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ororowrites · 6 years ago

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Erik Stevens and OC- Could’ve Been - just friends (chap. 2)

Characters: Erik Stevens and Essence Jones

Warnings: drugs and language

Word Count: 3,671

Based on the song: Just Friends by Musiq

Prelude - Chapter 1

It had been seven years since Erik and Essence witnessed the murder of N’Darius Stevens. That single moment changed their lives forever. Erik was sent through the system, bouncing from foster home to foster home until he landed with an aunt he barely knew. For two years, Essence didn’t even hear from him, causing them to grow a part. They used to talk everyday, even when they had arguments. Now it seemed like they were strangers getting to know each other all over again.

By the time Essence and Erik reached 9th grade, Erik moved in with his aunt and began attending high school with Essence. Occasionally they would talk, or hang out to do homework but Erik was best friends with another group of people. Some days he missed school without explanation and would come back decked out in the latest Jordan gear. He hung out with people like Big Chucky, the neighborhood dope dealer. Anyone else wouldn’t be shocked by Erik’s behavior or the people he hung around on a daily basis, but Essence. Her childhood best friend was rough around the edges, but he never seemed like the type to be a gang banger.

Watching after her troubled friend wasn’t Essence’s only dilemma. Tyra Lennox, her mother, had returned home from her latest stint in prison. Grandma Hazel watched after Essence as long as she could, until she passed away from lung cancer two years after Tyra was released. That sent Essence back to live with her mother, a woman that barely deserved that title. Tyra had four children, Essence being the only child living with her. The other three children lived with their father.

“Essence, get your little ass down here. Now,” Tyra yelled up the stairs. Essence was in the middle of studying for an exam. The teenager rolled her eyes and followed the order. “Girl thinks she can do whatever the fuck she wants,” Tyra was mumbling under her breath when Essence appeared in front of her. “What the fuck is this?”

Confused, Essence didn’t answer right away.

“Little girl, what is this,” Tyra questioned again, holding up a wad of cash she had found. “You hiding money from me for a reason?”

Truth be told, Essence was saving money to move out and away from Chicago. Her mother was toxic and negligent. Nothing good was ever going to come from her living with the woman and Essence was counting her days.

“No,” Essence lied, eyeing the cash as Tyra counted it. Three hundred dollars. “I can barely pay bills around here and you hiding all this money? I should slap you, get outta my face.”

So much for saving to move away from the hellhole she called home. To keep Tyra from lifting a hand, she swiftly turned and ran up the steps. When she reached her bedroom, Essence threw herself on the bed and screamed into a pillow.

At school, Essence was usually the standout student when it came to subjects she loved. She enjoyed history and mathematics because it challenged her more than the likes of science and language arts. Science had always been her least favorite unless they were learning about space and the planets.

In her last semester, they were required to take advanced chemistry which was her least favorite class of the day. It was the only class she had with Erik, who could do the work with his eyes closed.

“Whaaaat, you decided to come to class today,” Essence said to Erik as he drug his feet across the floor and to his desk. “Long time, no see.”

Erik grunted under his breath, throwing his bag to the side and taking his seat. He didn’t even look her direction. Maybe he was tired. Big Chucky kept his dealers up all throughout the night doing his dirty work.

As class went on, Erik was on his phone when the teacher wasn't looking. He typed quickly, sending multiple texts to Chucky and the boys that worked under him. Not paying attention herself, Essence kept her eyes on Erik’s screen, hoping to catch a peek into his new life. With no luck, she went back to taking notes until they had to pair up for classwork.

Erik had been quite distant lately and their friendship had never truly recovered from the two years they lost touch. Essence attributed it to them getting older and simply growing apart but she knew if Big Chucky wasn’t in the picture, they’d be close. Since Erik was rarely around, Essence didn’t get the chance to talk to him much and decided to take advantage of the opportunity.

“You going to prom,” she asked, peeking up through her long lashes.

“Yeah probably. You,” Erik replied, working out three formulas in record time. “Who you going with?”

The nerve. Erik had been acting funny all this time only to question her about a date to prom. “With Gregg Patrick,” Essence muttered, staring at the next question on her classwork. What the fuck was this shit? Erik explained the answer and then went on to question her choice to go with Gregg Patrick, captain of the basketball team. “Because I’m grown and can do that. Do I questions your choices in hoes?”

“Dude is wack, that’s all I’m saying,” he explained, a tinge of jealousy present in his statement. “And I don’t have time for hoes. I’m getting this money.”

“What makes him wack, Erik?” Essence propped her chin on her hand, giving Erik her undivided attention. “Exactly, you can’t even give me a reason.”

Truth be told, Erik and Gregg didn’t see eye to eye because Gregg was an enemy on the streets. Essence tried to keep her street knowledge to a minimum because it was easy to get trapped in that life. So many times she was close to jumping in with some of the other kids in her neighborhood that got trapped. Whatever could get her out of the life she lived, she would do to escape to a life she had yearned for.

“Whatever, E. Do you,” Erik shot back. “I’m going with Linda though.”

“Linda? Linda Franklin? What the fuck,” Essence gagged. “Hasn’t that girl been with 10 different dudes in our class?”

“Oh, so you get to go with that punk ass Gregg, but I can’t go with Linda? You are something else, Essence.”

“Your nosey ass was in my business. You act all funny with me but wanna know everything,” Essence argued back with a bit of bite in her voice.

“Act funny? What the hell you talkin’ about,” Erik bit, putting his pen down. Oh, that struck a chord.

“We barely even talk like that anymore because you act funny. Ever since you started hanging with Big Chucky and ‘em,” Essence explained. “Don’t try to act like I’m not telling the truth.”

Erik attempted to act like he was shocked but it quickly turned into him getting defensive, “Man, I been busy. Ain’t nobody acting funny with you, E.”

“Mmmm okay. If lying helps you sleep at night.”

They spent the rest of the class working alone until they heard a commotion outside the door. Students ran to the window, peeking through the blinds and ignoring their teacher’s plea to sit down.

“The police are out there,” DaMia yelled at her classmates, causing everyone to push to get a better look through the small window. “And they got dogs!”

“Shit, I bet they lookin’ for drugs,” Marcus added, pushing Essence to the side. “Ohhhh, somebody is going to jail.”

Somehow Erik and Essence’s eyes met. She said a silent prayer for him and hoped he wasn’t dumb enough to bring drugs to school. He had to be smarter than that right? Erik didn’t appear to be phased by the commotion in the hall. He simply shrugged his shoulders when she mouthed ‘you carrying?’.

Fifteen minutes later, the police were escorting three students down the hall. Essence recognized them as boys that hung around Big Chucky in the neighborhood.

“Damn, I didn’t know Harry was selling,” one of the students mumbled.

Erik glanced at Essence again before returning to his seat in the back of the class. The one day he didn’t bring anything to school, his boys got busted. He wasn’t worried about getting snitched on because no one in the hood snitched. There was an unspoken rule in the streets about snitching on your brothers.

Even though his friends’ lips were most likely zipped, Erik had somewhat of a reality check. That could have easily been him.

Prom. That time of the year where everyone was trying to outdo their peers and spending way too much money to achieve that task. Essence had saved up enough money to buy a prom dress from one of the local thrift shops. One of her friends did small alterations that were good enough to hide the fact that the dress was too large. She rode the bus to the event center where her date, Gregg, was waiting outside. Neither one of them had a car or money to rent one but Essence was fine with how things were. Just as long as she got to attend her senior prom, she was happy with whatever transportation got her there.

“You look beautiful, Essence,” Gregg was in awe of his date. She looked radiant in the hot pink satin. Against her skin, the color popped, making her stand out in the crowd of high schoolers.

“Thank you. I love this tie. Matches my dresses perfectly,” Essence replied, moving her hand along the silk fabric. “You got our tickets?”

“Oh shit,” Gregg’s eyes widened. “I’m kiddin’, I got them.”

Essence slapped his arm, “Don’t play like that. I would have found a way inside, anyway.”

“I’m sure your bad ass would have,” he shook his head in return and led Essence into the event hall.

Their school district didn’t have a large budget when it came to dances and events, but they made sure their students could enjoy things like the other children on the opposite side of town. The hall was decorated to match the deep blue sea. Blue lights made the room resemble the ocean. Fake fish hung from the ceiling and the photobooth resembled a submarine. For a group of children who could barely afford to get into an aquarium, they were excited about the decorations.

For the most part, the night ran smoothly. The food was decent for food served at a high school prom, the DJ was good and people appeared to be enjoying themselves. Essence was sure she sweated her relaxer out from all the dancing she was doing. When it came time for the slow dance, Gregg found his date and pulled her to the middle of the floor. As she wrapped her arms around Gregg’s neck, she caught the eye of Erik who was dancing with Linda’s hoe ass.

Essence smiled slightly and rested her chin on Gregg’s shoulder when he pulled her close. Erik stared a few more seconds before looking away. Essence could feel the tension without him even saying a word. Their relationship had been weird and she still didn’t understand why. They had experienced a tragedy together and instead of staying close, the once best friends barely hung out when they weren’t in class.

“You good,” Gregg asked a zoned out Essence. The song had changed and she was moving offbeat in her own little world. “Essy?”

“Huh….oh yeah, I’m good,” she answered, still thinking about the past few years of her life. High school was about to be over and she wasn’t sure what was next. She had been accepted into a few schools but leaving Chicago was scary. Even when she didn’t have anyone besides her mother who half the time acted as if she didn’t love her. If she left, would she ever return? What about Erik?

“You sure? You keep stepping on my toes,” Gregg chuckled, pulling back to get a good look at Essence. “Don’t tell me you’re falling asleep standing up.”

“No, just enjoying our time,” she answered, returning to Gregg’s shoulder. They weren’t dating but Gregg was a good friend to her the past couple of years. He was moving to Baltimore with his father after graduation.

After their dance, the two separated for the remainder of the night. Gregg went to hang out with his boys and Essence with her two best friends. When the night was over, Gregg said his goodbye and got on a bus to head home while Essence went with a group of girls to a hotel afterparty. Unlike Gregg, Essence didn’t have a curfew because her mother more than likely wasn’t home anyway.

The party wasn’t too wild but Essence kept to herself. She didn’t want to be involved if the cops got called on a bunch of kids drinking underage and using fake ids to get a room. Erik was at the party without his date but Essence still kept her distance. Instead, they watched each other from their corners until Erik sent her a text.

I need to talk to you. Meet me in the room next door.

They had two connecting rooms for the party and everyone was crowded on one side until someone wanted to get freaky. Essence followed Erik into the next room, watching him lock the door behind them.

“What the hell is your problem,” he asked Essence.

Confusion set in because from her experience, he was the one acting an ass. “Huh? What you mean?”

“You’ve been watching me all night like we got beef. What’s up?” Erik settled on the bed while Essence stood by the door. “We not cool anymore or something?”

Was he being serious? Tonight wasn’t the night to argue with Erik over their friendship when he was the distant one. Essence wasn’t going to beg for his attention either. “Are you for real? You wouldn’t have noticed me watching if you weren’t watching me yourself. I told you already. You’ve been acting hella weird with me for no reason. I know we aren’t as close as we used to be but you completely cut me off to hang out with those knucklehead ass boys. So before you come at me for acting a certain way, check your damn self, Stevens.”

That was the second time he had been called out and honestly, he didn’t know how to respond. Time had its impact on their relationship on top of Erik being consumed in what he thought was bettering his life.

Essence sensed his inner turmoil and joined him on the bed. “What’s going on with you, Erik. For real.”

Since his father’s death, Erik had been angry and lonely. Instead of leaning on those who loved him, he took to the streets and made connections there. “I gotta get out of here. There ain’t nothing left here. Done seen two of my boys get popped, some of them in jail… I have a feeling I’m next. Ya know?” Erik kept his eyes on his hands, speaking on his feelings made him uncomfortable. But, he trusted Essence enough to know she wouldn’t judge him. “After my dad got...got killed, I been fucked up. Seeing that shit did something to me and I feel bad because you had to see it too.”

There it was. The main reason he tried to keep his distance was due to guilt. Seeing someone die right in front of her had created anxiety and fear that Essence tried her best to suppress. Erik saw right through her though. It was hard enough on him but he had seen some pretty fucked up things. Essence on the other hand was shielded by her grandmother’s love and promise to keep her safe.

“That wasn’t your fault. You didn’t know your uncle-”

“And what if he would have killed you? He was cruel enough to kill his own brother. He could have easily turned the gun on one of us next. I made a promise to protect you and didn’t keep it,” Erik explained. “You see where I’m coming from, E? That shit still messes with me. I’m getting out of here after graduation. Got myself into school and I’m not coming back.”

“You did protect me. You always have and I don’t understand why you couldn’t talk to me about how you felt. All this time I just thought you were being an ass,” Essence replied, placing a comforting hand on his knee. “I mean that shit, Erik. I’ve always felt safe with you.”

His eyes finally shot up as the mood shifted. The wall that had formed between them was beginning to crumble and the air didn’t feel as thick. “Really?”

“Yeah. Really,” she whispered.

Erik stared down at Essence’s lips as if he wanted to kiss her. That urge had never been there before and it felt odd. Going against the voice in his head, he leaned over and placed a gentle kiss on her lips to test the waters. It took Essence by surprise because Erik had never shown interest in her. Maybe he was simply thanking her for being a good friend.

“What was that for,” she asked completely dumbfounded by his actions.

Before he could answer, a banging on the door pulled them away from each other. “Ya’ll fuckin,” one of Erik’s boys yelled. If Essence were lighter, he would see the red rising to her cheeks.

“Dude, shut the fuck up,” Erik growled, pushing his nosey friend away from the door.

They didn’t speak on that kiss for the rest of the night...or ever again.

Two Years Later

After high school graduation, Erik headed to California while Essence headed South to Texas. Not too long after graduation, her mother Tyra was back in jail for fraud, leaving Essence motherless once again. That gave Essence an opportunity to leave her life in Chicago behind to start a new one on her own. For the most part, she was on the right track with a few bumps in the road. To put herself through community college, Essence worked two jobs. Her relationship with Erik was still on the mend, as he navigated school himself. Leaving Illinois was the best decision he had made due to the type of life he was living. Big Chucky still had a hold on the community, forming gangs and selling dope around the neighborhood.

For Spring break, Essence decided to visit Erik in sunny California. She had never been to the west side of the country and was excited about the adventures Erik had planned for the week.

“Boy, open this damn door,” Essence yelled, slapping the door to Erik’s off campus apartment. He opened up, his big Kool-Aid grin on full display. “I think I got the wrong place. My bestie is kinda skinny and can’t grow a beard that connects to save his life. Who are you,” she teased, taking in all the differences in Erik’s appearance. Mini dreads, a full beard and bulging muscles. Under all that, he was still the Erik Stevens she knew from Chi Town.

“Well I’ve never seen you drool over me so maybe you do have the wrong spot,” Erik leaned against the door, looking for any differences in Essence since he last seen her in person two years ago. She was still slim, but her face had matured slightly, her cheeks not as chubby.

“Trust me, I’m not drooling, ugly,” she lied. The two friends fell silent for a short second before bursting out into laughter. “Hey crazy. So good to see you.”

“Likewise, E. It’s been forever,” Erik added, pulling Essence into a tight hug.

Being in each other’s presence made them both feel at home. Home before the tragedy took place and everything changed. They were free to do whatever they wanted. They rode around town blasting their favorite songs and just enjoyed each other’s company. Erik even took Essence to In-N-Out even though it was breaking his strict diet.

After roaming the town for the day, they settled in that night to watch Iron Man, which Essence had seen one too many times already. They were in Erik’s room, with the only television in the apartment. Like old times, they had their movie snacks and were spread out across the bed.

“You bet not touch my candy,” Essence exclaimed, slapping Erik’s hand away.

“Nigga, you been eating my popcorn though,” he argued, taking a few more despite Essence’s protest.

Thirty minutes into the movie, Essence was already leaning on Erik’s shoulder as he sat against the headboard. Usually this meant she was on her way to sleep and he wouldn’t be able to hear the rest of the movie over snores.

“Aye, don’t be falling asleep over there,” he gently tapped Essence with his elbow, interrupting her mini-nap.

“I’m not,” Essence groaned, resting her chin on Erik’s thick shoulder and peering up at him through her lashes. The big difference between now and when they were children was the innocence they held as kids. Now as adults, hormones and the weight of the world was on them. She knew she should have pulled away because they were crossing a line they would never be able to uncross. Essence hated to think that it was impossible to be friends with the opposite sex without being sexually attracted to each other. But it wasn’t all about Erik’s appearance. The way he always wanted to protect her and the genuine love he had for her was what pulled them closer.

This time it wasn’t just a peck and they had no interruptions. Iron Man continued in the background while Erik and Essence began making their own movie….

*record scratches* Oh, you all thought I was going to just give you the full thing right here? We will pick up right where we left off in the next chapter!

Gregg Patrick Faceclaim

Taglist: @theunsweetenedtruth @bakarisangel @supersizemeplz @itsjustshanie @turn-thy-paige @purple-apricots @thadelightfulone @nickidub718 @blackpinup22

#erik stevens #killmonger #erik x oc #black panther #black panther fanfiction #fanfiction #au #could've been #chapter 2

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janeofcakes · 6 years ago

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Chapter 104

**THE SEX HOLIDAY BEGINS!**

(John lays back on a reclining sun chair in only swimming trunks purchased from a local shop. Three days after the case with Giles and it is actually the first time he and Sherlock have left the Travers Cottage, the previous days spent living as nudists and having sex whenever the mood has struck.

John sighs and closes his eyes, his hands behind his head. This has, without a doubt, been the best and most relaxing holiday he has taken in his life. Even his mad fiance seems to be fully enjoying their leisure. Not once has the man mentioned a case, the Work, London, or boredom. John is certain that time will come, but isn’t going to bother with it until it actually does. He sighs again contentedly and decides that their honeymoon is going to be exactly like this.

John is pulled from his reverie when a soaking wet Sherlock, fresh from a swim in the ocean, jumps onto the sun chair and straddles the doctor’s thighs. John smiles, but does not move or even open his eyes. Sherlock grins down at him, bends forward slightly, and shakes his dripping curls over the smaller man.)

J: Oi!

(Hands going quickly from the back of his head to the front, John tries to shield himself from the salty shower. He looks up at its laughing source to see mischievous silver eyes and a joyful smile all tied up with the sexist cheekbones known to man. John doesn’t even try to feign anger and just beams up at Sherlock, resting his hands on his thighs.)

J: Ta. Have a good swim?

S: Exquisite. The water is perfect, John. Join me?

J: Why don’t you join me a while first?

(John wears a teasing expression and ghosts his fingers over the firm muscles under Sherlock’s light blue, and covered with bright orange fish, swimming trunks. He told the man they were ridiculous when they were in the shop that morning, but Sherlock had insisted. Thank god there hadn’t been any with bees.

Sherlock’s bright eyes glisten as he rests his hand on John’s shoulders and swoops in low for a kiss. John’s lips feel like fire against his own, chilled from the ocean water, making Sherlock hungry for more. More of John’s mouth and skin and warmth. He moves his mouth quickly to the hot skin of John’s jaw and kisses back to his ear, licking and kissing at the sensitive skin just behind its lobe. John cannot help but throw his head back on the sun chair, his mouth opening in tandem. Sherlock returns to those lips immediately, his plan having succeeded, and dives in. He licks at teeth and tongue, turning both their heads to deepen the kiss. John moans into his mouth, emboldening the detective.)

(His hands move down John’s chest and over his taut belly to his trunks. Their erections rub together when Sherlock tilts his hips down to grind onto John’s and the doctor moans again. His hands cup Sherlock’s face to hold the kiss. Long thumbs hook into the waistband of John’s trunks and begin to tug downward luxuriously.

One hip bone is exposed before John comes to his senses and opens his eyes. He grips the detective’s shoulders and pushes him just far enough away for their lips to pop apart. Sherlock’s fingers still and he pouts down at John.)

J: Sherlock, we can’t do this here.

S: Why ever not? We’ve spent the last two days copulating where ever we liked.

J: Yeah, in the cottage. We’re outside now. On a beach.

S: No one has been here since we arrived. Nor was there any evidence anyone had been before.

J: But anyone could happen by.

S: No one will.

J: You don’t know that.

S: (with an irritated sigh) What the evidence does suggest is that this beach is used infrequently and, therefore, not a major attraction to tourists. It is a small beach hidden away between high, grassy lands. Few are likely to even know it is here. Given the lack of footprints or any other signs of humans, it is safe to say we will not be seen or interrupted.

(He tries to lean down and capture John’s mouth, but the doctor presses back.)

J: No, Sherlock. Despite what you may think, I’m not one for exhibitionism.

S: Says the man who has strolled about without a stitch of clothing for the last two days.

J: (with clenched teeth) In. The. Cottage.

(Sherlock’s shoulders sag. John has the same stubborn irritation on his face he wore that morning when he gently placed his hand over Sherlock’s and told him what would happen if he put away the marmalade.)

S: (with a sigh) Oh, very well.

(He pulls John’s trunks back over his hip, but then grins mischievously.)

S: Care for a snog?

J: Oh god, yes.

S: That’s my favorite answer.

(With one hand on Sherlock’s cheek and the other in his hair, John pulls him down and crashes their lips together. They each maul the other with barely controlled desire. Their chests are pressed together tightly. Sherlock’s hands roam the doctor’s hard muscles and eventually find John’s hips. Holding them firmly with his long fingers wrapped around, Sherlock bucks hard against him. John gasps and Sherlock slots the man’s lower lip between his own.

John moans obscenely as Sherlock sucks and starts rocking his hips in a slow rhythm. It feels so good. Incredibly good. Bloody amazing. As the detective increases the pace and one part of his brain wishes he’d gotten their trunks off, another part wonders if John will object to going this far in public.

John Watson is not a simple man with a simple mind as Sherlock initially assumed the first few months of their friendship. However, Sherlock hadn’t have worried about John protesting their current activities. The only thoughts he is capable of are curses and Sherlock’s name. Over and over again.)

J: (gasping) Fu…fuck, Sherlock!

(Sherlock releases John’s lip to smile against his mouth and wonder at his doctor’s ability to form coherent words because he knows damn well he can’t.

Suddenly Sherlock bucks hard, uncontrollably, and continues irregularly. He tries to get back on pace, but he’s so close and it feels so good he can’t concentrate on anything but pleasure. He hears himself panting furiously, in danger of hyperventilation, but quickly realizes it isn’t just him.

Sherlock manages to open his eyes, an action that seems to require a ridiculous amount of concentration. John’s eyes are closed, mouth panting the same air as the detective. John looks so beautiful. Full of excited tension and yet, his features also hold a certain relaxed look. Sherlock finds his hips bucking in a rhythm again, slow and hard. John’s body shudders. He gasps and opens his eyes, unexpectedly meeting Sherlock’s.

Both men plunge over the edge, shouting curses and unintelligible words as they go. Sherlock continues his rhythm as the orgasm crashes over him and his fiance in waves, falling a little each time only to reach new heights the next time.

When it finally slows enough to stop thrusting against John, Sherlock lets go of his resolve and collapses upon the compact, little doctor. Both men still gasp and pant as they try to regain their senses. Sherlock hears a little laugh in his ear and feels short fingers stroking his wet hair. He purrs at the contact, arching his spine, marveling at the realization that he would be completely content if the rest of his life could be spent with John Watson’s fingers gliding through his curls.

John giggles breathlessly in Sherlock’s ear again and nips at it.)

J: Trouble with your words?

(Sherlock raises his head to look at John. His eyes full of intensity and emotion.)

S: Marry me.

J: (laughing) We’ve already covered this.

S: Marry me now. Here. Immediately.

J: And risk Mrs. Hudson’s wrath? Not on your life.

S: I want to be your husband now, John.

(John chuckles at Sherlock’s whinging and smooths fingers through his curls.)

J: And I want you to be, but we already told our friends about the wedding. (Sherlock pouts, his sumptuous lower lip out as far as it will go.) We won’t have to wait long. Autumn is right around the corner.

(John laughs when his detective huffs through his frown and drops his head onto John’s chest dramatically.

They snuggle together for quite some time until the distinct feeling of drying, crusting swimming trunks becomes obvious. After exchanging a knowing look, along with one of regret at having to separate, Sherlock pops up and offers John his hand. Once the doctor is on his feet, they continue to hold hands as they walk toward the water. That is, until a wicked smile comes over Sherlock’s face. He suddenly turns to John and pulls him close, ducking his shoulder down and lifting John off his feet in one swift movement. His deep laugh sounds as he jogs toward the waves.)

J: Sherlock! (grabbing at the pale skin of his back and pushing his torso up to try and look at his obnoxious fiance) Sherlock, put me down!

(Sherlock laughs again and splashes into the water.)

J: Sherlock!

(John continues to yell and Sherlock continues out into the water until a wave crashes into them, knocking the tall man off his feet and both men under. When Sherlock surfaces, John is already standing before him with arms crossed and brows furrowed. Sherlock can tell John isn’t really angry, so he simply shrugs while he wipes water from his face.)

S: Merely using my height to my advantage.

(John cracks a smile almost immediately and laughs loudly. Sherlock runs his fingers through his dark hair. John wraps his arms around his waist and pulls him close.)

J: Of course you are, you mad bastard.

(Sherlock drops his arms to John’s shoulders and presses their lips together. They sink together until only their heads and shoulder-tops are above the water, the waves bobbing them up and down a little as they talk.)

S: Where shall we go this afternoon?

J: You mean tomorrow. (Sherlock cocks a brow.) Because I intend to shag you into the mattress as soon as we get home. (kissing his fiance’s mouth for emphasis) Then we’ll take a stroll into town, have dinner, walk home, and lay in the grass to watch the stars.

S: Sex by moonlight. I like this holiday, John.

J: I knew you would.

S: We really should do it more often. (catching John’s mouth for a searing kiss)

#Sherlock Holmes #sherlockholmes #Sherlock #sherlock loves john #johnwatson #johnlock #John loves Sherlock #sherlock fanfic #Johnlock fanfic

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ttakemethere · 6 years ago

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100 day update.

I never planned to go to Australia. Of course, at some point I decided that I would come to live here and had to start working towards it. But to be honest, I can’t remember a distinct moment when I thought to myself “Yeah, I definitely want to go to Australia”. I grew up obsessed with Steve Irwin, who fostered my love for animals, and all things that seemed to push the border of normal. Maybe it was something that had been manifesting in me since childhood. Whatever the reason was, I left home knowing next to nothing about the country I was headed to. I knew the names and locations of a few capital cities, and that it was home to some of the world’s most deadly animals, but that was it. Suddenly one day I found myself at the airport saying goodbye to my parents with my backpack, and that was it. I was on a plane, and I had no idea where I was going or what I was getting myself into. I was absolutely terrified, but I couldn’t wait.

Maui was incredible. It was a dream holiday, and exactly what I needed after 70 hour/ 6 day work weeks. Yoga in the mornings, beach hopping, sunbathing, day drinking, jungle trekking, waterfall climbing, snorkeling with sea turtles, and partying the night away with new friends from around the world; it was the perfect “welcome back” to the backpacker hostel lifestyle I had missed. Breathtaking landscapes, friendly hostel mates, delicious food, long days, late nights, and the slow-paced island lifestyle was the cocktail I needed to kick off my working holiday. It was one of those destinations that make you want to freeze time and stay forever. Eventually though I woke me up from my island dream after managing to lose my wallet (the day before moving overseas!? No worries!).I spent most of my last day on Maui on the phone waiting on hold with my bank, eventually my roommate managed to coerce me into an afternoon beach hopping break to relieve me from the stress. I laid on the shore of Makena beach while I reminded myself of Bob Marley (and my Dad’s) words “Every little thing is gonna be alright…”

Sleeping in airport terminals isn’t the most glamorous part of traveling, nor is it my favorite, but it’s something that I’m no longer a stranger to. I had an overnight layover in Honolulu, where the airport welcomes stranded travelers with a designated area to sleep in. While the benches didn’t make the most comfortable bed I’ve ever slept on, I was able to catch a few hours of good rest. In the morning I woke to a beautiful sunrise bidding me a final goodbye from the states, and after the longest walk of my entire life to the other side of the world in the terminal, and a goodbye call to home I boarded my plane. A window seat in econcomy on a budget airline promised me that a year of adventure laid just a sore neck and a close of my eyes ahead.

The day I arrived in Sydney I felt pretty overwhelmed. I had just moved to the other side of the world, and since I’d lost my wallet, I only had the bit of cash I had brought with me. I was feeling pretty grateful for an exchange rate that worked in my favor, a hostel kitchen with 8 (eight!!!!) stoves, and a clean bed to relax in after the journey over. My first priority was to get my money sorted; it didn’t take long for the Sydney sticker shock to set in and I knew I needed to work it out. I was up with the sun my first morning to head to the bank where I learned two things: 1. It gets cold in Sydney (who knew that Australia actually has a winter too?!) 2: It would be over a week before I could get access to my money Deep breaths, everything is going be alright. Stressing out about it wasn’t going to get me anywhere. I’ve got this; I’ve done the whole hungry budget backpacker thing before. No worries.

In the midst of work/life chaos before leaving home, I had decided to book my first week in Sydney with a tour company. This was my first time doing organized travel and although it lacked a little freedom, I was glad that I had decided on it. They had set up my accommodation for the week and a few meals, so I didn’t have to worry about spending too much until I could get my card. I was grouped with some lovely and hilarious English and Canadians who were also starting out on their working holiday visas. It was comforting to be around people who were in the same boat as me, but it also was a bit strange to be at the mercy of whatever was planned for us. 6 days and 5 nights in Sydney and Port Stephens: complete of course with the obligatory city walking tour and pub crawls. It was an interesting change of pace from the travel that I’m used to. No planning on my part, just “Show up here at this time and we’ll take care of everything for you”. A harbor cruise and boat barbecue, an evening exploring the dazzling VIVID Sydney displays, yoga with kangaroos at an eco-hostel, a hike through Tomaree National Park, boarding through sand dunes, restaurants with food that looks like it came straight out of one of those trendy facebook videos, drinking games, nights out dancing, and a sales pitch just every now and then to gently remind you that your tour leader was getting paid to hang out with you. While it was fun to have my days filled with things that I probably wouldn’t have done on my own, I was desperate for a little independence which I was able to find at a couchsurfing meet-up.

I fell in love with couchsurfing while I was in Ireland a year ago. I was in Dublin, my first big city on my solo Europe trip and I joined a meet up for a hike on the coast of Howth, a fishing village an hour bus ride outside of the city. After our walk through the cold wind and rain, we took refuge at a jazz and blues festival pub crawl. Hours went by chatting to each other and listening to music before heading back into the city together. I had never met so many people from so many different places, and being new to traveling it blew my mind to feel so welcomed by everyone; I knew that I would definitely be doing it again. Shortly after I had gotten home from Europe I started attending meet up every week in Phoenix. I haven’t surfed yet, but I definitely plan to soon. When I got to the bar in Sydney, I was greeted by friendly faces, and after watching fireworks over Darling Harbor, I was invited to head to someone’s flat for pre-drinks followed by a Friday night out. I didn’t need much convincing, but the promise of free drinks and new friends made any hesitations I might have had disappear.

After a week in Sydney, I was ready to move on. My bank was going to forward my card to me, so all that was left to do was set up my phone plan, book my flight, and then I was ready to head out on the next chapter of my journey. After a bus ride, a flight, another flight, a bus, a few hours of sleep, and another bus, I arrived at my new home away from home. The Northern Territory: home of crocodiles, and barra fishing; where winter is a sunny 40 degrees Celsius, and men brag about the size of their fish. I would be spending the next 88 days working remotely in Kakadu National Park. Remote work is required by Australian Immigration to extend your Working Holiday visa from 1 year to 2 years. Where and what you can do depends on which visa you are on. But for me, this meant administration work at a hotel.

My bus left from Darwin at 6:30 in the morning, and after a 3.5 hour ride through the middle of nowhere, the bus pulled over and it was my turn to get out. It felt like a scene from a movie, getting off the bus with my backpack, walking through the doors of this little green hotel in the desert. Things moved pretty quickly as soon as I arrived and I started work the next day. It took a few days to get situated, but everyone I worked with were backpackers, so it didn’t feel too unfamiliar. What did take some getting used to was the isolation.

Kakadu National Park is more than half the size of Switzerland, and with a population totaling just 1130 people, it’s easy to feel small in such a big space. The hotel is a half hour drive from Jabiru, the only town in the park, which boasts a shopping center featuring a small grocery market, library, bank, police station, hairdresser, and an Olympic sized swimming pool (to which I regularly wonder how on earth they managed that). It’s pretty much impossible to get anywhere around the park if you don’t have a car without hitchhiking, however I managed to make it away from the hotel quite a few times in my first month. My first trip was to Yellow Water Billabong. We spent the afternoon on a river cruise learning about some the Aborignal history in the park and the unique wildlife, bird watching, looking for buffaloes, and of course, spotting crocs. A few days later we were off to Ubirr, the largest rock art site in Australia. On our way, we stopped at Cahills Crossing, the border to Arnhem land, where the aboriginal community live. At high tide when the river flows over the crossing, you can be eaten alive by mosquitoes while watch crocodiles at the edge of the water, waiting for fish to be pushed into their mouths. After finishing the climb to the top of Ubirr, you are welcomed by a 360 degree view of the park. Being there felt like I had been taken back to the Jurassic age. Looking out across the wetlands, I half expected to see a dinosaur, or lions and elephants walk across the plains. During this time of year, Wurrgeng season, the locals burn the land to prevent bush fires and help restore nutrients to the soil. The smoke from the controlled burns turns the sky beautiful colors, and the sun a deep glowing red. It’s a picture that each time I’ve visited reminds me of the opening scene from The Lion King.

Remote living is a unique experience. You work, sleep, eat, live, and play all in the same place with the same people. Imagine laying out in your backyard at the pool with a book on your afternoon off, then your manager walks through your back gate to let you know that the schedule has changed and now you need to be back in the office to close in half an hour. It’s your day off and you’re having a late breakfast in your kitchen in your pajamas, and in they come to tell you all of the things they would like you to do tomorrow. Work-life balance does not exist, they are one and the same. This made the work become frustrating quickly, and management challenging to deal with to say the least. As staff you quickly learn to rely on each other: celebrating small victories together, acting as an outlet for frustration, and taking a little extra time and effort to do things as a group. I found the answers to “what will I do tonight?” were different than they had ever been. Taking dinner out to the grass for a picnic instead of eating in the kitchen, grabbing a beer and going for a walk to the billabong at the back of the hotel, being workout buddies at the gym, drinking until late (which now meant 10pm) doing puzzles, playing and billiards in the rec room, or playing cards sprawled across the floor of your hotel room.

Of course my favorite days were my days off. While there were certainly hardships to living in the middle of nowhere without my own mode of transportation, it was the first chance I’d had in a long time to learn how to live life slowly. I no longer had to wake up early on my day off to make it to Bikram Yoga, or run to the grocery store and spend hours cooking in the kitchen (although I do miss those things dearly now). I could be lazy ,and not feel bad about it! I could sleep until my body decided it was time to get up, head to the gym when I felt like it, float in the pool for hours, listen to a podcast during a walk through the forest, read a book in my hammock, practice yoga at the gym, and still have hours left in the day to burn (my hula hoop, of course). And on the days when I felt like I had cabin fever coming on, I had the entirety of the park at my doorstep. A spur of the moment decision and catching the boss in a good mood meant you could ask for the keys to the company car. Maybe having an early afternoon off meant going for a drive to the Mamukala Billabong for some birdwatching, over to Burrunkguy to admire more rock art, and then to Nawurlandja to watch the sunset. On one of my lucky days I had the day off with someone with a car and we took the 3 hour drive through the park to Gunlom Falls. A 25 minute hike up a steep cliff led us to breathtaking views at the top of the waterfall (and with crocodiles being one of the most populous residents of Kakadu) meant one of the rare chances to swim in the infinity pools. One day after catching a late bus and being temporarily stranded, I even worked up the courage to try hitchhiking. It was a rough go at first, but after half a bottle of sunscreen I got picked up by a fisherman that took me to the South Alligator river. We cast a line out together and watched crocodiles swim by before taking me back to the hotel.

As backpackers, this was only our temporary home, and we all had another adventure planned when our 88 days came to an end. The nights before we said good bye were always my favorite: both fun and bittersweet. The bonds that formed over such close quarters always hurt a bit to sever, but it was impossible not to be excited for them to continue on their own journey.

One of the biggest things I have learned from traveling is to let go of my expectations. I didn’t really know what it would be like or what would happen living here, but I can say easily that most of this had never crossed my mind. The past 100 days have been a roller coaster ride of emotions and adventure, and as I enter my last week at Aurora Kakadu, I can’t contain my excitement for the future. I’m so grateful to all the people I have met along the way. What an incredible opportunity, to live in such a uniquely beautiful place (I mean come on, how many people can say that they’ve lived in a National Park that’s a dual listed UNESCO World Heritage site?!). It’s offered a unique glimpse into Aboriginal culture, and it has been a once in a lifetime experience that I will never forget. I’m looking forward to getting back on that bus in a few days and taking all the lessons that I’ve learned with me on my way. In 8 days I will be on a plane on my way to Queensland (home to the zoo of my childhood hero) to explore The Daintree Rainforest, and The Great Barrier Reef.

100 days down since leaving home, 269 days left in Australia, and then…. We’ll see.

#christina down under #australia #working holiday visa #kakadu #kakadunationalpark

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novantinuum · 7 years ago

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A Tale of Two Trollhunters (Ch. 2)

AO3

Fandoms: Gravity Falls, Trollhunters

Rating: T

Words: ~2500

Summary: Glass Shard Beach, 1967. When the trollhunter Kanjigar perishes years before he was supposed to, the amulet of daylight finds its next champion in a seventeen year old Stanley Pines. Now essential in the destiny of both the trolls’ subterranean world and the human one above, Stan, along with his twin brother and girlfriend, must fight to protect both worlds from the dark forces creeping in at the edges.

But destiny has a way of being unpredictable.

A Gravity Falls/Trollhunters fusion AU. Kind of a drabble series?

Note: Little to no knowledge of Trollhunters is required to understand this, I think, since Stan is going to discover this world for himself.

First chapter | Next chapter

Chapter 2: Daylight

Stan awoke to a soggy pillow, soaked in drool. His nose and mouth scrunched up in disgust as he wiped the slime off of his cheek. Already sensing from the dull throb behind his eyes that today would be more exhausting than usual, he dragged himself out from under the covers. He yawned, taking inventory of his surroundings. Ford was already halfway down the road to alertness and readying himself for the day, rummaging through his drawer for a clean pair of socks. Outside their window, he heard his dad shouting, the reason already explicitly clear to him. His brows threaded together, fingers fidgeting at the hem of his boxers. Aw shit, the man sounded pretty pissed off... “You okay?” “What? Uh-“ He flinched at the sudden address, Ford’s concerned expression focusing into view. Good grief, it was just his brother, just good ol’ Ford, nothing to bolt out of the room like Carla’s neurotic dachshund over. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he said, grabbing a pair of jeans off the top of a pile of clothes he’d scattered on the carpet by his bed. He gave them a sniff, and satisfied that they couldn’t stand up on their own, slipped them on. “Just had a really weird dream...” Images flowed through his still-waking mind, of iridescent blue and runic shapes. His journey to the beach at dawn, reading the text on the side of the amulet... the armor, the sword. It all seemed so unimaginable in hindsight, but the longer he was awake the more details he realized lined up pristinely with those foggy memories. He recalled hiding the amulet under his pillow when he finally returned to his room, and lo and behold it was still there. Granules of sand dusted his sheets, tracked in from the beach. Normally he’d wash his feet off before entering the apartment but this morning he failed to do so. And his father’s obvious anger this morning was proof that he indeed- as feared- impulsively shattered one of the pawn shop windows with a rock to make it appear as if a thief had entered in the early hours. None of it was a dream after all. However, he’d only know for sure once he got time alone to read those magic words again. “Good weird or bad weird?” Ford asked, tugging on his sneakers.

“Eh, I dunno. It’s all too fuzzy,” he said with a shrug, and slipped the amulet into his backpack when his brother was turned. “But probably no weirder than anythin’ your brain comes up with, yeah?”

He grinned, playfully elbowing him. Ford gave him that look he was so often at the receiving end of, complete with a single tilted eyebrow. Obviously he was not awake enough yet to enjoy some innocent brotherly pestering. A shame, really. He had a lot of quality material piling up. “Actually,” his twin said, pulling his bloated knapsack over his shoulders, “I haven’t remembered any of my dreams in much detail for a few years. So I can neither confirm or deny how weird my dreams may or may not be.” “Or what if- oh my god, what if all you dream about is boring everyday stuff, like reading, or eating a sandwich or taking a test?” he laughed. “But you’d never know because you can’t remember!” “Well, at least the subject of my dreams is actually mysterious, and I don’t talk in my sleep,” he quipped back, glancing pointedly at a spot somewhere behind him. Stan followed the path of his eyes to the polaroid of Carla pinned to the wall, and flushed a deep red. “S- shut up!” Ford grinned deviously. “Tell that to yourself.” ____

Stan exited through the pawn shop, locking the door behind him. Not that it helped much, with one of the front windows shattered to fragments. He cringed at the sight of glass scattered across the sidewalk, his father standing above the mess as he spoke with the local police. Uh-oh. Police becoming involved in this mess couldn’t pan out well. Damn, he wished he had more time to think through a plan before doing the first idiotic, impulsive thing his dumb mind could come up with. All he knew at the time was that he needed a way to keep the amulet without his dad knowing, which meant he couldn’t merely take it. If it went missing without a ruckus, he was sure he’d be suspect numero uno. But if it looked like an unrelated criminal broke in and stole it... he might have a chance to get away scot-free. So yes, he threw the rock. So sue him. The only trick to the plan now was convincing his father that he knew nothing about this. He yanked his worn backpack straps further up his shoulders, and walked towards him. “I see you’re finally up,” his dad greeted, as the police officer returned to their car. “Ford left for school fifteen minutes ago.” “Yeah, uh- what happened here?” he asked, feigning (what he hoped could be taken as) shock. “Some cretin threw a rock through the window while we were sleeping and stole that piece I showed you,” his dad huffed, crossing his arms. “There’s no sign of it, or any potential suspects.” “Geeze, that really sucks ass.” “Indeed it does,” he muttered, lightly kicking at a pile of glass with the toe of his shoe. “And it’s gonna ‘suck ass,’ as you so delicately put it, for all of us- repairs like this aren’t within our month’s budget. Hope you like rice, beans, and canned soup, son, because seems we’ll be having a lot of it.” “Aw, man. Is there anything I can help with?” Stan asked, scratching at his neck. His father crossed his arms and turned to appraise the damage once more. “I could use your eyes,” he admitted softly. “You’re the only person besides me who actually saw what it looks like. If you see that amulet, or anything suspicious around town, you let me know.” “I can do that,” Stan said with a nod. And it wasn’t entirely a lie, either- he’d definitely be keeping watch for any more strange occurrences after what happened early this morning. The catch was, he didn’t plan on ever telling Dad. He clasped his hands together. “Welp, I’m off to school. See you tonight.” The man merely hummed in response, and returned to scowling at the damage suffered by the pawn shop. ____

“For the glory of Merlin, daylight is mine to command,” he recited in a whisper, concealed from bystanders’ sight in the shadows of a back alley. With a pulse of light from the amulet, his feet lifted off the ground exactly like they had before. The armor materialized around him, and the grooves glowed blue for a second as he unceremoniously dropped to the ground, stumbling a little with the sudden added weight. He grinned, flexing his fingers. Very much not a dream. ____

“Are you okay?” Carla asked, leaning against the wall. She combed her fingers through her long curly hair, body language spiked with worry. “Yeah, ‘m fine,” he said as he unceremoniously dumped his notebooks in his locker. He fished through the crumpled papers in his backpack in search of his half-finished math homework, sneaking a glance at the amulet secured in one of the inner pockets. “Why does everyone keep askin’ me that today?” “Oh, I dunno, maybe ‘cause you look like you haven’t slept a wink in days?” she pointed out with a playful smile, and brushed the side of his face with the back of her knuckles. He eagerly leaned into her touch. They hadn’t seen each other since Friday, an unfathomable length of separation which in the world of teen romance might as well be a lifetime.

“Just had a rough night. I’ll be okay, babe.”

Her face dawned with realization. “Oh, is this about your family’s shop?” she said under her breath, carefully watching those passing by. “I saw it when I walked here. God, I’m so sorry that happened to all of you!”

“Naw, it’ll be fine,” he said, and slung his backpack over his shoulder. “It’s just a busted window, an’ hey, at least they barely even stole anythin’!” The final bell rang, gracefully interrupting his train of thought. Teens still loitering in the halls broke into sprint. Poor suckers, vying to reach their classes before teachers marked them tardy. As much as he’d love to avoid sitting in class for another excruciatingly long period, he knew far too well that he better follow their lead and dash as well. After all his offenses this term, Ms. Morgan had become annoyingly adept at catching him in the act of sneaking to his desk late.

“Go run, I’ll see ya’ at lunch,” he said with fondness, and kissed her cheek.

A wide smile blossomed across Carla’s face and she grabbed his hand, pulling him back to gift him with an additional kiss on the lips. “See ya’!” She retrieved her own bag from the ground and joined the flow of other students running down the hall.

Stan smiled dreamily, kiss still on his mind as he closed his locker and began the long march to Room 198, in the other wing of the school. He slowed down as he passed the first water fountain. Eh, procrastination at his locker already doomed him as tragically late- why bother running? It’s not like he cared about school that much. And so as the time passed ten o’ five he found himself entirely alone in the halls, excluding the hypnotizing ticking of the clocks.

Before he knew it the tempo of his march lined up with the timepiece’s.

The teen passed an empty classroom, and screeched to a stop faster than a crash test dummy flung mercilessly against a barricade. The hairs at the nape of his neck prickled with fiery intensity. He could swear he felt someone’s eyes locked onto him from within, from deep in the shadows. Feet propelled him at a crawl, and he slid flush against the door frame, wishing more than anything the amulet was in his hand now and not buried in between crumpled week old assignments. He closed his eyes, focusing on the rhythm pounding in his chest, focusing on what was real… what was tangible. Biting down restraint, he peered through the open doorway…

And saw absolutely no one.

Nothing but empty desks and half-erased blackboards. Not a soul stood in here. God, no one was spying on him. It was nothing but his overstimulated imagination, working overtime ever since he found that weird magical amulet.

“You dolt,” he scolded himself. “Gettin’ worse then your own twin.”

Go to class, his subconscious nudged him, and suddenly nothing else in the world sounded better. Go to class and forget about all this nonsense for a moment, Stan. It’s nothing.

It’s nothing.

____

He kicked a stray rock on the beach as he crossed the wind swept sand later that evening, wearing shoes for once. Ma would be proud, he thought, stifling laughter. His destination- the Stan O’ War- stood regally a few miles down shore, sail stretched tall and proud but tied off on the mast so the wind couldn’t catch it. Ford planned to meet him there soon, and then he’d whisk him into the caves to show the amulet in secret. That was his full plan, at least. First, one particular spot by the docks called intensely for a visit.

The mound of rubble acted as a significant enough landmark that he spotted it a fair distance away. His pace quickened, no longer paying any heed to avoiding piles of broken glass. Breath heavy as he came alongside it, he sat down next to the shattered stone. When his brother showed him this yesterday, feeding him theories about rock monsters, he’d scoffed at him. Back then he’d seen it as Ford bein’ Ford: comin’ up with wild conspiracy theories and desperately vying to find something out of the ordinary to prove he had a place in this world. He always understood why his bro felt so attracted to theories like that, but all the same he feared encouraging them, because what if others judged him even more for it? Ford was bullied enough already, he didn’t need a larger target on his back. Now, however- he slipped the amulet from his back pocket, holding it tightly in his palm- he imagined it’d be silly not to listen to him at least a little.

With the recent confirmation of the existence of magic, Stan couldn’t shake the theory that these two things were connected, amulet and stone. He wasn’t sure why, as being found on the same day was a harmless enough coincidence. It was more of a gut feeling, rising up swiftly within his core, vying to boil over with answers he wasn’t sure he was prepared for. Not for the first time his search for the truth left him lost, yearning with feverish intensity to understand his role in fate’s turning, if fate did in fact exist. Ma, despite being a fake phone psychic, wholly believed in fanciful stuff like that. When he and Ford were kids she used to tell them how she ‘sensed they were fated to bring balance to this world.’ Stan always thought it was one of those confusing adult metaphors then, and years later brushed it aside as empty parental encouragement.

But nevertheless, playing devil’s advocate, what if? What if destiny did play a role in directing people’s actions? What if there was a reason why this amulet ended up in his possession, how it called by name? The amulet’s crystal pulsed blue, and he gripped it ever tighter. He stood at the edge of a precipice, he could sense it. If only he were as clever as his brother, maybe then he’d know how to connect these cogs together.

Ford would join him in a few minutes, though. Best then to begin his walk towards the ship.

He traversed the shore, for once not able to find comfort in the gentle breeze of sea air or the sight of endless ocean horizon his heart ached for. What if something went wrong? What if the amulet wouldn’t work around other people, and Ford thought he was making fun of him? Or what if he snitched on him for stealing it from Dad? With so many negative outcomes to consider, should he risk telling his brother in the first place?

And yet… what would happen if he chose to keep it secret? He’d never kept secrets from his twin before, never. Where Ford went he followed, and vice versa.

It was written in their DNA.

____

I’m nearly finished writing the next chapter for this, excitingly- which will be the twins’ first meeting with Blinky and Aaarrrgghh. Such a fun bunch to write for, haha! Since this is a kinda... niche AU, if you enjoyed this I’d appreciate any comments on AO3 or reblogs you could give as support <3

Thank you for reading my madcap AU nonsense lol

#gravity falls #trollhunters #stanley pines #stanford pines #gravity falls fanfiction #trollhunters fanfiction #gravity falls au #carla mccorkle #filbrick pines #a tale of two trollhunters #my writing stuff

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theepitomeofsimplicite · 7 years ago

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Dear New York City,

You are incredible! I love your busy streets and young energetic crowd. You are simply vibrant of life just how I had imagined you (from the movies, Sex & the City shows, and the songs about you)! So many reasons to have a crush on you so where shall I start?

Butcher’s Daughter

Driving through Chinatown

Ok, here are some of my first impressions of you, NYC:

It is said of you that you are the entire world into one city. Could it be real? You have a platter full of food options! As you are being the hub of internationals and a known place for storied history, you satisfy anyone’s taste bud, I can’t make up my mind. How can I decide between a casual French bistro (Bagatelle, 1 Little West 12th St.), delicious house-made Italian pasta (La Sirena, 88 9th Ave.), Exotic Moroccan (Cafe Mogador, 101 Saint Marks Pl #1), spicy Korean (Kori Tribeca, 253 Church St.), fun cocktails and Mexican food (La Palapa, 77 St Marks Pl.), Barcelona-style tapas (Toro, 85 10th Ave.), German’s pretzels and beer (The Standard Biergarten, 848 Washington St. just outside of the Standard High Line Hotel and I’ll tell more later), Green Juice (Yep that’s also food trust me!) and far more as if I was in the mood for a health conscious Californian style (not just green juice) there is Dime (49 Canal St.). And let’s not omit American sandwiches (Tiny’s & the Bar Upstairs, 135 W Broadway), and comfort food made of shakes, fries and burgers (Bill’s Bar & Burgers, 16 W 51st St.). There is also the Michelin starred Chef Gunter Seeger at Gunter Seerger NY (641 Hudson St.) and for the gluten free folks there is Friedman’s Lunch (75 9th Ave. at the Chelsea Market which I’ll speak more about in this post). Alas, due to my devoted ramen international tour mission, my friend and I set our minds towards Ippudo Ramen (65 Fourth Ave.) as soon as we set our feet on you.

Ippudo NYC

Ippudo Tonkotsu Ramen

Shook off the night away at Le Bain (848 Washington St.), the penthouse club and roof top bar with an outstanding sweeping city and river view located at the Standard High Line hotel. You blew us away! The vibe was electric between the sparkly giant disco ball, the Afro kinetics music, the sweaty dance moves, with the sticky cranberry vodka on my hand. I’ll remember this moment for a while 🙂 Not to mention our pre-game with gin-based drinks at this speakeasy bar Bathtub Gin that is disguised with a front panel as a regular coffee shop. How dare you tricked us!! Fortunately a friendly local had mercy and pointed the place out to us. Piouf don’t you know I have the fear of missing out syndromes!!

Le Bain with a sweeping view of the river and the city

Some cool walls at the Standard High Line

Bathtub Gin is behind the facade of this coffee shop

The Maritime Hotel (363 W 16th St.) is one of your best places to spend the night in my opinion; friendly, quirky (how I personally like it) and cozy. Located right in the center of the Meatpacking District. This 24-hour neighborhood is found on the far west side of Manhattan and is bordered by Chelsea to the north and the West Village towards downtown. It’s a formidable plant for fashion and graphic designers, architects, artists, restaurateurs, stylists and even corporate headquarters. I enjoyed staying at this hotel in that unique style, it has a nautical-themed landmark with the signature view porthole windows and how I love the white and blue tiles at the restaurant bar and the outdoor terraces seemed just perfect for spring time. In the morning a modest continental breakfast was served at the hotel restaurant so I grabbed myself a quick bite of the bagel with some flavorful orange spread, a mini pain au chocolat, a hard boiled egg, a cup of black coffee and a fresh squeeze glass of OJ. I love the serene atmosphere there with plenty of sun rays through the large windows illuminating the brass surfaced pending lamps.

The Maritime Hotel Restaurant

Ice Wine from Montreal

My Instragram (non worthy) messy bed at the Maritime Hotel

The view port over Manhattan from the Maritime Hotel

Map printed furniture at the Maritime Hotel

Petit dej at the Maritime Hotel Restaurant

You are so walkable in lower Manhattan and it was a great way to see your beauty (your wall graffitis, your modern architectures, your red bricked walls, your apartment stair cases, your lively people, and your multi-culture). But if I didn’t care for strolling around in the cold, then there was the world known yellow cab which was very affordable too! Besides the hotel’s cool white-tiled exterior, I can find within a short walking distance anything ranging from roof top night clubs around the corner, espresso bars, bakeries, as well as street food stands (one in the front of the hotel), yummy late night pizzas (Brunetti Pizza, 626 Hudson St.) (especially required after too much drinks at 4 am), and have I already mentioned great restaurants and bars?!

Cool wall art

Greenwich Village street crossing

The signature NYC staircases

And more wall graffitis

Chelsea Market and the well known yellow cab

The Chelsea Market (75 9th Ave.) to me is where anything can happen and is only a block away from the hotel. You are spontaneous like that! If I ever get too lazy to walk out there into town and/or there is a snow storm alert coming, this covered venue is very special! One is expected to find anything ranging from espresso bar, pastries and freshly baked bread. A crave for fresh oysters there is The Lobster Place!! There, it’s a retail fish market with omakase sushi bar but also a raw bar where people can order and eat at the counter nearby the living seashells. There is even a German wurst place!! There are plenty of cool shops for gifts giving. I love this market!

Chelsea Market

Seafood Bar

Oyster Platter

The Lobster Place

Sight seeing to me is so boring but we strolled around town and set our sight towards The Flatiron Building then marched towards the Empire State Building. I got remotely distracted by the Museum of Sex and ought to call out Grant on this! Our last Vegas trip during thanksgiving holiday failed on us in finding adult shows for some sort of sex Ed haha I’ll skip the details there 😉 but anyone can read this post here! The Empire State Building was incredibly crowded (uncool!!) so we evidently ditched the queue and headed out towards the world known Times Square. Bright lights, giant billboards and honking everywhere! It was to say the least chaotic. Gotta get away now! Who really hangs out in Times Square aside from catching a Broadway show or… yeah tourists!!

The Flatiron Building

The Empire State Building

The chaotic Times Square

The Museum of Sex, was it really a distraction?! or an attraction? Can you tell me 😉

If anyone needed a breath of fresh air when the concrete walk way and the stinging sound of sirens and honking felt suffocating and exhausting, there is fun and relaxation in strolling in your parks. Aside from the obvious green area of Central Park, I loved the Brooklyn Bridge Park where my friend and I got to have a humble picnic; with the magical view over Manhattan in the dark contrast of what you do best which is to gleam lights and inspire us with your beauty. We hopped on a yellow cab and asked to go to Pier 11. I had the idea of getting on a ferry to have a good gaze at the scintillant Brooklyn Bridge by the night. My friend and I cheered with red wine in plastic cups (lack of sophistication here, not me!) set ourselves up on a butt- frozen stairwell of the Brooklyn Bridge Park. We had some crackers dipped in olive paste and some (unidentifiable) cheese. Despite the blazing cold where my fingers and toes stopped responding to my commands, I very much enjoyed taking you in for a brief and calm sudden moment.

View of the Brooklyn Bridge on the Jumbo Ferry

Sweeping view of lower Manhattan from the Brooklyn Bridge Park

A view of the Brooklyn Bridge from the Pier 11

After filling our stomach at Mr. Tuka Ramen (170 Allen St.), we needed to walk it off a bit right so we headed towards world renown Comedy Cellar to test your sense of humor. Are you that funny? Unfortunately you are ever so crowded so we again ditched the queue and got some late drinks at the hotel. I served my friend some of the ice wine I got from my trip to Montreal the weekend before. It was so sweet but so tasty.

Mr. Tuka Ramen

Tonkotsu Ramen

More sight seeing followed on our last day photographing the one World Trade Center and the memorial site, stopped by Wall Street to find the Charging Bull and the Fearless Girl. Finally walked towards the Battery Park to have a peak at the Statue of Liberty from a far distance. But on our way to Sunday Brunch, not Egg Shop,151 Elizabeth St.), not the Butcher’s Daughter (19 Kenmare St.) (the queue estimated to be 1 hour waiting time so no thanks!!) got a green juice (must have Matcha Fizz made of matcha, fresh lime, honey and rosemary ) at the Cafe Integral (149 Elizabeth St.) and amazing classic Persian food instead (Ravagh Persian Grill, 125 1st Ave.). On our way there, I got to see life through Greenwich village. Kids playing at the playground and youngsters shooting hoops. And other people brunching too. The Persian grill was phenomenal! I’d recommend to anyone! And finally time was up!

Greenwich Village strolling

Life in Greenwich Village

The Egg Shop for Brunch

Awkward me as a tourist

A ride towards the World Trade Center

Cafe Integral Matcha Fitz Juice

Classic Persian Food

Until next time darling, we’ll have another date! I promise 😉

New York City Dear New York City, You are incredible! I love your busy streets and young energetic crowd. You are simply vibrant of life just how I had imagined you (from the movies, Sex & the City shows, and the songs about you)!

#City Guide #Life #Lifestyle Blog #Lower Manhattan #Manhattan #New York #New York City #NYC #NYC City Guide #Travel

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addictedtojohnandsherlock · 7 years ago

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Chapter 56!!

**Sorry it’s been so long. Treatment is not without its sickness. I’m glad to get this chapter out. The sex holiday begins!**

John is pulled from his reverie when a soaking wet Sherlock, fresh from a swim in the ocean, jumps onto the sun chair and straddles the doctor’s thighs. John smiles, but does not move or open his eyes. Sherlock grins down at him, bends forward slightly, and shakes his dripping curls over the smaller man.)

J: Oi!

J: Ta. Have a good swim?

S: Exquisite. The water is perfect, John. Join me?

J: Why don’t you join me a while first?

(Sherlock’s bright eyes glisten as he rests his hand on John’s shoulders and swoops in low for a kiss. John’s lips feel like fire against his own, chilled from the ocean water, making Sherlock hungry for more. More of John’s mouth and skin and warmth. He moves his mouth quickly to the hot skin of John’s jaw and kisses back to his ear, licking and kissing at the sensitive skin just behind its lobe. John cannot help but throw his head back on the sun chair, his mouth opening in tandem. Sherlock returns to those lips immediately, his plan having succeeded, and dives in. He licks at teeth and tongue, turning both their heads to deepen the kiss. John moans into his mouth, emboldening the detective.

His hands move down John’s chest and over his taut belly to his trunks. Their erections rub together when Sherlock tilts his hips down to grind onto John’s and the doctor moans again. His hands cup Sherlock’s face to hold the kiss. Long thumbs hook into the waistband of John’s trunks and begin to tug downward luxuriously.

J: Sherlock, we can’t do this here.

S: Why ever not? We’ve spent the last two days copulating where ever we liked.

J: Yeah, in the cottage. We’re outside. On a beach.

S: No one had been here since we arrived.

J: But anyone could happen by.

S: But no one will.

J: You don’t know that.

S: (with an irritated sigh) The evidence suggests that this beach is not frequently used and, therefore, not a major attraction to tourists. It is a small beach hidden away between high, grassy lands. Few are likely to even know it is here. Given the lack of footprints or any other signs of humans, it is safe to say we will not be seen or interrupted.

(He tries to lean down and capture John’s mouth, but the doctor presses back.)

J: No, Sherlock. Despite what you may think, I’m not one for exhibitionism.

S: Says the man who has strolled about without a stitch of clothing for the last two days.

J: In. The. Cottage.

S: (with a sigh) Oh, very well.

(He pulls John’s trunks back over his hip, but then grins mischievously.)

S: Care for a snog?

J: Oh god, yes.

S: That’s my favorite answer.

John Watson is not a simple man with a simple mind as Sherlock initially assumed the first few months of their friendship; however, Sherlock hadn’t have worried about John protesting their current activities. The only thoughts he is capable of are curses and Sherlock’s name. Over and over again.)

J: (gasping) Fu...fuck, Sherlock!

(Sherlock releases John’s lip to smile against his mouth and wonder at his doctor’s ability to form coherent words because he knows damn well he can’t.

John giggles breathlessly in Sherlock’s ear again and nips at it.)

J: Having trouble with your words?

(Sherlock raises his head to look at John. His eyes full of intensity and emotion.)

S: Marry me.

J: (laughing) We’ve already covered this.

S: Marry me now. Here. Immediately.

J: And risk Mrs. Hudson’s wrath? Not on your life.

S: I want to be your husband now, John.

(John chuckles at Sherlock’s whinging and smooths fingers through his curls.)

(John laughs when his detective huffs through his frown and drops his head onto John’s chest dramatically.

They snuggle together for quite some time until the distinct feeling of drying, crusting swimming trunks becomes more obvious. After exchanging a knowing look, along with one of regret at having to separate, Sherlock pops up and offers John his hand. Once the doctor is on his feet, they continue to hold hands as they walk toward the water. That is, until a wicked smile comes over Sherlock’s face. He suddenly turns at John and pulls him close, ducking his shoulder down and lifting John off his feet in one swift movement. His deep laugh sound as he jogs toward the waves.)

J: Sherlock! (grabbing at the pale skin of his back and pushing his torso up to try and look at his obnoxious fiance) Sherlock, put me down!

(Sherlock laughs again and splashes into the water.)

J: Sherlock!

(John continues to yell and Sherlock continues out into the water until a wave crashes into them., knocking the tall man off his feet and both men under. When Sherlock surfaces, John is already standing before him with arms crossed and brows furrowed. Sherlock can tell John isn’t really angry, so he simply shrugs while he wipes water from his face.)

S: Merely using my height to my advantage.

(John cracks a smile almost immediately and laughs loudly. Sherlock runs his fingers through his dark hair. John wraps his arms around his waist and pulls him close.)

J: Of course you are. You mad bastard.

(Sherlock drops his arms to John’s shoulders and presses their lips together. They sink together until only their heads and shoulder-tops are above the water, the waves only bobbing them up and down a little.)

S: Where shall we go this afternoon?

J: You mean tomorrow. (Sherlock cocks a brow.) Because I intend to shag you into the mattress as soon as we get home. (kissing into his fiance’s mouth with desire for emphasis) Then we’ll take a stroll into town, have dinner, walk home, and lay in the grass to watch the stars.

S: Sex by moonlight. I like this holiday, John.

J: I knew you would.

S: We really should do it more often. (catching John’s mouth for a searing kiss)

#Sherlock #sherlockholmes #sherlock fanfic #sherlock and john fanfic #johnlock #Johnlock fanfic #john watson

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phogenson · 8 years ago

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Letters to My Manager: France Part II--Paris

The arrival in Paris featured protests. Something about the train employees deserving a raise. America has been getting back into the swing of protesting, flexing a muscle that hasn't really been flexed in fifty years. But as far as Paris is concerned, this is a regular occurrence. It's almost part of French identity and from the outside it requires a really sober mindset.

It helps to keep your wits about you, look dispassionately at the masses crowding the streets. Move like a kayaker navigating a river in a protest. Go where you want to go but also go with the flow. That worked for me. But this is something that I think is harder for Americans to do, step back from chaos around them.

For Americans protests are an experience to satisfy a need for catharsis, for the French protests are, I suppose, more of a way of life. Protesting has all the characteristics of a barbecue in the suburbs, plus property damage. It's almost part of the language, the shared experience of being Parisian is protesting, there is discourse in the discord. I saw guys in masks deface billboards right in front of me. There was much broader chanting and participation from protestors than I've really experienced in America. Like protesting something is an activity that brings the people of France together.

In Paris I got to meet with friends more than any place else in Europe. Paris remains a sort of hub of convention personally and globally speaking. My friend who lives in Paris and who was a guide for a few days explained that protests are a way of life. And so my time in Paris was characterized by a few critical social interactions which characterize a life style that has grown in Paris for centuries it seems.

The Air BNB was right at the edge of Paris a few stops past Bellville and it was the romantic apartment of Lost Generation writers like Hemmingway and Fitzgerald. For my part I dressed for the role. I wore ties and worked on a screenplay and drafted my notebooks at a tiny desk. But shortly after arriving I was also dressed for dinner with my friend from high school.

We met near Rambuteau and the Georges Pompidou Center and walked to a very casual restaurant. Things sound more glamorous in Paris than they actually are. Describing meeting places and casual meals out sound elevated upon reflection by words like "Rambuteau" at least to the American ear.

This was the first time there was someone who could speak French at hand. So to really get the tone of the conversation here, the first time we'd really spoken since high school, we were discussing how hard it was to say eau, the French word for water, in a way that the French would accept from an American. Yeah, I actually had trouble saying a one syllable word right. Probably I'll be able to say eau right after I've mastered the rest of the language.

After dinner we went to a café for drinks. A pastis is a classic, refreshing French cocktail. It's made with maybe two ounces of an anise liquor which you dilute with water. It's thick, white, and cooling with it's licorice snap. You can draw the shots out as long as there's a little water to add extending a fairly high proof drink over probably an hour or more of contemplatively watching the street. This, at least, is the idea.

At the time I'd basically given up drinking since starting on medication, I could feel the difference in my drunk on Zoloft. Back in Minnesota I had a drink with a home brewer friend in advance of starting on Klonopin and basically gave up drinking afterwards. At home I didn't drink. In Italy I would have a single glass of wine with a meal. We'd had maybe two glasses of wine with dinner, and now were sipping apéritifs. And I wasn't ready frankly. I stopped as I felt like my muscles were slowing down. I was well focused, walked home fine, but at some point between medication, wine, and liquor it felt like my body wasn't quick on the uptake of my will. Even so the night was comfortable and friendly beyond belief, typical of my time in Paris.

This apéritif after dinner is how the endless nightlife begins, how authors write about benders going overnight. Walking into clubs and bars and cafés and getting drinks at five in the morning. In Paris everything seemed open. The city really offers up culture, high rolling class isn't really out of the way. Glamour is accessible. I think this is why doing any shopping was most rewarding in Paris. The guard was down around haut-couture.

Later I asked a psychiatrist what the real risk of drinking while on benzos was. "That you'd stop breathing," she said. Which makes sense. Ethanol and benzodiazepines alike amplify inhibitory signals, basically messages in the nervous system which say "stop" or "don't fire" to any site. All day for your entire life there is a nerve telling your diaphragm to breath in with a constant "fire... fire... fire" message. Too much inhibitory signals and that message stops getting through.

Experiences I'd have later made me more worried about my heart stopping, but this is really not the fear because the heart more or less innervates itself. The heart runs away under the presence of so-called downers like benzos and alcohol, but breathing stops leaving you drowning like a fish out of water. I started thinking about my tolerances with drinking starting then.

The next morning we went around the older quarters of Paris and ended at the Lourvre.

Another friend of mine was finishing a masters degree in England at the time as well. We'd stayed in touch ever since he left Minneapolis, but we'd probably only talked last time we were both in our native Chicago. He insisted on meeting in Montmartre.

We ate lunch at a place across from the restaurant in Amélie. It was crowded. A constant feature of the streets in Paris is that they are packed. Tourists or protesters or commuters alike, on the metro, outside the many train stations, on the streets the city is filled to the brim.

Paris has a close affinity with Chicago where I and both my friends are from. They're sister cities and it's easy to understand why, there's deep kinship. Both cities are carefully planned with wide boulevards and park space, a legendary metro, and they actually have similar populations. Which seems unbelievable, especially when you're standing in the mess of people passing through Paris. Perhaps the difference in the density of the human mass I experienced in Paris is drawn out by the ridership on the metro which is significantly greater than Chicago.

Walking around Montmartre was walking through a crowd the entire time. Many tourists, many local shoppers. Many headed to see a vista of the city, one that's not from any edifice in particular but a natural high point in the city.

Eventually my friend departed at the Gare du Nord where the Eurostar picks up. This was where I'd depart Paris in a few days.

Independently, I spent a great deal of time feeling in love with the people I was with here. Which was easy with the marked romance of the place. The sites encourage those kinds of feelings. Sites like the Pont de Bir-Hakim which mixes cultural items from my life like Inception (2010), Parks and Recreation, Munich (2006), and probably more than I can think of, all together into a unlikely sweep of the city.

The Luxembourg Gardens are among the most pleasant park space in the city. There's grandeur and whimsey together there--a paradigmatic combination of French cultural items. You can find the same feelings in Le Petit Prince or a small crystal palace with toyshops and stationary stores in a row. In the Luxembourg Gardens there's classical sculptures from the 19th century. There's model sailboat racing in a fountain. And there are some quiet places to sit. And you can easily avoid sight of the hideous Tour Montparnasse which is difficult in other open spaces in Paris.

Leaving was a return to the protests that greeted the arrival. And this time it was a problem, time was ticking again and it was going to be difficult to get to Utrecht, the next and final stop I had to make. "Try to take a train to Lille and hope that there is a train leaving for the Netherlands," was the gist of the advice because trains were not really running consistently. That's exactly the route that took us across Belgium eventually.

#Paris #Travel #Letters #Klonopin #Hemmingway #Fitzgerald #cocktails

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jamest-kirk · 8 years ago

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Thanks for the link, I'm on my iPad so couldn't see the rules! Ok, so the crew are on shore leave and Jim takes Bones to an alpine cabin (maybe just as friends for now - both can be pining). Storm hits and they can't contact anyone, just as Bones falls sick. So Jim has to look after him until they can be rescued. Basically some sick Bones, concerned/caring Jim and a happy, McKirky ending ☺️ you can alter any aspect of my prompt, these are my main requirements 😉 Thanks!

“What are we doing here?” Bones asks, dropping his bag on the hard wooden floor. “Look,” Jim says, dropping his bag right next to Bones’, “you diagnosed me with stress-” “I never did that,” Bones replies. “- and I know you are. So I just thought: weekend away, just the two of us. We can go hiking tomorrow, there’s a BBQ here, and a big TV in the living. We’ll watch the game at night, and… did I mention the hot tub?” “You had me at hot tub,” Bones says, and Jim snorts. “That was literally the end of my sentence.” “Okay,” Bones says, “but I’m taking the bedroom.” Jim watches Bones’ backside as he walks away. “Wait,” Jim says, “there’s only one bedroom?”

The first night they’re there, the weather is fantastic. It’s chilly, yeah. But the hot tub makes up for that. They sit together, drink beer in the warm water. At night, they watch a game on TV while enjoying toast and soup Jim brought along from the small shop a few miles away. But Bones starts falling asleep on the couch after at least four beers and a movie’s on. It’s honestly among the best things Jim has ever seen. “You know,” Jim says, hand on Bones’ leg, “we can always continue this party in the bedroom.” He does that extremely over the top wink, and Bones laughs. “G'night, Jim.”

It’s grey and eerily quiet when Jim wakes up. His plans are to have a quiet breakfast, go for a long hike. They can even go hunting and fishing, and have a BBQ on the porch at night. Honestly, that sounds pretty great. As long as there’s another night of Bones stripping to get into the hot tub, Jim’s all for it.

But they never actually get very far. When Bones wakes up for breakfast, he looks pale and he has very little apetite. Not just that, it starts snowing. Which is incredible at first, because growing up in a world of climate change, Georgia is mostly warm and sunny all year around. Jim finds out, to his amazement, that Bones has never actually experienced snow before. So they go outside, Bones forgets about feeling a bit sick for a while. And he looks so good, dressed in that warm comfortable jacket, snowflakes sticking to his hair. They walk down to the lake. Fishing isn’t so bad before the water’s frozen over. But the snow continues falling, and the wind is cold. Bones pretends to be fine, and -fuck, he looks handsome- but Jim can tell he’s not feeling himself. And the walk back is terrible; a full on snow storm hits them and they make it back to the house both feeling thoroughly cold. “I’m gonna take a shower,” Bones says, and Jim grins. “Want me to join?” he asks. Bones rolls his eyes at that. He doesn’t technically say no, but Jim decides not to follow him after all.

Things get considerably worse quick; Bones gets a full on flu. At night, Jim hears him cough and groan, but at least it’s over tomorrow. They can go back home.

Or not, because their comms are down because of the storm. For some reason, no one is reacting to any of their messages, it’s just static. Bones is getting progressively more sick, too. He doesn’t really eat any solid food - which is okay, because the most they have is canned crap from back when they could still make it to the local shop. Now, though, the snow is thick and there’s just no way. Jim suggests, though, but Bones shakes his head. “Are you crazy?” he asks, “you might get lost in the snow and freeze to death. I don’t want to be stuck here by myself.” “Aw, you’d miss me too much?” Jim grins, nudging his elbow. Bones’ skin feels hot and Jim reaches out, pressing a hand on Bones’ forehead. “You playin’ doctor now?” Bones asks, tilting his head to the side, and ignoring Jim’s worried frown. “You’re sick.” “No shit,” Bones says, “who brought me to this place?” “This place is fine!” Jim counters, “I don’t control the weather.” Bones huffs, quietly turning towards the TV. He falls asleep pretty soon after, and Jim pulls him in closer when he feels the other shiver.

Jim did bring some chicken, so he makes chicken soup to the best of his abilities. It’s quite salty, but that seems to make Bones feel a little better. Even if just for a little while.

A day after they were supposed to leave, they’re still there. It’s infuriating, and now Jim starts feeling sick, too. Not as bad as Bones, honestly, but definitely a cold. So Jim curls up next to Bones on the couch, both covered under a bunch of blankets. “I hate you,” Bones mutters under his breath, and Jim smiles faintly. “This wasn’t supposed to be so bad,” Jim says, and Bones huffs. “That sounds like your life’s motto.”

It takes another two days before Uhura gets through to them on their communicator. “Jim? Captain, are you there?” Jim wakes up to the sound of his communicator, pressed closely against Bones’ chest while both of them sleep under a pile of blankets. “Uhura,” Jim says, voice sore as he speaks. “James,” Uhura says, sighing in relief, “where are you two? We were scheduled to leave Earth two days ago! Please don’t tell me your stupid plan to seduce Bones worked so well you forgot to leave.” “We’re stuck,” Jim says, sitting up straight and hushing her quiet, “can you beam us out?”

They make it back to the Enterprise finally, and Bones gives both of them a flu shot immediately. Almost instantly, Jim feels better. Still a vague headache, but Jim feels the flu eb away quick enough. "So," Bones says, "I heard that." "Heard what?" "Uhura was talking about your elaborate plan to seduce me." "Ah," Jim replies, throwing him a small grin and he rubs the back of his neck, "yeah, about that-" "You organized a weekend away to a quiet cabin to seduce me." "Okay, don't call it that," Jim warns him, "it was supposed to be just a friendly weekend away, okay? And if something happened, great. Fantastic. But that wasn't, I swear, that wasn't the--" He's shut up when Bones leans in, kisses him and pressing him back against the bio bed. Jim's hands find their way around his shoulders, and he kisses him back. His skin is still a little hot, but Jim feels instantly better. Bones looks better, too, when he pulls away. "That's the most romantic thing someone's ever done for a friend," Bones says, and Jim smiles. "You've always been more than just a friend to me."

#berrystartrekkingwithsuperlock #mckirk #otp: damn it jim #jim kirk #leonard mccoy #bones #headcanons #mckirkenterprise #enterprise au

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nh935 · 5 years ago

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Creepy America Episode 5: Hotel California

Creepy America

Episode 5

“Hotel California”

Bethesda, Maryland

When you stop and think about it, life has a strange momentum all of its own, doesn’t it? During the time you’re trying to get something started, whether that be a career, a commitment, or even a hobby, it feels like an uphill battle. It's exhausting. It's not fun. But if you have enough willpower, you can finally crest that hill and give it one final push, and then it’ll be rolling down the mountain side, and instead of propelling it, you’re just trying to keep up.

That’s what I think about when I reminisce about our fifth episode, “Hotel California”. We had completed our trials by fire: the cohabitation, the methodology behind the research, the deadliness of our subject matter. One we had arrived at Bethesda, that large rock with “Creepy America” painted on the side was barreling down the summit. All that was left to do was chase after it and see where it led.

***

“So I’m going to meet you back here at nine, right?” Zoey asked as I got out of the car.

It was a solution to the problem we had been discussing since Hurricane. We had two needy children, “Faces of America” and “Creepy America”, and both were demanding our attention in ever increasing volumes. Particularly problematic was the research portion; for “Faces”, we had to spend a good deal of time on foot tracking down people who were worth interviewing, and ever since realizing that all our previous research topics were bogus, we had to do that for “Creepy America” too.

After shooting around various ideas, we decided that the best solution was just to split it up. Zoey could spend her time looking around for interviewees. I would ask around town to see if I could find inklings of the bizarre and strange. Neither one of us would advance past that point; Zoey still wanted a cameraman and it’d just be stupid for me to go exploring the dark on my own. But this way, we cut in half the time it took to do one thing.

Hence the question. Zoey was dropping me off at the “Ritzman” hotel that was just outside the boundaries of the town. My plan was to spend some time chatting with both the local staff and some of the out-of-towners, seeing if I could find anything worth investigating. After that, I’d read up on the potential leads online. We only had one car, though (minus the R.V., which wasn’t the easiest to maneuver around), so Zoey was dropping me off and catching up later.

“Yeah. By that point I should have two or three things ready to follow up on.” As I got out, I cradled my laptop and a small hand-held camera. Zoey was still a little upset that I didn’t capture her heroic rescue from the blood curse on film, so she had bought two tiny camcorders and insisted that we have them on our person at all times, just in case.

Zoey gave a little snort and rolled her eyes.

I looked at her. “What?”

“No offense Liam, but finding topics requires talking to people, and that’s not always something you’re good at.”

“I can talk to people.” I could feel my face going red.

“Alright, how ‘bought we put a bet on it?” She leaned out of the doorway and offered her hand in my direction. “Five dollars says I can find twice as many people to interview as you’ll find episode topics.”

I stared at the hand for a second. Zoey and I made these bets often, but I rarely won them. The safe decision would be to simply say no.

But then, as always, pride won out.

I grabbed the hand and shook it. “Fine.”

She smiled. “Right. See you at nine to collect my five dollars.” She grabbed the car door and shut it, driving away before I could respond.

“Your five dollars…” I grumbled. I shook my head and ascended the stairs to the hotel.

***

The Ritzman hotel was a grand place. The entirety of the building was decorated in rich earth tones; green carpet the color of pine needles covered the floors and stairs while dark brown woods formed the walls and various railings. The lobby was huge and spacious, with tall doors opened to show the rooms inside. Ballrooms, gift shops, what looked like a resteraunt, and a bar.

“Can’t talk to people” I muttered as I made my way into the bar. “I can talk plenty fine.”

Inside was much the same as the lobby. The bar was a deep chestnut color. Various tables, booths, and even a pool table sat in the large area. I looked around the room, saw a man in a navy blue suit bent over a drink, and sat down next to him.

He glanced over to me for just a second, then turned back to his drink.

I nodded at him. “Um, hello.”

He gave me another sideways look, then nodded at me.

“So, uh, how are you?”

There was some kind of grunt as he turned to his drink.

“Well, that’s… good to hear. You a local or…?”

He fully turned around to look me in the eye. “Look, don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m here to drink, not to socialize. This trip has been stressful enough.”

“Alright, fine, but do you mind if I asked you one question?”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Have you seen anything strange around here?”

He stared at me for a second, picked up his drink, and walked away to another corner of the room, sitting down in a booth as far away from me as possible.

Maybe Zoey had a point.

“Well, that went over as well as a lead balloon.”

I turned towards the sound of the unfamiliar voice. It was a guy, not much older than me, dressed in a vest and tie. He grinned at me. “Want something to ease the sting?”

I started to say no, then sighed. “Rum and Coke?”

“I.D.?”

I fished out my wallet and handed him the little card.

He studied it, then began filling a glass. “Indiana? Safe to say you’re not from around here.”

I took the drink and downed a mouthful. “On a road trip, actually.”

“Staying here?”

“No. We got an R.V.”

“We?”

“Me and my…” I stopped for a moment to find the words “...business partner.”

“And the plot thickens. What kind of business requires a road trip in an R.V.?”

I took another swig. “We’re doing a webshow, ‘Creepy America’. Going from state to state, trying to find weird or strange things to investigate.”

“So is it like an educational thing? Going to spots of historic murders, famous cemeteries, that sort of thing?”

“Kind of. But we’re looking for paranormal stuff.”

He gave a slow nod. “Ghost hunting.”

“That, and other stuff. Urban legends, supposed witches…” I racked my brain trying to think of other topics we covered. “...cursed paintings...”

“So kind of like that ‘Supernatural Hunters’ show on cable.”

“Yeah, exactly! Except we’re legitimate.”

“Isn’t that what they all say?” he asked with a laugh.

I could feel my face getting red again. “So, you’re, uh, pretty good at talking to people, huh?”

He shrugged. “Comes with the territory. Some people, like suit over there, just want a quiet place to drink, but most people expect their glass to come with a complimentary conversation. And you got to make those people happy, because those are the people who tip.”

“Sounds annoying.”

“Not really. I mean, it can be, but only with annoying people. Besides, I’m too curious, and I hear too many good stories.”

I sat up and leaned over. “Hear anything strange, or spooky?”

“Sorry friend.” He smiled and shook his head. “Nothing that would work for your show. The only thing we got is Crazy Sims, but he’s just regular crazy.”

“Crazy Sims?”

He picked up a glass from behind the counter and started drying it. “Stevie Sims, room 405. He was a little-time rock-and-roller back in the 70s, before he lost his mind and became convinced that the Eagles were Satanists and their songs were secret warnings.”

“I think I’ve heard other people say that. It doesn’t sound too crazy.”

“Yeah, but that’s where most people stop. Sims was convinced that the Eagles knew he was onto them, and had summoned demons to stop him from letting the world know. The band ended up finding him locked in his hotel bathroom, screaming about ‘the Captain’ or something. They managed to talk him out, but he was never really the same. Gave up on his music, on his life. Spent all his time trying to piece together the ‘conspiracy’. Rarely ate or slept, that’s how obsessed he was.”

He put down his glass and sighed, picking up another one. “Everyone wanted to have him institutionalized somewhere, but they couldn’t. Stevie just didn’t want to go. They tried to force him through court, but they couldn’t prove he was a danger to himself and/or others. The manager here was an old friend, so he let him stay here for free. He’s been here for about forty years now. Sad, when you think about it.”

I sat there in silence, my drink forgotten. After a bit, I asked “Do you think I could see him?”

***

It took a while, but I finally convinced the silver-haired manager to let me visit him. When I did, he handed me an ancient brass key.

“You can’t miss the door. It’s the only key without a card reader” he told me. “When you see him, please try to be calm about it. He’s easily spooked.”

Unlike the other floors, which had door after door after door, the fourth floor only had five. That meant that the fourth floor was where all the penthouses are located. He must have been a really good friend.

405 was at the end. Like the others, it was shut with a large set of double doors, but they were in poorer shape than the rest. Large scrape marks ran down the wood. Some of the edges of were splintered and broken. The room itself was nestled at the end of the hallway, and the wall lights had trouble penetrating the corners, not so much that it was hard to see, but just enough to shade the doors to a light black and give them an ominous weight, like an oversized headstone standing at the edge of a cliff.

I knocked on the door. “Mr. Sims?”

No answer.

I knocked louder. “Mr. Sims? Is it alright if I come in? I want to talk to you.”

More silence.

I put my ear up to the door. I could hear footsteps, and talking, but the words were unintelligible.

I turned on my camera and held it up to my eye. I put the key in the lock, heard a loud ‘click’, and slowly pushed the door open. “Mr. Sims?”

There were papers everywhere. On the walls. On the ceiling. On the floors, blotting out the carpet. Some had faces, photos, maps. Others were covered in tiny, neat text, and more still were just large, black symbols, the kind you would find in an alchemist’s notebook. Whatever furniture was there, a couch, an end table of some kind, was drowned in the flood of information.

Pacing from one side and back, one side and back, was a man in a white shirt and dirty jeans. His hair was a mess and his eyes were wild. Even though the doors were in full view of the room, and he walked in front of me close enough to touch, he acted like I wasn’t there, just muttering and kicking up papers.

I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but the wild, frantic look in his eye, the kind of look you would find on a wild animal trapped in a cage, told me everything I needed to know.

I silently closed the door.

***

By the time Zoey made it back to the Ritzman, it was close to 9:30. I didn’t notice; I had my laptop open and was in the middle of reading something.

She flopped down next to me and gave a long, loud sigh. “Words can not express how much I miss West Virginia. I swear, everyone here treated me like I killed their dog or something. Not a single person was interested in the interview. Not one!”

I didn’t respond, still engrossed in the text.

She glanced over to me and smirked. “Buuut… if I remember my sixth grade math, two times zero is zero, so I think you owe me five dollars.” She held out her hand.

I still didn’t say anything.

“Hey!” she shouted, “earth to Liam! Hello?”

“Did you know that there’s a rumor online that a group of Satanists bought an abandoned church and converted it into a Satanic temple and christened it the ‘Hotel California’, and a lot of people think that’s where Don Heley got the inspiration for the song?” I asked without pausing for breath.

Zoey blinked. “What?”

“In fact, one of the most persistent urban legends is that in the picture on the inside of the album label, the figure on the balcony is Anton LeVay, the founder of modern Satanism, who started his cult in California.”

Zoey continued to stare at me, then her face changed into an expression of recognition. “Liam, you can’t just make up a topic to win the bet.”

“I’m not!” I said. I told her about Stevie Sims, his obsession with the Hotel California, and what I saw in his room, then I showed her the recording I had captured of the crazed Sims pacing in his room.

She watched, then shrugged her shoulders. “Doesn’t look like you found anything to me.”

“What?” I protested.

“Look at him.” She pointed to Sims on the screen. “He’s just plain old nuts! I should know, we had to commit my uncle.”

A thought occurred to me. “So, with the painting, is that why…”

“Yes” she interrupted.

I paused for a second as I processed this. “Alright. But you told me to find a topic to investigate. That was the bet.”

“A topic worth investigating.”

“It is!”

“Fine then,” she declared, “how about we double the bet? Ten dollars says Sims isn’t haunted by anything except unbalanced brain chemicals.”

Without even thinking about the odds Sims was right or wrong, I stuck out my hand. “Deal.”

We shook, and thus started the Sims investigation.

***

We spent that night researching, Zoey looking up information on Sims and me continuing to dive into the rumors around the Eagles’ hit song. There wasn’t much on him; Sims was the bassist for a band called “The Velvet Keys”, but the band broke up after his incident, a little under two years after they were founded. Past that point, the information online was eclipsed by a motown band of the same name, which really drove home the point about how obscure they really were.

I found out more about the song, but it was disappointing. The Eagles’ rumored involvement with Satanism was false, as well as the appearance of LeVay (it was a random woman hired for the shoot). As for the ‘Hotel California’ itself, the notion about it being about a Satanist church was proven wrong, as was the rumor about it being about mental hospital, a drug rehab facility, an inn run by cannibals, and, somehow, cancer.

I kept my fingers crossed that our interview with Sims would go better.

***

We got to the Ritzman bright and early the next morning and made our way back up to room 405. Camera ready and rolling, Zoey knocked loudly on the door.

“Mr. Sims?” she called out.

There was no response.

She knocked again and called out louder. “Mr. Sims, this is Zoey Hammersham. I wanted to know if we could talk to you about the Hotel California.”

The door slammed open and Sims stared down at us, dressed in the same clothes I had seen him in yesterday. His black hair was pointed every which way, like an overgrown thorn thicket, and his face was as pale as snow. The wild look in his eyes was only increased.

“Who sent you here?” he almost screamed. “The Captain? The Night Man? Sherry? It’s Sherry, isn’t it?”

Zoey held her hands up in a show of peace. “Mr. Sims, please calm down. We heard your story from the barkeep downstairs and we wanted to ask you some questions.”

“The Miller kid.” His shoulders slumped. “So that’s it. You’ve come to see the freak.”

“Not at all. We want to hear your side of the story, if you’d let us. Set the record straight.”

“Sure, so you can pump me full of drugs? Spout psuedo-babble at me and tell me that the only demons are in my head?” He started to shut the door, but Zoey placed her hand on it. Not forcing it open, not a display of aggression, just a firm instance of one more chance.

“Mr. Sims,” she said, “if you really want us to leave, we’ll leave. But I urge you to consider talking to us. You’ll find we’re a lot more open minded than most.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Whatever makes you think you could possibly understand what I went through?”

“Well, I recently got cursed by a blood spell. And I had to rescue him from inside a painting” she said, jerking a thumb over at me.

He lingered on the door for a moment; I think he was scanning our faces for any sign of dishonesty or mocking. When he didn’t find any, he opened it wide and gestured inside. “I guess you’d better come in.”

It was much as I remembered it. The earthen tones the hotel was decorated in were buried under oceans of paper, tacked onto walls, taped onto cabinets, sprawled across beds and other furniture. Everything from book pages to crudely draw magic symbols littered the walls. Signs that someone had been living there, like dirty dishes and cast-off clothes, existed, but had also gotten buried in the paper, as if the daily implements of existence were less essential than this amalgamation of insanity.

As it to reinforce my thought, Sims gathered up a pile of papers on three wooden dining chairs and carefully placed them into three piles on the floor under the table. Zoey sat down while I tried to find open floor space to set the tripod up.

“Is it alright if we record this conversation?” she asked.

He fidgeted in his seat. “What’s it going to be used for?”

“We run a web show called “Creepy America”, where we investigate stories like yours. Depending on how things go, we’d like to do an episode on your experience.”

“So you’re going to interrogate me?”

“Far from it. We just want you to tell your story, the way you know it, and the way you’re comfortable with. I’m going to ask as few questions as possible. Any research into whether you’re right or wrong is going to happen outside this room.” She turned to me behind the camera and I gave a thumbs up.

He sighed, nodded, and then began to speak. What follows are his words, as best as I can remember them:

***

The Velvet Keys were Dougie’s baby, no question about that. I don’t think any of us would have gotten involved if it weren’t for him. I mean, we could all play, but none of us were particularly serious about it. I only tried to learn to impress girls, and I chose bass guitar because it was the cheapest option at the pawn shop. But Dougie wanted to go places. Yeah we were shit, he told us, but everything on the radio was shit, so what was stopping us from becoming rich and famous shit? Man had a way with words.

We’d been playing for about two years, local dive bars and an album that only our friends and family bought, when Dougie told us that he’d managed to twist the arm of his dad’s friend into giving us a spot at the L.A. Spotlight Music Fest. Looking back, it wasn’t a great gig; the pay was peanuts and the role was patronizing at best. I think we were supposed to be playing on some side stage with a bunch of other indie bands so that there was something to do besides the big acts that people had obviously came to see. But to a bunch of college kids from Reno, this was the biggest thing to ever happen in our lives.

Problem was, we didn’t have enough space. James had to beg his girlfriend to let us take her van, and that could only fit our equipment and three out of four of us. We spent a whole night over at his garage, trying every configuration we could think of to Tertis some more space, but it was simply impossible. I volunteered to drive myself there. I was the only other one with a reliable car and besides, I enjoyed driving, especially through those long, cool desert nights, when all the stars are out and you can see for miles and miles and miles. Plus I could take some extra equipment with me, so the plan got a pretty quick yes.

I left about three hours after I was supposed to, lost track of time strutting my new-found ‘musician’ label to a few chicks, so by the time I was on the road it was late. When I hit Willow Springs, the sun was already setting.

I’m not sure when I smelled it. Past Willow Springs, obviously, but how far past, I don’t know. That sweeter-than-a-skunk smell of marijuana. Soon as it hit my nose, though, hit me like a freight train. My eyes started drooping, and I started nodding off. Woke up riding the shoulder at one point. That’s when I knew I had to stop. It wasn’t really a big deal. The gig wasn’t happening ‘til tomorrow night, and it was an eight hour trip, so I knew I was probably going to have to stop at some point.

There was a big ol’ billboard on the side of the road. “Hotel California, next exit”. Seemed as good a place as any. I wish I would’ve kept driving, but part of me knows that no matter what I did, I would have ended up there. That Hotel marked me, somehow. From the minute I smelled it, I was stuck in its clutches.

The place looked exactly the same as it did on that goddamn album cover, and I don’t care what anyone says about that place in Mexico. This was the spitting image of that photo: Medeterranian swooping arches made with white plaster, the style of a Spanish Mission house. It even had the neon blue sign. I’d heard the song, of course, but hadn’t seen the album. Part of me thought it was real neat, staying at the place with a name that was sung about on the radio. Romantic, I guess is the word. I told myself that I would have to ask the manager if this was the same one.

I pulled into the parking lot, only car there, and there was a set of old fashioned clock-bells ringing out nine. Once I parked, I got out and there was this woman standing in the entrance, prettiest thing I’d ever seen. Luscious full auburn hair. Emerald green eyes. Perfectly curved, soft and sexy. No, not sexy. Beautiful. She wasn’t created in that fake Playboy way, with too much makeup and bits that obviously defy gravity. She was real. It was a Louvre sculpture came to life, like every woman in the world was a pale attempt to imitate her. I’m not making sense, am I? Nevermind, you get the idea.

She had her back turned to me, but she turned around as soon as my foot hit the first step. “Stevie,” she said, “you’re here. Finally!” I wanted to ask what she meant, but I couldn’t. I felt drugged. Like my body was disconnected from my mind. And the weirdest part was I didn’t care. It was like a dream. You don’t question it, you just go along for the ride.

I climbed, no, floated up those steps. She took me in a warm, loving embrace, lips passionately caressing mine, dancing with our tongues. By the time it was finished, I had regained enough of my senses to talk again.

“Who… who are you?” I asked.

She laughed. “Stevie, you joker. Don’t tell me you don’t remember your Sherry.”

She took my hand and began to lead me back deeper into the hotel. It was decorated exactly as you’d expect it to: white-washed walls, interior balconies, gold and black carpets lit with warm yellow light bulbs. As she practically skipped me inside, we passed this older black guy, tail end of middle age with thinning short hair and the barest hints of wrinkles around his eyes, with this grey suit behind the reception desk, staring as we went.

I stopped. “Don’t we have to check in?”

She giggled. The sound was intoxicating. “It’s all been arranged for, Stevie. Don’t you remember?”

As she said it, the receptionist took out an old-fashioned key and handed it to me. “Room 102, the honeymoon suite.”

I stared at him in disbelief as Sherry swung my hand back and forth like an impatient child. I turned to her, smilied, and the two of us raced to the room. It was a giant, over the top thing. The furniture was done in pink fur of some kind. The ceiling was covered entirely in big mirrors. The whole place was the size of a small apartment, and at the end was a massive, heart shaped bed, one Sherry draped herself over and beckoned to me to.

(At this point, Sims became visibly uncomfortable.)

Look, I don’t think I need to spell out every detail, okay? I think you can figure out what happened. I can say it was amazing, the best in my life. I had one or two exploits of my own. I was no dewy eyed virgin when I walked in. But somehow, those memories paled in comparison to what I was experiencing now. It made those nights feel like empty times spent alone, pleasuring myself.

(The discomfort returned to his face, and it took him a few moments to begin speaking again.)

I spent three days there. I knew that my bandmates were back waiting for me, that they’d be pissed if they learned that I bailed on them to hang around in this roadside motel. I didn’t care, though. More than that, it wasn’t important. I knew it, I remembered it, but it didn’t feel as real as the hotel. Thinking back on the gig was like thinking back on a dream: sure, it had seemed urgent in the moment, but now that I was awake, I realized it didn’t matter.

It was always sunset, though. The first morning, I thought I had woken up before dawn, but nope. Just eternal sunset, right at the moment of pastel pink and purple skies. Never changing. Time passed just fine. You could tell by the church bell ringing out the hours, and your body didn’t seem to care. You got hungry and tired at the right times, so the perception of the day passed like it should. It was just frozen at a moment of beauty.

Over the course of the next few days, Sherry introduced me to the “regulars”, as she called them. There was Mr. Barrows, the receptionist that I met the first day, as well as Junior, his son who worked there as a janitor/maintenance guy. He looked identical to his dad, ‘cept he was younger and wore a blue jumpsuit. And minus the thinning hair and wrinkles, obviously.

Then there was Bradley, this chiseled Fabio-looking guy with this long black mane of hair and bronze skin who was really friendly with Sherry. They didn’t quite tell me that they’d been together before I got there, but they weren’t exactly hiding it either. When I confronted Bradley about it, he’d just grin and say “don’t worry about it, all I was doing was keeping her warm for you.” That answer only made me madder, but soon Sherry would be on me, draped over me, kissing me, and I’d forget everything except how much I loved her smell and the warmth of her touch.

There was another couple there, Julie and Jared. Jared was a lot like Bradley, muscles and whatnot, ‘cept his skin was paler and his brown hair was cut shorter. Not short, just shorter than full-on main. Julie was this blond haired, blue eyed beauty that was almost as gorgeous as Sherry. Almost. They spent all their time together, kissing and holding hands, but they kept making remarks that it wasn’t serious, they were just passing the time while they were waiting for someone else. Waiting like Sherry had for me. I didn’t like the implication, and I liked it even less that, out of everyone else in the Hotel, these were the people Sherry seemed to enjoy the company of the most. But I could never be mad for long, because soon her attention would turn back to me and the world would fade away.

The last two people didn’t have names, just titles. The first was this large man called “The Captain.” He was almost seven feet tall and close to three hundred pounds of pure muscle stuffed into a white navy uniform. Not sculpted muscle, like the Fabios, but wiry, tough muscle, the kind that comes not from vanity but from necessity. He had these wild blonde sideburns and this crazy mustache and beard. I wasn’t quite sure what he was doing there; the guests seemed to treat him like staff and the staff seemed to treat him like a guest. He didn’t seem to have a preference one way or the other.

The last guy, the one I liked the least, was the Night Man. He was almost as tall as the Captain and just as heavy, but with fat instead. He wore this filthy long black coat and, swear to heaven, an actual wood peg leg on his right leg. It made him wobble when he walked. He only seemed to show up during the evening and at night, when he’d walk up and down the halls with a flashlight. I guess he was their version of a security guard. But he did his best to stay out of our hair. If he walked into a room someone was in, he’d just nod and leave the same way he came in.

There were more too. Lots of guests. There was this old guy in a tweed suit and a fat hispanic man. More I didn’t care to pay attention to. I barely looked at the regulars, all my eyes had room for was Sherry, and when we weren’t in our rooms, enjoying each other privately, we were out together, talking to others or drinking or just slow dancing in the evening light to music none of us could ever see the source to, none of us caring. Most guests joined into these dances.

Once, when I had just completed a long dance with Sherry, I turned to the Captain and shouted for wine. He gave a hearty laugh and said something along the lines of “We haven’t had that kind of enthusiasm here since ‘69, at least”, and my memory of the song came back, as well as a feeling of unease. I tried to ask about it, but Sherry kissed me and my mind returned to it’s blissfully drunken state.

On the third day, as my body was telling me that time had slipped close to night, I was lying with Sherry on the bed, pleasantly exhausted, drunk on the feeling of us, together. “I can see why no one seems to leave here,” I gasped between breaths, “nobody would ever want to.”

Sherry sat up, and for the first time… ever , I saw sadness in her eyes. “They want to leave,” she whispered. “We all want to.”

I turned to her. “Why don’t you?”

“We all have a vice, and we chose to sell our souls to feed it. But that bill doesn’t come due until we check out.” She stood up and dressed herself. “Follow me, Stevie. It’s time for you to see something.”

I got dressed and followed her out to the hallway, down a passageway we’d never gone down before, to a large ballroom. It was dimly lit. I could barely make out the faces of Barrows and Bradely, faces filled with dread, and I could see the silent silhouettes of all the other guests, but what drew my eye more was the large mass in the middle of the room. I couldn’t understand the shape, all I could figure out was that it was moving slightly. Breathing.

Barrows reached out to it and grabbed the large cloth covering it. He ripped it to one side, filling the room with a “swoosh”, and underneath was a pig. A boar, more like, but even that’s not quite right. It was massive. It had to be six feet long, snout to tail, and it was so heavy I didn’t understand how the table under it didn’t just give way. The hair was a black tangle, rough as ropes. The eyes were a dull sheen of red. Its limbs were tied to each other with thick bindings, keeping it from moving, reducing it to the panicked fidgets I had seen earlier. And panicked it was. I could see the pure terror in its eyes.

Barrows withdrew a long, thin knife. Everyone else soon did the same and, without a word, they all stepped up to the boar. Bradely. The tweed man. Even Sherry. And with a stone cold silence, they raised the knives and begun to plunge them over and over into the animal. Without ceremony, without discipline, this was the movements of unthinking frenzy as the droplets of blood flew all over the rooms, getting on the walls, the lights, their faces. In no time at all the whole place was red and the boar let forth a gutteral squeal, and through the animal sound I could hear one word…

Pllleeeaaaasssseeee…

The spell of the Hotel California broke for me. I was terrified. What was I doing here? How had I spent three whole days here? Who were these people? Why? I saw more and more blood fly, it was dripping out of Sherry’s hair, and I wanted to vomit. I ran out of that room, down the hallway, back to the lobby, back outside. As I did, I passed that damned Night Man, leaning on the doorframe, laughing as he did so. I bolted to my car, it was still the only one in the lot, how was it the only one in the lot with so many people staying there? And he laughed and called out to me:

“You checking out, Stevie? Then run, flee if you must. But remember, just because you checked out, doesn’t mean you can leave.”

***

Sims stopped narrating. Beads of sweat had formed on his brow. “I think I’d like to stop there. I’ll tell you more tomorrow.”

Zoey nodded, and we left.

***

“Yeah, yeah…” Zoey said, talking into her cell phone. “What was that?... No, of course not. Is it going to be used in an ongoing production, is that okay?... Well of course you’re going to be credited… All right, thanks man! Talk to you later.” She hung up the phone. “That was a classmate of mine. One of his projects was a music video for ‘Hotel California’. It doesn’t match Sims’ story perfectly, but it’s close enough to edit around.”

I raised an eyebrow as I twirled more sesame noodles out of my Chinese take out box. “So… sounds like we’re doing an episode on this one, huh?”

Zoey nodded and returned to her own food. “It might end up shorter than the others, but I’m not letting that story go to waste.”

“Which would mean I won the bet.”

She scoffed. “Nice try. You re-anted on the idea that Sim’s story was real, remember?”

I frowned. “So you’re planning to do an episode on something you don’t think is real?”

“Why not?” She shrugged. “Nobody thinks any of this is real anyway, remember? And it’s not like we have evidence to the contrary.”

“But we’re supposed to be educating people.”

She gave me a confused look. “I don’t remember agreeing to that, but…” her expression changed to a smirk, “does this mean that someone’s conceding the bet early?”

“Fat chance” I said. We stop talking for a few moments, using the time to scarf down some more noodles, before I spoke up again. “You know, for someone who doesn’t believe him, you sure seemed to win him over really quick.”

“You make it sound like I needed to trick him. He’s just a person. I think he knows I don’t believe him, but he was tired of being ridiculed and judged, and I let him know I wasn’t going to do either. That’s what won him over. Besides…” Zoey’s voice became softer, “even if it is all fake, the terror he feels is real.”

I didn’t know how to respond, so I let the statement hang in the air as we finished our food.

***

Stevie must have been waiting for us the next morning because Zoey barely knocked once before the door flew open and he beckoned us inside. He paced around the room as I set up the camera, and once I was finished, he turned away from the chair he had been sitting in last time and faced the window, one of the few places that didn’t seem to be covered in papers. As he spoke, he stared out at the pines and the river beneath him.

“I don’t remember what happened after I left that parking lot. Fugue state, the shrinks called it. All I know is that the next thing I remember, I was in a dark room, on the floor, in my underwear, clutching my head and rocking back and forth. James was on the other side, I couldn’t quite make out the words, but he was pleading with me. For what I couldn’t tell, but the desperation in his voice was real enough. When I opened the door, he hugged me, then led me to the medics outside.

“They wrapped me in a blanket and took me to the hospital. Medically, there was nothing wrong with me, but I told them my story, everything that happened at the Hotel California, and so I was diagnosed as crazy. They kept me there for a few days, attached to my hospital bed, but after they realized that I wasn’t going to try to steal any sharp things and stab ‘em where they weren’t supposed to, they let me go. Everyone came and visited me, my friends, my folks, the band members. I expected them to be angry at me, especially Dougie, but they all just stood next to my bed and looked worried. Like I had some kind of terminal cancer. Guess I really freaked them out.

“For a while, everything seemed fine. Life went back to normal. But then it started bleeding back. First, on the highway. If I was driving out in the desert, especially at sunset, I would see the signs. ‘Hotel California, next exit’. I ignored them, of course, and then I started seeing the building in the distance. When I ignored that as well, I started seeing them again. I’d be out on the street, and the Captain would be in the middle of a crowd waiting to cross, staring at me, or I’d see Sherry, dining alone at an outdoor cafe, giving me a melancholy smile and disappearing when my line of sight was blocked, or, worst of all, I’d awaken at night to see the Night Man standing over my bed, laughing as the shadows made him fade away from view, leaving me alone again. It only added to my newfound insomnia, because at night, I would hear whispers, soft but all around me, telling me ‘Hotel California… such a lovely place… many a room here, Stevie… the master chamber is free, just for you…’

“My parents paraded my in front of an army of shrinks, but it did no good. They told me I had schizoaffective disorder, prescribed drugs that did nothing, and told me to ease back into life. Shows how much an expert knows, huh? My problem wasn’t insanity, no, I was sane. Reality was insane. I was dealing with the supernatural and that was the problem that needed to be fixed. So I researched on my own. Didn’t do jackshit. Kept running into the same horse crap: the Eagles are Satanist, the Hotel is a desecrated church, LaVey is there. I hated that one in particular. I watched an interview with LaVey, man wouldn’t know magic if it shrunk him and fed him to a house cat.”

At this point, Stevie turned around and faced us, the wild look in his eye bordering on full on madness. “Why can’t anyone see the truth? The Eagles weren’t in on it. They weren’t helping the Hotel. They were trying to warn us. They wanted us to stay away! But there’s something large and all seeing out there, keeping the truth hidden, keeping each and every one of us in the dark, swallowing up any information about the Hotel and what it really is. So they had to hide it, disguise it like a song. The perfect cover, and the perfect way to spread the news.”

Stevie walked over to one of the cabinets, ripped off a piece of paper, and handed it to Zoey. It was a large drawing of a logo: a capital ‘A’ with what looked like large eagle wings.

“Everytime I get close to something real,” he said, jabbing a finger at the paper, “this blocks me. It replaces information. It appears next to corrupted files. Redacted, deleted, lost, error retrieving file, every time walking hand in hand with that damnable ‘A’.”

Zoey stared at the paper, then slowly put it down. “How did you come to end up here, Mr. Sims?”

He returned to his window. “I noticed a pattern to the bleeding. It was worse near places that were similar to it. Out on the road, in the desert, at sunset, was the worst. But if I was in a city, during the daytime, inside an office building, well it hardly ever happened. I figured that I should move as far away from the desert as possible, so I told my parents that I was moving to New England and I wasn’t coming back. They were all for it. Honestly, I think they just wanted me gone by then. Luckily, my dad had an old war buddy there, a guy who used to be a pretty good friend of the family ‘til he moved away to run a hotel, and he said he would be happy to help me out until I got on my feet.” His face became an intense shade of scarlet. “I… never really moved out.”

“It helped, for a while. But two, three years ago, the bleeding started again. I can see the neon blue of the hotel above the trees when I try to go to sleep. I see Sherry in the elevators sometimes. I see the Night Man in the halls. I hear the voices when everything else in my room is silent and dark. And I need to figure out how they escaped it! The Eagles made it out. The Hotel never snatched them. Or maybe it did, but they’ve found a truce, a way to live a life without its shadow hanging over them. I need to figure it out, because I can feel that I don’t have much time left. The bill is due and they won’t wait much longer.”

***

“Schizoaffective disorder,” Zoey read from her laptop, “is primarily characterized by a combination of psychotic symptoms, such as hallucinations and delusions, and mood conditions, such as prolonged mania and/or depression. Such symptoms could include physical restlessness, such as pacing and frenzied research, intense periods of hopelessness, series of dream-like hallucinations about a hotel in the desert, and beliefs like the idea that the Eagles are communicating via song lyrics to him to warn about said hotel.” Zoey really loved to hammer the point home when she won an argument.

I looked at my own screen in disappointment. Every lead in the Hotel California had wound up bust and there was no more trails to follow. I hated to admit it, but she was right.

I sighed and handed her the ten bucks.

She grinned, but it soon faded after she pocketed the money.

“What’s wrong?” I asked her.

“Look, I know that we’re just here to film stuff and all, and we really don’t know him all that well…” she fiddled with the end of her hair, “but maybe we should try to convince Sims to check in somewhere.”

“He hasn’t agreed to it before” I pointed out.

“I know, but maybe we can. We can at least try, and after seeing how tortured he is by all of this, we have to at least try. I don’t think I could just walk away knowing that he’ll forever live in that fear and agony and I did nothing to help.”

“You’re really worried about the guy, aren’t you?”

She didn’t say anything, but the expression on her face said it all.

I nodded. “Alright. But we’re leaving tomorrow night. If he says no, we can’t wait around forever to change his mind.”

A smile returned to her face. “Thanks.”

***

“So what’s your plan?” I asked as we stepped out of the elevator and onto the fourth floor.

“I dunno… I don’t think reason will work with him” she said. “Probably just ask him if he wants this to stop and try to convince him that getting help is the best way to do that.”

“So what am I here for?”

“Emotional support. Help if he gets… violent.”

“Violent?” I stared at her as we continued to walk down the hall.

I felt a sudden solid mass hit my side; I had accidentally ran into a kid in a blue jumpsuit, carrying janitor supplies. I turned around to him and gave him a quick “Sorry!”

He shook his head and muttered something about tagalongs.

“I don’t think he will” Zoey continued. “But it never hurts to be sure.”

We were now in front of Sim’s room, the dark door somehow darker and more ominous as it stood in front of the gold and black carpet. Zoey knocked on it loudly. “Mr. Sims? It’s Zoey again. I wanted to talk to you about something.”

I took out my little camcorder and turned it on. As I made sure it was recording, I noticed the little geometric patterns in the carpet, repeating patterns over and over again. It reminded me of the some of the mosque patterns you would see in a Medeterranian…

I stopped.

“Zoey,” I called out, “what color are the carpets here?”

She turned to me, confused. “What does it matter? They’re gree…” she looked down at the gold and black carpet and stopped. Her eyes went wide.

I moved past her, put in the key into the door lock, and opened it wide. Inside was the same it had been, except the papers were everywhere. The ones on the walls had been ripped off. Those sitting on the floor were no longer organized into neat piles. It was like a twister had blown through.

Sims was nowhere to be found.

Zoey strode into the room. “Sims? Mr. Sims, are you in here?”

I moved in behind her. The room was silent and motionless, save for the fluttering of the occasional paper moved by the warm night air coming from the window. I looked out at it, then gasped and grabbed Zoey shoulder. “Look…”

The pine trees were gone. The river was too. In its place was a flat desert landscape, drenched in sunset, the long horizon painted with pinks and purples.

There was a sudden terrified scream behind us. It was the voice of Sims, coming from outside the room. And outside the room was no longer the Ritzman. The walls were white and rough with uneven spreadings of plaster. The enclosed hallway was replaced with an iron wrought banister separating the ledge from the open space. There was the sickly smell of something sweet wafting through the air and the light was a warm gold.

Sims screamed again, and Zoey ran for the open door. “Wait!” I yelled. “We don’t know what’s over there!” She ignored me and barreled into the hallway and I followed after her. She turned a corner and ran down a staircase, taking the steps two at a time, exiting into the lobby of this place. Couches and chairs were scattered about, a receptionist counter with a wood paneled background lay empty to one side, and neon blue letters painted onto a large sign confirmed what I already knew:

“Welcome to the Hotel California!”

“Tagalongs, or are you planning on checking in?” a voice behind me questioned. I turned around to see a man with long, full black hair and toned bronze muscles sitting on one of the couches, lit cigarette in hand.

“Bradley?” I guessed.

He nodded.

“Where’s Sims?” I asked.

He pointed a finger down a hallway lined with doors. “Took off that way. Thinks he can run, I guess. Poor bastard. I liked him. He treated Sherry right. Not everyone does.”

“C’mon. If we’re gonna save him, let’s do it quickly.” I moved towards where he pointed. Zoey didn’t follow; she was still staring at Bradley. I noticed that there was a small amount of drool leaking out of the corner of her mouth.

“Zoey!”

Sims screamed again, and Zoey snapped back to reality. She rushed with me down the hallway. The very last door at the end was open and we darted into it.

Inside was a hotel room, a small foyer leading to a long room with a couch and TV on one side and a bed on the other. Sims was backed up into the far corner, his eyes bulging in fear. An older black man in a grey suit was standing at the other end of the room. Near him, on the couch, was a pale white guy in a polo who was shifting his gaze between Sims and the other man in bewilderment.

“Mr. Sims,” the black man said, “I’m going to have to ask you to calm down. Please, you’re disturbing the guest.”

“LEAVE ME ALONE!” Sims screamed.

Zoey moved past the man and stood in front of Sims, arms outstretched wide. I made my way next to her. I had no idea what she was planning to do, but I wasn’t going to let her do it alone.

The man, Mr. Barrows, I remembered from the story, raised an eyebrow at her. “Ma’am, please step aside.”

She shook her head. “I’m not going to let you do anything to him.”

“This man has a bill to pay, forty years overdue.” As Mr. Barrows spoke, two more men entered the room: a large, grizzled man with blonde hair in a navy uniform and a fat man with a greasy black overcoat and a fat wooden leg.

Barrows nodded to the blonde man. “Captain, thank you for assisting.”

“No problem” he responded. “Who are these two?”

“Tagalongs, from the looks of it. They don’t appear to be marked by the Hotel. They are protesting us collecting Mr. Sims.”

Zoey spread her feet a bit further apart, rooting her stance more firmly.

The Night Man shook his head. “Kid, get down from there before you get hurt.”

“Threaten me all you want, but I’m not leaving!” Zoey yelled back.

“The danger’s not from me” the Night Man said darkly. I felt a strange, hot breath on the back of my neck and I looked back.

Sims was gone, and in his place was a gigantic boar, with dark red skin and tangled black hair collected into stringy lumps on its spine. The crimson eyes held no recognition for me, or Zoey, or anyone else in the room.

Just rage.

I grabbed the back of Zoey’s shirt and dragged her to the side just as the thing charged. I held her hand and tried to run out of the room, but the fighting was right in front of us. The Night Man grabbed onto the beast’s mane and used it to hoist himself onto its back, riding the creature like a bull as it bucked and spun, slamming him into the walls and ceilings and he held on for dear life.

“Ya’ gonna help, ya bastard?” he bellowed at the Captain, and the Captain lunged into the thing, forcing it to rear back on its hind legs. The two of them grappled as the Night Man tried to wrap his arms around the boar’s throat.

The room was falling apart now. Chunks of ceiling fell onto the floor and a large hanging light crashed next to me. Zoey grasped at me and guided me under the bed with her, huddling in fear with me as we watched the battle play out.

The Night Man was wrapped around the creature’s neck in a bear hug, choking it. The boar’s staggering dance with the Captain was becoming weaker, and, with one final heave, the Captain shoved the creature backwards, causing it to fall. As it did, the Night Man swung around it with an impossible grace so that once it had landed on its back, he was lying on the thing’s stomach. He withdrew a length of rope from his pocket and handed one end to the Captain. The two wasted no time winding it around the creatures ankles and legs, binding it completely.

Zoey and I slowly got out from under the bed as the Night Man heaved the creature back upright. “I always knew Sims’d be an ornery one, but didn’t expect the bastard to be this mean!” he proclaimed with a chuckle. The boar writhed in fury, the ropes making the movements useless, but it only stopped when a woman walked in. A woman with auburn hair, perfect curves, a face of pure beauty and soft, inviting flesh.

She knelt down beside it and stroked its head. “Stevie, please don’t be upset. You knew this would happen. If you reject heaven, the only place to go is hell.” She stopped petting the creature and it began struggling again, but the Night Man grabbed a section of the rope and started to pull him along as Barrows guided the guest out, saying “I’m so sorry for the inconvenience, sir, we’ll get management to compensate you…”

“Stop!”

The group of people turned to Zoey, who had her arm raised after them. “Please...”

Barrows arched an eyebrow at her. “Ma’am, this man has a debt to pay, and we fully intend to extract it. Now, if you wish to stay and lodge a formal complaint, you can always check in…”

Zoey lowered her arm and didn’t respond.

Barrows smilied. “Well then.” He and the others left the room, leaving us alone in the ruined space, with the furniture overturned and large broken chunks in the walls. An unearthly hush fell over everything, then there was a flickering of black, like a failing lightbulb, except it covered all our sight. When it stopped, we were back in Sim’s room at the Ritzman. The papers seem to have become even more scattered, but other than that, there was no trace that any of it had ever happened.

The Hotel California was gone.

***

We sat in the lobby all night, silent for hours and hours, too numb to even think. It was only when I saw the golden glow of the dawn begin to peak over the trees that my brain began to function again and a small voice told me that I had won the bet.

A louder and far more sane voice responded that the bet was the least important thing in the world right now.

“How are we going to explain what happened?” Zoey asked.

I withdrew the small paper I had taken from Sims’ room. “I don’t think we need to.”

Before she could respond, a man walked through the doors of the hotel, dressed in a black suit and tie with shiny mirror sunglasses on. “Where is the manager of this place?” he shouted.

The silver-haired manager appeared behind the desk. “Can I help you sir?”

The other man flashed some kind of badge quickly in front of the man. “Agent Thorn, with the parks department. You had a Steven Sims staying here, did you not?”

“Yes?”

“I regret to inform you that he’s dead. We found his body in the woods a few miles away. It appears to be a suicide.”

“Oh god…” the manager seemed to buckle a bit.

“Bullshit!” Zoey exclaimed.

The agent turned to look at her. “Who the hell are you?!”

I put my hand on her shoulder. “Sorry agent, she’s just upset. We got pretty close to Sims the last couple of days and this is a shock.”

Zoey looked at me with confusion. “Liam…”

I slowly shook my head.

She stared at me, then stormed outside. I followed behind her, watching the agent track our movements until we had left.

She got in the car and slammed her door. I got in as well, minus the slam.

“What the hell was that?” she asked.

I handed her the paper and she unfolded it. Inside was the winged ‘A’ logo Sims had shown us. “I’ve been thinking about what Sims said. About something hiding the truth. And what we learned, and haven’t learned. There’s no information about ‘Worlds of Wonder’. Or the Iris Broadcasting Company. And the stuff we do hear about, ghost lights and dogmen, all turns out to be fake.”

She gave me a hard look. “But why stop me from telling the guy what really happened? He deserves to know.”

“Do you remember the cops from Three Rivers, with the pit?”

She nodded.

“When I called to ask about them, the operator just denied that any officers were dispatched to the scene. Acted like they never existed. But their uniforms were in there. Bloody. Whoever these people are, they’re powerful, and they’ll do anything to keep this secret.”

She looked away and stared at the windshield. “What are you saying? That we should stop the show?”

I shook my head. “Of course not. But we need to be careful about what we say and who we say it to.”

A moment of silence passed between us. “Do you think we’ll find out who they are?” Zoey asked.

“I don’t think we need to worry about that,” I replied. “I’m sure they’ll find us soon enough.”

#creepy_america #horror #weird fiction #series #short_story

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