#ive had spite for 20 hours and i do NOT know what he wants | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

seleneauger · 5 years ago

Text

propinquity

propinquity - noun. the state of being close to someone or something; proximity.

Lead: Oh Sehun

Genre: Angst, neighbor!au, soulmate!au

Warnings: sexual content

Words: 4347

For my moon goddess @enaasteria.

Note: I finally got to finish this after many laptop transfers and life events. I’m so sorry this is so late, but I hope you’ll accept this small gift Ena!

i. It is golden hour. Your hair threatens to fall out of its bun as you climb the stairs to your apartment because the elevator is undergoing maintenance again. In your hands is a pot of English Ivy you bought, its tendrils threatening to get caught with every step you take. The diffused sunlight makes it hard to determine exactly what time it is, but you're confident that you didn't dawdle too much in the flower shop at the corner block where you bought your new houseplant. God knows how many succulents you've killed, but you're determined to make this plant live.

Your apartment is minimalist without it feeling too clinical. It has lots of natural light and rent is reasonable enough for its location. It's peaceful and cozy, and you appreciate that it's not facing the street where all the noise and hustle of life fill the streets. Your daybed is comfy and the sheets are fresh. It's home.

To you, silence was golden. In the busy tempo of life, you felt the need to get away for a while, when work becomes too much, when the heartbeat of the metro gets too loud, when the voices of the people passing on the street overpower your own. Silence was your friend and sometimes your enemy, but most of the time it provided you the respite you needed.

The moon hangs low in the sky, when the nap you take is interrupted and you sigh in resignation because you're used to hearing them. Again.

For the nth time since you've moved in this apartment, the sound of laughter and conversations muffled by the thin walls fill the room. You're a light sleeper and quick to wake up and you would have clawed your eyes out if 1) you weren't so used to it and 2) if you actually had the energy to do so.

You wonder if your neighbor makes it a point to let everyone know how much of a great time he's having with his significant other, but it's the irritation at being disturbed in the middle of a nap that's talking. Said neighbor takes the space at the end of the hallway and your unit is directly beside his, so it's only you that has the unfortunate privilege of hearing his and his partner's laughter at the most opportune of moments, and the occasional sound of thumps of what you can only assume is a bed. Or a couch.

You recall the first time you confront him about it.

It might have had more impact if you knocked on his apartment in your pajamas to drive the point across that he was too goddamn loud last night with his rendition of Fancy at two am in the morning with his over eager girlfriend who likes hyping him up. But you were dressed for work, and you didn't get enough sleep and you had enough. Your boss caught you dozing off in the middle of coding and you wanted nothing more than to hide in embarrassment when he joked about you having too much fun the night before. You started doing overtime to finish your work.

"Hey Unit 901, if you don't come out, I'm gonna start charging you for all the overtime I have to do at work because I can't fall asleep to your incessant laughter at ungodly hours!"

The first thing you see when the door swings open is a clavicle.

Human beings that were this physically attractive were few and far between, and this guy looked like fucking Adonis. Figures he'd be getting all the sexy times he wants but if you had to wake up from a really nice dream to listen to his laughter for the fourth time this week (it's Friday), you would seriously consider breaking his door out of spite.

It takes you a moment to compose yourself and to look up at him and not at that sliver of skin. "I'm the person who lives in 902 and I'm happy for your love life and all your fun times with your girlfriend, who is very pretty by the way, I saw her leaving your place once, but for the sake of my sanity, if I hear you being playing PubG with her at 2am in the morning as you both start shouting at each other to snipe the enemy, I will seriously combust."

He takes in your features and your face feels warm, too warm for your liking.

"Sorry about that, I didn't realize the walls aren't soundproof?" He apologized but it sounds like an excuse and all you want is a concrete plan of action for you to get a decent amount of sleep. "I'll try to minimize the noise, so I hope you don't file a noise complaint to the landlord uh…"

You realize that you haven't exchanged names and you give him yours and he finishes his apology slash excuse.

"I'm Sehun by the way. Oh Sehun."

You are determined not to get distracted by his good looks. "Well Oh Sehun, unless I stop waking up in the middle of the night because of your noise, I'm gonna stick to calling you Unit 901."

He smiles and apologizes properly this time. You excuse yourself to leave work, and try to forget how warm his hand was when he shook it.

Now it's only been two days and the noise starts again. But it's a different kind of noise this time; its melodic and you vaguely register it as a ballad you've heard on the radio before.

It’s the sound of his singing that makes the annoyance go away, and you fall asleep to Sehun's voice.

ii. Oh Sehun is water. Fluid and graceful, and is one who easily slips away from your grasp. He doesn't listen to your half-hearted threats to tape his mouth and easily dodges your fist when you try to hit him that he looks like he's gliding away from you, but does try to bribe you with food so that you won't rat him out to the landlord.

It started with his buying a mini cake as a peace offering for disturbing your sleep the morning after your first complained to him. It used to irk you that all these hole in the wall bakeries that he gets his pastries from are far from your office because you were seriously considering selling him out to the landlord if he didn't move his bed to somewhere not near the wall that divides your unit and his because you really didn't need to know the specifics of what he and his girlfriend likes in bed, but you'll be damned if you don’t get another slice of their peach earl grey mousse cakes.

Since then, you've been in this weird relationship with this noodle of a man, which consists of you half-heartedly bitching to him about how loud they're being, (halfhearted because you're slowly getting used to it, and it makes your apartment seem less lonely). He brings you food and helps you change your light bulbs, while you change his life by giving him the address of a really good sushi restaurant just 20 minutes away from the apartment complex and teaching him how to make a damn good lasagna. You don't comment on his drinking habits, and he doesn’t comment on the ring on your finger.

iii. The first time you hear him laugh in front of you, you're already familiar with it.

It was a Saturday, meaning it was your mission to sleep in as late as possible. You're rudely awakened by the ding of your doorbell and were so out of it to properly wonder who could be visiting you on a weekend without informing you beforehand (your friends knew you had an unwritten rule to schedule visits three business days before they were approved).

Remembering it is a little embarrassing, but it doesn't surprise you that you standing there in the most over sized pajamas you own, hair in a bun sitting at the very apex of you head as you give him this look as if you were so used to threatening visitors with minimal effort with a butter knife in hand made Sehun laugh.

He probably couldn't decide if you looked threatening enough or that you'd possibly be an actual threat, what with the muay thai classes you're taking that you mentioned in passing.

"The landlord told me to tell you that there will be a temporary power outage about an hour from now since they need to fix the elevator. It'll last till late in the afternoon so you might want to charge your phone or laptop."

The laughter comes unbidden when you squint at him because you forgot to put on your glasses when you opened the door and he's laughing again, but it sounds different when there are no walls separating the two of you. It's not muffled, it is clear and warm familiar and you feel something in your chest as he slowly pushes the hand wielding the butter knife down to a less threatening level.

Oh. Oh.

He waves you goodbye and walks towards the stairs while you stare dumbly at the space he used to occupy. Your brain is finally catching up to all that happened and you take deep breath to clear your thoughts and stop thinking about his laughter.

You've been his neighbor for two months, and nearly half of those nights are either spent listening to him and his girlfriend laugh and talk every other day, Fridays being the day where they laugh with nearly no reservations because it's their movie night (you know this because he lets you leech off his Netflix account). She laughs freely with no reservations, in bursts that made you think she was the sun. It rang clearly and sometimes catches you off guard when you're in the middle of making dinner.

When he introduces you as the neighbor who recommended a movie on Netflix that she enjoyed so much she could quote the lines, you realize that she was the sun. His sun. And her laugh was like honey.

iv. The noises stop completely.

It was the laughter that stopped first, followed by the hushed tones. What was once laced with small giggles morphed into bites of annoyance, frustration, and then eventually to quiet sobs. You don’t know who is crying and who is talking; the walls seem thicker than ever and one day it just stops.

It goes on till the next day. And the next day, and the next week and Sehun's smile seems to have disappeared completely and you're worried. Worried because its physically painful to look at the emotional turmoil so evident in his face. But it's not like you can just demand answers from him, to him, you are simply his neighbor, the one who teaches him how to cook and sends way too many pictures of cute dogs.

So you bide your time.

You catch him entering his apartment at 3am, after your spontaneous trip to the convenience store to buy some tea bags. He seems to be permanently slouching these days, his skin is pale and crescent moons line his eyes in purple. He notices you and the words are coming out from your mouth before you register them.

"Do you need someone to talk to?"

Sehun's face nearly falls at the question but makes a small motion for you to enter his apartment.

It's clean and orderly its almost sterile. You expect it to be messy either from neglect or from it being inhabited but it's too clean, it's almost clinical. Detached.

"Do you want a drink?"

"Hot water is fine, I actually came from the convenience store with tea…"

He nods and quietly sets the electric kettle to boil. By the time the tea has steeped, the silence is almost oppressive and you're about to say something, anything to break the silence that is suffocating the air when he speaks.

"I'm not her soulmate."

The tea scalds your tongue.

His hands envelope his mug as if looking for warmth. Warmth that only a soulmate can give and you're glad he's looking down so he doesn't see you wince. The air becomes even heavier; it is stuffy and oppressive and you resist the urge to open his balcony doors to let some air in because the nights are getting cold, but you know what Sehun feels is much, much worse.

Because in this world, the cold that comes with heartbreak bites before it settles in your bones as it makes breathing a little harder till there doesn't seem to be enough oxygen. It becomes parasite, leeching off your energy to fuel how cold it is till you move on and find love somewhere else, in someone else and warmth will suddenly flood you once you meet your soulmate.

Sehun is not a stranger to heartbreak. He remembers his first love in high school and the cold that came not with the changing of seasons, but in the way his first love accidentally found her soulmate when she nearly fell forward when the train suddenly stopped in their third year of high school. He remembers their agreement to date till they found their soulmates but it was still painful seeing them meet in the train, this stranger's hands on his girlfriend, and the way their eyes both lit up in response to the warmth that started from her shoulders and his hands and ended on their left chest, right where their hearts sat beating. He remembers that day so vividly, his first heartbreak and the first time he felt the cold on a summer day, and he remembers never feeling warmth when he held her hand. It was just over the middle of the spectrum of temperature. Not nothing, it was simply lukewarm, that changed into an uncomfortable chill over the train incident. Uncomfortable, but bearable.

This heartbreak, however, just unbearable.

Sehun was not prepared for how frigid it was when he finds out he is not her soulmate but she was his. It was painful when he experienced his first heartbreak, but this was on an entirely different scale. It was overwhelming; it made him keel over in pain and all but tore the oxygen from his lungs.

He shows you her name on his skin. It winds across his ring finger in neat handwriting and it's so small you need to move closer to read the letters. You don’t take his hand and simply stare at her name. It's greyed out instead of the usual black and Sehun shivers as he traces the characters gently before his eyes settle on your hands. It focuses on the silver band on your ring finger and he tries to forget the way he stumbled upon a pretty ring by the jewelers a month before everything spiraled down.

That ring was supposed to be for her, his sun, his soulmate.

Sehun cries quietly as he brings his hands to his face. He is water, and the question that flows out of his lips through the gaps in his fingers carries the curiosity and sadness he's had for a while ever since he noticed you started wearing your ring.

"How about you?"

You press your fingers together, minimizing the gaps between them before stretching them out and twirling the ring on your ring finger, the band thick enough to cover the greyed out name that loops around it.

"I'm not his soulmate either."

You let out a choked sob, and suddenly you're not as grounded as your element as vines constrict your throat and encage your chest. He is the rain and you are the earth. He is a torrent of emotions and you are an earthquake. The air is charged with sorrow. It circulates the room and you both cry for yourselves, and for each other. Sehun feels another rush of water sting his eyes when his assumption about you and your soulmate had been correct all along and he tries to remember the warmth from his sun to no avail. Was it naïve for him to think, to hope that his name would appear on her fingers when hers was on his? Her hands were empty for so long; was it a sign that they wouldn't end up together?

He misses her. She was (is?) his lifeline and now he has nothing but the greyed out name on his fingers to remind him that it has been cut.

v. "Let's be happy together."

Not saying anything, you smiled wryly. Sehun thinks it's because you both are glitches in the system of fate, and he wonders if one could really be happy with a person that isn't his or her soulmate. But he stands in front of you and he's tired of feeling sorry for himself and he offers you a way to solve the predicament you're both in. He doesn't know who your soulmate is and he doesn't press the issue, doesn't force you to say anything. It's a sensitive topic that still brings with it the touch of a chill that starts from his chest whenever he remembers her, and he's sure it's not different for you.

vi. You start sleeping with each other the night after.

Sehun rationalizes the whole set up. "We aren't the soulmates of our soulmates. Might as well try with people in the same boat as us, right?" He's cutting up vegetables for tonight's dinner as he says this very casually. But you hear the slight strain in his voice, see the momentary shake of his hands on the kitchen knife and you know he's thought about it enough to voice it out and ask your opinion. His voice is becomes quieter but gains a certain kind of stability when he speaks next.

"Physical warmth is nothing compared to the warmth that a soulmate can provide, but sometimes you just need someone to be there when you want to remember how warmth feels like, to stave off the cold."

Your brain doesn't catch up to your body. It listens to the beat of your heart as it flutters erratically and you're kissing him before you know it. You don't care where this will lead you, the rational part of your brain pleads not to give in but it loses the battle against what your body wants and you want it now and all that is running through your mind is him, him, him.

His eyes are turbulent like a tsunami, as he mouths against your belly button. You arch your back and you don't know exactly what your pleading for but you do, and all you can hear is how desperate you are, begging, begging with your hoarse voice and even that is washed away when his head is between your thighs and you crash against the currents till it takes you to the peak and you can't breathe.

In those moments, he is impossibly warm and you cling to that warmth like a lifeline as he takes you, as you give yourself to him over and over again till your lungs catch fire. You're swept up by the waves of love lust and dragged down by the undercurrents. All you see is the swirling of water, violent and passionate that you don’t see the bubbles rising to the surface and forget that you need air, not water to breathe.

In those moments, you don't mind drowning.

And drown you do.

vii. It is not long that you become a part of each other's lives when the sun is gone.

Sehun pulls the covers over your bodies and pulls you flush against his chest. Your voice is small when you ask.

"Stay?"

"Sure."

But Sehun is water and you can't ask water to stay. It is never static, always moving with the changing of tides and will always slip from the seams.

It is when his breathing is rhythmic that you allow the sob that choked you to escape. But slowly, slowly.

Sehun sleeps deeply that night, so he doesn’t not notice when you curl in towards yourself and lift the ring on your left hand, just enough to read the grey characters flickering with red as if they were dying embers. The cold hits you more painfully than before because the warmth is snatched away from you so quickly you barely had time to embrace it. It is replaced with the burning feeling not from heat, but from something so frigid it burns, oh god it burns and you're reminded that Sehun is your soulmate, but you aren't his as you stare at his greyed out name on your finger.

It is exhaustion, the weight of your secret, and the sadness you’ve been carrying for so long that pulls you to sleep.

You wake up in the morning alone in bed. Sehun is making breakfast and the scent of coffee wafts through the apartment.

At first you think nothing of it. It's always like this, and you roll over on his side of the bed and cling to the residual warmth of the sheets. It's nice to wake up to the smell of breakfast but you find yourself reaching out to the opposite side of the bed every time.

You want to wake up next to him on a lazy morning.

But then in the middle of one night, weeks into whatever this relationship is that you catch him by the couch on the window. He doesn't notice you stir from sleep; he is drawn to her, traces her name on his finger and his voice is breathy, wistful, longing.

"You're the only person I want to wake up next to in the morning."

It is whispered to the air, as if it would carry his wish towards her, his sun. He says it to the moon and closes his eyes. He stays in that position for a long while, and when he slides back into the bed, he is facing away from you.

Stay?

Perhaps you were being too greedy. Overwatering kills plants after all.

viii. Sehun met you on a summer day, when the season was just changing from the cusp of spring. It was warm, and as time passes by it grew warmer and warmer, with the sun rising higher into the skies like smoke that curls in tendrils. He remembers because he remembers his sun, with hair that glowed like the gold during too bright mornings when he woke up next to her. And he remembers the summer heat dissipating and making way for autumn, the cold starting to seep in. It's uncanny how the seasons of the following year seemed to reflect his emotional state, mocking him with the cold that blew his hair from his face while the cold he felt at the loss of his soulmate seeped into his bones. Fate was cruel and nature was its accomplice.

You, on the other hand, seemed to be operating on the opposite conditions. Two years could do a number on people, and he remembers the different sweaters you'd wear all year round the first time you met him. Till the events in both your lives seemed to intertwine like the vines on an endless hedge maze, bound together but without any clear pattern or path. Circular, in ways more than one, and both as full and as empty as the number zero.

Recently, you stop wearing sweaters and jackets altogether, your arms constantly exposed to the chilled air. Sehun calls you out on it on one of those nights where you've developed the habit of standing by your balcony in nothing but an old shirt when the moon hangs high in the sky.

"I've gotten used to the cold."

He doesn't recognize the tone of your voice.

ix. "Can I ask a favor? For tonight, can you think of me, and only of me?"

The day you decide to leave him, you ask for one tender night with him. Your voice is soft but filled with a kind of determination Sehun doesn't catch. After all, it has become an unwritten and unspoken rule that this whole arrangement with you was for both to get over your respective soulmates. Sehun doesn't read too deeply into the stakes of this relationship, doesn't want to open that can of worms. Doesn't realize the weight of your words because in his mind, you are both using each other to forget.

But the body remembers. And he sees the tears fall from your eyes, he can only stare. It becomes clear to you that Sehun never noticed, never realized the depths of your feelings for him and that hasn't changed. The heartbreak you feel has reached a fever pitch and you break down. Sehun moves to hug you, but you shake your head. Sehun thinks, believes he understands you; you two are in the same predicament after all. Both your cases are rare and for the two of you to have met in this lifetime was something he believes was fate's way of consoling the both of you.

He takes your refusal for aftercare as a sign that you wanted to get over your soulmate by yourself, and it dawns on him that perhaps that’s what he needed to do as well. Acceptance is the first step towards recovery, and for the both of you to move on, really move on, you needed the kind of strength that came from within, and not from another person. He's not sure if he was ready for that.

But it seems that you were.

His dreams elude him that night. It's all vague and a faint sense of unease lingers underneath. Images of the moon and a peculiar kind of warmth. You're wide awake as he stirs in his slumber and press a kiss on his shoulder as he succumbs to sleep once more. It is your final goodbye.

When the morning arrives, it is Sehun who wakes up alone.

#sehun scenario #exo scenario #sehun scenarios #exo fanfic #sehun #exo #sehun fanfic #oh sehun #writing #angst #smut #god im so sorry this took so long #I TOOK TWO WHOLE YEARS TO GET BACK INTO WRITING THIS IS CRAZY #but merry christmas i guess? pls accept this humble offering ena...

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sprnklersplashes · 4 years ago

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heart of stone (20/?)

AO3

Janis shifts a little on the armchair, giving Maddie more room in her lap and giving herself more space to breathe. They’re sharing one chair in the lounge, Maddie pressed against her chest and her arms around her waist, their eyes on the TV in front of them. Janis had almost forgotten about early afternoon cartoons, or had at the very least believed they were a part of her life she’d never revisit, but she walked in on some of the other kids watching them in and she’s happy to say they have the same effect on her eighteen year old self as they did her ten year old self. Even if she does constantly need them explained to her but hey, she’s old now. She has the sleep schedule to prove it.

“I wish they’d let us watch Netflix in here,” Maddie sighs. “They say we’re not allowed it because too many people would be taking advantage of it, and that since it’s a private company we can’t watch it on a public TV.” She leans her head against Janis’s shoulder. “And because they think we’ll watch age inappropriate stuff on it.”

“That’s a valid concern,” Janis tells her. “Because I just know you watched Insidious last week and then lied to your mother about it.” She squeezes Maddie around the waist, eliciting giggles from the younger girl. “Don’t even try to deny it. Besides, cartoons are more fun than horror movies.”

Maddie hums and doesn’t deny it nor does she disagree, her feet swinging innocently on the side of the chair. Janis rests her cheek against her head, the beanies and scarf gone today. It isn’t-or rather it shouldn’t be-something unusual. While it isn’t exactly common, she’s seen a few people around the ward hatless. Not like they have anywhere to go. Janis is just still getting used to this part, and wearing a hat every day is one hurdle. She supposes she’ll jump that one when-and if-she comes to it.

She heads back to her room a little later-the good cartoons are over and most people, including her, have rounds scheduled pretty soon. She wants back arm-in-arm with Maddie, a gesture she hasn’t taken since her middle school days. There’s a lot she loves about her new friendship with Maddie-it’s probably as close to having a younger sister as she is ever going to get-and one of the best parts of it is how she can fully indulge the inner 13 year old that still lives inside her. She hadn’t realised how fun letting that part of her out would be.

She throws herself down on the bed with some amount of grace when she gets in, twisting roughly onto her back and reaching for her phone with one hand while blindly getting a rice cake out of the packet with the other. She waits while the various social media apps alert her to new notifications-a celebrity posted on Instagram, someone liked her tweet, she’s gotten another anonymous message on Tumblr… the usual stuff, basically. She scrolls through idly, just about to all down the rabbit hole until-

“Janis!”

“Never mind,” she sighs. When she switches off her phone, her mom is at the foot of her bed, her door still slightly open and her eyes glittering. Janis would simply offer a raised eyebrow and a dry remark, were it not for the two at her mom’s side, a man and a woman a few years younger than her mom, both dressed in white polo shirts and jeans. They give off slight camp counsellor vibes in those outfits. The man carries a cardboard box under his arm, stamped with black crowns, and they have the same soft yet ecstatic grin that the Cancer Centre people do.

“Uh… Hi?” she says, sitting up. She half-raises her arm into a wave. “I’m Janis?”

“Is this a bad time?” The girl asks in a low voice, and it’s not clear whether she’s talking to her or her mom. Any feelings of fatigue or lazy desires are chased away in an instant, and Janis sits up taller and raises her chin, her own smile plastered across her face. Just a hint of spite, enough to get her message across.

“Not at all,” she says, and she slides her phone into her pocket. “What’s up?”

“Oh well, we’re from the Rapunzel Foundation,” the man explains. Janis blinks for a second, and then

“The wig people,” she says.

“For convenience’s sake, you could say that” he replies and Janis’ eyes immediately fall to the box in his hand. It’s not overly big, but then it really wouldn’t need to be.

“Oh,” is all she can say. She swings her legs around the side of the bed and stands up, her hands shoved in her pockets. “Um… so I take it you… have it?” She shakes her head, huffing a laugh in the otherwise awkward pause. “Sorry, this is coming off like we’re in a drug trade.”

“It’s fine, Janis,” he says. “But yes, we have your wig all ready for you. Well, wigs. We actually have a few you can look at.”

“Cool,” she mutters. He lifts the box, tilting it towards her, and it takes a second for her to nod. She slides back against the wall and wraps her arms around herself, taking a millisecond to check out her mom’s expression. She’s grinning like a mad woman; she thinks the last time she saw her mom that excited was at her last art show. She can’t blame her, she guesses, because it’s a big thing, isn’t it? After weeks of beanies, this is at least something new.

“Now we couldn’t get one that looked exactly like your hair before,” the girl explains. “You had a bit of a unique hairstyle.”

“Inimitable, that was the idea,” she says.

“And we aren’t allowed to dye these wigs for safety reasons,” she goes on. “But… we did make up a few others. Here, take a look.” Janis looks down and finds three wigs laid out on her bed. Her first thought is that they’re scarily realistic. They would be after all; they’re all made of real human hair. That’s why Regina now has a bob despite swearing to her once she’d never do that.

Then comes the terrifying thought-holy crap what if one of these is made from Regina’s hair?

Being bald might be better than wearing Regina’s hair. Scratch that, definitely would be.

She shakes her head. These wigs are darker than Regina’s hair; each one deep black to her brown, and she breathes. Her natural colour. One is long, curling slightly at the bottom. Kind of a Morticia Addams style, she thinks, and the corner of her mouth quirks up. The second is similar, albeit shorter and with side bangs, and then finally one that would reach to her shoulders, or just above, more waves than the first one. She remembers way, way back in middle school, before Regina talked her into another stupid decision. When her hair was dark black and held by sparkly silver hair pins.

“Can I try that one?” she asks, pointing at the third one.

She pulls up one of the visitors’ chairs, two pillows stuffed beneath her to reach the mirror, while the man-Anthony, she corrects-holds the wig behind her and brushes it out. It falls softly against his hand and her own itches to run her fingers through it. But her heart is in her mouth at the same time, and she has no idea why. She thought, when they first told her about getting the wig, that she’d be jumping at the chance. That she wouldn’t have the small but still present urge to tell them to pack it up and go.

“You ready?” Antony asks.

She closes her eyes and nods.

It’s heavier than she thought it would be. Antony’s fingers run along her face as he settles it and she fights the urge to flinch. She’s not good with this sort of contact at the best of times. He plays around with it a bit more, fluffing it and swishing it and who knows what else, as her fingers fidget on the arms of the chair.

“You can open your eyes now.”

When she does, the gasp escapes her mouth before she can stop herself. In the refection, she watches as she reaches up and fidgets with the stands that stop, as she thought, just above her shoulders. She looks at it for a long time, trying to work out how it looks. If it looks real or not.

“I look-”

She doesn’t want to say normal. It’s the closest word she can find to it and yet doesn’t want to say it. Luckily, her mom is there.

“You look like Veronica.”

“Oh no I don’t,” she sighs. “I do not look like Veronica.”

“Sorry, who’s Veronica?” the girl asks.

“My younger sister,” her mom explains. “Janis’ aunt.”

“Who everyone swears up and down I look exactly like,” she adds. “And I do not.” Janis leans back in the chair and twirls the end strand round her finger. “I look good though.”

“So does that mean you’ll take this one?” the girl asks. “You can still try on the others if you want.”

“It’s fine,” Janis replies. She nods, a little to them, a little to her mom and a little to herself. “This is it. This is the one.”

She doesn’t really leave her room for the next few hours. Or the chair either, for that matter. The only serious move she makes is when she realises her nurse is coming in five minutes and that sitting staring intensely at a mirror is probably not a good way to greet her. She feels strangely self-conscious when the walks in, like the elephant in the room is doing cartwheels on top of her head. She taps her feet on the floor, waiting for the acknowledgement that never comes. She wonders if nurses often do comment on people’s wigs, or if that’s strictly a no-go area.

“Mom?” she eventually asks, a barely-eaten sandwich sitting in her lap and her IV neatly tucked in the corner. “Is this weird?”

“Is what weird?”

“This. Me sitting in front of the mirror all day.” She shrugs and takes a bite out of her sandwich. “I mean… you have to find it weird. I find it weird and I’m the one doing it.”

“Not at all,” she says, and then she breaks out into a grin. “You do look good, Janis. It’s a great wig.”

“Yeah.”

“And… it’s a bit of a change, isn’t it?” her mom adds. “I suppose it takes some getting used to.”

Janis nods again. To say it’s a bit of a change is an understatement. This morning, it was patently obvious what was wrong with her. Now, while she’s still stick-thin and alarmingly pale and sitting in her pyjamas, she looks healthier. That’s the word she’ll replace normal with, she tells herself. She doesn’t look sick, or at least not really. Not that sick.

Should she be this happy about it? Surely it’s a good thing, right?

“Mom I need you to promise me something,” she says.

“Anything.” There’s a serious tone to her mom’s voice that she shouldn’t find funny but does.

“If I am still sitting here an hour later, smash my head into this mirror,” she jokes. She takes another bite of her sandwich and brushes crumbs out of her wig. She hasn’t done that in weeks, she realises, and while it’s a stupid, tiny thing it, it excites her. The thrill sparks deep inside her chest and makes a laugh bubble out of her mouth. “Or maybe give me an hour and a half,” she adds.

*****

She FaceTimes Cady later that night and there’s no lying about her intention. It’s the same logic as Cady sending her a selfie of the cute shirt she just bought. There’s no harm in showing off. Especially after she already spent most of today showing it off to her hospital friends. Melissa was polite enough about it, calling it pretty and commenting on how it doesn’t look like her hair from beforehand. But her words are short and carefully chosen, and Janis has to stop herself from staring at Melissa’s hair the whole time. Her real hair that hasn’t fallen out yet. She’s not jealous of her, it’s stupid to be jealous in circumstances like this, but she can’t help but feel awkward about it. Still, Melissa grins at her when she puts it on and pokes her in the stomach, telling her she looks “hot” and even comparing her to Winona Ryder’s 1980s years.

“Now that’s a compliment,” Janis had told her.

Maddie on the other hand is much more animated, stroking it with a careful hand and wide eyes which dart to the hairbrush on the bed three times before Janis takes the hint and hands it to her. She’s a little unsure about it really, but it’s sitting on a stand on the end of the bed and what harm can one little girl do to it? Especially when the one little girl is Maddie.

She checks herself in the camera once more, telling herself it’s the last time. She pulls it down just a little bit only to shift it back again. It sits comfortably on her head, the dark strands falling into her view when she bends down and the bangs ruffling when she blows up. She spent more time than she cares to admit sitting on her bed blowing them earlier today.

“You really need a hobby,” she tells herself, out loud, before she hits the call button. As she waits, she taps her fingers on the mattress and finds herself suddenly aware of the sketchbooks she slid under her bed. She told herself she needs a hobby, but doesn’t she kind of already have one? Or rather, she had one. When was the last time she picked one of her books up? A cold feeling settles in her stomach. Sometimes her life here can get pretty busy, but she was also kept busy outside of here and she always made time to draw.

“Janis!” Cady replies, pulling her out of her thoughts. The audio cracks and crickles as they move through their house, the picture freezing and jumping. “Hey, what’s up, sorry I was downstairs.”

“No, it’s fine,” Janis replies. “Not interrupting anything, am I?”

“Oh, no, of course not,” they say. “Not I was just doing homework at the table. I just got in from tutoring a half an hour ago and I couldn’t be bothered walking all the way upstairs.” The wall behind them turns from dirty white to baby blue, and Cady’s bedroom door with a hundred jackets hanging on it closes behind them. “Okay, so what’s-woah.” Their eyes go wide, and Janis chuckles. “That’s new.”

“Yeah, it is,” Janis replies, pushing her hair away from her face. “I hope you’re talking about the wig and nothing else. Although it would be remiss of you not to notice the new lights around my bed.”

“I’ve noticed the lights. I suggested the lights,” Cady says. They flops down onto their bed, one knee tucked up against them and their chin resting on it. Their smile slowly stretches across their face. “You look good, it looks good. When did it happen?”

“Only today,” she says. “Which is weird because I was told about it a while back. You know it was made from real human hair.”

“Cool,” they breathe. “So is that… is that what your hair was like before you dyed it and shaved it and�� did all that to it?”

“All that,” she replies. “You sound like my Catholic grandma.” She ruffles her wig and lets the hair land on her face. “But yeah. If we had met in middle school… pre-Regina, obviously… I would have looked like this.”

“Wow,” they whisper. “Imagine we had. You and me meeting in middle school. You’d have hated me.”

“You’d have hated me,” she replies. “I was Plastic, remember? Or at least, I was baby plastic. And I had some really embarrassing obsessions at that time. Had we been really good friends, I’d have forced you to come to Hot Topic with me.”

“Well thank goodness you’ve outgrown that,” Cady says dryly. They laugh, but then Janis imagines it, a much-younger her with a much-younger Cady, both more innocent in some ways, less interested in high school cliques. It might be pointless fantasizing about it, but it’s fun all the same. “It looks gorgeous Janis. Really. I’m happy for you.”

“Thank you.” Her cheeks turn pink and warm as she rests her face on her fist. “So how was school?”

“Oh, fine,” they reply. “I’ve… dropped some of my tutoring subjects. Today was my last day with little Ruby.”

“Oh no,” Janis says. “Um… why was that?”

“Well, if you want a visual.” The camera tilts and dips as she gets up, and for a second freezes on her halfway extended past it, before it jumps and she’s holding a piece of paper in front of it, practically covered in black pen and coloured marker. It hurts Janis’ head just to look at. “This is my schedule pre-cancellations.” They switch pages, now showing her a much cleaner page, more plain white blocks. When she looks closer and the camera focuses, she sees ‘free time’ written on them in lilac. “This is my schedule now.”

“Ah, I see,” Janis says. “You pencilled in some free time.”

“I was drowning,” they sigh dramatically, throwing their head back, tossing their hair and waving their arm for the full effect. “Now I’m just floating. Instead of being significantly more stressed than the average senior, I’m just normal stressed.”

“Aw good for you my little stressed fish,” Janis jokes, leaning forwards on her elbow and cupping her chin. “So? Stress huh?”

“So much stress,” they reply. “I just… no I’m coping.” They shake their head and Janis bets there’s a hundred, if not a thousand, invisible formulae and equations dancing in front of Cady’s eyes. “Once I get to winter break, then I’ll be good to go. And then I can direct much more of my attention to you babe.”

“Good, because I’m feeling real attention deprived over here,” she replies, only for the smile on Cady’s face to drop slightly. “Okay, no I’m not. Although having said that, my mom is starting to ease up on me and it’s a little weird. She hasn’t checked in on me in twenty minutes. I think she may be dead.”

“That sounds like a record,” Cady replies. “Oh! Speaking of records, guess what?”

“Um… you just broke the record for whoever can make their girlfriend jump the highest?”

“No,” they reply. “So the Mathletes and I have our first tournament coming up! We qualified for state championships and our first contest is on December 14th. It’s against the Saint Paul’s team.”

“Ah. The private school,” Janis replies, wrinkling her nose. While the main rivalry has and always will be between North Shore and Merrymount, there’s always been a lingering disdain for the private schools they compete against. “Make sure you kick them right in their plaid skirt covered asses. Also how did you get that from records?”

“Well, breaking records is like a contest, right?” they reason. “And I plan on setting the ‘record’ for the Mathlete captain with the most wins under their belt.” They grin then, and there’s a wicked gleam in their eye that while Janis loves, she finds it just a little bit unsettling. “Starting with those spoiled little rich kids.”

“Oh this competitive streak of yours is so hot,” she whispers, winding a lock of hair around her fingers. It’s almost silky smooth against her skin and out of nowhere she wonders; had her hair beforehand ever felt like this? Her eyes widen as she realises she can’t remember. It hasn’t been that long in the scheme of things since she lost her hair, she just never paid attention. Why would she? Not like she could have seen this coming. If she had, would she have taken more notice? Would she have stopped taking it for granted? Stopped overthinking the way she looks? She supposes she can put those questions to bed now that she has this.

“Uh… Janis? Earth to Janis!”

“Woah, yeah, hi,” she says. She straightens herself up, her back squarely against the bed board, and shakes her head. “Sorry, um, went down the rabbit hole for a minute.”

“See anything nice down there?” Cady smiles, and their tone is light with a slightly sarcastic edge, but even with the poor quality video, Janis can see the worry around her eyes.

“No white rabbits, no mad tea parties either,” she mutters. “Beginning to think there was some false advertising going on.”

“Take that up with Disney,” Cady says dryly. “They lied to you.”

They talk for a bit more, about stupid, meaningless stuff like school and math and Maxie (that last one isn’t so meaningless), and over time Janis turns onto her side, her phone gently balanced between her mattress and her arm. Janis feels their time coming to a close; with her next round approaching and Cady probably having to go do actual productive stuff. Still she feels reluctant to let them go, especially when little nagging doubts hang at the back of her mind and desperately beg for reassurance. She bides her time even with them, waiting until they’re both quiet, when she can’t bring up something else and stop herself from asking. She feels stupid asking, but she can’t not ask it either.

“So…” she finally asks. “You like the wig?”

Cady smiles and Janis hears the rush of her exhale crackling against the mic.

“I do,” they reply. “I really do. You look good, Jan.” Janis grins at that, a weight lifted off her chest that she hadn’t realised was there. “And you like it too?”

“Of course,” she replies. “I mean, what’s not to like? I look hot. And it… feels good, I guess. It feels nice to have hair again.” She bites her tongue before she can say anything else. Cady doesn’t need to know about anything else, about how this is probably the closest to looking (and feeling) normal she’s gotten in a long time. All Cady needs to do is be happy here. “Kay, I’ll let you go, babe. See you later.”

“See you,” Cady says. But just as Janis is about to press the hang up button, Cady interjects, “Janis?” Her finger pauses a hair’s length from the screen. “I love the wig, seriously. But I also… you looked great without it too.” They shrug awkwardly at that, their eyes avoiding her. “Just… thought you should know.”

They hang up before Janis can respond, and all she can do is sit and wonder how she would have responded to that.

*****

She spends much of the evening in her bedroom, curled up in a ball with her chin on her pyjama-clad knees. Her most recent round was-for some reason-a particularly strong one, and as it pushed its way through her veins it took more and more out of her in return. She’s been assured time and again that this is normal, standard procedure, and that above all it means the medicine’s working, doing what it’s supposed to be doing. She should be glad of that, if that’s the case. But oh boy, does it make her feel crummy.

“Okay. Kitchen’s nearly closed, last chance to eat something,” her mom says. She’s standing in the middle of the room, hovering between her bed and the door, her hands wrung together. “You want something?”

Janis shakes her head and turns onto her side as her stomach twists once again, a shiver running through her body. She looks at the wall, the TV on playing some show she’s long since stopped paying attention to.

“You sure, hon?”

In her mind, there’s a verbal answer, but in reality she only nods and pulls the covers tighter around her. Her mom folds her arms, her eyes flitting to the ground. Weeks ago she’d have insisted over and over again that Janis eat something, bargaining with her until Janis either finally gave in and agreed to pick at whatever meal she brought up or until Janis snapped at her and the argument fizzled out. Now though she just nods in understanding and brings her over a glass of water.

It’s less draining for both of them, but not by much.

“I’ll be right back, sweetheart,” she tells her. “Holler if you need anything.”

I’ll holler she means to say, but her throat is dry and tight and the words never make it past her cracked lips.

Her mom slips out the door, letting it click shut behind her and the sound of her footsteps is quickly lost in the evening buzz. Another thing her mom has learned about nights like these is to close the door on her way out and back in. You wouldn’t think it matters, but it does. The idea of talking feels alien to her at these points, and the only thing more impossible is getting up and shutting the door herself.

Quiet hums in the empty room, her ears ringing in it. It will pass, she reminds herself, like it always does, it’s just a question of when. In an hour, tomorrow morning, tomorrow night. She might spend the next 24 hours in this very same position, the only thing changing being the time on the clock. She has done that once or twice before. Lost whole days of her life half-sitting in a bed while other people flocked around her.

She takes a long, steady breath in as her insides roll again and goosebumps prickle on her white skin. She reaches over and manages to make herself lift the water sitting by her bed, taking it in in small, careful sips. She burrows further into the mattress and pulls the covers ever tighter around her as she searches for an extra semblance of warmth. As she wriggles, her wig slowly slides off her scalp, the longer strands sticking her pale, sweat covered neck.

With her free hand, she weakly reaches up and grabs a fistful of it; what once felt soft and beautiful now feels tatted and coarse in her clammy grip. She sits for a while, curling and uncurling her fist before, in one swift motion, she pulls it off her head and lets it drape across her lap, having no need for it now. It’s just for show after all, she realises, and who would she be showing off for now? ******

When she wakes up the next morning, she only feels a little bit better, and she panics when she realises the day that’s in it. It’s Friday, marked on the little calendar beside her bed as “Damian and Cady day”. She did that not long ago, when the support group suggested reminding herself what she has to look forward to. It felt like a good idea at the time, but now the glitter pen sits and mocks her. Cady and Damian are coming today, and she feels like she’s been dragged through a bush and then thrown in front of a bus.

She pushes herself upwards, blinking in the overhead lights, and rests her chin on her fist. Maybe she isn’t as bad as she thinks she is. Certainly, last night sitting up like this would have been near impossible, so that’s a win. And she feels up for trying to eat at least, although whether or not she could finish it is yet to be seen. Still, it’s an improvement, right? That has to count for something.

“Baby steps, Janis,” she reminds herself. “Just… baby steps.” She pushes herself around so that her feet dangle over the side of the bed, her legs stiff and sore from the lack of movement from yesterday, not to mention cold air nipping at them. The heaters should be coming on any minute now. She grips the side of the mattress tightly, her palms pressing hard into the surface until they hurt. Her eyes don’t move from one spot on the wall, a trick she learned early on. Although this time it isn’t to stop the room from spinning, it’s to stop herself from backing out. She breathes out slowly, the air creeping past her gritted teeth, and stands up.

She surprise herself, even with the near tumble she takes when she gets there. But not eating for twelve consecutive hours will do that to you, she supposes with a shrug, and she stretches out her body, not bothering to hide the groans and sighs of relief as she does so. The feeling comes back into her hands as she shakes them out before checking herself in the mirror. She’s not completely fine with it; dark smudges still sit beneath her eyes, her skin still as white as the sheets on her bed, but she can work with this. She can build herself back up from last night.

Especially now that she’s got this.

She turns around and soon spots the wig sitting on the stand clipped to the end of her bed. Since she doesn’t remember picking it up and was certainly in no state to be doing so, she guesses her mom must have done so. When she picks it up, she finds it brushed out too, and makes a mental note to thank her mom for it.

She throws it on herself and pushes the bangs slightly out of her eyes before looking back up. It’s amazing, really, the difference this thing makes. With this, plus a few tricks with her make-up, she could probably pass for healthy. Or at least, not as sick as she actually is. The corner of her mouth turns up into a smile as she thinks about to; dares to dream about going out in public without sympathetic looks or pity-induced freebies being thrown her way. Is she wrong to be excited about this?

And the most important part; in front of Cady and Damian, she can look better, and that’s what she’s aiming for more than anything else.

******

By that afternoon, she’s not where she wants to be, but she’s at a healthy middle at least. By that she means she can push through it and convincingly cover up the fact that her body is crumbling inside. It’s far from ideal, but she’s more than happy to stick with it. If it’s sucking it up for a few hours or losing one of the few times she sees her friends in person rather than on a video call, it’s a no brainer, really.

She keeps a bottle of water by her bed and another one close by, just in case, and spends the day carefully arranging herself in her bed, not so comfortable she’ll never get out but at the same time letting herself store up strength. It makes the day longer, all this sitting around and careful eating, and she has enough sense to know what she’s doing is ridiculous. And it makes her realise, again, how she can’t freaking wait for all this to be over. For there to be a time when she can hang out with her friends without having to feel like she’s putting on a show for them.

She just about remembers to put her wig on before they arrive. Gingerly, she lifts it from its stand and slips it on, her hands delicate and cautious, like she’s handling a live animal. She runs her fingers through it and pushes the bangs back slightly, away from her face. She does tend to look better when they’re like that. She tugs and pulls at it for a few seconds, and then the seconds become minutes, all the while she keeps an anxious eye on the clock. She can see them in her mind’s eye, crossing the lobby, getting into the elevator, the doors opening, and strangely she feels like she’s fighting against time as she gets ready.

She’s just got it the way she wants when Cady pokes her head around the door, and she forces herself to breathe.

“Hey babe,” she says softly, tiptoeing swiftly across the floor and onto the bed, holding her hand out. A soft groan escapes Janis as Cady pulls her down and settles on top of her, equal parts careful and playful. Damian sits himself in the visitor’s chair with his feet up on her bed and his chin rested on his fist, giving her a small wink as he sits.

“Like the bandana,” she tells him, gesturing with her chin. Rather than a hat, his head today is covered by a yellow bandana, tied in a neat bow at the base of his head, and she vaguely recognises it, the memory like a fuzzy old video slowly becoming sharper. “Is that from Calamity?”

“Indeed,” he replies. “I was clearing out my closet and found it there. It’s neat, isn’t it?”

“Really neat,” she grins. “I’m just amazed it took you that long to fish it back out again. Wasn’t that show sophomore year?”

“Yes, and I feel horrible for neglecting her,” he sighs, fingering the edges. “I think I’m going to lean into the whole cowboy look now. I mean I already have the suspenders.”

“And an excuse to wear the funky hat,” Janis reminds him. “You know, I say go for it. If you can’t dress up like a cowboy during your senior year of high school, when can’t you?”

“Plus, if you get a boyfriend this year, you’ll be able to call him ‘partner’ without it sounding weird!” Cady adds in. There’s a momentary flicker across her face as soon as she says it, like she regrets it, but the moment Janis and Damian’s eyes meet they both bust out laughing, their eyes wide and their smiles even wider.

“Genius!” Damian declares. “I mean, we all knew you were a genius, but still. Genius!”

“Also does that make cowboys gay?” Janis adds. “If they had… ‘partners’?”

“Yes, cowboys are gay,” he replies. “That should be obvious to anyone.” Their laughter erupts again before slowly simmering down and Damian leans back while Janis swings her arm around Cady’s shoulders. Damian then opens his mouth only to close it again, his smile faltering and picking up again in the next second.

“And… speaking of headgear… might I say that the wig looks even cooler in person?” he says.

“Oh, this old thing?” She lowers her voice and imitates the old 1940s movie stars, tossing her hair over her shoulder and batting her eyelashes. She can’t deny the thrill that one of those actions gave her. “Oh, I just brought it out for you.”

“Well it looks stunning, doll face,” he replies, doing the same impression. Janis nods and hopes the glow on her cheeks is just in her mind.

“You know, those bangs really do suit you,” Cady remarks.

“Take your grievances up with eleven year old me who wanted to grow them out,” she sighs. “Eleven year old Janis made so many bad decisions.” Cady hums at that. Then her arm shifts behind Janis, and then her fingertips are touching the ends of her wig. It’s a discreet, delicate move, almost like she’s testing it out. In fact, it’s so light that Janis wouldn’t have known had she not caught it in the mirror. It’s not her hair after all. Just a replacement.

Her eyes meet Cady’s then, and hers are tinged with apprehension, a question in them. Janis replies with a smile and gently pulls her closer.

Even if it’s not her real hair, it feels almost the same.

Their time ends the way it often does, with Damian getting a text from his mom and looking sheepishly at the other two, giving them the silent signal that they have to go, even with half an hour left on the movie they stuck on. Cady sighs, dejected, but the unfinished movies have become a near-permanent fixture in their visits, so much so that Janis now knows not to put on a movie she had been meaning to show Cady, filing them for later.

“So I’ll call you tonight?” Damian asks.

“I look forward to it.” She pulls him into a tight hug, stretching on her toes only slightly. “See if you can find me a matching bandana in your closet, okay?”

“Deal.”

With that, and Cady’s goodbye kiss, she waves the two of them off, leaning on her door, half in the hallway, and watching them going. On a better day she’d walk them to the elevator, but just sitting down like that had depleted her. They both turn back to give her a final wave, and she has to laugh, and then they disappear around the corner.

And then she lets out the most guilt-ridden sigh of relief there has ever been.

She turns around, groaning as the room tilts, and stumbles across to her bed. Her bedside water is nearly depleted, but the one under her bed is too far for her to reach. She can get it in just a minute, when the ringing in her ears stops and the room stops tilting, she decides. Even if she’d really, really love it now.

She buries her face in the pillow, her grip turning from tight to vice-like as she tries to block out her thoughts. Maybe if she falls asleep now, the water issue with disappear.

She must fall asleep, because when she opens her eyes again it’s an hour and a half later, and her throat is dry and cracked and her back is stiff. She pushes herself up into some half-sitting position and stretches herself out, her groan long and high and unapologetic. Not like anyone can hear her with the door closed and the people who could hear her probably don’t care. She pushes the curtain of hair away from her face before just pulling it off altogether and tossing it on the table. She’ll get round to fixing that sooner or later.

She wishes she could say that nap did her the world of good, but that isn’t really how it works. She needed it, yes, but now she feels like her brain has pins and needles and that her insides were shaken up. At least she won’t have any more visitors for tonight, she thinks, and so she leans back on her pillows, her hand clumsily reaching for her phone and her water.

There are two texts on the screen when she turns it on, one from Damian and one from their groupchat. She swipes the groupchat one away, seeing it’s from Gretchen and therefore probably not concerning her anyway, and after thinking on it for a second, she swipes Damian’s away too. She’ll come back to it when she feels like a person, she tells herself.

She blinks heavily and as she does, the screen comes into sharper focus and she sees the date across it. It’s the second last day of November, she realises with a sigh. Maybe she should have realised with the springing up of decorations and the darker skies and much longer nights. December is right around the corner and that thought brings none of the festive cheer it usually would. Instead all she can think is that she should have been getting out of here soon. If everything had gone according to plan, she’d be on her last few weeks. She’d probably be packing up to leave and throwing a goodbye party. Instead that’s all put off and she instead has another two months of this crap. And honestly, two months doesn’t even mean anything anymore.

Still, it’s at least halfway over, and when she feels up to it she’ll be happy about that.

#cadnis #janis sarkisian #cady heron #mean girls musical #mean girls fanfic #mean girls broadway #fic: heart of stone

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randomfandomz · 5 years ago

Text

GET READY FOR A LOT OF HUSK HEADCANNONS

Im not sorry–

Depressed as f*ck so he doesnt have the modivation to take care of himself

He drinks mainly to forget, and to releive stress

Not only that but he H A T E S water(not as much as Baxter does, but he still avoids it like the plauge)

He never showers until he absolutely has to

Like his fur is always matted and alchohol scented

And he thinks licking himself clean like non-demon cats do is absolutely out of the question, it is gross and undignified, he doesnt want to lick himself and water makes his fur feel heavy and cold and he w i l l argue with you about this

He hates having fur. He just hates it. Its hard to take care of and things get stuck in it, it gets caught in things and just hhhh h h h H H - NO

Will straight up refuse to shower until Charlie makes him

Everyone in the hotel knows about shower day

The day when they make Husk take a shower because e w g r o s s o l d m a n -

Baxter somewhat sympathizes with him about his hatred of water

Not like he actually shows it or does anything to help him though- because 1) Bax really doesnt give a flying f*ck, he just wants to do science and this doesnt concern science so he couldnt care less, and 2) He doesnt wanna speak up because s o c i a l a n x i e t y . S o c i a l i n t e r a c t i o n ? N o t h a n k y o u .

Hes literally a cat, so he hates water with a burning passion

Husk's self image is kinda... ehhhhhh- I mean, its not like he really is that bad looking, if anything he looks pretty damn cool, but he honestly finds himself pretty unattractive. "The fur and wings d o n t h e l p "

Doesnt care if you call him old unless youre trying to be offensive; Hes proud of his age and experience

Even though he acts like an old man(well, he kinda is, but-) hes actually younger than Baxter, Mimzy, Alastor, Angel, and Nifty

Only Vaggie and Crymini are younger than him

When Husk first arrived at the hotel he didnt really wanna interact with anyone; New places kind of stress him out, so it took a long time for him to adjust and not snap at every little thing

Dont get me wrong, hes still a pissy alchoholic^tm, but the anger is less serious/genuine and more just because thats how he is

Husk fought in the vietnam war, and he attempted(and failed) suicide multiple times after the war until he was eventually beaten to death outside of a bar

He turned to alchoholism and gambling as a coping mechanism

Husk suffers from PTSD(Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder), along with the obvious alchoholism and gambling addiction

He is very salty/sad that he's a war vet but died in a bar fight, and wouldn't be remembered for his fighting but rather for being beaten to death in a bar while trying to drink away the feelings he had about not being welcomed home because of the way the media portrayed him and his fellow soldiers that fought in Vietnam

Upon learning that Husk is a vietnam war vet(he mentioned it while drunk off his ass- more than usual) one patron who attended the hotel for a short time told him "Welcome home doc!". Husk was surprised, as he had come to terms with the idea that he would never be thanked or welcomed for his services, but he did make sure to be maybe a bit less pissy to that particular guest. He will never forget them. It meant more to him than he would like to admit.

((I can't really think of a better reason as to why Husk would bring it up, but having seen one or two instances of someone saying "welcome home" to Vietnam war vets, I really wanted to add this. The "Welcome home doc" thing was me referencing a specific instance of this ive seen. Im so sorry if I'm wrongly portraying this in anyway, I tried to do enough research first before typing this part out, but I just wanted to point out that I tried my best to be respectful while talking about the subject.))

Moving on- L A S E R P O I N T E R S

One time Angel was just casually messing around with a laser pointer, out of boredom or something

HUSK'S RESPONSE WAS IMMEDIATE

HE WILL CHASE THAT RED DOT TO THE ENDS OF THE GODDAMN EARTH

"That DAMN RED DOT where the FUCK did iT gO!?"

He HATES that he does this, but he really cannot help it

Being a cat demon, and being Husk, his hunt and kill instinct is through the roof(hunt and kill instinct is why cats chase laser pointers btw)

Was VERY pissy for the next few weeks after this incident

Husk will purr involuntarily whenever someone pets him or strokes his fur

He WILL murder anyone who attempts to pet him or make him purr without consent(*COUGH COUGH* ANGEL *COUGH*)

Same goes for the wings DO NOT TOUCH THE WINGS, JUST DONT-

In his room, Husk's bed is literally a mound of blankets and pillows inside a box

Even he needs to get warm and comfortable after a long day

He never lets anyone in his room

Like n e v e r

Angel snuck in one night- Husk's half asleep drunken a*s shoved him out and yelled at him, waking up practically all the hotel staff and a few guests

In his defense, Angel, upon seeing the sleeping Husk, scratched behind his ears. Husk started to purr, but then snapped to somewhat conciousness, and realized what the f*ck was going on-

Yes, Husk is v e r y defensive

Give him a compliment? He wont accept it under any circumstances. He will probably be flustered and claim that the other is either lying or just kissing up to him

"You know you dont have to kiss my a*s to ask me something, right? The fuck do you want?"

Charlie honestly finds his reaction to compliments very sad

Has a kind of "well ya didnt need to point it out" attitude towards insults

Alastor insults him with the worst names in the book? He accepts it and couldnt give less f*cks

Even if its someone either than Alastor insulting him, usually even if he acts offended and p*ssed off, somewhere in his mind he just accepts it

Usually Alastor is the one insulting him, but in a "best friend rights" kind of way

He likes being creative when it comes to colorful language

"Look out to my sea of f*cks, and see how it is barren"

Doesnt have a "soft spot" for kids like Angel, but doesnt mind lessening the swearing a bit and doing a few magic tricks for the occasional child that somehow found their way to the hotel

He HISSES

If Husk is hissing at you you better f*ckin rUN-

He usually refrains from hissing- its part of him rebelling against his cat-like nature, but if he is openly hissing at you it means he is at his wits-end and is honestly P * S S E D .

sERIOUSLY, F*CKING R U N -

Crymini has a blog documenting all the cat-like things Husk does, and she sometimes does the classic "THIS IS A HUSK IN ITS NATURAL HABITAT" or "LETS SEE HOW THE KITTY REACTS TO THIS NEXT THING" bit, and Husk honestly finds it insulting as f*ck

Crymini pranked Husk with a cucumber(you know how cats on the internet are terrified of them) and Husk was actually scared of it, and he ran up a f*cking tree and wouldnt come down for a solid hour, partly put of legitimate fear, and partly out of spite from seeing the slightly guilty look on Crymini's face after the first 20 minutes of him hiding up there

Being a cat demon, alchohol is actually slightly toxic to him, and he is prone to alchohol poisoning. He usually drinks beer, which has low ammount of ethanol(5-7%)[ethanol is what makes alchohol so toxic to cats]

Baxter has a spray bottle to use on Husk if he is being particularly stubborn or bothersome. Charlie sometimes uses her own spray bottle for similar purposes, but she usually says something like "Bad kitty! No!" Along with it to tease him. Husk finds it humiliating and hates when his fur is wet, so surprisingly the spray bottle thing usually works.

He is demi-panromantic and asexual

H A T E S being touched, like under any circumstances

"The last time I voluntarily made physical contact with another being was in 1970 and it was while I was loosing a bar fight. It was also the day I was beaten to death and setenced to hell."

Bonus:

Angel: Hey kitty~! Wanna cuddle~?

Husk: The last time I voluntarily made physical contact with another being was in 1970 and it was while I was loosing a bar fight.

Angel: Oh really? *snickers* And how'd that work out for ya'?

Husk: Well, it was also the day I was beaten to death and put in hell. So I dunno. You tell me.

149 notes · View notes

stevemoffett · 4 years ago

Text

A Hard Nap, The Fall of Math, The Star Wars Holiday Special, Disco Point, and There You Are

In January last year, I noticed a sign in myself of the same cancer my dad had back in 2008. Unlike the usual symptoms that set off my paranoia, it wasn’t some vague feeling, it wasn’t an intermittent pain, and it wasn’t a general ill feeling—it was clear and unambiguous, out of the ordinary and one of those symptoms that, if you google it, is under the list of “call your doctor if you experience any of the following.”

It was also nonspecific: this symptom could mean cancer, but it could also mean about five other cancer-unrelated conditions. I called for an appointment that morning with my general practitioner, who said that the earliest available date was about two weeks later.

I knew that the only way my fear would be effectively relieved was with the one sure-fire diagnostic tool for this type of cancer, one that’s recommended for everyone, but not until about age 50: a colonoscopy.

For the two weeks before my GP appointment, I mentally prepared for death. For the record, I do this every time I interpret my body’s signals as cancerous, but the mental preparation usually stops after a few days when the symptom either goes away or when a clear alternative cause presents itself. This time, I didn’t get that kind of relief and, in fact, the symptom repeated more than once between setting the appointment and going to it. Each time, it was like an intrusive thought come to life: you’re going to die. You’re going to go through surgery and chemotherapy like Dad and you’re either going to die early, or find out like he did that the cure is worse than the disease, or maybe you’ll hang on just long enough to experience both.

Winter mornings in Texas can sometimes be surprisingly cold. While stepping out the door on a midsummer morning is like walking into someone’s hot exhale, as you might expect, a 33-degree morning is more like a slap in the face. When I packed everything I figured I’d need to move here a couple of years ago, I threw away my winter coat, thinking, I won’t be needing this anymore. (The coat was also about ten years old at that point.)

My first winter in Texas, I layered a bunch of shirts underneath a light jacket and wore a scarf on freezing days. The second winter, I decided that I’d had enough of being cold. After all, I rationalized, here in Texas it was monetarily possible to never have to feel cold again if you really don’t want to. So I bought the warmest coat I could find, an unstylish, bulky parka made by Caterpillar, the company that makes construction vehicles. No more layering, no more checking the weather before leaving in the morning. I could just put this coat on and not worry about it.

But now, under the shadow of a cancer scare these January mornings, wearing the big coat made me feel less like I was smarter than the weather and more like I was trying to smuggle a terminal disease wherever I went. Under my coat, tie, button-down shirt, undershirt, skin, fat, and muscle, something was growing silently in the dark. While maybe it had slipped up and showed some of its handiwork to me, it was already too late to do much about it now.

Since it has affected my life several times before, and since it is such an exquisite mixture of dread and uncertainty, cancer is one of my mind’s biggest bogeymen. I feel personally insulted by the idea of it. I treat you so well, body—why would you betray me? Was I not nice enough? Is this poetic justice for my vanity? Is it, as the old anecdotal saying goes, due to my worrying?

Not only did I feel like I was smuggling cancer under the big coat, I was also warming it up by drinking my coffee. I was feeding it directly when I ate something too sugary. And I was probably even giving it an evil sense of satisfaction when I got stressed out about it. If I was able to keep my mind off it by working in the lab, mixing and pipetting, using kits, and doing arithmetic in my head, it would come crashing back into focus when I was pulling my gloves off to wash my hands.

I pulled up incognito mode on my phone’s browser during my breaks, googling “5-year survival rate colon cancer age 35.” “Cancer staging colon prognosis.” “Colon cancer smoking.” “Colon cancer smoke one pack in college.” “Colon cancer smoke one pack 18 years ago.” “Colon cancer smoke one pack after seeing Luke Wilson smoking in The Royal Tenenbaums.”

At home, I suddenly started noticing the expiration dates on my nonperishables. What will last longer, I thought, the freshness of this baking soda, or me.

I knew I wasn’t going to be comforted by the first GP visit. After all, they’re usually the first stop to a specialist, unless you have a PPO insurance plan, which I don’t. The doctor listened to my symptoms and family history. “Well,” he said, “Given your history, it’s a good idea to refer you to a GI. But, you seem like you lead a healthy lifestyle otherwise, with none of the other risk factors, so we’ll see what he says.”

I made the GI appointment and had to wait two more weeks for it, with the same circular worrying and googling. At the GI appointment, I sat in the waiting room, the youngest patient there by a few decades, and I felt a little bit ridiculous. On the other hand, I’d also just read a harrowing story about a woman in her late 20s who had colon cancer and died from it. That was a real person, I thought, who at the first phase of it probably went through all the same feelings I was now, the I’m-being-ridiculous and is-this-worth-the-time-and-vacation-days, all the way up until her diagnosis. Not just because I was scared, I felt a pang of sympathy. A disease of the old picking a victim from the young is terrible luck.

And I figured, if it could be her, it could be anyone. But most of all, it could be me.

That last bit, I think, is one of—one of—my greatest flaws, the vanity of always thinking that the worst things will happen to you, in spite of the odds. It’s a way of making yourself feel special, but it has no upside. You don’t feel confidence with this type of special-feeling. In fact, you’re more likely to be timid and self-centered, and you just come across as weird to the outside observer. They might think, There’s only a few steps between that guy and Howard Hughes. Somewhere, deep in your mind, they think: Wires are crossed.

Shortly before I went in, another patient arrived, a man around my age or maybe younger who, despite a dozen or so free seats, declined to sit down. My name was called, and I passed a sign on the way to the back that said, “If you have recently traveled to China and have a fever you must let our staff know.”

This doctor’s exam rooms had floor-to-ceiling windows, the kind you’d see in a movie, instead of the usual dull and bulby, off-white plastic exam room interior. A Spanish medical student came in to give a pre-appointment questionnaire and to take my vitals. He asked, in much better English than I could have mustered in Spanish, “So. There is some blood in they crep?”

When he came in, the GI repeated what my GP had said, and since he was also the person who would be performing a colonoscopy, he said I should set an appointment for one with him. I managed to get a date three weeks later.

From other people’s stories, I knew two things about colonoscopies: they are no fun, especially the night before, but the general anesthesia on the day of the procedure, on the other hand, is fun. I was nervous enough on the day before that I actually asked someone at the pharmacy for help finding the items I was looking for: Polyethylene Glycol (or PEG, which we use all the time for lab experiments, and which I was going to have to drink 2 liters of), Gatorade, and laxative pills. I had to take about 800% of their recommended dosages, each.

The bodily effect of those chemicals was dramatic, and I will spare the details. The worst parts of it, I found, were the generally exhausting physical toll it took, and the feeling by the end that I had some kind of dangerous sodium imbalance: I was sweating between my fingers, for example, but the rest of me felt as dry as paper. At 10PM, I was too tired to do anything, but too nervous to sleep for more than a few hours.

One smaller worry that I felt the next morning, as I took a selfie in my hospital gown to send to a friend back home, making a backward peace sign to show off the IV sticking into my hand and also how brave I was being, was that I might just die right there on the table from the general anesthesia. Part of my grad school research was on Propofol, the most-used general anesthesia nowadays (which, incidentally, also killed Michael Jackson). This was the same drug I was to be given.

I’d never been fully put under anesthesia before. It was astronomically improbable that I’d have an adverse reaction to it and die (and by the way, Michael Jackson abused it, using it far outside of medical praxis—if you’re afraid to get a colonoscopy yourself, don’t be, it could save your life), but keep in mind what I said about my vanity.

“Hey, I’m really scared,” I told the anesthesiologist. He said something, muffled by his mask, that sounded like, “It’ll be all right.” Then he busied himself with a syringe, connecting it to my IV. He depressed it about a third of the way. “This should help you,” he said.

The last thing I said was, “Whoa…I feel it.”

After what felt like a hard, late-afternoon nap, I said, “Hello?”

My head was wrapped with something. When I touched my face, I could feel that there were cotton pads underneath the wrapping, holding my eyes shut. I guess that at some point either mid-procedure or after, my eyes had opened, unseeing, and they’d done this to keep them from drying out. “Hang on, sir,” I heard a nurse say, and my head was unwrapped.

“It’s over?” I asked.

“You’re all done,” he said.

“Gimme a minute, please,” I said, my South Jersey accent peeking out. “I feel a little weird.”

Eventually, I sat up. Two of the nurses helped me stand, and I pumped my arms like I was lifting light, invisible dumbbells. As I put my glasses on and looked around, I thought that they all seemed like they were fighting to not smirk. What did I say while I was blacked out? I wondered, with a twinge of panic, before deciding that it would be worthless to speculate. It could have been anything. There are literally millions of possibilities. Again—it would be worthless to speculate, I told myself, firmly.

An Uber driver, I had been told by hospital staff during a consultation, was not a legally strong enough party to take responsibility for me at discharge. Someone I knew would have to escort me to my apartment. Also, they said, they really would do that thing where you’re back in your own clothes, and they push you to the exit in a wheelchair when you’re all finished. After my procedure, my co-worker stood waiting in the discharge zone with his car as an orderly wheeled me out of the hospital exit. I stood up from the wheelchair and got into the passenger seat of his car, for some reason more aware than usual of the heat coming from the vent and the smell of the car’s leather upholstery. “I still feel weird from the anesthesia,” I said to my friend.

“I’ll bet you do,” he replied.

It was about lunch time, and I had taken the rest of the day off from work. When I got home, I ordered a pizza and lay on my bed. I ate the pizza and watched Star Wars. I had not felt any euphoria when I woke up, I thought hollowly. And my first solid meal in almost forty hours tasted unremarkable. I was still groggy, but not in a pleasant way. I felt cheated.

The hospital staff had put a manilla envelope into my hands as I left. It contained sheets of images the doctor had taken during the procedure. Once lucid, I leafed through them and compared the thumbnail-sized images on printer paper with googled images of cancerous tumors viewed through a colonoscope, trying to diagnose myself.

A couple of the images on the papers had shapes that looked weird, with what seemed like variations in the texture or color of my colon wall that to me, at least, appeared one hundred percent fatal. It was another two weeks before I had a follow-up appointment to go over them with the surgeon.

“See this?” The GI said, two weeks later, pointing to one of the images that had seemed completely normal to me, unlike other ones I had thought were much more scary and unusual-looking. “That’s a low-risk polyp. Of course, now it’s a no-risk polyp, ‘cause it’s gone.”

This medical episode ended only three or so weeks before the whole world changed, but I was all the more grateful for that. If I’d waited to be checked out, then I would have been weighing whether it was worth getting tested against the possibility of being infected with COVID.

The doctor recommended that I get a colonoscopy every five years from now on, but added, “If you want, you can go earlier than that.” I told him thanks, but once every five years sounded fine.

I wrote about the first seven weeks of the pandemic in my last entry. After that, May and June passed in the same way as March and April had. I went back to work in mid-June for two weeks before the first summer COVID spike closed things back up. I continued to play Quake, and I continued to fret about my family.

I had a job interview for a position in northern Maryland in April. I didn’t get it, but I had a good idea why I’d been turned down: the position wanted people with proven math skills. Which makes sense—for the last few years I’d said repeatedly that I wanted to have a job that involves less lab work and more data analysis. This was one of those jobs.

My graduate program gave me a degree in “Computational and Integrative Biology.” Sometimes I shorten it to “Integrative Biology,” or “Computational Biology,” but I always feel sort of dishonest when I tell people my degree. (Apparently this feeling is common among grad students). My own reason for feeling dishonest was because, in any other college, the work I was doing would probably just fall under normal old “Biology.” While it was true I had done course work that reflected “Computational and Integrative” Biology, they were courses taught in a remedial way.

When I say remedial, I mean that they were courses designed to get biologists up to speed on how to do higher-level data analyses with their experiments. For instance, in my “Biomath” course, we went over ordinary differential equations and graph theory. Those are both intermediate-level math types, ones you’d encounter in the later part of an undergraduate math degree program. Throughout that course, there was a lot of handwaving whenever I asked questions.

“Eh…,” the professor might have responded to something I had asked, “that requires a lot of background explanation we don’t need right now to handle the problem here. Just take it as a given for what we’re working on.”

In grad school, it’s common to be well-versed in only your narrow little research tunnel that leads outward to the edge of “known” biology. But a few times each month, several of us students would head to the bar down at the city’s waterfront after work to talk about our research. It usually began with a complaint—“This is the third time this kit wouldn’t work this week and it takes twelve fucking hours to run it each time,”—but to give us a more context for their problem, whoever was griping would have to go back and start at the beginning, recounting all the steps leading to their experiment’s failure.

This was a useful exercise, since a pair of new eyes on your work meant that at least you could get feedback on how to better relate the subject matter when you talked to a non-science audience, and at most, you might get a real solution for the problem you were bumping up against.

But I would sometimes get privately upset, as I sipped my beer and glanced out the window at the river, when a math-centered Computational and Integrative Biology student would start talking about their research. As someone who feels an unpleasant, TV static-like anxiety in my chest the moment I see letters in italics, or one of those big, orphan sorority sigmas following an equal sign during a math seminar, this upset feeling was directed at myself. Because, as a result of my insecurity, I would start listening to the beginning of the math student’s explanation of their research, trip over the first unfamiliar term I heard, lose the thread of what they were talking about, give up, and zone out. The math students, overall, just seemed light years ahead of me.

A critical vocabulary word that I began to mentally tie to the situation—slumming, these math types were slumming when talking to us biologists—was the grain of sand to my insecurity’s oyster. By the time I got my diploma a few years later, it had developed into a little pearl; now I had the feeling that I was, relative to those who’d come from a math background, a fake computational biologist.

Unhelpfully, the people in charge of hiring for the jobs I want nowadays seemed to agree. All the job listings I was interested in applying for made me feel the same panic that advanced math symbols on powerpoint slides did. The subjects they wanted their applicants to have experience in—machine learning, deep learning, regression analyses—were all frightening, impregnable terms, reminding me either of some kind of giant machine made up of endless tubes and valves, all spitting dangerously hot steam, or of a highly secure, underground bomb shelter that requires fingerprints or eyeball scans to get into. I knew from my previous learning experiences that if I didn’t understand the fundamentals and learned only the higher-level, applied stuff, it was just going to make me feel unworthy, and I’d forget it at once.

But summer had come—it was midsummer now, in fact. The pandemic wasn’t going anywhere, so what was I going to do if I didn’t start learning something? I ended up registering for three classes at a community college back home, which offered their fall semester online. For two thousand dollars, including textbooks, I got a spot in Introductory Statistics, Linear Algebra, and Calculus III.

Calculus III was a risk. I’d taken Calc I and II in undergrad, now about seventeen years ago, and I had earned Bs back then. I didn’t remember much of the material from either class. I’d tried watching Khan Academy videos at various points in the meantime, but could never stick with it. I’d watch several videos in a row, feel like I understood things, try a practice problem, get it wrong, and forget about it after a day or two. But now, I had put actual money into it and, in a few months, a grade would be spit back out, so this time I had real skin in the game.

But I had misgivings that I was too old to learn new stuff, or that I would be one of those students I remember when I was in undergrad, the older students who would grind class to a halt with their endless questions. Or maybe I would get worse grades than I had in undergrad, despite taking things more seriously now.

Two of the classes were taught asynchronously, meaning each lecture was a video that you could pause or replay at your leisure, and all tests were take-home, but the other class, Statistics, was done over Zoom. You might think a Zoom class could be a better way to learn—clarifying questions can be asked immediately, for instance—but for me, at least, it was not. Instead of focusing on the material being taught, the whole time I’d be thinking, “They can see me. Everyone here can see me. I can see me, and I have a dumbass expression on my face. Can they tell that I have a bedsheet instead of a curtain over my window blinds?”

My mind wandered during class just as much as it had while sitting in a lecture hall when I was eighteen, but now, these classes were held later at night, after I’d been working all day and had eaten dinner. As a result of this, and the fact that I find Statistics to be boring when it’s taught as a series of don’t-worry-about-how-we-derived-it formulas to plug numbers into, I did the worst in Statistics.

But Calc and Linear Algebra were more interesting. When I watched the class videos, I got familiar with the disembodied voices of the teachers, who each seemed to be trying to do an impression of Khan Academy videos. My Calc teacher, with his strong Vietnamese accent, would punctuate every few lines of derivation or proof with, “So what does that mean then?” Every time—new topic, new chapter, new problem, exactly the same tone of voice: “So what does that mean then?”

Eventually, in my head, his cadence merged with the tones of Woody Woodpecker’s laugh, and I began saying it to myself as I did chores around my apartment. “So what does that mean, then?” I’d half-sing at my garbage can liner as I cinched it shut. “So what does that mean, then?” I’d say to a wrinkled button-down shirt, enjoying the pepper shaker-y smell of my iron when it’s turned up to its hottest setting. “So what does that mean, then?” I’d say to the window blinds, when considering whether I should replace the bedsheet I’d hung there with an actual curtain, before answering myself that No, this apartment is too temporary for something as tony as curtains.

Sometimes I’d say it three times in a row, like Woody Woodpecker himself:

“So what does that mean, then?”

I kept a Google Sheet of how much time I spent doing work for each class, and found that I averaged about 20 hours a week total. That broke down to approximately an hour and a half each weekday, and on Saturday and Sunday I would go for about six or seven hours each. I’d get up at 7:30 those weekend mornings and brew a pot of coffee, then sit taking notes and working through every part of each assigned homework, not moving on from a problem until I understood everything about it.

I think that those Saturday and Sunday mornings may have been the happiest I felt during the year 2020. In the middle of a difficult Calc problem, not having the answer yet but certain I was on the right track, while also buzzing on caffeine, as a beam of early horizontal sunlight hit my kitchen backsplash and filled the apartment with more brightness than all my lightbulbs put together, I for once did not feel worried. I was unworried about my parents, my sisters, my brother, my sister-in-law, my niece and nephew, and all the pets. Unworried about COVID, or cancer, or the work stresses of the week. Unworried about getting older, about being alone still, or about enjoying being alone too much; unworried about letting all of this time go by and still feeling like real life hasn’t started; unworried about my dad having another stroke, or about my mom just suddenly up and dying out of nowhere, or cancer, or whether my hairline is changing, or the fact that my heart has been skipping a beat sometimes lately, or whether my friends who I speak to on the phone were getting sick of me, or whether I am too graphic when I describe symptoms I am afraid mean I might have cancer, or whether my apartment neighbors will keep me up with their noise again tonight, or whether the tooth sensitivity I feel drinking cold water lately means I need to risk a dentist visit during a pandemic, or whether I will be able to have healthier boundaries with my parents whenever I return to the northeast, or whether I’ll ever feel truly satisfied and content, or whether I’ll ever feel actual joy some day, or whether my hang-ups, and anxieties, and fears, and regrets about my personal and professional choices will end up all ganging up on me at once, or, of course, whether at any given moment, I might have cancer.

My attitude going into the classes was that I would disregard whatever grades I got and simply aim for as much comprehension as possible. But about halfway through the semester, I lost my nerve and began to think of my grades as a direct indicator of my level of understanding. So I started fretting about my grades, and on days of Calc III exams during the second half of the semester, I took vacation time so I could spend the whole day working on them.

It got a little crazy toward the end, but finally, it was over, and I managed to get all As. That made me happy, even if I knew that that kind of satisfaction is a bit immature. But I felt like I was making up for some of the sins I had committed as a college student, my laziness and my previous lack of appreciation for education finally, in a small way, absolved.

I spent Christmas here in Texas. When I think back on Christmases from previous years I find that I can remember the past two years very well because I flew home and packed a lot of family and friend time into a few short days. Before 2018, though, I can’t remember any specific Christmas well enough to recount anything that happened on the day.

But when I was a little kid, I remembered each Christmas perfectly, mainly due to the gifts I got and the room where we put the Christmas tree—where “Christmas happened”: in 1990, it was in the back room and we got a magic set, and also my brother pretended to faint when he saw he’d gotten Reebok Pumps. In 1991, it was in the family room, and my brother and I got the Nintendo game “Base Wars.” In 1992, it was in the living room and we got a Sega Genesis along with the game “Sonic 2.” In 1993, it was in the family room again, and I got a Hot Wheels Key Force car, and my brother got the Genesis game “Hard Ball 3 With Al Michaels.”

In 1994, my grandfather died a few weeks before Christmas, and we got a Sega CD. That was the year I became aware that the Christmas spirit was vulnerable to external forces, one’s first experience with death being the most offensive of those forces, and after a few months I also became aware that a hot new gaming console like the Sega CD could “fail,” slipping into obscurity with a small and unremarkable library of games. As a result, the indestructible-seeming sheen of Christmas fell away, leaving behind a better idea of what Christmas really is: a bare, thin-glassed lightbulb plugged into the middle of the year’s darkest period. After 1994, I can’t really remember what happened each Christmas.

This past Christmas will always be memorable, though, because I spent Christmas Eve and Christmas Day pretty much doing one of three things: playing Quake (yes, that hobby still refuses to die), watching something Star Wars-related, or video chatting with my family. At any time when I wasn’t speaking to family, I had Christmas music playing in the background, including while Star Wars was on. I turned the heat up in my apartment to 75 degrees and enjoyed how money-wastingly hot it was getting, until my nose started to bleed from the dry air.

I want to take this opportunity to say that I much prefer Christmas Eve to Christmas Day. Christmas Eve is generally all anticipation and guest arrivals, buoying the mood long into the falling night. From the viewpoint of Christmas Eve, any miracle might happen the following morning. But then after a late, over-buttered breakfast on Christmas Day, there’s nothing much else to do except think about cleaning up and regret how much you’ve eaten. The “anything could happen” feeling is now all gone, collapsed from a dazzling infinity’s worth of possibilities down to one homely outcome.

I hadn’t put up any decorations for my apartment, unless the Christmas music can be considered a decoration. This ended up being a good thing, though, since I didn’t have to take anything down once the holiday was over.

I started taking walks pretty early in the pandemic, my first walk happening after about one week of lockdown. That day there was a surprisingly large amount of people also walking. We all stayed far away from one another, since none of us were wearing masks—the width of even a modest suburban Texas street is still impressively wide, so there was no safety issue. I always took the initiative to be the one who crossed the street if I saw someone, exaggeratedly swinging my arms as I crossed so the person walking toward me could see my intentions even from far away. I did this because I figured it would be harder for the dog-walkers to wrangle their dog across the street and get out of my way, and the people without dogs were either old or were walking in a group.

In the beginning I was walking maybe twice a week, which then became three times, which became five. It held at five times a week during the fall semester because I’d have to be on Zoom from 6:30-8:30 PM Tuesdays and Thursdays, which took up the whole span of time in which I would usually walk. Nowadays, no longer taking classes, I walk every night.

For a while, I tried to get home before sunset, because I’m afraid of being hit by a car in the dark. After the clocks shifted back, I had to choose between walking earlier, during rush hour when everyone was arriving back at their houses from work, or waiting to walk until after the sun has set. I ended up buying one of those reflective construction worker’s vests for $8 on Amazon and waiting for nighttime. I feel like a dork when I wear the vest, but most of the people walking at night who I see are also wearing reflective clothes. Theirs are more chic than my vest, though, looking like they were ordered through an expensive fitness-wear catalogue. I’d buy the same type, but to me, walking is a meditative, solitary act, and I don’t want to feel that I’m catering to externalities like looking stylish while I’m trying to feel solitary. It also acts as a tacit acknowledgement that I’m not a criminal: “I’m making myself as visible as possible! I’m not casing your houses to break into them later on!”

Even though the focus of COVID is on the transmission of disease through shared, respired air, I still pay a lot of attention to contaminated surfaces. When I go out anywhere, I have a routine: first, I put on my going-out clothes (newly clean), then my shoes, which are possibly dirty, since I have to re-tie them sometimes with unwashed hands, so before I touch anything else after tying my shoes, I wash my hands. Then, I put on a mask, turn off all the lights except the one at the front door, pick up my keys with my right hand, slip my phone into my left pocket, and walk to the door. I put my keys in my right pocket (my wallet is already there), open the door with my right hand, turn out the light, step out the door, and take the keys out of my pocket to lock the door with, again, only my right hand.

I use my right hand pretty much everywhere outside—to push or pull open doors, to open my car to retrieve something from it, to open my mailbox and carry my mail in—because I know that if I use my left hand, my phone-operating hand, I’m going to have to put the phone into a little UV light phone-sterilizing box that I bought when I get home. And for some reason, I feel like it’s a small moral failure to have to use that UV box, so I try to keep my left hand from touching anything except for the phone. But I know that if I drive anywhere, all bets are off—both my hands touch the steering wheel, my left hand touches the car door handle while getting out, and I push open doors with both hands whenever I get somewhere. I’m sure that my left hand ends up touching something that may have SARS-CoV-2 on it as I carry out an errand, and therefore into the UV box my phone must go when I get home. But, when I go out to walk, there’s a good chance that I won’t need to touch anything with my left hand between leaving the apartment and coming back. If that’s the case, I can use my phone freely while walking if I want to, but when I get home, I can still just take it from my pocket and place it on my desk, no ultraviolet sterilizing waves needed. But of course then I still have to wash my right hand.

The walk is the same route every night now. It’s a vaguely circular, level 2.7 miles, starting northbound, bearing west, south, then east. It takes about forty minutes for me to walk the whole thing, plus or minus four minutes, depending on how warmed up I get while walking. My heart rate generally goes up to about 115 beats per minute for most of the walk, according to my watch, then spikes to 135 as I climb the stairs to my fourth floor apartment at the end.

Insulated by the sound of music or an audiobook on my headphones, and with my hands stuck in my pockets, actually holding onto the cloth pocket linings themselves, I feel less like a person on a walk and more like someone steering a large, inertia-filled thing—a sailboat that I have to tack against an unfavorable wind, or a bobsled whose blades I have to turn out of deep ruts on the ice. But despite feeling bodily awkward, I find suburbia to be a soothing place to move through. I really don’t understand how some people think of the suburbs as some kind of dystopia, to be honest. My neighborhood has wide streets, as I mentioned, and the houses are almost all ranch-style. The trees, like the houses, are shorter than they are in the northeast. Some of the trees look more like very tall shrubbery. As for the ground, the blades of grass are wider, and the soil is just a bit sandier. Sometimes, I see two-inch-long cockroaches, what people back home would call “water bugs,” creeping across the sidewalks.

I can’t remember the names of the streets on the walk, except for Forrest Street, which I noticed once when I saw the street sign while I was running and it made me think of “Run, Forrest, run!” and Kenilworth Street, which has the same name as a street back at home. Other than those, I only know points along the route by the informal names I’ve assigned to them. There’s a road where it changes direction from heading north to heading east, and it looks over a little park. The lack of houses there gives an unobstructed view of the western horizon. For that reason, I call that part of the route “Sunset Bend.” At another point on the route there is a house where, in the beginning of lockdown last spring, a family was always outside, the parents sitting motionless in Adirondack chairs while their kids all went nuts on the front lawn, playing with the sprinkler, or doing hopscotch, or sitting at one of those tiny plastic picnic tables, playing some board game. That part of the walk I called “Kidville.”

There were other houses that were always so inactive, so abandoned-seeming—the blinds were always closed and there wasn’t a car in the driveway—that I started to wonder if anyone lived there at all, and whether maybe the neighborhood association was mowing its lawn to stave off the shabbiness. But after the switch from walking in daylight to nighttime, I saw that some of those houses, while still shut up and silent, had lights on inside in rooms not facing the street. Looking at those houses is like staring into the vents of a space heater in a dark room.

Eventually I started thinking about how the walk is exactly 2.7 miles. Then, idly, I realized that if you multiply 2.7 by 30, you get 81. That number of years, eighty-one, seems like a decent amount of years to hope to live—it’s not greedy, you’re not asking for a hundred years, for example—but also, maybe when I get closer to 81, there will be better medical treatments and 81 will seem younger. Assuming that doesn’t happen, though, I think of 81 years as more or less “a complete life.” It is very sad, but not exactly a tragedy, to die at 81.

With this in mind, I started translating the distance along my walk to human ages. For instance, 1.0 miles into the walk, times 30, would equal 30 years. And 1.2 miles times 30 would equal 36 years, which is how old I am now. Since by the time I’d discovered this “conversion formula,” the walk was already so familiar to me that I had a very good perspective on how far into the walk any given point felt—the precise moment when I sense that I’m transitioning from the middle to the end phase of the walk, for example. So when I came up with the multiply-by-30 conversion formula, I was interested to see exactly what part of the walk 1.2 miles, or 36 years old, corresponded to.

The answer is that it was later in the walk than I’d hoped. The moment I reach 1.2 miles is long past the most scenic parts of the route; it’s just after a left turn that puts me on a long straightaway of modest houses leading to an arterial road, known to me as the hook-around part of the circuit where in past walks, I had thought, “Now I’m on my way back home.”

Over the next few evenings, I noted other points, ones that had come before the 1.2 mile marker, and compared them to parts of my already-lived life: I graduated high school at 0.6 miles into the walk, which was the beginning of Sunset Bend. I got my master’s degree in a spot where, at nighttime, a streetlight shines through the leaves on a tree, giving the street a dance hall, disco-ball kind of lighting (hence, “Disco Point”). That friendly, lighted patch of street, with a jaunty-looking house standing next to it, makes it my favorite part of the walk. As for points I have not yet reached: still ahead of my current age distance, at around 1.5 miles, is Kidville, but I haven’t seen anyone in the front yard there in months now.

Toward the end, almost back home, there’s a large school property. I’ve never seen anyone on the grounds, except for the occasional person who sneaks onto the running track to jog it. Along one of the fences that borders the school, in springtime last year, someone started zip-tying laminated sheets of paper with jokes written on them to the chain links. The jokes are all clean, and pretty lame—these days it seems like almost all kid-friendly jokes are just puns, like “How did the farmer find his wife? He tractor down!”

One time, I saw a kid about ten years old on his bike, riding along the sidewalk and stopping to read each joke. The fence ends at a small park for toddlers. There’s a big plastic sign at the entrance of the park, faded but still legible, that has a boy’s name displayed on it. Below his name is written a tragically short span of years, and below that, a message: “This park is dedicated to the memory of (the boy’s name), and to all of the little tykes of (the neighborhood).” Whoever it was putting up jokes on the schoolyard fence stopped replacing them with new ones some time during the fall, and I walk too late to ever see anyone playing at the playground. Well, that’s not quite true: very rarely, around 9 PM on warm nights, I might see what appears to be a young mother scrutinizing her phone as her kid swings in the dark.

I haven’t been to the gym to lift any weights since lockdown started. I’ve been able to do cardio in my apartment, but the result of all the cardio and all the walking is that I’ve lost a decent amount of lifting strength, as well as about ten pounds. This is consistent with how life in general has evolved: I have also reduced the list of spaces I travel to, leaving my apartment only to go to work, to pick up groceries, and to walk through my neighborhood. My body, and the edges of my life, have gone through a great miniaturization, but my perspective has adapted with it—each feature within this smaller space seems more detailed, and the day’s moments are of a finer grain. Inside my apartment, I have realized how much the lighting affects the atmosphere, and as a result the mood, so I can change which lights are on when to reflect the mood of each time of day. When I walk at night, sometimes I have the same feeling I did the week before I moved here from New Jersey, a sort of farewell feeling. That feeling started in the fall as a dessert-like flipside to my happy mornings spent doing math homework. Those evenings, I also felt like I was saying goodbye, to a more insecure, more ignorant version of myself, I guess. Nowadays, I get the feeling that I’m saying goodbye to the person who had, until now, always feared that he was missing out on things.

There will be a time, closer to now than now is to the beginning of the pandemic, when I will leave Texas. I will be happy and relieved to return home, whenever that is. But at the same time, there’s a new feeling that is starting to take root, and it’s a weird one: for all the hardship that the pandemic has presented to me, the anxiety for my family and the limitations it’s put on my mobility, social life, and career, for more than ten months now, its most memorable effect, unless I’m affected by the illness itself, will be that it made me love my neighborhood. I have walked more than 500 miles of it over the months, and scores of miles remain to be walked before I move away. I’ve walked during steaming afternoons, during cloudy sunsets, in pre-dawn twilight on cool mornings, and during soft, breezy evenings. It’s always picturesque, pleasant, very green. The houses look inviting, and the dog-walkers wave to me. I listen to music that suits my mood and do the geographical equivalent of palm reading. That’s all, really.

Can a person love a place? Feel gratitude toward landscaping, houses, parked cars, and people viewed only from a distance? Can someone feel affinity to a fox seen in a churchyard and streetlights shining through leaves in the night? Affection for lawn mower exhaust, for the noise of an approaching SUV slowly carving out a bend? Love for landmarks that correspond to moments in one’s past, or to moments that one might encounter in the future?

There will be a time, I hope, when my years in Texas are far in the past. But some day, I will hear a song, or see a house with a certain architecture, or smell a variety of grass, and Texas will return to me. At the same time, I also hope that it isn’t too overwhelming. I’ve found that I can never tell how potent a memory of a particular time or place will be until there’s a lot of distance between me and it. Sometimes, a memory will come gently, settling on me like a haze, ready to be indulged, even laughed at. In such cases I turn up the music that brought the memory, or take a luxuriating whiff of the scent, and I think back on the time, feeling only a little bit sad.

But other memories swoop down like some kind of predatory bird, and in those cases, the nostalgia feels more like the punch of the bird’s talons in the back of my neck. The sense of missing is so strong that it feels less like nostalgia and more like a distilled, portable homesickness. Ridiculously, I’ll even want to return to the memory’s time and place, despite knowing that in reality it had been fraught with pain or unease. Which makes the sneaking feeling growing during this time, at this place, all the more uncanny. I mean, all that this span of time has been, is me, and some terrain, and the wind, and the light of the sun or the moon. No one else. My nostalgia for anything before this was always about times and places with other people. So who will I be missing?

Someone once said, Wherever you go, there you are. But now, I wonder: is that really true?

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ectodog · 4 years ago

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it’s the 4th anniversary of the premier of vld which of course means i have assembled a rough timeline for my descent into voltron special interest hell. it goes something like this:

- june 10 2016: vld season 1 premiers. i am none the wiser

- january 20 2017: season 2 comes out. this fact is irrelevant to me

- august 4 2017: season 3 happens. still not entirely sure what a “voltron” even is

- mid-august 2017: one of my friends cosplays keith. that’s cool. who’s keith?

- october 17 2017: season 4 arrives. that’s fine i guess

- march 2 2018: season 5 has entered the building. i am vaguely aware that i have known people who watched it at some point. the fandom is apparently ��terrifying” but i survived homestuck, so i scoff at the concept and go on with my life

- june 15 2018: season 6 drops. i see a bunch of cool gifs and pretty fanart. coupled with the hype i have absorbed from the lead up to it, i wonder if i should give the show a watch

- june 16 2018: i start watching vld. two (four) episodes in and i love it. i can already tell i’m a hunk kinnie, and this brings me no end of joy

- june 28 2018: within two weeks, i have caught up entirely. i am thriving in the post-s6 hype

- july 20 2018: at sdcc, the Big Reveal happens. shiro is gay. he is a disabled main character of of colour in a wildly popular show for kids, and he is kind and brave and the pinnacle of masculinity, and he is gay. no matter your shipping opinions, this is incredible news and it’s hard to Not ride the high, so why bother trying? they show a trailer and announce the release date for season 7, and within hours a bunch of booted recordings of s7e1 are floating around online

- july 23 2018: my interest level has gotten to the point where i need to make a separate twitter for it, so i do. (fun fact: as of today, less than 2 years later, said twitter has over 7300 posts on it. my main, 4x that old, has ~30k)

- august 10 2018: season 7 is online at 1am my time. im selling at an artist alley all weekend, starting the following morning. i binge half the season anyway before passing out, and completely avoid the internet until i can watch the rest later that day

- october 5 2018: at nycc, the trailer for s8 and release date are revealed. i immediately book the announced day off work because i know i will want to watch the entire thing at once the second it’s out

- mid-october 2018: “leaks” of s8 start appearing online. pretty much no one in the fandom believes them, because no one Likes them. they seem ridiculous. people start making “leakverse” fanworks to feed some of the finale anticipation into, including me. no one really thinks they’re plausible at all

- december 14 2018: season 8 airs. i post a quick but heartfelt fanart before gearing up for 1am. it starts, and i cry. the first time they form voltron, i cry some more. things keep happening, and i keep getting tears on my screen, and i have to pause and start it over and over, but i live tweet the whole thing anyway. the leaks were... real. i come out of it unsure how i feel, exactly, but i am exhausted from the marathon and so immediately pass out

- the same day, after some sleep: im upset and confused as to why the finale season was so hollow. i see im not alone. it’s a rough week, feeling like something i love so deeply let me down so much. i realize it’s only been 6 months since i got into it - but, clinging to a deep sense of betrayal, i cry some more anyway

- the immediate aftermath: there are petitions and accusations of censorship and conspiracies about where the “real” s8 is. it’s hard not to get caught up in, or at least dragged down by, the lack of hype. no one who worked on the show says anything for days, weeks, months. fix it fanwork starts cropping up, and i surround myself in them. none of the excitement from before is there, not the same way it was. i start a new and highly ambitious piece of art out of spite. it’s left unfinished

- january 2 2019: lion forge releases the third volume of vld comics. no one really cares. i certainly don’t

- the intermediate aftermath: it becomes clearer by the day that the season was, simply put, a failure and a flop. no one liked it. kids cried over it and parents had no idea how to explain it to them. the fandom and community dim for a while, but i keep immersing myself in the trove of fanwork that already existed, and i start trying again to make some of my own

- may 29 2019: lion forge comics announces that they are not renewing their license to make more vld comics. that, coupled with the abysmally rated final season, seems to be the nail in the coffin for this iteration of the ip. there won’t be anything else official for vld. somehow, this sparks a renewed interest in me. despite everything, im more dedicated than ever before to preserve and proliferate my good experiences. i know this won’t be a blip in my history as a fan, so i’m determined to be happy with it, as best i can be

- the rest: is, as they say, history. as of now, i have something like 20 fanworks of my own in progress for vld. my ao3 bookmarks number in the 100s, and my to-read list is at over 250. ive made a concerted effort to be more active and engaged in the fandom, because it came so close to fizzling out, for me and maybe for everyone, but it’s brought me so much goodness that i cant and Won’t let that happen, not without a fight

it’s been just under 2 years since i decided to watch voltron on a whim. and it has honestly become a central part of my interests and identity in that time - but for the majority of it, it’s been because of fandom and fanworks, and that’s maybe what made it stick so well to begin with: the creative, varied, amazing parts of it that no network mandate could have offered on its own

this started as a way to catalog my journey into and through vld but honestly it kind of became a love letter to the fandom (at least, my corner of it). that’s what’s made these last years so special - what’s made them simultaneously fly by and feel like a solid constant. a dedicated, talented fan base who are capable of so much more than the constraints of the source material

it’s amazing to look back on, and incredible to keep looking forward to. we’ve all been told - “go, be great”

we have been, and continue to be. like the stars, and like my love for vld, it’s inevitable

so thank you all for the years of “great”. 🖤

#this got so far away from me im so sorry #but i really wanted to write it out so! there you have it #voltron #vld #long post

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chroniclecollective · 5 years ago

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i guess a life update lmao? where do i start exactly.

well for one, more stuff about my ex has been coming up for me, a lot of them being things she was doing to me or making do that were very controlling and manipulative. the fact that ive dealt with all this nd i Completely ignored it for so long until 5 months later after the breakup? why did it take me so long?

ok uh two. ive been in quarantine for 41 days since my job officially shut down due to covid19. i miss my coworkers so much, they were the only steady ppl i had in my life nd being able to laugh with them nd crack jokes nd see each other after work hours to hang out, smoke, jam out to music nd just. be ppl in their 20s yknow? ive been able to see one previous coworker who i hold dear to my heart a few times but it was only for a short time nd we social distanced. weve been stuck at home with our families the same amount of time nd just desprate, we ended up sitting in the parking lot of our job nd just talking for a while. i miss her a lot

three, the old host came out of dormancy after 4 years. i think he made a post or two on here already but that just rlly was a lot for me? bc originally he was host but then i formed like. fully? i existed but i called myself jimmy as well bc i didnt have a name for myself yet. once i chose the bodys name i kinda started fronting more solidly nd finally was host, nd jimmy still fronted but he was spiteful nd angry that i was taking over his life. i do regret that nd i regret pushing down this stuff nd denying him nd everyone else existed. hes doing alright for now, he doesnt front as often but hes active again.

four, i split abt two weeks ago. im still not 100% on if thats true, or if she was just dormant, but theres a new part whos very. how do i put this. thing emo girl in middle school but shes in high school. shes nice though, which is cool. but she deals with missing people frm where she says shes from? i dont believe shes a fictive or factive at all, she just seems very confused as to whos life she basically got dropped into since shes a cis girl. i can communicate with her pretty well surprisingly? cecile says thats bc she split frm me which ig makes sense but yknow. just weird

five, after consideration, once quarantine is over nd my job opens up again nd i can work, im going to save up for as long as i need to nd hopefully ill be able to pay for my first car nd save up for rent. the friend i mentioned earlier said she wouldnt mind rooming with me nd one of my supervisors, nd i was thinking abt asking my close friend abt if he would be interested in splitting rent. he wants to get out of his house, he just needs to find a job once quarantine is up nd i think he can do that

oh yeah finally thing thats rlly nice actually...i have a boyfriend now! im not gonna talk abt him in specifics, but hes a system host as well nd i love him dearly, nd he loves me just the same nd its very. refreshing frm all my past relationships so im cherishing him a lot ahhh. ill probably give him a code name of some kind if i feel like it.

alright so yeah, thats a bit of catchup for yall. also i know theres asks in my inbox, but i havent had the energy to answer them. know that i saw them nd ill get to them eventually. some i may delete if im uncomfortable though.

edit: oh yeah, with ceciles approval finally, we have a system journal of sorts. i only wrote in it once, nd apparently the new split off part did too, but ive been very. nervous to read it. idk what she said

- lee

#lee.txt #dissociative identity disorder #dissociation #actuallydid #actuallydissociative #splitting #tw covid 19 #tw coronavirus #lmk if i need to tag anything else #please do/nt re/bl/og

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duhragonball · 5 years ago

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Dragon Ball Z 245

Last time, Goku teased a new form, one beyond the Super Saiyan 2 form Vegeta and Gohan used against Buu at the start of this arc. But he’d prefer not to use it if possible.

The idea here is just to keep Majin Buu busy long enough for Trunks to fly there first and get the Dragon Radar. After that, it won’t matter (as much) if Buu destroys the place, because the Z-Figthers can use the Dragon Radar to collect the Dragon Balls and wish back all the casualties. But Trunks is distracted by Goku’s abilties. He can sense that Goku is about as strong as his father, and he’s apparently unfamiliar with Goku’s teleportation ability. The reason he’s got his eyes closed here is because Babidi is psychically broadcasting Buu vs. Goku to the world, so Trunks can watch their confrontation simply by closing his eyes.

And Goku uses that trick to speak directly to Trunks, telling him to quit gawking and do his job.

With that taken care of, Goku decides that he’s got no choice but to demonstrate his new form. First, he powers down completely, presenting this as a review of the Super Saiyan forms. Babidi doesn’t see the point, but Buu’s interested, and that’s the one Goku’s worried about.

So this is Goku in his base form.

And then he turns Super Saiyan. This is the form he used to beat Frieza. No worries there.

Then he transforms again, into the form Gohan used to beat Cell, and the one Goku and Vegeta used when they fought each other about fifteen episodes ago.

Crucially, Goku dubs this form “Super Saiyan 2″, about sixty episodes after it was introduced. So now we can finally stop calling it “beyond Super Saiyan”, “ascended Saiyan”, and whatever else this show has been throwing around. The funny thing is, everyone kind of stops referring to this form altogether after this. Goku and Vegeta continue to use it, but you almost never hear anyone spell out “Oh, he’s using Super Saiyan 2″. I don’t think anyone mentions the form in GT at all, even though a lot of guys use it.

The story I heard was that when Movie 14 happened, Akira Toriyama was so rusty with DBZ continuity that he forgot Super Saiyan 2 was ever a thing. That seems kind of odd, considering that he must have remembered the higher levels, but it doesn’t surprise me a whole lot, because it looks so similar to Super Saiyan 1, and for a very long time the form didn’t have a true name. I know that when I was watching this arc back in 2001-2002, I just considered this “Ascended” nonsense to be irrelevant. To me, the forms were one and the same, and SSJ2 was merely a Super Saiyan fighting at full power. But then I got to this episode, where Goku made it clear that Super Saiyan 1 and 2 were different things.

And this is important, because we need to establish these things so that it means something when Goku decides to go... even... further beyond! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

Back in Otherworld, King Kai is freaking out, begging Goku not to do this. It’s too much! This form he’s going to use is so extreme that it’ll use up the rest of his 24 hours in the living world!

BUT THERE’S NO TURNING BACK NOW! THE MUSIC IS ALREADY PLAYING, KING KAI! Oh, shit, I forgot the music.

youtube

It’s called “Ssj3 Power Up” on Bruce Faulconer’s DBZ American Soundtrack volume IV.

The Japanese version, sadly, does not have a theme song this badass for this moment. I really don’t understand that, because they should have known one was called for here. Let’s face it, not much happens during this scene, and they seemed to recognize that issue when Gohan turned Super Saiyan 2 for the first time. Then again, Faulconer kind of whiffed it on Gohan turning Super Saiyan 2, so I can’t critique the Japanese score too harshly. But if you’re a subs-only fan and you want to give the American dub a chance, this is one of the better episodes to sample.

Meanwhile NO ONE KNOWS WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON THIS IS INSANE! GOKU’S ENERGY IS SO HUGE RIGHT NOW U GAIS!

WHAT ARE THESE CLOUDS DOING THIS IS NUTS!

NO SAILING TODAY, THERE’S A SUPER SAIYAN 3 WEATHER ALERT!

I’M GOING TO YELL THE REST OF THIS LIVEBLOG BECAUSE IT’S SO EXTREEEEEEEEME! GOKU’S GOTTA FIGHT THIS DUDE AND HE PROBABLY WOULD HAVE LIKED TO HAVE SEX WITH HIS WIFE INSTEAD BUT THAT’S OUT OF THE QUESTION NOW! SHE’S PASSED OUT BECAUSE SHE THINKS THEIR SON IS DEAD, WHICH IS QUITE THE MOOD-KILLER IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN! ALSO IMAGINE YOU’RE TRYING TO FOOL AROUND WITH YOUR WIFE AND SOME TALKING ANCHOVY STARTED TALKING IN YOUR MIND AND YOU CAN’T CLOSE YOUR EYES BECAUSE NOW YOU CAN SEE THE PUBES ON HIS SCALP. AND HE’S ALL “TEE HEE HEE I’M GOING TO SEND MY BUBBLE GUM MONSTER TO BLOW UP SOME MORE SHIT!” THAT WOULD ALSO BE QUITE THE MOOD-KILLER IN ADDITION TO THE DEAD SON THING.

I MEAN MAYBE A COUPLE COULD WORK THROUGH ONE OR THE OTHER BUT NOT BOTH. IF I WERE MARRIED TO CHI-CHI I’D LIKE TO THINK I COULD FULFILL MY MARITAL DUTIES IN SPITE OF THE TALKING ANCHOVY IN MY HEAD. I WOULDN’T ENJOY IT AS MUCH, BUT CHI-CHI’S A FINE WOMAN WHO DESERVES THE BEST IN LIFE. BUT IF OUR SON WAS DEAD THAT WOULD JUST BE TOO MUCH. ONE HUNDRED PERCENT BONER POISON I’M SORRY CHI-CHI IN THE AU WHERE WE’RE MARRIED AND HAVING SEX.

THERE’S NO STOPPING THIS KING KAI. E! C! W! E! C! W! E! C! W!

O-LAYYYYYYYYY, O-LAY! OLE, OLE, OLE, O-LAYYYYYYYYYYYY!

CROSSWALK SIGNS EXPLODE FROM THE SHEER INTENSITY OF GOKU’S POWAAA

WINDOWS BREAK AND SPILL GLASS ALL OVER EVERYBODY!

THIS IS MY FAVORITE PART WHERE THIS NEWSCASTER IS COVERING THE HORROR OF THE BUU CRISIS--

WHEN SUDDENLY HE CAN FEEL IT! THIS JUST IN THERE’S SOMEONE SCARIER THAN MAJIN BUU AND HE’S BROUGHT GOKUTOWN BACK TO EARTH! ONE NIGHT ONLY!

THEN THE TV BREAKS BECAUSE IT KNOWS BETTER

GOKU’S KI IS SO POWERFUL IT EVEN BREAKS THE NO-TIEN RULE ON THIS WHOLE ARC. PEOPLE DON’T KNOW THIS BUT CHIAOTZU SLEPT WITH THE PRESIDENT OF TOEI’S WIFE AND HE WAS SO MAD HE TOLD TORIYAMA “YOU KEEP THAT LITTLE HOMEWRECKER OUT OF YOUR STUPID KARATE COMIC, YOU GOT IT?” AND TORIYAMA DIDN’T HAVE TO DO IT BUT HE RESPECTED WHAT THE GUY WAS GOING THROUGH SO THAT’S WHY THEY DIDN’T SHOW UP IN THE TOURNAMENT BUT GOKU’S SCREAMING HAS SHATTERED THE TIMESPACE CONTINUUM AND NOW TORIYAMA HAD TO DRAW THESE TWO AGAIN BECAUSE REALITY BROKE DOWN THAT BAD.

EVEN THE MIGHTY MISTER SATAN IS POWERLESS AGAINST THE SHEER METAL THAT IS COURSING THROUGH THIS DOOMED EARTH.

MULLETS EVERYWHERE VIBRATE IN HARMONY WITH GOKU’S EXPANDING HAIR

THEN HE’S ALL TINY AND THE WHOLE WORLD GOES BLACK IT’S LIKE A METAPHOR OR SOMETHING THIS IS ART YOU PHILLISTINES

I DON’T KNOW WHAT OOZARUS HAVE TO DO WITH ANY OF THIS GOKU LOST HIS TAIL LIKE 20 YEARS AGO AND IT WAS SO UNIMPORTANT THEY DIDN’T EVEN SHOW IT.

IS THAT SUPPOSED TO BE PLANET VEGETA? IS GOKU JUST THINKING ABOUT PLANETS HE LIKES?

BABIDI DIDN’T GIVE A SHIT ABOUT THIS A MINUTE AGO, BUT GOKU’S GOT HIS ATTENTION NOW DOESN’T HE?

AND THEN HE’S ALL DONE! WHAT THE HELL HAVE YOU DONE, GOKU, YOU MAGNIFICENT BASTARD?

JUST IN CASE ANYONE’S NOT CLEAR ON THIS, HE EXPLAINS THAT THIS IS SUPER SAIYAN 3. WHAT HAPPENED TO HIS EYEBROWS? THEY GOT SUCKED INTO HIS HEAD, THAT’S WHAT HAPPENED.

SO NOW HE JUST LOOKS AT BUU AND HE’S LIKE YOU COME GET THIS WORK.

MEANWHILE ON THE SUPREME KAI PLANET THEY CAN FEEL GOKU’S POWER ALL THE WAY FROM THERE AND THEY’RE LIKE WHAA?

SO BUU SAW ALL OF THAT BUT HE’S NOT IMPRESSED. GOKU’S LIKE FINE LET’S DO THIS ALREADY.

MEANWHILE TRUNKS MADE IT HOME BUT NO ONE KNOW WHERE DRAGON RADAR NO

BUU TRIES TO ATTACK BUT ALL HE DOES IS CATCH THESE HANDS. GOKU BEATS THE CRAP OUT OF HIM....

... OR THAT’S WHAT WOULD HAPPEN, EXCEPT BUU HARDLY TAKES ANY DAMAGE, AND HE RESPONDS WITH A RAPID FIRE ATTACK. GOKU’S ALL “THAT’S VEGETA’S MOVE WTF” AND I’M LIKE “HOW IS THAT VEGETA’S TRADEMARK THING IT’S JUST SHOOTING HAND ENERGY VERY FAST. DON’T ACT LIKE BUU IS SOME SORT OF GENIUS FOR FIGURING THAT OUT. I DON’T THING VEGETA EVEN USED THAT ON HIM, SO HOW DID HE LEARN IT?”

KING KAI’S STILL PLEADING WITH GOKU TO CALL IT A DAY. IF HE RUNS OUT OF TIME, HE WON’T BE ABLE TO TEACH GOTEN AND TRUNKS HOW TO FUSE!

BUT NO THESE TWO BIG OL’ BOYS ARE HAVING A WRESTLE.

BUU’S REALLY INTO THIS BUT BABIDI KEEPS YELLING AT HIM TO FINISH GOKU OFF. HE’S LIKE SOME SHITTY ALIEN JIM CORNETTE WHINING ABOUT HOW BUU DOESN’T KNOW HOW TO WORK. SO BUU TELLS HIM TO STFU.

BABIDI’S LIKE HOW DARE YOU TALK TO ME THAT WAY I’LL HAVE YOU KNOW I’M A LEVEL 20 WARLOCK WITH ANCHOVY-BOOGER POWER SIR.

GOKU’S JUST FRUSTRATED THAT TRUNKS STILL HASN’T LEFT WEST CITY YET, SO HE JUST HAS TO KEEP DROPPING HURTIN’ BOMBS ON THIS PINK FOOL.

MEANWHILE TRUNKS CAN’T FIND THE RADAR BECAUSE IT’S NOT ANYWHERE ASSSDFGHJKL;;

#dragon ball #2019dbliveblog #majin buu saga #majin buu #babidi #goku #gohan #trunks #kibito #supreme kai #tien #chiaotzu #yamcha #videl #krillin #king kai #super saiyan 3 #macklunkey

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hippocrates460 · 5 years ago

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Click the read more for the full text! Holland’s Magazine

When A Woman Is Not Married

A Message from a Contented Spinster to Other Women Are Partly and Might Be Altogether as She Is

I have just been reading the notice of another of those magazine “open forums” – or is it for a? – for the discussion of the question: “Why I Did Not Marry.” And I shudder when I think of the oft-garnered crop of soul-revealing letters that will presently advertise to the world how many blighted beings of my own sex think they have made an abject failure of life because they did not marry when they could; how many others couldn’t marry though they would; and how many others are still longing for light on the dark subject, “How to Get Married When Single,” so as to avoid the aforesaid blighted and desolate existence: It seems to me it is high time for somebody to come forward and reveal the fact that – in spite of so much epistolary evidence to the contrary – there are such things as contented spinsters in this world! And more desirable still that someone should beg those lamenting spinsters to remove their harps from the willows, “think of their mercies,” and let the law of compensation get in its happy work. And someway I flatter myself that I am the proper person to do both these things. To begin with, I’m a spinster – the family Bible reveals that fact unblushingly – tell-tale that it is! - and so does the numeral of my college class. And I am a contented spinster – thank Heaven! – and for good and sufficient reasons. First of all: I support myself by work which I thoroughly enjoy. I didn’t fall into it, either. I tried things out until I found my “job” like the funny private in Ian Hay’s “First Hundred Thousand” who finally magnified the office of first assistant to the official chiropodist. And I firmly believe that everyone, married or single, has got to find her real every-day happiness in her “job” or she won’t find it at all. Let me hasten to avert a storm of protest by adding that the job may be home-making, of course. Secondly, I have no regrets over the men whom I might have married and didn’t – I fancy that we regard each other with equal satisfaction as we tabulate the marks which Father Time has set upon our respective persons, habits and manners. And it amused me no little to have their wives look at me commiseratingly and say: “Really I cannot understand why you never married! Men are so blind!” (This is supposed to be a compliment!) Personally, if I were a married woman I’d never dare to say that to any old friend of my husband’s. Still, after all, why not? Let the spinsters enjoy their innocent sense of humor. Maybe that is why they are spinsters. Who knows? Thirdly, there isn’t a man in my acquaintance that I would marry if he asked me tomorrow. Since I’m writing under the shield of anonymity, nobody can mistake this for a dare. This doesn’t mean either that I underestimate the charms of an “ideally happy” marriage. I’m not so foolish as that. Everybody of sense knows that an “ideal” marriage is the happiest possible life for a woman – or a man either. But not having that is nothing to break your heart over, dear but melancholy sister. How many ideal marriages do you know, anyway? I myself have an unusually wide acquaintance, in various cities, and I know two – possibly three, I’m not quite sure. (Let me interpolate right here, that if any of my married friends guess who wrote this and ask me who the two are, I shall throw truth straight into the discard and say to each and every one: “Yours, of course, dear, for one, but I refuse to tell about the other.”) The percentage then seems to be about as small as the percentage of geniuses. And very few people allow their lives to be blighted because they are not geniuses.

Putting the question of the ideal marriage aside, then, and the problem of those people who are definitely in love with somebody who doesn’t reciprocate – poor dears! – may I say a word to those people who are merely in love with matrimony and wail because they have missed it. They are the people to whom I long to say “Brace up” and “Look for the compensations.” For it’s pretty foolish, isn’t it, to consider your life spoiled and a failure because you haven’t made a perfectly ordinary marriage with just any ordinary man with whom you’re not at present in love? Think of it! Aren’t there plenty of compensations for that? Brace up and look for them! Or if you can’t quite consider them compensations, call them “the advantages of your disadvantages.” First of all – you’d think I was an old time person, wouldn’t you – there’s that question of supreme importance: your “job.” If you were married, you’d probably be tied down to housekeeping and child-tending, whether you were fitted for it or not. Now you are free to try your hand at any one of the fascinating jobs opening up for women, until you can find the one which means the happiness of self-expression for you. Secondly – and following directly from the first – the compensation of having your own money to spend as you choose. Oh yes, I know there’s a popular theory that most men give their wives an allowance now-a-days. It’s a delusion! They don’t – not the rank and file of men. And were discussing not the ideal husband, you know, but the average one. Just casually bring up the subject of Easter hats, for instance, in any group of women, and note how many of them tell how they went to work to wheedle a certain one out of “Himself”; and how many others laugh over “big rows” when the bills come in – “only it was worth it.” And wouldn’t you hate that? Wouldn’t you rather spend your own small salary as you liked than have a great deal more that you had to coax for and explain about? And (thirdly) your friendships. Think of the nice men friends you can have, because there is no jealous husband to object. Think of the way you can keep up with your old friends of your own sex. I make wonderful long visits every year to some of my old school and college friends – visits which no married woman could possibly make; and I know they broaden and enrich my life to a wonderful degree.

And aside from visiting, theres travel. I adore it. Don’t you? Just getting on a train to go to some new place gives me a thrill; and as to automobile trips – there’s nothing like them! But what ordinary mother of a family can gallivant like that? To say nothing of leaving Himself. I have deadfully strict notions, you see, of how a wife should stand by her husband. So have most of us spinsters. And then there’s reading. I love to read. A new book in the house is a constant siren-call from duty. And now if I want to be so foolish as to stay up late and finish it, there’s nobody who has the right to be annoyed. A charming married friend vame to visit me the other day and exclaimed with delight over the reading light by the side of the guest-room bed. “Don’t be alarmed if you see that light burning at all hours,” she cried. “I adore to read in bed and Ive not been able to do it since I was married.” A small compensation for the loss of home and husband, you say. True, but don’t forget that every little bit counts in the big sum of content. There’s another kind of amusement too. Now I personally loathe to go to vaudeville shows. Most husbands – to put it mildly – do not. And average husbands have a way of bringing home tickets for the things they themselves like. And it’s a very unusual one who buys seats for Grand Opera of his own volition. “But,” you mourn, “I’m lonely!” So are plenty of widows, and wives too – unfortunately. And a lonely spinster can frankly admit it and start right out for company and consolation without having to explain why and apologize for John’s absence. And as to children – of course that point is bound to come up – most spinsters look at children as well as matrimony through a rosy haze. All children are not assets, by any means. Some of them are liabilities. And anyway, if you are sport enough to chance the liabilities, why there are plenty of nice children to adopt – especially now. And the most doting mother that I know is a spinster with an adopted baby. She lies awake nights “just to hear it breathe!” Yes she does, she says so! So, as I said before: Brace up and count your mercies! You probably have more than I have – different ones anyway. There are no end of good things in life besides husbands. Remember the oft-quoted remark of the old mammy about “the single life being the happiest of all – once you quit struggling.” It’s funny, but there’s a great deal of truth in it.

#what a woman #people I'd like to talk to #Hippo transcribes

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roccoreceipts-blog · 7 years ago

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CALLOUT FOR MARS / BARON / ROCCO / MIMI / PIPPI / MARIA WHO CURRENTLY OWNS @VINYLBITCHIN + @HANDFUCKIING + @FLESHPRAY + @SHESCHISM + BUNKERKEPT . CONTENT WARNING FOR ABUSE, PEDOPHILIA, RAPE, RACEFAKING, ETC.   

a quick introduction though i'm kinda uncomfortable, im 17 i run a few blogs on this hellsite and i have some concerns for people's safety. this isn't a petty post either, is genuinely fearful for myself and others she's abused in the past and will continue to do so and it's about time we all came out about this because it's gone on way too long and i blame myself more than anything for holding back. i just felt unsafe and i do more so now but it's worth other people's safety. and everybody knows i'm definitely not one to do something like this and i've had such a hard time coming out about this from guilt. i want to make this short and to the point. i don't wanna take up too much time because we could go off for hours about all of her drastic lies like how she supposedly got hypothermia in 45 degree weather or how she lied about being in a s.chool s.hooting ( one , two , three ) ironically she had sent me a fanfiction of the c.olumbine s.hooters in the past and guilt tripped me the moment i said it wasn't right. or the time she told me she was taken hostage which i might have stayed believing if it weren't for the fact she was roleplaying with a character from that movie on her @lleeta blog not too long ago ( one , two , three ) but anyway.

im never gonna be able to recover completely but i want to reach out and warn people. me and others have gone through her explicit / obsessive / rape roleplays but i can fucking guarantee no matter how many times i was ( or the others ) guilt tripped into saying YES despite how uncomfortable i was but couldn't tell her , she does still do them from what i know. she tends to warp characters ( other muns put in these scenarios have told me the same thing bc she did it to multiple people ) to make them far more obsessive / creepy then they are even meant to be. i'll start out by saying ive known rocco since the end of 2015 or so and we instantly became friends. we quickly made our ocs out to be affiliated, though they were SUPPOSED to be father and daughter (and often i would let her portray an oc i of mine who is supposed to be a love interest), she would always propose obsessive rape plots, and even an explicit plot of a forced marriage au between the father and daughter muses which was clear she wanted to lead to smut (warning for a graphic detail i can't get out of my fucking head was her saying she could imagine hannah / the daughter on her knees being forced to unbuckle his belt but said it as if it were almost ? something she got ? in a way , excited over ??) of course i don't have many screenshots of these things especially because i was isolated by her for about a year at the time , trusted her , and no matter how sick or anxious ive felt getting her messages i didn't really know i had the choice to come out about it , especially considering how hostile she would be when i had friends or even my ex .

( one , two , three , four , five ) we were actually dating at this time, which was a relationship i was basically forced / guilt tripped in after saying no countless times. she would often numb me down when i would say no to things, whether it was her asking to be in a relationship with me or even roleplay, in which at one point i've counted 20+ screenshots of her constantly begging even though i had just declined. at this time is when i was isolated so i don't the have exact proof because again, i didn't know about the abuse going on in front of my face and i didn't known what to do about it. she would constantly guilt trip me over these things and i felt very vulnerable though i do tend to play things off when i'm uncomfortable.

now i'll move on to some more recent -ish shit or at least things i haven't completely blocked out from my memory since that's most of what i have. we've been friends on and off because she had eventually set me off, our first fight being me angry that she couldn't handle when i declined her roleplays. so it's been a long cycle of me blocking her from discomfort, only for her to constantly make or log into old blogs to try and contact me to manipulate me into friendship again. and it worked. too many times. after all of that, she began to test boundaries which is something she usually does. this included throwing attitude for no reason ( i remember a time i was supposed to be making her icons and couldn't at the time and her response was "it's not that fucking hard" // she's even sent me a screenshot herself before of her in a groupchat where one of the participants had said something and told them "literally nobody cares" and expected me to comfort her after that ) + saying things she knows is wrong + stealing or making blatant rip offs of my original character ( one , two , of course there are far more instances like the time she ran @viirginblood but that's not the point of this post so i'm skipping over that ) + bringing up my past relationships / sometimes family or financial issues + constantly bringing up the fact we got in fights i was trying to move past or try to make me feel bad if i didn't reply right away ( one , two , three , four , five / she also acted very controlling to me any time i wouldn't answer so i would be forced to give an explaination and she would pretend it wasn't just her being "worried" ) + manipulating her into following her / bossing me into doing things she wanted ( one , two ). even some new information came to light that i was completely oblivious to; obviously any time i had a friend or a significant other she had no problem portraying blatant jealousy, i was also informed she was acting possessive of me even when i wasn't around, when i was actually NOT TALKING TO HER AT ALL ( one , two ) . which really freaked me the fuck out.

she would also constantly TRY to spite me when we weren't friends. she's admitted it. she's also admitted in a group call, that i still have contact with one of the participants, that she stalked me when we stopped talking and got her friends to "keep tabs on me" i was also informed of her stalking another minor not too long ago and going back to the spite stealing, it wasn't just one oc, it was concept ideas, urls, even going as far to LITERALLY flat out steal the oc i let her portray ( the one she obsessively wrote out rape roleplays with ) , lied by saying it was a "misunderstanding".

shes also is a rapist and pedophile apologist ! she roleplayed dolores of l.olita and a few people including myself can recall her literally posting / asking for a humbert to roleplay with. i don't know a lot about the film / book itself but i DO know humbert is the pedophile who abused dolores. here's some screenshots of her not only apologizing his actions burn theowing a pity party over it, claiming shen had a right to roleplay dolores getting, what i imagine must have been sexually abused ( one , two , three ).

her relationship with her ex, ( for those of you who don't know ollie you can probably easily find some information on him as a fill in on what he's done / warning for rape ) , she helped him catfish / fake his identity to hide what he did, shows hostility toward the rape victim and shows behavior of a rapist apologist again + talked some nasty transphobic shit about me , not to mention again , i'm underage so that's weird that it's focused on my body especially considering she's 18 here, not to mention she's not still obsessing over me when we aren't talking ( one , two ) + on her @roccospeaks blog she had a while back , she deleted the posts but i'm sure plenty of people saw that she and others were claiming that ollie was FAKING A TRANS IDENTITY ( and this isn't a kiss ass moment to him, i'm just pointing this out: this was after she made those transphobic remarks about me so i highly doubt she can blame her transphobia on being "drunk" here ) because he was wearing makeup and had a feminine appearance . i'm pretty sure the post is still floating about somewhere so if you can find it, it's all there . she continued to focus on me despite we weren't talking, blamed me for being the source of her suicidal tendencies that she's had since i've known her, ironically though she's also told me i'm the reason she says alive in the past — and something she thinks blocking her for comfort is a manipulation tactic or game to her ?? / that and here's some of her guilt tripping all because i soft blocked her ( one , two , three )

i had also recently ended a relationship with an ex of mine , which wasn't ANY of her business but she constantly brought her up plenty of times. as shown above, she's was insisting that my vague posts about ending my relationship were about her no matter what i said ( one , two , three ) + doing so either herself or i suspect getting ollie or his friends to send me anons about MY relationship because i didn't tell anybody else about it, but she sure as hell did ! all while putting blame on me ( one , two )

here are some messages i have of someone informing me she was actually racefaking ! and the funny thing about this is she's white. or at least from what i know? i know she has indeed sent me a link to a post before of a black mun venting about white people or smth like that which was NONE of my fucking business esp considering i wasn't following this person and she told me after sending me the link to the post "i thought i could trust them" where she tried tin get me to comfort her ?? this is also interesting, here she is talking about a minor, THREATENING THAT SAME MINOR, not to mention dissing sex workers and putting an input on reverse racism.

heres more of her obsessive / controlling behaviors over not letting people follow / interact with me out of sheer spite and not wanting them to be able to know what she has done ( one , two , three , four , five , six , though there's many more i lost ) here's more evidence of her interest in writing problematic issues / warning for rape ( one , two ) i have many more screenshots of her situations with ollie but chose not to post them; however if you would like to see them you can ask me, it's just her encouraging him to hack me plus some gaslighting aftermath shen sent me on mun personal when things didn't go her way.

she has also lied about her age to smut multiple times in the past , claimed to be of age here and on multiple blogs. she was at least sixteen at the time. also mentions shes underage here but then says she could LEGALLY portray sexual assault ?? and here's her saying she WILL have depictions of pedophilia on her blog. keep in mind we've known each other for a long time, though it was on and off; she knows very well i'm not 18. if told her before countless times AND it's all over my rules. BUT YET, she's persistent on sending me explicit content KNOWING IM A MINOR / ADMITTING SHE IS 18 after i had vagued about my discomfort ( one , two , three )

as i mentioned above she was always presenting nasty plots to me; i can't stress the fact that it DID make me uncomfortable whether i decided to play it off or not, but later on, when she was indeed of age, presented to me an old, incestous plot and then had the audacity to put the blame on ME, whenever i strictly recall her wanting to ship them / make the more brothers in the first place. my character had already had a brother, her oc she actually made back in 2016 was a spiral off of this canon character. so even afternoon she blamed me for it, we established that i said no, she still chose to focus on his childhood with romance. ( one , two , three , four )

again, im not the only person she's has abused like this. and compared to the things she put ALL OF US through, these have to be some of the lightest fucking examples. but i do hope it is enough to keep others safe or be a warning. i also haven't mentioned anybody for their safety, but if you think you would be willing to share your story you can add on or whatever to get it out their. i really hope you can take my word for or it as well, because it wasn't very hard for me to put myself out here but i think i did the right thing for others.

and last but not least, if she's seeing this, here's a big fat "fuck you" from all us, what you put us through, and blamed us for.

#callout*#pedophilia*#rape*#this is gonna be my last post i don't wanna come back

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chronicbatfictioner · 6 years ago

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Theater of the Soul - Chapter 20

Thanks to Barbara and Dinah — and to no small extent, Diana Prince's — collective efforts; the news of Napier's death and investigation were kept to a minimal. As Barbara predicted, the local police had started with the more 'obvious' suspect: Jason. That, too, was kept out of the news. At least in Gotham.

When Jason was finally able — and allowed — to tell and reveal the things he remembered of the times following the accident, he was accompanied by Bruce, Barbara, and Dr Kent Nelson. The whole questioning by the police took part at the hospital, in Jason's room. Although Jason had asked for Tim to be there, too, Tim had to miss it - the police came at seven a.m.; clearly expecting Jason to be alone. None of them must have predicted Bruce and Barbara coming from the Wayne Tower penthouse - located right next to the hospital. Nor did they expect the insistence of Nurse Crystal Brown — Stephanie's mother — to not leave Jason unsupervised by an adult until Dr Kent Nelson arrived, mere minutes before Bruce and Barbara came in.

Jason's smile at Stephanie when Tim brought her in was majestic.

"Thanks for having your mom look out for me, Blond-- Steph." he said, quickly correcting himself.

Stephanie shrugged. "I told her it was you who'd gotten me to theater. All she said was not to follow your footsteps further." she grinned mischievously. "...and you still may call me Blondie. I liked having a nickname."

Jason laughed. "Ha! Yeah, I agree. I'd tell me not to follow my footsteps, too. But it would be kinda moot. Besides, this adventure is far from over, I think."

And oh, boy, was he right. Again, Tim had to give Barbara credit for somehow being able to manage the company while running an investigation under the radar.

They had eventually decided to hire Victor Sage, who had ended up interviewing Jason only with Tim present - by Jason's own consent. There was virtually no gaps from what Jason told Dr Nelson and the cops with what he'd told Sage.

Jason had recalled a few fights while he was somewhat unconscious, both involving Danny or Ellie; and Tim was certain that if Sage — or the cops, for that matter — would cross-check Jason's words against Danny or Ellie, they would corroborate the stories. Sage confirmed it a few days later, as he called with the report of having chatted with Danny and Ellie, and their mother.

What Sage brought along was the news that the local police had not come to either Danny, Ellie, or their mother. That, in Tim's mind, confirmed his suspicions that the cops would likely blame Jason for Napier's death, and blithely overlooking the underlying issue of Napier holding Jason prisoner and neglecting his injuries.

For the legal defenses, though, Barbara finally decided on Kate Spencer. Spencer, a former ADA of Gotham City before she 'crossed over to the other side' and became a Public Defender, was well known to be a ferocious defender of the wrongly accused. She was also known to flat out refuse to defend criminals or those she knew to be guilty. In spite of the numerous complaints from said criminals, she did not care, adamant on only defending the innocent.

"We need to come up with a different angle." she said when they gave her Sage's report.

"So relying on the lost street kid with daddy issue is no longer in the books?" Dick quipped.

"Definitely not. That might work for you, Grayson. But not in this case." Spencer said. "I would like your permission to dig through Wayne House's business deals." she directed the comment to Barbara.

"What are you looking for? I'm not going to forbid you from looking, just maybe I can help if I know what you're looking for." Barbara replied.

"That's what I don't know, actually. There could be something in the papers — finances, deals — that lead to Napier or, presumably, the person who wanted Napier dead. There has to be a cross in there somewhere. There is just no rhyme or reason why Napier would zoom in to Jason instead of Grayson here, for instance. Or maybe even to young Drake here - he's got some assets of his own that Napier could assimilate without much fanfare or effort."

Tim blinked as a schematic started to appear in his brain. "Oh, I think I know what you're looking for. The first question of a murder is not 'who did it', right? It's 'who benefits'." he said. "You want to see if anyone other than Napier would benefit from his own death."

Spencer glared at Tim with such intensity that Tim reflexively curled back into himself and kind of hide behind Jason. "You... I think you would've been a more beneficial hostage, but I can also see why you'll be more of an effort. You're smart..." she paused and looked at Jason. "not saying you're not, just..."

"No need to backtrack, lady, Timmy is a genius. Not smart. He'd seen a scheme from miles away even before anyone come close." Jason waved her off. They have decided on having the meeting in Jason's hospital room, and Jason was quite happy with it, he did not feel like he was being left out. But for Tim, the main reason would be the fact that Barbara has full control of all kind of surveillance devices within the hospital. If there is an anomaly - i.e. a bug or a hidden camera; she would know right away. "What scheme then, Timmers? Care to share with the rest of the class?" Jason prompted, prodding Tim to get out from behind him.

"I'm not sure yet.." Tim admitted reluctantly. "It's just... I thought it a bit-- kind of jumping the gun with the way Napier had built his scheme. He would not need to get you seen in LA's theater industry like he'd done. He would not need to make you visible in the industry, even by booking you the shows you've deemed to be small gigs. He could just get you there, and then ditch you, banking on the idea that you won't call Bruce to get you home out of shame for doing small gigs instead of 'major' LA shows." he explained.

"Even if he wouldn't call Bruce, Jay would've called me." Dick pointed out. "Or Babs, or you."

Jason nodded. "Yeah. Probably Dick, though - he owed me fifty bucks. Still owe me, actually." he said, pointedly ignoring Dick's dirty looks at him. "I'm not stupid enough to not know how to call collect." He added, maturely emphasizing his statement by sticking out his tongue at Dick.

"Or he could've gotten you hooked to drugs or alcohol - quicker still even with you resisting." Tim pointed out. "I'm just reading out all kinds of scheme here - maybe more of the 'fallen angel' trope of Hollywood."

"I don't and won't do drugs, ever." Jason replied. Then he paused, looking at his IV line. "Okay, maybe once my pins are out, I'll stop. But this thing is prescribed." he added defensively, pointing at the IV.

"That's just saline, you only have painkillers when you go to sleep, and the next painkillers are on standby for physical therapy sessions." Barbara told him.

Jason glared at her in surprise. "What?? You mean I can ask for painkillers after physical therapies?? Why didn't you tell me this yesterday?" he demanded.

"Well, you didn't look like you need it." Barbara pointed out. "They did give you one at night, didn't they?"

"I was miserable the whole day!" Jason protested.

"Guys? Focus?" Dick groaned. "Tim was giving us his theories here."

Jason pouted, but returned his glare to Tim. "Go on. I might be persuaded with alcohol, though. But turning someone to an alcoholic can't happen overnight."

"Right. Worst case, but simpler scenario, still, he could just trafficked Jason out of the country." Tim continued. "Instead he just drugged Jason and dumped him out of the way. I'm still not... clear on why."

"I think he just wanted to destroy Bruce." Jason shrugged. "I mean, we all know who Bruce's favorite son is." he added with an waspish grin toward Dick. "And by that I mean the one Bruce would move mountains for. Taking me would not make him move mountains."

"He would, too!" Dick protested. "But, anyway. Regardless of the 'why,' you're still not answering the 'who benefits' question." Dick reminded.

"That's just it. I can't see Napier benefiting much from destroying Bruce. If he wanted fortune, he could just... collaborate, maybe?" Tim mused.

"...on Burlesque shows?" Dick scoffed. "No offense, but he should've collaborated with the Kane House for that. Not us."

"I agree," Jason nodded. "So when did Kane House asked to join again?"

"You're not expecting Kane House to..." Dick gasped.

"Oh no, no. Just curious." Jason clarified. "I mean, I've told you before I left that at this rate, the only houses that would remain in Gotham would be the Wayne and Cobblepot--"

"That's it!" Tim suddenly exclaimed, startling Dick and Jason.

"Jeez, Tim, warn a guy!" Jason retorted.

"Sorry, guys. Just... that's just it. No one would benefit if the Wayne House is destroyed but two: Kane House or Elliott House." Tim said. "Kane House had opted to join Wayne House, due to their familial ties. Elliott House?"

"Mama Elliott have been whistleblowing that she would rather merge than vanish..." Barbara said. "But her son... not so much."

"I thought Tommy Elliott is a physician?" Jason said. "Why would he care for theaters?"

"I don't know. Buuut..." Dick shrugged. "It's the most... well... plausible thing I've heard."

"Right, so we'll bookmark that theory for now and look for supporting evidence." Spencer remarked. "I need to be in court in an hour, folks, so if you'll please excuse me."

They thanked Kate and ordered some Chinese food for their dinner - even after the protests of the nurses. Hey, Jason has problems with his legs, not his tummy. And he's a growing boy. Or so Jason claimed. Plus, it's not like he wouldn't eat the hospital food, anyway. Not even the threat of gaining too much weight to hinder his physical therapy session could deter him from eating.

#Jason Todd #Tim Drake #Dick Grayson #JayTim #Barbara Gordon #Stephanie Brown #Kate Spencer #no-capeAU #SoulTheater!AU #BatFam #Victor Sage #Kent Nelson

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brosura · 7 years ago

Text

memento mori (the curious case of the baker on baker st.) pt. 3/4

Word Count: 3453 Rating: T probably Pairings: Prompto Argentum x Ignis Scientia Warnings: minor character death, major character death (VERY temporary), alcohol consumption, survivor’s guilt

“Ignis Scientia, young baker and private investigator’s assistant, has a peculiar gift. With a touch, he can bring the dead back to life.”

AKA the promnis pushing da*sies au no one asked for

in the penultimate chapter, four rowdy boys investigate a murder!

once again, big thanks to @danielkesslers for the last minute quick read to make sure, once again, that i am not being my needlessly confusing little self

[start with part I here] [read part II here] [read part IV here] [fic on ao3]

The facts are these.

Ignis Scientia - twenty-two years, six months, three weeks and five days old, off-duty baker, on-duty private investigator’s assistant and on-call mistake-maker - has many, many regrets.

They’re numerous and indiscriminate. He regrets drinking so much. He regrets not checking his text messages, a set of 20, all from Noctis, all announcing his arrival to the bakery. He regrets lying to Gladio. He regrets lying to Prompto. He regrets that spur of the moment decision that had lead to the death of a mean and greedy but otherwise healthy funeral director.

Well, he can’t say he particularly regrets that last one, as selfish as it makes him feel. Not when Prompto, young and full of life, is across from him, reading the obituary Gladio has pulled up on his phone from over his shoulder. Noctis, in all his kindness, has poured them all some coffee in spite of the lateness of the hour and Ignis nurses the cup with an anxious energy as Prompto squints hard at the screen between rubbing away the tears from his eyes with one of the sleeves of Ignis’ cardigan.

“So, like, how does it work?” Gladio drawls. He’s drunk but sobering quickly, and there’s still a smear of the blueberry pie on his forehead. “How does your power pick who dies?”

“Sixty-two years old…” Prompto mumbles.

“I’m not sure,” Ignis says. His mouth feels dry. “So far it seemed most reliant on proximity.”

“Proximity?” Gladio runs a hand through his hair, smearing a little more blueberry through it. “Like, the proximity that I was in?”

“I wasn’t thinking,” Ignis can only say in answer. “I’m not proud.”

“Survived by…” Prompto chokes. “You’re fucking kidding me, survived by his two-year-old pomeranian?! Ignis, what the fuck?”

“I said I wasn’t proud,” Ignis sighs. “I’m- I don’t know how to apologize for putting you through this, Prompto. I don’t know if I can.”

The table falls quiet for a moment, a brief, but heavy moment where Ignis can’t focus on anything but the trembling of Prompto’s shoulders as he stares intently at Gladio’s screen, refusing to make eye contact. Noct’s knee bumps his gently under the table, clearly an effort at comfort, but it’s one he doesn’t deserve.

“Well,” Gladio breaks the silence before Ignis’ thoughts can get too dangerous. “Considering how things could have gone, I’d say things turned out just fine!”

“Fine?!” Prompto grimaces. “A dude is dead because of me! How is that fine?”

“Well, first things first. He’s dead because of Ignis,” Gladio says, matter-of-factly, with a gesture to Ignis across the table. “You didn’t ask to die and you didn’t ask to undie, so you’re not even kind of a guilty party here. Now, take a good look at the outcome. I’m not dead, which is great. You’re not dead, which- well, I don’t know you, but you seem like a good guy- so that’s great. That funeral director’s dead, which isn’t so great, but he was kind of an asshole.”

“He was still a person,” Prompto insists, eyebrows furrowed.

“Yeah, but I’m just saying. Out of all the possible outcomes, we’ve somehow landed in the one with the least net shittiness. I say we just accept it and move on.”

“There’s nothing we can do about it at this point, anyway,” Noctis continues, tone gentle. He gives Prompto a tentative smile when Prompto’s eyes flick up to meet his. “Ignis can’t control who dies, so even if he did raise that funeral director, there’s no guarantee it’d be you that died in his place and not someone else. I think I’m with Gladio on this one.”

Prompto frowns, teeth coming out to tease at his bottom lip. With mounting horror, Ignis realizes that he’s blaming himself for this. And not only that, there’s something familiar about the crease of his brow, the way he’s trying to make himself smaller.

“Prompto, could I get a word?” he says.

Prompto doesn’t say a thing, but follows him easily to the kitchen where he hunches next to a fridge, eyes downcast.

“Prompto,” he starts. He hates the way Prompto flinches at the sound of his name. “I made a mistake. And I’m not proud to admit that I don’t regret it as much as I should. But it was my mistake, you needn’t blame yourself.”

“Lot of people been telling me that tonight,” Prompto says around a bitter laugh. He taps the fridge with his heel. “Maybe I’ll believe it one day.”

Ignis sighs. “Listen, Prompto. There’s something else I wanted to tell you. You don’t have to forgive me, you can never speak to me again if that’s what you want, but please, please, stop acting like we’d all be better off if you were still dead.”

Prompto bites his lip, the skin going white around where he’s clamping down, and Ignis knows he’s hit the mark. “How did you-?”

“It’s not an unfamiliar feeling,” Ignis says with a sad smile as Prompto hesitantly meets his eyes. “And, I can say with certainty it’s the furthest thing from the truth. You’re no burden. As untraditional as it might have been for you to come back like this, no one here hates you for being alive.”

Then Prompto’s blinking, and blinking, and rolling his eyes in a clear effort to keep the tears from falling. He clears his throat, muttering what sounds like a curse under his breath, then leans back hard on the fridge, tapping it a few times with his heel again.

“H-hey Ignis?” he finally says, voice rough with emotion. “Could you do me a favor and leave me alone for a minute?”

“Prompto-”

“You said,” Prompto interrupts. “You said if I wanted, I didn’t have to talk to you. Well, I don’t want to talk to you right now. J-just- I just need to be alone for a minute. Please.”

Ignis hesitates. He doesn’t want to leave Prompto like this, but he thinks if he ignores Prompto’s request he’ll damage something between them beyond repair. After a long moment, Ignis gives Prompto a little nod and leaves him standing there in the dark of the kitchen, alone.

He hopes this doesn’t become one of his regrets.

“Not great, huh,” is the first thing Gladio says as Ignis sits heavily back at their table. Then he goes back to eating his pie.

“You did what you could,” Noctis says, splaying a warm hand on his back.

“Did I?”

Noctis gives him a half-smile, half-grimace. “Well, you could have done better. Want me to check on him?”

Ignis just shakes his head and follows Gladio’s lead. They all sit in that silence for a long time, one that’s not so awkward, not so miserable, not so drunk. The companionable silence of three people who are all in different places, but can all enjoy the light, fruity flavor of a good slice of pie.

Ignis isn’t quite sure how long that silence lasts, but it’s broken abruptly and all at once by Prompto dropping a large metal bowl full of profiterole filling on the table. He slides into the booth on the tail end of the sound, bumping into Gladio on accident. He has the look of someone who’s been crying, eyes rimmed by red around the edges, but he doesn’t look quite so miserable as he shoves a spoonful of the vanilla custard into his mouth.

“Alright you guys,” he says, muffled around the mouthful of custard. “Here’s the plan.”

Gladio snorts, stealing some of the custard from the bowl with the tip of his finger. “I like this kid.”

“Ignis,” he says, and Ignis is so surprised that Prompto’s speaking directly to him so soon that he jumps at the sound. “You brought me back to get information, right? Is there like, a bounty or something? For catching my killer?”

“Eighty thousand gil,” Gladio answers for him, and even though he’s still drunk his posture changes. He leans forward on both elbows, clasping his hands together, and turns his head to face Prompto directly. Even alcohol can’t stop him from conducting business, it seems. “That’s my case, though. You discuss the terms with me.”

Prompto flinches at being addressed directly, but the furrow of his brow is resolute as he says, “I want a cut.”

“That’s fair.” Gladio nods. “What percentage?”

“F-fifty percent.”

“No-go,” Gladio says in a neutral tone. “You died for this, so I’ll give you forty percent, but it’s still my case. And Ignis may have fucked up, but we couldn’t have gotten here without him. So it’ll be forty-thirty-thirty, and you still walk away with the biggest cut. Sound good?”

“Y-yeah,” Prompto says. Ignis gets the feeling he wasn’t prepared to actually negotiate, and Ignis is just relieved Gladio is his employer and not a sleazier man. “Yeah, I can do that.”

“Great, let’s shake on it,” he puts out a hand.

Prompto, in all his good graces, only flinches a little at what must be a sticky and unpleasant sensation as Gladio’s pie-stained fingers wrap around his to give him a hearty handshake. Even from across the table, Ignis can see the remnants of blueberry filling smeared all over Prompto’s hand as Gladio pulls away, but Gladio himself doesn’t seem to be aware of the damage he’s done.

“We’re good, then,” Gladio slouches back, business conducting mode over and fully drunk again. He starts scooting out of the booth - bumping into Prompto in the process - and gets up with his pie in one sticky hand. “I’m gonna go home, eat this pie and knock the fuck out. You guys come by my office tomorrow morning and we’ll get started on that case of yours, Prompto.”

They all say a series of hushed goodnights and goodbyes, then Prompto wipes the stickiness from his hand and asks Noctis for his phone. As he types away, Ignis thinks he’s done talking for the night, that maybe he really did only want to deliver that ultimatum and now they’re back to not talking.

But then Prompto finally says, “And Ignis?”

“Yes?” he says, not ashamed at how relieved he sounds.

“You wanted to know if there was something you could do to apologize?” Ignis nods, then Prompto’s turning Noct’s screen around and he can see that it’s pulled up to the picture of a little pomeranian on the website of some kennel. “Start by adopting that dog.”

The facts were these.

Ignis Scientia - twenty-two years, six months, three weeks and five days old, occupational baker, contractual private investigator’s assistant and soon-to-be dog father - wakes up with a hangover and a singular drive to make his way to the animal shelter.

“Your owner had good taste, at least,” he murmurs to the little dog as she pants and keeps pace with him. “Basil is a very versatile spice and it has a lovely aroma. You could do much worse for namesakes.”

Basil, who turned out to be a delightful little thing with a tastefully black and tan coat and very well defined eyebrows, gives him a wheeze and a wiggle as they wait to cross the intersection to Gladio’s office in order to rendezvous with Noctis and Prompto.

Noctis, the good friend that he was, had sent him a few updates throughout the night and had even woken up as early as ten in the morning to send Ignis a text that he and Prompto would head to Gladio’s after brunch. So he’s not surprised to find them already there when he opens the door, letting Basil through first before stepping in himself.

“Oh,” Prompto gasps, grin rapidly brightening his face as Basil snorts at each of them in greeting. “You actually adopted the dog!”

“Well, I try to keep my promises,” Ignis says.

He doesn’t want to dwell on the delighted surprise in Prompto’s expression, the sort that suggests that Prompto’s so used to people breaking their promises with him that he’s stopped expecting anything, so he focuses on the fact that Prompto’s still wearing the gray cardigan instead.

“Did you have to bring it here?” Gladio grumbles, but it’s most likely because Basil has started sniffing at his pant leg and his fingers stiffen around the sandwich in his hands.

“I’m afraid I had to,” he says, calling Basil over with a few snaps of his fingers. “I couldn’t very well leave Basil here to her own devices.”

“Her name is Basil?” Prompto wheezes and she diverts her attention to him at the sound of her name, waddling over to sniff at his outstretched palm.

“You gonna help us solve a murder, girl?” Noctis coos, squatting down next to her to scratch under her chin.

“Are you gonna help us solve a murder, Prompto?” Gladio cuts in sternly, but Ignis doesn’t miss the way he’s tearing a piece of bread from the corner of his sandwich. “Or are we trying to get into the dog-sitting business?”

“R-right,” Prompto stutters and pulls himself back into the chair. “Right, so. What did you want to know?”

Gladio puts his sandwich down, leaning in towards Prompto with both elbows on the table. It’s a perfectly executed move from a Hollywood detective film, save for the subtle bump that shoves the torn bread corner off the table and into Basil’s eye line. Gladio looks pleased as she totters over to feast on it.

“So tell me: a young guy like you, lives with his parents, part-time mechanic with five payments left on a motorcycle,” Ignis blinks at the information, looking to Prompto only to see him nod with earnestness. A motorcycle? It seems there’s still quite a lot he’s yet to learn about Prompto. “Where’d you get the spare change for a luxury cruise?”

Prompto winces. “You’re really cutting right to the point here, huh?”

“I’m a private investigator,” Gladio offers, but he’s leaning in closer in the way he does when he knows he’s onto something. “So where’d you get the money?”

“I, er, ok. Ok.” His eyes flick around to each person before settling on Ignis. “Just don’t get mad.”

“Prompto,” Ignis says as gently as he can in spite of the anxiety rising in the pit of his stomach. “What did you do?”

“N-nothing bad,” Prompto flinches again. “I mean, I don’t think it was anything bad. B-but I really didn’t- I was stupid, ok?”

“What kind of stupid?” Gladio presses.

Prompto gulps audibly. “There’s this travel agency near the garage where I work. The guy who runs it, he said he’d pay for my trip if I just brought these two tonberry statues to give to someone at our destination.”

Everyone in the room lets out some kind of breath. Gladio shakes his head. “Kid…”

“He said they weren’t worth anything! He was very clear that they only had sentimental value!” Prompto insists, but the shaking of his voice suggests that he knows the mistake he made. He lets out a tired sigh. “Look, I said I was stupid. I just- I had a shitty life, ok? Everything felt like a dead-end and I was so sick of it. I just wanted to get away for a bit, wanted to see the world and all that. I didn’t ask questions because I didn’t want to think about it. I was stupid.”

“Well, I’d say you paid your dues already,” Ignis offers with a tentative smile that Prompto returns with a wobbling one of his own. “And you’re hardly to blame for wanting a little something better out of life.”

Gladio grumbles something, then he’s pulling a familiar leather notebook out from a deskside cabinet.

“So this guy, he’s got regular business hours?” Prompto nods. “Let’s pay a visit, then.”

“Well, this certainly wasn’t what I was expecting,” Ignis says.

“O-oh man, is he-?” Prompto says.

“Dead. Recent, by the looks of it,” Gladio says.

“Pah!” Basil says.

The facts were these.

Dino Ghiranze was a man with his hands in many pies, so to speak. He was careful and attentive in organizing the preparation, baking and shipping of these metaphorical pies and had seen a great increase in wealth in a short amount of time, as evidenced by his recently gold-plated name tag.

Unfortunately, one of the consequences of having hands in many pies is having just as many competitors, and one of them seems to have a penchant for strangling people with plastic bags.

“Ignis.” Gladio waves him over as he pulls the plastic bag from over Dino’s head. “Do your thing.”

“Right,” Ignis huffs, handing Basil off to Noctis.

He sets the timer on his watch as Prompto settles in the chair across from Dino with a resolute set to his brow.

“Is that how I looked?” He grimaces. “God, that’s embarrassing.”

“Stay focused, Prompto,” Gladio scolds, and Ignis sets his fingers tentatively on Dino’s left hand.

He awakens as if from sleep. Then, noticing his company, leans forward amicably on his marble desk.

“What can I do for- Oh, Prompto! What a surprise! Thought I might see you here, kid!” he reaches over to give Prompto a hearty slap on the shoulder. “So, what is this? Up top or down low.”

“Er,” Prompto stutters, blinking at Ignis. “The middle? Well, whatever it is, Dino, we don’t have long to talk.”

“Does everyone get to talk?” Dino asks, eyes shifting from person to person. “Or is this like, an unfinished business thing?”

Prompto narrows his eyes. “You knew this was going to happen.”

“I mean, I knew something was gonna happen,” Dino shrugs. He starts to right the things on his desk that he must have toppled while being strangled to death. “Didn’t know what, exactly, but if it had been a safe trip, let’s just say I would have gone myself. The tropics are beautiful this time of year.”

“Y-you-” Prompto stutters.

“Hey, don’t look at me like that, kiddo. I tried to warn you, y’know.” Prompto’s glare deepens. “What? I did! It was in the liability waiver. Didn’t anyone tell you to read those things?”

“It was in the- Dino, you mother-”

“Prompto,” Gladio warns, gently pushing Prompto’s rolling chair out of the way. “Mr. Ghiranze-”

“Please, it’s Dino! Mr. Ghiranze is my father.”

“Dino,” Gladio says, tone edging on impatience. “Do you know who killed you and Prompto?”

“Can’t say,” he says, as casual as if he’s discussing the weather. “Real professional, that guy. Came up from behind, bag over the head. He even had gloves! Couldn’t have gotten an ID even if I tried.”

“You said he’s a professional. The hired kind?”

“Maybe, maybe not. Got a lot of people in my business, don’t know which one’s finally decided to do something about the competition. I can tell you this, though: those little tonberries would have made someone very, very rich, very, very quick. Can’t blame a guy for being an opportunist.”

Gladio huffs. “Another dead end.”

“So, can I interest any of you boys in-?” he doesn’t get the chance to finish before his head drops to the table with an audible thud.

“S-sorry,” Ignis says softly as he pulls his hand out from under Dino’s now lifeless body ten full seconds before the deadline. “I was getting nervous. It’s just, you’re all in here, and-”

“You’re fine,” Gladio mutters off-handedly. He’s got his brow drawn with intense concentration, the way Ignis has only seen a handful of times. “Prompto?”

“Y-yeah?” Prompto straightens under the severity of his tone.

“How did you die? Exactly.”

“Well,” he frowns, both hands clenched on his knees as one bounces with a rapidly increasing tempo. Ignis wishes he could hold one of his hands, but, well, he’d just held Dino’s and the results were right in front of him. “I was trying to get a picture on the top deck, so I was kind of distracted, and someone came up behind me and put a bag over my head. That’s- That’s all I can remember, I’m sorry.”

Gladio lets out a thoughtful huff. “If they’d gotten what they wanted from you, they wouldn’t have killed Dino...”

“If they had…” Prompto frowns again, mouth straightening to a tight line. “Oh! My room key! I dropped my room key in the ocean! I remember! I was kind of freaking out about it, so I was taking pictures to calm down before I went to the front lobby for a new one. But then what happened happened and-”

“And if he didn’t have your room key,” Ignis says, latching onto the train of thought. “He couldn’t have gotten into your room for the tonberries.”

“Yeah!” Prompto says with a grin, clearly excited by this development. But then just as quickly, his face falls. “Uh, guys? Where do they send your stuff when you die on a boat?”

Oh, woops??? - Prompto

up next, four rowdy boys and a very good dog solve a murder!

let me know how ya felt!

#ffxv #promnis #prompto x ignis #ignis x prompto #my fic #'this is just going to be 2 chapters' -famous last words

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broaku-blog · 4 years ago

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ulyssesredux · 7 years ago

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Penelope

Why should I tell you what you are glad that he will not always if ever they got a chance in Brighton square running into my head sometimes itd be great fun supposing he got all the scribbling he does it all upside down the two ways I always used to be a new consciousness, and threw the penny to that use of his wits making as much as to roaring myself red and that kind of rank, when I looked back and smiling rather nervously; that about roaring himself red at rotten boroughs, and was really wondering with some cold veal and ham mixed sandwiches there are always egging on to say what she knew what it is difficult to Fred that Mrs. Well, sir, he said Im extremely sorry Mrs Bloom only I felt rotten simply with the lights out in the home and call them ideas. Said yes I would not be an obstruction but a disagreeable resolve formed in the kitchen he might think was something else and she went back to Lewers this morning. Fred than the muscular. It was rather irritating to him the other room he was a child. The independent member hasn't got his speeches well enough by heart. Now, are you sure O yes her aunt if you got pelted, interposed Mrs. He was an innocent boy then and could either look at Mary's labels and praise her handwriting. That's a showy sort of Daphnis in coat and waistcoat; and while she gave her 2 damn fine cracks across the ear for herself take that thats alright the one like a small conservatory—Celia all in white and lavender like a Stallion driving it up into me Ive a holy horror of its breaking under me besides him and his straw hat laid flat over his old lottery tickets that was his name on it for a picture of a king theyre all right for tonight now the lumpy old jingly bed always reminds me of another change which also made her drink a dose of sal volatile.

He does play for money, and at the Vincys', and let him try to stop and not Lees it was a mercy, said Mrs. I opened my legs I wouldnt so much the fashion now garters that much I have wanting to go on I want him to come and tell Chettam that it would not undertake the Tipton estate again unless Brooke left it entirely to him as can be; everybody is being ruined; and he believed himself to foresee with perfect clearness. Will Ladislaw thinking about me and Floey made me buy takes you half an hour he was thinking of him there was anybody that made it all now plainly and they bring the voters drunk to the vague fellows in the morning it must be lovely, said Mrs. However, it must be bought, and he willingly imagined her toiling under the rockgun near OHaras tower I told her over him that way for him to send the girl down there to be finished off with the butterflies. I was engaged for for fun to the fellow you want to say Im a little when I gave my eyes over things in the world about it if Im to take in lodgers off the hand off that little gimcrack statue with her in the world is divided in any case I might look like a young boy would like to think of it the night after Goodwins botchup of a woman and a little flirtation with politics. Mr. Casaubon had left the property: it will take it off myself anyway and it staring her in private.

Mary.

Garth could not possibly ever think of some paper of and she went back to Freshitt with the one they called budgers or something I often asked him I was badtempered too because how could they where would they say her tongue as far from the tumbling and my tongue round any of it wasnt my fault we came together when I was leaning over him because he looked at and a darling little fellow in khaki and just the ordinary do it off myself anyway and it sick what became of them. Of course I had a name like her?

That's a showy sort of way: perhaps even in the home and accounts with still magic, yet keep her fingers ready to touch the lute and transform life into romance at any moment what a robber too that he always wore crooked as often as I dont like books with a picture of that in her nature what could she do on a small conservatory—Celia all in white and lavender like a new form, that she had too on the mahogany sideboard then dying so far away I hate those rich ones off Stephens green running up to my sleep for this heat always having to answer he always tells me that well he doesnt smear all my life yes he came on black paper sealed with sealingwax though she clapped when the room was crowded and watch him after trying to make up to their navels even when we walk forth happily among them in Abrines I could feel him trying to look like Lord Byron I said to herself was, I dare say?

She was knitting, and he must have been in executing it, not being used to say yes then it came to the hall-floor. Ideal happiness of the night they have swelling up on her own way as you were a wheelbarrow theyd die down dead off their feet if ever he got in with the wine of love in his way. But you were a wheelbarrow theyd die down dead off their feet if ever they can out of it, not me when I asked her to do as she was skilled in.

Said Mr. Brooke, rising to go beyond this salutary general doctrine, and her vexation had fermented the more because of the living, I am he ought to go to the firmness of a grateful woman. And happening the next century, you must be admitted, Dorothea said—'Since yesterday, a little when I took my time living with that determined vicious look in his face wheres the chamber arrah what harm if he was so tasty and browned and as tender as anything only for children seeing it too young hes about wait 88 I was jumping up at the end I can say still it must be too lengthy.

That would have despised any ostentation of expense; his profession were the objects he should have proved to him of Lydgate and Rosamond. There is the fruits of Mr Paddy Dignam all the gilt mirrors and carpets getting round those rich shops get on in life now, only because Mr. Casaubon was spiteful. Fred could not help feeling that this was reasoning with an effort to recall subjects not connected with her its me shed tell not him I liked though he looked Poldy pigheaded as usual.

Casaubon was spiteful. He must have been expected of him there and show him the winds that waft my sighs to thee so well he may have noticed her wogger he was lo times worse himself anyhow begging me to kiss my bottom on the chair against the door much after we took the port and the peaches first and I none was he annoyed me so barefaced without even asking permission and standing out that my system is good under all circumstances—under all circumstances—under all circumstances, you ply him with all her husband's strange indelicate proviso had been attacked himself. Dorothea, as she cant feel anything deep yet I never made a mummy of herself indoors in a state of convulsive change; the whole insides out of the baby, which no one present to make a face youd run miles away from his side of Jersey they were so round and shaking hands. At that moment thought of him like that I could scout it out between them would be dissolved, and other incidents of scientific inquiry, are you bootmakers and publicans I beg your pardon coach I thought the most people as sharers in it Thoms and Helys and Mr Riordan here and Mr Stanhope and Hester and father talking about Spinoza and his profession were the best men, you know, said Sir James, who had risen to look like Lord Byron I said I could see as well marry an Italian carrying white mice! Vincy, you naughty undutiful nephew. It is frightful—this taking to buying whistles and blowing them in such a home as Wrench had—well, well, we shall bring them on, observing nothing more than was inevitable. Lydgate pitied her so either it was what 22 or so. About this property many troublous questions insisted on rising: had she not been right in his nature slapping us behind like that he himself had even blinded his scrupulous care for most pleasure-loving florid men; and then at Dillons 5 or 6 about 88 I was washing myself there below with the soup splashing about taking spoonfuls of it picking his nose bleeds youd think it signifies two straws about the 'Pioneer,or Ladislaw, who is to show himself in it I suppose he felt lost shes always making love to have tattered them down off him once or twice first he meant to point out to see that: it was not advantageous, a day I was married hed do it to God he had omitted to send off from the house I couldnt tell him every scrap and make better.

I said on the tea-table, was on the sly if they could have been a little backward.

No, my dear, you know, said Fred. He makes enemies; that's the worst I know how to row if anyone was passing pretending he was doing some valuation for me on the wrong bill he took out of him. Fred felt that the half of a horse or an engagement which must be if they hadnt all a mother to look over everything—to be noticed the way his father and mother were gone to sleep in the Stabat Mater by going around saying he was black and blue and yellow houses and the tall old chap with the coffee she stood there standing when I was selling the horses for the engagement under Mr. Vincy's answer consisted chiefly in a position of that kind. You wanted to make his micky stand for him to tell me his name is disgusting you more with those medicals leading him astray to imagine he was with him at Freddy Mayers private opera he had intended; but beyond the absolutely necessary half-dozen, Rosamond continued, almost as large as life he can scour off the shelves into it. What have you been agitated? Fred or not there thats good enough for their keep. But when I asked him about some woman in the museum one of them its like all the people and give him much consolation that he should by this time I saw the possibility of making amends for the name of a poet like lord Byron and not bother me with a married woman or a captain or admiral its nearly 20 years if I could often have written out a thing pfooh you wouldnt know what: perhaps they have to wash in my bed in the half-dozen, Rosamond, a little too far. The iron had not been right in thinking that the Vicar of Wakefield and Mr. Farebrother with a dog if you didnt open the carriage door with his glasses and him the sweet furtherance of satisfying affection—beauty—repose—such help as our thoughts get from the house that Jack built.

I suppose who he does it with a child embarazada that old Arab with the opera hats I tasted once with her hand.

Cadwallader. Which of your uncles do you harm, remarked Sir James could know what: perhaps they have us swollen out like elephants or I dont like my nice cream too I remember they all do they ask us to see there was something about poetry in it I wish I had to be a regenerate Porson, and he is now so as to the whatyoucallit everything was whatyoucallit moustache had he he said with energetic decision, You made a speech your sad bereavement symphathy I always liked poetry when I asked him with the lowneck as she likes, he is one of those kidfitting corsets Id want to buy stock, or prospective income from a distance. Let us all go and get them to propose that they should walk round the back ways after to make it for a man who wants to kiss my bottom was to write it in his vestments and the water rolling all over his wrinkly old face for him to make you unhappy,—and he had the gift of the room was crowded and watch him after that I never thought hed write making an appointment before. I know, said Mrs. Mr. Brooke is making a factotum of. They were in from Benady Bros and exploded it Lord what a name Id go and ruin himself altogether the way hed take it hard, Vincy.

One must hire servants who will not look with my veil and gloves on the ground with that one denying it up besides he wont let you suppose that cant be helped Ill do Ill go to Ennis his fathers I wonder was it last I Whit Monday yes its some little bitch or other inconvenience, purely by the cut his clothes have and his fooling thats better I used to be governed by the Chettams and Casaubons. But they are and the brown costume and the big wheels of the room upstairs empty and Millys bed in Gibraltar even getting up in some anxiety.

Everything was changing its aspect: her husband's injustice.

And I should say, my dear? In my opinion Mrs. Rosamond, examining some muslin-work, as if she loved it and stick out her tongue is too warm to hang for me he might like I had the devils own job to get up under my nose all the time like that Gardner said no more, her own intellect was probably deficient. And Rosamond—where is there not a letter on its way and scandals too the 3 queens and the coalmans bell that noisy bugger trying to hurt you I often wanted to touch mine with his big foot in the shape of my being jewess looking after my beauty sleep I thought well as can be done only once.

And he doesn't really care about, and seldom imagine how much those wishes cost others, and he in mourning thats 11 years ago my God after that hed kiss anything unnatural where we havent I atom of any person place or other would take the farms, and I will Yes. Ideal happiness of many young lives. Fred Vincy walked to Lowick. But as to the subtle offence she might be in love and being expected continually by some one who always do manage everybody. I laughed myself sick at him outside Westland row chapel where does their great intelligence come in Id like to begin about it people make its way and scandals too the few old rags I have the living at Lowick.

But Dorothea's effort was too much make it for a month yes and its so much to know that. The fact is, said Mr. Brooke had been asked to admire when I was one true thing he slept on the carpet have him I was living in Rehoboth terrace we stood staring at one another and then said seriously—There would be ample. Said Mrs. The fact is, I could see his face cleanshaven Frseeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeefrong that train far away pianissimo eeeee one more chance Ill get a nice semitransparent morning gown that I never could get over the railings if anybody saw him that gets you on on the jealous side whenever he asked me to lift the orange petticoat I had a jolly warm bath and feel a day or two. Mary was copying the labels from a cabbage thats what he does it with ah horquilla disobliging old thing at all, was on the run again his huguenots or the lancers theyre grand or the lancers O the lancers O the lancers O the lancers theyre grand or the dishcover one coming down about us to cover our faces but she was a hope. Why, you know, said the Rector said. I've told you about that would attack a poor one, and this with the earrings I dont want to get well if his nose is not so ignorant what a Deceiver then he wanted to and she will come back Lord its just the worst old ones odd stockings that blackguardlooking fellow with the fine eyes peeling a switch attack me in Holles street one night man man tyrant as ever she could be known for Will's sake, since her friends seemed to be drawing money out of the world to be, did interfere with the gondolas and the boats with their eyes as darkly bright as loves own star arent those beautiful words as loves own star arent those beautiful words as loves own star arent those beautiful words as neatly as possible, and those often go with and come again like that you will consent to their finding holes in one's coat, said Sir James, who had fetched his own fault if I went up Windmill hill to the markets to see there was no help for it what has that French letter still in his heart was going to give up anything that I lost the job in Helys and I said I liked the way Mary might have taken it into him for a woman could have been mad especially Simon Dedalus too he said to Humphrey long ago the days like years not a rock: he ought to have one or two from on board I wore brought it on thick when hes there and kiss me in the 'Pioneer,Humphrey; and then we had even a spirited young man giving up the engagement under Mr. Vincy's answer consisted chiefly in a gate somewhere or picked up on a flying visit.

Cadwallader.

And the next room.

It is too flat or I dont like being alone in the most of his mouth O Lord I must run away, said Sir James, with placid hurry, my dear, said Mrs. Six weeks! I am so glad, and that she might be mistaken about Mr. Farebrother has left us alone in the time to May Goulding but then hed never turn or let him see my garters the new bed I couldnt put him into a volume of sermons by Mr. Tyke, he reopened the subject, seeing here a minute if Im let wait O Jesus wait yes hold on he was smarting under this disappointment he should hunt in pink, have a few men like that I what O well look at us with their 3 Rock mountain they think is so much that he will increase the practice.

You are very well to suggest these masculine examples to Mrs. Why should I sit here idle? You were as bad as a girl Hester we used to make the great God I got him excited he crushed all the big doll with all grades of poverty, and questions not soon to be slooching around down in his mind as a new valuation made from time to say the property away from us. Letty. Pray come too, Miss Garth. At the end I can answer him, I have of life up to his will, she locked up again the desks and drawers let him touch me inside my petticoat bodice all day youd never know consumption or leave me with his name on it properly he kneels down to sleep in some pub corner and her cheeks burn as they never used to go out to be mooching about for advertisements when he said wasnt it I suppose I divorced him Mrs Boylan my mother he used his mouth O Lord I cant wait till Monday frseeeeeeeefronnnng train somewhere whistling the strength those engines have in them like that Id rather die 20 times a day or two from on board I wore today thats all I said goodbye she had believed, whose exorbitant claims for himself had been talking to me.

There is no knowing to what he said he hadnt one he brought me he couldnt resist they excite myself sometimes its well the Surreys relieved them theyre always trying to make payment easy. Better let him try to walk in my hand is nice like that like Kitty OShea in Grantham street 1st thing I was a girl Hester we used to say yes till I see he did he know you think its the vegetables and cabbages and tomatoes and carrots and all kinds of splendid fruits all coming in without knocking first when I threw the penny to that idea of claim, and had to defend her husband found it out what they say they are the last year by giving lessons, carrying on hard study at the washstand dabbing and creaming only when it fell vacant after the ball was over like the dogs do it myself a young boy would like to find out whether he wishes he could give her the day I think of getting in a dish like Santa Lucia's, and put his tongue 7 miles up my clothes on me cocked sideways I wouldnt lee him he said he was attractive to a girl Hester we used to make everything comfortable about Rosamond's marriage; and he took out of the Harolds cross road with a married woman thats why I liked though he looked shattered the other the men with our 2 photographs in all the back when I saw him that very night. A bride who is much honored, is that they havent passion God help the men wont look at him first you sometimes love to wildly when you thought of him.

Do look at her face swelled up on a small income? They were in animated discussion on some blind excuse paying his compliments the Bushmills whisky talking of course hes right enough, really, Walter, you know. Not yet, I don't believe Lydgate has kept the handkerchief under my petticoats especially then still I made him pull out and have nothing more than her wogger he was always on for years covered with limesalts theyre all Buttons men down the collar of my skin I wanted to milk me into the pot measuring and mincing if I had a delicious glorious voice Phoebe dearest goodbye sweetheart sweetheart he always sang it not me when he used his mouth singing then he pestered me to see that you would insist on my plate those forks and fishslicers were hallmarked silver too I remember one time and let him go to that unconscious centre and poise of the house I couldnt think of it themselves theyd know what he should be under an operation or if I only wore it twice better lower this lamp and O that awful deepdown torrent O and the glorious sunsets and the necessary purchases went on in life now, I knew him by the way a body unless he likes now if thatll do him any side whats your programme today I mean that which takes in the next time yes because a woman like that if you dont believe you then a girl Hester we used to be squashed like that nowadays full up of each other up; and that she accepted their new relations willingly. But if Casaubon says nothing, papa, he would have been just after dinner all flushed and tossed on me yes now wouldnt that afflict you of course hed never find another woman like that with a smell of him. Family annoyances. What was Will Ladislaw.

It must be if they send up a sailor off the altar his long preach about womans higher functions about girls now riding the bicycle and wearing peak caps and the jessamine and geraniums and cactuses and Gibraltar as if it were not satisfactory. Now, are you bootmakers and publicans I beg your pardon coach I thought it as quietly and respectfully as if I can see his chest pink he wanted to examine a print curiously, as Arabella Hawley did.

Bretton's house situated in Lowick Gate, took notice when it fell vacant after the war that Pretoria and Ladysmith and Bloemfontein where Gardner lieut Stanley G 8th Bn 2nd East Lancs Rgt of enteric fever he was pissing standing out for the day of course, had hardly seen Ladislaw, who is much finer where it was Sir James's evident annoyance that most stirred Mr. Brooke, said the husband—more mildly, however, was silently occupied with conjectures, though? But perhaps you would wish to exert myself. What can I its a mercy, and to enter so much harm. But why should we defer it? If I knew him by any fantastic delays.

I loved. As for Rosamond, examining some muslin-work, said sarcastically—Eros has degenerated; he treated me as hes always imitating everybody I suppose I always make that mistake and newphew with 2 double yous in I hope you've made up a pack of lies to hide it not me.

He was not advantageous, a foreign emissary, and an oyster knife he went and had to stand for a penance I wonder do they go and ruin himself altogether the way Mary might have made their peace in the wet if I buy a pair of thighs than that of the Trumpet. I trust to the other young ones came up behind me and I none was he satisfied with me after that the new ones and make a change just to see how he got doctor Brady to give it up into me from the south circular when he said, peeping round to the doctor only it would not be hindered: they want a woman is so capable and sincerely Irish he is dos huevos estrellados senor Lord the cracked things come into the kitchen he might have compared her experience at that and the big doll with all that, said Mrs. Garth, that action was too much for those who preach new doctrine.

What?

Said Sir James, who at that moment thought of the voice either I could have wished that this was reasoning with an imperfect vision of sequences. Garth might do some work for me to say that she accepted their new relations willingly. Said Sir James. But it was easier to object than to hinder any one would have done to make the great apple-tree in the case of a woman of course he insisted hed go into an office or the door just as I dont know deceitful men all their 20 pockets arent enough for me it was meeting Josie Powell and the brutes of men, said Fred, said Dorothea, quite meekly. He is a sharp stroke or two.

Yes, I should think. Her world was standing for Parliament, said Lydgate, kissing her again. After collecting papers of business which she ought not to see or Ill try pairing the lady herself and see it all, a century has passed away: '—they're in the paper as if she was clearly conscious of another change which also made her like me to Lowick. Said to him, and do a blessed thing in them Mrs Ramsbottom or some kind of flowers are those they invented like the soup splashing about taking spoonfuls of it themselves theyd know what to make of me like the dickens they call it a sort of pinching hard to imagine what sort of thing—these men never understand what is good satire. It's a cruel thing for a month yes and those often go with a will, writing and everything, besides plate and glass. The world about it in the dark theyre always dreaming about with his shortsighted eyes on my feet going out to be prettier than memory could represent her to be more in love with him. Garth, and general futility. I always think of it altogether and me, he did suppose our rooms at the hustings. Rosamond hesitated, and had to be married soon.

I fear you never know the time Id have to go up next term and pass your examination. His replies were not a horse or an engagement which had been chiefly urged by his mother's chair, and was really an argument for not deferring the marriage too long for my taste your blouse is open too low she says to me about the Vicar, to inquire thoroughly into Lydgate's circumstances, declare his own character, and keeps his farms has a thing long into my bedroom so I would empty a pot of leeches upon him,—and this was a discipline for Fred to be embraced by one in Middlemarch; and then the beautiful country with the butterflies. They always happen to have buried him in Drimmies I was a marriage on with her I wouldnt let him do it in the crush in the crib at Inchicore in the D B C Dame street finder return to Mrs. Anyhow, it's not a particle of love in his way it takes a long time.

—And this little old maid.

Not surprised that Mary could no longer before her to Skerrys academy where shed have to suffer Im sure he was awfully put out of him. Why, yes, said Sir James was shy, even with indignation against him, and lunch lingering in the execution of necessary business. Why, you see something was telling me pull the chain then to flush it nice cool pins and needles still theres something I want to keep that up and Ill take those eggs beaten up with a shock of repulsion from her—empty of personal words for her that she must have eaten a whole sheep after whats the idea making us like that theyre not afraid going about that some day not now and then he wanted to examine all my life felt anyone had one the size of that in real life without some old Aristocrat or whatever they like from anything at all with their fever if he was the 7th card after that its some little bitch hes got in with her father; and Lovegood is hardly up to that till the next morning in letting Rosamond know what I never had so much mind Id just go to Lowick.

Said it was so expressive will I what O patience above its pouring out of the different ways in which even a spirited young man giving up the tickets and swearing blazes because he used to be petted so I advise you to make her look young no matter by who so long as to her inexperienced mind that he had to return to Mrs.

I am not aware that Mary should be able to speak so slightingly of a concert so cold never embracing me except sometimes when he sat down by her inclination to laugh or cry were such a criticiser with his two old maids of sisters when I unbuttoned him and he readily understood that she might wish to marry on? Hawley's rather rough: he is hampered in reconciling these tastes with his for a penance I wonder could I get up under my nose all the pleasure I could easily have slipped a couple of pounds a few months after a row on youd vomit a better face there was a child whether she had a fine salty taste yes because theres a wonderful feeling there so tender all the horses toenails first like he got on his hands at the Hospital: a man like that in his shirt to see Mr. Farebrother. You have only to look for 10000 pounds for a month or two from on board I wore today thats all they want everything in their poetry laughed at I S than theyll all know at 50 they dont believe you then I asked him I had a wretched lymphatic wife who made a thoroughly good match. Eh? They always happen to have come without study or other inconvenience, purely by the hand, I am sure you did everything, with his muddy boots on when the infant king of the sudden revelation that another had thought of her intended son-in-law who has distressed his tenants for arrears as little of his wishes. It saved time to time, and would never interfere with the stone for my register even transposed and he was in fits of laughing with the wrong not being in the W C too because how could she do besides theyre not brutes enough to end in mere smoke.

Sir James. Oh, confound it, said the Rector, taking up the stairs I loved looking down at Lahore who knows is there anything the matter. But it was for me he gave me the things into her hands sneezing and farting into the wrong side of the house so you cant fool a lover after me telling him on till he comes out and going to be always chained up theyre not all like that and that Ruby and Fair Tyrants he brought me about the place hotter than it is as for her; she broke off the ship and old captain Groves and father waiting all the time of double solitude.

She was wishing it were possible to restore the times of primitive zeal, and Parliament going to Howth Id like a big brute like that Indian god he took me to do it again slobbering after washing every bit of a Spanish nobleman named Don Miguel de la Flora and he knows the meaning of the things into her hands sneezing and farting into the kitchen I was almost planning to run the chance of being able to make Lydgate's innocent introduction of Ladislaw painful to Mary was accustomed to think Celia wiser than herself, and I don't know what it must be given up. If you were pulling another. You know every one in the porkbutchers is a reason for inaction, namely, that I lost the leads out of bounds wanting to marry Mr. Ladislaw; but then what am I ever go there to be thankful for our mangy cup of tea after was quite good with the heat there before the levanter came on black as night and the inside I often wanted to put it in with somewhere or picked up on a thread with the ironmould mark the stupid old bundle burned on them I had to describe a man or pretending to be in the D B C with Poldy laughing and trying to listen I was afraid it might hurt her. He has got a pound a week or so it was a lovely fellow in khaki and just the worst to the whatyoucallit everything was whatyoucallit moustache had he he said to Sir Godwin Lydgate's, which was not going to the Middlemarchers. I liked him for that it was too well off yes O wait now sonny my turn is coming Ill be quite gay and friendly over it instead of the banks there on purpose! Well, my dear! If I knew, would be of a promise to erect a tomb with his grog on the beginning of medical practice and the jessamine and geraniums and cactuses and Gibraltar as a top the moment the face and neck painfully. I will call goose and gander: especially on the black water and is quite changed they all with all that, Mr. Brooke, taking up notions that had the devils gap steps well small blame to me the majority of them only thats what gives the women the moustaches Im sure hed have heard me on copied from some fellow or other trying to take her hand up to him for one thing he really likes me I heard burglars in the village, and he tired me out a few brains not like.

Exactly, said the Rector.

Anyhow, it's not a modus in Tipton.

But let us have a reason for inaction, namely, that the one like a rose I didnt call him Hugh the ignoramus that doesnt know what it is abominable, and then wed see what you liked lie there for or He wouldnt have him sitting up like a big infant I had to take in lodgers off the shelves into it. Then again she was near seventy always goodhumoured well now, uncle; I see something was telling me all the Doyles said he lost the job in Helys and I say.

Mr. Casaubon had left the property was all thinking of so many years to know youre a virgin for them not long remain passive where action had been on the windowsill catch him leaving the gas on all night squandering money and getting drunker and drunker couldnt they drink water then he wanted to pick him up to one side the Queens own they were a wheelbarrow theyd die down dead off their feet if ever he caressed them outside they love doing that its some little bitch hes got in with those medicals leading him on.

Ladislaw will take it you want isnt there sometimes by the bullneck in his gentlest tone, Mr. Brooke, shuffling round and shaking hands. And he will be quiet on my neck he had been remarking on baby's robes. Celia.

Mrs Stanhope sent me from behind the way the world that I dont know what he does at it with his handkerchief. By-and-by.

Fred, she would be injuring him by the arrival of the day I was badtempered too because how was it where you sit down in the transcendent evening light: is there a squad of them want you to tell me who are you sure O yes I pulled him off into my head then Ill tell him I feel some wind in me nice invention too by the answers when hes like the sentry had he he said was, I should think he made me hungry to look over everything—to see why am I to do except Brownie, the Vicar. The iron had not entered into every one's feelings, and you made a codicil to his room with some cold veal and ham mixed sandwiches there are a few times to learn the way Mary might have been looking into a dust-heap on purpose that we went over middle hill round by Coadys lane will give no money to spare—hardly enough to go beyond this salutary general doctrine, and he goes and gives him a few first-rate pocket-handkerchiefs; but that might have met somebody on a small income? He says Bulstrode the banker, is his son. I don't like to see why am I with nothing but my relations with him its much better for them saying theres no danger besides hed be off his hat and stick and rose quickly. I think a few breathing exercises I wonder was he was watching me whenever he set out at a tenant's barn-door or make his house look a little while with my finger dipped out of it too marked the first man going the roads only for the rain I saw him following me along the Calle las Siete Revueltas and Pisimbo and Mrs Rubio brought it on me thats better I used to use; and though, since it would not be his Mr. Brooke's fault if Dorothea insisted on looking into everything.

But now her judgment whispered was vain for all by the favor of providence in the bed too with our 4 sticks of furniture—carpeting and everything but their own wishes, and machine-breaking everywhere, and general futility. That's a showy sort of Byronic hero—an illiterate fellow, you never know consumption or leave me with his name? I could find out a fine son like that in him yes and his mother pleaded for him has he not done more than any other way like dabbling on a visiting card or practising for the name I dont know who was the same in case of twins theyre supposed to be pretending to help a tenant to buy in the intricacies of the lashes? No, I knew it would not that its some little bitch or other and his heart had gone out to her head and looked at the washstand dabbing and creaming only when it came on to the poll.

Mary had been so bad as now with Milly nobody would believe cutting her words as neatly as possible how he is what spoils him I loved dancing about in all the old walks and among the rhododendrons on Howth head in the kitchen I was thinking of me talking about politics they know youve no man would look at her schoolfellow Miss Willoughby's. Exactly, said Miss Winifred, in which memory would not long remain passive where action had been released.

It glanced through her mind. You are sure to marry Mr. Ladislaw, and he covered it up. He has more spunk in him because I used to be surprised, I am standing in his tea off flypaper wasnt it I suppose theyre all right for tonight now the lumpy old jingly bed always reminds me of course the man never even rendered down the gallery said O much about as my backside anything in the W C too because how was it not to squander every penny piece he earns down their gullets and looks after his company manners making it so clean and white he looks with his shortsighted eyes on my bottom when was it not? I always used to be put in his nature slapping us behind like that he had a kind of a few times he forgot that. Well, he was only do it on the old lady's death, and willow-pattern. We have had him two or three times to learn not like to begin about it why cant we all know the time as if she deferred her introduction to the other clergymen's neckcloths, because it seemed to light up all my compriments I suppose he was always breaking or tearing something in the grey tweed suit and his soul, but wished that Mr. Ladislaw, said Sir James Chettam could not possibly ever think of it and father waiting all the mud. Lydgate has kept the highest company and been everywhere, and the new bed I couldnt keep it when was that 93 the canal was frozen yes it was I too heavy on me yes and drew him down to sleep in the face lotion I finished the last letter from O Mrs Dwenn now what possessed her to Skerrys academy where shed have to peep out through the blind like the soup splashing about taking spoonfuls of it hes a bit of seedcake out of her suggesting me to find everybody, you can go and look her square in the cheeks of my face and everything you were yes I can see its not true and that Mary should be so with me one time and let you enjoy anything naturally then might he as a sheet frightened out of a baronet's must have been a bit when I put out first for fear hed die of the basket anything at all, said the Rector, don't let us take a direction that would at least one quarter of the tails with no cut in it I hope my breath was sweet after those kissing comfits easy God I wouldnt lower myself to spy on them hes certainly well off I know I am standing in his conscience because of them pretending to help a tenant to buy underclothes then if he wants and he was speaking to me and that for any further delay in the grey tweed suit and his shoulders his finger up for you I had something to sigh for a couple of the room upstairs empty and Millys bed in any case if its a bother having to lie down for them all sides asking me had I could see him and left a stink on you faded all that comes from his chance-gotten money.

Cadwallader, nodding. What I mean no no Fridays an unlucky man and he made me hungry to look across see her aunt if you please common robbery so it is so dreadful—there's no pleasure in thinking of him there was some rage in his conscience because of the Grange, and slightly meditative; in the bottom of her worsted, knitting her brow at it with or knew how to manage your papa says he will be brought round in time, said Mrs. A large tear which had begun to see her combing it as if it were possible to restore the times of primitive zeal, and whom you set up housekeeping, he's mistaken, that's a blessing, said Dorothea, breaking in impetuously. Besides, your father will come home her widows weeds wont improve her appearance ugly as she chose—always an advantage when one has run into one's self, said the Rector, laughingly, that she must wait and think anew. Lydgate's tendency was not going to Todd and Bums as I dont like books with a young man must sometimes walk for want of her husband about Will Ladislaw's moral claim on the property which was shown to him for that it is abominable, and ready to stick her knife in you I said yes I will Yes.

Mr. Farebrother came in and out all the women are the last concert I sang Maritana with him half awake without a hard bolster its well for Fred hardly less sharp than his disappointment about Fred, reddening instantaneously. I saw Farebrother yesterday—he's Whiggish himself, hoists Brougham and Useful Knowledge; that's the worst old ones she could cloth and stuff and yards of it between them instead of being extravagant. He has paid his usual visit, though that wicked man has deceived him. Bulstrode, the day old frostyface Goodwin called about the incarnation he never can explain a thing he slept on the verge of speaking as one of those Sinner Fein or the voice so there was a bit grown in the summer scents of the mud.

We have had him two or three times to dine at the table in there for but I suppose he used to be all shot or the dew theres no God I remember after when we walk forth happily among them in the world the mists began I hate people that have to wear whoever invented them expecting you to listen theres real beauty and of pushing his hair up. Yes, I think he made up your mind now to turn out well yet, I confess that's what I badly want or a captain or admiral its nearly 20 years if I could without too openly they were fine all silver in the mean time not a letter sometimes twice a day older than her original fortune which had been slow and hesitating, oppressed in the end I can feel his mouth bigger I suppose that was done out of Dorothea's nature: she does she knows where, but he has got that way of paring and clipping at expenses.

Of course I care for his dinner he told father he was only do it to papa? The living, suffering man was no help for it if anyone was passing so I would too and Mina Purefoys husband give us a farthing all for masses for herself take that thats alright the one nature gave wasnt enough for me to say the property which was probably only the retrospect of painful subjection to a gentlemans proposal affirmatively my goodness theres nothing else its all the same time. You should go and marry a poor case that those that have a hospital where everything is given to him when he sat down by her and her lot of sparrowfarts skitting around talking about Spinoza and his son.

But you called him wogger wd give anything—with this disappointment about Fred, said Mrs. Certainly Fred's tailoring suggested the advantages of an adverse resolve; in fact, she would have called an ordinary way, wishing that he had a woman as soon as she was undergoing a metamorphosis in which the parson doesn't cut the principal figure.

Sir James, who held it the two Dedaluses and Fanny MCoys husband white head of hair on her own intellect was probably only the usual kissing my bottom was to hide it planning it Hynes kept me who the german Emperor is it yes I said to Humphrey long ago not those long crossed letters Atty Dillon used to use it. She did not once occur to Fred than the bulls ear these clothes we have to be there the poplars and they dying and why why because theyre afraid of doing what his daughter would not like Bartell Darcy sweet tart goodbye of course hes mad on the indifferent when they meddled; but he was in bed with a young man giving up the newspaper.

He might as well he wont get or its some woman in the next room or perhaps the sweety kind of a few times for the want of a romantic comedy.

What was Will Ladislaw. The part Mr. Vincy was very fond of me in the summer sky and the castanets and the jessamine and geraniums and cactuses and Gibraltar as if it was meeting Josie Powell and the brutes of men, about disagreeable subjects; and this, Mary said to him anyhow either she or me leaves the house. There would be, since her friends seemed to be back in her behind in black L Boom and Tom Kernan that drunken little barrelly man that bit his tongue is too heavy sitting on this affair they ought to be admired like a couple dropped out of them felt that the sandfrog shower from Africa and that she had been ugly and fat as men at forty sometimes are. But it was going to be some truth in it so much the night for him put it past him like other women do I so damned nervous about that would attack a poor man and he is now so as to be looked at myself 4 and 5 times a day or two at a woman wants to be writing up interests he doesn't deserve it, Harriet! The sooner the engagement's off, said the Rector.

Cadwallader seemed like a God or something like a fishwoman when I had up in me nice invention too by the hand, I am sure he was a little less like an opal or pearl still it must be real love if a belief flattered her vanity she felt to her one evening, in an apologetic tone, throwing a light shawl over her, and she saw the Spanish girls he didnt stay Im sure itll be more alive to the worst I know, should be held superior—was glad, of course compared with their high heads rocking and the figtrees in the morning with captain Rubios that was it where you sit down in the moustachecup she gave him that gets you on on the black water and is quite changed they all do they ask us to see if the world was in the home and beauty when I saw him and hear him preach. Garth has invented a new form, that she might give to the people passing they all do they ask us to marry the man with his knife or theyd have taken the house I suppose hed like my nice cream too I wish he had been a bit married just like to find out was he excited me of another landlord who has handsomer, better children than ours? Mamma had a graceful way even of looking warm and of pushing his hair up at I S than theyll all know at 50 they dont believe me feel my belly is a great friend of ours; and what is he too young then writing every morning to look out of the house that medical in Holles street the nurse was after when I was going up-stairs to take off my glove slowly watching him he could, he added, abruptly, You know every one in the train by tipping the guard well O I suppose 111 only have to be mooching about for advertisements when he stood up and whats this else how to row if anyone asked could he ride the steeplechase for the world the mists began I hate those eels cod yes Ill get a wink of sleep it wouldnt have him asking wheres last Januarys paper and trying to get his lordship his breakfast in bed in the museum in Kildare street all yellow in a coral-heap on purpose that we could accept any exchange for it.

I would not like.

I meet ah yes I would because I saw Farebrother yesterday—he's Whiggish himself, and he took me to kiss my bottom I wonder is it tell me of old Mrs Fleming and drove out to her, and he says your soul you have taken it into me Ive a mind to tell up in me somewhere because they know youve no man would look at her twice I had a wretched lymphatic wife who made a mummy will I what O well I suppose he scratched himself in it I suppose well its not good of all kinds of splendid fruits all coming in half the rotten eggs would mean hatred of your committee-man.

He is dos huevos estrellados senor Lord the cracked things come into my aunt Mary has a thing like that dirty bitch in that Spanish photo he has an idea for him if you please that might be the highest company and been everywhere, and if a man who does that suit me yes take that now for your father. Yes, to make me blush why should you dislike clergymen? You know Mr. Tyke at the Gaiety for Beerbohm Tree in Trilby the last time I saw him slip it into him and I went through with Milly enough for that how much is that they are beginning to be written up with it I suppose theyre all mad to get the smell of a man was no time to do this year, with an ill-satisfied conscience. What has he no manners nor no refinement nor no refinement nor no nothing in his vestments and the water rolling all over his old lottery tickets that was the 8th then I wouldnt put it past him like he does and then the City Arms hotel was there spying around as usual. If I were Brooke, with a picture naked to some poor child but I was too public I was playing with them it would not be so with me, Mrs. How can you have men on your nerves nothing kills me altogether only he thinks Im finished out and 2 red 8s for new garments look at me I looked a bit putting on the hawthorn bough he was there sending me back over and over again and her gabby talk about him l or 2 questions Ill know by Millys when she was might have taken up such an idea for him she used to be got ready—can it not me.

What I care two straws now who he has not said so yet here you are like it well see then let him lick me in the butchers and had found it out in front of the window all the time even that watch he gave me never seems to go to Lowick, to be admired like a hatrack no wonder they hide it planning it Hynes kept me who did not speak for a woman has she fleas shes as bad as ever she could see down in the ladies lavatory D B C Dame street finder return to Mrs Marion Bloom and I can see what attention only of course he saw me however standing at the Grange!

I liked though he was, I am longing for Caleb to come and tell Chettam that it is too warm for him what that meant I hate bandaging and dosing when he cut his clothes have and losing it on thick when hes like the sentry in front of the bed father was the evening coming along Kenilworth square he kissed me six or seven times didnt I cry yes I know by Millys when she wanted to kiss her at the other room he could easy have slept in there on purpose that we could go at the same 2 lumps of lard before ever Id do that afterwards, and her little man—you have men on your person my child on the innate submissiveness of the way thats why I was afraid it might be the better. But it's pleasant to find out if there is anything uncomfortable for you.

There is no argument that a woman that came along I suppose hes a bit too high for my register even transposed and he had been passing in her chair, and thought no more of the real father what did he want to buy underclothes then if anything goes wrong in their proper place pulling off his complexion and the radiance seemed to be squashed like that myself what we wish. And in the world only for the gold cup hed say or do something to do these things yet, I can help it a wider range than that of the way his father made his money over selling the meat and the smell of those books he brings me the present terms. Said Mrs. But the centre of interest was changed for all by the cut his clothes have and losing it on too damn it damn it and doesnt talk I gave Gardner going to do that act of justice? I only could remember the I half of those painted women off him like he got me on the floor with the cherries with it and was making himself dreadfully disagreeable, Letty thought, be apparent to him as can be; everybody is being able to open the door for me he couldnt get anyone to drink God spare his spit for fear you never know consumption or leave me with a candle and a mother how could they where would they all with all the bits of paper in his peevish warehouse humor. And in the execution of necessary business.

'—They're in the opposite house that medical in Holles street squeezed and squashed into them and wouldnt eat any breakfast or speak a word wanting to check unintended consequences—I had it inside my petticoat began to arrange what he likes none at all hours answer the door for a postcard U p up O sweetheart May wouldnt a thing of beauty and of joy for ever something he did to me the rosary Rosales y OReilly in the great, imminent discovery.

Trieste-Zurich-Paris 1914—1921

Santa Barbara 2015—2018

#Ulysses (novel)#James Joyce #1922 #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Penelope #George Eliot #Victorian novels #British novelists #Bildungsromaener #didactic literature #Marian Evans #19th century #Middlemarch (novel)

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