#the reality is I asked ten minutes ago and have a normal white mum and a very white dad

[pumpking64]

Ich: Mama, warum bist du eigentlich brauner als ich, obwohl ich mehr draußen bin?

Mama: weil ich nicht mit deinem Vater gekreuzt bin

[gin-and-luce]

You killed our dog! Adriana of The Sopranos gave me strength to navigate life after a breakup during a global pandemic lockdown

I’m going through a breakup. It’s come at the worst time but also the best time. He ended things with me (more on that later) after three years in the most Beta-Male way...but this is what happens when your type can be boiled down to softboi. I can’t see my friends in the conventional way, so I made some new ones on screen to help me navigate the end during quarantine.

Over ten weeks ago I started watching The Sopranos. It doesn’t need justifying, everyone knows it’s the best television series of all time, but I’d never seen it, and I knew a global pandemic induced lockdown would provide optimum viewing circumstances. My favourite thing to do is completely throw myself into the female narrative and experience I’m watching on screen. I prefer a long deep drama over a film. I like being able to see my girls every night. 

People have said to me before “you should start a blog”, but I could never escape the feeling that doing so is massively narcissistic because it *is*, unless you have something actually relevant to write about. Alternatively, the image of Gretchen Weiners leaning in and going “you let it out honey, put it in the book” floats across my conscience, and everything embarrassing that I’ve ever done, plays in a montage in my mind. 

Who gives a fuck what I have to say about anything…….. especially about a cultural phenomena that is quite literally regarded as the best TV show of all time?

I’d been wanting to write this after I watched Long Term Parking. I lay in the dark for 45 minutes after the episode ended. I’d never felt like that watching a television show or film before. My throat had seized up but I didn’t cry, even though I felt like it. I knew it was coming from the moment Adriana met the agent. I wasn’t surprised, but I was heartbroken and absolutely fuming. I still am. 

I’m not angry with Christopher, Tony, or Silvio, but just the general unbalance I’ve felt when I’m in a relationship. The loss of self, relationships being a series of compromises. From what I have found from my own experiences and my girlfriends’, women are just much more willing to compromise, but don’t consider it to be a compromise. Men can only take into consideration their own reality, an evolutionary selfishness that just doesn’t translate. 

Just as lockdown began I texted my boyfriend to say I loved him and I missed him. He responded with “Can’t say I feel the same”. Nearly 3 years were over just like that. We had the obligatory phone call, where I was hysterical and he was smarmy and smug. Yet when it was over, I felt nothing. It’s allllll a big nothing.

My personal Gospel is Sex and The City (shout out to HBO!). This was my Berger moment. He essentially scribbled “I’m sorry, I can’t. Don’t hate me” on a post-it. The irony of the whole thing is that when we watched it together, he himself said he was most like Berger. Thinking about it makes me wince.

My life opened up in front of me, I was exposed to his weakness regarding the situation in full when his sister-in-law messaged me on Instagram a few days ago. He hadn’t told his family, nor had he told his flatmates (another shout out to my sleuths at the back, you know who you are!). 

The Sopranos is a show about life. The Mafia structure provides a vehicle for us to question morality and mortality. You take what you get from it. When I watch it again at a different stage of my life, I will get something else out of it. 

For me now, while I stew in my own emotion during quarantine, Adriana represents emotional labour and the expectation for women to behave in a certain way in relationships. 

At first when my ex’s family members were messaging me, I was confused. It is frankly humiliating to smile as if everything is normal, so as to protect someone that in the end would not do the same for me. I know he wouldn’t do the same because there was just no courtesy in what happened weeks ago. I am trying to move on but things like this stunt your personal growth.

The struggle with emotional labour hones a guilt that someday I’ll regret giving my early 20s to something that didn’t work out. I felt like I was on borrowed time.

These are obviously my own insecurities spurred on by the fact that I’ve read enough “10 things I wish I knew in my 20s” blogs to know that these are my selfish years. Still, it is ultimately devastating to see the last 3 years of your life conclude via a text that displays a failure to realise that there is no real clean cut for a long-term relationship. 

I respect him for the blunt statement because it means I get to reference the Berger SATC breakup and say “casually cruel in the name of being honest” (Taylor Swift, 2012) a LOT, which softens the pity in the social scenarios that I invent in my head in the shower.

When Tony calls Adriana to tell her Christopher has tried to kill himself, that was like my final phone call too. This is the end. Her youthfulness was why I related to her most in the show, but at the same time having nothing to lose made her easily expendable. Youth makes you put 100% into something knowing it is a gamble. 

I’m not comparing my ‘borrowed time’ to Adriana because she ends up dead, but there was a disregard for her life that was so harrowing because she did nothing but try and do the right thing. I watched Adriana put Christopher first willingly for 5 series. He supported her music management dreams but ultimately ended up making it all about him. He gave her the Crazy Horse but this ultimately was just another mob hangout. He sat on her dog, he continued to use heroin, shag other people, and so on.

“You could start writing again,” she tells him in her last episode, to which he responds  “I could do my memoirs, finally,”. Here is Adriana still!! STILL!! catering to Christopher’s ego to give herself some confidence. Very me.

All the way through she was just too good for him. Her ties to the Famiglia aren’t as tight as Carmela and Co. No children, still young, there’s chance for Adriana to get out if she wanted to. Of course this makes her prime FBl bait, but shows she sticks by Christopher through everything purely out of love. In the end she dies on her knees, subservient, with Heart’s Barracuda the last song she hears. I know Adriana had to go. That’s the way it is in the Famiglia because Christopher took an oath. But in a way she also had the carpet ripped from underneath her, just like me. 

There are lots of men writing on the internet about how Adriana is greedy and hypocritical. I just don’t understand where this reading is coming from other than obvious misogyny. I’ve read others that say if she was really that strong she would have simply left the relationship years ago. I believe that she believed things would improve for both of them, and that most people are just slut shaming her for her past. 

Still, Drea DeMatteo won a Best Supporting Actress Emmy for the episode. Fuckin’ A. 

I rooted for the woman. Before I was made redundant while working from home, I would spend half my life at my desk willing it to be 5:30pm, so I could slither back to the settee and spend the other half of my life in New Jersey. I’d phone my mum to discuss the episodes. She loves the show too, it’s always been a favourite in my household. We’d talk about the women like they were our friends and how we relate to them. The Sopranos is like a big mirror urging you to question everything. The answer to life is simply what are ya gonna do? 

Men love making things black and white so it is easier for them, when really women are in the background sorting out the shades of grey. 

Don’t get me wrong, Adriana’s significance is massive, albeit more so because of her death. You watch Christopher and Tony’s relationship start to crumble afterwards. It's shattering to see the disregard for Christopher’s sobriety and how despite his loyalty, he still sees him as a liability and weak. 

On the other hand, for Adriana’s sake, I am still enraged that he couldn’t see the bigger picture at the time. She is collateral damage in his path to finding his precious arc - “Wives, girlfriends, they can complicate life in a major way” Tony expresses to Jennifer as he runs from his own guilt. 

Christopher is desperate for Tony’s approval but is more than happy to use his blood connection as a protective leeway whenever he steps out of line. Again the irony is that he comes to tell Tony about Adriana first, just as the old Famiglia values say he should, but there is no real personal reward for doing so despite the personal sacrifice. 

I think Christopher regretted it in the end, and rightly so. When he is faced with his potential alternate life at the gas station, we assume that this was what made him go to Tony. It’s a family with loads of kids. Adriana probably can’t even have kids??? What kind of male logic?!  #justiceforadriana

I can’t help but feel for him when JT screams “Chris, you’re in the MAFIA!”. It’s the same kind of reality check that Chief Cubitoso gives Adriana, it’s an ultimatum and it’s the realisation that they are trapped in this life. Just ask Gene.

Carmela knew. I read her dreams as a testament to a woman’s intuition. She knows her friend isn’t what everyone is describing, she knows Adriana wouldn’t just disappear. She is all too aware of the emotional labour Mob women carry. When she sees Adriana with Cosette on the banks of the Seine, it is as sad as it is when we dream about people who have died. 

There is a scene in an early episode where Carmela says “Don’t we all?” in response to Meadow squealing “She’s MARRYING a BABY?” at a painting of The Marriage of Saint Catherine. I thought about this again when Christopher dies. Carmela passes her instinct off as hysteria, she isn’t to know. “So quick to blame, what is the attraction in that?” she cries during the aftermath of the car crash. There is a critique in her own femininity here that just makes you want to shout “NO CARM!!!!!!!”. As she believes she mothers Tony, there is the double-edged sword whereby he protects her through keeping her in the dark. “Heaven only ever sees my love making a fool of me” sings Emmylou Harris at the start of season 5. Carm’s power is taken away but she doesn’t even know. 

Carmela dedicates her life to being a mother but it’s not enough to save Meadow from her surname. We get some sense that AJ ‘Break Stuff by Limp Bizkit’ Soprano might be on a new path when he feels like the burning of his car among the autumn leaves of death was cathartic. As a man, he just has more freedom anyway. 

Miss Meadow gained her independence by getting her driving license, but in the end we see that she is still held back in the final scene by her inability to parallel park. She slots right in, eventually. As she does, she slots into the Soprano cycle after years of doing the most to get out and pave her own way. After every breakup with someone without links to the Famiglia, no scrubs, she returns and dates someone closer to home. Her career path is left tenuous to us, it would be all too easy for her to become a kept woman, which feels like it is the only real option should she settle down into the lifestyle with Patrick Parisi. It isn’t what she envisioned for herself, so part of me wants to hope that her story ends up a little bit more like Elle Woods. Legally Italian. 

I probably wouldn’t even have remembered her saying anything about parallel parking if I wasn’t terrible at parallel parking myself. It’s the pepperings of these subtle callbacks that make the show so beautiful. As the guitar solo plays on during the frustration, you’re invited to reminisce over Meadow’s journey. I fully wept watching her struggle to get the damn car parked because I’m trying to get my car parked too. Don’t stop believing, Meadow. 

I admire all the women in The Sopranos. The show is feminist, and that is a hill I am prepared to die on. It’s definitely up for debate as it is obviously littered with gratuitous nudity and women are commoditised. We have to allow this for cultural context for the show, but real life is basically exactly the same too? 

I read a post on Reddit where a dude is asking whether he should watch the show with his girlfriend. He types ‘“It’s a masterpiece of film but she probably wouldn’t get into it as I am”, and you don’t have to look much further to find more comments about how women and their puny minds just won’t get it. It’s an odd perspective to take given that Tony’s psychiatrist is a woman, but of course women could never grasp something so complex. It’s bullshit if you ask me, the female narrative prevails throughout all scenarios. 

The Pine Barrens seems to be everyone’s favourite episode. It’s not my favourite but there are two major elements that resonated with me. The first is Meadow looking down at the three letter words Jackie Aprile Jr had placed on the Scrabble board, and the second is when Gloria says to Tony:

“What you said was that you didn’t wanna piss me off..which implies that you’d have to deal with me, which is more about sparing YOU than my fucking feelings”. Don’t need to elaborate on that. Rest in power, Gloria. Legend.

Of course I could write pages and pages of hot feminist takes on all of the women - Jennifer, Janice, Livia, Angie, Svetlana, Charmaine. Lord knows I could probably write a book on Tracee.“ 20 years old, this girl”, I bashed Living on a Thin Line by The Kinks for about a week after that episode. It is the male gaze of the show made me love the women more. Carmela is my mother and I’ll probably name my first born Meadow. 

Carmela is the powerhouse and backbone of The Soprano household even though Tony provides. She represents stability, emotional labour, and putting on a brave face regardless. In some ways, it is as if Carmela represents the human emotion side and the fragility of organised crime. She is secure, but not enough, and her lack of ability to stand on her own two feet plagues her conscience through time. She is totally complicit, but must be to ensure her future with Tony as he pays anything to roll the dice just one more time. At the end of Long Term Parking, she and Tony stand looking at where she will build her spec-house. The forest looks the same as where we lost Ade, it’s a grim reflection that Carmela wouldn’t have this life if it wasn’t for the quick disposal of those like Adriana.   

Yeah okay, what the hell is a show with a feminist underpinning trying to say about wider society about a woman who exercises her beauty, loyalty and ambition?? Is it that she is not to be trusted?? Adriana’s a rat, but before this she is already deemed “damaged goods” anyway. She dresses provocatively, but that’s because she just looks MINT always. You would dress like THAT if you looked like THAT. When you Google her, ‘Adriana Sopranos Tennis’ comes up. I roll my eyes. Fucking men, eh? To take it down to a basic Sixth-Form-Poet reading, Adriana is Curley’s Wife and Daisy Buchanan all in one. She loves a red manicure too, and it might have worked out better for her if she had played the complicit beautiful little fool. 

This isn’t ‘Why The Sopranos is good!’, but a love letter to Adriana and her strength, because there is basically little or no content written on the women of the show when I have Googled.  I needed there to be more things written about her that isn’t just “bitch had it coming” when in fact she is a martyr. 

When Adriana was on screen, there was my mate. I knew her, she wanted what I wanted, but she sacrificed so much of herself for others and it was heartbreaking to watch. She barely gets a look-in in early episodes, but when she does she is usually wearing something animal print, which automatically made her the number one character on my radar. I am choosing to believe the theory that she is the cat in the final episode too. 

Still, I have been struggling and questioning why an episode that aired 16 years ago, with no plot that links to my own circumstances, has had such a monumental impact on me. 

I saw a tweet that said “have we ever sat down and thought about why relationships only work if the guy is more invested than the girl or is that just something we accept” (@anugov1). Adriana invested more in Christopher, even in the end, than she ever did herself. 

As I navigate this transitional period in my life, I am Adriana driving in the vision we see when we think she is going to start her new chapter. We can’t leave the flat, I have no job. The Sopranos has provided the most cathartic escapism for me. As I enter into whatever new world follows this nightmare, I wanted my mate Adriana to find her new world too, turning the classic rock up to 11.

[nekojitachan]

okay, so I posted last week (?) about an AFTG fic idea based on an old movie.

this isn’t it - blame/thank this on @sig66, as we began talking about classic movies and this one came up as a possibility for an AFTG fic, and I’ve been working on it and backstories ever since (think I’ll save the other one for either a possible big bang or a ‘proper’ fic).

Anyway, thank @sig66 for this - no idea of when I’ll be updating this, but for now, it’s a tumblr story and I’ll TRY to get it updated inbetween ‘proper’ fic updates (so maybe every other week, possibly sooner?). I’ve a lot of backstory for this, so while the movie is the backbone of the fic, expect it to expand from it (if you’re at all familiar with the film).

As for this first part, it really just sets things up.

Only trigger warnings should be for Neil’s past in Baltimore (and vague at that).

How to Steal a (lot of) Million(s) Part 1/? *******

Nathaniel sat hunched over in one of the waiting room’s plastic chair, desperate to quiet, to be still, to not draw any attention to himself like his mother had taught him. Each time the elderly woman behind the desk looked his way to give him a reassuring smile or someone came into the room he nearly flinched before he remembered that he wasn’t supposed to react, that reacting was bad. The bruises and neatly stitched cuts hidden beneath his black pants and black, green and white plaid sweater reminded him of just how bad it could be to show any negative emotions.

It just… it was so hard when his mother wasn’t there to shield him from the worst of the curious looks, to give his arm a warning squeeze and whisper ‘Abram’ in his ear to remind him when he got out of line. Normally he was with her back with the doctor, was the reason for their visit (‘a fall down the stairs’, ‘a fight with another boy’, ‘an accident in the kitchen’), but for some reason she’d gone there alone.

What had she done to upset his father so much?

He shoved that thought aside as quickly as he could.

Fortunately, it was just another few minutes before she came out through the one door, her face set in a blank expression which made him clamor onto his feet in an instant and stand up straight while some middle-aged man in a white coat continued to talk to her in a hushed voice. She brushed him off as she motioned Nathanial to the door leading out of the doctor’s office, which he scrambled toward without seeming to rush (he’d learned how to do that in the last year or so).

She didn’t speak until they were out in the blue sedan which she hated for some reason. “It’s all right,” she told him once they were on the highway which would take them back to the house. “Your father knows where we were today, I told him it was a regular check-up.” She motioned to her purse while she spoke. “That I needed a new script.”

Nathaniel didn’t quite understand what she meant by the last part but nodded along; what mattered was that he didn’t have to lie about where they were after his mother had picked him up from school. “All right.”

It was quiet for another couple of minutes. “I want you to pack a few of your clothes in a small bag, just some random ones. Not many, only what you’d need for a couple of days. Then put that bag in the back of your closet. Can you do that, Abram?” she asked without looking at him.

Long used to his mother asking things of him without any explanation, Nathaniel nodded. “Yes, Mum.”

“Good boy. Now, let’s review your latest French lesson.” They spent the rest of the drive back to the house going over various verb tenses until he almost felt at peace, until the anxiety was almost gone (but it was never truly gone, not when they always went back to that place, when Father or Lola or Patrick would be waiting for them).

He put her request out of mind once he’d done what she’d asked, aware of the risk he faced if his father caught him (pain until he answered, pain for not giving any good explanations, pain and pain and pain), and life went on as ‘normal’ in his father’s house (pain).  All Nathaniel wanted was to get through the day without setting off the man, without being a disappointment somehow, with not having to go into the basement to learn cruel lessons, to take up knives or have the blades turned on him.

The only true thing he knew about life was that it was filled with disappointment and pain.

Then about a week after the doctor’s appointment, his mother woke him in the middle of the night, told him to be quiet and to grab the bag he’d prepared, then snuck him out of the house while everyone else either slept or were gone (inflicting that pain on others). He thought it was some sort of fever dream (aftermath of the latest cuts inflicted upon him earlier that day), especially when they ended up at the local airport with two first class tickets to fly to London that night.

Especially when his mother, thrumming with an energy he’d never seen in her before, dragged him (exhausted from being awake so long and expecting his father to appear any moment) from the airport and into the crowded metropolis to some stone-faced building (one in a row of them) and pounded on the door until a man only a few inches taller than her and maybe a little older with dark blond hair (tousled as if he’d just gotten out of bed despite the lateness of the afternoon) and similar grey eyes opened the door to stare at them as if they were ghosts.

“Mary? Bugger me… Mary?” he gasped out as he slumped against the door as if in shock. “And… Nathaniel?”

“Abram,” she snapped as she dropped the bag in her left hand onto the ground. “I don’t want to hear that name again. Now are you going to let us in? We’re knackered, you daft fool.”

“You… bugger me,” the man repeated as he rubbed at his eyes as if he was tired (or seeing things). “Okay, come on in,” he mumbled as he stepped back.

“That’s your Uncle Stuart,” Nathaniel’s mother informed him as they entered the house. “You can trust him.”

If Mary told him he could… Nathaniel gave the man (currently muttering about needing some damn coffee) a shy look as he pressed against his mother’s side, still not convinced that all of this wasn’t one crazy dream – running away from his father to his mother’s family, to possibly finding a safe haven. Yet the man (his uncle) gave him a kind smile and asked if he wanted some biscuits and tea.

Nathaniel (Abram) knew it was reality when his mother died of advanced ovarian cancer less than a year later.

*******

“Sold for $190,000 to the gentleman in front of me. Thank you very much, sir,” the auctioneer called out in English, though still bearing a thick French accent. “Now up next, ladies and gentlemen, is item number thirty-four per the catalog, and we’re accepting bids from New York, London and Hong Kong both online and via telephone as well as in person. This great Cezanne painting is from the world famous Josten collection, sold by order of the present head of the Josten family, Monsieur Stuart Josten.” He gestured to an elegant figure standing toward the back of the room and next to the wall as if trying to avoid attention, dressed in a simple tuxedo. The man gave a nervous smile and a slight bow while people applauded, and one even shook his hand.

“Now, ladies and gentlemen, who will start the bidding on this superb post-impressionist masterpiece at $200,000?” the auctioneer called out as he stood in front of the painting of a woman in a red dress. The bidding commenced and immediately rose to $500,000 while ‘Stuart Josten’ watched on in delight.

*******

Neil tore through Paris in the supped-up MG Midget that Matt had gifted him a couple of years ago, on his way to the latest home he shared with his uncle after hearing the news about Stuart’s recent bout of… of… idiocy. Okay, so maybe the Hatfords weren’t exactly on the up and up….

Okay, so the Hatfords were so fucking far away from the up and up. Did Stuart really have to set a stupid record with the sale of his latest little ‘project’? Really?

Neil nearly rammed the car into the ornate stonework in front of the small, old mansion before he put the car into park and jumped out, then ran up the steps into the house. Davis was there to take his cap and bomber jacket, and to inform him that Stuart was indeed home and upstairs.

“Thanks,” Neil told his uncle’s assistant, well aware that the man didn’t have to rat out his boss like that, and caught the wink sent his way; Davis knew that someone was about to catch an earful right then.

He went up the curved staircase and into the one sitting room, where after making sure that no one was around (old habits died hard), he climbed into the ‘special’ wardrobe; once inside, he slid back the false panels so he could access the secret room behind them.

The spiral staircase in the hidden room led him up to the studio where his uncle worked on his forgeries, a large space filled with artworks in progress and various pieces which inspired them – statues and all sorts of paintings. Once again, Neil was amazed at his uncle’s talent, and a bit chagrined that Stuart focused it on reproducing existing works of art.

“Hello, brat,” Stuart called out to him from where he sat behind an easel, dressed in an old smock over his clothes and paint smeared over his left cheek.

“Hello, Stu,” Neil responded as he came over to give the man who’d raised him ever since he was ten years old a hug.

“Be careful,” Stuart chided with affection even as he gently hugged Neil in return. “I’m covered with paint.”

“When aren’t you? And you’re also covered with money,” Neil shot back. “Allison told me about the auction when I stopped by.”

“Ah yes, the Cezanne.” Stuart grinned with pride as he leaned back. “I could have sold a dozen of them at that auction! But one was enough.”

“One is more than enough!” Neil gritted out as he tried not to grow angry with the man. “I thought we talked about this! It’s getting too risky these-“

“Ah, ah, not now, I’m busy,” Stuart told him as he shooed Neil out of the way of his laptop screen, where he had a close-up of the Van Gogh painting he was currently reproducing. “How nice of him to only use his first name like that, makes it so much easier.”

“Not again!” Neil felt the urge to grab something and throw it, but refused to give in to his temper like that because… because of reasons. “It’s too soon!”

Stuart gave him a patronizing look as he began to wipe clean his brushes. “Don’t worry, this one won’t be sold for a long, long time. We’ll hang it up, let people look at it and appreciate it, and who knows, maybe some legendary, asshole tycoon will be able to persuade me to part with it if the price is right.”

Despite himself, Neil had to smile as he helped Stuart with the brushes. “You’re such a scoundrel.”

“Thank you, you little brat.” Stuart smiled back and swiped a (clean, thankfully) brush along the tip of Neil’s nose. Then he blanched as Neil nearly tipped over the plate containing specks of dirt. “Be careful! That’s my Van Gogh dirt,” he explained as he hurried to pick it up and place it in the one cupboard where he kept his more precious supplies, like the pigments he used in his forgeries. “That’s the dirt from his neighborhood, it took some effort to collect it. What I don’t go through to make these things as authentic as possible,” he complained as he stored it away. “Doubt Van Gogh did as much.”

“He didn’t have to, he was Van Gogh,” Neil snarked as he plopped down in a spare chair. “Sort of the point of it, no?”

“Yeah, kiddo, but in his lifetime, he only sold one painting, and I’ve already sold two as him,” Stuart shot back.

Neil felt a headache coming on and wished that he’d stopped to put on a pot of tea first. “You do know that selling someone else’s painting’s a crime, right? And they have all this lovely technology now to figure out that your stuff is a fake?”

Stuart scoffed as he continued to clean the brushes. “But I only sell the stuff to rich people, and they’re too stuck-up to admit that they might have been fooled into buying fakes. Know your audience, brat, rule number one.” He threw an old rag at Neil, who rolled his eyes at the familiar saying. “And don’t throw any stones, after half the shit you’ve pulled.”

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, and I-“ Neil frowned at the sound of sirens outside of the house, which only grew louder as if they were approaching the place. He got up from the chair to go look out the nearest window, and blanched when he saw several police cars pull into the house’s driveway. “Fuck, the police are here!”

“What?” Stuart rushed over to his side so he could look out as well, then let out a harsh breath. “Don’t scare me like that, kiddo, it’s just the director of the Kleber-Lafayette Museum, here about the Cellini Venus.”

“Eh?” For a moment, those words didn’t make any sense – why wasn’t Stuart worried? Since when didn’t the Hatfords have anything to fear from the police showing up in force (sure, some were paid off, mostly in the UK, but…)? Then he remembered about the damn statue and groaned. “That thing? What about it?”

“The Cellini Venus is to be the outstanding feature of a great loan exhibition – the masterpieces of French Collection,” Stuart informed him with pride as he scrubbed his hands free of paint.

Screw tea, Neil was willing to start drinking alcohol right about now. “Not in public,” Neil all but wailed as he thought about the damn forgery, a piece of ‘pride’ in the family. “It’s not really French,” he hissed. “We’re not French!”

“They don’t know that,” Stuart told him with a wry grin as he pulled on a dress coat as if to make himself presentable. “Come now, we can’t leave them waiting.”

“Not in public,” Neil repeated as he hurried after his uncle and caught him in time to wipe away the smudge of paint on his left cheek, certain that Davis would stall the people downstairs; he was grateful that he’d stopped by Allison’s earlier and let her (well, couldn’t stop her, really) dress him in something ‘acceptable’. He straightened the collar of his Maison Kitsune shirt and made sure it was tucked into the Amiri jeans his friend wouldn’t let him leave until he put on.

Sometimes he thought that his family’s enforcers could learn a thing or two about intimidation from the woman.

“I’ll be down in a minute, Monsieur Aldritch,” Stuart called out while he motioned to Neil to make sure that the wardrobe was properly closed up, still busy fussing with his own outfit as he did his best to look like ‘Stuart Josten’, eccentric art collector and not Stuart Hatford, member of one of Europe’s most infamous crime families.

“No hurry, Monsieur Josten,” some man called back in return as Neil and his uncle made their way down the stairs; Neil did his best to remain calm in the face of so many armed officers being inside his home while Stuart gave them a friendly smile; it helped that Davis stood off to the side, doing a perfect impression of an unremarkable butler and not someone who could kill them all in under a minute.

Aldritch and Stuart exchanged greetings while Neil did his best not to glare figurative daggers at the back of his uncle’s head over him being so foolish as to loan out a fake which had been a family ‘heirloom’ and joke for years. Somehow he summoned a smile when he was introduced to the museum’s director, and had to bite his tongue when the man thanked his uncle for keeping such a priceless treasure in France like a ‘true’ Frenchman (if he only knew the truth).

Personally, Neil didn’t see what the fuss was about the damn statue, which looked just like any other Venus statue in his mind, though supposedly his grandfather had done a remarkable job with the forgery (and was the reason why Stuart preferred that particular crime to the rest of the ���family business’). It had passed various inspections in the past… but Neil lived in fear of technology catching up to his uncle one day, and including the Cellini Venus in a big art exhibit just might be what attracted the wrong attention.

He attempted to ‘help’ Aldritch and the man’s assistants load the marble statue into its padded travel case, but Stuart knew him a little too well and pulled him away before he could use the statue’s heavy marble base to ‘accidentally’ break the ‘precious’ artwork and so prevent it from being used in the collection. “Behave, brat,” Stuart whispered in Spanish as the case was locked and carefully picked up.

“This is a mistake,” Neil warned, but it was too late at that point to do anything to stop it as the statue was being carried away.

Once they were gone and Davis offered to put on some tea, Neil gave in to the urge to glare at his uncle. “What the hell have you done?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Stuart gestured to the empty alcove where the statue had rested until a couple of minutes ago. “I did a bloke a solid, I did. They needed something special for that collection they’re putting together, and now your grandfather’s-“

“A fake, you gave them a fake piece of art,” Neil reminded the fool as he ran his hands through his hair, which Allison had done her best to tame earlier. “A piece of marble, which they can use all these nice little bits of machines to scan and run tests on it.”

Stuart scoffed as he undid the buttons to his black dinner jacket and sat down in an antique chair. “They won’t do that to something I loaned out and risk damaging it, which is why I agreed to add it to the collection. Do you know how many offers I’ve had for the damn thing? Even one recently,” he confessed with a slightly pained look, “but I never accept because I won’t risk it.”

“Yet you’re fine with thousands of people gawking at the thing,” Neil mumbled as he sank down on a velvet-covered duvet and took to rubbing his temples in an effort to stave off a headache.

“Hundreds of thousands,” Stuart corrected him, and laughed when Neil groaned. “Don’t you see that I’m proud of it, kiddo? Your grandfather spent months on that thing while your gram posed for him. It’s not just some old piece of marble a barely known Italian banged out, but a family heirloom.”

A family heirloom that was going to get Stuart locked up, and possibly Neil as an accessory (well, more than that when he had to break his uncle out of prison).

Somehow, he had a feeling that he’d be rounding up the gang soon to help them out of a huge mess.

He should have gone off with Henry and Jamie to help them with their ‘little Russian problem’, dammit, no matter how much he hated vodka.

*******

Thanks for like the five people who read this. As stated, updates are whenever. Next part should have Andrew and Kevin and more of the Foxes (lots of backstories there).

[divagonzo]

Savor - Romione (and kids)

Blame @headcanonsandmore for this one, explicitly. This post from months ago sparked a fire (and thanks to @hinny-reviews for the review that set the fire this week!) for writing while doing 10 other things too.  I know I kick everyone with angst but some fluff wouldn’t be remiss, either.

Rated K+ ‘cause giving kids caffeine before age 13 is frowned upon in many societies but there are reasons behind it.

I need my demarcation line darn it!

“Hugo dear, what are you doing?”

“It’s something for my art teacher, Mum.”

“Can I see what it is?”

Hugo leaned over the work, hiding it from Hermione. “No, it’s not done yet. I’ll show it when I’m finished with it.”

“Oh, ok.” Hermione stepped back from over his shoulder, giving her son some breathing room. He was highly sensitive to people inside his comfort zone, including his parents.

“Is it for a grade, love?”

“Yes, no, maybe. The teacher asked us to do some comics for a class assignment for extra credit. I had an idea for it and started the night we got the assignment.”

“When is it due, dear?”

“Tomorrow. I need to finish it tonight.”

“Well, then, I will leave you be. Dinner is in an hour. Your father made pork chops.”

“Did he – “

“Yes, dear. There will be no gravy on your plate, you’ll have hash browns instead of mashed potatoes, and toasted crumpets with dinner.”

“Thanks, Mum.” He leaned back over his work and continued onward, immediately ignoring Hermione once again.

She closed the door softly behind her, even though she knew he wouldn’t notice, not when he was hyper-focused on something he was working on, much like she was when she was working from home.

“Mum, I need some help!” Rose bellowed through their residence. She left Hugo and sought out her daughter, who was working on a project too, mostly for her own benefit. Left out of her thoughts was Hugo’s project. She didn’t worry because he was like her, finishing things before they were due.

A few days later...

“Mum! I won!” Hugo hopped into the back of the small auto that Hermione owned. While having one wasn’t really necessary, she did on occasion need to do things the Muggle way, including picking her son up from primary school. Fridays were his day to stay after school, having time with other kids doing science stuff. She’d had loved to have an after-school class learning how things worked, much like Arthur’s fascination in all things Muggle. 90 minutes of club time gave her a chance to be a normal Mum, picking her son up after school, even if it was just driving the car from the house to the school and back.

“You did?”

“I did.”

“What was the contest? Did I miss a notice from your teacher?”

“No. It was what I was working on this weekend.”

“Oh, the project you wouldn’t let me see because it wasn’t finished?”

“Yes, that one,” He fiddled with the toys in the middle of the back seat, giving his hands something to do on the fifteen-minute car ride back to their residence. “I finished it late that night.”

“How late?” She asked, worried that her son was already taking his academics entirely too serious at such a young age.  Ron was good about keeping her grounded and not falling into her work too hard now, since he retired from active duty with the Aurors and was working behind the scenes, along with George at the shop, still.

“Um,” he hemmed and hawed, trying to avoid answering the question.

“Hugo James Granger-Weasley, you tell me – “

“Midnight, Mum,” he stared at her in the rear-view mirror, looking abashed. “I wasn’t happy with one panel of it and had to rework it.”

His chagrin was enough for her to drop her argument – but the fact that he was making eye contact with her. He only did that with people he trusted the most – when it was most important to him. She threaded through the congestion of evening traffic while stealing glances at her son in the back seat. He was looking out the window, enthralled at everything passing him by.

So she shifted. “So tell me about it, dear. You never said what it was about.” She could set her watch the number of seconds it took for Hugo to process what she said, turn his attention back towards her and answer her.

Ten seconds later, Hugo was squirming in his seat. “Well, um, the teacher wanted us to a one-page comic and she wanted it to be about a hero of ours.”

“Oh really?” Hermione turned the corner away from the primary school and headed up the road to their home on New road with one stop on the way. “So who did you pick, dear? The character from the television show you’re enjoying?”

“No, Mum.” Hugo sat quietly while Hermione threaded her way through traffic to cross the river to the other side and near home. “Well, I wanted to but I chose someone else.”

“Oh really?” She turned into the chain coffee shop to pick up their order for the afternoon: a pumpkin spice latte with two extra shots of espresso, and for her son, a half caffeine caramel iced coffee drink with extra whole milk. They sat in line for only a moment before turning up at the window. The lovely young man at the counter, Cecil, recognized them for frequent customers and handed over their drinks before taking the quid Hermione handed over. �� She handed the caramel drink to her son and he tucked in immediately, slurping to be heard in Aberystwyth. She waited for change before pulling off and turning back onto the roadway.

“How’s your drink, dear?”

“Good, Mum.” He slurped away while she navigated traffic.

“So tell me about this comic?”

“It’s in my bag and I will show you and Daddy when we get home.”

“He won’t be home for another hour, Hugo. He was off helping Uncle Harry at the Ministry.”

“Oh,” disappointment echoed in his voice.

“But maybe he’ll have finished early and come home straightaway.”

Hermione turned onto their street and went a few houses down to a cookie cutter home with a garage. By the time the garage door was finally down, Hugo was out of the car with his drink, leaving his bag behind for Hermione to collect. They went in, greeted with smells of spag bol, garlic bread, and wilted spinach for the adults while Rose got a small salad and Hugo, on his special plate that separated all of the foods, 10 baby carrots. Hermione lucked up a few years back finding them in a charity shop one afternoon.

“You’re home!” Hugo yelled and raced for his Dad, crashing into Ron’s waist before he was picked up and given a raspberry kiss on the cheek.

“’ello love,” Ron leaned down to give a kiss to his wife and another gargantuan hug to Hugo. “Go wash up before dinner. It’s almost ready. I know you’re peckish.”

Hugo scampered off before Hermione dropped his satchel near the dining room table. “Hugo won something at school today and he won’t tell me what it is until we got home.”

“Oh, really?” Ron was ladling sauce over the noodles for Rose’s plate before plating theirs. Hugo’s was already at the table. While he had specific choices, including food temperature, he had the Weasley appetite, never completely full. He’d taken after his Dad that way and secretly, Hermione was delighted by it.

“I’ll get him to show us at dinner. He’s so proud he won something, makes him feel more in touch with the other kids, probably.”

“I’ll ask once he’s had enough to eat.”

Hugo raced back into the dining room, settling in his chair and tucking in immediately to his meal. Hermione held back any thought of scolding him on his eating habits, considering what Ron mentioned how hungry he was at that age and that he could never eat fast enough to not have something nicked off of his plate by Fred and or George, too.

“When you get a moment,” Ron smiled at Hugo inhaling his pasta, “tell us about your award-winning entry.”

Hugo nodded and continued to scarf his food. Rose shared a look with her Dad, one that Hermione shared sometimes too, and she at with gusto, without as much flare as Hugo did.

A few minutes later, after talking about their days at work, Hugo burped, earning a snicker from his sister, he left the table to get his entry from his satchel. He returned, handing it to Hermione first. She scanned it, smiling broadly, before putting her hand to her mouth and letting her eyes shine bright. “Sweetie, this is amazing.”

Hugo beamed.

“This will go up on the fridge after your Dad sees this.” Hermione handed over the one sheet comic for Ron to appreciate.

He put down his fork and picked up the sheet.

“Mum, what is it?”

“Hugo was working last weekend on this and he won. How many entries were there?”

“Most of the level turned one in. The other levels, they had other things they did.”

“Oh, that many? Excellent.”

“Mum,” Rose whined.

“Here,” Ron handed over the comic to his daughter, looking quite embarrassed yet somehow proud at the same time. “He made me an Anime hero, with a cape and everything. I dunno Hugo; I think I look pretty fetching in that red suit and the white cape.”

Rose looked over the comic. “Hugo, you did all of this?”

“Yes, no one helped me, not even Miss Collins. I did all of it by myself, including the story.”

Rose handed it back to Ron. “Read it for us, Dad.”

“Yes, please,” Hermione said in her slightly choked up voice. Ron saw the pride in her eyes and appreciation that all of their hard work raising their children reflected back on Ron primarily.

Ron grunted a few times, clearing his throat, before starting.

“In another multiverse,” Ron looked at Hermione, “What’s a multiverse?”

“It means that it’s an alternate reality, like those weird stories Rose loves to read, like two characters from the television show she watches, but they open a coffee shop rather than saving the world.”

“Oh, I get it now.” Ron looked back at the comic. “In another Multiverse, there was a bookshop owner named Bilbo. He was tall, with bright ginger hair, mysterious curling scars down his arms, a hearty laugh, and willing to help anyone who came into the shop.” Ron looked at his son and smirked. “Bookstore, huh? Bet you got that idea from all the times I was helping carry Mum’s books, I reckon.”

“I did. You always help Mum when she buys up a month’s worth of books for us or when we go to the library and you help her bring them all into the house.”

Ron looked back at the comic, picking up where he left off. “And one day a small boy walked in, looking at the tall man standing behind the counter. A huge smile erupted on the tall man’s face. “How can I help you, my good sir?” Ron looked at Hermione. “He’s been reading your literature books again, hasn’t he?”

“He said the ones his age were dull and boring so I let him read the Jane Austen books.”

“That would explain it,” Ron muttered before turning back to the comic. He stopped and returned to look at Hermione. “Jane Austen? I fell asleep reading her story and couldn’t get past the first three pages.

“Well I find Martin the Mad Muggle dull but it’s still something you enjoy.” The smirk on her face betrayed how she felt underneath it all – that she loved that he enjoys reading for pleasure, now.

“That’s a fair point.” Ron turned back to the comic. “‘The little boy stood on his tiptoes to look over the counter. I bet you’re a superhero in disguise. You look like a superhero.’“

The next panel says, “Well, I am, and somehow you guessed it.” Bilbo leaned far over the counter, getting almost nose to nose with the protagonist. “But you can’t tell a single soul, no sir. This has to be our secret.” He stood back up, standing there with a twinkle in his eye in the next panel.

“But why do you run a used bookstore?”

“It’s the perfect cover if I need to be off to save a fair princess from the mad king. There are many mad kings in the world that people need to be rescued.”

“Can I go?”

“Maybe we should ask your parents first,” He said gently to the young man. “I bet if you went off with me they would miss you terribly.”

“‘I’m an orphan,’ the little boy said.” Ron stopped and sniffed. “You put Uncle Harry into the story. That’s sweet.”

“He told us about how his parents died and he was an orphan who grew up with Muggles. I figured it would explain why the little boy was by himself.”

“Good idea,” Ron surreptitiously wiped his eyes. His voice changed back into the storyteller's voice. “So what shall I call you, my apprentice?”

“Jamie,” He smiled. “I’m 9.”

“Nine is a good age for an apprentice.”

The next panel showed the two of them off on an adventure, rescuing a widow and her daughter from a rampaging hippogriff that looked remarkably like Hermione and Rosie.  The final panel showed a wedding, with lots of flowers and a minister who looked a lot like Uncle Bill.

“So what is this comic called, Hugo?” Ron kept looking at the work and was impressed with his son’s imagination at such an age.

“Heroes. The topic was a comic about our hero. I wrote about you, Dad.”

Ron smiled, just like the one he would give Hermione privately, full of love, adoration, affection, and just a bit boggled at how he was so privileged to have such an amazing family of his own. He opened his arms and Hugo ran to jump in them, relishing a hug. Ron watched over his son’s head as Hermione used her wand to affix the comic to the refrigerator with a sticking charm, next to all of the children’s other works of childhood art. She looked back at her husband and son, savoring this moment that would fuel her Patronus for months to come.

[maandags]

Purple Ties (Shiro x reader)

Requests: hai can i have an  imagine with shiro x reader with a fake relationship trope? thank u ^^ ---- wb shiro and female reader with like a bunch of tropes? like, childhood best friends, locked in a closet, sharing a bed, fake relationship, things like that? Feel free to take away or add tropes if you have an idea just anything really tropey would be g 👌

Hey! Since these requests were very similar, I thought I’d combine them! I hope you enjoy!

~Water

Word count: 2.3 K

Genre: fluff

Notes: masterlist - cheeky Shiro is a Good Shiro

---

You blinked, not entirely trusting yourself to speak at the moment. You stared at Shiro, who leant against your doorframe, his arms crossed. “Well?” he prompted. “What do you say?”

You swallowed back a burst of white-hot panic, trying to keep your breathing steady.

“Let me‒let me think about it, all right?” you said, mimicking Shiro and folding your arms over your chest. Shiro pouted.

“C’mon, Y/N, it’s just for a couple days! Besides, Mum and Dad adore you. Literally nothing could go wrong.”

You were not so sure of that.

Here you were, just a couple of minutes ago, minding your own business, when Shiro knocked on your door and announced that you had to play his partner for a week. In three days, he was supposed to be at a family dinner with his parents, and he was supposed to bring a date. He’d decided that you were just the person to ask.

Which got you a bit conflicted. You had been actively trying to ignore any eventual feelings you might have developed for Shiro over time, stuffing them away in the deepest parts of your soul and not acknowledging their presence. It was easier that way. It was easier to pretend that you wanted to be nothing but friends, like you had been for the past twelve years, than to try to deal with feelings that could possibly rip all of that apart, should they not be reciprocated.

You hadn’t told anyone. It wasn’t worth the risk of losing twelve years’ worth of friendship. You loved Shiro more than anyone, and you would take the safety of your friendship over all else, even if that meant one-sided pining for the rest of your life.

But pretending to be in a relationship with him‒just so that he could prove a point to his parents‒could throw your whole head upside down. Your head was spinning, your mind a hurricane of thoughts. You didn’t know what to do.

Shiro had been very clear: it would be pretending, and nothing but pretending. No more, no less. You had to admit that even though you knew that he didn’t like you that way, the words still stung a bit.

But as you looked back up at Shiro’s face, his hopeful expression, you sighed in resignation and cursed your apparent inability to say no to him. “Fine. I’ll do it.” Shiro’s face lit up and he opened his mouth, but you held up a hand to silence him. “On one condition.” Shiro raised an eyebrow, caution creeping into his expression. You grinned. “I get to pick your outfit.”

--

You straightened Shiro’s tie, its purple standing out starkly against the black shirt he wore. You fiddled with the buttons on his blazer, furrowing your brows in concentration and nervousness. Your fingers were trembling.

It was stupid; you had been at Shiro’s for dinner just about five thousand times, especially as you grew older.  You were very good friends with the entirety of the Shirogane family: after all, you had known them since you were six years old. You couldn't remember a time when they weren't a huge part of your life.

So why were you nervous, almost scared, now? You knew, even though you weren't ready to admit it to yourself, that the nerves probably didn't have a lot to do with the Shirogane family dinner, but more with the one Shirogane that was standing beside you at that moment. You shook your head as if the gesture could possibly rid you of any nerves coursing through your veins.

"Are you done?" You jumped. You hadn't realised that your hands hadn't left Shiro's blazer, and were now resting against his chest. You quickly drew them back, feeling your cheeks go red with embarrassment. As you stepped back, you turned your face away and smoothed down your own clothes, even though they were already impeccable.

“Yeah. It’s‒it’s good.”

You spun on your heels and started towards the front door, letting Shiro jog to catch up with you. “Are you nervous?” he asked, bumping his shoulder to yours. He’d stuffed his hands in his pockets, and his shoulders were a little tense; you couldn’t help but wonder if he was feeling nervous too.

“No,” you lied. Your voice came out a little higher than usual and you were sure that Shiro would notice that you weren’t telling the truth. If he did, he didn’t mention it. Instead, he grabbed your hand, startling you.

“What? We gotta make it look at least a bit real,” he said, averting his eyes and pursing his lips. You hummed, not trusting your voice to stay steady. You hoped, in the very back of your mind, that your hand wasn’t too clammy in his.

As the two of you approached the door, Shiro's grip around your fingers tightened.

You shot him a sideways glance. “Hey. It'll be fine. It's just pretending, right? It's not like it means anything.” The words stung in your throat, but you forced them out anyway.

Shiro cleared his throat. “Yeah. Of course,” he said softly. Avoiding each other's gaze, Shiro rang the doorbell. The meal was about as awkward as you expected. Which was to say, not very awkward at all, as long as you avoided questions about you and Shiro's ‘relationship’. You chatted away with Shiro's parents, trying to seem as relaxed as possible.

The evening trickled by, and if you didn't think about the circumstances you could almost imagine that it was a normal night, just you and Shiro's family having dinner and talking. Nothing special about that. You thanked them for the delicious meal and sat back in your chair.

“Takashi, Y/N, I know you have probably dreaded this moment, but we're gonna have to get to it sooner or later.” Mr Shirogane said, leaning forward and resting his chin on his hands. Your blood turned to ice. Here you'll have it, you thought, and braced yourself for “the Dad talk”.

“Dad-” Shiro started, his face bright red, but Mr Shirogane shot him a raised eyebrow and he swallowed back whatever it was that he was going to say.

“You'll sleep in Takashi's old room. I'm trusting you to not do anything…” he suppressed a smile. “... inappropriate.”

You were positive you were about the shade of an overripe tomato by now and you resisted the urge to hide your face in your hands. A glance to your right told you that Shiro probably felt the same way; he flushed a deep crimson from his ears to the base of his neck. “Thanks, Dad. We'll keep it in mind.” Mr Shirogane pretended not to notice the death glare his son sent his way.

Then, thankfully, Mrs Shirogane changed the subject by cheerfully announcing that there was cake to be had, and on the way to the kitchen she pinched Shiro in the cheek and cast you a knowing smirk.

“So, I can sleep on the couch if you want. I can go into the guest room or something?” Shiro awkwardly stood in the doorway to his room, dressed in a t-shirt and sweats, shifting his weight from one leg to another. You were sat on the edge of his bed, inside the room you had spent so many hours as a child, and later, as a teenager with your best friend, combing knots out of your damp hair with your fingers.

You bit your lip. What you were about to suggest was dangerous‒especially now, when you couldn't very well keep your emotions in check. But you also didn't want to think about what would happen if Shiro's parents walked in on him sleeping on the couch. You sighed. “Don't be ridiculous. We'll share the bed. Done it plenty of times as kids, why should it be different now? Besides, as you said, we gotta make it look real.”

Shiro cocked his head, hesitation clear on his features. You rolled your eyes now, slightly annoyed at his reluctance to just sleep beside you. “C'mon. I won't eat you.”

Finally he gave in, sighing as he slipped beneath the covers next to you.

Even with Shiro's back turned to yours, you couldn't help the slight acceleration in your heartbeat. That was when you knew you were a goner. You shifted onto your back and stared at the ceiling, wondering how you would ever get to sleep.

You woke up to Shiro spooning you. His arm was slung over your chest, pulling you closer to him. His face was nuzzled into the back of your neck. You felt his warm breath wash over your skin. You counted to ten, needing the time to steady your breathing and clear your thoughts. When Shiro sighed in his sleep and tightened his grip on you, you stiffened and sucked in a sharp breath.

You squeezed your eyes shut, forcing your heartbeat to steady. Careful not to disturb Shiro, you slipped out of his embrace and immediately regretted it: the morning chill sent shivers down your spine. It was early: outside, the sun had barely started to rise and the house was still silent. Shiro's parents must still have been asleep. You took a deep breath and headed for the bathroom. You needed to clear your head.

Gripping the edge of the sink, you looked at yourself in the mirror. Your eyes had a slightly panicked glint to them, your hair was dishevelled. You splashed some water in your face. The cold temperature brought you somewhat back to reality. You looked back to your reflection again. You recalled the feeling of Shiro's body pressed against yours. Then you regretted it, feeling your face go red and your heart speed up. You sat down on the edge of the bathtub and lowered your head into your hands. "This can't go on," you muttered to yourself, your voice muffled by your fingers.

"What can't?" You jerked your head up and immediately made eye contact with Shiro, standing in the doorway and leaning against the frame. His hair was as dishevelled as yours. He squinted slightly, not fully awake yet. You cursed internally. Great. Amazing timing, Shiro.

"Nothing. Don't worry about it," you said, standing up, mustering a smile and smoothing down your clothes. But you knew that lying to Shiro wasn't a good idea: he'd see right through you. You were right.

Shiro frowned, stepping forward. "No, I'm serious. It's six a.m, Y/N. What is it?"

You wanted to sob. Seeing him with such a caring expression on his face only intensified your desire to kiss him right then and there. His eyes held a warmth you would never get tired of. But he saw you as a friend. Nothing more, nothing less.

And yet you'd just shared a bed with him.

"Look‒I don't think this is a good idea, all right? I don't‒I can't‒" You cut yourself off, uttering a frustrated grunt and waving your arms around, trying to grasp for words you couldn't find.

Shiro raised his hands, taking another hesitating step towards you. "What do you mean? You can tell me."

You breathed a bitter laugh. You can tell me. You knew, because you always told each other everything. Everything, except the one massive secret you'd kept from him for over six months. But you were tired of hiding your feelings, and maybe the eerie silence that still filled the house had you sitting on edge as well. "I don't want to go on and pretend that all I want to be is friends!" you whispered furiously, careful not to wake Shiro's parents.

Shiro sucked in a breath. Here you'll have it, you thought. I fucked up. You tried to hide your flinch, a whole new kind of silence falling upon you like a thick blanket. Forcing back tears, you tried to push past Shiro, but he grabbed your wrist and gently said, "Wait."

You waited, because how could you not? Shiro deserved an explanation.

"For how long?"

You didn't ask what he meant. With an awkward shrug, you mumbled, "Couple months? Half a year? Don't know. Didn't‒I didn't count." You refused to meet his eyes until he breathed a laugh.

"So you mean I could have asked you out months ago and you would have said yes?"

You almost choked on air and you felt your cheeks heat up once more. You turned to face him. If you'd had the balls to ask me, you thought wryly, but only responded with a quiet, "I guess so."

"So," Shiro chuckled, a baffled smile curling his lips, "you mean I could have done this months ago?"

Before you could ask what he meant, he leant forward and pressed his lips to yours. You froze, surprised by how perfect his lips fit on yours, how nice it felt to have his hand cup your cheek and tilt your face that little bit upwards. Then you melted into his touch, arching your back and pressing your body flush to his. Your hands came up to rest on his chest, and then tentatively one hand crawled up his neck and you buried your fingers in his already dishevelled hair.

The kiss was surprisingly gentle. Still, your chest seemed to be on fire, the feelings you had ignored for months now crashing into you. Shiro finally pulled away, just enough for both of you to catch your breath, but stayed close enough for you to feel his breath on your cheek and you gently laid your forehead against his. A laugh bubbled past your lips. Shiro raised an eyebrow at you, a grin of his own pulling at the corners of his mouth.

"It's nothing. I just‒I love you. Very much."

Shiro softly pecked your mouth, smiling against your lips. "I love you too."

[emetoandotherthings]

Damian’s Coeliac Saga ~Pt.1

A/N: So after @its-a-goddamn-heartbreak and I discussed how Damian found out about his gluten intolerance, we essentially planned an entire multichapter fic about it - and so I’m writing it! Here is part one, get ready for angst, pain and just general torture of 14 year old Damian (and fucking snarky 12 y/o Jude). I hope you enjoy ~ more will follow in days to come!

           “Damian, Damian!” A hand shook his shoulder roughly and he opened his eyes blearily to see his mother looking down at him, frustration on her face.

           “Mmmm…. What?” He mumbled, moving slightly in bed to get away from his mum’s hand.

           “It’s quarter past eight!” She replied briskly. “You need to get up, you’re going to be late for school.”

           “Alright, alright…” He placated, moving his cosy bed covers away from his face.

           “I thought you wanted a shower this morning,” she’d begun to move to the door.

           “I did…” Damian said, sitting up in his bed and feeling that sudden woozy sensation which accompanies moving too quickly.

           “You’re not going to have enough time,” she shook her head, “you’ll just have to put up with it for a day. Come on, out of bed! I’ll put the kettle on so you can have a cup of coffee before you leave!”

           “Okay,” he rubbed his hand across his face as his mum left his bedroom. He was just so tired… He couldn’t explain it either; he’d gone to bed relatively early and hadn’t done any extra study or anything. He knew that being in fourth year, with the imminent reality of exams which could make or break his future, was going to be tough, but he hadn’t thought it would be this hard.

           “I’m not hearing any movement!” His mum called from downstairs.

           “Alright!” He shouted, and dragged himself out of bed. He couldn’t explain why he felt so tired… It wasn’t just tonight either, but for the past couple of weeks he’d felt like he was teetering on the edge of exhaustion – and despite knowing his goal of getting in to study medicine, he hadn’t quite been able to make his brain do what he wanted… He felt like weights had been stitched under his skin as he dragged on his school uniform.

           His mum had left him a mug of coffee and a slice of toast on the counter, but he couldn’t face taking more than a few bites while downing his cup of coffee.

           “Good morning sleeping beauty!” Jude smirked and make a mock curtsey towards Damian, before picking his own slice of toast up.

           “Shut up,” Damian replied curtly, placing his mug into the dishwasher. “Hurry up, we need to leave in two minutes.”

           “Says the boy who got out of bed ten minutes ago!” Jude scoffed with his mouth full, but Damian chose to ignore him and headed to clean his teeth.

           In the whiter light of the bathroom Damian was confronted by how awful he looked – his skin pale, and dark circles bloomed underneath his eyes. He tried to ignore looking at himself in the mirror as he rapidly cleaned his teeth, then grabbed his bag and slung it over his shoulder. Jude was standing at the bottom of the stairs, ready to go.

           “Come on, let’s go,” Jude jostled impatiently while Damian set their house alarm.

           “Hold your horses!” Damian snapped as he fished his key out from his bag and locked the door.

           The morning was crisp and bright, the sun was low as they walked down their road and turned along the main road towards the end of the street that Cain and Eden lived in. In the morning light, Damian could see the white blonde hair of his best mate. Jude had sped up to meet Eden, and the two of them were already quarter of the way up the hill before Damian even made it to Cain.

           “You alright?” Cain asked as Damian caught him and the two began making their way up to the school.

           “Yeah…” Damian said. “You?”

           “Yeah,” Cain nodded. “How did you find the maths homework?”

           Damian’s heart skipped a beat, and he clapped his hand to his forehead with considerable force. Cain was looking at him strangely, his eyebrows raised.

           “I totally forgot!” If it was possible for him to feel any worse then this would be the moment, but he already felt so weighed down that it was impossible to grind him down anymore.

           “That’s not like you…” Cain commented, his eyebrows raised. “Were you busy last night?”

           “Kind of,” Damian lied, running his hands through his hair. “I’ll have to do it during registration.” He couldn’t believe that had slipped his mind, but being so tired it felt like things were slipping from his brain in a manner beyond his control.

           The loud, boisterous chatter in his registration class made it nigh impossible for him to concentrate on the simultaneous equations he should have solved last night. Cain was trying not to seem worried, because he’d never been in this situation; he’d watched other classmates frantically trying to finish homework but never Damian… He couldn’t help but notice that his friend’s face looked a little waxy, maybe ill – but Damian was the last person you could suggest the possibility of being ill to, he’d simply ignore any comments until Cain gave up trying.

           “How are you getting on?” Cain asked, aware that the bell to signify the start of their first period was imminent.

           “I’m – nearly – done,” Damian finished with a flourish, then sank his head down onto his arm.

           “Are you okay?” Cain was slightly alarmed by this action as it was so out of character for his friend. Slowly Damian raised his head, he didn’t look okay.

           “Just tired,” Damian shrugged, although apart from the lingering tiredness that had been around since he woke up, there was a strange discomfort in his abdomen. He wasn’t quite sure whether that was because he’d only had three bites of toast along with his coffee, or for another reason.

           The bell rang, interrupting Cain’s ability to question further as he’d risen immediately. Cain didn’t sit next to Damian in maths, but he couldn’t help but cast anxious glances over in his direction. Damian really didn’t look at all well – his eyes were glazed over and Cain could tell that he wasn’t concentrating on hi work which was most unlike him.

           From the position Cain sat, he could see Damian’s hand at his stomach and a grimace on his pale face. Perhaps he was coming down with something? Cain barely managed to focus on his own work as he thought over what might be going on with his friend. What if he really was burning himself out? Cain had joked about that with Damian for as long as he’d known him, but he’d never considered that it might happen. As they left class for break Cain couldn’t quite decide whether to say anything, but before he got the chance Damian said something about going to physics a bit early and disappeared.

           Damian felt like he was being dragged, suspended through treacle, as time went so slowly, and he was so tired. By the time he’d gotten through physics by the skin of his teeth, and sat next to the radiator in his English class he was ready to give up. He wanted to go home, his stomach felt weird and he couldn’t tell whether he was overheating because he had been sat next to the radiator or for another reason. Then he saw Cain’s face at lunch time, and he wasn’t sure how to broach the subject of wanting to go home.

           “Are you coming to the art room for lunch?” Cain questioned; one of the teacher’s opened their room for some people to study in, and the two of them sometimes went along. Damian weighed it up in his head, he could have a bit of rest for an hour and maybe eat something to bring his blood sugar back up; then he could reassess whether he wanted to go home or not.

           “Yeah, okay,” Damian nodded. He followed Cain along to the art studio, perching on one of the high stools and resisting the urge to put his head down onto the table straight away. Watching Cain unpacking his art stuff from his folder, Damian pulled out the Tupperware box that his mum had packed his lunch into. He didn’t recall a time when his usual ham sandwich had looked more unappealing, but he took a bite anyway, telling himself that it’d make him feel better.

           “Are you alright?” Cain asked, normally Damian would have some of his work spread out on the table while Cain sketched.

           “Yeah,” Damian answered, although his jaw felt like it was wired shut as he tried to chew on his sandwich.

           “Are you sure?” Cain persisted. “You’ve been kinda quiet and off all day – I mean, normally you’d be trying to explain to me how sine waves work in physics or something…”

           “I’m just tired that’s all…” Damian passed it off. “What are you drawing?”

           Cain pursed his lips for a second, then seemed to accept Damian’s explanation and began to talk about shading or something while Damian tried really hard to pay attention.

           He didn’t bother with the second half of his sandwich, but sipped on his bottle of water, but barely ten minutes later he felt like his stomach was expanding. He tried to shift the waistband of his school trousers, but there was nowhere he could move it to that didn’t hurt. He placed his head in his hand and took some deep breaths in through his nose, and when that didn’t help he wrapped his free arm around his stomach.

           “Damian?” Suddenly Cain’s voice was right next to him and he felt Cain’s hand on his shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

           “I don’t feel good…” Damian whispered honestly, only then realising that he’d closed his eyes. “Brrruuuurp! Oh! Excuse me…” The deep belch broke past his lips before he could stop it and his hand sprang to his mouth.

           “I thought you were looking off… Do you feel sick?” Cain questioned, Damian nodded slightly – he wasn’t quite sure how to explain the strange puffy sensation inside his abdomen. “Come on, I think we should go to the office.”

           “Just – buuurp – give me a minute please…” Damian requested, then he heard Cain packing his stuff up for him.

           “Let’s get you home,” Cain coaxed him off the stool, “I’ll carry your bag, you just have to walk, okay?”

           “Thanks Cain,” Damian muttered, the weird sensation in his stomach causing more pressure every second.

           “It’s absolutely no problem,” Cain assured.

[pineapple-banana-pie]

Omen of Gift. Chapter 1

Gone. Spiralling into the darkness, all I know was that I was gone. Gone away but not dead, alive but gone. Gone away from my world, away from friends and away from family. Away from him. At least they’re safe now, safe from the disaster, the evil. I’ll tell you when my destiny started to turn its rusted gears.

The little whitette girl stirred out of a disrupted sleep; everything shook in a twisted mess. sharp, piercing, vicious wind scratched like knives etching into skin, flames swirled in the tornado, somewhat calm compared to the other elements. It scared her, that calmness within the fractured control. Crazed eyes glassed over, cracking with every blink, an uncoloured blood red. Crazed eyes to match the crazed, whirling, fire red twisting knots, the waves flared down the face of the girl’s elder sister, her dear sister with that flaming hair. It was dry, the air, dry with scattered emotions taking all, stealing the control over the power like it always wished for, but never had. Fire drowned the air in a burning haze, she couldn’t breathe, did she even want to…? A door crashed open, swallowed by corrupted flames, a scream splitting the air, the smell of burning flesh swirls like fresh born sparks. The person’s burns would never fade. Rising fear filled the girl as the burnt man pulled her back. ‘What good will it do?’ The girl thought. Her sister was gone. ‘Why was this person trying to hold me back?’ she continued. Tears formed in the impossible atmosphere, the wind still drawing lines on skin with ease, ink blood red, a life, a hanging thread, string of blood, fragile and weak. The girl watched her house ablaze, shaken and windswept, the house, her skin as she was captured by flames, pulled into her sister’s dark suppressed thoughts, centre of it all.

I jolted awake, frozen in burning heat, alarm a distant pulsing beep. Reluctantly getting up to take a shower before I rush out of the door to school.

I sat by the entrance to the school gym, waiting for my turn at this stupid test. Why do they even do this test, it’s not like any of us are going to magically become an elemental in a month from the last test. “Lucia Winters!” The examiner called out. I got up and walked into the gym and a ginger woman in her thirties or so met me at the door. I was escorted in and made to sit down as they did a series of tests for what felt like hours on end. The tests consisted of brain scans with advanced technology. Physical tests like running on a treadmill while hooked up to a machine were also included. Afterwards, I looked at the clock, I went in at 10am and now it’s 12pm. I sighed and tucked strands of my long white hair behind my ear. The test took two hours, a waste of my time. I had to wait until everyone's been through. The assembly where they'll announce the results was at 2pm. To pass the time I sat on a padded bench outside in the corridor and read an eBook on my phone about faraway kingdoms, handsome princes and daring sword fights.

          The time finally came to know the results. All the seniors made their way to the large auditorium and filed in and took a seat on the plush, red chairs facing the stage. Once we were all seated, the head examiner made his way up the stairs of the stage and stood behind the microphone that was seated on the wooden podium. He cleared his throat and started the usual speech. I tuned out his annoying voice and looked towards where the elementals were seated on the left side of the room. The elementals got a special uniform, different classes, and a different school building. They are considered the ‘elite’ species of human. I was looking at someone; Nico Andrews who was one in a million. He could control all the elements, while most elementals could only control one or two. Nico was also kind, caring about anyone whether they were elemental or not. The head examiner started calling the names of the newly found elementals. “Charlotte Fitzgerald” he called out in his raspy voice. I rolled my eyes as cheering consumed the whole gym as she walked up to the stage, collecting her new uniform and a piece of crappy paper. The names were always called in alphabetical order of last names. I just hoped to any god out there that I failed the tests. I won't be able to handle that much power. “Lucia Winters” the head examiner announced, I snapped back to reality and sat there frozen, unable to comprehend what he said. I just stared as he called out my name again, it felt like I couldn’t breathe, I was suffocating, my body wouldn’t move, it was numb, I was numbing with shock. ‘How could this have happened?!’ I finally could stand as he called my name for the third time, everyone was staring at me, I didn’t care I just needed to get out of there, so I ran. Ran to wherever my feet took me, tears were streaming down my face as people called out for me to stop. It felt like there was a bubble of plastic around me, their voices could hardly be heard by me.

I ran for what felt like years and ended up at a park, a park near the school. I made my way to one of the many hard wooden benches, I plopped on it like my legs gave away. Catching my breath, looking up at the cloudy sky and listened to the cars driving past the tree line on the other side. I leaned forwards, resting my forearms on my knees and listened to the sounds of nature, trying to sort out this mess in my head. Lost in my head, not hearing the rushed footsteps coming nearer. “Are you alright?!” A concerned and rushed voice questioned. Jumping as I heard the voice and whipping my head to look at them. I saw black hair and piercing green eyes, as he looked worried.

“H-huh?” I stuttered, caught off guard.

“Are you alright?” He repeated as he sat next to me on the other end of the park bench.

“N-no I'm not” I answered, as I avoided looking in Nico’s direction while my eyes watered.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He asked softly. I focused on the trees on the other side of the path, watching the movement of the leaves in the breeze.  

“No, I really don't” I said when I finally answered, turning to look at him. He was already looking at me, but I could see he wanted to ask ‘why’. I never liked answering that question when my sister was involved. So, before the question could leave his lips, I stood up and ran out of the park entrance.

“WAIT!” He shouted as he chased after me. Ignoring his yell, not stopping as I ran through teleporters, jumped over fences and dodged cars, just to get away from the handsome man. Turning the last corning, no longer hearing Nico’s footsteps nor his shouts for me to stop.  

I looked up at the street sign above me and noticed that the street I ended up on was my own. Breathing heavily, I made my way down the street of perfect houses and lawns, when I finally made it to my house. I unhooked the gate and stepped on the small cobbled path and closed the gate after myself. I looked up at the window of the lounge, the school probably already called my mother’s cell phone by now. I tested to see if the front door was locked and it was, so I unlocked the door and made my way upstairs and into my bedroom. Collapsing on the queen bed I pulled the canopy’s emerald curtains closed, falling asleep. Hours past as I slept, my mother came to check on me, knowing I took the news badly. Waking up and noticing the smell of dinner from downstairs. I got up from the bed and opened the canopy curtains, I made my way down the stairs, half asleep. Walking through the doorway to the right, stepping in the dining area, taking the seat nearest to the kitchen and watched as my mother cooked dinner.

“What’s for dinner” I mumble.

“Homemade fish ‘n chips, your favourite” she answered.  

“Yay...” I said unenthusiastically fiddling with my sleeve. She noticed my tone but didn’t ask any questions, even though she wanted too. I knew mum was concerned especially since she knew how much my sister’s death traumatized me and when mum and dad divorced afterward that incident. My younger siblings went to live with dad in the countryside, while I stayed with mum in the city.  

“Your new uniform arrived” mum commented as she dished the food onto the plates.

“Is that so?” I answered in monotone.

Placing the plates on the table and gave me a pair of utensils, we dug into the food. We didn’t converse as we ate like we normally did. Afterwards, I left the kitchen and started to climb the stairs. I arrived at my bedroom door, I entered and closed the door behind me as I moved towards my bed. I crawled under the duvet and fell into a restless slumber.

The next morning, I was walking down the street, not heading for school but to the park with a couple of books in my ultramarine backpack. Arriving at the park, I selected a bench that was in the gentle morning sun. Grabbing a book from the bag when I sat down. I began to lose myself in the realm of the book, the peacefulness of the green scenery only added to the affect. Several hours later, when I was reading my second novel, I received a text from mum that read ‘A handsome young man came to the house looking for you ten minutes ago. I told him you were at the park.’

I replied with ‘Muuummm! Why you do this to me?! (╯°□°)╯︵ ┻━┻.’ Mum just sent a laugh emoji back. Quickly shoving my phone into my pocket and my book into my backpack, grabbing the bag I ran behind the wide tree that was standing by the bench. I plopped down on the grass and pressed my back against the rough trunk, hidden from the people on the park path and benches.

[the-freckle-game-is-strong-blog]

Letting Off Steam (Old Version / Retcon)

  “ Riley, sweetheart… It’s time to wake up. You have to go to school, ” The girl known as Riley let out a soft groan, as her mother began to shake her awake. She didn’t want to get up. She didn’t want to go to school. Not just because she was lazy, know she was, Riley detested Bannerman High with every fiber in her body. If presented with the choice to attend school or slowly gouge out her own eyes, Riley would pick the later.

“ Mum… Do I need to go? Can’t I just stay home, with you? I can help with the baby. I can feed her and wash her but you have to change her, ” The girl moaned her Scottish accent heavy and her voice drowsy. Riley’s mother chuckled lightly, before ruffling her daughter’s already disheveled dyed dark blue hair. With a soft and apologetic smile, the middle aged woman placed Riley’s uniform next to her on the bed before leaving the room. Riley groaned, tempted to roll over and drift back to the world of sweet slumber. Alas, she knew her mother would drag her to school if need be. Groggily kicking her legs over the side of her bed, careful not to shove her clothing to the floor, Riley began to get dressed.

   The blue haired teenager was still in a trance, stuck in an uncomfortable half-awake state, as she ambled down the staircase. Her insomniac tendencies were clearly shown in the uncaring and messy way she had readied herself. Her shirt was on inside out and the wrong way round, the label sticking obviously up at the top of her collarbone. Her trousers were not much better, one leg having managed to roll itself up to her knee and the other being tucked into her sock. Speaking of socks, she was only wearing one. One yellow aluminous sock. To top it all off, she had a blue plastic comb tangled in her short and shaggy locks. The only place any effort at all was present was her tie. Despite the fact it was just your average school tie, Riley had somehow lovingly managed to fasten it into a perfect bowtie.

“ Oh, Riley… What will I do with you? ” The girl’s mother asked, a soft sigh falling from her lips as she studied her wreck of a child. Riley had never been what you call normal, so her mother was used to this sort of thing. Her father on the other hand… Well, he had made his opinion of her quite clear when he left after violently smacking her. Riley still felt hurt after that. She loved her dad after all. It wasn’t like he’d been abusive all her life, he’d been a little odd but he’d been great.

  Moving on. As already mentioned, Riley’s mother was used to this. It took her barely five minutes to get her problem child into a presentable young lady. However, Riley made it clear her efforts were not appreciated. Between her home and her school, she had managed to get Riley back to Riley. She had even stopped to untie her shoelaces. It annoyed her teachers and she didn’t like her teachers. She didn’t really like anything, or so those around you would have you believe. She didn’t like handbags, or makeup, or jewelry, so the girls of the school either left her be or teased her. However she didn’t like sports, or action movies that lacked plot, or video games that had no other aim but to shoot other players. So, the boys behaved in a similar fashion to the girls.

  It is quite obvious by now Riley was bullied and light years from normal. This much was plain to see. However, no one really saw how much all of the bullying was affecting her. Or maybe it was just her strangeness manifesting. Either way, it doesn’t really matter because in the end Riley was disturbed. One insult, one ‘hey, freak’ too many and her mind had just shattered. She had begun to research ancient torture techniques, read up on how to create lethal weapons from household objects and secretly she had even started to hear voices. No, a voice. Sometimes it would tell her to do things and sometimes she would do those things. She always managed to pull herself back, just in time but some of her classmates had caught her, staring at them wide eyed while snipping away at the air with a sharp set of scissors. If they were particularly unlucky, they might even catch a soft murmuring of ‘soon, soon…’.

“ You know, you could kill someone with this… ” Riley muttered softly, her voice a spooky whisper that was almost drowned out in the chatter of the noisy class. The boy unfortunate enough to sit next to the deranged girl in home economics, a Jake Herring, squirmed in his seat. “ You could. You could smash them over the head, before grating off the little fleshy bits. The ears, the nose, the lips, the tongue, ” Riley continued, barely aware of Jake cowering slightly in her peripheral vision.

“ If you were holding anything other than a cheese grater, Riley Blackwood… I’d be terrified, ” Jake told her in a half whimper, which turned into a frightened high pitched whine as Riley began to chortle.

-

“ Riley, I’m going to the shops! I’ll only be an hour, at most. Look after your baby sister! ” Riley’s mother called, not waiting for a reply whether it be agreement or objection before taking off. Riley had watched her little sister, Blossom, on many occasions. Riley was seventeen, after all, it wasn’t as if she shouldn’t be capable of keeping watch over her own sibling. When her mother first left, the teenager herself was in no way bothered by it at all. It was when the voice started coo into her ear, pleading her to obey it’s wishes, that she started to crack.

  It had been ten minutes now. Ten minutes of constant eerie begging. The voice seemed to promise something unsaid, it made Riley feel that if she just gave in that she would be rewarded somehow. Yet, she could not do what the unseen and possibly inexistent person asked of her. It was too monstrous to comprehend. Yet still, it asked.

  'Kill the baby, kill the baby, Riley… Kill the baby,’ It would tell her. It told her many variations of that sentence, made to seem innocent, there afterwards but it always meant the same. The voice grew shriller and shriller, until it was nothing but a drone of constant hissing in her head. Hissing and static. Static. A constant sound of whizz, crack, pop, that Riley would normally associate with a broken T.V. Or Rice Crispies, it really depended if her ADHD was acting up or not. Leaning forward, she felt herself begin to tremble. No, twitch? Her leg jittered uncontrollably, as if it had a mind and will of it’s own. This was something which had once been the bane of her existence, her ultimate childhood problem. She had been a very paranoid little girl, often speaking of a man watching her from the woods. She had assumed like her visions, this little pet peeve had died long ago.

  The static went on and on. Riley felt warm liquid in her ears and didn’t need a second opinion to know that her eardrums had burst. Clutching her head, she burst into a violent coughing fit before proceeding to upchuck her lunch onto the carpet. She’d had it. What had once been a large crack in her sanity, had been completely torn open to reveal the full horror of her madness. Pulling herself to her wobbly feet, she took deliberate and shaky steps forward. As she reached the kitchen, she pulled out the cutlery drawer. Riley was not searching for a knife, as you might expect. Instead, she pulled a shiny pair of scissors from their place hidden underneath the seemingly endless pile of teaspoons. Holding the glimmering blade up to her eye, she stared at her reflection on the silver metal for a moment. She was transfixed, utterly fascinated. Everything from the sharp edge itself to the blue plastic handle. To her, this was the essence of beauty. After what seemed like an eternity, she was snapped back to reality by an infant’s crying.

-

“ Riley, I’m ho- ” Riley’s mother gagged as she stepped into her home, the revolting smell attacking her nostrils as soon as she stepped in the front door. She nearly retched, it was so vile. Dropping her shopping in the hallway, the red haired woman began to head towards to origin of the scent. Climbing the steps, the smell got worse and worse the nearer she approached. Copper with a faint hint of rot and decay. Riley’s mother stopped in her tracks, staring at the door to the baby’s room. The white wood was stained with crimson. Red handprints, like a macabre mocking of mischievous toddlers, were printed onto the entrance.

“ Blossom! ” Riley’s mother shrieked, flinging the door open and instantly leaping into the room. Nothing could have ever prepared the poor women for this. The baby’s cradle was knocked over onto it’s side, empty bar a decapitated teddy bear. A trail of mutilated toys led the mother’s gaze, like a twisted path, to the real horror. Blood pooled under the room’s flickering bulb, the lampshade of said light was discarded in the bodily fluid. Small organs, limbs and even an eye were found nearby not straying too far. It took Riley’s mother a moment to find the rest of the body. Hung by her own, tiny intestines Blossom hung limb from the light. Most of her blood had already trickled onto the carpet but a little more oozed free of the dead child’s mutilated and flayed form. The baby’s mother wailed, falling to her knees and screaming in anguish. No matter how long she stared at the scene, she could not comprehend what had happened to her darling Blossom. Who could do such a thing? Well, the answer was the same person who sat in the corner of the room playing with a doll house that had never got to be used.

“ She makes a nice decoration, doesn’t she mummy? ” Riley questioned, an insane cackle emanating from her throat. It may have been the dim light playing tricks but orange smoke seemed to froth from Riley’s mouth. Blossom’s vital red liquid drenched her, marking her very clearly as the killer. That and the pair of bloodied scissors, that she was currently using to chop off the arm of a doll.

“ N-No… R-R-Riley… ” Her mother squeaked, covering her mouth with her hands. Her eyes locked with her daughter’s own striking violet ones. She’d never thought much of them, after all both of them were albino which made such piercingly colored optics possible but those eyes were paralyzing. She felt like a deer stuck in the lights of a speeding car.

“ Riley? ” The girl asked, toying with the name in her mind for a moment, almost as if this was a word in a foreign language. After a moment of deep consideration, she gave a small shake of her head. “ No, not Riley… ” She eventually decided, as she dropped the doll she had been torturing and stalking deliberately towards her mother. From her pocket she pulled out a pair of goggles and placed them on her head. They were round, with golden rims, one lens amber and the other blue and featureless black everything else. Adjusting them slightly, she pulled out a smaller lens from the left hand side and placed it over the blue lens. From the looks of the design there were probably more of them and they were likely magnifying glasses, more powerful with each added piece.

“ Name’s Steampunk. Prepare to be annihilated, ” As the girl who was once Riley spoke, she twirled her weapon of choice around in her hand. Her mother tried to scream but her voice was hoarse from crying over the lose of her baby. Pulling herself to her feet, the mother staggered backwards. She felt the blade whip past her head, missing her by bare millimeters and specks of Blossom’s blood splatter across her face as they leapt forth from both the blade and the murderer. The woman turned to flee but she instantly knew she had made a mistake to turn her back on the disturbed teen. She howled in pain, as her daughter dug her scissors into one side of her back and her nails into the other. Worst of all, the scissors were dull and crusty since the sticky red upon it had begun to dry in. Instead of making a clean cut they dragged down across the mother’s back, searching for somewhere to break the skin. Eventually they caught onto the fabric of the woman’s shirt, near her lower torso, which granted the blade precious seconds to part the flesh.

“ Ah, mother and daughter time, ” The broken shell of a girl commented, as her mother found her voice again among her agony. The woman’s voice was still strained and not yet ready to screech, so instead she squealed like a petrified swine. It made no different, she might as well have been a pig in the psychopath’s delirious orbs.

“ Ah, ah, ah! Don’t make me cut our time short! Besides, he wants to kill you personally, ” The girl, self-named as Steampunk, warned as she tutted at her mother. Looking up, from her position hunched over in pain, at what her daughter had become her mother dared to speak.

“ He? ” She asked, very simply. It was a curt question but it was one that she should not have asked. She could have gotten a quick, or quicker, death than what now awaited her. Steampunk grinned, pulling her lips back to reveal teeth that looked more like a feral beast’s fangs now. Yet despite this the smile still seemed characteristically hers, due to the little gap between her front incisors. As the mother’s vision and hearing were suddenly overcome with static, that was the last thing she saw. The last thing she ever saw, ever knew. The delirious beaming form of what used to be Riley.

-

“ It really boggles my mind, you know that boys? ” The police officer said as he chattered with his colleges, as they continue to munch on the doughnuts they had just purchased. Most of them just ignored him, too engrossed in their food, however one inclined his head slightly in curiosity. “ Well, we know what this person looks like. A blue haired, purple eyed albino in 'steampunky’ clothing. We even have detailed descriptions of this outfit. A ripped corset, a ripped skirt, white hockey socks, boots and a goddamn tophat. All that, and she wears a blue bowtie! How can we not find her? She has a signature outfit, for god’s sake, ” The officer grumbled in irritation. His co-workers shrugged at him, before continuing to munch on their glazed delights.