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reachingforaspark · 5 years ago

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Peter Parker to the Principal’s Office Please Ch2

This chapter is in response to a prompt in the comments of the last chapter from abovely_girl: "..how about a chapter where after Peter tests out of all the math and science classes, Flash bullies Peter for "dropping"/leaving those classes?"

Chapter 2: The usual suspects

Tony Stark had thought he’d be done with high school when he graduated at fourteen.

Somehow, thirty two years later, he finds himself striding the hallways of one particular high school far more than should be necessary, considering he has spawned exactly zero snot nosed teens from his own genetic code.

If pressed, Tony will admit that any children he has with Pepper will likely end up at the Principal’s office, and often. Between his general snarkiness and Pepper’s no-nonsense attitude, their kid will likely be a take no prisoners hellion. Not that they were thinking about having babies anytime soon.

And yet, he has the route from the side (read discrete) entrance of Midtown Tech to the Administrator’s office memorised.

The first few visits had been routine-the school seeking more information for his internship, a suitability interview for the program, some BS overexcitement from administration following a Stark Industries donation to the science and music programs. Pepper had warned him he was opening himself up for this when he listed himself as Peter’s primary internship supervisor, but who else was Tony going to put?

Ray Soya? Current head of the interns, already had too many junior staff on his plate, and the man was hardly a specialist. Dr Caitlin Myers? From the biochem department, brilliant, but once made a new grad cry. Dr Jia Pak? She was head of R&D but undoubtedly too busy to devote intensive time to Peter’s learning. Besides, Tony had rationalised, if Peter worked under anyone else Tony would be reviewing his projects anyway, which would double up his workload. Easier for everyone to just have Peter study with him.

Does no one but him think of SI’s efficiency?

Tony’s ultra-white sneakers squeak on the linoleum as he walks down the hallway, hands shoved in his pockets, trying to work out what Jim Morita wants from him this time. Happy huffs along beside him.

Whatever it is, he draws the line at chaperoning school dances.

The kind of thing he might very well be asked to do now that he’s also been listed as Peter’s second emergency contact, and now gets PTA emails and other gross school rubbish. He has FRIDAY scan all the newsletters before deleting them, and might save the occasional mention of the academic decathlon team or merit award received by his intern. Awards Tony lays partial claim to, his due for creating pop quizzes on FRIDAY and answering phone calls at 1am asking about matrices.

What he never counted on was the polite, earnest kid of his, he means May’s, getting in so much trouble.

Tony turns the corner to see four violently purple teenagers sitting outside Jim’s office.

At least, he assumes they’re teenagers, from their size and the simultaneous guilty shuffle they all do on seeing Tony and his bodyguard. Tony’s having a hard time making out features, given they’re all splattered in horrifically bright indigo paint. As he gets closer, he recognises them by their shapes and posture more than anything else.

Tony stops just short of the group, mindful of the wet, colourful footprints staining the linoleum floors. They reek of resin and solvents.

“I see the usual suspects are assembled.” Tony says. “Peter, Ted, Michelle.” He eyes them off individually to give weight to his words. Peter squirms, Ned looked stunned (as always), Michelle coolly meets his gaze.

“Uh, random other child.” The fourth kid might be choking under all that paint. His collar is popped like some kind of preppy wannabe. He’s just as messy of the rest of them, and his eyes widen while Tony stares at him.

“Flash.” Peter supplies, then clams up again, ducking his head down on his shoulders.

Tony looks Peter over again closely, reassuring himself that this kid is actually okay underneath all the acrylics. He’s made a valiant attempt to scrub the paint off his face, but it’s streaked along his cheeks and neck, dying his skin a tinge of purple. Tony notices paint clumped in his eyelashes and the inside of his left ear.

"You missed a spot buddy." Tony murmurs, poking the only clean bit of Peter he can see, a patch just under his hairline.

“So. Purple?” Tony asks.

“Paint.” Peter says, somewhat obviously.

“Injuries?” Tony follows up.

“None.”

They fall into shorthand. A communication method Tony developed to get the highlights of Peter’s incidents without the babble. Something that became necessary after Tony had a fifteen-minute conversation with Peter about his weekend, which ended with a casual request for Tony to check the small stab wound he’d acquired twenty minutes before said conversation had started. Timeliness was not a virtue of Peter’s, neither was prioritisation.

“Thrown?” Tony asks.

“Exploded.” Peter sinks further into his seat.

“Type?” Tony frowns.

“Chemical.”

“Intention?”

Peter hesitates, his eyes flicking to the end of the row and the Speedo kid.

“Artistic?” He says weakly.

Tony makes a buzzer noise with his mouth.

“Accidental.” Peter says with more confidence. He still sounds like he’s lying, although the pigment is somewhat obscuring his features, so Tony can’t be one hundred percent sure.

Happy reaches past Tony and starts handing out wet wipes to the kids.

“Where the heck did those come from?” Tony yelps, startled. “Are you carrying a diaper bag now? Got a burp bib in there? A pacifier? Baby powder?”

“Why, do you need a change?” Michelle quips.

“No comments from the blueberries.” Tony retorts.

“Honestly, I think you listing a full inventory for a diaper bag is more disturbing than Happy carrying wipes around. Which are very useful. Thank you Happy.” Peter says, waving his handful of wipes at the bodyguard.

“I swear to God Parker, I will roll you down to Willy Wonka’s factory and give you to the Oompah Loompa’s myself.” Tony snaps, lips curling up involuntarily.

Their bickering is interrupted by Jim pulling open the door, entering the hallway. They shake hands and head into the office, but not before Tony carefully inspects the man and his surrounds for any traces of paint that might transfer to his person. He’s quite happy with his monochrome grey look with contrasting white sneakers, purple paint not required.

“Good to see you Jim. I can assure you I’m not teaching Peter how to make paint bombs at his internship, if that’s what this is about.”

Jim sighs, looking more tired than a man his age should. Tony wonders how many of Jim’s grey hairs Peter Parker is responsible for. He runs his hand through his own hair self-consciously.

“Peter developed the paint bomb for Michelle’s end of term art project,” Jim waves his hand. “She was aiming for a literal representation of the Big Bang theory, expressing science’s intimate relationship with hypermasculine ideals.”

Tony blinks.

“I don’t really get it either Tony.” Jim sighs again. “The issue is the paint bomb was detonated on purpose by Eugene, another student, and appears to be related to ongoing online bullying around Peter’s internship.”

“Hashtag fake SI intern?” Tony says, recalling where he recognised the fourth kid’s name from. Pepper had approached him about the fact Peter had been tagged in multiple posts labelled #fakeSIntern over the past few weeks. The posts had mostly been centred around Peter leaving the school for his internship while the other students had their scheduled STEM classes. Tony figured it was small minded jealously from the tone. Peter had tested out of most of those classes weeks ago, and was in an accelerated programs for the ones he hadn’t been awarded graduation credits for yet.

“Our PR team recently flagged those, yes. I was aiming to talk to Peter about it to see if it was a problem. Clearly, it is.” Tony flicks his wrists in irritation, straightening his jacket.

If the kid was trying to blow things up, it was definitely a problem.

“Eugene has a difficult home life, and the school is working with him-” Jim explains.

“Difficult home life or no, he’s setting off explosives on my kid. That speaks to malicious intent Jim. I hope the school intends come down hard on him. If you don’t, Iron Man will.” Tony snaps.

Jim manages to look calm, although Tony’s sure it’s not everyday an Avenger threatens one of his students. He explains what disciplinary actions will be taken, and what the school’s official social media policy is. Tony’s already constructing a social media policy of his own. Anyone bullying his intern gets destroyed. He assures Jim that the SI PR team has a media response for the tweets already planned, and the men shake hands again.

He’s reaching for the door when Jim mentions the upcoming Spring dance. Tony hands him a check instead. That was probably Jim’s plan all along. He suspects the man is smarter than he lets on.

Tony exits the office, rounding back on the guilty teens. They’re looking a bit crusty now, flaking dried acrylic onto the seat like a kindergarten art project.

“Happy will organise a car to take you guys home.” Tony says. “Eugene can walk.”

“But Mister Stark.” Peter splutters. Tony notices dye leaking from his nostrils like a hyper coloured nose bleed. “It’s an internship day.”

Tony wrinkles his own nose. How much paint had been in that bomb?

“Yeah kid, no finger painting allowed in the lab.”

“It’s not even that bad!” He exclaims, then inhales sharply, screwing his face up.

Tony grabs a wipe off Happy.

He’s too late.

Peter sneezes, purple paint flying from his nose like aerosol spray. The dye splatters across Tony’s suit pants and shoes.

The pigment turns out to permanently stain leather. His fresh kicks look like a florid Jackson Pollock painting.

Tony kind of likes them better like that.

Extra Credit:

Michelle likes them too, and he loans them to her to submit for her end of year visual media grade. She titles it "Reflex: A surprising dismantlement of isolation" or something of the sort.

When he gets them back, he wears them to a charity event. He tells the eager press they’re a MJ and PP original collaboration, a one of a kind custom job.

He sends Peter a screenshot of the Buzzfeed article about it, captioned “I wore your snot on the red carpet.”

Find it at my Ao3

#spider-man #peter parker #tony stark #irondad #spider-man fanfiction #peter can't stop getting detention

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artmutt · 5 years ago

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A Little Knowledge...

I grew up with educational television. I was always discovering something new and unexpected, something that went beyond what I learned at home or in school. Channel 11 in Chicago, WTTW, your “window to the world,” was indeed a crucial part of that. I should also note, however, that in the 1950s and ’60s, mainstream television was a very different place than it is today. I recall amazing musical performances and dance and theater on Sunday mornings on CBS, and programs like “I’ve Got a Secret” brought in people like John Cage or John Cale. My parents were slightly appalled when I started watching The Magic Door on Sunday mornings, a program that was about Judaism. And they were taken aback when I started spouting Russian after watching a language program on PBS. They must have wondered if educational TV was making me smarter or turning me into a wise guy.

I have recently been thinking that two of my favorite programs on PBS, specifically This Old House and Travels in Europe, have not just provided me with entertainment over the years, but have also contributed to national and global problems. (Let me warn you in advance: I’m not really blaming these TV shows for larger social issues, any more than I really blame the Brothers Grimm for the rise of German nationalism and subsequently for World Wars I & II. But it has been on my mind lately. Please try to keep a sense of humor here.)

I’ve been a dedicated watcher of This Old House since it first came on the air in 1979. I grew up in a house that my father always seemed to be in the process of renovating. When we weren’t stripping and refinishing the floors, we were putting up paneling or painting the dining room or making some kind of change to the place that disrupted the normal patterns of living. My dad also had a workshop in the basement where he dabbled with different kinds of projects. I also had a good friend who, after graduating from college decided to become a house carpenter, and I spent a number of hours helping him rip out drywall, or do other kinds of demolition work in houses. And my former brother-in-law was a house painter, and I used to work for him occasionally during the summers when I was in college. So This Old House struck a nostalgic note with me on several levels.

What wasn’t anticipated was that the show would prove successful and spawn a kind of minor industry of derivative shows. Shows about people repairing or updating their homes, or shows about buying houses and flipping them for a profit. And while the folks on the original program still amuse me, many of these other shows just kind of bewilder me with their egotism and reality TV show mentality. What began to disturb me was driving around the city and suburbs, and seeing the proliferation of people making “additions” to their homes. Somehow, after watching TOH or one of its strange offspring, people were leaping into projects to expand and “update” and glamorize their homes. Not enough to have a functional bathroom: it needs mirrors and a rain shower head, and glass doors, and and and…I’m sure the construction people and contractors don’t mind, but a lot of the stuff I see happening looks architecturally challenged. Riding the El in Chicago, you see a lot of back yards, and people have made some very alarming and tasteless expansions of their homes over the years. I also wonder how many “McMansions” out there were built for people who were dedicated watchers of TOH-style programs. I can’t lay all of these violations of taste on TOH, but honestly, I suspect that the impulse these people felt to remodel may well have come from watching TOH as they grew up.

And what about Rick Steves and Travels in Europe? Well, I have done a fair amount of traveling myself, so what I’m about to say is about my own sense of guilt. World tourism today is one of the chief contributors to environmental stress. This is chiefly due to jet air travel. I recall taking an Environmental Geology class, and we talked about the weather and the phenomenon now called “Climate Change.” I vividly recall the instructor talking about the impact that jet planes had on the so-called jet stream in the upper atmosphere. Heating up the upper atmosphere, stirring it around if you will, was likely to have a destabilizing affect on the planet. Living in the American Midwest, near one of the world’s biggest airports, I watch in dismay when I see arctic air dropping down as far as Texas, or causing snowfall in Los Angeles, or resulting in snowfall in late April and early May. The jet stream that used to flow with some regularity across the country now dips and drops and bends like a fever chart, resulting in horrible weather conditions.

Tourism has also brought environmental and social damage to popular destinations. The city of Venice, for example, is ravaged by Cruise ship tourism, that disrupts the waters of the lagoon, and disgorges hundreds of people every day, who are only in the city for 24 hours, and who deplete resources without staying long enough to spend money and reinforce the economy in more meaningful ways. The rise of Airbnb apartments – real estate owned by people who rent out the apartment to travelers, in essence like a hotel room – is damaging both the social fabric of neighborhoods, and making it difficult for locals to find places to live. As a result, there are now very few Venetians actually living in Venice. Why am I traveling somewhere except to interact with locals?

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not laying all these issues on Rick Steves. He seems like a very nice guy, and I know he encourages people to travel thoughtfully and to genuinely engage with local culture. But I can also tell you, from my own travels, that I’ve seen plenty of people, armed with Steves’s guidebooks, thoughtlessly wandering around the streets of European cities, and not exactly being goodwill ambassadors for America. Steves’s message is, you don’t need a guide, you can travel on your own, it’s fun, it’s doable. I think many people arrive and hit the wall when they discover just how non-American Europe can be. Not everybody speaks English! Again, why are you traveling if not to engage with locals?

Moreover, Steves likes to provide viewers/readers with his “special secrets,” his little places that aren’t on the major travel maps. I was annoyed, while attending Mass in the church of St. Sulpice, to see tourists wandering around, Steves’s guidebook in hand, looking for things in the church he had mentioned. As much as his shows caution respect, unchaperoned Americans can be a handful. Those charming little “secret” places he tells people about sometimes find themselves overwhelmed with American tourists they can neither accommodate nor desire to have around. (Ask any of the Italians in the little hill towns that Steves “discovered” years ago, that now find themselves overrun with tourists every summer.) This is true of travel writing in general: someone writes about a gorgeous deserted beach somewhere, and the next year, it’s overrun with tourists, who are all looking to recreate that special moment they heard about, now impossible because there are dozens of people around. Steves isn’t solely responsible, but his guidebooks and TV programs have very long legs. His son Andy, who kind of grew up on his father’s programs, is now running tours of his own, aimed at young people who might be put off by his Boomer dad.

In the case of both This Old House and Travels in Europe, I am struck by the old saw about how “a little knowledge can be a dangerous thing.”

#this old house #travels in europe #rick steves #pbs

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nd43kinks · 5 years ago

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i've been thinking about your cool au where taako gets to get all prettied up to carry eggs (?) for the raven queen, and i'd love to see more of that design :0

the only reason i am not drawing this au all the time is i never know what to draw besides taako laying around being spoiled and big.

DEETS ON THIS AU UNDER THE CUT CAUSE I DON’T THINK I EVER LAID THEM OUT AND THEY ARE SUPER HORNY

the raven queen needs help bringing her ravenspawn into the material plane

it requires the spawn be passed from the astral plane through the body of one of her emissaries, and be incubated for several months in a material plane body

Taako and Krav are the first astral/material couple she’s had in her charge for a long time so she’s like “you down?”

taako is 1000000% down

RQ gives krav the power to inseminate taako with the ravenspawn eggs, passing from kravs astral body to taako’s material body. his dick gets bigger to oviposit the eggs. taako likes it.

it is a completely not horny ritual no taako stop getting off on being fucked on an alter this is a serious matter

once in taako, the eggs swell up fast as they take on material form inside taako. he gets to the 9month pregger belly after about a month, which makes it hard for him to do much but lay around

it is not... required that taako live in the RQs palace while he incubates the eggs, but krav is insistent and taako aint complaining cause it’s not like he can teach with this belly

RQs worshipers are hella into Taako, giving him lots of gifts and food and gold as thanks for doing this ritual for the queen. taako is kinda into being spoiled, and he’s REALLY into getting fucked while they watch

Krav paints Taako’s swollen belly with runes to help the eggs and also to help taako, and it’s fucking intimate and sacred and taako is kinda intimidated by the reverence in which krav does it like “holy shit i love this guy who knocked me up with hellspawn”

Magnus can’t come see Taako often while he’s in the Queen’s palace, but she grants him visitation occasionally so Krav can have some help “taking care” of Taako. They take care of him from both ends.

the eggs make him constantly horny, hungry, and desperate for affection because they’re sapping his life energy to take on the material form. it’s the neediest he’s ever been and Krav loves it

i can’t decide if the eggs are soft or not, but taako definitely can feel them shifting inside him and it fucking rocks his world every time. if they are soft he can feel the critters squirming and that makes him mcfreaking lose it

there is talk that once this is over, RQ will give Krav the ability to have a real baby with taako (goddess of life AND death and all), but they’re not totally sure they’re ready for that. Taako would be down to just be preggers and spoiled forever.

The birth of the eggs is insane. RQ grants taako a spell of euphoria to lessen the pain and he’s completely into it. Magnus is allowed to be present for the birth, and he hold’s taako’s hand and brushes the hair out of his face the whole time. there’s a lot of smooching and fucking once the eggs are out.

when the eggs hatch they’ve got ravenspawn babies in them, which look kinda like this in my mind but little.

taako refers to all of the ravenspawn as his children and it drives krav into hysterics every time to see taako holding one of these nasty things like a baby. he gives them names like dumpling and chestnut

the babies are full grown within a month, and are off to serve the RQ’s bidding. Taako is recovered from the whole ordeal in that time... and keeps hinting to krav he wouldn’t mind doing it again if RQ needs more.

#the EGGventure zone #nd's art

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mm-mendell · 6 years ago

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Myrtle Grove was a small town, but a very special one. And it was special because of a large house that was placed directly in the center, standing tall with winding staircases. It was called the Aegis House, and just like the town, it was a very special house. It was special because of an old, gnarled weeping willow that grew in the center of the house’s courtyard. And, like the house and the town before it, this was a very special tree.

No one knew quite why the tree was special. Some called it a doorway, others called it a portal, and even more called it nothing in particular - merely referring to it as the Weeping Willow. One enterprising child had designated it as a ‘spawn point’, and refused to call it anything else.

In the end, of course, it hardly mattered what you called the tree. All that mattered was what the tree could do.

Most trees, you see, did not do much in their day-to-day lives. At least, not much that was visible to the eye. But this tree, you must remember, was a very special tree.

And this was exactly why, truck rumbling along the old country road, Special Agent Max Spade (who was a rather special man himself), was heading right towards that small town with the large house and very special tree.

However; he was not, for once, going somewhere on Special Agent Business. Special Agent Max Spade was really going to Myrtle Grove as Max, friend to Cleo Price, who was otherwise known as Cleo of Aegis House.

Max very rarely returned to his hometown, seeing as he was usually out on Business of some sort, but Cleo had called him with a quiet request for help, and seeing as his friend was very rarely quiet about anything, Max had taken that as a sign of how serious the situation was and promised to return posthaste.

Anything that was wrong at the Aegis House was important to the town of Myrtle Grove, and all of its residents, current or former.

This was, Max figured, the very least that he could do.

He steered his old and deceptively rickety truck through the streets of Myrtle Grove, which were only sometimes paved, and not usually well. As it was a busy Monday morning, there were quite a few people out and about, some of which greeted Max as he went by.

He waved to a tall woman wearing a black, feathered coat, and gave a respectful nod to the wolf that was walking alongside her. A few feet ahead, at Myrtle Grove’s only traffic light, he paused to exchange a few friendly words with the man waiting to cross the street.

“Back again, Max?” Vince said, letting out a booming laugh with a sound like the rumbling of distant thunder. “You kiddos can run as far as you want, but the old orbit always drags you back in, aye?”

Max shrugged, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. “I wouldn’t exactly describe it as running. Just… exploring.”

Vince threw his head back, laughing again with his hands on his hips. “Fair enough, young man!”

Then he slapped the hood of Max’s truck with a friendly grin, and strode the rest of the way across the street, his prosthetic leg not hindering him in the slightest.

Max watched him go, and then refocused on the road, pressing on the gas as the light turned green. Vince hadn’t changed a bit - and Max hadn’t really expected anything different, but somehow, it was still a relief.

It was only a few minutes later that he pulled up outside of Aegis House, still standing tall with its ever-winding staircases.

A sense of contentment filled him upon laying eyes on the building again. Aegis House had changed a little - a new coat of paint, plastic pulled over a window where someone had broken the glass, new lawn toys strewn over the grounds.

He was unspeakably glad.

Turning off his truck and pulling out the keys, Max jumped out and began making his way up that first staircase, not even bothering to lock the car behind him. Before he had even managed to reach the large, ornate door, it flew open, and a woman with long braided hair and a frazzled expression leapt out.

She seized him by the shoulders, her eyes wide. One of her braids was coming undone and hanging in front of her face, only adding to the image that she had barely escaped a deadly tornado.

“Spade. Spade, thank you so much, I can’t thank you enough, you have to do something, really thank you but I’m so sorry about this - “

“Cleo!” Max interrupted, reaching up to cover her hands where they were gripping his shoulders with an increasingly punishing grip. “It’s fine, it’s fine. I’m here to help. Just explain the situation to me, alright?”

Cleo sucked in a deep breath, closing her eyes, and released him at the same time as she let it out.

“Right,” she said, half to herself. “Right, come in.”

Obediently, Max entered the house, Cleo leading the way, chattering nervously all the while.

“I just, this has never happened before, y’know?” she said, fiddling with her fraying braid as she dodged past forgotten toys and the occasional ‘art project’. “We never get them this old. It’s unheard of! And he’s… He’s not violent, not in any way that I can’t handle, but he’s so sad Max, and I can’t help him the way that I do the other children, and - “

“I get it,” Max said, gently touching her arm. Cleo looked up at him, biting her lip. This must have really been tearing her up.

Cleo was the youngest person to ever be in charge of Aegis House, but she had always proved that she deserved it, and Max had never once doubted her devotion to the House and the children that resided inside of it.

But one woman could not hold all the skills necessary to help every child that woke up underneath their Willow, and it would be dangerous to assume so. That was why Max had left town in the first place - to gain skills that those who stayed in Myrtle Grove wouldn’t be able to comprehend.

They were not always good things, or skills that he wanted to learn, but that was important too. Because sometimes the children who came to them came from not-so-good places and had to learn how to survive in ways that would not be easily understood by anyone else.

Max understood. That was his job.

“Is he out in the courtyard?” Max asked, concerned. That happened sometimes - a child would feel overwhelmed and refuse to leave the Willow’s side, hoping it would take them back.

It wouldn’t, though. The Willow only gave - it did not take. It was Myrtle Grove’s biggest blessing, and its heaviest burden.

“No, he’s taken over one of the empty rooms,” Cleo said, giving him an exhausted smile. “I told him that it could be his room, if he wanted it. He didn’t say anything about that, but he told me not to come in, so I’m respecting his wishes. I leave food outside his door, and he always puts out the empty plates, so I know that he’s eating, but I still worry.”

“Understandably,” Max nodded.

As they spoke, they briefly entered one of the common areas, and the chatter of all the children present washed over them.

There was a group of children playing Mario Kart on the big TV, one with a twitching antenna and another with a forked tongue that was sticking out of his mouth in concentration. The last was a girl who was smiling calmly, floating two feet above the couch while the other two cursed and tried to elbow each other to interfere with the gameplay.

At the wooden table, a girl no older than three was watching intently as a teenager patiently showed her how to fold origami, her golden eyes sparkling in interest.

There was a leopard napping in the corner, a shirtless boy laying on top of it as they snored in unison. They had matching spots along their backs, and a pair of sharp fangs was peeking out of the boy’s open mouth.

Max couldn’t help but smile at the sight. This was Aegis House.

“Alright,” he said, turning to his friend who was watching the children with the same half-wistful expression as him. “Why don’t we go ahead? I’m ready.”

Cleo nodded, unsure but still determined.

“Yes,” she said, holding her head just that little bit higher. “Let’s go.”

Cleo knocked on the door, her expression firm.

“Good morning,” she called out, pitching her voice to carry. “I brought a friend with me today. Is that okay?”

There was silence for a long moment, but Max could tell that he wasn’t asleep. There was almost a palatable aura of fear and misery surrounding this area, and he could instantly tell why Cleo had been so worried.

“Why is he here?” the boy said finally, though there was very little other noise, as if he was holding himself as still as possible.

“I wanted to tell you a story,” Max said easily, moving forward to stand beside Cleo. “Is it alright if I come in?”

“No!” he shouted, and Max could hear a shuffling sound from the inside. He sounded even more frenzied than Cleo had earlier, panicking and afraid.

Well, Max knew what that was like.

“Do you mind if I stay out here, then?” Max said, cocking his head to the side even though he knew the boy couldn’t see his gesture.

“...I don’t care.” Came the muffled reply. It sounded grudging, but no longer frightened, and that was what he wanted to hear.

Cleo bit her lip, but smiled despite herself. Giving Max a thankful look, she went back down the long hallway, no doubt off to see one of the other children under her care.

Max nodded in satisfaction as he settled himself down for the wait. This was the very least that he could do for the House that had taken him in when he had appeared beneath the Willow, shaking and scared.

He had a destiny, he was told. It was his job to protect the world from the forces of evil, save his people from being strangled by the dark.

But he was ten years old and having a gun pressed into his quaking hands, and when he closed his eyes reflexively, he opened them again beneath the Willow.

Just like the sixteen year-old on the other side of the door, Max was a child of prophecy. And as long as there were worlds that lay the fate of everything on a child’s shoulders, the Weeping Willow and Aegis House and Myrtle Grove would always have be there to welcome them.

notes:

eyyy second one! this one was also super fun to write, and a bit experimental. i tried to write it to sound like a fairytale, kind of?? i was also trying to channel a Douglas Adams/Lemony Snicket kind of vibe, so i hope it came out well! anyway, thanks again to the amazing @caffeinewitchcraft for the prompt. i wanted to do something about magic, but like,,, discovering it in normal places. like coming from magic and learning what it’s like to see it in a small town, or a weeping willow, or in the smiles of other people. idk, i'm not sure i fully conveyed what i was going for, but i still like what I came up with!!

thank you so much for reading, and i hope everyone enjoyed!! <3

#mendell writes #caffeine challenge

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northamptoncouplestherapy · 4 years ago

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There is a thin line between sacrificing a lamb and striking a deal with the Devil.

We give up whole parts of ourselves to belong in our families. In turn, for those of us who dare to come home to ourselves, we risk losing our family and severing the ties that bind us.

When I was twenty-one, I became the first member of my family to earn a college degree. In hindsight, this seemingly positive milestone, or the culmination thereof, both gave and spared me a lifetime of heartache. By achieving an advanced education and moving just an hour from home, I unknowingly left my family, and in doing so, embarked on the long, arduous task of breaking through the invisible (but formidable) barriers of class and intergenerational trauma.

Pittsfield is a city people never leave or never return to; I only knew I had to go —that hanging out with girls who were “dating” their father’s friends and losing five of my cohort in just ten months to alcohol, suicide, and drugs filled me with foreboding. My peers and I shared a unique darkness. One that went beyond the cynical, independent, and pragmatic nature that hallmarks Generation X. We shared history rooted in trauma bonds. Collective memories steeped in Black Sabbath and Pink Floyd, psychedelics and Jack Daniels, sex hallmarked by confusion versus consent, a blur between victim and perpetrator —think Lord of the Flies meets Heavy Metal.

Despite having just over forty-one thousand residents, my hometown lays claim to one of America’s highest crime rates (from the smallest towns to the very largest of cities). If you visit, you have a 1 in 27 chance of being a victim of a violent crime. Put differently; you’re more likely to be mugged or collide with a drunk driver than to get COVID19 while not wearing a mask. The irony is the city lies nestled in the center of the sleepy Berkshire hills. The surrounding landscape, a living Norman Rockwell painting, populated by wealthy New Yorkers and nineteenth-century “cottages.” Home to the Boston Symphony Orchestra and Tanglewood, where tourists eat bacon-wrapped figs and sip Sauvignon Blanc on the lawn. The Berkshires —where you can visit Herman Melville’s house in Lenox and score crack in Pittsfield, all in the space of an hour.

My twenty-one-year-old self-fled to the Pioneer Valley, and misfit though I was, I claimed it as my home. Just fifty-one miles as the crow flies, it kept me within driving distance of my closely knit (but) turbulent clan while affording me the possibility of a new life. Northampton was both academic and bohemian, brimming with universities, bookstores, cafes, and the arts. It was an altogether different planet, and it terrified me.

I had no idea of the implications of this move —of what it meant to transition from a working-class family in a post-industrial ghost town ravaged by racial and class warfare to a white-collar world steeped in privilege and academia. I could not foresee the coils that spun out from my childhood to my future. How they’d wrap around my life like the tentacles of a giant squid, choking me, pulling at my dreams, dragging me under —how I’d thrash, how it would take decades before my lungs acclimated to the water that would birth me, and the casualties of connection to be incurred along the way.

*****

When we were teens, we traversed Pittsfield via an underground network of train tracks. We believed that if we put an ear to the railway metal, we would hear the train coming long before seeing it. That as long as we maintained a vigilance by pressing an occasional cheek against the hot-rolled steel, we’d anticipate the train’s arrival —hear the hissing of the rails, feel the engine’s vibration in our skull. In hindsight, this is how we lived our days. A trick we played to maintain the illusion of immortality –we believed that a car full of balloons would cushion a crash, that powder and smoke were less lethal than needles.

The reality was, we were often too stoned or just plain afraid, so we never actually listened for the train. Never anticipated the deaths of our friends.

We lost the first one to suicide. Pinned between two car bumpers on a Friday night bender, Paul never acclimated to his right legs’ amputation. Several months following the accident, he shot himself in the face in front of his fiancé. Then there was the motorcycle crash. Timmy was a bad boy from the town’s outskirts; he had warm cocoa curls and a smile sweeter than John Travolta. He flew his Harley around a corner, jacked on cocaine, and never landed. That same Autumn, up Barker Road, Ryan and Ellen wrapped their green Chevy Nova around a maple tree — he lived, she did not, their newborn baby home sleeping in her grandma’s arms.

Dearest to me was Bill, driven mad by an excess of Gooney Birds —that particularly potent blotter he partook of as a daily sacrament, so much so that the blur between his tripping and psychosis became indistinguishable. I can personally attest to the magic in those dime-size tabs, how it tingled your tongue and altered reality for days. Under its influence, I saw a bag of marshmallows breathe, watched my cousin’s hand melt into the ochre shag of a van rug. That November, Bill’s delusions drove him wild and deep into the woods of Hatfield; his body found unmarred amongst the ashen brush. The authorities said it was a lacerated liver, that he bled to death internally —that it was like going to sleep.

*****

At what moment do we begin the slow and steady handing over of our hearts? I remember being six and staring at dirty linoleum, my mother sobbing on the kitchen floor by the dishwasher. There were shards of glass underfoot; to walk toward her would require cutting myself. I believed that I had broken her —that my sister and I spawned a storm so vast that our home would not see sunlight for months. Our Italian grandmother and father concurred. So, I clapped my hand over my mouth each time my voice yearned to escape and swallowed it whole. Again, and again, I walked barefoot on glass to reach her. A little blood seemed a small price to pay. Slowly, I learned about relational transactions, equating love with pain, and silence with safety.

There is a thin line between sacrificing a lamb and striking a deal with the Devil. The first (we hope) affords us blessings and wishes. The latter steals our soul and damns us. When we offer up our voice in exchange for belonging, we silence our longing. It is a curious thing to consider; that to no longer Be our Longing, we must sever something, and it leaves me wondering what becomes of our hunger?

For me, my father’s blows and punches — an act of desperation intended (literally) to knock some sense into my inebriated fifteen-year-old head, no longer registered pain. My mother’s second wave of melancholy did not inspire compassion. The afternoon five girls ambushed me in a ballfield, and I felt the bubble gum on my tongue crumble like chalk when mixed with blood (a chemical reaction few have experienced) —I floated above the grass. Any part of me that longed for tenderness, validation, reassurance, and kindness burned down

—this is what trauma does; it begets and destroys, permeates, and empties.

*****

Fortunately, memory is malleable. To evoke a memory is to flick a switch —light up a constellation of neural pathways that are as intricate and ever-changing as the night skies. Our recollections are not so much facts as they are stories, and like all works in progress, they are subject to edits and revisions. Memory is as affected by our perceptions of the present as our perceptions of the past. This concept offers immense hope for those of us who have had bad things happen, which is to say —Everyone.

Implicit in this idea is that our perceptions can radically shift our stories —that when we mine our past for meaning, we will arrive at new understandings concerning our misfortunes, sorrows, and pain. Our divorce will no longer be a disaster, but rather a turning point that catalyzed a life otherwise not possible. A malignant tumor might serve as a wake-up call to a life otherwise spent underwater and holding our breath. I’m not implying we should wish adversity on ourselves but rather acknowledging that ultimately, we will all belong to some club. The “I lost my spouse to suicide” club. The “I had seven miscarriages and ten years of fertility treatment” club.” The “My mother was an alcoholic and my father left when I was two” club. To be alive is to be in a club.

I believe the road to wholeness begins with the slow and steady patching of our hearts’ fractured pieces. That by stitching together tiny moments of connection, risk, and vulnerability, we find our way Home. That it’s not a straight line, but a somewhat never-ending journey where hopelessness, fatigue, and lapsing into old habits is standard. As we age, there lies the potential to write our story versus having our story write us. And if we stay the course and remain open, we will slowly assemble a network culled through friendship, psychotherapy, surrogates, and self-made kin. We will come to a deeper understanding of the hows and the whys of our life and we will find our people.

It took me thirty-one years of individual therapy, earning my master’s degree in Psychology, becoming licensed as a psychotherapist, moving one hour and a lifetime away from home, one marriage, a divorce, and a child to find my way. The cost —immeasurable. To paraphrase Maya Angelou, I belong nowhere because I belong everywhere. I belong to myself. I belong to a tribe of tattooed scavengers who have mastered the art of melding dung to feathers —a band of gypsies, ravens, and heretics who hover between scrappy and soulful —who happily fly alongside Icarus, broken wings and all.

What we share beyond our common humanity is a visceral knowing that suffering is here to stay. That trauma is inseparable from life. That loss is both holy and abysmal, and that grief is, in turn, the most sacred and proper response to joy. We are all wretched and omnipotent, sitting in the sun and soaked to the bone.

This is what trauma does.

Like what you’ve read? Sign up to receive my musings filled with heart, concrete tools, and cutting edge resources via my blog: Loving Well.

#trauma

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ohgoddard · 4 years ago

Text

Storyteller Short. Unguided Ambition and its Consequences.

“I find myself standing atop my castle, the crown jewel of my conquests. I have laid waste to all I have known and claimed it as my own, no one could have stood between me and my ambition. It has always been this way, a constant need for greater desires. I could not ever wallow in the sty of my previous holdings, for it was beneath me to put myself on the level of someone else. No one should see eye to eye with me, any creature who dared no longer walks this plane without a limp or loss. In my ears I only hear the beating drums that I have always heard.

I look out over the lands I have taken, me and me alone. No army was worth taking with me, none could match my drive. My determination was intimidating, those who had tried to mantle it have found themselves dissolved into nothingness. But not me. My name is forever etched into the histories. Elders shudder when they tell my name to their young, towns abandon themselves when word of my arrival comes upon them. They scatter like cockroaches exposed to light. The light of a more deserving man.

My castle, of which I am unsure to name yet, stands atop a jagged rock and overlooks its domain with a watchful gaze. Under its previous owners it was always a symbol of safety, knowing the monarchs could see the people and protect them from their warring neighbors. Oh how foolish they were to believe that only stone and mud could halt the advance of one who has long surpassed the constraints of regular management. For now, as the paid price for their folly, their once safe beacon has now turned into the eyes and ears of the malevolent.

Me.

The room and its occupants I had slaughtered lay in disarray behind me, the colors of chaos creating a painting all to familiar to me. A brilliant swath of crimson and burgundy across all manners. A tapestry of artistic prowess, soiled with the iron rich paint I seem to spawn around me. The wondrous gold goblets and chalices the rich and powerful always seem to adorn and surround themselves with are filled with a red wine that is far thicker than normal.

I am not a monster, no I am a bored god. Though I was born man, I found that to be too limiting. So I gave my humanity away. I sold it to the highest bidder, to whomever wanted my eternal being. I haggled and bartered with beings that would have turned lesser men’s minds to sludge, and came out on top. I destroy all any and all now, but I look back on that deal. That handshake with the crooked smiling man who had approached me in the night. He appeared out of nowhere, was dressed in nothing and everything at once, and spoke the exact words I needed to hear. When he left I felt empty, but my shell was no longer a weak one.”

I turn from the balcony, overlooking miles of burnt crops and fires dancing over villages and homesteads. Before me, across the room of the pitiful monarchs I had given the mercy of death, stands an orc. In his hands he holds a hefty ax, one nearly clipping the door frame he had walked through. He stands near seven feet tall, and was built like the castle I stood upon. What he wore and how he wore it was interesting to me though. A barbarian’s kit , to be sure, furs stick out of metal shoulder pads and chest plate, and his legs are protected by nothing but a tattered cloth.

“I say all this, brute, so that you understand that you have committed a folly in your own right. By not only showing up with a weapon and dressed the way you are, you have certainly come here to try and kill me. And ,like the others, you will fail too.”

I was nothing like the orc before me. I was a foot shorter, a few hundred pounds lighter, and I carry no weapon. I dress in nothing but pants and shoes, letting the scars upon my chest be all the covering I need. I do not need to carry a weapon. I am far more dangerous than any machination of the mortal realm.

The orc smiled, and with his off hand stroked a short and spiked black beard. “Ya think highly of yourself, huh? All big ‘n mighty atop yer throne of shattered bones ‘n what-not?” The orc gave a loud laughed and slapped his knee, erupting into a fit as he whipped a tear away from his eye. My blood started to boil, how dare a lesser thing like him dare to say this?!

As I open my mouth to speak, he cuts me off. “I’ve ‘eard it all before. A divine blesses you with the unimaginable, yah? You go on a big rampage and think yerself the top o’ the world, but always settle down in the seat of power where you belong, huh?” The orc lifts the ax from the ground and holds it in two hands, the laughing face falling. It was as if a different person was behind those suns of gold he called eyes.

“This is where I come in. You put a bad name on conquest. Destruction for the sake of destroying is a disgrace to creation. My own conquest cannot go on with this tumor you’ve created growing next to me. So, I challenge you for all your worldly possessions. Your empire, your wealth. All of it.” The orc takes his stance before me, and readies his weapon. “I avenge those who have sworn their oaths to me, and I will do the same here. I am Gukrag the Undefeated. You will fall before me.”

He then rushes me. And I must admit, he truly had angered me.Never before had such a mortal made me feel emotion, especially anger. I had always felt boredom, never anger. I would savor this fight. I rush forward to meet his charge, my fists primed before me. When we make contact in the middle of the room he swings his ax with lighting speed, but I dodge it just the same. I level a punch straight for his head.

The sounds of bone cracking and pure pain erupt within my arm as I hit the ground. My back hits the floor and I raise my hand in astonishment, seeing how mangled it has become before me. I look up in abject horror upon my attacker. Someone...is stronger than me?

He looks different. His aura was visible,t he space around him seemed to bend into him, creating a warped perception. His body glowed red and I could hear the drums.. but they had left my ears.

I hear them from his.

“No godly help in this one, Knuckleduster.” After that his ax swings, and my world as I knew it ends.

Except.

I wake up, surrounded by darkness. My skin feels heavy, my bones feel hollow. I attempt to raise my hands but find I cannot. I lay upon stone, its coldness on my back the only thing I feel. Around me, though I cannot move my head I know what it is, are walls of glyphs and runes. Their power keeps me restrained in this coffin. My skin does not grow to fix itself,my bones do not heal,my thirst and hunger do not satiate themselves. My eyes do not water, for their lids have been torn from me.These runes keep me in a state of defeat and eternal pain. But that is not the only thing they do. They emit a low blue light, one that shows a message engraved into the lid above my eyes.

“For each life you have taken, I will take a decade of yours.” - G

I vow when I escape, for it is a when not an if, I will destroy all of which Gokrug has built. I will destroy the world he created and all who dare to do so with him. I swear upon my new name, the moniker he had given me as an insult. The world will know to fear me.

They will fear Knuckleduster.

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

“Hey Armak, why are avoiding this castle here? There’s probably some good stuff we can find! I mean, depending on its age there can be untold number of books and knowledge that-”

“We will not walk anywhere near it.”

Holly and Armak were cutting across a large field near the very south of the continent, making their way to Clearmont in a straight line. Beyond the foothills and resting atop a jagged rock lays a castle, obviously uncared for and decrepit. Its towering figure overlooks all for miles, and Holly had been staring at it for a few days now. Something about it just seemed so...calling.

Holly gave Armak one of her signature pouty faces. “Pleaaseee? Our last adventure was a huge bust, I mean come on a vampire who thinks they can run an entire kingdom just by themselves and the occasional traveling band of merchants? Totally boring! This castle just seems so -”

“Holly, no.” Armak had not once looked at this castle, at least when Holly could see him, since they had come across its watchful visage. His voice sounds out with decisiveness. “That castle is only home to dust, destruction, and demons. No treasure rests behind those walls.”

“Well how do you know?”

Armak turns to look at Holly with a far away look, as if recalling a fond memory for the first time in a while. His silence is broken after a smile slowly forms across his face.”An old friend told me. Now, lets cut the chatter. Clearmont’s annual collapse of government is about to happen and I’ll be damned if I miss it again.” The duo continued their walking then, moving on to different topics. And after a while the castle faded from view. But it never left Armak’s mind.

#ST:og #creative writing #creativewriting #creative #writing #dnd #dnd stories #dnd storytime #dnd story #original #original writing #original story #originalwriting #fantasy #fantasy story

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fearofaherobrine · 7 years ago

Text

Roleplay Server Log #276

"Pinwheel Accident, NOTCH Debugging, Cp vs MB”

[Pinwheel] Rolls around on Crim's floor after Deer dropped her off there-

[Crim] Pinwheels, You visit! Want to plays? - prances around all excited

[Pinwheel] - Cri?

[Crim] - goes over to a painting on the wall, sticks his snout into the painting - Comes, we go has fun.

[Pinwheel] Tilts head curiously and fo9llows-

[Crim] - enters a dark narrow tunnel, waiting till she follows - I was looking for soft black rock, I dig tunnel. Follow!

[Pinwheel] Trots along behind Crim-

[Crim] - tunnel twists and turns, slowly making its way deeper and deeper. They start passing other tunnels, all leading off into the dark. Finally, they exit out into a small cave, with a few torches. There is a chest, a few colorful rugs scattered around. - Yeah, all still here. Welcome to me hidy hole.

[Crim] - points to a few dark tunnels leading off - Is good place to play hide & seeks. Want plays?

[Pinwheel] Nods-

[Crim] - covers eyes - Go hides, I wait.

[Pinwheel] Runs off down a tunnel taking many turns and ends up in a high spot where she curls up small so as not to be seen as easily-

[Crim] - taps each nail on floor, when gets to the last one, he uncovers his eyes - Here I comes!

[Pinwheel] Squints to try and see a bit in the dark-

[Crim] - starts off, sniffing and scuttling around. Slowly works his way toward her.

[Pinwheel] Creeps a bit closer to the ledge to hear a bit better-

[Crim] - tries to stay quiet but still makes a little of noise -

[Pinwheel] Stands up a little, thinking that maybe she can pounce on Crim-

[Crim] - creeps around sniffing, he can smell she's close -

[Pinwheel] Is about to pounce when she wobbles and looses balance, she's just hit another growth spurt and it throws her so off balance that she falls to the ground and a crunch can be heard-

[Crim] - hears sounds and runs toward - Pinwheels?

[Pinwheel] - Ouchie... My wing...

[Crim] - finds her and scurries over to help - Ouch? Wait, you grows...ok, where hurts?

[Pinwheel] - Wing and leg

[Crim] - looks over leg and wing, worried -

[Pinwheel] Tries standing but can't- Cri...

[Crim] - whines, worried but not sure what to do. Finally sits beside her - Ok, see if climbs on. I carry back, we gets help.

[Pinwheel] Struggles a little, but does get on Crim's back with a little huff-

[Crim] - waits till she is settled and slowly stands, all six feet down. Very slowly he starts back, trying to not jostle her.

[Pinwheel] Is trying to be tough and not let on how much pain she is in-

[Crim] - tries to go a little faster - Is all good, we gets helps. You be ok, soon.

[Pinwheel] Her tail is dragging along on the ground behind them, getting bits of rock between her feathers-

[Crim] - starts purring to calm her -

[Pinwheel] Nuzzles into Crim's neck a little-

[Crim] - finally gets to cave. Goes over to carpet and sits - You ok? Can stay or I carry up?

[Pinwheel] - No leave!

[Crim] - nods gently and stands - Ok, sorry if hurts, must climb back up. Hang on. - heads back into the tunnel leading up to room.

[Pinwheel] Whimpers every once in awhile but does manage to hold on, occasionally she flicks her tail out of irritation-

[Crim] - Finally emerges back in his room, panting slightly. He sits down for a second. - Give break, then we go in bit. You ok still?

[Pinwheel] - Don't know

[Crim] - stands - Ok, we goes. Hang on.

[Pinwheel] - Get there soon?

[Crim] Yes, need find others. - starts upstairs, slowly, looking for signs of other people - Hellos! Are others here?

[Doc] Is feeding berries to Galvantula in a dark corner of the vine room. - Crim?

[Crim] - hears name and heads toward - Doc's? Is you?

[Doc] Yeah I'm here. - Comes out a bit. - Something wrong Crim?

[Crim] - comes over and sits, panting - Yes, needs help. Pinwheel hurts.

[Pinwheel] Whines a little-

[Doc] Goes for hir pockets to get the dry blue pills - What happened?

[Crim] Was playing, she fall.

[Pinwheel] - Wing leg ouchie

[Doc] Starts at her speaking and notices she's bigger. - Oh! You grew! Here just lay her down on the carpet. - Holds out the pill - Do I need to give it to you? Or will you take it? You know it makes the hurt go away.

[Pinwheel] Hisses-

[Doc] Sighs - Come on, you know I just want to help...

[Pinwheel] Tries to pull away-

[Doc] Scoots around behind her to grab her head from the back-

[Pinwheel] Growls and flicks her tail about-

[Crim] - growls - Take pill Pinwheel, stop ouch. Promise.

[Pinwheel] - Nooooooo

[Crim] Yes, please?

[Pinwheel] Whines and flicks tail at Doc-

[Doc] Grabs her jaw and pushes at the sides so her mouth pops open and flicks the pill inside- Just swallow please?

[Pinwheel] Huffs but does-

[Doc] Good girl. - Lets go of her and checks her wings first-

[Crim] - nods and purs -

[Pinwheel] Is still sore and tries to yank it away from Doc-

[Doc] Don't! You'll sprain it again. I'm just checking on you. - Takes a look at her leg, which is already healing.

[Crim] - cranks the purring up and starts producing warmth -

[Pinwheel] Flops neck over Crim- Cri they touching me!

[Crim] Yes, but is friend. Dey help stop ouch. Need to make sure wing good or no flap fly.

[Pinwheel] - Don't like

[Doc] Exactly right Crim. You want to fly don't you?

[Pinwheel] - Can flies fine

[Crim] Wing hurt, need check.

[Doc] As far as me touching you, you like it when I scratch, don't you? - Makes a finger curling motion.

[Pinwheel] - ... Yes...

[Doc] Finishes checking her over and gives her ruff some attention- See? All better now.

[Pinwheel] Trills a little-

[Doc] And Splender is going to squee all over the place now that your vocabulary has increased too.

[Pinwheel] - He talks lots

[Crim] - purs more - Happy Tall will be happier.

[Doc] Yeah, he is talky. He's a bit hyper.

[Pinwheel] - Cri we go play more?

[Crim] - nods - But outside. Safer, Crim's tunnels not safe.

[Doc] You guys be careful, okay?

[Pinwheel] - Can see outside

[Crim] - stands and does full body shake - Yes, we will.

[Pinwheel] Carefully stands up, testing her weight on the freshly healed leg-

[Crim] - watches her to make sure is ok to play -

[Pinwheel] Jumps around a little-

[Crim] - sighs but happy - Thankies Doc. We go plays now, gentler.

[Pinwheel] Trots towards the door-

-It's a lovely afternoon apart from the ear-shattering din coming from Alexsezia's house-

[Stevie] Is banging his head against the wall. Alexis had left to hunt and he didn't feel like mining- Screw it, I'm going to father's

-More noise but the two sounds are beginning to harmonize somehow-

[Stevie] Leaves the noises to whatever they're doing and goes and knocks on Notch's door, figuring the harmony won't last long-

[Buff] Answers the door, a bit too loud- HI!

[Stevie] Jumps- What are you doing here!?

[Buff] Talking to the - snickers- Supreme NOTCH.

[Notch] Stop calling me that. It makes me feel like a fancy taco! -He's on the phone-

[Stevie] Looks around Buff- Everything okay Father?

[Buff] Sits back down on the floor to take up the least amount of space.

[Notch] Balances the phone - Did you check the static float multipliers? No, I trust you Dofta, I'm just trying to help. -Motions for Stevie to come in- Yes? No... It's complicated

[Stevie] Comes in and sits at the table and looks at Buff- What's he going on about?

[Buff] Problems with the NOTCH generation cycle. This new bunch is a bit erratic-

[Stevie] - Is everything okay? Or is my brother going to be sent out to murder?

[Notch] Yeah, like half of them didn't spawn right.

[Notch] Still talking to Dofta, it's basically coding tech support-

[Stevie] - Not right how?

[Buff] Shrugs-

[Notch] Some of them just.... didn't have anything. They erased themselves somehow? Like they were just empty skins-

[Stevie] - Weird...

[Notch] It has to be something small, that's how coding is. One tiny bug can screw the whole thing up-

[Stevie] - Doc might be able to help? Or... What about Flux? Where is she?

[Notch] No he's actually exactly what we need- Points at Buff and then speaks into the phone again- Do you have the recorder ready? I'll pass him the phone again.

[Buff] Ready when you are sir.

[Stevie] - ... Okay?

[Notch] Passes Buff the phone-

[Buff] Just starts rattling off what sounds like HTML instructions into it-

[Notch] So what's on your mind Stevie?

[Stevie] - Finding someplace a bit quieter than my neighbors place. I don't know what Alexsezia's doing, but it's loud

[Notch] You know she plays the noteblocks right?

[Stevie] - Yeah I think there was maybe a second person over there playing some weird honking thing too

[Notch] Chuckles- Honking? Did Herabrine find a conch shell to blow?

[Stevie] - No idea- He rolls his shoulder a bit, it's a bit sore

[Notch] Are you feeling alright?

[Stevie] - Yeah, just still pretty sore. Alexis and Lie made my brother and I promise to do our training in the wither arena so they wouldn't worry as much... Pretty sure he pulled this shoulder out of the socket like four times disarming me...

[Buff] She wants to talk to you again Sir. -Passes Markus the phone-

[Notch] Takes it- Well at least he's teaching you something and not trying to kill you, right?

[Buff] Wait? You're sore? I can fix that!

[Stevie] - Yeah... Um, what?

[Buff] Stands up and grabs Stevie, lifting him easily off his feet.

[Notch] Be careful!

[Buff] I know what I'm doing, it's okay!

[Stevie] Is immediately alarmed-

[Buff] Basically balls Stevie and squishes him in a bunch of key places, nearly distorting his palayer skin. He gives Stevie a rough but very effective massage with his huge hands before putting him down again-

[Notch] Nearly drops the phone in shock

[Stevie] Scrambles to get behind Notch- Nope nope nope

[Buff] Did I miss a spot?

[Stevie] - Please don't ever do that again

[Buff] Looks crestfallen - Did I hurt you?

[Stevie] - Well no, but I just didn't like how it felt

[Buff] Oh... sorry.

[Notch] Don't be too hard on him. No Dofta, my son is here. Yes, my son. No, the other one.

[Stevie] Just decides to stay on that side of Notch- Who exactly are you talking to Father?

[Notch] One of my- well, my former staff. Dofta is a NOTCH programmer. Buff is some of her newest work.

[Stevie] - Oh, so does CN fall under that too?

[Notch] Yes. She wrote this version of the program. It used to be Svit's job.

[Stevie] - Who?

[Notch] Another old coworker - at the phone- Yes, I know he can be obnoxious-

[Stevie] - A'm I... Disturbing something?

[Notch] No. It's fine. She's got this in hand. It's just useful to brainstorm when you're having problems- passes Buff the phone again and there's another exchange of code.

[Stevie] - So how have you and Flux been doing lately?

[Notch] Makes a suprisingly shy face- She's wonderful...

[Stevie] Nudges Notch a little- I asked how both of you were doing, not just her

[Notch] Blushes- Okay, she's wonderful and I feel like a.. a.... a million diamonds when she's around.

[Stevie] - I'm glad

[Buff] She says it's still at 45%?

[Notch] UGH. - Takes the phone- Is it the aggression module? You can't have it at zero Dofta. They won't defend themselves and some of them will just wander off and eat grass.

[Stevie] - Would it help to have data from a Steve? We all seem pretty mild mannered...

[Notch] It's... it's hard to explain. It's like teaching a neural network to build things. If some of the sliders are set too low or too high, the result will be... erratic at best.

[Buff] Sadly- And then you get monsters...

[Stevie] - Like brother and I's false father...

[Buff] Nods -

[Notch] And Dn, and TLOT's NOTCH.... You know he actually had a name in the files...? Jeb just didnt want to say it.

[Stevie] - He did?

[Notch] His name was Revenge. For what, I suppose we'll never know. No offense Buff, but I'm glad he was deleted.

[Buff] I understand. Just like I can't be mad that Dn was deleted. I wouldn't exist otherwise. Or... I might have a shitty assignment instead of this fun one.

[Stevie] - If we hadn't figured out as much as we have brother and I wouldn't have been able to get to the point we are at... Not that we're quite at a good place yet

[Notch] Give it time. Cp only looks like bedrock, he's more like obsidian; you're making slow progress.

[Stevie] - Yeah... At least he's stopped dropping anvils on me

[Buff] Ouch...

[Notch] Gives Stevie a hug- At least you got me kiddo.

[Stevie] - Thanks to brother and that screwed up potion

[Notch] Nah, I think we still would have bonded eventually. If only cause of Flux. How your original dad wasn't head over heels in love with her I'll never understand.

[Stevie] - Well he was barely ever there...

[Notch] Well then he missed out. On a lot of things. You were a cute kid.

[Buff] Chuckles- Photogenic too.

[Notch] BUFF.

[Stevie] - You showed him the pictures!

[Notch] Some of them are kind of hanging up in my room...

[Stevie] Gets a bit embarrassed- They better not be the naked ones...

[Notch] NO. That would be weird!

[Buff] Show him my favorite if he hasn't seen it!

[Notch] NOT HELPING!

[Stevie] - Which one is it...

[Dofta] From the phone - Can I see it too?

[Notch] GODAMMIT.

[Stevie] Is very unsure-

[Buff] Reaches around the doorframe and plucks the picture from the wall before holding it up.

[Notch] Do not tell Cp I have this! He'll burn it!

-The shot is Stevie in his little cat suit climbing up the side of Lie's house. It was obviously taken on the sly because Cp is watching Stevie with an ovious look of concern for his safety and just a hint of fear.

[Stevie] - Oh thank goodness it's not as bad as I thought it was going to be

[Buff] You were so cute-

[Dofta] I want to see too! You're killing me here Markus.

[Notch] FINE. - He holds up the phone and snaps a picture of the image before texting it to her

[Dofta] AAAAAAAAAAAAWWWWWWWWWWW

[Stevie] - I know Lie's favorite is of the two of us sleeping together...

[Buff] The one where you're all sitting together is cute too....

[Notch] Doc took that one....

[Stevie] - Yeah that was uncomfortable

[Notch] sighs- Cp isn't the only one with a ways to go Stevie...

[Stevie] - I know, I know

[Dofta] Little whoop. - Okay, I think I've got this... Now I'm going to tweak the ones with violent charges myself. I know I'm not supposed to but...

[Notch] I don't want to see them suffer either. I knew you were the right person for this job Dofta.

[Stevie] - Father, if you talk to brother you might be able to get him to hide Dofta's trail so it can't be tracked back to her

[Notch] I wonder how hard I'll have to plead to make that happen...?

[Buff] I can ask him!

[Stevie] - He'd probably just stab you... We could go the hard to resist route of getting Lie to ask him to do it

[CP] Spots Stevie from outside and grabs a bow, carefully aiming so that he'll just graze his brother-

[Notch] Fumbles his phone and moves across the window to retrieve it from the sill.

[CP] Spots the small opening and fires, it breaks the window, passes Notch, and grazes Stevie's shoulder-

[Stevie] - Nether!

[Buff] Jumps and knocks Notch's crafting table over.

[Notch] What the...? Stevie!

[Stevie] - I'm fine, just a scratch, pretty sure my brother is at fault

[Notch] Storms outside, spots Cp and yells at him full volume. - DON'T FUCKING DO THAT!

[CP] - It's called a sneak attack! It's part of training!

[Mb] YAAA! - Leaps off a low part of the roof and goes down like an anvil, his foot smashes into Cp's shoulder from above-

[Notch] Godsdammit..

[CP] - FUCKER!- Let's the blow turn his body so he can strike with his sword

[Mb] Goes for a punch in the face with his left, his eyes are wild and he looks thrilled in general-

[Flux] Comes into the courtyard- I heard glass breaking...

[CP] Bites the hand-

[Mb] Is bitten but hammerfists the top of Cp's head. [He's still flying.]

[Notch] Makes a tired gesture towards them.

[Flux] - Perhaps now might be a good chance to test if you can create shields around others that are a distance from you?

[CP] Goes for the stab-

[Buff] Comes outside. - should I seperate them?

[Mb] Is grazed and kicks at Cp's back-

[Notch] I don't know....

[CP] Teleports to get in a better vantage position-

[Flux] - Are you still in that call? Perhaps you should focus on that

[Notch] Shit! - Goes to retrieve his phone-

[Dofta] Are you under attack? Markus be careful!

[Stevie] Is dabbing at his wound with a wool square-

[Mb] Makes his clones and bum rushes with two while the third vanishes-

[Notch] Just dealing with some griefing. It's no big deal.

[CP] Sets himself alight with a very hot flame-

[Mbclones] Veers off and tries using swords instead.

[Buff] I could just stop them..?

[Lie] Groans from inside the house and types into chat- I am not in the mood for this...

[Mb] Wild whoops of joy even though he's bleeding as he cuts at Cp-

[Flux] Enters Notch's house- Stevie, do you need a potion?

[Stevie] - Nah, I should be fine. It's just a little bit of blood

[Buff] Is watching for an opening to step between the combatants-

[CP] Summons both his weapons to take out both clones at once-

[Mb] Goes for the sneak attack with his real self and makes a slice across Cp's butt, trying to make his pants fall down-

[CP] - Fucker!- His belt is cut

[Mb] Is gleefully swinging his three swords everywhere, he's not even trying to win, just cut Cp a bunch of times and make him more pissed off.

[CP] Explodes a bit-

[Lie] Groans and heads for the front door to put a stop to this-

[Mbclone1] Takes a hit from the fire and despawns

[Mbclone2] Gets burned a little but keeps fighting

[Mb] Very noisy and extremely overstimulated

[Lie] Opens the front door, ready to grab people with vines-

[Buff] Notices her and waves- Hi Lie!

[Mb] Looks down and grins at Cp- Oh shit! Run! It's your wife!

[Lie] Is surveying the damage with growing anger-

[CP] - AFTER I MURDER YOU!

[Mb] That's the spirit! - gets cut and spits a little blood. He's dribbling it all over the courtyard.

[Buff] They certainly seem determined...

[Lie] - WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU!?

[Mb] I LIKE TO FIGHT!

[Buff] Shrugs - Some brines are just like that Lie.

[Lie] Is growling a little and several very sharp vines erupt from the ground to grab her husband, MB, and the remaining clone- ENOUGH!

[Mbclone] Pops as the vines hit it-

[Mb] Struggles for a few seconds and realizes he can't get loose- YOU SUCK. HE PROMISED ME.

[Buff] Promised?

[Mb] YEAH! I WAS TOLD I COULD FIGHT HIM!

[Lie] - And you can, just not where you'll destroy my property!- There are a few holes in the ground in front of the house and the shock wave from CP exploding with fire has broken glass in the green house. Endrea's old play pen is bent and twisted a little and the fence around the honesty blossoms is broken as well

[Mb] Sulks- He started it. He shot at his brother with a damn arrow.

[Buff] That's true actually...

[Lie] - YOU DID WHAT!?

[CP] - He's the one asking for training!

[Mb] Smirks - Some training.

[Lie] - You know what? You can find someplace else to be for a few days- She turns around and slams the door shut behind her

[Mb] Looks up and scowls at the sun - Bitch. Now I gotta go pick up Celine. Wasting all my fucking fighting time.

[CP] Seems to deflate a lot-

[Buff] Is examining the base of the vines and settles for just grabbing them and breaking them off at the base-

-The bundle of vines topples slowly over and dumps Cp and Mb in the pond-

[CP] Just sits there-

[Stevie] - It got quiet out there...

[Notch] That worries me. I'll call you back Dofta. Go get some dinner. I'm betting it's late.

[Buff] Untangles them from the vines and sets them in the grass-

[Mb] Jumps up and sputters for a few minutes before stomping off-

[CP] Stays sitting on the ground-

[Buff] At Cp- Are you okay?

[CP] - Fuck off

[Notch] Walks over to the edge of the pond - what happened?

[Buff] Thumbs at Cp- He got yelled at for fighting

[CP] - She's not letting me into the house

[Notch] She'll get over it. She should be used to this by now. She's probably madder that you shot at Stevie then for anything else.

[CP] Hunches over, not so sure about it-

[Buff] It's okay big guy. You can come stay in the castle. I'm sure Doc won't mind.

[CP] - Fuck no

[Notch] Hey, at least she didn't turn you into a cat this time.

[CP] Grumbles-

[Stevie] Is standing in Notch's doorway, watching-

[Notch] You should probably apologize to Stevie. I'm pretty sure you knew that was the wrong thing to be doing even before you did it.

[CP] - Will not and was not

[Notch] Stalks off and comes back with an honesty blossom. With a quick flick he flips the pollen in Cp's face. - The quicker you apologize, the quicker Lie will forgive you, I'm sure.

[CP] Refuses to say anything and sets the flower on fire-

[Notch] Quickly lets go of the burning flower and it floats down before slipping into the water. - Cp....

[CP] - Go away

[Buff] Waves at Notch arily - sir... I'll tend to him. I think Stevie needs a clean square for his injuries, and there's the NOTCH coding at stake... Dofta likely still needs help.

[Notch] Looks torn-

[CP] - You won't fucking touch me

[Notch] Deflates visibly as his phone starts buzzing-

[Buff] Just go.

[Stevie] - Buff, just leave him be... He's... Not used to having company when he's in this sort of mood. Besides, you're needed to help with the NOTCH coding too...

[Buff] Cn can help too. Is he around?

This message has been removed.

[Stevie] Looks at Notch-

[Notch] Answers the phone and immediately starts talking animatedly before looking to the side- I saw him this morning...

[Stevie] - I'll see if he's in his room- He heads for Lie's place which immediately sets CP to growling

[Lie] Looks up as Stevie enters- Oh Stevie, sorry about the yelling...

[Stevie] - It's okay, is CN here?

[Lie] - Yeah, he's in his room

[Stevie] - We just need to borrow him real quick- Heads down the bridge and knocks on CN's door

[CN] Answers- Hm?

[Stevie] - Hey, there's some people who want to talk to you

[CN] - Why me?

[Stevie] - Because your a successful NOTCH and they're trying to fix some new ones and need some help

[CN] - What am I doing then?

[Stevie] - You're going to talk to a lady, she'll be able to explain more. Come on

[CN] Hesitates but does follow Stevie out and over to Notch's house-

[Flux] Is inside making some food-

[Notch] Is on the phone and sees Cn come in- Oh good, here. Cn Dofta wants to talk to you. She's going to give you a line prompt and it will make you rattle off the relevant codes. You don't have to think about it, just listen, okay?

[CN] Holds the phone upside down-

[Notch] Turns the phone around for him-

[CN] Into the phone- Hello?

[Dofta] Cn? Hello. Markus says you're going to help? As a recent sucessful NOTCH I'm just gathering type codes to do comparisions. Are you ready?

[CN] Quickly pulls the phone away from his ear- There's a voice!

[Notch] It's a phone. She's actually irl, really far away. It lets me talk to her. It's like the chat, but on an item.

[CN] Puts the phone up to his ear again- Hi... I'm programmed to protect my brine... Do you know her?

[Dofta] Lie? Yes, we've met. She seems like a really nice lady.

[CN] - I protect her from the big meanie

[Dofta] The smile is evident in her voice. - I know, and you're doing a good job. Just like you're supposed too.

[CN] Starts smiling- Uh huh! And I have a lot of feathers to! Lie got me a really long one that has a lot of colors recently! And firebird has been teaching me to read and write!

[Dofta] She's melting from the cute- That's so neat! Wait... Who's Firebird?

[CN] - An older NOTCH who turns into this really pretty looking bird!

[Dofta] Is obviously a bit confused and there's a bit of typing noise- Do you have any of his numbers?

[CN] - Ummm, 8093... Something something... 412

[Dofta] -typing noise- You said he's a bird? -typing- Does his Herobrine have a kind of floral theme?

[CN] - Uh huh! Um, that's... That's Flowey

[Dofta] Oh! I thought both of them had deleted eachother. Nice to know they're both safe.... wow... he is old... Let me know if he ever gets spacey or dizzy, he might need a debugging cycle. Okay?

[CN] - He's been teaching me to read and write! He also threw me off a tree

[Dofta] Why did he throw you off a tree?

[CN] - I got turned into a bird...

[Dofta] Oh dear! Are you... okay now?

[CN] - Yeah, TLOT turned me back

[Dofta] Well that was nice.

[CN] - Um, what did you need? I think dinner is gonna be soon...

[Dofta] A couple of things- gives him the prompt and holds the recorder up to the phone

[CN] Starts rattling off numbers-

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sending-the-message · 7 years ago

Text

A Mouse in the House by jonny_z

What do you do when you have a mouse? Get a cat, I suppose. Seems logical. What do you do when the mouse eats the cat? Well, I decided to study the fucker. Turns out, that was not the best idea I’ve had. Ok, I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me back up. I live in what some might consider a shithole. I myself, consider it… rustically charming. So, living in an older house with, shall we say, ample opportunities for renovations, you’re bound to end up with the odd, freeloading quadruped about. It started simply enough: little gnaw marks on my cereal boxes, chew holes through my trash bag, small black dookie pellets littered hither and yon. Evidence that I had an interloper who was attacking my Cinnamon Chex. Nobody, but nobody, fucks with my Cinnamon Chex. You see, I don’t have much anymore, after that Harlot left me heart-broken, penniless and with a 400 credit score. My entire world consisted of work, whiskey and Cinnamon Chex, so anyone attacking one of my three pillars of this shit existence was branded as my nemesis.

The first act was to try and catch the sonofabitch myself. I set out about my dilapidated, three story garbage heap to try and find the fucker’s hiding spot. The problem is, I really didn’t have baseboards to speak of and one would be hard-pressed to find a section of wall, floor or room that didn’t have mouse-sized holes in it. After about a week, none of the traps were sprung and I had all but given up on hunting the cereal thieving bastard. Even laying down flour near his normal “dining area” to try and trace footprints back to his escape hatch was fruitless; it seemed that the flour was too obvious for the conniving little douche. So, I decided it was time to up my game and find myself a natural predator. As fortune would have it, my shithole house was in a shithole neighborhood and I had an abundance of semi-feral felines roaming the alleyways. One never had to wait too long before one of the local Toms knocked up an alley hussy and she spit out a litter of furry hell-spawn. It took little more than a hunk of McGarbage on a boot string to corral one of the wee guttersnipes into my foyer so that I could apprehend him. He was a feisty little shit: the first afternoon that I made him my prisoner, after distracting him with the other half of my McYucky sandwich, I attempted to pet him. He bit me for my trouble. I named him Dick. He didn’t care.

I figured Dick would probably be too full of processed beef abominations to want to sniff out my intruder, but I grossly underestimated the voracity of an infrequently fed feral feline and he set about with little haste tracking around the other critter’s munching ground. Low to the ground, I watched Dick as he slinked about my mismatched wood flooring in search of a live, wriggling meal. He made his way, weaseling up the stairs like a slinky in reverse, on to the second floor. He paused for a minute, regained his bearings, acquainting himself with the yet undiscovered level of my domicile before proceeding up the stairs once more, en route to the attic door on the third floor. I personally never made many trips into the attic. When I had moved in, I noted that it was filled with rubbish and ruined furniture from previous tenants, probably dating back a few decades. Between the mildew smell and queef squeak of the floorboards, I found no reason to ever fully explore that particular room. To be honest, my time was spend drinking on my dirty, jizz and tear stained futon with occasional trips to the commode to shit, shave and shower. But I digress. Dick stopped outside of the attic door, which had a sizeable gap between the base of the old, paint peeled door and the discolored floor boards, the threshold long ago either rotted or kicked away. He got almost flat to the ground and began to let out that low, guttural cat yodel, signaling that his target had been acquired. He stared at the door, tail twitching in a perturbed manner and continued to grumble. “Well,” I thought. “This should be short work.” And I trekked back down the stairs to my futon and cheap bottle of whiskey to drink and sulk myself to sleep, as per custom.

The next morning, I expected to find the gory evidence of mouse murder. Gore, I found in spades. Mouse bits? Not so much. What I did find was a ragged, jagged, gnawed hunk of cat tail just outside of the attic door. This was an unexpected turn of events. So, shit-snacks... I may have grossly underestimated my rodent opponent. What should I do now, I wondered aloud, to no one in particular. I’d like to pause and interject here. As I am writing this, I am more or less sober. This a great deal different than my usual states of incredibly drunk or incredibly hung over. In moments like now, I have the virtue of extreme hindsight and clarity. At the time, this was not the case. Instead of realizing that something was truly amiss with this creature sharing my house, I just assumed that it was more ‘rat’ than ‘mouse’, and being that Dick wasn’t full grown, I just passed it off as a battle royale that ended in the rat’s favor. Perhaps, I surmised, there were two or more rats involved. A gang of rats, even. So, I decided to adjust my tactics and impose a heartier predator to take on this vermin infestation. In much the same manner, using my urban fishing skills, I wrangled two decent sized, surly Toms who clearly regarded me as their lesser and they strutted, nuts swinging, across my floor to the plate of McDysentery that I had prepared for them. For sure, I thought, this would be the end of my invader. After all, I had cereal to think of.

In much the same way, the two Toms skulked their way up to the third floor attic door and yowled at the brood beyond. This time, I thought, I was out to win the game. I grabbed my bottle of turpentine flavored whiskey and proceeded back up the crumbling steps to the third floor where to terrible Toms sat outside the door to my attic. In fact, I grabbed a camping chair and a bag of stale chips to complete the ambiance and prepared for a little, quadrupedal gladiator show. I quickly set up camp and opened the door to the attic to set loose those magnificent bastards and was immediately assaulted by the mold scent and a new, yet undescribed funk. Something deep and rich in its awfulness, with the slight twinges of metal at its outskirts. As if the mold wasn’t bad enough, I imagine this was the rotting remnants of poor little Dick from the other day. The Toms wasted no time and bolted in to the shadows in the back of that rotten attic. Obscured by the foul-smelling darkness, the sounds of mayhem and murder ripped through the otherwise silent room. Munching my stale chips, I wondered if I should grab a flashlight to catch the action as it unfolded. The action, however, lasted as long as a Mike Tyson fight. I could tell by the tone of screeching from my two tough Toms that the tide of the battle had shifted against them. The low, guttural war cry sharply shifted to a pleading cacophony of retreat. Retreat, however, was not on the enemy’s agenda. Briefly, I saw the mangled form of one Tom try and drag his way out of darkness into light, like a soul damned to the pit, groping skyward for the heaven he would never reach. The poor shit was dragged menacingly back into that awful blackness to assuredly be ripped asunder by whatever ungodly creature resided in the blackness.

After the melee, I sat for a long time and pondered what had just occurred. In as little as three weeks, whatever had taken residence in my home had graduated from cereal to kitten to full grown alley cats in as much time. This did not bode well for yours truly. Thoughts of whatever was in that attic haunted me in my half-inebriated state. But, much to my later chagrin, whiskey has the dubious moniker of “liquid courage” for a reason. My thoughts shifted from fear to anger at whatever the fuck thought it could intrude on me, eat my cereal and my fucking cats! It didn’t matter that I had them each for less than a few days; they were like my miserable extended family: a reflection of myself in their shoddy, unloved and disheveled state. An inexplicable rage burbled up inside of me like the first wave of violent bourbon induced vomiting and I leaped from my chair and grabbed my now empty bottle of whiskey to swing like a deadly cudgel against whatever mutant rat was living in my attic.

I burst through the entryway like a demented warrior, bottle raised above my head, yelling like a maniac at top lung and hitting the room at full drunken lumber. As I closed my distance into the shadows, time itself slowed to a heated heartbeat pace. Each moment in those few seconds, etched like a camera obscura forever into my thalamus, no matter how much I try to kill the memory with booze….

First heartbeat

I hit the separation between the light from the landing outside of the attic door to the dark of the inner attic sanctum.

Second heartbeat.

The shadows revealed themselves to me, like a two dollar whore dropping her filthy dress to the cigarette burned carpet of a seedy roadside motel.

Third heartbeat.

From the level of my waist, eight glowing orbs, so red that they were black, shot up at my direction and fixed on me; a predator honing in on its prey. They spoke destruction in their gaze, and that gaze was pointed right at where my giblets were housed.

Fourth heartbeat.

A low, hungry rumble undulated from just below the glowing orbs. It was a song of death. My death. I was man-bacon. And I had stepped directly into the motherfucking frying pan.

Fifth heartbeat.

I shifted my forward momentum to one side of my body and spun around on my heel, parlaying my forward drive into centrifugal force, propelling my terrified ass directly out the way I had come. Suddenly sober, I sprinted with every ounce of fleet footedness I could muster. Pure and primal survival kicked in as I heard the scraping its nails made as it dug into the floorboards for traction, preparing to make me into its next meal and presumably grow to full human height. I managed to grab the door, slamming it shut mere seconds before that whatever-the-fuck-it-was locked its teeth into my ass cheeks. I heard it hit with a thud and grunt as I continued into the half functioning bathroom. See, like a proper loser, I kept bottles of whiskey in about every room just in case I found my idle hands wanting. Opening the top, I ripped my shirt off and stuffed it into the open maw of the whiskey bottle (after taking a solid pull from it, of course, because fuck sobriety right now) and produced the Zippo my bitch of an ex had bought me one birthday. Lighting it with a practiced flourish, I set ablaze the Molotov cocktail right as that eight-eyed carnivore discovered the concept of doorknobs.

With the skill that only middle relief pitching in little league could bring me, I hucked that flaming bottle at the mass that held those goddamned eyes. In a magnificent explosion of whiskey fueled fire, the cocktail hit home and set that shit-weasel ablaze. It screamed bloody murder and began to thrash back to the shadows of the attic, lighting the old boxes and musty furniture in its retreat. As the fire quickly spread from shit heap to shit heap, the creature made it’s exit through the window, screeching as it fell. I paused a moment to catch my breath, smiling like an idiot in victory until I realized that my house would probably burn around me if I didn’t get the hell out of dodge, post haste.

Grabbing another bottle of whiskey on my way out, I walked away like the closing scene of a John Woo film, building artistically blazing behind me. I paused, a sudden thought occurring to me… so few times in my life had I fought a battle and won, that it seemed a waste not to revel in my one victory a bit. I took a hearty swig of my dime store booze and sauntered cockily over to the rear of my flaming house to physically piss on my fallen foe.

As I rounded the corner, I saw in full, clear view what I had unwittingly vanquished. Lying twitching on the ground was what looked like a rejected HR Geiger sketch of a spider: the size of a small dog with a pale, hairless, smooth white body, dagger like legs and menacing mandibles which were still soaked in the blood and viscera of my poor, poor pussy cats. I could see that my flaming onslaught had melted three of its eight eyes, but, other than that, it looked more dazed than wounded. Staring at it, swaying drunkenly, I lost myself momentarily in the wickedness of the thing. What a perfect predator: quiet, sleek, ruthless… I wondered for a moment how large it would grow if left unchecked. It began to stir, ever so slightly, proving to me that I had indeed only stunned it. Any moment now, it would shake off the haze like the end of any of my lonely, whiskey soaked nights, courtesy of a heartless succubus who took my time, my money, my happiness and left me for some cocksucker with a better job and a sports car… And then, the angel on my shoulder was smited by the devil on my other as a dark grin cracked over my face, growing until my teeth bared and my skin began to crack.

A box, some tape, a note and a short drive was all it took. She always liked surprises. And I recall, she often told me she was fond of my eyes… well, I have new eyes to show her, and those eyes scream out murder.

#reddit #nosleep #scary #story

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kuriquinn · 8 years ago

Text

Samsara [Part II]

General Disclaimer

Sakura might have quelled at least some of Sasuke’s fears, but she isn’t as confident as she pretends. The idea that the fetus inside her is connected to as dark and tragic a past as Indra Ōtsutsuki is worrisome, but at the same time…

She has to admit she’s curious.

That doesn’t stop her being relieved when the dreams inexplicably stop bringing her to the strange beach. Her nightly visions become vague again, bursts of colour and emotion, occasionally faces that are familiar to her but inconsequential. She still experiences the frustrating moments of abuse, attacks from a faceless father and sister; these encounters paralyse her as she sleeps, and leave her irritated upon waking. But overall, there is such a vague and hurried quality to these that she suspects she is experiencing time passing.

This pattern continues long enough that it’s almost a shock when she falls asleep one night and finds herself once more in a completely lucid, detailed dream.

She is sitting uncomfortably at a table in a richly decorated room, and the dim memories Sakura can access suggest that her attendance here is rare, perhaps even only occasionally required. Sitting across from her are two people whose presence not only disheartens her – the small, curious part of her had been hoping to meet Indra again – but also fills her with overwhelming wariness.

“There’s talk among the court of a newcomer,” Father says as the servants place their meals before them. “A man of great talent, said to be the son of a wise sage from the East. They say he can call lightning from the sky and breathe fire like the dragons of old.”

“It would be useful to have such a man beholden to you,” Older Sister remarks, sounding bored as she picks at her food.

“Yes, it is better to be on the side of a demon than in his path. Should the stories of this man be true, I intend to offer him alliance. I am told he is young and ambitious. Command of my armies should sway his loyalty. Or, perhaps, marriage.”

Older Sister scowls. “Marriage to a foreigner won’t grow the coffers of this land.”

“Maybe not, but talents he is said to be able to teach could,” Father says. “I am confident you’ll do your duty, daughter.” He then suddenly turns and barks, “What’s that look for, Shachi? Have you something to say?”

They are both looking at her now and she realises that she is Shachi.

Her lips part. “If…if…”

“If…if…if…” Older Sister mocks. Sakura inwardly snarls, knowing if she had control of her body right now, she would wipe the floor with the painted doll before her.

“I-If Older Sister doesn’t wish to marry h-him, I w-would take on th-that duty, F-Father. If it would p-please you.”

He snorts. “Dishonour an important man with a concubine’s spawn instead of the heiress to the land? I intend to court an ally, not lend insult. Keep your ridiculous opinions to yourself. Don’t make me regret my generosity in allowing you to sit at my table.”

“As you wish, Father.” She bows.

“May the gods soon find me a man who can look past your whore of a mother’s legacy and take you off my hands,” he grumbles to himself.

Sakura – Shachi – looks down at her knees, shoulders sinking.

Older Sister sniggers. “Oh, don’t look so downcast. Besides, if the stories of this stranger are true, he attracts many followers. Maybe someone among the riffraff will take an interest in you.”

The two of them laugh, leaving Sakura – Shachi – clenching her fists.

夢

They are at the back of an izakaya, scouring dishes from a busy dinner rush; they don’t have any money tonight, and in exchange for a room they’re helping with hostess out. Sasuke washes, Sakura dries. There has been nothing but companionable silence until she breaks it.

“Can I…can I ask you something?”

“Hm.”

“It’s about your brother,” she goes on, hesitant, because the topic is a difficult one, and usually provides some cue for him to make an escape. She’s hoping soapy hands make that a little harder this time.

From the tense set of his shoulders, she knows he’s already planning bolt, and she hurriedly continues.

“It’s about your relationship before – before all of it. You never talk about it, and you don’t have to now, I just…I never had an older brother or sister, so I don’t know myself. I was wondering…is it normal for an older sibling to hate the younger one?”

She winces, because it still came out awkwardly, and she bets he’s going to ignore it, because it’s not exactly what she was asking but –

“For a long time, I thought so,” Sasuke answers in a low voice. “But over time, I learned it’s the exception, not the rule.”

She exhales at this. “Oh.”

“Why do you ask?”

“No reason. Just thinking.”

“Sakura.”

She scowls, because he’s getting a lot better at reading her voice. Or maybe he always could, now he just chooses to react to it.

“It’s something I noticed in my dream –”

“You had another one?” he interrupts sharply, nearly dropping one of the bowls in his hand.

“Yes – and no, I haven’t seen him again, if that’s what you want to know. Don’t you think I’d tell you right away?”

“Hn.”

“Well, I would. I just…haven’t had to say anything lately because nothing happened. I don’t think he’s in the picture right now. But this – the person I am in my dreams – her name is Shachi, I think.” She peeks at him. “Does that sound familiar to you?”

Since their conversation about a possible past life or odd Uchiha-specific pregnancy quirk, she has found it easier to ask him these questions. After all, between the two of them, he’s the only one who has a definite link to whatever it is she’s dreaming.

He closes his eyes, frowning in concentration, then shakes his head. “I feel as if I’ve heard the name before, but it could be from anywhere.”

He’s right, they meet enough new people every day, perhaps it’s a name they’ve encountered in their travels.

“It’s just, her family – or, I guess the people who raised her – they treat her so badly. It’s as if she’s beneath them, and I don’t…I don’t understand how family can do that,” she exclaims, frustrated. “How can someone not protect their younger sibling? How can a parent not love their child? I can’t imagine a world where you look at our baby like he – or she – means nothing.”

“It would never happen.”

He says it so instantly and certainly that she feels a wave of pure joy wash over her, and she offers him a loving smile. “I know that. But in my dream –”

“You said yourself your mind might just be processing things,” Sasuke continues. “You’ve mentioned feeling weak, held back. It’s possible that you’re drawing on experiences you’ve actually lived and your brain is interpreting them in the simplest way.”

Sakura shoots him a suspicious look. “You’ve been reading my medical scrolls, haven’t you? The psychology ones?”

“They offer the most logical explanation to all this.”

She sighs. “Darling, you can’t search for clues based on the answer you want.”

“It’s not what I want. It’s what it could be. And all of this could simply be a quirk of your dreams.”

They work in silence for a spell.

“You don’t really think it is, do you?” she asks eventually.

A pause.

“No.”

“So, if it is something that happened, why do you think she’s treated so badly?”

“Back then, people saw children differently. A means to an end, a legacy.”

“And what’s our child?”

Sasuke holds her gaze, no trace of doubt there, and simply says, “Hope.”

眠り

For some reason, after this conversation, the tone of her dreams changes. Her awareness of being in a dream fades faster. Memories of an entire life crowd out her identity during waking hours, and so when the stranger arrives in their land, her first reaction – Shachi’s first reaction – is of surprise.

Even though she shouldn’t be. Because there aren’t many men who can control lightning, after all, and there is such a commanding air about him that the idea of him as the leader her father spoke of is not impossible.

The day he steps foot in her father’s court is grey and overcast, inauspicious in it’s normalcy, and yet her body – both in her dream and her present self – feels taut with awareness. He arrives quietly, with little pomp, into Father’s audience chamber. If he notices her sitting on the dais by her sister’s feet, he gives no indication, his every attention focussed on the lord of the land.

He says very little, and yet before the audience is over, everyone knows who he is: Lord Indra of the Eastern Lands, a master in the secret arts. He is well-spoken and a warrior by bearing and – based on Older Sister’s expression upon seeing him for the first time – an desirable possible match.

He seeks followers, those he will impart with teachings, and who he intends to make stronger, asks only for the freedom to recruit whoever he wants.

“My methods are difficult,” he warns quietly, “and only those willing to lay down their lives in dedication will succeed. In exchange, I will instruct the soldiers in your armies as well.”

Father is beside himself – this is exactly what he wanted, after all – and the accord is soon settled. He celebrates by throwing a lavish banquet in Lord Indra’s honour, despite the obvious fact that the young man has no use for the gesture. He appears restless and impatient, as if he wishes to get started on his mission as soon as possible.

Sakura – Shachi? – watches him with wide eyes, thinking on the helpless man she nursed back to health, the one who could have killed her but didn’t. As frightened as she is by him, she can’t fight down her interest.

He notices her watching him and looks up, holding her gaze. Her entire body tenses, and she feels as if she’s looking into the eyes of a snake moments before it strikes. She can’t look away until he does, and once free, her entire body shivers. Her breath comes in sharp bursts and she wonders if, perhaps, he hasn’t used some of his strange power on her.

夢

“It sounds like genjutsu,” Sasuke as he sets up a wire-trap.

“I don’t think so,” Sakura muses, leaning against a nearby tree. “He wouldn’t need to use that on her. She’s too afraid. Too docile. You only use genjutsu on someone if you expect resistance.”

She and Sasuke exchange a tense look, both of them acknowledging a bitter shared memory.

He grunts and hops down from the tree. “When we’re done here, we’re heading to that temple we passed. Maybe there will be someone there who can explain why you’re seeing this.”

“We might as well stop at a hospital too and have me speak to a bunch of therapists,” she deadpans. “I don’t think anyone is going to have answers on this one.”

Sasuke scowls. “So, your strategy is to wait and see?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t accept that.”

“Well, tough. While I’m incubating the tiny human, I make the rules. And as of right now, I’m not in any actual medical danger, and other than being annoying and sometimes confusing, what I see when I’m asleep isn’t affecting my health in any way.”

“Yet.”

This time it’s Sakura who scowls. “Need I remind you of your history of overreacting?”

Which Sasuke can’t exactly argue with, and so he settles on beleaguered silence while they set up the remainder of the traps.

She sighs to herself and wonders if there’s a point to keeping him updating about her dreams if he’s just going to get so upset about them. And she definitely doesn’t want to admit to him that the longer these dreams continue, and the more often she has them, the more she feels as if she’s living a completely different life.

“Sasuke…I know there’s no way to be one-hundred percent sure about all of this, but…would it be so bad?” He stares at her, askance. “If this actually was my past life. It would just mean that I’ve care for you longer than be both thought.”

“You know it would mean more than that. You know that it’s a story that doesn’t end happily.”

“We don’t know if that’s completely true.”

“He broke everything he touched,” her husband says darkly. “He had everything, and just…” He cuts off, making a disgusted sound. “Because of him, my family… because of him I did the same. Might still do the same. What if this is a reminder, a warning, that I’m going to break this too?”

The question is so soft, so distressingly uncertain that for a moment Sakura doesn’t have an answer.

Sasuke very rarely shows any type of vulnerability, and to this day she is certain she is the only one alive who has ever seen that part of him. What makes this particular display so heartbreaking is that she knows he isn’t even asking it for his own sake, but for their child’s.

Tears fill her eyes, but she holds them back. Crying right now will do nothing to help him; she swore long ago that when he was struggling, she would support him. And if that means shrugging off her puzzling dreams, so be it.

“I never thought you were the superstitious type,” she says, trying to break the tensions with levity.

Sasuke scowls. “It’s hard not to be when your past life decides to haunt your wife’s dreams.”

She smiles. The fact that he sounds so waspish is a good sign.

“Come here,” she says, and without giving him opportunity to resist, she presses his hand above her womb. “Listen to me: you are not going to break this.” He opens his mouth, and she drowns him out. “No – listen. You are not going to break this. I don’t break easy, and you can summon a giant chakra monster to protect yourself. This child? Half you, half me. Definitely not breakable.”

He still doesn’t look entirely reassured, but the tense set to his shoulders fades somewhat.

眠り

Lord Indra becomes a guest in their kingdom, permitted to walk among the people and seek students. He accepts any who come to him, man or woman, and weeds out the weak. Many of them die – strangely enough, it’s usually the soldiers that Father sends who are unable to succeed – and yet still more continue to seek him out.

He is the only one who knows this strange, magical teaching. He calls it ninjutsu, and when he says it, there’s an almost fanatic gleam in his eyes.

She finds this odd, but Father doesn’t care. As he sees it, his kingdom will soon grow to rule over all the rest, if only he can convince Lord Indra to remain here instead of moving on. Older Sister preens and poses, trying to entice a smile from the sullen faced stranger, and taking it out on Shachi when he doesn’t.

Shachi? No…I’m…Sakura?

That name seems so distant to her when she is here, when she is the other woman. Though she knows this is but a dream, she feels tethered to it as much as if it were real.

She watches Lord Indra from the sidelines. Although drawn to him, longing for him to acknowledge her again, or at least thank her for saving his life, she feels safer in the shadows. Sometimes, he is apparently alone, training or meditating by himself, and yet when she makes a move to approach him, she imagines she hears someone speaking to him. Whenever this happens, she hurries away. After all, their last encounter up-close is fresh in her mind, and as compelled as she is to seek him out, she is also afraid of him.

And so she keeps away, watching his training sessions from the protection of the forest.

Sometimes she is caught, receiving a reprimand or a beating from her father, but these days both are more an afterthought; Father only cares about her whereabouts when someone reminds him, and Older Sister, only if she notices her lurking. For the most part, she is free to watch the stranger as she wishes.

Lord Indra teaches with brutal efficiency. He never raises his voice above a murmur, yet retains perfect control over his students. He can make a simple nod feel as if he has fallen to his knees in praise, and a derisive glare make a man want to fall on his sword to avoid dishonour.

Several do.

Only once he is satisfied with their ability to maintain discipline and control does he teach them the new abilities. Shachi watches as men learn to bend water in their hands, or call up mounds of earth like fangs from the ground. Some command the wind and others turn blades of grass into needles. With a flash of his red eyes he instructs them all, precise instructions, having them repeat them over and over, making motions with his hands as he does.

She mouths along his words, trying to capture the sound of his voice in her mind. When he speaks normally – not threatening her life as he did that day on the beach – his voice is pleasant, inviting. Despite the danger he represents, he makes her feel safe, and that is something she isn’t used to.

From her place in the shadows, she makes the hand gestures as well, arranging her fingers until she can do it perfectly. Soon she does it without noticing, can allow herself to just listen to the sound of his voice as he instructs. One day, his words seem closer to her than usual, even though he is so far away, and she closes her eyes, imagines that he is watching her, not his students, is telling her –

You build up chakra, stop it once it collects between the mouth and the chest area. Once you have enough, you release it all at once.

She inhales deeply, focussing on the warmth in her chest, and then breathes out.

To her absolute shock and horror, flames spew from between her lips and incinerate the tree in front of her.

She stumbles backward in shock and fear, unable to believe what just happened. She takes a split second to look around, to see if anyone saw her, and then takes off at a run, pulling her cumbersome skirts to her knees and stumbling back through the forest.

In the distance, she hears people calling out, confused shouting, demands for water. Commotion as students try to put out the flames with buckets, or with their new chakra wielding talents, she isn’t sure, because she keeps on running –

Only to find her way blocked by Lord Indra.

His eyes blaze at her and she recoils, dropping to her knees and bowing her forehead to the ground.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry, I didn’t meant to – I didn’t even realise I was – please don’t tell my father, I – I’ll never do it again –”

“How long did it take you?” he interrupts.

She blinks at that, chancing a glance up at him. “M-my lord?”

“You have been watching for weeks but you have never attempted anything before,” he informs her, earnings a small squeak of surprise. “Today you tried. How long did it take you?”

“I-I… not long. I just… I listened to what you said, and I tried it.”

“Hm.”

He gives her an inscrutable look, like he’s considering something he hadn’t before, and she bows her head again. “I didn’t meant to hurt anyone or cause trouble.”

She is aware of the sound of feet near her ear, and when she looks up he has begun to walk away, back to the training grounds. She isn’t sure if she imagines it or not when he mutter, “Next time don’t stand next to a tree.”

夢

“You forgot again, didn’t you?”

Sakura scowls at the gash in Sasuke’s leg, the product of a stray flail and misguided intentions. The villagers in this part of the country are so wary of strangers, they attacked before letting Sakura explain herself. Sasuke, of course, instinctively pushed her out of the way, but ended up with another limb nearly being severed.

“Forgot what?” he grumbles, observing as her fingers glow green over the skin there.

“That you don’t have to protect me,” she chides him. “Even if I didn’t have a basic capacity to dodge, a flail isn’t going to hurt me.”

“Maybe not, but as far as I know, your regenerative abilities don’t apply to the baby,” he reminds her. “You’re not as invincible as you’re used to being.”

Sakura blinks at this, surprise waylaying the retort on her lips.

He’s right.

For a minute, she did forget.

It’s all so new – the changes in her body, the adjustments she’s had to make. No more chakra suppressors, she can’t drink coffee anymore, she��s tired more often – it sometimes feels so disconnected to her. Some days she is completely aware of the new life within her, unable to stop thinking about it, and other days, when everything gets so busy and confusing – like today – she forgets. Even looking in the mirror is deceptive – she doesn’t look pregnant at all, even with her clothes off.

There is movement to the left, and she glances up as two young girls carry in buckets of water; she smiles at them gratefully, earning half-awed, half-shy expressions in return, and then they hurry off.

The villagers backed off when she sent a crushing blow to the ground, forcing them to retreat if they didn’t want to fall into the broken earth. Upon watching her lean down to heal him before he bled out, they finally realised that she was a healer and spent the rest of the evening apologising profusely. They even insisted on putting her and Sasuke up for as long as they wanted to stay, hence the small hut which they are currently occupying.

They even carried Sasuke back here on a litter so she could preserve her healing abilities. He nearly threw a fit at that (he still hates appearing weak in any way) but the people felt so terribly about it, Sakura insisted they go along with it.

Somewhat out of deference to this, she decides to relent a bit.

“I’m sorry,” she tells him, checking the progression of closing skin. “I’ll try to be more careful in the future.”

“Hm.”

“I’m just not used to hanging back. It’s been a while since I had to stay out of the direct line of danger.”

“I know.”

He finally relaxes, however, allowing his eyes to close and breath to even out. As if he didn’t expect her to take it easy until she said the words.

Ridiculous man…

She shakes her head, considering the calm picture he provides. It reminds her of those first few dreams she had, of healing Indra on that beach.

Sasuke’s former incarnation is starkly different than he is, she realises that now. He watched her – watched Shachi – with the distrustful gaze of someone who expected her to be incompetent or treacherous. Sasuke’s attention is intent, but in a different sense – watchful and wary for the sake of her health, not his.

As if being pregnant made her breakable.

She’s forgotten what it’s like to need to be protected. It makes her nightly sojourns in the life and mind of Shachi all the more confusing.

The other woman is such a stark contrast from her. Docile, obedient, hesitant – all of these are qualities she either never possessed or grew out of in her early childhood. Their very nature is utterly opposite.

In fact, even their ability to use chakra is completely different, judging from the way they learned to use it. Shachi’s first act was so powerful, charged enough to destroy an entire tree. Sakura remembers the first time she used ninjutsu, she had to try her hardest just to manage a passable substitution.

And that’s another thing. It’s not just their different temperaments. Why does Sakura have an affinity for water, when Shachi is clearly more suited to fire? Isn’t that the type of thing that should carry over?

“Not necessarily.”

Sakura jumps, realising suddenly that she has been musing out loud the hold time. Sasuke is frowning at her thoughtfully.

“The goal of reincarnation is to be reborn as a better self. Perhaps it means stronger, as well. Water is superior to fire.”

“Oh.”

“I take it you’re dreaming of him again then?” he asks, voice entirely too casual.

Sakura looks away, caught out. She’s been trying to avoid bringing it up because she knows it upsets him. “Only recently. Only last night, really. It’s a little confusing, so I didn’t say anything until I could get my thoughts in order.”

“I’m not going anywhere for the next little while,” he reminds her, nodding to his leg. It’s completely healed by now, and she shoots him an amused look. He raises an eyebrow, as if challenging her to call him on it. “Tell me what you dreamed.”

“As long as you don’t get upset every time I talk about Indra.”

His jaw clenches but he nods. “Fine.”

眠り

Eventually Father grows tired of Lord Indra skirting the issue. He wants to ensure everlasting loyalty, wants someone who will train and preside over his army in perpetuity.

In front of the whole court, he offers a permanent, eternal bond between them.

“My daughter, Shibasuri,” he declares proudly, gesturing to Older Sister. “She will make a fine wife, and through her, your children will be the heirs of my land.”

Every other man in the court seethes at this, because Lord Indra may be strong, but he is a foreigner. And more than a few covet Older Sister for themselves.

But the solemn stranger shows no interest in either offering.

“I have no interest in possessing this land,” he says quietly, his words easily audible in the stunned silence. “And I have no need of a woman who revels in her looks and is ignorant to the world. A creature whose body is starved to uselessness in pursuit of fashion, who will never be fatted with child.”

Older Sister makes a noise born of incandescent fury, and Father turns scarlet in anger.

“You dare – !”

But Lord Indra has turned away from both, and instead his gaze falls upon the crowd. Upon her as she stands with her guardians.

“I will take this one instead,” he declares imperiously. “On that condition I will remain here.”

She gasps, because this makes no sense. He has never, ever given any indication of seeing her, let alone –

“Shachi?” Father inquires, confusion dampening his anger. “Why would you…? She is of lower status, not of any importance – ”

“I will hear her answer,” Indra interrupts. “And if she has no wish for wedlock, I will take my leave with any disciple that will follow.”

There’s a stunned silence then, a dangerous note of expectation in this, and then the whispering begins. Already the members of the court are wagging their tongues, expressing surprise and glee at this turn of events. They imagine blackmail, a play for power from a younger daughter, a secret love –

It is none of these things. From her weeks observing him, she knows that Lord Indra has his own mind, his own plans that he follows. If he prefers her over her beautiful older sister, there is a reason, and not one as basic and superfluous as caring for her.

Older Sister glowers at her, as if Shachi has indeed done something to organise all of this, and Father frowns at her with a look in his eye that promises a lifetime of broken bones if she doesn’t acquiesce.

He needn’t bother, because she knew the instant that Lord Indra spoke, what her answer was going to be.

Even so, it feels as if she is signing the death warrant of her fate when she whispers, “I accept.”

夢

Sakura stretches a hand over her head, making a high-pitched, purring noise at the back of her throat, and then relaxes once more, head pillowed on Sasuke’s blanket-clad inner thigh. They lie head-to-foot, naked and sated, the smell of sex still lingering in the air.

Sasuke is on his side, his face pressed against one side of her abdomen, his hand curved around the other. His eyes are closed, and his mouth is pulled into a not-quite-smile of tranquility. It’s far too early for any kind of kicking to be felt – for anything to be heard – but it doesn’t seem to matter to Sasuke. Sakura’s own smile is gentle as she reaches forward, brushing his hair back from his face. He cracks his right eye open and there’s that brief look – soft, content and happy – and then he closes it again.

It’s a look that’s reserved only for her and, she knows, their future child, and which encompasses everything. Even though he rarely says it – only when she has him reduced to panting, overwhelmed gasps as she did minutes earlier – she feels the unquestionable love he has for her. It’s an experience that fills her with warmth from the inside, because it’s something she never truly believed she would experience.

It makes her feel guilty for asking him, once, if the only reason he wanted to be with her was to repopulate his clan. Sasuke was, by then, a changed man.

Such a difference from the man in her dreams.

She wonders about him. His temperament, his motives, his relationship with Shachi…

“Why do you think he chose her?”

“Hm?” Sasuke’s voice is low and rough from sleep.

“Indra,” Sakura clarifies dimly, gazing up at the wooden ceiling. “He washes up in this strange land, tries to kill her, disappears, then comes back. And her father offers him practically the world, anything a guy back then would want, and he throws it back in his face over Shachi. A girl he barely even spoke a hundred words to.” She shakes her head in confusion. “That’s something a person does for the one they love, but I don’t…do you think he was even capable of it at that point?”

“Capable of?”

“Love.”

Sasuke is silent for a long moment, leaving her wondering if he intends to answer the question. Then he says, “I don’t think it was possible in the way you understand it.”

“Meaning?”

“After being betrayed – or rather, after deciding he had been betrayed – by Hagoromo and Asura, he would have been more guarded than ever. He wouldn’t have been capable of feeling for her what…” He trails off here, his voice becoming more quiet, more furtive, “For what I feel for you.”

She doesn’t acknowledge the admission beyond a soft smile – he gets defensive and grumpy if she makes a big deal out of moments like this.

Instead, she returns to the topic. “So why choose her?”

“She did help him. He may have seen it as repaying a debt.”

“But he also said she reminded him of being weak. And she was weak. Wouldn’t the likelier choice have been the older sister? The one with status?”

“A man like him would choose a bride more suited to his purposes. You told me she had the ability to use chakra – which she learned just by observing his teachings,” Sasuke points out. “To members of my clan, Shachi would be the more sought-after candidate.”

Sakura considers this, and then nods. “That make sense.”

“I don’t believe it was the whole reason though.”

She shoots him a confused look.

“He might have seen her as a parallel of himself,” Sasuke continues, thoughtful. “A child mistreated by family. In his view, he was betrayed by his; this girl, she’s the scapegoat of her own kin – and for an utterly underserved reason, based on what you’ve told me.”

“But in that case, wouldn’t it make more sense to kill her family? Why agree to a marriage with her? An actual link to these people?”

“I have no doubt he had some kind of long-term motive. However…I suspect it may have been different than anything he actively planned.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s entirely possible, she provided him with something he didn’t even realise he was missing,” Sasuke tells her, staring off into the distance. “As far gone as he was, he needed something to ground him. When Indra first awakened his abilities, he was strong because he was protecting someone precious. His brother. And he remained strong, even as he became more drawn to the darkness, because he always thought he had the support of his father and brother. When that was gone – when Hagoromo named Ashura as his successor – for the first time in his life, he was truly alone. When you have as much power as he did, and as much hatred, you need something to justify your actions – some goal that makes everything else you do worthwhile.”

She knows now that he is speaking of himself, and not Indra. Of how his love for his brother drove him to commit horrible acts.

“Then he meets this girl, and she’s obviously drawn to him, and she helps him,” Sakura suggests. “And he keeps seeing her, and he knows she’s in a bad situation, so he starts to feel what it’s like to have someone trust in him again.”

It sounds far too plausible, and Sakura shivers. She doesn’t like the idea of Indra using Shachi’s misfortune for himself, but at the same time, she knows that the other woman – this shrinking violet – would see it as an opportunity to escape. In a way, the two are saving each other, even if they don’t know it.

“Hm.” Sasuke nods here. “She is someone who will be utterly loyal to him – both because of who she is as a person, and because as a wife, it is her duty to be subservient to his will.”

Sakura lifts her head and shoots him a sardonic smirk. “Oh, so I have to be subservient to you now?”

“…I refuse to answer that question on the grounds that I may incriminate myself.”

“Damn right,” she nods, falling back, and then squeaks indignantly when he tweaks her left nipple in retribution. She slaps his hand away and then jabs a finger in his general direction. “Don’t start something if you don’t intend to follow through.”

Sasuke snorts. “Who said I didn’t intend to follow through?”

眠り

The wedding approaches, and for the first time in her entire life, Shachi finds herself treated according to her station.

She is bathed in scented waters and anointed with rich oils, adorned in silks and jewels, and fed the finest foods that her servants tease will ensure she bears healthy children.

Older Sister lingers resentfully in the background, while father busies himself with the preparations. Whatever he felt for her in the past, whatever he feels for her now, his greed for the power Lord Indra can provide has increased tenfold since seeing what the young man can do. He pretends like he has never resented her, calls her his “beloved child” and introduces her to visiting dignitaries.

The wedding is meant to be lavish, a way of showcasing Father’s current wealth, and offer hint of what it might become. In this, he is able to stand up to Lord Indra’s more frugal nature. For his part, the prospective bridegroom is nowhere to be found and makes no effort to involve himself in the affair; he continues to train in the courtyards up until the day of the ceremony.

That morning, she is woken at dawn and bathed. Her handmaidens draw long black ribbons of henna across her forehead and face, crisscrossing around her neck and again above her breasts, winding down her arms and legs as if she has been encircled by a snake. Her hair is braided with freshly picked cherry blossoms, and golden rings are fitted around her wrists, neck, fingers and even one through her nose. It all feels heavy and cumbersome but she knows better than to complain. The bridal gown is of red silk, the only garment she has ever worn that was not one of her sister’s castoffs, and the final touch is a purple, rhombus-shaped jewel set in the centre of her forehead.

Father walks her down the aisle at a quick pace, as if worried that the longer he takes, the sooner his future son-in-law may change his mind. Older Sister holds her veil for her, and as she goes to sit at her place, sneers quietly, “Do not think your life will be without hardship.”

Lord Indra stands at the front of the assembled guests, bored and irritated, and he doesn’t even acknowledge her when she is beside him. The high priest begins the ceremony, raising the sacred marriage cup before them, his words washing over her.

Shachi’s mind is strangely blank at this, either from disbelief or fear for the future, and Sakura feels more present in the moment than she has in months. The marriage ritual is very different from any she has ever seen, from her own wedding to Sasuke, and while she is uneasy about the circumstances, she can’t help being fascinated.

The priest places a smooth, obsidian rock – taken from the sacred river of their land – and wishes them an enduring and lasting union. He pours wine and honey as well, wishing fertility and health, and then takes their hands, lightly pricking their palms over the rim of the cup, to signify the mingling of their blood now and in the future. Then, he passes it first to Lord Indra, who will be master of the union.

Her bridegroom takes a tip – barely wets his lips – and passes it back. His expression never changes, and he still doesn’t look at her.

Then the cup is in front of her face, the priest reminds her of her duties as wife now. She begins to lift the cup to her lips as well –

Lord Indra chokes suddenly, and doubles over.

There is stunned silence all around, the high priest stares in wide-eyed horror, and there are gasps from the other guest.

“My lord?” she whispers, reaching for him. “Are you…?”

His eyes snap toward her, flickering red and black and she gasps. But it isn’t the Sharingan that have her shocked. Instead, she rapidly takes in the sight of his features – pupils dilated, mouth slackening, a bluish tint around his lips.

“Poison!” she cries, because she can’t do anything else here. “He’s been poisoned!” Her head whips around, looking for someone who might help. “Fetch a healer!”

Father appears shell-shocked, slow to realise what is happening, and Older Sister –

She stands to one side, smirking and with a look in her eyes that is all-too-knowing.

“You…” Sakura – Shachi? – realises. “Why would you – ?”

Indra begins to convulse, and the answer never comes. Instead, she falls to her knees, trying to hold his flailing arms as he convulses. Shachi is terrified, that fear returning her to full control, pushing Sakura’s awareness down again, but she refuses to allow this.

You can stay out of this right now, or he’s going to die!

She focusses her attention – sees the cup dropped by the priest, liquid spilling out. The sacred rock has rolled a few inches away as well, leaving a clumpy, chalky residue.

So that’s what it was. Poison in the marriage cup. Indra wasn’t the only intended victim.

Her mind flips through a mental catalogue of poisons, all while calculating the amount of time it will take before he dies. Given how fast he reacted, the chalky nature, the blue veins on the mouth

“Ainu,” she determines. It’s a relative of aconite, albeit much more potent. There isn’t much out there that can save him, and in the limited time she has, she doubt’s she’ll be able to find –

Then she freezes, remembering herself.

No way. No way could it be that much of a coincidence.

Her hands fly to her hair, tugging out the delicate flowers there. Cherry blossoms have some healing properties, but aren’t used very often in antidotes –

Except in cases of ainu poisoning.

She doesn’t pause to dwell on the improbability of it all. Instead, she begins to crush up the petals – in her fingers at first, then an idea occurs to her and she puts them in her mouth, chewing them into a pulp and leaning forward to press her lips against his. As she pushes the petal paste into his mouth, she wills her chakra into him as well, calling up every bit of her concentration to do so. She visualises her energy moving into him, chasing the poison through his veins and overtaking it.

She doesn’t find out if she succeeds or not, because that’s when she suddenly loses her control. All of her concentration, all of her focus in helping him, recoils like an elastic band. She is once more, no more than a passenger, and Indra gives one last violent tremor, and then goes still.

Someone emits of a moan of grief.

It takes a stunned second for Sakura to realise the sound came from her. To understand that her dream self is weeping, throwing herself over Indra’s chest. This man, who she saved, who in demanding her hand offered her a future away from the abuses of her blood kin, and now he has left her before there was even a chance.

Tears streaming from her eyes, she looks up as Father demands of Older Sister, “What were you thinking? You’ve ruined it all!”

“I have done nothing but save you from a charlatan,” she replies airily. “He had no interest in becoming your right hand, Father, he would have taken his students and left you with ease. And if he truly intended to honour your wishes, he would have accepted the bride you offered, not that.” She tosses her hair. “Now, we have men who have sworn oaths of loyalty to you, who know of his teachings, and they won’t tempted to disappear with their wandering master.”

Father’s expression becomes thoughtful at this, and he nods slowly.

“Besides,” Older Sister goes on, a cruel set to her mouth. “He gave me insult, in public, and that is something that cannot be abided. How dare –”

But her words are quickly and brutally cut short.

A bolt of lightning rips through the ceremonial hall, through her shoulder and out her heart, leaving a bloodied and black hole in its place. Shachi screams in horror, staring at the shocked expression on Older Sisters face as her body crumples to the ground. Father’s bellow of surprise turns to terror, and she understands why, because Indra is alive.

He shrugs her off and stands, moving like the lightening that just passed through her sister’s body, and grabs Father by the throat.

“Those who break oaths are scum. Those who betray their own blood are worse than scum,” he growls. “And that cup was meant for her as much as it was for me.” It’s the only warning he gives before twisting his fingers, snapping the man’s neck. “A man who makes a move against me makes a proclamation that he is my enemy. And I will not allow my enemies to live and take a second opportunity to weaken me.”

Eyes still blazing red fire, he turns to the stunned guests.

“Your lord is dead. Either rise up and avenge him, or flee. One of those choices will lead to a swift death, so choice wisely.”

As he takes a few steps down the procession toward the door, there is a flurry of movement. Guests and members of the court scatter, tripping over each other in their finery. She is left on her knees, gaping at his back, unsure what just happened.

Then, as he did before, he turns to face her once more.

“You have saved my life twice,” he tells her coolly. “And so, I will offer you a choice. An opportunity. Save yourself. Forget this farce of a ceremony and ties you agreed to for their sake. Leave this place and seek a happier future, with a man who will offer you the respect and fondness you desire. Or –” his eyes darken back to black here, “come with.”

Her mouth parts in surprise at this.

“If you do, know that from this moment, you will be completely mine. And I am not a patient man. I am neither gentle nor kind, and your life will be one of duty. You will bring forth children to whom I can pass on my legacy. So long as you are loyal and obedient, I can make you a goddess by my side, but if you falter I will make their deaths look enviable.”

Terror and confusion make it hard to understand what he is saying to her. For several seconds, she can only stare from his intent face down to the corpses of her father and sister, turning over his words in her head.

And then it makes sense.

He is giving her a choice.

She has never, in her entire life, known what it is to make a decision that is not based on the will or needs of another. For the first time, she is free. She gets to decide what her destiny will be.

The gesture brings tears to her eyes, because she knows he is not a man who operates in choice. There is his will and death, but here he is, offering her the chance to leave that behind. And with the same certainty that he could stand against any of her father’s vassals who would challenge him, she knows he would let her walk away to a better life if she chose.

She wonders, as she takes his hand, if he realises how terrifyingly easy it is to make her decision.

つづく

Reviews and constructive criticism are appreciated!

クリ

Next Part

#sasusaku #past lives #reincarnation #sasusaku fanfiction #uchiha sasuke #uchiha sakura #ootsutsuki indra #angst #drama #family #romance #ssfest17 #original characters #ssfestival2017

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ganjakween · 7 years ago

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Fearing For Him

Running. My focus is on running. I have to get him before they hurt him. My lungs are burning from the exertion. My heart pounding in my ears as I near my destination. My arms are swinging back and forth pushing me to go faster. Tears are pricking my eyes as joy swells in my chest. My legs are burning deep within, but I can't stop. I see his figure in the distance running towards me. He's there, my beautiful refuge. I yell his name as he nears me. His name leaves my lips once again. I outstretch my arm, hoping it would bring me closer. I yell his name again as my arm is outstretched to him then, BANG! *** Three Days Before. Kane: Piercing cold washes over me, jolting me awake from a deep slumber when I realize what happened. My sister bolting from my bedroom while my mind was still trying to grasp the fact that I was now a dripping wet mess, laying on a soggy mattress. Her giggling was that of a maniac who had just committed the perfect crime, I, the victim. Before my mind could catch up to my actions, I was out of bed, racing after her down the hallway, catching myself from slipping and sliding on wet feet that slapped the hardwood floor with each step. I reach her room and trap her. The prey now for the predator, and I pounce on her, her laughter like a shrilling alarm filling the room when my tickling fingertips went to war with her rib cage. Her laughter full, filling every corner and crevice, and soon enough our mother became our audience, shaking her head but smiling wide. "OK now Kane let your sister up. Come down for breakfast you two. And make sure you clean this trail of water up Kalida, before someone really hurts themselves." I bounce back to my feet before she can retaliate, Kalida swings in frustration at my head but misses, I slip safely past my mom out the door. On my way back to my bedroom, I shake off droplets of water and peel back the drenched gray t-shirt that clung to my body. I kick the door shut behind me and move through the room to my personal bathroom. I wasn't the least bit upset about the way that day had kicked off. It was like Kalida to do a thing like that, almost as if it were embedded into her DNA. Not to mention she was 14 years young and still in her childish ways. Dumping the wet shirt into my dirty laundry hamper, I lean into the glass shower and turn on the hot water with intentions of letting it run for a moment to shake the chill that had settled over my skin like an extra layer. With a soft sigh, I begin removing clothes that seemed stuck to my frame when I caught my own steel grey eyes in mirror. Light olive skin covers my 5'8'' frame, slightly toned arms, a faint six pack, and my short brown unruly hair, with a huff I get in the shower. I let the water cascade down my back, relishing in the warmth of the water. I soap my body wishing I wasn't alone. My body reacts to the thoughts of a certain someone's hands rubbing soap on me. The way they can make my body tingle at a single touch. My hands roam my body when the booming voice of my dad comes traveling through my room door. "K, come on son you're gonna make you and your sister late." I let go of the image and rush through my morning routine. I wipe the stray droplets from my curls to put on my gold and white hoodie over a white tee, black jock strap, grey skinny's, with my black low tops. Checking the mirror to make sure I looked okay I bound down the stairs to hear laughter coming from the kitchen. I halt at the bottom of the stairs to take in the image of my family. I couldn't help but feel grateful for such an amazing family. When I came out to them my dad shrugged his shoulders, my mom said "that's nice", and Kalida hugged me. When I went into the kitchen my mom handed me a brown bag. "If you were down here five minutes ago you could have sat and ate but no, so bye. Kalida grab your bag hun." I give her a kiss on the cheek and my dad a half hug. I go to the car to wait for my sister. Kalida didn't take long to say her goodbyes and hop in the car. I drop her off at London Heights Middle School. Before leaving the car Kalida turns to me "Bye bro, Aliyah's mom is giving me a ride home so have a great weekend." Giving me a wink and a smile she goes traipsing off to her friends. Shaking my head, I head off to my school. When I got to London Heights High School, I spot my friends. I park beside them to chat before school begins. We stand and talk as I eat the breakfast my mom packed me. We were all having a good talk until I heard the rumble of his motor. My eyes automatically snap to his. The urge to go over to him just to be able to inhale his scent drives me crazy. All I can do is look from afar. Jax: Banging on my apartment door woke me up. I grumble as to who could be at my door at six in the morning. I throw on some sweats before going to give whoever it was a piece of my mind. I throw the door open with a scowl that softened when I see its Mrs. Wilson standing there with a plate in one hand and a lunch pail in the other. With a warm smile "If you don't start getting ready you are going to be late." Thrusting her hands towards me I take the food from her hands with a thank you. When I was a few months shy of 18 I met Mrs. Wilson. She became the mom I needed after my parents threatened me when they found out I'm gay. When we met I told her my story and set me up in her guest house, rent free as long as I got good grades and graduate. She gave me the best 18th birthday gift, her late husband's motorcycle. Shooing me inside she closes the door to return to her place. I scarf the most amazing food down before running around my apartment. I zoom through the routine of my morning and throw on a black shirt, briefs, pants, and boots. Grabbing my weekend bag along with keys and helmet I set off to my own personal hell. London Heights High School is the absolute spawn of Satan. I kept to myself on purpose. Even the people I call friends don't even know me. I was good at being by myself but then I stumbled upon him. Those eyes entranced me, hooked me even and he knew it. We went from strangers who accidentally bumped into one another to secret lovers. It made my head spin but my heart flutter. I park close enough to see him but far enough to keep a physical distance. He stops talking to his friends and locks eyes with me. My heart seizes in my chest, my palms get sweaty, and all I want to do is kiss him. He smiles my way and I smirk back at him, just to see that cute blush stains his cheeks. I want to at least be in the atmosphere of him, jumping off of my bike, I walk towards him but the dumb asses I call friends swarm around me like a hive of honey bees. They don't know I'm gay or that I have secret lover. They are all homophobic ass wipes I've called friends since 8th grade. I place the usual blank mask on and turn away from him. With the first warning bell sounding we all begin the walk into school. At my locker I can feel eyes burning a hole into the back of my skull. The urge to look behind me was strong I ignored it hoping my friends don't see him staring. I grab the things I need from my locker; I slam it close because of the butterflies threatening to spill out of me. I hate the way he makes me feel, all warm, fuzzy, and confused. Shaking the thoughts away the bell rings for the first class to start. Walking from my locker to class I turn my head to see questioning grey eyes peering into me. Kane: Walking to English I turn to look at him one more time hoping he would give me some type of look or another smirk, just so I knew what he was thinking. He turns around and I swear I see something flicker in his eyes but he hides it and walks into class. In my 3rd hour I sit by him but couldn't hold his hand or kiss his cheek because of his "friends". I know he doesn't want to be cold and distance to me but he is. He barely notices my presence, much less looks at me. My heart breaks a little with the hostility coming off of him. I can't take being in the closet when I've worked so hard to come out and stay out. Irrationally I decide to move seats and sit next to Colby. The all American soccer star. He's a nice boy and just gorgeous. I mean he doesn't compare to Jax but he is still good looking. Knowing Jax doesn't like him makes me all the more wanting to go through with my decision. A well placed hand, some whispers, and an occasional giggle, I know he is seething. When the bell rings signaling the end of class I hear Jax scrape his chair and rush out of the room. I thank Colby for being a good sport. After that the rest of the day went by aimlessly. I am anxious to get out of the horribly painted walls and taste my weekend freedom. In my last class my leg bounces up and down anxiously begging the clock to move faster. As soon as the bell rings I spring from my seat and out of class quickly. Stopping at my locker I grab my weekend bag and throw my school stuff inside the car. I see him already on his bike ready to go. I know he still pissed about 3rd hour. When he zooms pass me I know I fucked up. I try to put together the talk we are going have about the way he and I both acted today. He beats me to the cabin by a few minutes. I park my car in the garage beside his bike. He storms inside, so I calm myself not wanting to be a nervous wreck when I talk with him. I walk in the side door looking around the living room. I walk into the kitchen hoping he'd be there. I jump on the counter to wait for him. Trying to formulate an adequate apology. As I was messing with the hem of my shirt, electricity shot through my legs as his hands slide up my legs. As he slides his hands further, he squeezes light pressure on my thighs. I pull eyes up to see his shirt slightly hugging him; outlining his taut muscles. My eyes keep scanning up to see where the black shirt contrast to his tan skin. Scanning further up I see where the vein in his neck is pulsing. I make my way to his anger filled emerald eyes and almost lost my nerve to talk. "What's up with...?" "No, I ask the questions now. What in the actual fuck was that shit you pulled with Colby?" Jax: The question lingers in the air. My emotions suffocating me, not knowing how mad I need to be at him. He bites his lip; I know he's thinking hard about it but I need the answer now. Squeezing his thighs, a little harder "Answer me" He mumbles and answer that makes my grip tighten then he truly looks me in the face "I... I wanted to..." "You wanted to what?" "To make you jealous, okay. I wanted to get some type of reaction from you because the hostility today was unbearable." He shoves me away and gets off of the island counter top. He walks to the other side obviously putting space between us. He does it for the same reason I do it. It's hard to be mad or think being so close to one another. Its intoxicating but at the same time soothing. I walk to him slowly and wrap my arms around him. "I am so sorry if I made you feel as if I don't care, you know I do. 3 more months and we are both out of here." He turns to face me and the familiar feeling of fuzziness starts to overtake my brain. All I want to do is kiss him and never stop. I steel myself to push the urges back for now. He sighs "I know; it's just I'm getting restless of being your secret." "Well you are the best secret to have" he rolls his eyes at me, annoyance settling into his features. "Ok so what do you want me to do. You know the consequences of that. If my parents even get a whiff of me being with a boy, they will come after you and me." Kane: Before I can say something else he shushes me. My annoyance dies down but there are questions that need answers but the feel of him on my skin makes my body tingle. He barely closes the gap between us. Our lips so close but feeling so far. I yearn for him in the worst way. I close my eyes waiting for the sparks to begin. I graze his lips, giving him permission to kiss me. He attacks me with feverous passion. He slides his hands to my back making me arch into him. He kisses me from my lips to my neck. Breathlessly I say "Jax, slow" "Oh baby we have all weekend to go slow."

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fakingthehappy · 8 years ago

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The room with the window

She sat in her window sill watching the rain pour down on the city while her laptop played some music from her favourite Spotify list. The place she called her home, apart from the gigantic window (She’s talking about a whole wall), was not that big. However, the ceiling was really high; making the studio not as claustrophobic as it might have been. Sure there was an occasional cockroach or leakage, but she had everything she needed. The window was the thing that had drawn her to this place. The moment she walked in, sun had shone through it and made everything bathe in a golden glow. Now, years later, she still loved it when that happened. She adjusted the pillows in her back and cupped the mug in her hands, trying to warm herself a little more. The rain had stopped and clouds had pulled away just in time for her to see the sun setting. The city was covered in its slowly fading glow, underneath her, people were hurrying to get back home through the icy cold weather; back to their loved ones. She rested the side of her head against the glass. Here and there lights were turning on, revealing cosy scenes behind windows, people who were having dinner together, watching television together and this particular old couple across the street who were dancing. The sun had now almost entirely set and stars were starting to reveal themselves. The busy street had slowed down, only the occasional taxi made its way through. She sighed turned around and walked towards the cupboard to grab a pack of matches. Armed with the matches she made her way from candle to candle, singing along with the music; I don't wanna be someone who walks away so easily I'm here to stay and make the difference that I can make Our differences they do a lot to teach us how to use The tools and gifts we got yeah, we got a lot at stake And in the end, you're still my friend at least we did intend For us to work we didn't break, we didn't burn We had to learn how to bend without the world caving in I had to learn what I've got, and what I'm not and who I am She walked towards the small kitchen, made herself a new cup of tea and returned to the window sill. The old people had noticed her and waved, she waved back right before they closed their curtains. The music had kept on playing softly in the background. From walking home and talking loads To seeing shows in evening clothes with you From nervous touch and getting drunk To staying up and waking up with you Something wet dropped down on her hand, and then again and again. Without really noticing it she had started crying. But now we're sleeping at the edge Holding something we don't need All this delusion in our heads Is gonna bring us to our knees At this point she knew she had to turn of the playlist, the happy feeling she felt earlier had already completely left her body. Instead the cold hard realization that he was never coming back, at least not like that, was now crushing her very spirit. The days in which she missed him came and went and she hadn’t bawled this hard over it for at least a week so she knew she would eventually get over it. But right now, in this very moment, all she wanted was his arms around her and his voice softly telling her that it would be alright. She wasn’t bawling anymore but she kept on tearing. Looking in the far end of the window sill she saw her reflection in the glass, she had never been ugly maybe not perfect but not ugly either. But right now, looking at her reflection, she saw nothing but ugliness. Her eyes were puffy and red from crying; she had also developed quite the bags underneath them. She almost never slept since he had left her and the bed was just a little too big for her alone. If she did sleep, she slept in the window sill underneath the stars. Consoled by the fact that somewhere he would be underneath those same stars and thus, in a weird way, together. She had lost a lot of weight, cooking for one was just, well, really depressing. All of her clothes were now too big, she lost the figure she was once so proud of, and became one of those people who were too thin for their own good. She closed her eyes and leaned back against the pillows. In her head she replayed all the good times they had up until a few weeks ago. People had described you guys as the perfect couple, friends for over 12 years only to become lovers at the start of the 12th one. It had happened at a party, they were both a little drunk and both a little high on the joint they had smoked earlier. As they stood outside enjoying the sweet scent of summer she had laughed about some kind of silly joke he had made. She went to punch his arm, but tripped over her own feet, and landed in his arms instead. Looking up into those eyes, she had seen a part of him she had never noticed before. Back on her feet she nervously tried to laugh the weird feeling she got in the pit of her stomach away, but he just kept looking at her. She had gone quiet and he had kissed her, it wasn’t just a kiss like they did when people bothered them at the bars and they both didn’t want to be bothered, this kiss held so much passion… So much love. She remembered pulling back, hardly able to keep on her feet, she had looked at his face and he had smiled. They returned to the party holding hands and people had literally started clapping, it had finally happened, they were a couple. She switched her thoughts the many dates you guys had in like the spawn of a week, going to the arcade, figure skating, painting trees in the park and asking random strangers who had made the better looking painting… All of this which led up to the time they had done “it” or the first time. Well, to be honest it was her first time, but boy did he have some experience. He knew exactly what to do, where to touch, taking away any nervosity or doubt she might have had. Afterwards they had just lay there spooning as he let his fingers glide up and down over the side of her body. She had turned around to kiss him a little more and while doing so things started to get heated again. But instead of going on he pulled back to look at her, she had opened her eyes and looked at him questioningly, he just told her how beautiful she looked in the dancing light of the candles. She remembered how her heart had spilled over with love… Everything that night was perfect. She was abruptly called back to the real world by the buzzing of her phone next to her. It was a text from him, telling her that he was on his way and he brought Chinese food. She wiped the tears of her face opened her phone, replayed with an: OK, I’ll be waiting, and made herself look a little more presentable. Sure they had broken up, but in the end they were still “friends”.

#friends #personal #my own stuff #story #the room with the window #love #broken heart #fwb

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fabxprxwett-blog · 8 years ago

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» FABIAN PREWETT + headcanons

“ ... fill yourself up with love instead of hate ... “

- Fabian Prewett was born on the 29th of May, in 00:03 a.m. Five minutes after his brother, their birthdays are actually on different dates.

- As a child, his mother gifted him a quill that was in the shades of black and light blue. It must have cost a fortune, but it fitted the bright boy, which one year later got sorted in the house, matching the sky-blue shades.

- To be identical with your twin had its ups and downs – ups being the countless of pranks and cover ups both of them could do for the other, the downs being the many confusing situations. In between classes, the doom of this identical gene called upon Fabian, and ultimately led to something rather awkward. A Hufflepuff girl mistook Fabian for Gideon and dragged him into a broom closet, kissing him. His alarm, of course, triggered, so he spilled the truth and she left. The girl looks at him and his brother awkwardly when they pass each other in the corridors, but he acts like he doesn’t care.

- After not receiving the Head Boy title, Fabian determined himself to study more, because he thought he was too behind or unworthy of the position. However, the Prefect title he had he was perfectly content with as well.

- Fabian Prewett is a perfectionist – thought his clumsy hands sometimes fail his total need for perfection and order, he craves everything to be perfect. His bed is always made, and Gideon is usually the one to jump right after he was done fixing it just to annoy him. His books are always stacked neatly and his personal library is ordered alphabetically.

- He owns a muggle ballpoint pen and uses it often.

- He suffers from occasional, rare but happening anxiety attacks. Fabian knows the only way to fix those is to contact his brother immediately. However, with them being in separate houses, this grew to be a problem, so he usually sends a charmed-to-fly rock up to the Gryffindor tower, to annoy the shit out of Gideon so he can wake up and notify him there is a problem.

- Fabian strives to be an Auror – not only because he believes he is fit for the job, but because his heart and body wants to fight. He is intelligent, has the wits, has the knowledge and the physical endurance (he thanks Quidditch practices for that) for the job, and he sure as hell won’t let words and the fear-inducing rumors about the Auror Training stop him.

- Being a Beater in the Ravenclaw team was something different for him and he loved it. The practices kept his blood and body running, and perhaps the sport is why he isn’t fat as hell. Playing against his brother was always a trill and a challenge, but he happily takes on it. His heart, however, can’t allow him to send a bludger his way – that’s why he inflicts a fellow teammate of Gideon twice the pain.

- He likes to occasionally join his brother on his pranks. Just because he is quiet, it doesn’t mean he doesn’t have a sense of humor. He likes the fun as long as it’s on the safe side, something which stops him from following Gideon on absolutely every single prank his brother orchestrates. However, normally the nights he spends with Gideon planning their little jokes wind up to be the most relaxing ones.

- When he sees a new scar on Gideon’s body he freaks out. He instantly assumes something life-endangering has happened to him, and he usually does not speak to him for the rest of the day out of worry and anger at the same time.

- He gets annoyed when people try to compare him to Gideon. Trying to separate himself from his twin was something he really wanted to do, because they were so different but the eye recognized mostly appearances only.

- He owns a yellow furred cat named Pepperoni.

- If there is one thing he hates, that is olives. He believes those are the spawns of the Devil himself and avoids them at all costs.

- Fabian’s favorite things include:

Classes – Transfiguration, Astronomy, History of Magic, Defense Against the Dark Arts ;

Clothes – A jumper on light, blue and silver-grey stripes, a pair of sky-blue jeans and your casual black shoes + a big winter sweater, with the letter ‘F’ on it – the craft was poor, but it was one of the first sweaters Molly ever knitted, if not the first one ever. Fabian puts it on only on Christmas, because even if he loves his sister dearly, it’s terrible and too thick;

Food – Pizza, he had to admit the muggles did quite the good job on that one ;

Color – Sky-blue ;

Possession – A golden wrist watch that his parents gave him when he turned of age. It is a tradition to gift a young wizard that has just turned seventeen a watch – his own is with a golden frame and has stars for the clock’s hands. However, he dented it as he got it off one day, and the Reparo charm did not fix it. ( this is actually a pretty nice detail I caught in the books! Gotta love J. K. Rowling haha )

Drink – He likes Butterbear and normal dark red wine. His brother perhaps thinks he likes lemonade or something as pathetic as that.

Plant – Poppies – thought considered a pest, or not really a healthy flower, there is something in its shape and color that draws Fabian in. He likes to eat some food with poppy seeds too.

Season – Autumn – there is certain tranquility for Fabian during those three months, nevermind he was a spring child. The colors of red, orange, brown and yellow always seemed like a good combination to him, and Fabian always found himself laying in the dirty leafs fallen on the ground, reading books.

Hobbies – drabbling short stories, practicing with his bat, playing with paint and pretending he can draw.

#aka shitloads of hcs #&&about #&&headcanon #rdrhps

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themutewatcher-blog · 7 years ago

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Internal Affairs, and International Relations: On Remembering Budapest

The plane flew smoothly if you didn't pay too much attention. I was sitting between two men, and like myself they were not slight of frame. The three of us were shoulder to shoulder like one dreary wall of meat. Occasionally part of the meat bricks would shift a bit and those adjacent would settle accordingly. Chain reaction. There was no resentment over the move, no bother, just a slight sigh that was a near annoyance with being awoken from the trance of over-oxygenated air and bad movies, and part relief that we had an excuse to bring a little lifeblood into our heavy limbs. I watched a few of those bad movies on my way from Chicago to Budapest, but mostly I just stared at the pictures and let my mind drift away- out the window a few seats to my right where nothing else lay but water and the giant open blackness of the midnight Atlantic. I thought of Her, then. There were so many hers. I thought of the petite little Beauty who got away; she had golden eyes, silky hair, and caramel skin that seemed to bask in it's own light. Those soft lips, so full and so gentle, used to be the only thing that could soothe me when I felt the beast inside me start to stir. She had such a kind wealth to her. She had this laugh, it caressed my ears and used to bring a smile to me even when my heart felt black and icy- as frigid as the seas outside the window. I don't know if I ever told her that in those words. I think I tried, but sometimes you can never fully understand the incredible worth of a single moment until it becomes a memory. I told her once, as we lay there on the beach, that she was it for me. I told her that no matter what happened that I would love her until I was dead, and if some part of me carried on thereafter it would carry on with the sweetest moments we ever shared therein. I said a lot of things as a young man. It's been years since we laid there on the sand. Its been the return of an engagement ring since then. It's been other relationships and countless other women, but when the plane isn't quite still and the seas look so black and so cold, it's still her that my mind seeks for warmth. She made me hope for a brief time that the beast inside me was just a little darkness, an innocent shadow behind the Christmas lights that shine through pine needles casting me patterns around a room; or the seductive darkness of a bedroom that dances with candlelight to cast shimmering black on golden skin. It wasn't though. It was none of those types of darkness. It was a consuming, hungry, vile dark that consumed everything. It was a foul carcass left to rot underwater in a black cove forgotten by all good things in this world; it was spawned of hate, and fear, and suffering. It was sad more than anything, not evil. It had much of me, but it often felt as though it was not me. She told me I needed help. The dark is gone now, reborn into the beast that holds all my darkness in it's own devilish heart. My beast and I get along quite well to this day, we even have tea a few times a month just to catch up. She was not the only she passing through my mind that night. There was a period of soul searching after her, and by soul searching I mean that I found the souls of others and did my best to nibble on them. I've found that to nibble a soul is to find alleviation from the black for a bit, and it's not hard to do. It is not a permanent consumption, only a temporary tasting. Soul searching is my vice. Vices, and there are many, are all about escape. Some drink until they can't remember what hurts them, or until they can only remember what the hurt is; others act the dragon and billow smoke from between their teeth, altering reality with whatever drug fits the bill that night; some seek a temporary outlet through violence. I prefer sex. It is not a guilty pleasure, I have never felt guilt for my pleasures, but it is still a vice. Carpe Noctem. Perhaps the worst vice of all. Sex is not always about intimacy. There is no closeness or even interest in the act or in the person sometimes- not since the golden eyes stopped beckoning me through the candlelight. Sex is about forgetting I exist for a few hours. It's about relinquishing thought and control of myself to the beast. The beast does well in the darkness. It is, after all, his domain. It brings me closer to balance when the creature born of hideous violence finds a gentility, or at least releases the violence in a way that hurts so sweetly. He can taste her soul when he traces my tongue down along her hips, as He slowly pulls her exquisite reservations loose with one sucking swirl after another. He feeds as her inhibitions fade when he sinks his sharp teeth into the meat of her bottom lip hard enough to make her whimper- which is only half as hard as she wants him to. Surreptitious sensuality. I try and take over that beast at times and ask that he go gently, I try to add in a little of myself- I am often ignored if not forgotten. I allow the beast to do as he will, we work well together, after all. Sometimes a feral growl escapes my throat and I almost worry that she'll be afeared. I am always, always wrong. The beast in me awakens the beast in others, and they like it. There are many kinds of beasts in this world. Beauty and Myself. Watching someone unfold is like watching a flower bloom in a matter of minutes. The petals soften and grow fuller, the outermost chafe falls away. Raw intimacy exposed when there is nothing left to hide. Perfection through reduction. Reality is not altered, it is revealed. Life is given meaning and the taste of all the substance in an entire galaxy can be found in one succulent droplet at the edge of a softened petal. For a moment there is no difference between anyone. We all simply are, and are not, existing- in a swirling, dripping, ebbing vortex of passion and lust and escape; we are painted with the entire pallet of the human experience; filled to the brim by the essence of humanity, and swept up into raw, chaotic, feral vim. We rejoice by releasing that gasp that's not so unlike a death rattle. Le petite mort. My beast found a new She after I landed. The She I met in Budapest was from Kosovo. She was barely 20, a child by all western definitions, but she had lived through the war. She had been living in Belgrade when my country blew it to pieces. She had watched her father tear away the roof on their home and scatter the debris around so that when my country flew over it appeared to be already bombed. Reclusive resourcefulness. She learned too young how to hide in plain sight. She was a lucky one, some of the architecture nearby that was weaker would fall apart without the cross beams to hold the walls together. She was a lucky one, her roof was only removed by choice. She slept in a cold winter for 108 days under the open sky because it was too risky to live warmly- she had to choose between shelter and life. She was a child who knew what that meant- she grew up fast. She was young, but she had an aged look and mature feel to her. She was enlightening to behold. She had beautiful eyes, large and kind and wounded and curious; they were paired with a smile that could melt the coldest ice and soften the hardest steel. I was no exception. Her lips were like the galaxy's edge, and tasted like a constellation falling into place. Her hands were small for a woman as tall as she was, but her fingers felt so strong as they dug deep into my back. She did that when I tried to let my beast apologize to her for what my country had done in her childhood. She must have still held pain from that, because as she traced the tender wounds along my shoulders made by her teeth and apologized, she had a wicked smile of satisfaction. She took a drag off of her rolled cigarette, and the smoke slithered out from between her teeth like eels between a smooth, porcelain coral. The eels swam around a bit before reuniting in the dark cloud forming above the bed. She was beautiful, gorgeous even. She was dangerous only so far as she was harmless. Harmed. She was deeper and more rich in experience than anyone I had met in the states, and some small part of me loved her for that. She seemed so raw and so unrefined that I knew she was exactly as she seemed, and she seemed an amazing woman; earthen, corporeal, honest. I loved her nearly as much as she hated me- which is to say, not at all. We lay there for hours, wordless but not in silence, tracing the tendrils of one another life through the sensations of the body. It was amazing how similar we were despite having nothing in common. I was from Los Angeles in the States, and she was a young Albanian woman living in Kosovo. I was born into poverty by American standards, but won the birth lottery by international consensus. She made me feel privileged, and ashamed of ever feeling otherwise. Weak little beast. I loved her for that. We never said anything to signify emotion was a part in our evening- in truth we said very little at all. Nature invented the kiss for when words become superfluous, I remembered. We were healing each other, sharing in the life of another that was so fundamentally different from our own. We were evading death and dealing in life as we rolled and licked and pulled and bit chunks of experience and memories out of one another. We shared countless stories as we thrusted and twisted our hips into unfamiliar truths. She whispered soft moans to the smoke cloud above us, it seemed like a billowing deity looking down with approval. The beast inside me had done well for her, and she was happy to be feasted on. Soul searching. She was dripping in experience and love when we were done. I felt drained and empowered. The room smelt of cigarettes, sweat, and pride as she slipped into the shower. It gained a hint of rose perfume when she got out. I watched as water danced with the light and ran down her skin- the water seemed to be following the trails of my fingertips. We were reborn as we were cleansed, softer kisses came- from me, not my beast. Conflicting stories. I realized then that she had never awoken him fully, that for once it was me, and I wasn't using her to forget, but to remember that which I had never known. It was beautiful, and I loved her for that. A few short hours later she had to go. She had a 13 hour train ride to Kosovo, and had to split the cost with a group. As she slid into her undergarments I couldn't help but notice small holes in the thin fabric. She had an incredible wealth about her, a profoundly different type of wealth than what I had been taught to consider. That night, as she walked across the wide beautiful bridge in the heart of Budapest, I was the saddest of all it's paintings, the most fractured of it's many monuments. She took with her my secrets, and had left me shaken. International Relations. The plane flew smoothly if you didn't pay too much attention. It's funny to me that I have to return to the States knowing what I know, feeling what I've felt. I wonder if I can even do so. There is a gripping and absurd difference in the way I relate to people in the States, the largest difference of course being that I, in fact, don't. The Eastern Europeans make sense to me. They shake hands and make love to those they should hate. Americans can barely tolerate those who they claim to love. Forgiveness doesn't come easy to them, at least not any more easily than it does to us, it's just that they know that even the people who are aggressors in conflict once suffered. The coldest hearts once cared too much. At a point, people look for any reason to rejoice. At a point, people look for cause to despair. It seems to me the difference is selecting your narrative. I had forgotten this. There are some things you should never forget, and if you want to be happy, this is one of them: events in your life mean very little. The way you choose to interpret them is all that matters. Life is beautiful, exceptionally gorgeous. Life is dangerous so far as it is harmless. Harmed. Life is deeper and more rich in experience than anyone you know, but you have to love it for that. We are remarkably similar, even to those we have nothing in common with.

#mutethoughts

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