#look ma I left it as a sketch are you proud of me now

[thedustyleaves]

I know the Asari don't look like this but... I can dream...

[mcheang]

Secret Santa Clause

This is a rough draft but it is basically a salty Christmas fic...at least I think it counts as salty?

The class is holding a Secret Santa event on their class group chat. Knowing Chloe, Caline states the following rules:

1. The budget for each gift is 20 euros.

2. You must give a present once a week.

3. The present must be thoughtful. (This was aimed at Chloe since last time she just gave out her photos, hand me downs and autographs.)

Imagine Marinette’s surprise when she receives Lila’s name in her secret Santa email. Groaning, Marinette is silently grumpy for a while until she hits an epiphany. The presents have to be thoughtful, but the receiver doesn’t necessarily have to like them.

And Marinette can use this loophole to her advantage.

Marinette has Alya swear secrecy because she only hates Chloe and Lila so the suspects for who she has to give presents to were obvious once Alya noticed Marinette’s sour mood on the phone. In return, Marinette promises to give nice gifts and will even let Alya inspect them.

1st week: Lila received a commonplace but newly released Ladybug purse. She feigns joy but Marinette knows Lila hates Ladybug even more than her. So while Lila is cooing over her ‘BFF’ merchandise, inside she is really....

Lila suspects Alya, Ladybug’s #1 fan might be her secret Santa. She doesn’t suspect Adrien because he knows she doesn’t like Ladybug and is too nice to give her a gift she wouldn’t like. Lila doesn’t suspect Marinette because if she would give Lila a piece of clothing, it would be really cheap but the ladybug purse cost about 20 euros, so yeah.

Meanwhile Marinette receives colourful beads she can use for her designs.

2nd week: Marinette gives Lila an experiment of her Dad’s baking that she vetoed for Christmas sales because girls like Chloe would scream at the sight of it. It is a tin of one large, sinful fudge brownie stuffed with caramel and marshmallow.

Marinette gives Alya a small piece and the latter approves. Marinette knows Lila can’t trace the dessert to her bakery because they don’t sell it. Alya gladly provides Marinette with the nondescript brownie tin. When Chloe and Adrien smell the brownie, one runs away from carbs and fats while the other bangs his head on the table and reminds himself of what he cannot eat. Lila just munches on it without care. Again she doesn’t suspect Marinette because she thinks her rival would just get her cheap chocolates, not a rich dessert.

Marinette herself gets beautiful hair ribbons. Like seriously...are these really below the budget?

3rd week: a cheap silver pearl bracelet that matches her earring. It seems harmless but Lila is still irked at being turned into a clam. She hates seafood and pearls because it reminds her of her third failure and humiliation. This time Lila can’t hide her initial reaction. She shied away from the pearls. Upon noticing her classmates’ confusion, she claims she thought the pearls were real and didn’t want to be the cause of so much monetary loss.

Marinette receives Christmas roses and wonders if her secret Santa is a secret admirer.

Christmas Eve: time for the reveal. The class meets up at a party in the park. So when Lila looks around for her secret Santa, she turns around to see a smirking Marinette saying, “Merry Christmas, Lila.”

Lila is surprised and feigns pleasantness. “Oh Marinette, you're my secret Santa?” Lila starts going over her list of presents. Marinette knew she was a liar and somehow found out she hated Ladybug- probably via Adrien. And the brownie was super rich which meant now Lila had to work out like crazy if she wanted to lose the excess fat. Plus, everyone knew about the clam incident. All along it had been Marinette spitefully giving her those “nice” presents.

“Yup.”

“Where’s my present?” The grand finale that Lila would have to grit her teeth and smile over. Oh Marinette will pay for this.

“Look behind you.” Alya was beaming at her friend, so proud Marinette made an exception during the holidays. Lila is suspicious of Marinette’s wide grin.

“Hello, Ma Bella.” Mrs Rossi smiled at her Daughter.

“Mum?” Lila gaped. Uh oh.

“I managed to convince your mom to spend a few hours off work to spend more time with you. I hope you like your present,” Marinette explained, barely hiding the smugness Lila knew she was feeling.

After talking it over with Alya, Marinette learns Mrs Rossi is constantly absent. She also knew Mrs Rossi was the perfect person to expose Lila.

Lila was panicked, she had to get her mother out of here before her classmates started asking about her work. She can claim to want some alone time with her Mother. Revenge against Marinette can wait.

But before Lila could usher her mother away, the latter spots Adrien and goes “Oh you must be Lila’s Boyfriend. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

Cue silence... then Chloe’s screech of fury.

“WHAT?”

Adrien looked surprised and horrified. “What?”

Marinette covered her mouth to muffle her laughter. “What?”

Lila laughs nervously. “I may have exaggerated that part, Mama.”

Mrs Rossi blinks. “Oh. Well then, thank you for keeping in touch with my Daughter when the school was shut down. Honestly, the incompetence of Ladybug and Chat Noir to have let the akuma run rampant for so long...”

Lila was aghast, silently plotting Marinette’s gruesome murder.

Caline was shocked. Shut down? What was Mrs Rossi talking about?

The classmates were furious. Incompetent? Their saviours? Who did Mrs Rossi think she was?

Adrien was denying the accusation of checking up on Lila, AND clarified he had only ever talked to her before her return to school via facechat, with the class, during school, when she was travelling to Achu with her Mother.

Mrs Rossi pauses, stunned, then turns to her Daughter. “Lila?”

Marinette: I should have brought chocolate popcorn.

After the whole exposure was revealed, Caline escorted the Italian Mother and Daughter to the principal’s office to discuss the ramifications of Lila’s lies. She asked the class to continue their festivities without her.

The class was silent from the event. Their Friend has been lying to them for months, had taken advantage of their kindness.

Marinette watched Nino comfort Alya, her face unreadable.

“Hey.” It was Adrien’s voice. Marinette turned to him.

“Hey yourself.”

“You planned this whole thing, didn’t you?”

“I didn’t plan Mrs Rossi to come at first. I was just going to ask Jagged to make a surprise visit.” And expose her for not knowing the rock star at all.

Marinette held Adrien’s gaze. She would not regret her actions. Lila had gotten her expelled, had gotten Kagami akumatized, and was a downright bully.

“Good.”

Marinette startled. She did not expect that answer.

Adrien rubbed his neck, “After she framed you, I made a deal with the devil. Either she got you back in school, or I end our friendship.”

Marinette felt a smile tug on her mouth. “You couldn’t find a way to prove she was lying either?”

Adrien shrugged. “I admit she is a master at lying, so I refused to play that game with her. I’ve been hoping she would slip up but that didn’t happen at all.”

Marinette grinned now. She kissed Adrien’s cheek on her tiptoes. “Well, thank you for helping me get back into school.”

Adrien cheeks were red. So cute. He stuck his hands out. In them was a worn sketchbook. “Merry Christmas Marinette, from your secret Santa.”

Marinette was the one blushing now. “You mean...you were secret my present? I mean, you were my Secret Santa?”

Adrien smiled softly at Marinette. “I was really happy to be the secret Santa for our Everyday Ladybug.”

Marinette’s smile was painfully wide now. She took the offered sketchbook, opened it, and saw rough sketches of outdated clothing. Wrinkling her brow, Marinette flipped through the pages, wondering why Adrien was giving her this.

Then she came to a certain page and saw a certain signature.

The shrill scream she emitted was louder than Chloe’s.

“An original Gabriel Agreste sketchbook?” Marinette looked at the old thing like it was the holy grail.

Adrien laughed. “Yeah, he didn’t mind giving it up. Of course, I had to find it in the attic first but the effort seems well worth it, given your reaction.”

Marinette took a deep breath, regaining control of herself. She looked up at Adrien again and, before her nerve failed her, asked, “Would you like to grab hot chocolate with me?”

Adrien beamed. “Nothing would make me happier.”

They walked out.

The class was left staring after them. In the previous silence, they heard the entire conversation. Marinette had been right all along and she had been a victim of Lila’s. Only Adrien successfully helped her get back to school.

Alya sobbed, guilt eating her alive. She was a terrible Best Friend.

The others were feeling horrible too. How could they ever make it up to her?

Nino took charge. He consoled Alya but said in a loud voice for them all to hear, “We’ll make it up to her. Someday.”

The rest nodded. Only Chloe was somehow silent before they realized that Alix had knocked her out when the blond looked like she was going to start screeching at Marinette for asking Adrien out.

Cue Sabrina starting to wake her BFF up.

Caline returns and informs the class that Lila has gone home. She does not mention the punishments the liar had gotten but insists they continue the Santa Claus event.

when school reopens, Lila is revealed to have been expelled.

Before that, Alya and everyone else but Chloe apologies to Marinette. She forgives them all.

Marinette finally breaks down the spite behind her gifts to Alya. Her BFF is so proud and even shrieks when Marinette admits her hot chocolate Friend-date yesterday ended in a mistletoe kiss.

Adrien meanwhile has a dreamy, rosy look on his face and doesn’t respond when Nino waves his hand up and down in front of him.

I kind of feel bad that their Christmas Eve was ruined, but oh well. For the record, the hair ribbons are costly because they use real silk and Swarovski crystals, but Adrien didn’t spend a dime on them because he just got them from free since their are Gabriel accessories. Gabriel doesn’t care.

For the record, Adrien’s secret Santa was Max. Lila gave pink stuff to Rose.

[howdoyousleep3]

you lean into me like you know

A/N: Hi so I’m feeling super wack right now and it’s really hard for me to write or to even get to that point, but this is something I wrote a while back and didn’t have the courage to share and then never finished it entirely to the extent I wanted to. There isn’t explicit smut but it’s implied or glossed over. The vibe I had in my head was very retro, not modern day, “The Outsiders” vibe. It is very different than what I normally post but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless. I’d love to hear your thoughts. 

After his second year of college Bucky comes home for the summer. His heart desires to stay in the city, yearning for the chaos, but he acknowledges how important it is to come home for his Ma. It’s a mild June morning, air already growing sticky, and it’s the first time Bucky sees Steve Rogers. 

Seeing Steve makes him realize he’s never seen sunlight before. Looking at Steve makes Bucky hopeful again, makes him want to smile, makes him want to be a good person. He’s the most beautiful thing he has ever set his eyes on and Bucky wants to fucking break him. Perfect little Steve Rogers with his rosy cheeks, golden blonde hair, his seemingly-always broken glasses, his full-ride scholarship, and his perfectly-keen artistic eye.

 It’s disgusting.

 Bucky’s pretty sure he’s in love. 

The sight of Steve makes Bucky short of breath and that isn’t even because of the cigarette between his lips. He sucks more nicotine into his lungs to shove down the growing ache in his chest and throws it to the concrete so he can stomp on it like he wants to do his own heart.

Once Bucky sees him coming out of the library that afternoon he sees Steve Rogers everywhere. He most definitely doesn’t blame that on the fact that Steve takes up every empty space in his mind, fantasizing about every which way he can make Steve cry. He sees him in the grocery store, walking down the road, at the local diner; Bucky sees him everywhere and it feels like he is drowning. 

He’s never been in love, not even close, never wanting to do more than fuck and move on. The foreign feeling in his chest and brain makes him comprehend why history is full of people who go mad over love, spend their days mourning, harm themselves, even die, for love. Bucky’s a tough kid. No one messes with Bucky Barnes. But one Steve Rogers is slowly cracking him open and Bucky’s doing what he can to protectively keep all the pieces of himself together.

The first time Bucky talks to Steve is a critical moment. If he’s shattered inside without even having heard Steve’s voice, he can’t imagine what hearing it will do to him. It isn’t planned. Bucky has no warning. He is standing outside the diner sucking down another cigarette, his date for the night (Sherry? Sarah? Stacey? Shit.) waiting far too patiently inside. It’s a decent summer night aside from the rain that’s been meandering down from the sky nearly all day. Bucky registers the bell on the door signifying the entrance or exit of someone, but he has no intention of lifting his head to acknowledge them. People usually like it more when Bucky doesn’t notice them.

“You know those things are awful for you,” a deep voice says to him and he’s ready to square up with the person who belongs to said voice when he looks up and—

Ah fuck.

He’s looking over at Steve, perfect little Steve Rogers. If Bucky felt like he was drowning before, he’s dying now, hanging on by a thread. Bucky opts to not immediately respond and instead takes in the kid and savors the moment. Steve is so small up this close and Bucky wants to squeeze him, wants to hurt him, wants to touch him. He swears he can smell him but that’s incredibly unrealistic given the distance between them and the humidity. 

He can see a smattering of summer freckles starting to form across the bridge of Steve’s proud nose and he aches inside at the sign of youth. He just knows that that smooth creamy skin would bruise like a peach, all sweet, under Bucky’s chaotic grip. Bucky’s palms begin to sweat and once again he finds himself flicking the butt of his cigarette to the ground, blowing out smoke into the heavy air between them, smashing and grinding what’s left of the cigarette unnecessarily into the pavement beneath his feet.

“No shit, kid,” Bucky manages to bite out before heading back inside the diner, narrowly avoiding brushing shoulders with Steve, bell ringing, hands shaking, breaths rushing. Bucky’s core, his equilibrium, have completely been compromised. If Bucky imagines that the body beneath him later that night, the one he’s fucking into, is comprised of bony joints, a strong jaw, and eyes that take him to oceans he’ll never in his life visit, he can’t be blamed. This is Steve Roger’s fault.

The next time Bucky talks to Steve he is more prepared. He knows it’s coming because he is the one who initiates the brief conversation. He needs to get his feet back under him, needs to be the one with the upper hand, needs to hear Steve Rogers’ disproportionately husky voice hit his ears again. 

He finds himself at the local market indecently early all because his Ma wants fresh green beans from Mr. Walter. He is very aware of the fact that Steve sells his art at a rickety old table, simplistic and pure, sitting behind it all in a near-broken wooden chair. He’s so compact that the splintered chair sees no strain and Bucky’s heart does that achy pull when his eyes land on him. He swears to himself he’s in one of those romance films they show at the drive-in on weekdays for cheap. It makes him nauseous.

He pretends to pick and sort through a barrel of peaches, fingers barely detecting the fuzziness of their skin, eyes trained on the soft blonde. Steve Rogers looks just that, so soft, so gentle, plain white t-shirt and faded jeans, knees tucked to his chest to balance the worn sketchbook on them. Bucky bites the inside of his cheek to feel pain, to counterbalance the warm twinge beneath his ribs but it barely works. Bucky realizes with a wave of panic that he could watch Steve Rogers draw and sketch and focus for the rest of his life.

Bucky has a plan, knows what he is going to say, can only hope what little Steve Rogers replies with. Thick shaky legs take him right up to Steve’s table and before his lips can even part the wind gets knocked right fuckin’ out of him. His words die on his tongue as his eyes rove over the worst thing he could have ever seen—himself.

Amongst all the sketches and drawings, even a painting, there to the left lies a rough sketch of Bucky. He’s standing outside the diner, the point of view of the sketch drawn from within it, and a cigarette hangs between his lips. He looks brooding, dark on the paper, side profile gutting. He’s never seen these emotions splayed across his face before and how dare Steve Rogers, of all fucking people, showcase it to the world.

His brain tries to catch up with his limbs and mouth as he listens to himself mumble, “What the fuck, Rogers?”, fingers reaching to touch at the paper reverently. That wasn’t what Bucky was supposed to say. Bucky’s supposed to make Steve Rogers blush and stammer, conceal an erection, think about Bucky when he closes his eyes at night. He gets the blush and stammer, cerulean eyes wide as he damn near falls out of his seat in an attempt to snatch the sketch from Bucky’s reach and view.

“Fuck, I didn’t…Bucky…” he mumbles and a noise bubbles up in Bucky’s chest at Steve saying his name. Steve is quick but Bucky is quicker, pulling the sketch out of reach. Steve’s small arms are no match for Bucky’s longer ones. Bucky takes a second to appreciate the sketch up close before blinking over at Steve who looks like he is about to burst into tears. He’s fidgeting where he stands, arms crossed over his wisp of a chest, both face and neck a splotchy red mess. His eyes are downcast and Bucky can actually hear Steve wheezing. Bucky wants to wrap him up in his arms and kiss his cheek, to press his lips right there on Steve’s temple like he’s almost damn sure would make him blush. Bucky has absolutely not ever done that or felt this way before. His fingers twitch.

“How much?”

Bucky watches as Steve’s head shoots up, a look of sheer surprise and embarrassment flowing over his features. He stammers and chokes on his words, the strong crease between his brows prominent.

“Fucking Christ, Rogers—how much?” Bucky says in as much aggravation as he can muster, which is a miracle considering his veins feel like thick honey full of adoration. Steve quickly shakes his head feverishly.

“No, it’s…no. Nothing, s’free.” He still won’t look up at Bucky, picking at the hem of his shirt, and Bucky already wishes he could see those eyes again. How can he long for something, someone, when they’re right in front of him?

“I-I usually sell them for like…t-twenty dollars. It’s cool though, I—”

Bucky raises his hand dismissively, Steve snapping his mouth shut with a click, and he reaches into his back pocket for his wallet. He tugs out a fifty-dollar bill and tosses it on the table. Steve doesn’t look up at him. Bucky wants to cradle the sketch close to his chest, to show it to the world, to frame it in glass and get it signed. Instead he turns and says, “See ya later, kid,” and walks away. 

He walks away a fluster of emotions. 

He’s still uneasy and off-balance, angry, but his entire being feels like it’s letting out a sigh of relief. Bucky refuses to think of why his thoughts are forming the way that they are and instead folds up the sketch and places it in his back pocket with shaky hands. He’ll keep it on the table next to his bed and smooth out its creases as he looks over it every night before he sleeps. Bucky doesn’t think about how it’s the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for him. 

[uzumaki-rebellion]

Black Boys Bloom Thorns First: Vol. 2 Chap. 28

Summary: N’Jobu and Califia take Erik back to Sau Paulo, Brazil after major changes in Oakland...

"This world is still afloat No, not in Noah's boat We've only lost the vision Of the stars we're meant to be

Another broken heart Another lesson learnt Another harvest eaten Another night is gone A new day's begun Even your dreams they can be real"

Zero 7—"This World"

Califia watched her son write furiously in his journal.

Erik spent time sitting at their kitchen table most evenings writing and sketching just like his father. He was excited and antsy and she hadn't seen her son this happy in weeks. Sitting across from N'Jobu, Erik seemed to be in a world of his own.

When N'Jobu sat Erik down to give him just a tiny bit of their future plans, their son beamed with satisfaction. They both had no idea that the boy was unhappy with Oakland and his life there. Every day Black life wore Erik down, and instead of dealing with a child sad about leaving behind friends and family, Erik was eager to go far away. N'Jobu didn't tell Erik the possible troubles that awaited them. That would come in time. He was only told that they would be moving out of the country in a year and that he should not talk about it with anyone, not even close family.

Califia wanted to reveal their plans to her father and grandmother when they were closer to leaving. Nana Jean's health was a consideration for travel, and Califia had to prepare herself for the reality that she would possibly have to leave her and Dante behind if Nana was not up to the drastic change.

Erik was watching her.

Califia caught Erik's eye at the table as his busy hand paused in mid-scribble.

"Erik?" she asked.

N'Jobu stopped writing and stared at their son too.

"I want to go march for Auntie Lia," Erik said.

N'Jobu's eyes regarded Califia's.

The anniversary march.

Activists in Sao Paulo planned a huge memorial march for Negra Lia with the blessing of her family. Soliel and Aunjanue were part of the organizing happening there, and Califia wanted to attend that march too but there was the possibility of them moving at a moment's notice if this man N'Jobu trusted acted sooner. What was his name? Klaue?

N'Jobu put down his pen and looked at Erik.

"Are you sure you can handle going back there?" he asked.

Erik nodded.

"I want to be there. Marisol is going to march. I want those killers to know we aren't afraid of them."

N'Jobu glanced back at Califia.

"And you?" he asked.

"I feel ready to go back. That's our family. It will give us some closure," she said.

"I might not be able to go with you if things happen…I would like to be there too, but if I get word-"

"It's okay-"

"I can't say that I like the idea of you both being there again. I understand why you want to go, but…"

He stared down at his journal.

"If I am able to go, I will do so," he finally said.

Califia sauntered over to the table and sat on N'Jobu's lap. She kissed his forehead, and he raised his head up and pressed his lips onto hers.

"Aw, man…," Erik whined.

"What?" N'Jobu said.

"Should I leave?" Erik asked.

"Boy, what?" Califia said.

"You two start kissing and then…eww," Erik teased while making a face at them.

N'Jobu grinned.

"One day, Son, you will be grateful to be able to do this with a woman," he said.

"Y'all do it too much though."

"Mark my words," N'Jobu said.

His lips gave tiny smooches all over her cheeks and nose. Erik rolled his eyes and continued writing.

The house phone rang and N'Jobu continued kissing on Califia.

"I guess I'll get it," Erik said sliding off of his chair and padding over to the kitchen wall phone. Califia slipped N'Jobu a little tongue while Erik was gone.

"You keep doing that and we'll have to go upstairs," N'Jobu whispered in her ear as his tongue traced the curves of her left ear.

"Promise?" she said.

"Mom!"

Erik's voice made Califia jump off of N'Jobu's lap.

"What is it?"

Erik held the wall phone to her.

"It's Grandpop, Nana's in the hospital," Erik said.

###

N'Jobu watched Califia pace the floor outside Nana's hospital room. Dante and Erik sat on chairs against the hallway wall.

"Babe, sit down," N'Jobu said patting the empty chair next to him.

Califia kept checking her cell phone.

"He should've been here by now with them," she said.

"Junie probably got caught in traffic…Califia, please, sit," he said.

Nana's doctor came out of the room.

"You all may go back in. She may be a little lethargic because of the painkillers."

Filing into the room, they surrounded Nana and her hand reached out for Erik.

"It's okay, Nana," Erik said.

His son stood close to her bed and held her hand tight. Dante stroked his mother's forehead.

"They're downstairs! I'm going down to help bring her things up," Califia said.

"I can do that," Dante said.

"It's okay, Daddy. Nana, I'm going to be right back."

Califia leaned over and kissed her grandmother's cheek. Nana touched her arm, and her feeble hands shook. Califia stroked the woman's fingers and left the room.

"N'Jobu…"

Nana's soft voice propelled him to push a chair to her side. Erik stayed standing next to him.

"I'm here Nana…right here," he said.

"Come closer."

Her eyes struggled to focus, and when she finally held his gaze, she gave him a weak smile.

"…tried to stay as long as I could…"

"Nana, just rest. Save your energy."

She blinked several times and her head lifted, her eyes looking above him.

"Nana," Erik whispered.

Her eyes returned to N'Jobu's.

"Take care of my babies—"

A heavy cough shook her thin frame and Dante leaned over from the other side of the bed with a handkerchief. He wiped a bit of spittle from her lips.

"Ma, just rest," Dante said.

Dante clutched her right hand as N'Jobu hung on to her left hand.

"You were always a good son, Dante. I'm so proud of you," she whispered.

Dante's head dropped low and he wiped his watery eyes.

"N'Jobu…"

"Ma'am," N'Jobu answered.

Her breathing grew ragged.

"Take care of them all…please…and, JaJa…"

Erik pressed his face close to hers and N'Jobu let him take Nana's hand. She whispered in Erik's ear and held his hand in a firm grip. Her brow was covered in a light sheen of perspiration and Erik gave her affirmations of "Yes", "Okay", and "Uh-huh."

Eric finally pressed his forehead into hers and she kissed his nose.

"It's okay, Nana. It's okay. I'll tell her…Nana?"

Nana Jean's eyes closed.

Her doctor came back into the room with a nurse by his side. Dante still held Nana's hand.

Califia arrived with Junie and their other cousins.

"Wait! Wait!" Califia shouted.

N'Jobu touched her back as Dante pushed his face into Nana's covers and wept. Erik still held his great-grandmother's hand.

"Nana…Nana…I love you…"

Califia's voice grew soft and they all heard the heart monitor go flat. Nana's doctor turned it off.

"I shouldn't have left…I thought…"

Califia's wet face crumpled and Erik reached for her hand.

"It's okay Mom, I held Nana's hand for you and she said that when I hold her hand on this side, our family who passed on holds it for her on the other side. So when she let go here, they hung on there. See? Don't cry, Mom. She just went over there…to wait for us one day. She told me to hold onto your hand and Baba's too."

"Califia, hey…come here."

N'Jobu held her as she wept in his arms. The crying spread throughout the room and when Erik patted her back, she was able to face her grandmother once more.

"She looks peaceful, doesn't she? "

"She does," N'Jobu replied stroking her back.

They all sat with Nana for over an hour until Dante insisted that they allow the doctor to care for her remains.

"I have calls to make…I need to let the church know…" Dante said.

"I can do all that, Daddy," Califia said.

Dante nodded and they all left the room.

"Give me a minute," Califia said.

She went back into the room with Erik and the Doctor let her hug her grandmother one last time. He watched her touch Nana's thin hair as Erik held Califia's waist.

When she returned to N'Jobu, her spirit had lifted.

"Babe?" he asked.

"I'm good. I just wish I was here when she slipped away. I just needed her to know how much I loved her. How much everything she did for me all my life was…she…she saved me so many times. I tried to thank her every time I visited her these last few days. It didn't feel like it was enough. I wanted her to know my heart was always with her."

"She knew that Mom," Erik said.

Califia nodded and wiped her face. Dante slipped his arm around hers and they left the hospital in a solemn mood.

Erik did his best to cheer Califia up, and it worked. He had her laughing by saying Nana was only upset that she couldn't wear her best wig for the cute doctor.

"Only Nana would worry about looking cute," Califia said.

By the time they made it back to Nana's house most of the family who lived in town had arrived at the home.

Califia and N'Jobu greeted everyone and the family listened to Erik repeat the last words of Nana Jean. There were plenty of Nana stories passed around, and much laughter sprinkled throughout the tears. Dante had a difficult time with the realization that Nana wasn't coming home from a hospital visit this time and Califia rose to the occasion with Junie helping relatives ease into her absence. Phone calls and soft knocks on the front door occurred as neighbors came to pay their respects and give condolences. The Pastor from Nana's church arrived with fellow church members and Junie ran out to buy chicken and sides from a local restaurant to feed the house that was now stuffed with mourners.

A few hours later, N'Jobu went looking for Erik among the hustle and bustle of relatives crowding the house. He found him outside on the steps.

"JaJa."

He sat down next to him and patted his shoulder.

"How are you doing, Son?"

"Fine. I thought I would feel sadder, but, I dunno. Nana made me feel good. Is that weird, Baba?'

"No. Not at all."

"I know Mom is upset that Nana left without her saying goodbye, but I think Nana did that on purpose. Maybe she tried to make it less sad for Mom?"

"Maybe."

Erik looked out onto the street.

"Is there really a heaven, Baba?"

"I believe there is an afterlife, yes. I was raised to believe in a beautiful place. The ancestral plane. You die and return to your ancestors…spend eternity with those who helped create you."

"Even God?"

"Even God. In my country, Bast is a great cosmic energy that is infused in all living beings. You will see Nana again."

"And Lia?"

"She is family. So yes. All of your loved ones who have transitioned will be reunited."

Erik's eyes were shiny, and finally, the tears came. N'Jobu pulled his son against him.

"You were so strong for your mother. Do you know that? You helped Nana cross over in peace."

"I wish she could've stayed with us longer."

"She was very ill, Erik. And in a lot of pain."

"I know. Can she see me right now?"

"I'm sure she can."

"That means no matter where we go, she can be there with us, right?"

"Yes. In spirit."

Erik's chest shuddered. More tears fell.

"Can we move sooner?"

N'Jobu sighed and watched his son's face.

"Soon enough."

"I want to go to Wakanda, Baba. I don't want to live here."

"There will be a lot for me to do before I can take you to Wakanda, Son."

"I know. But I'm ready. Anyplace away from here is good. Will you tell Grandpop now?"

"Your mother will decide that. Now that Nana has gone, I don't know how your grandfather will feel about leaving Oakland."

"I will miss Walter. And Nevaeh."

"They will miss you too. But hopefully, in the future, you can visit with them. There will be so many changes and sacrifices son. There is so much more for you to know in due time. Thank you for being patient with me."

Erik threw his arms around N'Jobu's neck and they sat quietly together. Holding his son, N'Jobu felt emboldened.

"Can we go home now? I think Mom is ready. She looked tired," Erik said.

"C'mon. Let's go check on her," N'Jobu said.

N'Jobu walked back into the house and Califia slipped her hand in his when he stepped into the living room.

"Daddy is resting. Junie and Michelle are staying here with him," she said.

"You want to stay longer?'

"No. We can go. I'll come back over tomorrow. Junie is handling everything. Daddy is letting him too."

"Tired?"

"Yeah."

They bid everyone farewell and returned to their townhouse. When Erik had showered and gone to bed, N'Jobu rested with Califia in their bedroom.

"You think you're ready for things like this, but when it finally happens…it feels so unexpected. I know she wasn't going to be here forever, but she was such a huge part of my life…a huge part of who I am. I miss her so much already."

"You and Erik were her heart and she's in a special place now. You heard what Erik said. Rest in that love."

"I will. I will."

He stroked her hair and held her hand against his chest.

"When should we prepare to leave for good?" she asked

"The next three months. We should begin sorting and packing. Not a lot, but things you want to take with us," he said.

She nodded.

"Do you want to sell the house?" he asked.

"No. I'd like to let Junie or Michelle stay here and take care of it. Keep it in the family. My father may want to sell Nana's house. Now that she's gone, it may be easier to convince him to come with us. We have options. No rush though."

"Erik is so ready," he said.

"I am too."

He stared at her. She ran her fingers across his naked chest and pressed her cheek against his.

"I feel this surge of movement in me. Like I can't sit still…this need to move far away is swirling in me. It's not even about going to Wakanda, but just getting away from everything, taking Erik someplace where he can be free. Be a child for as long as we can let him be one."

She lifted her head to look at him.

"You do whatever you have to do to make that happen for him."

"I will."

"Promise me."

"I promise."

She dozed in his arms and he spent the rest of the night listening to her deep breathing.

###

Sao Paulo felt different.

There was crackling energy in the air.

Califia felt it all around her.

As she walked the streets with her father and Erik, their energy was different too. Although Nana's death was months ago, their family had bounced back into joy again being around Soliel, Aunjanue, Marisol, and Besouro.

So much eating. So much drinking.

Capoeira.

She couldn't record enough video of her father and Soliel's father playing with Erik and Marisol. Her fingers were blistered from drumming and playing the berimbau as her son flipped and fought with the best mestres on the planet. Their world seemed even more complete when Bakari joined them with Shavonne.

For once, Califia's soul was at ease. N'Jobu was there with them. Even with Nana Jean gone now, life was perfect.

They rented a little house near Soliel and her family, and N'Jobu quit his job. He created fake reports to be sent to Wakanda, and they lived it up in Brazil. He allowed her to listen in on some of his secret talks with his War Dogs even though she didn't know the language. He hid nothing from her.

Their temporary home in Sao Paulo was small, but Califia and Soliel had planning meetings for the big march there. Activists were fired up, and not just for Negra Lia. Three more police brutality cases had occurred in the states and another in Sao Paulo where a young teen was killed in her own yard when the Sao Paulo policia federal bullied and threatened smaller groups of protestors trying to support the upcoming larger march. Chasing young people through the streets, the policia federal shot bullets that struck the girl in her own yard. The child wasn't even part of the protest, just playing in her own yard and minding her own business.

The city was ripe for change. Not just in Sao Paulo, but everywhere.

Califia and Erik watched groups of Maori protestors doing sacred Haka for Black people killed in the United States. Indigenous people from Australia pointed out their own history of white and state violence against their own aboriginal people. It was a global pandemic of police violence against black and other non-white people everywhere.

Erik tried mimicking the Haka that he saw, and went online to learn more about it. It was the ferocity in the Maori people's eyes that enamored Erik. Especially when the Maori women did the Haka. The exaggerated rolling of eyeballs, the strong slaps to the chest and legs, the tongues thrust out and the loud shouts invigorated them both. The brandishing of the short patu clubs made Erik's eyes shiny with admiration.

"It looks like they are calling all the Gods in the world to come down!" he said in an excited voice as he shared video clips with her.

The fight was happening everywhere, and Sao Paulo was on the verge of exploding with the calls for justice floating around them. The kinetic energy to force change rippled through Califia's family.

She felt it from N'Jobu most of all.

When Erik was fast asleep, N'Jobu would be between her legs, his grunts and groans behind gritted teeth and fisted hands made her orgasms so intense she couldn't even see straight. They fucked like they were in college again, so much so that poor Erik made it a point to go for long walks away from the house in the morning because they were so loud.

Tangled up in sweaty sheets every morning, Califia would hold onto N'Jobu as his sated body pressed all his weight on top of her. He didn't even speak English to her when they made love now. The language of his homeland dripped from his lips and into her ears, and when he pulsed inside of her, all thick and juicy, the contractions of her body overwhelmed her.

They were blessed.

She was turned on by the aggression in his voice when he spoke to his followers. Rubbing his shoulders when he barked orders over his secured comm tab gave her a small glimpse of what he must be like when he was in Wakanda. The way the other Wakandan voices capitulated to him made her panties wet. She couldn't help it. Nothing on God's green earth was sexier to her than a man with total confidence and bass in his voice. He had even started wearing his gold panther teeth openly around them. The moment he shook off pretending to be a barber, she saw him step back into who he really was. It took her back to the time when she saw him in D.C., the time when she and Bakari saw him in his full glory.

Sometimes, when Erik was away with Marisol, Califia would lay in bed and listen to N'Jobu conduct his secret meetings online. If he sat in a particular chair in their small living room, she could leave the bedroom door open and watch his profile. His face was…fuck…his face was everything. His voice was everything. The clicks and growls from his language had her fingers busy flicking her clit and manipulating her soaked folds. She would pat her vulva and watch him, feeling the slick of her fingers get wetter the more he spoke. Covering her mouth with her hand, she would hide her intense release so as not to disturb him. This, in turn, would make her want to serve him.

She was compelled to be subservient to him.

Pussy dripping, she'd often walk into the room while he spoke and bring him things. Water. Snacks. She'd sit near his legs on the floor and rub his feet for him, or stand behind him and massage his scalp. She once was bold enough to wear nothing but his t-shirt while kneeling before him and taking his dick in her mouth. He muted the communications that day and allowed her to suck all up and down his erection while reports were given to him. When the call ended, he stayed in that dominant role. Barking orders at her to suck harder, take his length deeper. With those gold teeth in his mouth and that regal bearing of his just sitting in an ordinary chair, Califia saw him as more than a Prince. He was her King. She was more than ready to bow down to him.

He forced her to climb onto his dick and he sat back and made her work him over. He didn't move a muscle and she rocked and swiveled her hips, her smooth vulva so sticky with fluid from her own body. His dark eyes raked up and down her body and she whimpered as her pussy gushed all over his dick. His face looked hard, mean in his sexy way and she knew for a fact that he expected her to obey his commands to fuck him good. The brat in her came out, and when she switched up her wiggling and it displeased him, he reached up and yanked on her hair.

She bounced on him and he loosened his grip on her braids, but then she slowed down and he grabbed her throat. His heated gaze told her he was upset with her behavior on his dick and once he began talking to her with clenched teeth in Wakandan, she held still and listened. He still didn't move under her, and the raised anger in his voice spurred her to higher levels of bratty behavior: she broke eye contact with him.

A big no-no.

N'Jobu pulled her off of his girth and pushed her down onto his lap. His palm spanked the brat out of her until she was crying tears of torturous pleasure.

"Fuck me right!" He demanded.

She lifted up from lying across his lap, her ass cheeks hot with exquisite pain. He leaned back in the chair again and didn't assist her crawling back on top of him.

She bounced on him the way a King deserved to be served, his pants punctuating his own pleasure. The tipping point came for him when he watched her pussy clench around him and he gripped her waist tight and finally thrust up into her. She hung onto him as he cursed at her in Wakandan until he seized up and spurted hard and deep.

He made her lick all her juices from his dick before demanding that she sit on his lap while he took more calls. He fingered her pussy the entire time and dared her to make one sound as he did. She kept quiet and he punished her folds with frisky fingers for hours, only releasing her when they heard Erik returning from Soliel's.

He was everything and more to her, and he fell right into his royal status with her supporting that authoritarian energy.

Bakari joined her at the planning meetings for Lia's protest march. They were three days from the actual march and had already hit a snag. The police wanted to know the march routes ahead of time, and the core leaders were reluctant to give them.

"We could give them fake routes," Califia suggested, "or just a half-assed map."

"There's no way to control how many people show up. Or who will follow a sanctioned route," Soliel said.

Erik sat next to her as the fifteen adults in the room murmured among themselves on what to do. They needed a permit to fill the streets but many didn't want the authorities to know all their moves. At that moment, their permit was being held up.

Besouro stood next to Soliel, his face carrying a scowl.

"We march against our enemy and we have to give them a map of our plans?" he snapped.

Many agreed with him.

Califia stared at Soliel. Since Lia's death, she had taken on the role of community leader filling the huge vacuum Lia left behind. She could see the stress and worry on her sister's face. Aunjanue walked into the house with two more women from the community.

"There are policia federals outside," she said.

Califia and Bakari went to her windows and looked out. An unmarked car was parked down the street. Two white men dressed in jeans and soccer shirts walked across the street giving occasional glances to the house. A light-skinned woman stood next to another car talking on a cell phone, but she was no one Califia had ever seen before. N'Jobu swept the house for bugs every time they left their temporary home, so she wasn't worried about them hearing what was said inside.

She checked her own cell and let N'Jobu know the house had eyes on it. He had gone to get food for the meeting with her father and was due to return soon.

Bakari turned to look at the group.

"The eyes of the world will be on these marches. We know that there will be many around the world marching in solidarity. I say give them the routes so we can get the permit. The routes won't matter. If they plan on targeting any of you, it will be in front of the world," Bakari said.

Soliel glanced over at Erik.

"I don't think children should be there," Soliel said.

"What?"

Erik's voice piped up fast. He had been silent for most of the meeting, taking in all the ideas and suggestions.

"I want to march," he said looking up at Califia.

"I agree with Soliel. We use our children to do our battles with us and they end up getting hurt or traumatized. We should tell everyone to keep them at home. Just adults," Aunjanue said.

"Mom…that's not fair," Erik whined.

"JaJa, nephew, you are brave and strong and we all know you loved your Auntie. But these police are beasts here. They murdered a girl already—"

"Aunjanue…"

Califia gave a stern look to her friend.

"Cali, our children deserve to be children. Not warriors," she said.

"I agree," Bakari said.

"Man…"

Erik pouted and he sat back further in his seat crossing his arms.

"I'm not letting Marisol go," Soliel said, "It's too dangerous."

"Mom—"

"Erik, let the grown-ups talk. You are here to just listen right now," Califia said.

"We just want to protect you, Erik," Bakari said.

"You can't protect us all the time. That girl who died was at home. She wasn't in the streets. They will get us no matter where we are. I know you guys don't want me to see violence or get hurt, but I've already seen the worst of it. I was there when Auntie died. I was there when they bombed the street. They kill us here, and they kill us back where I live. I'm not scared to die. I want them to see that. I'm a kid, but I'm already a warrior. Mom, you raised me to be a fighter. Why would you make me sit in the house?"

"Because you are my son, and I want you to live to become an adult. I know you want to show your love for Lia, but this could get ugly—"

"It ain't fair…it ain't fair!"

Erik jumped out of his seat.

"JaJa."

N'Jobu's voice froze Erik in mid-stride.

Bakari walked over and took bags of food from N'Jobu as Dante walked through the meeting group carrying more bags to the kitchen. Califia reached out for Erik and pulled him back toward her and hugged him around his waist.

N'Jobu took in the room, and then his eyes fell back onto his son.

"There is a time for children to be children and a time for children to become adults. My, son, this is the time for you to be our child—"

"Baba—"

N'Jobu held up his hand.

"You will not go to the march, JaJa. Not this time," he said.

Califia felt Erik's body shake with anger and disappointment. She stood up and held his hand.

"C'mon…come with me," she said pulling him toward his room. N'Jobu followed her and closed the bedroom door. Erik turned and faced them both with his fists clenched.

"You said I could march before we came here," Erik said.

"That was before all the other killings," N'Jobu said.

"They kill us all the time. It doesn't matter—"

"You matter to us," Califia reasoned.

"And Lia mattered to me. All of us. I want to go. If you are both there, it'll be okay."

Erik's face wavered between wanting to cry and being full of hot anger.

"Baby, Lia would want you to be safe. Not going to the march doesn't mean you won't show the world that you care about justice…it's just that our children suffer so much trying to prove their humanity too, and you don't need that pressure. The adults need to do the hard work so you don't have to. I think you're worried that you'll disappoint Lia's memory, but you won't. Things have shifted in a serious way and these cops down here JaJa, they can be worse than the ones at home—"

"All cops are bad, Mom. No matter where they are. You say that all the time. They are all the same."

"I know I say that, and it's true, but the level of hate for us because she has been elevated in the world along with so many others…it's going to be tougher to keep you safe."

"Then you shouldn't go either."

Califia looked over at N'Jobu.

"We will go and you will stay. You can be mad. Upset. You can even feel angry with us for a long time afterward, but we make decisions for you because we know what is best. We love you. We protect you. We shape the world for you, my Son. Allow us to do this. In the future, you can march with us, but right now…for this particular event—"

N'Jobu's kimoyo beads lit up.

Erik stepped closer to them as they all watched the subtle glow of lavender on N'Jobu's wrist. N'Jobu held a finger to his lips and tapped a bead.

They heard the stern voice of a woman speaking rapid-fire Wakandan.

N'Jobu spoke to her and it sounded like he was giving orders. The call was short and when N'Jobu touched his beads again, his face looked determined.

"Klaue will be in Wakanda. Next week."

His eyes held Califia's and she felt a rush of adrenaline. They would leave for Malta soon.

"We're leaving?" Erik asked.

N'Jobu touched Erik's shoulder.

"Soon enough. JaJa—"

"Okay…okay, Baba. I won't go to the march."

Califia gave a sigh of relief. She couldn't focus on the work of organizing if she had to battle her son too.

"Thank you," Califia said to her son.

N'Jobu hugged Erik and pulled Califia in close too.

"Hey, we're ready to eat if you guys want to join us."

Bakari's voice rang out behind the bedroom door.

"Here we come," Califia said.

They walked out as a solid unit and enjoyed plates of steak and rice with the other organizers.

Soliel designed a mock-up of the protest route on her laptop and N'Jobu kept his eyes on Califia the rest of the night. They allowed Erik to stay among the adults and she was glad that he accepted not participating. She kept peeking out of the window with Aunjanue.

The undercover police were still lingering.

Soliel gathered the activists back into the living room and had three of them stand before the group wearing black coverings over their mouths and white paper pinned to their chests with black target rings painted on it.

"Lia always said we will always be a target if we don't speak out. This is what some of us will be wearing to the march. What do you all think?" Soliel said.

The others nodded their approval and someone suggested holding their hands bound in front of them to show that they were still treated like slaves.

It was going to be a long night.

She kissed Erik on his forehead and held him closer to her body.

Chapter 29 HERE.

###

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@thewaysheis—awkward

[trillian-anders]

amor de mi vida - 1939

pairing: bucky barnes x latinx!reader

warnings: slow burn, racism, prejudice, fluff, language barrier

word count: 5805

description: Bucky Barnes is a sweet young Brooklyn boy, just on the cusp of manhood, a hopeless romantic that falls in love with almost every girl he sees. when he sets his eyes on a young girl fresh off the boat from Cuba he finds out how hard love can really be.

for @cake-writes​ 1940s challenge.

Bucky loved Brooklyn, he loved everything about the borough. The Dodgers, the noise, the diner down the street from his house that made the best cherry pie he’d ever had, he even loved the way it smelled. The salty breeze from the that rolled in every morning and evening, the Statue of Liberty lighting up the bay. He was a Brooklyn boy through and through, even if his birth certificate said he was born in Shelbyville, Indiana. His parents moved here before he could even remember, Brooklyn was all he knew. 

He was on the cusp of manhood. The final years of his schooling before he was ready to take on whatever life threw his way. He didn’t have any expectations. To him it was so simple. Take up more hours in his Dad’s shop, find a beautiful dame, get married, pop out a few kids, have everything his parents ever had and everything they ever wanted for him. He felt so young, full of hope and ready. Ready for anything.

Munching on crackerjack he sat, feet swinging on the edge of pier five, his best friend sketching idly next to him. He tried to ignore the younger boy’s rattling breaths. He was fine, those breaths were normal for him, that’s all that mattered. Steve had recently had a pretty bad scare, when his Ma came down with TB and passed there had been a big concern that the sickly boy had caught it from her. There was quarantine and Bucky thought he was going to lose the best friend he’d ever had. 

Thankfully that wasn’t the case. 

The pair sat in a comfortable silence, the kind that comes with years of companionship. Just the company soothing them from their day. A test in math, the girl that just broke Bucky’s heart, another girl that wouldn’t pay Steve any mind. Bucky’s eyes drifted to his friend’s sketchpad, the Manhattan skyline taking shape slowly but steadily. 

It was warm, the beginning of summer. The switch from wearing sweater vests to short sleeve button downs, wool socks traded in for more breathable cotton. Bucky leaned back on his hands, feet swaying slightly over the edge of the dock watching the ship moving slowly in the water towards Ellis Island. 

“I wonder what it must be like,” Bucky said, “To leave your entire life behind and go somewhere completely new.” Steve’s pencil stopped on the page, looking over at his friend. 

“Must be scary,” Steve started, “Not knowing anyone I mean.” Bucky hummed in agreement. 

“Ma said she’s gonna make meatloaf tonight,” Bucky stood from the dock, helping his friend to his feet, “You’re comin’ to dinner right?” Steve nodded, stuffing his sketchbook into his bag. “Good, cause you really didn’t have a choice there pal.” Bucky’s arm swung over Steve’s shoulder, dragging the smaller boy behind him as they hopped into the junker that was Bucky’s pride and joy. 

The 11 year old Ruxton he’d found rusting away in a scrap yard last year, totaled in an accident and discarded. He’d only recently gotten it back up and running, but it was still a terrifying ride. He dared not take it farther than a few city blocks, but it was still nice to drive. They pretended like they were rich folk above it all, driving the recently painted sleek black car down the streets, wind in their hair only because the windows wouldn’t roll up. 

The next day Bucky fell in love again, and he couldn’t even remember who broke his heart yesterday. Dorothy Seeley. A beautiful blonde dame, bright green eyes, legs for days. She was in his english class. He could see a future with her, something Bucky always wanted. He could imagine loving her forever, her pretty pink mouth pressed against his in his car because he had one, and that made him special. Better than the other boys. 

He was sweet on her, doting, for days. A trip to Coney Island that left him broke, the drive-in, burgers and fries at the diner by his house. Steve in tow. Always. 

He was leant up against the side of his car, Dot pressed against his chest as they exchanged a soft kiss. “I’ll see you tomorrow?” He asked. She grinned, lips parting like petals around shiny white teeth. 

“You’re keen on me Barnes.” Holding his hand and stepping back, her skirt twirled around her legs. 

“Is that a bad thing?” He grinned, his own pearly whites showing. He could feel Steve rolling his eyes from inside the car. 

“Tomorrow then,” He pulled Dot in close to land one more cheeky kiss before she was skipping up the steps into her family’s brownstone, and out of sight. Bucky’s grinning face turned around to look at his friend, slipping into the driver’s seat. 

“I’m gonna marry that girl.” He said.

Steve rolled his eyes, “You say that about every girl.” 

“I mean it this time,” Bucky assured him, pulling the car away from the curb. 

Steve laughed, “You say that too.” 

Bucky’s family wasn’t rich, but they weren’t poor either. His Ma would always say, “We have just what we need.” And it was true. 

Bucky was the eldest of five, the only boy with four younger sisters, each spaced two years apart. The youngest being his favorite, but he’d never tell the other three. 

Rebecca Barnes was his partner in crime, the sweet girl looked most like him, at only nine years old she was a spitfire. Full of attitude and sass, almost always covered in dirt, and easily conned both him and his father into giving her penny candy on almost a daily basis. 

Susan Barnes was eleven and extremely smart, she’d often help her older siblings with their homework, studying. She almost always had a book in her hand and could recite Shakespeare off the top of her head. 

Ruth Barnes was thirteen and hated everyone and everything. It was just that age. She was experimenting with makeup, almost always on the telephone, and generally didn’t speak to anyone in the house unless she absolutely had to. Talking to her lately was just about as hard as pulling teeth. 

Lastly was Virgina Barnes, she was fifteen and much to her father and brother’s chagrin was a little boy crazy. Bucky was sure she was dating someone she wouldn’t bring around to the house, he’d often spy on her in the halls of their high school trying to catch a glimpse of who the punk was that had necked with his sister, but so far she’s been sneaky and kept out of sight. 

His parents were still very much in love. The two were always touching, kissing, slow dancing to music that wasn’t there. It was everything Bucky ever wanted. His mom, Winnie Barnes, came from money. Old money and his grandpa every rare time they saw him would be sure to make it known that he didn’t like their father. 

George Barnes had grown up pretty poor, very wrong side of the tracks. He’d fought in the War to End All Wars in the 107th, met Winnie Barnes when she was a nurse. Real classic story. One Bucky loved hearing. 

His Pops owned his own shop now, one of the only mechanics in Brooklyn which kept him pretty busy, but provided well for his family if their four bedroom brownstone was anything to say for it. Bucky parked the car outside the garage, men laughing, radio playing, he could see his Pops sitting in the back office, pencil behind his ear, looking over the books. 

“You gonna be good from here pal?” Bucky asked Steve. The smaller boy nodded, 

“Probably gonna walk around for a bit before going home.” Bucky wished Steve would take up his offer and come stay with them for a while, but the kid was too proud for that. He was currently living alone in a small apartment, selling funnies to the local paper. 

“If you need anything I’ll be here until seven probably, then I’ll be home.” Steve nodded, backing away.

“I’ll see ya tomorrow.” With a wave he was off, disappearing down the street. 

Bucky worked hard. As he was expected to. He was his father’s only son and George Barnes put a lot of pressure on his son to be a good example, not only for his sisters, but for the other guys that worked for him. He worked, and he worked hard. His hands had become calloused over the years, having worked in the shop since he was old enough to hold a wrench, he knew almost everything there was to know about fixing cars. 

His father believed that a good red blooded American man should know how to do three things. Auto work, Wood work, and wife’s work. He should be able to fix a car, fix the house, and keep his wife as happy as possible. It was ingrained into him since he could barely see over the hood, his father’s words ringing in his ears. 

“Keep your wife happy, the roof strong, and dinner on the table.” He said, “As long as you do those three things you’ll have a good life.” A life like his. Despite the hollowness of his eyes sometimes and the extra beers before bed. 

“It was the war”, his mother told him once, “Sometimes it just catches up to him.” Bucky wouldn’t understand that, not for a while. 

“Jaime.” His pops called him into the back office, a wrapped parcel on his desk. “Run this down to the post for me woulda? They sent us the wrong part, sendin’ it back for an exchange.” James nodded, 

“You need anythin’ else while I’m out?” His father’s eyes, blue like his, peeked up over the lenses of his readers, 

“Grab me a soda pop woulda?” A couple of cents placed into his hand and he was out the door, walking down the sunny streets to the post office three blocks away. There was a corner store next to it where he’d pop in and get his Dad a cola with enough change to grab himself one as well and he’d be on his way back. That was until his eyes landed on the girl peering into the store window in front of the said corner store, brows pulled tight in confusion. 

Her skin was beautifully caramel, dark hair and lips painted red. She was in a soft linen dress, buttoned front, low heels, roses stitched onto the sides. She was a sight. One that made his heart stop in his chest and his mouth drop open wide enough to collect flies. Her dark brown eyes and perfectly curled hair made his hands tremble. He rubbed his sweaty palms on his uniform pants, looking at himself in a car’s side mirror and fixing his hair before approaching. 

“Whatcha lookin’ for doll?” The young woman jumped, turning to face him, perfectly plucked brows raised in alarm. “Sorry,” He laughed nervously, scratching the back of his head. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.” He saw the girl take a step back, he was blowing it. “It’s just not everyday that you see such a beautiful dame such as yourself.” You worried your bottom lip. “Sorry,” He took a step back from you. “That was corny I just…”

“Lo siento,” [I’m sorry] You said, “No puedo hablar ingles.” [I can’t speak english] His face dropped slightly and he took a step back. He didn’t know what to do here, he looked at the window and back at you. 

“James.” He said, pointing to himself, then pointing a finger at you, 

“Y/N.” You replied, figuring out what he meant. He pointed to the store. 

“Store?” You looked at him confused. “Uhm…” He put his hands on his hips and looked inside, holding a hand out to you and pointed at the sign of the shop, “Store?” You looked at him skeptically, taking his hand and letting him bring you inside. He’d walked to the ice box in the back, pulling out two cola’s as he watched you pick up a loaf of bread, looking at him nervously. He tried to smile at you reassuringly but you didn’t seem to feel comfortable still. He took the change out of his pocket, counting out the coins. He had just enough for his two cola’s, not room for much else as he walked you to the counter. If he’d had enough he woulda bought the bread too. 

The shop keep seemed to glare at you, which confused Bucky. He looked between the guy at the counter and back to you behind him, placing his two colas on the counter, having the guy ring him up. “Have a good day,” the man told him, Bucky watched as the girl placed the bread loaf on the counter. The man glared at her, not moving. “No sale.” He said. 

“What do you mean?” Bucky asked, you looked between the two nervously. “Here.” Bucky took the coins from her open palm, and tried to hand them to the shop keep. He glared back at Bucky. 

“We don’t take their money here.” He said sternly, pointing to the sign behind him. Bucky had been in this shop almost five times a week and never noticed that sign before. ‘WHITES ONLY’ in big bold lettering. Bucky looked back at you and while he figured you couldn’t understand english you at least could feel that you weren’t wanted here. Suddenly your nervousness made sense. 

“It’s my money then.” Bucky said, slapping the coins on the counter. “Let her buy the damn bread.” The shop keep stood from the stool he was resting on, leaning over the counter.

“Get out.” By the time Bucky realized he was talking to you and not him you’d quickly walked out of the store and back onto the street. He’d quickly grabbed the loaf of bread, coins still discarded on the counter and followed you out. 

“Wait! Y/N!” He called, catching up to you. “Here.” You looked at him, brows pulled skeptically together before taking the bread from his hands. “I’m sorry about that guy, he’s usually so nice I-” Bucky bit his lip, he was unsure what else to say. Nothing he said made any sense to you anyway. He couldn’t say anything regardless as you gave him a funny look and slowly walked away from him, turning your eyes away as you crossed the street. 

He stared after you longingly and confused. He’d heard people speak spanish in passing. Guys that worked in the factories near the docks. He wasn’t ignorant to that. He just never really gave much thought to them. They were in a different world than him, it didn’t matter as much. But you’d struck him. The way the shopkeep had treated you struck him. He’d never seen a pretty girl treated that way. Usually guys would bend over backwards for a girl like you, but to be fair, Bucky never had a reason to think about skin color. 

It’s not that he didn’t see it, he just never cared. He’d heard whispers of people being irritated at the growing hispanic population in Sunset Park, but never really gave it much thought. It never crossed his mind. He had other things to worry about at the time, a girl to love, a friend to protect. 

The sweating colas in his hands reminded him that he had somewhere to be, and you’d long since disappeared around a corner. Gone from his sight. He was quiet that night at dinner, suspiciously so.

He didn’t see you again for three months, the end of summer drawing near, the days just beginning to get shorter. He’d been walking around Sunset Park occasionally, looking for you, under the guise of a stroll. Steve thought it was strange, his newfound obsession. 

“I’m gonna marry her Stevie.” He’d said. He knows he’s said it before, 

“I mean it this time.” He said that before too. “But you didn’t see her Stevie.” He grinned as the pair walked around the neighborhood for the first time, “She was more beautiful than Aphrodite.” Steve rolled his eyes. He wasn’t sure how many times he’s walked this neighborhood looking for you, but he told himself he’d do it every night if it meant he’d find you again. 

School had ended, he was working full time at his Dad’s shop now, little time for extracurriculars, the dance halls missed him, his favorite waitress asked Steve about him all the time, and he hadn’t seen a movie since the last time he went with Dot almost 3 months ago. All of his energy had gone into working and on his days off with Steve, looking for you. He thumbed through the spanish phrasebook he’d spent a pretty penny on, pages dogeared with things he might try to say to you when he saw you next. 

If it ever happened. 

He was beginning to lose hope, truth be told. Maybe you’d moved away. Maybe you were in the neighborhood visiting someone and didn’t even live nearby. It wasn’t until he’d taken a street down in the factory district on his day off that he saw you again. 

You were just as beautiful as he’d remembered, hair pinned under a cap, lips painted red, you were wearing another linen dress, flowers stitched around the skirt and on the lapels. You were leaving a dress factory. That’s where you must’ve worked. He watched you twirl in your dress, laughing at something another woman had said to you. The gaggle of them speaking such quick Spanish that the few phrases he studied didn’t even make sense to him anymore. 

He swore his heart stopped in his chest when your eyes met his, a firm blush spreading across your cheeks. Bucky, the hopeless romantic that he is, would tell everyone that time stood still. There you were, he would say, his future wife. Pin Curled and sweet, dark lashes and rose petal lips waiting for your first kiss. Like you’d been made for him. He would say that in that moment the stars aligned and brought you to him. 

He was a sucker like that. 

Steve had stopped a few steps ahead of him, noticing that his friend wasn’t following, the group of girls you had been walking out with also stopped, looking between the two of you and giggling at the sight. One girl pushed you forward and you turned to glare at her saying something to her that Bucky couldn’t hear. He took one step forward and then another, thumbing through the pages of the book and swallowing heavily, hands sweating. He’d never been this nervous talking to a dame before, never. He raised the book to his eyesight, glancing at you before looking back down at the page, 

“Lo siento,” [I’m sorry] He said in just about the worst pronunciation you’d ever heard, the girls behind you giggled and you shushed them with a perfectly red lacquered hand, he smiled nervously continuing, “Eres tan hermosa,” [You are so beautiful] He flipped a couple more pages not being able to find what he wanted to say next when you gently grasped his wrist, smiling at him. 

“James.” His heart almost dropped out of his ass as you said his name for the first time, “Hello.” Very heavily accented and you bit your lip with insecurity. 

“Hi.” He breathed. He looked back down at his book, finding what he wanted to say next, “Te estaba buscando.” [I was looking for you.] His pronunciation was horrible and he knew it. But the thought was still there. 

“Uhm…” You looked at him nervously, the girls were sure to gossip about this later. This white man who was holding a Spanish phrase book telling you about how you were beautiful and he was looking for you. 

“Y/N!” Came a yell, Bucky watched an older woman approach, she looked so similar it had to be your mother, “Que haces con este hombre blanco?” [What are you doing with this white man?] The older woman gripped your arm, looking at the girls behind you, “Veta a casa.” [Go home.] She spat to the other girls, glaring back at Bucky as you looked at him apologetically. He caught a few words. He knew casa meant home, he also knew blanco meant white. But he was unsure about the rest. 

Steve stood awkwardly off to his side, a silent witness to this strange situation. “That’s her I’m guessing?” The little shit grinned next to him. Bucky turned to his friend, matching his grin. 

“Yeah.” His heart was still racing, “And now I know where she works.” He looked up at the tall factory building next to them. 

He looked around the flower shop, the various blooms staring back at him. He wasn’t sure what to get, what you would like. Roses were maybe too presumptuous and a little too expensive “Can I help you?” The older woman asked him. She was wearing an apron over her plaid dress, hands brown with dirt. Bucky smiled softly, 

“I’m a little lost here,” He admitted. The older woman smiled, 

“What’s she like?” He stuffed his hands in his pockets looking over the blooms. 

“Perfect?” He offered, laughing, “But beautiful, sweet…” His eyes scanned the arrangements around him, “I don’t have a whole lot to spare, but…” The older woman nodded, understanding. 

“You could always do a single stem,” The older woman plucked a beautiful red flower from an arrangement, “If she’s as sweet as you believe, she’d be more than happy with it.” A peony. Vibrant red. Like your lipstick.  

He waited outside the factory for you. Hair slicked down, he wore a tie, his work uniform stuffed in the backseat of his car. He hoped you wouldn’t notice that he smelled a little like motor oil under his cologne. He barely made it before the door opened and his palms immediately sweat in a Pavlovian response. The anticipation of seeing you. 

Your dress was yellow this time. Stunning against you skin, yellow and white plaid. He wondered if every color was made just for you. Your eyes immediately met his this time, a shy smile spreading across your face. He timidly stepped a foot closer, 

“Hello, James.” In your beautiful broken English. 

“Hola.” Your nose crinkled when you smiled. “Oh, here.” The vibrant red peony being handed over to you, you twirled the stem between your fingers as he pulled the well worn book from his pocket. “Uhm.. Te ves hermosa hoy.” [You look beautiful today] He looked at you for your response, a red dusting on your cheeks as you held the flower up to your nose. 

“Es guapo.” [He’s handsome.] One of the girls teased you to which your eyes widened and you turned to glare at her, shooing her away. 

“Has estado practicando?” [Have you been practicing?] You bit your lip knowing he probably wouldn’t understand that. “How,” You started, “are you?” He grinned, he could respond to this one. Flipping back,

“Muy bien, como estas?” [Very well, how are you?] It took him a bit too long to say four words, but the smile on your face was worth it. 

“Bien,” [Good.] You replied. 

“Away!” You mother was back, standing in front of you this time, looking into Bucky’s face. His cheeks flushed. “Go away!” Your mother’s english was worse than yours, the words coming out thick and accented he almost didn’t understand. “Mantente alejado de ella.”[Stay away from her] She was scary, your mother. He looked to you for help, fingers nervously moving against the spine of the book in his hand. 

“El es una madre inofensiva.” [Mama, he’s harmless.] You explained, but your mother’s face turned red, turning fully to you she said, 

“Él te arruinárá.” [He will ruin you.] Her voice was tense and Bucky couldn’t begin to understand what she said as he watched her drag you away again. But it was fine, he was back tomorrow to try again. 

And he tried again, and again. It became a constant. He was spending $1.30 every week on flowers, considering he was only making $25 a week working for his Dad it was a good chunk of his money. He’d show up with a red peony for you every day. The girls, he knew, were making fun of him but the five minutes in between when you’d get off of work and when your mother would get off of work were the best part of his entire day. He was showing up even on his days off, rain or shine. 

Today he felt victorious, your mother hadn’t yelled at him. She simply looked at him and raised an eyebrow to you saying, “El no se rinde.” [He doesn’t give up.] With a smile and laugh. She pulled you away a little more gently that time, taking a look back at him and shaking her head. 

“You know it’s going to be hard,” Steve said to him once. 

“What do you mean?” Bucky bit into the burger Frankie, the waitress, had just put in front of him. His favorite burger at his favorite diner, he’d have to bring you here. Maybe the two of you could split a milkshake. He wondered if you’d ever had a chocolate malt. Steve looked at him incredulously,

“I can’t tell if you’re dumb or blind.” He’d slipped a picture from his sketchpad over, a picture he’d sketched of you for Bucky. His heart fluttered at the sight, tracing your jaw. 

“She’s it for me pal, nothing complicated about it.” The temperature had just begun to drop, a hot August ending. Fall was sweeping through the city, Steve was just starting art school, Bucky was pulling overtime at the shop saving up cash to move out and start his life. Hopefully with you. 

“Buck.” Steve sighed, “You know I have no problem with it, but…your parents, literally almost everyone else… it’s illegal.” Bucky paused, a few fries in his mouth. 

“It’s not technically illegal in New York.” He knows, he looked it up. “Just not…”

“Not approved of.” Steve finished for him. He sighed heavily, sitting back in his seat. “It’s gonna be difficult, pal.” Bucky shook his head, 

“Nuthin’ could be difficult when I have her,” A sip of soda, “Nuthin.”

The next day when Bucky showed up with his flower your Mother was already waiting for him when he pulled his car up. He finally got the windows working. She knocked heavily on his window before he’d even pulled the keys out. 

“Come.” She said, grabbing his arm and pulling him over to a man, a scary one by Bucky’s count, who was standing where he’d usually wait for you. “Preguntarle.” [Ask him.]

The man was hispanic, but not old enough to be your father. Your brother maybe? “She wants to know what you keep doing here.” The guy’s English was perfect, his voice gruff and accented, but perfect. 

“I’m…” Bucky started nervously, “I want to date her daughter.” The guy scoffed, making Bucky feel like an idiot standing there with his one flower. 

“Él quiere llevarla a una cita.” [He wants to take her out on a date] The older woman scoffed as well. He smiled sheepishly. She looked at Bucky, studying him for a moment, “Dile que Y/N no es un juguete.” [Tell him Y/N is not a toy.]

“She’s not a toy,” The man said, he looked at the older woman before continuing on his own, “Look, Y/N is beautiful, don’t get me wrong, but it’s never going to happen. Your kind is not allowed with our kind.” Bucky felt anger rising in his chest. The man lay a hand on his shoulder heavily, “I’m saying this honestly, if you care about Y/N in any way you’ll back off. You’ll ruin her reputation with our people if you keep showing up here. The women are already gossiping about you showing up here everyday.” 

“This is about her being Spanish?” Bucky asked. 

“She’s Cuban.” The guy explained, “You are privileged enough to pretend not to care about race, but this is only an obsession, you’ll ruin her reputation and leave her when you find someone of your own kind to be with.” The man’s grip on Bucky’s shoulder tightened, a warning. “Get back in your car and don’t come back. If you do, our conversation may not be so pleasant next time.” 

Bucky looked to the older woman with pleading eyes, pulling the Spanish phrases book from his pocket, but before he could find anything the man across from him snatched it from his fingertips. “I said go.” 

Bucky wanted to pummel him. He wanted to punch the guy right in the jaw, but he didn’t. He’d find another way to see you. He’d figure something out. The flower in his hand dropped to his passenger seat as he sat heavily behind the wheel, staring out at the doors to the factory. You walked out just in time to see him drive away. 

Nueva York. That’s what your Mother called it. A new start in America where anything could happen. Your belly had never been that full before. There were no jobs in Havana. Less and less by the day. Your nimble fingers had always been useful as a seamstress, but the less money people have, the less money they had to spend paying someone else to fix their hemlines for them. Your Mother and you moved here in the beginning of the summer, hopeful for a new life.

And you found one. 

The neighborhood of Sunset Park had a growing Hispanic community the two of you had quickly nestled yourselves in. A small one bedroom apartment became your home. The two of you not needing much space. You’d quickly found factory work through a neighbor. Not exactly a seamstress, but you did spend 12 hours a day hunched over a sewing machine. Pennies saved and eventually you’d have enough money to live comfortably. You might even have enough to get a new bolt of fabric to make you and your Mother some dresses. Maybe. 

The only thing you had to look forward to every day were the few minutes watching a handsome man trip over his words, speaking broken Spanish to you and flipping, very endearingly through a book trying to have a conversation. 

It’d gotten a little easier lately, a boy in your apartment building helping you and your Mother learn English and with James practicing his Spanish you’d been getting a little farther past ‘how are you’s in the past week or so. The growing collection of dried flowers in your closet was becoming alarming, the row of dead peonies hanging by their stems, but you didn’t have the heart to throw them away. 

That’s maybe why it hurt so much when you’d exited work today, waiting to see the blue eyed boy that made your heart flutter in your chest, and saw him driving away. Your Mother and Mateo staring at the back of it. “Qué hiciste?” [What did you do?] Neither of them answered you, sharing a look. 

Your eyes met the back of the fading car once more, longing in your chest, eyes prickling with tears. “Vamos,” [Come on] Your Mother called, beginning down the street. You sent a steely glare to Mateo, turning to follow her away, his large footsteps following. 

When you first came to America almost five months ago both you and your Mother were enamored with Mateo. She’d teased that you’d found a husband the first day you’d moved in, but the more time you spent with him the less you liked him. He worked a taxi service, one his family started. They had a good amount of money, promising, is what your Mother had said. He could provide for you. But he was pompous. He thought because he had a little bit of money he was running the whole block. His ego soured your opinion of him. If it wasn’t for the fact he was helping you learn English you would have closed your door to him a long time ago. 

Your Mother didn’t want this life for you. Truthfully she’d brought you to America so you’d marry, find a nice Cuban boy and settle down. Let him provide for you. Take care of her grandchildren God willing. It wasn’t as though you didn’t want that life. You wanted to marry, you wanted love. You loved children and always wanted to be a mother but the most important thing to you was love. 

When James approached you that first time you were confused, yes. You hadn’t understood a word he said. But he was handsome and he made you feel butterflies in your stomach. You felt as though his blue eyes could drown you, like a siren’s call, you’d lost yourself in them. But you’d found yourself embarrassed at the counter when the man was angrily talking to him. James was animatedly arguing back, in words you didn’t understand. Taking the eight cents you’d had for bread and slamming them on the counter. 

You’d been surprised when he’d actually left successfully with the bread, you had been peering for the sign the shopkeeper had pointed to before he’d actually drug you in the store, and your stomach dropped when you’d found it while inside. You should have known you weren’t welcome in that part of town. A little too far outside of your little barrio. 

You’d like to think it was fate, God ordained. You’d thought about it again when you saw him outside the factory for the first time. He was nervous, but so were you. You thought it was cute, him flipping through the phrasebook trying to figure out what to say. It warms your heart and every day since you couldn’t wait to see him. He’d even ignored your Mother and kept coming. The collection of red peonies growing by the day. 

It broke your heart to see his car driving away from you. And you knew exactly who was to blame. 

“No tenes derecho.” [You have no right] You stomped up the stairs next to Mateo. “Deberías mantener tu nariz fuera de oso.” [You should keep your nose out of it]

“Te quiero, Y/N.” [I love you Y/N] His arm gently grabbed your hand, “Please don’t do this.” Your jaw clenched, heart still aching from the sight of James driving away from you. 

“I... hate... you.” His hand let go of yours, dropping his to his side as you returned walking up the stairs and entered your apartment, slamming the door behind you. 

Germany had just invaded Poland.

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taglist //  @corneliabarnes​ @bookish-shristi​ @saturnki​ @jennmurawski13​ @geeksareunique​ @albinotigerpython​ @cake-writes​ @iheartsebastianstan​ @000bananaclip000​

[elfrootaddict]

HERALD OF ANDRASTE - Chapter 2/4

DESCRIPTION: El'lana’s entire world is turned upside down when she, a proud Dalish elf, is bestowed the title “Herald of Andraste”.

SERIES: Halla & Wolf

VOLUME: 3

It’s been just over four days since the prisoner’s attempt of closing the Breach, and Solas did not expect her to survive. As she lay unconscious for hours, then a day, and then into several nights, it was only a matter of time before she would be declared dead. 

She may have survived the Conclave by accidentally entering the Fade, Solas thought to himself, but to survive closing the Breach with her magical limitations? Impossible. 

Just as Solas had theorised, the mark had stopped spreading like the Breach, which helped solidify his value to Cassandra. Seems her desire to see him executed will have to wait. 

When nearing the end of the third day, Solas was preparing the little belongings he had in anticipation of the prisoner’s demise, so that he could reconnect with his agents as soon as possible.

However, not too long after making the decision to leave did he notice a lot of stirring and commotion amongst the people of Haven. Suddenly everyone started rushing to witness something. Or someone. 

While keeping his distance, Solas witnessed Lana awkwardly shuffle through the gawking crowd of people. 

This prisoner somehow managed to defy all reasonable odds. Again?

Only when Lana disappeared into the Chantry, did Solas retreat back to his cabin to reconsider his strategy. A few thoughts had come to mind but he quickly settled on one; he was going to leave regardless, and have one of his agents spy on the prisoner for him. His time is too valuable, and he was not going to waste it here, especially when his spies could do the work for him just fine. 

Also, he was not comfortable being the only apostate amongst so many unrestrained Chantry forces. Rumours of the rebel mages causing the Breach was growing, and he wanted no part in it.

Once Solas was packed and ready to leave, he opened his cabin to once again find the people of Haven gathering to witness something else. This time, it was in front of the Chantry. 

With his curiosity peaked, Solas decided to quickly see what the commotion was all about before he left. 

As Solas reached a perfectly concealed spot, he patiently watched and waited as Cassandra, Liliana, Josephine Montyliet and Commander Cullan stood ideally by in a huddle in front of the slowly growing crowd. After a few moments of nothing, Solas decided it was probably no more than a public service announcement of sorts for the people of Haven.

As Solas was about to turn to leave, he suddenly saw the prisoner step out of the Chantry. With genuine shock slapped across his face, Solas witnessed Cassandra gesture for the prisoner to stand with them in formation, as an equal, and announce the rebirth of the Inquisition. 

As momentous as the occasion was to witness, especially considering it was current and not a memory in the Fade, Solas could not help but bewilderedly stare at the prisoner as she stood front-in-center of the ceremony.

She is clearly no longer their prisoner. No, she has become someone important. Someone, I need to keep an eye on myself.  

***

It is now the fourth day, in the late afternoon, and the people of Haven are starting to prepare for the evening meals. Solas is making his way back to his cabin when he passes Varric, who is warming himself by a large fire, and regards him with a friendly nod.

“Hey, Chuckles! Hold on a moment.”

Solas stops to turn around, “Yes, Master Tethras?”

“Please, Varric is fine. I’m not one for fancy titles.”

“My apologies, Varric. What can I do for you?” and with a subtle, polite gesture from Solas, the two men continue walking together. 

“Look, I don’t like telling people what to do just as much as the next guy, but I can tell when someone needs company.”

Solas looks down at the dwarf slightly puzzled, “I hope you don’t mind me saying, but I am in no need of any company?”

“I wasn’t talking about you.”

The two men walk up a small flight of steps which leads to a large, open space with cabins situated on either side, and another directly in front. 

“Who, then?”

Varric folds his arms across his chest, and cocks his head over his left shoulder and whispers, “Lana.”

Solas leans to the side and notices a pair of two bare feet, wrapped in thin, makeshift leather strips, hiding behind the cabin opposite to his.

“What does that have to do with me?”

Varric sighs loudly, “I understand you like being alone, but our little Dalish there? From what I could gather, this is probably the first time in her life that she’s been away from her clan.”

Solas becomes visibly uncomfortable at Varric’s insinuation, “And you think because I’m an elf, that I would be able to console her?”

Throwing his hands up and shaking his head, “Is that so hard to understand? Sure, there is Minaeve but she’s too, you know, Andrastian. Lana would perhaps enjoy talking to someone less, Chantry?” Varric sighs and crosses his arms. “Look, just go talk to her will you? Maker’s breath, she won’t bite!” and walks away, leaving Solas with a decision. 

All Solas wanted to do was to get out of the blasted Fereldan cold. He looks down at his toes, sighs, and realises they are going to have to stay frozen a little while longer. 

As Solas begins his quiet approach, he notice’s Lana sitting on a loose fur rug, knees close to her chest, and with her back against the cabin as she softly hums a melody to herself. Solas also notices an ink pot beside her, and then sees her slowly guiding the quill on some parchment as she draws a pair of eyes.

As Solas’s shadow casts down on Lana, she looks up from her sketch and immediately squeals from fright, causing Solas’s entire body to subtly jolt as he tries not to squeal in return. 

That would be entirely unbecoming. 

Lana brings her hand up to block the sun’s rays, her eyes trying to adjust to the silhouette towering above her. Soon small details begin to reveal themselves, and Lana eventually recognises that it’s Solas. 

Taking in a deep breath of relief, Lana chuckles loudly, “Ir abelas, lethallin! I wasn’t expecting anybody to find me here.”

After quietly composing himself, Solas calmly responds, “Apologies. It seems I have frightened you. I should have announced my presence sooner.” 

Lana removes her gaze and looks back at her sketch, “Oh no, don’t worry. I just startle easily. Not a very good trait for someone to have in my position, I suppose.” and turns to look back up at Solas with a gentle, innocent smile.

“Do not bother yourself with their perceptions of you. For it is your mark they are primarily concerned about, after all.”

Lana sighs, “Yes, I suppose you’re right. Is there something you needed, Solas? Is Cassandra looking for me?”

“No, Cassandra does not need you. If it’s no trouble, would you mind if I joined you?”

Lana’s smile widens, and she happily moves her ink pot out the way as she shuffles herself over to make more room on the rug, “No of course not, you can sit here.” and taps her hand on the empty space. 

Solas places his staff against the cabin and sits down next to her. With his legs crossed, Solas turns to regard Lana, “So, the Chosen of Andraste, a blessed hero sent to save us all.”

Lana’s shoulder length, silver hair swoops in a flick as she looks around to ensure nobody but Solas can hear her, “Banal! These shems are crazy. I’m not,” forming air quotations. “The ‘Herald of Andraste’ and I have no interest in being anyone’s hero,” and she leans back against the cabin to continue drawing. “All I want is to find a way to seal this Breach. Ghilas ma vhenas.”

Solas releases a quiet sigh under his breath, “Pragmatic, but ultimately irrelevant,” and he too, looks down at Lana’s sketch. “Who is that?”

“Keeper Deshanna,” answers Lana proudly and turns to look up at Solas. Based on his subtly confused expression, she realises she needs to explain. “She’s the Keeper of my clan.”

Solas offers a subtle nod in response and quietly critiques her skills, and determines she is quite talented, “Why are you drawing your Keeper?”

Lana rests her quill on the parchment and sighs, “I… well... you might think it strange. But I wanted to draw the faces of my family back home. I don’t-” 

Lana turns away from Solas and clears her throat. “I don’t know when I’ll see them again, and I want something to look back on while I’m here,” and turns back at the parchment. “Something to help me remember their faces,”

Lana quickly wipes away at an escaped tear and releases a soft, embarrassed laugh, “Ir abelas. You don’t have to sit with me. I actually don’t mind my own company.”

“Neither, do I,” murmurs Solas. “The company of others can be quite trying.”

Except for some Spirits.

Lana’s face immediately bursts into a happier demeanour, “Me, too! Ugh, especially with shems! I don’t know how to act around them. I don’t have a lot of experience, obviously.”

Solas is surprised to find Lana using the word ‘shem’ without a hint of disgust as one would expect from a Dalish elf. The only thing Solas finds the Dalish and city elves have in common, are their constant derogatory tones whenever they say “shem”. However, Lana appears to be saying it without contempt and Solas finds himself curious over why that is.

Offering only another subtle nod as a response, Solas decides to keep their conversation going a little while longer, "If you don’t mind me asking, I heard you humming before, and I’ve never heard such a beautiful melody in any of my travels before. Is it of your own making?”

“Oh, you heard that? No, I didn’t create it. It's actually a very old Dalish song parents sing to their little ones before bed. It’s called Mir Da’len Somniar,” and turns warmly to admire her sketch. “The Keeper always sang it to me.”

“Why not your own parents?”

Lana’s face suddenly stiffens as she falls quiet, and Solas immediately regrets having asked the question, “I’m sorry. I seemed to have upset you. Forget I asked.”

Lana continues sketching and eventually answers, “For a time they did, but they died. A long time ago. The Keeper raised me as her own.” and with that, Lana continues shaping the eyes of the Keeper.

With a gentle voice, Solas murmurs, “I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay, you didn’t know.” and Lana finalises the details on the eyes and then begins with the eyebrows. 

With their conversation having suddenly reached an immediate halt, with neither one knowing what to say next, Solas decides to talk about the one thing he feels the most comfortable with. The Fade.

While focusing his gaze on the Breach in the sky, Solas unpromptly shares one of his many veracious stories with Lana, “I’ve journeyed deep into the Fade to ancient ruins and battlefields to see the dreams of lost civilizations,” Lana stops to regard him and Solas, still focused on the Breach, doesn’t take notice. “I’ve watched as hosts of spirits clash to reenact the bloody past in ancient wars both famous and forgotten,” he turns to face Lana and is startled to find her gaze already upon him. “You say you don’t want to be a hero but every great war has its heroes. I’m just curious what kind you’ll be?”

Lana ignores the question and instead asks one of her own, “Ruins and battlefields? What do you mean?”

Solas is pleasantly surprised at Lana actually having paid attention, as he expected her to answer his question boldly and ignorantly. Instead, he has unintentionally piqued her curiosity, and suddenly feels a rush of excitement over the fact. 

Solas turns his body slightly towards Lana as he gladly educates, “Any building strong enough to withstand the riggers of time has a history. Every battlefield is steeped in death. Both attract spirits. They press against the Veil, weakening the barrier between our worlds,” Solas turns away, losing himself in his mind's eye. “When I dream in such places, I go deep into the Fade. I can find memories no other living being has ever seen.”

Lana places a light hand on Solas’s shoulder as she cries out in horror, “You fall asleep in the middle of ancient ruins? Isn’t that dangerous?”

Solas takes a quick glance at her hand on his shoulder, and releases a cheeky smile, “I do set wards. And if you leave food out for the giant spiders, they are usually content to live and let live.”

Lana drops her hand and looks away as she contemplates on what Solas has shared with her. Her eyes appear wider than usual as they dart from side-to-side. Then, as she looks back up, Solas holds his breath as he braces himself for her to either disregard or openly mock him for his choice of study.

They always do.

“I’ve never heard of anyone going so far into the Fade before, Solas,” her smile widens with pure, innocent excitement. “That’s extraordinary!”

This has yet to be the most positive response he has ever received. The moment Solas would mention his studies and observations of the Fade, people either politely excuse themselves or openly mock him. They would never ask questions and then openly praise him for his accomplishments.

Solas’s emotions begin to turn as he starts to feel guilty for having such animosity towards Lana before. At a minimum, he expected her to be crude and hostile, just like all the other Dalish people he’s come across. The last thing he thought she would be... is agreeable. If it wasn’t for her vallaslin, he would not associate her as Dalish at all. 

Humbled by Lana’s excitement, Solas smiles, “Thank you. It’s not a common field of study, for obvious reasons. Not so flashy as throwing fire or lightning. The thrill of finding remnants of a thousand-year-old dream? I would not trade it for anything,” Solas pauses, losing himself in his thoughts yet again. Unsure of what to say in light of his sudden silence, Lana awkwardly looks away to observe her sketch. 

“I will stay then,” announces Solas as he breaks the silence between them, causing Lana to face him once again. “At least until the Breach has been closed.”

“You weren’t going to stay?”

“I am an apostate mage surrounded by Chantry forces and unlike you, I do not have a divine mark protecting me,” Solas lowers his voice as he murmurs. “Cassandra has been accommodating, but you understand my caution.”

Lana averts her gaze and thinks about her next few words very carefully, “You came here to help, Solas,” and turns back to look deep into his eyes. “For as long as they care for my opinion, I won’t let them use that against you.”

“And how would you stop them?” he asks smugly.

“However I had to. As a Dalish and First, I will not sit by and let any elf be subjected to shemlen arrogance.”

This time, Solas noticed she said ‘shemlen’ with disgust.

Despite Lana meaning what she said, he still admires her courage, however misguided it may be. Solas knows she holds no real power over the humans should they wish to harm him. Nevertheless, Solas doesn’t want to appear ungrateful towards her display of bravery on his behalf, and answers with a simple polite bow. 

Content with their conversation and his toes practically turned to frostbite, he decides this would be a good time as any to head back to his cabin. 

However, just as he is about to stand up, Lana unexpectedly puts her quill and papers down on the ground, perks herself up as her, and with her overall mood clearly improved she looks at him with her wide, lavender eyes.

More questions?

Elvish to English Translation:

“Ir abelas, lethallin” = I’m sorry, lethallin

“Banal” = Never

“Ghilas ma vhenas” = I want to go home

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4

READ ON AO3

Halla & Wolf Series

[letterboxd]

Touching the Void.

Searching for cinema that soothes? Ella Kemp suggests it could be as simple as looking for a film poster with a white background.

How many weeks has it been? When did any of us last go blindly into a cinema and take a chance on something new? Film-watching in the time of Covid-19 has changed. The immediate and never-ending news of the world is frightening. Is it still, and more than ever, okay for me to sink into movies to alleviate my mood, just for a bit? How is that even possible when the world has come to a standstill?

We are forced to adapt, and it has taken some time for my attention span and emotional capacity to adjust. But I think I might have found a solution, and I have the meticulous list-makers of Letterboxd to thank. It was Izzy’s list of comfort movies that first lit the fuse. Specifically, the second, third and fourth row; films including Billy Elliot, Clueless, School of Rock.

Fifteen stark posters, speaking one truth: We are vulnerable and nervous. What we need is a film poster with a white background to assure us the movie exists entirely to serve and soothe us.

Part of Izzy’s ‘comfort movies’ list.

List-making on Letterboxd has never been more prolific. Pandemic movies, overdue filmography catch-ups, comfort movies galore. Everyone categorizes and logs their watches differently, but Izzy’s pattern speaks to me with an epiphanic answer. I’ve always admired successful color-coding, but now I see its crucial function.

As I scroll for distraction, for something guaranteed to be good (because I cannot and will not be subject to any uncertainty I can avoid), I see the rainbow. The pale blues of Studio Ghibli, Wong Kar-wai’s passionate reds, the pastels of Netflix Original breezy romances. Like some kind of cinematic ikebana, countless Letterboxd members have mastered the art of arranging film posters. There are standouts: the staggering oeuvre that is Gordon’s chromatic roundup of favorite posters; the comprehensive color-graded history of women directors via their best posters, courtesy of Vanessa; and the penchant for beige in the year 2015, as spotted by Letterboxd co-founder Matthew Buchanan.

A selection of Gordon’s favorite movie posters.

But when I see these 300 examples, color-coded by typography and accents by Sera Ash, I recognize that white movie posters are the ones most likely, in this very strange time, to take care of me. I see it in three distinct filmmaking periods: Disney animations from the 1940s and 50s, the video marketing for cult comedies of the 1980s and 90s, and the alternative marketing materials of my favorite films of the 2010s. Each poster is straightforward and inoffensive. It captures the story, but never dares to impress or intimidate beyond basic description.

A 1975 re-release poster for ‘Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs’ (1937).

In 1937, Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs announced the birth of Walt Disney’s feature-length empire. While its original theatrical poster is also mostly white, it is represented on Letterboxd by a 1975 re-release poster depicting a peek through the keyhole: a curved triangle framing Snow White, the dwarves, and the two sides of the jealous queen, against a vivid green forest. In the bottom corner, a castle. To the left, the title—her name in red cursive, theirs in black. These simple images come together to present an elementary summary of the ingredients within. The white frame showcases the seminal animation craft without suggesting the viewer diverts their eye anywhere else.

This technique was common across other animated titles, collected in lists like dantebk’s Disney animated classics. Pinocchio toys with the hyperreal relationships between characters alive and wooden, human and animal—but does so on a plain canvas, so that the magic remains within reach. Dumbo, Bambi, Cinderella, Peter Pan—each follows suit. Whether with the mustard yellow of a circus tent, the faint sketches of grass tufts, the gold dust of an enchanted fairy godmother or the ink blue of a midnight starry sky, these colors (indicative of each defining scene-setter or mood-maker) only pepper a blank background, and so make their significance ever greater with the most sporadic touches.

A selection from dantebk’s list of Disney animated classics.

Live-action knockouts from these decades—films like The Shop Around The Corner and The Red Shoes—embrace painted recreations of their protagonists (Margaret Sullivan and James Stewart as festive lovers in the former, Moira Shearer as a tortured ballerina in the latter) and use the color red as a signifier of romance, against a plain white page, to set the mood. Slashes and splashes of red have been used to create a vibe in genre cinema for many decades—a trend deftly chronicled in this list by Rocks.

As far as we know, the underpinnings of digital photography began in the 1950s, and the first published color digital photograph dates back to 1972, when Michael Francis Tompsett shot a photo of his wife Margaret for the cover of Electronics magazine. Consumers got their hands on the gear in the late 1990s, but movie studios really started to make the most of sharp digital photography and stark white backgrounds for their striking posters from the late 1980s onwards. Because, never mind the multiplex, the video store is where you wanted your comfort fare to stand out in the 1980s and 90s.

Ferris Bueller’s Day Off (1986) and Say Anything… (1989) form a handsome, trend-setting 1980s pair. While the theatrical poster for Cameron Crowe’s Say Anything… deigned to include John Cusack’s co-star, Ione Skye, by the time of the film’s video release, the focus is clearly on pre-High Fidelity Cusack, as proud underachiever Lloyd Dobler, smouldering lopsidedly under the weight of a boombox. It’s the singular image of the film to this day.

Meanwhile, Matthew Broderick as Ferris-slacking-Bueller is making the most of his title activity, arms behind his head, a proud smirk on his face. Nothing else matters except that these charismatic young stars are stepping up to leading-man status. The white background accentuates the star power of these new boys in town, embracing the limelight in one fell swoop.

Star power is everything: beautiful people doing simple things against empty backdrops, because what could be more important than the regularity of symmetrical bone structure, of familiar charm? The trend boomed in the 1990s and 2000s, in films widely embraced by casual moviegoers. The sort who list “watching Netflix” as a Sunday activity on dating profiles and use the Christmas holidays to rewatch comedies they have memorized over dozens of half-attentive viewings (absolutely zero judgement here!).

The vast majority of these films have white posters. Who is your soothing cup of charm: Tom Hanks on a bench, nothing more nothing less, from 1994’s Forrest Gump? Or Heath Ledger, effortlessly cool, leaning on the brown corduroy armchair Julia Stiles sits in for the 10 Things I Hate About You poster from 1999? (The 90s harnessed the increased appeal of having two lookers just sitting and posing against a plain background, as demonstrated in this chilling list by Ashley.)

Ashley’s list of couples posing in front of a white background.

Will Ferrell had been earning his stripes as an actor for years, but he changed the movie comedy game as Buddy the Elf in 2003. There’s plenty of visual humour in Elf, but Ferrell’s coat-stand posture bedecked in festive green velvet and those tights is… enough. A white background lets the ridicule slide, just.

How many Disney series really deserve a whole movie—and one that stands the test of time? Lizzie McGuire, resting on her tiptoes with a swinging suitcase in hand, sells The Lizzie McGuire Movie like no idyllic views of Rome ever could. It’s reaching out to an audience loyal to the character, one who will follow her to the ends of the Earth, or at least to another continent. Hilary Duff could be doing almost anything on this poster and it would achieve the same effect—so long as the white background remains plain enough to keep eagle-eyed fans on the main event at all times.

It’s surprising that the star-making system only let Meryl Streep appear in a tiny box, one of four character tiles, on the poster for The Devil Wears Prada in 2006. But the design here taps into 1940s animated sensibilities, giving prominence to a devilish red Macguffin larger than the humans. It still achieves the same function—a glossy, glamorous design with the accessible sell of a quotable, star-fuelled comedy.

Red may be the color of romance and the devil; it’s also the color of comedy. Exhibit A: the 2007 gross-out comedy Superbad, whose star power—marking the emergence of Jonah Hill and Michael Cera—is used to an opposite and impressive effect on its poster. The awkwardness of these teen boys—lanky, unkempt, insecure—is what cinches the comedy. The simplicity of the poster design, with their uncomfortable posture against, well, nothing at all, further anchors their incapability of facing the world in any confident way, shape or form.

There are countless more examples, like Marley & Me, Bridesmaids, 27 Dresses (notice how the red type is replaced by pink when the film’s plot veers toward the altar). But to understand the curious and timeless appeal of the white movie poster, what happened to it in the 2010s cements its adaptable strength.

As the art of graphic design has continued to bloom, the aesthetic argument for the colorless color-block movie poster has shifted to embrace a film’s context. Consider Danny Boyle’s Steve Jobs, the enjoyable 2015 drama that provided Michael Fassbender one of the most under-celebrated roles of his career, playing the late Apple co-founder. The poster turns the canvas into a blank screen: the title is typed, the text insertion point poised, waiting for the next key press. As Jobs, Fassbender occupies the bottom right corner, in profile, thinking.

This starkness makes sense: what’s next, Steve? It offers a rare example of a poster from the past decade that fully leans into the monochrome aesthetic entirely on purpose—to serve the restrained and unequivocal need for white. (And it’s interesting to compare with the marketing narrative for an earlier film about another tech leader: observe how Jesse Eisenberg’s Mark Zuckerberg eyeballs us from The Social Network’s dark-mode poster.)

Comfort movies don’t own the white poster, of course. Jordan Peele’s Get Out toys, both in its marketing and its delivery, with the binaries of black and white. It’s deployed on-screen with sophisticated horror, and this extends to its two most graphic poster variants.

While one poster sees Daniel Kaluuya’s character, Chris, sat on a chair split vertically between black and white, the all-white poster allows only a center-frame letterbox to reveal Chris’s enormous eyes, accompanied by an all-caps type treatment. The vast expanse of white only makes the image more menacing, framing the claustrophobia so effectively. The landscape crop is a device that defines stern dramas as much as arthouse comedies, as documented by Haji Abdul Karim in their expansive list.

Haji Abdul Karim’s list of white-with-landscape-image posters.

But back in the ‘comfort’ realm, we’re seeing more and more that the marketing wants to have it both ways—the negative with the positive; the art house audience and the multiplex crowd. As genres blend, demographics collapse and audiences become more fluid, a film’s advertising needs to speak more languages.

Two ultra-comfort films from last year demonstrate this idea well. The poster for Judy sees a backlit Renée Zellweger finding her light, receiving her applause. Black is the key color, right down to the classic little black dress; the eye is drawn to the title, spelled out in red sequins. It’s showbiz, it’s drama. Though the film itself fudges a few of the more uncomfortable facts of the star’s story, it’s still honest about her addictions.

In the white-background version, which was more widely distributed, Zellweger, in a floral dress, turns away from the light. The name still sparkles, but in softened gold. There’s no less glamor, the stakes in the film are just as high, but she’s perhaps more accessible like this. The focus, as it was in the 90s, 80s, 40s, returns to the main event.

Greta Gerwig’s Little Women, too, played with dark and light. The indie queen released her previous film, Lady Bird, via design-conscious distributor A24, and Gerwig’s singular aesthetics promised that her Little Women remake would be worlds away from all the others. But when the first images for the film were released, the marketing campaign was questioned by die-hard Gerwig fans.

Both of the group posters are curiously stripped back, freezing Louisa May Alcott’s beloved March sisters in a moment. In the darker image, they gaze out a window, secure in their festive domestic bubble, but set on what’s beyond. There’s more to life, and the film, than this room. It feels more lush, painterly, certainly more dramatic.

Whereas the white poster, at first, seemed like a mistake. It took one of the first images teased from the film and just... dropped it onto a poster. The March sisters look as if solidified by clay, entirely undynamic and at odds with the fluidity and warm soul Gerwig had made herself known for in her filmmaking.

And yet, nothing matters more than these characters. Beth, Jo, Meg and Amy are holding each other, happy, each in their own favourite color, and there is nothing more to fight over. The white-poster alternative lets the 2010s viewer stay attached to the most important part of the film.

The lessons here? A white poster is a vital sign that you’re safe here. You’ve made the correct choice. Attention spans are dwindling, options are expanding, focus is difficult. The promise of a white frame tells me what matters, what is good, where I should place my time and my value. For now.

[phoebewallerbrigde]

All For Us, (a Reddie x Euphoria HBO) fanfiction

"It was the end of summer, back-to-school was coming up, I had no intention of staying clean and Richie Trashmouth Tozier was back in Derry." 

Without any filter but with humor and franchise, here's the harsh coming of age story of Derry's youth through the eyes of Eddie Kaspbrak, 17, fresh out of rehab.

read it on AO3 || Explicit || 8k || 1/?

Hope you like it guys !

There was a time in my life where everything was fine, but that, that was before I was ripped out of my mother’s womb. Since then, it’s been shit.

Chapter 1 : Screwed.

I was born on September 3rd, 2002 in a world post 9/11 completely overwhelmed by the mourning and the duty of memory. It has been four months since Sam Raimi's Spiderman was at the top of the world box office and that Peter Parker had managed to give hope to America and New York. Far from everything and from New York, there was my mother and my father, and I was their Spiderman. Nice, huh? I don’t think so.

---

My life begins without warning with a childhood in a big house in the depths of America's asshole. Derry, Maine. A small town so small that everyone knows each other and knows everything. That’s where the problems start. My father became ill when I was 9 years old and my overprotective mother was already beginning to fall into what I call "parental and marital abuse". Life at home was absolutely not great, especially because of my "not fitting" behavior.

"Eddie-bear, is everything okay?" asked Sonia Kaspbrak worried.

A 10-year-old Eddie was still staring at the front door counting seconds every time he heard the clock tick of the dining room.

"Eddie-bear, look at me." she added in a calm voice. "You did not even touch your .."

Eddie turned her head to Sonia and began to cry at once. Sonia and Frank looked at each other in amazement, feeling completely helpless.

They did what every healthy-minded parent would do, choosing to consult several doctors, a psychologist and a children's psychiatrist. I wasn't physically abused, I always drank at least a liter of water a day, my mother prepared me good dishes, my father did not hit me... 

"Your son has OCD, ADHD and anxiety. He has a higher brain activity than the average child for his age, probably due to hypersensitivity and perhaps also to behavioral disorders... But he’s still too young to tell."

The psychiatrist's voice left a blank in the room and Sonia Kaspbrak burst into tears. Frank stroked his wife's back for reassurance and Eddie turned to his mother without understanding what was happening.

So why do I have this?

---

"Neuroatypical, you are neuroatypical, Eddie-bear."

Eddie mimicked his mother while eating his cereal bowl, she glanced him, he stopped and sighed.

"Show me your phone, I'll check your alarms."

An 11-year-old Eddie contemplated the capsules, pills and other medications that his mother was carefully distributing in each compartment of his medicine box. He handed him his yellow iPhone 5c that he had already unlocked on the alarms page.

"You have to take all your medicine, at the times indicated."

"I know, Ma."

Sonia looked at her son, who continued to eat with a peeved look on his face. She sat down beside him, putting down his cellphone and the box of compartmentalized tablets.

"You know ... there are lots of famous people like you - famous people, super creative and smart." She managed to catch Eddie's attention and then continued. "Look, your favorite actor who plays in The Truman Show for example."

"Jim Carrey?" 

"Yes!" exclaimed Sonia with a smile.

Yeah, and we all remember Jim Carrey during the 00s New Year Eve on David Letterman's set.

"A genius." ended Eddie with a smile before getting up and packing his box in his fanny pack.

I don’t really remember my pre-adolescence and all that time when I was 10 to 12. I mean, I remember my friends, how meaningless life was, how fast everything was falling apart for us because of daddy’s pneumonia, and how the world was going way too fast for my brain. And that sometimes, if I happened to think too much about everything, to concentrate too much on an smell or on the number of germs present under the table on which I wrote or on the strange way that I breathed ... I had a violent asthma attack. The space of a moment. But very quickly the space of a moment became all the time and all the time became a fight to fight these crises. And frankly...

"So this day, son?" Frank asked with a smile as Eddie walked into his room still dressed with his backpack.

He could hear his father listen to Queen and David Bowie's Under Pressure, one of his favorite songs who became one of his. That made him sketch a small smile.

"I'm fucking done with it."

--- 

I’m not necessarily proud of the choices I’ve made, but it wasn’t really like my mom didn’t push me. The house was full of meds. Meds here, meds there, meds in the kitchen, in the bathroom, in the guest room, in the garage. My mother ordered meds profusely but gave me "gazebos" when I was perhaps the one who needed treatment the most. A treatment, I needed a treatment. I got it. It was there in front of me, everywhere, I knew every name and every dose of what the psychiatrist was giving me, it was not hard to remember, so I took it. I took but nothing. I did not feel any difference, the asthma attacks, the tremors, the sadness were still there. I took again and again and always more. When I went to the doctors, they increased the doses and I changed my mother's gazebos with my real meds. It made me feel something in the end, but it was too late, I was already addicted. But after all, is it really my fault? Oh, and I think we say "placebos".

12 years old and already on medication dependence. 13 years old and I stole my father’s morphine and other painkillers. 14 years old and I was asking for more with my psychotropics. 15 years old, I took my 1st taz and smoked my first joint. 16 years old and I sniffed my first rail, the first among others. That's why Georgie Denbrough found me unconscious in my own vomit. I had become a junkie ? I don’t know. I just liked the feeling. The feeling that it gave me, the nothingness. For once on earth, for as long as I can remember, I felt something new every time. It was this need that had led Georgie to scream with fear, which alerted Bill Denbrough to run to discover the disaster and tell him to look for my mother as he tried to wake me up. Poor Big Bill, he thought I was dead. I believed it, too.

I spent the whole summer in rehab after that, I never understood why. Well, I did but I didn’t think I was addicted to drugs. Drugs filled the gap that meds sometimes leave when it’s over. But I’ve learned that meds, too, are drugs.

"Eddie!"

"Georgie!"

Georgie ran into Eddie's arms, Eddie couldn’t help laughing and making remarks about how Georgie was almost ahead of him now. This made Bill laugh when he came to give him their secret handshake before taking the smallest in his arms.

"Hey!" whispered Eddie with a big smile.

Sonia in the distance watched her son squeeze the only two friends she had allowed to come with her to pick up Eddie, since they had been present and saved him with the accident. They ended up taking the road with them to their house. 

"I'm so happy you're back home, Eddie-darling, I missed you so much, never do that again, you gave me up for 3 long months, you realize, I could not to do nothing without you, I was so lonely and you know how much I hate it, never do that again, I made an appointment with the hospital for full exams and we will change you your doses, I will take good care of you my ... "

Eddie stopped paying attention to his mother, he looked around, Georgie and Bill cheerfully discussed everything Bill had planned to do to make up for lost time with Eddie. Not to mention the Losers, but Eddie figured out they were in. The brunette one landed on the windowsill and let the wind caress his face. He noticed in the distance a boy on a bicycle, this long and thin figure was telling him something. Brown curls, an alternative style between neglected but sought after, worn out converses, pale skin to death. Eddie’s eyes marveled at his sight when the car passed him. He felt his heartbeat accelerate and his heart pounding.

And that’s when the beginning of the end really began. It was the end of summer, back-to-school was coming up, I had no intention of staying clean and Richard Trashmouth Tozier was back in Derry. I had to talk to the one person who knew everything about everything.

---

"So ... How long have you been back among us? You have completely hidden your return." Mike asked, eating his salad.

"A week and I didn’t hide everything! I was in quarantine between the hospital and at home all week, thanks Ma. Bill didn’t tell you?" said Eddie watching Mike eat.

"Bill and I don’t really talk right now when we see each other. You know that."

Mike is probably the smartest person I know, yet he still didn’t dare tell the love of his life that he loved him. At the same time, he was living on a planet other than ours and didn’t really have time to be a normal high school student. It was easier to fuck Bill and continue to just be his bro than become his significant other. 

"Richie is back, by the way."

"Ah."

"Yup, he went to the farm and got a 50$ of weed. He didn’t even want me to give him a price."

"D'you know more?" "Hm... He’s already been here for two weeks. He seemed pretty happy to be back, California changes you a man." said Mike laughing what made Eddie smile. "We’ll see when we get back to school."

Eddie nodded at Mike.

"How are you feeling ?" Mike asked, carefully watching Eddie.

"Great since I gave my life to abstinence and I stopped jerking off." Eddie answered seriously.

"Oh ...... Cool, cool, cool, I'm really happy for you."

"Mike, I’m messing with you. You should see your face." Eddie laughed while Mike gave him a pat on the shoulder. " Anyway, that’s not all, but is your grandfather here, Vegemike?"

"Are you serious bro?"

"Hey, it's not because I'm doing a rehab that I'm going to stay clean."

"But.... Isn’t that the point of a rehab? I won’t let you do something stupid again."

"Come on, just weed."

"You do not like weed, Kaspbrak."

"Fine but can I at least have your cherry tomatoes?"

Mike nodded and smiled at his best friend who continued to eat his salad with him.

Something I missed this summer? My trips to the Hanlon farm. Mike being a divine cook and plus a vegan, obviously, his food was safe and harmless to me. And the Hanlon house was the best hostess for parties, it was big, rebuilt in recent years and far enough to be quiet. I must have missed a lot of parties, but if there was one coming up, Stanley Uris'. And if you thought I was gonna miss it, the last big party before school, so the most important one of the summer, you can suck my dick. That’s probably why that piece of shit of Henry Bowers brought his ass back to the farm. It’s a good thing the Hanlons were selling him their wares for twice as much.

"Yo, there you go! That’s his mama’s boy!" he cried as he entered the storefront. "I thought you were dead. Good, because my knife will be able to tate the ground."

"Go get your shit and get off him, dude."

"You’re lucky I haven’t touched you since you’re the best drug dealer in town, but don’t trust me, nig.."

Mike rose sharply and faced Bowers. His eyes were black and Bowers backed away.

"All right, all right, I’ll go."

I never liked Henry Bowers, and I truly believe no one has ever loved him. Even his father hates him. If you were looking for someone to identify as the rich cis hit white man in this city, it was him. He was "untouchable" or rather believed himself untouchable because his father was the most influential guy in the city. He had been sheriff but had ended up building his business and it had taken. It was quite unbelievable, however, now Bowers was living his best life and did not think he had to be accountable to anyone when he still had a mullet cut in 2019 and that he should clearly shut up the fuck up. Before, he harassed me as well as the rest of the Losers club, for my part I was entitled to homophobic insults in profusion. But one day we humiliated him front of his friends. Since then he has left us alone and yesterday’s nerds his become today’s popular. Karma, as they say.

 ---

It was about to get dark in a few hours, a young man was cycling in the streets of Derry. He was tall, fine and handsome. A car passed by him and he was destabilized.

"Back among us, motherfucker, this is my secret sauce as a welcome gift, Tozier!"

Bowers' voice was loud and Hockstetter's laugh had not failed him. Richie had managed to avoid the milkshake he had sent him. He gave him fingers as he went away and Richie sighed on his way home. He passed by the kitchen and dropped off his racing bag and went to his room where he threw himself into his bed. He took out his phone and went straight to Grindr. Richie was scrolling, watching nudes, messages, chatting with people, going from Grindr to Tinder, and finally finding happiness. For tonight, anyway, then took a nap.

If there was anyone that nobody expected to see again in Derry, it was Richie fucking  Tozier. He told me he was back from his parents' divorce. His father had kept the old family house in which he lived in Derry. Something must have happened with his mother in California because Richie preferred to come and live with his father in our good ol' Derry, but he refused to tell me what happened. That Tozier really is a moron.

Richie awoke. It was already 7 pm. He sighed, got up, went downstairs to eat with his father who had prepared some homemade pizzas and then went back to his room. It was 8 pm. He got motivated, launched his "Party times" playlist which debuted on Plus Putes Que Toutes Les Putes from the French band Orties. He took a shower and picked out an outfit. When he found the right one, he couldn’t help but smile. A black wide sweater with a yellow stripe in the middle and "The villa hopes" written on it, simple black slim jeans, red socks and its Converses x 70 x OFF Springs Velour Patchwork. He rolled up his sleeves, made himself up by putting on black, blue, yellow and red eyeliner to make an editiorial makeup, nothing too dramatic. He was dancing in front of his mirror and laughing. He passed his hands several times without his brown curls, put big silver rings on his fingers and finally put on his necklaces including his favorite, the one with a red balloon pendant. He took his Lacoste fanny pack and while looking at it, he had a little smile thinking of the one person who had never stopped wearing these before it became trendy again. He went down the stairs and fell on his father.

"Oh, look at yourself ! So, where are you going?" asked Wenthworth Tozier while observing his son.

Richie arrived in front of his father after crossing the living room. They lived in a beautiful house, quite luxurious from the outside as well as the inside. Richie hugged his father to reassure him.

"To a party, with friends."

"Friends ?"

"Yes, my old friends, dad."

Wenthworth nodded and Richie waved his hand with his index finger and middle finger at his temple before moving them away.

"Watch out, have fun and protect yourself, Rich!"

Oh, don’t worry, Mr. Tozier, Richie was sure to protect himself properly with those Saint Laurent condoms in his bag.

Richie smiled at his father before taking his bike and leaving.

Richie did not want his return to make too much noise. Yet it was all the opposite effect. Everyone who had lived in Derry between 2002 and 2016, so everyone, knew Richie Trashmouth Tozier. The first to know about Richie's return was Ben. Simply because the two were following the same two-week artistic summer course that the school had organized. It was a little stupid because Richie was a little genius despite appearances and Ben was just good at everything without having to force. At least Ben had been able to reconnect with Richie and pass the information to the rest of Losers, but except me, of course.

When he arrived in front of a hotel in the city, he smiled at the message of the chosen one and sent a message to Ben.

[Forget me for tonight, I have a date.]

Ben glanced at his phone, and then at Beverly. Both exchanged suspicious looks.

"What’s going on?" Beverly asked.

"It’s Richie. He says he’s not coming tonight."

"What did you told him?" Beverly looked at herself in the mirror.

"Nothing! He’s just gonna do his little business with someone."

"Oh okay, chill, he’ll come later. Why you scare us like that!" replied Beverly getting close to Ben to give him a kiss on the cheek.

Ben went red in action and Betty Ripsom made a disgusting sound. Beverly stopped to look at the brunette, she had completely forgotten her presence. After all, it was her who'll dropped them off at Stanley’s. "Stop. You’ll do the same thing tonight and even more," she said looking at her.

In case you're wondering, yes, Ben is in love with Bev. For far too long for me to remember. For Bev, however, nobody really knows. Bev is a mystery to everyone, I still wonder why she's friends with us. She's a cheerleader, she's so popular, much more than Mike or Bill or Stan. She has a reputation behind her, yet it has never stopped her from being the baddest bitch in town. A real rolemodel to the twink that I am. Perhaps the most amazing thing is that she was fake dated for a month with Bowers just for a bet and it lasted until today, well, until two days ago. She still made 200 dollars on it every month.

"You slept with Bowers, you do not have the right to speak." Betty retorted.

"A hand job. It was a hand job and it happened once during the 3 months of the bet. Then anyway, Bowers is a clown. It’s not Penny Wise who’s gonna say otherwise. I was able to take away as much as I could before I dumped him. And tonight, we move on." she said, turning to Ben.

"Yes, that’s what everyone wants to hear! Shit Ben, tonight you have to fuck! Not just a handjob or a blowjob! It’s not the '80s anymore, you have to catch some pussy."

Ben smiled slightly embarrassed and turned to Beverly who grinned while listening to Betty. He totally ignored Betty’s words, then lowered his head, a little disappointed. He really wanted to disappear underground at this very moment.

In his place, I’d like to, too. Thank you, Betty.

 ---

"Ma ? I’m leaving."

"Where, Eddie-bear? And so late? You can’t leave me like this." Sonia said as her son came into the living room. "And dressed like that? You look like a bad boy, I don’t like it."

"That’s my usual style, Ma. It’s only 10 pm and I’m going to Bill’s. Don’t wait for me and don’t panic. And yes, I took my medicine with me and my insulin just in case. See you, Ma."

A 16-year-old Eddie closed the front door and leaned back against it, looking down the street and sighing. He was divinely handsome, he had combed his hair, put glitter on his eyes and mascara which gave him an even more intense look. He had put on a silk shirt with patterns like the rich women's scarves, the colors were soft and pastel like salmon, beige, yellow or baby blue but it contrasted with his lame bomber and his slightly tanned and brilliant skin. With that, he had put some necklaces and he also let see his chest. He was wearing his white low converses and black skinny ripped jeans. He took a puff from his inhaler and looked at his bike lying on the ground. He turned his head away and began to walk. He took out his airpods and launched one of his Daily Mix on Spotify, he closed his eyes at Alphaville's Forever Young.

It is never easy to leave this house with a mother as unbearable as mine. In fact, I lied. I’m not going to go to Bill’s, it would be too much of a detour. We’ll meet at the party. I preferred to walk because when I drink, I don’t take the road because...

All the times he passed out, in the middle of the road completely drunk, kept coming to his mind as a nightmare.

You got it, anyway. I know, you're surprised that I drink, but alcohol is pretty much the same as my meds. Except for beer, I hate beer.

Eddie was quietly walking around, dancing, listening to Rubberband Man from the Spinners, and clearly living his best life. When a noisy car because of the music made itself heard more and more as it passed by. The passengers listened to Dang! of Mac Miller and that made Eddie smile, he loved Mac Miller.

"Oh my god, stop the car." exclaimed Beverly. "I said stop the car, Betty."

"Why ?" Betty asked, slowing down.

"We just passed Eddie Kaspbrak!" said Ben looking in through the back window.

"Oh my God! I think he was dead." Betty laughed.

"Shut up. You should be the one to die, Ripsom." Ben replied.

Eddie walked in front of them, not paying attention.

"Yo, the comeback!" yelled Beverly what pulled Eddie out of his music.

He turned to her and looked at her with a smile. She had a big smile and he leaned towards her.

"It’s good to see you again, we missed you." she said in all sincerity.

Ben nodded, which made Eddie smile, he almost had tears in his eyes. His best friends had not forgotten him.

"Are you being dropped somewhere?" Betty Ripsom asked.

"Well, thank you !"

Eddie waved to him and Ben opened the back door. He got into beautiful Betty's Volvo and Bev turned to him.

"What the hell are you listening to? Certainly not the New Kids On The Block." She said looking at Ben who shook his head negatively by squinting his eyes.

Eddie looked at his iPhone 8, Rubberband Man was finished, he pouted at the next song.

"London Calling." he answered hesitantly.

"Perfect."

The music started in the car, all four began to jam in the car while singing.

The party was already in full swing when I arrived with the others. Stan’s house was shining from the outside and eclipsing all the other houses, it was beautiful to see. From the inside, it looked like it was going to explode. In every room, chaos. A kind of stifling heat emanated as Megan Thee Stallion’s Hot Girl Summer filled the house. The minute Stan’s eyes crossed mine, he left Patricia for my arms. It was nice, it wasn’t every day that Staniel gave you a hug.

"Oh, fuck, Edward Kaspbrak himself, that's crazy, I .. I'm so happy to see you!" Stan shouted in his arms. Stan held him so tight that Eddie felt he was going to choke him. He must have been a little drunk. He was wearing a stretch short-sleeved shirt in washed jeans with black pants and chelsea boots. It was divine.

He had always been, it was Stan, he could afford it. He was smart, mature, funny, an excellent counselor, the mom of the group and he also organized the best parties in high school. How having money is really cool.

"Hey everyone! Look who’s back! To Eddie!" shouted Bev while lifting up her shot of tequila in the air.

The people present in the room did the same and repeated these two words at the same time. Bill raised his glass in my direction, he gave me a big smile and I was a little embarrassed. Everyone drank their glasses. Bev gave me a shot of tequila, everyone was looking at me now. It was weird. Being the center of attention is clearly not my stuff. But, I drank that shot and after that, everyone screamed for joy. Bev gave me a hug, then Mike just added himself to the hug, then Bill and then Stan. The Losers were together and I could clearly hear Billie Eilish’s Bellyache in my head.

---

The hotel was rather classy, the room too, thought Richie. He did not know that places like this existed in Derry. The chosen one was therefore fortunate. When he returned from a room that served as a kitchen with two glasses of champagne. Richie looked at him carefully, he liked to sleep with older men, but he never imagined that Butch Bowers was that kind of man.

Thank you." he said, looking at the man standing in front of him.

"Your face is familiar to me, have we ever seen each other?" Butch asked, looking at Richie.

Later, Riche told me that at the moment he wanted to say yes. He really should have done it.

"Not that I remember."

Butch nodded and drank his glass of champagne.

Richie had said he was 18, technically he was not lying, he was actually going to have them. The knowledge. And Richie was consenting.

Butch watched Richie.

"We will not fuck, you're too young."

Richie nodded, he avoided swallowing.

"I envy your generation, however. When I see you, I see two life choices."

He stroked Richie's cheek, then his lips with his thumb. Richie was looking at him almost religiously. There was a kind of tension in the room. They were not going to sleep together, but it was almost as if. In a parallel dimension, it was happening.

"You can leave, live an extremely beautiful life elsewhere, be fully yourself, find love, or you can stay here and end up like me, hanging out in fancy hotels." Butch continued looking at Richie's eyes.

"Both choices are possible." retorted Richie.

Butch's thumb sank into Richie's mouth.

"If only I could, I'd smash you." he said in a low voice.

Richie closed his eyes. He could not really say what he was looking for in this kind of completely barge plan. But there was so much he was looking for. One was definitely that special bond he had once bonded with a unique person in his life. When both made leave of this vocal flirtation, this visual fuck. Richie put California by Lana Del Rey in his ears. 

He looked at the door of the closed bathroom because the chosen one was taking a shower, he must have met someone before him and shoot his shot. Richie looked at his phone and left the room without making a noise. Once outside the hotel, he lit a cigarette. He took a few steps to his bike, when the song ended, the cigarette was too. He changed his song and went straight to Stan's house.

And there. The evening went fucking nuts.

The huge stairs in Stan's house were flooded and mobilized by people kissing, drinking or whatever. The music was in full swing, Eddie did not know the song, but he would have sworn it was one of the songs that Mike composed during his free time. He pushed people a bit to pass and went to the nearest toilet. He closed the door and looked at himself in the mirror before taking a breath of his ventoline. He kept looking in his bag with a tiny vial of white powder inside. There was almost nothing, but it did not matter because Eddie knew it was extremely strong. He spread it on a small spatula attached to his keychain which he had disinfected before and sniffed everything. He ran a hand through his hair and left the room. The sensations becoming stronger, his brain seemed to be reviving.

Blackbear’s Hot Girl Bummer burst into his ears. Suddenly, the world around him seemed to be totally out of sync with him. He almost lost his balance. Standing on the wall, clinging to people, Eddie laughed. The world revolved around him and he danced on the music that filled his brain.

All you need to know is that there are several versions of what happened tonight. It all depends on who tells you the story and... I’m not necessarily the most reliable narrator for this evening. But what I can assure you is that Bowers screwed up.

Bowers had been drinking since before with the party. He spent the night looking for Beverly and she wasn’t that hard to find she was in the Uris pool. Even wet, she was still the most beautiful girl of the party. She made a fairly simple make up. You’d think she had nothing if you didn’t know the basics of makeup. She was having fun with Betty and Audra Phillips, Bill’s ex, by doing a water fight and singing along on to Russ’s Do It Myself. And who knows why, Bowers as the fragile man that he is, wanted to break the moment.

"Slut!" he shouted as he reached the terrace.

He pointed to Beverly who turned to him.

"Yes ?" she replied, with a great deal of irony, a smile on her lips.

Everyone laughed and scolded Beverly's name. Bowers turned speechless. Beverly's smile widens.

"Well then, 2 minutes 30 lost his big mouth?" she said, coming out of the water and facing Bowers. "That is what I thought."

Everyone was watching the confrontation carefully. The first one since Beverly dumped Bowers and announced that it was all just a bet between her and Stan.

"Shut the fuck up, you only suck anyway."

"How could you know that since I would never suck you Henry Bowers? Now, please stop humiliating yourself in public. Go back to Greta Keene and forget about me, okay."

Bowers wanted to fight back but Beverly pushed him into the water and Georgie grabbed his leg to make it easier for him to fall. Everyone shouted and laughed. Stanley stood up and turned away from Mike, Bill and Eddie and apologized to see what was going on with Beverly.

"Really ?" He asked.

"You'll pay me Losers." he said as he stepped out of the pool and back inside.

Losers: 1. Bowers: 0. The school year is starting well.

Bill and Mike were laughing and Eddie smiled at Beverly.

It was at that moment that they concluded. The funny thing is that Bill, when he's alcoholic, totally loses his stuttering. So it was amazing to hear him speak clearly to Mike, especially when it was a rim job. I would have preferred not to be here to hear that. But I'm sure I heard a "I love you Mikey" so finally it was worth it.

"Everything's okay, bro?" asked Mike, noticing his presence again.

"Yeah.. Yeah, that’s fine... Glad to see you two are okay." he said, smiling and watching Bill blush.

At the same time, there was another one for whom things were going well. Ben Hanscom. Ben was playing truth or dare in one of the upstairs rooms with several of the Cheerios like Myra Stonehart or some of the guys from our class. Normally, truth or dare was the game we used to play when we were playing between us only, but here, it turned into a conversation about sex. And Ben Hanscom wasn’t a pro on the subject.

"What are you really virgin?" asked one of the guys in the discussion. "And do not say that a pipe, that counts."

"It counts." retorted Myra.

"You know nothing about it Myra. You're the one who wants to fuck Eddie Kaspbrak while everyone knows he's gay and clearly not interested."

Myra looked up at the skies with a grin.

"Who are you saving yourself for, man?" asked another one of the guys.

Beverly Marsh.

"No one. I’m just waiting for the right moment." Ben replied.

"Like, now’s not a good time?" asked another cheerleader. "If, I asked you to sleep with me tonight, what would you say?"

Ben blinked several times at Anna’s question and remained speechless.

Of course, Ben is an eternal romantic. He writes rose water's poems, appreciates courteous love stories and is much stronger when it comes to putting his thoughts on paper than saying it out loud. But, Ben Hanscom was definitely not a coward. He was just a virgin in a society where we wanted boys to breathe and eat porn all day long.

Anna leaned back to Ben.

"You’re super cute, Ben. You used to be before you started working out. In 5 years you’ll be a sex bomb and I want my cut now." she said in a rather serious tone.

The whole room was breathless, Anna was one of the sexiest girls in high school. Ben nodded softly and Anna smiled.

"Everybody clear this room now!"

---

While Ben surely lived what would be one of the most memorable evenings of his life. Richie Tozier had arrived at the party, and I was sprawled on that couch by the pool watching Mike and Bill be in love. Shit, I want what they have. At the same time, Beverly was playing in the pool with Audra and Betty, but you already know the rest.

"By the way, Eddie, you owe me 120 bucks." Mike said looking at his friend.

"Yeah, but I thought our friendship and the fact that I'm alive made up for that." Eddie replied.

"If you say so." Bill replied.

Stan came to join them.

"Frankly, Eddie, I missed you, we missed you all, it was not the same this summer without you, your drug stories make me feel bad."

"Aw Stan, don’t be sentimental."

"No, that’s not it. I love you, man, but... you really scared us." he said, taking a break before turning to Eddie.

Mike and Bill nodded in agreement with Stan.

"We thought you were dead. And seriously, Eddie, I’ve seen a lot of people die, but I would never agree to see you die for that. I’ve seen a lot of people die, but not people like you." Mike added. "I don’t know exactly what’s going on with your brain, but I can tell you one thing, drugs and getting high is not your solution."

A blank settled in between these four. He was not unpleasant, on the contrary. It was peaceful. They watched Beverly and Bowers fight.

"There’s one thing I remember... it happened when I was nine years old, shortly after my father was diagnosed. We were told that he was going to get better, I mean, that he had a chance of getting better. So, we celebrated it, we went to New York, seven hours back and forth. One of the best moments of my life. I told my dad that when I grew up, I would go to New York and live there."

Eddie’s voice started shaking and Stan gently shook his hand.

"Then we came home and I remember... that night, I slept with my parents and suddenly I couldn’t breathe. As if there was no oxygen in the world. My parents called the ambulance thinking I had a violent asthma attack. At the hospital, they gave me opium. Liquid. To calm me down and... then I thought, 'Okay, so that’s what I need'. Not mom’s medicine. That. Because all of a sudden, it was as if everything had become simpler. The noise, the voices in my head, everything was gone. Everything. Being in my head wasn’t a problem anymore. Four years later, he passed away and the asthma attacks that were actually anxiety and panic attacks continued. But that’s okay. I found a way to survive. I have you, guys. I have my psychiatrist. My medecine. Maybe it will kill me..."

Stan kissed Eddie's hand in support then got up and went to see the mess with Bev.

"Hey! Don’t say that!" yelled Bill slowly to Eddie before giving him a pat on his head.

"Touch me again in that ugly mustard buffalo shirt and I’ll kill you, Big Bill." Eddie laughed.

The three friends focused on the story of Bev and Bowers. Then Eddie stood up to give his best friends more privacy. Bowers had stormed into Stan’s apartment in the kitchen to get drunk. Blur’s Girls and Boys was in full swing throughout the house and the first thing Bowers did was not to drink, but to sweep a few bottles here and there with the back of his arm. Eddie and Stan followed Bowers wanting to throw him out of the party and Beverly Marsh had left the pool to annoy Mike and Bill that she had dragged inside after getting dressed.

"Get out of the kitchen!" screamed Bowers scaring everyone. " Get the fuck out."

The people around him backed back carefully to avoid getting a piece of glass, while watching Bowers lose it. Richie dug himself into a corner of the kitchen staring at Bowers totally destabilized by his behavior. Eddie, Stan, Mike, Bill and Bev entered the crowd.

"What's your fucking problem?" he said looking at Richie.

Richie looked at the sides and then looked at Bowers, he didn’t know what to say.

"Why are you here?" he says, moving forward and sticking to him. "Huh? You can't speak ? Aren't you Trashmouth Tozier for nothing?"

At the Trashmouth name agreement, Eddie’s attention got bigger. Shit, what is Richie doing here ?

"Can I know who invited you? You don’t even have any friends here. Everyone forgot you."

"Listen, uh. I don’t want any trouble, I just want to spend a chill night in my corner." Richie said, looking him in the eye.

He didn’t even blink.

"People like you are not here to stay in their corners. You are a problem here, you see, nobody answers. Nobody!" he shouted at Richie.

Richie grabbed the first kitchen knife and pointed it at Bowers, who backed away.

"You think you scare me? You think you scare me, Bowers? You know what we do to sons of cops like you in California?" yelled Richie in turn as he moved towards Bowers. "Back the fuck up!"

"I was fucking kidding. I was fucking kidding !"

"I’m not afraid of you, Bowers."

"W-put the knife down, okay? Put it down! I was laughing."

"You want to hurt me? You have no idea who I am." Richie yelled when he put the knife down.

At the same time he cut his hand without intentionally doing with one of the glass pieces of broken bottles. The spectators cried out in complete shock at this spectacle.

"You see. I absolutely don’t feel pain."

"Are you fucking crazy or something, Loser !?" added Bowers.

Bowers stood in his trembling corner, everyone watching the scene between confusion, admiration, shock and total chaos.

"No, I’m Richie Tozier. And it’s good to be home. Great party tho, Stan the man !" he said while smiling before leaving the room.

Oh yeah... fuck me.

Eddie quietly left his friends after that.

Ben came back down the stairs and saw Richie leave the party in fury.

"What did I miss?" Ben asked Mike.

"Where were you, man? You missed the craziest thing ever !" Mike asked Ben.

"I took care of my business."

Mike stares at Ben not fully understanding what Ben meant.

"I’ve lost my virginity."

"What? With whom?" asked Mike.

"Anna Addams."

"Wow. The Anna Addams?" he said with a smile. Ben confirmed by nodding his head, then Mike took him in his arms. "Well! Congratulations! How was it?"

"You should ask her."

Mike laughed and joined Stan in the kitchen. Stan gave Bowers a broom, cleaning supplies and a shovel.

"Clean up, or I’m going to get Richie." Stan said with a black look and a cold, stern voice.

Bowers took them and resigned himself. He glanced at Mike, Mike supported him, and Bowers resigned himself.

"I will stay in case you botch the job. Oh, after that, you and your friends will leave the party. Thank you." added Stan who was joined by Patricia, his girlfriend.

---

Eddie came out of the Uris house looking for Richie Tozier. He found him quite quickly getting his bike back.

"Hm... is everything all right?" Eddie asked while watching Richie.

Oh my God.

"Uh, yeah, it's good, don’t worry, m... Eddie Spaghetti?"

Richie smiled and blinked several times before moistening his lips. His smile came back, but this time in a corner one. He watched Eddie attentively, capturing every detail of his face. His hair was slightly unscrewed, his mascara had dripped a little and mixed with the glitter on his eyes. His pink lips, his freckles, his smile. Richie hugged him.

Wow. I think I’m getting hard.

"Yes yes, it’s m... Hey, don’t call me that!"

"You look good. It just smelled like trouble in here."

Eddie opened his eyes and began to blush slightly.

"Thank you, you’re not bad either... Yes! Yes, I understand your action. It’s just what you did... It was deadly classy."

The two stared at each other for a moment. Richie noticed the necklace on Eddie’s red balloon pendant.

"You still have it! That’s so cool."

"Oh the necklace? Yes! I’m not leaving it. You too, from what I see! You... you’re going somewhere?"

"At my place." Richie replied.

"I.. Can I come?"

"Yeah, of course! But your mother ? How is she since the last time I fucked her ?" Richie asked while mocking Eddie.

"Fuck my mother."

Yeah, fuck my mom. I found back the only boy I’ve ever loved in my entire life, looking like a fucking greek god and I still have to think about my mom ? Not today, Ma, not today.

The two took the road on Richie’s bike. Bowie’s Heroes passed on Eddie’s little JBL bluetooth speaker. Then, Richie suggested him to put Eddy de Preto's Fête de Trop. He was thrilled, clinging to Richie’s waist and resting his head on his back. He had strangely waited for this moment all week. It may not have happened the way he hoped, but Eddie was appeased.

Once they entered the Tozier house, they both went up to Richie’s room. Not much had changed compared to before, it was perhaps closer and more harmonious. Richie undressed and changed into pajamas, Eddie did his best not to look and Richie laughed at him. He gave her one of his sweaters that turned out to be too big for him, but anyway, he loved it and Richie loved seeing Eddie like that. He was just so...

"Cute. You’re so cute, Eds!"

"Stop it, won't you ?!"

Eddie rushed to clean Richie’s wound and apply a bandage with his first aid kit. Richie teased him by calling him Doctor K. and it was like Richie never left Derry. Richie had always been there somewhere and Eddie had seen him become a young man. Once the wound was cleaned and dressed. They took off their makeup and then the two men went face to face in Richie’s bed. They didn’t really need to talk to each other to say all the things they had on their hearts. They both laughed and Eddie snuggled in Richie’s arms. Nothing has changed. They still liked sleeping together. They still loved each other.

Mike, Bill and Georgie went home to the Denbroughs, Georgie fell asleep in the car, but Bill took him to his room quietly and then brought Mike in, then in his room where for the first time they spent the night talking when they were only the two of them.

Bev had gone home in the early morning and managed to miraculously avoid her father. She took off her makeup and changed her clothes at Stan’s after helping her clean everything up.

Ben had slept at Stan’s with Anna and had also cleaned everything with Betty, Patricia, Myra and others who had planned a sleepover at his house.

Bowers didn’t go home after cleaning up Stan’s kitchen, he went to Hockstetter’s to get drunk until the morning. Humiliated, uprooted, and completely high. He was severely taken back by his father and mother but especially by his father and went to his bedroom having already found his future victim for the year.

The next day, Richie and Eddie woke up early. Richie stopped by to brush his teeth and wash himself because Eddie forced him to do it and then Eddie did the same. Once back in Richie’s room, Eddie stared at him as he sat on his bed.

"I have an idea." he said softly.

"What?" Richie asked while stroking his hair softly.

"Wanna get high?"

[alitheamateur]

The Grind- Chapter 22

(gif by @vanessacarlysle)

All my perpetual fretting over Tia’s reaction to the news of my reconciliation with Colton was all for…well…. It was all 100% necessary. She yelled phrases such as “if you wanna let the asshole back in your bed, you can clean up the mess he’s gonna make,” and “what did the dickhead do to convince you?” Both valid, however brutally honest they may have seemed. I made up my mind not to push it on her just yet, but to tip-toe through the tulips, if you will, until she warmed up to him. The two of them were quite similar in more ways than one, so they were bound to fall into at least a civil relationship sooner or later. Or, there unpredictable, combusting similarities would eventually just explode like the boom of a nuke. 

As for progression on the Ritter/Elliott home front, things were moving along nicely. We were back to our morning coffee routine at The Grind, and our running schedule had been carefully decided for Sundays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays. One of those particular Sunday workouts had navigated us to the new home Colton had purchased as of late, so he could give me the tour. He’d met me at my apartment that morning, carless, but I hadn’t considered where he’d began his run from.

He’d moved in a little over 5 months ago, and judging at first glances the deposit was heavy for a place like this. The brick front, two story structure must have been newly built on the street because the miniscule grassy path he did have in his side yard, was just ever so slightly sprouting from the clumpy, muddy surface. He led me up a black painted front porch through the front door, seemingly eager to show off his purchase from a successful years earnings.

“Home sweet home. Here we are!” He remarked before breaking the plain into his den. “Whatddya think?”

I thought it wasn’t the place I pictured him in, for starters. Not in pessimistic manner or anything, the space was merely more modern, and suburban for what I imagined his quarters to be like. The cabinets of a kitchen just to the right of the main entrance, were bright white, and stealthy black appliances accentuated more bleach white on the walls. Upon trailing deeper into the area, we entered a hardwood floor living room, where the navy of his leather couch shined under the natural light blazing in from a large window.

“It’s super nice, Colt! You keep it so… clean.” Seriously, there wasn’t a stich of the rug out of place. No molding take-out boxes on his countertops, or discarded shoes strung wildly about.

“Give it time,” he pointed at me with a wide smile. “I ain’t been here long enough to destroy it yet.”

“Don’t expect me to come over and clean the place, mister. This girl is no maid,” I said overlapping my arms in a forewarning.

“You could be. Hey, we could get you one of those little outfits and everything,” Colton said wagging his eyebrows in suggestion. “I’m gonna go shower real quick, then we’ll take the bike back to your apartment. Just hang out here, and give me 20. Unless of course, you’d like the tour of my shower too..”

Okay, yes please! I need to get a good luck at the tub. Inspect the plumbing, and the drains or whatever..

“I don’t have a change of clean clothes, silly. But, you get all squeaky clean, then I’ll take you on the tour of my new place. The bedroom is to die for...” He dropped his head back in a cantankerous huff as if I was torturing him for my own pleasure.

While he left me unsupervised, fidgeting on the couch, I decided some friendly, not at all psychotic girlfriend snooping would be harmless. Wandering aimlessly in my sock feet about the sitting area and kitchenette, something in particular sparked my interest plastered on the double doors of his refrigerator. In carefully executed newspaper snippets, were all of my published works from the last three years held up on display by small, coinlike magnets. One piece I’d written on an injured All-American local boy who had withdrawn his commitment to Pitt due to apparent substance issues. Various tidbits from the usual Steelers coverage, and my article from his fight with Mendez.

Thin, chalky newspaper nearly covered the entire spread of the left side freezer door. He appeared to have saved nearly every published work that had my name attached to it. What made the gesture even more monumentally romantic, was that The Pilot wasn’t available for subscription, nor a newsprint you could grab at any local convenient store on your morning milk run. It was only available for purchase at two outdoor newsstands in the city, one being a small cart on the sidewalk at the front entrance of our main office. The other was easily a 20-minute commute from any of the local businesses he frequented. Neither spot being one he’d cross by coincidence on his morning jog through downtown, or even the closest grocery store, or Mac’s. Meaning the man had made a specific trip, every Thursday morning to spend $3.75 on a paper that he could’ve searched the internet for. I sketched a feathery finger over the printed words, hearing a single dolloped tear drip below at my feet to the crisp tile of his kitchen floor. He really had never sincerely left me, just like he said only a handful of days ago.

“There’s more in an old cardboard box on the rack under the coffee table.” His stealthy, barefoot approach behind me was completely undetected, or I had just been so preoccupied with my discovery that any background noise was hushed.

I faced him, startled, carelessly forgetting to wipe the still running stream of tears, and hiccupped to repress audibly weeping.

“Oh, woah. Woah, baby. Hey, what’s wrong?” Colt stepped once to reach me, and cloaked me into the embrace of his grey tee, blotched with undried remnants of his shower. He placed both hands to my cheeks, leaving my face trapped between his scuffed, worked palms. Eyes searching over my face, like he was looking for the reason of my tears written somewhere across my forehead.

“I’m fine, seriously. It’s nothing.” I nearly snorted to sniff the running of my nose. Yeah, that was convincing. He’ll be right off your back now.

“Talk to me, Livvy. What’s goin’ on, huh? I know tears when I see ‘em. Especially yours.”

“You did this? You kept them? All, of them?”

A hesitant, “U” shape danced over his lips at my question. “Of course I did, babe. Well, I almost missed one week, but I told the guy at the stand I’d give him 20 bucks if he could get me a copy.”

It drew a laugh from both of us, mine still mixed with some joyful tears.

“It’s got your name on it, Liv. Hell, I woulda paid all the money in my wallet if you had written the alphabet down and had it published. I told you once I was proud a’ ya’, and I meant it.”

“I just didn’t… I never thought… I didn’t know you cared this much. I’m surprised you went through that trouble, especially since we weren’t even together for over half of these.” I looked back for the tenth time over the collection marked with my signature.

“I think that’s when I started to care so much. When we weren’t together, I mean. Because y’know, that’s the weird, twisted fucker I am,” he said rolling his eyes.

His hands departed from my face, and one was now pinching the bridge of his masculine nose in frustrated contemplation. I didn’t see the normal abundance of equanimity in his eyes now that normally dwelled there, and I was well aware that he was struggling for the words he sought. “I’m a head case, Liv. I find the love of my life, and talk to her like dog shit, because that’s obviously what a sensible man would do? God… What fuckin’ sense does that make?”

“Honest? It makes perfect sense, actually.” I comforted him, trying to distinguish the fires of aggravation, and self-loathing I could see kindling behind his eyes. “It’s the typical reaction of a man who’s never been in love before, and doesn’t have a damn clue how to handle all the things his feeling all of a sudden.”

“I know exactly how t’ handle it now though.” Colton said snatching me like a flimsy sack of potatoes into his grips, and reaching for a sly kiss.

When his arms outreached though, one of the tattoo additions I had been suspicious of when we bumped into each other at the Temple that fateful day, revealed itself like a shiny penny catching the beams of the sun.  Carefully placed on the tender, hairless skin of the underside of his bicep amongst his dedication to the Andy Warhol bridge, and a Latin phrase “Fortis Passioni deditus” translating to “strong willed”, was a small 21 needled in varsity print.

I immediately locked a grip around the evidence in question, raising it further into the light to investigate whether my eyes had been viciously deceiving me. He didn’t dispute, either from downright perplexity, or for the simple fact that he knew exactly what had won my attention and wanted me to snoop it out a little more closely.

Once I had wiped sternly over the numbers with a thumb, seeing they were indeed permanently etched onto his smooth skin, I looked intently upward to his waiting face. I wanted to smile in cheesy satisfaction, I wanted to cry in earnest adoration, and I wanted to claw the very ink out of his skin as backlash for his silly, erratic decision. But no, not really. The sensible, rational Liv rallied admirably to find a way to veto what he had done and hammer him with venomous disapproval. Thankfully, my fanatical love for the man eclipsed the once “safe” nature I carried, and all I wanted to do was fall at his feet.

“Took ya’ long enough, 2-1.” He smiled barely showing a top row of teeth.

“Wh..when?” I tripped over my tongue.

“Few months after the Mendez fight, I think. Was gonna put it on my chest, next to ma’s date of remission. But my guy down at the parlor said here looked better.” The man explained so coolly as if a shrine to my basketball number, and his pet name for me drawn onto his flesh was just something people did so commonly. Seriously, it sounded as if he was just reading off the lottery numbers in the Sunday paper.

“A few months? So, you did this after you dumped me? We weren’t even together and you got this tattoo?”

“Are you mad? Like…seriously upset with me, Liv? I mean, yeah, it was a little reckless, but that shoudn’t surprise you, baby,” he snickered. “But I knew I’d get you back, Livvy. Or I was gonna damn die tryin’. The way I saw it, it would either end up being something meaningful to our story that we could tell our babies in 10 years. Or, if I didn’t win you back, I’d have to look at it every fuckin’ day and think of the colossal mistake I made.”

10 years? Babies? DON’T FAINT. DO NOT.

“Lucky for you then, huh? Your plan played out for the better, I suppose.” I stretched on my small toes to pat my nose to his.

“So, you like it then?”

I didn’t bother to reward him with praise, instead just sucked a hearty kiss from the thin part in his opened mouth, humming sensually.

“Colton?”

“Yeah, babe?”

“Take me to bed. Now.”

TAGS: @torialeysha @eap1935 @littleluna98 @mollybegger-blog

[tiny-cloud-dragon]

Random Bits: FF7 04 Ch2

[Setting - Zack has just had a tooth pulled, and has been handed off to Cloud, who now has to get his drugged up friend home]

[Location - Infirmary - Cloud and Zack are making their way down the hallway]

 Cloud patiently lead Zack down the long corridor of exam rooms towards the Infirmary waiting room, doing his best to keep him upright, while Zack stumbled along like he had two rubber legs and was trying out for life time membership to the Ministry of Silly Walks. Zack would most likely been able to walk a semi straight line, if he hadn't been too busy giggling and staring at Cloud.

Cloud's head had turned into a balloon. It was big, and bright yellow, and it had his face drawn on it in black marker. The drawing was crude, nothing more than a collection of simple lines, yet it looked exactly like Cloud, down to the line doing duty as the mouth matching his familiar frown. The balloon bobbled and jinked as he walked, trailing a few inches behind him from the string that disappeared into the neck of his shirt. His head bounced a bit on its string as Cloud stopped to readjust his grip on Zack.

Zack stifled a laugh, reached up, and slowly batted Cloud's head, watching it drift sideways, then back.

"Please stop." 

Zack sniggered and did it again. Repeatedly

"Can you..? Hey...knock it off--! Stop that...hey--!" Cloud stammered, trying to fend off the playful slaps as his head bobbed frantically. He lost his grip on Zack, who slid to the floor with a whoop.

The sketch of his face frowned down at Zack. "What was all that about?" he asked as his head slowly rotated 360 degrees on his string neck. Zack looked at him with glassy, dilated eyes and exclaimed as if sharing a private joke, "Dude, your head!"

Cloud gave him a patient look, reminding himself that Zack was still high on sedatives and anesthesia. Nothing he said was going to make any kind of sense. Cloud heaved him to his feet and continued lugging him down the hall.

Zack forgot about Cloud's balloon head as he concentrated on trying to walk. His legs had turned into rubber bands, and he was having a hard time keeping them coordinated. His left leg kept stretching out really far ahead, while his right stretched out and back in random directions every two seconds. 

Navigating the waiting room was a nightmare. Zack's legs kept getting tangled in random chair legs, and trying to snap anyone who walked by. This meant that Zack was really unstable and kept almost falling on his face. It was then that he had an Idea. Unfortunately, it was one of those Ideas that only seem good because you are drunk. It was a Drunk Idea. His brain cells gathered together, still marinating in chemical bliss, and started bouncing ideas around. 

Hey guys, listen...it's the legs...Yeah, the legs! It's all down to the legs!

So?

So it takes two to walk, right?

Yeah, but we keep falling.

Yeah...

so if we get rid of the legs, we won't fall?

Yeah! No! No, then we can't walk! 

But we also can't fall...

True...But, wait, wait! If we keep falling with two legs, then how about we add more legs?

More? That's a stupid idea!

No, guys, listen. listen! Like what if ... What if we had four legs instead of two? 

Why four?

Well, tables have four legs. Have you ever seen a table fall down?

No, but we've never seen a table walk either.

Yeah, but we've never seen one fall. And do you know why? 

No.

Because...because tables are stable!

Hey, that rhymes! 

Tables are stable! 

Okay, four legs it is!

The Idea made perfect sense, so Zack Shifted.

Cloud abruptly found himself trying to hold on to a giant black wolf with four spaghetti legs. While four legs did lend certain amount of increased stability, it also meant that the Brain had more legs to sort out and keep coordinated.

Zack managed to stand perfectly balanced for all of five seconds, before he attempted to take a step and did a frantic, high-speed impression of Bambi on ice. Cloud tried to grab him, missed, and could only watch helplessly as Hurricane Zack stuck.

Legs went everywhere as he skittered and slipped wildly across the waiting room, crashing through rows of chairs, skidding back and forth across the room like a furry rocket, tossing furniture in all directions, obliterating the activity center,  knocking over the sign reading "No Running" and doing a perfect drift through the magazine rack before his front legs went out from under him and he slid into the hallway carpet on his face. 

Cloud looked at the swath of destruction, then looked at the nurse who was just a pair of terrified eyes barely peeking over the edge of her station desk. He stood absolutely still for a moment, just in case the earth was going to be kind enough to oblige and open up and swallow him. 

Yeah, I'm going to have to pass.

But I saved you! Twice!

The best I can do is a little crack, maybe big enough for a foot.

Forget it. See if I ever save you again. 

Cloud called down to Maintenance to come clean up as he picked his way through the rubble and grabbed Zack, who was standing in the hallway leading to the Lobby, barking at his reflection in the big glass windows.

"Hey!Hey! Hey, you!" Zack barked at the big black wolf on the other side of the window. "Hey! I see you! Hey! Hey!" Cloud's balloon head bobbed up behind the other wolf like a yellow harvest moon rising. 

"Moon! Moon! Moon, moon, moon!" He turned and looked at Cloud as he grabbed a handful of his fur to stop him from running off. Zack looked at the yellow, frowning balloon and howled, "Moon, moon, moo-oooooooooonnnn!"

"Shhhhhh! Stop that!" Cloud hissed at him in ELITE. "Let's go home. Come on."  He began tugging him down the hallway towards the Lobby. 

Zack seemed to have gained enough coordination to allow him to walk, or at least stumble around without falling. He was quite proud of himself. The sun was shining brightly through the window, looking pretty fly in its black sunglasses as it waved merrily. It's bright rays fell on the smiling tulips lining the hallway, swaying from side to side in peppy rhythm as they sang, while birds in snappy top hats chased away rain clouds and threw confetti. Zack started prancing and singing along.

Cloud winced as one of Zack's giant doggo clod-hoppers landed on his foot. He did his best to keep his feet out of the way as Zack pranced along beside him like a drunk spider tap-dancing on a trampoline and singing 'Tiptoe through the Tulips'. 

As they neared the Lobby, Cloud began to realize that there was no way he was going to drag Hecking High Zack from the Main Building, all the way to the parking lot. They made to the Lobby, and Cloud pulled Zack over to one of the clusters of comfy looking chairs. He looked at Zack and said sternly in ELITE,

"Sit!"

Years of ingrained military training planted Zack's fluffy butt on the carpet without even asking his brain for permission. 

"Stay!" Cloud added as Zack rolled his head and looked at him upside down with his tongue hanging out. 

"Good Moon Moon!"

Zack watched as Cloud trotted away to the Reception Desk to arrange for a car, balloon head being towed jerkily behind him. The lights in the Lobby were bright, shining down from neat rows, while the chairs in front of him were lined up, marching into the distance. He thought he heard the quiet susurration of a large crowd waiting in anticipation. More lights suddenly snapped on, and from the orchestra pit below the stage, a familiar ragtime tune began to play. Someone tossed him a top hat and fancy cane, and Zack rose to his hind legs as a hush fell over the crowd...

"The car will be here shortly, General" The receptionist said, hanging up the phone. "Lieutenant Haskins said it should be about five minutes and...um," she trailed off. Cloud looked at her for a few moments waiting for her to give him the rest of the details. She kept looking at him, then glancing at something to his left. 

The skin on the back of his skull tingled, bunching up as if trying to physically turn his head itself. His other senses got in on the action and started drawing his attention to other small signs that something was off.

There were more people than usual hanging about. Sure, the Lobby was rarely empty, but the people who came in were usually just passing through, moving purposefully, not hesitantly passing by, or outright loitering alone or in groups. And they definitely didn't stand around with their phones out as if recording something. And there was a song playing, but as far as Cloud knew, there was no radio in the Lobby...

Cloud squeezed his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose, and steeling himself for what he might see. He turned, and was gut punched by the same feeling a parent gets when they turn around to see that their toddler has discarded their clothes and is doing a buck-naked impromptu performance of The Nutcracker in the middle of the grocery store. 

Some idiot was two verses in to 'Hello! Ma Baby!' and Zack, tongue lolling in a wolf grin was Michigan J. Frogging his way back and forth across the seating area.

Cloud hid his face in his hands.

Are you sure you can't just swallow me?

Sorry, pal. No can do. 

"Go about your business!" Cloud snarled at the assembly. "And you, Bill Roberts*," Cloud said pointing at PFC Eugene Perkins, the one who had been singing, "You get double Fire Watch duty for a week!"

"Sir, yes, sir!" Perkins said with a disheartened salute. 

"If you get that video to my desk in the next fifteen minutes, I'll knock it down to two days." Cloud said as he snatched Zack by the scruff before he could make another pass.

"Sir, yes, sir!" came the grateful reply. 

"Come on, Moon Moon!" Cloud said, dragging Zack to the Lobby door just as the car pulled up. 

To Be Continued.

*Bill Roberts -  provided the original vocals for Michigan J. Frog in “One Froggy Evening"

[serenzippity]

Thank you for your natal chart ship!! Honestly I had no idea who it would match me up with lol, but I was very pleasantly surprised!! I was wondering may I request a drabble about shownu meeting his future foreign artistic s/o in a cafe?? Thank you again 💕💕

I’m glad you liked it! 🖤

Here’s that scenario love, and thank you for clarifying what country you’d like to place this in. I got inspired to take it back to my hometown after talking to @uncooliscool 🖤

Your sketch was coming together nicely. The large window in the cafe offered you an unobstructed view of the Mole Antonelliana and the flocks of people in front of it. Torino was glowing in the dusk of the early spring evening, the sun painting the city in rose gold hues. Shadows danced perfectly and your steady hand worked at a professional pace to keep up with the throngs of people. 

The live canvas in front of you was open and wide, beckoning your hands to paint it in all its beauty. However, when a shadow passed over the window you hesitated with your pen hovering above the paper. 

Dripping small blobs of ink into the book, you looked at the intruder with covert eyes. Peering over your pad, you saw a dark silhouette that contrasted against the lights of the street. The stranger was sitting at a table by the window, and your mind perceived the depth they would add to the drawing. Adapting to the change, you began to trace their outline and added them to the piece. 

Lost in your thoughts and the world outside the glass, you sketched a portrait of the shadowed man as he sipped his coffee and took in the sights of the city. Tinkering bells, cries of children, and the distinct sound of a street musician filled the atmosphere of the small cafe. Everything was idealistic and beautiful, a true symbol of Torino itself. 

A fresh latte was placed on your table, slightly disturbing your peace. The quaint waitress just smiled at you when you gave her a questioning look. She pointed to the shadow in front of the window and left without a word. The obscured man was looking at you and you tried to make out his features between the contrasts. 

A strong body was clothed underneath expensive leather, and a baseball cap and dust mask obscured a well-defined jawline and beaming eyes. Despite your inability to truly see him, you could tell from the puffing of his cheeks that he was smiling at you. You gave him a small smile back and gingerly picked up the coffee. Keeping eye contact you lifted the cup to your lips and took a sip of the bitterly sinful beverage. 

With a nod of thanks, you set the cup back down on the table and resumed your sketch. Now hyper-aware of everything going on around you, you weren’t too startled when the chair across from you scraped across the ground and the previously hidden object of your attention occupied it. 

“Ciao,” he said in a cute, abet strong accent. 

Smiling at the pronunciation of the simple Italian word, you couldn’t help but giggle at his reddening cheeks under the mask. His eyes were shiny and his flawless tanned skin stretched over prominent cheeks. You’d hoped he’d take it off so you could see him fully. 

“Ciao, come sta?” He looked confused at first, the gears in his head turning before it seemed to click.

“Ah! Bene! E tu?” The stranger looked so proud and your smile grew at his enthusiasm. “Bene, ma I speak English if that helps?” Switching between tongues seemed to help and he visibly relaxed while nodding his head. Dragging the dust mask down his face to rest on his chin, he exposed the bottom half of his face and everything in the cafe seemed to come to a standstill. 

He was absolutely beautiful in an almost indescribable way. You’d seen true beauty before in paintings and pieces of art, but to see it on another human being was an odd experience. Idly taking in his features, you wanted to commit them to memory to later put them on a medium. He was sculpted by the finest, putting the frescos and statues in all of Italy to shame. 

“Hyunwoo,” he said with a bow of introduction, shy redness painting his cheeks. That was another color you’d have to commit to memory. 

“Ciao, Hyunwoo,” you drawled while taking a sip of your coffee. “What brings you to Italy?” 

[hayleysstark]

you disappear (without anyone noticing)

Words: 7903  Warnings: Emotional abuse, mildly sexual content Summary: The Onceler finally makes it big, and it's not anything like he'd ever imagined.  Notes: So, I lifted the title straight out of the Andy Black song, Homecoming King, because I needed something to call this and that was the first thing I thought of.

Read on Fanfiction or AO3

Right from the get-go, there's a hundred million things to get off the ground, and the Onceler can barely keep up with them all.

The factory, for one—he's got plans for that factory, big plans, and he doesn't think he's even left his bedroom the last two days, sketching and erasing and resketching out the blueprints, over and over and over again, pencil scratching lightly along the graph paper, and he has to stop and rub out a line here or add a beam there—even just the crude mock-up he's got going on the page lets him know this project's going to be a pretty huge one, and he'll need all the help he can get if he wants to get this thing built, and fast. They can't keep working out of tents and campers their whole lives—he's pretty sure, when he stops to think about it, that that's actually some subset of illegal, somewhere, and he is not going to let this whole thing crash and burn in a courtroom before he can even get it all the way off the ground.

So he lays the plans for the factory, line by thin, graphite line, until the shape of it starts to come together. And it's a little bit odd, he's not even going to try to deny that, and it's a little bit clunky, too, with these big pipes sticking out at odd angles here and there, and there's one roof over on the east side that's shaped kind of like a triangle at the top, and it doesn't really look anything like a roof is supposed to look like, but it's—well, it's quirky. It's got personality.

And he really actually kind of—likes it.

"Oncie?"

Something jolts, sharply, in the pit of his stomach. The alarms start going off in his head like sirens. His mother only uses that voice—that voice like something a little too sweet, like sugar, like honey—when she's got to say something she knows he won't want to hear, like—

—you're never gonna amount to anything, you know that silly little invention of yours isn't ever gonna go anywhere, you know that, Oncie, don't you—?

"We've got us a little problem."

Yeah, okay. There it is.

He swallows hard, and swivels around in his seat to look at her, just outside the window, with the curtain pulled back, and he tries not to let himself think about what he'll do if—if—

—if his thneed has already failed, already, so soon after its success, if it's just a silly little invention that'll never go anywhere—

But he doesn't say that. He doesn't say any of it. "Problem?" he says, instead, and it takes everything he's got to keep his voice steady.

—what will Ma think if I've failed already—?

"Mm-hm." She bobs her blond head solemnly. "See," her lips pinch up in a little, dissatisfied line, "we're not makin' thneeds fast enough."

Okay. Okay. That's—that's good. Right? Not—not good, not really, but it's—it's good that they're still getting orders, that they have too much work, rather than too little, that's good, isn't it? More is always better than less, right?

"Harvesting the tufts takes too long!" Uncle Ubb pants heavily from behind a wheelbarrow filled with fine, bright pink strands.

Oh…kay.

Okay. That's—that's something they can work with. Right? This—this is something he can work with. He can figure something out.

"Well," he turns to his mother—this is his mother, after all, his family, and sure, he's had his disagreements with them, but they're still his family, and they're helping him when they don't have to, and they should be just as involved in the decisions as he is. Besides, a little brainstorming never hurt anyone. Two heads are better than one, and all of that. "What else can we do?"

"Well," his mother taps her perfectly-manicured fingernails—hot pink, this week, but she'll probably cycle back around to lemon-yellow next Sunday—against the side of her made-up face. "This just came to me—we could always start," she glances, hesitantly, up at him from under her blue eyeshadow and black mascara, "choppin' down the trees."

Chop—chop down the—? But—but he said—no, he explained things to his family, he did, he told them they couldn't—

"What?" Maybe he misheard. Maybe she said something different, something totally different, and he just heard trees because Mustache has—gotten into his head, or something, the guy's always on him to join in his hippie-conservationist stuff—

Uncle Ubb, still dutifully pushing the wheelbarrow, lets out a cheer. "Now you're talkin'! That would speed things up!"

"But—" Mustache and Pipsqueak and the animals, what will they do? The swans, the fish, the bears, what are they going to do without—without the trees? Mustache said they needed them, he said everyone here needs the trees and—

"No buts, Oncie," his mother breaks in before he can finish, but it's not like he even knows what he was going to say anyway, "you're runnin' a business now."

Yeah, he—he is running a business, and he knows that—he has to do whatever he can to get this thing off the ground, up and running, he's got plans, he's got big plans, he's got a dream, he's got a vision, and he'll do whatever it takes to see it through, but—but Mustache—and the animals—and the trees—they need—

"You have to do what's best for the company! And your mama!"

What's best—what's best for—?

Something sparks up and sears like—like heat, like fire, in his chest, in his lungs, in the back of his throat. She's right. She's right, she's right, she's—if the money keeps rolling in like it does, if people keep pre-ordering thneeds like this, in twos and threes and tens and twenties, he's going to be rich, he's going to be—

He's going to be able to take care of his family. In all the ways that his mother couldn't, in all the ways that his Aunt Grizelda couldn't, and his Uncle Ubb couldn't, and Brett and Chet couldn't, in all the ways that his father wouldn't—

There's that sparking-up-and-searing-like-heat-like-fire thing in the back of his throat again.

He's not thinking about trees anymore.

"I guess it couldn't hurt to chop down a few trees."

He can take care of the family. No one will ever have needs that can't be met, not here, not in this family, not ever again.

"You've made me so proud, Oncie!"

Proud—? Proud? He's made her—he's actually made her—? He's—he's really—?

"Come here!" And she puts her knee up on the windowsill and throws her arms around him—and he can smell her hairspray and her perfume and all her makeup, mixing and merging together and making his nose sting, and she's hugging him so tight, he thinks she's going to crack his ribs clean through his shirt and vest, but he doesn't care because he's smiling wider than he ever has in his life, so wide it hurts his face, and he doesn't know how his heart can possibly hold this much happiness, she's hugging him, she's never ever ever ever hugged him before, not ever, not once, even when he asked, even when there was that really bad storm and he got scared and he ran to her and he asked her to hold him, she didn't, and it was like she couldn't bear to touch him, to be near him, to even look at him, and what's wrong with me, why doesn't she want to hug me, what did I do—?

But she—she's hugging him. She's hugging him. Here. And now.

And this—

—this is what it feels like to be a success, to be important, to matter, to mean something, this is what it means, and he never, ever, ever wants this moment to end.

Things are okay until his first interview, and then his mother tells him she won't sit next to her grown son on live television looking like a chimney sweep, with sleeves that don't go all the way down his wrists and a vest that doesn't go all the way down to his waist, and then his mother laughs—her high, tinkling, sugar-sweet sort of laugh, and he knows she isn't doing it to be mean, he knows she's just trying to motivate him to look better, and she only wants what's best for him, but it still stings like saltwater on broken skin, and Aunt Grizelda laughs, too, a deep, throaty sort of laugh, and it sounds a little nastier, a little more like she means it, and it falls on his ears a little harder, and he really, really doesn't know how to remind them that this is all he's got—he hasn't had anything new since he was about twelve, he hasn't had the chance, he just hasn't—he started growing out of it, and he'd tried to save up when he got that job in the coffee shop, but his mother needed a new coat and Aunt Grizelda needed new boots and Brett needed—

Well. It—it doesn't matter. New clothes for him just—it's just never been a priority, and there isn't anything wrong with that, and oh, Oncie, it's not like you're ever gonna look nice no matter what you do, sweetheart—

New clothes have just—just never been a priority. Okay? Except now they are. So. So the Onceler goes into town to get himself a suit.

The custom-made three-piece is the brightest shade of emerald green he's ever seen in his life, and all kinds of eye-catching, and the silken fabric flows smooth as water through his fingers, and the price tag's enough to make a lesser man faint, but the money's really rolling in now, by the hundreds, by the thousands, and this will barely even make a dent in things, even if the poor-boy-from-the-poor-farm in his head is freaking out because unnecessary extravagance, what don't you understand about unnecessary extravagance, but he pushes it down and he pushes it back because he is not a poor boy on a poor farm anymore, he is not sleeping in a falling-down barn with a mule, and he places an order for a pair of long green gloves to match the suit, just to prove it.

He never even knew, until now, that he likes the color green. Or silk. Or expensive things, in general.

It turns out he does. He really, really does.

And then he adds a hat, just because he can, and it makes him look taller, except taller in a good way, not the weird, gangly, over-six-feet with legs so long he spends half his time tripping over them—not that kind of tall, the hat doesn't make him look that kind of tall, like a child who hasn't grown into his limbs yet, like a little boy who doesn't know what he's doing, it makes him look an imposing kind of tall, an intimidating kind of tall, a no-one-can-knock-him-down kind of tall and that—that's a tall he can really, really get behind.

"Mr. Onceler," the lady in the chair calls him, like she's been calling him all night, and he sits up a little straighter, on instinct, because there is something about the mister in front of his name, something that makes him feel good—"the Onceler" sounds—there is something intrinsically and fundamentally weak about the sound, something that is too open, and exposed, and there for everyone to take from, and look at, and laugh at, and—

Mr. Onceler. Mr. Onceler. Mr. Onceler.

Yes. That sounds—

—strong, powerful, no one can knock me down—

—good.

The Onceler stares over his plate of pancakes-and-syrup-and-marshmallows-that's-actually-mostly-marshmallows, with the fork frozen halfway to his mouth, at his own face, grinning out at him from the glossy cover of the magazine—the biggest magazine in Greenville, he's on the front of the biggest magazine in Greenville. His stomach does a little flip at the thought. That's a pretty big deal, right? Pretty important, right?

(He's pretty important now, right?)

"Hey, Ma," he says, when she comes into the kitchen, still in her bathrobe, and her honey-yellow hair pulled back in dozens of tiny pink curlers, "they published the interview." He flicks the magazine at her.

His mother goes to the coffeepot and pours herself a steaming cup before she even glances at the magazine, adjusting her electric-blue cat-eye glasses with one perfectly-manicured hand. "Eurgh," she says, the last remnants of sleep softening the sharp edges to her voice, and she tosses the magazine back onto the table like it's the dirty pelt of some dead animal by the roadside, and it nearly goes skidding into his mostly-marshmallows, "you can do better than that rag, Oncie. Passin' themselves off as a decent publication when they didn't even bother to cover up those horrible bags 'neath your eyes! Leave you lookin' twice your age!" She takes a slurping sip of coffee.

Oh. Right. Yeah. Right, yeah, of—of course there are shadows under his eyes. In—in the photographs. Of course there are shadows under his eyes, blazing stark and violet and obvious against his skin, and he looks again and he can't believe he ever missed them in the first place, he can't believe he missed them before the interview—he'd looked in the mirror before he'd sat for the interview, hadn't he—

No. No, he hadn't. He'd had to take care of all that paperwork to even have time to sit for the interview the next morning in the first place, and it had taken all night and most of the morning and he'd just jammed on his hat and pulled on his gloves and raced for the door and—and—

The biggest magazine in Greenville, he repeats, silently, to himself, lips soundlessly forming every word, except it doesn't feel like such a big deal anymore.

(He doesn't feel important anymore.)

He gets a pair of sunglasses before his next interview—those cheap plastic frames, you know the ones, and he picks the ones that are glittery, and blue, and ten kinds of over-the-top, and he wears them to the next interview, and the interview after that, and the interview after that, and the photo shoots and the public speeches and the parties and the dinners with important clients and the networking events and everywhere and there is something about it that feels good. The dark lenses hide the shadows under his eyes like nothing else. The dark lenses hide his eyes like nothing else. The dark lenses hide—

—everything, everything, and there is something so powerful, isn't there, about hiding away where no one can see, there is something so powerful about a barrier that no one can break, no one can smash through, no one can hurt him, no one can knock him down—

—the shadows. The dark lenses hide the shadows.

He's spent eighteen years trying to disappear.

Into the window, into the wall, into the old, creaking wood of the floor and the front porch steps, into the new paint his mother just put up in the kitchen, into the apple orchard down the road, into Old Man Simmons' strawberry patch a few hundred acres over, into the new cabbage crop Ubb just planted, into the barn with Melvin's shaggy warmth and the rain on the half-collapsed roof, and the floor all strewn with scratchy bits of straw and hay, into the notes that sound out of the falling-apart guitar in his hands, into everything, into nothing, he just wanted to go away, to disappear, to stop being, and to stop being seen.

Because things would be better if no one could see him, things would change, things would get better, because his mother couldn't look at him, if she couldn't see him, if he wasn't there to be seen, to be looked at and laughed at and exposed and why couldn't he just disappear, why couldn't he just—just stop being seen, why couldn't he be invisible, everyone would be happier if he disappeared, everything would be better if he disappeared, if he could just disappear—

He's spent eighteen years teaching himself how to disappear.

Into the window. Into the wall. Into the old, creaking wood of the floor and the front porch steps. Into the new paint his mother just made him put up in the kitchen. Into the barn. Into music. Into everything.

Into nothing.

He's spent eighteen years teaching himself how to disappear, and—

The cameras are flashing, everywhere he looks, a thousand silver lights coming to life so fast he can't keep up with them all, and he knows better than to even try, and there are microphones in his face and reporters and everywhere he goes it's Mr. Onceler, I love your product and Mr. Onceler, you're a genius and Mr. Onceler, will you sign my thneed and—

—and he's never been more visible.

And he—

Wow. He really, really likes being seen.

"Money? Is that what this is about? About making money?"

It's not. It's not the money. It's not about the money, it's—he likes having money, because of course he likes having money, who doesn't like having money? He likes having money, and he likes buying things, he likes buying expensive things, and he likes the looks on people's faces when they see his expensive things, the awe and envy there, and then they know they are dealing with someone strong, they are dealing with someone powerful. And he likes the extravagance of it, he supposes, the absurdity of it, of having so much he doesn't even know what to do with it all, but it's—it's not about money. It's never been about money.

He grew up on a farm—nothing but the clothes on his back and the crops in the field, and he's lived without velvet and silk and satin, he's lived without office skylights and crystal chandeliers and high-backed crimson chairs, and he could live without it all again.

No. It's not about the money.

(Then what is it about?)

He doesn't—he doesn't really—

He doesn't really know what it's about. When he really sits back, and thinks about it, he doesn't—he doesn't know. He doesn't have an answer.

He tries to press, tries to push or pull or pluck it out of himself, but there's just one word, flashing on and off and on again, like a neon sign in the back of his mind, and he keeps coming back to it—that one word, over and over and over again—more more more more more—

"If it's money you want," the Lorax looks pointedly around the lush office, the floor-to-ceiling bookshelf and the crystal bowl of fresh fruit and the twenty-four-inch globe revolving slowly on its gleaming brass stand, "pretty sure that ship has already sailed." There is something silent and unspoken at the end of the sentence, just there, an empty space where he might have added, once, something like kid or Beanpole, but he doesn't, and the silence stretches on and on and on, and the unspoken goes unspoken and that empty space stays empty, and it burns the inside of the Onceler's ear just to listen to it.

"Yeah," he says, because he needs to say something to fill up that empty space. "Yeah. It really has."

He buys a guitar.

It is bright red, and the strings are gold, and there's glitter at one tapered, triangular end, and it fits like it was made for his hands, and every note is clear and ringing and bright, and he loves it.

It makes noise, it makes—music, it makes music, and he—

He loves it.

The noise and the music and the clear and ringing and bright notes and the sound—

The sound, all the sound, there's so much sound—

(He is being heard, and he wants more.)

It's another late night, with furious torrents of rain heavily lashing at the high windows, and a mountain of paperwork towers over him on the polished desktop in his office, and it's not like it's going to go anywhere if he just spends the night sitting in his desk chair and staring at it, with his hands clasped under his chin, like he's been doing for the last two hours because the idea of reaching out a hand and grabbing the paper off the top of the stack, and starting to read it, sounds like so much effort, and he is so, so tired—

He wakes up with an aching neck and a pen in his hand and a pile of papers beneath his head, and his glittery blue glasses hanging half off his face.

(It's okay, though. He wakes up like that a lot these days.)

"—but wait! There's more!"

He's tired. A bone-deep and aching kind of tired, the kind of tired that makes him feel cold all over even though it's sunny and seventy-five Fahrenheit outside, and even hotter here, under all the bright lights and blazing cameras. He's tired, but he puts on his best sell-a-thneed smile, and he keeps right on going, because the cameras are rolling and the world is watching and he'd damn well better be ready to put on a show.

"Thanks to its all-natural microfibers," he holds the fuzzy, lemon-yellow thneed up for the camera, turns it around and around and around so every angle, every inch, can be seen and observed and admired by the audience, "the thneed is super absorbent!"

And, right on cue, he dunks it down in the water bowl, lets the eye-watering, egg-yolk yellow fabric greedily soak it up, drop by slow, glistening, crystal-clear drop, and he hefts it up again, in full view of the cameras.

"Everybody," he says, and paints on another bright, beaming smile—the world is watching, and you'd damn well better be ready to put on a show— "needs a thneed!"

"Well," his mother says, as the screen goes black and his sell-a-thneed face disappears, "least you remembered to smile."

(He's on television, and he's never felt less important.)

"Mr. Onceler," Linda with the long blond hair and red lipstick and a flawless French manicure says, pumping his hand enthusiastically, "it's such an honor! I love your thneed!"

He laughs. He's practiced that laugh when he's alone in his office, practiced it until it's polished, until it's perfect. "Thank you." He dips his head, but not far enough that his hat will fall off. He's practiced that, too. "It's wonderful to hear that." He says it like he doesn't hear it a million times a day, like he isn't stopped by a dozen people just stepping outside the factory. He's practiced that.

He's practiced everything. All of it. There's nothing spontaneous, nothing new, nothing he hasn't said before. There's no room for mistakes, no room for him to screw it up, no room for him to—

(be him)

—no room for mistakes. There's no room for mistakes.

Three days later, Linda with the long blond hair and red lipstick and flawless French manicure invites him out for a coffee, and he realizes, a split second too late—because this is him and when he has he ever been good at reading social cues, when has he ever—he realizes a split second too late that she's asking him out on a date, and he—

—he panics, okay? He panics and he doesn't know what to do and he doesn't know what to say because this isn't something he's practiced when he's alone in his office until it's polished and perfect and there's no room for mistakes, this isn't something he's ever—had to practice, he's never even been on a date before except that one time with that one guy but that doesn't count because things lasted all of twenty minutes before the guy called him a weirdo and ditched him, and there was that girl with the pretty brown eyes, but she stood him up and he's pretty sure the whole thing was a joke to begin with—

He's never—he's never been out on a date, and if he's never been out on a date and he says yes to this one, then he's not going to know what to do. He won't have any way to practice when he's alone in his office, because he doesn't know what you're supposed to do on a date to begin with, and he can't practice if he doesn't know what he's supposed to do to begin with, and then it won't be polished and it won't be perfect and there'll be room for mistakes and if he has room for mistakes then he'll make them, he'll screw things up somehow, he'll be him, and she'll see him and she'll look at him and she'll laugh at him—

"N-no," he says, and it comes out so quietly he knows without needing Linda with the long blond hair to tell him that she can't even hear him. "No," he says, again, louder this time, "no, I don't—I d-don't—"

—want, I don't want, not if it can't be perfect, not if I can't practice—

"No—" and he realizes, with a sharp jolt deep in the pit of his stomach, that he's saying it over and over and over again, "—no, no, no, no—" and he's shaking his head and he's stepping back and he's panicking and Linda with the long blond hair and red lipstick and flawless French manicure is so close to him and—

—she'll see him and she'll look at him and she'll laugh at him and this isn't something he can practice until it's polished and perfect and there's no room for mistakes and if he has room for mistakes he'll make mistakes and she'll see and everyone will see and they'll know he's a liar and a fake and a fraud and he's not smart and he's not strong and he's not big and powerful and they'll know he's just a boy in a falling-down barn with a secondhand guitar and a shaggy, stubborn old mule and he is not so big they can't knock him down and they'll knock him down—

He finally figures out how to shut his mouth, but Linda with the long blond hair is already gone.

He tells himself, when he gets back to his office, and he is alone, and the floor-to-ceiling bookshelf and bowl of fruit and crystal chandelier and twenty-four-inch globe and skylights are there to soak up the sound and the shaking in his hands, he tells himself he wouldn't have had time to grab a coffee with Linda with the long blond hair anyway, because he has work. He is smart and strong and big and powerful, and he has work, lots and lots and lots of work, and even if he could have said yes, he wouldn't have had time, and he would have fallen behind on everything and had to play catch-up, and he would have just embarrassed himself on the stupid date anyway, and she would have called him a weirdo and ditched him like that one guy—

He's busy. He's big and powerful and important and busy.

He doesn't have time for Linda with the long blond hair.

He doesn't have time for things and places and people that aren't going to turn a profit.

He can't breathe anymore, when he steps outside the factory—there's this awful, metallic smell in the air, kind of like motor oil, like something you'd dump in the back of your car, and he chokes on it—he can taste it in his mouth, swallow it down the back of his throat, feel it all thick and globby and vile in his lungs, but he steps outside the factory sometimes anyway, just to—just to look at it.

(Is that weird? That's weird. That's really, really weird.)

He likes to look at it. The way it towers over the trees. The way its tallest pipes pierce the grey clouds and belch out thick layers of heavy black smoke, so dense he can't see, but there is a flare of fierce pride in his chest, all the same, because this—

—this is his factory.

He designed it, and he built it, and he brought it to life, he turned it from pencil lines on graph paper to something real, and solid, and here, and it's his, and he made it, this is his factory, this is—

—something so big, no one can knock it down, not ever—

—his factory, and he loves every last metallic, motor-oil inch.

He's not sure why he says no.

He likes to work—he really, really likes to work, and the Lorax has dropped by three times this week to tell him it's unhealthy and he's working too hard, like that furry little lump cares, like he gives half a damn about anything besides his grass and his trees and his forests—

Look. The Onceler likes to work, okay? Is that so wrong?

He likes to work, and he's not sure why he says no, except that this is one meeting, one public speech, one photo shoot, one interview, one pile of paperwork, one high-society party too many, and he wants to—

Jesus. He just wants to sleep. He doesn't want to talk to people. He doesn't want to shake hands and shoot his sell-a-thneed smile, the one he's practiced when he's all alone in his office, God, his face hurts from how much he's put that smile on this week, he doesn't want—

—to be polished, to be perfect, to be entirely without flaws, to be Mr. Onceler—

—he doesn't want to go out.

But—

"You're runnin' a business now, Oncie," his mother says, sternly, and her eyes flash behind electric-blue frames. "You don't have time to be takin' no breaks! You have to do what's best for the company, and your mama!"

She's right.

And he knows she's right.

So he hitches that famous, sell-a-thneed smile right back on, and he lifts his chin and throws back his shoulders and he does what's best for the company.

He knocks his hat off.

One flailing hand, one overenthusiastic gesture, and his hat is gone, rolling away, bouncing on the floor, and he feels—

—so small—

—wrong, without it, and there are a lot of people looking at him—

—thousands and thousands and thousands of them, and they're all here, they're all looking at you and laughing at you because you're a fake and a fraud and you're not Mr. Onceler, you're just a boy from a barn with a mule and you're never going to amount to anything, you lazy, worthless, useless—

He grabs his hat, and he jams it roughly back on his head and—

—safe, you're safe, they can't see anymore, they can't see who you really are anymore, and you're safe so long as they can't see who you really are—

—and things are okay again. He can breathe again.

There's a party.

Sorry, it's not really a party, it's a charity gala, except it's really just a party, because he can't think of a single person in this room that's actually going to donate a single cent to charity by the end of this night.

He doesn't really want to be at the party—it's in some marble ballroom in some big city, thousands and thousands of miles away from Greenville, and the trees and the valley and his factory and his work and his thneeds and the Lorax, it's thousands and thousands of miles away from everything, and he doesn't like not being there, but his mother, she—well—it's—it's a long story.

But then he was on a plane, and then he was in a marble ballroom in a big city, at the party, and the only good thing is he has a glass of red wine in his hand, and good stuff, too, not the shitty grocery-store brand you buy when your life has really gone off the rails and you just need something—nah, this is good wine. And also, it's free for every attendee.

He's going to make the most of that.

(He likes wine. Is that so wrong? He likes wine. He likes the way it tastes in his mouth and on his tongue and in the back of his throat, a little bit sweet and a little bit not, and it goes to his head really quick, and things spin and blur all around him, and the lights dance side-to-side in front of his eyes, and the tips of his fingers tingle, and things don't hurt. He thinks of his mother, his father, his Aunt Grizelda and his uncle Ubb, and it doesn't hurt.)

(He thinks of Linda with the long blond hair, and his own voice, no no no no no no and it doesn't hurt.)

(He thinks about the Lorax, and the way he used to call him Beanpole, and the way he used to call him kid, and the way he doesn't call him anything at all anymore, like he's something too terrible to even name, and that—

—that one is going to take more than two glasses of wine to get down.)

(Thank God the wine is free.)

Look, the point is—the point is—

Okay, look, the point is this.

There's a party, in a marble ballroom, in a big city, with bright lights spreading out like the glittering web of a giant spider, and everybody in this room and everybody in this city knows his name, but there is still something—something wrong, there is something cold, and hollow, and impossibly heavy inside him as he stands there, sipping (free) red wine (that's just a little too sweet). He's away from everything.

The factory. Greenville. The trees, and the valley, and the thneeds, and the Lorax—he wonders, all of a sudden, what the Lorax would think of them all here in this ballroom, playing at charity and generosity, and his heart hurts, like a physical wound hurt, like a giant hand has reached inside and squeezed his core, and even as he shakes hands with Colin with the brown hair and the brown eyes who loves his thneed and has three of them at home, Colin who is developing a new high-speed camera that can take five hundred frames a second, that feeling doesn't go away. Or Randall with the big ears and the bright orange thneed slung around his neck like a scarf, or Avaline, in the blue chiffon dress with her ginger hair teased up high as an anthill, who says the thneed changed her life, or Jessica with the red handbag that's actually a thneed when he looks closer, and bright purple lipstick, and—

"—oh, mm-hmm, yes, my Oncie's a huge success—"

(Something jolts, sharply, in the pit of his stomach. The alarm bells start going off in his head. Like sirens.)

—something a little too sweet, like sugar, like honey, and he turns, and he looks, and she's there, in the red taffeta dress, with half the room hanging on her every word—

"'Course, you wouldn't have known it from lookin' at him!" She laughs. High and tinkling and it's not not not sweet, it's not sweet at all, and he thinks maybe it never really was. "Never thought he'd amount to much of anythin' at first—spent half his childhood askin' myself where I went wrong!"

No. That's not—that's not—but he's made her proud now, right? She's proud of him now, right?

(He's done something right now, right?)

"—still ask myself that, sometimes, if I'm bein' honest with y'all—"

But—but—

—but hairspray, and perfume, and makeup, all mixing and merging together and making his nose sting and you've made me so proud and didn't she mean it? Didn't she mean it? She was supposed to mean it, she was supposed to be proud now, she was supposed to—

(She was supposed to love him now.)

And she—she—

—she doesn't.

(And maybe she never did.)

And everyone knows, and everyone sees him—everyone is seeing him. They're seeing him, and they know. They know he's a fraud. A fake. A liar. They know he's not big or important or powerful, they know he doesn't matter or mean anything, and they're going to knock him down, and he just—

—he just—he just wants to get out. Get out, get out of here, get away from here, get away where no one can see, but he can't—he can't—he can't get away, because the doors are on the other side of the room, and there's nowhere else, there's nowhere else for him to go, and he's stuck and he's trapped and open and exposed with a trillion people who know he is a fraud and a fake and a liar, and not big or important or powerful—

Balcony. There—there's a balcony. Right? There's a balcony, and he can—he can reach the balcony. It's closer than the doors, he can reach the balcony. He can reach the balcony. He can make it. He can do it. He can get to the balcony—

He crashes. Into something.

Into someone.

A man.

A man, dressed all in blue, with blond hair down to his chin, and a beard, too, and muscles, and a warm and easy and wide and open smile, and there is something so bright in it, the Onceler can feel it all the way down to his bones—

"I-I'm sorry," he says, reflexively, and steps back. The man in blue is as tall as he is. Maybe taller. He's never met anyone as tall as he is. "I'm sorry," he says, again. "I—I wasn't looking."

"It's all right," the man in blue says, and his voice is deep, a rumbling sort of deep. "As a matter of fact, I was hoping to speak with you, Mr. Onceler." His tongue curls around the name in a way no one else's ever, ever has, and it sends a shiver of sheer pleasure down the Onceler's spine, but he pushes it back, pushes it down, and he doesn't let himself think about it. "And I believe you've just given me an in."

"I—yes," the Onceler says. He isn't tongue-tied. He isn't stammering. Powerful and important people don't get tongue-tied. Powerful and important people don't stammer.

(The man's name is Bryce Downing. Bryce Downing gets him a third glass of wine from a server with a shining silver tray, and Bryce Downing takes him out to the balcony, and he looks out over all the blurry bright lights of the big city with Bryce Downing and a glass of wine, and he can breathe again.)

Bryce Downing leads him out of the ballroom, and down the hall, and around a corner, and into a brightly-lit bathroom with a marble counter, and faucet taps that glisten gold, and Bryce Downing pins him against the bathroom wall, and presses kisses all down his cheekbone and his jaw and his throat, and he doesn't stop to think about anything before he pushes off the wall and kisses back, and moans into Bryce Downing's skin.

Bryce Downing grabs at him, at his clothes, big broad hands grasping at his pinstriped lapels of his suit and emerald-green silk of his gloves and velvet black brim of his hat and cheap glittery plastic of his glasses and—

—he was going to see. Just like—just like everyone back there in the ballroom saw, Bryce Downing was going to see, and he was going to see a fake, a fraud, a liar, useless and unimportant and insignificant and stupid and small—

"—no—"

The Onceler pulls back. He pushes pushes pushes out against Bryce Downing with everything he's got, but there's nothing—there's nothing, there's no force, he's got no power to put behind it, he's got nothing to put behind it, because he's—

—weak and small and anyone can knock him down, anyone at all—

"What?" Bryce Downing's breath is hot. On his ear. On his cheek. On his neck. His big, broad hands are warm through the Onceler's suit. "What's wrong? I just—I just wanna see you." His rumbling, deep voice sounds a little slurred. Bryce Downing isn't very sober.

The Onceler isn't very sober, either.

But he is sober enough to know that Bryce Downing is going to see, and if he sees, if he sees how weak and small and unimportant—if he sees how easy it would be to knock the Onceler down—

"Get—get off me! Get off me! Get away!"

He's screaming. He's screaming the words at Bryce Downing, tearing them from his throat and throwing them out in the air like knives, like weapons, and he's shaking his head so hard it hurts.

"Get away! Get away! Get away!"

Bryce Downing is going to see him.

Just like everyone saw him, back in the ballroom.

And the Onceler doesn't want to be seen.

He doesn't know when Bryce leaves.

But Bryce Downing leaves.

And he is alone.

He is alone, sobbing, on the bathroom floor, with his back pressed to the wall so hard, it's hurting his shoulder blades, and his silk suit jacket torn half-off his torso, and a rip running all down the arm of one glove, and his glasses knocked half-off his face and dangling from one ear, and he's—

God, he's sobbing, huge wracking sobs that shake his whole body, sniffles and hiccups ripping their disgusting, squelchy, wet-sounding way out of his open mouth, and tears pouring in a great river down his face, sticky damp trails all down his cheeks and dripping off his chin, and he tries to muffle it into his sleeve, tries to be quiet, tries because everyone will hear him, and he—

—he doesn't want to be heard.

It doesn't make sense. He doesn't understand. He doesn't understand any of it.

He wanted Bryce Downing to kiss him. To touch him. He wanted Bryce Downing.

He doesn't—he doesn't understand, he doesn't know, it doesn't make any sense, he wanted—

—to be kissed and touched and fucked when he is perfect, and polished, and entirely without flaws, after he has practiced all alone in his office and there's no room for mistakes, to be kissed and touched and fucked when he is big and powerful and strong, when he is too big to be knocked down—

He doesn't—he doesn't really know what he wants anymore.

(There, in the bathroom, in all the cold and echoing marble, he cries so hard he can't breathe, and he disappears. Into the window. Into the wall. Into the floor.

Into everything.

Into nothing.)

He picks himself back up. Off the bathroom floor. He dusts off his suit with one hand, and scrubs and scrubs and scrubs at his face until he can't see the tearstains—

(except he can, because he knows where to look)

—and he puts on his sell-a-thneed smile.

His mother was supposed to love him.

And she doesn't.

And she never did.

He was supposed to be kissed and touched and fucked by Bryce Downing.

And he wasn't.

Because—

—because I'm me, and what is there to love in someone who doesn't mean anything after all—

Well.

He puts on his sell-a-thneed smile, big and bright and beaming, and he pulls his glove over, so no one can see the rip, and he pulls his jacket back on, and he straightens his glasses, and he throws his shoulders back and he walks out of that bathroom with his head held high, and his chin doesn't tremble once.

The cameras are rolling, and the world is watching.

And he'd damn well better be ready to give them a show.

[vulpixen]

Someone to Count On

Series: Gravity Falls

Characters: Stanley Pines, Tanya Pines, Stanley “Junior” Pines, and Tyrone “Ty” Pines. 

Word count: 817.

Summary: Stan consoles his grandkids while going through a death in the family. 

A/N: I wanted to write something for @stanuary 2019, but I was having trouble finding time and motivation since working a more full time position at work. This going with the theme: Comfort. I at least found time to write this taking place in me and my and @sailormew4 au, One Big Weird Happy Family (OBWHF) where Stan does have kids and grandkids. It also applies to an au I want to write later, too. Hope you all enjoy!

Inside the Mystery Shack’s attic room, 2006….

Tanya Michelle Pines (age 15), Stanley “Junior” Maurice Pines (age 10), and Tyrone Pierce “Ty” Pines, sit inside the decent size room, each on one of the three small beds for them, appearing sullen, tired and heartbroken after what occurred a week prior. The three having witnessed their father’s, Maurice Pierce-Pines, demise; of which was labeled as a stunt gone fatal. The three deny there was nothing accidental with what happened to their dad. Still, they were in mourning for his loss.

Maurice was a big part of his kids lives with his amiable, daring and eccentric personality. He was what inspired each of them to pursue art in its different forms. Tanya wanting to be an amazing tattoo artist in her own right. Junior wanting to paint cars and anything else that would love to be colorful. As for Ty, he chose the art of music in playing the violin and fiddle, but he wasn’t sure if he wants to perform as a career or not. The three love their parents equally, but now it felt like a vital piece was missing.

Tanya was sketching a picture of her dad’s former motorcycle that burned with him, ‘Dustkicker’, inside the sketch book, idly. Junior drawing nothing but green circles on the wall with chalk while sulking in the corner, not having smiled since his father’s death. And Ty playing his handheld game, along with his siblings going through grief in their own way. The three rose their heads when they hear an audible knock on the door coming from outside the room.

Stan’s voice on the other side asking, “Hey, kids, wanna let your Gramps in? I’d like to talk to all three of you before dinner.”

Tanya raised her head from her sketchbook, permitting, “Sure, Grandpa!” She figured it has to do with her dad, and that Stan and the rest of the family was concerned for them.

Stan opened the door and entered the room, frowning to see his grandkids in such a state of despair that he thought he could offer what amount of comfort he can give. He had plenty. “Hey, uh, kiddos. May I sit on the bed with ya, Tanya? You three need to hear what I have to say about your Dad.”

Tanya sits next to Stan while Junior and Ty climb onto the bed with them. Ty getting in Stan’s lap, but he didn’t mind. As soon as the three get comfortable, Stan takes a deep breath, “Kids, look, I never had the best relationship with my own pa. You all remember when I told you about him, right?”

“The bastard?” Ty recalled, having heard him and his ma (Jessie) say it about Filbrick a few times in the past.

“A fuck-face!” exclaimed Junior. “That’s what Ma likes say.”

“That he was pretty much a abusive piece of shit for kicking you out, among other issues he caused,” answered Tanya, making Stan roar in laughter, being proud of his grandkids for being blunt about their thoughts. Those lessons in swearing paid off.

“You kids do me proud as a grandpa. Well, I know your dad loved you three a bunch and did his best to raise you right.” Stan rubs Junior and Ty’s heads before he continued, “Maurice grew up much of his life without a dad around, you know, and only had his mom but she did best to raise him right. That tattoo artist, Rough Sketch, helped your dad a lot while growing up. However, he had trouble being a parent himself at the start before Junior and Ty came around. I mean, when Tanya here was about a year old, Maurice left the front door wide open when he took a nap and the little rascal crawled right out the door and went all the way until Soos’ grandma found her at her place down the street a few blocks away.” Tanya smiled a little, having known the story when she was told how her and Soos first met as babies.

“Your dad was so scared, he cried and thought he was a bad father for having done that. I told him after the fact he was far from it and that he shouldn’t have left the damn front door opened in the first place. Maurice vowed to do better since. What I’m getting at is, we should remember your dad how he was in life. Your mom’s are grieving, too, like we all are. None of you are alone, remember that. Okay? As long as me and the rest of us are around, I’ll be here for you kids if ya ever need anything. Anything at all.” Stan opened his arms wide for each of his grandkids to hug him, and they did with tears in their eyes. They were definitely going to need him.

[mythalsknickers]

TITLE: Vir'sul El'u Eolas RATING: Mature PAIRING: Fen’aslan x Solas (Sollavellan) TAGS: Post Corypheus, Post Trespasser DLC, Magical Amputation, Body Horror,  Flashbacks, Liberal use of Magic, Liberal use of  Elvhen, Magical Healing, Spirits are overpowered Link for AO3

This started out as a DADWC writing prompt, however, it quickly escalated into a full-fledged fic that demanded its own part of my canon universe. Reblogs, are always appreciated. As well as kudos and comments.

There was no pain; just a sudden nothing where her forearm should have been, and he was leaving. Walking away as if he hadn’t done that, as if it meant nothing to him.

As if she meant nothing to him.

Fen’aslan tried to stand up, stumbling forward in the numbness of system shock, crying out as her knees gave way and connected with the ancient stones that made up the broken, cobbled path. Panic seized her, keeping her from sobbing by stealing the breath she would have used as she realized she didn’t have the strength to keep herself upright let alone make it to the eluvian.

“Ma Vhenan!”

Her voice sounded foreign to her own ears, full of anguish and pain she didn’t yet feel. He paused, turning just barely towards her. “Don’t, Solas! Don’t leave me, ma vhenan!” she begged, standing up on legs that felt like withered branches, liable to snap at any given moment. Without thinking, she pulled on the fade with her right hand. It was only natural; their most tender moments, the moments of greatest intimacy, had been in the fade. The mist began to form around her as she took a single, shaky step forward. A breath later, she disappeared into the fade, hoping with her aching heart that it would work, that it would distract him just enough for her to catch him.

She strolled through the doors of the Exalted Council, her bare toes and heels soundless against the mirror-like tile, light robes swishing against her legs with a faint whisper, like the summer breeze through the grass. Her passage through the crowds was marked only by the quiet jingling of the six tiny leaves adorning her collar and the quiet hush she left in her wake. On the Dias, Arl Tegan and the Orlaisian continued their heated debate around the Divine in ignorance, unaware of how rudely they were about to be interrupted.

That thought almost made Fen’aslan smile, but the book in her hands kept her thoughts anchored on the moment.

“The Herald of Andraste,” a woman whispered, reaching out to touch her like she was their savior. She wasn’t, though, and before she could react, the man next to the woman snatched her hand back.

“It is a Rabbit, Woman!” he hissed through his teeth. “She was not sent by Blessed Andraste! More likely one of the demons her people worship.” He spat towards her as she passed him, but he may as well been invisible for all the attention she paid him.

As Fen’aslan became visible to her former advisors, she could see Josephine’s aggravation melt into relief and smugness radiate from the Divine’s smile. Her plan had been shared, then. Good, this would not surprise Leliana. The effects of her sudden appearance effectively pulled the two lords from their argument, just as she hoped it would. She wanted their undivided attention.

“You all know what this is!” She raised the book above her head as she took the final steps toward the Dias, her voice ringing out in the newborn silence the way her footsteps hadn’t. Defiantly, she faced the men who would put her organization under their sway, who were even now attempting to position themselves as Judge, Jury, and Executioner over the ones whose strength had revealed their shortcomings. As Inquisitor, it was Fen’aslan’s place to pass and enact justice, not theirs.

Behind her, the crowd waited with bated breath for her next words. No one spoke, not even the man who had spit at her, and not a single rustle of fine silks hinted that anyone was stirring. They were all either enthralled with her brazen declaration or - more likely - frozen by her audacity. It was time to find out. Exhaling, she spun on her heel to face them.

“This is a writ from Divine Justinia, authorizing the formation of the Inquisition.” The sea of silent faces, both masked and not masked, raised their eyes to the book clearly visible in her hands, and she flipped open the cover showing the distinctive ink of the blood-red eye staining the parchment. “We pledged to close the breach, to find those responsible, and to restore order - with or without approval.” She turned her head slightly towards Arl Tegan, catching Cassandra’s smirk and nod of approval.

The silence held; no one dared do anything but breathe, afraid to break the tension that drew every eye to her. Fen’aslan drew in another breath to steady herself, torn between the fluttering uncertainty in her belly and the wild exultation howling in her blood. Would he be proud of her in this moment, her love? She discarded the thought to continue with her plan.

“It was not a formalized treaty that saved Ferelden or her people,” she declared, turning to hurl the words directly at Arl Tegan. Oh, how smug he looked. “The Inquisition saved them when you could not. We will not disband for you.”

She could hear a squeak as the Arl sat back in his chair, too stunned for a moment to form words. His expression said it all for her - how dare she have the gall? She clenched her jaw, keeping her smile trapped behind her teeth. She was a wolf among the sheep who thought they could tame her. Stepping along the Dias with the sharp grace of a sword slicing through the air, she moved so she was directly in front of the masked Orlaisian.

“The Inquisition will not submit to an Empress who failed to end your inane civil war, and only keeps her throne because of Inquisition support!” It spoke volumes that Celene, Gaspard, and Briala had not attended these talks and instead, sent this Lord who was not important enough for her to remember his name. The Arl had presented more of a threat, but she was done with both of these sheep now.

The silence tore with the soft sound of gasps ripped from the throats of Orlaisian women. With that intangible protection broken, men put hands on their swords and yelled, their voices colliding in the air and forming a single incoherent jumble of sound. It did not matter; she knew every insult they threw at her, but they shattered against the armor of her indifference.

“This was never just an organization!” Fen’aslan declared when the volley of words ended. “It is about people doing what is necessary. We will continue to support you as we have done in the past.” Her eyes finally met Leliana’s as the Divine bowed her head in quiet approval. “There is worse coming than anything you’ve yet seen. We will not be rendered defenseless and riddled with the bureaucracy and the so-called politics of The Game. The Inquisitions will bow - but it will not be to either of you. Now excuse me.” Her tone turned the plea into a command of respect and authority, her robes once more whispering against her legs as she strolled away from the Dais “I need to save the world again.” She thrust the book towards Josephine, giving her little time to collect it as she passed. “I will see you at Skyhold.”

Like a wolf returning from a successful hunt, she prowled through the divided crowd, gliding through the room while gasps of outrage and protests lapped at her. How dare a blasphemous Rabbit and the supposed herald of Andraste voice such insolence to her betters! She ignored it all, chin high, unable to hide her smirk. It wouldn’t be more than a handful of breaths before the muttering erupted into a storm of shouting - but she would be gone before that happened. Throwing open the doors to the chamber, she grabbed her staff from a page and handed the boy a Caprice coin. Then, with the doors swinging shut, she smiled at the mutters rising into furious protests. A muffled boom behind her was the doors closing, silencing the storm as it broke.

As she materialized out of the fade, she could see the eluvian starting to darken and she quickly pushed herself through. How dare he try to shut her out again! Once she’d stumbled forward into the crossroads, however, she couldn’t see him.

“Solas! Tel’tuaun min ea el’u i em!” She could see the mirror closing behind her as she moved away from it, and for a split second, she wanted to jump through – but she continued, away from home, away from a guaranteed future. “Lasa em’an dirth ma’lath,” she begged. They needed to talk. Each mirror she passed, she sketched and made a note of it in relation to her path. “Ma tel’isala dina sul min! Tamahn emen to ea vir!” She cried out to the emptiness, but there was no answer and she sank down to the ground, her eyes slipping closed. “Fen’aslan ma ane a felasil Fen’harel.” Tears staining her cheeks, her body beginning to shake as she curled forward, she sobbed. He had left her again.

“Ma ane las, Da’lan.”

She opened her bleary eyes at the unfamiliar voice, noting the vallaslin on an equally unfamiliar face. It was her own – Fen’harel’s eyes was what her clan named it. “Ma ane isa ghi’la,” the elvhen asserted, crouching down. “Ar ame Rashale. Las, ma ane naim; ar juhalani ma vena mar sal.” He offered his hand and she took it, standing with his help and letting him lead her over to a mirror. “Fen’harel Enasanal,” he spoke. The mirror sprang to life, and he pulled her through it.

“Rashale?” she glanced at him, and he turned back. “Do you understand me?” She asked in the common language. At his nod, she continued. “Can you speak like this?” Again he nodded, and her shoulders relaxed. “Where are we?”

“The ones who raise you call it the Tirashan,” he replied as he led her into the temple. “This was where Mythal sent you to protect you from the Veil going up.” He watched her as she ran her over the wards on the temple walls, tracing their shapes. As soon as she removed her hand, energy pulsed through them. “Temple of the Hoping Moon,” he offered as he guided her deeper into the temple. Statues of two wolves appeared everywhere.

It had been a week since she went into the Eluvian after Solas, a week since Rashale had found her and took her to this temple. If Rashale was to be believed, it had apparently been created for her. She wasn’t sure she believed any of what he’d told her, honestly. He claimed that she was as old as Solas - or rather, her soul was, and she had been put into uthenera sometime during the slave rebellion. She frowned as she wandered the moss- and vine-covered floors, letting her bare feet pick their own path while she mulled over this information.

As she walked, she reached out with her remaining hand, touching the faded mosaic wall absently. Ambient magic pulsed through the tiles as her fingers ghosted over them, strands of vivid green arcing along certain tiles, lighting them up. That caught her attention and she stared at the wall, walking back a few steps to see the design.

It was the dread wolf.

The green magic changed; this time, it was purple, and she watched as a dragon took shape. Her lips parted as the color changed to a pale silver to make the last image in the mosaic: a moon's glow lighting up a white wolf ahead of the dread wolf.

“I wondered, Las, how long it would take you to find this.”

Looking around, she couldn’t see anyone, but the voice almost sounded like-

Her eyes locked with the dragon. “Mythal?”

She watched in awe as the dragon turned its mosaic head to her. “Well done, young one. You have come a long way since we last met.”

Her brow furrowed; the sentinels had told her Mythal was dead.

“I am a fragment, placed here once you were ready for everything. I am dead, child. We both know I can not help your wolf on his path.”

She drifted forward a few steps until she could reach out and touch the moon. “I am supposed to be his guide,” she whispered before looking at the dragon. “How, though? I am not even sure any of this happened.” Exasperated, she rubbed her hand over her face.

“How did the wolf claim to known things? That path is open to you...and it is time you learn to hunt.”

An orange glow began to appear along the dragon’s throat. As it opened its mouth, mosaic flames shot out but left the wall to smash into her chest, making her scream. The dragon closed its mouth as she pulled her hand back to touch her robe-covered chest, but there was no burn. The sudden sensation that she had swallowed the fire made her drop to the ground, gasping, trying to breathe past the phantom flames in her throat.

“Child, I have nudged history and shoved it. You are being melodramatic. Take what is yours; you are Elvhen, and kin, and would be gods just like your wolf; act like it!”

At the words, a fit of burning anger formed in her stomach and for the first time since the loss of her forearm, she reached out with her left hand. Ignoring that her hand wasn’t there, she attempted to pull the fade. Magic began to course around her, creeping along what was left of her arm after her forearm had been disintegrated, sickly green magic of the fade beginning to burst through the scars and drawing a scream from her throat. Her knees threatened to buckle from the sudden influx of pain in her arm and tears streamed freely from her eyes, her skin starting to tingle as the veil strained against her crude pulling. The sickly green magic traveled up her arm, skin smoking in its wake as the scars ripped open, the wounds cauterized before even a single drop of blood could drip onto the stone floor. Blindly, she staggered forward, away from the mosaic, feeling draconic eyes watching her with interest.

Clenching her jaw, she reached out with her missing hand, her weak legs causing her to sway dangerously. The anchor spread further with each faltering step she took. As she pulled on the fade, she could feel it begin to tremble around her. Her eyes went to her vestigial arm, which was beginning to ooze green fade-magic, and a hollow laugh burst out of her. This not-even-formed plan of hers was working? It was hard to believe, but the smoking grew worse with each tremor of the fade as more and more of the ooze came bleeding out.

The fade trembled and quaked under her assault, and the anchor began to spread past her arm. Each inch it crawled - sometimes leaped - over her skin, she could feel it trying to claw her apart. A scream tore from her throat but it echoed off the stone oddly, the sound warping until to her ears, it sounded like a howl. Hunching forward, she continued to stagger down the hallway, her nose filled with the smell of burning flesh. The fade was bleeding into the temple; she stared at a distant image of Solas removing his vallaslin from her face and her right hand tightened into an angry fist. She had been blind, so blind, so many signs that he had been hiding something and she hadn’t seen them.

She tore her eyes away from the memory, her heart aching because, despite everything, she still loved him. “Ma vhenan.” she whispered, her voice rough.

Something deeper in the temple called to her, and she struggled to continue her journey towards it. Bit by bit, the oozing, burning, green magic of the fade was forming the shape of her missing forearm. Her foot hooked a branch as she approached a door frame and sent her stumbling forward, her right hand catching one side of the frame as her shoulder slammed into the ancient stone of the other side. Leaning against it, she tried desperately to slow her frantic breathing. Each pull, each spasm of the fade left her feeling emptier than the last, and the pain still tore at the fabric of her very being.

As she stared at the remnants of her forearm, she pushed off the door frame and staggered into the room. In the center was a massive statue of two wolves nestled together. The shock of seeing what could only be her and Solas made her legs give out, her next pull on the fade purely reflexive as her knees collided with the overgrown tiles. He had to know what was happening, had to know what she was doing. If he didn’t, he either was not even looking at the fade or...well, she couldn’t think past the pain to figure out an ‘or’. Fen’aslan half expected his footsteps to echo towards her down the hallway she’d followed, and she could almost hear him calling her name. Tears trailed down her cheeks, and she closed her eyes.

It was nightfall when she opened her eyes again, one of them the sickly green of the fade. There had been no rest, no dreams for her. Breathing heavily, she stood up, her copper hair torn loose from its braid, and reached out with her left arm. There were still many missing pieces, and with soft exhale she attempted again to pull the fade, to tear the veil. She would have her arm back. Sweat dripped down from her forehead as she strained, splattering onto the tile. Another piece slipped through the fade, but there was not enough time to pull the rest of her arm through before something reached out and slammed into her.

Fen’aslan went flying backward, her head cracking against the wall as she hit it and crumpled to the floor. It felt like an eternity before she was aware of a groan slipping past her lips. Again she opened her eyes, but this time her green eye was met with a blue eye. The burning, clawing heat of the mosaic warred with the creeping chill of the glyphs as she climbed to her feet and realized she’d come face to face with herself.

A mirror.

“Inquisitor, you promised a price.”

Her eyes widened. The glyphs tightened on her face, attempting to spread to the left side. Another scream tore from her throat as the two ancient magics warred over her. The anchor pulsed angrily, and the only warning of it attempting open was the distinctively sickening popping noise. Her knees almost gave out again, every bit of her body aching and burning, leaving the fade scarred and bleeding even more heavily into the temple. It had already saturated the room, she realized as she looked up. There was no ceiling anymore, just the twin silver moons.

“Give in, Fen’aslan. This is our destiny: to serve the well. Fen’harel’s magic will kill us.”

Her mirror self spoke in a mocking voice, attempting to soothe her. Her reflection’s left hand was missing and her face was filled with unending sorrow and anguish, branded with the glyphs of the Well. Fen’aslan forced herself to keep her feet as she stepped away from the wall, her breathing heavy and ragged. Anger burned brighter than a star as the anchor flared along her left side, tearing into her further. Lighting, manifestations of her anger and pain, struck around the mirror.

“No,” she growled, her body shaking with her fury, and something began to change. The anchor had once been Fen’harel’s, but now she was making it was hers. It had been hers to claim all along. Slowly, at the tips of her sickly green fingers, silver magic began to emerge, spreading and clawing for each inch as it crept up her arm. The anchor fought back with violent pulses of magic that further assaulted the fade and clawed at her.

“Accept it, Inquisitor, and stop fighting. You will always be what you are now. Come home.”

She stared at the mirror, her heart hammering in her chest. Something in that phase had caused panic to seize her. Her left hand clenched into a fist as silver magic continued to bleed up her arm. Reaching out, she raised both her hands, attempting to pull the ceiling down on her mirror, only to stare in horrified when nothing happened; the mirror still stood in front of her and the ceiling remained intact.

“I told you, Inquisitor, you need to stop fighting this. You will never survive.” The image of herself in the mirror laughed. A wave appeared behind it, and the realization hit her: the woman in the Well had been her. Then the wave surged forward, smashing into her and tossing her back into the wall.

“I..I will never surrender…” As she struggled to stand up, ice spread from her feet, slowly creeping forward and freezing what it touched. Another wave smashed into her, trying to slide her back into the wall, but the ice held and her jaw tightened. Silver magic began to arc and hiss as it slowly overtook the green fade energy, bit by bit. It mended the skin that had torn, pulling her flesh together and quenching the burning pain. Slowly the green bled from her opaline eye, leaving only blue. She turned her gaze to the ceiling and pulled on it; the rubble tumbled down in a distraction as she began to walk towards the mirror, her legs trembling with each step. “I am no one’s slave. I paid the price of the well, now yield to me!” She commanded, throwing all of her strength into it. Every fiber of her body begged her to relent, to surrender to exhaustion.

The mirror shook violently as lightning began to arc between them. “We will not be commanded by a girl so foolish that she took what was not hers twice and would not pay the price!” Another wave began to raise up. “You will relent; in the end, they all do. Become what you are, child. It will not hurt, and you can rest.” The soothing mocking was back, each word casting a grapple of fade energy to entangle Fen’aslan.

This time, her anger was more precise, the lightning arcing around the mirror to entrap it. Each breath was focused on the glyphs, and her vision went black for a moment before she spoke.

“You dare command me?” Her voice was different to her ears; something had changed. The howl of a wolf echoed from somewhere as the two statues stepped off their base and began circling the mirror. “I am one Mythal calls kin. You will yield and become mine!”

Her magic lashed out towards the mirror as her skin began to ache and burn from the grapple she had been tangled in. Turning her eyes away from the mirror, she raised her now-silver magical hand toward the grapple, letting one finger claw at the grapple until it released her. The glyphs on her face began to change, silver magical energy coursing through them, turning both her eyes into pools of moonlight as another howl echoed through the room. Lightning flashed, the stone wolves growling before launching at the mirror. They savaged it with fang and claw and soon, silver magic began to ooze from it as it bled back to her. The Vir’abelsan had become hers; the mirror dissolved, and she could feel the voices fade from her mind.

Her knees buckled as exhaustion overtook her, silver eyes fading back into their normal, opaline mauve. The statues of the wolves were back on the base, nestled together as they had been, and as she kneeled there on the ground, Fen’aslan began laughing. Another voice joined her in laughing as the careful steps of armored boots approached, and when she looked up, there was Mythal.

“Well done, girl.” The woman’s amber eyes truly did seem pleased with her. “Now you can learn how to help him.” Mythal nodded, her lips curved into a slight smile. “Help him before he can no longer be helped, daughter.”

The warning chilled her. The goddess disappeared, the fade becoming less saturated in the room with each passing moment, and Fen’aslan staggered up onto her feet. She stared at her new arm admiring, magical energy substituting for the flesh that had been lost. Then a yawn distracted her, and she rubbed her eyes. Her body was exhausted and she could feel her stomach beginning to rumble and cramp with an increasingly-desperate need to find food. She needed to find Rashale. How long had she been in the fade?

As she hobbled out of the room, she noticed that the temple seemed to be repaired: the overgrowth was gone, the walls clean, the floors smooth with no ragged edges to catch her feet. She paused as she passed the mosaic and noticed the dragon’s absence. Was…it just a dream, she wondered? A glance at her left hand dispelled that; it was neither flesh nor missing, but a construct of her magic. It couldn’t have been a dream. Frowning, Fen’aslan limped gingerly out of the hallway and into the main thoroughfare of the temple.

“Las!” she jolted alert, her magic suddenly flaring to life at the sound of her name. Rashale seemed to appear out of nowhere, jogging up to her. “Thank Mythal I have found you.” His brows raised as he noticed her left hand, and he bowed. “My lady, pardon me. I was merely worried for you; you have been gone from the temple for a week,” he said, his voice formal and respectful.

“A week. I thought…” she whispered. She thought it had been less. Gone from the temple…Had she physically gone into the fade again? “Rashale, please. I am not a lady, and there is nothing to pardon.”

He shook his head firmly at her in disagreement. “You are a lady; your spirit has changed. You have found yourself, my lady.” It was his only explanation and while it was not enough for her, she was too hungry and too tired to worry about it for now. She yawned, swaying on her feet.

“My lady? Do you need refreshments?”

She stared at Rashale, blinking for a moment before his words finally made sense. Yawning again, she nodded. He offered his arm and, reluctantly, she took it and let him lead her to the kitchens.

The kitchens were rather large for the small temple. Carefully, Fen’aslan made her way around with a plate, gathering bits of fruits, jerkies and candied meats, hardened cheeses, and an glass of some kind of drink that smelled a bit like the wine Solas had introduced her to in Orlais. Lacking any sort of table or chair, she climbed up onto the counter where she perched with her plate of snacks, eating her fill and quenching her thirst. After her meal, she quietly made her way to her room.

Once the doors had shut behind her she looked around, closing her eye and trying to prepare herself. “Two weeks since I have dreamed…” she whispered to herself, wrapping her arms around her torso and squeezing in attempts to reassure herself. She made her tired way over to the bed and lay down, curling under the blankets, slowly letting herself drift off into the fade.

“Vhenan.” The word summoned her, and she found herself face to face with him. “Where are you?”

She stood up, and the images around them changed. He was trying to find her. “Where are you, vhenan?” she countered, shifting the fade on her own. “I will find you, vhenan. I told you I would not give up.” Around her, the fade stilled. Arlathan.

“I know you will not, Vhenan…” he seemed reluctant, looking around. “Allow me to show you these before we do not have time?”

She nodded, offering her hand. "Em ghi’lana,” she offered gently as he took her it, squeezing it gently. He lead her through the glass spires of the city and she watched the reflections, seeing multiple images of her and Solas. “In another time…” she smiled fondly; in another time, they had walked these streets just like this.

“Yes, Vhenan,” he added, turning and taking her- left hand? Her brows furrowed. “This is the fade,” he whispered. She realized they were in a grand ballroom just as Solas pressed close to her and began to dance. As they moved over the glass tiles, the room filled with people. “The Evanuris held such parties often. This was the night,” he started before spinning her. “The night everything I cared for was taken from me.” He growled, and the music took a deadly twist as she watched Mythal crumble to the floor. The young dreadwolf stared in horror at his kin, letting go of her. She recognized the figure in his arms. She tried to watch what happened to herself, but the scene focused on Solas lashing out at Elgar’nan.

“Wake up, Vhenan.” He leaned forward sadly and kissed her cheek. As her eyes opened, she sighed looking at the walls.

So it had begun.

Elvhen Translations

•Vir'sul el'u eolas (way to have secret knowledge) •Solas Tel’tuaun min ea el’u i em! (Solas don’t cause this to be a secret with me) •lasa em’an dirth ma’lath. (Let’s talk about it my love) •Ma tel’isala dina sul min! Tamahn emen to ea vir! (You dont need to die for this! There has to be another way!) •Fen’aslan ma ane a felasil Fen’harel. (You are a fool to chase Fen’harel) •Ma ane las. Da’lan. (You are hope. Young one) •Ma ane isa ghi’la. (You are his guide) •Ar ame Rashale. Las ma ane naim, ar juhalani ma vena mar sal. (I am Rashale. Hope you are lost, I will help you find your soul.) •em ghilana (guide me/ show me) •Vhenan (heart)

[rfsak2]

Cactus, Part IX

Hope you like this one guys! Enjoy! Drop me a line!

Cactus, Part IX Summary: Personal. Harry/Jamie Warnings: None!

Jamie smiled at the receptionist and placed her sunglasses on her head. “Hey, I’ve got a meeting with the rep.”

“Name?”

“Jamie Schwartz.”

The girl’s eyes widened and she gaped for a short second. “You’re dating Harry Styles.”

Jamie nodded. “That’s me.”

“Is he good in bed?”

“Julie! Send Ms. Schwartz through please.”

The girl jumped and shot a look behind her at the glowering French man in the door. She nodded and swallowed dryly. “Mr. Rousseau will see you now.”

“Thanks, girl.” Jamie chuckled to herself and approached the man with a smile. “Bonjour, Pierre.”

Pierre smiled and clasped her hand in both of his. “Bonjour, ma cheri. I’ve heard you have an interesting proposition for me.”

Jamie nodded and preceded him into his office. “I’m looking to procure a one-of-a-kind guitar case.”

“For Harry.”

She nodded. “Yeah. I personally have one of the Saint Laurent guitar cases for my own acoustic and Harry is very fond of it-”

“But?”

She smiled. “I want something special for his birthday. Maybe even a set? He has an acoustic and a hollow-body I’d like to get cases for at least and maybe even one for his electric.”

“Okay.” The man smiled. “Can you get me dimensions?”

“I have them.” She handed over a sheet of paper with diagrams and dimensions. “Feel free to call if you need anything else.”

Pierre nodded. “I think we can do that. What are you thinking as far as materials?”

“I’m thinking leather outer and suiting silk on the inside.”

“Do all three have to be the same?”

She shook her head. “No, not necessarily.”

“What if each was based off men’s clothing?” Pierre grabbed a sketch pad. “For instance, with the electric, maybe a leather jacket? So black leather with a contrasting lining of silk and heavy silver hardware, maybe even with an asymmetrical zip?”

She nodded, leaning forward. “Yes, that’s sick.”

He grinned. “For the acoustic, maybe grey wool, with a different silk lining with big, black buttons. And lastly, for the hollow-body, maybe heavy black on black jacquard with matte black detailing so it looks like a smoking jacket and of course, yet more silk inside.”

She smiled. “This is fantastic. Yes to all of this!”

“Good.” He stood, buttoning his coat. “Do you have time to go over fabrics?”

“Absolutely.”

**

“Baby? You home?” She cast a look around and smiled, still concealing one giant box behind her, just in case. “Baby?”

Nodding, she held the door open and smiled. “Okay, we’re clear. He’s supposed to be in meetings, but I thought I’d check.”

Dante carried the other two boxes in and paused. “Where are they goin’?”

“That’s the question… I’m trying to figure out where is best.”

“Where do you normally hide presents?”

She smiled. “In his office normally, but I don’t think there’s enough room.” She sighed. “Can’t hide them in my closet, he’ll go look for something legitimate and find them.”

“Under the bed in the room I’m usin’?” Dante shrugged. “He won’t go lookin’ in there ‘til I leave, right?”

She nodded. “That’ll work. Let’s do that! You’re brilliant, brother dearest!”

They carried them up the stairs and laid them on the bed. Jamie dropped to the floor to make sure there was nothing already under the bed. When she stood, Dante had the box holding the bag for the acoustic guitar open on the bed. “This is gorgeous, Jamie.”

She nodded. “I’m especially proud of them.”

The front door opened and closed and they both froze.

“Monster! I’m home!”

She motioned for Dante to slide the boxes under his bed and popped her head out of the door. “Up here, Baby. Dante’s tryin’ to figure out what to wear tomorrow!”

She ran for Dante’s bag and pulled out a couple outfit options, laying them on the bed just Harry came stomping up the stairs. She met Harry at the door and kissed him chastely. “How were the meetings, Haz?”

He shrugged. “They went fine. Same old, same old.” He reached out to hug Dante. “What did you two do, today?”

Dante grinned. “She shopped, I carried her bags.”

Harry chuckled and wrapped an arm around her, dropping a kiss on her head. “Where’d yeh go?”

She shrugged. “Alice + Olivia, YSL, Coach, Louboutin… the usuals. I also had to make some last minute checks on tomorrow’s birthday extravaganza!”

“Yeh didn’t have te do all that, love.” 

“Of course I did! After all the stunts you pulled for my birthday, despite it being a tour date, I wasn’t ever not going to attempt to blow that out of the water.” She kissed his chin. “I will win.”

Harry shook his head at her. “Well then.” He grinned. “Also you may like to know that you are apparently cheating on me with Dante.” He put a hand dramatically to his chest. “And the day before my birthday no less!”

She grimaced. “No…”

Harry nodded. “Yes. And I quote, ‘Jamie Schwartz seen out in LA with hunky, black man. Is she over Hazza? On to the next?’”

Dante, who’d been dying laughing, threw an arm over her shoulder. “Oh the many perils of adopted siblings.”

**

She waited until everyone was pleasantly buzzed and the first set of songs had been played before she nodded to Dante.

She kissed Harry on the cheek. When he turned toward her, pausing his conversation with Niall on his other side, she leaned up to whisper in his ear. “Be right back.”

He nodded, kissing her softly. “This is perfect, love. Thank you.”

She squeezed his thigh. “Perfect so far. Not done yet.”

She scooted out behind Dante. She made for the front of the room by the stage and nabbed a mic from the singer. She whistled into mic and waved. “Can I grab y’all a moment?” When they had turned to her she smiled.

From the back, a voice, that sounded suspiciously like Liam and came from where Harry and the boys sat, called out. “Stand on the stage, yer too bloody short!”

She laughed and let the singer help up onto the stage. “Better?”

“Yes.” That was definitely Louis. She waved at the boys and blew Harry a kiss.

“Anyways… we have a bit of housekeeping to take care of, if you’ll permit me a moment?” The crowd cheered and she smiled, pulled a small table over to her. “First, I’d like to welcome my brother Dante up here. He’s helping me carry somethin’.” Dante carried the three large boxes, now elaborately wrapped, and set them on the table.

“Thanks, hermanito. Round of applause for my brother dearest. He’s ace at carrying stuff.” She clapped. “Baby, you wanna come up here for me?” Harry smiled and scooted out of the booth. He stepped up onto the stage with no assistance and leaned over to kiss her, mouth tasting like the whiskey he’d been sipping.

“Show-off.” She grinned and pulled him over to the table. “Before I let him open these boxes, we’re gonna sing Happy Birthday.”

He kept his eyes on her throughout the song, eyes soft, and she blushed. He grinned and mouthed, ‘I love you’.

When the song ended, she leaned against him, up on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek.

“Now! Presents!”

He tore into the first box and stopped dead, when he got the lid off. She held the mic out to him to catch his muttered, “holy fuckin’ shit,” as he lifted the first case out of the box. The crowd aww’d and she smiled.

“It’s for your electric, look at the lining.”

He fingered the canary yellow lining before running his fingers over the YSL logo and his name embroidered into the lining.

“Jesus, woman, it’s perfect.” He seemed to remember the other boxes and gaped at her while the crowd laughed. “You didn’t.”

She nodded and held her hand out for the case. “I did.”

“Jamie… love.” He made for the next box as she set the leather case back in its box for safe transport.

He gasped and she turned to him as he lifted the next case, the one for his acoustic, done in heavy dark-grey wool. He lifted it out almost reverently, before suddenly gathering her against him. He kissed her fiercely and the crowd cheered.

He opened the case and ran his fingers over the deep green silk. “Jesus, love. These are beautiful.”

She held her hand out. “One more left, gorgeous.”

He shook his head at her and passed her the case. She stowed this one and stood, smiling as he opened the last box. “Yeh are an amazing woman.” He lifted out the last case and ran his fingers over the jacquard and the red lining. “Yer insane, but bloody amazing.” He kissed her again. “Thank you. I love you.”

“I love you, too.” She lifted the mic to her mouth. “They were made to reference men’s jackets.” She grinned at the crowd. “So we have a leather jacket, a wool coat and a smoking jacket.”

He wrapped an arm around her and kissed her forehead. “Do yeh think they’ll make me a suit in that jacquard?”

She nodded and the crowd laughed. “I’m sure they would.”

He kissed her again. “Thank you again.”

“Anytime, baby.” She turned back to the crowd. “Thanks for comin’ out and helpin’ me show this fantastic man how loved he truly is.”

She smiled up at him, wrapping her spare arm around his waist. “I can honestly say that I’ve ever been in a relationship that felt more real, more solid than the one I have the honor of sharing with Haz. In him, I have a true partner, someone who gets me, who puts time and effort into being an amazing boyfriend, who truly wanted to get to know my family and who honestly loves without reservation. I’ve never felt more loved, more supported, more cherished than I do when I come home and he’s waiting for me to start the night’s romcom or when he drags his drunk ass over to me to philosophize about the nature of humanity and what real love means.” The crowd laughed and Harry blushed, smiling widely.

“I love everything about him and hope he knows it. I hope that he knows that it was easy to fall in love with him and that he’s made it easy to stay in love with him. I hope he knows that I appreciate how genuinely good his heart is and how overwhelmingly positive his effect on this world has been. I hope he knows how proud of him I am.” She paused to wipe at her eyes and giggled when he was doing the same. “And I hope that he’s seen how much I love him, experienced it, because if he has, then he’s seen just a fraction of what he’s given me. Love ya, Baby.”

He framed her face in his big hands and she let the mic fall to her side as he kissed her. “I love yeh, Dolores James Schwartz.”

He kissed her one last time.

She turned back to the crowd. “So last thing before the party starts back up: drinks are still free and there is, in fact, cake, so make sure you grab a piece. Thanks for comin’ guys!!”

**

“Jamie!” The pap jogged to get into her line of sight and she ignored him, headphones in her ear and pushed her sunglasses up her nose. “Jamie!”

She kept walking, eyes down on her phone as she blasted One Direction and texted Harry.

Pap is following me. Meet me outside the restaurant?

“Jamie, can you answer my questions?”

Will do. You okay, love?

“Jamie, are you and Harry going to get married?”

Yeah, I’m fine. He hasn’t said anything rude yet.

“Jamie, are you sure he’s not cheating on you?

Nevermind. There it is.

“Jamie!”

She sighed and turned up her phone.

“Jamie!”

There was a little crowd of them now and she started walking faster, the restaurant in sight. Seconds later, Harry popped his head out of the restaurant, security following him out. He saw her and Brandon rushed out, wrapped an arm around her and led her to the front door.

Harry offered her his hand and she climbed the stairs to the front door of the restaurant. Harry held his hands up and moved so he was in front of her, taller, broader body hiding hers from view. “Not tonight, guys. If that’s okay? I just want te have a nice dinner out with my girl.”

The original pap pushed to the front. “How about you answer some of my questions?”

Harry glared. “We don’t have to do anything. Leave us alone.”

“What are you hiding for? If this is real then why hide?”

“Who’s hiding? We’re out havin’ dinner. Not exactly hiding.”

“You afraid of what she might say, Hazza? Think she might embarrass you?”

“Of course, not.”

“Then answer some questions.”

Jamie took a deep breath and stepped forward. “Y’know what? What are your questions? Shoot.”

“Monster-” Harry grabbed her elbow gently. “Yeh don’t have te.”

She smiled up at him. “It’ll be fine. What are your questions?”

He grinned. “How long have you been dating?”

“Pero recuerda: el que la hace, la paga.”

Everyone stared like she’d grown an extra head, including Harry. The pap frowned. “What?”

“Cría cuervos y te sacarán los ojos.”

“Honestly lady, what the fuck?”

Brandon took a step forward. “Look, don’t speak to her that way, please.”

“Mi color favorito es verde pero esmeralda.” She made a face. “No verde como la hierba.”

“You know I can just get someone to translate all of this, right?”

She shrugged and caught Harry’s smirk out of the corner of her eye. “Cuando traduzcas esto, será demasiado tarde para que descubras que no significa nada.”

Harry snickered. “Did you have more questions?”

The pap nodded. “Sure I do. Doesn’t help me much if it’s in Spanish.”

“Nunca dijiste que tenía que responder en inglés.”

Harry clapped his hands together. “Well that’s it for tonight, I think! Have a good one.” He wrapped an arm around her and led her into the building. “You are so brilliant.”

Brandon chuckled into his fist. “What did you say to him?”

She shrugged. “I gave him some proverbial advice, told him my favorite color. Nothing of any use.”

Harry kissed her forehead. “Damn shame it probably won’t work twice.”

“Nope.. now that they know, they’ll send the ones that speak Spanish.”

Media troll Jamie Schwartz is at it again. When heading to dinner with boyfriend Harry Styles, Schwartz was followed by paparazzi. Styles joined her at the door to the restaurant and requested that the paparazzi leave them alone. One pap got a bit shirty with the musicians and Schwartz decided to speak only in Spanish. Who knew our girl was bilingual? 

She’s reported to have said to the man ‘pero recuerda: el que la hace, la paga,’ which loosely translated means ‘but remember: he who does it, pays for it’ and ‘cría cuervos y te sacarán los ojos’ or ‘if you raise crows, they will peck out your eyes.’ She also told the man her favorite color and cheekily said that ‘by the time you translate this, it will be too late to find out that it means nothing’. Kudos to Jamie for creative misuse of the paparazzi.

Part VIII Up Next: Part X

[radiant-flutterbun]

Mason’s Date

Previously: The Adventures of Mason and Evan

Things were quiet in Clan Ton Theon for once. No threats from Shiningscourge or the harpies. Not even any strange god stuff cropped up, and no weird Shade business. Just dragons going about their lives.

The god aliens were settled well within the clan.

Muerto was surrounded by friends and was getting better at his paintings everyday. He was happy and at peace. He was happy to show his art to Niossa and Bubonic.

Inkdrop now had her portal powers well under control, and although she visited the clan often, she was constantly jumping to different areas of Sornieth and even other worlds with her siblings Munin and Hireath.

Sepulchral and Sonder were in love again and so far Sonder has kept her promise to stay sober. It hasn’t been easy for her, and Sepulchral has had his own issues to work out, but they were helping each other in recovering and being happier.

Eumoirous was happy to help too whenever he could, in his own awkward but, meaningful way.

Guerra, Naperone and Match were all still locked up in the prison. Guerra by choice, the other two by force. Match had been getting skinnier and skinnier each day and he’s been eating less and less. Naperone however was almost recovered from his Shade infection, but the pads of his feet still bled from his constant pacing within his cell.

Sagacious had done nothing but read since she arrived. All she did was sit in the clan’s lobby and read entire shelves of books. She only took breaks a few times a day. The clan’s librarians were happy she enjoyed their library so much, but were annoyed that she never put the books back where she found them.

And Evan and Mason were doing well. Mason had successfully re-taught himself how to draw and was now make excited preparations for the comic he always dreamed of creating. Evan now knew how to fly and enjoyed flying around the Beacon with Sepulchral.

One day as Mason was sketching his characters, Horizon and Skylar, Evan came back from one of his flights and sat next to him.

“They look cool!”

Mason smiled “Thanks! I’m really proud of how they’re coming out.”

“Didn’t you say that they end up together?”

“Yeah! At the end. But shh don’t tell anyone that. It’s a spoiler.”

Evan pretended to zip shut his lips “I gotcha. No spoilers from Evan!”

For a monet Evan was silent.

“Do you miss Jeb?”

Mason dropped his pencil and looked up at Evan “Of course I do. What kind of question is that?”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to drag up any bad memories it’s just… have you thought about dating anyone here?”

“Well no. Can’t say I have.”

“Well I’ve been thinking about it. I don’t know maybe it’s weird to date a dragon but like… I’m a teenager who got turned into a god with cat ears. Really dating a dragon can’t be much weirder than that.”

Mason laughed “You bring up a good point there. So does that mean you have a dragon crush?”

“Well no, not yet. But hey I’m open to it. What about you?”

“Hmm I guess I never really thought about dating since I died. I guess it’ll be nice to meet someone I feel about that way again.”

“Great!” Evan looked around. There were a few dragons sitting in the lobby like they were. Sagacious with her huge stack of books was one of them. Evan stood up on his hind legs and cupped his mouth with his front paws “Hey can I have everyone’s attention for a moment? My buddy here is single and looking for a nice dragon date! So all you pretty dragon ladies and handsome dragons sirs come line yourselves up to be the first to date the one and only Mason!”

Mason felt his face grow warm “Evan! What the fuck?!” He knocked him down and Evan chuckled with a huge grin.

Most of the dragons just went back to what they were doing previously. But one stood up. He was a purple coatl with a pink underbelly and navy seraph wings.

“Hi there. Mah name’s Tonatiuh. I’m the mail guy. How bout some coffee around sundown tonight? Ah can take you to a nice shop nearby.”

Mason knew his face must have been beet red “Er! Alright. I-I mean, please don’t feel obligated to take me on a date cause of Evan’s loud mouth…:”

Tona smiled “Nah it’s fine! It’ll be nice to get ta know one of tha clan’s newer members a bit better!”

“Then uh… sundown it is! Thanks.”

“Yep see ya there! Ah just need to make a few deliveries before then.” Tona waved goodbye and exited the tower.

Evan’s grin was impossibly wide “I am the best wingman ever.”

***

Turns out a coffee shop for dragons wasn’t much different than a coffee shop for humans.

And a date with a dragon wasn’t that different than one with a human.

“So, you’re the clan’s courier then?” Mason asked.

“Yep!”

“That explains why I haven't seen you around often.”

“Yeah, I’m one of tha oldest members of the clan, but I’ve got a busy job and can’t stay at tha tower for long. And not a whole lot of time for dating either!”

“That sucks,”

“Ah mean I love being the courier. Ah get ta visit so many new places! But as tha clan grows, so do ma responsibilities.”

Mason sipped his coffee “Makes sense,”

“So enough about me, what about you? You’re one of those alien gods, right?”

“Nah. I’m as mortal as they come. But I do come from the same world as them.”

“Huh. You know I’ve never thought about mortals living in that world. But ah guess it makes sense. Gods need mortals to rule over after all,” He glanced outside where the Beacon towered over the rest of the city “Are the mortals there dragons?”

“Uh no. There are no mortal dragons. There are a few dragons that service that gods though.”

“Oh that’s right! The mortals there are called ‘humans’ and they’re similar to our beastfolk!”

“Yeah I guess that’s the best comparison you’re going to get here.”

“So what sort of things do you like to do? I think i’ve seen you taking some drawing lessons from Flare.”

“Yeah. I like to draw and I’m a bit of a writer too.”

Mason went on the explain the comic he’d like to work on and Tona listened attentively. They went on with more cheerful small talk until they were the only customers left in the shop and their coffee mugs were emptied long ago.

“Well, ah guess it’s time to head back ta the clan,” Tona said.

Mason nodded.

“It was nice, but ah hope you don’t feel too sad that ah don’t think we click enough to be romantic partners.”

“Nah it’s cool. I feel the same way.”

“But it’s always nice to make new friends. Ah hope to see you around more often, and maybe we could do this again sometime. Just to chat.”

Mason smiled “Sure. That sounds nice.”

“And ah hope you do eventually find that special someone.”

They flew back to the clan and parted ways to sleep in their own rooms for the night.

And as the clan slept peacefully, little did they know of the danger that crept outside. Waiting. Lurking.