#bring them back but to the tune of ‘beam me up’ from the song wet dream

[personinthepalace]

please bring mum and dad back 🥺

[ramblesfromshambles]

1 Star Kiss 1.1 : Good Morning Sweets

Okay I am not usually one for writing fan fiction BUT of course Carmy and Syd eat my brain alive sooooo here! This is only part one of chapter one so give me time to cook ;)

'The rain is hitting hard on that window this morning,' I think to myself. My eyes are open wide and blinking, long since adjusted to the dark. I dart them around the room. They find the catch-all chair holding my clothes for tomorrow. 'Yeah. It's cute, right? Like, not too flashy?' I run through the pieces again in my mind, like a recipe, and picture each item in my brain. 'One pair of stocking, the new navy bra and panty set from Victoria's Secret. I really should have tried that bra on in store, no, its was way too crowded in there- Focus Sydney. Black velvet pumps with a thin strap and clasp around the ankle, tiny diamond and gold studs, Two thin gold chains: one with a small heart charm and one with an S-the one from Dad.' A small smile pulls across my face in the dark at the thought of him.

I stare at the ceiling, I realize I've reconstructed everything but the dress. I dare to look over at it on the chair, still wrapped in the plastic from the dry cleaners. I want to stop, shut my eyes again and push it all away from the conscious side of my head. Instead I take a deep breath. 'Mom's dress. Blue satin. Spaghetti straps. Floor length. High slit on the right side.' I choke out each detail against my own judgement. My mental reconstruction of the dress morphs into the still image of my mother in the dress. It's from one of my dad's favorites, one he keeps in the album by his bed. We used to look through that one almost every night when I was really young. I see us together, sitting on his bed, in that old house. I want hold onto the memory and try to bring it into focus. He is telling me another funny story about that night, some gala they had to attend. I pour over the scene in third person watching my father recount his tale, and talking with his hands. I watch myself look from him to the picture and back to him. Little me throws her head back in laughter releasing a huge gapped tooth smile. My father beams, but tears rush down and hit little me's arm. I watch her reach up and catch his wet cheek in her hands. Suddenly I am ripped away from this hazy vignette and shoved into a cascade of new ones. They come in a flurry, tighter, stiffer, and even less coherent than the last one. Me on the beach with her. But these are older, from a time I almost don't remember. My third birthday. They are more like gifs around the moments I now recognize as pictures from other collections of albums. My mother's funeral. I can feel the tears now pooling in my collar bones but I cant bring myself to open my eyes. I am too stuck in the little diorama of that moment. My alarm, 5:30 already. It's enough to bring me back to myself.

I roll over and quickly shut it off, wiping my face as I re-settle. Warm hands reach across the bed and pull me in till I am the little spoon. 'My favorite,' I think. Soon I am cocooned in muscular arms and even a leg is tossed over me. I cant help but giggle as I am playfully trapped in this bear hug. Kisses patter my neck and up behind my ear. "Good morning sweets" I hear him say. With all my strength and hopefully with the element of surprise I roll into him and nuzzle myself under his chin. "Good morning Mar" I kiss his Adam's apple. He pulls back to look at me and takes a thumb gently to the remnants of tears on my face. "Hey, woah. You okay?" He searches my eyes for answers. "Yeah, totally. Just a nightmare. No biggie." I don't know if he actually believes me, but he doesn't press it. He only pulls my face close and kisses me on the forehead. "You know what day it is. You ready?" He smiles and starts to do a little dance. More of a wiggle than anything. "Star day, it's star day! Come on girl!" His sing song tune pulls me back to myself, much gentler than the alarm clock did, and I crack a smile. "Look we don't even know if we are going to get a star" I say. "Like hell we aren't!"

[egg2k16]

“Please don’t make me say it again.” Geraskier? 🥺

From this prompt list! Anything for u, darling 💛

~°☆°~

They’re huddled under the wooden roof of a shack that a woman is selling hot bread under. The rain is pouring hard against it. They see how the rain turns the road into a muddy ruin. The water splashes around, plants bend at their weight.

Jaskier points to a squirrel that’s sitting underneath a particularly large leaf, protecting it from the rain, and in doing so, accidentally flings his bread out into the rain. The three of them watch it fall into a particularly muddy patch. The rain quickly makes it soggy, and it starts to disintegrate underneath its weight.

“Oh,” Jaskier says, “My bread.”

Geralt sees the woman sigh, and chuckles to himself. He taps Jaskier’s arm, and hands him his own bread. Jaskier lights up at that, and keeps smiling as he takes a bite, moaning happily at the warm taste.

I love you, Geralt thinks.

He pays for both of their breads when the rain finally stops.

They’re in a clearing in the woods. It’s late at night, and the fire has started to die down. It’s not the steady fire it had been, but still alive.

Geralt had planned on staying awake, keeping guard. But his eyelids are so heavy now, his head keeps listing and jolting him back into wakefulness. He looks over at Jaskier across the fire, and he doesn’t seem to be faring any better.

Their eyes meet, and the fire crackles on.

Jaskier gets up, blearily reaches for his bag, and pulls his blanket out.

“‘M getting to bed now, Ger,” he announces, voice thick with sleepiness. Geralt nods.

“I’ll keep watch,” he says, and sees Jaskier weakly smile. Jaskier grabs his bag, and walks over to Geralt’s side. He squats by Geralt’s bag, and pulls out his blanket, which he gently throws over to him.

“Roach can keep guard, that lady never sleeps,” Jaskier says. He sits down next to Geralt, and pulls his bag to use as a makeshift pillow. Geralt watches as he makes himself comfortable, pulling the blanket up under his chin. He cracks his eyes open to look up at him, and pats the patch of dirt next to him.

Geralt makes his own makeshift pillow and lies down. He only pulls his blanket up to his midchest, but he feels Jaskier reach over to pull it up so that it also reaches his chin. Jaskier props himself up a bit to properly tuck the blanket around Geralt, and smiles at him when he finishes before plopping back down on the ground.

I love you, Geralt thinks before swiftly drifting off to sleep.

They’re at a half-rate inn, eating half-rate food, with a half-rate band playing up at the front. Geralt’s barely picked at his beans, because these beans aren’t good. Their texture...he’s eaten this type of bean before, but today, his body isn’t having any of it. The rice is fine, but a bit too wet for his tastes, and the meat is much too chewy.

Jaskier comes back with their beers, and starts off with, “Can you believe the talent they have playing? Talent,” he scoffs, shaking his head. When he sits down, he finally notices how disgusted Geralt is, and furrows his brow.

“Everything alright?”

“No.”

“For?”

“The food. I don’t like it.”

“I’ve seen you eat raw carcasses before.”

Geralt’s frown deepens. “Well today isn’t a day for that, then.”

Jaskier hums, purses his lips. He looks around the room, taps his hands against the table. He seems to find whatever he was looking for, and gets up to get it. Geralt watches as he weaves his way between the tables to finally stop at one. Jaskier seems to be talking to the couple sitting there, and they exchange a few words before Jaskier seems to be thanking them. He walks back to Geralt, newly acquired things in tow.

When he comes back, he sets a torn loaf of bread, few apples, and jerky on the table before them, along with an assortment of nuts. He snags a glass of water off the tray of a passing waiter, and waves him off as he sets it down on the table.

Geralt stares at him, trying to figure out what the fuck is happening. Jaskier merely grins at him, and flourishes his hand over the foodstuffs.

“Eat!” he says.

Geralt blinks, and looks back down to the food. It’s all...neutral. It’s basic food. No odd textures or tastes or anything. This is the driest assortment that’s available in the inn.

He looks back up at Jaskier, who has taken the plate with Geralt’s previous food, and placed it on his side. He picks at it with his fork, bringing the mushy beans and rice to his mouth. He takes a bite, and squinches his face at the taste.

“This really is bad,” he announces. Geralt snaps out of his reverie, and takes a jerky, biting into it and relishing its saltiness.

“Why are you eating it, then?” Geralt asks.

Jaskier shrugs, then winks at him, a smile lighting up his face despite the clearly foul food still in his mouth.

I love you, Geralt thinks. He takes another bite, and knows that he’ll eventually share his small horde with Jaskier.

They’re in a swamp, with water up to their waists, and contending with an otyugh that has risen from its slumber. Geralt had warned Jaskier to not listen to the voice from deep in the woods, but that lovestruck fool had gone anyhow. Now they're in the territory of this creature, its two tentacles swiping through the air, sensory stalk quivering about, and Jaskier all but three feet away from it.

Jaskier looks like he’s struggling against its call, and when he opens his eyes to look at Geralt, he’s terrified. He’s clutching tightly to his lute, making a few of its strings twing. The otyugh stalks closer at its sound.

Geralt holds his sword steady before him, and quietly rounds the creature, doing his best not to disturb the water. He nods to Jaskier to get to the other side as he gets closer. Jaskier hurriedly nods, and wades away, but a high-rising mangrove root smacks against his lute. The strings sing loudly and markedly. The otyugh snarls, and starts to charge towards Jaskier. Jaskier yelps and tries to quiet his lute, but to no avail: he keeps making noise, and the otyugh gets closer and closer. Geralt groans, and tries to make noise on his side of the swamp to attract it, but Jaskier suddenly starts strumming his lute, and Geralt wants to kill him, how can he not understand–?

Jaskier changes the tune from a fast-paced one to a softer one, and the otyugh...stops in its tracks? When Geralt cranes his neck to see, Jaskier’s face is pale white, his grip on his lute strong. His strumming hand trembles, and he opens his mouth to sing. His voice cracks on the first syllable, which disturbs the creature, but he somehow gets his nerves under control and softens his voice. The otyugh seems entranced, its tentacles swaying gently above its head.

Geralt waves at Jaskier to start wading away, and he nods, carefully making his way back to the edge. Jaskier doesn’t stop performing, though, his music bouncing oddly off the branches and roots in the swamp. Geralt swims towards the otyugh, and plunges his sword right through its body just as Jaskier’s song ends. Its squeal fills the swamp now, a sharp noise against the low backdrop of the ambient noises.

Later that evening, Geralt hands Jaskier a hot cup of tea. He’s wrapped up in their blankets, and had wet clothes switched out for dry ones. It’s less flashy than his usual wardrobe, but Geralt doesn’t think he cares about that now.

As Geralt takes a seat next to him on the dry ground, Jaskier takes a hesitant sip of his tea. He weakly smiles, and looks at Geralt.

“I don’t think I’ll play again, for a little while,” he says.

Geralt nods, and places a hand on his shoulder, squeezes it. “That’s alright,” he promises.

Jaskier gives him another small smile before getting back to his tea.

I love you, Geralt thinks, and thinks about buying a new studded jacket for Jaskier in whatever new town they come across. That might cheer him up.

They accidentally stumbled upon a town’s festival, and Jaskier looked at Geralt with big wide eyes, holding onto his sleeve intently.

Geralt sighs. “Fine,” he grumbles, and Jaskier happily pulls him into the festivities. They stop at various shops, looking at the collections and sundries. Jaskier buys a few gemstone necklaces, bracelets, pamphlets, snacks. Geralt lets himself get hauled around, lets Jaskier put flower crowns on his head, eats anything that Jaskier shoves into his hands.

Towards the late noon, Geralt finds Jaskier leaning against a stand. Geralt comes to stand next to him, and follows his gaze. He grins to himself. Jaskier is looking longingly at a quartet that’s been playing music for the entirety of the festival. Geralt had noticed that they kept switching out players as the day went on, and thinks that Jaskier had been waiting for a turn.

“Why don’t you go over?” Geralt suggests. Jaskier looks up at him, and shakes his head.

“Oh, no, no, that’s not, I’m, I wasn’t thinking about the band, I was just,” Jaskier says, trailing off. He looks off to the people still milling about, sharing food, dancing in the square.

“What is it?”

“I’m...embarrassed to say!” Jaskier says, looking back at Geralt. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes, but he’s trying so hard to keep a nonchalant air.

Geralt furrows his brow. What the hell? “What?”

Jaskier’s cheeks turn pink, and Geralt’s heart beats quicker. What could possibly be eating him up inside?

“Would you mind...if we danced?” Jaskier asks.

Oh.

“Oh,” Geralt says.

“See, it’s dumb, don’t worry, you’ve put up with me and the festival all day, I don’t want to push you into anything that you don’t want to do–” Jaskier says, rambling on. Geralt watches him get more obfuscated, and then reaches out to place a hand on his shoulder, effectively stopping his verbal volley. Jaskier looks from his hand to his face.

“I wouldn’t mind.”

Jaskier beams at that. He grabs the hand on his shoulder, and pulls them onto the courtyard, where they join the other dancers. Geralt isn’t used to this, but does his best to follow the others. Jaskier seems a natural, weaving between the other dancers as they move to the beat of the music.

The dance makes them switch partners every eight bars, and it takes a good while until Geralt and Jaskier face each other again. Geralt takes Jaskier’s hands in his, and interlaces their fingers as they move up, an arm over the head, their hands sliding down to their shoulders, whence they twirl in place.

Jaskier laughs, giddy with happiness, and Geralt’s entire body feels aglow.

I love you, he thinks, as he crosses arms with Jaskier again, spinning them around their own center point.

They’re next to a lake, sun high in the sky. Geralt is fishing, while Jaskier has decided to attend to Roach. Geralt smiles to himself as he hears Jaskier coo at her, and chuckles at his babytalk. He swings his line out again.

“We’re gonna get your coat nice and shiny again,” Jaskier promises. Geralt can hear the slosh of the soapy water as Jaskier wets his rag again. Geralt’s line moves in the water.

Roach whinnies. Geralt turns his head to see Jaskier brushing the excess water out of her coat with a thickly bristled brush. He then bends to the bucket to wet it, and grabs some of her mane, presses it against his hand as he brushes her hair with it.

“You’re so pretty,” Jaskier tells her, with a wide smile on his face. “I bet all the other horses think you are, too. You must be the envy of every town we visit, seeing as how you’re such a rugged warrior.”

Roach’s tail flicks out happily, and she snorts, dipping her head as if in affirmative. Jaskier chuckles at her, and presses a kiss to her neck.

“Do the other mares get jealous when they see you? Or what about stallions, is that attractive, for them?” Jaskier wonders, twirling the brush in his hand. “Oh! What if it’s the mares that find it attractive? Do you have a lot of girlfriends, Roachy lady?”

Roach walks away a bit, flicking Jaskier with her tail as she does a slow spin. Jaskier just laughs at her, swatting her hind with the brush.

Geralt shakes his head, and gets back to fishing.

A few hours later, Geralt finally comes back to camp with a few fish on his hooks. He skins them, cooks them well, and serves them each a plate. Jaskier eats his filet with much relish, and when he finishes, he gets up to feed Roach. He pulls out a few apples from his bag, and smiles as Roach bites them out of his hand. He nuzzles her muzzle as she chews.

Geralt watches them a bit as he cleans their plates, dumping any leftover into the fire. He feels so content and satisfied in this moment.

“I love you,” he says, getting up from the fire to put away the plates and forks. He looks up at Jaskier when he feels his gaze on his back. “What?”

“What did you say?” Jaskier asks, hand still on Roach’s snout.

Geralt furrows his brow. He didn’t say anything, did he?

Roach flicks her gaze to him and snorts. He. No. Did?

Oh.

Oh no.

He did.

Geralt gets up quickly from where he was squatting. “Uh,” he says eloquently.

Jaskier’s eyes are wide, and he takes a tentative step to Geralt. Geralt’s surprised he didn’t take a step back himself.

“Geralt,” Jaskier begins, “Did you just say that you love me?”

“No,” Geralt says. “Yes,” he amends. He feels his face on fire, and fuck, what’s he supposed to do with his hands now?

“Really?” Jaskier asks, and hell, when did he get so close? Geralt looks into his bright blue eyes, full of happiness, and feels his heart tighten at the sight.

“Please don’t make me say it again,” Geralt asks. His heart’s beating much too fast right now, and he’s nearly feeling faint.

“Aww,” Jaskier coos, and shyly reaches for him. Seeing that Geralt hasn’t reacted in either way, he slowly wraps his arms around his torso, carefully laying his head against Geralt’s shoulder. Geralt’s hands jump up to wrap around him as well, holding him tightly. He can feel Jaskier’s smile against his shirt.

“I love you too,” he says, and Geralt melts.

“I love you,” Geralt says.

Roach whinnies as if in chime, and they both chuckle into their embrace.

[yikesharringrove]

@kumathecatalyst made my brain go bbbbbrbrrrrrrrrr

-

Billy let his head fall back, resting against the side of the house.

He had lost track of time in his drunken haze, and was an hour past curfew.

No way his dad would let him in.

He thought about finding some girl, convince her into letting him drive her home, into letting him stay the night.

In whatever capacity that means. Rumors will only help him here, help him blend in.

He gave himself until the end of his cigarette. Then he would head inside are start sniffing at chicks.

He knew that Vicki girl was watching him earlier, and he’s pretty sure Tina is the one throwing the party. Maybe he can sweet talk his way into her bedroom. It’s beat having to go anywhere.

He stared at the dwindling cigarette.

It was cold out, but Billy was still drunk enough that it felt nice. It was too hot inside, everyone tugging at him, pushing him around, trying to cling onto him.

He took a deep breath, was about to stub out the dying cig against the side of the house when he heard humming.

A tune that nearly made his heart stop.

Harrington came around the corner, stumbling, and very drunk, holding a red cup with one hand, his stupid sunglasses with the other.

He stopped for a second, looking down at his feet, taking a shaking breath.

“It’s a beautiful day in this neighborhood, a beautiful day for a neighbor, would you be mine?” He laughed bitterly, pouring out his drink. He watched the spiked punch splatter in the grass at his feet. His eyes tracked up, landing on Billy as he clumsily sang, “could you be mine?”

“Mr. Rogers, huh?” Harrington just stared. “I like that show.”

“It’s good.” Steve was slurring, just a touch. “Mr. Rogers wants to be my friend. He says so. Every episode.”

“Yeah, that’s kinda the idea of the neighborhood.” 

“Wish I had a neighborhood.” Harrington threw his empty cup into the bushes.

“You do.”

“No, like, a Mr. Rogers kinda neighborhood. Where everyone was nice, and, and people liked me, and I had friends. Mr. Rogers is my only friend and he’s not even real.”

“He’s real.” Harrington huffed dramatically at Billy.

“But he lives in the t.v. He’s not here. He’s not real in my life. Or I’m not real in his.” He furrowed his brows, looked like he was getting confused.

It was cute.

And Billy suddenly realized he didn’t know Harrington’s first name.

That Tom kid just kept referring to him as Harrington.

“I’m Billy.”

“I know.” Billy rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, but I don’t know your name, Dumbass.” Harrington’s eyes went hollow. It was fucking creepy.

“It’s Steve. But Dumbass works too I guess.” Billy made a mental note never to call him dumbass again.

“Well, you know. Now that we know each other, we can be neighbors.” Steve’s face lit up slowly, like the words were sinking in one by one.

And then he threw himself at Billy, hugging him tightly around the middle.

And Billy realized, horrified, that Steve was sobbing into his neck.

Billy reached up, patting his back.

“Why don’t I take you home, Steve?” That was somehow the wrong thing to say, as Steve just started crying harder.

“No one takes care of me.”

“Whoa, who said anything about take care of? I was just gonna drop you off. Let your mom do all the heavy lifting.”

And then Steve’s legs seemed to give out under him.

“Mom’s not home. Never home.” A chill spread through Billy’s whole body.

“Is she, did she pass?”

“No. She just chooses not to be around me,” Steve wailed. Billy was very much in over his head.

But he may have found a place to sleep tonight.

And if Steve likes Mr. Rogers, he’s gotta have the channel at home.

Because that was the thing about moving to Hawkins. It meant leaving everything behind. Including, Mrs. Beverly down the street that let Billy come in and watch The Neighborhood with her.

She was old and kind, gave him cookies and turned a blind eye if he got choked up during an episode.

“Hey, Steve, just let me drive you home, okay?” Steve nodded into his neck.

Billy led him to his car parked far down the road. He didn’t want any assholes hitting it.

He had pounded some water before heading outside, and felt alright. Still a little hazy, but he’ll get them there in one piece.

Steve had calmed down some, just kinda had tears sliding down his face now, Which was better than his body wracking with harsh sobs.

He silently pointed at streets Billy was meant to turn down, and Billy, for once, drove slowly enough that it worked out.

Steve was still humming the theme song, his voice cracking every so often.

He pointed to a big house at the end of the street, and Billy pulled into the long drive way.

He glared at the huge fucking house. Steve made no move to get out of the car.

He was holding onto his seat belt, the car silent without his humming.

“Do you wanna come in?” His voice was tiny, like he already new the answer.

“Sure.” His head snapped up to look at Billy. Billy just killed the ignition and pulled himself out of the car.

He watched Steve, smile on his face, as he stumbled awkwardly out of the passenger seat, nearly falling over in the process.

Billy got one hand on his elbow as they walked to the front double doors.

“You wanna-I got Mr. Rogers on tape.” Steve was just holding his keys out for Billy.

There were only a few, one clearly a car key, so it was a matter of three different keys.

Steve seemed like he just didn’t wanna bother.

“I got a buncha episodes. We could watch one.”

“Sure, if you want.” Steve beamed at him. Billy just focused on getting the door open.

The second key worked and the heavy lock slid open.

Steve’s house was cold.

It was immaculately clean, like some kinda model home.

It looked like nobody lived in it.

Steve brought Billy through the entry hall to a door just off the kitchen leading into a basement.

This was better. The couch was worn and there was a blanket strewn on it like Steve had been curled up underneath it.

Billy realized this is probably where Steve spends most of his time in this empty house, the almost cozy television room downstairs.

There were shelves lined with tapes, all sorts of movies and neatly labeled television show recordings.

Steve had probably every episode of The Neighborhood in a section all on it’s own. Billy picked a random episode and hoped it wasn’t one guaranteed to make him cry.

He figured Steve’s breakdown was enough for one night.

Steve sang along to the theme song under his breath.

It was so damn cute.

He was slurring still, drunk and lazy, sitting low on the couch with the blanket pulled up to his chin.

It looked hand knit.

He had put some over Billy’s lap when he sat down.

The episode turned out to be fine.

For Billy that is.

It was an old one, one from about two years ago.

One about friendship.

And Steve seemed to be okay.

And then the story moved to the Neighborhood of Make-Believe.

The puppet people were on their way to a picnic at King Friday’s palace.

But Lady Aberlin was in a rush and forgot to get Daniel Tiger and bring him to the picnic.

And Daniel Tiger explained how hurt he felt, forgotten and left out by his friends. How they had fun without him and that made him feel bad.

And Steve was crying again.

“They, they just forgot Daniel-” Billy could barely make out what he was saying.

This was no pretty crying. This wasn’t a few dainty tears.

This was water covering Steve’s cheeks. This was snot and borderline hyperventilating.

And Billy has never felt more out of his depths.

“They don’t care about Daniel! They don’t love him!” Yeah, this was not about Daniel Tiger and the fucking picnic.

“Steve, of course they love Daniel. Lady Aberlin came back, and, and she apologized! Sometimes, you know, friends can just be shitty,” Billy offered. Steve wailed. There were tears dripping off his chin now.

“I wouldn’t know!”

“C’mon, man. Didn’t I say I was your friend?”

“You don’t even know me!”

“I’ve seen you fucking ugly cry three times tonight. I feel like I know you pretty well.” The episode was still playing, Mr. Rogers now explaining in that soft voice of his, that telling friends our feelings can help make us feel better. Billy pointed at the television. “Tell me your feelings! Mr. Rogers said it’ll help.”

“I, I, no one loves me. Nancy doesn’t love me, my old friends want fuckin’ nothing to do with me, and, and my parents don’t even like me, and I’m always left behind.”

“Wait, Nancy’s that girl, right? That Tom guy said you ditched him for her.”

“No. I ditched him because he was being a fucking asshole.”

“Them Steve, you kinda can’t complain that he wants nothing to do with you after you ditched him.”

“I tried to talk to him. Like, a month later. We were best friends since we were five, and it was one stupid fight, and I tried to talk it out, and he told me to go fuck myself.” Damn.

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh.” Steve had stopped crying by now, but his face was still wet. He was fucking covered in snot. Jesus Christ. “I tried. He just realized he was better off without me.”

“Or he was hurt and trying to protect his pride or some shit.” Steve deflated a bit.

“The Nancy thing is, that one’s real. She said she was just pretending. We’ve been together for a year. And I, I love her. And she’s just pretending.” Steve suddenly sat up, flipping the blanket down to let out his top half, scooting to sit against the armrest facing Billy.

The credits were rolling on the tape.

“Y’know, I offered to like, not go to college for her. I missed the early application deadline because my whole plan up until like two hours ago was to rot in this shitty fucking town for her. To settle down with her. To marry her. And she’s fucking pretending.” He finally wiped off his face. “I don’t even know what to do anymore. I fucking don’t.”

Billy didn’t either.

Well, he had a few suggestions, but you could always suck my cock, right here and now felt a little crass for the situation.

“You said early application. You’ve still got the regular deadlines.”

“I wanted to do early because Nancy had been helping me with my grades all fucking year. She helped me bring them up a lot last year and without her, man they’re gonna tank.”

“Nah. You got me now. I can give you a hand.”

Steve gave him a look, one eyebrow raised.

“What? I’m smarter than I look.”

“That’s not reassuring.” Billy reached out and slapped Steve’s arm. Steve pouted at him, rubbing the sore spot. “Owie.”

“Don’t fuckin’ say owie.”

“That hurt, Billy. What would Mr. Rogers say?”

“He’d agree you were being a pain in my ass.”

“Rude.”

Steve looked better. His eyes were a little bit brighter.

“So, Daniel Tiger. Did talking about your feelings help?”

Steve rolled his eyes, but he was smiling, just a teeny bit.

“Yeah, it did. Thanks, King Friday.”

“Oh, you better take that back! I am not King Friday.”

-

Here’s a clip from the episode they watch. It’s lowkey fucking brutal. (The clip is “Daniel Feels Forgotten” under the Daniel Striped Tiger section)

[sevfanfic]

A Touch in the Dark - Chapter 14: A Dose of Reality

Word count: 1,114

Warnings: SMUT, NSFW

“It would make me even happier if you would grant me the privilege of being your partner, in this life and the next.”

You felt your heart flutter in your chest as you looked into Severus’ dark eyes. At that moment nothing else mattered, only how much you wanted to kiss him and tell him that you'd love nothing more than to be with him. Your movements were brisk as you stood and closed the distance between you two. He was quick to notice your movements and pushed aways from the table creating a space for you which you gladly filled by straddling his lap. You then took his cheeks in your hands and pressed your lips against his. He grasped your waist and kissed you back passionately. You pulled away and admired the man who had stolen your heart.

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes.” you smiled and pressed your forehead to his. The smile on Severus’ face beamed and for the first time in his dreary life, he was genuinely happy. He smiled and kissed you again and you let his tongue roam your mouth. His hands squeezed at the skin on your hips and you felt him pulling you closer. The pounding in his chest overwhelmed him with the sensation of pure bliss.

“I think,” you spoke breathlessly between kisses, “I think I’m falling in love with you.”

“I sure hope so,” Severus let out a mischievous chuckle, “otherwise I’d feel extremely awkward with the current situation.”

An amused giggle escaped from you and it reminded Severus of a song bird’s melodious tune. He relished in the new feelings that coursed through his body like a flood overtaking a dam. What had he done to deserve such love? Had the universe forgiven him for his past transgressions? He dwelled on these thoughts for only a moment before he let them fade away into the light of your love.

You spent the night in Severus’ arms. He whispered sweet words against the nape of your neck. Time had slowed and the world around you melted away.

Dawn came and went. Soon the midday sun beamed down through the lake and sent greenish hues through the dungeon windows. You extended an arm and felt Severus’ warm skin. Your eyes opened to the site of his sleeping face. He looked calm and you smiled at the thought of him feeling at ease.

“Sev,” you whispered, bringing your hand to gently stroke his cheek, “Severus, darling. It’s past noon, we should get up.”

He sighed and turned his head so he could kiss the palm of your hand.

“I suppose we must.” With that he drew you close and nuzzled his face into your neck. He drew a deep breath, the lavender scent of your hair calmed him. The moment was ended abruptly by urgent knocking at the door. You quickly got out of bed and slipped on a robe before opening the door. A grumpy looking Mr. Filch stood before you.

“You’re wanted in the Headmistress’ office. Immediately.” His voice was a low growl and he eyed you suspiciously. When he looked past your shoulder he glimpsed Severus' figure. The corners of his lip curled in a scowl then he turned and hurried away before you could say a word.

“Well then.” You turned back to Severus and broke out in laughter at the horrified look on his face.

“Do you think he saw me?” The man seemed to sink into the sheets in embarrassment.

“Oh, he saw you.” You continued to laugh and approached Severus in an attempt to comfort him, “but don’t worry, I’ll make him eat slugs if he speaks a word of it.”

“Defending my honor,” he rolled his eyes and chuckled, “you really are falling hard, hm?” He reached a hand up and pulled you down for a kiss. When you tried to get away he held you tight.

“Let’s just stay here.” His voice was sweet like honey and you practically melted into his embrace.

“I can’t,” your voice trembled in response to a hand slipping between your legs, “I have to go.”

“She can wait.” Severus spoke close to your ear, the warmth from his breath gave you goosebumps. He spoke sternly, as if leaving really wasn’t an option. His fingers grazed lazily over the skin of your inner thighs. With one swift motion he had pulled you to the bed and you laid on your back beneath him. He untied your robe slowly while maintaining eye contact. The fire that raged beneath your skin was reflected in the dark pools as he watched you give in to him. Soon his lips were pressed against your body, looking to kiss every inch. He trailed down your belly and nibbled at the sensitive spot above your clit. A small gasp came from you as the electric feeling bolted from the spot. You watched a sly smile form on his lips just before he planted another kiss against the skin he had bitten.

“Severus,” you sighed his name and before you could utter another word he pressed his tongue flat against your now wet opening. You shuddered at the feeling and moaned softly as he began to move his tongue in a circular motion. He knew exactly where to move his mouth and you quickly felt overwhelmed by the pleasure.

“Oh, please don’t stop.” You moaned and put your hand on Severus’ head. Your fingers clutched at his hair. The flood of bliss that came over you forced a loud moan as you climaxed against him.

Severus watched you dress from his spot on your bed. It was a cold Saturday morning and he had very little he needed to do. You stood in your bathroom fixing your hair and when you reached into a drawer you froze. A wave of anxiety rushed over you when you saw your collection of sanitary pads and tampons. When was the last time I got my period? Your mind raced to answer the question but you couldn’t recall an exact date. I’m late, but how late? I’m such an idiot. You quickly finished getting ready and left without saying a word leaving Severus confused about the strange behavior.

It was obvious that you hadn’t been extremely careful but you were taking birth control and had hoped everything would be fine. You couldn’t be sure just yet. The fear that bubbled within you grew as you imagined having to tell Severus. What is he going to think? As you made your way to the Headmistress’ office you decided that you wouldn’t tell him until you were completely sure. Afterall, it could be nothing.

TAGS: @ayamenimthiriel @marvelschriss @debiraquel @mitsuhkai @the-not-so-iconic @darkthought15 @rubym13 @4everflowercore @otherxstories @thottywithoutthebody @setsuna-meiou31

[eatfishies]

minor

summary: The distance between you and Akaashi is unbearable as you try and cope with the longing of his presence whilst managing your everyday tasks. note: akaashi is 20; 2nd year in university while MC/reader is 18; 3rd year in high school. fem! reader, she/her pronouns.  song: minor by gracie abrams word count: 1,132 words arthie’s note: this is my first ever tumblr post in this blog! i decided to open this blog to share the fics that i wrote (since i mostly write for myself and my friends) however upon seeing how happy they were when they read it, i thought why not share it with a wider audience ^^ hope all of you like this!! ps; english is not my native language therefore i apologise for any misspellings or grammar mistakes! this is also gonna be a series ft other haikyuu!! characters sooo stay tuned!! ↳ back to main masterlist ↳ minor series masterlist »»————-　➴　————-«« Flying balls and squeaking shoes chaffed against the polished floor, frustrated groans and tired sighs is what she’s accustomed to. Observing silently as the ball bounces up in the air before immediately come crashing down as Shoyo spiked it with brutal force. Eyes glinting with passion and fury; hint of competitiveness evident in both his and Tobio’s colored gazes. It reminded her of someone who used to have that spark to.

»»————-　➴　————-«« After bidding goodbyes with Tobio and Shoyo, she entered the house quietly, careful not to cause any unnecessary sounds. Lazily marching to her bedroom, she made sure to lock the door before dropping her bag to the ground and plopped on the bed. Exhaustion wearing her down as her eyelids gets heavy, embracing the warmth of the comforters. Buzz! Buzz! Her hand slipped inside the pocket, clasping upon the buzzing device and pulling it out. The bright light beamed blazingly, making her eyes squint to read the messages that she had received.  2 new messages from keiji <333 She smiled to herself tiredly, clicking on the notification. keiji <333: hey, i know you just got back from the inter-high but i just wanted to say how much i miss you keiji <333: please get a lot of rest and sleep early!! don’t stay up watching the opponent’s match, sleep instead okay? i love you <3 Biting her lip, she desperately wishes she could run away and meet the older boy. Now that Keiji’s in university, it’s getting harder to meet up especially since he’s in Tokyo and she’s in Miyagi. Not to mention, their hectic schedules that contributes to them not being able to meet up. He’s been busy most of the time, balancing his work and studies. Sometimes it gets too frenzied to the point where Keiji would go on for weeks without texting her. Of course, she felt hurt but she understood why. Whenever they see each other, she could see the heavy bags weighing down his eyes and dark circles gradually getting darker with each date they had. The burden he’s carrying is chewing onto him; making him feel distressed. Oh, how she perilously yearns for him— wrapping her arms around him and comforting him. If she could, she would drive all night to get to him or run for miles just to see his soft expression again. Feeling glum about the whole situation, she decided to press his contact, ringing his phone. A wave of uneasiness churns in her stomach as she waited the line to be picked up by the familiar voice that she longs for. “Hello?” That voice that constantly coos her with unconditional love and reassurance. That brings her warmth and happiness; making her feel safe under any circumstances. “Y/n? What’s wrong?” He asked worriedly. Exhaling, she replied. “Hi love.” “Hello to you too.” A hint of amusement rolled off his tongue. “So what’s up?” She held back the tears that are threatening to spill. God, just hearing his voice makes me all choked up, she thought to herself. “Nothing.” She inhaled, “I just miss you. A lot.” The confession slips before she could realize it. A soft hum on the other side of the line, indicating that a smile spreads on his face. “I miss you a lot too.” The feeling of longing crawls onto her skin, enclosing around her and engulfing into a tight embrace. A silent tear ran down her cheek, her heart aching painfully. “I— I miss you so so much, Keiji.” Her voice wobbly. “I miss your smile. Your laughter. Your sarcastic and blunt remarks. Your hands. Your warmth. Your cuddles. Your kisses. Your comforting words. Your presence. Everything about you.” With a choked sob, “I miss every part of you.” She hiccuped, “It fucking sucks to not see your face and feel your affection.” The other line stilled, mouth gaping at the dejected yearning. He hasn’t realized that his cheeks are wet from the tears rolling down, he exhaled shakily. “Y/n...” He says softly, a whimper escaped his lips. “I— I miss you too. So fucking much, you have no idea how lonely it is without you. How my days have become so dull without your bright smiles and tender kisses or how I crave your ramblings in the middle of the night and hushed whispers of your declaration of love towards me.” He can hear her sobbing on the other side. It’s agonizing to listen to the heartbroken wail. He can feel his heart throbbing with despair. “Sweetheart...” He breaks the silence. He can hear her sniffing and murmuring a soft, “Yeah?” “I’ll take a break from classes and work for a week and come down to Miyagi to spend time with you, okay?” “But... wouldn’t that just double your work? I don’t wanna burden you, Keiji.” She muttered, fiddling with the bracelet he gave her for her birthday. “I can just bring some of it with me when I visit you. Maybe you can help with it and baby... you’re never a burden to me. Ever.” He admitted, feeling his chest clenched at her statement. Hearing that makes her heart swell, Keiji wasn’t the type to vocally express his love nor does he priorities a person over his work and studies however, this just proves her wrong. Keiji shows his affection towards actions, rubbing her back soothingly or pecking her lips before they went to bed. She smiled sadly, “Okay.” She glances at the whiteboard on her wall, bold letters of her curfew written onto it. “Y’know.. If I can, I would steal my parents’s car and drive all night to see you or catch a train to get to you.” She gulps,”But my curfew is early and they’re both home before 6PM.” He chuckles lightly, the sound of his tone made her feel a lot brighter than previously. “You’re so cute, sweetcheeks.” She grinned to herself. “As much as I’d love you to do that but unfortunately I can’t. I don’t want your parents to hate me especially since they’ll be my parents-in-law soon.” She gasped, covering her mouth as her heart pounds rapidly. “Keiji...” She whispered. “I love you so much. With my entire being.” “I love you so much too. With every single fibre of my being.” He spoke with so much sincerity and love that she can feel the warmth pooling in her stomach. They spent the whole night, telling each other about their week and what they’ve been up to, listening to Keiji’s soothing voice calms her down and makes her heart full. Both of them fell asleep to the sound of each other’s quiet breaths with their hands clutching onto their phones with their hearts intertwined with one another, no matter how far the distance pulls them apart.

[sadclearance]

juvia lockser from fairy tail fluff with she/her reader?

singing in the rain

pairing: juvia lockser x female!reader

summary: juvia's only ever had bad experiences with her rain. today, it brings her a good one.

category: fluff

warning(s): none

word count: 987

key:

italicized - song lyrics

rain has been the source of her miseries for as long as juvia lockser can remember.

rain is gloomy, mood-ruining, and just a bother.

her rain is a bother. a burden. a curse.

she never asked to be this way--she couldn't help it.

but she had understood why her classmates didn't want her to join them on their school trip.

she understood why it was better when she was far away when they got recess.

she knew why she was unwanted at the park, where couples wanted to go on romantic picnics under the sunny sky, watching squirrels run about freely.

school trips, recess, picnics--they were all for dry sunshine-filled days.

days that she did not bring.

days that she ruined.

she's managed to get her emotions under better control as she's grown older, limiting the rain around her, but nobody forgot about how she ruined their first date, how she was the reason why everyone had to stay inside during lunch instead of run around and play fun games.

she walks through the park of her childhood. it's sunny now, and the birds are chirping their chipper tune while children are running on the grass and couples are feeding each other sliced fruits.

"watch it," a little boy shoves his shoulder against her harshly, making her stumble until she falls onto the floor. she's surprised, but she feels as though she shouldn't be. she's received this treatment far more times than she can count.

"hey, don't talk to her," another whispers loudly. "don't you know? that's juvia the rain woman. they say she ruins the good."

the children run away from her, and juvia's left to sulk on the ground.

tears gather at her eyes as clouds cover the bright blue sky at an unnatural speed.

"what?"

"the forecast said there was no chance of rain!"

"it was so sunny just a second ago!"

"what the hell just happened?"

"ugh, let's go. i'm getting wet."

juvia holds in her sobs as people run past her to get back to their homes.

she's ruined everyone's day. again. like she always does.

"the rain... this terrible rain... juvia hates it!"

"really? well, i love the rain."

juvia looks up from the floor and meets eyes with a beautiful stranger.

"you're getting wet," juvia argues.

"so? that's just what comes with rain."

"parks are meant to be enjoyed in nice weather."

"who said rain isn't nice weather?"

juvia doesn't know how to respond to this ridiculous girl.

"it's so calming, don't you think?"

juvia's shoulders slump as she starts to think over what she just said.

"the sounds can make me tired and sleepy. i've always found that naps during rain are the best."

"the rain is draining..." juvia frowns.

"no, i meant like--it's more like a soothing lullaby."

"soothing lullabies are meant for the night time, not for days at the park."

"well, sometimes, it brings me energy."

"how could it possibly?"

"it's the best time to dance."

"is your head on straight?"

"here! i'll show you," the girl smiles and extends her hand to juvia.

there's been so many times where she's found herself in this position, alone on the floor, but this was the first time a helping hand was offered.

juvia takes it because it makes her warm inside.

"i'm singing in the rain," the girl keeps their hands entwined while holding juvia's hip with her free one. "just singing in the rain!"

juvia feels a smile growing on her face at the silly gesture.

"what a glorious feeling, i'm happy again!"

the girl lets go of juvia's hip and pulls her along the pathway, skipping and singing under the raindrops.

"i'm laughing at clouds--" she stops her singsong tune and says real fast, "i'm gonna dip you. are you ready?"

"yes," juvia giggles when her body falls close to the floor, but strong hands keep her from hitting it.

"so dark up above! the sun's in my heart," she pauses before bringing juvia up with a strong pull, so strong they end up with their faces just inches away from each other. she continues while staring into her eyes, "and i'm ready for love!"

juvia blushes a dark red, and she's suddenly pulled into a twirl.

"let the stormy clouds chase--!"

juvia steadies herself when she's facing her again.

"everyone from the place!" she's skipping exaggeratedly through the road again, and juvia's quick to follow. "come on with the rain!"

she suddenly pulls at juvia's hand again, and they're back to facing each other, free hands on the other's hips, feet taking small side steps.

"i've a smile on my face," she winks before shining her teeth in a big smile to juvia.

she abruptly pulls away again and starts moving down the trail again, but this time with slow and dramatic steps. juvia continues to follow her lead.

"i'll walk down the lane with a happy refrain, just singing--"

she shocks juvia by pushing her face right in front of hers.

"singing in the rain!"

juvia hums along to the tune as her arms are guided to sway to the rhythm that the other has created.

"dancing in the rain."

juvia tries to copy the words but gets a laugh when she says "singing" instead of "dancing".

"it's okay, i get confused, too," she reassures, though it doesn't really relieve juvia's embarrassment. "hey, it's not raining anymore."

juvia looks up and sees how the clouds have parted, revealing the bright sun.

the beam of warm light makes her realize just how wet and cold her dance partner got.

"fun while it lasted, though."

juvia smiles.

as the two look at the clearing sky, people start filling up the park again. they stare at the pair strangely, confused by the girl in soaking wet clothes.

"juvia has a towel at her house..." juvia offers shyly.

"lead the way," she smiles.

i'm happy again

❥๑━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━๑❥

a/n;

i hope you like it anon!

[nouveauweird]

A Short Essay on Metaphor by Ocean Vuong

The following is a transcription of the instagram stories shared by Ocean Vuong on the subject of metaphor, which I found quite moving, and hope others can take something valuable from it as well. You can find the originals on his instagram highlights.

Each paragraph below is transcribed from one instagram story slide.

[ The first part is Vuong’s answer to the initial question that sparked the discussion, he went on to elaborate some more, but in his longer discussion several days later he reused some of the same examples so I will only be featuring the longer, 25 slide, “mini essay”. ]

QUESTION: How do you make sure your metaphors have real depth?

VUONG: metaphors should have two things: sensory (visual, texture, sound, etc) connector between origin image and the transforming image as well as a clear logical connector between images if you only have one of either, best to forego the metaphor. otherwise it will seem forced or read like “writing” if that makes sense.

[ elaborated discussion ] 

I’ve gotten so many responses from folks the the past few days asking for a deeper dive into my personal theory on metaphor. So I’m taking a moment here to do a more in-depth mini essay since my answer the Q/A the other day was off the cuff (I was typing while walking to my hair cut appointment). What I’m proposing, of course, is merely a THEORY, not a gospel, so please take whatever is useful to you and ignore what isn’t. ...

Before I begin I want to encourage everyone to forge your own theories and praxis for your work, especially if you’re a BIPOC artist. Often we are perceived by established powers as merely “performers” suitable for a (brief) stint on stage-- but not thinkers and creators with our own autonomy, intelligence, and capacity to question the framework in our fields.

It is not lost on me as a yellow body in America, with the false connotations therein, where I’m often seen as diminutive, quiet, accommodating, agreeable, submissive, that I am not expected to think against the grain, to have my own theories on how I practice my art and my life. I became a writer knowing I am entering a field (fine arts) where there are few faces like my own (and with many missing), a field where we are expected to succeed only when we pick up a violin or a cello in order to serve Euro-Centric “masterpieces”. For so long, to be an Asian American “prodigy” in art was to be a fine-tuned instrument for Mozart, Bach, and Beethoven.

It is no surprise, then, that if you, as a BIPOC artist, dare to come up with your own ideas, to say “no” to what they shove/have been shoving down your throat for so long, you will be infantilized, seen as foolish, moronic, stupid, disobedient, uneducated and untamed. Because it means the instrument that was once in service of their “work” has now begun to speak, has decided, despite being inconceivable to them, to sing its own songs. I want you, I need you, to sing with me. I want to hear what you sound like when it’s just us, and you sound so much like yourself that I recognize you even in the darkest rooms, even when I recognize nothing else. And I know your name is “little brother” or “big sister” or “light beam,” or “my-echo-returned-to-me-intact.” And I smile. In the dark I smile.

Art has no rules-- yes-- but it does have methods, which vary for each individual. the following are some of my own methods and how I came to them. I’m very happy y’all are so into figurative language! It’s my favorite literary device because it reveals a second IDEA behind an object or abstraction via comparison. When done well, it creates what I call the “DNA of seeing.” That is, a strong metaphor “Greek for “to carry over”) can enact the autobiography of sight. For example, what does it say about a person who sees the stars in the night sky-- as exit wounds? What does it say about their history, their worldview, their relationship to beauty and violence? All this can be garnered in the metaphor itself-- without context-- when the comparative elements have strong multifaceted bonds. How we see the world reveals who we are. And metaphors explicate that sight.

My personal feeling is that the strongest metaphors do not require context for clarity. However, this does not mean that weaker metaphors that DO require context are useless or wrong. Weak metaphors use context to achieve CLARITY. Strong metaphors use context to SUPPORT what’s already clear. BOTH are viable in ANY literary text. But for the sake of this deeper exploration into metaphors and their gradients, I will attempt to identify the latter.

I feel it is important for a writer to understand the STRENGTS of the devices they use, even when WEAKER versions of said devices can achieve the same goal via different means. Sometimes we want a life raft, sometimes we want a steam boat-- but we should know which is which (for us). My focus then, will be specifically the ornamental or overt metaphor. That is, metaphors that occur inside the line-- as opposed to conceptual, thematic, extended metaphors, or Homeric simile (which is a whole different animal).

My thinking here begins with the (debated) theory that similes reside under metaphors. That is, (non-Homeric) similes, behave cognitively, like metaphors. This DOES NOT mean that similes do not matter (far from it), as we’ll see later on, but that the compared elements, once read, begin to merge in the mind, resulting in a metaphoric OCCURENCE via a simileac vehicle.

This thinking is not entirely my own, but one informed by my interest in Phenomenology. Founded by Edmund Husserl in the early 20th century and later expanded by Heidegger, Phenomenology is, in short, interested in how objects or phenomena are perceived in the mind, which renewed interest in subjectivity across Europe, as opposed to the Enlightenment’s quest for ultimate, finite truths. By the time Husserl “discovered” this, however, Tibetan Buddhists scholars have already been practicing Phenomenology as something called Lojong, or “mind training”, for over half a millennia.

Whereas Husserl believes, in part, that a finite truth does exist but that the myopic nature of human perception hinders us from seeing all of it, Tibetan Lojong purports that no finite “truth” exists at all. In Lojong, the world and its objects are pure perception. That is, a fly looks at a tree and sees, due to its compound eyes, hundreds of trees, while we see only one. For Buddhists, neither fly nor human is “correct” because a fixed truth is not present. Reality is only real according to one’s bodily medium.

I’m keenly interested in Lojong’s approach because it inheritably advocates for an anti-colonial gaze of the world. If objects in the real are not tenable, there is no reason they should be captured, conquered or pillaged. In other words, we are in a “simulation” and because there is no true gain in acquiring something that is only an illusion, it is better to observe and learn from phenomena as guests passing through this world with respect to things-- rather than to possess them.

The reason I bring this up is because Buddhist philosophy is the main influence of 8th century Chinese and 15th-17th century Japanese poetics, which fundamentally inform my understanding of metaphor. While I appreciate Aristotle’s take on metaphor and rhetoric in his Poetics, particularly his thesis that strong metaphors move from species to genus, it is not a robust influence on my thinking. After all, like sex and water, metaphors have been enjoyed by humans across the world long before Aristotle-- and evidently long after. In fact, Buddhist teachings, which widely employ metaphor and analogy, predates Aristotle by roughly 150 years. 

Now, to better see how Buddhist Phenomenology informs the transformation of images into metaphor, let’s look at this poem by Moritake. “The fallen blossom flies back to its branch. No, a butterfly.” When considering (western-dominated) discourse surrounding analogues using “like” or “is”, is this image a metaphor or a simile? It is technically neither. The construction of this poem does not employ metaphor or simile. And yet, to my eye, a metaphor, although not present, does indeed HAPPEN.

What’s more, the poem, which is essentially a single metaphor, is complete. No further context is needed for its clarity. If context is needed for a metaphor, then the metaphor is (IMO) weak-- but that doesn’t mean the writing, as a whole, is bad. Weak metaphors and good context bring us home safe and sound. Okay, so what is happening here? By the time I read “butterfly,” my mind corrects the blossom so that the latter image retroactively changes/informs the former. We see the blossom float up, then re-see it as a butterfly. The metaphoric figuration is complete with or without “like” or “is”.

Buddhism explains this by saying that, although a text IS thought, it does not THINK. We, the readers, must think upon it. The text, then, only curates thinking. Words, in this way, begin on the page but LIVE in the mind which, due to limited and subjective scope of human perception, shift seemingly fixed elements into something entirely new. The key here is proximity. Similes provide buffers to mediate impact between two elements, but they do not rule over how images coincide upon reading. One the page, text is fossil; in the mind, text is life.

Nearly 5000 years after Maritake, Ezra Pound, via Fenolosa, reads Maritake’s poem and writes what becomes the seminal poem on Imagism in 1912, which was subsequently highly influential to early Modernists: “The apparition of these faces in the crowd: Petals on a wet, black bough.” Like Maritake, Pound’s poem technically has no metaphor or simile. However, he adds the vital colon after “crowd,” which arguably works as an “equal sign”, thereby implying metaphor. But the reason why he did not use “are” or “is” is telling.

Pound understood, like Maritake, that the metaphor would occur in the mind, regardless of connecting verbiage due to the images’ close proximity. We would come to know this as “association”. Even if the colon was replaced by the word “like,” the transformation, though a bit slower, would still occur. In fact, when I first studied Pound years ago, I had trouble recalling whether this poem was fashioned as a simile or not-- mainly because the faces change to fully into blossoms each time I try to recall the poem.

Now let’s look at a simile that, to me, metaphorizes in the same way as the examples above, in [a] line ... from Eduardo C. Corral: “Jade moss on the tree intensifies, like applause.” The origin/tenor image (moss) is connected to the transforming element (applause). This metaphor suggests, not an optical relationship, but a BEHAVIORAL one. Both moss and applause are MASSES that accumulate via singularities: grains of moss and pairs of hands clapping to form a larger whole.

By comparing these two, Corral successfully suggests that moss grows at the RATE of applause, creating a masterful time lapse effect. Applause speeds up the moss growth, connoting rejuvenation, joy and refreshment. That something as mundane as moss deserves, even earns, jubilance, also offers a potent statement of alterity, that the smallest flourishing deserves celebration, which in turn suggests a subtle yet powerful political critique of hegemony. The poet, through the metaphor, has recalibrated the traditional modes of value placed on the object (moss). And no other context is needed for that.

You might disagree, but when I read Corral’s line, I don’t SEE an audience clapping BESIDE the moss. I see moss growing quickly to the sound of clapping. Although the simile is employed, the fusion of both elements completes the action in my mind’s eye. Like Maritake and Pound, metaphor has OCCURRED here-- but without “metaphor”. HOWEVER, the simile is still VITAL. Why?

Because the transforming element is abstract (applause) and looks nothing like moss. We don’t want moss to BE applause, we want the nature of applause to inform, imbue, moss. The line, I feel, would be quite poor if it was formed sans simile: “Jade moss is applause on the tree.” The “is” forces transposition, which is here akin to slamming two things together without mediation. We also lose the comparison of behavior, and are asked to see that moss BECOME applause, which doesn’t have the same meaning as the original. So, although the simile fuses into metaphor (via association) in the mind, such a metaphor would NOT have been possible without the simile. Similes matter greatly-- as tools towards metaphor. Why? Because (thank god) our minds are free to roam.

To summarize, one of the central strategies (and, to an extent, purposes) of the Japanese Haiku is to juxtapose two elements to test their synergy. This impulse is grounded in Shinto and Buddhist concepts of impermanence and structural malleability. That is, all things, even ideas and images, are subject to constant change-- and such change is the most pervasive nature of perception. 

The Haiku then becomes the perfect medium to test such changes. This principle is of central importance to me because it is rooted in non-dualistic (or non-binary) thinking. The poem becomes the theatre in which fixed elements can be transformed, their borders subject to being dissolved, shifting towards something entirely new-- to “create”, which is the Greek root to the word “poet”. The metaphor, then, is more like a chemical, whose elements (like hydrogen and oxygen), placed side by side, becomes water. In this way, Buddhism’s influence on my work and, specifically, my use and understanding of metaphor, is a foundational QUEER praxis for alterity. 

The reason why I emphasize the malleability of simile’s impact is that, although syntax and diction can aide a metaphor towards its more luminous embodiment, the ultimate key to its success is you, the observer. YOU have look deeply and find lasting relationships between things in a disparate world. In this sense, the practice of metaphor is also, I believe, the practice of compassion. How do I study a thing so that I might add to its life by introducing it to something else? At its best, the metaphor is what we, as a species, have always done, at OUR best: which is to point at something or someone so different from us, so far from our own origins and say, “Yes, there IS a bond between us. And if I work long enough, hard enough, I can prove it to you-- with this thing called language, this thing that weighs nothing but means everything to me.”

In the end, it is less about how you set up your metaphors (you will eventually find a way that suits it and you) but more about how you recognize your world. THAT is not easy to teach-- it comes with patient practice, with a committed wonder for a world that at times might be too painful to look at. But you must and you should. Good metaphors, in the end, come from writers who are committed to looking beyond what is already there, towards another possibility. This calls that you see your life and your work as inexhaustible sites of discovery, and that you tend to them with care. That’s it. That’s the true secret to a strong metaphor: care.

Lastly, I want to recommend the work of BIPOC poet and theorist, Thylias Moss, who discovered the Limited Fork Theory, a theory which suggests that the mind engages with the world, and especially with ideas, including text and art, the way the tines of a fork engage with a plate of food. That is, only so much can be held on the work/mind with each attempt to consume, and that no “work” can be possessed in its entirety, which I find happily congruent with Lojong. What a wonderful anti-imperialist and forgiving way to engage with our planet and its phenomena. Thank you, Mrs. Moss! 

And thank YOU for sticking around through my little seminar. I hope this has been helpful. Again, this is just my 2(5) cents! Now I’m going to sleep for four days. In the meantime, me-ta-phors be with you. [concludes with a pixel gif of Obiwan Kenobi with a blue light saber]

[cookiem1996]

The Scottish Stranger Chp2

AN: Ahoy there! I know it has been awhile since chapter one, but I have been very busy with work and life. Now that I am sick, unfortunately, I have had enough time to update and continue this story based off of Zelda’s recounts of her Academy days featuring a crossover of Supernatural’s Rowena Macelod. I hope you guys enjoy this second chapter and I am hoping to continue more on this installment and perhaps a reunion between a present Zelda and Rowena. This chapter does contain some actual Gaelic mythology. I thought it would please you all witches at heart. Enjoy.

The Scottish Stranger Chp 2

  Another great storm thundered in Greendale.

This time it is in the present. The rain still intrigues Zelda. She finds herself curled up by the window as she marks last week’s exams in the comfort of her home.

Sure, she usually spent a lot more time at the Academy of the Unseen Arts, but she was done hearing her sister’s pleas to pry her out of the environment lest, ‘you start becoming a hermit in that office’.  

Honestly, it relieved Zelda to be home; she found it to be a comfort. Her family home never always used to be this way, with its thunderous memories of decay and turmoil. Now, the only memories that went through her mind were times of happiness, times of family...times where she would hear Sabrina ramble on about menial means of her adolescence.

Oh how she missed her niece. A weak smile graced her aged features as she thought about the day when Sabrina got her green thumb.

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“Auntie! Auntie! Look what Aunt Hilda and I planted!”

Zelda neatly folded her newspaper and set it down. “Come now, let’s see it.”

A young Sabrina tugged her Aunt Zelda with no care to the garden where Hilda knelt feeding a plant with some plant food.

“My lilacs will grow right there, Auntie! You’ll see!”, Sabrina beams.

Zelda glanced down at her little niece with the softest grin. She knelt down and brought her into a hug.

Sabrina crinkles her nose, but hugs her back. “What’s this for?”

Zelda shuts her eyes to fight back a tear. “Don’t you ever change, Sabrina.”

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Zelda frowns then seeing a watermark over Michael Hanover’s test. Her fingers wander up to her cheekbone feeling wetness. With a soft sigh she grabs a tissue and dabs gently under her eyes.  

“When will I be done with these accursed tears?”, she asks herself in defeat.

She was ready to take another sip from her cup, but made a face. “Hilda! This is empty!”  

There was silence aside from the storm. She furrowed her brows not hearing any footsteps. It took her a moment to realize she was truly alone now. Hilda wasn’t here, of course. She was home with her new husband. Ambrose went away to ‘find himself’. All Zelda had was Vinegar Tom and Salem.  

It surprised the witch that Salem continued on living even with his charge, Sabrina, being no longer of this world.

Zelda sighs and sets aside all of the graded papers. She gets up wandering to the kitchen. She grabbed the kettle to make more tea. She felt so lifeless, so out of place. She knew she had to get out of this funk soon-for her coven.

Zelda nearly jumps out of her skin feeling a slight brush against her legs. She glances down to see Salem curled up around her leg. Although she didn’t like the feline from the start, it seemed the cat warmed up to her and she warmed up to him.  

“I know, Salem. I miss her too.”, She speaks softly.  

Zelda gives herself an assured nod before proceeding to brew some tea. She turned on the TV for once to see more news. She read this morning’s paper at least three times bored out of her mind.

There was a news report about the President having been attacked and that the assailants were in custody. She raises a brow noticing they didn’t name the criminals, but were focused on the President’s accounts.  

“Breaking News: seems the brothers in custody have escaped. Be on the lookout for Sam and Dean Winchester.”, an anchorman reported.

Zelda tilts her head. Those names sounded familiar-for sure. Vinegar Tom barks lightly and nudges at his food bowl catching his charge’s attention.  

“Okay, okay, sir.”, Zelda coos toward her familiar. “Help yourself.”

Zelda fills his bowl and sets it in front of him before doing the same for Salem. She rolls her eyes turning off the TV when the stories went on about what hairstyles were in for the season. Nothing intrigued her much except for political world affairs and stories with meaning.

Zelda hears the whistle of the kettle and scuffles over to it to turn off the burner.  She moves the kettle away from the still heated kettle and stares off.  

That whistle...

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Academy of the Unseen Arts-Past

  Zelda sighed in defeat hearing the lunch bell go off. She became so engrossed on today’s lesson: Demons and the Archeron. Demonology really piqued the young red-head's interest. She could spend all day reading spellwork and the ways of conjuring one of Satan’s helpers.

  She gathered her books and bag as she watched everyone rush out of the classroom, clamoring about today’s newest gossip; it was all anyone could talk about now-the new girl.  A roll of Zelda’s eyes didn’t go unnoticed by her professor.  

Professor Ghastly arched an old withered brow as he cleared his desk. “Ms. Spellman, is everything alright?”, he asked.

  Zelda’s blue eyes looked up toward her professor. She sighs before she answers, “Quite. I am just upset the lesson is over for today.”

Professor Ghastly scoffed lightly and smiled lightly. “You really are one who truly appreciates my lessons. Don’t worry, we’ll touch more tomorrow. Who knows, one day you’ll be the best spell-caster the Coven has ever seen.”  

Zelda offered a faint grin and gave a curt nod. “Thank you, Professor. I shall see you tomorrow.”

With that, Zelda left the classroom beaming in pride. She knew she already was the best spell-caster. Faustus leaned against the wall ahead in the hall watching her like a hawk. He approached her with a sly grin.  

“Done being the teacher’s pet?”, he sneered teasing her.

Zelda rolls her eyes and nudges him as she walks side by side with him. “Done drooling over every witch you encounter? I swear I should conjure up a spell to castrate you.”, she teases back.

This is what her and Faustus Blackwood did every day; they would taunt each other whilst casting a lustful stare. Zelda knew she couldn’t want him. Faustus would be fawning over the next new thing like nothing occurred between them. The only girl he ‘stuck with’ the most was Constance. Zelda didn’t understand why, the girl was petty. Constance was a jealous cow because she knew even though Faustus would stray, he would also go back to flirting his way with Zelda as well. Zelda figured Faustus didn’t know what he wanted. Constance’s family had been in good noble standing, whereas with the Spellman’s, they were known for their wit and they were quite the impeccable conjurers. She assumed he had the future in mind-the right Blackwood bride.

“My, my, Ms. Spellman. How naughty of you.”, Faustus feigned offense. “You may have some leverage yet.”

Zelda shrugs with a skip to her step. “I’d say so.”

Faustus nodded in greeting to his inner circle. The best of the best warlocks the Academy had to offer. “Perhaps I should meet you after your rehearsal this afternoon. What do you say, Spellman?

Zelda pursed her lips playfully and tilted her head. “Depends...”

Faustus raises a dark brow. “On?”

Zelda stops and leans to whisper in his ear. “If you bring the thing I mentioned.”

Faustus’s smirk grew. “Certainly.” He winked and then went off with his friends.

Zelda watched him go and sighed deeply. Quite the bad idea for sure. Unlike Faustus, she hadn’t been thinking of the future. Whatever she wanted to do, it would be for the moment-living in the now.  

Before heading to the cafeteria, Zelda went on to switch out her books for her next class. She didn’t get herself a locker, thinking it was the worst idea to cram one’s books in such a cramped space. She walked down the hall to her dorms, which to her convenience, was right nearby.  

She paused then, furrowing her light brows hearing this soft whistle. The whistle echoed lightly down the hall. It sounded so...enchanting, the melody she couldn’t place. This sound made her venture forward, passing the large wooden door to her dorm.  

There, nestled by the window over-looking the outside of the Gehenna Station sat none other than that bloody Scot. A scowl rose on Zelda’s perfect upper lip having found the source of the light and strangely enchanting whistle.  

Rowena’s features remained calm however, her pale fingers drumming against the window pane. She took notice of the presence behind her through the reflection of the window and started to sing that tune she whistled earlier.  

Zelda did not recognize what seemed to be an old folk song, but she knew the girl sung in Gaelic. Zelda knew her languages very well. She knew how to pick up an old dialect when she heard one.

 “Ya know what this song is about?”, Rowena broke the silence.

Zelda tilts her head in wonder. Although she recognized the language, she hadn’t been translating it in her mind word for word-instead having been enchanted by that voice of hers. This frustrating newcomer sang like the lark, her beauty matching her voice.  

Zelda snaps out of it and huffs, placing a free hand on her hip. “I am sure you will enlighten me.”

Zelda could just feel that growing smirk on the other girl’s lips. She saw the way her shoulders rose up, mischief teeming in her body language. This girl...she was so animating.  

“It’s about a man’s burning lust for a bonnie. How his pecker hurt because she is this image of perfection.”

Zelda’s face turned a bright red. Who would make such a disgusting...

Rowena laughs, throwing her head back in amusement. She turned to take a look at Zelda’s growing irritation. “Had ya going there, didn’t I?”

Zelda’s resting hand on her hip squeezed, eyebrows furrowed as she glared right at the Scot.  

“Hilarious. Were you the jester in your podunk village?”, Zelda sneers.

Rowena’s red brows flew up, but the wry smile never went away. “Is that all ya can come up with?”, she retorts. “At least ya find me humorous.”

Zelda’s jaw set as she scrutinized the smaller girl. “You didn’t want me to forget that you were a poor simple girl the other night. You want people to pity you, don’t you? It’s pathetic.”

Rowena scoffed and snickered shaking her head. Satan, in Hell, she was irritating.  

“Bold of ya to say, spoiled brat. It’s so easy to look down on those beneath ya, eh? Ya think I want pity? Why do ya even think I am here?”

Zelda shifted in place clearly not wanting to deal with her right now, toes turned back toward the door to her dorm.  

“You’ve got nowhere to go...”, she began stepping closer so she towered over the seated girl. “You need a roof over your head, food in your belly, someplace to mooch off of. You may be a young witch, but you are standing in a great Academy for witches who want to learn, want to let the Dark Lord into one’s life. You don’t just come here to use this as your lounging spot.”, Zelda spat as she nudged toward Rowena’s seat.

Rowena narrows her green cat-shaped eyes. She slowly gets up, her nose nearly grazing Zelda’s chin. It miffed her that Zelda would take advantage of her height to be intimidating. Rowena sniffed as her eyes wandered up to gaze into those stormy blue eyes. She could smell that wonderful scent: fresh strawberries, lilies in the field. A part of Rowena wanted to be enveloped in that scent forever, wanted to test those beautiful red lips before her. Freak the girl out? No way. No one ever talked about the temptations of wanting the same sex. Rowena slowly discovered that the moment she saw the curious gaze of Zelda Spellman.

She wasn’t alone. Oh no, Zelda thought about gripping her red locks and giving into her temptation as well. The Dark Lord did say everyone had their own free will to take as they wanted, to sup and lap at every desire. No, she couldn’t desire the stranger. How dare she speak to her the way she did and still appeared as pretty as she did?

Zelda lifted her chin lightly appearing still to be mightier than the smaller girl. She couldn’t let herself give into those emerald eyes, those pouted pink lips, those amazing spackles of freckles on her porcelain skin. Her skin must have been soft, but her hands looked calloused and worn from what seemed to have been manual labor.  

This temptation she would not submit to.  

“Ya couldn’t be more wrong. In fact, I start classes tomorrow. I have just been trying to catch up on a few studies. You’ll be seeing me around a bit longer. I hope yer ready for that.”, Rowena spoke lowly and then gave her a smile like a crocodile. “I hope yer ready to see what I’m made of.”

Zelda scoffs trying to show her she didn’t fear her-not in the slightest. “Is that a threat?”, she asks quietly, eyes briefly glancing at those pink lips, mouth nearly watering to try them.  

Rowena bit that cute lower lip as those deep green eyes seemed to glint brighter in mirth. “I assure ya it’s no threat. It’s a promise.”  

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The next day, Zelda entered the earliest to her favorite class of the day: Spellwork and Conjuration. She polished off her workspace and organized her ink jar and quill to the right corner of her desk. She smiled as she pulled out a fresh piece of parchment, taking in the nice smell of new parchment paper. She loved to learn, loved to show off how much she absorbed being such an avid learner.  

Zelda tried not to think about what Rowena said yesterday. So far, she didn’t have a class with her-how would she prove her ‘point’?

The rest of the class started to file in. They settled in their seats ready to learn. Zelda folded her hands in front of herself, sitting upright, but ready to pick up that quill when she needed to. All seemed to go well, until...she walked in.

Zelda’s blue eyes narrowed following the messy-haired petite witch as she made her way to the teacher’s desk. She bowed her head politely, which made Zelda roll her eyes. Of course she would do that. Being all proper-like, like she wasn’t raised in a barn.

“Oh look, better not catch the hay fever from Farm Girl.” Zelda sneered toward her friends as Rowena walked past her desk to find her spot.

The other girls snorted and eyed the smaller girl down, thinking they found their new harrowing target. Rowena ignored them, chin lifted and unamused as she sat down primly. She sets her textbook down and brings out a quill and ink jar. Unlike the rest, her quill was weathered and old, and her jar barely had a drop left.  

“Okay, settle down, witches and warlocks. Now, if we can begin our lesson. Ahh...Rowena, I see you need a refill...”, Professor Ghastly began. He lifted a finger and her jar refilled.  

Rowena gaped in surprise and smiled. “Thank you, Professor, sir.”, she replied sounding so refined as she sat upright ready to learn.  

Zelda could not help but roll her eyes at this. There was no way her favorite teacher could take this peasant seriously. She didn’t even have her dress all the way buttoned at the front, the collar not propped up around her neck, rather it flopped down. Her messy curls were all astray and her fingers were already stained with ink from perhaps having used it in earlier classes. Yet, the way her green eyes lit up, eager to learn, eager to take in this lesson-the same enthusiasm Zelda had about learning made her wonder: would she take this class seriously? There had been no doubt that Rowena acted theatrically about everything, acting horribly to get her way-oh no. All that little teenaged girl had to do was bat those gorgeous eyes and she’d get her way. At least Zelda had her peers on her side, for now at least.

"Now for today’s lesson, we’re getting right back into trapping a demon into an archeron. You see, many warlocks of our time have created this contraption in efforts to seal away the most abhorrent or pesky demons that victimize a witch or warlock’s home. You see, the home of a spellcaster is the most vulnerable for what reason...Mr. Redburn.”, Professor Ghastly begins his lesson and calls on Bradley.

 Bradley Redburn snaps out of his daze as some of the students turn to face him. Professor Ghastly loved to call on those who weren’t paying attention. If one had been asleep, he would place a simple ,harmless charm to jolt them awake. It amused him greatly as it had the students.  

“Uhh...”, Bradley contemplates as he plays with his fingernails. He obviously had no idea what the answer was. It annoyed Zelda to bits that no one could be as passionate about these lessons as her.  

“uhh...”, he drones on again and averts his gaze from his patient professor. “Because that’s where people sleep?”, he finally guesses.

Professor Ghastly sighs unsatisfied by that answer. “You’re on the right track. Ms. Spellman...”

                     Zelda perks up in her seat ready to answer.  

“Why is a spellcaster’s home vulnerable?”, He asks again knowing very well Zelda could get them through the lesson.  

   Zelda knew people envied her for her attainable knowledge. If anything, it made Zelda feel special. It made her feel proud that she added nothing but respect to the Spellman name.  

  “It is vulnerable because a spellcaster’s home is known to be the heart of their power. You see, most spellcasters...”, she glances at Rowena wanting her to know she didn’t belong here. “have a long line to their name. They remain in the family home, where magic is built upon, where the ancestors remain to guide their successors to improve their bloodline. Destroying the heart would destroy the very thing that connects a spellcaster to their family, their honor. A demon may want to attack that to test us in the Dark Lord’s name. If we pass the test, the Dark Lord rewards us.”

  Rowena tries not to scoff at the so obvious hit below-the-belt comment thrown from Zelda. Nonetheless, she takes notes on Zelda’s answer, finding that part very vital in learning the culture of this coven-family was important.  

Professor Ghastly’s expression brightens as he pats Zelda’s shoulder and walks on through the aisle of desks. “Very good, Ms. Spellman. If you would all focus on your studies, you would understand the importance of defense. You should not let anything deceit your family name. The Dark Lord will smile upon future lines as long as you remain in good graces with him. You must understand he doesn’t mean to foil with us, make us feel small. We owe it to him to accept his tests and gladly do as he tells us. Now, I am going to show you diagrams of different archerons.”

Professor Ghastly made his way to the front of the classroom. He waves his hand over the chalkboard chanting under his breath. Before their eyes, an archeron was drawn on the board, filled with runes and sigils at every angle. The students watch in awe.  

“This is an example of an archeron. A warlock and friend of mine created this trapping a demon who tried to snatch his children from his beds. Now sigils and runes make a spell, whether that be just specific to the demon or it be dependent on a warlock or witch’s background. Do any of you recognize these runes?”

Everyone in the room is silent as they observe the picture. Zelda redraws one of the runes on her parchment paper as if to help her decipher it. In all honesty, it had her stumped. She swore she never saw this before. She couldn’t have missed a lesson unless this was something they were yet to go over.  

Suddenly everyone whips around in their seats seeing a fair, small hand raise up. Zelda follows their gazes and finds they’re observing Rowena herself. She knew? No way...

Professor Ghastly’s brows rose though he didn’t look so surprised. It’s like he felt like she would have known. Were they in cohoots?  

“Yes, Ms. Macleod. What do you know about these runes?”, Professor Ghastly questions as he sits at the corner of his desk.  

Rowena barely took notice at the eyes on her. She clears her throat and sits up more in her chair, legs uncrossing beneath her desk. “They’re Celtic.”, she responds. “I have seen those on some of the old monuments in my village. I studied them as they are a part of my culture and within my family line on my mum’s side. Those specifically translate to ‘The ‘napper of the furnace, ye shall not snatch the children of the Night. They are the future and are in the hands of the Dark Lord when they’re ready to give in’. It is clear that the warlock who created this has Celtic or Gaelic origins or...if we’re to be specfic...”

The students lean forward in their seats in innate curiosity. Zelda feigned disinterest, but she wanted to hear more, especially from that accent of hers. She licked her lower lip quickly and held onto her quill.  

“It is the demon Fideal. It is known to inhabit a body of water-to drag down women and children to their deaths. Perhaps, the warlock’s children had been playing by the water and so he decided to trap the demon once and for all.”, Rowena finished and leaned back in her chair looking pleased with herself.

 Fideal? Zelda never heard of that demon. How ironic, that the demon in this lesson was one from her homeland.  

Professor Ghastly chuckled and nodded. “Very good, Ms. Macleod. It seems you could teach us a thing or two about your culture.”  

Rowena flashed him this bright smile. “I would love that, Professor.”

Zelda nearly broke her quill, teeth gritting in irritation. She couldn’t get her favorite professor to like her too.  

“Wonderful. Now, yes, it is not always the spellcaster’s origins that inspire a spell or trap although, using one’s family’s skill to outwit a demon is always helpful. You see, you also need to know your enemy. Not only should we take into account on what we know of ourselves, we must also be comfortable in learning to adapt-to use what we learn to expand our knowledge to perfect our powers.” Professor Ghastly went on and then turned his back to create a new picture.

Zelda looked at her trembling quill, her nerves and anger getting the better of her. She twisted her lips in thought, giving a quick glance toward the satisfied Rowena. She put two and two together forming a most delicious plan. Zelda formed a smirk reeling her attention to her ink jar. She lightly dabbed her quill as if attempting to write some more. She lifts the quill and yawns before flicking it in Rowena’s direction to splatter her with ink.  

Zelda’s friends watched knowing very well what would happen in anticipating. They covered their mouths from an eruption of laugher.

What Zelda didn’t expect was Rowena’s attentiveness.

As the ink flew, making its way in Rowena’s direction, drops almost landing on her nose and the white drooped collar of her dress, her hand lifted halting the drops in place. Her green eyes changed, emitting this bright purple glow. The drops hovered in place, pulsating, awaiting for their permission to move again.  

The room grew silent, jaws all agape in surprise. Zelda gasped inaudibly, the sound caught in her throat. Zelda paled and gulped wondering what Rowena’s next move could be. How did she do that? No witch she met could do that, could just freeze time without an utter of a chant or spell.  

Professor Ghastly turned on his heels feeling this energy in the air. He himself stood there in shock. This witch was like no other witch-no, she was different. He marveled at how composed she made herself to be, her glowing eyes concentrated at even the tiniest drops missed barely by the human eye. It’s like she could even freeze the entire room with that magnitude of power in that petite body of hers.  

Rowena held her breath before exhaling and pushing the droplets forward. Her eyes dimmed, hand lowering. The droplets fell right on the floor in front of her desk, nearly missing Lottie Scuzman’s hair, landing inches away from her chair leg.  

Zelda did not move a muscle. Her throat dried. What was she? No witch can be that powerful, can she? Zelda turned in her seat quickly and set her quill down. Rowena did not back away from her promise. She did not expect this.  

“...w-wow.”, Professor Ghastly stammered and fixed his composure. “I-where did you learn that?”

Rowena shrugged and tapped her ink-stained fingers on her desk. “As long as I can remember, I’ve been able to do that. My mum would tell me it’s because I am a natural witch.”, she explained. “Also, as long as I knew how to defend myself...I wouldn’t need a spellbook.” At this, she looked right at Zelda.

Zelda didn’t need to look at her to know her eyes bore on her. Rowena: 1, Zelda: 0.  

Zelda hid her face of defeat.

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  Spellman Home-the Holidays in the Past.

Being back home is what Zelda dreaded the most. She hated the holidays. This would mean she would have to face her father, Wilbur Reginald Spellman. Most would say Zelda resembled a lot of her father, with the strong chin, her blue eyes, and uptight demeanor. What her immediate family members would say is that they butted heads solely because they resembled each other in personality.  

Vesta Gale Spellman, her mother, is the silent submissive type. She hung on to every word of her husband with little to no opinion on her own. Still, she was pretty to look at with her fair strawberry blonde hair and her hazel eyes. She serves the family dinner and then pushes in the youngest Spellman’s seat with a light brow raised.

“Sit up, Hildegarde, dear.”, she chided the youngest quietly.  

Hilda. Sweet little innocent Hilda. Next year, Zelda’s little sister would attend the Academy of the Unseen Arts. Tomorrow night was her Dark Baptism. Zelda hid her enthusiasm that finally her little sister would be signing her name away to the Dark Lord’s book. She knew deep down her sister had her doubts. Every night, whenever Zelda was home away from school, she would taunt her sister, giving her fiendish nightmares so that should would finally give in and stop being afraid of that important night. She couldn’t squander the Spellman name. Zelda, in fact, was doing her a favor. If Hilda didn’t participate, she would find herself in one of Father’s fits of rage. Hilda knew going to the Academy meant she would never escape the terrorism of her older sister.

Zelda could not wait to harrow her little sister. She counted on it.

However, Edward had one more year in the Academy. Hilda would be safe in her first year. It made Zelda boil with anger that Edward always defended Hilda. Hilda’s growing of a backbone would simply be a necessity, a lesson granted by a loving older sister.  

The children waited until their father joined the table so that they all may join in prayer to the Dark lord. Wilbur cleared his throat and set a napkin neatly on his lap.  

“Good evening, children. Welcome back home, Zelda and Edward. Hildegarde, you will start next year. Your Dark Baptism starts tomorrow at midnight. Are you ready to take in the Dark Lord?”

 Everyone turned their attention over to the youngest. Hilda’s eyes hardly met her father’s. She nearly trembled in his presence, always having feared him. She fixes a small strand of her blonde hair before answering sheepishly.  

“Yes, Father.”

Wilbur accepts that response and nods. “Very well. Now, let us join in prayer. Dark Lord, may you continue to guide this family in your beautiful darkness and present even more wisdom into our lives so that we may continue to grow our line with the Spellman wit. We will present our last child to your grace tomorrow at the blood moon. We thank you for providing our sustenance, our power, and the shelter that covers our heads. Praise Satan.”

They all murmur ‘Praise Satan’ after him. In synchronicity, they pick up their forks to eat,  Hilda being the only one who doesn’t dig right in and picks around to eat the vegetables, of course.

Zelda ponders on her father’s prayer. Not everyone had always had a roof over their heads. She thought about Rowena. She came so far and must have gone through so much to finally have a roof, to have warm food to eat, water to drink. It must have been because her name had not been written in the Book. Perhaps, Father Mephisto would organize a Dark Baptism for Rowena as well. As if the coven would accept her. Zelda pushed her thoughts away and shook her head. That girl thought she was so great with her...not-so-interesting powers. Still, a part of her begged to know more, begged to see more...longed to learn from this ‘natural’ witch.

“Father...”, Zelda piped up after a long uncomfortable silence. “What is a natural witch?”

Wilbur set his fork down and stared at his plate. His brows rose in surprise, blue eyes searching for his wife’s hazel ones. Vesta shared the same expression, but did not say a word as usual.  

“Where have you heard of this? Have they been teaching of things outside of the Dark Lord’s realm?”, he interrogated.  

Everything felt like an interrogation around Wilbur. He did not know how to make a room lively. His demeanor matched the darkness of the family home. Only Edward and Hilda’s rare smiles could lighten up a room when their father was away.  

“What do you mean outside of the Dark Lord’s realm?”, Zelda asked eyes filled with piqued curiosity.

Edward wiped his lips with his napkin, head tilting in the same growing curiosity his sister had. Hilda chewed on a piece of squash, round green eyes filled with intrigue. Both of her siblings waited for their all-knowing father’s response.  

Wilbur did not expect that question, but he knew better than to underestimate his daughter’s irritating yet brilliant mind.  

“There are witches who have their source elsewhere and there are those who have powers unexplained. Powers bestowed to them by birth.”, Wilbur explained. “Those born with this are misguided, not having the Dark Lord in their lives. It is all heresy. That is why the Dark Lord does not protect them unless they give themselves over.”

Zelda furrows her brows, her calculating mind stewing. “If they are born with such abilities, where do they get it from?”, she pressed on, teeth ripping the mortal flesh from her fork.  

Vesta shakes her head at Zelda’s curiosities. She taught Zelda better than to keep questioning what is outside of the Dark Lord’s reach. She hoped it wouldn’t give her these ideas.  

“Why are you asking such horrendous questions? Do we need to speak to your Professors?”, Wilbur’s voice grew an octave.  

Vesta places a hand on her husband’s shoulder as if to sate on an upcoming battle-the usual occurrence at the Spellman table between father and daughter. She didn’t want to have to deal with both disastrous tempers. Wilbur visibly calmed, shoulders slowly releasing their tension.  

“My dear, remember what the physician said about your hypertension.”, Vesta murmured.

Wilbur sniffed and rolled his eyes. “Your daughter is asking the inquiries of a heretic.”

Zelda shut her eyes counting to ten before daring to defend herself. She hated that her father took things to the extreme.  

“I am asking because the Academy took in this new witch. She has not signed her name in the Book. She was brought in from the storm and had nowhere to go.”, Zelda began to explain.

Wilbur scoffed beginning his retort, “Since when do we unquestionably take in a witch? How do we know she isn’t a spy?”

Edward cleared his throat before he spoke up on behalf of his sister. “Father Mephisto grant it so.”, he responded calmly. “He foresees the Dark Lord bringing her to us so that we may perhaps guide her on her way.”

Oh yes, perhaps if Zelda dissuaded the intruder from the Dark Lord, then she wouldn’t further invade their lives.  

Wilbur lowered his gaze to the table. “If...”, he takes a sharp inhale. “Father Mephisto bade it so, then he is correct. The Dark Lord speaks to him. Perhaps, the Dark Lord should usher the child onto the Path of Night.”

Zelda stifled a scoff and played with her food this time. She still yearned to know more. “As I was saying, the girl had been taken in. In class yesterday, we discovered...something strange about her. She revealed glowing eyes as she froze an object.” Her blue eyes moved over to her father who paled in shock. “By your countenance, something tells me you know exactly what this is.”

Hilda’s eyes widened as she glanced between her sister and her father. “Her eyes glowed and froze something?”, she spoke up, voice pitched slightly higher.  

Wilbur balled his fists and maintained his composure. “Yes, I have heard of this. What you witnessed was indeed that of a...natural witch.”, the last part subdued.  

Zelda’s eyebrows quirked, brain marveling at the thought something more to their dark path existed-something she could use against the girl. “And where does a natural witch get their powers?”

Wilbur actually appeared stumped. “Natural witches are rare, Zelda.” He sat up straight before he continued. “In fact, not one of us know where they get it from. Most have died in the time of the Greendale Thirteen. Apparently, they weren’t wise enough to hide themselves in the shadows, thinking they could win over the mortals with their...mystique.”

He sounded almost rigid with his explanation as if he did not agree with the ways of a natural witch. Zelda took note of this.

“But perhaps if the Dark Lord commands it, we must welcome the new witch. He presents us with a test. If we change the ways of this young witch, then we may have more power on our side to the Path of Night. We mustn’t disobey the Dark Lord’s wishes, can we?”

Zelda sets her jaw as she holds contact with her father, the room being still and tense. She slowly nods in agreement with her father.

“Of course, Father. We shan’t.”, she replies with a small grin and fingers crossed behind her back.

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

To be continued... ;)

[twinkle-320]

You’re Gonna Be

Pairing: Drake x MC (Riley Nevin Walker) (TRR)

Word Count: 2500 +

Written for @choicesmonthlychallenge​ day 17 prompt - Surprise/plot twist

Warning: Language

Song Inspiration: You’re Gonna Be by Reba McEntire

Author’s Note:  This can be read as a stand alone or together with my story “Mommy-to-be”.  This is set in TRH but doesn’t follow canon.

6 pounds and 9 ounces, looking up at me Like I have all the answers, I hope I have the ones you need I’ve never really done this, now I know what scared is

“DRAKE!”

Drake shot up in bed, a cold sweat forming on his brow at the sound of Riley screaming his name.  Reaching over, he found her spot empty.  It had become common for her to wake up first the closer she got to the end of her pregnancy, but the sun wasn’t even up and the scream was not common. “Nevin, where are you?”

“Bathroom…” he heard her reply in a softer, shaky voice.

When he opened the door to their en suite, he saw her standing over the sinks, bracing her body with one hand on the vanity, the other clutched her stomach.  Drake rushed to her side.  “Nevin, what’s going on?”

“It’s time, Drake.”

“No…no…it, it can’t be time.  It’s early.”

“Tell that to Bean, Drake, cause this baby is coming.”

“You’re sure?”

Riley gestured down to the puddle under her feet.  “Well, unless I peed myself and these cramps are from the midnight nachos…I’m pretty sure.”

“Okay…okay…I’ll get you to the bed and get you clothes and grab the go bag.”

Drake wrapped his arm around Riley’s waist and guided her to the bed.  The contraction that had wracked her body when she screamed out for Drake finally eased and other than feeling uncomfortably wet, she felt fine as Drake moved about the room.  Within minutes he had gathered a change of clothes including her maternity leggings and a long sweater for her to put on.  She couldn’t help but laugh quietly to herself as she watched her normally calm, stoic husband fly around in panic mode.

“Do we need to time the contractions?” he asked.

“I mean, technically yes, but Dr. Ramirez said to come straight to the hospital if my water broke so…I don’t know if it matters.”

“Okay…okay,” he chanted as he threw some of his own things in a bag.  “We’ll do it anyway.  And, you’re sure it’s not too early?”

“It’s only a few days early, Drake and it’s not like we can stop it.”

Drake grabbed his phone.  “A few days, right…it’s five days.  Five days early isn’t bad,” he muttered.

Riley’s stopped midway through pulling on her leggings, staring at Drake.  Drake silently returned her awed gaze.  She was quite a sight standing in nothing but her bra, hunched over with her belly in the way and her pants half way up her legs.

“Five days?  You said ‘five days’?”

“Yeah…why?  You said that wasn’t bad.”

“Drake, what’s today’s date?”

“October 25th,” Drake replied.  “Oh…” he said as realization hit him, “it’s…”

“My mom’s birthday.”

Riley dropped back to the bed as tears sprung to her eyes.  Drake was at her side a second later, pulling her into a hug.  “Isn’t this a good thing?”

“It is,” she said, nodding and wiping her eyes.  “I have actually prayed for it but I didn’t think it would happen.  Bean is going to share a birthday with my mom.”

“Then Bean is in very good company.”  Drake stood and kissed the top of her head gently.  “Now…let’s finish getting dressed so we can get to the hospital?  It’s time we meet this baby and give it a proper name.”

A short time later, they were in the car and on their way.  Riley clutched Drake’s hand and timed her contractions while he drove.  Each one felt a little stronger but not completely intolerable.  Dr. Ramirez was waiting at the check-in desk of the private unit when they arrived and took them straight to their room.  It was a large suite where she would give birth and stay after with the baby.  Once she was in a gown and prepped, Drake helped her into bed so Dr. Ramirez could perform her first progress check.

“You’re five centimeters and one-hundred percent effaced.  I’m going to send in the anesthesiologist to administer your epidural.”

“Won’t that slow things down?  Can’t we wait a little bit?” Riley asked.

“It is possible that it could slow things down slightly, but you’ve only been in labor a little over an hour, Your Grace, and already made this much progress.  Any slow-down would be minimal with the pace at which you’re progressing.”

Riley nodded in understanding and Drake helped her sit up on the side of the bed for the next doctor who came in a few minutes later to administer the pain medication.

Dr. Ramirez had been correct; labor still progressed smoothly and Riley was a lot more comfortable.  At 8 AM, when they finally felt like it was an appropriate time to make calls, Drake left the room briefly to notify their friends.  Thirty minutes later he was back at Riley’s side when Dr. Ramirez announced it was time to push.  From there, everything was a blur.  Pushing was exhausting and it felt like it was never going to end.  When they had walked into the hospital, Riley knew their lives were going to be changing and she thought she was prepared but the whole experience was so much more than she ever expected, in so many ways.

—————————���——-

After recovery, bonding time, first feeding, and napping, Riley woke up alone in her room.  Drake had left a note that he ran to the cafeteria for some coffee.  Thankfully he had left her bag within arms reach and she grabbed it, pulling her 20 week ultrasound photo from the front pocket.

Lost in thought, she was staring at the picture when her door burst open and an enormous bunch of balloons bopped and squeezed their way in, followed by an overly elated Maxwell.  “Blossom, Grumpy Blossom and Baby Blossom…Uncle Max has arrived.”

Riley laughed.  “You’re lucky Drake isn’t here.  He hates when you call him that.”

Maxwell let the balloons float to the ceiling and rushed to Riley’s bed, pulling her into a hug.  “Even Drake can’t be grumpy today.”  When he pulled back, he noticed the ultrasound photo laying in her lap.  “What’s going on, Ri?  Why are you looking at that picture instead of holding a real live baby?  Where’s my baby blossom?”

“Blossoms,” Riley replied.

Maxwell looked at her confused.  “Blossoms? Blossoms…” he repeated.  “Blossoms…you mean?”

Riley nodded and smiled through happy tears.  “Blossoms, beans…however you want to say it.  Twins, Maxwell.  I came in thinking I was taking one baby home and I’m leaving with two.”

“What?  How?”

“I guess I’m just a fucking medical marvel.  That’s why I was looking at the picture, trying to figure out how we missed it.”

“You had no idea?”

“At my early dating scan they saw two sacs, but only one had a baby in it and they told me that happens sometimes.  By 20 weeks, there was only one…or so they thought.”

“This is the best news EVER!”

“Tone it down, Beaumont.”

Maxwell and Riley turned to the door to see Drake entering with a cup of coffee and two teddy bears tucked under his arms.

“For once I’m not gonna tone it down, Drake.  This is amazing!”  Maxwell pulled Drake into an embrace, patting him on the back while the coffee shook precariously in his hand, but Drake couldn’t help but smile.

“You’re right, Maxwell…it is amazing.”

Maxwell bopped on the balls of his feet.  “So…where are they?”

“Routine checks with the pediatrician,” Drake replied.  “I passed the nurse on my way in and she said they are bringing them back now.”

On cue, two nurses appeared pushing two bassinets, the babies inside sleeping peacefully.  After the requisite bracelet checks to confirm the babies were with the right mom, the nurses left the room.  Maxwell stood over the bassinets, beaming.  “So what are they?”

“Babies, Maxwell…they’re babies,” Drake huffed.

Riley playful smacked Drake, who had taken a seat next to her on the edge of the bed.  “One boy, one girl.”

“Oh.My.God.  A bean and a blossom,” Maxwell cooed.  “Can I hold one, can I hold one?”

Drake just shook his head and chuckled at Maxwell’s exuberance.  “I guess if you didn’t break Bartie, we don’t have to worry about you holding our babies.”

“I’m great with babies, Drake.  Babies love me.”

Maxwell leaned into the bassinet and gently lifted the baby, cradling it to his chest while he whispered shooshing noises and hummed a little tune.  Drake rose from the bed to lift out the other baby for Riley to hold.  

“Which one do I have?” Maxwell asked.

“Look at the hat, Maxwell,” Riley laughed.

Maxwell peered down at the tiny blue hat on the baby in his arms.  “Ooh, ooh, I have the boy!  I’m gonna teach you so much stuff, little bean.  We’re gonna dance and run with peacocks and shoot arrows at apples...”

“Hmm…I’ve seen your work with a bow and arrow, Max.  Maybe we’ll leave that part off the list of things to teach him,” Riley said.  In her arms, her sweet baby girl began to coo and whimper, so Riley rocked gently back and forth, softly tapping her little bottom until she was quiet again.  “My mom said that always worked with me…she called it the butt pat.”

Riley’s eyes felt heavy so she handed the baby to Drake and leaned against her pillows but before she could even close her eyes, they were once again greeted by visitors arriving.

Liam and Hana walked through the door, their arms laden with stuffed animals and flowers.   “Congratulations!” they exclaimed in unison.  Liam walked over to Drake, gazing affectionately at the baby in his arms.  “So…do we have a Crown Prince or Princess.”

Riley raised herself back up to a seated position.  “Um…well…” she replied, looking over at Maxwell.  

Liam followed her gaze.  When he saw Maxwell with a baby, a look of utter confusion crossed his face as he looked back and forth between the two.

“Surprise!” Riley exclaimed.  “It’s one of each.”

“I…I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“They call it a hidden twin,” Drake explained.

“A hidden twin?”

“Yep,” Riley replied.  “Apparently it’s super rare, especially with fraternal twins but of course it would happen to me.  I mean, why not…meet a prince at a bar, join a social season, fall in love with the Prince’s best friend, become a Duchess, name your unborn baby the Royal Heir and then have a hidden twin.  Crazy, rare shit just seems to happen to me.”

“This…this is wonderful.  I am so happy for you.”  Liam moved and pulled Drake into a hug, careful not to squish the baby while Hana embraced Riley.

“How are you both handling this so well?” Hana asked.

Drake and Riley looked at each other and laughed.  “Umm…we’ve had a few hours to get used to the idea.  We didn’t exactly handle it well at first,” Drake admitted.

“What Drake means to say is that he decided it was an appropriate time to quote Friends and told the doctor that we only ordered one.”

Hana gasped.  “Drake?  You didn’t?”

“I was in shock!  And I don’t think it’s any worse than Riley asking Dr. Ramirez if she was seeing things or exclaiming ‘This is fucking crazy’!”

“Listen…in my defense it was either that or cry…I don’t think either was the best option.  I was in shock too, and scared.  So scared.  I’ve already been wondering how I will be a good mother to one baby.”

Drake leaned down and kissed Riley softly on the lips.  “I keep telling you you’ll be great, now just doubly great.”

“This is the best day ever!” Maxwell exclaimed as he carefully handed the sleeping little man to Hana.

Drake looked at Riley who had tears glistening in her eyes.  “It is,” Drake agreed, “it’s just a little bitter sweet for Nevin.”

They all turned their questioning eyes to their friend, who had tears falling down her cheeks where she sat in bed.  “Drake knows this but, today would have been my mom’s birthday,” she shared.  “When they told me my due date, I secretly hoped and prayed that it would happen a little early like this but…now that it has, it’s just hard to know they will never meet her or celebrate it with her.”

Hana sat down on the other side of Riley and held her friend’s hand.  “Some people believe that babies are sent from Heaven…it might sound silly but I believe it and I believe they met your mom before they came to be with you.”

Riley hugged Hana.  “Thank you,” she whispered as she composed herself before turning to Liam.  “So, how does this work now with the decree for the Royal Heir?”

“Well, it’s written to say your first born child, so I guess it would be whichever child was delivered first.”

Riley looked up at Drake, their eyes holding a conversation that only they understood until he nodded in agreement.  “I guess it’s time we make it official then,” Riley said.  “I’d like you all to formally meet Lord Jackson Nevin Walker and Crown Princess Aislynn Emily Walker.”

“Oh, Riley, I love their names,” Hana gushed.

“Thank you.  I think it’s fairly obvious we weren’t expecting to have to name two babies but, we kind of had an idea what we wanted.  It was important to us that my mom and Drake’s dad be included somehow.”

“It is a fitting honor for them both,” Liam declared.  “Jackson would be proud of the family you’ve built, Drake.  And Riley…I never had the pleasure of knowing your mother, but if you, as her daughter, are any indication of the woman she was, then I have no doubt she was remarkable.  These two precious miracles hit the jackpot when they got you as parents.”

Riley swore she saw tears coming to Drake’s eyes and squeezed his hand reassuringly.

“Thanks brother, that means a lot.”

After Drake and Liam embraced one more time, everyone got the last of their baby snuggles and headed out to let Riley rest.

When it was just their new little family of four, Drake laid down beside Riley, cradling Aislynn while Riley fussed over Jackson.

“Quite a day, huh, Nevin.”

“You can say that again.  Next time I’m getting like 10 ultrasounds.”

“Next time?  These guys aren’t even a day old and you’re already talking about next time?”

Riley shrugged.  “I’ve always wanted a big family.  Look at them…don’t tell me you don’t want more too.”

“I do…but’s let see how we do with these two first.  This is a whole new world for both of us.”

“Well…I may not know everything there is to know about being a mother and I am still so scared, but I will tell you this much; no one will love them more and if anyone ever tries to mess with them, I will fuck them up.”

Drake laughed.  “Okay mama bear, settle down.”  After placing Aislynn back in her bassinet, he took Jackson and laid him down too.  Leaning over to kiss Riley, he whispered, “You were amazing today.  I love you so damn much, Nevin.”

“I love you, too Drake.”

“Get some sleep, baby…I have a feeling there’s not much of it in our future.”

Riley nodded as her heavy eyelids finally gave way and she drifted off while her family, her world, slept all around her.

[justaghostingon]

The Proposal: The Second Attempt

Note: Don is the worst third wheel in the world

Kodya tugged at the edge of the tee-shirt Don had lent him until his own clothes dried out. It was too small, but it was better than nothing. At least he still had the ring, now hidden in the picnic basket he carried over his arm.

Gyrus grinned at him. “So where to now?” He gestured to the redbrick street before them, his back to the treacherous lake.

“I was planning on taking a walk through the beach town.” Kodya shifted the picnic basket so he could walk easier. “You remember how I used to come back here to visit you after you saved me?”

“Every day of summer!” Gyrus laughed, eyes twinkling at the memory. “You were so young back then! Like a puppy following me around.”

“I grew up!” Kodya scowled.

“Yeah but it took you a few years.” Gyrus jabbed a playful finger at Kodya’s chest.

Kodya rolled his eyes as he caught Gyrus’s hand in his own. “Anyways,” he said as he linked their fingers. “We really got to know each other on this street. I think I fell in love with you here. So I thought we should walk down it again together.”

“Oh Kodya,” Gyrus’s expression melted. He leaned forward. Kodya leaned down and...

“Kodya! Gyrus!” Don cried out, causing them both to jump a part.

“What is it Don?” Gyrus asked through gritted teeth.

“It seems my car won’t start.” Don rubbed the back of his head awkwardly. “Could you give me a lift?”

Gyrus looked ready to bite his head off, so Kodya quickly cut in. “There’s a car shop up the street a bit where I used to work in college. If you ask for Bronzo, he’ll give you a jump for sure.” He gave Don his most reassuring smile.

“Is there?” Don laughed. “It's been so long since I last wandered around this area. Would you mind showing me the way? I’ll be discreet.”

Now the last thing Kodya wanted to do was let Don follow him around while he was trying to romance Gyrus, but Don had done so much for them already...

“Sure,” he said, a fake smile on his lips.

“We’ll get you there in record speed,” Gyrus added through his teeth.

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

Walking down the street hand in hand with Gyrus brought back a flood of memories. There was the ice cream parlor where he had insisted on paying for Gyrus’s ice cream as “thanks” for something or another but was really just an excuse to treat him. The odds and ends clothing shop Gyrus had dragged him to make fun of the ridiculous hats and dare each other to try them on. That loose brick he’d fallen over and landed face first into the baking competition’s prize pies.

It had been the first time he heard Gyrus laugh, and that musical sound had been worth all the angry Moms and a lifetime banishment from all statewide baking competitions. He caught Gyrus’s eye and pointed towards it, “Do you remember...?

“Oops!” Don tripped over the brick, giving a little jump before finding his footing. “They really need to get that fixed don’t they?” He grinned at Kodya and Gyrus.

“Don...” Gyrus sighed. “What happened to being discreet?”

“Oh right, right,” Don waved his hand. “Don’t worry! You’ll never know I’m here!” He gave them a thumbs up and wandered over to the ice cream parlor’s window.

Kodya frowned as he watched Don strike up a conversation with a young woman and her son right in front of the door. “Do you want some ice cream?” he offered Gyrus half-heartedly. Don shifted slightly to the right, so that it was now impossible to get in without being drawn into conversation.

“I think I’ll pass,” Gyrus shot a dark look at Don’s one man barricade. When he realized Kodya was watching him, he quirked an eyebrow and patted the picnic basket teasingly. “No point in eating sweets before the big meal.”

“Of course,” Kodya smiled. Gyrus pulled him forward, towards the hat shop. “Why don’t we go in there again?” He smiled. “Remember that ridiculous peacock one you bet me to wear?”

“Only after you made me wear that bright green circus hat!” Kodya laughed and allowed Gyrus to pull him along. It would be fun to go inside again, and who knows, maybe he could even...

“Gyrus!” Don called from his place beside the lady and her son. “You’ll never believe it! This woman is from Washington D.C! Isn’t that where you did your internship?”

“Oh for the love of...” Gyrus grit his teeth into a forced smile as he turned to Don. “It’s a big city, I’m sure she’s never been to the part I was in.”

“Now, now!” Don laughed as he beckoned Gyrus over with one finger. “No need to be shy! I’m sure everyone’s heard of NASA!” He practically shouted the last word. Kodya winced. Here it comes.

The little boy stopped eating his ice cream to stare at Gyrus with wide eyes. “You’ve been to space?” he asked, eyes wide as saucers.

A space fan. Of course he is, thought Kodya. Gyrus’s shoulders sagged as he replied. “Yes.”

“Really?” The boy exclaimed, uncaring of how his ice cream dripped all over the red bricks of the street. “Tell me everything!” His mother put a hand on his shoulder.

“Neil stop bothering the man,” she started to say.

“Oh its no bother at all!” Don replied, “Right Gyrus?” The boy peaked up at Gyrus, eyes shining.

Gyrus glanced up at Kodya, eyes filled with guilt. “Go on,” Kodya gave him a slight nudge. “I know how much you like showing off to kids.”

Gyrus pulled away reluctantly and began to launch into his, “I was in space” story. The boy and his mother were hanging on to every word, but Kodya, who had heard it a hundred times, found he couldn’t concentrate. His attention was caught by a street performer setting up shop on the corner.

An idea began to form in the back of Kodya’s mind. On his first date, he and Gyrus had danced together to a street performer on that exact corner. He placed the picnic basket on the ground and quietly broke off from the conversation. Everyone else was too absorbed in Gyrus’s story to notice as he drifted over to the street performer and whispered a song in his ear.

The player nodded, and Kodya grinned.

The melody started off faint as Gyrus’s story drew to a close, but Kodya saw his ears prick up. “I know this song!” Gyrus exclaimed to the confused mother and son, lifting his head and looking around for its source.

Kodya grinned as he stepped forward to offer Gyrus his hand. “Can I have this dance?” Gyrus took his hand and beamed. “Excuse us,” Kodya smiled at the woman and her son, and left them standing bewildered beside Don.

They spun together, laughing as the music washed over them. Their feet moving in a familiar rhythm. They must have looked ridiculous, neither of them were very good dancers, but Kodya couldn’t bring himself to care.

All last notes of the song began to fade away, leaving only the two of them, swaying in each other's arms. Gyrus pulled him close, cheeks a flame, and everything was perfect.

“Gyrus,” he murmured, Gyrus looked up at him through his bangs, expectant.

“Are you saying I don’t know how to play?” the street musician shouted. Gyrus and Kodya jumped.

“Of course not!” Don held up his hands in defense. “Only that perhaps you should tune your instrument a bit more, for its own sake.”

“Who do you think you are?” the street musician snarled. Oh no. Kodya thought. Don don’t you dare.

Don shrugged. “Just a fellow enthusiast of the fine craft of music,” he said like he wasn’t going to follow it with an incredibly long lecture on his experience in a moderately popular band in his youth.

Gyrus nudged Kodya with his shoulder and put a finger to his lips. Quietly he began to back away. Bending down to grab the picnic basket, Kodya cast one look back at Don, still fighting with the street performer. Then he pulled himself upright and took off running after Gyrus, picnic basket bouncing on his arm.

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

Gyrus finally stopped at the entrance to the Dunes park. He leaned over, hands on his knees, panting. “Good idea Kodya,” he said with a grin. “A street musician was the perfect way to distract Don.”

“S-sure,” Kodya replied, not sure how to point out that wasn’t his plan at all. He almost felt bad for Don, who now had to look for the car shop himself, but then he remembered all the trouble he caused, and all sympathy evaporated.

“So where to next?” Gyrus asked as he pulled himself upright. “I’m assuming you’ve got a place you want to eat that,” he added, eyeing the picnic basket with a look of hunger.

Kodya felt his own stomach growl. “Actually you lead us to the right area, I was going to have a picnic at...”

“The ugly tree,” Gyrus finished for him, a wistful smile on his lips. “Where we had our first dinner date.”

“You got it!” Kodya hoisted the picnic basket higher. “What do you say when we get there and get eating?”

The tree wasn’t too far into the park, just up a dune with a clear view of the lake below. It was empty, except for a few Canadian geese milling about nearby. Kodya and Gyrus quickly set up the blanket. Then Gyrus reclined while Kodya fiddled with the basket.

“I could help you know,” Gyrus laughed, but Kodya pulled it close to his chest and shook his head.

“I’ve got it,” he insisted. And I don’t want you to find the ring by mistake, he added mentally.

“If you say so,” Gyrus chuckled, leaning back.

Kodya reached in the basket, fishing around for the first course. He found it near the bottom. It felt slightly wet, and for a second he panicked, until he realized it was just the leftover water from the ring’s box. Was water bad for rings? He wished he’d paid more attention when the shop teacher in high school had talked about gold. It hadn’t mattered to cars, so he hadn’t bothered to remember.

He shook his head and pulled out the box of Mandu. No time to worry about that now. He passed it over to Gyrus with a grin. “First course, good sir,” he said in his most over the top British accent.

“Mandu!” Gyrus grabbed the box with eager hands. Then he stopped, and gave a slight bow. “Why thank you, kind sir.”

“You’ve got the accent wrong,” Kodya laughed as Gyrus stuffed a Mandu in his mouth, crumbs falling everywhere.

“Better than yours,” Gyrus shot back, crumbs spraying around him. Kodya grinned as he bit into his own Mandu. It tasted like Gyrus, just like always.

They finished off the Mandu in silence, enjoying the food and each other’s company. When they’d each had their three, Kodya moved to pick up the box and put it back in the basket. He noticed something odd. An extra Mandu was laying in the bottom, untouched.

“I thought I only bought six,” he murmured as he pulled it out.

“Maybe the shopkeeper thought you were cute and slipped you an extra,” Gyrus offered, leaning forward on his arms.

Kodya rolled his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. She had to be ancient.”

“There you go then.” Gyrus clutched his chest. “You naughty boy! Breaking elderly hearts left and right! Should I be jealous?” He fluttered his lashes.

“Shut up!” Kodya gave him a light shove. Gyrus bounced back, wide grin entirely unrepentant. Kodya held out the Mandu to him. “Here, take it.”

“Oh I couldn’t take a declaration of love from you Kodya! Have you no pity for the poor old woman who made it just for you?” Gyrus sighed in mock disappointment.

Kodya felt his cheeks burn as he shoved the Mandu in Gyrus’s face. “Just take it. It's your favorite.” Gyrus blinked, hand coming up to take the Mandu from Kodya.

“There’s another solution to this problem,” he grinned. Opening his mouth wide, he bit the Mandu in half, and then held the rest up to Kodya a smirk on his lips. “Share?”

Kodya narrowed his eyes. If that was how they were gonna play it...He reached up to grab Gyrus’s wrist, pulling him forward. Not breaking eye contact, he pulled Gyrus’s Mandu covered fingers up, opening his mouth...

Smack! A large weight slammed into his head, knocking him sideways. He gasped for breath as pain blossomed behind his skull. He shook his head, vision swimming, to see a great brown blob standing between him and Gyrus.

What?

The blob gave a great “Honk!” as it threw back it’s head and swallowed the leftover Mandu whole. Kodya blinked again, vision returning in time to see the Canadian goose and two of its friends dive at a helpless Gyrus.

Gyrus gave a shriek and tried to bat them off, kicking one in the chest and hitting another, but it did no good. There were too many converging, beaks pecking at all exposed skin. Kodya gave a scream of rage and threw himself over Gyrus, punching a goose solidly in the beak. It fell back, but quickly shook off the hit.

What are these things even made of? Kodya thought as two more dove at his head. Gyrus landed a kick on one and sent it reeling backwards. He pulled himself up and looked over Kodya’s shoulder, eyes blown wide.

“The picnic basket!” he cried. Kodya whirled around to see two fat geese attempting to fly off with it. The ring! Kodya thought, diving after it. His fingers clasped on the edge, and he tightened his grip, splinters digging into his hands.

The birds shrieked at the added weight, tugging harder at the handle. Kodya refused to let go, to lose the ring to two Canadian geese of all things. The basket strained between them, woven handle straining and breaking, one strand at a time, until it snapped completely. The momentum sent the birds catapulting into the air, and Kodya backwards onto the grass.

Sensing weakness, the birds converged on his helpless form. He swung the picnic basket blindly, left and right. Then Gyrus was beside him. “Jump!” he yelled.

Kodya jumped, and Gyrus pulled up the blanket, tossing it on a whole flock of fat geese. They struggled and fought beneath it, trying to figure out a way out. Gyrus wasted no time. He grabbed Kodya’s hand and ran through the open spot the blanket attack had left in the ranks of the enemy.

The geese gave chase, and Kodya ran down, hand in hand with Gyrus, swinging the picnic basket at any geese that got too close. As the long road back to the safety of their car loomed before him, Kodya realized dully he had missed yet another chance to propose.

[projectsoleil]

NOW STREAMING... MOON ROVER ADVENTURES S5EP18: THE SUNRISE FINALE | GABRIELLE MORNINGSTAR | CHAPTER 3 EXECUTION

Gabi finds himself in the arms of a couple people as the votes finish being counted, as his fate is decided. The hugs are returned as tightly as possible, clutching with every ounce of strength left in him, until the other person is shaking with him. When they pull away, he whispers thanks. 

(Being held is only reminding him of the arms of the few he wants nothing more than to be in right now—face buried in Abe's shoulder, hidden against his chest with his lips pressed to the crown of his head; the soothing touch of Pheo's damaged hands through his curls, soft whispers of assurance; the swirling heat of a hearth and the unwavering, unshaking, protective embrace of Gale. Gabi rubs the heel of his hand over the tears burning down his cheeks instead, head down, and casts his gaze to—)

(—Hawk?)

Hawk crashes to the floor in an awful thump, convulsing on the ground while Tyr’s expression remains one that wasn’t joy at the situation, rather, dread at what was coming next. From Hawk, their attention went to Gabi, who's pupils were shrunk, trembling.

[Mr. Morningstar...it’s time...]

Tyr approaches Gabi slowly and offers their nub to him, though instead of taking it, the young man scoops Tyr up into his arms, holding him like one would a toddler or cat. For another hug, or in hopes to keep him from shooting at anyone else? From AI-T's podium, Rover suddenly goes rigid, and looking more robot-like than he ever has, turns and starts walking stiffly towards them. The redheaded bot stops once they get to the usual spot by the wall, and Gabi turns to look at him momentarily. A hand is lifted, and albeit shaky, presses against the center of the star on Rover's chest. The door in the wall pulls open, and as they turn back to give the room one last look, Fenrir, who has been silently waiting, shoves his phone against Maxwell's chest, then along with Galehaut, jumps to attention—bolting towards them.

"Fuck all that! Fuck all this!" Galehaut shouts. "When I said on our own terms, I meant it! Moon, I'm not gonna let them—!"

As they quickly approach, Tyr offers a small apology to the one that held them in his arms...

[I am sorry, Mr. Morningstar.]

They raise their nub, and like with Hawk, out launches a small pod shaped object that latches onto both of them and sends a powerful shock through their bodies. 

Ah—Gabi grips Tyr tightly to his chest and makes a terrible, strangled sound as the two join Hawk on the floor. His gaze rips from them to stare wide-eyed and glossy at the rest of the room. He shakes his head a few times, backing up, backing up. Lips parted, like he's trying to say something, but his voice never reaches them—Rover steps between Gabi and the rest of you, obscuring the smaller body from view. The bot looks over his shoulder and gives the room an empty, dark, protective look, before the door slams shut, taking them away. 

A minute passes...two...three...until finally the screen lights up with the single message:

PLEASE ENJOY THE PRESENTATION WE HAVE PREPARED

before fading back to black.

[TW: DESCRIPTIONS OF BEING BEATEN, GORE] 

…

The lights dim, casting your cohort into a spill of long stretching shadows. There's a brief silence that follows, until a familiar, cheery theme song begins to chime through the room, growing in volume as the television screen flickers to life.

♫♪ i can reach all the stars in the sky with you by my side! ♪♫

The obnoxious tune of children singing is accompanied with a cartoon music video of what looks like a television show—shooting stars fall across the screen in a sparkly transition effect, opening up to the robot you’ve all grown familiar with over the course of the last month, cartoonified and walking around the moon to the beat of the song. 

♫♪ and if we don't make it today, we'll try, try, try again another day! ♪♫

He's decked out in his hero suit, grinning ear to ear at the audience, and begins leaping from the moon to another planet. It plays in this sort of loop, with Moon Rover marching on rotating planets, waving at passing cartoon versions of.. well, you! He passes by Fenrir and gives him two high-fives, Snapshot he hip-checks, waving at Zero Sum and Oleander on a water-themed planet, Angel they clang a wine glass with...

♫♪ so let's shoot for the stars, and hang out on the moon, and together we'll be anything, anything, anything we've ever wanted to be! ♪♫

It ends with Moon Rover landing on the Earth, joining the rest of the show's cast. Heroes and villains in dramatic poses, making up your full group, including Collin and Ivo hovering by the sides of the screen. 

Well... it includes everyone but one.

We zoom in on the cartoon Rover, who winks at the audience and gestures to follow him, before turning around into a transition. When the scene returns, we're joined with the real Rover, standing in what looks like the middle of the foyer of a massive house. He grins bright, wide, and opens his arms up to the viewers. 

“HEYY, STAR TROOP! ‘m so glad y’were able to tune in today!" 

He places his hands on his hips, leaning forward into the camera. 

“Y’ready for today’s mission? T’day we got somethin’ a little different — we’re takin’ a trip back t’my childhood home! Keheh—betcha thought I lived in a rocket, yeah? Nope! I came from a house, just like yours!” 

The hero beams at the audience and takes a step back, allowing the camera to sweep over the area better: yeah, he is in a foyer—the main entrance of a mansion—except, it’s as if someone has destroyed the place. Pictures are ripped from the wall, furniture toppled over--there’s areas that are just straight up blown up, holes broken through walls, the chandelier hanging slanted, too covered in char to glisten anymore, parts of the staircases caved in. Tire marks are burnt into the floor, the walls, the ceiling.   

There’s a 360 degree pan of the entrance, before it stops on Rover, where he’s gesturing to follow him again. He walks over broken wood and ash, until he gets to a form laying on the floor behind a fallen loveseat: bound at the wrists and ankles, Moon is trying to wiggle himself free.  

“Today we’ve got a suuuuper special guest!” He squats down next to Moon, grabbing a fistfull of his hair and pulling his head up off the floor. The boy winces, pieces of glass and dirt stuck into his cheeks. “The villain who hurt poor, poor Venus! An' subsequently hurt loads more through his choices! I already went ahead an' caught him, so, of course, all what's left is teachin' this no-good hooligan a lesson! Will you help me, Star Troop??"

There’s a blur of movement, and the binds on Moon’s hands and feet are cut—he immediately goes to scramble away, but with a simple step on the corner of his hoodie, he slams back to the ground. Nonchalantly, without hesitation or warning, Rover kicks Moon in the stomach—knocking him backwards in a cry.

Despite being kicked aside like a limp doll, Moon pushes himself up onto his elbows, grimacing, and begins crawling. Rover strolls slowly after him, easy and with a bounce to his step. When he reaches him, he bends down to grab the collar of his shirt, pick him up, and punch him directly in the jaw. It isn't pretty, the next seconds—if this were cinematic in any definition of the word, the moment would be done through silhouettes, the shadow of Rover pulling his arm back and bringing it down mercilessly into the smaller man's form, the ugly sounds of flesh being beaten being the only sense of how awful it is.

You don't get that pleasure. You see it all: no pretty cuts or dramatic angles to censor the boy's face splitting open, blood spilling up from fractured ribs into wet coughs, red splattering across Rover's hero costume. If anyone else was in his place, literally anyone else in the courtroom, this would be solved in an instant — a magma punch, a swipe of a sword, the crack of lightning, and this wouldn’t even be a fight. But Moon isn’t a hero. Not in the super-deep, metaphoric sort of way, but just that: Moon was a civilian. 

He’s dropped to the ground in a gross crack, whining, but moving regardless. He scrambles to his feet this time, using the help of a chair thrown on its side. He runs. He isn’t fast, especially now with his hand clutched to his chest, wheezing, but he runs… not to the front door like you’d expect, but deeper into the mansion. Rover walks behind him, chatting to the audience, you suppose, but now you’re following Moon. 

A door is flug open, and he staggers into a huge workshop. For someone who is frequently found scrawling on his arms to organize roaring thoughts and ideas, the place is surprisingly spotless, orgazined: filled with tools and kilns and forges and anvils. Computer software you know costs millions just by the sight. The young man’s eyes dart desperately around the room, and he makes a bee-line for the back wall full of displayed gear. A weapon? Is he looking for something to use? He grabs a pair of gauntlets first, something similar to Galehaut’s color scheme, before throwing them on the ground. A pair of yellow lense goggles—no. A botched looking race car—no. A pair of motorized wheelies—no. Equipment, equipment, equipment! He didn’t make weapons! He didn’t— 

“Found ya!” 

—whack!— 

Something whizzes past Moon’s head, smacking his hand away from the wall in the process. He turns around, and a small, helicopter-like birdbot is hovering in the air in front of him. Moon blinks, and then the bird shoots forward, whacking him a few more times in the head. It looks less like it hurts, and more like it’s just a distraction. The boy stumbles to the side, tripping over a small dogbot waddling by his feet. He crashes into the wall, and an array of different gear topples over.

It’s more pathetic than tragic, watching his own work fall on his head. He collapses under the weight, but ever-stubborn, ever-determined, ever-unbreakable, Moon whines and pushes his way out, tries to get to his feet once, fails, twice, fails again, and on the third—

—on the third, a red hand snaps forward and grips his throat, pulls him free, and dangles him up into the air, grinning widely. 

“Didn’t think y’could run, didja? Y’know, people want y’blood! They voted for it! Y’think I could let down the Star Troop now?? After how badly ya did?? They need someone they can trust, afterall!”

Moon grips Rover’s forearm with both his hands, clawing weakly at his gloves. The tips of his toes can just barely reach the pile of gear beneath him, so he’s at the very least got a bit of footing. Not that it matters—it’s no use, of course it’s no use—Moon reaches out to push at his bot’s face, push him away, do anything, anything— ah, wait? No.. he’s.. 

With a trembling hand, Moon sinks three of his fingers into the back of Rover’s head, prompting a hatch to pull away and open up in his chest, exposing a variety of wires and a pinpad. Rover doesn’t seem concerned, just keeps on holding Moon by the neck, even as the blonde starts fumbling a code in the pad.

He's dying. A small red button opens up between all the switches and buttons in Rover’s chest, and Moon's frantic, desperate reaching for the button slows down considerably. Really, it's kind of anti-climatic for a death, nevermind a supposed fantastical execution. Maybe that was what Moon deserved, though — something quiet, uneventful, alone. 

Click! 

...Just kidding! He presses the button. Rover’s grip falls away immediately, dropping Moon in a heap on the floor and leaving him doubled over, gasping and coughing, gulping down air like he'd been drowning. In front of him, Rover’s expression seems frozen, and his body begins… going limp? No, no.. it almost looks like he’s.. shutting down? A second later, Rover has joined Moon on his knees in front of him, his smile frozen, his shoulders slumping, his right eye flashing red. His right eye flashing red.. slowly. 

“...keh..” 

There is hardly any distance between the two, but when Moon pushes himself up and wraps his arms around his robot, hooking his chin on his shoulder, the effort looks akin to dragging your hands down a wall of glass shards. 

“...’bout.. time we wrapped this up, huh?” His voice would’ve been impossible to hear had this not been meant for entertainment — hoarse, whisper-quiet.

The sentence seems to, somehow, despite the red light increasing in speed, prompt a corrupt, laggy voice to start speaking: “..S-S-SHOOT FOR THE STARS—!” 

“—even.. if y’miss..” 

Moon grabs fistfulls of the back of Rover’s suit, squeezing his eyes shut. 

“..you’ll land on the—!”

…

…

[♫♪♫♪♫♪] 

The screen blacks out, rattling — the sound from the speakers blowing out from sheer force of the explosion. You… you feel like you should feel it in the courtroom—the floor shaking and rumbling beneath you, but you don’t. Somehow, it makes it feel more empty. More far away. 

As the scene settles, the dust and smoke beginning to clear, you notice blood splattered on the lense of the camera—blurred and out of focus, but unmistakably blood. Debris and metal parts are scattered everywhere, wires twisted and still burning like lit fuses. Something drips from the ceiling, and you're unsure if it's blood or a combination of that and flesh. But more importantly, you see the remains of a human body — the parts you'd never want to see; splintered bone, limbs still stuck in clothes, a head in the corner of the scene, blonde hair smoking, lulling on the slanted floor, and what you catch sight of his face is burnt through to the inside of his mouth, burnt through to his skull.

He looks like he was screaming, and though you know he wasn't in his last moments, this image will likely be the thing you remember when you think of him.

...

Life is continuous. 

Tonight, the sky will finish clearing the storm and the moon will glow across the horizon like it has every other night, and how it will continue to shine for every other night after this. For nothing has really changed—and that's the bonus of playing a stage hero robot that could be replicated, right? Built on? Upgraded? For years and years and years to come, beyond your short life, he can still do something amazing without you. 

Yeah, the world will keep going on without you. 

You wanted that.

(Didn't you?) 

[Gabrielle & Rover Morningstar have been executed.] 

(thank you han for the art!)

[tiaragqueen]

a yandere sub jimin pls? its all i want 😔 really gentle smut if that’s possible

Off The Deep End

✂ Pairing: Yandere! Park Jimin x Reader

✂ Word Count: 1,5k

✂ Trigger Warning: Negative thoughts, mention of suicide, self-deprecation, swear words

✂ This story is fictional and for amusement only. I don’t believe any of the members would do this in real life. As always, thank you for reading and I hope you have a good day!

Donot re-upload my writing to another website or use it without mypermission.

***

Like Salem the Cat said: “And let’s give a big warm welcome to sadness.” So, here’s my poor attempt at being angsty.

If you like mywriting, please support me on ko-fi!

“The way I act don’t seem like me. I’m not on top like I used to be. I’ll give in when I know I should be strong. I still give in even though I know it’s wrong, know it’s wrong.” Guess I’m Dumb [Glen Campbell]

“Ugly.”

“Horrible.”

“Fat.”

“Pathetic.”

“Cry-baby.”

The mirror reflected Jimin’s shivering figure as he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to ignore the persistent voices. They reverberated around the room, while in reality they only existed within his head. Jimin whimpered when they began to mock his pathetic attempt to counter them with positive thoughts. Their volumes increased as they kept jeering and bringing up his past insecurities. The insecurities that he had buried deep in the crevices of his brain.

“Do you think she loves you? What a fucking joke.”

“Look at you. Crying like a snotty baby you are.”

“I bet she’s only dating you because of a damn pity.”

“What a weakling. You don’t deserve to be near her in the first place, let alone dating her.”

Jimin wasn’t sure how it happened. One day, he went out to buy a present for your birthday, when he suddenly became uncertain with his choice. He wasn’t sure what you’d like, even though you had repeatedly reassured him that you wouldn’t mind anything he bought. Regardless if it was a mere snack or simple shirt.

But Jimin was a perfectionist. Everything had to proceed smoothly, otherwise he would go crazy. He only wanted the best for you, and he always treated you like a queen you were. Therefore, he refused to buy anything that wasn’t up to your taste. He didn’t want you to fake a smile at him as you received his poor excuse of a gift. He wanted you to leap in joy and, possibly, cry from happiness. He wanted you to hug him and express how lucky you were to have such a perfect boyfriend in your life.

In the end, you got a beautiful silver necklace with his initial. It wasn’t really expensive – something that you didn’t care much considering that you’d still accept anything he gave you – and beamed at him. However, he had mistaken your act of gratitude as one of those ‘fake smile that people only do when they receive something that they don’t like, but feel obligated to do so’. And from that day onwards, those voices from the past had begun to haunt him again.

“Who the fuck do you think you are, huh?”

“She deserves better.”

“You should rot in a gutter instead. Better yet, you should kill yourself right now. It’ll ease her burden.”

“Nobody wants you.”

“Unloved.”

Jimin gripped his head with both hands as he gritted his teeth. “Shut up, shut up, shut up.” he muttered, desperately praying for them to just leave him alone.

“You’re just robbing her from her happiness, you know?”

“There are a lot of men in this world that want her. Don’t be so fucking greedy. They’re more interesting than a weakling like you!”

“Stop being delusional and break up already!”

“It’s your fate to die alone. Just accept it and move on like you’re supposed to.”

“You are, and will always be, a lonely man.”

“Shut up, shut up, shut up!” he yelled at nothing in particular, the loud sound echoing in the otherwise quiet apartment.

Jimin collapsed on to the floor with tears streamed down his flushing cheeks like a small, seemingly never-ending, waterfall. He sobbed against his palms, chest heaving in each inhale he took. In his meltdown, he failed to notice the thundering footfalls that rushed into the room. He couldn’t hear anything, except the sound of his labored breaths and a constant coo.

A pair of arms wrapped around his trembling body and brought him close to someone’s chest. The warmth of a loving hug faltered his cry slightly as he buried himself deeper into the person, seeking the comfort he’d desired. Delicate fingers stroked his cheeks, wiping away any trace of tears that glistened on the reddened skin.

“Shush, it’s okay. Everything’s gonna be okay.” you murmured in his ear, patting his shuddering back. You patiently listened to his blubber and kissed the blond locks.

“Disgusting.”

“You can’t even deal with your own problems and have to drag her into these? You truly are pitiful.”

“So now you want her attention, huh?”

“Once an attention seeker, always an attention seeker.”

“[Name]…” he choked on his sob.

“You’re such a burden, you know that?”

“Am I…” Jimin inhaled shakily, blinking away the tears that stung his pupils. “Am I a burden to you?”

“Hell, yeah!”

You frowned, the corner of your lips curled downwards. “Of course not, Jimin. Whatever made you think that way?” you answered, feeling both concerned and confused with his sudden question.

Since when did he start considering himself like this? And most of all, why did you find out now? To think that you’d finally gotten to know him better, and worked on easing his insecurities. It seemed that the ‘voices’ had only given him a respite before they returned, strong enough to break him down. You could count on one hand the times where he cried, but never this loud and until he had to yell at himself.

“They… they said I’m a burden to you, and that I should just kill myself to ease your burden.”

You unconsciously gripped his petite body as you ground your teeth in silent indignation. “Well,” you huffed, trying to form the right words so he wouldn’t end up misunderstanding you. “You’re not a burden to me, okay? You’re not, and will never be. And no, I won’t let you kill yourself. You’re too precious for me, you know that? Life would be meaningless without you.”

“She’s lying. She only said that to make you feel better. She didn’t say it because she loved you or something. Don’t get your hopes too high.”

“Bet she’s secretly tired from comforting you all the time.”

“Life would be meaningless without you? Ridiculous!”

“Yeah, you’re too precious alright. For a moment, that is.”

“Do you mean that, [Name]?” he asked softly, hanging his head down as if he was a criminal being caught red-handed.

You smiled and caressed his jaw. “Of course, I do. I’ve never lied, haven’t I?”

Jimin mustered a weary smile and looked up through his wet eyelashes, observing your serene face. You were crooning his favorite song, although normally you were too shy to even him in front of him. There was a certain anxiety and fear that came from performing before a professional singer, knowing that your skill was still far from theirs. You knew that Jimin would never judge your voice, no matter how bad and off-tune it sounded, because he himself didn’t have much confidence in his own voice. Still, he had and was still trained in singing. While you? The furthest thing you could do was belting out the ‘la la la’ part from his songs.

“Look at her. She’s a goddess, and you’re just a dirty little peasant. You’re staining her beauty.”

“[Name],” Jimin sighed when he heard you hum in response. “I’m scared.”

“Scared of what?”

“I’m scared that you…” Another tears prickled his bloodshot eyes as he tried to even his breathing. “That you would leave me someday. I’m scared that you would stop loving me like you used to. I-I know I’m a cry-baby, a weakling, and an attention seeker, but I love you. I truly do, with all my heart. I… I don’t think I can live without you. So, please. Don’t leave me, [Name]. Don’t abandon me. I need you, so much I can go crazy.”

There was a short period of silence that sent his heart into a thumping disarray. Maybe he shouldn’t say that. He had been coming on too strong to you – what with all the crying and sobbing – and you clearly hadn’t been prepared for that. He had scared you, and now he had to deal with the consequences. Jimin could only hoped that you didn’t choose to break up with him, because he wouldn’t know what to do if such scenario arise.

You exhaled; the act only served to increase his anxiety even more. “Jimin,” you spoke up, breaking the tension between you.

Gulping, Jimin prepped himself up for the upcoming punishment or whatever decision you’d bestow upon him.

“I know that I’m not really good at expressing my feelings but…” you slowly unbuttoned the white shirt that didn’t cover his chest very well and glanced up. “I want to show you just how much I love you.”

Jimin’s pupils dilated at the lust and affection that reflected on your half-lidded eyes. That was certainly unexpected. He had thought that you were upset by his statement and prepared to leave him. But, as always, you never failed to surprise him.

Pushing him down slowly, indifferent to the coldness of the floor that crept like vines around his bare upper body, Jimin watched you open your own shirt with a shy yet gentle smile.

“Tonight is all about you, baby.”

[rulesofthebeneath]

how bout a dance: part 8

<AN> Hiii! So this is late! Sorry!

Credit: @euphonyinestetica

Tagging: @pixelburied @witchiegirl @ravenclawpokegirl25 @itsbrindleybinch @ajaysbhandari @lilmissperfectlyimperfect @aidenzhous @catlady0911 @ylevolenahs @awkwardalbatros @hufflepvnk

</AN>

Wednesday, during the fourth week of rehearsals, Ajay leaned back into his chair. His new non-crappy wireless speakers—courtesy of Lysander, whose day job was at a Best Buy—played “Raise A Little Hell (Reprise)” as Kevin and Elijah leapt out of the car that had just been built, brandishing prop guns and sneaking stage right.

“Why do folks want to be heroes? Why do they love standin’ tall? Why don’t they just hand it over? Ain’t their money after all.” Clyde sang, a delirious grin on his face. The two paused just before exiting stage right.

“We won’t get to heaven, so let’s raise a little hell,” Clyde and Buck sang together, laughing almost maniacally. Kevin motioned to Elijah and they both exited, and Ajay knew that was where the set would roll down in front of the car to make way for a new location.

Andrew and a group of people walked in, gathering around a table downstage left. Ajay had noted in his script that the lights would change to make the set look like the inside of a room, rather than the previous scene where it was outside at night.

A man all the way at the right end of the table, Deputy Johnson, started speaking.

“Missouri police report that two couples matchin’ the description of the Barrow Gang have been livin’ at 1521 Joplin Street for the past three weeks. And get this, when the garage door was open, one neighbor reported seein’ what she describes as ‘a box of guns.’”

A severe-looking man by his side, the Sheriff, looked down at the report on the table.

“If we drive through the night we can be in Joplin midday tomorrow,” he said, adjusting his glasses.

“We don’t have jurisdiction in Missouri!” Ted pointed out.

“I don’t give a crap about jurisdiction!” yelled the Sheriff. “I was hired to do a job! Now let’s go get ‘em.” He and everyone but Ted walked off stage left.

Ted rolled up his sleeves and leaned heavily on the table full of evidence and maps and reports, exhaustion showing in every line of his face.

***

Saturday that week Kevin was onstage again, this time accompanied by Grace. They were on a part of the set designed to look like a small bedroom, Grace perched on the bed.

“He had his gun right on me,” Clyde recounted brokenly.

“What happened, Clyde?” Bonnie trembled, afraid to know the answer.

“I had no time...”

“What happened?” she pressed, but when he looked at her she realized.

“No… no…” she whispered, her eyes filling with tears and her hand moving back to grab the edge of the blanket on the bed, as if it would steady her.

“It was him or me, sugar,” Clyde tried to explain, but Bonnie put a hand up to stop him.

“I can’t stay.” she said with a note of finality, standing up from the bed and walking to the other side. She pulled a suitcase out and put it down on the bed, then rifled through a set of drawers to start packing her things.

Ajay barely recognized that as his cue to start the music for “Too Late To Turn Back Now,” tearing his gaze away from Grace.

“Bonnie,” Clyde pleaded.

“I gotta get out now while I still can, while I’m still in the clear!” she belted, catching Ajay off guard but bringing a smile to his face all the same.

“Bonnie!” Clyde shouted, desperation coloring his voice.

“The dream is done, it’s over now, gotta get me outta here.” she continued, moving around to access the nightstand. Clyde caught her by the waist to stop her, but she elbowed him in the stomach, forcing him to release her.

***

Monday of week five saw Rosa centerstage, singing to Elijah. Ajay had planned some special effects for this scene, including a spotlight to focus on her and leave Elijah in half-light. A lullaby-like tune was playing from Ajay’s speakers.

“But baby, you and me could—” started Buck, but Blanche cut him off.

“No ideas and no big plans, happy with the way things are. No one with a scam or scheme, now that’s what you call a dream,” she sang wistfully.

“These dreams of yours make no sense at all, it’s what’s inside not what’s out there. We both could have a perfect life and not go anywhere.”

She cupped his cheek with a hand, then turned away and moved further downstage.

“Look up, pretend you’re appealing to God,” Ajay instructed, and without even a glance to acknowledge that she had heard him, Rosa trained her eyes on the booth up at the back of the house, right where the spotlight would be coming from.

“A little to the left, the spotlight beam will be right there,” Ajay called. Rosa shifted her gaze, and with just that small difference the action looked more authentic. Ajay scribbled in his script to have the spotlight fade at the end of the song and to have the lights come up, returning her back to reality.

“Children playin’ in the barn, Buck is rockin’ in his chair. In the house the candles gleam, now that’s what you call a dream.”

Right where Ajay wanted the spotlight to fade, Rosa turned again on her heel and returned to where Elijah was standing. She took his hands.

“In the house the candles gleam, now that’s what you call a dream,” she finished, and gently kissed Elijah. When she pulled away, Ajay stopped the music. Elijah turned to him.

“I can really feel this whole thing coming together, Ajay,” he remarked.

“Yeah,” Ajay said, smiling softly. “Me too.”

A whoop sounded from backstage, startling all of them. Grace jogged out onto the stage and wrapped Rosa in a bear hug.

“You were so good!” she exclaimed. Ajay rolled his eyes but couldn’t stop a fond smile from forming on his face. He had always thought it was adorable when she was so enthusiastically supportive of her friends and co-stars. After a good minute of the hugging, though, Ajay forced himself to move the scene forward.

“Alright, alright. Let’s go on, there actually is more to this scene than Rosa’s power ballad.”

The cast laughed and Grace gave him a golden smile. He regarded her reverently, his heart pounding at the beauty of her expression. He wanted to stay in that warm private moment forever, but too soon she broke eye contact and walked offstage to let the scene continue.

***

Before rehearsal on Thursday of that week, Annette called Ajay to set up a meeting. She wanted updates on how the production was going, and had also called Grace, Kevin, Emily, and the tech crew heads to the meeting.

During rehearsal that Friday, Ajay noticed that Grace was distracted the entire time. He tried to work scenes that she wasn’t in to give her a bit of a break, but by the end of the week there weren’t many left.

The next week would be dedicated to cleaning up transitions and entrances before the added chaos of tech runs. Both tech week and the three days the week after that were dedicated to dress rehearsals were full twelve-hour days. Ajay had already been tearing out his hair planning the union-mandated two hour-long breaks for each actor and for the technicians throughout tech week. He’d settled on a common lunch hour and then staggered breaks while rehearsing scenes that didn't involve that actor. He was having particular difficulty even finding thirty-minute breaks for Kevin and Grace, though, because either one or both of them were in nearly every scene.

After rehearsal concluded, Ajay and Emily set out chairs around a table onstage for everyone. The crew chiefs came down from the booth and from backstage, and Kevin emerged from his dressing room in a professional-looking outfit, bag in hand. The only ones missing were Annette and Grace, and the former wasn’t due to arrive for five more minutes.

At the five minute mark, Ajay had almost left his seat to go check on Grace, but she walked hurriedly through the wings and to the seat designated for her next to Kevin. She was still wearing her dance clothes, and her eyes were a little red and her cheeks a little wet. Just as Annette came in, Ajay raised his eyebrows at her, concerned, but she shook her head.

She walked through the house, climbed the stairs onto the stage, and took her place at the head of the table. Ajay tore his eyes away from Grace and greeted Annette.

The meeting went by pretty smoothly; everyone reported that things were going well, that they were on-schedule to start tech the Monday after next, that the show was coming together cohesively.

More than a few times, Ajay’s eyes were drawn to Grace, and not for the usual reasons. The entire meeting, she seemed distracted at best, outright absent at worst. He even caught her scrolling through her phone held under the table, which was very uncharacteristic of the actress who arrived first to every rehearsal and cheered the cast on during every scene.

“Alright, guys! This looks great, I think we’ll really have a good, successful production here. I’ll be here for final dress, and I can’t wait to see it!” Annette concluded at the end of the meeting, standing back up. Ajay stood up too and shook her hand.

“I’m really proud of you, Ajay. You were just thrown into this production in the middle of everything, and you’ve worked so hard to make up for that. Thank you.”

Ajay ducked his head,“Oh, thank you, but I really can’t take the credit. Everything that’s happened I owe to the awesome teamwork of the cast and crew.”

Annette smiled and bid him goodnight. After making rounds to say goodbye to everyone from the meeting, Grace caught his eye from the upstage right corner. He walked over and found her tenser than he’d ever seen her before, and he was alarmed to find tears in her eyes.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” he asked gently, not wanting to scare her off.

She just shook her head again, causing a tear to roll down her cheek. She turned to go, but Ajay reached out at the last second and put a hand on her shoulder. Neither of them knew, for a second, if she was going to shrug him off—but she didn’t. Her shoulders started shaking.

“Oh, Grace,” Ajay said, then wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Come here, I know somewhere we can talk.”

Resigned, she followed him up two flights of stairs and a ladder on the side wall of the wings, to a balcony that gave access to the fly system. Ajay noted with satisfaction that the completed scrim, all ready for tech rehearsals, had been hung to a beam that would be lowered onto the stage. He sat on the balcony and patted the ground next to him for her to sit. He offered a hand for her to hold, but she didn’t take it. She stared out at the fly system, taking everything in and calculating her words. He knew the look in her eyes well enough to know exactly what she was doing.

“I’m sorry…” she started, her voice sounding choked up. “I know I wasn’t really productive in rehearsal today, or at the meeting. It won’t happen again.”

That the complete opposite of what Ajay had expected.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for, Grace. We all have hard days. I just wanted to check in with you, to see if you wanted to talk about whatever was troubling you.”

She let out a long breath, then sniffed. She wiped at her cheeks again, then stared at her hands. After what seemed like hours of them sitting side-by-side in silence, she started to talk.

“In my last year of college, I was in a relationship with this girl for over a year. Her name was Brooke. She was also a musical theatre major, and we moved here together after graduation. We broke up about five months ago, but the entire relationship was just really toxic.”

She sniffed again.

“She would basically use me—like my connections with professors or the auditions I got called to—to further her own career. She basically stepped on me and used me for the entire relationship. But I guess I didn’t know better, so I just let her.”

She paused and Ajay found a moment to jump in.

“I can empathize with that. One of my exes used me to get into screenwriting, of all things.”

Grace snorted, but it was a weak attempt. She cleared her throat, then continued.

“Anyways, we broke up about five months ago because she wasn’t even trying to hide the fact that I was nothing to her but a step up in the industry. I finally figured out that I deserved better than that, and that’s when I moved in with my current roommate. But I saw her at a store today, and—”

She cut herself off with a large sniff and another tear down her cheek.

“And she’s engaged. She introduced me to her fiancée. And that really made me think, because we’ve only been broken up for five months, right? So I thought back to all those times that she would come home late or say the marks on her body were mosquito bites or bruises from rehearsal, and she just insisted it was nothing so much that I let myself believe her. But I think she was cheating on me for a lot of our relationship.”

Grace stopped again for a second, and Ajay wrapped his arm around her. She leaned into him.

“But that’s not the worst part. I was ahead of them in line at the register, and once I had my stuff and was on my way out I heard her fiancée whisper, ‘Wow, you weren’t wrong, I really am an upgrade.’ And then they both laughed. And I can’t stop replaying that moment in my head.”

Ajay felt his heart break for her. He couldn’t imagine what that must feel like, to have a months-old pain dragged up again in public, especially regarding something as tender as that.

“I’m so sorry, Grace,” was all he could say, but it seemed to be enough. She rested her hand over his, the one he had offered her earlier, and turned to face him.

“Thank you,” she said, still choked up. Her eyes were watery. Ajay leaned over to pull her into a tight hug, rubbing her back in the same way he remembered that she liked it.

“You deserve so, so much better than that,” he whispered in her ear, “and if I ever find her, I’m going to kick her ass.”

Grace laughed weakly, and it was like music to his ears. He pulled back and gave her a soft smile, but her expression turned serious again.

“It’s just that... between that happening and the way our relationship ended back in high school…”

She trailed off, awkwardness flying up between them like a wall. He released her hand almost too quickly, and his throat went dry.

“I, uh…” he mumbled, not sure what to say. They sat in an extremely awkward silence for a few seconds, but before the seconds turned into minutes she started talking.

“I’m sorry to bring that up again, but I think we probably should talk about it,” she said tentatively.

“Yeah, but I mean what’s there really to talk about? We were together for a long time, and it was really great, but we did what we had to do. I don’t think we were mature enough then to handle long-distance, and I think we both needed to be our own people in college.”

Grace smiled a little at that.

“Yeah, I think so too. And objectively I know it was the right call, it’s just,” she paused. “Whenever my mind gets all shaky and dark, I kind of just lump that in with all the reasons I’m not good enough. Because I let something great just slip out of my fingers like that.”

Ajay furrowed his brows. “Not good enough? Not good enough for what?”

“I don’t know, everything?” She threw her hands in the air. “It’s something my mind says when I get really depressed. I know how to manage it. I just needed to reconcile it with you, to find closure and all that.”

“Oh.” A beat passed, and then another. “Well, for what it’s worth, I probably spent way too long dwelling on our breakup, too. But we’re not the same people we were then, and it doesn’t make sense to regret anything. I’m only sorry that I didn’t try to reach out to you, to build our friendship back up.” He measured his words, careful not to let on about his feelings for her.

“Yeah. But I guess we get another chance to do that, from doing this show together. And I’m really glad we managed to find each other again, Ajay.”

“Yeah, me too.”

He startled when he felt her fingers thread between his again, but tried not to let his happiness at the gesture show. He turned back to her with a smile.

“And hey,” he said, squeezing her hand, “You are good enough. You are definitely good enough, and don’t let your mind ever tell you anything else.”

A smile slowly spread across her face and the moment slowly turned golden again but, just like the last time, it ended too quickly. An alert sounded on Grace’s phone.

“Oh, I need to go to catch the subway back to my apartment.” She got up suddenly, and Ajay immediately missed the warmth of her hand on his. He stood up too, and pulled her into another quick hug.

“Oh,” she said in surprise. When he pulled away, she grabbed his hand.

“Thanks, Ajay. I think I needed this—to talk this out—more than I thought.”

“You’re welcome,” he smiled at her. “Anytime.”

Ajay followed her down the ladder and the two flights of stairs to the stage level, then waved her off to go get her things.

As he walked to his station, he reflected on the conversation. He hated seeing her so upset, but he couldn’t deny that she seemed to have emotionally matured over the years. Seven or eight years ago, she wouldn’t have talked to him about that. He was glad that she was clearly handling things better.

At the same time, though, seeing her so broken had broken him down a little, too. As an empathetic person that was to be expected, but Ajay hadn’t anticipated the severity of the problem. He used it to mark off another tally on the “reasons not to ask her out” side of his mental chart. She clearly was dealing with a rough breakup that was still affecting her after all this time, and he didn’t know if she would want to date anyone, much less him due to their history together.

He ran through his chart again on the long ride home.

Reasons not to try again:

It already didn’t work out once

We work in the same industry, which could potentially be a problem

She could, against all odds, turn out to be like Isabella

She might not even feel the same way about me

She has issues with an old relationship

But, like a mature and responsible adult, Ajay forced himself to go through the other side of the chart as well.

Reasons to try again:

She’s like sunshine if it were a person, like the eye of a hurricane. A complete mess, the clumsiest person I’ve ever met, but also the most passionate, the most sweet.

And that, Ajay figured, was reason enough. He’d say something, and soon. Nothing grandiose, just asking if she’d like to get coffee. To try again after the show, maybe.

He pressed his lips together to keep from grinning, and had to keep them that way for the rest of his trip home.

[trashboatprince]

Time for another one-shot of Beast Bendy’s time in the studio as a little toon.

Dober, if you want me to change anything, let me know, I’m just going with my own headcanon on Bendy’s creation from the Ink Machine for this.

On with the fic!

--

Thomas Conner never expected that when he was hired by Joey Drew to work on installing things, that he’d eventually find himself involved in creating life through machinery and animation and not in the way it was done upstairs.

Months and thousands of dollars went into rebuilding the inside of the studio. Parts were left the same, but many others were completely rebuilt from scratch. Upstairs, in an area once used for offices, had been converted into a whole new room for a big project, the Ink Machine, designed by Wally Franks. However, the one that stood before Thomas now was the prototype, the one that he had designed with Joey and Wally, to show GENT what it was that they were investing in and having sponsorship with.

The machine was meant to produce more and more ink, enough for the animators to use for years to come without ever spending a dime to any ink-producing companies. It was obviously a huge expense to save a couple hundred bucks, that’s what Tom thought, until Joey began explaining more and more of what else it was going to do.

‘Bring life to the cartoons’, he had happily announced when the mechanic asked about any other purposes for the Ink Machine.

Don’t animators do that already? With all those drawings and music and stuff?

Nope, no, no, no! Joey had shook his head, getting too close to Thomas, as he loudly informed him that he was literally going to bring life to the cartoons.

Thomas left and came back a week later because the higher ups forced him to come back to the crazy man and his little studio.

If it wasn’t for the pretty girl who worked in the sound department, Thomas wouldn’t bother dealing with listening to Joey’s plans and ideas for using magic and shit to make cartoon characters into living beings. That lovely angel kept him from also strangling Drew.

Oh Allison, you are a saving grace...

The man stared at the machine in front of him. This wasn’t going to work, this was completely stupid and pointless. He looked over at Wally, who looked nervous as he fumbled with the controls of the machine. The studio’s man projectionist, Norman Polk, stood nearby, holding a tin with a cartoon reel inside of it.

“Where’s Drew?” Thomas asked, crossing his arms.

“He said he couldn’t come for the tests, remember? He has that week-long trip he’s on, so we’re just gonna have to do it all ourselves. Says he trusts us completely.” Wally grunted as he tried to turn a loose bolt on the machine, gotta make sure it doesn’t explode on them.

“I doubt it’s gonna work,” Norman sighed, drumming his fingers on the tin, “but if Mr. Drew thinks it’ll make any sort of progress... can’t help but to try it, ya know?”

Thomas scoffed, looking around the room. There had been ink-painted circles and symbols all over, including on the floor, under the nozzle of the machine. The air was freezing inside the room, and the lights were terribly dim, poor Wally had to hold a flashlight in his mouth as he worked.

The information that Joey had given them over the month since the machine’s completion was basically summed up as ‘put the reel into the machine, speak the incantation, and let the ink flow’.

Sounded simple enough, but this was nonsense. Whatever, as Wally puts it, Joey signs the checks, might as well do this to humor him. He glanced at the doorway, knowing that upstairs was the offering room, set up with what Joey claimed as ‘gifts to the gods’ for this project. Thomas was surprised that they weren’t using the big Ink Machine that Wally had designed, but then again, gotta try the prototype first. Plus, the new machine was still in construction, can’t use it if it wasn’t fully up to speed. 

The switch in the offering room, once the break room, had been flipped already, the pipes were flowing with ink and they were gonna back up and explode if Franks didn’t finish!

“Done!” Wally grinned, stepping back. “Now for da reel, Mista Polk!” He held out a hand and Norman rolled his eyes, giving it to Wally, telling the janitor to be careful.

From what Tom knew, the cartoon was the very first one that was distributed to the public, The Dancing Demon. He had only seen it once, when he got stuck watching it in the theater room with some of the other employees. It was simple, just that Bendy character, dancing to a song, before the tune changes and he just goes nuts with his dancing, only to get pulled off the stage by a cane.

Well, almost gets pulled off. His head is taken away, but his body remains and happily continues to dance.

It was dumb and silly, but people like it, and it’s the movie that Joey insisted be used. Though, there was a bitter tone to his voice when he said that it had to be that one, it had some guy name Henry involved with it. A bit of asking around and Tom found out that Henry was the original animator for the studio and co-founder, lucky bastard escaped this place when he had the chance.

He watched as Wally inserted the reel into the machine, looking at the giant ink tank with a nervous glance. “Here goes nothin’...” He threw the switch and the machine came to life.

It loudly banged around, nearly pulling the bolts that kept it down out of the floor. Ink splattered everywhere and the three men has to hold up their arms to keep the ink from getting on them.

“Time to recite that bullshit!” Thomas shouted over the loud noises.

The words Joey made them memorize was complete nonsense to the mechanic, but he figured it was probably Latin or Aramaic, at least from what Norman figured. It made no sense to him and he didn’t want to know what he was saying loudly over the sounds of the Ink Machine.

The markings around them started to glow faintly yellow, the color spreading out onto the walls and floor as they continued to speak. The machine stopped spraying ink as something seemed to be wedged in the faucet, trying to come out.

Whatever it was, it was trying to force itself out.

Running over, Thomas grabbed onto the wet, solid lump of ink without thinking. He pulled hard on it, hearing it come out with a cartoony-pop sound, ink spraying out once more as he landed on his back, a weight dropped on him hard and knocked the air outta of him.

He coughed and shoved whatever was on him off, hearing it splat next to him as the machine was shut off by Wally. “Conner! Are you alright?” Norman asked as he approached.

“Fine, uhg.” Thomas coughed, sitting up to rub at the ink on his face. He stopped when he noticed movement out of the corner of his eye, nearly jumping when the lump he had pulled out started to rise up.

The three men watched in horror as the object rose, it was rather tall, and ink was shifting about on it. A lump formed, almost like a head, where strange horn-like appendages grew from it. A blob of ink dropped from the ‘head’ and the three stared at the white, toothy smile that showed.

Tom was suddenly yanked back, pulled away from the smiling mass and the circle he had fallen in.

The mass wiggled and tried to move towards them, two bumps come from what could be its shoulders. They flailed, spraying bits of ink about, as it tried to follow them. Then it dropped forward, face-first into the floor.

“... Is it dead?” Wally whispered, gripping Thomas’ shoulders tightly.

A strange, high pitched squeal came from the thing, making them all shout in alarm. They watched as it curled in on itself as the circle started to glow brighter than before and Thomas was blinded for a moment.

The light faded, and the room was plunged in sudden darkness as the power went out throughout the studio. They were left alone in pitch blackness with a creature they created.

There was a clicking sound, and a light turned on, Norman had found the flashlight Wally had used. He pointed it at the blob, only for them to see that it was gone.

“Oh shit, oh shit...” Wally wheezed out.

“Where did dat thing go?” Norman moved the light about, trying to find it.

Thomas watched as the light’s beam moved about, before he spotted something. He stood up quickly, taking the flashlight from Norman, and pointed it at the Ink Machine. “Found it.”

There was a bit of solid black, and solid white, peeking out from behind the machine. What looked like fingers in white gloves gripped the side of the machine, and a black and white face that was way too familiar to the mechanic was looking at them in fear.

“Sweet mother o’ Mary, we made Bendy a livin’ toon.” Norman said from behind Thomas. “Dat crazy ol’ Mr. Drew was right.” “You gotta be kiddin’ me!” Wally exclaimed loudly, making Bendy hide from the shout. Thomas turned, glaring at the shorter man, before approaching the Ink Machine.

He knelt down, seeing that Bendy, if that was really him, had pressed himself against the wall, unsure of where to go or what to do.

It was amazing, he looked exactly like the cartoon character, just completely solid and alive. He looked so small and scared as he looked at Thomas with large, soulless, black eyes.

Soulless... that’s one way of putting this. There was something so strange about him, he looked just like the character, seemed to register fear and curiosity as he looked at the flashlight and at Thomas, but... he gave off an air that didn’t sit right with the man.

Then again, he was made through demonic magic, a cartoon, and ink, so there was obviously gonna be something so otherworldly of this guy.

With a heavy sigh, he held out a hand. “Come on, kid, let’s get ya outta here.”

Bendy looked at the offered hand before carefully touching it, just as the lights started to come back on. “Do we tell Joey about this?” Thomas heard Wally say as he picked up Bendy.

“Let’s see if the kid lives, who knows how stable he is with that prototype we designed. It was only meant for making ink, not creating life like this.”

“Joey’s still gonna wanna know.” Norman frowned.

“I’ll tell him when he gets back, I’ll even write down everything that happened, I’ve got this.” Thomas replied as he walked past, heading to get back upstairs and out of that room. He had taken noticed that when the lights turned on, the walls were stained a sepia tone of yellow, he hoped that it didn’t cause any problems, nor did he want to hear any complaints from Sammy if those stains got down to the music department on the floor below.

He’d deal with all of the clean up late, right now, he needed to deal with the little cartoon he had helped in creating.

He hoped this didn’t come back to haunt him.

--

The room this took place in is the room where Henry collapsed at the end of chapter one)

[winchester-ofthe-lord]

Classic Winchester Adventures - Chapter 4

Square Filled: Singing Old Songs

Rating: gen

Warnings: swearing, possible mutilation of the Impala (I’m very sorry)

Word Count: 1.8k

Summary:  Maybe it wasn't the best idea to accept a gift from a witch with a wicked sense of humor...

read on ao3    read from the beginning

A/N:  hiya guys, this is chapter 4 for @spnclassicbingo ’s challenge. And even though I didn’t write it thinking of April Fool’s day, it kinda fits, so I hope you have as much fun reading as I had writing this chapter :) I’m really sorry for what I did to the Impala though, please forgive me. If you wanna know what happens next, just stay tuned for the next chapters ^^

Maybe they should’ve checked the cassette tape case before they put the tape into the deck. Maybe they would’ve seen the little note inside the little plastic case if they’d done that. And maybe, just maybe they would’ve decided against this particular cassette. Or at least this one particular song on it.

Looking back, it was kind of obvious. Nancy did have this look of adoration when they were standing in front of the Impala. It was followed by a barely there smug smirk, now that Dean thinks back to that moment.

She also had this amused, knowing expression when Ella handed Dean the cassette of her father.

What Dean hadn’t thought of at the time though, was that Ella must’ve given Nancy the tape before she offered it to Dean, to ask for permission, and that Nancy is a witch after all. A witch with a cruel sense of humor. A very cruel sense of humor.

But they are on very high spirits after their day of celebrating little Tim’s birthday, jumping around inside the giant bounce house, drowning in the massive ball pit, and eating too much cake and way too many muffins for their own good, so, without thinking much about it, Dean shoves ‘Bruce Springsteen - ‘84’ into the cassette deck and hits the play button.

The first song on the tape is ‘Born In The USA’. As soon as the first notes blast through the speakers, Dean nods his head to the beat, broad smile on his face, left arm hanging loosely out of his open window, tapping on the outside of the driver’s door, right arm relaxed on the wheel. It only takes him until the first chorus to sing out loud, whereby...if you’re particular about it, you can't necessarily call it singing, but rather bawling.

Dean slams both his palms on the steering wheel. “Boooorn-” he snaps his head towards his brother- “in the USA, I was-” another clap against the leather wheel- “Booorn in the USA…”

The off-key singing of his older brother doesn’t stop Sam from joining in, and they both belt out the whole song at the top of their lungs, smiling and laughing and thrumming the beat against the dashboard and the steering wheel, while driving off into the sunset.

They are almost forty minutes into their drive when the tenth track starts to play, “Well now you may think I'm foolish, for the foolish things I do…”

Dean turns the volume down a little and says, “Man, I love Springsteen. Ella’s dad really had a good taste in music, didn’t he.” He smiles a slightly sad smile to himself, feeling infinitely sorry the little girl had to lose her parents. At least he still had his father and his brother. And this car. But Ella’s in good hands now at Nancy’s, he thinks. She’s got a whole new family of amazing people around her who will for sure help her deal with her loss and with finding new happiness.

“Well honey it ain't your money…” Sam’s voice interrupts his wallowing in memories and he turns up the volume again, “'Cause baby I got plenty of that.”

Both brothers chorus the next lines in unison, amused, contented grins covering both their faces, “I love you for your pink Cadillac, crushed velvet seats, riding in the back, cruising down the str-”

Dean stops singing when his fingers feel something weird all of a sudden, and he hits the brakes. Hard. And pulls her over to the side of the road with a jerky yank on the wheel.

“Dean, what the-”

“STOP SINGING!” Dean yelps at his utterly confused brother and reaches a hand out to mute the radio.

It’s nighttime by now, the inside of the impala pitch black, the empty road in front of them dimly lit in the beam of the Impala’s headlights.

Several seconds tick by in absolute silence, only Dean’s gasping breath, forcefully pushed through his nose is audible.

“What’s wrong now, Dean?” Sam asks and, even though Dean can’t see him in the darkness, he knows that his brother has his typical what-the-fuck-Dean eyebrow aimed at him.

“My Baby-” Dean sputters. To be precise, it’s rather a whine than anything else.

Sam waits for him to further explain, but when nothing follows after, except more panicked breathing and a slight shifting in his seat, he asks, “Yeah, so? What about her?”

“Gimme your phone,” Dean demands through clenched teeth, unsuccessfully trying to suppress another whine.

“Why do you need-”

“Just give it to me!”

Sam hands him the required phone after fishing it out of his pocket and Dean immediately opens the flashlight app, lighting up the car’s inside within the fraction of a second.

The dead silence that permeates the entire car is suffocating. Both brothers hold their breaths in shock, as they take in the drastic change of scenery. It’s so quiet you could hear a pin drop. What actually does drop, is Dean’s jaw. Pure horror is written in his eyes, his mouth opening and closing like a stranded fish on land.

Sam’s hysterical snort breaks the silence as he bursts out laughing, hands flailing around and grasping Dean’s shoulder while he desperately struggles for air.

Dean’s hand is shaking when he brings it up to point the flashlight at his steering wheel. No, not his steering wheel, this is so not his steering wheel.

It’s fuzzy fleece.

And it’s friggin’ pink.

The light beam slowly roams across the dashboard, the pink dashboard to be precise , travels to the bench seat in between them, which is, of course, covered in pink crushed velvet, and eventually settles on Sam’s face. Who has one of his giant hands pressed on his mouth. His eyes are wet with tears, the bulging veins on his forehead and both temples are throbbing, his whole head red like a tomato on fire, while he’s trying his darndest not to explode with laughter.

The moment Dean lowers Sam’s phone in resignation and lets his head loll back against the backrest, his brother can’t keep his emotions inside his body anymore and fills the car with whole-hearted sounds of pure joy.

“Oh, shut up, Sammy,” Dean moans in nothing but frustration, “This ain’t fucking funny, man!” He bangs his door open and climbs out of the car, takes a few steps into the night. The man folds over, his hands braced on his thighs. He takes a deep breath, straightens himself and turns around to face the vehicle in its entirety.

The flashlight raises again in Dean’s hand as he slowly approaches the Impala, shining the light over her varnish. Her mother. Fucking. Pink. Varnish.

“Baby…” he whispers, wretched, while he lets his tender fingers run over her hood, tenderly caressing the smooth cold surface, his voice barely working when he whispers a questioning “What-”

That’s all he can get out in his devastated state.

The passenger door opens and reveals an overly exuberant Sam, frantically gasping for air, almost falling out of the car while trying to climb out of his seat, still not able to control his laughter.

The taller man can barely keep himself standing, now that he can see the full extent of the Impala’s condition. And, after a look at his older brother, also the full extent of his condition.

Dean buries his head in his hands, vainly trying to stifle the pterodactyl shriek that presses through his fingers, scrubs them over his face, furiously rubbing his eyes.

Nope. Still pink.

“Oh, come on,” he whimpers and kicks an angry foot into the air.

“Your car...looks….like a...pimp mobile,” Sam manages to stammer out in between his giggles, clasping at his own stomach with one hand. His face freezes in an awkward exhilarated expression for a moment, before he looks Dean straight in the eyes and, followed by the next laughing fit, bursts out, “Oh my God. It’s the Pimpala!”

Dean’s eyes roll so far into his head it hurts. “Ha Ha, Sammy,” he rolls them back to the front and shoots his brother a glare that could kill, if he only tried hard enough, he’s sure of that. “Glad my misery is entertaining you that much. Really. I’m thrilled.”

It takes Sam far too long to catch his breath, to calm down enough to regain (almost) complete control over his face and body again.

A long time for Dean to just stand and stare. Eyes wide open. Still full of disbelief and consternation.

A reassuring pat on his shoulder tears him out of his trance-like state and he stops his absentminded scratching over the scruff on his own cheek to look up at his brother.

“Sammy…. ” Dean downright whines in despair towards Sam’s face, “My car... She’s- she’s... mutilated. Her… seats- and, the steering wheel is- She’s friggin PINK! ” He almost spits at his brother.

Sam  gives his shoulder another gentle pat, “C’mon, Barbie,” a bad wink, “I gotta show you something.”

Dean briefly contemplates murdering his brother - thin ice, Sammy, thin ice - but follows him inside the car instead. His death will have to wait.

“Look at this, Dean,” Sam starts, amused smile on his lips, and hands his brother a small note, “I found this in the cassette tape case.”

With a raised eyebrow, Dean takes the proffered piece of paper, scrutinizing the neatly handwritten message:

Hope you take it with humor :) Ella said she’d like your car a lot better in pink, so I hope you share that opinion It’ll wear off within 24 hours though, so don’t worry ;) Best wishes Nancy

“I’m gonna kill her.” Dean clenches his fists, crumpling up the note in the process. His jaw clenches too, nostrils quivering. “I’m gonna kill her,” he repeats more quietly.

His brother sighs. “No, you won’t.”

“Oh, but I will!” A sharp breath through his nose. A humorless laugh. “My Baby looks like friggin’ Pink Panther’s car, Sam,” he complains, “I can’t just...let this slide.” He claws at his steering wheel and flinches as soon as his fingers meet the squashy, fluffy texture, and immediately pulls his hand back again.

Shit.

“Oh come on, Dean, it’s not that bad,” Sam tries to placate. “‘sides, she wrote that it only lasts 24 hours, right? Man the fuck up-” he slightly shifts in his seat, lets a hand run over the upholstery between them- “and enjoy the crushed velvet.”

There’s exactly two seconds of silence, before both men burst twin snorts through their noses. Even Dean’s grumpy grimace lightens up, the tension in his body decreasing the longer they’re laughing.

“Wow,” Sam chuckles after a while, wipes a tear from his cheek, “I never thought I’d ever say anything like that.”

Dean’s shoulders are still slightly trembling as he keeps giggling, “What, tell me I should enjoy the crushed velvet?”

They exchange affectionate whacks against each other’s arms.

With the utmost reluctance, Dean puts the Pimpala in drive and leads her back on the road, “Friggin witches, man!”

read the next chapter

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