#so I decided to do this mashing up of occasions
Explore tagged Tumblr posts
apparitionism · 7 months ago
Text
Asleep 2
For the anniversary this year, I have the second “half” of my @b-and-w-holiday-gift-exchange story for @kla1991 : an involuntary bed-sharing situation that turns not sexy but disastrous. The first part took on Myka’s perspective; this conclusion is written from the other side of the bed. A confession: I find in-universe Helena’s head voice a somewhat difficult register to compose—because while she can’t be fully insane, she needs to teeter or list, sometimes more than a little (but without falling into histrionics). Which is to say that if you don’t entirely buy the turns of thought and/or coping mechanisms I’ve given her here, your skepticism is well-placed. Ultimately I hope it’s the case that a person can be broken but still want in a way that’s... pure? Justified? Sweet? Reciprocatable? Maybe just “vaguely recognizably human”?
Anyway, this is long, first because it extends well beyond the point at which the first part ended, but also because when a Bering and a Wells get to talking (as they at last do!), they need to work things out at their own pace...
Asleep 2
My arm is asleep.
Under normal circumstances, a person would, upon becoming aware of this, shift position so as to restore blood flow.
Under normal circumstances.
But very little is normal about the circumstances under which Helena’s arm is asleep.
She is in a hotel-room bed, in the dark of night, lying on her left side, with her left arm, her now-asleep arm, pinned beneath her. So ends the disturbingly limited “normal” portion of the situation.
Here begins the larger portion: she absolutely must not move.
Irony guts at her with that, a shiv-and-twist remembrance of bronze restriction—but that prohibition had involved a significantly different auxiliary verb: “cannot” rather than “must not.”
Grammatical particulars aside, her immobility now is barely less a torment. This is because her other arm, her alive right, terminates in an even-more alive sensate hand, one that now rests—but is in no way at rest—on Myka’s right hip.
Myka, too, is lying on her left side, a small distance in front of Helena, lying in this hotel-room bed. Such proximity in such a space might, under other circumstances, signify the fulfillment of a long-held dream... but here, now, it seems a nightmare. For Myka is Helena’s colleague and no more; they are in this bed for sleep and no more; and Myka is playing her part correctly while Helena is not, in contravention of what she has sworn to herself she would do no more.
Such drowsy sense the placing of that hand had seemed to make, when she had found herself facing Myka’s back. She had in the past regarded that length covetously, relishing the idea of touch both salacious and tender.
For all her coveting, however, she had in fact only once laid hands on that back, both hands with intention on the clothed blades of Myka’s shoulders: a terrifying embrace, one that was in the most basic physical manner right but overall searingly wrong, screaming bodily truth but surrounded by words that said nothing they should. A perversion of promise, like so much else that had happened in Boone.
Yet Helena had clung to its memory all the same.
She’d thought, here in this unexpected proximity, to supersede that, to touch once again, once again but brief, once again though brief. To erase and replace.
First she touched the right blade, light; yet her hand wanted stillness, more connection than a mere pat against cotton-clad bone. And there was Myka’s hip, a beckoning promontory jut... a place to rest. Rest, however brief.
Once placed, however, her hand had proved reluctant to retreat.
Brief, she reminded it.
No, the hand had responded. I belong here.
Helena knows this is true. She knows also that it cannot be true.
But she is no stranger to holding contradictory thoughts in her head. This has been essential to establishing and maintaining, in these new Warehouse days, a functional equilibrium. Functional. Indeed her goal, in this “reboot,” has been to function, which she has lately defined as something on the order of “to move through time nondestructively.”
This definition had come about due to her realization, pre-reboot, that her difference from others, her inability to fully perform a modern self—her arrogance about that inability, even as she attempted to hide both the inability and the arrogance—chipped at, chipped from, the good (the good nature, the good will, the goodness) of those around her. Over time, such chips accrued as wounds.
Nate. (Adelaide.) Giselle.
She had as a result finally understood that coming back to the Warehouse would mean, at the very least, that those with whom she interacted had already made a bargain, perhaps even a peace, with the inevitable violence of history: with the way the forces of the past could—would—affect, even infect, the present. Helena herself was, at her simplest, merely one more of those forces.
She did consider requesting that she be re-Bronzed, now absent any pretension of traveling through time, but rather as a way of neutralizing a dangerous, and demonstrably unstable, artifact. But then an image had come to her, possibly as an omen, possibly as only a desperate wish: Myka’s devastated face upon hearing such news.
Boone all over again.
Thus the reboot. Because the most significant entry under “function,” with additional emphasis on the “nondestructive” portion of that definition, was her resolution to spare Myka pain. In the past, Helena had been both careless and careful—surgically so—in her infliction of damage on Myka above all others. But she had sworn to herself that those days were done.
Done, but Helena knew she had not paid anything near a sufficient price.
So. To maintain distance, no matter how troublesomely ardent her wish to close it, was—had to be—part of her penance. And to do so decorously was—had to be—the gentlest approach. That was what Helena told herself in her more rational moments.
This moment, in this bed, is not one of those. If it were, she would simply remove her hand. Simply remove it, then roll over.
But her mind races, finding complication: She doesn’t know what sort of sleeper Myka is. Had Helena’s placing of hand awakened her? If she had awakened, has she now fallen asleep again? If she has, would she then be reawakened by the hand’s removal? Or would she, if still awake, draw some negative inference about the entire situation based on removal?
Ideally, Helena would maintain a facsimile of entirely blameless sleep while engaging in that removal, but can she make such a performance believable?
Never in her life has Helena been so concerned about her ability to mislead convincingly as when she has attempted to deceive Myka. That was the case in the past, even at her most nefarious, and now she worries day-to-day that her strictly disciplined disguise of near-constant wishing ache will slip and fail. A simple I am asleep should be... well... simple. But it is not, and Helena is reminded of Claudia’s tendency to observe, in situations both dire and banal, “Here we are.”
Here we are, because Myka is apparently indifferent to the idea of sharing a bed with Helena.
Here we are, because Myka is apparently indifferent to history.
Here we are, and that latter indifference is a surpassing irony, due to the fullness of—
Helena sees that she needs to divert her train of thought, as descending into unjustified anger will help absolutely nothing.
First, she entertains a fantasy of sitting up, turning on a light, and explaining to Myka that this entire situation is untenable, and that if they are going to share a bed, they should share a bed. But it’s true that Myka did not seem even to consider that as a possibility, which seems ludicrous, given the past... no, that’s back to unjustified anger, for who is Helena to resent what Myka wishes not to consider? And indeed, who is she to interpret the past in such a way as to believe she understands what Myka would have considered?
Focus on the facts, she tells herself. What actually happened in that nefarious past. And do so dispassionately.
Regrettably, the word “dispassionately” brings to mind another word: “passionately.”
Again. For she had thought that word not long after she and Myka had first entered this room, first entered it to find, as Helena’s unrestrained fantasies might have conjured, only one bed. That they were clearly intended to share. Thus her mind’s unruly leap to... an adverbial manner in which they might do so.
But Myka had said not one word about the accommodations, so Helena had held her tongue as well. She nevertheless couldn’t help but feel it an elaborate lack of remark on both their parts, the silence practically baroque in its fullness.
Baroque too had been the courtesy with which they jointly prepared for bed, a you-first-no-you stutter-choreography of politeness that ensured privacy, yes, but also reinforced the barrier between their past and their present.
Which Helena understood was necessary. It did nothing, however, to mitigate the breath-hold of preparing to lie down beside Myka.
Once she had managed that lying down, however (with a relative aplomb for which self-congratulation was not, she felt, unjustified), she hoped her torment might ease. A bit. If she could manage the additional task of pretending the body beside her was no more significant than any other human. Some flesh, recumbent.
But when they were situated thus beside, Myka spoke. “You seem a little upset,” she said.
Helena had barely been able to restrain a snort. Now Myka saw fit to comment? As if allowing this portion of the play to pass without remark would create some undue strain upon collegiality? As if their incongruous bonhomie might buckle under the weight of that silence? Oh, that was rich.
Bottling her pique, Helena questioned: “With?” To make Myka say it. Mere saying wouldn’t hurt. Would it?
“You haven’t been yourself since you put that camera in the static bag. Was it a problem, seeing it again?”
Helena held herself rigid so as to keep her body from betraying neither her disappointment at the question nor, contradictorily, her relief...
It was a reasonable question. A good question. Not one on which Helena particularly wanted to focus (although it indicated a certain attention on Myka’s part, an attention on which Helena suspected she should not dwell), but it did deserve an answer. “It closes a door, doesn’t it,” she told the ceiling, for turning her head to address the other body directly seemed an invitation to peril. “That one I opened so nefariously, long ago.”
“Or—and—maybe it closes a loop,” Myka said.
Unexpected. “A loop?”
“Right after college, I went through a self-help phase,” Myka said. She paused, and Helena found herself on relative tenterhooks regarding the applicability of this (new!) information to the current situation. Which reminded her how much she had missed talking with Myka... because of the very sound of her voice, yes, but also because her conversation could range so unanticipatedly. So rewardingly unanticipatedly. Helena had known few people who could lead her on such unpredictable, yet productive, journeys.
Was Myka’s apparent willingness to begin such a journey now indicative of... anything? A softening, perhaps, of relations between them? Not a rebooting of their once-burgeoning intimacy, for that had to remain taboo, but could it be that some restoration of their previous intellectual engagement might be, at the very least, neutral rather than harmful?
Helena had moved a tentative pawn in that direction during their conversation on the airplane. Perhaps this was Myka’s answering move?
With an exhale that seemed like resignation at what she was about to say—to reveal?—Myka said, “I felt like I needed to be someone different—someone better.”
Another pause. Helena considered that such a feeling seemed very Myka (and she heard that phrase in Claudia’s voice), but also very misguided. Of course she was not at all placed to make such judgments, and even less so to convey them to Myka. Thus she said a simple, “Did you,” to encourage without prejudice.
“So I read a lot of books,” Myka said, to which Helena had responded internally, Of course you did. “One was about how to get things done.”
“All things?” Helena asked.
“Sort of.” That was followed by yet another pause. Yet another puzzle.
All these pauses. Was Myka on the verge of sleep? Helena said, soft, thinking she might go unheard, “Perhaps I should read that book. As a help to myself.”
At that, Myka had laughed, more delay, but also soft. “I don’t think it’s any kind of help you need. The guy who wrote it had a big system, all these rules, and I love rules, but these... I admit I didn’t stick with most of them. Honestly, any. But an idea that did stick was actually a pretty minor part: open loops. Stuff you track subconsciously, all the time, because it’s incomplete. How troubling that is. And what a difference it makes when you close a loop, when you each a resolution. I mean, he was talking about stuff like answering emails.”
“Emails,” Helena echoed. So far from artifacts.
“Which this is so much bigger than,” Myka said, exhibiting, not for the first time, an uncanny ability to scoop from Helena’s thoughts. “But maybe the principle holds. You don’t have to tell me. But I hope you have fewer open loops now than you did. Before.”
“Yes. The number. Fewer,” Helena said, factually.
She of course couldn’t say out loud (but it was equally factual) that Myka herself was the loop most capaciously open. The one that gaped, superseding, never mind the number of lesser.
Indeed, however, that number was now minus-one. Oscar. Oscar and his ballad... that loop closed.
Helena had in fact, while handling the camera, begun to ideate a wish that someone (Steve? Claudia?) might be persuaded to use the camera to capture her image... for it had occurred to her that a spark of art, some production on which to concentrate, might animate this reboot... something to pursue, rather than to be pursued by...
But. Lying abed, still and strangely hopeful—a state she should have known would not endure—a realization had struck her, as an open hand to the face, a realization of why Myka had brought up loops and the closing thereof: she had somehow discerned Helena’s wish, via that scooping of thought, and was discouraging her from pursuing it.
So much for any softening. This was instead a warning: Helena should not open a loop that Myka might be obligated to close. And Helena had no trouble grasping that the warning was in no way limited to the use of a single artifact... no, it doubtless applied to any burdensome loops Helena might be thinking of opening, any new incompletions that might come to trouble Myka.
“I understand,” Helena had said, regretting that pawns could not be moved backwards.
At the same instant, Myka said, “I’m glad.”
That collision had canceled communication entirely; in its wake, Myka had turned out her light and turned away from Helena.
Leaving Helena to her thoughts.
Well, fine, had been the first of those.
Next had come an equally mulish sniff of And I will have no difficulty directing any subsequent away from this shared bed.
Whereupon she had proven herself both wrong and right, thinking about history, about the fact that, whatever Myka’s commentary or lack thereof had or hadn’t signified, the fact of Warehouse agents lodging together, sharing beds completely platonically, was certainly nothing new.
This line of thinking had enabled Helena to distract herself by recalling a mission with Steve and Claudia, one in which Steve had announced, after checking in at their hotel, “Bad news. Just a king room left, but they said they’d bring up a cot.”
He had then immediately assigned Claudia to said cot, prompting her to protest, “No way! This situation screams rock-paper-scissors tournament! Loser gets the crappy night’s sleep!”
“No way,” Steve protested back, far more mildly. “The father of science fiction gets first dibs on the lumbar support, and my back’s got a decade on yours, so I call second. If that father agrees.”
Helena had. Sharing with Steve had been fine.
Sharing with Myka should of course have been no different.
Should of course have been...
But now, here in the impossible present, as Helena’s left arm slumbers and her right hand sparks, what should have been? Isn’t isn’t isn’t.
She needs further distraction, so she casts her mind again to Claudia and Steve, to the compensations they have offered her during this strange and estranging reboot: at first Claudia, who had welcomed Helena back so unreservedly and continues to offer wholehearted allyship; and then Steve, who had quickly become an unanticipated boon companion, a partner upon whom Helena has felt increasingly, and increasingly exceptionally, lucky to be able to rely.
And yet these compensations, though Helena hopes she conveys all appropriate gratitude for them, are never sufficient, for Myka—necessary yet unreachable—is always present.
She’d been so, even during that cot-delineated retrieval. Its aftermath had (so much for distraction) involved a significantly Myka-related incident, for Helena had dared, as she, Steve, and Claudia were relaxing in the hotel lounge prior to retiring, to broach Myka as a topic of conversation. As one might do, she’d thought: speaking about a colleague.
“I have an inquiry,” she’d phrased it. To make the ensuing question sound... scientific?
Dispassionate, she jeers at her recalled self.
She jeers also at what she’d said next: a too-bald, “How is Myka?”
She had known, even at the time, that what she had truly wanted was to say that blessed name, to speak about that blessed person. She could not speak to Myka in any meaningful way, and she was starving.
Steve and Claudia had then shared what seemed an extremely charged glance, so Helena hastened to dissemble, making sure to use questions so as to prevent Steve from finding her immediately untruthful: “Given that her liaison with Pete ended? They’ve... recovered, as it were? Both faring well?”
But her tone had struck her own ears as too bright; a desperation rippled behind it, and Helena knew from experience that behind that tiptoed a still deeper threat of rupture, which required work to be kept at bay. As Helena had been instructed by her most successful therapist to do when such awareness overtook her, she began to breathe with attention.
Neither Steve nor Claudia spoke as she did so.
When the danger passed, she smiled, as best she could, to signal to them her appreciation—and to herself, her success.
Steve then said, “You’re not asking about Pete.”
Helena valued—as a personality trait—Steve’s discerning willingness to push. She did not in that moment value how he thus so easily revealed a glaring flaw in her initial approach: she should have asked about Pete; with that as her entrée, the talk might organically have turned to Myka. Foolish of her to think so unstrategically... or was her failure to do so a paradoxically positive sign?
“Give it time,” Steve said, and Helena knew he was making no reference to Myka and Pete’s recovery.
“My relationship to time,” she said, with contempt. Time: she’d taken it. Now she had to give it? A forfeit. Well, that was fair.
Claudia said to Steve, “Speaking of, we’re wasting it. Are we gonna do the thing?”
“Only if H.G.’s on board,” Steve told her. It was an unexpectedly mind-your-manners utterance.
“What is the thing?” Helena asked.
“Claudia’s trying out alcohols,” Steve said. “We can’t do it around Pete, obviously, which means retrievals are our—”
“So many questions to answer, right?” Claudia interrupted, her avidity increasing. “You know, am I über-suave James Bond with the martinis? Or a fights-against-my-general-cool-geek-vibe Carrie Bradshaw with a cosmo?”
Helena had had no idea what she was referring to, but the investigation seemed entirely fit for someone her age. “What have you determined thus far?”
“Turns out cosmos don’t work for me,” she said, “as the prophecy foretold, and Bond-wise, I like a martini all vodka, no gin; sorry, Vesper.”
“Is that all?” Helena asked.
Further avidity: “Oh god no. Vodka drinks aren’t perfect: white Russians are way too sweet. Also in the white family, the wine category pretty much bores me. Also there was this one time Steve ordered a gin drink called a white lady that I couldn’t even think about because it had an egg white in it and one look made me retch.”
“Quite the wide-ranging experiment,” Helena said, hoping to forestall further off-putting description. “Not conducted with inappropriate... ah... intensity, one hopes?”
Steve patted Claudia’s shoulder, at which she rolled her eyes. “I’m supervising,” he said. “No more than a few tries in one sitting, and we’re doing it mindfully.”
Claudia abandoned her attitude and nodded. “Paying attention to what I’m tasting. How to find, you know, notes and stuff. Except for the disgusting egg-white thing, it’s honestly been fun.”
“I’m not opposed to fun,” Helena said, and she was a bit surprised—but pleased, and pleased to be pleased—that Steve didn’t squint in response. “So, Mr. Supervisor, what’s next?”
“I’ve been pushing for the wide and wonderful world of beer, but—”
“Seems too jocktastic,” Claudia said. “You know, ‘Beer me, bro.’”
“I don’t know,” Helena said.
“Anyway that’s really not me,” Claudia continued, as if Helena hadn’t spoken. She did have a tendency to ignore Helena’s ignorance, a tendency that Helena enjoyed and found frustrating in equal measure.
“Her beer perspective is severely limited,” Steve lamented.
“I myself have always found a strong stout ale quite enjoyable,” Helena said: her contribution to Steve’s cause. It was also true, the fact of which he seemed pleased to affirm with a quirk of lip and a quiet “so you have.”
Claudia’s expression remained skeptical, but she shrugged weakly and said, “I guess I could give it a shot?”
“Oh, because H.G. says so,” Steve twitted.
To that, Claudia squared her shoulders. “Yeah. Don’t you know who she is?” she demanded.
“Who I was,” Helena hurried to emphasize, “and given that Steve assigned me the bed on that basis, he—”
“Who you are,” Claudia corrected, throwing the emphasis back.
“And who is that?” Helena asked. What distinction did Claudia imagine was relevant?
“The person who told me my destiny was glorious. You’re still that guy, right?”
Relevant indeed. Helena was taken aback, indeed taken back to that extremity, back in a novel way. She had been so mired in the Myka of it all in the intervening time, that she had lost her view of the bright salience of Claudia’s presence. Wrongly. “I am,” she said. She hoped Claudia believed her.
“Okay,” Claudia said. “So I’ve got this big-as-Pete’s-biceps incentive to hope the stuff you say is true. And by the way, one of you has to casually drop in front of him how I said that, because I want the points.”
Steve snickered and said, “I know my job. But in the meantime, I think I’d like to toast to all these sentiments, and to the agents offering them. With a strong stout ale.”
They tasted the three strongest the hotel bar had on offer, and Claudia pronounced that her favorite, one purporting to convey roasted notes of coffee, chocolate, and other darkness, was “way too complicated for your average broseph.” Which Steve seemed pleased by, as a judgment, so the overall experience scored a success.
There was no further talk of Myka, however, the avoidance of which topic seemed quite deliberate... as if Steve and Claudia had determined that Helena would not benefit from it.
Or that she did not deserve it.
For the best, Helena had concluded. Either way.
Now, in a similar “for the best either way” sense, she makes to raise her hand, with that intended overlay of feigned sleep, so as to shift away and at last regain equilibrium, restoring feeling to her sleeping arm and calming that oversensitive hand. But instead—in what she can interpret only as a stupidly id-driven attempt to bank some never-to-be-repeated sensation, to the memory of which that desperate id might cling in a touch-deprived future—she moves her hand, not away from Myka, but further down her leg.
And her worst fears are instantly realized: Myka’s body reacts violently, as if in revulsion at the very idea of Helena touching her.
It was only a hand at rest, Helena begs, with no conception of why or to whom she is rendering that supplication. That was all.
Alas, that was—is—not all, for in the next split second Myka is falling from the bed and crying out in pain.
Helena, at a loss, attempts a faux-innocent inquiry, which Myka answers unintelligibly. In trepidation, Helena ventures to the mattress-edge, then lowers herself to the floor next to Myka—and she is appalled, for the situation that confronts her is all debility, even more so than the absurd “my arm is asleep” with which this farce began: Myka’s shoulder is dislocated.
Further, Myka is now unconscious.
Spare Myka pain. How utterly unsurprising Helena finds her inability to obey such a dictum in even this most basic physical sense.
Unsurprising... worse, dispiriting, and it brings her low, such that again the incipient rupture asserts its subterranean power, urging Helena to give up, to run away and leave this broken Myka to someone else to bind up and save.
You’ve done it before.
That resounds in her head as both accusation and affirmation, and the voice pronouncing it might be Myka’s, or some deity’s, or that of any of the other personages who jockey audibly for primacy in that space, including Helena’s own.
She initiates breathing with care, even as an eddying undertow tempts her to entertain the notion that escape, too, might be rebooted, tempts her to entertain and revel in its ostentation as a response to Myka’s indifference, her rejection of history, even her revulsion.
Here is my answer to all that, a departure would declare.
Helena labors to breathe herself away from such perfidy, but the scenario creeps along, with an undertone of sinful relish, as she imagines leaving Myka to awaken alone and in pain.
But then—because her labor leads her there—she further imagines the various permutations of “someone else” who might be called upon to save the day in her absence. Whereupon the thought strikes her that moving through time nondestructively requires her to think seriously of, and to think seriously out, such knock-ons... how, for example, would Steve and Claudia respond to having to clean up this mess, knowing that Helena had made it?
Moving through time nondestructively. Interesting, here, the overlap with moving through time selfishly: selfishly, she does not want to destroy Claudia’s image of her as someone whose opinion matters. She does not want to destroy Steve’s image of her either, for it seems to have at least some positive components. Further, she does not want to destroy the fellowship they three are building.
If for no other reasons than those, she concludes that having caused this quite specific damage, she must fix it.
Because she can.
The fact of the matter is, Helena cannot fix most things. She has tried mightily to maintain the pretense that she can... but she has been forced over and over to confront the absurdity of that bravado. This very specific fix-it, however, she can perform. And while that performance—inconveniently, in the present circumstance—requires touch, here it can be functional. Perhaps in success she might in some way efface her earlier invasiveness...
Yet she can do nothing without two functional arms. She thumps her still-insensate left against the bed, hard—too hard, for Myka’s eyes open. She mumbles out something Helena decodes as “whatareyoudoing.”
“Preparing to remedy a situation,” Helena says.
“Okay.” Myka murmurs. She seems oddly comforted by the answer, to such an extent that she relaxes, losing consciousness again.
That’s fortunate, given the required manipulation.
Helena prepares herself to do it quickly, efficiently, as she has done in the past... rather dramatically on one occasion, as she recalls, for an agonized Wolcott... but she should not think of Wolcott. For the regret.
She sets that aside, preoccupying herself instead with the necessary activity. Her manipulation, determined and strong, is rewarded: what begins as a sluggish resistance resolves into a slip-pop of relocation, one that shudders a familiar path through her own bones. She then cushions Myka’s arm with a fresh towel and uses a pillowcase to fashion around it a tight sling.
Levering Myka up onto the bed would most likely cause further injury, so Helena sits beside her on the floor, ensuring periodically that she continues to breathe. The wait is calming, cleansing, its peace a renewal of a soothing activity of which Helena has been long deprived: observing Myka closely, at actual leisure. At no point since her return—so at no point in, literally, years—has she had such an opportunity.
She’s reminded, in that observation, of the true fundament: this precious person. Who could never be merely some flesh.
After a lengthy time, during which Helena is pressed to consider, to remember, to value Myka’s singularity, that precious person’s eyes flutter open.
That person tests her bound arm, a tentative physical investigation that approaches elegance in its delicacy.
But Myka’s delicacy and elegance, too, Helena should not think of. For the regret.
“I’m not in the hospital,” Myka burrs.
Reasonable, practical. This is what Helena should think of. “Not yet,” she says. “But we’ll go if necessary. If you’re in pain.”
Myka’s face contorts. “Not if. I am. Some. More than some. I’m sorry.”
“For being in pain?”
“That. But also, for changing this whole thing.”
Helena leaves the latter alone, for she cannot begin to interpret it. Focusing on functionality, she asks, “Can you dress yourself?”
Myka nods, but she winces far too much with even that motion, so Helena screws her courage to it and says, “I’ll change and then help you.”
Herself, fast, then Myka: Functional, she snarls internally as she addresses the situation, and even faster. She’s relieved to find that Myka’s trousers and boots are less complicated than she’d feared, and as it happens, preventing Myka suffering additional physical pain—even while undressing and redressing her!—is, paradoxically or not, far easier than navigating emotional shoals, or even hand-on-hip physical shoals. Focusing on Myka’s face for twists, listening for labors in breath, adjusting accordingly... it’s distractingly, satisfyingly concrete. Only the present moment matters.
Only the present moment matters. This is the mantra Helena iterates internally as they proceed to the nearest urgent care facility.
Yet as they wait there for attention, Helena finds herself increasingly unable to ignore why they are waiting there for attention. In the present moment, which matters. She begins—or does she intend it as an ending?—with, “I’m assuming you flung yourself to the floor in an attempt to escape a circumstance.”
Myka hiccups a laugh that makes her cringe in protection of the shoulder. “That’s weirdly accurate. As an assumption.”
Helena recoils at the confirmation, but she must acknowledge it. “A circumstance in which I touched you in a way that was unwelcome,” she agrees, with gloom.
“Unwelcome,” Myka echoes.
It’s so... definitive. It was one thing for Helena herself to think it, believe it, say it aloud. Quite another—though it shouldn’t have been—to hear it from Myka.
A punctuating end to what never truly began between them: there is some consolation, if only philosophical, in the idea that after so many starts that were false, they may at least enjoy a finish that is true.
“Of course it was,” Helena says, following with, “and how could it have been otherwise.” She puts the final period upon it by adding a bare, spare dig: “Given history.”
Myka closes her eyes... in acceptance of the cut? When she opens them, they are glistening. Tears? Helena is egotistically gratified by such a response, never mind that it means she has yet again failed to hold to her resolution.
“Helena,” Myka says, and now Helena is gratified simply by Myka’s low utterance of her name. Myka does not always use that deeper voice, and Helena does love (yes, love) the rare pleasure of hearing her name in it. “I’m so tired,” Myka says next.
That is less gratifying. It’s yet another utterance Helena should leave alone; of course Myka is tired. But in what she is sure is a mistake, Helena says, “Of?”
“Everything. But particularly, you.”
A dagger, that was. A cut back. Testimony to Helena’s concatenating mistakes.
“This you,” Myka adds.
The additional twist of blade leaves Helena unclear on the devastation Myka intends. “Of course” is all she can think to say.
Myka closes her eyes and exhales heavy, a near-sob. “Sorry. Sorry. Sorry,” she intones, but what need has she to apologize? “That was the pain talking—or, no, I still know you well enough to know you’ll hear that wrong. What I mean is, I’m saying something I could keep holding back if the pain wasn’t cracking me open.”
The pain. Cracking her open. Which would never have happened in the absence of Helena’s stupid, thoughtless touch. Which in turn makes abundantly clear that the stupid, thoughtless person who applied that touch is the “this you” Myka means.
If Helena is to remain in this situation she must take measures, so she lengthens her inhales and exhales, entirely ashamed both at needing such a crutch and at having to exhibit that need.
After a moment of silence, Myka asks, “Are you breathing differently than you were just a second ago?”
Myka isn’t Steve. Helena could at least attempt to lie about this, to cloak her shame... but it’s effort, either way. “Yes,” she says, choosing the unpredictability of Myka’s interpretation over the unpredictability of her own performance.
“Is that good or bad?” Myka asks. “Or both?”
The questions stop Helena, stop her in the same way her at-leisure observation of Myka had. I still know you well enough, Myka had said, and it is true. This is why, Helena would say if she could. Your knowing to ask that.
But she can’t say it, and, worse, she doesn’t know what she should say. What should come next.
Apparently Myka doesn’t either. That not-knowing persists, hanging, until “next” arrives, as an intrusion from outside their suspension: medical attention is at last directed Myka’s way; she is escorted out of the waiting area and taken elsewhere.
“We’ll call you when you can see her,” Helena is told.
Alone in the waiting area—for no other human seems to have suffered damage this night—and uncomfortably situated on a hard plastic chair, she tilts her head back against a similarly unforgiving plaster wall.
She closes her eyes. She’s had no rest, no rest for so long. She is drained. Physically empty.
Philosophically as well.
She imagines trying to sleep... or rather, she imagines not trying to remain awake.
Doubtless futile, either way.
She next imagines constructing an airtight argument that could not help but persuade all who hear it—Myka in particular, but all others as well—that this entire situation is Artie’s fault.
Also futile.
This despite its being the fact of the matter, for indeed he did bring the situation about. Perhaps not in a proximate sense, but in the ultimate... the idea of which, after a moment, strikes her as both comic and tragic: Artie as the ultimate cause? Of anything, from the universe on down? Though he would doubtless like to imagine himself so... even at the Warehouse, however, he must be not even penultimate, given the bureaucracy that sits over the entire concern...
Helena thus spends the bulk of her time in the waiting area stewing about—stewing over? stewing under?—the relative positions of god, Mrs. Frederic, and various Regents in the universe. None of it, however, requires her to alter her breathing; rather, she composes in her head the opening paragraphs of several publishable monographs on these and related topics. It isn’t restful. But is evidence of something other than emptiness.
When someone does at last call her to see Myka, everything has changed.
Well. Not everything. Helena herself hasn’t, as her bureaucracy-pantheon thought may have been philosophically valid but made no difference.
Myka, however, has changed entirely: her arm is now professionally dressed, but more importantly, the knit of pain has left her face. “They medicated me,” she says, giving the word “medicated” a rapturous cast. “The X-rays said I didn’t break anything, so we’re waiting on results of a scan to see if I need surgery but in the meantime I feel better than I maybe ever have in my life and I am so happy to see you. All these doctors were like ‘why did she think she could fix you’ but I knew why and it was because it’s you. and that scan? It’ll shout out how Helena Wells relocated Myka’s shoulder so she didn’t need surgery, and they don’t know this, but actually H.G. Wells relocated Myka’s shoulder, which is even more amazing. Wait, that’s not more amazing. You’re the most amazing when you’re you than when you’re that guy. Even though I guess you are that guy. Sort of. Wait, Claudia’s been saying ‘that guy’ a lot now. And I cut and paste from her so much, but I don’t like it. The way things are.” She heaves an enormous sigh and blinks at Helena, as if she’s just re-understood that another person is present.
Is there some ideal way to answer this flood? Helena settles for an antiseptic “I’m pleased to see you out of pain.”
Myka gasps and flails wildly with her uninjured arm, which gesture eventually resolves into an index finger directed at Helena. “That’s it exactly. I’m out of pain. All out. No more pain to give. Particularly not to you. So saying I’m tired of you? I regret it, and I apologize for it, and I promise that’s the end of it. I was wishing to get something back, and you don’t want it back, and so I have to be fine. Without it. Without you.”
Without you. Helena supposes she should be impressed by how concisely Myka can foreshadow disaster. “Should I not... be here?” She braces herself for the answer.
“Of course you should. I have to be fine without how you were,” Myka says, very quietly. The collapse of her volubility gives Helena pause.
She knows it would be better not to probe; she ought to, as Claudia says, “take the win.” But “Of course you should” is only facially a win... “How was I?” she asks. To wound herself by making Myka clarify what has been lost.
“Oh, how you were...” Myka says, her words dragging. How much—any, all?—of this might be due to the varying effects of the medication? “Putting me into this story,” she continues. “It was so big, and I didn’t understand what it was, really or at all, but it felt so big. Yearning and tragedy, and there I was, still me, but in it, so in it, all in it, next to you. Bigger than life, and I... loved it? Needed it? Something to take me over. But my wishing for any of it back, when of course you don’t?” She raises that free arm, then lets it fall. Futility, it says. “So small. Only somebody little and desperate would want to make you revisit any of that.”
Medication effect or not, Helena can’t let Myka keep on with this. “Make me revisit it? Yearning and tragedy? I’m the one who inflicted that, and with malign intent; I damaged you. And I cannot imagine a scenario in which that debt is discharged.”
Myka squints. “Debt,” she says, as if articulating a new noun, but not one that names an abstraction; no, this thing is big and blunt, a dumb object that takes up space. Unfunctional furniture. That I carry on my back, Helena moods.
“Oh!” Myka then yelps, her tone shifting to excitement. “But I just damaged myself. So now we’re even!” She delivers that last bit big and broad, for all the world as if she’s the comic lead in a panto.
Helena has not spared a thought for panto in years. “That makes no sense at all,” she says, because it’s the case, but also to scorn the memory. This is no time for that past.
“Would you like me to dislocate your shoulder?” Myka asks, as if it were a reasonable proffer. Still comic, but now strangely sincere.
Helena meets this bizarrely compelling, ridiculous combination with as much severity as she can muster. “Honestly no. I would not.”
“I see,” Myka says, and she points again, this time without preambling flail. “Some prices you aren’t willing to pay.”
Helena can at the very least be honest about this. How nice it would be if Steve were here to verify. “Willing to... in the sense of volunteering to? No. In the sense of understanding that I deserve to? Certainly. So do me damage if you must. In particular, do me damage if you think it could even the score between us. It won’t, but if you think it could? Please do.”
“That’s pretty twisted,” pronounces the only arbiter who matters.
“You sound like Claudia again,” Helena observes. To push the judgment away? Yes, and she tries to make certain of it with, “Is that another cut and paste?”
“Maybe. But now that I think about it, she sees things pretty clearly a lot of the time. Don’t you think?”
“I would like to think,” Helena is compelled to admit. Hoist by her own petard.
At this point—suspending any resolution—a doctor reenters the curtained area. “Good news: no surgery,” she tells Myka.
“See, I told you she fixed it,” Myka preens.
“You did,” says the doctor. “Several times,” she adds, dry.
Helena says “I’m so sorry,” only to hear Myka say, at the same time, “Sorry not sorry!” Another echo of Claudia... this one, however, clearly heartfelt.
The doctor turns to Helena. “Don’t try anything like this again. You got ridiculously lucky.”
“That’s kind of her M.O.,” Myka says. “Except when it isn’t.”
The doctor sighs. “I’m pretty sure that’s my point. And listen, make sure to follow up with your local doc. They’ll prescribe a ton of PT, so brace yourself.”
Myka snorts. “Brace myself? Sure, but not for the PT; my boss is going to flay me alive.”
The doctor barely reacts. “Oh, maybe this one can fix that too,” she deadpans, directing an eyeroll at Helena, accompanied by a murmured, “not a suggestion.”
“Oh, she’s in for the flaying,” Myka says, with more than a little cheer. “If not for this, then for something. Eventually.”
The doctor shakes her head, eyes unfocused. “Good news for me: I don’t have to care.” She points at Myka: “You go to PT.” Now at Helena: “You don’t try to practice medicine.” At both of them, her eyes flicking back and forth with purpose: “Got it?” Helena nods; she senses Myka doing the same. “Excellent,” the doctor says. “Or whatever. I’m done with you now.”
She conveys with her rapid exit that interacting with both of them has been a most exasperating experience.
While Helena does not appreciate being chastised—and especially not for attempting to care for Myka—she does appreciate expertise. Especially when it contributes to Myka’s well-being. It’s a conundrum. “I find your doctor’s aspect strangely appealing,” she says. “Speaking of bracing.”
Myka grins. “I was totally thinking the same thing.”
“And yet I would practice that medicine again.”
“For me that’s good news.”
As they prepare to depart, Helena says, “I confess I’m curious as to what you intend to tell Artie.”
Myka offers a slight stretch of her right shoulder in the direction of her ear: the only version of a shrug available to her, bound as she is. “Maybe I should leave that to you. You’re the writer.” Forestalling Helena’s reflexive objection, she adds, “I know, I know. The research. The ideas.”
“And yet I don’t have any. I certainly don’t see a path to inventing anything that would—”
“How about I take your photo with that camera? Think that’d help?” This is accompanied by a different grin: sly.
Whither the warning? Or is this a test? Myka isn’t Steve, yet Helena goes with truth: “It might. With any number of things.”
“If only,” Myka says, inscrutably. “Anyway I intend to tell Artie that this is all his fault, because he sent us on this retrieval in the first place. Obviously I won’t say what really happened.”
While Myka bestowing such grace is not surprising, it moves Helena all the same. “Thank you,” she says.
Myka opens her mouth, then closes it. She does it again. This wait... it’s grace too. “You’re welcome,” she eventually says. “I mean I’m tempted to tell him how you saved the day—the arm—but I know I shouldn’t, because I don’t want to draw attention to the hotel charging us extra.” To Helena’s quizzical eyebrow, she says, “For the missing towels and pillowcase. Which I tried to talk the nurses into giving back to me, but they’d already tossed them as hazardous waste. Or something. Or maybe I’m just not very persuasive? Or clear in what I’m asking for?”
Helena would very much like to explain that her own answers to those questions are negative and affirmative, respectively: no, you are persuasive; but yes, you are unclear.
“On the other hand, they did medicate me,” Myka says, perking up. “I keep thinking it’ll wear off, but not yet!”
The consolations of intoxication. “To the delight of your shoulder I’m sure,” Helena says. To my delight as well, she wishes she were free to say.
Their return to the hotel room offers another “everything has changed” hinge: no longer a stage for new and awkward performances of politesse, the space is now familiar, a place they have reentered. For the next act of the play?
Myka, who has preceded Helena in, stops and sways—just a bit, but Helena instinctively steps close, taking her by the elbow of her uninjured arm with one hand, stationing the other around the curve of her waist.
She feels Myka’s breath catch at the contact; immediately, she curses herself, loosens her hold, and says a terse, “I’m sure you want to lie down.”
“More than maybe anything. Or, wait, no, not anything.” Myka turns and catches Helena’s eyes with hers, but Helena cannot use that gaze as the basis for any inference.
She backs away as Myka lowers herself onto the bed; eventually, she backs her way into the room’s one armchair. It lacks give. It also lacks arms at a height that might provide anything resembling support. Helena slumps down, trying to be grateful that it exists at all.
Long minutes pass. As in the hospital’s waiting area, Helena imagines trying not to remain awake.
Similarly futile.
She chances a glance at Myka, who meets her eyes again and says, “That looks uncomfortable. Or what I mean is, you look uncomfortable. Which honestly is pointless, unless you’re doing some hair-shirt thing, because we’ve got this big bed. Not a lot of hours before we have to leave it, but we’ve got it for now.”
“That went poorly before.”
“I think circumstances have changed. Don’t you?” Weighted.
Circumstances are always changing, Helena could say. Usually for the worse. Instead she ventures, “You’d let me lie down with you?”
“I never wouldn’t.” Myka squints. “Wait. Did that come out right? Anyway, yes.”
Medication: not yet worn off. “You’re sure?” Helena asks.
“I’m pretty sure this bed is almost as big as a field where Pete’s favorite sport happens. It’s at least as big as an ice rink anyway, and those aren’t small.”
Helena refrains from pointing out that that was no help in the previous disaster. She doesn’t, however, appreciate being able to recline. For the first while, the fact of being beside Myka is less relevant than the slow loosening of her lower back and hips.
 “Can you sleep?” Helena asks, as they are both evidently lying with eyes open to the ceiling.
“Not now,” Myka answers, and the sentiment seems clear: not after all of this. All of this with which we must deal.
The bed first, perhaps.
She turns to look at Myka, if minimally. “Did you request a cot?” she asks, because she doesn’t know. Because the answer might reveal... something?
Myka’s eyes widen. “Oh my god I should have,” she says. Stricken.
“Why didn’t you?”
“It didn’t even cross my mind.” She’s talking more to herself—or perhaps to the room at large?—than to Helena. Is this continued evidence of the medication?
“And do you know why that is?” Helena asks, hoping for that revelation, even if drug-induced.
“Honestly I think I thought I was being given an ultimatum. Like it was something I had to be fine with or else.”
“Fine with ‘or else.’” Helena means the echo as rueful agreement.
But: “Sharing a bed with you. Platonically,” Myka says, taking it instead as a request for explanation.
“Platonically,” Helena scoffs, unable to avoid the idea that agreeing to accept that adverb would, paradoxically, usher in others. (Passionately.) (Speaking of paradoxically.) “That word is so often misused.” It’s a push-off. A push-away.
“But I’m using it correctly.” Myka sounds not offended, but rather self-satisfied.
Fine. Harden the position. “You are not referring to our consciousness rising from physical to spiritual matters.”
“Well... but how about love for the idea of good? As a path to virtue?”
Myka is well-read. In this moment, that fact is not entirely pleasing. “I suppose we were both attempting to be courtly,” Helena concedes.
“I mean I’ll grant you that nobody ended up transcending the body,” Myka says. Helena is about to agree, to snap away from churlishness, to express regret and apologies, when Myka exclaims, “Hey! I just had the best idea for a joke. So you’re not a hologram anymore, right? So you know what you were trying to be? Last night, in bed?”
Jokes. They confound Helena nearly as completely as metaphors do Steve. “I have no idea.”
“A Platonic solid,” Myka declares, triumphant.
Helena is mortified to find that in this case, she “gets it.” “Myka,” she sighs.
“Too soon? But come on, it’s not bad!”
“Alas, it is.” This quality, Helena can recognize.
“Right, but the good kind.”
Helena is not made of stone. Or bronze. How much easier everything had been then, sans choice and sans reason... and most importantly, sans the near-irresistibility of this one human. “I did always enjoy the word ‘icosahedron,’” she tenders.
“See,” Myka says, now in indulgence rather than triumph. “Pretty sure you have more than twenty faces though.”
“You do as well. Some revealed only under the influence of opioids.”
“Here’s one I don’t think I’d have the guts to use otherwise: my explain-it-to-you-using-words face.”
“Explain what to me?” Helena asks. It’s a surrender. She should better have said she did not wish that face revealed, but that would never have stopped a determined Myka.
“Why I flung myself to the floor.”
“I thought that had been explained? You were attempting to escape a circumstance.”
“First, the flinging was more involuntary than an attempt. And second: your hand.”
“Perhaps you don’t remember”—a strange thing to say to Myka—“but we had this conversation previously.” Helena does not want to have it again.
“Not this conversation. In that one, you drew the wrong conclusion. Or relied on an invalid assumption. Actually both of those. Anyway, your hand.”
“Please stop saying that,” Helena requests. Begs.
“Fine, I’ll finish the sentence: Woke up every nerve in my body,” Myka says, causing Helena to cringe and wish she could this very instant construct a truly useful time machine so she could fly backward, overleaping this latest passage so as to muzzle Myka before she could say that, because she believes it but knows it leads nowhere functional. To her continued mortification, Myka carries on, “Woke them all right up.” This, she says rhapsodic. Helena feels that tone in her gut, a hot twist of something she deserves as pain, but that manifests, shamefully, as pleasure. “Then your hand moved, and it shorted out the system—my system—and I fell out of bed, and the rest is history.”
“On the contrary, the rest is quite present.” Helena tries pushing all of it away, striving for detachment. For function.
“So, your hand,” Myka says again.
Helena raises the offender. “Also present.” Detachment. Humor, even; pushing, pushing, pushing. Trying to maintain.
“No, I mean why,” Myka pushes in turn.
Helena bats back, in faux innocence, “Why is it present?”
“Why was it present. On me.” Low now, her voice, just as compelling as, and even more commanding than, when she uses it to utter Helena’s name.
“I have no excuse,” Helena says.
“I don’t need an excuse. I need a reason. Do you have one?”
“It isn’t exculpatory.”
“As long as it’s explanatory.”
No escape now. No excuse, and no escape. “Here is my reason: I wanted to touch you. So against all better judgment, I did. Intending only that, nothing more.” Myka’s response to these words is an exhale. Loud. Unlike the hospital sob, however, this is slow and controlled. Helena allows a decorous pause, but no words ensue, so she goes on. Myka deserves an explanation that is complete. “But then I found myself unable to... un-touch you. Competently. And the rest will at some point be history, upon which I will never cease to look back and berate myself.”
Waiting for whatever may come next, Helena feels exhaustion inch through her, infiltrating her eyes, limbs, brain, sapping every vestige of energy... her surrender to the creeping leach is imminent when Myka says, “I like that reason.”
All right then. Awake and aware. “You do?”
“You really can be impossible to talk to. Listen to me: if I did that—touched you—I would find myself the same. Unable to un-touch. Do you understand?”
What would be the cost of abandoning her resistance? “I don’t know...” she begins, then reverses course and begins again. Truth, never mind the cost. “Yes. I do understand. But I don’t know what to do about that.”
Myka turns her head full toward Helena, twisting her long neck. Helena turns her own head, but that isn’t enough, so she shifts onto her side—her left side, punitively aware that it will be weeks before Myka can turn in such a way.
They look at each other, Helena both knowing and fearing how her guilt must freight her gaze. Regarding Myka so close, looking now into eyes that are open, is a boon she does not deserve.
After a time, Myka says, “I know what I want to do.”
Her intent is abundantly clear. The entirely of Helena’s being balks, stranding her again in Boone: if she makes a move for the momentary better, it will most likely end worse. She cannot find the... courage? or is it foolish disregard for consequences?... to reach for that moment of joy. Neither, however, can she find the discipline to dismiss its possibility.
“But I also know I shouldn’t,” Myka says, breaking with clarity into Helena’s indecision.
Well. Helena can certainly see the wisdom of that, so perhaps at last they are approaching a real accord that will render all hopes and wishes moot, so that neither courage nor discipline features in the—
“I can tell the meds are messing with my head,” Myka says, “and if there’s one thing I want to remember in picture-perfect detail, it’s this.” She moves her right index finger near to Helena’s lips, then withdraws it.
Unable to un-touch. That withdrawal reaffirms that Myka believes what she says. “This,” Helena echoes, mesmerized.
“So I’m going to wait till tomorrow to—listen to me saying it out loud—kiss you. For the first time. I want to be all there when it happens.”
There is a practicality to Myka’s thinking, and to Myka, that Helena worships. She tries to match it with a bit of her own: “If it happens.”
Myka’s jaw drops. “Come on! I said it out loud! It’s real now!”
“It’s been real for some time, hasn’t it? But I’m being realistic about the circumstance. You might not remember that you wanted to.”
“Seriously? I’ve remembered it since we met.”
Helena has remembered it just as long. She has. Denying it is pointless. But she has a larger concern, and though this is the wrong time to address it, perhaps medicated Myka will afford an unfiltered read...
“Or you might think better of it.”
“Of kissing you? I don’t think so.”
“Of what could ensue. The possibility of a... relationship. Between us. What if it doesn’t work?”
“Relationship.” After she says the word, Myka’s lips part and close, as if the very word is savory. “What if it does?”
It is savory. However. “I’m asking as a practical matter, not philosophically. I’m constrained: I can’t leave again. That’s why I came back.” The thin strand to which she is clinging... refraining from attempting to rekindle an intimacy hasn’t been only to keep Myka safe. It has also been to keep the Warehouse safe for Helena herself to inhabit.
“Then don’t leave again.”
“But what if that means you do?” This is not philosophy either. This, too, is history.
“If I do, then I do, but I’d like to think I won’t. We’ve both had our walkaway crises, and they didn’t take. So if it doesn’t work, we put it behind us like adults. If Pete and I could, then so can you and I. But I’d rather not have to. So let’s be careful.” She pauses. “Breathe however you need to.”
The words are an embrace. A physical clasp might be more galvanizing, but right now, Myka is managing just fine with words. “If this works, it will be because you say things like that.”
“Good news, because I mean things like that. And I intend to keep saying them. Hey, speaking of saying, do me a favor and write down what I said just now, about the adults and the careful, because I want to remember it.”
Sluggishly, Helena ideates rising, going to the room’s desk, finding logo-bearing paper and pen, writing...
****
Helena and Oscar are in a salon. They are engaged in a dispute regarding choices and consequences. Helena is standing at a lectern, and Oscar is reclining on a lavishly upholstered chaise longue, kicking his right leg such that its calf bounces in a languid little rhythm against the low cushioned edge.
Kick. Kick. Kick.
“The choices that create a circumstance will not, repeated, resolve it satisfactorily,” Helena says. Is she reading from a monograph? “As we see in the case of your own Ballad of Reading Gaol, do we not? And yet injury need not lead inevitably to future debility, so clearly some choice in the matter is—”
“Helena,” Oscar says, interrupting her monologue. “Helena,” he repeats. He sounds nothing like himself, but rather someone else, and Helena is straining to connect the voice to the correct person.
Kick. Kick. Kick.
“Time to wake up,” Oscar-as-someone-else admonishes. Encourages?
“I know,” she tells him, hugely frustrated, fighting. “I’m trying.”
His impassive mien is no help. It never was.
Kick. Kick. Kick.
Trust Oscar to cast some part of himself as the pendulum of a particularly annoying clock—
“Seriously, wake up,” Helena hears, and consciousness jolts at her: Myka’s voice.
Oscar dissolves. Into laughter or tears, no doubt, as he was wont to do...
Helena’s eyes open, meeting Myka’s, and she is brought back to it all: the hotel, the bed; the shoulder, the hospital... then hotel again, bed again... and finally words, as if for the first time.
Myka is lying on her right side, facing Helena. Her eyes are bright, her gaze intense.
“Are you in pain?” Helena asks.
Myka leans forward, as if that were a signal. The signal: for Helena is the astonished, grateful, transported recipient of a kiss, a first kiss—the first kiss—one that is swift but soft, gentle, genuine. Like morning... “Better now,” Myka says when she pulls back. “I’m going to brush my teeth. Stay there.”
Better now. Not lost on Helena are all the ways that signifies, including: better that this happened now than at some point in the desperate past. Then, such a kiss would have been a tragic wish for all they would never have. Now, instead, it can stand as a reward for having survived all of that, as well as, universe willing, a mark of embarkation.
By the time Myka returns, Helena has sat up, stationing herself on the edge of the bed. She has also realized that she must apologize—for they should not embark on this new voyage with yet another of her many faults unaddressed. “You charged me with writing down part of our conversation. I didn’t. I fell asleep instead.”
Myka hesitates before joining her on the bed’s edge, clearly considering which arm should be next to Helena. She chooses the functional right. “It’s okay. Even if I don’t remember exactly what we said, I remembered what we needed to do.”
“Needed to,” Helena reprises. She could supply words of her own, but why? Myka is saying the ones that matter...
“Needed to,” Myka affirms. “So where were we?” She raises her useful hand to Helena’s cheek, cradling. Helena leans into it, saying nothing, because silence now says everything.
This is a longer kiss, more wandering, more suggestive of possibility, more likely to lead to such possibility... Helena is the one to this time pull away. “A place quite new,” she says.
“And yet I’m pretty sure we’ve been headed here all along.”
“It wasn’t inevitable,” Helena says. She is thinking now of dream-Oscar, who is slipping from her mind, dropping, like a poorly initiated painting, but he must have obstreperously been maintaining something about inevitability. He always did.
“No,” Myka agrees. “And it still isn’t. So let’s be careful.”
“You remember that part? Despite my stenographic failure?”
“Even if I didn’t—but I do—I’d know it’s important.”
Helena turns and touches her right hand to Myka’s right hip. She would certainly not be able to do this now if she had not done so in the night... the night’s ontogeny recapitulating the phylogeny of their shared history. Myka covers Helena’s hand with hers, and there is healing in the simple fact of their sitting. But eventually that is not enough, and another kiss ensues, longer still, and lips outweigh quiet hands—or no, lips add to quiet hands, but hands are not content to remain so calm, and so this continues and might continue—
Myka makes a noise that is clearly not of pleasure; she moves entirely away, her right hand pressing protectively at her left shoulder. “We’re going to need to be careful about this stupid shoulder too. I’m so, so sorry.”
“You’re sorry? I’m the one who can’t keep my hands to myself.” Ontogeny, phylogeny.
“It’s not like I’m some paragon of self-control... and I am sorry, because I’d like to be able to participate fully. But also I’d like to not have to hurry on account of catching a plane. In good news, eventually my shoulder will heal. I know we can’t stay here till then, but...”
“It would help,” Helena supplies.
“If only because we have to come up with how this supposedly happened. I still think maybe I should take your picture. Or you could take mine? Because by the way, here’s a funny thing: I was trying to write a novel.”
“You were?” More that is new... “Speaking of icosahedra,” Helena notes.
“I want to tell you about it.”
“You do?” Trying to convey her incredulity. That Myka would allow her such... access.
“I want to tell you everything. But in the meantime we have to tell Artie something... I guess we’ve got both flights plus the layover in Denver to get our story straight.”
Stories. Narrative. Novels? “But we’ll tell Steve the truth. Won’t we?”
“Of course we will. And Claudia, right?”
“Also necessary. Although most likely mockery-inducing.”
Myka smiles. It’s a sunrise. “Stress testing. If we can take it from her, we’ll be fine. Then again we might need the time on the planes to rest up for that.”
“Weren’t you able to sleep, this past while?”
Myka shakes her head, and just as Helena opens her mouth to express regret and apologize again for her own sleep, Myka silences her with a kiss, one that lingers, lingers, lingers... still half against Helena’s lips, she says, “The un-touching part really is difficult. But don’t worry about my not sleeping: for the first time in a long time, I was happy to be awake.”
END
44 notes · View notes
hypnagogics · 1 month ago
Note
THE WAY YOU WRITE IS JUST SO YUMMM so yeah🧍🏻‍♀️can you write something about streamer ellie <33
Tumblr media
☆: IM SO SORRY FOR THE WAIT. definitelyyyy hasn't been...months...anyway. positive this is one of the worse things i've written, but didn't wanna leave you hanging forever! ngl it's pretty filthy..heh.
◇: 18+ pretend those twitch guideline things don't exist. remote control vibrator use, orgasm denial, sub-ish!ellie?? plot twist at the end bc i think im so funny. 1.6k wc. don't mind the layout of this idk what else to do...
Tumblr media
You watch your girlfriend stream her game from your fluffy and comfortable spot on your shared bed—you observe how focused she was on her screen, how her skilled fingers were flying across the keyboard and mouse. It would certainly be a shame to disturb her in such a high tension moment but you think it over, running your finger over the small buttons of the sleek little remote in your hand.
"Yeah, yeah, got 'em! Look at that guys, I fuckin’ aced that!" Ellie rejoices in her victory, and gleefully boasts to her viewers, adjusting her microphone closer and leaning back in her chair.
You're glad you were far off camera, her fans didn't even know she was in a relationship—Ellie made it clear she wanted you to be separate from her hobbies, not because she wanted to keep you a secret, but because she wanted to keep you safe. And you enjoyed watching her stream from the sidelines like this, you saw how her personality captivated viewers and how much fun she really was. But you also enjoyed messing with her on the occasion. Like today.
"Can I watch tonight's stream again?" You asked her eagerly. "Yeah, why not? I'll be doing some tournaments and stuff though, so no distractions." Oops. You bit back a laugh. Ellie immediately sussed out the mischievous look on your face and she sighed, expecting the worst.
Then you showed her the box you've been hiding, "Please let's try, I won't click it too much, I promise." She stared at you for a whole minute, maybe more, before sighing and reluctantly agreeing, rubbing her hands all over her face. "God, fine. Just 'cause I love you. Damn you're evil."
Fast forward to now—the device was snugly inserted inside her pretty pussy, tested out to prove it does in fact work, and works well at that.
So off Ellie went to play her game, getting so caught up in everything she seemingly forgot about the device entirely. In between games she was talking to the viewers, reading the chat and joking back and forth. You decided it was a good enough time to click it so you pressed the button, only for a miniscule zap.
She jerked in her seat, gasping, but quickly recovered with a strategic cough. "Phew sorry guys, something got caught in my throat." You saw a bright berry blush spread across her face, and the way she fought to turn and throw a glare at you. This was going to be fun.
"Alright, the next round’s gonna start, we gotta lock in! Hopefully nothing pops up and this goes smoothly. I can taste the win already.” She put a certain warning tone to her voice in the last part of her sentence, you knew it was meant for you, but were you going to listen? Absolutely not. "Oh yeah chat fun fact, this old area of the map was inspired by ancient ruins just of—ah!" As if her body had a mind of its own, she squirmed in her seat and she clapped her hand over her mouth to stifle a moan when you hit it again, but this time you didn't turn it off right away. You kept it going for a few more seconds, to prolong the terribly delicious sensation.
She screwed her eyes shut tightly and held her breath until you turned it off, mumbling to her viewers about "having hiccups". "The game is starting now, so we really gotta get serious." Her voice had an unsteadiness to it only you could hear, she was keeping her composure rather well so far. But likely wouldn't be able to keep up the act for much longer. Even she has her limits.
As her match went on, she got quiet when she was focused, mashing the keys with a speed fast as sound. Of course, you hit it again, just a short one, causing a choked "guh" to escape from her lips and she twitched when you did so, her facade starting to crack. The effort to keep her voice stable was showing, she was huffing and struggling to get her words out clearly, they were laced with obvious irritation.
"Fuck missed the shot, dammit. Yeah I don't know, somethings up today, sorry guys...off my game." You decided to be nice to her until the game ended, not pressing it further or adjusting the intensity. She played for a little while longer before losing the match, leaning forward on the desk with her face in her hands. This was the perfect moment, so you cranked it up, increased the intensity to maximum, and held the button for the longest time yet, making her whine—a low, drawn out sound she couldn't stifle this time.
You could hear lots of messages being sent, pings in rapid succession, they were probably clipping that moment. Perverts, you thought. 
Her chest was noticeably heaving up and down, her legs spread as she rocks her front against the chair, and she kept her head lowered until you decreased the intensity but didn't turn it all the way off. Her hands were shaking, and her face was a vibrant cherry red, the screen even reflected the sparkle of a couple tears in her eyes.
“What? Oh, I'm just so sad about the loss guys, we were so close—hnn- so…so closeahh—I mean, we should've gotten that…” She trailed off, chewing on her bottom lip and tapping her fingers on the desk’s wooden surface. “Y’know what, I'll be right back.” She paused the stream, made triple sure her camera and microphone were turned off, then whipped around in her chair to face you, glaring silver daggers your way.
You just giggled innocently and turned the device off again. “What the fuck is wrong with you, this shit is not- not light on you at all.” Her voice was breaking, her pretty features contorted in a beautifully needy expression, eyebrows furrowed and eyes all watery. Nearly as wet as the mess in her pants. You feigned innocence and shrugged at her, “Well I didn't know it was that strong.” “You knew damn well.” She's fed up with your antics, but you have fun playing with her. She covers her face and leans back in the chair, the embarrassment in her voice the only thing you could hear, “Fuck you...turn it up again, wanna cum.”
You couldn't contain the laugh that burst forth from your chest, then said, “Only if you stream it.” The shock that flickered across her face was priceless, you wish you could have snapped a photo.
“What the fuck do you mean by that, nah forget it.”
“Hey, you gotta finish your stream either way, they're waiting. Would you wanna be so awful and deprive those darlings of your presence?”
You flash her a sugary smile, and she shoots you a murderous look again, before wordlessly scooting back to her setup, fanning herself briefly and readjusting her coppery hair.
Then she turns the stream back on. “Sorry guys, I had to get up for a second. Anyway, let's play one more game. I'm getting kinda tired today. Let's make this one count, lock in like never before.” She takes a deep breath, cracks her knuckles, and begins smacking away at the keyboard buttons. You're able to see the way she looks tense, on edge, anticipating your devilish interruption.
You debate whether you should torture her, but the answer quickly becomes clear. Click.
“Ah—fuck!” She sputters, and roughly slams her fist on the desk. The pleasure was hitting her with full force, she was in her own, lewd, world now. Her head is thrown back, back arched and hips stuttering, the release was about to sneak up on her.
You watch the scenario unfold, licking your lips and pressing your thighs together to deal with the pressure between them. Her unapologetic moans get louder, but for a second she snaps out of the trance to sit back upright, turn the stream off, before the peak hits her like a truck.
“Holy, fu—hah!!” With a squeal she cums, not caring about how fucking loud she was being, wanting to be selfishly absorbed in ecstasy.
She started to jolt around in her seat, the throes of overstimulation making her whimper like an animal in heat, it truly was a sight to behold. You wish you were in between her legs, lapping up her sweetness straight from the source, but in a way, just watching from the sidelines was satisfying enough. You'll clean her up afterward.
Finally you turned it off once and for all, and gazed at her, she was panting heavily, the post-orgasm glow making her rosy skin shimmer in the low light.
“Hmmm, thanks babe, that was so good…” She tried to talk, her head was in the clouds, but she looked at peace.
“You're a whore.” You chortled, and you two shared a laugh.
Although, a flurry of shrill sounds brought you both out of the fantasy. Ping, ping, ping.
Unfortunately she wasn't able to enjoy the aftermath of a mind-numbing session, because her eyes shot open and she began scrambling to find the source of the sound. Your stomach dropped as you watched her panic, her neuroticism infectious.
She looked at you, her eyes wider than saucers, nothing but fear in her voice, “I wasn't able to turn my mic off…”
What was she going to do now?
Tumblr media
if you'd like to be tagged in my fics, click here! thank you for reading. asks, reblogs, and comments are appreciated more than you know. ♡
tags: @andersonfilms @ch6douin @aouiaa @sapphic-ovaries @astro-cat2 @paqerings @r3starttt @littlefallenangel111 @sinfulprayerss @lvlymicha @sunnsh1ine @anniee333 @pinkcwake @marsworlddd @caszzine @saturnsdrafts @ashaynep @mascdom @xysbree @liddysflyer @fortune777 @brunaedn @bunnitewsilly @mimasroom2 @deliriousrn @infiniteinquiries @thekill3randthefinalgirl @kissyslut @elliesapple
1K notes · View notes
laviefantasie · 4 months ago
Text
Video 3
Tumblr media
| series masterlist |
< prev | next >
Tumblr media
“Okay, this thing on?”
You sigh as you see yourself in the video camera, looking at all the current ingredients in front of you with doubt.
“If you don’t recognize the place, I’m currently at my school’s kitchen” you open your arms to showcase the big kitchen you’re at.
You let your arms down to grab some of the main ingredients of the dishes you have planned today, pork cutlet and vegetables.
“So, if you’re wondering what I’m up to… I’m making Satoru a bento box” your eyes move around the place as you feel yourself become flustered, “It’s not what you’re probably thinking though! It’s about my dignity!”
You sigh, “He said I couldn’t cook and that that’s why I’d never marry… and I can’t cook or care about marriage but he shouldn’t talk about any of it! So I’m gonna prove him wrong by making the best freaking bento box ever! I’ll even decorate like Digimon characters”
You grab the white rice bag holding it up proudly towards the camera.
“Let’s get started!”
You put the rice inside the rice cooker with the amount of water stated on the cook book you buy for this special occasion. While waiting for it to be done, you grabbed the pork cutlet.
You take a deep breath, preparing mentally for what you were about to try to do: Tonkatsu.
First of all, you seasoned the meat with salt and pepper before coating it with flour, egg and breadcrumbs. Then, you let it fry.
“If I’m doing this wrong please let it at least taste good” you whisper with a frown.
By the time that was done, you continued by focusing on doing a Japanese potato salad. Semi-mashed potatoes mixed with vegetables, ham, egg and mayonnaise. You had to make sure it is not too creamy, not too rich, but flavoursome. Hopefully the Kewpie mayonnaise makes sure it tastes perfect.
Or at least good enough.
You made sure to put the salad inside the Agumon moulds you bought before storing it inside the bento box.
The rice was soon done and you made sure to use the Patamom mould now. Black sesame seeds with salt sprinkled on the rice forming the shape to make it more obvious what character it was supposed to be.
“I’m not an artist but damn am I doing a good job at this”
Except maybe you were too confident.
You forgot that while you were decorating everything that you’d finish already, you had left some vegetables cooking. Meaning now the whole kitchen was full of smoke after you turned of the small fire caused.
And now you had your three classmates and teacher worrying over you.
“You could’ve died! What were you thinking?!”
“I need to check your breathing!”
“WATER! WATER! WE NEED WATER!”
“SILENCE” voiced loudly professor Yaga making the other three shut up, “What happened here, Y/L/N?”
You cough slightly, blushing in embarrassment, “I was trying to cook…”
Silence.
And then laughter.
You frown frustrated as Gojo and Geto’s laughter fills the space. It was bad enough you couldn’t even finish what you started, now you were a joke to them.
Even Shoko was stifling her laughter!
Yaga sighs, “Clean this up and let Shoko check you over… and don’t cook again”
More laughter from the boys.
You sigh and proceed to grab the burnt pan before throwing it into the sink, all while trying to mute the loud voices of both boys joking about your culinary skills.
Shoko stops you from washing the pan, doing a little check up before just to make sure there is nothing serious. You thank her silently.
“HAHAHAHA” Gojo laughs, “I KNEW YOU WERE A BAD COOK? BUT NOT TO THE POINT THAT IT’D EVEN ENDANGER YOURSELF!”
Your grip on the pan tightens.
Geto stops laughing loudly.
“HONESTLY” Gojo laughs, “YOU BETTER MAKE SURE TO MARRY RICH OR YOU’LL DIE IF YOU EVER HAVE TO COOK AGAIN”
Inhale. Exhale, you remind yourself.
Inhale. Exhale.
“THE ONE TIME YOU DECIDE TO COOK AND YOU ALMOST BURN US ALL” his grin widens, “Why would you ever decide to—?”
“SHUT UP”
Enraged, you turn off the water and go towards the unfinished bento box, grabbing it before walking towards one of your best friends.
Gojo’s eyes widen as they see your upset face, not believing he had truly bothered you with his jokes, before letting out a soft gasp once you push the bento box hard towards him.
“I was making you that, asshole”
And you leave before he can even process what you actually said. Unknowingly leaving the still recording video camera behind.
Which is how it catches the soft look on Satoru’s face as soon as he eyes the bento box in his hands, and the regret his eyes show once he realizes his mistakes.
Geto and Shoko stay silent beside him.
What a day.
taglist: @gumiiiiezzzz @reagan707
51 notes · View notes
sondheim-girly · 1 month ago
Note
I know it's not american thanksgiving yet but it is this weekend where I am so what are your thoughts on Mathews family thanksgiving? (cause their mom absolutely tries to do smt for it even if it's not much)
sorry this took me so long, I got a little sidetracked... go see my headcanons on mama mathews for context cuz otherwise a lot of this wont make sense!
-the thanksgiving after two bit is born, mollys parents reach out to her and invite her to come back to their farm for the holiday
-Molly, with some convincing from Betsy, decides to accept
-it’s a little awkward at first, but her parents are masters at pretending everything is fine when it’s not
-keith turns on the charm and makes her whole family really like him, other than Betsy
-this starts a tradition for their family to have a big reunion every thanksgiving
-the thanksgiving after Beth was born and Keith left was awful
-her family kept on making snide comments about how “of course she couldn’t even keep a man” and how shameful it is to be a single mother
-she puts up with this for a few years, until one year when she finally gets sick of it, and there’s a huge screaming match between her and her brother and her parents
-during the argument someone makes a comment about how Beth never should have been born and it’s her fault that Keith is gone, and Molly just snaps
-cuz nooo one is going after her babies, she’d give up the world for them 100 times over
-she immediately gets up and leaves, and they never go back
-the next year they try and make a nice dinner but molly cant cook for shit so they end up just going to the curtis house
-that births the new tradition of the big Curtis gang thanksgiving!
-then one year post canon Betsy reaches out saying that her husband and kids are traveling to see some extended family for thanksgiving and she decided to stay back home
-she asks if she could come to Tulsa so they can do thanksgiving together!!
-Molly is like “of course!!!!” And is absolutely thrilled to get to spend some time with her sister
-this is after Marcia and two bit start dating, and when two bit finds out that this year Marcia’s parents are working through the holiday and she won’t be having a thanksgiving dinner he insists she comes
-Betsy is good at cooking, however Molly and Beth are both atrocious
-two bit, surprisingly, is actually fucking incredible
-no one knows why, but u put him in the kitchen and he can do magicccc
-he and Betsy are put in charge of the majority of the food
-Beth tries to make the mashed potatoes because how does someone fuck up mashed potatoes?
-however she finds a way, because of course she does
-Betsy doesn’t let Molly anywhere near the kitchen cuz she’s still traumatized from mollys cooking endeavors when they were kids
-the kitchen was nearly burned down on multiple occasions back then
-Marcia volunteers to make a pumpkin pie, because she’d baked a few times when Cherry was over at her house and they got bored
-two bit comes over to ‘help’ and like… I don’t even need to talk about it I think you know how unbearably cute they were (and there may have been a minor food fight- think of that scene between Quinn and puck from glee)
-they all sit down for dinner, and stuff themselves full and laugh and talk the whole time!
-Molly decided her contribution would be decorations, so the table is beautiful with all sorts of fall colors!
-afterwards they all agree it’s the best thanksgiving they ever had
Thanks so much for asking me about this! It feels wrong for me to be talking about thanksgiving this early, but I had so much fun making these that it’s ok :)
21 notes · View notes
simpcityy · 1 year ago
Text
Yes, I'm Sure (Miguel O'Hara X Fem!Reader)
Tumblr media
Summary: This is pt 2 of Where is my Freedom. Having enough, you decided to do what is right for you and your son.
Disclaimer: I do not own Marvel or any of its characters.
Word Count: Around 1.3K
Warnings: Use of (Y/N), abusive husband, physical and mental abuse, angst if it counts, Hot single dad Miguel, being called a wife.
pt1 pt2 pt3
┍━━━━━━━━ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ━━━━━━━━┑
It’s been a couple of days since the night your next-door neighbor, Miguel, comforted you after your husband's abusive outburst. Right now, you were eating your dinner with the occasion of turning over to your son, feeding his mashed food. You could only focus on the noise of utensils scraping your husband's plate. He’s been keeping an eye on you ever since he found you eating empanadas with Miguel. Despite telling him it was a friendly interaction; he held his ground from letting you out. He wouldn’t even let you go to the front yard to tend to your garden which was slowly wilting like yourself. Having enough of the silence, you spoke carefully. “Has anything happened at the station?” Slowly glancing at your husband for his response. “Things have been slow, and I think I might take a week off if this keeps going on. Spending time with my family.” You only look away as he said family while staring at you. You knew what he meant, it just meant to keep an eye on you from speaking with that handsome neighbor of yours. 
After dinner, Rex was fast asleep giving you a chance to wash up the mess used for today's dinner. The loud noise of the tv played behind you signaling your husband was watching his nightly news. You look up hearing something being thrown at your window gently. Upon this, you spotted Miguel waving at you from his fence once you saw him. You smile gently waving as Miguel nods his head over to your backyard. Getting the memo, you grabbed all the trash in the house and collected it in one bag. “I’m going to throw the trash, it's still in the backyard …don’t forget to place it in the front tomorrow before you leave for work.” You call out to your husband. Only to hear a grunt as his response. You quickly walk to the backdoor closing it behind you walking over to the fence. 
Miguel waited on his side of the fence; he was finally able to let that breath he was holding in. He was worried sick about you, not seeing you for days got him worried for your safety along with your son. “Vecinita*, haven’t seen you step out of the house for days” He lets a small smile which makes your heart jump. “My husband has been taking days off, but he returns to work tomorrow” You felt touched that Miguel was worried sick for you. “Tu Hijo*?” He asked, making you wonder what he was asking about before spotting him seeing Rex toys outside getting the idea. “Oh! Rex is doing fine” You assure him, “He had a big dinner so he’s fast asleep.” You wanted to cry in front of him again, he cared about your boy as well. ‘That’s right, he’s a single father’ You reminded yourself mentally. During the night of being comforted, you learned about Miguel’s life and Gabriella’s as well. Miguel lets out a relieved sigh “I’m glad, you don’t deserve this. Not even him, tu niño*” He looked at your house seeing the light of your bedroom turn on. He wanted so badly to dress up as Spider-Man and give your husband a lecture, but it would only make things worse for you. Looking at your window you decided you needed to head in. “I should go” You didn’t want to, but you had to. Throwing the trash away in the trash bin, you look back at Miguel as you walk to the door. “Vecinita, if you ever feel in danger, ven a mí*” He points to his house “My doors are open, siempre*” You smiled and nodded, feeling glad to have someone’s support in this neighborhood. Everyone knows the true side of your husband but never offered a hand because he was a cop. 
You laid in bed next to your husband who snores away in the night. You turn over to him feeling disgusted and hate towards him. You’ve been nothing but a good wife to him only for him to do this. You try to think back on what made him like this, but nothing comes to mind. Sitting up, it was 2am. You knew you wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight as something was in your mind, or rather someone. Your hot single father neighbor, you wonder how your life would be if you left your husband but quickly shake those thoughts away, Rex. You need to think about your son before your selfish needs. Your boy needed you to stay strong. Then you start to wonder, how? How does Miguel do it being a parent to Gabriella, mostly all by himself. Always seeing him rushed out in the mornings to take her to school before he’s late to work. You smile at the memory. Not only was he a hot man but a kind loving father who loves his daughter to the bone. Looking at your husband, the only time he ever smiles at Rex was when he was born and that was 3 years ago. Your son deserves better that’s for sure. You grabbed your phone and sent a message to your lawyer before laying down. You had enough and you couldn’t thank Miguel enough for helping you into the right path. 
It was morning and you were busy cursing out your husband's name as he forgot to move the trash bin to the front. Trying to pull the heavy bin with one good wheel while holding a toddler was difficult but you couldn’t place your son down fearing he would run into the street. “Let me help!” Stopping, you look over seeing Gabriella put her backpack down running to you. “Good morning, Gabriella” You spoke softly as she grabbed the other handle helping you pull. “Morning! Morning to you too!” She looks at Rex playing his hand making him squeal. Finally putting the bin to the curb, you placed Rex down letting Gabriella grab both his hands and jump with him. You smile at the interaction, Rex never played with anyone as you didn’t like welcoming the other mothers from daycare, scared one of them will find out and report your husband making things worse. 
 “Vecinita* Morning” Miguel walks out locking the door and picks up Gabriella's bag. “Morning” You smile at him taking Rex back in your arms once he is done playing with his little neighbor. “You two should get going, don’t want to be late for work” You look at them as Miguel chuckles “actually, no work for me today. So, there is no rush.”  He picks up his daughter and walks to the car. “ oye*, enjoy your time outside, you need some sun. It’s a beautiful day” he says while helping his daughter in the car. You look at the sun and the bright white clouds. “Yeah, it is, I think I might.” You look at your garden which needs a lot of work done. “Have a nice day at school” You wave at Gabriella before going on with your day. 
You did take his advice, glancing over to your son who you placed in his playpen in the shade while you worked on your flowers. “It’s hot today, isn’t it?” You sat up looking at Rex who only smiles at you playing with his spider-Man toy who your husband hates very much. You only laugh at his goofy mood before going back to cutting off the dead flowers. “Is that a spider-man toy?” Rex looked at the voice before letting out a squeal. You turn over hearing Miguel’s gruff voice. “Back from errands?” You asked before wiping your hands clean “Yeah, he loves it and will bite his father's hand if he tries to take it.” You watched as your son showed Miguel the toy. Miguel smiles “A spider-man fan aren’t you Pequeño*?” He picked up your son and that right there made you know you were doing the right thing. The sight of your son in the arms of another man who wasn’t your husband made you melt. It was radiating warmth that your husband could never whenever he was told to hold his son for pictures. While both of them were distracted, you grabbed your phone looking back at the message of your lawyer. Reading the message they sent, you finally had an answer. 
‘Yes, I’m sure. I want the divorce ‘
┕━━━━━━━ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ━━━━━━━┙
Author Notes: Thank you so much for reading and sorry for any grammar mistakes, I hope you all enjoyed it. Tomorrow, I'll post the last part, it's going to be slightly longer this time! Stay hydrated and keep simping. (Simp City Population :4) *Thank you for the follows and love! * 🥰
Spanish Translation: (Remember some have double meaning or similar meaning) 1. Vecinita: Little Neighbor 2. Tu Hijo: Your son or your boy 3. Tu Niño: Your boy 4. Ven a mí: Come to me 4. Siempre: Always 5. Oye: Hey or listen up 6. Pequeño: Little one (Boy and if added with an s at the end can be referred as little ones.)
159 notes · View notes
quordleona03 · 1 year ago
Text
M*A*S*H goes to Pride
In 1970, the world's first Pride march was held in New York City. Virtually all of our MASH friends would have lived long enough to see or to attend that first march. Which of them would have gone (assuming them to be in New York City in June 1970)? And would they have gone as ally or because they were LGBTQ? Maxwell Q. Klinger Of course. This is the most easiest answer of them all. Klinger would have dressed up to go. He would have accessorized. He would have checked with the organisers, designed multiple placards for the occasion, distributed them at the start, and walked the march in heels, a lovely dress, and a huge smile. Ally or LGBTQ? Klinger would have let you guess. Sherman T. Potter This is almost as easy to answer. Potter would have dressed up smartly and got Mildred or someone to make him a placard that said PROUD OF MY GAY GRANDSON (or LESBIAN GRANDDAUGHTER - maybe Cheryl Pershing Potter, whom we heard about in S04E14 ) and he would walk the route holding the placard high and his back military-straight, looking dead serious all the way. He would have been startled at the number of tearful handshakes and requests for hugs he got. Ally or LGBTQ? Ally. Charles Emerson Winchester III I am afraid this is the next-easiest answer: Winchester would not have gone. Not as an ally, and definitely not as a gay or bi man. As an ally, he'd have donated money to the cause, and if LGBTQ, he'd have made sure it was anonymous. Ally or LGBTQ? Wouldn't matter. Margaret Houlihan As an ally, she'd go. As a lesbian, I think she'd stay home, afraid of being outed and fired. Sorry. I'd like to think otherwise, but I think Margaret would be braver about standing up for others than she would for herself. As a straight woman, she'd march for lesbian nurses kicked out of the army whom she knew to be good nurses and good officers. Ally or LGBTQ? Ally.
Frank Burns Would never go and would spit venom at those who did. Never an ally. Could be he's gay, but I doubt it. Ally or LGBTQ? Neither.
Sidney Freedman Wouldn't go but would wish very much he could. Still active as a psychoanalyst, Sidney decides it is more important for him to be a gay and LGBTQ-friendly practicing analyst, providing psychiatric care without condemnation, than it is to march for Pride. Ally or LGBTQ? Gay as a goose.
Radar O'Reilly Would go. Wouldn't think to make a placard in advance, but would scrounge cardboard and a marker-pen from somewhere and make one on the spot that said LOVE KINDNESS. Would be very happy to be in the middle of so many happy people, and when his gay best friend hugs him and thanks him for showing up he's all afluster because what else could he do? Ally or LGBTQ? Ally. Trapper John McIntyre Would go. Wouldn't carry a placard. Would keep an eye out for homophobes threatening marchers and appear, six foot three, in a looming kind of way, and inquire if the homophobe doesn't have somewhere else he'd rather be. Ally or LGBTQ? Either way - he'd be a daddy. BJ Hunnicutt Would definitely decide he wasn't going because who needs to make that kind of display, people should keep themselves to themselves, no one should be punished for loving but no one needs to go on a march for it, and then he'd show up anyway with a hastily-made placard that said SOMEWHERE OVER THE RAINBOW and get into a long conversation with some lesbian bikers about which is the best bike. Ally or LGBTQ? Ally. Though if he were gay, I fear he'd really do the same as lesbian Margaret Houlihan - stay home. Francis Mulcahy Would decide he should go, after much prayer and thought. Would carry a carefully-made placard saying REPEAL THE DEUTERONOMIC CODE. Would be mortally embarrassed all the way but desperately trying not to show it, especially when he got kissed in public. Ally or LGBTQ? Gay. Hawkeye Pierce Gleefully shows up, having been looking forward to going ever since he heard. Carries a placard whose message he has thought and rethought and rewritten at least a hundred times. It now says LOVE IS LOVE IS LOVE. Tries to catch the eye of every glaring homophobe they march passes in order to give them a big grin and a wave. Hugs everyone he recognises, especially Radar, and kisses Francis Mulcahy in public at the end of the march. Ally or LGBTQ? Flamboyant pansexual.
142 notes · View notes
chrisbitchtree · 1 year ago
Text
It may be my birthday, but I have a little gift for you all instead! Enjoy!
***
Billy knows that Steve’s love for him is unconditional, just like his love for Steve is. He also knows that Steve doesn’t need big shiny tokens of Billy’s affection to feel that love.
He likes simple things. Home cooked dinners, massages, Billy’s hand knitted scarves for Christmas every year, all carefully tucked away in their own special drawer when not in use.
That never stops Billy from trying to do the most possible every year for Steve’s birthday. Take, for example, Steve’s 21st, the last birthday before they moved out of Hawkins, heading west, when Billy planned a massive scavenger hunt that took Steve to all their special places, or his 25th, when Billy had convinced him he’d tone down the birthday plans for once, only to have Robin and Dustin fly in from New York, where they were both going to school at the time, for the occasion. They’d went to a Dodgers game, then to dinner and a karaoke bar, and had the time of their lives.
This year, Billy was planning to bigger than ever, literally, with a chocolate cake comprised of ten small tiers. Three months ago, Billy had bought a ring, planning to ask Steve a question on his 30th birthday that he should have asked him long ago. They’ve talked about taking the next step together plenty of times, but it’s just never happened, so Billy’s taking his chance now.
The plan is to construct such a ridiculous cake that Steve’ll think that’s the big surprise, and he’ll never see the proposal coming. The idea to put the ring in the cake comes later, when Billy thinks of his childhood birthdays, his mom baking coins into the cake for him to find.
What’s stopping him from wrapping the ring in tinfoil and baking it into the top tier? It turns out nothing is, so he does it, proud of his genius when all the layers come out perfectly. You’d never be able to tell that there was an engagement ring in one of them.
That becomes a problem when Billy loses track of which layer has the ring in it. He’s sure it’s the one cooling next to the sink, but it could also be the one cooling on the table, or one of the ones on the coffee table.
He finally decides it has to be the one next to the stove. It has to be. He’s sure of it after lifting them all, trying to detect the little bit of added weight.
He frosts the cake, pleased with how perfectly straight it is, then he showers and gets dressed. Steve unfortunately works on his birthday this year, so Billy picks him up and they head to the restaurant from there.
He tries to act normal through dinner, but his palms are sweating and his heart is beating fast from a combination of nerves about proposing and fear that the ring isn’t in the top layer.
Thankfully Steve doesn’t seem to notice, focusing instead on the delicious mashed potatoes and the couple at the next table who may or may not be breaking up right in front of them. It’s a welcome distraction.
They get home, refrigerating the leftovers, and Billy pulls out the cake. Steve oohs and ahhs at the height of it before blowing out the candles and giving Billy a kiss of thanks.
Billy serves Steve the topmost layer and himself the one below and waits. And waits some more. Waits until Steve finishes the whole small layer.
Either Steve’s playing it really cool right now or Billy’s royally fucked things up. He looks at Steve’s empty plate, then at the remaining eight layers.
Before he can think of what to do, Steve speaks, taking Billy’s hand in his own. “Thank you so much, babe. I know every year I tell you not to do anything big and every year you don’t listen, and I should know that by now, but you somehow still manage to surprise me. You’re the best partner that a man could ever ask for.”
Oh god, Steve’s now slipping down onto the floor on one knee, still holding onto Billy’s hand.
“You’re kind, funny, compassionate, and incredibly thoughtful. We’ve been to hell and back and I’m so glad we’ve been through each other’s sides by all of it. I can’t imagine spending the rest of my life with anyone else.”
Now he’s reaching into his pocket. Oh no, this couldn’t be going any worse. But it also couldn’t be going any better. Steve wants to marry him! He wants to spend his life with Billy!
“Billy, will you make me the happiest man in the world and marry me?”
Billy nods, tears springing to his eyes as Steve slips the beautiful black band onto Billy’s finger. Then, the laughter starts as Steve stands up and kisses him. He giggles helplessly against Steve’s lips.
Steve pulls back and looks at Billy questioningly, a smile on his face. “What’s so funny, babe?”
Billy just laughs harder, having to take a couple minutes to compose himself before he can respond. Finally, he can speak. “Soooo, I really fucked things up today. There’s a ring for you somewhere in that cake, wrapped in tinfoil. I thought it would be such a great surprise to have you find it in your piece of cake. But then I lost track of what layer it’s in. I was going to have our friends over tomorrow to celebrate our engagement and eat the rest of the cake, but now the plan’s all ruined because I’m an idiot.”
Steve laughs, pulling Billy into a hug and kissing his cheek. “You’re not an idiot, babe. That was incredibly sweet of you, and I can definitely say I’m still surprised! Can you grab me one of the shish-kabob skewers from the kitchen.”
Billy’s confused, but does what he says, returning quickly with it.
Steve takes it from him and starts sliding it down through the layers, and fuck, why didn’t Billy think of that? It doesn’t take him long at all to find it, and they carefully lift the layers on top of the one it’s hiding in before cutting it out.
And now they each have a ring, a symbol of their love for each other, and a funny story to tell to boot. In retrospect, this night couldn’t have gone any better if Billy had tried.
74 notes · View notes
nekole-doodles · 8 months ago
Text
For today's DMSP AU, Imma talk about my Fullmetal Alchemist DSMP AU, one of my many AU mash-ups! Here we go!
Obviously, this is heavily based on Fullmetal Alchemist(The original manga plot and the FMA: Brotherhood series btw) so here are some of the roles the characters have:
Tommy - Edward Elric: They both have similar personalities but one is tall while the other is made fun of for being short which is hilarious in my opinion :) Also, Tommy joined the military when he was 12-14 and he's currently 16.
Ranboo - Alphonse Elric: I had to think about this one a lot since Tommy and Ranboo wouldn't be blood brothers like in the original and Ranboo would not be a suit of armor. Ranboo is the adopted brother of Tommy and they're still really close. Ranboo's soul was transferred into a sort of large organic doll/chimera that was the experiment of Phil(who takes the place of Von Hohenheim, I'll get to him in a bit). It's basically a lot like C! Ranboo's body but it's incredible durable/has tough skin(as in bulletproof), can't digest food(the body will reject and Ranboo would end up having to spit it out), can't sleep, and can't feel anything(he can hear, see, and smell, but not taste, feel pain/feel anything physical). His original body is basically Ranboo in real life but younger. The body Ranboo's soul is in has a lot of complexities to it that will be explained for another time.
Tubbo - Winry: He's an automail mechanic, it suits him. He also won't hesitate to clonk Tommy's head with a wrench if Tommy gets careless with his automail. He's surprisingly strong(as in probably being able to pick Tommy up and throw him) and hates feeling powerless despite always being left powerless.
Phil - Von Hohenheim: Still immortal and still left his family. Tommy doesn't like Phil because he left them but Ranboo feels more neutral about Phil. Basically like in the original FMA. Phil's wife is, of course, Kristin(RIP). He also doesn't have wings. Idk what else to say for Phil, he's really similar to C! Phil and Von Hohenheim.
Wilbur(not related to cc! Wilbur) - Roy Mustang: It just fits so well in my brain. His title is the Dynamite Alchemist and yes, he is sane. He's a lot like L'manberg era Wilbur but much less naive since he's seen what war is. ALSO, his uniform is extremely similar to the L'manberg military uniform in C! DSMP(but without the hat), I just really like that idea :)))) He and Tommy have a similar relationship as Ed and Roy in FMA but if you added more friendship and fondness because I love Crimeboys in AUs and DSMP :]
Techno - Scar: I debated VERY HARD on this one between Techno taking the role of Scar or General Armstrong/Olivier Armstrong because both fit so well for me. In the end, I decided on Scar but with a different backstory. Techno is a piglin hybrid because I added hybrid races to this world. So far, there are Enderians(I'll talk about them more in another post) and Piglins but there might be more. Techno is an anarchist still and he's very strong and good in combat. I still haven't figured out how he'll gain the destructive alchemy ability but I know that at some point, he'll be able to do more reconstruction, even being able to change the physical appearance of a person(that'll be elaborated on later). Techno did not kill Tubbo's parents btw, so Tommy doesn't have as much anger towards him besides the fact he keeps trying to kill state alchemists and succeeding most of the time. When Tommy and Techno had to work together, they had some surprisingly nice joking moments but it still took a while for Tommy to be comfortable around him since, y'know, Techno tried killing him on several occasions. I think he'll still have the voices which will be a major part of his backstory that I'm still piecing together.
Okay, it's late and I'm tired so that's all you're getting right now.
23 notes · View notes
shadowscommand · 1 year ago
Note
Hello.. can we get more ghostmace headcanons. If you ever wrote any pls link them too...
:)c YESSS i love talking abt maceghost.. i know ive made a bunch of sporadic posts about them but i havent done a like dedicated hcs post. i feel like often im struggling to understand the narrative of their past but generally i keep the same vibe to it all.
mace is for sure the more level headed of the two only because relationships and love freak ghost out. ive mentioned on a post like years ago hes traumatized by watching his mother stick with his father and i still believe this. hes like scared to be in a position where something Isn't working anymore but hes too emotional to cut it off so he self sabotages the relationship so mace will get pissed and stop talking to him.
in the past (as i mentioned in another post) mace Did also feed into this. he had a good home life but his own personal issues and anger at more outward issues caused him to like. seek an outlet for this sort of petty squabbling. and he found it in ghost. until he got tired of festering and being pissed off all the time and decided to actually like Do Shit he feels good about. and he broke up with ghost.
now in modern times where theyve caught up with each other it's like a weird mash of their past and them both being more mature. ghost struggles more because hes very adverse to actually improving himself and how he feels about himself bc hes like. hes Given Up on being a person. while mace has done a lot of healing.
like the toxic factor of maceghost Is Ghost at this point to me. but theres a lot of love there bc theres a lot of mutual respect and, like, easy familiarity there. mace understands how ghost works at his core.
so like. when ghost is being Normal and not anxious they literally just. like. Click? mace can extremely put ghost at ease with just his presence. and mace in turn rly enjoys his company bc a calm ghost is actually just sort of casually funny.
and ghost does like making mace laugh i imagine mace has a really beautiful smile bc he has resting bitch face so when it lights up it's very special.
ghost also i think would be 100% willing to take his mask off in a room of just him and mace. no special occasion needed he's just comforted. mace has already seen it over many, many years.
because they're like an Old couple i think theyve been on and off since their mid twenties for ghost and late twenties for mace. WHICH is another reason mace like wont entertain the childish picking ghost does theyre literally too old.
but he does play along a little. sometimes. old habits die hard. if it's petty mace will have a back and forth w ghost for old times sake its just how ghost communicates sometimes. emotions are just hard for ghost mace understands this. to put all of this simply.
i will say tho if more comes out and they end up more antagonistic than my current read i will still be a huge stan i love when dudes try to fuck and kill each other 💪🥰💕
speaking of fucking tho. tw for implying sexual assault also i just got kinda nasty sowwy.
LIKE we know ghost has a complicated relationship w sex a lot of his past history w it is like traumatic. i think he was already promiscuous as a teen bc he already had issues from his upbringing so hes like. well experienced. and he likes sex. and he likes fucking mace bc his dick is thick, hes good with his hands, and he's not afraid to be rough with him and take their time bc mace likes to be edged and when ghost is rly into it he Likes it to Last esp if he can cum more than once. he likes when his pussy is sore.
BUT ALSOO theyre both like. verse esp w each other. ghost likes topping more tho. he likes fucking mace for being a little bit vocal and just. like. huge. ghost loves bending him over and watching his fat bounce. ghost would blow off any task and anyone to go fuck him.
but also, bc its ghost and i think if the wrong buttons get pressed in the wrong order and it goes sour he gets quiet and, like, disassociates. and mace keeps watch for that bc he doesn't want to put ghost in that state. its not fun
49 notes · View notes
rainiishowers · 2 years ago
Note
Happy 300~
I don't know if you can, can you do a reaction to the demon bros + Diavolo and Barbatos slow blinking/purring at MC while they're hanging out? Apparently when cats do it, it's a sign of trust and they're content, so yeah! :3
Lucifer
You were helping Lucifer lessen his workload in his office
He wouldn't say it but he really did appreciate it and how you worked diligently
You soon started hearing slight rumbling, coming from Lucifer
Rumbling? It sounded more like....
Purring!
You give a small smile, not daring to point it out, lest this grumpy demon stops
"What are you smiling about?"
"Oh nothing~"
Mammon
A movie night with Mammon was always fun, no matter how many times it has happened
You two were just watching a movie, picking apart some of the inaccuracies and making fun of some of the decisions the characters make
It wasn't long before you heard soft yet noticeable purring coming from Mammon, as he leans on you
You lean on him in return and close your eyes to listen to him purring
You could practically feel the blush radiating off him as he seems to purr only louder
Leviathan
You were gaming with Levi in his room
The only sound was you two furiously mashing buttons and the game's music/sound effects
During a cutscene however, you noticed Levi looking at you, slowly blinking while a light blush was evident on his cheeks
You give him a smile and continue with the game, it took a second for Levi to collect himself before continuing as well
His small bits of affection continued, as he gathered up the confidence to scoot a little closer to you
Satan
Whether you two would be reading or doing some studying, whenever this cat obsessed romantic is with you, he feels at peace, and thus he does both of these quite often
On rare occasions when he would fall asleep before you during studying or reading, you can hear him softly purring or he gives you a slow, tired blink before drifting off to snooze land
He trusts you, a lot. And it is quite easy to tell
Satan doesn't deny it, but he is quite flustered when asked about it
Asmodeus
Much different then Satan, is Asmo.
He has zero shame is showing his affection and trust for you
Asmo will coo, purr and cling onto your arm in public (or just the first two if you don't like PDA, he respects boundaries!)
However, in more closed doors, he is more calm
An occurrence that has happened more then a few times, is that he would be painting your nails in his or your room, and he would just look up at you, with an expression of trust before giving you a smile and blinking softly a few times
Of course you give him a smile back
He stares back at your half painted nails with a more thoughtful look
"Hun.. Can you promise me something?"
"What's up, Asmo?"
"Well.. I'm not afraid to admit that I trust you, a lot actually.. But.. Can you promise me not to break that trust... please..?"
"Of course!"
"Good, I'll be holding you to that~"
Beelzebub
Beel isn't shy about showing the world how much he trusts you
But it is more often that you two would be in the kitchen, or binging a show that he would slowly blink at you
His purring isn't the most subtle, so you might catch onto that first before noticing him slowly blinking
When he notices you looking at him, he'll smile happily before offering some of the snacks he has on hand
Belphegor
Belphie and trust aren't two things that typically goes together, even after you came along and helped him
It took a bit, after Lesson 16 to decide on whether he should fully trust you or not
It was a typical day, the youngest was using your lap as a pillow while you scrolled through your phone
It didn't take long for you to notice him purring as he laid on your lap, he held more of a grip on you as well, as if scared someone would take away his comfy pillow
If you mention it later on, he'll grow a bit flustered
"Well... Yea.. That's because I trust you..."
Diavolo
If you thought Beel's purrs weren't subtle, wait till you hear Diavolo's
This prince is typically one to not keep his cards far away from his chest ~~so to speak~~ from people that aren't his close companions
And lucky for you, you happen to be one of those close companions!
You were going over plans for a RAD event with Dia, and this man was looking at you with so much fondness and attention
And that's when you heard loud purring and saw him slowly blinking at you
You couldn't deny it was cute, this giant puppy of a man looking at you with so much trust, no wonder he put you in charge of this event!
You give a smile before continuing explaining your plans
Barbatos
Similar to Belphie, Barbatos giving his trust to people is rare, but not unheard of (but he refuses to give his trust to Solomon, RIP)
He shows it in subtle ways, yet if you were observant enough, you'd catch onto them
You two had just finished a trip to the human world tea shop, and now he was just making tea for the two of you
When he finished, he gives you your cup and takes his own cup in his hands before sitting beside you
Comfortable silence filled the air, with small bits of chatter and a bit of noise coming from other places in the castle
Eventually, you start to hear purring coming from the butler, it took everything in you not to squeal of happiness, so you just gave a smile
When he notices your wide grin, he gives a small chuckle and sips his tea, but that doesn't cover up his rosy pink cheeks
87 notes · View notes
medea10 · 6 months ago
Text
Medea Rants - CARTOONS!!!
Tumblr media
I’m taking a break from writing up anime reviews to talk about some news that dropped a few weeks ago that has my mind swarming with so much thought.
A few weeks ago, I’m scrolling through Twitter…I’m still not calling it by its other name and randomly came across this news about a new television channel coming. MeTV Toons. The minute-long video teased all of the old cartoons I used to love watching and still love watching.
youtube
The Flintstones, Scooby Doo, Top Cat, Rocky and Bullwinkle, Underdog, Wally Gator, 2 Stupid Dogs, Johnny Quest, The Jetsons, Yogi Bear, Magilla Gorilla, Speed Racer, Freakazoid, Snagglepuss, Looney Tunes, Popeye, Droopy, Betty Boop, and so, so, so, so, SOOOOOO MUCH MORE!
HISTORY ABOUT METV: Depending on where you live, you might get a combination of different channels in your cable package. MeTV, Antenna TV, Cozi, Catchy Comedy, Get TV, Rewind, etc. Ever since their existence I’ve been drawn to both MeTV and Catchy Comedy (formerly known as Decades). MeTV has been known to play programming ranging from the 1940s to the 1980s give-or-take. It’s like what TV Land used to be like before becoming the MASH and Raymond network. Me personally, I’m usually watching The Three Stooges or All in the Family.
Tumblr media
In recent years, MeTV has decided to play cartoons. Not a lot, but enough to gain attention. Ever since they started this, every Saturday morning I’m up watching the cartoons. Because I’m still used to the Saturday morning cartoon setup before it died. Mostly, this consists of Popeye, Tom & Jerry, Woody Woodpecker, and Bugs Bunny/Looney Tunes. On Sundays, they play The Flintstones and Jetsons. During the week, they also aired a show called, “Toon In With ME”. This was an hour-long program where the hosts would play the short cartoons I just mentioned above. I actually only watch this on rare occasions since it always airs when I’m heading off to work. Believe it or not, this program has been a huge hit. So, it’s no surprise that the hosts announced MeTV Toons on their program.
Tumblr media
THE CONCEPT OF A 24/7 CARTOON CHANNEL: Cartoon Network and Boomerang. Y’all remember this, right? Back when Cartoon Network first started, it had all of the old cartoons from back in the day. But then, they started doing their own original programming. And that was okay, because we got Cartoon Planet and Space Ghost Coast to Coast out of the deal. Then we got original programming from the Cartoon, Cartoon era. And that was okay, because we got shows like Courage, Billy and Mandy, Powerpuff Girls, and Dexter out of the deal. But then, all of the older cartoons started disappearing and we get some mediocre cartoons out of the deal. Not okay! But also, we got things like Toonami and Adult Swim. So…I’m stuck here.
That’s when Boomerang came in! And that’s all I can tell you because I never got Boomerang in my cable package. BECAUSE XFINITY SUCKS! Apparently, in the early 2000s, all of those older cartoons I’ve mentioned before migrated to the Boomerang channel. It so would have been nice to watch that. I’m still disgruntled about that whole thing. Time passes and both of these channels are unrecognizable. Fast-forward to the 2010’s, Cartoon Network is playing some garbage called Teen Titans GO and Boomerang mostly plays…I don’t know. I just know it wasn’t the old cartoons. Just rehashes. I only came across it if it was playing in the breakroom at work since we had Dish there. Not going to complain that they were playing Pokemon and it just happened to have Tracey on that day.
YOU THOUGHT YOU WERE SAFE FROM MY TRACEY OBSESSION HERE! Think again.
Mwahahahaha!
Both channels have become shells of their former selves. And if you want to know the truth, I only watch Cartoon Network for Adult Swim and Toonami. That’s it!
Now that MeTV is doing its own 24/7 cartoon channel, I have so many thoughts in my head. Hopes and dreams, crushing reality thoughts, worry, and so much more. Most of all, I just want to actually see it with my own eyes. I don’t want to relive being 12 years old and seeing my favorite shows plucked off the air and put on a channel that I don’t even get. That’s not cool. I’m too old to be going through emotions I felt at the start of puberty. So, Xfinity! Do a sister a favor and hand over the goods. And MeTV, learn from the past mistakes of Boomerang and Cartoon Network. No original programming! Unless it’s something like Toon in With ME, none of that! Leave that shit to Cartoon Network and Max. And Teen Titans in any capacity must be BANNED! It’s for the greater good.
With that said, here are some scattered thoughts I have with the upcoming MeTV Toons channel.
Tumblr media
UNDERDOG: I want to see Underdog. Plain and simple. Not that shitty-ass, bull-shit, pile of Taco Bell toilet leave-behinds movie that Disney made back in 2007. I. WANT. UNDERDOG. The show! Wally Cox saying, “There’s no need to fear, Underdog is here”. THAT! I WANT THAT! I want to see Underdog, Sweet Polly Purebread, Riff Raff, Mooch, Tap-Tap the Chisler, Batty Man, O.J. Squeeze, Rudy Guiliani’s doppleganger Simon Barsinister, Cad, I want to see everyone!
I ain’t fucking around here. Put Underdog on and LEAVE IT THERE ON THE SCHEDULE. Don’t be fucking with me and having it on for one day and then I never see it again. PLAY IT!
Tumblr media
Sorry to get so postal here. But Underdog is my all-time favorite older cartoon. And as you can see by my collection of goodies here, I am a fan.
TIME-STAMP: Seeing all of these old cartoons finally getting a home, you have to ask what’s the cut off of how old the cartoon must be? I seriously would have been fine with them cutting things off at 1989. But then I see surprising entries like 2 Stupid Dogs, Freakazoid, and the cartoon series based off the movie that was based off the comic, The Mask. Wow, that certainly takes me back. Okay, perfect! All of the cartoons played here don’t go past the millennium threshold. This, I can live with. But then…
Tumblr media
Xiaolin Showdown too?! Okay, this one was obviously not made in the 90s as it ran on KidsWB from 2003 to 2006. I’m a little excited as it does make me optimistic for more KidsWB programs. But it does make me a little suspicious seeing this one red herring. Nothing against the show at all, I just don’t trust any program after 1999 when you’re seeing the line-up I’m seeing. If it were me, the cut-off time should be this.
Tumblr media
This is Christopher Walken dancing in the Fatboy Slim video Weapon of Choice. When this came out should be the cut-off point for any cartoon made to be put on this channel. With Xiaolin Showdown being the exception.
Tumblr media
MOVIES: A good idea that Cartoon Network used to do on Saturday nights was play movies. Believe it or not, there are good cartoon movies that were made by people not affiliated with the Disney corporation. Why not do so here? A lot of Don Bluth’s movies used to play like An American Tail, Thumbalina, and Secret of NIHM used to play. Let’s do it here! How about some trippy-ass 60s and 70s movies like Gay Pur-ree and Raggedy Ann and Andy: A Musical Adventure?! A Boy Named Charlie Brown! Yes, do it! MeTV plays that one and Snoopy Come Home during Christmas time, this would be perfect. Hell, add the other two Charlie Brown movies here too. The Chipmunk Adventure! Yes, please!
A lot of the cartoons already on the docket for MeTV Toons have movies. The Jetsons have their own movie. Just stop before you see The Jetsons with the WWE. Tom and Jerry had a movie come out in the 90s. It was weird, but it was at least original. Just stop before you see Tom and Jerry crashing movie classics. Scooby Doo has a plethora of movies. I know the Boo Brothers and the Ghoul School movie has Scrappy Doo, but those were still solid features. Just stop when you see any movie that aired after Y2K. The Flintstones had many that have been made between the 60s and the 90s. This includes a musical, a cross-over, a wedding, and even Pebbles and Bamm-Bamm becoming parents. Seeing all the pictures on the MeTV Toons website put up Fred and Bamm-Bamm from the Christmas Carol movie. So, that gives me hope. Again, just don’t play anything made after 2000.
While you’re at it, try and see if you can get the rights to play The Brave Little Toaster. I promised I wouldn’t bring up anything Disney here, but this movie is very much a Disney film and yet, five years later is still not on Disney+. That’s a fucking crime. Somebody needs to play that classic.
Tumblr media
ANIME ON METV TOONS: With this announcement, we saw one of the characters prominently featured in the teasers was Speed Racer. That is definitely an anime despite what we all thought back in the day when we first saw it. Should MeTV stop right there and just keep it with Speed Racer? Believe it or not, I say yes. Shocking, yes. There are so many anime series that could be added to MeTV Toons to bring back other kinds of nostalgia. MeTV Toons is playing shows that came from the KidsWB time. What played back then? Pokemon, Cardcaptor Sakura, and Yu-Gi-Oh! There are shows from FOX Kids time too. What was a show that played there? Digimon! And let’s not forget the Toonami classics like Sailor Moon, Dragon Ball Z, Gundam, and Tenchi Muyo. Would love the fuck out of that, but would also feel like it’d be too much and also hard to get as some of the anime companies are hard to negotiate with. Plus, Cartoon Network is actually bringing DBZ and Sailor Moon back.
But if they do put Pokemon on the schedule, I won’t be mad about that.
Tumblr media
ADULT PROGRAMMING: I’m not saying to go full-on Adult Swim. Also, no on Squidbillies. I just like this picture. But some adult programming wouldn’t hurt. Excluded would have to be anything owned by Disney/FOX or Paramount. So, as much as I love shows like Daria and The Simpsons, NO! With that said, there are several shows worthy enough to be given a new home. Let’s start with Duckman! No? How about The Critic? If not that, how about Bob and Margaret? Nobody has seen this show for 20 years. Let’s make this happen. How about the short-lived cartoons that aired in the late 90s/early 2000s? The Oblongs, Baby Blues, Mission Hill, and…I hesitate even saying this one, Dilbert. Hesitation because the creator of Dilbert is a bit of a fuck-hole. But the show is okay! Let’s not go too far with adult animation. Fritz the Cat would be too far. And don’t even think about Ren & Stimpy: Adult Party Cartoon. That’s a war crime in and of itself!
Tumblr media
CONTROVERSIAL CARTOONS: Make no mistake about it, there are some cartoons that if made today would be cancelled by all kinds of groups. I’m kind of standing in this fork in the road wondering if it should air or not. Obviously the infamous “Banned Eleven” from Looney Tunes should remain that way and for good reason. But…two cartoons do come to mind and why people would find issue with it. First, is Johnny Bravo. You realize that Cartoon Network is doing it’s Checkered Past block and not once did it put Johnny Bravo on there. I think it’s the fact that he’s a womanizer. Like a human Pepe Le Pew! I can see MeTV Toons carrying Johnny Bravo as their parent channel does play Pepe Le Pew cartoons. The other cartoon I’ll mention might not get a warm welcome.
Tumblr media
And it’s Batfink! The superhero bat with wings of steel. He’s Batfink! I can’t even begin to tell you how much I loved watching Batfink when it used to air on the short-lived Nickelodeon show, Weinerville. There’s just one itty-bitty, little, tiny thing…okay, it’s a fucking big crater. Batfink’s assistant, Karate. Yeah, that’s a collar-tug. Just look at him. Just listen to him. I can hear every anus clamp shut with this. The good thing about channels like Catchy and MeTV, they do put up disclaimers if they’re about to play something that could be seen as offensive.
HOPES FOR THE LOST MEDIA: I know I have a lot of treasured classics on VHS. Damn shame my old TV/VCR died last year. If you’re wondering how old I am, I’m this old.
Tumblr media
I am (this) Disney Black-Diamond logo old. Moving on!
Seeing that this channel is actually bringing The Mask to it’s line-up gives me hope for other pieces of lost media from back in the day. Shows that aren’t on a streaming service, shows that never got a DVD release, and shows you can only find through old VHS copies. From Cartoon Network, there’s Cartoon Planet and all of the cartoons played on O Canada and What A Cartoon Show. From KidsWB, it would be a lot of the short-lived series like Detention, Histeria, and Generation O. And as for FOX Kids, there’s Life With Louie, Peter Pan & the Pirates, and Eek! The Cat.
Hey Medea, aren’t you forgetting the bad side to this? Angela Anaconda ring a bell?
Tumblr media
Oh shit. That’s right. We also do run the risk of seeing things like Mega Babies and Angela Anaconda again. I guess this is a take the good with the bad.
AND FINALLY, SHOWS THAT WOULD BE AWESOME TO SEE AGAIN: Yes, what the website has given us has so many twists and surprises. So, I’m going to list off all the cartoons I didn’t see on the teaser and website. Here’s hoping they’ll get another chance to be seen.
The Tick Batman Beyond Time Squad Harvey Birdman: Attorney at Law Count Duckula Gerald McBoing-Boing Dudley Do-Right The Banana Splits Bobby’s World Madeline Pee Wee’s Playhouse Camp Candy Static Shock Tennessee Tuxedo Earthworm Jim The Addams Family Hong Kong Phooey The Littles Space Ghost Coast to Coast/Cartoon Planet Life With Louie Alvin and the Chipmunks Sabrina the Animated Series Every property of Charlie Brown and Snoopy (fuck Apple TV+) Gumby Inch High Private Eye The Adventures of Sonic the Hedgehog/Sonic Underground Commander McBragg
I think I got everything out of my system. Will all of my hopes and wishes come true with the upcoming MeTV Toons. Hell no! But it’ll be nice if one or two of these happen.
8 notes · View notes
h8crimesmd · 1 year ago
Note
fic fic fic!!! (please not something with a sad ending, otherways you can throw anything on me) (also thank you <3)
oho ask and you shall receive!
A Modest Proposal by ignaz
"Tritter's case against House still depends on subpoenaed testimony from Wilson. To save House from losing everything, the doctors of PPTH decide on an unusual solution, which in turn leads to unexpected consequences. This is a story about the sacrifices we make that turn out not to be such great sacrifices after all. (Contains spoilers for everything up to and including "Merry Little Christmas.")"
I cannot say enough good things about this fic
its funny, its witty, the characters are in character, the ending is satisfying
the author rly said slow burn and put this bitch on simmer but by GOD its worth it
Made me laugh on numerous occasions.
the smut is top-tier. turn your phone brightness down if you're in public
Experimental Procedures by ORiley42
"An offhand comment leads Wilson to test out some unusual methods of pain relief for House. (They’re extremely effective.)"
ORiley42 has some really good fics in general i'd recommend checking them out
short and sweet (and spicy)
and surprisingly heartfelt at the end!
these old men are so silly and i love them very much
no need to worry by scribespirare
"House makes the mistake of telling his mother he can't join her for Christmas because of his new boyfriend. Somehow, this becomes Wilson's problem."
The fake dating trope of all time
actual tooth rotting fluff, made me go "AWWWW" out loud several times
shoutout blythe house fr
wilson being depressingly repressed and house being far too unrepressed
i wanted to mash their faces together like barbies
THE PAYOFF OF WHEN THEY REALIZE THAT HMM MAYBE THIS FAKE DATING THING IS WORKING
for fear that you find out by showzen
“Okay, okay! I just thought - why do your allotted times with me have to be separate?” He ventures. Both raise their eyebrows, but don’t immediately rip his head off, which he takes as a good sign. “Of course I like to spend time with both of you independently, but… I like both of you. Is there any good reason why we can’t, I don’t know - go bowling as… a trio?”
(wilson comes up with an elegant solution to the custody issue.)"
if wilson/house/amber isn't your thing, then this isnt for you
but even if it isn't, its worth a read
they're characterized really well
amber and house's headstrong nature against wilson's people pleasing tendencies
plus you get to watch hilson develop and instead of tossing him out, amber accepts house as a part of wilson
seriously well done. plus, it's a series!
thanks for asking anon! i hope you enjoy <3
30 notes · View notes
wolves-in-the-world · 1 year ago
Text
tags on krakenartificer's post about a leverage au where nate enters the priesthood but ends up running cons for people who come to him for help anyway:
#now i need a crossover episode of catholic priest nate who's still running leverage style shenanigans #with father brown [via @trivalentlinks]
thank you for making me stare at the wall in fascination and horror about this crossover
they'd be occasional allies occasional confidantes they'd go behind each other's backs once or twice and only kinda regret it. This nate hasn't gone through the same loss as in canon, but that wouldn't make him a whole lot softer, so he'd be fundamentally irritated with father brown - his tested and unshakeable belief and his optimism about the human condition - and father brown would be generally concerned about everyone on nate's end, and nate not the least of it. They'd play chess together and be fairly well-matched. They'd visit each other's confessionals to check in.
we'd get some interesting acknowledgement of father brown's "I'm nice and simple and harmless" grift (which I could also call power negativity) which is only kind of a grift because he really is that nice and harmless beneath, except that he uses it to get information from people.
flambeau would be utterly thrilled and (playfully?) insulted not to be father brown's only criminal associate.
the leverage crew would be correctly suspicious of flambeau, I think, but sophie would greet him by name - possibly with a kiss to the cheek, possibly eyeing him like he's a viper in their midst - and reference some very improbable occasion when they were after the same prize. He mentions she was using a different name then; he doesn't say what it was. Bonus points if he also had his eye on the dagger in the Rashomon Job but had the flu / was unexpectedly in prison / had to attend a grandmother's funeral at the time.
I have this certainty in my mind that the leverage crew would be largely dismissive of sid's abilities and he'd kind of snort and roll his eyes about it - he's at worst a common criminal and very lower class, so he's used to being understimated - and surprise them with his connections or lock-picking or holding his own in a brawl or fixing an elderly car in the quickest dirtiest way imaginable. (Parker would decide she likes him then; the others would be reassured after seeing how gentle he is when talking with her.) He'd also nope out of leverage's business at a sensible time, because father brown's rubbed off on him and he doesn't actually want that kind of danger - unless the con's personal.
(I'm not sure whether to set this in leverage time or drag it back to father brown's 1950s so I'm settling for mashing the two together and pretending it's not an issue. See also: geography.)
… father brown would have I think one harrowing conversation with eliot where they mention their time in the military, the marks that killing people and losing people leaves on a person - father brown already does this in canon, tells someone it's unfair that they're mired in trauma and alcoholism when he found his faith through trauma instead, it floored me - and after brushing on repentance and god here, he wouldn't bring it up with eliot again. (I think father brown varies on this in canon, frankly, but he often respects that kind of boundary, and I think he'd recognise a wound so sore it should be left to heal however it can.)
(yes I'm playing with fictional priests like barbie dolls but no I'm not comfortable with the conversion aspects, so apologies and bear with me while I skate on past that.)
(he'd describe eliot as a good person, once, or as someone working very hard at it. Eliot would be on edge about that for the entire con, finding a little too much uneasy satisfaction in getting to knock people out and play the bad guy - play at the simpler stuff he used to do. Sophie might catch father brown for a word about it; father brown wouldn't be that clumsy again.)
I think father brown and nate would both talk bunty out of getting involved in a joint kembleford-leverage operation except in the most innocent way possible. The problem is she actually would make a good getaway driver, and she's thrilled with the idea, but she's already had some run-ins with the press and the law and can't risk another; luckily she's better used as a distraction elsewhere.
and I'm sorry to do this, but I think lady felicia's husband would be a mark or potential mark at one point. It would be fraught.
(the main reason I haven't recommended father brown's heist episode (s7e10), aside from not having a background on the politics in it, is that it shows lady felicia as a victim and pulls the heist on her behalf. The show largely convinced me to ignore the messy reality of her and her husband's inherited wealth, but that episode made me kinda uncomfortable - which is a shame, because seeing these characters pull a heist was fucking great.)
mrs mccarthy would be used against her will or knowledge as a distraction while someone's pockets are picked. She isn't told until afterwards, and then only half by accident. She is, of course, horrified. Father brown was absolutely the one to suggest it in planning, but flambeau slips in mid-apology to smoothly take the blame.
I could in fact go on and this is in fact a problem.
editing to continue:
I'm actually thinking that father brown might approach eliot from an ex-military angle and not a Religious Authority angle at all - eliot was raised protestant, after all, and it's an entirely different vibe. And I have to think eliot's guarded around father brown for the very fact that he's a priest and seems to mean it in a way that nate, I feel, wouldn't. So they may avoid the topic entirely, or as close to it as they can when brushing on, well, eliot's entire moral injury situation. Which is good news for me.
bunty would admire parker for being different and capable and getting up to exciting things, though would probably fail at any attempts at friendship until she thinks to ask what parker likes doing and ends up learning to pick pockets that evening. The second those two are around buildings tall enough to rappel down she's in danger. (The second parker can slip away at night she's giving the church a go; father brown gives her a look the night before and quietly warns her about the dodgy roof.)
mrs mccarthy decides fairly quickly that hardison is a very nice young man (his nana instincts are online and functional) even if he spends far too much time on the wretched computer. She's determined to feed him and half the time he's determined to find ways to politely refuse, though the strawberry scones are actually pretty good.
she's appalled by eliot's job, and fiercely territorial of her kitchen when he offers help, even just cleaning up, but once she's seen him get in the way of trouble she's absolutely catching his arm and half hiding behind him in any crisis real or perceived. (She still doesn't approve of him.)
lady felicia sees hardison and eliot as two very different kinds of novelties and does some talking to hardison about tech (mostly listening and marveling) and some quietly ogling both of them, and especially eliot once she's seen him fighting. (Eliot unfortunately turned on his charm when he realised she sort of expected it. She doesn't get to chat with charming southern gents all that often - it's very shallow, and she's not serious about it.)
thank goodness bunty's too young for eliot so I don't have to go there. He has to tuck her out of sight in a barn at some point when trouble's headed their way; when the mess is almost cleaned up and she's grabbed a rifle from somewhere to tell the the remaining goon to clear off, with every appearance of competence, eliot takes it from her and disarms it with a smear of blood under his nose and a slightly betrayed expression.
hardison and sid get along, aside from a little initial insecurity on the parker front, and get to bitch a bit about flambeau, who hardison mistrusts from the start.
flambeau... he admires parker, from a distance - professionally and not very effusively - but after he watches her work for a while he seems to realise who she was trained by, and tells her as much. He says he was too, for a very short time, and it's unclear if he'd gain anything from making it up. Says that he and archie had a difference of opinion - and has a way of saying it that implies there might have been fire involved.
23 notes · View notes
majorbaby · 1 year ago
Note
u know, u dont have to answer this but u keep mentioning a sidney post you made that you're not satisfied with bc u wrote it much earlier in ur mash analysis, and i have to wonder what you'd say about him now, as a character, as a narrative device, etc?
Sidney is so much a tool for storytelling that I would liken him to punctuation. He exists to draw out the inner thoughts, fears and desires of our more three-dimensional characters, most notably Hawkeye but also Margaret, Klinger, Charles and the patients he treats on the show. Their psychoses are so often based in their fears, their denial, their disbelief, their unwillingness to take personal responsibility for their circumstances – which is not usually how real mental illnesses work, but still makes for good television. 
I’ve also used to term “Sidney ex machina” to describe his function:
Deus ex machina; plural: dei ex machina; English "god from the machine" is a plot device whereby a seemingly unsolvable problem in a story is suddenly or abruptly resolved by an unexpected and unlikely occurrence.
The 4077th will hit a wall with a patient (sometimes the patient is Hawkeye) that they cannot overcome, because they’re experiencing an illness of the mind and they don’t specialize in that type of illness - although you could make an argument for Hawkeye “therapizing” his friends (Margaret in Images, Radar in Hepatitis, BJ in Period of Adjustment) but he’s still not trained. When this happens, someone will go “get Sidney on the line” and every time without fail, Sidney successfully fixes the problem. This wouldn’t land so well if he was a recurring character on the show. 
Hawkeye is so in touch with the inner workings of his own mind and heart I wouldn’t necessarily put it past him to be able to monologue his way through his problems, coming to the solutions on his own (maybe with the exception of GFA or Bless you Hawkeye) but you still get the sense that he already knows the answer, he just needs someone to help draw it out of him. That’s Sidney’s role. He’s really just there for Hawkeye’s voice to have something to bounce off of so it becomes audible to himself and us, the audience. 
There’s one brief exception to Sidney being used this way and lol, it’s no surprise to me its in the Written-by-Alan-Alda Dear Sigmund. Alda’s episodes do tend to deal more with character drama, and I imagine he couldn’t resist taking a stab at Sidney. We learn that Sidney’s struggling with the loss of a patient – but only after Hawkeye and BJ read his private letters, really his journal, which is rude as fuck btw, but to me unintentionally emphasizes how much of a barrier there is between the audience and Sidney’s thoughts/feelings/fears/desires. But I can’t think of any other occasion where we get to see what’s beneath his calm, cool, professional exterior. 
There’s other times I was curious about that.. In War of Nerves he’s supposed to be at the 4077th as a patient, but he leaves the mess tent because he has a head injury that no one is considerate of, and he ends up treating people when he’s the one who’s supposed to be recovering. 
If you choose to see Hawkeye as getting progressively worse as the war wears on him (and idk if I do personally because the show is so episodic but that’s another post) then I have to wonder what it feels like for Sidney to have to keep treating him, especially in Goodbye Farewell Amen, where we finally see a crack in Sidney’s normally neutral expression, his consummate professionalism, as Hawkeye comes clean about what really happened on the bus. Like… they’re friends, it’s already ethically questionable to have Sidney treat him, and then we see exactly why that shouldn’t happen when Hawkeye is understandably upset that Sidney has decided to send him back to the 4077th. There is a moment of forgiveness and gratitude that passes between them in Sidney’s final scene in the series when Hawkeye thanks him, not insignificantly while he (Hawkeye) is performing surgery (to me it feels like a nice callback to OR), which he’d previously wondered aloud to Sidney whether or not he’d ever be able to return to. 
And here I am again saying that “flat” characters, of which Sidney is MASH’s best example, aren’t poorly written when they’re fulfilling their intended purpose, which Sidney does very well almost every time we see him. He’s so good at his job that it even feels weird for me to talk about his thoughts and feelings in fic, I want to get him in there, have him draw out the interiority of whichever character he’s in conversation with and then be like “glad we had this chat, peace” and actually that is how I see him being used pretty regularly in fic. 
Btw this is the Sidney post that gets on my nerves, not because I disagree now with what I said… actually that post is just this post stated too simply for my liking and it got way more traction than I ever imagined it would, so obviously it appeals to something that people feel, but I didn’t state what it was. It’s so vague it reads like a fandom in-joke. So thank you for giving me the push to show my work. 
36 notes · View notes
madstronaut · 8 months ago
Text
guess wot my fellow hoes (fellhoes?) you’re getting a two-fer-one deal
obligatory alpha post link below:
because I have been deep in my werewolf/hybrid!CODmen fixation while I was drunk off reading moondrunk I decided to take a break...
....by reading johnny boy and i dont want to even look at that ao3 history stat that tells you how many times you've visited this story IT IS A LOT
my record for one of my comfort stories is 79 times and that was back in january last i looked, and it doesn't count the copypaste backup i have in my notes in case of airplane mode. don't look at me rn (cough obligatory @the-californicationist G&G reference/tag here)
ANYWAY MOVING ON 🐺🐺🐺
Reading: Moondrunk Monster by @ghostgorlsworld
so I went to watch the Love Death Robots episode referred to here and UNFFFF forgot how good that whole series was! wolflovers, go watch the Shape-Shifters episode from S1
once again i love a good fleshed-out reader backstory and this one is no exception
also as a certified graves simp the spittake I had to clean up at reading the phrase “Captain Graves”
also wolf-friendly pain medication? please i would happily read an appendix or endnotes/footnotes about the lore/worldbuilding here <3
"They weren’t used to humans being kind to them."🥺🥺🥺🥺
me to myself: tbh in many ways this is the world we are living in rn
that line about reader sleeping in the back of the med bay reminded me of this famous pic I saw way back when:
U.S. Army nurse Amy Stuart of the 5th MASH unit deployed in Saudi Arabia naps on a cot while hugging a teddy bear sent by her family during Operation Desert Storm (February 22, 1991)
getting a little too real but at my age, always hurts my heart and deeply disturbs me to see people younger than me who i consider children going off to/waging war COUGH ANYWAY SRY ESCAPING REALITY BACK TO FANFIC-
piney has such a succinct, tight way of writing to set the scene and story premise up so well - fucking salivating at ghost taking reader to their tent and him getting miffed at her sitting on soap’s bunk until she sits on his <3 LMAO I SEE YOU GHOSTY YOU LITTLE LOVESICK PUPPY YOU~
You glanced down, seeing the Scottish flag on the wall, the photos of a couple that looked exactly like Johnny. “Oh, sorry.” 
ok but also johnny WOULD have selfies of himself up on his own bunk
“ahm easy on the eyes, aint i LT”
“shut it”
You were American, so you didn’t have much taste for tea unless it was iced and sweet. 
me, a rabid tea swiller, raising my hand: UM NOT ALL AMERICANS HATE “TREE PISS” AS TED LASSO CALLS IT OKAY (okay but I love that show so much)
unfff wolf!ghost crowding reader into his own bed forcing her to sleep in it is just *so many chef’s kisses*
Gaz was healed within a day, coming to visit you with a Snickers bar as thanks. “I’ve been saving it for an occasion,” he said. “Wolves…well, we can’t really have chocolate without quite a bit of pain so I thought I would give it to you instead. As thanks.” 
ok this was the most adorable loredrop ever also literally heartbroken at the idea they can’t enjoy chocolate!!!!
The adjustments were freezing slabs of raw beef and plating it up still half-frozen. this reminded me of this frozen organic dog chow i kept getting insta ads for after dogsitting for a friend (if u can hear this siri/insta ad algorithms, FUCK YOU RESPECT MY PRIVACY) anyway in the ad the way the person plated it for their dog and the way their dog ate it with such gusto made me, a human, want to try the dog food lol
“Not everyone in America lives in Texas, Soap.”
👏thank👏 you👏facts👏
You smiled. “A small town in Oklahoma.”
“Bloody hell, that’s just Texas.”
👏also👏 facts👏 (don’t come for me texans this new yorker will (lovingly) fuck you up; god bless amurica)
He was wearing gloves, as always, but they were warm when he pressed them against the scars, fitting his fingers into the obvious claw marks.
The 141 was silent, watching Ghost with a mixture of surprise and horror. Price looked as if he were about to intervene, his knuckles white around his fork.
i fucking l o v e this entire scene
They were still strangers to you, but the base felt too quiet without them, and your skin felt bare without Ghost’s stare upon it.
i am shivering at how good this sentence is
ghost: has a record for being more wolf than human and acts of aggression against humans
also ghost: makes tea for reader regularly when she can’t sleep
also reader if you’re having a eat-three-powdered-donuts-in-one-sitting kind of day, you eat that whole box girl no one will fault you for it <3
Ghost hummed, then came the unmistakable sound of licking the sugar off his fingers. There had also been blood on his fingertips, from the night’s previous activities.
You don’t want to think about why that makes your belly clench. 
😏😏😏we love the feral ones
also unexpected gifts are some of the best ones
i felt the adrenaline of the humvee ambush like i was watching a live action movie - i could picture the entire scenes very easily in my head <3
and ghost taking off her boots >>>>>>>>
A man in a skull mask was asleep in the chair in front of you, his head tipped back against the wall, his legs relaxed and spread wide. 
ah yes, classic submission position~
The meek little nurse that had put a Colonel’s son in the ER. 
meek is one of my favorite words. i have heard an alternate definition for this as “meekness is great power under control” and it stuck in my head ever since; pls bow before medic reader my meek badass queen
Your heart raced. It was such a human instinct, to see a predator and want to either kiss it or run from it. 
ah yes imho the heart of why wolf/hybrid and enemies-to-lovers etc. etc. etc. tropes and fics are so popular~
Ghost seemed to like your attention, his ears perked at the top of his head. It was oddly endearing, and you normally considered yourself a cat person.
hehe big ghost wolf, smol floppy ears - i will not let this image leave my head
ok and the wolflore about the recessive genes!! eating it all up <3
also i know this is a ghostfic but soap blushing and mumbling bout his coffeeshop crush is soo <333333333
"you’re too young to feel old and miserable like me.” Soap smiled, a bit of cheer back in his eye. “You’re only three years older’n me, lass, I wouldn’t call ye old.”
literally me to anyone <30/even a year younger than me
"ALSO, yes i'm setting up for a future soap/cafe!reader fic"
okay the unholy screech that erupted from me at reading this author’s note i’m-
Graves sat in a simple metal chair, cool, calm and collected without a single blonde hair out of place. 
me fully knowing graves isnt even doing anything here, just sitting: go off, king
“I wasn’t going to let that boy take my soul, sir,” you said calmly. “Not for something as worthless as a career.”
well said indeed <3
You wondered if he would come visit you, if you asked. If he would sit in your dusty, frilly living room and drink from your pumpkin shaped mugs.
PUMPKIN-SHAPED MUGS <3 <3 <3
Price looked up from a paperback, a twitch in his brow. He preferred to keep out of conflicts between the pack, only interfering when blood was spilled. 
oh please my headcanon for price is that he inhales gossip like oxygen and keeps it filed and sorted alphabetically and chronologically in his mind palace to pull up as needed
They were on active duty, for Christ’s sake, it wasn’t like he could bend her over against one of those cots and stake his claim,  COUGHOMGWHYTHEEVERLOVINGFUCKNOTCOUGH no matter how badly he wanted to.  
The 141 hunted at night, so during the day Gaz and Soap would occasionally bring you a muffin for breakfast or a stray cup of coffee. Even Price, the fatherly man he was, brought you one of his extra novels to read while you were awake during the night shift, one of those cheesy detective thrillers that helped you get through the night without passing out on a patient.
who doesn’t love familial!141 🥰🥰
it’s nice to remind yourself that you’re still a simple woman that appreciates a nice mani-pedi and a good hair day.
this is so real - taking care of yourelf/reminding urself to feel human is so important <3
You had the rank and the experience, so of course, you got the lion’s share of reports. ahem this a small almost throwaway line but much appreciated - LEADERSHIP IS FOR SERVICE. TO SHOULDER THE BURDEN FOR THOSE UNDER YOU, AND LIFT THEM UP. TAKE THE HITS SO THEY DON’T HAVE TO - ONES THEY AREN’T EVEN AWARE OF IF YOU’RE GOOD AT IT. anyway stepping down once again from my soapbox-
ah reader i can think of many MANY MANY spicy ways to motivate ghosty to do his patriotic duty~
✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨
AND ALSO Reading: Johnny Boy by @ghostgorlsworld
first off being thrown into the deep end of the incredible lorebuilding had me ready to swim and dive deep without even taking a breath of reality because the story!!!! the worldbuilding!!!! absolutely immaculate
a recurring daydream/brainrot scenario ive gone back to time and again with my blorbos through the years is getting knocked up with their spawn and having to escape and go on the run and hide the child then have an implausibly wild reunion, often with some physically impossible makeup sex and then birth my own private sports team's worth of children to build our world empire (drama, romance, intrigue, adventure - i would buy out opening night tickets to the movieplots my brain spits out, anyway ty for coming to my BedTedTalk) anyway this has such a unique niche in the CODfics ive read with the almost enemies-to-lovers-back-to-enemies flavoring with brother’s best friend trope in play
on that note, shaking tom’s hand vigorously for sneaking johnny back into reader’s life, then backhanding him with my other hand - also for sneaking johnny back into reader’s life
cute-ass mactavish sire emma needs to eat raw meat to survive? her supernatural senses make her an old soul in a child’s body? no further comments, absolute perfection. i love the explorations of “hey scenting/being a hybrid, ESPECIALLY growing up as one, ain’t all its cracked up to be and is not just all 100% sexy times and funsies” and her picking up on mom being sad all the time a certain someone is near and declaring “if mommy doesn’t like him, I don’t either” just UGGHHHH i just want to give her a hug and tell her it will all work out, shes is in good hands (including but not limited to her own!) also tear the throat out of anyone who would dare steal her childhood (fistbumping my fellow immigrant first gen firstborns&eldest daughters who had to grow up too fast/take care of adults)
also one of the reasons i love this fic is the very fierce and protective love reader has for her emma and their really beautiful bond <3 fanfic can be so healing and tender in very unexpected ways and their relationship slipped past all my walls and armor and just stuck me right in the feels <3
the conversation about grandpa jack haunting them and turning the book pages for him was so sweet i think my molars rotted away on the spot, 🥺🥺🥺 piney i will be billing you for my dental visit expenses; be prepared to pay cos ive always wanted to secretly try out grillz as a new yorker girlie 
also random brainrot but 1000% positive grandpa jack was a fucking hottie in his glory days (underground fighting rings? picturing tyler durden rn)
also please give mama reader a fucking medal, cutting up raw meats and organs first thing in the morning (EVERY morning) is a feat indeed
also johnny/reader’s first meeting at the funeral home is absolutely exquisite, the perfect amount of drama and angst!!! raaaaaa biting my pillow and tearing it to pieces
- reader’s physical reaction to the “he’s behind me, isn’t he” revelation
- johnny’s physical glow-up described through reader’s eyes is just UNFFFF *chef’s kiss*
- reader going straight into panic/mama bear mode re: emma
- “it could have been longer, john” HOLY FUCKING SHIT MY ICE COLD QUEEN PLEASE I CANNOT KNEEL BEFORE YOU FASTER OR I’LL BREAK MY KNEECAPS
- “your voice so cold it stung your tongue as you spoke. The ache in your chest was overtaken by rage, pure and hot. “Excuse me.” i am f e r a l for this line, this is PERFECTION i can taste the emotions here like viscerally on my tongue 
- honestly kudos to reader for not punching tom’s lights out when she’s running to get emma from him
“I don’t care.” You wanted to scream. You wanted to cry. You wanted to dig your nails into his skin and hurt him like he hurt you. “We don’t need you, we never needed you. I loved you, and you left for years . Deal with the consequences.”
Johnny Mctavish, a wolf, a soldier, flinched from you. 
It wasn’t the victory you thought it would be.
AAAAAAAA YES THIS IS ME AS I READ THIS REVELING IN THE ANGST
Tumblr media
also the last line of ch1 being “Forget him. John always runs.” and summary of Ch2 being “Johnny comes home.” ????? gonna run out of my lipstick giving chef’s kisses to piney here
the way piney fleshes out reader and her story and history with johnny just makes me want to give her a ginormous hug, also like an all-expenses paid weeklong vacation to the maldives or something for the absolute bullshit she’s endured (might have to join you on this though dear reader my salary/responsibilities working in [redacted] means i also need an all-expense paid weeklong vacation to the maldives)
also I FUCKING SUSPECTED JOHNNY WAS SECRETLY TRYING TO SCENT READER WHEN HE SNUCK UP ON HER TO GET CLOSE ENOUGH TO SURPRISE HER BY PUTTING HIS MITTS ON HER SHOULDER; i love that emma picked up on this through her nose
“Because you still smell like me, kitty.” brain going brrrr being overloaded with conspiracy theories about teh many layers what this may mean
wolves were different from normal men. Territorial. 
me, reading about fictional territorial wolfmen on tumblr: 🥰🥰🥰
me, reading about IRL men being ‘territorial’: 🤢🤢🤢
“Grandpa was like me,” she said, loyal as always. 
i’ll be totally honest the character i fell head over heels with in this story was not johnny taking first place no - EMMA MACTAVISH MY HEART <3 i hope my future children will be brave, kind, wise, funny and compassionate like you <3
It seemed that the only person suffering in this situation was you.
this line + the short almost throwaway line of reader “laughing wetly” just before it just ughhh my heartache! shoutout to all the hardworking parents/caregivers simply Trying Their Best And Getting No Recognition™️ (madstronaut sees you and applauds you, great is your reward in heaven and or the pits of tumblrhell, dealer’s choice)
“It wasn’t your decision to make, Tom,” you said, your voice reaching that pitch that made you feel like your mother. god this got too real, when i hear myself sound like my mother sometimes (esp. when im mad) i literally narrow my eyes at my own reflection and have to check myself before i wreck myself iykyk
also freaking love the lore about hybrids/wolves being discriminated against in society and johnny’s own experience and pitfalls navigating the world! lorebuilding>>>>>>>>>>>>
You were dressed more appropriately this time, a Black Sabbath tee and sweats, your work clothes of pencil skirts, trousers, and wool sweaters currently drying on the laundry lines in the backyard. 
ok reader i see you my little rocker <3 you would love saint vitus bar in brooklyn; make tom or johnny watch emma so we can headbang to our heart’s content and you can enjoy a well-deserved night out <3 (on that note #REOPENVITUSYOUCOWARDS)
Emma two-handed it, just like you tell her to. It seemed she was trying to be on her best behavior, the little traitor.
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH EMMA YOU LITTLE DEVIOUS ADORABLE SHIT (said goodnaturedly) I LOVE THIS LINE SO MUCH
Something in your chest squeezed when Johnny tucked the blanket around Emma’s skinny arms, more gentle than you had ever seen him.
ok though real talk men being gentle and tender, esp. around kiddos - hi, yes please sirs you can indeed help me mop my panties off the floor
Susan didn’t know what to do with a little boy that chewed on the furniture and got sick when she didn’t let him eat raw meat. 
i physically need to see fanart of young wolf!soap gnawing on an armchair leg
This was why you liked Charlie, he was so, so reasonable. 
hello charlie or as i like to call you “walking beige flag” the way i would roast him if i was bffs with reader..
also emma drawing that wolf catcher memory and waiting until soap was there to show it to both him and reader - AAGGGGH I freaking loved this and how clever this is i can do an entire pepe silvia conspiracy board meme breakdown of why and how much i loved this whole interaction
emma knowing it is a tough memory for her mama but choosing to draw and show it specifically to johnny - and waiting til they are all in each other’s presences (presence? idk)
i can see reader fighting (a losing battle lets be honest this is johnny fucking mactavish) tooth and nail so far to maintain the armor of assumptions and explanations she’s told herself to deal with the pain of being in love then (from her pov) rejected and how this has bled into how she paints johnny to emma despite her best efforts 
and yet as they say sometimes the body says and knows what the mind/heart cannot say yet and 1000% sure that little miss wolf emma mactavish loves her mom but is also sure that momma isn’t sure on where she stands with johnny
also ALSO the fact that jack raised both johnny and emma HAS TO MEAN SOMETHING RIGHT - even though they’ve just met i love the little tidbits of the special wolf-to-wolf and father/daughter connection they have
AND AND AND so my grand theory here is that i believe emma made and showed this drawing to johnny because from what she knows - she perceives mama reader to despise johnny on the surface, yet still wants him - but based on what she’s told her about johnny, thinks johnny may not want mama - and drew this to prove mama is still worthy and a great protector - “You haven’t got any teeth or claws but it didn’t matter.” - and “showing her off” to johnny COUGH ANYWAY THAT’S WHERE I’LL END MY THESIS TYVM
also i love the bits sprinkled around the fic about johnny’s eyes sparkling eerie/brighter when he gets worked up
Perhaps all the war and killing really was good for his temperament.
HAHAHAHA OKAY SHIT, MAMA, WHO IS THE DELULU ONE NOW????????? (tbh it’s me, hi im the probl-)
johnny trying to find excuses to spend his PMC savings & money on reader + emma - IRL me and my bills & student loans crying laughing hysterically at reader turning this down
“Shut up!” Tommy said, frowning at you from the couch. “Fuck, lovie, he’s a friend from work.”
The man in the mask raised a hand in an awkward wave.
HAHAHAHHA SIMON!!! his entrance totally threw me off but ofc tom’s SHUT UP (true sibling energy right here, no greeting, just yells) and simon’s lil wave just UGGGGGGGHHHH such a nice palate cleanser from the intense but delicious angst - also tipping my hat at the subtle way to introduce Bi!Tommy with the “he’s not company he’s a guest” line 😏
You felt Simon’s eyes on you, judging, appraising. You were sure Johnny probably didn’t have the nicest things to say about you–most likely that you were an irritating little girl that followed him around for twenty years then proceeded to get pregnant and raise the child without him knowing,
would love to know what and how TF141 thinks of mama reader from how johnny has described her…despite her own misgivings <3
Johnny was an unsuspecting kind of violent, always smiling and laughing until he wasn’t, until it was serious.
Simon was different. He felt older. 
aaaaaa this is SUCH a good characterisation of them both
You had missed him like a lost limb-
ooh i absolutely love this phrase! I have one person in my life i went through a friend breakup with (iykyk - these are more painful than romantic breakups imho) and we mended things and discovered afterwards we both referred to our break in our friendship as ‘having lost a limb’ to other folks (!) sometimes birds of a feather really do flock together
 “It’s just…we’re adults, and adults have tricky feelings. preach mama 🙋‍♀️🙋‍♀️🙋‍♀️
but also pls mama i know you have a kiddo but putting on nail polish right before a date? nooooooooooooooooo though chanel polishes ARE superior cos of that fat brush so all is forgiven <3
also obligatory FUCK YOU YOU FUCKING FUCK to charlie for forgetting the date, do you EVEN KNOW THE SUFFERING WE PUT OURSELVES THROUGH TO GET READY FOR A DATE? TO GET READY TO FACE THE WORLD OUTSIDE OUR DOOR, PERIODT?
IF SOMEONE DID THIS TO ONE OF MY GIRLIES I WILL BE READY TO FUCKING SHOW SOMEONE’S BITCH ASS THAT YOU DO NOT NEED TEETH AND CLAWS INDEED TO GET RIGHT FUCKED UP
anyway climbing down from my soapbox on behalf of women everywhere, back to the fic
as a tiny tiny redeemable bit - charlie having weekly dinners with his gran is a huge green flag trait
He stilled, looking at you. His hand came up, pinching your chin like he used to. “You havnae called me Johnny in a very long time.” The rawness of his voice broke you down into someone you used to be, someone that loved him.
me, extremely pleased, reading this: ah yes, in vino veritas~
The alcohol had dampened the anger in your chest, you felt…open. Open to talking about it. Bleeding the poison from the wound.
<3 <3 <3 this line <3 <3 <3
irl sidenote: u can also do this without alcohol my friends <3 trusted friends, therapy, long retreats into nature, safe places, safe people all very effective and cutting right to the heart in the gentlest ways possible, painful but highly recommend over the alternative (and lesser) options of keeping the poison inside <3 
Within a blink, Johnny was kneeling before you, his hands on your knees as his eyes bored into yours. You felt a chill, a whisper of fight or flight pricking your neck at his predatory stare.
ahem hello this is it
this is what does it for me
kneelng for your prey <3
also i love that their first real physical intimate contact after reuniting, beyond that hug after the wolf catcher story, is johnny LICKING reader’s tears off her face
“All I had was a picture and letters, but I could get off just from you writing that you missed me, just from your smell lingering on the fucking paper.” whats that phrase? marines make do? 🥰🥰🥰
me, reading about lacy underwear getting shredded: mmmmf yes sexxxxxyyyy
also me: ok i just know that was expensive, cringing inside at having to replace it
also fics that have men talking to ur pussy as they take care of it >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
I CANNOT WAIT FOR READER TO WAKE UP AND SCREAM AT HERSELF  SAW PT 7 POSTED WOKE UP SCREAMING BLACKED OUT AND CONTINUED MY FEVERISH RANTING ABOUT HOW MUCH I LOVE THIS FIC IN REBLOGS BELOW
3 notes · View notes
glitterdustcyclops · 2 years ago
Text
okay can someone do me a favor and read this and tell me it's not absolute garbage so i can get my brain to stop second-guessing itself? thanks
this is the first part of the first chapter of one of my WIPs, which is like if velvet goldmine were a romance novel instead, featuring my favorite neon disaster girl frankie, her BFF and platonic life partner gabriel, and gabe's new love interest, the Very Totally Heterosexual matt
“Wake up gay boy!”
There were a lot of moments in Gabriel Foster’s life that he regretted, but he thought this one would probably rank in at least the top ten. And wasn’t that sad? But he couldn’t say he appreciated being awoken by the sound of his best friend in the entire universe, Francine Takahashi, quite literally throwing her bedroom door open and practically screaming at him at the top of her lungs as she did.
There was a woosh of a soft and heavy lump landing on his head, and that turned out to be pants. His pants.
And that was when Gabe realized he was lying in Frankie’s bed with his face mashed into her pillow and his bony body wrapped in her hand-crocheted granny square afghan, clad in nothing but his sluttiest club-going briefs. And, of course, there was the fact that he was also horribly, inescapably hungover.
So just like any other Saturday morning, really.
Gabe groaned in indignation, his head pounding merrily away while obnoxious amounts of sunlight poured in through Frankie’s thin lacy white curtains, painful even from behind his desperately shut-tight eyelids. He decided right then and there that he hated every atom in the universe that made up this moment very, very much. Unfortunately, that didn’t seem to stop the horror from occurring, of course.
Christ what time is it?
Probably, if his past experience was anything to go by, late enough in the morning it technically counted as afternoon, and Gabe figured he had to have been pretty fucked up last night if Frankie had brought him back here instead of dumping him at his own place. It wasn’t exactly a rare occasion to find himself here in his best platonic soulmate’s bed under her (actually rather soft, he had to admit) afghan, feeling like the residue on the bottom of a garbage can. No. It was depressingly becoming a regular occurrence at this point, and Gabe thought he should probably worry about what that said about his steady descent into alcoholism at some point, but for the moment he couldn’t be fucked to do more than lay there wallowing.
Snatches of the previous evening were coming back to him. Most of it was still blanked out by lots of alcohol and neon lighting, but he was getting enough to form a somewhat coherent picture of the events, and definitely enough that he could be utterly mortified by it.
They’d all gone out together, The Peaches, like they’d been doing a lot lately; soaking up the hard-partying rock-god lifestyle while they could, before their tour officially started. Frankie had been performing at The Ruby—their favorite queer burlesque/drag venue—and everything had been so sultry and seductive under the glitter of the lights, the warmth of expensive whisky flooding his belly, and then…fuck. Warner had been there too, of course. As the lead guitarist for The Peaches William Warner was no stranger to The Ruby, and he had just looked so incredible there in all his untouchable golden glory, so confident and sure in himself even as the lone heterosexual at a queer club. So of course the two of them had started dancing together, and Warner had been laughing and he always looked so fucking good when he was laughing, and then—
Gabe moaned in utter agony as he remembered what else the two of them had got up to last night. In the bathroom of a gay bar. With his supposedly straight bandmate. Again. Jesus Christ could he be any more of a cliché? Gabe made a silent promise to himself then, one that he knew he would never actually keep, that he would not do this again. He would stop drinking if he had to. Not another drop of alcohol would touch his sinful lips for as long as he lived, and then he would stop getting himself into Situations with Straight Boys.
Amen.
“And how are we this morning?” Frankie practically sang at him in perfect Disney Princess pitch, as she plopped down at the foot of the bed. Right on top of his poor vulnerable ankles.
Damned harpy Gabe thought, but all he managed in reply was a small anguished “unnnnhh.”
Frankie giggled. Meanly. “Y’know, I bet the fansites would get a kick out of this. I should go grab my camera.”
The sound of her joy at his misfortune felt like iron stakes being driven directly into his skull, and Gabe groaned pathetically again.
“Nnnnh fuck you.”
“I know babe, love you too.” She patted his leg condescendingly, and Gabe could just imagine the wicked smirk that would be on her face as she did. “C’mon, get up, get dressed, let’s go. Hangover Breakfast. My treat.”
It had been their Saturday Morning-or-Afternoon Tradition, even long before they’d started staying out all night being indie-famous rockstars. Back when Gabe had just been a newly-out self-conscious college freshman and Frankie had made it her mission to induct him into the Homosexual Lifestyle by taking him out to bars and watching him make a fool of himself in public. The two of them had been doing it for over half a decade at this point, and time had proven there was no better cure for an evening out drinking than a quality Hangover Breakfast at their favorite seedy local diner, Mel’s.
But for the life of him, at that moment Gabe honestly couldn’t remember why. Just the thought of sitting upright, in public, let alone in an establishment dedicated to serving heaping plates of artery-clogging fare, sounded like a scenario straight out of a bizarre breakfast-themed Saw rip-off. All Gabriel really wanted to do right now was curl into the smallest possible ball he could manage, and then die.
“Nooo…don’ wannaaa…”
“Oh yes you do, ya big baby. Come on, up up up! You’ll feel better after some food, I promise.” Frankie poked him somwhere near his ribs and Gabe squirmed helplessly as much as he could, trapped as he was underneath her blanket.
He honestly didn’t think he could handle putting anything else in his body right now—and of course he wanted to groan again at the reminder of what, or rather, who he had been putting in there last night—but Gabriel knew better than to try and argue with Francine Takahashi: Most Stubborn Person in the Universe. So instead he kicked his feet vaguely in her direction as a final act of rebellion and then managed to pull himself to sit up, muttering darkly the entire time.
Frankie positively beamed at him, her neon-pink-orange dyed hair glowing almost painfully bright from the light through the windows, and Gabe flipped her off before he disentangled himself from her sheets and then stumbled out into the hall, towards the bathroom.
For a split second he worried how it might look, coming out of Frankie’s bedroom practically naked, but Frankie’s roommate Aurora tended to be so blithely self-interested it was like she didn’t notice anything that wasn’t happening about four inches from her face on the glowing surface of her phone screen. He shook his head a bit. Aurora was a weird one, making her living dressing up as a mermaid and being photographed at hotel pools, but she and Frankie had somehow remained good friends since her first year living in the dorms, when they had been thrown together through the whims of the University Student Housing Department, so Gabe tried not to question it.
It was a little strange that Frankie was still living here at all, he couldn’t help but think. At this point none of them strictly needed roommates since The Peaches’ last album was doing so much better than any of them could have predicted. They had been signed to a shiny new label and were about to go on a sold-out North American tour, a fact which made Gabe’s stomach nearly lurch up his throat every time he thought about it for too long. It seemed that his and Frankie’s starving artist days were officially going to be over. But maybe it was nice for her to be somewhere familiar, when everything else in their lives were changing so fast. He honestly couldn’t help but envy her a bit, for that she had that.
Gabe reached the shared bathroom in the hallway opposite Frankie’s room without further incident, and he didn’t bother to turn on the light as he shut the door and awkwardly hovered over the sink, the glittery plastic skull nightlight glowing eerily purple next to him casting strange shadows across his face. Things were a bit dicey there for a moment, but he guessed he must have already vomitted up the contents of his stomach at some point during the previous evening, because all Gabe really managed were a couple of weary dry heaves that lead to nothing but painful hacking coughs that scraped across the sandpaper surface of his throat.
The water from the sink was almost pathetically refreshing after that, and he took several grateful gulps to get rid of the dead-carcass-picked-over-by-vultures feeling in his mouth.
He observed himself in the mirror then. The remnants of his eye makeup had been smudged past the point of “artfully dishevelled” into raccoon territory and his lips were dry and cracking, while a very obvious hicky was already purpling up along the sharp incline of his collarbone. He winced. Hiding in Frankie’s bathroom for the rest of his life seemed a more appealing option than having to go out there and face the sober light of day, and at that point he was actually desperate enough to consider it. Until Frankie herself appeared, pounding on the door and threatening to drag him out by whatever parts she could grab, clothed or not.
So Gabe emerged a few minutes later, hungover and grumpy and feeling ever-so-slightly used and a whole lot pathetic. But at least he had pants on. And at least he was a bit less nauseous than he had been before. Small miracles.
Frankie laughed again, but she managed to make it sound slightly sympathetic that time.
“You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?” Gabe muttered as he followed her from the hallway out into the living room.
“Yeah, I honestly kind of am.”
The living room was even brighter, somehow, than Frankie’s bedroom had been. Clean white late-morning-or-early-afternoon (Gabe still wasn’t sure, and he couldn’t be bothered to check) light flooded in through the shitty wooden blinds that did fuck-all to stop the glare, while Aurora herself had been haphazardly thrown across the futon, her face awash in the familiar glow of her phone, a look of deep concentration etched into her furrowed brows.
Only that woman could’ve made scrolling through Instagram look that intense.
“Morning,” she said vaguely, without looking up, her long blonde hair slipping loose from the clip holding it up in a messy bun to hang around her face.
“Morning!” Frankie trilled back while Gabe said nothing, because he was too busy covering his ears to muffle the sudden pain.
Frankie left him listing slightly to the side but mostly still upright in the entryway to the living room while she skipped over to the kitchen, grabbing a giant bottle of Gatorade out of the fridge and a mysterious bottle of generic pills—probably Tylenol, or maybe if he was lucky, tranquillizers—and then skipped back over and shoved them in his hands. The magical combination of lemon-lime Sport Drink and painkillers made him feel marginally less like a reanimated corpse than he had before, so Gabe murmured a grudging thank you in her direction before he was shuffled out the door and into Frankie’s precious lime green Volkswagen Beetle, Daisy—so named for the white daisy stickers she’d stuck all over the sides—and driven to Mel’s.
Gabe couldn’t decide whether or not the routine was comfortingly familiar, or just depressing. Or maybe both. But he liked having these places that belonged just to them. Mel’s Diner was something of a local institution, Gabe’s one-time employer and the secret hideaway of several local bands, including The Peaches. They were familiar enough with the staff that no one would rat it out to the press, and the peeling red glitter vinyl booths and slightly-sticky plastic tables had become a safe haven for him over the years. Which was rapidly becoming a necessity, the more recognizable The Peaches got.
Well, at least if Gabe had to put up with getting recognized in public (which was still a total mindfuck every time it happened), he was glad to have Frankie beside him. She had been his bestest best friend for practically forever at this point. Over a decade, now. Since that very first day when she had knocked over the music stand they were sharing in sixth grade orchestra. She’d giggled like mad and Gabe had fallen ever-so-slightly in love with her, just like that.
God.
That felt like it was an entire lifetime away. Probably there was something unhealthily co-dependent in relying on one person for that long, but whatever. She was his Frankie, his Manic Pixie Fag Hag, self-appointed platonic soulmate and rhythm guitarist for The Peaches, and as much as he liked to complain about what a terror she was, Gabriel knew he would never trade her for all the money and riches in the world.
She was even being considerate for once, keeping the volume of her car stereo low—Pet Sounds on tape as always—and not talking incessantly as she drove, like she normally would have. Gabe slumped against the side of the car with his face pressed against the cool glass surface of the window, his hand on the crank ready to roll at a moment’s notice. Just in case. He’d fished out one of the many pairs of heart-shaped sunglasses that Frankie kept stashed in the glove compartment and they made a valiant attempt to block out the 2:00 PM sunlight.
Well, 2:00 according to the dash clock, anyway. So it could have been anywhere from 11 to 3, depending on the last time Frankie had actually bothered to update the thing. And who knew when that was.
Gabe was still stubbornly refusing to check his phone. It seemed better to exist in that timeless morn-afternoon void than be confronted with…well, Warner probably hadn’t bothered to text him anyway. Rarely did, these days. And of course Gabe wouldn’t have cared if he did. At least, he tried to tell himself that, but he wasn’t sure how well he was listening, as some horrible stupid moronic part of his brain insisted on making his stomach go all fluttery at just the thought of reading Warner’s hypothetical texts.
Ugh.
Ridiculous.
They ambled into Mel’s eventually, Gabe trying to rub the sleep crumbs from his eyes as he followed behind Frankie and they took their usual booth. It was blessedly empty, another perk of being friendly with the staff. Frankie sprawled across the entire left half while Gabe dutifully took the side facing the doorway, and after a moment’s hesitation he threw himself onto the surface of the table with another pitiful whimper.
“You are such a drama queen!” Frankie admonished him, and Gabe could practically hear the eyeroll in her voice. He’d known her for way too long. “Seriously, babe, worse than me.”
“Frankie?” Gabe replied, his voice muffled from where his head still rested against the table. “Shut. Up.”
“Blehh,” she responded eloquently, and then they were interrupted by a new voice.
“Hey there you two! Can I getcha started with some drinks?”
Gabe’s brain was too busy pounding like an entire invading army company was marching through it for him to even contemplate doing something as unthinkable as lifting his head up to look at their waitress—not one of the ones he was personally acquainted with he guessed—but still he knew, deep down in his soul, that he hated her deeply. Intimately. And the sound of her too-cheery voice sliding along all his nerve endings like a cheese grater definitely didn’t help matters.
“I’ll have a strawberry milkshake and he’ll have water,” he heard Frankie say.
“Alrighty! I’ll be right back with those, go ahead and take a look at your menus and let me know if you have any questions.”
Questions? It’s a diner not the Ritz.
Eventually Gabe did manage to sit up, resting his palm under his chin and attempting to give Frankie his most dour of glares, but the effect was probably ruined somewhat by the pink heart-shaped sunglasses he hadn’t bothered to take off, and you know, the massive hangover too. He was sure his expression was giving more “pained grimace” than “haughty glance” but it was close enough.
“Isn’t the traditional hangover remedy always coffee?” he groused, just to be difficult.
Frankie wrinkled her nose in response, a move Gabe normally found rather endearing when he wasn’t committed to hating her for forcing him to be in public when he felt like a hungover gay disaster.
“And when, my dear, in the history of forever, have you ever voluntarily drunk black coffee?”
“Touché.” Gabe shrugged, and couldn’t quite hide the hint of a smile lurking at the corners of his lips.
“I swear,” she continued, fiddling idly with the paper band from her napkin, because this was a classy joint, “It is actually amazing how bad you are at being hungover, considering how often you do it. You’re the worst rockstar ever, babe.”
Frankie giggled again.
“Wasn’t aware it was something you could get a good grade in,” Gabe replied, before sticking his tongue out at her and laying his face back down on the table.
Sure, he wasn’t exactly new to this particular experience; if not for his misspent early twenties as a slutty club kid, then the past three or four trying to become a rock legend and playing in shitty bars would’ve seen to that. But even so, this particular hangover felt like a new and exciting kind of terrible, especially when he considered the whole moronically-throwing-himself-at-his-straight-bandmate part of the deal. And the worst part was that Gabe knew, as sure as he knew his own name, that as much as he was protesting right now, he would probably be doing it all over again the next time they performed.
The feeling was just too addictive. Everything went all shiny-bright and warm; electric and alive as the alcohol pouring through his veins turned all his limbs loose and free. When he was under the influence, he could get out of his stupid head and away from his stupid too-short limbs, the whole of him flowing out to spread around to all those other warm, interesting bodies surrounding him on the dance floor or the stage. That sweet release of escaping into the beat. It was a high, plain and simple, as thrilling and seductive as any Gabe had ever known. Whether he was singing to a crowd of hundreds or one anonymous body in a sea of others, the feeling was the same.
But he couldn’t think of a way to describe that to Frankie that wouldn’t make her think he definitely had a problem, so he just sighed dramatically and let her continue gently poking fun at what a ridiculously miserable lump he was right now.
After a while he vaguely overheard Frankie ordering food for them, and just the sound of it was enough to make his stomach turn again. He almost ran to the bathroom but he was too tired to move, and after a couple of worrying lurches the feeling passed, so he let it go. Instead he fantasized about melting off the booth to settle into a puddle on the floor underneath so he didn’t have to person anymore. But then Gabe shuddered to imagine what crumbs and things could be lurking down there, so maybe no melting. Not today.
And it didn’t matter anyway, because suddenly Frankie was kicking him rather pointedly in the shin with one of her stupid platform heels, and he was pulled out of his head with a petulant whine.
“What?”
“Food’s here.”
“Ugh,” Gabe sighed, managing to pull his head up again.
Which was a mistake, because then he found himself face-to-face with an honest-to-God breakfast fucking orgy. Just sitting there across from him, wafting horribly tormenting smells his way: a huge platterfull of all of his very favorite things. Bacon and eggs and hashbrowns and sausage and pancakes and more bacon, all of it lovingly arranged and mouthwateringly decadent in that perfect greasy-diner way.
And all of it Frankie pulled towards herself, before nudging a small, sad plate of dry toast in front of him.
“Eat up.” She smirked.
“You are a cruel, cruel woman,” he sniffed back.
“I mean, yes, obviously. But come on, I doubt you could actually eat any of this right now. Toast’ll help soak up all the gunk left in your stomach, babe.”
“I don’t want toast. I want bacon.”
Gabe knew he wouldn’t have been able to eat it just then, but still. Bacon was worth that sacrifice. Frankie gave him a dubious look.
“Let’s see how you do with toast first, kay?”
“Harpy.”
He gave the corner of his toast an experimental little nibble as he leaned his chin on his hand again. The slice tasted mostly of cardboard and sadness, but he knew it was about the most he could handle at the moment. Which, of course, didn’t make him feel any better as Frankie helped herself to a thick, perfectly crisp slice of bacon, gesturing around with it and dancing by herself in the booth, conducting her own private symphony as she devoured her breakfast orgy. It simply was not fair that Frankie could be so effortlessly carefree at a time like this.
Of course, that was how it had always been. Frankie had a disturbingly high alcohol tolerance, and what was worse was that she also never drank, apart from maybe two times that Gabe could remember in their almost two decades of friendship. She didn’t smoke or do drugs either, not even weed. She never judged anyone around her who did, but she preferred a “natural high” as she described it once. And with anyone else that would have been obnoxious as hell, but it was Frankie.
He wouldn’t want her to change for anything in the world.
It was one of the things Gabe loved most about her, actually. Her carefree zest for life without chemical enhancements. Her ability to find humor and joy even in the smallest of moments. It’s what kept him sane, kept him grounded when everything else in their lives felt so shiny and unreal it threatened to overwhelm him. It was what made her precious, his sweet slice of sunshine. Even if it made him terribly, horribly jealous sometimes.
Because Frankie would never have the pleasure of getting wasted at a gay bar before performing ill-advised fellatio on a bandmate.
God.
Thankfully the finer details of last night were still mostly blurred behind an alcohol haze, but one singular moment stood out in shining awful clarity, of course: Gabriel, on his knees like a wanton harlot, the grimy tile of the men’s bathroom digging into him as he looked up at Will above him, with all those miles of perfect golden skin peaking out from underneath his tight white t-shirt, his flushed cheeks and panting chest and oh, the wanting, such wonderful longing all for him. And Gabe wanted just as much. Wanted everything, the heat and thrill of Will’s calloused fingers against him, the desperate yearning to be taken apart.
In the present Gabe sighed again, staring somewhere at the middle of the table and fiddling idly with a butter knife, having given up on the toast completely.
The rational, objective part of his brain knew it was totally pathetic to be so wrecked over the whole thing, but the rest of him couldn’t seem to stop. It almost felt good in a painfully self-indulgent sort of way, to soak in all of his misery and terrible gay pining. He was helplessly, hopelessly head-over-heels in love with his supposedly straight friend, and the fact that Warner was also the lead fucking guitarist of his band didn’t seem to be a deterrent. If anything it made the whole thing more appealing, getting to watch him on stage night after night gilded in those bright lights, playing his heart out, sweaty and raw and so alive.
All Gabe’s strict rules about not fraternizing with fellow band members had flown right out the goddamn window, long before he’d gotten to his knees in that bathroom stall, if he were honest. It should have concerned him more. He knew he was probably fucking up everything he’d worked so hard to build, all for some dumb boy with pretty green eyes. God. He was fucked.
Tomorrow, Gabe resolved, he would take all of these feelings and lock them back up in a box and bury it somewhere deep deep down in his psyche. Last night was the last time. He needed to get over this pathetic crush and focus on what really mattered. If this tour went well the label would be more willing to give up some creative control for their next album. The Peaches were on the verge of greatness, as absolutely wild it was to think, and all the things Gabe tried to tell himself were silly to want, the money and the fame, actually seemed within their grasp.
So. It was time to pull his head out of his ass and focus. But, for today at least, he would stew as much as he liked. And thankfully Frankie seemed content to let him marinate, busy amusing herself by playing with her pancakes and making dinosaur noises as she ate.
Gabe couldn’t help the fond smile that lurked at the edges of his mouth as he watched her from behind his borrowed glasses. Frankie was usually so bright she almost hurt to look at. His neon-colored girl. She was giving excellent Manic Pixie today, with her clashingly-bright vintage floral dress and her signature magenta-orange bisexual bob cut and thick black cat-eye frame glasses, her bangs blunt and her smile the color of a blue raspberry snowcone, yellow glittery pineapples dangling from her ears.
That was who she had always been. Loud and sparkly and too much, the exclamation point at the end of a sentence that demanded attention. It was how the two of them worked so well; Gabe was all mystery, all dark shadows and dark hair and dark eyes and soft-spoken voice, and Frankie was the dazzling disco ball that cast the light on whatever she was around. When they were younger he appreciated that she would soak up all the glorious spotlight for herself while he faded quietly away into the background, but now as Aiden Wilde, frontman of The Peaches, he had learned to channel his darkness into something sultry, something seductive and a little dangerous. The leather-clad panther against her neon sparkling weirdo, the contrast that brought both into sharper clarity.
They were a pair, and whatever else happened around them, Gabe was never ever gonna let her go.
But of course, right at that moment, with Gabe feeling like an absolute pathetic mess while Frankie did something ridiculous in the background, was the same exact moment that William Warner himself waltzed into Mel’s like he’d been conjured specifically to fuck with Gabe, and he felt his heart nearly lurch up into his throat. Jesus Christ Warner looked so good and it wasn’t fair; he had to have been as drunk as Gabe was last night. But you couldn’t tell by looking at him, in his loose jeans and tight t-shirt, his stupid floppy sandy blond hair hanging as if it were hand-sculpted by the gods to look that fucking good.
He wasn’t alone either, surrounded by the members of Massive Aggression, a local alternative band that was also gaining prominence among the indie scene, and all of them were laughing and talking like the popular clique in a 90’s teen romcom.
Fuck.
In addition to his posse of much-cooler friends, Warner had a frivolous little piece of arm candy dangling off him, all pin-straight extensions and fake tits, her eyes gleaming like a cartoon wolf who had just spied a particularly juicy steak. Frankie would’ve probably called Gabe out on the misogyny of describing another woman like that, and part of him hated that he was going all “Jolene” about a straight dude he drunkenly went down on like twice, but still. Gabe’s hands curled into fists of their own accord, his heart beating rapidly and his stomach full of butterflies as he nearly choked on a desperate intake of breath.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck.
Of course, as Satan was the personal set-designer for Gabe’s shitty goddamn life, and because their table was close to the entrance, the Cool Kid Clique would have to pass right by their booth to get to one of the open seats.
“Oh fuck me,” Gabe moaned in horror, slamming his head down onto the table again.
“Babe, don’t you think you’re being a leetle overdramatic? I mean, it is just a hangover.” Frankie was probably rolling her eyes again, totally unaware of the mortifying ordeal that had been unfolding behind her.
“Oh my God Frankie, please,” Gabe pleaded, as if Jurassic Park rules applied and as long as they didn’t make any sudden moves no one would notice, “for the love of God, just shut the fuck up.”
“No I will not shut the fuck up! Look I’m sorry you don’t feel super great but you’ve been acting like kind of a jerk all morning and I love you, but I think it’s fu-uh-err—”
And then suddenly Frankie had stopped mid-rant, her voice trailing off into an awkward little squeak.
“Oh, Warner,” she said desperately, after a beat of horrible silence. “Uh hey dude! Fancy meeting you here, ha ha!”
“Hey guys,” that achingly familiar warm voice rumbled right next to their table, all surfer boy charm dripping like honey from every syllable.
God.
All the hairs on the back of Gabe’s arms were suddenly standing at attention, a helpless little shiver running up and down his spine at the slight rasp to the edge of Warner’s voice. He was abject over the man, and it was pathetic.
Gabriel bolted upright, part of his brain wishing this was all just some weird alcohol-induced nightmare, even as he tried to pretend he wasn’t still hungover as hell and dying inside at the sight of him.
“Uh hey man! What’s up!” Gabe practically shouted, pretty sure his smile was edging into deranged territory.
“Y-ya okay?” Will asked instead, an edge of genuine concern knitting his brows.
Gabe gulped, pointedly ignoring the amused chuckles from Warner’s little posse behind him. Massive Aggression had been trying to court Warner over to their side for a while. He always claimed he wasn’t interested, they were just buddies, but seeing them all together like that…
Something hot and angry and sharp flared in Gabe’s stomach then.
Warner looked away guiltily, as if he could read the thoughts written on Gabe’s face. Hell, he probably could. Fuck, this was the worst. Gabe wanted to unzip his skin and crawl out of it like cicada shell. He wanted to run very very far away, and at the same time dissolve himself into nothingness. But most of all, he just really wanted Will to stop looking at him like that, as if he had been caught. Red-faced and ashamed.
So Gabe panicked, just a bit.
“Oh yeah man, totally fine! I mean, why wouldn’t I be? Haha, yep, it’s all great over here. So thanks but we’re all super fine, okay? See you later!”
Frankie and Warner both stared at him, and Gabe was pretty sure he was in the midst of an actual breakdown. Warner’s posse all laughed rather enthusiastically, and he could swear Frankie’s mouth was actually hanging open a bit.
“A-alright?” Will attempted, blinking back and forth between Frankie and him as if he was trying to understand a complex puzzle. “I guess…I’ll see you guys at practice?”
“Sure thing!”
With a final awkward wave William Warner stumbled away, turning back to his cooler friends. Who were openly mocking Gabe at this point as they all went to their own table. Neat.
Gabe managed to turn his gaze back to Frankie, who was still perched there with her blue lips in that perfect little “oh,” genuinely stunned silent, for once.
“Not. One. Word,” Gabe growled through clenched teeth, glaring at her from behind his sunglasses, as if it would help anything.
Frankie blinked once, twice, and then finally errupted into a fit of hysterical laughter.
“Oh my God babe,” she said, breathless with giggles, leaning her own head in her hands as if she couldn’t hold herself up with how ridiculous Gabe was, “what the entire fuck was that?”
“Nope.” Gabe was definitely not blushing right now. “Nuh-uh, nope. I’m not saying anything.”
“You are the most absurd person I know,” she said, finally calming down enough to speak normally, though her eyes were still practically glimmering with mirth. Because she was a horrible person. “And you know it’s bad, cuz it’s me saying that.”
Gabriel’s eyes narrowed, his arms crossed in front of his chest defensively and his foot bobbing wildly underneath the table. Running away was seeming the more appealing option by the second.
“Soo…” Frankie started, when it became obvious that Gabe was intent on sitting there in stone cold silence for the next millennia or so. “Do…are we gonna talk about it?”
“No.”
“Oh come on! I’m your platonic life partner, I’m here for you! You can tell me anything!”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Come onn Gabe,” she pouted. “You can’t just sit there pining for forever.”
“Frankie,” Gabe said, an acid edge of warning to his voice. “Leave it.”
“Ugh.” She rolled her eyes.
There was a beat of silence then, Frankie looking everywhere but at Gabe’s face.
“I said leave it,” he growled at her again.
“What? I didn’t say anything!”
“I can hear you thinking it.”
Francine Takahashi gave her best friend a very vocal look, the singular deadly quirk of her sharp black brow speaking volumes. Because of course she already knew every intimate detail of Gabriel’s hopeless wretched crush on Will; on the past few years he’d spent pining and the previous nights of drunken mistakes. Because she was his best friend, and she knew everything about him. Unfortunately.
And of course Warner was refusing to talk about any of it, preferring to stay in the zone of plausible deniability. And Gabe let him. He knew he was a total moron for it, but he kept going back anyway. It had to have been some kind of masochism or something. Some self-destructive impulse to take the one good thing in his life, the thing he’d wanted so desperately and dreamed about for so long, that he’d never thought he’d have but somehow managed to build anyway, and then completely fuck it up over a stupid crush.
But whenever they were on stage, and William gave him that look, all heat and longing—just for show, he’d claim—or whenever they were together in private, always sitting close as possible, sometimes Gabe perched right on Will’s lap, and he never seemed to mind then, or whenever Will gave him one of those rarer, soft smiles that he only shared with him, God. It was like being lit up from the inside. He was powerless to stop.
And Frankie’s judgmental little eyebrows were definitely not helping the situation, at all.
“I seriously hate you,” Gabriel finally said, sighing in defeat.
“No you don’t,” Frankie replied, another roll of her eyes. “I mean, who’s the kind-hearted soul who, instead of focusing on perfecting her legendary drag act, took the time to ferry your skinny hipster ass out to the club and then babysat you while you got smashed, and didn’t complain once the entire time? And who’s the absolute saint who then drove your drunk stupid ass back to her own apartment at like three in the goddamn morning, when she could have instead been spending her time being flirted at by hot queers, listening to you moan about him the entire fucking time? And who then spent the rest of the very very late evening-slash-early-morning scrubbing your vomit out of her precious Daisy, huh?”
Gabe cringed.
Okay. So maybe he was being a bit of a total asshole, when she put it like that. He wished he could blame the way he’d been treating her on everything going on with Warner, but that wasn’t really fair to her. Honestly, Gabe knew he’d been taking her for granted lately. And sure, Frankie was a horrible person who had bullied him into going out in public when he was feeling miserable and hungover and ashamed, but she was still his very best friend in the entire universe. And sure, she had been a little bit too amused at his plight earlier, but she had also been spending the entire time—and probably most of the previous evening as well—taking care of him.
Honestly, she’d been doing that for a lot longer than just last night. Because she always did. That was Frankie. And it wasn’t her fault that Gabe’s life felt like such a disaster zone right now.
“I—” he sighed again. “Thanks, Frankie. I’m sorry you have to put up with such an asshole for a best friend, but thank you for looking out for me.”
He hoped she could hear the subtext behind those words. I love you.
“You’re right, you are such an ungrateful bastard,” she snipped back at him. “And you’re welcome.”
Then she smiled, and Gabe knew what she really meant to say. I love you too.
And with that their weird little fight was forgotten, and Frankie went back to her normal ridiculous pixie self. The two of them sat in companionable silence for a bit, Gabe’s face propped back up on his hand while he watched Frankie drag a half-eaten sausage through the remnants of her pancake syrup and hum a little melody to herself. After a while she valiantly offered to go up to the register and pay while Gabe did his very best impression of a slightly-less-miserable lump.
She’d left him the last piece of bacon, he realized, and he was ridiculously touched by that as he munched slowly on it and waited for her return. Gabe knew then that the situation was more dire than he first thought, because not even bacon was able to lift his spirits.
Frankie waltzed back eventually, taking a final slip of the mostly-melted milkshake remnants in the bottom of her glass, before setting it back down and smirking at him.
“You better yet?” she asked, towering over the booth in her absurd platform heels. She was wearing the electric blue ones today, to match her lipstick. Of course.
Gabe gave her a noncommittal mumble, but made no further effort to dislodge himself from his side of the booth just yet.
“Because if you get any more vomit on Daisy I will be dumping your ass on the side of the road, hangover or not.”
“Time to go?” he asked instead.
“Yeah I’m bored.”
Gabe didn’t really want to be in this place any more either, so he finally pulled himself up and followed Frankie as she skipped her way out the door.
And out of some idiotic whim he would never, ever understand, Gabe took one last look back over his shoulder, scanning the tables. For him. And of course, there he was. Gabriel was like a stupid horny moth drawn to that golden-bright flame; Will in the center of his table surrounded by cooler people, that bimbo basically in his lap as he laughed, gilded in the attention of the group around him.
Suddenly Will must have felt Gabe’s eyes on him, because he looked up just then, and for one lingering perfect moment, they made eye contact across the diner. Gabe felt his insides go all gooey like taffy as the weight of Warner’s dazzling gold-green eyes settled on him, but then the moment was gone. Warner broke their eye contact, looking away and laughing at something someone had said to him.
Wrecked Gabe utterly, just like always.
“Gabe?” Frankie called, standing expectantly by the doors and holding one open for him.
“Yeah?” he shook his head, finally managing to tear his gaze away. “Coming.”
And at least he did not turn around again as he walked out, trying to put the saunter back in his steps. Just because he felt like the residue on the bottom of trash can didn’t mean he had to act like it.
Gabe expected to be bundled back into Daisy and driven back to The Factory—the literal converted factory warehouse that he’d bought with the advance from the label, part apartment, part home recording studio, part rehearsal space—but he thought Frankie must have realized he was still in a funk because instead she grabbed his hand and lead him off down a side-street, deeper into downtown. One of her mad little Adventures. They used to do it all the time when Gabe still lived near Mel’s. Frankie’s incorrigible sense of weirdness tended to lead them to all sorts of strange little places that he normally overlooked.
First, a local record store that they liked to pop in on sometimes, where Gabe argued with the clerk about genre classifications and Frankie called both of them pretentious assholes. Then they found their favorite thrift store and played their usual game of finding the most ridiculous stuff to force each other to try on; Frankie threw an impromptu fashion show right in the middle of the store as she modeled her face off, wearing an oversized atrociously 80’s sweater paired with a floral silk kimono and a feather boa.
Just to make Gabe smile.
He thumbed over the video on his phone fondly as the two of them ambled down the street. They came across a farmer’s market of some sort spilled across a brick-lined plaza in the middle of a nearby park, in defiance of the already-hot weather, and there was live music and the overlapping chatter of milling voices. People hawked their wares while a cute couple chased their dog down and some of the milling crowd laughed, while a few kids were running around in that carefree way only children could manage. Even from here it smelled like fresh grass and baked goods, and Gabe wanted to bottle up the moment and tuck it away inside his pocket, to keep forever.
Frankie turned to face him, her hand warm where it still gripped his and her chipped glitter nail polish glinting faintly in the early-afternoon sun. She had a wicked glimmer in her brown eyes, a smirk on her face.
“Shall we?”
Like he had a choice? But Gabe laughed anyway, feeling just a bit lighter as she lead him down the little walkways between the stalls, her free hand poking and prodding at everything she could, interrogating each person she talked to about their raw honey or organic bath products or whatever else they were selling. Because that was Frankie. She dazzled in the small moments, her attention flattering and overwhelming in equal measure. Gabe was content to bob along behind her, smiling warmly whenever someone glanced at him, but not saying much.
As Frankie scrutinized a fresh brie from a local cheesemonger Gabriel let his attention wander, and that’s when he heard it. It wasn’t hard to miss, and he’d been attuned to it over the past few months. That sound was becoming more and more familiar lately; whispers somewhere behind him, along with a few nervous giggles.
“Oh my God I think that’s them!”
“It totally is. Should we go up?”
“Eee! I don’t know, you do it.”
“No way, you do it!”
He turned and saw two teenagers standing a close-but-respectful distance away, sporting obviously-amateur dye jobs and all-black clothes, one of them wearing a truly impressive amount of heavy black eyeliner for a Saturday afternoon. A pang of fondness, a certain nostalgia flared in Gabe as he took in the two Youths. A memory of a lifetime ago, of Frankie and him with similar amateur dye-jobs and ratty Converse and too-much makeup, and he couldn’t help but smile. He caught their eyes and flashed the two teenagers his best smolder, beckoning them closer, and they both squealed.
God. That would never stop being weird.
“Hi, um, are you Aiden Wilde?” one of them, the purple-haired one, tall and curvy with a they/them pin on the strap of their shiny black pleather bat-shaped backpack, said hesitantly.
“The very same,” he said, letting the smoke come out in his voice.
“Oh my god, hi!”
“I’m sorry if this is lame, it’s just, we’re such big fans,” said the be-eyelinered one, blushing profusely.
“Nah, that’s awesome. You guys wanna take a selfie?”
“Oh my gosh yes please! And oh you’re Frankie! Oh my god I love you!” Purple Hair said to Frankie, who giggled sincerely.
“Aww, you flatter me! Here, I have long arms, I’ll take it.”
They Took the Selife, and after a bit more fawning and the hurried signing of whatever piece of merch they could grab, Aiden Wilde bid adieu to his young fans. Frankie was smirking at him as the two youths scrambled away still squealing. Gabe blushed, but there was definitely a glow in his belly. As much as part of him still thought he was getting away with something, and eventually the universe would realize the error and come correct it, there was something still thrilling about being recognized. About being able to make someone’s day just by taking a selife with them. He hoped he never got used to it.
After a silent negotiation they ended up in the park with Gabe’s head pillowed comfortably in Frankie’s lap as she fed him slices of brie and strawberries from a little brown paper bag she’d bought when he hadn’t been paying attention. The berries were ripe and sweet as a summer’s kiss, and Gabe’s stomach had settled enough he could actually appreciate the juicy flavor of them exploding across his tongue, the contrast of the creamy-salty cheese she fed him after. Frankie giggled at nothing, still humming whatever melody was in her head as she fed him, her free hand tangled in his hair. It was a gorgeous early summer afternoon, blue sky forever and not too deep in the 100’s just yet, and they had found some dappled shade under a tree. And it was just…nice. A sweet little moment, and Gabe felt most of his bad mood slip away with the berries and the barest hint of breeze that rustled through the leaves.
But of course eventually it had to end, as all such moments did. They strolled back to Daisy silently and Frankie drove them back to The Factory, singing along to The Beach Boys softly as she tapped out a rhythme on the wheel.
It still blew Gabe’s mind, just a bit, that he owned a goddamn warehouse. So far he’d been keeping the Rockstar Extravagance mostly to a minimum—part of him convinced that it was just another glitch in the Matrix and any minute now The IRS or whoever would be showing up on his doorstep to take it all away—and apart from some flashy clothes and a couple dream instruments he’d had his eye on for years, he tried to stick to his former starving artist budget. But when the lease on his old apartment was ending and he realized he didn’t have to find another one, he could afford to live wherever he wanted, Gabe couldn’t help but live out a little House Hunters fantasy, born from years of watching HGTV late at night with nothing to do. When he saw the listing for this place, it felt like fate calling to him.
He was trying not to get too pretentious with it, at least, but it felt wrong not to indulge in his deepest-held arty bohemian whims at least a little bit. And of course, since Frankie’s love of home décor almost rivaled his own, he had let her go a bit nuts with the makeover, sourcing vintage Oriental rugs and bespoke iridescent acrylic tables, a gigantic disco ball hanging down from the ceiling like a glam rock planet with its own galaxy. It was a legitimately cool little space, with plenty of room for The Peaches to hang out and even play music together sometimes. And it was his, and he could cover the whole thing in nude male pin-ups and as much glitter as he wanted, and no one could stop him.
As Gabe let her through the rolling garage door he heard a thumping bass rhythm and figured Lance and Kiki must have already shown up, probably warming up on their respective instruments. Well, Lance was warming up. Kiki was lounging on the vintage dusty rose velvet sofa Gabe had found at a consignment store for a steal, frowning in concentration as she played something on her yellow Nintendo Switch. Probably Animal Crossing, if he had to guess.
It was just a random chance that he had found the two of them, but he would always be glad for it. The Peaches had become something like a family over the years, and while he would never love them the same way he loved Frankie, he wouldn’t want anyone else in his band. In a way, it felt like Lance and Kiki were always destined to find him. Gabe knew things wouldn’t be the same without either of them there.
Kiki, whose birth name was Kimberly Kikuchi but if you called her that she would try to stab you, preferred to dress like a sweet, innocent little porcelain doll; but that was the disguise she wore to distract from the fact that she was a total bitch and she owned it. She loved playing into men’s expectations of her as a cute piece of empty-headed cotton candy fluff, with her long blonde hair and penchant for babydoll dresses, and then proceeding to absolutely destroy them on her drum kit and ruin their fragile egos. And it made Gabe die laughing every single time.
Lance, by contrast, was The Quiet One of the group, but that didn’t stop them from being a total chaos gremlin, and a little bit of a heartbreaker to boot. A Black Nonbinary Icon in their own right who used both he and they pronouns and shredded on the bass with a flair for tasty funk rhythms, Gabe was also lowkey jealous that they had a lovely longtime boyfriend—a professional chef named Ash—waiting for them at home.
Together with Warner the five of them made The Peaches what it was, a collective of (mostly) queer weirdos with eclectic tastes. They brought influences from all across the music spectrum, Kiki’s love of metal and Japanese folk music and Frankie’s longstanding obsession with disco, Lance’s jazz and soul influences and Warner’s taste for harder rock and alternative. It was their secret ingredient, the bit of magic that also made them the buzz of the indie scene lately. Gabe wouldn’t have traded any of them for any one else in the world. Even Warner.
“Well you look like shit,” Kiki said bluntly, once she’d heard Gabe and Frankie come in.
“Doesn’t he?” Frankie giggled back, before adding something else in Japanese which made Kiki laugh louder.
He knew the two of them well enough to know whatever she’d said, it wasn’t flattering. But he also knew better than to say anything back, because that would only dig the hole deeper.
Lance just gave him and Frankie one of their signature cool-guy head nods and went back to strumming on their bass, their long thin ring-covered fingers dancing across the frets as they played something intricate and lovely that they’d surely written themselves. They had their long braids down today, tossed casually over their shoulder, while one of their fancier bejewelled septum rings glinted attractively from under their strong, striking nose, the inky black polish on their nails catching the light too as they played.
Frankie set her ridiculous little frog-shaped purse down and pulled her glittery pastel purple guitar out of its case and started tuning while Kiki finally put her Switch away to join them at her kit. There was the pleasant noise of the four of them warming up together, finding their rhythms. Gabe started doing his vocal exercises, pacing around and trying very hard to ignore the lead weight in his stomach as he kept his eye trained on the front door.
Warner was late.
Warner was never late. In over three years of practices, not once had the guy shown up later than ten minutes early. They all made fun of him for it; Frankie liked to say that he wasn’t gonna get a better grade at the end of the semester for always being on time, that he wasn’t cut out for the rockstar lifestyle. And Warner had just smiled good naturedly and mumbled something back about wanting to do the right thing, while Gabe had privately found it incredibly fucking adorable. That was always Warner, affable and sweet, earnest. Golden-haired and easy with a smile.
Was it any wonder Gabe had fallen head over heels for him?
3:45 PM.
Warner was late late. And he hadn’t texted. If Gabe hadn’t literally seen him just an hour or so ago he would have panicked, thinking something had gone wrong. Still the asshole anxious part of his brain tormented him with it any way, horrible flashes of Warner at the bottom of ditch, bleeding out and dying alone, no one the wiser.
But no. Gabe realized, with a sick sinking feeling in the pit of him, that it wasn’t an accident.
Warner just wasn’t coming.
And that fucking asshole hadn’t even bothered to text him.
Fuck.
Just then Lance’s hand went to their pocket, fishing out their phone. Their eyebrows knit in confusion, and Gabe’s heart sunk further.
“Guys, Warner, uh. Says he’s not coming.”
Fucking bastard.
“What?” Kiki said, her eyes going large enough to take up half her face as she spun on her stool, her pigtails swinging wildly. “Is he bleeding from the head? Is he insane? Tour starts in like two weeks!”
“And he couldn’t even call?” Frankie scoffed, eyebrows going lethal as she fiddled with her strings, plucking at them randomly. She hadn’t plugged into her amp yet so there was just a faint discordant jangling, and it felt appropriate. Matched the rhythm of Gabe’s heartbeat.
“We saw him at Mel’s. With Massive Aggression. He’s…I don’t think he’s coming back.”
Kiki cursed loudly in Japanese while Lance whispered a soft little “oh fuck.”
That about summed it up.
And then the rest of the band launched into Damage Control mode while Gabe stood there and felt like the scum of the earth.
“What do we do? Do we know anyone who can cover for him?”
“I mean, Dani’s band is already opening for us, she’s the only person I can think of who could conceivably pick up Will’s solos in time. Shit.” Frankie scrubbed a hand through her hair, staring up at the disco ball glittering down from the ceiling as if she could find the answers reflected in its shiny surface.
“Don’t suppose you wanna pick up lead guitar duties for once, eh?” Lance smirked slightly and Frankie glared at them. It was an old fight-that-wasn’t-really at this point. Frankie would always be Gabe’s right hand woman, his Platonic Life Partner, and she was a fairly good guitarist in her own right, but she preferred letting someone else take the lead parts while she held down the rhythm section. And Lance liked to needle her about it.
“Fuck you.”
Lance chuckled softly and blew her a kiss.
“What about Jesse? He knows like, every fucking band in Vegas, doesn’t he?”
“Well every fucking band in Vegas will probably be busy touring, same as us. You wanna ask him if he has a student he could lend us?”
“You want to tell Rick we’re letting a twelve year old join us on a sold-out national tour?”
The three of them continued to bicker back and forth while Gabe wished he could melt into the floorboards. Fuck. He’d ruined everything, and there the rest of The Peaches were, gamely trying to fix his fuck-ups for him. He didn’t deserve any of them.
He sighed as he fished out his own phone from the too-tight pocket of his painted-on skinny jeans. There was only so much sitting around waiting for someone else to clean up his mess he could handle. It was time to act like the Band Leader, as much as the sick pit of acid-hot dread in his belly tried to convince him it was all ruined beyond saving. He took a deep breath to steady himself, and then he pulled up the number quickly.
“Hey Rick?”
There was a hush amongst the rest of The Peaches as Gabe finished the call with Rick’s normal brevity. He’d been their manager almost since the beginning, and all of them both feared and respected the man in equal measure. He dressed like the hapless dad in a 90’s sitcom and acted like a mix between the cattiest queen Gabe had ever met and a bloodthirsty business shark, and he was exactly the kind of fearsome protector they had needed to guide them through all of the shady twists and turns of the music business. The man could be an absolute terror, but it was usually fine as long as you did your best not to be on the receiving end of Hurricane Rick.
Something Gabe had somehow managed to forget, until Rick steamrolled into The Factory seemingly a second later, already in the middle of a call as he swept in.
“You signed a contract, asshole. If you don’t get that tight little twink ass down here and play that fuckin’ guitar like your life literally depends on it—cuz it does—I will wrap you up in so much fucking litigation you’ll look like I let a Japanese pervert let loose on you with a bundle of rope when I’m done. Do you hear me, fucker?”
There was heavy silence as Rick glared down at the phone, Warner’s tinny voice saying something back, before Rick disconnected the call.
And then he rounded on Gabe.
“What the fuck did you do to him?”
“Me?”
“Hey leave him alone!”
“Yeah, it’s not Gabe’s fault!”
“He’s citing ‘artistic differences’ as his reason for taking a ‘leave of absence,’” Rick hissed back, with the air quotes around “artistic differences” and everything. His eyes narrowed then, as if he knew exactly what “artistic differences” was code for.
Gabe’s heart plummeted down by his kidneys with the sudden wave of fresh guilt that hit him. As nice as it was to have his friends defend him, he knew that it was, quite literally, his fault. God, if he hadn’t been such an idiot, throwing himself at the boy like a desperate cock-hungry harlot. No wonder Warner had run screaming for the hills and into the arms of Massive Aggression. He’d fucked up, and he’d known it, but the consequences of his actions still really fucking sucked.
“No, guys, Rick’s right. I’m the leader, this is my mess.”
“Sweetheart I don’t really give a shit whose mess it is, because I’m the one who has to clean it up. So listen up kiddos, because if another one of you fucking brats pulls anymore stupid stunts between now and the start of this fucking tour I will quite literally murder you, and then pay my lovely friend Garett who does taxidermy to stuff your corpse and shove an instrument into it. Alright?” And with that evocative threat hanging in the air, the rest of The Peaches gathered around, and listened as Daddy Rick laid down the law.
5 notes · View notes