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wheneverfeasible · 3 months ago

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Based off this post because I’ve lost all control of my life.

cw: sex trafficking, reference to non-con

Modern au. FBI au. Stobin became inseparable when they both started training in the FBI around the same time, though it started as a bit of not-so-friendly rivalry at first. Robin felt like she had to prove herself as a woman in the FBI, while Steve felt like he had to prove himself as a legacy who has always been a disappointment to his father. A fateful rookie hazing that went a little too far bonded them inseparably, however, and now years later they are the go-to team amongst the younger agents.

Also if you try to separate them then all hell will break loose.

Anyways, so one day there’s need for undercover work. They’ve been tracking this sex trafficking ring for a while and they finally believe they’ve discovered the mastermind behind it all, some newly famous rockstar called Eddie “The Freak” Munson.

So someone needs to dress up like a prostitute and infiltrate their ranks to get hard evidence to put this lowlife away once and for all. As she’s really the only girl on the team that fits the age demographic, Robin is picked as the fake prostitute. Except…well, let’s face it, she’s never been the most feminine of girls. Not a true butch or anything, more a soft futch than anything, but dresses and high heels and makeup? Yeah no.

As soon as Robin wobbles herself out (falling face first in the process) it’s not just Steve immediately telling her no and to go change back into her FBI kit because she looks super uncomfortable and there’s no way they can make her do this, whether or not she could even convincingly play the role to begin with.

And so comes in Steve.

Now, Steve isn’t exactly femme either. While he’s certainly not the butchest agent on their team, he was a jock in high school and even now still picks up the occasional game with civilians or other agents when free time allows. What had once been a respectful firmness to his stomach was now a verifiable six pack, his biceps and thighs filling his clothes out nicely as his FBI workout regimen added some muscle mass.

But there was more to Steve than just the stereotypical musclehead jock. Steve had also been a bit of a prep in high school, and even now still brought some of that with him in his civvies and beauty regimens, especially with his hair. He also opposed to a bit of a shiny lipgloss when the mood hit. And secretly? He’s always wanted do undercover work like this. And it’s not like the victims were only girls.

Plus, though Robin would call him sexist for it, he didn’t like the idea of sending Robin or any other woman into the pits of hell alone like that.

Steve struts out of the changing room wearing the skimpiest outfit he’s ever seen in his life (think like, Julia Roberts’s first outfit in Pretty Woman), except he didn’t shave at all so his hair thighs and chest hair still poke out. There’s no hiding his physique, so he’s going for the whole hairy thing, and he knows it works for him. For any gender.

With a grace that might belie that this isn’t his first time in heels, Steve is on his way to the hotel where all this is going down, slipping in easily, Steve starts casing the place and compiling evidence before the big event that night where hopefully they catch Munson in the act of selling victims to the highest bidder.

Except, while sneaking around trying to gather as much evidence as possible, he runs into Munson himself. Not in some big penthouse full of drugs and weapons and whatever else used to keep the product in line, but in a small little unused room Steve had slipped into to avoid one of the muscled “bodyguards” Munson kept on hand.

No, Steve slipped in and found an anxiously pacing dweeb of man in Garfield sleep trousers and what looked like a homemade shirt with the graphic of a devil face on it, black polished nails being gnawed at by the hunched over form. The figure with frazzled hair matched the images of the mastermind he had seen, though he looked startling different from the persona he put on in public.

Munson’s eyes bugged out a little when he walked in, his eyes taking in Steve’s form with an appreciation that made Steve smug at being the correct choice for this sting after all, but then Munson was groaning in a less appreciative way and slapping his hands to his face.

“I told Dad I didn’t want a fucking hooker,” he mumbled to himself, before dropping his hands with a wince as he held up his hands beseechingly. “Sorry, nothing wrong with prostitutes, darling, I just…now is really not a good time.”

And…huh. Okay. This was the Big Bad Boogeyman who had been giving them the slip for almost a year now? He looked like a wet rat despite being completely dry.

So Steve struts some more, plays his part, simpers and encourages Munson’s eyes to focus on his bare skin and not the slight bulge to his thigh high heeled boots where his gun and handcuffs were hidden. And Munson looks, because Steve is hot and he’s only human, but he also looks really really nervous and lets out a choked giggle when Steve pulls out his charm.

And then Munson again apologizes, says he never met a prostitute before he and he seems like a really nice boy but that he wasn’t the one who hired him and he’s not looking for sex right now, just wanting to get through tonight and go home to his cats, Smaug and Shelob.

Which is unexpected. Even more so when Munson claims he didn’t even want to be there in the first place, that his dad was in charge of setting up the event, though he did so in Munson’s—Eddie’s—name, just as he had been doing ever since Eddie first caught a break for his music in high school. Had dragged Eddie away from his garage band and friends and instead threw Eddie headlong into being a solo artist and creating the persona of The Freak, acting as a kind of shadow manager. Working behind the curtains so that barely anyone even knew he existed.

And…oh. Ohhhhh. Suddenly, Steve didn’t think Eddie was the mastermind they were after. He just looked like nervous kid (who was technically older than Steve but whatever) thrown into the a spotlight not of his own making and made the scapegoat for all of his father’s illegal activities.

Not that Eddie knew anything about the current operation, that was more than evident. He thought it was an actual auction for like antiques and shit. Thought the only person being sold that night was a date with him, his father’s idea. It was why he was hiding out in an unused room to have a little freak out away from everyone treating him like a doll to do whatever they wanted.

But his father had suggested bringing in some hookers to help him calm down, which Eddie had rejected, but which he now thought was what Steve was. Just a hooker his father had bought for the night to help his son relax.

And Steve thought his father was a piece of work.

They talk, Eddie’s nervousness and discomfort in his life causing him to spill secrets he otherwise never would have, not just about his father’s past but also his own, talking about how much he missed his high school band, the Dungeons & Club he used to run, his uncle he hasn’t seen in years, and just a life where he could live it how he wanted.

Much to his surprise, Steve also revealed some truths about himself. Not about his real job, of course, but about his own father, about not ever being good enough for him or his mother, about how they had always held his inheritance over his head until he’d told them to stuff it and that he wasn’t going to marry some socialite of their choosing. He smudged some details about his work, which he felt weirdly guilty for, but needs must.

And well, Eddie’s babble reveals that they really have to change the focus of the sting, which means Steve needs to get a message to Robin pronto. Luckily, she should be nearby undercover as one of the hotel staff with a couple other agents.

Steve does get the message out, but in the process the truth is accidentally revealed to Eddie and he is devastated. He had known his father wasn’t a good man, but he hadn’t realized just how evil he was. He was also, surprisingly, hurt by the knowledge that Steve was just doing his job and the connection he had thought they’d formed wasn’t real.

Except, as Eddie worked with the FBI to take down the operation, getting shot by his own father in the process in a misguided attempt to protect Steve, Steve can’t help but wonder if maybe there was a genuine connection after all.

Later, Steve visits Eddie in the hospital, bypassing the armed guards outside because, while they have proof it was Al Munson behind the sex trafficking and forcing the victims into prostitution, Eddie is still a person of interest as a witness and they still need to fully clear his name regarding any knowing involvement.

Robin, of course, was sick of hearing Steve mooning about Eddie and encouraged the meeting, though she later regretted it when it just caused Steve to talk more about the former rockstar—Eddie was quitting, hating the lonely fame, and wanting to reach out to his old friends and apologize for abandoning them. She was fond of the man’s cats, however, going with Steve to make certain they were taken care of while Eddie was convalescing in the hospital.

Later again, once Eddie is cleared and the trial is over and Al is rotting behind bars, Steve meets up with Eddie when it’s no longer a conflict of interest. He also reveals that he kept his undercover outfit and the two of them put it to good use.

Robin, meanwhile, has likewise grown closer to one of the former victims, a young woman by the name of Chrissy. She had helped her and the others deal with everything, especially those who felt uncomfortable around the male agents. Eddie of course apologizes profusely to her when they meet, but Chrissy knows he wasn’t a part of it and actually helped save her and the others in the end, bringing him into a hug that helps heal the both of them a little bit more.

Steve and Robin and the rest of the team are honored for their work, but to them the real honor is in the loving embrace of those they saved, and who in their own way saved Steve and Robin too.

Hostage tags: @derythcorvinus @katyawriteswhump

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themissingrightsocks · 2 years ago

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Residual Hauntings: Part One

A/N: Welcome to Residual Hauntings! I hope you enjoy the first full chapter! This is a Ghostbusters story following the events of GB: Afterlife, including an OC of mine.

Word Count: 1k

Hazzadelle was easily the worst cook in the Spengler family. It wasn't even an argument that needed to be made, she really was just the absolute worst at it. Couldn’t even cook eggs without burning some of them. So whenever the oldest sibling came home from college, she was always benched during meal preparation to avoid a repeat of the 2014 soy sauce incident that nearly burned down the dishwasher. Don't ask how it happened, everyone involved was sworn to secrecy to avoid secondhand embarrassment.

Hazzie was sidelined currently, watching her mother rummage through the kitchen idly as Phoebe read her current book while sitting in the chair closest to her sister. Hazzie tugged on one of the chocolate brown curls that had escaped her haphazard bun, watching it spring back up with a sigh. It was a full month and a half into summer break, and she should not have been this bored again already. It was weird to think it had been under a month since the whole ghost thing went down. But here they all were, sitting inside an old house still undergoing renovations with a whole ghost-busting business in the basement. Hazzie had come home from Georgetown University for the summer, and then ended up in a middle of nowhere town called Summerville in Oklahoma and almost died while fighting a ghost who had a massive God complex (and was apparently some sort of god). But now they were left to sort through the mess they had put off while saving the whole damn town from a literal invasion.

“Hey Addie,” Her mother asked, looking to where her oldest daughter sat with her head down on the dining room table from her place in the kitchen. Hazzie looked up, letting out a hum in response, “could you get the table set? My hands are a bit full here.” The oldest Spengler girl didn’t protest, slipping out of her seat and heading towards the cabinets. Before she left though, Hazzie ruffled Phoebe’s hair, which earned her a grunt and a hand swat from the youngest in the house.

Hazzadelle took out plates, napkins, and silverware, stacking them atop each other and carefully carrying it all over with two hands back to the dining room table. She started with the plates, moving in a clockwise fashion till each one was in its respective spot. Then came the silverware, a knife, and a fork each rolled in a napkin like how fancy restaurants with cloth napkins have them. Why did Hazzie do it this way? Aesthetic appeal, that’s why. She followed the same clockwise path, placing the silverware on the left-hand side of the plates. A pitcher of water and cups had also been brought to the table, courtesy of Pheobe. Her lips twitched slightly at the sight of a perfectly in-order dining table, nice and clean and crisp before it got ruined. Oh, the small joys in life.

The smell of dinner was becoming much more fragrant, toasting soft shells and melting cheese filling the air with an easily identifiable smell. It was cheese quesadillas, meaning that Pheobe had gotten the first pick on choosing the meal for tonight. It was a solid choice, Callie did always make delectable quesadillas. Phoebe had perked right up at the smell, sliding into her seat with eager patience. Even Trevor had lumbered down the stairs, having been up there for a good portion of the evening.

“Aaanndd dinner is served!” Callie said, carrying over a plate of steaming quesadillas to the table with a bright smile. She took the seat at the head of the table, watching as her children snatched at the food, “Jeez, it’s like you all didn’t eat all day.”

Trevor shrugged, having already eaten halfway through a quesadilla, “I’ve been working on a new motherboard piece for the computers downstairs. Lost track of time.” Callie nodded, she knew all her kids were fully invested in the ghost-hunting business. Although they haven’t had an opportunity to really use any of the equipment again, she found no harm in letting them mess around with it– as long as it didn’t put her kids in mortal danger again. Plus, she was starting to find a small fascination in it herself, once she slowly began to process all the gadgets and gizmos of course.

Hazzie sat with her legs in a criss-cross position on the chair, how the position was comfortable for long periods of time was a mystery, but the brunette fell into the category of those who enjoyed odd chair positions. She munched quietly on a quesadilla, hazel eyes blankly staring out the nearest window. Phoebe sat next to her, waving a hand in front of her face to get her attention. Hazzie was still focused on the food, it was pretty good; her mom made great quesadillas. Phoebe snapped her fingers, which finally drew Hazzie’s attention to her, “sorry Pheebs, I zoned out.”

Phoebe paid no mind to the apology, “Do you want to help me sort through the boxes left in the basement?” That’s right, Hazzie remembered, she had been helping Phoebe with that yesterday.

“Yeah, I can do that” She agreed without much hesitation. Phoebe nodded, a ghost of a smile crossing her face momentarily.

The rest of dinner went on without a hitch, with light conversation here and there but otherwise, it was just a calm atmosphere in the house on that summer evening. Trevor was put on dish duty for the night, leaving the sisters to depart from the table to do as they wished for the rest of the evening and somewhat into the hours of the night. Hazzie stood first, wiping the nonexistent dirt off her blue jeans as she took the hair tie out of her hair. Phoebe pushed back her chair, heading towards the basement door. She only cast a slight glance over her shoulder to make sure Hazzie was following, which she was doing while fussing with her hair to get it back up in a halfway decent bun. Phoebe pushed open the creaky door, switching on the small light before they descended the stairs and into the depths.

#ghostbusters fanfiction #egon spengler #phoebe spengler #spengler #ghostbusters #trevor spengler #callie spengler #original character

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the-sky-fell-blossoms · 2 years ago

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Step 3 Derek: Lunch

I didn’t announce it on Tumblr, but I recently fell in love with Our Life: Beginning and Always. Specifically, Derek. So I’m planning a fan story of sorts. I completed this Memory but I want to edit it more and put a sample up while I continue working.

You can imagine whatever you want going in the input spaces, and it would still work with the story.

But know that the characters only have their Base responses right now for the most part. (the part in the game that doesn't change no matter the player Input.) and Some answers are put in for you already so the story can work properly.

But that's all in the way of Disclaimers. Enjoy!

*********

It was a peaceful day in Sunset Bird. Spent like any other.

With age comes freedom and you would think with owning this freedom for two years now you and Cove would know how to spend it besides walking across the beach.

But your Summer daily tradition has never failed you, and soon a fresh idea on how to spend today will grace you with enough patience.

Or boredom.

Today was no different.

Cove stopped in his tracks with a sigh and checked his watch. Again.

He had been doing that since you found him on your front step just over an hour ago.

Before it was just a Cove Tick and you were sure he'd come clean about whatever was bugging him sometime within this year. But now that he's starting to add on temporary paralysis to the action, it seemed more and more like he was either finally about to crack or this was more serious than you first thought.

Cove sighed like he did each time he opened his phone, but luckily this time you didn't have to wait long until he turned his eyes on you.

He bit his lip and finally you lost the will to be patient.

*** Do You rush or stay Patient***

His will crumbled almost instantly. Cove was always rather open with his thoughts. "My dad invited me for lunch, I was pretty whatever about it until today. He mentioned this morning before I left, it'd be with Mr. Suarez." He explained with a sigh.

You caught on to the trouble immediately and it explained a lot as to why cove seemed in love with his phone more than usual today.

You didn't get much out except for a small "I see", before he continued.

"I wouldn't have agreed if I knew if wasn't going to be just us. Mr. Suarez showing means it's going to be a business lunch. Dad hates them but I'm just supposed to take one for the team because it's a 'family business'" He made air quotes around the statement, and it took a lot for you not to explain that a 'family business' is exactly what it is.

*** You feel...***

You somehow felt now wasn't the time to voice your thoughts on the matter. Supportive or not.

But Cove seemed to run out of steam by then.

***Supportive? Express Jealousy? Quiet***

You watch him and don't do much to hide your feelings from your face as you come up with something to say. "Is it really that bad?"

"Well… no. I've never been forced to go and when I had to it's mostly just eating and listening to My dad speak about work with his partner. I guess hearing about the diving is cool. But it's less cool to hear about numbers and stuff I don't get and watch the world's most boring podcast." He pocketed his phone and started walking again, before continuing. "And being asked 'how is school treating you, Jr?' For the thousandth time is grating…"

"But you're out of school now." You tried your best to be optimistic but all it did was tear the most earnest, guttural groan from Cove's lips you've ever heard.

"You're right. That means whatever questions he asks, I'm gonna be hearing for the rest of my life!"

***Joke or comfort?***

"Well, what about Derek...?" You remember how serious your friend was about the business. How polite he was too. He would never talk to interrupt the adults at the table but that doesn't mean he's mute. Derek is great company to have in this kind of situation.

"Derek?" Cove let out a sigh and you thought the last sound was filled with hopelessness. Apparently Cove has a lot more in his arsenal than he let on. "Derek is always busy. Practice. Watching his brothers. Work. Volunteering. He hasn't shown up to a lunch since our junior year."

You frowned, understanding your Friend's troubles.

***Comfort, Joke, or quiet***

"I'll go with you." It came out before you yourself even realized you felt so generous.

"Really?" He looked at you with excitement and disbelief that you'd offer to do something so torturously boring as sit in on a business lunch when you didn't have to.

You hoped you didn't look just as surprised yourself. Steeling yourself up as you continued.

"Yeah, I mean. Your problem is just that you're stuck between two adults, right? Well, maybe two and a half would help?"

"Yes! I won't forget this! You're the best." Cove said grabbing you by the shoulders.

***accept touch or move away?***

Your eyes softened at your childhood friend. it seems he lost all the tension collecting in his shoulders before becoming serious again. Whatever he says now is life or death serious. It was a bit of a funny look to see on Cove’s face. But you managed to match the mood.

"I'll find a way to repay you."

You almost brush it off before realizing that it's useless when cove makes a promise.

"Okay." You settle on instead and it seems to placate the boy infant of you as he turns on his heels to make his way back down the beach.

After you turn onto your street Cove finally stops in his tracks.

You only notice after you take a few of your own steps forward and don’t hear the echo you’re so used to.

"Cove?"

You know… you don't have to come." He relents although happily accepting the offer just 10mins prior. He was practically jumping for joy.

It's a wonder how quickly you move when you have a plan and direction. You had been wandering the beach for an hour.

You smile at his as he glances away. Perhaps having the time to realize how he might be imposing on you.

***Support or Joke***

"These things can get really boring. So it's okay… if you'd rather not..?" He tries, Hunching in on himself more and more as he speaks. And you quietly wonder how many octaves his voice can raise at this rate.

"I want to go. It could be fun." You end simply.

"Okay but just fake a stomachache or something and I'll get you right out of there."

After exchanging nods to say we understand each other, we continued on to his home.

Cove stepped through the doors of his familiar childhood home with practiced ease.

Or perhaps it's just the ever-unlocked doors. You'd imagine he could easily slam right into it had it been locked from the way he'd been moving. You still couldn’t imagine life without that tiny bit of security of a flimsy lock.

You take in the living room you stepped in countless times growing up. It had the distinct smell of whatever they had for breakfast and seawater. The Holden Men aroma.

***You feel...***

Whatever feelings you might have, it still smells Firstly like your second home.

Mom would say your home right across from home.

"Cove?" You hear a voice break through from further into the house. Mr. Holden making his grand entrance shortly after. "You're in early? That's a-"

He stopped in his tracks as soon as his eyes landing on you. Giving the trademark adult knowing smiles. "Yin. What a surprise. I guess that explain the earlier than expected arrival."

"Dad. I spoke to Them already about the lunch today…"

"Did you?" He asked without much of an actual question behind it. As if trying to gage what Cove was trying to ask for before he did.

"Yeah. Can they come?" He asks straightforwardly and we both watch as Mr. Holden makes a show of considering it.

"Well… you really have great timing for these kinds of questions son…" he glances away before closing his eyes with a sigh. One you couldn't help stealing a glance at Cove for.

They’re almost the same person sometimes. "I'll call Gregario and let him know we'll have a fourth wheel to round us out."

"Thanks dad…" Cove said with an almost apologetic smile, knowing that he made his dad's like just a tiny bit harder today.

"Hey, no problem. I get they're not the most fun in the world, but boring things are helped a lot by having a friend along. Well… most things." His wording there made you realize you actually don't know much about Mr. Holden and who his friends are. Or his family. Other than Cove and his ex-wife.

***assumptions on Cliff's life/ your feelings on Cliff***

You glanced towards Cove as the conversation around you continued wondering if cove has mentioned cousins from his dad. Or friends of his dad out side of your moms. It probably happened in passing while you were too young to really care about adult personal lives.

Cove explains. Mr. Holden Knowing smile.

"Yeah… that's the idea…" Cove said and you wondered if he managed to feel guilty about his dad figuring out he didn't like these lunches and dinners.

Mr. Holden reached over and squeezed his son's shoulder in support "Don't worry about it."

Whatever silent message that sent proofed to reassure Cove just enough to let him meet his dad's eyes with a small nod.

"Alright well I'm going to call Gregario now. You two get ready to head out in about an hour from now. It's nothing too fancy but it's Yin's first day as an honorary businessperson. That's a special occasion," with that he took off, presumably to do exactly what he said he would.

Cove turned to you with a shrug. "None of us really ever 'get dressed' for this. I'm gonna just wear this. But you can if you want" he said.

*** Change?***

You thought about it for a moment before deciding you should at least dine in something other than flip flops. "I'll be right back."

You hear a soft "okay" follow you out as you cut across the street back to your home.

Your Mom looks up from her spot on the couch as you make your way in. A smile gracing her face as soon as her eyes lay on you. "Yin. You're in early. And without Cove?"

You give her a short recap of what happened with Mr. Holden and why you need to change, and she seemed pleased. "I see… well it's great that the possibility of at least putting proper shoes even crossed your mind. I know even Cliff would sooner stay in sandals." You knew your mom was right and maybe even a little proud that she raised you to 'be a pleasant young adult'. She had her proud parent look on and her shoulders even raised slightly in pride and joy.

"Well don't let me stop your business adventure. What are you wearing?"

***Casual or Dress up?***

You responded simply and she nodded at your choice.

"Whatever you put on will look great and be fine."

With that she went back to reading on her tablet. You wondered if it was also work related, but there was no time to start a conversation. You have the Holdens waiting for you just across the street.

You bolted up the steps and into your room, thankfully without much trouble. And looked through your closet for something to wear.

Both of the Holden Men seemed just fine with any decision you made so you didn't need to deliberate over it too much.

***Confirm dress up choice***

It would be the first time you've seen Mr. Suarez since February though. Perhaps it wouldn't be bad to make the effort of looking a bit more adult now that you've graduated.

***Shirt, bottoms, accessories***

You decide on something in the middle. A dress shirt you kept crisp in your closet for special occasions and a decent pair of jeans.

Closing the look out with a few bracelets you bought from your last couple trips to the mall.

***Hair care***

After messing around with your hair several time you finally decided that it looked the perfect amount of 'I didn't really care' chic.

You quietly wondered if there was anything else you need.

***Yes/No***

Luckily you found nothing else. Perfect.

You grabbed your wallet on the way out, making sure never to make that mistake again and went downstairs.

You heard a shutter of a camera flash as your mother stood there with her phone held up to her face.

"My sweet child on their way to their first business meal." You rolled your eyes at her antics "I should put this on the fridge as a souvenir."

***Annoyed/playful***

"Mom! It's not even my business. I'm just going to support Cove." You giggled slightly despite yourself. You wanted to be serious. It's your serious business time. There were no workplace shenanigans to be had here.

"Okay, okay. Don't let me hold you. I'm just going to go print this out."

"Mom!"

She laughed as she made her way past you to go upstairs. Despite being 80% sure your mom was just joking part of you worried she would be willing to commit all that Ink just for a laugh.

No time to test that though, you had Plans with the Holden Men.

When you step out of the house, you’re greeted by just the men you wanted to see. Mr. Holden is the first one to notice you with his usual calm smile. “Welcome back you’re just in time.”

Cove looked over his shoulder just as his father continued. “We were talking about the place we’re going to meet. It’s an All-American Diner. I hope that’s okay.”

“We can grab you something else before we get there if not.” He looked at his watch perhaps clocking out how much time you have for a detour.

***Pitstop?***

“Diners are good.”

“Great. Let’s get this show on the road then.”

It’s not long before you make it to the restaurant. “I don't see their car. I think we beat him today.”

“We did leave early." Cove added on to his father’s finding. You don’t know when they were supposed to show up, but you can understand how 12:30 would count as an early lunch for most people.

Mr.’ holden undid his seatbelt. "Let's find a table, they'll be here soon." He didn’t follow it up with much more as he climbed out of the car and made his way to the entrance. You and Cove followed right in his footsteps. Keeping in time with his long strides. Cove didn’t have much trouble in that being so tall.

You traveled into the diner, it seems they really went as hard as they could on to the old timey feel of the place. They even had the red swingy stools you imagined a place like this needed. Booths in the middle and sides of the restaurant lined up neatly. Overhead lights lined up shielded by textured bumpy glass. You think you even saw a waitress walk past with a traditional milkshake glass.

***Your feelings on places like this***

It was kinda cool, like you were in a movie. You couldn't find a place like this in Sunset Bird at least.

You mention as much to Cove. And he looks around slowly taking in the area again before nodding. His eyes lingering over to the waitress you saw before. Now reaching over to serve a table.

"I can see that. A buddy cop movie." He agrees quietly.

"Which one of you is the loose cannon." Mr. holden nods as you all find a seat at a booth with line of sight to the door. You could only assume that it was to make it easy for Mr. Suarez to tell you were here. Even though, who could miss…

Cove turned to meet your eyes. A silent question of whether to play along shining in his eyes.

***Amused or not***

Cove mercifully decides not to leave the question hanging. "Put your hands up?"

You’ve never felt more threatened ever in your life then when Cove added on a shaky shrug to the request.

Cove’s Dad seems just as ticked by the display, putting his arms up in an impressive show of panic for someone laughing. "Oh god- do what he wants, he's crazy! He'll do it!"

Cove laughed softly "do what?"

Mr. Holden turns to you. Stage whispering to get your attention. "He's asking questions, you won't like him when he's asking questions."

Other tables were starting to look over to see the commotion and some were smiling and laughing at the impromptu show with their lunch.

"Dad…” Cove sank down in his seat. You guess taking notice of the attention placed on him.

“He’s here for two things.”

***Play Along with Mr. Holden?****

“Really?” Cove all but shrieked. “You’re [both?] ridiculous.”

You and Mr. Holden laugh warmly at the antics.

“Seems the party started without us.” All eyes looked up at the interruption. Cove for all his grief about coming, seems relieved when the image of Mr. Gregario Suarez made his way to the table.

"No, the crowd’s just warmed up for you. How are you, Gregario?” Cove’s dad stands holding his hand out for a shake, Mr. Suarez happily returns.

“Simply Grand! What about you, Cove! Yin!” His warm green eyes shine over to his two other business buddies for the night. He reaches over for a handshake from you to cementing the idea. Cove stood as tall as he could trapped by the table. You're sure it would have been done with almost practiced elegance if he wasn’t hunched over and reaching over your head.

This only seemed to amuse Mr. Suarez as he shook firmly. Then those eyes were fully cast on you. He made no moves to shake. You supposed to give you space to choose how to greet him.

***Wave, Shake, Fist bump, smile***

“Yin!?” Derek stepped out from behind his father with wide eyes at you.

You and Cove both look at him with just as much surprise on your faces. You were excited by the idea for seeing Derek before Cove shut the idea down completely. Now your childhood friend was standing in front of you. A complete surprise…

You turn to Mr. Holden wondering if he had anything to do with this.

***Are you upset, disappointed or amused by this surprise?***

“Dad!” It seems cove had a similar feeling about who the culprit was. And didn’t feel very happy about it.

“What?” He seemed surprised to be called before he looked between the 3 very suspicious young adults. “No, this wasn’t me this time…” In his defense Cove’s dad seemed just as bashful about his history of surprises. “I didn’t know Derek was coming. When we were planning this Gregario said he would be going out with Junior…”

“That is what you told me last week…” Cove calmed down almost immediately. His dad was a secret keeper but never an outright liar. Cove trusted that completely.

***Are you as easily convinced?***

There was no immediate proof it was him, yet. All eyes soon fell onto the second father of the evening.

“Oops. well, it seems the cat is out of the bag.” Derek’s father seemed much less apologetic than when Mr. Holden was on the stand. “Well, yes. It was true. My sons did have plans. But when I learned Yin would be coming…” He trailed off. You were unsure if it was because he didn’t have the words or if he felt he said or than enough.

“Seriously, Dad!” It was Derek’s turn to Shriek. He seemed mortified by these events. Embarrassment shown plainly on his face.

***How do you feel about the words?***

“I knew he would regret it if he knew they were coming, and he didn’t. So, I sent Nico out instead. They can use the time to bond.” Mr. Suarez explained to no one in particular. Nodding to his own statement. As if finding his own reasoning logically airtight and sound.

Derek frowned lightly looking at the floor with a more than upset face. You couldn’t tell who it was meant for. “I promised I’d take Jorge out two weeks ago…”

“And you still can. Another time.” He put his arm over his son’s shoulder and said something quietly that you couldn’t make out from the diner’s other conversation. But whatever it was it made Derek recoil from his touch with a blush.

Mr. Suarez gave a boisterous laugh at their seemingly one-sided private joke and released his son. “Well! Let’s not be rude any longer. Come. Sit.”

Mr. Suarez took a seat next to Mr. Holden, and Derek let out a small sigh before looking for a seat to pull from another table. It seems picking a booth wasn’t the best call now that we had an unexpected guest… not that there was much of a choice there were bigger ones to the left of you. And a few tables to be pushed together.

“Yin. You wouldn’t mind moving over, would you?”

You opened your mouth to reply but before you could Derek spoke up.

“No! It’s fine. They don’t have to do that; I’ll just go ask for a seat. They’d get squished anyway.” He seemed uncomfortable with the idea of troubling a table for a chair. You knew he would choose to stand if that wasn’t also seen as equally rude in etiquette.

***Offer the seat,

Offer to move instead, Stay out of it, Thank Derek***

“Are you sure...?”

***Change your mind?***

You nodded and that seemed like enough for him. He glanced to cove who would be pinned against the wall with this decision. Cove only offered a small reassuring nod before turning back to his dad.

Derek moved to sit but then stopped. “Maybe I could take the middle?

***Trade seats, insist, tease***

“Just sit down, Derek.” You say.

Derek smiled before taking his seat. It was slightly unsure, but he seemed to relax a bit once he settled in.

You glance over and can’t help but notice he’s sitting as close to the edge as possible to give you room.

***Nudge playfully, Say nothing, Whisper encouragement***

He quietly scoots closer to you, and he tilts his head away but not enough to hide a bit of the smile he’s biting down.

To Be Continued...

So, the rest of this will assume that you had a crush on Derek in Step 2. And you agreed to marry him in 5yrs. And chose the options from his DLC that he would like the most.

I wanna have versions specifically catering to the Derek lovers who want to just be Friends, like the game. But that will probably take a while. Enjoy this taste for now!

#derek suarez #our life #our life beginnings & always #fanfic #cove holden #Give Derek More Love!!

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sapphireginger · 2 years ago

Text

Title: I’ve Been Burned Before - Chapter #7

Pairing: Steter [Stiles Stilinski + Peter Hale]

Rating: Mature

Word Count: 2,317

Warnings:

Mild Explicit Language

Summary:

The younger man shuffles in place. "Where do you suppose the spark is now?"

"Who knows?" said the older gentleman.

“Whatever was that spark’s name?” the old woman asks.

Neither man knows the answer, but a small girl nearby quickly engages them from her place on a swing set. “He was everyone and no one at once of course. No one knows his name. I think he could even be a she, but we’ll never know either way.”

A/N: Enjoy!! ♡ ♥︎ ♡

Full AO3 Link

Created For: @anyfandomgoesbingo / Square Filled: “I hope you’re happy.”

The months continue to pass and pretty soon they’ve been mated for three months. It’s a week after month three of being mated that a piece of information reaches the ears of the two mates through the mistletoe vine of supe news.

It’s an old woman that they overhear on their way to the shop from their date whose words make them stop in their tracks.

“It’s tragic is what it is but no one feels any great sympathy as far as I can tell. The lot of them were rotten and that Nemeton was rotten through and through.”

An older gentleman speaks next. “It’s a shame though. So many lives were lost. To think, all they needed was a spark. I mean they’re rare and all of course, but they had one. Had the spark not been harmed, they easily could’ve prevented everything.”

Peter watches his mate freeze in place as they listen in a manner that is as inconspicuous as possible. He's dying to wrap his arms around Stiles and hold him tight. The scent of fear and more is making his wolf anxious. Peter settles for taking his mate's hand and lacing their fingers together.

Stiles’s blood runs cold as he listens to the words said by a younger man who is the next to speak.

“Well, you know it’s called Beacon Hell for a reason. Sparks are gifts to us weres, gifts to the supernatural world in general, and that the spark was taken for granted is abhorrent. I don't blame the poor thing for leaving. I would have left too.”

The older gentleman clears his throat, humming in agreement. "Aye, as would I. Also, a spark needs an anchor which is often a pack. However, they don't need an anchor in the same way a were does. That group of individuals could hardly be considered a pack. They were the antithesis of such a sacred thing."

"The poor dear," the old woman says softly.

"My heart goes out to the spark, truly." The older man huffs, sounding vaguely annoyed. "If I had any idea who the spark was, I would've shown them what a pack should be like."

The younger man shuffles in place. "Where do you suppose the spark is now?"

"Who knows?" said the older gentleman.

“Whatever was that spark’s name?” the old woman asks.

The two mates wave and then keep walking, Stiles’s normally pale face ashen. Something has happened in Beacon Hills, but the question is, what exactly did happen? Neither of them says the words allowed, their new life still feeling somewhat fragile in some respects. Would it be just their luck if that accursed place and the ghosts of their past were the thing that shattered their peaceful existence?

✸ ✧ 🔥 ✧ ✸

It takes hours to calm Stiles down. Peter is exhausted by the time his mate finally settles.

“Talk to me, sweetheart.”

Stiles gulps, inhaling air greedily as his chest loses its tightness. “Do you think it’s really bad?”

Peter shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s possible. Why?”

“No reason,” Stiles snaps. The shop shakes slightly with the spark's frustration, a glow coming from his eyes. Peter loves his mate and finds his power intoxicating but when he gets upset all the wolf wants to do is fix it. A frame falls to the ground and shatters.

Stiles glares at it and then at his mate. "Well shit. I'll have to make a new one for the dryad's birthday." His lips form a pout, the walls stilling and the shop suddenly silent once more.

Softly, Peter rumbles to soothe his mate. He hates when Stiles is upset, but he doesn't know how to approach him right now. They never talk about that accursed town. Neither of them loved it there. Neither of them has the fondest of memories of the place. Well, the fond memories they do have, don't outweigh the bad ones. "Stiles, darling? What can I do?"

"Nothing," the spark says, the scent of salt hitting the air. "Great. Now I'm all weepy. I hope you're happy."

The wolf quirks a brow and tilts his head at his mate's tone.

Stiles huffs, his cheeks pinking with sheepishness and guilt. "Sorry, my wolf," he mumbles. Stiles sighs and crosses his arms, looking so small and much less like the powerful spark Peter knows him to be. He's nearly hidden from the wolf's sight where he's sunk into the sofa with the giant quilt wrapped around him.

"It's all right, sweetheart. No harm done."

“I don’t give a damn about any of them,” Stiles says, sending a small smile to his mate in thanks but it quickly disappears. "I don't have a single damn fuck to give about them. I'm all fresh out of fucks."

The steady beat of the spark's heart doesn’t surprise Peter. Stiles is telling the truth and it would've shocked Peter more if he had still cared. The wolf has never claimed to be a good person and well Stiles hasn’t either. It’s like Darcy says, 'My good opinion once lost is lost forever.'

The Beacon Hell Hole wolves didn’t heed the warning. He wonders what exactly happened but decides not to push any more. He’s not eager to find out the circumstances behind the gossip they overheard earlier today. That accursed town holds nothing good for him or his mate.

So instead, Peter guides his mate to lay down and positions himself between his mate and the back of the sofa. He curls around his mate's back and holds him close. After a few minutes of gently running his clawed fingers through Stiles's hair, Peter tucks the quilt in tight around his mate and buries his nose in the spark’s neck. The outside world can fuck off for now, especially whatever shitstorm the wolves have undergone. Whatever it was, they surely brought it upon themselves.

✸ ✧ 🔥 ✧ ✸

When Peter wakes, his mate isn’t there and he panics slightly. He snarls softly and tries to calm his racing heart, only relaxing when he sees Stiles sitting cross legged on the floor. The spark is silently staring at nothing almost like he's in a trance. As the wolf sits up, he recognizes what's happening. He's only seen it on a few occasions and he's in awe every time.

Right now, his mate is wearing the expression he has when the spark is communicating with the earth, although usually he does it outside where he can actually—“Did a root decide it wanted to buy some potions?” the wolf says in a teasing tone.

Stiles blinks and slowly turns to look at him. His eyes are glowing bright purple, the small strikes of lightning making Peter shudder. At first, the wolf doesn't think he'll get a reply, but after a couple minutes, his gaze still distant, Stiles says, “They’re gone. All of them. They are all gone. There’s no one left.”

Peter stills, his eyes widening. “No one?” he whispers.

“No one.”

The spark reaches forward to take his mate’s hand so he too can see what Stiles has learned from Mother Earth and Neoma, Queen of the Nemeta. His voice is eerie when he speaks.

“Nemeta are sacred and are worshiped as goddesses in most countries. They are protected by their chosen guardian. Every single Nemeta has a guardian except for the Nemeton in Beacon Hills.

“For a time, the guardian was my mother but then she grew ill and there was no one to teach me. So, the Nemeton tried to find me and show me my role, but she wasn’t strong enough. The town fell into darkness, a darkness so depriving that she was lost to hibernation. She was too weak but then the night you were killed by fire, she was awakened once more. She healed my burn, though the scar was beyond her ability to heal. She then aided me in my departure as best she could.

“However, she kept watch over the town as much as was in her power to do so. She saw the way the so called pack functioned. There was no loyalty among them. There was no real connection, and the pack bonds were non-existent.

“So, the day after you left, the Nemeton reached out to her queen to plead with her. She begged the queen to see the town was cleansed. The Queen did but when she discovered just how deep into the darkness the town had gone, she said there was nothing for them to do but start over. Like Noah in the ark, the Nemeton shot up and swallowed the town whole in her new shadow.”

Peter is silent and frozen as he listens, almost unable to believe what he’s hearing. “So, there’s no more Beacon Hills? No Derek or Scott or your—”

“No more,” Stiles says, cutting his mate off. He swallows thickly, his throat clicking with the action. “There is no such thing as Beacon Hills anymore.” Then Stiles slumps as if he were a puppet that had gotten its strings cut.

Peter is quick to catch his mate and pulls him close. The rest of the information continues to trickle into the wolf’s mind, and he snarls at what he learns.

✸🔥✸

Deaton helped Kate.

Gerard and Kate worked together to kill Laura and Peter was blamed.

Derek abused his power over the new betas and ended up blinded by them.

The Sheriff was turned and then went feral.

Stiles had been the heart, had been the glue, of what little pack they had.

When Stiles left everything fell apart.

✸🔥✸

The wolf looks down at his unconscious mate and brushes the chocolate curls away from his eyes. His beautiful mate who was the glue and heart of that band of misfits left and without him they were nothing. Now, from what Peter has just gleaned, they really are nothing. They are no more.

With a sigh, Peter lifts his mate and carries him upstairs to the bedroom. He sets about tucking the two of them into bed. The wolf doesn’t expect anything more from Stiles tonight, but just as he’s about to fall asleep himself, he feels a tug on his wrist. Amber eyes lock with his own as the spark speaks in a whisper. “I have to go back.”

Peter blinks and narrows his eyes. “No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Why?” Peter snaps. “There’s nothing there. You said it yourself. There's nothing there for you. There's nothing there for me. There is nothing there for either of us. Why would you go back?!"

A hand cups the wolf’s cheek and Stiles flashes his eyes. “It’s my birthright. Neoma has asked me to go. It is now my duty as it was my mother’s duty before me.” Stiles’s voice cracks. “Don’t make me go alone, my wolf. I don’t want to go alone.”

Peter growls softly and pulls his mate into a tight embrace. “I told you there’s no place for me other than by your side. You are not alone. You will never be alone again. I promise. I belong by your side, always. I will be by your side until my final breath, darling.”

The tension that had built up in Stiles in preparation for his mate’s refusal dissipates. The spark smiles, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "I love you, mój słodki wilku," he whispers against the tan skin of his mate's throat. The spark noses at his claiming bite, giving it a harsh nip, that he soothes the sting of with his tongue.

The action elicits a soft gasp from the wolf. "And I you, little sparkling."

Stiles pulls back with a wet laugh and puckers his lips, seeking a kiss from his wolf, a kiss from his mate. Of course, Peter eagerly gives the amber eyed man what he desires. There’s nothing the wolf wouldn’t do for Stiles, nothing he wouldn't do for his mate. Peter can only hope that the spark knows this. IF he doesn't, Peter will keep reminding him over and over and over again.

With this in mind, the wolf pulls from the kiss to lock eyes with his gorgeous mate. "There is nothing I wouldn't do for you. You know that right?"

A thick swallow makes the pale column of his mate's throat tighten and loosen as the spark nods. "Yes, but I love hearing it just the same."

"Then I shall tell you over and over and over again. I never want you to doubt it."

Stiles smiles, his cheeks bright pink again. "The same goes for me in regard to you. There's nothing I wouldn't do for you, my Peter wolf."

"Oh?" Peter says, his smile doing things to Stiles. The wolf's heart swells, and he kisses the tip of Stiles's nose. "I didn't know that, but now I do."

"What a pair we make, huh?" Stiles says with a goofy grin.

Peter chuckles. "Yes, what a pair we make indeed."

Stiles quirks a brow and chews his lip, gasping with a clawed finger gently pries the lip from between his teeth.

"What do you want, Stiles?"

"You. Peter, I want you."

"I'm yours," the wolf breathes, bringing their lips together once more.

They get lost in the intoxication of skin on skin when the spark vanishes their clothing. Tomorrow, they will worry about the trek back to the place where it all began, but for now they will indulge in the carnal pleasures they can bring each other. They will do so again and again and again until dawn.

#anyfandomgoesbingo #afg mixed bingo #teen wolf #square filled: I hope you're happy.#stiles stilinski #peter hale #steter #stiles x peter #peter x stiles #spark stiles stilinski #light angst #mates peter hale/stiles stilinski #magic #gossip #stiles stilinski speaks polish

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the-void-writes · 2 years ago

Note

Prompt: Worriedly inspecting their temperature after noticing their lack of mood and giving a chaste kiss on the forehead.

You know this was the best prompt for Jason and Will 😭 I’ve missed writing for them honestly and I like how their interactions have kind of grown here, so thank you 💖

Freaks Of Preston - Sick Night In

Will slumped against the desk as his fever grew worse. The overhead lights made his head throb, and closing his eyes did little to help it. He could feel the Infection trudging through his veins, like cold water moving through a hose, sucking out all the warmth and life from his body. It was feeding off of him.

A soft, pale hand brushed his blonde hair from his forehead, pausing at the unnatural heat of his skin.

“Will, you’re burning up,” Jason said.

“Just tired, I swear.”

His voice was so hollow that he felt sorry for himself. Jason looked through the papers on the desk, recognizing the testing form that Will was halfway through filling out.

“You can put those away, dear. Everyone’s gone home already.”

“No, Vesely needs them done. I don’t want him to hurt one of you if I can’t finish.”

“He won’t, I promise you.”

Will tried to turn, but when the world started spinning around him, he pressed his head back on the desk. He didn’t have the strength to get up, let alone walk back to his dorm. Somewhere in his mind, like a distant shout, he could feel Jason pick him up and carry him away.

He hadn’t been carried by anyone in a long time, not since he was child, and all he could think about was how nice it felt to be loved again. Will let himself doze off for a while, comforted by Jason’s presence. When he woke up, he could hear people dully talking to each other. It was a company broadcast, with some poor interns stuck reading the evening news while everyone else was relaxing in their rooms.

The light paint along the walls belonged to Jason and Henry’s apartment. Will was laying against Jason’s shoulder on the couch, propped up by the small pillow wedged between them. His godfather’s left wing laid across him like a blanket, warmer and softer than any material on Earth. Will tried to sit up a little.

“What did I miss?”

“Everything,” Jason said with a playful smile. “We won the Nobel prize, took over the world, and went to the moon.”

“You wouldn’t let me sleep if Vesely was sending people to space.”

He laughed. “Yes, you’ve got me there.”

Will rubbed his eyes. “I didn’t realize how late it was.”

“It’s alright. We all lost track of time today.”

“I still didn’t finish those tests.”

Jason huffed. “Don’t worry, I’m sorting that out with Gabe tomorrow. No more late-night testing for you.”

“He’s not gonna like that.”

“Then he shouldn’t have given you his damn parasite.”

Darkness stirred in his pale eyes, and Will couldn’t help but feel guilty.

“I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have to look after me like this.”

Jason stared at him, darkness replaced by heartbreak, and pulled him close to his chest. It hurt to cry, thanks to the Infection, but Will shed a few tiny tears as Jason shushed him gently.

“It’s not your fault, Will.”

“I got in the way of—”

“It’s not your fault.” He closed his eyes. “I don’t understand why the world keeps punishing you, but don’t you dare blame yourself for it. And don’t think, for one second, that I would ever get tired of caring for you.”

Will dried his eyes. “You really mean that?”

“Yes, dear. Always and forever.”

He nodded. “Thank you, Jason.”

“Of course. Try to rest some more, please. I’ll wake you when Henry comes back with dinner.”

Will smiled and closed his eyes again. As he drifted back to sleep, he felt Jason kiss his head. His whisper was like a distant memory.

“I’ll keep you alive, dear. I swear on my life, nothing will ever take you from me again.”

#writeblr #writing community #ask games #wip: freaks of preston

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selencgraphy · 5 months ago

Text

— 𝐈 𝐖𝐎𝐍'𝐓 𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔

PAIRING: James "Logan" Howlett x Ororo "Storm" Munroe

TAGS: logan pov (3rd person limited), days of future past main plotlines + rolo deleted scene (but add more sincerity to it), friends to lovers but we skipped all the good stuff (establish relationship), time skips bc i’m a lazy writer, a little self-deprecation, jean poking around logan's head without permission (it's mentioned for a sentence or two), ANGST, small changes to the end of dofp

A/N: ok im not a big rolo shipper but i was reminded of the existence of their deleted scene from dofp and i just HAD to write out what my brain come up with. i’ve never been a big fan of logan/jean anyways so i’ve also toned that down to further the rolo agenda that i’m pushing with this. it honestly isn’t too rolo centric bc, again, i have never been much of a rolo shipper until this idea popped into my brain and don't wanna butcher them too much but it works with the idea that their scene wasn’t cut from the movie. this is also pretty short bc i just wanted to write exactly what came to mind and i didn’t take much time to flesh the idea out. maybe i will in the future, who knows? i hope you like it <3 more x-men related fics are to come!

masterlist

"When I make it back—if I make it back," he started, struggling to keep eye contact with the woman in front of him. "I'm the only one who's gonna remember this."

If you had told him 15 years ago that the love of his life would be Ororo Munroe, he would've laughed in your face. Not that being with her was unimaginable. Never that. But Logan didn't have a good track record with the people he found himself in love with. Rose. Kayla. Jean.

Jean. She was never his to begin with but after he lost her, he'd sworn off ever getting attached to anyone ever again. The pain was too much and every time he lost someone, it wore down his soul. But somehow, she had managed to break down his walls and show him how to love again. That love was worth feeling and having even if it meant he'd lose her eventually too, but he didn't think he'd be in this position again so soon.

He leaned down to rest his forehead against hers, his breath shaky as he took in the moment. He could save her—save everyone from the torment that wrought for the last decade or so. All the people they'd lost to a senseless war—he could bring them back. He would've stay here forever if he could. When she pulled away, she brought a hand to his cheek. "I won't have to miss you then," she whispered, a small smile on her face despite the heartbreak between them at the situation. Instantly, he rushed forward and pressed his lips against hers, tears slowly streaking down his face. When they pulled apart, he took a deep breath. “You got this," she whispered, tears slowly filling her own eyes before she walked away. It took everything in him to let her go. Gaining his composure, he wiped the stray tear away and made his way to where Charles, Erik, and Kitty were.

---

It'd been a hard couple of days. Who knows how long it's been for the people waiting with him 50 years from now? The fact that he was still here meant Kitty was still kicking, but much longer did they have left? He'd prevented Raven from being captured, but instead of making things better, it was as if he made it worse. Erik had betrayed them in Paris and Raven was still hellbent on killing Trask. Now he sat across from the younger version of Charles as they flew to Washington D.C in a desperate effort to stop Raven once and for all, reflecting on the present he was in and the future he was from. "Whatever happens today, I need you to promise me something. You've looked into my mind and you've seen a lot of bad, but... you've seen the good too. The X-Men. Promise me you'll find us." He hadn't thought of Jean and Scott in ages but the memory of them caused his chest to tighten. And Ororo. Oh, Ororo.

---

"So much for being a survivor."

It was times like these that his healing factor felt more like a curse than a blessing. He was in a perpetual state of drowning and Erik made sure he couldn’t save himself with the rebar he had curved throughout his body. He’d never gotten over the debilitation that came with being submerged in water. No matter how much time had passed, his mind still convinced itself that he was back in Stryker’s custody, drills and syringes holding him in place has his bones were replaced with metal. His mind bounced back in forth from the torture and to the people he came to call his family. He was supposed to fix the past so that everyone in the future could live. As he hit the bottom of whatever body of water he landed in, he couldn’t help but think they sent the wrong man back. Sure, he was the only one who could physically make the trip, but he was never the world saving type. He ruined things which is what he did here instead. As he faded into unconsciousness, there was only one thought on his mind. I’m sorry, Ro.

—

He woke up with a gasp. Where was he? Last thing he remembered he was drowning over and over again. He took a gander at his surroundings. It looked like his room—the room he had in the mansion. Was Charles able to do it? Getting up, he walked over to the mirror across the room. White streaks by his temples. Pulling his fist up, he pushed his claws out. Metal. He was back.

Just outside his door, he heard the hustle and bustle of children making their way down the hall. When he walked out the door, he caught the sight of Marie and Bobby hand-in-hand. If Marie was here, who else was back? The fullness of the mansion was overwhelming. As he walked the halls, the sight of familiar faces made his heart swell. The sight of Kitty and Peter teaching a class was a sight to see. Both of them were just kids the last time they were in the mansion. He never thought he’d see them standing where he once stood teaching another generation about the world’s history. As he turned to leave the doorway he stood at, his breath caught in his throat as Hank walked toward him. “Morning, Logan. Late start?”

He couldn’t say anything in response, too stunned by Hank’s mere presence. The further he walked through the house, he held back tears. He’d been able to do it. “Hi Logan,” a voice called from the top of the steps. He knew that voice. Another voice greeted him. “Logan.” It couldn’t be. As the two figures made their way down the steps and their silhouettes came into view, his heart dropped. There they were, hand-in-hand as if nothing bad had happened. "Because it never did," he reminded himself.

"Jean," he managed to choke out. "Scott?"

Scott scoffed, his eyebrows furrowing at Logan's usage of his actual name. "Scott? What's wrong with you today?"

Before he could answer, he felt something—someone poking around in his head. Shortly after, Jean was dragging Scott away, yelling a "See you later" over her shoulder followed by a quick hush as she dismissed Scott's questions. Then as the bell rang and the halls emptied as the kids ran off to the mess hall, he zoned in on the open door of the room he was looking for. The sight of her took his breath away. She looked the same as when he left her, now wearing an all-white pantsuit instead of the black stealth suit they both found themselves wearing more often than they'd liked in the old present. The old present. Were they even together in this new timeline? With Jean and Scott alive, did he ever get his head out of his ass? It was the war that brought them together after all. As he approached, he could only hope that this new version of him didn't fuck up like he had. Hearing his footsteps, she turned and greeted him with a smile. "Hey Logan."

"Ro..." He hadn't realized how off putting his actions would seem to everyone else until Ororo's face scrunched with worry. He was the only who remembered after all. "Are you okay?" The last time he saw her flashed in his mind.

I won't have to miss you, then.

You got this.

"Yeah. Yeah, I think it is."

"Okay, well... I'll see you later?"

He nodded. Unsure of where they stood, he held himself back from pulling her against him. Today was just a normal day for everyone else. There wasn't a reunion for her to have. But then his worries washed away when she stopped and placed a quick kiss to his cheek as she departed. Somehow this win was bigger than getting all of the loved ones he had once lost back. Taking a second to compose himself, he walked further into Charles’ office. "Professor," he called out.

"Logan, don't you have a class to teach?"

"Class?" He taught here?

"Aye, history," the professor replied as he moved his chair around the desk.

"History?" How ironic. The man who lived through a past that, now, never happened was in charge of teaching children about a past he had no knowledge of. "Actually, I could use some help with that." Charles' eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "Help with what? Last I checked alcohol shouldn't affect you to the point of memory loss let alone at all, Logan."

He chuckled at the other man's comfortability to joke around with him. After spending so much time with the professor's younger self, it was refreshing to be back in the presence of the man he grew to call family. "Everything after 1973 is a little foggy." At the mention of 1973, Charle's eyes widened. "I think the history I know is a little different."

"Well, I’ll be damned. Welcome back," the professor whispered. "You and I have a lot of catching up to do."

#logan howlett #logan howlett fic #logan howlett x ororo munroe #ororo munroe #xmen #xmen days of future past #logan howlett fluff #logan howlett angst

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mje51 · 10 months ago

Text

poem by David Campbell, which won the top award in the 2011 Bronze Swagman competition.

My mother sits beside the bed, a quiet, tranquil scene,

but then, once more, a sense of dread destroys what might have been.

I see the wasteland in her eyes…a barren, lonely place

where nods and smiles cannot disguise the sadness in her face.

She walks where no-one else can go, quite deaf and dumb and blind

to anything she used to know, for darkness clouds her mind.

Instead she sees a phantom world, where truth and dreams combine,

like silken threads of cobwebs curled around a withered vine.

And I can’t help the way I feel, the thoughts I can’t deny,

the hurt that simply will not heal, the anger that won’t die.

I still resent what she’s become, what she has done to me,

and then my guilt just leaves me numb, for I can’t set her free.

Where once was love, there’s only fear at what she now might say;

I hate to think what I might hear, the price I’ll have to pay.

She heaves a sigh and takes my hand, then rips my life apart.

I know she doesn’t understand, but yet she breaks my heart.

“Please tell me, dear, how is my boy? I’ve not seen him for years.

He used to bring me so much joy, but now there’s only tears.

I loved him so, my only son, and thought he felt the same;

I cannot think what I have done to give him cause for blame.

I see him out there on the track…he goes to meet his Dad,

and then they both come striding back…he’s such a handsome lad.

The son and father, side by side, both look so very fine,

and I stand watching, filled with pride to know that they are mine.

But now they’re gone, I don’t know where, and I am banished here,

with one small room, a bed, a chair…they’ve let me disappear.

I can’t believe that they’d do this, just simply walk away

without a word, a smile, a kiss, to help me through each day.”

I want to shout “That isn’t true!” but muffle any curse,

for arguing does not get through, and only makes it worse.

Dementia stalks its helpless prey, and strikes with subtle force;

relentlessly, that slow decay pursues its deadly course.

Her memory would wax and wane, and often she accused

my Dad and I of some campaign to keep her all confused.

Then came the day she got quite lost while visiting a friend,

and that was when we learnt the cost, and knew where this would end.

This trauma took away her life…where once she’d always led

as daughter, mother, loving wife, a stranger walked instead.

She had to be in full-time care, a choice that we regret,

but back at home, to our despair, her needs could not be met.

My father will not visit now…he cannot stand the pain,

and tells himself that still, somehow, she’ll be herself again.

So I am left to face her grief, to see her slowly age,

accepting that there’s no relief from unrelenting rage.

Yet as I watch her sitting there, a ghost of days now gone,

I find I’m even more aware of how her light once shone,

as she fought bushfire, drought and flood, and never ceased to strive

to save our land, our flesh and blood, and keep our dream alive.

For she was vibrant, strong and bold, a pioneer to all,

a woman who could not grow old, who answered any call.

She never let a neighbour down or turned back one in need,

and she was honoured in our town for thought and word and deed.

But now she’s trapped, she can’t escape this wasteland of the mind,

a hell that has no form or shape, that cannot be defined.

And then it comes, the fearful thought, though selfish it may be,

that no-one’s safe from getting caught…it might one day be me.

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blossomingtoanewme · 2 years ago

Text

The Food Cycle

I’ve been in this cycle ever since I could remember

I’ve never had a healthy relationship with food

I either binged or restricted

It’s funny because I’d never liked how I looked

When I binged or restricted

It started when I was a really young child

I was naturally skinny

Couldn’t gain a single pound

Always receiving compliments on how skinny I was

Everything changed as soon I turned thirteen

I gained weight gradually

And for the first time in my life I wasn’t skinny anymore

Each year went by and my weight increased

My doctor would tell me to lose weight but I wasn’t plus sized

I never once was in my life was

I stopped receiving compliments on my weight

I no longer worse an xs I now wore a medium

I could no longer fit in my jeans

I was so tired of putting on jeans and feeling that it was too tight on me

Knowing I gained weight again

I loved snacks

I believe that’s what played a role in my weight gain

I loved cheese and anything that had it

Cheez itz , string cheese, and cream cheese

I loved vegetables also

Broccoli, corn, and carrots

I remember binge eating all my favorite foods during late nights when no one was there

It was okay right since I was eating vegetables?

I later started to restrict

I would force myself to stop eating for periods at a time

Of course this didn’t last long because I loved to eat

I remember waking up every morning and checking the scale

The number that showed up dedicates how much I could eat that day

The thing was I got better for a while

I checked the scale every morning, drank green tea on an empty stomach, and eat small meals

The thing was I was actually eating 3 meals then

Of course it was very healthy meals

But it filled me up

I didn’t gain a single weight for a whole year

It was the first time in my life I stayed a consistent weight for that long

And then I started college

I stopped tracking calories

I started eating out more

I started to gain weight gradually again

I thought I was healthy because I was so longer sick

I was no longer binging or restricting

But I was still unhealthy in a different way

I stopped eating healthy

I would eat fatty foods every meal and justify it because I was hungry

The scale showed how much weight I gained in a year

Twice the amount I previously lost the healthy way

I was back to square one but worse since I stopped eating healthy

Here I am now dealing with the aftermath of starting college

It’s been two years now and the scale has gone up but I can’t get it to go down

That’s because I stopped eating healthy

I stopped going on a diet

My appetite had gotten bigger due to the fatty foods I was eating for a year straight

Now I have a autoimmune disease

That forces me to eat clean

But here I am neglecting myself

By not eating clean when I really need to

#food #disordered eating in tags

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hunnie-luv · 2 years ago

Text

Happy Hill Orphanage

Miss. Powell was a brooding woman who reigned with the utmost severity. Demanding order and expecting nothing less, her orphanage stood scarily tall upon the highest hill of Northern London. Forever enveloped in a blanket of darkness, Happy Hill Orphanage contained overgrown grass and shrubbery mixed with wilted wildflowers and mud patches. Towering as high as they could, vines climbed forever along the right side of the building, some fresh but most dead. An almost invisible brick path that was once crisp and burgundy ran brown beneath the soles of my shoes, almost passing as the soil from our Earth had it not been for the small gaps between each brick from the constant pickups and drop offs wearing away the dirt between.

A building filled to maximum capacity of the world's most rejected children had been home to me for as long as one can care to remember. Miss. Powell always said we were here for a reason, that God intended this life for us and that we mustn’t go against His word. She never failed to remind us how lucky we should feel to have been accepted somewhere, to have a home. She insists we are indebted to her kindness and gratitude for opening her home to the “less fortunate,” as she likes to address us.

My hands ache as water has worn down the outer layers of skin, leaving them red and raw, aching almost to the bone. With both hands I vigorously scrub the stairwell clean from the individual shoe stamps adorning the wooden steps. My eyes trail the intricate swirls which lead the eye inwards, then outwards, but ultimately to nothing. I ponder the life that once was, all that it must have seen, and all that it was meant to become. My heart sinks as the reality of its journey settles deep within. The tree which once stood tall with roots stretching deeper than those who have fallen had now been rendered powerless, covered in the grime and turmoil of lost hope.

Forcing me out of my daze, a group of the youngest children run up the stairwell and past the sudsy steps, proceeding to knock over the metal pail filled past half with distressed water. I gasp in surprise; my eyes trail the water as it pours down the once clean steps and pools at the bottom of the stairwell. Their giggles and chattering fade upstairs.

“Why you, you vile gremlins, what have I said about tracking mud in the house? Come back at once and apologize!” My voice vibrated through the air.

The giggling continues from afar as I collect my scrub and towel with a loud huff. I spend the next hour going over the newly stamped mud markings.

After storing away the cleaning supplies, I make my way towards the dark mahogany door that had become too familiar for comfort. The ornate engravings etched into its wood emanate class and importance, a deep contrast to the cracked wallpaper that clings to the water damaged drywall beside it. Before knocking, I brush back my fallen hair and smooth out the wrinkles on my now beige apron.

“Enter,” a sharp snip calls from behind the door.

Sitting tall at her oak desk, the matron reads over what seems to be intake paperwork. A frown has been permanently etched on her face with crow’s feet wrinkles to match her lack of contentment.

With a small curtsy, I say, “Good evening, Miss. Powell.”

Taking a moment to finish her line, her eyes glance up over her bi-focals and land on me as she sets down the paperwork in annoyance.

“Yes Dahlia, what is it?”

I look to the hardwood floor as I start, “I’ve come to let you know that I have finished my chores for the day.” I can feel her intense gray eyes scour my appearance before she begins.

“You’ve swept the floors, washed the dishes, and made the beds?”

Her voice was testing and pointed, as per usual when vexed. Without looking, I know she has her hands interlocked upon the desktop with one leg crossed over the other, her head ever so slightly cocked to the left, and her crooked nose held high. Behind her, the setting sun would have deepened her wrinkles, aging her by roughly another decade, had it not been for the oil lamp that sat perched amidst the piles of paperwork and miscellaneous objects.

“Yes, Miss. Powell.”

Rows of novels littered the giant bookcases lining the wall to her left, some of which I sneaked for my own leisure. On the opposite wall sat a large, wooden cabinet with what seemed to be a framed photograph of an older woman and man adorned in upper-middle class attire. In the arms of the woman lay a newborn swaddled up to the neck with a bonnet covering its head. The few dark curls popping out from beneath suggested it being Miss. Powell’s family picture. Surrounding the framed picture was that of the many orphaned children who have managed to be adopted over the past several years. Dozens of more adorn the hallway walls, all in remembrance of those who once lived within, and more so as a sign of hope for the remaining.

“You’ve dusted the parlor, folded the laundry, and emptied the rubbish?”

Again. My eyes roll behind closed lids.

“Yes, Miss. Powell.”

By now I can imagine her justified smile wavering as she straightens her back and readies herself for the final blow, always expecting to win.

“So, I imagine you must have also washed the rugs, scrubbed the bath, ironed the drapes, washed the windows, and polished the stairwell?”

Her voice indicated a rush of superiority as I could hear the smug smile in her tone.

“Yes, Miss. Powell.”

The air stilled and I took the opportunity to meet her penetrating irises as her own searched for any reason to not believe my word. Maintaining eye contact for a moment too long, she suddenly clears her throat in response and rearranges the stack of papers in front of her.

“Very well then, I hope this was a valuable lesson in regard to your less than favorable outbursts as of lately. Continuing to behave as a heathen will only result in a dark and sinful future. Do you understand, Dahlia?”

She pauses and waits for a response, face embellished with irritation, signaling she wishes the conversation to be over sooner rather than later.

“Yes, Miss. Powell, I understand.”

Storing the stack of papers into a drawer, she straightens her back and dismisses me with a limp wave of her bony hand.

That night, I lay awake past curfew, huddled close to Lucille who threw her white cover sheet over our heads for privacy. Sitting crisscrossed with our knees pressed firmly against one another, we shared a single chocolate square that Lucille had been rewarded. Passing the square back and forth, we each nibble and trade our nightly debrief.

“No, I agree, that punishment was unjust, unfair, and ridiculous! That’s a whole week’s worth of chores, is she mad?” Lucille takes a small bite of the chocolate and searches through the dark to place it in the palm of my hand.

Lucille and I had been bunkmates for well over three years now. We claimed the farthest corner of the room and have remained there since. The rooms used to contain six children at a time, yet over the years it has expanded to almost ten children per room.

“It’s illogical, really. I’d much rather be tried in front of Her Majesty the Queen’s court than deal with Miss. Powell, lord knows their punishment would’ve been tame in comparison.” I whisper out, always in fear of being heard.

I continue, “All of this because I refuse to be treated as a child? What am I to do, completely succumb to the standards of an orphan child? Why should I? I’m no orphan and they know it. I simply refuse to be treated as such.”

Huffing out, I pass the chocolate back and begin to play with the hem of my nightgown. The many frays which tickle my skin filter through my fingers. Lucille went quiet, as she usually does when our means of being here is brought up. She never told me her past and it seems as if she never will.

Grabbing my hands, she pulls me close as she whispers,

“I understand, but maybe try not to go against her, it’ll bring more harm than good. I couldn’t stand to see what would happen next if you were to be punished.” She pulls me in even closer if that were even possible, and says,

“Dahlia, don’t let there be a next time.”

I grin a grin far too wide, and I thank God that we’re in the dark for she would’ve had my head. I place my hands on either side of her cheeks and settle with, “Trust me dearest Lucille, if this taught me anything, it was how to perfect my craft. There won’t be a next time.”

The silence in the air was contradicted by the rush of bodies, all scrambling to put on their Sunday bests. After morning mass on Sundays, families throughout London seeking to adopt a child would be given the opportunity to interact with the children within the orphanage. You can feel the excitement and hope in the air as children of all ages are overcome with jitters.

I, however, cannot be more displeased.

Laying across the freshly made top bunk, I await in my casual wear for the matron’s call. My favorite book rests on my stomach, I fiddle the pages between my fingers, memorizing the rough folds, dents, and stains from my years of use. Each page had been etched with scribbles of notes and run-on thoughts all done in different styles and mediums, proving the continuum of time and more so my sentence.

One must prepare for Sundays around here accordingly, your chances of being rehomed are high, if given enough thought and energy towards the matter. Lucille captures my attention as she pulls on her finest stockings and ties her favorite blue ribbon within her blonde hair. Flattening out her matching blue dress she flops herself on her bottom bunk and waits with her hands interlocked. I lift the book into the air and take note of the muted green dress that hung off my body. While others may look and laugh at what has become the poor state of my clothing, I’m reminded that each tear and fray is a remnant of all that I was and all that I am.

Folding the corner of the page, I set the book down on the side table atop the various novels that adorn our bedside. As my head pops over the railing, I ask, “Lucille, why is it that we must present ourselves in a certain fashion in order to win over the eye of some random stranger who wants to take us home? Are we not enough as is?”

She sighs heavily before she stands up once again and begins pacing. Although I cannot see her face, I know her nose scrunched up in annoyance. I can imagine her eyes rolling behind her eyelids as she tries to muster up the energy to respond. She comes to a halt and turns towards me,

“Dahlia, you know why, I give you the same reason every Sunday. Not everyone wants to remain here forever. I want to leave this place, and you should want to as well.”

Crossing my arms, I can’t help the foul look that has fashioned itself along my face. A knot builds in the middle of my chest, angrily slashing and defying gravity. I sit up and move to the side, allowing just enough room for her to hoist herself into the spot I once laid. We are closer in body than we are in mind.

“Don’t you want to?” she continues.

The look in her eyes tells me she feels for me, deeply. Although I seem to find myself wondering about life beyond the orphanage, I’m always reminded why I stay. Before I could respond, the shrill of the matron’s voice stills the room.

“All children please come to the parlor immediately!”

All at once, children begin to file downstairs, bouncing in delight and chattering amongst themselves. Lucille excitedly bounds towards the mixture as I snatch the top book off the side table. Dragging my feet, I fall behind to slow the inevitable.

Lined shoulder to shoulder, we stand for roughly two hours meeting a multitude of families and answering a variety of questions. Most meetings end fruitlessly, having wasted most of the children’s time by administering false hope. Yet every now and again, a child will have found their forever home and a goodbye ceremony would be in the works. I, myself, have watched well over seventy goodbye ceremonies in action. Just last week, Lillian Wells finally got her goodbye ceremony after having been adopted by a lovely couple from the mainland. She had been the last of the original orphans with whom I met upon my first day. Her goodbye ceremony left me in tears. A mixture of both sadness and happiness as I lost a dear friend, yet she gained a new chance at life.

My thoughts wander as I find myself dreaming of the day in which I get to have my own ceremony, with my real mother. I dream of what she looks like, how she talks, if she has the same brown eyes as I do. This time I picture her with long curly hair that rests along her left shoulder and cascades over a velvety green dress. I imagine her walking in during our Sunday display and our eyes would lock and she’d wrap me in her arms and she’d never leave me again and we’d be a family and I would finally belong. I wince, taking notice of the fresh tear along my nail bed, grounding my wandering thoughts. A small bead of blood surfaces and I quickly wipe it on the side of my dress.

Before long, a handful of families had ventured inside and had made their rounds with the youngest few, leaving the older ones for last. A couple in their early thirties approach with a large smile. The man and woman appear to come from a good standing, probably in search of a younger child whom they can experience all the stages of life with. A stream of curses beg to escape, but the ever looming presence of Miss. Powell forces me to compose myself. Unwillingly, I offer a small smile out of self-preservation. The throbbing in my hands acts as a reminder of the punishment that could await.

“Hello there, we’re Mr. and Mrs. Wellington, how do you do?”

The man approaches with a firm hand offered outwards, seemingly expecting a nice gesture in return. I lock eyes with his own and offer,

“My apologies, but no thank you.”

My eyes drift off to where Lucille stood, ultimately dismissing the couple. She looked as grand as goldilocks, yet she has exceeded the desirable age range that most families typically look for. It stumped me, to say the least, how a golden child such as herself could’ve ended up in an orphanage such as this. I watch as she curtsies gracefully and takes the hand of an older woman and man who have two young children of their own. Her cheeks must ache with how often her smile meets her eyes.

“Pardon me but we’d love to get to know you more.”

The man and woman from before stand tall in front of me, having not left their positions. My eyes trail their outfits, taking notice of the sparkling rubies that must have laid awfully cold along Mrs. Wellington’s neck. Mr. Wellington held a gold encrusted pocket watch in his left hand and his right hand was dressed in thick gold rings, further detailed with diamond studs. Their clothing must’ve been custom made as Mrs. Wellington’s velvety red dress matched Mr. Wellington’s vest and handkerchief.

A child such as I would be no good to their social standing, that’s for certain. The woman offers a nervous smile as she extends a limp, laced hand towards me, her rather large wedding band resting on top of the white, frail lace.

“I believe that you wouldn’t, as a matter of fact. Good day.” Once again, I dismiss their gratitude and focus on my overgrown nail beds, pushing the extra skin as far back as they could budge, avoiding the pointer finger that was now stained red. A moment passes and I hear their hushed whispers as they converse between themselves.

“Miss?” her voice trails off. The woman’s voice snaps me out of my manicure as my eyes meet her own brown ones once more. A flash of my mother stills me, why did she have to have brown eyes too?

“Lucille.” The words fell from my lips without a second thought.

A smile spreads amongst her rosy cheeks, displaying a set of beautifully crooked teeth which sparkled from the mass of sunshine that pooled in from the array of large windows behind me.

“Miss. Lucille, please allow us a moment to converse with you, it would be our honor. We simply would like to get to know you.”

“I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I’m sick. You wouldn’t want a terminal child within your care, I have a few months at most. So, I beg of you, please be on your way now.” I let out a weak cough as if it were enough confirmation.

Curtly, I dismiss myself and move towards a seat in the farthest corner of the parlor. Taking my rest on the worn sofa, I observe the room. Happy couples finding their perfect children, a true site to behold. I lock eyes with the matron, her sterling grays giving me a knowing look. The crease between her eyebrows darkens and the frown on her face deepens. Thankfully, the couple from before captures her attention and her eyes tear from my own, the frown replaced with a warm smile.

Later that night, I was fetched by the matron’s assistant who escorted me to her office. Putting on my house slippers and cover, I follow behind Miss. Aarons silently. Her harsh steps seem to echo off the walls as bedtime is but fifteen minutes from now. The silence is deafening. Miss. Aarons appeared one summer's day from a small town in Northern England for this very position. Why someone would want to work here is beyond me, but she did. A young woman of only seven and twenty years, she has no suitors nor a place to call home.

I heard from a few of the older children one evening over our nightly, family-style dinners that her family gave up on her and has sent her away to figure out her life. They conspired how she must have been a part of a most awful scandal to end up in a place such as this. One girl claims that she was caught alone with a man at an early age, unaccompanied. It is assumed reputations were bruised and shame had settled in. But that was just a rumor, no one knows for certain for she mainly keeps to herself.

We approach the familiar mahogany door and Miss. Aarons turns to me with a curt nod before walking down the hallway. Surprise summons are never a good sign. I compose myself before knocking on her door.

“Come in.”

I enter quickly then shut the door behind me silently. Not taking a seat, I stand with my hands folded in front of my nightgown, eyes trained on the damaged hardwood floor. Miss. Powell can be heard rummaging around her desk before she takes out a stack of papers and plops them in front of her.

“Take a seat Dahlia. Or should I call you Lucille, which is it that you prefer?” Her voice is dripping with annoyance as I seat myself promptly within her new accent chaise, heart pounding within its cage. I sneak a glance at her figure and her eyes are already boring into my own. Still dressed in her afternoon attire, pieces of her hair have fallen out of its chignon updo, taking back their natural curl, making her look younger than usual. Sitting in that well known pose, she watches me intently, seeming to gather intel about information only the lord may know. She clears her throat and begins,

“What am I to do with you?”

All but ten seconds come and go before an exasperated sigh leaves her thin lips. She begins once more, “Deceitfulness is a sin, did you know that, Dahlia?”

I responded cautiously, “Yes, Miss. Powell.”

“Then why is it you feel you must lie to our guests?”

I swallow the knot in my throat and feel it travel through my chest before it settles in my stomach and concaves. It devours all my senses and forces my eyes to the floor, unable to muster up the courage to meet hers once more. My right leg bounces ever so slightly as I resort to picking at the dark red scab upon my pointer finger. I can feel my oversized socks slipping downwards and pooling around my ankles. Taking a shaky breath, I quietly respond,

“I thoroughly believe that I would have been of no greater use to them than they would have been for me, I saw it fitting to direct them to a nicer child. A newer child even. I’m no fit for higher society. Look at me Miss,” I gesture down to my unkempt nightwear. “Do I look to be fit for the trials and tribulations of whatever world they may take part in?” Clasping my hands together tightly, I sit in a state of unease.

“I can’t seem to understand why you choose to decline any and all efforts made from a lovely family who wants to adopt you. Any other child would be beyond ecstatic and yet here I find you being picky with your decision making, as if the decision is yours to make. Do you want to end an old maid within these orphanage walls forever?”

For once, I felt her emotions shift, something was different in her tone. Usually cold and cruel, a new gust of warmth radiates from her being. Her words provide food for thought surely, but it’s nothing I haven’t scoured my own brain over before. My reasoning is beyond her and everyone in this building, and I don’t feel the need to fill their gaps. My bed has been made, and by God’s grace I will remain persistent.

“No, Miss. Powell. I do not.”

Huffing, she picks up the paperwork from her desk and places her spectacles upon the bridge of her nose, she continues,

“Very well, you’ve been here since you were four years old, and you’re approaching your fourteenth birthday, is that correct?” Peering over her glasses, she awaits a response.

“Yes, Miss. Powell, that’s correct.”

Humming in agreement she continues down the sheet for a few moments before setting it aside and interlocking her hands on her desk.

“Well, Dahlia, I regret to inform you but if you do not get adopted within the next few weeks, you will have aged out of our home and will be expected to leave in three weeks’ time. Where you may go afterwards is none of our concern, but you will be given a trunk to store your belongings and a five pence for the road. You are dismissed.”

Stacking the paperwork together, she lays them gently within her drawer and picks up a new stack before she redirects her attention away from me. I stare blankly at her form as she goes about her normal routine of filing and paperwork and more filing and more paperwork. I take a second to comprehend her statement before I quickly rise to my feet and say,

“What do you mean I will have ‘aged out’ of the home? Correct me if I’m wrong, I’m almost fourteen and aging out isn’t until adulthood at eighteen, Miss.”

My heart pounds against its crate, rattling my ribs and organs. It feels as if it is to burst at any moment. I wipe the clamminess of my hands onto my now wrinkled nightgown as I feel my knees weaken. I should have had time. This was never meant to be the way in which things transpired.

Miss. Powell sets down the paperwork and looks back up at me, frustration on clear display.

“No need to explain how the system works, I am the system. We wouldn’t be in this predicament had you never been so spoiled. This home is expanding and the cut off age has been decreased in order to accommodate a younger crowd. From now on, fourteen will be the cut off, and I will hear no more of your childish antics any longer. Good night, Dahlia.”

With that she returns to her work and dismisses me once more. The warmth that once eased my bones had dissipated and the familiar cold had come home.

A few days have passed, and I’ve kept to my own more than usual. My books offered comfort, making the hours pass quicker than ever. The distraction proves fruitful as it gets me through the week, trying to make an effort to reevaluate my plan. Waiting things out seems to no longer be the course of action, as time is of the essence.

I found myself pacing most days, up and down the long corridors, searching for new patterns within the runners on the floor and counting the individual frays. Four hundred and sixty-seven. I quickly moved onto the number of window panes, then door frames, and lastly the quantity of candles. Anything to distract myself from the inevitable was fine by me as a plan B had never been conjured, never even considered.

Saturday night rolled in thunderous clouds as Lucille and I took position within the bottom bunk. The ghostly sheet draped over our heads once again as I allowed the vulnerability to take light.

“Why that’s silly! Fourteen and supposed to live on your own? That is as evil as it gets!” she whispers, anger dripping off her tongue.

She grabs ahold of my hand and draws me nearer in the way that only she does. Touching foreheads, she manages to whisper quickly,

“Dahlia, please just find a family, accept an adoption. Secure your future, all of this is not worth it I swear.” Her grip tightens and suddenly she pulls me in again, foreheads smashing in the process. My groan is ignored as she continues more fiercely,

“I- I forbid you from sabotaging your adoption, you will find a family. You will stop all of this nonsense and you will get out of here. I can’t leave before you, I would never be able to live knowing you’re stuck here, or even worse, alone out there. I’d be plagued by the images of your shivering body out in some back alley of central London. You don’t need a real family, I’m your family! And as your sister, I need you to know that it’s okay to find security and comfort within others. I won’t be there. Though it pains me to even consider a life without you in it, at least I’d know you’re safe and have someone who will care for you in the way that I do.”

I can’t help the grim smile that settles on my lips,

“I know I have you, but I also have a family Luce, why would I need a new one? If I must be kicked to the streets in order to find them then so be it. By God’s grace, I will find them even if it takes the entirety of my youth. What if I have siblings, or aunts, or uncles! I can’t just abandon them. You know I can’t.”

I can see the frown upon her lips already, darkness or light, she’s too predictable. She’d be biting her lip in a fit of anxiousness, easy to read, identical to an open book. Her grip in my hands tighten, as the air shifts.

“Promise me you’ll try, promise me you’ll keep in touch, and please promise me you will write, and visit, and just… never forget me.”

My heart swells as the tears threaten to fall. Reality falls in place as the weight of her words resonate within. With a tight smile and teary eyes, I say,

“I could never forget my first sister, blood or not, you are my family, and I couldn’t forget you even if it cost me my real family.”

By Sunday morning most of the families had filtered through and left within the first hour, cutting our two-hour display in half. Not too long after being dismissed, Miss. Aarons pulls me out of my room without a word and leads me downstairs. Guiding me into the parlor, I see the matron standing beside a table that is blocked by Miss. Aarons’ figure.

“Ah, there you are Dahlia, we were waiting for you.”

As if on cue, Miss. Aarons steps to the side and intertwines her hands in front of her gown, giving clear view to the couple from last Sunday seated at the table with a single chair sat across from their own. The confusion on my face must’ve read loud and clear as Miss. Powell then elaborates,

“Why don’t you have a seat Dahlia, all your questions shall be answered.”

Her warm smile lacked truth as her eyes radiated a serious purpose. She walks to the empty seat and pulls it out, motioning with her hand to take a seat. I take a few slow steps forward before plopping myself into the seat. On the table sat a glass of water and complimentary biscuits that the orphanage saved for occasions. The Wellington’s sat with their hands holding each other’s and bright smiles upon their faces. They practically bounced within their seats, mirroring the children within this very orphanage. Sighing, I ask,

“To what do I owe the pleasure?”

The husband speaks up first saying,

“We were wondering if you’d give us the opportunity to get to know one another and speak of adoption, if you will. Our last interaction was less than ideal, and we’d love to try again, what do you say?” His eyes held a sparkle that was foreign around these parts. A sense of life and excitement radiated between the two as they were practically buzzing where they sat. Hanging on the edge of their seats, they awaited my response.

“I must decline,” turning my attention to Miss. Powell, who had positioned herself near the door frame exit, said, “May I speak with you in your office?”

The expression on the matron’s face let me in on the fact that I was in for trouble. With a curt nod, she excuses the both of us and we walk down the hall. Once out of sight, she snatches my wrist and drags me into the office, slamming the heavy door behind me.

“You have embarrassed not only me but the entire orphanage with your behavior. The couple outside came all this way specifically for you, lord knows why, you’re the most ungrateful child I have yet to lay my eyes upon. Declining a simple conversation with a family of high social status?! Why, you never cease to puzzle me, Dahlia.” Her voice boomed off the walls, killing the silence that usually stills the home. Her hands slam on either side of her desk as she drips with rage. The paleness that usually adorns her skin is now flushed a deep red, contrasting against her dark features.

“Explain yourself at once Dahlia!”

Taking a step forward, I begin,

“I have said it once and I will say it again, I do not wish to be adopted. I do not wish to have a new family, Miss. Powell. I will leave this home from hell and search far and wide for my own kin, my own blood relatives who are still out there.”

The jitters creep beneath my skin as tears prick below my lids, threatening spillage at any moment. Using all of my will power, I keep my voice leveled as I await her response. She lifts her hands from the table and begins to approach me slowly.

“You foolish child, it was your very own relatives who left you here. Your own kin abandoned you, and yet you want to go back? You have a shot at happiness, love, and freedom, and you will give it all up for what? For some strangers? Don’t forget that it was your mother who abandoned you in the first place!”

The anger pools over the rim. All at once, I snap.

“You know nothing of my family. You speak of love and happiness and yet you bring nothing but coldness and hatred to this orphanage. I may have been young, but I’ll have you know that I remember my mother, she was kind and loving and promised to come back for me. She promised.” My lip quivered and the hairs on my arms stood tall. I take a deep breath and continue, “So long as my family is alive and well, I will never belong anywhere else but in her arms, not the arms of some wealthy, stuck-up duo who think they can buy my affections, but hers. I will find my mother if it’s the last thing I do and neither you nor anyone within or outside of this orphanage will stop me.”

The sneer on my face is enough to solidify the message. The silence weighs heavy in the air as both our bodies shake in anticipation. Turning my back to her, I begin to walk towards the door, not awaiting her dismissal. A few tears slip past but are scrubbed off by the sleeve of my nightgown. Before I’m able to turn the knob, a small voice speaks,

“Your mother is dead.”

The air stills as my hand grips the doorknob, knuckles glowing white. Turning around, I lock eyes with her own light grays.

“Now that’s just cruel, Miss.” With furrowed brows I search her eyes for an ounce of fault. Anything that would hint towards her dishonesty, but I’m met with the same shine I witnessed but a week ago, yet this glimmer was different. Her crow’s feet looked softer, and her frame seemed smaller than usual.

“No, you’re saying that to convince me to go home with those rich snobs.” I train my eyes back on the doorknob, wiping my sweaty hand on the hem of my dress before I shakily replace it on the knob. I watch my fingers clench and unclench as the moment settles deep within. The air is hot, pink blemishes my skin, radiating a fever.

I feel the tears overflowing behind my lids as they shut, trying to catch them before too much can be revealed. My hand slowly slips from the knob, it swings before it stills by my side. Opening my eyes, I turn around and meet her own. The words fall from my lips,

“You wouldn’t do something so awful.” Her brows furrow, creasing the middle so painfully deep. My shaking hands struggled as they sporadically shoved the cuticles back, ignoring the stinging. Taking a cautious step forward, she reaches out a hand and places it on my shoulder.

“I should’ve told you this a long time ago.” Her words seem to catch in her mouth as her eyes flutter around, tears pooling along the edge.

My cheeks cool as the tears begin to fall, splattering on the dry hardwood, painting them to life. I stare expectantly at her, boring into her own, demanding more. I startled the room, “By God Miss, tell me already!”

Her body stiffened before she let out a shaky sigh, “A year after your mother dropped you off, we received word that she had died tragically during childbirth with your younger sibling, who also didn’t make it.” She sniffles and straightens herself, averting her eyes elsewhere.

“You would have been told this by your adoptive parents by your eighteenth or when you’ve outgrown this home.”

She continues to ramble as my breath catches in my throat. The world tunes in and out while I focus on her blurry figure flattening her clothing and brushing back the stray hairs that managed to escape.

“I have no one.” I find my way to a seat and settle, tears flooding to the floor. Sobs rake through in waves while, who I assume to be Miss. Powell, snakes their arms around my shoulders, pulling me into a deep embrace. A few moments pass in a respectful hush as Miss. Powell wipes the tears from my eyes, shushing my sobs.

“I’m deeply sorry for you Dahlia, never take this to be my intention to hurt your feelings. This must be frightening for you, but never recoil into yourself. Your mother, your sister, your friends here in this orphanage will live within you forever. Don’t let this incredible opportunity to a better life slip away. You’re a brilliant girl, Dahlia. You deserve all that is well and right in this world, please open your heart to others and allow them to show you what being part of a family is like. Don’t make the same mistake I did all those years ago.” Her voice seemed to have trailed off towards the end.

She takes her white handkerchief out of her pocket and dabs at my cheeks as she shares a knowing smile.

Coarsely I ask, “It must be true then, I am to be adopted, aren’t I?”

A bittersweet smile darkens her wrinkles as she nods her head. “Should you wish to be, yes.”

My breath shudders as a few last tears escape. My eyes weigh down on me, aching and puffed in agitation. I brush a few loose curls back then look at Miss. Powell, “I’m scared, Miss.”

Her hands find their way over to my own, embracing them in her warmth.

“Then let us take this first scary step together, shall we?” Her eyes hold pools of exactly what I needed at this moment. I sniffle in agreement and stand with the support of her hand in mine. She dusts off my shoulders and offers a comforting smile before stretching a friendly palm towards me. Taking hers into my own, we face the large oak door that glows a warm redness in the afternoon rays which spilled through the sheer ivory curtains within her office.

#short story #writer #child #creative #creative writing #story #sad #loss #lost #female writers #writerlife #original story #women #girl #writing #writers of tumblr

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alreadydeadtoyou · 2 years ago

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14DEC

My 60 year old sister (of Kitchen Appliances of Many Colors; Dollyweird Remix Ft: Lil Sister Crying) sent me illegal drugs, cash and disgustingly scented wax melts from her local Dolla General store.

I did not know she did this nor did I ask her to do it. I honestly think she was trying to help, in a misguided retard way. Her way. After-the-fucking fact, once it was snatched from the USPS mailstream, she tells me via my AT&T supplied tragic cell phone (it’s 5G now, bitch) that she chose the wrong mailer @ her small town local post office (I’m sure it was the Overnight Express one that the elderly & illiterate always select from the bevy of options at MY small town local post office) and had to open/repackage into a $10.80 Priority Mail option inches from the steampunk looking clerk.

AND THAT IT REEKED SO STRONGLY OF MARIJUANA it filled the entire compact lobby of her small town local post office on a busy holiday mailing day.

Yet, she cuntinued on...

Never in my life has she sent cash. She is my only support. My lifelong trashy parents only believe in giving money to casinos and bragging “we have more money than we know what to do with.”

EXCEPT GIVE IT TO YOU. I lost both breasts/nipples/da works due to cancer--my narcissist mother gives me her used bras and I’m supposed to be grateful. She will wait for that thank-you, stellar catholick that she is. I guess my sister felt bad after hearing about my Grey Gardenesque downstairs bathroom PIT TOILET, cracked ceramic floors due to a creature that emits SAWING noises late into the night and the washing machine & dryer that have been inoperable the past 3 years. That’s just ONE ROOM, inside!

I have no working heat upstairs, so I sleep on the couch downstairs. The upstairs toilet does not work. I can not afford an electrician to address the electric baseboard heat issue nor can I afford a plumber. I broke the valve where I used to be able to shut the H2O off 13SEP, the morning after my dog ran into the road and caused a local eccentric (ha! more eccentric than I) man to fall from his bicycle @ 10:08PM CST. Rendered unconscious and now sporting a white man’s version of a Michael K Williams scar across his fucking face.

Local police were on the scene FOR HOURS.

I’ve been on the stress diet ever since and combined with being off all my medications and “physician-free,” I can literally feel tumors percolating in my chest. Something is touching nerve endings and it hurts. I have implants, but over the past 7 years, things have ‘settled’ and the corpse flesh that patched everything together due to poor margins must have come from dead or destitute Indians, because there are dark patches among the lumps/bumps (cysts? cancer?) that give the illusion I’m wearing a brown bikini top. I had 2 surgeries last year and ever since a hysterectomy (2nd surgery), there is a stop u in your fucking tracks bone stabbing pain to the right of my vag that can happen at any time. When I mentioned that to the GYN during a post-surgical visit, she made eye contact and said with concern “I’ve HEARD of that.”

I try not to look at myself when I get out of the shower in my unheated Wisconsin bathroom, it’s too depressing.

#narcissist mother #breast cancer #poverty #depression #betrayed

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formulinos · 2 years ago

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Hyperfixation Corner: The Three Brides of Alain Prost

before he was the chauffeur for the ceo of brazilian fascism, nelson piquet was a regular formula 1 quote-giver. to be fair, and don't let the guy know i said it, some of them were undeniable facts - "golf is a sport for old people," in particular, is probably written somewhere in the bible - while many others show us we shouldn't have been exactly surprised at his lack of moral fiber. there is, however, one quote that stands out against many as it could easily be true as it could just be another wattpad fanfic from the same author of "i was better than senna" - the claim that alain prost ruined three marriages.

today, in this special of hyperfixation corner, i try to give you all the evidence i have gathered over the years on whether alain fucked so hard he would ruin the holy instition of matrimony for bants or not.

the claim the first bride: bernadette cottin the second bride: catherine bleynie the third bride: madame x

The Claim

Over the years, Nelson has claimed repeatedly that Alain's modus operandi was to become close friends with someone so that he could sleep with their wife, since this was the only way he could pull chicks since he's, quote unquote, "ugly". I swear to God, I've listened to and heard this sentence so much I could tell it to a doctor after hitting my head BUT until relatively recently, it stopped at "he did this to three people in the paddock" and BITCH. TO WHOM?

Enter Lemyr Martins, a Brazilian writer and photographer who has covered our participation in F1 from Fittipaldi to Barrichello, writing a good chunk of books while he was at it. One of those was "Os Arquivos da Fórmula 1" (The Formula 1 Files, in English), published in 1999 and basically filled with stories from his time of coverage. It contained some small interviews with drivers as Lemyr went through the eras, and at some point Piquet, who had already featured quite a bit in the book, decided to talk a bit about his resentment of Brazilian media's lack of standing up for its drivers. You'll find, though, that the point gets lost so surprisingly quickly you'd think Nelson invented DRS here, 12 years before the real deal.

Look at the difference between French newspapers and ours. How they preserved, for instance, Alain Prost. He is a latte* kind of guy, super political, who has never driven a bad car. But he has always had the backing of his press, something we've never had in Brazil. This Prost wasn't ethical at all in his private life. He ruined the marriage of Didier Pironi (Ferrari driver), Gérard Larrousse's marriage (former driver and Larousse-Lola's team owner) and Jacques Laffite's (French driver), but the French newspapers didn't write a single comma about it. He had the nerve, he would start going to his friends' houses, wouldn't come out and then he'd fuck the wife. That's what he did to Pironi, to Larrousse and to Laffite. But I even think he had to act this way to get something because he is really ugly. I took the piss out of Prost the day he changed the shards of teeth he had for veneers and went out smiling to the world. He would circle around the track not to run into me. He spent half a season running to avoid smiling at me.

* in this context, latte (café-com-leite in Portuguese) means he is a small, weak, bland kind of guy.

I know all of you want to unpack the last few sentences here, and so do I, but we need to stay focused. We got names: Jacques Laffite, Didier Pironi and Gérard Larrousse. From these, one we can tell for sure it was true, one for sure it is fake and one… is inconclusive. Let's start with the juicier of them all.

The First Bride: Bernadette Cottin

Jacques Laffite was Alain Prost before there was an Alain Prost. Now, I'm not saying he was as talented, because the difference between six Grand Prix wins and four WDCs is considerable, but he was a Driver Superstar in France anyway - and still is, considering only Alain and René Arnoux won more GPs than him. Six years Alain's senior, Jacques drove from 1974 to 1986 in F1, basically alternating long stints between Williams and Ligier, a French team. He decided to retire from F1 after suffering a very grisly accident during the 1986 British Grand Prix, where he broke both of his legs.

Piquet had a point in saying the French press wouldn't write a single word on this all because I simply can't find much on the whole thing, so forgive me for my lack of sources. The earliest mention I could find of Jacques' love life was in this Motorsport Magazine article from October 1981. In it, you can find a reference to a girlfriend, named Bernadette, to whom he was linked from 1967. This Bernadette is, in fact, Bernadette Cottin, who would later become Laffite-Cottin after getting married in November 1977.

I'm sick and I can't be arsed with photo edits this time, so here is a Getty pic of Jacques and Bernadette (left) with her sister, Geneviève and her husband, Jean-Pierre Jabouille

Bernadette and Jacques were the real deal, as soon after their wedding they had two kids, Camille (1978) and Margot (1980). While I can't pinpoint for sure if there were rocky times between them during their time together, Bernadette was around the paddock somewhat often, as you can see from pics of the couple double dating on a few occasions. When Jacques had his career ending accident, Bernadette was there to nurse him back to health.

Double date with The Rosbergs, 1983

Bernadette and Jacques together after his accident, 1986

Now this is the part where it becomes a bit of oral history - and I bet it was oral alright for Alain and Bernadette. Again, it hasn't been written in detail, so none of this can be attested for sure, so don't sue me. Alain and Jacques were homies, like apparently on the level of business partners and, even more serious in the world of F1, golf buddies. While I can't for the life of me find out what they were business partners in, exactly, there are enough pics of them interacting to be able to assert they were mates alright.

I had so many other pictures I could choose and yet....

Well. After Jacques recovered from the broken legs, he decided to give a go to competing again, mainly focusing on DTM and the 24 hours of Le Mans. However, he also liked to dibby dabby on the Paris-Dakar Rally, and word on the street is that when he got home earlier one year after flopping, he caught Bernadette and Alain together. Genuinely struggled to pinpoint the year here as people accuse it of happening either in 1989 or 1990, BUT there are two points to consider:

In that period, the Dakar rally usually happened in March (1988, 1989) and in 1990 it literally started on Christmas day. If you consider Alain had a limit to being a slag and he spent Christmas at home, that leaves 1988 and 1989 available only. From those two years, the F1 season started April 3rd in 1988, while in 1989 the first race happened on March 26th. While it looks like Alain would have more free time for Bernadette in 1988, he went to check their activities out in that year as you can see here:

Another point is that Sacha Prost was born on 30 May 1990, which means that Alain and his first wife, Anne-Marie must have been together at least until September 1989 for her to get pregnant. I'm not saying that it is completely impossible for him to have been caught, then forgiven by the lady wife, then they had a band-aid baby before deciding to separate for good but it is less likely than Alain and Bernadette being caught having an affair later than 1990 and the following separations ensuing. Therefore, I have to call bullshit on the Paris-Dakar story for now.

Either way, the fact is that Bernadette and Jacques officially divorced in 1992, also known as the year that Alain Prost spent out of F1. While Alain and Anne-Marie remained officially married until 2017, Alain and Bernadette started living together and had a child, Victoria, in 1996.

According to Prostfan, they still live together in Switzerland, so at least there's that. And hey, time heals all wounds, as Alain and Jacques have occasionally mingled over the years after the whole deed was done.

Playing cards together on a train in 1998... Like girl Victoria was just two back then, I don't know how no one threw punches there.

A bit more "recent", 2013 Abu Dhabi Grand Prix. That I can understand, it's been over 15 years at that point and they're both balding and grey by then.

Was Nelson right? Yeah, probably. While no one can tell for certain, it's the one story that's passed around with more detail, so….

The Second Bride: Catherine Bleynie

So. This is a funny one. I mean, sort of, if you have a weird sense of humour.

It was April of 1982. Didier Pironi was, at the time, doing REALLY well. Professionally, he was at the top of the world, driving for Scuderia Ferrari, which is even better than winning as we all know. On a personal level, he was about to get married to his girlfriend, Catherine Bleynie. In fact, they were in a bit of a hurry, since Didier was about to race in a fortnight. Didier and Catherine didn't know it yet, but this was the end. Why? Because the race was in fact, the 1982 San Marino Grand Prix.

Catherine and Didier on their wedding day, 14 April 1982. I lack the explanation for the chef guard of honour.

Just two weeks later, Pironi fought on track with Gilles Villeneuve and won the GP. He also fought with him off track, and Gilles swore never to talk to him again. He kept that promise alright, as he died in an accident during the qualifying for the next race, in Zolder. Needless to say, this was a bit of a headfuck to Didier who was forcibly linked to this disastrous turn of events for the rest of his life, even though he wasn't to blame for it (and neither Gilles, we've already been through this). Just a few months later, in August, it was Didier's turn to retire from the sport after an accident that almost had him need both legs amputated. Naturally, he was emotionally sensitive after going from championship frontrunner to retiree in less than a year, so he really relied on the support of his partner…. Véronique Jannot.

I? What?

Now, if you were paying attention, then you know that Didier had just got married in April, to Catherine. Yet, it's August and he's with a whole other woman doing covershoots about his accident. What happened?

Well, we have no clue. Streets say he cheated, streets say she cheated, but again, the French media sweeped it under the rug and all we know for sure is that by July of 1982, Didier and Catherine were on separate paths. In fact, Catherine was about to live lavish on the jetset, also featuring on many high society events and magazines with her boyfriend, French legend Alain…………………..

……… wait for it…………………

Delon.

ENOUGH!!!!!

I shit you not. Catherine's rebound guy was fucking Alain Delon, whom she dated for 3 years from 1985. Catherine and Alain weren't strangers, in fact they met 14 years prior when Catherine was a wee intern for a couturier who designed clothes for him. However, they only became friends after meeting again on a flight to Rio de Janeiro in 1982. Catherine was off to see Didier race while Alain was off for a festival with his then wife, Mireille Darc. Considering the three year gap and the fact Alain had another girlfriend before making it official with Catherine, it doesn't sound like he was responsible for the doom of the Pironis. However, it does make it hilarious imo as it means that Nelson Piquet mistook Alain Prost with Alain Delon. Like.

The two Alains together at the 1990 Japanese Grand Prix. In case you are confused, Alain Prost is on the left

Imagine being so Frenchphobic you think these guys are the same person somehow? Amazing. A clear L for Nelson Piquet on this one.

The Third Bride: Madame X

Two wives down, one to go. The reason I saved this one for last is that I just don't fucking know what happened here, ok? I don't even know the woman's name, let alone if they really banged or not! You see, Nelson Piquet claimed it was Gérard Larrousse's wife, but in some versions of the story it's a random untitled senior Renault executive who got cucked.

Alain and the guy he supposedly cucked, Gérard Larrousse, during their Renault tenure

Here's what we know: Alain had already managed to get close to the WDC with Renault twice, getting to 4th place in 82 by only a 10 point difference to Keke Rosberg, the champion. Renault were the pioneers of turbo engines, but hadn't managed to master its reliability, which makes it even more astonishing that Alain still managed to contend for the championship when he had 16 DNFs in two seasons. When you consider that each season had 15/16 races back then, my guy literally had one full championship of retirements with Renault at that point.

Obviously, it was getting embarrassing and all parties vowed they wouldn't act like fools in 1983 and to be fair, they solved the reliability issue, for Alain at least. In fact, Prost was doing well in the lead, followed by Piquet and the two Ferraris (<3). This meant nothing to the team though, as inside the boxes the turmoil was so great that it led to Alain's Mercedes being burned at his home by Renault workers after he criticised the team. He ended up moving to Switzerland and got turned off the whole thing. Four races to the end, my guy crashed into Piquet while trying to overtake him in the Netherlands and the lead went down the drain with two turbo failures in two of the other races remaining, losing the championship to Nelson "Prost Whistleblower" Piquet himself.

As a good Frenchman would, Alain took the defeat with the grace of a giraffe walking on a slippery ice rank, and proceeded to talk shit to the press:

The team was torn apart in every way. Instead of leaving it to competent men, the decisions were taken by the upper management [...] Renault did everything not to win the championship, because they were scared of winning anything at all.

Damn. Who hurt you Alain ?

To be fair to him, Renault had factually ran out of money to keep developing the car in 1983, according to Bernard Dudot, an engineer for the team at the time. Back then, Renault was fully in the ownership of the French government, the inventors of bureaucracy. So, while there was no budget cap and Renault was a constructor with an endless amount of cash in comparison to other teams, there was just no way to expand the budget in the middle of the season. Prost was sacked mere two days after his defeat in Kyalami and the sore comments were attributed as the official reason… but were they?

Dudot says that "The truth remains that he made some mistakes that contributed to our loss." The Holland accident is the key moment, but this doesn't take away from the fact the other two DNFs were mechanical failures and that he had only been out of points in three other races, spending most of the time on the podium. Like sure, he wasn't invested in Renault after getting his car burned but he was still very much down to win a championship and his form showed it. So the reason couldn't be individual mistakes because they were seldom there, especially knowing he lost the championship lead literally in the last race.

This brings us to the conspiracy theory that I mentioned at the start of this section. The lore is that Alain got caught banging the wife of then team principal Gérard Larrousse, who only didn't sack him then and there because it was the middle of the season. The story is still embellished, depending on the source, with the fact that this all supposedly went down during the 1983 Dutch Grand Prix and this is why Alain crashed into Piquet. He was such a pile of nerves he made an uncharacteristic mistake. Still, the story changes a lot and I've even seen claims that Alain screwed the wife of the Renault CEO at the time, so it genuinely sounds like an urban legend. Still, it is worth noticing that the people working in F1 are, first of all, major gossipers, so if Nelson was openly talking about it, it means at the very least that it's a Known Story in the paddock (or at least it was back then). So, while I can't say for sure it's true, I guess only the people involved can say for sure if it's false.

To conclude, did Alain Prost wreck three marriages as Nelson Piquet claimed? No, just one. Two, tops, but we lack enough information on this. As much as Alain fucks, he doesn't fuck that hard, he is just French. That's what they do. Either way, I needed to get this out of my chest so that I could forget about it for a bit. I'll keep looking for info on Gérard Larrousse's wife because this is the one we know the least about, if any of you have any info on the subject feel free to share with the class! In the meantime, screw you guys, I'm going home.

PS: Here's the video of Alain trying to bag a fourth wife, in the shape of Jean Alesi's then girlfriend in 1991:

youtube

I have to stan a man who isn't scared of his reputation!

#hyperfixation corner #alain prost #nelson piquet #<- this one is for the black list #fuck them racists!#I went insane but it was worth it because I got some old René Arnoux tea on the way so #this might be a peak shitpost truly

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