in 657 Boulevard. Stop changing it and let it alone.

The Broadduses had sold their old home, so they moved in with Maria’s parents while continuing to pay the mortgage and property taxes on 657 Boulevard. “I had to do things like shovel the driveway,” Derek said. “Just picture that little indignity: I’d go at five in the morning, then come back and do it again at my in-laws.” They told only a handful of friends about the letters, which left others to ask why they weren’t moving in — “Legal issues,” they said — and wonder if they were getting divorced. They fought constantly and started taking medication to fall asleep. “I was a depressed wreck,” Derek said. Maria decided to see a therapist after a routine doctor’s visit that began with the question “How are you?” caused her to burst into tears. The therapist said she was suffering post-traumatic stress that wouldn’t go away until they got rid of the house.

Six months after the letters arrived, the Broadduses decided to sell 657 Boulevard. They initially listed it for more than they paid, to reflect the renovations they’d done. But few worlds are more gossipy than suburban New Jersey real estate, and rumors had already begun to swirl about why the house sat empty. One broker emailed to say her client “loved” it but that “there are so many unsubstantiated rumors flying around,” ranging “from sexual predator to stalker,” that they needed to know more. The Broadduses sent a partial disclosure mentioning the letters to interested buyers and told Coldwell Banker, their Realtor, that they intended to show the full letters to anyone whose offer was accepted. Several preliminary bids came in well below the asking price, but the Broadduses weren’t ready to take such a financial hit and only wanted to share the letters with likely buyers. No one got that far, even after they lowered the price. A Coldwell agent who hadn’t read the letters told them in an email that they were being unnecessarily forthcoming — “My friend got horrible threatening letters about her dog barking and she didn’t think to disclose” — but the Broadduses insisted. “I don’t know how you live through what we did and think you could do it to somebody else,” Derek said.

Derek and Maria thought about what they would have done had the previous owners told them about their letter from The Watcher. The Woodses, both retired scientists, told the Broadduses that they remembered the letter they received as more strange than threatening, thanking them for taking care of the house. They say they never had any issues. “We certainly never felt ‘watched,’ ” Andrea told them. They rarely even locked the doors.

But the Broadduses felt the name alone was ominous enough to merit mentioning to a new family moving in, and on June 2, 2015, a year after buying 657 Boulevard, they filed a legal complaint against the Woodses, arguing that the Woodses should have disclosed the letter just as they had the fact that water sometimes got in the basement. The Broadduses say they hoped to reach a quiet settlement. Their kids still didn’t know about The Watcher, and their lawyer assured them that, at most, a small legal newswire might pick up the story.

“We do some creepy stories,” Tamron Hall said on the Today show a few weeks later. “This might be top-ten creepy.” A local reporter had found the complaint, which included snippets of The Watcher’s menacing threats, and after a belated attempt by the Broadduses to seal it, the story went viral. News trucks camped out at 657 Boulevard, and one local reporter set up a lawn chair to conduct his own watch. The Broadduses got more than 300 media requests, but with advice from a crisis-management consultant referred by one of Derek’s colleagues, they decided not to speak publicly to spare their kids even more attention. They vacated Westfield and went to a friend’s beach house. (They didn’t find much peace: Maria’s grandfather had a heart attack, and the friend they were staying with had a grand-mal seizure.) Eventually, Derek and Maria sat down with their children to explain the real reason they hadn’t moved into their home. The kids had plenty of questions — Who is The Watcher? Where does this person live? Why is this person angry with us? — to which Derek and Maria had few answers. “Can you imagine having that conversation with a 5-year-old?” Derek told me. “Your town isn’t as safe as you think it is, and there’s a boogeyman obsessed with you.”

From a safer distance, The Watcher was a real-life mystery to solve. A commenter on nj.com suggested ground-penetrating radar to find whatever The Watcher claimed was in the walls. (The home inspector had already looked and told Derek the only issue was the aging home’s lack of insulation.) A group of Reddit users obsessed over Google Maps’ Street View, which showed a car parked in front of 657 that one user thought had “a man holding a camera in the driver’s seat.” (Others, more rationally, saw “pixelated glare.”) The range of proposed suspects included a jilted mistress, a spurned Realtor, a local high-schooler’s creative-writing project, guerrilla marketing for a horror movie, and “mall goths having fun.” Some people just thought the Broadduses were wimps for not moving in — “I would NEVER let this sicko stop me from moving into a house. Never back down from a TERRORIST” — which irked the Broadduses. “None of them have read the letters or had their children threatened by someone they didn’t know,” Derek said. “To decide whether this person’s only nuts enough to write these letters and not to do something — what if something did happen? ”

In Westfield, people were on edge. Laurie Clancy, who teaches piano lessons in her house behind 657 Boulevard, told me one of her students came for a lesson shortly after news of The Watcher broke and started bawling. “She was terrified to walk down the Boulevard,” Clancy said. At the first Westfield town-council meeting after the letters became public, Mayor Andy Skibitksy assured the public that The Watcher hadn’t been heard from in a year and that even though the police hadn’t solved the case, their investigation had been “exhaustive.”

This was news to 657’s neighbors, most of whom had never heard from the cops. “We are confounded as to how a thorough investigation can be conducted without talking to all the neighbors with proximity to the home,” several of them wrote in a letter to the local paper. Under the glare of national attention, Barron Chambliss, a veteran detective in the Westfield police, was asked to look at the case. “The Broadduses are victims, and I don’t think they got the support they needed,” Chambliss, who has since retired, told me recently of the initial investigation.

Chambliss knew his colleagues had looked closely at Michael Langford. According to his brother Sandy Langford, Michael had been diagnosed with schizophrenia as a young man. He sometimes spooked newcomers to the neighborhood when he did strange things, like walk through their backyard or peek into the windows of homes that were being renovated. But those who knew him told me that the odd things he did were mostly just unusual neighborly kindnesses. “He goes out and gets the newspapers for me every morning,” said John Schmidt, who lives next door. People who had known Michael for decades told me they didn’t think he was capable of writing the letters.

As Chambliss looked into the case, he discovered something surprising: Investigators had eventually conducted a DNA analysis on one of the envelopes and determined that the DNA belonged to a woman. Chambliss decided to look more closely at Abby Langford, Michael’s sister, who worked as a real-estate agent. Was she upset about missing a commission right next door? She also worked at the local Lord & Taylor, and Chambliss coordinated with a security guard there to nab her plastic water bottle during a shift. But Chambliss says the DNA sample was not a match. Not long after, the prosecutor’s office gave Derek and Maria some unexpected news: They wouldn’t say why or how, but they had ruled out the Langfords as suspects.

The Broadduses were stunned. They had recently told the prosecutors that they planned to file civil charges against the Langfords and wondered if the prosecutors were lying to prevent the story from blowing up again. “My family moved to the Boulevard in 1961, and we never caused a problem for anybody,” Sandy Langford told me. “This guy gets all these letters, and all of a sudden people are pointing fingers.”

Left without a suspect, the Broadduses reopened their personal investigation. They were still coy about sharing too much with their neighbors, who remained in the pool of suspects, but spent an afternoon walking the block with a picture of The Watcher’s handwritten envelope. They hoped someone might recognize the writing from a Christmas card, but the only notable encounter came when an older man who lived behind 657 said his son joked that The Watcher sounded a little bit like him. A neighbor across the street was the CEO of Kroll, the security firm, and the Broadduses hired the company to look for handwriting matches, but they found nothing. They also hired Robert Leonard, a renowned forensic linguist — and former member of the band Sha Na Na — who didn’t find any noteworthy overlap when he scoured local online forums for similarities to The Watcher’s writing, although he did think the author might watch Game of Thrones. (Jon Snow is one of the “Watchers on the Wall.”) At one point, Derek persuaded a friend in tech to connect him to a hacker willing to try breaking into Wi-Fi networks in the neighborhood to look for incriminating documents, but doing so turned out to be both illegal and more difficult than the movies made it seem, so they didn’t go through with it.

Chambliss and the Westfield police were also back at square one. The cops asked Andrea Woods for a DNA sample and interviewed her 21-year-old son, who was surprised to find that he suddenly seemed to be a suspect. A year after the fact, it was hard to find fresh leads, and the initial police canvas had been so porous that it had missed a significant clue: Around the same time that the Broadduses had received their first letter, another family on the Boulevard got a similar note from The Watcher. The parents of that family had lived in their house for years and their kids were grown, so they threw the letter away just as the Woodses had. But after the news broke, one of their children posted about it on Facebook, then deleted the post. When investigators spoke to the family, they confirmed that the letter had been similar to the Broadduses’. But its existence only made the case more confusing. “There wasn’t a whole lot to go on,” Chambliss told me.

One night, Chambliss and a partner were sitting in the back of a van parked on Boulevard, watching the house through a pair of binoculars. Around 11 p.m., a car stopped in front of the house long enough for Chambliss to grow suspicious. He says he traced the car to a young woman in a nearby town whose boyfriend lived on the same block as 657. The woman told Chambliss her boyfriend was into “some really dark video games,” including, in Chambliss’s memory, one in which he was playing as a specific character: “The Watcher.” As for the female DNA, Chambliss figured the girlfriend, or someone else, could have helped. The boyfriend was living elsewhere at the time, but Chambliss says he agreed to come in for an interview on two separate occasions. He didn’t show up either time. Chambliss didn’t have enough evidence to compel him to appear, and with the media attention dying down, he dropped the case and moved on.

While the Broadduses continued to be consumed by stress and fear, for the rest of Westfield, the story became little more than a creepy urban legend — a house to walk by on Halloween if you were brave enough. No one who had lived in the house before the Woodses could recall anything unusual, and it was hard for people to imagine that their idyllic neighborhood could be host to something so sinister. A woman who lives nearby told me that, after the news broke, she and ten or so of her neighbors had gathered in the street to puzzle out who might have sent the letters. Eventually, she said, they came to a consensus: Maybe the Broadduses had sent the letters to themselves?

The theory, so far as it went, was that the Broadduses had suffered buyer’s remorse, or realized they couldn’t afford the home, and concocted an elaborate scheme to get out of the sale. Or Derek was cooking up some kind of insurance fraud. Or they were angling for a movie deal. (The Broadduses received several offers but turned them down; Lifetime eventually released a movie called The Watcher, despite a cease-and-desist letter from the Broadduses, arguing that the couple in its movie was biracial and the letters were signed “the Raven.”) Some locals found it noteworthy that over the course of a decade, the Broadduses had upgraded from a $315,000 house to a $770,000 house to a $1.3 million one and refinanced their mortgages. A few weeks after the letters became public, the Westfield Leader published an article in which anonymous neighbors were quoted asking why the Broadduses kept renovating a home they weren’t moving into, or questioning whether they had really done that much renovating at all. The Leader even cast doubt on Maria’s commitment to her family’s safety, citing as evidence the fact that she had a public Facebook page with a photo of her kids. The paper did note that the police had tested Maria’s DNA and it didn’t match.

None of the theories made much logical sense. The Broadduses had answers to every question. “How does someone go from a $300,000 house to a $1.3 million house in ten years?” Derek told me. “It’s America!” But they weren’t speaking publicly, and the rumors persisted. One Boulevard resident wrote a letter to the editor arguing that “an elaborate scheme is underway to defraud the Woods family for millions of dollars.” Chambliss told me some Westfield cops even bought into the theory. There were even more skeptics online. “I live in a neighboring town. If these letters have been happening for a while, there is NO DOUBT in my mind that it would have been made public way before this,” LordFlufferNutter said on Reddit. “This screams scam.”

The Broadduses hadn’t known how their neighbors would react to news about The Watcher, but they had lived in the area for a decade, and Maria’s family had been a part of the community for much longer, so it was shocking to find themselves accused of being con artists. To Derek, it seemed that some in Westfield preferred the conspiracy theory to considering whether their town might be home to a menace. “There’s a natural tendency to say, ‘I’ve lived here for 35 years; nothing’s happened to me.’ ” Derek said. “What happened to my family is an affront to their contention that they’re safe, that there’s no such thing as mental illness in their community. People don’t want to believe this could happen in Westfield.”

While Maria looks back fondly on her childhood, she was born a few years after Westfield resident John List infamously murdered his wife, mother, and three children in their home, and remembers a period when she and other kids were warned to look out for a strange van driving around town. “My mother always told me don’t have a false sense of security,” she said. “It wasn’t that bad things were going on all the time, it was that bad things happen everywhere. She didn’t want me to think that this is Mayberry.”

Many locals I spoke to did seem more concerned that the national press might ruin Westfield’s good name. Some were primarily worried about arson, or vandalism, or whether the Broadduses would maintain the lawn. (They did.) Mark LoGrippo, the neighborhood’s representative on the Westfield town council, told me the primary concern he heard from residents was that they “were worried about their property value and the stigma of the neighborhood.”

The Broadduses were suddenly outcasts not only from their home but also their town. Derek wanted to leave Westfield, but Maria insisted on not uprooting her kids. “This person took so much from us,” Maria told me. “I wouldn’t let them take more.” Two years after The Watcher’s letters arrived, the Broadduses borrowed money from family members to buy a second home in Westfield, using an LLC to keep the location private. But staying in town was stressful. The first time Maria let her daughter go to the pool with friends, she stared at the tracker on her daughter’s iPhone the whole time. One of their kids was in language-arts class when the teacher led a debate about whether the family in a book they were reading should move to Westfield. The class thought they should, in part because of how safe it was. Afterward, one of the kids told the Broadduses’ child, “My parents told me that no matter what your family says, Westfield is safe.”

Meanwhile, the Broadduses still had to figure out what to do with 657 Boulevard. Their lawsuit was pending but seemed unlikely to succeed. Some states require sellers to disclose “transient social conditions” like murders or possible hauntings — in a 1991 case involving an allegedly ghost-filled house, a New York court ruled that “as a matter of law, the house is haunted” — but New Jersey had no such regulation. (A judge later dismissed the lawsuit; the Woodses, through their attorney, declined to comment for this story.) Derek looked into renting the house to the Department of Veterans Affairs and a company that runs halfway homes.

In the spring of 2016, they put 657 back on the market, hoping it might garner more interest given how many people had reacted to the letters by saying they would have ignored them and just moved in. The Broadduses held a well-attended open house, after which Derek and Maria spent hours researching every person who signed in and comparing their handwriting to The Watcher’s, but each time a potential buyer expressed interest and met with the Broadduses’ lawyer to read the letters, they backed out. “Some cocky guy from Staten Island said, ‘Fuck it, I’m gonna get a house at a discount,’ ” Derek recalled. “He reads the letters and we never hear from him again.”

Feeling as if they were out of options, the Broadduses’ real-estate lawyer proposed an idea: Sell the house to a developer, who could tear it down and split the property into two sellable homes. They thought they could get $1 million for the lot. Subdivisions like this had become common in Westfield, much to the chagrin of many locals, and 657 was one of the neighborhood’s largest lots. Even so, dividing it would require the Westfield Planning Board to grant an exception: The two smaller lots would be 67.4 and 67.6 feet wide — just shy of the mandated 70 feet.

When the proposal was publicly announced, Westfield’s Facebook groups lit up. Some expressed sympathy for the Broadduses, while others pointed out real estate is always a gamble. Another faction was convinced this was the culmination of a long con. “Out of this whole scam-artist story there ends up being nothing more disturbing than this move,” a local woman said. A man who coached the Broadduses’ son in football wrote, “They were in over their head from day one.” The application was jarring for the neighbors, who had learned about The Watcher from a lawsuit, and had always found it strange that the Broadduses didn’t share more information, not seeming to understand they were following orders from the police and trying to protect their kids. A typical Facebook conversation went like this one:

“Sounds like this whole ‘Watcher’ thing was a ploy.”

“The owners are good people. Not a ploy.”

“Okay. I know nothing about them.”

Kristin Kemp, a friend of the Broadduses, had tried to defend them on one Facebook forum, but people started attacking her. “Somebody asked, ‘How do we know it’s not you writing the letters?’ ” Kemp told me.

When the planning board met to decide the application in January 2017, it had already devoted a three-hour hearing to the issue. More than 100 residents showed up. One of them, who lived across the street and had a daughter in the same grade as one of the Broadduses’ kids, had retained a lawyer to fight the proposal. (Here was a new suspect: Who but The Watcher would go so far as to hire an attorney to preserve the house?) After a quick discussion about a Wells Fargo branch that wanted to use brighter lightbulbs than the town allowed, the room grew as tense as suburban-planning-board meetings get. James Foerst, the Broadduses’ attorney, explained that the three-foot exemption was as narrow as the easel he was using to display a map of the neighborhood — a map that showed several lots on the block that were also too small. The neighbors expressed concern that the plan might require knocking down trees and that the new homes would have aesthetically unpleasing front-facing garages. Foerst repeatedly threatened the halfway house as a possible alternative.

After the lawyers, a parade of neighbors stood to speak. Glen Dumont, from across the street, said the proposal “would spell the end of the 600 block of Boulevard as we know it.” A woman whose kids had been to the Broadduses’ old home for a birthday party spoke on behalf of nine neighbors and presented 657 Boulevard as Westfield’s Alamo. “Our neighborhoods are constantly under attack from turf, lights, parking decks, you name it,” she said. “If we can’t make a stand on Boulevard, where can we?” At one point, Abby Langford stood up to say she had “spent almost 60 years looking at a magnificent, beautiful house” and didn’t “want to be looking out at a driveway.”

The hearing lasted four hours, during which there was little discussion of the reason the Broadduses had been driven to tear down their dream home in the first place. “Has anybody thought about whether or not this lunatic who did this has been apprehended?” said Tom Higgins, who lived across the street, toward the end of the hearing. Even so, Higgins pointed out that there was no guarantee The Watcher wouldn’t send letters to the two new houses and argued that aesthetics should rule the day. “Putting up two houses there is gonna stick out like an old client of mine in Texas told me,” Higgins said. “It’s gonna stick out like a dog’s balls.” While some of the neighbors expressed compassion, their focus remained on what the Broadduses stood to gain financially — and what they themselves might lose.

At 11:30 p.m., the board unanimously rejected the proposal. (A New Jersey judge later denied the Broadduses’ appeal of the decision.) Derek and Maria were distraught. Even if the plan had gone through, it would have only stanched their financial bleeding. On top of the mortgage and renovations, they have paid around $100,000 in Westfield property taxes — the town denied their request for relief — and spent at least that amount investigating The Watcher and exploring ways to deal with the home, not to mention cleaning the gutters. The Broadduses recognized that 657 Boulevard was a beautiful house on a beautiful street that was worth maintaining but were surprised their neighbors didn’t see the uniqueness of the situation. “This is my town,” Maria told me recently. “I grew up here. I came back, I chose to raise my kids here. You know what we’ve been through. You had the ability, two and a half years into a nightmare, to make it a little better. And you have decided that this house is more important than we are. That’s really how it felt.” (On top of all that, her dad had recently died unexpectedly.) Father Michael Saporito, the priest who blessed the house, went to one of the planning-board meetings and told me he was taken aback by how many people had come up to him and said they thought the whole thing was a hoax. “I think the human element of the story was kind of lost on the neighbors,” Saporito said. The Watcher had expressed a desire to protect the Boulevard from change, but instead it had been torn apart.

Not long after the planning board’s decision, the Broadduses got some good news. A family with grown children and two big dogs had agreed to rent 657 Boulevard. The renter told the Star-Ledger he wasn’t worried about The Watcher, though he had a clause in the lease that let him out in case of another letter.

Two weeks later, Derek went to 657 to deal with squirrels that had taken up residence in the roof. The renter handed him an envelope that had just arrived:

Violent winds and bitter cold

To the vile and spiteful Derek and his wench of a wife Maria,

This letter, two and a half years after The Watcher appeared, came out of nowhere. It was dated February 13, the day the Broadduses gave depositions in their lawsuit against the Woodses. “You wonder who The Watcher is? Turn around idiots,” the letter read. “Maybe you even spoke to me, one of the so called neighbors who has no idea who The Watcher could be. Or maybe you do know and are too scared to tell anyone. Good move.” The letter was less stylish and more wrathful than the others, and it seemed the writer had been closely following the story. They had seen the media coverage (“I walked by the news trucks when they took over my neighborhood and mocked me”), Derek’s surreptitious investigatory efforts (“I watched as you watched from the dark house in an attempt to find me … Telescopes and binoculars are wonderful inventions”), and the attempt to tear down the house. “657 Boulevard survived your attempted assault and stood strong with its army of supporters barricading its gates,” the letter read. “My soldiers of the Boulevard followed my orders to a T. They carried out their mission and saved the soul of 657 Boulevard with my orders. All hail The Watcher!!!” The renter was mentioned — he was spooked but agreed to stay if the Broadduses installed cameras around the house — and the letter indicated revenge could come in many forms:

Maybe a car accident. Maybe a fire. Maybe something as simple as a mild illness that never seems to go away but makes you fell sick day after day after day after day after day. Maybe the mysterious death of a pet. Loved ones suddenly die. Planes and cars and bicycles crash. Bones break.

“It was like we were back at the beginning,” said Maria. But it also meant fresh evidence that might help invigorate the investigation. Derek took the letter to police headquarters, where a detective looked at a neighborhood map and traced a circle around the house 300 yards in diameter, suggesting The Watcher must be somewhere in there. Derek drew one much closer. “In my view, it’s one of ten houses in the world,” he said.

The Broadduses continued to press the case, but there still wasn’t much for law enforcement to go on, and it was possible to look up and down the street and see The Watcher in practically anyone. Residents mentioned to me a teenager whose father had grown up around the corner, and a man who sometimes walked around the neighborhood playing a flute. An elderly couple behind the house had been there 47 years. The husband was the man Bill Woodward had seen sitting in a lawn chair looking at the Broadduses’ house. One of their kids had married a man who grew up in, of all places, 657 Boulevard. But these were bits of information that could mean everything or nothing depending on how hard you looked at them. The Broadduses sent new names to the investigators whenever they found something odd, but their greatest fear was that The Watcher could be someone they’d never suspect.

One day last spring, Derek picked me up at the Westfield train station. We drove past 657 Boulevard, which he and Maria try to avoid unless they have to pick up the tax bill. “It’s all beautiful trees and beautiful houses, but all I feel is anxious,” Derek said. “Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night thinking, What would my life be like if this didn’t happen? We lost Christmas a couple times, and you don’t get that back — Christmas with a 5-year-old.”

The Broadduses no longer live in ever-present fear that The Watcher might strike at any moment, but they continue to deal with lingering effects from the letters. They have a new tenant at 657, but the rent doesn’t cover the mortgage. Their kids are occasionally teased at school. And the conspiratorial rumors persist. They try to avoid the people who spoke out against their planning-board application or accused them of being con artists, but suburban life makes that impossible. “I see these people on the soccer field, at the train station, and my heart starts going like it did when I played hockey and was about to get in a fight,” Derek said. When Maria found herself in a spin class at the YMCA with the head of the planning board, she went up afterward and told him, “You continue to hurt my family every day.” Earlier this year, the planning board approved splitting a lot around the corner that required an even larger exception than the Broadduses’.

Most people in Westfield told me they rarely thought of The Watcher anymore. The real-estate market was doing fine, for one, and many were surprised to find out the Broadduses were still dealing with the problem. Hindsight made Derek and Maria wonder if they should have sold the house at a loss, early on, and 657 Boulevard conjured too much emotional pain for them to ever consider moving in. They hope that a few years of renting the place without incident will help them sell it. The prosecutor’s office was continuing its investigation, but the Broadduses knew it was unlikely The Watcher would ever be caught and that the legal punishment would likely be minimal.

The Watcher was also no longer the only person sending anonymous letters in Westfield. Last Christmas Eve, several families received an envelope in their mailboxes. They’d been delivered by hand to the homes of people who had been the most vocal in criticizing the Broadduses online. One of them, who lived a few blocks down on Boulevard, had written on Facebook: “I wish we could go back to the days of tar and feathers. I have just the couple in mind!” Another family who got the letter told me it was “weirdly poetic,” as The Watcher’s had been, and that it accused the families of speculating inaccurately about the Broadduses. It included several stories about recent acts of domestic terrorism in which signs of brewing mental illness had gone unnoticed. The typed letters were signed, “Friends of the Broaddus Family.”

The letter writer had clearly been infected not only with The Watcher’s penchant for anonymous notes but also a simmering resentment: one that had snaked its way through Westfield, making enemies of neighbors. The people who received the letters didn’t know who sent them, but the tone had a familiar ring to me. When I asked Derek Broaddus whether he had written them, he paused for a moment, then admitted he had. He wasn’t proud of it— he hadn’t even told his wife — and said they were the only anonymous letters he’d written. But he had felt driven to his wit’s end, fed up with watching silently as people threw accusations at his family based on practically nothing. (One of the people who received the letter told me they had never met the Broadduses and had no interest in doing so.) The Watcher had been obsessed with 657 Boulevard, and Derek, in turn, had become obsessed with The Watcher and everything the letters had set in motion. “It’s like cancer,” he told me. “We think about it everyday.”

Sitting at the Westfield train station, Derek handed me his phone so I could read the fourth letter. “You are despised by the house,” it read. “And The Watcher won.

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