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squeeneyart · 4 years ago

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Breathe in the Salt - Chapter 19

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Beta reader is @thesnadger!

Social interaction has its pros and cons.

Martin considers a way to pass the time.

Technically, there was no call that night.

Martin had had months to familiarize himself with the strange predawn that added a little color to the sky each morning. His home was on the western coast, so of course he didn’t see much of it until he’d made the trek uphill. With some cloud cover and dense fog, though, the light would scatter and cast a cold blanket of grey light over his corner of the world.

Early on he found it sort of nice, seeing the world ‘wake up’. He’d even started to get up earlier than necessary, just to make himself some tea and look out the window for signs of birds or other creatures who made their lives at dawn and dusk. There were some lines of poetry about it somewhere in his notebook, something about the magic of a quiet morning in solitude.

He’d lasted about a week with that. Turned out his life was already quiet and full enough of contemplative solitude, and warm blankets were much better than cold kitchen tile against his feet.

It was during this little sliver of morning when his mobile, vibrating against the wood of his bedside table, dragged him back to consciousness.

“No…” he groaned, nuzzling into his pillow. It could only be one person. “Don’t make me come in early. Don’t make me come in early, you prick-��

He reached over (god it was cold) and grabbed the offending object, keeping as much of himself under the blankets as possible and slipping the mobile back under with him. The screen was bright and painful in his cozy darkness. His eyes adjusted, and on his lockscreen the time read 4:06 a.m.

Before he could convince himself to let the damned thing ring itself out, he glanced at the caller ID. If anything it should’ve given him even more reason to let the call go, but Martin’s finger was already pressing the answer button.

Attempting to whisper, his voice came out rough and croaky. “Jon?”

“Martin. Glad you’re still up,” Jon said in that distant way of someone paying attention to another task entirely. Keyboard clicks could be heard in the background. “How are you doing?”

Still up? Bleary and confused, Martin replied as if he’d just run into Jon at the store, “Fine, I guess? How are you?”

“I’ve successfully whittled down my assignments enough to have personal research opportunities.” There was a weary but nevertheless triumphant edge to his words. “If this is some sort of test of my abilities, I’d say I deserve a raise.”

“Impressive,” Martin yawned. “Does that mean anything for me, or…”

“No, not yet.” He could feel Jon deflate on the other end. “I’ve only just started looking, and Elias is still acting rather blasé about what we found. I hadn’t pegged him as the type to put business relations over the mission statement, but if that’s the case then-”

“Why send you out here?”

“Precisely.” Jon clicked his tongue. “So I’m going to pry in that direction while digging through old reports. I assume the others will do the same once they’re caught up.”

Well, progress was as good as anything to wake up to. He reluctantly pulled the blankets from over his head and peeked out at his window. The frost was just visible at the edges, its frigid hands creeping across the glass. Perhaps a little while longer under the covers.

“Anyway, I’m glad I caught you,” Jon continued, filling the space Martin had left empty. The keyboard taps had ceased. “I’d decided to give you some breathing room, but you were quiet during the call with everyone and I thought- well, I wanted to make sure you were okay. As much as can be expected.”

A small, halfhearted smile found its way onto Martin’s face. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

“So… are you okay? I know you said you were, but it sounded like you were being polite.”

Martin looked up at his ceiling. “I mean I was being polite, but… Yeah, I’m okay. As much as can be expected, like you said, but okay.”

“Hm.”

“Hm?”

“What? Nothing, it’s good. I’m gl- I’m happy that you’re… doing okay.” Midway between this thought, Jon seemed to switch the mobile from one ear to the other. “If you aren’t, I just hope you know that you can tell me if something is going on. Sometimes there are emotional aspects that contribute to an event-”

As Jon spoke at length, Martin noticed a distinct tumbling feel in the way Jon spoke, like his thoughts were coming faster than his mouth could follow. Not alcohol, surely? No, a different idea had been bothering Martin since Jon had first called.

“-can’t speak for Tim or Sasha about hours, and if you’d rather just talk one-on-one, I’m sure-”

“Right, hours. Jon, I don’t mean to pry, but have you slept at all?”

The stream of consciousness halted in its tracks. “What?”

“You seem a bit… out of it? Have you checked the time recently?”

A moment passed. Then another. Then- “That can’t be right.”

Weakly, Martin replied, “Good morning to you, too.”

“I-” Jon began. He then made a small, irritated noise. “I woke you up.”

Martin ran a hand over his face and pressed it to his upturned mouth. Into it he mumbled, “You really need to sleep.”

As if the hours had finally come crashing down upon him, Jon’s voice dropped low and soft and properly tired. “I could’ve sworn it was earlier.”

“I mean, in a sense-”

“You know what I mean.” A yawn finally broke through, but he fought it back down. “I hope it wasn’t too much earlier than your normal wake-up time?”

“Nah. You’ve seen how early my day starts. Besides, my alarm isn’t the most pleasant thing to wake up to, and you could’ve been Peter calling me in early.” It was like getting up to enjoy the morning, but he was still in bed and someone else was there (sort of). As far as he was concerned, the pros outweighed the cons.

“Then I’ll hold my apology for a later date, if you don’t mind.” He spoke bluntly, but possibly in a way that was meant to be funny. Martin was still working out when Jon was being blunt in a rude way or in a friendly way, and his gut pushed him toward the latter. “I also won’t apologize for my work ethic. I work better at night, without distractions or other people.”

Rubbing the bridge of his nose, Martin asked, “Okay, I can play along with that, but when do you sleep?”

“We have a cot.”

Martin scoffed. “What, at work?” An image of the three researchers finding different corners in some dark back room to snooze on company time was almost too much.

“Working after-hours is implied in the description of any academic job. If we didn’t steal some of the day back to sleep, we’d all have dropped dead by now.” For a moment his voice strained as if he was stretching, dipping into the background before returning to normal. “Though this past week has been a bit more extreme due to circumstances. I’m not always up until dawn, calling people in a stupor.”

“First time for everything?” Martin said helpfully, pushing down weakly against the rising guilt. “I know it’s a bad situation, but I’m sorry you all have to work so hard.”

“No need for that. I can choose to sacrifice a few nights for something important.”

Slowly, very slowly, Martin pressed his burning face into his pillow. Maybe it was too early for him after all, to handle anything approaching concern. The heat was surely enough to melt the ice right off the window. Ignoring the ridiculous reaction happening in his cheeks, he turned his face back upwards and mumbled, “Thanks.”

There was a small rustling of papers. With the same damned softness, Jon continued, “I’m sure Tim and Sasha would say the same.”

A quiet thing clung deep in Martin’s throat, and in his nose, and he imagined a version of himself from the night before, scared and powerless and ready to dump any and all his feelings on the first person who would speak with him. Would that have been something Jon was prepared for, if he’d called at a sensible hour? Or if Martin had called first? But it was nearly morning, and he was well rested, and eventually the thought fell away in his wakefulness.

Without a response to go on, Jon said, "I’m not going to be as… outwardly optimistic as before, but…”

“You’re making progress,” Martin finished, coughing lightly. “I know. I’ll be patient, and careful. It’s hard after the weird stuff we did last week, though.”

“I’d like to say it was all due to extreme circumstances, but we are just like this.”

“There go my hopes of you all getting proper rest when this is over.”

“S’not impossible, but terribly unlikely.”

Martin sighed, checking his screen clock again. Still some time left. “Is it safe to assume you won’t be sleeping at this point?”

“Won’t be long until I can go to the archives. I’ll wait until then and avoid being groggy on public transit.” A pause. “Also my last energy drink is still working.”

“Mm.” Letting his forearm fall across his eyes, Martin gave up that particular battle. “Anything new set off your ‘fake’ alarms recently?”

“You’re in luck. Just yesterday a man came in to tell me about his experience with ‘spy birds’ that even you can’t devil’s-advocate your way through.”

“I’ll be the judge.”

It was a tough sell, even for Martin whose own situation made a lot of things seem possible. Midway through he even began to resent the person for wasting time better spent solving Martin’s problems, but that was an emotional rabbit hole for another time. By the end he had to concede that it was more of a conspiracy than a supernatural encounter, if they were going to get into the semantics of it. Still, Jon made it easy to be contrarian.

“When we’re not busy with all this,” Jon said, accepting that Martin wasn’t yet ready to forgo the benefit of the doubt, “I’ll be happy to sit outside and film birds all day for the sake of science, but the man finds perfectly normal birds unsettling.”

With a silly kind of bullheadedness, Martin replied, “Plenty of seabirds around here. Maybe that’s what I’ll do while I wait for something to happen.”

Jon snorted. “I expect a full report by Monday.”

Before Martin could respond, his phone made an all too familiar and dreadful noise. He really should’ve picked a song or something, he thought as he dismissed his alarm. “Well, it’s that time.”

“Yes, I should be getting along with my morning as well. Good luck with your birdwatching,” he said with joking scorn.

“Have fun sleeping on the bus.”

“Ha ha. Goodbye, Martin.”

“Bye.”

Dropping his arm onto the bed, mobile in hand, Martin ignored the numbness in his fingers and considered how invested he was in writing a fake report about birds just to see the reaction it would get. Maybe he would text Tim about it.

The idea sat in the back of his mind as he got dressed, as he made breakfast, as he put on his shoes and coat and hat. When he opened the door to meet the cold that had settled in overnight, he couldn’t help but wince at the extra bit of sting the wind delivered, but he clung to his fanciful little idea all the way up the hills and through town.

Creative writing had never been his strong suit. It was debatable if poetry was, but he’d reached a point where it was more of a comforting activity than a skill. Still, as he got to work in the blessedly empty lighthouse, he thought of the little notebook he’d stashed into his bag. If it all came to nothing, he could end up with scraps of text to rearrange into poetry someday.

It was a mess of a book. Technically bound, it was still cheap with some pages starting to come loose from his handling. He’d long ago given up on the idea of a nice looking notebook, especially as it had become personal enough to count as horribly embarrassing. It was inevitable for any poetry notebook of his to become more akin to a scattered, flowery journal of sorts, and this one was no different.

It was also a step up from previous ones in that it wasn’t some spiral-bound school notebook he’d found in the discount section of the general store. No, he had found it in a bookstore discount section. The stiff cover even had sort of a nice texture before he’d beaten it up by shoving it into a drawer a million times.

The day crawled by with no interruptions, leaving Martin on edge. Peter hadn’t come by once. Perhaps he’d assumed Martin had had any boldness scared out of him, an aggravating thought. He had the will to act. He also had some amount of self preservation left in him, that was all.

By lunchtime he was itching to talk to anyone, but texting the others was off limits and it was so dreary outside that going out to eat was a non-starter. He supposed he could stop by the grocery store. He knew some of the people from when he’d worked there. Most of the ones he’d worked with had also left, but maybe…

No, that was a stupid idea. He wasn’t seeing anyone unless they came to him.

No one did.

So in his time off the clock, he stared at his little notebook and hoped his brain would think of anything to say.

The weather had taken a more miserable turn by the time he’d left work in the evening. He only saw a few birds struggling in the gales, none of them particularly watchful. If he had to guess, they didn’t care much about what anyone was doing. Not great material for a report, but maybe for a poem when the feeling hit.

The streets were largely empty as people avoided the high winds and mist that sprayed against Martin’s glasses, making it a challenge to see anything around him. He had half a mind to just stow them away, but there was going to be water in his eyes no matter what he chose to do. Just another little thing to make his day worse that he couldn’t change.

Part of him considered that the weather often matched his mood, but it wasn’t hard for bad weather to pair with sour thoughts. Nearly all weather was bad and nearly all moods were sour. Correlation, etcetera.

As much as he’d wanted to check his phone as soon as work was over, the others could wait until he’d stopped feeling so damned sorry for himself.

And he did feel awful, though there was no inciting incident. It had been a long, tedious day where the words wouldn’t flow, the world was grey, and any residual happiness from his conversation with Jon had been slowly eaten away by the loneliness of the present. Why was it so hard to hold onto those good things? A good start was supposed to make the day better, not make the rest of the day look worse.

It had to be everything at the lighthouse. He’d always been moody as a person, but the stress had to be getting to him. His head shouldn’t have been hurting from holding back tears when nothing had happened.

God, the squinting wasn’t helping, either. He knew where he was going, of course, but the streetlights were barely helping. The sky had decided to paint itself over everything, a dark, grey blob of water and concrete and fog. The walk down the hill was going to be a slippery pain, even in his grippy boots.

Had he passed by the florist? He probably should have by now, but the main road hadn’t ended yet.

And even when he got home, oh joy, it would be to sit at a table and eat with his mother, and based on her tastes she would love to stand outside in the misery of it all even though it would be terrible for her health. What was the point of trying when another person wouldn’t even listen-

He’d been walking for too long.

The road continued on, no longer heading into the surrounding trees but stretching itself past the point of impossibility. And at the end, in a place where it should not have been visible through the colorless mist, was a large, familiar house.

Ah, Martin thought. Someone had decided to talk to him today.

Looking behind him, the lighthouse was just barely visible. Looking to either side was a fool’s errand, as everything had been consumed by the grey.

He slipped the mobile phone out of his pocket and bent over to shield it from the rain. The screen lit up at his touch, but as expected any and all communication was blocked. Nevertheless, he opened the group chat and began to type.

Martin: i think simon wants to talk. everything is fog and i cant go anywhere else. hoping my phone makes it out so this makes it

He pressed send, then mustered up whatever hope he had and added:

Martin: talk to you soon

#tma #the magnus archives #breathe in the salt #martin blackwood #jonathan sims #sasha james #tim stoker #peter lukas #jonmartin #fanfic #au fanfic #selkie au

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jobean12-blog · 4 years ago

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Top Shelf: Chapter 11- The Pages in Between

Pairing: Bucky x reader (Bookshop/bartender AU)

Word Count: 1,637

Summary: You tell Bucky your idea on how to save the bookshop

Author’s Note: Hey everyone, Happy Monday! I know I say it every time but I’m so thankful for those of you that have stuck with me through this story. It makes me so happy. I’m sure you all saw this coming and that’s ok. As I’ve said before this really is just a love story that hopefully makes you feel good and happy. Thank you again! Thank you all for reading! All my love always! ❤❤❤

Warnings: SUPER FLUFFY LOVE FLUFF, implied sexy times :)

Previous Chapters (* indicates smut)

Chapter 1: Enchantment

Chapter 2: Cookie Crumble

Chapter 3: Sweet Anticipation

Chapter 4: Read Between the Limes

Chapter 5: Secrets on the Shelf

Chapter 6: Love Between the Covers *

Chapter 7: Love Lines & Soul Finds

Chapter 8: Drunk in Love *

Chapter 9: Pour in onto the Page

Chapter 10: Recipe for Love *

His response is almost immediate, your phone lighting up as his message comes through. ‘Really baby?? I can’t wait to hear all about it! I’m not going to lie I’m pretty excited.’ You smile at your phone as your fingers fly over the keyboard. ‘I know, me too. I mean it’s just the beginning of an idea and of course we have to talk about a bunch of things but I’m eager to hear what you think.’

You sink further into the tub, a sigh of contentedness leaving your lips. Just as your eyes begin to close your phone buzzes again. You grab it and read the message. ‘Send me one more pic. I have another two hours before I can get home to you.’ Stifling a giggle, you snap a photo of your legs resting atop the edge of the tub and send it his way. ‘Longest two hours of my life,’ is his reply, followed by, ‘you better be awake when I get home…’

Deciding to leave him hanging you enjoy the rest of the warm water, allowing the bubble bath to do its magic. By the time you get out you’re softer than a baby’s bottom and very relaxed. You put on Bucky’s tee shirt and get into his bed, cuddling into his pillow so you’re enveloped in his smell.

He gets home around 2 am, quietly shuffling into his room to find you peacefully asleep in his bed. The blinds are still open, and the light of the moon reflects off your glowing skin. Bucky sits at the edge of the bed, delicately tracing his fingers over your bare shoulder. Brushing some hair from your face he leans down to kiss the corner of your mouth just as it curls up into a smile.

You roll onto your back and blink open your eyes, tugging on his arm so he lays down. “Hi beautiful,” he whispers as his hands smooth over your silky skin. “I’m sorry if I woke you. I was just…” You silence him with a kiss, any excitement over your idea momentarily forgotten.

For once Bucky sleeps later than you, his bare feet slapping against the floor and jolting you from your thoughts. “How long have you been up doll?” You run over to him and throw yourself into his arms. He easily catches you, peppering your face with kisses. “I made coffee. BUT IT’S SO BAD. So now you have to make coffee.” You give him a sorry look, pushing yourself up and onto the counter while he starts a new pot.

Minutes later he hands you a cup, the delicious, hot liquid warming you from head to toe. “Ok, now that we’ve both had a sip of edible coffee and I can concentrate on what you’re saying rather than trying to get you naked, let’s hear it!” You almost spit out your coffee at this last comment, shaking your head in amusement. “Ok, so. Eeeeeeeee, ok, this coffee isn’t helping, I’m practically buzzing!” you say before you jump down from the counter.

Pacing the floor, you chew your bottom lip as you try to get your thoughts in order. To Bucky’s credit he waits patiently, sipping his coffee quietly and letting you do your thing. “Alright. So, I hate to sound all about myself, but everyone really liked the pie last night, right?” Bucky agrees with no hesitation. “And grandma, you and Nat went nuts over my chocolate chip peanut butter cookies, yes?” Again, Bucky nods enthusiastically, smiling big. “And you and grandma really loved my chocolate pie and chocolate chip cookies?”

Bucky gently grabs your shoulders, bringing you into his chest and looking you straight in the eyes. “Yes, yes and more yes. Your baking is amazing and there is no doubt that everyone agrees.” You can feel the blush creep up your cheeks, your head dropping to hide in Bucky’s chest. Feeling the rumble of his laugh makes you smile, his finger hooking under your chin to bring your eyes to his. “I mean it.”

With a kiss you continue. “Thank you. So, if you guys like it there is no reason that other people wouldn’t like it. What if we added a café or bakery to the bookshop? Or both! I realize that it will cost money and right now that’s the problem. But I haven’t really thought all that through yet. However, I think if we add the baked goods and maybe even coffee and hot chocolate and stuff like that it could draw in more of a crowd. Also, you have a bartending license. Maybe we can do poetry slams and/or trivia nights. We can serve drinks and treats and charge at the door.”

Your hands are flying every which way and you’re talking a mile a minute, your enthusiasm warming Bucky’s heart and making him fall even more in love with you. It isn’t until you’re out of breath and he’s finished his coffee that you finally slow down. “Well?” He stares at you for what feels like forever before he puts down his cup and takes you in his arms.

“I love you. And I love your idea. I definitely think we have some things to figure out and a lot to go over but together I think we can make anything work.” You shake your head yes, too many emotions welling up inside you to speak. You simply press your lips to his and tell him everything he needs to know.

Later that morning you head home to do laundry and clean up, missing Bucky the moment you walk through your door. Luckily, he had the idea to stay over at the bookshop tonight and sleep up in the secret attic space. To say you were excited was an understatement.

You pack a light bag and head over to meet him, but not before grabbing the tin of chocolate chip peanut butter cookies you baked earlier as a surprise for him. The bookshop is closing just as you arrive, and you smile at the customer who is leaving. Bucky runs around the cashier counter and plants a firm kiss on your lips.

“Hi. Missed you.” You shove the tin into his hands and say, “I was just about to say the same thing. I made you something.” Bucky’s eyes widen as he starts to open the tin, bringing it up to his nose and inhaling the delicious peanut butter and chocolate smell. “You made me more?” he asks, face still half inside. “Yes, and you can eat as many as you want, as long as you share with me.”

Popping one into his mouth he gives you a thumbs up, placing the tin down and turning the sign to closed and locking the door. “The pizza just got here 5 minutes ago, and they gave us paper plates and everything.” Your mouth waters at the mention of food. “Ok, great. I’m starving. I have water and more snacks too. Are we eating upstairs?”

Bucky nods, taking the cookies and pizza and walking toward the back. When you get up the stairs and open the door you’re surprised to see that Bucky has hung a small string of star lights over the love seat and made a pile of blankets and pillows in the middle of the floor.

“Aw Buck, it looks so beautiful and cozy! This is going to be so fun.” The two of you settle on the floor surrounded by the pizza box and snacks, your feet touching while you dig into your first slice. “You have some sauce right there,” Bucky says, leaning in to brush his thumb over your bottom lip. You take his thumb into your mouth and suck off the sauce, closing your eyes and letting out a moan.

When you open them again his lips are only inches from yours. He carefully takes the pizza slice from your hands. “I was eating that,” you whisper, your eyes dropping to his mouth. “I have something better,” he teases, before pressing his lips to yours.

Laying on the floor amidst the soft blankets and pillows, cradled against Bucky’s chest you watch the rain drops pitter patter against the sky light above you, the lights from the city dancing along the dark walls. The low rumble of distant thunder echoes through the quiet space as you trace small patterns along his bare skin.

“I love summer thunderstorms.” Bucky hums in agreement, his eyes closed and his head resting against one arm while the other holds you close. “Do you think we should tell my grandma our idea?” Bucky’s question catches you off guard and for a second, you’re unsure of what to say. “Well. I think your idea of doing our research and talking to some friends, like Sam, is a good way to start. Maybe after we have a more solid plan we can sit down and show her everything.”

He’s quiet for a few moments, the sound of his breathing and the city below all you hear now that the rain has stopped. “That seems smart. Sam will probably be a big help since he opened the bar at the beginning of the year. And I know he has some other friends in the restaurant business too.” You prop your head up on your elbow and he turns to face you. “Good idea! I like it,” you say, tracing over the stubble on his jaw.

Grabbing your waist, he rolls over and sits you on top of him, the blanket falling from your shoulders. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” You gently roll your hips against him, smiling softly. “Oh Bucky.” The words fall from your lips with a quiet tenderness and the world falls away with every brush of his fingertips.

@aesthetical-bucky @auro-ora @azurika-writes @bugsbucky @buckys-broody-muffin @bucky-on-my-mind @book-dragon-13 @devynsdiary @eurynome827 @hiddles-rose @hailmary-yramliah @emilylyoness @hawksmagnolia @ikaris-whore @itsunclebucky @imgaril-lindru @jhangelface0523 @jewels2876 @loricameback @littledarlinhavefaithinme @littleredstarfish @mushyjellybeans @marvelandotherfandomimagines @marvelgirl7 @nano--raptor @randomfandompenguin @sallycanwait68 @softpeachbarnes @scarletsoldierrr @the-wayward-robot @when-the-hell-is-bucky @throwmyheartawayagain @flyawaybay @amandatar-06 @nd1998sc @captainchrisstan @vherriepie @godofplumsandthunder @fire-flv @jamesbarnesappreciationclub @irishflutiegirl @rinthehufflepuff @moonybarnes @nordlysinthewoods @inflxmes @lauratang @my-favorite-fics-and-imagines @buchanansebba @addikted-2-dopamine

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dreaminginthedeepsouth · 4 years ago

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* * * *

INTERVIEW: SAINT MISBEHAVIN’ WAVY GRAVY

by Richard Whittaker, Dec 21, 2010

One day I got a note from ServiceSpace founder, Nipun Mehta offering me tickets to a new documentary movie about Wavy Gravy. Would you like to go?

I went. Although I was aware of Wavy Gravy as a cultural icon, I really knew very little about him. The film is a eye-opener. Michelle Esrick’s loving documentary, Saint Misbehavin’ - 10 years in the making - is a real introduction to this remarkable man. I'd never heard about Hugh Romney, the man who later became famous as Wavy Gravy. And what a story. I'll mention just one of its surprises: earlier in his life, Hugh Romney was Lenny Bruce's manager.

A few weeks after seeing the film, at Mehta’s urging, I had the chance to interview Wavy Gravy himself.

Richard Whittaker: How are you feeling about Saint Misbehavin’?

Wavy Gravy: Oh, it’s a swell movie. I’m honored to be so well-documented, and the review in the New York Times was embarrassing. I’m not that good.

RW: You said in the film that you’re an “intuitive clown.” Would you mind saying something about what that means?

WG: I’m trained in the art of acting improvisation. That means acting on the spur of the moment rather than doing, say, the focused slow burn and all the traditional clown moves. I don’t do any of that.

RW: So that would be about sensing the moment, what’s there, and taking in who you’re with.

WG: Absolutely—and sensing what’s going on. I was, for a number of years, with The Committee in San Francisco. I taught improvisation at Columbia Pictures. Harrison Ford was one of my students and I’ve taught improvisation at Camp Winnarainbow for over thirty years.

RW: I wanted to ask you about your history. For instance, in New York in Greenwich Village, you wrote poetry, right?

WG: Yes I did.

RW: Is any of it available? And is it something you’d want people to find?

WG: There are a couple of slender volumes out there. I think you’d have to go to Amazon or eBay to find them. I don’t even have copies myself. But other people do and will lend them to me when I need them.

RW: Do any titles stand out for you?

WG: Kaleidoscope and there’s Joe’s Song, which is taught in a poetry class at the University of California at Berkeley. Would you like to hear it?

RW: Please.

WG: Okay. It goes like this: “Once upon and ever since I was a child in a child’s world. I have wept a child’s tears and built a child’s wall of clay and stone and colored years of poems in paint and virgin gold. I sought to build a wall so tall from lion eggs from Gallilee, a brick of song among the dregs of silver nails and lesser men a mile long to kiss the sun and climb again. Once ago and ever now I stood a man on a child’s wall. I stopped and prayed to spider webs and roses of the sea. I spoke as one with all the earth and knew the pain of birth and death to be the same without my wall. Once upon and ever furled I stand alone with all the world.”

RW: That’s beautiful.

WG: I wrote it in 1960 or about then. I don’t write lyric poems very often. These days I mainly write haiku, usually when friends pass away, which is happening more and more frequently from natural causes. Also I’ve been having the good fortune to have my art exhibited, and I do a haiku to go with each piece.

RW: I’m imagining that, as a younger man, you had certain visions and deep feelings that could have been a liability for living the conventional life.

WG: I don’t think I ever had to contend with that one [laughs]. I live in the land of one thing after another. [speaking with an east Indian accent] “The sand only goes through the hourglass one grain at a time,” as some Hindu sage proclaimed. I’ve discovered that to be true.

RW: Did you have mentors who supported you in Greenwich Village?

WG: It was kind of amusing. I was going to theater school at Boston University, which was an amazing theater school. The finest directors in the world would come in and the whole college would read for a part. A freshman could get a lead. It was extraordinary. And if you weren’t cast in the production, you would be cast in the lighting crew or the costume crew or the stage crew. Then there was an upset about theater students not doing their social studies and the university attempted to move the campus of the theater school over to where the rest of the university was laid out. Just at that time, the teachers who had all been hired during the McCarthy blackball because they couldn’t work on Broadway, well, the blackball ended and they all quit. They went to work at the Neighborhood Playhouse in New York City, and they took me with them.

But while I was at BU, I had read in Time Magazine about jazz and poetry in San Francisco. I thought, hey, I’ve written a couple of poems and I know some musicians. I can do that! So I got together with a bunch of artists from the museum school and we proceeded to take the basement of a bar called The Rock on Huntington Avenue. The place in the basement was called The Pebble in the Rock. We put in black tables and black clothes and mobiles and paintings and began doing jazz and poetry. It was the first jazz and poetry done on the East Coast. So I had the privilege of inaugurating the East Coast to jazz and poetry. I persisted in doing it for years in, of all places, Hartford Connecticut. On every Monday I would grab a bunch of musicians and go to Hartford and make substantial money. Otherwise I was going to the Neighborhood Playhouse and reading my poetry in the evenings at the Gaslight Café in Greenwich Village, as you saw in the movie.

RW: That’s an amazing story. There was another thing you said in the film, “put your good where it can do the most.”

WG: Which is the advice I gleaned from one of my mentors, the author and adventurer, Ken Kesey.

RW: Did that kind of focus something for you?

WG: Well, it lit up. It lit up. I had discovered that, somewhat. Whenever I would do a good thing, it made me feel good. I think I heard a preacher of color on television in the late fifties. He said, “It’s nice to be nice.” And that kind of hit a chord for me.

RW: Do you think there’s a mix in what artists do? That in your poetry, part of it was trying to give something?

WG: Hmmm, I don’t know. I was just trying to get out of the way and let whatever was inside of me come to the surface. In the early days, I was not all that consciously altruistic—although, in the early days of poetry, the poets were not paid. We used to pass a cornucopia around after an hour or so and people would put money in it. We made an embarrassing amount of money that way. Myself and Len Chandler, who was one of the first folk singers I brought into The Gaslight, he and I put on these capes with hoods—Len was an African-American and he had a motor scooter. And we would jump on the motor scooter at the end of the evening and drive down into the Bowery and find somebody passed out on the sidewalk. We’d stuff his pockets with money and drive off and find somebody else until we’d given away at least half of what we’d made in the course of the evening. It was a lot of fun.

RW: That’s incredible. What do you think led you to do that?

WG: I don’t know. It just seemed like a fun thing to do. We didn’t need all that money.

RW: Do you remember the moment when Ken Kesey said “Put your good where it will do the most good”?

WG: No. But he told me a lot of stuff—like, “You should honor your mother and your father.” This comes out of the Bible. As soon as I learned that Kesey had written that, I forget how he worded it, I immediately called my mother and my father and honored them verbally as best I could. And it was illuminating for them and for me. Afterwards, I called Ken up to thank him. He said, “Well, it’s just so darn simple.”

RW: I want to ask about giving and receiving. Do you have any thoughts in general, let’s say, about giving?

WG: Giving seems to be easy for me. Receiving is the thing I’m just beginning to learn how to do with grace. It’s a work in progress, like the rest of me. Over the last thirty years I’ve experienced considerable physical difficulty, having had to receive a series of spinal surgeries and spending amounts of time in body casts. You have no alternative, or you starve. So it was necessary. I tell people I learned patience in the hospital. [there’s a pause] That’s a pun.

RW: You’re right! [laughs]

WG: And as my infirmities persisted, I learned to acquiesce to the moment and accept, with as much graciousness as I could muster, the assistance of people who offered it.

RW: I bet this is true for lots of people, that it’s easier to give than to receive.

WG: Right, but as I pointed out, I didn’t have much choice, as with a lot of the stuff that has happened to me in my life. Life situations have presented themselves and it was either sink or swim.

RW: This reminds me of another part in the film. This is at Woodstock. You and the other members of The Hog Farm were brought there to be the police force for the whole event. You called yourselves “the please force.”

WG: We were the Please Force. And we had also set up what we called the Trip Tent.

RW: And there’s a part in the movie where you describe helping a young man who was having a bad acid trip.

WG: As he came in ranting, this three-hundred pound Australian doctor laid on top of him and said, “Body contact. You need body contact” [said with an accent] and then a psychiatrist leaned in and said, [using another funny voice] “Just think of your third eye, man.”

Then I figured it was time for me to make my move. I said, “Excuse me. I’d like to try something here.” And they all backed up. What’s this hippie going to do? That’s when I said, “What’s your name, man?”

RW: And he mumbled something…

WG: I said, “No, your name.” He told me his name and I said it back to him. In fact, I said it back to him several times.

RW: I noticed how very clear and emphatic you were when you got his name. “Okay, Bob. Bob, that’s your name.”

WG: Your name is Bob.

RW: Where did you get the knowledge of using that simple directness?

WG: We’d spent some time on the psychotropic frontiers through the prankster days and beyond. It was not unfamiliar territory.

RW: You knew something about being really concrete, and focused.

WG: And through the greatest professor of them all, professor experience; and from courses at hard knocks university.

RW: You’ve had a lot of hard knocks university experience, I think.

WG: Yes. Well, that’s how you learn things.

RW: You said in the film how you’d found you could get high without the psychotropic assistance. Could you say something about that again?

WG: There are many ways to alter space. I do lots of breathing exercises, and I do mantras. Different people have different recipes to get to a space of consciousness and then to dwell in it for as long as you can, I guess. My own way is an amalgam of many different practices from many different lineages.

RW: You evolved from Hugh Romney doing the poetry to where you were wearing a jester’s hat.

WG: Between poems I used to talk about the bizarre things that happened to me during the day because it was really tedious just reading all these poems night after night after night. Then a guy came along and said, look, skip the poetry. Just talk about your bizarre experiences. That’s how I got into doing stand-up.

Lenny Bruce became my manager. I put out a couple of albums and toured the U.S. —and in fact, something of the world—doing stand-up before these other things came along.

RW: Somewhere you left the jester’s hat and started dressing as a clown.

WG: I was asked, when we had moved to Berkeley in the mid-seventies, to go the Children’s Hospital in Oakland and cheer up kids. On the way out the door of my house, someone handed me a red, rubber nose. I discovered it enabled me to get out of myself and be entertaining to the kids. After awhile, I began to paint my face up as a clown. Somebody gave me a costume, and a clown who was retiring from Ringling Brothers gave me his giant shoes. I worked with kids, with kids who were terminal, even, and did this almost every day for about seven years.

At one point I had to go to a political rally at Peoples’ Park and I didn’t have time to take off my clown stuff. I discovered that the police didn’t want to hit me anymore. Clowns are safe.

RW: Can you say more about what your experience at Children’s Hospital working with kids was like?

WG: I discovered that not only was I helping the kids, I was helping myself. As I began to do this work, I’d gone through three major back surgeries and was in quite a bit of pain. But working with the kids I discovered that as I focused on the children and the pain they were in, I lost track of my own pain.

RW: Is the clown an archetype you can inhabit?

WG: Sure.

RW: Do you think, “I’m a clown?”

WG: I don’t know. I can’t see you.

RW: [laughs] No. I have a long way to go. If I evolved, I might become a clown.

WG: Well, you need to go to camp Winnarainbow. They’ll teach you to clown. It’d be good for you. I think John Townsend said it most brilliantly in The Book of the Clown, “A clown is a poet who is also an orangutan.” But clown comes from the word “clod” or bumpkin, and the red nose indicates they were drunk. But I found all this out later. Suddenly I have these big shoes on and [laughs] a nose and I’m painting my face up, and where does it all come from? I began to study it, and it’s very fascinating, the path of the clown and the jester.

RW: What have you found out about being a clown? What has been revealed?

WG: It enables me to go places I couldn’t go as a regular kind of guy. People feel challenged by people going where I go. But when I put on the patina of a clown I’m no challenge to them in any way.

RW: What do you wish for people when you become a clown?

WG: I wish that they would find joy in the moment. It’s like I expressed in the film, laughter is the valve on the pressure cooker of life. Either you laugh at stuff or you’re going to end up with your beans on the ceiling.

RW: At camp Winnarainbow in the film it showed the labyrinth you have on the grounds…

WG: It’s a unicursal Cretan labyrinth. The oldest one is 3000 years old and was found on the island of Sardinia. The more common labyrinth, like the one you see at Grace Cathedral came about during the 11th or 12th century when Europeans could not go to Jerusalem on pilgrimage. So they developed this other labyrinth, which is different from the Pagan labyrinth, which made it to Scandanavia, to India and somehow to Peru and to the sun temple at Mesa Verde. That’s where I first encountered it when I spent time living with the Hopi Indians for a few months.

RW: How did that happen?

WG: I was enamored of the Book of the Hopi by Frank Waters. And that’s where I first saw the labyrinth. According to the Hopi if there was a condition of planetary emergency the different races would gather on this mesa for instruction from the spirit world. So I showed up. They said, “You’re pretty early.” But they took pity on me and I got to hang out with them for a while.

RW: Was anything given to you?

WG: Not something that I would feel comfortable talking about, but yes—not so much from the people as from the geography.

RW: So you brought this labyrinth to camp Winnarainbow, then?

WG: Yes. I asked Minalanska, who was an elder, what that was. She said, “Oh Wavy Gravy, that’s just the master plan of the universe.” So I borrowed a pencil and wrote it down, and I’ve brought it everywhere I’ve gone ever since. I learned to draw it. Even with my first book, I’d sign it and draw that labyrinth.

RW: Now how do you make use of the labyrinth at camp for the kids?

WG: A teepee at a time, in the evening, the campers get to walk the labyrinth to beautiful music under the stars. If they do good things, they get strokes. If they do bad things they get strikes. Three strikes and you’re out. You can always work off strikes, but you can get enough strikes to be sent home, too. By doing things above and beyond the ordinary camper—for instance, if you get eight stokes in a two-week session, you get to walk into the center of the labyrinth. In the center, there’s also these crystals. You get to take a crystal out of the labyrinth and take it home.

RW: Do you talk to the kids about the labyrinth?

WG: Oh, sure.

RW: What do you tell them?

WG: I tell them that the labyrinth is not a maze. Mazes are designed to get you lost. Labyrinths are designed to get you found. And I ask them to think of each step as a prayer for peace. I tell them you go into the labyrinth and that there’s an energy in the center that I call the spirit of Gaia, the earth mother. I say that if you have cares or problems you can leave them in the labyrinth and come out perhaps lighter than when you went in. And that is sometimes helpful to young people.

RW: In the film you made a comment to one kid that the labyrinth is inside of you.

WG: Oh, I tell all the kids that. The true labyrinth is inside you.

RW: That’s powerful. From the film, I see that your life has been a journey. Do you feel it that way?

WG: Absolutely. It’s been a great adventure.

RW: What are some of the changes from where you were and where you are today?

WG: The things that are the most significant for me in my life are the circus and performing arts camp that I’ve run with my wife Jahanara for over thirty years. We do nine weeks for kids and one week for grown-ups. And the Seva Foundation is another. Through it I’m able to raise funds to help the blind regain their sight. Eighty percent of the blind people in the world don’t need to be—they can get their sight back.

When we first started doing the work it was about five dollars for a cataract operation. Now it’s close to fifty dollars for the operation in third world countries. If you go to SEVA.org you can find out all about us. We’ve helped to orchestrate—it’s going on three million sight-saving operations. I get to put on concerts to raise funds to do that. I’m going to be seventy-five years old in May and I’m looking forward to doing a concert in the Bay Area at the Craneway Pavillion in Richmond and in New York City at the Beacon Theater. And also I’m facing another basic spinal surgery in January. So I’ve got a lot of stuff on my plate.

RW: I know we don’t have much more time, but …

WG: Eternity now, I always say. That’s one of my favorite quotes. And we’re all the same person trying to shakes hands with our self. I think that’s a good one, too.

RW: I like those quotes. It’s clear that you’ve spent a lot of time doing forms of service. Camp Winnarainbow seems to be a service.

WG: Well, my greatest legacy is the children that have come out of camp over the last thirty years. Lots of the kids who started camp when they were seven are now running the camp. And I’m sure it will go on long after I’m gone.

RW: Is that something one begins to learn, that the deepest gifts come when one can look beyond personal wants to take in the needs of others?

WG: That is my want! [laughs] Put your good where it will do the most. I can’t say it any better.

[WORKS AND CONVERSATIONS]

#Works and Conversations #Interviews #Wavy Gravy #Clown #Camp Winnarainbow #service #improvisation

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rokutouxei · 4 years ago

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the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart

ikemen vampire: temptation through the dark theo van gogh / mc | T | [ ao3 link in bio ]

The challenge seemed pretty simple: to try to befriend the university bookshop’s most sour employee, Theo van Gogh. As a literature major with a boatload of book recommendations on her back, it ought to be a simple task indeed. But as she uncovers what lies between Theo’s pages, the more she finds it harder to become closer to him without having to put the feeling directly into words. What can she learn from Theo about what it means to stay—and how can she teach Theo about what it means to let go? | written for ikevamp big bang 2020!

[ masterpost for all chapters ]

CHAPTER 6 OF 22

Take hands. There is no love now. But there are hands.

- Laura Riding Jackson, "Take Hands".

When she first started hanging out with Theo and Arthur, Theo had left with her one piece of advice—one very, very important piece of advice: “If you’ll only ever listen to one thing I say, let it be this one: do not owe Arthur a favor, ever.”

Of course, in the usual Theo fashion, he did not give her any sort of context about it, no explanation as to how he had come to that very grave conclusion. Except that he knew he was right. And she was going to ask, but after hearing Arthur’s triumphant laughter at having overheard that—well, maybe the mystery was a little more than worth it.

And just like that, she had tucked that advice off at the back of her mind.

So now, she’s in the bookshop again, 2:00 pm on a Sunday, holding Arthur by the hand asking him a favor.

“Please, please, please, pretty please Arthur?” she begs, shaking his hand side to side as she goes. It is the midterm season now, and leaving your fellow students on their own isn’t really a thing in this university. Where possible, everyone is gathering to have group studies and teaching sessions. She figures Arthur could afford her one. Or seven. “You’ve taken his class, haven’t you? The infamous worst professor of the College of Arts.”

Of course, Arthur has. If he’s going to kind-of-not-really minor in Literature, the way he’ll do it is the way he loves the best: the hardest, most challenging way. Of course, that means he got the toughest classes out of the way first.

“Hardly the worst, love,” he says, with a mock-flip of non-existent long hair. “I’d say that fancy fake British accent woman teaching poetry is much worse than that bloke, but that could only be because I couldn’t stand what she was doing to the syllables.”

“Yeah, sure but—that’s not the point,” she says. “Look, I need a recommendation letter from this grumpy, wrinkled banana of a professor, and I’m not getting it unless I pass his exam. But you know how his exams are, he teaches you the English alphabet and then quizzes you in Spanish kind of exams, I just need to prepare properly and—well,” Dazai’s face flashes before her eyes, “you’re the most reliable one I could ask for? Please?”

Arthur lets out a small overdramatic sigh that’s really entirely theatrics. She knows better. “Here’s to me rescuing your sorry little ass, little miss. I’ll help you, but I have two conditions.”

“Yay!” she claps her hands excitedly and grins. “Yes, any! Give me!”

“First, you’ll owe me one favor.”

“Yes, sure, got you,” she nods.

(From the counter, she hears Theo murmur: “You have made the worst mistake of your entire life,” but she ignores it.)

“And—you’ll bring my old chap Theo.”

“What?”

She and Theo both look up at the same time.

And answer at the same time.

“What?” “Wait, wait, why is he coming?”

Arthur laughs. “Are you both so against it?”

“No, I’m just—curious?” she hesitates. “Does he even want to go?”

Theo and Arthur take a moment to glare at each other, which at this point you already know is the equivalent of them doing a high five or a handshake—it’s pretty much harmless.

Arthur’s flat smile turns into a big grin. He sing-songs: “Theo~”

“I can’t owe you a favor for asking you to shut up,” Theo says.

But Arthur is brimming with confidence when he says, “Well, no, it was a favor to me, so you’ll need to respect it.”

And Theo knows that resisting Arthur just spells trouble, so he settles for glaring even sharper, larger daggers into Arthur’s face, but does not argue: “Klootzak.”

And the Brit grins. “That’s why you shouldn’t try and owe me anything, old chap.”

She blinks and wonders what is going on.

Of course, work in the bookshop doesn’t end, and there are more and more customers looking for supplementary readings (or even distractions) so Theo and Arthur only get to join her after the shop closes at 5:00 pm. She’s announced that she’ll be studying every day at the Little Owl, the café Vincent works in, and Arthur had gleefully agreed to follow instead of having her move places. Besides, Arthur insists he cannot work without the taste of the coffee the cute barista (“not Vincent,” Arthur promises Theo) makes for him. Theo sighs, longing for the quiet and Arthur-lessness of the College of Business’ library, but decides to follow through with his promise.

Theo was alone at the bookshop today—Monday, Arthur’s day off—and so only follows suit to her and Arthur at the café once his shift ends. Vincent’s shift at the café ends an hour earlier than Theo’s at the bookstore, so the two brothers just miss narrowly miss each other. Which is a good thing, because even if Vincent already knows, he would be a little bit horrified if Vincent saw him headed to the two rascals already there. Is this who his brother thinks he hangs out with? No, Vincent, they are the exception, he wants to say, but he doesn’t want to argue with his brother during work.

“Why hello there, dear slave of capitalism,” Arthur greets happily. He’s wearing the glasses he wears when “he’s taking the world seriously,” the one Theo asked him to wear more often, for god’s sake.

Theo shakes his head. “We are slaves to the same bookshop, Arthur.”

“A really good bookshop!” she pipes up, looking up from her little studying set-up just as she finishes writing something down. In front of her, she has an old book borrowed from the library laid out on a book stand, a standing pencil case with all sorts of markers and pens, a notebook, and a little notepad to scribble on. Then, she points at Arthur with her pen. “I know you said don’t owe Arthur favors, but this doesn’t seem to be that bad an idea.”

“It will eventually be,” he says nonchalantly. “Well, don’t let me interrupt in your studying?”

“He’s actually done tutoring me for today,” she says, “so we can actually study on our own now.”

“But together,” Arthur insists. “That was my condition. Also, are you not forgetting something, little bird?”

Theo blinks. She pauses and then gasps. “Oh right! Right!”

She pulls out a lunchbox.

This isn’t entirely surprising on its own, because the two of them had decided to work for a good amount of time, and it might be cheaper to bring your own food than buy over and over again at the counter, even if it’s just a cookie or two. It’s midterms season so the café allows outside food, if for the sanity of its usual customers.

Except.

“I brought these for you, Theo.”

For Theo? But it’s nearly dinnertime, and he won’t be here for long…

Theo cautiously takes the lunchbox but doesn’t open it.

“This isn’t poisoned, is it?” he asks—jokingly.

She rolls her eyes and shakes her head. “Oh, if I wanted to off you, Theo, there are better ways. Open it up, won’t you?”

And Theo does; pops open the little container to peer at what’s inside, and—

The lunchbox has pancakes inside.

Not full-sized pancakes, but small ones the size of poached eggs, fluffy and golden. Theo flushes.

“A little angel told me you liked them,” she says, grinning at his expression.

Theo realizes how transparent he has been about it and glares at Arthur in response. Arthur looks as remorseless as ever to his misery, but—does not claim the act with a smirk or a holler.

But the surprise isn’t over yet, because then she takes out of her bag the smallest commercially-available bottle of his favorite brand of syrup, giving it to Theo. And with a smirk in her voice, she says, “Can’t have pancakes without this, no?”

Theo’s ears are aflame , a deep red. Of course his own brother would betray him. Always looking out for him in the best of ways and then betraying him in the most expected of ones.

Theo takes the pancakes with a gruff Thank you that seems to be enough for her, and then the three of them return to their studying. Not that he does it entirely well that day, because has trouble focusing on his studies at all thinking of how delicious the pancakes she’s brought him actually are.

They study together the rest of the week.

It rains on Tuesday, and the café is more crowded than usual. For the first of three hours they spend there, it is only her and Theo, heads turned low into their thick books. Arthur arrives late because he said he had to take a detour for a “sweet skirt” from the medical department. Theo asks if it’s one of his professors he’s trying to talk into giving him a passing grade for his piss-poor efforts. Arthur does not deny. They pick up dinner at a local convenience store before heading their separate ways home on their respective bikes.

It is still raining on the evening of Wednesday, and Arthur and Theo have to run (without umbrellas, because—well, because they’re idiots) the distance from the bookshop to the café where she is waiting, jumping in between eaves and doing their best not to end up too drenched. Not that it works out that well, because she still looks at them pitifully before ordering the both of them coffee for their little misery. They dry off pretty well though, but they don’t get to stay too long because she insists they go home and actually dry off properly before they get sick.

Arthur finally takes their little study session a little seriously for himself on Thursday. Their usual spot—her favorite spot, mind you—is occupied when they arrive, so they’re camped out at a long table, she and Arthur sitting side by side and Theo across the both of them. Theo’s brought bound books for the past few days, but today he has sheaves of papers (readings, perhaps) and a leather-bound notebook (“That’s when you know he’s down for srs bsns,” Arthur says, and she asks how the hell he was able to say it like it was type-speak in real life). Arthur’s no different, with his thoroughly annotated medical anatomy books sitting in front of him, glasses on his nose.

But Theo… Theo is so distracting.

When they decide to study separately—that is, when Arthur isn’t clarifying a particularly complicated concept or Theo isn’t helping her out by quizzing her—the three of them work side by side in comfortable silence, all working with an earpiece or two on to at least dull the sound of the rest of the café working in their own little worlds. So this isn’t exactly odd; they’ve been doing this since Monday, after all, and if she were to be honest, she’d enjoy it if they did this a little more often in the future, if possible.

So then why… is she so distracted?

Why does she keep looking up from the poem she’s turning upside down with annotations and notes and markings to see if she can sneak a discreet glance at Theo, his eyes trained on the things he is studying? Why does she keep looking hoping she can stare at least a few more seconds at the unusual side of him, none of the crease marks on his forehead when he’s being rude or sarcastic, just concentration, deep blue eyes not straying from the pages through the rim of his glasses. And oh—Theo with glasses is such a sight! She’s not interested in him in that way—no—but by god, does he look different with glasses. Maybe she’s just gotten so used to Arthur with glasses that it doesn’t strike much in her, but Theo—

“Stop staring at me,” Theo huffs, looking up at her and meeting her gaze. His bangs are pulled to the side where he’d brushed them off, the back end of his hair standing a little cutely upwards because he was fiddling with the nape of his neck earlier with his pen, and—well.

It’s hard to not be blown away when he looks like that.

“Oh shit, sorry,” she says, snapping out of it with a shake of her head. Getting caught is such a rookie mistake! “I was zoning out.”

Arthur chuckles next to her. She and Theo pretend not to have heard him.

On Friday, she and Arthur decide to go have a little quizzing session to prepare her for the oral part of her exams. (“Hehe, oral.” “Shut the fuck up won’t you, Arthur?”) They get Theo to work with them as the scorekeeper. She gets a good percentage of the questions right (80%) but she still does not feel confident enough about it. She turns back to work on her laptop with Theo sipping coffee by her side as Arthur leaves to go on a dinner date with said sweet skirt from Monday. Theo repeats the joke, and this time Arthur says, “And what if it is?” They do not know if he is joking, at this point.

When their usual time to go has struck, Theo closes the book in front of him and stretches a little, bending his neck side to side. She turns to him and frowns.

“Look, I know I asked you yesterday we could do the book club today but… can we just skip it to next week instead? I’m really fried after today.”

“That’s fine,” he says, but then pauses. “You work too hard. I didn’t really expect to do it today.” He sips from his already-cold mug of coffee.

“Hey, I actually wanted to do it, alright? I just—I’m writing a short paper on 19th century literature right now” she answers. “For my portfolio. I’m submitting it as an extra right after the exam, and I want it done so I can focus on studying for the exam afterward.”

So that’s why she’s been typing away on her laptop with not much pause after Arthur left. “Portfolio?” he narrows his eyes. “Applying for something?”

“Yeah, the OSR’s scholarship.”

“The international one.”

“Yeah, that one,” she confirms. “I’ve been waiting for a bit for them to reveal the requirements and… I don’t know, it feels like it gets longer and more strict every year. I’m trying to up my chances by having a strong portfolio.”

“I see.” Theo pauses, takes in the disappointment still apparent on her face, and sighs. “Look, if you still want to do the book club—we can do it while we walk home.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really,” he nods. “So if you’re tired, then pack up and let’s go. Schiet op.”

“Geez, just give me a sec!”

By the time she and Theo make their way out of the café, the sun is long out of the sky, the street lit in a beautiful shade of warm yellow from the streetlamps. The both of them live roughly in the same area of town—at the southeast residential side, but pretty close to the center, where the café is—but their houses are still around 20 minutes apart by foot. There is, however, the main boulevard that connects their ways home up until a certain point, so they decide to make the most of it by walking the 30 minutes up to that fork in the road even if she did technically have her bike with her.

“Okay, so, book talk, huh?” she says, digging into her bag to find the Kerouac he’d lent her. His copy of On the Road had weathered down rather beautifully over the years; the paper a shade of yellow just right for the eyes, no mottling of the pages, and despite the red matter cover being dog-eared and slightly faded, it’s the kind that’s endearing—the kind a book gets after being held well while being read, and then being kept away so lovingly. With the book in her hands now, she looks near hesitant to even part with the book at all. “Kerouac… was one hell of a read.”

He takes the book she hands back and thumbs it carefully. “What do you think about it?”

“I actually don’t know where to begin,” she says, staring off at the road beyond them. “The contrast of them going to these vast empty places to fill something deep in them...” She sighs, a happy sigh coming out of her. By this point, Theo already knows the kind of face she makes when she’s remembering the hours she spent reading the book—the expression she has right now betrayed that. “And then they were always—well, as with the title I guess—I felt like they were always on the road, even if not literally, then within them?”

Theo nods. “Always going somewhere unknown.”

“Yeah, for sure. It’s not like they were not established right, just that… there were so many possibilities you know? They were talking about crossing America and going from here to there and they seemed to… change with every landscape they went in. And it was exactly all those possibilities that were so fun. You definitely hit that request of mine, because I’m 100% sure all that going away made me want to go away again.” She takes a deep breath. “It’s kinda sad though, that things won’t be as mysterious as back then.” She waves her hand. “What with social media and all.”

“The insight that comes with travel is different now that the world is more connected to one another.”

“And the connection is so accessible!” she notes “Like, one of us can go away but it’s not the end of the world? We can still talk if we wanted to, there are so many ways to do it. And that’s great, but now… now when you go away it doesn’t feel as spiritual an experience? I mean, you can easily Google what a place looks like and…”

Theo turns to her after she abruptly stops. “And what?”

A beat. Two. She hasn’t stopped walking, with her eyes facing in front of her, but her eyebrows are narrowed like she’s carefully choosing how to put what she’s thinking into words. Theo patiently waits throughout the full minute it takes her to speak. “…Do you ever feel like you’re only a visitor in a certain place? Or maybe even anywhere. Like you’re only meant to be there for a few days, a month, maybe a year, but—never in the long term, never for the rest of your life.”

That… isn’t what he was expecting.

But then again, he doesn’t really know what to expect with her around, at this point.

Things are always more than with her.

For a moment, Theo ponders. Sure, he’s had instances feeling uncomfortable in the places he’s in, or maybe acknowledging that there are better places to be—such as when he left their hometown to go here, to follow his brother—but he hasn’t really thought about the rest of it. He’s always imagined the tides would just bring him to places, and he wouldn’t have to work hard to be brought elsewhere; to just let himself be washed ashore to new islands.

“I’m not sure,” he answers, thumbing the side of On the Road once more. He wonders what it was like during Kerouac’s generation—dreaming of a spiritual journey, going out there and exploring the unknown, how so much was left to be learned. How will his generation be remembered? What difference will they make, will they go down in history?

She nods simply. “It’s okay, I’m just the kind of person who likes to think about all this. Sal’s changing views on Dean was… I don’t know how to put it, it’s just like being in a different place, having a different experience with people changes the way you see about them, even if that place is… geographically, and not like a situation. Does that make sense?”

“You have to admit, most of the book doesn’t make sense,” Theo notes.

“…I did hear Kerouac wrote a good portion of it pretty high.”

“Maybe it’ll make sense when you read it high, too.”

They grin at each other, and Theo turns to get the Neruda book out from his bag.

“I’m so close to memorizing the content of this book, with how many times I read it,” he admits, passing the volume over to her. They touch fingers for only the briefest of moments. “Neruda has an interesting way with words.”

She nods. “I still feel bad that I don’t get to read him in his original Spanish because I feel like that makes a difference. The translations are still pretty good though. Any poem you liked particularly?”

“Maybe I Remember You as You Were.”

“Oooh, that’s very romantic,” she says, flipping right to the page he was talking about. “Bonfire of awe in which my thirst was burning.”

“Sweet blue hyacinth twisted over my soul,” he continues. “The passion in some of his love poems get overwhelming sometimes. I remember You is just the right touch of romance and longing I like in a Neruda.”

“Hmm?” She turns to him curiously. “Mayhaps you’ve already been a Neruda fan from the start?”

“I’ve read him in the past, yes.”

That’s not that surprising, really, considering how much of a household name Pablo Neruda is to literary enthusiasts at this point. One of the more “modern” classics of poetry, arguably. She’s not satisfied with his answer, of course. “Which, pray tell, is your favorite?”

It takes him a moment, biting the inside of his cheek in thought. After a beat, he answers, “Don’t Go Far Off.”

“And you say you’re not a romantic,” she says while shaking her head.

“I am not a romantic.”

“Theo, I know the poem by heart. You can’t tell me that shit isn’t romantic.”

Every minute he spends with her, the more drops of confusion fall onto his mind about himself. And not the bad kind; simply, why is it that she can see him so differently compared to others? What is it about her that she catches what sneaks past others?

He wouldn’t call the poem romantic, but maybe if she says it…

No. Instead, he looks at her. Challenges her. “Prove it.”

“Okay, you start.”

He takes a deep breath before beginning. “Don’t go far off, not even for a day, because—”

“Because—I don’t know how to say it: a day is long and I will be waiting for you.” She doesn’t miss a beat when she answers.

He continues. “As in an empty station when the trains are parked off somewhere else, asleep.”

The way she traces the sounds of the syllables so delicately, like it would shatter if she wasn’t careful with their sound, isn’t missed by him. Does she read all poetry, all literature with this much adoration? “Don’t leave me, even for an hour, because then the little drops of anguish will all run together.”

At this point, Theo is already nodding, very much impressed. “The smoke that roams looking for a home will drift—"

(And together, they say) “Into me, choking my lost heart.”

The two of them look at each other quietly, the poem’s imagery settling in the spaces between them.

In a way that makes them feel content.

He continues. “Oh, may your silhouette never dissolve on the beach; may your eyelids never flutter into the empty distance.”

“Don’t leave me for a second, my dearest.”

“Because in that moment you'll have gone so far.”

“I'll wander mazily,” she breathes, “over all the earth, asking—”

Theo sighs. “Will you come back? Will you leave me here, dying?”

With that, the two of them relish in the silence at the end of the poem, letting it all dissolve into the air like the puffs of smoke from their breath.

“Nice of you to know that start to finish,” Theo says, by way of compliment.

She makes a little mock-bow with her skirt. “Thank you. I also really like that poem as well, actually.”

For some minutes, the two of them share a companionable silence, the moon shining over them, casting a silver glow. It is only when the itch to ask the question becomes too much that Theo finally opens his mouth.

“Why are you so fixated on going away?” he asks.

She stares at him. “What?”

“You’re always talking about the out there and the going away. And now you’re planning to leave for a scholarship—when you get in,” he says. “Have a boner for it?”

She makes a face. “No, what the hell,” she says. “Is it so bad to want a little adventure when you live in such a small town like this?”

“Not really,” he hums. “You strike me as the kind of person who disappears from everyone because you’re chasing something far off into the unknown,” he says.

She opens her mouth, about to say something, before she takes a deep breath to hold it back in. Theo feels like he’s overstepped a boundary he shouldn’t have. But instead of talking back at him or refuting, she says, “That would be a great story for a small Literature major like me, huh?”

It’s a non-answer.

The one Theo knows means there’s a more complex answer—that she’s not just ready to tell him yet.

It’s alright.

He can wait.

A few more minutes pass, this time in comfortable silence. Theo considers small talk, about the bookstore, or Vincent and Arthur, but she looks so deep in thought he decides not too. Sooner than he would have liked, they reach the fork in the road. He stops and turns to her fully.

“Books?”

She blinks as if torn away from a daydream. “Oh right, books. Nearly forgot.”

The two of them pull out the books to exchange from their respective bags; she catches the title The Night Circus in the one he hands her, another dog-eared, well-loved, black book; and she also catches the twitch of his eyebrow in interest when she hands him Atwood’s Dearly.

They keep their books away and fall back into their usual quiet.

“You sure I don’t need to walk you home?”

“It’s a well-lit road. I’ll be fine,” she insists. “I can bike from here to there, it’ll take me three minutes tops.”

He nods, the smallest of smiles on his face. “I’ll see you around, then. I hope you enjoy the book."

This isn’t the first time Theo has lent her a book. And this isn’t the last time Theo will lend her a book, either—if there’s anything about their kind-of friendship she knows for sure, it’s that he’ll need to try harder to get rid of her if he doesn’t like the company.

But somehow, the arrival of the new book in her small, rented dorm room leaves her unbalanced. She knows she has better things to do like her essay for the portfolio and studying for the exam—80% correct for the oral test is pretty good, but not good enough—but she lets the book taunt her anyway.

It is Saturday now, and she places it on her desk with the cover facing up, black and red and white with an intricate illustration of figures. Is it because of the conversation they had last night? It wasn’t odd for their little book discussions to wander into personal territory, because it is true that the way we read books is very much influenced by the things we have experienced in real life, but that one… that felt different. Somehow, it’s as if the both of them had opened up a pandora’s box of—well, something, and all of that is nestled in between the pages of the lent book.

It wasn’t like her wanting to go away was a secret in any way, shape, or form. Friendship with Theo or not, she was meant to leave this place. Or at least, that what she likes to believe. She’s pretty sure she’s mentioned even in the past that this town is too small for her; too little; there is a wider world out there to discover. And it wasn’t like Theo being some sort of hidden romantic was a surprise either—she’s known from the moment he didn’t stop asking her for poetry books. Nothing new was really uncovered last night, but then…

Why can’t she seem to let it go?

Her eyes rest back to the book on her desk. She said she wouldn’t read it until after the oral exam on Tuesday at the very least, but—she has peered into it the night before as she was going to bed, and yet once more this morning.

She’s not sure what it is about yet, but it seems that he’s lent her some sort of fantasy-romance, because she had asked for a book with a magic system in it. (Thinking about the wonders of magic is a great stress-reliever in the midst of exams.) She had expected Theo to be a good level of well-read because he worked at the Hoard—but somehow, he was always blowing away her expectations. Theo is always saying about how weird she is for pursuing him, but isn’t he the weirder one? At least she shows no pretense of being any sort of normal. He does his best to look put together.

Did that big looming man look like the kind of person who would read a novel title The Night Circus?

Not really, not to her. But it’s because he is that kind of person that keeps her so hooked, so interesting. She doesn’t quite know what has happened yet, but—whatever it was that unlocked between the both of them last night, it can’t be that bad. So by 3:00pm, when she said she would be running through drills for her exam, she closes her laptop shut, makes herself some tea, and curls up into her armchair to read.

Just because they get along with each other doesn’t mean they agree with everything.

For example, she’s explained that she’s the kind of person who marathon-reads whatever she can get her hands on, if she finds it interesting enough. It’s not that she doesn’t have patience for reading; she does, and she thoroughly enjoys being lost in a good book. It’s just that she can’t do what the others do when they like a book—read it leisurely, enjoy it from page to page, taste every word like it’s sweet. She’s more of the kind who sits down at eight in the morning with a interesting book and being unable to stand until it’s done in the afternoon. There is no waiting in her vocabulary, only the going.

Oppositely, Theo likes to take his time with his books, the same way one would do a walk. Take the scenic route; enjoy the scenery, take in all the details with your sense. To Theo, reading a book is going into it, getting lost in between the world that is hiding in its pages, and there is no need to rush that. The book is not going anywhere, and he can always open it up and return to where he’d stopped. Theo rarely reads books in one go unless he’s in a rush to do it, like say in a required reading for a class.

So when he sends her a message on Sunday, saying,

[ 9:44 | Theo ] Good book choice this week. Had fun with it

less than 48 hours from the moment she had given him the book…

She yells.

Really loudly. Her next door neighbor pounds on the wall between them, and she shouts out a “sorry!” as she begins typing on her phone.

[ 9:43 ] You finished it already?

[ 9:44 | Theo ] Is that so surprising?

[ 9:44 ] 😊 You don’t understand how happy I am rn

[ 9:45 | Theo ] It’s just a book, relax.

[ 9:45 ] Yea sure but don’t you read slowly on purpose? Kinda thrilled you liked it enough to polish it in one go.

She pauses, hand hovering over her phone, before she writes out another message.

[ 9:46 ] Thanks for telling me. This has def made my day.

And it takes a minute for him to reply, but then he returns:

[ 9:47 | Theo ] Isn’t this what friends do?

Well, let’s say that something in her belly does a flip, and—

It makes her feel weightless.

#the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart #ikemen vampire #ikevamp theo

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skyhopedango · 4 years ago

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State of the Season pt 1

So, so many shows! :O I don't remember the last time I watched so many ongoing shows. Alas, quantity doesn't translate into quality, but still, there are some pretty nice shows that I enjoy a lot.

Not these, though.

Dragon, ie wo kau

Yeah, this was crap. I expected something fun and fantasy-spoofy, I got a badly animated, badly produced, badly acted (from the main character) video-game-referencing show that takes one joke that is already not incredibly funny, and runs it into the ground until there's nothing left but dust. Pity.

Mars Red

Oh, this show. The first episode was stilted and vaguely pretentious*, but I thought eh, let's see a bit more of it. So I watched episode two and three, and bam, the usual vampire-hunter-vampires shenanigans with some half-hearted attempts at ~Historical Relevance~ but still pretentious. Perhaps it could've been better with more interesting/charming characters, but they weren't interesting at all... OK, that's not quite true, I liked that young vampire (supposedly the most powerful one?) who was always doing the "hey enemy vampire, you can join us or you can die" speech, that was cute.

*I mean... yes, you've read Salome. Yay. So how is it related to what happens in the episode? Does she kill the one she loved to possess him or something? No. Does she do anything even vaguely related to the story of Salome? No. So... what's the significance of the references? And from episode 2 it was downhill. EP 2 has Romeo and Juliet for "tragic lovers" which is about the most clichéd thing ever and the lovers' story had nothing in common with Romeo and Juliet other than them dying in the end. And in episode 3 the characters are literally standing around reciting Relevant Poetry. I suppose this works for people who are satisfied with understanding a reference and who want to feel smart for knowing some classical literature, but other than that...

I've been putting off watching episode 4 since Monday, and frankly at this rate likely I'll never watch it.

Fumetsu no anata he

3 episodes in, and oh yes, I remember why I didn't keep up with the manga. Look, I'm not saying it's a bad show. As most people I was very impressed with the first episode. Good stuff, emotionally powerful. But what happens after that is just totally not my cup of tea. Nonhuman entity learning to understand humans and gaining sympathy for humanity would be totally up my street - but not really when it happens via a generic adventure story, tryhard epicness tipping into unintentional hilarity every now and then, overwrought music, precocious kids mugging for the camera, and the threat of misery porn looming just over the horizon... and that's not even mentioning the obvious production issues apparent from episode 2 that further undermine the epic tone the show is going for.

I think I'll give it one more episode, although I have a feeling I'm not going to last longer. I'm sure the story will eventually have some profound things to say, but I'm also sure it'll be nothing I haven't heard before in ways that resonated better with me.

86 -Eighty-Six-

aka "Liberal Circlejerk - The Anime". (And while it can't be "white liberal" for obvious reasons, it has the attitude down pat.)

This show. This is what you get from a LN for horny teen boys fantasizing about being badass soldiers and naive girls in sexy uniforms, that also wants to say Serious Important Woke Stuff. You get a show about Super Special Teenagers that is hilariously dumbed down, preachy, self-congratulatory, and also cynical about how it treats its female characters. (And that's not even saying how stupid the setting is... I'm sure there'll be some twist but seriously, it still wants us to just handwave away stuff like "even if the enemy's weapons will expire in 2 years, how come nobody asks 'what if they built new ones' or 'what if they have other stuff up their sleeve'" etc...)

Really, I'd like to say that at least the show has its heart in the right place, but I can't, because for every preachy and dumbed down but decent message it delivers it does shit like ogling the main female character (whose uniform has a garterbelt apparently because the LN writer is into that), having her make cute pouty or blushing faces, pointing out how she's a virgin, having a "boys ogle bathing girls" scene* where the girls of course talk about boys and romance because girls, eh? etc. Hell, in episode 4 it even manages to undermine the single best thing that happened in the show so far by basically tone policing the oppressed character who told the MC to fuck off and not treat them as her morality pets. Clearly even if your friend was just killed in action and this random person who is also your oppressor and is wallowing in privilege, is crying in your ear making it all about her, you shouldn't be rude to her because aw shucks she meant well. And of course all it takes is a "sorry, I'll treat you like humans from now on, I swear" for everyone to start respecting her. Like, wow, she's committed to the bare minimum, where's the champagne?!

*Yes, the girls were dressed, but you just know that at one point in production (or perhaps in the source material) they were were naked. The entire scene is set up as a usual ogling-bathing-girls scene, so I'd bet money that what happened was someone in production vetoed it in the very last moment so they didn't have time to rewrite everything, only to give the girls clothes.

I'm still getting some entertainment value out of 86 (those spider tanks are pretty nice...) but oh boy, the cringe.

#86 #86 eighty six #mars red #fumetsu no anata e #to your eternity #dragon goes house hunting #anime review

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sincerelyreidburke · 5 years ago

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won’t you lay me down

Hi, I wrote some CCU hurt/comfort fluff. I know that sounds like an oxymoron, but bear with me.

In which: Derek has a bad mental health day. Will has his back.

Also on ao3!

///

Will doesn’t see the text at first.

It’s not really his fault. Monday mornings are busy. After morning practice at 6:30 (Will likes that better than evening practice, and as captain he’s tried to keep the practice schedule relatively consistent), he has a meeting with Hall and Murray for thirty minutes while the rest of the team filters out to their respective morning activities and routines. It’s the last he sees of Derek until the afternoon, every Monday— because after Will’s meeting with the coaches, he’s straight off to his internship in Boston for the rest of the morning, then comes back to campus for his 2:30 CS 381 class.

So when the text comes in, he’s mid-transit from Boston to Samwell, sitting in traffic on 128. As a general rule, he doesn’t check his phone while driving. Also, why the fuck is there so much traffic in the middle of the day on a Monday.

He doesn’t understand Massachusetts drivers.

Anyway. It’s when he gets back to campus that he sees it, sitting in his lockscreen over the wallpaper of him and Derek.

18m ago

Derek: do u mind if i chill in the basement

Derek: can’t focus in my room, c is playing music

Oh. Will unlocks his phone, sitting in his student parking spot. He and Derek use each other’s rooms all the time, even outside of their constant sleeping-over in each other’s. Many a time has he returned from class, internship, or other obligation to find his boyfriend hanging out in the bungalow.

They have their own spaces in the Haus, but they do their fare share of, well. Sharing.

Sry just saw this , he sends back. Was drivung. Of cuorse you can use the basment

He looks at the text thread for a second, then sends a <3 after his message, and tucks his phone away again.

On to the next thing.

Class is sort of tedious today, but what’s worse than it is the actual trek back to the Haus from the compsci building, because it’s frigid outside, a chill that gets to his bones even in his winter jacket and the beanie he stole from Derek. In typical New England February fashion, it’s supposed to snow tonight, or at least that’s what he thinks he heard from someone at his internship this morning. He spent most of his shift working out a kink in his supervisor’s code, and he was lost in the numbers and symbols for hours.

He likes it. It’s satisfying to figure out a program.

When he reaches the Haus, finally , Whiskey and Ford are hanging out in the kitchen. He waves to them on his way by, then wonders if he should bake tonight. Maybe after his homework, he can make cookies. The pie he made this weekend is gone already, because all three of the freshmen were here yesterday, nothing he bakes lasts long in their presence.

Will heads straight downstairs, and the door to his room is closed; the lights inside look like they’re off. He eases it open, reaching for the light switch. Derek must have finished whatever he was doing.

Or— not.

Derek is here, and he can tell because he hears Dwayne Johnson singing. He freezes with his hand on the light-switch before he can turn it on, and steps all the way into the room instead, where he catches sight of him— or at least catches sight of what he knows is him, under several layers of cover.

Derek has burrowed himself into Will’s bed with his laptop, and he’s watching Moana , the light of the screen on his face the only source of any light in the room at all. He’s wearing Will’s Samwell hoodie, the good one with Poindexter and 24 and C on the sleeve, and its hood is pulled over his head, strings drawn to make his face look like a blue-lit mask poking out of it. He looks only half-invested in the movie, because he’s resting his face on his arm, scrunched up to the pillow.

Will’s stomach turns. Bedridden Derek in his stolen sweatshirt and Moana are a combination that can only mean one thing.

He closes the door, gently, behind himself. “Der?”

It appears that this is the first Derek actually notices that someone else has entered the room. Will hears the click of the space bar, and the Rock halts mid-chorus. “Oh,” comes Derek’s voice from his blanket cocoon, and it’s small and drawn, the opposite of his loud bravado. “Hey, babe.”

“Hi.” Will drops his backpack at the door, then goes directly to him, crouching on the steps that get him to the loft bed. “Hey,” he says, across the laptop. “Are you okay?”

Derek pauses. He purses his lips at his computer screen, then sighs and lowers it. “Ch’yeah,” he mumbles. “I’m alright.”

With the laptop closed, Will reaches for his face. He cups his stubbly cheek in one hand, runs his thumb across his cheekbone. Derek looks blank, drained. Will knows this demeanor well by now.

“No, you’re not,” he whispers. Without the light of the laptop, it’s nearly dark inside. The slivers of gray daylight from where Derek pulled the shade on the window are all that remain.

Derek breathes in like he wants to say something, but nothing comes out. He nuzzles his face into Will’s pillow a little more.

“Der,” Will whispers. He kneels on the steps, pauses his thumb by Derek’s ear. “Gray day?”

Derek whimpers a little, like it pains him to admit it, but nods. “Yeah.”

Will keeps gentle. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks. “This morning?”

Derek bites his lip. “Didn’t feel it this morning.”

“Oh.” Will pauses. “When did it hit you?”

He closes his eyes. “When I got back to the Haus.”

Will frowns. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—”

Derek’s eyes are still closed. He shakes his head. “You couldn’tve known, babe.”

For a moment, the room is quiet. Will pushes Derek’s laptop aside a little. “What can I do?”

Derek takes his time, answering. Will is patient. He knows how to do this. He slides his hand into his curls under the hood; they’re matted, and they’ll be worse if he just lays in bed for the rest of the day. “You want to tie your hair?”

Derek takes a long breath.

“You don’t have to,” Will adds. “But if it’ll help you for later…”

“My scarf’s upstairs,” Derek mumbles, weakly, like upstairs is a continent away.

“It’s okay,” Will tells him. “I can get it, baby.”

Derek’s face contorts a little, like he’s about to cry, but he doesn’t; he just opens his eyes. His eye contact is distant, like he’s staring more into space than back at Will, but he’s trying, and Will knows that. “I love you,” he whispers, and then, “I don’t feel well.”

“I know,” Will hushes. “It’s okay, sweetheart. I’m here.”

“I’m sorry,” Derek groans.

“Never be sorry,” Will says. “Ever.” He kisses his forehead, feather-light, and then tells him, “I love you too. And I’m gonna go get your scarf, okay? I’ll be right back.”

Derek winces again, like something hurts. He nods, though, slowly, and rests his cheek on the pillow again. Will pulls back to go, but God, it’s hard, because he knows how much Derek hates being alone when he feels like this, and he’s already been in here by himself for God knows how long—

Okay, he’ll only be gone a minute. But even so, he feels the need to fill that space. He climbs down to his bookshelf, reaches onto its center shelf between Derek’s poetry books, and grabs hold of his oldest friend.

“Here,” he whispers, bringing Cromwell up so Derek can see. “Do you want a friend?”

Derek eyes the plush lobster, and though he doesn’t look like he has an ounce of energy to smile, his eyes soften. “Yeah,” he mumbles. “Please.”

Will hands him over, and Derek engulfs the little red thing in his sea of blankets, resting him right under his nose. The visual would be cute, if Derek weren’t in such a bad spot. Will caresses his cheek again, then smooths the few curls that are poking out of the hood. “Be right back, baby,” he says. “Do you know where your scarf is?”

Derek pauses, then shakes his head.

“It’s alright,” Will assures him. “I’ll find it.”

This was hard, at first, being so new to this side of him, and not knowing how to help him. But they’ve been together for eight months, and Will knows Derek’s gray days by now, knows the tells for when he’s feeling down, knows a few remedies that help to ease the numbness.

He makes a beeline for Derek’s room upstairs as fast as his legs can carry him. The space itself is even evidence that Derek isn’t feeling himself; there are more clothes on the floor than usual, and the bed is unmade, and his desk looks like his notebook exploded. Will sifts through his dresser drawers, between Samwell shirts, pairs of gym shorts, random articles of Will’s own clothing that’ve been stolen, but there’s no sight of the green headscarf he wears sometimes to bed. He moves his search to the desk, and then to the actual bed, and he’s about to give up when he finds it tucked between the down comforter and the sheets.

Success. He heads back downstairs.

“Hey, Dex, is Nursey in your room?”

“Oh—” Will halts in the kitchen doorway. The question came from Ford; she’s still at the counter. “Yeah,” he replies, poking his head around the corner. Tango has now joined the kitchen gathering. “He’s just watching a movie.”

“Oh, cool.” Ford nods. “I just didn’t know if he was in the Haus. I thought I saw him go down there, like, two hours ago.”

“Yeah,” Will says, “he’s with me.”

Tango waves. “Hi, Dex!”

“Hey, Tango.” Will opens the basement stairs door.

Chowder knows this version of Derek as well as Will does, but the rest of the team doesn’t. It’s what’s buried under the chill, what he could never stand to let people know about himself.

Derek’s brain is awful to him sometimes.

Back in his room, he finally takes off his winter jacket and closes the door behind him, then climbs up the steps to his bed again. Derek is still snuggling with Cromwell, but his laptop has moved; he’s pushed it to the pouch adjacent to Will’s headboard where he keeps his phone, occasional book, and other random stuff while he sleeps.

Will unfolds the scarf. It’s silky smooth. “Gave up on Moana ?” he hums.

Derek rolls over and nods. Will kicks his sneakers off, then crawls onto the mattress, which squeaks a little under both their weight. He slides a hand under his back— Derek is very, very warm, but that’s the way he likes to be when he’s like this— and eases him up into a sitting position. “Sit up for me, babe?”

Derek moves with his touch, nice and easy, and when Will has him sitting up, he slots himself against his back, lets Derek lean on him. “You want me to talk?” he asks as he pulls the hood off his head. “Or do you like the quiet?”

Derek hums a little. “Talk. Please.”

“Okay.” Will combs through his curls, then pulls the scarf tight around them. He learned this on YouTube, after his third time hearing post-funk Derek lament that his depression was ruining his hair. “It’s supposed to snow,” he tells him. “Five inches.”

Derek groans. “Fuck that.”

“I know,” Will mumbles. “But if classes get cancelled, I’ll make cookies.”

“Mm.” Derek hums again, as Will pulls the knot at the back of his neck tight. “What kind?”

“Still deciding.” He hooks his arms around his neck, pulls him close, and kisses his cheek. “You can file a request, if you want.”

“Snickerdoodle.”

“Done.”

“Thank you.” Derek pauses. “For tying my hair.”

Will noses into his neck, drops a kiss there, and then moves back up to his face. “Of course, Der.” He turns him a little, cups his face in one hand. Derek still looks gray, and he looks, God, he looks so tired ; he always does when he’s like this, but it pains Will every time.

He wants to take every ounce of hurt away from him.

“What can I do?” he asks.

Derek takes a long breath while he thinks about it. His words, on these days, come slowly. “Um.” He nods to himself, like he’s thinking about it. “Do you have homework?”

Will shakes his head. “I have plenty of time to do it.”

“Okay.” Derek pauses, then, “Lay with me?”

“Yeah.” Will nods. “Ayuh. Of course.”

They wind up curled into the blanket pile, with Derek pressed tight against Will’s chest, a little further down the bed than him so he can tuck his face into his shoulder. Will presses a kiss to the top of his scarf, holds him as close as he can. He knows the pressure helps him, eases his brain a little. Cromwell rests on the pillow, somewhere near the both of them. He’s a little extra moral support.

“Thank you, Will,” Derek says, with an exhale, as he nuzzles into his chest.

“You’re welcome,” Will replies. “Always.”

“Mmf.” Derek wraps himself around him, arms and legs and all. His voice is muffled when he speaks again, but Will knows the words anywhere. “You and me.”

Will nods. “You and me.”

It’s a mantra and a promise. Hell or high water. Good days and gray ones.

“I’ve got you,” he tells him, and he’ll never let go.

#poindextears writes #ficlet #omgcp #omgcheckplease #omgcp fic #nurseydex #dexnursey #william poindexter #derek nurse #cromwell the stuffed lobster

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diplodonyx · 5 years ago

Text

Notes for dc bootleg – changes and quotes I really like (yes this is mostly the trash goblin)

Act 1

Priest: we can at least take comfort in knowing its all part of the almighty’s plan

Beej: Plan? There’s no plan. There’s just me

Beej: Death is like circ de soleil: it makes no sense, it lasts forever and they let you have sex with the puppets. What’s that? They don’t?? whoops

Beej: I make crossing over smoother. Try to think of me as lube for the whole *spits in hand* the whole being dead thing

Beej: there is no heaven or no hell, no meaning as far as I can tell. Are you depressed? You should be??

Beej: oblivion can make a girl feel worthless

Beej: my polio’s completely cured, I left my baby uninsured

Beej: everybody smokes here

Beej: Orgies last for several days here. And people tend to go both ways here

Beej: and im the ghost your’re gonna need the most here

Beej: And I got so much love to give. You, I would give you the hottest 25 seconds of your life. Upstairs, downstairs, butt stuff, done

Beej: You see, I was born dead

Beej: Until a living being doth sayeth my name thrice. Which is a fancy word for three times and not a type of rice

Barbara: LOOK AT THESE CARROTS!

Adam watching a documentary on the agricultural significance of the plough

Beej doesn’t come in scatting ☹

Beej is very sad about missing their death

Beej: aaaah why are we screaming? Oh it’s because of me isn’t it?

Beej: you’re dead! Surprise!

Beej: SHOW ME YOUR PENIS!

Beat drops and beej says ‘oh hell yee’

Beej: if I overstep my bounds just tap out and hit me with a safeword

Beej counting the days aww ‘Sunday, Monday, happy days.. two months’

Barbara: everything’s weird Beej: bit rude but I’ll just ignore that

Lydia: Im trying not to break ☹

Lydia: Gonna make him say your goddamn name dead mom

Jamaican beat comes up in fright of their lives?????

The ‘you make daddy so angry’ line isn’t there

Barbara is angered by cotton candy because it’s too sweet

Beej’s ‘oh yeah’ after adam tells him they can hear him,,, like he’s not used to being heard ☹

Beej: there’s a bastard deep down within you

Beej doesn’t sound sad in the new phone who dis line

Adam: oh no. Barbara we have a moth problem

Delia sets lydia’s dress on fire? Shook

Delia wants to be gal pals with Lydia uwu

Delia: there’s so many soul nourishing activities we can do together. Hot yoga…cold yoga…room temperature pilates

Lydia: are you gonna lifecoach me right now? Delia: so hard *no reason starts*

Lydia: now im just imagining a planet giving birth

Lydia: positivity is a luxury of the privileged and white Delia: I’m not white!

Lydia: Actually I prefer the term ‘shit happens’

Delia: Every cloud has a silver lining Lydia: So there’s a positive to my mother dying?!?

Song where Lydia describes her mum to adam and Barbara: Mama would

Charles: I always carry a pocket full im diamond rings. Cash is so volatile

Beej: if they could look up they’d see. Maybe he’s not so bad. I want the same things as you. To bee seen through the eyes of love. And also to kill lots of people. And basically fuck shit up

Beej: am I being greedy? Am I pushy amd I needy?

Beej: My dream is murdering

Maxi: this place is smaller than my first wife’s tits

Haunted carnival lol

Act 2

Beej pretending to be alive and not knowing where his meter is

Beej seems on board with getting her mum at first

Beej: bye Lydia, enjoy the maitlands

Beej: I’m gonna seize life by the balls.. and tickle

Ooooh beej has an evil plan from the beginning and its not a result of feeling abandoned :0

Girl scout appears at the end of the reprise for that beautiful sound. Was she just laying there the whole time?

Adam searching how to kill a vampire

Barbara saying Lydia is the daughter she never had ☹

Otho has a legion of groupies that he fucks

Otho: I came as soon as I received your series of frantic emojis

Delia: he has green hair and wears a stripey suit like he lives in a fancy prison

Otho has a lil song :0 – about how using a soul box can keep you with otho forever

Rock riff of the girl scout song??? – leads into dead mom reprise

Beej singing chim chimmeny

Beej saying that he’s a-scared

Beej: the maitlands, they ruin everything!

Beej kills a bird to open the handbook

Beej: eww gross Lydia you’re touching it gross oh my god

Beej: where the bride is young but still above the legal age of 7

Boy inferno!!! Introducing Lydia and Charles to netherworld

Inferno: No one gets laid in the Netherworld

Charles: There’s a boyband chasing us

Mentions how Emily died by getting sick ☹

Lydia: Well, he’s a conman, and the way you con a conman is you give him what he wants

Lydia: He thinks he’s the ghost with the most? Let’s make him think he’s right

Lydia: I’m marrying a corpse

Beej: I’ve never felt so beautiful!

Beej: Oh my God, my heart’s beating hard, I’m so fricking nervous. Look at those flowers, I so should’ve showered, it’s such a nice service

Beej wants to write poetry and ride a tandem bicycle with the person he has a crush on

Juno calling beej fat and disappointing

Beej: get her sandy, get her. Feeed, feed on my mom

#beetlejuice #beetlejuicedc

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willddheartt · 5 years ago

Text

Babylon: Neon Lights | C.H. Chapter Nine: Best Friend

“she is both hellfire and holy water, the flavour you taste depends on how you treat her”

It had been a love-hate relationship between them the entire time they’ve known one another. Nobody could explain, or pinpoint, the anger and hostility between Calum and Cherry every time they were together. At this point, their friends get concerned when there isn’t a passive-aggressive comment made or some type of glare exchanged. They met through mutual friends, who tried to set them up, saying they’re perfect for each other, leaving everyone astonished that something so perfect went so wrong.

DISCLAIMER: SOME PARTS MIGHT BE R RATED !!

Series warnings: Substances (alcohol & cigarettes), Anger (snappy comments), Smut

Series Masterlist

September 4th Labor Day weekend. Well not technically yet, but I didn’t have work for the last two days and Monday the store is closed. We all showed up at Michaels with coolers full of alcohol that would surely go home empty on Monday. Where it was our first night and the weekend was still young the drinks were light but still enough to have most passed out by 12:00 PM.

It was shocking how much the moonlight lit up Michael's kitchen as Calum and I sat on the floor, passing a spoon between the pair of us as we dug into a tub of chocolate ice cream. “I’m not sure,” I shrugged, handing him the spoon, “I mean I know I don’t want to stay working the same job when I’m 40, but I feel stuck. I just don't know how I could get out, you know?” I asked, answering his question on if I was doing something I truly loved. “It's easy to get out you know,” Calum said, “Sure it seems hard when you just think about it and before you do it. But once you’re actually out it's the best thing you’ll do,” He added “What about you?” I asked, “Is this something you love doing?” He nodded, passing the spoon my way, “Sure it's crazy and being an online presence is stressful sometimes but I wouldn't trade it. The band is the best thing I ever did,” He spoke. “How’s it feel knowing any of the fans would probably jump on the chance of being your friend? The legal ones,” I asked “I think some of them just say that because they know a version of myself I want them to.”

“Mmm, I have a good one,” Calum said holding his hand up as he talked, “Your passions, tell me about them.” I shrugged, “I don't know, I don't like saying one thing is a passion or a hobby then having people expect me do those things,” “Okay, then what do you do when you’re not with us, or when you’re alone?” Calum rephrased “I make what some would like to call art, doodles and some poetry, but that is something I keep for myself, I don't ever share it. I like having my secrets, even from people close to me, its my way of staying myself. But I also take photos, sometimes if I need some extra cash, I’ll sell some prints or take photos for someone but that doesn't happen a lot. When money gets involved it feels more like a job than something I enjoy doing.” I explained, noticing how Calum’s dark brows knit together as he listened to what I was saying, nodding to indicate he got it all. “Your turn, what are your hobbies?” I asked turning his question on himself

As Calum explained what he does in his free time, I realized neither of us knew that much about each other, and that we were just as deep as the other. There were different levels and layers. That of an onion or an ogre.

Though I was paying attention and trying my hardest to keep my focus on his words, the dark abyss that was his eyes captivated me. In any lighting Calum's eyes looked almost blacker than any darkness night could come up with, but in the pale moonlight, you could faintly see the outline of his pupil in his iris. Naturally his eyes were beautiful, just like everything else about Calum, but tonight it was consuming, how beautiful his eyes were.

I fell so far into the dark pools that I almost missed his next question, “What was your high school experience like?” I laughed at the question, “Really?” I asked. Calum nodded, “I know you know mine, but I don’t know much about you in school and I want to,” “Nobody knows about it, I don’t flaunt it. High school wasn’t an exciting experience for me and I’ve mostly left it behind. I changed everything about myself when I left, name, hair colour, everything. I was alone most of the time and spent way too much time thinking about leaving and getting out. Sleeping my teenage years away.” “Now you have us, I think your high school self would be proud,” Calum smiled. I nodded, “I would be.” I chucked “Although, I’m still mad I never got to have the high school cliche of slow dancing with my boyfriend at a school dance,” “You’ve never slow danced?” Calum asked, astounded I nodded, “I didn’t go to dances.”

Calum jumped up to his feet, holding his hand out to me, “I'm going to change that right now,” He said, pulling me up once I grabbed his hand. “Now?” I asked, “But there no music,” “There will be,” Calum said, pulling me into him as he started humming a slow song. I wrapped my arms around his neck as he held my waist, humming close to my ear. Calum swayed us slowly from side to side as he slowly moved us in a circle.

A few minutes later when Calum pulled back he smiled, “How was that?” He asked “It was nice,” I smiled

The entire weekend went by in a slow blur. I vaguely remembered things from the days, but few from the night. It was like a weekend long bender. I spent most days tipsy and smoking, Calum by my side doing the same. Violet left Sunday morning to spend the remainder of the weekend with Travis. The 72 hours of drinking and laughs came to an end when Monday rolled around, leaving me bedridden with a terrible hangover.

My skull felt like it was being gripped by the hands of a giant, one who was too friendly to crush it but who also wanted to cause temporary pain. When I stumbled into the apartment the first thing I did was draw the curtains shut before grabbing a bottle of water and debating the thought of taking more than the recommended amount of aspirin. Sleeping most of Monday away. I didn’t even hear when Violet came home in the afternoon, or the countless messages that dinged on my phone with photos and videos from the weekend that was probably full of bad and stupid ideas.

September 8th Thankfully, the hangover from hell only lasted a day and by I had the afternoon, or closing, shift, leaving me folding up the clothes and cleaning up the store from the people in the morning. Something I didn’t mind in all honesty.

As I hid away folding a pile of men's dress pants back in the dressing rooms, I kept my phone on me since the manager was never in for closing shifts. Calum and I were talking my entire shift, laughing over the weekend, talking about what we were doing tonight and eventually coming up with pizza at his place after I got off. I smiled to myself, tucking my phone back in my pocket, knowing he didn’t have just pizza in mind. Since we had distinguished our friends with benefits type of relationship, I was over at his place almost every night but Wednesday and Friday.

When I came into work at one, I was unable to cover the marks on my neck that were a memory of the weekend we just had, and everyone gave me hell for it. Thankfully the manager wasn’t in or I would have got it worse then I already did. Sure our friends knew about Calum and I but when Rylee from the shop saw the dark purple marks peeking up from the collar of my t-shirt and lost it, rapid firing multiple questions, much like Violet did but less personal towards the person who left them.

Although my shift was only five hours it felt like nine. When I walked into Calum’s apartment, I dropped my purse at the door, kicking my shoes off and dramatically laid down on the couch. “Long day?” He chuckled from the kitchen, as he brought the box of pizza and our drinks over to the table in the living room “You wouldn't even believe it,” I sighed, sitting up when Calum handed me a glass of soda.

“You got a little something right, there.” He smirked, pointing to his neck “Every cover up attempt I tried this morning failed so they stayed,” I laughed “Boss say anything?” I shook my head, “They’re normally not in for the afternoon shifts,” “What I'm getting from that statement is, when you work in the afternoons and stay over we can spend more time cuddling.” Calum smirked I laughed, “Sure, Cal,”

The pizza box laid closed on the coffee table, having been finished long ago. Calum laid in between my legs as we watched t.v. I absentmindedly ran my fingers through his hair. Everything about this was not your traditional FWB scenario, we did more than fuck, most times he greets me with a kiss either to my cheek or by pressing one to my lips, and most mornings we cuddle. It's more than a recurring night stand.

Calum turned over so he was low looking at me, a small smile still tugging at the corners of his lips, one that didn't seem to leave tonight. “Sup?” I asked softly “Nothin,” He smiled, “You’re pretty though,” “So are you,” I replied, bringing the hand that was running through his hair down to hold his chin, bringing him up so I could peck his lips.

One kiss turned into another, and then another until we were making out on the couch. Calum sat back, pulling me to sit up with him as he pulled me onto his lap. My hands roamed over his body, from his shoulders down his chest, and under his shirt. Once I started tugging on the hem of his shirt and slowly pushing it up, Calum pulled away quickly to remove the article of clothing, quickly connecting our lips back and slipping his tongue in my mouth.

One kiss, two kiss, red kiss, blue kiss, and my shirt had come off along with my jeans. His hands came down to the waistband of my underwear, he smiled into the kiss against my neck once he noticed the little bat print, looking up at me, “Batman?” I nodded, with a sheepish smile as a slight blush crept up onto my cheeks, up until this point he had only seen my nice lacy panties. “Cute,” Calum mumbled before capturing my lips again, slipping a hand past the waistband of my batman underwear, chuckling when an involuntary squeak of surprise slips past my lips when his fingers swiped at my heat. “Love catching you off guard,” He teased as I tugged his bottom lip between my teeth “Listen, I know you’re going for slow here but could you get on with it?” I breathed out. “Is that your way of asking for me to get on with it and fuck you?” Calum laughed as I nodded, sucking on the side of his neck.

#5 seconds of summer #5sos #5 seconds of summer imagine #5sos imagine #Calum hood #Calum hood imagine #Calum hood smut #Ashton irwin #ashton irwin imagine #luke hemmings #Luke hemmings imagine #Michael clifford #Michael clifford imagine #5sos smut

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cornacopicimagines · 6 years ago

Text

fuck you parker │p.p

☆.｡.:*

paring: peter parker x reader

words: 4.7k

warnings: PURE SMUT, swearing, rough sex?, oral (female recieving)

summary: Something about Peter makes y/n tick, something about y/n makes Peter combust with annoyance but at the same time neither one can deny the sexual tension but both are too prideful to act on it, that is until Peter is fed up and takes his anger out on her in a specific manner.

a/n: i did decide to make Peter & y/n eighteen so that they are of legal age but that doesn't mean everyone else around them is also eighteen.

masterlist

☆.｡.:*

y/n sat in the cool air-conditioned room of her fourth-period English history class, she smiled contently to herself as she made a mental note that this was one of her very few favourite classes. Not because y/n liked learning about how poetry has evolved but because he wasn't in her class and by him, she means Peter fucking Parker.

The boy got her blood boiling in seconds even without provocation. Every time y/n would see that mop of brown hair she would feel something primal in her to punch his stupid face and Peter felt the exact same way. She wondered if he actually deserved her wrath and insults seeming that all her best friends can say about him are positive comments but then again he was probably putting up a facade around them. y/n forgot when their rivalry started, the only time she can recall starting their arguments was in second grade when Peter beat her in the monthly spelling bee that y/n always won up until then but it probably has been going on ever since the two of them officially met. Ever since then though, the two of them compete whenever they can, y/n would get the best of him and he would lose his shit and then he would beat y/n and then she would lose her shit. It was a constant cycle and a routine that every other student seemed to have memorised along with those two. Sometimes when the pair of them start bickering the teachers would place them at opposite ends of the classroom but that didn't stop glares and snide comments.

Then again, y/n couldn't deny that he was physically good looking. He was really handsome and sometimes she found herself staring at those bulging biceps that would stretch at the sleeves of his tight sweater and imagine what lay under it. y/n would try her best to avert her eyes as hard as she could but sometimes it felt like second nature to let her attention waft over to him even just for a moment. She felt almost ashamed of herself that she thought of him in such lewd ways but it did make for one hell of a session for her when he crossed into her mind and y/n didn't seem like the only one that had the same problem.

Peter was known as the hot nerd, somehow every girl in the school has had an attraction to him whether they acted on it or not or whether it was just acknowledging his features or actually having a romantic or sexual liking to him but every time he was confronted with a pretty girl asking if he was free on Saturday night he would politely decline and walk off as if nothing had happened.

y/n was considered one of the most popular girls in school, she was pretty, smart & had a figure to match, she worked hard and treated everyone with respect and kindness that is except for Peter obviously. y/n didn't really consider herself one of the aforementioned popular girls but she really couldn't care to try and change peoples mind and it did come with its limited perks and of course its downsides. Her looks got her places that they wish they didn't because y/n wanted to show people that she wasn't just an airhead that got advantages just because every guy wanted her to suck their dick and plus it would show Peter that she wasn't the ditz that he likes to call her every so often.

y/n stood at her locker, squished between a bulky footballer trying to get food out of his teeth and what y/n can only describe as a girl who hasn't gone through puberty even though she's seventeen. She shoved her thick textbooks back into her locker before making sure she had all her necessary items for Monday, y/n was looking forward to tonight's plans to lounge about on her couch with her sister and make the most of the valuable time that is a Parent-free weekend. As y/n fixed the stray hairs that fell out of her tight bun she took notice that the two drastically different people that locked her into a human sandwich had left, she wondered why they had rushed off that is until y/n heard the familiar locker be swung open.

"Parker, " she spat, not needing to look at Peter for her to know that it was him on the other end. This was a normal afternoon for the two of them, to bicker while they got their things before refusing to see each other until the inevitable next day.

"y/l/n, " he replied with a low gruff voice, god he sounded hot, she thought. y/n silently thanked whatever God was up there that she was behind this locker door to conceal her faint blush.

"What happen to you, " y/n asked sarcastically, "you sound like absolute shit," she said as she finished playing with the strands of hair.

"Didn't get any sleep, " Peter responded curtly, y/n frowned slightly knowing that he usually bites back but today he sounded tired and aggravated that she was even talking to him.

"Oh what a Greek tragedy," y/n mocked as she finally took her first look at him once she slammed her locker door shut, he looked as bad as he sounded. His hair was messy and ruffled, his skin was red and his right eye seemed to twitch slightly as he glared at her. She wanted to ask him what happen to him but her brain told her mouth to shut up before she could embarrass herself and give more material for Peter to work off when they met again. So, as usual, she went to give him a follow-up retort but was cut short.

"I don't really have the patience for you at the moment y/n, so if you could fuck off that would be fantastic," he snapped as he threw his bag over his shoulder and stomped off. y/n huffed in frustration as she followed his actions and stormed off to a nearby cafe that her friends were meeting up at.

She knew it was a quick walk to the cafe but it would take her some time to get back home so she whipped out her phone and texted her sister.

Meeting with my friends at the cafe will be home later x - y/n

Okay, having my partner for the school fair over now but we should be done by the time you get home - Terri

Cool, we still up for movie night tonight? - y/n

Nah, going to a party and staying Mia's after - Terri

y/n sighed angrily as she tucked her phone into her back pocket. She knew that she shouldn't let Terri go out to a party tonight and that if she did her parents would scold her but y/n knew if she fought Terri on it she would give her that stupid puppy dog look that y/n would have to say yes to.

Before y/n knew it she walked into the warmth of the cafe, her eyes scanning the small area before locking eyes with her best friend Gwen. y/n gave her a wide smile and skipped over and slipping to a sliver of a spot that Gwen had saved for her.

"Thanks, G," she said as she noticed a small bowl of colourful fruit salad infront of her. y/n didn't mean to let her frown creep up on her but before she could erase it with a smile Gwen took notice.

"Peter again?" Gwen asked through a bite of her food. y/n stared up at her through her long eyelashes and give her an exasperated look, "you know he's not that bad y/n." y/n scoffed at Gwen statement as she forked her food.

"Are we talking about Peter Parker," another girl at the table butted in, her short red hair was curled and her face was blushed at the same hue as her locks, "He's in my gym class and I wish he could live in between my legs," she giggled out as she twirled a piece of hair in between her manicured fingers. The comment almost made y/n choke on her food.

"I thought you weren't into, you know, nerds," Gwen retorted as y/n still stared at the girl in disbelief.

The girl scoffed softly, "Oh I am when they have an eight pack and look like a teenage bad boy waiting to come," she replied as she shoved another mouthful of food down her throat. y/n looked up at the girl with wide eyes, she wanted to protest what the girl had just let slip and tell her that Peter was a vile human but the rising heat in y/n was making her shut you up, causing you to become even more frustrated with your dumb feelings.

"You do realise he's a huge dick," y/n spoke up as she raises her eyebrow at this girl, she really didn't want to start an argument over a boy for what felt like the one-hundredth time that week but she said something to doubt her own flustered mind about Peter. The red-head looked unphased and went to tell y/n off but not before a brunette girl chimed in.

"He's a huge dick with a huge dick," she chuckled slightly, once again y/n felt her face heat up and in anger, y/n shoved her uncontrollably blushing face into her hands.

"I cannot seem to get this into you guys, he's a fucking douche," y/n spat as she starting to get frustrated with her friends' obvious thirst for Peter. Though she deflected all of her friends' comments, y/n's mind agreed with everything they were saying which made her even angry with yourself.

"I want him to get into me," the brunette spoke again, y/n thought her eyes were going to pop out of her socket as she watched her friends snicker at their comments and the reactions that they pulled out of y/n.

"I've lost my appetite," y/n exclaimed as she slung her bag over her should and reached for a ten dollar note and threw it on the table, she wasn't going to sit there and let her so-called friends make fun of her and her feelings.

She stormed out, lucky for her that the cool air seemed to combat the growing blush on her face. In minutes she stood on a crowded train as it shook and rumbling around. Her loud music dimmed slightly, indicating she got a text.

Are you alright? - Gwen

I honestly don't know - y/n

I hate defending them but they were just teasing - Gwen

y/n hesitated to text back for a moment but another ding cuts her out of her trance.

Be honest with me, do you have feelings for him? - Gwen

y/n's fingers hover over her phone's keyboard as she tried to rack her brain for an answer that was honest enough to conceal the rest of the iceberg. She did want to tell Gwen all her problems that she had with her emotions but y/n wasn't ready, she still hadn't even admitted to herself yet.

It's complicated, I despise his guts but I can't help but feel something else - y/n

That's totally fine, just make sure you don't hurt yourself in the process - Gwen

Love ya - y/n

Gwen replied with a simple kiss emoji. y/n didn't know she needed that, she didn't know that she needed that slight realization that maybe there was something there at least on her end and if was just her that she could protect herself.

By the time she had arrived her desired stop and walked to her front door, it had been 30 minutes since she had left in a huff and y/n felt guilt in her. Maybe she shouldn't have left, at least not like that, she was more dignified to be acting like a rash child.

She went through the multiple ways she could have dealt with the situations as she unlocked the front door, the lovely warm air wafted over her features as she shimmed off her coat and threw it on the rack next to her. "Terri, I'm home," she called out, no response. y/n quirked her eyebrow and stopped her movements "Terri?" She questioned as she directed her voice upstairs at Terri's room. For a second time, Terri didn't respond, y/n sighed angrily as she stomped up the stairs. "How many times do I have to tell you," she was no yelling as she swung open Terri's door and saw the very last person she would ever want in her sister's bedroom.

"Oh, y/l/n you're home early," Peter spoke with a wide smirk on his face as pulled the earplugs from his ears and turned around to face her. y/n couldn't see her face but she knew she was red with anger and her eyes were probably trying to jump out of her head.

"What the fuck are you doing here?!" she shouted as she literally ran towards him in a fit of rage, Peter continued to sit unphased in the desk chair. "And in my sister's room no less!"

"Calm those lovely tits y/n," Peter laughed her rage off cooly which only made her more furious.

y/n grabbed Peter by the collar of his shirt and brought his co close to her face, she was afraid their lips would touch, "As everyone knows, I'm not dumb so cut the shit," y/n growled "why the fuck are you sitting in my sister's room?"

"I'm her partner for the fair, dipshit," Peter responded with the exact same tone as her, but he stood up from the chair making sure never to pull his face away. y/n stumbled back slightly as Peter grew to tower over her.

"That's a total lie, you just want to get into her pants to piss me off," y/n spat, her anger levels rising the more he open that stupid mouth of his, at the same time y/n tried to control the growing wetness that was slowing forming in between her legs the closer he got to her.

Peter threw his head back in laughter, y/n stared at him in shock. "Ask her yourself sweetheart," he told her, y/n didn't get a chance to retaliate because a familiar voice spoke up from behind her.

"y/n, you're home early," Terri said happily as she walked past her and flopped herself on her queen sized bed. Terri caught sight of y/n's frustrated state, "What's wrong?"

"What's wrong?!" y/n chocked out, her attention drifted from her sister to Peter, "You have Peter motherfucking Parker in our house."

"And?" Terri stared at y/n like nothing was wrong like the air was so thick between y/n and Peter that it was basically a fog. y/n stared at like Terri was the dumbest person in the world and to her, she 100% was.

"Why is he in our house?" she asked with sternness in her voice, her eyes still burned holes into the back of his head.

"Oh, he's my partner for the fair, " Terri smiled sweetly. Peter looked at y/n with a wide smile as he watched her stormed out and slam the door behind her.

☆.｡.:*

y/n sat on her messy bed, her loose hair sprawled out and her mind following the beat of a song. Her eyes glanced up to the clock hanging above her tall desk, it had been an hour and a half since Peter intruded.

She sighed heavily, her toes barely touching the carpeted ground. y/n picked up on a door being slammed, most likely the front door. Before she could rush up and make sure Peter tripped on his way out but a harsh knock came onto her door.

Thinking it was Terri, to let y/n know that Peter had finally gone she didn't think twice for opening the door. y/n eyes met with his once again.

"What the fuck do you want, " y/n spat, her arms folding underneath her chest, causing Peter to take a quick glance down.

"Your sister told me, you're having problems with the calculus homework, " the smug asshole wore a proud smirk as he leant against the doorframe.

"Well she's a liar, " y/n retorted with a soft snort as she rolled her eyes at him. Peter felt the familiar annoyance that always made itself know when she was near him, why does she have to be so fucking hard to work with? he thought.

"Don't be fucking difficult y/n," he grumbled, not really in the mood to fight with her for what felt like the 200th time that very day.

"Don't be a dick Peter," y/n bit back as she too felt the rush of anger swell inside her again.

"Don't be a brat," Peter retorted as he took a step closer to her, his emotions acting quicker than his brain.

"Don't be an asshole," y/n, too, took a step towards him. Their faces incredibly close for both of their liking but both were too worked up to even notice the proximity of their boiling skin.

"Don't be a bitch," Their words now getting more vulgar as the longer this heated argument continued. y/n wanted to slam the door in his face after hat he had just called her but she was not thinking properly, like him being near her caused her reasonable side of her brain to completely out of function.

"Don't be a fucking douche," Her eyes now shooting daggers straight at him, her attention watched intently as his focus drifted from her gaze down to her snarled lips, to her flushed skin and finally to her blatant cleavage that Peter thought was begging for him to play with.

Peter took one last look at her enraged expression and took a chance, "Fuck it," he muttered lowly before he leant forward and encaptured her lips with his in a rough movement. y/n stood there motionless, her eyes wide ad her muscles locking in place. y/n felt her brain scream at her to pull away from him but if she was honest her sexual frustration was telling her to pull him closer and confirm all those comments her friends told her earlier.

So she lifted her arms and draped them over his shoulders, pulling him in tighter in her grip. Her hands played with the soft hairs at the nape of his neck and drew small circles at the tip of his back, moaning slightly every time her nail would rack over a bump indicating a defined muscle. Peter moved into her bedroom, his palms squeezing harshly on her hips as he guided her to the front of her bed.

Peter's fingers starting playing with the waistband of her loose gym shorts, his digits aimlessly wondering over her pelvic bone. y/n palms drifted higher on his scalp, her own fingers were now entangling the wefts of brown curls. She pulled away breathlessly as she quickly undid the small number of buttons on her already half exposed shirt, "This doesn't mean anything Parker," she barked as y/n disregarded the shirt and made work on her pink lace bra, easily letting it fall to the floor.

Peter didn't listen to her at first, too much in awe of her body. Boys always talked about her, about how she looked underneath the clothing, how much would her tits bounce if she was on top, Peter just got validation for all the rumours about her.

"Of course," he complied, as he soon starting stripping, now he was down to his underwear and matched y/n. She stared down at his toned figure, damn it, they were 100% right. "Even though you are incredibly hot, I'm still extremely mad at you," Peter explained, "Get on the bed."

"Excuse me," y/n coughed out to hide her growing want. Peter stared at her like she was dumb.

"I said get on the bed," he repeated, slower this time. y/n obeyed him, crawling onto the bed and giving him a gorgeous view of her ass before she lay flat on the mattress. Peter climbed atop her, he reconnected his lips with hers again as her hands pulled her arms above her head before clamping her wrists down with one of his hands. y/n simply moaned into his mouth, quite happy as she lay underneath his complete unable to do anything. Peter's tongue racked up against her teeth, he pulled his lips away from hers with a soft pop before placing them on her neck biting at the skin. "Is this okay?" Peter asked through long kisses, y/n nodded her head vigorously.

His free hand trailed down, tickling the bare surface of her belly, playing with the lace trimming of her underwear before he reached into her. His digits rubbing her softly, painting figure eights on her clit as he continued to press kisses to her blushed skin. "Please," y/n whimpered as the short jolts of pleasure wasn't cutting it. Peter stared up at her, his face contorting into a growl.

"You're not going to say a fucking word until I tell you," he pulled away from her complete, y/n felt her heart drop but quickly jump into her throat as she felt his literally rip her underwear in two, the ripped material flung onto the floor. y/n almost lept for the sky when she felt him blow cool air onto her folds. "Your voice annoys the hell out of me."

"Could say the same to you," she exclaimed sarcastically as she threw her head back into the pillows. Her comment was met with one harsh slap to the underside of her ass, y/n stared down at him in shock. Peter didn't give her anything as he continued the tease her hole, his fingers dancing over all the areas she needed him.

"Keep your hands there," was the last thing she said before he delved in. His tongue lapped and expertly circled her swollen clit, his fingers slid in and out of her hole slowly but surely, his lips sucked and her folds collecting her wetness. Peter made sure to never get out of sync, when his digits came out her sucked a little hard and when he dug his way back in he curled his finger upwards causing y/n's back to arch.

y/n desperately wanted to touch him, in any way she could, she just needed her hands all over him as he ate her like a full course meal. She hadn't like this in ages, her eyes rolled back into her head, moans pushing themselves to the brink of her tongue and yet it was someone who she despised who was giving her such much satisfaction. Peter glanced up at her and noticed she was in a train of thought and sped up, pumping his fingers faster and harder and he softly nibbled at her bundle of nerves. y/n felt it building up inside her, the tingling sensation at the very pit of her stomach as it became harder for her to contain her breathless whimpers. Peter also took notice to her approaching orgasm and made sure to give her one last finger fuck before he retracted from her.

"Fuck you parker," she growled as y/n watched him fumble around the room. She wasn't completely sure why he was checking her floor but she took this as an opportunity to finish herself off, so she trailed her hands down her sweating body. Before she could give herself the release she needed, Peter's palm came down hard and fast onto her sensitive cunt making y/n entire body spasm with pleasure.

"What did I fucking say," Peter spoke harshly as y/n heard his tear open a condom packet, her eyes still shut from the sudden pleasure. Peter stared down at her, he smiled wickedly to himself. She had her eyes closed and her eyebrows were somehow cutely furrowed, her tits lay against her chest with small beads of sweat adorning her skin. He did this to her, he made her feel good.

Without saying a word to her, Peter quickly slipped on the condom and dived into her. y/n's legs instantly wrapped around his waist as he lay dormant in between her tight walls. Peter wonders how such a sour girl could have the most sweetly divine pussy, but that wasn't his focus now. He pulled out of her slowly before slamming right back into. Each time he did it, Peter quickened it. His knuckles stabilized him but laying on either side of her as he fucked her.

Peter could stay inside her for days, the way she would jump every time their skin met, the way her walls released him at the perfect time before snugging him back as he slid in, it was heaven. "Holy shit," he chanted as Peter tried to keep his rhythm up but sometimes failing miserably with the overload of pleasure he was obtaining. Peter looked up at y/n, he felt the urge to give her permission to speak, to scream his name. "Tell me how good this feels."

"So-so good," y/n stumbled, her mismatched tone connecting with the pounds of his hips.

"You can do better than that," Peter told her as he started to slam harder into her, he knew he was leaving marks and he loved it.

"This feels fucking fantastic," y/n stuttered as she pulled at the sheet of her pillows. Her face tucked into the corner of her elbow as she tried to contain her what she felt as uncontrollable moaning.

"'Atta girl," Peter complimented. y/n felt his dick slid into her tight entrance only to have his balls stain her skin with red marks after he pounded her back into the mattress. Finally, y/n felt her orgasm riding, the beautiful feeling making its presence known to her.

"Peter, I'm gonna cum," She told him through heaves of pornographic moans. Peter nodded his head quickly.

"I know," he sped up again, the only thing you could hear is the sounds of mixed groans and loud whimpers and hot, raw skin slapping against one another, "I am too."

And with that, she came. Her release hitting her like a ton of bricks, she felt her body tense up and her mouth emit a loud scream of Peter's name. Her vision went black momentarily as she felt the wave of pleasure wash over her. Seconds later, Peter released as his head fell into the crook of her neck as he pours into the rubber. Slowly, he slid out of her, their combined juices almost dripping out of her tight hole.

Peter peeled off the condom and threw it in the nearest bin. y/n watches him saunter away from her, she wonders if they'll do this again. They must, that was the best sex she ever had and she doesn't mind staring at a completely nake Peter Parker. "Are we doing this again?" she pipes up, it's worth a shot. Peter swivels around to face her, he genuinely doesn't know how to respond to her question. He is completely down for another session of getting lost in that paradise of a pussy she's got but he knows that she hates his guts and he thinks the worst of her.

"Do you want to do this again?" Peter responds as he collects his clothing from her floor.

"I do, but that's all it can be," y/n told him, pouting slightly as she spots her ripped underwear, they were her favourite. "Beside the next time we fuck, you need to buy me new underwear," she giggled slightly as she snatched her broken underwear and threw it at him.

"Deal y/l/n."

"Deal Parker,"

☆.｡.:*

i'm so sorry, i rushed the last part of the smut

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ladyreapermc · 5 years ago

Text

Fic: This isn’t a rom-com (Keanu x OFC) 2/?

Author’s notes: Thank you so much to everyone who dropped a feedback on part 1. Here’s part 2. Hope you guys like it! Thank you @caryled for being my wonderful beta for this one!

Wordcount: 2760

Warnings: None. This is all fluff.

Part 1 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

When Keanu made his way to the wardrobe department to return the suit he had worn that day, he had a smile on his face. It had been a really good day of shooting. They finished all the nightclub scenes and on Monday they would move on to some night shootings and the action scenes, so the real fun was about to begin.

He was truly excited about this project. Not that Keanu wasn’t excited for the other movies he’d done in the past years, but John Wick just felt different. The entire thing excited him, and Keanu felt almost as if he was in his thirties again filming The Matrix.

He handed the suit back to Luca and just as he was about to step out, his eyes caught a flash of white on the floor and Keanu paused to pick it up. It was a driver’s license and he couldn’t help but smile when he recognized the face in the picture. It was the extra Keanu had spent some time talking to that morning.

He always made sure to talk to everyone involved in a project and he had only meant to say hi, just like he had done with everyone else. But he caught the title of her book and he ended up staying longer than he intended. Lilah had been fun to talk to and it had been a while since he had a chance to talk philosophy with someone other than Lawrence, but it wasn’t a big deal.

It couldn’t be a big deal because he was in the middle of a project and he couldn’t afford any distractions. No matter if he thought the way her dark eyes brightened up with excitement as she talked and the hint of an accent over some words were cute; or how endearing it was when she blurted out the Kant thing without even noticing…

“Hey, I was looking for you!” Chad’s voice startled Keanu of his musings. “What’s that?”

He snatched the license from Keanu’s hand before he could even think of reacting and his smile turned into a smirk.

“Isn’t this that cute brunette you were flirting with this morning?”

Keanu saw Luca look up from his task of organizing the costumes, suddenly way too interested in the conversation. With a quick wave, Keanu pulled Chad out of the room, glaring at his friend.

“I wasn’t flirting,” he started, but he could already feel his neck warm with embarrassment. “But, uh… You saw that?”

“Everyone saw that,” Chad said with a grin. “Maybe don’t flirt with women in the middle of the set.”

“I was just saying hi,” Keanu protested. “Like I always do.”

“Right,” Chad snorted. “At some point in saying hi, did you get her number?”

“I didn’t think of that,” he said, rubbing his nape and Chad just gave him a disbelieving look. “Fine, maybe I did, but I shouldn’t have.”

And if Keanu picked up his pace a little to try to get away from this conversation, he knew Chad wouldn’t call him on it, but it didn’t mean his friend would let him escape it either.

“Look, I’m just saying… when was the last time you’ve been on a date?”

Keanu took a moment to think about it because he had had quite a few busy years.

“Ok, if you have to think about it, it’s been too long,” Chad piped in before he could even open his mouth. “Look, I’m not saying marry her. One date. What’s the harm?”

“Should I make a list?” he snorted, shaking his head. “Besides, I don’t even know if she would be interested.”

Chad just scoffed at his words, shaking his head, before he handed the ID back to Keanu.

“Then find out. Get her number from production. See what happens. It’s been a while since I’ve seen you smiling like that.”

“Like what?” Keanu asked confused.

Chad snorted again, rolling his eyes as he left Keanu standing in the middle of the set with a confused look.

Keanu stared at the smiling face on the license, contemplating what to do with a sigh. Well, even if Chad was talking crazy, he should make sure Lilah got her ID back.

So, Keanu tracked down one of the casting assistants and stuttered his way into asking for Lilah’s number and why he needed it.

“Hello?” she answered after the third ring, sounding a little distracted.

“Hi. Lilah?” Keanu asked to make sure and she hummed in agreement. “It’s Keanu.”

“Hi…” she greeted after a pause. “How did you get my number?”

“Production,” Keanu answered with a wince, because how creepy was that?

“Listen, I think you dropped your driver’s license.”

“I did?” she asked sounding confused and he heard some rustling on the other side of the line. “Shit! I did. Thank you! I’m heading over to pick it up.”

“Set is closing down for the weekend,” he said as he paused by his bike, tapping the tank. “I-uh… could bring it to you.”

“No, no. I don’t want to trouble you.”

“No trouble,” Keanu assured. “I was heading out anyway.”

“Are you sure?” she seemed to hesitate. “I mean, I’m in Brooklyn…”

“I’m sure,” he assured once again. “Give me an address and I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“Ok,” she replied, and he could hear the smile in her voice. “Thank you.”

The address Lilah gave him turned out to be this small bookstore/coffeeshop called Novelsy. Its storefront was so discreet Keanu ended up driving past it a couple of times before the green awning with white letters finally caught his eye.

As soon as he stepped inside, he was greeted by the smell books, coffee, and baked goods as a small chime tinkled, bringing forth a blonde young woman. Her greeting died on her lips as her eyes went wide. Keanu shifted uncomfortably, moving his helmet from one arm to the other.

“Hi, I’m looking for Lilah,” he said, silently praying she wouldn’t make a big deal out of his presence.

“I’ll take care of this, Mandy,” said a tall brunette, her green eyes giving him a quick once-over. “Lilah had to take a call. Why don’t you look around and I’ll make sure she finds you?”

Keanu hesitated for a moment, before nodding and moving towards the aisles of bookcases, still feeling her gaze following him. It was a little unnerving.

He walked around, browsing the shelves aimlessly, pausing here and there to pick up a book that caught his attention. When had been the last time Keanu had done that? Had the time to do that? He really couldn’t remember but walking around in Novelsy just for the sake of it felt really good and when Lilah finally found him, Keanu had picked a couple of books he had been meaning to read, among them a poetry anthology by Pablo Neruda.

“Hey!” Lilah greeted with a wide, warm smile that made his own lips drawn upward. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

“No problem. I kept myself busy,” Keanu replied gesturing to the books in his hands, while he sneaked a quick once-over.

Lilah had exchanged the red party dress, which was probably a costume piece for the movie, he realized it now, for jeans and a sweater that said Hogwarts alumni and Keanu actually thought she looked more beautiful like that. And he should not be thinking that at all.

“Anyway… is this your card?” he asked, pulling out her license from his jacket pocket with a flourish and could he be more of a goof?

“Yes, it is. Thank you!”

Lilah’s chuckle turned into a grimace as she took it from his hand and glanced at it.

“Urgh! I hate that picture.”

Keanu looked over at the ID again like he hadn’t stared at it several times for the past couple of hours.

In the picture, her brown hair fell to her shoulders in messy waves, framing her face quite prettily. Her rimmed glasses made her brown eyes look larger and her shy smile showed braces in her teeth.

“It’s not bad,” he commented, and Lilah snorted in disbelief, pocking it.

“Anyway, thanks for taking the time to bring it to me.”

“No problem,” Keanu reassured again with a smile.

They lapsed in that awkward silence of people who didn’t know what to say to each other, which was weird because their conversation had flowed so well this morning.

“Did you find everything you needed?” she asked, gesturing at the books in his hands.

“So far, yes. But I want to take another look.” It was almost six after all and if he left now, he would get stuck in traffic.

“Go ahead, there’s a used book section on the other side of the store if that’s your thing, and if you need anything, I’m your girl!”

Keanu ducked his head, hiding his chuckle with his hand. He liked the sound of that way too much.

Once again it took Lilah a second too long to realize what she said, and her eyes went wide, as she covered her mouth.

“Oh my God, I didn’t mean… I’m so sorry. I’m not trying to hit on you or anything…” Keanu couldn’t help but wince a little at her words.

“Not that I wouldn’t hit on you,” she continued, having picked up on his discomfort. “I mean, you’re you. Who wouldn’t…? I’m gonna stop talking now.”

Lilah’s face was bright red and she couldn’t meet his eyes at all. Keanu just huffed another chuckle and shook his head. The way she blundered with words was adorable.

“It’s ok, Lilah. I get it. I’ll call if I need anything.”

She gave him a quick nod, leaving Keanu to move through the aisles again, eyes scanning the titles in front of him, but after another fifteen minutes of wandering around, he decided was for the best just stick with the ones he already got. He barely had the time to read anything but scripts lately.

Keanu returned to the front of the store, finding Lilah behind the register counter, finishing the sale for an elderly lady. Once she moved away, Keanu stepped up and Lilah’s expression opened again in that warm smile of greeting.

“So you work here?” he asked because he noticed most employees had a green apron over their clothes.

“No, but I help out whenever they need,” she explained taking the books along with his debit card.

As Lilah handed him the payment terminal, Keanu raked his brain for something to say. He was almost 50, shouldn’t he be better at this?

Before he managed to figure out, she handed him his receipt and books in a paper bag and Keanu was left with no other excuse to be there and keep talking to her.

He fidgeted with his helmet. Because there were only two options right now: ask her out or leave. And Keanu really wanted to ask her out. Not for a date or anything, but maybe just a coffee. Talk a little more. She seemed like an interesting person and it didn’t have to be a big deal.

He looked up at her, catching the way she quickly glanced away, ducking her head and tucking her hair behind her ear. The words were on the tip of his tongue, but when he opened his mouth, all he managed was thank you.

“Hey, uh, would you let me buy you a cup of coffee?” Lilah asked, stepping away from the register counter again. “As a thank you for coming all this way.”

“You don’t have to,” Keanu rushed to say. “It was no trouble.”

“Please?” she gave him a hesitant smile and his heart actually sped up. What the hell was wrong with him?

“Sure.”

Lilah grinned wide and led the way to a quite charming café with mismatched sets of colorful tables and chairs, star-shaped hanging lampshades and intricate flower pattern wallpaper. The scent of sugar and spice was stronger here and made Keanu’s stomach growl, reminding him that his last meal had been lunch.

“I’m over there,” she gestured to a table tucked away in a corner, cluttered with a laptop and books. “How do you take your coffee?”

“Black, no sugar.”

Keanu moved towards the table while Lilah headed to the counter to place their order. He set his helmet and books on a free chair while taking the other, glancing at the book titles scattered around.

“Alright, coffee for you, tea for me and cookies for both!” Lilah announced as she returned with one Styrofoam cup in one hand, one mug on the other and balancing a plate on top. “If you could move those two.”

Keanu complied with her request, picking up the books she pointed out so she could set her burden on the table and sat down.

“I’m guessing you’re studying psychology?”

“What gave it away?” she took the books from him and set on the floor, by her bag. “I’m a Ph.D. candidate at Steinhardt. On my last year, hence the chaos…” Lilah gestured at the mess of books and notes and he chuckled.

Once again the awkward silence set between them and Keanu cradled his coffee cup, trying to figure out what to say. It had been so long since he felt like a tongue-tied teen like this. His only comfort was that Lilah seemed to be just at loss for words as he was.

“So, uh, you got a Neruda book. I’ve, uh, head some great things about him,” Lilah said, finally breaking the silence and he sighed in relief.

“He’s pretty good,” Keanu said, picking up the book and offering to her.

“I’ve never been a big fan of poetry,” Lilah said flipping through it. “There a few I like, like The Raven and some by Augusto dos Anjos, but I prefer prose.”

“I don’t know that last one.”

“Oh, he’s Brazilian. I’m not sure if his stuff was ever translated to English.”

Lilah took out her phone and searched for something, before offering to Keanu.

He took it from her hands, his fingers brushing against hers and it felt like a spark of electricity had shot through him. When Keanu met Lilah’s gaze again, she was frowning, and he wondered if she felt the same.

Swallowing around the lump in his throat, Keanu looked back at the screen, attention being drawn by one of the darkest and most bizarre sonnets he ever read in his life.

“Why on Earth do you like that?” he asked once he finished.

“Because it’s weird!” Lilah declared, grinning. “It almost feels like he looked at everyone else doing love poems and shit and just: Nah, let’s get scientifically morbid. I’ve always thought that was pretty awesome.”

“What’s wrong with love poems?” Keanu asked, leaning forward on the table a little as he watched her.

Her eyes seemed to glow with excitement as she talked, her entire face lid up and her smile was gorgeous.

“Nothing’s wrong with them,” she commented tracing patterns on the table. “If you like reading millions of versions of the exact same thing.”

Lilah looked up at him, spotting a small dismissive smirk on her lips and Keanu chuckled, pushing the book towards her.

“Neruda’s different,” he assured with a smile. “Give it a try.”

“Keanu, no. You’ve just bought this.”

“It’s just a loan,” Keanu said. “Just give me a call when you’re done, we’ll get coffee and talk about it.”

“You’re sure?” She asked, taking the book and he nodded. “Thank you. I promise I’ll take good care of it. There is a special level of hell for people who mistreat borrowed books, you know?”

“Oh really?” he couldn’t have but smile at her.

“Yes! It’s the same one reserved for people who talk during movies and E.L. James,” she joked, and Keanu laughed.

“Good to know,” he replied, picking up his helmet as he noticed the time. It was almost seven. He completely lost track of time.

“I should get going. Thanks for the coffee.”

“Thanks for the loan.”

Lilah got up too and walked him to the front door of the store. When he turned to look at her, he noticed she was holding the book cradled against her chest.

“Sonnet XI is my favorite.”

Keanu wasn’t sure why he said it, but it earned him a small, shy smile as she nodded and held the door for him.

“It was really nice to meet you, Keanu.”

“You too, Lilah.”

tbc

Go to part 3

Taglist (give me a shout if you want to added.)

@poisonedjoinery @ringa-starr @curly-minnie @i-cant-remember-my-old-login

@caryled @beyond-antares @kathorax @krazycags01 @meetmeinthematinee

@red-pill-blue-pill

@baphometwolf666

@soarocks

@imagine-the-fanfics

@moonlit-raven-haven

@cumberbatchbaps

@coolbreezeinkeanureeves

#keanu reeves imagine #keanu reeves fanfic #keanu reeves x original character #keanu reeves x ofc #keanu reeves #fanfic #series #fluff #this isn't a rom-com

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howieabel · 5 years ago

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Poetry in the time of isolation

For the first time in the globalised age, everyone is reacting to and in some way affected by a single story - a virus making its way around the earth; and this is the first time in history that we can speak about our experiences to people all over the globe as it happens.

I've recently been reading about other plagues and epidemics in history. A century ago, as the first world war was raging and coming to an end for some, the Spanish Flu took more lives in a shorter time than the war took in its four years, a sum which could have been many times more than 50 million people. Nobody really knows exactly where that flu came from, although anyone who knows what life was like in the trenches wouldn't be too surprised of its potential to spread. However, the first cases of the flu were in military forts in the USA, and may have spread to Europe from there. It was only called the 'Spanish' Flu because Spain was neutral in the first world war, and therefore its press was more free - Spanish newspapers reported on the flu accurately, unlike every other combating power who didn't want to demoralise their troops with the mass death that was occurring, not at the hands of enemy soldiers, but a common enemy to all combatants - the appalling conditions that they were fighting in, the ideal way for a virus to wreak havoc.

This time around, calling the virus the Coronavirus, or Covid-19, is more sensible, as much as demagogues like Trump may want to call it the 'Chinese virus'. It seems to have been past from bats (like Ebola) to pangolins, which were sold in wet markets in Wuhan in China, to humans, but as is always the case, these origins remain murky, and often disgusting. These markets are unregulated by the government, as animals from all over the world can be imported there, where they languish in the most awful conditions - not to feed the poor, but as a sort of trophy food for the rich; and that's why many countries are in on the game, letting their merchants illegally export rare, often endangered, often hunted animals to the wet markets.

The Chinese government had tried to crack down on this after previous outbreaks of SARS, including in 2002, but it has proved difficult to rein in the peculiar tastes of the new rich, and of trophy hunters around the globe. Hopefully they learn from the crisis and regulate or eliminate the trading practices of their wet markets. In the mean time, it seems they have controlled the outbreak very well once it happened, and now they are sending doctors to Italy, alongside more recent help from Russia and Cuba, to help with the Italian government's much less successful attempts to control the spread. Unfortunately, as we saw with Ebola, these viruses can pop up every few years just about anywhere, especially, it seems, where there are bats. But I don't know enough about the transmissions from animal to human to write more about this. What i'm most interested in are past examples of how human communities and their governments have tried to shield their vulnerable from plagues and pandemics.

The most interesting example I found was from when the plague came to Italy almost 400 years ago, in the autumn of 1629. This of course is especially relevant as, from the day of this post, Italy is the worst affected of all countries by the virus, which poses a number of questions - Why Italy? Because they have one of the oldest populations? Because there is more inter-generational living than in many other countries? Because of just simple bad luck, for example a virus spreading through catholic mass, hour upon hour upon hour, so that by time it was realised to be a problem, it was already too late?

The reason the reaction to the 1629 plague interests me, is because it shows the importance of government and community reaction to a pandemic - it can make all the difference. Italy had a number of different city states, so we can compare their reaction, and although such comparisons are never perfect, they are some of the best we have. For example, in Verona 61% of people died - in Milan, 46%, in Venice - 33%, and in Florence? 12%. So what did the Sanità, the city of Florence's health board, and government, do so well that they greatly lessened the death toll in comparison to other cities in Italy? One reason this is an especially interesting question is because 12% seems to be around the average mortality figure for the coronavirus (especially among countries with an ageing population and/or a fractured health care system).

What did the Sanità in Florence do then, in the plague year of 1629? They arranged the delivery of food, wine and firewood to the homes of the quarantined (30,452 of them). Each quarantined person received a daily allowance of two loaves of bread and half a boccale (around a pint) of wine. On Sundays, Mondays and Thursdays, they were given meat. On Tuesdays, they got a sausage seasoned with pepper, fennel and rosemary. On Wednesdays, Fridays and Saturdays, rice and cheese were delivered; on Friday, a salad of sweet and bitter herbs. Every morning, hundreds of people in the lazaretti were prescribed theriac concoctions, liquors mixed with ground pearls or crushed scorpions, and bitter lemon cordials. The Sanità also devolved some tasks to the city’s confraternities. The brothers of San Michele Arcangelo conducted a housing survey to identify possible sources of contagion; the members of the Archconfraternity of the Misericordia transported the sick in perfumed willow biers from their homes to the lazaretti. But mostly, the city government footed the bill, and making use of its own police force, court and prison – also punished those who broke quarantine. Its court heard 566 cases between September 1630 and July 1631, with the majority of offenders – 60 per cent – arrested, imprisoned, and later released without a fine. A further 11 per cent were imprisoned and fined, rich and poor alike.

Some of this account would even sound impressive now (especially the pint of wine a day!). It must have been like a revelation to the poor for them to realise that something like this was possible - that the people around them who were thirsty or hungry didn't have to be. It shows how a crisis can destroy the previous idea of normalcy and replace it with a totally new normal. In Britain, for example, the Conservative Party for years laughed at the spending plans proposed by the Labour opposition, ridiculed them as the mad schemes of communists, and every day ad infinitum posed the question on television - but how will you pay for it? Doesn't it all seem very unrealistic?

And now look where we are - our governments are spending more money to cope with this crisis than anyone had ever suggested, millions and millions of people's wages are being payed as a sort of Universal Basic Income, and it suddenly turns out that it would have been a very good thing if everyone had free and fast public broadband after all, now that it is apparent that everyone needs and deserves good communication during this pandemic, not only for them to communicate with their loved ones, but also so they can access the right information. Homeless people in London have been given hotel rooms at no cost. People are coordinating in their communities to help the elderly and the vulnerable, to bring them their groceries so they never have to leave the house. Many countries have nationalised their entire private hospital network, to give their beds to the infected. Look at how Korea and Taiwan have reacted to this crisis, for example, and then compare it to European countries. Many government's have not yet gone far enough, and will need to go further over the coming months to cope with the crisis as it unfolds, and as usual the British and the American governments are some of the most reluctant, not just to foot the bill, but to make what was previously thought impossible, possible after all. If they show, in direct counterbalance to the last decade of austerity, that they had the money to do this all along, it might cause them some problems afterwards. But they have no choice - we are living now in a new normal, and all the old economic orthodoxy has been thrown out the window.

In a time of crisis like this, it suddenly becomes apparent that doctors, cleaners, supermarket staff, food and public sector workers, and in this case also postmen and delivery workers, are the lynchpins of society. It's a shame we haven't spent the less 10 years looking after them a bit better, and perhaps because of this, many more people will lose their lives than should have done if we had started looking after them earlier. There's still a very high possibility that the NHS in Britain could break under the pressure. Unfortunately, we don't have as many doctors are we could have had. There isn't much of an incentive for the young to train to become doctors or nurses, with such pitiful pay and long hours. But there are still many selfless souls who take it upon themselves to make the sacrifice - nevertheless, most of my friends who studied medicine and care had to leave the UK to continue their studies after school, countries where they are now helping in this crisis as junior doctors. They simply couldn't afford the university and accommodation costs in the UK.

As we all begin to adjust to this new normal, and as it becomes clearer that the old world can never be brought back again, perhaps from now on we can fix some of our mistakes and prepare better, so that when the next crisis comes along, we don't find that the people who keep our society going were kicked out of it by the rest of us a long time ago. And as we come out of the crisis, with millions, even billions, of unemployed all over the world, remember then how it was possible to pay people's wages even when they weren't working. If we are against all visionary thinking, then we are also against the NHS, the 8 hour working day, and public parks and free museums. They were utopian ideas once, and in many countries, they still are. What will be normal afterwards? Our reaction now will define the future we can create. Our breadth of vision will determine whether or not we demand its creation.

“The assumption that what currently exists must necessarily exist is the acid that corrodes all visionary thinking.” - Murray Bookchin

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ohnohetaliasues · 5 years ago

Text

Stones to Abbigale {Ch. 1}

(Kat)

This is going to be the worst thing I’ve ever read, isn’t it?

Am I going to actively want to die? Yes, most likely. But apparently, because I run a blog like this, I can endure suffering.

Flashbacks to Blood Raining Night.

Here we go. We will start with the introduction, written by the onion lord himself.

I want to be direct, my name is Greg. I go by “Onision” online.

Okay, I dunno what it is, but something feels off about this sentence.

This book is made up of events that occurred in my own life mixed with fiction from the made up life of James. James is essentially a better version of myself.

I can’t imagine how good that could be, seeing as the man who wrote this is a child predator and is just an overall piece of hot garbage.

His home, his school & his life all resemble my own at his age.

Don’t ever use a fucking ampersand instead of the word ‘and.’ It’s just bad grammar.

The people James analyzes and is surrounded by are not so unlike those I’ve known as well.

Analyzes?

Why?

I have experienced much of the loss James has however his happier moments are more often than not also mine.

Then write a memoir. Not this.

I want to share my story without it being purely non-fiction.

I mean, some people do this with books about their lives, but this feels... Odd?

I simply felt this approach would make for a far better book. At points I cried while writing this, at others I laughed.

Congratulations.

I don’t care.

Stones To Abbigale is not just a book I wrote, it is a piece of who I am.

That’s a given for all writers, but I still don’t care.

I’m going to rip this book to shreds.

Okay here we go.

I was asleep until I met her, but when I woke, I learned the meaning of "perfect imperfection."

Is this Onion boy trying to be poetic?

It actually made me want to die.

I've always been the type of person to focus on stars as we spin beneath them, the cool breeze on a sunny day, scattered patches of grass under my feet, the world around me, often forgetting to even glance at the one within.

‘The one within.’

Okay so the way this is written makes those three things seem disconnected. I often do stuff like this when I write, but I’d write it like ‘as we spin beneath them, focus on the breeze on a sunny day, on the scattered patches of grass, etc.’

You couldn’t pay me all the money in the world to rewrite that garbage sentence. This is all very waxing poetic and not in a good well structured way.

I had remained emotionally unexplored for so much of my life.

That must’ve been boring, not experiencing human emotions like the rest of us.

You sociopath, you.

It's painful knowing some can go an entire lifetime without understanding their own heart, an internal lock waiting for the right key to change everything.

Yeah, whatever, shut the hell up, you whiny idiot.

This is like an introduction by a teenager who just opened a poetry book and was like ‘yup. I wanna write like that.’

Except you aren’t William Blake or Walt Whitman and you never will be.

Sorry, Onion boy.

Except I’m not.

Die mad about it, grease ball.

It was the first Monday of November. I opened my eyes, blinded by my recently painted wall-to-wall white room. Even my bed frame, constructed of purely metal, was painted white.

Okay, cool. I’m a descriptive writer and I take every chance I can get to mention details, but even I find this description awkward. It feels irrelevant in this situation.

It bounced off the walls causing my eyelids to desperately clamp together. Painting my room like this was a clear act of subtle self-inflicted psychological torture.

Then why in the sweet hell did you do it? Do you enjoy suffering?

Actually, he probably does.

Because this is edgy as hell.

I was going through another phase, from darkness to light, and repeat. Seemed like the story of my life.

This is so edgy I am in physical pain.

You know your symbolism is good when it’s so random that you have to point it out and explain it to your audience.

My mom could see the darker colors were depressing me, I felt comforted by them, but found there were good aspects of both extremes. I was happy to visit either side, they are both so simple. But right now the intense light bouncing from wall to wall felt like it was ripping my mind in two.

Am I an idiot or is that just... word salad?

My mom didn't wake me. My alarm clock sat on my dresser with no explanation for it's failure to function. The clock only illuminated a blank stare with 8:17 written all over it's face. While entirely robotic, I imagined the clock to have the dumbest possible expression, one complementing its failure to behave any way outside its random glitch-infested nature.

That was the worst way to write a personification ever, but okay.

In the reflection of it's plastic face I could see myself unconsciously making the dumb expression I was imaging the clock to have. I laughed in my casual dorky tone and began to get ready to leave home.

I’m not laughing, idiot.

Without breakfast, I left for school with a bogus note in hand to idealistically explain my tardiness.

You... You wrote a fake note?

Do you realize you could get in trouble for that?

You’re an idiot.

I think most of my teachers were too exhausted to worry about small variances in our appearance from time to time. With how low their pay likely was, I imagined there were very few rules most teachers cared about.

That isn’t true at all. Teachers have to pay attention to rules unless they want to get, I dunno, fired.

It was another cold day in Lakewood. The wind hit my eyes forcing tears to form in the corners as I sped along the sidewalk at a no-doubt unreasonable speed.

I cannot imagine any good imagery for this scene. I’m just imagining this gif:

I passed Lauren and Raymon walking the opposite direction, no doubt headed toward the nearby church where all the students go to smoke, make out and hide out till school ends.

Um okay. Does this guy know that if characters don’t have relivance to the story, if they have no reason to be named, than they don’t have to be?

No.

Because he’s a 34 year old man baby.

They seemed so childish as they held hands and smiled excitedly as if they had gotten away with some tremendous crime.

That sentence seems so robotic I genuinely can’t.

Mr. Hanson, my heavy-set, middle-aged history teacher, rolled his eyes as I walked into class. "James, talk to me after class" he said quickly, looking away from me as if I were an undervalued employee who was barely important enough to make eye contact with let alone deliver a full sentence to.

It bothers me so deeply that a new paragraph wasn’t started when this character talked.

"I have a note," I said. He ignored me, and continued his lecture on yet another topic that would not only be completely useless later in life, but wasn't even relevant for even a few seconds after the words left his mouth.

Why is this teacher acting like a petty teenager?

I’m deeply annoyed by this.

And yeah, it’s relevant. You have tests, you idiot. Take notes. And it’s also history, which is, again, relevant.

In conclusion, shut your mouth and stop bitching.

There was only 15 minutes left in the class, but I felt it would be more stimulating to integrate myself into the room to yet again study my classmates' behavior than to sit in a hall watching the rows of scum covered tiles inevitably slide off the decaying walls.

That’s a health code violation, friends.

Or Onion is an awful writer and he thinks describing a school like this is a good idea. My money is on that.

For as long as I remember I've enjoyed seeing how people move around and talk to each other, like they're all animals at the zoo.

Something is wrong with you, friend. Liking to people watch is one thing, but doing shit like this is something else entirely.

Uh, try sociopath-like?

Creepy as hell?

We’ll go with both.

I would try to deliver a more accurate analogy if I felt there was one

Bitch, there is. I can’t name one off the top of my head because reading this makes me feel like my brain is melting out of my ears, but I’m 100% sure there is a better analogy. Even though this feels more like a simile.

but so many of them seemed incredibly unaware of themselves, just living life as if it were some generic predefined routine.

Oh, and you’re so much better obviously, you pretentious bastard.

Sometimes I felt like an alien who had a VIP pass to submerge myself in primitive human culture just for entertainment.

Congratulations, that’s also what you sound like.

I sense everything I can take in around me. The seemingly limitless audible tones, tremors in the voices of growing children rang in my ears. In studying people, I found myself gradually learning to literally feel the various personality types I encountered.

Do you... Do you have psychic powers?

If not, shut your damn mouth.

I hyper analyzed every inconsistent smell, the seemingly random clothing styles, freckles, and assorted hairstyles filled my mind with questions. Trying to rationalize and understand what sequence of events led them to decide who they would become.

You are the most pretentious protagonist I have ever read. I’m half a chapter in and I already fucking hate you.

This character is so poorly written and immediately unlikable. i cannot relate to him at all and if someone does, I suggest you go get some help because how this asshole is behaving doesn’t sound human.

I took favor of categorizing most everyone around me. The socially inept know-it-all, the dumb attention-seeking drama kid

On behalf of all drama kids, go fuck yourself.

and the bleach blonde bimbo who gets overly defensive at the slightest hint of criticism.

Do you mean you?

Onion obviously didn’t let anyone edit this garbage.

Then there were the kids who just hoped no one noticed them at all. There was so much to be seen, to be considered and organized in my mind.

Mhm.

I don’t care.

Class had just ended so I walked over to Mr. Hanson's' desk &

And*

placed the tardy note down in passing. As I walked out with the rest of my class, he called after me. "James! We still need to talk!" I responded but continued to walk outside the room. "I have to be early to my next class! Let's talk tomorrow!"

You’re an asshole.

And I hate you.

I walked quickly down the hall towards my art class, which was awkwardly placed in a trailer outside my clearly poorly funded high school.

Um.

Okay.

On my way to the class a fight had already broken out between two jocks who, no doubt, both had controlling, iron-fisted fathers who brainwashed them into believing conflicts between men are best resolved with the bloodying of their fists.

That’s a bold thing to assume, dear Onion.

These kinds of men plagued my mind with wonder. I could not conceive a scenario in which they could justify their primitive & pointless mentalities yet they would always continue to perpetuate their self-destructive attitudes as if it offered the slightest legitimate benefit.

Oh, shut your pretentious mouth.

Most everyone nearby crowded around the fight. None of them likely cared who was winning, what it was about or how far it went. All they ever seemed to show concern for was their own amusement, always excited to see violence without having to pull out their wallets to pay for it.

Are you joking?

Where are the teachers?

This is complete bullshit.

This is high school, not a fucking fight club.

Does Onion even try to make this believable? Or is he just vomiting all over his keyboard and just accepting whatever nonsense that makes?

As the sounds of flesh collided fist to cheek & chest quickly followed the howls from the surrounding students. They would scream "Oooohhhh!" as if it were sincerely delightful to witness creatures like themselves suffer & fall apart before their eyes.

The use of ampersands is making me lose my goddamn mind.

Even if I had time to stop, I never really took pleasure in seeing strangers hurt each other. Most all fights seemed avoidable and were often initiated for a senseless reason.

Go choke on air. This protagonist annoys me more than any protagonist has. I’m not joking. Fuck this dickwad.

I know, you could say it's more complicated than that, I would like to think it were as well, but reality trumps the way I wish things would be. There's no sense in fighting it when doing so rarely helps anyone.

While this is true, this is worded in a way that’s so pretentious it’s painful and also in a way that paints this protagonist in such a white knight-y way that it makes me want to die.

As I approached my next class the image of Abbi's face illuminated the neon walls of my mind like a projector teasing a theatre screen with fleeting moments of depth & purpose.

That is complete and utter word salad. Stop immediately.

Ever since I met her, she had occupied a part of my consciousness; whenever I wasn't near her I missed her to an unrealistic extent. You could call my longing sad especially considering we had barely talked; she just had a strange effect on me, one no doubt similar to a willful addiction.

That’s called a crush, but the way that was just described is so creepy.

There are people in life which we pass by on a daily basis, barely aware of their existence, but on an exceptionally rare occasion you can find a person who fills an area inside your little world you didn't even realize needed filling.

While that’s technically not untrue, it feels like a lizard person is trying to tell me what having a crush on someone is like.

As I walked up the creaking stairs into my art class trailer I could see Abbi was sitting at her shared-desk, alone, same makeup, hairstyle & general appearance I had thought about repeatedly over the last couple days. She was drawing pictures on her blue-lined paper, distracting herself from the cold that filled the oddly glowing room.

This... This imagery is so fucking weird.

I smiled slightly trying not to be too obvious and sat down on my chilled metal chair positioned a few seats to the left in front of her. Glancing over, I could see she hadn't moved at all, I felt like she didn't even notice me come in.

You aren’t the center of her world, so yeah, she’s focused on something else. That’s just how it is, asshat.

I wanted to inspire some acknowledgment of my existence from Abbi so I opened my mouth to greet her when my fingers brushed up against freshly smeared gum under my desk. "Eeew!" I shouted out on impulse. She looked up at me with a blank expression.

I’ve accidentally touched gum on the bottom of my desk before, as I can imagine everyone has, but I’ve never shouted about it like a lunatic.

Bursting into the room came a group of boys. "Dude I think John's done bro!" one of the other boys laughed, saying "Won't see them for a week at least."

Nobody talks like this. Have you ever spoke to another human?

I looked back at Abbi to see she also didn't react to their outburst. Strangely knowing that her apathy was generalized and impersonal gave me comfort.

There needs to be a comma after ‘strangely,’ but whatever.

Her influence on how I felt was obviously dangerous but I didn't care as no matter how fond I was of the idea that I was not of the world, I knew my place and had no real interest in pretending otherwise.

Explain to me how in the hell that’s dangerous.

Jason, one of the boys energetically praising the fight they had just seen, sat in his seat next to Abbi. I smirked watching her shoulders shift away from him. Her body language sent a loud message that she had the same impression of Jason as I did. He was just another moron, placed on this Earth to live his life completely unexamined,

That word is not used properly in that sentence.

a pawn that had no awareness of its own role let alone that it was just another tiny component within a massive unstoppably twisted game.

Shut your pretentious mouth because that doesn’t make any goddamn fucking sense.

I know it sounds morbid and condescending but my attitude was just something that naturally developed the more I studied human behavior.

Bullshit.

I would be more optimistic but I find doing so would be like walking into a room with no windows and turning out the light. If you refuse to see the world around you for what it is you're just wasting your eyes.

Being optimistic means looking on the good side of things. You’ve heard the glass half empty or half full thing. it’s that. And as someone who jumps between optimism and pessimism, being optimistic isn’t like this at all.

Don’t try to be poetic or funny, Onion. Those are two things that you aren’t.

Art class was about to begin. My teacher, Mrs. Stanley, who looked like she should have retired a ridiculous thirty years ago, approached the front of the room talking about how art is sacred. She also discussed the random object she had us all draw the previous school day and ironically graded it by using her own narrow-minded definition of art.

That isn’t ironic.

I always wondered how teachers could even attempt objectively grading art. Is there any logic behind validating a form of self-expression using a cold black and white mathematical system?

It’s a class where you have to follow the curricula. Shut your damn mouth.

And this is coming from someone who hated her art teacher. But this art teacher was so utterly closed minded that she didn’t accept anyone else’s creative process. She basically told us that if we didn’t follow her process, we weren’t real artists.

"Today I'm going to place you with partners" Mrs. Stanley said as she pulled out sheets of paper outlining our activities to come. "To keep this simple, I'm going to partner you with the person you are currently assigned to share a desk with" she said. I sighed knowing I was bound to be paired up with Alex, a guy I had specifically asked to be seated away from ever since he peed in a jar literally right next to me under our desk, acting like he was so cool for publicly exposing himself while simultaneously urinating.

That... He expected to be treated like he was cool for this?

That’s fucking disgusting.

It happened weeks ago and I still can't figure out what kind of crazy it takes for you to, in the presence of people you barely know but have to see nearly on a daily basis, pee in a jar held in your hand just beneath your desk in the middle of a classroom.

At first when I read this, I thought that the wayit was worded made it sound like Alex forced James to hold the jar while he peed in it, but okay, whatever.

What then? You show it off like you will be praised and accepted as if it were an accomplishment? Alex, despite being borderline mental, was one of my least favorite people to study.

It is actually physically exhausting to read this shit. James is a pretentious asshole.

I couldn't help but feel there was some defect in his mind that invalidated the point of conducting a thorough analysis of him.

This just makes it seem like James has mind reading powers.

He was completely irrelevant when considering the realities of normal human behavior.

Behavior you don’t act according to, you lizard person sociopath.

As I was off on a tangent in my own mind I heard a familiar voice ring out, one that inspired the very same emotion you experience when a song you had forgotten you loved, randomly plays in the background of your daily life. "Can I be paired up with James?" her voice was just as I remembered.

Is this Abbi?

I have a friend who spells her name like this, so I really hate that there’s a character in this shitty book who shares a name with her.

Despite her having not spoken in class in some time, she hadn't changed a note. Abbi had interrupted the teacher just to partner with me, but I asked myself if was it really just to work with me or just to get away from Jason.

Um. Okay.

The teacher, looking irritated but understanding Abbi's discomfort with Jason responded "Alex and Jason, you'll be partners. James, switch seats with Jason" "Thank you!" Abbi said with a slight smile. With a cocky grin Jason stood up and in a comedic fashion smelled his armpit. "Wow, I didn't know I smelled that bad" Jason said as he walked over to sit by Alex.

That isn’t funny and Onion boy isn’t funny.

Approaching Abbi was no doubt a way scarier act in my mind than it was to everyone around me, I felt like my head was burning from the inside out.

That’s a little extreme.

Nevertheless I continued to remind myself that her public outcry to partner with me could have meant nothing. I sat down next to her and did all I could not to turn into a complete dork on her. She reached out and grabbed the project outline that was being passed out. Mrs. Stanley began to read the description of the assignment. "Today you will both be taking something meaningful, but expendable, from your own homes."

If something is meaningful it isn’t expendable. Stop.

Mrs. Stanley looked up and emphasized, "That you own!" then looked back down at her paper. "You will tear those items apart here in class. You will then take those items and, using the adhesives, staples and the strings available in class, find a way to create something new out of those possessions."

That’s actually kind of an interesting idea. But like. Maybe with a cup? I don’t wanna rip apart something I care about.

She looked up and said in a low voice sounding somewhat like Dracula "Two, will become one."

That is unnecessarily creepy. It reads like an innuendo.

Also, what in fresh hell does Dracula’s voice sound like?

Did she say it with a Transylvanian accent? I’m confused.

Jason raised his hand objecting, "All due respect Mrs. Stanley I'm not breaking something of mine for this class."

Jason has the right idea.

She replied putting her hands on her hips, "That's fine Jason. We'll supply you with a toilet paper rolls, we have plenty of extras around here." Jason suddenly looked disturbed and sarcastically spouted "Freaking great!"

Why???

That’s better than ripping apart a t-shirt.

Mrs. Stanley asked, "Are you sure? Your grade shouldn't suffer that much if you two just take Alex's piss jar and tape it to a toilet paper roll. You're already failing this class."

What in the literal fuck?!

You cannot say that to students. No, you can’t say that to anyone.

Jason couldn't believe what she had just said

Same.

and Alex maintained an awkward frozen facial expression with his mouth slightly open in his normal weirdo somewhat robotic fashion.

"Oh my god" Abbi whispered under her breath with a slight smirk. I grinned uncontrollably; just seeing her amused was amazing to me.

That wasn’t really funny, it was just shocking.

I could hear a scream in the back of my mind reminding me my dorkiness and borderline obsession was escaping through my face.

It's not that I couldn't help being in awe of Abbi and basically every little thing she did, I simply didn't want to change how I felt. In a way, she was like your favorite song or book, you could pretend not to like it and in time with the right mental coaching maybe you would sincerely dislike it, but life just felt so much better embracing your condition entirely, letting all your nerdy admiration flow freely.

This just reads like an obsession. I don’t have the energy to actually express how romantic feelings actually feel, but this is terrifying.

Mrs. Stanley continued, "If there's anyone else who has an issue, please take it up with my 1800 number which is?" She put her hand up to the air signaling the students to react but only a couple kids replied aloud with her catch phrase. "1-800-BOO-HOOO" they mumbled.

Sweet Jesus.

So this is what it feels like to lose my mind.

She continued, "Good, now for the rest of class please work with your partner on what you plan to bring and draw up a prototype sketch of what you feel your final piece of art will look like." Mrs. Stanley walked to the back of her room and sat down at her 1950's looking rust-infested desk.

Is this school just a giant health code violation? And what the hell do you mean by ‘1950′s desk?’ All I got when I googled that were pictures of wooden desks.

I would always laugh internally when I looked at the old thing. Maybe it was my way of coping with the fact I attended one of the most run down schools in the state.

I have nothing that isn’t full of curse words and fact checking to say here.

"What are you going to bring James?" Abbi asked.

This sentence is put so Abbi looks like she’s asking if James is going to bring himself without the comma after the word ‘bring.’ Did Onion really not edit his book at all? These are simple and fixable grammatical mistakes.

It was amazing hearing my name pass her lips but I had no time to think, if I didn't respond right away she would think I was totally awkward. "I... have no idea..." I responded. Smiling she said, "I'm going to bring my hamster cage", I asked, "Did he die or something?" she laughed, "No, I never got one, the cage was just a gift from my dad."

But you’re supposed to cut it up.

Hamster cages are made of metal.

Does Abbi just have superhuman strength? Is she going to bring a pair of bolt cutters?

"Your dad didn't get you a hamster... for the cage?" I asked.

My question exactly.

Sometimes you just...

You just gotta give your daughter a hamster cage but no hamster.

She paused and started to lose her smile.

Oh fabulous, she’s one of those characters.

At the first sign of her smile fading I felt a crushing pressure in my chest. "Hopefully you can find something that will work with that," she said. I couldn't help but feel like a total jerk despite not even knowing what I did wrong.

That interaction was so... Weird? Robotic? i don’t know. Something felt wrong about it.

I had the overwhelming urge to fix how she felt so I took a gamble, "Well, I could always bring that weird vibrating thing my mom hides in her drawers all wrapped up in a cloth" I said.

What is wrong with you?

I cannot fathom what made Onion think this joke was funny.

She busted out laughing hysterically as a huge grinned filled my face. I was so happy I could get her to smile again. "Eeew! James!" she continued to laugh as the extent of my grin began to stress my cheeks. I couldn't remember a time when I was this obvious about how I felt.

This... Something is wrong with just... all the dialogue.

And with the formatting. You make a new paragraph when someone starts talking. A 34 year old man should know this. He writes like me when I first started writing, and while this probably means he just started writing, I was 11 years old when I wrote like this.

He is a 34 year old adult. There is no excuse for how bad this formatting and how generally terribly written these interactions are.

Abbi's laughing trailed off and she paused. Turning to me she said, "You... you didn't actu- ally... your moms?"

*Pained groaning.*

I responded, "No, I wouldn't know about that, but I'm glad it made you laugh." She responded, returning to a soft laugh "You're more goofy than I thought James." I sat next to her looking at my fingers interlaced in front of me; my wide smile relaxed but still filled my cheeks with warmth.

This entire chapter, everything here, is so awkwardly written.

As class came to a close Abbi patted me on my arm. I turned and she handed me a note. Instinctively I put it in my pocket and said "See ya tomorrow", she just smiled and walked away.

????

On my way to my next class, I opened the note. I didn't understand why, but it read "NISEONE."

Not knowing what to make of it and with little time, I stuffed it back in my pocket to look over later.

Yeah, that’s cryptic as hell.

Not feeling like skating home,

Oh, we’re really getting into edgy 2000′s shit now.

I got on the bus to see all the normal rejects and misfits waiting. Davis, a short and scrawny kid who had been my best friend since middle school despite being one grade behind me excitedly waved me over.

Oh, good, more terrible characters.

"James! Nice to seeeee you!"

Oh, this bitch needs to die.

he said in seemingly the dorkiest way possible. I smiled as he stood up giving me the window seat, knowing very well by then that I preferred it.

Um. Okay.

As I sat down I began looking out the window, analyzing the little humans running left and right to get on their busses.

Buses*

And I am going to eventually kick your ass for this pretentious bullshit.

Something reached out and caught the corner of my eye. I immediately shifted my head to see what it was and quickly realized it was Abbi standing in the parking lot by some beat-up sedan.

"What'cha looking at James?" Davis asked. Without hesitation I began to respond, "Oh, it's Abbi, she's in my art..." my heart sank as I witnessed a boy I barely knew, named Seth, walk up and kiss Abbi on the lips.

Oh, boo fucking hoo. Get over the fact that she has a life outside of your crush on her.

"James?" Davis said, but by that point his voice was a faint echo in the darkness my mind instantaneously lost itself in. I felt like after a life of numbness I was finally about to truly feel warmth for the first time only to have it all taken away in an instant, leaving me hopeless in the shadows, alone once again.

Cry me a goddamn river.

You angsty pretentious idiot.

Don’t give me angsty word salad about how sad this makes you, I don’t actually care at all.

I looked down at my knees feeling as if I lost all muscle control in my neck.

That isn’t a thing that happens ever when someone is upset.

"Are... you ok?" Davis asked. I responded with hesitation "...I'm... just stupid."

You spoke to her once, you fucking dumbass.

"No you're not. You're one of the coolest guys I know!" Davis replied. I continued my silence as he offered words of encouragement. "Okie dokie, well, you're awesome and should be super happy so if you want to talk, I'm your buddy so... so I'm here to talk."

That’s uh, nice of him.

But the way he’s talking sounds like... almost mechanical? All he’s done since he was introduced has been compliment James.

I was too focused on the con- flict raging in my mind to hear anyone at that point. I couldn't think about anything but Seth kissing Abbi the entire trip home.

Oh, get the fuck over it.

That night my mom was literally just serving lentil beans she prepared on her crock-pot for the billionth time, a fair exaggeration but still, it was excessive to say the least. My sister was behaving as she usually did at the dinner table, talking about how stupid she thought school was and how she couldn't wait for college. "How was work mom?"

I mean, I’m also tired of high school. I’m really done with judge-y teenagers.

I asked trying to keep my mind off the haunting images looping in my mind.

YOU HAVE HAD ONE FUCKING CONVERSATION WITH HER. CRY ME A FUCKING RIVER, YOU BITCH.

Any normal person would express disappointment over the fact that a person they like has a boyfriend or girlfriend or partner in general, not go into a damn depression about it.

"Well, no one at work respects me or listens to me and I generally can't stand it, but you know, we still have food on the table" she said in a stern tone.

That

That is weirdly passive aggressive and mechanical.

My sister barked as food flew out of her mouth, "Well at least it's not high school. I'm learning how to be a successful person from a bunch of low-income losers."

Oh, I guess bitching runs in the family.

My mom replied "Whatever your teachers are, they have full-time jobs, which is more than a lot of people can say." My mom gave my sister Lisa a disap- pointed look. Lisa was well known for showing little respect for hard-working people. To her it didn't matter how much you gave back to society, it only mattered how much money you made.

That’s a very black and white way to look at things.

After the rerun of lentil soup I washed the dishes per my mom's orders and headed to the shower. I sat on the floor of the tub thinking about Abbi, barely feeling the water as it hit my chest.

Sat on the floor... while water hits your chest? Are you like sitting with your back arched so the water can hit your chest?

This imagery is so odd.

I was so consumed with what I had seen that I had completely forgotten the note until that moment. I quickly reached over to my pants resting on the toilette.

Why the fuck did you spell toilet like that?

That’s literally the word for ‘toilet’ but in French. It isn’t a spelling used in English. It just makes you sound even more pretentious.

Also, he reached over to the toilet to grab the note from his pants while he’s in the shower?

It’s gonna get wet, you idiot.

I had hoped I read it wrong the first time and that it would make sense with a second look only to see it read exactly what I gathered in my initial passing glance. "NISEONE"

I fucking hate you, Onion.

This literally looks like you scrambled your screen name up.

Die.

In a fire.

I mumbled to myself. I joked with the idea in my head that she handed me the wrong note but still assumed it wasn't a failed attempt to say "Nice one," which could be taken as a compliment if you were desperate enough.

That joke, while just a little funnier, is still fucking lame.

Seconds into looking at the note my eyes widened, having figured out what it meant, I jumped up slipping to my feet and screamed "YEAH!!!" I had cracked it, only to immediately after feel completely stupid for not having figured it out sooner.

I’m just done functioning.

My mom screamed through the door from her bedroom "WHAT?" I responded "Sorry! Nothing!" I hurried to finish showering.

I’d just assume he got really into jerking off.

I’ll see myself out.

Staring at my phone wearing only a towel, I smiled as I typed in "NISEONE" or "647-3663" into the number keys.

That is the most cryptic and strange way to give someone your phone number.

I assumed we shared the same area code otherwise she likely would have given me a longer sequence of letters and I was right. After two rings I got an answer. "What do you want?" a disgruntled man's voice asked.

This... This girl gave this guy a home phone number?

I guess that’s fine since this is probably set in the early 2000′s, but it’s still odd.

Like a bad engine struggling to start in a monster movie I clumsily belted out a response "I... uh... I was looking for..." An unenthusiastic female voice in the background said, "Give me the phone." "Whatever" he said dropping phone in front of her.

James can apparently see through the phone, or he wouldn’t know that probably Abbi’s dad did this.

"Hello?" I could recognize the voice now it was Abbi.

Trying to hide my excitement by maintaining a normal tone I said, "This is James." Abbi excitedly screamed

Like how girls screamed in Disney Channel shows?

That’s ridiculous.

and responded "Oh my god you figured it out!" Hearing her optimistic tone I laughed saying, "So... why..." She interrupted. "I was hoping to find out if you figured out what you're bringing to art class."

Why the hell didn’t you just fucking ask? Or give him your regular phone number? This is just unnecessarily complicated.

I said "Oh!" and looked quickly around my room. I couldn't see anything immediately so I just said, "I'll... surprise you!" She then replied "Oh come on, tell me." My eyes locked on to a plausible item for the project. "How about my... bear... I'll bring my bear!"

You’re okay with destroying a teddy bear? Okay, I guess.

I said. She replied "Oh, ok, oh! I have an idea. Instead of the cage, I'll bring in a stuffed animal of mine and we'll make like, a zombie bear."

Sounds fine.

I don’t care.

You guys are fucking boring.

I laughed "Awesome" I said. "Ok, I'll see you tomorrow ok?" she replied happily. I answered "Ok, byeee."

I would appreciate it if you would fuck off.

I can’t believe this shit is on GoodReads.

Just before she hung up I could still hear her laughing, leaving me with a sense of accomplishment and a lasting smile as if it were painted across my face.

That’s the end of chapter one?

Oh god, okay.

That was.

Terrible.

The characters are bland and flavorless and I cannot get attached to any of them. I can already tell I’m going to completely despise this.

I’ll see you next time. I need to go think about my life.

~Kat

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laniidae-passerine · 6 years ago

Text

~Bees and Flowers~

- A Ghosts fanfic

(Author’s note - I only have Tumblr on mobile so I can’t put a -read more- on and I’m really sorry for that!)

The light was shining through the windows, throwing a glow over furniture and paintings. The air was soft and slightly sweet, tinged with the scent of blossom. The world was new on a Monday morning and Kitty, lying on her favourite chaise, well, she couldn’t be happier.

Except.

She had been in the garden with Fanny a few days ago, a simple question on her lips. In return she had received a complex rambling answer - which didn’t really count as an answer now she thought twice - but one part had stuck out to her. She was walking away from Fanny, attempting to escape her convoluted bee-flower-not about babies metaphor, when she caught the words-

“And sometimes, Kitty, bees only like other bees.”

Kitty had been confused about that for the past few days. Of course bees only liked other bees. Bees could move and buzz and do those funny little jigs on petals. Flowers couldn’t. Why would a bee like a flower more than another bee? Of course, she had always liked both bees and flowers equally, but still - it didn’t make any sense. What was Fanny saying?

She let the sun cloth her in its rays for a minute more, allowing one of the few things she could still interact with hold her, mulling what to do with her bee conundrum. One option would be to have Fanny explain what she meant, but that could be more trouble that it was worth. Kitty was never one for trouble, and if she was, it wasn’t often. So not Fanny. Who else?

She could ask Pat but she didn’t know if he would understand. And she was never going to ask Julian anything about anything ever again, she had already decided. Kitty was quite sure all the things he’d listed didn’t even make babies and she was not ready to hear about them ever again.

The Captain might be some help, but for some odd reason, Kitty felt as if he might be upset by the bees liking other bees story. Better not then.

Who else? The plague people in the basement scared her, Robin would be no help at all, Mary would say it was all the work of the devil and Thomas would just recite poetry at her.

There was nobody else, she frowned petulantly, and that wouldn’t do. Someone in the house must be able to answer her about the bees and flowers, yes, someone must, but who?

Suddenly Kitty heard a curse from the kitchen.

“Oh Jesus Christ - Mike! Mike! It’s the faucet again!”

Alison!

Of course! She could ask Alison, dependable, almost all knowing Alison, provided she wasn’t being distracted. Kitty waited a minute for the cursing to die down before lifting (levitating? she was never good with her words) herself off the chaise. She turned into the kitchen, greeted with an Alison who had one sleeve dripping wet, and the other grappling with the faucet.

“Hello,” Kitty said.

Alison, who had clearly become accustomed to the Ghosts entering rooms (provided they said something instead of lurking) looked up.

“Oh, hello Kitty.” Alison pushed hard on the tap and it ceased spraying water everywhere. “What is it?”

“Alison,” Kitty began, before pausing, unsure of her next sentence.

“Yes, Kitty?”

“Well. Fanny said something to me in the garden, when I asked her about babies? And I’m confused about it.”

Now Alison looked slightly worried.

“Uh - what did she say exactly?”

Kitty took a deep breath.

“She said - well she said that flowers and bees usually belong together. But sometimes, you’re a flower and the other bees, they don’t want you. The bees only want other bees. What does that mean?”

Alison blinked confusedly. “Wait, am I a flower or bee or myself in this metaphor?”

“You’re a flower. I think. Maybe.”

Alison pulled her arms away from the sink and turned to face Kitty. Her face was unreadable for once, and she appraised Kitty for a moment, before deciding to speak.

“Kitty, do you know what being ‘gay’ means?”

Ah, now this was a question Kitty could answer!

“No.” She hadn’t the slightest clue.

“No, I didn’t think you would,” Alison replied, “so I’ll explain. Kitty, have you ever liked anyone?”

Kitty stared. “Of course I have. I like you, and Mike, and the Captain, and Pat, and Fanny, and Thomas, and Mary and-“

“Not like that,” Alison cut off. “I meant, have you ever liked liked someone Kitty? Have you ever loved someone?”

Kitty thought for a moment. “Yes,” she replied, thinking of many the people she had loved when she was young and alive, so Alison went on.

“You see, when Fanny was talking about bees she really meant to say boys, and when she was discussing flowers, she was talking about girls. Of course, those aren’t the only genders, but those two are the two that most people identify as. I identify as girl, and you do too, don’t you?”

Kitty nodded, and Alison took that a sign that she still understood. Now came the harder part.

“Well sometimes Kitty, boys like boys. And girls like girls. And that’s what Fanny meant by bees liking bees, and flowers liking flowers. It was just a metaphor.”

A short empty moment past, but then Kitty’s eyes implored her to explain further - and so she did.

“Being a boy who only likes boys means you’re gay, and being a girl who only likes girls means you’re a lesbian. And both of those things are perfectly normal, and it’s okay to be both,” Alison finished.

With that, a silence fell on the kitchen. An awkward, slightly uncomfortable silence fell on the kitchen. And then suddenly, Kitty smiled.

“Is that it?” she asked.

“Uh- pretty much, yes,” Alison replied bemusedly.

“Oh! So... what’s the name for people who like both?” Kitty queried, still smiling in her signature grin.

“Um, uh - Bisexual,” Alison recalled, reciting the name of her own sexuality out loud, the first time she had done so in the new house.

“Bisexual.” Kitty tried it out on her tongue, letting her tongue roll over the vowels and catch on the “ul” sound. Did she like it?

Yes, she liked it. She liked it a lot.

“I’m Bisexual,” Kitty said, decidedly, “I like bees and flowers equally. They’re such fun!”

Alison paused. “No, Kitty it’s not about bees and flowers, it’s about boys and girls,” she tried, not wanting Kitty to confuse herself by midday.

“Oh. Well. I like boys and girls equally too. Am I still bisexual then?” Kitty asked, desiring clarification.

“Yes Kitty, that does mean you’re bisexual.” Alison grinned.

“I’m going to go tell people now! Oh, I shall sing a ditty about it! ” Kitty exclaimed, throwing her hands to her chest in exaltation. “What rhymes with bisexual?”

Just then, Pat walked in.

“Hello ladies! How are you doing on this fine day?” He greeted them, polite as ever.

“I’m doing well, Pat,” Alison smiled, “but Kitty has something she’d like to tell you.”

“Pat!” Kitty cried, taking him by both hands and beaming. “I’m bisexual!”

“Oh! Well, that’s wonderful Kitty!” Pat returned, equally as happy to see his friend in such high spirits.

“I know, it’s great!”

Quickly, Kitty rushed out the room, yelling at the top of her voice. “Everyone! Everyone! I’m Bi!”

The sounds of Julian telling her to “join the club” and Thomas telling her “I’ll write a sonnet about it! It will be a masterpiece!” soon joined her yells and the house began to fill with call of excited chatter. It even sounded like Fanny was not entirely perturbed by such a revelation.

Alison, who was still standing with Pat, began fiddling with the sink in the kitchen once again.

“Well isn’t that lovely!” Pat said to Alison, as she reached for the faucet.

“Yeah, it’s great,” she returned, turning her head back to face him. “But I tell you one thing. If I never hear another bee-flower metaphor again, it’ll be too soon.”

————————————————————

epilogue:

It was empty in the left wing, all except for one man. He stood, curiously peering over the side of the banister, attention captivated by the sound of shouting. From what he could hear, his compatriots were in good spirits. Ah, but nowadays that was hardly a surprise, with Alison and Mike living amongst them. Yet whatever it was that was causing the noise was something most spectacular indeed. They hardly ever yelled like this, not even when he - uh, the film crew - came around.

He leaned over further, paying no mind to how dangerous it would have been (he was dead, what was safety to him now?) and suddenly spotted someone on the floor beneath him. He tried to make out who it was but then, they looked up.

“Well, hello there!”

“Greetings Julian,” He replied, rather wishing it had been Pat or even Robin instead. “What on earth is causing all that hubbub downstairs, may I ask?”

“Oh, that.” His trouser-less companion looked rather bored, not like how the rest of the house were clearly feeling.

“Kitty just announced she’s bisexual.”

The Captain froze.

“I’m...I’m sorry?”

“Yeah, she’s been running all down the hallways, causing an awful racket. I mean, I couldn’t hear the race on the radio over all of it. Ridiculous. And I had an imaginary fiver on Seabiscuit with Robin too! Honestly, there’s no need for such a fuss!” Julian was ready to continue ranting but then he turned up to look at his friend. The Captain still hadn’t moved, and Julian didn’t know any better about the physical states of death, he’d say the Captain had paled a little more than usual.

“God, what’s the problem? Captain? Captain!”

At the sound of his name, like if he was a video that was just unpaused, the Captain jumped back to life.

“I just... How did everyone react?”

Julian pondered for a second. “Quite well actually. I mean, Fanny threw a little bit of a fit, but that’s to be expected and she calmed down a tad after - now, what did Alison say? Ah, yes, ‘being gay is accepted nowadays, Fanny, and just because your husband was a bad person, doesn’t mean Kitty is one too. Being gay is perfectly alright.�� Damn right too. I mean, I moved in a lot of directions when I was alive, a bit like a pendulum but only really if it swung up people’s-”

“Okay, yes, thank you Julian,” the Captain intervened hastily, not wanting to hear about where Julian, most likely incorrectly, thought pendulums could go. He paused.

“Did, did Alison really say that being gay was accepted nowadays?” He asked Julian, trying to hide the underlying interest in his tone.

“Oh yes,” Julian replied, “Why?” He smirked slightly at the Captain, who flushed.

“No, no reason! I’ll talk to you all later,” he told Julian hurriedly before straightening up, moving away from the bannister until Julian was out of sight. He looked down at himself, and saw his hands were slightly trembling - in both fear and intrepidation. He replayed the paraphrased words of Alison over again in his head. It sounded a bit like a mantra, like a prayer, like a blessing to him and he clung onto it.

And eventually, as he walked back down the hallway to mull Kitty’s revelation and his own feelings, the Captain felt a small, tentative smile creep over his face.

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