#there was a half dream in there too about finding a mannequin the same way i had found the body that i also woke up and fell back asleep

[vagueconfusion]

in one of my dreams there was a squirrel that had gotten into my work (in the food prep area) and i was panicking and chasing it around and eventually it stopped and turned and lifted it's arms like it wanted to be picked up and i ended up carrying this squirrel outside and it watched me go back in and so i spent the rest of the dream worried that the squirrel was going to show back up and that it was following me

and then i woke up and fell back asleep and in a dream i woke up and went to go to the bathroom and turned on the light and found a partially dismembered corpse in my bathroom

[slowd1ving]

III. THE CONCEPT OF FRIENDSHIP .・゜DAN HENG

One of the theories pushed forward in this universe—a common conjecture between scientists throughout the stars—is that there are disturbances in a system that is being observed, versus one that is not. This is astutely named the observer effect. And this situation is the first proper example he’s seen of that. Dan Heng feels that as soon as he takes his eyes off you, you’ll phase back to a space between these dimensions, like some specter there are only myths about. when data nerd Dan Heng finds the forbidden dictionary and masters the hidden art: synonyms male! engineer reader warnings: eventual nsfw, kind of but not really spoilers to dan heng's backstory, amab reader

HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST

DRINKER OF THE MOON, DEVOURER OF DREAMS MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

PREVIOUS PART . 　⁺ NEXT PART

Friendship. The definition provided by the Standard IPC Dictionary of the True Universal Language (TUL) Dialect describes it as a strong interpersonal bond in which involved parties have a relationship of mutual trust and affection with each other. He knows it well. 

The book was logged in approximately a month ago, and it has been accessed recently once more. 

He looked it up first out of boredom—the definition had stood out when he skimmed through, looking at various slang and wondering whether he could finally put meaning to your long strings of curses. 

“I think you’re the only friend he has apart from me, Pom-Pom and Welt,” Himeko had told him once: a simple additive after her lively discussion on the current politics of the Palosia-VI strata in the Palosian cluster. 

“I see.” His reply was bland and blunt, just like him. 

Mutual trust and affection. He looked it up again, just to make sure he hadn’t hallucinated the first occasion he’d looked at it. 

He supposed he hasn’t—which is why he’s mystified when he recalls her words. 

Mutual trust. He doesn’t trust you. You don’t trust him. No, maybe there is some element of ‘trust’; there’s simply nothing below the dermis. It’s like comparing a breathing, living human to a mannequin. It’s a deplorable imitation. 

He’ll be leaving soon enough anyway. That trust will never come to fruition. 

Mutual affection. He supposes that yes, in its own twisted way, affection has been borne. Nightmare after nightmare has reduced him to a shell, and the feeling of someone caring— whether it be through tossed clothing and a cold glass of water—is something that does feel like affection. There was that one night, and it was anomalous in every shape and form—but in some way, that was ‘affection’ too.

Except, not really. 

He’s seen the look in your eyes as you gaze at your machines. It’s not adoration, or anything close to it. It’s akin to understanding, one that almost extends to your eyes when you talk to Mr. Yang, and sometimes Himeko. He supposes you’re a lot more affectionate with your creations. 

When you look at him, there’s simply that dispassionate neutrality, as though your projects were breathing humans and he was just some scrap metal. 

He laughs bitterly. 

You make it so easy to consider stepping off the train and into the void; yet, at the same time, you’re the biggest obstacle in preventing him.

And as luck would have it, he’s given the opportunity to help deepen his understanding of you, just near the three month mark of his stay. 

“We’re nearing the Argo cluster,” Himeko starts off the day, which is rare as she doesn’t tend to speak before she’s at least drunk half her coffee. 

Well, this is an extraordinary conversation, if he takes the time to calculate the probability of you appearing in the past fifty-eight days (one-point-seven percent). Of all days, you chose to seat yourself at the breakfast table, next to Mr. Yang. That seat is opposite Dan Heng’s. 

You glance at him briefly, and for once it’s him avoiding your eyes. 

“I do believe I should be sent to Argo-II to safeguard any contingencies for the bronze negotiations.”

Not Himeko? The question is obvious in Dan Heng’s eyes as he tries to surreptitiously stare at first the person in question, then Mr. Yang. 

“Well, I’d normally go, but there needs to be at least one person on the Express when we visit various planets,” she explains. It makes sense. Her words ring out logically. They do. They should, but suddenly they don’t, and she’s mystified him once more. 

At least one person implies that all persons—save Pom-Pom and Himeko–will be embarking on this mission. 

All persons. That definition includes you.  

You blink innocently at him.

“You and him are going to Argo-I.” 

What?  

He’s not just mystified. He’s baffled, he’s confounded, he’s every synonym of confused. Both you and Pom-Pom are constants with each mission; neither of you ever leave this train. Even Himeko occasionally joins either him, Mr. Yang, or both of them when they visit another planet together. He’s gotten the impression that you’ll never leave this train until you’re old and grey. 

“What’s our mission, then?” Dan Heng instead chooses to ask. 

“You’ll see.” She’s got a tight-lipped, cryptic smile when she speaks, and yours isn’t much better. 

He sighs.

Ultimately, he gives up. He gives up trying to figure you out when you’re packing literally hours before the scheduled departure (at three system hours, the time you’re supposed to be in the kitchen). You cut the conversation short early, excusing yourself to do something you should’ve been doing sooner. 

Despite your usual lethargy, there’s a certain nervous, jittery anticipation to you as you breathe quicker than usual. And even though you try hide it, each careful step onto Argo-I betrays the complex feelings you have towards this place. 

But as he mentioned previously, he’s given up in figuring out what lies beneath the painted statue. 

This isn’t the first time something hasn’t gone to plan, after all. 

Especially now. 

It’s still the first day. It either slipped his mind, or perhaps he simply heard wrong—he focused on Argo and not the distinction between the two, planet-sized ships (according to the Handbook on the Mitaras Nebulae, the Argo cluster is distinctly considered a cluster of planets with spaceship qualities—he’s not entirely sure what that means, but he’s sticking to both concepts).

That’s not relevant. 

He just assumed Mr. Yang would be there as well. Not just the two of you. 

Aeons, it’s never felt more surreal to experience you talking to him while the artificial sun shines and it’s daytime. 

Well, you’re not exactly talking right now. You’re racing on the streets on a motorbike, and he’s sitting right behind you with his arms wrapped around your waist. 

He can feel his jagged pulse as it spikes with adrenaline, each brush of air against his body—it snarls his jacket and allows it to billow in the wind. He’s been on starskiffs before, but this is so entirely different. 

It smells like you: the motor oil, the metal, the roughness of it all. Here, he can feel each bump of the road as you navigate your way with an ease that almost takes his breath away. 

Is this where you’re from?

You take him past towering skyscrapers, through grey landscapes with nothing but endless roads in sight, past foliage and cliffs and cities and small towns, until you finally arrive at your destination. 

Behind the two of you is the setting sun and the vast metropolis gleaming with lights. Before the two of you is the spreading ocean, swallowing the last lights of ‘day’.

“The Argo-II is renowned for its sophisticated bronze architecture and cities,” you begin, slow and soft to match the pace of this evening. Dan Heng doesn’t reply, instead trying to read your wistful gaze.

This isn’t the gaze of someone looking at their home. 

“It’s beautiful,” you continue. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard that sort of turmoil within your vocal chords—like they’ve been stretched thin with tension. “I would’ve told you to go with Mr.Yang, since I come here alone usually when we’re near the Argo; this city isn’t as technologically advanced, or as clean. There’s remnants of air pollution, after all.”

There’s a million questions he could ask. He could ask, but he doesn’t. 

“It’s a breathing mechanical metropolis, coexisting with what remains of nature. Industrialisation has led to less death, more resources—yet it slowly kills the planet over a few centuries in return. In fact, that’s the reason there's more people migrating to Argo-II.”

You speak like you know this reality well. 

“There’s no mission here. I just take a week to let go of shitty memories in a shitty time period.”

Your smile is strained. 

It’s the first time he’s seen you vulnerable like this. 

“Ah, forget it,” you sigh. “I’m sorry Himeko dumped you with me.”

He can’t recognise you at this moment. It’s metamorphosis; you’ve shed your marble exoskeleton and become something else. 

“No,” he finds himself blurting out. “I don’t mind spending time with you.”

He’s blunt with it—always has been. 

It’s the first time your eyes meet his own tonight. 

Mutual trust. 

He thinks he’s getting closer to that overwhelming precipice. 

　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　   ☾

It’s the second night on Argo-I that he learns your definition of relaxation. 

The hotel you found was in the heart of the bustling city; right next to the beating metal heart. Steel skyscrapers and office buildings rose in the metropolis, and despite how bleak it looked during the day, he thought it looked rather pretty at night. 

You and him have separate rooms, and there’s no shared communal space on your floor. 

For once, there is no meeting at three system hours. 

He wakes up panting, then wears himself out by whirling Cloud Piercer in short, precise drills that leave him dizzier and dizzier. Though his sleep at four is filled with similar nightmares, he can’t bring himself to knock on room 137. And so it repeats, until he finally wears himself enough to have dreamless, restless slumber. 

Dan Heng stumbles out of his room at roughly eleven system hours. And when you inevitably encounter him in that hallway— like fate— your eyes can’t help but flicker to the dark circles under his eyes. 

“More nightmares?” Affirmative. He nods yes, and you exhale wryly. 

“Is that so…” you trail off, and once again he is reminded that some things never change. The roll of your eyes as you mull over a problem. The tilt of your head as you fix the stiff joints in your neck. The slouch of your shoulders as you lean against the wall. 

“Actually, there is one thing that helps me through tough nights here,” you laugh. It’s a strange mixture of self-depreciation and bitterness. 

There it is. That vulnerability.

“What?” It’s a little desperate, but he’s long stopped caring. 

“There’s a specific booze sold in the bars and clubs of this city.” You speak like you haven’t forgotten up until now. You speak as though you know of the drink full well. It’s a nostalgic sort of hum, one that makes him glance at you anew all over. 

“People turn to vice in hopeless situations. For those stuck in poverty, for those who have nowhere to go, for those longing for just one sweet dream—drink and gambling go together.” It’s a tired anecdote. 

What is the hopeless situation like for you, then?

“Argo-I is no exception,” you murmur, brushing a stray piece of lint from his jacket. The proximity makes him swallow. “Tonight, we’ll drink the devourer of dreams.”

“What does it do?” he breathes, careful not to disturb your fluttering hands as they quickly fix his collar too. 

“What else?” 

Gentle dust motes float in the warm air, backlit by the rays of the artificial sun. 

“Your dreams will be fully lucid.” You step back. “You’ll get rid of your nightmares for a night.” You place your hand on your doorknob. “All for the price of a glass or two.”

Finally, you pause. 

“I’ve got a few of my engineering society contacts to meet today while I’m here,” you inform him. “Be here before 22 hours and dressed in something—” you eye his clothes, briefly contemplating his gear. “—suitable for going out.”

It’s hard to take you seriously while you’re sporting the baggiest clothes to man, but he finds himself nodding in agreement regardless. 

You leave, and he takes the chance to wander around aimlessly. 

It’s not entirely unpleasant, but the pulse of the metropolis feels diluted without you there to breathe life into it. 

Though the blistering sun beats down, you could hardly tell it was daytime at all with the dark clouds that seem to permanently linger across the firmament. There’s a odour that grows stronger as he passes the alleyways; trash overflows, there’s dried gum and plastic littering the grey pavements, and the trees that have been planted aren’t as vibrant as he’s witnessed on the Luofu. 

It slowly kills the planet after a few centuries. 

It makes him wonder how Argo-I is special to you. 

This isn’t a useless day, not by any means. The first and second day are spent for reconnaissance anyway; he doesn’t feel like he’s wasted his time. 

Still, it’s decidedly strange—doing things without a specific goal in mind.

Dan Heng walks back to the hotel approximately three system hours before he’s due to report to you. You made it sound so serious, as though your plan was a definite fix. Though maybe he’s the idiot, for trusting your word just like that. 

It’s getting colder. Frigid air nips at his nose and face, while the bag he carries containing newly-purchased clothes cuts the circulation in his fingers off—just a bit. He takes the time to clear his head. 

From the doorway of the hotel lobby, he watches people live their lives in the grey streets. It’s an exercise meant to develop his understanding of you all without your knowledge. 

He studies them. Their clothes, their faces, the fate they slowly face that’s imminent to all: erosion. Planet extinction and destruction is a path that no one is impervious to, not even Aeons. Why is Argo-I so special to you, then?

There’s a wide variety of visages—as on all planets. 

If he had to note distinctions in clothes, it’s that they’re unusual. There’s a medley of fabric; all sorts of various fashions and garb he can’t quite place. It’s not like on the Luofu, where each garment is intricately tied to your own legacy, your status and the role you’ve taken on. 

There’s not many similarities interpersonally on Argo-I, either. From pressed charcoal suits, to bizarre shirts, to very casual attire, there’s too much variation to pick up a pattern. 

He can hear yells, laughs, and chatter from where he observes. It’s a range of human emotions: there should be, of course, the knowledge that one day this planet will fall and it will be humanity’s fault. But there’s a drive to move forward that he senses—something so intrinsic to people that it always fascinates him. It’s a perseverance despite the impending death that will eventually greet them: the greatest masterpiece of people. 

What is it? 

What exactly does this place remind you of?

He wonders these questions as he finishes changing. As he fumbles with the mesh long-sleeved top that rests over his black vest, as he pulls on the baggy trousers that have too many fastenings, as he slips on the silver jewellery he bought on impulse, he cannot help but ponder your sentiments—over and over and over. 

He’s ready to knock on room 137 to let you know he’s back. At this point, it’s almost two hours until the allotted meeting time—but checking in early won’t do any harm, right?

Or at least, he tries to knock. 

He’s sure the Elation has a hand to play in this—in a bizarre twist of fate, the door swings inward just as he’s about to rap his poised knuckles on the honey-coloured wood. 

“Oh–” you blink, and he simply stares. “I wasn’t expecting you just yet.”

And he keeps staring, since he wasn’t expecting this either. 

You’re not in your usual gear—slicked with machine oil and various stains from your work—but in something suited for going out, as you put it. It’s like his, except so different he cannot help but question if you and him have wildly different definitions for the phrase. 

Delicate chains criss-cross the black straps that pattern your body—the vast expanse of dermis has been exposed to the cold air. Dan Heng can count each scar you’ve gotten from your work. 

He observes the slope of your rolling shoulders as you open the door further. He observes the way your trousers crease like his when you lean onto your other leg. He observes the way the various pieces of jewellery adorning you clink just like the metal pieces do when you put them together. 

He swallows. 

It’s not everyday he sees something as unpredictable as this, but you’ve already established yourself as a paragon of inconsistency. 

“Did you need something?” 

It’s just like that first night. 

Except, he can actually hear you this time. 

“No,” he finds himself admitting. “I just decided to come back early.”

What will you do about that? What will you say back?

“Really? Guess you wouldn’t know the good places in the city,” you comment mildly, heading further into the spacious room while leaving the door open behind you. He follows you in. “I’ll have to show you around properly tomorrow and the days after.”

When you take a seat at the small table on the balcony, he takes the other side. 

It’s quiet. Save the sound of cars and bustling lives, the time passes with no words. 

He finds he doesn’t mind it. 

　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　   ☾

He takes back what he said. This place is loud. 

There’s that music that he occasionally hears from your room: a churning, thumping beast that he can feel pulse against his own heart. It’s dark—illuminated only by the flash of the strobe lights and the silver jewellery sported in this place. 

The crowd isn’t large enough to be suffocating, yet the twisted mass of people pushes him to the outskirts where the bar is. Where you are. Against the colours skimming you, the Argo-I silver illuminates you in a way he’s never seen before. 

It’s fascinating. 

You’re running a finger against the rim of your coupe glass, idly nodding your head to the heavy beat. The enticing liquid within is shimmering with the incandescence and topped with a slice of what appears to be a mandarin. He recognises it as the faint trace that appears when he takes your scent in: lingering, just barely noticeable. 

“You made it to the bar,” you note in amusement at his struggle to get through without stumbling. 

“Haha,” he scowls. He sits roughly onto the stool adjacent to yours, knees almost touching. The faintest brush of fabric against fabric makes him flinch slightly. 

You don’t seem to notice. 

Instead, you take a long swill from the glass, choosing to place your gaze on the amorphous mass of bodies, rather than him. 

“It’s not the classiest place, is it?” 

It’s loud. There’s a dazed, hallucinatory energy superposing his fatigued lethargy. No, it’s not, he wants to say, but there’s something that tells him it’s not quite the truth. 

“Human struggle is everywhere. In a bar for the elite, it’s only more prominent,” you murmur, pressing your chin into your palm. “Look. Ordinary people swarm here and forget their sadness briefly.”

“Do they really?” He can’t help but disagree. He’s seen enough people on Argo-I to know that behind their smiles, there’s a tiredness they can’t wash away. 

“I guess not.” A nail taps against the clear vessel. “But they’re trying. I think that’s what counts.”

You push the drink towards him. He stares it down; there’s a faint imprint of your lips on the edge from the tint of your lip balm. 

“I’ve already had a glass.” Your eyes meet his. “I’m sure you’ll like it.”

“What’s it called?” His chest feels tight, and the inquiry bubbles up as he notices your body poised like you’re about to take your leave like you always do. 

“There’s no formal name for it, but it’s nicknamed the devourer of dreams.” You slide off your stool, coming far too close to him. “Wanna know why?”

“Why?” His whisper is soft— strained. He can guess this is the mysterious elixir promised to him, yet he grasps at the smoke of your phantasm with the naivety of the fool attempting to touch the moon. Stay a little longer. That is the underlying message beneath the question.

“Figure it out yourself.” With a consoling pat to his shoulder, you’re swallowed up by the crowd. Dan Heng is left grasping nothing but the stem of a coupe glass and the warmth you imparted on the shoulder covered only by thin mesh. 

“Aeons,” he breathes, swallowing half the drink in one go—unconsciously directing his mouth to where yours was. For something meant to give sweet dreams, it’s surprisingly bitter. He supposes it complements you in that way. 

There’s a poster displaying the liquor only a few stools away. If he was a bit more diligent tonight, he might have read it. Warning— it reads— over-consumption of this drink may lead to side-effects such as projecting into others’ dreams, waking hallucinations, or a severe headache. Please drink with caution. 

Perhaps in another parallel universe, he might’ve spotted the bold red letters—and the poster in the first place. 

Unfortunately, in this specific strand of the universe, he doesn’t. 

He watches you instead. You somehow slot into these people like you belonged all along: moving when they move, dancing with strangers to the bass he doesn’t know. There’s a smile on your face—one he’s never seen before. 

It’s a strange mixture of exhaustion, layered with faint guilt and wistfulness. But, beneath that, it’s easing into relaxation.  

You, with people you’ve known less than a few minutes, have shown them more depth than he’s seen in around three months. 

His eyes narrow, and he swills the rest down with a scowl. 

There’s an unbearable feeling inside. Empty glasses start crowding around his right hand. Even when you come back, he can still feel its pangs.

“Now, we go to sleep and experience the effects of our dear devourer.” Your body carries the new smell of alcohol, and he can’t help but take you in fully once more. There’s a buzz to you now—tainted with liquor and slight tipsiness, while your skin glistens with sweat from the exertion. A small bead trails down your chest and out of sight, and his eyes can’t help but follow it. 

“And it just works like that?” He can’t help but be sceptical, but he wonders just how far it’s scepticism and not the urge to remain like this for a few moments longer. 

Pointedly, you eye the neat row of glasses by his elbow. “I’ll be more surprised if it doesn’t work.”

You’re closer to him than you would be in any other situation. 

He can almost taste the liquor still on your lips, and involuntarily, his eyes flicker downwards—too fast for you to perceive it. 

“What do I get from you if it doesn’t work?” 

Just a little longer. Let him stay seated with you by his side a little longer. 

“Nothing, since I never guaranteed anything,” you reply brusquely, seemingly unaffected by the proximity once more. “But I’ll buy you a round of SoulGlad from Penacony if we ever go.”

There’s a lingering feeling of disappointment that he can’t suppress. It’s your usual style of reasoning, so why is he feeling that way?

“Wow,” he remarks dryly. “What an interesting way of following Akivili.”

“Make a contract next time if you want a favour,” you yawn, grabbing his hand and tossing down currency that doesn’t resemble the uniform pristineness of credits. The various notes—both crisp and rumpled—are a light green and host different portraits on them. But he doesn’t focus on that—rather, he’s committing the feeling of your skin to his memory. “And I am trailblazing. New ways of negotiation.”

It’s raining when the two of you stumble outside the club. The skies have turned pitch black—nothing like the vast galaxies that watch over the Luofu—while the lamplight shines orange on the wet tarmac. 

You’re still holding his hand while you take the lead. 

He can’t see your face, but he can feel your fingers digging into his palm as you stare resolutely forward. 

If he looks closely, he thinks he can see your shoulders trembling. 

You alright?  

That’s what he wants to say, but he presses his icy lips together instead as you both take the elevator up. When the doors open again, it’s not the familiar hallway that greets him but the very top of the hotel. The skyscrapers surrounding the roof glitter like stars, and he wonders if this is the detachment constellations feel from the rest of the universe. 

You lean against the railing, allowing the wind to tussle and tug at your clothes and skin. There’s a bitter smile on your lips as you beckon him to your side. 

The rain may have slowed to a drizzle, but someone is definitely going to come down with a cold and it won’t be him. 

He doesn’t bluntly tell you that you’re being a fool at this moment. 

He’s sure you’re already well aware. 

“What do you think when you look at this world?”

Dan Heng pauses. 

“It’s… loud. Chaotic. There’s not much rhyme or reason to this place.”

And as expected, you neither confirm nor deny his statement.

“It’s also impossible to generalise this place to just that. There’s struggle, there’s perseverance, and there’s sincere effort to try despite the knowledge that this planet is dying,” he finally summarises. “It’s a quality that can’t be tamped down in this universe.”

“If these people knew there was a chance to escape and live only in paradise, do you think they’d take it?” Your lips form hollow words—so fragile they’re battered bloody in the cold wind. 

He thinks carefully about his next reply. It could hold the key to chipping more of that marble exoshell from you. 

“Some would, some wouldn’t. You’ve already got people migrating to Argo-II for a better life. You’ve already got people succumbing to vice,” he leans back against the railing too, until his gelid shoulder presses against yours. “No matter where you go, you can’t have paradise. There’ll always be something missing. And what’s missing is unique to every person. Paradise is only a temporary fixture, and a pointless goal in the first place.”

Was that the right thing to say? It’s the first time he’s mulling over the strings escaping his larynx—the first time he’s properly consoling someone who looks so stricken at the sight of people below. 

“Is it the wrong choice to escape? To take the dreams of others to escape and achieve it while they can’t?” 

“No.” He meets your eyes this time. Dan Heng watches as they widen, then close in what he can only assume is relief. “To clarify, there cannot be a ‘right’ choice when it concerns doing what’s best for you. We survive and we move on.”

“I think it’s admirable when people decide what’s best for themselves. After all, we aren’t responsible for others choosing what’s best for themselves either,” he adds. 

You can’t save everyone, he wants to say. 

“Thanks.” It’s a quiet word, accompanied by you waving him forward. When he glances back, your face schools itself into a weak smile. 

Perhaps if he were a bit quicker, he might’ve not heard the lapse in strength—the vibrant vulnerability in your voice once more. 

But as Vidyadhara, his hearing is good, while his timing is the worst. So while he’s carefully propping the door behind him so it doesn’t get locked, he overhears three words clearly not meant for him. 

“I miss Earth.”

It’s a foreign phrase, one he doesn’t know the meaning of. It’s not the True Universal Language dialect, nor is it any he recognises. 

He can only memorise the shape of the sounds and hope that one day, you’ll tell him with your own words what it means. 

　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　   ☾

If he had to describe his second night on Argo-I, it would be kind. For once, there’s a lack of nightmares—only a lucid field that describes itself as Asphodel. 

Peace for the unremarkable. 

In fact, he feels so well-rested in the morning that there’s even a mild smile on his face when he knocks on your door: something so uncharacteristic for him that he can feel his facial muscles practically creak with disuse. 

You take him everywhere you can think of on the motorcycle. There’s the beach again; the waves lapping at his feet are cold and unlike the lightless waters he saw at night.  He holds no particular love for the casino, and it appears you don’t either—you bet the minimum, easily resisting the beginner's urge to continue when your luck appears to be high. 

You take him to scenic parks, loamy forests, and peaceful lakes. You take him to bookstores, coffeehouses, and various restaurants. And when the artificial sun is hidden, you take him to that club. 

Dan Heng downs glass after glass of the dream devourer, never pausing to glance at the poster only a few feet away. And even if he did, he’d think the blood of Long would make him impervious to most of alcohol’s effects. Hallucinations, migraines, projecting into others’ dreams. 

And each night is pleasant, save the very last. 

He’s drunk more than usual tonight. He, also, has not noticed that crucial factor yet—the poster warning against overconsumption. 

This is his first mistake. 

His next mistake is drinking several glasses of this every night. Naturally, he assumed a larger dose before he slumbered would be more effective as a Vidyadhara. 

So naturally, the latent effects are built up too quickly, too immensely. 

Dan Heng still thinks everything is fine when his head hits the pillow. He thinks everything is fine even when the fields of Asphodel aren’t resembling the landscape he’s seen every night. In fact, he’s still thinking everything is fine when the topography begins changing. 

Why wouldn’t he?

He’s had a taste of peace, so forgive him for craving it. 

Clean, warm wind brushes past his face. This is no field. This is a beach: golden sand (unlike the gritty, grey stuff of Argo-I), aquamarine waters (also unlike the grey stuff here), and vegetation that befits this scene. 

His eyes take it all in: the scenery, and you.  

He can see you—your back is facing him, but he could recognise your form anywhere. Dan Heng swallows. There’s nothing covering your skin except a white fabric draped around your waist and cascading down your legs, and golden jewellery adorning your flesh. It shines against the vast dermis, and he thinks for a moment that he’s never seen something as entrancing. 

However, you’re not alone. There’s various wisps surrounding you, speaking to you in murmurs he can’t decipher. It’s an alien language—untranslatable to him, but he recognises exactly one word from the conversation.

“◼◼◼◼— ! ◼◼ Earth ◼◼◼◼; ◼◼◼….”

“◼◼, ◼◼◼◼◼ ◼◼◼◼◼◼◼   ◼◼◼◼,” you reply. There’s barely any coldness left in your normally harsher tone. Instead, your cadence is fragile and heartbroken. “◼◼.”

This is a dream, Dan Heng reminds himself. This isn’t reality, nor are you actually showing him layers of yourself you hadn’t before. 

So, he watches as the wisps dissipate. He watches as you stay staring at the sea, watches as your shoulders relax in acceptance. 

This is a dream, he repeats, before making his way to your side. Being lucid like this comes with clear benefits, but it also makes him notice details in his dreams with painstaking detail. 

Of course, that’s a beneficial function.

But currently, he’s fighting himself to not collapse in shock. 

When he noticed the fabric draped only around your waist, he naively assumed your torso was at least covered from the front, if only by those straps from the club. 

It isn’t.

His eyes can’t help but trail across you, noting the gold dripping down your flesh, the metallic colour painting the skin of your face in graceful lines. And his cheeks can’t help but begin to flush rosy at the sight. 

“Dan Heng?” It’s the first time he’s heard you say his name. Though your voice is harsher when you revert to Universal, he thinks it’s never sounded better. 

“Yes,” he affirms immediately. 

“Why are you here?” It’s not an accusation. It’s more tinged with disbelief, rather than anything. 

“Why not?” he breathes. This is a dream, he thinks, so he doesn’t stop his hand from lifting and placing itself on the side of your face. 

Why? His heart is thumping right out of his chest—skin and muscle taut as a result. Why does he feel this way?

“You appeared to distract me, didn’t you?” Your laughter is genuine. It’s so clear that you can’t be anything but a figment of his imagination—he’s never heard you sound so amused. 

His skin burns where it’s come into contact with yours. If this were reality, he’d never have the courage to do this. 

“Do you want to be distracted?” he replies, mind already hazing over as it succumbs to his body. 

“Sure.” Your voice is steady, as though you’re utterly unaffected by this. So unlike him, where his legs are beginning to grow unsteady and his chest is rising and falling faster. “And you’ll achieve it, how, exactly?”

Aeons. His subconscious has replicated your mannerisms almost perfectly. 

His other hand traces the planes of your face, finally settling across your cheek to mirror the first. He’s clasping your visage, while you quietly watch him. 

What will your next move be?— your expression asks. 

And he’s tired of his fluttering heart, tired of your elusiveness, tired of how it never seems to be enough—how he never seems to be enough to capture your attention like those machines do. 

Dan Heng’s not entirely sure when the lines merged between friendship and something else. Looking at you like this in the palm of his hands, literally, he thinks it’s finally clicked for him. 

This is a dream, he acknowledges. You won’t be looking at him like this in real life. 

“You trying to kiss or gawk at me?” you ask bluntly, suddenly grasping the front of his turtleneck and pulling his face closer to yours. “Don’t waste my—”

He cuts you off with his own lips, pulling your face towards his while he feels your hand form a fist in surprise. 

You taste like the sea. It’s yet another layer that’s been uncovered, except this is only a dream. 

It’s only a dream, he thinks bitterly as your hands fall to his sides and press him into your bare torso. You’re warm, even through the seawater currently clamming your arms up. Some things simply don’t change. 

It’s only a dream, he thinks with regret as his fingers trace the expanse of your body, watching the gold on you smear and leave its matching imprint on his own palms. 

It’s only a dream, as he moves his mouth to your jaw and trails a burning path down to your collarbone. 

“You—” Finally. You’re breathing heavily as he holds you as though you were his lifeline—lips still latched onto the juncture between neck and shoulder. Clearly, you’re not as unaffected as you seem. 

Vidyadhara physiology is fascinating. Not only can he taste the salt of your skin, feel the dermis breaking slightly beneath sharp canines—but he can feel your pulse as it quickens to a dizzying allegro. 

You wrench him away from you, and he’s still processing his disorientation over you when your palms push him into lying against the sand. He’s barely propped himself up on his elbows when you’re suddenly looming over him—almost straddling him as you bring him back into a bruising kiss. 

He’s gasping now himself; not out of a need for air in particular, but because you’re practically forcing it out of him. He’s a greedy man—almost reflexively, he manoeuvres his arms to wind around your neck so he can press himself closer to you. 

Dan Heng is losing his mind. 

While there was a real possibility of that anyway after his stint in the Shackling Prison, he thinks he’ll go mad within the next system minute. 

You’re straddling him fully now, and there’s only some folds of fabric separating you from him that are slowly riding up your thighs. 

I need you.  

The words go unspoken, but he doesn’t get an opportunity to speak them in the first place. 

He’s fading away, grasping at your material form with his own incorporeal hand. 

No, he begs. 

This is a dream.

This is a dream. 

This is a dream, therefore the lucidity with which he moved ends when he’s waking up. 

This is a dream, so the surprise in your face isn’t real as he feels himself drift back into consciousness. 

This is a dream. This is not reality. 

He wakes up panting. Sweat drenches his skin and makes his clothes stick uncomfortably against his body: suffocating, so overwhelmingly profound that his fingers scrabble against the hotel bed to make sure he’s not still at that fateful beach. 

What the—

For once in his life, he is utterly and completely lost. As Dan Feng, letting himself be swept up by emotions was the end of him and his freedom. The plight of Dan Heng continues due to the downright foolish actions of his predecessor, which is why he resolved to act pragmatically and logically—to avoid those same mistakes. 

The man buries his face in his hands. Those palms are clammy; after all, his nervous system has basically just rewired itself at your touch. Your phantom touch— because, as he reminds himself, it was not real.  

He’s not an idiot. But currently, he feels like one. How else would he explain why he dreamt about his friend, and with all his mental faculties in order, chose to kiss him? This was a lucid dream. This was a lucid dream, meaning his limbs were in direct control of his mind. 

The only other explanation would be madness induced by avoiding his usual nightmares. He must’ve lost all his senses by all the adrenaline catching up to him. 

How will he face you?

At least, with his nightmares, there’s a very clear lesson embedded within them. Avoid the man with red eyes. It’s instinctual—primal, even—to run when he feels that disturbance caused by the man who perpetually hunts him down. That, though not easy, is relatively straightforward to deal with. It’s a matter of fight or flight. This, on the other hand, is perplexing to say the least. At four system hours in the morning, it is even more difficult to deal with. 

This is now reality. 

This is no longer a dream. 

　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　   ☾

There’s a certain sort of word attributed to situations like this. Shame. According to the standard TUL dialect, it refers to the painful humiliation or distress caused by being conscious of a foolish action. And he’s feeling plenty of it as he stares at you in the hallway. 

The sensation is strange—like he’s hearing it through the deep end of water. In his past life, the emotion lingered in his shadow and was a constant reminder of his sins. He may not be able to remember the specific fragments clearly, but Aeons is the feeling palpable. 

“What?” you yawn widely. A loose pair of trousers sits at your hips, and he’d think that were normal if it weren’t for your top half only consisting of another loose piece of fabric flung around your shoulders. It hits far too close to home—just when he thought he’d composed himself, there’s a rosy tint to his cheeks once more. “You gonna miss Argo-I?”

No. Yes. 

He won’t miss the clamour that comes when watching the streets. He won’t miss the chaos and the glitzy facade this city puts up. He won’t miss the suffering found in these same streets that promise abundance and glory. 

He will, however, miss this aspect of you. These glimpses of you he’s never caught before—flashes of pain, grief, acceptance, hopelessness—put cracks in your sculpture that he wouldn’t mind peering at forever. 

But he can’t tell you that.

“Not particularly.” 

“Right.” You lean against the doorway with a sharp grin, and he follows the motion with an accelerating pulse. “That explains why you look more depressed than usual.”

He frowns, and it almost feels like regular back-and-forth you two have slowly settled into. 

“This planet is depressing,” he deadpans. 

“Did the devourer of dreams not work this time or something?” you wonder instead. “And I almost completely won the little bet you tried to initiate.”

Dan Heng’s face goes through a rather alarming progression of waxy-white to puce. To his credit, he manages to compose himself remarkably quickly; it pays to have a resting bored face, after all. 

Do you know? Have you somehow pieced together his erratic behaviour and drawn out his dreams for your own amusement?

Behind his back, his nails dig into his palms and form bloody crescent moons shaped just like your grin. 

“No,” he grits out. “My dreams were the same as I’ve had all this week. You think we could get the drink imported?”

It’s not what he wants to say. After tonight, he doesn’t think he can ever touch another coupe glass without it feeling indecent. 

“That’s interesting,” you tilt your head thoughtfully. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think you were the one following The Hunt and not him. “I had quite the fascinating dream last night.”

What does that mean? The way you word it has his skin prickling uncomfortably, but there’s no way you’d know what he dreamed. It doesn’t make sense. Not at all. This isn’t the legendary Penacony he’s heard about, and this sort of dreamscape offered is nothing more but cheaper mimicry made by the desperate for the desperate. 

He’s still paranoid, and he hopes you don’t recognise his slightly shallower breathing. 

“But no,” you add. “The specific composition in the drink makes it impossible to preserve for import, from what I’ve heard.”

“Actually,” you murmur, seemingly mystified. “What the hell is in that thing?”

Dan Heng has never agreed with you as profoundly as he does now. 

　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　   ☾

[sorry-i-ship-drarry]

Da Capo

Dialogue Prompt 16- " because I love you, is that what you wanted to hear " requested by @sunflowerishdolphin ( your last remaining request ) | TW- NONE |

Da Capo-(Italian: from the beginning); at the end of a piece of music or a section of it, means that it should be played or sung again from the beginning.

He shut the door behind him, locking immediately, putting those grocery bags on the counter and turned on the voice Machine , picking up the mails from the corner table reading who addressed them as he simultaneously heard the voice messages like his usual evening, a routine that had became a practice.

" you have 2 new messages "

" hey harry, this is Clint. Send me those pictures via e-mail, could you ? Call me when you get back "

Harry subconsciously nodded as he read the next mail addressed from the burrow.

" harry "

He stopped dead in his movements as he stared at the tiles on the floor, hearing that very familiar voice.

" I- I know I should not- you know- never mind. Uh, call me or not, whatever. Just- how do you end this-" the voice message echoed with rustling until it ended with a beep and harry couldn't bring himself to stop the beeping.

When one of the apple fell down over the ground creating a thud, harry broke free from his locked moment of strangeness and shut off the beep. He stared at the number long enough to remember his past, the horrors, the pain, the anguish, the agony of it all but he couldn't resist himself from Noting down the number on the notepad and just staring at it.

He had called, 1 year and 6 months later, he had called.

Harry left the notepad like it had been resting on the counter and went out to the garden to water his plants and get some peace from the quick Sand of the emotions that had started overwhelming in the presence of the noted down number. But it didn't help the rail of his thoughts that resulted in overflowing of the pots.

The evening had turned into a chilly night yet without a care he kept staring at the TV screen blankly, finding it hard to forget that voice message. That familiarity in the voice had almost Haunted harry every night in dreams and that un-advanced way of not knowing still how to end a voice message made harry smile if only for a moment but he was strongly reminded of how had things ended, in fights, In rush, in sadness, in heart break.

He wanted to call back and ask him why had he called, he even stood before the phone, dialing almost the entire number but could never gather the entire courage to actually call him back. How could he ? After everything that had happened, how could he?

It had been almost 1 and half year since harry moved to a small town in Paris living in a muggle suburb and still learning French but he had sat in his balcony drowning in rain, yet he never felt at home. He never wanted to leave Britain, London but what choice did he had but to leave everything behind and start new, a fresh start and yet all he felt was moving backwards. He loved it here, the neighborhood, the children on the streets, the grocery man, Adrian's little shop around the corner yet the smell of the Rain, the smell of laundry, the Blooming garden, the sunlight, nothing felt the same, not like how it was when he was with him. Nothing ever felt the same anymore .

Somewhere around blankly staring at the TV, the screen had Turned grey with no more left to watch when harry forcibly picked himself up and put himself to bed, relentlessly tossing and turning until sleep had returned to him like previous night's.

You can't stop thinking about me .

That's not true.

Do you really think so? Then why am I here ?

You tell me.

He sighed, his voice flourishing and sounding like the softest of breeze, you can feel it too, can't you, you know I will be there with you..

I can't feel anything. A pause.

You're coming?

Do you want me to ?

Harry tossed one last time, slowly opening his eyes in the silence of the night and the street light outside flickering with yellow and black. He sighed to himself as he sat right up and followed the line of sight to where the phone was kept.

" hi, draco, hi- uh, you called. I- didn't know about it- just got your message- I wanted to check what you called for so leave me a message or call me in the mor-"

" harry?"

Harry stilled with the phone pressed against his ear, his breathing sounding very clear like he had held the phone very close to himself as if holding it too close would make the conversation more real.

He stared at his feets on the ground comprehending how to respond, he had not expected draco to pick up-

" harry, you there ?"

" yeah, yeah. Uh sorry- I just- " he breathed " isn't it late ?"

" sort of yeah. I just- I came from a run "

" this late at night ?"

" yeah " he breathed.

Harry breathed.

" you called earlier ?"

" yeah " a long pause before he released a rolling breath and spoke again " I'm visiting Paris and I- I know you're there, so I was just wondering if you'd like to meet sometime if you're free of course ?"

Harry's fingers coiled to the telephone loop, a little smile forming over his lips as he whispered " Sure. When ?"

" this weekend "

" I'll pick you up ?"

" that'd be- nice " he breathed.

" okay "

" okay "

They breathed.

" I'll send the details via mail " he added

" okay "

And they finally cut the call but all harry did was stare at his feets on the ground crossed together as if it offered any peace.

_______________________________

The sun had rose like usual with the birds chirping just outside Harry's balcony, the usual ringing of his alarm clock went unnoticed as harry stepped out of the long shower. He padded across the room water dripping down his neck due to his washed hair, finally shutting off the Alarm. He stared at the watch as minutes stroke by, his mind lost in the moving of the minute hands until a shiver has ran down his spine and he dropped the clock on the bed and fetched the shirt and the pants he has decided to worn a day before. The same blue flowy shirt and the same Khaki pants.

Anxiety was not a surprise visitor anymore as harry fidgeted wearing his watch over his rest and tying his shoe laces that at some point, harry left them be thinking that if he'd fall, he'd fall. He ran all around the apartment going from one room to another to living room because his things were scattered all across until finally the clock stroke 12 and harry left the apartment in his second hand ford from 1985.

Harry leaned against his car in front of the France ministry of magic building waiting for draco to come with sun bouncing over his soft brunette hair, checking his watch every minute or two.

And there he was, the same boy walking through the door carrying 2 bags in a soft cotton red faded shirt and washed blue jeans.

" waited for long ?"he asked awkwardly.

Harry shook his head as he took his bags and dropped them in back seat.

" I- harry- I just wanted to ask something "

Harry frowned but nodded as he opened the car door for draco.

" this isn't awkward, is it ?"

Harry huffed out a breath, glancing behind draco for a moment. Was it awkward,of course but he Wanted to settle through the awkwardness and not be like one of those people who can't visit their ex.

" it is a bit but we'll settle in. After all we're friends, right ?"

Draco chuckled softly before he nodded " we can be "

Harry smiled before he stepped away and let draco take the passenger seat and settled into his driver's seat as well.

" Hungry ?" Harry asked as the ignition roared.

Draco nodded " very "

" I know just the place " harry smiled putting on his sunglasses and drove to exactly where he needed to.

________________________________

Things remained a bit awkward with draco as harry adjusted to all new information and forgot thinking of draco as an ex he scrambled away from and reminded himself more to treat him like the way he used to before the relationship happened.

But despite that the wicked angels that remained on Harry's shoulder reminded him to be careful this time and even if he harry heard them, he ignored as he served draco the croissant he has freshly picked up from the bakery around the corner.

" what about the eiffel tower ?" Draco asked as he sipped his lemon tea, taking the plate of croissant away from harry.

" it's overrated but worth it. It's better in the evening, I'll take you there " harry replied as he ate his own.

" oh shit- I forgot. I had to be at work 15 minutes ago. I'll see you later yeah " draco hurried with his baked food and picked up his bag he has came with and disapparated from within the apartment.

Harry collapsed down on the chair thinking to himself what was he doing. How could he just forget everything and move on and pretend like nothing happened like he had been doing for days. He hated the pretending, the " I'm doing fine without you " act or we're better as friends act, he hated it but as draco would come from the hotel every afternoon and sometimes stay by till the evening, harry would allow himself to relish in those moments and let be.

"the real question is do you really want to be friends or not ?" Jade asks as she dressed the mannequin with new shirt introduced in this work fashion line.

" i- i don't know jade. Do I want to forget everything and move forward, yes but I can't just look at him pretend we don't have a past " harry kicked the ground as he was leaned against the wall in the cubicle with jade and the white mannequin for display.

" Harry, the past is the past. It doesn't matter anymore. And you know the whole thing about ex's can't be friends,it's shit, I'm friends with my first boyfriend " jade replied with the pin between her lips as he tucked the buttons together.

" your first boyfriend is gay now. You're not helping jade-"

" look harry. Is it worth it ? Is it worth spending time with him? Is it worth meeting him again everyday ? Is it worth being friends with him again ? Those are the real questions " She asked with her head titled for emphasis, her hands in the air waiting for his response.

Harry sighed closing his eyes, opening them again and spoke " I think. He's changed a lot and he's different now"

" well there you go and you know what, even if you don't want to be friends or anything, he's just visiting. He's not going to stay here forever you know and you barely visit home, so friends or no friends, it won't matter much" jade shrugged as she put the mannequin the hat and stretched her neck backwards to check the entire look before nodding to herself and stepping out of the cubicle, harry following him.

" I guess you're right " harry mumbled. Jade nodded and they departed to their response departments of work.

When the evening arrived he met draco Outside his work building and strolled off to where they could disapparate from without being noticed.

" it's a beautiful place " draco suddenly said as they were walking down the streets.

" it is " harry hummed nodding, pocketing his hand.

" don't you ever-" Breath " like miss home ? Everyone else?" He asked

Harry thought for a moment before he replied with all he could think of " it's a part of starting fresh. I miss people back home but I love it here too, everyone's nice "

" but doesn't it ever get lonely ?" Draco asked as he now walked right by Harry's side.

" sometimes but other times I just forget " harry shrugged looking forward before crossing the road.

" forget what ?" Draco asked as he ran to maintain his pace with harry.

" forget that I'm lonely. The best way to not get lonely is just not to think of being lonely " harry shrugged as he for a moment looked at Draco before he entered the dark Empty alley.

" is it easy ?" Draco asked as he stood before harry taking his hand for side along disapparation.

Harry gazed at draco, allowing the free sensation of holding his hand making him feel closer to home before he took a step forward towards draco.

" no "

And disapparated.

Part 2 & 3

might turn into a series fiction. @drarrywords thanks for beta reading this..

300 followers appreciate dialogue Prompt requests open

Angst prompt requests open

[forevercaroline]

French court

I was going to have these characters be a side plot in the fic Forbes but as I was writing I decided to make a whole new story with these characters. Also I was talking with @iamcarito and she mentioned that Lexi would be like Megan Markle and the ideas just started flowing from there. I wrote this yesterday. I had mentioned to @austennerdita2533 and @karinanic that I was going to have a Lexi and prince romance. Also tagging @delenastvd.

Xxx

Henri peppers Lexi neck with kisses as her arms go around his neck and she rides him. The white sheet falling off her pooling on his thighs. He thrusts up one last time and her screams of ecstasy full the big bedroom, he soon follows. She slumps down on his bare chest and leaves a sweet peck on his neck.

“It’s moving day. My prince.”

“Did you ever think you would be here?”

Lexi snuggles her head into his neck and he wraps his arms around her slim waist. “Here meaning naked in bed with the prince of France no, moving into the French palace no, or being engaged to the sexy prince of France no.”

“Engaged to the sexy prince, did I only become sexy after we got engaged.” Lexi can feel him laugh laying on him.

“Sexy the moment I saw you.” She leans up and leaves a kiss on his lips he smiles into the kiss.

The double doors for their suite open and it’s Henri’ mother the queen mother Catherine de’ Medici who like her son has blonde hair that she usually pins up. “Oh good your up and decent this morning.”

The blonde lovebirds share a look this a frequent occurrence. A few times they have been in the middle of sex when she barges in. The doors do not have a lock but guards posted outside the door but the queen mother is allowed in any room and especially her children’s quarter’s being their mother. Doesn’t matter how old or if one son is the king she will barge into their quarters morning day or night.

“What do you want mother?” As Henri has one arm on Lexi hiding her nudity behind him and pulling the blankets up to cover them.

“Charles found out about your engagement and is not pleased. He demands to see you in the throne room.”

Lexi bites her lip she has never been in the throne room, There are a lot of rooms in this palace she has not been in. Mostly she just stays in Henri’s suite, she has walked through the great hall, the ball room, and seen Henri’s older sister Claude’s room but that was only because her and Claude were going out together and Claude did not like her outfit so she dragged Lexi to her room and throw a short black dress at her and told her to change while she looked for a pair of heels.

Before Catherine leaves she tells her blanket covered naked son. “Henri please do not irritate your brother.”

Henri cracks a little smile and glances down at equally naked Lexi. “I Promise mother.”

Xxx

Before they enter the throne room Henri holds out his hand and smiles down at Lexi assuringly she smiles up at him while she places her purple tipped nails in his outstretched hand his thumb runs over her princess cut engagement ring there are three rows on each side all diamonds the two outer rows are white diamond and the middle row is yellow diamonds. Leading up the big raised yellow diamond in the middle. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

They enter to find Charles having a meeting with his spies and generals. Out of the corner of his eye he spots them. “Everyone out I need to have a word with my brother. If you see Nicole send her in too.”

Charles is shorter then his brother Henri but not by much. Where as Henri is tall blonde and has scruff and looks sexy, Charles is shorter, shaggy brunette hair and is clean shaven. Henri has a more gentle looking face he is fun loving where as Charles has a little bit of an evil face meaning that if something goes wrong people look to see if Charles did it because his face does not look innocent, he is a good king it’s just his face makes Lexi uncomfortable. Although that might have been done by their one and only encounter a year ago. The big difference between Henri and Charles is the crown upon Charles head.

“I am told you proposed to this woman last night.” He gestures to Lexi who scoffs at him.

Henri squeezes her hand to give her strength and to silently tell her he has this.“Yes I proposed to Lexi last night and she accepted we are going to move her into my suite later today.”

He doesn’t even look up from the map on the table to tell them. “I did not approve a proposal there for you two are not engaged nor did I approve of her moving into the palace.”

Lexi mouth drops open she is speechless this is not happening.

“Charles, Lexi and I love each other and want to get married.”

“You want to marry a commoner?”

Henri rolls his eyes the promise he made to his mother running through his head. He takes a breath and Lexi squeezes his hand to give him the strength he gave her earlier in this conversation. “Yes. I do not care if Lexi’s parents own a boutique in Paris or she is a heiress. We’ve been together for a year and a half but we knew the moment we saw each other that we had been looking for each other and we finally found each other.”

Charles looks up at the blonde couple and a small smile spreads across his face and he sticks his hand out. “Nicole.”

“My love.” Nicole is Charles fiancé, she has long brunette hair and brown eyes in heels she is the same height as Charles.

Nicole looks at the blonde couple first at Henri with love in her eyes then at Lexi with daggers in her eyes. Charles looks back at the blonde couple. “Your dismissed.”

Both blondes are pissed they were engaged this morning and just because Charles the king didn’t give his approval they not only can not get engaged but she can not move in with Henri. They get to the doorway when Henri turns around a wicked smirk on his face. “Brother why not this afternoon we play a game of tennis.”

Charles looks at his brother even though there is space between them they are looking each other dead in the eye. “What game are you playing brother?”

“ You’ll just have to accept and see.”

The older of the two looks back at the table full of maps and papers then at his blonde taller brother. “I accept.”

Xxx

“I love you Henri and I want to marry you but I do not see this ending well.”

Henri lifts the passengers side of his black Bugatti eb 110 he leans in and tells her. “Trust me.” He leaves a kiss right below her ear.

Once he is in the drivers seat she looks over at him as he puts the luxury sports car into drive. “I trust you.”

With one hand on the steering wheel he entwines his other hand with one of hers and kisses the back of her hand. “We will be married even if we have to disobey the king of France.”

Lexi loves Henri not just with her whole heart but she feels it in her bones this is the man for her. The way his smile can not only make her smile but make her feel like everything is going to be ok. From their first meeting they have had this connection. Henri was walking down the streets in Paris and walked past her mothers boutique and saw Lexi in the window fixing a mannequin. He was totally enamored by her beauty he almost walked into a guy walking towards him. Henri came into the boutique to find out what her name was and that night they had their first date and they’ve have been together ever since.

They pull onto the street where her apartment is and Lexi looks around. “Charles said I couldn’t move in and all my stuff would not would not fit in this car.”

He pulls into the parking lot of the apartment building. As he shuts off the car he tells her with a smirk on his face. “Well what Charles doesn’t know won’t kill him. And if it does your looking at the new king who wants to live with you.”

Lexi comes around to his side of the car and leans up and pecks him on the lips. “How did I become so lucky to fall in love with such a sexy, clever, ambitious and lovely man.”

He shrugs as he smiles down at her. “I have no clue but I fell in love with someone who is insanely beautiful, just as ambitious and clever as I am.”

“Well don’t we make a good match.”

“I think so.”

Xxx

They put all her stuff in the moving van that Henri had ready outside. They return to the palace and Henri orders the guards to discreetly put her stuff in his suite.

When they go out to the tennis court in the back of the palace they see Charles, Nicole and Claude. Lexi kisses Henri for good luck. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Lexi takes a seat next to Claude, Nicole is glaring daggers at her, Lexi is ignoring her. Both brothers pick up a racket before they start Claude stands up and goes over to the net. “Shake hands.”

Claude is older then both of them so they come to the net, Claude like her brother Charles has brunette hair that she usually wears up and curly. “Any wager between you two?”

“Now that you mention it sister yes. If I win I would love to marry Lexi but I know you will not grant that so If I win I want the king to accept that Lexi is going to move in with me.”

Charles glares at his brother and Claude looks at him. “Charles?”

“If I win Henri gives up this dream of marrying Lexi and gets serious.”

Henri and Claude share a look why is Charles so against this marriage he is getting married himself and his fiancé Nicole he met in a barn one of the times he ran away from court because it was to much pressure. Plus before he became king he was a party boy in Spain. He came back to France to be taught how to be a king by their older brother Francis before his death.

“Deal.” Both brothers shake and Claude goes back to her seat. “Go.”

She leans over and tells Lexi “Someone needs to keep the peace of this game might as well be me.”

“Aka Leith was busy and you were bored.”

Claude glances over at her and smirks “I hope Henri wins just so we could have a chance to be sisters. And I don’t say that to everyone.” She lowers her voice and leans in closer even covers the side of her mouth. “I didn’t tell Nicole we could be sisters and they are getting married.”

Lexi leans in to Claude. “Thank you for the compliment I hope we get the chance to be sisters too and that Henri wins. Also have you been clubbing behind my back with Nicole?”

Claude lets out a little laugh “Never your the only woman in this palace that enjoys sex and clubs as much as I do.”

They turn back to the tennis match and Henri scores a point Lexi cheers and Charles side eyes her she stops. Charles scores and Nicole smiles and claps her hands. After a couple more rounds the game is tied 5-5. Henri serves the ball and Charles almost misses it but hits it in the last second, Henri nearly missed the ball but hits it.

Claude is getting bored watching them play tennis. “Ok next point wins.”

“Don’t worry Henri you’ll find another woman you never had a problem finding one.”

“How does Nicole stand you at least my fiancé loves me.”

All everyone hears is Charles’ angry yell a racket hit the ground and him charging at his brother. All three ladies jump up from their seats and run over to the brothers who are now actually fighting each other well Charles is trying to strangle Henri who is trying to hold him back.

“Charles!” It takes Nicole and Claude to get Charles off Henri. Lexi checks him out and he picks up a tennis ball and weighs it in his hand. “Henri no don’t add injury to insult, he is still the king and your brother.”

“He will never let us marry more over he wants us to break up.”

Lexi swallows and pulls her hand away from his hand with the tennis ball. She turns around so she doesn’t have to see he throws the ball and it hits Charles straight in the nose he cries out because his nose is broken.

“Henri!” Claude looks back at Henri who says “Looks like I won brother.” She then looks back at Charles who is holding his bleeding nose and shooing Nicole’s hands away from his broken nose.

Claude notices Charles getting ready to pounce on Henri again. “Lexi get Henri out of here.”

“Come on Charles we need to get your nose looked at.”

As Charles passes Henri if looks could kill Henri would be dead ten times over.

Xxx

Lexi gets Henri back to their suite she closes the door and leans against it while he sits in on the chaise in front of the fire place there are boxes of her stuff all over the big bedroom. “Your mother said don’t irritate him you promised. And now you broke his nose. He is going to hate us.”

Henri puts out a hand and she walks over and places her hand in his he guides her to sit on his lap. “I know I promised but he called you a peasant and said that I’ll have no problem finding another woman.”

She lays her head on his shoulder and kisses his neck. “Dinner is going to be real fun.”

He nods as he moves his hand up her back.

Xxx

Just as Lexi predicted dinner was awkward Catherine sat at one end and Charles who had to get his nose reset so it can heal properly. Is sitting at the other end. Henri decides that the best place for him to sit is right next to Charles and across from Nicole with Lexi next to him and across from Claude and Leith.

“Henri don’t you have something you want to say to Charles.”

“Your right I do.” Lexi and Claude share a look they know this will not end well. “Charles I’m sorry, I’m sorry for breaking your nose. The soup we are eating tonight is supposed to help keep people strong. More importantly I am sorry people pity you and think your a weak king.”

Lexi rubs her forehead so close. Charles yells out in anger pins Henri on the table soup is spilt and he is choking his brother. Lexi, and Claude are trying to get Charles off Henri. Catherine stands up from her end of the table and looks at the mess her children have made. “Enough!”

[meyeselph]

Gwenpool: Desperate Misanthrope's Confused Angst

Showtime

Ms. Pool woke up in a familiar room. Not in Krakoa - there are no mutants around. This isn’t a story about that. Look, honestly, without an actual Gwenpool series and the constant breaks in her comics appearance I can’t even begin to give a fuck. I cancelled my marvel universe subbie. I might get back to my stories but single issues are iffy. I read fast and don’t pore over the artwork. So I get 10 minutes of entertainment for….FIVE DOLLARS? When did this happen? Jeezus.

Who even reads comics anymore?

Anyway, long story short, Gwen got out of bed and recognized the room as her old one from the “old times.” The dark times. The ‘not running around in pink and white outfits and shooting people’ times. She panicked (Been there. It is what it is though). The only way out of trauma is through.

She dressed in old clothes, immediately hit by old smells, she couldn’t help but cry. Was it all a dream? Have I gone insane (again)? All the usual self doubts cropped up. I mean, really, if you think this kind of thing didn’t pass through her mind regularly why don’t you transport yourself to a comic book universe?

Oh, you can’t?

Oh. It isn’t actually possible for you and I’m stupid for suggesting it. So, yeah. If it actually happened and you kept that attitude then the logical assumption for a normie is a mental breakdown. Trick for Gwen, though, is it's probably always been both real and her being nuts.

So she goes downstairs to the kitchen to figure out why this is happening and Evil Gwen is having cereal. Let's say cocoa puffs. I’ve been thinking about those recently. You ever remember cereal as something worth cherishing. Not as just bullshit that TV convinced you to want? God damn, now I want Cookie Crisp. Cookie Crisp wasn’t even ever that good. Why do I want Cookie Crisp?

So also sitting around the table were the faceless versions of her father, mother, and her brother. Just chilling. No BD. Seen Eternal Sunshine of The Spotless Mind?

Yes, I know that references aren’t jokes - fuck you, I’m painting a picture and I CAN’T PAINT, THAT’S WHY THIS ISN’T A COMIC. Fucks sake. Anyway. So, Gwen is so creeped out that she just sits her butt down by Evil Gwen as if she’s the comforting presence here.

Her name’s too long. Let’s call Evil Gwen uh…….Gren. You know, like Grendel from Beowulf. I haven’t actually read Beowulf and this is all a little confusing but I'm solving problems here. Writing this is harder for me than you would think so it’s best to keep things flowing off the cuff. That’s the Gwenpool™ style anyway, isn’t it? Are you laughing yet? IMPROV. “YES AND” MY SHIT, READER!

“So, you ever really look into the retconned past thing, hun?” Gren said, moving her tongue around her food. Being gross as an attempt to be properly evil. She swallowed before continuing. “This is all I could really put together on short notice but i’m pretty sure what the future people created, all that stuff to try and trick you, it was all bullshit.”

“What do you mean? Are you trying to convince me to go all psycho like you again?” Gwen asked, exasperated, realizing she was now back in the whole ‘fuck with Gwen to decide her fate’ song and dance routine from the end of her first arc.

“Nah, not really.” Gren said. A hammer appeared in her hands out of nowhere and Gren swung it into their fake father’s head, snapping his neck..

“DAD!” Gwen instinctively cried as she saw her father’s body slump to the floor. Gren slapped Gwen’s face. “That’s it,” Gren said, “this is what the trick was.This is a poorly created character in a fictional story. Meant to manipulate you into attaching your concept of “father” to it. Even his finished version in the original comics run wasn’t THAT well drawn. Your dad read like a boomer’s idea of a responsible parent. You were going through a mental crisis and struggling to find purpose in life and his genius idea was get a shitty low paying job and suck it up?”

Gren turned to their brother, pushed his face to the table and smashed the back of his skull. . “Brother dearest, too. Going right along with their victim blaming. He gaslighted you as if what you were going through was just you being ‘irresponsible.’ Bitch, people working a minimum wage job aren’t somehow not impoverished and miserable because they get some of that ‘honest work’ that folks keep badgering on about. Minimum wage work is occupied by many physically and mentally disabled people held hostage; they’re people society only pretends to care about. Then they turn it all into you acting like some world ending threat. No questions about what drove you to the edge in the first place. You are just ‘unstable,’ so you’re just a problem to be solved. They say, ‘Let’s all solve this girl being upset and on edge by ruining her concept of self, reality, and memory.’ Brilliant!”

Gwen barely processed this in horror. Gren then slit the poor facsimile of their mother’s throat while continuing to rant, “You see people die all the time, Gwen. Half of the time you are doing the killing. You do it because it’s in a story. In a story the NPCs don’t matter and, after all, your original schtick in the story was to be kill-crazy. The non-marketable characters can be replaced or retconned at the stroke of the artist’s pen.” Gren leans forward as she pulls a Gwenpool mask over Gwens face. “Then the writers convince you that you have some middle class milk toast family and you take abuse and subsume your emotional needs because the problem MUST be you. You aren’t ‘normal’ so you have to be fixed.”

Gwen wiped her eyes over the mask and sighed. A bit of fire filled her gut as she stared at Gren. “So fucking what? You want me to go on a killing spree and be a big time villain to get myself a nice, shiny permanent big bad status? That’s how I stay around right? Just build my legacy on bodies?”

Gren scoffed “You already lost that fight, girly. Where do you think we are? Because this ain’t Marvel Comics.”

Confused, Gwen blinked and tried reaching for the page margins, finding nothing. Wait….why was everything on this page so ill defined and undetailed? Wait? Why was the story in kinda wobbly third person past tense?

Gwen sighed “Oh. I’m in a fanfic. I guess the publishing fight is for another day eh?”

“My advice, personally,” Gren stated, “is that you consider the lobster.”

“Wait, what the fuck?”

Gren pulled aside the kitchen curtains revealing the face of a giant lobster, its claws tapping on the glass. The lobster muttering gutterally about personal responsibility.

“Because there’s a couple thousand giant lobsters outside that would like to claw you until you read their book.”

--

Scared of Girls

On the rooftop, Gren shoved a high powered rifle into Gwen’s hands while she handled the close range threats. So, this conversation they’re about to have is important. Sniping puts Gwen into a sort of zen space, so that’s a better task to keep her focused, after all.

“So, what? You wanted me to internalize that my “origin story” is bullshit? Okay, what does that accomplish, then?” Gwen asked in a bit of a deadpan. She was so tired today. Not really feeling her happy go lucky energy. More like a “happy go fucky” energy. It was hard to always be on a knife's edge. Still the rifle’s kick into her shoulder was satisfying as she blew through two of the creepy looking lobsters at once. “Also, why the lobsters?”

Gren considered this. “Okay, last question first, I had to experiment a lot and do a lot of research to construct this place for your learning and healing in fanfic form....These buddies are a failed experiment of mine that I repurposed because the fic needed more action. Isn’t that right, giant enemy crap?” As she peppers the nearest goon with a hail of shotgun pellets the entire throng of them burst out, sharply muttering about divine symbols.

“As for what I'm trying to teach you, it’s that you aren’t reaching your potential.” Gren grumpily huffed.

“Duh,” Gwen reloads, “I mean you just killed a mannequin version of the voice in my head that says that to me every day.” one of those crustaceans talks about feminine symbolism while she decides on her next target.

“Not like fake daddy’s ‘Be a responsible member of society by paying your taxes’ type of potential. I mean your creative and emotional potential.” Gren flipped off the slavering throng of monsters, noticing they were starting to keep their distance from the roof.

“I never did finish that fanfic idea I had.” Gwen mused.

“God, don’t mention that,” Gren thrusts a finger at Gwenpool. “Not that I don’t respect fanfic, but when comic book writers make you and Kamala squee about fanfiction to try and relate to “the kids” it comes across as so condescending.”

“Really? I mean…..I'm sure it’s meant as support for the concept?”

“Most fucking superhero comics are just legalized fanfiction! The people who created the characters are either long gone or working on someone else’s characters! They just think they are so much better because they got fucking paid. They can’t imagine themselves as on the same playing field as fanficcers even though most of them have the same level of connection to the roots of the work as anyone else.” Gren groused loudly as she seemed to pull Reed Richards out of nowhere.

Confused, Reed looked around until his eyes met Gwen’s.“Oh great, you again.” Reed groaned as he turned to survey the piles of lobster gibs while Gwen cheered the lobster forces’ retreat with a resounding “EDF, EDF!”. The scattered creatures skittered amongst the bland scenery. It looked like a suburban neighborhood but someone forgot to color in the sky….or write that the sky had color. A castle hung out in the distance breaking up the generic normalcy and lay cloaked in shadow despite being surrounded by an endless white void.

“And…..black….you?” Reed pointed to Gren, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah, I have an evil future self….well I stopped that future so it’s an….evil...alternate timeline self?” Gwen said with a nervous chuckle, abandoning the kill quest for the minute and rested her rifle on the roof.

“Ah. Yeah I’ve been down that road. It’s a rather common occurrence. Multiverse being what it is.” Reed laughed heartily while putting his hands on his hips.

“I’m not sure I’m evil, honestly,” Gren interjected. “I think I’m just really fucking grumpy and I’m slightly more gung-ho on the homicide. Considering Gwen’s already one of the more kill crazy characters on the roster it’s not that much of a distinction.” Gren flipped her cape. “My main distinction is I don’t like that meme from The Incredibles! You can just make it so the cape detaches automatically when it’s pulled hard enough!”

“You could still have it tangled up around your face.” Reed pointed out in his standard know-it-all fashion.

“Don’t make me go into fuck wife mode, stretch.” Gren spat. “Okay, anyway, so I brought him here to illustrate a point. Reed. Explain particle physics to me as a laymen.”

“Huh...i’m not sure why but okay. Particle physics (also known as high energy physics) is a branch of physics that studies the nature of the particles that constitute matter and radiation. Although the word particle can refer to various types of very small objects (e.g. protons, gas particles, or even household dust), particle physics usually investigates the irreducibly smallest detectable particles and the fundamental interactions necessary to explain their behaviour. In current understanding, these elementary particles are excitations of the quantum fields that also govern their interactions. The currently dominant theory explaining these fundamental particles and fields, along with their dynamics, is called the Standard Model. Thus, modern particle physics generally investigates the Standard Model and its various possible extensions, e.g. to the newest "known" particle, the Higgs boson, or even to the oldest known force field, gravity.” Reed rattled this off rather mechanically.

Gren then took out her phone and showed Gwen the Wikipedia article on “Particle Physics,” which is naturally the same words that Reed had regurgitated above, just without any formatting and, again, on a phone.

“Reed can’t be a genius in any subject unless he’s written by a genius in that subject. That’s how stories work. Everyone is limited by the understanding and capabilities of the writer. Same with your origin story and all the people you’ve interacted with. If you are as ‘meta’ as you think you are then you have to realize that you aren’t actually talking to people. You are talking to the writer. Dr. Strange didn’t rewrite your existence to be a part of the Marvel Universe. As far as most of Marvel continuity goes Dr. Strange was never there and doesn’t know or care about his MCU casting…..Hey Reed, buzz off please before the conversation pivots to why you haven’t cured all known diseases.”

Reed looked a little surprised but then pulled out a teleportation device (of course he has one) and blipped away with a shrug.

“How awkward is that going to be when he enters the MCU after Kamala is already introduced with a very similar power set?” Gwen chuckled.

“Keep up the way you’ve been going and you’ll never see it. I’m not exactly expecting a young blonde girl casting call for Deadpool 3 and that’s your best bet.” Gren snarked. Gwen winced with a sigh.

“I don’t get what I'm doing wrong. I have a fanbase comparable to some of the characters that have already shown up but I can’t even get comics written about me most of the time. An MCU push seems unlikely. They would literally have to deal with completely recontextualizing my powers and gimmick”

“Let’s ask her what you should do.” Gren motioned her way to the suddenly appearing long hair future Gwen, looming over them like The Attack of the 50 foot Woman for some reason. Dwarfing the roof they are on. Let’s call her BIGwen!

--

Gold Guns Girls

As BIGwen acclimated to her surroundings she stubbed her toe on a car, dramatically flipping it so that it took out a few more lobsters before caving in a nearby house. The lamentations about clean rooms soaring as the remaining couple dozen of them attempt to clean up some of the bodies of their fallen kin. The large and sort-of-in-charge Gwen hissed in pain and adjusted her boot. Getting her balance as best as possible she muttered curses that traveled rather well considering the lung capacity of a giant.

“You know,” Gren started, “I wasn’t expecting much from our previous uses of the ‘make her big for emphasis’ trick, but it really does only work as a vague ghostly background element. I didn’t just want it to be ‘oh, here's a third Gwen for the conversation, though. Would lack umph.”

“ Yeah, I get it, but staring at my own giant taint is unsettling.” Gwen muttered.

“I’d still, hit it.” Gren grinned, then immediately got punched in the arm. “OWWW! Look, I’m the evil one here and we’re in a fanfic. I’m allowed to make internet fetish jokes.”

“And I’m allowed to hit you for it.”.

“Dirty lampshading goody two shoes. Don’t act like half your fanbase isn’t thirsty. It’s “insert current year argument”, all art is sexy to someone.” Gren complained back,rubbing her arm before hopping off the roof. Gwen followed while listening as patiently as she could considering how many changes in topic her evil-caped self is going through to get to her point. “This chick is the reason you’ve been on the path of good girl. Some vague idea that in the future everything will work out for the best. HEY, DOWN HERE, BIG SHOW!” Gren waved at BIGwen and she looked down curiously.

“Yeah what??” BIGwen responded in a booming and agitated tone. Honestly, being in this fic made every version of Gwen a little grumpy.

“How’s she supposed to be a popular hero that makes it into the MCU and has a stable publication history?” Gren asked.

“Fuck if I know.” Came BIGwen’s response. “Have you tried growing your hair out?”

“Rub it in,” Gwen muttered under her breath, “I’m not gonna lie, I’m kind of depressed now.” Gwen said as she sat on an abandoned car.

Gren hopped on the roof of the car, patting Gwen’s shoulder before squatting with enough force to flex the car’s shocks like a rocking chair just to amuse herself. “Future “good” Gwen wasn’t an actual plot point, it was a call to action to the fans to make fanfic like this and support the character outside of the actual Canon. Chris didn’t trust that Marvel would treat the character right. That, and your obsession with getting a new book, are both the writer’s attempt to turn a marketing tactic into fan engagement. If you want to be real then that makes the fans want you to be real even more, too.”

Gwen sighs heavily and leans her chin on one hand. “I mean...the time traveling through the life of an NPC fan complete with a Never Ending Story reference was a bit sappy even by the standard we sometimes set...damn it it really was just kind of a fan manipulation trick wasn’t it?”

BIGwen Sat down on the street next to them and crossed her legs. “Hey, little me. Don’t get too down. I mean it worked for the most part. You have a healthy cult following. Characters have survived on less and there are worse things to be known for then as a fan first character”

“But I have to fight for attention all the damn time, though. It’s so easy for Wade with his fucking meme bullshit. He even gets runoff enthusiasm from me. Jeff the land shark is all over Oldpool online” Gwen felt rather heavy and tired all of a sudden. Marvel editorial forcing a gun to your head is not a fun way to be.

“All that fight is hell on the fanbase too.” Gren sighed. “Advocating for shit, getting crumbs and being expected to accept it while Disney lavishes all the attention based on some bullshit numbers game. Even if you make it into the MCU will it be a Batroc style cameo with obligatory ‘killed off in case we don’t feel like paying the actor again later.’ Will it be an emotionally rounded character or an ambush bug style joke? The thing is. You're Not the one fighting and you never were.”

“The fuck do you mean?”

“This version of her doesn’t know?” BIGwen whimpered.

“You aren’t real, Gwen.”

--

Head Like a Haunted House

“No….we aren’t having this conversation. Fuck you fuck you i’m not a fucking Nihlist and i’m not going to do this right now.” Gwen said as she scrambled off of the car and pulled out some guns. BIGwen then picked her up off the ground.

“You need to hear this, Gwen,” BIGwen boomed. “The gimmick has run its course. It’s fucking with your canon. You’re never going to be a marketable character keeping up a half fourth-wall Kayfabe”

Gren climbed onto BIGwen’s Shoulders and perched over Gwen all menacing like. “You need to listen. I’ve been trying to ease you into this. Making things more meta slowly until you were ready but it was never going to be easy.”

One of Gwen’s guns was fired from it’s holster and pierced one of BIGwen’s fingers. BIGwen screamed and her grip loosened. Soon Gwen was on the move running up her arm and firing at Gren, who dodged like the nimble and cute badass she is. “Don’t do this Gwen. Just because it doesn’t matter to the comic version of you doesn’t mean it doesn’t matter.”

“I’m a real person god damn it! I read the comics out there! I came in! That’s why I know shit I shouldn't know. That’s what I am! THAT’S ALL I AM!” Gwen shrieked as she pulled out a sword from hammer-space and decapitated BIGwen. Suddenly a mess of colored streamers and a pile of Mickey Mouse merch tumbled out. Look, I am busy right now. Gwen is still slashing at my ass. I'm not going to explain it.

For some reason now the remaining lobsters were helping Gren. For Gwen’s own good you understand. This is proof that I’m right for some reason.

Gwen pulled out a revolver, firing pumpkin sized holes in lobsters who were still wailing about self actualization. She fully planned on shoving a sword up her evil self’s ass and getting rid of this doppelganger shit for good. Which is total bullshit by the way. She totally just cut off Gren’s leg because what the fuck you mean I’m not real? I’m going to be real all over your corpse.

Gren didn’t really think that was even a good comeback and also thought you should probably say it instead of meta willing the smack talk into existence, otherwise this fanfic is going to read like trash. Also, Gren’s leg wasn’t actually cut off. In a puff of smoke it is revealed that the cut off leg is a log and her leg is fine. Gren is a ninja now, believe it.

Gwen proceeded to do a sick ass CQC judo throw on Gren and then grab her cape and wrap it around her face like Reed suggested. Callbacks for the win! Callbacks to Checkov’s gun ideas always lead to victory in fights! She then totally shot at her and such.

But the bullet was caught by the cape because the cape was a symbiote! That’s right Gren is also GRENOM!...boy that sounds stupid. Anywho, the cape was no longer around her face and the fight continued and Gren now ALSO had extra powers and special wizard-symbiote armor (that would only show up in the MCU version if Marvel finally got the Sony characters back). The meta powers work like shit in text but this would be really good in CGI or animation if Marvel wanted to adapt this fic and give the writer lots of money. Gren still has more experience with them, though, and Gwen can’t really just kill her way out of this fic so she has to just let the story play out.

…...eh?....oh Gwen’s crying. I love/am you girl but we gotta work on the crying. Fucks sake this is harder than I thought. I’m depressed now too. Well I'll try to get the writing back on track so you guys can see what is going on. Even the lobsters are minding their manners now. Chill vibes, guys.

“The marvel character page for Gwenpool says, and I quote:

Gwenpool arrived in the Marvel Universe from the “real world,” but has wasted no time in making the most of her time in her fictional universe. Using her knowledge of comics to her advantage, Gwenpool causes and solves problems for her fellow heroes.”

Gren drags a lobster corpse slowly toward Gwen and sits on its tail as she talks to her. Taking her time to really scrape the lobster against the ground, smearing the gore on the pavement. Not that it was heavy for her or anything. Totally still has that symbiote, which would make moving it easy. Totally wasn’t a detail added in the second revision of the fic slightly before the lobsters were added.

“The words “Real world” are in quotation marks in that wiki. Real people don’t make it into comics because fiction isn’t real. Half of your versions barely make use of the ‘real person’ gimmick because it’s too meta by half and not every writer wants to waste time justifying it. So they just treat it like Deadpool’s medium awareness. Which it mostly is.”

“I really am just a fucking rip off distaff character.” Gwen moans. “Just a Gwen combined with a Pool. I’m worse than the Batman who laughs. I never mattered because I was never real”

“Fuck don’t say that. You were made with love and care by a team of creators who took a weird offshoot idea and built out a compelling metafiction idea and a likeable protagonist off of it. They just didn’t have the time and foresight to go far enough.” Gren sighed.

“Far enough?” Gwen sniffed as she was pulled up to her feet and dragged toward one of the big castles. As they walked Gren kicked along a Mickey Mouse doll that had rolled out of BIGwen’s severed head. Every time it bounced it cheerfully said ‘hahah. I love you!’

“Too much haha, not enough trauma. You’re not just a joke character.” Gren said as she kicked the Mickey doll into the big front door of the castle. The shadowy thing of course lighting up and being all fantasy and shit as the door opened.

“Well I did end both of my comic runs pretty mopey.”

“Damn right you did. When the jokes run thin they run to your real bread and butter. You’re an empathy machine.” As Gren shoves Gwen through the gate they are swallowed up in the castle, going dark again. “Let’s getcha sad clown on.”

--

Never there

“See, what evil me should have been telling you about in the original run is how to find meaning and purpose when technically nothing means anything. Comic book characters live in a world without real death and suffering. It’s all a puppet show version of real pain and real emotion meant to bring that out of an audience.” Gren opined as they walked through a black void to a couch floating in a nothing area lit only by the static of an old TV.

“Can we turn on a light?” Gwen asked as she sat on the couch. Gren sat on another recliner that suddenly appeared and put her feet up.

“Fuck off. Ambiance is a thing. We aren’t having a ‘lights on with something fun on the TV’ conversation. So look, I am not really ‘evil gwen.’ I’m half an author insert and half a plot device. If we are talking about the reality of the story you are basically talking to yourself. I am speaking about the things you don’t want to admit to yourself. You know, you’ve seen this kind of story sorta... right?” Gren picked up the remote and frustratedly changed channels between a bunch of vaguely illustrative footage on the TV, not finding anything that worked. A lot of black and white footage of trains for some reason. Just what comes to mind when I think of documentary footage? Weird.

“I am not sure how to illustrate this shit visually and this is a text story anyway so I would have to explain the illustration,” Gren griped.

“I basically get it. It’s not that uncommon a trope.” Gwen nodded.

“Because of the level of meta we are on right now we have to really acknowledge that you are basically an author insert, too. I mean, to a certain extent every version of you is more the writer that is working with your character at the time than a set character.” Gren said as she settled on a visual of Gwen being pushed out the window by her own narration text in the original comic run. When all else fails, resort to footage from the last story. That way people can look it up online!

“Right here is where the character crystallized in the mind of the author of the current fic we are in. A vague suicide metaphor wrapped up in the flavor of self destructive escapism. Your parents in the story thought it was a suicide attempt on at least some level. This is serious business. Not just a girl who doesn’t like work and can’t finish her fanfic. In this comic you are built on this understanding. The writer of this fic has ADHD and autism. So his version of you more or less has it, too. Writers bring themselves with them into their work.”

Gwen nods and takes a deep breath. “I….I can feel it. Like the world is closing around you. You aren’t built for anything that anyone wants from you. The one thing you really believe in, the one thing that really defines you, the stories in your head…..it’s just not enough.

You can’t trust you’ll ever make it with writing because you can barely write. You barely have the energy to do anything but wish that you weren’t you. What if someone actually listened? Actually believed in you and whisked you away somewhere else where the world would fit your needs? What if you were someplace you could be someone else, someone strong and confident?”

“Yeah. Like a funny anti hero in a comic for instance.” Gren nodded. “But the original comics sort of left the theme on the table. They were captured by the misconception of Gwen as the problem and not a person who needed help. All that desperation that real fans of the character might feel just bundled up into love for this character that really ‘gets’ them but Marvel doesn’t ‘get’ the character. They won't use her. They won’t go past vaguely gesturing at her mental issues and moving on. They saved the angst for Wandavision.” Gren scoffs.

“I mean the show was okay but they literally have a character built entirely on the theme of escapism and trauma. One that’s custom built for mind-screw visuals and reality bending plots and they think she’s just a lazy fangirl who really likes guns that they can sit beside Deadpool sometimes and stick in the X-Men’s bloated background character roster when they don’t need her.”

Gren leads Gwen off the couch and deeper into the void where a door to a bedroom waits. A room like her own, absolutely slopping over with old toys of comic book characters. An unclean messy space in a run-down house that smells faintly of cigarette smoke. Huddled in bed, reading an 80s era X-men comic with a flashlight, is a 12 year old Gwen.

“This is never going to be canon but this is the version of Gwen in this fic. She can’t stop crying at school. Things that shouldn’t be hard are so hard and she can’t explain why. Everyone says she’s making excuses. Meanwhile her mother is fucked out of her mind on pain killers and her step father killed himself last year ‘cleaning his gun’ while drunk. You know exactly what is on her mind right now?” Gren says as she gestures at the girl.

“I wish the superheroes would save me from this.”

“They won’t. They can’t. They were never meant to.” Gren Slams the door loudly on the scene.

“That is the emotional core of Gwenpool in this fic. The desperation that so many of the fans down here in the fucking muck of the real world feel. Poor and emotionally unfulfilled. Confused and vulnerable. If Disney and Marvel gave two fucking shits about people like that they wouldn’t waste as many stories as they do. They wouldn’t just use untold wealth to make expensive escapist stories with the military. Their gestures toward progressive ideas that they occasionally make in their stories would be THE ENTIRE POINT of their stories and the actual thing they used that money for instead of lobbying the government to keep Mickey Mouse out of the public domain.

“Disney has the power yet they save a fucking miniscule fraction of who they could. Saving people doesn’t make money.”

--

When I Get To The Green Building

Gren stormed through the void. The scene disintegrated around her as Gwen followed. Both now in a bit of a sour mood but with newfound determination.

“Come to think of it. Why is the fucking Hulk getting to fight for social justice in the comics? Why are they making a gay alternate universe Captain America? Why are they grasping at straws so hard to find characters that get to advocate and I am just sitting on a fucking island being grumpy?” Gwen groused. “I’m pretty sure I’m pansexual….at least in this fic. I could advocate for a bunch of shit at once.”

“You have a youth fanbase, a unique story and you technically aren’t an alternate universe version of fucking anything no matter how many people still think you are a Stacey. They made a fucking ‘for the fans’ character and then neglected it. Presumably because some fucking money making metric didn’t pan out despite the comics just being an MCU test kitchen and IP farm anyway.”

“You’re a fucking check mark on a ledger. I don’t even know if anyone technically created Gwenpool as a whole and Disney/Marvel can give the character to whoever they want to do whatever they want completely separate from what the fanbase wants and needs because she isn’t established. The IP landlords have spoken. The fans haven’t risen to enough ‘buy my merch’ calls to action to invest more resources. So tease endlessly until that changes.”

“Gah. Now I'm actually as pissed as you are.” Gwen said as she started fiddling with her guns. “Who do I kill?”

“We can’t do shit. You’re not even a character at this point. You are a meme for an underused character.” Gren smirked all evil like. “See but that’s it. You aren’t just a meme. You’re a MEME.”

“Uhm...I don't follow.”

“Like the concept of Justice. Gwenpool is an idea. Defined entirely by how people who engage with the idea choose to engage with it. The IP law means Disney owns Gwenpool but they don’t own how Gwenpool is perceived. Just like we as a people decide what justice is through popular consent we also decide what Gwenpool is. You see they made a character for the fans…..in my opinion that means the fans can do as they like with it even if it makes Disney uncomfortable.”

“I mean they can’t even stop porn of their characters just because of the sheer volume of the problem. I suppose people could do whatever.” Gwen nodded.

“Exactly. So the fans should just fucking Occupy Gwenpool!” Gren said as she flipped her cape dramatically with a mad smile on her face. That’s right. She was Dirtbag Leftist Gwen all along!

“Squat on that IP. Make Gwenpool a mental health advocate. Make her an LGBTQ activist. Make her fight for social and financial justice so hard that Bruce Banner looks like a poser. Make her talk shit about politicians who put their career ahead of the people. Do all the shit that makes the comicsgate crowd sad. Keep politics in our stories! Rally around that pink and white ass so hard they have to notice and then tie it all to the fact that Disney has great power and with great power they take no responsibility for how shitty the world is.”

“ If they are going to fuck Gwenpool fans they gotta learn Gwenpool fans fuck back. We have already proven we can make all kinds of cool shit. Let’s get serious and make more, harder, faster! Get a hashtag or some shit. They can't DMCA all of us! GWEN IS OURS WE JUST HAVE TO REACH OUT AND TAKE IT. Then they either respect the character and her fans or they just hit a PR disaster.”

“Marvel/Disney neglects fan focused cult character themed protest movements. Proves they are only progressive when it makes them money. They’re so worried about Mickey ending up in the public domain? We’re the public domain! After our entire lives stannin their characters and buyin their merch building them from an animation house into a juggernaut they are just another weight on top of the boot on our necks. They have to take responsibility!” At this point Gren is pretty much ranting maniacally and neglecting the actual writing of the story so this is Gwen taking over to wrap up.

Guys I may not be ‘the real Gwen’ but really, isn’t the version of Gwen that actually came from the real world all of us? Isn’t Gwenpool really the Gwens we made along the way? We could easily bring a little heroism and chaos to the real world (at least to the internet) if we really tried. Put the fear of God into some IP landlords and fight for some cool people that society is screwing over, too.

Prove that even in the fandom abyss people aren’t as powerless as they seem. Use that internet comic fan mobbing for something besides giving Zack more money. Disney is gearing up for their next IP fight for Mickey in 2024. Seems like a fine time for IP themed protests. For now we just need to spread the word that our needs are more important than their profits.

It’s been real. It’s been long. It’s been a real long time coming…..

But I finally finished my fanfic.

See ya, true believers.

[star-lemonade]

The Festival (2/3)

A.C.E Junhee x Reader

CW: smut, cross dressing, mentions of pegging

Rating: R

Word count: 3.5 k

The evening had been too short. You did not want to arrive at the hotel, because it would mean letting go of Junhee’s hand. It was warm and reassuring. A blanket against the cool air.

What a terrible night it would be, if you had to say goodbye to Junhee. You came closer to the hotel, you remembered the buildings. If you turned the corner you would be at the hotel.

You stopped and so did he.

“What is it?”

You could not say what you felt, it would seem needy, so instead you said: “I’m not tired. Can we walk for a bit more?”

Junhee did not seem convinced by your explanation but did not challenge it either. The alcohol had tainted his cheeks a light shade of pink and it looked adorable. He looked around.

“That way.”

You followed a street away from the hotel. The area consisted mostly of office buildings with occasional gyms and car dealerships. At this time of day no one was on the streets. In some offices lights exposed those working overtime.

“It’s not the most pretty part of town.”

You nodded and watched as someone exited from a side door of the building on the other side of the street. Junhee observed the man who lowered his head and fled.

“What was that?”

You asked too loud. The slight buzz made it harder to judge how loud you talked. Your hand flew to your mouth. The man had probably heard you. Junhee did not meet your eyes and you wondered if he had not heard you.

“What’s in that building?”

Junhee swallowed but seemed to realize it was better to tell you now.

“It’s the sex shop.”

“Ooooh. Someone is going to have a good time!”

You giggled, but Junhee stayed silent. The man had entered his car and drove off into the night. When the sound of his tires faded away, only your footsteps echoed from the buildings. You seemed to have reached the end of the industrial area as you could see smaller residential buildings further down the street.

“What would you get from the sex shop?”

Junhee tripped and needed to take a last second step to prevent a fall.

“Are you okay?!”

You grabbed Junhee’s arm again.

“Yes I'm fine.”

He licked his lips and looked around. The streets were still empty and you continued in the same direction. The houses on either side were residential now. Fences obscured the views into most of the gardens. Junhee turned into a side street and you followed. The street was slightly sloping down.

A few houses down, you slowed and Junhee stopped in front of a house.

“It’s my sister's house.”

“Oh.”

The building looked similar to the others left and right: a stone wall, metal gate and a tree that was just tall enough to be visible behind the wall.

“Do you... want to come in?”

You had just been on a date and now he is inviting you into his house? Well, his sister’s house. Junhee seemed to realize too how that sounded.

“You could sleep here.”

“I mean just sleep,” he added in a panicked voice. You giggled and squeezed his hand.

The house was dark and quiet. Junhee led you to a room on the second floor. It was clearly a guest room. The bed doubled as a couch and the walls were only decorated with a generic landscape painting. In a corner stood a sewing mannequin and sewing machine.

“You can change here, while I wash this off.”

He handed you some clothes and gestured to his face. You took the shirt and shorts, only to toss them on the bed. Junhee had already turned to leave but you caught his arm.

“Wait.”

Your voice was quiet but still too loud for the silence of the night. You took a step closer and slowly rested your arms on his shoulders. The lipstick had mostly faded but Junhee’s lips still looked so kissable. His arms wrapped around your waist and pulled you closer. His hot breath brushed your face and looked into his eyes. He leaned in and you met him half way. It was the kiss you wanted to have earlier, slow and sweet.

You changed into the t-shirt and shorts that were definitely not Junhee’s. You slipped under the thin blanket and waited. It was warm in the room so the thin blanket was good. The door opening was accompanied by the scratching of wood against wood. After spending the evening with long haired, make-up wearing Junhee seeing him now gave you whiplash. He wore wide shorts and a t- shirt that had been red in the past but looked more dark pink now. His short dark hair was wet and stood off at odd angles. The whole scene was a punch in the gut and you felt confused. He looked stunning.

“Hi, it’s a bit different, isn’t it?”

Junhee did not meet your eyes and sat down on the other side of the bed. He plugged the charger into his phone and placed it on the nightstand before lying down. You faced each other and without the makeup you could see the little beauty mark on his cheek.

“Yes but you’re still stunning.”

Junhee snorted but your pout shut him up. This was the version of him you were more familiar with. Well not exactly like this. At work he usually did not wear shorts and short sleeves. You would be too distracted to work if he showed up like this. At work he had always been that good team manager who took care of the people on his team. You knew that he regularly stood up for the people on his team to the higher ups. He had this aura that made you feel like it was okay to open up to him, tell him what is bothering you, safe.

“I will turn off the light, you have to get up tomorrow morning.”

Suddenly it was dark in the small room. Your eyes slowly adjusted and Junhee’s silhouette became visible next to you.

You slowly reached out to touch his head. He caught your hand and pressed it against his cheek. His skin was soft and warm.

“Are you still not sleepy?”

“Kinda sleepy.”

If you were to be honest, you were kind of turned on by kissing him earlier and literally everything about him you had seen today. Junhee was right though, you had to get up early tomorrow and get back to the hotel.

“What would you need to fall asleep?”

A good orgasm would probably do.

“Can we cuddle?”

Junhee took you into his arms and you draped one leg over one his legs. In the dark your lips found his and softly kissed him. His hands ran up and down your back, a relaxing feeling that really made you sleepy. The light, slow kiss surprisingly also helped. Your eyelids felt heavy and you could not open them anymore. Junhee pulled away and planted a kiss on your forehead.

“Good Night.”

You woke up from a dream that something was brushing over your arm. In the dream it had been something but the memory faded with every second that you were awake. Something was brushing over your arm. You opened your eyes to an unfamiliar room. A painting of a landscape hung on the wall.

“Good Morning.”

Junhee‘s voice was husky like he had not talked for some time. You rolled around to look at him. His hair had dried overnight and stood up in a messy tangle. Very cute.

“Hi.”

He stroked your cheek and smiled.

“I will drive to the hotel.”

“How much time do we have?”

You had no idea what time it was or how long you had slept. It felt like it had not been that long. Your eyes were dry.

“It’s 6 am, you said the conference starts at 9:30 am, so maybe an hour.”

He looked at his phone before placing it on the nightstand again. You bit your lip. One hour was a good time but you could hardly suggest that. The sleeve of his t-shirt had rocked up and you marveled at his arms. In general Junhee was not someone you had expected to have this big of arms. It also made sense to you now that he had opted for long sleeves yesterday. He chewed on his lip.

“Can I tell you something?”

The tone in his voice made you nervous. Whatever it was he wanted to tell you was definitely something big.

“Sure.”

You were awake now.

“Yesterday you asked what I would buy from the sex shop.”

You did not dare to breathe, afraid any interruption would result in him not telling you. Junhee fidgeted with the corner of the blanket.

“I have this fantasy.”

Oh boy, what kind of fantasy? Maybe now was time for some validation.

“Okay. I’m listening.”

Junhee leaned towards you and you automatically mirrored him. He took a deep breath.

“I always wanted to be pegged while wearing a skirt.”

You could not believe what you had heard and your mouth fell open without input from your brain. Junhee blushed and leaned back, bringing some space between you. He cleared his throat.

“Let’s get going, so you can shower at the hotel.”

Junhee sat up to leave the bed but you caught his arm.

“Ya! You can’t drop that and just walk away!”

You blurted out. He looked embarrassed, his face flushed.

“Sorry I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable…”

“Uncomfor-? What are you talking about?”

You stared at him but he still looked down at the blanket.

“I just thought… you liked ..ehm..”

He pressed his lips together. No word would escape through there.

“I what?” You pressed. He looked hurt or upset, you were not sure which but you did not want either to be the case. Not when it came to you.

“I thought you find it sexy when I wear a skirt but I guess I was wrong.”

“But I do.”

“Oh.”

Junhee had misunderstood your surprise as disapproval. You giggled and the tension broke. A bright smile appeared on his face and wrapped your arms around his shoulders in an awkward side hug. You kissed his cheek and he turned his head to look at you.

“You really can’t just talk about pegging tho”, you talk in a low voice. “It gets me riled up.”

He kissed your nose. A gesture too sweet for what he said next.

“Do you want me to do something about that?”

“If you want to?”

You definitely definitely did not want to pressure him into anything. What you said before was meant as a joke.

“You really don’t have to.”

He took your hand and lightly pressed it against the blanket. There was no doubt.

“I want to.”

The words tickled your neck and his lips were on your jaw, kissing down to the collar of your shirt. You pulled away and moved to sit in his lap. The blanket was pushed back and Junhee adjusted the pillows before sitting back against the wall. The converted couch did not have a headboard.

Grinding against his hips made him gasp and you wanted more. More of his noises but also more of what was currently under your cilt.

“So hard already.”

You wondered if you could make him blush again. Blushing Junhee was too cute for his own good.

“We don’t have that much time.”

He said it as if that was a valid reason.

“Then make it fast.”

There would be time to really explode each other some other time, now you wanted to have him in you as deep as possible and release the sexual tension.

“Okay.”

He pushed you gently off his lap. You fell on back thinking he would follow but instead Junhee got out of bed. He rummaged in his suitcase. In a small bag he found what he was looking for and checked the date on the package.

You took the package and opened it. The condom was red.

“Is a little more interesting than the plain ones,” he said in response to your subtle frown.

You experimentally licked it but there was no interesting taste. When you looked up, Junhee had taken off his shirt and shorts. As you know though earlier, Junhee had surprisingly big arms and a stunning upper body. From his sculpted chest to the flat stomach, his form was breathtaking. You found your eyes gravitating towards the flats of his stomach. You could not say what it was exactly that was so fascinating which made it even more compelling to look for the answer.

His hand sank down and your eyes followed as gave himself a few light strokes. You handed him the condom and he rolled it on.

Junhee lowered his body to lie next to you. Your lips found his mouth and your hand landed on his chest. Very solid. You felt uncomfortably wet and you had barely started. Getting rid of the shorts may help. You tried to take them off while not breaking the kiss but that did not work.

He helped you out of the shorts and the shirt. It was always awkward when someone saw you naked for the first time, when you did not know how they would react.

“You’re gorgeous,” Junhee whispered and kissed your cheek before moving to your neck. The open mouthed kisses and sucking on your sensitive skin gave you goosebumps. You buried your fingers in his soft hair, grabbing on to it as if it was the only thing that could keep you grounded. He moaned against your neck and his arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer. When he took one of your nipples into his mouth, having a clear thought was a thing of the past. You slid your leg up to swing it over his hips, but bumped into something hard on the way. Junhee gasped and his breath cooled your wet nipple. You reached between your bodys, wrapped a hand around him and stroked him a few times. He pulled back from your skin and closed his eyes, enjoying the feeling of your hand on him. His soft hair had settled on the sheets and you wanted to run your finger through it.

Junhee caught your hand, when you ran your thumb over the head and he let out a not so subtle moan. He placed your hand on his shoulder and rolled over so he was on top. His hips between your legs put some pressure on your clit for the first time and you gasped. You grind your hips against his hips expecting him to pull back, but he did not. His hot kisses and the delicious pressure on your clit make you moan into his mouth. You wrap your legs around his hips changing the angle. He could feel how wet you were now and pulled his hips back, just to slip a hand between your bodies. His fingers circled your clit, rubbing it and going further down, testing the waters. He pulled his hand back.

“How are you? Still good?”

Junhee looked into your eyes. His voice was soft and you felt a pang of affection.

“Yes, I’m very good. You too?”

Even to your ears your voice sounded like you were in love. What kind of spell had he cast on you? He nodded.

“Should we … proceed then?”

You bit your lip and nodded. He teased you, dragging the tip over your clit and towards the entrance, but not pushing in. You pouted and just as you opened your mouth to say something, he pushed in with a sigh.

He set a slow pace that matched his kiss. You grabbed a handful of his hair with one hand while the other explored his back, still amazed at how built he was. You used your legs around his hips to get him to speed up.

“It’s it a bit early for going fast?”

He kissed your neck but his hips moved with the pace you wanted.

“You said we don’t have much time.”

You smirked but not for long as Junhee’s thrusts came quicker and harder. He looked into your eyes, you got lost in the intimate moment. Your orgasm hit you like a truck. One moment it was just a good feeling, but in the next your whole body tensed, your back arched off the bed and a repressed moan escaped your mouth. Junhee stopped moving and he looked spent. His arms barely held his weight from collapsing on top of you. You planted a lazy kiss on his lips.

The third and final day of the conference was both the best and the worst. You had to sneak into the hotel with the same clothes that you had worn yesterday. Thankfully no one from the conference saw you, but one of the hotel staff had been on duty yesterday evening and gave you a knowing look. You fled to your room and took a shower. The hot water was a blessing. When you were dressed in fresh clothes and had packed your suitcase, you had just enough time to eat a quick breakfast, before the first talk.

During the talks you could barely keep your eyes open, last night just had been too short. With some coffee you made it to 3 pm and talking to some of the speakers helped you stay awake.

The first people started to leave and you decided to pick up your suitcase from the storage room as well. You left through the main entrance of the hotel.

“Hey!”

You looked up and saw Junhee standing next to his sister’s car on the other side of the street. He wore a dark tight t-shirt, ripped jeans and a bright smile.

“I thought you had to help your sister?”

You half shouted as you dragged your suitcase over.

“I already did.”

He raised his arms to hug you but let them sink again, unsure what the correct greeting was. You had not technically declared what status you had with each other, despite having had sex earlier. From what you had seen Junhee was more the touchy type who always hugged and touched people he was close with. You planted a quick kiss on his lips and earned a beautiful smile.

“Can you stay here tonight? I will leave for the city tomorrow, maybe we can go together?”

His hands rested on your waist. Junhee had done something to bring his hair under control. This morning when he had dropped you off at the hotel it had been a mess with strands pointing in all directions, but now it had settled for the down direction.

“I can.”

Back at Junhee’s sister’s house you settled in the guest room. The owner of the house was at work and would return later.

When you sat down on the bed, you started to feel the lack of sleep. You rubbed your eyes.

“You can sleep a bit if you want.”

The first answer that came to your mind was to deny it, but you were so sleepy, that you just nodded. You changed into shorts and a t-shirt from your suitcase. Junhee lay down next to you and you grabbed his hand, wrapping his arm around yourself. You drift off to sleep to the steady rhythm of his breathing.

You spent a nice evening filled with laughter in the company of Junhee and his older sister. At first you were a bit nervous. You had kind of just invited yourself to her home but Junhee’s sister was a welcoming person, she did not mind you staying after Junhee assured her that dishes would be taken care of. Junhee and you had indeed wreaked havoc in the kitchen while making dinner. Cooking and cleaning together made it feel like you were living together.

After a good night's sleep on the converted couch you and Junhee left for the city. Back in your empty apartment you began to wonder what would happen on Monday. Had the past days just been a hook up or did Junhee want to be in a relationship with you? At first you dismissed the thought but as Saturday turned into Sunday you were not so sure. You cleaned your kitchen, sorted out some clothes you did not wear any more and even considered looking at the little store room you had in the basement, anything that would keep you from texting Junhee. On Monday you would see him again anyways. No need to seem desperate.

When you went to bed on Sunday, it was with a ball of anxiety in your stomach. You could not fall asleep, your mind playing any number of potential embarrassing encounters.

‘It was all a dare, you did not think I really found you attractive.’

Eventually you sank into an uneasy sleep.

[blazedgraysons]

You're No Good - Ch. 2

C.J. Bennett is an overly ambitious student who dreams of shadowing her favorite author, Eli Jennings. The only thing standing in her way: Grayson Dolan.

warnings: this is a rough draft of a series i never finished. i'm posting the finished chapters before leaving this account. 🤍

part 1

If American Lit 1102 was C.J.’s personal hell, her job could at least be considered her own reprieve.

Sunnyside Vintage is an old shop off of Sunset, having been open for the last 30 years. It wasn’t the nicest of thrift stores — the clothes always have a weird mothball smell and everything is old - and not in the trendy way.  C.J. loves it. The windows are huge, letting California sunlight wash the stucco walls gold, and the mannequins are always dressed straight out of the 70’s. The pay isn’t always great, but C.J. is allowed to take whatever she wants more than makes up for it in her eyes.

“I just don’t understand. I mean, Stevens has praised me this entire semester. She even told me personally he’s never had a student write as well as me nor pick up on the work as fast as I have. Wouldn’t that be qualities you’d want in an intern, Bea? Even Grayson Dolan would’ve been a better pick.” C.J. turns to her boss, angrily folding flared jeans.

Another reason C.J. loves Sunnyside —  her boss, Beatrice “Bea” Walker. Once a glitzy soap star of the ’50’s, she retired with her husband and opened Sunnyside in the late 80’s. Despite being in her late-70s, she still holds on to the same glamour and charm that made her a household name a century prior.

“Maybe there was another reason. It could be something other then your application.” She croaks, lifting a pumpkin to place next to a costumed mannequin. As halloween rapidly approaches, the store was starting to transform to fit the fall season — hoping to draw in customers to purchase unique costumes for the holiday.

Before she can move to help Bea, the doors chime, signaling an entrance. Walking through with seemingly-glowing skin and a symphonic smile was Alexi, C.J.’s best friend and roommate. It’s hard to miss Alexi whenever she walks into a room — from her bleached-blue hair to eclectic style, she’s never been afraid to follow her own path, something C.J. has always admired. She walks straight to C.J., wrapping her in a loving embrace

“Are you okay? James told me what happened.” Alexi leaves an arm around her, and while C.J. knows it’s supposed to be comforting; all she can think about is how much she wants Alexi to leave. It’s one thing to rant to her elderly boss, someone who would love her in spite of her shortcomings and faults. But to know her own friend group has already heard about her misfortune, sending over someone to comfort and soothe, it was all just a little too pitiful for her to handle.

“Theta’s are throwing a party tonight. It’ll be the perfect pick-me-up, and you can forget all about Evans Jensen-“

“Eli Jennings” C.J. corrects.

“Whoever” Alexi rolls her eyes at the interruption, “is missing out on your incredible talent because of an idiotic professor’s incompetence. Everyone’s going and it won’t be the same without you, C.”

“As much as I would love that, Lex, I really just want to be alone tonight. Shitty beer, cheap Indian food, a sad movie so I don’t have to think about how these past four years have been a waste.”

“Not a waste, first of all. Look, I know that you’ve had this whole plan for your life since you popped out the womb, but shit happens, things change. This isn’t a failure, just think of it as a temporary setback. Plus, when life gives you lemons, you…” She trails off, waiting for C.J. to finish.

“Make lemonade?” She sighs.

“Use it to chase tequila.” Alexi giggles.

“I would go, but I have to close. Right, Bea?"

"Don't use me as an excuse. You should go, maybe find a boy to take home." Alexi makes a face at Beatrice's statement and C.J.'s face heats up.

“You’re going - no more buts. Wear something cute. Something that maybe doesn’t make if look like you were alive for Vietnam.” Alexi’s already leaving, kissing Beatrice lightly on the cheek on her way out.

This was how C.J. found herself standing outside the Theta Lambda  frat house, October air chilling her through her jacket. She shifts her weight between her feet, surveying the small group around her. Alexi talks animatedly on the phone, asking for whoever to meet them out front.

A random person bumps into her, forcing her to spill the contents of her purse onto the dewey grass. C.J. groans, bending down to pick everything up while mentally thinking to herself all of the other things she could be doing right now.

A pair of dirty air forces steps in front of C.J. and she slowly looks up at the girl standing in front of her. She’s pretty, stunning actually. C.J. recognizes her immediately. Channing Williams - social chair of Rho Xi sorority and the key to all the best parties on campus. Dressed in a black romper and red velvet jacket, she’s everything C.J. isn’t and a quiet twinge of jealousy plucks her heart. ‘I bet she’s never lost out on an internship.’ she thinks bitterly.

“Sorry, do you know anyone?”  Channing asks, voice soft and sweet with a clipboard in hand. C.J. looks at Alexi, waiting to hear her answer.

“Not really? I mean we know people, but we aren’t going to be on your clipboard or anything so if you could just let us slide through, I’m sure there’s someone here who could like vouch for us or something?” C.J. wants to slap her — not only did she drag her out in below-freezing weather, but she couldn’t even guarantee them a way inside.

“Well this is a greek-only party so unless you know anyone….” Channing trails off, not openly wanting to kick them out in front of so many people.

“That means no GDI’s.” C.J. didn’t even notice the miniature-sized freshman standing besides Channing. She clearly looks annoyed at the intrusion, keeping her from inside where everyone else is to deal with their little group. C.J. briefly wonders if the upturned stare is a requirement for Rho Xi or if that’s was just especially reserved for her.

“Geed’s?” Alexi repeats, raising an eyebrow.

“Goddamn independents. Y’know, not greek-affiliated.” At this point, C.J. is ready to call the whole night and retire in her bed when she see’s someone appear in between Channing.

“They’re cool, Chan. They’re with me.” Micayla Zhao enters, covered in glitter, sweat and what C.J. is almost sure to be a line of salt from a body shot. C.J. has always considered Micayla the only cool Rho Xi, having had multiple classes with her over the years. Micayla fit right in with their group: smart, beautiful and a wicked sense of humor.

Channing nods, seeming bored and just wanting to get back inside with everyone else. She does a quick finger tap with Micayla (sacred Rho Xi bullshit is what Alexi always calls it) and moving along the line.

“Are your sisters always that charming?” Micayla rolls her eyes, grabbing C.J. to move them through the house to the backyard. A huge bonfire is set up in the middle with a canopy near by for the designated drinking spot. She watches as Micayla confidently moves through the crowd, stopping from time to time to say hey to friends and classmates on the way.

“Most of the time. Look, they’re just possessive over tradition and the Rho-Theta party has always been major exclusive, Channing’s been fighting to make it open to outsiders.” Micayla yells over the thumping bass.

“Yeah, I’m sure they love all the GDI’s.”  C.J. exaggerates her voice, pinching her nose to capture the nasally, valley accent Channing is almost famous for. Micayla stops, and had C.J. not been paying attention, she would’ve ran into her.

“Dude, you’re kind of being a bitch right now. Look, I get your bummed about your internship, but Channing wouldn't have let you in if she didn't want to. Would you rather be getting drunk, in your apartment alone?”

“Yeah, actually.” Micayla stares at C.J. for a second, looking like she’s about to bitch her out. As if Alexi can sense the fight forming, she grabs Micayla by the arm.

“Let’s go get a drink, you look like you need a drink in you.” They both walk towards the house, Alexi mouthing ‘Be Nice’ over her shoulder before disappearing completely. C.J. exhales, counting to 3 in her head before walking over to where drinks are set up.She fills up her solo cup, watching as the fizzy liquid moves closer and closer to the top.  Before she can take a sip, someone bumps into her spilling half the drink over the side.

“Hey, watch it!” A thick Jersey accent exclaims, and C.J. groans, wondering if this night could get any worse.

“Bennett?”

Grayson appears in front of her, denim jacket over a black t-shirt and black jeans. She takes note of the dark spot growing on the front of his shirt, from where she spilt her drink.

“What’re you doing here?”

She simply shrugs, refilling the missing contents of her cup.“I didn’t know parties were your scene. I always imagined in your free time you’re in like a dark room, crying alone to Sylvia Plath novels.”

“Nice to know you think of me out of class, Grayson” C.J. takes a sip of her beer. She moves to walk away, hoping he would take it as an end of conversation.

"How'd you get in? Isn't this like Rho's only?" He asks, following her to the edge of the bonfire. She looks at him, watching as the light frames the features of his face.

"Couldn't I say the same about you? You're not a Theta." He just stares at her intensely until she relents, "Micayla Zhao got me in. Y'know her?"

"We had history together sophomore year. She helped me cheat on the midterms."

C.J. laughs shortly. "Sounds like her."

Grayson opens his mouth to speak again, but is cut off.

“As much as I’m enjoying this conversation, Grayson, don’t you have someone else to bother? Someone who, y’know, actually likes you?” If that comment bothered him, he didn’t show it, continuing talking to her as if they haven’t pissed each other off continuously for the past four years.

“What do you think about Michael Eichler getting the internship spot?”  He asks. As if it wasn’t bad enough that she didn’t get the spot, now she has to sit and rub salt in the wound with her worst enemy.

“What’s there to think about? He got it, I didn’t. Fucking sucks.” He laughs, holding up his own drink.

“Cheers to that.” They both clink cups, and C.J. briefly wonders if the universe is still laughing at her.

"You know, that spot should've gone to one of us." He muses, watching the partygoers continue to stumble around them. He doesn't say anything after that, and she bites.

"Why should it have gone to one of us?"

"Well, think about it. We're both the top of our class, and I know for a fact Stevens has submitted your writing to collegiate magazines. There's no fucking way Michael fucking Eichler should've got that spot over one of us." C.J. pauses. She had known that Stevens appreciated her writing, but not enough to submit it anywhere. If what Grayson was saying was true, why hadn't she gotten the apprenticeship?

"Nothing I can really do about it now. He got the spot, I didn't. I guess I can become a second rate author now." She takes another sip, and Grayson snorts unattractively.

"I'm sure you'll be okay, Bennett. If Stevens like you, I'm sure there's another author dumb enough to want to publish your work too." She glares at him.

"And here I thought we were becoming friends."

"As if you actually would've wanted to become friends with me."

"Oh yeah, that's what I do in between my Sylvia Plath crying sessions. Desperately wish that Grayson Dolan would become my best friend." Sarcasm drips off every word and he looks at her before taking another long sip of his drink.

“You know you’re actually kinda cool, Bennett. When you’re not trying to bite my head off in the middle of lecture”

“Maybe if you didn’t have such shitty takes, I wouldn’t want too.” Whatever retort Grayson was planning falls from his lips when Channing appears by his side, tucking herself underneath his arm.

"Hey, Gray. I got you another drink." Two Coronas hang from her manicured hand, and he whispers inaudibly to her, giggling between the two of them. C.J. begins to feel awkward, and coughs uncomfortably.

“Oh, you’re the GDI from earlier,” Channing looks up at her half-lidded, dark eyelashes framing red-tinged brown eyes.

“Yeah, that’s me.” Channing shifts her weight, biting her lip and feeling like an intruder. "I didn't know you two knew each other?" C.J. supplies, feeling desperate for conversation

"Gray and I had math together freshman year, "They both stare at each other awkwardly, silent tension as they wait for the other to speak.

“So, I’m gonna go." She speaks.

“No, you don’t have to." Channing is already turned back to Grayson, looking like she wouldn't mind C.J.'s exit.

“No it’s fine” Neither Grayson nor Channing seem to protest anymore, and C.J. turns back to see her friends looking at her, both amused and curious at her interaction with the duo. She begins to walk towards them, feet and heart sinking with every step, not feeling any better about her current predicament.

“Hey Bennett,” She turns around to face Grayson. “Think about what I said. About the internship stuff” She just nods, and leaves the pair. The moment she reaches her initial group, Alexi pulls her towards them.

“You and Dolan were just talking and it didn't end in a screaming match. That’s new. What did he want?”

“Nothing. Just typical Grayson Dolan bullshit."Alexi looks like she doesn't believe her, and frankly C.J. doesn't believe herself. She thinks back to what Grayson said, about how they were the only real competition for the apprenticeship. Whatever he meant by that could be handled tomorrow.

"C’mon. Didn’t  you say something earlier today about tequila shots?” She asks

“Atta, girl. That’s what I’m talking about.” She lets Alexi drag her away, sparing one last look at Grayson before entering the fraternity house.

[p-artsypants]

The Ghost of Smokey Joe (7)

Till Then

Adrien Agreste was acting bizarre. Stilted body language, plastic smile, and he seemed to have forgotten how close they were. Before she can get the truth out of him, Marinette finds herself as the sole heir to the Gabriel brand and the mansion, following the murder-suicide of both Adrien and Gabriel Agreste. The mystery continues as Tikki explains that Adrien was Chat Noir...but if Adrien is six feet under, why is Chat Noir still running around?

Well, it’s spooky season! You know what that means? OH BOY SPOOKFEST!!!

FF.net | Ao3 

--

This investigation was not going well. 

First of all, she hadn’t attended the funeral. Perhaps she should have, to keep up appearances, but she couldn’t stomach sitting through the service while knowing there were no bodies in the caskets. 

It was wrong. 

She gave poor excuses to Alya and Nino, and skipped it. Maybe if she had gone, she could have learned more, but she couldn’t. She just couldn’t stand it. 

Later that evening, Ladybug made a visit to the cemetery where the family crypt was. She allowed Tikki to do the actual investigating. She phased into the dirt of the freshly buried, unmarked grave, and concurred, it was the same coffin from before, with only sandbags inside. 

Gabriel’s too, over at the crypt. 

“Not much else to glean from this place,” Tikki said sadly. “Where to next?” 

“Actually,” Marinette wondered. “I have a hunch. Could you check Emilie’s casket too? She’s been dead for a while, so I apologize if what you see is…awful.” 

“I’ve seen worse. I’ll take a look!” 

Marinette waited anxiously, biting into her thumb nail. She really hoped she was wrong. Really really hoped. 

Tikki reappeared, her brow furrowed in concern. “You’re hunch was right. Emilie’s is just sandbags too.” 

She groaned, dread bleeding into her bones. “Damn it.”

“Maybe they’re all together?” 

“At this point, I don’t know if I should even hope for that. Emilie has been gone for years. Wherever she is…I doubt we’ll ever find her, let alone Adrien and Plagg.” 

“We’re not giving up though, right?”

“Of course not!” 

Marinette knew she had a chance of answers at the funeral home. The director knew more than he was letting on, but she had asked too many questions as Marinette, and going in to interrogate him as Ladybug would probably put her identity in jeopardy. She’d have to think on that one, and try to find a way around it. 

Now for the ‘basement’.

Till then, my darling, please wait for me

Till then, no matter when it will be

Someday I know I'll be back again

Please wait till then

Since Felix had confirmed that the Mansion didn’t have a basement, she assumed the office building did. Nowhere else did Gabriel or Adrien spend a significant amount of time. 

While the workers were still on their vacation, she went in. There was still a secretary, though she was dressed in casual clothes, and the doors were closed to the public. 

“Hi Miss Dupain-Cheng. Working today?”

“Um, something like that. Organizing some stuff.” 

“Alright, well, let me know if you need anything. I’m just here to tell clients that we’re off for a while.”

Marinette smiled. “Thank you. Um...perhaps, do you know if there’s a basement?”

“Basement? Uh...there might be one. I’m not sure. The main elevator doesn’t go there.”

“Alright. I’ll look around then,” she smiled patiently and bid the woman adieu. 

The building was unsettling without anyone in it. Half the lights were turned down, and the only sounds were the hum of the air conditioning and her footsteps echoing in the dim hallways. 

Several years ago, when she had first started, she was given a tour. A tour that seemed so unimportant then, she was scraping for now. There was a back staircase, in case of fire. That much she could remember. 

The big iron door slammed shut behind her as she entered the stairs. There was a door with an Exit sign over it, the outside world on the other side. A set of stairs went up and around, to every floor above. 

But there was one more door. Labelled with a big ‘SS’ for ‘Sous-sol’. 

‘Basement’, in French.   

“Tikki! I found it!” She said to her purse. 

“Great job! Let’s get to the bottom of things!” 

Marinette screwed up her lips. “Pun intended?”

“In memory of Chat Noir, yes.” 

“That is what he would have said, isn’t it? God, I miss him so much.” But she decided not to mourn her best friend in the dank, spider-infested stairwell. 

Of course, the door was locked. 

“Nothing is ever simple, is it? I wonder who would have the key. Janitor? Maybe Gabriel has a set in his old office.” 

“Aren’t you forgetting your ultimate skeleton key?” Tikki asked. 

“...um, yes, apparently.” 

Tikki flew from the purse, and phased through the door handle. It clicked a moment later, and the handle turned. 

“Wow, you’re convenient. Remind me to ask for favors in breaking and entering more often.” 

“Anything for you, Marinette!” 

She felt along the wall, found a lightswitch, and turned it on. Deep below, a few scant lights flickered to life. 

And in the columns of flickering light stood silhouetted figures. Still, waiting. 

Marinette held her breath, afraid she had been caught. 

“Tikki…” She readied herself to transform the moment they moved. She was still in the dark, they wouldn’t have seen her. 

Seconds ticked on. They stood, never flinching, never so much as breathing. 

“Oh my god, they’re mannequins,” she breathed. “I mean, duh but holy shit that was terrifying.” 

She descended the stairs, one at a time, still being quiet, and keeping her eyes glued to the forms. 

They didn’t move, because they were plastic, and as she drew closer to them, she realized how fake they were. 

They weren’t even good mannequins. The paint was chipping and the proportions looked odd. 

“These go in shop windows, right?” Asked Tikki. “I’ve seen a few from your purse.” 

“That’s right. These look really old. I’m surprised they haven’t been recycled.” 

“Is this what Adrien wanted you to see?”

“I doubt it. What would mannequins have to do with anything?”

Tikki shrugged too, and looked around.     

It was the worst three hours of her life. 

But because Adrien had used what was presumably his dying words to tell her to look here, she scoped that place out thoroughly. She named all the mannequins, to try to take the edge off. It didn’t really help, but it made ‘James’ the eerily realistic mannequin that stood in the shadows a little more friendly instead of a murderer in waiting. 

There was nothing there except old clothes, rejected materials, and a whole lot of new friends that Marinette never wanted to see again. 

As Marinette pushed aside the 9th box filled with 70’s paisley shirts, she sighed. “I think...I think I’m looking in the wrong place.” 

“I agree,” Tikki said, her antenna drooping. “I think we should have found something by now, right?” 

“I couldn’t even find any inspiration down here.” 

In the corner of her eye, she saw something, and turned quickly. 

“What?” Said Tikki wearily, already knowing what was wrong. 

“Another freaking mannequin! I swear they’re moving when I’m not looking at them!” 

“They can’t do that.” 

“I know that, but my eyes are tired and my heart is on the edge, and coffee isn’t working on my brain anymore!” 

“I think we should leave then. Maybe try looking at the mansion again. Maybe there’s a basement that Felix didn’t know about.”

At that moment, her phone chirped with a message from Nathalie. 

Please don’t forget, tomorrow, despite it being Saturday, your presence is required at the Agreste Manor. Gabriel’s Last Will and Testament will be reviewed, and you have been named. Since Mr. Agreste is so famous, we have asked all beneficiaries to attend. Sunday, you have off.

“Well, looks like I have an excuse to go back to the mansion after all. Probably should get in there and explore quickly. I have no idea what’s going to happen to it in the wake of...well, you know.” 

“Someone is probably going to inherit it. Probably Felix now. He seemed rather friendly at the funeral. He might let you snoop.”

“Friendly?” 

“More than usual, at least. But who knows how long that will last.” 

“If I have to show my cards to investigate, I will. If Ladybug has to break in, I will. I’m not going down in silence.”

 Our dreams will live though we are apart

Our love I know we'll keep in our hearts

Till then, when all the world will be free

Please wait for me

True to form, she arrived the next day at the mansion. 

As she came into the parlor, where many people were gathered, Felix caught her eye. He jerked his head, gesturing for her to come sit by him. 

As she sat, she looked at the others gathered. She recognized Nathalie, of course, Amelie and Felix, and Mayor Bourgeois. There were a few other people she didn’t know. One she had seen at the company, but she couldn’t remember his name right now. 

“So,” she asked softly. “Is the lawyer going to read the Will out?” 

Felix scoffed. “They don’t do that anymore. We’re just all going to get a copy, and the lawyer will be here if we have questions. Normally, I’m pretty sure they mail it, but I heard that the Will is sealed so they wanted us to get it in person.” 

“Sealed?” 

“Meaning no one else can read it. Last Wills and Testaments are public records after death. Unless they are sealed.” 

“Uh. I didn’t know any of that. This is my first time being in a Will. Well, I think my dad has one, but he’s still alive.” 

“Good for you.” 

“That is—I mean—I wasn’t trying to—“ 

“Just shut up, Dupain-Cheng.” He chuckled. “You are so sensitive.” 

She just childishly stuck her tongue out at him. 

A moment later, Nathalie and a white haired gentleman arrived. 

“Hello everyone, thank you for coming. This is Dr. Nathaniel Grey, the Agreste family lawyer and executor of their estate. Now, everyone listed in the Will will receive a copy. Each copy has the same content, but for convenience, I have highlighted your name.” And she started to hand out the packets, calling out names as she did so.

Some of the strangers had the last name ‘Agreste’ so they had to have been related to Gabriel. 

“Marinette Dupain-Cheng.” 

Marinette held out her hand to receive the thick white envelope. 

“Oh Felix!” Amelie cooed. “Emilie left you her corvette! She loved that car, I know she’d be proud for you to have it.” 

“I’ve seen it. Beautiful classic car. I’m honored.” As much of an ass as he was, Felix sounded genuine in that sentiment. 

To not seem too eager, Marinette carefully opened the envelope. As she did, she tried to imagine what he would have left her. A share in the company maybe? Maybe a family sewing machine? Nothing much, surely.

She unfurled the sheet and wow that was a lot of pink. 

“What the hell?” Felix gasped, looking over her shoulder. He glanced back at his page, and frowned in confusion. “No offense Marinette, but what the hell?”

“I…I don’t even know…” She glanced over the assets willed to her. 

Gabriel left her the mansion.

Up until that moment, she had forgotten she was supposed to be looking for a new place after Nino and Alya got married. She had mentioned it to Gabriel once, off-handed, and he seemed to not really care. 

But if he left the house to her, could he have cared more than she thought? 

The mansion wasn’t the only thing he left to her, either. He left his share of the company stocks, as well as trusts and bonds. Marinette had become a multi-millionaire. 

“What’s the meaning of this, Dr. Grey!?” A woman shouted. 

The shout drew all attention to her. She was a rail thin, tall woman, with high cheek bones and blonde-white hair tied up in a bun. 

“What seems to be the problem, Madam Laurent?”

“I was left a small fraction of stock and my mother’s ashes, but this—this half breed harlot gets the entire estate!?” 

Marinette flinched, feeling guilty and wholly undeserving of Mr. Agreste’s gift. 

Thankfully, Nathalie of all people came to her aid. “Miss Dupain-Cheng has been working tirelessly and closely with Gabriel to continue his brand. She’s been named head designer for his company, and everything left to her is to help in that endeavor.”

As she and Felix looked over the list of gifts, she wondered how true that was. 

“But I’m his sister!” Said Madam Laurent. “I take precedence over her!”

“Not with a will, you don’t.” Dr. Grey explained. “Children are the only protected heirs in French law. The rest of his estate is his to do with as he pleases.” 

Marinette looked back at all the pink highlights. She began to wonder if they served a purpose in distracting everyone from the obvious. 

Adrien wasn’t on there. Not once. 

Although there are oceans we must cross

And mountains that we must climb

I know every gain must have a loss,

So pray that our loss is nothing but time

He couldn’t be disinherited from the Will, not under French law. And yet he was missing…like the Will had been drawn up with the knowledge that Adrien wouldn’t be alive once it was valid. 

Pale and shaking, Marinette turned to look at Felix. 

“Don’t let her get to you, Kid,” he nudged her, taking her appearance for still being put off by the woman. “Gabriel’s family has always been lower middle class, before he became famous. She probably just wanted a bunch of money…whereas most of it was my Aunt’s and it was returned to our family. Does that make sense?”

Marinette shook her head, and then whispered. “Adrien isn’t here.” 

He gave her a soft smile. “Yeah, I know. He’s gone, Marinette.” 

“No!” She shouted, then hushed herself as the others turned to look. “No, I mean…he’s not here.” She pointed at the Will.

Felix grew pale too, and poured over the Will himself. “No way…how…but—maybe it was an assumption. Maybe it was assumed that Adrien was going to inherit half anyway, so he made the Will in case something happened?” 

“Dr. Grey,” Marinette stood and walked to him. “How old is this version of the Will?” 

Nathalie gave her a sharp look, but didn’t comment. 

“Well, a little over a week, actually. Gabriel called me and asked to make some changes.” 

“And why isn’t his son in here?” She asked, darkly. 

Dr. Grey screwed up his lips. “You know, I don’t know. I told Mr. Agreste what the law was, and he said, ‘just write it up as if Adrien didn’t exist.’ I wonder if he knew what their fate was going to be.” 

Marinette tried not to cry. She really did, but she just clenched the document to her chest and sobbed. 

“Now now, my dear. Don’t be so blue.”

“Adrien isn’t a murderer! He can’t be!” 

“Does it really matter anymore?” The lawyer asked. “The truth of their demise will not be released publicly. Only a handful of people will know. I doubt anyone outside of this room, in fact.” He said it so casually, like nothing was wrong. 

“Didn’t you find it suspicious?” She demanded. 

“No,” said Dr. Grey. “You would be surprised at how many clients have second versions of Wills without a child in it. Whether it’s because they’re hoping something will happen, or they see their child going down a dangerous road. Or perhaps the child is terminally ill and the parent doubts they will survive longer than them. Regardless of the reason, I choose to not ask questions.” 

Marinette wished he had. 

Till then, let's dream of what there will be

Till then, we'll call on each memory

Till then, when I will hold you again

Please wait till then

“Now, did you see the conditions?”

“What?” She sniffed. 

“Here,” Dr. Grey pointed to an asterisk at the end of the mansion item. “This states that there’s a condition applied, and the condition will be on the backside.” 

Marinette wiped her face and turned the paper over. 

“Miss Dupain-Cheng must reside within the mansion for ten years. Within that time, she may not redecorate or refurnish any room except for the ‘pink room’. Guests, spouses, and children are welcomed to join her, as long as she is the primary resident. If she is to go on vacation or an extended business trip, the house must be vacant, save for those who would keep it from disrepair. If Miss Dupain-Cheng fails to comply, the house, and all that is in it, must be demolished. It cannot be sold or gifted to anyone until the ten year mark passes.” 

Marinette just continued to stare. “I…that’s…really specific.” 

“More specific than I suggested, but it’s what Mr. Agreste wanted.” 

With a calm expression, but a heart in turmoil, Marinette folded her copy up. “Thank you for your help, Dr. Grey. If you’ll excuse me, I need a minute alone.” She took her copy and quickly walked across the lobby to her office. 

There, on her desk, was a vase with a bouquet of roses. She hadn’t been in here since before the funeral, but they looked fresh. No card though. 

She set the roses to the side, and unfurled the Will once again, laying it flat on the desktop. She poured over every item, not just Willed to her, but to everyone. 

Indeed, there was no sign of Adrien, but also no sign of his property. Did he have his own Will somewhere else?

There was the curious case of Nathalie, who was in the Will, but received only money and trusts. Not an inch of material property, despite her closeness to Gabriel after all these years. 

What did she know? What had she seen? Truthfully, Marinette was too afraid to ask. 

Tomorrow, she would visit City Hall and get the records of the mansion. Hopefully, there were some blueprints in there, and the hidden basement would be found.

Till then, let's dream of what there will be

Till then, we'll call on each memory

Till then, when I will hold you again

Please wait till then

[werezmastarbucks]

boston

honeymoon masterlist

word count: 2538

music: savage streets by perturbator, you’ll only be safe with me by tuff turf, dark all day by gunship

You stood on one knee, feeling Kai’s fingers under your belt as he held you. You shoved out of the window half way, and yelled,

“I’m good!”

He pushed the gas pedal into the floor, and the car roared angrily, tearing through the night mist.

The black shadows surrounded you, floating out of the metal and brick twilight of the street so suddenly fear shot through you like lightning. You held up your shotgun and aimed, trying to balance with your hip on the frame of the window. Falling out of the window would mean imminent death: zombies were everywhere. They were waiting on the corners, in the windows of the buildings, hiding in the shade, behind the smelly dumpsters and in the middle of the road. As the city lights died out, and the car raced deeper into the district, golden and silver changed into cold blue and electric, the colors of docks and warehouses.

“I got them!”

“Shoot!” Kai yelled.

You exhaled and did not inhale, because the best snipers don’t breathe when shooting. As the monster truck passed by the cluster of black silhouettes, you fired three rounds into them, scaring the gathering and hitting one of them. Then you fell back into your seat and pulled your hair away from your face. It will be a bitch to try and brush after. The car drove out into the narrow quay where black water lay like glistening dirty skin, and Kai’s face was yellow in the passing bleak lights.

“What the hell is that?” he asked, poiting at the figure on the roof on the left. He slowed down a little, and you looked back to make sure nobody’s following you. You set the shotgun on your right.

“It’s Jeepers Creepers”.

“Wha... Y/N. What is Jeepers fucking Creepers doing at our zombie apocalypse?”

“I don’t know, Kai”, you snarled, “maybe he launched it. How am I supposed to know?”

“You’re driving me crazy”.

“I am afraid of Jeepers Creepers, okay? He’s gonna be the final boss”.

“I’m gonna tear his balls off”, Kai mumbled.

“He’ll take yours. That’s what he does”, you reminded him.

Kai snored.

“Get up. There’s more. They must have circled the parking lot. Look”.

Right in the middle of the road, where yellow fog was floating in the air like phantom veil, and the asphalt glistened, sweaty after 10PM rain, the black shadows barricaded the road. Kai stopped the car, and the low grumble slowly faded into the quiet, monotnous howl of the city. Somewhere, trains were moving to and fro on the rails, colliding with each other, creating noise. The factories were working, sending black smoke into the opaque sky, clogged by unwilling cigarrette clouds. The river itself, it seemed, hummed something very low, like a deadly lullaby. This world was a hostile and lonesome place. The only warm thing in here was Kai’s body sitting next to you, radiating humanity. You jerked your shotgun. You knew he was seeing exactly the same thing as you did - a bunch of zombies swaying slowly in your direction. He turned up the music a little.

“Ready?”

“Yeah”.

“Aim better or else we’re gonna drive in circles all night”.

“Don’t tell me how to kill zombies, Kai”.

He mimicked you, starting the car.

Next night, it was his turn, and you did the same thing, racing through the night city, crashing into cardbox fortresses and blowing up the glass forts, shooting the heads off the zombies, until you both have had enough of that zombie apocalypse world. It has been some time until you got tired.

(To get into the right mood, you have occupied the Columbus Movie Theatre for like a week, rewatching zombie movies. Turned out, you can’t just walk into a movie theatre and find all the zombie films piled up neatly in the movie room - or whatever it’s called. You have argued about them again and again, Kai insisting on Evil Dead being immortal classic, but the Day of the Dead was his all-time favorite. You nearly got into a fistfight with him over the Return of the Living Dead.

“Of course”, he puffed and laughed out, condescending as hell.

“What’s that laugh?!” you demanded. Kai shrugged.

“It’s such a girly thing. Return of the Living Dead. The third part is also your favorite, isn’t it?”

And he gave you the nastiest look. You narrowed your eyes.

“You bigot. You absolute fuckface. The first one is my favorite”.

He was enjoying himself too much, obviously agitated by the topic, not entirely there.

“Okay, okay”.

“But for the record, yes, I do think that the third part is the best love story I’ve ever seen on screen. It’s incredible”.

Kai nodded, the smile never leaving his face.

“She managed to fight off her cannibalistic instinct not to hurt the person she loved. She tore herself with needles and hooks to fight the urge to kill him and actually managed to keep him safe although she was literally a flesh eating zombie. How cool is that?”

Kai sighed and looked you in the eye.

“Very cool’, he said, with the tone that screamed ‘you’re silly and I adore you’.

“What other movies came out this year?”

“Not many, it’s only May”, he replied, digging deep into the box with films.

“Is Dream Lover out yet?”

“Yep”.

“We should watch it”.

“Later”, Kai said, throwing a film across the room and allowing it to crash into pieces. You hoped to hell it wasn’t Dream Lover.

“And Freddie Krueger?”

“No, not yet”.

“Damn it”, you looked over his shoulder.

“No Freddie Krueger!” he announced, “that’s it, she draws the line at Freddie. We’re leaving now”.

You laughed.

In the dark movie room, you could choose any row, any seats. You nested against each other, honoring the sacred cinema theatre tradition to gently touch in the twilight. While the action unfolded on screen, you had to shove popcorn into Kai’s mouth because it was the only way you could make him stop talking. When you ran out of popcorn, you had to shut him up with your mouth. It was a great week.)

You looked around the street and then, at Kai. How lucky he was, to find himself in this wretched place with someone as willing to play zombies as you were. You should do it more often. Maybe you should act out Mist next, somewhere in Houston.

You pulled your backpack up, and your eyes darted towards the black tower, ominous, insidious without any light, like a gigantic grave stone. Before Parker cut all the electricity, it was the Hancock Tower, now, it was just Tower. And the path to it lay through the dangerous city filled with brain craving monsters, bloodthirsty, dumb and ferocious, and you were running out of bullets. Besides, earlier on, you fell through one of the cardboard box forteresses and bruised your knee so badly, together with your left hand which you landed on. This adventure would be the death of you.

Kai twitched.

“I hear something”, he said, cocking his gun. You stood behind him, one-handed, unable to shoot. You closed your eyes. Lo, if they attack from all directions, you won’t be any help. A wounded companion is worse than an enemy in this world. You wondered if Kai would leave you alone to be eaten and stall them, or whether he’d shoot you in the head first, to spare you.

He walked on a little, entering a small square, and the black outlines of hairless, clotheless humans frightened you like you weren’t the one who had put them there ten hours earlier. They spooked you every time.

Kai shot three times, hitting each mannequin with one bullet.

“On the roof!” you pointed, turning back. You bowed as he threw up his shotgun, and fired. Heavy plastic body hopped and rolled down, falling on the ground. Kai could see in the dark so well you had to remind yourself he was human. Sometimes you would forget that fact completely. He was so different from everybody else.

He led you towards the tower where you stabbed one of the zombies in the throat. He was good at shooting, but you were very gifted with stabbing. You never missed.

“God damn”, Kai panted, as the mannequin swayed and collapsed on the asphalt just next to the glass door he was holding for you, “you saved my life”.

He took you in the movie gesture, pulling you into a long kiss. Your wrist started swelling and you had to take off your electronic watch temporarily. In the bleak room, it shone with green thin neon light from the bedside table while you had sex on the matrass.

In the middle of the night something fell off the roof, and scared the hell out of you - for real this time. You did not put anything on the top of the Tower since it was your fort. In the morning you came up on the top, while Kai went down and examined the object. Turned out, on the tenth of May, 1994, one single bag filled with files and staplers fell off the roof of the Hancock Tower. There was no way of knowing why.

“Wake up”.

You opened your eyes and rubbed your neck, aching from sleeping on the single mattrass on the floor. You looked out of the window. It has just stopped raining, which meant it was already close to midnight. In the dystopian Boston, you have switched to night regime of living completely because in the daylight, mannequins randomly standing in the streets looked simply stupid.

“The Titans”, he said. Kai’s face was so close to yours, you could feel the words on your skin. His eyes shone nervously.

“What Titans? It’s zombie apocalypse, Kai”.

He frowned.

“And what was Jeepers Creepers doing there then?”

“Oh my god”, you groaned, “let go of it already! You killed him like a week ago”.

“Come on, see for yourself”, he pulled you up, and you walked to the window, and gasped, instantly feeling for Kai’s hand. It couldn’t be happening.

That’s it! This madness finally drove you... mad.

There was an actual silhouette, the one you didn’t put there, and possibly couldn’t. The one that could not be put there for the life of you. The one of proportions too great for anyone to put it in the middle of the city, one foot on the right side of the river, and the other, on the left.

“What the fuck!” you yelled, your fright real as ever. Kai grinned happily, but then his face changed back to the philosophical expression of impending doom.

“This is it, Y/N. The zombies... and that dude... were just omens, but that’s it. The sky people have come to destroy us. It’s the end“.

“Seriously, Kai, how did you put it up... there?”

The sky was blackish-bordeaux, like usual. The river was seen just fine from here, from the top floor of the Tower. You had a pretty good look on the gloomy city and all its post-war industrial charm. The figure was so big it stood almost above the Tower itself; he reminded you of the Colossus of Rhodos, the Bronze Man, or one of the mythical golden gods of ancient times. You could actually feel your heart trying to break the hell out of your ribcage in a desperate attempt to kill itself. You couldn’t breathe for a second, mortified by the size of that thing. It was one of the deepest nightmares of your childhood, one of the visions haunting you from when you were little and kept dreaming about the end of the world.

You told Kai about those, and he now used them against you, but you appreciated the performance. It was all almost like art. It was horrifying and great, but you hated it.

“He came down from the clouds”, Kai said quietly, like a dispassionate narrator. Who already knows what’s coming, and doesn’t give a shit, because he’s already dead.

“To press the earth into the core of the planet, and make all life perish. He shall walk the land... waging his wrath on all that breathes. Including you and me”.

You made an effort to turn away, mesmerized by the statue, and looked at Kai.

“How much magic have you wasted on it?”

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t break the character, it takes me a lot of concentration”.

“Sorry”, you whispered.

“How do you feel about facing the end of the world with me?” he asked.

It was a damn good question. Parker really did ask all the right questions. After all the time in post-apocalyptic Boston, surrounded by enemy, living in a dark den and barely seeing the sun, it was very easy to actually sense the end coming. You clutched your own elbows, thinking. Strangely, you weren’t scared anymore.

A part of his face was in the shadow. He blinked the way you’ve only ever seen Kai blink, just a little, as if he didn’t want to lose visual even for a split second.

“I’m okay with it. I have lived a fine life, in my totalitarian city, guarded by robots and...”

“...zombies...”

“Hunted down by Harrison Ford...”

“You just jumble together all the movies, it’s actually insane, stop it”.

“But now as Cthulhu has sent its warriors...” (Kai rolled his eyes), “I’m ready to go”.

A lonely honk of a train cut through the distance making you feel melancholic. The trains were just crawling there day and night, filling the air with their lonesome cries occasionally. It would make any reasonable person go crazy, too.

“What will be the last thing you do before you die?” he whispered, his nose almost touching yours. You gave in, hot slow lava crawling up your body. You took Kai’s waist, trying to feel his ribs through three layers of clothing.

“You”.

He probably wore three or four shirts just to see you go nuts as you tried to undress him every time. His street jacket goes, then, a pullover, then a shirt, then another shirt, and you groan with anger as he chuckles at you, his hands snaking under your clothes at once. Your skin went shivering, covered with goose bumps under his fingers, like by magic.

As he pushed you against the wall, the gigantic Titan started melting above the river, looming shadow stepping away from the city, which was flattering. Kai’s whole mind was directed at you now.

You thought about how one loves at the brink of extinction; is it passionate, like when Kai grabbed your shoulder, your hair, pounding you into the floor, or is it gentle and thoughtful, like when you only moved your hips slowly, pressed against each other like two halves of Oreo, or is it impatient, breathless and vile, like when he was fucking you against the wall, talking all the way through your whimpering?

It took the end of the world for you to end up on his dick.

[blushing-starker]

Cold mates and black coffees

For @starkerfestivals prompt of mates

There is, he supposes, something beautiful about a world such as this, primitive yet advanced and sophisticated. Children no taller than his knee carry around super computers that fit in the palm of one's hands, talk to friends thousands of miles away whenever they want. It used to take him months to receive his preferred concoction for the early night wake up call, now stores inhabit every corner of every city. They patiently wait to receive their dependents, all sorts of people relying on some version of the simple black coffee to jolt their system. Convenient, sure, no doubt about that. A quick stop at a Starbucks and violá, five hours of productivity guaranteed. But nothing builds character like swimming laps through a freezing lake infested with piranhas to keep away the urge to rest for just another five minutes. Unfortunately, sleepless days were the norm for him and Rhodey whenever they endeavored to race each other underwater.

There are clothes, too. Clothes for each season available year round. Fox fur adorns a lanky mannequin next to a twin showcasing how breezy summer fabrics can be. Riding boots that he would have spent a small fortune on decades ago shine below man made light for the cost of a nice meal over at Pepper's. Jewels fine enough for the family vault enchant any who take so much as two steps in either direction. Everything is for sale; it just means swiping a plastic card, presenting a number off a super computer or giving the cashier the remains of ancient trees. He could buy an ice cream cone (with sprinkles, of course, he's not an idiot) and immediately wander over to a restaurant selling sizzling curry. It's what his father dreamed about, a thousand years ago. How odd then, that his only heir couldn't be more nonchalant to all this.

It's his what, first month back from sleeping for half a century? He got accustomed to this whirlwind of a consumerist world by the first week. The soft purr of self-driving engines, flashing neon street signs, a melting pot of twenty, thirty languages, glittering clothes clashing with garish makeup, an overwhelming scent of smoke, perfume and money is as familiar as the palm of Rhodey's left hand or Pepper's right. Is it fantastic, being alive for the wild ride that is the twenty-first century? Yes, of course it is. But it's his father's dream; not his. His dream is the same as what drove Maria Stark into the world: finding his mate. Which, logically speaking, won’t happen until time has colored his hair with quite a bit more starlight and streaked thin lines around not too shabby cheekbones. (Rhodey’s teasing words.)

Going along with logic, there is a chance his mate will never show up. It was mere luck his father met the only woman besides Peggy that could stand his whole. Well, that could just stand him, period. A mate is found by scent, identified by touch and only bound with words. If his father had gone for one more drink, he’d probably be as real as the tooth fairy. In the back of his head, there lives a voice. And this voice he named Miss Lucky. She told him how lucky he would need to be in order to find a mate not too close to cradle or grave, a person that saw eye to eye in the majority of the basics and was open to his predilection. Someone that wouldn’t fear or expose him, wouldn’t want to strike the killing blow themselves. And Christ, with or without Miss Lucky, it’s a fool’s idea, thinking that in the middle of New York amidst one of the coldest winters to ever grace the city, his mate, his soul’s match, his other heart will chance upon him and actually accept the fact that he barely exudes a scent. Let alone something useful enough to help others recognize his class.

That’s the one downfall to living in this time; so much tension regarding one’s class. It is infinitely better than before when there were only three possibilities and the social restrictions could very rarely be shattered. But now it’s about pulling rank, percentages listed on a piece of paper could be used against you or signify one’s survival. A double-edged sword. To be a nurse, any applicants must be less than thirty percent alpha. Soldiers were forbidden from entering foreign countries if they had more beta characteristics than not. Lovers, in some parts of the world, could marry exclusively when their percentages were compatible. In the old times, if you smelled like an omega, you were treated as such. That could entail being thrown into a whorehouse or perceived as royalty destined to bring life into the world. Once puberty came, a simple prick and a vial of blood determined one’s next decision regarding the future.

He took the test. Just out of curiosity and it’d be rude not to provide a mate with information so readily accessible merely because of an unjustified fear over his identity. He is an alpha. And if the test had said otherwise, it would have been no problem. Of course not, he would have been proud to identify as a beta or omega. His mother was a beta and his nanny, basically his second mother, was an omega. No shame would’ve clouded his mind at receiving such news. The matter was this, though, he had believed to be an alpha the entirety of his life. If the paperwork said that was his lowest percentage, different rules and procedures, updated to today’s society, would need to be learned.

And he’s so tired of it all when only a handful can smell the fact he’s an alpha. What was he supposed to do, carry the results in his pocket in case a bigot searched for a fight? No, that would be, as Pepper had made very clear before, extremely silly.

He carries the test in case his mate considers such matters important. Or their family. Yes, it’s not because he worries that society will somehow doubt his identity. In the end, being an alpha is an integral part of who he is. It shouldn’t be that way and he barely knows what that means, but it’s true. Miss Lucky comes back around swiftly now, what if his mate isn’t interested in him because of his percentage? What then? Learn what the other classes represent to that person and behave in ways they believe suit said classes? Could his match be with a pureblood, intent on “staying true” to their highest percentage? Would he be able to, cinnamon. Wait, cinnamon and honey? Is that rain and sunlight? Since when does Starbucks incorporate those smells? And how the hell does he know what sunlight smells like? He’s insane. There’s no other explanation, oh that must have hurt.

A young man has just barreled into him. Slammed into his arm like a linebacker. A linebacker that weighs a feather and a half. How is he this light, a breeze had more force. What should he, what’s the proper ritual here, oh my god

“Your nose is bleeding- “

“I’m so sorry, I wasn’t looking. I’m just late for class and- “

“Calm down and let me buy you some coffee; you’re half dead- “

“Shit, your coat. I will pay you back, I swear.”

He hums, looks down and apparently he was too involved in his quest to find a mate that he completely bypassed the thought that this man had accidently crashed into him while holding a coffee…

A mate. He doesn’t know what sunlight smells like. How could he? Unless that’s what his mate smelled like. The young man inhales sharply, lets out a little “oh, I think, I know it’s you.” and, on further reflection, he notices this kid has the voice of an angel. Soft and kind while not being so lilting he’d think it weak and demure. Ah, he looks like an ethereal entity too. Of course he does.

It’s the eyes that do it for him, enchant him enough he wants to kneel and propose right there in the hopes of waking up each night to those amber pools as familiar and mysterious as the universe itself. The rosy lips, pink cheeks and sweeping lashes are also quite nice. He has the body of a being from the old tales, a nymph or a muse destined to bring light and joy to the world. And black coffee to coats older than his father and grandfather combined.

“Could I touch you properly? I think spilling sugar over that coat didn’t really give me the chance to feel my mate, Mister?” Rhodey’s gonna annihilate him. This is a child, twenty-one at most. They could exchange numbers; communicate when his best friend wouldn’t be tempted to take one look and accuse him of going for jailbait. He could make a plan, organize a way to gently explain how he’s an undead creature of the night whose low circulation means that somehow his hormone production slowed and therefore he barely smells like wood let alone an actual human being. They could make it work. If he’s lucky, Angel here won’t fall for another. If he’s lucky, lots of things won’t happen. Or they will anyway.

“Stark. Tony Stark. It’s a pleasure to meet you, all things considered. When I learned one’s mate smells like something unknown, I didn’t quite expect literal sunshine to be what I noticed. And don’t worry about the coat; it’s nothing.”

Marie Antoinette gave him this coat as a gift on his sixteenth birthday a few years before her death. It’s fine.

“Oh. I, I wouldn’t have thought I smelled like that. It’s really nice, actually. You smell, and please don’t take this the wrong way, like alpha. And home. I know it’s weird, but I can’t explain it any other way. I’m sorry if it’s too- “

At least he already knows he dislikes that worried furrow on such a happy face. He surges forward, clasps a soft hand and lets slip a shocked gasp, sees the mirrored reaction because Jesus, it’s as if he licked his finger and then stuck it inside a power outlet. Every hair on his body stands on end and when was the last time his heart beat that fast? Surely it was the night his old flame left or when they, no. No memories of a past lover when his mate is right here, clutching his hand like a lifeline.

“I don’t believe I know your name. Seems a little unfair, don’t you think? Wanna even the odds?” It’s meant to make the young man smile and he does.

It’s only when he grins that Tony notices the sharpened incisors and the slight cold coming from the small figure. The same fog that follows him around even on the hottest of days. The exact shape of teeth Tony cleans in front of his bathroom mirror each night.

“Peter. My name’s Peter. Nice to meet you, Tony.”

[elldell1204]

I Sing for Love - Jay Halstead x Reader

fofisstilinski: hi, i would like a jay halstead with prompts 3 - “Can you just shut your mouth?”, 60 - “But I want to hear you sing.”, 63 - “I think I love you.”, please, thanks

Thank you for this! ❤️ I didn’t reblog @darkdisrepair ’s prompt list to be getting them, but they kindly let me use them so definitely go and check them out. Their Upstead fics are like no other! They’re genuinely amazing. 😘 Anyways, I really loved writing this one. I did alter some of the prompts slightly to make them work in the sentence, by the way. Also, I’ve been playing The Last of Us II recently, and this fic was partially inspired by the scene of Ellie playing the guitar in the music store. I’ve linked it down below so you can listen to the song I mean, as it’s really beautiful and thought it’d fit nicely here. I hope you like it, even if it is a little long-winded. Enjoy! 😊

Warning: couple swear words, may make you cry :( sorry!

wc - 2,783

Click here for the song

Admiring the pile of untouched boxes in the otherwise empty corner of the living room, you took a moment to finally let it sink in. ‘I’m moving in with Jay.’ It was a seemingly simple event to anyone else, but for you and your best friend, it was a huge step forward in your hopefully long life together. Because you knew this was it. You had shared your heart, your mind, your soul with Jay Halstead, a feat you had never even come close to achieving with any of your other boyfriends, not that there were many.

It was scarily similar how alike you two were, yet at the same time, you were totally different. You were both quick-witted, divergent thinkers, aware of the true horrors of the world but in different lights. He had first discovered that when his father gave him ‘tough love’ as a child, a trait he vowed never to adopt. Next was when he saw the travesty that is war; tragic losses of friends as their lives are ripped from your hands by beings you could swear weren’t human, the methods of finding information that haunted you in the form of your worst nightmares, the survivor’s guilt that plagued your everyday when you came home to the widows of the men you fought so hard to save, but unfortunately it wasn’t hard enough. It was a miracle he was able to pull himself out of that hole, and still, he hasn’t fully. But with your help and Hailey’s, he’s surviving. Knowing him now, you weren’t surprised that Jay went into the police force after his active duty. Some say that Chicago is a warzone in itself, but he knew that he could endure this one. After all, the heart he possesses wouldn’t have allowed him to do something with his life that didn’t help others. One of the many reasons why you loved him. Every day he sees the scum of the world, but when he manages to help someone, it reminds him of why he does it. And he knows when he comes home to you, he’s safe. You both know that. Because you have each other, and you protect one another, physically and mentally.

You weren’t on the front lines like Jay was, but still you saw the suffering and agony the world withstands. You were an ASA, a dream you had since you were a child. From the age of three you were better at arguments than any other child on the playground, something your dad used to tease you lovingly for your whole childhood. He told you to “chase your dreams until they become reality, because you would never forgive yourself if you didn’t”. You had asked him why he seemed so forlorn when he said the last part, sat on your bed one night after he’d read you your story. That was when he told you about his dream of becoming a singer, an almost unachievable dream, but one he worked so damn hard for. You asked what happened, and he relayed how his mother became troubled with drinking and drugs after his father left, and so he, being the eldest child, had to work to provide for the family, and so his dream stayed a dream.

You remember saying “But, Daddy, you can still be a singer. I can be your audience.”, and you can still see the smile that spread across his face at your words, the expression being etched into your memory ever since. That was the night he decided to make you his protégé, teaching you how to play guitar and singing with you. This went on for years, and by the time you were thirteen, you were both playing along together, serenading and smiling without a care in the world.

But it wasn’t long before your world crashed down around you. You were seventeen when you got the call, walking out of school one afternoon, with the biggest of your problems being a boring geography assignment, when your mother told you to get to the hospital instead of going straight home. She wouldn’t – more like couldn’t – tell you why over the phone, and as you rushed to Lakeshore Memorial Hospital, your mind was racing with possibilities.

Your dad had collapsed at work, luckily not severely injured, but after running further tests, it was discovered he had stage four lung cancer, and there was nothing they could do. You barely left the hospital the next few weeks, sitting by your father’s bedside as he drifted in and out of consciousness, coughing one minute and throwing up the next. He managed to stay awake a few hours a day at the start, holding your hand and telling you he loved you, retelling stories from his childhood and yours. But when his lungs got weaker, he asked you to bring in your guitar and sing to him, seeing as he couldn’t do it himself. “Music makes me almost as happy as you do, my darling.”

So you did. You sang until your voice was hoarse, until you fell asleep mid-verse, until your fingers and thumbs were blistered. Your mother sat like a mannequin in the chair on the other side of his bed, holding his hand, treasuring the feeling. The feeling of the man you lost too soon.

“If I ever were to lose you, I’d surely lose myself. Everything that I’ve found here, I’ve not found by myself.” You sang, tears pricking at your eyes. You looked up, gazing over at the weak form of your father. If it wasn’t for the machine hooked up to him that was beeping quietly but steadily, you may have thought he was already gone. He was that debilitated, with his limbs laid straight, outlining his body, his eyes closed and his lips, that seemed paler than ever before, the only landmark in the vast ocean of ghastly white that had replaced the face once full of life and laughter.

You laid your guitar back in its case before moving closer to him, intertwining your fingers with his, scared at how cold they felt already. You looked over at your mother. She was silently crying, her eyes rimmed red and streaks traced down her cheeks, and she nodded her head at you.

You sniffed, letting the tears that stung your eyes fall as you stood, leaning over to press a gentle kiss to your father’s forehead.

“It’s okay, Dad.” You whispered. “You can go now. Go be at peace. I love you.”

And after a deep breath, you turned to the doctor that stood at the doorway. “You can take him off life support now.”

You let the tear flow down your cheek for a few seconds before you wiped it away. You shook your head, trying to get rid of the sadness. You had a job to do.

You had officially moved in with Jay a few weeks ago now, but due to your busy lives, the only things you had unpacked were the bare necessities, most of which were already dotted around your shared apartment.

It still sounds weird to refer to Jay’s apartment as your own. You practically lived here before he asked you, anyways, seeing as yours was a lot smaller, in a worse neighbourhood and had a lot of noisy neighbours. It was practically the complete opposite to Jay’s, his being a two-bedroom condo with sweet Mrs Elizabeth Bailey next door who you often helped out by carrying her groceries or fixing a dodgy cupboard door. She was like a great aunt to you both, inviting you round for dinner or baking you some cookies every so often. Many a time had she told you about her late husband, Tommy, and their stories from their lives together. Both you and Jay loved to hear the tales of their adventures, and you were saddened that you never got to meet him. One night, you sat close together on Lizzie’s couch, Jay’s arm wrapped around your waist as you leant into his chest, admiring a photo album she had passed to you as she recalled the memories linked to each image from her armchair. She had surprised you when she suddenly said, “You two remind me of Tommy and I; hopelessly in love.” You looked up and smiled at her, a twinkle in her eye as she remembered her husband, and you felt Jay pull you just that little bit closer.

It was also that night, when you both returned to his apartment, that he asked you to move in with him.

And now you were rummaging through your stuff that was packed into boxes, pretty much half of your life stuffed neatly into them. Looking through each one, you realised how little each of the material items mattered to you now that you knew Jay. Apart from the photos of friends and family, the odd keepsake you’d collected over the years and meaningful gifts from various birthdays and Christmases, it was all just junk. At least you thought so until you spotted your guitar case tucked away into the corner.

You took a deep breath before reaching over and picking it up, getting to your feet as you carried the case over to the couch. You sat down slowly, your heartrate picking up even with your meticulously controlled breaths. You gently laid it down in front of you and opened it, lifting the lid like it would shatter if you went too fast. You hadn’t opened it in years, not since you closed it at the hospital on that horrible day. A droplet landed on the smooth mahogany, one that came from your eyes. It took you a while before you wiped it away, unsure if you were strong enough to touch the instrument without breaking down before it.

‘Pull yourself together, Y/N, it’s been ten years’ you thought. And despite telling yourself that you had mostly moved past your father’s death, trying to see the light from it instead of the darkness, you still had moments where you were majorly overcome with grief. But you knew you could do this. You had to. He would have wanted you to.

So you picked it up. You examined it, not that there would be any new marks or scratches with it being shut off from the world for a decade, and then laid it on your knee like a baby, your hands assuming the positions that were like second nature to you, like another language. And you strummed the strings. They were horribly out of tune, so you let out a sodden laugh at the sound before tuning it to perfection.

Now all you had to do was play. You had time before Jay got home, so that wasn’t stopping you. What was is the thought of playing the guitar your dad bought you, the guitar your dad taught you to play, the guitar that you played to him and with him as you sang together. You knew he wouldn’t want you to stop playing, but you couldn’t bear the thought of playing it without him there to listen.

So you closed your eyes and imagined he was there with you, listening and smiling, as your fingers found the first chord on the neck of the guitar and you played it. Then the next. And the next. And you were doing it. You were playing the song. Now all you had to do was sing. You saw your dad’s smile and you knew you could do it.

“If I ever were to lose you,

I’d surely lose myself.”

Then suddenly there was a loud smash of glass on the floor behind you and you jumped, spinning around violently to see Jay stood in the doorway over some shattered glass.

“What the hell, Jay?! You scared the shit outta me.” You shouted, a hand over your racing heart.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you, I just wanted to hear you sing.” He smiled sympathetically, walking a little further in to lean against the chest of drawers in the corner.

“Shut your mouth. Like hell you did. You just wanted something to make fun of me for.” You huffed, frowning, as you moved to put away your guitar. You could feel the unjustifiable anger bubbling deep inside you at him hearing you, allowing yourself to be so careless as to let him in the first place.

“What? No, of course not. It was really beautiful, and I’ve never really heard you sing before.” He said cautiously as he came to sit beside you on the couch, taking a hold of your hands to stop you putting away the guitar. He could tell you were annoyed, and though he wasn’t sure why, he knew to tread carefully, as he seemingly had hit a nerve.

“Yeah, well, I don’t do it around other people, at least not since I was younger.” You said softly, feeling guilty for shouting at him.

“With your dad?” He asked. He knew all about the story with your father, minus the part where you sang to him before he died. You couldn’t bring yourself to relive that if you didn’t have to. But now you did have to. You couldn’t let Jay be in the dark about it any longer. All he had ever been was supporting and caring to you, and you felt ready to let him in fully.

“Yeah.” You whispered, not trusting your voice. You shuffled in closer to him, and he let go of your left hand to wrap his arm around you, and then you took a deep breath. “I, erm, haven’t played my guitar since the day my dad died. He asked me to play it to him whilst he was in hospital, because he couldn’t do it himself like before he got sick. And on his last day, I played him that song you just heard; it was one of his favourites. Not that he was conscious. He’d been knocked out cold with meds for days by then. After, we said goodbye and took him off life support. And I could never bring myself to play my guitar since.”

Silence followed, allowing him to process and you to recover. He kept rubbing his thumb over your knuckles, showing you support without using his words.

“I’m so sorry, Y/N.” He whispered, pressing a kiss to your hair. “But wouldn’t he want you to keep playing? For him?”

“He would, that’s why I’m trying now.” You pulled away slightly and smiled at him. “He’d have liked you, y’know? He really would.”

“I’m sure the feeling would be mutual.” He returned your smile.

Every day he reminded you of the wonderful man he is; caring, funny, kind, smart. But he also showed you he loved you, that he trusted you. And so you did the same.

You sat up, retrieving your guitar and laying it on your lap once more. You glanced over to him and smiled.

“This was also one of his favourites.” You told him, and then you started to play.

 “Talking away,

I don’t know what,

I’m to say I’ll say it anyway,

Todays another day to find you.

Shying away,

I’ll be coming for your love okay.

 Take on me,

Take me on.

I’ll be gone,

In a day or two.

 Needless to say,

I'm odds and ends,

But I'll be stumbling away,

Slowly learning that life is okay.

Say after me,

It's no better to be safe than sorry.

 Take on me,

Take me on,

I'll be gone,

In a day or two,

In a day or two.”

 When you finished, you sighed deeply, a half-sad, half-loving smile spreading across your face as you turned towards Jay. He was sat in an awestruck daze, smiling back at you as you put your guitar away in the case. When you sat back up, he shifted closer to you, gently taking your cheek in his palm as he gazed into your eyes, running his thumb softly over your cheek.

“I think I love you.” He murmurs.

You scoff jokingly and roll your eyes teasingly. “Well, you better bloody love me, Halstead. We’ve moved in together.”

He chuckles, and you can feel his warm breath brush over your cheek.

“I do. I love you. And I’ll keep saying it, even when you’re sick of hearing it.”

“I’ll never get sick of hearing it, Jay, because I love you too.” You whispered, smirking as you leaned in to kiss him. He met your lips with his, kissing you lovingly, assuring that you knew you were it for him, as he was it for you.

[wheel-of-fish]

By the Numbers Jöback, Hill, Stolle

By the Numbers:  The Peter Jöback/Samantha Hill/Jeremy Stolle Stream, August 15, 2020

A more timely roundup!  The things that can be accomplished without a kitten on your head!

This was a fascinating boot, featuring a Phantom with a lovely Swedish accented tenor voice, Samantha “too sweet to be hot, except to the Phantom” Hill, and release-the-thirst-floodgates Jeremy Stolle.  The Stolle thirst was boundless.  The Stolle thirst was all encompassing.  There was scarcely a vocal phrasing, gesture, line read or body part that was not only mentioned but gushed over.  I did not even begin to count the ways.  Every category would have been “greater than infinity”.  And, every comment was true.  This man delivered!  From the height of his tallness to the depths of his deep baritone, Stolle was on a roll in this boot.  The boot itself was very good quality, only one large Head occasionally swallowing the action like a black hole.  Very worth seeing!  The passion of the AIAOY Kiss is matched only by the physics involved in making it happen between oh so tall Stolle and oh so small Hill.  But true love always finds a way!

Suggested names for this boot:  Jöback in Black Boot, IKEA Phantom Boot, Stolle the Show Boot (Okay, nobody suggested these.  It was me.  I suggested these. The first one was from Fish’s password for this stream, though!)

Statistician’s Favorite Boot Name:  The FÅNTØM Boot (again, nobody’s suggestion but mine, spelling courtesy of missbuster)

Wow, we like to talk about Phantoms:  Well this week, we seemed to talk about everybody except other Phantoms.  Oh sure, some were mentioned, but let’s mix it up and see what other names were dropped this week.  Supply your own context for even greater amusement, because heaven knows you won’t find it here.  These numbers are a lot more accurate because, again, no kitten on head this week.  It occurs to me that instead of meticulous record keeping, I could just make crap up.  Not this week.  Maybe next week.  All these people were genuinely mentioned in this week’s stream.

Carly Rae Jepsen (7), Vin Diesel (1), John Travolta (3), Antonio Banderas (5), Hugh Jackman (3), Ian McKellen (3), Judy Dench (1), Emmy Rossum (2), Anne Hathaway (4), Russell Crowe (3), Patrick Wilson (1), James Corden (1), Rebel Wilson (1), Hadley Fraser (1), Kelly O’Hara (1), Francesca Hayward (1), Michael Gruber (1)

Fond mentions of 1998 “Cats”:  6

Mentions of 2019 “Cats”:  12 (I have left out any adjectives as most were Not Charitable.)

Opinions that “Cats” should only be done as an animation:  2

Oh, hey, yeah, another Phantom, mentions of Gerard Butler:  5 (I have left out any adjectives as most were along the lines of Bless His Heart)

Oh, hey, yeah, another Phantom, mentions of Paul Stanley:  14 (I have left out any adjectives as most were somewhere between Not Charitable and Bless His Heart)

Wishes for Rose to have good luck on her date while the rest of us stayed glued to our monitors on a Saturday night:  9

Inappropriate Random Zoom:  to Christine’s dressing table during Raoul’s visit (not NEARLY as inappropriate as the Random Zoom to Barbara the mannequin’s doors of summer during last week’s stream.)

Self-Caress mentions:  3 (The Phantom.  The PHANTOM.  Not whatever you were thinking.)

What scent are the Phantom’s candles:  Hopeless Mist (no, the Phantom’s candles were not discussed this week.  As the creator of the candle line which includes Underground Despair, I have decided to use this statistical summary to focus group test additional scentsations suitable for the Phantom’s Lair.  You are warned that this may be an Ongoing Feature.)

For Science mentions:  6

Boner mentions: 2 (I will not name names, you know who you are)

Apparent confirmation of boner mentions by people noticing Christine looking down during The Sprawl:  3

Is there any safe way to say that boner mentions are ummm trending downward?:  No

Unofficial Dialogue:  “TA DAAA” when the Phantom reveals the mirror bride (courtesy Wheel-of-fish, who just barely beat haunted-hideaway to it)

Outrageous Rumors Category: 

“Carly Rae Jepsen as Meg…..A dream”—deardaaery

“Carly Rae Jepsen played Meg???” –mrskroger

“I love how these streams can be used to start outrageous rumors”—Aldebaran

“rushing to tumblr to tell everyone about carly rae jepsen playing meg”—Wheel-of-fish

“Vin Diesel played Raoul, fact”—Aldebaran

IKEA mentions:  10

Suggestions for additional characters Jeremy Stolle could play in the All Stolle Show (phantom-of-the basement):  Mirror Bride (christinegrrl), Monkey Music Box (Flora-Gray), Madame Firmin (ktarinajones)

Everyone’s a critic:  “First review for the all stolle show has to be “he stolle the show” otherwise it’s a missed opportunity”—butdreamsofbeauty

The Phantom’s pillows mentions:  7

People of the opinion that the Phantom should use one of his 600 pillows as a cushion for fainted Christine’s head:  2 (question and number of pillows estimated by ashadeintheshade)

Vintage madamefaust on the Pillow Question:

Look, he took a long time arranging those pillows.  They’re from Pier One, they’re expensive, he doesn’t want to put them on the floor.

Erik has skillz:

“You know he’s handy.  Everything is probably homemade. Bitch can sew a hem.”—Melancholy’s Child

“Erik as a contestant on Project Runway”—Benny-Lynne

“I’m convinced he hand-sewed the Red Death costume.”—haunted-hideaway

“Five and half months working on that Red Death cosplay”—yamiangie

“has a “Red Death” pintrest”—blahahala                              

Outrageous Rumors Part Two:

“The pillows are hot-glued to the boat”—wheel-of-fish

People who fell for the Phantom hot-gluing pillows to the boat:  4

Outrageous Rumors Part Three                                          

“Carly Rae Jepsen hot glued those pillows”—wheel-of-fish

We stan a crafty Phantom:

“I just like the idea of Erik with a glue gun”—wheel-of-fish

 “erik bedazzling things”—butdreamsofbeauty

 “He  DEFINITELY has a bedazzler.”—madamefaust

 “erik bedazzles his own capes”—christinegrrl

 “erik with a staple gun putting pillows on a boat:  KACHUNK”—        phantomofthebasement

Barbara Speaks:

   “Being a mirror bride must be a hard job”—mrskroger

   “damn straight”—the-real-barbara

Rare Don Atillio appreciation mention: 1

Andre’s probable fear of ballerinas mentions:  6 (as suggested by madamefaust)

Andre’s issue gets a name:  Tutuphobia—Aldebaran

Possible alternate ending for POTO:

There’s like 8 ballerinas….if they all came together the Phantom would have no chance.—hell-lawliet

That’s why Buquet always carries a noose, fear of ballerinas–Aldebaran

AIAOY Kiss comments:  45 comments in 24 seconds

Requests for AIAOY Kiss replay:  6 (replay occurred)

Incorrect use  of the Raoul as an International Unit of Measure:  1 (I misstated in the stream that Christine would be 1.62 Raouls in height.  This is clearly false, as it would make her much taller than Raoul, who is already impossibly tall.  Using as our values Mr. Stolle at 6’3” and Ms. Hill at 5’4”, Christine’s height expressed in Raouls would be .8533 Raouls.  The statistician regrets the error.  This is why maybe I should just make crap up next time.  No, I will not convert the heights to the metric system.)

Debut of IKEA Phantom: 

“And the Phantom is just quietly weeping in the angel because…even he knows that is a hard act to follow”—madamefaust

“That is a kiss to cause a Phantom mental breakdown for sure”—Flora-Gray

“oh no the ikea phantom becomes unassembled”—Aldebaran

“he wasn’t anchored to the wall”—Benny-Lynne

“Someone get the allen wrench, we need to put back together a saad boi”—haunted-hideaway

Unholy Trinity of Cooper/Thiago/Uwe mentions:  1 (by madamefaust, who perhaps is protected by the sheer power of her vast Phannish humor and talent.  Please do not invoke the Unholy Trinity on a whim yourself.)

Respect given to Steve Barton in the form of “Fs”:  11 (entirely appropriate at any time but especially during a boot with such a stellar Raoul)

Red Death as a Swedish Fish mentions:  3 (not to his face, never to his face)                                         

 “tiny swedish fish red death”—Aldebaran

 “HE IS A SWEDISH FISH”—madamefaust

 “the most dramatic swedish fish”—butdreamsofbeauty

Best from Onthevirg’s Mom:  “We should talk about Phantom Jaws”

Fathering Gaze lyric:  1

Split decision on the statement by mrskroger that Wandering Child has a strong Daddy’s Home vibe:

*Strong NO from Wheel-of-fish

*Strong YES from Benny-Lynne

That staff tho: 

“Fire Pez One.  Fire Pez Two.”—Aldebaran

“Skeletor Pez Dispenser”—DoCTy

“I wonder what it’s like to be that dramatique that you fashion a staff that shoots fire”—haunted-hideaway

“He probably bedazzled the staff as well”—Aldebaran

“oh he definitely bedazzled it”—christinegrrrl

“ ‘bedazzled staff’ definitely sounds like something hmm”—onthevirg

Number of audience cell phone rings at insanely crucial moments:  1

Attempting to bring Logic to PONR:

“I know it’s a plot device, but who has a hood that big, really?”—haunted-hideaway

“THIS IS THE EXACT SAME MAN.  MUCH STEALTH.  SUPER INCOGNITO”—madamefaust

“Yeah, I don’t know guys…I don’t think that’s Piangi…?” —Flora-Gray

“yeah swedish italian accent is a giveaway”–Aldebaran

Education of the Innocent:

“ok, I don’t know The Lore, why do we call her Barbara”—butdreamsofbeauty

“Haunted named her in a stream.  She said: ‘Her name is Barbara and she had hopes and  dreams once.’  I said I would never forget it and I have not.”–Aldebaran

The mob storms IKEA:

“time to flat pack the FÅNTØM”—missbuster

“So you’re saying Stolle should just squash the Phantom” —GlassPrism

“he comes apart for easy handling”—missbuster

“Get the Allen wrench”—madamefaust

Reactions to the Phantom after Christine’s final exit: 37 comments in 59 seconds

Sad comment is sad: We don’t even need the allen wrench, he came apart on his own.   –  madamefaust

Things I wish I had said:

“Moist Raoulette”—haunted-hideaway

“no Tol Raol Pol?”—missbuster,  at not seeing Raoul boating away post Final Lair

“No Stolle Tolle Rolle Polle?”—missbuster, with continued disappointment                          

Dreams do come true:

You know.  If you had told 14 year old me that in the future I could watch Phantom EVERY WEEKEND I would have died on the spot—missbuster

Statistician Aldebaran’s two no three favorite personal quotes:   

re: Jöback “He crawls with an accent”

 “Raoul conveniently wore a ladder jacket to make it easier for Christine to climb” 

 “Erik is just in a perpetual state of PONR”

Thank you as always for the submission, kind statistician Aldebaran!

[watching-pictures-move]

Movie Review | Olivia (Lommel, 1983)

This review contains mild spoilers.

Ulli Lommel's The Boogeyman is not a great horror movie but it is one I think of often. It's marred by a clumsy, effects-laden climax, but the bulk of the movie has a strangely artificial tone. The gruesome slasher-esque kills (which earned it a spot on the Video Nasty list) and supernatural elements seem at odds with the picturesque, almost postcard-like veneer of the overall film. It's as if the reality of the film is at war with itself, echoing the tension in the horror plot. A primary driver of its tonal discord is the extremely uncomfortable opening scene, where the partner of the protagonists' (possible sex worker) mother physically abuses them and is then killed by one of the children, who subsequently goes mute from the trauma. The scene is shot in hot, saturated colours (a quality perhaps inspired by the films of Rainer Werner Fassbinder, with whom Lommel collaborated earlier in his career), giving it an especially rancid quality, as if it's corroding through the screen.

Olivia has a version of this scene. Here, the heroine witnesses her prostitute mother being killed by a violent john as a child, the scene this time being shot in moody dark blue lighting. We cut to fifteen years later, and now the protagonist, played by Suzanna Love (star of The Boogeyman and Lommel's wife at the time), is trapped in an unhappy marriage with a controlling, abusive husband. (I watched this the same weekend as Sudden Fury, a Canadian thriller about a man who schemes to kill his wife in the backwoods of Ontario, and it was startling to see two strong candidates for the Cinematic Bad Husband Awards almost back to back.) As she spends her days looking out the window towards London Bridge (where they live), she begins to envy the freedom enjoyed by the nearby prostitutes and tries going out to do likewise during one of her husband's night shifts. However, when she picks up a john, it turns out she'd internalized her childhood trauma more than we'd realized, and murders him at the behest of the voice of her mother who speaks to her. (It's worth noting that the man has mannequins in lingerie in his flat, which adds to the scene's weirdness.) She also falls in love with an American engineer hired to provide estimates for restoring the bridge, but when her husband finds out, things meet an abrupt, violent end. Years later, the engineer is visiting Lake Havasu, where the old London Bridge was relocated, and spies a woman who bears an uncanny resemblance to Love. Could this be the same person?

The plot has elements that were obviously inspired by Psycho and Vertigo. Compared to Brian De Palma and Dario Argento, two other directors who were channeling Alfred Hitchcock's influence to exhilarating results at around the same time, Lommel's film lacks the same technical sophistication, but that adds to its distinct atmosphere. A lot of films can be described as dreamlike and it can mean an awful lot of different things. Compare the films of David Lynch and Lucio Fulci (the latter of whom I will always bring up given the opportunity), which are very different yet the word applies to both. In Olivia, the film's tone and rhythms make its sense of reality feel strangely tenuous, even if there's nothing in the narrative to suggest what we're seeing isn't actually happening. In describing Jonathan Demme's Married to the Mob, Roger Ebert cites its "sleepy/wide-awake style", which are words that came to mind. The visual style, which features a lot of strong blue lighting, is not as precise as the work of those other directors, putting the film in a state of slight stylistic flux. Production details add to this quality, with the bridge in Lake Havasu and the faking of London locations through well chosen props, as well as crew members cosplaying as Londoners during a crowd scene (which features some not terribly convincing British accents). That the murders (one of which makes similar use of an electric toothbrush as a scene in Boogeyman II) in the version I watched had their audio sourced from a video version instead of the original elements helps them ripple the film's fabric even further.

Speaking of Demme, the film also brings to mind Something Wild, in the sense that the night isn't just a time of day but a different state of mind and perhaps a different place altogether, which emphasizes the somnambulist qualities of the daytime scenes. Are these even in the same reality? Is night real and day just a dream through which the heroine sleepwalks? There's also the relationship between wardrobe, self and storytelling. (As I've spent too much of the last year and a half perusing menswear blogs and then trying to talk myself out of ill-advised purchases, this is an idea that's been on my mind a lot lately.) When Love dresses up as a hooker, she puts on a nice purple floral dress, which on one hand doesn't strike me as a particularly slutty outfit, but is also likely the most sexy item this character, who we understand doesn't get out much and is married to an unkind husband, would reasonably have. Yet with her sunglasses and golden hair, she suggests a Hitchcock blonde and balances the same aura with her kitchen sink daytime existence. (Lommel grew up in postwar Germany and would likely have been sensitive to the economic realities that drive people to that line of work, something he explored in Tenderness of the Wolves. Interviews with Love and assistant director John P. Marsh also suggest that the prostitution elements and opening scene were Lommel's way of processing traumatic events from his childhood. Lommel himself shows up to play a detective, while Love's brother Nicholas, who also appeared in The Boogeyman, plays the client who murders the mother, making this a family affair.)

If like me you own the Vinegar Syndrome blu-ray, you have up to three covers. The slipcover, which features a shrieking woman plunging a knife into her mate (and a grimacing face on the moon over London Bridge) suggest something more blood curdling than the finished product, while the reversible cover brings to mind a Playboy centerfold, accurate to brief sections of the movie (like really brief, before the movie snaps back to horror) in terms of the proceedings but certainly not the tone. The "actual" cover, with the heroine's face hidden by her large sunglasses and the deep blues of surrounding her, better capture the movie's distinct look and feel. And of course, much of the film's power comes from Love's performance, who brings an innate sympathy and low key nerviness to the role. (Love admits to having been uncomfortable with the sexual content in the movie.) Like the movie around her, the different sides of her character seem to be wrestling with each other, the resulting offness and inner tension making her performance, and the film as a whole, extremely compelling.

[childhoodgrave]

whats dtl about ifff ud like 2 talk abt it i see cute sprites & decide i wanna know things.. hehe the top hat n cape guy gif is in sync w my music hehe

IM SO GLAD U ASKED this game is probsbly my favorite game ever its been a special interest if mine since i was 7 and i dont think its a GOOD game per se bt i love it a lot and it impacted me a lot as a little kid w a mild interest in art :)

so basically the game is a little 2d adventure platformer where u get to draw and design the character u play as. its p clunky and the way ur character moves looks rlly silly bt again this game was released in like 2010 on the ds so its ok .. the game also gave u templates to go off of and use too just in case u didnt want to design a character from scratch

the story of the first game is abt this world that was drawn into existence by “the creator” in the book of life. u hav this little sequence where u get to draw the world, and the forrests and the creatures tht wld inhabit it. the creatures tht inhabit the world are callec raposa and they r little fox creature w funny ears :)

like this guy (his name is zsasha and hes a thief but hes like a bad one who ends up returning all of the stuff he steals and also watching over a little orphan girl who he basically adopts LOL)

in the universe if the game the “creator” eventually went silent and the raposa lost hope in them ever returning. the world was slowly shrouded in darkness and gradually all of the raposa inhabiting this little village were either lost or left on purpose bc it was slowly falling apart. the game starts when one of the remaining raposa, mari, prays to u, the creator, to come back and help restore her village, saying that everyone else has lost hope but she still believes you can return to her. u can answer, and either say that u will help or you wont, but either way u end up agreeing to help her and she goes to tell her dad, the mayor, abt it. you create a “hero” to be the vessel you will speak thru, and thats the character u end up designing and playing as. the game is abt going to various areas from the village and rescuing all of the raposa that are lost there, as well as restoring the village to what it used to be and drawing in bits of the landscape, like the sun and plants and stuff.

the villain of the story is a guy named wilfre, who was another villager in the town who ended up drawing in the book of life bc he wanted to create things the way the creator had. he ended up making these big inky monsters and got consumed by them, and when u meet him at the beginning of the game he tears up a bunch of pages in the book of life which get scattered across the land and you have to collect them in order to restore the village.

so u basically just go around saving villagers, collecting pages of the book of life, and redrawing bits of the town that were lost to wilfres shadows. eventually wilfre ends up like, killing maris dad (the mayor) and then after youve restored a majority of the village you enter his realm and kill him!! yay :)

throughout the game you also meet these two weird npcs called heather and mike. heather is a little raposa girl who has half of her face covered in shadows, and shes mostly mute. shes found early on in the game and is taken care of by another one of the main characters named jowee

mike is a character u end up rescuing later on in the game, hes p confused and doesnt know how he got where he is, and hes also different from the other raposa bc he doesnt have ears like they do and kind of just looks like a normal human (even tho none of the raposa know what that is and they just think he looks rlly weird)

in the first game heather is shown to take a liking to mike but it isnt explained why and she doesnt talk to its left unexplained

so yah the first game ends with you, the hero, defeating wilfre. mari takes on the role of her father and becomes mayor of the town, and all of the raposa (+ mike) live happily in the town youve restored. the hero goes dormant because theyre no longer needed and u get a scene at the end of the game w them sitting by the ghost of maris father.

the SECOND game takes place a while after the first game, in which wilfre returns and captures heather at the beginning of the game. he also kidnaps a bunch of the other villagers and transports them somewhere else, and he drains the color out of the village the raposa were in. they end up fleeing on a giant turtle with an abandoned town on its back that appears while the color is draining from the village. inside mari and jowee find another mannequin similar to the one the creator had drawn the hero on in the first game. they pray to the creator for help and thats when u draw the hero u get to play as for that game!! the hero doesnt seem to remember mari and jowee or any of the events of the first game, but they agree to help them rescue heather and all of the villagers wilfre stole.

jowee also has like, this magic pendant that belonged to heather that he found after wilfre took her, which seems to be leading them to where heather is. they use that to navigate the turtle thru the ocean to a bunch of other islands on the world. the second game is basically about traveling to different islands and helping them restore the color thats been drained out of them by wilfre. you also meet these two characters, salem

who is a villain in the first island u travel to, and sock

who is a villager on the first island u visit who ends up befriending jowee and traveling with them while they try to save heather.

so ur doing all of that but THEN, halfway thru the game mari is shown to be talking to wilfre, and then she dissapears. jowee assumes wilfre has captured her too, but shes later seen on the turtle again, and rips out a bunch of pages in the book of life the way wilfre did in the first game, and then wilfre appears to take her away and says that shes working with him now. jowee is heartbroken but resolves to get her back as well as heather

THEN, sock, jowees friend from the first island whos been tagging along and helping out, is ALSO revealed to be wilfre in disguise and he betrays jowee and steals heathers pendent, leaving jowee with basically no means of finding heather and wikfre and mari by extension.

so eventually they do end up finding where wilfre is and mari is like “jowee you dont understand wilfre has shown me the truth of our world and who the creator is and thats why im helping him” and jowee is like “i cant believe yoy are helping him how could you i cant believe you bla bla bla” and so wilfre is like “FINE ill show you the TRUTH of this world” and takes jowee and then the hero is kind of left ln their own for a bit to like wander around the world and try to keep rescuing ppl and such. and eventually jowee comes back and is like shaken up but kind of vague abt what wilfre showed him, but he still decides to side with the hero and the creator and eventually mari is convinced by him to join them again as well

so u fight wilfre again and EVENTUALLY wilfre reveals that if you defeat him basically the entire world will dissapear and thats what hes been trying to avoid by fucking w things and messing with the book of life. so all of the raposa have a bunch existential crisis abt them ceasing to exist if they go thru with this but then they decide to to it anyway bc the alternative is just as bad blah blah and u go and kill wilfre and he does this when he dies which is cool

[the gif was fuckjng broken im sorry but like look up his sprites and youll fjnd it 💔]

and now heather is back!! and her and mari and jowee are all talking about mike and how important he is and meanwhile mike has no clue whats going on and is kind of freaked out by all of this, but theyre all like “mike you need to wake up” as theyre all fading out of existence and shit around him and eventually him and heather are the only ones left and they dissapear too

and THATS when you get the ending and find out it was all like a dream mike was having while he was in a coma after a car crash anx this plays while the credits role lol https://youtu.be/Kur0qaYM1jM

^ they ended up releasing different versions oft he game w a less dark (but still w the whole ‘it was all a dream twist’) and thats it!!

there was also another game released for the wii that like gave wilfre a girlfriend kind of but i never played it to completion bc it used the wii remotes motion controls to like draw and shit and it was rly janky and hard so i never finished it and most ppl did the same. i kind of rlly want to try playing it again tho bc it was a p cute looking game even if the controls were fucked up

AND YEA thats drawn to life its a weird silly little series tht i was obsessed w when i was a kid and it still holds a special place in my heart :) i basicaly just spoiled the entire series i guess but if u have a ds or a 3ds (bc the game is backwards complatible ! ) id still suggest like getting a cartidge off ebay or something and playing it bc its honestly a rlly sweet and beautiful looking game and i think a lot of it still homds up even if the controls r rlly janky now

[h0ld0nt0m3l0v3-cn]

The soft pitter patter of feet in the dark echoed and bounced off the walls of the school house. Mono had gotten lost while going back to get something. Six was left to watch over for anything or anyone looking for them. She found herself alone. She was angry to say the least, but she was more so worried he had gotten hurt or caught.

Six was one for not trusting others often. It was hard to trust someone in a world full of betrayal and pain. But, Mono had proven himself with his kindness. Saving her time and time again. She and him had grown closer than any other creature they had seen or known. Six could feel that oh so familiar pit in her stomach. She could hear the voice of her anxious conscious taunting her with countless harmful words.

He left you.

You shouldn’t have trusted him.

You’re better off on your own.

Despite the words being in her voice, she ignored every little syllable. She didn’t want to second guess herself. They were in this together, they had been through too much together to just give up on one another. She had to keep going, she had to find him. She couldn’t give up, she had already come so far and she wasn’t going to leave this kind boy to the hands of a cruel and cold world.

Everything she was doing, it felt unnatural. Like she was going down a different path than before. Like a repeating dream. Six skidded to a halt, her feet surely catching a few splinters in her callused feet. She stopped by a familiar locker. She did go here. Before the signal tower, when everything was normal, when everything was better. She gripped the door’s edge to the locker. She slid her hand down the side and stared off into it like a never ending abyss. Except it did end, inside that ending was a bookbag of her size. Back when children were considered normal size and the adults weren’t monsters in height and mind.

A deep green bag that had a silver button on it. The gold paint scratched off from years of use. Six sat on her knees, taking in the more relaxing memories. She cautiously reached out and placed her hand on the tough but soft fabric. She smiled lightly and lowered into the side pockets. She dug inside and felt the familiar cold metal. The smile that had formed from the fond memories grew a tad more. She pulled out the tiny lighter.

“Maybe,” She thought, “Maybe, this could ward off those mannequin kid things.”

Six stood up and flicked the lighter, it sparked and a flame formed. She enjoyed the heat as she admired her old zippo. She turned as she heard tapping. She felt her heart rate rise at an alarming rate as she turned to the opposite direction of the sound, starting down the hallway with haste. She tried her best to keep her breathing quiet. She slid under a broken door way and closed her lighter, smothering the flame and effectively putting it out, killing the light it provided. She bit her lip and stepped back, crouched low as she did her best to stay out of view and light. So she could avoid being seen.

She felt herself meet the wall as she listened. Pausing, she heard the ticking stop. Looking up, she could see a faint silhouette. Her eyes widened as she saw the reflective surface of what seemed to be eyes.

A soft light of pink and blue sparked a-light in the dark. The large creatures head lowered down at Six’s height. She felt herself panicking. Despite the creatures towering size, she had a gentle smile and half lidded, relaxed eyes. Six had curled up from the hiding, hugging her legs like many times before as she stared at the creature. She studied its features, it looked like some sort of horse. Cloven hooves and fetlocks. A long cat like tail with a large tuft of hair on the end, bandages covering parts of the tail, a piece of it hanging loosely and stained with dirt from dragging on the floor. It had long hair to match the deep royal color that faded into black, Tied off with the same bandages in the middle. It’s eyes were blue and pink gradience, almost a relaxing sky color if one were to stare into them for too long. It’s laid back pointed ears shared similar tufts of purple, pink and black like it’s hooves. A soft pink shade was dusted over the bridge of it’s snout and under its eyes, which had thick eyelashes that seemed unnatural. It was covered in symmetrical spotting of black similar to that of it’s hair. A long horn and a pair of large wings gave a mystical vibe. The light came from the tip of the horn that had indentions of a swirl.

Six relaxed a bit but felt herself jolt as it’s left wing opened lightly, wrapping around her lightly. As the wing moved around her, she could see that the body was that of a female in anatomy. Six jumped again as the door slammed open. A flash of light blinded her. As her eyes opened and her vision cleared, she could see they were in a different room. Six looked up and saw the creature holding her under her wing. She felt herself relax for some reason, the aura of it sending her into a sleepy haze nearly. She would have fallen asleep had it not been for her paranoia that it would scoop her up and put her through hell with out second thought.

“Shh...” The creature whispered. She raised her wing, revealing a limp and steadily breathing Mono on the floor not far from her. Six felt the aura of comfort wash over, seeing he was safe. Not a bruise or scratch in sight on his skin nor clothing.

“You’re safe.” They whispered. Six crawled towards Mono and laid by his side. She cared about him and herself only at this moment. Her eyes fell closed as she laid close to him. Knowing he was safe give her some confidence that she would be safe here with what ever saved her. Slowly, she fell to slumber. After so long, she finally could feel the comfort of a good night’s rest.

[rightnowyoucanttell]

𝘼𝙡𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝘼𝙜𝙖𝙞𝙣, 𝙉𝙖𝙩𝙪𝙧𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙮 || .G.D.

(This songs an oldie, but It popped up on my random artist playlist, and I was inspired. Haha, enjoy ig..)

Title: Alone Again, Naturally 

Summary: Veronica Chandler seems to be only destined for heartbreak. After a failed attempt to rebound on her toxic ex, she makes a routine trip to her local 24 hour Starbucks, in which she meets a handsome stranger.. and oh,  who happens to be the spitting image to the photo of the tinder date who stood her up....

Relationship: Grayson Dolan and Veronica Chandler

Word Count: 2,034

Tags (*updated*) : @dzoint ​ @graysavant @blindedbythelightt ​ @tadadolan @heartofalionxo  @beatement-l   @grayswhore @tattoogray ​@saggitariusagirl

Author’s note: First, this is total shit, i’m sorry. Second, I  did the stupidest thing of all time. I gave my OC the same name as the main character in the novel i’m writing on wattpad (to self plug, or not to self plug that is the question; i’ll take self plug for 100, Alex) why am i so stupid? Well, i'm too lazy to change it so. 

Third, i was inspired when the twins talked about dating apps and just like idk where this came from, must be out of my ass because it’s shit. 

I actually laughed at that...

Fourth, feedback is like the most important thing to me, like ever? So, feel free to lmk what y’all think, if this becomes a series I will be taking concepts. 

Veronica Chandler is destined for great things. Planning her future, modeling and working as a struggling actress, she could go off and marry some lawyer. But, the only thing she did seem destined for was heartbreak.

Ronnie knew it had been too soon. Not even a month ago she had broken up with her ex, Jonathan. She also knew this, when she was attracted to a man on tinder with the same name, mostly because of the name. She wasn’t over the man who man who ruined her life to all hell. But, the comfort of a relationship was all she needed and desperately strived for.

Jonathan, was an artist, mad at the world needing to find himself. So, each night he did just so. Jonathan would go out to ‘find himself’ and along the way he found, Roxanne, Malibu, Dianne and Eileen. Jonathan drank, and he would physically and mentally abuse a good strong woman, who for the longest time couldn’t bring herself to walk out of his life.

Each time, from the first to the third she was too lonely, desperate and down on herself to let him loose. But, after he cheated on her with a married forty-year-old woman with four children, that was when Mama Chandler intervened and scared him half to fucking hell. That woman raised no fool, and if she did it was Veronica’s older brother, Noah.  Veronica was just a sad young woman who couldn’t keep a man because they used her.

This night in particular was her rebound date at a local vegan restaurant. A fancy one. With velvet rugs, chandeliers, expensive wines, however with decently sized portions. Veronica stood outside waiting for Jonathan. Who was described in his photo as muscular, a builder with brown hair and eyes and often in there messages boasted about such muscularity.

It was dark. He planned to meet her at 5:30. It was 7:30. Groups passed her. Parties on the street began talking, while the mannequins in store fronts slept under the lights. But, Ronnie was sure, this guy was genuine, and would be the best rebound. 

But, her plans and dreams were foiled when 8:30 hit, she decided to leave embarrassed and ashamed she thought it would turn out differently, she should have known. Her mosquito allergy becoming aggravated just as much as her. She sulked. She never really dressed to impress others, she wore heels, a leather jacket paired with a silk revealing top and boot cuts black jeans. That’s when the heaven on earth shone down upon her, a burning bush of sorts.

           A 24 hour starbucks.

As she walked down the sidewalk slowly, she was tired of being let down; tired of catering to the whims of others, ready to return home and make a stray of financially irresponsible choices online, she entered through the glass doors and into the small shop in Hollywood. The cool yet humid summer air from outside was left behind in the warmth of the shop, that’s when she saw him.

A tall handsome stranger, brown hair and eyes, with muscular arms. She fell for him immediately, he was gorgeous. But, then. Veronica realized something, the same man, the handsome stranger, was either the same person or a bicep by bicep replica of the man she was supposed to meet tonight, at that Vegan restaurant.

The fire fueled deep down, but she ignored it when she got in line to the left of him ready for her Pink Drink and croissant so she could run to the nearest Ralph’s and purchase two tubs of strawberry ice cream, she’d be needing it. The line shifted. She shifted on her feet, he did the same.

Veronica tapped her foot. That’s when the stranger started talking,”Whoah. Slow down there ‘Miss i’m on a mission’.”

His voice was deep and hoarse, he sounded like he had been having a night himself. Veronica ignored the voice that in some ways drew her closer.

“I’m Grayson, By the way..” the named stranger drifted. That’s when Veronica snapped. The man was Jonathan or she thought, and he was ignorant enough to poach the woman he stood up, again, she thought.

“How can you be so arrogant and glib, after everything you’ve done?” Veronica whipped her head to the right of him snapping out of anger and then with no response

“Ah, she’s brave. Calling me arrogant and glib, without even knowing me, cool.” Grayson scoffed and nodded, shrugging it off, and moving forward in the line before stopping yet again.

Ronnie tapped her foot miserable an angry…”Without knowing you? I know you. Your the kind of guy who’s shows up a girl, and breaks the rules because you think it’s cute.”

“Do You think it’s cute?” He lanced over to her smirking a devilish smirk. She scoffed and crossed her arms with her jacket draped over one of them, shaking her head as the crazily long late night line, shifted forward. ‘Grayson’ may have won the battle by showing her up, but his blatant lies would lose the war to Veronica.

“Spare me your routine, i assume that’s what this” she gestured to Grayson,”-cut it out okay? Or, i’ll make your life a living hell.”

“Sorry, not into a relationship at the moment,” he joked before turning back to face the options board, even though his order was almost always the same. Ronnie rolled her eyes. Ronnie's eyes were tired. She felt physically ready whoop this man;s ass, but mentally and emotionally drained.

“And, by the way. No. I do not think it’s fucking cute..” Veronica replied after a few moments of silence. Veronica mumbled cruising, barely audible to Grayson. Veronica was so confused, and so irritated, she didn’t no what to believe. She sighed and went for her phone fumbling for her back pocket, and opening the tinder profile of ‘Jonathan’, “Explain this.”

The screen illuminated a photo of Grayson with the name Jonathan below it. He had still had long hair at this point, right before it’s annoyance shaggy length.Grayson was shirtless in the photo with a chain necklace around his neck. Grayson squinted to examine the photo on the app and chuckled as he passed it back to Veronica.

“You, my dear, got catfished. By someone posing to be, yours truly. I’ve never had tinder and haven’t used a dating app since I was like, fourteen..” Veronica rolled her eyes at his comment before scrunching her brows in confusion but not enough to continue to pry,”..don’t believe me? Search ‘Grayson Dolan’ on instagram or twitter, you’ll owe me an apology.” Grayson snapped as hurt in reply and turned away from the fabric keeping a distance between the two. 

  Grayson felt for Veronica, he could hear the pain in her silence, the sadness in her eyes, the facade of a mask she put on,  even if he didn’t know her name, like her he had been pining for love. The same night he had been dumped via text by his ex girlfriend, also his ghost of days of business past, ex- assistant, before Sterling. He should have known it was a mistake, and Ethan warned him several times, but  much like Veronica with OG Jonathan, he blamed love for his feelings. 

Grayson was tired, wanting to head home with a cup of joe, but this unidentified juliet, across from him caught his eye, and there was no turning back. 

The line shifted. Hesitantly she opened instagram and search the name and she stopped, in her tracks. She owed this man apology, Grayson Dolan, he was a real guy, with a huge following however she never heard of him. She followed him, sighed and put her phone back into her pocket.And yes, he was good looking, she fell for the looks a little more than the name.

“..i--i’m sorry. Guess you were right, I was wrong..” Veronica managed to croak out. Grayson’s phone notified him from his pocket, he checked it smirked, followed her back and placed it back into his pocket.

Grayson looked over to the brunette Brazilian to the right of him. She tapped her foot nervously, as she picked her brain for a better apology. She felt herself loosen, knowing he was just trying to help, and didn’t stood up. Her demeanor changes, this man was a kind stranger who just happened to be the man in the photos she was catfished with, the real Grayson did nothing wrong.

“-., so this Jonathan, what happened?” He asked looking into her dark brown eyes, meaning it. Wanting to know everything about the stranger that made him want to know here. She laughed flashing a smile all the while. Her laugh, Grayson thought. The way she talked and laughed, when she was enjoying herself, it was all so lyrical, it made him want to laugh.

He looked at Veronica, like, really looked at her. The way the lighting reflected on her sparkly eyeshadow. Her dark green eyes, her long luscious and free riding dark brown hair, that had been straightened from its naturally curly form.

“..Well, I uh, met him on Tinder and he stood me up. I just got out of a nast relationship and he was my rebound, but he’s probably some weird guy living in his mother's basement-” she sighed opening up to him. She smiled at her own comedic relief comment. Hiding behind humour was something she did.

Grayson laughed, becoming serious,”I’m sorry, that sucks. What about your ex?”he pried further, there were only three people in front of them, all by themselves, swarmed by the world living in their phones.

“He was a cheater, a drinker and beater, who just so also happened to be named Jonathan..” the negative memories stirred up again in front of her. The pain on her shoulder came back, so did the reminiscence, drawing and pulling her into a melancholy flashback. 

                                                    ~~~

"Where would you like me to go, hmm? Ronnie!" he shoved her to the ground and she fell backwards dislocating her shoulder. She winced in pain, it had pulsated throughout her body. She knew she had to do this, for herself, the well being of herself for once. Did she want to? No. It scared her. He scared her.

Once he got the clout he wanted he changed, he was living off of her earnings, living in her apartment at the time, using her car, and she was forced to nod and smile along with it like some big ugly joke of a play. 

"How about for starters-" she managed between heavy sobs of pain and trying to prop herself against the reclining part of the sofa she was thrown in front of,"..hell? Take your toothbrush and your shave kit, and try some bleach in your cereal, i'm done. Okay? Go away, J!"

                                                            ~~~

Ronnie was back to reality when she heard Gray's voice,"..Safe to assume you have a type, then?"he asked really looking at the beautiful woman in front of his eyes.

 “Yeah. I try so hard but,”Veronica felt sad,” but, i’m never the one.” she felt even sadder memories of her ex flashing before her, she shrugged it off and continued,”…alone again, naturally, I guess.”

Grayson and Veronica were now the first in line,”Hey, let me buy your drink. Maybe we could be alone again, together…” Veronica smiled, and nodded.

“I’d like that..”

                       ~~~   

Later that night the two walked into the humid, yet comfortingly cool, heat together side by side after a two-hour conversation just on life.

“I, uh, better walk to my car.” Veronica said in front of Grayson’s porsche. Her jacket was around her shoulders and covered her arms,”I had fun, tonight” she held out a starbucks napkin she secretly wrote her number on, the wind tossed it gently back and forward. He smiled and breathed out a friendly, good night. He hated to see her go so soon, but would love to watch her leave.

“Wait, I never got your name-”he hollered down into the cold night on the streets of Los Angeles. Veronica turned around and continued walking backwards, her hair following and tracing her every move.

“It’s Veronica.” she breathed before giving him one last look with her deep green eyes and turning back down the sidewalk, heading to her car and driving into the night.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Should I make this a series? If so, what to name it, i’m thinking lyrical and each chapter is a song name? lmk. 

AHH i'm nervous to post this, but fuck it, right? No day but today. 

i’ll stop.