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soft-dyke-omo · 4 years ago

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all in your head - a supercorp omo fic

I’ve been working on this for weeks and I’ve daydreamed about working on this in intricate detail for months. Not betaed because I can’t stand to look at it anymore.

If this shows up in the supercorp tag even though I didn’t tag it - I’m so sorry, this is about Lena pissing her pants. Don’t look.

It’s all in your head.

Maybe, if Lena kept telling herself that, she’d speak it into existence.

You’re just nervous. It’s your first date after all.

And honestly, it was bad enough that something as trivial as a date could phase her like this. It had never been like this before, she’d been sure the so-called “first date jitters” were a fabrication of the romance novels her mother had dismissed as mindless drivel. And she’d been inclined to believe her. Up until now, dates had been nothing more but a business transaction to her, and like all business transactions, she’d been calm, collected and aloof throughout. Also, like all business transactions, most of them turned out to be orchestrated by her mother.

But that was before Kara, before weak knees and fluttering hearts and -

It’s all in your head.

You don’t have to use the bathroom.

It didn’t matter now anyway, because at this moment she saw storming into the restaurant, cutting a corner dangerously close and almost taking a waiter with her, before she arrived at the table Lena had reserved for them, out of breath and beaming.

“Sorry I’m late!”, she panted, frantically pulling her blouse into place when she noticed the blue of her supersuit peeking out from beneath. There was no need for pretence between them, but she had to protect her identity to the public, especially when she was this bad at lying.

“Nonsense, darling. I’m sure it was important.”

“Not more important than you. Not to me.”

Well, and there she was, completely disarmed by the charming blonde. Checkmate in 3 moves. She couldn’t fight the smile that spread over her features, and maybe she didn’t want to, because she knew the effect it had on Kara. An effect that became evident when Kara just stood there, smiling back at her, for a total of ten seconds before remembering to sit down in their booth, across the table from Lena.

For a second, Lena wondered idly what her mother would think of her, sitting in a restaurant that had things such as booths and served a food item designated the monster burger. It wasn’t the type of restaurant a Luthor was usually seen in, it lacked the pricey wine pairings and the menu completely written in French. But what it had was a comfortable ambiance, and the glowing recommendations of one Kara Danvers. She’d take this over the stuffy, pristine establishments her mother used to drag her and Lex into when they were children any day.

A memory flared up in some part of Lena’s brain she’d long since thought buried, a memory of white tablecloth and important investors and feet swinging off the chair because she couldn’t reach the floor, not by a long shot and she needed to go so, so bad.

Bad memory. Like touching a hot stove, she immediately forced herself to forget, to think of literally anything else.

She took a sip of her wine to distract herself, a truly bad idea as she immediately felt a pang in her bladder. Fuck. She’d already had quite a bit of wine while waiting for Kara, not mention all the coffee she’d had even before out of a nervous habit.

“Are you okay?” Her girlfriend’s concern shook her out of her ruminations.

“I’m stellar”, she replied, her voice coming out a bit pressed as she crossed her legs under the table. She took a deep breath.

It’s all in your head. You’ve been in worse situations. You can hold it.

“How was your day, darling?”, she asked instead, hoping to shift attention away from herself. Kara gave her a dramatic sigh. “It was torture, Lena!”

Lena chuckled. “Tell me about it.”

And Kara did. It was very strange how Lena used to hate people who couldn’t stop talking about themselves on dates, but as soon as Kara was talking, she had no intention of interrupting her. Just listening to her was enough to brighten a stressful day. The waiter stopped by their table – it was hard not feel a bit triumphant since he had been sending pitying glances over to Lena’s table while she was waiting, insisting that her date will show up any minute now – and they ordered. Kara heartily recommended their home-made elderflower sirup, and just to make her girlfriend beam at her she agreed to give it a try. It was teeth-rottingly sweet and even worse, it arrived in a tall glass, because apparently every item on the menu arrived in a portion large enough to feed a small family. She gulped down the glorified sugar water while pressing her thighs together.

She could just ask to use the bathroom. She should just excuse herself, it would be easy, she never had problems addressing her needs, why was it so difficult now?

“Hey, are you okay? You’ve been a bit squirmy...is the sirup that bad?”

She hadn’t noticed her discomfort was so obvious. She really needed to get a grip…

Get a hold of yourself. The memory reared its ugly head again, with flashes of her mother’s iron grip on her hand and an icy voice hissing at her to stop squirming, to sit like a proper lady, and to never ever interrupt like that again.

As hard as she tried to repress it, the common sense that told her to just go to the bathroom got drowned out in a chorus of don’t interrupt, don’t you dare interrupt, just hold it hold it hold it.

“I’m sorry”, Lena answered, her teeth gritted against a sudden wave of desperation. “I guess I’m just nervous.” The lie passed her lips with practised ease, and she immediately felt guilty. Even worse, Kara immediately accepted this.

“Rao, I’m so glad it wasn’t just me! I’ve been going insane for three days because I couldn’t wait to go on a date with you but I was also really nervous. Alex kept making fun of me because we’ve been going out for lunch for years, but it’s different now that you are my girlfriend.” She let out a giggle, and then added: “My girlfriend. I’ll never get tired of calling you that.”

Lena didn’t answer. She had to make a conscious effort to keep from holding herself with her hands. Somewhere far away she heard Kara talking. Lena tried to focus on her words, anything to keep herself grounded in reality, to stop herself from remembering. She didn’t want to relive the shameful warmth spreading through the seat of her pants -

A spurt. No, no, she must have imagined it. Lena Luthor didn’t wet herself, she had better control than that. She surreptitiously adjusted her seating position and froze. She could definitely feel wetness in her underwear. She swallowed, blanched. This couldn’t be happening. A quick glance downward told her it didn’t show, yet. She desperately clenched her muscles. She had to keep from panicking. With a clear head, she would find a way out of this situation. She came from a family of geniuses, she couldn’t just sit there and wait until her bladder inevitably gave out.

She glanced around – thankfully the restaurant wasn’t very full today, or any day, really. Lena had the sneaking suspicion Kara was the only one keeping them in business. And in this moment, Lena was glad for it: At least nobody would see her sitting on her heel to try and keep from giving in to her desperate need. Her face burned in shame as she adjusted, trying to angle her leg correctly – the second she lifted herself off the seat, she could feel another spurt escaping, but this one didn’t stop. She immediately dropped back down, but it kept going, saturating her pants and the seat cushion below her. Four seconds later she managed to regain control, but the damage was already done, there was no way this mishap wouldn’t be visible to everyone as soon as she stood up.

She forced herself to take deep breaths. Maybe she could salvage this. If she could just hold on until they left, she could just cover the evidence of her leaks with her jacket – but it was midsummer, of course she didn’t bring a jacket. Desperation hit her in waves, made even worse by the feeling of her wet jeans clinging to her, reminding her of the helplessness of sitting on a chair that was far to big for her, the back of her skirt soaked and dripping onto the floor, silently imploring her brother to help her, and Lex regarding her with a warm, comforting smile and icy eyes before announcing to the table that little Lena had an accident.

She didn’t know whether it was the shame of the memory or the pain of holding it, but Lena couldn’t hold back a whimper as she lost another spurt. She clenched her thighs together as hard as she could, but she was leaking periodically now, the liquid gathering on top of her lap in a hot pool. Tears were gathering in her eyes. How pathetic and yet so in character for her to cry in front of Kara – oh God, Kara. She’d be disgusted, ashamed at being seen with a Luthor who couldn’t even hold her pee like a toddler…

“Lena? You’re worrying me.” A gentle voice, and an even gentler touch on her wrist spelled disaster for her. A jolt went through Lena’s body at the unexpected feeling, and without a warning her bladder let go completely. She could hear the muffled hissing of the stream hitting her jeans. And if Lena could hear it, that could only mean that Kara could as well…

“Are...are you peeing?”

Lena couldn’t hold her tears at bay anymore. She jerked her wrist away from Kara and buried her face in her hands, sobbing, not bearing to look at the disgust she was sure she’d see on her girlfriend’s face. Ex-girlfriend, she reminded herself. There was no way Kara would ever be able to look at her and see anything but a pathetic girl who pissed her pants because she didn’t dare to ask if she could be excused. And she was still going, helplessy peeing into her pants, and by now it was splattering onto the floor noisily. She couldn’t make it stop. Finally, after what felt like hours, the stream tapered off, leaving Lena sitting alone in her puddle. She didn’t move, she didn’t want to face the world. She hoped against hope that the ground would just swallow her up.

“Oh, Lena…”

Kara’s voice took her by surprise, she’d expected her to be gone by now.

“Are you okay? Are you sick?” There was a light touch on her forehead, as if trying to read her temperature, and the concern Kara showed her was all too much.

“Stop it!”, Lena hissed, turning to glare at Kara, who shrunk back into her seat. God, what was she doing, pushing Kara away like that even though she’d shown her nothing but care. Then again, she’d always been her own greatest saboteur.

“I’m not sick! I pissed myself because I’m a stupid, worthless -”

There was a burst of superspeed, and the next thing Lena knew was the feeling of soft, comforting arms around her.

“Shh, Lena. You’re not stupid, not at all. Accidents happen, baby. Let’s get you home, hm?”

Absently, she noted that she should probably be horrified at being talked down to like that. Still, as if the whole horrible ordeal had taken every ounce of her energy, she went pliant and let Kara lead her out of the restaurant and into an alley, cringing at the feeling of her heavy, soaked jeans rapidly cooling.

“Wait here, okay?”, Kara whispered to her, and in a flash, she was gone.

Gone.

Lena ran a hand through her hair. What now? The thought of her driver seeing her in this state was enough to make her feel sick, but the prospect of walking home in her soiled pants for everyone to see was even worse. She was just about to take out her phone when Kara reappeared in front of her.

“Don’t worry about Robert, he won’t tell a soul, he’s a good man. And I’m the one keeping his business afloat.”

Lena nodded dumbly, numb to everything happening to her. She felt spent and just wanted to hide in her apartment, never to be seen again.

“Come on, Lena, hold onto me.”

She realised what Kara was offering, and it was almost enough to make her cry all over again – offering to fly her home, despite everything that happened. Lena shook her head frantically. “I’m dirty...it’ll get all over you.”

“I don’t care”, Kara said, holding out her hand. Lena didn’t have the energy to refuse. She clung onto Kara as she felt her gently lift off the ground, closing her eyes and selfishly enjoying her embrace, the last she might ever share with Kara. Typical Kara, always putting others first. No wonder Lena had fallen for her as hard as she had. As they touched down on her balcony, Lena composed herself. She wanted to face their break-up with dignity – as much dignity as she could have in urine-stained pants and tear tracks on her cheeks. She let Kara guide her inside with a hand at the small of her back.

She closed her eyes. Best to get it over with.

“Thank you, Kara. I’ll be fine now. You can leave.”

“Leave? Do- do you want me to go?”

Lena scoffed. She couldn’t help it, lashing out had always been easier than being vulnerable.

“Don’t pretend like you want to stick around after what I did. After how I embarrassed you.”

“Lena, I’d never be embarrassed by you. You had an accident, they happen to everyone sometimes. I won’t leave because of that.”

Lena swallowed against the tightness in her throat. “I…”

She couldn’t find words for all her swirling, chaotic feelings.

“I need to get out of these clothes.”

“Yeah, me too”, Kara said and sheepishly glanced down at the wet spot Lena had left on her when they were flying.

“Why don’t you clean up in the shower while I zip home and put on some comfy pants. I’ll be back before you’re done.” Then, as if sensing Lena’s uncertainty, she added: “I promise.”

Lena peeled off her sodden pants and put them in the hamper, then she stepped into the shower. She forced herself to take her time in cleaning up, to get her mind out of fight or flight mode like she’d discussed with her therapist. They’d talked about her past, about flashbacks and anxiety attacks, but so far it had never seemed to help her in the middle of one. After an extensive shower she put on a new outfit, stepping into her living room and exhaling a breath of relief when she saw Kara, dressed in comfy sweatpants, sprawled out on the couch while some animated movie was playing on the TV. Her girlfriend – girlfriend! - lifted one edge of the comforter she had draped around herself in a silent invitation to join her. Without hesitation, Lena crawled onto the couch next to her and leaned against Kara’s shoulder.

“I’m-”, she began, but Kara shushed her.

“If the next word out of your mouth is sorry, I don’t want to hear it. We can talk about it later if you want to, but right now, I think you need some TLC.”

Lena agreed, and snuggled closer into her girlfriend, who in turn pressed a kiss against her temple. Lena relaxed and for the first time today, she let herself believe it was going to be okay.

#omorashi #omocute #fictomo #this is not very good but it's mine #told ya i'd make Content eventually

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lesbeet · 4 years ago

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not to be a nerd but i accidentally just wrote a whole impromptu essay about editing ndjsdksksk im throwing it under a cut bc it's fucking inane and really long but honestly... i just want other people to become as passionate about editing as i am lmaooooo

i also recommend 2 books in the post so if anything at least check those out!

quality books about editing... *chef's kiss* a lot of the basic ones (including blog posts online n such) are geared towards beginners and end up repeating the same info/advice, much of it either oversimplified or misrepresented tbh. but i read one yesterday and i'm reading another one right now that really convey this passion for editing + consideration for it as its own sort of art and i just!!

it's such a weird thing to be passionate about lmao but i AM and i've spent a lot of time the past year or so consciously honing my craft (ik i mention this like 4 times a week i'm just really proud of how much i've learned and improved) and kind of like. solidifying my instincts into conscious choices i guess?

and these GOOD editing books have both a) taught me new information and/or presented familiar information through a new perspective that helped me understand something differently or in more depth, and b) validated or even just put into words certain preferences or techniques that i've developed on my own, that i don't normally see on those more basic lists i mentioned

btw the book i finished yesterday is self-editing for fiction writers: how to edit yourself into print by renni brown and dave king, and the one i'm reading currently is the artful edit: on the practice of editing yourself by susan bell.

the former was pretty sharp and straightforward. the authors demonstrated some of their points directly in the text, which was usually funny enough that i would show certain quotes to my sister without context

("Just think about how much power a single obscenity can have if it’s the only one in the whole fucking book." <- (it was)

"Frequent italics have come to signal weak writing. So you should never resort to them unless they are the only practical choice, as with the kind of self-conscious internal dialogue shown above or an occasional emphasis."

or, my favorite: "There are a few stylistic devices that are so “tacky” they should be used very sparingly, if at all. First on the list is emphasis quotes, as in the quotes around the word “tacky” in the preceding sentence. The only time you need to use them is to show you are referring to the word itself, as in the quotes around the word “tacky” in the preceding sentence. Read it again; it all makes sense.")

and like i said, i also learned some new ideas or techniques (or they articulated vague ideas i already had but struggled to put into practice), AND they mentioned some suggestions that ive literally never seen anyone else bring up (not to say no one has! just that ive never seen it, and ive seen a lot in terms of writing tips, advice, best practices, etc) that ive already sort of established in my own writing

for example they went into pretty fine detail about dialogue mechanics, more than i usually see, and in talking about the pacing and proportion of "beats" and dialogue in a given scene, they explicitly suggested that, if a character speaks more than a sentence or two and you plan on giving them some sort of dialogue tag or an action to perform as a beat, the tag or action should be placed at one of the earliest (if not the first) natural pauses in the dialogue, so as not to distance the character too far from the dialogue -- bc otherwise the reader ends up getting all of the dialogue information first, and then has to go back and retroactively insert the character, or what they're doing, or the way they look/sound while they're giving their little speech

and like this was something ive figured out on my own, mostly bc it jarred me out of something i was reading enough times (probably in fic tbh) that i started noticing it, and realized that it's something i do naturally, kind of to anchor the character to the dialogue mechanic to make sure it makes sense with the actual dialogue

so like. ok here's an example i just randomly pulled from the song of achilles (it was available on scribd so i just looked for a spot that worked to illustrate my point djsmsks)

the actual quote is written effectively, but here's a less effective version first:

“Perhaps I would, but I see no reason to kill him. He’s done nothing to me," Achilles answered coolly.

see and even with such a short snippet it's so much smoother and more vivid just by moving the dialogue tag, not adding or cutting a word:

“Perhaps I would, but I see no reason to kill him.” Achilles answered coolly. “He’s done nothing to me.”

the rhythm of it is better, and the beat that the dialogue tag creates functions as a natural dramatic pause before achilles delivers an incredibly poignant line, both within the immediate context of the scene and because we as the readers can recognize it as foreshadowing. plus, it flows smoothly because that beat was inserted where the dialogue already contained a natural pause, just bc that's how people speak. if you read both versions aloud, they both make sense, but the second version (the original used in the novel) accounts for the rhythm of dialogue, the way people tend to process information as they read, AND the greater context of the story, and as a result packs significantly more purpose, information, and effect into the same exact set of words

and THAT, folks, is the kind of editing minutia i can literally sit and hyperfocus on for hours without noticing. anyway it's a good book lmao

the one i'm reading now is a lot more about the cognitive process/es of editing, so there's less concrete and specific advice (so far, anyway) and more discussion about different mental approaches to editing, as well as tips and tools for making a firm distinction between your writer brain and your editor brain, which is something i struggle with

but there have been so many good quotes that ive highlighted! a lot of just like. reminders and things to think about, and also just lovely articulations of things id thought of or come to understand in much more vague ways.

scribd won't let me copy/paste this one bc it's a document copy and not an actual ebook, but this passage is talking about how the simple act of showing a piece of writing to someone else for the very first time can spark a sudden shift in perspective on the work, bc you'll (or at least i) frantically try to re-read it through their eyes and end up noticing a bunch of new errors -

or she talked about the perils of constant re-reading in the middle of writing a draft, which is something i struggle with a LOT, both bc i'm a perfectionist and bc i prefer editing to writing so i sit and edit when i'm procrastinating doing the actual hard work of writing lmao

it's just this side of fake deep tbh but i so rarely see editing discussed like this--as a mixture of art and science, a collaboration between instinct and technique, that really requires "both sides of the brain" to be done well.

and because of the way my own brain works, activities that require such a balanced concentration of creativity and logic really appeal to me. even though ive seen a lot of people (even professional writers) who frame it as the creative art of writing vs the logical discipline of editing. but i think that's such a misleading way of thinking about it, because writing and editing both require creativity and logic -- just different kinds! (not to mention that the line between writing and editing, while mostly clear, can get a little blurry from up close)

but like...all stories have an inner logic to them, even if the writer hasn't explicitly or consciously planned it, and even if the logic is faulty in places in the first couple of drafts. when you're sitting and daydreaming about your story, especially if you're trying to figure out how to bridge the gap between two points or scenes (or, how to write a sequence of events that presents as a logical, inevitable progression of cause and effect), the voice in your head that evaluates an idea and decides to 1) go with it, 2) scrap it, 3) tweak it until it works, or 4) hold onto it in case you want it later? that's your logic! if an idea feels wrong, or like it just doesn't work, it's probably because some part of you is detecting a conflict between some part of the idea and the overall logic of your story. every decision you make as you write is formed by and checked against your own experiential logic, and also by the internal logic of your story, which is far less developed (or at least, one would hope), and therefore more prone to the occasional laspe

but while ive seen a number of articles that discuss the logic of writing, i don't see people gushing as much about the art of editing and it's such a shame

the inner editor is so often characterized as the responsible parent to the writer's carefree child, or a relentless critic of the writer's unselfconscious, unpolished drivel

and it's like... maybe you just hate thinking critically about your work! maybe you view it that way because you're imposing external standards too fiercely onto your writing, and it's sucked the joy out of shaping and sculpting your words until they sing. maybe you prefer to conceive of your writing as divine communication, the process of which must remain unencumbered by lessons learned through experience or the vulnerability of self-reflection, until the buzzkill inner editor shows up with all those "rules" and "conventions" that only matter if you're trying to get published

and like obviously the market doesn't dictate which conventions are worth following, but the majority of widely-agreed-upon writing standards, especially those aimed at beginners, (and most especially those regarding style, as opposed to story structure) have to do with the effectiveness and efficiency of prose, and, in addition to often serving as a shorthand for distinguishing an amateur from a pro, overall help to increase poignancy and clarity, which is crucial no matter the genre or type of writing. and even if you personally believe otherwise, it's better to understand the conventions so you can break them with real purpose.

so editing shouldn't be about trying to shove your pristine artistic masterpiece into a conventional mold, it should be about using the creative instincts of your ear and your logic and experience-based understanding of writing as a craft to hone your words until you've told your story as effectively as possible

thank u for coming to my ted talk ✌️

#long post //#editing #wref #sefa rambles

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chuffyfan87 · 5 years ago

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Hiding. Part 3

Cowritten with @disastrousintention

-x-

A couple of weeks had passed since their conversation by the river yet Duffy still hadn't managed to confess all to Andrew. She'd tried but it had never been the right time. If there was such a thing as the right time! She'd woken up that morning feeling incredibly poorly but had felt compelled to force herself into work. Charlie was in meetings with the trust all day, important meetings that he couldn't miss, and Eve had booked the day off to visit a friend so someone had to run the nursing staff. She'd hoped for a quiet shift but inevitably that hadn't happened so it was not particularly surprising when, approximately 6 hours into her shift, she had collapsed in the middle of admin.

Charlie had been at the trust meeting all day. He hated meetings at the best of the times - it was usually drivel by a group of pen pushers, telling them how well things worked on paper. It always did look better on paper but the reality was always much different, and that’s why Charlie often butted heads with them. If he’d known Duffy was feeling even a tiny bit sick, he’d have encouraged her to take the day off. He didn’t want anything to happen to her or the baby, their baby.

When Duffy finally got her bearings once more she found herself laid on a trolley in one the cubicles. She quickly pieced together what had happened. Shit! She slowly pushed herself up to sitting and shifted her legs to dangle over the side. As she attempted to stand she wobbled slightly, knocking into the equipment beside her. The noise caused the curtain to immediately swish open and Eve's displeased face to appear.

"Where do you think you're going?" She asked.

"I thought you were off today." Duffy replied weakly.

“I was supposed to be but we’re short staffed so I agreed to volunteer for a couple of hours.”

"I'm fine now so you can go home again." Duffy insisted.

Eve raised an eyebrow, clearly not amused. “You’ve just collapsed. I’d hardly say you were fine.”

"I don't want a fuss." She complained. She suddenly heard a familar voice approaching the cubicle. They hadn't called him, had they?

“I suggest you get comfy because I don’t think you’ll be leaving for a while yet.” Eve replied.

Andrew had been informed of Duffy’s collapse as had Charlie. The latter of the two, did have a right to know as he was the Charge Nurse of the department.

As he entered admin Andrew spotted Max. "What happened? She seemed fine earlier."

“Hi Andrew. I’m running some tests but I think it’s probably a mixture of dehydration and exhaustion from the pregnancy.”

Andrew's eyes widened at the news but he said nothing as his mind whirled through the possibilities, none of them good.

Max read Andrew’s expression and came to the horrifying conclusion, that Andrew may not have known anything about the baby. There was an awkward silence as Max tried to think of something to say. Shit!

"I'd like to see my wife now please." Andrew stated through gritted teeth.

“Sure, she’s in cubicles.” Max replied as he took Andrew to Duffy’s cubicle.

They entered the cubicle and Max was about to indicate to Eve that they should give the couple some privacy when they suddenly heard the sound of Charlie's hurried footsteps entering the department.

Charlie had come down from the meeting as soon as he could. “Is she ok?” He looked panicked.

Andrew turned to look at Charlie. The other man looked a little too concerned for his liking...

Charlie saw Andrew and swallowed. “Duffy is ok, isn’t she?” He tried to make out like he was worried because she was his best friend. Nothing more.

"No thanks to you." Andrew muttered darkly.

"I'm fine." Duffy broke in, trying to de-escalate the situation.

“What was that Andrew? I didn’t quite hear you.” Charlie replied. His dislike for Andrew was obvious.

"Charlie..." Duffy warned.

He sighed and shut up. Duffy was the only one who was ever able to calm him down. “This is cosy.” Andrew remarked, “Anything you want to tell me?” He asked, his gaze shifting from Charlie to Duffy.

Sensing things were about to get very out of control, Max interrupted. "I need to run some more tests so this might be a good time to give Duffy some space?"

Charlie glanced at Duffy and then Max before he gave a single nod in reply. “Ok.”

Max watched Eve follow Charlie out the cubicle. As Andrew turned to follow them he spoke. "You're welcome to stay while I carry out the tests."

"I have something I need to deal with first." Andrew snapped back.

"Andrew..!" Duffy pleaded, attempting to stand once more.

“What?” Andrew snapped. Max sighed and told them both, “If you’re going to argue, I suggest you do it somewhere more private and preferably when Duffy’s got her energy back.”

"Oh so you knew all about it as well did you?" Andrew sneered at Max.

“Know about what?” Max asked.

"Don't play dumb."

"Andrew please! Can we discuss this at home later?" She paused, swallowing hard. "I feel really sick right now." She whispered.

“Fine! I’ll see you at home?”

She nodded, fighting the urge to be sick as the room began to spin once more.

Andrew walked out in a foul mood and promptly left. Max handed Duffy a sick bowl.

After being sick twice, Duffy looked up at Max, a sorrowful expression on her face. "I've really screwed up haven't I?" She mumbled.

“It depends on what you define as screwing up.” Max answered with a sad smile. “Do you want me to get Charlie?”

Duffy nodded.

“I won’t be a minute.” He excused himself and went to find Charlie. He found the other man in his office, pacing up and down. This was such a bloody mess!

Max lightly tapped on the door before he opened it. "She wants to see you." He explained simply.

Charlie stopped pacing and looked at Max. He nodded, “Thanks.” He then sighed.

"I'd stay out of Andrew's way if I were you though. I only just about prevented him punching your lights out just now." Max warned.

“I don’t intend on getting in his way.” Charlie replied.

"I only stopped him coz the last thing Duffy needs right now is you two brawling in the middle of the department."

“I know.” He sighed, “Her and the baby don’t need the stress.”

"Maybe you should have thought of that before now." Max suggested.

“Neither of us planned this!”

"Clearly! I would've thought that you'd both know that shitting on your own doorstep is a really stupid thing to do."

He sighed again, “I tried to walk away but I couldn’t.”

"You should never fall in love with your mistress Charlie, that's where you went wrong."

“But what if I fell in love with her, long before she became my mistress?” He asked quietly.

"Then there's no hope for you." Max stated simply.

“Can I see her now?”

"Of course, you know where she is."

“Thank you.” Charlie took a couple of minutes to compose himself before he left his office and headed to the cubicle. He hovered nervously outside for a minute.

Duffy vaguely registered the sound of footsteps on the other side of the curtain but was too busy being sick again to pay them much heed. When was this going to stop? She swore it hadn't been so bad the previous two times.

Hearing her throw up, he opened the curtain and smiled sadly. Closing it behind him, he moved towards the bed. “Silly question but are you ok?”

Duffy rolled her eyes and groaned, her hand rubbing her stomach. She ached from being sick so much plus she suspected she had landed awkwardly when she'd fainted earlier.

He sat on the edge of the bed and placed his hand over her hand that was on her stomach.

"You still think this is attractive?" She muttered sarcastically.

He smiled, “Not when you’re throwing up. But it’ll be worth it in the end.”

"It better be." She sighed. "You should probably go speak to Baz. Gossip travels fast afterall."

“Baz can wait.” He said, “At least until I know you’re both ok.”

"I'm absolutely fine."

“Really?” He asked, his eyebrow raised.

"I will be as soon as you and Max stop fussing and let me go back to work. Its rather busy out there if you hadn't noticed."

“If you think I’m going to let you go back to work after this, you don’t know me as well as you think.” Charlie replied. There was no chance he was letting her go back to work, not in this state!

"Well I'm sure as hell not sitting here all afternoon!"

“Will you please, just do as you’re told for once?” He asked, aspirated.

She harrumphed as she folded her arms across her chest.

He rolled his eyes playfully and kissed her cheek, “I know you don’t like it. But you’ve just collapsed. And you’re pregnant. My priority right now isn’t this department. It’s you. We’ll cope out there. I won’t cope if you make yourself worse.” He explained gently, his hand still on her stomach.

"Can I at least go sit in your office and do some paperwork? That way I'm not taking up a cubicle." She suggested, attempting to negotiate.

He thought about it for a minute and nodded, “As soon as Max has ran his tests then yes. Ok, but only paperwork? Don’t be rooting through my drawers.” He joked.

"Why? What you hiding in there now?" She joked.

“Never you mind, nosey.” He answered, playfully tapped her nose.

She pouted but couldn't help the mischievous glint in her eye.

As he met her eye, noticing the mischievous glint, he couldn’t help but begin to get lost.

"So are you gunna break me out of here then?"

He didn’t answer. He was thinking about the first time he ever got butterflies when he met her gaze. He could remember it like it was yesterday.

Seeing his distraction she decided to seize her opportunity. She slowly edged off the bed.

Sensing her movement, Charlie snapped out of his daydream. “Going somewhere?” He asked.

"Yes." She pushed herself to standing, trying her best to hide the slight wobble as she did so.

“Will you sit down before you fall down? Please!" He begged.

"I'm not going to fall down."

“You didn’t look very steady on your feet, just now.”

"I'll be OK, just need a second to readjust."

“Please, just rest.”

"I have too much to do." She insisted.

“Like?”

"I need to finish my shift, then go pack some belongings before picking the boys up from my mum's..." She paused. "Oh shit! My mum! She's going to go ballistic..."

He sighed sadly, “You also need to rest before you make yourself seriously ill.”

"But the boys! I need to see them before Andrew gets to them."

“Would you like me to ring your mum?”

"And say what?"

Charlie shrugged. “I’m not going to win this one, am I? Not where your boys are concerned.”

"They're going to be so upset and it's all my fault." Her eyes began to fill with tears.

“Hey.” He shook his head and placed his hand on her arm. “You’re not to blame.”

"Yes I am." She pulled her arm away, throwing her balance off once more.

He helped steady her. “You’re not solely to blame.”

"I should have known better. Especially after what Andrew did to me."

“It wasn’t ideal. But there’s many differences between you and Andrew.” Charlie pointed out.

"Maybe but we're both cheats and liars. Perhaps we deserve each other."

“It wasn’t my intention to cheat on Baz.” He replied. “I just happened to fall in love with my mistress.” He paused, “I’ll let you go and get your boys on one condition?”

"Is that all I am? Your mistress?" The hurt was clear on her face.

“Of course not!” He replied.

She attempted to push past him and leave the cubicle.

“Duffy.” He sighed. She was bloody stubborn sometimes!

"Go away!" She spat back.

He sighed. He knew it was pointless to try and stop her. He rubbed the back of his neck as he watched her leave. How was he going to fix this mess?

#chuffy #charlie and duffy #charlie fairhead #lisa duffin

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valdiis · 5 years ago

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You can call me: Val is the most common, short for Valdiis - my usual internet handle; I’ve often thought of renaming this blog to that. Hadders, Hadeon, or any of my character names will also do.

I’d describe myself: as a depressed introvert who desperately seeks to be liked through helping others.

Fictional character(s) I identify with or am fond of: I don’t know that I identify with her exactly, but Jaenelle from The Black Jewels trilogy and Phedre from The Kushiel series. I’m also very fond of Locke from The Lies of Locke Lamora and Gavin from The Lightbringer series (I love to hate Gavin, but I’m very fond of him).

Three random facts about me: I’m a high school drop-out who graduated from one of the top public colleges in the country. My mother was a bouncer at a BDSM club. I’ve worked in professional theatre.

Something little about my appearance that I like: My hair is long enough to sit on and has a nifty streak of teal at the nape.

An outfit that makes me feel powerful: A black t-shirt, dark-wash jeans, and my motorcycle boots, all underneath my black duster coat.

An object that is special to me: The .999 silver phoenix and traveler’s star coin pendant that my husband bought for me on one of our early dates.

A compliment (or two or three) about me that made me feel warm inside: “You’ve been a great help!” “I love your writing!” “That streak in your hair is cool!”

Something I love about myself: I love my creativity and fertile imagination.

Something I love about someone else: I love someone’s big heart and how they care for me no matter what. In a more general sense, I love it when people gush about what they enjoy.

Something I’d buy for someone else: A sampler pack of BPAL perfumes if they like smelly things, character art if I know their characters, or gift cards because money is always cool.

Something I’d love to buy for myself: There are these custom-fit car seat covers for a 2006 Honda Element that are about $140 and I want them soooo bad; my car’s seats have exposed foam and crap as it is.

Three things that make me happy right now: My wrist smells like Odd (@insipid-drivel will get it). I just got my armorer to level 80 in FFXIV. I have a fuzzy bat on my desk that @pocketfox got for me and it’s so soft and pettable and it makes me smile.

Something I’m looking forward to: Having next Friday off from work.

Something I enjoyed recently: A silly romance novel that I bought to read on my phone when I need to not look like I’m reading something at work.

Song(s) stuck in my head recently: Ogod. If we’re talking about whatever earworm I haven’t been able to get rid of, then it’s Truth Hurts by Lizzo (who I’ve loved since I found Good As Hell two years ago). If we’re talking about what’s good that I’ve been jonesing on lately, it’s probably Shrike by Hozier (and that whole album).

I watched this - maybe you’d like it, too: American Gods!

Something adorable I came across recently:

If you wanted to know me better, you should check out these things: My tumblr is pretty much the place to be, even if most of it is either reblogs of events or character writing. I never use my Facebook, Instagram, or Twitter. Discord if you want to actually get personal.

Something I can/will do to take care of myself or make things more positive for me in the coming days: I will do my best to think creatively and daydream more when I’m bored at work instead of thinking negative thoughts about my job.

Tagged by @pocket-panda - not really, just saw it and wanted to do it.

Tagging you if you want to do it.

#ask meme

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unsettlingshortstories · 4 years ago

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The Passer-Through-Walls

Marcel Aymé (1941)

In Montmartre on the fourth floor of number 75½ Rue Orchampt there once lived a fine fellow named Dutilleul who had the remarkable gift of being able to pass through walls with perfect ease. He wore a pince-nez and a small black goatee and he worked as a level three clerk in the Registration Ministry. In winter he would take the bus to work, and come summer he would walk, wearing his bowler hat.

Dutilleul discovered his power shortly after he turned forty-two. One evening, the electricity went out briefly while he was standing in the front hall of his small bachelor apartment. He groped around for a moment in the dark, and when the power came back on, he found himself standing on his fourth floor landing. Since the door to his apartment was locked from the inside, this gave him pause for thought. Despite the objections of his common sense, he decided to return home in the same way he left—by passing through the wall. This strange ability seemed to have no bearing on any of his aspirations, and he could not help feeling rather vexed about it. The following day was Saturday, and since he worked a five-day week, he sought out the local doctor and presented his case to him. The doctor satisfied himself that Dutilleul was telling the truth, and upon examining him he discovered that the problem was caused by a helicoidal hardening of the strangular membrane of the thyroid gland. He prescribed intensive overwork and told him to take two doses a year of tetravalent pirette powder containing a mixture of rice flour and centaur hormone.

Dutilleul took one dose, then put the medicine in the back of a drawer and forgot about it. As for intensive overwork, his activity as a civil servant followed fixed practices which did not lend themselves to any excess. He spent his free time reading the newspaper and working on his stamp collection; these activities did not require him to expend an unreasonable amount of energy either. After a year then, he still retained the ability to pass through walls, but he never used it intentionally; he had little interest in adventures and he stubbornly resisted the impulses of his imagination. The idea never even occurred to him to enter his apartment any other way than by the door, and that after having duly opened it using the lock.

He might have lived out his life in his peaceable habits and never been tempted to put his gifts to the test if an extraordinary event had not suddenly disrupted his existence. Monsieur Mouron, the associate office director, left to take another position and was replaced by one Monsieur Lécuyer, who spoke in short, clipped sentences and wore a toothbrush mustache. From the very first day, the new associate office director was highly displeased to see that Dutilleul wore a pince-nez on a chain and a black goatee, and he made a great show of treating him as an obsolete nuisance or a slightly grubby antique.

Far more serious however, was his plan to introduce far-reaching reforms in the office; they seemed specially designed to disturb the peace of his subordinate. For twenty years, Dutilleul had begun all his letters with the following phrase: “In reference to your esteemed correspondence of the 12th of the present month, and furthermore in reference to our previous exchange of letters, I have the honor of writing to inform you that...” Monsieur Lécuyer replaced this with a turn of phrase that had a more American ring to it: “In response to your letter of the 12th, I inform you that...” Dutilleul could not adapt to these epistolary fashions. He couldn’t help himself; he reverted to the traditional formula with a mechanical obstinacy that earned him the growing enmity of the associate director. He began to find the atmosphere at the Ministry of Registration oppressive. He felt apprehensive on his way to work in the morning, and at night in his bed he often lay awake turning things over in his mind for a full fifteen minutes before he could fall asleep.

Monsieur Lécuyer was disgusted by this willful backwardness which was threatening the success of his reforms, so he had Dutilleul’s desk moved to a small dim closet next to his office. It was only accessible by a low narrow door which opened onto the corridor and still bore the inscription “RUBBISH” in capital letters. Dutilleul accepted this unprecedented humiliation with resignation, but at home, whenever he would read in the newspaper about some gory incident, he found himself daydreaming, imagining Monsieur Lécuyer as the victim.

One day, the associate director burst into his closet brandishing a letter and bellowing, “Rewrite this stinking letter! You will rewrite this appalling piece of drivel which is dishonoring my department!”

Dutilleul tried to protest, but Monsieur Lécuyer, in a thunderous voice, called him a hidebound cockroach and as he left, he took the letter he had in his hand, crumpled it up into a ball, and threw it in his face. Dutilleul was modest but proud. He sat alone in his closet, steaming, when suddenly he had an inspiration. He rose from his chair and entered the wall which separated his office from that of the associate director. He was careful to move only partway through the wall, so that just his head emerged on the other side. Monsieur Lécuyer was seated at his work table, his ever-twitching pen shifting a comma in the text an employee had submitted to him for approval. Hearing a quiet cough in his office, he looked up, and discovered to his unspeakable alarm the head (just the head) of Dutilleul stuck to the wall like a hunting trophy. What’s more, the head was alive. It looked over its pince-nez glasses at him with deepest hatred. And then it began to speak.

“Monsieur,” it said, “you are a hoodlum, a boor, and a spoiled brat.”

Gaping with horror, Monsieur Lécuyer couldn’t take his eyes off this apparition. At last, tearing himself out of his chair, he leapt into the corridor and raced to the closet. Dutilleul sat in his usual place, pen in hand, looking perfectly peaceful and industrious. The associate director stared at him for a long moment, mumbled a few words, and went back to his office. No sooner had he sat down then the head reappeared on the wall.

“Monsieur, you are a hoodlum, a boor, and a spoiled brat.”

In the course of a single day, the dreaded head reappeared on the wall twenty-three times, and it kept up the same pace over the following days. Dutilleul became rather good at this game, and he no longer contented himself with shouting abuse at the associate director. He uttered veiled threats; for example, he would cackle demoniacally and wail in a sepulchral voice:

“The Lone Wolf’s on the prowl! Beware! (laughter) No one’s safe—he’s everywhere! (laughter)”

Whenever he heard this, the poor associate director grew a little paler and made a choking noise; his hair stood straight up on his head and the cold sweat of terror trickled down his back. He lost a pound that first day.

As the week wore on, you could practically see him melting away. He took to eating his soup with a fork and greeting policemen with a smart military salute.

At the beginning of the second week, an ambulance came to his residence and took him away to a sanitarium.

Now that Dutilleul was free of Monsieur Lécuyer’s tyranny, he could return to his cherished phrases: “In reference to your esteemed correspondence of the 27th of the present month...” And yet, he was unsatisfied somehow. There was an unmet demand inside him, a new, urgent need, which was none other than the need to walk through walls.

He could certainly indulge this need easily, at home for example, and he didn’t waste the opportunity. But a man possessed of brilliant gifts cannot satisfy himself for long by exercising them on a mediocre subject. Walking through walls cannot really serve as an end in itself. Rather, it is the first step in an adventure, which calls for continuation, development, and, in short, a payoff. Dutilleul understood this fully. He felt within him a need for expansion, a growing desire to fulfill and surpass himself, and a certain bittersweet pull which was something like the call of the other side of the wall. Unfortunately, what he lacked was a goal. He sought inspiration by reading the newspaper. He paid special attention to the sports and politics sections, as these seemed to be honorable activities, but in the end, he realized that they really didn’t offer any opportunities for people who could walk through walls. That’s when he settled on the police blotter, which turned out to be most suggestive.

Dutilleul’s first burglary took place in an important financial institution on the Right Bank. He passed through a dozen walls and partitions and let himself into various vaults, where he filled his pockets with banknotes. As he left, he signed his work in red chalk, using the alias “The Lone Wolf”, underlined with a distinctive flourish which made it onto the front page of all the newspapers the following morning. Within a week, the name The Lone Wolf had gained extraordinary celebrity. Public sympathy was unreservedly behind this prestigious burglar who so thoroughly flouted the police.

Every night he distinguished himself with some new exploit; sometimes his target was a bank, other times a jewelry store or some wealthy individual. From Paris to the provinces, there wasn’t a woman who, in her daydreams, didn’t nourish a fervent desire to belong to the fearsome Lone Wolf, body and soul. After the theft of the famous Burdigala Diamond and the break-in at the Crédit Municipal the same week, this enthusiasm reached a fever pitch. The Interior Minister was forced to resign, and he brought the Minister of Registration down with him. Nonetheless, Dutilleul, now one of the richest men in Paris, remained perfectly punctual at work; there was talk of awarding him the national medal for service to education. Every morning at the Ministry of Registration, he took great pleasure listening to his colleagues discuss his exploits of the night before. “That Lone Wolf,” they would say, “a great man, Superman, a genius!” Dutilleul blushed with embarrassment to hear such praise, and he beamed with friendship and gratitude from behind his pince-nez on its chain.

One day this sympathetic atmosphere boosted his confidence so much that he thought he would not be able to keep his secret any longer. As his colleagues stood together around a newspaper reading about the burglary at the Bank of France, he studied them shyly, then announced in a modest voice, “As it so happens, I’m the Lone Wolf.” Dutilleul’s confession was greeted with loud and long laughter, and it earned him the derisive nickname “The Lone Wolf”. At night when it was time to leave work, he was the butt of endless jokes from his colleagues, and life lost some of its luster for him.

A few days later, the Lone Wolf got picked up by the night patrol in a jewelry shop on Rue de la Paix. He had affixed his signature to the sales counter and was singing a drinking song while smashing various display windows using a solid gold antique goblet. It would have been easy for him to slip into a wall and escape the night patrol, but in all likelihood he wanted to be arrested, probably with the sole intent of getting even with his colleagues; their disbelief was mortifying.

Indeed, his colleagues were most surprised the next day when the newspapers published Dutilleul’s photograph on the front page. They bitterly regretted underestimating their brilliant comrade and they all saluted him by growing little goatees. A few of them were so carried away with remorse and admiration that they tried to get their hands on the wallets or heirloom watches of their friends and acquaintances.

Now you may well think that letting himself get picked up by the police to astonish a few colleagues shows a great recklessness unworthy of such an exceptional man. But although this act appears willful, his volition had very little to do with the decision. Dutilleul believed that by giving up his freedom, he was giving in to a prideful desire for revenge. In reality, though, he was simply sliding down the slope of his destiny. When a man is able to walk through walls, one can’t really speak of a career until he’s tried prison at least once.

When Dutilleul was taken inside the La Santé prison, he felt as though fate had smiled upon him. The thickness of the walls was a veritable treat for him. The very first morning after he was imprisoned, the astonished guards discovered that the prisoner had driven a nail into his cell wall, and from it he had hung a gold pocket watch belonging to the prison warden. He could not or would not reveal how this object had come into his possession. The watch was restored to its rightful owner, but the next day it was found again on the Lone Wolf’s nightstand, along with the first volume of The Three Musketeers which he had borrowed from the warden’s private library. The prison personnel were under great pressure. Moreover, the guards complained of receiving mysterious kicks in the behind which seemed to come from nowhere; it seemed that the walls didn’t just have ears anymore, but feet as well. The Lone Wolf had been in jail for one week when the warden found the following letter on his desk upon entering his office in the morning.

“Dear Monsieur the Warden,

In reference to our exchange of the 17th of the present month, and furthermore in reference to your general instructions of May the15th preceding, I have the honor of informing you that I have just completed reading the second volume of The Three Musketeers and that I expect to escape tonight between 11:25 and 11:35 p.m.

Most respectfully yours, The Lone Wolf.”

Despite being under close surveillance that night, Dutilleul escaped at 11:30. When the news hit the streets the following morning, it was greeted everywhere with great enthusiasm. Nonetheless, once Dutilleul had carried out a fresh burglary which raised his popularity to new heights, he didn’t seem very concerned about hiding, and he roamed freely through Montmartre taking no precautions at all. Three days after his escape he was arrested in Rue Caulaincourt at the Café du Rêve a little before noon, as he was enjoying a glass of white wine and lemon with friends.

Dutilleul was taken back to the La Santé Prison and triple locked in a dingy solitary cell; he escaped from it that same evening and spent the night at the warden’s apartment, in the guest room. The following morning around nine o’clock, he rang for the maid to bring him his breakfast. The guards were summoned, and they seized him where he sat in bed, putting up no resistance. The warden was outraged; he posted a guard at the door of Dutilleul’s cell and placed him on bread and water. Around noon, the prisoner went off to have lunch at a restaurant near the prison, and when he finished his coffee, he phoned the warden.

“Hello! Monsieur the Warden, I hate to bother you, but just now when I went out, I neglected to bring along your wallet, and now here I am at the restaurant and I’ve come up short. Would you be so good as to send someone along to settle the bill?”

The warden showed up in person immediately and lost his temper, shouting threats and insults at Dutilleul. Dutilleul’s pride was wounded; he escaped the following night, never to return.

This time he took a few precautions. He shaved off his black goatee and traded his pince-nez on its chain for a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. A billed cap and a checked suit with golf trousers completed his transformation. He settled into a small apartment in Avenue Junot; he had moved some of his furniture there along with his most prized possessions long before his first arrest.

He began to grow tired of his newfound fame, and ever since his stay at La Santé Prison, he had become rather blasé about the pleasure of walking through walls. Even the thickest and most imposing walls now seemed to him nothing more than simple folding screens, and he dreamed of plunging into the heart of some massive pyramid. So while he developed his plan for a trip to Egypt, he was leading the most peaceable of lives, dividing his time between his stamp collection, the movies, and long walks through Montmartre. Clean-shaven now, and wearing his horn-rimmed glasses, his metamorphosis was so complete that he could pass by his best friends without being recognized. Only the painter Gen Paul, who would never fail to notice any sudden change in the countenance of a longtime neighbor, finally unraveled his true identity. One morning he found himself nose to nose with Dutilleul on the corner of the Rue de l’Abreuvoir, and he blurted out in his rough slang:

“Hey daddy-o, I dig the new drape and sky piece! You’re togged to the bricks! With threads like that you must be stachin’ so you don’t get tapped by the fuzz.” Which means, more or less, “I see that you have adopted an elegant disguise so as to escape the attention of the police detectives.”

“Ah,” murmured Dutilleul, “you’ve recognized me!” This made him uneasy and he decided to move up his departure for Egypt. On the very same afternoon he fell in love with a blonde beauty whom he met in Rue Lepic twice in the space of fifteen minutes. He immediately forgot about his stamp collection and Egypt and the pyramids. As for the blonde, she looked at him with great interest. Nothing captures the imagination of young women today like a pair of golf pants and horn-rimmed glasses. That movie producer look sets them dreaming about cocktail parties and Hollywood nights.

Unfortunately, Dutilleul learned from Gen Paul that this beauty was married to a violently jealous man; moreover, he led a rough-and-tumble existence on the streets of Paris and spent his nights on the town. Every night he would abandon his wife from ten at night to four in the morning, but before he would leave, he always made sure to double-lock her in her room and padlock the shutters. During the day he kept a close eye on her; sometimes he would even follow her through the streets of Montmartre.

“Hey, I see you’re still chasin’ that skirt. Take it slow, daddy-o. That chick is fine dinner, but her main on the hitch gets evil if he focuses some cat tryin’ to score his barbecue.”

But Gen Paul’s warning only inflamed Dutilleul’s passion further. The next day he saw the young woman in Rue Tholozé. He boldly followed her into a dairy, and while she was waiting in line, he told her that he loved her respectfully and that he knew about everything—the cruel husband, the locked door and the shutters—but that he would be in her bedroom that very night. The blonde blushed; the milk bottle trembled in her hand and her eyes grew moist with tenderness. She gave a muffled sigh. “Alas Monsieur, that is impossible.”

The evening of that glorious day around ten o’clock found Dutilleul standing like a sentry in Rue Norvins, watching an imposing garden wall; he could only see the weather vane and the chimney of the small house which sat behind it. A door in the wall opened, and a man stepped out. He carefully locked the door behind him and walked off towards Avenue Junot. Dutilleul waited until he was out of sight, until he was all the way down at the bend in the street at the foot of the hill, and then he counted to ten. Then he rushed forward and strode like an athlete into the wall, running straight through the obstacles until he penetrated the bedroom of the lovely recluse. She greeted him ecstatically and they made love late into the night.

Unfortunately, the next day Dutilleul had a terrible headache. He was certainly not going to let something so trivial make him miss his rendezvous. Nonetheless, since he discovered some tablets scattered at the bottom of a drawer, he took one in the morning and one in the afternoon. By evening his headache was tolerable, and in his intense excitement he forgot about it altogether. The young woman was waiting for him, full of impatience aroused by her memories of the previous night; that night they made love until three o’clock in the morning. When he left, Dutilleul passed through the walls of the house and felt an unusual rubbing sensation against his hips and shoulders.

He didn’t think it merited much attention though. In fact, it was only when he entered the garden wall that he felt a definite resistance. He felt as though he were moving through some gel-like substance that was still fluid but was growing thicker; it became firmer the more he struggled. Once he was entirely embedded in the thickness of the wall he realized that he was no longer moving forward. Terrified, he remembered the two tablets that he taken that day. He had thought they were aspirin tablets, but in fact they contained the tetravalent pirette powder that the doctor had prescribed the year before. The effect of the medication combined with intensive exertion produced quite a sudden reaction.

Dutilleul was immobilized inside the wall. He is there to this very day, imprisoned in the stone. When people go walking down the Rue Norvins late at night after the bustle of Paris has died down, they hear a muffled voice which seems to come from beyond the grave; they think it’s the sound of the wind whistling through the streets of Montmartre. It’s Lone Wolf Dutilleul lamenting the end of his glorious career and mourning his all too brief love affair. Sometimes on winter nights the painter Gen Paul takes down his guitar and heads down to the lonely, echoing Rue Norvins to console the poor prisoner with a song. Its notes take flight from his numb fingers and penetrate to the heart of the stone like drops of moonlight.

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joeys-pp · 4 years ago

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This was my first real attempt at a poem, although I didn’t know what it would become at the time. The story behind this one and how I got into poems in the first place is kind of a funny one. I originally wrote this after being frustrated with a school project. The date that my google doc says I wrote this project is January 10th, 2019 which would place me in my junior year in high school. As the message in the poem suggests, I remember being frustrated with the strict guidelines set in place for a project and in my frustration I cranked this poem out in a couple of minutes. In high school, I remember having several options to complete projects whether it be through a power point or a video presentation, or an essay but the one that always appealed to me most was the poem. I feel like if you are ever given the opportunity to write a poem for a project and you want to minimize the amount of time spent on a project just go with the poem. To be able to write four stanzas on a topic in under 15 minutes and to just call it ‘free verse’ was very appealing to me. I remember for this specific project I was very frustrated with the strict guidelines it had for what I could and could not do. I wasn’t familiar with the sentiment but I guess deep inside of me I wanted to be able to complete the project my way- in a better way than the parameters allowed me to do, but since I didn’t want to sacrifice my grade I had to churn out another soulless poem. I guess I was sick of the soulless and pointless written that had followed me throughout my school experience and I wanted to write something with complete freedom that really reflected how I felt. I never wanted to write poems due to the societal portrayal of the edgy high school poet who wasn’t very good at it but still did it just to feel special or come off as deep or whatever. In the moment I wrote this my mind wasn’t really set on the idea of poetry itself it was more conveying my feelings in a new way. The idea of adding rules to writing doesn’t mean that it has to take away from the message that you are trying to express, sometimes it strengthens your message by getting straight to the point. So much of human communication is unspoken or unheard and the thoughts and connotations that are expressed in between the lines and stanzas are just as apparent as the ones that come straight off of the page. The saying little goes a long way is definitely appropriate for poetry and that is what really appealed to me about this peace because in my mind at least it definitely captured the emotions I had towards this subject perfectly and i think that is what drove me to try writing just for fun again and again and again.

Let’s get on to the analysis or explanation of the poem itself. The title; ‘Instruction, instruction!’ is meant to paint the picture of a teacher who is fed up with her class trying to call the class into order but inevitably losing their youthful minds in the process. The way I worded the title is meant to echo the common phrase that teachers use to try and call their class to order; “Class, class!” Something that I have noticed about the school system is that they believe the teaching and retention of a student is the end rather than the means towards their introduction of how this world works. Teachers make the crucial mistake of holding the proper completion of lessons as gospel instead of the progress of the individual student. I think the idea of forcing a kid to learn pointless lessons that are so insignificant in their academic journey is so detrimental to their growth as little humans and this evil in the growth of the student is only amplified when they are put on prescription meth because they have more energy than their already soulless peers. I am not going to get into the argument of letting boys be boys but at the very least don’t pump them full of artificial hormones when they are in the third grade. I don’t think the adults that handle a child’s education or even development (Teachers, Administrative staff, Developmental Psychologists) are competent because I remember as a kid feeling like I had better answers to the problems that my colleagues faced. to sum up this little rabbit trail I think the idiom “ Those who can, do; those who can't, teach.” is pretty appropriate. The first stanza is meant to echo a young me, a student who is confused as to why there is so much structure in the academic system when he wants to explore all of these ideas that are in his mind. He really needs help to explore the relevant topics that are in his mind because he is unsure how to navigate it all or even where to start. Instead of the teacher helping a student in the dark he instead feels that he is propelled deeper into the unknown slowly losing his interest in pursuing anything academic and losing his motivation to even go to school. The next stanza talks about how the approach that the school system takes is a type of ‘One size fits all” system. Instead, the “Path of many options” I feel is a learning system that is much more adapted to the many different types of ways children learn and places an emphasis on personal growth rather than high marks among arbitrary and inconsistent grading criteria. So the second stanza leads directly into the third stanza the second stanza declares something (we don’t know what) and the third stanza sort of clarifies what the second stance was hinting at. What was the second stanza hinting at? Well, “the very soul of essence be.” What is the soul of essence? I guess that is a child's curiosity or the spirit of wanting to learn more about the nature of the things around us- wanting to make it work and finding our place into the society we are thrust in. This is a terrifying concept that we are thrust into this great unknown it strikes every human being straight to their heart of hearts or core whether they realize it or not. The narrator suggests that the best way to go about unlocking the secrets of the universe is to maintain intellectual honesty. So, much of schooling is propaganda, much of it is run on the agenda of the state in order to make perfectly complacent sheep that aren’t capable of fighting the system or the status quo. Why would the system that maintains that status quo give you the tools needed to overthrow it? I think this is why some of the most vacuous or shallow people you could meet have some of the highest gpa’s you’ve seen. In the fourth stanza I show how I wish to be scrutinized by good teachers and in that scrutiny I would actually able to achieve a better understanding of the world around me even though it would take a lot out of me. The fifth stanza is a callback to reality snapping out of the daydream during a teachers lecture if you will, to all the same drivel of a lot of pointless instruction from an inherently corrupted system.

#prose #poetry #school #corruption #school system

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beautifulramblingbrains · 7 years ago

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Crush - Chapter 1. Daydreaming.

Pairing: Eric/OC *Abbey* Fandom: Divergent Rating: M

A memory from Eric's past plays tricks on him. And it's all about the girl, Abbey Ainsworth.

A/N: So, as I’m in a state of limbo, I’ve taken it upon myself to slowly edit my way through my old work. This is my first fanfiction I ever did and I think it’s about time I began uploading it on here.

Abbey Ainsworth.

Fuck. He hadn't thought of that name in over three years. If it wasn't for the number boy he probably wouldn't have thought of it for another ten.

But today is different. Today he has the time to sit in remembrance. He has time to reminisce about what was - even if the memories give him a heated inner core and a bad case of the Monday's.

Stretching his legs leisurely under the table and sitting further back in his recliner chair, he has no further duties that require his personal attention for a good hour. He was enclosed and cocooned by the safety of his dimly-lit office with the blinds half-mast. He was safe here to empty the trashy thoughts that seemed to have crept up on him out of the hazy mist of his youthful brain.

Abbey Ainsworth.

Eric lazily flops his arm down to the drawer on the side of the desk, pulling the secret cigarettes that he always kept there. In fact, they weren't really a secret, he would smoke if he wanted and wouldn't care for who's say so. But he liked to think for his health that it was his dirty little secret, and right now, there didn't seem any better time than to pull one, bite the filter and light the damn thing. It was a need, a must, and he's already blazing it habitually as the name seems to simper back into his brain again.

Abbey Ainsworth.

He couldn't really remember when they became friends back at Erudite. It just, sort of, happened…

She used to be in his class. Brown bob, skinny, and her teeth too big for her head. They hadn't even spoken in between the years, he didn't even really know she existed and treated her to that same effect.

Eric regarded her as any other little annoying girl and that boys didn't hang around with girls, they were disgusting, vile, whiners.

That's until they got put together randomly in biology.

He'd just turned thirteen and honestly, couldn't think of anything worse than having to discuss with her the ecology and evolution of life through frog dissection. Having a girl as his lab partner… he all but groaned as he imagined her freaking out or possibly hurling like Sandy Morrison. But she didn't.

In fact, she'd taken the knife out of his gloved hands, smiled up at him through her vented safety goggles and sliced the stomach open before the teacher even gave them the go-ahead.

It was in that moment, the little annoying girl with the brown bob and teeth too big for her head, professionally and enthrallingly slicing and pulling apart the frog's skin like she was a complete psychopath - It was in that moment he knew they would be the best of friends.

It only seemed to get better as the year passed.

She helped him cheat in his Math's test at fourteen. They had devised a unique tap of the foot in the silenced room, to which she swirled numbers on her back with a finger once he'd alerted her to his entrapment, sometimes throwing a coy smile over her shoulder when authority wasn't looking. Afterward, they ditched all further lessons and took to the biggest oak tree they could find.

It was her idea.

She climbed first, swinging her bright blue bag over her shoulder and tying her woolen knitted jumper to her waist, calling him "Chicken shit," when he didn't attempt to climb in the first instance. But to be fair, he was just trying not to look up her dress as she uncaringly climbed from branch to branch.

There, they sat for hours until their asses felt raw, talking nothing but utter nonsense and mocking over the nerdy freaks in their class. Soon, it seemed to become a regular thing, so much so, that one day they both carved their names at the top - No hearts or any other drivel, just their names. But she drew a smiley face…

At one point when they were fifteen Abbey never turned up for school one day. It wasn't like her, she always turned up and he couldn't understand why.

It wasn't like he could message her - he got his phone confiscated by his parents when it got reported they had prank-called Desmond Drip too many times in one night.

But in the one day, he'd never felt so lost. Not even his other friends shared the same sense of indulgent humor as they did, and it was a plain fact he'd clock watched the entire day until he could go looking for her.

He'd found her, eventually. She was at home, and she'd answered the door barely able to look at him.

"What happened to your face?" he asked, and she diverted her eyes to the floor. There was one specific eye blackened and shining as a massive indicator of injustice, and the mere thought and sight made his blood boil to an inhuman temperature.

He knew by the way she was looking indirectly to the floor, that nothing was alright in the life of Abbey Ainsworth. He knew this look, it was a look he did himself, one of loss of pride, but also something she'd been trying to hide.

"Sarah Mackey." The words fall from her quivered but rosy lips.

"Why?" He watches as her eyes well up, but she won't cry, won't allow herself to, not in front of him.

"Because she says I'm a whore for hanging around with boys."

He'd left her that evening having found the new knowledge of deep personal interest. He'd found Sarah Mackey's older brother by the bench of the south entrance the next morning and, quite frankly, beat the living shit out of him.

"That's for Abbey!" he let bellow from the pit of his stomach once he'd dropped him. But it also earned him a matching black eye amid the chaos - that he wasn't too pleased with. It didn't matter though, as when he went to see Abbey later on that day, they matched…

Her smile beamed from ear to ear and strangely she threw her arms around his neck for thanks. It was their first ever hug… but it wasn't their last.

At sixteen, Abbey's hair was long. She'd filled out perfectly and she sported breasts, whereas he sported half-decent facial hair for once. But they still acted as if they were thirteen, name-calling, jinxing, free-hits.

They had their aptitude tests at the beginning of the year, and Eric was unsurprised to find that he wasn't Erudite after swiping the knife in the fear simulation and easily obliterating the dog. They weren't allowed to say what they got, but it didn't mean he hadn't the insatiable urge to ask Abbey. They settled for: "Not Erudite" instead, and that's the way it stayed.

Eric's father passed halfway through that year from a sudden heart attack.

The news was delivered to him after being escorted from their English class by their main professor and he was sent home accordingly. She turned up later that night, she didn't say anything, didn't have to. He saw she was already aware of the news. Instead of offering her condolences, Abbey pulled him into her arms, his face in her peppermint hair, her nose against his neck. He couldn't figure out how long they stood like that, but it was a long time. But it was enough, being with her at that moment was enough…

Then one day everything changed.

Abbey found him after class and jingled a cigarette in his face, well, what he thought was a cigarette. It was not until they were back at their tree within the ruined cities wilderness that he actually found out it was a joint.

They smoked that shit till their lungs burned and eyes bled.

They practiced blowbacks and he'd burnt his lip. She tried to teach him to blow rings but he Just. Simply. Couldn't. However, that didn't matter, they laughed highly for what seemed like hours at practically nothing. And it was the best time of his life.

Laying softly on the small pit of earth beneath the tree, watching the branches sway in the light breeze as the moon decided to make an appearance. He remembers it being a full moon, the dewy blue haze settling upon them softly and deliciously cool - that eventually he felt cold fingers slide over the back of his hand, placing themselves entwined with his.

The breath practically hitched in his throat and he'd froze, but it didn't stop him from turning his head and noticing the way she was looking at him. When their eyes met she'd smiled softly and chastely said:

"You're my moon."

Before slowly turning her gaze back up towards the tree and the sky and whatever else she was looking at. However, he didn't, he allowed him a few extra minutes to take in her never-noticed-before features. The gradual slope of her nose, the puckered lips, her long lazily blinking eyelashes as she was pooled by a pillow of her own chestnut hair framed around her head. It was in that moment, he realized how beautiful she was and wondered why he'd never seen it before.

They held hands in silence until midnight.

Eric's life came to a blazing, sharp, gut-wrenching, panicky ball of nerves when Abbey's parents invited him to dinner. He'd spent the whole day of the Friday panicking. He'd gone home and changed between four shades of blue before finalizing on something parent-worthy but utterly, boringly, blue... But what got to him the most was how he couldn't really figure out why this bothered him so much…

Of course, he'd met her parents, but briefly. And usually, it was because they were in trouble or he was coming to see if she was home. It was never formal, however.

All night he put on his best behavior and told them stories about himself, how he was doing in his classes, things he liked and didn't like. But in his side-view, Abbey just smiled at him from across the table as he spoke. He would almost say it was as if they were the only people in the room and his gray eyes would hold hers for moments far too long.

Till she slid her foot up his leg…

And continued to do so through dessert, earning him a temporary cough and marks in between his fingers from his own nails.

At seventeen, they had one year left to the choosing ceremony. And this seemed to pain Eric more than he would like.

He hadn't told her about which faction he was planning on joining after Erudite. He was far too broad and significantly provoked in the Erudite navy uniform with his great height and strong jawline. He wasn't in the slightest muscular, just athletic, but better built than the average men he'd seen milling around. But it wasn't just that…

Eric wanted more. He wanted freedom. He wanted power. He wanted to be Dauntless… But all those things he wanted with Abbey. However, the unknown faction of her choice was simpering on the fine edge of earth shattering heartache.

However, he could never find the right words to tell Abbey appropriately, even when every inch of him screamed him to out it. And when he felt that perhaps he had stumbled upon them and was about to let them slip, she turns and smiles at him, holds his hand, plays with his hair. It's like she knew what he was thinking.

At break, with his head in her lap and under the familiar oak tree. She lazily picks the petals from a flower. Nipping the petals softly, letting them flutter past his head, while he stares between her face and the puny white monstrosities of flower spawn. Then unexpectedly, she meets his eye.

"I want to show you something…" Abbey's cheeks ignite, and a million things run through his head. Had he missed something? Nothing usually gets by him.

She pushes him to sit and he drawls "Okkkay," unsurely.

Abbey blushes as she looks to the floor again and Eric hides his embarrassment for her.

She shrugs off her cardigan and slowly, her dainty fingers work at the buttons of her white shirt, painstakingly leisurely. All he can seem to do is stare with his Adam's apple bobbing repeatedly as he tries to swallow the saliva that's decided to form quicker.

She throws off her shirt and sits in a white lacy bra in front of him with her milky skin exposed. He tries his hardest to keep her gaze but he can't help the momentary acts of defiance his eyes seem to make.

"Wh-" Eric tries to talk with his jaw slack, but she hushes him quickly.

"Shh." She shuffles closer on her knees. "Don't ruin it." Slowly, she moves forwards, her eyes searching each of his and he stares back with the same passionate glint that he sees beginning to form in hers.

She kisses him.

His first kiss.

Her lips were hot and lusciously soft against his own, and he let his eyes close along with hers.

She bites at his bottom lip while pulling away slowly. He was surprised at first, but smiles when she tilts her head back to roam over his face briefly, maybe checking if he was possibly still breathing.

"Chicken shit," she says. "You're supposed to kiss me first."

"You're not exactly conventional." And she kisses his smile. This time he opens his mouth a little and she responds instantly, sliding her sweet tongue to search out his, hands sliding round to the back of his head and through his hair. He grips at her waist and pulls her forward, sliding a hand up her back and finding the lacy material of her bra, mentally trying to figure out just exactly how he's found himself in this scenario and whether he's the most luckiest son of a bitch on this planet.

"Take it off," she practically purrs, moving back a little to catch his reaction.

"What if someone sees us?"

"What if…" She shrugs. And like a classical school-boy, he fumbles for about five minutes trying to figure out the stupid clasp and can't fathom why it won't naturally move the way he wants it to. She merely giggles, and with a special superhuman ability – unclasps it with one hand.

Eric doesn't want to look out of courtesy but just can't help it. Perfectly pert, untouched skin sits before him, the nipple hardened and tempestuously pink.

"I want you to touch me, Eric." And he didn't need telling twice. The soft skin sits pleasantly against his palm as he lightly squeezes. Abbey leans in and kisses him again, pushing him further and further backward until he's almost lying flat and she hovers over him.

That day she tells him.

"I think – I think I love you…"

But he doesn't say it back, and she doesn't appear to be disheartened. She knows him too well to be put off by his uniquely restrictive mind. To be honest, he didn't even really know what love was, so how could he say it? Was this love?

Abbey had always been more openly emotional in front of him to some extent, she was a blunt girl when it came to him. Apart from physically showing emotional attachment, they'd never really talked about it…

But not only that, she didn't know that he was planning on choosing Dauntless next year. That's where his mind took him and it would be unfair to whisper the sweet nothings to her if he had no plan on staying.

Being with Abbey here was ultimately pleasing too, but he was so sure she would pick Dauntless. She had all the strengths and cunning, and if he was going, she would be going too. He could feel it, he knew it, no doubts.

Things became serious the day before the choosing ceremony.

Abbey shows up at his parent's place and is shown to his room by his mom throwing the door open unexpectedly. "Thank you, Mrs Coulter," Abbey says sweetly and smiles while stepping into his room.

Eric throws the book he was reading to one side and takes a minute to take in her appearance. She's sodden, walked there in the rain.

"I wanted to see you… before tomorrow, in case…" She shivers.

He signals for her to sit on the bed and throws her his towel. Her damp, flattened locks lay limp by her face. She looks pale, almost frightened.

"Don't, we shouldn't say…"

"That's not the only reason why I'm here. Lock the door," she talks very seriously and he complies - with a little sense of hesitation. She holds her hand out as the lock clicks and sighing lightly under the unknown, he walks over and holds it. "Lie down with me." Her eyes appear watery, hazy and he wonders what exactly is going through her mind right now. He moves, but she stops him. "Without your clothes."

"Are you sure?" He wasn't going to detest.

"I've never been so sure."

He would like to say that it was the most perfect sex anyone could have for their first time, but he would be lying. They were a giggling set of fools, clumsily roaming parts of their bodies that he'd never thought he would have the delight of seeing… or feeling. He'd made her squirm uncomfortably on their first try and he pulled out apologizing only to be dragged back with Abbey's natural stubbornness.

What was more thrilling was the fact that they could've been caught. However, they were lucky on this night, his mother had left them to their own devices. He did think that perhaps she maybe knew why Abbey was here and that was the reason she had let them be. Eric guessed he would never know and for in that moment – didn't care either…

Abbey gets called to choose before him, throwing him a long look before fixing a sturdy gaze towards the bowls of factions.

Eric can't help the nervous shifts and racing heart as he waits somewhat patiently, his mother's hand lightly laying on his knee for small comfort.

"She's a smart girl," his mother tells him. "And I know how close you two are but you have to do what's right for you, not for others…" At the time he didn't think too much of it, but his mother had openly predicted their fate.

…Abbey chooses Amity.

Every inch of skin on him is ablaze as he watches her make her way to sickening pink and yellow. looney nut-jobs. She looks utterly lost and tries to look back for him but is pulled into one of the open seats with the Amity faction. Abbey smiles to other members, but it's not her usual, he should know, he knew her better than anyone else. However, he didn't expect this, never knew which way her heart was taking her.

If he'd thought about it hard enough, the signs were there: Their oak tree, the outdoors and love of flowers, hate of violence with Sarah Mackey, the relaxing smoke they took together under the moonlight and hugging him obsessively for the last three years.

He'd always classed it is a warped sense of Dauntless, never Amity.

His blood burned with a sense of betrayal. It felt like she had lied all this time, but he knew she hadn't and that he couldn't truly be mad of her choice in all respect. The anger was more at himself for feeling how he did towards her, and for the main element – he'd have to let her go.

The last time they saw each other, he shared an expressionless look towards her watery eyes as they parted ways on their journey to their new factions.

Dauntless was his new home.

Sighing as he pulls himself from his lost thoughts, he once again curses Four for his untimely reminder of Abbey Ainsworth and wiggles the mouse of the computer to check the time.

11.50AM

Eric clicks his tongue on the roof of his mouth in annoyed anticipation that he would have to deal with this onslaught of deliverance. Amity would be arriving soon. Their trucks dirtied and thick tiered tires crunching the broken concrete of Dauntless instead of their plush fields, laden with the hippies of Amity and batches of produce for the glutinous warrior faction.

Just fucking dandy.

Every vertebra clicks as he stands, his room washed with the smell of a chain-smoker and an awful temper for inconveniences. He doesn't bother to pick up his phone, but he attaches his gun to his right thigh and an A4 page of the checklist he will no doubt develop a headache over.

The walk from his office to the warehouses isn't long, and he's never bothered by anyone. No one now would dare talk to him when he was in this mood, nor even make eye contact, and that was the way he liked it these days, a far cry to how he was in Erudite.

He supposed the behavior was always there in a way. He spat at the youngsters and she would laugh. He would fetch the ball from the moat and she would stay by the shore and dry. He would physically beat anyone that touched his Abbey and was always rewarded by her smile.

Eric shakes his head vigorously; he's not going back down that road again. That was a hell of enough for one day.

"So glad you could join us, Eric." Max stares out to the trucks rolling up in front of them. "I had a feeling you might not even turn up."

"Is that a sense of sarcasm I'm hearing?" Eric places his hands behind his back and imitates the strong look towards the truck, unbothered by the small questioning glance to his rather unusual passive state. "Let's just get this done."

The few subordinate Dauntless soldiers run a-mock as they divert the trucks to their certain bays. The heavy beeping and shouting drowning out even the deepest of thoughts as the gassy smoke from the exhausts back-fire and smolder the burning oil towards his nostrils.

Eric has stood here and overlooked this arrangement fifty times over, and as far as he was aware everything was working out the way it should before him and he didn't feel the need to intervene.

…Until one of the trucks stall and the backdoor unhinges, sending bags of produce tumbling out the back and smashing onto the floor, spilling ungracefully across the lot.

"Fuck," Eric mutters and Max sends him an incredulous look, unmoving from his position. "Fine. I'll go then."

Eric closes the gap brutally with his swift stride and arms himself for the onslaught of abuse that he's going to send the clumsy Amity packing-with. The Amity and Dauntless alike in the nearest vicinity move hastily in retreat and he doesn't bless them with even a small act of acknowledgment.

Instead, he grips the door handle of the red rust-bucket truck and yanks on it with limited grace. "You want to tell me what the fuck-"

He stops mid-sentence.

Eric must've have smoked too much tobacco and daydreamed far too much to be imagining her blushing down at him from the wrecked material seats of the truck.

Abbey.

It was her, he was sure of it, albeit a little more mature and magnificently filled out to the svelte of her curves. It was her.

Abbey's hair was still chestnut, her eyes still green and flecked with hazel, her adorable pout, and perfect nose. But she had bangs, side-swept bangs that were the only difference.

"I'm really sorry…" She begins and he wished he could have said anything other than:

"Abbey?" The word was so out of character and soft that he didn't believe he'd even said it. He naturally pulls his features into his usual frown, but the eyes are less intense, it was all about the eyes.

He physically hadn't said her name in years, it was all mainly in his thoughts from earlier. Fuck, he hadn't even thought of her since - until today…

Abbey's face is a maze of assumptions as she mulls over exactly who's standing in front of her. Slowly, but surely, disbelief arises. "…No way…" She whispers under her breath and his skin prickles at the sound. "Eric?"

He takes a small look around him to make sure no one's really paying attention before shifting closer. "What are you- why are you here?"

And as casually as ever, she laughs, smiling that familiar smile he remembered so well. "What does it look like?" He could bite his own tongue off for his stupid questions and stupid face so pitifully brimming on a long-lost hope.

Abbey slides down the seats and roams over his attire, curling her nose up a little and probably taking in the thick tattoos swamping his neck along with the piercings above his brow and multiple ear pieces. "Wow, Eric, you look…huge…like…really big…" Her eyes light up as she talks and expresses each word specifically. "Buff."

She looks pretty, too fucking pretty at this moment in time and every inch of him is trying to suppress the urge to grab her by the arm and take her all the way back to his apartment and bite at her skin and relish all the ways that he missed that knotted feeling at the pit of his stomach.

"You know me, full of surprises…"

"I heard you got ranked really highly… a Leader… Wow, look at you…" She rubs his arm and he thinks perhaps she doesn't know how offensive that would be if it were anyone else, but he lets her anyway.

Eric breaks the intense study he's performing over her appearance and directs a sharp look to the Amity standing around. "Well, don't just stand there, clean it up!" he snaps and Abbey shifts beside him, turning fractionally to do as he says. "Not you." He should say something else, something casual. However, he's somewhat out of practice. "You haven't changed a bit…" Good one.

"You certainly have. I mean, I barely recognized you. It's been-" She peers off in thought, her lips pouting slightly.

"Three years."

"Somebody has been counting…" She devours him with her eyes and he's actually nervous… nervous… he is never nervous. But he supposes every monster has their weaknesses.

"I, er, have been thinking about you…" Eric practically whispers, breaking any personal contact with her. "-because of the deliveries and Amity, and I knew you were-"

"I've been thinking about you, too." She stops his murmuring and lightly touches his arm again. "I hoped I'd get the chance to see you again."

His expression must ask the question 'why' as she answers anyway.

"I want you…" She hesitates for a split second. "I want you to come to my wedding…"

What. The. Fuck.

"No!" Eric spits the word venomously, a heat running from the base of his spine and blanching onto his neck. "Don't be stupid, you're not getting married."

"Erm, yes I am… In two weeks."

Eric knew she couldn't possibly love her fiancé; he wouldn't be enough for her, no one ever would be. Only Eric was meant for the girl. - This girl of all his firsts. This girl that spent far too much time clogging his mind today and sculpting his childhood.

The possessiveness was beginning to peak under the new assault of jealousy and lust. He would rip any person that would touch his Abbey, from limb to limb and enjoy himself while doing it.

"No," he says gruffly. "No I will not come to your wedding and you're an idiot for thinking so…" He leaves the words to linger in the air and it physically hurts when her face unravels in absolute surprise at his outburst and brutal honesty.

"Have I… done something to offend you?" She shrugs with her palms towards him in great apology, but it's not enough.

Eric beats down the eloping misery and turns away from her, feeling her eyes burn into the back of his head and the ripping sensation in his chest.

Loudly he snarls, "I hope you have a very happy life together."

This was not what he planned, not what he wanted to say, but the monster that was him couldn't bare her anywhere near him anymore. Not with those hideously exposed revelations.

Abbey will not marry another man… not while he still breathed.

He just needed time to figure out how. Marking his own words, he'll fucking stop her from devoting herself to someone else. He had the power swaying heavily in his favor and contacts heavily primed in Amity to help him do so.

Mark my words, Abbey Ainsworth will be mine.

#crush #chapter 1 #edited #about time #eric coulter #eric #divergent #eric divergent fanfiction #insurgent #oc #jai courtney

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