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qianinterprises · 3 years

Text

Summer '78

Pairing | bully!Jeno x chubby!Reader

Warning(s) | bullying, harsh words, cussing, sexual assault, name calling, fat shaming, poor shaming, face slapping, angst, hurtful comments, yelling, the Dreamies are not nice people (I know I did Jaemin wrong, I'm sorry)

Synopsis | Jeno was a bully, and you were his primary victim. Nothing should have changed, but Jeno began getting tired of bullying the girl he was in love with simply because she didn't conform to societies beauty standards. So she was chubby? So what?! His friends didn't see it that was.

Genre | ANGST, retro-flashback

Author’s Notes | So I wrote this a while back for an event of NCTA, which was basically writing a retro fic. This fic is very different than the fics I usually write. For one, it is told in Jeno's perspective rather than the readers. For two, this is a "chubby fic." Meaning the reader is seen in the fic as having a larger body weight, which, may I add here, is not a problem, nor should it ever be. If you are being bullied for anything, please don't let it go unreported. Report it as many times as you have to because bullying is not ok, whether it's done at school, at home, or anywhere else. Also, there is a possibility that there will be a part two, I have had some people (before posting it here) request a part two but I'm on the fence about that, but perhaps a part two will show some change and growth on Jeno's part. So we'll see. Tell me your opinions though! I hope you enjoy~

Word Count | 3.5k

Taglist | @treasuretaeil @hachanbaecon @nschitty

A group of six boys sat around a table talking and laughing until a loud crash resounded through the snack shack that brought their attention to a waitress on the floor, yellow heels scattered behind her, empty tray in her hands and spilled drinks everywhere as well as on a girl by the table the waitress had fallen at.

“Clutz,” one of the boys, Jeno, mumbled, shaking his head.

“Fatass,” Jeno’s best friend, Jaemin responded.

The other four muttered something along the lines of agreement as they watched the waitress cowering on the floor with a bright red face as the girl now covered in cola shrieked about her ruined clothing and hair.

Jaemin got up from his seat angrily.

“What the hell are you doing to my girlfriend!” he yelled, approaching the pair.

“Jaeminnie! She poured soda all over me!” the girl pouted, running into Jaemins arms.

Jeno rolled his eyes.

Jeno shook his head. Out of all of the boys in their biker gang, Jaemin just had to be the most gullible, falling for the Queen Bee of the high school who used him for nothing more than his money and face.

“She ruined my shirt,” Jeno heard the girl whine.

Jaemin embraced her tighter.

“You’ll have to pay for her clothing, fatty!” Jaemin demanded.

The waitress was someone Jeno recognized. (Y/F/N) (Y/L/N). She had been one of his best friends when he was a shy ten year old trying to fit in. They both befriended Jaemin and the rest of their group and somewhere along the way, he’d gotten muscular and tall while she’d gotten chubby. With Jeno’s looks, he’d always been popular with girls, but when he became interested in them as more than friends, he’d dumped the girl in favor of girlfriends.

She was a bullied girl wearing outdated clothing that made adequate grades. A nobody. She didn’t fit into any groups. She drifted through high school being shoved against lockers while her books were thrown across the hallway and what little lunch money she had was stolen. More often than not, Jeno or one of the other guys was the perpetrator.

“I can’t…” (y/n) muttered, looking down at the floor.

Jaemin kicked the carrying tray away from her, making the girl flinch.

Something in Jeno’s heart snapped against his chest, but he’d never allow it to escape. He watched tears gather in the corner of the girl's eyes and Jeno fought the urge to pull her to his chest.

Feelings began to stir their first year in high school when he and (y/n) had been seated side-by-side in homeroom and he’d leaned over to tease her about her recent, awkwardly styled hair when he’d met the most beautiful eyes he’d ever seen.

The feelings made his stomach twist in knots and his body tingled. Feelings and sensations that only grew stronger when their skin brushed or when her angelic voice met his ears.

The feelings were what drove him to brash treatment. His hands shoving her shoulders against the lockers as he demanded for her money. Fingers harshly tugging at the ends of her hair. His voice yelling horrible things at her just to hear her speak back.

He couldn’t tell anyone how he was feeling either. Dating the chubby girl would cause him to lose whatever popularity he had obtained along with his pride and his gang. Their leader couldn’t be seen as the weak punk who decided to date the chubby girl from a poor family.

Jaemin sneered down at the blushing girl, taunting her loudly and Jeno watched her feeble attempt at hiding her face.

“Jaemin! Let’s go. Chubby over here isn’t worth our time,” Jeno called loudly, voice filled with authority that had Jaemin immediately moving away from the girl.

“Fine. But she owes us free meals for a week! Those clothes were expensive!” Jaemin whined.

He kissed his girlfriend's cheek and walked to the door to wait on the rest of the gang who were stuffing their last few fries in their mouths or finishing off their milkshakes.

“Let’s roll,” Jaemin called, a grin on his face.

Jeno shook his head at how fast the male changed perspectives. He grabbed his leather jacket off the back of his chair, sliding his arms into it and let it snap against his back.

The last few members finished their plates, leaving them on the table before grabbing their own jackets and following Jaemin out the door. Jeno took the end, stopping by the waitress on the floor.

“Maybe get some heels your fat feet can walk in, huh Dollface?” he sneered.

Her face flew red again and he rolled his eyes.

“And you should stop blushing. You look like a tomato. Vegetables aren’t attractive. Although it’s fitting. Tomatoes are plump.”

He walked out the door without another word, heart hammering painfully in his ears. He wanted to tell her how beautiful she was, but that was a problem. He couldn’t think chubby girls were beautiful. What would his friends think?

The loud purr of an engine met his ears and he sighed happily, most of his regret getting washed away, uprooted by the smell of motor oil and tires.

Jeno’s ride was a cherry red 1960 Harley-Davidson motorcycle with shiny silver wheels that didn’t match the rusted gas tank or muffler that Jeno was now saving to restore among other things. The black leather seat was slightly cracked from wear over the years and the breaks didn’t always work great. His headlight needed a new spark plug and the oil line leaked. Still, with all of these issues, he loved his bike. Each new issue gave him something to work on at night in his father's tiny little garage when all he wanted was grease on his chest and a wrench in his hand.

“Let’s go Jeno! I wanna ride!” Donghyuck moaned from his spot on his own bike, revving the engine with his right hand.

Jeno rolled his eyes at Donghyuck’s whining. Out of all of them, he was the one that loved traveling the most. They’d gone all the way up the coast the day they’d let Donghyuck lead them.

Jeno nodded and threw his leg over his bike, kicking the kick start lever and sighing happily as the bike roared to life beneath him. He pushed off his kickstand and allowed it to roll forward.

“Let’s go!” he called.

He rolled to the front of the group before revving the engine and turning onto the main road leaving the beachside snack shack behind.

When Jeno pulled into the driveway of his house, he parked his motorcycle beside his elder brother's black and gold Harley, letting the kickstand rest against the dirt driveway and dismounted..

He made his way into the house where his older brother, Jaehyun, was sitting alone in the living room flipping through channels.

Jeno’s heart hurt. All through the ride, he thought about (y/n) and the pained look in her eyes every time someone teased her. He knew it wasn’t right to bully her, especially for something as shallow as her weight or her clothes, but when the girls Jeno dated began mocking her, Jeno joined in, and pretty soon, she was alone. It hurt that Jeno could have stopped it. He could have kept her as a friend instead of ditching her, and now, here he was, hopelessly in love with the girl he bullied and too afraid to stand up to his friends out of fear that they would dump him.

“I have a problem,” he groaned, flopping down on the couch.

Jaehyun turned the small box television off and turned his attention to Jeno. Jeno rolled his head back on the plush green sofa and sighed.

“There’s this girl I like…” he started.

Jaehyun groaned in disinterest.

“So tell her. Not like you can’t get any girl. I heard you’re one of the kings of your class,” he replied.

Jeno whined. It was true. He could virtually have anyone he wanted, yet the one person he couldn’t have was the one he desired.

“I can’t. My friends wouldn’t approve and she’d never go for me… not after everything I’ve done,” he muttered hopelessly.

“Why do you care so much what your punk friends think? Do what you want, not what they want you to do.”

Jeno sighed. It wasn’t that easy and Jaehyun should know that.

“She’d never go out with me anyway and I can never tell her!” Jeno whined, hoping his brother would understand.

He was far too ashamed to come out and say exactly why she wouldn’t. “There’s girls that don’t like you?” Jaehyun asked, clearly shocked.

Jeno nodded sullenly.

“Just one…”

That seemed to make the links click in Jaehyun’s mind and Jeno wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad thing.

“You don’t mean you like the poor girl you always bully, do you?”

So Jaehyun knew about that. No wonder his brother had grown distant since Jeno had started high school.

“Um… yes…” he mumbled.

Jaehyun shuffled around on the beige chair he was sitting on before one of his dirty socks was being chucked at Jeno’s head.

“Hey!” Jeno snapped.

“You don’t treat people like that! You and your friends are assholes! That poor girl won’t forgive you for what you’ve done to her!” Jaehyun yelled.

Jeno wanted to yell back, but he knew Jaehyun was right. He was an asshole.

“What do I do to get her to like me… I don’t know how to stop this mess…” he mumbled. Jaehyun groaned and grabbed the large remote, flipping the television back on.

“You make things right. Stop bullying the girl and apologize like you mean it. Even then, it may be too late,” Jaehyun answered before his attention was back into the heavy box television.

Jeno sighed. He knew his brother was right.

The next afternoon, Jeno pulled his motorcycle into the parking lot of the snack shack, parking alongside Jisungs rusting brown one he refused to let Jaemin or Jeno strip and repaint.

Jeno dismounted and walked into the shack. His friends were crowded around their usual table, talking loudly.

Jeno walked over to the table and slid into the booth beside Renjun.

“What’d I miss?” he asked.

Jaemin was cackling and fishing ice out of his soda glass.

“(y/n) is on our table today!” he smirked.

Jeno’s heart dropped. That meant they’d be extra cruel to her today and Jeno really couldn’t do anything to tell her or his friends how he felt. The universe must really hate him.

Jaemin got the ice out of his cola glass and held it in his palm, his faze shifting to where (y/n) was shuffling around in her red striped shirt and black pants, wearing those same yellow heels.

“What are you gonna-”

Jeno was cut off as Jaemin smirked and launched the ice cube across the table, getting enough air to fly across the room until it dived down into the low cut v-line of (y/n)’s striped shirt.

“Yes! 10 points!” Jaemin cheered loudly.

(y/n) squeaked at the sudden intrusion of ice, a sound that Jeno found oddly adorable, even if it wasn’t a good kind of squeak.

Her face flamed red and she hurried back to put her notepad down on the chef’s counter before moving back to their table.

“Can I get you guys anything else?” she asked, her voice having gone up an octave from embarrassment.

“I want a chocolate milkshake,” Renjun answered.

(y/n) jotted it down and moved to look at the rest.

“I want a burger that’s charred on one side, but not too charred. Don’t bring me burnt meat or I’ll make your fatass eat it,” Jaemin said.

Jeno sighed at his friend, shaking his head subtly.

“I want a burger with a dollop of ketchup and three pickles. Don’t you dare give me any more or less than three pickles,” Donghyuck ordered.

Jeno rolled his eyes. Donghyuck didn’t even like pickles.

She glanced at Jisung and Chenle, both who were contently sipping their cola’s and completely ignoring her existence, so, after scribbling down everyone else’s orders, she turned her eyes to Jeno.

“Coke with ten pieces of ice and a burger.”

(y/n) nodded, writing all of the information down and shuffled off to the counter again.

“Do we really have to be that mean to her? She looked like she was going to cry,” Renjun muttered.

Jaemin rolled his eyes.

Jeno nodded in agreement to Renjun. Her face was sullen and her eyes glistened with tears that hadn’t fallen. His heart sank at the thought that maybe something had happened at home or that their words had finally gotten to her. In all the time they’d been bullying her, she never once said anything much to them, and they’d never seen her cry.

“Do you think we should lay off her?” he suggested.

Donghyuck and Jaemin snorted at the same time.

“Why would we do that?” Donghyuck asked.

Jeno shook his head. His friends could be such assholes sometimes. They wouldn’t even stop for someone that seems to be almost crying, they just use it to play more games. More buttons to press.

“If you’re so worried, Jeno, go check on her,” Chenle challenged.

“Yeah, go check on her!” Jaemin cackled.

Jeno shook his head and sighed, getting out of the booth. He knew very well what they expected him to do, or at least, what they wanted him to do, but he didn’t know if he could take calling her names anymore. Not when it felt like his soul was screaming at him not to.

He didn’t have much of a choice as he made his way over to her, however. He couldn’t control what his friends wanted and what he was obligated to give.

He moved up behind her and while her back was turned, he brought his hand down hard on her butt as his friends cackled loudly from their table. Jeno’s ears burned in embarrassment and guilt. If his mother knew what he’d just done, she’d be dragging him out of the snack shack by his ear.

He didn’t really know what to expect from (y/n). What he didn’t expect however, was her body whirling around rapidly, her hand raising angrily, and the sharp stinging sensation across his cheek.

“YOU HAVE NO RIGHT! I HAVE DONE NOTHING TO YOU, AND YET ALL YOU ARE YOUR ASSHOLE BUDDIES WANNA DO IS BULLY ME! WELL PISS OFF! I DON’T NEED THIS!” she screamed.

Jeno’s eyes widened. This was new…

“YOU ARE A BUNCH OF PUNKASS BOYS WITH NOTHING BETTER TO DO, BUT I SWEAR THE NEXT TIME I HEAR A COMMENT ABOUT MY WEIGHT, CLOTHES, OR HAIR, OR ANYONE TOUCHEs ME, I WILL SHOVE MY FAT FOOT UP YOUR BUTTHOLE!” she screamed angrily.

The cackling from the table had stopped as the boys gaped at their waitress in shock.

“AND YOU IDIOTS CAN GET YOUR OWN DAMN BURGERS!”

The snack shack had gone deathly quiet. Jeno stood as still as a statue, face still stinging, but not quite as painful now. The outburst from this usually quiet and reserved girl shocked him to his very core, but it also made him feel worse. Sure, the ice throwing, name calling, and excessively stupid orders had added fuel to the fire, but it was Jeno’s action that had thrown her over the edge.

“I-I’m… sorry…” he stammered out.

“DON’T SAY SORRY TO ME AFTER THE HELL YOU’VE PUT ME THROUGH!” she screamed.

Jeno’s heart pounded in his chest and his eyes gazed at her fearfully.

“I think it’s time you go home, (y/n), calm down and come back tomorrow,” the owner of the snack shack said, walking out of his office.

(y/n) nodded and let out a sniffle. Jeno didn’t know when she’d started crying. She grabbed the bag the owner handed her before running out of the shack.

“And you, young man. You and your boys get out of my shack. You’re all banned for a week. Come back in here acting like that and you’ll be banned permanently,” he said, eyes fixed angrily on Jeno.

Jeno turned to look back at his gang and sighed, waving a hand for them all to follow.

After the incident, Jeno hadn’t felt much like going on a ride with the rest of the gang. They were all perfectly fine, cackling and talking about the outburst, but Jeno couldn’t stomach it. The way she’d screamed. How upset she’d looked. He was done being a bully. Now he just needed to figure out how to go from bully to courting her, if that were even possible.

He parked his bike beside Jaehyun’s again, happy to see his brother was home and not at the rusty body shop he worked at.

He ran into the house, taking the front steps two at a time, and when he was inside, he made his way to the room he shared with Jaehyun.

“I need to borrow your boombox!” he yelled at the male.

Jaehyun, clearly not expecting the sudden intrusion, jumped off the small bed, stuffing the adult rated magazine he’d been “reading” under his mattress. Jeno rolled his eyes. He didn’t have time to find ways to ruin Jaehyun’s relationship with his girlfriend or rat him out to their mother.

“I. need. Your. boom. Box!” he enunciated.

Jaehyun stared at him incredulously.

“Uh… Why?” he asked.

Jeno shook his head angrily and shoved past Jaehyun to siffle through his side of the room searching for the large, heavy, cassette playing boombox his brother had bought a month ago.

“I need it to fix my (y/n) situation!” Jeno explained as he searched.

Jaehyun groaned.

“Movies aren’t real! That won’t work!”

Jeno ignored him. The guy always showed up at the window of the girl he was hoping to impress and the girl always forgave him. It’d work. It had to.

Jeno grabbed the large boombox from beneath Jaehyun’s bed, groaning at the weight. He heard Jaehyun sigh.

“Good luck then.”

Jeno didn’t need it. This would work. It had to work.

The ride to (y/n)’s house had proven to be a bit difficult as he struggled to hold the boombox against him. The box was large and heavy, with a small cassette player at the top that already had his chosen tape resting inside it.

The trip over was one of many stops and repositionings in an attempt not to drop the box that could very well make everything alright. He could just imagine her grinning in glee and running down to meet him, forgiving him for everything he’d ever done to hurt her.

By the time he got to her house, dusk was falling. He had maybe ten minutes before darkness engulfed the sky. Ten minutes in which he’d be tasked with making everything better.

He moved around the side of the common two story house and found (y/n)’s window easily. She appeared to be dancing to the music playing from the vinyl record player he could almost see perched by the window. It brought a smile to his lips. She looked so happy and carefree.

He could watch her all night, but he was here for a reason. He had to apologize for everything he’d ever done and confess.

He found a rock likely from her driveway by her window in the grass and picked it up. It was only one so he had to make it count.

He pressed play on the cassette player portion of the boombox and ‘It’s sad to belong’ came flowing out melodically from the speakers.

”Met you on a springtime day,”

He threw the rock hard against her window, flinching as he heard the rock bounce off. He was surprised it hadn’t broken the window.

”You were mindin’ your life and I was mindin’ mine too. The window opened and Jeno’s heart hammered in his chest.

“(y/f/n) (y/l/n)! I am so in love with you it hurts. I am so sorry for everything I’ve ever done to hurt you! All the bullying. All the teasing. I’m so sorry. You’re not fat or ugly! You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen! I just couldn’t show it! But I don’t care what my friends think! I love you! I want to be with you! I want to court you! Please forgive me!” he pleaded, not giving the girl a chance to say anything.

When he finished speaking, the song was nearing an end and his body was shaking. The girl looked almost close to tears again and Jeno grew hopeful that in any second, she’d run downstairs and jump into his arms.

“Yes it’s sad to belong to someone else when the right one comes along.”

“You love me huh? Well you have a funny way of showing it,” she sneered.

The window slammed shut and the drapes were immediately dropped, leaving Jeno alone in the darkness of the evening, his hopes dashed across the grass.

He’d waited too long to apologize.

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night-unfurls-its-splendour · 3 years

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The Critique of Manners Part VI

~Or~

An Attempt at an Objective Review of Emma (2009)... VOLUME TWO

Haha, bitches you didn't think I could wait a whole week did you? Nah, not me. and guys, I added to it--all total, it's 9,023 words now. this half of the review is 5,214. HOW DO I HAVE SO MANY WORDS FOR THIS THING? I'm not gonna split it into a third part, because I don't need to for picture limit purposes, but buckle in.

If you didn't catch it, read part 1 here

Here it is, the stunning conclusion to my Emma Adaptation Review series (but this isn't really the end because I plan on doing some rankings later). In this half of my review of BBC'S Emma (2009) we'll discuss Costumes and all the very specific things that I love about this version, and some things I don't like, and some things I'm here to defend.

Let's dive in!

Costumes

Generally I liked these costumes pretty well. They were designed and facilitated by Rosalind Ebbutt, also known for her work on PBS’s Victoria and Vanity Fair (1998). And her work is, as her filmography would suggest, by turns, great and so-so.

These costumes are definitely in line with the adaptation’s general aesthetic: warm pinks and golds, with mints emeralds and blues to cool it off a little, are the order of the day. I really appreciate that every character has a definite color palette. The tradeoff is that this adaptation is the WORST EVER offender for the Jane Fairfax Blue™ trope.

Daywear

Emma’s daywear is full of warm and muted colors. Salmon and magenta are commonly seen. I love that most of Emma’s daywear consists of sleeveless or short-sleeved gowns with wide-sleeved linen blouses underneath. It’s not a commonly seen aesthetic so it feels light and fresh. My favorite of Emma’s daywear dresses is the pale yellow with purple floral print.

There’s one other in particular that I love.

Emma’s blue, sleeveless dress. I love this because of HOW OBVIOUSLY it’s a reference to this portrait of Charlotte, Princess of Wales. I mean...

I’M NOT IMAGINING THIS, RIGHT? WHY DOES NO ONE TALK ABOUT THIS? This is a REAL dress. They still have this exact gown of Princess Charlotte’s. It’s on display. It’s faded, but it’s the same dress.

Harriet has a fresh and innocent green, white and purple color scheme with healthy doses of peach and pink showing. I particularly like her white and purple floral print dress.

Mrs. Weston’s color palette varies, but leans heavily on tans and purples, which is very flattering, I must say, to Johdi May’s coloring and is really refreshing for Mrs. Weston who seems to get stuck in pinks and yellows a lot. No idea what’s going on with the laced-front dress though? This doesn’t quite read as authentic to me, but I do like that her first dress seems to be an apron-front.

I know I already said that this is the worst Jane Fairfax Blue™ offender, but guys I can’t stress it enough. WE ARE 5/5 ON DAYWEAR HERE. LOOK AT THAT. (Also of note, Jane 5 is one of Gwyneth Paltrow’s dresses from the '96 Emma.)

Mrs. Elton seems, at all times, to be wearing some form of pink, but I think I’m right in saying that the white day dress with the rose patterned bodice under the yellow and pink spencer is one of Jane’s dresses from P&P ’80. Can anyone confirm that? They did sneak in some Mrs. Elton Orange™ though, for Box Hill, and it’s worth noting that Mrs. Elton is the only lady who’s appropriately dressed on that occasion.

Isabella gets some understated day gowns that are very nice and also VERY “Jane Austen” in the sense that I feel like Jane Austen herself might have worn them.

Miss Bates, unfortunately is slapped with brown at just about every turn, but at least her “Nice” day outfit has some subtle leaf patterns, which is refreshing. Also Mrs. Goddard has a slappin’ cap. Love that.

Also, Harriet’s Grecian costume for the painting (upper right hand corner). What can I say, but that I love it. I love that it hints at the neoclassical influences on Regency fashion too. This is my favorite interpretation of the painting too.

Evening Wear

You know what I love about this version? It’s the first version of Emma where her gown for the Crown in Ball isn’t WHITE. I know, I know white was fashionable, but it’s just… it’s nice for not EVERY gown in a ball scene to be plain white friggin muslin and also, it’s not one she’s ever worn before, which is great.

Harriet does have only white evening gowns but that’s okay. My only complaint is that, specifically on her Crown Inn dress and in a lot of her costumes in general, the waistline seems just a little low. Hmm. I really like the pale blue pattern on her first evening dress though.

Mrs. Weston though. Woo. Look at those. She has a dark chartreuse gown with black lace trim that any other version would have put on Mrs. Elton, so you know from the dark tones that she’s a bitch. Not so with Emma '09, and that’s good. And her teal dinner number is a favorite of mine. I never paid much attention to her green and gold ball gown but it has some really beautiful, subtle leaf or maybe peacock feather patterns on it and I love that. My only problem is that there seem to be some fit issues. She’s got muffin top way too often. Her orange evening dress is a bit of a dud though, firstly, because it has long sleeves (which is an evening gown no-no) and the fabric slaps a bit too much of sari fabric for my tastes.

Jane, not only is put in blue with both of her evening gowns (although one is so pale it borders on white), ONE of them is another Emma ’96 repeat and not only that, it’s one of Jane Fairfax’s dresses in that film! Perhaps that’s enough to make it an homage, and I have to say, I think Laura Pyper wore it better.

Miss Bates only has one evening wear ensemble, but at least it’s cream and not brown.

Mrs. Elton’s gowns are surprisingly understated, and yet still seem to be annoyingly fussy and, what’s better? They’re not sickly green. One of them is actually a very pleasant mint.

Outerwear

Outerwear is roundly pretty great here. Emma’s primary choice of color for spencers is emerald/evergreen and one of them is Elizabeth’s Bennet’s from the 1995 P&P (though to be honest, I think Jennifer Ehle filled it out better.) I do love Mrs. Elton’s pink and yellow number with the slashed sleeves. Jane Fairfax’s only spencer is, you guessed it, blue, but her friend Miss Campbell has a rather fun mauve one.

There’s no shortage of pelisses and redingotes either. Harriet can be seen in one borrowed from Elinor Dashwood in the '08 S&S, Mrs. Weston has a rather fabulous purple one which she wears with the most delicious looking hat I’ve ever seen.

Emma has two. The first one is a great magenta number with military braiding (and I think she wears with it one of the brown slouch hats that Kate Beckinsale wore in the same role) and while the other pelisse is brown, they had the sense not to make her wear a hat with it that was also brown. Instead, they gave her a contrasting color. Good on ya, Rosalind!

Speaking of hats, I don't often single them out for commentary, but I want to here because… the hat authenticity is… kinda spotty. Let me show you.

Okay first of all, Emma may be a teenager in this pic on the upper left, but she is not dressed formally enough for her sister’s wedding (which is what’s going on in this scene) but at least her hat is pretty good. You can see the ribbons are on the inside of the hat here, which is as it should be… but she never wears this hat again. At any point in the series. Instead, we next see her in the one on the upper right and ye gads this is atrocious. WHY IS HER HAT NOT PINNED ON? IT’S SLIDING DOWN THE BACK OF HER HEAD. SOMONE FIX IT. PLEASE. But wait, there’s more. This kills me because these bottom two are so similar to the one she wore earlier (the correct one) but crappier looking. Jeez.

This is not a hat. It’s a peanut. You know who doesn’t have this problem? Harriet. She only has one sun hat but at least it’s correct.

I also wanna touch briefly on this ^ costume continuity issue.

WTF is this? She’s in the hall, her ribbon is contoured to the line of her dress; she goes into the drawing room and… it isn’t anymore? Wha happun?

I took more menswear screencaps for this version than any other version. And that’s because the men just have more outfits that are, y’know, different from each other.

Mr. Knightley is as understated as ever, but I wanna highlight the first pic there and why I love it. This is Knightley’s first appearance in the series and it’s the perfect establishing shot that shows the viewer everything they need to know about Emma and Knightley’s relationship and how it has always been. He sort of materializes, out of focus in the background, but Emma immediately knows he’s there. And to accentuate how much Knightley is part of her home and scenery, his clothes (similar shades of pale tan, white and minty green to the wall behind him) almost camouflage him and make him seem at one with the moulding.

He also has a rather lovely blue evening waistcoat that I WISH I could have gotten better shot of (although I do believe it’s also worn by Henry Crawford in the '07 Mansfield Park, so for further reading…)

Mr. Weston finally gets to wear clothes that aren’t all brown! He only has ONE brown outfit. He gets PATTERNED waistcoats, one of them a rather spiffing blue and brown striped number. And he wears TROUSERS! Because he’s a gentleman, and he’s not that old and trousers are worn by fashionable gentlemen in this period!

You know who else gets to wear trousers and at least one fun waistcoat? Mr. Woodhouse. Check out that lovely Sunday Best™ waistcoat. The red striped one. That’s delightful.

John Knightley’s evening wear intrigues me. That’s a double-breasted jacket, and you know I’m not totally sure that’s very authentic for evening-wear of this period, but it is different. Unfortunately he also has a flared top hat and that is definitely not on for this period.

One of my favorite things about this version is that they don’t dress Mr. Elton as a clergyman all the time. Yes, he may be the vicar, but he’s also allowed to dress like a fashionable, handsome young man. So I’m really happy that he gets to flex his fashion muscles here.

And speaking of fashionable young men, FINALLY frank gets to be COLORFUL and his trousers are even tight enough. Both he AND Elton are often seen wearing TWO waistcoats, as I would expect them to, and even though Frank’s a dandy, he knows that flashiness is gauche so his pops of color are bright, but not in your face. His green and red waistcoats are always worn under more muted colors, and I just love it.

The only problems are… what’s with the turned-down waistcoat collars? There’s no precedent for this, in fact I think it’s directly contradictory to the style at the time, and also it makes the cravats look a bit unruly.

A Critique of Manners

A lot has been said about the manners in this adaption. Like, the actual manners, body language and facial expressions, specifically vis-à-vis Romola Garai.

And, oh yeah, there’s a lot to pick at here, but first I’d like to talk about the facial expressions.

I'm mostly gonna be talking out of my ass here, but this is my take, so if anyone can make a better argument against my points, I am listening, because I don't really like talking out of my ass and I like to be informed. That said...

I tend to be lenient on the… exaggerated facial expressions because, something I’ve noticed reading Austen’s works through the last several months is that Austen is very descriptive when it comes to facial expressions and I just find it hard to believe that people in the Regency Era never made exaggerated expressions like this.

I’ve heard a lot about how Garai’s Emma is not dignified or lady-like. But let’s think about the context of Emma Woodhouse – she’s never been in society. She’s only had a governess to teach her, and we know Emma’s always been sort of averse to being told what she can and can’t do. Emma is the highest ranking woman in her social circle (barring Isabella’s occasional presence). Emma doesn’t have to be ladylike. At 21, she’s already her local Lady Catherine. She puts a lot of stock in her position in society but, as Mrs. Elton will be the first to hypocritically point out, she’s very poorly behaved. I'd be very curious to see what would happen if Emma went to London for the season. Probably, she'd be seen, comparatively, as a country bumpkin. Can you imagine how she might get on in a sea of accomplished young ladies? She can barely handle having ONE rival with any kind of grace.

Austen never describes bodily movements of the kind we’re looking at when we watch adaptations, so why not have Emma’s body-language be un-ladylike in the conventional sense of the time? I’m not saying this to excuse the absolutely inexcusable (Frank’s head in her lap, kneeling on the sofa backwards etc.), but while Emma’s mannerisms aren’t exactly ladylike for her time, they’re not overtly masculine either (which was one of my biggest problem with Death Comes to Pemberly for example.)

Yes, there’s an ideal for manners. But we know real people didn’t always follow those ideals. In dancing for example, many dancing guidebooks of the day were full of repeated instructions not to be too loud or rambunctious when dancing. What this tells us is that people were doing just that, and probably quite a bit, too. I think that, while taking societal strictures into account, we shouldn’t totally discount the idea that people in the Regency weren’t really that different from us, and young people especially.

Now I’ve already mentioned some of the inexcusable aspects of interaction in this adaptation and they’re so notorious at this point, I don’t think that I really need to go over them much here. Although I will say: is it ridiculous to have Frank Churchill put his head in Emma’s lap? Yes. Did it make me more viscerally uncomfortable with the situation on Box Hill than any other version? Yes.

I was like, 14 when I watched this the first time. This was an effective way to telegraph to young people like me that Emma is being extremely inappropriate here in a way that no other version really managed to, even when I watched them when I was older and understood the period more. I’m far more acquainted with Regency manners than I was then, but to be honest – if they had been accurate with the manners here, when I was 14 I would not have understood what the big deal was. Is there merit in circumventing historical accuracy in favor of reaching a less-informed but still-interested audience? Yes, I think so. There were three other versions of this, at that point, that did this scene with more or less pristine manners. Not every version has to follow the manners of the time to-the-letter to be good. That’s my feeling on the matter.

There are things that do really bother me though. Like the idea that Harriet Smith doesn’t know how to spoon soup, for instance. As I said in my review for the Miramax version, table manners are pretty basic, there’s no reason Mrs. Goddard wouldn’t have taught Harriet this. It does provide a good moment to show Emma tacitly coaching Harriet and showing the trajectory in which this relationship will go, but personally I don’t think it was necessary—there are plenty of other ways that could be done.

Also: kids at the dinner table? I know this is part of building the familial atmosphere but it really does annoy me, because apart from building the familial atmosphere (which they do very well and frequently in other ways) it really didn’t need to happen, and it doesn’t add anything.

The Heart of Highbury

So, as I’ve hinted at throughout this review, the bread and butter of this adaptation of Emma is emotion. This version goes hard and heavy on showingthe relationships – Emma’s relationships with Mrs. Weston, Mr. Knightley, her father, her sister, her brother-in-law, Miss Bates; Jane’s relationship with Frank; Frank’s relationship with his father; The John Knightleys’ home life – and it illustrates things that can be surmised from just reading the story, but really draws your attention to them in ways that other adaptations just don’t.

It does this from the very beginning with the prologue which explains in detail (not just in quick exposition between characters) how Jane and Frank were separated from their families at young ages. We know now, from psychological study, that being taken away from their primary caretakers during their formative years is one of the most psychologically traumatizing things for a child. This is deeply important context which is explained in detail by the narrator in 2-3 large pages (in my Barnes & Noble anthology) in the book.

In the featurette on the houses, they talk particularly about Hartfield and the Woodhouses being the heart of Highbury and how they particularly wanted it to feel homey because Hartfield is Emma’s house and they wanted the audience to feel why everyone is so drawn to it, and to Emma; to me that is what they did with the whole adaptation in microcosm.

I usually talk a bit about the dancing and I'm going to here as well because this is maybe the most special dance scene in any Austen for me. Of course I'm going to link to Tea with Cassiane as usual because she knows what she's talking about and I don't. But I wanna add some comments. She gives this a pretty low rating in spite of a generally favorable commentary because of two big oopsies, the circle dance formation is one, and the other is I believe, an issue with the style of dance not matching the tune in Emma's dance with Knightley. Throwing out any objective technical analysis though, this is my favorite Ball in any Austen and it all comes down to the cornerstone of this adaptation--emotion.

All of the songs and dances were original compositions and choreography made for this adaptation. So they're not period per se, but the tunes at least are representative of how Regency dance music should sound. These dances are upbeat, and lively and, damn they look like fun. Everyone is excited here and it makes me understand why dancing was such a big thing. Best of all that excitement adds to the emotional charge of the scene. "The Ship's Cook" is the most fast paced dance and I'm glad they made this the dance where Elton snubs Harriet because it really hits for me just what Harriet would be missing out on if Knightley wasn't so fucking aptly named. In all other versions you get the insult, but the dance that's taking place is usually a Baroque walker so it doesn't seem terribly like she's missing out on much. Here, this is like not getting picked for kickball-- not only is it a slight that no one wants you on their team, but you miss out on even playing the game. Harriet looks so lonely, and her feeling of being out of place rolls off of Louise Dylan so forcefully it chokes me up just thinking about it because I've been there, man. I feel this shit. *dabs eyes*. Ahem. So, yes, when Knightley engages her for the dance the excitement the viewer feels is that much more forceful and Harriet's exuberantly starting to jump in when the timing is off and Knightley gently pulling her back, it just hits me in the feels center, guys. (I wanna take a moment to give a shout out to every camp counselor who ever partnered with me for any game at summer camp.) Emma's reaction too, is gold. Her genuine relief at Knightley swooping in is one of those great reminders that Emma is Harriet's friend, and she does care about her.

Finally on the dancing front, I wanna talk about Emma's dance with Knightley and why I prefer it to the one in the 2020 version. I already talked about this a bit in the 2020 review, so I'm gonna try and keep it brief. That shouldn't be too hard, because I'm probably mostly going to repeat a lot of what I've already said about Emma and Knightley in this version as a whole.

The big thing everyone loves about the Crown Inn dance in the 2020 is the yearning, the sexual tension, the quivering touches etc. Don't get me wrong, I LOVE all of those things but... not all the time. Not in everything, and definitely not in Emma. Because Emma, to me, isn't about repressed sexuality or heated tension or seething passion. Emma and Knightley are the opposite of that, to me, really. One of my mutuals put it best, I think: "Emma and Knightley are more suited to stolen glances than hot touches."

In Part 1 I talked about how Knightley is Emma's comfort object. When Emma is out of sorts, Knightley re-centers her. It helps set up, and puts emphasis on, the crisis of the story in the last act--Emma not knowing what she has until [she thinks] she's lost it. Emma and Knightley are Friends to Lovers done as it should be. She is already so comfortable with him she doesn't even realize her own feelings. She just feels right with Knightley and that's what this dance is here to show you--a foreshadowing of matrimonial harmony.

The dance itself, of course, is always up to interpretation, because Austen never describes how it goes, just that Knightley asks Emma to dance and Knightley doesn't dance (barring charitable causes). If you prefer the sexual tension take, if that, to you is an improvement on Austen's story and gives you what you've always felt was missing, I'm glad that there is a version now that gives you what you've been looking for, but for me, I think the 09 approach hits closer their dynamic in the book.

Now do I do think the Emphasis on emotion maybe went a little too earnest in some places in this adaptation? Maybe. Just a little.

In my last review (1972) I went on a rather lengthy tirade about the scene where they turn Emma’s appeals to Harriet to exert herself and move on following Mr. Elton’s marriage into Emma guilting Harriet into thinking she’s a bad friend for being heartbroken and then throwing her into the situation most likely to rub salt in that particular wound.

In this version, while I love the emphasis they put on the stress Emma puts on her own guilt for being the reason for Harriet’s situation in the first place, I think it’s maybe a little too… much.

That’s the only way I can put it. I know I’ve just said that I think there should be a bit more expressiveness in period drama, but this doesn’t quite match the way I read it (Emma’s a bit less desperate in Austen’s prose. Very dedicated to helping Harriet feel better, but just a skosh more composed). I think she’s even crying in this scene.

While we’re here let’s go over to Box Hill ONE. MORE. TIME.

First of all, this is where this screenplay shines, in my opinion. This is the big turning point in the story and as such, should be a touchstone for the judgment of any adaptation. This sequence in the 2009 version is a perfect crystallization of everything I love about this version—namely that this is the version that, to me, most feels like someone read the book thoroughly, paid attention to what Austen was describing and then actually tried to convey it on screen. A lot of other versions sort of feel (to me), like the director glanced at the page and said “here’s what I want to convey in my version”. Insofar as making a piece of art goes, that’s good. Directors are artists as much as painters are and movies are their canvass, but it’s seldom that you find a director who honestly wants to hit as close to the author intent as possible and this Box Hill sequence makes me feel like that’s what Jim O’Hanlon was going for. I have the book open next to me as I write this and it’s shocking to me how minutely the atmosphere described in the book is conveyed here. Most of all, the fact that Emma’s insulting Miss Bates is not the only thing faux pas she makes here. Box Hill as a whole is a disaster, and it’s largely because of Frank.

“When they all sat down it was better; to [Emma’s] taste, a great deal better, for Frank Churchill grew talkative and gay, making her his first object. To amuse her, and to be agreeable in her eyes, seemed to be all that he cared for—and Emma, glad to be enlivened, and not sorry to be flattered, was gay and easy too, and gave him all the friendly encouragement, the admission to be gallant, which she had ever given in the first and most animating period of their acquaintance; but which now, in her own estimation, meant nothing, though in the judgment of most people looking on it must have had such an appearance as no English word but flirtation could very well describe. “Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Woodhouse flirted excessively.” They were laying themselves open to that very phrase—and to having it sent off in a letter to Maple Grove by one lady, to Ireland by another. Not that Emma was gay and thoughtless from any real felicity; it was rather because she felt less happy than she expected. She laughed because she was disappointed…” --Emma, Chapter 43

Most other versions rush through Frank’s “excessive” flirting with Emma (Right in front of Jane) to get to “Three Things Very Dull Indeed” as fast as possible, and yes that’s the crowning horror of Box Hill, but there’s a very intricate setting here, too, and this version has the time to lay back and let it all unfold in the oppressive discomfort of an English summer day.

Even better than all of that though is Knightley confronting Emma after it all goes down. This treatment is neither plaintive, nor aggressive as it was in ‘96 and ‘97 respectively. I’ve already extolled the virtues of Johnny Flynn’s Box Hill rebuke, but for a change I’m not going to zero in on Miller’s performance which is, at least as good as Flynn’s, but on Romola Garai’s, which I find superior to Anya Taylor Joy’s. Specifically, her reaction once she’s alone.

ATJ in the 2020 version immediately breaks down sobbing and it’s hard for me to feel that she’s sobbing for “anger against herself, mortification, and deep concern” or that there’s much self-reflection going on there. To me it rather just feels like she’s crying because she got shouted at. The theatrics of it, to me, feel childish and self-centered.

I don’t feel that with Garai’s performance.

“She was vexed beyond what could have been expressed—almost beyond what she could conceal. Never had she felt so agitated, mortified, grieved, at any circumstance in her life. She was most forcibly struck . . . How could she have exposed herself to such ill opinion in anyone she valued! And how to suffer him to leave her without saying one word of gratitude, of concurrence, of common kindness!

Time did not compose her…” --Emma, Chapter 43

Of course one can make the case that Emma's reaction should be a bit childish because Emma is an immature character, but that's the thing--I can agree with you anywhere else in this story but this is Emma's maturing moment. This is her turning point as a character. It's where we should see her reactions shift from the same childish denial we're used to seeing when Knightley scolds her, because this is different. It's not the usual brushing off of big brother Knightley, this is a young woman reacting to an esteemed friend pointing out how abhorrently inappropriate she's been and her having to admit that to herself.

I didn't really want to drag comparisons to the 2020 film into this, not on this scale at least, but this just jumped out at me the last time I watched the new film and I have to express it somewhere.

What I see in Garai’s performance is desolation and mortification. That shocked tearfulness of knowing you’ve been justly reproached for wrongdoing, but being too frozen in a pretense of composure to actually cry about it until you’re quite sure that no one will see you. And especially when it’s someone you esteem rebuking you, the horror of them leaving before you can admit that they’re right. There’s so much more depth here, I think, and I can’t even quite express what it makes me feel.

The aspect of time not composing her is another thing that they decided to put stress on in this version. Emma looks fucked up in the following scenes. When she goes to see Miss Bates, she clearly either hasn’t slept or has slept very badly. I feel like this is maybe an anticlimactic conclusion to this section but I’m afraid I’m very close to reaching incoherence, so I’m just gonna leave it here.

My absolute favoritest thing about this version though—something that sets it apart from ALL other versions and even adaptations of other Austen stories—is the inclusion of the post-confession conversation.

This is something of a trope in Austen books but it very rarely finds its way into adaptations: confessions of love are out of the way, the hero and heroine settle into an easy an comfortable conversation, glowing with happiness as they explain and laugh over their actions and misinterpretations of each other’s choices. It happens in Pride and Prejudice, in Persuasion, and yes, in Emma. This is the only Austen adaptation, that I've seen, to include this kind of conversation in any kind of detail. The 1995 Pride and Prejudice alludes to the corresponding scene in it its source material, but the lines pulled from it get tossed into the confession scene itself and then it flies through to get to the obligatory wedding—a side effect of rushing through endings, a convention I’m rather tired of.

Emma (2009) takes its time with this, as with all other aspects of this adaptation. For a version that’s so full of energy, its pacing is extremely laid back and comfortable, without dragging. When you hear the gentle musical swell and Emma and Knightley have their kiss (this whole confession sequence is so sweet and wonderful in its own right), you expect that to be it. But no, we cut to them, the picture of contented happiness, sitting together on a bench overlooking Hartfield’s garden, just talking and enjoying being together, with no teasing, no pretense. If Jane Austen stories emphasize anything, it’s the importance of communication in relationships, and I think that’s maybe why she made it a point in almost every story to show her characters communicating their feelings in words, even after all the conflict has been resolved. This is my favorite scene in the whole series (In case it being my header image didn’t make that obvious.)

This is followed rather promptly by a cut to the next day, with Emma bursting in to Donwell in hysterics about how they can’t be married because she won’t leave her father alone.

This is one of those maybe over-the-top choices that a lot of people don’t like, but guys, it was so funny to me when I was fourteen and it still makes me laugh. It might seem outlandish, but to me it’s just the emphasis on personal relationships and emotion coming through again and it always makes me smile.

Final Thoughts

It’s hard for me to give a proper round up of my feelings for this section because I think I’ve poured just about all of my feelings on each aspect into its dedicated sections.

At the end of the day, the only thing that really disappoints me about this version is the number of missed opportunities there are here. One of my favorite parts of reading Austen is when I run across a line in dialogue or narrative that just… slaps. But they never make it into the adaptations. Emma is full of them and I just wish that Sandy Welch could have taken an opportunity to slip a few of them in.

In summary, I think this is a wonderful, heartfelt adaptation aimed at getting to the emotional heart of a story that often gets caught up in the Mean Girl-ness of its main character than the coming of age story that it is. It's one of my favorite period dramas because it's one of the few that really captures the spirit of the source material as it's always felt to me. There's really only two other period dramas that I esteem on the same level as this, and they're North & South (2004) and Jane Eyre (2011) and it's for the same reasons; because they impact me deeply on an emotional level--which is what art is supposed to do--because of how well it captures the essence of the story that I know and love.

So did I succeed in a more objective review of Emma 2009? I' feel like probably not. But I tried my best. It’s so hard to be objective about something that makes you as happy as this adaptation makes me.

Ribbon Rating: Most Agreeable (83 Ribbons)

Tone: 10

Casting: 9

Acting: 9

Scripting: 7

Pacing: 10

Cinematography: 7

Setting: 9

Costumes: 6

Music: 8

Book Accuracy: 8

#emma 2009 #emma woodhouse #mr. knightley #jane austen #jane austen emma #romola garai #jonny lee miller #period dramas #regency

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shewhowillnotbenamed1 · 4 years

Text

There were too many places this could have gone, but I wanted Raven and Damian and a broken bed, and this how it turned out. I hope it’s alright!

Prompt List

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"So... can you fix it or not?"

He shuffled his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose and stared down at the broken bed frame. But even through the lenses, it wasn't quite clear. Again, there were questions, too many questions - and not one of them good. "So, can you?" Raven asked, re-centering his focus upon the task at hand. Damian knelt low, assessing the extent of the damage. It wasn't just a loose screw or two, the whole frame, it had collapsed in on itself.

The way it looked. If the bed alone looked this way, he could only imagine.

No.

There had to be a reason, some sort of explanation.

Damian stroked the broken bit of bed post and gripped, springing up what little life it was clinging to. The wood let out an awful squeak and a groan, before surrendering in anguish, falling to the floor. His electric-emerald eyes flickered over to the sorceress whose expressionless stare gave nothing away. Though, her tone hadn't exactly been forthcoming. And so the questions hadn't ceased, they had become sentient and started to multiply. Taking up roots, they grew until even his questions had questions.

One edged itself to the forefront of his mind and Damian wondered if he could even pose it to Raven: was this real - was she for real? To come to him like this in the middle of the night, in need of his help with her bed - her broken bed. He rose slowly, and approached her with his jaw tight and steps measured.

What had she been doing in this bed to cause it to break?

Whatever...

Whomever...

Damian pulled off the black framed glasses, and hastily folded them over his waistband, shoving them away along with his darker thoughts. How was he expected to proceed in such a case? What exactly was the due process here? Did the Titans handbook have a chapter about this, or even so much as a footnote? Damian began to formulate what he believed was a rudimentary follow-up. "How did this...even happen?"

It sounded safe, rational.

Surely, it was a reasonable thing to consider given the current situation.

Violet eyes glanced over the wreckage. There was a sprinkling of sawdust on the mattress laying jilted off to the side, the box spring was reduced to a heap of wooden boards, and the thick carved posts were snapped, propped uselessly against the corner of the room. Her cavernous eyes bored into the center of his bare chest, before at last, settling on his face. "Damian, I don't want to talk about it. I just... I need your help, okay?" Her voice wavered for a note. "So, if you can't give me that -"

"No - no. Of course, I want to help," Damian said immediately, standing taller. "I just...want to know what I'm dealing with here, so I can help you best." He motioned with his hand, hoping she would elaborate, or give any clue as to what had happened. And when she didn't speak, he spun up plausible theories.

But, nothing.

Raven didn't bite.

"Was it...your powers? Was it a lack of structural support? Maybe it was foul play - some prank of Garfield's gone wrong? Maybe the wood is old?"

Damian threw out suggestion after suggestion - and nothing. Any indication, even a simple nod, would have sufficed, anything would have been better than him filling in the blanks on his own.

"Or was it...?"

Anything to stop him from wondering about was just below the surface, the subtext: could it have been sexual?

Was it sexual?

He wanted to know. He needed to know. He had to know. She was his best friend. For all that was good in the world - he deserved an answer.

"Was it what?"

"Overuse?" Damian tried. "Or I don't know...misuse?"

"What exactly are you asking?" The mage returned a little less flatly, a little more angrily. "I'm the one with the broken bed and nowhere to sleep tonight. I knew you would be up... and so I came to you. I just needed some help - your help." Raven was resolute as she had been earlier, when she was standing at his door. But now, she seemed determined to answer as little as possible, to even redirect his inquiries back towards him.

What was she hiding from him?

Why was she hiding from him?

Damian glowered down at her. "I am trying to help -"

"So, help." Raven stood on her toes to glare back at him unblinkingly for what felt like hours. And anyone other than Damian would have backed down by now. "But, if you're going to make assumptions or continue to interrogate me, I'll just sleep on the couch."

This was going nowhere.

He sighed, a long drawn out exhale, he needed to breathe, to stay calm. But he could feel himself getting more and frustrated for each second this tennis match persisted. "Why don't you tell me what happened - from your perspective," Damian added quickly.

Raven was right to refer to it as an interrogation, a part of Damian had to give that to her.

This did feel rather like a deposition.

"It was late, I finished meditating, I thought I would try to get some sleep. I was laying in bed, and it broke." She rubbed her arm, trying to look impassive or unaffected and Damian didn't know what, only he couldn't believe this. It was the exact same story - if anything this was less than she had told him before.

His heartbeat pounded deafeningly in his eardrums, and his blood started to sear dangerously under his skin and Damian wanted to demand a sufficient answer from her.

But that wasn't the solution.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, breathing in more slowly. What bothered him the most wasn't the denial, it was Raven acting as though she couldn't trust him.

And if she couldn't trust him, he had far bigger problems.

"Just so I can understand you - so I'm not confused, tell me, how did it break?"

"You saw for yourself - it collapsed."

He shook his head, he just needed her to give him something. Maybe he was just desperate for an opening for the questions he was barely biting back on his tongue.

How was she laying? Was she on her back? Was she alone?

Was she clothed?

"Why?" He burst out. "Why did it break? There's always an explanation. Things don't just collapse."

"Well, my bed did."

Damian had crossed over the bridge of irritation into incredulousness. He was dumbfounded. "I didn't think you even needed one - a bed." He scoffed. "I was under the impression that you...floated above it."

"Where on Earth did you hear that?" Raven's purple eyes narrowed. "I don't float - I'm not a pixie." Damian's lips twitched. So said the petite girl from another land, named after a bird, who spent her days flying around in a leotard.

"Fine, you hover." Damian eyed her, practically insisting. "You definitely hover."

She could project manifestations of wings whenever she appeared. That and the obvious, she glowed.

So if it looked like a duck...

"Yes. I've been known to hover - on occasion - it's not a regular thing." A faint flush began to color her face cerise, much to Damian's satisfaction. "Is my interrogation over, then?" He noticed her expression was slightly less annoyed than before, but more anxious.

Maybe he had been going about this all wrong. What if it was about something else entirely?

He glanced at the little worry crease that indented itself above her left eyebrow. In the idle daydream, he fantasized about touching it, even kissing the muscle until it relaxed. Of course he cared, she didn't even know how much. Damian’s features softened slightly. "Raven, I'm...concerned about you. It's not everyday your best friend shows you her mysteriously broken bed. So, is everything okay? Are you stressed?"

"No, Damian." But Raven had deflated, looking somewhat defeated. "This, it's not at all what you think..."

"Alright, I won't press this anymore." He reached down and touched her shoulder. "Get your pillow and some blankets," Damian ordered. "You're not staying on the couch." The hero stood by Raven's door while she dissected the contents of the rubble. They waited wordlessly for the tell-tale mechanical whirl of the door sealing itself. He shuffled ahead of her to his room, expecting her to follow. "You'll take my bed."

"Oh..." Raven stopped short, staring oddly at the floor. "I didn't ask you for help to put you out."

"You're not putting me out. You couldn't possibly put me out." The corner of his mouth tugged upward for a second as he searched her pale face. "We're best friends, aren't we?" She nearly flinched. "Did I say something wrong?" Damian frowned, trying to level with her.

"Damian, it was my powers, though I'm sure you already knew." Raven bent her head, holding it against the pillow. Slowly, she dragged it down her face. "Do you really want to know what I was doing?" She sounded muffled, but her words were clearer than they had been all night.

"What?" Damian's heart lurched in his chest. Even though he still wasn't sure what to think. But if Raven wanted to tell him -

"Yes."

"In my bed - tonight, I was..." Her voice sounded frailer, even a little afraid. "My bed is broken because... I was alone and thinking of you..."

What?

"You were alone," Damian paused, rather nonplussed. "And thinking of me?"

That was it?

"It was late." Raven spoke slower, this time.

"Yes."

"I was up..."

"Naturally."

"Reading - one of my novels..." Her purple eyebrows arched. "Alone."

"So, you've said."

"...and thinking of you."

"Right..."

"I was thinking of you," Raven repeated. "Alone."

"Oh..." Damian started. He licked his lips thoughtfully. "Oh."

"Oh? That's it, that's all you have to say?" When Raven marched down the hall, her short legs were faster than usual. The other Titan couldn't catch up to her, despite his longer legs, she seemed determined enough to have lapped him.

Or slapped him by the murderous look in her eye.

"Raven, slow down..." Damian stretched out a hand, trying to keep up with her. Every time he thought he was getting closer, she slid further out of reach. He was still processing, he hadn't expected this, if she could give him just one minute -

"You didn't consider for one minute that maybe..." She stopped, strands of plum whipping her cheek, when she turned to him. "No, of course not. How could you? You don't see me that way," Raven swallowed hard. "Or anything."

"Raven. Don't, I -"

"I shouldn't have bothered you with this, you were busy then and clearly you're still elsewhere." Raven didn't meet his eye. "Please, forget I mentioned this - any of this. I'll wake Starfire and you can get back to deliberating, planning or coordinating... You can chalk this up to some insufferable late night psycho babble from a half-demon whose powers must have gone haywire for the second time tonight." She turned away. "Good night."

"But." His fingers brushed her shoulder. "You broke your bed because of me."

"Yes, we've established that. It doesn't mean anything." Raven shrugged him away. "My powers are out of control right now - that's all it really means."

"No." He caught her fingertips and clasped her hand, spinning her to face him. "I'm not going to - I can't let this go." He pulled her in his arms, her stiff, small form. "I can't let you go." Because even still, she was warm and soft and she was Raven. She smelled of honey and sage and soy candles left burning overnight - home.

This was scent he inhaled whenever his mind registered that he was home. It was like he was home at last, and he wanted to hold her close to him for hours. He stared down at her, marveling at the words as they revealed themselves in a new light that was vibrant, bright and multi-hued. "You broke your bed because of me."

"Let go of me." Raven's cheeks were aflame. Her eyes were wide, her lips were wavering.

"No."

No more rash assumptions tonight, or not acting rashly enough.

All he needed to be certain of was this. And he was not going to let Raven go again.

"I...need to masturbate - meditate." Raven let out a frustrated sob, struggling in his arms. "I need to meditate and -" Damian's fingers swept up the nape of her neck and he pressed the seam of his lips onto her own. The pillows and blankets slid out of her hand, her body had gone pliant. A sweet mewl rose up from her throat and neither of them gave any more thought to the finicky state of her powers, this was more important.

This needed to be communicated, he needed her to understand that he did understand.

"You broke your bed because of me..." He mumbled against her lips, tasting hints of jasmine tea. "You were thinking of me when your bed broke." Damian repeated her words back to her with an understanding that was always there. Just below the surface, it was waiting for him, calling out for Raven. He brushed her hair back from her cheeks. Tucking it behind her ears. "This beautiful mind - here." His thumbs rising to massage that worry muscle above her eyebrow. "I want it on me." And he smoothed his lips over it, kissing it repeatedly. "I want to fill it with thoughts of me. Only me."

"Wait - wait." Raven trembled, her eyes were wild. "What does this mean?"

"What do you think it means?"

He could feel her forehead moving, veins ticking, the brain below it working itself up into a frenzy. She couldn't quite process what was happening. The possibility that he might feel just as strongly, just as intensely. Perhaps even to a greater degree than she.

"Damian... Aren't we - friends?"

"Aren't we past that?" Damian cupped her chin and captured her mouth again. Pressing back against her lips tighter and harder, clutching her - tighter, harder. Running his hands up and down her back, feeling barely any layers to separate what was happening between them. But really, how could something as insignificant as layers keep them apart? Even without his chest bare and Raven's strappy pajama top so tiny there was no way she was wearing a bra.

How could anything now?

Damian growled low in his throat. "Would you come to someone in the middle of the night about your broken bed if they were merely a confidant?" Raven whimpered, as he too had pitched her own words and actions against her, all the while rounding her ear with his tongue.

"But, I thought -" She murmured incoherently into his neck "- and my powers."

"Yes, what about them? How could they resist reaching out, if you hadn't considered more? If you thought of me as only a friend?" Raven gasped, and he stole it straight from her - along with every breath from all the gasps from her lungs. "It's just us, we can both admit the truth."

"And what is the truth?" Raven leaned into him, turning doe-eyed blue-violet upon him. He feathered his thumb over those impossibly soft lips, like he couldn't help himself, because if talking to her meant he couldn't kiss that mouth, he had to touch it in some form or fashion.

"You were reading that romance novel you dogeared to death, I saw it there, covered in wood chips and sawdust." The man, half-naked, broad shouldered, and dark-skinned was unlacing the red corset of a willowy brunette with an arched back. The image was right there on the cover, it was unmistakable. And everything clicked right into place, as if he'd always known. Raven had pictured them in their place and used those thoughts as fodder or fuel. "You were imagining us."

"So tell me." He felt shivers race up his spine and it wasn't from those machinations alone, it was Raven's lips, stroking along his neck. When she spoke her voice was barely a whisper and raspier than he had ever heard it. "What did I imagine?"

"We were in your room, caught up in our connection -" The pale fingers threaded through his hair, in time with his musings. "Caught up in each other in ways that would make the Goddesses blush, if not undoubtedly cause a box-spring shatter beneath us, and then..."

Her hands stilled and tugged the dark strands. "Then?"

"Then it did, your bed broke."

A small smile curved onto her face, but it didn't match the mischievous stare contained in her eyes. Not exactly. "And now we're here?"

Damian glanced at the door plate marking the entrance to his room. "And now...we're here."

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boop-le-snoot · 3 years

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masterpost ☀️ main masterlist ☀️ taglist

previously on...

Chapter 5. We have stucky, we have stevesambucky friendship, we have a new place to live and strange being a good guy because tony definitely ranted at him. Also, we're beginning the creepy part of the plot. I have decided that sam will be one of the main platonic characters in this story because I love sam.

fun fact: I used to be a creepypasta writer! Going back to my roots here, hehe.

Things had stated changing, for better or worse, much sooner than I had been prepared for - but was anyone, ever, really ready for the next big step? Certainly not me - the view that greeted me after I'd finished my shift at Jeremy's was peculiar and unexpected, so I froze, eyebrows high at the two super-soldiers parked, once again, illegally, right in front of the entrance door.

"Hi, doll," Bucky was reclined against his boyfriend comfortably, his bike standing a pace behind Steve's, who nodded companionably, a sheepish grin on his face.

"G'day," I nodded, eyeing them warily. "I think I know where this is going..."

"No, no, nothing like that," both men frantically waved their hands around, Steve coming up close to approach me slowly. "You're not in trouble. I came out here to say thanks," giving a sappy look to the grouch that was his boyfriend, Steve reached into his pocket and handed me a slip of paper. "Just, uh..."

"Those are our phone numbers. Don't hesitate to give either one of us a call if someone bothers you," Bucky took over the stammering blonde, shaking his head at the soft blush that blossomed on the good captain's face. The brunette wrapped an arm around Steve's shoulders with a shy smile of his own. "Or if you, I don't know, need someone to carry your groceries or something," he snorted. "The punk wouldn't leave it alone until we came out personally to thank you, the sap."

The laughter bubbled up from my chest as I grabbed and pocketed the paper, throughly amused and at the endearing gesture. "Sure, thanks."

"And, uh," Bucky's eyes briefly looked to the side. "We'd appreciate if you keep the status of our relationship to yourself for now. We're not, like, officially out yet."

I froze in place, mouth falling open. Surely they were aware that anybody with a functional pair of eyes could see that they were much more than 'good, lifelong friends'. "No problem, guys. Lemme know if anyone gives you shit about it though, this place," I gestured to the café behind me, "is strictly paparazzi and homophobe-free."

Steve's grin grew even more genuine. "Yeah, we heard all about it from Tony and Stephen. Said 'twas the only place they go these days."

I wasn't aware of that. "It's the paps, isn't it?" I remembered Tony's remarks.

Bucky shook his head, the metals of his prosthetic arm whirring as it recalibrated. "Not only. The public hasn't had the best reaction to a man goin' out with a man," the brunette looked away to the side, where Steve's face had fallen considerably. "And Tony's an eccentric rich man. We're jus' two soldiers. The US Army won't be too happy if we... Came out," both men were crestfallen yet determined.

I had a hunch nothing would be able to separate the two - seeing as not even seventy-odd years and brainwashing and ice couldn't keep the captain and his sarge apart, I doubted that a few government weasels could successfully do the job. Even so, it was unpleasant, to say the least, to see them deny themselves something that technically was perfectly fine in the 21st century.

I chewed on my lip, gathering my wits. "I've clocked out, I can tell you this as a friend- as a person. You don't owe the army jack shit. They do not own you, you are your own person that they experimented their German knockoff steroids on. Respectfully, fuck that shit." I firmly stated my opinion, figuring that there should have been at least someone that told Steve that he is more than his star-spangled uniform and giant metal frisbee.

The blonde scrunched his eyebrows together, fingers gripping onto his belt until the knuckles went white, the hard line of his jaw set firm.

Bucky laugh took me by surprise. "Agreed, doll. I'm too old to be hiding in back alleys and shit," he clapped on his boyfriend's shoulder. "Although I'm happy enough with just not going to prison for bein' in love with this idiot."

"Jerk," Steve's responding pout was downright adorable now that I knew the circumstances surrounding their relationship.

Which wasn't exactly surprising. As a barista, I knew my fair share about my regulars' love lives, their jobs, their kids. The tea was almost always piping hot. "Bye, boys," I smiled at them warmly, throwing a glance at the time, adjusting the strap of my bag for comfort. "Stay outta trouble!"

Steve scrambled for his bike, having noticed my pointed gesture. "Sorry, didn't mean to hold you back. There, I have a spare helmet," he gestured behind him. "I'll give you a ride."

"There's no way in Hell I'm getting on that death trap!" I shouted cheerfully, walking briskly towards my second job, hiding a laugh in the warmth of my scarf as two very offended motorcycle-loving gay fossils sped past me, making truly incredible amounts of noise. Good for them.

Odette was content to let me rummage around the bodega without showing herself more than necessary, taking her appointments and doing- well, witch stuff, I guess, only coming out to poke at the various jars for ingredients.

"Star, I have a proposition for you," right before closing time, Odette's voice filled out the store with its low drawl. "A good friend of mine owns an apartment building, not far from here actually, and one tenant recently moved out. It's a safe space for those who are different," she enunciated the last word, fixing it with a pointed stare. "She's not overly fond of total strangers coming to live there. The rent is reduced and the apartment itself is slightly bigger and more fashionable than yours..."

"Where's the catch?" I found myself interrupting her. I wouldn't lie: the reduced rent and increased size of the apartment did interest me, as well as the probability of a kinder, more involved landlord. My current one was - not the best, but such was life in the NYC.

"There are a few rules to follow, rules that might seem strange at first but they'll make sense in time. And your neighbors might be also a little... Unusual," Odette carefully studied my face for any signs of displeasure.

I sighed.

And then I sighed some more as I was signing my new lease in a few days' time, having spoken with Porter, my new landlord, and his boyfriend who had claws and fangs- after so much time spent around Odette's, I didn't even blink. The couple liked me enough to extend a secure but flexible offer and some furniture to choose from the attic where they kept the spares.

I quite liked the large, vintage couch I placed next to the wide bow windows in the living room. The floors were hardboard and well-kept, the walls a nice, homely shade of green and Porter didn't mind any new holes in them that might arise from hanging up decorations. I scheduled a thrift crawl at the next possible opportunity, happy with the "good employee" bonus Odette had given me after I sealed the deal.

My stuff was boxed up, a sleepless night and a call to a begrudging Jeremy to have a couple of days off to move; I was, thankfully, not late on my schedule and all that I had left was to rent a car to move the boxes of my things and the few pieces of furniture I had decided to keep - my haul in Porter's attic had been incredibly rewarding and my new apartment had all the basics to make it look like a warm, inviting bohemian home in a while.

My phone rang suddenly, startling interruption to the romcom I was watching as I ate my last lunch in my old apartment. "Hello?" I answered the number without looking.

"Hi, doll," Bucky's voice rang out cheerful. "A little witch told me you were moving. I thought you might need a hand?"

I blanked momentarily, the thought of enlisting two very busy super-soldiers to haul ten boxes and two endtables worth of stuff not having crossed my mind at all. "Is this the moment when you stop by my house just to unattach and put your prosthetic arm somewhere and leave?" I asked, hearing distinctive snickering - several more people were with him.

The cheer in his voice blossomed into a full belly laugh. "You're funny," he teased me. "And thanks for the idea. But no, I have a room full of men that have nothing better to do but get on my nerves. Might as well make 'em useful," his accented drawl thickened the more we spoke. Muted cheers rang out in the background.

"Uh, sure," who was I to look a gift horse in the mouth? I rattled off my address and warned them I didn't have a car, after which Bucky assured me it will be taken care of. The last remaining knick-knacks packed away, I went down to take out the trash, and returned to four people standing in front of my apartment building, all except one unrecognisable in their civilian clothes. "Hello," I waved at them, side-eyeing the tallest, grumpiest man of the bunch.

Stephen Strange was there, looking around curiously, hands in the pockets of his plain grey hoodie. I had already forgotten how normal he looked without his robes, and, frankly speaking, I preferred him like that. His title and the attire that came with it were quite intimidating.

"Hey there," a dark-skinned man who I recognised to be the Falcon, raised his hand. I had not met him yet. "I'm Sam, Sam Wilson. You must be the Star we're helping?" His quick once-over and the tilt to his lips; the ease with which he flirted had me brandishing smirks of my own. I led them all upstairs, Stephen's silence being just so loud. Sam, however, had no such reservations. "So, you're a witch, right?" Wow, subtlety was his middle name.

"Yes, I'll show you my broomstick," I deadpanned, wiggling my eyebrows at him with a grim look.

"Woah woah," Sam raised his hands as the three men behind us snickered loudly. "What happened to 'how are you? let's have dinner sometime'?"

I did my best imitation of an evil cackle as I let them through my front door. The four newcomers looked around my nearly empty apartment with muted interest before zeroing in on the pile of things in the corner: a few pieces of furniture and nearly taped boxes. Should be a walk in the park for four men.

A hand on my arm pulled me from the stupor of observing Sam, Bucky and Steve act like a well-oiled trio, bantering and teasing each other as they discussed how to best move the things.

"Look," Stephen Strange had all the appearance of a chastised puppy. "I wanted to apologize for my behaviour that day. I was out of line," the low notes in his voice made the appearance of the apology being somewhat reluctant. Tony probably put him to it after our little burger run.

Irregardless, I wasn't looking to make any enemies. "Me too, I was under stress - not that I'm using it as an excuse," to give where it's due, I nodded at the sorcerer, immediately awestruck by the easy, boyish smile that stretched on his lips.

"You are strong," he added. "If you would like to learn our ways, we would welcome you." There was a spark in his eyes, something belonging to man that respected and collected knowledge. My own respect for him grew immensely just from that one thing.

"I'll think about it," I offered amicably, however, I still leaned heavily towards a negative answer to that particular proposition. I liked my current way of life.

Strange's grin made a momentary second appearance, until Sam's voice rang loudly: "Fire in the hole, Wizard-man," causing the former to groan loudly and look at me.

"Think about your new place for a second," he spoke, briefly touching out fingertips. As soon as that was over, a golden circle with my new living room on the other side of it appeared quietly, Strange's hands immediately going back into his pockets after that. I sighed and pointed the men into it, stepping in a second after. The sorcerer wasn't far behind. "You could learn that, too, you know," he added wryly, having seen my look of mild envy directed at him.

"I think I'll be good with having the 'pissed off the sorcerer Supreme and lived' pass for now," I retorted with an eyeroll, turning around to stare him down.

He had the decency to look somewhat sheepish, at least. "I'm not like my predecessor," his words were chosen carefully. "And, to be honest, I have no clue as to why your... Boss is so hostile towards me- us," Strange looked around the room before unceremoniously beelining for the couch and plopping down on it.

"Not to be a gossip," I started, slightly intrigued. "But Odette and some lady she called ancient had mad beef," I slipped into casual language easily, trying to recall the details of Odette's, quite often jumbled, stories. "Sounded almost like territorial disputes," I shrugged. "And the apprentices Odette took on before me found themselves in all kinds of compromising situations," I chewed on my lip. "Like the Arctic."

Strange rubbed his face with a noisy groan, large hands doing nothing to mask the resignation and slight embarrassment.

I focused on the thin, red scars on his hands - they had to have been something serious, the way slight tremors betrayed the deteriorating state of the nerves in his fingers. I frowned, quickly averting my gaze before he could catch me ogling him. The fact thag Stephen kept his hands in his pockets or covered by gloves at all times didn't go over my head.

He muttered something to himself, something that sounded like he was often forced to clean up his predecessor's mess. "I see," was the only thing he'd offered me, looking slightly pitiful and apologetic.

"Well," I started, noting the last of my stuff was about to be in its rightful place, "as long as you don't toss me into the ocean, I think we can coexist peacefully."

"Tony would kill me if I'd tried," Stephen groused.

"Probably," I agreed. "Considering the fact he hit on me, for you, it would make one hell of a lover's quarrel," my hand pointed towards the kitchen as Steve and Sam carried in the boxes aptly labeled "kitchen", looking around a place to put them down.

"Tony did what now?" Stephen's tone dropped, a wry smirk decorating his lips as he eyed me through his lashes.

"Don't ask me," I raised my palms, feeling my eyes widen. "He's chaos personified and Satan only knows what he's got on his mind."

That squeezed a laugh out of the tall man, followed by a fond, sappy smile as he looked out of my large, panoramic window, probably thinking of Tony himself. There was no doubt, Stephen Strange was utterly and throughly head over heels in love with Tony Stark. Good for them, good for them.

"A-and that's it," Bucky walked in, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel I'd provided them earlier. "I took some liberties and assembled the furniture, Steve is stacking the dishes as we speak," the brunette noisily plopped down next to me, arm carelessly thrown behind me on the back of the couch.

"Oh, um," I stammered, unused to such random gestures of kindness. "Thanks a lot, you saved me a day's worth of time and a backache," I smiled, scooting over to make some room for Sam.

"No problem, not like we had anything better to do than argue which part of the Lord of the Rings is the best," Wilson rolled his eyes, elbowing Bucky none-too-gently.

Bucky elbowed back, thus starting a horsing war between the two, causing me to scoot closer to Stephen as I attempted to avoid any flailing limbs; the sorcerer and I shared an identical, perplexed sigh as to how two grown men could easily bait each other into such juvenile behaviour.

Whatever. It was kind of endearing.

Steve emerged from the kitchen dusty but smiling, having heard the commotion, and quickly herded his guys into a semblance of decent behaviour before all of three of them left, leaving me and Stephen to go back to my old apartment and give the keys to it to the guard. That was done, too, and a portal from an alley behind my old building straight into my living room had me and Strange awkwardly hovering, saying out goodbyes and waving to each other as the golden circle rapidly shrunk in size and disappeared, golden sparks scattering across my living room carpet for a short second before they fizzled out, too.

I used the brief moment of respite to find the small piece of paper containing the rules Porter had insisted I read and take seriously; figuring it might be a good idea to give them a read before beginning to unpack, I popped open a bottle of soda, holding the itemized list written in neat cursive to my face.

The further I read, the further my eyebrows rose:

"1. Keep your door locked at all times.

2. If a person knocks on your door claiming to be the mail man, do not open the door under any circumstances. You are free to ignore the knocking - it only lasts a minute or so. After the person has left, you may open the door and check for any packages.

3. If Samantha from 3B visits you and asks you to babysit, you may do so at your personal discretion. Her twins are a handful and their daily habits are not for the ones with a weak stomach, however, they mean nothin ill and will not harm you in any way.

4. Do not use the elevator between the hours of 1 and 4 AM.

5. There are no apartments under number "7". If someone claiming to be from those apartments knocks on your door and requests entry, come up with a polite excuse to decline and send me a text message. I will take care of it.

6. There is no garden on the premises of this building. If a man approaches you, claiming to be a gardener, don't interact with him and simply walk away. He will leave you alone.

7. You may meet a girl in a polka-dot dress playing in the hallways or in the stairwell. This is Lucy. Always be polite to Lucy - you won't like what will happen if you're rude to her. She does not talk but she knows limited ASL and may request to visit you. Allow her in ONLY if you have fresh meat in your fridge (beef or mutton, preferably bloody). You might want to avoid seeing her eat, however, it might be very beneficial to make friends with Lucy. She knows a lot of things.

8. If, when taking the stairs, you encounter inconsistent numeration of the floors, such as floor 2 followed by floor 5 and etc, simply walk a flight back. It will sort itself out. The building is old and sometimes it gets confused.

Important notice: these rules apply to your guests as well. Please make sure to introduce and educate them on these matters. We will help as much as we can should a situation arise but ultimately, there are fates far worse than an untimely, however swift, death.

- Porter and Lance."

A slow, creeping dread began to gnaw at my nape, curling on like a cold snake deep in chest. As if laughing at me, the warm, welcoming embrace of the green walls and the toothy, wide smiles my landlords had given me encouraged my recently found sense of adventure, all of it mixing into a cacophony of exhilaration and unease, equally steadily driving my running brain insane.

I sighed again, immediately going to the box containing my altar and the rest of the protective items. So much for peace.

Taglist: @couldntbedamned @mikariell95 @letsby @sleep-i-ness @toomanyrobins @mostly-marvel-musings @persephonehemingway @schemefrenzy @lillsxd @bluecrazedandbeautiful @slothspaghettiwrites @xoxabs88xox

#practical alchemy #bun writes #tony stark x reader x stephen strange #stephen strange x reader x tony stark #ironstrange x reader #stephen strange x reader #tony stark x reader #stephen strange x y/n #tony stark x y/n #Stephen Strange x you #tony stark x you

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killjoysfromyesterday · 4 years

Text

my first prompt for bad things happen bingo! excited for this!

@badthingshappenbingo

pneumonia - kobra kid

word count: 1,218

i’m truly sorry, i don’t know how to do a read more cut on mobile, i’d really appreciate if someone taught me : (

——————

it started as just dust allergies. a common cold. something like that, something that he didn't even pay attention to.

but before he had a chance to speak up and get himself sorted out, the coughing and the chills peaked and left him all hollow inside.

jet had mother-henned him into going to bed early, after the firepit left him sneezing and coughing like ghoul after a bad cigarette. he couldn't tell what time it was now; probably morning by the light peaking through the girl-proofed (see also: boarded up) windows in the bedroom. the heat of the day was creeping in, settling like a fog even indoors. it just added to his lethargy.

with a heaving sigh, he kicked the blankets from his gangly limbs and rolled over, grunting as his shirt stuck to him with cold sweat. his red jacket was draped across the edge of the mattress, probably set there by poison.

and speak of the devil, the door creaks open and the light pitter-patter of poison's footsteps fill the room. kobra tries his best to sit up for him, because maybe if he pretends not to be sick anymore they'll all stop mother-henning him and let him go to the crash track, but scooting up sends him into another coughing fit.

kobra's dizzy when his lungs finally decide to cooperate, and he slumps back against the nest of pillows poison had propped up for him.

“your fever isn't letting up." poison comments, hand cool against kobra's forehead. their eyebrows are stitched together like they always do when they're worried, and somehow it just makes kobra feel worse.

"have you been drinking water?" poison's voice cuts through his thoughts, and he shakes his head, which absolutely does not help the headache that's forming in the crown of his skull. his sinuses feel like they're going to explode and shit, he just wants to fall back asleep.

his eyes must've fallen closed because he didn't even notice that poison left the room until they reappear a few minutes later wielding a rag and a bottle of water. his throat's so dry it's hard to swallow, but the effort of sitting up to drink sounds fucking impossible.

poison unscrews the cap and sits down next to the mattress, helping kobra grip the bottle. their hand is beneath kobra's face as he drinks, catching the inevitable drops of water that roll down his chin.

"i know, kobes. just a couple more sips, okay? then you can go back to sleep, i promise. scout's honor." poison says when kobra starts to pull away, scrunching his face up at the taste. clean water's hard to get in the desert, and the treated shit always had that sour taste left over from the treatment formula. but to appease poison he takes a few more tentative sips and poison doesn't fight when he pulls away this time.

"where's everyone?" kobra asks as he lies back, half lowering-half flopping himself back onto the linens.

"jet’s with mads on his day off. the girl’s out with ghoul, they went to drop some stuff off to doc and pony. why?" poison says, pouring the remainder of the water bottle onto the rag.

"i promised her we'd go to the track today." kobra lets out a sigh of relief when poison sets the rag on his forehead, the cool cloth seeping into the heat of his fever. it doesn't last very long, but it feels better than before with the warmth of the desert baking into the room like a fucking sauna.

"it's alright. you can go some other time." poison smiles.

"i feel bad." kobra chews on the inside of cheek.

"why?"

"feel like i'm lettin' her down." he mumbles.

"kobes. you're not. she understands. she's old enough to get this stuff now." poison's words are reassuring but kobra's still not sure if girl would understand. they'd been planning this trip for days now.

"i guess so." he sighs, and tries to think of a way he could make it up to her later.

"we're home!" ghoul's voice rings through the diner, and a second later a weight slams into kobra's chest like a ton of bricks and sends him coughing again. the girl's hair rubs up against his chin as she settles herself on his chest. thank witch she's still snuggly, because with how independent she's getting, it hurts to see her need them less and less. it's all part of growin' up though, as jet would say.

"careful, girly. kobes isn't feelin' too shiny." poison warns. the girl edges off of him a little bit, her little face scrunching with concern.

kobra turns to ghoul. "how were doc and pony?"

"they're alright. you know doc, summer always makes his legs ache in that chair. pony's good." ghoul, much like the girl, attaches himself to his comfort person as soon as he gets home: he's slinking into poison's lap, nuzzling his face into poison's neck. poison wraps their arms around him, and ghoul makes a pleased nose that kobra's pretty sure is as close as a human gets to purring.

"i'm sorry we can't go today, baby." kobra sighs, and the girl climbs off of him a little bit to look at him.

"it's okay. you're sick." she claps her hands. "oh! and since jet isn't here to be doctor, i'll help you. first, let's assess your diagnostics."

"diagnosis." ghoul corrects, and poison nudges him. the girl just giggles.

"yeah! and then we'll work down to the root of your problem, and, oh, can we use those cool bandaids from the market?" she gives her best puppy eyes to poison, who relents (of course.)

"sure, but just one. no wasting." they say, and girl's rocketing out of the room, her swift footsteps disappearing in the direction of the kitchen.

"see? told you she wouldn't be upset. kid takes it in stride." poison says, resting their head on ghoul's shoulder. ghoul's already dozing off, and kobra's about to be right there with him, because all this exertion has him all dizzy and sleepy again.

the girl's back wielding a box of colorful bandaids, and she carefully plucks a yellow one and peels off the backing. she sticks it on kobra's forehead, sitting back to survey her work.

“there. don’t you feel so much better?” she asks.

“i feel so good, i feel like i could run all the way to tommy’s now.” kobra takes extra effort to make his voice as enthusiastic as possible, even if it’s scratchy and a bit unconvincing.

“woah! that far?” the girl asks, eyes wide.

“yeah, that far. but for now, i’m real tired.” kobra yawns.

“okay. but promise that we’ll race to tommy’s sometime? promise?” she

“pinky swear.” kobra says, locking his pinky with hers.

“alright girly, let’s let kobes get some shut-eye.” poison interrupts, tapping a now-sleeping ghoul who makes a noise of complaint as he rises from poison’s lap. the girl springs up from kobra’s bed, trotting over to where poison was opening the door.

“night-night kobra.” she whispers, following poison out. poison chuckles as they close the door behind them.

kobra falls back into his doze with a smile on his face and a bandaid on his forehead.

_________

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facepalming-since-chernobyl · 3 years

Note

If you ever want to write a full account of your hospital stay, I'm so here for it. I want it all: the farts, the grannies, the fighting over windows, the other weirdos, why you want to murder the doctor and how your fam will help you get away with it, the works. Start writing while I grab the popcorn! 🍿

Ok, don’t remember what I have said here already, so I’ll give a full story plus some flashbacks from my childhood.

-I got 4 grannies in my room, the average age: 65+

-granny number one: ultra Catholic, made a cross on my forehead (I was so shocked, I didn’t say a shit, aside of screaming in my head – woman?! Covid restrictions?! Keep your distance?!), a farmer woman (one day she just said that when she wants a chicken soup, she goes outside, catches the chicken, chops the head and make a soup – the faces of the other grannies - PRICELESS), praying in weird moments, instead of sweat pants, wearing dress shirts and dress pants (and you know, we were doing physical exercises there???), loving dirty jokes and making them A LOT,

-granny number two – tiny old sweet lady (she was like 80 something years old?), usually sitting in the corner or on the balcony and praying silently, she was like Catholic kamikaze, she sometimes was sitting on the balcony and praying for FIVE HOURS, oh, and once shitted her pants

-granny number three – ex school director, Miss Ooooow, Ooooow, came with 2 suitcases and occupied ½ of the wardrobe (for example, I managed to put all my things in my night stand), was very surprised I came with so little clothes and was washing them, was crying when she had to wash her hair because she always goes to hairdresser…

-granny number four – on a wheelchair, my best pal, making her own cigarettes at evenings on the canteen (a place where the meals were served, close to the balcony), as much done with the other ladies as I was,

-our room were filled with weird Turkish soap operas (the first time they turned the television on some Mahmud wanted to kill some Bahar and the dialogues were so cringy I had to check if it was a real show and surprisingly it was). Every day after I was evacuating my ass to the canteen or to the balcony where I was reading (I’ve finished 19 books and my ass still hurts because of the fucking hard chairs).

-if it was not a Turkish soap opera, it was Polish News on the public channel (Imagine FOX news), so every fucking day when it was played, the traitors of Polishness and Polish tradition and the only good ruling party like me, were gathering in the canteen. We were like a few folks (me, the granny number 4 and some dude doing crosswords and having super high blood pressure, mostly because all dudes from his room were watching the news and agreeing with everything what was said there)

-food, examples

-so I was not eating too much, so granny number one made a cross on my forehead and blessed me, so I would eat more and have a strength to give birth to children – I shit you not

-when I said I don’t want children – they almost had a collective heart attack. I decided to not reveal my other social, religion and political opinions, because I would be strangled to death in my sleep by a rosary one night

-one day I was stupid too much and didn’t leave the room while they were watching Polish Fox News and while half listening to the bullshit I probably made a fuck-my-life-face. When they ask what I was thinking about, my, a fucking idiot, said that about the vanity of life. They almost got another collective heart attack and almost ran to the nurses, no idea why but whatever

-Granny number 3, was afraid of other people snoring, because she had problems with sleep. In the end she was the one who snored the loudest

-there was an opening/closing the windows war. Granny 1 had sick lungs and asthma and whatever so was always closing the window because she was getting pneumonia and oh my god, while Granny 3 had problems with breathing, was suffocating and oh my God, so she was always opening the window. Granny number 3 was always opening the window while other already left for the meals, while Granny number 1 was always returning first and complaining SOMEONE was trying to kill her with the cold air and closing the windows. HILAROUS stuff

-on the end of the first week I ACCIDENTALLY broke a small window that was situated on the top, a window that supposedly was not meant to be open, so for the next 2 weeks we had a window opened ALL the time. Don’t ask why no one called some dudes to fix it, I have no idea, but thanks to it I survived the nights full of symphonies of farts

-that one day they gave us beans for the dinner and boy, you can only imagine

-one day we got a meat chops with a crispy batter. If you added the batter on the bottom to the batter on the top of the meat, they were thicker than meat itself

-all soups tasted the same. One day they gave us a soup and I was SURE it was a pickled cucumber soup and I was AMAZED that they managed to make it without cucumbers. Then I have learnt it was a sorrel soup *sad music in the background*

-the grannies loved to motherhen me for some reason. For example, I was sitting politely in the canteen, reading another fucking book, when one of them came and said I should not read so much, it’s unhealthy and they are worried about me. I was blinking for 30 seconds, wondering if laughing like a mad hyena would make them having another collective heart attack. In the end I just mhm-ed and continued reading.

-later I have learnt they were behaving like that, because they thought I was in middle school…

-basically, I was the youngest person on the ward and some nurses and other patients felt sorry for me because I didn’t have anyone in my age to talk… and I was like… why the fuck I should have been feeling sad? I could read and NOT TALK??? Also, or reading or murdering the grannies with a plastic spoon in their sleep, so thank you very much, leave my ass alone.

-on one dinner I basically ate pasta with pepper, because the spinach, guys, the spinach was awful and I’m not going to traumatize you with the pic

-I had a deal with the crosswords dude during breakfasts and suppers – was giving him ham and cold meat, he was giving me jam

-the Granny number one was SLEEP SINGING one night

-two days per every week some farmer was coming and selling his vegetables and fruits. Guys, all patients were buying food there, for sure I was weeping while buying plums, apples and tomatoes.

-Granny number three was super annoying and acting like a bitch aka typical ex school director, because when she wanted to watch something in TV at night, she always did even if the others were upset, but when she wanted to go to sleep at 9 she owww owwww owwwwed and was turning the lights off. So, sometimes I was returning at 9 to the room and it was dark. And there were no night bedside lamps, so it meant you needed to go to sleep too. At fucking 9.

-the face of one dude who was eating with us on one table was always priceless every time when he was opening the boxes. It was a personification of a man who was done, crying inside and knowing he can’t escape

-the most traumatizing experience after my hip surgery was PEEING. The nurse brought me a bed pan and I needed to pee while laying on my back and it was weirdly difficult, maybe because the nurse was standing over me, talking to another patient. Also, I can’t imagine taking a shit while laying, but whatever. On one moment after like a minute me trying hard, she put a hand on my stomach and said, oh so hard. My face was probably a mix between: ==’ and O.O. But in the end I succeeded, yay…

-another traumatizing experience is measuring the temperature every morning around 6. You know, you are sleeping, but suddenly feel some movement, so you open your eyes and a nurse, wearing a mask is aiming a thermometer that looks like a gun at your forehead. Amazing feeling

-I talked with some dude who had the same surgery aka hip removal, but he was not sleeping so he herd everything, and said how blood was gushing all over the place and the surgeons and the nurse was bringing the artificial hips three times, because the surgeons were not sure if they are the good ones. FUN

-btw, the first time when I saw a dead body was in a hospital. There was a ward where one room was for children, the rest was for adults after accidents etc. Sometimes someone died and they were usually putting the dead body to the bathroom on the corridor (no toilets at the rooms, it was one of the two bathrooms for whole ward). They usually put an “out of service” paper on the door, but sometimes they forgot about it. So, one night, me, sleepy and yawning went to the toilet, opened the door and hellooooooooooo the end of my innocence.

-the most stressful experience from my childhood hospital stayings was “did you defecate yesterday”? Because if you didn’t for a few days an enema was waiting

#not sg #my fam #shitposting #hospital stories

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pkg4mumtown · 4 years

Text

Welcome to Hawkins PD (Ch. 2)

Chapter Title: Welcome to Hawkins PD

Chapter 2 of 9?

Read Chapter 1 HERE

AN: Don’t ask me why I’m torturing myself by doing 1st person cover art, now. I have roughly 9 chapters outlined so far and it probably won’t go more than that. Hope you enjoy.

Warnings: Smoking, cursing, Hopper trying to be funny

Summary: You get to know your Chief a bit more as you make your way into Hawkins.

Taglist: @kingphillipblake

If you'd like to be in my taglist (for this fic or everything) or removed, lmk. I'm not tagging anyone I had on my "all writing" list last year because I don't know if they still feel the same!

The start of the drive was uncomfortably tense. My nervousness was more obvious as I took my sunglasses off, allowing the Chief to see my eyes darting around the cab. I eventually let my gaze focus on the passing trees and forestry, getting lost in the green blur.

“Not too chatty, huh? We’ll get along just fine,” Hopper smirked as he basically asked and answered himself. He glanced at me for any kind of reaction, instead seeing me zoned out, “You okay, kid?”

I hadn’t been intentionally ignoring him but was snapped out of my stupor by the word “kid” hanging in the air.

“Kid?” he asked again.

“I’m not a kid,” I snapped and crossed my arms. I mumbled under my breath, hoping he wouldn’t yell at me as the words left my mouth, “I’m twenty-seven years old for Christ’s sake.”

Hopper simply raised his eyebrows and scoffed, “Sure got the hearing of one.” He tapped his steering wheel rhythmically and pursed his lips, “Twenty-seven, huh?”

“Mhmm, why?”

“Just older than what usually passes through the academy is all,” he shrugged.

“Yea, well, I tried to be a good little secretary and then a telephone operator just like mom and dad said but…” I trailed off.

“But what?”

“I fucking hated it, sir,” I sighed, suddenly remembering my manners. “When I told them I wanted to join a police department, they figured I meant as a secretary or a dispatcher. Imagine their horror when I packed up and told them their little girl was off to be a cop.”

“Old fashioned folks,” Hopper nodded.

“Still not an excuse, sir,” I grumbled.

“You can drop the ‘sir’ act, Y/L/N. You’re not a recruit anymore. ‘Chief’ or ‘Hopper’ work just fine at our station.”

“Sorry, s—Chief,” I murmured.

“It’s fine,” he brushed it off with a wave of his hand. “So, they didn’t come to your graduation?”

“Nope,” I punctuated by popping the “p”.

“Christ, I’m sorry…”

“My best friend came, at least. She got me these,” I smiled, pointing to the glasses that hung from my uniform.

Hopper chuckled at the sight of the glasses mimicking his own, “Yea, that’s a necessary part of the uniform. Next is the hat,” he tilted the brim down and winked.

I let out a not-so-feminine snort as both of our laughter filled the truck. I was worried I’d been too rude before, so I was grateful for the break in tension. I covered my mouth as I laughed, feeling Hopper’s stare as his chest vibrated.

“What?” I asked as I caught him staring instead of paying attention to the empty road.

“Nothin', just the first time I’ve seen you laugh. You’ve been so serious up until now,” he looked away quickly. “It looks good on you, y’know?” he added, his voice barely a murmur.

I felt my face heat up at his words and if his ears were any indication, he was embarrassed as well. I didn’t have to be a detective to see that. I cleared my throat and murmured my thanks before growing silent again.

“So, um, they help you get set up with a place in town already?” Hopper changed the subject.

“Uh, no, I’m gonna stay at a motel for a couple days while I get that and transportation sorted.”

“What!? No, no, no, no,” he replied quickly. “Trust me, you don’t want any part of those motels,” Hopper gave me a terrified glance, like he’d definitely seen some shit there. “I’ve got a trailer I moved out of that you can rent from me.”

“Chief, really, it’s okay. I can—”

“Y/L/N,” he cut me off with a pointed glare. “You can stay there as long as you want or until you find somewhere better. I’m not gonna charge you an arm and a leg for rent,” he reassured me.

“Thanks, I really appreciate that,” I gave him a small smile.

“Hey, I’m not as big a jerk as everyone says I am, alright?” Hopper grumbled.

“Who says that?”

“You’ll see,” he shook his head and sighed. “We can swing by the utilities office when we get there and get everything turned on for ya.”

The rest of the drive managed to fly by as we chatted, nothing too personal and mostly more about me than him. He drove me to the trailer after getting everything sorted out with the utilities and setting me up to make payments. The long driveway to the trailer crunched under his tires but the bumpy ride was worth the view in the secluded area.

“This is it,” he grunted as he put the Blazer in park.

“This view is great, why’d you move?” I asked as I took in the surroundings and spotted the lake behind the trailer.

“Eh, it’s just too small,” he motioned towards his torso with his hand.

I rose an eyebrow at him, letting my gaze land on his torso, flick over to the trailer, and back over to his face, “You’re not that big.”

“You know,” he started with a mischievous grin as he opened the driver’s side door, “a less secure man would have taken offense to that.”

“Chief!” was all I could manage to berate him with as he turned away from me and broke out in to laughter.

We jumped out of the truck at the same time and this time I didn’t protest when he offered to help me with my bags. His keys jingled softly as he stomped up the stairs and unlocked the door to the trailer. Hopper and his obscenely thick fingers fought with the keyring for a moment before finally freeing the key and handing it over to me.

“Here,” he murmured and held the metal between two fingers, effectively dwarfing the key, “and there’s a spare key under the first step,” he nodded outside.

Hopper took a couple spins around the living room and sniffled loudly, “Little musty, sorry. Um, I left quite a few things here, so it might just need some picking up and dusting. I kinda moved in a hurry.”

“It’s not a problem, it’ll give me something to do, Chief,” I reassured him.

We fell into an awkward silence, causing Hopper to step semi-discreetly to the door. He fished his pockets for his business card as he spoke, “Well, uh, if you need anything…”

I graciously accepted the card from him, “Actually, Chief, d'ya happen to have a map on you? So, I can figure my way around this place by Monday?”

“Shit, what am I thinking?” Hopper murmured to himself, realizing he’d just dropped me off seemingly in the middle of nowhere without a sense of direction. His brows knitted together in thought, making his thinking face look angry, “I can show you around right now if you want? Maybe grab lunch while we’re at it as a…congrats?” His lips pushed up and his eyes squinted as he waited for my answer.

“You don’t have to do that, really. I’m sure you have better things to do on a Saturday,” I tried to refuse. “I can manage with just a map.”

“My daughter is at her friend’s house, so I would either sit at the station bored off my ass or drink myself to sleep at home,” Hopper pursed his lips and feigned thinking with his hands on his hips, “Or I can give you a welcome tour.”

I laughed at this ridiculous man and his antics and finally relented, “Fine, but let me change at least.”

Hopper agreed and showed me the rest of the trailer. It was hard not to imagine this hulking man living in this tight trailer as he effortlessly stalked through the rooms. I could almost see his body engulfing the small couch or his broad shoulders bumping walls when he’d get drunk. The tour ended in the bedroom with a bare mattress and the floor littered with the odd empty pack of cigarettes. I tossed my duffel on the bed and started sifting through the civilian clothes I had packed. I heard Hopper open the closet and make a low noise of surprise.

“Hey, I left clothes here,” he held up a red flannel shirt from the closet, which contained a couple pairs of pants and a few random shirts. “A change wouldn’t hurt, nothing happens on the weekends,” Hopper brought the shirt to his nose and grimaced, but shrugged and piled it in one arm anyway. “If this shit gets in your way, feel free to throw it in a bag and chuck it in my office.”

I had pulled out jeans, a shirt, and a sweater and laid them on the bed. By the time Hopper turned back around with his findings, I had halfway unbuttoned my uniform shirt without thinking twice.

“Woah, woah, woah!” Hopper held up his free hand to his eyes right away. “At least let me leave first, Y/L/N! For Pete's sake…” Hopper felt his way out of the room, nearly tripping when his foot caught on the threshold.

As we got back in the Blazer, Hopper chucked his uniform in the back seat. He fetched a pack of Camels from his pocket and held them up in question.

“Mind?”

“Not if I can bum one off you, Chief,” I smirked, grabbing my bun and releasing my hair from its confines. I slipped my hair tie around my wrist and shook my hair out, not really caring how it looked, only that my scalp could breathe.

The corner of Hopper’s mouth turned up before he was shaking the box and pulling out a cigarette. He let it rest between his lips, then turned the box toward me so I could grab one for myself.

“First things first,” he mumbled around the cigarette while lighting it. I leaned my head forward as he brought the lighter towards me. After, I leaned back in my seat, hearing the snap of the lighter closing before I saw his hand extending towards me. “Jim,” his lips closed loosely to avoid dropping the cigarette as he waited with an open palm.

I shook his offered hand, fighting the urge explore the ridges of his palm, “Y/N.”

We took off in the direction of town, silently filling the Blazer with smoke. I tried my best to memorize my surroundings as Hopper pointed out different stores and buildings. He rambled about the owners of certain places, far more than just a Chief might know.

“You grow up here?” I wondered aloud.

“Yea,” he let out a silent laugh, releasing smoke from his lungs as he did. “Moved back about six years ago or so. Good catch.”

We pulled into the diner parking lot, just as my cigarette reached its end, “Damn, I’m sad that’s gone,” I spoke mainly to myself.

“Yea, Bridge got mad at me for trying to bring one when I visited ILEA a month back. How long were you deprived?” Hopper joked while getting out of the car.

“Mm, four months and change,” I answered slowly as if I was unsure.

“Ouch,” he grimaced and stepped ahead of me to open the diner door like it was the most natural thing in the world.

I pushed down my tendency to blush but failed, instead using my hair to block my cheeks from Hopper's eyes. What can I say? I had a thing for old fashioned manners.

He nodded a silent greeting to a waitress and made a beeline for an empty booth, because I guess when you’re the Chief you can just do that. After receiving an odd look from the waitress as we ordered drinks and more stares from women in the diner, I shifted in my seat uncomfortably. The waitress came back around to take our food orders and drop off our drinks, my drink earning me a mocking eyebrow from Hopper.

“Milkshake? Really?” he choked out a laugh around his cup of coffee.

“Excuse me, I’m still allowed the rest of the day to celebrate, Chief,” I replied with an air of pride and a smidgen of sass as I wrapped my lips around the straw.

“You’re right, you’re right,” he chuckled and shook his head, staring down at his coffee and then glancing out the window in a quick canvas.

“Thank you, though,” I started, causing him to meet my eyes. “Thank you for celebrating with me when my own family wouldn’t.”

Hopper swirled his coffee before speaking, “Guess you could say…we’re your family, now.” He raised the mug up and toward me, so I did the same with my glass. He tapped our glasses together in a toast and let a satisfied smile spread over his lips, “Welcome to Hawkins PD.”

I nodded enthusiastically and brought the straw back to my mouth, “Yea, I'll drink to that.”

I sipped on the shake, casually glancing around the dining area and seeing quickly averted eyes. I chewed my straw and furrowed my brows in thought. I’d been silently pondering for so long that I hadn’t realized Hopper was watching the wheels turn in my head.

“What’s up?”

“Mm,” I made a noise indicating I’d heard him as I swallowed. “Why am I being stared at by every woman here?”

“Well,” he cleared his throat, “Small town, new face…women gossip, is the first reason.”

“And the second?”

Hopper took a deep breath through his nose, “Remember when I said that everyone thinks I’m a jerk?”

I simply nodded in understanding.

“Well, ‘everyone’ meant…women.”

We sat in silence for a few seconds while his words washed over me. My eyebrows flew up as I realized what he meant while my hand moved to hide my laughter.

“No!” I gasped in amused shock behind my hand as I deciphered his words.

“Yeah,” he rubbed his brow and grimaced at my shocked face.

I leaned forward on my elbows, smiling widely. His playfully forlorn face told me he knew I’d figured it out and was waiting for the impending grief I was going to lay on him. “Chief…you’re a slut?” I couldn’t hold back the giggle that escaped my lips.

“Correction, I used to be a slut, alright?” he rolled his eyes. “I stopped when I adopted my daughter.”

“Mhmm,” I raised an eyebrow at him as if I didn’t believe him.

“I’m serious!”

After eating, fighting over paying for lunch (a fight he won), and taking me to the grocery store (yet another fight he won), we pulled up to the trailer. Hopper helped me take the bags inside and lingered in the living room.

“If I have any questions,” I showed him the map I stole from his Blazer, “I’ll call you.”

“I’ll keep an ear out,” he smirked and opened the trailer door.

I held the door open as he walked out, stopping when I spoke up, “Wish me luck buying my own car tomorrow.”

Hopper stopped in his tracks and turned around, “What were you gonna do? Walk to the dealership?”

“Uh, bus?”

“No,” he shook his head, turned, and kept walking, “I’ll pick you up at ten tomorrow.”

“Chief!” I protested, but he kept walking to his Blazer.

“They’re less likely to haggle you if the Chief of Police is there, alright!?” he shouted back, not giving me another chance to speak as he got in the truck.

Chapter 3

Hopper stuck his arm out of the window, offering a passive wave of his hand and a smile as he turned the truck around. I leaned against the doorframe and waved back, wondering how in the hell I was supposed to survive a career next to Jim Hopper.

#jim hopper fanfiction #jim hopper x you #jim hopper x reader #chief hopper x reader #chief hopper x you #chief hopper fanfiction #david harbour fanfiction #stranger things fanfiction

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laytonsartblog · 5 years

Text

The Best of Worst Days

Economic Crisis AU

Ch. 1, Ch. 2

Warning: this content has violence, poverty, guns, starvation, hypothermia, dysfunctional family themes, and dystopian themes. Read when comfortable and in a safe spot. Care for yourself.

Patton has a schedule he dedicates his life to.

First, to get up at five.

Then take a shower, standing in a bucket.

Why a bucket? To catch the dirty water.

After his shower, Patton will put that murky liquid into a filter to drain out all the gunk and make him and his son breakfast while he's waiting. Once he's finished with all of that, he takes the filtered water and pours it into empty water bottles and then throws them into his tiny icebox.

Proceeding is obviously to wake up his adorable little four-year-old Virgil and eat with him until it's time to go at six-thirty, and walk Virgil to his pre-k daycare with the rest of breakfast and the fresh water bottle as lunch.

From that point on it's just to get to his work at the construction site by seven and work until two pm, and pick Virgil up to bring home.

They play and eat and maybe visit the park for two hours, then Patton has to get to his other job down the block at a small crafts store by five, which is where he'll be until midnight, then walk all the way back home and fall flat on his face to sleep on the floor.

Simple, right?

Yes, well, there's this thing called sleep depriviation and insomnia that gets in the way.

When Patton wakes up as he does every day, his tired eyes make their way to the clock before bulging out of his head. It's six am.

He scrambled to get Virgil up and about. "Virgil!" Patton whispered as he gently shook his son's shoulders. "Virgil, Papa's running late for work, you need to make your own sandwich while I get ready, okay?"

Virgil merely whined and curled in closer to his thin blanket.

"Pleeeeeease?" Patton pleaded. "I know it's a bit sudden and I usually let you sleep in more, but Papa can't do everything at once, okay?"

Virgil finally sat up and groaned, wiping his eyes. "S'okay, Papa. I'll help."

Patton smiled softly as Virgil clumsily went about to his little cubby to grab a clean shirt and shorts to change into, before remembering the time and running off to change too.

Patton came out of the bathroom with his expendable construction t shirt and jeans and stared at the time; six-thirty.

"Come on, Virgil," Patton urged gently as he picked his boy up. "We're gonna need to skip breakfast today, but I'll leave you some money to get something at the cafeteria, okay?"

Virgil nodded sleepily against Patton's chest. "Okay, Papa..."

Patton sighed contentedly as he continued to hold Virgil on the rest of the walk to the daycare before placing him gently down in front of the door. He fished in his pockets for change.

"Don't worry, honey, I'll have something here somewhere..." Patton trailed off as he continued to search through his pockets for maybe even a dime, but, no, there was nothing. Patton gave up his search with a sigh. "Well, kiddo, I- I think you'll need to ask for some of your friend's extra snacks, or maybe one of the teachers to get you something because Papa doesn't- Papa doesn't have the money."

Virgil looked like his rubber duck had just been melted and Patton almost teared up at the sight. He hated having to starve his own son because he couldn't get the money.

Virgil ran up and hugged Patton's skinny legs. "Is okay, Papa, 'm okay, Papa go job," he mumbled into the cloth of Patton's jeans. "I go play now." He ran off like a wolf into the night into the daycare, rushing to play with the fun trains. A complete switch.

Patton would have broke down then if it weren't for the fact he was on the clock.

He ran to the site he was supposed to be working on, just two or three miles away. When he got there, however, his manager stood with a tapping shoe and folded arms.

"Look who finally showed up!" she snarked, red luxerious lipstick painted bright to announciate every twisted syllable.

Patton's shoulders went sky high to hide his paler-than-average face. "I-I am so sorry, ma'am," he apologized. "I didn't mean to- my son, I had to drop him off to daycare, and he was being fussy, so-"

Patton didn't like to lie, but it was the only way for him to keep the job. If she found out it was because he woke up late? A big fat 'FIRED' notice would appear in his p.o. box.

The woman sighed. Her foot stopped tapping, but her arms stayed crossed. "Listen..." she started. "You seem to work hard and you've got a kid to take care of. I get it. Times like these in this stupid country can be tough."

Patton felt some hope glimmer in his chest. Perhaps just a warning?

"But that doesn't exclude the fact you've been late four times this month, fainted twice from exhaustion, and spread the cough to my workers last winter."

Patton's heart sank back to where it was before.

"That's why... I need to let you go. It's hard work and I cannot have tardiness and exhaustion running my construction equipment."

And that's when Patton's heart went all the way down to Hell.

"You're... I'm... I'm fired?" Patton gasped out, almost as if he couldn't believe it; or rather, didn't want to.

His manager nodded. "I'm so sorry, Patton, you seem like a fine worker. You're just not cut out for working early hours on tough plaster with a kid to take care of and a whole load of sleep problems."

Patton's hands felt numb but slimy. He was sweating but he couldn't even tell if it was hot. All he felt was cold; cold dread, cold guilt, cold everything.

"I-I'm sorry, maybe I could- maybe you could move me down to textile ordering management?" Patton tried not to let that determined little speck of hope reach too high in his voice; it still strained of heartbreak either way.

Her bright red lips frowned and her mascara-covered eyes closed. "I'm sorry, Patton, but those spots are all full. If you wanted to really work there, you could be the mission boy, but that's significantly lesser pay, and may conflict with the schedule you're on."

Patton sighed, his hope and heart finally settling in a dark chasm in his chest. "Thank you for at least concerning it, ma'am, I'll- I'll be on my way, now."

With a racking breath and wobbly knees, Patton turned away and walked back home. Once through the door, he sat on the small mattress Virgil used and began to sob.

"I can't feed my child, I lost my job, and bills are coming up! What the hell am I to do?" Patton yelled as he bawled into his hands.

Every part of him screamed and ached. He needed sleep, he needed rest, he needed something to eat, he needed his child to hold dear, he just needed; but he can never have what he wants, especially like the sad sack of debt and depression he was.

Patton couldn't exactly tell how long he had cried for, but the next time he looked up at the clock, it was eight am. He figured that the library was open, so he might as well head over there for a free read to calm down.

That, and free wifi and computer access.

Patton tried to make himself not look like the outside rendition of how he was feeling on the inside as he walked along the craggy sidewalks to the nearby city library. His attempts to cover up the way his hair sagged and his eyes pulsed didn't exactly prove fruitful as people walked by in sympathy or disgust. Their reactions only made Patton's heart clench more.

After he finished his three mile walk, he practically ghosted through the library doors; he looked as much, anyway, with his pale face and sunken eyes.

The librarian from across the room lowered his sunglasses, intrigued and a little suspicious.

The depression hit almost everyone, yes, but that didn't mean that hobos possibly addicted to meth were a person Remy was begging to listen to on a Monday morning in a damn library. Remy was not awake enough to tell the raggedy middle aged patron this wasn't the back alley to sneak some crack in before making his way back on the streets to ask for a job, so Remy just adjusted his sunglasses and resumed looking up sugar daddies on his phone.

Patton ignored the stares from the young librarian and instead went to the computer, taking out his library card and typing out the number and sending it in. After waiting for what seemed like hours, the internet finally decided to load the computer up and allow Patton to search for more loan applications and job openings.

However, he came up empty handed.

The jobs either weren't paying enough, required a higher degree than a high school diploma, or were simply too far away. The loans? They would cause more debt; Patton was better off without more false promises.

There was a website Patton was interested in, though, that he found while scrolling through the Google search "friend finding": GetAlong.

GetAlong, apparently, was a free penpal website people could use do the same as texting without having to pay for it. Except, there's a twist; the people you meet are strangers. They could be from across the country, across the planet, your next-door neighbor, anyone who signs up with the site is eligible for you to meet. You could message eachother, send pictures, videos, links, live feeds, and sticker-like emoji; all within the website.

The only consolation is for it to be anonymous. The only information you can put is your first name, your age, your gender, and maybe some things you're interested in. The rest is to fill in for yourself after you meet them.

The reason Patton was so interested is because he needed someone to talk to. Sure, he had Virgil to play with on bad days, and he had his coworker Roman from the crafts store he still worked at, but other than that? No family, no friends, and no help.

Perhaps this website could at least bring him some happiness.

So Patton, with a lot more time on his hands and feeling a lot more distraught than normal, signed up.

Patton Gentile, 32, trans-male. I like knitting, snuggling up in the winter, and taking care of my son. Hope to give you a happy hello soon!

Patton stared back at the words on the screwn with his fingers hovering over the keyboard, motionless.

Was this really all I needed to say? he thought. Did I need to say more, or less?

He decided to get it over with and hit send, leaving his mark on the world.

----------------------------------------

Taglist:

@amazable01 @vara-albion

#sanders sides #economical dystopian #Economic Crisis AU #patton sanders #hurt/comfort #angst #sanders sides fanart #roman sanders #ts roman #ts patton #sympathetic patton #virgil sanders #ts virgil #ch.1 #mobile #layton's writing #layton's art

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creek-cryptid-deluxe · 5 years

Text

WARNING DRAMA AHEAD

(Which is crazy because I try to actively have a drama free lifestyle)

So, awhile back I wrote about some issues in a friend group containing A & Em. Summary: I chatted with Em about A unintentionally making me feel shitty for FINALLY accepting my limitations & making lifestyle & wardrobe changes to reflect that. Em said she'd talk to A because if I did it, A might feel attacked & get defensive.

Day before yesterday, Em dropped by to hang, help me put together a shoerack, and go to a local costume shop that does rentals and serves all the theater departments & dance companies in a 70 mile radius. This shop is amazing, been around since I was little, almost everything is hand made with amazing care and detail, and the decor in their shop is ever changing, detailed, and super fucking cool. ANYWAY, we got on the subject of A, whom I've only seen once or twice since talking to Em about it & seemed ok both times aside from getting legit pissed that I'm better at macrame plant holders than she is. Apparently A currently thinks I dislike her or like her less or something. So I asked Em if I should gently talk to her about it and see if we can reach an understanding. She said she thought it was a good idea h really, I don't like one of my friends thinking I dislike them. So yesterday I pulled together some courage and messaged her. The following is the conversation that occured:

Me: So, I've heard that you are upset and under the impression that I don't like you anymore or like you less or something. So I'm gonna clear the air, but I'm gonna be blunt and honest with you because I'm not down for lying. K? (And let me go ahead and flat out say, I don't dislike you or like you any less)

A:I've just been feeling some reservations toward me lately. Go ahead I can take blunt.

(Spoiler: she cannot take even sugarcoated gentle level blunt)

ME: So here is the deal. My illness is eternal and is only ever going to get worse. In fact, it is constantly getting worse in small, large, and sometimes interesting & unexpected ways. Sometimes it creeps on slowly, sometimes it hits like an anvil was dropped on me. Therefore I am constantly having to adjust my lifestyle, activities, wardrobe... EVERYTHING. Very recently, I realized that I have spent the last 3 years trying to live my old life and just cope so my quality of life has been SHIT. I've finally truly accepted the shithole that is my health for what it is and have started to truly make real adjustments to my lifestyle, hobbies, wardrobe, ect. Because I will never get better and live in about 400 sq ft (at best) that means when I realize something doesn't fit my abilities or needs anymore, I get rid of it. However, I always offer those things to the kids & my friends first before donating them. But here's the thing, when I offer these things to you, I get a load of questions & comments that end up making me feel like I have failed as a person for realizing what has taken me 3 years to realize. For example: when I told you that Julia's candles were my last batch ever, there were loads of 'have you tried...' and 'I'm sure you can find a way.' I know you mean well, but if I'm giving something up, I've truly tried ever avenue to make it work within my limits and it just doesn't. Even after I quit candles in May, I kept the stuff (which took up massive space) until August because I doubted myself and was reluctant to lose another hobby. But I need to face facts and be realistic. Same with the sweater. I am drastically altering my wardrobe for whatever the upcoming season is to fit the fact that I need my cane at all times now (POCKETS) and the fact that my clothes need to be comfy enough for me to get dressed every day not just days I'm leaving the house. I've lived in PJs for the last year and a half and it's not good for my mental health. So all things that don't fit that criteria or my new altered lifestyle must go. And it's going to be a constant process because I'm constantly getting worse. The jewelry making stuff, I genuinely forgot you wanted it because honestly i don't even remember what happened yesterday, so I'm sorry. (I had jewelry making supplies that I can't use anymore due to -15 hand strength, which I gave to Em.)

A: I'm sorry that I've been putting you down and making you feel shity. That's never been my intention. If I ask a ton of questions it's not because I don't understand the severity and challenges in your daily life. I ask so many questions because I often find unconventional wacky solutions to peoples problems all the time and if I can be in the slightest bit helpful in finding a loophole or a way you might not have seen, I thought that would be better than just saying "I'm so sorry to hear that" I figured you hear that enough but idk how often you hear people actually trying to find a way. Like the sweater example, I would have been happy to take you shopping for a fun print material the made you some pockets. Outside like a cool patchwork with awesome prints, or inside like a bond detective. But you were so quick to snap at me and explain your whole situation like I am not taking you seriously. I ask because I want to hear your needs and maybe just maybe be able to help out. But if all I do is make you feel like your grandma did then I'll do you a favor and stop inviting myself over to make you feel shitty. I'm glad Emma always knows just what to say.

Now at this point, I stopped replying. I was kind of shocked at her response. Like, I expected her to explain her intentions, despite me making it clear I knew her intentions were good, because that's what people do. I expected us to discuss how things should be moving forward so I don't continue to feel like a failure. I considered maybe mentioning somewhere in there that if I want help or advice or solutions, I'll fucking ask. But I did NOT expect those last couple sentences where she basically stomped her feet and said well since this isn't going how I want, I'm not playing with you guys anymore.

After careful thought, writing & editing over a 5 hr period, I sent this (which are screenshots from my notes because typing is rough, I wanted to convey what I wanted just right, and now you have to click on them to see the full thing. I'm sorry I've failed you, the reader of this normal convo turned melodrama, in such a fashion.):

She responded at like 2 am (when I was asleep) so I saw there was a response when I woke up, but given the history of her behavior in situations like this (conveyed via Em, who has known her MUCH longer) I decided not to open it just yet, as I'd like to relax and enjoy my day. This shit stresses me out. I don't do drama and tantrums. I don't tolerate it from my teenage Spawn, much less fucking adults. I get the feeling that the response is going to be just as melodramatic & tantrum filled. If this is how she handles her intentions not aligning with the result of her actions that were driven by said intentions, then she's in for a real shock when she leaves the cuddlebox of college and enters the real world. Your boss isn't going to care about how good your intentions were when you accidentally burned down the kitchen of the bakery you work in. They will just care that you burned down their fucking business.

Welp, may as well rip off the bandaid. For you, my dear reader, to have closure I will read the response. Back in a sec.

OMG IT WAS SO MUCH MORE DRAMATIC THAN I EXPECTED.

A:I understand. And I told you where I stand. I am the type of friend that instinctually tries to help those she cares deeply about. I'm not the friend to just sit and feel bad when there's something I can do. But I have been feeling for a while now unwanted and you have confirmed it by not saying anything then, just talking about it to my former close friend, and then throwing it in my face that you have been holding on to a box cuz of me. And like the adult i am, I don't see why I should change the type of friend I am just because some one is ungrateful for it. I'll go help someone else leave their abusive boyfriend's in the middle of the night. for the people I care about I'd do anything, anything except sit and do nothing while I'm told how much worse I make things when I try and help. I will just take my good intentions elsewhere. I have had the worst year of my life but I don't remember you asking me once anyway. I wish you the best buy obviously your life is better without me and my negativity in it. I truly am sorry I hurt your feelings and I never ever wanted to. I cherished your friendship more than you'll ever know and you can ask anyone. But because I can't see myself sitting by biting my tongue around you and waking on eggshells because I clearly can't see the bounty between helpful conversion and being a cunt. Since I respect you so much I'll go ahead and remove that stupid cunt from your life so you won't be put down again.

HOOOLY SHIT. I'm not responding to that giant fucking dramatic pity party. She legit needs to grow the fuck up. Good god.

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lokis-lady-death · 6 years

Text

Slither

Loki x Reader

Lady Death: Just a random idea I had. Reader works for the Smithsonian and is put in charge of a large Viking Exhibit. She comes across a strange relic that seems to have a mind of it’s own. One shot? Two shot? Full length novel? Who knows?

Slither

You walked up and down the tables, your fingers dancing over the many treasures from around the world that you would be surveying for the upcoming Viking exhibit. Your entire life’s work, spread out on two tables in the center of the archive room of the Smithsonian, awaiting you to bring their stories to life.

The museum director had given you this opportunity, one you were not going to let slip through your fingers. She had remembered you writing a thesis on Norse mythology in college and immediately appointed you the task of curating the event the upcoming weekend.

“That drama on TV has everyone into this stuff right now,” she had told you. “We could meet your quota by the end of the year if this does well, so I need you to pull out all the stops!”

Looking back, you knew you should've said no. You knew this was too much for one person, but you had so much passion for this that you just had to take the responsibility.

And now here you were, staring at the largest collection of Viking, Norse, mythological assortment that you had ever seen, with no idea where to begin.

Thankfully, you had Chris. “Ok, that should be it for me.” He walked the length of the second table with a clipboard and check sheet. You had both been great friends since you started at the museum and he offered to help but he had just been called home. Which was fine. He worked mostly with the business side of the museum, and didn't know much about the history each relic possessed. “Everything accounted for, organized by size, worth and use.”

“Thank you, I appreciate it so much!”

He flashed you a smile, rolling his sleeves back down to get ready for the cold outside. “Oh it's no problem. But remember, you're gonna owe us a personal tour of the exhibit when you're done. That's my fee.”

“Absolutely.” You held out a hand for the clipboard. “Did you have only on your list you couldn't find?”

“Nope. Found them all. Which I thought was strange since you have an unopened crate shipped in from that museum in Edinburgh.” He gestured to a package labeled SMITH VIK EXHIBIT. “I thought you would rather open that up yourself.”

You smiled back at him, “You know me so Well.”

You said our goodbyes and turned your attention to the box on the back table. Glancing back at the complete list, you couldn’t fathom what must be in there.

The box cutter did short work of the flaps, shifting through the shredded cardboard to protect whatever was inside. You dig around a moment before finding a necklace. Extraordinary, unlike any you had ever seen, the necklace was a dark tinged, thick, flexible metal band with a heavy medallion around the front. Overall it was a foot long, which struck you as strange because why would anyone wear such a heavy and long ornament.

You took a damp terry cloth and began working away the collection of gunk from the years. When you were done, you realized why the chain was so thick. It was made to mimic the body of a snake, it’s scales etched so delicately into the trinket you wondered if it was in the right collection. Viking jewelry wasn’t normally so ornate, but even as far down as the pendate, the detail was extraordinary. It was formed by the chain being wound into a knot but in the center was the head of a snake.

The excitement was short lived when you noticed the pendate looked to have a piece missing. The head of the snake was lifted from the pendant itself, leaving a large space that was obviously meant for something else to fit into. A jewel perhaps? Another part of the snake?

Edinburg was only around 3 hours ahead of you but at 10pm DC time, you knew there was no sense trying to call to ask for any information on the necklace. All you could do was try in the morning. Just as you went to put the necklace aside to tend to the other parts of the collection, you noticed a piece of paper affixed to the inside of the box.

“The Cursed Chains of Sigyn,” you read. Your nose scrunched and you looked back at the necklace in your hand. “You don’t look so cursed to me.”

Setting it aside on the workstation, you went back to the artifacts you were familiar with, reasoning you would worry about that one when you could call Edinburg yourself.

After two hours of researching each relic, you were hidden under piles and piles of reference texts and web browsers on your laptop. Giving out a yawn, you stretched out your arms and decided to give yourself a break. You broke out a cup of coffee and stared at the clock. Midnight. The caffeine would get you through the next couple of hours.

As the mug hit your lips, you heard it.

A hissing noise, like a kettle being left on the stove too long. You weren’t far from the boiler room, surely nothing was wrong with that? Looking over your shoulder, trying to find the source of the noise or at least the direction, you noticed something more peculiar.

It sounded like it was moving.

You got up and walked towards the sound, following where it seemed to be going. The room you were in was full of all the artifacts from past and future exhibits, stored safely away fro research purposes. The towering shelves were as high as the ceiling, and as long as the length of the room.

You wandered between the rows, hearing the hissing get stronger and then weaker before you came across a box.

The hissing stopped when you grabbed the box.

The top was already peeled open, which, for a strictly regulated room, struck you as more than odd. The Smithsonian took it’s archives serious.

Tilting the box towards your face, you leaned in to see the noise.

A snake- a living breathing snake- lunged towards your face

You screamed and dropped the box, hearing a distinctive metal clunk when it went crashing onto the concrete floor.

Your heart was pounding while all you could do was stare at the cardboard.

The hissing stopped.

It couldn't have been more than a couple of minutes of you just staring at the upturned box waiting for movement or hissing.

But nothing.

Refusing to touch it with your hand, you took the tip of your shoe and shifted the box a few inches, expecting movement, hissing, something. Instead, the sound of metal scraping the concrete. You slowly lifted the box before finally throwing it off and jumping back, expecting the snake to be ready.

But there wasn't a snake.

It was the necklace from the Edinburg shipment. You furrowed your brow, looking around, wondering if you were truly alone.

You knew you left it on the table.

You. Knew.

And yet, here it was.

Reasoning you were just tired and imagining things, you took the necklace back through the archives to your work station. As you went to set it down, you paused.

Running your thumbs across the scales of the snake chain, you couldn’t bring yourself to let it go.

Something compelled you to try it on.

“Ridiculous,” you scorned the thought out loud. All the jewelry you had ever examined, you certainly never tried it on.

But you still couldn't lay the necklace down.

You looked around again, needing that reassurance no one was there.

Biting your lip, you felt the urge swelling inside of you, against all logic. A compulsion, an itch, a drive.

You needed to try this necklace on.

You had to.

“Wearing it for just one second shouldn't hurt…” you reasoned. Your fingers laced around the back and brought it over your head.

As soon as the pendant hit your chest, you felt a displacement wash over you, like riding on a rollercoaster and losing your stomach on a loop.

The lights flickered and there was a crashing sound from behind you. You jerked your head around and gasped.

You were no longer in the archives of the Smithsonian. The room was much more crowded and dark with large wooden shelves filled to the brim with old tattered books.

Were you hallucinating?

Perhaps you passed out and now you're dreaming?

Maybe the snake bit you and the venom knocked you out?

Your mind tried to make sense of things until it was interrupted by a man’s voice breaking through the silence.

“What a peculiar sight.”

You didn't move, didn't breathe. As if somehow by not interacting with the world you would be taken back to your table of relics.

“And who might you be?” The voice spoke again. An accent you couldn't quite place and an educated tone. Slowly, you turned to see who was speaking.

The man was tall, obscenely so. He was dressed in black, thick leather fabricated like a dense armor of sorts, attached to a thick cap draped over his shoulders. Your eyes landed on his face and you inhaled sharply, surprised by his features. His skin was pale, moreso next to the shoulder length black hair that framed the sharp angles. But it was his eyes that struck you the most; brilliant emerald jewels that glowed with curiosity.

There was something obscurely regal about him, a certain way he carried himself that demanded respect.

He simply smirked at you, waiting for some sort of an answer.

“How…” was all you managed.

“How indeed,” he spoke again. His head tilted to the side as he watched you like some sort of an oddity in a freak show. “Again, I'm compelled to ask who you are.”

“I'm…” this didn't make sense. Who was this man? Where were you? You turned taking in the stone walls, the splintered wooden shelves, the dusty book bindings. “Am I in a library?”

“Dont be rude, darling.” His tone wasn't as playful, making you whip your head back to him. “I’m afraid I need you to answer me.”

“I'm sorry…. I just….” His eyes darkened, his smile dissipated. You cleared the lump that formed in your throat. “I'm y/n.” Your heart was pounding so hard it was making your head hurt. “Where am I…”

“You're in my study, Lady y/n.” He took one long stride and was standing in front of you, towering to the point you had to crane your head to face him. “Quite late, actually. Its closer to sunrise than it is sundown.” There was a slight shift in his tone, something more than curious that you couldn’t quite grasp. “So what brings you to me at this hour?”

“I….” You took a step back from him. “I was in my office. I was…” your hand came up and found the snake necklace resting on your chest. “I put this on and then…” Your eyes darted around the room. No, it didn't make sense. Had the pendant brought you here?

The man's eyes followed your hands, ignoring the panic in your voice. “A piece of the Chains of Sigyn?”

He had your undivided attention now. “A piece? How do you know...”

“Because,” he cut you off, “I own the other piece.” Before you could formulate a second question, his eyes narrowed and he took another step towards you. “Are you from Midgard?”

“What? I'm from Washington DC.”

The man eyed you up and down, slowly analyzing you to the point you began to feel will uncomfortable. “Definitely midgardian clothing,” he snickered. “And where did you come by that?” He pointed at your chest, to the pendant.

You tried to think but in your split second of trying to find words, he unexpectedly roared, “Where did you get it!”

You stepped back again, this time bumping into a shelf. The upper portion shook at your disturbance and nearly toppled over, but the man reached above you with incredible speed and slammed the shelf against the wall.

You screamed and crouched down. It frightened you so much you did the only thing you could think of: you pulled the necklace back over your head.

You blinked away tears you hadn't realized had formed in the corners of your eyes. With the necklace off, you were standing in front of your table of relics, wide eyed and terrified. Looking at the snake chain in your hand, you threw it across the table, stumbling backwards.

“What was that?” Your mind was all over the place, trying to make sense of the entire scenario. You held up your hands, brushed them over yourself, making sure you were solid, real.

But what you just saw, was that real?

Your eyes cut up to the clock. 2am? How had two hours passed?

The shelf felt real. The man sounded real. There was even a different smell in the library you couldn’t explain away. Like the pages of old books, moisture trapped in wood. Nothing like the stark archive room. No, that room smelled like the places these artifacts had come from.

It smelled like history.

And then something else struck you. The man had told you he had the other piece of the snake pendant. You looked over at the cursed item, laying on the other end of the table, seemingly harmless.

You shouldn’t pick it up.

You shouldn’t put it on.

You knew there was something more to this, something dark.

But you had studied ancient runes, relics from Viking times, literatures recording mythologies dating back as far as the earliest Nordic times. You had devoted your life to this history.

Whatever this necklace was, it was one of a kind. Something you had never seen in all your years of research, possibly something you would never see again.

Against your better judgement, you lifted it back up, your fingers trembling when you did so. Fear and anticipation consumed you, but you fought passed it because your driving motivation was curiosity.

The necklace looped around your head and you closed your eyes, holding your breath when the pendant laid flat across your chest.

“Well, hello again, darling.”

Like my garbage? Read more of it! Master List

ALL TAGS: @socialheartbreak @kcd15 @maladaptive-ninja-returns@nephalem67 @jessiejunebug @woodyandbuzz20-01@lokislilslut @bambamwolf87 @avenging-blackwidow

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sassycassie-s-writing · 7 years

Text

Love Song

By: SassyShoulderAngel319

Fandom/Character(s): Avengers - Peter Parker/Spider-Man

Rating: G

Original Idea: based on the Sara Bareilles song of the same title

Notes: (Masterlist)(About Me) I love this song and the music video for it is what inspired this one-shot.

^^^^^

Peter entered the shop early, as he always did. He flipped the sign from Closed to Open. All the clutter of the thrift shop surrounded him as it always had. With a smile he looked over at the small box of dark wood. It looked like an old-fashioned photo-booth with a curtain over the entrance and a seat inside. On the side though, it said Love Songs.

He smiled. He liked starting the day off with one of the love songs that it played. It brightened his mood.

Pulling a nickel out of his pocket, he slid it into the little slot, brushed the curtain aside, and sat down.

The little screen in front of him parted its little fake curtains to reveal the girl.

Whoever she was, she was beautiful—to Peter. Always the same girl no matter which song it played, alone, sitting in a black dress in front of a baby grand piano. The film was in black-and-white and looked old. It always depicted the same room with gears in the background, as though she were actually in the machine. She sang the same love songs, but there were so many that the likelihood he’d get the same one two days in a row.

^^^^^

The shop’s employee—not the owner, the young man who worked for him—was my favorite person to play for. I knew his face and he always seemed to enjoy my songs. The rest of the customers liked the songs too, but he was my favorite. I always tried a little harder for him first thing in the morning.

Once his song was over, the curtains dropped over my side of the magnifying glass. I got up from the baby grand piano and went into my room. The miniscule bed, the upright piano, my comfortable dress. The black one I performed in looked nice, but the white one I hung out in felt better.

I peeked out of the hole in the O of Love on the side of my box. I knew nothing but this life. The thrift shop outside where the big people came and went and the young man employee organized things.

The boy was alone, pleasantly sweeping.

Your help just hurts, I thought, watching him. Sure the coins that rolled down, cuing me to play, kept me alive—at least, I assumed they did because I never had any of the things that big people seemed to need to live—but I didn’t want this life. Not anymore. I didn’t want to spend all of my days singing love songs over and over. I tried to shake it up by singing lots of different ones, but the fact remained the same. That I was tiny, trapped in a big box, with no chance of doing anything different.

All day, I saw the coins roll through the slot, signaling I needed to get through the door in seconds, wearing my black dress, to perform. I got all kinds of viewers. Usually there was one; sometimes there were two. They all looked different. They shared a couple things though. Often they looked sad or lonely. I tried to please them, make them happy, but I just couldn’t keep doing it. I was tired. I wished I could do something different—I wasn’t sure what. But maybe it would involve being in the big-people world.

I watched the boy sweeping again at the end of the day from my window in the O. He was handsome. In the darkness since the sun had gone down, his dark eyes glittered in the moonlight.

As he left, he patted the top of my box, not even seeing me watching him through the O.

He locked up and left, flipping the sign from Open to Closed. I smiled.

There was no need to sneak around. No one could hear me if I wasn’t in my performing room anyway. I could play the upright in the middle of the day in my sleep room and no one would notice.

I went down many old, rickety ladders to the bottom of the machine where the coins were collected.

Grabbing one from the top of the pile, I went back up a couple ladders to the gears.

“I’m not going to do this anymore!” I exclaimed.

Biting my lip, I approached two of the cogs carefully and wedged the coin between them.

The lights in my box shut off as everything ground to a halt.

With a sigh, I went up to my sleep room and collapsed on the small bed, exhausted. It had been a longer day than usual—more performances. I didn’t know how long the peace would last, but at least for the night, there was darkness and silence.

Closing my eyes, I drifted off into a deep sleep for the first time in a long time.

^^^^^

Peter arrived at the shop early, as always. The clutter surrounded him, as always. He flipped the sign from Closed to Open, as always.

There was something off. He wasn’t sure what.

Then he noticed it.

The Love Songs booth was dark. It had never been dark. The lights behind the letters weren’t on.

Curious, Peter grabbed a flashlight from behind the counter and opened the panels to find the problem. It had never needed maintenance before. Something wasn’t right. He wasn’t even sure where to start since he’d never had to fix it before. Turning on the flashlight, he started looking everything over, blowing dust off of gears.

Then he saw it. A nickel was caught in the cogs.

He pulled it out. The cogs took a moment, but then they started whirring again. The lights flickered back on.

Music started to drift from behind them.

Peering around the gears, he saw the girl.

It was the same girl who was behind the screen, always playing the love songs on the piano in the black dress. She was sitting behind the Love Songs lettering, playing an old upright piano in a white dress. There was also a tiny bed and a spool of thread acting as a bedside table. She was actually there—not just some ancient recording as he always thought.

She was singing something other than a love song. It was sad, yearning. Something about being free.

Peter raised his eyebrows. “Excuse me?” he asked carefully.

The singing and piano stopped. The girl whirled around. She gasped. “H-hello,” she greeted.

“I’m Peter,” he introduced.

“I'm… I don’t have a name,” she admitted. Her eyes lighted on the nickel in his hand. “Oh. You found it. I was hoping…”

“Have you always been in here?” he asked.

She nodded. “Yeah.”

^^^^^

Peter. It was nice to know his name.

“I’m sorry,” he offered.

I shrugged and looked down, sad.

Carefully, so as not to catch his clothing in the gears, he held the coin out for me. I reached up and took it. If I spread my arms out, it was wide enough to reach elbow-to-elbow. I gave him a smile. “Thank you,” I said. He smiled, looking almost as melancholy as I felt.

After a moment, he scrunched his eyebrows. “Would you… would you like to get out of there?”

I lit up. “Yes!” I breathed. “I would like nothing more!”

He reached into the box again and put his hand, palm-up, on the floor in front of me. I scrambled up onto it, holding onto his smallest finger with one hand, clinging to the coin with the other.

“Here. I can’t be seen wandering the city with a tiny person in my hand, but if you’re in my pocket, no one should notice you.” He put me in the pocket of his… jacket, I think the word was. I peeked out of it, watching him leave the shop. He pulled a… phone out of his other pocket, tapped it a couple times, and held it up to his ear. “Hey Scott. It’s Peter… Yeah. That Peter. Listen, I need a favor…” He pushed the door of the shop open. Air blasted me in the face and noise like I’d never heard before filled my ears. There was so much going on. I clung to Peter’s pocket seam, trying to see everything I could. So this was how the big people lived.

Peter put his hands in his pockets to keep them warm. I stood on top of his thumb and watched. The heat from his palm was keeping the cool air from chilling me too much. My mouth was open and I kept looking up at the boy with an ear-to-ear smile. Occasionally he’d look down at me and share a grin, hand circling around me protectively so I wouldn’t fall out of his pocket.

I had no idea where we were going, I just knew that I was seeing more than I ever expected to see.

There was a long time where I didn’t know what was happening or what I was seeing, but finally we stopped. There was a man with black hair and green eyes. He wasn’t much bigger than Peter, but he seemed to be a little taller.

“What’s up, kid?” the man asked.

“Hey, man, I’m sorry about last time—”

“Hey. No hard feelings, alright?”

“Right thanks. Look, I need your help. I, uh… I found this girl in a… in a box in the thrift shop I’m working at.”

He pulled me out of the pocket. I sat on his palm, clinging to the coin in my arms.

“Is, uh… is there any way you can do that thing where you had the tiny truck turn back into its normal size?” Peter asked. The new man, who I assumed was Scott from who he was talking with on the phone, looked at me in alarm. “Okay, sorry. Let me explain.” He launched into the explanation about me in the box singing songs all day.

Scott watched Peter, occasionally looking at me.

^^^^^

I stood on the floor in my white dress, still clinging to the coin.

“Okay. You gotta put the nickel down so I can hit you not it,” Scott told me. Nervously, I set the metal down and stood on it.

The little silver disk with a shining blue light in the center was flicked towards me. I squeezed my eyes shut.

It hit me.

There was a really weird sensation that I didn’t like.

When I opened my eyes, I was almost the same size as Peter. The coin was under my right foot, about the same size as my big toe. I shrieked in excitement, ran at the men, and threw my arms around both of them. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” I exclaimed. “I’m FREE!”

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