#I’ve had this sketch forever and thought it fit today in general

[sincerelystarcadet]

Matt fell prettyyy hard for Mello..

Happy Valentine’s Day!! 💕💕

[helloalycia]

The Wrong Lifetime – Eight // Wanda Maximoff

chapter seven | story masterlist | main masterlist | wattpad | chapter nine

author’s note: Y/C/N = your cousin’s name, also this is later than I wanted today but i’ve been super busy so sorry for that! Also, I’ll be responding to comments from the last one as soon as I’m free. Enjoy 😊

"...okay, so now use the water to dilute the colour."

I did as Wanda said, dipping my brush in the glass of water and diluting the watercolour I was using, but I must have used too much because it made the paint run and then the paper started to get too damp to hold together.

Wanda facepalmed, sighing as I smiled sheepishly.

"My bad...?"

She glared playfully before ripping a page from her sketchbook. "Try again, milaya (darling). And use less water this time."

I squinted in the sun as I glanced at her. "Can't you just accept I'm not very good at painting? Or art in general?"

She shook her head, taking the torn page from my grasp and replacing it with a new one. "No way. You're not getting out of it that easily. It's not hard, I promise!"

I groaned lightheartedly. "You said that about drawing. And about using acrylics. And about using chalk."

"And I'm saying it about this, now c'mon, try again," she encouraged with an amused smile before returning to her own painting.

We were sat in my garden, hanging out and making the most of the lovely day we were having. The Spring breeze was getting warmer as we transitioned into Summer and it was a nice change of pace from the usual bad weather we had. So nice that Wanda wanted to do some painting and also teach me how to. But art was never my strong suit and I'm sure she knew that but still proceeded to try anyway.

Sketching out the tree before us for the third time today, I attempted to provide an outline that I could eventually fill in with green watercolours. Unlike Wanda though, it wasn't fun. My eyes veered over to her and I smiled to myself as I admired the look of concentration on her face – her 'art' look, I dubbed it. It was this very specific expression she got whenever she worked on a painting or drawing, and it always reminded me of that first time I saw it, after we met in the stationary store and when she took me back to her room. Absolutely wonderful.

"I don't hear a pencil moving," she said, not looking up but beginning to smile.

"That's because I'm looking for... what did you call it?" I racked my brain, thinking back to the day in the store when she talked about inspiration. "Vdokhoventi?"

A sharp exhale escaped her lips as she finally lifted her gaze to meet mine. Attempting not to laugh, she tilted her head adorably. "Vdokhnoveniye."

I quirked a brow. "Is that not what I said?"

She giggled, shaking her head. "Definitely not."

I grinned, shrugging. "Well, that's what I meant."

She rolled her eyes playfully. "I'm not it, so eyes on your page."

"Oh, how dearly mistaken you are, love," I said quietly, leaning close and giving her a knowing smile.

She looked up, expression softening with a smile. Her eyes were heavenly, pupils dilated as she squinted in the sun, and they flickered to my lips before she settled on nudging me in the shoulder slightly. I snickered, leaning my head on her shoulder since everybody thought we were as close as best friends, so it wouldn't look suspicious. She sighed contently, letting me watch as she moved her paintbrush, painting a flower that was peeking through the grass we were sat on.

I could have stayed there forever, in that moment, sitting with Wanda and watching her paint under the sun. But of course, all good things come to an end when you don't want them to.

"Y/N, dear," I heard my father call, and when I looked up, I saw him approaching Wanda and I from the direction of our house.

Straightening up, I watched as he attempted to sit on the grass, but his legs were too long and he struggled to cross them. With a hearty chuckle, he stretched them out, slightly bent, and leaned on his hands.

"I'm getting too old for this, ladies," he said humorously, making Wanda and I smile.

"What d'you need, dad?" I asked, raising my brows.

"I just wanted to check in and see if you were ready for tonight," he said casually, making me furrow my brows. He seemed to notice my confusion, prompting, "Tonight? Your cousin's birthday party?"

"My cousin's what-now?"

He sighed, massaging the point between his brows. "Y/C/N? They organised this months ago. We're all expected to be there." His glanced to Wanda. "You, too, dear."

Wanda hummed, pulling her gaze from her painting and looking to my dad. "Yes, I'm aware. Got my dress ready and everything."

My eyes snapped to Wanda's with surprise. "You knew about this?!"

"You should be more like her," my dad muttered, as Wanda smiled with a hint of mischief in her eyes.

I looked back to my father. "I was planning on helping Y/B/N with his manuscript tonight."

My dad waved his hand. "I've already talked to him. He's agreed to work on it before the party starts so you're both on time."

I groaned, already tired at the sound of yet another party. Did it ever end?

"Don't be late," he ordered, though his voice was anything but stern. Cue another groan. He smiled before looking to Wanda's painting. "Wow, that's great, dear. Apparently you've got Y/N here attempting to do the same?"

Wanda chuckled as she handed him my several failed attempts. "Key word being 'attempting'."

He accepted the pages and stifled a smile of amusement. "Wow... maybe you should stick to writing, Y/N."

I ripped the pages from his grasp. "Cheers, dad, really."

He laughed before leaning forward and kissing my forehead. "It's all in good faith, dear. Now remember. Don't be late tonight, okay?"

I sighed, which he took as my response, before pushing himself off the grass with a grumble. Dusting his trousers, he nodded to Wanda and I before leaving us be.

"You could've told me I had yet another party to attend tonight," I told Wanda with narrowed eyes.

She shrugged, smiling helplessly. "I thought you knew."

I laid back on the grass with a dramatic sigh. "I just don't understand why our life revolves around extravagant parties, balls and dinners."

"That's just how it is, moya lyubov' (my love)," she said with a warm smile.

I looked up at the sky, raising my hand to shield the sun from my eyes, though my heart fluttered at one of the many nicknames she called me in Russian. "I'd rather live in the middle of nowhere. Where nobody expects anything of me and there's no stupid parties to attend."

She rested a hand on my leg before laying beside me, leaning her head on my shoulder. I relaxed my head on hers, appreciating how well we fit together.

"Same here," she agreed, making me gasp playfully.

"What? Don't you love the glitz and glamour?"

She laughed quietly. "I do, but I like the peace and quiet more."

I breathed out, fingertips brushing hers. "Maybe I can be a little late tonight... accidentally run over time so I don't have to stay as long."

Her fingers tugged on mine between us as a warning. "No. I'll be left alone and I'll be bored. And when I'm bored, I drink."

It was my turn to laugh. "You won't be alone, Wanda. You'll have Pietro."

She shifted so she was no longer leaning on my shoulder but instead tilting her head to look my way. "I want you."

I turned my head and gave her a small, promising smile. "I'll try to be on time."

She quirked a brow. "Try? You will."

My eyes flittered away, ready to argue otherwise, but she sat up and grabbed her paintbrush. I sat up, too, ready to tell her I would try, but I flinched when she flicked water towards me from the tip of it.

"Are you serious?" I asked, wiping the water from my eyelids with tongue-in-cheek.

She chuckled and I grabbed my paintbrush and did the same, watching her squirm when it flicked on her face.

Suppressed smile on her face, she wiped away the water and glared with dazzling eyes. "You shouldn't start what you can't finish, milaya (darling)."

Smiling from ear to ear, I quirked a brow devilishly. "Oh?"

"You're so lucky we're in front of people," she said lowly, leaning close enough to be platonic, but her hand slipped under my dress and creeped up my leg, making me involuntarily shiver. "Or you would be in serious trouble."

I stopped her hand from going any higher, the rings on her fingers cold enough for me to not melt under her touch. "I highly doubt that, love."

She held my gaze, intoxicating and mesmerising all at once. A sly smile tugged at her lips as she said, "Don't test me then. You heard your father. Don't be late."

I exhaled, licking my lips. "Fine. I won't be."

—

Later that afternoon, I found myself sat in my brother's study as the two of us worked on his latest manuscript together. It was a love story, his (my) specialty, and I was helping him to sort out his sentence structure when he decided to question me.

"Will you entertain me for a moment?" he asked randomly, making me look up from the pages.

"I'll probably regret it, but go on," I said jokingly, before looking back down and adding some notes to the paper.

His chair creaked as he leaned back, eyes watching me thoughtfully. "Are you in a secret relationship?"

I almost choked on my spit as he asked this, heart dropping to my stomach with panic. He couldn't know about Wanda, right? We'd been so careful.

Thankfully, I played it off well as I merely glanced his way before distracting myself with note-taking.

"Why would you think that, Y/B/N?" I asked like he was insane.

He shrugged in my peripheral. "I don't know... I've been wondering for a while. You've just loosened up so much more. And you're not as uptight as you usually are."

"Cheers," I said sarcastically.

He leaned forward, head resting in his palm. "This all happened right about the time I met Wanda..."

I swallowed hard, quirking a brow at him to play down my panic.

"I saw you with Pietro the other week," he continued, and I could finally breathe when I realised what he was insinuating. "I'm happy if you're happy, Y/N, but I'm not a fan of you sleeping with my publisher."

At that thought, I shuddered and proceeded to shove Y/B/N on the arm. "Don't say that. And I would never."

Just your fiancé, I thought guiltily.

"Good," he said with relief, straightening up. "Because you're not supposed to do that until you get married."

I rolled my eyes dismissively in response, but wondered if that still applied in a world where one was not allowed to marry the person they loved.

Y/B/N gave me a reassuring glance. "Look, I'm okay with it, I guess. But I'd appreciate the heads up so I can give him a stern talking to."

Realising there was a hint of mirth in his voice, I looked up and gave him a warning look. "Don't you dare."

He laughed, patting me on the back, to which I shrugged off with annoyance.

"It's the Maximoff charm," he commented knowingly. "The twins have that effect on people, don't they? Wanda sure has it on me."

A short silence fell after he said that and I chewed on my lip curiously, unable to stop myself from speaking until it was too late.

"Is her love reciprocated?"

He looked down to me from his daydream, no doubt of Wanda. "Pardon?"

Knowing there was no backing down from the conversation now, I avoided his eyes. "The engagement between you both was arranged... you're clearly in love with her, but is it returned?"

His lips twitched into a frown. "I'd hope so."

I hummed, diverting my attention away from him and to the pen in my hand.

"Why? Did she say something?" he asked, voice laden with worry.

"Of course not," I reassured him.

"But you'd tell me if she did?" he asked eagerly.

I looked his way and saw him peering down at me, hanging onto my response. I nodded lamely, which seemed to put him at ease as he sank into his chair with relief.

We spent the next few hours working on the manuscript without a hitch, but I noticed the time and realised the party was already in full swing. Wanda's words came to mind and I hoped she wouldn't be too annoyed at my lateness.

"We're wrapping it up now, don't worry," Y/B/N said, noticing me check the clock. "Thanks for the help. I'm gonna get this to my editor tomorrow. Your amendments should help make the process go a lot smoothly."

I hummed in response, feeling a heaviness settle on my shoulders as he mentioned his editor. It was always the same routine – I helped him with his manuscript, he got it edited, got his book published and got all the credit. And I was stuck in the same position, wishing I could do the same.

"What is it?" he asked with a sigh, sensing my mood.

Playing with the corner of the manuscript, I met his gaze. "I help you with your writing, but I never get anything from it."

"You get to help me," he pointed out, not seeing the issue. "Isn't that enough?"

Pietro's offer came to mind as I said, "What if I wrote my own book? And got published with my name on the cover?"

He squinted as he studied me, trying to find the humour in my words. Letting out a laugh, he shook his head.

"Y/N, that's absurd."

I raised my eyebrows hopefully. "I mean, is it? Would that be so bad?"

He pressed his lips together and breathed out through his nose. Resting a hand on my shoulder, he gave me a condescending look.

"I'm saying this because I care," he said, making me feel like crap. "But yes."

As if I didn't already know the answer, I asked, "Why?"

He motioned with his hand like it was obvious. "Because. People would look at you differently. You'd be undesirable. You know men don't like smart women. I'm just looking out for you as your brother."

I looked away, the bitterness at his words stinging more than usual. "Well, I like smart women."

Thinking I was joking, he chuckled. "Don't go saying things like that. One might misinterpret."

My teeth pressed into my lower lip hard, trying to contain my frustration.

"You can do this every now and then," he said, referring to the manuscript, "but any more isn't possible. Besides, two authors in one family? That's insane."

I forced a smile, but I wondered if his last comment was the real reason he wouldn't let me at least try to get published.

"Anyway, never mind that," he said indifferently. "We should probably head out. Dad is not going to be pleased. Especially since I promised we wouldn't be late."

I nodded, sliding my chair out and wanting to be anywhere but here right now. "Yeah, come on."

He gave me a sneaky smile. "Can't wait to see Pietro?"

I slapped him on the arm before standing up, ignoring his laughter. Nothing to make an already-depressing night worse than going to a party you didn't care for.

—

Wanda Maximoff was a very difficult drunk to be around, I'd learnt that the hard way.

As soon as Y/B/N and I rolled up to my cousin's house, a third of the guests were drunk and the rest were tipsy. A typical Y/L/N get-together. Y/B/N was instantly dragged away by some family whilst I was quick to make myself scarce, attempting to find Wanda. But the place was bustling with people and there were way too many rooms to check.

I found Pietro before I found his twin, as he was poking around party favours on a table in the corner, attempting to make out what were in the bags.

I found Pietro before I found his twin, as he was poking around party favours on a table in the corner, attempting to make out what were in the bags.

"If you're expecting a brand new fountain pen, you won't find it in there," I teased, making him jump.

He sighed when he looked my way, realising it was me. "I know that. But there's nothing better here to do, so I may as well know what freebies we'll be getting by the end of it."

I smirked. "Anything good?"

He shrugged, seeming disappointed. "Just some chocolate and perfume samples."

Holding back a smile, I said, "How tragic."

"If you're looking for my sister, she's over there," he said, nodding behind me. "You'll love this one."

"What do you mean?" I asked, brows knitted with confusion, before turning around and following his gaze.

Wanda was indeed stood on the other side of the dining room and I could just about make her out between idle guests. She was chatting to some woman, hands moving erratically and with expression, a grin on her lips.

"What is she doing?" I asked unsurely, tearing my eyes from her and looking to Pietro.

He was withholding laughter as he answered, "Sometimes, dear Y/N, my beloved twin sister gets drunk when she's–"

"Bored," I finished, remembering what she told me this morning. My face dropped as I mumbled, "Uh-oh."

"Uh-oh indeed," Pietro said, grinning at his sister's dismay. "Drunk Wanda is a very truthful Wanda. So, any secrets of hers will most definitely be revealed tonight."

Pietro was too caught up in his own amusement to notice my eyes widening.

"One of our servants made me a platter a few years ago," Pietro explained, oblivious to my panic. "It was a delicious cheese platter, the cheese having been imported from France. Then, Wanda proceeded to eat it without telling me. When I asked if she did, she lied. And I only discovered she lied because she got drunk a few weeks later and bragged about how good the cheese was."

Continuing to ramble, though this time in Russian, Pietro complained about said incident, though I wasn't listening as I watched Wanda talk to the woman enthusiastically. I could only imagine what secrets she was sharing.

"Pietro!" I cut him off, earning his attention. "Shouldn't you do something? To stop Wanda?"

The cheese platter story long forgotten, his grin reappeared on his lips. "Nah, it's funny watching her make a fool of herself."

I gave him a look of disbelief before looking back to Wanda, who was laughing at something by herself. The woman she was speaking to seemed partially confused, but smiled to be polite. I gulped, before shaking my head.

"I'm not that mean," I said to Pietro before making a move to stop her.

Pietro booed me playfully, but I ignored him and approached the drunk brunette, managing to catch her conversation.

"–and they're usually such catty bitch–"

"Wanda!" I immediately cut her off, bumping into her side slightly to get her attention. "There you are!"

Green eyes widened with excitement as they met mine. "Y/N! You're here!"

Ignoring her, I wrapped an arm around her shoulder and tugged her close before looking to the guest she was talking with.

"My apologies for her behaviour," I said with an awkward smile, hoping Wanda hadn't revealed anything suspicious.

"No need to apologise, dear," the woman said with an amused smile. "Wanda here was telling me all about how lovely of a sister-in-law you are. Or will be."

Wanda grinned, looking to me and leaning in so close that her nose brushed my cheek. "Yeah, she is," she continued to the woman, though her eyes were on mine. "She's sweet, not like other people make out their sister-in-laws to be."

My face was warm as I cleared my throat and smiled once more to the woman. "If you'll excuse Wanda and I."

The woman barely got out a nod before I dragged Wanda away, trying to keep her lips away from my neck (she was also an extremely clingy drunk). Tugging her into the bathroom down the hall, I closed the door behind us and released a breath of relief, grateful for the escape from guests.

"You look very sexy when you're worried," Wanda complimented, stepping forward and smiling dazedly.

"Wanda–"

She placed her hand on my jaw, moving closer so that her lips were grazing mine as she mumbled, "You came late, milaya (darling). But I still love you."

I'd like to say that I had the willpower to push her away and scold her for acting so obvious about us before, but my lips went numb as she captured them between hers. I could taste the alcohol on her lips as she moved them against mine, making me dizzy and forgetting what I was going to say. Her thumb caressed my jaw and I relaxed under her touch, hands resting on her chest. When she tried to part my lips with her tongue, I seemed to come to my senses.

"Wanda, you're drunk," I muttered, pushing her back gently.

She chased down my mouth again, sucking on my lip and tilting my head back so she could have better access. I tried not to let her win as I kissed her briefly before pulling away. Clouded hazel eyes met mine with a matching smirk.

"You're such a tease," she whispered, her accent thicker than usual and making my stomach flip uncontrollably. Her thumb traced my lips as she continued, "You shouldn't do that when I already know how you taste, moya lyubov' (my love)."

The way she was staring at me made me flustered in place, and she seemed to notice her effect on me as she winked my way.

Shaking my head and trying not to let her win, I said, "Look, Wanda. I'm sorry for being late. But did you really have to get drunk?"

She shrugged, leaning her weight on my shoulder with her hand. "If you hadn't kept me waiting, then I wouldn't have."

I sighed, looking to her apologetically. "I didn't realise the time."

A permanent troublesome smile was fixed on her lips as she watched me.

"Your brother told me how you can be when you get drunk," I said with mild concern, hoping she'd register my seriousness. "You need to be careful, Wanda. We can't have people finding out about us."

"It seems to me," she began agonisingly slowly, lacing her arms around my shoulders, "that you'll have to watch me all night to make sure I don't do anything out of line."

Determined not to play into her teasing, I maintained her gaze with a stern stare. "It seems I'll have to."

She bit her lip, eyes flickering between mine, before leaning further into my ear. In a whispered voice, she said, "That means you can't leave my side, printsessa (princess)."

I clenched my jaw, ready to agree, but a gasp escaped my lips as hers sucked on my earlobe, teeth nibbling on the sensitive skin. Stupid Wanda and her stupid flirting and stupid attractiveness.

"Wanda!" I scolded, though my cheeks were flushed as I pushed her away gently.

She laughed adorably, the sound making my heart skip a beat. "What?"

"You have to behave," I told her, swallowing hard and trying not to let her teasing smile get to me. "You can't do this out there. Okay?"

"Okay," she agreed in a way that wasn't reassuring in the slightest.

I rolled my eyes before grabbing her hand and leading her back outside the bathroom, returning to the party. I wasn't planning on leaving her side for the rest of the evening, even if Y/B/N wanted to be with her. The last thing I wanted was for her cute drunken self to reveal something she couldn't take back.

To my relief, she kind of behaved after that. There were times when she would get a little too touchy to be platonic, but a quick stare set her straight. Y/B/N wasn't around much, as when he did join us, he was immediately pulled away by some family friends who wanted to discuss his books. For once, I was glad he was an author, afraid of what would happen if Wanda got too comfortable in his presence.

At one point though, he was able to join Wanda, Pietro and I at a standing table, relief flooding his expression when nobody called after him. His arm wrapped around Wanda's waist and he kissed the top of her head, making me look the other way with distaste. She scrunched her nose up at the action before distracting herself with a drink. I gave her a knowing look, having told her earlier to stop with the alcohol. She pretended not to see me.

"Sorry I've not been able to spend time with you tonight," he said to Wanda, oblivious to her tipsy state.

"It's almost like it's your birthday and not your cousin's," Pietro joked, smiling at him.

My brother chuckled. "I guess. They just all wanna talk about my manuscript."

"Ah, yes, the reason you were late, right?" Wanda asked, eyes falling to mine.

"I'm sorry," my brother apologised, assuming it was him she was speaking to.

"You were helping him, too, right?" Pietro asked, looking to me curiously. "Maybe I'll finally get a glance at your work."

I narrowed my eyes at him, having figured he'd put the subject to rest after last time. He merely grinned in response, finding joy in messing with me, just like his sister. Before I could say anything, my brother beat me to it.

"Don't be getting any ideas. It's just a hobby." He smiled forcefully, before glancing at me. "Isn't it, Y/N?"

"Don't be getting any ideas. It's just a hobby." He smiled forcefully, before glancing at me. "Isn't it, Y/N?"

So he was jealous. Wow.

"You don't need to hide your relationship, y'know," he continued when I didn't respond, looking to Pietro.

The silver-haired publisher choked on his drink as he looked to my brother, clearly very amused.

"I know you're together," Y/B/N said with agitation. "Everybody does. And don't get me wrong, Pietro, I respect you as a publisher."

I groaned quietly, closing my eyes with embarrassment. When I opened them, Pietro was watching my brother with an entertained smile, meanwhile, Wanda was looking between them with a twitching frown.

"But if you're going to date my sister, you should do it the right way," my brother continued stupidly. "It's not appropriate to have whatever this is." He motioned between us with his hands. "It's wrong."

I jumped when Wanda's hand slipped to my arse, squeezing it gently. Thankfully, our backs were to a wall so nobody would have noticed behind us, but I instantly glared at her and removed her hand. She gave me a cunning smile, not bothered by the consequences.

"...and if you're sleeping together like I suspect," Y/B/N was saying, making me flush with humiliation, "know that our friendship is at breaking point. I can't have that blatant disrespect in my life."

Wanda continued to attempt to grab my arse, making me slap her hand away several times, all whilst trying to manage whatever conversation was happening right now.

"I can't believe you just said that," I finally spoke up, managing to keep Wanda at bay long enough. "You're such an idiot, Y/B/N! I told you I wasn't with Pietro!"

Pietro tried not to laugh as he met my brother's intimidating stare. "I value our friendship, too, Y/B/N. Which is why I can promise you I have no... relations... with your sister. I don't like her like that, I can assure you."

Wanda snorted with amusement, before hiding behind a glass of wine when everyone looked her way.

Y/B/N seemed embarrassed as he cleared his throat. "Oh."

I rolled my eyes. "Yes, oh!"

"I guess I should apologise," he said awkwardly, looking to Pietro. "I–"

"No apology necessary," Pietro cut him off, raising a hand. "I am thankful for the entertainment however."

"I'm gonna go literally anywhere else," I dismissed myself, unable to take the uncomfortable situation any longer.

Without waiting for a response, I turned on my heel and walked away. To my surprise, Wanda trailed after, falling into step with me.

I glanced at her unhappily, quirking a brow. "Can I help you?"

"Oh, don't be mad at me because your brother's an idiot," she said with a wag of her hand.

I gave her a suggestive look. "I told you to behave."

She pressed her lips together in a sheepish smile. "I'm sorry... Y/B/N was talking about you and Pietro and I– well, I don't like sharing, remember?"

The improper glint in her eye as she stopped before me, watching with amusement, made me feel warm all of a sudden. That day when she first told me that and we proceeded to make love flashed to mind, and she seemed to know as she had a mischievous look on her face.

Clearing my throat, I pointed a finger her way. "Behave."

I should have known by the devilish look in her eyes that she wouldn't.

[moth-song-archives]

The Insatiable Flow of Time (1/8)

I remembered that I can make posts here too huh! Anyways, I wrote a post-MAG200 fic <3

I’ll reblog it again with the link to ao3 if you’d prefer reading it there :D

Rating: Teens and Up Archive Warnings: Choose Not To Use Categories: F/F Relationships: Georgie/Melanie, Georgie & Jon, Jonmartin (mentioned) Characters: Georgie Barker, Melanie King, Jonathan Sims, the Admiral, Basira Hussain (mentioned), Rosie Zampano (mentioned), Martin Blackwood (mentioned)

Additional tags: Diary/Journal × post mag200 × Post-Canon × Canon Compliant × Rated for swearing and me doing my best to write a fitting epilogue for my most fave story of all time × Bittersweet × Hurt/Comfort × Grief/Mourning × Gentle-Sad-Soft × Fluff × Non-Sexual Intimacy × Tenderness × Generally Hopeful Ending × Ambiguous/Open Ending × Catharsis × You know how TMA is a tragedy? ... yeah × Hope Punk × dealing with the fallout of surviving a literal apocalypse × Moving on and letting go × Trans Georgie Barker × Nonbinary Melanie King × Melanie uses any pronouns but needs to (re)discover this first × and is then mainly referred to with they/them pronouns for diary-simplicity × Melanie is ace in my heart ♡ × Jon is also enby but it only gets referred to in passing × Georgie has a Type™ × Character Study × i love them all so much × Nonbinary aspec author × it's very hope punk and somft BUT ALSO VERY SAD × in like a cathartic way × because i like causing pain :') × pre-written and updates every 2-3 days

I think I might use it to… rediscover myself. That’s what I liked about journaling in the first place, I think. Getting to think about things outside of my own head, putting it out there so I could move on? Maybe it’s time to return to old coping mechanisms and try again. Even if I haven’t really changed. Even if I should’ve changed. Right?

As the world tries to piece itself back together, Georgie grapples with her past, her present, and her future by keeping a diary. She also keeps having this strange, recurring dream that involves Jon. Post MAG200.

Finished at ~12k, will upload over the next couple of days <3

Day 3 - Evening

Melanie is sleeping. Basira is also sleeping, on the sofa in the living-room. She doesn’t really know what to do with herself, these days, so for now she’s staying with us.

I am not sleeping. I’m so far beyond tired that I can’t sleep anymore. It’s been... how long? More than a day, certainly. I’m at the kitchen table and the night outside is darker than any I’ve ever seen. There are no street lights and a million more stars than I could’ve ever imagined. I wish Melanie could see them too :(

Back before everything in my life went wrong, I used to be really good at this. I think I got my first diary when I was... seven, maybe eight? I used to be obsessed with it. I guess I stopped writing in college, after the incident, because it felt... wrong? Like I was lying to myself, trying to fabricate emotions that just weren’t there, keeping up with things that no longer seemed important or note-worthy. Mainly, I couldn’t make myself care about anyone or anything anymore.

I think I want to find that person again, now that it’s over. Try and… move on? And Melanie encouraged me :) I guess that’s the main reason. I found this notebook in one of the domains when we were rescuing people. I don’t know what I originally wanted to do with it, but I did end up forgetting about it until I went through my bag again today. It smells like fire and is a bit singed in places, but I kind of like that? I think I might use it to… rediscover myself. ...that sounds very pretentious, but this is just for me, so...

And I like that it’s just cheap paper scribbled on with a shitty biro. Maybe I’ll just burn it when all the thoughts are on the paper instead of in my head. When I can sleep again. And the prize for the most dramatic way of closure goes to Georgie Barker! But yeah. That’s what I liked about journaling in the first place, I think. Getting to think about things outside of my own head, putting it out there so I could move on? Maybe it’s time to return to old coping mechanisms and try again. Even if I haven’t really changed. Even if I should’ve changed. Right?

But I don’t feel any different. Shouldn’t I feel different, now that they’re gone? The entities, I mean, though Jon and Martin seem to be gone, too.

I keep remembering Martin’s expression when he told us to go early, how upset he was.

Honestly, I can’t say I’m surprised. As long as I’ve known Jon, he’s always done what he thought best. It used to drive me up the walls, but I also admired it, I think? I never would’ve told him that, but… Well. He’s gone now.

It’s over, all of it.

And I still can’t sleep.

And Melanie is still blind, and I still feel empty, and my fear still hasn’t come back. Everyone who died is still dead, and the trauma is still there. There were angry mobs in the streets, and people got killed.

I can’t quite believe that Jon and Martin went with them. I can’t believe they left us behind to explain the entire mess.

 We’re back in our old flat. It’s so weird to be back home. Everything looks the same, as though no time passed at all. Nobody knows what date it is. How long were we caught in there?

Outside, it feels like spring. There are birds everywhere, singing their hearts out. Sounds like more birds than there used to be, too. The trees are leafless and dead-looking, but Basira pointed out that they’re getting there... and it feels like spring.

I haven’t slept properly in 3 days because the questions keep me awake. It’s not that I’m worrying, really, just… thinking? I think I could sleep better if the worry had come back, but it hasn’t.

As far as we can tell, all modern devices are broken, too. Computers and phones and such, digital cameras, generators... we don’t even know what the rest of the world looks like. I hadn’t realised how much gets controlled by computers these days, we don’t even have central heating or water access in our flat. Rumours and news are spreading person-to-person, like in the Olden Days. We only have emergency systems that were installed in case of nation-wide blackout. I guess I’m glad we don’t actually have a blackout, we just need to get the computers back to work. (If I understood it correctly.)

Melanie thinks it’ll all come back to life in a few more days. I certainly hope so. I also hope I’ll stop feeling like this. Or rather, not feeling like anything. It’s so strange. Like in the first days after the incident, when I just felt numb?

They’re gone! I want to feel like a person again! What if I never get myself back?

 They’re actually gone.

 What will we do with our lives now? Basira isn’t the only one who feels uprooted. I think the whole world feels like that right now.

I hope my computer comes back soon. I miss music, and making things. My photos, all those memories.

I don’t want to lose all of that. I want to start fresh, but not without records of the past.

…I’ve had a lot of time to think about that, specifically. Records, and futures.

What the Ghost is done, right? There’s no fun in creepy ghost stories if you’ve been through an actual, living nightmare.

I think I want to start new with that, too. When everything works again, that is.

New world, new future, new podcast. I like that. I think. Make a record of what happened through eyewitness accounts? Or is that too similar to the Statements… then again, it’ll be more like interviews. And I think we shouldn’t forget.

We owe them that much.

I’ll have to talk it over with Melanie tomorrow. Maybe.

We’ll see.

God, I think maybe… maybe I can actually try and sleep tonight. Writing does seem to help.

 Note to self: thank Laverne for suggesting it. (Also for being there for Melanie. And listening to us. And stopping with that culty nonsense. She’s the only one we found so far, but she actually listened to us. Strange to think that in this world, I have to be grateful for someone not worshipping me for some dumb reason?!)

   Day 4 - Morning

So. Three things.

1) I did manage to fall asleep after all! I’ve always been a bit of an insomniac, especially after the incident, so actually getting some proper rest felt really good.

2) I somehow woke up right as the sun went up! I think I’ve never seen a dawn this beautiful? I watched it from the bedroom window and I’ll definitely describe it to her in detail when she wakes up! The Admiral was sleeping on our pillow, right next to her head, snuggled up against the back of her neck and shoulder... it was so cute. I can’t believe my phone and camera still don’t work! Melanie has that old polaroid camera somewhere but we haven’t found it yet, and I wish my art skills were any better. I did draw a sketch of the two of them though. I’ll cherish it forever, no matter how shitty it is :’)

After everything that happened, the Admiral is still a bit weird around us. He started out really aggressive, calmed down a bit, and now… now he’s weirdly skittish? Meows a lot. Keeps walking around the flat. The only thing that even remotely returns him to how he used to be is tuna. It’s weird.

But seeing him like that, with Melanie? I love him so much.

I think he’ll be okay.

But before I forget, and why I actually got out the diary at this ungodly hour instead of trying to go back to sleep now that the sun is up…

3) I had a really nice dream. And... I don’t even know. I think I want to try and hold onto the feeling? I don’t think I’ve felt that… deeply… in a long while. Maybe the last time was before all this, when we decided to move in together. Before all of this happened.

For a moment, I felt like I was whole again :’)

It didn’t even have Melanie in it, which is very rude tbh. I think Jon was there? The Admiral, too. We were just chilling on the sofa, watching netflix I think... It felt so... mundane??? Casual, somehow??? Like it was normal to feel like that and I just... I want THAT. I want to feel like that again, instead of this weird… blank nothingness? I want that all the time, not just when I’m riding a high or feeling so terrible that it pierces through.

I don’t know if that makes sense but this is just for me anyway so I suppose it doesn’t have to.

 I think I should feel bad about Jon being gone, but I still don’t even feel relief at it being over. Just this vague numbness.

I hate it so much, except I don’t, actually, I just know that I should?

Melanie keeps saying that I need a therapist but if we’re being honest here, I guess I need one the least? The whole goddamn world needs therapy right now. Including the therapists. And I’ve been dealing with this for a long time now.

I guess I keep hoping it’ll just go away somehow.

 Anyways. Enough introspection, I’m going back to bed. I hope I don’t wake them! :)

  Day 4 - Evening

 It’s night now, the sun went down hours ago. We have a bunch of candles, but I’m trying to use them sparingly, so I just have one lit. I put a glass of water next to the candle so now the light gets magnified a bit more. It’s a weird atmosphere, but I kinda like it? Feels… cozy! :)

I’m still not over how everything looks the same, but nothing works like it did before, and there’s this… burden? This collective trauma everyone went through. It feels so surreal. So many things are still broken… it’s like we woke from a collective nightmare, but pieces of it still remain, floating around.

And we just sent it away with the tapes. I really hope those other worlds are doing better than us, but what else could we have done? I… try not to think about it. I know I should, but I still can’t really bring myself to care, or even feel overly guilty for that? …

 Melanie fell asleep with her head in my lap half an hour ago. I was reading to her. She says she loves the sound of my voice, so I’ve started doing that in the evenings. (I still love that we had separate crushes from a distance on each other for ages because of youtube and WTG. We’ve been talking about that a lot, too.)

She still has nightmares, but apparently she’s also been having good dreams, and she looks so peaceful right now. The last few days have been a lot, but in comparison to before, and even before then…

It’s over. We made it out. We get to have a future together. I still can’t quite believe it. :)

 I guess I’m writing again (despite already having done so in the morning) because it somehow helped yesterday and I’m hoping to replicate that. And I have a lot to think about. It’s been a long day.

Basira is still out there, helping out where she can. I think she feels guilty. Melanie says she doesn’t because there was no other choice, but I know her, and I know that she’s lying.

There’s always another choice. We just say that to make it easier to bear.

I hope she knows she can come talk to me when she feels ready to tackle it.

I hope I ever feel able to tackle it myself. No. I will talk to her when I’m ready.

We did talk a bit about things, of course. Melanie doesn’t really remember her dreams, most of the time, but apparently she’s been alternating between horrifying nightmares and a really nice, recurring one that sometimes happens after the nightmares. She doesn’t really remember much of it, but she mentioned it after I told her about the Jon dream. Not what it was about, just… in general.

From the way she talked about it, I think her dad might have been in it? I’m actually not sure, but the way she smiled…

She has that little smile on her lips again, even now, dreaming. The soft one she gets when she talks about good things. About him.

About me.

(I still can’t believe she chose me. How impossibly lucky? How did I ever deserve her? But then, it’s not about that, is it? She is mine, and I am hers, and… life will be good. I know it will be.)

 She’s been smiling a lot more, these past few days.

[littlespoonevan]

okay this took me forever bc i could not for the life of me think of a tattoo to cover up ian’s  that was actually like. nice but also relevant to monica (bc despite my feelings about her i don’t want to take that sentiment away). i’m happy with the one i chose though so hopefully you like it too <33

(quick reminder: i’m not accepting anymore prompts at the moment while i work on the ones in my inbox <3)

*

Ian is standing in front of the mirror in the bathroom brushing his hair back out of his face with a comb when he hears the water cut off in the shower. A moment later he’s on the receiving end of a damp side hug as Mickey winds the hand not holding up his towel around Ian’s waist to balance himself while he leans in to give him a kiss on the cheek.

“Mm hey,” Mickey greets warmly and Ian pauses in his ministrations to smile at him in the mirror.

Dropping his comb, he turns and settles his hands on Mickey’s shoulders, absently massaging the divot of space beneath Mickey’s collarbones with his thumbs. “Hey. You doin’ anything today?”

He knows Mickey has the day off and days off for Mickey – especially rare weekday ones – usually result in him not surfacing from bed until at least 11:00 before he has a late breakfast and parks himself on the couch for the rest of the day. But today he’s already up and showered and it’s not even 10am. The way Mickey ducks his head when he asks the question also suggests he does have something on.

Which is a little weird – if only because Ian also has the day off since he’s changing rotation from days to nights this week.

“I, uh, I’ve got an appointment in a couple hours,” Mickey says evasively and Ian frowns.

Mickey only ever talks like this when his dad’s involved and Ian will shoot Terry himself if he’s after getting Mickey caught up in his shit again. “What kind of appointment?” he asks, not sure if he really wants to hear the answer.

Mickey must be able to tell where Ian’s mind goes though because he looks up and rolls his eyes. “A real appointment, dumbass,” he says. “At a tattoo parlour.”

Ian instantly feels himself relax and lets go of Mickey to put his comb back in the medicine cabinet next to his morning meds. “You getting a new tattoo?”

Mickey doesn’t answer right away and when he does the words are mumbled at a barely audible volume. “Fixing one actually.”

Ian pauses, turning around to face Mickey again. Mickey’s busying himself with tightening the towel around his waist, pointedly not looking in Ian’s direction. Ian takes the time to let his eyes drop to the tattoo sitting on Mickey’s chest before he steps forward again, brushing his fingers over Mickey’s forearm and coaxing his arms away from his torso. “Mick.”

Mickey looks up at him, letting Ian pull his arms around his waist and releasing a sigh that comes out more resigned than bashful. “Guess I figured since you’re stickin’ around I should probably make it look the way it’s supposed to.”

Ian smiles even though his heart squeezes a little painfully in his chest. He hates that he ever made Mickey doubt the fact he would stay. He reaches up, running the fingers of his left hand over his name. He does it on purpose so Mickey will see the wedding ring and remember. This is forever now. “Can I come with you?” he asks, looking up from Mickey’s chest to meet his gaze.

“Why?” Mickey says, shrugging like he doesn’t care but Ian can tell he probably does. “The guy said it shouldn’t take that long.”

“Well, if we’re in a fixing tattoos kinda mood maybe I should do something about the one on my back.”

Mickey’s face twists into a familiar grimace at the mention of the obnoxious boobs on Ian’s shoulder before going slack with surprise. “You’re gonna cover it up?”

It’s Ian’s turn to shrug. “I’ve been thinking about it for a while. I mean, I know Monica’d probably find it hilarious but it’s ugly as shit.”

Mickey snorts at that, a sort of no arguments from me, pal!

“And I’ve finally got enough money put away to afford to get something big enough to cover it. I could call and see if they can fit me in too?”

Mickey considers him for a moment before his mouth ticks up at the corners and his hands squeeze Ian’s hips. “Guess we got a date, Gallagher.”

*

They’re led into separate rooms when they get there. Mickey had already had a consultation but Ian hadn’t, not to mention the fact Ian’s is a significantly longer job than Mickey’s. He likes the idea he came up with though.

He’d started thinking about cover ups almost from the minute he’d gotten the tattoo but not only had it been too expensive, he’d also had no fucking idea what to get. He still wants it to be something for her because no matter how fucked up things got and no matter what she’s done, he still misses her. But as time passed the more he’d started to think maybe he wanted it to mean a little more than that too.

In the end he’d settled on something that he thought fit for both of them.

He’s had a general picture of what he’s wanted for a while now and when he shows it to the tattoo artist – Benny, his nametag says – he sketches a couple of his own mock-ups for Ian to choose from. It’s gonna take a couple of hours so he texts Mickey while Benny is prepping his shoulder and tells him he doesn’t need to hang around for him if he doesn’t want to.

Mickey texts him back a succinct, “Whatever, Gallagher,” and that’s the end of that until Mickey texts him again approximately forty-five minutes later, saying, “I’m gonna go get lunch, want me to bring you back something?”

Ian buries his smile against his arm where he’s got it braced in front of him in the chair and tries to remain completely still as he texts back.

Ian: My usual. Thank you <3

Mickey: Whatever

Mickey: <3

*

Mickey takes his time, obviously choosing to eat his own lunch at the mall and kill some time so Ian’ll be almost done by the time he comes back to the tattoo parlour. Ian hears the bell jangle above the door in the main room about five minutes before Benny finally sits back and says, “Okay, you’re all set.”

Ian relaxes in the chair before he remembers he hasn’t seen it yet. He extricates himself from the awkward position he’d been in for the past few hours and makes his way to mirror in the corner of the room, turning around and craning his neck. He catches sight of the corner of it before Benny appears next to him with a handheld mirror so he can get a better look.

It’s perfect.

Sure enough, Mickey’s waiting for him when he comes onto the main shop floor, lunch in hand, and Ian flashes him an affectionate smile before he goes up to the counter to pay.

Other than Mickey asking him again what he got and Ian telling him he’ll show him when they get home they don’t talk about their tattoos on the way home. Not that Ian can really think of much else – he’d been so anxious about covering up his own tattoo, he’d forgotten why they’d even come here in the first place. What Mickey did.

It’s a lot to process – the level of devotion that tattoo shows.

It’d felt like someone had taken a knife to Ian’s own chest when he’d first seen it. Like a giant declaration of all the ways Ian had fucked Mickey up. Now though, now Ian feels it for what it is. Unconditional love.

By some unspoken agreement they both head straight up the stairs when they get back to the house, following each other into the bedroom and closing the door behind them. When they’re stood face to face beside the bed Ian finally opens his mouth to speak.

“You first,” he requests quietly, the moment feeling oddly intimate as Mickey glances down, shrugging off his jacket before reaching for his t-shirt.

Ian watches with rapt attention as he pulls his shirt over his head, eyes zeroing in on Mickey’s chest as soon as he lets his arms fall back to his sides again. There’s tape over it but Ian can still see it clear as day. He lets out a breath and steps closer, fingers hovering above the letters. The extra “l” fits in seamlessly and other than the “h” being a little on the small side in order to make it fit, you’d never know it wasn’t there in the first place.

Ian looks up to find Mickey staring off to the side, a faint splotch of colour on his cheeks, and Ian bites down on a smile, carefully turning Mickey’s chin back towards him. “I love you,” he says softly, darting in to steal a kiss. It’s enough to make Mickey relax and lean into him, which is all Ian had wanted really.

“Alright, your turn,” Mickey says when he pulls back. “Enough with the secrecy bullshit.”

Ian huffs a laugh but obligingly steps back and pulls on the hem of his t-shirt. Once he gets it over his head he tosses it on the bed and turns around, feeling oddly nervous for Mickey’s reaction.

Mickey doesn’t say anything right away but after a beat Ian feels the gentle pressure of Mickey’s fingertips right around the outline of the tape and he knows what Mickey sees. A compass with a rope intricately woven around it.

“I wanted something for Monica but I wanted it to be for me too,” Ian explains, unprompted. He turns to face Mickey again and finds him watching him carefully, like he’s trying to work something out.

“I felt really fucking lost for a long time after everything that happened,” he continues quietly. It’s hard to look Mickey in the eye but he forces himself to anyway. “And I know I kinda have a habit of running away from my problems but…I always want to come home. To my family. To you.”

Mickey’s throat bobs at the last part, hands twitching for a moment at his sides before they reach up to land on Ian’s shoulders. “What’s it got to do with your mom?”

Ian gives him a half-hearted smile. “I looked it up; Monica means advisor.” He lets out bemused laugh, shaking his head. “She’s- She didn’t give me good advice,” he says seriously because if nothing else he wants to remind Mickey that he knows Monica played some role in their relationship ending all those years ago. “I know that now but- she did show me what I didn’t want my life to become.”

Mickey nods, expression softening like he understands.

“And…she was lost too,” Ian adds, blowing out a breath. “I don’t think she ever had anyone like you to remind her she had something worth coming back to.”

Mickey stares at him for a moment, a myriad of expressions flickering across his face before he cups Ian’s cheek. “She could’ve come back for you,” he says solemnly and Ian smiles, covering Mickey’s hand with his own.

“I know,” he murmurs. “We were never enough to make her stay though.” Ian presses his forehead against Mickey’s. “You make me want to stay.”

Mickey doesn’t say anything to that, just draws him into a kiss filled with surety and love. Ian wraps his arms around him and kisses back, pouring everything he has into it. Because really, in a lot of ways, Mickey should probably be the one with the compass tattoo considering all the times he’s managed to make his way back to Ian right when he’d needed him.

But he likes it. The past couple of years he feels like he’s found himself again. And in doing that he found Mickey again.

And he’s never, ever letting him go.

*

[subtlereferencetomyinterests]

Communication Issues (AT:TTSIMBCMEOAYSFIL)- Chapter Two

Ao3,   MasterPost,   Chapter One, Chapter Three

Relationships: (eventual) Romantic Analogince

I’m finally back from my impromptu hiatus!!! My laptop, like, just fuckin broke... but now I’ve got a new one so it’s okay!!! And the first thing I did with it was make these little characters Hurt.

Warnings: Repressing Emotions (k i n d a), food mention, self-isolation/avoiding one’s friends, general angst, cursing, unreliable narrator (maybe??? by that I mean Logan is stupid and has no idea what’s actually going on.) 

Word Count: 5,244

To the best of your knowledge, the three of you are close. To see the facts: you, Roman, and Virgil spend the majority of your time together, partaking in a number of activities that all of you find fun. Comparing your time with them to how much you see, say, a friend like Janus- it becomes apparent that the three of you ought to be considered ‘best friends’. 

However, you had preferred to be 100% certain of this, as you like to be with all things. It was a few weeks after Roman’s New Idea when you finally gave in to this preference (more of a need, really). You asked outright the nature of your dynamic with them.

Roman laughed at you. The abashment you felt was, unfortunately, a very familiar thing.

‘Is the idea of us being best friends really so humorous?’ you challenged, masking the sting you felt with indignation. Virgil had elbowed Roman sharply, explaining to him that you were seriously asking. His laughter stopped at once. ‘Of course we are,’ he’d said. ‘I thought you were kidding, because it seemed so obvious,’ he’d continued. 

All you could manage was a small ‘Oh’. 

So, yes, you’ve determined that your bond is more meaningful than on average. That hardly irks you; it’s a positive thing, in fact. It’s been good for you to have some kind of affection, even if the thought still makes you want to roll your eyes. It’s what’s just beyond that affection that’s causing an itching beneath your skin when the three of you ‘hang out’, as you so often do. That itching, those crawling little mites figuratively burrowed under your skin- it’s all been prevalent in your interactions over the past weeks.

Go over the facts, then, Logan. 

Fact one: You aren’t used to intimate friendships.

Fact two: You have established an intimate friendship with Roman and Virgil

Fact(?) three: Roman and Virgil’s intimacy with each other is quickly turning away from ‘friendship’.

This brings you to the evidence, which gets a little fuzzier; some conclusions might have been jumped to, but you find that irrelevant.

Evidence (?): They share these Looks. A Look when Roman says something abhorrently stupid, but when Virgil jumps to insult him he sounds nothing but adoring. A Look when Virgil comes up with a particularly creative biting remark, and while Roman is just as quick to fire back with a playful tease of his own, there’s that obvious elated expression of pride that he holds just for the anxious trait. 

That on it’s own wouldn’t amount to much, you’ll admit, but you’ve always been a careful observer of body language (out of necessity, given how words fail you when there’s subtext to be found). Their hands brush frequently, to the point where it cannot possibly be incidental. They not-so-subtly lean into each other when they probably think you aren’t looking- though perhaps you shouldn’t be looking anyway. While you are well-accustomed to platonic physical affection in not only your relationships with the two of them, but with all of your ‘coworkers’ (the bulk of it coming from Patton and Remus, predictably), Virgil and Roman’s physical affection exudes such romantic tension that you’re surprised Roman himself isn’t going haywire, because of the overload of feelings that fall into his area of expertise.

Your third piece of evidence comes from just last night. You’d returned from the kitchen, arms loaded with snacks for you all to share, only to find Roman threading his fingers through Virgil’s hair while the embodiment of anxiety carefully sketched on a folded sheet of paper. Virgil’s eyes had flicked up briefly, widening when he saw you as though you hadn’t only left the room for seven minutes and twenty-three seconds.

“Oh, hey,” he greeted with a tiny wave. Something odd and envious and just a bit bitter simmered in your chest, but you denied it whatever it seemed to be hissing for. You gave your friend a nod, setting down the food you’d brought onto the coffee table and seating yourself a good few feet from him and Roman on the couch. 

“V and I got bored waiting,” Roman explained, “So we’re doing a little art collaboration. The rule is that we aren’t allowed to see what the other one draws until it’s done!” He seemed enthusiastic about the game, and Virgil was clearly invested in his work. You saw no reason to interrupt them, quietly deeming your original plan to watch blue planet together defunct. But you could still contribute to this new activity! You knew plenty of art history, thankfully.

“There’s actually a name for that- it’s called Exquisite Corpse. The term was coined by surrealist artists in 1925.”

Roman waved his hand, almost dismissive, and your heart- figuratively- sank. 

“Yeah, yeah, in Paris, I already know. Yves Tanguy, Marcel Duchamp, et cetera et cetera. Art’s my whole thing, remember? Do you wanna play or not?”

“Oh, I- I don’t care for drawing,” you have never understood and will likely never understand most forms of visual art. 

Roman shrugged, but before he could respond Virgil was folding up the piece of paper and handing it to him, blank side up. The vigilant trait pushed his bangs back and shook out his shaggy hair, which stuck up at odd angles due to Roman’s tangling.

“Whatever you want, L. You can put on that documentary you were talking about now,” Virgil said, reaching for the food piled up on the table. Your first instinct had been to agree, of course, and get back to the original plan for the day. As you took the remote, however, you couldn’t help but notice just how close they sat, plenty apart from you. It felt like a fitting analogy- and you’ve always had distaste for analogies.

“That’s alright,” a lie, “I’m feeling rather restless now- I think it would be best if I got some work done with this energy,” a half-truth. 

You’d left before they could respond, trying to ignore the envy seething under your skin. It didn’t even make sense- you hated having your hair touched! While the history was interesting, Surrealist art did nothing but frustrate you! You don’t like drawing games, or people’s hands on your face, for goodness’ sake. 

Presently, you stare up at your ceiling and reflect on your friendship, feeling it all start to click. You do not want it to click. You push your glasses up on your forehead and press the heels of your hands against your eyelids, soaking in the ache that results from the pressure. You’re so fucking sick of thinking, thinking, thinking- but the other option is leaving your room- which you’ll have to do very soon anyway- and interacting with other people.

It’s easier to handle with everyone else around to distract you, rather than just Virgil and Roman. Easier, but not easy. You groan, pushing yourself into a sitting position and letting your glasses fall back into place. You cannot just stew here forever, much as you’d like to.

Yet- It doesn’t make sense. You don’t want to see Virgil and Roman, sitting as close as they do now, dancing around each other so frustratingly. But you want to be around them so much that you feel you can’t help it, desperate to be caught between them like usual. But, no, you don’t!

You wish they could figure themselves out and actually get together, to save everyone the headache- but is that even really what you want? For them to officially be romantically involved, thereby distancing themselves from you even further? And then you’ll truly be the ‘third wheel’, as it were? 

What do you want, you ask yourself repeatedly.

  For things to go back to normal, you answer yourself. 

You shake your head, no, because what does that even mean? Do you want them to not have feelings for each other, just so they’ll pay more attention to you? Now that doesn’t add up at all, because first and foremost you want them to be happy. Happy, and also spending time with you as much as each other. Yes, that’s closer to the point, you think. You want that closeness to be equal between the three of you, that makes perfect sense. So, logically, it follows that what you want is-

What you want is… 

God, no, God, your eyes widen and your fists clench and, fuck, you almost shake as you try to hold back the encroaching realization.

You want-

There’s a knock at the door. 

You breathe shakily, your hands tensing and untensing. There’s a knock at the door. The door of your room, because you are in your room, sitting on your bed. You’re here, and now, and you can breathe.

Dazedly, you stand, moving as though you’re wading through honey. You swallow back whatever feelings had been building in you only for the moment. You aren't willing to actually harm yourself by repressing them, merely holding them at the reigns in order to actually function enough to talk to whoever’s come knocking.

You click the door open, pulling it back to see a worried Patton. You are immeasurably relieved that it is him specifically.

“Heya, Kiddo. It’s been a while since any of us saw you today. I was just coming by to let you know we’re about to start picking a movie for tonight. Do ya feel up to joining us?”

That’s something you appreciate about Patton: he keeps in tune with others’ emotions with almost supernatural accuracy. Remarkably high-empathy being a power granted to him by his aspect, he knew when things were off, and he knew when someone did or did not want to talk about it. He didn’t barge up to your room and throw the door open with the enthusiasm he might usually express if he saw how you were uneasy, knowing that such an action could be overwhelming. Rather, he was checking in, quietly offering you an out if you needed it. 

But you’re about to directly contradict yourself about that appreciation! Because this means that you have to decide what you do; because you maybe kind of want to be forced to see your friends, rather than forcing yourself to avoid them. You aren’t exactly sure you have the strength to be around them on your own, but you can’t imagine a fate worse than isolation in the wake of this emotional discovery that you totally aren’t focusing on right now dammit answer Patton.

“Yes, I must have been a tad preoccupied today. I’ll be down in a moment,” the answer’s out before you think about it. You regret it, and also you don’t. 

Patton grins warmly at you, obviously relieved, and promises to wait for you to head down before they start. He disappears back through the hall and down the staircase in an instant, humming tunelessly as he walks.

It’s only after arriving downstairs that you become entirely sure that you’ve made the wrong choice. Roman is practically in Virgil’s lap, his head tilted into the facet’s neck while they playfully bicker with each other. When he spots you, his head shoots up, and he waves you over. In an amazing example of self-control, you sit one cushion away from the pair.

Throughout the night, you keep your eyes trained to the screen, trying to ignore however sappy Roman and Virgil get. You need space to think about this issue and find a way to solve it, and they need more space from their little tricycle anyway. 

The movies pass in a blur. You think Virgil tries to say something to you before you go upstairs, but you don’t catch it. Your ears are ringing.

<<<???>>><<<???>>><<<???>>>

It’s predictable as hell, considering his semi-self-isolation before The Incident, that Roman is desperate for attention. He’s, in the simplest terms, clingy as fucking fuck. Something that’s mildly less expected than that is just how little you mind it. If you’re honest, with all the hugs and brushes and small comforts, it kinda rocks. Which might be an odd way to describe emotionally and physically intimate friendship, but hey. Shut up. 

You and Roman’ve become a little attached at the hip because of this- though you hold tightly onto the excuse that it’s just cuz you want Roman to get the attention he needs, and totally not because you actually like the affection, too. You know the truth, though. The truth that it all… fulfills something in you, something that’s been craving attention that you didn’t even know about. It’s weird. Not bad, just weird.

You digress; the point is that you and Roman have a Thing With Touching, and that’s not exactly a shocker. Something you’re only recently coming to notice, however, is that this preference is one shared by your other closest friend, Logan. You could’ve sworn he’d be touch averse, and while he definitely has very specific boundaries (he wouldn’t tolerate touches to his hair, neck, or most parts of his legs), he’s exactly the opposite of averse, he’s just way too stubborn to initiate anything or admit it.

Who knew that only knowing a grand total of six other beings for your entire life- most of said beings disliking each other for a good portion of that life- would leave everyone involved more than a little touch-starved? 

Oh well. No time like the present to fix that, you figure. This is all just your long-winded way of saying that whenever you’re in the room with Logic or Creativity, you’re 99% guaranteed to have at least one point of contact with them. 

Which totally wouldn’t be a problem, if you weren’t falling irrevocably in love with both of them. But, unfortunately, you totally are. 

When everything started, it was just Logan. He was too considerate and too goddamn caring not to make you feel things, the bastard. He understands you, almost perfectly, all the time- even though people understanding you completely goes against your aesthetic- and you feel like you get him all the same. In a way, your love for him makes sense. It always has, really, all the way back when he gave you that first glimpse of friendship. It’s always been Logan.

And that all would be horrible enough on its own, but then Roman blind-sided you with his teary eyes and deeply-rooted insecurity. Neither of these are technically ‘attractive’ traits, but dammit if you didn’t find yourself sympathizing to a painful extent. You not only comprehended his (gradually lessening) pain, you’re also surprised to note just how badly you want to help him through it, if only because you knew that you really could help. You can’t bear to watch Roman suffer, because the both of you, despite all the differences, are exactly alike. You find sympathy in his sadness, and affection in his joy. 

It’s disgusting.

The plan was simple; you’d keep all the feelings inside, and then one day you’d die. You’d hold them all at bay and let the infatuation fade to a dull ache against your ribcage, settling into a bittersweet friendship with the two temperamental traits. It’s easy to push down when all six of you spend family time together, hell, you hardly break a sweat when it’s just the three of you, because you can just use one to deflect off the other! You are a fucking pro at ignoring your emotions.

Then movie night happened. You have no clue what specifically did happen, but you’ve managed to track the weird behavior back to that evening. Logan was stiff as a board all night, sitting as far as he could from you and Ro. He didn’t even look back at you when you tried to talk to him before he left. He didn’t answer the door when you tried to check on him later. 

To say that Logan hadn’t left his room since would be a gross oversimplification. Oh, he’s venturing out, alright, but strategically. He comes down for meals. He comes down when Patton, Remus, or occasionally Janus ask for him, indulging them without complaint. Sure, he’s conveniently busy whenever it’s you or Roman knocking, but he’s already done so much with everybody else that day. No one could be concerned, because clearly Logan wasn’t avoiding anything.

Yeah, bullshit. He’s just diverting everybody else’s suspicions, but you know him too well for that.

He doesn’t work in the commons anymore. He doesn’t rise up in the living room, accompanied with a laptop or a kindle or what have you, just to have the quiet company of someone else while he works. He doesn’t seek you out to explain something he read on Tumblr, and from the looks of it, he doesn’t attempt to infodump about poetry with Roman anymore. And the nail in this coffin is this: when you attempt to confront him, he plays dumb. Logan plays dumb.

Logan avoiding you means two things: 1. one of your most trusted friends who you’re absolutely besotted with won’t talk to you, which is its own special kind of agony- and 2. you spend the majority of your time totally alone with the other friend that you are in love with, which is obviously not ideal.

By this point, you are well-acquainted with the various personal problems of your ‘co-workers’. Statistically, at any given point at least one side is having some kind of an emotional crisis. You figure that it’s best to get a headstart on solving this one, before you can talk yourself out of it. 

But obviously you can’t do it alone.

“Roman.”

The side in question shrieks, spinning around hastily with wide eyes. You don’t even blink, staring him down from the kitchen doorway until he has the sense to stop screaming. He cuts himself off with a cough, clearing his throat and returning to whatever it was that he was doing. After an appropriate awkward silence, he shoots you a sheepish smile. 

“Oh, ha- I- I didn’t see you there, Virgil,” he huffs a tiny laugh, his mouth twitching. It’s such a soft little expression, a bit embarrassed but mostly- Dammit, Virgil, you’re here for a reason! Keep it together, you useless homosexual.

“I guessed that, yeah,” you trudge into the room, lifting yourself up onto the counter beside the stove. “How are you?”

He pauses for a moment. It’s a simple question, but the both of you understand its true significance. You’re expecting an honest, no-nonsense answer as to how he’s been feeling. It’s sort of a system, to help prevent all that bottling up of emotions that you’re all so used to. 

“I suppose I’m… a little out of it. I got rather caught up in sculpting for a good few hours,” as he explains, you notice him absently digging clay out from under his nails, “So I figured it was time for a lunch break.”

“Good,” you tell him, because it’s important that he hears things like that. He’s staring vacantly into the water that’s beginning to bubble on the stove, but you know he will return the check-in question to you in his own time. Technically, you could have just walked in and began with what you really wanted to talk about, but this method gives the conversation a more clear-cut structure. Greeting, followed by question-response, followed by question-response; it’s properly outlined. 

“What’s going on with you, then?”

“I feel like garbage,” you see him blink in surprise, but he waits politely for you to continue. “I’m worried. I mean- I'm usually worried, but in this specific circumstance, I’m worried about-”

“Logan?” He looks up when he says it, his gaze searching. 

“Yeah- um, yes. You noticed it, too?”

“Oh, please,” there's an obnoxious clanging as Roman idly swings around a slotted spoon, “I may not be as observant as you nerds, but you could stand to give me some credit.”

You settle him with A Look. He huffs.

“Okay fine! I only caught on when he… ugh, it's embarrassing, but we like to write. Together. On Wednesdays. But he’s been ditching.”

You already had a hunch about your friends’ little poetry sessions, as neither are particularly subtle about anything, at all, ever. It's super dorky, but it’s a very them thing to do. This development is concerning, to say the least.

“Wait, then why haven’t you brought it up?” 

Roman squirms a bit, clinking his slotted ladle against the stovetop repetitively. You regret the interrogative tone that found its way into your voice.

“I didn't want to be, you know, needy. He said he was busy- and like, it was a little sketchy when he was only busy when I wanted to hang out- but- I just assumed he’d maybe gotten bored with it. I didn’t want him to get even more distant with me, so I didn’t say anything.”

Well, okay, you totally fail at not being distracted by that. Scooching a little further down the counter, you bump Roman's hip with the side of your foot.

“Hey.”

He doesn't look up. 

“Roman.”

He groans, throwing his head back and glaring up at the cabinets.

“I know! Saying it out loud, alright, I know he wouldn't do something like that- it's just- I forget sometimes, Virge.”

You don't ask him to elaborate. He doesn't need to. He shifts away from the stove and drops his head onto your shoulder, leaning against you. 

“But if you've noticed it too, then something must really be wrong, huh?”

You give a short laugh.

“Yeah. He's upset about something, I can tell. It’s fuzzy, though, that’s the weirdest thing. It's like, I can feel the anxiety from, but it's being overpowered by something else in there. I have no idea what, so it's gotta be out of my jurisdiction.”

He hums curiously. 

“What’s the plan then? Drag him out of his room and make him hang out with us?” Roman's voice rumbles against your shoulder, and it's so comforting that you can't help but hook a leg around his waist to keep him near you.

“Great idea, I'm sure that he’ll really appreciate that,” your sarcasm (hopefully) takes the impact out of your downright cuddly nature. Roman is unfazed.

“That is literally what the both of you did to me mere months ago. I'd say that turned out pretty well, hmm?”

He tilts his head to the side, dragging out the hum with his face pressed against your neck. It's a concerted effort to snark at him instead of purring from the feeling. 

“I doubt that L would appreciate something like that, just because you- Jesus,” you cut yourself off when Roman fucking nuzzles you, ew gross- “Oh my fucking God, can you- prrr- can you st- prrrrr- stop for one second? You're- re- rerrrrrr- distracting me!” You push him off of you, feigning disgust. You don’t want to, but you have to at least try to stay on track.

He just chuckles, dropping away from you if only to take his food off the stove. 

“Sorry, sorry, it's just so hard to resist. You’re a kitten!”

“I know you're God-awful at genuine conversations, so I guess I'll let it slide this time.”

You see the offended look spread across his face, and hastily hold a hand up to interrupt.

“Logan.”

“Right, yes. Logan.”

“I mean, what would he say?” you drag your hand down your face, wracking your brain for any of his advice that you could apply to the situation. “He’d be all ‘the logical course of action would simply be to confront me, Virgil, because I am a stubborn little bitch and I will dance around the issue indefinitely,’” You nod, satisfied with both your impression and the conclusion it brought you to. Roman shoots you a comically wide grin.

“That was scary, how much you sounded like him.”

You shrug, offering a hum.

“So we should just… what? Walk up to his door, knock knock,‘what’s going on with you, man?’, and see what happens?”

“As crazy as it sounds, maybe this would be easier if we didn't prolong it for three weeks and complicate it like we do with everything else?”

There's a clatter as Roman struggles to reach the top cabinet for a bowl. You drop down from the counter, reach over his head, and hand it to him. 

“When you phrase it like that, I suppose it sounds obvious,” he takes the ceramic and fills it up- without a thanks, the bitch.

“Okay. We do that, then.”

“Okay.”

You hover in the kitchen, watching him grab his meal and begin to walk away. He tosses his head over his shoulder, giving you a look that you can't quite place. 

“Are you just going to wait there while I eat my lunch? We’ll go up in a few minutes, but I'd rather not pass out from lack of blood sugar in the middle of what's sure to be a whole production.”

“Oh- right.”

<<<???>>><<<???>>><<<???>>>

At your knock, there is absolutely no response from the other side of Logan’s door. You knock again- not so much as a footstep! You push down your immediate frustration at the nerve of him, knowing that you must keep your cool (but you also know that he has everyone’s knocks memorized; he knows it’s you!). 

You spare a glance to Virgil. He stares back at you, lip worried between his fangs, hands twisting themselves at his sleeves. He’s slouching so much that he looks nearly as short as you. 

“Is it… is it that bad?” your knuckles are still barely pressing against the inky-blue door, lingering. He nods. 

“Fuck, dude, whatever he’s feeling is intense. But, I can’t figure out what the hell it is,” he makes an attempt at whispering, but it sounds more like screeching TV static than anything. 

He’s in there, and Virgil isn’t the only one who can sense it. It’s electric; whatever Virgil isn’t picking up on seems to have fallen into your domain. Unfortunately, it must be one of your non-primary side functions, because you have no idea what the specifics are. You curse the fact that you aren’t nearly as in tune with these things as he, by design, is. 

“We gotta get in there, Roman.”

The use of your proper name startles you. You grind your teeth, turning his suggestion over in your mind a few times before shaking your head sharply.

“You were the one that said we needed a subtle approach, you- Virgil,” you catch yourself before a nickname slips out, trying to share in his sincerity for the moment.

He gives a shaky sigh.

“I- I know what I said, but- Fuck, Ro, it’s bad.”

Now, it may be just because you’re a contrary bitch, but you have flipped on your original stance as well, leaving the both of you at odds. The worse this feels, the more you need to hesitate. If he’s avoiding you- both of you, the mini-him in your head reminds you, mind your mental filtering- then there's a reason for it. A reason to do with anxiety and you, which could easily be the ‘passion’ part of you, and that gives the strong implication that he’s deeply angry and hurt. In which case, you know that you could easily do something to make it much worse. You are very good at saying the wrong thing.

And so. You stare blankly at his door. Immobile.

Virgil elbows you.

You wrap your knuckles against the door and send him a glare. He groans, ramming his shoulder into yours.

“Okay, Roman, out of the way-”

“I’m getting some bad vibes-”

“Yeah, me too, that's kind of the point!”

“Well, there’s no reason to get snippy!”

“I don’t need a reason anyway, now move-” 

At a light shuffling from behind the door, you both snap your mouths shut. It’s dead silent as you wait, more patient than you've ever been before, as the muffled footsteps draw closer to the door. They stop just short of it, and for a moment you don't breathe.

“I can hear you,” came a muffled, barely-audible rasp. 

You fall against the door at once, pressing the side of your face into its cool surface. Virgil appears beside you, his claws suspended just above the knob. They hover like he’d be burned if he touched it. His voice is carefully measured, and he nearly sounds normal when he speaks.

“L, buddy, can you let us in? Can we talk?” 

You nod along, realize that he cannot see you, and then enthusiastically proclaim your agreement with the statement instead.

There's a long pause. You fear that Logan’s left again.

“Is this… necessary?”

“I’d really like to know why you aren't talking to us, so yeah,” you try not to snap, you really do, but you can tell that you’ve failed as soon as the words leave your mouth. You hope he'll understand how you really meant it. 

There's a sigh, and yet another silence. Virgil makes eye-contact with you, face twisted up with concern.

“It was not my intention for you to think me angry with you, if that's what you’re worried about.”

“That’s not it, Lo,” well, Virgil can speak for himself, because you were kind of worried about that. “I know something's going on. I know you.”

“Virgil,” his voice sounds much clearer, closer, as though he's pressed against the doorframe like yourself, “Virgil, your voice.”

“Don't know if you can tell, man, but I'm pretty anxious right now. And I know that not all of it is mine.”

At the next lapse, you don't wait for Logan to speak.

“Specs, hey, listen to me: I don't have a clue what's going on-” you let yourself smile, knowing that he can hear it in your voice, “Which is kind of my usual state, really- but the point is, it doesn't matter. We're here for you, no matter what. The three of us- best friends, right? Bee-eff-effs.”

“Best friends forever,” he mutters.

“Ah! I’m glad you agree!”

“No- it’s- I was correcting you, abbreviations have no place in verbal conversation- especially in place of simple phrases such as that one.”

“There he is,” Virgil chuckles, the distortion finally edging out of his throat. 

Logan sighs. You hear a bump.

“I suppose, if you two are really so concerned,” the lock clicks, “Then it would only be hypocritical of me to refuse to speak with you on this matter, given how I encourage you to do the opposite almost constantly,” the knob twists, pushes forwards an inch, halts abruptly, “Although… I can’t promise you full transparency. I don’t- I don’t think I’m quite ready for that conversation.”

Well that is ominous. But, then again, progress is progress.

You step back, and the door swings open. 

You fail to stifle your gasp.

Logan stands in the doorway, his head up, spine straight, and his hands behind his back- his usual stance. The posturing does nothing, however, to hide just how bloodshot his eyes are behind his glasses. He trembles, almost, when he looks from you to Virgil, and then back again. As soon as you meet his gaze, he glances down to the carpet, tapping his foot on the floor compulsively. It’s a state you’ve seen him in plenty of times, but the knowledge that this time you were somehow responsible for it pushes daggers under your skin. 

“Well,” he falters, “Come in, I suppose.”

[kinghoranshit]

Just Another Normal Story (HS) - PT 4

I cradled our daughter, Harmony, in my arms. I felt exhausted. It’d been the two days since she came into the world the morning of November sixth. 

A conclusion I came to about all of this was, at least it was happening when the weather's getting colder. Zombies couldn’t handle that, right? And we had the fireplace to keep the house heated if the power went out completely. We had no cable or internet though. 

“Nichole,” My dad’s firm voice filled my head. 

I looked over at him and he was giving me that look. 

“Dad.” I shot him a look.

He huffed, rolling his eyes. “We’re running out of food.” 

I shook my head. “No, not yet.” 

“Come on, Follow me.” My dad tilted his head toward the doorway.

I looked down at sleeping Harmony. I didn’t want to let her go. 

“You need to see what he has. I’ll take her,” my mother stated. 

Finally, I nodded and handed her over to my mom. 

We went down to the basement into his workshop and he handed something to me. The wooden crossbow I used three years in a row for my Halloween costume in high school. I had been a zombie slayer. Ironic, I know. 

I didn’t know why he handed this to me. It didn’t work. It was broken last I knew. But as I glanced at it in my hands, it looked brand new. 

“You fixed it up? Why?” I asked. 

“For you to use,” he remarked. “Become that zombie slayer.” 

I laughed. “Dad, it was just a costume and a joke. We both know I’m too scared of zombies.” 

“I’m scared of zombies too. But killing them takes it away little by little. Here.” He now handed a bag of metal arrows to me. 

“I don’t even know how to use this!” I exclaimed, trying to shove it back into his hands. 

“I’ll teach you. It’s not hard. Just a pull of a trigger and putting the arrow in is a piece of cake. One of the quickest reloading weapons.”

I shook my head. “This is fucking nuts.”

“What’re you going to do when you run out of supplies for Harmony? What if I end up dying?”

I kept my mouth shut. I already knew the answer. I felt this certain feeling surging from deep within my chest. The adrenaline kicked in at the thought of stepping foot out of the barricaded house. I hadn’t seen what it looked like in two days. It could be completely different. Or the same. Probably the same.

“Got anything I can practice on?” I asked. 

***

I wiped the gleam of sweat off my forehead as I panted. I walked over to take the metal arrow out of the bullseye target that had a botchy sketch of a zombie tacked onto it. My goal was to get in the forehead. And if the arrow didn’t go all the way through, I’d have to get up close and personal. 

“Nichole!” Harry called. 

“Yeah?” I yelled back, loading another arrow into the crossbow. She worked well. After a couple hours, I’d gotten pretty decent. Not sure I was good enough to go out yet. Well, mentally anyway. This surely would lead to major therapy in the future if we survived and somehow a cure came about. I already couldn’t sleep much, worried they’d break down the barriers and overtake us. 

“We’re out of diapers.” His figure appeared at the doorway of the garage. I could hear them outside every once and awhile. I was positive they could smell me through the metal door. 

I stared at him a bit blankly. “We can’t be.” 

“But we are,” he remarked. 

I felt my heart lurch into my throat. It wasn’t like I expected us to just hide away in the house forever. I was hopeful of it, but knew we couldn’t. It wasn’t realistic. 

I sighed heavily, grabbing the satchel of arrows, and continued to hold the crossbow in my hands. I walked in past him and into the living room. My mom was on the couch still, holding a giggly Harmony. 

“C’mon, Nikki, we’re going to Target,” my dad ordered, reloading his shotgun. 

“What? Just us two?” I shot.

He nodded. “Yeah. Harry will stay here with mom and Harmony.” 

“No, no, no.” I shook my head. “That’s a bad idea. We should stick together.” 

“We can’t take a baby out there,” my mom argued. “It’s too cold.” 

The thought from earlier popped back into my head.

“If it’s too cold for her, wouldn’t it be too cold for the zombies?” But I knew as soon as the words left my mouth, it was a no. “Nevermind.”

But then the thought of this thing from ‘Warm Bodies’ came into my head. “Do you think putting zombie guts on us would prevent them from smelling us? That way we can get more when we go to Target. We wouldn’t have to watch out as much.”

“That might work.” My dad nodded. “Harry, mom, and Harmony are still staying here.” 

I huffed in annoyance. I just had a bad feeling with them not being in my sight for so long. 

***

I pulled the green army jacket on over my blue plaid shirt. That which I wore with a grey tank underneath, denim skinnies, and brown combats. Why not? I never thought I’d actually wear this outfit again, but it seemed like an essential thing to do under the circumstances. My acting as a zombie slayer days were over. I was going to be one. 

Harry pressed his lips against mine. “Be careful. I’ve got it here.” 

I gave him a weak smile. “Remember, if too many happen to break in, kill the first one you see and put the guts on you. Then mom and Harmony. Mom has a pistol she can use.” 

He nodded and kissed me once more. I rested my hand on the back of his neck, holding him there. I wanted to feel his lips for as long as I could. It could be for the last time.

“I love you,” I whispered. 

He nuzzled his face into my hair. “I love you too.” 

I walked over to my mom and Harmony. I kissed my daughter’s head and looked into her big, very dark blue eyes. “Mommy has to go get you things. See you soon.” I looked at my mom and she had tears brimming her eyes. There was no way she was going to take my place. She didn’t have the agility to sprint or run long distances since her major car accident a few years back; she had to get medical nails in her ankle. 

“Stay safe.” 

I gave her a small smile. “Of course.” 

We left in my dad’s Ford F150 truck. I had my crossbow ready to shoot down any so they wouldn’t get into the garage. Luckily, Harry had the garage shut before any got in. I sat back down and shut my window. 

“How much gas?” I asked. My dad never really kept track of that sort of thing. 

“Three-fourths.”

I nodded. “Okay. Good. That should be good for a couple trips. But remember, we want to get as much as we can in this one trip.”

“I know,” he replied. 

I didn’t say anything else. I looked out the window. It seemed especially gloomy today. The sky was full of grey clouds, casting a white hue over everything. I could see a few moving figures as he drove. It wasn’t a long drive to Target. Only fifteen minutes. But every minute I was preparing myself. 

“Here’s the plan.” My dad turned the truck off. “You go ahead and get everything for Harmony. I’ll get the food. Remember to use the crossbow, and test your theory if possible. Got it?”

I let out a deep breath. “Yeah.” I reached back for the two duffels. I strapped one across my chest. This should be fun. 

It was dead silent as we walked into the dim lighted Target; must be barely powered by a generator. The glass of the doors had been shattered, so our boots crunched on the pieces. I mentally cursed. Here’s hoping that sound wouldn’t provoke any zombies that could be nearby. 

I wish the baby supplies weren’t set in the back part of the entire store. If I do run into a zombie, testing my theory would be the first thing I do. I made sure the walkie-talkie was still harnessed onto one of the loops.

“See you soon,” he whispered, splitting off, and left me alone. Nichole, don’t let your fear take over. You can protect yourself. Doing this for Harmony and Harry. 

I went for the smaller stuff first-- onesies, socks, shoes, blankets, pacifiers, baby wipes, toys. I wasn’t entirely positive what she all needs right now. I was just glad we didn’t need to get a crib; my parents had one for when John and Ellise visited. Oh God. I hope they’re okay. And Leo! He was no longer in Iowa as well. I didn’t want to think the worst but I already was considering we hadn’t heard from them at all. The satellite towers went out yesterday. It wouldn’t be long until our power was out I assumed, so we should grab extra batteries and candles. 

I zipped the duffel shut to make sure everything was secured. Next, I grabbed my last item, which would be the biggest and wouldn’t fit in the duffel. I held my crossbow up, ready to aim and shoot. I made fast and quiet movements to where the diapers were. My blood stopped cold hearing a shuffling sound. 

I closed my eyes and let out a deep breath. I turned around to see a guy who couldn’t be much older than me standing there. He was eyeing me good. His icy blue veins popped out all over the place. He growled at me. 

Despite my previous fear towards zombies, I couldn’t help a smirk. “Want me?” 

His eyes grew even more wide as he overlooked me more. I held my crossbow up and aimed for the middle of his head. Closing one eye to get better radar. There was another screeching sound.

Fuck. 

I pulled the trigger, watching the arrow fly and sink into the guy’s head. I tripped my way over to him, pierced it in even more just to be sure before yanking it out. I reloaded the crossbow with the same arrow and frantically rolled onto my back to aim. She was right above me. I could see the brain matter still attached to the cold metal and without a second though, I glided my fingers over it. The gooey sensation was not pleasant when it hit me. The smell wasn’t either as I wiped it onto my face; it was like expired dairy and throw up all in one. Gross as hell but worth it as I saw the skinny lady sniff the air, confused. She looked displeased when she couldn’t smell what she did before.

Slowly, I sidestepped around her and then bolted to find my dad. I grabbed the walkie-talkie. 

“Dad? Do you copy?” 

I didn’t get an answer then I could hear some cries and yells. Oh no. 

I sprinted the fastest I had ever in my life, looking down every aisle of food. Finally, I found him in the bread. Four or five zombies were going at him. It didn’t matter how it happened, I needed to do something. 

I held my crossbow up, aiming for one as I stalked towards them. I pulled the trigger and didn’t wait. I reloaded with another and aimed once again. I took down another. Now, just two were left. My dad still fought with the one holding onto his coat. So, I took down the other trying to help her boyfriend on their date. 

My dad smashed the zombie’s head into the shelf a couple times and his body fell limp. I reached my hand out and he gladly took it.

“The guts thing works?” he panted. I noted the scratch on his face and hoped that the virus didn’t transfer that way.

I nodded. “Yeah. Killed one over by the baby stuff.”

“I told you could get good with the bow.” He cheesed, picking up his shotgun and duffle. 

I rolled my eyes. “You got everything?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Okay, I still need diapers. We should also get candles and toilet paper if there’s any left. Let’s grab em and get out of here.” 

“Don’t forget Gander.” 

Right…

***

I used a different walkie-talkie to contact Harry when we were back in the driveway. “Hey, we’re back. Open the garage.” 

“Okay,” he replied briefly.

The garage door opened and my dad pulled in. Harry was quick to get it closing. Once it was shut and we were in the clear, we carried everything inside. We grabbed like ten boxes of diapers. Each carried five out. Didn’t have to worry about zombies attacking us since we didn’t smell like food.

I went to kiss Harry, but he stepped back. “Please clean up first.” 

I smiled slyly before I grabbed his face and rubbed his cheek against mine. Nothing was going to transfer since it was dry. 

“Thank you so much, Nikki,” Harry retorted, dramatically wiping his face. He was definitely pleased to see no crud on his fingers. 

“You’re welcome.”

Next and final: 5

[Masterlist]

[fallenfurther]

Virgil’s second topiary lesson

Another Post Buried Treasure Fic. I just couldn’t have Virgil not meet up with the groundskeeper again, who I’ve named Mr Greene, mainly for his green fingers though I realised halfway through the significance in relation to Virgil. I blame the early shift at work for that one not registering. Enjoy!

****

Virgil landed Tracy Two on the private runway and taxied her into the reserved area. He stepped off the plane into the cool morning air and sighed. He'd been looking forward to this day for a while. It was almost three months since the rescue had cause a sinkhole in the reclaimed land and he was looking forward to seeing it at its best again. He'd made sure they paid for the restoration of the area. The tunnel had been shored up to stop future cave-ins and the ground that had caved in had been covered over and a fresh topsoil added. It should look as it did before.

Virgil was currently driving to the park to meet up with Mr Greene, the Groundskeeper. They'd kept in contact since his impromptu topiary lesson and Virgil had apologised profusely for what had happened to his shrubs. Thankfully the swift work to put the damage right, had put Virgil, and to some extent International Rescue, back in Mr Greene’s good books. Yesterday the new bushes had arrived, and Mr Greene had agreed to let Virgil join him in shaping them. Virgil parked up and headed over to where the groundskeeper was waiting for him.

"I'm glad to see you didn't bring those machines with you." Mr Greene joked as he shook Virgil's hands.

"Me too. Hopefully they'll stay safely in their hangers for the rest of the day. Now, let's see what we have to work with. What's the theme we have to stick to?" Virgil rubbed his hands together. He was ready for a busy creative day and couldn’t wait to get started.

“It’s the same as before, seeing as no one got to see it last time, but thanks to your generous donation there’s more to do. They want three centrepieces for the area that got destroyed and an animal parade leading up to it. There are four trees and seven bushes that need to be shaped.”

“We’d better get to it then.”

Virgil followed Mr Greene along the sculpted paths that ran through the manicured lawns. There were birds in the trees and butterflies flying around the flowers, and with the wind and birdsong being the dominant sounds, it was peaceful. It was hard to believe that beneath their feet was centuries old rubbish and active mining! They stopped at a path that they would be focusing on. Looking down it, Virgil could see the lawn that had caved in last time he was there and the three large bushes that were to become the new centrepieces. Mr Greene stood and pointed to the trees as he spoke.

“The animals along the path will be in pairs, one on each side. First will be the wolves and then the next will be meerkats. After that will be a bear with penguins at the front. The animals weren’t my choice, they were voted on by the local children.” Mr Greene clearly didn’t like the idea of penguins; he’d screwed his face up as he said the word. “The three centrepieces will be a giraffe, an elephant and a gorilla. We’ll start with the path. We’ll do one of each of the pairs, at the same time, so I can give you pointers and advice as we go along. Sound reasonable?”

“Yes.” Virgil smiled. There was a lot to do and he was nervously excited that his work was going to be displayed alongside that of a professional. He hoped the kids approved.

Mr Greene had laid out the tools of the trade by the first bush, and Virgil climbed into the protective overall that had been provided. Picking up the shears he stood by the bush, ready to receive the instructions on how to best shape a wolf. Mr Greene gave him clear instructions, which Virgil followed, though he did give Virgil a little leeway, here and there, to put his own spin on things. Soon the wolves had taken shape, and they swapped to the secateurs to do the finer trimming and neatening. Once Mr Greene had given his wolf the once over, they swapped sides and started on meerkats. A simpler shape than the wolves, and with less leaves to trim away to reveal the animal, they were finished much quicker. Again, they swapped sides, and started on the bears. These were much bigger, and ladders were required to reach the tops. Mr Greene finished first and gave him encouragement from below. Virgil carefully snipped away at the top, shaping the ears and the snout. He wiped his brow on his sleeve as the sun’s glare warmed his brow. Once satisfied, he climbed down the ladder and let Mr Greene up to inspect his work. A few small cuttings, and his mentor was satisfied.

“How about we break for lunch?” Mr Greene said as he reached the bottom of the ladder. “I’ve packed us a few bits which we can eat in the shade of the trees.”

Virgil’s stomach growled in response, his focus on his work having distracted him from his hunger. He hadn’t eaten anything since he’d left the island.

“That sounds fantastic.”

Virgil followed Mr Greene down the path and further into the gardens. They headed into a hedged off area and he found himself in a secret garden with a large apple tree at its centre. Beneath the tree was a couple of cool boxes. Mr Greene sat down, opened one up and handed him a bottle of chilled water. Virgil took it gladly and gulped down the water. It’s cool touch on his parched lips was heavenly. Virgil plonked himself down by Mr Greene as the man passed him a box. Inside were ham and cheese sandwiches.

“I’ve got some sandwich pickle in the cool box if you want some. Not everyone’s a fan, but I love a good bit of pickle in my sandwiches.”

“I’m good. My brother, Gordon, the blond one, is the big pickle fan in our family.” Virgil smiled as he bit into a sandwich, thinking of all the times he’d watched Gordon make one of his sandwiches. His brother always tried fit as much as possible between the slides of bread. As he ate, Mr Greene laid out mini-sausages, tomatoes, radishes, celery sticks and a sharing bag of crisps. Virgil tipped a few crisps into the box with his last sandwich and grabbed a few tomatoes, popping one in his mouth. He avoided the celery. Years of sitting next to Gordon crunching Celery Bars meant he’d gone off it.

“How are you finding the topiary today? You’re doing very well for a beginner. You’ve a real eye for detail, and how you want the shape to be.”

Virgil took the compliment with a smile, “It’s great. I love creating things. I paint, when I get the chance, and I find this is just another way of expressing and revealing the images that can form in your head. At least, that’s how it works for me. I see the image of the bear, you tell me how it should be standing, where its arms need to be, and I picture it in my head. Then it’s just working out how to translate that image into the bush. I’m loving the 3D aspect of it.”

Mr Greene chuckled, and it was strange but good to see the lightness in his face normally stern face. “You have a way with words young man! I wish others saw this like you do. When the area is open to the public, people waltz in with their phones in their hands, gaze and gape, take a few photos then move on. They barely stop to truly see what’s before them, and they certainly don’t think about all the effort that’s gone into it. It’s why you don’t get so many people doing it nowadays. It’s considered old-fashioned and a relic from the days of nobility.” Mr Greene sighed.

Virgil sat back and thought about it. There were parts of it that made sense. As an artist he could appreciate the effort that goes into the production of a sketch or painting, and some of his brothers understood that. Yet when he dragged Alan to an art gallery, he’d whizz around it before getting bored, and Virgil was never quite sure how much the boy had taken in.

“I can see where you’re coming from. But at least they are taking an interest and getting out of the city. This place is amazing, and even if they take just a little bit of that home with them, then we’ve done our job right.” Virgil ate another tomato before continuing, “and just look at this little garden. I’ll remember this moment forever. It’s secluded and peaceful, the flowers have been carefully chosen to highlight the area and bring your attention to exactly where it needs to be to highlight its beauty.”

Mr Greene sat a little straighter, “Well, I did try my best. It wasn’t easy, mind you, to convince the higher-ups to see my vision. But once people come here, they’ll trust me.”

They finished their meal, which was completed with homemade banana bread, while discussing artists and beautiful places. When all was eaten, they packed up and headed back to their bushes. Mr Greene passed Virgil a straw hat, to keep the sun off his neck and out his eyes, for which Virgil was grateful. They made light work of the penguins, and then they started on the centrepieces. Mr Greene asked him to get the basic outline for the elephant done, while he started on the gorilla, which was to stand in the middle. Virgil worked away, losing track of time. He finished his rough outline and got Mr Greene’s approval to continue. Trimming closer, he got out the secateurs and started clipping the detail into the ears and face. He smoothed out the body and trunk, making sure it curved in just the right way. Standing back, he gazed up at his handiwork.

“Not bad. Not bad at all.” Mr Greene’s voice came from behind him. Virgil turned around, a contented grin on his face, and looked at Mr Greene. Except Virgil’s gaze fell on the bush behind the man. His jaw dropped. It was a male silverback gorilla, made entirely from one bush. Mr Greene had managed to sculpt most of it, and it was breath-taking in its detail. The hands were still a work in progress, but it was the face that caught his attention. The gorilla was gazing straight down the path and had such a dignified look on it’s face.

“That good, huh? I have a soft spot for gorillas. Used to draw them all the time as a boy, and although I don’t do it much anymore, I still have that soft spot or the apes.”

“It’s incredible.” Virgil slowly walked around it, taking in the way it had been cut, trying to work out how it had appeared from the ordinary bush which has been there just hours previously.

“Thank you. How about you try the giraffe? Be careful with the neck, that’s the tricky part. I’ll come join you once I’ve finished the hands, and we might get it all done before sundown.”

Virgil nodded, not quite ready to take his eyes of the gorilla. With a renewed determination to master the art to that kind of level, Virgil walked towards the last untouched bush as made the first snip with the shears. Mr Greene soon joined him, and they made light work of it, and soon the giraffe appeared. True to his word, the sun was low in the sky when they had finished. Virgil slipped out of the overall and placed the shears, hat and secateurs into Mr Greene’s wheelbarrow.

“I’ll clear up the cuttings tomorrow.” Mr Greene said as he picked up the cooler boxes and Virgil pushed the wheelbarrow towards the exit. When they reached the carpark, Virgil placed in down and shook Mr Greene’s hand.

“Thank you so much for today. It was fantastic.”

“You’re welcome, young man, and if I need a hand or inspiration, I know who to call.” Mr Greene gave Virgil a smile before heading off towards the groundskeeper’s shed. Virgil sat in the car; his body was exhausted. It definitely wasn’t safe to fly, and he was thankful he had planned to stay the night in a hotel. A quick call to John to confirm everyone was okay, and he drove off. A shower and some clean clothes and Virgil lay in the bed with his sketchpad. Despite the exhaustion, he sketched a few different views of the secret garden, though his favourite was the view from under the tree. He added a few extra details to it before yawning. Another yawn and Virgil knew he was done for the night. He placed the pad on the bedside table, pulled the covers over himself and turned off the light. His mind was full of flowers, gardens and shaped bushes which he knew would fill his dreams. He closed his eyes and hoped there were no callouts tomorrow. He wanted to start on his painting of the secret garden, hoping to permanently capture its beauty in paint.

[secretagentspydetectiveninja]

No Romo - chapter 2

Long overdue new chapter, and it’s almost the end of Aro/Ace August already, oops! Anyway have some more of the museum kids being best friends

AO3 | 1

“I’m pretty sure Juleka’s about to get akumatized,” Nathaniel said, sitting down on the steps in front of Alix. “Rose was telling me about it. Apparently Juleka missed the class photo because she got locked in the toilets. By Chloé, of course.”

He had opened his little sketchpad on his knees and taken a pencil out from behind his ear. Alix leaned over to watch what he was drawing – now that she was part of the art club, she tended to spend a lot of time watching Nath work on his art. Not only was it helpful to learn new skills, but it was an excuse to hang out with him even more. These days she used pretty much any chance she could get to talk to him.

“What kind of akuma villain do you think she’ll be?” she asked. “Juleka’s all gothy, right? Maybe she’ll be a vampire or something.”

“That’s exactly what I was thinking.” Nath was drawing a figure outline on his sketchpad, his red fringe falling over his face as he looked down at it. “Her eyes are already red. Maybe her skin will be deathly pale, though, like a sheet. And she’ll have those vampire fangs.”

“And a cape. Vampires have capes, right?”

“I think it depends on the vampire. But yeah, I’ll give her a cape.” He added a loose triangle onto the back of the figure. “One of those big collars, too. Wait… will she sparkle? Is she one of those vampires?”

Alix shrugged. “I have no idea what her opinion is on sparkling vampires.”

Nath paused to think for a second, before shaking his head. “Nope. No sparkles. I can’t be bothered to draw them.”

He had a grin on his face now, and Alix continued to watch him draw with interest. These days he was much more open with her than he used to be, cracking jokes and encouraging her ridiculous sense of humour. She hadn’t realized quite how attached to him she had become until she found herself paying attention to him even when he wasn’t interacting with her. More outspoken now, he talked to other members of their class fairly often, and it was all too easy to let her focus rest on them, all the way on the other side of the room, than on whatever work she was supposed to be doing.

Why did she even find him so cool in the first place? She couldn’t put her finger on it. But it was undeniable – Nathaniel was absolutely, definitely, 100% the coolest kid in her class. He had to be. Why else would she be so dead-set on being best friends with him? No one else in the class was worth quite that much effort, even though they were all pretty cool too.

“What kind of powers would she have?” Nath continued, head resting on his arm as he carried on sketching. “I guess there’s always biting people, like actual vampires do, but that would be kinda, uh… weird. Hawk Moth hasn’t been giving people overly weird powers yet.”

“Well vampires don’t have reflections,” Alix suggested. “And Juleka’s got that curse thing where she doesn’t show up in photos, right? So maybe she’ll curse everyone else to have no reflections or appearances in photos, something like that.”

“Hmm. That would make sense. Though it’s not a very aggressive power, is it? It’ll take forever for Ladybug and Chat Noir to notice something like that.”

“True…”

He suddenly held up the sketchpad at her, a sunny smile on his face. “Done! What do you think?”

It was a quick little sketch, unmistakeably Juleka, but seemingly dressed more like Count Dracula. Alix nodded, smiling back. “Perfect. I bet that’s exactly what she’s gonna look like.”

“We’ll just wait and see, then…”

At that moment there were shocked gasps from others in the courtyard. Alix and Nath turned to see that an akuma villain had just landed, one that was now making an announcement, and sure enough that was Juleka’s voice echoing through the school – a crueller version, but certainly her.

And she looked nothing like a vampire whatsoever.

“Welp, we were so wrong,” Alix muttered.

“Yep.” Nath ripped out the piece of paper and scrunched it up. “So, so wrong.”

“I wasn’t expecting a giant pink clown.”

“That’s the last thing I was expecting.”

“I’m gonna say it. She looks ridiculous.”

“Hard agreed.”

“Uh, she’s zapping people, do you think we should get out of here or…?”

“Shit, yeah. See you in art club later!”

Nathaniel leapt to his feet and sped off. For a second Alix had to restrain her laughter – she’d never heard Nath swear before! He had always seemed like one of those goody-two-shoes kids who wouldn’t curse if you paid them. But evidently all he needed was to be around someone he was comfortable with. Like her.

A shot from evil Juleka zoomed past her shoulder, jolting her out of her thoughts. Oh yeah, akuma attack. She needed to get away. Being turned into a weird pink clown clone was not on her to-do list today.

-

-

It was much later than usual when the members of her class finally made it to art club. After Reflekta’s attack, everyone had banded together to help take a proper class photo with Juleka in it, which took up quite a lot of time. Alix didn’t mind at all, though. Juleka was a pretty cool friend too, it just seemed right to help her feel better. Or maybe Alix was just getting friendlier in general these days.

“Alix, there you are!” Nath was already sitting at the table and waving her over. She hurried to join him.

“Dude, you didn’t wait for me at the park–”

“I had to get my surprise for you ready.”

“Surprise…?”

He tapped the little sketchbook that was on the desk. “I’ve been working on a new comic idea, and I think you’ll like this one.”

A new comic? Yes! Nath’s comics these days were always fun to read, now that they weren’t just pages and pages of self-indulgent Nathanette fluff.

“Is it another superhero one?” she asked.

“No, it’s… um…” He lowered his voice. “Look, I know I’m not really good at coming up with story ideas, and so much of what I draw is all sappy and lovey-dovey and you’re not into that stuff.”

“Who cares if I’m not into it? Just draw what you want.”

“What I want is to draw something you’ll like! So here, I did this…” Nath opened the sketchbook to show her the first page. “It’s a soulmate AU, but from the point-of-view of someone who’s aromantic.”

Just hearing the words “soulmate AU” had already set Alix’s brain to fight mode, at least, until the second part of that sentence registered in her brain. An aromantic character, in a soulmate AU? Surely those things were mutually exclusive. She looked at the page to see Nath’s artwork of the aromantic protagonist, a moody-looking girl with frizzy green hair.

“In this AU,” he continued, turning the page, “people see hearts when they fall in love, and red hearts if it’s their soulmate. This character has never seen the hearts, though, and it’s highly unusual to have reached her age without seeing them even once. She wonders what’s wrong.”

There were more sketches on these pages, fit into comic-style panels with captions over the top. The moody girl was even grumpier now, her peers all swooning over invisible hearts while she looked on from the corner, unable to understand what she was missing.

“But sometimes, when she looks at people, she sees stars. She doesn’t really tell anyone. Until…”

He turned over another page. The girl was no longer moody – all of a sudden her eyes were wide in surprise, and the panel around her filled with golden sparkles.

“…one day she meets someone, and for the first time, she sees bright yellow stars. It’s never happened before. And this person sees the yellow stars too when they meet her. They’ve seen hearts before, but never stars like this.”

Sure enough, the page was covered in glittering stars. It looked like Nath had got a yellow gel pen and just gone wild with it. The girl and her new acquaintance both appeared in awe of what they were seeing, stars around them everywhere.

“And then, uh… well I haven’t thought so much about this part but I guess they make best friends forever and live happily ever after. The girl realizes she can be happy without romance and the only reason she was miserable before was because everyone else was making her feel that way. Or something. You’re the aro one, you can help me with the inner turmoil bit.” He closed the sketchbook and turned to look at her. “So, what do you think?”

What did she think? Well, considering how much she was having to internally restrain herself from just glomping him in a hug and never letting go…

“It’s awesome!” She settled for giving him a little punch on the arm instead. “Seriously, you’re really gonna make a comic about that?”

“Yeah! I really need to branch out and draw comics about characters who don’t have love interests. Well… romantic love interests, I mean. Friendship is fine.” He blushed a little. “Actually, it’s kind of for me. I was really heartbroken for a while after the Evillustrator thing, and I need to remind my brain that it’s okay to focus more on friends, than on… Marinette…”

His voice had gone rather quiet, considering that Marinette herself was in the room.

“Are you still into her?” Alix asked.

“I… I don’t think so.”

“Then you should make friends with her too.”

He blushed even more. “I’m not really good at making friends.”

“Are you sure?” Alix said, putting an arm around him. “Because you seem to be doing an awesome job at making friends with me so far. I mean, convincing me to join art club? Drawing the aro comic thing? Nerf gun battles? Dude, you are top notch friendship material. Best friendship material. I really mean it.”

He seemed quite taken aback by her compliments for a few seconds. Alix herself was surprised too – she didn’t tend to say things like that directly to people’s faces, usually too wary that being overly nice might be mistaken for flirting, which was just… ew. But at least Nathaniel would properly understand the sentiment.

“Maybe you’re right,” he said. “If I could make friends with you, I can make proper friends with Marinette too.”

“Yeah, that’s the spirit!”

“Thanks, Alix. And…” He gave her a sunny smile and put the sketchbook in her hands. “Thanks for being my friend. You’re top notch friendship material too. Making this comic with you is gonna be so much fun.”

Top notch friendship material… man, it was so nice to hear someone other than Jalil saying that. Pretty much everyone else in the class already had their own top notch friend, and there was no room for Alix there except as an undignified third wheel, a hanger-on, uninvited and unwelcome. Now Nath had changed all that.

She watched as he got up and went to go compliment Marinette on whatever fashion thing she was working on. He still seemed quite shy, but at least Marinette was one of the nicest members of the class, even going so far as to organize Juleka’s rescheduled class photo earlier. It wouldn’t be difficult for them to make friends.

Alix flicked through Nath’s sketchbook, taking a closer look at the draft work for his new comic. He really was very good at art, wasn’t he? This green-haired girl looked real enough to leap out of the page any second.

You’re the aro one, you can help me with the inner turmoil bit. So he wanted her help with story advice. That, she could definitely offer. There were too many stories to tell, stories of angst, frustration, disbelief, confusion, tears… the usual run-of-the-mill depressing aro experiences. Plenty of those to pick from, unfortunately.

This green-haired girl, though. Something about her seemed familiar to Alix. Nath didn’t base the character on her, did he…?

-

-

-

-

Nathaniel worked hard on his comic. He worked hard on all his comics, of course, but this felt different. This time he wasn’t just drawing to cater to his own whims. This time he wanted it to be a present for Alix.

There were too many reasons to pinpoint just one. There was the fact that they were pretty much best friends at this point, true. There was also the fact that both of them being ace gave him a sort of connection to her that was hard to describe in words. Was “ace solidarity” a thing? It sure felt like it.

And she inspired him. It had been so long since he’d had a close friend that he was used to keeping to himself all the time. Even now he was still quiet, of course, but things were different. He could casually chat with the rest of his classmates without the nerves to accompany it. He felt freer to say what was on his mind, to share his true feelings.

He still wished he could be more like her. How amazing would it be to be as cool as someone like her? As much as he tried, he couldn’t do it. But then maybe that was a good thing. After all, she seemed to like hanging out with him just the way he was.

-

-

“How is it?” he asked as she read the finished comic in her room one day after school. “Is it good? Should I change anything?”

There was a spark in her eyes. “Dude, this is so cool! I love it!”

“You do?”

“Hell yes!” Within a second she had put down the comic and clung onto him in a hug. Considering how small she was, it was… kind of adorable, actually. Like a koala on a tree. “Listen, I’m… I’m not a huggy person, so don’t get used to this. But uh… if you ever need anything, like ever, at all, I will help you with it. Up to and including murder.”

He gladly hugged her back. “What, because I drew a comic for you?”

“Because you drew something that’s more relatable than anything else,” she said, pulling back to look at him. “It’s hard to get into stuff when everything’s so damn shippy all the time. But you went out of your way to do this for me, so yeah. Thank you. I will lay down my life for you in the skeleton war.”

Nath grinned and gave her hair a ruffle. “I forbid you from sacrificing yourself in the skeleton war. But I’m really happy you liked the comic.”

“The main character, is she based on… um, anyone you know?”

“Yes, that’s you.”

“I knew it! So the guy she makes friends with, is that you?”

He simply shrugged, though the answer was a resounding yes. From the way she was looking at him, he could tell that she knew it perfectly well. It had been pretty obvious. Maybe it would be best to keep this particular comic just between the two of them for now.

“Anyway, you need any help with anything?” Alix asked. “Not murder or skeleton wars, I know. But really, I’ll do my best to help.”

“Nah, I don’t think there’s anything I need help with right now, unless you can come up with an idea for a new comic…”

“The adventures of Alix and Nathaniel sock-sliding around the Louvre after hours and avoiding security.”

“Uh… was that a suggestion for a comic, or a suggestion for real life?”

“Both.” She had a smirk on her face now. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you drawing the Louvre in the backgrounds of all your drawings, you know.”

“Well, it’s easy to draw…”

That was only partially true. Yes, a quick sketch of the iconic pyramid was easier than bothering with a proper detailed background, but the truth was that this place was starting to feel like a second home to him. The art exhibits had always had a soft spot in his heart, but now this area did too. The Kubdel quarters.

“But yes, let’s go sock-sliding!” he said quickly.

“Yeah! And let’s not get caught this time…”

“I’ll be stealthier now, I swear…”

He kicked off his shoes and followed her out of her room, looking forward to this. Silly adventure shenanigans were a lot more fun than he used to think – but then maybe that was because he was with Alix.

-

-

It was a while before her offer for help was actually needed. Those several weeks were some of the best yet – Nath worked on new comics, became more sure of himself, made friends with more of his classmates, and even made friends with people outside his class. Like Marc, that blushy new kid in the art club who was even shyer than him.

That didn’t last.

It was all that diary’s fault. “Ladybug’s” diary. Marinette had given it to him, and she was friends with Alya, who ran the Ladyblog, right? She could feasibly have acquired such a thing, right? Nath didn’t have any reason to doubt that this was the real, legit diary of Ladybug. He expected it to be.

So when it turned out to be Marc…

It was strange how, when in a situation where Nath was not the shyest one around, it was so easy to become complacent. To lose his temper. To assume the worst. It reminded him all too clearly of his birthday, where Chloé had taken his sketchbook and made a fool of him in class, announcing his crush on Marinette to the world, followed by Evillustrator being betrayed by the girl of his dreams.

Was this Marinette’s revenge? Was she teaming up with Marc to make a fool of Nath again?

Please pick up, please pick up…

He held his phone to his ear as he strode towards the Louvre, having left Marc back at the park with that stupid diary. His brain still wasn’t working right – well, it didn’t seem to work right around Marc anyway for some odd reason, but that was beside the point. The blind panic that this situation had put him in, that he was being humiliated again, it was impossible to control, and he just needed to talk to–

“Hey Nath, what’s up?”

“Oh Alix, thank god you’re there!” He clutched the phone tighter, his pace increasing. “Are you at the Louvre right now? Can I come over?”

“Sure, what’s wrong?”

Could she tell from his voice? Maybe she could. “I need to talk about something that just happened, I… I’m scared I’m gonna get akumatized again, I’m just in such a bad mood…”

“Aw man, what happened?”

“I’ll tell you when I get there. See you soon.”

“Alright, take care of yourself…”

He hung up and hurried on. Even despite all his new friendships recently, they were all seeming so superficial right now. Any one of his classmates could suddenly turn on him, the way Marinette and Marc had just done. Taking advantage of his feelings. Playing a cruel trick on him.

And yet… he still trusted Alix. Somehow, instinctively, he found himself gravitating towards the Louvre – the one place where he always felt welcome no matter what, where he could let his guard down and just be himself without any worries clouding his mind. He used to wonder if it was the feeling of being in a museum, surrounded by art, that put him at ease. Now, he was beginning to believe it was more to do with the tiny little lifesaver who “allegedly” lived there.

Alix was his best friend. If there was anyone he could turn to for help, it was her. He never had been any good at letting his guard down, but for once in his life he needed to confide in someone. She had promised to help him, and he was counting on that.

[tommyomalley]

Carol Channing, 1921-2019

July 2005. My editor at the Austin American-Statesman, Michael Barnes, asked me, do you want to interview Carol Channing? And I was like, is Dolly Gallagher Levi a widow?

The reason for the interview was that my friend Stuart Moulton, artistic director of Austin Cabaret Theatre, was bringing Carol to Austin to perform at his company’s gala. The day before she arrived, Stuart called me and asked, “Do you want to pick Carol up from the airport tomorrow with me in a limo?” And I was like, do gentlemen prefer blondes?

That July, I got to spend an hour interviewing 84 year-old Carol Channing on the phone, another hour or so picking her up from the airport and walking her to her suite at the Stephen F. Austin hotel, and another hour or so watching her perform her cabaret act while seated about five feet away from Lady Bird Johnson, who was confined to a wheelchair and nonverbal at the time. In fact, when Carol sang “Hello, Dolly,” she came out into the audience, put Lady Bird’s face between her hands, and delivered the song directly to the First Lady. 

These are among my happiest memories of living in Austin, a place I called home for more than 5 years. Today I’m feeling for the contributions Carol Channing made to our American theater in her 97 years. 

Below is the article I wrote based on my interview. The Statesman’s archives are not easy to navigate, so I had to dig into my old word files to find this. I believe my editor took out all the references I made to pissing my pants when it went to print, but this is what 22 year-old me thought was appropriate to publish. And here are a few gems I didn’t put into the article, presumably because my frontal lobe was just coming into formation:

--on more than one occasion, Carol Channing fell from the stage into the orchestra pit & broke bones. Still, she never missed a performance.

--on the movie version of Gentlemen Prefer Blondes being cast with Marilyn Monroe instead of her as Lorelei, a role she created on Broadway: “It’s like taking your baby and kidnapping it... I just saw my friend Jane Russell last night in Santa Barbara, and I said to her, ‘I’m still so proud it took two of you to play my part in the movie.’”

###

JULY 2005

Full disclosure (since that’s fashionable these days): By the time I was born, Carol Channing – who will perform her solo show “The First 80 Years Are the Hardest” at an Austin Cabaret Theatre benefit on July 26 – and Mrs. Dolly Gallagher Levi (DGL) had been acquainted for nearly twenty years. Truth is, my first introduction to the diamond-dusted diva was by voice alone (thanks to both the original “Hello, Dolly!” cast recording and “The Addams Family” animated series, in which she portrayed Granny). As a preteen, I admired Channing’s panache. Away from my Catholic mother’s view, I would lip-synch, “When a man with a timid tongue/ Meets a girl with a diffident air…” before an audience of suit jackets and dress shirts, hanging appropriately in the closet.

Channing is exactly the second person I’ve interviewed professionally. A sweet sophomore opportunity, I’m aware. In the time leading to our conversation, I was admittedly wracked with dread. This is, after all, a woman who refers to Al and Lynne (Lunt and Fontanne) like I refer to my roommate Lennie. No amount of preparation helped curb the urge to urinate when Harry Kullijian – Channing’s junior high school sweetheart who she recently married – called to start the interview.

“Carol, this is the Austin American… hold on. Austin American what?” Kullijian reconfirmed.

“Statesman.  The Austin American-Statesman,” I replied, noting that I wouldn’t have to tell anyone if I actually wet myself. Before I could decided what to do, that voice – rich with the insight its 84 years allow – hit the receiver.

“Good morning, Aushtin American Shtateshman!  With whom am I speaking?” Channing initiated, sounding more enthusiastic than she probably was. My inner musical queen begged me to respond, “Hello, Carol. Well hello, Carol.” But my outer professional, who values his job, decided instead to introduce myself and brief her on the interview format.

We began with requisite discussions about Austin – “I’ve performed there many, many times.  They’re a great audience,” she volunteered – and Texas in general. Musing on distinctly Texan pronunciations, Channing said, “Lots of things are odd in Texas” (a sentiment this Yankee seconds). She also mentioned a party being thrown in her honor by Liz Carpenter, the Statesman reporter who went to Washington and became Lady Bird Johnson’s press secretary. Channing has maintained a bond with the Johnson family since she sang “Hello, Lyndon!” for the President’s 1964 reelection campaign. She reproduced the chorus over the phone, providing yet another assault on my already overactive bladder. Once talk of Texas grew tired, the conversation migrated 2,200 miles northeast.

I saw my first professional production – a pre-Broadway tryout of the Rosie O’Donnell “Grease” – at the Colonial Theatre in Boston.  A half century earlier, Channing, having “(written) papers on communism, socialism and democracy at Bennington College in Vermont,” went to Boston for an audition to be Eve Arden’s understudy in the Danny Kaye musical, “Let’s Face It.” On the same stage that I would later hear O’Donnell warble “There Are Worse Thing I Could Do” – itself a singular theatrical event – Channing landed one of her first Broadway parts, a milestone she attributes to the fact she and Arden wore the same size. Almost thirty years later, when Channing left “Hello, Dolly” in Chicago to film “Thoroughly Modern Millie” (one of her only forays into movies, for which she received an Oscar nomination), the prolific producer David Merrick got Arden to fill in. Arden reportedly greeted the cast with the disclaimer, “The reason I got the part is because I fit into Ms. Channing’s costumes.”

As an understudy, Channing began her career shadowing other performers. Later, she made a name for herself mimicking them. Her popularity grew with a role in the Charles Gaynor review “Lend an Ear,” which featured choreography by her eventual “Dolly” director, Gower Champion. Marge Champion, who had seen Channing’s act, introduced the starlet to her husband at an audition. Of that fateful first meeting, Channing recounted, “Marge just said, ‘Do Getrude Lawrence. Do Ethel Waters.’ I did Ethel Merman and Bea Lillie… Well I got all the way through with 12 numbers and (Gower) said, ‘Do you have any more?’ And I didn’t, (so) he said, ‘Go back and start again.’”

Channing did, and, as a result, won a role that would catch the eye of the late showbiz caricaturist Al Hirschfeld. Hirschfeld sketched Channing in the show’s comic “Gladiola Girl” scene. “It did it for me,” she remembered. “I had no idea how funny the character was (until then).” The audiences and critics, on the other hand, had been noticing all along.

Channing’s status as a headlining star was solidified by her Lorelei Lee in 1949’s “Gentlemen Prefer Blondes.” Marilyn Monroe’s constipated “Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend” from the 1953 film will forever be linked to the role, thanks to the medium’s permanence. But to the discerning ear, only Channing’s gravelly refinement will ever do the song justice. About Monroe’s Lorelei, Channing said flatly, “It’s like taking your baby and kidnapping it.”  

A stint replacing Rosalind Russell in “Wonderful Town” followed (postpartum poster person Brooke Shields played the same role recently). In 1951, Channing received her first Tony nomination for the flop, “The Vamp.” A second nomination came in 1961 for “The Showgirl,” a compilation of her nightclub acts. Three years later, Channing won a Tony for her immortal performance in “Hello, Dolly!” She toured DGL around the country on and off for more than thirty years. Amazingly, in more than 5,000 performances she never used an understudy. In 1964, Joanne Worley (pronounced like “worldly,” as Ms. Channing pointed out to me), was Carol’s stand-by. At the outset, Channing said to her, “Oh Joanne, you’ll never go on, but come along.  You’re great company.”

Her work horse mentality sets Channing apart from every subsequent generation of actors. Asked about her perfect batting average, which she maintains to this day, the accidental legend offered a typically self-effacing response: “At the end of each show when I was sick, I either felt better or I was getting cured. I did it for selfish reasons.” With what she has given to generations of theatergoers, Channing’s claims of selfishness were difficult to process.

By the time our hour was up, I had gotten through all the important stuff. I was grateful for the opportunity to speak with one of the true greats, and more importantly, I was grateful for not soaking my shorts in the process.

[toldnews-blog]

New Post has been published on https://toldnews.com/technology/entertainment/watch-brie-larson-and-annette-bening-on-empowering-women/

WATCH: Brie Larson and Annette Bening on empowering women

Transcript for Brie Larson and Annette Bening on empowering women

In the year 2019 women are stronger and more powerful than ever, and in their new movie brie Larson and Annette Bening are showing it off by showing their power. Please welcome brie Larson and Annette Bening. ??? Thank you. Whoo! Great to see you again, you ladies. You were here before, right? I have never been here. She has been here many times. Thank you. What a powerful duo. You’re a powerful duo. “Captain marvel” is the first marvel movie that has a female superhero, right? And there she is. Plauz It’s really a big deal. I want to read this because at the premiere fans were dressed up as the character and there was even a jet flyover. That’s cool. How does it feel to be part of a big blockbuster like this? This is big. The premiere just kept going and going too. It was like the carpet went on forever. I learned last night that I’m on a pineapple. I’m actually on like the dole pineapple — oh look at that. That’s not a dole pineapple. Those are captain marvel girls. It’s cool, surreal to be on it. What I love about this movie, it’s not just about what’s on the screen, it was sort of the environment behind the screen as well, just empowering women. They were all playing a big role. Yeah, yeah. That’s something that I’ve been really impressed with marvel is that they understand that in order to tell a story like this we have to talk about like a more collective experience, whether it’s in front or behind the camera because there’s actually a lot of diversity on both and they’re still striving for more constantly. It was a great environment to be on. Actually, brie, you started training to play captain marvel nine months before because you wanted to do your own stunts which I thought was impressive. You had this intense four-hour daily gym routine and by the end I read that you could lift something like 400 pounds. Dead lift 225 and hip thrust 400. That’s crazy. I can’t imagine. I also read you could even push a jeep up a hill. Mm-hmm, yes. A jeep. My god. Can you imagine? For 60 seconds. Apparently you had an Achilles heel. The cat. What do you mean? I have severe allergies so it was like a joke on set that I would do these crazy stunts all day up in the air, 50 feet up in the air, but then if the cat came on set I was like wrinking my hands. But the cat had some sort of role. Yeah. The cat plays a big part in this film and he’s really, really cute. Brie, I also know that you met with real-life air force pilots. It’s amazing. My sister-in-law is in the air Oh yeah? What was that like? It was incredible. I got to hang with fighter pilots, in particular getting to meet a lot of women in the air someone took me up in a plane and we got to simulate a dog fight, on offense and defense. I puked a lot. The Gs are no joke. I got to 6.5 Gs and I got a call sign which is sparrow. Annette, you play a character called the supreme intelligence. Without revealing too much about the film, tell people about the character and the relationship that it has with marvel. Yes, I play the supreme intelligence and I’m like a god-like entity and I meet her in the virtual chamber as she’s preparing to go into battle. We actually have a clip. Let’s take a look. Your commander insists that you’re fit to serve. I am. You struggle with your emotions, with your past which fuels them. You are just one victim of the expansion that has threatened our civilization for centuries, im posters who silently infiltrate, then take over our planet. Horrors that you remember and so much that you do not. I love that. What a perfect voice for that role. But you really have to understand marvel in this role. I heard you had to consult your I did. I had to swear them to secrecy which they have respected, and I did, I got a sort of crash course from my kids because they’re avid fans and they knew the whole background to it. There are some things that I can’t talk about today but that they were able to also explain to me. Have they seen the film yet? No, they haven’t. Brie, the movie takes place in the ’90s and it’s fun to catch the references to the time period. Blockbuster video, remember that? Aol, pagers, I remember that. You actually got your start as a child actor in the ’90s in comedy sketches for the “Tonight show” with lay Leno, we we found one. New roadkill easy bake oven. Just find your favorite roadkill, chop it up, add easy bake batter and cook. Thanks, roadkill easy bake oven. O cute. Yes, same person. What do you think when you see something like that? I remember shooting that because I got a dressing room and they put my name on the door and it was like in a star and I remember feeling like I had totally made it. Little did I know. Easy bake oven roadkill. Yeah, great product. Annette, you’ve had so many incredible movies from the time period in which this new movie is set, American beauty, the grifters, the American president, it goes on and on. Do you have a favorite film from that time period? Well, I’d have to say bugsy because that’s when I met my husband, so that’s certainly one of them. And it’s a really good movie. I love that movie. You two are such movie stars, that last shot, that is like movie stars personified. You’ve been together for 27 years, right? Yeah. Celebrating your 27th. 27 next week. Wow. Oh, my gosh, congratulations. What’s the secret? What’s the secret of being married to Warren beatty? There’s no secret. I don’t think there’s any secret for any of us. Anybody who’s married knows there’s no secret. But certainly wanting the same things I think helps a lot. That’s true of us, so we stayed with that. Wonderful. You have things in common too, right? Yes, as well as four children. It’s lovely to see you both again. Our thanks to brie Larson and Annette Bening. “Captain marvel” will be in theaters and imax tomorrow. We’ll be right back. Back.

This transcript has been automatically generated and may not be 100% accurate.

[g33khq]

New Post has been published on G33k-HQ

New Post has been published on http://www.g33k-hq.com/culture/artist-spotlight-sara-woolley/

Artist Spotlight: Sara Woolley

BODYMOD: Are you woman enough to survive Bitch Planet?

Imagine a world where women are subject to punishment for being “non-compliant” and sent away to prison, literally on another planet! That is the premise of the smash hit Sci-fi series “Bitch Planet.” In this dystopian universe, when women are seen as being defiant and resistant they are sent to The Auxiliary Compliance Outpost, aka “Bitch Planet.”

  Bitch Planet

I recently started reading the Image Comics series (Bitch Planet by Kelly Sue DeConnick & Valentine De Landro) after first being introduced to Triple Feature issue #4 (contains 3 short stories in one book!) The short stories coexist in the Bitch Planet universe and you can read them without reading the bitch planet series and vice versa. However, it captivated my attention so I am now reading the initial BP series! Check them out Here: 

I’m going to focus on one of the mini stories from Triple Feature Issue #4: Body Mod written and illustrated by the super talented Sarah Woolley.

This original story is a perfect demonstration of an extreme sci-fi extension of today’s society.

Body Mod: Written and illustrated by: Sara Woolley

Triple Feature #4

Bitch Planet Triple Feature #4

RATED M

BodyMod is a sci-fi world where plastic surgery is a norm and done to the max. So extreme that there is literally a Build a Babe! Can you imagine, modifying bodies as a part of everyday life.

This mini story presents some touchy subject matter, heavy themes and can relate to society today, which is pretty disturbing. I think it’s alarming thinking of this world as a reality and potentially something that could be likely in the future when our youth is so heavily influenced by what’s trending in pop culture, social media, and “enhanced beauty”. Today’s beauty standards are already disturbing, and Body Mod demonstrates a perfect exaggeration of today’s society with a sci.-fi twist.

Here Sara takes us into the deranged world of BODY MOD.

1. How did you first get involved with the Bitch Planet series?

I met Kelly Sue DeConnick at Heroescon in Charlotte NC, 2 years ago.  She not only took the time to check out my work, but wrote to me after the fact to let me know she liked it so much she had passed Los Pirineos all around the Milkfed Criminals office.  I love work so needless to say I was totally floored.  It was really very cool of her. I sent her the 9th of april when it came out the next year and maybe a few months later we saw each other at ECCC in Seattle.  She was looking for contributors for the anthology, and asked if I would be interested.  HELL YES!

2. Congrats, as this is your first independent comic that you have both written and illustrated! How did you go about the process of accomplishing this?

When Kelly Sue asked if I wanted to be in the anthology she said “You do it all, right? Write and Draw?”  I said yes… and then panicked a little inside.  This story is my first professionally published solo work.  Up to this point I have always written with collaborators, for example the Los Pirineos Books which I coauthor with my mother.

3. Any issues, you faced or did you have the creative freedom to do you what you wanted with the story?

I definitely had a lot of freedom on Bodymod. Kelly Sue and the managing editor at Milkfed Criminals whom I worked with primarily, Lauren Sankovitch guided me through the pitching and writing process, but they gave me the space and encouragement to come up with and to pursue my own vision.  They had me come up with several different story ideas that would make sense in the context of the Bitch Planet Universe – but made me limit myself to very rough, brief ideas.  So I was able to really be broad about the story generation process without investing too much time into it.  My biggest issue was figuring out how to tell the story I wanted to in 8 pages.  I still feel like there was a 24 pages comic in there somewhere… but I tend to be long winded.  I learned a ton from Lauren and Kelly Sue working on this project.

4. You typically write children’s books, did you find it difficult working on this storyline, and how did it feel crossing over to more mature themes?

I felt absolutely fine with it.  I’m not a child, and I the work I generally read is not aimed at children.  To be honest, it actually felt very freeing.  However, the different content definitely confuses some people.  I’ve had fans of my previous books get a bit freaked out when they find out this is also my work.  I’ve been told that it doesn’t look like my work and seems like another artist did it.  I definitely don’t agree with that, but I can see where they are coming from.  I hate the idea of having to be pigeonholed into one genre of stories and one way of making art.  So… I’m just not allowing that to happen.

5. How did you come up with the premise for Bodymod?

The premise behind all the stories I came up with for the anthology came from the experiences of just being a woman navigating daily life. The premise behind Bodymod in particular comes from my feelings around the social pressures that are omnipresent in our lives every day asking that we conform to an idealized and unrealistic concept of feminine beauty.  Growing up I had my own struggles with body image. I’m 5’10 and just under 200 lbs, and I’ve been this size since High School.  Lets just say the 90’s were not kind to thick girls, and being strong was not thought of as sexy.  The anger and sarcasm present in the story is the current me, who feels great about who I am and what I look like, telling the world world just how little a fuck I give about fitting into a role and size I was never going to be anyway.    (steps off soapbox.)

6.  Although its sci fi, this subject matter touches some heavy themes pertaining to real life. How do some of the themes in the comic tie into issues our society faces today?

The whole premise of Bodymod comes from the idea of redesigning your body to be beautiful to the point of discomfort, in the story its taken to an extreme because the Bitch Planet, sci fi world allowed me to really push it.  However its important to understand that the cultural norms that Julie and Monica are assimilating to are not Sci Fi.  Whats the difference between lotus feet, stilettos that can only be worn in bed, or feet surgically altered to become mermaid fins?  Yes in my story the women essentially turn themselves into helpless pets, but all of them sexualize fettered women.

There’s a spread on pages 2-3 where Julie is on a bus and you see background advertisements behind her.  I had intended to make up some really jarringly misogynistic ones… until I looked them up. There is NOTHING I could come up with that was worse than reality.  ALL the ads on the page, including the magazine cover, are real.  I never stop hating this one ever time I see it:

7. Who has had the biggest influence on you in or outside of the comics industry, and how did they affect your life?

Ok now THATS hard.  I would say my mom has probably had the biggest influence on me, but I’m not sure if that is really what you meant.  She’s a feminist and raised me to be one too.  I wore overalls and did science experiments and was encouraged to be messy and do whatever I wanted to do better than the boys.  I am really very lucky.  She is a role model for me, but she’s also my inspiration, my writing partner and my biggest fan… which since we work on her memoir together maybe that also makes her, her own biggest fan?  hmmm…

8. What’s the most important “big idea” that you’ve learned in life – in or out of comics – and why is it important?

I’ve learned by watching the amazing comics pros that I am proud to call my friends that you must work hard, and I mean REALLY hard, to make comics.  That sounds obvious but its not.  There are a lot good creators out there who make very little work and just peter out.  But the truly brilliant ones work incessantly and when asked how they do it, discipline and tenacity is usually the common denominator.  I know an artist who told me he videos his comics commissions so he can see later where he is loosing time on them by “just fucking around”.  I know another who every time she is asked for advice says “Draw whether you are sick or well.  Draw whether to feel like it or not.”  Now, I’m not saying I’m like that, but I aspire to be.

Also what else can we look forward to from you in the near future?

I’m currently working on the next Los Pirineos book to follow up last year’s release of The 9th of April.

So hopefully by next year’s MOCCA I’ll have that one in hand.  FINGERS CROSSED.  I also have a book of watercolor sketch painting I did while traveling in Thailand for a month this winter.  I’m still trying to figure out the format of it.  Its a mixture of painting people and places on location… and all my meals!  I’m obsessed with food and theres no explaining just how good the food in Thailand is, so I painted it all to help mark it in my memory forever.  I might try including photos and recipes too… not sure yet.

To see more of Sara’s work visit: http://www.sarawoolley.com/  @saritajeanine

MOCCA ARTS FESTIVAL

Also catch Sara at Mocca Fest this Saturday & Sunday table A106

Society Of Illustrators

https://www.societyillustrators.org

http://www.sarawoolley.com/

https://imagecomics.com/comics/series/bitch-planet

[raystart]

Telling Your Story

The first serious story I ever wrote was to impress a girl. We met one summer during college in a small town with a big lake. Over the course of our weeks together, she taught me how to sail. I bought her bags of gummy bears at the old-timey candy store on Main Street. And we went to the town’s biggest social event of the year, the semipro rodeo, followed by the postrodeo honky-tonk dance. Few things scare me more than a dance floor, and yet I kept up with her because I was smitten.  

When summer ended, we both went to back to our respective colleges, a thousand miles apart. I wondered how I could keep this good thing going, and I thought for all of about a minute before happening upon the best, most logical solution: I’d write her a book that relived our best moments from the summer. To make sure it didn’t feel too awkward, though, I’d change the names, alter some realities, and throw in as many one-liner jokes as I could come up with.

Months later, when every word was perfect, I sent her the resulting 100 pages, all nicely bound. A few days later, via a very polite AOL Instant Message conversation, she said she found the book charming. She added that in the interim she had found someone else, the man she would later marry.

The story, I guess, just wasn’t enough to bond us forever in love. Looking back, it’s easy to see why – the narrative lacked any sense of a plot, had poorly defined characters, and possessed no theme other than the great lengths to which a college-age male will go for young love.  

But on the bright side, I discovered that I loved telling stories, and that feeling eventually took me to New York City, where I’ve spent countless hours working through my earlier mistakes. As the editor of 99U, I now get to do what I love every day: track down, investigate, and spread the word about creative leaders who are mastering their crafts, building incredible careers, and shaping their industries.

We at 99U believe in a story’s ability to foster meaningful human connections so much that we published the piece “Why Every Artist Should Be a Great Storyteller.” Key among the reasons it explores are that stories serve as an organic means of marketing what you’re doing, provide additional ways to connect with an audience, and allow you to promote your work without feeling like a self-promoter. And whereas product pitches disrupt our lives and exasperate us, stories provide something of value and are enjoyable. If you tell your story right you can resonate with your audience over the long run, rather than gamble on a short-term hard sell of whatever you’re trying to move this product cycle.

Here’s a five-step guide for how to build and develop a compelling narrative. It uses 99U articles as examples, so readers can see how an editorial property evaluates ideas, decides which ones get published, and why. Granted, there is no one-size-fits-all way to tell your story, so this is intended to serve as a blueprint that can be adapted to your medium, whether it is text-based or visually driven, a 60-second bio pitch to a new client or a six-month social media campaign that showcases the creative process behind your latest project –  or even a 100-page love story, if you’re feeling particularly ambitious.

Step 1: Find your story by identifying your unique spin on a universal theme

The hardest part of telling your story can be getting started, which is ironic, because if you’re the main character in your story, or championing a brand, you should theoretically know everything there is to say about it by heart. But the reality is that when we’re drivers of a story, we sometimes barrel down the road with blinders on – all we’re focused on is what’s ahead, when we also need to see the larger themes at play around us.  

If you’re having trouble nailing down your narrative, you’ll appreciate the tale of Texas sign painter Norma Jeanne Maloney. Her story wasn’t initially obvious to us. We were intrigued by the words that described her – “Texas sign painter” – but it was hardly enough to warrant a 2,500-word feature. So we looked more closely at her life in an attempt to uncover what we could about someone who has never led a global branding campaign and is not widely known outside of her community.

  Norma Jeanne Maloney outside of her Texas studio.

Here’s what we saw: For the past 25 years Maloney has hopscotched around the country, from San Francisco to more affordable Nashville (where she painted honky-tonk bar signs) to affordable-turned-gentrified Austin to sleepy, and way more affordable, Taylor, Texas, in pursuit of one thing – painting colorful signs by hand for the likes of BBQ joints, butcher shops, and tattoo parlors. Hell, she even drove a meat truck for two years to fill her coffers during a work slump.

Today, out on the sun-punched Texas plains, Maloney puts on her cowboy hat and works from dawn to dusk, “like a farmer,” in a 117-year-old mint-green building that resembles an Old West saloon. Her rent is relatively low, giving her the financial freedom to create on her own terms.

The more we learned about Maloney, the more we got behind her story, because in it we saw a familiar, compelling theme: Here is someone who has spent nearly half her life doing whatever it took to do what she loves. Yes! So even if we’re not sign painters ourselves, we can still relate in some way to Maloney. That theme, then, became the frame to our story, and we could use it as our opening to illuminate Maloney’s unique cross-country journey within it.

Making sacrifices to live the creative life might be the theme of your story, too. Or it may not be. Begin by outlining other universal themes – like the underdog story or the coming-of-age story – to find the one that best fits your journey. Then sketch out the details that paint your character portrait using as many bits of real-life flavor as you can come up with: hand-painted signs! From sunup to sundown! The meat truck! Once you’ve done this, you’ve established who you are and where you’re going: the start of your story.

Step 2: Take us on an adventure

Stories need motion. They need action. They need someone going on an adventure, whether that’s a physical trek or an introspective, reflective one. Better yet, stories should have both, because your goal is to add as many memorable wrinkles to the narrative as you can in order to differentiate your tale from every other one in the marketplace that follows a similar theme.

Take a scenario we at 99U get pitched a lot: that of a young artist who moves to New York City with nothing but a suitcase and a dream to put their artistic stamp on something. While that’s a relatively uncommon journey in the U.S., it’s typical among the creative set. So how did we pick the one we published over the rest?

We decided to feature Nigerian artist Laolu Senbanjo because his physical journey was so great. He grew up in a family where the males, for generations, had become lawyers because that was considered a respectable job. Senbajo initially went that route himself, but then quit and opened an art gallery in Nigeria. His father was so disheartened by Senbanjo’s artistic pursuit that he once drove Senbanjo around their city’s slums, telling him that if he kept this up, he’d end up there too. But Senbajo kept at his art, and received a visa to the United States.

Laolu Senbanjo.

That’s a good start to Senbanjo’s story, differentiating his journey from those of others who had parental support and traveled a much shorter difference to New York. But there are other strivers who come from humble beginnings and travel long distances, so how could Senbanjo separate himself from that pack? Well, a few years after he arrived in New York City, he got the job of a lifetime: painting Beyoncé’s face with his Afromysterics designs for her music video Lemonade. That led to work with Nike, the Grammy Museum, and the Smithsonian Institution, among others. Not bad! It was only then that Senbanjo’s father came around to his son’s pursuits. “We are your parents and you taught us something about art and being an artist,” he told Senbanjo.  

By the time we reach the end of Senbanjo’s interview, we’ve gotten to know him on multiple levels, both inside and out, and each move he made differentiated him more and more from other New York City dreamer stories. In the process, his multiple thematic adventures have given the audience more strands of his narrative to connect with.

The fact that Senbanjo’s story has Beyoncé in it certainly helps, but if you’re like the rest of us and your story is missing Queen Bey, look for stories within a story – say, a father-and-son career-tension story happening within a young dreamer’s journey story – and start weaving them together to give your narrative a unique texture and richness that allows it to stand apart, and stand on its own. 

Step 3: Reveal your struggles

Conflict. No good story is complete without it. That means you have to share tough moments – even moments when you failed. This is tough for everyone. The objective, though, is not to relive memories you’d rather forget; it’s for you to provide another avenue for your audience to connect with you. Think of an aspiring Olympian who misses the Olympics one year, then sacrifices for four more years before trying again. It’s human nature to want to cheer for them, even if we don’t know them personally. That’s not because they’re athletically superior to 99.9% of the population – it’s because they have missed out on achieving a big goal, just like the rest of us. A struggle shows that you’re human, and it gives you a chance to display what you’re made of.  

This helps explain why our readers connected with master woodworker Mira Nakashima. She let us in on those moments that hurt. It was Mira’s father George, one of the most respected woodworkers in the U.S., who decided that Mira would follow in his footsteps and make chairs, tables, and other furniture pieces at the family’s rural Pennsylvania studio. George often made important decisions for Mira, including where she would attend college (Harvard), what she would study (architecture), and whom she would apprentice under (him).

Mira Nakashima.

Flawless execution on the part of Mira was the expectation. But no matter how hard she worked, it was never enough. “I don’t ever remember being praised for being successful while I was working for him,” said Mira. It was this moment of the story that really sold us on publishing this piece. Imagine if your boss never complimented you on your work. Now imagine if that person was your father. How do you come back from that?

Mira, naturally, is feeling low as a result. But the audience hasn’t deserted her. Instead, they empathize with her – it’s the circumstances around her that are driving the conflict, and she’s doing her best to endure them – and are waiting to see how will she respond.

George passed away in 1990, and Mira finally takes over the shop. She knows she must move forward and evolve. She does, leading the Nakashima Studio into one of the most impressive chapters of its history. If Mira had been born into a renowned family, enjoyed success working for her dad, and then taken over a thriving business, that would have been a nice albeit standard narrative. But stories need to be more provocative – they need to push people out of their comfort zones. That gives Mira a chance to show the audience her human spirit and fortitude – just like an Olympian – making her someone we want to cheer for, both at her low and in the end.

Remember: Showing your vulnerability isn’t a sign of weakness. It shows you’re real, and that gives your audience another way to relate to you. 

Step 4: Add literary spice to jazz it up   

This is the fun part of the storytelling process, the place where you must inject your own personality and character to further make the narrative your own. The key is to add details in spots where they can make the biggest impact, in particular those moments that are out of the ordinary or when you are introducing a particular character or scenario. Once you identify those moments, see how many of the five senses you can engage to capture and hold on to the audience’s attention. Your goal is to show your audience what is happening, not tell them, as your aim is to depict a scene that allows the reader to process it on their own terms and reach their own conclusions. The more you can show them, the more real the scene becomes. 

The opening paragraph is particularly important and often the most challenging. You have a few sentences to make readers care about where this tale is going. I felt the pressure myself when I did a piece on Spanish artist Rubén Sánchez. He’s a rising star and a fascinating guy, but he is not yet a household name (strike one against the storyteller); plus, there are a lot of people out there who paint (strike two). So it was my responsibility to find a way to differentiate his story from that of every other painter the audience has encountered.

When Sanchez told me about the time he painted a six-story mural, it was clear that would become our starting point, as such opportunities don’t come along every day. Here is the result:

“Raised up six stories in the air by a rickety blue crane balancing on rocky, muddy ground, Rubén Sánchez tried to figure out what was the biggest challenge of spray painting this mural on the side of a concrete building in Russeifa, Jordan. Was it the blinding two-day sandstorm? The birds-eye elevation that felt magnified by the tight working conditions – Sánchez stood in a bucket large enough for just him, protected from falling overboard by two thin rebar wires. While dreadful, none of these matched Sánchez’s biggest problem – the bathroom was a long way down in the achingly slow crane that took forever to inch back to Earth.”

Rubén Sánchez.

My goal here was to describe an unsettling scene by drilling into the details. Sanchez wasn’t just in a crane bucket – he stood in one fenced in by metal threads. And I purposefully don’t describe what he is painting right away. That can come later, because how he is painting creates way more tension. The birds-eye elevation! The possibility of death! Forgive me for the bathroom humor, but sometimes you shouldn’t overlook the obvious, which can all too easily disappear in plain view. Hopefully, by the time the reader is done with this paragraph, they realize this guy isn’t like any other painter, and they can’t help but wonder what happens to him.

As you develop your style, your goal should be to say things in fresh ways. The sun shouldn’t be “hot” or “yellow.” Instead, how about “fiery” or “golden” or “bakes” or “blazes” – words that conjure up multiple images. And take us to unexpected places that shake us free of the usual stereotypes. If your main character is a painter, don’t have them painting a canvas if you can go with a crane and a sandstorm.  

Over time, these descriptors will become part of your literary spice kit, devices you can use to carve out your own voice and say things in a way unlike anyone else.  

Step 5: Teach us something we can benefit from   

Every story should have a moral, but what’s more, it should also have what we in media call “service tips.” These are pearls of wisdom you’ve shared throughout your tale that your readers can apply to their own crafts and careers. As the storyteller, this is your chance to show your value: You’re mining your own experience for insights others don’t have, and trading that information for the attention of an audience who could benefit from it. In other words, what do you know that the rest of us don’t?

When we did a piece on Bob Mankoff, the former cartoon editor of The New Yorker, we realized he had two stories in one. The first was a delightful human interest story, in that he’s spent the bulk of his career in an enviable job that sounds made up and just plain fun.

The second one to emerge was that this guy really knew something about how to generate winning ideas under tight deadlines. Each week Mankoff oversees a process where about 50 New Yorker cartoonists submit 10 cartoon pitches each for a handful of openings in the magazine. We wanted to mine him for his knowledge on the topic, so this story had the ability to reach multiple groups of people: cartoon junkies (a relatively small demographic) and people who need good ideas fast (essentially everyone).

Throughout the course of the piece, Mankoff let us in on three strategies he uses to come up with a good idea under pressure. The easiest way to get a good idea, he said, is to dream up a lot of ideas. A single idea is never enough, and it’s rarely good, he noted. And that is why he requests 10 cartoons per person – because nine out of 10 things in life don’t work out.

To get his creative juices flowing, Mankoff starts by putting together things that don’t normally go together – like heaven and an E-ZPass lane – and sees what happens. The juxtaposition gets his brain thinking What if? and serves as a jumping-off point. Even if the first few concepts aren’t mind-blowing, he is working his way toward something good in a way that’s far less fraught with pressure than staring at a blank page and hoping for a winning idea right off the bat.

Finally, we learn that a rejected idea doesn’t always mean it’s a bad idea that should be discarded. It simply means that it didn’t work this time. A number of New Yorker cartoonists keep unsold cartoons in their files and return to them again and again, refining the punch lines until one day they stick.

By the time our readers, the majority of whom are not professional cartoonists, are done hearing from Mankoff, they’re now in possession of proven strategies about how to generate new concepts when the odds are against them. Mankoff has delivered something of value in an entertaining, enlightening way. And providing value to your audience, something at the heart of any good story, makes what you say worth listening to.