#i can repeat it in the exact same tone of voice as my grandpa from memory

[two-calicos-in-a-trenchcoat]

I started step four but took these out thinking I might put them through steps 1-3 again but now that theyre dry they feel a lot smoother which makes me think I should've moved them on...

One side of the moss agate is super smooth but the side thats been getting a divet ground into it is very rough

The pink ones feel much smoother dry than they did wet.....but they do still have some rough spots where the original rock broke apart....should've taken my big piece of quartz down to see if it fits and how much space for other rocks will be around it

[lavenderjewels]

JJK season 2 episode 21 thoughts! ✨

Went into this episode expecting the iconic “I am you” scene to be animated, left with two incredible works of art now ingrained into my memories (todo and takada-chan beating up mahito)

All this about Todo wanting to imitate All Might from MHA last episode, but I’m thrilled that the animators confirmed that Todo is actually living the magical idol anime dream that Gege Akutami initially was going to write before starting JJK. AND managed to make the volume cover I never really liked into a beautiful and hilarious moment 💗✨

Music / ost worked the entire episode and went silent when it was needed. Some of the previous eps had parts with their pacing or music that lessened the emotions of the scenes (e.g. right after Nanami died), but everything here flowed well!

As much as I like talking about JJK, sometimes, at my core, I just like watching a good and entertaining fight scene, and that was a majority of this episode until the end. It battle shonen’d in the best way a battle shonen can be. It’s a satisfying feeling to have snail mahito, a birthday, a magical girl segment, and a metaphorical rabbit wolf clashing of truths all in one fight.

The voice acting still amazing with every episode—Mahito and Yuuji being the highlights. I’ve said this a few times, but Mahito’s VA captures the (literal) childish personality and mindset of his character. Last episode, it was how he threw around and yelled at Yuuji like a kid throwing around a doll. This ep was along the same lines, with him immediately crying and throwing dirt at Yuuji. It’s not the exact same, since he is a curse, but it shows how he just came into being and was constantly learning and curious about the world. And the second Yuuji actually badly hurts him, stops him from running away, and repeats similar beliefs back to him, he breaks down. They really are the “same.”

Now Yuuji!!! His new conviction, if it can be called that, about being a cog made to kill curses until he’s worn out. Not exactly the healthiest mindset, but it’s an unsurprising progression after losing control of his own body/autonomy, losing his mentor and best friend (both figures of reassurance and hope), having his entire foundation for living and abiding by his grandpa’s dying wishes be challenged—all while needing to keep moving forward, to not fall into complete despair.

The voice acting in his speech back to Mahito sounded lifeless, but authentic to what he now believes. I appreciated how little the VA gave emphasis to any words and spoke it all in one similar tone. Some of the way it was spoken also sounded like it was affected somewhat by his mouth wound, which was a nice touch.

Manga spoilers for the points below‼️

Continuing: Yuuji’s new mindset is faulty and I love how much the episode shows the flaws of how Mahito and him thought, and how they’re both still incredibly young with their views constantly challenged by their new experiences. We get what’s supposed to be a cathartic scene of Yuuji killing Mahito and stalking him like a predator towards a prey animal, only to have the final killing blow be taken by Kenjaku, another predator (when your mom steals your deserved murder 🙄).

I’ve always appreciated how this moment was not presented as this great turn of beliefs that leads to success, and instead immediately gives him this unfulfilling and destructive outcome. Like, I’ll take Yuuji beating Mahito as a momentary win, but it’s not going to work out in the long run for himself or anyone. Which makes me interested in where his character is headed for the rest of the manga. There’s probably more to say with him regarding the story’s themes on strength/weakness, enlightenment, hunger, etc., but I love what we are given here.

His entire cog in a machine (of war) also reminds me of the series’ title emphasizing endless repetition of fights and everything looping (got the translation from the blog at kylescooter.com). JJK has constant examples and themes of past generation vs new generations, traditional vs unconventional, etc, but also repeating history and being stuck in the same ways. This post is already too long, but I wonder how Gege will conclude all this and if anything will change.

Said up there that there wasnt anything I disliked about the episode, but I do wish wolf Kenjaku was added! Not just because I adore the scene (for its imagery and hinting at them being related), but also because it would’ve been cool to transition out of that scene by having wolf Kenjaku show up.

Next ep will have Choso, the Kyoto school, Kenjaku, Uraume, and Yuki!! Also that Mei Mei scene which I am absolutely dreading.

Also the next ep preview with Kenjaku was fun

[teaandatale]

Steggy and 'I Didn't Mean to Turn You On'

86. ‘I Didn’t Mean to Turn You On’

Ummm… You definitely meant to get a 2k+ fic out of this didn’t you? Omg. Anyway.

I’m not sure if you meant to pick a second AU or if this onewas good enough but if you’d like to send a follow up for another “I didn’tmean to turn you on” that you’d like to see paired with another AU feel free tohit me up again 😊

Here is what my brain jumped to and please please thank @dorrinverrakai1 for being a muse extraordinaire and making this become what it did. (There is quite a bit of backstory that goes to this that didnt make it into the ficlet fyi.)

I’m placing it under a cut because again… This grew legs from just being an answer to a tumblr meme…

Phillips’ annual Christmas party is a thing of legend aroundthe office. It’s always a grand affair, hosted at his mansion and everyoneknows that if you want to be someone in the company, if you show up, make agood impression, compliment the host and his wife’s hospitality, you have areal good shot at a corner office sooner or later.

For Steve, who was ambitious enough, but didn’t feel theneed to grease palms solely at a company party for his own selfish benefit, itwas an opportunity to spend some quality time out of the office with the girlof his dreams.

But the evening hadn’t gone on like he had planned, not afterthe flirtation between him and Peggy the day before back at the office. Whereshe had mentioned she had bought a spectacular new red dress just for the occasion,and then inquired about what he was going to wear. And how he promised her adrink. And that if there was dancing maybe a dance or two to go with that. And herlips had turned up and she said nothing for a moment as she regarded him.

“I will see you tomorrow night then Steve,” she said inpromise.

He’d never been so thrilled. He and Peggy had become goodfriends, and he was pretty sure their interactions would be considered flirtingon several occasions, but he’d never really had a good chance at pursuingsomething more.

But then he doesn’t spot Peggy at the party right away. Andwhen he finally does, she’s standing in a corridor whispering hurriedly with Phillips,and at her side holding her hand was a young girl of seven or eight years old. Thegirl teeters on her heels and leans her head against Peggy’s hip. He knows Peggywas close to Phillips and his family, he thinks that her parents were closefriends of his. The scene doesn’t seem like one he should interrupt soreluctantly he turns away and heads toward the catered food.

He doesn’t spot Peggy again for another half an hour, butshe’s over talking to several of their important German clients so he knows hecan’t interrupt that either. A bit disappointed, he decides to take a little tourof the place and heads up the stairs where one of the bar stations was set up,but heads towards the giant Christmas trees that flank a large bay window witha lookout. He’s passing the bar he overhears something that makes him stop inhis tracks.

“Can you believe she would bring her kid to an event likethis?” It’s Thompson, his least favorite guy in the office, talking with DanielSousa, both men holding generously filled glasses of whiskey.

He’s filled with rage at the dismissive and insulting tone ofthe comment.

“It’s a little embarrassing…” Sousa agrees, somewhat reluctantly.

“A little embarrassing? For fuck’s sake, you don’t bring yourkid to a company event period. And you definitely don’t saddle the fucking CEOof the company with your brat because you remembered you have to network with yourmost important clients.” He was ready to punch Thompson right then and thereeven before he hurled another blow that surprised Steve. “Classic Marge. She’s alwaysgetting a little too big for her britches. She should really learn about babysitters.”

He knows Thompson’s reputation for talking shit, so though thesurprise stuns him, he knows better than to believe gossip from his mouth.Still, he’d have felt the same way if it was Peggy’s child or not.

“That’s very wise advice from you Jack,” Steve says, “assomeone who doesn’t have kids, and given the way you talk may never findsomeone who would choose to have them with you.”

Thompson snorts derisively. “I don’t suffer from lack ofinterest unlike some people Rogers. Anyway I wasn’t talking to you.”

“Doesn’t matter who you were talking to when we can all hearyou badmouthing a coworker. Real classy. Definitely the way you’re going toearn brownie points in the office. And don’t pretend you know anything aboutchildcare or shame someone for doing the best they can to take care of theirchildren. Parenthood doesn’t just stop because you have to work. Do you knowhow many times I spent at the hospital when my mom was on shift because she hadno alternative? Parents do what they have to. I’m sure if there was a better orsafer option it would have been taken. And even if it wasn’t, it’s not ourbusiness. It’s not like anyone is asking you to babysit huh?”

“Fuck off Rogers.”

He rolls his eyes. “Original. Do me a favor and don’t let mehear you say shit like that again. I’m prefer not to ruin your night becauseyou can’t shut your mouth.”

He storms past not waiting for Jack’s response. It’s notuntil he’s right next to the ornate Christmas tree that he realizes the baywindow is occupied. On the wide cushioned seat, sits Phillips and at his sideis the little girl with a book. He doesn’t mean to interrupt but Phillips makeseye contact with him and it would be rude not to say hello to the host.

“Mr. Phillips,” he says, voice still a little surprised. “It’snice to see you.”

Phillips smiles at him. They’ve gotten along the few timesthey’ve interacted. “Steve. Are you enjoying the party?”

He nods. “You’ve got a beautiful house. It’s so warm andfestive.”

“I like all the Christmas trees,” the little girl saysproudly. “There are eight in the house this year because I’m eight years oldthis year,” she tells him.

“Wow! You must be very special to get as many Christmas treesas your age,” Steve tells the girl who grins at him. “Which one is yourfavorite?”

She stands up from the seat and bounces on her heels thenpoints below past the ledge that looks down at the first floor. There in themiddle of the large dining room is the largest Christmas tree in the place.

“The big, big one! How tall was it again Grandpa Phillips?”

The man chuckles. “Sixteen footer. The tallest we’ve everhad you my girl.”

She grins at him. And the sight is a wonder to Steve who hasnever quite witnessed Phillips act so soft. It’s sweet. “We’re reading aChristmas Carol. Do you know it?” The girl asks Steve.

“Oh yes! I know it well. My mom and I used to read it everyChristmas together.”

“Used to? You don’t like to read it anymore?”

He hesitates. “Oh no I would. I do. Except, my mom… She uhpassed away a few years ago. I still think of her every time I read it though.”He hopes that’s not too heavy for an eight year old.

The girl’s eyes widen and she nods very seriously. Then she grinswidely at him again and jumps up from the bench. “Well then you can read itwith me! I’m a very good reader for my age.”

Phillips laughs. “Yes you are Maggie girl. But I’m sureSteve is interested in getting back to the party darling.”

He’s about to retort when Phillips’ wife rushes over. “Thereyou two are,” she starts. “Honey, I know you asked not to be bothered but Zimmermangroup has arrived and there’s the toast to be given.”

Phillips and his wife exchange a look while Maggie flipspages in her book.

“I’d be happy to keep Maggie company,” he finds himselfoffering. “She did promise me we could read a Christmas Carol together.”

“Oh that would be lovely! You’re Steve yes? Steve Rogers?”Phillips’ wife asks with a bright, relieved smile.

“Are you sure Steve?”

“Of course.”

“I’ll be back in half an hour Maggie my girl, okay? Youthink you can entertain Steve here for that long?”

The girl nods and shoves the book into Steve’s hand. “Is yourname short for anything Steve?” she asks him once the Phillips’ are gone.

He laughs. He likes how bold the girl is. “It’s short forSteven, but no one really calls me that.”

“My name is short for Margaret. Margaret Jr. to be exact,” shetells him with a smile.

Steve freezes for a moment. Can she really be Peggy’s daughter?Had he really never known that Peggy was a mother? He panics as he tries to rememberif she had every told him that information before. But he doesn’t have muchtime to ponder it as the girl demands he help do the voices. So he findshimself crying out “Bah Humbug” at increasingly dramatic tones once he findsMaggie finds it hilarious. Her little sweet giggles are infectious. So theyread, and occasionally Maggie will stop to ask questions about a hard word, orwhat he thinks of Scrooge, or to tell him what she wants for Christmas. He losestrack of time.

It’s definitely more than a half hour that’s passed whenfootsteps approach them. It’s a wild-eyed Peggy and she seems at a loss forwords.

“There you are my darling!” Peggy calls out, and Maggierushes towards her in a massive hug.

“Steve and I were reading together,” she tells Peggy. He noticesPeggy is staring at him.

Before he can say anything or explain, a second womanapproaches.

“Mommy!” Maggie cries out and rushes for the other woman.

“Hiya Margaret my baby girl. Did you have fun at GrandpaPhillips’ party? Oh Peggy I can’t thank you enough again. Wait who is this?”

Peggy, who had still been staring peculiarly at Steve,clears her throat. “Sorry, Angie. This is Steve. Steve Rogers. Steve this is mybest friend Angie.”

“Ohhhh!” Angie grins and throws Peggy a wink. “Steve Rogershuh?”

Peggy ignores her. “Steve was very generous enough to sitwith Margaret.”

Little Margaret bounces on her toes excitedly. “Mommy! Hisname is short for Steven. Did you know that? Steven.” She repeats his full nameas if enjoying the sound of it. It makes him smile. “And he does really goodvoices. Almost as good as yours mommy.”

“Now that’s a high compliment from my baby girl,” Angietells him, this time winking at him.

“That big of a compliment huh? Well I’m honored,” he tellsMaggie.

“Baby tell Peggy and Steve goodnight, it’s way past your bedtimenow.”

She hugs Peggy first, but then Steve is surprised to findthe girl come rush over to hug him. “Thanks for being my friend Steve. Maybe wecan read together again next year.”

“You got it,” he swears, because how could he not?

He notices Angie shoot Peggy another look before the twodisappear. He then notices that Peggy is back to staring at him. And this timehe thinks he realizes what kind of a stare it is she’s giving him. He feels alittle warm in his suit all of a sudden. He needs a way to break the silence.

“I didn’t mean to turn you on,” he finds himself sayinghelplessly.

It’s the strangest, boldest statement coming from him. But onelook at Peggy’s face and he’s a helpless mess. Her stare is so pointed and fullof heat he’s pretty sure he’s blushing. Her interest is so open, and full of…he feels like a fool but he hopes he’s correct recognizing it as desire. Theway that she bites her lip, the way her pupils are dilated and how she keepstracking not only his face but lingering all over his body.

“I—“ he tries to backtrack but his mouth is so dry and hergaze only seems to grow darker, her tongue flicking out to wet her red lips andSteve is unable to breath. He swallows hard. Who is turning who on exactly?

He finally gets a chance to take a good long look at her,something he’s been dying to do all night. Her dress, a deep red that matchesher lipstick accentuates every curve in her body in a way that makes Steve’sbreaths a little quicker. He can’t stop looking her over. She is magnificent. Agoddess. And it makes him giddy, as her presence has always made him. He wantsto feel the fabric of her dress, wants to see if it’s soft or silky.

“Oh you weren’t, were you?” she asks, her voice laced with disbeliefand amusement. “You mean to tell me that you didn’t get dressed in that well-tailoredtux and choose a red tie and pocket square?”

He gulps at the way she looks him over once more. “Well youmentioned you were going to wear red… so…”

“So you took it upon yourself to remember that fact and considerit when getting dressed.”

She looks so pleased that he’s confused for a moment. Ofcourse he listened to her. And if she was going to wear red why wouldn’t hewant to match her?

“And then you didn’t just so gracefully offer to reprievePhillips and watch my beloved Goddaughter and have her so enjoy your companyshe now calls you her friend?”

He clears his throat. “She’s a great kid. I didn’t know shewas your Goddaughter.”

Peggy takes a step closer. “You do realize that only makes youeven more attractive?” Her voice is lower and deeper and she’s close enough nowthat he could count every one of her eyelashes.

He licks his lips. “I um… Well… For a while there I thought shewas your kid. And didn’t know if I had forgotten that you told me you had adaughter.”

She laughs, the sound still low that it leaves him longing anddesperately he wants to lean into her, breathe her in.

“That wouldn’t be because Thompson was gossiping huh?”

He freezes. “How did you know about that?”

“Jarvis overhead him at the bar. He told me you gave him atongue-lashing of spectacular proportions.” He can only shrug. “So you can’timagine that a well-dressed man that I was already fond of, not only deftly defendedmy honor without making it about me, but spent time at a company Christmasparty making Maggie giggle uncontrollably.”

She’s standing so close, as close as he had fantasized abouthappening at this party.

“I…” He bows his head. He wants to believe her, wants to believethat any of that would make him attractive in her eyes. But she’s Peggy and asuperstar in her own right, and she’s oh so pretty he could cry. “If you likethat sort of thing,” he mumbles.

“I do,” she murmurs, tilting her head, her left hand coming upto press against his jaw. He can feel her body against his. “Now kiss mealready.”

There’s no refuting that. He flicks his gaze down at her,the adoring smile, her wide pupils. He places both hands on the back of herneck and kisses her hard, hard enough to make her gasp. The hand at his jawwanders up and cards through his hair. And oh he has never kissed anyone quitelike this. Full of fireworks and wonder and longing for more and more and more.She presses herself closer and they don’t stop kissing. He never ever wants tostop.

Eventually they part, both gasping and catching theirbreaths.

“Well…” she starts, still steadying her breathing, handsstill tracing over his face and neck, “I really thought we were going to needmistletoe to get you to kiss me tonight.”

He grins and pulls her in for another kiss.

[momijis-sunglasses]

so in my post-first-two-episodes-of-furuba glow, I went home and watched the first episode of the 2001 anime again.

hoo boy.

it was FASCINATING.

it’s definitely become a little more common for the same story to receive multiple adaptations. but here we have two first episodes that cover the exact same chapter in the manga, end on the same story hook, and even have plenty of similar shots. but the overall impression and tone is incredibly different between the two. and it’s so revealing for why i’m optimistic about the new anime and have big issues with the 2001 adaptation.  

SPOILERS

-the 2019 anime has the huge benefit of knowing the entire story. starting out with a flashback to the bond first being created between god and the animals is a great idea. it gets a hint of the supernatural in there early for new viewers, and it’s giving you a visual metaphor (the ropes aka literal bonds) of one of the key themes of the series. the new anime is being made with the awareness of the rest of the series, and that’ll improve things so much. they’re already really teasing the hat, and even kyo’s beads. it’s nothing too overt, just little nudges at the viewer that serve as a fun thing for existing fans and ways to tease the mystery for new fans.

-the scene where Tohru first finds the house and meets Shigure have very, very similar scripts between both versions. and I wish I had the new version in front of me right now because I can’t provide specific examples of why this is -- but I was left with a much more natural impression from the new version. the directing is just better. I think the 2001 anime has the problem of being too abrupt constantly. it’s like nothing’s given room to breathe. in the new anime, there’s a really nice transition into a flashback (lots of flashbacks in this episode haha) using the wind chime at Shigure’s to one at Tohru and Kyoko’s apartment. and actually going into the apartment gives the whole flashback a better sense of place. this is also where it starts being really apparent how much more static the old anime is. i do think they generally did the best with what they had, but there are more pans over still frames and the characters expressions are usually flat. the new anime is 1000% more dynamic.

-which also contributes to the comedy! there’s the same funny “what do you have in there, a dictionary?”/”two dictionaries” gag in both, but it lands better in the new anime. it’s more background chatter than anything, actually, so it feels more like incidental funny dialogue. like these people just banter and bug each other on the reg. the 2001 anime makes everything more slapstick and over the top, and 2019 tones it back to something more naturalistic. which i’m happy about, because when i think fruits basket, i think dry humor more than anything.

-also! eric vale! i’ve never blamed him for this, but his performance is sooooo much better in the new anime. he was definitely a newer voice actor (like a lot of the cast) when the 2001 anime came out, but I blame a lot of the issues I had with his performance before on the voice directing. there are so many times in the old episode where Yuki sounds straight up creepy. i don’t know if they were going for mysterious, but they didn’t get there that’s for sure. he’s more regular and a bit suave in the new one, which makes sense for this part of the story. yuki’s just like.. a huge improvement between these two versions. I always felt like the director of the 2001 anime didn’t get Yuki at all. like he thought he was actually a prince and also just wanted to make a cool character so girls would swoon and buy merch or w/e. I just want Yuki to get his due as a character, dammit!

-if you haven’t watched the original in a while and have hulu or netflix, fire that shit up because the transition to school is sooooo bad. first the prince yuki fanclub and their weird chant thing... and then uo and hana’s introduction is also super abrupt and we’re just firing through these scenes real fast. the new one has the same events happen, but again, it’s more natural. no weird chant! the prince yuki club has just cornered tohru in a hallway and are berating her. a boy even walks past and is like, “yikes, bullying.” because it totally is! the timing on uo and hana to the rescue is a lot better. and i think because of that, it allows the comedy more time to develop so that’s it’s actually funny and not just confusing. also all three of them feel more like comfortable friends. like we’re witnessing their usual dynamic. since the 2001 director was always going for comedy, it almost feels more like an interrogation in the old version.

-THIS! CHANGE! IS SO IMPORTANT! so the 2001 anime races through tohru telling us why she’s living in a tent. lightspeed. we have time for the prince yuki fan club chant, but we can’t spend too much time establishing the drama of the situation. in the 2001 anime, we transition to a literal slideshow basically recreating panels from the manga while tohru monologues over it about how her mom died in an accident but she wound up with her grandpa and he asks her to go live with a friend for a while. we all know the story. the new anime, on the other hand, transitions to an actual flashback, not a still image, of tohru as a kid balancing a checkbook while she explains how her dad passed away and her mom had a tough time all by herself. it’s really sad! and it’s so much more effective to show her as an actual kid worrying about money stuff and making dinner. they also showed a heap of blood instead of a car hitting a wall to represent kyoko’s death, which... woof. and then we get an actual scene of her grandpa asking her if she can stay with a friend. which, again, gives us more time to actually feel the situation she’s in. but also works so well because he phrases it as an option for her. he says he’s worried she won’t be comfortable stuffed into a small house with a ton of people so she might be happier staying elsewhere for a while. and then tohru, OF COURSE, takes that consideration and goes to live in a tent. the transition (which is different between the two) to tohru cleaning up a storm at her job was also a moment of genuine, sweet comedy.

-yuki talking to tohru on the way home is kind of interesting, since the two adaptations treat it in kind of opposite ways? in the 2001 anime there’s that ~mysterious~ music while he tells her random zodiac facts and then silent tension (which I actually quite like) when he gives her that enigmatic “it’s not that i don’t like all cats” look. in the new one it’s a more normal conversation? like they’re just chatting. and then it turns when she realizes there’s something more to it and the music got pretty intense and there’s A Moment. i think it’s less outright sinister in the new one. seriously, i’m waiting for 2001 yuki to start monologuing about his master plan to take over the earth any time.

-shigure laughing at tohru’s tent is straight up funnier in the new one. the timing is better. also his continued laughter and yuki’s little “oh you’re done now?” was really well handled. that joke falls flat in the old version.

-and i don’t know how they do it because, again, these episodes have the same runtime and cover the same material, but this whole scene definitely feels like it takes it’s more time in the new anime. it’s not overstaying it’s welcome or anything. it’s punchy and funny and i loved seeing the characters play off each other. but even shigure opening the door to reveal the gross kitchen is given more of a beat to it, so you have a second to laugh. and him hearing the dog howling isn’t the most awkward thing you’ve seen anymore.

-since we’ve had more time to understand tohru’s situation and even her mom (kyoko is finally allowed to be herself and not Cliche Dead Mom!) through flashbacks in the new anime, tohru clawing at the dirt to get the picture of her mom is actually pretty heart-wrenching. you get it more. everything she has in the world is in that tent and she doesn’t have anything but pictures to remember her mom by. this is what i’m so excited about in the new anime. if you give more time to build motivations and drama, because you understand that’s important to storytelling, then the emotional parts will hit that much harder

-tohru telling shigure about the day her mom died! I've always loved this scene, because it's one of the few times Tohru actually opens up to someone (who's not Kyo :P)about feeling crappy. amazing what a fever can do. these two scenes are so interesting, because they're actually really similar. we get the exact same info, and some of the shots of tohru lying on the futon are basically identical. but once again, the 2001 anime does a lot more telling us what happened. some shots are obvious budget-saving measures, like an extended shot of the paper wall/door with tree shadows waving. (what room are they supposed to be in?? for some reason, I always thought that was the kitchen) (actually the reason was all the rats are behind that door) (you KNOW there are rats in that kitchen) the 2019 anime, on the other hand, goes back to those old reliable flashbacks. we get a repeated (and longer) shot of kyoko going out the door, and you realize as the scene goes on and tohru explains she didn't even wake up to see her leave that morning, that it's an imagined scene or a memory of another day. which is... oof. make me feel all those feelings, please. we also get more actual kyoko dialogue, which is always a good thing.

-I also love yuki showing up after she's fallen asleep, having overheard anything, and saying he could've left the sohma compound to live in a tent. uh, I mean, I love it in the manga and the new anime. I won't put this on the original production staff and more on the original English dub, but oh boy is yuki kind of petulant and whiny in that scene. he sounds very petty and jealous and I don't like it. he's definitely envious of her to a degree (and beating up on himself), but he's also pretty in awe I think. ANYWAY I felt the new dub fixed this, so I wasn't like, what's your problem, dude?

-yuki and the rats is still weird lol (honestly being able to "communicate" with their animal is dropped so damn fast in the manga. I only like it for the payoff of the birds running away from kureno.)

-actually, one of the only things I prefer in the 2001 anime is tohru waking up to her mom's photo right next to the futon. I love the idea of yuki setting it up there real quietly while she sleeps, knowing it's the thing she was most worried about. so cute! but one point for the new dub: i'm assuming tohru says "oka-san" when she wakes up. since it's three syllables and zoomed in on her mouth they've changed(?) it to "I miss you" in English and just stab me right through the heart why don't you!!

-it seems like everyone's saying this, but that staircase scene! it's not even really a scene. but I love it! a cramped little switchback-y staircase. this show is making me feel like i'm IN shigure's house. it's also shot cool, and the reveal of kyo in the tree is great. I love that it's not pointed out so obviously, and he's just there. (it'd be hard to miss him though)

-then of course we end on kyo jumping through the whole damn roof (he really blasts through it in 2019 haha) and everyone turning into animals. no huge differences, but I want to fast forward a little to talk about kyo. jerry jewell may be the member of the returning cast who sounds the most "similar" to his old rendition of the character, HOWEVER. there's a huge change in acting and vocal direction. it might seem like a small change, but it's not! it's really big! in the 2001 anime he jumps through that roof and says a punny line (it would take kyo 6 months to come up with that lbr) and rah-rah rages through the next few episodes when he's not acting sheepish. now he sounds much less like he's just angry and more like he BLURTS things. a thought comes into his head and BLURT it's out of his mouth. because of the increased range in emotional expression on all their faces, we can see that he seriously feels guilty and conflicted about being mean to tohru. like there is some depth there to be mined. it's so much more obvious that the people around him can easily push him to the point of blowing up, and that he doesn't feel in control of himself. I give major props to the animation team, the anime director, and the dub director (I would trust Caitlin Glass with my actual life at this point) for pulling this off. because it seems subtle! but it really is a big difference!

I used to be a pretty staunch believer that we DID NOT need another anime adaptation of fruits basket. I know a lot of people wanted it, but I really never did. I love the manga so much, and think it's masterfully done. after the original anime, I didn't want more of it. mostly, because I didn't trust anyone to do it right. a lot of the changes made by the original anime may seem "small" to many people, but what makes furuba so great to me IS all those tiny nuances. change a tiny detail, and you may have changed the whole feel of a scene or an important interaction. the manga is pretty quiet, for most of it's run. little moments build up to create a big, beautiful tapestry. so I was happy reading my manga over again and not worrying about anyone else ever touching it to bring it to moving color.

so i'd say I was likely to be a harsh judge. and I was really, REALLY impressed with what they accomplished. i'm sure there'll be some decision I disagree with later. they'll cut some scene I love or i'll disagree with the emphasis on something somewhere. but they've really built up a lot of goodwill with me. I LOVED watching these characters on screen and seeing them interact. seeing them all eat around the table together felt like coming home. like settling down for another furuba reread.

and it's all the stuff above that made me feel that way. seemingly little tiny details and differences. again, we're talking about the exact same story! it's told with almost the same lines and the same characters and many of the same jokes. but it really felt different, because of small changes. and a much better understanding of what furuba is.

[rockthistowninsideout]

So you might know that I’m writing an October Man fanfic. I’ve already published the cover and two chapters. What would follow would be chapter three, but that’s not finished yet.

What is finished, though, is chapter four and I want to share it with you because I’m really proud of it. Until further notice only here on tumblr.

Thomas Nightingale is not the only tragic gay practitioner from whom the War took everything...

When the door buzzed, I suddenly felt it: herbal liqueur, heavy machines stomping, a dust of coal that triggered a cough even though the air was as clean and fresh as a daisy.

A signare.

As I had noticed in my first KDA case, I was remarkably sensitive for magical traces even though I had never had anything to do with it beforehand. Thanks to that and the training I had received by now, I knew instinctively what was about to come. I pulled Tobi, whose frown told me that he had reached the same conclusion, behind my back and opened the door.

A sizzling werelight shot out of the door with a blazing white train trailing behind it. It stopped midway hovering above the weedfree pavement before it suddenly made a sharp beeline and came racing towards us.

I watched in horror - I was lucky if my werelights lasted longer than a minute and shone as bright as a flashlight - but then my view was blocked because Tobi yanked me back and stepped in front of me. A heartbeat later, the feisty werelight burst into a thousand sparks. I took a deep breath.

Tobi turned to me. "You okay?"

I exhaled relieved. "Thank you, yes. What about you?"

He just nodded and rounded the still open door. As I followed him I saw an elderly man now standing in the doorway, a rogueish smile gleaming in his piercing blue eyes. He might have been around eighty, judging by the crowfeet around those eyes and the many creases around his mouth that was curled upwards in one corner. His hair, though, was mostly still black. While my eighty-three-year-old grandpa needed a wheeled walker all the time, the man in front of us didn't; on the contrary, his stance was square and precise, despite the protruding belly, as if he'd been in the military before retiring.

"Paul Arno Rossbusch?" Tobi asked in a professional tone, though I heard a certain edge of wariness in his voice. He tried to make it not too obvious but I felt how he erected a shielding spell in front of him.

The man nodded. "The one and only." He huffed and scrutinized Tobi from head to toe, amused by something I couldn’t place. Maybe he knew that Tobi’s shield was useless against his repertoire.

Tobi and I held up our ID's. While I was a little impressed with his skills, I definitely couldn't let slide how he had demonstrated them. "You are aware, Mr Rossbusch, that your werelight classifies as attack on enforcement officers? That can earn you a jail term from three months up to five years. I guess that would not be the way you want to spend the rest of your pension" I said sharply.

Rossbusch just waved. "Nah, it was merely a test. Bianca had called and said that the wizard police was on their way."

We exchanged a glance. He certainly was a practitioner himself, why did he use incorrect terminology?

"So you call yourself a wizard?" Tobi asked slyly?

He laughed. "God forbid! I share a certain dislike for the police with my granddaughter, is all. But please, come in. There are no practitioners around here anymore."

We followed him into a typical GDR single-family house, the one we had seen countless identical times since leaving the A4 in Schmölln this morning. I supposed that the uninspired grey plastering was still original.

Inside, the vestibule was already crowded with only three people standing in it, before we proceded through the hall and then into the kitchen. Its floor was tiled in a black and white checkerboard pattern, footworn but polished, and the cupboard fronts were brown and a faded white, dulled by grease and dust and years of use.

"Do you want a coffee?" Rossbusch asked and turned to a coffee brewer, aside from the ceramic glass cooktop the only new-looking appliance here.

"Yes, thank you" we said simultaneously, then chuckled both. Before joining the KDA I would have said “Jinxed” to this but now I was more careful because I could actually get jinxed.

While the brewer was fizzling, Rossbusch leaned against the countertop and crossed his arms. "Bianca was reluctant to tell me what exactly brings you here, so please enlighten me."

Tobi stood up straight, scraping together all possible inches, but he was still half a head shorter than Rossbusch. Positioning his thumbs in the belt loops of his cargo pants, he said "We are investigating the incident on the A72 construction side. Witnesses say that there was a supernatural force involved."

"A supernatural force!" Rossbusch huffed. "What kind of supernatural is that supposed to be?"

"Actually, we are the ones asking questions" I said with a raised eyebrow.

Tobi lifted his right hand just a bit to shush me. "My colleague's actually right but because you might have useful information for us I'm gonna tell you. The witness said something about ghosts."

Immediately, Rossbusch's brow furrowed. "Ghosts? There? I don't know about that. And if, then they are either not recorded or haven't been ghosts for long. The only ghosts that I know of walk abroad in Peche, Geitn, Grimme, and Flößberch. But maybe that one stayed under the radar? Since my time in Flößberch, I'm out of sorts with ghosts. They're nothing but trouble." He snuffled disparagingly.

I had pulled out my notepad to keep track but stumbled over the places he'd named. "Uhm, sorry, could you repeat the towns?" I asked, still trying to make sense of the names.

He eyed me for long moment before said with a sneer "You're not local, aren't you. Pardon my Saxonian dialect. The official names are Pegau, Geithain, Grimma, and Flößberg, young lady."

"Don't call me 'young lady'" I muttered grouchily. Those places I faintly recognised from the map I had studied while we'd been driving to Rossbusch's place.

"What happened in Flößberg?" Tobi asked in a tone that raised my hackles. It sounded as if he knew of something I didn't.

Rossbusch seemed to have noticed that, too, because when I saw his cold stare another shiver ran down my spine. I hoped that Tobi knew what he was doing.

Just in that moment the coffee brewer beeped, and Rossbusch turned to fill us all a cup. After having taken a long sip, despite the coffee being scaldingly hot, he finally said "Flößberg was my Ettersberg. Did you know that Flößberg was a subcamp to Buchenwald? So you bet your ass that they did the exact same thing. Originally, I'm from Leipzig, taught by Wilhelm August Großmann, esteemed publisher and one of the most flamboyant practitioners of the 1920s -"

A shell-shocked "The what?" slipped from my lips before I could stop myself. If he had been a young man in the 1920s he shouldn't be alive anymore.

Rossbusch directed his cold stare at me now. "I don't like to be interrupted" he hissed.

I shrunk under his gaze and apoligizingly said "Sorry! Go on, please."

He cleared his throat and resumed as if I'd never interrupted him. "We met at the St. Thomas Choir. I was a pupil, just about fifteen, and he was the half-brother of our cantor Karl Straube. They disliked each other passionately, Straube was one of the first to enter the NSDAP while Wilhelm, considerably younger than Straube, was more or less openly homosexual and a big fan of jazz music. I realized pretty quickly that Wilhelm was interested in me in a way that surpassed friendliness. Today he'd be seen as a pedophile, and I agree on that now. But back then I was flattered and, yes, later on also hopelessly in love with him."

He took another sip from his coffee. I noticed that I'd held my breath and inhaled needily.

Rossbusch continued. "He showed me what he knew which was more than I could have ever dreamt of. He was a registered practitioner - that brought about his downfall. But I guess that Straube had his fare share in his brother's deportation by ratting him out to the authorities in 1932. He was sentenced to eight years in gaol before being deported to Auschwitz. It's not recorded what happened afterwards but I guess he was gassed upon arrival. I doubt that he was 'strong enough' to carry out any work."

He paused again and stayed quiet for a long time, his face a mask of unfathomable grief. I tried my best to keep my professional façade up but internally I was shaking. I wondered what had happened to Rossbusch.

After another stretch of silence he finally spoke again. "I was spared because I fled Leipzig right after Hitler's rise to power and hid with my parents who had a farm somewhere in the countryside. Still, they found me in '44 and deported me to Flößberg, for both being gay and a practitioner. They had offered me redemption by joining the army. But I refused. Because Ettersberg was bursting at the seams, and Flößberg was, as I said, a subcamp I was sent there. I guess that this saved my life. This and the fairies populating the forest. I'd strayed there while working on train tracks, and only emerged a few days before the camp was closed and we were all deported back to Weimar until the Allies freed the camp. The Folly raid had already happened, otherwise they might have killed me as well."

He shrugged. I shot Tobi a glance. The Folly was the British version of the KDA, led by Thomas Nightingale. He and his decision to train an apprentice were basically the reason why Tobi and I were standing here. By having an apprentice, Nightingale had broken a treaty between Germany and Great Britain. I was not too mad about it as it gave me the chance to become a practitioner myself. And I hoped that one day I would meet Nightingale and Peter. And if it was just to ask what exactly had happened in Buchenwald. The concentration camp that I had visited during my school time was Natzweiler-Struthof near Natzwiller in France.

I wondered why he had spoken so freely about his trauma when he had admitted earlier that he didn’t think too highly of us. But I realized that we were, beside his granddaughter, the only people he could disclose his true identity to. From what I knew, the Director had been the only registered practitioner for a long time. That’s why she’d been chosen as head of our Department. I suspected that Rossbusch was unregistered, despite some secret decrees on both sides of the Iron Curtain during the Cold War that required well-trained practitioners. Maybe he’d pledged himself to never serve an authoritarian regime after his experiences under Nazi rule.

“This is truly heartbreaking” Tobi acknowledged after some moments of reflection, “But I fear that we have to establish you as an unregistered practitioner. Usually, this is followed up by severe consequences for the suspect, especially when having gone unnoticed for so long, but maybe, considering the traumatic events in your early life a reprimand will suffice. That’s not our decision to make, though. Now back to the reason we’re actually here for.”

I bumped his shoulder with mine and gave him a long look. That man had just spilled his heart out, was probably right back in the camp after having torn his scarred wounds open for us, and Tobi wanted to go back to business just like that?

One of his eyebrows shot up, asking what I wanted from him, and I jerked my head sideways towards Rossbusch who just in that moment broke his mug because he’d held it too tight.

We both jumped while Rossbusch, muttering “sorry” under his breath, cast a cleaning spell. The splinters reassembled in the air between us until the mug was perfectly whole again.

“Err, Mr Rossbusch, what I actually meant to say is: If you see yourself able I would like to ask you one more question about the ghosts that you talked about. Maybe one of them turns out to be our suspect after all” Tobi asked more gently now.

Rossbusch chuckled. “I highly doubt that. But sure, I if it makes you happy I can tell you.” He refilled his cup, took a sip, and continued “In Pegau, in 1664, died a young man at the hands, actually at the beak, of a gander which slashed the man’s wrists and he bled to death. That happened as part of a morbid form of people’s merriment: The gander was hung between two poles and young men contended on horses to take the poor animal down. The young man’s fate is the late gander’s revenge, I suppose.

In Geithain, a cry of dismay can be heard every once in a while. It stems from a young choir boy’s ghost who died when he and his friends wanted to steal the young of a jackdaw. He had climbed up to the nest but refused to share the offspring and so the other boys let him fall down the tower. A stone at the church commemorates this incident.

In Grimma, a wedding was cursed when attending students sang reworked funeral songs that send the bride to a grave and prophesied her resurrection. Three days later, the bride died from the plague, a few days later also the groom and the bride’s two brothers.

And the camp in Flößberg was filled with ghosts. All those who’d died there haunted the place because they’d been left to rot in a mass grave only a few feet away from the barracks. Most of them were Jews, one or two I knew a little closer but most of them I had just seen a couple of times in camp before I’d disappeared. When I came back the camp was hopelessly overcrowded, and the ghosts just made it more claustrophobic. But they’re all at rest now since the place’s become a proper memorial site. I think that’s a dead end for you.”

“Please leave it to us what is and what isn’t relevant” Tobi said coolly before extending a hand. “Nevertheless, thank you for your time and my sympathies for the loss of your loved one.”

Rossbusch just waved and led us outside. After I’d said goodbye as well and we sat in Tobi’s VW I said “I think he’s right, you know. That his ghost stories are a dead end for us.”

Tobi admitted through gritted teeth after a moment of hesitation “Yeah, I know. But I still think it’s a good idea to check them, just in case. We should drive there and have a look.”

“But not today. It’s late and I’m tired. I count on our ghost to not kill anyone during the night.” I all but whined and tried to stretch myself in the limited space that I had.

Tobi nodded. “Yeah, it’s been a long day. And I suppose you’re also hungry?“ He smiled.

I grinned and asked in feigned surprise “How do you know?”

[nowitsdarkfic]

a quiet place // a joey one shot

Now, here’s a one shot for you guys. I’m also putting this on AO3 because he needs more love there 💜

Totally fiction but loosely inspired by things that actually happened to me with an old classmate of mine... as well as the Seinfeld episode “The Tape.”

February, 1985.

“Every piece of art you see here is from me.”

It was such a stepping stone for me to have my own art show here in New York City. Me, the little art student who stood on the outside looking in with her peers and the vagabond, now twenty-four and talking to people from the New York Times about her craft: I never would have guessed I made it this far in my career.

It was only two years ago when I had woken up feeling like my life was over. That old job drained me dry even if it brought home the bacon to myself and my parents. Art was in my soul, and it ached to flood right out of me, ever since I was a toddler.

My parents and I relocated out here to the East Coast from the southeastern side of Los Angeles because my mom’s job was transferred to the city of Rochester. They decided on Oswego to live at given the commute was a quick seventy-five minutes, and thus I called the region home. But there have been many times where I was asked why no accent and my response of “California baby, New York kid” never flew too well with everyone. It was particularly isolating at school when I watched the kids on the playground and I was relegated to the swing set or bunking myself up in the library with a book to read or a picture to draw.

It wasn’t until I met Joe in the beginning of the second grade when I began to feel more at ease with my peers.

I still remember sitting down at the table in the library, right across from him. He wore a bright red hockey jersey under a big black windbreaker and he didn’t look very comfortable there: he had this stern, serious expression plastered on his face, too serious for a little boy so I knew right away he was bit of an outcast himself. I asked him if I could sit with him and he raised these big brown eyes up at me from the book he was reading, and nodded.

I remember examining the nappy black hair all around his head and how it dangled down onto his shoulders, almost like a stuffed animal. His skin was light brown and smooth, and with his brown eyes, I realized I was sitting with a little Indian boy. He kind of resembled me because I had the same complexion and type of hair: I thought our eyes looked similar. At one point, he squirmed in his seat and whispered, “could you not stare at me, please?”

“Oh my goodness, I’m sorry,” I whispered back to him, shaking my head and directing my attention to the drawing in the sketchbook resting on my lap. Every so often, I took a glimpse up at him to see if he was still there. He never left until the bell rang and we all returned to class for the rest of the day.

I often saw him walking the halls of the school with his dark hair covering part of his face and his little body wrapped up in heavy sweaters and baggy clothes. He never talked to anyone, even when we shared music class together at one point during the year. I was in the choir section while he tucked himself behind the tiny drum kit in the corner.

It was the middle of November when I caught him on the walk home after school. Both my parents worked so I had to walk with the other latchkey kids, but I never saw him with the group. The afternoon felt cold and crisp with incoming lake effect snow and our leader told us to hustle: I watched him catch up with us for a moment before he hung back on the curb near a vast grassy area lined with tall spruce trees. I watched him stand there for a moment before he crossed the street. I was curious about him and I wanted him to join us.

Once all eyes were off of us and fixed on the street ahead of them I followed him across the street to the park. I reached the sidewalk on the other side once the latchkey group had turned the corner. I returned to him right as he began to walk faster. I trotted after him; once I came closer to him, he peered over his shoulder at me before breaking into a run. Up ahead stood a tall chain link fence around a low bright blue wall surrounded by thick evergreen bushes. To our right was more grass, a side street, and then, beyond another tree line loomed a sliver of Lake Ontario.

I picked up the pace to catch up with him.

“Leave me alone—“ he pleaded to me.

“But why?” I blurted out.

“Leave me alone, please!” He ran away towards the bushes near the hockey rink, but I followed him. He was a fast runner, his legs pumping so much harder than mine. But I lurked back a bit to watch him duck behind the biggest one near the door of the rink. Panting, I spotted his nappy hair from behind the top side of the pine needles. I rounded the edge of the bush closest to me to find he had taken a seat against the bare branches; right before him, and right next to me stood the bright blue wall of the rink.

He bowed his head into his arms, which he folded over his knees, like he was trying to hide from me.

“Hey—are you okay?” I choked out, slipping in between the bush and the wall.

“Don’t look at me,” he begged from his folded arms. I took a knee next to him.

“Hey—Hey, it’s okay,” I assured him, kneeling closer to him.

“No, it’s not,” he snapped back. I pushed a branch out of the way to come closer to him.

“What happened?” I asked, setting a hand on the base of the branch behind me.

“Nothing.”

“I think something happened,” I pointed out. He sniffled, and then he lifted his head to look at me with those big brown eyes.

“Do you promise not to tell?”

“Pinky promise.” I stuck out my right pinky finger for him. He swallowed before hooking his right pinky around it.

“Okay,” he finally said, letting go of my finger, “I’m ugly.”

I was stunned.

“You’re ugly? Who said that?”

“Everyone. When you’re half Injun, people will look at you and you wonder why and ask yourself if you can do anything.”

“Half what?”

“Injun,” he repeated, sniffling again. He paused for a second. “That’s a word my grandma taught me when I was little. She said that’s a word white people like to use to put Indians down.”

“Why are you using it then?” I asked, shifting my weight to better feel comfortable against the branches.

“She said if we use it, it loses its venom.”

“You think I could use it?” I suggested.

“Are you Indian?”

“Yeah. My grandpa is Blackfoot.”

“My mom, and my grandma and grandpa are all Iroquois. I don’t know about your tribe but you know, I do—I do feel better talking about it, though. I don’t feel so all alone.” He cleared his throat and hunched his shoulders to keep the warmth in his little body.

“I’m also Italian from my dad’s side,” he added, shivering.

“I’m German, Norwegian, and African,” I told him. “So don’t worry about feeling ugly. I’m a mess.”

I nestled even closer to him, so close in fact I put my arm around him. I could feel the wind picking up from behind the bushes and over the top of my head.

“I’m Hannah,” I told him. “What’s your name?”

“Joe. But everyone calls me Joey.”

He glanced around the nook in the bushes, the tops of which protected us from the outside world. It was quiet here with just the two of us.

“Let’s make this our safe spot,” he told me. “We can come here when we both feel alone.”

“It’s a quiet place here,” I added.

We often came back to that little spot, all throughout the second grade and the rest of elementary school. He told me he missed me after a good snow because we couldn’t meet up there, but always did during the spring and summer. The two of us walked home after school together and then strode across the grass, and hung out there for a while until we had to get our butts back home because of homework. We talked about our day, like something that happened at recess or at lunch or during class. He always made me laugh with his little off-the-cuff quips and his spicy sense of humor; I often made him laugh when I learned sarcasm and my humor grew sharper. Nothing fancy, just two kids hanging out together.

We returned to it as we grew older and Joey found interest in hockey and then music. Every single time we took the exact same seating with our backs to the grass and our feet pointed to the outside wall. I always put my arm around him whenever he felt too cold; sometimes he did the same with me, too. At school, I almost never saw him because our classes were down the hall from each other, and so seeing him was the best part of the school day.

Meanwhile, I watched his hair grow longer and thicker and darker to where it was solid black. We listened to our voices change, his squeaky little boy voice breaking and falling lower, and mine growing more womanly.

We even watched our hips grow fuller—it was more so the case with me, but his developed a gentle curve, all while he grew lankier: he gained all of his weight in the form of slender but strong muscles. The first time I knew he was going to be a tall man was in the middle of sixth grade, and one of the last times I saw him. When he stretched out his legs towards the wall, his jeans legs receded back up enough to reveal the very tops of his black Chuck Taylors.

The last time we saw each other was the last day of the summer before seventh grade, and I had received a letter in the mail telling me I had been accepted into a brand new art school over in Rochester, which meant my parents and I would have to move over there.

“It’s the seventh through the ninth grades only, though,” I assured him. “So I could come back by the time regular high school starts up.”

“But that’s three years without you, though,” he remarked. “Who am I going to hang out with until then?” I could never answer that question.

And before we returned home, and we stood to our feet, and strode over to the curb and stopped before crossing. I put my arms around him to feel him one last time: even though he had grown slim and toned with time, he had this nice soft feeling to him. He held me in his slender arms against his deepening chest and I never wanted to let go of him, not just from the fact I was saying goodbye to my best friend but from the fact I always wanted to stay with his softness and his gentleness.

He never saw me grow heavier with everything ballooning: indeed, by the time I started ninth grade and my technical freshman year of high school, I was five foot seven and a hundred sixty pounds. Another fifteen on me and I’d be considered fat. My parents worked long days so I often spent my time alone. 

The blessing, however, was art: I managed to make art so well that I was at the top of my class by the end of the ninth grade. The other blessing was having found a tape recorder to record my thoughts. Since I was alone, I could speak my thoughts aloud and I felt better doing it like that instead of putting them in writing.

But I wasn’t returning to Oswego upon graduation. I kept going in the arts all through my high school years, and yet not one time did I hear a word from Joey. I hoped he could find me as I started losing weight and looking forward to being a part of something greater than myself. It didn’t help matters I was surrounded by fears of an economic downturn, even though by my eighteenth birthday in the middle of April I landed a factory job: it couldn’t come at a better time as my dad was laid off from his job and my mom worried about being the sole breadwinner. I stayed there for a year and a half until the place closed down. I was forced into a job at Xerox, which I liked at first because I was bringing home money to help my parents as much as myself.

But over time I hated it there. The hours were ridiculous so I couldn’t see my parents that often, or make art so much. There came a point before my twentieth birthday I had gone so far to writing a suicide note and a plan on how to kill myself, including finding a way back to Joey so I could tell him goodbye for the last time. I would then drive into Oswego and scout out a drug dealer and overdose on heroin right there at home.

But it was the thought of him, that belief that he and I would reunite in the future, that saved me from my own demise. I finally said enough with the job, but I had faith in my art.

It took me a full year before I made my first commission and it was modest. I worried about my parents and I being evicted and thus I poured my all, all of my yearning to return to the quiet place and to Joey, into every single piece. We were given two days to leave our condo when I had one of my drawings posted in a gallery in the heart of the city and I was invited to share more with them.

The commissions I made saved my parents’ condo and even though I was a ways off, I began scouting out for a place of my own. I started gaining weight again but I knew it was for the best.

Over the next two years I had more and more art shows with galleries in Rochester and then that past autumn in 1983, I received a letter from that gallery that saved us, telling me they wanted to sponsor me in my own show in New York City. My own art show! In the city!

I had my parents put in first class with me as we rode the rails from Rochester to the outskirts of the Big Apple in Yonkers, right near the Hudson River. This place was exactly how I would imagine an art gallery in New York would look like with its shiny wooden floors so clean I could eat off of them and all of my art treated like they were worth millions.

I was so eager about the whole thing that I made an auditory diary in the back room right before showtime. That little recording became my sole moment alone for hours on end as I answered interview questions, made even more commissions, and even sold a few drawings. I was on top of the world for once, caught up in a state of euphoria.

By eleven thirty at night, the owner announced five minutes before closing time, but I still had a couple of stragglers from the New York Times in conversation with me for at least another ten minutes. Once they node me good night, I breathed a sigh of both relief and elation.

Day one was done: time to grab my things and head back to my hotel room next door to my parents’ room. I scooped up my purse and my tape recorder before heading out to my rental car. Once I sank into the driver’s seat, I rewound the tape to a clean strip.

Nothing. It was full. Strange, it couldn’t have been, as I had plenty of space left.

I played the spot where I had left off before to make sure it wasn’t a mistake.

I gasped.

At the end of the tape, I brought a hand to my mouth in shock. I blushed, but I didn’t know if I wanted to puke or scream.

There was a lot of people in there, and they were all getting to know me, so I don’t know who would know me that well enough to leave an absolutely filthy message on my verbal diary. I stuck the recorder in the panel on the inside of the door as I drove back to the hotel a couple of blocks away.

I let out a long low whistle once I found a spot near the door and killed the engine. I decided to take the tape recorder into my room with me because I could probably figure who was the creep who left that message. But at the same time a part of me felt flattered that a guy went out of his way to do this for me and on something I kept with me on my person whenever I needed it.

I entered the lobby of the hotel and I spotted the tall, slender man at the ice machine on the side of the room. I recognized his jet black kinky hair, now quite the mess on top and grown halfway down his back in the most flyaway fashion, and most of all, that lovely curvature to his hips and thighs.

“Joey?” I called to him once I came within earshot. He turned to face me: he never lost that solemn expression and his eyes were as rich brown as ever, but in spite of his thin body his face was rounder, such that his cheekbones filled out with a sweet little smile at me.

“Hey, I know you,” he greeted me. My heart skipped several beats as I approached him with my arms wide open. As soft as ever.

“Oh my God—“ I almost choked up holding him and then peering right up into his face.

“Long time no see, right?”

“Right?” I let go of him to stick the recorder in my purse, out of sight, out of mind. “Oh my God. What are you doing here?”

“I’m in a band now. We’re recording a new album. We met with our producers today and they said it should be out in October just in time for my birthday. And our manager scrounged to get me and our guitarist both a room here because we’re both from outside the city. I was literally right down the street at a bar and I was just getting ready to go to bed.”

“And then I showed up.”

“Right. But shit, Hannah, how’ve you been, though? You look fantastic. I always thought you’d look good with a little weight.”

“Oh, you should’ve seen me after I moved out to Rochester. I was like... almost fat. But I’m an artist now. I just had my own show down the block.”

“I was wondering what was going on down there at that little gallery. The bar I was at was right across the street and I kept seeing all these people walking around, and I kept thinking ‘what’s going on?’ But I’m pretty beat, though.”

“Oh, I hear you. It’s been a big, long day for me. But... you wanna talk more over breakfast?”

“I’d love to. Here, I assume?”

“Of course. Hey, free breakfast is free breakfast.”

“True. Gimme another hug—“ He put his arms around me and I lay my head against his chest, and I closed my eyes. Even if it was for a minute, it felt sweet to be with Joey again. He let go of me and one final stroke of my back before returning back down the corridor to his room with his bucket of ice. I watched him slip inside before I returned to own room down the hall to my right.

I set my purse down on the table to take the tape recorder out and give that voice another listen. The second time around felt a little better. Maybe this guy was just trying to mess with me, or maybe he did want me from all the desires he expressed to me. They all felt so pure and from a different place. Maybe he just wanted attention. But I needed to find him, especially after my breakfast with Joey.

*****************************

“So tell me more about your band.”

It was a blustery day near the heart of New York City, and neither of us felt to be in the mood to go out anywhere no matter what happened. Joey had put on a baggy black button up shirt and fitted black jeans, and those black Chucks I remember from when we hung out at the quiet place.

“I love this ghoulish look on you,” I remarked to him when he sat down across from me with a paper cup of coffee and a blueberry muffin.

“Pretty rock n’ roll, isn’t it?” he replied, giving me a playful little smile.

“Definitely.” I eyed the muffin, which just appeared to be larger than his own hand. “Ever since we were little,” I noted, gesturing at the top.

“Hey, sometimes that’s all you need, especially when you’re a little boy and it’s all you can find for yourself. So anyway, my band—well, that’s not really correct. It’s not technically my band, they just brought me in because I can sing. They’re called Anthrax after... some kind of disease.”

“That sounds attractive,” I said, nonplussed.

“Well, we’re heavy metal and our other guitarist Scott was the guy who came up with the name after reading about it in a biology textbook. He said the name just sounded sinister, like perfect for a heavy metal band. But yeah, it’s me on vocals, Scott and a guy named Dan on guitars, and uncle and nephew Charlie and Frankie on drums and bass respectively.”

“Uncle and nephew?”

“Yeah, it threw me, too, because they’re like three years apart, but yeah—they’re uncle and nephew.” He took a sip from his cup before speaking again.

“And like I said last night, Dan and I are kind of the odd ones, more so me.”

“Why’s that?”

“Scott’s from Queens, Frankie and Charlie are from right down the block in the Bronx. Dan’s from Rockland, almost in Jersey.”

“But they’re all from the city, though,” I pointed out.

“Right.”

“How’d they find you, though?”

He chewed on his bottom lip before replying to that.

“I have my ways.”

“You have your ways?” That beckoned a chuckle from me.

“Of course. After you left, I kinda learned how to risk things and go forth by my own whims. Well, and it was the pressure of growing up, too. Growing up a half-breed Injun boy in upstate New York is quite the experience.”

He took a bite from his muffin and another sip from his cup.

“Did you go back to the quiet place?” I asked him in a low voice as he set down his cup and showed me a thoughtful look.

“Once in a while. I had to stop in seventh grade because it got—kind of depressing.”

“You were missing me.”

“Totally. You know I made new friends after a while but I missed that—that—I wanna say ‘feminine principle’. Just being there in the bushes behind the hockey rink away from the world was something I needed to feel comfortable about myself and it was something I missed.” He showed me a solemn little smile before taking another bite of muffin. And then I remembered the message on my tape recorder.

“Oh! You’re not gonna believe this,” I started.

“What’s up?” he asked with his mouth full.

“Last night after the show, I checked my tape recorder—I’ve kept a spoken word diary since high school just because I, too, was alone with no one to talk to and I needed to vent somehow—“

“Mm-hmm...”

“—so anyway I checked the tape after the show, you know for a new entry—and at some point or another, some guy left this—very interesting message on there.”

“Interesting?” he echoed, his mouth full of muffin. “How so?”

“Filthy. Absolutely filthy and naughty.”

“Like... sexual?” He raised his eyebrows at me.

“Very. It weirded me out at first but I gave it another listen and I found it kinda flattering to be honest.”

“Like some dude walked in and he didn’t wanna bug you so he told you how he feels about you, though.”

“I guess so. You know I’m not such a mess after all.”

That coaxed a chuckle out of him. He took another bite of muffin before glancing down at his wristwatch.

“Oh shit, I gotta go! I think Danny already left, though—I haven’t seen him.”

“I’ll take you,” I offered him.

“Oh, thank you!”

We stood to our feet and hurried down the corridor to his room, and then my room to fetch the keys. He kept his arm around me as we rushed out to the cold and the rental car; he left his hair disheveled when I shut the passenger side door next to him.

“So where we headed?” I asked him, tugging the seat belt over my chest.

“Uh... just a few blocks away over in the Bronx. I’ll show it to you—“

I started up the car and we headed on over to the recording studio in question. He showed me the way, past some bits of traffic, and into the heart of the Bronx.

“I hope you can find that guy, though,” he declared at the last stoplight beforehand.

“I hope so, too,” I admitted. “I mean, this guy—Joe, I’m not even kidding when I say this—this guy said the filthiest things I’ve ever heard in my life. Like... I almost don’t know how to react to it.”

He cleared his throat before he turned his head to me.

“What did his voice sound like?” he asked me. “Could you describe it?”

“It was like—throaty and husky. There were some points where he lowered it to a whisper and—it was kind of hot, to be honest. You know, sexy.”

The light turned green and we rolled forward towards the low brick building three doors down from the crosswalk. I pulled up to the curb, and he unbuckled his seat belt right before I pulled the parking brake. He cleared his throat again.

“Was it something like—“ He cleared his throat a third time and leaned into my face, his eyes hooded and his expression in a state of euphoria. 

“—Hannah... I want you,” he breathed out in that exact same whispery voice as on the tape, “to go down on me with your tongue all along the side of my dick.” He let a soft airy moan out from the back of his throat and ran his tongue along the rim of his mouth, and the result was my toes curling right into the inside of my socks. I gaped at him right as his expression changed into a devilish grin.

“That... was you?” I sputtered.

“Shhh!” he hissed, bringing a finger to his lips even though the windows were rolled up.

“That was you?” I demanded in a hushed voice.

“That was all me.”

“Joey—“ I was rendered speechless.

“No! No! Please don’t tell anyone.” He sighed through his parted lips. “Okay. When I was across the street, you know—I saw all those people walking around and I wanted to check it out. So I took a quick walk over to the gallery and I saw you in there talking to some people—like I recognized you almost immediately. I knew I couldn’t get in so I went around back and when the coast was clear, I ducked in and saw the tape recorder on the table in there. I assumed it was yours because I didn’t think some girl would just leave her purse lying around like that unless she was protected. I just... went for it and filled up the rest of the tape and got out of there before anyone saw me. I really hope it didn’t perturb you too much—I only did it to be kinda—you know, sassy. That being our thing and everything.”

I closed my lips a bit when he shrugged. I didn’t know what to say right then.

“Anyways, I gotta go. I’ll ask Danny for a ride back so don’t sweat it.” He ducked out of the car and into the cold morning.

“Yeah, yeah—“

Once he closed the door, I lingered there for a moment before rolling forward to the next stoplight in hopes of turning around and heading back to the hotel.

I gave the recording another listen. I sat there on my bed with my mouth agape.

“Wow,” I breathed out when I reached the end. It made sense. He and I had known each other for years and the adolescence was the last time we saw each other. He was alone, and he missed me. But at the same time, this was an interesting, rather jarring side to him. I had always known him as that little Indian boy with no one to talk to; I thought I had known him but this was something else.

I kept the whole thing tucked in the back of my mind for the entirety of the second day of my art show. I watched my parents speak to some people on the other side of the room. What would they think?

It was the same shtick that night as the one before, and this time I really went back to my room with some big fat checks in my pocket. I strode into the lobby once again to find him walking towards the ice machine. He nodded at me and I decided to run over to him.

“What’s up?” he greeted me.

“Can I talk to you about something?” I asked him in a hushed voice.

“Yeah, of course. In my room or in yours?”

“Mine.”

“Okay—“

I led him down the corridor to my little room, right next door to where my parents were staying for one more night. He shut the door behind him and set the ice bucket on the table next to the TV, and fixed the lapels of his shirt.

“This is about that message, isn’t it,” he guessed, rubbing his hands together.

“Yeah.”

“Look... like I said, I only did that to just play with you. I didn’t mean to like... creep you out or anything.”

“No, no... you didn’t,” I promised him. “But I brought you in here because—I wanted to tell you that I didn’t realize you were so... sexual.”

“Well...” he began reluctantly, “let’s just say I missed you, especially right around that time when—things happen.” He spoke with that same husky, breathy voice like on the tape. He parted his lips and unfastened the top button on his shirt to show off more of his chest. I wanted to touch him.

I lunged for him with my arms wide open.

“Oh—Oh, Joey—“ I breathed out before locking my lips with his. So soft. The only boy who could feel so soft and so like home to me.

He put his hands on my back before he tugged me towards the bed. I could feel him taking off my blouse and then unhooking my bra. I tossed the bra to the side and unfastened my jeans, but I decided to keep them on for a moment more. I unbuttoned his shirt to feel his chest and his stomach. His skin felt smooth and warm like melted butter underneath my lips. I undid his jeans and kissed him all the way down his happy trail, and that stripe of warm, utterly gorgeous skin. I could feel myself growing moist with every caress of his skin. So soft, and also... sexy.

“Okay, this is hot,” his voice broke as I inched closer to his genitals. I peeled back his jeans to better reach for his length. So big and full; makes sense with those thick thighs and those gorgeous hips; I could see he was erecting. I knew he wanted it, just like he said.

I put my lips around it first before running my tongue along the side. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed his eyes snapped shut and his lips pouted. He was surrendering to the feeling. I curled my tongue around the shaft like I was licking a popsicle. I put my lips around it again when I tasted something salty. He came right in my mouth. He let out a gentle but broken moan when I swallowed it down.

I let go because I could feel him tapping on my arms. I crawled over him when he reached down my jeans and into my panties. His fingers wriggled right into me.

“Wet as the streets outside,” he groaned out. I never realized how good that felt, with his fingers twitching and rubbing against that little spot. I stared right into his face as I could feel myself rising higher and higher. It was like a runner’s high, feeling my heart pound faster and my lungs scarcely fill with air but all I had with me was him, was Joey.

“Oh fuck, I’m coming—!” I sputtered into his face.

“That’s it!” he grunted, and he let go of me. I lay down on his chest which brought out a groan from him. We both panted from the intensity, but then he started laughing.

“Wha—?” I could hardly breathe.

“That’s my girl,” he said in a broken voice. I lifted myself off of him so he could take off his shirt and his jeans. I could taste him all on the inside of my mouth, but I could care less. I crossed a new threshold with my best friend, and I felt closer to him. Once he returned out of the bathroom, he invited me into the bed. He lay down on his side first and, once I switched off the lamp, I nestled in before him. I lay my head against his chest as he wrapped his arms around me.

“Mmm, oh, Joey—that was wonderful,” I whispered to him.

“That was everything I could’ve ever asked for from you, Hannah, baby doll.” His fingers stroked up my back and into my hair.

“But let’s keep this a secret, though, okay?” he suggested. I took a glimpse up at his lovely dark face staring back at me.

“Yeah, of course,” I promised him. “This here is our safe spot.”

“It’s our safe spot,” he echoed, showing me that little smile again through the darkness. “It’s a quiet place.”

I put my arms around his slim waist only to find he was still soft, still holding that sweet softness I had been longing for these past eleven years. I had been wanting to feel him again, in the deepest way possible, and in what better setting than in a quiet place.

[losttalongthewayy]

breathe

cs future family — ღ — CaptainCharming II CaptainCobra — “I broke down crying in your Grandfather’s arms the night my daughter was born…” — or, you know, the night the wee babies are born and how these guys handled the whole thing.  (slightly)angsty fluff? :)

This is obviously never in a million years happening in canon, but I’m still craving already all the Daddy!Killian/Grandpa!Killian fluff, so here’s THIS anyway! I very selfishly needed it! :D Flashbacks are in Italics. (( AO3 ))

    Killian wishes he knew the exact way or words to help the lad. He knows in his heart that everything is going to turn out fine regardless, but he still wishes Henry knew this as well.

And he knows, oh Killian knows rationally Henry probably knows everything’s going to be okay already, but Killian also knows, from his own experience, that right this second, rationality isn’t exactly first on Henry’s mind.

So he waits it out. Killian doesn’t exactly want to approach Henry with his unsolicited opinion, but he still knows the two of them are bound to exchange some words at some point this day anyway.

Killian knows it’s not the right time yet though. The lad is seemingly trying to appear so tough and in control of the whole situation and Killian respects that.

Killian has to commend him for it even; he’s doing a much more believable job than Killian ever did once upon a time when he was in Henry’s shoes.

Needlessly to say, Killian Jones can’t be prouder of his lad right now.

— ღ   —

He’s losing it.

He’s shaking and he feels as though someone has a very tight grip on his heart right now. He feels sweaty and tingly —as though he’s being suffocated from the inside out. He tries to force himself to breathe but it comes out shallow and rapid. He shudders; eyes squeezing against the tears he doesn’t wish to cry.

His chest almost hurts and he wants— he doesn’t know what he wants —he just needs to do something, but he’s useless. All evening he’s done nothing but watch and it’s —it’s too bloody much for him to handle.

Killian turns facing a wall, his palm flat on the cool surface steadying him. He doesn’t trust his legs to hold him up so he leans heavily onto the wall, his forehead touching its surface. He breathes, harshly and unsteady, he wants to scream really —cry perhaps too, out of frustration and—

“Breathe,” a voice calls, and Killian hears it muffled by the sound of his very own heart pounding in his ears. “Breathe,”

He can’t. He’s trying, but he just can’t—

It’s fear what he feels.

Paralyzing fear coursing through his entire body without mercy.

“You’re all right —you just need to breathe and calm down…”

Killian recognizes now the voice —it’s David. His hands are on him, squeezing his arms, trying to keep him straight on his feet.

“It’s all right…” He repeats, but Killian’s not sure about that.

He shakes his head as his legs finally do give up, and he falls to his knees.

— ღ   —

“Breathe lad, it’s all right, it’s just me,” Killian says breezily to a clearly startled Henry.

He coughs and of course, tries to pretend nothing happened. “’m fine,” he assures him. “Just didn’t hear you come, is all…”

Killian smirks, although he does accept Henry’s words with a small nod. “How are you holding up?” he asks, genuinely wanting to know, but still unable to keep the delight off his tone and face.

Henry puts up a front —the brave one he’s practiced all day long with just about everybody in this place. It’s important to them —Henry and Emma— Killian has noted, to stay in control. To avoid showing their vulnerability to just about anybody. They are particular about whom they choose to expose themselves and their feelings to. They are a lot alike those two, Killian thinks. They are strong and courageous, but also owners of very soft hearts. Very tender hearts that love and feel a wee bit too much sometimes

They always prefer to stand strong in the face of sadness and battles —they are strong, but at times, they surely confuse that strength for an irrational need to hide their struggles and sometimes even their hurting from those around them. Killian can’t say he blames them though —he can be that very same way as well.

Maybe it’s just a family thing…

“I’m good, I’m…I’m excited,” Henry replies then at last, in a resolute tone, “Today’s exciting,”

Well, since Killian can’t especially argue with him in that one, for now, he’s simply going to agree… “Oh, that it is, lad…that it is…”

— ღ   —

He sobs. Out of nowhere, all these feelings he’s been bottling up inside himself come to the surface, and he can’t stop it. Chocked sobs come out of him as he struggles to just simply bloody breathe.

His vision is blurry and his chest is still tight as though somebody were holding and squeezing his very heart.

David’s still with him, and he’s talking but Killian can’t quite make out the words he’s saying. He notes, vaguely, the steady pressure on his arm —David’s fingers squeezing tight —it’s reassuring, if anything else.

He thinks it’s stopping, but then David’s pushing him off the wall slightly, and instead wrapping him into a bone crushing hug.

Killian fights it for a beat, struggles against his father in law, but then —then he just allows it.

He allows himself to sob fully, unable to hold it back any longer.

It’s short lived however —thankfully— but still physically exhausting all the same.

He wants to tell David that he’s fine, but the words somehow don’t form. David’s patting his back, having pulled back slightly from him already. They are both on their knees, on the floor, facing a wall that Killian supposes was meant to be white at some point, but it’s now just a pasty shade of yellow.

The corner Killian chose (not really chose, but ended up in) is secluded enough —away from all the buzz and commotion of the hospital. He’s not supposed to be gone long —neither one of them is, and yet…

“Dave,”

“You don’t have to say anything,” David tells him then, interrupting, yet his tone is soothing and fatherly.

Killian forces the air out of his lungs through his nose a few times then, hoping against hope to make his body be composed again. Instead, however, he feels tears pooling at his eyes. His face reddens and he knows it’s a slippery slope —it’s seconds now before he cracks again.

“She’s fine,” David reminds him, but Killian doesn’t appreciate it much, honestly.

He pushes from the prince —far harsher than he intended to, but he can’t help it. “She’s not fine, David,” Killian almost growls. He stands in front of David, he straightens himself up, tries like hell to appear far stronger than he feels and it almost, almost works. “She’s in pai— in pain, David— bloody hell,” he cries as his voice breaks.

Killian shakes his head, his hand reaching to the bridge of his nose as he turns away from David.

David allows it —but only for a small moment. One of his hands goes to reach Killian’s shoulder once more, and he squeezes hard. “She is fine —Emma is fine, and she is strong, but she still needs you right now…”

His words aren’t helping though —it’s not as if Killian doesn’t know this already and it makes him angrier with himself.

“You have to pull yourself together,” David says then, his tone has changed slightly, where there has only been compassion and understanding before, now there’s weight and authority as well.

Killian feels a pull to look at him over his shoulder, eyes narrowed and guarded.

David’s looking at him sternly, but there’s kindness in the small smile he offers then too. “You can do this, son. You just have to go to her…” he says, making Killian swallow hard. “Go to your family…”

— ღ   —

It’s later, much much later that Killian decides to approach.

He can see Henry’s façade slightly cracking despite his best attempts to keep it strong. Killian isn’t going to be one to just ambush the lad, but he still feels like it is his place to come to him at this time.

Henry doesn’t startle this time when Killian sits by him —it’s almost as if he was expecting it. He looks at him, regards him for a moment, as he always does, and then nods as Killian sits. “You should go home, you know?” Henry says. “They’re saying it’s going to be a while,”

Killian sits back on his seat, comfortably. He stretches his legs out in front of him and hums. “I’m fine right where I am, lad…” Killian says, and for a while, a really long while, that is all they say.

Henry sits back on his seat as well. He’s tense though —nothing like the carefree posture Killian is so exuberantly trying to sell. He’s stressed out and maybe being out here is not such a great idea after all —especially when Killian’s just sitting there not saying anyth—

“You weren’t here when the little lass was born, were you?”

His words take Henry by surprise — “Um, what?” He shakes his head, eyes shifting in a flash to Killian.

“The night Estella was born —if my memory serves me well, you weren’t here that night,”

The words take him down memory lane in instants —

“Uh, no,” Henry mumbles, still slightly confused. “No, no I wasn’t here…”

Killian hums again —that unnerving Dad hum he does when he’s not finished with a thought but wants to create crap-Dad-suspense.

Henry sighs, exasperated, and when he turns to Killian, the bastard looks amused. Henry’s about to call him on his crap, but then—

Then Killian Jones —Captain Jones, Captain Hook, casually and calmly says, “I broke down crying in your Grandfather’s arms the night my daughter was born…”

— ღ   —

“She’s my whole world, David,” the frustration is edging his every word but he’s still trying like hell to keep the rest of his emotions in check. “I don’t know what to do,”

“I know you don’t,” David tells him, his eyes soft and understanding. “I know” he repeats, before using both his hands on Killian’s shoulders to square him to him. “All you can do is be there for her —for your family,” David tells him strongly. “All these what ifs you’re thinking, you have to stop it right now,”

Killian sucks in a breath, steadily holding David’s stare. He nods, swallowing hard the huge lump in his throat.

“Take this from the man that had to put his newborn daughter in a magical wardrobe because of a damned curse —you’re lucky,” he tells Killian. “You’re scared, and that’s completely normal, but don’t let those fears make you forget how incredibly blessed you are right now, son…”

David’s hand is squeezing his shoulder reassuringly once more, and all Killian can do is duck his head, and shut his eyes. He knows David’s right but all day he just hasn’t been able to stop thinking in the worst case scenario —something happening to Emma, something happening to their baby, but…

“You go to them now. You go and you tell Emma and my grandbaby that I adore them very much, all right?”

Killian nods immediately —he blinks and suddenly he’s sure again. He’s resolute to listen to David and push his fears aside  —he needs to do this right now because David’s right; his family needs him. “Aye, your majesty…”

— ღ   —

“We haven’t spoken of that night since but…that night, that moment, those hours before my daughter was born…it all came to become too much for me…”

Despite having a pretty great guess as to why, Henry wants desperately to ask him to elaborate.

Thankfully, Killian answers him without him having to ask the question first. “I just couldn’t bear seeing your mother in that kind of pain…”

Henry only holds his stare for another moment before his eyes fall, and he bites his lower lip. He’s nervous all of a sudden, because here’s Killian touching all the very subjects Henry’s tried to avoid all day —if not for all of the last nine months, really.

“I was probably a selfish arse,” Killian continues speaking softly. “Your mother was the one bringing our baby into the world, and yet there I was, feeling sorry for myself,”

And that is exactly how Henry feels right now. He’s not the one in pain, he’s not the one trying to give birth to a baby —his baby— and yet…

Henry wants to tell Killian that he’s wrong about him right now. That he doesn’t know what he’s saying, or why he’s saying any of this, but…he can’t do that, he can’t lie —not to Killian. So instead, he says, “I never thought it was going to be like this —feel like this…”

“I know, lad…” Killian tells him. “I know…”

Henry turns to look at him, skeptic, but then Killian quirks a brow and shrugs at him. “She’s a strong one though —your girl,” he smiles knowingly, and Henry can just barely help the tears that pool in his eyes at the mere mention of his girl. “She’s strong and fierce, fits right up with our family,”

Henry looks away, a watery chuckle escaping him as Killian’s hand comes to claps his shoulder. He squeezes hard, and Henry swallows —there’s more.

“You know how you can help?”

Henry turns and just stares at him, his eyes pleading and soft. Killian smiles. “You go and be with her.” He tells him simply. “Be whatever she needs you to be right now —allow these long hours to pass because once they do and your wee baby is here —ah, my boy…once he is, your lives are never going to be the same…”

That is exactly what scares him though —what then…what if…what if he just isn’t ready? What if he sucks? What if he lets his own child down? What if—

“You’re never going to feel ready enough, lad,” Killian interrupts Henry’s thoughts just like that. The lad looks over at him with shock in his eyes, but Killian still pushes through knowingly. “I’ve been around for over two centuries and yet the night Estella was born it was as though everything I knew, everything I thought I knew, became moot and she became everything…”

Henry makes a face as though he’s seriously considering his words. He doesn’t like it. “You’re telling me you had over 200 years to ready yourself and it still wasn’t enough? I barely got 28!”

Killian makes a face, and his hand shoots up to scratch at his ear. “Fair enough, lad, but still…that wasn’t my point,” he reminds Henry. “My point is, you may think you are not ready, and you may perhaps be right, but…it doesn’t matter,” Killian stresses pointedly. “Whether you are ready or not, that babe is coming and you’ve got to pull yourself together. For your wife, your wee baby —and yourself as well, son.” Killian smiles, an honest little thing in his face as he nods and his hand goes to squeeze Henry’s shoulder. “You’re about to become a father and that is the most wonderful occasion —you’re a lucky man Henry Mills and you should enjoy this. We are all here for you lad, and we are all so proud as well,” he tells him. “I know I am…I’m incredibly proud of you, my boy…”

And for some reason that does it —Henry’s still nervous, he’s still anxious and more than slightly stressed out about the next few hours, but all the same he also feels hopeful at last too.

For the first time all evening, all day perhaps, he feels as though he can breathe easy again, so he does…he breathes.

— ღ   —

It isn’t until the sun has risen the next day that they meet her. A wee lass. Healthy and beautiful.

Loud.

Very much perfect.

Killian’s in love, watching with adoration as his wife holds the small baby and comments on her every perfect feature —her chin, her nose, her ears — an absolute marvel she is.

Killian’s already taken by her —she’s hours old but he already knows he’ll go to the end of the world for this little girl.

“You oughta hold her,”

Henry’s voice breaks him from his thoughts —he’s been staring at the tiny lass and Emma, and truly, he was perfectly content just watching those two ladies.

Now however…well, now Emma is smiling at him hugely, her previously sleepy green eyes huge right now with love and wonder —with so much hope as she nods toward him and the oh-so tiny little girl in her arms.

Killian looks up over at Henry. The lad looks composed —sure of himself, happy. “She’s your granddaughter —you ought to hold her, dad…” Henry nods at Killian hearteningly, and Killian nods back at him in kind.

She’s asleep, her small face wrinkled as low sweet sounds escape her as she’s transferred into his arms.

He melts.

Killian feels his heart melting right then and there —she’s beautiful and tiny, and so very precious. “Hello there Lucy,” he whispers softly to the babe alone. He stares at her quietly for a moment —his pinky finger reaching up to touch her delicate cheek. “I’m your Grandpa, my wee princess…I’m so, so pleased to finally meet you…”

[skeletonwoman]

RG: Landing (Pietro)

i honestly don’t know about this one. but i’ve written it, and i know there are a few Pietro fans out there so i’ll just post it and one day we can maybe pretend it doesn’t exist. ALSO THIS IS THE FINAL PART

“I hear that.” Clint laughs, shooting the duck while you clap.

“You hear nothing.” Natasha snarls at him, throwing another duck into the air while you clap and make it jerk erratically. “That’s a bullshit line anyway.”

“It’s alright, I suppose.” You shrug in defense, despite having woken with achy eyes and a stuffed nose.

“No.” Natasha snaps, expression sympathetic. “That’s not how this works, kid. Repeat after me, Pietro can take his head and shove it up his ass, let’s see him run then.”

You make a face, until she spears you with a glare and you repeat her words in a rushed mumble. But it doesn’t help. You’re still glad that he’s happy. Or he was when he left your room last night, with a casual friend confirmed and on his way to an exciting date.

“I looked her up.” You offer, just to drive your own knife deeper. “She’s adorable. Fluffy blonde hair and the kind of doe eyes that make you want to chase her through a forest at night.”

Clint tilts his head in a silent question and you kick the dirt.

“I want to see them filled with fear I mean.” You mumble, staring at the scuff of torn away grass and the pair snort, another arrow sailing free. “She has a nose that a plastic surgeon would kill to replicate. And she smells like warm paper.”

“We know.” Natasha groans, glaring at you and you shrug. It’s true. It’s probably a really nice smell. All you can really think about is imagining her smelling like mildew. “He acted like he was in love with you and one personal attack and he’s jumping some stats intern’s bones? That’s bullshit.”

“It does sound like a rebound.” Clint agrees, loosing another arrow and you pause your clapping as a shower of clay shards rain down.

“It doesn’t matter what it sounds like. If he’s happy then that’s okay. We’re friends now.” You manage, pretending your words aren’t choking you and giving them a convincing smile. Natasha glares and the expression withers.

The sun peaks over the trees and Steve lopes from them, grinning at the sight of your group.

“Hey!” He calls, all hopped up on endorphins as he jogs closer, smiling insanely at all of you individually.

“Captain.” You swallow, tipping your head a little and Natasha rolls her eyes, greeting him with a smile. You can’t help it. He’s old enough to be your grandpa, biologically, and physically, hot and large enough to intimidate you. Intimidate the hell out of you.

“Did you guys hear about Pietros date last night?” He offers the gossip to Clint and Natasha, likely unsure how you feel about the pastime. And he probably doesn’t want to force his attentions on you- Natasha had mentioned that he’d asked for advice about bringing you into the team.

“No. Tell us.” Natasha smirks, not looking at you and you shift closer to Clint, the true friend.

“He bombed. Heard him smacking his head against the wall myself. Apparently, the girl went to kiss him and he panicked, tried to run away and went straight into a sideshow game, toppled prizes and the tent. Water and ducks went everywhere.” He grins, “There’s actually an article on it on the MTV snap story thing.”

You hide your face in Clints shoulder to hold back your laughter, Clint making an approving noise of the man before him.

“Cosmopolitan is my favourite.”

Steve groans, agreeing vehemently and commenting sourly on the Daily Mail. Natasha stares at the pair for a moment before turning to you and offering you her hand and leading you away from them.

“I hate them all, Buzzfeed, Daily Mail, Brother.” She mutters bitterly, opening the door for you.

“I love you,” You gasp out and he stares, your shoulders slumped under the pressure. After the whole dilemma, the least you can do is come clean. He needs to know.

“Y/N.” He sighs and you flinch, your gaze pleading as he backs away from you. “I-”

“I brought you something.” You cut in, holding out the offering nervously and he frowns at it.

“What is it?”

“It’s tickets for a private screening.” You stammer, your hand jerking toward him and you’re almost ready to run, if you weren’t sure that’d be one of the biggest mistakes you could make. 

“Private screening for Bambi?”

“Yeah.” You sigh, kicking his carpet and trying your best apologetic puppy expression. Thor grins, filling up the space between the two of you in a single step and throwing himself around you, arms like elephant trunks.

“I love you too, young one.” He cheers, squeezing you delicately. “When is the show?”

“Wednesday.” You choke, breath short from the pressure and he laughs happily before he leans back and rests his paws on your shoulders.

“I am sorry we quarreled, perhaps we can watch other films sometimes.” He allows and you beam at him, shucking his shoulder happily.

It’s an hour before he lets you head out to breakfast and you already feel like you’ve lived an entire day.

“Maxim-off your game!” Sam calls to Pietro, tone congratulatory as the young man stands in the doorway, expectant.

“Should’ve done the chicken neck. Or just ducked.” Clint smirks tauntingly and you grind the heel of your pumps into his toes.

“Don’t.” You warn Scott as he opens his mouth and he pauses, nodding in agreement. Probably right.

Pietro slides into the seat beside you, stealing the bowl of cereal before you. Your eyebrows rise and he smirks as he scoops a spoonful into his mouth. “At least get another spoon.”

Cold presses into your fingers in an instant and you grin at the spoon tucked there, the only evidence to his involvement being your disrupted hair.

“Thanks.” You grin around a mouth full of cereal and he grins back, exactly the same.

“Oh my God.” Tony whispers, about to sit down and you wink at him. You’re unsurprised when he backs back out and takes his plate elsewhere. Pietros knee knocks yours and you turn to him, eyes still a little unfocused and thinking about Tony when warm lips press against yours.

Your head jerks in surprise, forehead smacking against his and the both of you rebounding backwards, hissing.

“What the f*ck?” You hiss in unison, glaring at each other accusingly. Your teeth grind together as you wait him out, watching him do the exact same to you.

“Why did you kiss me?” You finally break, the tension in the room thick and the spectators watching with bated breath.

“Why did you freak out?” Pietro accuses, not smirking- instead looking like he’s ready to bolt. Below the table, you can feel his leg bouncing a hundred miles a minute and your brows furrow.

“Pietro.” You sigh, your hand reaching out and laying on his wrist, the gentle touch bringing his shoulders forward in a small slump.

“Y/N.” He mumbles, meeting your eyes from his hung head, a small spark still in them showing that you’re supposed to answer the question first, even if you’d asked first.

With a soft growl, your eyes dart around the table. Sam stares openly, Scott trying to pretend he’s eating but you know there’s nothing in his mouth, and Clint is texting, eyes glued to the pair of you. Your eyes return to Pietro, whose gaze darts away as he licks his lips before rising and offering you his hand.

“What’d I miss?” Natasha bursts in as Pietro picks you up and the pair of you escape the crowd. You’re unsurprised when you end up in your room, the main stage.

“Wanna f*ck?” You ask thoughtlessly, staring at the bed and a loud thud sounds, Pietro teetering, your desk chair halfway across the room with its wheels still rolling and you stare.

“Yes. Yes, we should.” He chokes out, stammering as he regains his balance and you grin, a soft giggle working past your lips.

“If you give me a decent reason why you kissed me, I’ll take off all my clothes, then all your clothes.” You promise and he swallows, watching you and you wait as the wheels work.

“I’m in love with you. And I wanted to know what’d be like to kiss a girl you’re in love with – by the way, it sucked.” He smirks and your heart thumps hard, despite the ending. “And you were a real bitch before but I get it. And Rose just made me uncomfortable. You don’t.”

Your head tilts, as his fumbling explanation finishes, watching him wince. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

You nod, grinning as you slip your shirt over your head, kicking off your heels and shimmying out of your shorts.

“I know this looks awfully unromantic, but I’m being practical.” You explain, leaning down and picking up the clothes to throw in the hamper and he groans. “You’re one of those guys who like to tear things, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” He croaks, suddenly behind you, his voice thick and hands warm.

“Well.” You smirk, leaning back against him and meeting his gaze over your shoulder. “You going to get undressed too?”

done diddly un.

[jackfollmanwriter-blog]

Mail

You think life is weird and then one day you receive a human tooth in the mail.

The thing came on a Monday just like any other, stuffed into a plain white envelope and fell out of my mailbox when I opened it up after work. There was no note of any kind. No return address. Just my name and address printed upon a sticker in the middle in black ink and a couple of Elvis stamps perched up in the corner of the thing to make sure it would arrive at my address and freak me the fuck out.

Unsure of what else to do, I called the cops. After repeating what exactly had happened five times to three different people who all made me feel like a combination of an idiot and an asshole, they told me to just bring the thing down to the station.

I had never actually been to a police station before and after my first trip, I would describe the lobby that I walked into as feeling like a mix between a dentist’s office and the locker room at a YMCA. The scent of chlorine seemed to dance upon my nose hairs. The officer behind the counter, a guy who was pulling off having short hair on the sides with a long top that flopped over on its side with magnificent precision half-greeted me by barely looking up from his phone.

    “Hi. I called about the tooth,” I stammered.

    “What?”

I nervously put the envelope upon the maple counter between us and the little white tooth skittered out. The officer set down his phone, picked up the tooth and held it up against the fluorescent light that hummed above us as if he was a jeweler looking at a diamond.

    “You weren’t kidding. We thought you might be a prank call.”

    “It just showed up in my mail today. I have no idea why.”

    “Well, I can tell you one thing. It’s not a crime to mail someone a tooth, but it’s definitely something to keep an eye on.”

The officer put the tooth back into the envelope.

   “Yeah, well, it’s pretty alarming,” I said in a tone so torn from a soap opera I should have been cupping a hearty glass of red win.

   “I’ll bet. “This kind of stuff happens more than you think. Maybe it wasn’t even intended for you.”

    “It had my name on the address.”

The officer fully turned his attention away from me now and started fiddling with his phone.

   “You’d be surprised how much weird stuff happens. My uncle was an officer in St. Louis back in the day and worked on the thing where Chuck Berry was videotaping people in the bathroom of his restaurant. Guy is lucky he can duck walk and play the guitar.

The officer slid over a clipboard with some paperwork.

    “File a report. Let us know if it happens again and we are going to hang onto the tooth. See who it belongs to.”

I was shocked the next afternoon at work when I received a phone call.

   “Mr. Rowley, this is Officer Nguyen. We checked into the tooth yesterday after you filed the report and we got some results.”

    “Really, what are they?” I beamed back into the phone with a level of excitement I usually only reserved for sex and sports.

    “Your tooth belongs, or, belonged to, George Harden of Murphy, North Carolina.”

The name drew a complete blank in my brain. I had so many questions I wanted to ask all at once, but Officer Nguyen went on before I could get one out.

    “Did you have any connection to Mr. Harden?”

   “No. I had never even heard that name until you said it.”

   “Because the interesting thing here is… George Harden was declared dead two years ago.”

Silence lingered on the line for a few seconds before Officer Nguyen spoke up again.

    “Now this could mean a lot of things, but again, you have never interacted with George Harden?”

    “I promise you, I have never even heard the name before. I don’t even know what part of the state Murphy is in either,” I explained, wondering if I was starting to sound defensive.

   “That’s okay. Right now there is really nothing we can do with that. We contacted Mr. Harden’s next of kin to let him know about what happened, but we don’t expect much to happen from here, but let us know if you receive anything else.”

I would receive something else.

There it was staring back at me when I checked my mailbox upon arriving home after work – another white envelope.

The sight of the thing changed the world around me. Suddenly everything in the little hallway corridor where my tiny apartment mailbox was housed became suspicious. I did a 360-degree scan of my surroundings before dipping into the box and pulling out the envelope.

   I could immediately tell there was a little bit more bulk to the envelope this time, but everything else was the same – my name on the front on a printed-out sticker and two Elvis stamps.

I opened the thing up in the hallway and hoped no one saw me do it when a severed human ear tumbled out and landed on the dusty floor. By muscles snapped into movement to pick the thing up, stuff it back into the envelope and disappear into the privacy of my apartment.

    “It’s an ear?” Officer Nguyen’s voice seemed on the verge of laughter after I told him what had happened.

   “Yes, a human ear.”

    “Your timing is convenient as I was just about to call you. I think there is something you might not have told me when we first talked that could play a part in this.”

My brain seemed as if it fell out of my head. I had called them about someone mailing ME a FUCKING EAR and Officer’s Nguyen’s tone made it seem as if I was the one on trial here.

    “What, what do you mean?”

    “Have you ever been a public figure, or celebrity, of any kind?”

There it was. He had stumbled upon my deep, dark fucking secret.

    “No,” I jumped to answer the question how I usually would before realizing it would be a good time to start telling the exact truth. “Well not exactly. Kind of, I used to be. When I was a kid, I was the star of a Christian VHS series. It was called Baby Jesus, but it was only really sold around the South and was never a huge hit. My parents produced it and sold it to churches. It was for like Bible study.”

This was all true. In the series, I played a young Jesus who would give Bible lessons to other kids on the screen and play fun games. Each VHS would have a few episodes on it and it was intended to be a safe and fun alternative to the evils of television cartoons for Christian kids. It last for about four years and was a mild regional success even if it had a confusing name… I was not a baby, but I guess pre-teen Jesus didn’t sound right. I was essentially one of those bullet points that would end up on BuzzFeedy list like “25 Reasons You Know You Grew up in North Carolina, like “You remember when Jesus was a nine-year-old.

Officer Nguyen chuckled.

   “Yeah. One of the officers down here thought she recognized your name and after some searching online we were able to figure it out, along with figuring out one of your other problems.”

    “What’s that?”

    “Your address is listed on your Facebook profile.”

“Fucking idiot,” I cursed myself in my head.

    “You should take it down immediately and modify your privacy settings, maybe delete the whole profile. Seeing is that you are a person well-known enough that some people recognize you, this could be a stalker case. We now have a watch on your mail in case anything else shows up. Other than that though, just bring the evidence down to the station tonight and we will continue investigating.

I went back to my office after dropping the ear off at the station with a smiling Officer Nguyen after a stop at Rite Aid to pick up an inflatable air mattress. There was no way I was going to continue sleeping at an apartment that someone who was compelled to mail me body parts had the address to.

The first thing I did in my office was do some extensive Google searching to make sure my place of employment was listed nowhere online and it wasn’t. Thank God for never joining LinkedIn.

My intuition led me to some other Google searching after extracting all the information I could about myself and I focused on two topics.

George Harden

Who was selling Elvis stamps on ebay

Searching George Harden wasn’t much help. All I could find about the George Harden from Murphy, North Carolina was an obituary from a few years ago that described a life a lot like the one of pretty much everyone who was in their 30s right now’s grandpa. He grew up in Murphy, fought in World War II, came back got married, had one son, Gabriel, worked in a mill until he retired and his wife passed away about a year before he did.

Searching for ebay sellers of Elvis stamps would prove to be a little bit more fruitful. There were only two sellers –proudmomto2 and HisWordIsTHEWORD17. Knowing the stamps were a bit of a collector’s item and worth more than the 29-cent value printed on them, I thought it was strange that my pen pal was using them for his postage. I sent private messages to both users asking if they would be able to provide me information on any buyers they have recently had in the North Carolina area and went to bed on my plastic air mattress on the floor.

I was awoken the next day by the sound of my cell phone ringing a little after 6 a.m.

It was Officer Nguyen.

   “We found another one that was one its way to you this morning,” Officer Nguyen started in before I had really even woken up. “This time it was a nose. Same format with everything though. No note, no return address, just what I am guessing is George Harden’s nose in an envelope addressed to you.”

    “There’s no way you can get some clues on this? Fingerprints on the envelope?” I pleaded through a throat clogged with morning phlegm.

   “…it doesn’t actually work that way. We are working on it though.”

Officer Nguyen’s last sentence was ringing through my ears as I continued my own investigation into the matter.

My first lead had gone nowhere as proudmomto2 told me she would never release any information about her buyers under any circumstances and threatened that if I continued any other communications with her that she would report me to ebay.

I was in the midst of giving up my amateur investigation and retreating to the sugary sweet arms of our company snack bar when I received a new message on ebay. This one from HisWordIsTHEWORD17.

HisWordIsTHEWORD17 was much more helpful. He was simple and to the point, explaining it was not legal to divulge any of this information online, but he could mail me a physical copy of the addresses of those that ordered Elvis stamps from him, but without names. He would just need me to PayPal him the money for shipping and $30 for his time to put it together and he would have them to me in a couple of days. I quickly PayPalled him the money, wrote for him to mail the info to my office address and asked if he would put the names in if I gave him $200, but would never receive a response.

It wasn’t much, I thought, but it was something.

   “It’s a package this time,” Officer Nguyen’s voice would gut the normalcy that had returned to my life for around 24 hours.

   “What’s in it?” I asked frantically and shut the door to my office.

    “We don’t know yet. It’s with a bomb squad right now, they have to check it for explosives since it is a package this time, but the outside of the thing doesn’t give us anything. Same format.”

   “Well shit. Please call me as soon as you have something else,” I said before we ended the call.

I would receive a call back from Officer Nguyen at around 10 p.m. when I was sitting on my computer, pretending to be working late as the cleaning crew tidied up the rest of the office.

   “Mr. Rowley, I am calling you to let you know that we have found the contents of the package. It was an eye, a single eye. We believe to belonged to George Harden.”

    “And you have no leads on this?” I asked in an intentionally condescending tone.

   “As I said, these things don’t really work how they do on TV. It is a very long, painstaking process and we might never actually even get a concrete lead on this thing, but we are working on it.”

    “I’m living in my fucking office right now because of this shit and it’s simply not acceptable.”

I shot a look out of my office door to see if any of the cleaning crew were around before getting up and slamming the thing shut.

    “I apologize, Mr. Rowley. We truly are doing everything we can on this. We simply are not getting much. Hopefully some better evidence will present itself. It usually does.”

    “I know. I know. I know.”

I truly felt a tiny bit sad for Officer Nguyen so I backed off a bit. I knew what it was like at work to be hitting your head against a wall and having people breathe down your neck even though there was really nothing you could do.

   “I’m sorry,” I said before I hung up.

I was failing to catch back up to my breath when there was a soft knock upon the door. I was sure it was the cleaning crew again. They had actually surprised me last night when I was bedding down and I was praying to God they weren’t coming to tell me that they had told other people about me staying there.

With this in mind, I opened the door up with a friendly smile, but no one was there. At least that was what I thought before I felt a body wrap around me from behind and quickly faded into a sudden sleep.

----

I awoke sitting, in a darkened room, the only source of light in the thing the flickering of an old black and white TV like a moth in the air of the night. The world was slowly coming back to me, but I was pretty sure I recognized the scene on the TV.

After a few moments of squinting, it started to come into focus. It was an edition of Baby Jesus and there I was, around age 10, clad in the garb of Jesus, surrounded by kids in a church. I could barely make out the dialogue due to the low volume, but it didn’t matter, I remembered this episode by heart and it all started to make sense.

The shot on the screen cut to a close up of my face and I heard and knew the dialogue at the same time.

   “What are the ways that we can appreciate Christ?” I whispered out loud in unison with the broadcast.

I looked down to my arms and legs to see I was strapped into a thick wooden chair in the middle of the room that was bolted to the hardwood floor. My brain told me to frantically start squirming about, but my body didn’t really want to move at all, I felt as if my blood had been replaced with cement and my heavy eyes remained on the TV set.

My childish voice broadcast from the TV.

    “We can appreciate Christ with our taste, our mouth. We can appreciate the food he gives us with our teeth.”

On the screen, I watched a close-up of my adolescent mouth biting an apple with my teeth.

    “We can appreciate Christ with our hearing, our ears. We can listen to the beautiful music, sound of the birds or conversation with family and friends with our ears.”

On the screen, I watched a close-up of my little ears leaned towards a strumming acoustic guitar.

   “We can appreciate Christ with our smell, our nose. We can smell all of the wonderful scents he has put in the world.”

On the screen, I watched a close-up of my young nose sniffing a flower.

A faint, groggy voice shot out from behind me and made me jump in my lashed in seat.

    “Gabriel loved you.”

I twisted around as much as I could in my chair to get a tiny sliver of a glimpse of what was behind me out of the corner of my right eye. Strapped into a chair in the same fashion as me was an elderly man barely clad in boxer shorts and a plain white shirt. He was so dried out and grizzled he looked like he might just float away into the air if he was struck by a breeze. More concerning than his body was his face, scabbed and battered, he was missing an eye, an ear and most of his nose.

Despite all of the alterations, I still recognized the face from a recent obituary I had read… it was George Harden.

     “It was all his mother would let him watch, was you. She taught him the word of God through you. He truly believed you were the son of God. He worshipped you, still does. This was his dream. I the father and you the son,” I noticed an array of missing teeth when George spoke again.

    “What the hell does that mean?” I screamed and furiously tried to escape my lashings, but didn’t have the least bit of success. “Why are you doing this?”

    “I’m not doing anything,” George said out of breath before being interrupted by the pounding of heavy footsteps outside of the room.

   “He’s here,” George finished with a gasp.

The door behind the TV slowly opened, trickling in some light from the hallway that cast the stout figure in the doorway in a glorious hue of gold, illuminating his shirtless and chiseled torso that was almost completely covered in tattoos of Christian nature. The man stood there for a few moments in nothing but a white pair of briefs, almost as if he was relishing in me taking in his form for the first time.

The tattooed man strode into the room like a Greek god, pushed the TV stand out of the way and picked up something off of the top of the VCR that I couldn’t make out in the near dark.

    “Why are you doing this? Who are you? What are you doing?” I screamed all of the questions at the man as he approached me, but he gave me no answer. I watched as he ignored all of my demands and knelt down and prayed right in front of me.

For a few moments, I wondered if I was going to be okay. He seemed to have some fucked up belief I was Jesus, maybe he was going to worship me and I could eventually escape. There seemed to be hope.

But it was not to be true. I knew it as soon as I saw what he had taken from atop the VCR.

A pair of pliers.

I closed my eyes just as I saw those pliers head towards my mouth, but my lack of sight did nothing to interfere with the feeling of that cold metal vise fight through my squirming lips and latch onto one of my teeth.

I swallowed a heavy and sorrowful gulp of saliva, knowing what was coming next.

Originally published by Thought Catalog at www.ThoughtCatalog.com