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babylooneytoonz · 4 years ago

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200 Followers Appreciation Post

I'll be very honest, two months back when I joined Tumblr, I hadn't expected that my writings will be read by many, and the last thing I had expected was to be followed. Now look far we've come, from 0 followers to 200.

A personal thank you and a lot of love to each and every follower of mine.

I think this is the best part of our fandom. We love each other like family.

As a little token of my thank you, I decided to publish two of my requests combined as one today. Hope you like it. 💓

Tommy Shelby x Fem! Reader

Request 1- Prompt "We can’t win. Either I have you and my soul sings but your cries, or we’re apart and your soul rejoices but mine dies."

Request 2- Reader was always in love with Tommy, thinking he can't love her back she starts writing cheap novels as a way to deal with it. Her books become popular and everything is cool until Tommy finds out about her hobby and notices similarities between her writing and real life.

Warnings - Angst

GIF Credits - @thomasshelbyltd thank you. ❤️

A Maid's Diary

You slumped against your desk, letting your head rest against the old wooden table top, your elbows on either side of your face. Your desk was a cluttered mess, with sheets of paper flooded all over. In your hand, you held a pen, as you were just seconds back, scribbling vigorously on a parchment as an idea had just hit you, and just as swiftly, the idea had vanished from your mind.

You couldn't forget and you couldn't forgive your best friend, Linda, for having betrayed you by sharing your diary to a local printing press, who had, without your permission, published your countless feelings that you had penned down in your little diary, without even your consent, although they didn't take the credit for it. You were still the writer, even though the publishers never published your real name on it, just a pen name.

As much as you hated to admit it, the little push made by your friend had worked tremendously and your popularity had grown amongst the lower middle class especially; as that is where you hailed from. They loved your modesty, they loved how humble and down to earth you were, although you were extremely talented.

Little did they know, that the book that had been published, as an act of mistake, was actually based on your life.

"What is it that you are reading?" Tommy pushed his round glasses over his eyes, as he looked through them and fixed his broody stare on his wife.

Grace was sprawled on the couch in his study, shimmering in a beautiful pearl white satin nightgown hanging loosely over her slender frame, her natural blonde hair falling loosely over her shoulders. She seamlessly brought up her ring studded hand to her hair, running her fingers through the locks as her eyes came to rest on her husband.

"Would you look at this Tommy?" She raised a red little book in her hand, showing it to him briefly, before she sat back more comfortably. Their son, Charlie, crawled about on the carpeted floor, playing with a toy train. "I don't know who this woman is, but if you read this book, you would feel like you are a bloody part of it."

"Is it one of those fucking love stories again, Grace?"

"It's much more than that, love. It's complex. It's like reading a person's life, living her memories."

"Right, well, I'm out, I've got a bloody meeting with Arthur at the pub." He stood up, sliding his hand into his waistcoat and pulling out the pocket watch, taking a quick glance at it. He then kissed his wife a goodbye, lifting Charlie up in his arms, "Be good, you cheeky little oaf."

Little did he know, how that would be the last week, that he was spending home with his wife. The next week, Grace Shelby was shot, and she couldn't make it.

As days inched by, Tommy started growing more and more morose. Although he didn't show it, those around him felt it everyday. The snapping and the yelling increased, and Tommy found himself sleeping less and less, and chugging down more and more of that alcohol to keep his mind at rest. There were weeks when Tommy didn't see his son. Although he felt guilty, for neglecting him, as the poor child had lost his mother, just like he had lost his wife, he couldn't bring himself to face him, as he reminded him so much of her.

Soon, weeks turned into months and finally, Tommy's agony subsided to a bit. It wasn't as if it was an overnight process, but somehow, over the course of time, Tommy didn't feel the hurt anymore, as he initially did— or maybe, he learnt to live with it.

One night, when the nightmares crippled him to such an extent that he found himself unable to sleep, he decided to go through Grace's belongings, something he had kept locked up in the attic, afraid to touch them. Holding a lantern in his hand, he walked up the flight of stairs, the old floorboards creaking underneath the weight of his foot as he stepped into the dinghy little room. In a corner, a brown crate was hoarded up, keeping all of Grace's belongings.

Pulling off the the wooden board that was nailed shut, he pried it off and ran his hand through the dust coated silk dresses, his fingers gently brushing against the fabric. He let out a weak, pained exhale, slowly sliding down against the floor, pulling his hand out as he started fumbling around his pockets for a cigarette.

With a lit cigarette in his left hand, he slid his right hand back in, feeling around the box until his palm hit something hard. Pulling it out, he saw a little red book that was now turning a shade of purple at the edges. The book was coated in a sheet of dust, causing Tommy to squint his eyes slightly and scrunch up his nose as he brushed the dust off its cover.

A faint smile, a fond remembrance of Grace reading this book with such enthusiasm brought a weak smile to his lips. He took a drag of his cigarette, pulling himself off the floor and pocketed the book, walking out of the attic.

It was his eyes, eyes that could hold an entire ocean in them, that captivated me. I often found myself looking at him, stealing glances, when no one was looking. A part of me begged for his attention, hoping, yearning that he would atleast give me a glance but he never did.

The more he read through the passages, the more he realized what Grace had meant. This was not just a book, it was someone's life, it was someone's feelings. The words were simple and not at all fancy, the backdrop set was not that of a fine mansion, it was a tiny little house, in a clamoured street, a family of five siblings, four boys and one girl, and the writer, who was just a servant. The writer knew the love she felt for one of the sons of the house was wrong, improper and it was forbidden because she was a servant and they were her employers but she couldn't help how she felt, no matter how hard she tried to forget. Tommy couldn't help but feel drawn— drawn to the writer's pain, her anguish and the feeling of being stuck at the end of a self destructive, one sided love. He knew what it meant to not get to be with the person you loved. He had experienced the pain, although in a different sense but somehow, he could relate. Although Thomas Shelby didn't show any feelings, he had eventually fallen head over heels in love with Grace Burgess and life with her had been a life of roses and poppies, while he was a crown of thorns; that Grace bravely adorned on her head.

It was a cold night, and I was freezing. I could feel my cheeks turning to stone and my hands fervously rubbing against my arms to keep myself warm. I could see them right in front of my eyes; the whole family. They looked happy. They brothers were teasing their sister, who had a look of dismay plastered over her face, and the youngest brother, who was just a toddler, ran about the parlour, sucking on his thumb. I wondered if it was selfishly wrong of me to think of him in this way, to imagine how our little household would have been, had I been bound to him by marriage. I wondered if it was a sin, wondering what I would have named our children if we had a handful of them.

Thomas found himself leaning back comfortably in bed, straining into his glasses, wanting to read more, although his body and his eyes were beyond tired. It was as though he could see a glimpse of his life before the war had been, right through someone else's eyes. He could see little Finn, perched on the carpeted floor, running his toy train all over it, making a weird engine sound with his mouth while John and Arthur teased Ada for something she had probably said. He could picture himself by the window, staring at the dimly lit sky, the illuminating stars, thinking of the moment Greta took her last breath, her frail hand falling limp in his warm one.

How unlucky had he been with women, he had watched the women he loved die, in in his arms.

As I scrubbed the dishes in the kitchen, I could hear the curses in the parlor. He was screaming at himself, bringing the dishes down, breaking them one by one. No one dared stop him, because no one wanted to be slammed against the wall or have to be the one taking a porcelain hit on his face. I wondered if I should step in, maybe give him some tea but I didn't. Maybe, he didn't need it. It was only later that I found out he had lost the love of his life.

He shoved the book aside and sat up straighter, running his palm through his face, his breathing shaky and rushed. He grabbed his cigarette box off the bedside table and lit himself a cigarette. Maybe reading this book had been a mistake, it was opening up all his raw wounds that he had buried away.

He was leaving. I wanted to ask him when he would be back but of course, that would have been such a silly question. And besides, he had a lot more on his plate, why would he want to speak to a servant? I stood behind the kitchen wall, listening to the solemn parting, the shuffling of feet, listening to them leave until finally I could hear them no more— I could hear him no more.

Years after years, I went on with life, with a smile on my face. I did what I always did in the mornings; scrubbing the floors clean, washing the dishes, preparing supper and doing the laundry. At night, though, I thought of him and his blue eyes. I wondered if there was any news, for I hadn't heard anything about him in ages. Maybe my prayers were finally answered, the war ended and they all were back home. Only they weren't themselves. The war had killed a part of them. They were the ghosts of war, left to meander the Earth until they finally died.

"Mr. Shelby?" Tommy sharply looked up, his eyebrows straightened into a visible frown.

"Yes, Mary?"

"Charlie's asleep, the supper's ready. I was wondering if I could get a night off—"

"Mary, you may. You have bloody worked hard enough to earn a night off. Go on then, hurry up, it's pretty dark outside."

He watched her leave, staring at the door before bringing his gaze back to the book, wondering if the writer was out there somewhere. And he wondered, and hoped, that she had finally gotten to be with the man she loved. She deserved it. She deserved all the happiness in the world.

I finally mustered the courage, after what seemed like eternity, to speak my heart out. I was afraid of rejection, but he deserved to know. I deserved to be free of this heavy secret in my heart. I didn't care if he would ask me to leave, stop coming to work from tomorrow but he needed to know I loved him. So, I stepped out into the chilly night, wrapping myself with whatever warm I could find. I walked and walked, until I was at his pub. Of course, he wasn't there. With a heavy heart then, I thought of going back home, through an alley, that was a shorter route. Little did I know, I was never going to get the man I loved for he already had the woman he loved, the woman from the pub; that barmaid. I saw the man I was in love with, from a window, the way I always imagined him to be with me, kissing her and stroking her cheeks. It was as though I heard a devastating sound somewhere close by, but it was nothing but my heart—shattered into two.

Thomas Shelby was many things, but he was not ignorant, or dumb. He slammed the book shut, shoving it on the bedside table. His heart was racing rapidly and he could feel blood rush through his veins. Arching his body forward, placing his elbows on his thighs, he buried his face into his palms. Every single detail in the book, every single piece of writing was something he had experienced before. It couldn't be a mere coincidence, could it? He slid out of bed, stomping through the hallway into his study until he was perched on a stool by the telephone his fingers frivolously moving against it. He knew what he had to do now.

"Pol?" He mumbled into the phone the instant he heard her on the other side.

"Tommy? It's fucking midnight, what's the bloody matter?" Tommy didn't mind he had woken her up. He needed answers.

"Do you remember a maid that worked for us?" He sighed into the receiver.

"Tommy, we have hired a dozen fucking maids, which one are you talking about?"

"She was with us when Greta died, when we went to war—"

On the other side of the telephone, Polly's demeanour softened. She remembered you, she even knew how you loved Thomas, but she could never bring it up to her lips, because she knew that you and Thomas had no future.

"Yes."

"Do you know where she is? And for fucks sake, don't lie."

Your coffee mug lay on the table untouched, smoke bellowing out of it in waves. Outside your window, snow drizzled from the sky, like tiny droplets of fur falling to the ground, your garden sheeted in pristine virgin white.

"Love, you have to bloody see this," your friend Linda's voice echoed through the closed door, loud enough to alert you.

"What is it?" You threw open your window, watching your bestfriend stand at the gate, her eyes fixed to your window, "Just get your bloody arse down here (Y/N), I have to show you something. Come on out, now."

Annoyance.

You practically ran down the flight of stairs, not even stopped to calm your breaths.

"Jesus, Linda, it's fucking snowing, I'm going to freeze to—"

"Sorry love." Linda gave you an apologetic smile, her index finger pointing towards the silhouette of a man leaning by your front gate, slowly sliding out of the periphery of gaze. Neither were you watching her. You were watching a ghost of your past, that stood leaning by the metal gate on your front door, a cap on his head, a long overcoat drawn over his scrawny body. He had gotten weaker than you had last seen him.

"Miss (Y/N)." His voice was curt, yet warm, without a trace of malice in it. After all these years, he was right here, on your doorstep.

"Mr. Shelby? Would you like to come in?"

He shook his head, rather, his eyes and you knew that he didn't want to talk in the confines of your home, under prying eyes. He slowly pulled out a book from his pocket and your eyes widened. Your fingers flew to your lips and you felt a rush of blood in your body, an instant feeling of being in the warmth of a fireplace. You wanted to reply, but you couldn't find the words.

"You read my book, you found me out."

"It wasn't that fucking difficult to figure it out, love."

"Jesus, would you please come in? It's freezing out here, you're going to bloody catch a cold—"

He cut you off as you turned to walk in, grabbing you by your arm, not hard, but firm enough to stop you from walking. He then pulled you towards him, your front hitting his hard chest, to look into his face.

"It was you all along?"

You didn't know what to say anymore. He had found you out. After all these years.

"I don't understand—" You whispered, shaking your head. You couldn't lie, his eyes were making you nervous and all the feelings that had simmered over the course of time were finally lighting up again. "I'm sorry, I didn't know it will get published."

"Do you believe in destiny?" He cut you off.

You narrowed your eyes at him, trying to mentally think where he was going with this, "Perhaps, Mr. Shelby, but you need to be clearer than that."

"I didn't believe in fucking destiny, until this minute. I can't believe I'm fucking saying this—" You could see reluctance in his eyes, an inward fighting. You could see that he was thinking hard, probably having a hard time figuring out what he should say to you. "You remember Greta?"

You were hundred percent sure you weren't smiling, but had you been smiling, it would have withered.

"Yes, Mr. Shelby, the girl that died holding your hand, the girl you loved."

"Good, and what about Grace? The woman you saw at the fucking window."

Your cheeks reddened at the remark with embarassment, making you regret how he had read that part. That was a private thing between Thomas and Grace.

"I didn't mean to pry, I was just passing through the alley and I looked up and I —" You voluntarily bit on your tongue in an attempt to silence yourself because you knew you were babbling and your words were not making much sense. You needed to compose yourself, compose your thoughts.

"I married her, yeah? And do you know what happened then?"

You closed your eyes briefly, hoping he wouldn't see the pain in your eyes. When you blinked your eyes open again, you straightened slightly, almost taking a step away from him. He caught your arm, pulling you back to him.

"We have a lovely boy together, Charlie, he's three almost."

You wondered if Tommy was here to chastise you, to make you apologize, or maybe, your book had caused a rift in their marriage.

"She was shot. Fucking took a bullet that was meant for me. I fucking watched her die. Twice, (Y/N). I think it was my destiny. Will you ask me why?"

"Mr. Shelby—" You hopelessly began, trying to tell him how sorry you were about what had happened. But what could you do? It wasn't as if you had shot Grace.

"Just bloody ask me why."

You stiffened at the harshness of his voice.

"I- Why?"

"Because this fucking destiny had something else in mind for me. Perhaps it was you all along, the one I was maybe meant to be with."

Your eyes widened in surprise at his words, a sudden palpitating feeling in your heart, a sudden throbbing in the back of your mind. You pulled your arm away, wincing slightly at his sudden outburst, instantly moving away.

"Your words make no sense. Will you please stop?"

He parted his lips in an attempt to reply, but all that shot out of his plump lips was foggy winter air and he shut it. His hand flew to the side of your face, but he didn't touch you. He merely took a loose strand of your hair, curling it over his index finger. You could feel the sudden tension, his lips so close to you, you knew if you didn't stop him, he would kiss you. And later regret it.

"Mr. Shelby, this is a mistake. If I was your destiny, I would be the one buried in a grave and not the women you loved. I did love you," you spoke, hopelessly pulling yourself one step away but this time he didn't make an attempt to pull you close, perhaps having sensed your reluctance.

He raised his eyebrow, "Did?"

"I still do, but I don't think we were meant to be."

"I see," he almost stepped closer, reluctantly, fighting for control at the back of his mind. This was a new feeling. He knew he didn't love you yet, but at the same time, he knew he was in love with the woman from the book. The woman who had always loved him.

"Why?"

A single word can hold a vast meaning. A single word can have an answer that you could probably write a book on.

"Because Thomas .. We can’t win. Either I have you and my soul sings but your cries, or we’re apart and your soul rejoices but mine dies," you whispered in a low voice, tears shrouding into your eyes.

"Yet there's a bloody thing that binds us to each other. Something neither you nor I can see," he mumbled under his breath, sliding his hand into his pocket, pulling out a box of cigarettes.

You didn't know what to say to him. Your mind was fervently throbbing through your skull. Your heart leapt with joy but your mind didn't let you be at ease. He waited a few seconds but when he realized you had made up your mind, he decided he will not push you. You had given him the answer. You didn't want him. He nodded softly, letting his eyes wander down to your feet for a bit before giving you a last look as he turned his tail and started walking off, his boots crushing the snow as he started walking away.

And just like that, you realized that history was repeating itself. But this time, it was all your fault. You were letting him walk away when you could finally be happy.

"Thomas stop.." His name flew out of your mouth even before you could clamp your mouth shut. You saw him freeze, but this time, he didn't turn your way, but with his back turned towards you, you missed the hint of a smile that crossed his lips; the way you had stopped him meant that he still had hope.

"I would like to work for you again, does Charlie need a nanny?" You bit your lip.

It was nothing, but yet, it was a start. If destiny really wanted the two of you together then you wanted to try it out from the beginning, maybe make the man fall in love with you and not the woman who wrote the book. You wanted him to love you and not pity you.

"Twenty shillings, you stay at the Arrowe House, no further will be discussed on that, yeah?"

You gave him a weak smile, although you could not see his face.

"I'll see you tomorrow then, Mr. Shelby, first thing in the morning at 9."

He nodded and then, sliding his hands into his pockets, he walked away, his heavy boots crushing the snow underneath, generating a squishing, crunching sound until you could hear him no more. You couldn't wipe that smug smile from your face as you looked up at the sky, scrunching up your nose when you felt something cold; perhaps a snowflake had landed on the tip of your nose. It was a start, a start of a new day and who knew, perhaps a new life for you. Needless to say, you were excited.

#thomas shelby x reader #tommy shelby x reader #peaky blinders #tommy shelby #peaky fucking blinders #peaky blinders x reader #200 followers appreciation #thank you for liking my work

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eruden-writes · 4 years ago

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Carry On Redux

Series finale redone. Script format.

I haven’t been part of the Supernatural fandom for a few years, but just hearing about that series finale chafed.

I literally wrote this in, like, 2 hours. Want better formatting? Find Carry On Redux by Eruden on AO3.

----

FADE IN

INTERIOR - LIVING ROOM

Sunlight shines through sheer curtains on a large window. It’s a comfortable room with a mixture of modern and rustic decor. Family pictures hang on the walls and litter just about every flat surface. Most photos depict Sam Winchester and a blonde woman; then the two with a dog; then with children, growing older. Holidays, graduation, school photos, marriage, grandbaby photos.

YOUNG MAN sits on the couch, leaning his elbows on his knees. He wears jeans, a green flannel shirt, and a jacket. His hazel eyes wide and attention rapt.

YOUNG MAN

So, what happened after that?

The question is posited to OLD SAM, sitting across a coffee table, in a recliner. He’s still relatively fit, but his hair has greyed and he now sports a bushy beard, reminiscent of Bobby’s. Laugh lines and crows’ feet crease his face.

OLD SAM

Well, once Cas sacrificed himself, Dean grieved for awhile.

He didn’t eat or drink. Wouldn’t even come out of his room for pie!

At that, Sam chuckles, half-sad and half-amused.

INT - MEN OF WORDS BUNKER - LIBRARY

Sam sits at a table, eyes on a book and brow furrowed. Beside him, a notebook is open to scrawled notes. Not much can be made out, but words such as The Empty, Angel, Retrieve can be made out. Strewn around him are empty cans and food containers.

Dean enters, slapping his phone onto the table with a loud CLATTER. Sam jumps, eyes snapping to Dean’s face.

DEAN

Found us a job.

Sam looks down at the phone. A news article is splayed on the front about a trucker, found dead with his heart ripped out.

Sam looks back up at Dean with worry and consternation.

Dean returns the look with unwavering seriousness.

OLD SAM

(voiceover)

Just like that, we were back in the family business.

MONTAGE - VARIOUS

EXT - DARK FOREST

Sam and Dean, back to back and holding guns. Trees ring around them, dark and shadowed.

Things seem to be moving between the trees.

One of the brothers shoots. An ungodly SHRIEK echoes.

OLD SAM

(voiceover)

Hunting things that went bump in the night.

INT - ABANDONED PLACE

Dean is stabbing stakes into vampires.

Sam aids a couple sobbing victims, wrapping wounds and ushering them out.

Through boarded up windows, daylight can be seen streaming in.

OLD SAM

(voiceover)

Nothing as remarkable as stopping the apocalypse

or reuniting God with his sister.

EXT - CEMETERY

Sam and Dean digging up a grave. They pour gasoline into the hole and toss in a match.

OLD SAM

(voiceover)

But we did whatever needed doing.

INTERIOR - SUBURBAN LIVING ROOM

The Young Man is still sitting with rapt attention on the couch.

Old Sam sighs, shaking his head to and fro.

OLD SAM

That went on for… oh, about five or so years.

YOUNG MAN

And then?

Old Sam sadly smiled.

OLD SAM

Then Dean died.

INT - PENTHOUSE SUITE

Everything indicates wealth and luxury with rich mahogany wood and deep red palette. A plethora of worldly objects fill the abode: old looking vases, invaluable art, antique guns, a sword on a fireplace mantle.

A nighttime cityscape can be seen through the large windows; the tops of other buildings can be seen from the vantage point, indicating a great height.

But there are indications of trouble. Broken pieces of furniture strewn about. One of the large windows is cracked. A broken aquarium, tropical fish flopping on the wet carpet. On a table, a corpse lays, stomach ripped out.

Sam and Dean each struggle against two black-eyed, sharp-toothed creatures that hiss and shriek. The creatures wear tattered clothing.

Dean gets thrown into a table, wood splintering and pricey knickknacks shattering. He’s dazed for a beat, before realizing his opponent is baring down on him, jaws inhumanly wide. His hand curls around a broken table leg, shoving it up and into the creature’s mouth.

A sickening SQUISH is heard as the sharpened end of the legs skewers through the monster’s head. Black blood splashes across Dean and he gags. He quickly hefts the dead creature aside.

When he gets to his feet, he looks around wildly.

The creature fighting Sam has gotten the upper hand. They cackle, before opening their jaws spread. Row after row of sharp teeth fill their maw. They jerk forward, intent on ripping out Sam’s throat.

DEAN

No!

Suddenly, Dean is there, slamming into the creature’s side. The sword from the fireplace slicing through the creature’s chest.

Dean and the creature slam into the already cracked window. The sword pierces through the glass.

SAM

Dean!

The creature lies still. For half a beat, there’s silence. Then Dean’s shoulders ease and he laughs, half-turning to smile at his younger brother.

Sam eases, too. Though he still looks worried.

Suddenly, the creature SHRIEKS, biting down on Dean’s shoulder. The window CREAKS.

Dean and the creature fall through the shattered glass. Dean is still half-turned to Sam. They share a look.

Sam rushes forward, hand outstretched.

SAM

No!

Time seems to slow. Dean smiles. The night sky is his backdrop.

DEAN

It’s okay, Sammy.

Sam stares, eyes wide. Almost disbelieving.

The shatter window stands empty, framing the night and city. A distant IMPACT is heard, as glass continues to TINKLE.

OLD SAM

(voiceover)

In the end, he got what he wanted. A hunter’s death.

INTERIOR - LIVING ROOM

QUIET settles over the room. The Young Man still leans on his knees, somber.

OLD SAM

Once Dean died, I did a few more hunts.

Met Laura during one.

Old Sam nods to a photo of himself and the blonde woman.

OLD SAM

Got a dog together. Had kids. Grew old.

He indicates more photos. One of himself and Laura with a dog. Multiple family photos. Photos of the family as they grew.

OLD SAM

Got just about everything I wanted.

Young Man tilts his head, eyebrows furrowing.

YOUNG MAN

Just about?

Old Sam smiles fondly.

OLD SAM

As much of an ass as he was, I still miss my brother.

I wish he could’ve been here to share my happiness.

To be my best man, an uncle, a great uncle.

YOUNG MAN

I think he would’ve liked that.

Old Sam gives a sad laugh and looks to the large window. Through the curtains, an obscured view of his street is seen. It’s idyllic and peaceful.

The front door’s lock CLICKS and the door is pushed open. LAURA enters, a bag in the crook of her arm. She’s older than her photos, with grey in her hair and laugh lines at the corners of her mouth.

LAURA

Hey, hon. Mary couldn’t stay

and visit, but she sends her love.

She walks from the door to the adjoining dining room, crossing the living room right in front of Sam.

INT - DINING ROOM

Laura puts her shopping bag and purse on the dining room table.

LAURA

While I was out, I ran into Debbie. She picked up

some antique thingamajig and thinks it’s haunted.

She turns to face the living room.

LAURA

If you don’t mind, do you think you can-

The easy smile on her face falters.

LAURA

Sam?

She takes a step forward.

INTERIOR - LIVING ROOM

Laura traverses into the living room. Sam sits in his chair, head bowed and eyes closed. A photo album sits in his lap. Across the room from him, television QUIETLY PLAYS. The Young Man is nowhere to be seen.

LAURA

Honey?

She reaches a hand out to his.

Her hand slaps over her lips with a gasp. Her eyes are wide and teary.

Slightly translucent, Old Sam appears beside her. He tucks her hair behind her ear and whispers quietly in her ear. Too quiet to be heard. Then, he presses his lips to her cheek.

Laura gasps, turning to face her dead husband. Her hand hovers on her cheek, where his lips touched her. Stunned, blinking back tears, Laura seems to know he’s there.

LAURA

(whispers)

Love you, too.

EXT - SAM’S HOME

Old Sam and the Young Man stand on the sidewalk, in front of Sam’s home. The sun shines down, the street is quiet. In the distance, AMBULANCE SIRENS can be heard.

OLD SAM

(staring at the house)

Thank you for waiting.

The Young Man scuffs his shoes on the sidewalk, hands in his jacket pockets.

YOUNG MAN

No worries. Got to honor my baby brother’s last wish, right?

Sam’s attention suddenly snaps to the Young Man. Sam is no longer old.

In the Young Man’s place, Dean stands. He wears similar clothing as the Young Man and a halfcocked smile.

SAM

(stunned)

Dean? But… how?

DEAN

Let’s say Death did me a solid,

everything considered.

SAM

I guess you two do have a past.

Dean laughs and turns toward the street. The Impala is there, shiny and pristine. Dean motions for Sam to follow him with a jerk of his head.

Behind Sam, the ambulance has arrived.

DEAN

I’ll tell you all about it along the way.

Sam starts forward as Dean opens the driver side door. In the background, a stretcher is being rolled out from his home, a white sheet around the body.

SAM

Along the way?

Sam skirts around the car and opens the passenger side door, settling in.

INT - THE IMPALA

Sam briefly looks around. Inside, Baby looks as it always has. Nothing out of place, nothing rotting.

Sam reaches for his seat belt.

CAS

Good to see you, Sam.

Sam startles, turning to find the angel sitting in the back seat.

SAM

(shocked)

Cas? I thought you were in The Empty. Like forever.

The angel gives a slight smile and nod.

Dean pats Cas on the hand, giving the angel an exasperated look. As if to say ‘you were supposed to let me handle this.’

Cas dips his head in apology.

Sam turns to Dean, eyebrows raised. He obviously has questions.

DEAN

(sheepish grin)

I’ll tell you about that on the way, too.

Dean turns a key in the ignition, the engine purrs to life. He shifts into gear as they pull away from Sam’s home, where a curious crowd has gathered.

DEAN

But right now, we’ve got hunting to do.

SAM

You can’t be serious.

The two brothers share a look. Sam obviously displeased and Dean straight-faced.

Dean can’t hold the look for long and his expression melts into a smile. He turns his eyes to the road.

DEAN

Nah, I’m pulling your leg. We got some friends waiting for us.

SAM

Really? Who?

DEAN

Ah, y’know, Bobby, Jack, Kevin, Charlie, Adam.

Some others. Heard Jess is gonna be there, too.

That causes Sam to sit up straighter.

SAM

Jess? (eyebrows raise) Like, my Jess?

DEAN

So she says.

Sam sits back in his chair, staring ahead. Conflicted expressions play across his face.

He stares outside his window. Outside, the road passes, but a white mist - or perhaps clouds - is slowly consuming the view.

Dean glances at Sam, slightly concerned.

DEAN

You okay, Sammy?

SAM Yeah. I just… This is a lot to take in.

DEAN

(laughs)

Yeah? Well, wait til you hear what I’ve been up to,

Mr. Two-And-A-Half-Kids-And-A-Picket-Fence.

Sam turns to Dean, an amused smile on his lips.

SAM

Is this going to be a long story?

DEAN

Nah. Not too long. If it was a show,

I’d say… oh… about fifteen seasons.

Sam groans.

EXT - THE IMPALA

The Impala glides over a road, lined with a forest. The cloud-mist has just about obscured everything.

DEAN

(offscreen)

Hey, I listened to your boring ass life story!

SAM

(offscreen)

Which reminds me, why did you even disguise yourself?

DEAN

(offscreen)

I had my reasons.

CAS

(offscreen)

He wanted to hear what you said about him and if you missed him.

SAM

(offscreen)

Seriously, Dean?

DEAN

(offscreen)

Do you want to hear how I saved Cas from The Empty or not?

RADIO STATIC buzzes on. “Carry On My Wayward Son by Kansas” overtakes the static.

DEAN

(offscreen)

Oh, come on!

CUT TO SUPERNATURAL END CARD

#supernatural #spn #destiel #supernatural finale #spn finale #I'm usually a monster lover writer #so this is highly ironic #lol #But seriously I wrote this really quickly and if the actually paid writers of spn can't do better #then they aren't paying attention to the fans #or actively hate the fans #also available on ao3

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paralleljulieverse · 4 years ago

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An Angel from Heaven Come to See Us: Darling Lili Turns 50

This week fifty years ago, Darling Lili -- the last of the big Julie Andrews screen musicals of the 1960s -- had its long-delayed World Premiere at Hollywood’s Cinerama Dome on 23 June 1970.

The event marked the symbolic endpoint of a three-plus-year marathon in which the ill-fated production was beset by an endless stream of problems and delays from inclement weather and union pickets on location to studio takeovers and shady refinancing deals (Bart, 63-72; Dick, 146-48; Wasson, 146-48). This litany of setbacks saw the film’s already sizeable budget blowout to era-record levels estimated anywhere, depending on who you spoke to, between $14-25mill. (Warga, C-20; Wedman, 7-A; Kennedy, 175-77). Egos clashed, tempers frayed and recriminations flew with writer-director, Blake Edwards, blaming Paramount Pictures for imposing impossible demands, and studio executives firing back counter-accusations of reckless indulgence and profligacy (Oldham, 24-25; 44-45).

That this highly publicised drama played out against the backdrop of the greatest economic downturn to hit Hollywood in half a century garnered Darling Lili an unenviable advance reputation as “the archetypal flop among big budget Hollywood productions” (Oldham, 44). “Rarely has so much bad word of mouth preceded a picture,” wrote the Saturday Review, “As the shooting schedule increased, as the costs mounted, everyone was certain that Darling Lili would prove to be a landmark disaster” (Knight 22). Another widely syndicated newspaper article dubbed it, “The Most Maligned Movie Ever,” prompting Blake Edwards to fume: “I’ve never known of an important picture in production so talked about, whispered about, and, yes, lied about as Darling Lili” (Manners, B5).

Adding fuel to widespread perceptions of the film as a legendary bomb in the making, the release of Darling Lili was held up for over a year by nervous studio execs. By 1969, Paramount had more big budget roadshow product in the pipelines than any other Hollywood studio (“Par’s Big”, 3). Panicked by the repeated failure of roadshow releases, in general, and the growing cultural backlash against big budgeted musicals, in particular, the studio feared they were “on the verge of an unprecedented financial disaster” and vacillated over how to proceed (Farber, 3). They ordered competing rounds of edits to the film, taking material out to secure a G-rating, then reinserting other material in an effort to broaden appeal (Manners, B5; “Par’s Lili Rated G”,5). There were even rumours the film might not get a release at all. It is “hiding somewhere” and seems to have “just evaporated” noted one newspaper report in late-1969 (Gussow, 62; Benchley, 9).

In December, Paramount finally held two sneak test screenings of Darling Lili in Oklahoma City and Kansas City which proved sufficiently positive for the studio to green-light release (“Kansas”, C2). After the test screenings, Robert Evans, production chief at Paramount and longtime vocal critic of Blake Edwards’s direction of the film, sounded an uncharacteristically upbeat note. “At the end of the film, there was a standing ovation,” he enthused, “and almost all the patrons stopped in the lobby to fill in comments cards...term[ing] Darling Lili as excellent, with special acclaim for both Julie Andrews and Rock Hudson” (Muir, 2-S).

In January 1970, it was announced that Darling Lili would premiere that summer as a hardticket attraction at New York’s Radio City Music Hall (”Par Gets”, 3). The following month, a series of exhibitor previews was held in five major US cities but, in a telling sign the studio still harboured reservations about the film, the trade press was pointedly excluded from all advance screenings ("Not Ready”, 6). This same lingering disquiet resulted in a radically scaled back approach to the film’s release and marketing.

Originally planned as a reserved-seat roadshow attraction, Darling Lili was ultimately repositioned by Paramount as part of what they called their “Big Summer Playoff,” a package of eight films given saturation releases during the summer off-season starting in June (“Paramount’s Summer Playoff”, 5). Only New York and Los Angeles would screen the film as a 70mm reserved-seat attraction; elsewhere, the plan was for the “pic to quickly saturate every major and minor market with single-house firstruns and key city multiples” (ibid.). In an era when studios typically gave their top films staggered releases and only ever issued B-product or second-runs widely during the quiet summer months, this new-style release strategy had a decided air of dump-it-and-run desperation.

The apparent lack of care and finesse in the release of Lili did not go unnoticed. “Darling Lili undoubtedly rank[s] among the unusual summer attractions,” commented one newspaper article, “since one would expect to see th[is] multi-million dollar production around holiday time” (Sar, 4-B). Another bluntly opined that Paramount “seems to have dumped the expensive movie rather than spend any more on it” (Taylor, 21-E). Even Julie, normally the soul of diplomatic discretion in such matters, expressed public dismay at the studio’s handling of the film’s release:

“Three weeks before the opening, there was no advertising campaign. None whatsoever. Paramount didn’t seem to know how it was going to sell the picture--or if. I simply can’t understand an attitude like that” (Thomas, 13).

The sudden shift to a summer saturation release also meant the film’s premiere had to be rescheduled as New York’s Radio City Music Hall wasn’t available till July. In late-May, a matter of mere weeks before the film was set to bow, Paramount announced Darling Lili would now make its world premiere at the Cinerama Dome in Hollywood on June 23 before rolling out nationwide the following day (“‘Darling Lili’ to Premiere,” W-2). The New York premiere, meanwhile, would remain at the Music Hall but delayed a full month after the rest of the country.

Putting on a brave face, Julie and Blake did their best to launch their film. On June 18, they attended a special press preview and celebrity reception hosted by Robert Evans and his then partner, Ali McGraw, at the Director’s Guild Theatre (Sar, 24-A). Dressed in a modish psychedelic Pucci pantsuit -- which fans of Julie-trivia will note was a recycled outfit from her recent NBC TV special with Harry Belafonte -- Julie looked relaxed and radiant or, as one columnist put it, “peachy dandy in her wild patterned party pants” (Browning, 2-13). At the after-show reception, she and Blake mingled warmly with a host of Tinseltown notables including Edward G. Robinson, James Garner, Walter Matthau, George Peppard, Raquel Welch, Sally Field, Dyan Cannon, and Peter Graves (ibid).

The following week, Julie and Blake were back for the premiere proper at the Cinerama Dome on 23 June. Dressed to kill in a sleek beaded cocktail gown, Julie posed for press shots on the red carpet with Blake, Robert Evans and Ali McGraw, and co-star Rock Hudson who attended with longtime friend and agent, Flo Allen. Sponsored by the Southern Californian chapter of VIMS, Volunteers in Multiple Sclerosis, the premiere attracted a capacity crowd with an invitation-only champagne supper held at the theatre after the screening (“Premiere”, IV-8) .

For all the old-school Hollywood trappings of the premiere, the American roll-out of Darling Lili was afforded little sense of showmanship or distinction. The Cinerama Dome would be the film’s only fully reserved-seat roadshow presentation (“’Darling Lili’s’ One Reserve,” 7). The film’s run at New York’s Radio City Music Hall -- which will likely be the subject of another post next month, time permitting -- was another exception but it had a hybrid mix of partial reserved and general admission. Elsewhere, the film was released in what could only be described as a woefully slipshod manner.

The day after the World Premiere, Lili was issued simultaneously to an idiosyncratic assortment of theatres and even drive-ins across the United States including such out-of-the-way places as Lubbock, Texas; Hattiesburg, Mississippi; and Mason City, Iowa. Conversely, several major metropolitan markets didn’t get the film till much later, and some didn’t show it at all. When the film ran it was often booked for a flying season of a week or two -- in some instances, just a few days -- and given little promotion or build-up.

On a PR trip to San Francisco, Blake Edwards was reportedly incensed to discover that Lili was being shown at a local theatre on a double-bill with The Lawyer, an R-rated crime drama (Caen, 6-B). But this was far from an isolated instance. A survey of newspaper advertising from the era shows that, throughout this initial release period, Darling Lili was widely double-billed in US theatres with a range of questionable screen-mates including Downhill Racer, True Grit, Norwood, The Sterile Cuckoo, and Lady in Cement to name a few.

Much like the film’s chequered release pattern, reviews of Darling Lili were sharply mixed. Contrary to the apocalyptic predictions, though, there were surprisingly few outright pans and quite a number of good, even glowing, notices--certainly enough to furnish choice grabs for newspaper ads. Moreover, a common refrain among even lukewarm crits was that the film was far from the disaster everyone anticipated:

“Darling Lili [is] the musical comedy a lot of people have been expecting to be a bomb, but which turns out to be a quite likeable movie” (Crittenden, D-10).

“When a movie becomes notorious like this, everyone expects it to be an unredeeming dud...I’m relieved to say Darling Lili is certainly nobody’s bomb” (Stewart, 28)

“[E]veryone was certain that Darling Lili would prove to be a landmark disaster. Happily, the opposite seems to be the case...it is definitely, joyously, what the industry likes to call an ‘audience picture’ (Knight, 22).

While many reviewers found aspects of the film wanting, they were mostly full of praise for Julie:

“Miss Andrews has, I think, never looked better, warmer or more emotionally mature, nor has she sounded better. The irony is that she projects a richness which is wasted here. It’s like getting Horowitz to play Chopsticks” (Champlin, IV-1).

“Andrews...is one of the last of the great English music-hallmarks. She can sing effortlessly, make a mug or a moue with equal facility, throw away a line and reel it back in with the best—when she is given half a chance. Her latest, Darling Lili, is only a quarter of a chance (Kanfer, 78).

“In Darling Lili...Julie Andrews is the most pleasant actress any audience ever had and that’s what counts...The picture’s weaknesses are Hudson and the war...But I think Julie Andrews is enough” (Geurink, 6-T).

“The best way to enjoy Darling Lili is to look upon it as escape fare [with] Miss Andrews’ golden voice for listening pleasure...While she deserves something much better than her role in Darling Lili, Julie Andrews...is still an out and out professional” (Blakley, 6-1).

“Miss Andrews...is absolutely perfectly suited to the title role. Her voice, her mannerisms, her beauty and her obvious delight with the entire project pay off in one of the finest performances of her career” (Fanning, 17).

“The film’s bright moments belong to Miss Andrews. She is a complete entertainer, and tho [sic] she is center stage for nearly the entire film, one never tires of her pure voice and intelligent acting” (Siskel, 12).

Alas, the better-than-expected reviews were not enough to save Darling Lili commercially. By the end of its domestic run, the film had earned a meagre $3.2mill in rentals, placing it 37th in Variety’s list of annual box-office rankings for 1970 (“US Films,” 184). Instructively, the film posted its best returns at the two theatres where it was exhibited with some modicum of prestige showmanship: the Cinerama Dome and Radio City Music Hall. In the case of the latter, Lili actually broke house records for a non-holiday release (“Radio City,” 12). Combined, these two venues accounted for over a third of the film’s entire North American boxoffice grosses. It’s a curious footnote to the whole sorry saga of Darling Lili which does suggest that, while the film would likely never have been a hit, it could certainly have done much better had its distribution and exhibition been more carefully managed. But that is a discussion for another time and another post...

Sources:

Bart, Peter. Infamous Players: A Tale of Movies, the Mob (and Sex). New York: Hachette, 2011.

Benchley, Peter. “1969 A Watershed Year for Motion Picture Industry.” Journal Gazette. 6 January 1970: 9.

Blakley, Thomas. “Julie Andrews Eyes a New Start.” Pittsburgh Press. 28 June 1970: 6-1.

Browning, Norma Lee. “Hollywood Today: Julie’s Reception.” Chicago Tribune. 22 June 1970: B-13.

Caen, Herb. “It’s News to Me.” Hartford Sentinel. 5 August 1970: 6-B.

Canby, Vincent. “Is Hollywood in Hot Water?” New York Times. 9 November 1969: D1, D37.

Champlin, Charles. “Movie Review: ‘Darling Lili’ Has World War I Setting.” Los Angeles Times. 24 June 1970: IV-1, 13.

Crittenden, John. “’Darling Lili’ Surprises by Being Very Pleasant.” The Record. 24 July 1970: D-10.

“’Darling Lili’ to Premiere in Hollywood June 24.” Boxoffice. 25 May 1970: W2.

“’Darling Lili’s’ One Reserve Seat Date.” Variety. 3 June 1970: 7.

Dick, Bernard F. Engulfed: The Death of Paramount Pictures and the Birth of Corporate Hollywood. Louisville, KY: University of Kentucky Press, 2015.

Fanning, Win. “The New Film: Andrews, Hudson in ‘Darling Lili’ at Squirrel Hill.” Pittsburgh Post-Gazette. 25 June 1970: 17.

Farber, Stephen. “End of the Road?” Film Quarterly. 23: 2. Winter 1969-70: 3-16.

Geurink, Bob. “Julie’s Pretty Darling in ‘Lili’.” Atlanta Constitution. 11 July 1970: 6-T.

Gussow, Mel. “Excitement Fills Premier of ‘Dolly’: But Air of Festivity Belies Future of Movie Musicals.” New York Times. 18 December 1969: 62.

Higham, Charles. “Turmoil in Film City.” Sydney Morning Herald - Weekend Magazine. 25 May 1969: 19.

Holston, Kim R. Movie Roadshows: A History and Filmography of Reserved-Seat Limited Showings, 1911-1973. Jefferson, NC: McFarlane and Co, 2013.

Kanfer, Stefan. “Cinema: Quarter Chance.” Time. 96: 4. 27 July 1970: 78.

“Kansas City.” Boxoffice. 22 December 1969: C2.

Knight, Arthur. “How Darling was My Lili.” Saturday Review. 18 July, 1970: 22.

Krämer, Peter. The New Hollywood: From Bonnie and Clyde to Star Wars. London: Wallflower, 2005.

Manners, Dorothy. “The Most Maligned Movie Ever.” San Francisco Examiner. 15 March 1970: B5.

Mills, James. “Why Should He Have it?” Life. 7 Match 1969: 63-76.

Muir, Florabel. “Hollywood: It Snowed Customers.” Daily News. 21 December 1969: 2S.

“Not Ready for Trades But Exhibs See ‘Lili’.” Variety. 28 January 1970: 6.

Oldham, Gabriella, ed. Blake Edwards: Interviews. Jackson: University of Mississippi Press, 2018.

“Par Gets Hall’s Summer Spot for its ‘Darling Lili’.” Variety. 21 January 1970: 3.

“Para. Sets Preview Series in Five Cities for ‘Lili’.” Boxoffice. 26 January 1970: 10.

“Paramount’s Summer Playoff Strategy: 5,000 Bookings for Eight Major Films.” Variety. 3 June 1970: 5.

“Par’s Big Roadshow Splash.” Variety. 25 June 1969: 3.

“Par’s Lili Rated G.” Variety. 24 September 1969: 5.

“Premiere.” Los Angeles Times. 25 June 1970: IV-8.

“Radio City Music Hall’s All-Time Boxoffice Darling.” Variety. 5 August 1970: 12.

Sar, Ali. “Paramount Unveils Two Top Pictures.” Van Nuys News. 21 June 1970: 24-A.

Sar, Ali. “Curiosity Films: Plagued Studios Hope.” Van Nuys News. 28 June 1970: 4-B.

Siskel, Gene. “The Movies: ‘Darling Lili’.” Chicago Tribune. 22 August 1970: 12.

Sloane, Leonard. “At Paramount, Real Financial Drama.” New York Times. 28 November 1969: 48.

Stewart, Perry. “Warm Kiss from ‘Lili’.” Fort-Worth Star-Telegram. 1 Juy 1970: 28.

Stuart, Byron. "Pictures: Big Budget’s Big Bust-Up." Variety. 23 July 1969: 3, 20.

Taylor, Robert. “‘Lili’ Can Be Charming.” Oakland Tribune. 27 June 1970: 21-E.

Thomas, Bob. “Julie Andrews Praises ‘Lili’.” Courier-News. 15 September 1970: 13.

“U.S. Films’ Share-of-Market Profile.” Variety. 12 May 1971: 36-38, 122, 171-174, 178-179, 182-183, 186-187, 190-191, 205-206.

Warga, Wayne. “Stanley Jaffe: Paramount Risk Jockey.” Los Angeles Times. 24 January 1971: C1, C20-21.

Wasson, Sam. A Splurch in the Kisser: The Movies of Blake Edwards. Middletown: Weslayan University Press, 2009.

Wedman, Les. “The End of the Roadshow.” Vancouver Sun. 9 January 1970: 7A.

#julie andrews #Darling Lili #fiftieth anniversary #1970 #cinerama dome #film premiere #paramount #film history #hollywood #classic film #blake edwards

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d-criss-news · 5 years ago

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Ryan Murphy’s (Kinda) True ‘Hollywood’ Story: 1940s Meets Gay Stars, Interracial Romance and (Gasp!) a Female Studio Chief

The prolific TV creator and Netflix unveil a revisionist take on the golden age of movies, showing how much (and how little) has shifted in entertainment and beyond: “'Hollywood’ can change the world.”

On an abnormally cold January evening, on the steps of Los Angeles’ Shrine Auditorium, history was being rewritten.

Two actors, one playing Rock Hudson, the other Hudson’s African American screenwriter boyfriend, Archie, were tucked inside a teal blue Packard Club Sedan, awaiting their cue. Outside, it was Oscar night, 1948, and despite warnings of grave backlash, the pair was prepared to step out as a couple for the first time.

Archie exited first, his eyes wide with trepidation, then Rock. In matching white tuxedos, they grabbed for each other’s hands and shuffled nervously down the red carpet.

The press box erupted in hisses, then boos.

“Are we doing the right thing?” Archie whispered.

“Absolutely we are,” Rock replied.

The two exchanged smiles, exhaled and made their way into the theater. Then they stopped and did it again. And again.

Ryan Murphy, the scene’s chief architect, was a few miles east, buried in one of his dozen other projects, but his fingerprints could be detected everywhere. The reimagining — part of his new Netflix anthology series, Hollywood — offers a world in which Hudson (played by Jake Picking) walked openly as a gay man, as opposed to the real-life heartthrob who remained closeted until his death from AIDS in the mid-1980s. Elsewhere in Murphy’s revision of history, an African American actress, played by Laura Harrier, is cast as the star of a major studio picture, written by Hudson’s black boyfriend (Jeremy Pope), helmed by a half-Asian director (Darren Criss) and greenlit by a female studio chief (Patti LuPone) and her gay head of production (Joe Mantello).

If Pose was Murphy’s effort to champion the marginalized, Hollywood’s his shot at imagining such marginalization was undone decades ago. The series, his first without his longtime collaborators at 20th Century Fox Television, drops in its entirety May 1, with a sprawling ensemble of real and fictional characters. It was supposed to feel timely, its period backdrop a reminder of how much and how little has changed in 70-plus years; now, landing in a world grappling with a global pandemic, its 1940s setting could be the escape so many are seeking.

“I’ve always been interested in this kind of buried history, and I wanted to create a universe where these icons got the endings that they deserved,” says Murphy, 55, who’s been waiting out the virus at his home in Los Angeles, with his husband and two young sons, who now require homeschooling. “It’s this beautiful fantasy, and in these times, it could be a sort of balm in some way.”

The Netflix executives who shelled out roughly $300 million for Murphy’s services in 2018 can only hope so. Already, they’ve had to cancel influencer screenings, scrap subway ads and punt on potential plans for a premiere benefit for the now hard-hit Motion Picture Television Fund, which houses several stars of the era in its L.A. retirement facility. As for the show itself, it’s certainly not the broad-sweeping, four-quadrant fare that Netflix is widely thought to prefer. The pilot episode alone features six sex scenes — a mix of gay and straight — and nearly all involve some sort of financial transaction. By episode three, which the show’s writers have nicknamed “night of a thousand dicks,” the characters have found their way to one of director George Cukor’s infamous pool parties.

Still, Netflix head of originals Cindy Holland says that Hollywood is exactly the kind of elevated, inclusive and ultimately hopeful programming that the company wants from Murphy, and the seven-episode limited series was fast-tracked as a result. “What I love,” she says, “is that Ryan is creating a world that he wants to will into existence.”

***

Murphy’s first inkling for Hollywood came over a celebratory dinner with Criss following their fruitful awards run for the Versace installment of American Crime Story. With rosé flowing, the two began discussing a next possible collaboration. Murphy wanted to do something young and hopeful; Criss proposed 1940s Hollywood. The 33-year-old actor had been fascinated by the lore surrounding characters like Scotty Bowers, the L.A. hustler who operated out of a gas station on Hollywood Boulevard, along with golden age stars like Spencer Tracy and Katharine Hepburn, and he was eager to explore the era with Murphy.

“There’s a blinking red light on it that says, ‘Ryan Murphy, Ryan Murphy,’ ” says Criss, “because it’s sexy, it’s fun, it’s glamorous, it’s dangerous and it has resonance now.”

Murphy didn’t disagree. As a student of Hollywood history, he’d already gone down the road with his FX series Feud, which centered its first season on Joan Crawford and Bette Davis. This would simply allow him to dig deeper on figures who’d long captured his attention, from Anna May Wong, the first Chinese American movie star, who was effectively run out of Hollywood, to Hattie McDaniel, the first African American to win an Oscar and not be allowed to sit with her cast in the theater. “I’m always moved by these characters who weren’t fully seen or didn’t get their moment,” says Murphy in an interview on the Paramount lot earlier this year, where he was directing Meryl Streep in The Prom, another Netflix production. At one point, he’d even toyed with the idea of doing a Biography-style anthology series with an episode devoted to each.

Not long after that dinner, Criss was at a bachelor party when his phone rang. It was Murphy. “He says, 'Do you mind if I just do my thing on this?’ ” says Criss. “And I’m like, 'You’re Ryan fucking Murphy. Do whatever you want!’ ”

So, Murphy picked a collaborator, Ian Brennan, with whom he’d worked on Glee, Scream Queens and The Politician, and the two began quietly tossing around ideas. With the help of a few researchers, they landed on a story that revolved around a Bowers-esque service station, with a staff full of actors and directors looking to be stars. “It was super fun and sexy and salacious,” says Brennan, “but it was also about the #MeToo underbelly of 1940s Hollywood, which felt very, very contemporary.”

The men found it exhilarating to depict sex so explicitly and in every possible combination. “To be able to describe exactly what is happening is really, really cool,” says Brennan. And despite the appetite for such racy content varying dramatically around the globe, Netflix brass was passionate about its inclusion — a marked difference from his and Murphy’s experience on previous shows, where they fought tooth and nail over the mere mention of sexual terms. “I hope this isn’t speaking out of school,” he adds, “but the one thing [Netflix’s vp original series] Brian Wright said to me, was, like, 'Thumbs-up on the sex. If anything, dial that up.’”

From the Pose writers room, producer Janet Mock would see Murphy and Brennan huddled in a nearby room and wonder what the latest “secret Ryan Murphy project” was all about. At one point, Mock found herself pumping intel out of a writers’ assistant, who told her, “It’s a thing called Hollywood, it’s about this gas station.” Having seen the 2017 documentary Scotty and the Secret History of Hollywood, she figured, “OK, there’s no place for me in that. I’ll continue with Pose.”

But that would soon change, beginning with an eye-opening discussion in the writers room about which of the ensemble’s contract players would be picked to star in the film at the center of Hollywood. The role was that of real-life actress Peg Entwistle, a blonde Brit who jumped to her death from the famed Hollywood sign. “At first, we were like, “Well, it can’t be the black girl [Harrier’s Camille], they wouldn’t have done it. …’ And then it was like, 'Well, wait a second, what if it actually was? What if Peg becomes Meg,’ ” says Brennan. One what-if led to another and then another, and before long they’d decided to go back in and start revising history — this time, with Mock as a credited writer.

Now, rather than use the series to, say, showcase the powerlessness of a studio head’s aging housewife, in this case LuPone’s Avis, they tweaked the story so that suddenly it explores what would happen if Avis gained control of her husband’s studio. It was the same for several others, including Rock Hudson, says Murphy’s co-creator. Instead of telling the tragic tale of a person forced to hide, they allowed themselves to explore what would happen if he refused to do so. “Once we began asking, 'What if?’ it became a different show,” says Brennan, with Mantello adding: “It became a fable of what could have been.”

With Netflix execs eager to get the series up on the service, Murphy began loading the cast with his usual mix of familiar names — from Jim Parsons, as Hudson’s real-life closeted agent Henry Wilson, to Rob Reiner, as the head of the fictional Ace Studios — and newer discoveries, like Samara Weaving (Ready or Not) as Reiner’s daughter, or Picking as Hudson and Pope as his fictional boyfriend. As with other recent ensembles, he listed all of them not in order of importance or seniority but rather alphabetically on the call sheet. The message was clear: “The star of the show is the show,” says Murphy. Still, initial hires Criss and David Corenswet, who’d made his debut on The Politician, were given executive producer credits, along with backend points on the series. (There’s already talk of a season two, which would pick up in the late 1960s, with many of the same actors in entirely new roles.)

At some point in the production process, Murphy found himself scaling back the graphic nature of the series, too — a byproduct of his own personal recalibration, he says, having spent so much of his pre-Netflix life fighting to show so much as a woman’s nipple. “When you’re finally free, you have this tendency to go full tilt boogie, but ultimately I became much more interested in the emotion of the characters, and, frankly, I became protective of them,” he explains, suggesting every episode had an X-rated version, an R-rated version and a PG version, and, to the delight of participants like Corenswet, who plays an actor-cum-sex worker, Murphy would almost always select the R one.

“I think Ryan realized as we were shooting that the best part of the sex was the romance — and that’s always great to hear as an actor, especially when it applies to your five-page sex scene with Patti LuPone,” says the 26-year-old Corenswet. LuPone, for her part, was just thrilled she was still asked to do a sex scene at age 71. “Finally!” she bellows, praising Murphy for having both the vision and the courage to take the risks he does: “Ryan’s fearless,” says the Tony winner, who also popped up in Pose, “and I’m so happy to be in his world."

***

Long before Murphy was a household name, with a big fat Netflix deal to ostensibly take all the risks he wants, he was a frustrated former journalist fighting to change a system that wasn’t built for him. His own secret had been revealed at just 15, when his mother found a drawer full of love letters from his then-22-year-old boyfriend at their home in Indiana. Horrified, she and Murphy’s father threw their son into counseling, hoping he could be "fixed.”

A decade or two later, after his first career as an entertainment writer, Murphy carved out a place for himself in television, where he could exist comfortably as a gay man — so long as he didn’t try to write anyone like himself into scripts. “There were lots of words that they’d use to discriminate against you,” he says, “too flamboyant, too camp, too theatrical, and they were all code.”

By the mid-1990s, he’d joined forces with 10 or so other out or soon-to-be-out creatives, a group that included Nina Jacobson, Greg Berlanti and A Beautiful Mind’s Bruce Cohen. Giving themselves the name “Out There,” they’d meet in courtyards and living rooms to swap horror stories and try to plot a path forward. “We were young and didn’t have much money, but we had a lot of energy and a need to connect with and support each other as gay people working in a straight environment,” says Jacobson, who’d later collaborate with Murphy on American Crime Story and Pose. “And for a lot of us, it was, for the first time, that feeling of community.”

In time, Murphy, like the others, found a way to “monetize [his] pain.” His first creation, Popular, debuted in 1999, and other opportunities followed. Popular begat Nip/Tuck, Nip/Tuck begat Glee, and before he knew it, Murphy had moved from TV’s fringes to its red-hot center. As The New Yorker once wrote, “He changed; the industry changed; he changed the industry.” In early 2018, he signaled that power by signing a nine-figure deal, among the most lucrative in the medium’s history.

So it is perhaps fitting that Murphy’s first project wholly for and from the service includes a scene that trumpets what he calls “the thesis statement” of his career. It begins with Criss’ character, Raymond, being regaled by the story of Anna May Wong’s awe-inspiring screen test for the lead role in the 1937 adaptation of The Good Earth, a part that ultimately went to a far less deserving Caucasian actress. Suggesting it was one of the saddest stories Raymond had ever heard, a film executive played by Mantello responds:

“What’s so sad about it? The picture was a hit. [They] were right. You can’t open a picture with a Chinese lead or a colored one, a number of theaters won’t run it.”

Raymond: “But you said she deserved the part?”

Exec: “Yes, but the hard fact is, had she gotten it, the picture is not a hit.”

Raymond: “How do you know that? You never made the movie, so how do you know it’s not a hit?”

Criss’ character continues with a monologue that is so perfectly Murphy you can almost close your eyes and picture him saying it.

“Sometimes I think folks in this town don’t really understand the power they have. Movies don’t just show us how the world is, they show us how the world can be. If we change the way that movies are made — you take a chance and you make a different kind of story, I think you can change the world.”

Criss himself would argue that Murphy already has. “His dial is always in extremes. So, if he’s doing Glee or Scream Queens or this, it’s at an 11, almost as a middle finger to reality,” says the actor. “It’s like he turned the dial over to say, 'This is how I’d like to see the world in my wildest dreams. Ain’t it fun?’ ”

In the past two years, since he moved his creative hub from 20th Century Fox TV, where he still maintains a considerable roster, Murphy been responsible for producing roughly 200 LGBTQ characters, many featured as leads. At least a third of his Hollywood cast is older than 70 (“Seventy is the new 40,” he teases), and nearly every project he launches is fronted by a woman — and that’s just in front of the camera. “If you see it, you can be it,” Murphy says often.

It’s a worldview that appeals to Netflix’s Holland, for whom he’s already prepped two films (Prom, The Boys in the Band), two docuseries (Circus of Books, Secret Love) and five seasons of inclusive television, including a Halston miniseries that, along with his 20th programs Pose, American Horror Story and American Crime Story, shut down care of COVID-19 in March. In the weeks since, when he isn’t toggling between Tiger King and MSNBC, Murphy’s kept busy writing two new decidedly hopeful series, each with the express purpose of providing viewers and himself an escape. “Ryan’s the rare creator who speaks to many audiences,” says Holland. “It’s not just gay people or straight people or older people or younger people, it’s really all people who are interested in the human condition.”

To date, Murphy claims he has yet to hear the word “no” from his Netflix bosses, though he’s definitely been nudged in certain directions. “They don’t want me to do small, niche things,” he says, acknowledging that not too long ago a project like Hollywood would have been deemed just that. “But they know how to market this,” he explains, noting that Netflix will push his latest series on viewers who also like love stories, young adult series and LGBTQ fare.

For those who worried the ultra-competitive producer would chafe in a system that doesn’t provide a public report card (aka ratings), he argues that that’s been liberating. Brennan backs him up, revealing how they received initial numbers for The Politician a week or two after it premiered late last summer and then another trove of data a month or so later; and though the latter could effectively game out how many people would watch the series over time, Brennan says, “We were sort of like, 'I don’t think that’s helpful.’ ”

Murphy takes it a step further, insisting he’s no longer interested in the old metrics, like how many people are watching or how many awards a series has generated. “All the things that people tell you will make you feel successful … I have those things, they don’t,” he says. What matters to him now is being able to tell stories that he wishes he or others could have seen. To that end, he can’t help but wonder what his own life would have been had he witnessed Rock Hudson walking the Oscars red carpet as an openly gay man — and though it’s too late to change his own experience, Murphy would like to be able to improve the experience of others. So, he took a chance and made a different kind of story. “Hollywood,” he says, “can change the world.”

#darren criss #the hollywood reporter #ryan murphy #hollywood #press #april 2020

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mor-beck-more-problems · 4 years ago

Text

Stay In Your Lane || Morgan, Deirdre, Anita, Marley (pt1)

TIMING: tonight

LOCATION: Mortal Pins

PARTIES: @professoranieves @detectivedreameater @deathduty @mor-beck-more-problems

SUMMARY: It’s not a double date if you say it isn’t. Everything is fine.

Morgan didn’t mind turning up early for meeting Anita and her mystery girl. She hadn’t been to the bowling alley since that muggy winter outing with Deirdre and all but danced down to reserve a lane for the party with Deirdre. There were no birthday parties commandeering the playlist or half the bowling lanes, only whatever top 20 pop hits Morgan was too unglued from the world to recognize and groups of adults and kids trying to have their own group fun. The beer smell in the carpet that seemed to come packaged wrapped with every bowling alley had gotten worse, made only more confusing by the perfum-y scent of herbs coming from the ball and shoe racks. But it wouldn’t be White Crest if the place was totally normal.

“Does it feel good to be back where we had our first date?” She asked, knowing full well the bowling had been far from the best part of the night. “It’s almost a shame we’ll be on the same team. I can’t make a prize of myself if you win.” She rose on the tips of her toes and pulled Deirdre down into a kiss. “Although I guess we should probably keep the making out to a minimum since we’ll have company I actually want to invite us out again.” She lowered herself and dragged them into the rental line hand in hand. “I think you’ll like Anita. We have fun at work when we take our lunches together, and you and I have fun all the time, and this new girl has her so worked up and out of her comfort zone it gives me flashbacks sometimes. But, she’s gotta be fun too, if she’s keeping up with Anita. According to my calculations, that adds up to an evening well spent. And you don’t even have to order a hot dog this time.”

It was in lacking the allure of a human that intrigued, confused and frustrated her, set against a backdrop that was new, that Deirdre finally realized that the bowling alley was disgusting. It was disgusting the first time, but she could almost forgive it for its newness, and the idea of living up to some dream of a 10 year old's birthday party. Her eyes trailed across the establishment; they'd kissed there, stood in line over there, left holding each other down that way. She remembered, even when she’d thought she wanted to forget it. "Fates, was that a date? I think I liked the dinner we had after much more than the bowling part anyway—our first kiss aside." She also remembered being annoyed and baffled by Morgan, though those days were a memory now. "Why did I agree to this? I hated bowling and I hate people." And then Morgan kissed her. Ah, yes, that was why. She hummed against her, trying to pull her close. "You're always a prize." Deirdre was reminded again how much she hated bowling alleys as a kid—no younger than 13—rushed past them, an 'ew, gross' spewing out of his slushie-stained mouth. Deirdre groaned and reluctantly retreated into a respectable position with Morgan. "No promises. I'm thinking of how much I'd rather just go on a date with you, alone. And how illegal it is to throw a kid down the lane. That's perfectly fine, right?" She grumbled again, shifting nervously. If Morgan was getting flashbacks...then which one in Anita's equation was supposed to be her counterpart? She wouldn't wish that turmoil on to anyone, regretting every moment she spent denying feelings. And, honestly, she was nervous. She wanted Anita to like her, she wanted this to be good for Morgan. She knew a lot about how to charm people, and she could only hope it could work now. "I'd be having fun anyway, Morgan. I always am with you." The kid rushed past again, another 'ew, gross' squeaking out as he went. Deirdre groaned. "Anita better get here before this place becomes a crime scene."

As Anita and Marley pulled into the parking lot of the bowling alley, she suddenly had an aching feeling that this was a bad idea. Possibly one of her worst. Thinking back on it all, she wished she never even made mention of anyone to Morgan. Then Morgan wouldn’t’ve suggested they all spend time together. Then she never would have awkwardly asked Marley to go bowling with a friend from work, and they both wouldn’t be sitting in the car about to walk into a … double date? No. No, it wasn’t that because they weren’t dating. Once she got out of the car she made her way over to Marley, instinctively reaching down and slipping her hand into hers. “Thanks again for agreeing to come. I don’t know if I’d be able to handle being a third wheel while bowling.” As they made their way inside, Anita quickly scanned the area for Morgan, who had already texted her that they were there. Thankfully it wasn’t too crowded so she was able to spot the petit english professor fairly quickly. Once they got over towards them, she lightly dropped Marley’s hand so that she could greet the other two women. “Morgan! Hey, so good to see you,” she said with a wide smile.

Marley didn’t know why she’d agreed to this. She never should have agreed to this. When she’d first said yes, she hadn’t thought much of it. But then the more she’d thought about it, the more she realized this was a little outside of the bounds they’d previously set up. And they had been doing so good, too. No weird conversations or arguments or awkward moments in person. Things had been good and maybe that’s why she had said yes. She wanted to spend more time with Anita, even if it meant going on a double-not-date date with her and one of her professor friends. That’s what people did, right? They took an interest in other peoples’ lives? And Marley was very interested in Anita’s life. Not for any particular reason, but there’d always been that pull with her, hadn’t there? It didn’t mean anything. It couldn’t. Still, hanging out at a bowling alley with another couple seemed...like a big step to Marley. But she wasn’t about to back out now, if only to prove to herself that they weren’t like whoever these other two were-- they were just friends who slept together a lot and sometimes didn’t. When they pulled up, Marley looked over at Anita, giving her a brief smile before sliding her sunglasses on. “Being a third wheel is pretty bad, anyways, I can’t even imagine being one while bowling,” she teased, taking her hand as they headed in. She found it only slightly odd that Anita dropped her hand once they went in, but when she looked up and saw the two people they were heading towards, Marley almost stopped in her place. “Uhh, Anita,” she said, reaching out to try and tug back on her, before deciding the hell with it. She puffed herself up, put on a smile, and strutted up. “Long time no see, Detective,” she said to Morgan with a grin.

In the moments before Anita and her date showed up, Morgan continued to float in her little bubble of excitement and affection. “Mmmm, we met here on purpose, I put on something cute for you, we had fun, we flirted, we kissed, we had dinner somewhere with candles, that sounds like a date to me.” She slid Deirdre’s arms back around her and swayed them as they waited in line, shuffling forward only a few places as a gaggle of five teenagers argued over how many lanes to get. “But, we can do something fun after, though I don’t think throwing children is gonna make the cut. I uh--wow.” The slushie faced child was waggling a dead toe into another child’s eye. “I can appreciate the impulse, but we’re trying to make a positive first impression. But we could mess with the parking meters in town, or take off the labels of canned food and move them around? Or just go home, crawl into bed…” She turned her head back, smiling coyly from upside down.

Then she heard Anita and straightened up, pulling away from her enough to pull Anita into a hug. “Hey! Thanks for coming! You look amazing, as always. Especially this hair?” She fussed with Anita’s waves, nodding with approval. “Gotta look extra nice for your hot date, huh?” She murmured, teasing. “And who is--” Morgan never finished. She recognized Marley on the spot and felt her body temperature drop another few degrees. “Oh. Uh...yeah. It’s funny, right, because of the part where an amateur had to do something your workforce couldn’t handle. That was fun.” She laughed, shrill and nervous as she put her hand out to shake. It was all she could do not to ask Anita right then what on earth she was doing with Marley and did she know she made women cry in her free time? “Didn’t expect to see you here! With Anita. Small town, huh?”

An argument as to why they should just leave and make their own fun sat between Deirdre's lips, caught there as Morgan moved away. The soft beginnings of a whine whistled between her teeth before she remembered she was supposed to make nice, and that this was Morgan's friend. "Deirdre," she introduced herself to Anita with a friendly smile, offering her hand when the hugging was over. "Morgan's girlfriend. It's nice to finally meet you, although Morgan's descriptions obviously put—" Deirdre froze. She knew that voice. It haunted her still sometimes, and the red eyes that sat under her stupid sunglasses. The only thing she could do to keep those memories at bay was to imagine Marley's suffering laid over them—to make her pay, somehow, for even thinking about it. Her body tensed and she took a casually protective stance around Morgan and Anita, who she assumed was some victim too. "Stryder." And there was Marley, in all her dumb, sunglass wearing glory. She glanced between Marley and Anita, smiling with a sinister delight to quell the nauseating fear that threatened to bubble. She might not have known how to kill Marley exactly, but Anita was sure to die like anyone else. And she wasn't above hurting someone's lover to get to them. Deirdre's eyes drifted off to Morgan. Okay, so she was above murdering Morgan's friends. She snapped her gaze back to Marley and her smile quirked into a smirk. She sauntered up to Marley and fling her arm around her shoulders, urging her close and closer to the group. Like an old friend, or maybe someone who was trying to figure out how much Marley weighed and how much effort it would take to throw her down a lane. "You know, the detective here told me that commitment was the least exciting thing in the world once. Something about how she thought it was boring to be in a relationship," she spoke freely to Anita and Marley, playing her part as the happy participant. "I never thought I'd see the day she'd have a date and eat her words." She reached up and pinched Marley's cheek. "So proud of you, Marley-Warley." Now, how did she go about stabbing someone around an audience?

Anita returned Morgan’s hug and grinned softly when she started playing with her hair. “Yes, I do look extra hot tonight. But I’m not here on a date.” The second sentence was said softly, with the intention for only Morgan to hear it, though admittedly she didn’t know if mara had any advanced hearing capability. Not that Marley would object to her insisting it wasn’t a date, but she just didn’t really want to open up that can of worms right now. Though, honestly a can of worms sounded really delicious right about now. As she turned to greet Morgan’s girlfriend, she noticed that both of the women seemed to already know Marley. And judging by their tones and words… it didn’t seem like they all knew each other in the best of ways. “Yeah, really nice to meet you finally, Deirdre.” She shot a quick look over at Marley, trying to assess how bad of a situation this was about to be. Quickly she turned her attention back to Deirdre though, realizing that this whole date topic was becoming central to the general conversation. “Oh, no - sorry if you thought.” She offered a slightly awful laugh, trying to diffuse the situation the best that she could, “We’re not here on a date. We’re just… here to bowl. Because, well, Morgan invited me. And ya know, outings are so much better with an even number of people. But, it’s not a date. And I generally echo her sentiment about relationships.” She didn’t mean to think about it, but she couldn’t help but wonder if Marley and Deidre had a history and that was why she was bringing up dating. She tried to shake the thought but it remained. “But, uh, I take it you all already know each other then. And here I was worried tonight would be awkward.” Another awkward laugh followed, and Anita was fully unsure of if she was making the situation better or worse.

Frowning, Marley disintegrated and slipped through Deirdre’s grip before she could reach up to pinch her cheek. Though she stayed visible, she kept herself intangible for a moment longer, just in case anyone else thought it was a good idea to try and grab her. Anita was the only person allowed to do that, and she glanced over at Deirdre, eyes narrowing behind her glasses. She half wished she’d just worn her regular glasses, so that the two women now glaring at her could see her glaring back at them. Why did Anita’s friend have to be Morgan of all people? Not that Marley cared. These people had no say over her. She brushed her sleeve off as if Deirdre touching her had tainted it and shrugged. “The department is a little busy with real crimes, sorry,” she said nonchalantly, “and it’s not a date.” And yet, Anita’s words made Marley’s skin prickle a little. She knew that that was how Anita was, of course, and it wasn’t that it bothered her-- but hearing her say it outloud to other people made it seem much more...real. Clearing her throat, she took Anita’s arm and pointed towards the concession. “What do we say to drinks? You two finish getting the lane, we’ll go grab refreshments,” she grinned, “because I know I’m not making it through this without at least a little bit of alcohol.” Let the words hang a moment before tacking on, “You know, the bowling part.” High pitched laughter half interrupted her. “And the kids part.”

Morgan watched all of this unfold as if she’d been flipped inside out of her mind. This was just some weird sitcom on Netflix. She definitely hadn’t trapped all of them here with Marley Stryder. Deirdre wasn’t glaring daggers and trying to pinch the detective’s cheek, Anita wasn’t looking at all of them like a deer in the headlights and Marley wasn’t leveraging supernatural secrecy and a little murder to make her look like an idiot in front of her friend. Nope! That would just be way too ridiculous! But Morgan’s eyes met Anita’s in the chaos and she knew this was all too real. She gave her friend what she hoped was a reassuring smile. One that said, everything’s going to be fine! Especially now that Anita didn’t want this to be a date enough to say so out loud. Maybe she could be dissuaded from more repeat engagements when this was all over.

Looking up at the others, Morgan hated to realize that Marley was offering them a chance to regroup after ruining their expectations of something easy and pleasant. She reached for Deirdre’s arm, tugging her back in a way she hoped wasn’t too obviously protective. “That...Sounds great!” She said shilly. “So nice of you, Marley.” It hurt her mouth to say it, but stars did she need an out. “No booze for me, but everyone who drinks, uh, knock yourselves out. It’s a night to party, right? Oh, look! We’re almost next!” She edged her way back and looked at the shoe rack with exaggerated interest. “Stay and help me with the checkout, babe?” She asked Deirdre, squeezing harder, just in case it wasn’t obvious she wanted her to stay.

When the others were gone she let out a long, frustrated sigh. “Okay, obviously, this is a pretty big twist in our wholesome plot. However, the plan is still to be nice and make sure Anita’s still my friend by the end of this. Unless Marley tries to hurt you again, in which case, I’m pitching a salt shaker at her. Or some fries. If I order fries, will you eat them? Unless-unless, you want to go home and I can be the third wheel. Which, yes, would be very painful, but I could deal.” She looked up at Deirdre, trying to keep the plea out of her face and failing.

Perhaps it was the humiliation, the disrespect or the content of the vision themselves. Maybe it was being rendered helpless that way, or Marley’s lack of empathy after--the disregard of an apology. But to say Deirdre hated Marley was a severe understatement. Her hand phased through Marley’s skin and she noted that, just as she did Marley’s reaction to her prodding. She watched her just the way she would any future victim; any vulnerability to unearth, any information she could wrap her hands around. She wanted Marley dead, that was the only way to justify her trauma that she knew. It didn’t matter to her then if Marley actually liked Anita; she was evil, and her mind would not stray from that opinion. She smiled back at Marley and Anita as Morgan tugged her along, she said nothing and her eyes remained glued to Marley even as they moved away. How could she ruin this? How could she make Marley suffer? Morgan’s voice cut the fog of her rage and she snapped her attention to her girlfriend, her mouth stuck in a saccharine smile and her eyes blank as she refused to stir from thoughts of murder--thoughts she made poor buisness of hiding, her hand locked in a too-tight grip to Morgan’s. “That’s right, mara don’t like salt. I remember Evelyn saying something about that. I could gouge some salt into her---”

And then Deirdre remembered why she was here, and blinked her fury away. She slumped, gripping Morgan tighter. “Sorry. No--No. I can see this through. I can---Anita is your friend. I want to make this good for her I just---” Deirdre sighed, shutting her eyes with the foolish hope she could flush away memories of the night she met Marley. She shivered. “Do you think Anita is in danger? Do you think that Marley is---” She couldn’t finish the thought. Nothing she knew about the mara told her that she would care to be good to someone like Anita. Nothing in her body agreed with it. “Get me whatever is strongest there!” She called out to the not-couple, trying to hide her body’s reflexive terror at the sight of Marley the best she could from them. “I really, really don’t like Marley, but I can handle this. I’ll stay.” She assured Morgan again, leaning down to press a firm kiss to the corner of her mouth and then turning back to the task at hand. “Just...don’t be mad at me if I throw a bowling ball at Marley.”

Anita briefly caught Morgan’s eye while Marley and Deirdre were… interacting. This wasn’t good. Of all her fears as to why going on this bowling outing was a really awful idea she never thought that ‘Marley has some strange beef with Morgan’s girlfriend’ was even an option. She was racking her brain for something to say to attempt to diffuse the situation when Marley started directing her towards the concessions area. This was good, taking a few steps back to hopefully figure out what the hell was going on. And to get some booze, that would help too. “Hey, so uh…what the fuck is going on?” She asked, wrapping her arm into Marley’s as they made their way across the awful abstract carpeting. “Do we need to bail? Is this gonna turn into like … a big mess?” Sure, slipping out and not returning would be incredibly rude. But Morgan would understand, wouldn’t she? As much as she hated to admit it, Anita wasn’t the type of person to have many platonic friendships. And even though they were quite flirtatious, that’s what they were - friends. Good friends even. Anita didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize that, but she also could practically feel the disdain radiating off of Marley and Deirdre. “If I had known you had history with her girlfriend I wouldn’t have invited you, I swear.”

The banshees eyes burrowed into Marley like bullet holes, and she had to look away to keep the feeling from splintering all over. She wasn’t sure why that odd feeling was needling at the back of her neck again-- that same feeling that made her confess to Anita after they’d argued, or after she’d accidentally fed from Lydia-- but she wasn’t about to point it out or acknowledge it. The distance between the two couples-- er, pairs-- helped ease her muscles a little, the tension fading even more so when Anita’s cool hand slid around her arm and fingers intertwined. She looked at Anita as they made their way across the gaudi carpet, lined with what she assumed were patterns a mother from the 50s would appreciate, and up to the popcorn and concessions counter. It smelled more like the charred remains of the kernels and the butter used to pretend the lifeless snack had any flavor, but they weren’t here for that. As it turned out, the entire party was human-food adjacent. As far as she was aware. Whatever it was that Morgan was, she didn’t seem to need sustenance either. Just the alcohol, then. Her eyes settled on Anita. “No,” she said slowly, even though the rest of her begged her to say yes. She wanted to run, she wanted to go back outside where it smelled like ocean salt and dead leaves, instead of staying stuck in this pit of stale socks and warm beer-- but Anita had seemed excited to hang out with her friends, and Marley wasn’t about to deny her that. Anita deserved a good night out, after all, and if that meant gritting her teeth and bearing a grin through the banshee she’d tormented and the girlfriend who wanted to rip her head off, she would do it.

“No,” she repeated again, this time more firm. “I can play nice, promise. And if it seems like they don’t want to, I can just dip. It’s fine,” she gave a little lopsided grin, trying to be reassuring. “I don’t wanna ruin this for you.” Even though she ruined everything. This, for some reason, seemed important to not ruin. When the greasy teenager came up to take their order, his outfit more striped than any mimes’s, but boasting far too many colors, Marley ordered two pitchers, before turning back to look at Anita. “And uh-- it’s complicated. I’ll--” her eyes fell on the two across the lane, standing in the line together. Their arms were wrapped around each other, their bodies sitting together almost perfectly, like they simply fit that way and life made sure to let them fall into each other. As if they were simply made for each other. Another strange pang tugged on her sternum, on the space beneath it, and she looked away quickly. Whatever they had, she never would. Marley wasn’t capable of feeling that. Her arm instinctively wrapped tighter around Anita. “I’ll tell you later, as long as you promise not to hate me for it.” Just then, two pitchers and a stack of shameful, plastic cups were set on the counter before them and Marley found herself glad she hadn’t gone for the wine. She wasn’t picky, but plastic ruined the flavor.

Picking up the two pitchers, and leaving the cups for Anita to grab, she turned back towards the alley, nodding in the direction of the other two, who were now heading towards what she assumed was their lane for the night. Just grin and bear it, she told herself. For Anita.

Morgan side eyed the pair at the drinks counter, barely holding in her grimace. “Anita can handle herself. I don’t know what she is, but she’s a part of our crowd, so to speak. And I think if Mara had any pheromone stuff, Evelyn would’ve mentioned it. And, you know, she’s not even the type who gets attached easily. She doesn’t ‘do’ relationships. And she knew that rule one is no repeat engagements, and I know this because we talk about exploits--tastefully--over lunch. Whatever this is, it’s real, or as real is it can be with Marley lying about what a dickbag she is to everyone else. I mean, that’s gotta be it, right?” She paid the cashier for their lane and ordered an extra large plate of fries, with a pair of paper sauce cups filled with salt on the side.

As they waited off to the side for their order to be filled, Morgan gave Deirdre’s arm a squeeze, resting her head against it. “We’ll play one game, I’ll bond with Anita, and we’ll call it an early night, by which I mean, you get to decide what’s for real dinner and if you want to change the numbers on the parking zones, or just go home and let me do whatever you ask in bed. Also, you know, if you change your mind later and need to tap out, that’s fine too.” Their plate arrived, along with the size bowling balls and shoes they’d asked for. Morgan hefted hers with her new strength, taking a little joy in the astonishment on the attendant’s face as she spun it between her hands. “And uh, while I don’t think bowling ball to the mara should count as a first tactic, I think I can safely promise that whatever it is I’ll feel, it’s definitely not gonna be mad.”

She came down to their spot, all the way at the end of the lanes. The place was so busy this weekend, there wasn’t any other space except next to the teenager party, and the evening didn’t need to get worse by playing there. Morgan put on her best friendly face and waved at Anita and (regrettably) Marley as they came to join them. “Hey! Thanks for getting the drinks. At least the beer looks good and cold.” She plopped down on the seat and started putting names in, keeping her attention mostly on Anita. Ever since Rebecca went off on another stupid lead, she’d been lonely with just the surviving TA bros for friends. This had to work. She needed this to work. “We already got your shoes, just need to go find the sizes you want. And there’s snacks for the table to munch on! Sometimes it’s nice to have something to occupy yourself with between rounds. I’m thinking two teams in pairs? Prof versus prof, with each of our...gal pals as our teammates? That should make things even and fair. And like all super reasonable adults, we just play for bragging rights. I’ve played uh, three or four whole bowling games in my life? So I’m feeling pretty snazzy. How about y’all?” She did her best to keep her tone light, to focus on the good and not make this too strange, but she couldn’t help but slide her gaze over to Marley to make sure she wasn’t doing anything underhanded.

“I don’t mean physically, Morgan…” Deirdre grimaced, she didn’t want to imply anything about Marley but….she was doing exactly that. It was easy to fake interest, easy to string people along---even those who thought they would never want a relationship. She’d done it before; what was stopping Marley from doing the same? “I remember what she was like when she---” Deirdre swallowed. “I don’t think it really matters much how capable or smart Anita is, if someone like Marley---” She cut herself off again, daring a glance back at the couple-not-couple. “I’m just worried about your friend, that’s all.” Or maybe she just struggled to believe someone like Marley was capable of a healthy more-than-friendly relationship with someone. Then again, she never thought she was either.

But Morgan was here, pressed against her and soothing. She wondered for just a second---before she regretted it---if Marley and Anita felt this way too. “No,” she shifted, anchoring their bodies together the way they knew best. “I mean--I can do this. Anita is your friend, and we don’t need to do any of that on my account.” Deirdre leaned down to steal a kiss, lingering as she continued. “But I’ll take you up on having some fun to ourselves later.” She watched with a smirk as Morgan spun her bowling ball, pride swelling in her as astonishment settled into the attendant. That’s my girl, she felt like bragging, but had enough sense not to. That poor employee had at least a couple more hours of their shift to slog through, they could probably do without Deirdre boasting about her amazing girlfriend. Instead she snaked her free arm around Morgan’s waise, overcome with a sense of ease. “You’re right. Salt to the mara should be the first tactic, or is it knife to the mara? Salt knife to the mara. You’re a genius, my love.” Everything would be okay, because Morgan was here. Marley couldn’t hurt her, Marley wouldn’t.

And then she did something she knew she’d regret. “I’m sorry,” she held her hand out to Marley as she approached with Anita. “For being weird. Whatever happened between us, it’s all in the past, isn’t it?” She smiled politely, offering Anita a look of apology as well. Of course, she knew it wasn’t her fault, and of course, she was still fantasizing about the pleasures of stabbing Marley but this she did for Morgan, and for the sake of not ruining a friendship she must have cherished. “Right?” She gestured to her hand, insistent that Marley take it and accept her unnecessary apology. Except her eyes painted a different story as they met Marley’s: I want to dismember your body and bowl each part down the lane. Then her eyes fell to the salt and the fries: I don’t even know where I’ll stick those but I’ll stick them somewhere. “That sounds perfect, my love,” she smiled at Morgan, done with her silent threats. “But we could make it more interesting. Bragging rights are one thing.” And a fae with the power to bind people to their competitions was another. And she would win, of course. She could scream and knock those pins down and none would be the wiser. Of course, all of her ideas of a bet involved stabbing Marley. “You know, I’d like to be able to ask one question, and get complete honesty. That’s it. A worthy enough bet, right?” She looked between Anita and Marley. “Unless, of course, you’d both rather be boring.”

Anita smiled softly when she felt Marley’s arm tighten around her. It made the awkwardness of five minutes ago seem to slip away and she let out a soft content sigh. “Of course I won’t hate you.” She pressed a quick kiss to Marley’s cheek right before the concession employee placed the beer and cups down in front of them. She grabbed the cups off the counter, thanking the worker who seemed very disinterested in being there, then following Marley back to the others. “I didn’t know bowling could be played in teams, honestly. But yeah! That sounds good to me.” Maybe making it teams would be better, hopefully Marley and Deirdre wouldn’t have to interact much and the rest of the evening could be wholly uneventful. “Three or four times? Well, shit, you’re practically an expert compared to me.”

She began to pour out four cups of the beer, looking up cautiously as Deirdre approached Marley. Whatever happened between them, it was clearly a long and complicated story. Something Marley was worried she would hate her for. Which was pretty ludacris considering all they’ve been through already. But she seemed like she wanted to move on, put it behind them. Anita smiled over at them then reached over to hand Morgan a nice full cup of the beer. She gave her a little hopeful smile, maybe naively thinking this night would go better than the first introductions might have implied. Deirdre’s suggestion made her a little nervous, honesty was a valuable commodity, and not one she liked to share. But Anita wasn’t about to be called boring. “Alright,” she said with a shrug then looked over towards Marley. “And when we win, we get to ask a question. What’s the fun in a bet if it's not reciprocal?” Very quickly she realized she probably should have consulted with Marley before accepting, but she knew she wasn’t one to turn down a challenge.

Salt. She hated salt. It sat on the table in front of her in those stupid little pinfolded cups mocking her. Marley scrunched her nose, sitting as far away from the plate of fries as possible. As she sat, she noticed that almost everybody’s eyes were on her, and Deirdre had extended a hand-- and an apology. She blinked, staring at it. There was no way it was genuine, and the look on Deirdre’s face told her as much. Still, she stood and took her hand. She didn’t like all of this attention. Normally she didn’t mind it when people’s eyes were on her if she knew they were someone she could get something out of, but she liked being able to disappear into a crowd better. Literally being able to turn invisible helped with that. But she was used to slinking around in the background, to not being noticed. To dictate from the shadows. All these eyes on her made her skin crawl. You couldn’t disappear if people were watching. Marley finally met Deirdre’s eyes, surprised to find the banshee holding her gaze-- most people flinched the second time around. She tried to smile. “Right,” was all she said, before turning away and sitting down. Fine, if they wanted to look at her, she’d give them something to look at. Anita had already agreed them to the bet, and she wasn’t about to back down, despite never having bowled in her life before. She stood, her cheek burning where Anita had kissed her, and tugged her “gal pal” closer. “I’ll go get our shoes,” she said, before leaning in to press a quick kiss to her lips. Partly because she found herself burning to feel her, and party because she knew it would make the other two squirm. She gave them a wink before walking over to the counter to get their shoes.

Morgan was glad to every power in the universe that she didn’t have the blood circulation to blanche or blush. That didn’t stop her eyes from bulging when she saw Marley kiss Anita with the same casual affection she gave her girlfriend. She had definitely done things like that with Deirdre without them technically being a couple, but she had also definitely been helplessly in over her head with love and affection. And, yes, that had been her guess before Anita revealed her mystery lady’s identity, but now that it was Marley and not some nice random preferably-supernatural stranger, she had started to hope that all the ‘not a couple’ talk had been true! No romance or abiding affection here! Just good old fashioned meaningless sex and hang time! Grown up BFFs, at most. She stared in spite of herself, her eyes following Marley as she left. Then, catching herself, her eyes landed on Deirdre, a ‘did you see that?’ look on her face, before finally finding Anita. This was fine. She could do this. She could be grown-up enough to make grown up work friends.

“Really? Not even a kid’s birthday party game? Well in that case, I at least gotta give you a few freebie pointers during my round, c’mon.” She crooked her finger at Anita, smiling coyly. Maybe the key to this was threading the needle between completing her real objective (making better friends with Anita) and playing some light interference in the interim, however much was really needed anyway. And if Anita was monopolized, there wouldn’t be as much time to watch...whatever what she’d just seen was.

The pins were set up as the game started and Morgan hefted her ball into the right grip. “Okay, so the trick is to follow the arrows on the lane with your eyes and finish with your wrist. Uh, this ball is maybe a little heavy for you to try with, but you can just use yours on my next round. Now, hypothetically, with the right start, you just have to run up, arm high, and…” Morgan flicked her wrist and released the ball, sending it flying into half the pins on the right. “What do ya think? Ready for your freebie?”

Deirdre did have the blood circulation to blanche, which she did promptly, barely keeping herself from gawking. And then she blushed with rage, shaken away only as her eyes met Morgan. She didn’t like what she saw, and what she saw was Marley having a good time. She must have done that on purpose, she must’ve. But as she reached to Morgan for comfort, her hands met the air, and her confusion was turned towards her girlfriend, who was understandably interested in the friend she wanted to be closer to. She suppressed a remark of surprise, and whatever she could of a hint of betrayal, and sat down to watch. Yet, unsure of why she felt weirdly uncomfortable, she turned to watch Marley…who also made her uncomfortable to look at. And so she crossed her arms, kicking her long legs one up over the other, and looked away from Anita and Morgan to try and fantasize more about flaying Marley. But a perverse sense of curiosity kept her looking back.

For a split second, Anita was too shocked that Marley had actually just kissed her in front of other people to kiss her back. But it didn’t take long for her to quickly regroup and return the kiss before Marley pulled away to go grab shoes for them. Thankful she was unable to blush, she turned back towards Morgan, hoping the slight awkwardness of that moment wasn’t too apparent. “Well, I wasn’t really invited to many birthday parties as a kid. Which sounds far more depressing than it actually was, I promise.” Anita replied, smiling and trying to remember that she came here to have fun, not to be confused by Marley. After all, she did that just about every other day of the week. “Pointers would be amazing.” She watched Morgan intently, for a moment forgetting that her girlfriend was sitting only a few feet away from them. “Wow, you have really good form for someone who’s only played three or four times. But I don’t know if I’m ready to try just yet, I might need to watch you do it again first.” She was mostly joking, after all she did have exceptional hand-eye coordination. So she picked up a bowling ball that felt like a decent weight, then lined up in front of the lane ready to mimic Morgan’s movements. After lining herself up, she ran up to the lane, then swung her arm high and released the ball. It traveled down the lane knocking a modest number of the pins down. “Huh, not as bad as I thought it was gonna be.”

Marley turned around and instantly hated what she saw. There was Anita, right up on the lane with Morgan. The tiny woman was giving her “pointers”, moving closer to her, showing her how to throw the ball. She bristled for a moment, entirely sure that if she were a cat, she’d be sporting a puffed tail. Behind her sunglasses, though, she could pretend she was smiling instead of glaring. She loudly dropped the shoes on the table then sat back, abstaining from removing her own until this little show ended. Folded her arms over her chest and watched, slumped in the chair. After a moment, she stole a short glance over at Deirdre, wondering why it felt like eyes were scanning her and found her peeking her direction as well. Was she as ruffled by this as well? Marley turned to look away, furrowing her brow. She didn’t quite like the idea that she could agree with Deirdre on anything, but here she was. That stupid feeling needled her stomach again and she leaned forward, elbows on the table, looking at the fries and the cups of salt. “You’re a natural,” she said loudly, before pushing the tray further away from herself-- the far half hanging almost all the way off the table now-- and grinned over at Anita. “Looks like we might have a shot at winning this.”

Morgan watched Anita’s ball topple the majority of the pins, eyeing her, impressed with the turn of events in spite of herself. “Okay,” she laughed. “For someone who’s never done this before, that’s pretty impressive. I’m starting to wonder if you left that one standing just so I wouldn’t get too much of a prize out of your score. But, I am glad this is going to be a good game, professor.” She said the word with an exaggerated affectation, waving her arm into a bow as frilly-sleeved friendly duelists might have done. “You know, Detective, y’all just might,” she said, too delighted to put much of an edge to it. “But, then again, my girl has game too, so it’ll be a close one at least.” She plopped down into the seat next to Deirdre and kissed her cheek. “Isn’t that right, babe?” She said. “Your turn, show ‘em who’s boss.”

Okay, Deirdre decided, she really didn’t like this. But she didn’t know why, she turned to Marley and tried to ask her what it was before she remembered that she hated Marley, and she’d sooner go back to watching the strange torture of Morgan and Anita. And then Marley pushed the tray away, and Deirdre snapped to her side, leaning forward just the same---collecting herself just enough not to seem anything but casual. She swung her arm out, pressing her fingers to the cheap plastic and dragging it closer to her. “I’m not sure you’d call it natural talent when she’s getting coached,” she mused, slowly slipping a fry into her mouth. Fates, these things were salty. “Want one?” She dangled it out in front of Marley, seemingly wanting to feed her. But she leaned in instead, unsure what kind of supernatural Anita was, and if that version of supernatural was also gifted with super-hearing. “Does it…look weird to you too or is that just me?” She was genuine, and sincerely confused. It felt like jealousy, almost, but that was an absurd thing to feel. But she nearly could feel the burn of Anita’s gaze as if it were her own, and she knew the notes of affection in Morgan’s voice. She popped the fry she was offering into her mouth, and casually turned back to her girlfriend. The affection might have been directed to her now, but it rang with a strange hollowness to her. “Mhm, but you’re pretty good yourself, my love,” she shook her head and planted a return kiss on Morgan’s lips. Must’ve been her imagination; after all, Morgan wasn’t acting any different. Deirdre picked up her ball---she didn’t bother to check the weight in her confusion---and bowled a strike. Except it didn’t feel much like one. Even being the best possible outcome, she slumped and sulked back to her seat. She had another terribly salty fry to collect herself before she leaned into Morgan and put the rest out of her mind. “Your turn, I would think,” she smirked, “remember our promi--deal, you two.” A deal she had seized with her fae magic the moment she could.

As Anita turned back around to go sit down at their little table area, she froze up, only for a split second, as she saw Deirdre seemingly offering to feed Marley a french fry. In her eyes, that only increased the likelihood that the awkwardness between those two was somehow sexual. Jilted lover? Hookup turned sour? In this town, given Marley’s reputation which was nearly identical to her own, either were strong possibilities in her opinion. Without acknowledging any of what she had seen directly, Anita very intentionally sat down in between Marley and Deirdre. “Don’t worry, I never back down from a good challenge.” There was a soft bitterness to her tone, which she instantly regretted. This was just a fun game of bowling, with two friends and their… other friends. She turned to Marley, trying to stop her mind from racing. “So, you think you can keep up with me and my natural bowling ability?” As they were talking she watched Deirdre go up to bowl, a bit surprised that she bowled a strike almost immediately. Clearly Morgan and her girlfriend were more into sporting dates then they were. Not that this was a date. “Well shit, these two might actually give us a run for our money.” She said offhandedly to Marley as she picked up her plastic cup of beer and downed a large gulp of it. “She’s gonna make this awful on us if we lose, isn’t she?” Anita asked the question in spanish, hoping that neither of the other two women would understand what she was saying.

Deirdre was closer to her than Marley wanted and the sudden closeness made her skin crawl. She didn’t like this dynamic-- Deirdre had more power than her in this situation and she hated it. Was this how she’d felt at the Cryptid Corner? Probably worse. Marley understood like no one else what fear felt like. What it tasted like. She shifted uncomfortably, leaning away from the offered fry. “Yeah,” she muttered without even looking at her, “weird is one word.” But Anita seemed to be having fun, and even if her flirting with Morgan made Marley’s insides squirm like fish on hooks, it didn’t matter. What mattered was that she was happy, and that was enough for Marley to grin and bear through the strange feelings and the awkward glances exchanged between her and the banshee. Deirdre bowled a strike and then it was Marley’s turn and she understood that no matter what she did at this point, that pair of eyes was going to watch her like hawks looking for predators. Sighing, she looked back at Anita. “She sure will,” she said back in Spanish, before standing, “and I suck at bowling.” She made her way up the lane, the awkwardly sized shoes sliding on her feet and clicking loudly on the treated wood floor. She picked up a ball, tried to remember how the others had done it, and launched one down the lane. Though mara didn’t have superstrength, Marley had admittedly thrown it harder than she’d needed. It barreled down the lane, bounced off the side, and knocked down three pins on the left. She winced a little and watched the machine whirr and reset. She glanced back at Anita while she waited for her ball to return, a hint of desperation in her eyes, though she knew no one could see them. A kid ran by in the background, squealing in his high pitched tune, and Marley was reminded why she had to keep her glasses on. She turned back and only half-hearted threw the next ball down the lane. This would’ve been so much more fun if Morgan and Deirdre weren’t here. Of all the people Anita wanted to be friends with, it had to be them, didn’t it? She slunk back to her seat with a paltry score of six pins and sat down, as far from Deirdre as possible. “Must be that left hand spin everyone’s always talking about,” she said off-handedly, nodding to Anita, “careful of it.”

Morgan sensed Deirdre’s discomfort when she left for her turn so breezily and returned without even a hint of smug superiority. “Hey--” she whispered, kissing her temple. “You were amazing, babe,” she whispered. “We got this in the bag, and whatever those two are maybe-flirting about, at least Anita seems like she’s having a nice time.” She shifted her arm so it could lay over Deirdre’s shoulders and play with her hair until it was her turn again. She watched Marly intently, puzzled when she seemed to practically throw her turn instead of flexing for her ‘friend.’ From what she’d seen of the detective, she didn’t take her for the thin skin type, or even the type to back down from intimidation. “They do say lefties have a harder time in the world,” she said, nodding along with the detective. “I definitely found the whole craft scissors part of kindergarten pretty awful. And the desks. But, Anita--” She paused, grinning and wagging her brows her way, “I hope you’re watching what I do with my left hand spin. You too, Marley.” She let her wry smile linger on the other woman as long as her insides could bear before taking her ball and sauntering up to the lane. She took more time than she needed lining up her shot, checking over her shoulder to make sure Deirdre was watching too. She tossed her hair to the side, released the ball and-- knocked over a single pin on the left. Wow. With her last move, Morgan tried to save face, taking down seven more with her next move, but all the attention she’d tried to drum up had already seriously backfired. “Like I said,” she admitted sheepishly, “It’s hard out there for a leftie. But this better not mean you start holding out on me, Anita. On the sanctity of our lunch breaks and everyone we talk shit about, I bet you can get a strike, even if my girlfriend and I do clean up shop in the end. Also, when you do, we have to get good video, so the rest of the science department knows what a badass you are.” She plopped back down in her seat, taking a runt of a fry and chewing it thoughtfully. “Tell me what’s bugging you after your turn, yeah?” she whispered to her girlfriend.

Oh, Deirdre realized, she was making Marley uncomfortable. There was some irony in that. Or a lot of irony. That was the person that attacked her, more or less. And now she was uncomfortable with some whispering and leaning in? The banshee watched with amusement as she sat as far as possible from her, trying her best not to laugh the more she looked at the scene. She’d wanted to explain that the only reason she cozied up to Marley was because she looked like she was going to knock the fries over, but she suspected that it didn’t matter in the end. She didn’t know any Spanish but she imagined that their conversation went like this: ‘wow, Deirdre is really cool’ and ‘yeah, I know. Also I’m evil.’. Of course, that probably wasn’t the case, but as with most things, Deirdre had more fun imagining. “It’s nothing,” she kissed Morgan before she stood for her turn, figuring she might as well just explain it now, “the fries are just as salty as advertised, I suppose.” And then she bowled her turn, which went poorly, and then played it off as giving them a fighting edge. The truth was, none of them were good at bowling it seemed. She watched frame after frame go by with abysmal plays and neck-to-neck scoring. Deirdre was only good when she was distracted, and not trying to bowl the way she threw a knife, which happened just often enough for them to inch into a lead---and then a very big lead. She had far more fun cuddling up to Morgan between rounds, deciding to keep their affection more subdued for Anita’s sake but being unable to wholly stay away from her. On occasion, she would spew the odd smart comment, feeling more comfortable with her wit the more Marley seemed uncomfortable. Marley, for the most part, she left alone. “You know,” she said, picking up on Marley and Anita’s competitive edge enough to know how much light-hearted trash talk she could get away with, “you two are going to lose unless you bowl some consecutive strikes. But I heard losing is in vogue now anyway right?”

As the evening wore on, Anita began to enjoy herself slightly more. Mostly thanks to Morgan, who either knew the history between Marley and Deirdre, or had a killer poker face. However, despite the fact that she was mostly enjoying bowling, she was also astutely aware of how little fun Marley seemed to be having. She felt bad but she also couldn’t help but wonder why she decided to stick around even after Anita offered her an out to leave earlier. Was that what people who were sleeping together, but being together wasn’t always about sex did? Endured something they didn’t enjoy because the other person did? She didn’t have much time to dwell on that thought though. “That’s only something that people who lose say to make themselves feel better.” She retorted at Deirdre with a slight smirk. “And for all your talk, this really comes down to this last round. Anyone’s game still.” She stood up and made her way over to the machine that spit the bowling balls back out after each roll and picked up the ball she had been using. It was the last round, and even though it was just a silly little competition between mostly-friends, Anita really wanted to win. Unfortunately for her, she had been getting progressively worse in the last few frames. She wasn’t sure if it was because she was over thinking it or if it was because her arms weren’t nearly as toned as she had let herself believe they were. As she approached the lane she tried to remember what Morgan had shown her when they first arrived, but despite her best efforts the ball only knocked down a measly three pins. Her next roll wasn’t much better - only snagging one more pin down. Feeling slightly defeated, she turned back to the group with her face scrunched up and shrugged slightly and jokingly said, “Is it in bad taste to wish that you two bomb these last rolls so that my end to the evening doesn't look quite so lame?”

Defeat was inevitable and Marley could feel the bind of their deal wearing in on her already. She hated it. She hated this stupid sport and she hated being bad at it and she hated that she hadn’t taken Anita’s out when she’d offered it. As the night had worn on, Morgan had continued her flirty quips with Anita and each one grated harder on Marley’s insides until they felt raw and she had no earthly idea why it bothered her so much. The salt had remained on the table, but the fries had grown cold. The beers had been drunk, the pitchers and cups now empty. But there was one round left, and if the other two bombed it enough, they had a chance to win. And Marley wasn’t a quitter. She could easily trick one into flubbing a roll, or scare them enough to distract them, but-- her glance fell onto Anita’s scrunched nose and her furrowed brow as she turned back from her turn and Marley couldn’t bring herself to want to potentially ruin it for her. So she stayed seated as she looked over at the other two and waited. “Don’t count us out yet,” she balked instead, hoping her false bravado would throw them at least a little bit, “There’s always a chance you’ll fuck up. That’s the essence of chaos, isn’t it?” She cast a sideways glance at Deirdre, tipping her glasses up just slightly so that the red glow of her eyes was noticeable if you looked hard enough. “And I’m sure you both know a lot about chaos.”

Morgan was almost enjoying herself throughout the evening. There was a video of Anita almost-but-not-quite getting a spare, Deirdre seemed to have settled a little, enough to spar with her wit, and they were almost certainly about to win. “Why, detective!” Morgan said, brightly coy as she made a show of flicking salt from her fingers. “You’re right. I think chaos might just be my middle name.” She sauntered over to get her ball and made her move. Nine pins down. Morgan curtseyed smugly and took her second roll. Not a spare, but she had done as well as she needed to. “I do think the less-than-winning side should get some kind of consolation prize,” she mused. “I’ve been trying out all kinds of weird recipes if you want to be my taste tester, Anita. And I can safely promise that the local mayo is never an ingredient if that makes you any more confident.” She stole a glance over at Deirdre, giving her an encouraging wink, before going back to talk about work and cooking, her attention still turning to Marley curiously. She hadn’t done...anything this whole night, really, except flaunt her not-status with Anita. What was her deal?

The essence of chaos was strong in a fae, and this time, Deirdre met Marley’s red glow with confidence and a sinister grin. She could do absolutely nothing to her here, and she knew that. And if mushroom season had done Deirdre one service, it was amplifying her already chaotic tendencies. And there was no way a mara could know exactly what she was provoking. Deirdre stood to take her turn and with a purposeful stride, she bowled exactly as well as she needed to--no better and certainly no worse. Just to rub it in. With the last of the pins down, the game was over; they had won. Deirdre turned to them slowly, her face twisted with inhuman delight. “Detective, you should know…” Her eyes reflected blankly back at them. Their promise had been set, there was no stopping her now. “...that I deal in chaos. You might think it’s unpredictable but--oh no--it’s practiced.” Like life, like death, like promises that bind. She strode up to Marley in slow, deliberate steps. “It’s nature.” She jabbed her finger at her, looking down at the mara. “And you’ve made the mistake of thinking you know it. So, Styder, you owe me an answer.” This she delighted in dragging out, she let the clueless children around them scream and shout; the sounds of pins being knocked down to permeate the air. When she finally spoke, it was with a drawn out pleasure. “How do you really feel about Anita?”

#stay in your lane 1 #wr marley #wr anita #wr deirdre #wr marley chatzy #wr anita chatzy #wr deirdre chatzy #wr chatzy #wr group chatzy #wickedswriting

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sareyen · 4 years ago

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A Machine Without Feelings: A Jane Eyre AU (Part 1/11)

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Chapter 1

Charles hid behind the heavy crimson curtains in the alcove by the eastern window. It was his favourite little nook; the sun rising in the east always made it the warmest part of the grand Westchester estate in the morning, and Charles always liked the way it overlooked the gardens that were always bright against the stony backdrop of the grey stone mansion. What he liked most about the nook, though, was that it was safe. His stepbrother, Cain Marko, had not found this little corner of peace yet, allowing Charles to tuck his knees up onto the plush cushion seat of the alcove and prop a heavy book across his lap.

"Zur Entwicklungsgeschichte des Pollens," Charles murmured quietly to himself, wanting to say the foreign words out loud, but struggling to wrap his young tongue around the tough words he was trying to learn. He had almost seen ten winters now, and in the confines of the Westchester mansion - a prison, he had sometimes thought – Charles wanted to drink in any form of knowledge he could. He had always been a genius, as his favourite nurse, Kitty, always told him. Charles soaked up knowledge like the Westchester grass did after a heavy rain, or how Cain’s stomach soaked up all of the sweet cakes he ate gluttonously.

This was one of Charles’s favourite books; even though he couldn’t understand all of the large words, he grasped enough from the words he did know and the pictures to decipher meaning. The sciences had always interested him, more so than Cain’s novels about pirates and sea monsters, and found a small kernel of happiness whenever he read about how plants grow and spread. He often looked at the twisting ivy climbing up the walls of Westchester, unruly and vibrant, alive amongst the dead stones. His mother, Sharon, called them weeds and asked their servants to cut it down when they could, but she often forgot about it all by the time the bottle had emptied.

Charles smiled to himself as he ran his fingers over the long German words, casting his eyes over the pictures of plants and pollen, of seeds and leaves. He didn’t know how much time passed, until he heard the bang of an ornate door, his eyes going wide as his entire body froze.

“Where is he?! Where in the dickens is that gibface little meater?!” Charles heard his stepbrother’s voice call out, the clack of his shoes deafening on the hard floor. Charles tried to breathe evenly and shallowly as to not make any noise, blue eyes trained on the miniscule slit between the curtains.

He saw Cain prowl past, eyes narrowed into slits in his puffy face. His thick lips were pulled back with a snarl, and his nose sniffed like he could smell Charles’s fear. Charles bit down a gasp when Cain’s eyes suddenly snapped to his alcove, his feet clunk, clunk, clunking on the wood.

Charles leapt out of the alcove before Cain could find him himself, as if offering himself up as some sort of sacrifice would make Cain go easier on him today.

“Ah, there’s our Charlie-boy,” Cain sneered, the taller, older boy sauntering over with a smirk. His eyes looked Charles up and down, before focusing on the book cradled against Charles’s chest. “What is that book?” Cain demanded, jerking a fat finger against Charles’s chest and the book, the smaller boy stumbling back with the force. “Zur Entwicklungsgeschichte des Pollens,” Charles responded meekly, cowering as Cain snorted.

“You have no business taking our books,” Cain said, as if this mansion belonged to him already. It did not. It had originally belonged to Charles’s father, Brian Xavier, but when he died it was left in the hands of his mother. If his mother had been any other woman, the estate would have been passed on to Charles. But Charles’s mother was a drunk, her mind lost in the drink more often than not; her new husband, Kurt Marko, easily coerced her into giving him everything she owned. Sometimes, Charles thought that included him.

Charles did not often incite violence nor conflict, but it had always irked him whenever Cain would claim everything that Charles’s father had carefully cultivated as his. Cain was just like his father, and even though still a child, Charles knew that they were wasting away the vast Xavier fortune on nothing but folly.

“These are not your books,” Charles replied, steeling himself as he clutched de Pollens closer to his chest. “They were my father’s books. They are Xavier books, not Marko books!”

“You little-” Cain spluttered, growing bright red with fury. “Your father is dead and buried in the ground, and everything in this house belongs to my father! And as his real son, it thus belongs to me! Everything here is mine; these curtains are mine, those windows are mine, and that book in your hands is also mine!”

As Cain yelled, he lunged forward to wrench the book from Charles’s hands. Charles knew that the moment he grabbed it, the larger boy would smash it over Charles’s head, like he always did. ‘No!’ Charles screamed in his mind, terrified at being hurt again. Charles’s body shook as it remembered in vivid detail how it felt to be pushed to the ground by his stepbrother, how the older boy’s hands tore at his brown hair and bruised his stomach and ribs.

“Give the book here, you rat!” Cain growled, and Charles yelped when Cain snatched the book from Charles’s weak hands and smashed it over his head. Charles felt dizzy as he staggered, something wet and sticky dribbling down over his forehead, making his hair stick to his skin.

Charles blinked, hand shakily moving to his hair. When he pulled it back, his fingertips were red with blood, matching the crimson curtains behind him. Charles felt anger, white and hot, course through him unlike anything he has felt before. Charles had always been a measured and calm child, but the blow to the head sparked something in him, driving him momentarily mad. There was a screaming inside his head, one of injustice mixed in with fear, which caused Charles to move.

Charles yelled out, closing his eyes and swinging the heavy book haphazardly in an arc through the air. There was a thump and a cry of pain, but for once, it did not come from Charles. “What is going on here?” a voice thundered, the male timbre carrying throughout the high ceilings and ornate walls of the room. Charles felt his heart fly into his mouth as he peeled open his shut eyes, Kurt Marko stalking over to the two boys with murder set on his face.

“Father!” Cain snivelled, jumping up as he held his throbbing head, pointing towards Charles rudely. “This little cretin assaulted me!”

“Assaulted you?” Charles repeated, feeling the blood on his crown ooze a little. Kurt Marko looked heeded his son’s words, eyes whirling to Charles as his devil spawn grinned in victory, like a cat that just caught the canary.

“After all I have done for you, but marrying your mother to save your family, this is how you repay me?” Kurt Marko drawled, grabbing onto the back of Charles’s coat, hauling his tiny frame into the air.

“I did not… I didn’t…” Charles stuttered, fear seizing him, the book in his hands cluttering to the ground.

“To the Red Room with you,” Kurt Marko said, and Charles’s eyes widened and blurred, tears streaming down his face.

No, no, no, not the Red Room. Not that room. Please, please, please, anything but the red room!

If the Westchester mansion was a prison, the Red Room was its torture chamber. Charles had been locked in there many times since he was a boy even younger than ten, even after he did his best to not anger the Markos. It seemed like, no matter how hard he tried, they still painted him as the problem. Kurt Marko turned a blind eye to Cain’s cruelty, to the way he would capture birds in the gardens and snap their necks on the edge of the fountain. He ignored the way Cain bullied tutors and the maids, and how he was, in every way, an unnatural, demon-like child.

Maybe it was because Kurt Marko, too, was a demon.

“Step-father, Mr. Marko, sir, please, please not the Red Room,” Charles pleaded, skinny legs shaking in his light-coloured trousers. His tunic felt soaked through with cold sweat, and Charles felt like he couldn’t breathe as Kurt pushed him roughly through the heavy doors. Charles’s legs gave in to the force, and the boy was flung forwards onto the carpet. His knees thudded heavily, and his palms hurt as they braced him on the floor.

“Unnatural children need to be punished, you know this, Charles,” Kurt said, voice eerily calm, though his mouth was curled up into an amused smile. “Children like you, that were born bad, need to be taught how to behave. This was the task God gave me, and you will be grateful that someone pitied you enough to try and save your soul.”

“No! Please! I won’t- I’ll do anything- Please! Don’t leave me in here!” Charles begged on his knees, tears sliding down his reddened cheeks and coating his tongue. Kurt just responded with a cold smile, stepping out of the room and closing the door behind him.

Charles screamed and battered his little fists against the door, but it did not yield.

The Red Room was one such room in the far, almost forgotten wing of the estate that had not been refurbished by the Markos. It had all of the old furnishings, the old, gloomy wallpaper, and smelled of grief and despair. It had been the room Charles’s dear father had spent his last breath, and the draft in the fireplace and flow of air through the slits in the mouldy windows made it seem like his spirit was still here.

Though the spirit of Brian Xavier had been gentle and just in life, Charles believed that his soul was now restless as he saw what has become of his precious Westchester, and now he haunted this room. In his fury, Brian Xavier did not recognise those still walking on the mortal plane, and as night descended, he would come into the room screaming with the voices of all of the past Xaviers, a chorus of anger and hate.

Charles was a child, and though he was level-headed and rational, he was still just a child. He was terrified, and each squeal of the wind at the window, each rattle and rasp of air pushing down the ashen and dusty chimney was like a scream of a haunted spirit in Charles’s mind.

It was as if he could hear the voices of all the dead Xaviers in his head, their phantom minds overwhelming him, until he could finally take no more and collapsed onto the floor, darkness claiming him.

*** Charles woke to the feeling of a cool cloth brushing against his forehead and the tune of a maid’s song. Charles whimpered, feeling feverish, and the cloth was replaced by a gentle hand. Charles’s eyes opened blearily, and he turned his head stiffly to match the soft touch to a face. He felt relieved when he saw Kitty’s face smiling down at him, brown hair tied back in a tight knot.

“Master Charles, you have awakened,” Kitty’s voice spoke gently in his ear, relieved and comforting. “Here, sit up, child. You have been sleeping for a day and an hour since we found you on the ground in the Red Room. You are weak and hungry, I’d bet. Have some water, and I have some soup and bread for you.”

“Thank you, Kitty,” Charles said, ever polite, even when in the grips of sickness. The kind words of her little master made Kitty smile, patting his head affectionately as before gently holding a glass of water against his chapped lips, which were a shade paler than their usual bright berry red.

Kitty, along with the other servants of the household, adored the young Xavier, though after his mother’s remarriage, was forced to take on the surname Marko. The servants never called him that, though, and in their hearts they addressed the cherubic-faced boy as ‘Master Xavier’. They knew their master did not like sharing the Marko name, and they shared that sentiment. They believed the Markos to be nasty and evil, and never wanted to lump their gentle Charles with the likes of them. They never openly showed this, though – they were fearful of their masters as much as they hated them.

Still, they did what they could for the young master that treated them with kindness, the only one in the family to do so. Even though he was still but a boy, he reminded the older servants of their now dearly departed Mr Brian Xavier.

Kitty nodded in encouragement as Charles nearly drained the entire glass, wiping the corner of his mouth with a towel before putting the glass onto a tray on his bedside table.

“Do you think you can eat, Master Charles?” Kitty asked, gesturing to a small bowl of vegetable soup and stiff bread. Charles did not really want to eat anything, his stomach feeling like it was knotting itself shut. Charles never had a hearty appetite on a normal day, and Kitty often chastised him in good nature, saying that his small appetite is why he is small for a boy of his age.

Charles did not want to waste Kitty’s efforts to bring him food to his rooms, though. It was always hard enough for the servants to scrounge up some extra things for Charles to eat, since the Markos forbade him to dine with them.

Charles just nodded in answer to Kitty’s question, the woman smiling happily and helping feed Charles, his body still weak with fever caused by immense fear. He ate as much as he could, finishing most of the soup but only eating a few morsels of the bread, too tough for him to stomach. Kitty was satisfied with his efforts, and after he ate she helped tuck him back into the bed, pulling the blankets over his shoulders.

“Rest now, Master Charles,” Kitty spoke softly, stroking the younger boy’s hair like she used to when he was younger. The touch helped send the boy off to sleep, though these days sleep was fitful and restless.

“Thank you, Kitty,” Charles murmured again, sleepy. “Good night.”

“Good night, Master Charles.”

***

Kurt Marko nodded to the man – Mr Shaw – as he grabbed his cloak and walking stick. The man had a menacing smile as he had peered down at Charles, inspecting him from head to toe. He had introduced himself as Mr Shaw, the master of Graymalkin School for Children. It was a school primarily aimed to help educate orphans or wayward children; neither of which Charles believed he was, but the prospect of going to school made his heart beat with excitement.

Charles tried to hide how elated he was when Kurt declared that he was going to be sent to school. Charles always wanted to learn, and now to be given the opportunity to be taught properly outside the confines of Westchester? Charles could only think that his nightly prayers had finally been answered; to be able to escape from the clutches of the Markos, his alcoholic mother, and the house that he hardly loved.

His step-father told him that he would leave by couch in two days, and Charles had to swallow back the plea to leave tomorrow. To just leave now. He would not miss many things in Westchester, and the things he would miss could be counted with the fingers of one hand; Kitty, his alcove, his father’s libraries, the gardens in the springtime and his bedroom. But those five things were not enough to tether him to Westchester, and he could not wait to go to school.

Two days had gone by relatively quickly; Kitty helped him pack his belongings, of which there was not much. Kurt never spent money on Charles, so he only had what he had been left before the Markos came, and only the bare minimum after that. It had not taken long for Kitty to neatly fold and press a single change of clothes into a worn and aging case, rolling up some spare socks and tucking in a small box of biscuits for the long carriage ride. She also gave him his father’s old pocket watch, securing it to Charles’s small hip.

The dawn of his leave had come, and no one but the servants came to bid him farewell. They all hugged him, some of them teary, but others happy for him, knowing that their intelligent little master was happy to be given an opportunity to learn. Kitty cried the most, though she tried to hide it; she was the last to hug Charles, holding him tightly outside the door of the carriage. “I will be praying for you always, Master Charles,” Kitty said through a sniffle, and Charles felt his eyes grow a little wet at the sound. “Please keep your health in mind, and if the chance is given, please write. I am sure we would all like to hear about how you have been enjoying school.”

“I will, Kitty. Farewell,” Charles promised, pressing a kiss to Kitty’s cheek, making the woman laugh, wiping at her eyes with a cloth. She helped Charles clamber into the coach, closing the door behind him. Charles waved his small hand out of the carriage all the way down the long gravel path, head poking out of the small window to watch Kitty and the staff get smaller and smaller, until the coach turned a corner and Westchester mansion disappeared from sight.

It was a long ride to Graymalkin School, one that Mr Shaw had been a little surprised at when he found out that Charles was going to make it alone. If Charles could read Kurt’s mind, he was sure he had been hoping for Charles to die on the road, whether by overturned coach or bandit attack.

Unfortunately for Kurt, but fortunately for Charles, he made it to the school in one piece, though weary from the journey. His bones were creaky with disuse, and his spine felt out of place, but he brightened when he saw the plaque outside of the school.

Graymalkin School for Children.

‘A fresh start’, Charles thought to himself giddily as he stepped out of the carriage, a man wearing a dark suit standing in wait. He had tanned skin and long, dark hair, and had a stoic expression on his face as he regarded Charles.

“Who are you?” he asked simply, and Charles opened his mouth with practised manners.

“Charles Marko,” the boy said, hoping that one day he could rid himself of the blighted Marko name. Even though he was out of the sight and touch of Kurt Marko, it was still too early for him to feel like he was free from his reach. Charles sincerely hoped that one day he could shed the name and fear of the Markos, but ‘I’m still only ten,’ Charles reminded himself. He could still grow.

“Ah, Mr Shaw informed us that you would be arriving around this time. Come, let us get you settled. I am Mr Quested, the arithmetic teacher here,” the man said, voice even but not harsh, though his face did not betray any flicker of emotion.

Charles followed the man obediently into the building; like Westchester, the school building was made of stone, but it was nowhere near as grand. The entire single-level building would have been the size of the Westchester stables, and looked decrepit. Charles had heard that Kurt had payed a small sum for his admittance into the school, and wondered where that money was going since the school looked like it had not been maintained at all.

The inside of the school was ice cold, the chill from the cold stones not mitigated by fires nor rugs. Charles shivered, the small boy prone to chilly temperatures, and pulled his coat around himself tighter.

Charles was led to an inner room where, finally, there was one fire going. Another man with a harsh face, who Mr Quested called Mr Azazel, prodded the fire roughly and ordered Charles to strip the moment he entered the room. Mr Quested told Charles, whose eyes were wide like a startled deer, that Mr Azazel was the languages teacher and that he was going to give Charles the school’s uniform.

Charles quickly changed into the scratchy, slightly too-small grey uniform, the high collar chafing under his chin. Mr Quested took Charles’s old clothes, which were simple and old, but far nicer in quality than that of the uniform, and discarded them to the side.

“Now, we will show you the class rooms. You have arrived in time for first classes,” Mr Quested said, and Charles felt the cold seep out from his body at the prospect of learning, brightening visibly. Mr Quested did not comment on the sudden spring to the boy’s step, just leading him into a large hall where many pairs of tired yet curious eyes peered back at him, all wearing a similar grey uniform. There were rows of girls sitting to Charles’s left, and boys in a similar configuration to his right.

Mr Quested introduced Charles to the other children – his classmates – and he was instructed to take a seat on the boy’s side. Charles did as he asked, plopping himself down for his first assembly.

This was where things would change, Charles believed.

He was right, but what he didn’t realise was that they didn’t necessarily change for the better.

***

School was not what Charles had pictured it to be. It was not that Charles did not learn things; he did gain knowledge in English, arithmetic, botany, languages (French and German, and Russian from Mr Azazel), geography and history, amongst other things. Charles just did not expect it to be so cold and harsh and strict. Mornings began in the dark, where Charles would wash his face with ice-cold water shared by others. Breakfast was unpalatable slop, cold and pasty in his mouth and borderline inedible. Lunch was a no better affair, the stew a sludge of fat and undercooked roots, but Charles tried his best to stomach it, because otherwise he would writhe around in his cold straw bed starving until morning broke, and he would live it all over again. Living at Graymalkin School was as hard as living in Westchester, but in a different way.

Charles had never felt so cold before, his pale skin always icy to the touch, his feet always numb. He wished that he was allowed to wear the woollen cloak Kitty packed him, but he had to wear the school’s grey uniform that was thin and short, not covering Charles’s cold wrists and ankles well at all.

The teachers were also horrible. Mr Quested was the most tolerable of them all, and taught his classes methodically but dryly. Mr Essex was very knowledgeable about the sciences, which Charles was interested in, but often took time out of his lessons to berate his students; he usually picked on students that were slow to grasp things, and though Charles was never slandered, he felt great pain for his fellow pupils that had to quietly hold in their tears as Mr Essex cursed at them. Mr Azazel was intimidating, and would snap the necks of students with hard reed when they mispronounced a word as they read foreign texts, or force them to stand with their arms up until they conjugated complex verbs incorrectly.

However, the worst of them all was Mr Shaw. Mr Shaw stepped in for classes on various occasions, and out of all of the teachers, he was the most fond of physical punishments and public ridicule. Charles had been a victim of his attentions once in the few weeks he had been at Graymalkin School. Charles had spoken up in one of his classes, offering an eloquent rebuttal to one of the points Mr Shaw had raised about a text they were studying; Mr Shaw had grown livid that someone like Charles had argued with him, but Charles had been adamant that he had not said anything that should cause offense. Mr Shaw called him a liar and unleashed the wrath of God upon him.

Charles had endured ten lashings on his wrists, his light skin easily marked with red. Mr Shaw had not finished there, and made him stand on a stool in the middle of the large hall with a chalk board with ‘Liar’ scribbled across it. Mr Shaw had denied Charles dinner that night, and Charles whimpered as he stood there with a near-empty stomach.

Students marched past him after they had their own meal, and a few cast pitying looks at him as they trudged past to the segregated bed chambers. The girls parted to the left, and the boys to the right, Charles merely watching them leave while swallowing his saliva down sadly, hands held behind his back.

Suddenly, something coarse and rough was pressed into Charles’s hands discretely, and he stroked his fingers over it. It was bread.

Charles’s eyes widened as he searched the sea of grey pupils that all brushed past him, and his heart thumped when one head turned back. It was a girl, head full of blonde hair and bright blue eyes. She had a mischievous curve to her mouth that was so unlike any one else at this school, teacher or student alike.

When Charles was finally allowed to retire to his scratchy bed that night after having sneakily eaten the contraband bread, Charles found that he slept a little better at the thought of the blonde-haired, blue-eyed girl that he didn’t know the name of.

***

The girl, he would later find out, was called Raven. She was an orphan, and had been at the school for a year already. Raven was bright, daring, and so alive that Charles always felt lighter in her presence. He had not realised how lonely he had been until he began to spend time with Raven, though their interactions were limited since Raven was in the girl’s classes, and they only interacted during the afternoon yard time.

When they were allowed to play in the yard, Raven and Charles would always gravitate towards each other; Raven had said that the way he had argued – debated, Charles emphasised – with Shaw had been the best thing she had seen the entire time she had been here. No one ever told Shaw that he was wrong, not even Mr Quested or Mr Azazel, but Charles had.

“I got whipped for that, you know,” Charles said, though his mouth held the quirk of a smile at that, the lingering pain on his wrists not as harsh when Raven laughed at him, face so bright. Raven had asked Charles early on in their newfound friendship if he was an orphan or a wayward child. Charles said that he was neither, and Raven had smirked, and said ‘definitely wayward, then’. Raven then told Charles that she was both an orphan and a wayward child, though she was proud of the latter. Wayward and proud, she had declared, standing on top of a bench and waving a long stick from her hands.

“Then you can just be wayward,” Charles had said after that, smiling at the slightly younger girl. The girl looked at him in confusion, and Charles beamed wider. “I will be your family, so you do not have to be an orphan. You can just be wayward and proud.”

Raven had embraced him tightly and called him brother, and for the first time, Charles felt like he had a real family. Sharon, Kurt and Cain were distant memories; Raven would be his family from now on, and he would be Charles Xavier.

School had gotten a lot better after befriending Raven; Charles clearly excelled in his classes, which earned him the favour of the teachers there. Even Mr Shaw could not deny that Charles was the most advanced pupil, and found it hard to punish him as much when he did not do anything that warranted punishment.

Instead, Mr Shaw turned his sights onto Raven, whom he knew was close to Charles. Shaw punished Raven whenever Charles frustrated him, and despite Charles’s best efforts to protect his sister, he was still only a boy. Even after being at Graymalkin School for a few years had not changed the fact that he was powerless against people like Shaw. The only way he could protect Raven was to let himself be punished by Shaw – so Charles often dropped chalkboards, or wore one part of his uniform incorrectly, giving Shaw reason to vent his frustrations upon him.

Charles’s wrists became worn with marks and scars from lashings, and he was sure that the backs of his legs painted a similar picture. But, Raven was safe from Shaw, so Charles could brave it.

But while Charles could protect Raven from Shaw, he could not protect her from other things. It had been two years since Charles went to Graymalkin School when typhoid fever blitzed through the meagre campus. Teachers covered their faces with linen clothes while coughing and feverish children were sequestered in a cold room full of hard cots and left to die.

By chance, or by Kitty’s prayers, the fever had left Charles untouched. Raven had not been granted the same fortune, and in the deep winter of that year, she had fallen ill and passed soon after.

Charles had wailed for days – weeks – after that, and had refused to leave Raven’s lifeless and ashen body even as the teachers covered her with a sheet to be buried. Charles had begged and screamed at Raven’s still body to come back or to take him with her, and he only stopped crying when his despair had robbed him of all energy and he fell into a cold, dreamless slumber.

The yard that Charles and Raven used to play in, where they had become brother and sister, was soon dug up to bury the many dead children of Graymalkin school. The teachers organised a mass funeral for all of the lost students, and their grey uniforms were switched to black for one week. Charles cried as they sang a dark funeral song, rain pelting down. As the rain fell, he remembered Raven’s sunlight blonde hair and ocean blue eyes, how she smiled and laughed and was the very meaning of life.

Charles buried a little bit of himself with Raven that day; Charles did not laugh as much as before, even though Raven said that his smile was nice and made him seem like a different person. He did not act out against Shaw, nor did he complain about the slop they called porridge or the rancid fat in the stew. Charles simply did what he came to school to do; learn, learn and learn.

It was eight years after he came to Graymalkin School for Children that Charles left it behind. Mr Shaw had long since left the school; it had been discovered that he had been hoarding the money meant for the school for his own means and was subsequently cast out, a new committee at the school stepping in to oversee things. Life was not so bleak once Shaw was ousted, and that was what allowed Charles to stay and teach at Graymalkin for two years after graduating from pupil to tutor.

Charles was a popular teacher; he was kind, understanding, patient and gentle. He was also the best teacher in terms of actual instruction, knowledgeable in every aspect, but particularly in the sciences. He would make classes interesting by allowing students to go out into the yard rather than sit on rickety wooden chairs inside a stone classroom, and his lessons were the only times the pupils felt free to express their opinions. The students loved him, and when he told them that he was leaving, there were many wet eyes and sobs amongst the children.

They loved their Mr Xavier – because that was the name he had taken, once again – and Graymalkin wouldn’t be the same without him there.

Charles’s heart was warmed, and he believed that he had truly found his calling in teaching. But there was some niggling feeling inside of his soul that told him that there was more out there, outside of Westchester, and outside of Graymalkin. Graymalkin had shaped him to become the man of eighteen that he was today, but he knew there was something missing.

Charles said goodbye to Raven before he left Graymalkin, cleaning off the rock used as a headstone with a pail of water, and placing some freshly plucked flowers bundled in a string of lace beside it. Charles smiled as he nestled a little wooden board with etched letters in front of it, thumb brushing over its corners.

Raven Xavier Beloved friend and sister Forever wayward and proud

Next chapter (2/11) →

#cherik #charles xavier #erik lehnsherr #ao3 fanfic #ao3 #jane eyre #charlotte bronte #charles x erik #xmen #xmen fic #magneto #professor x #raven darkholme #mystique #mr rochester #i just love cherik and jane eyre ok

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starwriterulia · 4 years ago

Text

A Fervid Greeting

Chapter Warnings: N/A

Word Count: 7260

Chris was watching the bacon and eggs cook as Seungmin and Changbin quietly watched TV when he heard his cell phone ring. He picked it up from the counter. Seeing the contact name and number, he answered. "Chris Bang speaking."

"Morning, Chris." Said police chief Jinyoung Park. "I didn't wake you up, did I?"

"No, sir. What's happening?"

"If you tune into the news, you can find out. I recorded it for you, so you don't have to turn on the TV and wait for them to repeat the message."

"Well," Chris looked over his shoulder. "A couple of the boys are watching a show right now, so that was awfully kind of you."

Jinyoung laughed. "I'm sending it to you now. I expect you boys to be at the station by seven."

"That shouldn't be a problem, sir."

"Good. See you then, Double Knock."

"Until then, sir." Chris ended the call, then stuffed his phone into his jeans. He turned around to face the living room and felt his phone vibrate; Chief Jinyoung had sent the video. "Changbin, Seungmin!" They glanced at their leader.

"Breakfast is ready. Come and fix your plates while I wake up Felix and Hyunjin. We need to be at city hall by seven." Said Chris.

"What happened?" Asked Changbin, stopping at the part of the counter closest to the living room as Chris came closer and Seungmin passed them to enter the kitchen.

"I don't know, but it's on the news." Chris paused beside the couch. Seungmin was busy making his plate. "Though, the chief did just send me a video of the news report." Chris took out his phone, swiped to view the message, and held it out.

Changbin took it. "Thanks, hyung."

"Don't mention it. Be right back." Chris said, and Changbin nodded. Changbin set down the phone on the island and took a plate from the overhead cupboards as Seungmin sat at the island and played the video. Chris left the living room and skidded across the antiqued brown wooden floor that was also in the kitchen and upstairs hallway.

Unlike the white drywall of the entrance and upstairs areas, the living room had wallpaper that was red like a wilted rose and patterned like the fur of a tabby cat. Its carpet was tawny brown, and matching light absorbing curtains were distributed in every room of the house. The only other rooms that had carpet were the bedrooms, studio and dojo. The doors of Bang Manor were simple: white with silver door knobs. But the black front door had an elegant, translucent window arch at its top. Matching window panels were on either side of that door.

Chris grasped the wooden handrail that matched the floor. The banisters were black metal rods, the newels the same wood as the handrail. He jogged up and walked to the first door on his left. Chris knocked before entering and heard Felix mewl. Chris flicked on the light and watched the boy pull himself up and stretch his arms with a silent yawn.

The bedroom was full of stuffed animals of every size and smelled of laundry and Doritos, its walls white except for one. Most of the plushies were squished into the hammock that hung from the far left corner of the room and stretched across the far wall, while others were on the bookshelf that had no books, it and the closet with folding doors on the right wall, and more were on the floor near his bed. His bedding was black, the pillows and underside of the blanket crimson red. The wall his bed was horizontal to had a mural of a fiery plain with a mountain of gold and jewels surrounded by burning forest. A flaming sword stuck out from the treasure, and fiery lightning rained upon the scene from black clouds speckled with embers.

"Time to wake up, Felix. We've got a meeting at city hall in an hour. There's eggs and bacon in the kitchen. Changbin has my phone, so you can catch up on what's happening." Chris said.

"OK. Thanks." The boy mumbled, rubbing his eyes. Chris left the room, closing the door behind him. He continued rightwards and knocked on the third and final door on that side of the hall before opening the door and turning on the light.

Hyunjin's bedroom walls were white, and the farthest had black illustrations depicting a red eyed figure sitting at the edge of a rooftop, looking onto the city below. An identical figure stalked a lanky figure with yellow eyes wielding a bloody knife. Finally, the red eyed man stood above the crumpled body of the skinny man, the assassin's dripping red hidden blade visible from his left sleeve. Blood spilled from the corpse and splattered onto the wall, which was patterned like brick. Above these scenes was a mantra in red: I am not blind.

There was a shrine to the right side of the room with framed pictures of each of the Stray Kids, along with a closet with folding doors. The five white candles were unlit, and the tea cup was empty, spare for the specks of leaves. Chris smelled the mirth Hyunjin had burned and Hyunjin's scent of lemongrass. His bedding was black but wasn't as cozy looking as Felix's, the pillowcases striped black and white. Hyunjin let out a whine as he stirred.

"Hyunjin, we have to be at city hall in an hour. There's breakfast in the kitchen, and the Chief sent me a video of what's going on you can look at with Felix." Said Chris.

"OK, I'm coming." Replied Hyunjin. Chris nodded, then left the bedroom and closed the door. He went downstairs and heard Felix's door open. Felix, in a loose orange shirt and black pyjama pants, crossed the hall to the bathroom between Chris' and Changbin's rooms. The second bathroom was through the first door on the right wall of the living room, the studio and dojo doors following it, to the left.

As he passed through the living room, Chris saw the television had been turned off. Chris ran a hand along the arm of the black couch. The loveseat and recliner matched the couch, but the recliner was made of leather. The coffee table had a black wooden frame with a foggy glass surface. He observed the picture in a simple black frame that was above the electric fireplace, behind the loveseat and recliner. Posed formally in their hero suits with mayor Brandon Gorge and the police chief before a blue backdrop were the Stray Kids.

Chris recalled how nervous they were before they were declared heroes with real powers instead of vigilantes with gimmicks up their sleeves. He remembered how they cried on the nights leading up to that day, afraid they would be falsely accused and imprisoned just for acting upon what came naturally to them. There wasn't even a court hearing: just a meeting at the city hall where the press was allowed an audience. While there were negative opinions, the general outlook of the public was loud enough for the city officials to properly analyse the evidence in front of them. This morning had a similar atmosphere, even though Chris hadn't seen the news report.

Changbin and Seungmin sat at the island. They each had a glass of orange juice. Chris met Changbin's eyes as he walked in. "Chan, this is pretty serious." Changbin said, tapping the cellphone that was face up on the counter. "You should really have a look at this."

"I will, Changbin." Replied Chris. "Let me fix my plate, and I'll do just that." Changbin gave a nod and stuffed his face with more bacon as Chan walked over and got a plate. He served himself, then sat beside Changbin and ate while he unlocked his phone and played the video.

The news anchor greeted the viewers and stated it was 6:00 o'clock, February 8, 2020. She said they would begin the news hour with breaking news. Residents of the Elizabeth Apartments had reported sounds of distress from the room next door to police around 3:15, that morning. (Chris heard Hyunjin come downstairs and briefly watched him enter the bathroom.) The victim was twenty year old Faith Lawson and the suspect her boyfriend, twenty one year old Han Jisung.

The neighbors who reported the kidnapping said the following to their news correspondent, some time after police arrived. (Felix entered the kitchen and said 'good morning'. Changbin and Seungmin answered him.) A middle aged husband and wife were shown with the male reporter outside of the apartments. (Felix got his plate and began to put food on it.)

The woman said they were awakened by Faith's sudden screaming. They heard Jisung tell Faith that she should 'Be still and quiet, and it won't be so bad.'. The husband said that they heard the couple having intercourse, the night before. (Hyunjin came out of the bathroom and walked into the kitchen and greeted the boys, who responded. He got a plate and filled it as Felix sat beside Seungmin.)

When the reporter asked if Faith and Jisung had ever fought, the husband and wife said 'no', that they seemed like a normal, happy couple. (Hyunjin took the empty stool beside Felix.) The video cut back to the newsroom. She said that the police had released censored photos of the crime scene and surveillance footage. She gave a graphic violence warning, then the video was played.

The camera in the lobby caught Jisung finishing his flight down the stairs, Faith over his shoulder. She was bound at her wrists and ankles with zip ties. Her forehead bled, an excessively large black bar edited to cover her wound. A copper coloured metal device with a detailed, key-like handle kept her mouth open. The outdoor camera showed a loitering black car. The driver opened the back door on the passenger side, then Jisung forced Faith in the backseat before entering behind her as slamming the door shut as the car sped away.

The reporter was shown again. She said that the car had arrived just minutes before Jisung was recorded fleeing the crime scene. The license plate of the vehicle had been captured, but the car hadn't been found. The screen swiped left to shows list of information about the car, driver, suspect and victim. Along with information already stated in the report, the woman said that the driver wore a copper coloured mask with an upside down cone shape carved into the forehead.

The anchor announced they would now show the photos. The scene was in the bedroom, the focus on the bed. The bedding was a mess, blood, saliva and urine on the sheets and pillows. The reporter said that police theorized that Jisung had woken Faith and struck her head with the device that was seen gagging her. The anchor stated that if anyone had any information on where the vehicle or Jisung had been after the kidnapping to contact the police as the number was shown at the bar at bottom of the screen. Then the video ended.

Chris blew hot air through his lips. "I'm surprised how much information the police released, but I guess they did it to warn the public." Seungmin and Hyunjin nodded, humming. "That's fucking scary." Everyone nodded and gave noises of agreement.

"Do you mind if I watch it again?" Asked Hyunjin. "I didn't see all of it."

"Of course." Chris answered, and pushed his phone into Hyunjin's hand. He played if again, Felix looking over to watch too. While the video played again, Seungmin rose from his stool, carried his plate to the sink and washed it.

"I wonder if this Jisung guy has a criminal record?" Pondered Seungmin.

"I guess we'll find out, when we get there." Replied Chris.

"He doesn't look like a criminal, at least." Commented Felix.

"That doesn't say anything about him, personality wise." Hyunjin said, as Seungmin seated himself again and Changbin rose to wash his plate. "Lots of bad people look unsuspicious."

"You make a point."

"Obviously, there's more going on than a simple kidnapping." Said Seungmin. "Whatever he used to subdue Faith with, it's some kind of medieval torture device."

"Yep yep," Replied Chris. "But it's nearly impossible to tell what it is, since we've only seen in use."

"I doubt the police have any guesses, either." Changbin said, returning to his chair. "And since we don't know where the car is, we'll have a harder time tracking them down."

"All we can do is find out what else the police know and do our best to find these guys and get Faith out of danger before it's too late." Chris said, and the other boys nodded. Soon enough, they all finished eating. Hyunjin volunteered to wash the dishes, so the boys went upstairs and into their room to change. While Seungmin's room was the third on the right side, Changbin's was first on the left and Chris' the second.

Chris' room had white walls, the left having posters of the Stray Kids illustrated like comic book characters by artists from a big comic book company. Individual portraits and group shots were scattered around the wall in an appealing way. Chris always chuckled when he looked upon certain posters. He had a lot of plushies in his his room, though not nearly as many as Felix had. They were neatly displayed on a bookshelf that had some books, the shelf on the wall opposite of the poster wall. Chris' bed was vertical to the far wall, the closet next to the shelf.

Chris opened his closet and took his suit from within. He removed his steel blue pyjama top and black pyjama pants that had thin white lines to make a checked pattern. Chris stepped into the matte charcoal one-piece spandex enforced with a thin layer of cotton for comfort and a cowl collar. The pitch black kneepads and elbow guards were enforced with steel-every members' gear was. The biceps, thighs and each side of the rib cage had three glossy black, diagonal strips of fake alligator skin tipped like spikes.

Chris brought out his gauntlets, which were made with glossy black leather and had steel knuckles and backside. The gloves had the stripes from the one-piece, except these looped around to the bottom. Chris took out and put on a black leather belt that had two pouches on either side. Its buckle was matte silver and had the letters DKC in black. Chris found his black leather boots, which came up to the middle of his shins, had a polished finish and had steel toes and soles. The bottom of the shoes had very good grips and were well padded, so Chris was able to be sneaky, despite the steel components. Finally, Chris put on his black leather cape that went a couple of inches past his knees and was tied to the collar of his costume with a lumberman's knot.

Chris exited his bedroom and saw Felix's bedroom door was halfway open. He saw Changbin behind the younger boy, helping an audibly struggling Felix zip up his black leather, full length sleeved shirt with a straight band collar. Felix had black leather pants held up by a black leather belt with a simple golden buckle with a pouch on the back, and kneepads. He had black leather shoes with half inch heels and steel toes and black leather fingerless gloves with his palms exposed.

"Ow, ow, ow!" Cried Felix, reaching a hand back and bending backwards a little.

"Well, if you stopped moving every time I move the zipper a milometer, you wouldn't be in pain and I could actually do this, today! Aish!" Changbin bickered. "Now straighten up." Felix complied, still whining.

"I should be able to do this in one go if..." Changbin jerked at the zipper, grunting. Felix continued to whimper, and cringed up his face. "If... argh, come on."

"Changbin," Chris said, walking into the room as Changbin and Felix watched him come in. "Let me take care of it."

"Yes, thank you." Changbin said, stepping aside, shaking out his hands. His costume had a waist length cape over his right shoulder that was white with a royal blue underside. It had a golden stripe along the edge and was attached to Changbin by an elastic strap under his arm. His long sleeved blouse with a Peter Pan collar and his harem pants were royal blue with white cuffs, the shirt's buttons and the two decorative buttons on the crotch white. He wore white leather boots with a golden stripe over the folded top parts of the shoes.

Chris came up behind Felix and grabbed onto the zipper. "OK, when I say 'three', suck in your guts."

"Wait, won't my shirt rip when I breathe out?" Felix replied, looking over his shoulder with doe eyes.

"If your powers are still working, no." Chris laughed, and so did Felix and Changbin. "Ready?"

"Yeah."

"OK: one... two... three!" Zip! Pop, crack!

"Aw," Felix said, right hand on his left shoulder as he rolled the joint and turned to look at his hyungs. "Did you guys hear that?"

Changbin and Chris chuckled, nodding. Chris said, "We did, yeah. You feeling alright, 'lix?"

"Yeah," Felix nodded. "I'm good. Ouch."

"Your breathing feels OK?"

"Yeah, feels fine, mate."

"OK, good!" Chris patted Felix's left shoulder, and Felix flinched, contorting his expression in reaction. "Sorry."

"You're fine..."

"Come on." Chris said, nodding to the exit. Felix gave a small nod as he and Changbin followed Chris out. Chris almost ran into Hyunjin, who was busy fiddling with the white cloth wrappings beneath his fingerless, black leather gloves. They jumped as Hyunjin's forearm brushed Chris'. Changbin and Felix stopped for a moment to take it what happened before continuing.

"Whoa! Sorry, Hyunjin." Said Chris, subconsciously raising his hand to gesture.

"It's fine, hyung." Hyunjin replied. "I wasn't looking where I was going." Hyunjin wore a sleeveless black shirt with a very low tuxedo collar that exposed the middle of his chest. It didn't take much movement for his nipples and toned but flat belly to be exposed. He wore black tights, black knee pads each with a tiny, four pointed white star, a belt with three pouches on his right hip, a jedok geom and dan geom with black handles on the other, and lightweight, all black slip-on shoes.

Chris massaged Hyunjin's shoulder. "Ah, it's fine. Come on." Hyunjin nodded, then followed Chris downstairs. He heard Seungmin leave his room as they went. Once at the bottom of the stairs, Chris looked back to watch Seungmin descend.

His costume consisted of a plum purple jumpsuit with long sleeves and gold cuffs, and a cape that ended halfway down his back. The cape was held by a clasp shaped like a hickory brown clover outlined in gold, and hickory brown slip-on shoes. Seeing that Hyunjin was on his way, Chris proceeded to lead the group outside. They walked left, to the garage attached to the house. "Why are we going to the garage from outside instead of from the dojo?" Seungmin asked.

Chris laughed. "Oh yeah." Hyunjin and Felix laughed. "Oh well! We're outside now." They arrived at the garage door and Chris pressed the button on his keychain to open it. When it was up just enough, they ducked under it and dashed to the black van with their logo on both sides.

"It's so dark in here." Said Felix. Chris unlocked the car, and it honked as its headlights flashed.

As everyone climbed inside the vehicle, Seungmin said, "Aren't you basically—?"

"—Oh yeah." The car rumbled with laughter as the doors were closed and the boys buckled up.

"Man, you really aren't a morning person, are you, Felix?" Said Hyunjin, as Chris started the engine.

"No," Felix shook his head, still smiling. "I'm really not."

Chris pulled out of the garage as Changbin ruffled Felix's hair. Felix gave a cry of protest and reached for his hand. Even though Felix had it, Changbin didn't let up. "Ah, but you're still cute."

"Stooop, oh my God." Felix playfully thrashed in his seat, kicking Seungmin's seat.

"Ah! You stop!" Seungmin shouted, reaching back to swipe at Felix's legs. As the Kids laughed, Felix pulled back his legs and swiped back.

—

Chris pulled into the curb in front of the police station. The lawn was littered with news reporters and camera men. "Oh yeah, the press is here."

"Of course they would be," Said Hyunjin, rather cheerfully. "This is the first time the city has called us for something like this."

Seungmin hummed. "The last time we came here under these kind of circumstances, we were finding out if we'd be allowed to be heroes, or not."

"We'd better get out there, guys." Chris said, turning off the ignition. "Let's go." The group left the van, Chris locking it once he saw everyone was out. Chris led the group up the gradual incline of the staircase, Changbin first behind him with the younger three close behind.

"Mr. Bang!" "Double Knock, sir!" "Excuse me, Mr. Bang!" The shouting voices of the reporters flooded the boys' ears as they marched forward. "Do you have any information about the suspect or his victim?" "Mr. Bang, do you have any insight on the case or the suspect's motive?" "Sir, do you believe that Stray Kids should be allowed to freely defend the city, as they currently do?"

The Kids weren't obligated to answer. In fact, they were legally prohibited from making any statement to the public without consent from the city. That didn't mean Chris didn't want to answer. He wanted to respond so they would stop asking the same questions time and again, but he couldn't, and that was just something he had to accept. It wasn't just to save face for the city or the police, it was to save face for the boys and to make sure no false information would be released. The media had been told this, four months ago, yet acted that their questions could be answered, or needed to be answered. It was one of the frustrating things about the job, and, today, it took a bit of effort for the boys to mute their voices.

The quintet were a little more than halfway to the doors of the building when Chris felt off. He stopped and looked among the crowd for something to click. "Chan hyung?" Said Hyunjin.

"Who... who called..." Chris muttered, Hyunjin and Changbin only hearing him because of how close they were to him.

"Who called what?" Changbin asked.

"That voice, where is...?" Chris' eyes flared open ever so slightly as he found a familiar face. "Minho." The boys easily found the handsome face of the man in the mint blue and white suit and held their breaths. His normally brown eyes were blood red and continually released a scentless black smoke.

"What are you doing here?" Asked Chris. The voices and movements of the reporters fell to a hush as he spoke.

"Who is he talking to?" Inquired a woman.

"Ha, he is a madman!" Exclaimed a male. "Go check into a mental ward, ya fucking lawless degen—"

"Hush!" Barked Hyunjin. "Let our leader do his job, please!"

"I don't know how you're making it so only we can see you," Chris said. A couple people murmured in wonder and doubt. "But I sure as hell know you're treading thin waters, Minho."

Minho drew out his breath as he inhaled through his teeth. To the surprise of the heroes, they were stained black. The smell of burned flesh slapped everyone within five feet instantly. The press reacted with nauseous expressions and sounds, stepping back or turning away to cough and hold in vomit. The Kids also turned to recover, but Chris swallowed the unfurling knot in his stomach and kept eye contact with Minho, refusing to show any sign of weakness to the serial killer.

"He's actually here?" A reporter said, her volume slightly lower than normal.

"Holy shit, what kind of power is this?!" Cried a male.

"Do you want me to answer what I'm doing here, or the secret to my new trick?"

"Why are you here, Minho?" Demanded Chris.

Minho gave a small smile and folded his hands in front of his abdomen. "Faith is alive. Jisung and I would love to—" Suddenly, the doors to the hall opened. Minho paused and let his hands fall to his side. Everyone watched the mayor and police chief come outside with a handful of officers.

Brandon had a friendly face and build and had a mauve tie with his light grey suit. Jinyoung looked familiar to a lot of people, but no one could quite put their finger on whom. He donned an all grey suit and his tie was matte silver. They had barely taken two steps when Jinyoung saw what what happening and put his arm in front of Brandon. The mayor stumbled back a bit, then gave a small gasp upon seeing what was before him. One of the officers whispered in Jinyoung's ear and received order 10-23.

"Hello, Mr. Gorge, Mr. Park." Greeted Minho, with a small wave. "Do I have permission to finish my explanation, or must I leave before I spill the wine necessary for the vines to grow?" Chris quirked an eyebrow and looked among his members, who also looked a bit puzzled.

Brandon and Jinyoung looked at each other. Brandon nodded. A moment later, so did Jinyoung. The police chief answered, "Go on, Minho. You have our attention."

"Thank you. So!" Minho clapped his hands, then folded his hands again. "Jisung and I would love to meet you boys at the asylum, at 3:53 PM: no sooner, no later. If you open those doors early or one minute past the designated time, the ritual will not only fail and make the core of the Earth expand to the point of destroying the planet!" Minho laughed for two seconds, then his laughter cut short. "I'm kidding."

Chris said, "I was going to say, Minho—"

"—Ah ah ah!" Minho wiggled his finger warningly. "There will still be a dire consequence for an early or late entry!"

"And what is that?"

"We'll be so upset that we can't free our girlfriend that we'll light the entire city on fire!" Minho flung his arms out side with a broad smile.

"Seriously?"

"Yeah, seriously." Minho nodded. "Anyway," He sang, and ran a hand through his hair. "That's all you need to know."

"We expect the angels to show up and try to stop us. You'll probably see one within minutes of coming inside, and they'll probably help you, or at least try. We'll see. It'll be fun." He wiggled the fingers of one hand. "Have fun at the meeting, boys! Bye now!"

Minho threw his head back. Chris instinctively reached out, even though he didn't know what to expect. Minho fell backwards as a fiery magic circle appeared in the stone stairs with a deafening bang like a rife had been fired. The crowd screamed, cowered and flinched. Some of the police did, too.

The Kids looked surprised but were able to find strength by looking at each other. Seungmin noticed the circle didn't erase the steps but wrapped around them and decided to remember that. A plethora of frostbitten arms with clawed fingers grabbed Minho and quickly pulled him through like he was a doll made of cloth. The circle disappeared with a bang, leaving no trace behind. More shrieks were given at the sound. As the people recovered, Chris turned his attention to the mayor and chief. His confident gaze was mirrored by Jinyoung.

"Come on, Kids." Said Jinyoung, directing their eyes to him. Nodding and shivering, the five quietly left the press alone.

—

Three watchtowers and small officer stations at their feet were lined up thirty feet apart in the middle of the Ocean, the one hundred by eighty foot lot that connected the four wings. They had female names in an attempt to make the asylum less dreary to inmates and visitors. The Ocean was boxed in by twenty feet tall, unpainted stone walls with steel walkways leading from one wing to the other. Steel stairs were in each corner. Six flower boxes of white and purple hyacinths were lined up outside the facilities and security stations. The boxes were blanketed in snow, but parts of the flowers peeked out from the cold powder.

Alicia was located east, serving as the residential and intensive care centre. She had three floors, the third being the underground intensive care level. Her ash white exterior was lined with vibrant red paint along the top and bottom, her roof grey. The clock tower in the left part of her body showed it was 3:48 in Roman numerals, a guarded platform below thirty feet above the ground. There was also a patrol on the level roof beside the clock.

Eva, the medical ward, was west. She looked identical to Alicia but had no clock tower and only had two floors. Sara, the entrance and parking lot, was north. The stone wall had a small weakness in the electric gate, but in case of an emergency, with the press of a button, three rows of spiked metal poles would thrust up from the ground. This security measure had yet to have been used, but it had been tested with a dummy driver and proven to be a viable asset.

Maria, the graveyard and garden, was south. There was no stone wall or electric fence where Maria met the Atlantic. The graveyard was neatly laid out to the west, the wooden benches and wide flowerbeds of more hyacinths to the east. There were ten headstones: four names belonged to patients from the first floor, and three belonged to patients from the second floor. Two belonged to stillborn children, though one hadn't been given a name but still had the name of her mother inscribed, and the tenth was that of the inmate who had murdered the three.

The police and Stray Kids had gathered at the asylum at two o'clock. Hyunjin was throwing his dan geom at a sandbag near Alicia and pulling it back with the white glow of his powers. One could tell that his speed was a little faster than the pair of watching officers' eyes could keep up with. "Uh, that's 471...?" Said an officer whose surname was Walker, hesitantly.

"475," Hyunjin politely corrected, pausing his exercise with the weapon in his hand to look at him. "But you were close."

"It's getting awfully close to 3:53." Said the other officer, Bridges, gazing up at the clock as Hyunjin resumed his practice.

Walker nodded. "That it is. I wonder if Chief Park is going to call one last meeting to go over everything, again."

Hyunjin replied, "Probably not. We're playing with time and demons, here."

"That's true enough." Walker nodded. Hyunjin caught his dan geom and sheathed it in one motion.

"I'm going to wait for the guys by the door." Said Hyunjin, resting his hands on his hips and looking from one man to the other, his eyes also drifting to the dozen officers standing by the doors. "Thanks for staying to watch, guys. Even if it got boring, after one hundred."

They both laughed. Bridges said, "Don't mention it, Ghost. We'll walk with you." Some ten feet behind them, Chris was delivering blows to the bags three officers were holding, alternating targets and how he attacked.

He brought up one leg in a jump kick and pushed himself off the sac with the other, the officer who held the bag staggering as Chris was launched across the ways and landing ten quick stomps to the second bag, switching from foot to foot. The officer who held this bag was the best built of his peers, but he still needed to plant himself firmly into the ground to avoid being blown back at least five feet from Chris' power. Chris landed with a thump that had less impact on the beaten up earth because he wasn't wearing his own boots. His momentum boosted him rightwards, to the third bag. He pulled back his arms and whacked it upwards with his left arm, immediately followed by his right to make a 'double knot'.

With a choked laugh, the man who held this bag stepped around a bit. "Oof!"

"You alright, Shorts?" Chris asked, relaxing his posture and rolling his right shoulder.

He nodded. "Yeah, I'm fine. What a rush, ha ha ha!"

"Glad you're still having fun." Chris smiled and patted his left shoulder. "You sure you don't want to switch out?"

"Yeah, I'm sure. I've only been here fifteen minutes, I can keep going."

"Daren," Said Johnson, the officer with the second bag. "You really should take a break." He looked behind him. "It's getting real close to that time, anyway."

Chris turned to look at the clock with the officers and raised his eyebrows. "Oh, damn! Guess it's time to gather everyone."

Shorts gave a nod to Alicia. "Ghost is already ahead of you." Chris and the other two men looked in her direction. Hyunjin gave Chris a wave, and Chris waved back.

"That he is!"

The third officer, Island, said, "Chief Park will probably call everyone over, in a mo—"

"This if Chief Park to all officers in the DCA: please alert the Stray Kids to gather at the door and proceed to said destination. Two minutes and thirty seconds until entry. Over."

"Yep." Said Johnson.

"Walk with us, Double Knock?" Said Island.

Chris gave a nod. "Of course." The four started their short walk and blended into Hyunjin and the two officers. "All warmed up, Hyunjin?" He nodded. "Good, good." Chris turned to watch out for whoever came next.

Seungmin and Changbin jogged over, Chief Jinyoung close behind with eight officers. Chris looked around the yard for Felix and scarcely saw him leap from the steel platform from the nearest watchtower and land hands first, the boy bounding forth like a cat until he was somewhat close to the others and then standing, shaking out his arms a little. "You alright, Felix?" Inquired Chris.

"Yeah, I'm fine. That wasn't too high of a jump." Felix responded. Chris nodded.

"All right," The voice of the Chief drew everyone's attention. "I don't have time to go over every part of this operation in detail, but I don't need to. Remember to check your surroundings and be prepared to make split second decisions. So long as you follow protocol and keep your heads on your shoulders, all should go well, and, ideally, there should be no casualties."

"It is likely there will be casualties, but it is our mission to minimize those numbers and save not just the patients and staff of the asylum, who are on lockdown, but to save the city from the evil threatening to burst from the schemes of Minho and Jisung. I'll be waiting out here, but know that I, along with every citizen of our city, will be with you in spirit." Jinyoung looked to an officer beside him. "Marley, how much time until 'go'?"

"Twenty-three, twenty-one, twenty..." Counted the man, who held a cellphone. With amazing efficiency, the Stray Kids moved to the front of the mass, the police force behind them in four full columns and a fifth column that had vacant one spot. They marched forward, Marley walking behind them to continue his task. "Thirteen, twelve, eleven..."

Chris felt a pair of eyes staring at him and found the wavering eyes of Seungmin. "Ten, nine..." Chris discreetly moved his hand over Seungmin's and gently tapped his skin. "Eight, seven..." Seungmin swallowed and fumbled his fingers until he held Chris' hand.

"We'll be OK, Seungmin-ie, I promise." Chris muttered. His voice swayed the interest of the other Kids. Seungmin sniffled and nodded. Hyunjin stood on the other side of Seungmin, and he rubbed Seungmin's arm.

"Three, two, one, zero." Marley glanced up from the phone and nodded once to Chris. "Negative one—"

"Go, go!" Shouted Chief Jinyoung. Not wasting time, the group strode forward and entered the asylum. The decently decorated lobby had sky blue walls, a tacky grey carpet and cheap cushioned chairs. The secretary, like all staff outside of medical and security, had already evacuated. The far end of the room were glass sliding doors, emergency steel doors retracted into the wall.

As the force went through the doors and began to pass the huge holding cell on their left, a voice came from the radios of the officers. "Dispatch to Adam, Boy, Charles and David: the city has not caught fire. Repeat: the city has not caught fire. Over."

"That's the immediate danger out of the way, good." Said Chris with a heavy sigh, ensuring his voice could be heard by at least those directly behind him. The holding cell had steel white bars and benches against the far wall and mats on the concrete floor, which continued outside of the cell. The walkway to the white door at the end of the room had several windows that looked into the cafeteria on the right wall.

"What's the time?" Asked Changbin, who was to the right of Chris. Felix was at Changbin's right.

Alley, a female from the second row, answered, "3:53:42, forty-three..."

"It's still too early to be sure that the city is safe." Said Russell, a man from the fourth row.

"I agree." Replied Chris, the other boys and some of the men nodding. It took group about twenty-five seconds to arrive at the door. They stopped, and Seungmin stepped up to the door. He pressed his hands and his left ear to its surface.

"Clear." Seungmin stated. He stepped back into line and Chris took his place to open the door. He had almost put his hand on the doorknob when a spider leapt through the window, its bristles roughly touching Chris' right cheek. The spider flew over Chris' shoulder and landed on the ground.As several officers gasped and began to raise their handguns, only to realize it was just a spider, Chris pivoted and saw the tarantula wasn't moving.

"It's dead?" Chris said, questioningly.

Seungmin nodded. "Tarantulas can't survive long falls. They get hurt even if dropped from a foot high. Though some species are more aggressive, it is mostly because they are Old World species or because of mood. They are mostly harmless. Their bites can hurt, but..." He shook his head and crossed his arms. "They require humid habitats. How did this spider get here?"

"The Devil, probably." Answered Addison, an officer from the fifth row, and a handful of them laughed.

"That's probably not far from the truth, actually." Seungmin said, bobbing his head. He made eye contact with Chris. "Allow me to examine its corpse, before we move on."

"Of course, go ahead." Chris said, nodding. Seungmin gave a nod in response before kneeling before the creature. He gingerly poked it with a finger and sharply held his breath. His breath shuddered, and he swallowed loudly. "Seungmin?" The boy's torso jolted, his eyes whipping up to Chris' and then relaxing. "Talk to us, please."

"S-Sure. This is a South American Pink Toe." Seungmin carefully picked up the spider and turned it over in his hands as he got to his feet. He looked at his peers while speaking. "Its pink colour darkens into maturity, and they live from seven to nine years."

"They are arboreal, meaning they live in trees. This gave them the name Antilles tree spider. They grow up to six inches, and this adult female is five inches. I noticed a strong magical presence from it, when it came through the window. It's gone now, but it stayed long enough for me to intercept how the sender felt, when it was created." Seungmin's eyes lowered. "It was Faith..."

"Wait, that means Jisung and Minho have already changed her." Felix said. "They've already won. So was the whole 3:53 PM thing just to lure us in?"

"Probably, yeah."

"It might not mean they've won, Felix." Said Changbin. "Just that they've done enough to make her able to do this." He pointed at the spider.

"What did you feel when you touched the spider, Seungmin-ie?" Asked Chris.

"Intense throbbing pain where my jaw starts." Seungmin rubbed beneath his ears. "My tongue felt alienated and cold, like it had nothing around it. It felt like I had been crying for hours. I felt so helpless, so small and weak, unable to do anything but obey."

"I'd like to find one of these alive, but I doubt I'll be that lucky. I feel as if something is hiding in our little friend." Seungmin turned his head to Felix. "Felix, would you mind—?" Felix widened his eyes and shook his head. Seungmin, Felix and Hyunjin laughed. Chris and Changbin joined, a few of the officers chuckling along.

"I'll do it, Seungmin." Hyunjin said, stepping closer and withdrawing his dan geom. He cautiously sliced open the spider, from its abdomen to its chelicerae. Its blood colour was normal, but scentless black smoke accompanied the liquid. When Hyunjin and Seungmin saw the smoke, their eyes flew open. Hyunjin took a hasteful step back, and Seungmin quickly put the spider down, keeping his face as far away from the spider as he could.

"I don't smell anything wrong with the smoke." Felix commented, shaking his head. "I do see something that looks an awful lot like a crystal in the front part of its body, though."

"Do you want to get it?" Asked Seungmin. Felix froze up for a second, then shook his head. "I thought so." Seungmin crouched before the tarantula and carefully picked into its body with his fingers to extract the white object. He held it in two of his fingers and rolled it between them. "It sure feels like a real crystal."

"Lemme see." Felix said, coming over to Seungmin, who moved the item into his palms. Felix touched it with one finger and rolled it around Seungmin's palm a little. "Yep, that's a real crystal. I'd ask if I could keep it, but I don't wanna be cursed, or something."

"I do feel a faint magical aura from it," Seungmin said. "But it doesn't feel malicious. If anything, it feels malevolent. Might even be lucky. You can keep it on you for now if you want, Felix."

"Cool." Felix took the crystal and stored it in his pouch. He quietly added, "Yay!" Hearing him, Seungmin chuckled.

"OK, let's move on." Said Chris, as Seungmin stooped down and got a small plastic bag from one of his pouches. He shimmied the tarantula into it as everyone but Hyunjin moved on, and sealed the bag before standing, placing the spider in a different pocket before jogging to catch up with Hyunjin. Chris waited for them at the door, the officers acting upon their order to divide and investigate both ways the hall went. When they passed through, Chris began to pull the door closed, but was shocked to feel the door slam itself.

"Well, that can't be good." Said Chris. Hyunjin and Seungmin laughed. "Come on, this way." He nodded to his right, and they hurried to return to the front of their group.

Chapter 1 — Chapter 2

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flowerandflorist · 4 years ago

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Flowers and Their Roots

History of Flowers

In this article, we will be learning about the origins of flowers and their presence in human history. We'll examine the records of human interaction with these beautiful blooms. These reach all the way back from the Paleolithic era to modern times.

The next section of this article talks about flowers as art subjects in ancient history. We also go over the influence they had as muses for artists of all kinds.

Last, we'll look into a list of the most popular flowers and identify the stories behind their names!

Interested in a formal course? Want to get certified as an expert on all things floral? We encourage you to look at establishments that offer programs in floristry, such as:

American Institute of Floral Designers (www.aifd.org).

Society of American Florists (www.safnow.org).

American Floral Endowment (www.endowment.org).

Flowers through Human History.

How far back are flowers recorded in human history? Have they always been diverse? How diverse? How did humans discover and make use of them in early history?

These are a few of the things people often ask about flowers. Here is a list of answers to some of the most important inquiries about flowers as recorded in history!

Have flowers always existed? Since when?

Yes, they have. Archaeologists have dug deep to determine when flowers first appeared. Using the latest technology over time, they discovered flower fossils. With these, they identified that flowers have been around since the prehistoric period. Their earliest estimate is around the Paleolithic age, about 93 million years ago.

Were flowers always as varied as they are now? Or did that develop over time with human intervention?

Today, there are about 270,000 species of flowers! This number continues to grow with time and scientific progress.

As for the evolution of their varieties, records only go back to about 150 years. History shows only 125,000 species already existed.

Are there flowers that have been here throughout early history?

Plants like magnolias and herbs go back to 120 million years old. This time allowed them to evolve into their forms today.

Experts believe that flowering plants have been around for around 146 million years.

How did humans identify them? Did they make use of them in their daily lives and regimen?

There is no certain record of how humans found flowers and plants. But there's proof on the role of flowers in the everyday life of humans in ancient history!

For example, placing flowers on graves has been a tradition long before current times.

Different forms of art have also used flowers both as main subjects and background details. From music, literature, and sculpture, people have used flowers to express themselves. Now we see how blooms have always lightened lives and made occasions more precious.

We'll discover more on flowers in art below, so keep reading!

Flowers as Art Subjects in Ancient History.

From Ancient Egypt to contemporary pop art, flowers have influenced masterpieces all through history. Famous works with flowers range from clay pots to still-life paintings. Its depiction has been vital in cultivating several art forms and mediums.

In fact, flowers as artists' muse in history is a course in arts studies programs. This only affirms how important florals are in art!

Here, we'll assess the impression that flowers have on several periods in art history. We'll find out what makes them so attractive to artists and audiences alike.

The lotus flower is one of the most prominent subjects in Ancient Egyptian art. This is due to its symbolic significance in their religious myths. It was often depicted in paintings, amulets, ceramics, and other artworks.. Evidence also suggests the use of florals as jewelry for the royal court.

In medieval times, tapestries became popular as art works. This gave way to the use of flowers as backdrops for various types of scenery.

It later birthed the form of millefleur, or a "thousand flowers". These tapestries had duplicating patterns of fantastic buds stitched on it.

Artists from the Renaissance also used blooms in their myth-inspired paintings. Other artists took flowers as a focus in their work. They developed still-life paintings of fresh blooms and elaborate bouquets.

The Impressionist and Fauvism movements also included the use of flowers in art. Flowers often served as the subject of an indoor scene with a person or two beside it. Fauvism highlighted this using vivid colors. Other times, flowers were either the focus of the artwork or the backdrop of the scene.

Today, flowers remain as a popular muse among artists through pop art and current 3D art.

Pop art imagines simple common objects in a different light and color. 3D artists often use flowers to build a sculpture of another figure. They also pay tribute to art from the Renaissance and Ancient Egypt.

Flower Names and their Origins.

Have you ever thought about where roses and calla lilies got their names from? Look no further! Here is a brief list of famous flowers and the story behind their names.

Carnation.

Believed to come from the Greek word carnis (" flesh"), pertaining to its original color. Also believed to come from corone (" flower garlands"). This is because they were first used in ceremonial crowns.

Dandelion.

First called "lion's tooth" because of the petals' resemblance to a lion's sharp teeth. The French translation "dent-de-lion" later changed into the English dandelion.

Daffodil.

In Greek mythology, flowers called "asphedelos" carpeted Elysian fields. Adapting the first d in the name in the future, it translated to the modern daffodil.

Daisy.

Born from Old English poetics, daisies are an evolved variation of the phrase "day's eye".

Holly.

Called the "Holly Tree". Later known as "holly." Medieval monks felt it would protect them from evil and lightning.

Lily.

From Latin word lilium, from "lily of the valley". This is because it was often found in valleys.

Orchid.

From Greek word orchis, "testicle". Greeks presumed if pregnant women ate these, their unborn child would turn into a boy.

Rose.

From the Spanish and Italian rosa. Used to name red flowers.

Click here to know about the history of floristry and flower arrangement.

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kaistarus · 5 years ago

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Clickbait(YouTuberAU)--Chapter 5

Pairings: Kiribaku, Tododeku

Words: 4,437

Summary: A lot of great things came with being a big name YouTuber, but along with those perks were some serious drawbacks. One of the biggest being your lack of personal privacy.

Due to just one video, Kirishima's least well-kept secret has become a viral sensation overnight, and now he has to deal with the repercussions from both the YouTube community and the public. Hopefully, those he's dragging down with him won't mind...

Notes: Welcome to how many Buzzfeed Unsolved references can I fit into one chapter lol. Had a lot of fun with this, so I hope you all like it!!

Read the full thing here

Kirishima laid haphazardly across the leather sofa, upper body sunk perfectly into the cushion now melded for his form. He shoveled a mouthful of Americanized-Chinese take-out that had been ordered once too often that week and numbed his mind with another Disney princess movie. As Rapunzel cupped Eugene’s cheek, singing through tears to bring her new love back from the dead he brushed his thumb longingly against his cell phone. If only he had someone who would cut their hair and sing to him if he were dying.

“Are you just going lay there and mope all day?

Kirishima groaned, pausing the movie with his phone. “I’m not moping. I’m relaxing.”

“You’ve been on that couch for the past three days,” Sero said. He kicked one of many take-out boxes surrounding Kirishima. “In those same clothes.”

Kirishima pulled his childhood Crimson Riot blanket above his head. It had been a full week since he and Bakugou exchanged numbers, and the only thing he received from him was a thumbs-up emoji when Kirishima texted him about their video hitting number one trending. An emoji like that basically meant ‘fuck off’ in text lingo. Kirishima hadn’t known what he did wrong, but he could take a hint.

“Do you think you could be… overreacting?” Sero asked.

Kirishima pulled the blanket down far enough to glare at Sero. “I would never overreact about this.”

“Clearly.”

Kirishima didn’t care what Sero thought. He would rather lay here in the mingled smell of Chinese leftovers and armpit stench than face reality.

His cocoon of warmth was ripped away as Sero pulled the fleece blanket off. Kirishima sat up and reached after the covers, but Sero had been too fast.

“What the hell, dude,” Kirishima said, giving up and lying back down.

“Mina told me I needed to get you up today, and I fear her more on a good day than you on your worst.”

That was fair, but it didn’t mean Kirishima liked it. He turned to face away from Sero and burrow further into the cushion’s warmth, not suspecting Sero to grip his legs and drag him off the sofa. “Bro, what the fuck!” Kirishima said, kicking at Sero’s hands and gripping the armrest for dear life.

Sero won. Kirishima flopped belly first onto plush carpet, feet atop Sero’s lap who’d fallen over the moment Kirishima lost his holding on the side of the couch. Before Kirishima could berate Sero for ruining his depressive episode the couch cushions started to vibrate. He realized his phone fell between the cracks during their tussle.

Kirishima figured Mina was calling to check on him and he had a thing or two to say to her. He dug between the cracks, annoyance allowing him to ignore a large number of crumbs his fingertips were brushing and whipped his phone to his ear.

“Mina if you don’t start minding your own—"

“Kirishima!” Midoriya’s voice threw Kirishima off guard. He pulled the phone away and nearly dropped the device when ‘Bakugou Katsuki’ flashed in all caps. “I’m so glad you picked up.”

“Yeah,” Kirishima said confused. Midoriya was panting heavily, and it sounded like the phone was being jostled around. “Are you okay, dude? Why do you have Bakugou’s—"

“Everything’s fine! Hey, we’re filming today, and I was wondering if you wanted to come to hang out?” Midoriya asked. Kirishima strained to hear what he thought was yelling in the background.

“We, like, Mysteries Unsolved?”

“Yeah! You and I still haven’t talked. I need to get to know the guy that Kacchan—oof.”

There were muffled arguments after Kirishima assumed the phone had been dropped. He called out to Midoriya a few times, growing concerned when he heard a high-pitched squeal.

“Shitty Hair?” A husky voice filtered to his ear. Kirishima’s mouth went dry and he gripped the phone tighter.

“Uh, that’s me?”

“What did that fucker say?” Bakugou asked. “He’s a damn liar. You can’t trust him.”

Kirishima looked up at Sero who had started eating the rest of the General Tso he’d gotten for lunch. Kirishima kicked him onto his side.

“He said you were filming today and that I should come over.”

“Oh.” The line went quiet for a little too long and Kirishima had to check they were still connected. “That’s fine. You should do that.”

“Are you sure? I don’t have—”

“I’m sure.”

“Okay.” Suddenly the fact that he’d been wearing the same clothes for three days became more apparent. “I just gotta get ready and then I’ll head over.”

They said their goodbyes and Kirishima fell back onto his back with a sigh. Sero crawled to hover over him with a mocking look and Kirishima eyed him suspiciously. “What?”

“I would never overreact.” He said, voice pitched higher and face scrunched, shaking his head and clearly mocking him. Kirishima shoved him onto his side again and rolled into a squatting position to boost himself up. He had to wash off his depression stank.

~*~*~*~

Kirishima realized, standing in front of Bakugou’s red-bricked apartment complex, that it was a lot less intimidating than he remembered. Maybe because he didn’t have the feel of impending doom rolling around in his stomach this time.

“Alright,” Sero said, leaning across the passenger seat. “Text me if you need anything.”

“Yes, mom,” Kirishima said while rolling his eyes.

“And be safe. Those are basically strangers up there.”

“Okay, mom.”

“And make sure you use protection. I can’t take care of any more children.”

“Sero. Leave.”

Sero laughed and drove off, leaving Kirishima to grumble his way down the stone path lined with daisies and white-painted benches with hearts cut into the backs. Kirishima paused to watch a small bird drink from a layered fountain—had he seriously been freaking out over this place? He reached the glass vestibule that buzzed the moment he texted Bakugou he’d arrived. Unlike the last time he came to the complex Kirishima navigated the dimly lit halls much easier, only getting lost once. He blamed it on the random flyer informing tenants not to leave their dog’s droppings in the hallway.

He found the silver plaque reading 420 rather quickly and after a self-pep talk knocked strongly on the wooden door. He bounced on the balls of his feet, and when the door pulled open the guy with half his hair dyed from the party was staring blankly back at him. Kirishima remembered Uraraka saying he was Bakugou’s roommate and their editor, how did he forget he’d be here.

“Shitty Hair.” Todoroki—he thinks that’s what Uraraka called him—said. Kirishima waited for more, but after an uncomfortably long time staring at each other, he realized that was it.

“Can I come in, please?”

Todoroki’s eyes narrowed and he found himself shrinking under the gaze. He thought once things had been figured out between him and Bakugou this Todoroki guy wouldn’t hate him anymore, but it looks like he’d been wrong.

“Is that Kirishima?” Midoriya came bounding up from behind Todoroki. “What are you doing in the hall? Come on, we’re almost done setting up!”

Kirishima slid past Todoroki with as much space as possible. The apartment looked massive compared to how it’d felt crammed with all those people the night of the party. The furniture that Kaminari had fallen off was now pushed against the walls to make room for the set that Kirishima had seen in so many of their YouTube videos. An old wooden table and chairs became the focus and a backdrop was being set up behind them. Taped to the backdrop were wanted posters, maps with red string and post-its, and various black and white photos of vehicles, people, and crime scenes. Kirishima felt an uncontrollable smile start to form.

“I always pictured you having a studio or something.”

“It looks more complicated than it is.” Midoriya shrugged. “It’s already intact in Todoroki’s room. We just move it out here.”

“You keep the table in your room?” Kirishima asked turning to Todoroki.

“It’s our dining set.”

Kirishima eyed the old, cracked table and the two uncomfortable chairs. He couldn’t imagine having to sit on those for anything other than a short film session.

“Kacchan is in Todoroki’s room grabbing the last of the camera equipment,” Midoriya said. “If you wanted to go help him.” Kirishima did. He nodded to Midoriya and wandered down the only hallway that could lead to other rooms. He had no clue which door led to Todoroki’s room, but after hearing several curses he had a pretty good idea.

He nudged the ajar door open with his foot and found Bakugou headfirst in a closet.

“Fucking half-and-half bastard. I told him to leave them out, but nobody ever fucking listens to me. I swear to fucking god I’m going to lose my mind.” Bakugou muttered to himself while throwing clothing items and books behind him.

“Would you like help?”

Bakugou pulled out of the closet too quickly, causing a few crashes to be heard inside. “Hey.” He said breathlessly. Kirishima figured from digging around in the closet so long.

“Hi.”

“I’ve almost got it. Just hold on.” Bakugou said before diving back into whatever chaos Todoroki maintained in there.

Kirishima took small steps around the room that was about as plain as the owner itself. The walls were blank, the bedspread was grey, and even his computer desk was barren. The only thing that stood out was the two pictures hung above his bedframe with scotch tape. The first was him, Midoriya, and Bakugou holding their one-millionth subscriber plaque, and the second was two young boys in jerseys covered in dirt, the blonde boy had a cocky grin with his arm slung around a pale-haired boy who smiled shyly.

“You can carry these.” Bakugou offered Kirishima two heavy leather bags filled with equipment only Sero could name. He followed Kirishima’s gaze to the pictures on Todoroki’s wall and scoffed. “I told the hag not to give him that.”

“Is that you?”

“Yeah, but it’s a stupid picture.” Bakugou nudged Kirishima forward with his own case. “I don’t know why he likes it so much.”

Kirishima followed Bakugou out of the room to help him unpack the equipment while Midoriya and Todoroki completed the backdrop.

“Kacchan, I’m going to start recording the voiceover,” Midoriya said, walking toward the hall with Todoroki trailing after.

“Fucking do whatever I don’t care.”

“Voiceover?” Kirishima asked.

“Yeah, the dramatic explaining bull shit. Half-and-half cuts it in with us fucking around. It sounds cleaner that way.”

Kirishima nodded. That made sense. He guessed he never thought about it that intensely while just casually watching. “So, what’s the topic today?”

Bakugou shrugged. “The dynamic works better if I don’t know.” He said, struggling with a tripod. Kirishima sat cross-legged and watched helpfully. “I set up all the outings and Deku does this bull shit.”

Kirishima’s jaw dropped, “but I thought you hated being a ghost hunter.”

“I’m not a fucking ghost hunter.” Bakugou paused, staring blankly ahead. “Am I a ghost hunter?”

“I mean by definition...” Kirishima shrugged. “Sorry, dude.”

“I don’t want to be a fucking ghost hunter. This is bull shit!”

Todoroki poked his head out from the end of the hallway. “Izuku would like me to pass on, ‘Kacchan shut the fuck up. You’re ruining my recording’.”

“Tell him to suck a fat one.”

“I will not.” Todoroki left and Bakugou stuck his tongue out childishly.

“Izuku?” Kirishima asked.

“Yep,” Bakugou motioned for Kirishima to hand him one of the items lying beside him. “You give someone a place to stay and they betray you by sleeping with the enemy.”

“That didn’t sound overdramatic at all.”

“I’m not overdramatic.” He muttered under his breath. Kirishima leaned back on his palms and glanced back to where Todoroki had disappeared.

Midoriya’s head poked out from the hall. “Kirishima there’s a fun ransom note in this case and I was wondering if you wanted to do the voiceover for it?”

“Fun ransom note?” Bakugou shook his head.

“Me?”

“Normally Todoroki would, but since you’re here I figured it’d be fun to switch things up.”

Kirishima scrambled up and bounded down to the room opposite Todoroki’s. Bakugou’s room had a lot more to take in than Todoroki’s had. The amount of superhero merchandise—All Might specifically—that Bakugou had was impressive even to Kirishima. He had posters hung all over, actions figures and Funko Pops on bookshelves—most unopened, comic books resting on his nightstand, and an All Might blanket strewn across his black comforter. In between the superhero posters were a few pop-punk bands from the early 2000s that he was sure Sero would appreciate.

Kirishima’s eyes landed on a silver laptop on Bakugou’s bed that had a few YouTuber’s logo stickers on them. He noticed one was worn and nearly peeling off the surface, and it took him a moment to recognize it as his own logo. It was Kirishima’s first attempt at merch from nearly four years ago. He’d changed his design completely since then since hardly anyone had bought those. Bakugou had said he only knew so much about the Vlog Squad because Midoriya watched their videos in college. If that was true why would he have—

“Alright, here are the sections we need,” Midoriya said, handing him a paper with several highlighted sentences.

“Do I have to read it all dramatic?” Kirishima asked, skimming the words. He took a seat in front of their expensive-looking microphone while Todoroki clicked various buttons on the screen before him. This was all completely out of his basic editing toolbox.

“Just read them like you want to kidnap and murder a little girl,” Todoroki said somehow disinterested.

“Shoto.” Midoriya smacked his arm lightly. He muttered under his breath, leaning back and gesturing to the mic in front of Kirishima. He stared at it blankly.

“Don’t worry too much,” Bakugou said, leaning against the doorframe with crossed arms. “Whatever you do will be fine.”

“If not, I’ll just rerecord it when you leave.”

Midoriya smacked Todoroki again. Bakugou gave Kirishima a millisecond half-smile and that was all the encouragement he needed to begin. The ‘fun’ ransom note turned out to be extremely depressing, and unfortunately, Kirishima ended up having to read it several times before getting a good take. He fumbled over a few larger words, but Midoriya was incredibly forgiving. After all the unnecessary compliments he received Kirishima left confident that he’d performed decent enough for a working edit.

“Alright, time to get this bitch over with,” Bakugou said, kicking off the doorframe.

“That’s the spirit Kacchan.”

Excitement fluttered through Kirishima’s stomach as Bakugou and Midoriya took their seats. He sat atop their kitchen counter a few meters behind the film equipment so any noise he made wouldn’t get picked up by audio. Todoroki made a few final adjustments to Bakugou’s set up, ignoring his insulted rants, and counted off to signal the start of filming. Once the camera was on he moved back beside Kirishima, and it was clear by his cold demeanor that he had little intention of humoring him with a conversation.

Like all videos, Midoriya began with explaining that week’s topic while Bakugou half-listened, twirling a red pen between his fingers. They would be covering the unsolved murder of a young girl, a case that their patron had been actively requesting. Midoriya barely got three minutes in before Bakugou interjected.

“Are those business folders going to be a regular thing now?”

“I was planning on it,” Midoriya said. “Why? Does it bother you that I look professional now?”

“No. It pisses me off because I know a bunch of ghost bull shit is going to end up in there.” Bakugou said, leaning back in his chair.

“Well, it’s not bull shit, so sorry but—”

“Wait,” Bakugou turned serious and put his hands up. “Did you hear that?”

Midoriya shook his head and Bakugou pointed his pen downwards. “It was my chair squeaking. Did you think it was a ghost? I’m just making sure you know the difference.”

Kirishima snorted. Bakugou and Midoriya both turned to him, Bakugou’s expression elated and Midoriya’s crestfallen.

“Kirishima,” Midoriya said whining.

“I’m sorry.”

“This is great.” Bakugou crossed his arms behind his head for support as he leaned back. “We should have a live audience more often.”

“This audience is biased, and you know it,” Midoriya muttered under his breath.

Bakugou rolled his eyes and waved for Midoriya to start up again. They continued with the episode and Kirishima tried his best to force down laughter whenever Bakugou made a snide remark. It hadn’t helped that Bakugou would make direct eye contact with him after every incident.

Todoroki started mumbling beside him.

“What?” Kirishima figured there was no harm in trying with Todoroki.

Todoroki side-eyed him. “Bakugou’s showing off. This is going to be annoying to edit.”

Kirishima didn’t know what that meant. As far as he could tell Bakugou was acting like normal.

“Are you taking notes?” Midoriya asked. Bakugou had his head down over his small yellow notepad and Midoriya strained to see what it said. “When have you ever taken notes that doesn’t—Deku is a fucking idiot. That’s…that’s real funny. Are you proud of yourself?”

Bakugou wiggled his eyebrows cockily at the camera and made brief eye-contact with Kirishima again. He supposed Bakugou was acting a little goofier than usual, but Kirishima wouldn’t consider that showing off.

Todoroki groaned dramatically beside him, so he clearly disagreed. Bakugou listened to Midoriya explain the first two suspects and suddenly he slapped his hand over Midoriya’s mouth. Midoriya peeled Bakugou’s hand off and looked at him like he’d gone insane.

“What’s happen—”

“Deku, I’ve connected the fucking dots.”

Midoriya looked a cross between amused and angry. Kirishima had his hands covering his mouth and was keeping his laughter down by sheer willpower alone. He wouldn’t allow himself to ruin what he knew would become a historical moment.

“Kacchan, there is nothing for you to connect yet.”

“I’ve connected them,” Bakugou said. He went on to rattle off a theory connecting the first two suspects to the murder. Kirishima and Todoroki both glanced at each other confused by what was happening before them. Bakugou spoke with such confidence it was hard not to believe he’d just solved the case. Midoriya read through the paper in his hand, looking between it and Bakugou before throwing it behind his back exasperatedly.

“Yeah, that’s… that’s the second theory.”

Bakugou raised his hand for a high-five and Midoriya eyed it wearily. Bakugou didn’t even bother waiting before he high-fived himself.

There were only several minutes of recording left as Midoriya wrapped of the final theory, which was always the most ridiculous and would send Bakugou in a tizzy. He ranted for remaining time as Midoriya laughed, but once Bakugou calmed Midoriya ended their ride with his classic phrase, ‘for now the mystery remains unsolved’. Kirishima grinned giddily as the words left Midoriya’s mouth.

“Those guys were assholes,” Bakugou said, stretching his arms as he stood from his chair.

“I mean they’re all murder suspects,” Deku said, propping his feet onto the wooden table. “Do you think that’s ever been someone’s last words to a murderer? You’re a fucking asshole?”

“Those would be my last words.”

Midoriya laughed getting up to help Todoroki look over the past forty minutes of footage. Bakugou walked straight up to Kirishima who was swinging his legs on the edge of the granite countertop.

“So, was it everything you dreamed it’d be?” Bakugou asked.

“That was amazing,” Kirishima hopped off the counter, accidentally landing a little too close to Bakugou. “You guys were so cool.”

Bakugou flushed with color and looked away from Kirishima’s sunshine smile. “It wasn’t anything special…”

“That’s uncharacteristically humble of you Kacchan,” Midoriya said, a teasing lilt to his voice. Bakugou flipped him the bird.

“Can we eat now? I am hungry.” Todoroki said placing the camera back onto the tripod.

“You’re getting food with us, right?” Midoriya asked Kirishima.

“I didn’t know you were getting food.”

“We always have a celebration meal after we record an episode. Kacchan was supposed to invite you.”

“Nobody fucking told me to—”

“Do I have to do everything,” Midoriya muttered under his breath. He grabbed Todoroki’s hand and led him toward the front door. “Shoto is going to help me take something to my car. We’ll be right back.”

“But we aren’t carrying anything,” Todoroki said. Midoriya didn’t respond and Todoroki shrugged helplessly to Bakugou as he let himself be dragged out his apartment. Bakugou and Kirishima were left staring at the door confused.

“That was…”

“Tactless.” Bakugou offered.

“I was going to say interesting, but yours works.”

“Obviously you’re invited to get food with us,” Bakugou said, avoiding eye contact by staring down at his plain black socks.

Kirishima nodded. “I figured.”

The moment Bakugou did look up Kirishima’s mind was erased of anything he’d planned to say. All he could think about was how intensely attractive his eyes were, how privileged he felt to be in that situation, and how he wished his heart would slow the fuck down because there’s no way Bakugou couldn’t hear it beating.

“I’m glad you were able to show up,” Bakugou admitted, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Yeah, uh, I’m glad I got to see you again.” Kirishima didn’t miss the way Bakugou’s eyes briefly widened before he looked away.

“Sorry I never really texted you. We went to the middle of nowhere for four days, so I didn’t have cell service.”

“Middle of nowhere?” Kirishima asked.

“Yeah. We were hunting… bigfoot.”

Kirishima bit his lip to hold back another smile. Only he would find a guy who could use hunting bigfoot as a legitimate excuse for not texting him back. “It’s fine. I mean, it’s not like I was depressed eating to Disney movies for three days straight or something.”

Bakugou eyed him suspiciously and Kirishima immediately started backpedaling.

“Besides, we aren’t dating or anything, so you don’t owe me any explanations,” Kirishima said, hoping he could deescalate the suspicion.

“Right. No. Yeah. We’re not… that.”

Kirishima realized he may have de-escalated too much when an ounce of hurt flickered across Bakugou’s face. That was bad. He needed to fix that. Kirishima racked his brain for ideas, but he could only come up with stupid plans. Kirishima noticed Bakugou’s face scrunch up like he was about to overthink something, and he took a deep breath. It was time to do something stupid.

“Not that I would hate if we were…” Kirishima said. “Dating or something.”

Bakugou’s cheeks tinted red and Kirishima hoped that was a good sign.

“Right,” Bakugou nodded. “That wouldn’t completely suck.”

Kirishima didn’t bother holding back the smile that broke out. “Well then maybe we should—"

“We’re back!” The front door swung open and Midoriya strutted into the living room. "Shoto and I were thinking about tacos if that works for you… two…”

Kirishima hadn’t noticed how close they were until Bakugou backed up an exaggerative distance. Kirishima didn’t anger easily, but at that moment if looks could kill Midoriya would’ve dropped on the spot.

“We’ll just wait in the hall,” Midoriya said, quickly pushing a confused Todoroki back out the door.

Bakugou had both his hands on his face and he looked at Kirishima through spread fingers. Kirishima gave him a half-grin and shrugged.

“Can we talk later?” Bakugou asked. “If Deku walks in one more time he’ll be the star of our next video.”

Kirishima felt his face burn. “Yeah. Later works.”

Bakugou nodded. “I have to… get shoes and stuff.”

He left Kirishima alone in the living room. Kirishima smacked his cheeks so the blush would be gone by the time he went into the hall. He had his hand on the brass doorknob when he spotted a whiteboard hanging beside the door.

It was a calendar whiteboard, the type you usually find in college apartments. It was color-coded based on each boy for chores, appointments, meal prep, rent, and bill payments, and other random reminders—Bakugou had one about picking Todoroki up from his dentist appointment. At the bottom left there were stick figures of Todoroki and Bakugou that looked to be drawn by the opposite. Kirishima had never seen something so wholesome and organized in his life. He knew that if his house tried to implement this it would go to shit in less than 12 hours.

The right side was more chaotic and had been invaded by Uraraka and Midoriya. Various things like fuck Deku, altered with a yes please beneath it; Uraraka is awesome, rewritten as Uraraka is stupid; Kacchan smells, a sloppy GOOD scribbled underneath; and Todoroki is a boss ass bitch, which was left alone. This was more like what anything at his home would resemble.

“I got it because half-and-half needed to learn how to be a functioning adult,” Bakugou said, sneaking up behind him. “Nobody takes my shit seriously.”

“Can I write on it?” Kirishima asked, already reaching for the red dry-erase marker. He found a clean spot in the bottom right and wrote ‘Kirishima was here’ with a shark-toothed smiley face.

Bakugou stared intensely at the spot then nodded. “Let’s go.”

The moment they entered the hall Midoriya apologized which started an argument between him and Bakugou. Kirishima tried seeking help in Todoroki as the two trailed behind them, but it appeared Todoroki still wanted nothing to do with him. Kirishima hoped he’d be able to fix whatever was going on because Todoroki seemed like a big part of Bakugou’s life. Mina always told Kirishima that befriending people was his hidden superpower, so he would just have to hope that he’d be able to ware Todoroki down. Kirishima wanted to be a part of Bakugou’s life, and that meant getting along with the people who were in it.

Bakugou aggressively punched the down button for the elevator while informing Midoriya his poor taste in movies made his every opinion irrelevant. When the doors slid open Todoroki shoulder checked him while walking past and Bakugou paused his fight with Midoriya as if thrown off by Todoroki’s actions. Kirishima guessed it really was just something about him then wasn’t it. The two appeared to be having some sort of telepathic conversation now and Kirishima just leaned against the cool metal of the elevator’s wall.

Don’t get him wrong. Kirishima was thrilled to be hanging out with everyone but…

He hoped later wouldn’t be too far away.

#kiribaku #clickbait #youtuber au #bakugou katsuki #kirishima eijirou #bakugou x kirishima #bnha #boku no hero academia #bnha au

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momtemplative · 5 years ago

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Once Upon a Time.

Once upon a time, not so long ago, there lived a Grammy and a Grampy who lived in a wonderful house in Boulder, Colorado. Two young girls, who happen to also be my kids, would come to visit them every Wednesday afternoon. Grammy would meet them at the front door with big hugs and their favorite lemonade in the fridge and their favorite snacks and fruit in bowls on the table. Their mom, who happens to be me, would then go to work massaging old people and then have the rest of the night to herself, time she would fill with heavenly kid-free activities—she would often see a movie in the theater or meet a friend for a drink, or maybe have an acupuncture appointment or hit the library for some writing. Such luxuries! Their dad would bring the girls home and put them to bed, and it would all seem so balanced and beneficial for everyone.

Then, abruptly, most of the parts of that simple paragraph were no more, as are most of the parts of many of the paragraphs for most people. No Grammy and Grampy’s house. No old people to massage. No movie in the theater or friends to chat with in-person or acupuncture or library. Two months later, we ask ourselves, is this the new normal?

Last week, I visited my in-laws for the first time since early March. Opal (she already visited them the previous week with Jesse) and I drove to their house in North Boulder, parked on the street out front, and sat on the sidewalk next to my car, using it for shade. It was toasty in the sun. The maple tree in their front yard still had no leaves to soften the emboldened springtime rays. Grammy brought a chair out into the yard that looked like it belonged in the lobby of a haunted hotel, wooden and upholstered—a benign artifact when out in the light of day. She plopped down. She mentioned the warmth a number of times, while wearing a thick yellow sweater, dark pants and heavy, black shoes.

Opal pulled her booster seat from the car and used it as a pseudo-stool while I sat on the sidewalk with my legs in a V (while Opal concerned herself with the red ants circling my bare knees). We joked that if this went on for much longer, we’d have to equip ourselves with more advanced accouterments for front yard hang-time. I just read about how people are now starting to use masks as a form of boutique expression—sewing sequins and affixing the fabric with dried flowers, like facial art. COVID lawn furniture could be the same: custom-made social distancing party goods—fancy awnings with RV lights, swanky travel chairs and shag-carpet lawn rugs. Kanye could develop his own line. There could be catalogues to order from.

For now, though, the front yard presented more classic, minimalistic furnishings. Grammy brought us a plate of fresh cookies and placed them at the halfway point between us on the lawn. Then she returned to her chair to sit down. I got up and put the goods in my front seat. Then, a moment later, Grammy remembered a few more things. She disappeared into the house, returned, and placed a bag of spicy chips from Trader Joes and a loaf of fresh local sourdough bread at the halfway point, and sat down again.

Nothing like this can happen with Ruth in the equation. She’s four. She would block, slow and question every minuscule action with a sort of stop-motion interrogation. Why are you doing it like that? Why does it look like this? Why is everyone acting so weird?

Ruth hasn’t seen her grandparents since early March. She doesn’t understand social distancing and masks are for Halloween. As for hand washing, well, she still picks her nose constantly. So we’ve kept her visits to video chats only.

While at Grammy and Grampy’s, our time went on like this, with Grammy dropping off merchandise for us in the yard before our very eyes, at least five times, like a part of some wonderful off-tempo choreography. We laughed and chatted as it went. When Grampy came too close with the oranges for Opal, she said— “Freeze! Leave them there on the grass please and my mom will pick them up.”

To that, all the grown-ups shared a sweet, impressed look. My expression said: Wow, the ten-year-old has more confidence and command around protocols then the cotton-picking president.

All the while, bees circled the hundreds of dandelions; they’d land, relocate, land, and relocate. The peony bush just began to launch forth. I know what glamorous blossoms it will grow up to have—soft pink ruffles like a doll dress growing upwards. But for now, it had a dozen stalks with finger leaves reaching, unabashedly, for nourishment.

Tiny purple flowers peppered the lawn, less like the star of the show and more like shading for a backdrop. Opal picked one and handed it to me, and it struck me as a tiny cluster of purple balloons.

I considered for a moment what kind of fairytale world would support a tiny purple balloon cluster. Then, Grammy sat down another pile of goods for us on the lawn. This batch was arts and crafts to take home for the girls to play with, together, and without her.

Everyone is doing the Grandparent Experience differently. It’s a supremely individual thing. Some friends have grandparents living in the same house with them and their children. Some friends continued to visit with grandparents, even as the other compartments of their social lives shut down. Some, like us, agreed with the grandparents on the importance of keeping our distance. (My parents live in Ohio, 2,000 miles down the road, so distance is built in to the equation. Insert sigh here.*)

Our little family-of-four has, for the last eight weeks, spent the lion share of our time in the house. We are (presumably) not little fleshy vectors of contagion. Hell, we are more pristine and untouched by the outside world as we have ever been or likely ever will be. Even if Ruth cannot keep her distance (or her fingers out of her nose), now seems to be a pocket of time when the stars are aligned for us to be the safest to come in contact with.

Add on the fact that Trump is determined to ‘liberate’ the world—May 1 was his target date—and that many local businesses are lighting their OPEN signs (though I don’t plan to get a haircut anytime soon), it does seems like the next conversation to be had is, when’s the grandparent party and who’s bringing the sangria?

I checked in with the oracle of the internet to see if I was on the same page as the rest of the country. But, as per usual for the duration of this craziness, I found myself searching for answers from a vacuum of uninformative noise. I keep hearing, “Let the states decide,” but there is nothing from Polis except that he is joining the republican governors to reopen many non-essential businesses, and that he has a plan. There was much written about taking precautions with grandparents at the beginning of the story, back in March. Lifetimes ago.

The only thing I could find that has been posted since March (and it’s May!) was an excerpt from a larger article from April 21, from a website called CNET. (—?) Two small paragraphs about visiting the elderly—“While the decision to hang out with your grandparents is a personal one to be made by your family, just remember that these are the people who are most at risk at developing a serious and potentially fatal illness if infected with the novel coronavirus.” Buzzkill.

A few things to consider:

1. We could all be silent carriers. From the Associated Press: “A flood of new research suggests that far more people have had the coronavirus without any symptoms, which means it’s impossible to know who around you may be contagious. That complicates decisions about returning to work, school and normal life.”

2. With the impending re-opening of businesses and retailers, comes more exposure for all of us. Flash forward to fall, when schools start again and the kids are on top of one another, we’ll be much more likely to be silent (or loud) carriers than we are now. What this all says to me is, we better get on with it! Knowing full well that we will likely need to dial back the interactions and reinforce more social distancing come fall and the presumed second wave.

3. It’s been proven that the virus is much more likely to be contracted while inside, and that outside is a much safer option for (socially distant) meeting. Seems obvious but good to consider. And thank god it’s spring.

The conversation across my in-laws’ lawn veered in numerous directions. It was the most satisfying of small-talk bits, precious little morsels that, during a typical era, would have likely gone overlooked. We were catching up, which is something you don’t typically have a chance to do with local family. (Also to be noted, we were without the fantastic but impressively distracting Ruth.)

Grammy asked if she could come and park on our street and watch the girls play in the front yard from her car.

Grampy said, “Yea, I wonder when we can start doing Wednesdays again. I miss Wednesdays.” Then, he rolled down the driveway on his bike, a white scarf around his face that, with the shades, made him look like an outlaw.

“Soon,” I said. “Hopefully, soon.”

#momtemplative #mindfulparenting #COVIDwords #onceuponatime

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thegildedgun · 5 years ago

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Vault (Prompt 05)

[Late, once again, but written to continue some idealization of follow-through]

‘Quiet yourself, little one. No fear nor boast may pass your lips. Tell them nothing. Tell them nothing and keep your secrets. They cannot call you ‘liar’ if you say nothing at all.’

The pages passed under his fingertips, distinct in their sound -a crackle where the edges were uneven, wrinkled- from those that had come before. It was burnt, the texture of parchment brought to flame unmistakable, and it would certainly explain the scent when he’d thumbed open the cover to this particular volume. He drew a breath, head dipping but an ilm, and willed the smell of dry, singed pulp to overwhelm his senses. It was momentary, not so different from the first breeze through an opened window after a long, shut-in night. But just as quickly, it faded into the backdrop of everything else. Frankincense obscured the mustiness of the shelves, hid the staleness of the air, blended with some aromatic bark he had no name for. Sweat stung foul in his nose, but he could almost ignore it.

Beyond that was the snap of low-heeled footwear on stonework, then carpet, and stonework again. Though muted, it played some out-of-time rhythm. More than once he caught himself trying to match his exhalations to each percussive footfall. He drew every breath with a gradual calm he did not feel otherwise. His heart had since stopped rushing in his ears, but his hands shook more than usual, nigh-imperceptible tremors growing, unmistakable.

The lines that glowed behind his lids jumped and blurred, only making his job more difficult.

Footsteps paced behind him, passed him twice in either direction (heading left, then right) before halting at his side. He felt cold. It was a fight to not hold his breath as he listened, parting his cracked lips. Delicate fingers traced over the spines, sliding closer to where he stood. Sweat prickled at the back of his neck, under either arm and upon his brow where strands were already stuck fast. A dull sound signaled a volume’s return to the shelf and the footsteps retreated, leaving him alone. He stayed frozen a minute longer before slowly sinking in place, clutching the tome to his chest as he shuddered through a wave of nausea. Just like that, his heartbeat thundered once more, vision clouding with the luminescent mass chasing away all the shadowed edges of his periphery.

That was how he was found, on his knees and bent forward as if in supplication, cradling a wide libram to his chest. He nearly jumped and shouted when his shoulder was brushed, pulse jackrabbiting. A pair of fingers shoved into his open mouth as magic lanced through him, needle-sharp and just as precise. No sound escaped and his struggles were marked only by the faint scuff of bootheels against masonry.

The touch was warm, but it still took him a full minute to stop floundering for space. A pacing set of footfalls passed them as his mind began to unfog. He was hauled up by a strong arm on his bicep, the book wrenched from his grasp. The lines upon lines of words wrought in light were snuffed out in an instant and it was left there on the floor. Then he was being tugged, hurried across the floor. His every effort to steady his gait and calm his trembling breath were met with failure as they stopped, rushed, stopped again, rushed and rushed.

There were footsteps behind them, they were quickening, growing in number. Three sets, four sets, seven. The hand on his arm tightened, magic sang through his veins, he couldn’t help himself. He yelled, open and terrified as the world shrieked back at him, twisted in so many ways that railed against his mind.

Llewannth rubbed at his aching jaw as it finally unlocked, tensed from their trip and the fear that had gripped him so tightly. Across the hallway, Faustoix looked infuriatingly unaffected, leaned against clean wood paneling with his cropped red hair a few ilms from a framed painting. Yet, as he opened his eyes Llew saw the lie, the ever-present bruises around them deeper, darker, blood-shot sclera. He wasn’t better off, but like all paranoid beasts they kept their suffering to themselves.

Faustoix looked at him after a long moment, lip twitching. He didn’t smile.

‘Librarium Aesopia,’ Faustoix mused, feeding the tongue of a securing strap into its buckle on Buttercup’s tack. ‘Or Athenaeum Ducenti.’ Llew looked at him, checked his ammo pouch, fingers tapping across the top of each cartridge. Sure enough, the redhead continued, unprompted but for the glance. “It’s Gelmorran, after a fashion, though the name isn’t. It was something older, before, but the Spoken worked its tunnels into a repository. It employed approximately two-hundred in upkeep during the height of its usage. Even after it had some notoriety amongst scholars.” “Surely Zacharraux could’ve suggested a better soul than I fer playin’ librarian in an old Duskwigh’ ruin. I mean, I ain’ shy ‘bout crackin’ open a good tome now’n’again but...” Faustoix laughed, the first time he’d heard him make such a sound. It was fitting in volume and cadence, in pitch and depth. But it sounded incomplete like something was missing from the sound. “The Atheneum is no ruin. The same two-hundred souls that were first enlisted to tend the shelves yet do so. I need you, not for your ‘speed reading’ or your ‘tracking’. I need your eyes. They eliminate the need for an aetherospectrometer, or a spell of magic-sight, don’t they? And you can remember anything you’ve seen, can’t you?” Llew’s gaze narrowed on the pale man, listing forward. “You...” “Do not take chances and have been preparing this delve for several suns. My first attempt ended in failure, and thus I’ve searched for another to aid me. You ‘fit the bill’.” Llew liked this less and less as time went on, but the promise of knowledge called to him, stronger than any goldlust.

Faustoix refilled his own cup first, and only the blonde’s in afterthought. Llew had yet to eat, barely drank, couldn’t talk, and altogether seemed not-entirely-there. At that, Faustoix was struck by the very real possibility that a piece of him had been left behind in the Athenaeum. Even with meticulous planning together prior to entering the library, there were just some matters that couldn’t be covered. It was one thing to explain that they’d be going in literally blind, another to do so. The story went that meeting a keeper’s gaze spelled the entrapment of one’s soul and while such tales were often merely cautionary, they were also often painted in broad strokes. The specificity led Faustoix to err on the side of care, the nature of the apocrypha within every stack gave credit to such gaudy spell weaving as soul snaring.

Nor could he properly explain the feeling of spirits as they passed through a living body, or the very real danger should they be detected by the library’s keepers. Shadows though they were, no less could they maim, Faustoix had born evidence of such for a full sun after his first attempt. They’d made it out, though it was a near thing. “So,” Llew shook him from his thoughts, devoid of mirth as his hands -gloved now, shaking- cupped around his tea. Faustoix looked at him, blinked as he failed to look higher than the pale man’s wrists. A full minute passed, with Faustoix regarding him expectantly. If he was fishing for yet another apology regarding the silencing spell used upon him, he wasn’t going to get one.

“Y’said we ain’ got all ya needed. When’re we headed back?” A wide-brim sat on the table, close enough that Llew could drag his little finger along the edge while he drank in Faustoix’s silence. Unexpected. “A sennight,” he replied, finally. “We’ll prepare more thoroughly, this time.”

Llew glanced up through his lashes, cracking a wild grin. He looked half-mad. A starved animal. “Alrigh’ then.”

#writing #Where the Line is Drawn

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haydenandtrish · 6 years ago

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Tour de Tulips: From Amsterdam to Lisse

Hayden and I quickly acquainted ourselves with life on two wheels in the Netherlands when we decided to ride from Amsterdam to Lisse – an 80 kilometre round trip.

Why on earth would we do that though? To see the Tulips of course!

Every year, particularly in the month of April, the tulips bloom and the thick green carpet transforms into a velvet rainbow. Thousands of little flowers open their petals and let their colour shine. We couldn’t miss it. But we’re back packing, so we looked for cheaper options. We read online that there are approximately 20 kilometres of tulip fields stretching from Haarlem to Lisse. So instead of travelling down to Keukenhof Gardens by train and then having to pay to see the Tulips, we rented a couple of bicycles for 30 Euros and began our first big Dutch adventure. Our blue rentals were rickety old things that rattled, and when it’s over bumpy cobblestone roads, it’s every body’s business. They had seen better days for sure. But these old faithfuls got us places, and by the end of the trip, we had melded right into them.

Now. We ride.

First destination? Haarlem. Leaving Amsterdam behind and heading out to explore the Dutch countryside, you couldn't tell we were on the outskirts of a city with an airport on one side and an industrial estate on the other – it was still an abundance of green.

Following the bike path, we veered away from the road and turned a corner, and we exclaimed something you start to say a lot on the road … Wow. We quickly realised that the beauty of The Netherlands is inescapable. We were up on a hill, a glistening lake to the right, dense forest to the left and the distant view was full of windmills lining the horizon. With smiles on our faces, we rode on.

Magic is everywhere.

Within the first hour of our journey, we had come across cute little towns made up of dark timber houses and farmland in the front yard. Sheep were kept, roosters could be heard and veggies were growing in neat boxes. With smiles on our faces, we rode on. We crossed dainty wooden bridges whose paths disappeared into what felt like enchanted woods, we milled in wonder as purple leaves rained lightly on us, and we laughed, true joyous laughs because everywhere we happened upon we had to stop and take in our surroundings. And then we would look at one another, and with smiles on our faces, we rode on. Through picture perfect Dutch towns, beside woods full of magic, past houses covered by vines and trees, along immaculately kept canals and over old cobblestone roads. We were left completely mesmerized. It was beautiful, to say the least, but there are some treasures we want you to experience for yourself, so we’ll leave it up to you to explore. We had no specific route and this was another little unplanned journey where we didn't know what to expect along the way. We have found experiencing somewhere with no expectations and no worry of whether or not you’re on the exact right path leaves a whole lot of room for unsuspecting wonder.

Google Maps became our best friend as we navigated our way down. We continued past stone built houses that were detailed with white trimmings. They were roofed in no particular shape – all obscured and quirky but following a similar colour scheme of black, orange or brown.

The canals flowed just as lovely as in Amsterdam and the people greeted you with a smile wherever you went. We had arrived in Haarlem. Our stay was short as we rode directly through the middle and out into more suburbs. We soon realised we were supposed to be on the other side of a particular canal, we needn’t worry though, because to our luck, Hayden spotted a lady standing on the side of the canal gazing out to the other side. Following her line of sight, there was a white barge transporting pedestrians to and fro. We saddled up beside her and waited for our ride. After a quick chat and a few points in the right direction we were back on our way.

Aaaahh the tulips.

We lulled lazily through unfamiliar streets noticing an increase in large oak trees, and the ladies earlier mention of a forest rang like bells in our minds when we came face first into an opening – with bike paths guiding the way of course. In our research before we had even left our Airbnb, we were told to follow the Leidesvaart Canal passing through towns Heemestede and Hillegom in order to find the Tulips. This is exactly what we did. We rode along the canal for some time and it eventually bent all the way right around a bend onto a dirt road, under a bridge, and then bam, on our left was a beautiful sea of red, yellow, white and pink.

After four hours of an incredibly flat but never dull ride, we had finally arrived at the Tulips. It was just as beautiful as I could have imagined. We ran around excitedly, getting closer to the flowers, smelling the sweetness, feeling the silkiness, celebrating that we had finally arrived. However, it was a little bittersweet as we looked around and realised that we were about one to two weeks too late to witness the fields in full bloom. Many had already been picked. We witnessed workers walking up and down the aisles and handpicking only the most perfect tulips. Once we had finished admiring the first destination we rode a little further up.

The place we came across was a quaint little set of houses along the canal we had been following. The yards were kept tidy, with tulips growing all around. We sat on one of the boat docks and had some snacks. We were quiet beside one another as we silently marvelled at what we had just gotten to do. We couldn’t believe the indescribable beauty of the Netherland’s. It’s just that, even as I type this I cannot for the life of me find the right words to perfectly describe how enchanting everywhere we went was. We just appreciated exactly where we were – in the middle of the Netherland’s, along some unknown canal, out front of pretty Dutch houses and looking out to bare green fields where Tulips usually lay. It was a dream come true.

We almost turned around there and headed home, but we decided to go just a little further. We are glad we did, because we ended up stumbling across more Tulip fields. There was literally fields and fields of tulips. This particular location had to have been laid by Willy Wonka himself as it was nearly completely purple. A church stood tall in the background surrounded by yet another town making it the perfect backdrop.

We decided to keep riding down to the Keukenhof Gardens, go around them and head back up the other side from which we came. Although we didn’t go in, we’ve heard they are beautiful, so if you want to see the tulips in a more artistic way then this is the place for you.

It was around the time we stopped in a lovely little café in Lisse that sat beside some train tracks that we realised we had been riding down for over six hours now - making it close to 4pm. We were meant to have the bikes back in Amsterdam by 7pm. A quick look at Google Maps told us we would be there in 7 hours on foot.

OOOooooohhhh how we rode like the wind back to Amsterdam.

We hammered our legs with no joyous stops along the way, we battled the wind coming down against us the entire way back, we cut through towns and parks and with barely 10 minutes to spare, we made the journey back up within 3 hours. All the while thanking the Netherland’s for being so flat.

Our advice

 - Enjoy the trip from Amsterdam to Haarlem  - Follow the Leidesvaart Canal passing through towns Heemestede and Hillegom - If you want to see our full route, click here.

- See the tulips late May early April if you want to see them in full bloom

- Oh my god wear sunscreen! We didn’t and man our faces were sunburnt. They didn't look red but they were so sore to touch.

- If there looks to be wind about, wear a scarf! I luckily had mine on and could cover my face. Hayden unfortunately copped it all which would have worsened the dryness from the sunburn.

- Leave yourself plenty of time – we left at 9:30am so admittedly we could have left much earlier. We’re just enjoying that European time clock of late starts later finishes – it's marvellous.

- Even if you don’t get to see the Tulips we really recommend completing the ride if you have a day to spare.

It wasn’t just seeing the Tulips that made this trip special. It was being able to see real Dutch living in its most authentic state, and it’s breath taking ❤️

Always with Love, Trish

#netherlands #tulips #amsterdam #Lisse #bicycle #dutch #keukenhof #garden #tulipfields

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poisoned-chicken-marsala · 5 years ago

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ok so I combined the last things I wrote because they belong together and I was too lazy to post them in the same thing but here we go. Same chapter thing as before, but put together under the cut bc it’s long. Please tell me what you think!

Kara trudged home from the grocery store on a Thursday afternoon. It had been a relatively calm day for her, she had the day off of work and was very happy about that. Or, she felt like she should be happy about it, but she just felt off the whole day instead. She felt like her head had been in a fog and her body felt heavier than usual. It took so long to get groceries, even with a list detailing exactly what she needed. At least the stores she’d been to were mostly empty and she could wander mindlessly. But walking home required thought and Kara tried to engage herself with her surroundings while she made her way home by kicking a rock in front of her as she went. The rock came to a stop at the foot of some stairs after the last kick. The building they led up to was no longer in use and boarded up to discourage people from breaking and entering. Kara smiled slightly when she approached the steps. Almost home.

When she looked for the rock, she saw someone sitting on the steps and glanced to see who it was. To her surprise it was Narancia, a boy her and her friends had hung out with at the park many times. Did he live out this way? She didn’t know, and never thought it was polite to ask. He was sitting with his knees drawn up to his chest a troubled look on his face that didn’t leave, even when he looked up to see who was there.

“Hi Narancia.” Kara said with a small smile. Narancia stared at her for a moment and didn’t reply. He rested his chin on his knees again and turned his attention back to the street. Kara’s backpack felt like it gained a hundred pounds when he brushed her off. She stood still for a moment, tilting her head and giving her friend? a curious look. What the hell was his problem?

“Are… are you okay?” She tried again, shuffling her feet. He looked up at her again, angry this time.

“Shut the fuck up.” Narancia snapped, letting go of his knees. Kara’s eyes widened in shock, her face burning. She stepped back on to a lower stair, staring at the patch of plants near where his hand was resting.

‘Oh. Did I overstep a boundary of some kind?’ She asked herself. The silence that settled between them lay thick and heavy, like a blanket. A minute passed (it seemed more like an hour) before she looked him in the face again. Kara figured she must have still looked shocked because Narancia’s face fell after a moment. To her surprise, he started to cry. Kara immediately walked back up to the step Narancia was sitting on and hesitated for a moment before reaching down and gently taking his arm.

“Come on, let’s go to my house. It’s not far.” She said softly and pulled him up to his feet.

————————————

The walk to her apartment felt like a dream. Kara unlocked the door when they arrived and ushered her friend inside, locking the door behind them and putting her backpack down on the floor. Narancia sat down on the sofa, only looking up when Kara offered him a fist full of tissues. She set the box down on the table and took a seat next to him, their knees touching. The radio on the windowsill played a song she didn’t know the name of, the melody interrupted by bouts of static and Narancia’s heavy breaths. Kara sighed and looked at the grocery bag. They could wait, she decided. There wasn’t anything that could spoil in there. She took a quick glance back at the crying boy. He was staring at the carpet, a tissue balled up in his left hand. Kara reached slowly to rest her hand on top of his. Narancia didn’t move.

Eventually, he stopped crying and stirred some time later, pulling his hand out from under hers. She watched him for a moment and pointed to a slightly cracked door through a small hallway when he turned towards her, feeling her eyes on him.

“Go wash your face. You’ll feel better.” Kara suggested and rose from her spot. Narancia got up too, picked up all of his tissues and shut the door to the bathroom once he was inside. Kara moved her bag from the floor to the kitchen and heard the tap begin to run. Guilt struck her when she unzipped the biggest pocket of her bag.

‘I should have done more.’ Kara scolded herself and let go of the bag. ‘I can ask him if he wants a hug when he comes out.’ She paced in the kitchen, heart pounding, humming to a song on the radio for what seemed like an eternity when the tap finally shut off. The door swung open. Kara straightened up and looked at her friend awkwardly standing in the bathroom doorway. He looked a little better, it was still obvious he had been crying. She walked over to him nervously.

“Do you want a hug?”

“… Yes.”

Kara closed the distance between them and loosely wrapped her arms around Narancia, tightening her grip on him when he hugged her back. They stood and listened to the radio for a moment which was broadcasting mostly static instead of music.

“I’m sorry.” Narancia said quietly after a moment, letting go of Kara. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you. You only asked me a question..”

“I accept your apology… Do you want some soup? I was going to make some for myself but I’m sure there is enough for you as well, if you’re hungry.” Kara changed the subject, walking back into the kitchen to her bag and zipped her bag open wider.

“I guess I’ll have some, since you’re offering.” Narancia replied, fiddling with a pen he found on the counter.

————————————

He sat down at the table and stared at a poster of a white clown holding.. Cocoa powder? He couldn’t tell, the poster was in another language he didn’t understand. It was a bit hard to see the clown’s features from where he was sitting. The only things he could really see were its open mouth and bright red cheeks. Narancia was so engrossed in the clown, Kara startled him when she set a bowl down in front of him and promptly walked passed him to the TV. She picked up a remote off the table in there and turned it on. A movie played on the screen, the dialogue of the characters clashing with the static from the radio. Kara turned that off and turned towards the TV to see what was going on. Narancia got up from the table and wandered into the living room, brushing past Kara.

There was a fish tank above the TV and more posters. And books everywhere:on the table, under the radio and in a large box beneath the shelf next to the TV. There were books on things from Hurricanes to Gems to what looked like novels. One titled The Moomins and The Great Flood caught his eye. Narancia knelt down and took it off the shelf, curiously looking at the cover. White, rotund creatures stood out against the dark forest backdrop on the front. He was right, it was a story book. The movie cut to a commercial break and Kara looked over at the shelf, doing a double take when she saw Narancia on the floor.

“What’ve you got there?” She asked. He held the book up for her to see, twisting it around slightly so he could read the title.

“The.. Moomins and The Great Flood.” He placed the book on the table and looked up at Kara. “What’s a Moomins?”

“Oh. I can tell you about that after we eat. I think the soup will be done soon.” Kara replied and hurried back to the kitchen to check. Narancia followed her and looked at the white clown poster again up close this time. The clown’s eyes were small and dark. They made it look crazy: solemn eyes and a big grin. Maybe the clown was confused as to how it was supposed to feel and he took a little comfort in that.

————————————————————————————–

Kara and Narancia sat on the couch, their soup bowls on top of the books on the coffee table. They were old books that she didn’t care if they got food on them, it would just give her a real excuse to get rid of them. They didn’t know the movie that was playing, they missed the very beginning. The plot made no sense and they only knew a few character names. Whatever. It was only background noise anyway, along with the occasional clink of a spoon against a bowl. The Moomins and The Great Flood lay forgotten on the table.

Kara glanced at her friend while she picked her bowl up again. Narancia was watching the movie, resting his chin on his fist and his other hand holding his empty bowl in his lap. He looked much better than earlier, she thought and peeked into her own bowl before he caught her staring. It was empty, much to her surprise. She didn’t remember finishing her soup and after a quick inspection of the table, she hadn’t spilled it. Huh. Kara stood up.

“Do you want any more soup?” She asked. Narancia looked away from the movie and shook his head.

“No, I’m good.” He replied and turned back to the TV for a second. “Thanks though.” He added quickly. Kara smiled slightly.

“Can I take your bowl then?” She extended her arm for it. Narancia nodded once and handed it over, stretching out over the length of the couch. Kara snorted and grabbed it from him, picking up his spoon off the middle cushion and walked into the kitchen. She filled the bowls with water and left them on the countertop. When she returned to the living room, she decided she was going to actually pay attention to the movie. It was fun to make up reasons certain characters were doing certain things. Of course they were all wrong when the big reveal of the villain’s evil scheme happened and filled in some of the holes in the story. When the credits rolled, Kara stretched, reaching up towards the ceiling. She looked over at the other side of the couch and did a double take, suddenly remembering Narancia was there. He had fallen asleep, his head propped up on his fist.

Guilt settled in Kara’s stomach as a heavy weight while she stared at her sleeping friend. How could I forget he was here? Ohdear, what time is it? Her heart lurched when she looked at the clock: it was a little after 10 pm. She went over to his side of the couch, kneeling next to the arm rest, gently placing her hand on his shoulder.

“Narancia, wake up.” Kara said urgently. Narancia promptly woke up and rubbed his cheek where his fist had been. Kara let go of his shoulder and rose, glancing at the clock again.

“It’s, like, after 10 and I didn’t know if you had a certain time you needed to go home or something… I got sucked into the movie and lost track of time.” She admitted and fiddled with her braid. He was silent for a moment.

“I should probably go check in.. I ran off hours and hours ago. They’re probably worried about me..” Narancia said, not caring to elaborate on who he was talking about being concerned over his disappearance for the afternoon. He yawned, causing Kara to yawn as well, and got up off the couch. Kara followed him to the door, where he hesitated with his hand on the door knob.

“Thank you… for everything. I appreciate it and I’m sorry I yelled at you.” Narancia apologized quietly and stared at the floor.

“I forgive you, and I’m sorry I didn’t do more for you…. I hope you’ll want to hang out again in the future, when we’re both not sad. If we watch a movie next time you come over, I promise I won’t forget you’re here.” Kara joked, attempting to lighten the mood. Narancia looked up from the floor and smirked.

“Yeah, that offended me so much.” He replied and opened the door and stepped out into the night. Kara rolled her eyes at him with a smile and stood in the doorway across from him.

“Good night, be safe on your way home.” She said, holding the door open when he let go.

“I will be, don’t worry. Good night.” He said with a small wave and turned to walk down the street. Kara watched him go until he turned a corner out of sight. She shut the door and locked it, walking into the kitchen to get to her room. The soup bowls caught her eye as she passed, deciding she would wash them in the morning. Sleep was more important.

#jojo's bizarre adventure #jojo no kimyō na bōken #jojo part 5 #vento aureo #jjba part 5 #jjba oc #jjba fanfiction #narancia ghirga #my oc #writers on tumblr #criticism is appreciated #aw shit here we go again #this must be the place #oh cee thingz

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