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aheathen-conceivably · 7 months ago

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Zelda was walking back to her own bedroom after preparing Violette for bed. It was rarer and rarer that she got to spend these moments with her daughter anymore. As she grew older it was more likely for her to ask her father to bring her to bed after an afternoon in the farmyard; or, as was her new habit, to insist on her independence by asserting that she could wrap up her own hair and tuck herself into her embroidered sheets alone.

So as Zelda turned the door handle and stepped over the threshold, the last thing she expected to hear was a small voice calling Momma from behind her. Immediately, Zelda turned around to see Violette with an uncharacteristic fear in her eyes. But she had grown quiet, so Zelda tried to prompt her to speak again by asking if everything was alright. When she didn't answer, Zelda walked nearer, trying to ignore the voice in her mind that told her maybe she had only imagined her daughter calling out after her.

As she sat on the bed, her repeated question only prompted another bout of silence, before Violette brought her knees up to her chest and spoke looking at them, "Momma, do you - do you ever have nights when you can’t sleep?”

A rush of memories distracted Zelda from the question, vivid sounds of waterfalls and the smell of trees in the damp morning air. She pushed them aside to speak to the child in front of her who knew nothing of those nights. “Of course, my love. Do you want to tell me what’s keeping you up? Are you afraid?”

Violette shook her head vigorously, “I’m not afraid. Of anything. It’s just..why’s it so quiet here? I try to sleep and there’s nothing. Back at home - I mean New Orleans, it was never quiet. When I would lie in bed I would just listen to you and Poppa and then I could always sleep.”

Zelda’s focus on keeping herself in the moment distracted her from her daughters accidental admittance that she still knew of her parent’s late night careers, or the way she still called New Orleans home. “You know when I was a girl I could never sleep. It was like the thoughts in my head wouldn’t quiet down on their own, especially when they were supposed to and everything else had gone silent, is that how you feel?”

When Violette nodded in agreement Zelda brought her hand to her face, “Do you mind if I go and grab something for you? I’ll only be gone a minute.”

For a moment Violette looked nervous but she signaled for her mother to go, only for Zelda to return a moment later with a book in her hand. She sat next to Violette and opened it, “This was my favorite growing up. It’s part of the reason I came here, to America, where I met your father. The girl reminds me an awful lot of you, so when you can’t sleep or your mind won’t quiet, you can go here, into a new world in your imagination for a little while.”

Violette eyes scanned the golden script of the title page intently. The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. Then she turned the page, and another, and another. It was unlike any other book she had ever seen. All of the words were set alongside pictures, fanciful drawings of a girl with her hair in pigtails as she walked alongside a proud lion and a shining man made of metal.

Zelda watched Violette’s fingers trace along the words, exactly where her own had hundreds of times before. Knowing that her daughter was already gone yet again, she looked down at her a bit sadly, “And if you still can’t sleep just come find me or your Poppa, okay? We’re right next door.”

But Violette was too engrossed in the colorful drawings to answer, so Zelda rose to her feet and walked back to her own room where she had always kept the book near her pillow before that night.

Night after night as she read it, Violette never took her mother up on her offer, although she still rarely slept. Rather she laid in bed reading and rereading the book her mother had given her and imagining that she was Dorothy, swept up in something so powerful and grand that it turned everything upside down and suddenly she was in a land of magic and fantasy.

Then finally, somewhere between the pages, she would drift off into a dream-filled sleep. Through the corridors of slumber she would walk amongst a city just like Oz, one that was never quiet or dark like the desert outside her window. Each and every corner was filled with beauty and life, luminous with people who danced and sang more magnificently than anyone could ever imagine.

The lights there twinkled even more brightly than the night sky ever did; and in her mind she would stand between them, halfway between the ground below and the sky above, shining more dazzlingly than either. It was a place made just for her, one where all her dreams would come true. A land of fantasy and wonder and endless lights shining just for her in the darkness…

#1933 #sims 4 historical #ts4 decades challenge #ts4 historical #sims 4 decades challenge #the darlingtons #sims 4 legacy #ts4 legacy #sims 4 story #ts4 story #1930s #Zelda darlington #Violette darlington

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sjsmith56 · 6 months ago

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Moments, Chapter 25 - Eyes of the Father

Summary: It’s the day before the wedding of Bucky and Lacey. The Avengers, plus other invited guests, descend on Clint’s farm.

Length: 4.1 K

Characters: Bucky, Lacey, Tommy, the Avengers and related family members, the Wakandans.

Warnings: None. It’s all fluff.

Author notes: Enjoy the preparations.

<<Chapter 24

🎪 🚜 🔥

Several months later

The RV was huge, bigger than anything Bucky could have imagined. It and a dozen others just like it were scattered about Clint Barton's farmyard to accommodate the wedding visitors. Nick Fury went all out on their behalf when he learned of the wedding location, arranging for the RVs and the glamping tents for those who were more adventurous. He even arranged for generators to power the units, all of them with much appreciated air conditioning, and a water supply. Bucky shared this unit with Sam, Sarah and the boys. Sarah was in one of the bedrooms while he took the other. Sam and the boys had bunk beds in the centre of trailer. Lacey and her family were put up in the Barton's house, although the boys, including Tommy, all asked if they could camp out in one of the glamping tents. When AJ and Cass found out they asked if they could stay in the tents with the others. They all had a blast, forming close friendships that lasted for years.

In the weeks leading up to the wedding day several of the Avengers had showed up when they had some free days to help clear out the barn and make it acceptable as a reception venue. There were all sorts of farm treasures found during the cleanup that even Clint didn't know about and they used them as decoration in the farmyard, after restoring them. The old truck that Bucky hid in became a source of tinkering for several people and when they got it cleaned up then running Clint couldn't believe it. For many of those on the team the cleanup and the truck tinkering became a bonding moment that allowed them to grow closer in a non-mission environment. By the day of the stag they were all a close knit bunch. So much so that when they hauled Bucky out of the RV and blindfolded him he let it happen without a struggle. They put him in the bed of the old truck and took a tortuously long route over uneven farmland before stopping and letting him remove the blindfold. He laughed out loud at seeing that they were still on Clint's land but were well away from the house in front of a huge pile of deadwood. Clint splashed some gasoline on it then lit a match and dropped it on the pile, setting it ablaze. From a cooler came beer, several bottles of scotch and cigars for everyone. Sitting on stumps around the fire they shot the breeze, telling stories of old missions, old girlfriends, and sports. As everyone got slowly drunk, except for him and Thor, Bucky laughed.

"You know that I can't get drunk?" he stated emphatically to the others.

"Not on regular alcohol," smiled Thor, as he pulled a small flask out of his pocket. "But this ... one drink will knock you out until your wedding day so you get a small taste only."

He pulled out the smallest shot glass that Bucky had ever seen and poured enough to fill it halfway. With a smirk Bucky took it and Thor raised his flask to him. The others raised their drinks as well.

"Here's to you, Buck, and your bride to be," he said. "May you have many children and many years to enjoy your life together.”

Bucky downed the shot glass as Thor took a long swig from his flask. Within seconds it hit him hard, and for the first time since 1943, Bucky felt drunk, very, very drunk. His whole body felt warm and he began to sweat. Then his vision went weird as everything swirled in front of his eyes.

"Fuck, what the hell is that?" he gasped.

"Asgardian mead," replied Thor, with a smile. "Feels good, doesn't it?"

"Yeah ... no," stammered Bucky. "I feel like I'm going to pass out."

"Maybe that was too much for you," mused Thor. "Sorry, you'll be okay. Try lying down and breathing deeply."

Bucky fell off the stump to the laughter of the others and lay on his back looking up at the night sky. He breathed deeply and slowly. The panic that he felt with his first reaction passed and he began to enjoy the experience. It was better than any other alcoholic effect he ever experienced prior to becoming a super soldier. Sam and Terry approached and stood over him, grinning enthusiastically.

"You okay?" asked Terry.

"I'm great," said Bucky. "Shit, this is good stuff." He raised his head and looked at Thor, giving him a thumbs up. "What's the hangover like on this?"

"For me, none," replied the big man. "For you ... hard to say. You'll find out when you wake up in the morning."

"Good enough," said Bucky, lowering his head back down to the ground. "I'll just stay here."

Sam and Terry laughed then both laid down on either side of Bucky, looking up at the night sky.

"This is actually nice," said Sam, exhaling some cigar smoke.

None of them said anything for a short while.

"Hey Sam," said Terry. "Is your sister seeing anyone?"

"No," replied Sam.

"You okay if I ask her out?" asked Terry. "I'm gainfully employed and I like kids."

Sam contemplated Terry's request and Bucky looked incredulously at his best friend. "You're considering it?" he said. "I just did some mild flirting and you jumped all over me."

"Yeah, but you were messed up and you were still in love with Lacey," replied Sam. "Terry has his shit together."

Bucky looked at Terry, seeing a big grin on his face. "You live in Philadelphia, and she lives near New Orleans."

"Saints are looking for a receivers coach," stated Sam.

"I know," replied Terry. "I have an interview next week. Thought I could drive to Delacroix after and visit you for a bit. I'll bring Tommy, since he's staying with me while Bucky and Lacey are on their honeymoon."

"You're always welcome," said Sam.

Bucky smiled. It wouldn't be the worst thing. Terry was a good man, even though he messed up when he was younger. The three of them laid there looking up at the night sky until the fire died down. Then Clint appeared looking over all three of them.

"You staying here for the night or you want help to get back to your trailer?" he asked.

Bucky put his hand up and Clint helped him stand as the other two managed to rise on their own. He still felt woozy but not as bad as he did right after drinking the mead. He and several others sat on the truck bed as Clint got behind the wheel. It was a more direct route back to the trailers than the ride that brought him out. Once he and Sam were inside their trailer, he poured himself a big glass of water, knowing that would help with a hangover. After quietly saying good night so he wouldn't wake up Sarah he pulled his clothes off and laid on top of the bed in his briefs, falling asleep within minutes.

A horrible noise woke Bucky up the next morning and he looked at the door, as that seemed to be where it was coming from. Getting up to open it he almost stumbled over Sam, curled up in a blanket, asleep on the floor of his bedroom right in front of the door. Nudging Sam with his foot Bucky succeeded in rousing him.

"Didn't you hear the noise?" he asked.

"No," said Sam, grumpily. "There is no noise. Sarah woke me and said I was snoring, so I came in here. Figured you were so wasted you wouldn't be bothered."

"The noise was you," said Bucky then he made a face. "My mouth feels awful. I can't even describe what it feels like."

"Must be the mead," muttered Sam. "What time is it?"

Bucky reached for his watch and coughed as he read the time. "7:30," he answered. "I'm getting up."

He pulled on his jeans and a T-shirt then grabbed his socks and sneakers. Stepping over Sam he went out to the kitchen where Sarah was already up, having just made coffee. She smiled when she saw him and poured him a cup, pushing it over the counter towards him.

"Sam's snoring woke you up?" she asked. "It gets bad when he's had too much."

"I know that now," replied Bucky, after drinking his first sip of coffee. "This tastes terrible."

"Hangover?" she asked. "I thought you couldn't get drunk."

"I had some Asgardian mead," he answered. "Apparently I can get drunk on that. Won't be doing that for a long time."

She chuckled. "Do you feel up to some breakfast?" she asked. "Laura texted me that she's got breakfast started at the house."

"Maybe after I brush my teeth and try a couple of pain killers," said Bucky. "I think I got off lucky."

They both sat there for several minutes not saying anything then Sarah cleared her throat. "Is Terry seeing anyone?" she asked.

Bucky resisted rolling his eyes. "No, he's not," he replied. "He asked Sam about you last night. You like him?"

"He's a nice man," she replied. "He tossed the football around with the boys and was very patient with them. I guess that's the coach in him."

"I guess," agreed Bucky, and took another drink of his coffee. "He's interviewing for a position with the Saints next week. Said he might drive to Delacroix and visit a bit."

Sarah's face brightened despite her attempt to play it cool. "He's welcome to stay a while," she replied.

Bucky grinned and playfully pushed Sarah in the arm. She grinned back and he drained his coffee then went to wash up, brush his teeth and take a couple of painkillers, not that they ever helped before. When he came out she had changed into a nicer top. He opened the trailer door and gestured for her to leave first. They walked to the house where Laura and Lacey had breakfast underway. He kissed Lacey good morning, squeezing then caressing her butt while he did it. This being apart for a few days had made him hornier than hell and he took every opportunity he could to touch her.

"Anything I can help with?" he asked, after she playfully slapped him on his butt.

"Put the paper plates, cups, and cutlery out on the table," ordered Laura. "Sarah, if you could get some coffee and juice going that would be great.

Bucky opened a package of paper plates and put them out on the table, along with the disposable cutlery, then put the coffee cups on the side table where Sarah started the coffee urn. He put out the sugar, creamer and milk. There was a package of serviettes that he opened as well, placing them next to the plates. While he thought of it he put salt and pepper, ketchup, and hot sauce on the table. Then he leaned back and watched Lacey as she, Laura, and Sarah bustled around getting food together for everyone. A few times their eyes met and he made sure she knew exactly what he was thinking.

Sharon Carter had it so wrong. Lacey was beautiful, always had been. She had raised a super soldier baby practically on her own for almost nine years and did a good job of it. Plus she kept Clint's farm going during the Blip. Bucky knew he was lucky to have her. Tonight was the rehearsal then tomorrow the wedding. After the wedding was the wedding night and he gave Lacey that look again as he thought of what they would be doing. The day after that would be the beginning of what took years to bring together. A noise from the highway drew him to the door and he stepped outside. In the distance he saw a limousine, flying a diplomatic flag, drive onto the property and he called back inside.

"The Wakandans are here," he called out.

Lacey joined him and they both walked to where the limousine pulled up. Ayo and Okoye got out first, both in jeans and T-shirts, followed by T'Challa and Shuri, also dressed casually.

"You made it," said Bucky, extending his hand to the King. "I was getting worried."

"We have your suits, White Wolf," said Shuri, giving Lacey a hug. "There was never any danger of them not arriving in time. After Sam told us how much you liked the suit you wore when you went undercover in France it was the least we could do for you."

"Well, thank you," he said. "You've arrived in time for breakfast although I imagine you want to know where you're sleeping tonight. There is a free two bedroom RV with bunk beds in the living room area or a glamping tent with two beds."

Shuri's eyes opened wide at the mention of the glamping tent. "Oh, I love glamping," she exclaimed. "Ayo, say you'll share a tent with me."

"Of course, my Princess," she smiled. "It will be like Glastonbury, won't it?"

"I guess that leaves me and Okoye the RV," said T'Challa, smiling. "Show us our accommodations and take your suits at the same time. We'll come for breakfast when we have settled in."

They handed Bucky several suit bags and he walked T'Challa and Okoye to their RV. Lacey escorted Shuri and Ayo to the glamping tent. As they walked Shuri looked closely at Lacey then at Ayo but said nothing. Ayo raised her hand and made some gestures behind Lacey's back. They arrived at the tent and Lacey opened the tent flap. A big smile broke out on the Princess's face as she looked at the setup.

"This is wonderful," she said, then looked at Ayo for a moment. "Oh dear, I've forgotten one of my bags. Could you go back to the limousine before the driver leaves?"

Ayo bowed her head and returned to the limousine. Shuri took Lacey by the hand.

"How far along are you?" she asked. "You are pregnant, are you not?"

"We haven't told anyone yet," said Lacey. "Five weeks. How could you tell?"

Shuri smiled mysteriously. "I can tell when a woman in love is carrying the child of her beloved," she stated. "How are you feeling? Any morning sickness? Fatigue?"

"No morning sickness which is good because I had a lot with Tommy," she said. "I am napping more but I've just told people it's because of the wedding preparations. Honestly, I feel great."

"Good," replied Shuri. "I am happy for you both. Does your son know?"

"We were going to tell him when we returned from the honeymoon," she said. "I'm almost 34 and we just didn't want to wait any longer to have a baby. Bucky missed out on so much with Tommy."

Shuri grasped Lacey's hands in her own. "I'm so excited," she said. "After all you have both been through to get to this point it's wonderful that you're both on board with having another child."

Ayo was approaching with Shuri's missing bag and Lacey took her leave. When she was out of earshot Ayo looked at Shuri. "Is she?" she asked.

"Five weeks," said Shuri. "I owe you money. I still don't know how you knew."

Ayo laughed. "There were no condoms in the safe house in Germany," she replied. "I didn't know if she was on birth control then but the whole house could hear them for the two nights they were together. I figured it was inevitable. Plus, my mother was a midwife, so I've been around a lot of pregnant women."

Both women laughed again and Shuri paid up the bet. No one would hear of it from them but they both thought it was joyous news. By the time the Wakandans arrived at the house the breakfast was well underway. A dark SUV pulled up to the yard and both Clint and Bucky stood up wondering why the feds were there. They didn't have to worry as the driver's door opened and FBI Agent Dan Jones stepped out with a smile.

"Looks like a party's going on here," he said, approaching Clint and Bucky with his hand outstretched.

"You look good," said Clint, shaking hands first. "Better than when you were in the hospital. You back on duty yet?"

"Two weeks ago," he said, shaking Bucky's hand next. "I heard you guys kicked ass and that the Avengers signed you up, Bucky."

"We did and I did," replied Bucky. "Come and see Lacey. She'll be glad you're here. Clint, where's he staying?"

"In the house," said Clint. "He's family for this wedding."

Jones pulled his bag out of the SUV and followed Bucky into the house where Lacey gave out a glad cry and hugged him. He had put his life on the line in Philadelphia for her and Tommy, and would always be welcomed by her. As Laura showed Jones his room there was a steady stream of hungry people helping themselves to the food. They scattered throughout the house, on the porch and on lawn chairs outside, eating and enjoying the company of everyone else. Clint walked through with a coffee pot topping up people's cups. He also informed everyone that breakfast the following morning would be catered outside of the house so that everyone would have time to get ready for the wedding.

"What if it rains?" asked Shuri.

"Not in the forecast," he replied. "But if it does then bring an umbrella. The only people allowed in the house tomorrow morning are my family, Lacey, and her family. Even Bucky's not allowed and he better not try to sneak in tonight using his super soldier abilities."

Bucky grinned happily. "Yes, Dad," he replied.

Torres looked at him. "What's with that?" he asked.

"He's made me stay in the trailer for the past few days," answered Bucky. "He's walking Lacey down the aisle and is taking his Dad role very seriously. I can't be angry as he's gone to a lot of trouble to give us a beautiful wedding."

"Where are you staying for the wedding night?" asked Torres. "I mean, this farm is packed with people."

"Clint's arranged that as well," replied Bucky. "Said it's his and Laura's wedding gift to us. I trust him."

Bucky looked casually around at everyone and made eye contact with Lacey. She jerked her head slightly and he got up, following her out to the barn. As soon as they got inside he picked her up and began kissing her passionately. Laughing, she kissed him back then put her hands flat on his chest to make him stop.

"What?" he asked. "I thought you brought me out here to have your way with me."

"Shuri knows," she said. "So does Laura. They both asked me straight up if I was pregnant."

"You told them?" he questioned. "What happened to keeping it quiet until 12 weeks?"

"I can't lie to them," she answered. "They both said they could tell. I don't look pregnant, do I?" She placed her hands on her abdomen and turned sideways.

"You are glowing," he replied, kissing her again, then stroking her hair. "What do you want to do?"

"I think we should tell Tommy right away," she said. "He deserves to know more than anyone. Then maybe we should let everyone else know. Maybe during the speeches at the reception."

"Okay, we'll tell Tommy today and everyone else during the reception," said Bucky. "It's still early but you're healthy and feeling good."

"I'm also a lot older," she replied. "You're not upset that I got the implant out without telling you?"

He shook his head, smiling. "I told you in the safe house that I was making it right, no matter what. If you got pregnant that night I would have been as thrilled as I am now. Are you alright that I said yes to Fury when he showed me that farm near the compound?"

She nodded, smiling as well. "Once you showed me the photos I knew it was the right place," she said. "He preferred you lived within driving distance of the compound, I'm within driving distance to my publisher in New York City, 200 acres with a lake and a wooded area, a 150 year old stone farmhouse that's been renovated and modernized. We can handle any other renovations we want to do. It's perfect."

He kissed her tenderly, bending himself over her, then he straightened up and took a deep breath. "Once he asked me if I was interested in being training officer I couldn't say no to the farm," he said. He became thoughtful. "You know I almost killed him, back in 2014. He was a big threat to HYDRA's plans, and I tried taking him out in his vehicle in the middle of New York. That's when the first footage of me in action came out. He got away and I tracked him to Steve Roger's apartment, set up on the rooftop across from it and shot him through the window. Steve came after me, but he didn't recognize me as I had a mask on. I hurt Fury bad, but he was smart and used the opportunity to fake his death so that Pierce, the guy in charge of HYDRA at the time, thought he had succeeded. Just weeks later I was on the run, able to think for myself for the first time in so long. Then you found me, hurt, soaked, hungry, and you helped me. You didn't look at me as a killer but as a man."

She touched his face with her hand, and he grasped it, kissing the palm gently. "You were in pain," she replied. "Not just from the bullet wound but inside, in your soul. I could see it and feel it. You were so soft spoken and it's probably when I fell in love with you. It was obvious that you were a good man. I've never regretted it, Bucky. When I realized I was pregnant I considered not having the baby for about ten seconds, then the thought it might have your eyes hit me and I decided then to keep the baby. If I couldn't have you, I could at least have someone that looked like you."

"You did an amazing job raising Tommy," said Bucky. "I'm so proud of him and you. Thank you."

He picked her up in his arms and held her close, burying his face in her neck. That's how they still were when Tommy came looking for them several minutes later. Bucky put Lacey down and they sat together at one of the tables which had been brought in for the reception. He looked at his son, then at Lacey and took a breath.

"Your Mom and I wanted to tell you something," said Bucky. "We're going to have a baby. Your mom's about 5 weeks along. You're going to be a big brother."

Tommy looked at both of them, then a smile appeared on his face. "Really?" he asked. "You're sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure," said Lacey. "We were going to wait a bit before we said anything but a couple of people have already figured it out so we wanted to tell you first. We've also bought a farm in New York State. It's near the Avengers compound because your Dad's going to be training officer for them and will have to be there more often. It's also close to my publisher in the city. There's a great school nearby and you'll get to take a school bus every day. We can move in when we get back from our honeymoon."

Tommy jumped up and hugged each of them in turn. "That's awesome," he said. "All of it. Dad, can I train with you sometimes?"

"Absolutely," said Bucky. "Steve said right from when you were little you wanted to be an Avenger. They'll be lucky to have you and I'll make sure you're ready to be one when you're old enough."

Tommy hugged them both again and they stood up to go back to the farmhouse. There was a lot that had to be done today, including decorating the barn and setting up the tent for the caterers. It was good that there were many helping hands available to spread the workload. By the time the rehearsal was finished, and the caterers brought the pig roast in it became quite the party. When Bucky kissed Lacey goodnight on the steps of the house just before midnight and walked away in the darkness towards his RV, he knew the next day would be great.

Chapter 26>>

Series Masterlist

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfiction #buckybarnes original female character #sam wilson #bucky Barnes marriage #wedding #avengers party

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rickwardsinnerhands · 2 years ago

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I think the funniest part about reading the stranger things fanfiction before I'd ever seen Steve's bedroom is that when the fic described his wallpaper as ugly plaid in my head I was picturing like a dense blue plaid that would've looked busy but not that bad. Then I actually saw the wallpaper and it was the ugliest shit I'd ever seen. It's beyond descriptions really, when we say ugly wallpaper what we mean is obvious proof that Steve's parents must hate him. That wallpaper is ugly enough it must count as assault. That is truly a wallpaper that could only exist in some trendy microcosm of home decor magazine show rooms. I get ugly old brown and orange sofas with rustic farmyard patterns, they have a certain charm. I will *never* understand why a wallpaper that disgusting exists. How are there terrible curtains that match?? Why is there that little picture of a car taunting us all, torturing is with its presence. I truly believe that bedroom is the best case for Steve's neglectful childhood HC because it is terrible and baffling in every way possible. Does he even have a bed?? I've never seen it, and I just imagine his room as this hideous and baffling little square of wallpaper, car picture, and desk that all equates to a space I cannot believe Steve lives in.

#stranger things #nightime steve thoughts #steve harrington #its so fucking ugly guys #wtf

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kammartinez · 1 year ago

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I began writing this essay while putting off writing another one. My apartment is full of books I haven’t read, and others I read so long ago that I barely remember what’s in them. When I’m writing something, I’m often tempted to pick one up that has nothing to do with my subject. I’ve always wanted to read this, I think, idly flipping through, my eyes fixing on a stray phrase or two. Maybe it will give me a new idea.

In this moment of mild delusion, I’m distracted. I’ve always wanted to write an essay about distraction, I think. Add it to the laundry list of incomplete ideas I continue to nurse because some part of me suspects they will never come to fruition, and so will never have to be endured by readers. These are things you can keep in the drawer of your mind, glittering with unrealized potential. In the top row of my bedroom bookshelf is a copy of Flaubert’s final novel, Bouvard and Pécuchet. Something about it seems appropriate, though I’m not sure exactly what. I pluck it down.

***

Bouvard and Pécuchet is at heart a simple novel, though its episodes could branch out, fractal-like, into infinity. There is a reason Flaubert never finished it, despite working on it for at least eight years before dying of a stroke at the age of fifty-eight. Originally titled “The Tale of Two Nobodies” (literally “The Two Woodlice”), its protagonists are two copy clerks, who, in the middle of nineteenth-century Paris, meet on a bench on a boulevard. Superficially, they are complementary opposites: one short, one tall; one ascetic, the other sensual. In a deeper sense, they are the same: office workers who perform questionably meaningful tasks while trying to cling to a bare sense of individuality. They strike up a friendship—they are amateurs, dilettantes, believers in progress. They are, in Flaubert’s imagination, men of their time. As they grow bored with their jobs of rote reproduction, they set out to fill their leisure with the pursuit of knowledge:

They learned about discoveries, read prospectuses, and their newfound curiosity caused their intelligence to bloom. On a horizon that receded further each day, they glimpsed things at once strange and wondrous.

(I am relying here on Mark Polizzotti’s translation.) After Bouvard receives an inheritance from a recently deceased uncle, the two men hatch a plan to remove themselves from the city’s bustle and the drudgery of their work. They will use the money to buy a modest estate and live a life of freedom as country squires: “No more writing! No more bosses! Not even rent to pay! For they would own a house of their own! And they would eat chickens from their own farmyard, vegetables from their garden—and would dine with their clogs still on!”

Liberated from the office, they now can do whatever they wish. Why not tend their own garden, as Voltaire’s Candide once exhorted? Well, curious minds that they are, they want to learn the best way to make the garden grow. So they turn to books, and become case studies in the dangers of overestimating one’s own intelligence. If they are gardening, they think, why not turn to agriculture, too, and make better use of their land? Their plants die. Why do the plants die? Because, Bouvard and Pécuchet conclude, they didn’t sufficiently understand the hard sciences—and so their study of chemistry begins. Chapter by chapter, Flaubert lampoons his poor pair, who fail at discipline after attempted discipline: landscape architecture, anatomy, history, literature, phrenology, religion, even love, and on and on. In each pursuit, they never lose the optimism or the hubris of thinking they can put their knowledge to work in the world. When they become interested in pedagogy, they adopt a pair of abandoned children who are at turns mystified by and contemptuous of their efforts to improve their well-being. The fruit trees fail, the novel is abandoned, a cat is boiled alive, the children cause scandals.

Commentators have remarked on the static structure of the novel: the reader must be willing to hear the same joke told repeatedly in different variations—a joke that punishes its pitiful protagonists over and over. Each time, this odd couple believes that they are close to a breakthrough, or at least to something like fluency, in their newly chosen field. But when difficulties emerge, failure follows quickly: “They gave up.” This futility is matched by, or even enhanced by, their optimism. Each time they surrender, they find something else to become engrossed in. Is this perseverance, or life as a great chain of distractions? And have they tricked themselves into thinking it matters?

***

What is distraction? Maybe it is just the need to be diverted: from the direction you originally set out on, from what it was you thought you wanted to do. After all, to desire something requires projecting yourself into the future—how do you know you’ll still want it when you get there? And along the way there are so many attractions, way stations, spots of time. Even an annoyance can be a pleasure: a fly keeps buzzing around your head while you try to write the next sentence, a ringtone interrupts the movie, and—it’s you. Just this one time you’ve forgotten to turn your phone off. If only the world would stop bothering you, you could finally get down to work.

Bouvard and Pécuchet, you may think, aren’t exactly distracted. In fact, at times they seem nearly maniacal in their thirst for knowledge. But isn’t the idea that] they are potentially interested in everything a kind of curse, something worse than indifference? As fast as they find a passion, they can be drawn away from it. They are avatars of the societal affliction Flaubert called la bêtise—mankind’s universal stupidity. Their curiosity has no staying power—it’s just the dirty runoff of a Zeitgeist that tells them to improve themselves, improve the human race. Their distraction implies a lack of concentration, the mark of a bad student. And they are tragic because they want so much to be good, to get the right answer. All the worse that they’re not reflective enough to see that all the spinning of their wheels will never lead anywhere. (But how could anyone think that and keep going?)

Now that I no longer work a forty-hour-a-week job, I tell many people I am writing a book. It is going along, I say, but slowly. How is it that so many chores, parties, trips, assignments, and plainly wasted hours intervene? Not everyone is distracted from their most cherished goals. But I think everyone is distracted from something—it is desire’s shadow, trailing behind our self-presentations. By beginning anything, we create the possibility of detours.

***

Today, it’s a commonplace to call the internet the ultimate distraction. While putting off writing this piece, itself already a distraction, I maintained a powerful ability to introduce obstacles to its completion. Recently, during another attempt to write, I snapped to my senses hours later, as if smash-cut through time, and realized I had been watching skateboarding videos on YouTube. I have never skateboarded in my life—I am not certain I have ever even attempted to put two feet on a board. I binged a Thrasher series called My War, about skaters who have struggled with a particularly difficult trick and persevered. I watch a skater known as Jaws ollie a massive twenty-five-step staircase in Lyon, tear his MCL, and come back, months later, to essentially jump off the side of a building repeatedly until he lands the trick. There’s no way this can be good for your body, but I find myself strangely compelled by the almost religious dedication. In their pursuit to hurl themselves down large flights of stairs, the skaters are committed.

I close the browser. There is an entire genre of commentary based around the idea that computers or the internet are having a deleterious effect on our attention spans, even on our reading comprehension. We are never present, the platforms having gamed out our interests better than we can ourselves. We contemplate putting our phones in automatically locking pouches before we sit down to dinner. I’m not sure it’s so simple—everywhere, a lot of work seems to be getting done, and every day we seem to be faced with more text to read than ever. I return to my document. I take some disparate phrases from my notebook and start to arrange them into the lines of a poem. Even doing something ostensibly virtuous, I am still attempting escape. I start looking at one of the pdfs I have open in Preview: Zen Mind, Beginner’s Mind.

All that we should do is just do something as it comes. Do something! Whatever it is, we should do it, even if it is not-doing something. We should live in this moment. So when we sit we concentrate on our breathing, and we become a swinging door, and we do something we should do, something we must do. This is Zen practice. In this practice there is no confusion. If you establish this kind of life you have no confusion whatsoever.

Ah, turning to Zen—a bit of a cliché, I think, but still. Haven’t I been doing something, even sitting in front of this machine? I’ve at least been the swinging door, letting the rest of existence pass through me.

***

Flaubert did an immense amount of research for Bouvard and Pécuchet. While writing the novel, Flaubert read around fifteen hundred books in all the subjects that his Nobodies attempt and abandon. Perhaps Flaubert, in some sense, became one of la betîse himself, because he would never become a master of agronomy, anatomy, or pedagogy—only a master of the pen, an “homme-plume,” as he called himself in his letters. And the more he reads, the further he gets from completing his universal book.

Even the protagonists, having learned something despite themselves, can’t help but become melancholy, like Flaubert. In their defeat they become strangely sensitive, easily disturbed:

Then their minds developed a piteous faculty, that of perceiving stupidity and being unable to tolerate it. Insignificant things saddened them: newspaper advertisements, a burgher’s profile, an inane comment overheard by chance. And reflecting on what was said in their village … they felt upon their shoulders the weight of the entire world.

In order to write an essay on a new topic, often one has to sail a little in the dark. I am not a Flaubert expert. I can write this essay only as an amateur: the breadth of scholarship on one of the giants of the novel is too daunting for me to do it otherwise—I would have to give up before I began.

Research easily becomes its own distraction. Fiction writers are not unfamiliar with this crisis, having placed their character under a tree, then specifying what kind of tree it is, then wondering if that tree would be in flower at this particular time of year, whether it grows in the particular geographical region where the story takes place. We can become masters of rationalizing the inessential.

There’s a kind of comfort in toying with a large body of knowledge, the way in which you can avoid writing a paper by entering a rabbit hole on Wikipedia—beginning on the front page and finding yourself reading about Byzantine dynasties, or non-Newtonian fluids, or Rome’s Crisis of the Third Century. Maybe this activity, even if it never gets us anywhere, is something closer to play. And without it, at least from time to time, we become dull.

***

Despite all the hand-wringing about distraction, it’s asked less often what it is that what we want to attend to in the first place (or, if answered, numbingly conventional—we want to “be more productive”). Today, being distracted usually has a negative connotation, because it most often means “not working,” whether you’re watching the World Cup from a browser window stashed behind your spreadsheet or you’ve decided to go to the bar on a Tuesday night instead of staying in and writing your three hundred words or polishing your presentation or organizing your sock drawer. A common idea of distraction presupposes that you’re turning away from something more important that you ought to be paying attention to instead. And you ought to be working all the time.

In order to succeed in a hypercapitalist society, we must focus. And to focus usually means to specialize: acquiring a skill, becoming a special version of ourselves—a person with a “bit” that distinguishes us from the cross section of people who otherwise share our Google AdSense data metrics. It can be hard work to become this particular, outward-facing self. The idea returns to me to the old chestnut of Marx’s in The German Ideology, imagining a different way of life:

In communist society, where nobody has one exclusive sphere of activity but each can become accomplished in any branch he wishes, society regulates the general production and thus makes it possible for me to do one thing today and another tomorrow, to hunt in the morning, fish in the afternoon, rear cattle in the evening, criticise after dinner, just as I have a mind, without ever becoming hunter, fisherman, shepherd or critic.

We live in nothing close to this hypothetical society, and we may never. But if Marx’s hunter-fisherman-shepherd-critic (an animal lover!) can be really envisioned, it’s clear that he is not distracted. Whatever he does is what pleases him. He is always where he wants to be.

***

There is a curious kind of essay that exists now, that is half-literary, half-personal: My life with author X. A year of reading author Y. The hope is that the personal touch might refresh the dusty pages of the classics—or, more likely, that great literature can buttress a first-person narrative that doesn’t quite cohere into a finished story, not yet quite heroic enough. An earlier version of this essay had more of me in it.

During Bouvard and Pécuchet’s brief turn as authors, they experiment with comedy and pick up Xavier de Maistre’s 1794 A Journey around My Room, a “travelogue” of sitting still (it was written while the author was under house arrest) that blows up mundane details to mock-heroic proportions. They are quickly discouraged:

In this kind of book, it seemed, one must always interrupt the narrative to talk about one’s dog, one’s slippers, or one’s mistress. Such a lack of inhibition charmed them at first, then struck them as imbecilic—for the author erases his work by shining too much light on himself.

It feels good to erase myself, at least for a while. Still, something weed-like in me wants to make myself visible, to be a voice as attractive to you as Flaubert’s was to me.

***

Flaubert rose late, around ten, and took his time in the morning. At eleven, as one of his biographers, Frederick Brown, reports, he fortified himself for his task:

Unable to work well on a full stomach, he ate lightly, or what passed for such in the Flaubert household, meaning that his first meal consisted of eggs, vegetables, cheese or fruit, and a cup of cold chocolate. The family then lounged on the terrace, unless foul weather kept them indoors, or climbed a steep path through woods behind their espaliered kitchen garden to a glade dubbed La Mercure after the statue of Mercury that once stood there. Shaded by chestnut trees, near their hillside orchard, they would argue, joke, gossip, and watch vessels sail up and down the river. Another site of open-air refreshment was the eighteenth-century pavilion. After dinner, which generally lasted from seven to nine, dusk often found them there, looking out at moonlight flecking the water and fisherman casting their hoop nets for eel. In June 1852, Flaubert told Louise Colet that he worked from 1 P.M. to 1 A.M. A year later, when he assumed partial responsibility for Liline’s education and gave her an hour or more of his time each day, he may not have put pen to paper at his large round writing table until two o’clock or later.

Among the many things he is famous for, Flaubert is known as a perfectionist, a meticulous craftsman refining the rhythm of each sentence until it possessed the cold polish of a gem. He complained frequently of his slow progress in his letters—the legend is that he wrote at a pace of about five words per hour.

But can all the time spent at the desk truly be accounted for? Is it possible that, despite his protestations, Flaubert was simply … goofing off sometimes? I will leave that question for the experts, but I know I have been prone to say the work was going very slowly when, in reality, I was doing something else.

And wasn’t that time that Flaubert spent before he set down to work, the time of a cup of cold chocolate and then the orchard, watching the sailboats pass by, a very good time after all?

***

Commentators have speculated that Flaubert considered appending to his novel a document he had written some years before, the so-called Dictionary of Received Ideas, a compendium of the banalities and clichés of his time—the nineteenth-century French equivalents of telling people that New York City rent is too damn high or that our country is more polarized than ever. The brilliance of the entries, which are alphabetically arranged, is in their teetering on the brink of being taken seriously:

ILLUSIONS: Claim to have many. Lament having lost them. IMAGES: Poetry always contains too many of them. IMAGINATION: Always vivid. Guard against it. When one has none, denigrate it in others. To write novels, all you need is a little imagination.

Flaubert never finished Bouvard and Pécuchet, but he left notes about how it might end: After a climactic confrontation with their village neighbors, who have put up with their eccentricities for long enough, the two Nobodies finally feel defeated. Exhausted and penniless again, they decide to return to their first love: copying. They “smile when they think of it.” The Dictionary, the fruit of their renewed scrawling, would both demonstrate their “learning” and release them, blissfully, from thought.

According to Flaubert, the use of the dictionary was not just to collect people’s stupidities—instead, it was to make one afraid to speak at all, since whenever you open your mouth, you may immediately find yourself saying something that isn’t your own. It takes immense effort and concentration to become new. Still, one wonders what Flaubert would have done for material if everyone had simply shut up.

***

I’m staring out my window at my desk—surely a timeworn part of the writing process. It is late summer now. A female cardinal, its colors muted but beautiful, has gone away after spending the day as my main attraction. I’m wrapping this up, getting ready to go to dinner. Wondering how this got started, how and why I wrote several thousand words about something I still know rather little about, really. And thinking about everything else that could have been in it (Thoreau, the class where I first read Flaubert, every terrible thing I saw and felt because I came of age “online”) that I left out. I think about how much more I enjoy starting things than finishing them. I’ve always wanted to feel full of potential, more even than needing that potential to be realized, maybe. As you get a bit older, disappointment arrives to fill that space. But it gives things their contours, too—if you’re committed, you chip away against that newly evident limit. Hoping to go a little further next time.

***

In 1875, Flaubert, stymied by his research for and the slow pace of Bouvard and Pécuchet, began a side project. He wrote the stories that would later be collected in the volume known as Three Tales. The first and the most famous is called “A Simple Heart.” It is both connected to and completely unlike his encyclopedic monument to human stupidity. The tale focuses on the sad, slow life of a woman named Félicité, the housemaid of a well-to-do widow in a Norman town much like the one Flaubert grew up in. Félicité has few distractions to speak of, because her life has virtually no pleasure. For a modest sum, she “did all the cooking and the housework, she saw to the darning, the washing and the ironing, she could bridle a horse, keep the chickens well fed and churn the butter.” She toils thanklessly for her mistress for years, appearing, to the bourgeoisie that frequent the house, to be indistinguishable from the furniture. For Félicité, anything that disrupts this backbreaking monotony is something to be savored in memory: the man who tried to court her when she was a young woman, a dangerous encounter with an angry bull in a pasture, even the death of her beloved nephew, a sailor, on the other side of the globe. These detours from daily routine are, in fact, the signature moments of her life.

When Félicité receives a parrot from a neighbor, a gift that reminds of her of her nephew and the New World to which he might have sailed, it is a balm from beyond: something to care for that is not merely a matter of survival, something harboring a mystery, however small. After its death, the parrot is stuffed and becomes a kind of object of religious adoration for Félicité. She imagines that she sees it, her last vision, at the moment of her death.

For a man who spent his time cursing the world for its idiocy, this is a moment of remarkable imaginative sympathy, and of love. The fugitive moments in between our lifelong undertakings, whatever their ultimate worth, may be what we are searching for all along. Maybe we are distracted because we are still learning how to live.

#psychology #writing #reading #books

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kamreadsandrecs · 1 year ago

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***

Even the protagonists, having learned something despite themselves, can’t help but become melancholy, like Flaubert. In their defeat they become strangely sensitive, easily disturbed:

***

It feels good to erase myself, at least for a while. Still, something weed-like in me wants to make myself visible, to be a voice as attractive to you as Flaubert’s was to me.

***

Flaubert rose late, around ten, and took his time in the morning. At eleven, as one of his biographers, Frederick Brown, reports, he fortified himself for his task:

And wasn’t that time that Flaubert spent before he set down to work, the time of a cup of cold chocolate and then the orchard, watching the sailboats pass by, a very good time after all?

***

#writing #reading #books #psychology

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equationsoff · 3 months ago

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some habits are hard to break. coping mechanisms created in childhood that still take root within his psyche. sometimes it is just easier. but sometimes he finds himself staring at his madness wondering if he had truly gone insane. if the apocalypse had broken him entirely. the family had already voiced concern over his bedroom they'd probably get him committed if they saw this. " i am hoping not to require more room. "

everyone kept saying he is overreacting. that he is paranoid. but he has his reasons. he has literal proof that left unattended his family can and will end the world. " how about our ben for a start? and all the people my family whine about losing that mean things to them. viktor's farmyard bride and son. dave. i'm sure if push came to shove diego would ask for me to bring back his cop friend. i doubt it's possible but if i do all i can to try i can tell them it's not possible. "

˜”*°•. She could pretend that she understood his reasoning , that she even agreed with him about the whole paper-impracticality, however she couldn’t have cared less about it . If he wanted to use the wall , act like some weird psycho , then so be it . However, he had to admit that it did look weird . ❝ And if you run out of space here , then what ? Will you start writing on random people’s houses ? ❞ Because as much as she wanted to see the reaction of everyone should Five decide to cover the city with equations, getting him out of a psychiatric ward was not in her current plans .

Still, it was disappointment that crept into her face the moment Five answered her question. ❝ You are still waiting for an Apocalypse ? It’s grown old-fashioned, don’t you think ? ❞ They’d spent years in this new timeline and nothing unusual had happened . So , why was he so obsessed with finding a solution to a problem that didn’t even exist ? However, his next words were what made her pause . They did have a seemingly safe timeline , a decent life and kind of a peace of mind , so whatever he was planning to do ? He’d better stop it before it was too late . ❝ Whoa , wait little travel agent. Last time I checked every single one of your weird siblings were already here . ❞ So, whom did he want to bring ?

#thenightmareofyourdrems #☂ ⇆ ( i know i’m better | tua | )

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teacup-crow · 3 years ago

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Complications

Zombies Run Secret Santa gift for @musickmage! Shout out to @runnerzero and all the organisers!

I had fun with this one. I’ve been looking for an excuse to write Simon/Janine for the longest of times, and you just hand it to me as a ship you like? How can a person resist?

Set mid-S2, hard spoilers to S2E18. Some minor references to character backstories from Season 3 so best enjoyed with S3 knowledge, mild references to sex. Fluff with a side of unease. Just a gentle Christmas Day at Abel where Janine definitely isn’t feeling any emotions whatsoever at all.

Merry Christmas and happy holidays!

PS: I stole the idea of the cat from @chaoscatty and forgot it wasn’t canon till I was done. Credit where it’s due because their fic was adorable. Credit also to @justanothercricket because I’ve been obsessed with her Simon/Janine stuff lately and because ZRTM got me big into this ship.

These are her favourite sort of mornings, waking up to a cockerel crow rather than the sounds of impending disaster.

She stands silhouetted by the rising sun flickering through the blinds. When she cracks the window open to ice-cold air, she can hear the shuffle and scratch of an early morning farmyard: a couple of dogs chasing each other around and around in circles, a teenager cursing up a storm about being covered in chicken shit, and the man in her bed, snoring as if he has a cold. She glances over: he’s still fast asleep, his ridiculously long hair falling in soft curls to his shoulders. Her father would have hated that. Her father would have hated every single thing about Simon Lauchlan, from his terrible tattoos to his accent to his clothes (or usually lack thereof). She knows that there’s a certain appeal to that for some women, and that maybe that’s part of why she’d ended up waking up beside him so often lately. Not that the theory she was trying to anger a man over two decades dead who she’d always respected makes much sense.

The sex is good, too, an uncomplicated pleasure. Or at least, it had started off that way. The longer it had been going on, the more complex things seemed to have gotten. His toothbrush had turned up at her sink last week, and she hadn’t removed it. Her pillows had started to smell like him, of sweat and pine. She kept finding hair-ties on the bannister, on door handles, on window-sills. He was using her best honeycomb soap, and she hadn’t asked him to stop any of it.

Well, she asked him all the time, but she never really meant it.

As Simon shifts in his sleep, his snores quieting, the blasted one-eared cat he’d insisted on letting into her bedroom eyes her balefully from its spot on his feet. She recalls the argument they’d had when he’d dragged the clawed thing by the scruff of its neck into her kitchen.

“He’s a mouser! He doesn’t need to be inside or eating our scraps!”

“Yeah, and he’s a great hot water bottle too! Dual-purpose cat!”

“Great at getting my things completely covered in hair. Like someone else I could mention.”

She knows she ought to wake him - he’s the one who’s been looking forward to this day for weeks on end - and yet she can’t quite bring herself to do so. She almost likes him better without his sneering, daring grin, when he’s not challenging her, when he’s not putting up a fight. With his defences lowered, he almost looks like a different man. A man she could see herself with, in a different life.

She finds a bra in the drawer, a blouse, a thick jumper, jeans, socks. The day is bright and cold, and she has the sense that half of the swearing earlier might have come from the kid slipping on frost on his way out of the coop. Through all this, looping one of Miss Marsh’s scarves around her neck and lacing her boots, Simon fails to stir. They never leave the farmhouse at the same time, anyway; it’s an unspoken arrangement that he usually wanders out of the back door sometime after they both awaken, and has some way of getting back to the Runners’ barracks without being spotted. It’s not like people don’t know, of course, but she finds a little comfort in the pretence that their relationship is purely professional.

Looking at him there, she has a sudden urge not to leave him, or at least if she has to, to plant a kiss on his cheek, the promise that she won’t be gone long. She shakes her head at her own ridiculousness and slips out.

***

“Mornin’, Janine!” Mr Yao smiles through a mouthful of Marmite-on-toast, his orange hoodie adorned in tinsel and garish lights, a red crown propped on his head. She can see the chewed up particles of breakfast in his teeth and fights a wince. “Want to pull a cracker? The kids made them, so they’ve got an interesting range of prizes. I got a conker and a five pence piece.”

“How delightful,” she replies. “Merry Christmas, all!”

“Have a seat,” Dr Myers pulls back the chair beside her. “We’re short on eggs, unfortunately, but there’s plenty of bread left. They must have been baking all night, doesn’t it smell amazing in here?”

She nods her agreement, and takes a slice, slathering it in butter and raspberry jam from one of the jars someone must have dug out from cold storage. The table is oddly empty. “Where are Miss Marsh and Five? Where’s Ms Smith?”

“Christmas Day football match with New Canton,” Mr Yao replies thoughtlessly, and Dr Myers widens her eyes at him in warning. He swallows. “I mean -”

“I don’t remember authorising that, or the Advisory Council mentioning it to me,” Janine reaches for the teapot. It had been one of her own, blue and white china chipped in the handle and spout and donated to the cafeteria. “I can’t imagine them approving it without making me sign off on at least twelve risk assessments.”

“It was, er, more of an impromptu thing?” the young man gulps down his own tea, which is still a little too hot from his pained expression. “Don’t worry, they’re within the New Canton gates, we watched them get there all the way on cams, and they’ll be back before lunch. We’ve got a group of supporters keeping an eye in the comms shack. Jack and Eugene are giving a running commentary.”

“I thought you’d want to follow Runner Five anywhere they went,” she says, and then wishes she could bite off her tongue. She’d meant it to sound teasing, but it had come out flat. Luckily, he takes it in stride.

“Honestly, Janine, I did my best to avoid footy before the apocalypse. Standing out in the cold at eight in the morning watching a sport I don’t like doesn’t sound like my idea of Christmas.”

“Same here. Paula was the soccer fanatic in our house, but in my opinion, Brits just don’t know how to do sport right. Where are all the cheerleaders? Where’s the band?”

“I feel like these days they’d all get eaten very quickly,” Mr Yao muses. “I’d like to see a zombie take on a pom-pom, though.”

“Anyhow,” Janine cuts in before his choking zombie impression can completely spoil her appetite. “I suppose it is Christmas, and sports are a good boost to morale and community relations. And if Sara’s there, I have no doubt it’s being well managed. Although next time I’d prefer if someone let me know if we were risking key operatives for football.”

“Got any views on the beautiful game, Janine?” There’s a note of relief in Mr Yao’s tone, and Janine suspects the game might have not gone completely unorganised. Still, she pulls the cracker he holds out. He wins a pebble, a bottle cap, a paper hat. Simple treasures. “I’ve already got a party hat if you want this one!”

She obliges and puts it on, if only to enjoy his momentary delight at her looking ridiculous in it. She can’t help being fond of the younger man; his earnestness catches her off-guard more often than she would like. “My younger brother was an Arsenal fan, so I… I supported Tottenham when we first moved to London. To annoy him, I suppose. I was never really that invested. Anyway, there’s plenty I have to organise before lunch, so I’ll be seeing you!”

She jumps up, grabbing a stack of toast to bring with her, spooning a dollop of jam onto the edge of the plate, and hurries out.

“Never knew she had a brother, did you?”

“No, that brings my total number of Janine background facts up to three…”

***

She elbows her bedroom door open to find the cat has scarpered, its adoration fickle. Simon is curled up, knees on his chest, looking awkward, rigid.

“Simon?” she murmurs, to no response. His face is hidden from view. She places his toast on the dresser and perches on the end of the bed to take off her shoes, unwrap layers of wool. From there, she can hear him, his voice low.

“Nobody was supposed to… she wasn’t supposed to… I...”

Before she knows what she’s doing, she climbs back under the quilt, warm from his body heat, and holds him tight, her knees tucked behind his. She can hear him sobbing in his sleep, his chest rising and falling jaggedly. It hits her somewhere in her gut, the realisation that she would take this pain from him and feel it herself if only she could. Another complication.

She feels him snap awake mid-scream, gasping like a fish out of water. She rubs circles on his shoulder, and tries to model steady breaths.

“You were talking again. What were you dreaming about?”

He waits a while before answering. “Doesn’t matter now. She’s dead. So, I won.”

He doesn’t sound thrilled at that. She wishes that the confidence would come back into his tone, just a little. He rolls over, out of her arms, and pulls a face.

“Cheer up, love! Might never happen, hey?”

“You do know that’s the most obnoxious thing a man can say to a woman?”

“Oh, I pride myself on being obnoxious,” he smirks, and he’s back. He cups her face in a hand and kisses her on the mouth, his eyes big and smiling and every colour at once. “Did you know you’re wearing a crown? It suits you.”

He tugs it over her eyes, and the world is masked by yellow tissue paper. She goes to push it off, laughing despite herself, and his hands reach for the buttons of her blouse, his fingers nearly as rough as her own. He’s quick-witted, quick on the draw, her quickest Runner. As far as she knows, this is the only thing he knows how to take slow.

***

“Merry Christmas, Jenny,” he calls from the doorway, fresh out of the shower, joggers and a hoodie, wielding the hissing barn cat under one arm. He grabs some now-cold toast and heads out the back way, over the threshold, back to being Mr Lauchlan, Runner Three. He never hangs around afterwards, another part of their silent agreement. That would make things too complicated. Yet, she feels a pang of loneliness as she remakes the bed, still half dazed.

It hits her again at lunch, him sitting on the other end of the table with the victorious, raucous Runners who’d won their match five-one. Mr Landis’ cheeks turn pink when Miss Marsh begrudgingly admits he’s good in goal, and Mr Woods and Mr Holden jabber on about Five’s heroic hatrick to anyone who will listen, embellishing the story a little more each time. Simon fits in with them so easily it’s like they forget he missed the game at all.

Sara keeps surreptitiously filling both their glasses with more wine, and Janine’s not about to argue. Christmas Day is joyous, yes, but it always hits everyone hard: there’s a moment on so many faces where for a second, their delight flickers like candles under a child’s breath as they remember everything they’ve lost to be here. Only Simon’s face never drops as he winds up the children and forces games of charades and eventually brings out a battered ukulele to equal parts delight and despair. He’s the life and soul of the party. Occasionally, he gives her a wink, and she pretends not to see it, but can’t keep the small smile off her face. She sips at her wine. She wishes she could have him all to herself.

“Penny for ‘em,” Sara remarks, and she shrugs.

“I… simply never thought I could get so used to this.”

“You can get used to anything, given enough time. Any word on the Major?”

“None. I suppose everything is still very much down to me.”

“Us,” Sara says, gesturing around to the people carolling and making merry, pushing back tables to make more room to dance. “Look at how many people have your back.”

“I hope so,” she sighs, runs a hand through her hair. It’s something he does, unconsciously. In her coarser hair it doesn’t quite have the same effect.

Sara downs her glass, and pours them both another, drinking with vigour as the children clamour to open presents. Janine decides to make a concerted effort to stop staring at Mr. Lauchlan. For a while.

***

“Did you have a good day?” He’s under a pile of blankets in her office when she finally gets in after bidding half the town good night, reading the comic he got in the Secret Santa and nursing a bottle of schnapps. Crawling in beside him again seems undignified when she’s so fresh from her leadership persona, so she lingers in the doorway, arms folded.

“Mr Lauchlan, will I ever get to have my private rooms private?”

“Did you have a good day?”

“Well, it turns out you were right, pushing for a celebration. It was an excellent morale boost. Things went according to plan. My prepared spreadsheet for the kitchen proved invaluable to an efficient cooking process, and-”

“Did you have a good day?” he repeats, swigs.

“It was… yes. I did.”

“It was the best, and all the better for me arranging our little lie in.” He puts his drink and book aside, and gazes up at her, drinking her in. She feels like her bones are on display, like he’s burning holes in her skin. “Thanks. For letting us go all out, I mean. I didn’t want the kids to have a shit time of it.”

“Why are you looking at me like that?” It’s almost a whisper. She clears her throat.

“Worried I’ll forget what you look like.”

“What on Earth is that supposed to mean? Don’t tell me you’re that drunk. What happened to ‘my body is a temple?’” she jokes, but he isn’t laughing. That seems to happen to her often.

“Oh, I’m drunk.” He pats the space beside him, and she ignores it. “You know, I never really did Christmas before Z-Day. Growing up, Nan called it ‘pagan devil-worshipping’, but to be honest I think the cheap old bint just didn’t want to buy presents. I never really got the hang of it later: you need kids to understand the magic, I reckon. Did you see the little brats when Ed walked in?”

“Mr Harrison really outdid himself,” she can’t help but smile, thinking of the man in the Santa suit juggling Molly and ‘ho-ho-hoing’ for Jamie rest ’s swarm of children until he was blue in the face. The excited screaming had given her a pounding headache, but it had certainly been a price worth paying.

“Keep bringing up Nan, and I can’t even remember her properly. Crazy, right? She’s been in my head all day, and I can’t put a face to that nasty little voice any more. And Maggie, the old Six? She made my armband last Christmas, and she’s gone too. And then Archie… and now I’m just thinking… if something happened… Jenny, if I…”

He breaks off, and slips from serious into a languid grin, an expression that infuriates her on a daily basis.

“Sorry, ignore me. It’s stupid. I’m hammered. I just… I like seeing you smile.”

She can feel herself growing worried, something not quite right pinging at the back of her skull. The thought that he wants to say more. The thought that his dreams have been getting so much worse lately. She’s jumped to conclusions before, of course: her gut is not infallible, and this is a difficult day. If he seems off, that makes sense. It’s only natural.

“Come here, will you? Got you something.”

He presses a necklace into her palm, his lips to her throat, and the twinge of unease is gone as quickly as it arose. She wonders, again, briefly, why she’s allowing her life to become so complicated. She wonders if she should tell him about the voice in her own head, that she’s been hearing her brother again, eleven years old and pouting about the football results. She wonders-

“Wait. What did you mean about arranging our lie-in?”

“Shhhh.” He kisses her jaw.

“You organised that ridiculous football match behind my back, didn’t you? That’s where you’ve been sneaking off to, you irresponsible-“

“Shhhhhhhhh, Jenny.”

“Simon, I am going to have a word-“

“Have it in the morning, all right?” His breath is hot on her skin, and she lets everything go, because sometimes being held is worth a few complications.

#zombies run #zr secret Santa #zr secret Santa 2021 #Simon lauchlan #janine de luca

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whatdoesshedotothem · 2 years ago

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Friday 19 August 1836

12 ½

no kiss downstairs at 8 40 in the servants hall - 3 masons flooring the passing to it - about 9 Rawlinson the gardener arrived from Lawton (or near there) bringing a few lines from M- to say it was her fault he did not come before - out with him ½ - breakfast at 9 35 - had Throp a few minutes and paid him £4 for cleaning and filling up with acorns the Bairstow - I thought it was agreed that he was to keep the place up for 3 years for the price I paid him for stubbing up and setting with acorns - A- thought so too - however I paid the bill and made no remark but that I thought of sowing the place with whins or broom - was getting a gardener, and should need Throp to do any more at the Bairstow - out with A- at 10 40 at which hour F61 ½° and fine but no sun and highish wind - A- went into the house about 11 and left me to settle with Rawlinson - explained the nature of the place - to keep a regular debtor and creditor account of the expense and product of the garden - to furnish my own table and then the Northgate hotel - the account (in Wright’s part measure) would shew what was furnished to each - R- to take charge of looking after the land, and the men employed in my absence -to see that they worked the proper hours etc - agreed to give him £50 a year and find him a house the latter under written agreement - to be held on the same terms as my service i.e. with months wages and months warning - I to pay his expense in coming here now, and his expense of moving his family - just calculated that his family and furniture might come for £4 - to be here tomorrow fortnight, 3 September - if Mr. Gray came sooner, I should send off for Rawlinson and expect to come immediately - said I would put him into a cottage at the Mytholm (the house) till the Conery was ready when he must be till the gardener cottage was built - R- had arrived about 9 - would take nothing to eat or drink, and left me at 12 5 anxious to return home - Miss Edwards and Miss Eliza Plowes called on A- for ¼ hour at 12 - then with A- cold and starved and low - gave her hot wine and water - spirited her up and helped her till she fairly set about her letter to her sister and got all in good train - ordered about box in which to send by SW- tomorrow morning Mrs. Sutherland’s silver teapot and ½ dozen little books for the children - and in separate a parcel a plan (parchment taken from out of a frame) of Golcar and a book of memoranda of quitrents etc copied by A- from the rent books - out about 2 - with Booth + 2 in the servants’ hall - doing the entrance passage - with Robert Mann and Wood and Matthew and Jack filling Mark Hepworth’s 2 one horse carts (began this morning) carting away clay (to make room for Booth about the tower) down to the old pit hill bottom of the coalpit field - John Booth and Sam planting strawberries and flower plants - Charles and James H- sawing up oak pit-frame wood in the morning and jobbing in the house (mending parlour floor for my aunt’s sitting room) in the afternoon - Robert Schofield and Joseph Sharpe riddling gravel for the walk - Robert Mann pleased to have found me right - the leakage in the low fishpond is under the sycamore tree - thinks stopt for the present and that it will be easily stopt - Mrs. Ann Lee here doing the carpet and curtains for my aunts little apartment (parlour and bedroom) - Matty Pollard here as she has been for the fortnight doing the beds - had Mr. Husband at 6 - long explanation (by chance) about beam in the buttery being moved for the new stairs - calm and quiet but sufficiently serious reproof for his not having told of me of this before - orders about leadpiping for water to new butler’s pantry, brewhouse, and farmyard - Frank brought home all the riddle sand from the Lodge, and brought the last 2 (of the 4) larches from lower place - dinner at 7 10 - coffee - A- did her French - an hour with my aunt - read the newspaper - my aunt had had much pain today - wrote all but the 1st 7 lines of today till 10 50 fine day F51° now at 10 50 pm settling bills etc till 11 ¼ pm

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strikercannon-archive · 3 years ago

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THE CANNON RESIDENCE .

location : tripps trailer park roommate : cannon brothers. other roommates : a german shepherd named scooby, chickens in a pen outside the trailer, and an revolving door of stray animals mickey rescues and nurses back to health.

pictured - 1. a typical tuesday evening 2. the bedside 3. & 4. their dining room/kitchen 5. the only home they’ve ever known 6. the single bed they own 7. the trailer’s exterior 8. some questionable kitchen decor 9. their broken postbox .

A COLLABORATION —

graphics by: @strikercannon

words by: @ofcannon

tagged: @rocketfm

who pays the rent, and how much is it?

mickey and striker split the rent straight down the middle. it’s one of the cheaper trailers, but the end of the month is still a scramble to get the money together, which usually results in both of them working overtime, or else owing their landlord favours around the trailer park in the form of manual labour.

how long has your character lived here?

the cannon brothers started living here when they first moved to roswell. living in such cramped quarters was only meant to be a temporary measure before one of them found their own place, but the convenience of staying together ( as well as the cost of living ) has meant that they’re still finding a way to make their close-knit set-up work ten years later.

how does your character feel about their home?

home has always been a loose term to the cannons. sometimes home is the cargo bed of a pick-up truck, sometimes home is a blanket spread over the screen porch, shutters pulled closed so you can’t hear the shouts of your parents inside the trailer, and sometimes home is just the shirt on your back and the loose change jangling in your pocket. for the cannons, home isn’t so much a place as the people you’re with, which is why despite the grand notion that they’d all live separately they haven’t been able to bring themselves to. with only one bedroom, they’re constantly alternating who gets a good night sleep and who gets to sleep on the sofa, but they wouldn’t have it any other way.

do they have hired help? if not, who does the chores and cleans around the house?

the cannons don’t own a dishwasher, let alone have hired help. cleaning is a task pretty low on their priorities list, and the place has definitely seen better years. it’s not so much grimy as it is cluttered, every surface covered in empty beer cans stubbed with cigarette butts, half-drank cups of coffee, newspapers bought with the intention of reading and then used instead as a dinner tray. after years of owning nothing, mickey’s become a bit of a hoarder. he keeps every letter he receives, savours trinkets from ex-lovers, has never thrown out clothing, but rather has learned to darn his socks and stitch patches into his overalls. their ethos is very much to make do and mend. on top of that there’s the influx of animals constantly passing through their house which doesn’t vouch for the cleanliness of the place. every so often, mickey will find himself anxious about the state of the place (especially if they’re expecting visitors) and organise a family clean, in which the brothers will blast music from a tinny old boombox and get to work scrubbing down the surfaces in fluffy pink washing up gloves. gloria gaynor and dolly parton feature heavily on the cleandown playlist.

what smells can be found lingering in your character’s home?

crusty boy smell, sourdough, unwashed socks, animal treats, weed smoke, home cooked mixtures of rice and beans, gasoline, cigarettes, the artificial soak of air lemon freshener, wet dog, wood polish, manure from the farmyard, instant noodles, tomato soup, coffee, sweat.

what temperature is the thermostat set at in their home?

[will poulter voice] wait, you guys have heating?

does your character have a favorite neighbor? who is it?

sparrow and alev <3

did your character grow up in this home, or is it the second, third, or fourth home they’ve lived in?

this is the third permanent residence the cannon’s have lived in. their first home was a trailer in clarksville tennesee with their increasingly tempestuous father, which never really felt like theirs. when striker was seventeen and mickey was thirteen, they took off in the pick up truck and drove until they reached texas. they spent a while living in their car before they found sources of income and a more permanent residence, though this was a time in their life that was unpredictable and rife with change. for a few years, mickey left his brothers to work for the carnivals where he shared a caravan with the other labourers, but ultimately the separation became too much, and he rejoined his brothers in a texas trailer home before the three of them made the journey to roswell.

do they leave the door open or closed when doing their business in the bathroom?

they absolutely leave the door open, even when they’re shitting, so they can continue their conversation. it’s not unlike them to use the bathroom at the same time. if mickey’s in the shower, striker’s hardly going to hold in his shit, he’ll just go at the same time.

if their home was on fire, what are 3 things your character would grab before running out?

mickey would grab his brothers, his dog, and the locket with a picture of their mum inside, since it’s the last photograph of her they own. striker would grab the nearest alcohol, his key to the farmhouse and an old, crumpled photo booth strip of the three boys from when they first escaped the hellscape of their family home.

#roswelltask #alcohol tw #Ω : ᴄᴏɴɴᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ + ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴀɴɴᴏɴꜱ 〔 ʀʜɪɴᴇꜱᴛᴏɴᴇ ᴄᴏᴡʙᴏʏꜱ 〕

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littlebrushprint · 1 year ago

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Add a touch of adorable charm to your nursery with our delightful digital pig nursery wall art. This baby pig print is a perfect addition to your farm-themed nursery decor, creating a cozy and inviting atmosphere. This farm nursery art captures the essence of baby farm animals, showcasing the cuteness of a pig in a whimsical and endearing style. Perfect for a farm nursery, barnyard bedroom, or farmyard nursery, this print brings the spirit of the countryside into your little one's space. Let the vibrant colors and the lovable character of the cute pig create a joyful ambiance, inspiring your child's imagination and fostering a love for farm animals. Our pig nursery art adds a touch of sweetness and nostalgia, completing your farmyard art set. Embrace the adorable charm of the baby pig and let its presence bring happiness and warmth to your nursery.

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whosafraidofvirginiawoolf · 4 years ago

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Virginia Woolf Appreciation Week: 7 Quotes from Novels

Did it matter then, she asked herself, walking towards Bond Street, did it matter that she must inevitably cease completely? All this must go on without her; did she resent it; or did it not become consoling to believe that death ended absolutely?

Mrs Dalloway

That was the strange thing, that one did not know where one was going, or what one wanted, and followed blindly, suffering so much in secret, always unprepared and amazed and knowing nothing; but one thing led to another and by degrees something had formed itself out of nothing, and so one reached at last this calm, this quiet, this certainty, and it was this process that people called living.

The Voyage Out

Sitting on the floor with her arms round Mrs Ramsay’s knees, close as she could get, smiling to think that Mrs Ramsay would never know the reason of that pressure, she imagined how in the chambers of the mind and heart of the woman who was, physically, touching her, were stood, like treasures in the tombs of kings, tablets bearing sacred inscriptions, which if one could spell them out would teach one everything, but they would never be offered openly, never made public.

To the Lighthouse

There was a star riding through clouds one night, & I said to the star, 'Consume me'

The Waves

You come and see me among flowers and pictures, and think me mysterious, romantic, and all the rest of it. Being yourself very inexperienced and very emotional, you go home and invent a story about me, and now you can't separate me from the person you've imagined me to be. You call that, I suppose, being in love; as a matter of fact it's being in delusion.

Night and Day

Let us go, then, exploring, this summer morning, when all are adoring the plum blossom and the bee. And humming and hawing, let us ask of the starling (who is a more sociable bird than the lark) what he may think on the brink of the dust-bin, whence he picks among the sticks combings of scullion’s hair. What’s life, we ask, leaning on the farmyard gate; Life, Life, Life! cries the bird, as if he heard, and knew precisely, what we meant by this bothering prying habit of ours of asking questions indoors and out and peeping and picking at daises as the way if of writers when they don’t know what to say next! Then they come here, says the bird, and ask me what life is; Life, Life, Life!

Orlando

Every face, every shop, bedroom window, public-house, and dark square is a picture feverishly turned - in search of what? It is the same with books. What do we seek through millions of pages?

Jacob’s Room

#VWappWk #virginia woolf #mrs dalloway #orlando #the waves #to the lighthouse #night and day #jacob's room #the voyage out

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merryfortune · 3 years ago

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Timid Princess in the Demon Castle

Written for the 100ships On Dreamwidth Challenge

Prompt: #23 Linen

Ship: Guiltshipping | Ruri/Sayaka

Fandom: Yu-Gi-Oh! Arc V

Word Count: 3,174

Rating: T

Warnings: No Warnings Apply

Tags: Alternate Universe - Sleepy Princess in the Demon Castle, Fluff, Humour, Captor/Prisoner, Sharing a Bed, Minor or Implied Stockholm Syndrome, Minor or Implied Lima Syndrome

Princess Sayaka was naive but she was not quite so blissfully ignorant as her peers in the royal court would have believed. She was aware, painfully so, of the rumours that she was said to be spoiled rotten to the point of incompetence, afraid of her shadow and completely unfit to rule due to her comically bad timidity. Hence why she was meant to be in an arranged marriage with a more assertive prince from a country from across the sea.

It was due to the burden of these rumours - and self-assessment of inadequacy thanks to her infamous timidity - that Princess Sayaka could not believe her poor and terrible luck. The very eve before she was meant to meet - and possibly even marry - the prince she was in an arranged match, she was kidnapped.

Kidnapped by the Demon King, no less, of all creatures in the land. She was just snatched up out of nowhere, stolen from her bedroom and flown out through the window. She was petrified the entire time in the Demon King’s claws and after a turbulent flight, she was plonked down unceremoniously in a very bare and undecorated prison cell.

She sat, knees together, her hair a mess and contemplated her life. Or lack thereof. Princess Sayaka had always been another plaything in her mother’s toybox, she was sure. Every dress, every pair of shoes, everything she could ever want from food to clothes to anything and everything at all had always been accounted for on her very whim. Never given a thing to do other than to sit prettily and smile, never say anything out of turn.

She had essentially slept through her own kidnapping. Oh, what a horrible princess she was, she cursed herself. Maybe this was the very fate she was destined for, Princess Sayaka commiserate on the cold, hard floor of her prison cell. Stolen for some unknown purposes, another trinket or pawn in a grand scheme she was very much not invited to take part in.

Princess Sayaka sighed. She may as well get comfortable but looking around, it was quite dull in here… her new home. Princess Sayaka sighed. There truly was not much of it. The ground was rough hewn stone that had an almost sandy look to it; the bars of her prison were rust-coloured but seemed sturdy enough. That lock on them was most certainly intimidating. As for the quarters themselves, oh, they simply would not do. She was a prisoner, she knew that, but they had to be unethical, even for a Demon King’s Castle.

Her bed was a rickety cot. She didn’t even have a pillow. The scrap of fabric given to her as a blanket looked scratchy. It was very much a far cry from the opulent luxuries that Princess Sayaka was used to. They simply would not do and so, Princess Sayaka went back and forth with herself in an argument. She shouldn’t complain, she should , no she shouldn’t and just as she finally found her voice to finally complain, to kick and cry like a good little spoilt princess should do when kidnapped, a demon had come to visit her.

A very, very pretty demon, so pretty she could be mistaken for an angel. The wings most certainly did not help such a conclusion that Princess Sayaka’s schemas wanted to make upon seeing her.

She wore the garb of a holy woman: blindingly white with blue and purple accents, a gold insignia upon her breast. Her dress was of thick cloth and she even wore a matching headpiece. She smiled serenely, her wings - attached to her sides like fractured arms - fidgeted slightly and she nervously shuffled from one foot to the other, of which, to Princess Sayaka resembled chicken feet but she was sure the demon in front of her was some noble bird of prey. Not a farmyard staple of poultry.

“I’m so excited to meet you,” the demon confessed with a brilliant smile, “we’re all excited, actually. We haven’t had a guest - no, wait, wrong word. Let me start again.” She cleared her through and it was a horrible noise with rocks tumbling about inside of it, or so Princess Sayaka thought as she recoiled at it. “We haven’t had a prisoner in so long. My name is Ruri, I’m a priestess and younger sister to the Demon King. It is wonderful to make your acquaintance, Princess… er…?”

“Sayaka.” she replied, filling in Ruri’s blank. “Princess Sayaka.”

“Ah, yes, Sayaka!” Ruri rejoiced, her feathered wings shuffled and shimmered, the colours were rich and dark, like amethysts. “It is wonderful to make your acquaintance, Princess Sayaka.”

“Charmed, the pleasure is all mine…” Princess Sayaka shyly replied out of courtesy, blushing deeply.

“So,” Ruri began, bright-eyed, “is there anything I can do to make your stay more comfortable? I was told to heal you if you sustained any injuries during your flight with my elder brother and remedy any complaint you may have.”

Princess Sayaka was confused, simply put, by what Ruri was saying. Was this some evil ploy to reveal her weaknesses for exploitation? Or, was this, even stranger, was it possible that Ruri was just as spoilt a princess as she was and hopelessly naive?

Even though some scrap of self preservation begged Princess Sayaka to lie, she found herself speaking without thought. She felt genuinely befriended by this girl in front of her who was meant to be her captor. Thus, three things came to mind, three desires to make this horrible brig more homey.

“I want a proper bed.” Sayaka confessed, head down and speaking to her slippers rather than to Ruri in front of her. “Something huge that I can snuggle into.”

Ruri nodded her head wisely, “I understand completely,” she said, most sage in her tone voice, “the instinct to nest is very powerful. I’m not surprised that even humans have the urge. Understood, I’ll have a proper bed fetched for you in no time at all.”

Ruri tottered off after that, claws scratching against the ground and her wings shuffling with unbridled joy. Pep was truly in her step and Princess Sayaka was left alone again. She didn’t like being alone, in the dark and quiet, with perpetual night just outside her barred windows but she was nothing if not obedient. Thus, she waited for Ruri’s return and to her actual surprise, when Ruri returned, she did, in fact, return with quite a glorious bed in tow.

Though a patient girl, Princess Sayaka had to admit that waiting for Ruri to return was gruelling. Minutes felt like hours and she hadn’t a sliver of a clue for how long Ruri had been gone at all but it was absolutely worth it for this end result.

The bed was huge. More than enough for one person and it had to be carried by a few other demons whilst Ruri flitted about supervising. It was of a handsome-coloured wood and looked incredibly sturdy. Ruri opened the door to the cell that Princess Sayaka was inside of and the bed was slotted in on its side and then bam. Set down with a great and heavy thud; smashing the previous cot that Princess Sayaka had been given to smithereens. She was just glad it wasn’t her.

She was gladder still that the new bed provided was, however, hers. It looked regal, completely fit for royalty such as her. She smiled a ginger smile, only to frown when she realised something. They laid a thick mattress down but they hadn’t given her any sheets, any blankets. She did not want to be ungrateful to her captors but Princess Sayaka approached Ruri through her bars.

“That bed looks lovely, Ruri,” she began, “but…”

Ruri was smiling blithely at first but that expression shattered to shock when she heard that fateful word, “But?” she echoed back to Princess Sayaka.

“I would like some lovely and soft sheets, something to keep me warm when it's cool and cool when it's warm, if I may make a selfish request.”

“Oh, Sayaka, you silly goose, of course you can make a selfish request, your our guest-”

“Prisoner?” Princess Sayaka humourlessly corrected her, with her glasses sliding off her nose, but Ruri shrugged it off.

“Same difference.” she huffed. “If you want the most splendid sheets in all the Demon Realm then so be it. I’ll get you some sheets.”

“Thank you, Ruri, truly, from the bottom of my heart.” Princess Sayaka replied.

“No worries, friend.” Ruri cheerfully replied.

Once more, with her tail feathers wagging, she rounded up her troops and had them quest next for beautiful sheets to go on top of the bed that she had just had them make from scratch. Thus, with a mattress far more comfortable with the floor, Princess Sayaka perched up on the bed on the interim, getting drowsier by the minute. She hoped that when Ruri returned again, with sheets this time, she could finally get to bed and have some sleep, pretending the world didn’t exist like a good little prisoner but she knew deep in her heart that there would be a third thing that she would require for a blissful sleep.

Princess Sayaka could swear that Ruri returned more quickly this time than last time. She also arrived with a whole lot less noise since she had shooed off her camaraderie of demons. She very happily and very proudly showed off the various bits and pieces of bedding that she had brought back to Princess Sayaka and she honestly couldn’t believe her eyes.

Princess Sayaka had been brought feather stuffed pillows that looked fat and comfortable to rest her head on. She had been brought fluffy, quilted blankets and the most gorgeous sheets that she had ever seen. The sheets were of the most pristine linen that she had ever seen. Her eyes sparkled as she admired the thread count. They were of a sepia-cream colour and upon being touched through the bars of hercell, Princess Sayaka felt as though her fingertips were perusing an object of heaven, not something crafted in the bowels of the Demon Realm. She couldn’t believe it and Ruri chuckled goodnaturedly at Princess Sayaka’s humbled reaction.

“Let’s do your bed together, m’kay?” she suggested.

“Okay.” Princess Sayaka replied.

Upon agreement, both princesses soon realised that they were very bad at making the bed. Ruri lacked opposable thumbs and made up for it in her claws and gung-ho attitude. It was a miracle she didn’t tear those glorious linen sheets, thereby proving their strength and making them all the more alluring to Princess Sayaka to sleep on.

Meanwhile Princess Sayaka flustered very easily. She wanted to give up the second things went wrong; when the sheet refused to go down under the mattress one end popping up the other end, peeling back. It was horrible. Useless. A girl like her wasn’t fit for anything; she was too timid and spoilt and everything else wrong with a monarchy system as a product.

But Ruri put all those anxieties to rest with just a smile. With just the flap of her actual wings, she proved unflappable. The bed was made - and without a single teardrop from Princess Sayaka.

She smiled, embarrassed by how red in the face she was. She was still very grateful for Ruri who peered at her expectantly for praise. The bed looked very well done now with its sheets and blankets. Princess Sayaka could not have been more gracious for the care and cooperation that Ruri had provided with her. The sheets all stretched out, thin and tight, Princess Sayaka would hate to ruin them but bedding was made to sleep in. Even splendid, fanciful, and demonic bedding.

“If you don’t mind…” Princess Sayaka murmured, blushing.

“Not at all, sleep tight and don’t let the bedbugs bite.” Ruri chirped.

Princess Sayaka hesitantly slid into the bed. She tried to move the sheets as minimally as possible and enjoyed how that glorious thread count felt on herself and she hazarded a smile as she set away her glasses. The bedding was wonderful, truly, she really shouldn’t ask for more but as soon as she was in the middle, with Ruri elatedly watching her, so happy that Princess Sayaka liked her new arrangements, Princess Sayaka was reminded of the third request she wanted to make. But she had already made two, she really couldn't but Ruri was eagle-eyed and noticed her dismal thoughts.

“Is something still the matter with your lodgings, Princess?” Ruri asked.

“It’s fine… I don’t want to be a bother…” Princess Sayaka murmured.

“No, no, it's fine, if you want to say something… Say it.” Ruri said.

Princess Sayaka’s expression worsened in how she scolded herself for her childishness but she managed to mumble her request, “I want a stuffed animal to hold. A dolly or a plushie, or the like…”

“Oh!” Ruri gasped. “That’s an easy fix, watch.”

Princess Sayaka blinked. She was far-sighted without her glasses so Ruri looked a bit blurry as she bounced around and whistled, shimmying all her feathers and it was almost like she was summoning something. Or someone. Princess Sayaka was briefly stricken with fear.

This was it. This had to be it. The moment that Ruri had been planning for, when she could set all sorts of nefarious plots in motions now that was Princess Sayaka had been lulled into a false sense of security. She was undoubtedly trying to summon her fearsome-looking older brother or some other monstrous figure belonging to the underworld to torture her, their prisoner. Princess Sayaka was quaking beneath the sheets, clutching onto their seam and then… poof!

“Mofu?”

Princess Sayaka blinked. That was, um, that was not the creature she was expecting to jump out of a ring of emerald green hellfire but she would not certainly take it.

The creature that Ruri had summoned on her behalf was a teddy-bear like creature in every faucet: beady little eyes, a button nose, plush brown fur. It even had a ribbon attached to his neck. The only thing that made it even slightly monstrous was its velour and downy wings that were bat-like.

“Tada!” Ruri chirped. “This is a teddy demon and there isn’t a fluffier or more cuddly-wuddly demon in all the realm so feel free to borrow this one.”

“Mu, mu!” the teddy demon mumbled.

It floated up on its wings, they were beating hard to carry its chubby body before plopping down in Princess Sayaka’s lap. It stared up at her with fuschia-coloured eyes and she couldn’t resist. They were so cute! So pleading! Princess Sayaka was enraptured with how adorable it was so she scooped it up and hugged it.

The teddy demon was the most opulent plush by far, comparing naught to any soft friend that Princess Sayaka had left behind in her bedroom in her home castle. She nuzzled her face against the teddy demon’s and it began to purr. The noise was silky and lulled her to sleep. Princess Sayaka yawned and she became aware of just how drowsy she was.

She cuddled in further into her bed, putting her head to the pillow. Ruri smiled a most contented smile. What a serene vision, she couldn’t be gladder that her work was done and Princess Sayaka could have a peaceful, restful sleep whilst imprisoned.

“Thank you for everything, Ruri…” Princess Sayaka murmured graciously.

“No worries, sleep well, Princess.” Ruri replied.

With that, Princess Sayaka watched as Ruri clucked off again. Her tailfeathers swaying as she sashayed around and away from the prison. Leaving Princess Sayaka all alone.

All… alone…

Princess Sayaka grimaced. She should be thankful. Grateful. All of that she truly, preciously was but even with the teddy demon asleep beside her, the feeling of loneliness that encroached was all but immediate. It was a dim and horrible gloom that weighed on Princess Sayaka’s shoulders. She held on tighter to the edge of the linen sheet that she was holding onto.

Three was meant to be her absolute limit. Two was already selfish. One was permitted. And yet Princess Sayaka spoke up, without even rousing on herself forth, going back and forth because she didn’t want to miss Ruri.

She called out her name and Ruri stopped. Her claws dragged on the stone flooring, making Princess Sayaka recoil.

“Yes, Princess?” Ruri called out from the darkness, from around the bend that Princess Sayaka couldn’t see, with or without glasses. Then she began to wander closer again, peeping around the corner with her wings close to her body and curiosity bristling in her demeanor.

“I have one more thing I would like to ask of you.” Princess Sayaka spoke up, her voice wobbling as she tried to cast aside her timidity in favour of being completely and utterly spoiled.

“What is it?” Ruri brightly asked, drawing in closer to the bars of Princess Sayaka’s prison.

She blushed profusely, “I-I, um, I want you to stay with me.” she confessed.

Ruri was genuinely surprised by Princess Sayaka’s latest request but she smiled fondly into it. She had a feeling this would very truly be the last one and so, she moved in closer, back to the middle of the prison cell, squeezing in between the bars and squawking when she got caught on accident. Princess Sayaka suppressed a giggle as Ruri waddled up to her and then collapsed at her side before wriggling around like a dove in a dirt bath. It was very cute.

Soon enough, they were face to face under the linen. Princess Sayaka smiled as she enjoyed the valuable blur of Ruri’s warm, companionable presence. She offered her hand and Ruri put part of her wing over it. Her feathers were divinely soft. They shared the teddy demon between them.

“Ruri…” Princess Sayaka murmured. “Why did your older brother kidnap me?”

“Beats me.” Ruri sighed. “I don’t understand boys. They get into all sorts of tailfeather measuring contests. He wanted to prove he was bigger and badder than some other demon, I suppose.”

“Oh.” Princess Sayaka giggled. She had predicted that she was just a pawn in a worthless war but that was even smaller than she was imagining. She felt her nose wrinkle as she laughed somewhere between sweet and sour.

“Yeah…” Ruri murmured and she snuggled in closer. She pecked Princess Sayaka’s nose, right on the bridge of it and then bade her good night.

“Sweet dreams…” Princess Sayaka sleepily replied.

Together, they dozed off into a beautiful and dreamy sleep, completely ignorant that in a few hours time, the Demon King Shun was going to be furious because his priestess little sister accidentally skipped her dark and unholy mass. And because he was, apparently, the only demon in this Demon Castle who knew how kidnapping and imprisoning princesses worked. But oh well, all’s well that ends well as far as Princess Sayaka was concerned and she was said kidnapped and imprisoned princess.

The end.

#100ships challenge #femslash #yugioh arc v #arc v #yugioh #guiltshipping #kurosaki ruri #sasayama sayaka #arc v fanfic #writing tag #i was very proud of this fic so i'm bumping it from the bottom to the top since its hot off the press

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outhereontheprairie · 3 years ago

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The Dairy Farmstead, North Dakota 1

The second homestead Linda found for us to adventure to may be the biggest one I’ve ever explored! And from afar, I couldn’t even tell it was abandoned! I was shocked when we pulled in here and it was totally vacant. Linda always finds the best places!

This lovely little homestead is tucked up against a hillside, overlooking a slough. You can see the silos from afar, and drive down the hill to get into the sheltered farm yard. It’s a truly lovely location!

Here is the view from the corner of the farmyard. Isn’t it nice?

Below: I don’t often see a metal sided building totally crunched in. Tornado, perhaps?

A beautiful old leaning barn. As we walked around we could hear the hum of an electric fence.

View of the house and what was an old outbuilding that has obviously seen better days. I do wonder what it was for.

We zeroed in on the house. I figured, this place couldn’t have been abandoned for long, right? It still has siding and a roof - and a lovely old shelter belt.

Walking around the side, you can see the structure that protects the back door from the wind.

I was excited to go inside. I figured this place must be fairly intact.

Let’s check it out!

Standing right in the front doorway, you look down into the basement on one side. We’ll get to that later.

We headed up the stairs to the left that led to the main part of the house. Already it was in poorer shape than I thought it would be.

I headed into a bedroom right off the main room (a dining room.) What clawed open the ceiling!? And the closet wall?

Yikes to that doorway. Also - so so dirty!

What a nightmare!

The back bedroom.

YIKES. Why is this house in such terrible shape!?

It was so dirty - obviously many abandoned homes are, but this one was top tier nasty.

Space between rooms.

This is the door you use when you come in from the back door. The dining room area. What an absolute shame.

The kitchen - in the same room as the dining room.

Did someone let raccoons loose in here? It’s so trashed.

Always interesting to see what is left behind.

Frilly curtains intact, and a baset in the sink.

So much left behind. Such a shame.

Just off the kitchen - the bathroom. It’s big!

Nice storage.

Decent cabinetry.

Once again, every drawer pulled open and every cabinet door swinging.

The rug was even left behind.

This bathroom honestly wouldn’t be bad if it were fixed up.

Looking toward the rest of the bathroom.

Toilet...someting landed on it.

Complete with a light above it. And plenty of plug ins.

What was the shower.

Filthy filthy - ish, ish, ish!

Leaving the bathroom, the next doorway looks like this! Time to explore it in the next post. Stay tuned!

#North Dakota #ND #abandoned #abandoned farm #abandoned farm house #farm house #farm #dairy farm #abandoned dairy farm #house #home

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dreamerkitty · 3 years ago

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Tried drawing out aaaallllll my villagers from Builders 2. I at first got to Clayton and was like ‘oh god i didnt realise how many there were...’ but soldiered on!

Ilda and Malroth’s house is in the green gardens (though Malroth barely ever uses it -_- ). Rosie and Britney are close and Britney’s fond of patrolling around the farmers fields. They share a house together! Lillian is the main cook and Llana is the bartender at the bar. Himiko’s a killing machine that helps with the farming (she’s named after the same character from the rpg Blue Dragon!). Lauren’s the shopkeeper and is only really in it for the money... There are one cow, sheep and chicken each and two dogs: Paula and Jess who I’m currently trying to breed (Paula is named after Paula from Earthbound and Jess after my late dog)

The Scarlet Sands would be where Phi would live but I don’t actually have a Phi in-game. Digby and Dougie are sometimes residents but I moved them out I believe to make room for the puppy (and I can’t move one without the other, duh!). Gooliope the slime shares a room with one of the dancing girls, she seems to love the piano there and is great at making oil. Kiki’s a cute singer and named after my bestie! Emilie is this areas shopkeeper and has a little rivalry with Lauren (she’s quite smug because her shop is bigger). Anise and Arabella are twin sister Cosmic Chymeras. One love to do cooking but I can never tell which... Sabre and Marumaro are a small Sabrecat family, they like to sleep on the building roofs. (and more characters named after Blue Dragon Characters!)

And finally the Cerulean Steppe! It’s where Lulu lives, she loves it because it has a castle, her room is very extravagant and fit for a princess. Anessa is the leader of the guards with Zara as her deputy. Zara and Esther are close and share a house! Tureen’s the resident Liquid Metal Slime and loves playing tag. The two guards Liza and Lucie are named after my online bestie and my sister <3 ! Pudding is the dog from Furrowfield (named after the Princess of Moonbrooke!). Haydin and Meenah are a couple with Meenah being just a beginner bard. Cellise is a bloody hand, she shares a bedroom with Nera (who she has a crush on). Szabo and Kesu are the gardeners here with just a small spot by the castle for their farmyard. Aurora is a golem who I think was meant to live on the Scarlet Sands but she ended up here somehow... (named after Aurora from the Azran Legacy!)

Ooops, kinda long! Eehee, hope you enjoyed!

#dragon quest builders 2 #dqb2 #my art #oc #ocs

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vagrantblvrd · 4 years ago

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maybe some more superhero content where matt is the tech guy but his super power is actually really great for super villains (he can force apathy on people or something). he is never cleared for field duty because hes really good at computers and look at all the donuts he eats, no way hes going in the field. shit happens and he is and he just wipes the floor with the villan of the week. and everyones like "fluke!" and he keeps doing it. "like its hard" and everyone is :(((( because its matt

Oooh, yes, but also, also. Whilst wandering the wilds of Superpower Wiki I came across Fear Manifestation?

Matt who can see both his and other people’s fears and bring them to life.

Just.

Imagine a wee little Matt Bragg discovering that’s his power?

This sweet little kid, all adorable and the whatnot and idk, maybe he saw a scary movie he was way too damn young to watch.

Or maybe a family member’s watching a horror flick thinking Matt’s asleep. Maybe he’s at a friend’s for a sleepover and one of their family members is watching the horror movie, whatever it is, Matt gets up in the middle of the night for a drink of water and sees this horrible, slavering thing on the screen and he has nightmares about it for ages, right?

Knows it’s not real, tells himself over and over again the way his parents did when they realized what was going on with him. Reminds himself it’s just a movie monster and can’t hurt him. Rubber and plastic and fake fur and fake blood and an actor in a suit, you know?

Same as some of his favorite characters in other movies and shows and nothing to worry about.

Except for that time it was?

Matt at a relative’s house for the weekend/summer and strange place – let’s make a farm with lots of trees and other things to cast strange, spooky shadows at night. Skeletal branches scraping against the glass of the spare room he’s sleeping in and owls and other night birds and animals going about their business and strange and unsettling to a city kid like him.

Has a nightmare about the monster, running, and running and running in the dark woods like in the movie. Stupid kid legs too short, slow, and it’s gaining on him and the last thing he sees before he snaps awake is the monster leaping on him, jaws opened wide and blood on its fangs from its last kill and where are his parents????

Poor, wee little Matt Bragg freaking right the fuck out and stumbling out of bed, steps slowing, faltering when he remembers where he is.

At his grandparent’s farm, miles and miles away from home and the closest city.

Dark spooky woods just beyond the farmyard on one side, cornfields on another. Big old barn behind a vegetable patch, and chickens and so on. Long winding dirt driveway leading to a small road and a couple of miles from the next farm over.

The farmhouse is unfamiliar to him, but he thinks he remembers the way to his grandparent’s bedroom. Knows they won’t be mad at him for waking him even at this late an hour, and even if they were he wouldn’t mind because it’s mean they’re safe, he’s safe.

Only.

The hallway doesn’t look, feel, right when he steps outside his room?

Ceiling too tall and he’s small still, a kid, but it’s not right.

The wallpaper’s different, not the pastel blue with pink roses his grandmother told him his grandfather picked because she loves roses. The light fixtures are different too? Not the polished brass and frosted glass but something colder, harder.

And -

There’s no window overlooking the vegetable patch at the end of the hallway, nothing he recognizes from his grandparent’s farmhouse.

“Oh,” he says, small little voice in a big, dark hallway, “oh, no.”

He does recognize it, because it’s from that movie he knows he wasn’t old enough to see any part of.

The one with the creaky floorboards under his feet and that light further down that flickers like a dying heartbeat.

Glowing red eyes that take form between one and the next.

Red and mean and this low snarl that rolls into a growl.

Click of the monster’s claws on smooth hardwood as it moves toward him, that slow, slow stalk of a predator that’s seen prey and poor, wee little Mat Bragg is frozen to the spot because this can’t be real.

But it is.

Or at least real enough that when the monster snarls again and launches itself down the hall at him he screams bloody murder and runs.

All the way back to the spare room he’s staying in where he slams the door shut and hides in the closet.

Hears it collide with the door, snapping and snarling and clawing at the wood while he curls down into corner of the closet and squeezes his eyes shut hoping it will give up, go away, that it’ll stop.

Claps his hands over his hears and recites the rules to the last game he learned to himself, card game his grandparents taught him before dinner.

He can hear yelling, so he presses his hands to his ears harder, but he can still hear the yelling. And then a gunshot, big, booming thing he recognizes, knows.

And his fear for his grandparents, his grandfather and that shotgun of his, has Matt uncurling, getting to his feet.

Worried about them, and he’s reaching for the doorknob to the closet door when the door to the bedroom slams open. Draws a yelp out of Matt and has him ck backpedaling as footsteps come his way and the closet door is ripped open -

“Matt?”

It’s his grandfather, looking as scared as Matt’s ever seen him, shotgun in his hands and staring at Matt like he can’t believe he’s okay.

And then, okay, and then.

Matt’s grandfather coaxes him out of the closet, promises him it’s safe and Matt believes him because his grandfather’s one of the strongest, toughest people he knows next to his grandmother and mom, and when he steps into the bedroom -

“…”

Because the room is untouched, sure, but the door?

Almost broken in two, clawed in two, huge gaping wounds in the wood where the monster tried to claw its way in.

The hallway beyond is the same Matt remembers from before, pastel blue and pink with touches of yellow and green, and the same light fixtures.

Seems the way he remembers it, normal farmhouse in rural South Carolina, and just.

Yes.

So, that’s how Matt discovers his powers and it’s not something he ever forgets, you know?

Gets worse as he gets older, realizes he can do that but with other people’s fears?

Like.

Slightly older Matt Bragg at school and bullies and this menacing figure with ham-sized fists and a rough voice and angry words and Matt’s bullies look so small next to them?

Things like that, and it’s.

He collects them, too.

Each new one slotting itself into his head, making a new home for themselves and sometimes he wakes up screaming because he’s dreaming someone else’s nightmare, fear.

(If he’s lucky, it stays a dream. Sometimes, though, sometimes they crawl out of his head into the real world and things, people, get hurt.)

Matt’s grandparents talk to his mom, his dad, the take him to specialists who teach him how to control it, because it’s that or lose his damn mind.

So he learns to control it.

Slips up from time to time, because he’s still a kid and feelings are hard, but eventually he learns to adapt.

Gets weird looks from people for being as easy-going as he is, weirdly apathetic sometimes?

But it is what it is.

He ends up working with small superhero teams here and there, a knack for computers and tech and people like him are always in demand, you know?

Superhero teams would be lost with out their techies and support staff and Matt gains a reputation as one of the better ones out there.

Catches the eye of a team in one of them big cities people are always talking about?

“Matt, what the fuck?”

Because Jeremy and old friends from way back. One of the minor league teams Matt worked for and this asshole with the impenetrable skin and bullheaded stubbornness to match. Jeremy’s new team needs another techie seeing as how they’re getting to be a little too much for one poor bastard to look after?

So Matt packs up his belongs and moves to the big city – “You’re impossible,” - and gets a tour from Gavin who’s far too relieved to meet him.

“Oh, thank God, you have no idea what it’s like,” like he really believes that.

(Matt’s known Jeremy for years, if what the asshole’s been telling Matt about his new team is even a little bit true, if they’re all like him in the worst possible ways then yeah, Matt fucking well knows.)

Anyway.

Matt starts working for this new team, big league players as these things go. Fight top-tier supervillains and a whole slew of lesser ones jockeying for position among the worst of the worst.

Have a whole city under their protection and a shiny space station all their own that should be fully repaired by the end of the year.

(Platform for an orbital death-ray in a past life, and Ryan and Trevor are quick to reassure everyone the death-ray is no more. Really, guys. :D?)

Anyway, anyway.

New team and all these new fears taking up residence in Matt’s head, you know?

Hi, hello, and I’ll just be living here now, right next to that monster that still gives you nightmares even now, don’t mind me.

Aside from all that, fears and nightmares living inside his head and all, Matt’s pretty easygoing? Affable.

Learns to put up with Gavin’s shit and loves giving it right back to him, the two of them kindred spirits in the way they sometimes want to throttle their fucking teammates?

Like.

Maybe don’t automatically resort to Heroic Sacrifice when there’s still time to come up with alternatives? Don’t be that asshole, okay? It’s a goddamned downer, and that’s before the funeral.

Should be a little worried (horrified?) at the fact that Gavin has secretly had the entire team and support staff microchipped, but when someone gets abducted or goes MIA it cuts down on the Drama and techie-side dramatically.

(Legal? Probably not, but everyone turns a blind eye to it seeing as how useful it is, and really, if Gavin went supervillain on them? The fact he could pinpoint their exact location whenever he wanted would be the least of their worries, so. Yes.)

Anyway, anyway.

Matt settles into the team incredibly quickly, realizes he likes it there?

Like.

Before all this he was just working a job, no real attachment or sentiment to go along with it. Dealt with some real assholes, all ego and no substance and all that over the years. Good people who stayed silent when they should have used their voices to do good and all that, just about everything you could think of, he’s seen it, dealt with it.

But these assholes?

He’s personally invested in them.

To the point he makes an effort to address their fears, see what he can do because some of them -

It’s not fixing them, not whatever horrifically simplified way of talking about it you’d think, just.

Stuff.

Things.

Something?

Something.

Little pushes here, a pointed question there. Outside perspective, non-judgment and that space their fears have made for themselves in his head...shift.

Go from something truly awful, something that could break a person who never deserved it into something smaller, more manageable.

And then, okay, and then???

All those lesser villains and supervillains, well sometimes one of them has real potential, you know? The makings of greatness, and everyone knows being great doesn’t always equate to being good.

Comes in and picks members of the team off one by one, clever and patient about it. So much so no one realizes it’s a concerted effort until it’s almost too late?

Incidents and accidents and seeming bad luck that takes out their heavy hitters at the start, has them calling on reserve members, has Gavin in the field which is a rare fucking occurrence, and not something the others like to see?

But, again, heavy hitters down for the count or missing altogether and their ranks thinned down to near nothing.

Gavin’s a little like Matt – not the same category regarding their powers, God no, just.

Gets underestimated far too often.

Doesn’t look intimidating like some of the others, isn’t some musclebound brute of a figure or anything, but he’s smart.

Clever.

Enough to know there were things Matt wasn’t saying, those long nights in the base nerve center worrying about the others where they’d talk about powers and such.

Little hypotheticals Matt would propose to counter Gavin’s and just.

Something to what he didn’t say, and anyway, anyway.

There’s a call, trouble in the city their team is sworn to protect and they’re the only two in the base who aren’t badly injured, off on what they all know is another wild goose chase searching for the asshole behind all this hurt.

Just the two of them and Gavin takes out a coin he carries around for some reason.

Ryan knows, though, doesn’t he. Gets this little half-smile when he sees Gavin rolling it across his knuckles and a story Matt’s only heard bits and pieces of from the others.

Trevor’s laugh and a glance up, up, up at wherever that shiny space station is in orbit at the time.

Michael’s heavy sigh and put upon scowl, thumbnail rubbing at at scar on his eyebrow in unconscious habit.

Lindsay fucking losing her shit, wheezing something about fucking idiots and...catsuits?

(Either literal catsuits, which, uh, no thanks? Or the kind that Gavin has hanging up in his closet, puts on when the team goes all-out in training and drag Gavin out even though he’s better suited for shadows and stealth rather than head-on tactics.)

And on and on, and one day, one day Matt will get the whole story out of these assholes.

Gavin takes out that coin of his and gives Matt this little grin, smirk.

Just the two of them in the base’s nerve center, lights down low and dread weighing heavy over all of them.

(Sometimes good doesn’t triumph over evil, sometimes the bad guys win. It’s happened in other cities before, will again because that’s how these things go, isn’t it.)

Gavin flips his coin, hand coming down to cover it before Matt can make out if it’s heads or tails and laughs as he heads to his quarters to suit up.

It’s a thing of theirs, that coin flip.

Loser grabs the coffee, or delivers bad news to an overworked and understandably cranky team. Goes and does the thing no one else wants to, can.

Something shifts in Matt’s head, big and mean and angry. Slavering jaws and glowing red eyes and claws that can tear through steel. (Matt’s seen it.)

“Back in a jiff!” Gavin says, suited up and ready to head into the city (their city) with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes and he’s a goddamned liar because he doesn’t come back, does he?

No he does not, the asshole.

Leaves behind in the dark, all these fears and nightmares in his head.

That monster from his nightmares as a kid? First one he remembers and with him all this time later, less a nightmare and something like a constant...constant.

Something help ground himself when he loses control and can’t tell nightmare from reality and the other way around.

Movie monster made real, and something he’s lived with for a long damn time, learned to make his peace with and all that.

Besides.

He has all these new fears now, doesn’t he? Less fantastical in some ways but no less horrifying to contemplate, because.

This, his team? (Family?) They play a big part of his newest ones.

Still.

No time to think about that, not with some asshole broadcasting some stupid diabolical scheme to the entire city. Cruel and smug and gloating, and Matt’s missing teammates strung up behind him awaiting death by public execution or whatever it is he’s babbling about.

And Matt, okay, Matt.

Doesn’t have a suit or mask to call his own, never really needed one, you know?

Techie like him?

Yeah, no.

No suit, no armor.

Just Matt and a head full of fears and nightmares, and people don’t give him a second glance between good old Matt making his way to the asshole’s lair and the whole city in peril deal.

The ones who do? Hired goons and personal henchmen in matching uniforms? Well, wouldn’t you know what interesting fear they all have?

There are a few you’d expect, dying old and alone and heartbreaking in that respect, but others?

They’re things that step out of the shadows, slither in some cases, with big teeth and claws and the screaming just gets them more excited.

Matt doesn’t kill them, those hired goons and personal henchmen, God no, but they won’t be getting up anytime soon.

(Fear will do that to people, sometimes.)

Works his way up, up, up to a building rooftop and why, Matt wonders, why do they all have to be so goddamned theatrical about this shit?

Anyway, though.

There’s Matt in his hoodie and jeans and worn sneakers he swears he’ll replace soon, really.

There’s Matt, and then there are more hired goons, personal henchmen, and his team, all strung up. The asshole behind this bullshit.

And then, you know, and then.

That nightmare monster that’s been with Matt all these years?

Stalks out of the shadows with its glowing red eyes and sharp fangs and sharp claws.

Stands at Matt’s shoulder, rumbling growl and -

There’s screaming, because there always is, you know?

Big fucking thing like that appearing out of nowhere?

Yeah.

Matt looks up at it, and he knows, he knows, mercy, but in all honesty he’s not really feeling it after all the bullshit this asshole’s put his family through, and yet?

“Try not to kill them,” Matt tells his nightmare monster, and turns his attention to the asshole in the dumb suit.

Smiles when he hears it snarl, rush of displaced air as it races towards the line of stunned hired goons and personal henchmen and then he’s got other things to worry about.

It’s not graceful, not dignified what happens next because Matt doesn’t have the training, skills, the rest of his team does, you know?

At best he’s picked up enough to defend himself if some dick tried to mug him when he’s out and about, but he’s no hand-to-hand specialist. No martial arts master. Nothing fancy like that.

Gets knocked around a little, which, ha, part of his genius plan because fist to cheek and bingo.

“Oh,” Matt says, smiles up at the asshole through bloody teeth. “That’s a nasty fear you have, huh?”

Something about an aching, yawning void, and anger? Voices that claw at the mind, unravel sanity and the poor, stupid bastard who thought he was clever enough to outwit whatever dwells at its heart.

A deal struck out of arrogance and something close to ignorance, and a debt long owed and it shouldn’t exist in their dimension, you know? Impossible, because there are rules, and yet -

It’s the poor stupid bastard’s worst nightmare come to life, and Matt’s powers and there they are.

A furious scream, and clumsy rush like the asshole thinks he can put a stop to his fate if he just kills Matt, but he doesn’t.

Trips, a spot of bad luck or something else, and Matt sidesteps and there’s that aching, yawning void and all that anger.

Swallows him right up before it vanishes, space where it is rippling and warping and Matt has to look away because it isn’t right, how the world works and then it’s gone and it’s just.

Matt and his asshole team scattered about and groaning and unconscious hired goons and personal henchmen and -

“Hey,” Matt says, woozy, exhausted. “Good job.”

Matt’s nightmare monster snorts, tosses its head and fades away.

He feels it settling in the back of his mind as he passes out, familiar weight in the back of his head.

AND THEN.

Everyone collectively loses their shit because what the actual fuck, Matt Bragg?

Matt being like, “So, uh, hey, there’s a thing I forgot to mention?”

And the whole story about his powers comes out and, uh.

The thing where Matt saves the day again and again with his nightmare monster buddy/using some baddie’s fears against them and the others are like “We had that, Matt Bragg” which is a blatant lie as they were about to be lasered in half or whatever, idk.

Yes???

This totally got away from me and I don’t know what I’m doing anymore, but yes???

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

#ragehappy #superpowers au #prompt fills #Anon #uh #yes #hope this is somewhat close to what you wanted???#technically not a fic #vagrant fic #:D???#Anonymous

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