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bitterwaters · 3 months ago

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Lacquer Brands

so one day I went to a fugue and wrote a 2000 word essay on nail polish brands

We got four tiers of nail polish brands: overpriced luxury bullshit, drugstore, boutique, and indie.

Overpriced Luxury Bullshit

Don’t buy these! Just don’t! You’re paying for name, not quality. Chanel charges $32 for an 11 ml creme, the second cheapest polish type there is. That’s ludicrous. Every review I’ve seen of a “high-brand” from a real swatcher has been negative. Fuck ‘em all.

Drugstore

This is every other mainstream brand, whether it’s from CVS, Walmart, or Ulta. Wide range of price and quality. In general, you’ll probably get what you pay for. Sally Hensen Insta-Dry is classic and Acceptably Okay; if you don’t have the patience for a full manicure, just slap some of that on. Look for brands that are 3-free or 5-free--that means that won’t have a few nasty chemicals. Anything over 5 is fake and doesn’t matter.

My preferred drugstore brands:

Zoya: Jellies, glitters, shimmers. Tends to have a very thin formula--leave the cap off for a few minutes to thicken it up.

Orly: Cremes! The absolute best, well-pigmented, buttery smooth cremes. Persistent Memory is my perfect dark red. The bottles are generously sized, they have a nice paddle brush, and I love the big rubberized cap. They’re just really pleasant!

OPI: I only use their matte top coat but I use a lot of it. It’s the best! Get their matte top coat! I’ve seen recs to use their polishes over Essie’s, but I’ve never tried either.

Boutique

Now we’re getting into the Good Shit. There’s a price jump here, but there’s also a huge jump in quality. These are small- to medium-sized online-only businesses with semi-industrial production and ample stock. They’re big enough to ship within a few days. They use a LOT more pigment and glitter than drugstore brands, and have far more variety in finishes.

You might see them on Amazon or Etsy--skip it and go order from their sites instead. Shipping costs the same and you can save up reward points.

Charmed Lacquer: Brand new, recently announced, will open in a week or two. Started by a streamer named Janixa. I’m not familiar, but her followers seem excited enough to check it out.

Cirque Colors: CONTROVERSY! I like Cirque. I have a ton of their polishes. A little pricey, but they have frequent small sales and are high-quality. Best known for the jellies and some really stunning magnetics like Mood Ring and Black Swan (which have since been rampantly duped). So why the controversy?

Mystery bags: idk people get het up about ‘em. I kind of feel like if you gamble on a bunch of polishes you don’t choose, you risk pruglies.

Coronation: This is a purple polish with a red-green shift shimmer pigment called, I shit you not, Unicorn Pee. UP was made unavailable for public sale years ago (the suspicion is that it’s now used in some currency). Cirque keeps finding stashes and re-releasing Coronation. There have been complaints that it’s not the same shade as the original, that it’s over-priced ($18.50 is a LOT for a polish), and the FOMO marketing. It always sells out fast. I have a bottle. It’s okay.

Jaritos: The current teapot tempest. Cirque just put out a Jarito-themed line of jellies that’s FOURTEEN FUCKIN FIFTY a bottle. Their regular jellies are two bucks less because JELLIES ARE CHEAP. They have less pigment than other finishes. Cirque has also been caught editing pics from swatchers. Some of the Jaritos shades are outright dupes of existing Cirque colors--but when Cirque reposted swatcher pics that compared them, they changed things to make them look different. Little shady!

I still got Mxcn Cola

Holo Taco: I don’t go to this school. It seems fine. Owned by a YouTuber with a pretty big following, Simply Nailogical. The brand has devoted followers, but I’ve never been real impressed. I feel like I can get everything they do somewhere else for a buck or two cheaper. Lots of limited-time bundles.

ILNP: MY LOVE! Shimmers, glitters, holos. Their formulas are just fantastic. If you follow lacquer reddits you’ll see a TON of posts featuring Flower Child and Fairy Dust; they aren’t for me but I see why people love them. They’re really good with shimmers--Flicker glows like a candle in a dark window. I also like their flakie toppers and magnetics. You really can’t go wrong with anything from ILNP.

One of the rare lacquer companies that doesn’t do FOMO. They never remove anything from their line-up. New collections get a 10% discount for a week at release, and they have an annual Black Friday sale.

KBShimmer: They’re pretty good! They don’t get as much love as I think they deserve--probably because they aren’t quite as flashy and highly-marketed as other brands. They also aren’t as heavily pigmented/glittered. Still pretty good though! I really love All Fired Up. They have big 15 ml bottles for only $12, no matter what finish. KBShimmer is a great place to start if you’re just dipping your toe beyond drugstore brands. Pick up their polish thinner (suitable for every brand except Orly) and glitter smoothing top coat.

Lights Lacquer: Don’t. They have some nice shades, though they tend to be as subdued as drugstore polishes. I was really disappointed by their cremes--the formula isn’t at all self-leveling. That’s just weird in this day and age. And then I found out that black swatchers refuse to work with them because the owner has been openly racist. Her non-apologies did not improve relations. Skip it.

Mooncat: CONTROVERSY! I have over a dozen Mooncat polishes and do love most of them, but it's getting harder to recommend the brand. They specialize in intense shimmer/glitter/holo/flakie/magnetics--all the fancy stuff. They have a few unique polishes that I haven’t seen duped elsewhere. Their formula can be gloopy, especially their flakies; easily fixed by a few drops of thinner. Why controversy?

they’re fukkin expensive bro. Like $15 a bottle. I do feel that you get what you pay for--it’s good stuff. I’ve never been disappointed by a Mooncat. But part of what you’re paying for is brand aesthetic.

they’re fukkin annoying bro. Their site, marketing, and even customer service emails are all lower-case dramatic gothy stuff. Never “nails,” always “claws.”

Their bottles keep shattering. This has happened occasionally in the past, then become more frequent starting in April. Seems like there was some supply change that thinned the glass. Mooncat was also filling about 14 ml instead of the promised 12 ml. Temperature and air pressure changes during shipping started to cause a lot of bottles to break. One person ended up in urgent care to get her hand stitched. Mooncat has promised to make changes and has been quick to refund/replace broken bottles, but there’s still a lot of ill-will simmering in the community. I think we’re past the tipping point--I’m no longer seeing broken bottle posts, just love for their new Power Puff Girls collab--but if you like something, I would wish list and wait another month. That should be enough time to make sure the bottles are safe and the weather has cooled.

Indies

Every single indie nail polish company is one or two people working out of their basement. That is not a joke. They hand-makes every small batch, fill the bottles, pack, and ship by themselves. That’s in addition to designing and testing polishes, and just living their lives.

That means that if you order from an indie, expect to wait. Most list a turn-around time of up to a month (they usually say 7-21 business days--people read three weeks but it’s a month). That’s padded to give them safety--nearly all will ship within a week, maybe two. But if they get hit with life stuff or a ton of orders, it really can take a while. My longest order took over a month arrive. It was entirely worth it.

Indies tend to have a big focus on fancy finishes. The biggest trend right now is sheer lacquers that are loaded with aurora shimmer. They’re color-shifty and glowy, and a lot of fun. That’s starting to stagnate a bit--every base color/shimmer combination has been done, so a lot of dupes are emerging--but it’s also starting to evolve. I’m seeing more and more shimmers that also have holo, flakes, or reflective glitter. I’m betting we’ll get some thermal shimmers as fall rolls in and temperatures drop.

Indies have some phenomenal variety and creativity. They’re doing the coolest stuff with the most love. Many also rely heavily on FOMO, and some are just plain not open much of the time. Instead, they have monthly or seasonal release windows. They usually drop a new collection and may retire old ones.

How do you keep track? The Reddit Laquerists (sic) Nail Polish Release Calendar. You can also subscribe to brand newsletters--most give a small coupon on your first order. A lot are on Instagram and Facebook.

There are at least two dozen indie brands, and it’s hard to know where to start. I highly recommend Lyn B. Designs. I love her lacquers, absolutely flawless formula. She has big bottles, fast turn-around, and lots of variety. Get her top coat! It’s the best. But most importantly, she has a 50% off code for ALL products every time she launches a new collection. You can get top-quality lacquers for $6 each, and the big top coat refill for $12.50. No brand of any size can match that value. You can either follow her on Facebook for the code or check the calendar on launch day.

Others I like, in no particular order:

Bee’s Knees, Dam, Polished for Days, Great Lakes Lacquers for fantastic shimmers and reflectives. Garden Path and Rogue Lacquers have great flakies. Lurid Lacquer is pretty new, and she’s doing some really interesting things with intense shimmers and color-shifty chromes. Sassy Sauce keeps a small, tidy line-up, but it’s all quality and creative stuff. She’ll also have some nice thermals once October hits--she doesn’t ship them during summer, which I respect.

Cupcake is kind of a workhorse brand like KBShimmer: nothing too spectacular, but everything is solid and reasonably priced. Likewise, Glisten & Glow isn't too exciting but IS cheap and high-quality. Emily de Molly is Just Good. Drunk Fairy has really nice jellies and cremes. Wildflower Lacquers is closed for rebranding, back 09/06; I don’t have any from her yet but I gotta give props for big bottles, a fan brush, and surviving in Oklahoma.

Death Valley Nails is a little pricey but they’re doing the weirdest, most absolutely unique shit out there. They’re making polish out of rocks and wildflowers. One looks like the sink after your boyfriend shaves. It’s great.

Clionadh gets some hype but IMO they’re overpriced and overrated. They definitely up the saturation on swatch pics. I’m unimpressed by Femme Fatale’s formula and teeny 9 ml size. Shleee polishes don’t self level at all. Stella Chroma still sells Harry Potter themed polishes and I'm very over that.

But really, the best way to check out indie brands is…

Indie Preorders

There are two big indie collabs every month that work on a pre-order basis: Polish Pickup and Hella Handmade Creations. They open for a week each month and feature unique, one-time only products from a ton of indie brands. They can cause major FOMO. If you feel that might not be healthy for you, stay away! But if you’re okay with the possibility that you may never be able to replace a bottle you finish off, you’ll find some great stuff. They’re an excellent way to explore new brands, and creators get to be a little experimental. PPU has fun monthly themes; HHC doesn’t have a general theme, but many creators do a series of fandom-themed designed. Indie polish creators tend to be pretty nerdy.

If you want to try non-US brands, go to Color4Nails.They’re a stockist that carries several brands, drugstore, boutique, and indie. They also have monthly pre-orders for a few Brazilian brands like Phoenix Indie Polish and Penelope Luz. I find the Brazilian brands to be a little pricey, with smallish bottles and fairly thin consistency, but they’re doing some interesting stuff. I’m pretty consistently impressed with Phoenix; PL less so.

#nails #I have a few posts I'm going to schedule during the next week #they are not remotely this long

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horrorlesbians · 4 years ago

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Don't know if you do your nail, but the bottle design of estemio seems to fit you?

i do, not well but i do paint my own nails. and those bottles are quite pretty

#written in blood #i just use a cheap drugstore black and call it good #Anonymous

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mourntheantagonist · 4 years ago

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Billy Hargrove’s Exploration of Beauty

Part 6: Split Ends

also on ao3

***

It all happened so fast. Like he blinked his eyes and he went from behind an ice cream counter to a hundred feet below ground level. Tied up to a chair in front of his coworker who he had barely even known. Who he was beginning to like. And despite being told after the fact that whole days had passed, his little vacation didn’t feel so long. Having been blacked out and drugged out of his mind for the most of it. It was quick to be over with. Could have almost have been excused as a fever dream.

The events following his escape went by fast too. Coming up to the main floor only to find out that they might have just been safer underground. Hearing news of the mind flayer being back just went in one ear out the other.

Finding out Billy was among the flayed. That stuck. But he hid the fear. Suppressed it. Because they didn’t have the time to dwell on that.

Driving up to Cerebro felt quick. Considering he drove like a bat out of hell, that wasn’t that hard to believe.

Slamming into the side of the Camaro. He had his eyes closed for that one. But it went by fast. It had to. “It’s not Billy” he had chanted in his mind.

Everything was quickly paced. Moving from one thing to another swiftly. Nothing felt like it had dragged on.

Until he was up on that balcony.

And he watched as the mindflayer skewered his boyfriend through the chest. It was all slow motion. Felt like watching a movie that would never end. Watching as it went in and out. Tearing flesh and breaking bone. Collapsing to the floor with a loud thud that echoed throughout the mall. Lying there motionless. Bleeding out onto the disgusting mall tile. Dying. He was dying.

He’d later hear from Robin that when he was up on that balcony she had to hold him back from jumping over the ledge. Kicking and screaming. “I have to get to him!”

Everything following that moment felt like slow motion. Agonizing slow motion.

Driving to the hospital that held Billy. Max in the passenger seat. It was silent. And they must have hit every red light on the way.

The trip up the elevator to the floor he was on. Unbearably slow.

The line they stood in to speak to the front desk. Unbearably long.

The wait until they were ready for them to come back. It felt like forever.

And just as he was ready to pass through the glass doors into the hall of the ICU, there was a hand on his chest. A nurse of about five-foot-five looking to be in her mid-to-late forties had stopped him. “Family members only at this time.” She’d said. He wanted to yell at her. Say he’s the closest thing Billy has to family. But he kept his mouth shut. Bowed his head and ushered Max along, despite her protests.

“Go see your brother, Max. I’ll be okay.”

But he wouldn’t. Steve wouldn’t see Billy for the first time for over a month. The longest month of his life.

Months spent with Billy beginning to fade away in this never ending cycle of being alone. Waking up everyday to an empty bed. Not even being able to make a phone call just to hear his voice. Being without him in every way. Not hearing his laugh or seeing his smile or just feeling his skin against his. He tried to hold on to all of those good memories. But they were slipping away.

It all went downhill when Max had called him from the ICU. It was two in the morning and she was there with Chief Hopper, despite knowing she shouldn’t be. Steve hid his anger around Hopper, trying his best not to hate him. Because he got special privileges and Steve didn’t. It was two in the morning and he was sitting in his living room watching a random movie, curled up in a blanket and hugging a pillow. He hadn’t been sleeping very well. The left side of his bed cold and vacant.

Max didn’t usually call this late. The ringing of the phone startled him and made his heart race. Because something must be wrong.

“Steve?” Max’s voice came over the line.

“Is something wrong?” He had to get straight to the point.

The pause felt like forever. His breath caught in his throat, hands trembling waiting for her to say something.

“They want to cut his hair.”

June 10th, 1985

“I think I want to grow out my hair.”

Billy says it to him that day while curled up in his bed. Steve’s fingers tenderly combing through his curly blonde locks. It’s soft. Void of any hairspray and all natural in its full curly glory. Smell of cheap drugstore shampoo. Slightly minty.

“Grow it out? It’s already long.” Steve says. He’s not wrong. Billy’s hair is already shoulder length and that’s with his naturally tight curls. Wet and brushed out it’s even longer. About to his collar bones.

“I know that. But I’d like for it to be longer. Is that okay?”

“Are you asking for my permission? Because you know you don’t have to do that.”

“I know. Just wanted to know what you thought.”

“More hair to grab onto? Doesn’t sound all that bad to me.”

Billy laughs and leans into Steve.

Billy had been getting better about voicing his feelings about things. Finding it easier to settle into himself in the company of Steve. Gaining a trust that Steve wouldn’t look at him like others would have if they had seen a boy take pleasure in a feminine aesthetic. Painted nails and soft makeup and even sexy lingerie when the mood was just right. Things he’d never allow leave the walls of Steve’s house, but had been able to set free when he was inside.

“Can I ask what made you want to do this?”

“Max braided my hair last night, but it’s too short on top so it was all sticking out.” Steve couldn’t see the smile peek onto Billy’s face or the rosy tint on his cheeks. “But I liked it.”

Max and Dustin had come to learn about the two of them. About not only their relationship but about Billy. About the little things he does to feel beautiful. Billy wasn’t as open with the two of them as he was with Steve. But they were nice about it. Supportive like Steve was. Billy would say it was nice having someone else in on the secret. Even if it scared him shitless having even just Steve in the know.

“Good. I bet you look amazing with your hair braided.”

“Do you know how?” Billy seems timid in the way he asks. But not like he used to be. His voice is consistent in tone and there is an ounce of confidence there.

Steve’s in the middle of wrapping a curl around his finger until he reaches Billy’s scalp. “A little. I used to braid Carol’s when we were little. Not sure how good I am now.”

“Do you want to try?” Same voice as before. Hopeful tinge to it that makes Steve smile.

“Go get me a brush.”

- : -

Steve barely listens to the rest of the call. He’s already getting ready to leave for the hospital before he even hangs up the phone. Barely bothering to make himself presentable. Going out to his car wearing a pair of pajama pants and one of his father’s college sweatshirts.

Max had told him to come. So he was already out the door. Letting himself imagine what Billy might look like now. It’s been over a month so he surely looks a lot different from when he last saw him. Hopefully he looks much different considering the last time he saw him he was drenched in his own blood with a hole in his chest. Max had taken pictures of Billy at the hospital, but he couldn’t bear to look at them. He needed to actually be there the first time he saw Billy, or he might completely lose his mind. If he hasn’t already.

The hospital is a full forty minute drive outside of Hawkins. But it’s two in the morning and the roads are almost entirely empty. So he floors it. Driving fifteen over the whole trip. Releasing all of the anxiety and anticipation into the weight of his foot to increase his speed.

He’s driving like he’s heading there to say goodbye. Like he’s getting ready to say his last words to the dying man in the hospital bed. Tell anyone else he’s driving this recklessly over a potential haircut they’d think he’d be being dramatic. To put it mildly.

But it was more than just hair. Billy’s hair meant something more than just the evolutionary purpose of keeping your head warm.

Losing his hair would be like losing a limb. It was a part of him. So much of his identity contained within each strand of dirty blonde. The one thing he had control over. The one thing Neil never bothered to touch. Hair he had been growing out for the better part of five years having only recently begun trimming it, and even more recently begun growing it out again. The bulk of the hair on his head was the same exact hair that had been with him through all of it. Through every beating. Through every milestone. Always there sitting on his shoulders.

It was the thing that brought him comfort in knowing it was his. That it would always be there. It was like his coat of armor. It was like a shield. Something he always used to hide behind. Something that protected him. Something that made stepping out into the world just a little bit bearable.

But then with Steve he didn’t use it to hide behind. When he was with Steve he let it fall. He let it soften and lose the stiffness brought upon by too much hairspray. He let Steve comb his fingers through it. Touch the very thing that gave him a glimpse of comfort. Because Steve did too. Steve’s gentle and caring hands combing through tangles while they lay together in bed. The same hands braiding his hair while they sat in front of the TV. Billy on the floor with his back to the couch. Sitting in between Steve’s legs as he tries to incorporate the shorter strands at the front of his head into the cascade of woven hair. Slicking it down with water and hairspray only for the short strands to sprout up only after only a couple of minutes. Billy never did get his perfect braid.

They want to take it off. They want to take it all off. Even though it’s not necessary. They wanted to take away the one thing Billy had left after everything. After it was all taken away from him. Steve had already destroyed the Camaro. The only thing he’d be walking out of the mall with would be that fucking hair and thankfully his beating heart.

And he would have Steve. He would always have Steve.

If he still wanted him when he woke up.

Steve passed the “Leaving Hawkins” sign at a whopping seventy miles per hour. Paying no mind to potential police surveying the road. Wasting no time at all.

June 20th, 1985

Billy’s wearing a scrunchie in his hair when he comes to Steve’s house after his shift. His hair is still drying from the pool water but is still so bouncy and shiny in the evening sunlight, and the little blue scrunchie in his hair makes him melt. The way the pink and orange hues of a perfect sunset warm the color of each strand. The ways his ears are fully exposed, his earring dangling and perfectly reflecting the light. The way the little strands at the front of his head fall into his eyes. The way it’s so messy yet so elegant at the same time. His heart soars. He looks beautiful.

Steve tells him that. With a kiss on the lips before he walks through the front door.

“Where’s the scrunchie from?” Steve asks.

“Stole it out of Heather’s locker.”

Steve gave Billy a fake shocked expression. “My boyfriend? A thief? It can’t be.”

Billy walks past Steve and into the house. “Relax, I swear there’s like fifty of them in there. She won’t even notice.” He takes a seat on the right side of the couch, like he always did.

Steve sits beside him, leaning his entire body up against Billy and burying his head into the crook of his neck. Billy still strongly smells of chlorine and he used to hate that smell until it became a signal that Billy was around. Suddenly it had become one of his favorite scents.

“Well it looks like we’re just going to have to get you some of your own doesn’t it?” Steve starts twirling his finger around one of the loose strands at the front of his face. “It looks real pretty.”

Pretty.

That was a newer word for them. Dropping the ‘boy’ at the end because it didn’t feel necessary anymore. Sometimes even made him feel a little like he was implying that boys couldn’t be pretty, needing to add the specification. Billy was becoming far more comfortable with himself and embracing it all. Beginning to believe that men could be pretty and that didn’t have to detract from anything.

So Steve called him pretty. He called him beautiful and gorgeous and stunning because he was. Because Billy deserved to hear it. And because it made him happy.

“Showers weren’t working at the pool. Need to wash the chlorine out. You gonna join me?”

“Oh absolutely.”

- : -

The trip through the hospital gives Steve flashbacks. Flashbacks to the night him and Max anxiously made the trek to the hospital wing Billy was in. Every moment he was currently experiencing felt like the memory. Sweaty palms gripping the handles in the elevator while the cage slowly moves up to the fifth floor. Shoulders hunched, leaning all his weight onto the bar as he curses each time the elevator stops. Foot tapping in anxiety as he waits and waits and waits until finally the doors slide open onto the fifth floor.

Steve ignores the lineup of people at the front desk and heads towards the glass door through which he can see Hopper. He wasn’t going to wait anymore. Fully prepared to bypass the stout man they had guarding the door.

Two hands come in contact flat against his chest as he gets within a foot of the door. So close to grabbing the handle. Steve leans all his weight against the man. Straight faced like a man on a mission.

“Let me through.”

Steve knows how he looks. Adorning comfortable clothes looking completely disheveled. Hair a mess, sweat forming on his brow, practically foaming at the mouth as he attempts to push his way past. His voice determined as he repeats himself.

“I can’t allow that sir. You do not have permission.”

The man just stands his ground. Hands still flat against Steve’s chest, applying very little pressure, but enough to prevent Steve from storming through.

“Let me through.” It’s louder this time. Enough to where he’s beginning to cause a scene in the middle of the waiting area. Staff and the rest all turning their heads towards the disarranged man on the verge of a public tantrum. He looks all kinds of mad, like he belongs in a padded room, restrained and straight-jacketed. He repeats himself over and over again until his voice starts to break. The man is not budging, and Steve doesn’t have the strength.

Then there’s a strong hand grabbing his bicep. Steve’s haze still recognizes it as belonging to a separate party.

“Let the kid in. He’s with me.” It’s Hopper’s distinct voice that breaks him from the daze. The man blocking his way moves to the left and removes his hands from his chest, nearly causing him to fall forward.

Hopper guides Steve through the glass doors. This is the furthest he’s made it. He can feel Billy’s presence just right around the corner. He’s not sure if that’s just because he can hear Max’s voice echoing through the halls as she argues loudly with the nurses on call.

“Good thing you’re here. Max has been guarding Billy for an hour. It’s just hair. I don’t know what the issue is.”

Steve just looks at Hopper, completely stone cold.

“It’s not just hair.”

He storms past him and into the room where Max is standing in front of Billy’s bed with her arms outstretched while two nurses try to reason with her. Steve stalls when he finally looks past Max and gets a glimpse of Billy.

He’s pale, but still tanner than Steve. He has more stubble than he would have liked but it’s still trimmed. The mask over his mouth and nose block his view slightly. His eyes are closed and he looks very peaceful.

And his hair is longer. A lot longer.

Splayed across the white pillow underneath him, his tight waves look to be at the very least an inch longer than the last time he’d seen him. Bangs falling into his face extending all the way down to the tip of his nose. It looks soft. Shiny like satin under the hospital fluorescent. He looks heavenly and angelic and that freaks Steve out.

Heavenly and angelic.

Asleep. Dead to the world. Dead.

Except he wasn’t dead. The crests and troughs of the heart monitor proving such to be true. But it felt too close. Like it was right around the corner and he had to be careful not to alert death to their location.

Steve walked past the shouting fourteen year old without a word and approached Billy’s bedside. Upon closer inspection he notices how Billy’s body has frailed. Previously cut muscles, now soft and smooth. Yet he didn’t look sickly. He was still looking more built than Steve, even. Steve moves a fallen hair from out of his eyes, like it was blocking his vision out of his closed lids. Gently tracing his finger across his hairline to behind his ear where he tucked back another strand. His skin was warm. Blood still coursing through his veins. He was definitely alive. And somehow Steve felt his presence. Knew deep down Billy was still in there.

He’s not paying attention to the screaming match taking place behind him. And they’re not paying attention to him. He’s just staring at Billy. Like he’s looking at the Mona Lisa. Behind six inches of bulletproof glass. He can’t get to him. He can’t reach him. But he’s there. He can see him. And god he’s as beautiful as ever.

It’s not the ear piercing screams from an enraged teenage girl or the annoyed combativeness from the two young nurses that separates his attention from Billy. It’s a strong hand on his shoulder that somehow both gently and forcefully pulls him back.

“Alright everyone that’s enough!” Hopper doesn’t shout but his deep and full voice carries an intensity that shuts everybody up. “One at a time, please?”

“You have no right to shave his entire head! You only have to shave off a small patch for the surgery, you said it yourself!” Max is fuming. The only word that sticks in Steve’s head is surgery. He doesn’t bother asking. Not sure if knowing would make it easier to swallow.

“We actually do have the right. His father already gave us consent to do so. It’s you who doesn’t have the right kid.” Steve has to physically restrain himself. Looking back at Billy as his fists clenched and his fingernails dug crescents into his palms at the mention of Neil.

Neil having the final say over the one thing he never touched. That was something Steve had promised Billy he would protect him from. Not the hair. Protect him from Neil taking anything more from him.

“Besides, a man’s hair shouldn’t be that long anyway.”

If Steve didn’t have the self control he did, there would surely be a nurse with a broken nose. Instead he turns back to Billy again. Looking at him. Trying to pull some answers from him.

I wish you could just tell me what to do.

“When does it need to be done by?” It’s the first thing Steve’s said since he entered the room.

“His surgery is scheduled for nine this morning. So you’ve got around five hours.”

Steve hasn’t turned towards the nurses. Hasn’t turned his head away from Billy.

“Then give us five hours.”

Steve’s expression when he finally turns back to look at the two nurses is mean. Attempting to get it across that he’s not asking.

“Five hours.” They say as they nod their heads and walk out. Annoyed expressions on their faces.

“Steve you can’t let them -“

“They won’t.” Steve takes a long look at Billy. Taking a deep breath as he glances towards the scissors that sit on the medical tray. “I’m going to do it.”

Max doesn’t say anything, which is actually a good sign. An even better sign is when she finally removes herself from her guarded position at the foot of the bed to come join Steve.

He pulls down at one of the shorter strands at the front of Billy’s head. Pulled taut, the spiral reaches all the way just past his chin.

“You think it’s long enough for a braid?”

June 20th, 1985

After a very hot and heavy make out session against the shower walls, the two actually take a shower. Despite having done so many times before, showering together always feels so intimate. Standing with each other, naked and alone in a very vulnerable position,

just existing without jumping each other’s bones. It was nice. It was just more proof that what the two of them ran deep. Soaping up each other’s bodies. That was something so personal.

Steve was running his fingers through Billy’s soap covered hair. Billy’s back turned to Steve as he did it. Letting the water from the faucet rinse his front while he let Steve play with the individual strands of his hair.

Steve liked the way Billy’s hair looked when wet. Still maintaining a curl no matter how saturated in water it got. The way it darkened to a near dark brown and he could easily be mistaken for a brunette.

The shampoo smells like coconut. Stolen straight from his mothers bathroom. The fumes mixed with the steam of the hot water clearing his senses and making his breathing feel so easy.

Steve pulls at one of his curls until it’s completely straight. Careful not to pull too hard.

“It’s already getting longer, baby.”

Because his back is turned, Steve doesn’t see the wide smile appear onto Billy’s face. Because the water is falling into his face, Steve doesn’t see the tears of joy form into his eyes.

Yet Steve knows without seeing. He wraps his arms around Billy’s waist and pulls him in close. Presses kisses into the mole on the back of his shoulder.

“It’s gonna look so good.��

“You think so?”

“You bet. I’d say give it two more weeks and I can get these little suckers into a braid.”

- : -

Steve remembers saying that so vividly. Because exactly two weeks later would be the Fourth of July. The same day that Billy’s life would nearly be taken. It felt like some cruel joke.

Now Steve is sitting in a hospital bed with his comatose boyfriends sitting in between his legs as he brushes through his hair. Trying to hold it together in front of Max and Hopper.

Steve’s not entirely sure Hopper has been made aware of the true nature of his and Billy’s relationship. He figures he’s probably pieced it together by now. And he’s pretty sure he doesn’t really care if he knows or not. He’s too focused on Billy. Focused on the man in between his legs. Focused on making him look as beautiful as he can while his hair is still on his head. Trying not to focus that it’s going to be his hands that will cut it off. Because it has to be his hands. Or else it’ll end up inadvertently being Neil’s hands.

And he wouldn’t let that happen.

Max hasn’t said much since he’d arrived. He can tell she feels guilty that Steve had been blocked from seeing Billy for so long. Especially considering how easy it was to get him past those doors. She’s just sitting in the chair at his bedside holding Billy’s hand. He is angry. But not at Max. He’s not really angry at anyone one particular person. He’s angry at the entire situation they’re in and he doesn’t know how to express that anger to Max without screaming. So he keeps his mouth shut and gently brushes the tangles out of Billy’s hair.

“I’m going to head downstairs for some food. Do you want me to bring anything up for you two?” Hopper says. He too has been mostly silent. Clearly pretty confused about the situation.

Max’s eyes lit up. “My bag. It’s in your car. Can you grab it?”

“Sure thing kiddo. You Steve?”

“A cup of coffee would be nice.”

Hopper tousled his and Max’s hair. “You got it. I’ll be back in a bit. Please for the love of God don’t yell at anymore nurses. They’re just doing their job.”

Hopper leaves the two of them and Steve finally begins braiding Billy’s hair. Combing his hair front to back before taking three small strands and began attempting a French braid.

“What’s in the bag?” He asks.

Max smiles. Looking down at Billy’s bare fingernails. “My Polaroid. Thought maybe he might like to have some pictures.”

“I think he’d like that.” Steve’s looking down at Billy’s hand in Max’s. “You have any nail polish in there?”

“I think so.”

“That’s good, maybe we can paint them.” Steve’s being extremely focused on braiding. Making sure it’s clean and precise and making sure no strand is sticking out. And it’s going a lot better than usual. Only needing to slick down a couple stray pieces. All while carefully pressing kisses to the top of his head as he makes his way down the length of his hair. Down his neck until he’s reached the end where he finally ties it off with a hair tie off of Max’s wrist.

“How’s it look?” Steve asks.

“He looks pretty.”

Steve can’t help it anymore. Can’t hold back the stream of tears that have been bottled up and threatening to overflow since he got the call. The tears squeeze through tightly closed eyelids and roll down his cheeks as he just buries his face into Billy’s braided hair.

“He does. Doesn’t he?” Steve gently wraps his arms around Billy’s chest, careful around the dressing over his scar. Fully taking in for the first time that Billy is still here. For the past month Billy’s being alive was just simply something he was told. Never something he got to see. Now he does see it. Now he sees it and he feels the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. Feels his heart beat against his chest. He’s right there and he was going to be okay.

He had to be okay. That was the only way Steve would be okay too.

“I’m sorry.” Max apologizes. He knows why she says it. He doesn’t need clarification.

“It’s not your fault.”

Max gives Steve a half smile and uses her free hand to squeeze his shoulder.

“I don’t want to cut his hair.” Steve takes in a deep breath. “But I know it has to be me.”

“I could do it.”

Steve shakes his head at her. “No. I made a promise. It can’t be anyone else.”

“Well I’ll be here with you if it helps.”

“Thanks.”

“Thank you for loving my brother.”

They sit there for a while in just complete silence save for the muffled chatter from outside the walls and the occasional beeping from one of the many machines Billy had been wired up to. Hopper only arrives around ten minutes later with two coffees in hand and a red Jansport on his shoulder. He hands Steve his cup and Max her backpack and takes a seat in the other chair that’s near the door.

“You two alright?” Hopper asks. He probably noticed Steve’s tear stained cheeks and the somber atmosphere of the room he walked into.

The two of them nod. Steve goes in to begin nursing the hot cup of coffee and Max begins to sift through her bag. Pulling out her camera case and two small glass bottles.

“I have red and orange.”

“Billy hates orange Max! You know this!” Steve laughs.

“I know that. Was just messing with you.” She tosses the bottle of red nail polish over to Steve. “You paint, I’ll take pictures.”

Max takes a few shots while Steve coats Billy’s nails in a shiny bright red varnish. Still in the same position of Billy sitting in between Steve’s legs with a pillow on his chest for Billy to lay back on. He brings a coated hand to his lips to gently blow dry. All the while Max is snapping candid photos of the two, passing each piece of film over to Hopper for him to put into his shirt pocket to allow it to develop.

“You guys want one of all three of you?” Hopper asks. He’s been mostly silent the whole time. Nursing his own coffee while he watched Max prance around the room with her camera.

“That would be great.” Max says, handing the camera over to Hopper before she makes her way over to the bedside. Leaning into the frame. Steve pulls Billy’s braid forward so that it’s now draped over his shoulder and visible. Intertwining his fingers with Billy’s now dry and red coated ones. He smiles as the flash temporarily blinds him.

They take as many more photos as they can until Max has run out of film. Hours pass and the hour hand is approaching eight o’clock. Meaning it’s about time.

About time to say goodbye.

The process begins slowly. Undoing the braid being the first step. Undoing the thing Billy really wanted to see for himself. The thing he’ll only get to experience in pictures. It hurt to pull the elastic from his hair and run his fingers through the perfectly woven strands.

The next part was securing it all back up into a ponytail at the top of his head. That way all Steve would have to do was make one single cut and be done with it. Allow the nurses to shave off the rest.

He knew it was going to be hard. But he didn’t anticipate it being this hard. Now holding an open pair of scissors above Billy’s head. All of his hair in between the blades. All he had to do was close his fingers together and it would begin. But he was stuck. Hands frozen still as he began to sob into Billy’s hair as Max and Hopper silently watched him. Max’s hand on his thigh and Hopper’s on his shoulder.

He couldn’t stop imagining Billy having to wake up like this. Wake up to the knowledge that his hair was gone at the hands of Steve. Wondering if maybe this would hurt him more than someone else doing it. He had to remember he made a promise. Even if it meant that Billy may wake up and hate him.

Steve’s fingers finally close the blades together and he can hear the sharp sound of cutting hair.

He made a promise.

September 19th, 1985: One Month Later

Billy’s awake.

Billy’s awake and Steve is there holding his hand as he does. It wasn’t planned, somehow fate just decided to work out in their favor.

Billy takes a while to come to. Nearly an hour before he truly recognizes who he is and where he is and who Steve is. Steve just sits there patiently while he does. Repeating over and over again that he’s in the hospital. That he’s okay. That “Steve’s here.”

Billy’s hair is short and curly now. A lighter blonde than before. It looks really good on him and he just hopes Billy is able to agree.

“Steve?” Is the first thing Billy says and Steve’s heart melts at the sound of Billy’s groggy voice.

“Yeah baby. It’s me. I’m right here.” Steve pulls Billy’s hand to his mouth and begins kissing his knuckles. Showing Billy his own painted fingernails. Maybe that will help serve as a comfort for him. “Welcome back.”

“How long?”

“Almost three months.”

Billy just nods. Then slowly moves a free hand up to scratch at his head and Steve’s heart stops. He thought he’d have more time.

His heart shatters when Billy’s hand makes contact and his half lidded eyes turn wide.

“My hair is gone.” He says before turning over to see Steve is crying.

“I’m sorry. I had to cut it. I'm so sorry.” Steve’s voice is broken and Billy takes a minute to finally register the situation. Spending about a minute pulling at the short curls in his hair before squeezing Steve’s hand with all of the strength he has. Which isn’t much.

“It’s okay.” He whispers. Pushing down his own sadness and grief over it to reassure Steve that he’s not mad at him. He couldn’t be mad at him. It hurt. It hurt to know that his hair had been taken from him. But he also knows Steve didn’t do it to hurt him. “It’s gonna grow back.” He’s not sure if he’s saying that to Steve or to himself.

Steve sniffles and apologizes again. And again. And again.

“Steve I’m too weak to kiss you so you better get down here and kiss me or I’ll fucking scream.”

Steve does as he’s told. Nose full of snot and cheek coated in tears but he does it anyway. And Billy tastes like coming home. Everything about right now feels so unreal and he just has to savor the moment before he wakes up from whatever dream reality he must be trapped in.

But he doesn’t wake up from any dream because there is no dream. Billy’s alive. Billy’s awake. And Billy is kissing him.

Things were going to be okay. He was certain of that now.

And so was Billy when Steve finally showed him the little Polaroid of him in his perfect braid. Held by Steve. Looking beautiful with his long hair. The hair will grow back. With new memories, better memories, attached to each inch.

Things were going to be okay.

next part

#harringrove #billy hargrove #steve harrington #stranger things #fanfic #mandi writes tresh

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boxoftheskyking · 4 years ago

Text

Pick Up Every Piece - Part One

Ok things to know: -this does not take place in China. It does not take place in the US. It is the year 2000 in a fictional country that I control (this project is a challenge called Let’s Do Exposition). Just go with it. -It’s all talking. That’s what I do, you know this. -Warnings for stuff, I dunno I haven’t written it all yet. When it’s shiny it’ll go on AO3 but for now here’s what I got so far. -There is a lot of alcohol in this fic -Like all fic writers I live on positive reinforcement and this shit is a lot of work. -The title may change, yes it is from NMH

---

There are bodies in the creek bed. Enough bodies to stop the flow of the water. Thirty at least, a dam of them. An old woman and a child. Clothes and hair sodden, darkened and wet. Clouds of darkness hovering in the air around them, seeping into dead flesh. An old woman and a child and others. Others in that middle age, the age that passes comment. Is it wrong that these two bodies stand out to him? After all, if he were among the bodies, if he was lying in this creek bed, thirty, skinny, and unremarkable, he would hardly notice himself. He’d blend into the pile, only serving to make the word a plural. Body becomes Bodies. Alters the language. Murder becomes Massacre. There are thirty bodies and hundreds, thousands of flies. Crawling on the back of the little boy’s hand. A smell like—not burning, not quite. Death. Not rot, fresh death. The sand under his feet is nearly dry. The creek bed is dry.

Wei Ying blinks. The creek burbles on alongside him, one duck lazily riding the current under a fallen branch and along to somewhere more interesting. It’s October, and beautiful, and there’s the smallest twilight bite in the air pricking at his nostrils on every inhale. He blows out a long breath and finds himself scratching at his arms, the backs of his hands, where the old scars are. They’re ugly, blotchy and dark like land masses on a faded old map, and they still itch sometimes. He rubs at them hard with the heel of his palm—it’s a weird half-feeling, the layers of dead tissue. It’s not dead, Wen Qing would correct him. It’s not necrotic, it’s just scarring.

He steps around the gnarled roots that reach up from the banks, trying to get to the road but not ever making it. There’s a few muddy stuffed bears tucked among them, plastic wrap snagged on the bark from cheap drugstore bunches of flowers that have rotted away. A couple of carefully hand-painted wooden signs nailed to the trunks, trying to convince the place that people still remember.

He shakes himself and turns away from the woods, hopping the fence onto the road that leads to the bar. He’s late, but Li Chen is always late in the mornings so he deserves to work an extra fifteen minutes. It’s not like there’s a manager to yell at him.

The bar is across the street from an old gas station, one that got firebombed during the war and then left. That’s the thing about Yiling. Everywhere else, even up in Gusu, the cities have gotten rid of as much evidence as possible. Well, they’ve gotten rid of most and turned the rest into memorials to the victorious dead, nice and shiny and flying the Sunshot flag. Nobody really cares about appearances around Yiling—maybe the city council does, but they don’t have anywhere near the budget to run cleanup. Too much actual infrastructure got hit during the worst of the fighting, and they’ll be years behind the rest of the country for the next decade or so. Memorials here are all handmade, and none of them last long.

There’s a flag, though, spray painted on what’s left of the concrete wall of the gas station. A golden hand covering most of a red sun, partly covered by black—one finger for each of the four leading clans and a thumb for everyone else. Typical. He’s not sure who’d have painted a Sunshot here. No one local, he’d put money on it. He supposes they know about spray paint in Lanling—governments must adapt.

It’s probably intentional, anyway, the lack of cleanup. The lack of progress. Nightless City can be repurposed by the Jin government, but the site of the Massacre should stay ugly and busted for a few more years. So no one forgets what it looks like to lose.

Wei Ying likes it in Yiling. “It’s my kind of town,” he always tells Jiang Cheng, who usually throws something at his head. “You want to be a bartender in a town like this. In a town like this, people need a bartender. It’s nice to be needed, you know.”

It’s a shitty bar by any other place’s standards, but for Yiling it’s cozy. The owner, who everyone just calls Granny, still orders sawdust for the floors like it’s 1860 or something, to soak up spills and puke and, occasionally, blood.

Jiang Cheng always says it’s only a matter of time before they have murder in the bar. “Manslaughter, at least,” he’ll say. “It’s just got that look.” Wei Ying says everyone in Yiling’s too tired. Mostly he and Wen Ning just roll drunks out onto the sidewalk and into a cab if someone can afford it.

Jiang Cheng himself comes in around eight. It’s as much of a rush as they ever get, so he has to wait for a few old men to get their cheap lager and gin before sliding up to the bar on his usual stool. Wen Ning gives him a cheerful salute as he comes in, and Jiang Cheng nods awkwardly back at him.

“You’re back early,” Wei Ying says, drawing him a pint of something bitter. Jiang Cheng still lives in Yunmeng, in the old family home, but he has a sublet in Yiling now that he’s working for the intelligence department. Jin Zixuan calls it “cutting his teeth” monitoring old Wen strongholds. Jiang Cheng calls it “shoveling shit.”

It turns out cleaning up a civil war is a pain in the ass, even five years later.

“We should do lunch with Wen Qing on Saturday. She’ll want to see you.”

Jiang Cheng pulls out his annoying little planner, full of his cramped handwriting and meetings with this informant and that police sergeant. “Have to be brunch, I’ve got a twelve-thirty on Saturday.”

Wei Ying snorts at him. “Brunch, in Yiling. Good luck.”

“Hangover breakfast, then.”

“That we can do.”

Jiang Cheng takes a long pull of his beer and Wei Ying can see the relief run down him from the crown of his head down over his shoulders like something hot and slippery. Oil maybe, or homemade noodles. He groans and drops his head down behind his glass.

“Hey, Wei Ying!” An arthritic hand waves at him from the other end of the bar.

“Gotcha, Riseung,” he calls and starts fishing for the kahlua and cream. It’s always at the back of the cooler; no one else ever orders it. “You’re gonna work yourself into an early grave,” he tosses back at Jiang Cheng.

“Not if you keep giving me beer.”

“Hey, Wei Ying, I saw that story last week. Hell of a thing.” Li Riseung has a little cream mustache, but Wei Ying’s not going to mention it.

“The gas thing?” Wei Ying grins at him. “Yeah, I’m telling you, it’s all connected. You watch the prices when Lanling tries to pass another referendum. It’s all supposed to soften you up. You got something for me today?”

“Still writing your conspiracy theories?” Jiang Cheng calls to him. “Some guys just don’t know when to quit.”

(Someone else comes up, he pulls a pint of stout.)

Riseung bristles. “Wei Ying is the only real journalist left in this country. You’ll see.”

Wei Ying props his chin on his folded hands and waits. Riseung takes another long sip. “Yu Xiuying’s got her popcorn maker up and running. She’s starting to sell what she can, make enough to get the theater back in order.”

“Really? That would be something. I’m sick of taking the train every time I want to see a movie.”

“You should report on that, get her some customers.”

Wei Ying drums his fingers on his chin. “Maybe we can work out an ad situation. I need more ads, you know. Papers ain’t cheap.”

Riseung finishes his drink, sets the glass down on the bar. He half-reaches for his pocket. “So, do I owe you, or . . .”

Wei Ying stifles a sigh. Technically it’s nothing he can use. He’s not about to publish an expose on popcorn. Still, he waves a hand. “Your money’s no good here. Go on, keep up the good work.”

The man grins up at him, flashing a row of silver fillings, and heads over to bother someone else.

(Another customer—rum and Coke.)

“You’re just letting people drink for free, huh?” Jiang Cheng says. Wei Ying wanders back over to him, taking a sip of his own drink (coffee, plus whiskey, just enough to get through the shift).

“Reporting is all about cultivating sources, Jiang Cheng, even you should know that. Li Riseung is a source.”

“A source,” Jiang Cheng mutters. “He’s a drunk.”

“So’s everyone. This whole country’s full of drunks. Drunks make the world go around.”

Jiang Cheng rolls his eyes. “This city is fucking depressing.”

“Oh, and all of Lanling’s sober, is it? Yunmeng? Everybody’s living like Lans? You’d be much more pleasant with a few more of these in you.” Wei Ying grabs his pint glass and dumps the end of it out, refilling in the same smooth movement. It’s just out of spite. He shouldn’t be wasting a good few ounces of genuinely nice beer. But he can’t help it; Jiang Cheng brings it out in him. He spins and shimmies a bit to the bad pop song coming from the busted speaker above him and grabs a bin of limes to chop.

“When are you going to come home?”

Wei Ying doesn’t slip and cut himself, but it’s close.

“I live in Yiling, Jiang Cheng.”

“Yeah, for now.”

Wei Ying sighs. “I like it here, okay? You think they’d let me back in Yunmeng, after everything?”

“I’ve got influence now. They wouldn’t say anything.”

(Two lagers, shot of tequila.)

He hasn’t lived in Yunmeng in years. Almost a decade now. He was in Yunmeng at the start of everything, when Wen Ruohan was forced out of office and half the military went with him. He visits now, but there’s still that sense of before when he’s there, like the majority of his life hasn’t happened yet. But Jiang Cheng is never going to get that, he’s a linear person.

“Not saying anything isn’t the same as allowing. I’m not going to make you fight all day just so I can work at some bougie wine bar somewhere.”

“You wouldn’t have to work at a bar. You could—”

“What? Write? You think anyone anywhere is going to hire me at a paper again? Despite all the rumors, you’re not that dumb.”

“Fuck off. You could work with me.”

“Intelligence. Really? How do you think that would work out? ‘Yes, Jin Zixuan, whatever you say, Jin Zixuan—’”

“Fuck off.”

Wei Ying shakes his head and scrapes a pile of lime wedges back in the bin. “I like where I am. I’ve got the paper—”

“It’s not a paper.”

Wei Ying doesn’t slam the knife down, but it’s a close thing. “Jiang Cheng—”

“You’re such a fucking martyr. What, you lose your dream job so you go to the ass crack of the world and set yourself up as king of nowhere?”

“I’m not king of anything, I’m just writing.”

(Three glasses of white wine.)

“Yiling Laozu.” Jiang Cheng clicks his tongue. “I know you can’t use your real name, but that’s embarrassing. Laozu. You and your sources.”

Wei Ying takes a breath and unclenches his jaw. “If Wen Qing were here you wouldn’t be calling us embarrassing.”

“You’re embarrassing. She’s not embarrassing.”

“It’s our paper.”

“Wen Qing has dignity. You have none.”

Wei Ying gathers up his knife and cutting board to run them back to the dish pit. “Ah, Jiang Cheng, you love me. I know you do.”

It’s always a good way to end a conversation, their own private code. If you keep pushing here you’re going to break something. A warning. You love me. I know you do. Jiang Cheng doesn't ever deny it, but he never agrees either. He doesn't need to. Wei Ying has proof. The scars on the back of his hands, curling around his wrists and up his arms—burn scars, chemical burns—are proof. Jiang Cheng doesn't like to look at his hands. That's proof too.

When he comes back out, Jiang Cheng isn’t alone. The general noise of the bar has fallen to a murmur, and the rowdy game of dominoes is paused in the corner.

Xue Yang is sprawled over two stools, dressed in shiny black leather and grinning a few inches away from Jiang Cheng’s face.

“How’s it going, Captain Jiang?”

Jiang Cheng leans away. “I don’t see you. You are not here.”

“Course not. Good boy.”

Jiang Cheng’s hand tightens around his glass, and Wei Ying picks up the pace slightly.

“Leave him alone, Xue Yang,” he says, carefully mild.

The grin turns on him, and Xue Yang waves, his weird little black prosthesis sticking out like a lighting-struck tree. “You telling me what to do, Wei Ying?”

“I would never. Here, have a drink. If you want.” He pours him a double from his own secret bottle, the one Granny gave him on a good night in the summer. It’s painfully ironic—Xue Yang would be the only person in Yiling who could afford it if he ever actually paid for it.

Wei Ying nods to him and slides the glass across the bar, along with the usual brown envelope. Jiang Cheng sighs and spins around on his stool, looking away.

“Feels light,” Xue Yang says, like always.

“It’s not,” Wei Ying says, also like always.

Xue Yang grins around the little white stick hanging out of his mouth, and Wei Ying grins back. “Eight percent extra on anything you’re short next time.”

“It’s not short. And it’s five percent, don’t try to fuck with me.” Wei Ying smiles wider and does not blink.

“Maybe it’s changed.”

“Granny would tell me, and she wouldn’t hear it from you.”

“Maybe it’s changing today.” Xue Yang leans across the bar, not quite getting in his face, but close enough. Wei Ying meets Wen Ning’s eye over his shoulder. Wen Ning takes a few steps away from the door, but Wei Ying shakes his head just a fraction and he goes still.

“You don’t have the authority.” Wei Ying lets his grin go a little unnatural at the corners, a little bit of a snarl. “And it’s not short, so it doesn’t matter.”

Xue Yang laughs and tucks the envelope into his jacket, then takes a long swig. Wei Ying breathes, finally, quiet and careful.

“Xue Yang,” he says as he starts to wipe down the bar again. “You know you wound me.”

Xue Yang wipes his mouth on his sleeve. “Oh do I?”

“You know it hurts me, deep down in the soul parts of my body, to see you drink top shelf scotch with a fucking sucker in your mouth.”

Xue Yang sticks out his tongue so Wei Ying can see the little yellow nub of it. “It’s pineapple.”

“Great. Thank you. I’m going to go drink bleach now.”

Jiang Cheng half turns to glare at him. “That’s not fucking funny.”

Xue Yang chugs the rest of the scotch and tosses the empty glass at Wei Ying. He hates that it makes him flinch before he catches it. “Tell Granny I say hi.”

“Fuck off.”

“Hey, where’s the little one? Haven’t seen her in a minute.”

Wei Ying stiffens. “You’ll stay away from her if you cherish the rest of those fingers.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Xue Yang gives him a mocking salute and saunters back out towards the door. He’s nearly out when he knocks into an empty chair, sending it to the floor with a crack like a gunshot. No one hits the deck completely, but the held-breath silence turns into a gasp as all eyes snap to the sound, shoulders up and hands braced on tabletops, thighs tensed and ready to run.

Even Xue Yang is frozen at the door for a second. He laughs, though his jaw is tight. “Just a chair, ladies and gentlemen. Clean this shit up, Wen Ning.” And he’s gone.

Wei Ying deflates, adding some of the good scotch to his own cup. Jiang Cheng makes a face.

“How’s that coffee?”

“Shut up.”

“You should let me talk to Zixuan.”

“You talk to him every day.”

“You know what I mean. How long have you been paying—”

Wei Ying sighs and flicks his rag at his brother. “Thing one: I don’t pay, Granny pays. Thing two: Xue Yang is just a low level street thug with connections, he’s as in charge of the operation as I am in charge of Yiling. Thing three: it all kicks up to the Jins at the end of the day, so what are they gonna do about it?”

“Zixuan isn’t—”

“Yeah, I know your best pal is the paragon of morality.”

(Scotch and soda, root beer, gin and tonic, and three pints.)

“He’s our brother-in-law.”

“And your brother-in-arms, I know, I’d never dare disparage the mighty—”

“He’s a nicer brother than you are.”

Wei Ying mimes a faint. “I’m going to call Shijie, tell her you’re being mean to me.”

Jiang Cheng goes quiet, looks down at his beer. Wei Ying reaches out for it, an offering.

“Another?”

Jiang Cheng shakes his head. “I shouldn’t.” A chunk of his hair comes loose from its tie, feathers across his forehead.

“When are you gonna cut that hair, huh?” Wei Ying flicks it back over his ear. Jiang Cheng swipes at his hand lazily.

“I like it like this.”

“You and Zixuan are twins now, huh? You cultivators. Does Lan Zhan still keep his long, do you think?”

“Dunno. Haven’t seen him in a long time. Stop it, leave it, I have it how I want it.”

Wei Ying laughs at him. “Looks good. Dignified. Hey, did you ever ask for Zidian back?”

Jiang Cheng’s face does something complicated, a little bitter. “Not gonna happen. No spiritual weapons are gonna be authorized any time soon.”

“Yeah, but it’s yours.”

“It’s not mine. It’s the government’s.”

“But it responds to you. What good does it do locked away in—”

“Leave it, Wei Ying. I know you’ve got opinions about cultivation, but I’m fucking tired and it’s not going to change anything.”

“Well, when you’re in charge. Then you’ll show ‘em.”

That does make Jiang Cheng laugh, which is satisfying.

(Two gin and tonics.)

“Hey, you’re not allowed—” Wen Ning calls from the door, followed by the tap-tap of a metal cane. Wei Ying sighs and reaches for the grenadine.

“Wei Ying, you son of a bitch.” The voice is high, reedy, and cackling. “How the hell are ya?”

“A-Qing,” Wei Ying calls mildly. “You can’t be here.”

“Where is here?” she yells, as always. “How am I supposed to know that? Can’t you tell I’m blind?”

“Get out of my bar.”

“Discrimination!” She makes her way across the room, purposely bumping into every occupied table on her way over, just to slosh beer onto the floor.

“You’re fourteen.” He has her cherry soda on the bar by the time she hops up on the stool next to Jiang Cheng, ignoring him entirely.

“And how do you know that, creepy old man?”

“You made me get you a cake for your birthday, you goblin.”

“Who’s this guy?” She takes a long slurping suck from her straw.

“My didi.”

“You—!” Jiang Cheng hates it, which is the only reason Wei Ying says it.

“Ooh, the famous Jiang Cheng. I bet he looks real grumpy.”

“Yep.”

Jiang Cheng flips him off. He grins and goes back to wiping down the drain.

“He just flipped you off, didn’t he?”

“Yep.”

“Nice.” She finishes her drink and slams the glass down. “Double vodka please.”

“Nope.”

“I drink vodka all the time.”

“Don’t care. I’m not getting fired over your sorry ass. Go drink at home.”

“I’m not allowed vodka at the home.”

“And you’re not allowed here either.” He drops the rag back into the sanitizer and leans his elbows on the bar. “Now, are you here with something interesting or just to pester me?”

Jiang Cheng looks like he’s about to interject, but Wei Ying waves him off.

“I can multitask,” A-Qing says before pushing her glass back across the bar. “More sugar first.”

“Diabetes on the rocks, yes madam.”

She takes a long slurping pull, and he folds his arms, waiting.

“Got a new TV at the home. Real big one.”

“A-Qing, I’m waiting.”

Jiang Cheng squints at her. “How do you know how big the TV is?”

“I just know, okay. Anyway. One of the older kids got it. Bought it himself.”

“Yeah, right,” Wei Ying says. He needs to challenge her if she’s going to give him the whole story. If he seems too interested she’ll draw it out just to fuck with him.

“He did. Wen Changming.”

“A Wen?” Jiang Cheng asks.

Wei Ying rolls his eyes. “Lots of Wens in the children’s home. I wonder why.”

Jiang Cheng makes a sour face at him.

“He’s got cash to burn, suddenly. Pockets full.”

“Gee, I wonder how you found that out.”

A-Qing grins at him. “He’s not gonna miss it. He’s in the club now.”

“The club?”

“You know, the club. What do you call it? Do crimes, get money.”

“Mob? Syndicate? Criminal organization?” Jiang Cheng offers.

“So they’re recruiting at the home, that’s what you’re telling me? Is it Xue Yang?”

A-Qing blows bubbles in her soda. “I don’t know, maybe.”

“Must be desperate.”

“You do the same thing.”

“I do not.”

She holds out a hand. He sighs and passes over a couple of bills.

“You staying there tonight?” he asks, all casual.

“Maybe. The girls are annoying. Should be nice outside.”

“Starting to get cold.”

“Not really. Only if you’re a pussy.”

“You call me if you need to crash. Here.” He drops a couple of coins in front of her. “I’ll be home after midnight.”

“Sure thing, boss,” she says, pocketing the change. She gives a little salute and hops off her stool. “So long, Wen Ning!” she shouts, walking right at him and making him hop out of the way.

She’s not really blind, of course. Wei Ying’s never brought it up—he knows, but he’s not sure she knows that he knows. One of the nights she crashed at his apartment, months ago, he caught her reading through one of his binders of old clippings—‘91, back before the start of the war, when he was still in Gusu. It kind of kills him, because he wants to ask her what she thought of them. What she remembers from back then, if there’s anything. But they don’t talk about anything serious, not if they can help it.

“Please tell me you don’t have a teenage girl staying at your place,” Jiang Cheng says. Wei Ying gives him a great sigh and grabs his rag again.

“Only when she's got no other place to go. Oh, I have a futon now! You’d see it if you ever came over.”

“Wow, great, you're thirty years old and you have a secondhand futon. Mother would be so proud.”

“I didn't say it was secondhand.”

“Wei Ying, trust me, you do not need to.”

(Four pints.)

Wei Ying makes a face at him. “So mean.”

“It’s weird that she stays with you.”

Wei Wuxian sighs again. “Jiang Cheng.”

“It is. It’s weird.”

“If it’s a bad night at the home then she sleeps outside. I don’t like her sleeping outside, so she stays with me. When she’s not being ornery.”

“She’s a teenage girl.”

“She’s a baby.”

“Not your baby. Why would she sleep outside anyway? Yiling sucks.”

“The home sucks. Look, it’s an orphan thing. You wouldn’t understand.”

Jiang Cheng pouts. “Hey, I’m an orphan.”

“No you’re not, you’re a grown up.”

(Whiskey, neat.)

“You’re a grownup. My parents are dead; I’m an orphan.”

“Then everyone’s a fucking orphan in this country. The word’s lost all meaning. From now on, if your parents were alive when you were ten, you’re not an orphan. Find a new word, leave ours alone.”

“You’re such a jackass.”

“Jackass! Yes, that’s a good word.”

Jiang Cheng sighs and gets off his stool. He tosses cash down on the bar, though Wei Ying tries to wave him off.

“Oh, you’re going to want to get a flag up in here,” he says, off-hand as he turns to go.

Wei Ying freezes. “Excuse me?”

“Coming down from on high, it’s going to be a new ordinance. To keep the liquor license.”

“The fuck does a flag have to do with our liquor license?”

Jiang Cheng holds up his hands. “I’m just the messenger.”

“I’m not letting the Sunshot flag through these doors.”

Jiang Cheng turns back to him, serious. “Look, I know you have your own . . . feelings—”

“Feelings?” he almost spits, spreading his hands out on the bar.

Jiang Cheng winces and does not look at them. “You have your reasons, I’m not arguing that. But Yiling’s a part of the Republic and people need to get used to it. You don’t have to like it, but your district rep is going to announce the policy in the next week, and I don’t want to see you— Don’t go out of your way to make life difficult, all right? It’s hard enough already.”

Wei Ying says nothing, just leans back and watches the rag twist and untwist between his hands.

“See you Saturday,” Jiang Cheng offers, hesitates, then leaves.

Wei Ying will close up. They close early, still, kick everyone out before midnight. Old habits. He’ll go home and work on his column, the one corner of the paper Wen Qing leaves for whatever he wants. (Literally, the column is called “Whatever.”) Maybe A-Qing will find a pay phone and call him, if she hasn’t spent or hidden the change, or maybe she’ll just show up and lean on the buzzer until he lets her in. He’ll sleep better, if she’s there. He was never meant to live alone.

And he’ll wake up tomorrow, and try to do it all again.

Part Two

#the untamed #cql #assorted writings #pick up every piece

42 notes · View notes

kelyon · 3 years ago

Text

Golden Rings 21: An Owner

The Storybrooke Sequel to Golden Cuffs

In which Lacey just wants to belong

Read on AO3

The condom box was open.

Lacey Gold looked down at the crumpled plastic bag in the back seat of Mr. Gold’s Cadillac with a sickening dead feeling in the pit of her stomach. She hadn’t brought the bags in last night. It had been raining too hard and she’d been too upset after she’d seen him… seen them. Her husband, and a man she didn’t know, standing close together. Touching.

Mr. Gold never touched anyone if he could help it. He hadn’t touched her in six months.

And now the condom box was open. And the lid was popped up on the tube of KY jelly. And there was an empty black wrapper on the red carpet of the floor mat. And last night Mr. Gold had taken the car out late and had come back even later.

She should be grateful that there was no sign of the actual used condom. She could imagine the thing, a limp white tube, like the skin of a snake after it had shed. Would finding it make her feel any worse? It was bad enough to imagine it sliding into a garbage can, or being casually tossed out the car window. The end of her marriage--of her life as she knew it--was nothing more than another piece of litter on the highway somewhere.

Trash. Mr. Gold had always said she was trash.

Eyes burning, Lacey grabbed the plastic bag and headed back into the house. Mr. Gold was coming out to the garage. She pushed past him.

“Aren’t you--” he began.

But she cut him off with a “No!” and unlocked the door to the kitchen. Alone in the unlit room, she braced her hands against the counter and faced the wall.

She sounded like a child, a two-year-old throwing a temper tantrum. For a second she wondered if Mr. Gold would come back. Maybe she hoped that he would. Maybe she hoped he would come into the kitchen and ask her what was going on. As if both of them didn’t already know. Maybe she hoped that he would comfort her--that he would try to offer some sort of explanation. Maybe she hoped that he would yell at her--that he would tell her enough was enough, that he had expectations of her behavior and he didn’t give a damn how she felt. Maybe she wanted to yell at him.

No, she definitely wanted to yell at him.

That was probably why he didn’t come into the kitchen. Over the pounding in her ears, Lacey heard the sound of the Cadillac starting up and pulling out of the garage. Mr. Gold had to open the shop, after all. That had to be more pleasant than having another emotional confrontation with his hysterical madwoman of a wife.

“Coward,” she spat. Somehow, it felt like the worst possible thing she could call her husband. “Afraid of having a fucking honest conversation.”

She was still holding the bag by the handle. Strange that the plastic hadn’t melted in the heat of her rage. Strange that the cloth clutch in her other hand hadn’t started smoking. There was fire in her heart, magma flowing through her veins instead of blood. She wanted to explode.

She was going to explode.

Stomping through the halls and up the stairs, she threw open the door to Mr. Gold’s bedroom. It had been more than a month since she had last set foot in this room, not since the shitshow that had been their anniversary.

Lacey didn’t dwell on coming back here. She didn’t look through the empty space inside the armoire where her clothes had been. She didn’t go into the bathroom and see if her husband had let his toiletries spread out, now that hers weren’t in the way.

She didn’t look at her pillow, at her half of the bed they used to share.

What she wanted was under the bed. Three custom-made burgundy leather cases on wheels. They looked like luggage, but they had never traveled farther than Mr. Gold’s cabin. Lined up in a row, they took up the entire length of the bed.

There was a small padlock on each case. For most of her marriage, the three keys to these three locks were the only keys she had. Mr. Gold hadn’t trusted her to come and go in his house or his shop or his car. But he had allowed her to own these. The care and keeping of their toys was her responsibility.

Now there was a layer of dust on the leather. Mrs. Gold wiped a streak off with her hand, then wiped her hand on her beige suede skirt. The dust blended in perfectly with her ugly, colorless clothes. Her ugly, colorless self.

Grunting with effort, Lacey hoisted the cases up onto the bed. Clouds of dust billowed up and fell onto Mr. Gold’s coverlet but she didn’t care. Let the bastard breathe in the disuse, let him choke on it.

One by one, she unlocked the cases. It was easier than she would have thought, after so long. But she knew the turn of these keys like she knew her own body. The motion was fluid and smooth. Even after all this time, the click of these locks opening up sent a tingle up her spine.

It had been a ritual, once, that always began with the opening of these locks. Sometimes Mr. Gold would tell her exactly what she should bring to him. Sometimes he gave her more freedom--she could pick out a selection of what she wanted or what she thought she could handle, and then he would choose which option suited him best. Sometimes he ordered her to open the cases and wait, kneeling on the floor in an empty room. He would decide what to do with her, and she would have to take it without complaint.

Though the outside of the cases was dusty, the black velvet lining was still pristine. The contents inside were as beautiful as ever. She used to spend hours taking care of these things. Polishing the inlaid wooden paddles, rubbing the leather restraints with saddle soap, making sure the metal chains always gleamed like new. It was all high-quality, the best money could buy, so much better than a cheap slut like her deserved.

Every item had a home, and they were all laid out, neat as the jewelry cases in Mr. Gold’s shop. The dildos and butt plugs were lined up according to size, with length taking priority over girth. Coiled ropes were likewise organized by thickness and weight and how much they could hurt her. The jewel tone colors of glass and metal and silicone stood out from the black velvet, lurid and enticing.

Lacey’s fingers grazed gently over the candles and the ball gags, the collars he put her in when he wanted to feel especially owned. Clamps that used to pinch her sensitive spots, with small, polished weights that added to the pain. Mrs. Gold had taken so much pride in these things and what they could do to her. What Mr. Gold could do to her.

The final case was more of a catch-all, where she stored the condoms and lube and massage oils. Rubber gloves, because Mr. Gold was particular about how dirty he got his hands. And the first aid kit, for when that was necessary. Rope-cutting shears, burn cream, sterile bandages and antiseptic. Everything in the last case was the sort of thing she liked to buy at the drug store all at once, to make it obvious what they were getting up to on any given day.

She had always bought more than they would ever use. That was part of the game, part of letting people wonder if they were really seeing what she was showing them. Even when Mr. Gold was fucking her three times a day, she bought enough supplies to make it look like it was ten times a day. The two of them were sex gods--or sex demons--and they wanted the whole Goddamned town to know it.

That was why she had bought the stuff in her hands now. She’d wanted it to look like things were normal. She’d wanted to feel normal, to pretend for just a few Goddamned minutes that the whole of her reality wasn’t ripping apart at the seams.

So she’d bought a box of condoms that she thought would never be opened. She’d bought a tube of KY jelly she thought would never be used. For the sake of… what? Nostalgia? Keeping up appearances? Hope?

Had she really hoped that they would ever use these things again?

Lacey let out a muted shriek, a pathetic mewl of rage. It was as much noise as she could make. In a blur of motion, she spun on her heel so she wouldn’t have to look at the cases.

But everywhere she looked there was a memory. Her and her husband, using these toys, experimenting with her body, testing her limits all over this room. They’d loved it. Even if they hadn’t loved each other, they’d loved sex. They’d loved playing games together, blurring the lines between pleasure and pain, between humiliation and adoration. He loved owning her, and she loved being owned.

All of that was gone now.

“What’s the point?” she whispered.

She’d been trying, ever since their anniversary. She’d been trying to be more than just his sex toy. She’d thought that she could be someone else, more than just Mrs. Gold. She’d thought that allowing herself to care about her family again would help.

But she couldn’t be just Lacey French anymore either. It was good to be able to talk to her dad and her friends again, but they weren’t her husband. They had no place in her sex life. She couldn’t even talk to them about the kinds of things that got her off! Platonic and familial ties were not the same as the sheer eroticism that had once defined her marriage.

Had once defined her.

Why did it still hurt? It had been months since Mr. Gold had wanted her. Why did it feel worse, now that she knew exactly who he wanted instead? A man. That was his "Belle." A gorgeous, trim, bad boy in expensive clothes. Honestly, it made sense. Of course there was no woman in Storybrooke named Belle. That was just a nickname Mr. Gold had given to him.

It didn’t surprise her that Mr. Gold was with a man. She knew him too well to be shocked by that. Though they’d never actually gotten anyone else to play with them, he had prepared her for an encounter with anyone of any gender. He felt the same way about men that she felt about women: Beauty was beauty. Pleasure was pleasure. Sex was sex.

I love you, Belle.

And love, apparently, was love.

Lacey dumped the contents of the bag from the drugstore into the third case. If Mr. Gold wanted to use this shit on his Belle, he was welcome to it, he had keys just like she did. She zipped the cases closed and fastened the padlocks. It wasn’t until she began hoisting them off the bed and onto the floor that an idea finally snapped into place:

Fuck him.

She squeezed her palm around the leather handle of the first case and considered the thought for a moment.

Fuck him.

Screw him, Janine had said, the first time she’d told her about Belle. That man is cheating on you and you don’t even get the satisfaction of walking away?

When she’d had that conversation with her cousin, Lacey hadn’t been ready to leave Mr. Gold. Even now she wasn’t ready to walk out. How could she? She didn’t have a job or enough money to live off of. Things may be easier with her father, but she had no intention of moving back into her childhood bedroom or working at the flower shop without pay.

The most independence she had been able to exert was moving her things across the hall to the guest room. It had felt like an exile, a self-imposed banishment. But maybe she could make that room feel a bit more like home.

She took a breath. It felt like the first full breath she’d taken since October. Carefully, one by one, she wheeled the leather cases full of sex toys out of Mr. Gold’s room. They didn’t fit as well under the bed in the guest room--she had to push them snugly under the metal frame. It would be hard to get to them in a hurry. But they were there. They were hers.

Mr. Gold had nurtured her appetites, but he hadn’t created them. He didn’t own them. Lacey had always been a girl with a healthy imagination. The fact that she used to read every book she could get her hands on--including romances novels that were not age-appropriate--only added more fuel to her burning inner fire.

He had expanded her horizons, he had given a form to her yearnings; but she had been looking for an adventure for as long as she could remember. Sex with him had been everything she’d ever imagined. Everything they’d ever done together was something she’d thought about doing when she was just a curious young woman, alone at night in a twin bed above the flower shop.

She’d wanted sex before Mr. Gold. She could want sex after him.

In the early morning, with the lights off, the bedroom was a murky gray. Lacey pulled down the blinds and drew the curtains to make it even darker. Her heart was already racing, just from thinking about what she was going to do. Down in the kitchen, her pulse had pounded with the fire of anger, but now she was filling up with a sweeter, darker heat.

She stepped out of her heels and began to unbutton her blouse. She unzipped the skirt that was the color of dust, of disappointment, and rolled down her opaque brown tights. She didn’t look in the mirror until she was naked.

Stripped bare, except for her wedding ring. She couldn't take that off yet.

It was impossible to judge her body when it was like this. Without clothes, without a costume, she felt like she had no identity at all. She didn’t even have the marks and bruises that Mr. Gold used to brand her with. She looked like a naked Barbie doll in the bottom of a toy chest.

Lacey had grown up knowing she was pretty, and not caring much. She had never watched her weight, like Mara, or worried about getting zits like Janine. She was lucky to fit the mold set by other girls at Storybrooke High. She’d looked enough like the models in magazines that it didn’t matter that she’d never be able to dress like them.

After she married Mr. Gold, his opinion had become the only one that would ever matter. Her body became a mannequin that he could dress and pose as he saw fit. Sometimes he told her she was beautiful, though it was just as likely to be an insult. A pretty face with nothing behind it, just how I like my women.

Was that how he liked his men? Was that what Belle was like?

Scowling, Lacey put her hand to her breast and squeezed until it hurt. When she took her hand away, she saw the pink marks on her pale skin.

That felt better. She breathed.

Still looking at her face in the mirror, Lacey cupped her cheek with her palm. Slowly, she dragged her hand down over her jaw. Two of her fingers caught against her lower lip, pulling down at the red inner flesh. She breathed.

Her hand rested over her throat. Ever so slightly, she pushed in, until she could feel the pressure, until she could feel her heartbeat against her fingertips. It was almost as good as a collar. Almost as good as Mr. Gold’s firm grip around her neck.

Back to her breasts, but gently this time. She was allowed to enjoy her body. She was allowed to awaken her senses. She stretched her arms up over her head, then brought them back down to her torso. Whenever Mr. Gold decided she had earned some pleasure, he would permit her to touch herself like this. Slow. Deliberate. Savoring herself. He liked it, sometimes. He liked to watch her. He liked it when she prepared herself for him.

Of course, Mr. Gold never allowed her to make herself come.

She gave herself a final look in the mirror. There was a soft blush in her cheeks, and her pupils were wide. She licked her lips and got into bed.

The sheets were cool against her flushed skin. At first, she stretched out like a starfish, arms and legs spread wide. Then, she slowly brought her hands back to her body.

With one hand on her diaphragm, she felt herself breathe. In, and then out. A peaceful, natural rhythm. Lacey had read a story about tantric sex once, about how it started with breathing together with your partner, that breath represented the sacred give-and-take between two people. Mr. Gold had no patience for that kind of thing. His version of give-and-take always ended in him taking more than he would ever give.

He’s not here now. A woman's voice murmured in the depths of Lacey’s head. This is about you, sweetheart. What do you want?

“I want…” she whispered. Her teeth chattered as her hand crept lower down her belly. “I want…”

She let herself relax. She closed her eyes, let her weight sink into the mattress. She let her mind drift off wherever it wanted to.

Using her other hand, she rolled her nipple between her thumb and forefinger. This hurt too, but it was a gentler pain than when she’d left the marks. It was a soft burn, that resonated with the growing warmth between her legs.

“You like pain, dearie.” This voice was different than the first one. It was a man’s voice, high and mocking. She liked it. “Pain makes you wet!”

The man’s voice was right. When she slid her palm over the short hairs on her pubic mound--she hadn’t shaved in weeks--and dipped her fingers between her lips, she was coated in a sticky layer of warm fluid.

“Good girl.” Now his voice is low and rumbling. “I knew you could make yourself wet for me.”

“Rumple,” Lacey whispered. She didn’t know why she said that. She only knew it felt right.

“Rumple!” Her voice is a high, keening whine. Her husband has kept her teasing herself for hours now. He has enchanted her to be unable to bring herself to completion no matter how hard she tries--and she has been trying very hard. “Rumple, please…”

“Please…” She covered her pubic area with the flat of her hand and slowly began to curl her fingers.

“Please what, dearie?” Her husband chirps. They are in the dining room of their castle. He walks a spirited dance around her, while she has her legs and back bound to the stone wall. He is fully dressed and she is naked, just like old times. The only difference is that she isn’t wearing her cuffs. Instead, both of them have their golden rings.

“Please let me, Rumple,” Lacey begged to no one.

He makes a noise, a play-mournful tut. “Is something troubling you, little thing? Do you have an itch that you cannot scratch? A desire you cannot assuage?”

“Yes!” she gasps. Her hips rock against her wrist. Her hand is buried in her secret places, but her efforts only stoke the fire without easing it.

Pretending to be thoughtful, he taps his finger against his lips. “I don’t think you’re wet enough,” he says. Apparently he is deaf to the rhythmic sloshing noise coming from between her legs. “No, not nearly as wet as I know you can be, my sweet slut. Not wet enough for the Dark One’s whore!”

Lacey’s back arched at those words. She felt her cunt quiver under her fingertips. Her breath was coming faster now.

His breath is hot and cruel against her ear. He holds up a riding crop for her to see. “Are you ready for me to make you wetter, my thing?”

“Oh!” she moans. But she knows that isn’t an answer. He won’t do anything until she gives him an answer. “Yes,” she cries. “Yes, please!”

The crop comes down against the outside of her thigh. Behind her closed eyes she sees it as a lightning flash in brilliant red. The burning pain piles on to her lust, pushes her to yet another peak.

“Oh,” Lacey groaned. With her free hand she rubbed at her outer thigh. Could she feel the burning from her fantasy? Or was it just her fevered imagination?

Again and again he strikes her. The pain courses through her body and sends her mind to that place of sublime safety and peace. He knows what he is doing to her, and they both love it. This is what it means to be owned: To know that he knows her so well, that he wants only what she wants, even the things it would shock another man to give her. She rests in that certainty. She lets herself go.

“Please,” Lacey said again. Her orgasm rose up in her belly. God, her first orgasm in six months. The first one she’d taken without permission in as long as she could remember. She stayed in the fantasy. “Please, Rumple, will you tell me I can come?”

The moment where her husband doesn’t speak is interminable, unendurable. If it weren’t for the enchantment, she would have already come a dozen times. She wouldn’t have been able to stop herself. His eyes lock onto hers, black and gold and beautiful. His mouth opens, his pink tongue darts over his gray-green lips. When he speaks, his voice is low and natural, sincere.

He sounds just like Mr. Gold.

“Come for me, sweetheart,” he breathes.

It was like a firework went off in her body. A thousand fireworks. The whole Goddamned Fourth of July happening within a single instant. Lacey shook and moaned and clamped down on her own hand. Over and over, she clenched and released. She pushed herself to peak after peak, while she imagined the cackling demon, the monster who loved her and who had helped her find this pleasure.

Limp and boneless, she slides down the wall onto the floor. He is there to catch her, to hold her while she trembles through the aftershocks. They sit together on the ground while he cradles her in his arms.

“You are so good, my darling.” He soothes her with words while she is too wrung-out to speak. “You are the most marvelous creature in the world.”

“Yours,” she whispered to a lover who wasn’t there. Laying on her side, she wrapped the blanket around herself so it felt like his arms. “I’m your creature, Rumple. I love you.”

“And I love you too.” He kisses her, caresses her. He runs his hands through her hair. “Gods, Belle, I love you so much.”

Lacey’s eyes popped open. She sat, bolt upright, in bed.

Fuck. She was going to barf. She was going to implode. This was worse than finding the box of condoms. This was taking a bite out of an apple and finding half a worm.

Fuck!

Grabbing one of her pillows, Lacey flung her face into it and screamed. It was so fucking unfair! Bad enough that this bullshit was in her real life. How the hell had Belle invaded her fantasies too?

“Jesus!” She threw the pillow down and smacked her head into her hands. Her fingers reeked of pussy. She had never hated a smell so much. How fucking unfair, how fucking absurd was it that she couldn’t even masturbate without feeling like a failure?

Her husband would never love her. Even when she dreamed about him, he was crooning over someone else. She had to get him out of her head. He had replaced her a long time ago. She would have to give him up too.

She would have to give herself to someone else.

Moving automatically, she got out of bed and went to the bathroom down the hall. She took a shower--long and hot--and covered herself in layer after layer of soaps and lotions and perfumes. Anything to get rid of the stink of desperation that seeped up from between her legs and clung to her fingers.

Should she shave her cunt as well as her legs and armpits? Yes. Yes, she wanted to be ready for whatever would happen next.

Back in her bedroom--not the guest bedroom, her bedroom, Goddammit!--she pulled out a long-neglected drawer of lingerie sets. Lately, she’d just been grabbing the first pair of panties she could get her hands on, and whatever bra was most comfortable. Whenever Lacey stopped by Sugar’n’Spice, Mara informed her of the joys of sports bras and underwear made of cotton. But she hadn’t been willing to take that step yet. It felt like giving up.

Today she wore a bustier that Mr. Gold had never liked. It was dark, royal purple, trimmed in black lace. Silver hooks fastened it up the front. Lacey had bigger boobs than her tiny frame would indicate, but she was still grateful for the pale mounds of cleavage that this bustier produced once she had it on. She had to dress to impress.

A tiny thong in black lace and purple silk matched the bustier. The space between the end of the bustier and the start of the thong revealed a thin strip of pink flesh. When Lacey pulled the elastic waistband it snapped against her skin and stung. Oh, that felt better.

The more clothes she put on, the more relaxed she felt. This was right. This was normal. Wide-holed fishnet stockings, one of the shortest skirts she had--the black one with an electric blue tulle underskirt. A black blouse that was low cut enough and transparent enough to show off her bustier. Her hair went up in a wild, messy bun. She wore silver jewelry and slut red makeup. The final touch was to slip into her tallest pair of shiny black heels.

It was a lot of dressing up just to go downstairs, but it was the most settled she’d felt in a long time. No longer a naked Barbie, she knew who she was. Even without Mr. Gold, she could still be a walking sex dream. Strutting through the halls of his house, she finally felt worthwhile.

She went to his study, to his desk. She sat in his big leather chair and took out a bottle of his liquor. Johnnie Walker Blue Label. Two hundred dollars a bottle. Lacey’s mind flashed to the first time he had brought her into his study. He had taught her how to pour whiskey and serve it to him in a crystal tumbler. Looking at the liquid in the blue glass bottle, the shifting browns and golds looked like his eyes.

His eyes could be so beautiful…

Shaking her head, Lacey grabbed a tumbler and dumped the whiskey in. She swallowed it down without looking at it and grimaced. Not that the booze was bad--it wasn’t--or that she was inexperienced with liquor--she wasn’t. But this was just a day for grimacing. Any day when you were downing whiskey before noon wasn’t a good day.

But it was going to get better.

All the voices in her head had gone silent since she’d ended the fantasy. Having a drink made things even quieter. For once, it was peaceful inside her mind. For once, she knew what she was doing.

Mr. Gold had a Rolodex on his desk, with the phone numbers for everyone in Storybrooke who owed him a favor. In other words, everyone in Storybrooke. She flipped through the cards until she found the name she was looking for. The person who might be able to help her. Her own personal savior.

The phone number was a direct line. Mr. Gold wouldn’t have bothered writing down anything less. Heart racing, Lacey picked up the big black phone and began to dial.

It picked up on the first ring.

“Gold?” A woman said on the other end.

“No.” Lacey’s voice sounded high-pitched and nervous. Weak. She swallowed. “No, Madame Mayor, it’s me. Mrs. Gold.”

There was a faint exhalation of breath, like someone who had just received an unexpected but lovely surprise. When Mayor Mills spoke, her voice was warm. “Why, Mrs. Gold! How nice to hear from you.”

Lacey bit her lip. This was the right thing to do, she shouldn’t feel nervous. “I, uh, I’ve been thinking about what you said the other day. About your offer to talk, to help me.”

“Yes?” It was almost a purr, velvety and rich. “Are you ready to take my help then, dear?”

She twirled the phone cord around her finger. The bustier was making it hard to breathe. “I think so.”

“I’ve been waiting to hear you say that for a long time, Mrs. Gold. Why don’t you stop by my office later this evening, so we can have a chat?”

#golden rings #rumbelle #rumbelle fic #rumbelle fanfic

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valdiis · 3 years ago

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(An RP excerpt with @pocketfox)

It wasn't that Matthias minded the fact that it was a strip club. It wasn't that he minded it was for gay men. It wasn't even that he minded he was paying for his own damn drinks because Ricky's best man was a cheapskate. What drove Mat up the damned wall about the whole thing was that every damn man in their little bachelor party group had someone to go home to that night. Mat was the only one who'd have a terminal case of blue-balls after it was all over. Resigning himself to another date with Missus Palmer, Mat slouched in his chair and tried not to stare too long at the lush bubble butts and rippling abs.

At first glance, one might not peg Mat for ex-military. His wavy auburn hair would probably have brushed his shoulders if he let it out of its ponytail and the three-day-old beard on his face made him look more rugged than scruffy. His snug jeans were dark-washed to hide any potential grease stains and his heavy boots said 'work' more than 'march.' But the way his biceps strained the sleeves of his black t-shirt and his shoulders filled out the rest might've lent one cause to think he was at least a fighter of some kind. In short, Matthias Silverton was built like a brick shithouse and looked like a common laborer.

"Heeey," shouted Henry - Ricky's best man - over the din of the music. "Figured we'd celebrate up right, yeah?" He produced a box of cigars with a flourish and passed them around. Mat grimaced - Cheap-ass drugstore shit. - but took one anyway. Everyone knew he liked them, but few understood that he liked good ones.

"It's a party and you're making them smoke that junk?" an impish voice piped up.

Next to the table, appearing as if by magic, stood a young man who looked like he had been shaped by some divine Creator for just this kind of place. He couldn't have been more than five and a half feet, dressed in acid wash jeans and a black v-neck fishnet t-shirt that both look like they'd been lovingly painted on his lean, athletic frame. He stood with one hand braced on a curvy, cocked hip and the other balancing a tray loaded with drinks of varying kinds, his head tilted and a coy smile on his plush lips.

Setting the tray down near at hand, the boy began passing out each man's chosen libations, and oh yes, you know he leaned over the table far more than necessary, his pert backside popped up to show off the sexy curves he could make from shoulders to ass. With a wink towards Matthias, he straightened up again, tucking back a loose strand of impossibly red hair that had escaped from his messy ponytail. "If you're not careful, I'll tell my boss somebody's trying to have a good time with cheap cigars in his club," he teased.

Christ... Mat was an atheist, but some days even the godless need some way to swear. He swallowed compulsively as his gaze swept over the young man exactly as that pose demanded it do. Even reminding himself that these guys trained for that special look didn't keep the jolt of lust from waking his dick. And here he'd told himself he could manage not to look much...

He took his mimosa with a grateful nod. Nobody gave a big man like him shit for his drink choices; one clenched fist put stop to that. "Tell him," Mat spoke up, his voice a smooth, easy baritone with a hint of Georgia in it. "Maybe he'll feel challenged and send out somethin' better." The other men at the table snorted and waved Mat off to a chorus of 'whatever, man' and 'snob.'

Straightening up, Fisher gave the big man a thoughtful look, one tinged with impish amusement that lit up his eyes. In the muted light of the club, they were a deep forest green, but one had to imagine they glowed like new leaves in decent lighting. Then he laughed and tossed his ponytail back over his shoulder. "Or maybe he'll come out looking for the guy who besmirched his honor," he chuckled. "And believe me, you don't want Lucian Redding thinking you besmirched what little honor he's got left; he's even bigger than you, sweet thing." His gaze raked over Mat, and yes, he was absolutely undressing the man with his eyes and making no secret of it.

Then, abruptly, the boy spun in one fluid movement and sauntered away with just the right amount of sway in his hips to give a man ideas. He made his way back to the bar, expertly dodging tables and grabby patrons both, to share a few words with the scruffy-haired young man currently behind it. Both of them glanced towards the party, and then Fisher was gone, probably through some staff only door.

Thankfully when he reappeared a few minutes later, it wasn't with his reportedly gigantic boss in tow. No, it was with a wooden box, one he presented with a flourish to the table. "Lucian was appalled," he explained, "and he demanded I rectify the situation right this instant. His words, so enjoy, boys."

For a single irrational moment, Mat wanted to know what those gorgeous green eyes looked like in the throes of passion. It was absolutely imperative to his brain for a good few seconds before he got finally ahold of himself somewhere in the middle of the word 'besmirched.' A faint blush touched Mat's cheeks at having it pointed out that he was the biggest of the men at the table; it was something he tried not to make a fuss over, but he lifted motorcycles while most of his buddies did lighter work or surfed desks. Not that he was all that close to any one of these men. He'd served with Ricky, which meant he got invited to things like weddings, but he wasn't exactly a drinking buddy with any of them.

These thoughts kept him distracted enough to not notice how the young man undressed him so blatantly, but not so distracted he couldn't watch those hips on the way out. "Damn," he muttered. So did two other people at the table (including Ricky, whose soon-to-be-husband Chase would have been very jealous to see that dazed look on Ricky's face). Mat's palms itched to hold those hips and he goddamn knew better than to daydream.

He was in the midst of stuffing all that attraction back into the mental trash bin when Fisher returned with some much better cigars in a proper wooden box. "If I didn't know Henry's already set us up on separate tabs, I'd hope you put this on his. How much?" he asked, fingers hovering already. It was an expense he could probably swing tonight. Just the once.

"This one's on the house, honey. Our treat." Fisher gave this 'Henry' guy such a look. It was the sort of look that made a guy feel like he'd just kicked a puppy and tripped Mother Theresa, because separate tabs at a guy's bachelor party? Really? C'mon, Hank.

Sliding up onto the edge of the table, Fisher took a seat like he belonged there, his long legs crossed at the knee. He knew just how to pose himself to give just about every guy at the table a delicious view, but one brawny, Georgia-flavored man in particular was getting the real feast: smooth lines, warm eyes, soft lips, and a teasing slice of tight, flat belly when Fisher's shirt rode up just so. "So who's the special guy tonight?" he cooed. "Wait, no, let me guess... You. Right?" He winked at Ricky. "I know that look... You keep telling yourself you're a bad, bad man for eating the eye candy."

Slyly Fisher cast a glance at Mat. But not you, right? that look said. You want to eat me up until there's nothing left...

Before he could spend any time questioning it, Mat leapt on the good fortune of not smoking dollar cigars and plucked up one of the Good Shit (tm) instead. He had his cigar clipper in his chest pocket, but instead he pulled out a very sharp pocket knife to clip the end. Last thing he needed was some asshole not returning it; easier to lend a pocket knife 'round the table instead. He almost laughed aloud at the look Fisher shot the best man. Somehow, he instead kept his mirth to chewing the inside corners of his lips.

While Fisher talked up Ricky, Matthias kept telling himself to stop looking - and kept failing his own orders spectacularly. The boy was an absolutely delicious creation and God help him, did he ever want a taste. His steely grey eyes never once stopped roaming those smooth lines - but for the one moment when he locked gazes with Fisher and his perusal froze. There was that impulse to see passion in his face again, not just to fuck the boy but to see real ecstasy on his elfin features. Ricky blathered something about getting married in three days but Mat heard none of it.

Flirting with the customers was part of the job, and Fisher had it down to a science. He could even rightfully be accused of mentally checking out during some of the longer nights, particularly when he had to deal with parties just like... no, not like this one. Because now he couldn't tear his eyes away from the quiet, almost grim man next to him. The man -- Fisher thought he'd heard him called Mat -- had barely spoken to him, and yet something about him had sunk its claws into the boy and refused to let go.

Fisher swallowed thickly and realized Ricky was still talking to him. He laughed and wagged a finger at the groom-to-be. "Naughty, naughty. But what happens in these walls stays here, right? Don't worry, we won't tell." He then pressed that finger to his own lips in a shushing gesture. And yet even as he flirted, his attention kept slipping back to Matthias, and suddenly he was aware of... Christ Almighty, was he hard? At work? Just from a customer staring at him? It would have been enough to make Fisher blush if he hadn't had that particular reflex numbed out of him years ago.

"So hey," he said suddenly, "I'm not scheduled on stage tonight, so how about I take care of you boys instead? Make sure you have a good time before reality tries to remind us it exists?"

A pang of disappointment hit him like a knife to the chest, inexplicably strong dismay at the thought that this beautiful boy a.) was a dancer, holy fuck, and b.) wasn't going to be dancing, goddammit. Rather than give his emotions any sway (and really, when did he ever?), Mat picked up his mimosa and took a sip. "Cigars and the hottest little thing in the club? And here I was all fixin' to be pissed off tonight," he drawled softly. When his gaze met Fisher's again, the hint of mirth was there warming the steel of his eyes long before it came anywhere near his lips.

A second later, the emotion was gone as he turned back to the party of six men. "Hell yeah," one answered. "Gonna get our Ricky-boy a lap dance?" asked another. Mat's growl cut in, "He said he'd take care of us, not that he's gonna perform. Pay a dancer for your lap dances." Why did the thought of this delicate young man dancing on the lap of someone like Ricky make him want to murder his friend with his bare hands? Homicide was not a good look on him, so he picked up his drink again and downed a good portion of it.

Fisher only barely stopped himself from blinking at Mat in open shock. With any other customer, his first instinct would have been to assume the guy wasn't into the idea of strip clubs and lap dancers, but he'd seen the way this one looked at him... Something fluttered in Fisher's belly when he realized Mat had sounded almost... possessive. Normally the little redhead detested that sort of behavior so why...

Giving his head a shake to clear it, and disguising it as a gesture of regret, Fisher flashed Ricky and his companions an apologetic smile. "Afraid your grumpy friend here has it right, boys. I'd hate to take money out of another boy's g-string... but how about I make it up to you?" Without waiting for an answer, he hopped off the table and headed off in search of both a drink and something to appease the party, because even if all he wanted right now was to snug himself up into Mat's lap and offer him his own private dance, he still had to consider just how much a half dozen drunk, horny partiers were going to bring in if they were finessed just right.

When Fisher returned, it was with a bright orange drink in his hand and a gorgeous young Asian man, built much like himself, in tow. "Boys," Fisher said, "meet Minh. I'd warn you to play nice, because his bite is much worse than his bark... but I get the feeling you'd like that, right?" Minh winked at the table and rolled his body from shoulders to hips. And while his fellow dancer worked on distracting the rest of Mat's friends, Fisher took it upon himself to slide in next to the man. "Hey, handsome. Hope your night's lookin' up."

#writing #Matthias is mine #modern AU

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jougogo · 4 years ago

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mascaras the haikyuu queens would borrow from my bag

based on my unhealthy obsession with mascaras (pls someone sponsor me)

also there’s a crack drabble at the end please read it im wheezing

shimizu kiyoko

bombastic by doucce: HAVE YOU SEEN THIS GIRL'S GORGEOUS LASHES im so jealous, anyways this mascara has a good wand and it's really good for achieving a more wispy/voluminous/full look IN LIKE ONE SWIPE WTF THIS IS A GODSEND. literally looks like lash extensions, i could go on and on about this mascara. not flaky and this will survive through workouts! doesn't give you raccoon eyes so it's good ! (coming from an athlete with an oily eyelids so dw i gotchu covered) a personal fav of mine teehee, ranked #1 in my bag.

hitoka yachi

it's real! benefit: this mascara is so so good at lengthening and giving off that natural look, which i think yachi would appreciate because she doesn't like too much attention and it's natural so she can sneak this by her mom nope def not speaking from experience it's really great for beginners, and also very reliable and trustworthy. this lil thing will get the job done, guranteed.

tanaka saeko

better than sex by too faced: this mascara just screams I N T E N S I T Y. it's super voluminizing and gives off the appearance of a fuller lash. on the more dry/creamy side so it's super great for beginners or if ur really hungover. also it's v v reliable, will give you wispy lashes every time! my go to when im late which is everyday but we don't talk about that

michimiya yui

bad gal bang! by benefit: another really natural one, good at separating, very VERY lengthening. dramatic enough so that it'll make you look more awake but still not enough to get daichi's attention rip. but this shi!t will stay all day until you take it off. a little more liquidy so you get some time to fix any lashes that are stuck together. also, thin wand so great for bottom lashes as well! 10/10, very much recommend.

shirofuku yukie

waterproof lights camera lashes by tarte: i feel like she's the type to be drinking her water but then when she puts it down too quickly the water just splashes right back in her face?? LMAO or does this only happen to me, but she needs her mascara to be waterproof! also bc of all the steam from the yummy food contests she's conquering! anyways the queen deserves the whole spotlight so she gets the beloved lcl by tarte! the wand is pretty thin but don't let that fool you, because this wand is so good at lengthening and separating lashes. really good at holding curls.

suzumeda kaori

lash sensational from loreal: pls give this poor girl a break i cant even imagine running around the fukurodani team with bokuto's antics, they've definitely broken into her bags more than once and messed up her stuff. so she had to get the cheap drugstore mascara just in case </3 but its okay because this is one of my top 3, the consistency is really good and the wand is so amazing gahh, it has like different combs on different sides so if you have that one pesky pair of lash that just sticks together it'll be super easy to fix. perfect for on the go

misaki hana

kush mascara by milk makeup: you can't convince me that this girl isn't exhausted from the antics of johzenji, which makes this mascara perfect for her! the consistency is on the creamy/dry side so a couple quick swipes will get you the full lash. plus it's infused w some cannabis oil so it makes ur lash healthier (but terushima will definitely try to do some experiments w this so please hana guard it safely)

amanai kanoka

lash next door by brooklyn and bailey: ok ok so my fav thing about this mascara is that it's not waterproof so it's easy to take off, but it's water resistant so that it won't come off when you're all sweaty!! literally perfect for intense practices, and the wand is similar to lcm by tarte so they wield pretty similar results; sweet, curled, lengthened lashes!! and DOES NOT FLAKE it's literally a life saver

alisa haiba

liquid lash extensions by thrive: this mascara definitely the one i use the most! It’s unique in the sense that it’s a tubing mascara, so it’s water resistant which is great for alisa because she keeps tearing up every time lev messes up a serve (we stan a responsible sis) BUT it’s also very easily removed! just splash some warm water and the mascara literally slides right off im not even kidding. she definitely takes really good care of her appearance and will be sad even if she sees one eyelash fall so this is really great for her bc waterproof mascara is such a pain in the ass to remove. also very lengthening

yamaka mika

lash multiplier by revlon: mika is a baddie!! but daishou makes her cry so much she has to rebuy a tube like every month. so our lovely mika gets something easy, cheap, and has a good effect for puppy eyes. this mascara is just like the liquid lash extension; a tubing mascara,,,HOWEVER this one is WAY CHEAPER. u can def find this at ur local drugstore for like 6-8 bucks. great for on the go since it's easy to apply super fast, will get u a nice full fringe in like 3 swipes.

nametsu mai

damn girl! by too faced: how could i forget our beloved date tech manager,,,mai is def the scariest on date tech and she will let you know!!! this mascara is essentially a sequel to better than sex; your lashes will be bigger, fuller, and more glamorous! also the formula is literally so light it's like whipped cream,,, you will not feel a thing guranteed. it's like extensions but m a g i c

extra:

after being scolded by yukie for not getting dinner on time, the boys of the 3rd gym strolled through the dimly lit hallway on the way to the cafeteria. "yo, you know, i heard the girls bathrooms have couches or whatever," kuroo said, noticing the girl's bathroom as they walked past it.

"what! thats not fair!" bokuto whined. "how come the girl's stuff are always nicer? the boy's bathroom always just stinks, and there's always pee on the ground for some reason. like why can't you just aim? it's not that hard."

"well, im sure for short people, like maybe yaku-san or shoyo it's easy. but it's hard to aim when you're very tall!" lev explained brightly. in the onsen somewhere, morisuke yaku felt shivers go up his spine and a sudden urge to punch someone.

"lev, are u sure ur not the one peeing the floor? c'mon, man this is why we don't get nice things in our bathrooms!" kuroo groaned, flicking the first year’s forehead.

"well, it's just a rumor," akaashi explained, lifting the hem of his shirt to wipe off the sweat on his face. "there might not be a couch in the girl's bathroom."

"why don't you go find out?" tsukki taunted with a devilish grin on his face.

"i don't think this is a good idea," akaashi remarked, albeit a bit too late as hinata, kuroo, lev, and bokuto already sprinted down the hallway.

"aww, no couch" bokuto disappointedly wailed when he stepped into the girl's bathroom.

"well, this is a school bathroom after all," kuroo admitted as he flipped on the light switch. the bathroom was cleaner than the boy’s, for sure, but after all the outrageous tales they had expected to find at least a little something out of the ordinary.

"hey, what's this?" hinata was pointing to a bright pink makeup bag that was lying open on the counter.

"ooh, one of the managers must’ve left it behind! whose bag is this, is there a name on it?" lev rushed over to the bag and turned it upside down. dozens of colorful tubes and compacts fell out, splayed across the counter.

"whats this tube?" hinata asked, holding up a metallic pink tube.

"well, what does it say on the tube, dumbass?" tsukki smirked from the door frame he was leaning on. akaashi hesitantly stood behind him, questioning if entering the girl’s bathroom was a good decision.

"better..than sex!" hinata read aloud, a bit louder than he had intended to. everyone froze, and stared at the little pink tube.

"wait what the fu- hold up lemme see that," kuroo aggressively grabbed the tube from hinata's hands and twisted it open

"oh it's just macasara," bokuto said. they shouldn’t have been surprised, considering it did come out of a makeup bag.

"do you think the name is true?" kuroo was actually curious about this. is the little pink tube of innocent looking mascara the reason that girls were refusing to go out with him?

"let's see," bokuto snatched the tube out of kuroo's hand and started swiping on the pigment on his lashes, his mouth agape and head tilted back as he intently stared at his reflection in the mirror.

"it's been 10 minutes since we called the boys, should we check up on them?" yachi said nervously. the other girls turned and looked as if she had just made a revelation. "you're right, bokuto always sprints up for dinner and he looked pretty eager when we gave him his notice," kaori said nervously. "and everyone knows that the nekoma boys shouldn't be left alone, they're chaotic," shirufuku remarked. "that's so true...lets go find them," the rest of the managers agreed, taking off their aprons and stepping out of the cafeteria.

however, they heard the boisterous laughs a floor away. cautiously, kiyoko led the group down the stairs and followed the sound. imagine their surprise when they found the noise coming from inside the girl's bathroom.

"um, we're the only girls here…" yachi whispered. they crept up closer and closer until they were right outside. kiyoko put her finger to her lips and motioned for the girls to line up against the wall just in case. "okay, we'll open the door in 3…" she put her hand on the knob. "2…" it seemed like time was in slow motion as everyone's heart pounded loudly. "1!"

kuroo and hinata have mascara on their eyebrows, streaks of black pigment under their eyes and all over their cheeks like some kind of war paint. akaashi is holding an eyelash curler, trying to curl bokuto's eyelashes all the while bokuto is smacking akaashi's hand away.

"it looks like a torture device!" he cried.

"bokuto-san, it's suppose the enhance the lengthening effect,"

lev is trying to give himself a mustache by swiping on hair-like strokes with the mascara wand, and ever the opportunist, tsukki is in the corner, taking blackmail pictures

"oh, hi!. . . girls" hinata trailed off when he saw the horrified managers through the mirror. every face in the room paled white as a sheet.

extra no.2:

"wait how do i take this off, it's not coming off with water!!" bokuto wailed, slumping against the sink

he had unfortunately, picked the waterproof mascara.

the managers agreed that they have all conveniently ran out of makeup wipes

#haikyuu!!#haikyuu crack #haikyuu kiyoko #haikyuu yachi #nekoma #karasuno #fukurodani #kuroo tetsurō #haikyuu kuroo #hq akaashi #akaashi x reader #akaashi #haikyuu shoyo #hinata #haikyuu saeko #bokuaka

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soyforramen · 4 years ago

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Old Times

Gladys hadn’t been back in town for a month before Alice showed up on her front porch at four in the morning, tears streaking down her cheeks (makeup looking just as good as when she’d applied it that morning; gotta love a woman who can afford Avon). A wide-eyed teenager, the spiting image of a younger, more precocious Alice, tagged along behind her. Without hesitation Gladys ground her cigarette out on the arm of the rocker (saved from Mr. O’Neil’s Tuesday trash pile) and pulled them both inside.

Without a word spoken, Gladys went to change the sheets in her bedroom. Alice and the girl spoke softly in the kitchen, and try as she might, Gladys couldn’t make out a single word. Whatever it was, it had been bad enough to bring Alice here and not one of her fancy, high-society friends’ houses (probably put out jello molds and finger sandwiches and food that tasted like creamed dirt). Something big enough to ruin the entire Cooper household.

The pillowcase hung from the bottom of the pillow, wrapped around its middle in a suffocating grip, as she realized Hal hadn’t been with them. In fact, she hadn’t seen Hal and Alice in the same place since she’d moved back to town (long-since overstayed, parents basement too crowded with two bickering teens and three shifts at the grocery store, g.e.d. just out of reach). She’d exchanged enough nods with Hal in the frozen dinner aisle, both pretending the space between them wasn’t mired in ancient history and still raw rivalry. Her path with Alice was limited to the high school drop-off lane, the one public gesture of maternal affection Jughead still allowed

Now, though. She sighed. It wasn’t uncommon for the women around here to lean on one another for comfort and safety. Sad, really, how often that came on the heels of the men not living up to even the lowest standards.

After a second thought, she fluffed up pillows and headed back towards the kitchen. Coming towards her in the claustrophobic hallway came Alice and her child (Betty, she realized with a flash of deja vu, a reminder of when she and Jughead were the ones on the other end of this), and Gladys flattened herself against the wall.

“Thanks, Ms. Jones,” Betty murmured, her eyes downcast.

Gladys hadn’t the heart to tell her she hadn’t been a Jones for almost fifteen years.

“Not a problem at all, darlin’. What do you think about strawberry pancakes in the morning?”

Betty gave her a watery smile and Alice shooed her into the bedroom. The door closed behind them, and Gladys let out a heavy breath. There was always something going wrong around here. You expected it, but it still hurt to see it happen.

Filled with a nervous energy (live wired and on fire, as her daddy used to say before the tar and the coal got to him; put a cork in that and you could power the whole nothern half of the states), Gladys flitted around the house, straightening and tucking and dusting, nothing seeming to be enough anymore. She had another two hours before she had to be at her first shift at the factory down the road. Then again, maybe she’d return that long ago favor and call in sick. After all, she was entitled to a few days here and there (nothing like the dump in toledo where they squeezed every drop of your soul, pennies on the dollar, and still demanded more).

Just as she was running a cloth over the television set (only three channels, black and white; older than either of her children who preferred leeching ole’ henry’s wifi instead of -), the bedroom door shut quietly. Gladys straightened and waited for Alice to appear. When their eyes met, Alice’s stoic, no-nonsense rock solid mask crumbled into a mess of tears and grief.

“He’s -“

Poor gal couldn’t even speak properly anymore. Whatever Hal’d done, it was enough to knock the sense out of Alice, and that was a scary enough prospect on its own. She hadn’t been that thrown for a loop since they’d raided (stole) Mantle’s stash of E (curled up like kittens, high in the dusty sunlight on the trailer floor, alice laying out her future with hal and not her…).

Gladys quieted her and lead Alice to the love seat (third-hand from earl and katie, bless their hearts even though it did smell like that damn cat). Alice tried to apologize for the interruption, but Gladys refused to let her. Jughead she didn’t have to worry about - boy slept like a brick in a tornado - and J.B. was at a sleepover with some of her friends (best friends on the first day of school, always did get her daddy’s better traits, while jug soured down into his old records and writing, lost in his own world, too much like his mama to make anything of it).

Once Alice was settled, Gladys poured out a shot of rum and set it on the coffee table along with a box of tissues. A few steps back, and Gladys was in the kitchen to give Alice a modicum of peace in the tiny trailer. She poured a glass of water and set it next to the empty shot glass.

“Another one? I have whiskey, too.”

Alice shook her head, a crumbled tissue in her hand halfway shredded to hell and back already. On the table lay three more (three bucks a pop here, can you believe) and Gladys couldn’t help but want that to be the remnants of Hal’s body.

“Hal, he -“ Alice’s words were cut off with a gut wrenching sob, and Gladys rushed to her.

Like she did when the kids woke up from their nightmares, she murmured platitudes and soft words, her arms wrapped around Alice in a cocoon of safety. After a good long cry (glad she still wore waterproof, cheap, drugstore mascara would have ruined the fabric, though the concealer would do hell on the blouse), Alice steadied herself.

Despite her hair falling out of its unnatural wave, despite the botchy cheeks, red eyes, and snotty nose, Gladys was still struck by how well Alice carried herself. Likely an armor built up having to suppress anger and frustration in this ticky-tacky town (hoa’s, pta’s, cya’s). A rose of anger bloomed on her cheeks sent Gladys rocking back on her heels, a thrum of excitement rushing through her.

“I suppose you’ve heard about our town’s little problem,” Alice said, still speaking in polite euphemisms and innuendos. She reached for the glass of water and primly cleared her throat (cats and spots, zebras and strips, snakes and scales; once, always).

“Depends on which one you mean,” Gladys said.

She was being sarcastic, she knew, but it was the truth. Riverdale hadn’t changed much from when they were growing up, damn whatever bullshit Hiram and his developers were trying to sell. It still had the same pristine front, picture perfect suburban life style, full of well respected men trying to save the village green from its own preservation society, but now the fetid foundation it had been built upon was bubbling out from the seams. The drugs, gangs, and murders were more visible now, no longer brushed under the railroad tracks into the Southside of town.

Hell, the only new thing about it seemed to be the mafia trying to gain a foothold. And Gladys had her own plans on how to deal with that.

Mostly, though, she’d missed being able to push Alice’s buttons (eyes narrowed, tongue beneath her teeth, a flash of heat in a pan), to get a rise from her so she was the center of her focus. If nothing else, it drew Alice’s attention away from her grief at hand.

“But, if you’re talking about that black hood idiot,” Gladys drawled, wincing at the pins and needles attacking her as she stood, “then I’ve heard a bit.”

“Yes, well.” Alice cleared her throat and looked away. “It turns out you were right. About Hal.”

“Oh?”

Gladys let it hang in the air. It wasn’t often that Alice Cooper, nee Smith, admitted to being wrong about anything, especially when it came to her life choices. And yet the juxtaposition of the two - the Black Hood and Hal - had caught her attention like a hook in a trout’s belly.

“About -?”

“About Hal,” Alice snapped.

She stood to pace the thin carpet of the trailer, her hands wrapped tight around her arms, the pastel green cardigan wrinkling under her fingers.

“He’s been going around these past few months like a god damned fool, playing at being an avenging angel, murdering people who he thought deserved it. I can’t believe I bought his lie about going bowling. The man can’t even lift a lawnmower, let alone a bowling ball.”

Gladys sat down on the love seat, one leg thrown onto the coffee table and watched Alice stew in front of her. It was a mirror image of fifteen years ago, almost to the day. She gently touched the corner of her eye, still bearing a white scar, and cursed the day she’d ever met that man.

“And then the bastard has the audacity to say that our children need to be purified. That I need to be purified. It was bad enough that he sent that letter to Polly, what he did to Betty -“

Alice stopped and tugged at her hair (bottle blonde to cover up the slow, steady march of time; at least a week’s worth of gladys’ pay for vanity every month). Gladys stood and guided Alice back to the love seat.

“How about you start from the beginning?”

Another stream of tears, this time borne of frustration and anger, slipped down Alice’s cheeks as she dove head first into the long tale. Hal always had thought himself above the rest of the town (secret son, hidden away from the world) even though his own sins bore bitter fruit of their own (alice angry and self-destructive in senior year; drunk on the floor; od’ed in the bathroom; blood running down wrists). Somehow he’d managed to fuel that into something more productive - a picture perfect nuclear family and modest but plentiful business - until he finally didn’t.

The first murder attempt, then the second, third, and fourth followed, no longer attempts. Quit murders in the surrounding counties that went with only a few murmurs of disapproval. Even his own family hadn’t been immune; daughters, tortured and deceived by the man meant to protect them from such things (kids of all things; for crissakes was nothing sacred?.

And Alice…

When she was done with her macabre tale, ending in Hal’s entrapment of his family and their violent escape, Gladys let out a low whistle.

“Well. Shit.”

Alice let out a wet, wry laugh. She curled her legs up under her and hugged a throw pillow tight (bought on a whim at a yard sale - two’fer deal she’d haggled; matched the lace curtains jb couldn’t help but make fun of). Gladys stood and walked towards where her father’s urn sat on the mantle, a place of honor in a family who had little to do with ghosts of the past.

“What do you want to do about it?” Gladys asked.

Standing on her tiptoes, she reached in an pulled out a rusted Altoids tin and a lighter. When Alice caught sight of it she let out a real laugh this time, one that drew memories of simpler, happier times when it had just been the two of them against the world. Wonder Woman and Sarah Conner, united together. Until they grew up and out of middle school dreams and into the real world where bills piled up and mouths had to be fed.

“You know we’re not in high school, right?”

Gladys grinned and fell onto the love seat next to her. She popped open the tin and held it out to Alice.

“Do you want to do the honors? You always were better at it than I ever was.”

Alice chewed her lip, the implications and scandal of what Gladys was proposing flashed across her eyes. It was easy enough to guess the arguments against it, the same old ones she’d heard before (what if your mom/daughter/sister finds out you keep that in there? she’ll be more pissed that she didn’t find it sooner), but her hand was steady when she took the tin. Gladys watched her fingers work, long thin fingers still trapped by a band of gold. The ring of a promise that fell flat and brought with it a hell of a right-hook in the end.

As she watched, Gladys let her mind wonder what would have happened if they hadn’t allowed themselves to be torn apart in high school. If she’d only beaten the truth out of Hal in junior year when Alice vanished. If only, if only, if only.

“What I want,” Alice said with a finality, the lid snapping shut a punctuation to her decision, “is to rip his guts out and feed them to him while that harpy mother of his watches.”

Gladys flicked the lighter, the flame dancing around the end of the joint. Her eyes didn’t move from Alice’s lips as she took a hit. Lines ebbed and faded, reminders of their time spent apart, waves of years and youth wasted. In the poor ventilation of the trailer, the smoke wrapped them in a thin cocoon of safety, a gauzy curtain to shield them against the reality of their choices.

“Might have to lay a tarp down, but I know a few guys.”

The phrase sent Alice into a fit of giggles (ask freddie and fp, they know some guys) and Gladys shushed her with a crooked smile, reminding her that Betty lay sleeping not forty feet away. Alice took another took and blew the smoke into Gladys’ face, a ribbon that caressed and teased her skin

“Or we could take care of it ourselves.”

“Just like old times?”

“Just like old times.”

(A few months later found Jughead and Betty at Pop’s working on a school project under Gladys’ critical eye. Jughead, used to his mother’s hovering nature, enjoyed the free fries she dropped off between customers; Betty, it seemed, was far more perturbed by the woman’s sudden closeness with her mother. It wasn’t until they were writing about Lady McBeth (‘out damn spot’ seemed to Jughead less of a guilt ridden complex after this Black Hood business and more of an attempt at an evidentiary coverup) that he spoke on a subject that had been bothering him for a few weeks.

“Doesn’t it seem odd?”

Betty hummed and continued to write. “What seems odd?”

“My father disappears three months before my mother leaves town, never to be seen again. We come back, and three months later your dad disappears. And each time, our mothers renewed their friendship just weeks before.”

Any goodwill Betty might have held towards Jughead froze quickly at the implications in his words. Her fingers gripped the mechanical pencil hard enough her knuckles went white and the plastic cracked.

“My father was a serial killer,” she snapped. Blooms of anger rose on her checks and Jughead shifted under her glare. “It’s not surprising that he’d run away after trying to kill his wife and his daughter in their own home.”

Cowed, Jughead picked at the lukewarm fries. Her words didn’t change his mind, didn’t move his suspicions a single degree, but it did quiet his need to pry further into her opinion.

The matter was dropped as Macbeth and his realm descended further into madness.)

#parentdale #alice cooper/gladys jones #this is what commenting gets you folks; part deux of a one part fic

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successionsideblog · 5 years ago

Text

you know what, if you want a taste of the tomgreg i’m writing here ya go. i’m not spellchecking this and it has no title. here is your taste

The fallout unravels in a series of afters.

Fifteen seconds after the press conference ends, Kendall rips up his approved statement and tosses it behind him to the ubiquitous uproar of the roomful of press. He has just killed his father on national television, a new wave patricide for the twenty-first century, and Greg, well, Greg gave him the gun.

Thirty seconds after the press conference ends, Greg follows Kendall down a stretch of hallway like a rescue dog abandoned by the train yard having attached itself to the first person who threw it a bone. His hands are clammy against the yellow manila folder, making sweaty fingerprints against the cheap, Office Depot paper. The skin of his thumb pulls away from the nail with his incessant fidgeting and it stings like hell. Kendall is walking too fast despite his much shorter stride. Jess and Karolina crowd his side, but Kendall barrels past them.

Colourful language is exchanged. Phone calls are made. Greg can barely hear what is being said with the blood rushing from one side of his head to the other. His ears sound like oversized conch shells that swell with the shutter of every flashing camera that follows them past the podium.

“Sorry.” Greg offers them an uncomfortable wave, or what was supposed to be a gesture of apology. “Sorry for the—uh—inconvenience.”

“Alright, Greg, my comrade in arms,” Kendall says, holding out his hand, making a grabby motion. He looks composed, not even a decimal place to the right as nervous or overwhelmed as Greg is. “Sauce me the docs.”

“Right,” Greg says and surrenders them without protest. It feels good to finally let them go after they had been eating away at the argyles in his sock drawer for weeks. “Sorry, um, about the sweat. It’s my flight-or-fight response. I guess my body thinks I might be dying.”

Kendall ignores him, then passes the documents to an assistant so haphazardly that Greg almost wants to cry out, or at least make everyone in the room go through a strict vetting process before the manila folder can disappear from his sight. His worries are quickly quashed, however, when the folder is ripped open and the distribution of dozens of photocopies begins amongst the Kendall approved reporters waiting in the wings.

One such reporter, who must have seen Greg hand over the folder, pounces on him, blonde and plasticky in that white-midwestern-Fox-News-anchor sort of way that immediately waives his interest. The foam headed microphone she poises in front of his face is uncomfortably phallic.

“Your name?” she asks.

“Uh, Gregory—”

“Roy?”

“No, Hirsch. I was, um, the one who fucked up—sorry—my testimony in front of Congress? You might have seen me on the front page of Reddit. Wait—are you broadcasting this?”

He gives a statement, then he and Kendall are ushered into another room, stale with the smell of dispensary coffee and complimentary pastries, then a second room where a legal team made up of people Greg has never met pulls Kendall aside. Their conversation is hushed, their faces pinched and wrinkled like globs of malformed Play-Doh.

Greg stands in the corner, ignoring the urge to lean his forehead against the spackle wall and find his breath. He was privy to Phase 1 of the plan and only Phase 1: get in a helicopter, get on a private jet, transport the super-secret documents, attend the press conference, give Kendall the super-secret documents, watch Kendall hand over the super-secret documents, et cetera. By now, they must be at Phase 2: try not to poop your big boy pants in front of the Wallstreet Journal.

Afterwards, Kendall pats him on the back and tells him to “gear up for the clusterfuck,” so Greg does. They get into separate cars, pulled in separate directions by the tailing reporters. Greg watches the second black car shrink into a dot behind him: Phase 3, which Greg isn’t destined to be a part of, apparently.

Greg holes up in his apartment with his phone readied and ATN on mute. He waits for the word from Kendall, but it never comes. He paces, showers the corporate stink off him, and changes into sweats. As he towel dries his 100 dollar haircut, his phone pings, then pings again, again, and again. It vibrates against the custom-made coffee table with such force Greg thinks the glass might shatter.

He snatches it up. A text from Gerri, from Tom, from Shiv, Roman, Karl, Frank, all spouting a thesaurus worth of expletives and a row of question marks, as well as several emojis Greg has trouble deciphering in this context. At the top of his lock screen is a notification for the New York Times article Kendall warned him about yesterday, then the statement he gave to the tabloid in all caps, bold Helvetica font.

“Oh, okay, okay, okay, shit. Shit!”

He puts his phone on silent and goes to the balcony to smoke a joint, realizes reporters are swarming his building like worker ants in camera-ready makeup and drugstore hair gel, and hurries back inside. He flexes his fists, chews up his lips until they look like a crime scene. He knew what he was getting into when he handed over those two sad, crumpled pages he saved from certain Wambsgans branded death. But maybe not to the extent of being called out for it, or having to face the ridicule of a family he just settled into. He was supposed to be the backup, a co-conspirator behind the scenes, not the second fall guy. He texts Kendall “Hey man, I’m kind of freaking out right now” but gets no reply.

Kendall is persona non grata. As far as Greg knows, he could be holed up in a Soviet-era Siberian bunker somewhere, eating beans from a tin can and waiting out the aftermath.

Greg kicks himself. He should have thought of that.

Ten hours after the press conference ends and five hours after the media shitstorm hits peak shit, Greg hears a knock at his door. Half-asleep from a nap he was unaware he was taking, he instinctively reaches for his phone again. The sun is setting, shrinking behind the eyesore of an office building that blocks his view and decreases the property value of his apartment. He grumbles as his phone screen illuminates, stinging his dilated pupils.

(15) Unread Voicemails from Tom Wambsgans.

“Shit.”

The knocking continues.

“Hey, Greg, open up,” Tom shouts, sing-song in a threatening sort of way. His voice is muffled by the door, the knob twisting back and forth. Greg half-expects an ax to come flying through the wood and plaster. “Greg, I swear to God, open this door or else you are dead to me.”

Greg stumbles over himself, nearly tripping over the edge of his Sherpa rug as he turns on a light. He unlocks the door and yanks it open. The smell of tropical suntan lotion and Armani cologne immediately wafts into his nose, like a bowl of fruit salad left sitting on a department store perfume counter.

Tom stands there, his fists balled up at his sides like a petulant child waiting for his mother in a long line at the supermarket check-out. His skin is tan and slightly sunburnt around his nose from their time spent in Greece, but his loose-fitting yacht clothes have been replaced by a stark white button-down and an Yves Saint Laurent suit jacket. Greg tries not to notice.

“What the fuck did you do?” Tom asks.

His eyes wide, his affectation intensified by his disbelief. He looks angry, jaw jutting out. For a second, Greg thinks Tom might hit him like he has other times Greg has told him something he doesn’t want to hear. But the scale is much bigger, with implications that extend far beyond extramarital activities and open business relationships.

“I, uh, well.” Greg finds his words then loses them, then finds some new ones. “I mean, is it bad?”

“Yeah, Greg, it is. It is very bad.”

Tom pushes past him into the apartment. Greg hesitantly shuts the door behind him, trying not to shrink in on himself. Meanwhile, Tom appears to be near hysteria, halfway between laughing and crying like he was when he first dragged Greg into the death pit. Tom glances out the window where a few straggling news crews remain, then turns to face him.

“Do you have anything to say to me?” Tom asks.

“What?” Greg avoids his eyes. “Like—like an apology?”

“Yeah, like an apology.” Tom lets out a humourless, near sociopathic chuckle. “You fucked me over, Greg! You fucked me!” Every consonant is especially harsh when Tom says his name. He pinches his thumb and forefinger together. “We were this close to all of this going away and poof! Fucking front-page news. I feel like I got caught with my pants down and everyone is laughing at my junk.”

Greg tries not to let the off-colour simile faze him. “Look, Tom, to be fair, I kind of fucked us both.” He takes a step forward to close the room width of space between them. “I mean, I implicated myself as much as I implicated you. But Ken said he would take care of it.”

“Oh, he did, did he? So, what, are you his bitch boy now? First comes corporate scheming then comes marriage?”

Greg makes a face at him, ignoring the jealousy uncomfortably sandwiched between every word. Sometimes he thinks Tom forgets that Shiv, Roman and Kendall are his cousins, like a baby who lacks object permanence for Fortune 500 surnames.

“Uh, not sure I would use that term but okay.” Greg tries not to pace. “Come on, this is what you wanted in the first place. To come clean, get it all out in the open. Like, it was the right thing to do, right?”

Tom raises his eyebrows, mouth falling open. “You are unbelievable.”

“What?”

“Jesus, Greg. I know it was you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You were the one who told Gerri I wanted to hold a press conference, you piece of shit.” The hurt that lines Tom’s face catches Greg off-guard. Tom tries to hide it with a self-satisfied grin, seemingly for having figured it all out, but Greg can see it in his eyes, festering. “So, now you want to claim the moral high ground? You lied to me through your fucking teeth.”

Greg had almost forgotten that had happened. It feels like it was years ago, not months. He was a fish out of water back then—he still is—but he thought it might allow him some wiggle room, help him avoid being caught in the clean-up net, gutted, then served on a platter if cruises ever came out. He supposes he could play the “I was oblivious” card—because he was—but that might not fly considering he just blew a big, shiny rape whistle on Waystar senior management.

“Look, Tom, I’m sorry, like really, I am, but you told me not to trust anyone, least of all you, and then you trusted me? It was your own advice!” Greg raises his hands as if to deny culpability. “So, you know, that, uh, that sounds like a you problem, dude.”

Something shifts in Tom’s expression, the hurt turning to resentment. “Is this unassuming nature of yours, this fresh-scrubbed sincerity, all an act?” Tom asks, gesturing to Greg and all Brobdingnagian six feet and seven inches of him. “Have I been duped, bamboozled, hung out to fucking dry? Again?”

Greg knew Tom would be upset, but this is something else, something that runs deeper than possibly facing jail time. Tom has never been especially easy for Greg to read; he masks his sincerity with deceit and covers up his deceit with generosity, trying to play at the Roy game by Roy rules until his intentions pervert into some sick joke only he’s in on.

Would you kiss me? What if I asked you to? What if I told you to?

At best, Tom is unpleasant to work for and borderline abusive to his employees. At worst, he’s strangely endearing. If Greg really wanted out from his clutches, he would have used the documents as leverage a long time ago. But Greg feels oddly attached to him still, like a pair of Siamese Twins held together by their liver: an organ that could be severed in two if need be, but Greg would likely miss the feeling of working so close to Tom by virtue of needing to keep their heads above the water before cruises sank them completely.

“Tom, come on—I just—I want you on my side.” Greg feels pathetic as he inches closet to pleading with Tom, but for what? Forgiveness? Understanding? A second chance? He’s not so sure.

Tom scoffs. “Why? Because I present a tactical advantage? Did Kendall ask you to recruit me?”

Greg would be lying if he said he hadn’t considered nudging Tom over to the Kenstar Gregco team, but Kendall had never given him the rundown on how this was going play out, or which factions the family might divide into. Truthfully, Greg didn’t think that far ahead when Kendall laid out the initial plan. There had been no time for that.

“Kendall has nothing to do with this,” Greg says, motioning between them. “The documents were a favour. I was just doing Kendall a favour.”

“Yeah, sure.” Tom grits his teeth. “You used me, Greg. You were a featherless chick, trying to fly from the nest, and I took you under my wing! Now you want to significantly alter the pecking order?” He shakes his head. “All you Roys are the same. Like a piss of leeches in cashmere turtlenecks and cable-knit sweaters.”

Greg feels the urge to tell Tom he’s technically not a Roy, but it would be fallacious. Tom isn’t one either, not really. They’re both nameless actors on the outskirts of the freak show, one of them a clown that married into the circus, and the other a clown that has trace amounts of circus in his blood. This was their choice.

“I’m indebted to you, Tom, I really am.” Greg reaches out and lays a hand on his shoulder. Even though they’re barely touching, he can feel his body heat radiating from beneath his primly ironed Oxford. “Look, what can I do?”

Tom goes quiet, glancing at where Greg has made contact. For a moment, Greg naively thinks they have reached some sort of understanding. His hopes are quickly dashed.

“Alright, Greg,” Tom says, his performative smugness returning. “You can tell me where Kendall is for starters.”

“Kendall?”

“Yes, Kendall. Come on, where is our quasi-Dmitri Karamazov? Has he gone AWOL or is he out roaming the streets covered in blood with three thousand rubles clutched in his tiny fist?”

Greg narrows his eyes at Tom, dropping his hand from his shoulder. “Okay—um—no? And I don’t know where he is. He kind of went dark on me.”

“Oh, so you two are in cahoots but not really in cahoots?”

Greg ignores how pleased Tom sounds. “Is everyone back yet?”

“We flew in a couple of hours ago.”

“And?”

“Oh, they’re beyond pissed. Your balls will be in a little brass box on Logan’s desk come morning.”

“Makes sense, I guess,” Greg says but he doesn’t really believe it. Tom is just playing the game again, trying to intimidate him with lowbrow banter fit for any fraternity hazing ritual. It only signifies that Greg has passed the threshold of what is expected of him again because, in actuality, Logan is in a worse spot than anyone. Except maybe Kendall who has to deal with the consequences of putting him there. “So, where do you stand? In all of this.”

Tom snorts, but he looks unsure. “Oh, please. Stop with this which-side-are-you-on bullcrap. You sound like a fifth-grader picking teams for kickball.”

“Hey, I’m being serious. Like, what do you owe Logan? What do I owe him? I mean, I owe you more than anything,” Greg says and the compliment makes his back teeth ache. “I want you there—here—like, I want you to play on my team. Or you could, maybe, play both sides. You know, do a little undercover. It could be like a James Bond, Q type situation.”

“Greg, you’re being ridiculous.”

“How? How is that ridiculous?”

Tom just shakes his head. The sadness Greg had taken note of before returns to his face. Greg knows Tom has a responsibility to Shiv, and whichever way Shiv goes he has to follow. Greg was just hoping their alliances had yet to be decided, but it sounds like she has made up her mind, so Tom has too. No game plan, no strategizing, no conspiratorial comradery. Greg feels stopped in his tracks, pushed to the outskirts by someone who has always tried to bring him in.

Tom heads towards the door, removing his phone from his back pocket. “Keep in touch.”

It sounds like a threat and a promise rolled into one.

#i am not tagging this #it is a sneak peek for subscriber only

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thegoldendice · 5 years ago

Text

Love Is A Battlefield

Fandom - American Horror Story 1984

Pairing - Xavier Plympton/Reader

Rating - Explicit

Warnings - Suicide, Violence, Mental Heath Issues, Sexual Content, Language, Religious Content

Chapter - 10/12

Read on - ao3, ff.net

Fic Summary - The year is 1984. You're a poor student living alone in L.A., plagued by your problematic relationships with a false friend and a disturbed ex. You meet Xavier Plympton, an aerobics instructor with a dark past, at the gym where you’ve taken a reception job. You quickly develop feelings for him, and you learn to your relief that he likes you too. Soon a deadly series of events befall you and the people in your life. Overwhelmed by tragedy and with your blossoming romance cut short, you are left a wreck. Six years later you discover that while Xavier is dead, he hasn’t quite departed. You soon realise that if you are to be with him and finally achieve true peace and happiness, you must take your own life and become a Camp Redwood ghost.

Chapter Summary - You grudgingly leave camp for a short time so you can buy the supplies that will help you facilitate your change to permanent Redwood resident.

“Did I ever tell you how much I like your earring?”

“No.” Xavier's voice is barely louder than a whisper. “Did I ever tell you how much I like your face?”

You blush, turning your head to nuzzle into the hand that Xavier has raised. His fingers rest on your jaw, his thumb traces the line of your smile.

“I will understand, if you don't come back—“

“I'm coming back, Xavier.” You interrupt, trying to suppress the exasperation you feel, knowing that Xavier can't help but doubt you even now.

The wooden sign that denotes the entrance to the camp creaks above your head. The morning sun already splits the ground and a bead of sweat trickles down your spine. You try desperately to muster the strength to turn and walk away from your love. Knowing that you will see him again soon doesn't help. He has been wholly responsible for bringing joy and meaning back into your life, and to leave him, even just for a few hours, feels torturous. The trees murmur around you, singing songs you don't understand. Xavier lowers his hand.

“Go.”

You have no response, unable to acknowledge the finality of saying goodbye. You look into Xavier's eyes. Tears fill them, matching your own. You smile and turn, walking quickly.

“Hurry back!” He calls, voice breaking a little.

You look back over your shoulder, making sure to appear happy. You give him one last smile, nod, and then face forward in order to run to your car, tears flowing freely at last.

It was far easier than you thought it would be to sell the car. It's a piece of crap, but the first dealership you happened upon in the first town you came to deigned to take it for a hundred bucks. You could have shopped around, but you were desperate to complete your tasks and get back to the camp. You assumed that $100 would be enough to buy your supplies, plus a few little extras - a couple of new items of clothing for Xavier and Montana and second-hand copies of your favourite books. Your original plan was to also procure a cheap TV and VCR, and some tapes of movies that have come out in recent years. You know for a fact that Xavier would get a kick out of the Ghostbusters sequel, but you just don't have the time or the funds. You can always describe the movie to him.

After a successful thrifting trip, you head to a drugstore. You have no idea if there are limits to the amount of non-prescription drugs a person can buy. It's one of the things you neglected to find out about during your past forays into suicide planning. You always just assumed you would be at home when the time came, and have access to your mom's drug cabinet. You have decided to visit several drugstores, just to be safe. You have to run back into the final one, having almost forgotten the antihistamines that will ensure your stomach doesn't try to rid itself of the other pills you intend to take. Your final purchase is alcohol. Your hand quivers slightly as you reach to pick up a bottle of vodka. It feels very real now, but you don't doubt that you are doing the right thing. You think of Xavier and it fortifies you. You've had to use the last of the money you brought to L.A with you, as the cash from the sale of your car ran out quicker than you thought it would. Hitch-hiking back to Redwood won't be fun, but what else can you do?

Sitting at the side of the road back out to the woods, backpack stuffed with supplies, your mind drifts to last night when Xavier took you, upon your request, to see Ramirez. You watched from the far corner of the dank, gloomy cabin that held his trapped soul. Faint wisps of black smoke surrounded his dead body as he came back to life. He wasn't given a chance to talk before Montana stabbed him in the heart with a kitchen knife.

“You're lucky I've lost my taste for killing.” She'd smirked at you. “It used to get much messier than this, right baby?”

Trevor had grinned at her in response, causing you to shiver slightly. You'd left then, heading back to the cabin you'd been sharing with Xavier, not feeling entirely convinced that Montana had in fact lost her love of gruesome killings. Xavier had followed you at a slight distance, only speaking when you were both back at the cabin, sitting cross-legged on the bed.

“Are you okay?” He asked, concerned.

You nodded.

“I don't like the thought of you killing. I know he's evil. I'm not saying he doesn't deserve it. It's more the thought of you relishing in taking a life.”

Xavier was silent for a minute, considering.

“It was a distraction, I guess. I thought I had nothing else to be here for. I won't deny that I enjoyed it. I was so bitter Y/n. I tried so hard, at the end, to be good. I saved fucking Margaret all for her to kill me anyway.”

“I know.” You responded sadly, reaching for Xavier's hand. “It's over now. You have me. It may not be much but I hope that me being here will help.”

Xavier took a deep breath, squeezing your hand.

“It’s everything. Please don't ever doubt that. Obviously, I still have to take my turn killing him, I swore a pact, but it's just a chore to me now.”

“Maybe I will get to a point where I will be able to help you or at least keep you company?” You offered, timidly.

Xavier raised your hand to his lips and kissed it. “No pressure.”

You are pulled out of your daydream when a car draws up alongside you. A middle-aged woman with a kind expression rolls down her window and asks you where you are headed.

Time to go home.

You spot Xavier before he catches sight of you. You are touched that he waited right where you left him. He's sitting against the low wooden fence at the side of the road, drawing swirls in the dirt with his favourite knife. He'd be difficult to miss, the neon, mesh vest that only he would wear catching the eye a mile off. The sight of him sends a thrill of delight through you. You don't think you'll ever stop finding him beautiful. He looks up, hearing your approach, and rises with a wide grin spread across his face.

“Told you I'd be back.” You say as you approach, trying not to run and dive on him.

You are not given the chance to speak again, as Xavier promptly wraps you in his arms, covering your face with kisses the moment you pass under the Camp Redwood sign. He presses his lips hungrily against your own, and before you know it you are swept off of your feet.

“You're not seriously planning to carry me back to the camp are you!?” Your voice is full of incredulous laughter.

“Shut up.” Xavier grumbles, before kissing you again.

You allow yourself to be carried all the way to your cabin, where your joyous reunion lasts for several glorious hours.

Notes: I left Y/n’s favourite books unnamed and open to interpretation.

Please note, the next chapter will include the actual suicide, I don’t plan on being overly descriptive but please avoid if you think it will bother you.

#xavier plympton #xavier plympton x reader #xavier plympton x you #ahs #ahs xavier #ahs 1984 #american horror story #american horror story 1984 #fanfic #ao3 #ff.net

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dazzledbybooks · 5 years ago

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Hannah Capin's Foul is Fair is a bloody, thrilling revenge fantasy for the girls who have had enough. Golden boys beware: something wicked this way comes.Jade and her friends Jenny, Mads, and Summer rule their glittering LA circle. Untouchable, they have the kind of power other girls only dream of. Every party is theirs and the world is at their feet. Until the night of Jade's sweet sixteen, when they crash a St. Andrew’s Prep party. The night the golden boys choose Jade as their next target.They picked the wrong girl.Sworn to vengeance, Jade transfers to St. Andrew’s Prep. She plots to destroy each boy, one by one. She'll take their power, their lives, and their control of the prep school's hierarchy. And she and her coven have the perfect way in: a boy named Mack, whose ambition could turn deadly. Blurbs: "Fierce, vicious, and electric. If books had teeth, Foul Is Fair would have fangs. Capin's language glitters dark and her writing cuts deep. Revenge is a dish best served by this deliciously unapologetic coven." - Laurie Elizabeth Flynn, author of Firsts and Last Girl Lied To"Capin’s writing will seduce you with its beauty and then, when you least suspect it, slice you to the bone—just like Foul is Fair’s captivating, vicious, entirely unforgettable heroine, Jade." - Layne Fargo, author of Temper and co-host of Unlikeable Female Characters Podcast“Vicious and beautifully brutal, Foul is Fair gives a sword to every girl who has ever been a victim and makes them a warrior. This book is pulls no punches and will make anyone think twice before uttering the phrase ‘just a girl’. An unapologetic feminist battle-cry that leaves you breathless and thirsting for vengeance.” - Sonia Hartl, author of Have a Little Faith in Me"Foul is Fair delivers the story of a girl who snatches control back from a world that stole it away, through whatever means necessary. Hannah Capin deftly combines stunningly lyrical prose with the raw power of engulfing fury, sending a message written in blood. In a world where too many are forced into silence, this book roars back." - S. Gonzales, author of The Law of Inertia and Only Mostly Devastated Dedication For every girl who wants revenge Content Warning: The primary thematic material of Foul is Fair centers on sex- ual assault (not depicted), rape culture, and violence. Addi- tionally, the book includes an abusive relationship, a suicide attempt, and a brief scene with transphobic bullying. For a more detailed description of sensitive content, please visit hannahcapin.com/foulisfair. Excerpt: Sweet sixteen is when the claws come out.We’re all flash tonight. Jenny and Summer and Mads and me. Vodka and heels we could never quite walk in before, but tonight we can. Short skirts—the shortest. Glitter and high- light. Matte and shine. Long hair and whitest-white teeth.I’ve never been blond before but tonight my hair is plati- num. Mads bleached it too fast but I don’t care because tonight’s the only night that matters. And my eyes are jade-green to- night instead of brown, and Summer swears the contacts Jenny bought are going to melt into my eyes and I’ll never see again, but I don’t care about that, either.Tonight I’m sixteen.Tonight Jenny and Summer and Mads and me, we’re four sirens, like the ones in those stories. The ones who sing and make men die.Tonight we’re walking up the driveway to our best party ever. Not the parties like we always go to, with the dull-duller- dullest Hancock Park girls we’ve always known and the dull-duller-dullest wine coolers we always drink and the same bad choice in boys.Tonight we’re going to a St Andrew’s Prep party. Crashing it, technically.But nobody turns away girls like us.We smile at the door. They let us in. Our teeth flash. Our claws glimmer. Mads laughs so shrill-bright it’s almost a scream. Everyone looks. We all grab hands and laugh together and then everyone, every charmed St Andrew’s Prepper is cheering for us and I know they see it—for just a second—our fangs and our claws.The first thing I do is cut my hair.But it isn’t like in the movies, those crying girls with mas- cara streaks and kindergarten safety scissors, pink and dull, looking into toothpaste specks on medicine cabinet mirrors.I’m not crying. I don’t fucking cry.I wash my makeup off first. I use the remover I stole from Summer, oily Clinique in a clear bottle with a green cap. Three minutes later I’m fresh-faced, wholesome, girl-next-door, and you’d almost never know my lips are still poison when I look the way a good girl is supposed to look instead of like that little whore with the jade-green eyes.The contact lenses go straight into the trash.Then I take the knife, the good long knife from the wed- ding silver my sister hid in the attic so she wouldn’t have to think about the stupid man who never deserved her anyway. The marriage was a joke but the knife is perfectly, wickedly beautiful: silver from handle to blade and so sharp you bleed a little just looking at it. No one had ever touched it until I did, and when I opened the box and lifted the knife off the dark red velvet, I could see one slice of my reflection looking back from the blade, and I smiled.I pull my hair tight, the long hair that’s been mine since those endless backyard days with Jenny and Summer and Mads. Always black, until Mads bleached it too fast, but splin- tering platinum blond for the St Andrew’s party on my sweet sixteen. Ghost-bright hair from Mads and jade-green eyes from Jenny and contour from Summer, almost magic, sculpt- ing me into a brand-new girl for a brand-new year.My hair is thick, but I’ve never been one to flinch. I stare myself straight in the eyes and slash once— Hard.And that’s it. Short hair.I dye it back to black, darker than before, with the cheap box dye I made Jenny steal from the drugstore. Mads revved her Mustang, crooked across two parking spots at three in the morning, and I said:Get me a color that knows what the fuck it’s doing.Jenny ran back out barefoot in her baby-pink baby-doll dress and flung herself into the back seat across Summer’s lap, and Mads was out of the lot and onto the road, singing through six red lights, and everything was still slow and foggy and almost like a dream, but when Jenny threw the box onto my knees I could see it diamond-clear. Hard black Cleopatra bangs on the front and the label, spelled out plain: #010112 REVENGE. So I said it out loud:REVENGEAnd Mads gunned the engine harder and Summer and Jenny shrieked war-cries from the back seat and they grabbed my hand, all three of them, and we clung together so tight I could feel blood under my broken claws.REVENGE, they said back to me. REVENGE, REVENGE,REVENGE.So in the bathroom, an hour later and alone, I dye my hair revenge-black, and I feel dark wings growing out of my back, and I smile into the mirror at the girl with ink-stained fingers and a silver sword.Then I cut my broken nails to the quick. Then I go to bed.In the morning I put on my darkest lipstick before it’s even breakfast time, and I go to Nailed It with a coffee so hot it burns my throat. The beautiful old lady with the crooked smile gives me new nails as long as the ones they broke off last night, and stronger.She looks at the bruises on my neck and the scratches across my face, but she doesn’t say anything.So I point at my hair, and I say, This color. Know what it’scalled?She shakes her head: No.I say, REVENGE.She says, Good girl. Kill him. About the Author: Hannah Capin is the author of Foul is Fair and The Dead Queens Club, a feminist retelling of the wives of Henry VIII. When she isn’t writing, she can be found singing, sailing, or pulling marathon gossip sessions with her girl squad. She lives in Tidewater, Virginia.

http://www.dazzledbybooks.com/2020/02/foul-is-fair-blog-tour-excerpt.html

#SEO #Local SEO training

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theawkwardterrier · 5 years ago

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things left behind and the things that are ahead, ch. 10

AO3 link here

Drea is the only one of his kids who Steve successfully gets into baseball. Rosie at age six tells him seriously that she has other, more important things to do than watch grownup men get excited about a ball, Em sits patiently through a couple of games that she clearly has no interest in, and Nate, when offered a chance to visit the ballpark for the first time at five years old says, "If you would be happy about it," in such a sweet, guileless way that Steve chokes up and tells him right away to forget about it. (Peggy is only too happy to have him look for someone else to bring - while she knows the rules by now and has watched a few games herself, he thinks that she'd have happily abdicated her seat to any passerby who wanted it. It's fine: she once tried to explain the rules of cricket, and he thinks he might still be comatose.)

But Drea loves it enough for all the rest of them, collecting cards, scanning the sports section each morning as the season approaches, and talking statistics like they're her second language. Nothing much has changed for her since they moved to Maryland: she has a group of boys to trade cards with, her best friends even as she enters junior high, and she's still a solid early choice in a schoolyard or street pickup game.

Steve's too cheap to shell out for Orioles season tickets - they live closer to DC, so getting to Baltimore is less convenient especially for weeknight games, but he's pretty sure that Washington loses their team sometime soon and he doesn't want his daughter getting attached and going through the same heartbreak he did - but he makes sure to take her to a few games a season, just the two of them.

It's a beautiful May Sunday, and the Orioles have just absolutely trounced Kansas City. Steve tosses their hot dog wrappers in the trash on the way out - four of his, one of Drea's - and wraps his arm around her, kissing the top of her baseball cap-covered head as they join the chattering crowd on the way back to their car.

"That was a great game," he says. "I think the O's have a good chance of making the series this year, huh?"

"I'm not very much like other girls, am I?"

It's more momentum than anything that keeps Steve walking. "What do you mean?" he asks carefully, looking down at her. The brim of her cap blocks him from seeing her face, but her shoulders hunch a little under his hand.

"I'm not like Mom," she says. "Or like Emma."

"Well that’s good, because I don't know if I could handle two Emmas. We'd never be able to finish all the desserts." Steve jokes. "And it would be a pretty big coincidence if you were like Mom." Everyone in town is used to the Carters by now, but when they had moved down from New Jersey five years ago, the variation in looks between the children and their lack of similarity to either parent had brought reactions ranging from pity to outright disdain.

"That's not what I mean." Drea starts to walk a little faster, even knowing that her dad can keep up. Her words come out in small, breathless bursts, and Steve aches a little at the bravery it is taking her just to keep speaking them. "It’s just...they know about girl stuff. Mom knows when to wear fancy gloves and pearls and it never looks weird, and Emmy just knows how to talk with other girls. They understand everything without even trying. They like this stuff. The only stuff I like is boy stuff."

"Hey," he says, pulling her to the side of the crowd so he can stop and bend to face her. He peers into the shadow beneath her ball cap, finding her jewel-dark blue eyes. "You're a girl. Anything you like is girl stuff."

She turns away from him. "Yeah, okay."

"I know that Em is a certain kind of girl—" Emma has already requested her own set of mixing bowls for Christmas. Practically the only time she wears pants is in the garden. She used to spend entire afternoons pouring “tea” for a dozen dolls and stuffed animals, signing politely to them as she sipped with an extended pinky. "But your mom put up with a lot during the war, and even now there are plenty of people who say that she isn't doing the things a woman should do. And what about Rosie? She doesn’t exactly fit into a box."

"It's different for me than it is for Rosie." That she says it simply, without a sigh or a teenage eyeroll, makes him sad. Even sadder than that: she's right. As much as he doesn't want it to be, it is different for her than it is for Rose, or Emma, or even Peggy.

"Okay," he says. "You're different than some girls. But that doesn't mean you're doing anything wrong. And I would hate for you to change the way you are or the things you love just because you felt that you had to fit in.” He tries to smile. “Besides, Bucky and the family are coming to visit over the summer and I promised them a good time, which means a trip to the ballpark with the two of us."

This time she does sigh, a tiny hiccup of not being entirely understood or at least of realizing that her father can't fix everything for her. "Yeah," she says again. "Okay."

Steve stands to his full height once again and hugs her against his side for a moment. He and Peggy have changed a lot, but there are some things even more stubborn than they are.

Tonight was supposed to be a date night with Steve, but there’s been a new FBI head for three, nearly four years now, and Peggy is only just getting around to inviting him and his wife for a collegial dinner engagement. Steve very sweetly said that he doesn't mind any of the time that he gets to spend with her, but she knows that this isn't exactly his idea of an enjoyable evening out. She'll have to remember to make it up to him.

"Which one?" she asks Drea, holding three dress options in front of herself. There's a deep, vivid scarlet number, a classic flared black, and a black and aubergine paneled silk with the tags still on.

Drea considers. "The red. Daddy likes it when you wear red."

"So he does." She strips off her robe and leaves it on the back of the chair as she slides the dress over her head, moving to the mirror to do up the last of the zip and smooth it over her hips. Peggy keeps herself fairly trim, but it's been a while since she wore this particular dress, and one never knows how things might have changed.

In the glass, she glimpses Drea, her black hair tangled and wild around her shoulders as always, her knees tented as she tucks nearly her whole narrow body into the white T-shirt she's wearing: one of Steve's undershirts, no doubt. Drea practically lives in them as it gets warmer. If it were prior to Lula-Cat's escape of the previous summer, the beast would surely be purring on the bed beside her favorite Carter, allowing herself to be petted as she got fur all over Peggy's clean pillowcases.

She is almost fourteen, Peggy realizes with a pang, and not only because her children are growing up even more quickly than she had expected. They will have another year of people plausibly believing her to be a late bloomer, perhaps not even that. She, Steve, Drea and her doctor have an appointment soon for a discussion, and Peggy makes a note to sit down Howard with as well. The little tools he's made for Emma - the vibrating clip for her swimsuit for when they go to the beach, the egg timer with its flashing lights - have been helpful, but the things he could make for Drea might be lifesaving.

As she moves to the vanity and fixes her face, traces on her vividly red lipstick with a practiced hand, thinks for a moment and adds pearl earrings and a simple crystal necklace which Steve gave her for their fifteenth anniversary, she fights to keep both the fear and calculation from her face. Drea already looks melancholy enough.

Peggy sits at the edge of the bed to put on her hose and her pumps. She is just about to get up and take in the final product when Drea says from beside her, "Mom, can you teach me how to put on makeup?"

Peggy pauses for just a moment, then asks, "What brought this on?" She allows only a tiny amount of surprise into her voice. It would be unbelievable otherwise, but the true amount of shock she feels at the question would be insulting, would drive her daughter away.

"Some girls at school are starting to use it. And I—" Her voice falters a bit, then comes back stronger, perhaps too strong, as if she's given herself a stern lecture. "I think I should also know how."

"I think you're a bit young for it, and I'm not sure that 'because everyone else is doing it' is a particularly good reason," says Peggy, continuing over the beginning of Drea's protestations. "But if that's what you truly want, I can certainly give you a lesson or two." She sighs, perhaps a bit theatrically. "Goodness knows I'd have liked for Rosie to ask before she made her first attempts."

It works. Drea laughs a little, remembering Rose's early experiments with cheap drugstore eye makeup and vending machine lip color in a particularly revolting shade of tangerine that gave her a rash.

Peggy stands, smoothing her dress one final time and going over to the closet. She takes out a handbag, and riffles through Steve's tie hanger, selecting a red one which will match her dress and coordinate well with the gray suit she had watched him put on earlier.

"Are you ready?" Drea asks, her voice a bit less dispirited than it had been a few moments earlier, and Peggy nods and moves toward her. Drea spritzes the perfume precisely, two sprays that float in the air for Peggy to walk through. She had always touched on her own scent, a bit at each wrist and at her throat, and just a drop or two on a sachet in her brassiere, but then the children had come along, and now this was a particular tradition whenever one of them helped her get ready.

"Be good for Rose," Peggy says as she leaves the room, and Drea calls back, "If she's good to me."

Rose herself is sitting sprawled out in the doorway of her bedroom, scribbling into a notebook. She is in the midst of a hard-fought campaign for presidency of the upcoming senior class, and lately seems to have decided to plop herself down whenever an idea might catch her. Her legs aren’t long, even at the end of her growth spurt, but she’s positioned herself so they stretch out into the hallway and Peggy steps over them as she passes.

"Don't forget about bedtime," she reminds her eldest, and Rose makes a vague affirmative sound before she places a firm full stop at the end of whatever sentence she is writing and, stretching, looks up at her mother.

"What did you say?"

"Bedtime," Peggy repeats firmly. "Your siblings must adhere to it. As should you. I know that school is coming to an end, but it isn’t here yet."

"Fine," Rosie says with a wave of her hand, and Peggy knows that she'll see the bedroom light snap off just as they turn up the driveway. She starts on her way again (if Rose wants to develop poor sleeping habits, that is her responsibility) but then turns back.

"And be kind to your sister," she tells Rose, dropping her voice a bit. "I think she's having a hard time."

"I can make her a Surprise," Rose suggests, and Peggy shudders, and not just because of Rosie's notoriously poor cooking skills. Drea is the only one of the children with clear memories of her birth parents - she was five when they were killed in a fire while out for their anniversary dinner. One of the things she remembers most clearly is the multitude of casseroles her birth mother made: Hamburger Surprise, Tuna Surprise, Potato Surprise... Peggy has no doubt that they were as ordinary, or perhaps as lackluster, as any example of such a dish, but Drea had built them up in her mind, built them up for Nate, who had no memories of their parents, such that she had spent her childhood requesting various types of Surprises for birthday meals or following an especially good report card.

Steve has turned into a good cook and with Emma at his side they can turn out almost anything, but a Surprise has never been Peggy’s idea of fine cuisine.

"Supper is already being taken care of," Peggy says, adding the thankfully for you only mentally. She can smell Sam's Cornbread in the oven now, can hear the airy silence downstairs, punctuated with little sounds that signify Steve refereeing a fight between Emma and Nate, likely about how much spice to add to the chili. "Just be nice to Drea."

"If she's nice to me," Rosie says, and Peggy refrains from lifting her eyes upward and asking why she had been given two daughters who were so similar and yet refused to realize it.

"Everyone's finished their schoolwork, but make sure that Nate’s book report ends up in his bag. And Emma is trying a new recipe for creamed Brussels sprouts - please tell everyone that they must at least taste it. Don’t simply take the whole pot and bury it in the garbage pail, and certainly don’t try to throw it in the woods the way you did the spinach," Peggy tells her shrewdly, but a new idea seemed to have struck and Rosie is back to her notebook again.

Peggy moves on. Rose has minded her siblings before, and Peggy doesn't want to be late to the dinner and cause an inter-agency incident; Howard would never let her hear the end of it. Besides, she and Steve will have an opportunity to discuss Drea in the car over - there comes a point where even a night away from the children is never truly away from the children.

Rosie lets Nate and Emma stay up for an extra half hour to cement herself as a Cool Older Sister. Once they're asleep, she knocks on Drea's door, barely waiting to be invited before she enters.

Drea is lying on her back on her bed, tossing a ball up and catching it.

"Be careful it doesn't hit your face," Rose says, hoping that it doesn't come out mean or bossy the way her words sometimes do when she's talking to Drea.

"It’s never happened to me before.” Drea doesn’t take her eyes off the ball. “Just because you’re still scarred from the Wiffle Ball Incident—”

“You said you wouldn’t ever mention that!” Rose comes in and closes the door all the way. “Ugh, just move over.” Drea groans as she sits up against the headboard, but she tucks her legs up to make room and Rosie takes a seat. “Look, I heard you asking Mom about makeup and stuff. Are people giving you trouble at school? Because I’ll give them a talking to if they are.”

“You’re not queen of the high school yet. No one has to just listen to you when you go blab in their face,” says Drea, jutting out her chin, although they both know that when Rosie gives someone a talking to, it not infrequently involves violence. (There had been a question about whether or not she was even allowed to run for the student council based on the number of detentions and suspensions on her record.)

“You’re my sister,” says Rose, setting her own chin. “And if someone’s making problems for you, I’ll take care of it.”

Despite herself, Drea laughs. “You sound like Jimmy Hoffa.”

“Maybe, but Mom would make sure that I covered my tracks better than he did.” Rose lies back across the bed, legs just long enough for her feet to still touch the floor. She turns her face, her hair fanned around her as she looks at Drea, curled up at the head of the bed. “You know I’m serious, right?”

“I know. But it’s not really someone in particular, it’s just...life.”

Rosie sighs. “Yeah.” She puts out her hand, and Drea scooches down to grasp it. “Life’s hard.”

Sarcasm is on the tip of Drea’s tongue - “Tell me more, oh wise one!” - but instead she stays quiet and holds her sister’s hand until their parents return.

Drea and Steve go with Bucky, Layla, and their kids to watch a blowout Orioles win during their vacation at the end of July - Drea cheers louder than anyone. In August, after they've returned from their own vacation, Peggy sits Drea down at the vanity and walks her a half dozen different beauty products, while Rose comments loudly from the bed. Just before school starts in September, Drea uses her allowance to get a flat iron and gives herself three burns learning how to use it.

The Orioles lose the Series to the Mets, and Drea starts wearing dresses for the first time since she was a child.

It won’t be any help, Steve realizes as she sits down across from him at the breakfast table, settling her skirt self-consciously, sitting up straight and crossing her ankles with awkward politeness, to remind her once more that she doesn’t need to do this. She has a good head on her shoulders, and she’s using it to process everything in the world that tells her otherwise. He remembers what Peggy has said about it, that she’ll come back to herself, she’ll come back to them, when she’s ready. So instead he says, “Hey, kid,” and when she looks up at him, he smiles and tells her, “there’s always next year, you know? Always another shot if we need it.”

And to his relief, she smiles back, the expression familiar, wild-edged and lovely, the same as it’s always been. Hello in there, he thinks.

“Yeah, Dad,” she says. “There’s always next year.”

More chapters here

#Steggy fic #Steggy #Steve Rogers #Peggy Carter #things left behind fic #probably nothing new next week while I do other fic prep

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purplesurveys · 5 years ago

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560

What's your favourite type of bird? I...‘ve never really had a favorite bird. How many friends do you have on Facebook? Good for you, I’m not feeling lazy to check tonight. 629. What was on the last sandwich you ate? This question was also in another recent survey I took haha. Ham and cheese. What sort of music did you listen to when you were in high school? It was punk rock that mostly carried me through high school, but I also listened to some pop rock and alternative rock from time to time. Do you prefer gold or silver jewellery? Silver. I reeeeeeally am not into gold.

Have you ever gotten back together with an ex? Yes. How far away is the closest store to your house and what is it? There’s a 7-11 and a drugstore just across the main gate of our village, but you have to take a u-turn to get there because it’s in the main highway.

What is your favourite Thai dish? Pad thai and green curry. How many contacts do you have in your phone? Too many. There was a time when I used Gab’s number to sign up for some stuff online so her contacts got synced to mine as well, so it doubled the amount of contacts on my phone. When was the last time you made out with somebody? Tuesday night. What month of the year was your mother born? September. Do you have any friends that seem to know all the hot gossip? Kate, but she graduated and she’s working now and not very gossip-y these days :’( Second to her would probs be Angela. Are there any candles in your bedroom, and what scent are they? No, I don’t really spend on candles. What tv show(s) have you been watching currently? Just Friends. I want to continue watching Queer Eye, though. When was the last time you went to a birthday party? I’m not sure about birthday parties per se but the last celebration I went to was the birthday dinner Angela hosted at Frankie’s. How many apps do you have on your phone? Meh, I have quite a lot and now I’m too lazy to count. What pet names do you use with your significant other? I’ll take a pass at this question lol. Do you have to wear a name badge where you work? I don’t work but some college buildings are stricter about IDs than others, yeah. Do you have a dress code or have to wear a uniform where you work? There is no dress code in UP, which is one of the reasons it’s the best (and top) school in the country. What brand is your toaster, if you have one? We don’t have one because we wouldn’t really use it if we got one. Have you ever dated a smoker? If not, would you? I guess I am dating one now. Gab started vaping recently and I hopped on the same train not long after. LOOOOOOOOOOL I am such a CLOWN Are there any movies you've seen so many times? Two for the goshdang Road. And the first Twilight movie. What was the last thing you purchased with cash? Pad thai and this iced drink called choco coffee at a Thai food stall in school. I don’t usually treat myself to that much food but it was my last day of school before the 5-day weekend started, I had just finished a brutal workout in PE, and I just felt like I deserved some kind of reward. Can you hear anything right now? The whirring of the electric fan across me. Is there anybody else in the room you're currently in? Nope, just me. What's the name of the store you usually get your groceries? We don’t have a permanent grocery but my mom would typically go to SM groceries or in a local grocery called Freshto that’s really near our village. Would you rather travel to Japan or Scotland? Japan. Does your house have a porch/balcony? It originally had one, but we refurbished the balcony and turned it into my brother’s room. We still kept a part of the original balcony intact though because it’s where my dog got used to peeing, and we didn’t want him to lose that space. We might’ve lost the balcony but we still have a rooftop if we wanted a view. What's your usual order when you go to a coffee shop? It depends, because the coffee shops I usually go to each have different drinks that I like; like I’d get an iced caramel macchiato in Starbucks, an iced mocha from Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf, an iced hazelnut drink from this other local cafe we go to, etc. But I think in general, my security blanket is caramel macchiato. Have you ever seen a theatre show? Not a professionally-produced one. I’ve seen many recitals and amateur productions, though. What was the last movie you saw and who did you watch it with? El Camino. I watched it alone. What is your mother's first name? Abigail. Do you like to dance? Only when I’m super super super tipsy, haha. And even until then it’s still a hit-or-miss if I’ll end up dancing. It’s just not my thing, overall. What's your favourite type of bread? Brioche. Do you receive catalogues and brochures in your mailbox? As far as I know, we don’t.

What colour is the sky right now? Black. Do you share a middle name with any of your siblings? Nope, my parents didn’t do that to us. We obviously all have the same maiden names, though. Have there ever been any bushfires/wildfires in your area? No. Have you ever taken a ride in an ambulance? Nope, never happened. How would you label your sexual orientation? Demisexual, which is under the umbrella of asexuality. When was the last time you took a nap during the day? Just yesterday. What did you have to eat for dinner last night? I skipped dinner last night because of my toothache, so I stuck with the potato chips that my sister had bought that day but never got to finish. Have you ever been a member in a band? Nah, I never really wanted to be in a band. I wanted to learn the drums, but it didn’t mean I also wanted to have a band of my own. Are you double-jointed? I am not. What was the last thing you had to drink? Coffee. Do you currently have any bruises on your body? Not right now, no. Or at least none that I know of. Who was the last message you received from and what did they say? “Impossibleeeeee” from Gab when I told her I saw someone selling AirPods for way cheap. They were selling it for P2,400 or something like $46 lmao it’s ridiculous. What colour are your eyes? Black. Can you cry on command? If so, have you ever used it to your advantage? No I can’t. Do you consider your goals easily achievable or are they pretty grand? They’re pretty grand. What's your favourite kind of accent? You know how Claire Foy speaks in The Crown? That’s my faaaaavorite accent. What time does the sun go down where you live at this time of the year? By this time of the year, the sun sets preeeeeeetty dang early. It’s completely dark by 5:30 PM. Do you prefer beer, wine or spirits? Spirits, def. I hate the first two, especially beer. When was the last time you ate Mexican food? A couple of weeks ago. My mom has loved this Mexican place for ages and so we went there for lunch. Have you ever watched yourself on video? Of course. I think that’s pretty unavoidable by the time you’re 21, lmao. What time did you wake up today? I woke up at 11:30, probably because I took two painkillers the day before. What time will you go to sleep tonight? I have no clue. I still have an entire cup of coffee to finish, so we’ll see how that goes. Do you have separate emails for personal and business? Kinda? I use my personal email for social media stuff, and my school also provides us with our own emails for more academic, serious-y, professional matters, but not necessarily business. Are you the eldest, youngest or a middle child? I’m the eldest. What's your favourite vegetable? Broccoli. What colours are you wearing today? A grey sweater that’s like 4x my size. Do you have a subscription to any streaming services like Netflix? I use Netflix and Spotify but I’m not the one paying for both. Would you rather eat Italian or Indian food? Indian. Are you sitting, standing or lying down right now? I’m sitting up on the couch. Have you ever missed a flight? Nooooo no no my parents would make sure that never happens. Are you someone who always needs a coffee before you can function? No. I can do fine without coffee. Do your neighbours have any pets? Have you ever met them? I’m sure some of them do, but seeing as I don’t really talk to our neighbors, I obviously have never met their pets. When was the last time you washed your hair? This afternoon. What colour is your bedroom door? Brown. Have you ever seen a lunar eclipse? Yeah, I saw the super blue blood moon last year. Pretty fucking wicked. Do you know your significant other's passwords? I know the password to her laptop, but that’s it. What was the last thing you said aloud? “Nope, I’ll do it” I told my sister when she asked if I wanted her to turn off the AC in the living room. Do you know anyone who writes huge essays when they message you? Not really. People tend to type in short, quick messages when they wanna say something long haha. What's your favourite type of salad? Spicy tuna saladddddd.

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