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rheapankow · 1 year ago

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Devils in the Details

paring(s): jj x mom!reader

summary: You never liked JJ Maybank. He was arrogant and sometimes rude. To sum it up, trouble. But he was your daughters' surf instructor. The best on the island and only the best for your girls. But what what happens when one of them lets family secrets slip?

warning: abuse, one cuss word

┌──────┐

He rolled his icy blue eyes. "You're a kook, I don't think money is an issue for you babe. I expect it by the end of the morning when you pick them up or else I'm going have to drop them." The woman's heart stopped as she looked to Matilda and Mercy, fear locked in their green eyes.

"I'll get what I can."

"And be here by noon. I'm not a daycare." With that, he ended the discussion and focused on the girls. "Come on girls, let's put some zinc on. I got pink and purple for my two favorite princesses." They cheered and clung to his leg.

If y/n hadn't watched the previous sessions, she would say he hated children and hated his job, but that was the furthest from the truth. The joy in his eyes when he worked with students and seeing them conquer any task. Tilly could go on for hours about how amazing he was. Mercy on the other hand just stared at him and worshiped the ground he walked on.

The soft eyes filled with tears, losing any last ounce of dignity. There is no way she could get that money. Full kook, yes. Money, no. Not hers at least. Y/n's dreadful husband, Rafe, sat on a pile of it, checking every expense made, berating every choice made for thier kids, leaving everything to him. She had a small sum on the side that was hidden away, but all of that went to Mercy and Tilly. If he could just wait for Rafe to leave, y/n can sneak to the safe to take a little. She sat in her tinted black Escalade, formulating a plan.

The clock on the dash read '10:45am' as the car sat in the driveway of a multimillion dollar home, all thanks to her husband. As terrible as Rafe was, the luxury made up for where he lacked. Was that a selfish thought? Did that make me a terrible person? It didn't matter at this point. Mercy and Till remained at the forefront of y/n's mind. Protecting their innocents from the sins of their father consumed her mind daily.

"Rafe?" Y/n called out. Despite not seeing his car, you couldn't trust the silence. "I'm home." Once scoping at the place, she raced to his office safe located behind the sail boat. Rafe was simple, his passwords simpler. '6969.'

Y/n skimmed a small stack of cash covering enough for next session of lessons, gas, and ice cream for the girls.

"Excuse me miss?" A small elderly voice call from behind.

Her heart sank, praying the maid wouldn't pass on the information. "Oh Claire I didn't know you were here!"

"Mr. Cameron doesn't like people in here."

"I'm his wife, he knows." Y/n prayed a false bravado would be enough to hide the shaking hands.

"Yes ma'am." Once she left, y/n raced backed to the surfing shack with thirty minutes to spare. That's enough time to finish her latest novel. Enough time to escape from Rafe's wrath when he finds out what she did... again.

Y/n was pulled away from reading by the sound of giggles getting closer. "Mom!" Tilly called out as the door opened. "Please tell me you have the money. He's going to tech me how to duck dive and we're going to go even deeper!"

The lady muster up a smile and said she handled it. "Do you mind getting Mercy buckled so I can give it to him?"

Tilly nodded enthusiastically. For only being five, the girls more advanced than the average kindergartener. She's curious, adventurous, and can't forget funny. Mercy on the hand is cautious yet full of wonder and a deep love for her sister. Mercy does what Sadie does and surfing is just that. The joy it brings seeing both girls eager to learn. Next thing y/n knew they are going to be competing against each other.

"Excuse me, JJ?" Y/n's demeanor was timid, scared he might explode at any second.

"You can just put it on the table and head back to figure eight." The comments were not new, but it still shocked y/n. Didn't he know she grew up just right down the road, didn't he understand she had to work ten times harder to be where you are. Too bad JJ only saw two things, money and women.

"Do you even want to work with my kids?" Y/n let out a heavy sigh. "I don't understand why you have this deep rooted disgust towards me?"

"Your kids have more talent in their pinky toe than I did at that age. They are going to go far in surfing. I hope to be the one to teach them. I don't disgust you, I need to make rent and a living. And I hate your husband."

"Sorry."

"Don't be sorry, be better. I'd hate to have to drop them." Y/n's heart sank even further.

"See you tomorrow." With that, y/n walked out, worried about heading home. By the rate her phone was blowing up, Rafe knew. A storm was coming.

—

Y/n did her best to hide the bruises scattered on her, but nothing compared to the shiner and gash on her cheek. "I slipped in the shower" she told the girls, trying to laugh the abuse off for the sake of saving face. That was the easy part. It's the adults that poke holes in every syllable.

"Mommy, are you going to walk with us?" Tilly shyly asked. Ever since the young girl work up, she's been more soft spoken, always close by.

Y/n looked into her eldest daughter's eyes. The glimmer that once was there was gone. 'Does she sense her mother's pain?' The agony engulfed the young mother. "Anything for you girls." Y/n scooped both girls into her arms and began the short journey. "I think you two are getting a little too old for this. I'm not what I used to be." She teased, ignoring the wounds on her ribs.

"Good morning ladies!" JJ made his way to the small group of three. Mercy was the first to run to JJ and engulfed him in a hug. He gladly accepted it. He loved his job and loved all the kids he instructed, but these girls were his best. They were full of life and joy making every lesson fun; a breathe of fresh air.

Tilly cautiously walked over in an uncharacteristically manner. Her eyes sunken back and darker. JJ tried to signal to y/n but she was hidden behind a sun hat and glasses. "I'll be over in the boneyard reading until is time if that's okay?"

Y/n's body slumped over, hiding her face. A mannerism that JJ did not miss. "You can go run errands like usual or something as long as you are back by noon."

"No, I'd like to be close to my girls." JJ ignorantly dismissed her and took the girls to go get their wet suits.

"How are we doing today?" JJ began engaging in conversation with the girls.

"Mommy made tuna mac!" Mercy excitedly screamed about her dinner.

"Was it delicious?" JJ had now turned his question to Tilly.

"Yes." Her shoulders dropped at the thoughts of last night.

"Anyways let's go stretch and then we can get out on the water. Waves won't last all day."

Throughout the session, JJ kept a closer eye on Tilly. Maybe she was coming down with something. She was adamant on continuing the class, not wanting her daddy's money go to waste. As if Rafe wasn't snorting it up his nose like it grew on trees.

"Mister JJ?" Tilly looked at him. "Are you safe?"

The instructor got on a knee to look her in the eyes. "What's up, t?"

"Teacher at school says to talk to someone safe if you need help." JJ glanced at Mercy who was building a sand castle during the break, then back at the older child.

"I am safe, but have you talked to your mommy about it?" He didn't want to overstep his job title, but also didn't want the girls to not trust him.

"I can't." He gently grabbed her hand to encourage her to speak. "Mommy lied to me."

JJ wanted to chuckle but Tilly's eyes showed immense depth of hurt and betrayal. "What makes you say that."

"She says she slipped in the shower, but last night I heard daddy say something mean to mommy. And when I went to go check on her she was sleeping on the floor and had blood on her face." JJ's eyes widened, not wanting to jump to conclusions. "I think daddy hurt mommy. He always hurts mommy."

JJ understood being in Tilly's shoes, but where does he go from here? Should he call cps and watch the family be torn apart? Or should he confront y/n about it? All he knew is he couldn't not do anything. "Would it help if I talk to mommy about it?"

"I don't want her to get sad. I didn't know who else to tell." Tears began streaming down her face. "Help please." The girls sobs reminded him of his own, each cry more heart shattering than the last as she collapsed into his arms. "I'm scared."

JJ did his best to calm the child, but he knew the last ten minutes were going to be less productive and more play. "How about you stay here and play with mister John B and mercy while I go make sure mommy is alright? How does that sound?"

She nodded, slipping out of his arms back to the sand. "Bird, you got them for a second? I need to talk to y/n for a bit." He nodded confused but took charge. Having a kid of own, John B has become great with kids, all those dad tricks.

Y/n leaned perched up against a tree, nose tucked into a book. The sound of the blonde headed man snapped her back to reality. "Y/n?"

"Oh is the session over already? I guess my mind has been somewhere else." Every movement was curated perfectly, shielding her face from his gaze.

"We ended a little early. I, um, wanted to talk to you about Tilly." He stumbled over his words. The last thing JJ wanted to do was make her feel unsafe. How many times has he made comments about how perfect her life was? How many days has he treated her with contempt all because she had what he didn't. Maybe their story has more in common than he thought.

Y/n was worried about what Tilly said, the young girl is incredibly smart and picks up on everything. What if she-

"Y/n. Please look at me?" JJ's typical cold tone was warm and comforting, something so pure and trusting. As she looked up, her glasses shifted allowing a clear view of her face. Something else JJ didn't miss, something he never imagined.

Hues of blue and black littered her skin. A deep cut ran along the bone. JJ let out a gasp. "Y/n."

"Don't. Just leave it alone." Her voice shook.

"Tilly told me she went to check on you and you were passed out." Y/n's heart stopped. “That didn’t happen. Kids make up stories all the time. Over active imagination.”

“Y/n.”

“I slipped in the shower. I’m fine.” The desperation to believe the lie was evident. “I’m okay, really I’m-”

JJ’s voice became softer than before. “Y/n, please.”

“No, I-” The levy broke through the cracks. Tears began pouring down her sun kissed cheeks.”

For the second time that morning, JJ held another human in his arms. “It’s going to be okay.” He reassured her the best he could. “You��re not alone.”

Once the storm blue over, the lady composed her self. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

“I’ve been where Tilly and Mercy have been, except my mom had enough sense to get out, not enough sense to take me with her. I don’t want the girls to be collateral damage.” He leaned in close with a soft smile. “Don’t tell anyone, but I have a soft spot for kids. Especially ones as sweet as yours.”

“They are pretty great.” Y/n took a deep breath. “Did you turn out alright.”

JJ chuckled. “Oh fuck no. She tried to smile, but feared for the future too much.

“I don’t know what to do. They love their dad. I can’t just take them and go. Rafe has all the money. I have a little from teaching, but it’s for the girls. Everything I do is for them, but it wouldn’t be enough for us.” JJ felt the guilt rest on his shoulders. He couldn’t wait one more day for her to get the money, she probably had to sneak money away. Now she’s beaten, bruised, and broken. It’s his job to fix it.

“So let’s come up with a plan. You open a separate bank account, find a better teaching gig or pick up tutoring, prove to yourself you can do it. Then when you feel steady enough, find a place and make an escape plan.”

“Easier said than done.”

JJ nodded. “I know I haven’t been the friendliest person, but I’m here to support you now if you’ll let me. It’s not easy, but I don’t want anyone to go through what I went through. If I can help it.”

Y/n looked deep into his eyes for the first time. “I’m not sure if I want to do this.”

“For Tilly and Mercy.” JJ offered his hand to help her up. “One day at a time.”

“Yea something like that.”

JJ and y/n walked back. The seasons were changing, a new tide was coming. “Change isn’t easy, but you’re going to get out.”

With that, everyone went their separate ways. One day at a time.

└──────┘

A/n: part 2??? Feedback would be so appreciated:) - Rhea

Tag list: @multifandomwhore-003

#outer banks #outerbanks #obx cast #obx fanfiction #obx fic #obx #rafe obx #obx x reader #obx imagine #jj obx #obxedit

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theboywithburninghands · 6 months ago

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Oookay. This is a big one. This is the part where the shoe drops, so hang onto your butts… No but seriously, be careful if any of the topics here are a trigger for you, okay? Here we gooo- @fernstarsblog -oooo.

T/W: Drug addiction, sibling violence, toxic masculinity, acid reflux (to be safe), era appropriate sexism

Primum Peccatum Ch. 8: Nausea, Oh Nausea

The day after she received her engagement ring, Pomni faced yet another bugbear. Perhaps it was stress, or perhaps it was her eating habits, but a dreadful case of pyrosis had festered in her abdomen. She woke up early that morning, gasping and swallowing from a noxious, brutally hot bubble of stomach acid that had frothed its way into her throat. She managed to swallow it back down, but it merely rejoined the larger mass of bile that sat burning and unmoving in her chest. She coughed, her throat now feeling red and inflamed, and she stumbled from her bedroom into the washroom in search of alkalizers.

She opened the medicine cabinet just above the sink, rifling through the glass bottles of pills and brown tonics. Meadowsweet tablets, camphor oil, senna purgatives… no alkalizers. There were 100-tablet bottles of the confounded things sitting around any drugstore for a measly one crown, why had she or her parents never bothered to purchase one?!

No matter. The first ferry left at seven in the morning, she could return her library book and purchase a bottle in no time. Then she’d have the rest of the day to read with no distraction.

She pressed a hand to her chest and groaned. Pyrosis always seemed to emerge from nowhere, yet remained stalwart for days without proper treatment. She felt as though someone could have driven a spile into her chest and a torrent of acid would erupt from the tube, scorching and marring anything it touched.

Pomni clothed herself, a white dress today, grabbed her book from her nightstand and a pair of stockings from her wardrobe, and hurried downstairs into the foyer. Zooble had the front door open, sweeping detritus from the previous day’s rain off of the front stoop. Pomni had begun tugging on her stockings when Zooble finally broke the silence.

“Up early, are we, Ms. Shutnyk?” they said without looking up.

“Good morning, Zooble. I say, you wouldn’t happen to have any papaya tablets, would you? My chest burns quite a lot…”

Zooble finished sweeping the left side of the stoop, then glanced up, leaning on the shaft of their broomstick.

“I do not. If you like, I can fetch some for you on my afternoon grocery run. I hate to admonish you, but I did warn you not to neglect meals. You’re skipping lunch to avoid your parents, aren’t you?”

Pomni opened her mouth to respond, then closed it. As usual, Zooble had the most common sense in the entire estate. She had indeed been skipping lunch most days… all the excess bile in her stomach had to go somewhere. …She wasn’t sure if that answer was scientific, but it was a reasonable hypothesis.

“Very well then. I’ll purchase a bottle on the mainland. I’ve finished Humidity and I’d like to exchange it for something… heavier.” Pomni put a closed fist to her lips, fighting off a sour belch climbing up her throat. She pulled on her white pumps.

“Perhaps a dictionary?” Zooble replied, resting their chin on the head of their broomstick.

Pomni rolled her eyes, smirking. “I’ll take the suggestion to heart. Have a pleasant morning, Zooble.”

Pomni climbed to her feet, picked up her hat and handbag and hurried out the door towards the road. Once she was out of earshot of anyone, she allowed herself to belch. It provided a few moments of relief before the burning in her chest rekindled. She sighed and slid her novel into her handbag. The early sun cast a beautiful red and orange cone of light across the reach, birds twittered back and forth to one another, it was a tranquil scene. Pomni wished she could enjoy it more, but it was difficult to savor the splendor of nature when her chest burned so much.

She reached the pier and sat upon one of the benches. She had no pocketwatch, but the sun fully rose around 7:27 in the morning, so she would only have a quarter of an hour or so before the ferry arrived. She sat, drumming her fingers on the strap of her handbag impatiently. She dug into the leather slightly with her fingernails at a particularly bad sear of pain in her chest. A distraction would be much appreciated right about now…

She removed Humidity from her handbag. She had the book read twice, but rereading her favorite bits might pass the time somewhat-

“GOOD MORNING MISS SHUT-NECK!”

Pomni leapt almost a foot off of her bench at the sudden exclamation from behind her. She whirled about and glowered at the perpetrator.

“Bubble! For the love of the Allfather, must you shout like that?!”

The perfectly spherical shapeman grinned, showing off dagger-sharp teeth, and his beady little eyes gleamed with unintelligent enthusiasm. A leather satchel was wrapped across his entire, transparent body like a belt, the Postal Service crest embossed onto it.

“A thousand pardons, Miss Nut-Shack! But you’ve received a letter!” he squealed.

Bubble was the postman of Primum Peccatum. And although he was… abrasive, to put it delicately, he was impeccably punctual, largely due to the fact that he could fly. There were rumors that he came from a hidden oasis somewhere in Dovicia, but there were no anthropological reports detailing such a place. It was also unknown exactly how Bubble earned his occupation, as the HOA members either were unaware of ever discussing the matter or recalled that someone else in the Association approved his application. He probably had friends in high places…

“A letter? If it’s from the Telychian Heritage Institute again, please be rid of it.”

“Not this tiii~iiime!” Bubble sang, spinning in a full circle. “It’s from Blackshell Bay!”

Bubble flicked open his satchel and held out a letter, despite his lack of any sort of appendage to do so. Pomni accepted it delicately, worried she might be bitten. Bubble immediately snapped his bag closed and hovered a bit higher.

“Now then! Off to serve the rest of the happy folks on this miserable island! Godbwye, Miss Shed-Trick!”

With that, Bubble drifted off, tumbling away into the treeline like a marble dropped into a tank of water.

Pomni sniffed. She looked down at the envelope. It had been sealed and stamped with red wax, the stamp an ornate letter “K.” She read the return address.

Drexl Krolik

The Krolik Estate

2800 Kovach Ln.

Blackshell Bay, New Hirnantia

6YL B8H

A letter from Jax’s father. Had she not already been extremely uncomfortable due to her reflux, her chest would have tightened even more. She swallowed, breaking open the seal and removing the letter from its envelope. Her hands trembled a bit.

“To My Daughter-In-Law,

I was pleased to hear that my son has earned your trust during our visit. From what your father tells me, you are an intelligent and trustworthy girl, and I thus have faith in your ability to look after Jax. However, I was dissatisfied by the length of our conversation.

I still know little about you as an individual, and would like to remedy this. Therefore, you and Jax are cordially invited to my estate tomorrow evening at seven o’ clock. My other sons are quite eager to make your acquaintance as well. Dinner will be provided.

I look forward to your company. Please reply to this letter at your earliest convenience.

Fondly,

Drexl Krolik”

Pomni felt her already inundated stomach lurch. What manner of foolishness..? Tomorrow evening? And dropped on her so suddenly-! She was hardly used to Jax, now she had to contend with the entire family?!

“Suspicion is the proper response to some members of my family,” she remembered Jax saying. She felt like vomiting even more.

She hurriedly crammed the letter into her handbag before jumping to her feet and racing off towards The Rooker Estate.

—

Pomni arrived at Mr. Kinger’s front door, out of breath and perspiring. Her lungs now burned in addition to the rest of her chest. She grasped for her ring of keys, unlocking the door and sliding inside.

“Mr. Kinger?!” she called out, shutting the door behind her. “I apologize for arriving unannounced, but I must speak to my fiancé urgently!”

She received no reply, either she hadn’t succeeded in rousing anyone or Kinger had ventured into the woods early to collect insects. She crept up the foyer stairs onto the second floor landing, gazing hesitantly into the East wing. She chewed on her fingertips.

“Mr. Krolik?” she whispered harshly. “Mr.- Jax, it’s me! It’s Pomni, are you there? I have a matter of the utmost importance to-”

She let out a pained gasp and clutched at her chest. Acidic pain churned within like a smelting pool. All that running had only aggravated her condition. She needed relief.

“Oh, damn it all to The Void…”

She hurried to the guest WC. She had stayed the night at Kinger’s house enough times to know exactly how the guest wing was arranged, the furthest door on the right led to this bathroom. The door was left open a small bit, which spared her the embarrassment of having to knock and ask if it was occupied. She nudged the door open.

The guest bath was surprisingly tidy compared to the rest of the house. Kinger probably had no use using such a damp and private area as storage space. The privy sat on the far end of the room, the faucet on the left wall and the washtub on the right. How anyone was supposed to warm the bathwater was unclear, perhaps it was just a cold tap… Pomni shuddered a bit at the idea of bathing in cold water.

Sitting at the faucet were a few toiletries, no doubt belonging to her fiancé. A wide bristled toothbrush and a fairly new tube of Crowley’s spearmint dental cream, a silver comb and brush set, and a bottle of eau de toilette, lavender scented. Pomni opened the mirror cabinet above the sink, praying to the Allfather or any deity that happened to be listening that there were some…

“Alkalizers! Oh, Allfather be blessed…”

A half-full glass bottle of Dr. Tatasciore’s papaya tablets sat among the myriad of other medicines. Pomnu seized the bottle, which clinked against its glass neighbors, and untwisted the metal cap. She shook two of the dull pink tablets into her palm and clapped her hand to her open mouth. She ran the tap and drank from it greedily, the tablets swept into her belly along with the cold water. She let out a long sigh, twisting the faucet off and replacing the cap on the bottle. Her chest still burned, but now relief would arrive in a half-hour to an hour, “guaranteed or your crowns back!”

She let out another rather weighty, uncouth belch, thankfully stifled by her hand, and replaced the bottle of alkalizers. As she did so, her eyes fell upon a familiar tincture bottle. The holistic Jax had taken yesterday, supposedly some sort of cure-all from his native land. Pomni smirked to herself and picked it up, curious as to what sort of ingredients went into this miraculous bottle of panacea.

The label on the bottle had been partly removed, but some of the text remained legible.

“-NCTURE CAMPHORATED

1.83 gm opium per fl. oz

Warning: May be habit forming

Alcohol 45%.”

Pomni reread the label several times. It wasn't holistic. This was… laudanum. A tincture of opium. She read about it in secondary school in her health science lessons. Opium was a narcotic that came from the poppy flower. It was known for its soothing effect on both severe pain and on the brain, but it was extremely addictive. In fact, the New Hirnantian Ministry outlawed the purchase and use of laudanum for anyone under the age of 18 precisely because it was so addictive. Children used to be given the horrid draught to “calm them down,” before, nearly a half-century ago, the Prime Minister published a statement.

“Our children should be focused on learning and socializing, and spoon feeding them this brain-softening poison is setting our next generation up for catastrophe.”

Pomni put a hand to her mouth. The strange glassy sound she had heard, and the object he was toying with in his pocket the day they first met in her father’s library. It must have been a bottle just like this one. And opium had adverse side effects such as profuse sweating and digestive issues. It explained everything.

He lied about having dyspepsia.

He took some laudanum right in front of her and lied to her face about it.

He was…

He…

…How many lies had he told already?

Was… everything he said…?

Pomni set the bottle onto the faucet with a now trembling hand. Her chest burned with new pain. But, instead of fleeing the house, she marched across the hall to the guest bedroom and rapped sharply on the door with a closed fist.

“Mr. Krolik! Open the door this instant!” she ordered.

There were a few moments of silence before Pomni beat on the door once again. Her second rapport earned her a reply from behind the door.

“Pomni…? Goodness, what time is it..?” came Jax’s sleep-addled voice.

“Either you come to the door by the time I count three, or I’m entering myself!” Pomni declared. “One! Two! Th-”

The door opened, revealing Jax in a long, black nightshirt and white underclothes, hurriedly and begrudgingly rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“By the Allfather, what is the matter? Is there an emergency..?” he asked, his yellow eyes flecked with the red of unconsciousness, his fur mussed and sticking up in some places, and his usual smile absent.

Pomni removed the letter from her handbag and thrust it into Jax’s hand, the rabbit looking at it with bleary concern.

“You are a liar, Mr. Krolik,” Pomni seethed. “You have the gall to lie to me and then put this… this wretched stone on my finger?!”

Pomni twisted the engagement ring off of her finger and tossed it onto the floor. It bounced a few times on a dusty red throw rug before clattering to a stop on the hardwood floor.

“Pomni, I-” Jax began.

“Hold your tongue! You needn’t say anything else, you cad! I found your bottle of ‘holistic medicine,’ I had no idea opium was such a popular form of alternative therapy!”

Jax’s yellow eyes grew wide. “You-”

“I cannot believe I was beginning to grow comfortable around you! Hiding inebriety from me? When were you planning on divulging THAT little factoid, hm? During our vows?! What else have you lied about?!”

Jax looked down at the washroom then back to Pomni. “N-No, dear, there must be a mistake, I-I-I never-”

Pomni stomped a foot, a ream of nearby papers sliding over into an accordion-like line.

“Oh, please, lie to me again! That will certainly redeem your character! Near-eidetic memory, have you forgotten?!” Pomni tapped on her skull with a finger. “I recognize the bottle from yesterday, so don’t you dare insult my intelligence by trying to tell me you’ve never seen it before!”

Pomni pressed a finger onto the letter in Jax’s hand. “Well, I can promise you one thing, Mr. Krolik! I certainly am not going to lie to your father! I’ll tell him exactly what a dazed, two-faced opiomaniac you are! Oh, oh, and while we’re on the subject, I should tell my father about your little infatuation with poppy! Yes, I’m sure he’ll be positively DELIGHTED to know that the man he so GENEROUSLY hand-picked for me has been hiding this! Maybe fate will finally show me an iota of mercy and my father will call this ENTIRE GODDAMN WEDDING OFF!”

PomnI panted rapidly. All of the anger and vitriol about her situation that she had bottled up erupted out of her at once. Her heartburn flared with pain, but she hardly took notice.

“Please don’t tell your father…” Jax said.

“I’m afraid I shall, Mr. Krolik. After all, if it means being rid of you, I-”

“Please…”

Pomni jolted at the sound of Jax’s voice cracking. She looked up at his face for the first time since he opened the door and gasped softly.

His brow had crumpled and the edges of his mouth trembled like dead leaves on a tree branch. His ears were pinned back against his skull, and he had crushed the note from his father into a wad. Fat tears ran in rivulets down his face.

He fell onto his knees, prostrating himself in front of Pomni and clasping his paws together, note still wadded up in his left. Tears dripped onto the dusty throw rug and soaked into it.

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry, I’m so sorry… Please don’t make me go back… I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, I’m sorry… Please forgive me…” he wept.

Pomni was rooted to the spot. She had never seen a man cry in person.

As a child, she earnestly believed only women could cry. It wasn’t until her teacher told her otherwise and read her a few of The 13 Steps, the thirteen tears the Allfather shed for humanity, that she learned such a thing was even possible. Even as a grown woman, she read about men weeping many times, but thought it so uncommon it could only happen in dramas. At her grandmother Clara’s funeral, while her mother sobbed hysterically, her father remained stalwart, pain visible on his face but not shedding a single tear. But here was Jax Krolik, crying and pleading like a peasant in front of his priestess.

“I’m so sorry, Miss Shutnyk, I’m so sorry…” he continued between hitching breaths and sobs.

Pomni held her hands out only to retract them back to her breast. She hadn’t the faintest inkling of how to help…

“M…” she swallowed at the bile in her throat, trying again. “Mr. Krolik, I… what brought this on? Please, th-there isn’t any need to grovel…”

Jax rose to his knees, wiping his tears on the back of his paws.

“I… truly apologize, Ms. Shutnyk. That was… decidedly improper of me. I… I should behave like a man… I know you think little of me already, but the least I can-”

“Please. Don’t speak. Dress yourself and meet me downstairs,” Pomni said. “We will discuss the matter in the reading room. Will Kinger be back?”

“He told me that he would be insect hunting this morning…” Jax said, sniffling.

“That gives us several hours… Very well. I’ll await you downstairs.” Pomni said, beginning her descent down the foyer stairs.

“Miss Shutnyk, I…”

“Please desist,” Pomni pleaded, turning around on the middlemost step. “This entire affair has me dreadfully confused, and it is affecting my pyrosis. I understand that you are sorry, and clearly this matter is of great concern to you… but we should discuss it first…”

Pomni turned and began to walk down the staircase, but quickly turned and walked back up to the second floor going past Jax into the restroom. She needed another alkalizer.

—

“Explain yourself.”

This was the first thing out of Pomni’s mouth the moment Jax, now dressed in a ruffled white shirt, a blue waistcoat and gray dress pants, sat opposite her in the reading room. He hadn’t bothered with shoes, but he was indoors and a beastman, so that hardly mattered. Pomni had waited for about a quarter of an hour downstairs, after picking up the ring she threw on the ground and putting it into her purse.

“Where would you like me to start..?” Jax asked, looking off into the empty fireplace.

“…Truthfully, it’s difficult to decide where to begin.” Pomni admitted. “…Right. I suppose we should begin with the most pressing issue. Why did you lie to me? About the laudanum.”

“Because I am ashamed.” Jax replied. “A 22 year-old-man, taking opium like a gibbering lunatic…”

“How often do you… indulge?” Pomni asked,

“Three to four times a day… occasionally five if I’m particularly unhappy.”

“Mr. Krolik, for goodness’ sake! How did this happen? What persuaded you to even… why?” Pomni found herself starting questions, only for them to die, incomplete, halfway from her lips.

“It began because I was in genuine pain. I told you about my brother Boone? For quite a while, I could do nothing but obey him. If he wanted my sweets, he had them, or else I earned a box to the eye. If he wanted a toy I had, either I gave it to him or he broke it in two. And he was clever about hiding it. He made sure the bruises looked accidental, or waited until my father and older brothers were well out of sight before he pounced. But, as I got older, it grew more difficult for him to bully me. I actually grew to be taller in stature than him, and he thus had a harder time using force when I could fight back just as hard.

“Oh, he tried to make it look like I was the instigator. ‘I haven’t done anything, father! He simply attacked me!’ It rarely worked. But, as I said, Boone is intelligent. When threats and blows stopped working, he changed tactics. He threatened to tell father about various things I had done behind his back, even things he had seen my brothers do. It wasn’t as effective most of the time. But there was one incident… Before we moved to Blackshell Bay, when I was 17 and he was 19. We were out running some errands, and on the way home, we were crossing a bridge, and he said something that incensed me.”

“What did he say?” Pomni asked.

“I shan’t repeat it. Apologies, but I feel ill even discussing it. Regardless, we came to blows. He shoved me, smartly, and I fell from the bridge. I broke my arm and three ribs. Even Boone felt terrible for what he had done, and he rarely felt much remorse for his actions.”

“…And that’s how the addiction began? To numb the pain of your wounds.” Pomni surmised.

“Correct. I can’t remember who suggested it, but it did the trick. …But then they took my arm out of the sling, and I found myself still wanting it. Just to help me feel better after an unhappy day, or just to help me relax before bed, or… just because I wanted it. And here we are.”

“And… I assume you don’t wish to return home because… Boone is there.” Pomni concluded.

“That is certainly part of it. Boone has apologized for his behavior, especially since my father had him flogged so thoroughly he had to eat his meals standing up… but I have my doubts. Besides, everyone there is so unhappy. Osvaldo has no support for his dream, my father is alone and low in funds, even Boone is probably desperately bored by now… I cannot go back. I’m… truly sorry I lied to you. I suppose I’ve done exactly what I accused humans of when we first met.”

Pomni swallowed. Her pyrosis had finally been quelled, but she felt ill regardless.

“I apologize as well. For saying all of that horrid nonsense. I… I still wish I wasn’t being forced to marry you, but I… I had no idea your situation was so dire. But I do think it was foolish of you to not tell me about your habit. When I saw that laudanum label, I… I thought everything you told me was a lie…”

“…I apologize. Whole-heartedly. I only lied about the opium… And, well…”

Pomni looked up. Oh blast it, what else had he kept hidden from her..?

“…I never finished Margaret’s Rise.”

He flashed a guilty smile.

“You never..?” Pomni began.

“I only made it about 600 pages through the novel before I had to return it to the library.”

He laughed shortly. Pomni managed a laugh as well. They both laughed for a small bit. Soon, Jax’s laughter turned to crying. He placed his forehead in his fist.

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry… I-It’s not like a man to cry, I-”

“Hush,” Pomni approached him and, after a long moment of trepidation, managed to place a hand on his shoulder.

“You needn’t hide anything else from me…”

#the amazing digital circus #funnybunny #tadc jax #tadc pomni #jax x pomni #oh no cringe #tadc arranged marriage au #tadc zooble #tadc bubble #tadc kinger #tw drugs #tw sibling abuse

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rhetoricandlogic · 27 days ago

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REVIEW: Space Oddity by Catherynne M. Valente

Series: Space Opera #2

Published: September 2024, Simon & Schuster (Saga Press)

Genres: Science Fiction / Space Opera, Science Fiction / Alien Contact, Science Fiction / Humorous

Summary: The Metagalactic Grand Prix—part gladiatorial contest, part beauty pageant, part concert extravaganza, and part continuation of the wars of the past returns and the fate of the Earth is once again threatened. The civilizations opposed to humanity have been plotting and want to take down the upstarts. Can humanity rise again in this sequel to the beloved Hugo Award–nominated national bestselling Space Opera by New York Times bestselling author Catherynne M. Valente?

This review contains spoilers for the ending of Space Opera and minor spoilers for Space Oddity.

Truthfully speaking, I didn’t find myself with a burning need for a sequel when I finished reading Space Opera—yet Space Oddity remained one of my most anticipated books of 2024, if only because I had total faith in Catherynne M. Valente to deliver Good Vibes and/or Hilarious Insanity like no other author.

In this sequel that’s lowkey a meta commentary on the nature of sequels (“This time it will be different!”), we return to the Metagalactic Grand Prix, an intergalactic Eurovision-esque singing competition between countless species that determines everything from trade deals to resource allocations to potential wars to music chart-toppers.

Last year, humanity eked out a respectable tenth place in our first showing. This year, we’ve graduated from newbie, and soon become escort to a newly discovered species.

Where other novels may treat the Dreaded Exposition like a concert opener—quality may vary from offensively bad to mildly boring to surprisingly delightful, but nevertheless it’s the thing you have to sit through to get to the thing you actually paid money for—subtly weaving it through the text so as not to drag down the pace or distract from the plot, Valente’s exposition is the headlining star of the show—all the bloody intergalactic history and weird alien biology and that one ranting monologue about the Frankenstein monster that is the English language, sketched in run-on sentences that can span a whole paragraph, if not multiple pages.

While I was thoroughly amused by Valente’s bombastically stylistic writing (and her ability to build entire alien societies around a single pun), the absolute heart of this book for me is the Absolute Zeroes.

Good News: While lead singer Decibel Jones is the frontman of the band and the book, Space Oddity is actually, stealthily, a story about Fridged Woman–turned-paradox Mira Wonderful Star, and any time spent with Mira Wonderful Star is, well, Wonderful. It’s especially touching when Valente contrasts Dess’s washed-up ennui about placing tenth in the Grand Prix with Mira’s punk-hope enthusiasm about touring and exploring the galaxy.

Bad news: I probably took at least half a star off when I learned that Oort St. Ultraviolet, man-of-every-instrument and my favourite Absolute Zero, is relegated to a background character. (We’ve had a Decibel and Oort book. We’ve had a Decibel and Mira book. Am I wishing for a third book that’s all Mira and Oort? Yes.)

Space Oddity is an glitter-filled, imaginative romp that matches the frenetic energy of its predecessor. Valente’s maximalist writing style makes even the dullest topic (e.g. a never-ending intergalactic meeting that could’ve been an email) a sensory and humorous delight. But while Space Opera skillfully married the Absolute Zeroes’ sordid histories and personal hang-ups with grand intergalactic stakes, the finale of Oddity didn’t quite pack the same emotional punch—though, I’ll admit, I audibly gasped and shook my fist at the sky (affectionate) when I read that reveal about the Empty.

#Catherynne M. Valente #Space Oddity #mahreviews #long post

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lastchancevillagegreen · 1 year ago

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La Débâcle (1892) Émile Zola (582 pages)

Jean Macquart, one of the primary characters in Earth who experiences tremendous and horrific loss is now a Corporal in the military leading a group of men to battle in La Débâcle. Divided into three parts, the first part can be stupefyingly boring only in that for 170 pages Zola details the soldiers marching the country, endlessly retreating as they slowly become routed by the Prussians. We learn the characters, naturally so that by the time the second part of the novel arrives, there are many we care about (including the louts).

The second part is where Zola gets unrelentingly vicious. By this time the French army is decimated and scurrying away in an effort to save themselves. Zola details the monotony of war (in one segment, they lay in a cabbage field for seven hours) as well as the horrors: the maddening fear of death, the starvation, the loneliness and the fear.

The battle scenes are actually sparse, the real horror comes when Zola takes us inside a make shift-hospital, a segment that lasts at least 50 pages. Then there is the aftermath of the war in the town our characters hail from. Zola's people are often cruel and heartless, but here most of them are loving and kind, certainly intentionally contradicting people who must kill other people.

Zola details the aftermath of a surrender which many on the battlefield are not cognizant of. Many keep fighting unaware of the surrender. Zola savages Napoleon III and most of the Generals as incompetent and cowards (or brutally unaware of how their decisions harm the soldiers). And did you ever wonder what happened to all the horses used in war who lost their riders? Zola informs us of their plight. (In one scene one of the best characters loses his beloved horse Zephyr and the scene between the owner and his dying horse is so heartbreaking I found my eyes misting up, and I was in a bar at the time). Zola even documents the heartbreak of the agony trees suffer during wartime! Their broken branches, destroyed trunks, the sap substituting for tears, their remaining life as deformed memories of a war long forgotten, yet forced to carry the burden of those actions.

By the time the third part arrives I wondered what could possibly take place. Well, obviously I was no history major, but the final act comes detailing the battles between insurrectionists who want to destroy Paris, the French army who, despite surrendering, is still fighting the Prussians as well as the French insurrectionists, the latter who succeed in burning Paris to the ground, destroying everything around them. The calls of "Paris is burning!" now make me understand the origin of that phrase and the shock the people must have felt watching their beloved city burn to the ground.

I will admit I dreaded reading this book, fearful it would be a dull as His Excellency Eugène Rougon with the unending details of French government and legislation. Of course, in retrospect that book wasn't dull at all and neither was La Débâcle. This book might just be one of the most savage books about war I've read (and I read a lot of books about war for whatever reason). I'm not ready to call it Zola's masterpiece, Germinal will forever hold that spot for me, but La Débâcle is certainly one of his great novels (it currently hovers in the Top Five for me).

I've now read four Zola novels since 4 October with only one remaining in this series. I'd love to finish it off in November, but I have a massive 500+ page biography of a long forgotten musician who most of us have never even heard of (myself included until just recently). What little music from her I've heard is interesting but just try and find her only album (a modern day compilation) and you'll be paying three figures and that's for either the LP or the CD, the latter seemingly close to impossible to find, one appears on eBay and the dealer asks $400 while vinyl versions go for between $300 and $500. Once I get through that book, I hope to be able to finish the final installment of the Rougon-Macquart Series before November ends. But we all know how well plans work out, don't we?

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killadelphias · 1 year ago

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need to finish editing my unruly 200k niche rarepair chk pls fic so I can finally be free and devote all of my writing energy into ST because these wips are too enticing when this behemoth remains yet unposted. accountability list, please bother me to finish anything. ahhh. under the cut. I talk too much.

- dramatic, sappy, unhinged teen romcom, indie coming-of-age style 'summer of 1988' fic. byler. with some henderhop as a treat. putting all of my thoughts and feelings about the ST characters into one long form fic. I want to read fics w more fun interactions between The Party as a genuine group of codependent besties, so I'm manifesting my own agenda. also an excuse to drop all my very specific 80s era accurate references and music/movie knowledge.

- 80s slasher film style 'camp counselors at a sleepaway camp' fic. because I long for more horror themed stuff in this fandom. brutal, but def ✨️camp✨️. as it should be.

- byler timeloop fic inspired by palm springs, one of my all time favorite movies. will is stuck in the timeloop. if you know the movie you know what the fuck happens.

- self indulgent project runway inspired fic because i am currently rewatching the entire series to rewire my brain away from ST a little. didn't work. will and mike are contestants on the show, develop the always fun but somewhat dreaded showmance of reality tv. Steve is Heidi Klum. Hopper is Michael Kors. I don't know what to say. The vision is there.

- demonic possession fic. the horrific reality of a bunch of 12 year olds performing a botched exorcism. years later the demon is back and there's this whole thing with a possessed Chrissy going the fuck throughhh it and the aged up Party is gonna Get Involved. byler centric of course but also B plot w eddie/chrissy. fucked up horror shit hell yeah. ripping off my own original novel w this one, but it's a fun writing exercise in getting the plot of that story down w familiar characters because why not !!

#personal ref #for later #i am procrastinating totally assss work projects to make lists eyyy #if i don't speak my projects into existence i may never finish them #🙃🙃🙃

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faerywhimsy · 1 year ago

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Vamptember Day 8 - "What's out there?"

@vamptember

Pulling this thread out and dusting it off. I wanna continue into a literary analog of Daniel through media in the 1980s. Cause he's a writer, yeah?

So it's not wholly out there that he's unaware of Charles Bukowski's semi autobiographical novel published in 1982, Ham on Rye.

Daniel has a cigarette hanging against the lip of one corner of his mouth. He's just been minding his own business in an infrequent moment of peace when these words come rattling into his eyes and through to his mind.

“The problem was you had to keep choosing between one evil or another, and no matter what you chose, they sliced a little bit more off you, until there was nothing left."

Daniel winces, plucking the ciggie out in a pinch between thumb and forefinger, then just staring down narrowly at the words. The words dance around on the page by the time he's done with them; read them over so many times he knows them by heart.

He looks towards the monster who's currently making whirring sounds in the kitchen with a newly discovered blender. Peace Daniel has been granted, if not quiet.

"At the age of 25 most people were finished. A whole god-damned nation of assholes driving automobiles, eating, having babies, doing everything in the worst way possible, like voting for the presidential candidates who reminded them most of themselves."

Daniel huffs to himself. He was barely able to vote for presidential candidates before suddenly it hadn't seemed overly important in the bigger scheme of things. Lately, in Night Island, tucked in a world that's almost completely controlled by Armand, it seems less relevant than ever who's steering the rest of this big hunk of rock.

But—and this is a really big but—Daniel thinks that if Armand had turned him at 25, he would have been finished. That would have been enough of human life for him. He would have turned towards immortality with a smile on his face and a song in his heart.

Dammit. Daniel puts the book down softly, pages down and spine creasing. He doesn't wanna stare at the page any longer. He had quiet, up till this bastard of a book had him drawing lines between himself and the famous novelist.

It doesn't do any good. The words come for him anyway.

"I had no interests. I had no interest in anything. I had no idea how I was going to escape. At least the others had some taste for life."

Daniel feels like his breathing is coming too fast. Or maybe he can't get enough breath in. He stares out the window in front of him, out towards the endless Atlantic Ocean, dark and still from all the way up here in one of the higher levels of the Villa.

Charles Bukowski's a novelist who quit writing for a decade cause he didn't have the immediate successes he dreamed of in the literary world. During that ten years, he almost drank himself to death.

Next year, it was gonna be ten years exactly since Daniel essentially gave up his life for a dream of immortality that still remained exactly that: A dream. For some time now, it's been a dream Daniel's been unable to wake from. An existential dread that follows him around like someone else's dog. On the one hand, he can't believe this is what his life has become now. Rudderless, yet without any inclination to reclaim the old taste for life he once had.

"They seemed to understand something that I didn’t understand. Maybe I was lacking. It was possible. I often felt inferior."

Armand has to know by now Daniel's mind has turned in a less than stellar direction, but he doesn't come to find or distract him. He doesn't leave the kitchen, and so Daniel is left alone with his thoughts and a book he'd been quite happy to have a minute of time to spend reading before.

At least the breathing thing has calmed down. He's taking long, slow breaths now, though he has to think about every one of them. That helps catch some of the thoughts that want to spiral and take him down with them. If he's thinking of every in- and outward breath, he's not thinking of each and every single way he's lacking.

Because Armand would have turned him by now if he wasn't lacking. What greater proof of it does Daniel really need?

"I just wanted to get away from them. But there was no place to go. Suicide?”

"Enough of this, Daniel."

Just like that, Armand's standing in front of him. There's a testy expression on his features, as though he's irritated by the very direction of Daniel's thoughts.

He leans forward and, for a moment, Daniel thinks Armand's reaching towards him. But then he collects up the book Daniel had been reading and scoops it under one arm without even pausing to look at the cover.

"Hey...!" Daniel started, half heartedly. In truth, he finds it a bit of a relief to have the book confiscated. He doesn't know if he'd have the heart to go back to it after this.

Armand narrows his eyes. "Don't force me to curb your reading habits, Daniel."

"You kidding? This is the first time I've had to read in weeks!"

Armand glares at him with a look that seems to say, And this is why. To be fair to Daniel, none of the last several things he's read had left him feeling like this!

Daniel also had his eye on Buckowski's earlier novel, Factorum, a book released only two years into the chase between he and Armand.

At the quick lifting of Armand's eyebrows, his brown eyes continuing to bore steadily into him, Daniel supposes he can pretty much just forget about that one as well.

"Yeah, yeah," Daniel says, hiding both his grump and his gratitude behind an increasingly comfortable sense of bravado even as he backs down. "I get it. Whatever you say, boss."

...

from Factorum:

#vc shitpost #mentions of suicide #the devil's minion #night island #daniel molloy #armand #charles bukowski #literary quotes #vamptember #vamptember 2023

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7r0773r · 2 years ago

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A Hero of our Time by Mikhail Lermontov, translated by Vladimir & Dmitri Nabokov

Contradiction is, with me, an innate passion; my entire life has been nothing but a chain of sad and frustrating contradictions to heart or reason. The presence of an enthusiast envelops me with midwinter frost, and I think that frequent commerce with an inert phlegmatic individual would have made of me a passionate dreamer. (p. 89)

***

'Is it possible', I thought, 'that my only function on earth is to ruin other people's hopes? Ever since I have lived and acted, fate has always seemed to bring me in at the dénouement of other people's dramas, as if none could either die or despair without me! I am the indispensable persona in the fifth act; involuntarily, I play the miserable part of the executioner or the traitor. What could be fate's purpose in this? Might it not be that it had designated me to become the author of bourgeois tragedies and family novels, or the collaborator of some purveyor of stories for the 'Library for Reading'? How should one know? How many people, in the beginning of life, think they will finish it as Alexander the Great or Lord Byron, and instead, retain for the whole of their existence, the rank of titulary counsellor?’ (p. 124)

***

“Why then did you hope? I can understand people who desire something and strive for it; but who wants to hope?’ (p. 126)

***

... Oddly enough, there are people who are ludicrous even in their despair! (p. 127)

***

And, perhaps tomorrow, I shall die! . . . And there will not remain, on earth, a single creature that would have understood me completely. Some deem me worse, others better than I actually am. Some will say he was a good fellow; others will say he was a scoundrel. Both this and that will be false. After this, is it worth the trouble to live? And yet one lives — out of curiosity. One keeps expecting something new . . . Absurd and vexatious! (p. 145)

***

The moon, full and red, like the glow of a conflagration, began to appear from behind the uneven line of roofs; the stars shone calmly upon the dark-blue vault, and it amused me to recall that, once upon a time, there were sages who thought that the heavenly bodies took part in our trivial conflicts for some piece of land or some imaginary rights. And what happened? These lampads, lit, in the opinion of those sages, merely to illumine their battles and festivals, were burning as brightly as ever, while their passions and hopes had long been extinguished with them, like a small fire lit on the edge of the forest by a carefree wayfarer! But on the other hand, what strength of will they derived from the certitude that the entire sky with its countless inhabitants was looking upon them with mute but permanent sympathy! Whereas we, their miserable descendants, who roam the earth without convictions or pride, without rapture or fear (except for that instinctive dread that compresses our hearts at the thought of the inevitable end), we are no longer capable of great sacrifice, neither for the good of mankind, nor even for our own happiness, because we know its impossibility, and pass with indifference from doubt to doubt, just as our ancestors rushed from one delusion to another. But we, however, do not have either their hopes or even that indefinite, albeit real, rapture that the soul encounters in any struggle with men or with fate. (pp. 168-69)

#vladimir nabokov #mikhail lermontov #book quotes

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mimi-cee-hq · 3 years ago

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Laundry Days - Aran x f!reader

Summary: Three times you picked up his underwear and one time you missed doing it.

Genres, other tags: fluff, slice of life, humour, meet cute, domestic fluff, not suggestive lol, married under 25, neighbours to married lovers ;)

Words: 1.6k

Warnings: manga spoiler

This is for @neoheros & @coophi's 2021 Summer Haikyuu!! Writing contest. (Okay I'm pretty shy at first so it feels a little scary to tag you two but here's my piece.) I was going for the married under 25 prompt but ended up doing neighbours to lovers too. :D

Don't mind me spreading the underrated characters agenda as well. lol.

*****

A few articles of clothing spilled out of the dryer and onto your feet. Oops. Your neighbour must have forgotten them. You should've checked first.

Your own damp clothes sat inside the washing machine next to it, waiting for their turn to enter the dryer. It wasn't possible now.

You sighed, retrieving the phone from your pocket and scrolling until you saw the name of the neighbour who lived a floor below you.

Ojiro Aran.

You were sure this was the right person after a second look at your texting history. Who'd bring the garbage to the curb, where the lawnmower was kept, and keeping the duplex's stairway clear were some of the conversations you had with him.

You had yet to meet the guy, but he seemed amicable enough.

After shooting him a text, you thought to give him a call instead. Perhaps he'd think a phone call was strange. However, your clothes were damp and you shouldn't leave them for long. Was he even home?

You sighed. Crouched down, you returned the clothes on the floor back into the machine. A scarf, several socks, and a knit hat made their way back inside. But what was this?

Underwear. Men's underwear.

You scrunched your nose as you lifted it from the cold, tile floor. Was that a hole in it?

Click.

"Sorry I just saw your text!" a tall, dark-skinned man blurted out as soon as the door was unlocked.

"Oh! It's alright! I only texted you a few minutes ago!" you quickly explained, waving your hands in front of you.

You shouldn't have done that. The underwear was hanging from your hand.

"Ummm…" Aran scratched his cheek, eyes retreating from you.

"Oh my goodness! I'm so sorry!" you spat out, tossing the incriminating object to him. "It just fell out of the dryer when I opened it so I went to pick it up!"

Once in his hands, he recognized it as the one with the seam coming undone. "I… umm… should probably have thrown this one out."

"Umm… yeah… you probably should." Those words slipped off your tongue before you could catch them.

"I- I guess I'll go now," Aran said hastily.

He shut the door.

You let out a breath. That was awkward. Heat continued to linger in your body and you weren't sure who was more embarrassed by the encounter.

Wait. His clothes were still in the dryer. Did you dare ask him back?

The door slowly creaked open and Aran peeked his head into the room.

"I forgot something, didn't I?" Aran sheepishly asked.

"Yeah." The corners of your mouth lifted into a smile. "Yeah, you did."

"I'm Aran by the way."

"Y/n."

You never thought this would be how you'd meet your future husband.

*****

The office chair in your apartment was a comfortable spot for folding clothes. The webcam caught your face as you chatted with Aran whose image filled the monitor.

You smiled. Your husband was winding down after a long day with the team and decided to check up on you.

"I'm alright," you told Aran. "I miss you though."

"I literally just saw you yesterday!" he said. "I miss you too."

After that fateful yet awkward encounter with him in that laundry room two years ago, you had run into each other more frequently at the front doors of your duplex. Your classes ended at similar times four out of your five school days. You were surprised he even started a conversation with you. You wouldn't have been able to bear the embarrassment. Fast forward to a confession, a kiss and a rock-embedded ring, and you got a small, snowy wedding during winter break.

It was back to the books for you now, and you dreaded it. Chores seemed much better, easier. Plus doing them for your newly-wedded husband? You got giddy about that.

You quirked your brow, lifting a familiar piece of clothing from the basket.

"Hey, I thought you threw this one out," you mentioned to Aran, dangling his underwear in front of the camera.

"I did! That's, uh, probably a different one."

"Just how old are these?"

"Hey! Wait a moment! Are you folding clothes?"

You avoided the eyes on the screen. "Maybe."

"You have your paper due in a few days! I told you I was going to do it after flying back home."

"I know…"

Aran's eyes narrowed at you, a trademark expression of his. "You're procrastinating again, aren't you?" His tone implied disapproval.

"But I'm still being productive!"

"Y/n…"

"Okay, okay. I'll stop." Your foot pushed the basket away, sliding it across the floor. Maybe you could fold them after you hung up.

Aran must have read your mind. "Show me what the laundry bin looks like."

You groaned. He saw right through you. Complying, you removed the clipped webcam off the monitor and directed it at the pile of unfolded clothes.

"It better be like that when I get home."

"Alright," you said with a pout.

"Love you."

"Love you too."

Must he stop you from doing chores? They were a simple reminder you were married to him, as if the gold on your finger wasn't enough to show you.

You were his wife.

A smile snuck into your lips whenever that thought crossed your mind. The honeymoon phase was a peculiar, strange, lovely stage.

Yet it was fleeting.

*****

You groaned as you stood in the middle of the bathroom. Aran's white track pants hung off the counter, the red t-shirt he got for free from first year college laid on top, and of course his underwear, which likely went through hundreds of washes, remained on the floor.

Great.

You rubbed your temples, your headache getting worse by the minute. It was Saturday morning, and Aran, who was nowhere to be seen, had left his mess behind.

I'll clean it up later, he would tell you. You knew his mother had spoiled him, always picking up after him. You understood why he was like this, but why couldn't he just start doing it now?

"Do you have this problem?" you asked your friend through your wireless headset.

"What problem?" she asked.

"Does your husband always leave laundry around on the floor?" You pinched the bridge of your nose. "Aran never picks up after himself."

She laughed. You weren't sure if it was because you were a young, amateur wife or if she understood all too well.

Knowing her, probably a bit of both.

"Okay two things."

You listened.

"One, don't say always or never. That's lying."

"I'm not lying," you snapped back at her. You began to regret asking her.

"Are you sure he never picks it up and always leaves it on the floor?"

You left no comment.

"Exactly."

"Okay fine, but that still doesn't solve the problem. If only he just did it, it would solve everything–"

"Number two," she interrupted.

You groaned at her and she gave an amused snort in return.

"If you weren't picking up his underwear, it means he's dead."

You were aghast.

"You know I'm right."

Still aghast.

"What? No husband, no mess."

"I can't believe I asked you for advice."

"But it's true."

"Ugh," was all you could utter. She had several years more of marriage experience than you, yet you didn't want to acknowledge it.

You hung up the phone after you finished deciding today's outing with her, but you hadn't addressed the issue in front of you. Your head throbbed again.

Sighing, you picked up the underwear.

A few minutes later, the front door opened and you dipped your head into the hallway. Aran shuffled grocery bags through the door and into the kitchen. He yawned, placing the milk, eggs, and other items into the fridge.

A familiar coffee brand peeked out of a bag on the floor. Right. You didn't have your coffee yet because there wasn't any left.

You wrapped your arms around Aran and relaxed against his broad back.

"I can't put the food away like this," he said with a chuckle.

"You left your clothes in the bathroom again."

"Oh shoot!" He dropped a bag and started towards the bathroom but you tightened your grip on him.

"I put them away already," you told him. His body relaxed and he caressed your arm around his waist.

The honeymoon phase was a fleeting phase, novel tasks turned mundane, but your love for him grew deeper still.

*****

Aran was away again, this time at Tokyo in preparation for the Olympics. He eagerly called you during breaks, wishing to see his favourite person – although your hands were full as well.

"I miss you," he told you, his smile displayed on the screen.

"And I miss picking up your underwear," you told him with a smirk.

Like clockwork, he narrowed his eyes at you with a comeback. "Why don't you say you miss me like a normal person?"

"Because I'm your wife. I'm special," you told him as he rolled his eyes. "I wish I could be there though."

"You wouldn't be able to spend that much time with me anyway," he said. "Besides, one of us needs to stay home."

"I know." You smiled.

"I gotta go," he said as Atsumu yelled in the background. Aran blew a kiss at you.

You snorted. How cheesy. You returned the kiss anyway.

Hearing a mischievous squeal behind you, you told him, "I gotta go too."

"Love you."

"Love you too."

After you hung up, you turned around and sighed. A soggy wet diaper sagged on the floor and the little guy jumping in the crib giggled at you as if he did the funniest thing in the world.

You rolled your eyes and smiled before picking up the diaper.

"Alright kid. Let's put a diaper back on you and wash your sheets."

*****

I hope you liked it. This is a little different from what I usually write but I hope you still enjoyed it!

I blame Aran's current concern for giving me this idea along with the person who suggested I write Aran fluff. (As well as the seasoned wife I know who told her husband, "If I wasn't picking up your underwear, it means you're dead." lolll.)

I hope you stick around my blog to check out my other works! My current work in progress is a fake dating Suna series. I can't believe we're on chapter 10!

If anyone is interested, I have a Google form for my taglist.

#aran x reader #aran fluff #aran fanfic #ojiro aran x reader #ojiro aran #aran ojiro #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu fanfic #haikyuu oneshots #haikyuu scenarios #haikyuu scenario #haikyuu fluff #C/R_HQ!CONTEST #hihqnetwork #animehorizons #angelwalker’s virtues #inarizaki #inarizaki x reader

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journalofanobody · 3 years ago

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Current Reading

A haunting Orwellian novel about the terrors of state surveillance, from the acclaimed author of The Housekeeper and the Professor. On an unnamed island off an unnamed coast, objects are disappearing: first hats, then ribbons, birds, roses—until things become much more serious. Most of the island's inhabitants are oblivious to these changes, while those few imbued with the power to recall the lost objects live in fear of the draconian Memory Police, who are committed to ensuring that what has disappeared remains forgotten. When a young woman who is struggling to maintain her career as a novelist discovers that her editor is in danger from the Memory Police, she concocts a plan to hide him beneath her floorboards. As fear and loss close in around them, they cling to her writing as the last way of preserving the past. A surreal, provocative fable about the power of memory and the trauma of loss, The Memory Police is a stunning new work from one of the most exciting contemporary authors writing in any language. (Amazon)

--------

I'm a long-time fan of Yoko Ogawa, and especially like her short stories. Her voice, her pacing, and her marvelous ability to maintain dread and vague creepiness just below the level of the most ordinary situations. Haven't finished it yet, can wholeheartedly recommend it. Check out "Hotel Iris" too, if you have a chance.

#Michael Boiano #Recommended reading

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marnz · 3 years ago

Note

what was the starting point/inspiration for stay close to me? also I'm so curious about the Esen pov fix-it, what was the general plot?

Ahhh thank you for these great questions, because stay close to me actually arose out of me unable to figure out how to make the Esen pov fix it (a longing that's killing me) work. I find Esen so hard to write because he is such an asshole lmao, and I also find mirroring SPC's prose super difficult because our prose styles are opposites.

The Esen Fix It was basically me trying to fix the almost kiss. It starts off after the almost kiss and basically is about Esen realizing he's been a huge dick and trying to be better/less offensive so he can be with Ouyang while also trying to figure out how it's physically possible to be with Ouyang...but I was concerned it was very OOC. Esen never apologizes in the book, even when he knows he's very wrong, and the way I had Esen justify his own behavior to himself felt weak. I have almost 7k of this fic but due to my concerns about characterization I abandoned it. It's unfortunate, the dramatic irony was delicious. I would love to figure out how to finish it :( Later I started what would become stay close to me from Esen's pov but ran into the same problems.

For stay close to me's inspiration, 1) I love horses 2) I think what makes Ouyang such a complex character is not just the gender stuff but also his identity as a disabled person, and I wanted to explore his relationship with his body 3) I think the opening scene in stay close to me is the part of the novel where Ouyang would be most compelled to turn back or deviate from the path he must walk, and the perfect opportunity for Esen to realize Ouyang is actually not happy. 4) when I was rereading I was struck by Esen's dialogue...almost every time he talks to Ouyang he's hinting at having feelings for Ouyang, it's insane. I can't decide if Ouyang subconsciously knows this and is not acknowledging it because of his duty to his family or if he seriously missed Esen's blatant flirting attempts. Like the first time we meet Esen he's literally staring at Ouyang and playing with his hair. Give me a break! The text supports both theories, unfortunately.

But not all is lost, as I am cribbing my fav elements from this fix it and adding them to my ouyang pov fix it, which has turned into a monster :(

I've added a snippet of the Esen pov fix it below the read more for funsies.

That night it rained. The cold crept in through the window paper and Esen, thinking of Ouyang, ordered a fire lit, and then had to strip off some of his layers. The fire hissed and recoiled when Ouyang entered his quarters, as it always did. Ouyang had never commented on it so Esen never had either, but now Ouyang looked at the fire and then at Esen.

“I was cold,” Esen said. He was sweating.

Ouyang, who wore his usual surfeit of layers, said nothing. A servant brought airag; Esen dismissed him and all other servants, as was custom for any military briefings. Ouyang settled in and gave his report on the replacement cavalry, their integration, and how the army was utilizing the extra funds. Esen, playing absently with his jade hair beads, let Ouyang’s low, raspy voice wash over him. It all felt normal, absurdly normal. Yet everything had changed.

“My thanks, General. I’m not surprised training the replacement forces is going well despite Altan’s absence. I knew you would not fail me.”

Ouyang gave a thin smile. “Shao has chosen Zhao Man for Altan’s replacement.”

“Not Jurgaghan?” Esen asked, wrinkling his nose. His third wife would be displeased.

“As his father is not the father of the Empress, no. Shao likes Zhao Man.”

“I don’t care about Shao,” Esen said impatiently. Truthfully he didn’t like Shao, who always seemed contemptuous no matter who he spoke to. But he trusted Ouyang to have good reason for promoting Shao to Senior Commander. “Do you not like Jurgaghan?”

Ouyang’s look was sardonic. “I do not know him well.”

Yes; Ouyang had always avoided Esen’s wives for some reason. “He is a strong fighter. His archery is good; he rides well.”

“Would he be related to you if he did not?”

“Flattery will get you everywhere.”

“There is nowhere else I want to be,” Ouyang said quietly.

A tender ache spread through Esen’s chest. It felt like it was pressing up against his lungs and heart, overwhelming them. He felt, as he often did, a longing to keep Ouyang close, but now he wanted Ouyang physically close. It wasn’t enough for Ouyang to sit next to him. He wanted Ouyang in his arms. He wanted them skin to skin. Whenever he had felt such an unmannish sentiment before he had buried it or, if it were particularly strong, imagined what Chaghan would say if such a thing got back to him. But now his longing for Ouyang was so powerful that it was as unending as the steppes.

Ouyang was watching Esen’s face closely. He was very still, his hand clenched around his cup of airag. It was exactly like the night when Esen had horribly insulted him, except this time Ouyang had sought him out. Esen felt the pull of fate again, a pull that seemed determined to bring them into contact. What sort of contact, he could not say. For a moment, him being impaled by Ouyang’s sword or undone by the slow press of Ouyang’s mouth seemed to be equally possible. But Esen knew Ouyang would never hurt him.

“Ouyang,” Esen murmured. Again came the thought that Ouyang was beautiful, but it was a proud and remote beauty, a beauty that was forbidding. And so Esen dared not reach for him.

A shadow passed across Ouyang’s face. He bowed his head and let go of the cup. “My Prince?”

“Do not call me that. Please.”

Ouyang’s throat bobbed. “Why not?”

“I have asked you a thousand times not to.”

“And I have told you a thousand times that I must. Nothing has changed.”

“Everything has changed,” said Esen.

Ouyang did look up at that. He held himself with the high, wavering tension that preceded a lightning strike. It was dread. The pain of knowing how badly he had failed Ouyang over and over again made Esen speak slowly.

“I can never apologize enough for your family’s death--”

“I do not wish to speak of it.”

“Then at least let me apologize for being an unrepentant ass. Please.” There seemed no other apology he could make that was not insipid.

Here came that close gaze again. “Apology accepted,” Ouyang said at length.

Esen looked down at the table, at his abandoned cup, and chose his words carefully. “For a long time all I cared about was making my father proud.” Again, that tension. Perhaps Ouyang was right to worry; Esen did run a risk of offending him with his next statement. “I made certain sacrifices to that end. It is the job of a son to do so.”

“Yes,” Ouyang’s voice was almost soundless.

“But my father is dead.”

“Your duty to him remains.”

“Of course it does, but I don’t--” Flustered, Esen forced himself to stop and think. How like a woman he felt, unable to be forthright. “The ways I must make him proud have shifted since I became Prince of Henan. Given that, given that--everything has changed--I am not willing to continue making this sacrifice. It would be unbearable to do so.”

Ouyang hardly seemed to be breathing. When Esen finally gathered the courage to look at him, Ouyang was staring at him with such intensity that Esen felt himself flush.

“Esen,” Ouyang whispered.

The deep pleasure of hearing Ouyang say his name made Esen temporarily shut his eyes. He knew immediately they could never go back. But words seemed particularly treacherous, so instead of speaking he held out a hand to Ouyang.

#answered #fey-dancer #she who became the sun #ouyang/esen #my fic #long post #thank you for this ask it was delightful #i am over caffeinated and stressed about deadlines (terrible combination) so i was very happy to think about SWBTS on my lunch break #i DID read a scientific paper on the health effects of castration for stay close to me and it was. grim.#i did a lot of research! both on anatomy and the yuan dynasty! this will all help me out for INTWFY.#stay close to me #sorry for any typos #edit this is so long i am SO sorry

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andmaybegayer · 3 years ago

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Last Monday of the Week 2021-12-20

It's chrisminth.

Listening: Do it better by The Blah Blah Blahs, which I know about because it's one of the songs in Forza 5. I mostly use Forza as a surrogate for a commute to keep me focused on podcasts but sometimes a race is hard.

Extremely peppy pop music. Good for a racing game.

Reading: Oh yeah I finished Children of Dune last week but I wrote about Skin Horse. So far this is the most Frank Herbert of the Dune novels I've read, like, Dune is more Dune than Dune Messiah but Children of Dune is more Dune than Dune.

I am detouring through something else before I get to God Emperor.

Watching: Watched Die Hard because it was on TV, first time I've ever actually watched that at Christmas Time. Extremely dated in every way, from the European villains to the lack of AK-47's and RPG-7's to the idea of an upstart Japanese megacorp instead of a Chinese one.

Making: Not a good week for making, although my grandmother has decided to dump a ton of dressmaking fabric on us so I might actually learn how to do non-repair sewing. Maybe.

Playing: Just started The Outer Wilds, loving it. I would describe it as Wonderful and Dreadful in very literal interpretations of the words. I've found at least most of the main plot threads and I managed to get to the Sixth Location but I have not yet even mostly explored Dark Bramble or the Hourglass Twins so I'll probably need to do that to resolve the last remaining puzzle pieces. This music whips.

Computer Stuff: It's my blog and I decide what goes in it so I'm doing a physical tool recommendation here instead, namely picks.

I got these a few months ago and they basically never leave my desk, there's always something you need a pointy, slightly bent, metal, thing to manipulate. Scooping dust out of crevasses or plugging in ribbon cables or combing out some wires, these do it all. Straight and complete right angle picks are the least useful, with the 45° pick being the one I use the most. These are super cheaply made, as you can tell by the electrical screwdriver handles, but they get the job done and that's what matters.

#last monday of the week #Spotify

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 4 years ago

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Secrets ~ 3

Warnings: noncon sexual acts later in series

This is dark!Bucky and dark!Steve and explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: A buried family secret comes to light thrusting you to the forefront of an old alliance.

Note: Finished this before work! Hope y’all enjoy.

Thank you. Love you guys!

As always, if you can, please leave some feedback, like and reblog <3

There was a flurry of activity around the jet waiting on the tarmac. You sat in the car, still cuffed, trapped, as you watched the crew hurry. It was barely noon yet and you were exhausted. Barnes returned and slid in the other side. You ignored him and kept your eyes out the window.

“Shouldn’t be long before we can board,” He said. “You look unhappy, your highness. Is there any way I can help?”

“Uncuff me, let me go home and live my life,” You snapped dryly. “That would about do it.”

“Get it all out now.” He chided. “The king won’t stand for your lip.”

“‘The king won’t stand for your lip’,” You mimicked and grunted as you leaned a bit too heavily on your hands. “I really don’t care what he wants and I certainly don’t care what he thinks of me. All the better if he hates me.”

“This isn’t about feelings. He will marry you regardless of his personal bias,” Barnes assured. “It will be easier, however, if he has a reason to tolerate you.”

“Do you really live by the forgotten words just because they were written down?” You scoffed. “You know how absurd that is? I’ve seen the stories, he could marry anyone--”

“No, he can’t,” Barnes intoned. “Those forgotten words are not forgotten. The kingdom remembers the agreement. They remember how much we gave to the flagging country of Ecklun. They remember we were promised a princess.” He looked at you. “You. We paid our dues and we expect a return on it.”

You shook your head, finding it hard not to laugh sardonically. It was all backwards. This was the shit you read about in textbooks or fantasy novels. It was bullshit.

“Would it disqualify me to tell you I’m not pure?” You snickered. “To tell you I didn’t save myself for the king I never gave a second thought about?”

“It doesn’t bother me and surely not him.” Barnes shrugged. “He’s had his own fun, but I would advise you to not be so flippant about it with him. He is not one for cheek.”

“If I am who you say I am, I will do as I like.” You snarled.

“Very well. I can’t stop you. I can only warn you against it.” He pushed his head back and sighed. “You know your history, you recall how kings can be.”

👑

You sat on the plane in a plush leather seat, white and pristine like the rest of the interior. Barnes was across from you, eyes closed and arms crossed over his chest. Once you’d taken off, he’d quit checking his watch and settled into the flight without a second glance at you. You couldn’t do the same.

Aside from your anxiety and anger over all that had transpired, your hands remained bound behind you and kept you from leaning back or getting comfortable in the least. You teetered on the edge of the seat and glared at him.

“What do you want, Duchess?” He asked without lifting an eyelid.

“Can’t you at least take these off?” You grumbled. “My shoulders are killing me.”

He shrugged and said nothing.

“You can’t expect me to sit through this whole flight like this.” You hissed. “Shit, you don’t treat me like a duchess or whatever you claim I am.”

His eyes opened sharply and he uncrossed his arms. He sat forward, his jaw ticked as he inhaled deeply through his nose.

“You will not use that language further,” He warned. “Understood. It is unladylike. Unseemly. I won’t tolerate it and neither will the king.”

“Language? I’m sorry I don’t talk in iambic pentameter.” You scowled.

“You know what I mean. No more shits, fucks, and all that.” He seemed disgusted by the words on his tongue. “If you feel the need to moan, pretend you are a child.”

“Oh, gosh, will do, mister,” You said dryly. He raised his brow and his nostrils flared. “If I promise to watch my mouth, will you undo these?”

He blinked and checked the time again. He seemed to weigh the option as he angled his head one way then the other.

“Well, I can’t have you arriving in cuffs, I suppose,” He stood and reached into his pocket as he neared. “But don’t think I won’t bring them back out if needed. You understand?”

“Yes, Mr. Barnes, I swear to be a good little duchess,” You quipped.

He huffed and pulled you forward as he reached around you to grasp the cuffs. They came free and he drew away. He backed up as he put the key back in his pocket and dropped the cuffs in the empty seat next to him. He leaned an elbow on the rest and held his chin as he watched you. You sat back as you stretched your arms in front of your, turning your hands and rolling your wrists.

“We have a lot of work to do,” He ran his fingertips along his short stubble. “A lot.”

👑

Time seemed to stand still. When you arrived, it was morning in Astrania, the rest of the day lost in the difference. A man in black led you down the steps to the tarmac, Barnes behind you, and another man. You were taken into the airport, away from the general public, and guided through the corridors meant for employees only.

Barnes came up to walk beside you. A sudden tide of displacement washed over you. It was all real. You were far from home, stranded, trapped, in a land you didn’t know. With a title you didn’t want. For a purpose you dreaded.

The man in front of you stopped short before a door and turned back to look at Barnes.

“Cameras are here.” He said curtly.

“Already?” Barnes frowned.

“They must’ve seen the royal jet circling,” The man replied. “Apparently, they’ve been on alert since your departure.”

Barnes sighed and nodded. He unbuttoned the single button of his jacket and pulled it off. “Just make sure you keep them away.” He opened his jacket and turned to you. “Here.” He tried to shroud your head in his blazer and you dodged it. The man behind you blocked you. “Come on. There’s gonna be at least a dozen photogs out there and you far from ready for an appearance.”

“Are you serious?” You snorted.

“The longer we wait, the more will be there,” He said. “Now come on.”

He threw his jacket over you and you caught it. It smelled like expensive cologne and sweat. He wrapped it around you so that you could barely see and grabbed your arm to guide you onward. Unsteady, unsure, you let him usher you ahead and a heavy metal door opened, a streak of light visibly past the hem of the jacket as you could barely see your own feet.

A buzz of voices and the shutter of cameras greeted you outside and you clutched the fabric tighter. Barnes kept on, a few warnings to the vulture-like photogs as the way was cleared ahead of him by your stalwart escorts. A car door opened and you were angled inside quickly.

You caught yourself on the seat and felt a nudge to move over. Barnes climbed in as you righted yourself and the door closed heavily behind him. He pulled his jacket away and shook it out as the tinted windows flashed with the cameras outside. He grumbled and folded his jacket in his lap.

“Well,” He bemoaned. “That does change things.” He shifted on the seat. “Driver. Go on.”

“What do you mean?” You asked.

“Your arrival will be a headline by the next hour,” He explained. “That means we have even less time to get you… ready.”

“Oh, such a tragedy.” You snipped.

“Trust me, duchess, while you insist on making a mockery of this, you do not want to face the media without preparation,” The car began to move and ran his fingers through his dark hair. “They will tear you apart. What matters is their perception not your intent.”

“Ah, is that your job then?” You wondered. “You’re supposed to make a lady of me.”

“I am to educate you,” He insisted. “A tall and no doubt foolhardy task,” He growled. “But my king gave me an order and I will do what I can to mold you into at least a semblance of a lady.”

👑

Lush green fields turned to rolling hills. You watched the scenery, almost forgetting where you were and why. The picturesque countryside awed you and sent a chill through you. It truly felt like you had stepped back in time; even as if you had arrived on an entirely different planet.

Trees planted in careful lines closed in around the road and led to a row of tall hedges and you stopped before a gate of curled metal, topped by sharp points. It opened after the driver gave a short honk. The long drive was laid with mosaic stones and curved before the rounded steps of a great mansion. The double doors at the top were decorated with golden knockers and the handles were wrought and twisted elegantly. The car came to a halt and Barnes, as was his habit, checked his watch.

Your door was opened by the driver as Barnes climbed out the other side. He rounded the vehicle and beckoned you towards the steps. He walked beside you and you could sense him watching you from the corner of your eyes. The doors opened as you approached the stairs and liveried servants appeared from the other side as they welcomed you with eager smiles.

“All is prepared duchess,” He gestured ahead. “The palace has been readied for your seclusion. You are the only task left.”

“What a welcome,” You sneered. “I might be unlearned in the habit of nobility, but I don’t think it is usual for one to speak to a duchess in that tone.”

He smiled and took your arm, hooking it through his as he urged you up the stairs.

“The king has permitted me full reign in your training,” He said as he guided you through the open doors. “He will forgive me my own missteps if I can prevent your own.”

You dragged your feet as you entered the vast foyer. The floor was of white marble veined with gold, the decor shared a similar color scheme, and portraits hung from the walls, vast likeness of women in garb dating from the earliest medieval periods to the last century. You detached from Barnes and looked around.

“This is the Palace of Regia,” Barnes explained from behind you. “These are your foremothers. The queens of Astrania, each of whom took their pre-marital seclusion here. Each who married and served their kings proudly.”

You recalled the tradition, common to many countries but mostly retired since Victoria reigned over England and much of the globe. You turned back to Barnes and blinked.

“How long?”

“Two weeks,” Barnes answered. “Two weeks to ready you for the king’s presence. You will be taken to the capital at the end and attend your engagement party so that you can acquaint yourself with your future husband. Your wedding is scheduled the next week.”

“Engagement party? Wedding?” You echoed. “That’s… three weeks. Not even a month.”

“Yes, so we should get to work.” He neared and grabbed your shoulders. He pushed them back. “Stand straight.” He poked your chin up with two fingers. “Head high, shoulders back.”

“What are you--”

He rounded you and his hand gripped your waist and squeezed. He shushed you and ran his other hand up your spine.

“You must hold yourself like a queen. Mind your posture, your highness.” He said.

You pulled away from him harshly. “What are you doing?”

You were shocked as you felt a slap on your ass and he swiftly caught your hips and drew you back to stand before him.

“I am trying to save you a lot of grief.” He said. “Stay.” He bid as if you were a dog. He released you and came around in front of you. “As I said, head up, shoulders back.”

He stared until you obeyed. You sighed and stood straight as you could. He grinned.

“Let me tell you, Duchess, the cameras, the public, they will judge you even more harshly so you want to give them as little ammunition as you can so that they cannot turn their muzzles on you.” He girded and grabbed your arms, adjusting them before his hands settled on either side of your neck. He tutted. “You cannot hang your shoulders like a hunchback.”

“I don’t--”

“You do.” He insisted. “Now,” He removed his hands and walked backwards until he was near the wall. “Walk to me.” You squinted and he lowered his chin. He chuckled and waved his hand to beckon you forward. “Come on.”

You rolled your eyes but took a step. He hissed. “Keep your head up. Shoulders straight. Don’t sway like that.” Each footfall had another comment until you were right before him. He gestured you to turn around and he kicked your feet closer together and again touched your hips. “Let them know you’re a woman but do not flaunt it. Walk as if there is a string running straight through you. Lift your feet.”

He nudged you and you began to walk again. He followed not far behind and you heard his displeased grumbles. He fixed your shoulders, your hips again, told you to keep your feet closer together, head up!

You were growing more and more annoyed by the second. You were tired. You hadn’t even had a chance to register everything. You were in a palace, marching beneath the eyes of dozens of dead queens, far from home and all you had ever known. It was all so foreign, so different, so startlingly unfamiliar. You hated it.

“Enough!” You spun to face him and he stopped short. “Holy shit! I haven’t even--”

He grabbed your hand and smacked it like you were a child. “Language.” He warned.

You tugged your hand back and gaped at him. “What the fuck--”

He took your hand again and smack it harder. “Your highness, let us not be children.”

“Don’t touch me--” You tore yourself away. “You’re fucking crazy.”

“If you insist on acting like a child, I will bend you over and spank you like one.” He said. “Now, stand straight.” He crossed his arms. “And mind your mouth.” You stared at him, stunned. He raised his brows and nodded to you. “Don’t make me count, Duchess.”

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sickficenthusiast · 2 years ago

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Soggy From The Chemo (a sick/angstfic)

TW for cancer descriptions as well as chemo and addiction. I tried my best to depict it as realistically as possible, but lemme know if there’s anything I need to change in the future. I wanted to get a better idea of what I’m going to be putting my boy Elijah through in this novel of his and the start of the fic had been sitting there for a while, so I decided to finish it. I hope you enjoy if you decide to read!

An overwhelming sense of heaviness sat unabatingly across Elijah, as he sat half-laying on the leather seat which made up a part of the ring circling the entirety of the sterily formulaic chemo room. It was a feeling he had become accustomed to in the month which had dispersed since his life had ended. To the vision of hourglass grains, it may appear to have been just another gentle upheavel of a day, but to Elijah's unilateral vision, another reality was conjured. No more was Wednesday merely a day, or a headache merely an inconvenience; now each Wednesday burnt his veins with sickened throes of dread from diagnosis association, and each headache faded blindly into the next, and left him in a constant state of turbulent vibration and bone nausea. Eating was a chore, sleeping was a dream, and living had effectively halted. He had tried to continue working, but all he was able to manage was three days a week on a really good week, so that left leagues of time spent of him wasting away in his flat, trying desperately to maintain some sense of normality. This came in the form of him throwing himself into his painting and drawing, anything to keep his brain off of the topic of itself, of the cancer which festered within itself.

He had stage 3 small-cell carcinoma with brain mets. The newly formed brain tumour which had incited the need for a diagnosis had only been an extant result of a bigger problem he had never paid attention to while it had slowly developed within him. It was one of the biggest cancer killers for veterans, and it looked like it had gotten ahold of yet another. Who even knew how much dirt, shrapnel, chemicals, bone-fragments and active war-zone inhalants he had drawn into his lungs during his deployments, or how many cigarettes he had smoked through to keep his hands from shaking from the memory of it? He always chalked every one of his early symptoms to the smoking, it made sense for his chest to hurt and for him to be set off coughing at random, right? For his lungs to produce acidic rust and for him to have to sometimes fight for breath? Surely, he was just losing weight due to the stress and the trauma.

Like the fucking idiot he was, he had ignored everything until his condition had advanced to the point it had metastasised elsewhere so that he could no longer ignore it. It demanded his undivided attention, and boy fucking shit did it have it now.

A constant physical sense of dread weighed down upon him now, never having let up since first hearing Michelle gasp out that word through her tears, and certainly remaining steadfast atop him now, as the amber chemo syrup slowly dripped into his veins from the IV in the top of his hand, knowing deep in his aching bones that he would be completely laid low once he got home that night, as if he ever wasn’t low these days.

Perhaps he had thought that each infusion would become easier because he would have a better idea of what to expect each time, but that had turned out to be a total sham – every single session he was left feeling worse than the last, and could expect to be glued to the couch, his bed, or the bathroom floor for at least the first four days afterwards. He had begrudgingly taken up knitting to craft himself some personalised beanies to hide his barely peach fuzz-covered head, and his mouth was a constant bleeding mess of sores he still couldn’t work out how to combat. His complexion had seemed to permanently lighten from the gorgeous deep brown it usually was, perpetually washed out in appearance with a face once nicely toned left puffy and swollen. Everything he tried to put in his mouth was coppery in taste and never wanted to stay. His clothes, which were now practically always heavy and wintery-intended, constantly became heavier and grossly damp from the treatment-induced sweats, and he trembled with a fever he could never seem to break. His chest and head constantly hurt to the point of tears and sometimes blacking out, and he had a total of six more grand-mal seizures since his first. His mind seemed to have come to a complete stand-still, so foggy he could barely speak at times, and when he did it sounded as if his voice was totally alien to him, as if someone else entirely was steering his ship. They hadn’t passed their aptitude test, however, and they steered him into walls and sent him to the ground it seemed every time he tried to walk, to the point Michelle, who had become his biggest support system and makeshift caretaker, had suggested they look into a wheelchair for him. This wasn’t a big deal for her, she already used one spasmodically for her MS when it got particularly burdensome, but Elijah was extremely unimpressed with that idea – he hadn’t even needed one when he had returned home disfigured from war, why would he suddenly start using one now? That was an ongoing fight between them, but aside from that Michelle was entirely in his corner, taking him to appointments, getting his groceries, caring for him where no one else could. He knew his family so wanted to be with him in this, but by this point they had scattered, all the children now independent, and many had ended up returning to Italy. Two of his siblings, Bella and Mattia, still remained in the country, but they were nowhere near him, it would be an insurmountable task trying to get to him, and it wasn’t something he could expect them to do. He didn’t have any friends outside of work he could actually trust.

Michelle really was the only one he had, and he couldn’t be more grateful for that.

He nervously sucked on what was so lovingly called a ‘cancer pop’, a warm-tasting turmeric and cinnamon popsicle he was always given every infusion, and despite it hitting his stomach awkwardly and making it twist in protest, it was like practical heaven on his sore-infested mouth. He had managed to down a warm, almost sickeningly sweet tea and a few digestives since sitting down, as the staff insisted he eat as much as he could during the sessions (probably due in part to the fact they knew he found it so hard to do so while at home), and while the actual chemo hadn’t started making him feel sick just yet, you weren’t exactly given a lot of time to recover between infusions – he was still fighting off the last dose. Plus every time he didn’t spit out the bloody mucous he produced regardless of whether he had been coughing or not, it just got swallowed and went straight to his stomach. Swallowing a concoction like that would make anyone green around the gills, not to even mention he did it multiple times a day.

As he ate his popsicle he found he stopped breathing while performing the sucking motion, and thus when he would eventually stop and swallow what he had worked off the stick he would have to fight to regain some of the oxygen he had missed, which with his cancer-riddled lungs was an extremely hard undertaking. He got out of breath so easily, merely sitting still and not moving at all, just doing nothing but breathing, he would get winded, tiring out just by the mere effort of pulling air in and pushing it back out. They were currently in the middle of assessing whether he needed supplementary oxygen, but apparently he didn’t quite meet the threshold just yet. Elijah couldn’t help but be stuck on the distinction, yet. How encouraging. You’re fine for now. But how long would that last? He had unknowingly left his cancer simmering within him for quite some time, what seemed like a drastic and rapid outcome had in actuality been a long time coming. He hadn’t just woken up one day with stage 3 cancer – it had once been a vague tickle in his chest, probably a year ago, where he had just chalked it up to smoking a bit too much. Well, he hadn’t technically been wrong.

Because this wasn’t the paediatric oncology unit and he and Michelle weren’t married or in that kind of relationship, it was encouraged that she didn’t accompany him to the sessions, where he and everyone else there were severely immunocompromised and were already putting themselves at risk just by being there to get their medicine. Michelle entering the hospital unnecessarily would up the risk of either carrying or coming down with all the various illnesses they generally tried to keep away from the cancer patients, which would in turn put Elijah at great risk of getting sick, and with his lungs was a very dangerous situation. Thankfully thus far they had been successful in keeping from infecting him, but that wasn’t due to luck – he and Michelle barely took off their face masks, and everything in his flat had been disinfected and re-disinfected again. They were putting their all in keeping him as healthy as they possibly could, and that included him being alone through these awful sessions. He always left with a little less of himself, a part he knew he would be slow at regaining, if he ever did manage to. Another part Michelle would never get to see again. If he got through this and went into remission, which was admittedly a far-cry when he had only started receiving treatment when it had already metastasised, he wouldn’t come out of it whole. He could almost feel the holes this poison drug burned through his veins right to his skin.

He returned from war, only to walk himself right into another one that only he was a member in. There would be no Reggie’s or battle mates, or even Iraqi girls to carry him to safety now. He started this new war, and he was the only one who was able to fight it.

Although, he guessed he had a new battle mate. Too bad she had to wait in the car.

“Hey, Eli, tried to keep the car warm for when you got out. How you doin’, can I get you anything?” Her reassuring voice was a blessed anchor he could grab onto as he stumbled in a miserable haze from the sliding doors and fell into the passenger seat of his car. He always left these sessions hollowed-out, nothing behind his tired eyes except exhaustion and utter emptiness. As he sat panting damply, hand resting on his heaving chest, he fought not to be swept beneath the waves he constantly struggled against, because Michelle didn’t deserve that. He was already at the mercy of his brain tumour to lash out, still struggling to keep some of the Elijah he loved so dearly around. Where would he be to accept all this help from her, when she didn’t need to be doing anything for him, just then to verbally abuse her and curse her out for only trying to help. But it was so fucking hard, these weren’t conscious decisions he was making to act out, given literally any other alternative he would take it in a heartbeat.

So, unable to look up into the pure expression of concern he just knew would be drawn across her face, he swallowed thickly, tasting blood, and murmured,

“Thanks, it was fine, I just really want to go home now. I want Private…”

Private was his blond fox terrier, and without fail he would lay either in his lap or beside him, or at his feet, every single time he came back from chemo, and just that tiny gesture meant the world to him, always at least got him a little bit emotional, which frankly wasn’t hard these days. All he wanted right then was his couch and his baby, Private just seemed to have that ability to warm him when nothing else could, in more ways than just one, and he definitely wanted to get in some much-needed cuddle time before the chemo would catch up with him. At least give him a few minutes.

After a brief shower in which he just stood beneath the water unmoving, he immediately changed into his comfy pyjamas and a huge hoodie along with a few (dozen) blankets and parked himself on the couch, and much to his joy Private wandered over to him and jumped up beside him, heading for his lap as if on autopilot. He laid down beside him with his head and front feet draped across his lap, and Elijah’s hollow heart swelled oh so subtly, working his real and prosthetic fingers over his almost cotton-y fur, smiling for the first time that day as he murmured,

“Hey boy, you keeping daddy company?”

”Of course, why wouldn’t he want to?” Michelle giggled as she walked around the couch to set the bucket which had been appointed specifically to after chemo and nothing else by his feet, the plastic liner within it rustling with each movement. She also placed down his freshly-filled Glospee water bottle, the ice within rattling most satisfyingly, a glass of also iced ginger ale, and his webster pack. “I’ll start making dinner when I’m finished up here, but can I get you anything before I do? Your sketch book or your switch?”

Elijah still couldn’t handle the look he could hear in her voice, so didn’t meet her gaze when he requested,

“Probably just the remote today, I am…” he paused to catch his breath and rub at his face, “so, so very tired tonight…”

Michelle smiled sadly down at her very best friend. What she wouldn’t give to be able to cure him, she so deeply ached to see that old smile of his back on his face, one which told absolutely no tales of what he had seen in life. She hadn’t seen it in so long, even before he had been diagnosed, because the old him had already been in the process of being sapped. Why had this beautiful man had to have been the one to be laid low by his own body like this? Why hadn’t it been her? Why were her own symptoms beginning to go into remission when no one was sure if Elijah would ever have that chance?

If she kept standing there she may just speak that sentiment aloud, which wasn’t something Elijah necessarily needed to hear, not at least when he was meant to be resting. She reached down for the remote on the coffee table and handed it off to him, her hand lingering on his as she felt her eyes growing warm, a painful mass forming in her throat. It just wasn’t fair…

It really wasn’t fair. Elijah had eventually turned the tv on to Netflix and had been getting lost in The Haunting of Hill House while Michelle cooked in the background, but gradually he was losing the ability to concentrate on it, and all his focus was instead on how cold he was. Even with all the layers he currently had on, it was doing nothing to gift him any warmth, and he was left violently shivering while pulling all the blankets around him as tightly as he could manage, Private eventually moving himself to be sitting fully in his lap and stretching his head and front feet up to rest on his stomach up to his chest, essentially hugging his person. Elijah would be totally remiss not to hug him back, and making sure the blankets were still covering every possible inch of him, he wrapped his arms around his fuzzy body, nuzzling his face against his baby’s. He made sure to try and keep his teeth from chattering while he was so close to Private’s mouth, he couldn’t risk being licked anywhere near it. He knew then, logically, that he shouldn’t be allowing him to be so close to him, but cuddling with Private was some of the only physical contact he made, Michelle refused to risk it where possible, so he was totally touch-starved, not to mention that his puppy was like a walking heated blanket, how could he possibly keep him away when he was sometimes the only form of warmth he was able to experience?

He begrudgingly ate the chicken noodle soup Michelle had made, her go-to the first dinner after chemo, grimacing at the thick taste of metal cloying the experience and at the warm food touching the sores in his mouth. Michelle sat in the armchair across from him silently eating her soup, mostly watching her friend struggle with his own. She was proud of him for trying to eat; he still tried, regardless of how much it would soon bite him in the arse. It always did, like clockwork, and yet he gave it a go, every time. She hoped his tv show would be a distraction to him when it eventually did go south. Until then she would watch him, and make silent plans to race for the heavy-duty gloves as soon as she was needed to intervene.

At least two hours later Elijah had decided he was too tired to remain sitting up, and changed tactics to be curled up in a tight cocoon of blankets, his head resting on a pillow which was wedged between him and Private’s back. Michelle had turned the heating up until she was almost dripping with sweat when he had asked her to, but still, somehow, he was shivering like his life depended on it. He kind of wished he had gone into this as a more overweight person, because at least when he would start unintentionally losing weight he would have a longer time to go before he was skin and bone. He wasn’t entirely there yet, but he was by this point far thinner than he had ever been, and just on that front alone he had next to no heat reserves.

This utter cold, however, did nothing whatsoever to combat the sweat which soon became forming.

It seemed to take absolutely no time after its inception that he was thoroughly drenched. Every single article of clothing he had on was at least damp, and still more dripped from every inch of his almost hairless body, finding no pause between that and the shivering which found a similar amount. He absolutely hated this part, it was almost as if he had developed a new layer to his skin made entirely of slippery humidity, and it always left him totally disgusted. No matter of drying off or showering or fucking anything slowed it down, and all it did was cool him down more. He was so freezing. He clutched himself beneath the blankets, his hands slipping on his exposed skin, and moaned. He knew what the next step was.

And soon it rushed in, seemingly free-falling into him. Nausea swelled in the pit of his stomach, tightening his upper torso and worsening his trembling. This nausea burned his essentially traumatised stomach lining, the contents within seeming to churn in a circular motion, like an overfull blender, while he himself was trapped in a washing machine. He was becoming dizzy and the familiar taste of metal was blooming across the back of his quivering tongue, two more signs he was going to throw up, and soon. It didn’t necessarily scare him, but he knew how much it hurt every time, and how out of breath it left him. It was such an uncomfortable process, and one that wasn’t relieved with its fruition – he would left at the mercy of that process for days to come, more often than not over a week. He was nauseous and vomiting more often than he wasn’t these days, he was admittedly used to it by now, but that didn’t make him any more thrilled about it.

He tried to swallow it down and ignore it, laser-focussing on the current episode he was on, but even though he had rewatched this show hundreds of times, he couldn’t work out what was happening, as if this was his first viewing. He hadn’t really even broken his attention from it, but that didn’t matter to his foggy, knackered brain; it was as if he hadn’t been paying attention at all, and trying to now was just tiring him out more than he already was. But anything, anything not to focus on the god-awful feeling in his belly.

But it wasn’t exactly something he could just will away, his reaction to the medicine and to the disease itself wasn’t exactly in his control, and soon enough he felt so sick that it hurt to breathe, and he knew he should start the process of sitting up to grab his bucket (it wasn’t safe for Michelle to come into direct contact with his bodily fluids so the moment he began feeling the possibility of vomiting it was just safest to either grab his bucket or run to the toilet).

When Elijah began sitting himself up, Michelle knew exactly what he was after, could already see the nausea in his face. She quickly got to her feet and crossed over to him, grabbing up his bucket and plunking it into his lap before sprinting from the room to get her gloves. Elijah was gagging almost as soon as he was upright, clutching to the rim with both hands in a white-knuckled grip, while his stomach visibly pulled inward. H retched desperately, panting just before his ab muscles squeezed hard and a flood of his dinner drained from his mouth and nose, splattering noisily into the plastic liner.

“Huh, you actually kept that down longer than I thought you would, Eli, congrats,” Michelle half-heartedly joked as she re-entered the room and sat down beside him, rubbing his soggy back as he gutturally gagged, a gurgling growl preceding another thick dousing of dark orange vomit to burst hard from his mouth, leading him to pretty much shove his entire head into the bucket to keep the possibility of a mess to the absolute minimum.

The explicit sting present in an inordinate number of points in his mouth was made even more obvious when the next time he threw up, blood from his oral sores mixed with the acidic sick to colour the already off-putting orange into a downright panicky red. If it weren’t for its blatant reason, he was sure Michelle would have had him in the emergency department in a heartbeat. If he weren’t mistaken, he was sure she would already be thinking about it regardless, further evidenced by the subtle tightening in the muscles of her hand he was trying to focus on present on his back. Between the ice in his bones, the fire in his mouth, the tight nausea swirling in his belly, the clammy spinning in his head, how much it hurt to breathe, and how badly his body craved to be unconscious, it was all just too much for him. None of this was fair, why the fuck hadn’t he just died in combat instead of coming back disabled at the mercy of his body eventually killing him anyway? He had fought so hard to stay alive, for what? Just so his own body could kill him later and far slower? What had it all been for when his own worst enemy was himself? What hadn’t killed him certainly hadn’t made him stronger. Why had he done this to himself?

From deep in his battered chest he sobbed, hot tears flooding his eyes, just in time to choke up more seemingly pure acid. The effort of forcing it up and then feeling it on his wounds was an agony he wouldn’t wish on anyone, and one he wished he coud be far away from. He begged his body to cease, please, he just wanted to sleep, but it took many more mouthfuls of vomit to be expelled for him to get a break, finally coming to a stop in a totally breathless state, fighting for air and sobbing raggedly. He knew he should try and calm himself down so he could better catch his breath, but that didn’t mean he knew how. He was in such an acute state of misery, he wished he could be hugged but that wouldn’t be safe. That was why he couldn’t even have an ungloved hand rubbing his back. Why couldn’t he just be normally sick, where sure you didn’t necessarily want to pass it on, but it wasn’t as if your bodily fluids were essentially corrosive in that situation. He could be held without discretion with bare hands, not instead handled like some sick animal. Michelle may as well be wearing a hazmat suit to Elijah’s skewed perception, and there was something really dehumanizing about that which burned him down to his very soul. He knew these precautions she had to take were only for a few days after each infusion, but that still didn’t mean it didn’t somewhat hurt – that was when he needed her the most!

He had been quick to accept Michelle’s offer to be taken to bed after he finally stopped vomiting for the time being, but had had to be half-dragged half-carried to his bedroom from how absolutely drained of energy he was, sagging heavily on her shoulder while she led him slowly down the hall and to his bed, which he practically fell into. In the time he had been up and walking the temperature had seemed to lower still, and by the time he got to his bed he was seeing double from the shivering, his teeth surely going to break from chattering so hard. He miserably crawled under his blankets and removed his prosthetics while Michelle rushed to grab the rest that were still on the couch, laying them down across his trembling form. He felt so incredibly awful, folding his hands over his still loudly churning belly and groaning.

He was getting a headache. A disgusted shudder ran down his spine, curling up on his side and whimpering, trying not to start crying all over again. God, please just let him sleep, he was begging now. It wasn’t fair.

Michelle brought through the freshly scrubbed and lined bucket and sat it on the floor beside his bed, resting his water bottle on the beside table which was cluttered with various pill bottles and boxes.

“There we go, sweetheart, I’ve let Renee know I’ll be staying over, again, so I’ll be right here if you need anything at all. Just try and get some rest now, you so dearly need it…” she said softly, so wanting to run her fingers through his hair, curl up beside him and hold him until he fell asleep, but not wanting to risk hurting herself. If she were also being honest with herself, she was stressed, for obvious reasons, and desperately wanted a cigarette. She had continued smoking them back at home so to keep it away from him as best she could, but she really desperately wanted one right then, broaching more into the realm of needing it. But where would she be, smoking while looking after her friend with lung cancer? This was an internal fight she was steadily losing at, however, and she was already in the process of figuring out where she would sneak to after he was asleep to get her hit. How could she be so weak? How could she do this to him, and to herself? If not the entire reason Elijah had gotten sick it was at least a high contributor, so why couldn’t she give them up knowing this was an option for her fate to lead her towards?

Well, they were both addicts. Addiction kind of has a habit of overpowering every morality you have to see itself fed. She truly didn’t want to hurt Elijah. She was just too weak to not.

“’Chelle?”

“Yeah, Eli?”

“Please stop smoking.”

“Okay, sweetheart.”

Michelle ran this exchange over and over in her mind as she sat huddled in her car, lighting a cigarette in her clasped hands before inhaling and blowing out its toxic cloud. This had been the last thing he had said before falling asleep, and not even five minutes later here she was, having actively lied to him and doing exactly what he had asked she stop. Tears ran down her cheeks as she sucked on the filled paper, holding it in her mouth before letting it billow out as she sobbed on the exhale, hiding her burning face in shame. What the fuck was she doing? How could this stupid little thing have such a hook on her, when she was actively being shown what could happen to her down the track? She was betraying him, truly she was, and betraying anyone else in their situation, and betraying herself. He had asked her to stop, and she couldn’t. She wanted to grind the cigarette under her foot, stub it out and be done with it, but the thought made her so nauseous that she had to hurriedly take another drag to calm herself down. Quitting was not a likely outcome at any point in her future.

“I’m so fucking sorry, Elijah…” she moaned in inner turmoil, as she tremulously inhaled pure cancer directly into her lungs, blowing it out in another, even louder sob.

She’d need another cigarette to calm this crying down.

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