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mowiwow · 3 months ago

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those who have never left (modern ayn)

takes place during ayn maudlin dream, floating steam event

When a person dies, where do they go?

Their memories linger, leaving a deep impression and scars on the hearts of those they have separated from. The regrets, the bitterness, the sorrow, the longing— all of it, it might never go away. But, those still living have the chance to grow around these wounds and turn these painful memories into something comforting.

notes: told in 2nd pov, but assumes the setting of "miss painter" (female, her past is brought up), ~7k

When a person dies, where do they go?

You don’t think you could ever reach the dead— no, that is impossible. Even throughout your journeys through time and space, there has always been one constant. Once someone died, that was the end of that person’s life in that timeline. You would no longer be able to interact with that person. If you were to rewind time, you wouldn’t be speaking with that person who died, but rather, another version of them that had yet to experience death and the strife immediately preceding it.

Still, even though you know this, you think about it from time to time.

If you could talk with those who have died…

…Even if you could see your parents again, just one more time, what would you say to them?

You asked Ayn this, once, just once, a few days before the new year.

“Ayn,” you whisper into your phone, turning over in your bed. On the other end, your boyfriend hums in response to let you know he’s listening. “If you were able to see your mom again… what would you say to her?”

A long silence follows. Long enough that, had you not known any better, you would’ve thought that Ayn had fallen asleep right there and then.

“I wouldn’t say anything,” he replied as your eyelids droop. “I would play the piano for her.”

As he says that, you turn around once more in your bed. In the dim moonlight filtering in through your windows, you see all of the loose papers scattered across your desk with all sorts of sketches. All of your past paintings and sketches come to mind at that instance.

The bundle of sketchbooks home to countless of clumsily drawn lines, stiff and uncertain. The canvases with clumpy and muddy colours from when you were first learning to paint. Papers that had been previously crumpled up into balls and then unwrinkled in an attempt to salvage them.

The next bundle of sketchbooks and canvases, tidier and less messily kept. Several instruction books are stashed away in boxes, with some papers in between pages from you trying to follow along with the lessons.

And, on your desk, the art you created today. Various random sketches of the birds you’d seen on your window sill earlier in the day, some loose sketches of your boyfriend practicing the piano he loved so dearly, countless silly doodles of Beanie lounging about in various styles. In your tablet, the partially finished assignment you’ve been agonizing over for the past week.

A lot has changed.

The corners of your eyes sting, so you bury your face into your pillow with a muffled, hoarse laugh.

What a lonely room. What a warm room.

Sometimes, you feel like your room is too big yet too small.

“Miss Painter, what about you?”

After hours of chatting late into the night— far later than you should’ve, really— you finally start to feel drowsy.

If I could see mom and dad again…

If I could see them one more time—

“Yeah,” you whisper sleepily, “Me too.”

Something ticklish brushes against your ankles, snapping you out of your daze. You hadn’t made any progress on your painting in the last few minutes— and the piano that had previously been filling the room has quietly filtered out.

Then, a weight drapes itself against your back as you pick up Beanie and plop him on your lap.

“Let’s take a break,” Ayn mumbles hoarsely into your ear. “Nap?”

You stroke Beanie’s furry back leisurely, basking in the feeling of having two cuddly cats clinging to you.

“Isn’t dinner soon?” you muse, leaning back a little so you can press a light kiss against Ayn’s cheek. “If we try to take a nap now, it’d only be for a few minutes.”

Ever since you arrived at Ayn’s home in Leighton, the two of you have been practically inseparable. Everywhere you go, Ayn would follow you around and cling to you like a kitten. Sometimes, he’d show you around and delight in your impressed reactions. Secretly, you think it’s the cutest thing ever— not that you would ever say it out loud. You fear that if you do, Ayn would start pouting, and then you’d really pass away from your boyfriend being too cute.

“Mmmmh….”

“If you’re that sleepy, we can skip dinner,” you say with a hint of a laugh in your voice. In your lap, Beanie meows in protest and stares up at you.

Similarly, the black cat behind you shakes his head, tickling your neck. “You should eat. You haven’t been eating well ever since you got here, thanks to that old man.”

“Actually, this is probably the healthiest I’ve eaten in years…” you muse, packing up your paints. “It’s too healthy. I miss the sugar and fat.”

Ayn grumbles in agreement. “Dad’s been like that my entire life.”

“Maybe that’s why you don’t ever seem to gain weight despite how awful your diet is,” you muse. “All the vegetables you had growing up far outweigh all the sweets you have now.”

“My diet isn’t that bad.”

Wordlessly, you raise an eyebrow at him. “At that supermarket during Christmas last year, I recall—”

“I put those instant noodles away,” Ayn interrupts. Then, his eyes narrow at me as he pinches my cheek. “And anyways, it’s not like you don’t often join me in eating instant noodles. You’re an accomplice, Miss Painter.”

“...Let’s eat healthily and not touch instant noodles this year.”

“Sure,” Ayn agrees easily. Confidently, he adds: “There’s still takeout and cakes and cola, anyway.”

Then he pauses, as though he just thought of something.

“You wouldn’t keep me from cola, would you?”

You blink at Ayn slowly, your lips curling up into a grin. You can’t not take this opportunity.

“Well… Ayn, between cola, and me… which would you pick?”

When your boyfriend falls silent, you turn to look him right in the eye. The longer he remains quiet, the more your eyes narrow.

“Ayn…”

“I’m kidding,” Ayn says eventually, with the ghost of a smile on his lips. He picks up Beanie from your lap (who protests fiercely) to set Beanie down and then wraps you up in a tight hug. “Of course, I’d choose Miss Painter over cola.”

“Would you be okay without it? It’s basically your blood at this point,” you joke.

“It’s okay,” Ayn says resolutely. “It can be replaced.”

“Really?” you ask with some surprise. You lean forward with a teasing glint in your eyes, close enough that the tip of your nose brushes against his. “Does this mean you wouldn’t be mad if I replaced all of your bottles of cola with water?”

“.......”

“I’m kidding, of course—”

Your words are promptly cut off by Ayn’s lips on yours. As he kisses you, he rubs against you like he’s trying to melt into you. In the already warm room, Ayn’s hot body temperature makes you overheat.

Idly, you think: He’s gotten better at kissing, compared to the first few times.

Then, Ayn pulls back, looking at you seriously.

“As long as you kiss me whenever I want to drink cola, it’s manageable.”

Speechless, you stare at Ayn with your lips parted. Then, you reach up and pinch his cheeks helplessly.

“Ayn, what happened to your sense of shame?”

“It’s your fault,” he replies, his forehead falling against your shoulder.

As you recall the past year, full of relentlessly teasing Ayn until he was as ripe as a tomato, you guess he’s right.

If it’s like that, though—

“Theoretically, if I started to limit your sweets intake as well…”

Ayn is quick to interrupt. “Miss Painter. Be nice to me, okay?”

“Okay, okay,” you reply, patting Ayn’s back with laughter behind your words. “But really, you’re going to get a nasty cavity sooner or later with just how much sugar you have daily.”

“Well, I’ve gone this long without one, haven’t I?”

“Careful there. You’re asking for it just by saying that.”

Ayn shifts, tightening his hold on you as he prepares his retort. However, Beanie meows loudly in an attempt to grab your attention. You guess he finally got fed up with how Ayn has been clinging to you.

Silently, Ayn glares at Beanie. Unsurprisingly, Beanie glares back with its nastiest glare.

“Okay, break it up you two,” you say, unable to control the growing smile on your face.

“I didn’t do anything,” Ayn huffs.

Before tensions can start rising between Ayn and Beanie, there’s a knock at the door.

“Dinner has been prepared.”

“We’ll be down soon,” you call out.

As the footsteps outside the door fade, Ayn looks at you sincerely.

“Besides, you wouldn’t deprive me of dessert once we return, right? When we’ve barely had any dessert for the past few days…”

You snort, lightly patting Ayn’s cheek. “I miss having cakes and candy, too. Later, let’s secretly order takeout.”

A flicker of surprise crosses his features at your words. Before you can comment on it, he replies.

“Okay. Let’s do that,” he nods. Then, Ayn points at Beanie, who is pawing at the closed door. “Also, your cat seems hungry.”

“I’m sure he is,” you grumble, walking over to open the door. The moment the gap is wide enough, Beanie slips through and bounds down the stairs without a single care in the world. “Everybody here keeps spoiling him, so he gets to eat like a king.”

“Give it a few days,” Ayn replies wryly. “Dad will probably start trying to take Beanie out on walks or even jogs.”

As you walk down the stairs with Ayn, you think of all the times you’re unable to play with Beanie. Of all the times Beanie had to walk around in an empty house, or the times when you had to send Beanie to a pet daycare while you left for days at a time.

When I go back to Harp Island, I’ll make sure to spend even more time with Beanie.

Your response comes late, laughing half-heartedly. “I support that. The image of your dad walking Beanie with a few bodyguards in tow is really… something.”

Ayn notices your brief moment of silence, his hand squeezing yours slightly. He doesn’t say anything, however, and just chuckles lowly.

“I’ve seen dad doing weirder things that don’t suit his image.”

You blink owlishly at Ayn as his warmth transfers to your body through your interlocked hands.

The two of your hands are clasped together tightly. You lightly squeeze his hand in return.

If you become stronger soon…

You hope those waiting for you at home won’t have to wait as long anymore.

———

You see a lot of your past self in Ayn.

Maybe that was part of why you’d been so drawn to the seemingly aloof prince-like idol in the first few months you knew him.

When Ayn told you that he had wanted to introduce you to his father, you’d been surprised— pleasantly so. You don’t think Ayn has realized it himself, but he would sometimes bring up his father during conversations and off-handedly mention some related memories.

Each time, his words were harsh, his tone exasperated. But with Ayn, as you’ve learned, the most important thing to observe is his expression and his body language.

Despite it all, it seems like Ayn cherishes his family.

So, you were ecstatic. You wanted to meet his father.

You were a little scared, though. Or, more accurately a moderate amount of scared. Okay, you were scared stiff. The brief run-in you had with Ayn’s father during his birthday had your imagination going wild, more so than usual.

If Ayn’s father really did demand you leave Ayn alone…

Of course, you wouldn’t give up just like that. No, you would run to Ayn just as you had during White Day, ready to whisk him away. When you told Ayn about the cliché plot you had thought of, he had teased you for your overactive imagination.

Still, he replied sincerely afterwards: “If that really happened, I’ll meet you halfway. I’m not going to sit around in some room because of my dad.”

Thankfully, no such threats were made. If anything, it almost felt like Mr. Alwyn was eager to meet you and ecstatic that you were dating his son.

With that in mind, you’ve mustered up the courage to stand before Mr. Alwyn’s study with your hand positioned to knock.

Ayn has always been on the clingier side. After the initial awkwardness of a new relationship, he stuck to you like glue and often liked to hug you whenever possible. Even in public, he often made up reasons to hold your hand.

Ever since arriving at Ayn’s home in Leighton, however, his clinginess has increased tenfold. He holds you like you’ll disappear at any moment. He hovers by your side like something will go horribly wrong if he looks away for even a second.

It’s easy to guess why.

The little glances towards the door on the second floor, his quickened footsteps as he ascends the stairs while tugging you along, the dazed expression he occasionally has as he stares out the window…

Ayn’s childhood is etched into the walls of this place, for better or for worse. All of the joyful memories, all of the sorrowful ones, they’re all here in one space.

He rarely talks about his mother, so you very clearly remember every single time he has mentioned her specifically. He speaks about her with a tentative expression; his voice grows quieter, and his eyes lower a little more.

Ayn is decisive and is like a well-sharpened blade. He knows his goals and is always working diligently towards them no matter what the others say. Some people might see him as too stubborn, too difficult to work with— a girl told you once that many music majors actually dislike Ayn. He stands on a pedestal held up by countless students, praised as an idol of St. Shelter.

But you know about all of his little thoughts, his subtle behaviours, everything he doesn’t like to show others.

Ayn has a sensitive heart. He loves more intensely than one would think. He doesn’t see the world as his playground, as a place he dominates, but something full of possibilities waiting to be explored. He tries to communicate all of the thoughts he can’t express well in conventional ways through his music.

He’ll listen to the grievances of little kids, learns how to appease them and plays along. He’ll suddenly move into an old attic to take care of a stray plant he’d encountered. He’ll dedicate a performance to those he’s grown to understand. He’ll try to find a way to remember the melodies that everybody else has forgotten, not wanting them to fade into obscurity.

Ayn is gentle. He’s clumsy, and he struggles with many things, but he loves sincerely and kindly. But because of this sort of affection he has in his heart, he’ll also linger on the past longer than most, and he’ll become a bit scared.

You hope he can find the world beyond and discover all of the colours waiting for him.

The few knocks against the door are particularly disruptive in the near-silent corridor.

“Come in.”

Ayn’s father looks up from his desk. Surprisingly, he nods at you briefly in acknowledgement, his expression unreadable.

“You don’t seem surprised to see me,” you comment quietly.

“Well, if Ayn needed me for anything, he’d send a rather blunt text. My bodyguards and I have a certain way of communicating through knocks. Here— please take a seat.”

You nod timidly, sitting in the armchair placed in the centre of the room. You peek at Mr. Alwyn, unsure of how to start.

“Like… a secret code?” you ask slowly.

A playful twinkle dances in his age-worn eyes. “Indeed. Although they look stern, they often entertain me and my whims. They were eager to help come up with a unique code for communication.”

You recall Ayn’s birthday last year. The bodyguards intimidated you at first— like they would pull you away if you so much as harmed a hair on the rich young master. However, when you remember all of the tall, burly men in black gathering together to sing happy birthday to Ayn, you can’t help but laugh a little.

“They seem to love Ayn a lot.”

Mr. Alwyn hums, leaning forward on his desk. His fingers are clasped together as he watches you almost like a hawk.

“Do you think the bodyguards and I are overzealous?”

There’s no discernible emotion in his voice that you can pick up. His expression doesn’t give anything away. You force yourself to remain relaxed, resisting the urge to start tugging at your sleeves.

You answer him truthfully, meeting his stare head-on.

“I do.”

Regarding Ayn’s family situation, you still don’t know a lot. Ayn himself rarely talks about it in detail— you’re sure he probably sees a lot of strange things in his life as normal, having grown up in a mafia family. But you know that, at least, those waiting for him at home do care for him.

“I see,” Mr. Alwyn murmurs, leaning back slightly. “How do you think he’s doing now?”

Really, like father, like son. They can both be incredibly direct but then they’ll go and do things in a roundabout manner.

“I believe that’s something you should ask him yourself.”

Mr. Alwyn seems to take your blunt reply well, chuckling to himself as his gaze drifts off. “I suppose you’re right. Apologies for making you entertain my musings for so long. Did you need something from me?”

“Do you have the key to the room at the end of the hallway on the second floor?”

Mr. Alwyn doesn’t ask any further questions. He pulls out a drawer and rummages around, producing a simple and ordinary key. He stands up, walking over to the armchairs in the middle of the room, and places the key on the table in front of you.

Your eyes widen a little in shock, lips parted as you try to find a response. You’d prepared yourself to convince him to give up the key as you stood in front of the study for a long time.

“Um, is it okay for you to just give me the key like this?”

“Did Ayn tell you about that room?”

“No,” you admit, carefully picking up the key. “But I know his mother isn’t around anymore. With how Ayn wears his heart on his sleeve, it wasn’t hard to put together.”

Mr. Alwyn chuckles, returning to his desk. “Seeing how carefully you watch over my son, I’m sure everything will turn out fine. I was done testing you a long time ago.”

“I still can’t believe you kidnapped your own son,” you mutter, recalling the sheer panic that you felt when Ayn disappeared suddenly before your first White Day together.

“Life has many unexpected challenges, after all,” Mr. Alwyn says. At that moment, it’s particularly clear just how the vicissitudes of life have engraved themselves within his tired eyes and the wrinkles across his brows. “It was important to ensure that the two of you aren’t going into this half-heartedly.”

He pauses briefly.

“Well, that, and I was a bit hesitant to let my son go. You’ll have to forgive this silly, selfish old man.”

“...Ayn’s grown up now,” you reply softly.

Mr. Alwyn’s eyes reflect a mixture of sorrow and joy, as he replies with his head slightly lowered.

“Yes,” he murmurs, ��He has grown into a rather fine, young man.”

———

During Ayn’s birthday last year, he told you a little bit about his mother.

Leighton Creek Plaza was covered in a cool shade, the passing winter breeze causing the young couple sharing a scarf to draw nearer still to each other. Despite the cold, it was the warmest you’d ever felt.

Well, it was also thanks to Ayn’s naturally high body temperature.

It was too early for anybody to be awake, so the entire plaza was empty. Even the two of you, at that time, were stumbling around like fools with the poorly knitted scarf scratching at your cheeks, forcing the two of you to occasionally bump into each other’s shoulders. You still remember the gleeful giggles that filled the silence, both you and Ayn teasing each other about both nothing and everything.

It’s a precious place in Ayn’s memory, so it’s a precious place to you, too.

He didn’t get to properly show you around the place he spent his childhood in last time, so the two of you decided to dedicate some time on your trip to walking around Leighton.

The sun is slowly sinking, painting the entire sky a warm orange that softens the chill of February’s lingering winter. Faced with the traces of snow covering the pavement, you think: The snow back home will have melted by the time Ayn and I return.

Holding your hand, Ayn stands next to you as he watches the sunset.

His eyelashes flutter as a soft breeze passes by, the blazing yet gentle sun reflected in his eyes. Under the hazy light, his fierceness is transformed into an innocent softness that makes you think of what Ayn might’ve looked like when he visited this place for the first time as a child.

“Looks like we made it just in time for the last busker’s song,” he murmured, his callused fingers squeezing your hand. “Let’s sit down somewhere.”

When you hear his voice, softer than usual, you recall some words he’d said during his second birthday—

Some places have seen many changes, but there are things that haven’t changed at all.

The good, the bad, it all melds together in a bundle of complicated emotions. Sweetness, bitterness, joy, sorrow— all of these conflicting emotions that lead to hesitation and shyness, you wonder what’s stirring in Ayn’s heart at this moment as he guides you to one of the bleachers. Ayn pauses, taking off his coat and putting it down on the bleacher.

“It’s cold,” he says curtly, looking at you expectantly.

Not one to be outdone, you smile cheekily at him and take your own coat off and lay it on the bleacher right next to his. You relish in Ayn’s baffled expression, mimicking his gesture towards the coat you’ve just laid out.

“You’re right. It’s cold, so it’ll be a bit uncomfortable sitting on the bleachers.”

“Your coat…”

You plop down on the coat he laid out for you, shivering a little as you pat your coat on the bleacher— an invitation for him to sit next to you.

“Come here, won’t my boyfriend cuddle with me? It’s cold,” you say shamelessly, eager to take this opportunity to tease Ayn.

He smiles helplessly, finally sitting down next to you and pulling you into his arms. He’s delightfully warm and you already feel the shivers leaving your body as you rub your cheek against him.

“Like a cat,” he comments quietly.

“I heard that,” you purse your lips, pinching the one of the arms wrapped around you, eliciting a quiet hiss from Ayn. “Between the two of us, you’re the cat.”

Before Ayn is able to make remarks of his own, the final busker walks up to the two of you, maybe because the two of you were the only ones left lingering this late.

“May I sing a song for this young couple here?”

Your eyes light up in recognition. “Oh, you’re the street performer from last time!”

The street performer bows his head humbly with a friendly smile playing at his lips as he glances in Ayn’s direction. “Will I be seeing the two lovely gentlemen in suits shortly?”

“...I’m not a little boy anymore,” Ayn replies, but there isn’t much bite to his words and there’s even a faint smile on his face. “I see you’ve never stopped singing.”

“Why, of course; I haven’t grown sick of music in the past years, but rather, I find myself drawn more to its liveliness,” the street performer chuckles. “But I have grown a bit weary of the cold biting at my fingertips, so I am on the hunt for one last song to perform before I retire for the day.”

Ayn plays with your fingers, looking at you with his head slightly tilted.

“Is there a song you want to hear?”

You look into Ayn’s eyes for a few seconds before looking at the street performer to make your request, “How about that song you sang for that little boy years ago?”

“You like that song a lot. Luckily for you, I think that song is real fun to perform— say no more, miss.”

As the street performer sings his last song for the day, you feel Ayn’s gaze flickering from the street performer to you. Back when you had travelled to Leighton for Ayn’s birthday, you had told him about the street performer you encountered while the bodyguards took you around the city. You don’t know what, exactly, this song means to Ayn, but you hope it’s something he remembers with fondness.

The fingers wrapped around yours tighten slightly as music from the past fills the air. When you hear this melody, you see your figure walking alongside Ayn. During your brief detour to this plaza before the two of you left to return home to Harp Island, you’d tried to sing this song for him despite your lack of experience with singing.

He listened to you with rapture, staying silent until the very end, even when you stumbled over some lines and unfamiliar notes that you’d learned somewhat hastily.

What about him— what is it that he sees, what does he remember, when he sits here in this plaza filled with childhood memories?

The song ends, and the street performer bows exaggeratedly to the two of you before taking his leave. The plaza is then filled with a serene silence, the sky growing darker bit by bit.

You lean against Ayn, letting him feel your weight, as the two of you watch the sky together.

Then, Ayn starts to talk:

“My mom often took me here to play when I was younger.”

As he speaks, you listen carefully.

Ayn has avoided talking about her with you ever since coming to Leighton. If you had to wager a guess, he might not want to show you a gloomier side of himself during the Valentine’s season. Still, no matter how he tries to hide it, Ayn has always been someone who wears his heart on his sleeve.

“The first time she took me here, there was a music festival going on. There were tons of street performers playing music together— there were a lot of different people with different styles coming together to spread their love for music.”

As he recalls old memories, Ayn stands up from the bleachers and walks towards the centre of the open plaza.

“From what I remember, the stage was from here— to here,” Ayn explains, walking from one end of the centre to the other. He pauses for a moment, looking over the empty plaza. “During the festival, there would be colourful, triangular flags, balloons, and streamers everywhere.”

You stand up as well, picking up and lightly shaking any loose snow off of both coats from the bleachers. Calling out tentatively to him, you step closer to Ayn and drape his coat around his shoulders.

“Ayn?”

“Now that I stand here, this place feels a lot smaller than the place in my memory.”

“You’ve grown a lot since then, after all.”

Ayn takes your coat hanging precariously from your arms— you’d been too distracted watching him— and drapes your coat around the shoulders just as you did to him. The two of you face each other, holding onto the other’s coats to prevent it from falling. At this distance, you can feel Ayn’s warmth and smell the faint sweetness that always accompanies him.

“A lot has changed, too.”

His words ring clearly in your ears as he leans in to press his forehead against yours.

“Like what?”

Even though you know the answer, you still want to hear him say it.

“You’re here.”

You smile, leaning forward and tilting your head slightly to press a lingering kiss to his lips. Your eyes squint with satisfaction when you see the faint shyness mixed with adoration in the eyes you’ve become obsessed with.

“Yeah. I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Aym hums quietly, nuzzling your cheek with his as he pulls you closer with your coat. His hair, soft and scented the same as yours, tickles you.

Like a cat.

———

Ayn feels a little weird standing here in this room. Everything that he once thought was big feels so much smaller now. He guesses his father must feel the same, with how painfully awkward the silence currently is.

Fed up with the silence, Ayn speaks first.

“You still clean her room.”

“Well, it’s still a part of this house, after all. It wouldn’t be good to let dust accumulate.”

The office is filled with an unbearable silence.

Ayn’s eyes narrow. This is what he hates the most, the roundabout deflections that avoid the core. He refuses to admit it out loud, but he sometimes finds himself doing similar things. He likes to think that he’s better than his father, though.

…If there is something they really do have in common though—

It would seem that neither of them can move on from her death, though. His mother’s death has loomed over his head like a cloud, sometimes gentle and kind, other times dark and gloomy. The sweet memories from his past leave a faintly bitter taste in his mouth, a constant reminder of his helplessness and ignorance.

His father is the first to break this silence, speaking stiffly. “Well… how have you been these past few years? Any new friends at school?”

But Ayn is going to move on.

“I’m not going to beat around the bush, unlike you. I want you to tell me what you’ve been hiding from me.”

“Are you sure you fully understand the severity of the situation, as well as the dangers that come with staying by her side?” his father asks sternly, all of the weariness from the past decade seeping through— like a long extinguished flame.

Ayn recalls his father from his childhood, sitting at his mother’s bedside, jaw clenched tightly and quiet fury soothed only by his mother’s spindly hand.

“Have you heard of the story of Orpheus and…”

“We aren’t anything like Orpheus and Eurydice.”

In the quiet study, Ayn’s voice sounds disproportionately loud, especially when compared to his father’s more tempered steadiness. Still, he continues to speak clearly, confidently.

“I won’t be like you,” Ayn declares. “I won’t repeat the mistakes you’ve made. So, I want you to tell me exactly what you’ve been keeping from me this entire time— I know this concerns her somehow. I’m getting involved. If you won’t tell me, I’ll just find another way.”

He’s no longer that child feigning indifference. He’s grown since, from that child that put his guard up around those he should’ve felt the most comfort in— a feeble attempt to protect his heart. He’s different, now, from that clumsy child who had turned feigned apathy into a shield, fearful of rejection.

Ayn won’t bring his regrets back to Harp Island anymore.

Right as the tense thread between them feels as though it’s about to snap, his father suddenly sags in his seat.

“Alright,” he says helplessly, “I’ll tell you what I know, starting next month.”

“This better not be you running from all of this.”

His father shakes his head. “No, it’s just…”

“Just?”

“...You should really be asleep at this moment. Staying up late isn’t good for you.”

“Ha?” Ayn laughs incredulously. His father pauses, seemingly hesitating. Ayn narrows his eyes, crossing his arms. “What?”

“Like your mother said, you won’t grow any taller if you keep staying up so late…”

Ayn looks at his father, his eyebrows raised in disbelief.

“You’re still 179 centimetres, aren’t you? That missing centimetre probably comes from you staying up all the time—”

“Since when were you such a naggy old man?” Ayn interrupts with annoyance. “Besides, you’ve been staying up to work, haven’t you? Surely you can put the paperwork down for one night. You don’t get to nag me about my sleep schedule when you stay up late for most days of the week. At least I don’t have eyebags.”

His father appears bewildered by his outburst, not that Ayn really cares.

“Did you ask Gavin about how I’ve been doing?”

“He just ended up talking about you a lot when I mentioned staying in Leighton for a bit,” Ayn retorts. After a brief second, he adds, “You should start sleeping earlier. Gavinator looks like he’s stressed out of his mind about your growing eyebags.”

“Is that so? Are there others aside from the Gavinator?”

Ayn shrugs callously. “I’m sure the other bodyguards are all thinking about how their boss is becoming a panda.”

“...I see.”

“Well, that’s all I wanted to say. I’m leaving now.”

As Ayn is about to leave, his father’s voice stalls him. “Hold on.”

“Don’t tell me that you’re about to tell me to eat more vegetables.”

The corner of his father’s eyes crinkle, the action highlighting the traces of time left on him by life.

“Well, it wouldn’t hurt to eat more healthily. And make sure you’re stretching your legs properly every day. You shouldn’t spend too much time on your devices—”

“I’m leaving if this is all you wanted to say.”

“No, here. I wanted to give this to you.”

Much to Ayn’s surprise, his father pulls out a vinyl record. Ayn carefully takes the vinyl record offered to him.

“Thank you for playing the piano for me,” his father says, stunning Ayn into complete silence. “It’s true that I mostly just wanted to hear you play, but… I thought it would also be nice if your mother could hear how you’ve improved over the years.”

Something catches in Ayn’s throat, making him unable to reply beyond a hoarse, “Oh.”

“This vinyl record is one of your mother’s favourites. I must admit, it hasn’t seen much use in my hands, but perhaps you can better appreciate its music.”

Ayn holds the record a little closer to his chest when he hears this. Quietly, he responds, “Thank you.”

“I won’t keep you any longer. Go sleep now.”

Ayn’s father only speaks again when Ayn has turned the door handle, his voice so quiet that Ayn would’ve missed it if it weren’t for his more sensitive hearing—

“Ayn, you’ve grown well.”

The little boy looks up from the cold, metallic door handle in his hand. He turns his head, seeing his father’s warm smile.

“I’m proud of you.”

For a moment, Ayn is frozen in place. His heart surges with all sorts of emotions— bitterness, curiosity, bewilderment, hope. But above all—

He’s happy.

“Save those words for when I’ve become a world-famous musician,” Ayn snorts, lifting his chin.

His father chuckles. “Remember to invite me to your first performance as a world-famous musician.”

Ayn lowers his head, his voice quieter this time.

“Goodnight, dad.”

“Goodnight, Ayn.”

After a moment of hesitation, Ayn adds—

"And, to answer your very first question..."

He allows a fond smile to slip through when he thinks of your silhouette under the light, of your voice as you call his name, of the smile you greet him with.

"I've been doing well. The world, as it turns out, is a truly colourful place."

The door clicks shut behind Ayn quietly, as though not to disturb the slumbering night.

In the past, the long trek from his father’s office back to his room often filled his heart with a bitterness he desperately ignored. Today, however, his chest feels light and he walks through the warmly lit corridor with a renewed vigor.

He really wants to see you.

———

In the time you’ve spent staying here in the place Ayn grew up in, you found yourself recalling various memories of your own childhood.

And, with it, came the bittersweetness associated with the memories of your mother. Even the most mundane, the silliest and most inconsequential memories, are followed by feelings of sorrow.

Since the first time after Godheim, you’ve returned to your childhood home a handful of times. Each time, you visited with the excuse of searching for more potential clues relating to your mother, for clues about your past. It was a weak excuse, as you had already thoroughly combed through every photo album, every memo, the first time you visited.

The times following that were driven by that small part of you who still didn’t want to let go of the past.

You hadn’t known anything back then. Even if you had known, you wonder if there was anything at all that you could’ve done while trembling violently in that dark void with your only comfort from the deafening noise beyond being the age-worn stuffed bear in your arms.

Sometimes, when you find yourself unable to sleep, you spend long hours sitting in front of your easel with a paintbrush in hand.

Even now, the night before you’re supposed to leave for Harp Island with Ayn, you are painting.

Don’t bring the regret back to Harp Island anymore.

You’ve changed in many ways, staying the same in some other aspects. You’ve stopped keeping your head down, instead stubbornly keeping your head held high to take in all of the dizzying sights the world has to offer. The death of your mother no longer confines you to your bed, instead becoming the driving force between every line drawn, both the more amateurish lines and the more refined lines.

Sometimes, you paint almost as though you are in a frenzy, eager to experience the vast world in your mother’s stead.

The regret still lingers— it never left, no matter how faint it becomes. No matter how distant it feels on the best of days. Your powerlessness in that moment lingers, almost unbearable on certain dates. You often fall into a more somber mood on dates such as Mother’s Day. You often feel a whole slew of mixed emotions regarding the holiday. Recently, though, it’s not as unbearable as before.

It’s all thanks to Ayn.

In truth, you had ended up crying like a baby in front of him. You had tried to keep the tears back as you recounted random stories about your mother to Ayn, but you quickly devolved into a snivelling mess. At that time, he simply brought you more tissues and some water.

After you finally left your room to explore the world, you never cried on Mother’s Day until last year. You never wanted to worry your mother, wanting to be more independent.

But he was there, standing awkwardly at your front door without a single excuse prepared for why he was visiting on that day.

“Just passing by,” he’d said.

At the memory, you laugh softly.

When you see the awkward boy working his hardest to live well, working his hardest to pursue the things he loves most, you can’t help but feel like you need to do your best as well.

One day, you hope you can capture your mother’s kind smile looking back at you through a field filled with blue hyacinths. You’d like to show her just how much she meant to you and all of the joy she helped you discover in your childhood. One day, you hope you can grow around the bitterness that accompanies the memories of your mother so that you can show her the purest happiness she’s given you.

With a broad stroke of your brush, the melodies fill the air with all sorts of hazy colours. In the middle of the plaza, decorated with colourful, triangular flags, balloons, and streamers, a boy stands behind a keyboard with a carefree smile on his face.

Reflected in his clear eyes— the everburning flame of a passionate love towards the world and all of its possibilities.

You nod to yourself in satisfaction.

It’s done.

This painting’s lines aren’t as distinct as most of your other paintings. The colours almost bleed into one another as the melodic notes spread hazy hues across the entire canvas. Through it all, though, the boy in the middle stands like a beacon through the vivid colours. This boy, dressed in black and white just like the keys he’s intimately familiar with, creates a world full of dizzyingly beautiful colours.

A few days ago, when you were returning to the mansion from Leighton Creek Plaza, Ayn had told you that the music festival he once adored as a child was no longer being hosted. He didn’t know the exact details, but he had roughly gathered that there simply hadn’t been enough interest in the small festival as the years passed by.

Together with Ayn, you’d like to come back to that lonely plaza in the future and host a music festival full of joy and excitement.

You will never forget the way Ayn’s face lit up the same way a child’s would when receiving a brand new toy when you mentioned this to Ayn on the way back.

“I’ll hold you to it,” he’d said, hooking your pinky with his.

You’re sure the road ahead will be a thorny one, with countless dangers, but you’re sure you can reach a peaceful future. When you walk alongside Ayn, your arm periodically brushing against his, you feel like there isn’t a single thing you can’t conquer.

…First things first, though. You should be worrying about the present.

Your eyes have started to droop, your mouth opening wide in a big yawn. You’ll need to wake up early tomorrow, so you really should get to sleep, lest you start mistaking the paint water for your drinking water.

Speaking of, you’ve grown thirsty.

I’ll get some water before I sleep.

You clean up your workstation, not wanting to leave a mess in a house that doesn’t belong to you, and blearily make your way to the door.

You’re mid-yawn when you open the door to Ayn staring at you with surprise, his hand hanging awkwardly in the air mid-knock.

Ayn reacts first, reaching out to smear something on your cheek. “You have some paint on your face.”

“Oh,” you react slowly. Then, you reach up and pinch his hand with narrowed eyes. “Hey!”

“We’re waking up early tomorrow, you know,” Ayn says leisurely, his eyebrows raised. “Will you be okay staying up so late?”

“Pot calling kettle black,” you pout. “What are you doing up this late? I’m fairly decent with waking up early, but what about you? Mr. Two P.M. Mornings.”

“I’m on my way to sleep right now. But what about you, Miss Five-More-Minutes?”

You pinch his hand again, though he doesn’t react much to this. “I was on my way to get some water before heading to bed. And to clean up the residual paint on me.”

“Do you know where everything is?” Ayn asks.

You hold back a cheeky grin, replying asnonchalantly as possible. “Yeah, don’t worry about me. You go ahead and get some sleep.”

“...Miss Painter,” Ayn says, gently pinching your cheek. “I want to come with you.”

“Sure,” you laugh fondly, taking his hand that has been continuously poking and pinching your cheek into yours. “Let’s go together.”

———

It’s great to be back on Harp Island. Ayn’s home in Leighton was by no means lacklustre, but there’s nothing that can beat cuddling with Ayn in the shared secret base. A blanket with a paw-print pattern bundles the two of you together.

Ayn fiddles around a bit with the record player as you stare at him.

Right before the two of you left Leighton for Harp Island, Ayn had a talk with his father. He didn’t provide too many details about what he had talked about with his father, but you figure the two of them were able to take a step in the right direction.

It seems that Mr. Alwyn left his son with something to bring back to Harp Island. All you know is that it’s an old record of sorts, but Ayn seems to be excited about it. The moment the two of you returned to the secret base, he was eager to pull out his record player.

Then, after the faint sound of vinyl scratching, music begins to play.

You have a certain memory from the first New Year you spent with him. You had found him in a record shop, surrounded by countless vinyl records, a warm hue softening his usually sharp eyes. Though his words can be blunt, his actions were unspeakably gentle as he handled the various records in that shop.

“It’s just a record that I often heard at home when I was little,” he’d explained to you.

You spent the better part of your day going through that record shop with Ayn. Even though the two of you were unable to find the vinyl record he was talking about, you were able to learn a lot about the things that Ayn likes.

Before the two of you left the mansion in Leighton, Ayn found a vinyl record in a deep drawer within his mother’s bedroom.

“This is it,” Ayn says, leaning against you, his body lightly trembling with hints of laughter. “The record I was searching for.”

Oh, you realize, watching Ayn as he smiles with unrestrained happiness. You see all of the warmth and kindness he’d received from his childhood, from his mother— you see the childish spark of excitement and curiosity in his usually subdued expression.

When a person dies, where do they go?

Maybe—

They don’t go anywhere at all. Instead, they remain by our sides, watching quietly as their loved ones grow.

end notes: kind of connected to "next year, the year after, and..." (don't need to read this to know what's going on in this fic though)

#ayn x reader #ayn alwyn #lovebrush chronicles x reader #lovebrush chronicles #lovebrush ayn

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carrotcouple · 1 year ago

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A lot of people have been asking about the OCs in this post. So I made an obligatory doodle of the main characters and am doing a quick explanation in this post.

These are the main characters from my fairly new OC story which is currently fondly under the placeholder name #necromancers and biohazards. Anyways it's an urban fantasy story with many many different kinds of people (people???? beings???). The protagonists are a group of definitely not sane morally gray idiotic housemates who are fully under govt. scrutiny because two of them were accused of having created a deadly bioengineered plague of sorts that's been killing everyone.

Alright, quick run down of the characters!

First off! Enxo (They/Them) Enxo is a no good, morally off necromancer who got turned into a vampire against their will. They sell "life insurance" of a sort by saying they'll resurrect someone if they die. Enxo is a devil may care biochemist as well and has a strangely large amount of charisma. They were accused of creating the bioengineered disease along with their best friend Qing.

Secondly, Livie (She/Her). Livie used to be a government worker but then was falsely accused of a crime and was kicked out and ostracized. She lost her home and no one who she used to know wants to associate with her. Ren picked her off the streets and brought her over. And since everyone in the house minded their own business and treated her fairly well, she stayed. She's a goodie two shoes and tries to keep her housemates out of obvious illegal nonsense.

Thirdly, Monhir (They/Them). Monhir is an undead abomination. They died(?) after contracting the bioengineered plague, but because of what they were before they died, they didn't exactly die and instead became...that. They're weird, they're a hazard and they've got colorful personality. Monhir drinks all the vanilla essence in the fridge, sleeps under other people's beds and crab walks(?) around the house.

Fourth, Qing (He/Him). Qing is Enxo's best friend, partner in crime, enabler and also their voice of reason. Qing is probably the only reason Enxo is even alive right now. With a good head on his shoulders and much nerdiness in the way of biotechnology, he makes sure everyone knows when to hit the accelerator and also the breaks. He also thinks Enxo is an idiot.

Fifth, Ren (They/Them). Ren is a bit crazy. Ren loves gossip and sparkles. They work at a party store for most of their day, but then spends the rest of their time listening to gossip and gathering information. This has led to them being one of the most valuable information assets in the country. Oh yeah they also like fuzzy slippers and adopt people way too frequently. They were stopped from bringing people home permanently after Livie. This doesn't mean they don't bring people over for dinner.

Sixth, Ytal (She/Her). Ytal is a mercenary and also an assassin if she's paid enough (Livie doesn't know this). She's never allowed to do anything around the house because of the brute force she's capable of. She's broken too many lightbulbs. She's also cursed and so will sometimes just throw up blood and pass out. Enxo has her on several different meds to manage this though and she pays them a hefty amount by acquiring random body parts for experimentation (Livie once again does not know this).

And lastly, Zayn (He/Him). Zayn is a bit of a mystery. None of his housemates know about who he used to be before he started living with them. (To be honest, they could all find out but none of them care to look into it). Zayn used to be a popular celebrity who would smuggle people in and out of countries so that they could find refuge in other countries away from wars and more. However, several countries found out about this so he changed his identity and is now living a quiet and uncomplicated life (aside from the random life threatening explosion he faces for rooming right next to Qing and Enxo's lab).

The story kinda focuses on the bioengineered disease and everything surrounding it. Enxo is technically the main character which I love them for. They're fantastic. A lot of this story is still under development but yeah. That's all. Will probably post more stuff of them at some point! Thanks for tuning in.

#sunny arts #sunny's ocs #sunny writes #necromancers and biohazards #doodling all of them nearly murdered me #but i'm particularly happy with how Qing and Ren turned out #wifey really likes how Enxo and Ytal turned out #yeet

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marauderundercover · 4 years ago

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Taking Chances Ch. 1: Adopted

AO3 @maribat-bdbwm

Adopted. Adopted. Adopted. Adopted. The word runs on a loop through Marinette’s head as her world crumbles around her. She was adopted.

“What? Maman, I don’t, I don’t understand.” Marinette says, her voice cracking as she tries to act like this isn’t bothering her. Like she doesn’t feel as though her entire world is changing.

“Marinette, sweetheart, just take a breath. That’s it, breathe in...and out. Very good.” Her maman says, holding her hands as she breathes with her slowly. Marinette swallows thickly, trying hard to ignore the way her hands shake in her maman’s.

“Maman, why didn’t you tell me?” She asks, confusion and self doubt swirling in her mind. Why was she adopted? Did her birth parents not want her? Could they not take care of her? Was she a mistake? Did they hate her? Did her maman hate her now? Is that why she’s telling her? Is she going to be kicked out? Is she going to have to leave Paris? What if-

“Marinette?” Her maman’s soft voice pulls her out of her thoughts. Marinette frowns when she realizes that she has tears running down her face.

“I-I’m sorry.” She says, pulling her hands away to furiously wipe at her tears, trying hard to ignore the sympathetic look her papa keeps giving her.

“You have nothing to apologize for, Marinette. Are you feeling up to an explanation? Or would you rather not talk about this?” She asks, her face covered in worry.

“I wanna talk about it.” Marinette says quickly, before slapping her hands over her mouth. She didn’t mean to say that. What if that’s not right? What if what her maman has to say is just going to hurt more? What if-

“Okay. It’s okay, sweetheart. I’m sorry we waited so long to tell you.” Her maman apologizes, scooting closer to wrap an arm around Marinette’s shoulders. Her papa wraps an arm around both of them, his presence calming Marinette enough so that she can think a little more clearly.

“Why did you wait? Why now?” She asks, still confused why she decided to break the news today of all days.

“We were going to wait until you were sixteen. Let you be at an age where you would understand it a little more, understand that being adopted isn’t wrong. And that you didn’t do anything wrong.” She explains, rubbing her shoulder gently.

“But then, why now?” Marinette asks, frustration starting to build. Why say they were going to wait and then not actually wait? Why would they-

“Mme. Mendeleiev called. You’re starting a unit on genetics and biology, and she knew that you were adopted. She just-” She sighs, frowning. “She didn’t want you to be blind sided or caught off guard in class if things didn’t add up.”

“But why does she know?” Marinette asks with a frown.

“Because we were both friends with your birth mother.”

--- Walking into class, Marinette tries hard to avoid the worried glance from Mme. Mendeleiev. All of the information from yesterday swirling through her head; her maman was friends with Mme. Mendeleiev. They were both friends with her birth mother, Bridgette Le. Her birth mother didn’t just give her up, she did want her, her maman had reassured her repeatedly. But she had died. And Marinette had almost died as well. And her parents? Didn’t hate her now. They didn’t love her any less, they reassured her of that several times before Marinette asked to be excused to go to bed. Tikki had had to watch for akumas most of the night. Breathing shakily, Marinette sits and immediately starts doodling on her notebook, hoping that no one else will put two and two together once their genetics unit starts. Hoping that no one will know or ask her. About adoption. --- It was two weeks after Marinette found out that she was adopted that she decided to talk to her maman about it again. After ranting to Tikki for several nights and spending time thinking about it, she had slowly started to accept it. It didn’t mean her parents loved her any less. It didn’t mean that she was any different or anything. It just meant that she had two more parents. A birth mother who had apparently wanted what was best for her, naming Sabine Cheng as her godmother even before Marinette was born. And a birth father. A man that Marinette was determined to talk to her maman about. Surely the woman would know something about him, given her close friendship with her birth mother.

“Hey Maman.” Marinette says, walking into the kitchen and sitting at the counter. Her maman smiles brightly at her as she continues to fill the dumplings.

“Hello sweetheart. How’s your commission for Jagged going?” She asks, her face filled with pride. Marinette grins and nods.

“It’s amazing. The shape of the suit is much different than anything else I’ve made before, but I think it’s going to look really cool!” Marinette says, a wide smile on her face before she remembers the whole reason she came into the kitchen. She clears her throat. “Maman, could I ask you something?”

“Of course Marinette.” She says, closing and filling dumplings before placing them in the steamer.

“When we talked about my...adoption. You didn’t say anything about my birth father. Did you know him too?” Marinette asks, staring down the counter to avoid looking at her maman.

“I didn’t know him very well, I’ll be honest. Bridgette met him when she went to the US for a year. I’m not sure what happened, but she did write a letter for him. I have it in the lock box though, she didn’t put an address on it and I wasn’t sure where to send it.” She explains and Marinette frowns at the lack of information.

“Does he- did he even know about me?” She asks.

“I’m not sure. Bridgette didn’t talk about him much. All she really said was that the town wasn’t fond of her and she didn’t want you to grow up in that environment, said it was terribly dreary. And that he was obsessed with his work. He worked for some big company, but I’m not sure if he still does. ” Her maman adds and Marinette nods.

“Is that all?” She asks, trying not to show her disappointment.

“Let me grab the letter. I can’t remember his name, but it should be in there.” She says, turning and washing her hands before walking away to get the letter. Marinette lets out a long breath, hoping that she isn’t making a mistake by looking for this information. --- Bruce Wayne. That was apparently the name of her birth father who lived somewhere in the US. Her maman was right about that. The letter didn’t have an address and Bridgette hadn’t put anything specific about the location. Besides her birth father’s name, the letter was a dead end. How generic could a name be? Bruce Wayne. It was like finding out her father’s name was Thomas Williams or John Smith or something. There must be thousands of Bruce Waynes in the US. Walking into Mme. Bustier’s class, Marinette trudges to her desk in the very back and drops down into her seat. Dropping her head onto her desk, she barely notices Adrien walk in.

“You okay, Mari?” He asks, frowning as he takes the seat next to her.

“I got a name.” She mumbles into the desk, knowing the boy would understand. She turns her head so that she can glance at him, frowning at the wide smile that takes over his face.

“Really? That’s great!” He says and she huffs.

“Not really. It was the most generic name ever, and the letter that Bridgette wrote didn’t have a location or anything.”

“Why do you want to talk to him so badly?” Adrien asks and Marinette sits up, frowning.

“I don’t know, I just-” She sighs. “I guess I just want the chance to meet him. Maman’s told me so many stories of Bridgette since I found out, and I’ve loved getting to know little things that we have in common. I just want to know if I have anything in common with him.”

“If you really want to meet him, I’ll do everything I can to help you find him.” Adrien says. Marinette looks at him, relief and gratitude coating her face.

“Really? You’d do that for me?” She asks, hope and faith that this could actually work rushing over her. Adrien nods, gifting her a small smile.

“Of course, Mari.” He says. Marinette opens her mouth to thank him again, when Mme. Bustier barges into the classroom.

“Students! Listen up, I have an amazing announcement!” She cheers, clapping her hands together. Marinette looks at the woman wearily, unsure of what the woman could be so excited about. She’d had a meeting with the woman earlier to talk about the end of year trip. They hadn’t talked about much, just the budget and trips that they could feasibly do. Marinette had also shot down some of the woman’s….less than ideal options. Seriously, who thought a trip to Gotham was a good idea? Even Marinette, with her lack of knowledge about the world’s big names and celebrities, knew that Gotham wasn’t a great place. It was quite literally crawling with villains, and unlike Paris, there was no Miraculous Cure to fix everything. Marinette blinked as the class suddenly erupted with cheers.

“What happened?” She asks Adrien, zoning back into the situation around her.

“We’re apparently going to Gotham for our end of year trip.” Adrien mutters, clearly not thrilled with the turn of events. Marinette nods, then freezes as the words register. Well shit. --- Marinette huffs as she rushes into the empty hotel lobby. Key word: empty. Well, okay it wasn’t completely empty, but it definitely didn’t have the entire class (and teacher!) that it was supposed to have. Instead it just had a tired looking concierge and a bowl of bruised apples. Fantastic. Grumbling under her breath, Marinette pulls out the itinerary that she had been forced to create for this trip she was forced to be on. She wasn’t trying to be dramatic, but between Hawkmoth and all of her responsibilities as Ladybug, going to a city like Gotham was the last thing that she wanted to do. Its villains, or Rogues as they preferred to be called, seemed to have no fear. At least Hawkmoth was smart enough to hide behind his goons. Gotham’s rogues had no such qualm, and instead ran around to personally cause mayhem. Glancing down at the itinerary, Marinette suppresses a groan. The entire class left early. Of course they did. Whatever, she still had plenty of time to get to their scheduled tour time at the Gotham City Museum of Modern Art. It had been Alix’ suggestion, as the girl’s father was friends with someone who had helped in its most recent street art exhibit.

“Marinette!” A small voice yells. Marinette glances down at her purse and raises an eyebrow at the concerned look on her kwami’s face.

“What?” She whispers back.

“You’re not really going to walk by yourself in Gotham, are you?” Tikki asks, her eyes wide with concern.

“I’ll be fine, Tikki. And I plan on getting a cab.” Marinette says, giving her purse a reassuring pat before walking out into the dreary mist outside. Hailing a cab with surprising ease, Marinette tells the driver her destination and sits back, watching the gargoyles and architecture stream past. She’d have to sketch something later, because a million ideas for a Gotham inspired line was floating through her head. When the cab stops, Marinette smiles and thanks the man, handing him the fare and a tip.

“No problem, Miss Wayne.” The driver says, tipping his cap before zipping away from the museum. Miss Wayne? As in her father? Marinette shakes that thought away almost as quickly as it appears. What are the odds that she’d be in the same city as her birth father? Must’ve mistaken me with someone else, Marinette thought to herself, almost as if she was reassuring herself that there was no chance of seeing her birth father. No chance of someone seeing her and saying, “oh, are you Bruce’s girl? You sure do have his nose”. No chance of the man himself running into her and seeing a perfect blend of himself and Bridgette and- No. No need to panic about this right now. Pushing the thoughts away, Marinette rushes into the museum and nearly runs over Adrien.

“Mari! Are you okay? Where were you? I didn’t see you in the lobby so I got on the bus to look for you and you weren’t there and then I tried to get off to find you and-” Marinette cuts Adrien’s rambling off with a tight hug to reassure him that she’s there. She’s there and she’s safe.

“I’m okay, I promise. I got a cab surprisingly easily.” Marinette reassures him, mumbling into his chest. He freezes momentarily before returning the tight hug.

“Marinette! Now that you’re here we can start the tour. The tour guide suggested we start in the Comedians Hall of Fame and then loop around and end at the new graffiti display.” Mme. Bustier announces, clapping her hands excitedly. Marinette pulls away from Adrien, blushing slightly as he squeezes her once more before fully letting her go. Wandering through the Comedians Hall of Fame, Marinette’s eyes dance over the exhibits. She wasn’t necessarily passionate or inspired by this section of the museum, but it was still interesting. A big bang made Marinette spin around and frantically look for the exits. The uncontrollable laughter started seconds later. Shit.

“Welcome, welcome to MY hall! Except someone apparently forgot my picture. No worries though, I’m sure we can add one with all of your smiling faces in it as well.” A voice echoes in the hall. Marinette’s blood instantly freezes. The Joker. In a room. With her class. Oh my God, someone is going to die.

“What’re you doing?” Adrien hisses out. Marinette blinks and realizes she had unconciously taken a fighting pose. She was so used to protecting the class as Ladybug against Akumas, she just immediately fell back into the role. She straightens immediately, but it’s too late.

“Ah, a brave little girl. Who do we have here?” Joker asks, and the sickening realization that he’s holding a gun washes over her. There would be no Miraculous Cure. No Lucky Charm. Marinette grits her teeth and stares at the man’s yellow teeth stretched into an unnatural smile.

“Marinette.” She says, leaving out her last name. No need for her parents to panic because her name is trending at the site of a villain attack. Assuming nothing goes wrong and the heroes show up and she doesn’t die by the hands of the Joker. Not that that would be traumatic, or anything.

“What, no last name? Or did you think I wouldn’t recognize you?” Joker asks, pushing her hair out of her face with his gun. Marinette sees Adrien’s fists clench out of the corner of her eye, a wave of determination running through her. She needed to keep Joker distracted so that he wouldn’t notice Adrien and try to hurt Adrien. Since obviously, as an Agreste, he was a much better hostage than the daughter of bakers. Well, and the biological daughter of some random American man who doesn’t even know she exists.

“It’s Cheng.” She retorts, dropping her father’s last name off in a desperate attempt for her full name to stay off the internet.

“Is it? Are you sure? Because if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’re a new Wayne. Much smaller than the others, and a girl is different, but maybe Brucie’s just changing his type.” Joker taunts and Marinette’s head spins. Wayne? It can’t possibly be her birth father...Wayne must be a much more common name in the US than she originally thought and maybe even though she hadn’t even thought about contacting him yet or trying to find him, maybe it would be much harder than she could’ve ever thought because it’s such a common name and he probably has no idea that she wants to even try and find him and there’s probably no chance that he even wants to meet her and-

“Are you even listening to me?” Joker’s annoyed voice cuts off her internal spiral. Marinette quirks up an eyebrow and shakes her head.

“No, not really.” She says, eyes widening and face instantly turning red as she realizes that this was not the kind of villain she could smartmouth like she did Akumas as Ladybug. She’s not even Ladybug right now.

“You’re odd. Maybe you’ll be even more useful than I thought.” Joker says after a moment of tense silence. Marinette glances around the room, noticing how the goons that came in with Joker were more focused on Joker’s weird reaction to Marinette than the other hostages. Making eye contact with Adrien, Marinette has a silent conversation, hoping that he’s suddenly become a mind reader and will start getting people out of the room while the bad guys are distracted.

“I doubt that. I’m failing science.” Marinette says matter-of-factly. It was true, though she wasn’t usually this bad at science. But it was really hard for her to focus on genetics and biology with everything else going on. So her parents didn’t really blame her either, though it did dissapoint Mme. Mendeleiev.

“You’re kind of a smart ass, aren’t you?” Joker taunts, haphazardly waving the gun around.

“It’s um, one of my better qualities.” Marinette stumbles over her words as the gun stops waving to once again point at her face. Joker smirks, his face suddenly darkening as a crash echoes throughout the room. Marinette pales as she watches Joker turn and shoot through the wall next to the door that Lila was currently walking through. Lila yelps and drops to the ground, and for the first time ever, Marinette is certain her tears are real.

“I see what you were trying to do, Frenchie. You were trying to get my hostages out of here. But why? Why would you play hero like that? What would YOU get out of that?” Joker taunts, moving the gun so that it’s pointed right at Marinette’s face again. This time, Marinette could feel the heat radiating from the end of the gun. From the gun being shot at the wall. Near a classmate. Granted it was Lila, but it was still someone she knew. Someone she couldn’t save with the Miraculous Cure because this would be it. The smoke filling the room pulls Marinette’s attention from the gun in front of her, and instead to the hulking figures that suddenly entered the room. Four people, three of them tall but one of those three towering over everyone else in the room. Marinette blinks as her eyes attempt to adjust and she sucks in a breath in shock. Batman. Batman and Nightwing and Red Hood and Red Robin. Of course she knew the vigilantes here, she had done extensive research on anything to do with the hero scene in Gotham. Mostly to keep herself and the class safe in case of an attack, which now that she thinks about it is actually impossible to plan for. Marinette’s feet seem frozen to the ground as she glances around at the bodies hitting the floor. She couldn’t see clearly, but she was almost certain that they were the goons that had arrived with Joker.

“Oh come on, I was just trying to greet this lovely young lady. Say Batsy, don’t ya think she looks like she could fit with the other Wayne brats?” Joker taunts as Batman closes in on them. Joker had shifted her so that she was pressed up against his chest, the gun now situatated at her temple. Batman stops several feet in front of them, a clear grimace on his face.

“Let the girl go, Joker.” He demands in a gruff voice. Marinette inhales sharply as Joker tightens his hold on her.

“I don’t think so, Bats. See, I need this one to guarantee that I get outta here without taking a trip back to my cell. So how about instead, I’ll take her on a little trip and leave her somewhere you can find her later.” Joker offers.

“I don’t think you’re in any place to attempt negotiations.” Batman replies, his face an unwavering mask.

“And why is that?” Joker asks, and Marinette can hear the wide smile in his voice, though she can’t currently see his face.

“‘Cause you’re the asshole who didn’t bother to focus on the rest of us.” A gruff voice from behind taunts. Joker sputters in shock, but seconds later his arms loosen and Marinette dashes towards Batman, glancing back in time to see the man collapse to the ground.

“Is he?” Marinette asks, unsure how to feel about watching a potential death. Even if the man was horrible, he hadn’t killed her or any of her friends so she couldn’t wish him dead. No matter how much it would help her sleep tonight.

“No.” Batman says. Marinette nods before turning her attention to the head of the Batfamily. A wide smile spreads across her face and she extends her hand for him to shake.

“Well then, thank you for saving me, Monsieur. I’m Marinette Dupain-Cheng.”

#maribat #maribat bruce wayne #maribat bio dad bruce #mbdbwm2021 #maribat bio dad! bruce wayne month 2021 #maribat marinette dupain cheng #maribat batfam #maribat adrien agreste #day one meeting

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heyiwrotesomethings · 4 years ago

Text

A Wild Valentine Appears!

Ririka Momobami x She/Her Reader (Feat. some KiraSaya!)

A/N: I now realize why it takes me months to finish writing things. I wrote this oneshot in a day and although I have read it over several times already, I still feel like it’s incoherent. I’ll still happily post it though because if I only posted things I was completely satisfied with, I’d post nothing lol. Anyway, just wanted to give a little love to Ririka because she deserves it. Hope you’ll like it! Word Count: 2,425

Ririka stared over the sea of students pushing and shoving to get into any of the more contested council member lines. God, she really hated Kirari sometimes.

Today was Valentine’s Day, and all Ririka wanted to do was go home, order a giant, cheesy pizza, and watch anime from the comfort of her own bed and forget this stupid holiday even existed. But no, her dear sister just had to be an insufferable nuisance. Nothing could ever be easy, could it?

Kirari had decided to inform the council that morning in an unplanned meeting, that in order to spare the mail room from total annihilation (and Sayaka’s back), each council member would have to accept their Valentines in person. She had even set up the gymnasium for the occasion. Not herself of course, she made the house pets do it, but you get the idea.

“But president, I already have an idol greeting in place!” Yumemi smiled, though her eye twitched, “I’m too busy to deal with people outside of my fan club who need I remind you, actually pay me for my time.”

“It is a waste of time,” Kaede pushed his glasses up, “A pointless holiday.”

“Well I think it’s a great idea president!” Itsuki proclaimed, leveling a glare at Kaede.

“Free sweets so I’ll happily comply!” Runa grinned.

“Sayaka,” Yumemi called, exasperation seeping out of the cracks in her cheery idol facade, “Surely you don’t want to watch people confessing to the president all afternoon?”

Sayaka’s hands, hidden behind her back, clenched tightly in agreement, yet her polite smile stayed solid. “The president’s will is my will.” She replied, her eyes dark and focused.

“Don’t worry. I’m sure Sayaka will be busy enough dealing with her own little pack of girls! Crazy to believe I know, but she’s actually pretty popular!” Midari sensed the air around the president change and cackled. “I’m cool with it, prez. I’m sure Yuriko’s ego would love all the attention too!” She offered on behalf of the absent council member. Yuriko had some important business with the Traditional Culture Club to take care of before the impromptu meeting was called.

“Majority rules.” Kirari smiled, passing a glance over to Ririka who was silently stewing.

So that’s how Ririka ended up standing in the furthest corner of the gym, watching all her fellow council members’ lines fill up while hers remained painfully desolate. She had never been more thankful for her mask than she was today. However, it was probably because of the mask and her eerie silence that people were afraid to approach her in the first place.

Ririka found entertainment watching Kirari and Sayaka at least. Though those two usually drove her absolutely bonkers, it was kind of funny to watch them take turns discreetly eyeing their ‘competition’ for the other’s affections. It was enough to make Ririka want to scream over the school’s intercom system that they needed to just kiss already and stop wasting everyone’s time, but still funny to see her sister making a mental list of every person who dared get too comfortable with her secretary. Ririka rolled her eyes as she was sure Sayaka was doing the same to the patrons in Kirari’s line. Her sister’s line was much larger than Sayaka’s own, but Ririka knew better than to think Sayaka couldn’t keep up.

“Um, excuse me, vice president?”

Ririka startled, but years of schooling her emotions and physical reactions hid her scare well. She looked away from her sister to stare at the disturbance head on. Ririka was surprised to find a face she recognized. (L/n) (Y/n), she sat next to Ririka’s left in class since their first year of high school. What could she possibly want?

“I’m sorry, I didn’t disrupt your train of thought did I? Here, let me just give you this quick and I’ll be out of your hair,” (Y/n) laughed nervously, her hand rummaging through the school bag over her shoulder, “I knew I should have packed better, sorry, just a second... There!” (Y/n)’s hand finally re-emerged with a rectangular box, striped with red, pink, and white. She held the box out to Ririka with a barely detectable tremor, “I made these chocolates for you. I hope you like them!”

Ririka tilted her head, mouth agape. Was this actually happening right now? Someone was giving her Valentines chocolate? And they were cute and nice? What the hell?

“Oh no, you hate it! I’m so sorry!” (Y/n) looked every bit as horrified as Ririka felt for just standing there and staring like an idiot instead of accepting the chocolates.

Ririka immediately waved her arms and shook her head, swiping the chocolates from her classmate’s hands and pressing the box into her chest protectively. Looking between (Y/n) and the chocolates Ririka knew she had to do something to show her gratitude so, she awkwardly flashed (Y/n) a shaky thumbs up. If Ririka could blush through her mask she was sure it would be bright pink.

“Thank you, vice president! I hope you like them, I worked hard on these- but! But don’t feel obligated or anything!” (Y/n) quickly added.

Ririka looked down at the pretty box in her hands a popped the lid open, a little gasp escaped her lips and came through her voice modulator like a crackle of static. The chocolates were shaped like cats!

“I hope you don’t mind, I noticed you doodle a lot during class and I think you make the cutest little kittens so that’s why I shaped the chocolate like that. I made the mold too, it took a couple tries, but the end result was worth it I think.”

Ririka hadn’t realized (Y/n) had paid attention to her at all, much less that she would be interested in her enough to know what she did during class, or remember and care enough to then turn such observations into an incredibly sweet and thoughtful gift. There was no way she was going to be able to keep her eyes off of (Y/n) during class now... not that she had ever stared longingly at her before! Or chickened out of buying chocolates to put in her classmate’s shoe cubby that morning, not at all! But damnit Ririka really wished she hadn’t been such a coward now!

“I’m glad this worked out. I had been planning to just send them through the mail system like I have in previous years, but then I heard that the student council was only accepting gifts in person this year and I kind of lost my nerve,” (Y/n) rambled on, waving her hands around as she talked.

Ririka couldn’t believe it. (Y/n) had sent her chocolates before? She had never gotten them. They had probably been lost in her sister’s vast piles of confectionary wealth, damn her sister!

“You are always so distant with everyone. I was afraid I was just going to be bothering you, but seeing you standing here all alone... I knew I had to just go for it and put my feelings out there, you know? Ah, I’m talking too much. I should really—“

“The president did not consent to be touched!”

(Y/n) and Ririka whipped their heads around just in time to see Sayaka flip a student twice her size to the ground, tasing him for good measure. Kirari stood by with an amused smirk, her hands rubbing sanitizer into her skin as she watched her secretary obliterate the boy.

The girls who were still waiting in Sayaka’s line started cheering and swooning which quickly made the president’s mood sour and she turned to the girls, offering them an icy stare that shook them all to the bone.

“I’ve grown quite bored of this. Would any of you care for a high stakes gamble? I’m sure we all have something of value to offer.” Kirari spoke, reaching her hand out towards the group.

The girls dropped their gifts and ran away screaming, none dared to accept the president’s wager. Especially not while she looked so menacing albeit elegant, as if she drank human blood and tears from a wine glass while sitting regally upon a throne constructed from the bones of her enemies.

Once the boy on the ground was disturbingly still, Sayaka stood and brushed off her skirt, her dark, calculating eyes scanned over the rest of the line. She zapped her taser twice in warning causing the remaining students to scatter and flee the scene.

“Oh my, Sayaka. Did you need to be so harsh?” Kirari teased, as if she hadn’t just subtly threatened a handful of high schoolers herself. She’d be lying is she said she hadn’t enjoyed the momentary chaos she had created.

“School hours are nearly over president. I was simply killing two birds with one stone.” Sayaka informed, still looking a bit miffed.

“Ah, so they are. Well then, far be it from me to hamper anyone’s holiday plans.” Kirari looked around at the remaining students and made a shooing motion with her hands, clearly bored, “Leave.” The students knew better than to complain, not directly in front of the president at least. (Y/n) moved to follow the crowd but Ririka grasped her by the bicep, keeping (Y/n) glued to her spot. Ririka was not going to let her slip away, not without returning the favor. Once the students were pushing out of the gymnasium doors, Kirari turned back to Sayaka, her eyes glimmering. “Sayaka, accompany me to the student council room. I would love a hot cup of tea. You always prepare it so well.”

“Yes, president!” Sayaka nodded, falling in step behind Kirari as she took a different exit.

“That was, something.” (Y/n) laughed, rubbing the back of her neck with her free hand, “I better get lost now before I overstay my welcome. Um, thank you again, vice president.” (Y/n) moved to pull away but Ririka held on tighter, making her classmate’s skin grow warmer. “Vice president?”

Ririka looked around at who was left loitering in the gymnasium and rolled her eyes. She may not have gotten chocolates for (Y/n), but she was surely going to make up for it before the day was over. Ririka just needed to get away from all these people first. She tugged (Y/n) along to the gym storage room and blushed as Runa laughed and pointed at her. She pulled (Y/n) inside the storage room and closed the door behind them.

“(L/n),” Ririka’s distorted voice crackled to life behind her mask, causing (Y/n) to jump. (Y/n) had never heard her speak before. “Do you like anime?”

“I- yeah I like anime?” (Y/n) blinked, she clearly had no idea where this could possibly be going.

“Do you like pizza?” Ririka persisted, the modulator making her sound much more severe rather than excited.

“Sure, I like pizza vice president.” (Y/n) answered taking a cautious step back as Ririka stepped forward, effectively cornering herself.

“Would you...” Ririka’s hand quivered as she lifted it to her face, (Y/n) tracked the movement, a look of bewildered wariness upon her face as she waited with bated breath for whatever was to come next. Ririka pulled the mask off her face, blushing as (Y/n) grew more shocked, awed, and confused. “Would you like to come to my house to watch anime and eat dinner?!” Ririka squeaked, her face growing hotter after every word that left her mouth.

“But— how? You... we were.. and you were, and then you?” (Y/n) babbled looking between Ririka and the door, weakly pointing between the two. Ririka starred at (Y/n) oddly then smacked her hand over her eyes and laughed feebly at the misunderstanding.

“I’m not Kirari. We’re twins. I’m Momobami Ririka.”

“Twins? Oh,” (Y/n) suddenly looked very relieved, “I thought for sure Igarashi was going to pop out and strangle me with a jump rope or something. Twins, wow! How have I never guessed?”

“Do not tell anyone!” Ririka warned. “No one is supposed to know yet!”

“I won’t tell!” (Y/n) raised her hand and made a gesture of zipping her lips. “Your secret is safe with me, vice president!”

“Well, good.” Ririka replied awkwardly. “So do you want to...?”

“Oh, yeah!” (Y/n) cleared her throat, “Yes, that sounds like fun, thank you for inviting me.”

Ririka smiled, “Excellent.” She fitted her mask back over her face and led (Y/n) out of the storage room by the hand. “Come with me.” the distorted voice commanded.

Ririka dragged (Y/n) down the hall and the feeling was near euphoric. The grin taking over her face was fighting to be as wide as the one covering her mask when (Y/n)’s hand grasped hers just as tightly.

***

“That’s odd...” Sayaka murmured staring down into the courtyard from the student council window.

“What’s odd, Sayaka?” Kirari asked, tone light and playful as she hugged her secretary from behind, resting her chin on Sayaka’s shoulder.

“President!” Sayaka blushed, wiggling in Kirari’s hold. “I just, I didn’t realize the vice president had a girlfriend is all.” Sayaka explained, pointing to the two girls jogging up to an expensive, black car.

“Oh?” Kirari was just as bemused as she was confused, not that she would allow her face to show it. Watching her sister usher a girl she recognized as a classmate of theirs into the back of the car before Ririka followed in after her and closed the door. Soon after, the car pulled away from the curve. “How interesting.” She would have to confront Ririka about this at a later date, but for now she had a secretary to shower with affections. “Sayaka, this chocolate is delectable. Would you like a taste?”

“I think I would. Thank you, president.”

Kirari smirked, removing one of her arms from around Sayaka to pluck another chocolate from the box while Sayaka turned to face her. Sayaka naively held out her hand, then spluttered when Kirari placed the chocolate on her own tongue and pulled Sayaka closer.

***

“Oh! I remember this episode, it’s so good Ririka, you are going to love it!” (Y/n) was practically vibrating in her spot on the couch.

“Really? I’m looking forward to it.” Ririka smiled between bites of pizza.

Hopefully they could make a habit of this. Who knows, maybe she and (Y/n) would actually pass up Kirari and Sayaka in terms of pursuing a romantic relationship at a reasonable pace. Ririka cautiously leaned her shoulder against (Y/n)’s and she received a kind smile that enveloped her more warmly than the snug blanket over her lap.

Best Valentine’s Day ever.

#kakegurui oneshots #kakegurui x reader #Ririka momobami #ririka x reader #ririka momobami x reader

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lovely-necromancy · 4 years ago

Text

A Cure for Insomnia CH.6

You wake up sometime around one. Not too late in the day given your morning. With a decent amount of sleep under your belt you roll over and start striping your bed of its sheets. Then you make your way across your room, picking up stray clothes as you go to your hamper and dump your collection of dirty linens and clothes into it. You carry the hamper to the bathroom where you load half into the washer. There's no real point in separating the clothes from colored items and pastels or whites. You're only twenty-four and don't have your life totally figured out yet. You can be a little lazy with laundry.

Once your first load of laundry is being washed you go to do your weekly tidy of your home. The one good thing that came from the paranoia of your car's break in was you rearranged all the furniture of the home, thus cleaning as you went. So that means it's more of a quick wipe down of counters and sweeping today. Maybe you'd organize your art supplies while doing your laundry. It's an activity that wouldn't distract you too much and make you forget you had laundry in the wash.

You finish washing the dishes from this morning you begin wiping the counters and tabletop when you notice your fidget cube is still on the table where Toby left it earlier.

'Don't want to lose this. Back to the bookshelf where you belong.' When you get to the living room's bookshelf you notice one of your book's is missing. Ironically it's The Book Thief.

'Tobias probably picked it up and put it down somewhere.' you'd keep your eyes peeled for the book while you cleaned.

After wiping down bookshelves, tables, counters, even the mantel over the fire place you still hadn't found your missing book. You probably picked it right up and placed it right back down without even realizing. You'll just keep an eye out until you find it. You don't even reread books, you really just kept a copy to lend out to people when they ask what your favorite books are. It isn't a real big deal if you can't find it, plus there's bound to be a copy floating somewhere in a thrift shop or yard sale.

The washer chimes right as you grab the broom to sweep. Pausing this task to go retrieve your laundry and do the rest. You empty the dirty clothes left in the basket onto the floor and place the clean wet ones inside the basket. After starting the final load you carry the basket out back. As nice as this home is its still small and doesn't have a dryer, which early summer is fine but come fall and winter might be more cumbersome. Seeing as you have to hang the laundry out to dry outside. Maybe when it gets cold you'll just do smaller loads and hang them up in the bathroom or over the fire place. But that's a thought for future you. Right now current you is struggling yet again to get a fitted sheet to sit on the line. Fitted sheets are probably Satan himself in disguise.

When you finish stringing all the laundry up you take a moment to just enjoy the quiet and the peace that comes with the outside. It's nice out here, maybe after you finish the last few chores today you can come out and just draw, it'd be a good way to also keep an eye on this weather in case it turns. While it hasn't happened yet you're very aware of the risks you take by ignoring the existence of meteorologists. And by that you mean just not bothering to look up the weather for the day.

Heading back inside you restart your task of sweeping. Like you thought you've finished before the washer has even completed it's first cycle. The house isn't too big so it's easy to clean it from top to bottom within a day normally, but today you had even less to do thanks to this week's rearranging. So you move on to organizing your art supplies and separating all materials by medium.

Of course arranging materials is never easy, after all you end up staring at all your horded empty sketch books and note how your thumbnail notebooks are just covered in doodles and random scribbles but no real art or ideas. Maybe it's time to start kicking yourself into gear. You ran into a major period of burnout before moving and now with this fresh start you might be able to focus on progressing with art, even if you don't pursue it as a career. You've always loved the ability to draw and create images that make others happy. But right in this moment you just want to make yourself happy. Maybe you could start small just a few still lifes and see how you feel after that.

Hearing the chime of the washer you hurry to finish putting away the supplies in their newly assigned places. Just as before you transfer the wet and clean clothes into the awaiting basket and take them out to be hung to dry. You don't have another fitted sheet this go round so it goes by much faster than it previously had. Now with all of your washing for today hung you head back inside to grab a fresh sketchbook.

Having never been one for scenery, more of a portrait artist, you start off with small things. A few stills of a flower under the window, the old tire swing on the tree, and even the blue jay that dove for dinner right in front of you. Of course all of these were warm ups done in a few minutes, though you really wish you had more time on the blue jay one. You really need practice with things that aren't people.

The warm ups of course don't look very good, but you can still see what you'd been going for. The hatching and smudging you'd done, to increase depth and give the quick drawing more life, did help a little but it was clear this was an area where you weren't skilled. But that didn't deter you, after all you needed more practice and wouldn't be getting better without it.

Deciding to draw the scene before you, a small open meadow surrounded by trees, in other words your backyard with your drying laundry. You start off slow and make sure to actually look and take in the yard in front of you, doing your best to not just make up the trees and their shapes as you go. Soon you are lost in the meditative muscle memory of drawing. The scratching of pencil scrapping across paper further lulling you into a trance like state as you etch out the scenery.

A harsh breeze blows through and the loud flapping of sheet hitting sheet knocks you loose from your trance. Checking to make sure none of your laundry was flying off, it hadn't the laundry was still secured to the line. Smiling you glance down to actually see what you've sketched out so far. It isn't too bad, though you aren't sure how long you've been working on it, the trees all have a distinct shape rather than your typical cartoon one size fits all attempts. Scanning the page your eyes catch onto something off, out in the tree line it looks like you'd drawn a figure hiding behind a tree.

Hearing the beating of your heart that's currently hammering against your chest you look around. Did your mind do that as a joke or had someone genuinely been watching you draw? Your mouth is dry as your eyes scan the tree line for any sign of what could've been mistaken for a person, but you saw nothing. No one was there. Had anyone ever really been there? Why would you draw that? Why wouldn't you remember doing it? You don't feel safe out here anymore. There are eyes watching you you can feel it. They may not physically be there but the phantom eyes that surround you and cause your skin to crawl make sure you know of their presence. You take that as a sign to head inside for the evening, one that doesn't need to be repeated.

You lock the door immediately behind you and check your phone. It's seven, and you have an email notification. Thanking whatever power for the distraction you slide down your back door and open the notification. It's from Hollis!

YN r u coming to SND? It's that teen beach zombie movie u love. Y;know the awful D list one Blk and wht with the 50yos playing teenagers

Lemme know I'll save your seat.

Sent 6:47 P.M.

They're so sweet to remember you loved this awful D list zombie movie. Horrible subplots and main plot and all. But you're a little spooked right now and watching even that joke of a horror movie is probably too much for you. You doubt you'd feel better by the time ten rolls around to watch it. Not to mention your battery's still drained from Toby this morning. And knowing for a fact you'd probably stay late to talk till morning with Hollis, Jake, and Kirby you decide it's best to skip this week. Just not having the energy to handle Saturday Night Dead.

Nah, sorry man. Battery's dead from being social earlier. Thanks tho, I do appreciate you! ….....,.... lemme know what next week's movie is!

Sent 7:10 P.M.

It'd probably be a good time to make something for dinner, there's a box of mac n cheese in the pantry. Simple but always beloved. As you wait for Hollis to respond you start on boiling water. But you didn't have to wait too long since they'd answered near instantly.

Chill, don worry we'll catch ya next week

…..oooop

ot not...Kirb's said it's the start of watching the entire warren file collection

starting from the beginning

...well the first movie released, Insidious. LOL we probs won't ever see you again.

Sent 7:12 P.M.

How dare Kirby betray you like this. First off those movies are awful, and like not cheesy awful just awful awful. Not to mention he knows how you feel about the Warrens and their cases. You have a power point presentation ready for that dick the next time you see him. ...well not literally but you'd make one to prove a point!

Where's Kirby now? I just wanna talk, I just wanna talk is all.

Sent 7:18 P.M.

Already ran off toy vermont probably

will we get blessed with a ted talk nxt week?

Sent 7:20 P.M.

I can't tell if you're joking or not. If you aren't then yea I can make a power point and we'll play that instead of the movies. Every week until this town understands the severity of this.

Sent 7:21 P.M.

Ya just jkin.

Your passionate hate is funny tho, so could be good to do something mid warren marathon.

Sent 7:23 P.M.

Guess the dissertation on how horrendous the “exorcisms” were will have to wait. They'd just been joking. This is probably a good ending of the conversation anyway, it's hard to tell sometimes but you feel you'll just run in circles with the current topic or worse fall into a rant that they won't read all the way through because they'll have left with the rest of the stunt gang to get dinner before heading over to the Cryptonomica for Saturday Night Dead. Hollis is typically a real good sport about this kinda thing but you'd rather not bog down their night with your hate boner for the Warrens.

'I'll let them know later that I'll still come to Saturday Night Dead next week.' you think as you dump the pasta into the water that finally came to a boil. It's quiet as you cook your macaroni dinner. You'd normally not notice the lack of sound or life in your home before, but maybe having Connor and Toby over put things into perspective. Guests aren't really a thing you've ever had, you always feel rude if your social battery runs out before someone's stay is over. But maybe you're lonely, and it's put you on edge.

Though this week would've put anyone on edge, you have still been alone in this house for two months. That can't be healthy for your mental well being, humans are social creatures by nature after all. Maybe you could get a pet, something that'd make it's fair share of noise and give the home a bit more life than your normally hollow shell wondering the halls. Are you even sure you want a pet? Do you have time for one? You have the standard nine to five, but what about when you're off on a nightly trip because of your sleeplessness? What if you forgot about them? Hell your brain's been so foggy these last few months, it wouldn't be surprising.

Like a sign from the divine themselves, the pot of water boils over. Steam is rising as the sizzling is heard. Your head snaps twice to the right as you scramble to lower the heat and raise the pot off the eye. Putting it down on an unused eye you give it a quick stir and thankfully no pasta got burned to the bottom of the pan....this time. The pasta seems a little crunchy but a texture you'll eat so you kill the hot eye and start on the cheese portion of your mac n cheese.

As you eat you continue your original debate about getting a pet. Ultimately deciding that you just aren't ready for that kind of responsibility right now. Sure you'd had tons of pets in your parents' home but that was with a financial safety net and back when your mental health wasn't all over the place. Not to mention the pets were family pets and responsibility was split three ways.

There isn't much room in your home for you to have a roommate, and that presents a whole nother set of challenges. You could try to make friends through online forums again! It's hard to talk to people in general but you always get scared off before replying to a comment or post. Or overshare to the point people infantize you. Even better trying therapy out could help with your loneliness. Hah ok good one, even if you had money for it consistently you don't think you could trust someone knowing all your secrets but not knowing any of theirs. And while that in and of it self is an example of why you need it, you're rational enough to realize you aren't ready for that either.

After finishing your meal you put away the left overs and clean the dishes. You'll be happier tomorrow knowing they aren't your problem to deal with. You start to make your way to your bedroom but freeze just before the hall.

'You shouldn't stay here...you need to leave.'

A glance at the time tells you it's eight thirty-nine, if you left right now you could make it to Saturday Night Dead with time to spare. You don't need to fill the loneliness with new friends, just spend time with the ones you already have. Duh. Turning you grab your keys off the bookshelf and take one of the masks hanging from a hook by the door.

Checking your door was locked and locking your car once you were in, you're ready to drive. Knowing you're still overstimulated you forgo the music on this drive, hoping it will calm you down enough to enjoy the movie and some down time with friends. And that would help put a pin in your self isolating habits. It'd really be nice if you brought movie snacks over to surprise the gang. You're pretty sure the mini mart carries everything you need. Jake likes swedish fish, Hollis is addicted to those extreme sour airhead ropes, and Kirby's a weirdo with his love of red vines and surge. Hahaha that man will die before he's thirty-eight.

Still having the extra time you deiced to stop by the mini mart and grab the candy. What's the worse that can happen you have another panic attack in front of strangers. Plus you hadn't seen Magnolia the last few times and you'd hate for her to think you'd been ignoring her. Pulling into the empty mini mart parking lot you take a breath to steel your resolve before leaving your car.

Tim looks at the door when he hears the chime and stiffens when he sees you. Fuck you did have a panic attack in front of this guy last night, plus you really haven't formally met. But didn't Toby say his roommate was named Tim? And he and Brian were both here talking with Tim last night before you came in. That can't be coincidence.

“uh...hi?” you say awkwardly standing in the doorway, door closed behind you.

“um, hi?” perfect he's just as awkward in this situation as you are. You can work with this.

Moving through the first two isles you keep your eyes peeled for Magnolia, even though you can make this an in and out trip for candy, you do miss the little bodega cat.

“Wh- hey are you, are you even ok to be here?” Tim calls as he rounds the counter and makes his way to you.

“Huh? Oh...oh yea. I'm chill now.” you hear the bell before you see her. The little ting tin ting of her bell that comes with the grace only fluffy cats have.

“You literally collapsed on the floor last night after blacking out while driving.” his tone is very stern. He and Nate would probably get on like a house on fire. The grumpy old men who secretly care a lot duo.

“I don't remember collapsing...but I know I didn't drive.” well you don't know that but you do firmly believe that.

The man is just turning into the isle when you spot the floof sauntering just behind him. Magnolia didn't spare either of you a glance as she made her way to the counter. Probably going to her bed, an old shipping box for apples, you'd just meet her over there then. With no warning to the man you squeeze past him and and follow the cat. Agitated footsteps following after you in your quest to pet the cat.

Magnolia perks up upon seeing you, the flicking of her tail letting you know she's anticipating her pets. The huffing Tim hovering behind you isn't as pleased with your actions as the cat is. The man is radiating negativity, annoyance maybe or is it concern that breeds frustrated anger? The second he starts to clear his throat, as if to remind you of his hovering, you roll your eyes.

Looking back at him over your shoulder you see him in all his grumpy man glory. His brow was furrowed so hard his thick eyebrows nearly covered his eyes. But with the way his lips emoted the man before you looked more like a pouting muppet. It would be funny if it weren't for the foreboding feeling of the moments before being reprimanded by a teacher.

When you straighten up you take note that your eyes meet perfectly. He's the same height as you that's surprising, you thought he'd be taller than 5'7. His eyes widen slightly at seeing your full height, it must've thrown him off since the first time he saw you, you'd actively been trying, and had succeeded at looking smaller.

“What are you doing here?” well he doesn't get thrown off for long.

Running a hand through Magnolia's fur a few more times as you respond, “Petting Magnolia.” you really are a little shit sometimes.

“No...no, why are you out? Toby had to take you home last night, you shouldn't just be waltzing around town after that.” maybe it was frustrated concern.

“Oh I'm fine now.”

Magnolia at this point has jumped up on the counter and is headbutting you for more attention. Chuckling you turn your attention back to her. Meanwhile Tim behind you is at a loss for words.

“Fine?? You don't just...bounce back from a panic attack.”there's personal experience behind those words.

“I just rationalize things fast.” Hearing the trill of the clock on the wall reminds you that you need to grab those snacks and head over to the Cryptonomica for movie night.

Going to the candy isle you grab one of each of the gang's favorites, you snag a bag of white cheddar popcorn on the way to the counter and place your items there. Tim doesn't get a word out before you rush off to the cooler near the back that is in all honesty pretty sketch. Like who even makes Fruitopia anymore? That stuff got discontinued in the early 2000s. The cooler even has Hi-C Ecto Coolers...you might actually check if they're in date and grab a few.

Rummaging around the cooler you finally spot the weird tech green and black splattered can proudly stating SURGE. It has no date...questionable at best. But hey it's only Kirby drinking it, and it's been well established that man will die well before middle age. Grabbing a can to check the Ecto Coolers, luck is on your side! These cans are from the re-release that happened as a promotion for the Ghostbusters revival a few years back, they'll be good for another two years! For now you'll just take one so you won't have to worry about lugging cans around for the movie.

Once your new items are placed on the counter the expression on Tim's face cannot even be described. The questions of the surge are probably the ones easiest to read...or they're just the most predictable.

“Kirby likes red vines and surge, sickening right?” Maybe a little joke will break the ice.

“...Like that little round pink...thing?” What?

The laughter is coming out before you can stop it, the image of said pink Kirby consuming red vines and surge only to accessorize as your friend comes to mind. It's adorable and cursed at the same time. Adorably cursed. You'll have to draw that and print a few copies to hang around the Cryptonomica.

“No,” you're choking on giggles at this point, “Kirby, the owner of the Cryptonomica.” catching your breath and regaining your composure, “It's that tourist trap just across from the RV park.”

“Oh.” normally such a short cold reply would make you shut down the conversation. But This is Toby's roommate, and if you want to be friends with Toby, you'll probably run into him a lot more. Plus if he's a new night shift cashier it wouldn't hurt to be on good terms with him for when you're out on adventures.

“Yea, hey Toby mentioned you three just came to town, so you might not have known but the Cryptonomica does a weekly movie night on Saturdays. Saturday Night Dead. Normally it's awful old horror movies but next week they're starting a Warren Case files “arch”.” Tim doesn't take the conversation bait at the pause.

“It's a great way to meet other locals, you guys should check it out if you get the chance. It starts at ten and runs till one or so on most weeks.” Olive branch has been extended.

Tim relaxes for the first time since you got here tonight. The sheepish look on his face and twitchy pupils give the impression he's thinking it over. He sighs and nods before saying, “Yea, that sounds...nice.”

Olive branch skeptically taken! You'll count this one as a win in your book. With the mood lightened Tim breaks the ice a bit further.

“Surge and red vines can not be good for you.”

“Right! If living off mountain dew and pizza rolls doesn't kill him, this for sure will.” you both have a small laugh at that. It's nice to finally have cleared up the mix up from the beginning of the week. Which reminds you.

“Oh...um...I'm YN by the way. It's nice to meet you...sorry for the two,” your neck tics to the side, “previous nights.” you finish.

“Tim...and it,uh happens sometimes...'s fine.” Score awkward acknowledgment of previous meetings and you can now erase those from your nightly anxieties.

Tim finishes ringing and bagging your items and you pay. Giving another pet to the curled up kitty on the counter you nod farewell to Tim.

A trill rings out from the clock on the wall. It's ten.

Two heads snap to look at the wall. You take a second glance at your phone while Tim checks his watch. Both say the clock on the wall is correct. But it just turned nine not even ten minutes ago. Right? You can brush off yourself loosing track of time but when you involve another person that just doesn't make sense. Tim looks just as concerned as you. Only Magnolia lays unaffected by the lost fifty minutes.

“I should go.” Tim nods numbly to you as you exit the store.

You won't be able to make it to the movie, well you could but you'd disturb someone if you walked in mid movie. Choosing to go home instead you drive, once again without music. Entering your home you hang your mask back on the hook. Putting away the drinks and snacks for next weekend, you make your way to your bedroom. Once again freezing just before the hallway. Turning to your living room you can see a book in the middle of your coffee table. You definitely don't remember the book being there, and doubt you'd miss it out in the open. But as you got closer you could confirm, even in the dark, that it was The Book Thief.

#ticci tobyx reader #ticci toby #ticcitoby #reader insert #timothy wright x reader #timothy wright #timothy wright x brian thomas #brian thomas x reader #brian thomas #masky x reader #masky x hoodie #creepypasta fanfic #A cure for insomnia

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yikesharringrove · 5 years ago

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how do u feel abt doing smth like a modern au where billy is like , all this punk rock and teen angst and leather nd jean jackets kinda of thing and steve is the exact opposite of him with fluffy skirts and soft polos nd just really soft and they two have seen eachother but dont actually talk to one another until they have a school project and they just. fall in love overtime? basically , femme steve + punk rock billy falling in love.

(pt. 2) also!! happy 21st birthday 💓💕💗💖💕

The university had a strict core curriculum, meaning that Steve was ten minutes late for his Philosophy of the Modern Era class.

He couldn’t find the room, was wandering around in this basement with his schedule written on the back of his hand. He was peering at room numbers and muttering to himself 067 067 067.

“You looking for that philosophy class?” Steve turned around at the voice.

The guy was stomping down the hallway in big leather boots. His jeans were ripped and shredded, and he was wearing a black t-shirt with pink font reading Dog Park Dissidents. His denim jacket was covered in pins and patches and sharpie drawings. He had Silence = Death written on one of the pockets, Being nice IS punk rock was scrawled down one arm.

“Yeah, that modern era one?” The guy smiled and nodded, reaching forward to shake Steve’s hand. His eyes were a startling blue, lined with a thin smudge on black. His hair was wild and curly, shaved on each side into this beachy looking mohawk. He had his nose and his eyebrow pierced, along with several in his ears.

“Billy Hargrove.”

“Steve Harrington.” Steve could feel the tips of his ears go red as Billy looked him up and down. He was wearing something cute for the first day of class, a chunky white cardigan over a soft pink peasant dress. He had gotten up early to do his makeup well, and was late to class anyway because this stupid building was a fucking maze.

They set off down the hall together, looking at each door they passed by.

“Oh shit. Pretty Boy, I think I got it.” Steve flushed slightly at being called pretty, still not used to being able to dress like this in public. Billy wrenched open the door, and stomped in, not a care in the world for being twenty minutes late.

The professor raised his eyebrow.

“And what were you two doing out in the hall?”

“I’m sorry, we couldn’t find the room.” Steve’s cheeks were hot as he was standing at the front of the class.

“That’s okay. you have missed class introductions, to please say your names, pronouns and majors.”

“Billy Hargrove, he/him, double majoring in literature and social work.”

“Steve Harrington, he/they. I’m also a double major in education and early childhood development.” The professor made a note on his role sheet.

“Thank you, you may sit down.” Steve went for the back of the room, flopping into the first empty seat he could find, ducking his head as he quietly got his laptop out. Billy had stomped into the seat next to him, had gotten out a notebook and proceeded to doodle in it for the rest of class.

He sat next to Billy every Monday Wednesday and Friday from 9:20-10:35 and and outside of their ten minute search for the classroom, they had yet to say anything to one another.

It certainly didn’t help that Steve was harboring a little crush on the guy. He would watch him in class, the way he would doodle little sunflowers in the margins of his notes, smiling softly at them.

“So, for the rest of the semester you will be working in pairs. I want you to go through the readings we have completely and work together with the philosophers we have discussed to create your own system for the modern era. How do you believe society exists now?” Billy turned to Steve, grinning at him.

“You wanna be my partner?” Steve gave a sheepish smile, his heart racing.

“I, um. Yes. Yeah, I’ll be your partner.” Steve dug his phone out of the tight pocket of his skirt, trading with Billy. He put his number under Steve Harrington - Modern Era Philosphy.

“You wanna get coffee after class, start working through our beliefs?”

“Um, sure. I don’t have class until, like, 3:30 today.” Billy grinned again and fucking winked at Steve. He needed to calm the fuck down.

“So basically, a lot of my beliefs are based on the punk message.” Billy was sipping at his black coffee, had laughed and said should’ve fucking known when Steve ordered a large mocha with extra chocolate syrup, and whipped cream. “I’m a very live and let live person, but I believe everyone should live and let live. If someone is trying to dictate how others should exist, they’re fucking garbage.”

“Okay, I actually really agree with that.”

“That’s because you’re punk rock.” Steve laughed, but Billy’s eyes were serious. “No seriously, there’s nothing more punk rock than being unapologetically yourself.”

“When did you get into punk philosophy?”

“When I was in high school. My dad was a real prick, and I was angry, and a lot of punk is loud and pissed off and it helped, but then I started going to shows, and talking to people, and it’s not what you’d expect. Everyone at a show is like a weird family for a night. If someone comes in and tries to fuck with someone, the family deals. I can’t tell you how many fights I saw that broke out because someone was perving on a girl, and these other guys started protecting her. And that only grew as I started getting into queercore.”

Steve was listening to Billy, eyes wide as he described stories from shows, how he had jumped in on fights to defend the family, how he would walk girls home or to their cars parked a ways down the street, how he knew everyone would do the same for him.

“God, I wish I had a community like that. I didn’t really have anyone growing up. You know, token queer in a small town kinda vibe.” Billy smiled at him sympathetically.

“That why you came out to San Fransisco?”

“Oh yeah. Wanted to come somewhere where, this, didn’t matter.” He gestured to himself. “I just don’t get why it bothers people. I just do it because it makes me happy. I don’t know why it concerns anyone else.” Billy was nodding vigorously.

“Exactly. That’s the whole truth about being queer. People hate you for something that has nothing to do with them. It’s completely wack. Like if I’m with someone in whatever capacity, we’re both consenting adults. It literally doesn’t matter.”

“Do you think we could expand upon this enough for our project? Talk about how we feel the world should just stop caring about what other people do if it has nothing to do with them.” Billy grinned.

“I think we could make something happen.”

They began getting coffee after each class, taking through their project, finding resources to back up the ideas they had discussed. The more time they spent together, the more Steve liked Billy, liked how sweet he was, how positive. They talked about having terrible parents, how Billy’s dad had kicked him out at sixteen for being gay, how he had lived with friends, saving up to get himself through college. They talked about how Steve’s dad had found his stash of makeup and threw it all away, making sure it was ruined and broken. How disappointed his father was that he was studying to become a teacher.

There was one Friday they had met up and stayed all day in the coffee shop stayed until the 5 pm closing.

“You wanna come over? I have a single room. We can keep working.” Billy grinned at Steve like he always did, showing off all his white teeth. So they walked side by side to Steve’s room.

Steve kept his room neat, a habit left over from overbearing parents who would shame him into cleaning his room.

Steve’s room was exactly how Billy imagined.

He had soft white lights, a full length mirror on one wall. His bed was covered in pillows, duvets, and even a few stuffed animals. The wall above the bed was covered in pictures of Steve back home, several with a group of younger kids, and a lot with a blonde girl.

“This your girlfriend?” Steve snorted.

“No, that’s Robin. She and I are just really close friends.”

“What’s with the kids?” Steve blushed.

“I babysat all through high school, and those kids kinda adopted me as their pseudo parent. It was a lot of driving them all over town.”

“That’s cute. That why you wanna teach?”

“Yeah, I’m good with kids.” Steve had plopped himself on the made bed. He watched as Billy took off his heavy boots, placing them neatly by the door before stepping onto Steve’s plush grey rug. His socks were thick wool and had little cartoon dogs on them. Steve was in love.

Billy sat with Steve on the bed. He was taking a closer look at the photos.

“I could see that for you. You’re a caring type.” Steve looked down as his feet, could feel his face getting hot.

“Why did you pick social work?”

“When I was a kid, CPS would be called to our place like, once every few months. My dad was a real good schmoozer, so I would always just be left with him. I wanna be able to help kids get out of bad situations.”

“God, and you call me a caring type. You’re gonna save the world.” Billy laughed.

“The children are the future. I’ll save ‘em, you teach ‘em.” When Steve looked up, Billy was leaning closer into Steve’s space. He had a soft smile on his face. His eyes were bright and beautiful and so fucking blue. “Can I kiss you?”

“Can you, what?”

“Can I kiss you?”

“Why?” Billy still hadn’t leaned back.

“‘Cause I have a big dumb crush on you, and I think you have one on me.” Steve’s face was pink.

“I, uh, yeah. Go, go for it.” Billy laughed, taking Steve’s face in both hands. He leaned in, just gently pressing their lips together.

“So, was I right?”

“Yes. Very much so.” Billy laughed again, loud and sweet, pressing another kiss to Steve’s lips.

“You wanna go on a date? A real one? Not just us getting coffee and pretending we both weren’t totally into each other.” Steve snorted again.

“Yeah, I would really like that.”

#harringrove #yikes writes #harringrove ficlet #harringrove drabble #steve harrington #steve harrington x billy hargrove #billy hargrove x steve harrington #billy hargrove

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subtlereferencetomyinterests · 5 years ago

Text

Something to Uplift Us

Ao3, MasterPost

Relationships: Romantic DLAMPR (Roman-centric, kinda Remus-centric), platonic Creativitwins!!!

Do I like this??? Meh. Is it something that I wrote? Yes. I will heal myself from SVS-R with Fluff.

Warnings: Remus Typical Nonsense, swearing, mentions of being in Quarantine, all sympathetic sides, non-sexual Pole Dancing

Word Count: 2,667

Roman was the essence of romance and it showed. For his entire existence, he'd been well acquainted with the hypothetical. If he were his own person, if he had a prince of his own, if he had the chance at a romantic relationship, he knew what he would do. Roman knew relationships, he always had, and it had tortured him to know that he'd never have one.

Which was why it frustrated him to no end that he hadn’t been the one to ask out his fellow sides. He’d honestly never thought that it would be an option. When he first developed his feelings for the others- Virgil, Patton, Logan, Janus, in that order- he had felt nothing more than excitement. He was giddy, he was light-headed, just to know that he could feel that way. He would spend hours daydreaming, just musing over the way they made his heart stop, but he never hoped for anything to come of it. He wasn’t sad, or mournful, or pining per se- just so caught up in the joy of feelings that he forgot that he could do something with them.

So he thought about it a lot, suffice to say. And all he had now was time to think; it was nearly month three of quarantine. Roman had wrung his brain out like a sponge for anything new to think about- The Imagination was practically turning gray! He tried to tend to it, truly he did, but it was getting harder every day. Creativity's fellow sides had all busied themselves taking up new hobbies- Virgil was teaching Patton to draw, Janus had learnt embroidery, Logan took up knitting, Remus made trash sculptures… They all seemed to be having their own little renaissance (complete with plague), and what was Roman doing? Wasting valuable free time!

In a fit of desperation, the artistic trait dived under his large canopy bed, rummaging around until his hand caught on the lip of a cardboard box. With no small amount of effort, he pulled the enormous container out from under his bed so that it could be properly examined. There, piled high in the box, were dozens of notebooks and sketchbooks- all of which filled to the brim with writing, drawings, and poetry. Having no clue what he was specifically looking for, Roman upended the box and watched the contents crash to the floor. Something in here would surely spark his mind! Perhaps some old work would catch his eye and inspire some redraws!

The side hadn't needed to search for long. Right at the top of the pile- bright pink, its cover dotted with puffy heart stickers- sat a large, spiral-bound sketchbook. You could almost see the light bulb pop up over Roman’s head as he squealed and snatched up the sketchbook. Flopping down onto his bed, he flipped it open in one hand and placed the other against his chest.

“Ooh, some of my best,” he cooed to no one in particular, gaze turned to the dozens of love poems surrounded by little doodles of hearts that filled the pages. This was the journal he’d confided in before the sides had all officially begun their relationship, filled with flowery prose about anything from Janus’ scales to Patton’s smile; from Logan’s laugh to Virgil’s freckles (a rare sight, usually hidden by make-up). Roman was so lost in nostalgia that when the ideas hit him, he nearly fell out of bed in excitement at his own thoughts.

Of course! He could take all of these old writings and compose them together, into one eloquent amalgam that would illustrate perfectly all those things that he’d been unable to articulate in the beginning! And it seemed only fitting that such a soliloquy be delivered in The Imagination- in the most gorgeous scenario he could fabricate! Somewhere open to a starry sky, for his left-brained loves- but it had to have ornate architecture, of course, and it had to be cozy. Oh, it was all coming together now.

Roman leapt out of bed, posing with his hand above his head and sinking deeper into The Mindscape extravagantly. He didn’t waste time looking around at the depressing half-formed scenery, sweeping his arms up and erasing the entirety of his half of The Imagination. Time to get to work.

Remus was stretched across the Commons couch, his head in Janus’ lap and feet in Logan’s. The TV hummed with whatever show they’d thrown on as background noise, and a few feet away at the counter, Patton and Virgil were hovering over some sort of scrapbook. Nobody had the energy for conversation; nobody had the energy for anything.

It was magnificently boring. The Duke already filled up an entire sketchbook, written half a dozen shamelessly smutty self-insert fanfictions, constructed and subsequently destroyed eldritch beings in his room, and bothered his boyfriends. So, all that was left to do was doze.

It didn’t help Remus’ tired state that Janus was running his fingers through his hair. The monotonous waking world was finally slipping away. Maybe there was something buried in his dreams that could hold his attention.

But just before sleep took hold, a white-hot energy ran through the trait’s body, jolting him so suddenly that he tumbled off of the couch and onto the floor. His arms and legs were all pins-and-needles as he looked up at his very concerned partners.

“There’s fuckery afoot!” Remus announced, wide-eyed. He pulled himself up and grinned, “You guys stay here!”

Without so much as a good-bye, Remus threw himself into the ground, saving himself the time of sinking out properly. After a moment’s silence, Janus resumed working on his embroidery.

“Should we go see what that was about?” Patton asked tentatively.

“Meh,” the three other sides responded in unison. After a moment, Janus added, “It is Remus, after all.”

Roman’s structure was coming together beautifully! Wide marble columns rose up and held aloft the glimmering silver ceiling, the middle of which was a sky-light open to thousands of stars and a brilliant full moon. Surrounding the opening was a spiral of stone roof- through the gaps of which even more astronomically accurate stars shone!

The inside of the building consisted of an immense mahogany stage, currently cloaked by thick velvet curtains and overlooking plenty of seats. Rather than traditional theater rows, Roman had arranged the seating like lovely cafe tables, all of which were given generous space from each other (Except for two at the very front, of course). Lanterns hung from the walls, casting the space in warm lighting. Creativity currently stood at the very back, thinking that it could use just a little more of something. With a smirk, the side snapped his fingers and the wall of the room was pushed backwards several yards. With a few more flicks of the wrist and dividing columns, a little lobby was formed.

He’d given the theater room maroon carpeting and rich gray walls, but the new back section needed brighter lighting and a more cream-canary color scheme. Now he could just finish the decor!

Or he would have, if not for the fact that at that moment someone crashed into his ribs with all the grace of a flaming motorbike.

“BRO!!!”

“ACK-!” was all Roman managed, as all the wind was knocked out of him. He glared up at his brother, who was sitting on his chest.

“I knew you were up to something! You wiped half of the whole fucking Imagination! What is this!?”

Roman wheezed, pushed Remus off of his chest, and finally pulled himself off the ground to catch his breath. His brother was spinning around the room already, eyes sparkling as he took in the building.

“I had to blank it, I needed my full focus,” Roman explained, back to work and filling the back wall with tall bookshelves, “and it’s a surprise, so don’t tell the others.”

“Oh, I won’t. Provided you let me in on whatever this is,” Remus had an ear-to-ear grin, bouncing on the balls of his feet. After a moment’s consideration, Roman hummed.

“I’m doing something nice for our boyfriends. I think we all could use a little pick-me-up, so do not ruin this!”

“I wanna do something nice for them! Lemme help!”

“You don’t even know what it’s for! Plus, it’s personal!”

“I already asked what it was for, Stupid.”

Roman huffed.

“I wrote them something. Hence the stage.”

“So, what, you’re gonna bring them all into your fancy library-opera for your poetry orgy and I sit in a corner somewhere and be quiet?”

“Ideally.”

“Not a chance, Whore!” Remus swung himself up onto the concession stand that Roman had just created, tearing into a box of candy (food made in The Imagination always tasted weirder than food or ingredients they conjured elsewhere in the Mindscape, but he didn’t particularly mind).

“Fine. What do you want to do?” Roman challenged, hands on his hips.

“I. Want. To. Help.”

Roman raised his eyebrows doubtfully. Grumbling, his twin started gesturing around the room as he spoke.

“The stars are too bright, they take the focus away from the stage instead of accenting it. The color of the curtains are too similar to the carpet. You’ve got Corinthian shit in there and bookstore lobby vibes in here, which is garbage and inconsistent.”

Roman blinked, his eyes following along with Remus’ criticism.

“Hm. You have a point.”

“I’m Creativity too, you know. I have some taste.” The Duke said, gnawing on the cardboard box that had contained Imagination Candy moments before.

“You’re wearing crocs and jorts, simultaneously.”

Remus waved his hand dismissively, hopping off the counter and rushing across the room.

“Whatever. Come on, I’ve got an idea how I can accompany your performance, too.”

“Oh, goody.”

Hours had past and little had changed in the Mindscape living room- Virgil and Patton had finished up their scrapbooking and were curled up together in an armchair, so Logan was sitting at the counter space previously occupied by the two and clacking away on his laptop, and Janus hadn’t moved. The muddled energy of the room had remained pervasive.

That was, until the door to the imagination slammed open, the doorknob cracking against the wall. Four heads shot up to see Remus and Roman, standing side-by-side (quite looking the part of identical twins, matching smiles and all).

“Oh god,” Janus groaned instinctively, carefully setting his embroidery on a side table, “What did you two do?”

“Yeah, I don’t trust that look,” Virgil said.

The twins scoffed in mock-offense, continuing their odd coordination.

“We try to do something nice,” exclaimed Remus.

“And not so much as a ‘thank you,’” added Roman solemnly. Eyes were rolled, but Patton perked up considerably (just as planned).

“Ooo, what are you talking about?”

“It’s a surprise!” Said The Duke, bouncing up and down. Creativity Prime gave a sweeping motion to indicate the still-open door to the Imagination, which had been steadily seeping into the common room with a bright new energy that it had been lacking for days.

“Follow us,” he instructed, disappearing through the door once more with Remus at his back. Patton bounced after them immediately, grinning.

The three left-brained sides exchanged glances, shrugged, and followed suit.

The twins were backstage in an instant, trusting their partners to figure out where their seats were on their own. Roman began pacing around as soon as they finished warming up.

“Are you sure you can do this? I’m still not sure if your performance is well-suited to acoustic guitar-”

He was cut off by Remus groaning exaggeratedly.

“I can work with anything, bitch.”

“Right, right,” There was a beat. “You’re sure you’re ready?”

“I’ve been ready. What’s going on with you?”

Rather than responding, Roman did another lap around the stage.

“C’mon! Stop pacing before I take a bonesaw to your legs!”

“Okay! Alright! I’m ready!”

Before Remus could come up with any more gruesome threats, Roman snapped his fingers and the curtains began to rise. He took his place half-sitting on a stool up front, a guitar in his arms. Behind him, Remus stood between two sturdy metal poles that rose from the stage and into the ceiling. You can already see where this is going.

When the stage was fully revealed, the lights above the audience dimmed. Figuring that the show would be rather awkward if said audience consisted of four people, the Creativities had The Imagination render dozens of prop-people. They moved and acted like a crowd of humans, but each individual was too vague to focus on for long. Thus it was made very clear where their fellow sides were, sitting right up front with a wide array of expressions from amazed to amused to bewildered.

Roman took a moment to steel himself and then began playing. Originally, he’d planned on spoken-word for his loves, but traditionally there is music involved in pole-dancing, so he’d made a few adjustments in order for Remus to be able to contribute.

Roman started singing, melting as the gazes of the real audience members turned awestruck (and also very flushed, likely from whatever surprisingly impressive poses his brother was pulling behind him). He liked to think that he poured his heart out into every performance, but for this one it felt quite literal.

Roman’s voice picked up gradually, and he could vaguely hear metal clanging behind him. It went on like that for a good few minutes- because if there was one thing the Twins weren’t, it was brief- before the show finally concluded. Roman stalled for a moment as both the imaginary and real components of the audience applauded uproariously. Remus swung down from the pole and hopped over to him.

“We bow now, Dumbass,” he hissed, noticeably out of breath.

“Oh- right.”

They took hands and took a couple bows as the clapping died down, standing back up with wide grins and red faces.

As soon as the auditorium was relatively silent, Patton rushed the stage. He outstretched his arms and hopped up and down excitedly.

“Lemme up!”

Roman grabbed his hands and pulled him on stage while Remus was still attempting to catch his breath. Morality leaned down to give The Prince a brief kiss, and then bounced over to the much more exhausted half of the act to give him the same treatment. He was grinning so wide that it looked painful, his face a bright pink. The Duke wore a matching expression, but the smile was much more unnatural in that preferred way of his.

“So you liked it?”

Rather than verbally responding, Patton grabbed the hands of both Creativities and made a cheerful ribbiting sound.

“It was wonderful,” Logan supplied, climbing the stairs on the side of the stage to meet them, Virgil and Janus right behind him. He was much less outwardly enthusiastic as the other spectacled side, but no less appreciative.

“Yeah, did you guys put all this together today?” Virgil asked, throwing an arm around Roman’s shoulders.

“What else did we have to do?” Remus answered with a shrug.

“Good point.”

Janus cleared his throat lightly, immediately drawing everyone’s attention. His eyes were noticeably rimmed with redness, a small smile on his face as he outstretched all of his arms.

“Here, all of you, now.”

Patton cooed.

“Group hug!”

Fitting six people into one hug may seem awkward, but it always seemed to work out for the sides. At least, Roman thought so. Virgil would fake exasperation at the affection, but they could all tell he loved it. Logan would try to maintain his dignity and fail miserably. Patton was a ball of warmth and energy that seeped into the rest of them. Janus was by far the best at giving hugs, though it could be considered cheating to have extra limbs.

At that moment it hit Roman that, perhaps he hadn’t started this relationship, but he was still a part of it. And that was all he could ever want.

These Performances inspired Remus’. They are oddly calming to watch, and super impressive!

@shrimp-crockpot

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thepatricktreestump · 5 years ago

Text

Crush pt2 - peter parker imagine

crush masterlist

part 2 – an apartment in queens

The following weeks you found yourself sitting at Peter Parker’s lunch table nearly every day. You slowly got to know him better, understanding his passion for photography, his love for Star Wars, and of course, his obsession with science puns. Alongside him, you also got to know his friends, MJ and Ned. MJ was more laid back and careless than Peter, messy hair and doodling in class, dark humor and straight-to-the-point conversation. She wasn’t like the other girls you knew who liked to gossip about drama or swoon over boys. Instead she talked about true crime and conspiracy theories. Ned was a lot like Peter, minus the anxiety. He was a goofball who enjoyed LEGOs and read comic books and was always excited to announce whatever latest movie just came out or NASA’s newest discovery. His friends were interesting and cool, and you enjoyed hanging out with them a lot too. Of course, they weren’t nearly as charming and polite as Peter was, but you liked the company all the same. MJ was reliable in recommending you good music and Ned in showing you memes he thought you’d appreciate.

As far as Peter goes, when you weren’t sending silly selfies to each other or texting paragraphs back and forth over the phone, you both made an effort to spend time together at school. Study hall slowly became a regular thing between the two of you. After the dismissal bell rang, you would meet at the cafeteria vending machines to grab snacks, and then spread your textbooks out on a library table and breeze through your homework, sharing jokes and stories about the school day or whatever else was going on in your lives at the time. However, approaching the library that evening, both of you instantly pouted at the notice posted on the door.

“Closed for SAT prep,” Peter read aloud. “Uh oh.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you stared at the piece of paper taped to the entrance, letting out a small huff. “We have a test tomorrow and to be completely honest, I haven’t even read the last two chapters yet.”

“I have,” Peter piped up. “I can fill you in if you want, you can borrow notes.” He turned to face you and narrowed his eyes. “Although it’s not like you to be slacking on an assignment. What’s up?”

“I’ve just been helping my dad with this uh, this project lately,” you replied. “I’m trying to figure out how to improve computation time through admissible heuristic-”

“A* yeah,” Peter blurted, recognizing your words, and you paused, thoroughly impressed.

“Wait! Parker, you’re telling me you know algorithms?” you stood there, jaw still hanging in surprise.

“Sure, I am a computer geek after all,” he chuckled softly, flexing a humble brag. “I have a bit of experience in computer science, if you ever want a helping hand.”

“Holy shit,” you blinked, thinking to yourself, as if he couldn’t get any hotter?

“Anyways, you should really get on those chapters. You know this exam makes up ten percent of our grade for the quarter.” He pauses to think for a moment and then his eyes light up with an idea. “Let’s hang at my place and I can catch you up,” he offers, and you look at him incredulously, practically delirious at this point.

“Y-you want me to come over?” you raise an eyebrow and he stiffens, hesitant.

“Uh, I mean, if you’re okay with that,” he explains. “I just thought since the library was closed, you know, we could find a different place to study. It doesn’t have to be my place we can go to a coffee shop or the park or something-”

“No, no your place sounds perfect,” you insisted, head reeling at the fact that your crush just invited you to their house.

“Awesome, cause I know a really good pizza place on the way,” he grins and you think you could melt on the spot right there.

Peter doesn’t live very far from Midtown at all, just a couple transfers. And as far as pizza recommendations go, he knows the very best spot in town. It’s obvious he’s a Queens kid, the way he walks about the city and interacts with the people, it’s like there’s nowhere else he could ever possibly belong. It’s heartwarming, to see the way he talks about his favorite shops and people, pointing out little things like good climbing trees and perfect awnings for being caught in the rain. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he created the city himself, the way he was familiarized with everything. It was impressive.

Your dad didn’t really let you out of the tower to roam much. Happy usually escorted you around a in a car or he insisted you take a taxi rather than the subway. When you did go out, it was usually in his company, to a fancy party or a conference hall, a five-star restaurant or a prestigious academy. Being raised surrounded with such success and wealth was a blessing, and you were ever grateful for it, but it was times like these when you wondered what it would’ve been like to just be a normal kid. To be able to explore and meet others and know the city as well as Peter does, every little hideout and bodega, the best spot to watch the sunrise or grab a sandwich.

“Well uh, this is it,” Peter clutched onto the straps of his backpack, giving a nervous smile. “It might not be much, but it’s my home. It’s just me and my Aunt May, she’s the one who pretty much raised me so…” He shrugged and then opened up the door, you being sure to take everything in.

“Oh my gosh Peter! Hi! How was school today? Oh! And you brought a friend!” a bubbly brunette with glasses greeted both of you, scooping up Peter in a hug, and you instantly knew she must be Aunt May. “Hi dear, I’m Aunt May and you are?”

“This is y/n, remember?” Peter introduced you and you raised an eyebrow at that last part, noting the way that he must’ve mentioned you to her before. You tried to hide the blush rising to your cheeks.

“Y/n? Oh yes, how could I forget your-” May paused immediately upon Peter’s terrified eyes and nodded slowly. “Your uh, your?”

“My friend,” he smiled. “She’s my friend, May.”

“Right. Awesome,” she looked at you and you could sense her suspicion, that they were hiding something, but you dismissed it and smiled back. “I’m so glad you could come visit today, Miss Y/n! Peter’s told me so much about you.” You looked at Peter and he gave you terrified eyes, making you laugh. “Oh, was I not supposed to say that?” May turned to you and you laughed harder, reassuring her it was just fine, but inside, your head was reeling. Peter had talked to her about you before? You just hoped it was all good things.

“Anyways… We’re gonna study for our test, so we’ll be in my room. Just knock if you need me,” Peter explained, and to your surprise, grabbed you by the hand and led you down the hall, heart fluttering in your chest every step of the way. He dumped his bookbag on the ground and shut the door, flopping onto his bed, sighing. “Sorry that’s my Aunt May, she can be a little overbearing at times.”

“No, no, you’re all fine,” you reassured, taking a seat next to him at the edge of his bed. “I get it. My dad can be a lot like that too. Lots of questions and pestering- it’s just cause they care about us, you know.”

“Yeah, I appreciate that,” Peter smiled softly, leaning up and looking at you, noticing the way you pressed your lips together, waiting to ask something. “What?”

“You told her about me?” you wondered, and he swallowed nervously, clearly embarrassed.

“I mean, uh… Yeah. I did…” He paused, staring at the floor. “Is that okay?” he asked, scared. “I mean, I tell Aunt May about everything, she’s sort of my best friend- but not in a weird way, she’s my aunt you know, but-”

“You’re fine, Peter,” you laughed. “I’m just giving you a hard time.”

“Oh,” he grew quiet, letting out a soft sigh of relief as you laughed a bit harder, smiling at him. He looked back at you, face reddening, hazel eyes softened. “You have a nice laugh, you know.”

“Really?” you cocked your head to the side, growing self-conscious. “I always thought it was a bit too obnoxious.”

“No, it’s genuine,” he shook his head, insisting. “I like it a lot.” He looked down towards his feet and started to pull out some textbooks from his backpack, and you could’ve sworn you heard him mumble. “I could probably listen to it all day.”

Reading classic English literature was never the most exciting way to pass time, but with Peter, it instantly became your favorite hobby. Both of you impersonated characters and made fun of the old dialect, as well as sprinkled in vine references at every appropriate moment. While writing notes, you doodled cartoons in the margins and decorated them with stickers. It was like hanging out with Peter outside of school made doing school related things much less nerve wracking. It gave you the freedom to be laid back, boisterous, and most of all, handsy. Throughout studying you found yourselves guilty of seeming to find any excuse to touch the other, whether it was poking, tickling, pulling hair, slugging a shoulder, or tugging on a sleeve. At one point, Peter even leaned against your side, resting his head on your shoulder and watching as you scrawled down notes, making your head dizzy.

A notification went off on Peter’s phone and he sighed, walking over to where it was charged on his desk before staring intently. “Woah,” he held his phone screen up to you with the displayed time. “I didn’t even know it was this late! I’m sorry.”

“Oh no,” you glanced at your own phone, spotting the several missed calls and texts from your father, sighing. You didn’t want to leave, but you knew you had to. You didn’t want to dig yourself a deeper hole. Shooting your dad a couple texts and asking Happy to come pick you up, you groaned, realizing there was no avoiding explanations on this one. The school library wouldn’t have even been open for study hall at this time if you said you were there. “Shit, I’ve got to go. I’m sorry, Peter.”

“It’s okay,” he insisted, although you could sense his disappointment too. “Maybe another time?”

“Definitely,” you grinned. “I think I like hanging here much better than the library. You even have a periodic table up on your wall for reference.”

“Exactly!” he pointed out, overexcited, and you giggled at his enthusiasm. “The library’s got nothing on us.”

“It’s a lot quieter in here too,” you added. “Which is ironic, because you’d think a library is the quietest place there is.”

“Not in a high school it’s not,” Peter shook his head and you laughed alongside him.

“You got that right,” you agreed.

Gathering up your things into your bookbag, you joked back and forth with him, until you were about to head out the door and he stopped you, making you freeze. “C-can I ask you something?” he wondered and you stared up at him, wide eyed, nervous. “I’ve sort of been meaning to ask you but I get nervous sometimes and I didn’t know how you’d react but uh-”

“What’s up, Parker?” you smirked, having a feeling that whatever was about to happen could only lead to something good.

“Well you see, there’s this dance coming up, next week actually, and me and Ned were talking about it. Um, it’s the homecoming dance. I was wondering, if it’s okay with you, and it can be as friends or maybe more than friends but well, maybe, I was thinking…” he stopped rambling and sighed, looking at you, frustrated and terrified of himself all at the same time. “Would you like to be my date to the homecoming dance next Friday?”

“Peter-” you stared at him, fireworks exploding in your chest. “Yes! Of course!”

“Wait, really?” his eyes lit up and you nodded eagerly, dropping your bookbag and rushing up to hug him.

“Really,” you insisted, wrapping your arms around him. You had never hugged Peter before, but he was warm and comfy and he smelled like fabric softener. You buried your face into his shoulder, squeezing tight, muffling your giggles. Both of you pulled back and he was smiling ear to ear, you as well. “I wish I could stay longer, but um, I’ll be sure to shoot you a text when I get home.”

“For sure,” he kept smiling at you like a fool, and you couldn’t say anything because you bet you probably looked the exact same.

Waving goodbye to Aunt May and closing the door behind you, you took a step before instantly hearing Peter excitedly ramble on to his aunt. “I asked the question May- the one to the dance. And she said yes! She said yes, holy shit- I’m gonna need a suit. And a corsage. Where do you even get a corsage?”

“Woah, slow down there, kiddo,” Aunt May chuckled. Trying not to eavesdrop any longer, your entire face flushed, heart fluttering, fuzzy feeling enveloping you as you walked down the hall. You were falling for Peter Parker. And you were falling hard.

The car ride home with Happy was pretty quiet, and you knew you were going to get another talking to, you could just feel it. It wasn’t that you were purposely trying to be rebellious or anything, sometimes you just genuinely lost track of time. It was easy to be distracted when you were with someone like Peter. Your attention seemed to effortlessly gravitate towards him, you couldn’t even help it yourself. Making your way up to the elevator, half of you was still buzzing with excitement from your night at Peter’s, but the other half was dreading the rest of the night to come dealing with the repercussions from your dad.

“It’s nine o’clock, y/n. Where in the hell were you? And don’t even start with study hall,” your dad folded his arms, already exhausted.

“I went over to a friend’s house to study,” you explained. “I’m sorry, I lost track of the time and I just-”

“Was it a boy?” he looked at you, narrowing his eyes from behind his glasses and you sighed. “The boy?”

“What does it matter?” you whined.

“It matters because you’re the type of girl to get into trouble,” he argued and you did a doubletake, offended.

“Excuse me?” you stared at him. “I get perfect grades, dad! I’m on the honor roll! And you think that I’m going to get myself into trouble?”

“You’re my daughter, y/n. There’s no way in hell that you aren’t,” he shook his head. Tony sighed, looking you up and down, and then pursed his lips. “Does he treat you right at least? This boy?”

“Y-yeah,” you blushed, nodding, slowly feeling your agitation fade away. “He’s really sweet.”

“Is he smart?”

“Super smart. He competes in the decathlon, dad. Plus he literally studies computer programming for fun.”

“So he’s a giant nerd.”

“No! Okay, maybe. But he’s a cute nerd.”

“Alright, alright,” Tony nodded slowly. “So are you two dating or is this a crush type situation?”

“He asked me to the homecoming dance,” you told him, blushing furiously just at the thought of Peter Parker in a suit and tie, hair gelled back, swaying with you on the dance floor.

“I better get around to meeting this kid then,” he insisted. “If he’s inviting you over and going to the dance with you and all.”

“I’m sure you will, dad,” you smiled sweetly. “The dance is coming up soon and he’s obviously going to pick me up so, you can have a couple words with him then. He’ll be dressed up and everything, it’ll make a good impression.”

“Right, right,” he laughed. “Well just be careful, alright? I can’t have my daughter’s heart getting broken out here. He should know he’s messing with Iron Man’s daughter, I’ll kick his ass if he ever wrongs you.”

“I know, dad,” you rolled your eyes, giving him a big hug. “But I think we’re safe with this one. He’s a really good guy. I can feel it.”

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yourdeepestfathoms · 5 years ago

Text

The Crucible (part two)

[UK Tour; Carrie AU 2]

Part 1

Word count: 9240

TW: Child abuse, blood, the r-word again, emotional manipulation, minor implied sexual content (as in: one paragraph and nothing actually happens), underage drinking, vomit

------------

-Eve Was Weak-

“Jesus watches from the wall,

But his face is cold as stone

And if he loves me,

As she tells me,

Why do I feel so alone?”

Mulaney looked up from the notebook, which is studded with doodles of crosses and stars and hearts, and set his gaze on the teenager sitting across from him. Her arms are crossed over her chest again and she’s leaned back in her chair, jaw set thoughtfully. She’s got some sass, but was one of the easiest, most well-mannered people he’s spoken to for questioning before. Plus, she made the examination more fun with her snarky comments, which were even able to make his stoic partner who ran the camera, Madeline, chuckle or smile from time-to-time.

“Any speculation as to who the author is?”

“I’m gonna go out on a limb and say Joan Seymour.” Katherine Howard said. That sass mentioned before slipped back into her voice, edging her words in a way that made Mulaney huff out an amused breath.

“What do you suppose she’s trying to say?” Mulaney questioned.

“Probably, ‘help me, my mother’s insane.’” Katherine responded.

“Interesting.”

Katherine raised her eyebrows at him, sniffing. She’s poised and waiting.

“Do you consider yourself anti-religious, Katherine?” Mulaney asked.

Katherine snorted a light laugh. “No.” She said. “I just think some people take it too far, that’s all.”

“And you disapprove?”

“Look--” Katherine uncoiled her arms and sat up straight. At Mulaney’s side, Madeline quirked a brow at her change in stance, intrigued. “I’m all for believing whatever it is that you believe, but you say ‘religion’ to me, and I’m thinking da Vinci’s Last Supper. Jesus looks sad. The apostles look miserable. I don’t want to go to that party!”

Mulaney blinked at her logic. Katherine looked back at him, then turned her gaze up thoughtfully. She drummed her pointer fingers against the tabletop.

“Shouldn’t religion be more like Dogs Playing Poker?” She said.

“Dogs playing…”

“Poker.” Katherine finished for Mulaney. “I can’t tell you what any of the apostles are doing in The Last Supper. But I can tell you that the little white bulldog is holding an ace under the table.”

Mulaney unsuccessfully tried to smother a smile. Katherine caught it, grinning.

“See?” She said. “That’s fun! I’m engaged! There’s wonderment and awe! That other stuff is just all ritual and punishment. And it’s way too weird and way too serious.” She leaned back again, studying Mulaney and Madeline’s expressions. “What? It is!”

------

Jane Seymour was a woman of many faces, and not in the mentally ill sort of way, although some people assumed she may have been harboring multiple personality disorder within her wretched brain. She had many masks to wear, some cold and stoic, others sinister and wicked, and a few that may have even been sweet and nurturing. When she was at the local laundromat she worked at in town, several customers reported how she would “look at them like she was assessing their souls”, like she was judging whether or not they deserved to go to heaven. She thought most of them were Godless and muttered about it constantly, regardless of if they could hear her or not. She simply did not care.

Many people thought she would never delve into the sexual world of intercourse, what with all her screws loose that warded away most men and her extreme devotion to Christ, so it was quite shocking to hear the screams that erupted from the Seymour bungalow May 13th, 2005. Police were called, but had to wait to get a search warrant, so they, along with several neighbors, sat on the curb for hours, listening to the piercing cries that split the street in two. By the time police finally burst into the house to locate the struggle, they thought they were too late when they reached the master bedroom, which was covered in blood. But then they saw the woman rocking back and forth on the soaked bed, holding a tiny red baby with tufts of whitish hair to her left breast and everything clicked into place.

Several believed this woman was not fit to raise a child for obvious reasons, but police had no right to take a baby away from its mother, so the infant stayed and grew up in the house she was born in. It wasn’t like there was any place she could go, anyway. Jane’s husband was nowhere to be found.

Henry Tudor is--was--had been a mountain of a man. His arms were like truck tires, round and firm to the touch. He had broad shoulders, a barrel chest, and a huge body to go along with his already giant frame. Coppery gold hair framed his head and his bright sapphire blue eyes struck a stare that could put someone six feet under. Every single aspect of the man’s body boasted of an indestructible juggernaut.

And yet, he hasn’t been seen in fifteen years.

Rumors bubbled up. They always did. Some speculated he ran away to avoid the burden of taking care of a child or to simply get away from his insane wife. Others, mainly rowdy teenagers itching for drama, said Jane killed him and sacrificed his body to the Lord. Because of that, stories of the Seymour bungalow being haunted were created, although there was no proof of anything of the sort. Because they weren’t true. But Jane Seymour had been out to kill.

Her girl-spawn had barely been a few months old at the time. She laid in her homemade crib, gurgling and laughing, staring with strange blue eyes up at a mobile that was made for her. Jane crept up to her and aimed a knife for her throat.

Henry stopped her.

“You shall name her Johanna,” He had rumbled, easing Jane’s hand back to her side. “Joan for short.”

“Like Joan of Arc.” Jane had observed.

“Yes,” Henry had said.

“Hm.” Jane had peered down at the wriggling little beast. “I suppose that does make it slightly less Godless.”

“Yes,” Henry had said again. “Wait and see.”

And then, he was gone, disappearing into the night and never coming back.

Jane should not have let him stop her.

The child, of course, did not know this.

Joan slipped through the front door, but not without noticing a few neighbors peeking avidly out of their own windows, ears pricked. The whole neighborhood, possibly even the entire city, was always so interested in every little detail of the Seymour family’s lives. At least a few of them actually had the decency to duck back inside when they saw her coming up the sidewalk. One didn’t even notice her, it seemed, because he was still staring when she disappeared inside, while another was only pretending to not snoop while she fussed unnecessarily over her rose garden. Joan shot the flowers a sharp look, willing them to burst out of the ground and bite the lady’s nose off, but the front door closed behind her before she could see if anything happened. From the silence outside, she assumed nothing did.

(damn stupid woman wish she’d just go blind)

The smell of cinnamon was drifting through the entrance hallway. Maroon and orange (never red) candles were lit up throughout the downstairs area; Mama always preferred their warm glow over the harsh fluorescence of the overhead lights. Mama’s favorite radio station, WORT Radio, could be heard playing from the kitchen, along with the sound of singing.

Mama’s singing.

“Jesus, possess me!

Sweet savior, be my shepherd

Bless each endeavor

Till I finally join you forever”

A giddy tingling sensation zipped up through Joan’s spine. She always loved the sound of Mama’s singing. Her voice was so silken and honey-slicked, like the gentle croon of an angel. Joan said she should join a gospel, that she would be the best singer in the entire group, but Mama would always wave this off with a dismissive hand and a chuckle.

Joan ventured further into the house, feeling lighter and lighter with each step. She entered the lounge, where a Black Forest cuckoo clock clucked peacefully on the wall. There were many religious pictures and crucifixes in here, but Joan’s favorite was the photo of Jesus leading a herd of baby lambs through a beautiful flowered field. It radiated so much innocence, unlike all the other paintings of punishment and hellfire and sin. It was hung up beside the huge wooden cross with reddened edges over the unused fireplace. Joan did her best to never look at that decoration in particular.

Weaving around the brown felt couch and two moth-eaten velvet throne chairs facing each other, Joan glided into the kitchen. It was an old kitchen indeed, with an oven that squealed like a dying pig when opened and a sputtering gas stove, but everything worked perfectly fine for the two of them.

Two…

“Fly me free of temptation

And the flames of Hell's devastation

Then He will take me

And wash me in the river

I will make celebration

In the joy of final

The might of final

The fire of final Salvation!”

There was Mama, singing along to the song playing from an old radio on the counter, her back to Joan.

She was a moderately sized woman, but had a strong, corded neck and incredibly muscled hands from years of working at the local laundromat. Honey blonde hair framed her face, which was quite beautiful in a weird, overzealous religious way. Reaching brown roots slithered like snakes from her scalp, with only a few white hairs visible. Despite being in her forties, her complexion was more weathered by hardship and discipline than age. Piercing golden brown eyes flickered when she finally noticed her daughter standing there and a smile broke out on her pale pink lips.

“Mama,” Joan said breathily, unable to bite back her giddy grin.

“Ah, Joan,” Mama said, “there’s my sweet girl.” And then she opened her strong arms out wide and Joan darted into them instantly, nestling into her embrace. Mama smelled like honey and laundry detergent. “You’re home early.”

Joan felt her lower stomach twinge and she leaned a little closer into Mama’s chest. She would keep her mouth shut about the incident at school for now. Mama was in a good mood; no need to go and mess that up.

“School--ended sooner than usual.” Joan said, internally wincing. She hated lying, always fearing that she would be struck dead the moment the fib rolled off her tongue, but she would correct herself and tell the truth soon.

Mama hummed. “I see.” She pulled away and turned back to the counter, where she had been shaping bread dough with her wolf-like hands. “Dinner won’t be ready for awhile.”

“That’s okay,” Joan said. “I can wait.”

Mama hummed again. Joan fidgeted anxiously behind her.

“Is everything alright, my darling?” Mama asked, concern in her smooth voice.

“Yes, Mama,” Joan answered. “Just-- umm-- may I go shower?”

Mama chuckled. “Of course, dear.”

“Thank you, Mama.” Joan gave her another quick hug, then scurried up the creaky wooden stairs to her room.

Filthy. She suddenly felt so filthy. She had showered barely an hour ago, but grime seemed to be crawling all over her. Would Mama be safe from it? Was it bad that she touched her?

She tried to remember what Miss Aragon had told her. About this being…

“Normal.” Miss Aragon said. “It’s perfectly normal, Joan. Every girl goes through it.”

Joan whimpered. The spattered mess between her legs had been wiped away by Miss Aragon, a humiliation she would never be able to live down, and she was now fully dressed again, but her clothes felt too tight, especially around her groin. It felt like there were eels alive and writhing inside of her. She squirmed on the grey couch she was seated on in Miss Aragon’s office, a place where most students were forbidden to go into.

“My skin feels weird,” Joan whispered. “I-I’m hot…”

Miss Aragon frowned. Joan looked up at her with shiny, wet blue eyes and a glazed expression.

“It hurts,” She croaked.

“I know, sweetheart.”

“What did I do?”

“What?”

Joan shifted uncomfortably. Guilt surged through her, along with another painful sensation in her lower stomach. She whimpered again.

“What did I do?” She asked again. “D-did I sin? Is this my punishment?” Miss Aragon looked baffled, and Joan wasn’t sure how she should feel about that.

“No, no, Joan,” Miss Aragon said quickly. “You didn’t--you didn’t sin.” She made a face, like those words tasted funny on her tongue, but it disappeared quickly. “You’re a very good girl. All women go through this, like I said. It’s completely normal.”

“But--but I’m bleeding!” Joan cried woefully. She could feel drops of blood squeeze slickly out of her vagina and she cringed. “You shouldn’t-- it’s not-- I-I’m gonna bleed to death!”

Miss Aragon is frowning again, and Joan easily recognized it as a frown of pity. That’s the expression most adults wear when they look at her.

“You aren’t, Joan,” Miss Aragon said patiently. “It’ll stop in a few days.”

Joan squirmed again, wanting it to stop now. She looked up at Miss Aragon helplessly.

“What did you do?” She asked. “To get yours? How did you sin?”

Miss Aragon sighed and Joan instinctively shrunk away. Instead of being struck, however, her coach eased an arm around her shaking shoulders and pulled her in close against her side.

“Oh, Joan…” She murmured, stroking her wet hair. “You poor, poor girl…”

Miss Aragon had then gone on to explain the process of the strange word called ‘menstruation’, telling her how she would bleed for four to seven days at a time every month for basically the rest of her life. It sounded awful. How could God curse females with such a horrible bodily function?

The sharp ache in her lower stomach returned like a tug on her small intestines. She put her hand between her legs, but drew no blood (this time). A new feeling rose in Joan’s sore chest, a yearning, an ache. She felt suddenly cold, as if the sun could no longer warm her. This was it, then, the change was here.

Would she still be Joan after it was all over? When she shed the last of her “uterus lining”, as Miss Aragon had said, would she still be herself? Or would she be someone new?

Would being someone new be all that bad?

Joan swiped some looser, fresh clothes from her dresser and then scurried her way into the bathroom. She didn’t want to turn on the lights, so she lit a few candles instead, letting their warm glow fill the small space.

With muscles that were weak with fatigue, she slowly began to undress herself. First her overalls, then her white and baby blue flannel, her cream colored bra, and finally her underwear. The puffy sanitary napkin--a “pad”--that Miss Aragon had put in for her was spotted with large dark red, almost black stains that looked like gross bodily jelly. It was wilting already, so she carefully removed it and replaced it with one of the many others she had been given, remembering how Miss Aragon had told her to always change them whenever she got the chance or she may get sick.

After throwing away the pad she wadded up with toilet paper, Joan stepped into the bathtub and cranked the faucet handle.

Showering was agony.

Although the hot water had offered her a brief respite from the deep, otherworldly chill that had settled into her body, there was no escaping the pain. Each beating droplet against her limbs felt like a fresh wasp sting stabbing into her muscles and the flesh on her stomach, taut and uncomfortably bloated, pulsed and throbbed with agony every time she moved.

Like before a few minutes ago, like at school, she reached between her legs, and it came back sticky and red.

The smell of the blood was pungent and unnatural. It was nothing like real blood at all. It was more like the rot from her deteriorating insides as her sin caused her to rapidly decay. It made her feel sick, so she stuck her hand under the spray of liquid fire shooting out from the shower head and didn’t pull it back until all the blood was gone.

The smell remained on her hand.

Joan scrubbed vigorously between her legs, which seemed to be permanently stained. Crimson would smear across her pale flesh each time her vagina bled again and she did her best to wipe the trails away with an itchy sponge. By the time she finally gave up, her inner thighs felt chafed and raw.

Joan took to just watching the water and beads of soap run down the slightly rusted drain. Slowly, she sat down, knees bent up to her chest, legs spread slightly. Red drools down the floor of the shower to join the suds down into the pipes.

This reminded her of a time when she was eleven and was violently ill in the shower. She remembered looking up, slumped heavily over the rim of the tub, still in all her clothes, and seeing Mama in the doorway. She had been shaking her head, but had a morbidly amused glint in her eyes. Then, chuckling darkly, she was saying, “You shouldn’t have gotten--”

“--drunk,” Said Joan, her fists clenched determinedly at her sides and her heart hammering in her throat.

The figure in the armchair in front of her turned to look at the doorway and squinted up at her for a moment as though trying to figure out who she was. And then it sagged back into the chair with an air of disappointment. Like it had been expecting someone else, someone better.

Joan stared back through the thick mop of white-blonde hair that had started to hang in her eyes lately because she’d been too lazy to cut it.

She was eleven and standing in the doorway of the house she’d grown up in, feet squared in her tattered shoes (she hadn’t gone and gotten herself a new pair in awhile, though she was long since overdue) and jaw set grimly.

“...You're what?” Said the figure slowly, her weathered, thick-knuckled hands clutching a periwinkle embroidery and a shiny sewing needle.

“I’m drunk, Mama,” Joan said again, feeling a thrill that was equal parts excitement and terror run through her from head to toe as she said the scandalous words. She watched those dark eyes apprehensively, dimly aware through the buzz of alcohol that she was shivering.

Later, on nights when she had nothing better to think about (there would be a lot of nights like that), she would dramatize this event in her head. She’d think about what might have happened if she’d been yelled at, or sent to her closet, or even slapped across the face and sent sprawling. It wasn't that she did this to feel sorry for herself, or to pretend that it had been worse than it actually was.

The truth was that all of those outcomes were things she wished had happened more than what actually had.

From the worn-out old armchair, the figure stared at her a moment longer, before simply shaking its head in silent apathy and looking back down at the embroidery.

“This is why God has left you,” Said Jane Seymour, dismissively.

And then Joan had trudged off, disappointed by the lack of reaction. Usually her Mama would throw an absolute fit over the littlest things she did, but the night she drank alcohol was barren of any dramatics.

An hour later, she would violently heave up all the whiskey she ingested from her system in the shower. It burned more than it did on the way down and made her cry helplessly for her Mama, who knelt by the bathtub and stroked her hair like she was a dog while she threw up all over herself. Mama had cradled her head against her chest when she was finished, mouth and chin still dripping with vomit, and told her what an evil little imp she was in a voice like sweet caramel.

Joan shook her head, scattering droplets across the shower walls and curtain. She looked down and saw a small sea of blood rippling around her feet. Her nose curled in disgust and she backed up further against the back of the tub.

Minutes passed. Joan’s mind was fuzzy and blank for most of the time she sat in the water and her own blood. Her vagina began to hurt at one point and throbbed steadily with her beating heart.

When it was eventually time to get out, she found that the heat of the water had soaked the energy right out of her, and it took everything in her to get dressed again instead of just curling up naked in a corner of the shower and passing out.

The cuts splattering her figure, those that hadn't scabbed over yet, were gooey and red, the flesh around their edges white and puckered from the water. They burned faintly as she stepped back out of the shower’s steamy shelter and into the cold air of the rest of the house.

The light from the candle flames cast her gaunt features in harsher contrast when she peered into the mirror. Her hollow cheeks nearly became empty holes and her sunken eye sockets were black caves. Still, the shiny blue of her eyes was visible even in the cavernous puncture. The fire’s glow reflected off the stygian liquid steel of rolling droplets over her emaciated frame.

The sight of the deathlike girl would send anyone but Mama screaming into the night.

------

“Good news, Kitty!”

Anne came out of nowhere, flinging her arms around Katherine and causing her to jump. They staggered, nearly falling right over, but managed to stay upright in the crowd of students leaving the school. Katherine laughed.

“What can it be this time, Annie?” She asked, shifting her backpack onto one shoulder after Anne pulled away.

“It turns out we are going to college together after all!” Anne declared, smiling widely. “I just got the text last period!”

Katherine felt a surge of happiness go through her, but still couldn’t help but tilt her head.

“Wait-- I thought the Royal College of Music turned you down?”

Just saying the school’s name sent flutters of joy and excitement and awe through her. She still couldn’t believe that SHE, Katherine Howard, got accepted into THE BEST music school in England. Maybe even the entire world!! She couldn’t wait until she got to explore the castle-like campus and fulfill her dream of being a real performer, and although she had hoped that her dear cousin and best friend would be a part of that, she didn’t actually think it would have happened.

But here Anne was, shrugging nonchalantly with a radiant look in her dark brown eyes.

“Yeah, well,” She waved a dismissive hand, “Daddy pulled a few strings and now I’m in.”

Katherine couldn’t help but chuckle knowingly when her Uncle Thomas was brought up. She could only pray for the poor soul at the Royal College’s administration board that must have met the other end of his needle-sharp words.

“We get to be roomies together!” Anne said. “Isn’t that great or what?”

“It’s AMAZING!” Katherine declared, hugging Anne. “I can’t wait!”

The sound of a car broke their embrace and the two of them, along with a few other students in the courtyard, turned to look at the shiny dark blue Ford Mustang honking at the curb. The driver’s side door popped open a second later and a gorgeous young woman, probably twenty or twenty-one, with lush olive skin and curly brown hair came sliding out. She lowered her electric blue Burberry sunglasses and hickory brown eyes swept over the crowd of high school kids in disdainful amusement.

“CATHY!!” Anne cried gleefully. She launched herself at Catherine Parr and the two immediately melted into a heated kiss. Katherine sputtered a laugh.

“Classic Anne,” Maria said, coming up beside Katherine with Maggie and Bessie. “Always can’t wait to jam her tongue down her lady’s throat.” She’s elbowed in the ribs by both Katherine and Bessie for that, making her snicker. “What? It’s true!”

“Come on,” Maggie said, and they all crossed over to the couple. “Alright, children! That’s enough PDA!”

Anne parted from her girlfriend to stick her tongue out at Maggie. Cathy chuckled and turned her gaze to the others.

“Hello, kids,” She said languidly.

“Hey, Cathy,” Katherine smiled at her. The other three greeted the other woman as well. “How are you?”

“Bitchin’ good,” Cathy rumbled, her lips twitching upwards. The lipstick coating them was a dark red color; Katherine believed it was called “Nibble” if she remembered correctly.

“Okay, okay, okay,” Anne suddenly said. She perched on the hood of the Ford Mustang and spread her hands out in front of her like she was about to tell a grand fairytale. “Can you guys believe the stunt in the shower earlier?”

Like that, Katherine’s good mood dropped away and icy guilt slammed into her once again. It made her feel so stupid, as all her friends burst into giggles around her, enjoying the funny memory while she just felt sickened by them. Why couldn’t she be more like them?

“What?” Cathy looked at all of them in confusion. “What happened?”

“Oh, Joan Seymour happened,” Anne told her. “Sixteen fucking years old and that stupid retard just stood there having her very first period.”

Katherine winced at the use of the slur. Why did it suddenly hurt to hear? She hadn't cared when Maria said it earlier in the pool. Was she just now realizing that it was wrong to say?

“I think she’s fifteen, actually,” She said.

“Who cares?” Anne said. “Doesn’t change anything! I knew when I was 9!”

“Wait--” Cathy said, and then she exclaimed, “Gross! In the shower?”

“Oh yeah!” Anne nodded her head enthusiastically. “Blood was just dripping down her legs!”

“All the blood ran into my stall!” Maggie joined in excitedly.

“And she sat in it!” Bessie added.

“All while squealing like a fucking pig!” Anne chortled. “WEE WEE WEE WEE!!!”

“Anne, enough!!” Katherine shouted over all the laughter. “Stop it! It’s not funny!”

Anne looked at her and then said, “Hey, you guys! Stop! Stop! Kit is right. It’s not funny.”

All the giggling died away instantly. Katherine breathed out a sigh of relief--

“It’s fucking hilarious!”

--that was quickly replaced with a sharp intake of breath.

Anne slung an arm around her shoulders. “Aww, sweetie!” She nuzzled her cheek with her nose. “There’s a runt in every litter! A nobody. And our nobody,” She chuckled darkly, “is Joan.”

------

The smell of freshly baked bread hit Joan’s nose when she walked down the stairs and her stomach growled so loud it caught Mama’s attention in the kitchen. Her face flashed dark red, her blush bright against the pale backdrop of her white-blonde hair, and Mama chuckled in amusement.

“Someone’s hungry,” Mama said.

“J-just a little…” Joan stammered shyly.

She really, really was, though. She skipped lunch because she had left school and hadn’t eaten since breakfast, which had just been two pieces of plain toast, but she felt like she was starving. Like it’s been a lot longer since she ate anything. She set her hands on her lower belly and wondered if hunger was another bitter side effect of menstruation.

“Joan?” Mama noticed the way she was holding her stomach. “Is your tummy alright, darling?”

Joan felt an intense flash of fear

(she knows she knows she knows she knows she knows she knows)

lance through her and she inhaled sharply. She nodded, dropping her hands limply to her side.

“I’m okay, Mama,” She said. “Just hungry.”

“Dinner will be ready soon,” Mama told her. Joan could smell the casserole in the oven and her stomach growled again. “Why don’t you go wash your hands and set the table?”

Joan nodded and hurried to wash her hands off in the kitchen sink before retrieving the plates and utensils from various cabinets. She took them to the dining room, a dimly lit room filled with more crosses than anywhere in the entire house. A huge iron one hung above the table, where Jesus’ petrified face of agony could always leer down at her when she was trying to eat. The only other decoration was a wooden picture frame laying face-down on a small shelf. Joan glanced at it and remembered the last time it had been filled by...

...a photograph of Mama’s wedding.

It had been a bright and sunny day, with white clouds floating over the wedding ceremony. In the picture, the newlyweds were standing on the top of the stone stairs leading to the chapel. Above their heads was a tall arch decorated with beautiful white roses, handpicked by the maid of honor. The bride and groom held each other’s hands, the picture of matrimonial bliss.

This was the first time Joan actually saw what Daddy Henry looked like. Mama didn’t talk about him very much, and when she did, it wasn’t ever in a good way.

But these two in the picture looked so happy.

Daddy Henry’s wedding tuxedo had to be one of the largest ever designed. He was herculean, with a behemoth body and golden blonde hair. Dazzling sapphire blue eyes stood out brightly in the photo, so much like Joan’s own. He had a massively wide smile on his bearded face, grasping his bride’s hands in his own huge ones.

Mama was in a beautiful white gown gown that hugged her every curve, with sterling silver feathers sewn into the sleeves and into the frills of the wedding dress. Her lips were painted ruby red and were curled up into a blissful smile as she leaned into the wall of muscle that was her husband, her hands lost within Daddy Henry’s colossal grip.

...Were these really her parents?

Joan had found the photo hidden behind one of Jesus’s birth when she accidentally broke the frame while playing. She was ten at the time, and itching for mischief, so she hid the photo from Mama, despite all the questions she wanted to ask.

It had been a complete accident that Mama found out she had it, when she saw it in her room after she forgot to put it away.

For a long time, Mama didn’t speak after she found the photo. She just gripped it tightly and stared at it with wide, bulging eyes.

“Where did you find this?”

Joan flinched at the edge in her voice. Trembling, she stuttered, “I-I broke a picture frame a little while ago. You didn’t notice, so I picked up the broken glass so that we wouldn’t get hurt. I found it behind the picture of baby Jesus.”

Mama took several deep breaths that did little to calm her. Joan swallowed thickly.

“M-maybe it could help us look for him?” She said timidly.

Turning abruptly, Mama stormed out the bedroom and downstairs. Joan ram after her, crying, “Wait! Mama!”

Mama strode into the lounge and began roughly throwing firewood into the fireplace. Joan skidded to a stop behind her, her eyes wide.

“Mama!” She shouted. “Stop! We have to find Daddy!”

But Mama didn’t stop. She just kept tossing in wood until the fireplace was full, then moved to dousing the logs with an alarming amount of lighter fluid. Joan lunged forward and grabbed her arm as she lit a match and flicked it in. The flames roar to life instantly, illuminating the cold look in Mama’s golden eyes.

“No.” She hissed, and then threw the photo into the fire.

“NO!!!” Joan screeched.

She threw herself at the fireplace, dropping to her knees and shoving her hands into the burning logs. Flames licked at her skin and she howled in pain, but didn’t pull back until she grabbed the smoldering remains of the photograph. It disintegrated in her fingers and she wailed in anguish right before Mama grabbed her by the shoulders and yanked her backwards.

“What are you doing?!” Mama cried. Her eyes are even wider now, and Joan saw that she was scared. The smell of burned flesh hung heavily in the air.

“That was going to help us find Daddy!” Joan yelled, tears running down her cheeks. Her hands hurt so badly. Pink and scarlet criss crossed together over her charred skin. “We were gonna find him and he was gonna come back!!”

“No he wasn’t, Johanna!”

“WHY?!”

“BECAUSE THERE IS NOTHING KEEPING HIM AWAY!!”

In an instant, the scalding hot blood in Joan’s veins turned to ice-water. She started to comprehend the implication of Mama’s words, and the tears came out from her eyes faster and faster. She wilted like a daffodil, crossing her burnt hands in front of her chest and grabbing her arms, squeezing them tightly as she bowed her head and doubled over on her knees. The crown of her skull cracked against the hardwood, sprawling her hair like a waterfall of white-gold all over the floor.

“No… No… No...” She wept again and again.

“He doesn’t want you, Joan,” Mama said ruefully. “He didn’t even want me.” She took a deep breath, sadness etched in the grooves of her words. “He doesn’t want either of us.”

Mama knelt and took Joan into her arms, rocking her slowly. Joan tried to grip onto her, but just let out a pained wail when she moved her hands.

“Mama!” She cried. “Mama, it hurts! It hurts!”

“Oh, my poor baby,” Mama said sadly. “Shh… It’s going to be okay, my darling angel. It’s going to be okay, Joan…”

“...Joan? Joan?”

Joan jolted, backpedaling into her mother, who looked concerned. Mama gently cupped her cheeks.

“My dear angel,” She murmured, “what’s wrong?”

(tell her tell her tell her)

Joan swallowed thickly. “S-something happened at school today. Something terrible...”

Mama frowned and brushed a loose strand of hair out of Joan’s face. “Terrible things are the Lord’s way of testing us, Joan.” She said wisely.

“I know, Mama, but the other girls--”

“You aren’t like the other girls.” Mama cut her off.

“But I am, Mama! I am!” Joan said. “I never thought so, but--”

“You aren’t, Joan. You aren’t. You’re special.” Mama’s lips twitched slightly. “Special.”

“You aren’t listening to me, Mama…”

“I’ve heard all I wanted to hear, now finish setting the table, please.” Mama said. She glided past Joan and went back into the kitchen to check on the casserole. Joan slowly laid out the plates, then looked over her shoulder.

(tell her tell her tell her)

“Mama, in the showers today…”

Mama whipped around instantly, her eyes suddenly lit up like hot coals. Joan thought she might have seen a flicker of fear somewhere in there, too.

“What have I told you about showering with the other girls?” Mama said.

“I know, but--” Joan floundered.

“What have I told you?” Mama shouted.

“It’s a sin! It’s a sin!” Joan gave in.

“And as such--”

“But Mama--”

“It is--”

“I STARTED TO BLEED!!”

Silence.

Stillness.

The platter Mama had been holding slipped from her fingers and shattered against the wooden floor. White and blue pieces exploded out in every direction. A few chunks cut Mama’s slipper-clad feet and ankles, and blood slowly began to bud out like blooming roses in May, but Mama did not move. Or flinch. Or even blink. She just stared very intently at Joan like she was hoping she would burst into flames if she leered hard enough.

And then, her face did something strange. It twitched, like all her expressions were falling off one by one, so it looked like a mask for a moment. Then, the skin rippled and creased and wrinkled, and her soft features were eroded away by furious and sinister ones. A sick white light ignited behind her golden brown eyes, like twin lightning bugs of insanity inside the sockets. Joan backed up against the dining room table with a whimper.

“Mama, I started to bleed in the showers and the other girls-- they laughed at me and called me names and threw things at me!” She said woefully. “I was so scared, Mama! I thought I was dying!”

Mama’s face twitched again, and this time her head jerked a little with it. The veins in her neck bulge out of the flesh and pulsed monstrously. Her eyes suddenly looked a lot less golden brown and a lot more brown-red.

“Mama, why are you looking at me like that?” Joan asked softly, quaking.

“The curse of blood,” Mama said quietly. There’s an awful, dry chuckle edging her words. Joan blinked like an oblivious pure white heifer about to be sacrificed to God.

“Mama, you’re scaring me…”

Mama’s entire head twitched this time and then, a split second later, she’s striding across the kitchen with her right hand held high. Joan didn’t have any time to react before she was backhanded across the jaw by pointy, spike-like knuckles. She yelped out in pain and shock, tottering sideways and careening right into one of the dining table chairs. Her body unceremoniously crumpled into it, and she and the chair both crashed to the ground in an ungraceful heap.

“You’re a woman now,” Mama said above her. Her eyes are wide and gleaming, but there’s no emotion in them. “Pray to heaven for your wicked soul.”

“Wh-what did I do?” Joan stammered, rolling over onto her back. She could already feel her jaw welling up with a fresh bruise. “M-Miss Aragon said it’s something all girls go through. Even y--”

Mama hit Joan again, and blood splattered out in a bright red line across the floor. Joan whimpered sharply, tears of pain springing to her eyes. Her tongue instinctively flicked out against her newly busted lip and it stung in response to being licked.

“And God made Eve from the rib of Adam,” Mama said like she was in a trance. “And Eve was weak and loosed the raven on the world. And the raven was called Sin and the first Sin was the Sin of Intercourse. So the Lord visited Eve with a Curse and the Curse was the Curse of Blood.” She leaned down to Joan and her words were suddenly washed with potent venom, “Say it, woman.”

“No, Mama--”

Joan was struck a third time. Smears of her blood are left on Mama’s knuckles.

“Say it!” Mama bellowed.

“No!” Joan cried. She turned sharply and scrambled away, but Mama pursued her and delivered a kick to her ribs that sent her sprawling on her back.

“And Adam and Eve were driven out of the Garden and into the World and Eve found that her belly had grown big with child.” Mama droned on. She lifted her foot and pressed it down on Joan’s stomach, pinning her to the ground. Joan yowled in pain when a cramp seized her at that very moment, deepening her anguish even further. “And there was a second Curse, and this was the Curse of Childbearing, and Eve brought forth Cain in sweat and blood.”

“Mama!” Joan sobbed. The tears were flowing free without resistance, now, and creating small pools on either side of her head. “Mama! Stop it, please! Listen to me!!”

But Mama did not listen. She just leaned down, applying more pressure to Joan’s poor belly, like she was hoping to make all the blood come out now. Joan threw her head back and screamed in pain.

“And following Cain, Eve gave birth to Abel, having not yet repented of the Sin of Intercourse. And so the Lord visited Eve with a third Curse, and this was the Curse of Murder. Cain rose up and slew Abel with a rock. And still, Eve did not repent, nor all the daughters of Eve, and upon eve did the Crafty Serpent found a kingdom of whoredoms and pestilence.”

“Mama, listen!!” Joan yelled. “Stop! It wasn’t my fault!”

“And Eve was weak,” Mama said flatly. “Say it.”

“N-o!” Joan squirmed underneath her mother. Her hands, rough and scarred permanently from the burns she got five years ago, flew up and grabbed Mama’s leg. Two of her fingernails jabbed into one of the cuts on Mama’s ankle she got from the glass and Mama jerked away with a hiss.

“You vile demon!!” She screeched.

Joan fled as quickly as she could, but Mama went after her, just like last time. Just like all the other times.

(if i had a nickle for every time she made me cry in here...)

Her wrists are seized and they both fall to their knees on the floor in the lounge. The impact rattled Joan’s frail body and she could feel more blood drip out onto the sanitary napkin in her underwear.

“Mama, let me go!!” Joan cried frantically. She struggled, but her Mama was much stronger than she was and was able to restrain her. Mama’s body hunched over her, her belly pressed against her rigid spine, practically crushing her frail daughter. “Please! Please, Mama! I’m sorry!!”

“Say it, woman,” Mama whispered harshly in her ear, her words biting like serpents.

Joan sniffled and, with words that were thick with blood from her busted lip, choked out shamefully, “And Eve was weak.”

The grip on her wrists loosened slightly. Mama’s hot breath tickled her ear when she breathed out a dark laugh. A sloppy, halfhearted kiss was pressed to her temple.

“Good girl,” Mama whispered breathily. She leaned back and twisted Joan around so they would be facing each other, but did not release her child from her ironclad grip.

“Mama, why didn’t you tell me?” Joan asked. Her icy blue eyes are filled with tears and sorrow, so much sorrow. “I was so scared, Mama. I thought I was dying!”

Mama shook her head and looked up ruefully. She squeezed Joan’s hands together and exclaimed hugely, “O Lord! Help this sinning woman beside me here see the sin of her days and ways!”

“Stop it, Mama--” Joan squirmed uncomfortably.

“Show her that if she had remained sinless the Curse of Blood never would have come on her!” Mama brayed on.

“Mama--” Joan whined. “Mama, please stop! I don’t understand! What did I do?” She squirmed harder. “Mama, let me go!!”

Mama shook Joan violently, then drew her in close, eyes flashing.

“Ask for forgiveness of your sin.”

“No, Mama.” Joan said, swallowing thickly. “I didn’t sin, you sinned. You didn’t tell me and they laughed.”

That was the wrong thing to say.

Darkness overtook Mama’s features like the black clouds of a thunderstorm. Her face twisted with disgust, and she suddenly looked like she hated her child with every inch of her being. She dug her fingernails deep into Joan’s brittle wrists.

“I did not.” She hissed lowly. “I did not--sin.” She carved off chunks of Joan’s flesh with her nails. “Go to your closet and pray.”

Joan stiffened, her eyes bulging hugely in her skull. She whimpered and shook her head, shrinking down into herself.

“No, Mama,” She whispered fearfully. She could see her prayer closet from the lounge, the door fitted underneath the staircase. It was cramped and dark and hot in there, just how Mama liked it for her. “D-don’t wanna go…” She couldn’t look away from it.

“Pray.” Mama said. “Ask for forgiveness.”

“Please, Mama,” Joan begged, looking up at her mother desperately. “P-please don’t make me go. I-I don’t wanna go. I’m sorry!”

But Mama’s uncaring look of hatred did not change, and inky black dread poured out through Joan’s organs like a thick, dark oil spill. Her breathing began to hitch and pick up, but Mama didn’t seem to care about her worsening panic attack.

“Please, Mama,” Joan wheedled hoarsely. “I-- I’ll bring the Stones again!”

This time, it was Mama’s turn to look scared. But then it morphed into intense enmity and she began to beat Joan senselessly towards the closet.

“You monster!” She howled. “You spawn of the devil! Why must I be so cursed?!”

“The Stones!” Joan yelled as she was kicked and hit and slapped. She rolled to the side, but Mama beat her back down to the floor, slowly getting her closer and closer to the wretched, evil closet. “I’ll bring the Stones, Mama! I’ll bring the Fire!”

And then a powerful kick drove into her belly and her words pitched into a shriek of agony.

“MAMA!!” Joan screamed. “MAMA-- MAMA, STOP!! IT HURTS!! Y-YOU-- IT HURTS!!!”

Mama grappled onto Joan’s arms and began dragging her across the floor to the closet. Even with the sharp, unbearable pain in her stomach, Joan fought her, kicking and struggling and screaming bloody murder, but it was futile. Mama shoved Joan into the prayer closet and slammed the door shut, locking it tightly.

“NO!!” Joan shrieked. She threw herself at the door, causing it to rattle heavily on its hinges. “Mama, let me go!!”

“Pray, little girl!” Mama ordered. Madness curled from her lips like poisonous vipers. “Pray!”

“Please, Mama!!”

But Mama did not let her go. Her footsteps retreated somewhere into the house and Joan sunk to the floor, weeping. Panic started sticking to her lungs like black tar, making it harder and harder to breathe.

Mama was so angry… What if she never let her out?

Dread sped up her thoughts, racing through her veins, filling her with desperation.

No one would even hear her screams, her last dying words, her final prayers…

She began to wheeze, the thick, musty air brushing against her lips. The oppressive stench of her own fear and blood and piss from other times in the closet burned her nose.

Would the neighbors notice? Would they even care?

Pain lighted in her belly again as her chest contracted with her heavy breaths.

Would her teachers, so quick to look away from her black eyes and limping figure, even call and ask where she was?

Joan began to scratch on the door, the frame, the hinges, scrambling to escape, her instincts pitching her action into a fury of movement.

What would they say when her body was finally discovered, a rotting corpse hidden in the darkness of a closet made for holy purposes? Perhaps she would be the talk of the town, even more than usual. The poor Seymour kid, whose Mama went mad after her husband left and God could no longer satisfy her. Who killed her only child, slowly starving her tiny daughter to death one evening while she sewed a new blouse for a customer at the laundromat and listened to her religious music.

Joan’s fingernails scratched harder, grazing the wooden confines of her holy coffin. She could feel the warmth of her blood as the nails began to tear and break, smell the copper of her panic, leaving thin lines of crimson as she clawed frantically.

What if she didn’t starve to death? What if she suffocated? Could that happen? No, she’d read about that before. There was enough air filtering in here, probably. She’d die of dehydration first. Already she could feel her throat constrict, dry and callous, an arid lining of flesh. Spots of light pricked her vision. Tears ran down the side of her bruised face, mingling with the sweat now coating her skin. She felt clammy and cold, yet suddenly too hot, as if in a fever.

“Mama, let me out!” She begged coarsely, the words scratching at her throat.

She could take the hitting or yelling or cursing. Anything but this.

“Mama…”

Joan slumped to her side, shuddering. She looked up and gazed around at the horrors that littered the closet. There were so many paintings of Jesus’s death, all in great, graphic detail. When she was little, they used to give her awful nightmares about evil men nailing her to a cross or Jesus’s bloodied body chasing her through a ruined dreamscape, welding a wicked-looking crucifix made of barbed wires and yelling at her to join him on his cadaverous crucible.

They still gave her nightmares, she hated to admit.

The dead eyes of Christ bore down on Joan’s pathetic, shaking frame. Jesus’s face was contorted into the same expression of disgust and pain as Mama’s had been, like even he knew that she was the worst thing to ever grace God’s green earth. She curled into a tight ball on the floor, not wanting to meet his scornful gaze anymore, and began to pray through her haze of tears.

------

Moonlight cast silver streams on Anna’s smooth, glowing skin, making her look like a goddess of the night above Katherine. Her soft touch sent pangs of pleasure crackling through Katherine’s body like lightning bolts of lust, soothing her mind of all its worries with her warmth. Everything felt good and okay and wonderful again when Anna was with her, holding her, talking to her, loving her. She thought that nothing could possibly bring her down when her girlfriend was there by her side.

And yet, she still couldn’t get the image of Joan Seymour’s naked body covered in blood on the floor out of her head.

Katherine sighed heavily and Anna pulled back, blinking.

“Am I really that bad?” She said, then looked at her fingernails, inspecting them closely. “I thought I got them down to the perfect length this time…”

Katherine managed to laugh. “No, it’s not you, you big silly,” She nudged her playfully. “It’s--something else…”

Anna tilted her head. “What is it?” Worry flashed across her expression and Katherine couldn’t help but feel a flutter of love flap in her chest. She loved when her girlfriend got like this, all concerned over her, even over the littlest things. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Katherine said. She pushed herself up into a sitting position with a sigh. “It’s just-- I did something...not good today.”

“Oh no,” Anna gasped. “Not good?”

Katherine shoved her. “I’m serious!”

Anna laughed slightly. “I know! I know!” She said. “Come on, tell me about it.”

They got dressed and stepped out of Anna’s red Jeep so Katherine could get some fresh air that would hopefully help her tell the shameful story. It was a warm spring night and they were parked on the side of a small grove that had a trail that led to a hiking trail and some camping grounds. Katherine ducked under a tree that was wrapped in blooming vines of pink-white dog roses, pale ghost petals shivering in the breeze. Anna came up beside her and they both sat on a low-hanging branch that was practically grown for the purpose of sitting and telling your girlfriend about the awful bullying you participated in today.

“Did you...hear about the Joan Seymour incident today?” Katherine eventually choked out hesitantly.

Anna actually thought for a moment, as if a fifteen year old girl getting her first period and thinking she was dying hadn’t been the talk of the entire school.

“Vaguely, yeah,” She finally said. “I don’t get into that kind of drama, though. I tend to stay away from it, you know?”

Katherine did know, and that sent fear ricocheting through her body when she remembered it. Of course Anna didn’t like discourse- she’s told her several times before! How could she be so stupid?

Anna peered at her closely, and she knew it was too late to turn back now.

“What does Joan Seymour and her period have to do with you?” Anna asked her.

Katherine swallowed thickly. Fear pounded heavily at her brain, fear of Anna breaking up with her when she told her and leaving her all alone--but didn’t she deserve that? What she did was horrible. She didn’t deserve a girlfriend after harassing a poor little girl, ESPECIALLY when she herself was eighteen and technically an adult.

“I--” Her words caught in her throat for a moment, but Anna’s patient, loving gaze made them all come tumbling out. “I was in there. With her. In the locker room.” She lowered her head in shame. “I--yelled at her with everyone…”

Anna just looked at her for a long time, moonlight glinting in her caramel brown eyes and making them look like they were glowing. Then, she sucked in an impressed breath and said, “You’re right. Not good.”

Katherine felt a cold slicing of fear slash through her, but then Anna’s grave expression shifted into a thoughtful smile. She ran a hand down an ivy-coiled section of the tree and mused, “I kicked a kid in the ribs one time.”

Katherine blinked at her.

“I did!” Anna said, then shook her head and chuckled at the memory. “Reed Mulligan. Big white kid who’ll probably grow up to be a robber or something. Anyway, he beat the shit out of me once in Year 7. And then, in Year 8, he picked on the wrong kid and got his ass handed to him. Everyone ran when he dropped to the ground, but first I gave him a good kick in the ribs. Felt terrible about it afterward.” She peered at Katherine closely. “Are you gonna apologize to her?”

Katherine snorted dryly. “Did you apologize to Reed Mulligan?”

“Hell no!” Anna said. “But there’s a big difference, Kat.”

“There is?”

“This isn’t Secondary School anymore.” Anna said. A flurry of snowy pink petals swirled down from the tree and over their shoulders. “What did Joan Seymour ever do to you?”

------

The prayer closet lock clicked and the door creaked open after seven long hours. Joan stopped crying for her Mama after the first hour and fell silent for the rest, not even asking to eat or go to the bathroom. Probably because she was asleep, curled up into a little ball on the floor, pillowing her head with her arms. Mama knelt down to her, setting one hand on her shoulder and raking the other through her white-blonde hair. Joan’s eyes shot open instantly, and they seemed to glow in brilliant shades of blue in the candlelight.

“Did you finish your prayers, little girl?” Mama asked.

Joan nodded.

“That’s my good girl,” Mama cooed. She kissed Joan’s cheek, saying nothing about the dark indigo bruise bloomed on her jaw. “It’s time for bed.”

“Yes, Mama,” Joan whispered. Slowly, she uncoiled from her position on the floor, shaking out her numb limbs as she did so. Mama watched her with a sharp eye as she rose to her feet.

“Joan?”

“Yes, Mama?”

Mama took a deep breath and stood up, practically towering over her little daughter.

“I know I sometimes do things that I can’t explain,” She said, “but know that my feelings for you never change. Even--if you have sinned.”

Joan winced, but she shook her head and managed to smile wryly up at her mother.

“Mama, you don’t have to say that,” She said. “You love me. You don’t need to ask for forgiveness from me. I know you do what you have to.”

“Yes,” Mama said slowly, nodding. “We have no one except each other, Joan.”

Joan shivered. Her heart ached fiercely in her chest, and she so badly wanted to believe that that wasn’t true, that there was someone out there who wanted her, but she knew that was just wishful thinking. Fifteen years, and the only person who didn’t throw her away was her Mama.

“I’m the only one who cares about you.” Mama said. “No one will ever love you except me.” She cupped Joan’s cheeks and looked at her with maddening adoration and love flickering in her eyes. “You will always be a monster to everyone else.”

And Joan nodded, knowing this would always be true, and whispered, “Yes, Mama.”

30 notes · View notes

gumnut-logic · 5 years ago

Text

We’ll Be Home For Christmas 4.5

Title: We’ll be home for Christmas

Day Four – Five Billionaires and No Wives – Part 5 Prologue | 1.1 | 1.2 | 2.1 | 2.2 | 2.3 | 3.1 | 3.2 | 3.3 | 3.4 | 3.5 | 4.1 | 4.2 | 4.3 | 4.4 | 4.5

Author: Gumnut

29 Apr - 11 May 2020

Fandom: Thunderbirds Are Go 2015/ Thunderbirds TOS

Rating: Teen

Summary: The boys can’t fly home for Christmas, so they have to find another way.

Word count: 4259

Spoilers & warnings: language and so, so much fluff. Science!Gordon. Artist!Virgil, Minor various ships, mostly background. A little angst in this one.

Timeline: Christmas Season 3, I have also kinda ignored the main storyline of Season 3. The boys needed a break, so I gave them one. Post season 3B, before Season 3C cos I started this fic before we saw it.

Author’s note: For @scattergraph. This is my 2019 TAG Secret Santa fic :D

I’ve been staring at this too long and it is late. I hope I don’t regret posting this. Especially as Alan misbehaved and threw an unplanned scene at me.

Many thanks to @i-am-chidorixblossom @scribbles97 and @onereyofstarlight for reading through various bits, fielding my many wibblies, and for all their wonderful support.

Disclaimer: Mine? You’ve got to be kidding. Money? Don’t have any, don’t bother.

-o-o-o-

He didn’t sleep long.

Virgil was woken so they could drag him onto A Little Lightning. Scott marshalled him out of his wet clothes, into a shower and quietly redressed his healing incisions. Lunch was demanded and a sandwich shoved into his hand. Coffee was denied him and orange juice substituted.

He found himself dozing at the table.

Mel and Sam were invited for lunch aboard the boat. Gordon was busy being host, but never quite seemed to be very far from Virgil.

Sam mentioned the whales several times, but Gordon shut him down and at no point did he have a chance to corner Virgil.

Virgil felt sorry for the cetacean biologist. He must remember to talk to him at a later time. Once he had finished processing today himself.

The whole experience was otherworldly. He didn’t quite know how to express it. It was as if the music had shape and form, his mind’s eye producing a kaleidoscope of imagery sculpted by sound.

And it meant something.

He knew it meant something, but he couldn’t decipher most of it. Bits were missing, the shapes fragmented, but he did feel the emotion that travelled with it. Multidimensional, the song communicated in a way he wasn’t capable of fully comprehending.

“Virgil, you should go to bed.”

Scott again.

“Mmm-hmm.”

“C’mon.” A hand landed gently on his shoulder.

“Mmm...” Musical shapes danced in his mind and he realised there was colour. Greens, violets and yellows. Patches torn from an unseen spectrum. It was frustrating to not be able to pull it all into focus and understanding.

“Virgil?”

It would be interesting to try and paint. Yes, maybe that would be a way to understand it better. He visualised forming those shapes with pencil and brush. Three dimensions...no four. They shifted according to time.

Hell. So confusing.

But he could try.

“Virgil? You with me?”

Huh? He blinked and looked up at concerned blue eyes.

A sigh. “Just thinking.”

“I can see that. You need rest.”

He did, yes, but he also needed to think, to doodle, to work it all out. He caught Scott’s eyes. “Sit with me?”

A blink. “Of course.”

There followed farewells, Virgil pre-occupied throughout. At some point Mel kissed him on the cheek, but he barely registered it. Sam said something but was interrupted by Gordon. Virgil felt completely spaced and somewhere at the back of his thoughts he was embarrassed at his lack of response and manners.

Scott didn’t leave his side.

Gordon made excuses and apologies.

John was speaking to Eos...which meant their guests must have left. Man, he was out of it. Brain overload.

Alan had concerned blue eyes so much like their eldest brother.

The yacht’s engine starting up scared the living shit out of him. It shattered his mindscape with aural static, those careful shapes disintegrating.

“Hey, hey, Virgil. It’s okay.” Scott had his hand on his arm again.

Virgil’s heart was thudding in his chest. A blink. A calming breath. A moment. He forced calm. “I’m good.”

He was, really. He just had a lot to think about.

“You sure you don’t want to sleep?”

“I’m sure.” But there was something he did want to do. “Come up front with me?”

Scott frowned at him.

“I just want to feel the sun on my face, the wind in my hair.” And get as far away from the engine as possible.

“Sure.” A pause. “But you’re sitting down.”

“Sure.” Virgil pushed himself to his feet.

They found a niche on the bow, enough to sit comfortably with some back support. They could see Gordon frowning at them from the cockpit.

Virgil caught the thought and had to stop himself from laughing out loud. Apparently, he was as much a flyboy as his big brother.

The boat was moving at a reasonable speed, Gordon, no doubt, wanting to get home fast due to the day’s events. That and now they were behind schedule and had quite a long, final stretch to make it before sunset.

Raoul was little more than a smudge on the horizon already. Virgil stared at it a moment before turning and facing the wide ocean ahead of them that ultimately would contain their island. Wind streamed through his hair.

“It will be good to be home.”

Scott didn’t hesitate. “Definitely.”

Virgil snorted. “Missing your ‘bird?”

“Missing land.”

“You spent last night on land.”

“Not the right land.”

Virgil raised an eyebrow at that. “You seemed quite happy with at least one of the inhabitants.”

That prompted a smile on his big brother’s face. “Fishing for details?”

“Some. Not too much.”

Scott turned to him and shrugged. “It was fun. Mel is an interesting woman.”

Half a smile. “I’ll give her that much.” A curious eyebrow. “See it going any further?”

Scott’s expression was thoughtful. “Maybe.”

“Invite her over for Christmas.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Why not?”

“Late notice.”

“You have a Thunderbird.”

That thoughtfulness increased and a slight smile curved his brother’s lips.

“Invite Sam and Liam while you’re at it. We owe them cake. Alan ate theirs.” And Virgil owed Sam an explanation.

That frown returned. “You sure?”

“Sure. The more the merrier.” A snort. “Hell, have them over for a few days. It will give Melissa the chance to check out our ecosystem, she’ll be ecstatic.” A pause and then quietly. “It will give me a chance to speak to Sam about...” A fractured image came to mind and he realised it meant whale. An indrawn breath. Oh god. One concept. He understood something. He could not reproduce it. It wasn’t just sound. It was something else. A combination of visual and auditory. How? His throat froze up. Hell.

“Virgil?”

“I...” The concept tantalised him. His fingers itched for his pencils, his paints and his piano all at once. How?

How?

He swallowed and realised his heart rate was up again. “I...need my tablet...and stylus.”

Scott stared at him a moment before standing up and making his way aft.

It was a sign of how preoccupied Virgil was that his tablet appeared almost immediately in his hands.

He didn’t hesitate. His fingers pulled up his drawing app, his stylus connected with the surface and lines appeared.

Lines. Curves.

Shapes.

Interwoven.

No.

Not right.

The stylus squeaked across the screen.

More lines. More shapes.

The screen became black with them, so he added colour. It splashed and bled across the lines.

“Virgil.”

It still wasn’t right.

Frustration stirred and he groaned at the image.

A blink.

Sound.

He scratched more lines, but the moment of inspiration faded.

He couldn’t do it.

“Virgil.”

It wasn’t a single dimension. It was many. Visual, sound and...and...

Emotion.

How?

It all came back to that question.

He let the tablet and stylus drop, clenching his eyes shut and rubbing his face with his hands.

How the hell could he communicate emotion?

-o-o-o-

John squirrelled himself away. Eos had contacted him to give her report, but there was something in her tone that told him not to take it on an open line.

So, he waited until Gordon got the boat moving and Scott had corralled Virgil before retreating to his cabin for some privacy.

“Did you receive a clear enough signal?”

“Affirmative, John. The upgrade to Virgil’s comms worked perfectly. I am confident I received the full spectrum of the whale’s emissions.”

“Any conclusions?”

“Tentative. And at least an explanation why Virgil is so relaxed in their presence.”

John frowned. “Show me.” The tablet in his hand, the same waterproof device he had clung to as they were tossed from the boat, lit up and a hologram hung above it.

It was a series of graphs mapping sound waves, several equations scrolled down one side. The frown on John’s face deepened. That was some seriously complex math. “Talk to me, Eos.”

“Multiple carrier waves interact synergistically to create other waves which also carry data. This is truly a multidimensional sound.” The waves on several of the graphs split up to show their originating structures.

“Can you decipher a language?”

“Not a simple language, no. Initial assessment leads me to believe this is at least partially a graphical language. The mathematics reveal vector information is part of the transmission.”

John’s eyes widened. “Any interpretation?”

The graphs disappeared to reveal fragmented moving lines and clouded shape. “These images are calculated using a section of song the mother whale was singing to Virgil.”

“Can you see a pattern?”

“Not presently, however, I am still analysing. One aspect to be considered is this...”

A second grouping of graphics appeared beside the main display. This was smaller and lacked colour, the lines far more fragmented and the whole composition was fogged with what appeared to be static. “What?”

“That is Virgil’s vocalisation while he was in contact with the whale, if it is run through the same mathematical algorithm.” The two graphics were suddenly overlaid together. Virgil’s section fit like a piece of a puzzle into the larger composition, as if it was an unfinished section awaiting colour.

“How? Why is Virgil picking this up, but the rest of us are not?”

The graphs returned along with one new one. “I retrieved Virgil’s EEG readings from his last head injury.” Lines lit up in red on several of the graphs. “Several of the carrier waves create a binaural beat. The result is that at least part of the whale’s communication is nestled in frequencies that resonate with human brainwave activity. Virgil’s, in particular, appear to align well. I hypothesise that this facilitates his receptivity.”

John stared at the lines denoting Virgil’s delta wave production. A flick of his fingers and the graph overlaid that section of the whale’s vocal output. Delta waves were well known for their calming effect and their influence on sleep. It would definitely explain his brother’s thrall and lethargy during each encounter.

The red lines glared at him.

An exhaled breath. “So, no chance of a translation?”

“Not any time soon. The transmission is extremely complex and I have yet to reveal all of the carrier signals, much less decipher the entire data stream.”

Eos fell silent a moment and John stared at the graphs, watching them move in rhythm with each other. “Why hasn’t this been discovered before?”

“Recording equipment. Of the recordings I have examined, only three have managed to record enough detail to even hint at the complexity. Today’s samples are of the highest resolution ever taken. Further clarity would be achieved with multiple recordings.”

Which meant more encounters. The sight of Virgil singing on the whale was eerie and unsettling. He may have held back Scott from going to Virgil’s assistance, but the truth was he had to hold himself back just as much.

“Is it causing Virgil any harm?”

Eos didn’t answer immediately and it gave John the chance to ramp up his concern just a notch.

“I cannot locate any medical effects beyond a tendency towards inducing sleep due to some of the frequencies involved. I would recommend further monitoring, however.”

“I agree.” An indrawn breath. “Thank you, Eos.” He blinked and realised exactly what his daughter had just done. His eyes widened just a little. “Continue analysis. This is an important scientific discovery and you have done some excellent work.”

“Really?” Her voice was ever so hopeful, ever so young.

“Of course. I’m looking forward to working on this with you.” There was definitely work to be done and soon.

“Thank you, John.”

“No, Eos, thank you.”

Her giggle bounced across comms. Sometimes so old, yet always ever so young. Her youth was always surprising as was her need for guidance. “Could you please send me Virgil’s vitals, both during the encounter and now?”

“Yes, John.” More numbers appeared above his tablet. Fortunately, they were all healthy numbers, though Virgil’s heart rate was up somewhat. A flick of his fingers and Scott’s vitals appeared beside Virgil’s. Both brothers’ heart rates echoed each other.

John would have felt like he was spying on his family, but he did it so often for reassurance on Five that it now barely registered. Another flick of his fingers and he directed Five to focus on A Little Lightning. He found his eldest brothers on the bow of the yacht. Virgil appeared to be drawing on his tablet.

“He is well, John. I can see no after effects from his encounter.”

John wondered if he could coerce his brother into an EEG exam when they made it home. Roping Scott in would probably manage it, but the stress on both of them would be considerable and he hesitated to aggravate either of them.

Perhaps further down the track, or if Virgil gave him any reason for concern.

God, he hoped not.

A sigh. He had probably jinxed himself last night acknowledging the vacation they were on. Since he woke up to Virgil’s snoring early that morning, things had changed. Sure, surfing with Gordon had been fun, but seeing Scott stressing over Virgil on the beach and the events that followed right up until they returned to A Little Lightning had been anything but relaxing.

One of Virgil’s piano sonatas started playing over his tablet ever so softly.

Despite himself, he smiled. “I’m fine, Eos.”

“You’re worrying again. This is not good for your hair production.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Several sources state that stress can disable the pigment production in human hair follicles, resulting in white, often termed ‘grey’, hairs. I believe this is a negatively viewed characteristic and I have noted that your elder brothers have encountered this issue already. It causes distress, therefore it should be prevented.”

Another blink. “Both of my older brothers have dark hair. Grey becomes very apparent in contrast.”

“It will turn your hair pink.”

“What?” This conversation was ridiculous. “It is a natural ageing process. There is very little that can be done about it.” A breath. “I’m not vain, Eos.”

She didn’t answer immediately. “But your brothers are?”

“My brothers are my brothers, Eos.”

“Well, that makes little sense.”

“Just accept them as they are.”

“Is it possible to accept them any other way?”

“No, not really.”

“Then that statement is redundant.”

“Eos.”

“Yes?”

Frivolous distraction, Eos-style. She had become quite adept at it. Moving his thoughts off worrying topics. A sigh. “Thank you, Eos.”

She didn’t answer immediately, but then...

“Did you know Virgil dyes his hair?”

-o-o-o-

Scott watched his brother draw somewhat manically on his tablet. The resultant art was far from what the artist usually produced. This was all sharp lines and angles followed by random blob shapes. At first it was all in pencil, but then Virgil started adding colours. There was no pattern, it was all haphazard and, worse, it appeared to be aggravating him.

“Virgil.”

His brother groaned in frustration, his eyebrows creasing his face in half and swallowing the scar on his forehead.

“Virgil.”

But he suddenly stopped, realisation on his face morphing into disappointment and more frustration.

The tablet and stylus slipped from Virgil’s hands and Scott was hard pressed to catch them.

But he did.

Virgil’s eyes were scrunched shut and he rubbed his face with his hands.

Scott glanced at the mess on the tablet and shoved it to one side, turning to his brother. “Virgil, talk to me.”

“I can’t.” It was small and hoarse.

“Can’t what?”

“Can’t...express, explain...trying to understand...it’s a mess...”

Okay, this was well outside his realm, but he knew Virgil. He slipped off his seat and knelt in front him. Gently he pulled those hands away from his brother’s face to reveal worried brown eyes. “Stop. Take a breath.”

Virgil stared at him a moment before the soft command was obeyed and he drew in air. Those eyes closed briefly and his brother’s shoulders dropped. “Sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry about.”

“I ruined it again. I’ve stressed you out.”

“This time, I don’t think you had much say in it. Mamma Whale was very determined to say hello.” A small smile. “I think you have a music fan.”

Virgil snorted softly and Scott knew he’d broken through even if just a little. “She definitely wanted to talk. I just wish I knew what she wanted to say.”

“You picked up something, though, didn’t you?”

A quiet sigh. “She was happy and surprised.” Virgil looked up and stared out into the ocean, but Scott could tell he wasn’t seeing the waves.

He wondered what he was thinking.

“How could you tell?”

The frown returned. “I don’t know.” A pause caught in thought. “The sound makes me feel? The sound is...everything.”

Virgil stopped speaking, lost again to whatever was in his head.

Scott swallowed and tried a different tactic. “I think you made a mistake.”

Brown eyes snapped to him immediately. “What?”

“You should have asked Mel out. Lost opportunity, bro.”

Virgil stared at him. “What?”

“She had the hots for you, Virg, and you ignored her.”

“Last time Raoul erupted? She tried to climb me like a tree. Kay had to drag her out of the cockpit.”

It was Scott’s turn to stare. “Really?”

“She was very exuberant in her thanks.”

Scott smiled. “She knows what she likes.” And yes, admittedly, she was very good at climbing, after all Scott was taller. His smile widened.

Virgil’s stare intensified until plain, straight human communication got the message across and his brother groaned. “God, Scott, TMI.”

Total innocence. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to. The image is radiating off your skin.”

Scott sniggered.

Distraction achieved.

“Well, I did say you lost an opportunity.”

“That’s fine, Jungle Jim, she’s all yours.”

Scott shrugged. He could always hope. She certainly knew how to press all his buttons. “Still think we should have her over for Christmas?”

“Yeah, Gordon will love it.”

“What about you?”

“I need to speak to Sam.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

“Okay.” A breath. “Just take it easy.”

His brother nodded and returned to staring out at the ocean. “It will be good to get home.”

Scott stood up slowly and sat back down beside his brother. “Yeah, it will.”

So good.

-o-o-o-

“Are we there yet?” Alan’s voice was particularly whiny, no doubt, specifically designed to irritate.

Gordon turned away from the helm to look at him. “Do you see an island in front of us?”

Alan shoved his hands in his pockets. “Nope.”

“There’s your answer.”

It had been quiet on the bridge for the last few hours. Gordon was grateful for the time to think. A Little Lightning cut through the water ever so smoothly. It was satisfying to see the swell pass by knowing that they were one wave closer to home.

Gordon loved being out on the ocean. It was his native element. But at the moment he longed for the safety of Tracy Island. That last encounter with the whales had its own sense of wonder, but until he understood exactly what the effect was on his older brother, he wasn’t entirely comfortable.

It was weird and unnerving.

And it worried him.

“They been out there long?” Alan was staring at the two men sitting on the bow of the boat.

“Yeah, couple of hours at least.”

“Do you think Virgil is okay?”

No. “Yeah, he’ll be fine.”

Alan eyed him. “I’m not a kid anymore. I don’t need protecting. Since when have you become one of them?” He pointed at his eldest brothers.

Gordon sighed. “I’m not. It’s just...I don’t know, okay? It was weird and amazing and I need to talk to him and he was spaced out and his singing was...”

“Weird?”

“Yeah.”

There was silence for a moment, but Gordon knew it wouldn’t be long.

Sure enough.

“Do you think Virg can talk to whales?”

“I don’t know, Alan.” It was said on one long exhale.

“He communicated something, didn’t he?”

“I don’t know, okay?” And that was the problem. There was so much they didn’t know. Gordon was itching to get into the in-depth literature, to find out more and fill the gaps in his knowledge so he could help his brother. He would be speaking to Sam as soon as possible, but for the moment, the priority was getting Virgil home.

“Some vacation.” It was said with a pout.

Gordon sighed and shoved on the autopilot before turning to his younger brother. “Alan, out with it.”

“What?”

“What’s bugging you.”

“I thought that was obvious. Virgil going zombie and singing to a whale is enough, don’t you think? As if appendicitis wasn’t dramatic already.”

Gordon stared at Alan. “He is going to be okay.”

“You don’t know that. You just said so!”

“He sang to a whale, Alan. They are one of the gentlest creatures on the planet. If he was going to choose a weird conversation partner, he chose well.”

“But you don’t know what it did to him!”

“It didn’t do anything to him.”

“You don’t know that!”

“Alan-“

“Don’t lie to me!” The words shot across the bridge and slapped Gordon in the face.

Voice calm and quiet and not a little hurt. “I have never lied to you, Alan.”

Blue fire glared at him. “You haven’t? Not even to protect the littlest one? Scared I might burst into tears.”

Gordon stared at his little brother. “What is it?”

“Have you?!”

“No! I’ve always told you the truth. You know that!” He let out an aggravated breath. “What is wrong, Allie?”

“What do you think? First you, then Virgil, and now this!”

“What?!” Him? Virgil? Oh...shit. “Virgil is okay. Hell, I’m okay. Allie, we are all fine.”

“That’s what he keeps saying!” Alan shoved a finger in Virgil’s direction. “He’s always fine, even when he’s not. You’re all the same. Big tough guys, nothing is ever wrong. You could be bleeding to death and you’d ‘be fine’. What is wrong with admitting you’re hurt? What is so wrong with being hurt that you have to hide it?”

Gordon opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

“Well, you know what? I’m scared and I’m sick of hiding it. Virgil nearly fell out of the damned sky with his infected appendix. It could have killed him. And now he’s scaring everyone with this whale thing.” A harshly indrawn breath. “Don’t tell me Scott’s not worried. I’m not stupid.”

Two steps and Gordon was in front of his brother, his hands landing on shoulders that were just that touch higher than his own and tighter strung than Virgil’s piano. “Allie, he’s going to be okay.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because it is true.”

Something unintelligible and Alan was wrapped around him like a limpet. Gordon held his little brother. It was unusual and alarming. Alan usually went to Scott for comfort. Gordon was for pranks and cohorting. “It’s okay to be upset. It’s okay to be worried. You can cry if you need to.”

“I’m not going to cry!” Alan pulled away and glared up at Gordon.

“What?”

“Now you think I’m the baby that needs to bawl on your shoulder?”

“What?!” The hell was going on? Some conscious part of his brain was aware of the yacht’s engine, the high speed they were travelling and the fact autopilot on water was vastly different from the sky and he really should be paying attention. But Alan needed...something. “Allie, you’ve lost me. What do you want?!”

“I want Virgil to be okay. I want you to be okay.”

“We are okay!”

“Then stop scaring me!”

“I didn’t scare you!”

“You....you terrified me, Gordon. You terrified all of us.”

“I didn’t do it on purpose.”

“Still hurt.”

“Aww, Allie...” What could he do?

“And now, here you are ‘okay’, and it could happen again, and...” A shaky swallow. “I’m scared, okay? You’re fine. Virgil’s fine. But you’re not, and...I’m not okay...okay?”

This time it was Gordon wrapping his arms around his not so little brother. “I’m sorry, Allie.”

Muffled into Gordon’s shoulder. “Not your fault.”

“No.” But he should have realised it was still messing with his little brother. Alan was the least experienced of them all. Gordon had seen things, done things, things that hopefully Alan would never have to experience. Quietly. “I think Virgil is a little freaked out. I don’t think he understands what happened much more than we do. But we are going to find out. I’m going to speak to Sam. We’re going to do some research and we will find out why the song affected Virgil the way it did. But he is okay, Alan. Tracy’s honour. A little shaken up. A little worried. But he is okay. We’ll work through this like we always do.”

His brother’s arms tightened around him just that little bit more, but Alan didn’t say anything.

A rustle of fabric and Gordon looked up to see John standing in the doorway staring at them with a hint of worry in his eyes.

“John?”

Alan startled and pulled away immediately. Turquoise followed his every move.

A slow blink and John stepped onto the bridge. “Eos is deciphering the song. We have a good idea as to why Virgil reacted the way he did.” It was said calmly and factually for such a great discovery.

“You do?” Alan found his voice first.

Those eyes latched onto Gordon’s. “We do.”

The helm beeped.

A blink and Gordon was back at the wheel, scanning their position. A mass of volcanic rock and tropical reef appeared on navigational sensors.

A familiar chunk of rock and reef.

Tracy Island.

Home.

-o-o-o-

End Day Four, Part Five.

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds fanfiction #thunderbirds #Virgil Tracy #Scott Tracy #John Tracy #Gordon Tracy #Alan Tracy #kermadec fic

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ardellian · 5 years ago

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Thanks to @jonsibn for tagging me!

rules: choose your 5 favourite works you created in the past year (fics, art, edits, etc) and link them below to reflect on the amazing things you’ve brought into the world. tag as many writers/artists/etc as you want (fan or original) so we can spread the love and link each other to awesome works!

I have to say, I’m mostly just proud of the fact that I did any drawing at all. I’ve been meaning to forever, but it’s been years since I did anything but little doodles on post-its while at work. Painting has really been a relief during a stressful time, so thanks to all of the people who have given me encouragement with lovely comments and liking my things etc etc - you are all lovely! <3

Writing some words about each piece was fun. It’s rare that I go back and really think about things that I’ve finished? To look at the things you like and don’t like and try to put word on what sets them apart - how sometimes it just flows out and works, and then other times even when you try really hard, it’s all clogged up. The actual finished pieces are all the result of iterating on the same concept, where I’ve tried and tried and then finally arrive at the right angle or color scheme or reference that makes it come together... In each of them I can kind of remember a particular shape or feature that just clicked and made me exited about the whole thing.

Anyway.

This is by far the thing I’m most proud of. I really did not think I could put something like this together, and I made several sketches that I was just super unhappy with before hitting upon something that worked, for some reason, and then I almost pulled an all nighter because I was so excited about finishing the thing.

This is just a little sketch, but it’s of a real little twisted plant standing by my desk that I like and I just think it turned out really cute. It makes me happy still.

I’m still kind of happy with most of the portraits I did for the fhr main cast, but this one I like the best because of the jacket. I turned out great with the colors and texture, and I remember that I was even bummed out when I ran out of jacket to paint - which is like, the extreme opposite to my usual feeling about clothes.

This is the first of the three drawings from this post that has - jesus, more then 5000 notes now - and I don’t know if it’s the one I like best, but I kinda hit upon something in how I approached the whole thing with regards to colors and brushes. It was super fun.

And finally this. I also had like ten different versions of this scene and I was super dissatisfied with all of them and annoyed about not being able to capture the feeling I wanted. I spent hours googling hospital beds! When it finally turned out I was thrilled.

I wouldn’t know who to tag so please, if you read this and want to do it then you’re it!

#this is a super nice thing #we all need a bit more positivity #thanks so much for tagging me #<3

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ihaveanimagine · 6 years ago

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Underfell bros s/o is gone for the week end (any reasons that made them leave without the boiis) and s/o knew the skele would miss them, so they hid little notes with cute messages and gifts for them around the house to find, just being their cute self?💙

(Dawwwwwwwww this is adorable!!)

Underfell Papyrus (Edge)

When you first tell Edge you’ll be gone for a week, he’s professionally understanding. He knows duty comes first and spends the remaining time he has with you creating a checklist of things he thinks you’ll need.

(It takes you a little more than an hour to tell him that you won’t be needing several different types of magic-infused weapons to take with you for safety)

But eventually he let’s you go and as you pull out of the driveway, you’ll see him leaning against the door frame with eyes narrowed at your leaving form, making sure nothing suspicious is following you.

Once you can’t see him, his expression softens to something akin to a puppy dog face.

Even as you pulled out of the driveway he felt his soul tug at him, making him want to run after you and either go with you or convince you to stay home with him.

But instead of doing those things, he found himself slowly walking back to your shared bed and flopped himself down face first onto his pillow. His arm slowly brought your pillow close to his chest and his entire body curled into it in an attempt to pretend it was you.

What he wasn’t expecting was to hear the tiny crinkling sound of a post-it note on the pillow. His hands felt around the pillow before finding the sticky note and brought it to his eye level before reading it.

Hey, Love! I just wanted to remind you that I love you and I miss you! I promise I’ll be home soon and we can catch up on cuddles when I get back. I know you’ll probably get lonely so I left a bunch of these notes around the house for you to find! Happy hunting! Love you <3

A small dark red blush slipped onto Edge’s cheekbones. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t love how well you knew him.

His soul pulsed in a bittersweet happiness, desperately missing your company but completely grateful for how you planned ahead to keep him in mind despite being away.

He gingerly placed the note back onto the pillow and hugged it.

—

The week seemed to pass by him as he found little notes in his daily routine. You left him notes on the kitchen table, in his utensil drawer, his bathroom mirror, his steering wheel, even his clothes!

And in each note there was a small reminder of how much you loved him. A smile would always soften his features when there was a little heart doodled in the corner or every time he saw “I love you” sprawled out in your handwriting.

When you returned home, Edge was ecstatic, happy to have his mate by his side once again.

Underfell Sans (Red)

“Ya have to go?”

“Mhmm.”

“How long?”

“Just a week. I’ll be back before you know it, babe.”

The way Red’s lips curled into a frown spoke volumes of his disbelief. He wound his arms around your waist and buried his face in your neck.

“Sure I can’t come with ya? I’ll behave an’ everything I promise.” He mumbled, curling his fingers into your shirt. You placed a soft kiss on his head and gently rubbed his skull. “It’s only for a week, babe, I’ll be perfectly safe I promise.”

You kissed his head and pried yourself out of his arms to pack. His red eye lights followed you around, occasionally helping to fold something into your bag.

This would be the first time the two of you would be separated since you have become mates. And Red didn’t like it one bit.

You could easily be hurt or killed and the only way he’d know is through the soul bond the two of you shared. Not exactly the best way to receive news about your partner’s pain.

But despite Red’s reluctance, you were on your way in no time. You almost felt guilty leaving him behind as you pulled out of the driveway with him giving you pouty puppy eyes.

The first thing your husband did after you left was slump on the couch and fiddle with the wedding band on his finger. After a bit of moping he got up and raised his comfort snacks. He made it to the pantry and grabbed a bag of pretzels only to find a sticky note plastered on the side of the bag.

His eyes squinted at it at first before before picking up the sticky note to read it.

Hey, babe! I know you’re probably lonely-snacking right now so I just wanted to remind you that I’ll always have you on my mind when I’m away. I’ll be sure to call you as often as I can, love you!.

PS: I have more notes like this around the house so you don’t get too lonely without me <3

“Ah heck that’s cute-” Red muttered, his face flushing bright red as he hugged the bag of food to his chest. He grumbled a quick “I love you” to himself, pretending for a moment you could hear him before tearing open the bag to have his lonely/flustered snack.

Throughout the next week he found your notes at his lab door, the pillows, his favorite jacket, even in the fridge!

As he found the notes he stuffed them in his pockets to make sure he could look at them until you got home.

And once you did, he was planning on showing you just how much the little notes meant to him.

#underfell #underfell papyrus #underfell sans #uf papyrus #uf sans #underfell papyrus x reader #underfell sans x reader

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mariska · 5 years ago

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well, today marks the 8th year anniversary of the day that Lollipop Chainsaw was released, which is absolutely bonkers. here is me the first time i did mariska cosplay makeup on myself vs the most recent time i did for the occasion! (left pic is from the beginning of 2013 when i was 15, right pic is from a few months ago this year right before i turned 23)

i’ve made a few very similar posts celebrating the anniversary of its’ release over the years, but i always get very nostalgic about it this time of year because, as silly as it sounds, this game literally changed the course of my life in a very positive way. so i’m gonna write about what it means to me for the millionth time under the ‘read more’ here, lol.

i turned 15 in may of 2012 and it was probably the most difficult year of my life. i’d been homeschooled for a couple years at that point because a number of issues had prevented me from being able to stay in public school any longer, and i’d just come out of a not great year in 2011 where i had attempted to try and go back to a public school setting for my first year of high school and it went really bad. i had lost contact with all but one of my friends that i used to hang out with in person and barely talked to anyone except my parents and my therapist anymore. i was extremely depressed and attempting to work through PTSD but a lot of the trauma was still so fresh. my anxiety was so severe that having a brief interaction with a cashier at a store would cause me to throw up half of the time. it was getting more difficult to be passionate about anything with every passing day and i spent a lot of time feeling hopeless that i was doomed to spend the rest of my life anxious and alone. at the end of that year, my health took a nosedive and i got my first auto-immune disease diagnosis, starting what would be a life-long journey of dealing with chronic illness and chronic pain, and having to juggle constant hospital visits/drs appointments and flare-ups of scary symptoms that i had no idea how to process (on top of my pre-existing mental health issues, and on top of the fact that i am autistic and didn’t know this at the time/wasn’t receiving any kind of professional validation for that yet)

lollipop chainsaw was the first game i ever pre-ordered and i was looking forward to a fun, mindless distraction the day it released. i beat the main story the next day and had an absolute blast with it, so i went to check if anyone was talking about it on tumblr and discovered that a couple of people had made some ‘ask blogs’ where they were going to roleplay as the characters and answer questions as them. i thought that sounded like a fun way to maybe get to interact with a few people, so i made one for my favorite character, mariska, and introduced myself to the other people i found.

it is absolutely wild to think that i would most likely have a very, very different life if i hadn’t made that blog. i owe so much to that community of people and the friends that i made on there. it encouraged me to start talking to people again, both in and out of character. it re-ignited my passions for writing, which i hadn’t done anything with in years, and art, and MUSIC, oh my GOD. i learned about so many new musical artists i’d never listened to before. i discovered that mariska’s voice actor, shawnee smith, had a music career of her own and totally fell in love with her songs, which led me to watching a bunch of her other films/shows, which led me to Saw, which led me to HORROR, my FAVORITE movie genre ever and a passion that literally defines a huge chunk of my life now. hearing her sing made me want to be a musician. my parents bought me my first guitar as a gift and i was over the moon with happiness. i started taking music lessons with a music teacher who i was really able to connect with and began writing my own songs in my spare time. then, for my 16th birthday, my parents surprised me with a record player and took me out to the nearest music store so i could pick out a big stack of cheap, used records of bands i’d only ever heard mentioned a couple times before in my life.

my life changed, completely. i spent all day rotating between writing as mariska on my roleplay blog, to creating art, to sitting on my bed and doodling in sketch books while i played Jefferson Airplane and Led Zeppelin and Pink Floyd and Aerosmith and Rolling Stones and Supertramp and Earth, Wind & Fire and etc etc etc on my record player for hours. i started spending birthday/christmas gift money on clothes i found at thrift stores and discovered that i felt more like myself in a used dress from the ‘60s than i ever did in the modern clothes i was used to wearing.

i had passions again, and friends, and i was happy to be alive. i’ve said it so many times before, but i literally do not think i would have survived that era of my life if it weren’t for the friends, connections, hobbies and general love for life that i was able to find just from being a part of the lollipop chainsaw fan community that year. it truly saved my life and i will never be able to properly thank everyone who had a part in that for how they helped me cope with everything.

happy 8th anniversary, lollipop chainsaw!! i cannot believe it’s almost been a decade now. what a long strange trip it’s been etc etc. lmao

#lollipop chainsaw #mariska #maya papaya #long post #hopefully the read more works for mobile users i dont want to force anyone to have to scroll thru this wall of text on their dash LOL

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fizzpixie · 6 years ago

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LeviHan Highschool AU

Requested from @appleblondie0397

Is it bad that I initially imagined Levi as a hot senior boy and Hanji as one of those lil freshman girls that he has a huge thing for? I’ve been seeing memes floating around about that lately.

They aren’t in this story tho I swear

I’m very excited about this prompt, thank u so much. This ended up being a lengthy monster because I got super into it so I kinda cut the ending a little short.

Levihan Highschool AU Title: Prompted Request: Levihan with the context of them being in highschool and levi and hanji having a sleepover at Levi's place (doesn't have to be anything rated r or sexual) Summary: Hanji (a junior) is head over heels for the short boy (a senior) she sits behind in her literature class. Their friendship blossoms over the course of the semester, until one day he invites her over to work on an essay together. Little does she know, he has been paying close attention to her, too. Word count: 2882 Warnings: very seldom vulgar language, mentions of sexual themes (none related to levi or hanji)

“And remember, this is all due by next wednesday. Late work is unacceptable.” Mr. Pixis exaggerated as he passed out papers to the front row, having the front students cascade the worksheets down to the people behind them. Levi groaned as he slipped a sheet for himself when the pile came his way and handed the stack behind him without turning around. Hanji subconsciously took a sheet and passed on the stack. She stopped scribbling in her notebook, glanced at it, and then tapped Levi’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry, what did he say? I wasn’t paying attention.” Levi rolled his eyes.

“This sheet has the prompt for our next essay, it’s due this upcoming Wednesday--,” He paused for a fleeting moment after processing what she had said, then swiveled around to give Hanji a quizzical look, “now what on god’s green earth could possibly keep four-eyes from paying attention in class?” She was quick to cover the contents of her notebook from his unwelcome eyes.

“None ya.” She promptly responded. Hanji was pretty protective of her journal that she used for her advanced placement literature class. Inside she had spent a collection of hours doodling Levi’s name in little hearts within the page margins. Levi had tried to peek at it before, but to no avail. Hanji would always snatch it from his view and say ‘none ya’ as in ‘none ya business’.

Their literature class was small, with maybe a little less than twenty people in it. Their mutual best friend, Erwin, sat in the farthest front corner. There was no seating chart on the first day of school but it was created as soon as everyone picked a seat. Erwin showed up late for class on the first day of school. Hanji, on the other hand, strategically showed up to class as early as she could, then proceeded to drum up mindless conversation with the teacher until a specific person showed up for class. When Levi finally crossed the classroom’s threshold right before class started, Hanji prayed to the gods that he wouldn’t pick a spot where she couldn’t sit next to him. She abruptly ended her conversation with Mr. Pixis just to see Levi had picked an obscure spot completely shrouded by other classmates. However, she was fortunate enough to snag a spot directly behind him. It wasn’t ideal. She was typically the type of student to sit front and center to help her pay attention and perform better in class. But she had been eyeing Levi in the hallways all of last semester. When she found out they finally had a class together -- a literature class, of all things-- she was beyond thrilled.

Yes, Levi was short. But he was still entirely masculine. He fashioned a more casual-gothic look. Hanji couldn’t tell if it was unintentional or not, because naturally, his hair was darker colored and he was always a bit more pale with heavy eye bags. Though he did seem to have a preference for the color black. He often wore black skinny jeans and boots, but when he wasn’t wearing a casual t-shirt he would sometimes pose in a nice button up or polo. Whenever Levi wore his jean jacket, Hanji would melt. But despite her admiration towards the quiet boy in black, she had a deep sinking feeling that she wasn’t his type. It seemed unorthodox for an ambitious, overly intelligent, and reckless girl who followed her impulses to be his type. Not to forget, she was entirely loud and obnoxious. He seemed to like quiet and logical girls who kept to themselves.

They were coming up to the end of the second semester for summertime. Levi and Hanji’s friendship grew exponentially when they first met in Mr. Pixis’ notorious class of literature, all with Hanji’s efforts of initiating conversation with him. This was one of their final essays before their upcoming final.

“Alright. Well, Miss. ‘None ya’, I’m getting some food with Erwin after class and then going home to start this essay. Would you like to come over to my place to work together?”

Hanji felt her heart skip a beat.

“Would Erwin be there?” Surely this was too good to be true.

“Nah. He told Marie that he would hangout with her tonight to catch up on homework. We both know what they’re actually gonna do, though.” It wasn’t. Hanji tried to act casual.

“I mean like, yeah, I’d be down to come over.” Levi gave a small nod with his head. The bell then suddenly blared, signaling the end of the school day. Levi stood and neatly tucked the sheet in between some folders in his backpack.

“Cool. You have my number, I’ll text you the address and you can come over around 9 or so.” Hanji glanced up at him.

“9? Doesn’t that seem a little late?”

“Yeah, my bad. I have a lot of errands to run after getting food with Erwin so I’m not free until then. Is that okay?” It wasn’t okay. Hanji prefered to go to bed at 10 pm sharp so she could wake up at 6 am and get a full eight hours of sleep.

“Yeah, that’s fine!” It didn’t matter. She had never been over to his house before. Looking back on it, she didn’t recall anyone ever going to his place before. Not even Erwin. She could afford to lose one night of a full eight hours.

***

Hanji parked in front of a busted apartment on the outskirts of downtown. She noticed how Levi lived an astonishing distance away from school. She checked her text again to reread the address, then scanned the address plate etched into the brick. She was definitely at the right place. She tried the front door of the apartment-- which are traditionally supposed to be locked at all times for residents safety-- that slid open with ease. Hanji also noted the gaping hole shattered in the glass on the side panel by the door, as if someone had kicked it.

‘Okay, third floor, apartment 304.’ She anxiously thought to herself. With each creaky step up, her heart rate only got faster. The lights flickered inconsistently over her head, buzzing as if they would burn out any second. ‘I can do this. We’re literally just doing homework. I like homework. It will be fun.’ She tried to calm herself as she ambled down the dim hallway and approached his apartment.

She stood in front of the door for several seconds before knocking. She examined the walls and floors of the hallway. The walls were white and dirty with a checkered patterned accent on the baseboard. The floor was concrete. It felt like a poorly kept, horror movie hospital.

As she raised her arm to knock, the door suddenly swung open. Levi stood there with a large trash bag slung over his shoulder.

“Oh, hey Hanji. How long were you there for?” He paused, “actually, nevermind. I need to take out the trash really quick, but feel free to let yourself in and sit on the couch. I’ll be back in a sec.” He moved passed her and trudged down the hallway. Hanji didn’t say anything, and watched him as he disappeared beneath the stairs below. When she was by herself, she turned to face the entrance to his place and with a cautious step, she entered.

It wasn’t very big at all. At first she thought it was a studio apartment, but she then noticed a narrow hallways that branched off into three rooms with closed doors. She located the couch and sat down, setting her backpack to her side. To her surprise, the apartment was spotless. The floor was a dark grey carpet that seemed permanently stained with age, but there was a rug thoughtfully placed and vacuumed in the center of the room. The sink was free of dishes, the few pictures and decorations on the walls were symmetrical and clean. Even the kitchen counters had been polished. To her surprise, there were two glasses of water on the coffee table, resting on home-made cork coasters.

‘He got me water. That’s very nice of him’. It was a basic courtesy, but she appreciated it. She gingerly picked up the glass and took a sip as she examined more of the apartment. The walls were a dark green with wooden shelves that hung up and displayed odd ornaments, such as old weapons and antiques. As she continued to observe the base of the apartment, her eyes landed on a picture that was not like the rest. It was a portrait. A smaller portrait of a woman with raven hair and grey eyes. Despite looking tired, she was smiling. She seemed very happy, and she was incredibly beautiful. She also had a striking resemblance to Levi.

Her thoughts were interrupted as Levi came back into the room unannounced.

“Sorry about that. My uncle didn’t take out the trash like he said he would. He’s a bum.” Hanji chuckled.

“No it’s totally cool. I was just chillin’ here. Thank you for the water.” She remarked. He replied with a solemn ‘mhmm’ then found a spot next to her on the polyester couch. With how close they were sitting together, Hanji nearly died. He pulled out a cheap laptop from his backpack and proceeded to log on as he simultaneously checked the sheet with the prompt.

“Okay, so the prompt is ‘Life is full of opinions and people differing from you. Everyone has and will encounter times when someone they meet has a different perspective from them. What are the most effective ways to communicate ideas? What do you do when those ideas aren’t relayed properly, then argumentation breaks out? When was there a time you met someone completely different from yourself? How did it turn out?’” He began to read, but Hanji had zoned out as he was speaking, staring intently at the portrait of the mystery woman.

“Who’s that?” Hanji blurted out and pointed at the frame. Levi glanced up at her.

“Who’s what?”

“That. That woman on the wall.” He followed her finger to the portrait.

“Oh. That’s my mom. My uncle happened to have an old photo of her, we don’t have many of them.” It made sense. He was a spitting image of her.

“She’s very beautiful. Will I ever get to meet her?” Levi responded bluntly.

“She’s dead.” Hanji felt the blood leave her face, making her grow pale.

“Oh my god, Levi I’m so sorry I didn’t mean to--”

“Don’t be,” he started, “she’s been dead for a long time. I think I was like, what, four years old? I don’t remember. Either way, I’ve healed from it now,” Hanji frowned. Even if what he said could be true, there is permanent damage when missing an important figure in your life. And it’s affecting him whether he knew it or not, “Anyway, we should continue. It’s getting late.

***

The antique clock on the wall read 12:04 pm. They had spent at least a full hour writing, but the last two hours were spent vicariously sharing stories and talking about unrelated things to the prompt. Hanji was learning a plethora of new things about Levi, and she couldn’t be more satisfied. She felt sadness swell in her heart when she peered at the clock. Her eyes were growing heavy, and she knew she couldn’t write anymore for the night. Nothing when she was tired was as quality as she would like. Levi was continuing a story.

“But yeah, my uncle can be an asshole sometimes. There was this one time when he stole my computer to watch porn on some sketch website and he infected it with 12 different viruses. It also wasn’t cool because he didn’t tell me he used it for porn, so when I opened my computer at school--”

“Hey Levi? I’m sorry to interrupt, but I really think I should go home, it’s really late and I’m incredibly tired.”

“Oh, that’s fine,” He glanced at the window to see rain pouring down outside. They didn’t notice it started to storm while they were writing.

Hanji packed her things slowly to relish her final moments in his apartment. She wasn’t too sure if she’d ever be here again. When she finished, she approached the door. Levi saw her out.

“Thanks for coming over, I think we got a lot done.” He thanked her as she stood at the door.

“Yeah, I think so too. Thanks for having me.”

***

Hanji dashed to her car parked on the side of the road to avoid getting wet.

‘I knew I shoulda got my keys out before going outside’ She scolded herself mentally as she desperately fished in her pocket to find her car keys, only to notice they weren’t there. She gave up trying to do everything with haste, being that she was already soaking wet. She knelt down to rummage through her backpack, but they didn’t seem to be there, either.

‘Maybe I left them in his apartment?’ She started to question herself as she peered inside her car window. She sighed in disbelief. She had locked her car keys inside of her car. The keys mocked her as they sat in perfect view on the passenger seat. Hanji, not really knowing what to do, took a slow walk of shame back inside the apartment to tell Levi. She trudged up the stairs and to room 304. She knocked quietly. Levi opened the door pretty quick with a confused look apparent in the bend of his brow as he observed her standing there, completely drenched.

“Is something wrong Hanji? Did you leave your keys here or something?” Hanji sighed.

“I wish. I locked them in my car…” She took a beat to think about what to say next. She didn’t think about what to ask him while she was walking up the stairs, “could you maybe drive me home?” Levi shook his head.

“That would be dumb. It’s pretty late and I know you get up in like 5 hours. Why don’t you just spend the night?”

Hanji had to take a second to process what he had said. Then another second.

“Your uncle wouldn’t mind?”

“Kenny isn’t home. He won’t be until tomorrow.” Hanji toyed with the idea in her head. She absolutely wanted to, more than anything. She didn’t even bother with the pros and cons, she just went with her impulsive gut.

“Yeah, that’d be great.”

***

“Here, you can sleep in my bed. I’m familiar with the couch we have, anyway,” He guided Hanji through the hallway into the door on the right, “the bathroom is across the hall. The closed door at the end is Kenny’s room, don’t go in there,” He continued to instruct, “If you need anything let me know.” He handed her a small stack of dry clothes. Hanji set her bag down on the floor. His room was like the rest of the place -- spotless, but a little worn with time.

“I feel bad that you’re sleeping on the couch.” Hanji started.

“Don’t,” he paused for a moment. They shared the silence for a beat, “but keep in mind, I don't have to use the couch.” Hanji didn’t physically react to his proposal, but felt like her stomach was knotting itself.

“You mean like, sharing the bed?” Levi scoffed.

“It’s a good thing you’re cute, four-eyes. Yes, we can in fact share the bed. There are no physical limitations to us sharing a twin sized bed--”

“Oh, shut up. I know there aren’t any physical barriers, but it just feels, I don’t know, intimate.” Hanji felt her face going pale. She was making a fool out of herself. Levi crossed his arms, with the faintest shit-eating grin tugging at the corners of his lips.

“Oh, darn. Now what ever will we do? We don’t have to, of course. It’s just a suggestion.” He reminded her. Hanji didn’t want to give herself time to think about it, knowing she would over analyze the situation. It was just a night of sleep.

***

Underneath the sheets, Hanji curled up into a ball. Levi was on the other side of her, their backs touching each other as they were facing away from each other on the tight bed.

“Thank you for the dry clothes.” She said as they lay in the darkness in silence for a little while. She was sporting a pair of his old grey sweat shorts and a baggy band t shirt.

“Yeah, I didn’t want you getting my bed all wet.” She was aware. But despite being in dry clothes and wrapped in sheets, she was shivering cold. Levi could feel her body tremble next to his.

Without a word, Levi rolled over so he was facing her back, and slowly snaked one arm over her waist and another underneath her pillow to wrap himself onto her. Hanji completely froze at the abrupt feeling of warmth pressing onto her back and legs. Levi noticed her quivers completely cease.

“Are you okay with this?” Hanji noted how he noticed she was cold. She didn’t smile, but instead felt her arm search for his, lacing her fingers with his warm hand. She was entirely grateful.

“Yes. Definitely.”

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