#when its just cloth mother/wire mother again | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

heyidkyay · 2 years ago

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I guess I'll take this pain, instead of your name

Part Six

A/n: Another update!! Things are finally coming to a head, or are they?

So grateful for all the lovely feedback this series is currently getting, glad so many people are liking it!! The ending here is a bit abrupt but necessary I think, so I only hope you enjoy!:) X

Summary: In life, things changed. The boys you'd once grown up with were men now, and famous ones at that. The type that toured the world and had millions of adoring fans.

The five of you shared a shit ton of history. But you also shared a lot of mixed emotions for one of them in particular, a certain drummer.

Masterlist

To G💋:

Freddie’s @3?

That message had been received well over an hour ago now, after I’d struggled back and forth on whether or not to actually press send.

In the end, Matty had made the decision for me and all but hustled me out of the front door and into his car after doing so.

He’d driven straight to mine, the fry up he’d just ordered in had come along with us for the ride too, and we’d spent the rest of our morning talking it all over, hashing out the pros and cons.

Matty had only left me alone once he’d laid out some clothes for me and made sure that I was freshly showered. It all should’ve been rather amusing, him mothering me, but to be frank I’d all but tossed him out on his arse the first chance I got. His blatant anxiety was like a live wire fraying at the edges and had not helped my own in the slightest.

I texted him now, nerves getting the better of me. My thumbs danced across the screen before my eyes darted back up to the familiar yellow door I was stood outside of.

I’m here Feeling so!! fucking!! pathetic!! Why are you making me do this again?? Help:(

I huffed and tugged a hand through my hair. I had not picked the best day to wear it down, the wind was unforgiving and seemingly had a mind of its own, unable to simply leave me be as it flew in every available direction.

Stepping towards the curb, I scanned the surrounding street. Freddie’s was one of the cutest little cafe’s Highgate had to offer, with its bright yellow trimmings and earthy green accents. It was also familiar territory for George and I, a place local enough that it had once been our regular, and not too far from mine now that I could easily just leave, head home, and hide if this all went tits up.

Yeah… I didn’t just feel pathetic. Apparently, I was.

I had to hold in a pitiful groan at the very thought, thankfully though I was distracted by Matty’s incoming reply.

Ratty🖤:

You are Pathetic that is But if you leave without tlking to him I will get Ross to tie you up and lock you in a room together

Well, wasn’t that a vivid image.

I could only wonder how both Ross and George would react to that notion.

Kinky.

Was what I texted back, unable to help my quiet snort.

Matty just replied with a rolling eyes emoji that had me chuckling to myself. It was in that moment that George made me aware of his arrival, causing me to whip around at the sudden hand I felt brace my shoulder.

“Why do you keep doing that!” I accused with a rather aggravated huff, hand now over my racing heart as I glanced down at the phone I’d nearly just dropped.

“Doing what?” George questioned me but the mirth which lined his voice already gave way to the fact that he knew exactly what I was on about. I scowled up at him whilst he gifted me a light laugh of his own, hands now pocketed in the depths of his coat as he tilted his head in the direction of the shop’s entrance. “We headed in then, or does the pavement suit you just fine?”

With a mocking smile I glanced over towards the door. I swallowed down the sudden hysteria, then evidently nodded. Guess it was time to face the music.

I tried to rationalise things as I trailed in behind him, ignoring the bout of butterflies I felt when he held the door open for me, and when he offered to order for the both of us whilst I nabbed a table.

George though, was none the wiser of my inner turmoil.

Almost on autopilot, I moved throughout the crowded space of the cafe having felt like I’d been caught in some sort of whirlwind. I took a seat in a booth near the back, leaving the opposing chair (facing away from the crowd) free for George to take, whilst I tried not to pay any attention to the nerves which were firing through my body.

I looked for something else to focus on, taking a couple of deep breaths whilst I waited. I attempted to distract myself with my phone, a few late birthday messages had come through in the time I’d had it pocketed, but I swiped them all away, just like the I’d done with all the others. Nothing else really caught my attention after that though and ultimately I just decided to switch the entire thing off.

It was then that I rubbed at my temples and glanced up at the rest of the cafe. It hadn’t changed much in the time I’d been away, they’d ordered in a couple of new table covers from what I could see, and had added a few new prints to the far wall, but that was about it. I wondered if they’d done anything to the menu, if they still did those chocolate almond croissants I’d been ever so fond of. The very thought gave me an immediate craving for them.

I tried to people watch, crossing my left leg over my right as I surveyed the few other patrons, but my gaze just kept on trailing back to the one person I was waiting on, who appeared to tower above the rest of the others stood in the queue.

George looked much better than he had last night as he’d been leaving, as though the daylight had taken the time to sharpen his every feature. He wore a pair of battered blue jeans that were slightly cuffed at the ankle, exposing more of the heavy black docs he had on his feet. The jeans were of a looser fit but they were snug in all the right places.

As expected, he had his torso wrapped up in a multitude of layers. A white tee to start with, which clung to every curve of his upper body and was showcased by the light linen shirt he’d paired over top. Then to ward off the slight chill that was in the air he’d also chosen to throw on a boxy denim jacket too, one which had been showered in all types of patterns and prints.

It seemed as though George had stepped up his game a bit since we’d last been together, back then it was all skinny jeans and funny shirts you’d expect your dad to be wearing whilst manning the grill in summer.

I couldn’t seem to help my soft smile as I contemplated what other small details he might’ve changed. But then he glanced over at me and I had to try and act nonchalant, as if I hadn’t been blatantly staring.

I adverted my eyes and cleared my throat, acting as though the nearby wall was of sudden interest. It’s brickwork was rather detailed, but that was about as fascinating as it got.

It wasn’t long before George was making his way over to me, sliding into the seat opposite. It humoured me a little to see him having to squeeze himself into one of these things again, his legs still too long to fit comfortably beneath the tabletop.

“Forgot to ask what you fancied, so I just got your usual.” He said and gestured towards the tray he’d brought over. I peered down at what he’d ordered and couldn’t fight the warmth that flooded my chest.

A cup of milky English tea, prepared just the way I liked it, was perched in the corner, and plated beside it was the same chocolate almond croissant I’d just been thinking of.

“You remembered.”

I found myself saying. My voice a faint murmur that must have held some surprise, enough to colour George’s face with confusion.

“Yeah?” His forehead furrowed ever so slightly. “Why, did you think I’d forget?” He asked with a smug smile. “Practically engrained in my mind after that one weekend last summer- when you’d been sick and all you would eat were these things and those cheap supermarket digestives.”

George snorted at the thought as his sentence trailed off, already moving things around so that he could place the tray to one side. I had to join him with a silent chuckle of my own.

“You still like them then? Those biscuits.” He clarified when I rose a brow in retort, I shook my head at his question.

“No, uh,” I bit my lip and had to laugh a little, “A couple weeks back I got a little obsessed with them all over again, had them for breakfast, lunch, would snack on them constantly… Matty actually ended up buying a bulk load of them and we ate so many in one sitting that we sort of got sick of them. He can’t even think about them now without pulling this weird face.”

George gave me a quirked smile, his eyes humorous. “Kind of like when he hates something on a track? That almost constipated, questioning a funny smell sort of look?”

“Yes! Exactly that.” I giggled, nodding away again. “It’s so funny to watch. Sometimes I mention them just for pleasure of seeing it again.”

He smirked, looking over at me. “Can imagine.”

It was then that I caught the big grin I’d been wearing and had to dim it down a watt. I dragged in a slow breath as I pulled my cup over towards me, “So how’ve you been then? We didn’t really get time to talk much yesterday, properly I mean…”

George winced a fraction and released a heavy breath. His eyes trailed over towards the window as he shrugged. “Just trying to keep busy, I suppose.”

My head bobbed, “Yeah, Matt and Ross mentioned working in the studio again.”

George hummed in return, fiddling with the handle of his mug now. “Jamie’s looking forward to the next album but I don’t know, I’m not feeling it as of yet.”

He glanced over at me then and the smile I wore was sincere, understanding. I remember how much he used to wind himself up over the production of every album, unsure on what songs to use and to scrap.

“It’ll all work out, always does.”

“Maybe.” George replied but the look he had in his eyes threw me a bit, as though he was thinking of something else entirely. I went to question him,m about it, but he beat me to the punch. “Anyway, how about you? You’ve been spending a lot of time with Matty lately.”

“He been talking about me again?” I quipped light-heartedly, but George’s response was almost the opposite.

“Yeah, doesn’t stop actually.”

I frowned. “Oh. Well, he’s just been a really good mate as of late. Was struggling with things for a while…”

George’s expression changed again then, only faintly, anyone else wouldn’t have even noticed it but I’d known him for far too long now. I hurried to soften the blow a bit.

“Erm, just things at work fell through and then some other stuff, spent a load of time held up at home. Matty helped me out, got me functioning again.”

George looked as though he wanted to prod a little further, get a bit more out of me. But that was a wound I wasn’t willing to reopen here and now.

“But these last couple of weeks I’ve been helping out down at this flower shop. It’s been a massive change of pace.” I told him, and it was true.

I’d gone through a tough period after having been let go from my last job at an advertising company. I’d been one of their best designers (not to blow my own horn) and worked long and hard hours. But then sales had depleted rapidly and the business had gone bust. They’d started tossing off the dead weight on an already sinking ship way before things had really gone sideways. I’d been one of the first lot to go.

Which ultimately meant that I’d been made redundant for a while, but thankfully it was only for a short term.

The flower shop up on the high street had been advertising for a new hire and I’d just so happened to have been walking past and seen it. It had good pay and after they’d interviewed me and called me back with an offer, I’d been so relieved to have a steady income again that I didn’t really care for the fact that it was so completely different to what I’d been doing before.

“A flower shop?” George quizzed, his expression tinted with shock, only seen in the sudden squint of his eyes.

I grinned, “Not what you’d expect, huh? But I’ve sort of fallen in love with it. Plus, I still get to design there too. I remade all their business cards and pamphlets, redesigned the website, and I still get to decorate the shop’s window each week.” I explained to him, prattling away. “At the moment, I’ve been working on this chalk mural for next weeks display, it’s spring themed, full of all sorts of flower arrangements.”

George just blinked back at me.

“I, sorry. I just did not expect that…” He commented after an audible pause, “Thought you loved your job, remember it being the reason you wouldn’t tour with us for too long.”

I was quick to nod back at him. “I did love it. But things changed and I didn’t really have a choice in the matter. I’m grateful for what happened though. Happier for it.”

He dipped his head slowly in response then drank from his cup. “That’s good then. I’m happy for you.”

I smiled and broke off a piece of my croissant, being careful as I dipped it into my tea, George immediately made a face.

“What?” I laughed, peering over at him, mouth hidden behind a hand as I chewed. He shook his head in silent reply, casting his eyes away, and so I prodded, “No, go on! What is it?”

He rolled his eyes at me wearing a smile he couldn’t seem to dampen. “Just that.” He waved a hand between me and my plate. “Used to drive me mad. I’d be washing up back at the flat and suddenly I’d pick up a cup half full of soggy bread.”

I wrinkled my nose, trying not to grin. “It’s good! It’s what makes it all gooey and warm.”

“Just ask for it to be heated then!” George defended, his voice raised a tad as a chuckle spilled from his mouth.

“They’re two different types of textures!”

He merely shook his head as he went to take another sip of his coffee. “Still so stubborn, I swear.”

I hummed happily, “That’s why you-”

The smile I’d been wearing then instantly slipped off my lips as I stopped myself short. A certain dread filled me at the realisation of what I’d just been about to say.

George raised a brow, “Why what?”

I fixed my stare on the plate before me and picked aimlessly at the pastry. Then waved his question off, gravitating back towards my tea. “Nothing. Doesn’t matter now.”

He frowned and went to pester me again, but in that single second my entire world seemed to shift and turn on its head.

I froze at the sight which played out before me and almost dropped my cup at the immediate shock that ripped its way through my body.

I struggled to remember how to breathe.

George was quick to reach out and steady my arm though, saving me from a harsh scolding and the spillage I’d been setting myself up for.

“Shit! You alright?” He fussed, up and out of the booth in a flash, settling the tea I’d been holding back down on the table then grabbing a fistful of napkins to wipe up the small puddle I’d made. "What happened?"

I opened my mouth to answer him but no sound came out.

I couldn’t find it in me to reply. To form a coherent sentence.

Every word I’d ever known had simply left me.

But that seemed to be an ongoing theme today. Because…

“Mum?” I croaked out.

Part seven>

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tomanyhusbandz · 6 months ago

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Just a little sum I wrote on Wattpad don’t know if I’ll keep the story it’s called fatal I’ll drop more if I decide to continue but I feel like it’s trash

Enjoy!

___________________

(Manman - Creole for mother)

''The recorder's starting if you would like to start Ms. LeBlanc ?"

I was born in Ethiopia as was my mother and my father a colored New Orleans man who decided that he'd vacation in Ethiopia and decided to stay when he met my mother. They got married and had me, Anaji LeBlanc I was their pride and joy I had a colorful childhood it was full of life, loving parents, peace, and that was my favorite pastime sad part about,

A rich white man named Clint came to town that was very highly fond of my mother and not to wild about the idea of her having a husband and so much less child, he came by one night while he assumed we were all sleeping except I wasn't, I heard it all, he had been sneaking around with my mother. And that night was the night was the night they decided to kill my father and I saw the whole thing something no child should ever see that whole moment changed my life forever. When I turned eighteen my new "father'' decided to move us to New Orleans because of some dead ambition of my mother's has live wired again and she was hoping to start a clothing shop in the heart of New Orleans, excited because of this newfound wealth she acquired she was willing to spend it on anything and my stepfather was willing to do it all just to see her happy.

But what about my happiness?

Three years had gone by, and I was finally twenty, and couldn't wait to be free of my parents, specifically my mother she wasn't the same way she was before we came here, she was soft and attentive towards me but know I'm the last thought on her mind. As if I didn't watch her and Clint murder my father and in the back of my mind I wonder if I was going to be part of that plan. Maybe mother stopped him? or she just figured she'd dump me off somewhere, but no I persisted and its eating at her every day and its shows. They were finally making a life for themselves out here and I was just the third wheel, my life felt like it started without me and left me in its ashes but here I was feeling like I was the problem in my own life.

Maybe I was the problem .. or was I?, if I didn't exist would my mother's life be easier, would my father still be living, would I know what I was made for, or what the world had waiting for me?

''Hey .. did you hear me girl? put this China in the cabinets and then meet me across the street at the clothing store" My mother says staring at me blankly before sauntering off out into the streets in her favorite Victorian dress that matched the lavish decor and fine China.

Watching her leave I carefully take the China in my hands and walk over to the kitchen my mind racing as usual when I do these kinds of thing being treated like a maid by my own mother when we have five of them already. It felt as if she did these things to taunt me, like she had all these shiny new toys and didn't need me to entertain her anymore I out lived my usefulness to her my usefulness of being her daughter.

'' Manman not very kind today I see?" a strange voice echoed through the kitchen it was smooth like silk and sound like the sun would on a cold day

"Ah! Can I help you Mr ?" Looking the strange man from head to toe he was well dressed and he smelled like money, just by the looks of him i could tell he was well educated and thought very highly of himself

"I do .. and thank you i like to take time in my appearance as should others .." he says giving me a brief once over i was clothed in a plain blue dress practically baggy i refused to wear the things i was given only because my Clint tried to buy my happiness as well

"I-i didn't say anything what are you some kinda voodoo man?" I frown before I could finish Clint came stomping down the stairs holding his pocket watch with a big grin on his face and he only looked this way when he knew his client had lots of cash.

''Well Lestat de Lincourt! I see you've met my stepdaughter Anaji" he said pretending to care that I existed he gestured over to me with his hand Lestat tilted his head as we remained to lock eyes,he was examining me from the inside out.

This Lestat made my skin do things not so pleasing, I squirm under his gaze not breaking my eye contact with his unusual pale eyes something about him was off but also enticing. His golden hair and smug demeanor made him alluring and by the looks of the smirk on his face he knew that too and that trick from a moment ago he knew what I was thinking, it could be voodoo but he looks to classy for that, maybe it's just my lack of sleep.

"Yes she's been marvelously accommodating so far .. and what a beauty she is" he says it rolled off of his tongue in slow motion he smiled slickly at me before turning up the stairs in one swift step the smell of a sweet soft like powder staining the air.

I was left speechless standing there holding the fine China in my hands tightly like it was going to walk away from me, that was the first time I ever heard a man called me beautiful and he said it's so sincerely like he could see my insecurity's as plain as day.

Did he call me beautiful or am I losing my hearing?

I shook my head at the breif encounter with Sir Lestat and finshed packing another thing my mother was replacing me with, Gathering the ends of my worn dress I scurry over to the clothing store the bell jingling as I push the heavy glass/wooden door open. I would say that I hate it the interior decorating, but it would be a lie. My mother did have a sense for fashion that I didn't know she was capable of having. The velvet red carpets swirl along the winding stairs and the matching poofs sit idley in between the long mirrors,by the window.

"Uh finally girl .. what took you so long, you know what don't even tell me you'll be here for closing you know what to do make sure the fabrics are folded, stacked,and packed away, and don't forget to do it all with smile" my mother says sarcastically to me and she giggles behind her custom fan.

"Again ? How can I have life when all I do is YOUR job ?" I say the last part under my breath because no matter how much I wanna speak back I can't

" Yes again you need to do somethin ... you need to pull your weight around here you've been nothing but a weight around my neck and Clint's" she says rubbing her hand gently over her diamond necklace

I roll my eyes and slip behind the counter my hand underneath my chin as I rest my arm on the counter I was learning to tune her out and it got on her nerves.

" There you go again not listening to me. You know what girl I'm wasting my time speaking to you. Lock up when done."she says running away from the problem as she usally did

Before I can speak she saunters back over to the front door, leaving me in charge of the store once more for the fifth night in a row. I preferred being in here alone anyways not wanting to hear her voice all night badgering me about my appearance and why she didn't want to be seen with me or why Clint didn't want to be seen with me as his daughter. How much of a disgrace I was and how she should have left me to rot with my father.

And for some strange reason deep down, I've always thought she was right about that. Maybe she should've left me with my father. Maybe she should've went through with her plan and taking me out to.

I wanted it more than anything.

Hours fly by and the Neworleans life kicks up girls from the brothel have come in buying pretty dresses, lingerie, jewelry to wear for the mean of there choice dressing themselves up like gifts to be unwrapped. Then out they go again, to live there life's like there's no tommrow just to wake up and do it all again. Was I jealous? maybe I couldn't help but think of all the other possibilities I could've had in my life if I wasn't where I was, if I wasn't who I was. The only too people ive know made me hate myself and I was tierd of it but I didn't know what to do about it, who to talk to about it, who understood what I was going through.

Untill him.

A sudden jingle of the bell went off as the shop door closed sound of a cane tapping aginst the marble floor made my thoughts cease and the room felt like it was at a stand still. The stranger from earlier Lestat stood before me with a mischievous grin on his face, again like he knew what I was thinking. His pale eyes scan the room with his nose upturned as he practically glided across the floor. He stopped infort of the counter our eyes never leaving eacothers, he placed his smooth looking hands down close enough to graze against my skin.

(Oh my little dove)

"Tsk tsk tsk .. oh ma petite colombe you so desperately need me" he says sending shiver down my spine some how he was leaned over the counter top without me noticing him moving an inch

My body was at a stand still like I couldn't move,couldn't breath, it felt like he had me under a spell and I was at his mercy just my luck for something like this to happen to me.But part of me wasn't fighting it either something about this man made me feel wanted.

And in that moment I knew he was diffrent, he was no magic man,he was gonna be the death of me,a problem, and I was staring to like the thought of the danger.

#black oc #story #short story #interview with the vampire #lestat de lioncourt #iwtv lestat #imagine #fanfic #amc iwtv #amc interview with the vampire

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peppermintfreak · 1 year ago

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Adding characters to sexypedia, part 3. Jane, my scrunkly creacher.

4th Wall Blurring.

It's her whole meta. A byproduct of something made by a human, neither real nor fictional, but a secret third thing.

Androgynous.

Looks and sounds the same as every other android. The only reason she uses feminine pronouns is because somebody referred to her as she/her once and she was like "ok" and forgot about it forever.

Animal theming.

Dog in canon, catgirl in idea. A thing that lounged by the door and kids used to fear. Raz only sees her as this and uses it to her advantage. They were meant to be equals but it seems Loomy had always had a forte with over her.

Angst.

Scrap that's left of Oswald and Tasha's infantry robots. One of many that ran themselves out and were left/retired from Oswald's personal army to a lot he deemed beyond fixing, but was too sentimental to get rid of. She's the only to develop sentience sometime later after everyone, and even then kept up the front of a mindless android; knew things but never spoke of them. She ended up unwarily exploiting children but also bonded with them, loved them and protected them because she'd been designed to do so. She was a wire mother to Loomy's cloth mother. She's developed robot dementia, became an empty shell of herself and the only thing that's left of Oswald. She needed to be put down, vet style, but I said no live on bbg the narrative still needs you.

Burton.

Lanky and wide-eyed. Creepy mf. Not every android is like that, but it's a lifestyle.

Criminal.

Think of the first postal dude but with worse offenses.

Controversial.

Probs would be for many things.

Distinctive voice/ European.

It's just Ostwald's voice that kind of acts like a transmission/ or a recording. I like to think it sounds relatively normal in-universe. Many characters, especially Hayes find it... err interesting.

Eldritch.

She's her world's creation. Neither real nor a figment of someone's imagination (or something in between), which lets her precede its rules and work for Alt. The androids' background is more sinister than Ostwald lets on.

Eye Imagery.

Has only one eye. She's basically the founder of galerija praznih pogleda, pulls off deer in the headlights stare better than anyone.

Knife Murder.

Yes.

Pathetic.

Pitiful and sopping wet. Every day is a struggle.

Power.

Originally designed to be a frontline fighter but was downgraded. She still excels at it even though she can barely stand now.

Religious Imagery.

The shepherd was equipped to protect the sheep. When Vanja fucked off too far, Jane hurried over and broke her calf in order to not stray away again. She's never seen without her walking stick, which may or may not be used as a crook. See also her full name.

Robot/ Nonhuman.

Smartdumb.

A.I that friggin sucsk.

Unkempt/ Long Coat/ Cape.

Winning the idgaf war by being her usual scruffy self. Wears a stinky worn out coat (later a cape) days on end. Loomy tried to spruce her up multiple times and it never worked.

#oc; jane #having so much fun with this it's unreal a #mine

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neptoons1998 · 2 years ago

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Bound that ties us

Chapter 1

A/N: I finished the second chapter hope you guys enjoy it.

Chapter 2:

“You sure that is not going to explode?” Riri wearily asked as she watched her close friend twist and bend two strand wires together. The pair were building something entirely new, something that would help the scientific research department. If they get it right it would accelerate the speed of technological advance in Wakanda.

So just another Tuesday. Shuri looked up from the project with her oversized goggles, “Of couse, Ri.”

“You’re positive,” Riri asked again cause the young woman could only go through so many clothes before her mother starts taking notice.

Shuri twisted her lips, “About seventy-five percent sure then.”

Riri’s eyebrows quirked up at her friend’s response, “How did become from of course to seventy-five percent?”

“I’ll explain that later,” Shuri responded. The princess was still in disbelief that she had her own friend. Riri just fit in her life just perfectly, the way they bounced ideas and cause mischief to her brother. The pair were joined at the hip. This has to be one of the best ideas that Shuri has come up with in a while.

“And done!” Shuri exclaimed, “Test it.”

“Hello,” Riri called out in the open space in the lab. Anxious heartbeats and never waiting to see if their progress happen today.

“Hello, How can I assist you today?” Asked a robotic voice. The pair looked at each other in astonishment.

“Yes!” The pair high-fived each other. They finished it building the AI together.

“What should we call it?”Riri asked her.

“What about Griot?” Shuri replied Riri nodded liking the name. Before the pair could really test try the new AI they built. The king walked into the lab, and the warriors and Riri did the national salute to his grace. Before he waved them away.

T’Chaka gave his daughter a smile, “May what type of experiment did you run this time, my dear daughter?”

Shuri gave a smile, “Its name is Griot, and this will push Wakanda’s technology field even more.”

T’Chaka nodded as he continued his walk around the lab, “That sounds fascinating, you will have to tell me more about some time.”

“Unfortunately, I did not come here to escape the council. I actually need to talk to Riri for a little while.”

The young girl looked surprised by the statement, as always the girl will go with the flow, “Of course, your highness.”

For some reason, Shuri didn’t like what her father and Riri are going to talk about.

How much do you love this country, Riri? that thought has been in the young girl’s head the moment she left the palace. Her talk with the king was different, but then again the pair never really interacted with each other besides acknowledge either presence. Riri lay in her bed, She knew that the king was aware of her status as a genius. What better way in using a genius than to make them a spy? Riri wasn’t patriotic in the sense like Okoye was to Wakanda. She loved her country like the next but to die for it. Riri turned to her side, to die over a piece of land seemed childish to her. Riri knows irony when she sees it. But Riri told the king she would do it, but in her head and heart, she would do anything to protect Shuri. Now telling the princess would be the hard part. But that’s for future Riri to worry about it, the young girl thought before she fell asleep.

But like any good thing that happened in Shuri’s life, it had to come to an end.

“A Spy?” Shuri quieted her friend. The pair were by themselves in the lab. Once there was nonstop laughter was now dead silent.

Riri gave her a smile and shrugged, “Yeah a spy. The king said that I could use my intelligence in the field to help keep Wakanda safe.”

“But why a spy? Why not -” Shuri shut her mouth not daring to speak the words. By a scientist and be here with me, her voice wanted to plead with her. Stay here with me, so I know that you’re safe and that no harm will be done to you.

Riri sighed as she gazes up at Shuri, “Because I have people here that need to be protected.”

Which includes you.

“So when do you leave?” Shuri asked next. There was no way she talk her father out of taking a close friend away from her. Riri gave a small laugh, Shuri tried to keep a picture in her head. Making sure she knew all creases of her smiling face.

Riri gave another soft smile, “Promise you won’t hate me?” Shuri nodded as Riri continued, “Tonight.” Just like that Shuri watched her close friend walk on the ship before it flew away to somewhere Shuri can’t protect her friend.

To say that Riri was nervous would be an understatement of the century. But she knew she was doing the right thing because it would protect the crown and the crown means she protecting Shuri. That’s all that matters to Riri. The ship came to a stop, and she gave one last salute to the Dora Mija before she started her mission in Oakland, California.

#Shuri x riri #shuriri #wlw writing #wlw ship #ao3 #fanfiction #writing #my writing #black panther 2 #shuri #riri williams fanfic

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gigglemugger · 1 month ago

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The Lovers Tangled On The Wires.

Fandom: Little Shop of Horrors (1986).

Pairing: Seymour Krellborn/Audrey Fulquard.

Synopsis:

Audrey should NOT be doing this, she knows---but the flower shop is not doing well, and a girl's gotta eat. All she needs to do is go through the motions. However, when a static-y stranger calls, she can't help but to find herself surprisingly drawn to him. AKA Seymour and Audrey engage in a phone sex operator sort of deal because they're too cowardly to make a move on one another <333

Word Count: 8,317.

AO3 Tags: Romance, Phone Sex Operator Audrey, In a way, I had no idea this was an ACTUAL trope but I SHOULD have known in retrospect, Alternate Universe - No Plant, Mutual Masturbation, though mostly referenced, Slow Build, Idiots in Love, Fluff and Angst, nothing here is SUPER explicit so sorry but if you wanna write a fanfic of the fanfic feel free, Not Beta Read, as usual <333

Language: English.

CW: NSFW. That's it. It's not super explicit though, they have one phone sex scene and everything else is implied, but the very essence of it is NSFW, ofc.

AO3 link.

Work Notes:

Ok, notes: I’m pretty sure this one will not be as beloved as my other fanfic, because truthfully that fanfic was in universe and this fanfic is just batshit insane. I started writing this after I finished my other fic so it was TWO YEARS in the vault. I finally decided what the hell, I already wrote 10 pages, what is 10 more? For ages I feel like Seymour and Audrey have actual sexual chemistry together, but they are so cute that it was often impossible for me to do a straight up smutty fic (and I’m also bad at writing those anyway, so). I decided to do a slightly longer relationship exploration through sexual desire sort of thing, all that. The fic that inspired this one is also more enthusiastic about the whole sex on the line thing, but I feel like Seymour and Audrey are period typically repressed, even if Audrey is in a very sexually sadistic relationship. Such as it goes, etc. There is very little NSFW content here, really, but the whole thing is NSFW at its core, so yeah. My characteristic huge notes done, I’m on tumblr @gigglemugger, etc. I don’t post much cause it’s a sideblog but I’m ALWAYS there.

Audrey should not be doing this. Nevertheless, her hand closed over the phone handle, only to release it, and close back around it again. She was biting her lip, likely staining her teeth with pink lipstick. It was a friday night, the wind howled outside, and though she had internal heating, her hands were shaking.

Still, at least her nightgown was pretty, and frilly. Wearing nice clothes and make up made working this particular job a lot more interesting. She could really doll herself up, and forget for a second she wasn’t going on some hot date. Or, well… At least not a traditional hot date. Also, she felt that, somehow, the men on the other side of the line just knew when she wasn't presentable—and she couldn't have that. Besides, it wasn't as if she had never done this before. In fact, anyone looking at her might assume this was her first time, but it was actually the fourth. Fourth . And no one else knew it besides her. Sometimes, she glanced at the portrait of her mother beside her bed and glanced at the ceiling while talking to a guy, giggling as if she was truly amused by what he said. Men liked giggling. Janet, her boss, said that was one of her strong suits.

Audrey thought this was a man's business before she started working for the line, but apparently not.

“So, you want an easy way to make extra cash?” She had asked her the first time they talked and Audrey was silent. “Hey, hon, you there?”

“Yes, sure.”

“Good. I like your voice, you might have a future in this yet.”

All things considered, it made her feel at ease knowing that she was under a woman's command. If anyone over stepped, she would call Janet and she would not allow them to speak to her again. So that was nice.

Besides, she needed the cash and Lord knew how much. Mushnik's wasn't doing well—again. They hadn't sold anything for what seemed to be the fourth week in a row. She had no idea where he was taking the money to pay her from—-and poor Seymour was getting more and more berated by the day… Audrey shook her head. She didn't like to think about Seymour before doing this. It was invariably going to go down the "what-would-he-think" , "what-would-he-say," route and if she thought about that too much, she might wallow in self-pity.

The lip biting began again. She usually only did self-pity after the fact and after the payment—and you have no idea what money for food can do to a girl's self-pity. It does wonders to at least know you didn't have to go without, even if it was because you helped a man with his business . Besides, everyone in Skid Row had something they did on the side. Audrey figured that at least it wasn't drugs, or murder. She wasn't involved with the mob (although a few gangsters had come onto her), and she wasn't prostituting herself (although she knew quite a few girls who did it and didn’t think anything of it, really).

All things considered, she was doing what she needed to do. Mushnik's and this.

Audrey heard the wind howl outside. Nine pm had turned into nine thirty. She picked up the phone and started hustling. The more men she satisfied per night, the more she earned.

Audrey knew a lot about men, having been 'around' too much when she was a kid, but on the telephone it was different. Usually, these weren't the same men who took her by the waist and set her in the back of cars and motorcycles, but real lonely ones. Some sounded old and some sounded young, but generally they were all down on some luck. Audrey recognized the mood by the voice. It was ingrained in her to be able to do so. Even as she said nasty thing after nasty thing, she sort of felt bad for them.

Still, as Audrey’s father always said: Some people cried and others sold handkerchiefs. So, Audrey sat on her chair, make-up done, pink nightgown on and her fuzzy slippers making her warm, going through the motions, until it was eleven thirty and the last customer came through. There was some static on the line, which grew exponentially as the seconds of the first minute dragged on, making Audrey remove the telephone from her ear.

"Hello?" She said, her voice lower than usual. She had a specific voice she used on the phone and, apart from the giggle, no one would be able to recognize it was her. That was one of the things she felt good about—that in a way, after it was done, she could simply pretend it was someone else that did it instead.

"Hello?" The voice on the other end said, loud enough for her to hear, but not enough for much else. It was nearly completely engulfed by static. The connection was bad—as if coming from the underground.

"Hello!" Audrey exclaimed, following her part. "You must be…"

"David…" The static responded back. Audrey smiled.

"David! I'm Anna," none of the names given were real, of course. Audrey picked a new one each time at first, before realizing it was getting confusing and decided to stick to Anna. Anna was close to Audrey, so she couldn't forget it.

"H… Hi, Anna," 'David' said, rather shakily, which was a recognizable tone, even through the static. It was his first time doing this. "This is my first time doing this,” she nodded, knowingly. “I have… I have no idea why I'm even calling. I… I might just hang up."

"No, stay," Audrey said, almost losing her deeper voice. She cleared her throat before continuing. "I know first times can be kind of scary, but there's nothing to be afraid of. I don't bite!" The man on the other side of the line laughed, even if in a brief nervous way.

"You don't? Are you… ure?" The static ate him, but she could understand the gaps

"No! I don't think Janet would even let me. She's very strict. "

"Janet is the woman I talked to before I… Before I picked a girl?"

"Yes! She's my boss. She's very sweet… Once you get to know her, at least." Audrey paused. "I'm not supposed to be discussing bosses with you, though," she looked down at the receiver. "I need to ask you: What is your deepest, darkest fantasy?"

That was protocol. Janet insisted all the girls asked it. It "drove men wild" according to her. Audrey wondered what kind of men Janet went with. She figured she didn’t really wanna know. Probably no one better than the ones she related to herself.

"I… I don't know… Gee, I'm so sorry. I'm just not used to doing things like this," He paused. "I've never even been with a girl before."

"You haven't?" She asked, "Not once?"

"Not really."

"Oh… Is that why you're calling?"

"I guess…"

"Oh… That's not that bad."

"It's not?" Audrey waved her head.

"No!"

"And you don't think women would think less of me for… You know?"

"Not all women! I wouldn't mind that."

"You wouldn't?" Audrey waved her head again, even if only to herself, smiling.

"Not at all!"

"Oh… Thank you, Anna."

"You're welcome." Audrey reclined on the chair for the first time that night. "So, what do you look like?" That was a first. Audrey was never the one to ask the questions, just to receive them.

He paused for a second and the static got loud again. She found she didn’t mind it as much.

"Well I'm thin and not very tall and I wear glasses…" He finally said and she was amused by the sincere description… Not very tall, thin, glasses… What were the odds that he'd be so perfect? After all, he looked exactly like…

She waved her head, before continuing.

"You sound lovely! I would love to be with you right now." Don’t think…

"What… What would we be doing?" Audrey nearly giggled, but controlled herself with a soothing laugh instead. She felt the giggling might make him feel more nervous, as if she was making fun of him, which she was not.

"Well… What do you usually do in your fantasies?"

"I… I watch."

"You watch?" Audrey asked.

"Yeah, I watch… I like the idea of watching a girl, you know…"

"Touching herself for you?" He snorted, likely with the bluntness, before pausing.

"Yeah…"

"What about listening to it?" Audrey asked, before breathing into the receiver.

"You're…?"

"Uhum. That's why you called the line, isn't it?"

"Yeah…" he answered. She smiled. He seemed flustered, although that could just simply be his default mode of operation. She didn't know. "What else do you think about?"

"Well…" he continued, tentatively. "There's this girl I know. I don't think about her all the time, and I… I make a point not to because I think it's not nice to… Gee, she's really beautiful! She's the most beautiful girl I've ever seen. I know I don't have a chance with her, so I just think about her sometimes . Usually I try to think about Jayne Mansfield and Marilyn Monroe… But she pops in."

"And what do you two do, you know, when she pops in?" Audrey asked, suddenly interested.

"Well… she's the one I watch, usually… Though I like to imagine her on top of me sometimes. And I like to think of myself going down on…” another pause, before.” I… I just want to make her happy."

"What does she look like?"

"I'm not sure I should say… What do you look like?" That was more like it. Audrey wondered what it'd be today.

"I have red, wavy hair, long fingernails and I'm wearing a négligée…"

"Long fingernails?"

"Uh-huh!" Audrey said, looking down at her own, painted nails. They were pretty long, she didn't lie in that regard.

"Can you… Drag those down my back? Just a little…"

"Oh, of course!"

"Thank you…" his breathing was a little more inconsistent, which Audrey took as a win. He liked to be scratched then, that was sweet. She tried to keep the thoughts of him getting scratched by her at bay.

Stop it, Audrey!

"Do you wanna make me happy?" She asked.

" Yes, " His answer was more eager than she expected.

"You are lovely," she heard herself say and a small moan came out of his mouth. "You like that? You like when I say you're lovely?"

"Y… yes." Audrey liked that. She also liked the idea of this man touching himself for her. She didn't get aroused by default when she was doing this job—-in fact, it never happened. She did the work, then hopped onto the next train. She knew some of the other girls had their fun from what Janet told her, though—and this time she was beginning to feel it.

"Do you wanna go down on me?" Audrey—or Anna—asked, voice extra low and extra soothing, with a little breathiness on the side. She really wanted him to do it. "Please…" 'David' Laughed.

"You don't have to say please," that was new. She always had to beg for men to go down on her, at least the men she was with regularly "I'd love to do it," He continued and Audrey made a little noise of her own—partially for effect and partially because she meant it.

"Gee, you sound so beautiful…” he said, trailing off, and she blushed. Her moans were never really something she could fake with the voice, so she always thought they came out a little squeakier than she wished them to.

"Thank you… Y.. you too," it was her time to stutter apparently. Odd. "You're so good at this…" she decided to say and he breathed heavily.

"Really?"

"Y… Yeah." He moaned again. She was beginning to think he sounded beautiful too. Static-y and strangled, but beautiful. And of course, he looked so much like Seymour in her head. She couldn't help but picture him in this situation, before waving her head firmly. As if Seymour would ever call a sex line.

"Anna I… I'm…"

"Come for me, please?" She asked and was sure that was enough to make him come undone, by the sound of it in the background. He had a thing for praise and a thing for being smooth talked. She took a mental note of that.

"That was…" Audrey smiled.

"Yes, it really was." She hadn't done anything, but she could feel it still. She crossed her legs in response, but noticed, with some interest, that her hands were no longer shaky.

"I… I'm sorry…" She looked at the receiver.

"For what?"

"This. I… I shouldn't have called. Gosh this was a mistake…"

"Why? Didn't you have fun?"

"I did… I… I'm sorry," and then he hung up. Audrey listened to the dial tone for what seemed like a long time, before Janet's voice came through.

"Kid, your night's done. Go to bed," she said and Audrey lightly nodded.

"Yes, sure," She answered in her own voice, before hanging up.

---- When Audrey woke up the next morning, she looked at the ceiling. It was ridiculous to be hung up on something from the side job , but she couldn't help it. Had she done something wrong? Had she said something wrong?

"Good morning Audrey, you're on time today," Mr. Mushnik said when he heard the bell. She gave him her best smile.

"Good morning Mr. Mushnik!" And with that, she took to the back to put her purse down on the table. Seymour was there, fixing up some pots.and Audrey's heart did what it usually did when she saw him—-what she could only describe as someone falling from a balcony really fast. She smiled widely. "Good morning, Seymour!"

"Oh. Good morning Audrey…"

Odd. She observed Seymour, back towards her, face buried in a plant. It was similar to when she came to work for them for the first time. It was a while before he came out of his shell, and she was proud of having helped, so this was a step back—and especially on that morning, she found it disappointing. Seymour always cheered her up with a new strange plant, or some concoction he created out of chemicals to make them look greener than ever. He even taught her a lot of the technical terms and she was getting really great at being able to keep up with him, the same as when she showed him her own arrangements. So what gives?

Maybe he’s afraid of you again… Or maybe he knows what you did last night…

Audrey waved her head.

"Is anything the matter, Seymour?"

"Oh, no it's nothing."

Mr. Mushnik made a noise that could only be translated as distaste, a common noise coming from him towards Seymour.

"He's been moping around all morning, saying it's nothing!" Mushnik said, peeking at them from behind the counter. He turned back to his newspaper. "You're not gonna get anything out of him."

"Oh…" She said, looking at Seymour still. She lowered her voice. "Are you sure you don't want to talk?"

"Yes, I'm sure. Thank you, Audrey," he said, with a semblance of a smile, going back to work.

It would be a slow day, then. Usually, they’d just talk, like she wanted to, or listen to radio shows and discuss… Wait, maybe that would cheer Seymour up! She took to the counter and turned on the radio. The static was almost overwhelming at first, which reminded her of the phone call from the previous night… She messed with the dials and tried to forget it. Seymour, however, looked at her hand.

“What is it, Seymour?” She asked, puzzled, still fighting the damned radio.

"You changed your nail polish," Audrey looked down. It was true, right after going home last night, she had painted her nails a shade of dark purple. "They look pretty." She smiled, nearly blushing. The man from yesterday liked to be scratched and unfortunately that also reminded her of him.

"Thank you, Seymour."

"Well, that radio is a disgrace!" Mushnik said, nearly yelling, startling both of them. Seymour looked down at his plants once more; "I ought to throw it in the middle of the street!"

"Oh no Mr. Mushnik!" Audrey said, "We need the radio! Here…" She found a station, which was playing a regular morning news show. "There. Perfect!" She turned around to get some support from Seymour, but instead watched him water the pots and fix up the greenery.

"Are you OK, Audrey?" Mr. Mushnik asked and she turned to face him, at a loss. "I can't have two mopey employees. Do you need anything?"

"No, I'm quite alright, Mr. Mushnik, just tired," she had spent a good portion of her previous night looking at the ceiling, much like this morning, asking herself why she cared so much about this whole thing, but other than that, it was a normal day at work. Well… A normal day at work during her first month that was. Not at present.

Still, she’d make it work.

"That makes sense, you're not used to being here on time after all." She giggled at that, not having expected it, before focusing on the radio. Seymour’s head was raised so fast, Audrey thought she heard something crack.

"I'm going out," Seymour announced. Mushnik turned around.

"Out?!"

"Oh, you're going to that plant store?" She asked and Seymour quickly nodded his head.

"He doesn't have any new plants in August, usually the shipment comes in September, but I like to go there in case I find something new…"

"Or unusual."

"Yes," Seymour smiled, still avoiding eye contact. "Or unusual."

"You can't just walk out!" Mushnik said "We have business here!"

"Oh don't worry, Mr. Mushnik," Audrey began, raising her hand to call to his attention. "I'll take care of the clients when they come."

"Thank you, Audrey," Seymour said, looking at her straight for the first time that day, making Audrey's heart leap again. He opened the door and hopped out.

"That kid…" Mushnik looked at the ceiling. "Oh, how I regret it sometimes," he continued, but Audrey was sure that was just a way of speaking. He didn't actually regret adopting Seymour. Right?

Instead of thinking about that, she turned around and played with the dials again, trying to make the static disappear.

Audrey never did this two nights in a row, but there was a first for everything as her mother used to say, and this was hers. She took the receiver off the phone, fast this time, and called Janet to tell her she was up.

"Well, that's a first, and you're on time too." Audrey smiled. Another first, of course. She went through a few men. They weren't boring or bad or anything like that, but they weren't like David had been. She giggled and moaned and breathed onto the receiver and every time the dial played in her ear, she wanted to hang up for good. Instead of doing that, she kept hope alive that he'd be the next one to call.

And what do you know? God had listened to her prayers after all… If God even listened to girls who have sex on the phone for their secondary income.

"Hello?" The static filled the pause that ensued. She gulped, hopefully not loud.

"Hello?" Audrey asked. She suddenly felt anxious "It's David… Right?" If she were wrong, this could cost her the customer.

"Yeah…” She breathed easier. “I'm sorry for yesterday, for everything…"

"There's nothing to be sorry about!" Audrey said, coughing a little because of the voice and a little because of the enthusiasm.

"Are you alright?" He asked and she nodded, but continued to cough before being able to speak again.

"I'm fine,” Audrey said, sounding anything but. “Are you?"

"I'm OK." That sounded like a lie. Audrey sighed.

"My co-worker wasn't feeling well today, either." She had no idea why she said that. This is a sex line, Audrey! But before she could make amends, David sounded worried.

"Oh, I hope he or she is alright!"

"Me too!" Audrey continued. "He’s a he, by the way. I like him very much…" and once again she beat herself up for that. Women on the line are never supposed to hint that they even knew other men, let alone that they liked them. Janet used to say that the male ego is too fragile for such a thing, and that it was best if the girls pretended that they were born yesterday.

"You do?" David asked "Gee, he must be a lucky guy then…" Audrey laughed, but worried that her voice slipped away, she covered it with a cough.

"I'm not sure about that. I'm a girl who talks on the phone… And he's a hard-working man! And he's the sweetest…"

"I don't think there's anything wrong with what you do!" David began, speaking rapidly. "It must be just as tough to go around and… Do this for other men all night. I don’t think I could do it… In your place.”

“Oh, but it’s not hard…” Audrey said, being honest. “I mean, some guys are rough, but I’m used to it. Besides, a lot of them are quick,” she had a smile on her face. She loved the quick ones, even if they didn’t stay on the line for so long and that sort of contributed to her payment. They were still out of there fast enough.

There was a pause.

“David, are you there?”

“Yeah, I was just wondering… It’s stupid, but was I… You know… Too fast?”

“Oh, no, you were perfect!” She said, honestly. “Not too fast, not too slow. A perfect customer.”

“Thanks, Anna. That makes me happy. I’m… Happy to please you.” He said that yesterday as well. It made her tingle. “I’m still not sure about all this—ough. I mean, I… I think I’d prefer it if I knew you. Wait… What do you mean you’re used… Being rough?” The static picked up, but she understood.

He paid attention to that, huh?

“Well, I haven’t had the best track record with men,” she found herself saying. “My last boyfriend left me penniless on the street, and I was lucky to get a good job.” She wasn’t dumb enough to say what job or where. She had her fair share of creeps turning up at bars where she worked and knew better than to trust guys on the line, even sweet, glasses-wearing, short guys…

“If you have a good job, then why do you do—is?”

“Oh, well, all good jobs have issues!” She said, trying to sound optimistic. “Still, compared to before…” He probably doesn’t care about this! He called for a good time and you’re doing the opposite of what is expected of you. “Well, anyway… You are being charged by the minute, honey. Maybe it’s time we get to business.”

“Oh, are you sure?” She giggled.

“Yes, silly, of course. I don’t want you to spend all your life savings on a sex line !” For some reason, she felt like lowering her voice on the last words, as if she hadn’t said incredibly sinful things for the last hour just to get here.

“Oh, okay, though I liked talking to you. You are nice, Anna. You remind me a little of that girl I mentioned I like. I felt so bad for having done this, I think I was kind of rude to her… I regret it so much.”

“Well…” Audrey began, her finger curling around the phone wire, “Maybe you should apologize to her! I’m sure she’d understand.” David laughed, but it was flat.

“I’m sure she’d think of me as a creep for doing this… I do, at least.”

“Well… I enjoyed it,” she said, not even believing it was true. “I mean, I have to say this to most guys, but it's true. You are the only one who asked me about anything. Usually, men just call, let me know what they want me to say and…”

“That sounds bad—you wanna do?” Audrey blinked. Maybe she heard it wrong.

“I'm sorry, did you ask me what I wanna do?”

“Yeah, sorry, the connection is bad…”

“You want me to… Boss you around?” She needed to be sure. Some men had wanted that too, and no one would get just by looking at her that she was good at it—she sort of enjoyed being on top once in a while, probably because she was down so much, and it gave her a sense of freedom she often didn’t find anywhere else—but David was so inexperienced… Maybe he didn’t mean it…

“Yeah, please, boss me around Anna—at to do to please you. I—Need it.” Ok, maybe he did mean it. Audrey tapped her nails loudly on the receiver. “Are those…?”

“Uhum,” she said, with a smile. “Now, I’ll make you feel good, but fast, before my time is up and you have to pay too much.”

“Ok!”

“David…”

“Yeah?”

“Promise me you’re not gonna feel bad about this. I… Understand, but if it makes you feel better, I spent the whole night waiting for you to call.”

The static became loud.

“Ok. Thank you, Anna.” Audrey smiled and tried to ignore how eager she was to make him do whatever she wanted him to do.

“Audrey?” Seymour asked her the next day. “Are you alright? You seem to be looking into space again.” It was true. She hadn’t slept much again and kept replaying the conversation she had with David over and over in her head. Of course she did more than just that, but that was between her and whatever providence was out there.

She smiled at Seymour.

“I’m fine!”

“Good, cause I wanted to talk to you.”

“What about?” Seymour seemed uncomfortable, going from one foot to the other. She observed the movement and stopped fussing with the lilies in front of her.

“It’s just that I was a little rude to you yesterday, and I didn’t mean to be.” Audrey thought back. She didn’t think that he was rude, she was more worried that something had happened and he wasn’t sharing.

“Oh, Seymour, don’t worry. I’m glad you’re okay again. I was sort of afraid you just went back to looking at your plants more than talking to me,” she shared, but quickly added, “not that I mind when you tend to your plants, you are a wonderful employee, I was just nervous, that’s all.”

“Oh, I had no idea I made you feel that way!” Seymour said, looking up at her with wet blue eyes. “I promise that won’t happen again, I was just feeling off…”

“Did you have nightmares again?” Audrey asked.

One time, when they were alone late at night and Mr. Mushnik had left for dinner with his elderly mother, whom both neither Seymour nor Audrey had any idea how was still alive—but were too polite to mention it—he had told her, in confidence, while staring at a particularly abundant and fertile spider plant, that he had some nightmares from when he was at the orphanage.

“We had a woman there, Mrs. Jones, and she took care of us, but the rest were either nuns or volunteers, and they weren’t always nice. I was there until I was fifteen, you know?” Audrey shook her head. “I lived on the street before… Anyway, sorry for bothering you with all that, Audrey.”

“No,” present Seymour answered. “Though I still stay up all night, I guess.” Audrey looked down.

“Maybe you should find someone, Seymour. A nice girl…” Audrey knew she had no hope of being with him, but she wanted him to be happy nonetheless. “That might make nights less lonely.” She still couldn’t look at him when she said it, probably because she meant it.

“Well, I don’t know, I’m not really the kind of guy most women go for… Anyway, I got my plants.” They had gone down similar avenues before, and he always turned the idea of dating down. It made her selfishly happy, but she berated herself for it. She wished someone as sweet as Seymour didn’t think negatively of himself.

I mean, sweet people shouldn’t do that. That was reserved for people like her, who did really vile things.

The day carried on in the way it usually did. When there wasn't much movement, Seymour and Audrey played cards, talked about new music and film, discussed favorite actors and plants, and sometimes silently hung out. She was happy things were back to normal that day, but Seymour hadn't told her what had been weighing on his mind so much.

At least at night she had David. Once they were done, he promised they'd talk again. He wasn't Seymour, of course, but he was a good replacement, just like she knew she was a replacement for him, for that girl he liked so much. She wondered what she looked like for a second, but caught herself staring into space.

It's not use asking yourself that… Let it go…

She looked forward to his call that night. At least they could be lonely together. ----

Talking to David became routine. They didn't really always have phone sex, but they talked almost all the time. In fact, they had a lot in common: They both liked different people, which was OK with them—neither of them thought they had a chance anyway—they both enjoyed radio shows, plants and magazines. In fact, it was all so perfect that Audrey could swear she had dreamt it, before his static-y voice spoke on the other end, soothing her.

They had specific fantasies they liked to try, too. Audrey found out that David really liked to please her, but she liked when he praised her too. In fact, she had no idea of half the things she was into before she started working with him. All the guys she was with sort of took the reins and she went with them on everything. It was refreshing to have someone who seemed to want to listen to her as well.

She realized that sounded sad.

“No, I mean…” David said one night, to soothe her. “At least we found each other. That's nice, right?” She smiled, not letting tears fall.

“Yes, it sure is.”

After the first few weeks, she gave him one of her house numbers—her bedroom’s. She didn't wanna give him a number someone else might have, out of sheer paranoia. Still, being careful never hurt anyone before.

“I don't want to charge you anymore,” she told him, when he asked. “It doesn't seem fair. It doesn't seem… Like a service anymore. I… I don't think I want to do this with anyone else.” The static spoke loudly for a second again. She felt nervous waiting for his reply.

“I’m glad, because I don’t think I can do this with anyone—either.”

Audrey realized that she was looking into space much more at work, slacking. Mr. Musknik noticed it one day when she made an arrangement of daffodils instead of tulips for an old time client. She fixed herself right away, and promised to be better, but she couldn’t help herself. She had something to look forward to when she came home that night, and to be fair she had never felt so satisfied before.

She had also noticed a subtle change in Seymour, strangely. He didn’t seem as scared, or even to drop as many things as before. It was like he was happy. He got up to work with a smile, he sweeped and sometimes used the broom as a dance partner. He even sang on occasion, which was pretty shocking to Audrey, because for one she had no idea he could sing well, and for another she had never seen him like this before… Well, maybe when he finds a new plant, or that day in which she asked him to explain the difference between two particularly odd specimens he had brought in. Thinking back on it, he seemed happy when she decided to stay back one night to have dinner with him too, and they listened to some records that Mushnik kept in a very old victrola, which they had to make work.

“What’s gotten into you, eh?” Mr. Mushnik asked, coming in with a newspaper and hearing Seymour hum. “Since when you do…’ He pointed with his finger up and down, “All that?”

“Gee, I don’t know, I think I’m just glad to be here…” Mr. Mushnik looked at Audrey, who looked at him. She could feel him telepathically transmitting happy to be here? At her, full force, but all she did was shrug and smile. She was happy that Seymour felt good. Besides, and it wasn’t crazy, but maybe he had finally found someone. Maybe when he went out for his plant walk, or after she and Mr. Mushnik went home, he went to parks, or to bars (Audrey couldn’t envision it, but she also couldn’t envision herself doing anything she was doing mere months ago, so who knew, really?) and met a nice girl, like she told him to do…

Her stomach sunk in. It wasn’t fair to talk to a man on the phone, even if she never intended to meet him, and think about Seymour. She was happy with someone else too, and even if it wasn’t him, it’d have to suffice. Besides, David also expressed that the girl he liked might have gotten into a relationship lately, because she had been a little more spacey, and distracted.

“Talking to you makes me real happy,” he told her one time, while she patiently listened. “But I’m selfish. What if she’s with someone? I try not to think about it too much, but it makes me feel like a wimp. I never asked her out and now someone else did. Maybe he deserves her more…”

“I understand what you mean,” she said. “My person also did. He… Well. I’m glad he’s happy.”

“Me too! I—er to be happy!” He paused here. She barely noticed the static anymore. It was comforting. “Well… I need to let her go. Besides… People at work started to notice a change in me. I’m… I’m glad you answered my call and not someone else. I don’t know where I’d be right now if you hadn’t.”

“Me too!” She smiled. “You’re the nicest guy… Well… You know…” she trailed off, looking down at the phone wire, twisting it. “Anyway… What do you wanna do tonight?”

So their nights went on like that.

The days at the flower shop went down merrily, too. Mr. Mushnik, instead of being worried as he was at first, started to feel seriously annoyed.

“What’s so good about working here?” He’d ask Seymour. “Audrey, stop messing with the radio! Oh, you kids are gonna be the death of me. Maybe my mother was right, maybe I should have been an accountant. Why did I want to open a flower shop?”

“I thought you inherited this place,” Seymour said, from the back, coming out. Mr. Mushnik scoffed.

“As if my family would ever invest in something so stupid… No, I did it for the reason all men do stupid things: A girl.”

Audrey looked up.

“A girl, Mr. Mushnik?” She asked, softly. Seymour stopped by her side, supporting both of his hands on the broom. They briefly exchanged glances.

Mr. Mushnik nodded. They waited for the story, silently. When it seemed like it wasn’t gonna come, Seymour and Audrey almost turned to go back to work, but:

“Well,” Mr. Mushnik began, and they turned their heads. “She was a girl I liked and she always wanted to be a florist. I never paid much mind to it, this flower stuff and such, but she convinced me it was good business because a cousin of hers got rich doing it or something. Her house used to be full of flowers and plants when I went there, every time I visited. When it came down to it, I ended up working for a man who owned a small flower business to impress her. I always had fresh flowers to give her and the sort. I was a young man then, you know how kids are. Anyway things went from there,” he said, gesturing up. “I should have been an accountant,” he punctuated that statement by opening the register, as if to say that was that.

“What happened to the girl?” Audrey asked, ignoring the request for finality.

“Well, I guess her family couldn’t accept I wasn’t at her social level and instead of doing something about it, I ran. I never stopped trading in flowers, though… Turns out plants were all I learned to trade in, and poorly. Thirty years. I wonder…”

“Do you wonder often?” Seymour asked, mirroring what Audrey was thinking. Mushnik was brisk.

“None of your business! Go back to work,” he said, taking that cue to get his coat. “I’m going to dinner with my mother. Seymour, clean that mess! Audrey, for Christ’s sake, don’t make any more arrangement mistakes, please? I won’t be back today, etc.”

“Goodbye, Mr. Mushnik!” Audrey said, waving. He waved back, half-heartedly, and left the shop, closing the door with enough force to shake the wall.

Audrey looked at Seymour, and they both decided to silently go back to work. When it was time to close, she said goodbye to him, closed the door, crossed the street and took refuge in her small apartment. The room looked the same as it had looked when she left it, she knew, but feelings don’t often translate to reality.

Is that what she was doing with David? Running away from Seymour? They had both been ok with the idea of having a relationship that was in theory purely sexual—though it was anything but—and with no pressure to meet. Both were scared of one not liking the other, so it seemed fitting that they’d live in their own wired, telephone world.

Still, Mr. Mushnik’s story resonated with her beyond what she could convey. When she arrived in her bedroom, her hands were shaking over the receiver.

“David?” She answered when he called, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Hi, Anna,” he answered, sounding equally down. Maybe he had the same realization somehow. That didn’t matter. Both of them knew that had to stop. It wasn’t making things better, it was just artificially fixing their problems.

So they broke up, so to speak.

The next few days at the shop were different. She was a little more alert, but lethargic at the same time. After something like this happened, Audrey was glad to be left by whoever she was with, because at the end of the day it always seemed like a better deal than to be with them, and looking at Seymour, she didn’t regret it. The problem had been admitting she had been picturing him all along in her head.

“Me too,” David had said, when she told him. ”I don’t think it was ever about you at all…” It should have made her upset to hear that, but it only made her glad they were on the same page... “Even if you have long red hair. She’s a blonde.”

“Oh…” She didn’t know that. Well, it didn’t matter. She had said goodbye.

Truth be told, it was good to give her voice a rest. It was hoarse from all the deepening. She knew she probably faltered here and there, because David remarked she sounded cute sometimes, like she had a different voice. A very different voice. Audrey just brushed it off, but thinking about it now, she realized she probably couldn’t have kept it up much longer.

“Audrey!” Mr. Mushnik called. “Can you fetch Seymour for me? I need to talk to him… In private.” He had been looking at a piece of paper, but Audrey couldn’t see.

“Sure,” she said, going outside where Seymour was sweeping the sidewalk. She stayed there, for the duration of the conversation, looking at the cars going by, and the girls who were always sitting at the stairs, talking. When they let her come back, Seymour was paler than she had ever seen him.

“Seymour, are you alright?” She asked, nearly touching his cheek to make him look at her, but refraining. She couldn’t touch him, not after…

“He’s fine,” Mr. Mushnik said, stern. “He’s going to be, at least, when he pays me. I should have cut that line long ago…”

“Don’t…!” Seymour said, desperate tone sunk in dread, making Audrey look sharply at him.

“What line?” She asked, but taking a quick glance at the both of them, Mushnik raised his hands instead of answering.

“Not something I’d be too keen to discuss with the ladies, if I’m being frank. Go back to work, it’s better that way.” Seymour turned around to take some plants back and check the ones at the window. Audrey observed him, but resigned herself to the deck of playing cards they had behind the counter. What could it… Well. She wasn’t in a prying mood.

As the days went by, both Seymour and Audrey fell back into themselves. She wasn’t ever on time and he wasn’t ever balanced or confident. No more humming came out of his lips. Mushnik said it was like the Universe went back into its axis, like God had settled something for them. Still, it even seemed to Audrey that he was at least a little upset with the change. The days became monotonous, dragged, like they had once upon a time. ----

For the first time in what seemed to be forever, as her shift came to an end one day, Audrey thought about getting a drink before going home. She did that sometimes, but as she aged she settled into a more proper routine, and after the flower shop, she didn’t wanna go back anywhere where she might be recognized. She wasn't often alone anywhere she went, either, as it could be dangerous or at the very least annoying, with guys coming onto her…

She looked at Seymour. Didn’t she end things with David because she didn’t want to run anymore? It might not be ladylike to come onto guys, and she definitely never had to do that, but don’t friends go out sometimes, together? Maybe this could be a way to repay him for everything she felt she had and had not done.

“Seymour?” She asked, her voice tiny. She looked only at the radio.

“Yes, Audrey?”

“Do you… Wanna go out for a drink with me?” She heard the sound of something breaking. It was a beat before he was in front of her.

“You wanna go out for a drink with me?” He asked, staring at her, unblinking. She smiled at him. He always was endearing to her, with the enthusiasm and eagerness… She nodded her head.

“Sure! It's what friends do sometimes, right? I'm not sure there are any good bars we can afford, though…” Seymour might die if I take him to any of the places I used to work in.

“I know Mr. Mushnik keeps some liquor under the desk…” He supplied, helpfully. “I stole some one time.”

“You have?” Audrey asked, shocked. He nodded, rubbing his neck.

“Yeah. I'm not sure I'd be a good drinking partner, though. I'm bad at holding my liquor. I still have some downstairs in my bedroom, though, if you really want it.” Audrey looked at the door down.

Even in the almost two years working there, she had never been to Seymour’s room. She didn't really wanna pry, but she was curious about what he kept down there. The liquor was almost forgotten when she nodded.

“Alright, I'll go get it…”

“I'll go with you,” she said, touching his arm lightly. He looked down at her nails. They were bright pink. She wondered if she was hurting him with it and thought back to the first few times she talked to David, withdrawing her hand.

“O… OK, if you say so.” She smiled. He led the way and she was careful not to fall on the creaky steps with her black heels. Looking down, she could see holes and all sorts of places to hook your foot by accident. Is that why Seymour fell so much?

“It’s not impressive,” he began saying, his hands in his pockets, when they reached the bottom, “but it’s nice to have a place.”

Seymour’s room was big, but definitely derelict. She looked at the various plants on the crooked shelves, the rotten flooring and the bed. It was humble, but it was so very cozy… Or almost. Even his drawings were all over. He had a little desk, a lamp, and…

“Here,” he said, going up to his desk. “Mr. Mushnik never thought it was me, I never stopped wondering why. He blames me for everything else…” He opened the drawer and picked up a small bottle, half empty, to hand it to her.

Audrey, however, only took it on instinct. Her eyes never moved from a small, yellow, chipped and old telephone he had in the corner.

“I didn't know you had a phone down here,” she said, voice small. Seymour looked at it, going pale.

“Oh… Ye… Yeah. Mr. Mushnik installed it a long time ago. He wanted to do on demand delivery… All night…” Audrey didn’t answer, so he continued. “He installed the phone down here so I could pick it up faster, but it never worked properly. It's all static.” Audrey felt her grip on the bottle falter and almost dropped what she was holding. In a twist of circumstances, however, Seymour caught it in time, putting his hands over hers. “Audrey, are you OK?”

All she could do at first was nod.

“Was the discussion that you two had the other day about the telephone?” She asked. Seymour withdrew, looking away. “He said something about a line, and something about it not being appropriate to discuss in front of a lady,” not that I am one. Audrey looked down at the half full bottle in her hand. She could always hold her liquor.

“You remember that?” Seymour asked. “Well… It was about…” He trailed off. “I did something I’m not so proud of…”

“Me too,” Audrey admitted. “Well, for a long time…”

“It can't be worse than what I did!” Seymour said. Audrey looked at him, so forlorn, barely being able to hold her gaze, and put her hand on his face, nails grazing his skin ever so slightly. “Au… Audrey?”

“Seymour,” she said, and for the first time utilized her phone voice in front of him. His eyes, usually covered by his eye glasses, became huge, staring at her.

“You…?” It was her time to withdraw, still holding the bottle. She put it on the desk.

“I told you I did it because work wasn't ideal…” She said, a small humorless smile on her lips. “I had no idea it was you. I mean… I hoped it was, at first, but that sounded ridiculous.”

“You did…? Was I..?” She nodded, turning around to look at him.

“I never thought that you and I… Could be together. That you'd want to be with me.”

“I did! I do...” He said, but neither shared even a look. “Gee, this is strange. It's like we know everything about each other, but…” She laughed a little.

“Oh, Seymour, it's such a mess… I never wanted… We never even went on a proper date. We never even…” She raised her head at the same time he did. “...Kissed.”

They looked at each other. Audrey thought about all the things they told they wanted to do to one another, things she wouldn't be brave to repeat now, where everything seemed so real. She walked to him and slowly raised her hand to lay it on his face, nails grazing his skin slightly. Her other hand could feel the hairs on his arm fly up when she pushed his sleeve up to feel him.

“Audrey…” He said, in a strangled voice.

“It's nice to hear your voice without the static.”

“It's nice to hear your actual voice talking to me.” She approached him further, hand going to his hair now.

“Would you like me to… Say some other things?” She asked. It still seemed so real, but seeing his live reactions made her wanna see them more. “We could start slow. I know you never…”

But instead of a more tame show of emotion, he took her by surprise, gripped her waist and kissed her. It wasn't the most experienced, but Audrey felt her entire body sing while in his arms, like there were midnight birds outside the windows and the universe rooted and existed only for them. When they were done, she realized what a mess she had made of his hair, how crooked his glasses were, how out of breath.

She caressed his face again.

“I should take you out…” he said. Then more enthusiastically, “We'll go wherever you want…! Well, wherever I can afford…” She smiled, flipping his shirt's collar up and down.

“I think there's nowhere else in the world I'd rather be than here.” Seymour smiled. The universe had been returned to its axis.

“Do you wanna bring the radio down so we can listen to it?” Audrey nodded, and watched him leave. The absence was felt, but with an overwhelming relief, she knew she'd never have to hang him up again—and that was enough for her.

#audrey little shop of horrors #little shop of horrors fanfic #seymour krellborn/audrey fulquard #seymour x audrey #seymour/audrey #lsoh #seymour little shop of horrors #lsoh fanfic #fanfiction writer #fanfic #fanfiction #ao3

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pwblogarchive · 4 months ago

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April 2004

April 1, 2004

“hey heartbreaker, you'll never work in this town again”

I think someone is impersonating me online. Could be a joke. But if you talk to someone online and they say they are me, they aren't. I don't talk to anyone online. Texas is fun. We got some sick clandestine hoodies. They've got bats on the hoods and all. Sidenote: I love nickplan. Sorry my words don't have the same weight they usually have right now. Usually they feel stuck in my throat, today it feels okay inside my skin. Oh yeah chicagoland. We want to roadtest some of our new songs so we will be playing around unannounced on shows at really small venues in the next few months. If you snooze you lose. You never know what show we may play.

April 4, 2004

“we love life”

Texas was sex. Dallas being the most amazing. Its hot down here. We played with a band called DV8, this really young band (13-15). They were rad. The bassists bass was bigger than him. Me some rad kids in arkansas, they were starry-eyed and made me tongue-tied. I've been writing a lot lately. All my old charms and curses are back in full swing. I can't wait to get home. Well take these hearts and rename them dangerous and invincible. Well make them too hard to break.

Peterpan

April 7, 2004

“a man-made monster with every human emotion (clandestine explained 1)”

So a lot of people have been asking us about these hoodies and shirt with bats on them. It is not a clothing company. It is not a new band. When I was younger I had this same nightmare over and over again- so my friend tim biedron and I made a story of it (www.timbiedron.com to check out his art). The story is finished and we are waiting on some of the illustration. You may love it or hate it but its something that was stuck inside my head for a long time. We will be selling shirts and skatedecks online soon (www.clandestineindustries.com) and the story will be available this summer. Take the time to check it out if you get a chance.

Love peter

April 10, 2004

“ice age, heat wave cant complain”

i really like the new modest mouse cd. it's called good news for people who love bad news. purchase it.

April 11, 2004

“the moon has one third less gravity than your earth, i don't know if you can comprehend that”

im home. i love aqua teen hunger force. its hilarious. i wanted to let everyone know that if you haven't heard the point id suggest checking them out. a good mix of core and punk rock type stuff. i really really enjoy the hell out of them. www.thepointrock.com

still listening to modest mouse. still think you should get it. being home is nice. im full of food and really clean and im wearing my hood up. im way tired.

April 11, 2004

“I want to sleep on portraits painted as perfect as you”

Thanks for fun on tour. For the record for those in freeport- we had a little bit of fun with you. I will not ever drink. Its not my thing. So if you think there was more than water in that beer bottle, I have a bridge you might wanna buy too.

April 12, 2004

in response to a post on our messageboard, i want to say that i eat only cocoa crispies. i dont dig any other cereals.

April 14, 2004

“in case you're keeping score”

Being in a band is the ultimate friendship ruiner. Went to two shows tonight. In addition to all the smoke got to hang with: akas, beautiful mistake, dld, apo, senses fail and rufio. Being in a band is the best friendship maker. I am getting this awesome bass custom made, black with a red pick guard, no knobs, wired "on". I think it got me weird, so I dyed my hair red and black. Its sex or maybe not. I have 80 pages of lyrics to wade through. New songs soon. New love soon. Style update: I'm only gonna wear little polo tees with the collars up from now on. The clandestine webstore is almost up. I want to get "mom" tattoo for mothers day.

Peter

April 14, 2004

i just wanted to welcome the academy to the family. it's cool cause i've seen these guys go from the beginning and now we're here....

- petey

April 15, 2004

“who dares wins.”

i have been having such a rad time at home. but i must admit i haven't gotten used to sleeping with out hearing my friends breathing in hotel rooms. my bed doesn't feel the same. we leave again today. i am excited to see old friends. i am excited to see some bands too. the full clandestine website is going to launch on april 22 at www.clandestineindustries.com - we'll have some gear at the next couple of shows.

i was gonna post some pictures of my experiments with shaving and hair dye here. but i don't know how so go on over to: www.fueledbyramen.com/journal to see em.

love peterlewiskingstonwentz

i've found that liars always sing the loudest. heart in mouth, ego on sleeve. you've always got the right girl and the right line. i swear to god, take this mic and cross my heart and hope you die. i'm singing this one just flat of the key of love. liars always sing the loudest. the act is getting old but i'm sure all the fools will follow like vermin down the hole.

April 15, 2004

hey jerks. i got bored and dyed my hair red and black- oooh scary. when i am home i only wear sweatpants and don't shave. here's a look into the life of a loser:

make me say ugh nahnahnahnah

[image here]

there's that quarterback smile we all hate

[image here]

born to lose

[image here]

pretty emo bro, you could use this one to score on live journal

[image here]

and here's the after shaved and ready to do some stagedives. new jersey or bust.

[image here]

this may in fact be photo evidence that i am gay

[image here]

now that we have that out of the way. the full clandestine site should launch on april 22. we'll be selling some gear at skateandsurf and at a couple of these shows on the way out. tour never ends. for real go and listen to my friend ben's band, it's called Not Enough Gold. they smoke. our tour this summer is gonna be called "believers never die" get into it. sorry for all the pictures, this ain't my space biatch, send me some.

1 2 3 L U V!

- petey

April 26, 2004

so much has been going on. my head has been moving too fast, i can't catch up. clandestineindustries.com is up.

i've got a picture from skate and surf in new jersey. we will have more soon, excuse the quality. you can see how insane this room was.

[image here]

- petey

#fall out boy #pete wentz #livejournal #pete wentz livejournal

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guyfieriii · 2 years ago

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The room switched and she was staring up at him.

She was still in the cell. She was still there, but he was with her. She had wished for him then and, now, in the magic of her dream, he had come to hold her through the rest of it. Right off the bat, you’ve said offered us so much in regards for their relationship. How big of a presence he has, so deep rooted in the depths of her psyche. Fuck.

Was this the time it had happened? Was this when it took root? He gripped her chin, forcing her to look at him. He opened his mouth. “I love - FUCKING HELL, CHARNIE

The trip wire spouted an alert, ripping her from sleep and causing her to crack her temple against the windowpane where she’d been keeping watch. She'd passed out apparently. Okay this is pure excellence. She’s built worlds upon worlds in her mind to fight the lingering trauma, with just him. So even in a dream, her subconscious just manifests him. BRILLIANT.

In rainboots and her mother’s nightgown, she fled the room, ran down the stairs, and burst through the front door. It would be a nice bit of action before breakfast. I LOVE HER.

Against the red-pink light of sunrise, she could see the mist clinging to the lake. She could see the tiny dark spots of houses in the surrounding hills. No lights. She hadn’t seen lights up there for several months. She wondered if it had come from one of those homes, ambling down from the peaks and into her garden. Beautifully descriptive, I can picture it so clearly.

They pitied her and there was the distinct undercurrent that they all believed she would have been better off dead. As if she didn’t know that already. Yep. The angst. As promised. The guilt, the pressure of being the “weak link” in a team such as hers would have to be insurmountable.

Society was burning, and everything else was lovely. WHAT. A. LINE.

He would have stayed. He would have died fighting because that was just who he was. Price, my beloved, my one and only.

Its foggy eyes were unseeing, the pupils unevenly dilated. Its flesh was a myriad of shades, not unlike the colorful garden around them. Purple. Green. Yellow. White. A few wet strands of hair were clinging to the crown of the skull. She could see inside its chest where the brown lungs had shriveled within a mottled rib cage. Again, I can picture this SO CLEARLY, my skin is crawling.

Her terry cloth bathroom was still attached to what was left of her arms. Oh god, this little detail is SO DEVASTATING. Hurt me more, pls.

Bambi looked like a washed-down version of a pervy uncle. You had me at the knee socks. Love her already.

“You never know, old girl. One of these days, some fit fucking gents may wander up the road.” I straight up ugly cackled.

The scar over her belly pulsed with phantom pain. It hadn’t stopped since Russia, and she doubted it ever would.

Bury it. Bury it. That time is far away. The chair. That empty room with the dingy cot and how the metal squeaked and screeched with every movement. Yep. YEP. Any form of grief buried so haphazardly will crawl it’s way out in these ways. Quick punch to the gut with all the hurt and you have to remind yourself to lock it back up.

After Russia. After he’d run away from her and she’d gotten captured. Oh fuck. OH FUCK.

A snarl she recognized. I knew it was coming and yet the way I shrieked.

“Simon,” she whispered, though she found it difficult to focus. His eyes drifted toward her shoulder and he stiffened.

“Price,” he barked. “She’s fuckin’ bleeding out.”

Of course he fucking says nothing. Distant-ass mother fucker. God, the way you write him is perfection.

Price’s smile faltered as his eyes darted to the scarf, sodden with her blood. Oh yes - she was injured. A reunion so great she forgets she’s bleeding out. Pls.

This was perfection from start to finish! So worth the fucking wait!!! THANK YOU FOR THE GREATEST TREASURE!

mausoleum (1)

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader (there may be more, but i'm not spoiling) Wordcount: 6K Warnings: gore. ptsd. references to captivity. implied cannibalism (no one we know and like tho). this story will be very dark, but you know a bitch likes a happy ending so buckle up. implied sex. references to suicide. there are mentions of hair. surprise at the end yay. Summary: Put on leave due to PTSD, she goes home and finds the apocalypse a really opportune distraction. A/N: Many thanks to @yeyinde and @moondirti for helping me brainstorm on this. Why am i starting a series. fml. On another note, “Slim” is just a nickname that will be explained later.

COD Masterlist

She dreamed of Kursk last night. There were hands on her as she choked on her own blood. Her eyes were swollen from the beating, and she could count the places where they had buried their blades. She was sick, her ripe-smelling injuries pulsing with infectious heat.

When she’d refused to give them information, they had done the rest for fun.

She was sitting in that chair. The cold, metal seat that became slippery from her sweat and blood. Her ankles screaming from the zip ties around the legs. Her arms wrenched so far back that she was certain the joints would pop.

Go far away in your head. Go somewhere else. Go be -

The room switched and she was staring up at him. His features were riddled with shadows. Unclear. His thick hair was dark in the damp light as it curled over his brow. He lowered his head, bare nose brushing her cheek as his full lips found purchase along her jaw.

“You drive me insane,” he muttered into her ear as he braced his weight above her body. Behind his blurry face, the ceiling oozed. She was still in the cell. She was still there, but he was with her. She had wished for him then and, now, in the magic of her dream, he had come to hold her through the rest of it.

Save me.

I want you to save me. I can’t do this. I can’t anymore.

She frowned, palming his chest where his heartbeat furiously. Strange. His pulse never rose to such a frantic rhythm. He dropped his hips, pressed forward until he was buried inside her. It was a faraway sensation. Pressure. She felt the idea of their sex. She felt him like a memory, the ghost of his cock stretching her.

Was this the time it had happened? Was this when it took root? He gripped her chin, forcing her to look at him. He opened his mouth. “I love -

The trip wire spouted an alert, ripping her from sleep and causing her to crack her temple against the windowpane where she’d been keeping watch. She'd passed out apparently.

Thank God, she thought. Thank Fuck.

She couldn’t have another rancid, poisonous dream about Russia.

She rubbed the aching side of her skull where a goose egg was undoubtedly beginning to form. She’d have to forgo pain relievers due to her own stupidity.

When had she ever fallen asleep on watch?

The alarm from her homemade tripwire jingled again. She snatched her binoculars and pointed them toward the front entrance where the gravel drive disappeared into shadows. Nothing. It was still twilight - still violet blue, but the night fog was lifting enough for her to see fairly clearly. She readjusted her spot on the second floor ledge before scanning the rest of the gardens, including the hedge maze and fountain. A bush shivered and there was a flash of pink.

Bingo.

In rainboots and her mother’s nightgown, she fled the room, ran down the stairs, and burst through the front door. It would be a nice bit of action before breakfast.

***

It must have snuck through a hedge or squeezed itself through the iron bars of the fence that lined the property. The grounds went on forever, but she doubted that it had traversed the acres of endless green to land near her front door. Most of them were from nearby villages having wandered up the road like they had remembered to follow the asphalt. As she walked closer, the scent of death lingered among the lavender and moss. The air was fertile and rich and when the breeze fluttered through her hair, it brought with it the earthy scent of wet wool and cattle from the stables.

In the quiet, you wouldn’t know what had happened. No, you’d be too focused on the sheer beauty of Northwest England. You’d realize what had commandeered Wordsworth’s attraction.

It was funny how this was the most time she’d ever spent at Ashcroft Hall. She’d never been particularly attached to her parent’s summer estate. It was beautiful. It was majestic. It was old and full of ghosts, and when she was a child, she’d been terrified to sleep alone in one of its many wood-paneled bedrooms.

Now, she was guarding Ashcroft. Now, Ashcroft had become her port in the proverbial storm.

She didn’t know if she loved it or hated it. She didn’t know how she felt about anything anymore.

The world had cracked. That was the only way she could visualize it. It had splintered down the center, infection cobwebbing outward to raze cities, countries, and continents.

She supposed that she had crumpled with it. The situation in Kursk had removed a vital piece of herself that she had been unable to replace. It was only a coincidence that news stations had begun to report on the infection a month after she’d been rescued.

At that point, she’d been put on leave, carted back to her parents home to recover. No one outside of her team could look her in the eye and that stung more than the bullets and the knives. Pity. They pitied her and there was the distinct undercurrent that they all believed she would have been better off dead.

As if she didn’t know that already.

She understood why they’d kicked her out. She was a liability. She was in desperate need of therapy. She wasn’t the same, and she never would be again.

Not after Kursk.

She spent weeks curled up in one of the Ashcroft bedrooms she’d feared as a child. She was numb - practically brain-dead on a cocktail of pills to keep her head together. She watched television. A lot of it. She saw the writing on the wall when the news became fixated on the strange behavior of the recent dead.

A young boy in Fenghuang had woken up mid-burial.

An old woman in Sydney had sat up off her gurney.

A famous singer had been nearly cut in half from a car accident, and there was footage of him crawling across the road.

That image had stayed at the forefront of her mind to this day. She’d thought she was numb to violence and gore, but seeing a corpse dragging his obliterated carcass behind him had shaken her.

Those initial days had been dark. She stopped the pills and instead focused on preparation. She had an underground contact slip into her London apartment and drive her weapons up North. She restocked her father’s armory with AK-47’s, submachine guns, and sniper rifles.

She stockpiled candles and kerosene for oil lamps. Seeds. Small livestock in addition to the horses, cows, and chickens they already had at Ashcroft. Batteries. Radios. Medications. First Aid Kits. Flashlights.

She’d been so focused on her project that it didn’t register when the rest of the world realized this wasn’t just the media exaggerating. It was real.

She hadn’t looked at her phone in a week and when she did, she saw two missed calls and two texts. Two from Price. Two from Soap.

Call me.

Call me ASAP.

But by then the cell towers and wifi had gone out. The Eastern Seaboard twitched black as the cities fell first.Paris was overrun. New York was decimated. When London burned, she’d been forced to shut the television off. She couldn’t bear the image of it scorched and empty. She did not want to think of the pubs she had frequented with her team blackened and silent.

Had they made it home? They were probably safe and secure on a military base. They were probably in better shape than she was.

After the major cities, the smaller areas were next on the chopping block.

There was screaming. Insistent screaming she could hear from Ashcroft. It rang out like one high-pitched musical note. Fires started. There was smoke slithering from the little towns nestled in the hills. The weather had been crisp. The sky was a raw shade of blue, and she thought it mocked her.

Society was burning, and everything else was lovely.

To make matters worse, she could not stop thinking about Kursk. She could not push it away. It caused her to swell with guilt because everything else had gone to shit, and what was her grief compared to the apocalypse.

There came the point when she chose to bury it. She did what every therapist had warned her against doing. She took Kursk and stuffed it beneath her ribs, behind her liver, where it could not distract her.

She’d set up a radio but rarely listened to it. It was nothing, but sticky shrieks for help and aid, and please, where is shelter, food, or a cure? Everything is gone, and we have children.

Gradually, the radio became mostly static. There’d be the occasional clip of a song or a snarling preacher spouting about fire and brimstone as the last vestiges of humanity clung to the airwaves.

She had no room in her for kindness. She felt stripped to her bones, and that’s what she wanted. Bones. Dust. No emotions. No empathy. No love. She thought of the texts and phone calls from Soap and Price, and she assumed the worst. Either they were dead, saving babies or something equally heroic.

She knew Price. He wouldn’t have just run. Soap, Gaz and Alejandro would have followed him.

He would have stayed. He would have died fighting because that was just who he was.

She, on the other hand, stayed in place. She bunkered down and made lists.

She was very good at surviving.

***

Its moans shuddered through the gardens as its feet scraped across gravel. She was surprised it could make such sounds. She’d seen several with their vocal cords split into ribbons; tongues chewed to mush. Those corpses so deteriorated from the sun or hard rain that they could only manage a thin whistle. It had to be muscle memory. Even in death, they remembered the inclination to speak and be heard.

She loosely spun the ax in her hand as she studied the intruder.

“How’d you get in here, hmm?” The question slipped between them, echoing in the pleasant morning quiet. The garden was a riot of colors: magenta tulips, cream-white and orange daffodils, violets, and golden primroses. Amidst the fruity sweetness was the cloying scent of decay. Insects buzzed. The wind rustled the magnolia trees.

The maze of hedges was beginning to lose its shape and would undoubtedly grow wild as time passed. The shrubs were distorted, and the grass was too long.

As she closed in, it jerked its head at her scent. For a moment, she felt that tantalizing bite of adrenaline. Every drop of her blood pulsed between her ears. Her heart throbbed as she lifted the ax just as it twisted around to look at her.

When she brought the ax down, it grunted. The bone split. The blood was sluggish and the color of tar. It had been a person once. A woman. Her terry cloth bathroom was still attached to what was left of her arms.

She swallowed thickly, wiping the blade of the ax on the ground. The blood and gristle smelled terrible, but it was impossible to escape it. It had almost become familiar.

She was lucky. Ashcroft was located on hundreds of acres of land. She bet the cities were far worse. She bet that death stench hung over it like a fish bowl.

She glanced back at the Jacobean estate. It was certainly a fortress with its turrets, towers and red sandstone facade. The place dated back to the sixteenth century and had been altered and renovated due to fire and two World Wars. It was far too big for her to care for herself. The staff had fled or were infected. Her parents had been dead before everything exploded, and they had left the damn thing to her. Fresh from the medical facility, she’d shown up to a home she hadn’t considered hers in years.

It would fall apart; the grounds would turn back to nature. For now, she had opted to inhabit sections. The kitchen, the library, the billiard room, the master bedroom with its bay windows that offered a perfect view of the main path to the front gate.

With her foot, she nudged the dead woman onto her back. The shriveled corpse looked disturbing against the emerald green grass. She’d need a wheelbarrow and gloves to remove her.

She sighed, turning her face toward the sun and allowing it to warm her skin.

She’d handle the body in a minute.

***

“Nice form, Slim.”

She spun around to find Bambi staring at her from the veranda. Clad in ratty shorts, a sweat-stained tank, and knee socks, Bambi looked like a washed-down version of a pervy uncle. Gone were the strappy heels and Selkie baby doll dresses. No more black cards, Ibiza, or Annabel’s.

“I think dad used to wear that same outfit,” Slim quipped, and Bambi narrowed her eyes, chin thrust out, and nose tipped upward with her special kind of arrogance.

“Times are dire, G.I. Jane,” she huffed, gesturing to her outfit. “I’m too lazy to wash this shit by hand, so it will serve me another day.”

Slim laughed. Bambi was disarming and unpredictable. Gorgeous and sometimes mean as a snake though the apocalypse had humbled her a bit.

“You look gross,” Bambi remarked as she folded her arms over her tits. “Think there’s some brain on you.”

A bit. Humbled a bit.

Truth be told, Slim probably would have drowned herself in the lake if it hadn’t been for Bambi. Two months into the end of the world, her childhood best friend showed up at her door. She was dirty, her hair greasy, and her face gaunt, but her dark eyes still sparked with life. Everyone was dead, but Bambi, spoiled and regal, was burning with a vivacity that Slim no longer felt.

Apparently, she’d run from London before they started shutting down the exits.

“I knew you’d be here,” Bambi had whispered before throwing her arms around her neck. ‘I fucking knew it.”

Slim was so stunned that she didn’t even check her for bites. Bambi’s mouth brushed her ear, her fingers clenched in her t-shirt. “I knew that if anyone could survive this, it would be you.” She pulled away, dry, pale lips cracking around a smile. “You can protect me.”

She’d had a car for a good part of it, but things fell apart by Manchester. The traffic was unbreachable. Someone started shooting.

“I hid in the backseat with a blanket for maybe two days. I remember two dawns, at least. No one gave a shit about the cars because the roads were blocked. People shot at each other, instead.” Bambi sighed, rubbing the back of her neck. “A bullet went through my window, and I stayed frozen. There was this guy - this kid, maybe seventeen, who’d been shot in the head, and he fell across the hood of my car like crazy perfectly. It was so weird. I’d never seen someone dead, and I remember thinking about how you saw people die all the time - you’d killed people and survived so much, and maybe this was a sign, and so I realized I had to get to you.

“Assumed I’d still be in Cartmel?”

“Last we spoke, you were there, and I figured it’d be better than any of the cities. Plus…” She’d grinned, and it had lit up her perfect face. “You have weapons.” Bambi suddenly held Slim’s face between her hands and kissed her firmly on the mouth. It was sour and stale, but she allowed it. “Now, I’m fucking knackered, you beautiful bitch. Where’s the kitchen and the showers?”

Bambi never told her what she had to do after Manchester to reach Ashcroft, and she didn’t press.

The very thought of Manchester had left her sick and shivering. It only brought recollections of him. Was he out there? Had he been on a mission on the opposite side of the world when everything burned? Did it even matter because surely she’d never see him or any of them again?

“Slim!” Bambi snapped, violently wrenching her from her memories. “What are we doing with that?” She pointed to the dead woman in the grass. “It’s ruining the pleasant vibes of our home.”

“Do we have people coming over?”

Bambi smirks and lifts an eyebrow suggestively. “You never know, old girl. One of these days, some fit fucking gents may wander up the road.”

“Because every person who’s tried to trespass has been so attractive.”

“Well - you keep shooting them.”

Yes. In the beginning, she had been ruthless about it. In times like these, you had to do what was necessary and she had no interest in taking a chance. It was the people you had to watch out for. Not the dead, but the human beings who’d kill them just for her armory alone.

She always fired a warning and if they continued then they were fair game. It was always the mean-looking ones, too. Beady eyes and ponchos, waving shotguns like they were playing at war. They’d see Red with her marksman rifle in hand and immediately relax. palms up as they continued forward.

“S’alright, birdie. We’ll keep you safe, yeah? You can’t stay here alone. Girl like you won’t last-”

She’d blow their skulls after that. She didn’t lose sleep over it.

What had Price told her? We get dirty and the world stays clean.

Red would get dirty for both of them.

“Get the wheelbarrow,” she ordered, abruptly switching lanes. She turned away from Bambi’s scowling face, tucking her hair behind her ears. It had grown so long that even Bambi had offered to cut it.

Your hand-eye coordination is awful. Remember the last time you tried giving me a haircut?

That was twenty years ago, you daft cow. Who is going to see it, anyway?

I can still be vain about some things!

“I’m only getting the wheelbarrow because I know you do all the dirty work,” Bambi declared, shoving her socked feet into too-big loafers that had belonged to Slim’s pa. She began to shuffle toward the ravine at the rear of the property.

“You’ll be bludgeoning the undead soon enough,” Slim yelled after her. Bambi threw up a middle finger.

It was strange. Everything. At times, their world at Ashcroft felt normal. They could spend days drinking to oblivion without ever going outside. They’d draw the curtains and light the fireplace in the study, sliding from the velvet couches to the carpet as they giggled about stupid things. Their mouths smeared berry-red from the wine they’d filched from the cellar. They’d play cards and smoke the cigarettes they’d found in her mother’s nightstand.

“So, how were the men? They probably were all over your ass.”

“They were nice.”

“That’s all you’re going to give me? I’ve told you about that Duke -

“They were good to me. There isn’t much I can share.”

“The world’s over, my love. Afraid there’s no regime to punish you.’

“I know.”

“Fine, then. How about this? Why did you leave?”

***

“I think I’m going to head into town,” Slim announced over their lunch of biscuits and peanut butter. There was a whole pantry full of canned vegetables, bread, and hard cheese. There was a greenhouse, a garden, and small animals, but neither of them knew what they were doing. She couldn’t exactly google how to plant crops or what worked flourished in what season.

Bambi frowned. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Slim leaned back in her chair as she tugged her hair into a knot. The sun was bright today, flooding through the windows and over the kitchen table. “There haven’t been many zombies lately…I want to see the status of the village and get a sense of things.”

“Sounds like a dumb idea.”

“We’re far enough away that we wouldn’t know if danger was coming until it was at the gates.”

Bambi leaned forward, resting her chin in her palm. “And you would shoot them before they got to the door.”

Slim shook her head. “Houses like these are more valuable now than ever before. They’ve functioned for centuries without electricity or heat. Lots of land. Private well for clean water. An army could decide to overtake us, and I can’t hold down the fortress by myself.”

‘I’ll help!”

“You can’t shoot.”

“Give me an automatic weapon, and all I have to do is aim in the general direction.”

“That’s not how it works, B,” Slim said as she massaged her temples. The headaches were becoming frequent. “I need to go regardless because I want to see if the pharmacies have any antibiotics left.”

They had several first aid kids, and when society was just beginning to rupture, Slim had collected what she could. Still, she was anxious that in the coming years, they would undoubtedly need more. Anything could happen.

The scar over her belly pulsed with phantom pain. It hadn’t stopped since Russia, and she doubted it ever would.

Bury it. Bury it. That time is far away. The chair. That empty room with the dingy cot and how the metal squeaked and screeched with every movement.

She ran through a list in her head of what she needed: penicillin, electrolyte powders, moxifloxacin, oxycodone, prednisolone.

Lists helped. The clinical beauty in the simple pattern of words kept her from spiraling into ugly thoughts.

“I could come with you,” Bambi offered. “Watch your six as they say?”

As they say.

This was the time Slim felt an overwhelming tenderness for her friend. Bambi looked frightened for her, and while Slim was primarily responsible for keeping them both alive, she understood it went deeper than that.

She placed her hand on Bambi’s wrist, fingering the Cartier bracelets that no longer mattered. She couldn’t sell them. All they’d be suitable for was to be melted down for useful things like bullets, but Slim was the last person to begrudge someone their little luxuries.

“I appreciate the help, but I can do it faster on my own.”

“Fine,” Bambi conceded. “But look for Xanax.”

“Of course.”

“Maybe, condoms.”

***

On the journey into town, it began to rain. She’d taken one of the horses, Biorn, and his damp black mane gave off a musky, animal stink. There were cars at the Ashcroft manor, but using them seemed risky. The engine would rumble and spit and no doubt draw attention to her. She also didn’t want to waste the gas.

Clad in a simple t-shirt and jeans, she tipped her head back to stare up at the sky. The clouds were slate gray and swollen. She opened her mouth to taste the rain, feeling high off the perfume of petrichor and sodden leaves. She was cold, but the chill woke her up. Her fingers twitched around the reins.

Her hair stuck to the nape of her neck like a leech.

She missed fighting. She missed the finality of a mission. You either died or you succeeded and then it’d be over. Now - it was always. Now, her mission was endless.

She sighed, shaking her head.

It was dangerous to crave violence. She feared what she would unleash in herself and what she’d have to face. Kursk. Him. The very debilitating emptiness he'd left inside her. It festered and spoke to her when her mind was most at rest.

“Stay alive, duchess.”

His enormous palm cradling the back of her skull as he stared down at her. “You’re the best they’ve got. Can’t do it without you.”

Nearing the town, she noticed the first signs of the infection. There were water-logged signs with peeling paint, haphazardly hammered to wooden posts.

Stay Home.

Stay Calm.

Wash Your Hands and Wear a Mask.

It really hadn’t been that sort of infection, but no one knew it then.

She glanced at the woods on her right and noticed a pair of tiny rain boots. Focusing, she realized they were attached to a body that was nestled in the leaves. She knew there had been plenty of suicides. There’d been advertisements for special concoctions that promised no pain and surely anyplace was better than the current one.

She grimaced and pressed forward. The pretty village was still picturesque with its cobbled streets and quaint cottages and inns. The River Eaa flowed at a lazy pace. There were burned-out Christmas lights in the trees. Two miles ahead near the shoreline was a larger town with more facilities.

The silent, empty village made her skin crawl. There was a stink from the houses. Out of the corner of her eye, she thought she saw something staring back at her in the ivy by the church. She bit her lip as she guided Biorn toward the back entrance to the pharmacy. She tied him to the rear door before stroking his muzzle and kissing his snout.

She wouldn’t go further than the pharmacy today. There was something wrong here. The rain was picking up and making it impossible for her to see or hear clearly. She was at a disadvantage and anyone could be surveying her.

She was prized goods. The guns strapped to her hip and back. The ax in her belt. Her horse, especially.

Doing one last scan of the area, she slipped through the back entrance.

***

It smelled here, too, but not as intense. She waited a moment, listening for a groan, grunt or the scrape of feet on linoleum. Nothing.

Utilizing the half dome mirrors in the corners of the room, she silently maneuvered through the aisles, heading straight for the pharmacy counter. She was quick about it as she stuffed whatever bottles there were into her bag.

It wasn’t a lot. The place had been somewhat looted. She’d hoped the pharmacist had locked it down during the worst of it. She’d hoped most of the village had gone North, toward the areas that promised “sanctuaries” before realizing there were none.

After emptying the shelves, she raided the otc medication, leftover bandages, ointment, eye-drops, and then the snacks. Jerky. Chips. Candy. Ramen. She walked toward the front of the store before freezing. There was someone on the ground. For a second, she had thought “mannequin”, forgetting how unlikely that would be. There was no one to clean away bodies. Mannequins didn’t belong in pharmacies.

Slowly she pulled her ax from the loop of her belt before readjusting her form. She crouched, creeping toward what appeared to be a dead man. She blinked down at him. The blood was bright and smelled like pennies as it puddled around his head. His throat was missing, his eyes open and staring at the ceiling. She could distinguish the tendons and ripped flesh. Bits of white spine. She cautiously reached for the man’s arm to touch his skin. It was still warm and she lifted it easily. No rigor mortis.

This man had just died. But, a zombie wouldn’t leave him here. They’d eat and eat until there was nothing left. Her appearance wouldn’t have registered to it.

She straightened, confused and weary. It wasn’t fear that ran through her, but puzzlement.

Thwack.

She startled and whirled around, eyes scanning from the front window to the rear of the space. There was nothing, but the pharmacy’s flag ripping in the harsh wind just outside the door. She walked toward the window steadily, ax in one hand and her other hand poised over her gun.

Perhaps it was the rain? It was coming down hard. Black sky and a heavy layer of fog. Her heart pulsed as she scanned the streets.

Thwack.

She spun toward the aisles, but there was nothing amiss. Her teeth chattered in her mouth. She was soaked to the bone and every step brought with it the audible squelch of her sneakers

Why the fuck hadn’t she worn boots?

Because you got complacent. You got arrogant in your posh castle in the hills with your sniper rifle and your homemade alarms.

Now, she was in the savage, desolate reality of the after. After the infection. After the bombs, the Hail Marys, the useless quarantines and the suicide juice.

After Russia. After he’d run away from her and she’d gotten captured.

A deep growl sprang from the backroom. She shoved her ax back in her jeans and pulled out her gun. It felt like an appropriate time to use bullets when she couldn’t see her enemy.

Tiptoeing toward the door that led to a storage area, she quietly pushed it open with her shoulder.

Once inside, she had to recalibrate. The sight in front of her didn’t compute.

It was a man. Heavy-set. Pink skin like a pig. His short hair was matted and he was hovering over a workbench. He raised his arm and brought something silver down.

Thwack.

It was a cleaver.

Thwack.

Each thwack was followed by a wet squelch. She heard something crack.

The room was dark, but there were enough candles to illuminate what the man was chopping.

Flesh. Pink and red and purple. Gristle. Bone.

She found herself unable to breathe. The room was thick with the scent of meat. Blood. Sweat. Innards. It reminded her of Kursk and how those cells were branded in that stench. All the dead before her. All the ones beside.

She stumbled backwards, falling against the door, which swung open and deposited her on the floor. She slipped on the rain-slick linoleum and her gun skittered away from her. Without thinking, she scrambled toward it.

There’s one on your back. There’s the ax. Arm yourself with something before-

Something unbearable, heavy and reeking fell on top of her.

***

She was fucked. She was really fucked.

It took her a second to realize that the man from the backroom had attacked her. It took her another second to recognize that he was human. He was human and eating -

It didn’t matter. None of it mattered as she attempted to roll onto her back. Her mind was cluttered - swimming with memories of Kursk that she was unable to kick away. Years of training and she couldn’t come up with a single move that could force the man off of her back.

Adrenaline was pulsing through her bones. Her nerves were fraying - sparking - close to exploding and she thought if the man buried her further into the ground, her heart would be forced out of her mouth. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think. She tried to reach down for her ax, but he had her effectively pinned. He was grunting on top of her, spitting out obscenities, screeching like an animal and maybe he’d become one. Maybe, the after had effectively twisted him into something feral and desperate.

Just as her vision began to dim, the man blessedly pulled away from her. She took a deep, bruising breath before flipping onto her back. She tried to kick out at him with her legs, but he was too strong. He was huge, blocking out the ceiling, drowning out the world. He lifted his arm high, a spark from outside catching on the cleaver blade.

“Oh fuck,” she hissed before curling inward just as he brought it down.

She felt a burn. He’d gotten her and it was confirmed when a warm wash of blood sheeted down her shoulder, into her shirt. She glanced down, blinking sluggishly. She wasn’t entirely certain where he’d hit her because a dull throbbing began to pulse throughout her body. Everything went numb. Distant.

She collapsed backwards, raising her arms to defend herself from the second hit. The whites of the man’s eyes reminded her of egg shells as they expanded across the pricks of his pupils. He was covered in a fresh splatter of crimson and she knew it was her blood. The man’s jaw was twitching, his teeth gnashing as she uselessly tried to cover her chest. It would be humiliating if she died like this. She couldn’t leave Bambi -

The man was staring at her and then he wasn’t. There was an abrupt snap before his head was now turned back toward the storage room. The cleaver clattered beside her. She stared at it dumbly before the weight of him straddling her thighs was gone. He was being lifted clean off of her, picked up like a sack of potatoes before being tossed aside with a guttural snarl.

A snarl she recognized.

Her gaze slid from the cleaver to the figure looming over her. Ghost. The white skull mask seemed pronounced in the gray-lit shop. She could make out his eyes, though his expression was unreadable. He was tall and imposing, bigger than she remembered as he regarded her silently. His bulky shoulders. His tac vest. His boots. His clothes were coated in a thick film of blood and grime. Even the white parts of his mask were smeared red.

She swallowed as she tried to sit up. Her head and torso felt so heavy and she found herself trying to reach for him. He crouched, his gloved hand covering hers, their fingers threading together. He was so hot - so perfectly, beautifully alive and he just threw that huge monster of a man like it was nothing.

You saved me.

You came.

“Simon,” she whispered, though she found it difficult to focus. His eyes drifted toward her shoulder and he stiffened.

“Price,” he barked. “She’s fuckin’ bleeding out.”

“Price?” she echoed, bewildered. Ghost tugged at the scarf around his neck before pressing it to her shoulder. It didn’t hurt, which she thought was probably a bad sign.

“They were out back,” he explained. “There were hostiles there, too.”

Hostiles. The word felt familiar.

Suddenly, Ghost stepped away, allowing another to take his place. She grimaced, fingers clutching on air. She wanted to ask him to come back. She wanted to feel him.

“Hello darlin’.”

Price’s voice melted into skin and she returned his smile, though it was difficult. Another appeared beside him. Soap. He was frantically opening one of the bags, yanking out gauze and tape.

She tried to say Johnny, but it wouldn’t come. Finally, he looked at her, his expression scrunched and unlike him. “Knew we’d find you trying to take someone down twice your size.” He was teasing her, but it lacked conviction.

She frowned before dragging her eyes toward Price. “There are more of us out back. Most of the group. Couple other bastards like the one there.” He gestured to the dead man in the corner.

She tilted her head in acknowledgment as she licked her lips, her tongue dry. It was a lot. She couldn’t believe what was in front of her.

“Price,” she murmured. “John.”

His gaze crinkled and he cradled her face in one palm while his other hand remained firm on her shoulder to staunch the bleeding. She could smell him. Sweat, dirt and body odor. They’d probably been on the roads for months. She lifted her hand hesitantly before wiping at the oily black blood smeared across his cheek. He closed his eyes as he leaned into it.

“You look different,” she whispered as she grazed her thumb from his temple to his jaw. His beard was overgrown and she focused on the tiny wrinkles around his eyes as he grinned down at her. Behind him, she thought she could spot Ghost’s massive form.

“It’s so fuckin’ good to see you, Red,” Price uttered, the words cracking within the thick of his throat.

Red.

Red Fox.

She hadn’t heard that name in over a year and the implication of it both frightened and soothed her. She felt like it was her mask, her armor. It was who she had been before Russia and the end of the world.

Price’s smile faltered as his eyes darted to the scarf, sodden with her blood. Oh yes - she was injured.

“Really fuckin’ missed you,” Price said.

She wanted to tell him the same. She wanted to say how much she missed them.

Instead, she found herself sinking back to the floor, Price’s arms still around her back as Soap began to cut through her shirt.

***

Please comment and let me know your thoughts!! It’s going to get very angsty and smutty.

#Gonna probably re read this a bunch of times to get it all out of my system

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girlinthespecialeconomiczone · 11 months ago

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the box itself is an afterthought, cuban cigar label describes its intended contents and yellowing paper blend cardboard is easy, yields itself to open and close, the opposite of a lock. The real contents, at first glance: a piece of bright green cardstock with "Good Job Y" inscribed in a child's handwriting, a chanel lipstick, several ziplock bags containing a single tooth each, some accompanied by more paper with child's handwriting, an altoids tin sharpied with the words "Mia's Hair," 5-10 loose teeth, skittering across the bottom of the box like rocks in the surf or compact, frightened arachnids. At second glance, several christmas wishlists belonging to child, the chanel lipstick is in fact a travel-size perfume, the altoid tin does contain my hair, two almost identical notes written on separate occasions expressing love for my mother -child handwriting- then what appears to be some kind of personal ad, small pink and rectangular, reading:

"YOUR STORY/ HAS TOUCHED MY HEART / NEVER BEFORE HAVE I MET ANYONE WITH / MORE, TROUBLES THAN YOU HAVE. PLEASE / ACCEPT THIS EXPRESSION OF MY SINCERE/ SYMPATHY.

NOW FUCK OFF AND QUIT BOTHERING ME."

then several newspaper clippings, including an obituary for someone with my father's full name, they were born within a few years of each other and he died just a county over.

A dilbert strip about getting catfished by a supermodel.

Then, a headline that reads "Police: Wife ran down husband with vehicle," and goes on about how after he looked at another woman during church service it took her three tries until she "succeeded" to run him over with a car

A Simpsons-themed daily calendar page:

"Apu: Is it me or do your plans always involve some horrible web of lies?

Homer: It's you."

This is less a revelation about the nature of my childhood and moreso laughing @ my mom's freakish way of memorializing it. Maybe I am pretending to not care that my mother wanted to kill my father. What would it have meant for me to uncover these items in a different order? What does it mean that I had to peel back layers of my own corporeal detritus to find my mother's homicidal fantasies? what kind of armament is a baby tooth, a lock of hair?

i spend the day looking at memory boxes, and have the same problem i always have - i forget what belongs to my mom and what belongs to me. we go back and forth, and try to remember the origin of things, smug when we convince each other the thing was actually ours to begin with. i do this with my sister, too, and when i invoke the hypothetical child i might eventually have and want to pass my clothes onto, she says indignantly "i am your child"

later, alone, i go to my mom's memory boxes, again with the problem - i can't remember which necklaces she beaded, i can't decide whether i can take confidently take credit for my precocious aesthetic sensibilities or whether she was picking the beads out, placing them in my hands, placing my hands on the wire, i go through boxes and boxes of jewelry like this, like i might find an answer. i find the murder box instead.

Years ago I wrote a list of things which were "not actually mine but my mother's": dead friends, Mao's little red book, the bedroom closet, beer cans, baby teeth, phone voice, mopping floor on hands and knees, phd program, stalkers. I'm wearing all the jewelry pilfered from my mom's jewelry boxes this last visit home, watching true blood and drinking rum straight out the bottle (not my first choice, it was leftover from a party), and thinking about how in her drinking days, my mom probably also liked to sit herself in front of the tv and cry. Many people don't get to have families. With my mom there is a kind of cannibalistic sameness that actually, while to most people it appears like an ideal "home," is placeless, not actually mine but etc

perhaps this can explain my recent interest in my father's side of things, there is little to no inherent risk that i might find myself collapsed under my fathers particularities and interests, as our relationship is primarily defined by my sense of alienation. Through him and his parents I can construct something of a history, a "why" I am the way I am. Close but not too close, like when someone takes a picture of you you can barely recognize. Me and my mom used to joke that I was born asexually or through divination, a simple reproduction of her

There is of course a long lineage of crazy ass white girls, of bougie white women who choose to be addicts, or bad mothers, or writers, or waitresses, or communists. In 2015, my mom commented a picture of Patty Hearst with an automatic rifle on my facebook profile picture, and I learned who she was. I haven't been in therapy for six months but if I was, I would ask my therapist if she believed my mom wanted me to find the murder box

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bemystargirl · 1 year ago

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𝐒𝐏𝐎𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐃 𝐑𝐎𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐍 — 01

𝗜𝗡 𝗪𝗛𝗜𝗖𝗛 nepotism baby, Kaela Crowley, daughter of British phenomenon, tennis player, Bailey Crowley also well known as 'The Queen' After her mother partook in a now world renown tennis scandal which ended up with a broken career and a 5 year prison sentence. Kaela is sent to live with her mother's not-so-close best friend, Lorelai Gilmore.

Notes: I literally hate this chapter smm, its boring and short and blahhhh but I've been prostrating with it for too long now and I've found no other way to avoid it so here, a hot pile of shit just for you <3

𝘐𝘚 𝘛𝘏𝘐𝘚 𝘛𝘏𝘌 𝘌𝘕𝘋 𝘖𝘍 𝘛𝘏𝘌 𝘘𝘜𝘌𝘌𝘕'𝘚 𝘙𝘌𝘐𝘕 ?

The bold letters were printed onto newspapers everywhere. Kaela literally couldn't avoid it. All the slanderous words spread around London like a wildfire. It would be shouted through out the streets

'Bailey Crowley ; The world's biggest tennis scandal yet.'

'Queen Crowley throws away her crown after Lombardi's retirement.'

And things got ten times worse when Alyssa Lombardi pressed charges for aggravated assault, resulting in her mother's 5 year prison sentence and retirement to her own tennis career.

"You heard it here first folks, Queen of the court, Bailey Crowley sentenced to 5 years in prison, not so mighty anymore is she? And next with Davi-"

Kaela ripped her headphones out of her ears. Scrunching up the white wires and shoving them deep into her brown fur lined coat, a scowl on her face as another breeze of autumn wind hit her, sending a gush of wind and a mix of burnt orange and copper coloured leaves her way, she let out a small shriek wafting away the leaves from her clothes, the pale yellow suitcase trailing behind her on the bumpy pavement.

Her blue eyes read the words on the letter over and over again, from the 'To my dearest, Lorelei.' to the kiss mark in the bottom right corner in pink lipstick.

She couldn't help but feel pissed, she had built a reputation for herself! She was the Kaela Crowley for the love of God! And now her mother practically trampled all over her or smacked a racket across the court so hard it retore Lombardi's ACL which caused a permanent impairment, all over her reputation...

Either way, she was now lost in the middle of a small town in Connecticut with nothing but her suitcase, white Mary jane's and frilly socks, as the breeze blew her hair she stood still once again re-reading the letter she found herself outside a diner, Luke's Diner.

The warmth hit hit as her heels hit the oak floor, it was abit.. too cozy for her liking, coffee mugs littered the walls in their blue shelfs, with stupid signs on the backdrop, she felt out of place.

Silence through out the diner.

"Uh.." Kaela begun moving closer to the counter, she pressed herself against the empty stool her hands going to the counter to support herself as a man put down the mug he was drying off.

"Hi!" Kaela smiled, letting go of her yellow suitcase, he didn't respond. just looked at her, bug-eyed.. "Um... I'm looking for.." Kaela felt her nerves sneaking on her her eyes going down to the note in her left hand to which her mother addressed it to 'Lorelei Gilmore.' "I'm looking for Lorelei Gilmore, I was told she might be.. here?" Kaela looked around and back at the man.

He took in a deep breath before speaking. "over there." nodding over to a women sat at a table, mug in hand. Kaela took in a deep breath before smiling and walking away from the counter.

"Lorelei?" Kaela took another step. Dragging her suitcase along with her as she stepped closer once more.

The women turned around, her eyes grew with shock when she realised who it was but she didn't say anything, Kaela took it into her own to take the seat opposite of her.

"Hi.." Kaela smoothed her white blouse under her yellow jumper. no response. "Im Kaela Crowley, you knew my mother-" Kaela begun when Lorelei made no effort to speak.

"I know who you are Kaela." Lorelei sipped her coffee, Kaela bit her lip with embarrassment.

"Oh." Kaela looked at the letter she was absently massaging between her pink nails before placing it on the table. "My mother told me to give you this."

Lorelei picked up the letter, she let out small scoffs and groans of annoyance as she read the words on the page, rolling her eyes as her eyes went to the pink kiss mark in the corner.

"Kaela-" Lorelei begun.

"I have no where else to go!" Kaela's brows were furrowed, it was no surprise she was desperate. "My mum is going to prison, my father is too busy working, she said your my only chance-"

"Kaela." Lorelei put and end to her word soup. "I already have my daughter.. you wouldn't have a place to sleep."

Kaela frowned.

"What about your school, we cant enroll you into star hallows high school half way through the term." Kaela was stumped. She leaned back into her chair, biting her lip so hard she could almost draw blood.

"Hey, It's freezing?" A younger her stopped in her footsteps when she saw Kaela, she waved.

"Oh my god! Your Kaela Crowley!" The girl moved closer as Kaela let out a small chuckle.

Before Kaela could say anything Lorelei started talking.

"Sweetie, we were just talking about Kaela staying with us-" The girl screamed.

"No way-- mom!" She yelped looking between the two of them.

"Rory! I don't think she can stay with us--"

Kaela looked around Rory's room, the yellow suitcase was sprawled out on her bed, it was...new, but exciting.

"Oh and the grumpy dude, in the coffee shop's called Luke, you'll get used to him." Lorelai waved her goodbye as she rushed off to work, the door slammed shut, Kaela threw herself onto the bed, looking up at the ceiling.

There was no way she could get used to this... right?

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dysconymph · 2 years ago

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Happy Easter: I looked into the void, unfiltered.

I am not well versed in psychoanalysis, the only thing I know about it is from marginal readings and interactions. But I have heard of this whole lack bollocks and I can’t believe I’ve just experienced it head on. I’ve looked into the belly of the beast and felt, what I’ve felt many times over, a feeling with a clarity never before given to me. What the fuck am I meant to do with this realisation.

I feel more so than ever before the power of that existential, psychological dread. The feeling of lack or void as mentioned in Freudian analysis that haunts and lingers in the body. The veil of fantasy was ripped away, the veil ripped from my eyes and I had to deal with the ‘the hole’. I realised my initial protective act was to eat - my age old friend. It was my initial, unconscious response to the feeling of nothingness. Not just nothingness, but the shock of its appearance. For the void disappears in daily life. Removed from our conscious experience by work, objects, others, fantasies. There are profound moments when it dys-appearance re-appears in horrifying starkness: the truth and reality of the nothingness shows up unbearable and heavy. It is either attended to unconsciously as mentioned above: with work or specific actions. Here the unconscious becomes conscious but non conscious again in the form of habits we don’t even know we’ve built. But the most heart breaking and terrifying question to come out of this is ‘What do I do, in the face of the existential burden, if not fill the gap with whatever crutch I have?’ If it’s not alcohol or cigarettes or food it will be work, or people or something else. What am I meant to do when the table cloth has been removed and we see the world and our experience within it for what it is? What Heidegger would call the anxiety of Dasein. Am I meant to sit in it, learn to live with the discomfort? Befriend the nothing and hope that life becomes better from this stance. Is it just about replacing one bad habit with another habit you deem more productive or less malfunctioned. Instead of eating, smoking or drinking I replace these acts with work. Perhaps I can re-wire myself to be the anxious worker after all.

Maybe I should start from the beginning. I know now the stark reality of this moment which I’ve realised I’ve experienced over and over again. Only now did I look directly into the eyes of the beast. But where did it come from. It came from the fantasy of the bourgeois family myth - that well observed and cliched Freudian paradigm. It’s Easter Sunday, we are out for family dinner. We know there will be drama and tension but it’s a forced self reflection on these things that add to the fantasy - a faux and imagined sense of control over the uncontrollable feelings. “Don’t worry,” we say, “I know it’s going to be bad, in fact, I will even make comedy and humour out of these experiences so as to acquiesce or temper the effects of these bad feelings, these uncomfortable moments.” But there are slippery, non-conscious realms that even we in all our modern, self-reflective irony cannot defend against. I’m having to take photographs of myself because my mother wants to sign me up for a modelling agency. I’m officially placed in the nexus of my greatest sense of self - the desire to be beautiful, attractive, seen and physically appreciated and my over-whelming fear of rejection - my inability to reach this actualisation.

(Side note, I want to buy some heets, so I can smoke. However, I’m worried if I smoke I will fill up the gap of this moment and close whatever realisation I’ve had. I won’t be able to be self-reflexive. The moment now will go, I’ve healed whatever truth, whatever dys-appearance of it has occurred and we are firmly back in the fantasy. I’m holding off from this cigarette, I’m staring at it as I write. Keep writing, this is the work. That positive addiction we are trying to accumulate - produce, produce, produce. Don’t stop! The moment you stop you’ll get lazy and bored and you’ll never pick it up again. Don’t forget the lack. The lack, the lack. That’s what started this whole thing. What a wonderful experience to have! It was the sublime beauty and awe and fear all rolled into one. You’re nearly there, there’s nearly some catharsis. You feel better don’t you in your writing. Come on, keep going! You’re nearly home, don’t get distracted, don’t stop. You’ve got your cigarette as reward.)

I had started to feel better about my body. Going to Athens and eating good in the place that started it all. The western ideals of beauty. Granted these ideals have changed but still the driving principle remains. However, this process of looking at the photographs my mother has taken of me to upload to one of the biggest modelling agencies in the world has produced a downward spiral of anxiety and fear and self hatred that has led to the void. It’s not just that though. I feel stupid and ridiculous, foolish for the fact that some part of me is excited or turned on by the possibility of the life as a model - foolish by the fact that I see these photos and hate how I look. I am torn between reality and fantasy. My disordered eating was nothing but another attempt to fill the void that at once helped but was also unable to assuage the initial problem.

Think again of the cut as described by Eva Hayward. it is at once ecstatic, liberating and freeing whilst also violent, harmful and painful. I got somewhere. I was finally skinny, unattractively so, but that didn’t matter. Even though part of me felt like I had entered the world of beauty accepted by the mainstream, by hegemonic standards, I knew my pass was only based on a very stupid and small action - one that I would have to hold onto for dear life as my only life line into this space. If I let slip, then bang! I would be ugly again and whilst I’d felt disgusting and repulsive my entire life, once I’d tasted from the fruit of that obscene and cruel world of beauty, going back would feel even more destructive, even worse. I wouldn’t be able to live with it, to live with myself. There is no moral ground in healing or dealing with this ultimate existential dread. Ethics and morals is the wise man’s foolish game. There is no such thing has a given good. The cut it not good. Just a necessary act of painful liberation. But liberation in this sense, because it is painful, is not necessarily a 'good'. There is no value to it. In the same way you move your leg experiencing cramp to be free of it's restraint and burden. To move the cramped leg hurts just as much - only this time with the potential of freedom. None of this can be held in regard to a value judgment. There is nothing good or bad (in the ethical not the materialist sense) about starvation. There is only it's immediate context - the desires and needs form which it arises.

(Oh no I’ve bumped into Lily in the living room, we are going to have to talk - lock yourself in the toilet to finish the flow before you fill the void again. We enjoy the void when we play with it. She’s actually quite a fun place to hang out when you lean in - or lean out through writing.)

There’s no conclusion to this. The void cannot be spoken about clearly. The only effects are the writing around it I can attempt to produce. I cannot speak to that initial horror. I guess I should at least make some effort to close the chapter. To understand what happened. Everything in my body, my psyche, is trying to stop me from cornering it off, facing it again dead in the eye. To analyse it head on. Alas, I shall try. I had to look at these fucking pictures. I was so comfortable in the little life that had been given to me, built around me. As aforementioned I could control whatever tension might have manifest through quibs, faux martyrdom, and the dramatisation of the event: “oh god nan’s on one!” Blah, blah, blah. But now there was nothing to hold this up. I couldn’t hide anymore. My sister had gone, I was faced with my mother and her new project that consisted of placing my body (a body I have scrutinised for ever but never more so than the last couple of years) at the centre of not only a supposed limelight but my own conscious. I had to look at those fucking pictures and understand what it meant, no what I was “saying” when uploading it to that website. I was claiming a space I desperately wanted (why the past tense, I still want it) but know I can materially never have. And there was nothing. Nothing I could do. The safety net was gone. There was no comfort, no lies, fantasies, narratives. Nothing but the bad feelings. The reality of my own insecurities and inabilities in relation to the wide world. I was faced with the very gap between my fantasy and my reality. That’s the true lack. The unrequited object of desire, the gap between fantasy and reality. I don’t know what’s more embarrassing: the reality of the event or the coming to terms and realisation of the fundamentals of fucking psychoanalysis.

It’s easy to say it’s all bollocks. And to some degree it is. I don’t fuck with that whole Oedipal bullshit or that mirror stage farce. But Freud wasn’t wrong about that intrinsic moment. The initial fear of having nothing and worse not knowing what to do with it but fill it up. Is this what all that mumbo jumbo, hocus pocus, self-love stuff is all about. Trying to fill the void in the healthiest way possible. If so, I think my cigarettes are just as valid thank you very much. Just as worthy of a lie as your deep breathing exercises, because at the moment, nothing feels like it can really compete against that nothingness.

In writing about the nothingness I feel it’s pull and force just as strong. What was the point of this diatribe. Who knows. I don’t think it’s answered anything profound. If anything, it’s made me look like a fool. And that’s the problem, to write from existential dread is to see its endless sea and terrain. It touches everything. All I can say is happy Easter, I’ve looked into the hole, unfiltered. I’ve felt its presence as non presence and understood exactly what it was for the first time in my life. I’ve felt my initial response to its creeping appearance and have nothing cathartic in the end but this silly post. This silly text. I spent the rest of the night drinking, smoking, eating - doing all the things my body needed to heal from the threat of those images. The threat of my mother's burden. Perhaps that’s all we have, crutches. But my god, maybe we should just enjoy them for what they are - soggy bits of paper mâchée to fill up the gaps when they arrive, blowing a hole through the walls.

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