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ashintheairlikesnow · 2 years ago

Text

Death Valley on AO3

Ohio, Present Day

His fingers skimmed over the cans, reading labels one by one. It all seemed more or less the same. He'd been standing in this aisle for far too long - the back of his neck prickled with awareness of the youngish cashier. She was watching him, but only out of sheer boredom, he thought. Needing something to do.

Still, the weight of anyone's gaze made him uneasy.

He had felt a set of eyes locked on him, watching him struggle or suffer or submit, for far too long. Those eyes followed him everywhere, maybe waiting to find him again.

The man who had once been Finn Schneider never went back to California. It felt like stepping carefully over cracks on a sidewalk, skipping the thirteenth floor, throwing salt over your shoulder, lining your window frames with iron. Just a way to keep at bay whatever might be watching and waiting for you.

He finally took in a deep breath, picked a handful at random, and swept them into the cheery yellow shopping basket he'd been carting around nearly empty. Just a bottle of ibuprofen, a pack of socks, and a rounded plastic container of bleach wipes.

Outside, the wind blew so cold it would feel like knives just walking back to his truck. But at least it would be warm inside, soon enough.

He was silent during checkout, which seemed to come as a relief to the cashier, who checked her phone surreptitiously the entire time. He didn't blame her.

Who would want to be sitting in this temple to American economic desperation alone on Christmas Eve?

"Total is twelve dollars and forty-six cents," She said, without looking at him. Her eyes were still on her phone. He heard someone towards the back come out of the employees-only door.

"Of course. I think I have two quarters..." He dug in his pocket, feeling a bit of his hair fall over his forehead.

"You have an accent." It wasn't a question. Americans in small towns often liked to tell him things he already knew about himself.

"I do. I lived in Germany."

"You were born there?" Her eyes went down to her phone and back up. He handed over a twenty and two quarters and watched her dig out his change, dropping his pennies into a Take a Penny, Leave a Penny dish currently entirely empty and sorely in need of pennies.

"Yes. I have lived here since... my twenties, though."

"Huh. I wouldn't stay here, if I could go anywhere else."

He shrugged, pocketing the six dollars and taking his plastic bag rustling with all the purchases he'd made. "I wasn't given much choice."

"Yeah, that I get. You have like a super German name?"

"Ah, no. Not really."

"Oh. Well, Merry Christmas, man."

"Yes. Um. Merry Christmas."

The little chime over the door beeped with the same eerie cheer as the little yellow basket as he left. He caught, from the corner of his eye, her coworker - a man a few years older than her - came up to stand beside her. He looked the man over, then leaned over to whisper to the cashier.

That prickled, too, but he made himself not look back.

He made it halfway across the small parking lot before he realized she hadn't been bored at all.

She hadn't been just passing time, no. That girl - maybe adult, maybe not - had been texting someone about him. Probably his height, hair color, build. What he looked at. How long he stayed.

She had recorded that conversation. She had been making sure there was a record of him, if he chose to hurt her.

She had called her coworker out, thinking it would maybe scare away a strange man with violent intentions. She hadn't known if he would hurt her, or not.

She couldn't know.

He could be a quiet truck driver lonely on Christmas Eve. He could be a killer scenting out a new victim. She could never know, unless he turned out to be the killer. And then it might be too late.

If he turned around, he thought, he'd see her telling the coworker everything he had said. A witness, someone who could echo her statements. He'd see the tension in her shoulders finally melting away, as the strange man went back to his strange truck and, in this small town store after dark on December 24th, she could finally feel safe.

It struck him as funny, that so long after he had been the one who felt like he might be able to relax when the strange older man drove away, now he was the stranger, now she was the young person who was worried but not worried enough.

He could kill them both, and who could stop him? No one ever stopped Robert. He took women and men right off of the street or out of parks. There were witnesses to the existence of his victims.

Only one witness to their deaths.

Two, if you counted the man locked in a cage in his living room.

If you counted his little Mouse.

The man who used to be Finn Schneider, currently carrying a falsified driver's license for a man named Carter North, swallowed against half-hysterical laughter and then kept walking. Heavy boots crunched on rock salt, laid down against the impending threat of snow in the gunmetal gray clouds heavy and low overhead.

If Robert is still killing, he must have a new Mouse to watch. To do nothing.

To stare, screaming behind a locked jaw, as another body is dragged along the floor.

The wind whipped around his jaw, icy air licking like Robert at spaces once muzzled to ensure silence. The man tried not to breathe too deeply, worried he would smell not the oncoming snow, but the hot smell of decay.

His truck waited for him. He pulled open the door and climbed up out of the wind, sighing as he turned the ignition and pulled slowly and carefully back out into the country highway.

He eased onto the interstate, knowing it wasn't far to the rest stop. He could park there, sleep warm in the cab in his bunk. Warm, and alone, and able to leave at a moment's notice.

His cell rang and he picked it up, easing off towards the rest stop. "Hallo?"

"Hey, Carter." Noah's voice was warm and affectionate, which Finn never answered with anything but his own flat affect. Whatever softness he had once had, Robert had burned away. He was a husk, now, barely a man. "Just called to check in."

Did Noah care about him? Or just keep tabs on him?

Finn had never known for sure. He had never asked, either. "I am in Ohio."

"No, I know."

Right. Noah had a tracker installed in his phone. Finn exhaled, trying to remember it was for his own safety. Because of what he did, helping Noah's work.

It was only because of that.

"Right. Well, I am fine. About to stop for tonight and watch a movie, eat, you know."

"Sounds good. I have new work for you. Group of four we found in a house in Michigan. Call me in the morning, all right?"

"Yes, Noah." He found a parking spot, and stared out into the growing darkness. Others had already stopped for the night, but many more drove past. Hurrying home to loved ones, maybe.

Finn had none.

Your mother is still alive, his traitor mind reminded him, needling into his side, up through his ribs. Right to his heart.

He ignored it.

"Good. I'll talk to you tomorrow with details. Glad you're in Ohio, it won't be a long drive to the house. We have someone who will help you over the border, and you'll get a new name before you come back."

"Yes, Noah." How many names had he gone by now? Ten? Twelve? None felt as real as Mouse.

"Make sure you're eating enough, okay? I know you have a hard time with that."

He swallowed. "Yes, Noah."

"Okay. Well. Have a good night."

"Good night, Noah."

Noah hung up, and Finn sat slowly back, letting his head fall back against the headrest.

A sound from outside caught his attention, and he found himself half-smiling as he saw the familiar stray winding sinuously towards him, her heavy belly hanging low as she meowed, offended he had not already opened the door for her.

The first time he had seen her, he'd shared a bit of his hamburger with her. The second time, he'd given her her own patty to eat and snuck a flea pill in. In the six months since, he'd found himself changing his routes, making sure to stop here at least once per month to share a meal and a little something to keep the bugs at bay.

Each time, she remembered him, he thought.

Or maybe she begged everyone and he was simply the sucker who fell for the act.

He had to climb down and help her up into his cab. She couldn't easily make the jump any longer. "The babies come very soon," He murmured, as she kicked up a heavy purr. "You need somewhere safe to have them, little mother."

He set her in the passenger seat and dug through the plastic bag from the store. He pulled out a can and opened it up, setting it down. She was already diving to eat, curled over it like he might yank it away at any second. He often ate the same way, he thought, after too many nights where dinner had been so little and yet so painfully earned.

For himself, he opened a protein bar and a little nutritional shake.

They ate together, Cat and Mouse.

That struck him as so funny he laughed. He laughed until his lungs burned, until he ran out of air for the sound.

He laughed until she stopped eating to stare at him.

She blinked - once, twice, three times.

He coughed and made himself stop, worried that laughter could too easily become the tears he never allowed himself to cry. After a pause, she went back to her dinner.

He went back to his.

Normally, she ate and then asked to go right back out, meowing and pawing at the door until he opened it. This time, she only licked the last hints of food from around her mouth and watched him. He poured some water from his water bottle into a little bowl he kept for snacks and she drank from it.

"I wonder if your usual water is frozen," He murmured as he took off his heavy boots, leaving them on the dash. Then he sighed and moved into his little living area in the cab, sitting on the bunk bed to open his laptop. One leg was curled under him, the other off the side, foot on the floor. Noah, he knew, would know he had turned on a data hotspot and logged on to the internet. Would know what he watched.

But at least he got to choose.

He expected to hear her demanding to leave, but instead, he felt her wind around his leg a moment later. She meowed, a little plaintive, and he sighed and picked her carefully up, setting her down on his bed.

She immediately began to clean herself.

He chose a film at random and then laid down, hands behind his head. As always, his knees twinged when he straightened his legs, but he forced them to anyway. His lower back ached, but that's normal, too.

Somewhere around the time that the film's main character confesses her love to a man who has eyes for someone else, the man who was once Finn Schneider feels a warm little head push against his hand. The cat settled herself next to him, and he scratched idly behind her ears.

Noah sent him a text at midnight.

Stop watching movies and go to sleep. Calling you at noon.

He read the message and then closed his eyes, taking in a deep, deep breath. He exhaled, long and slow, until his lungs burned.

Was freedom being able to leave this rest stop whenever he wanted? Or would it be leaving without Noah knowing exactly where he was?

It was for his own safety.

To make sure someone would know where he was if anything happened to him.

Wasn't it?

Was he free? Or had he simply belonged to Noah, since he was traded over for a new truck?

Noah called it freedom - but he tracked Finn's location, had never offered to help him leave and truly start over. And sometimes, Finn thought he had traded one master for another, to help free those Noah found worthy of it.

But perhaps Noah did not, in the end, think he deserved it. No, not him. Not Robert's shaky, squeaking little Mouse.

Not a man who still sometimes had to wear a mask like a muzzle in order to fall asleep.

Not a man who slept uneasily, knowing soon enough the faces of the dead would parade through his mind, making sure he remembered always that he had lived and they had not.

And this... this sad small life was all he had done with the time their bloody deaths had given to him.

"Merry Christmas, little mother," He whispered to the cat, who closed her eyes. He saw what looked like a smile in the curve of her mouth. "You, at least, I can help to live."

Even though he had been too weak to save anyone else.

Even though he never slept without feeling Robert's eyes as a heavy weight on his skin, heavier than his hands had ever been.

Even now, he still heard Robert whisper, sleep well, little Mouse, in his ear, heard his rasping laughter.

His phone buzzed.

Merry Christmas, Noah had sent him. Forgot to say it earlier. Can't wait to see you in Michigan.

Even now, Finn Schneider could not tell if he meant it or if he was only making sure Finn remembered who his life belonged to.

It felt like screams from a basement, lives he couldn't save. Lives he owed everything to, everything he could never repay.

So he gave what he had left to Noah.

Or...

Did Noah simply take it, and Finn had forgotten how to have anything for himself?

Good night, Noah sent him.

Good night, Finn sent back.

It felt like hands through his hair.

It felt like a cage door slamming shut.

@finder-of-rings @endless-whump @arlin-always-writing @thefancydoughnut @newandfiguringitout @doveotions @pretty-face-breaker @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @boxboysandotherwhump @oops-its-whump @cubeswhump @whump-tr0pes @whumptywhumpdump @whumpiary @orchidscript @nonsensical-whump @outofangband @eatyourdamnpears @hackles-up @grizzlie70 @mylifeisonthebookshelf @keeper-of-all-the-random-things @burtlederp

@whumperfully @pigeonwhumps @squishablesunbeam @darkthingshappen @whumper-soot @pumpkin-spice-whump @pardonmekreature @d-cs @honey-is-mesi @whump-queen @sowhumpful

#whump #death valley fic #finn schneider #recovering whumpee #trauma recovery whump #trauma recovery tw #traumatized whumpee #whump writing #writing #original writing #horror oc #horror story #debating something with Finn #haven't decided yet #ptsd tw #caretaker whumper #maybe

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braveclementine · 3 months ago

Text

Chapter 27

Warnings: None

Copyright: I do not own any Marvel characters or locations. However, I do own my OCs: Elizabeth Silvertongue and Clementine Greenleaf. I also own Clementines' brother Donavan. The following OCs are owned by other Wattpad writers as this is a collaboration project. Their OCs are on the face claim page. I do not condone any copying of this.

"I don't like this." Bucky murmured for the seventeenth time of the car trip as I slowly pulled the car into the neighborhood I had lived in my entire life.

"Bucky." I said through gritted teeth. My nerves were already shot, especially now that I was feet away from my house. I had told my parents that I was bringing my 'boyfriends' to meet them. Yes, boyfriends with an s at the end, which had led to a slew of questions that I didn't know how to answer.

My mom, I wasn't to worried about. I already knew her reaction was not going to be a pleasant one. Our family was made up of devout Christians and I was pretty sure that my choice of men wasn't going to be accepted easily, if at all.

My dad on the other hand. . . I was going to hate disappointing him.

"Elizabeth. . ." Steve trailed off and then said, "You. . . I mean we can catch a plane back to New York."

"Damnit you two." I growled as I pulled up in the driveway, parking it angrily. "Give me a little bit of confidence that this is going to go well. That would be a lot better."

A text pinged on my phone as I sat there in the car. It was from Loki and it read

: 🇪🇻🇪🇷🇾🇹🇭🇮🇳🇬 🇮🇸 🇬🇴🇮🇳🇬 🇹🇴 🇧🇪 🇫🇮🇳🇪 🇰🇮🇹. 🇯🇺🇸🇹 🇧🇷🇪🇦🇹🇭🇪

I took a deep breath and then got out of the car. Steve and Bucky got out with me, helping me with the suitcases and we walked up to the door.

The house was a two story brick house with blue shutters and a matching door. A dead at the moment ornamental Japanese bush sat on one side of the sidewalk. Other dead plants lined the other side. It was definitely more beautiful in the spring and summer.

It must've snowed, because there were still salt crystals on the pavement, though not an inch of snow could be seen anywhere. The weather was also warmer, with the sun beating down on us.

I rang the doorbell, noticing the cute Christmas wreath on the front door.

I could hear the door inside creaking open at someone walked through and my brothers' face appeared in the glass window. He opened the door and said, "Hey."

"Hey." I replied back with a nervous smile. "Um, Paul, this is Steve and this is James."

"Hi." Paul nodded to them and then said, "Come on in. Moms' been going ballistic."

I cringed and then walked over the threshold, Bucky closing the door behind us. We moved into the living room, leaving the bags in the front hallway. My dad was sitting on the couch on the Laptop, looking at the Officer Tatum Report. He glanced over and said, "Hey Pumpkin."

Well that was a bonus.

"Hey dad." I said as he got up and came over, wrapping me in a huge hug, kissing the top of my head. Despite this feeling promising, I still waiting for his rebuke. I took the chance to introduce him however and he shook both of their hands silently, sizing them up.

I could hear footsteps on the stairs now and I tensed, anxiety threatening to eat me up from the inside out.

"Honey?" My mom called out before coming into view of the living room.

"Hey mom." I said hesitantly, smiling a little. She gave me a severe look, though she pulled me into a hug. I wondered if she could feel my heart fluttering like a hummingbirds against her breast.

"So these are your. . ." She drifted off, looking for the right word that would fit her views. "the men you're dating?"

"Uh, yes." I said. "Um, this is Steve and this is James."

"Pleasure to meet you ma'am." Steve said seriously, holding out his hand, and when mom placed her hand in it, he kissed the back of it formally, which actually made her blush a little. I felt myself relax a little. Perhaps they'd charm their way into this.

"Have you met my sons?" My mom asked, pointing her thumb over at the office door which was open. I could hear the sounds of my brothers using their keyboards furiously as they gamed.

"We were introduced to Paul." Bucky finally spoke softly. "Although Elizabeth has told us much about both of her brothers."

"Good." Mom said firmly. "I hope you understand though that you are not staying in my daughters bedroom?"

Bucky smiled and Steve replied quickly. "Elizabeth already planned to show us to her favorite hotel." He gave me a sideways look, "Uh I think she called it. . . Great Wolf Lodge?"

Mom rolled her eyes as I grinned. "We already made the cots up for you in the Solarium."

"Thank you ma'am." Steve said again.

"I hope you three are hungry, because dinner has already been made." Mom said, walking past us to go into the kitchen.

"Very much so." Bucky said eagerly.

"Boys! Set the table!" My dad shouted. And I hurried to help, hoping that everything was going to work out.

ꨄ︎

My bedroom hadn't changed from when I'd left it. All of the walls were covered in gymnastics medals and ribbons, along with one or two posters. I smiled as I sat on the bed, which was still made- though the sheets and comforter had been washed- the stuffed animals were piled up on the pillow.

My mom came into the room a few minutes later, turning the light back on as she sat on the edge of my bed, looking down at me. "Elizabeth, we need to talk about this."

"Yeah, I know." I murmured, feeling the sick pit in my stomach.

"I don't like what you're doing." She said flat out. "They are both very nice men, but you need to choose between the two of them. The other will understand and move on with his life and find himself another wife."

I bit my tongue, not even wanting to bring up their sexuality. "I can't." I whispered. "I love both of them to much. It's. . . unconventional-"

"It's sinful." My mom said firmly.

My stomach did flips. Despite all of Lokis' assurances that everything would be okay, the idea of my God looking down at me and seeing this sin made me want to curl up in a ball and let death come for me. Heaven or Hell I didn't want to disappoint anyone, and I had always done my best not to be sinful, to be Christian, to be perfect and good in the eyes of God.

And now, I'd failed. Big time. I had wrestled with this before, but once I was living with them, once I fell in love with them. . . when I was with them, I didn't worry about it so much. But they weren't here now. They were two floors down and I was in my bedroom, with my mom sitting on my bed like I was still seven years old.

My body actually felt like hot flashes were going through them, a buzzing noise in my head, my vision blurry. I think I was actually having a panic attack, although I didn't move an inch or let her know. I couldn't let her know.

I desperately needed them. But I couldn't say that.

I had to make a choice.

My phone buzzed again and I looked apologetically at my mom, but snatched the device up, grateful for the interruption. The buzzing noise was gone in my head at least, although something still held my heart in a painful grip.

: 🇮 🇼🇮🇱🇱 🇳🇴🇹 🇱🇪🇹 🇹🇭🇪 🇷🇪🇱🇦🇹🇮🇴🇳🇸🇭🇮🇵 🇬🇴 🇧🇦🇩🇱🇾 🇮🇫 🇾🇴🇺 🇫🇮🇬🇭🇹 🇫🇴🇷 🇮🇹. 🇧🇪🇱🇮🇪🇻🇪 🇮🇳 🇲🇪 🇰🇮🇹

I touched the cross that I was wearing around my neck in wonder, my hand shaking.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door and both me and my mom looked up to see both of the soldiers in the doorway, worry on their faces. I quickly sat up and my mom set her mouth in a firm line.

"Steve! Bucky! What are-"

Bucky moved into the room slowly, kneeling beside the bed, completely ignoring my mom. He laced his metal fingers with mine and said softly. "I could feel your distress doll. I had to check on you."

I let out a shaky breath, squeezing his hand. Steve hesitated, baby blue eyes flickering between my mom and me as he tried to figure out what he should do. I knew he had enormous respect for my parents and didn't want to cross a line. But he also wanted to comfort me, which in and of itself was a comfort to me already.

And a sudden thought hit me, that hadn't hit me in a long time: Steve and Bucky were also Christian. How did they deal with it?

"Mom, can I speak to the two of them privately please?" I whispered, swinging my legs around so that I was facing them better.

Mom got up and said, "Five minutes," before leaving the room with the door wide open. I heard her go into her bedroom and then looked at the two of them.

"What's wrong Princess?" Steve moved forwards now, sitting down next to me while Bucky continued to kneel before me.

"How. . . how do you deal with this feeling?" I whispered. "This feeling of betraying God as a Christian? Not just for a polyamorous relationship but also. . . I mean, you know." I looked at them apologetically. "Being gay is a sin."

Steve squeezed my knee, almost making me laugh as I was ticklish there, but I couldn't laugh when it felt like my heart was now in my throat. "It wasn't easy, the. . . acceptance at first." He said slowly. "And acceptance isn't the right word. We knew that if crossed that line, Heaven was off limits to us. And we both believed so faithfully that we tried not to do anything. We tried so damn hard."

"We probably should've been stronger, especially for our time period." Bucky admitted. "But like all sinners, we gave in. And once we gave in. . . we never turned from our sin. And as. . . blasphemous as it is to say. . . I'm glad. I don't care. To be honest. . . the way I deal with it is that I just don't believe in him anymore."

I cringed, half expecting lightning to come through the roof and strike him where he stands. Steve flinched just the tiniest bit as well. Bucky sighed and continued, "I know he exists. Thor even proved it. But I don't. . . look Steve and I can't die anyways. But Thor still asked Odin to set aside a special place for Steve and I so even if we do die. . . we go to a special section of Valhalla. The Norse Gods don't have the same qualms of same sex couples as Allah, as God, as Buddha, as Brahma. . . so I guess if you asked me, I believe in Thor, in Odin, in Frigga, in Heimdall, in Loki."

Steve looked as shocked as I felt and Bucky looked apologetic. "Sorry Steve."

Steve shook his head slightly. "I still believe in God, Elizabeth. I believe in him fervently. And if I were to die, and appear before him in Heaven, his judgement is his judgement. And while the thought of Hell frightens me, saddens me, even though I know that eternity is longer than this fleeting- no matter how many hundreds of years we may live- I cannot regret loving Bucky or you at the same time. And that makes me a very selfish, sinful creature."

I had tears rolling down my face now.

"And so we come to the crossroads." Steve said softly. "You can stay with us openly, you can pretend to break it off and be with us behind closed doors, you can leave us completely. We'll always love you, and I know you'll always love us. But it is your choice, based on your faith, your beliefs."

"I love you." I whispered. "Even though I don't believe in this relationship. But. . ." I was going to choke. I was going to hate myself forever for giving in to the sin willingly. I almost wished they would kidnap me, force me to be theirs, that way I was sinning unwillingly. But that wasn't how this worked and I would have to choose a path of sin and love. . . or the other one.

'🇮 🇼🇮🇱🇱 🇳🇴🇹 🇱🇪🇹 🇹🇭🇪 🇷🇪🇱🇦🇹🇮🇴🇳🇸🇭🇮🇵 🇬🇴 🇧🇦🇩🇱🇾 🇮🇫 🇾🇴🇺 🇫🇮🇬🇭🇹 🇫🇴🇷 🇮🇹. 🇧🇪🇱🇮🇪🇻🇪 🇮🇳 🇲🇪 🇰🇮🇹'

"I believe in Loki." I gasped in realization, and with those words, something broke inside of me. A fountain of tears, for my lost religion, for my new realization. I had sinned.

And when I died, I would go to hell.

But. . . I had my boys.

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astros-turf · 10 months ago

Text

True but adding that trains cannot always be the end all be all, even for disabled people because they can't always get themselves to the train station. So yes making trains more important is in fact important, but only if we also focus on having a walkable city because we don't just spawn in on the train, we gotta get there somehow, disabled or not.

This includes the city taking care of shoveling, salting, and maintaining sidewalks. This includes trimming bushes that overhang on the sidewalks. This includes leaf removal. This includes accessible detours in times of construction. This also includes making buildings accessible. Making parking lots accessible. Making all bathrooms accessible. Making planes wheelchair accessible, making all busses wheelchair accessible, making all trains wheelchair accessible. You can't claim public transportation as an option for accessibility of disabled people unless the entire city/system is accessible. So I hope cities get on that quickly cuz this is so important!

please god above can someone explain to me why we're still working on self driving cars when trains exist

#accessibility #disabled #actually disabled

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aparticularbandit · 1 year ago

Text

Senior Center Shake-Up

Summary: As a volunteer, Eve runs into some issues trying to make the Haddington Senior Center winter decorations more inclusive.

Part of The Valentines Collection.

Rating: T.

Eve Fletcher/Claire Debella

Reminder that I write Claire as trans and that Claire hasn't come out to Eve yet. As this is in Eve's POV, she refers to her as Christopher, he/him.

AO3

Snow flurries through the air, overhead cloud cover a soft greyish-white – more white than grey, as befitting the gentler snow. Later on, the clouds might grow darker, and if they’re really, really lucky, small jagged lines of lightning will brighten the evening sky with the lingering echoes of thunder around them.

But Eve isn’t thinking about any of that as she makes her way across the parking lot to Haddington’s Senior Center. She’s thinking about all the homework she has to get through this evening – you’d think, with college application dates coming up soon, her teachers would let up on all the busywork, but they seem to just be piling even more on. Of course, she’s gotten most of her applications in already, so that shouldn’t be much of a concern, but Christopher talked her into applying to a reach school with him. She probably won’t get into it. She knows she won’t get into it; she’s not the sort of person they want. So she hesitates and decides not to and then—

The problem, really, with thinking about all of this other stuff in frigid cold weather is that then you’re not really paying attention to where you’re walking, and Eve – precious, precious Eve – places her heel on just the wrong patch of ice and finds herself slipping. Her arms whirl about, trying to steady her, but nothing works. She falls backward—

Only to be caught in the warm, firm hands of her boyfriend: Christopher Valentine.

“Hey,” Christopher says, smile playing about his soft lips as he looks down at her.

Eve’s cheeks warm as she looks up at him and meets his deep blue eyes. “Hey.”

Christopher helps her back to her feet, but where any other boyfriend might wrap his arms around her and rest his chin on her shoulder (and maybe kiss her cheek), he shoves his hands into his pockets, still that same awkward boy he’d been before, and steps next to her, scuffing the toe of his boot along the patch of ice. “They should salt this. If any of the seniors slip on this, they could fall and break their hip.” He bites his lower lip and lets out a low hiss. “They could sue.”

“They won’t sue.” Eve tucks her hair back behind one ear. She wraps her arm through Christopher’s. “C’mon,” she says, “you can keep me steady on the way in.”

“S-sure.” Christopher’s face flushes a deep red, one that near reaches the top curves of his ears when Eve tugs him against her. At least this time, when they make it inside, he doesn’t immediately untangle his arm from hers. He just stands there in that thin jacket of his, uncertain and unsure.

Of course, as soon as their supervisor, Mrs. Rafferty, shows up, Christopher pulls his arm from Eve’s. “You’ve got some ice out front, ma’am,” he says, still not removing his jacket. “If you want, I can take care of that right quick for you.”

Mrs. Rafferty offers him a half of a smile. “No, Christopher, dear, I’m sure we’ll be quite alright.”

“Eve fell—”

“And she’s alright, isn’t she?” Mrs. Rafferty turns to Eve, brows raising. “You’re doing alright, aren’t you, Eve, dear?”

Eve pauses halfway through removing her mother’s old, moth-bitten coat (for all its holes, for all its patches, for all its threadbare nature, it’s still quite warm) and then nods. “Yes,” she says, avoiding Mrs. Rafferty’s watery eyes, “but only because Christopher caught me. I could have hit my head on the curb if he hadn’t.”

“Oh.” Mrs. Rafferty’s teeth grit together – the word sounds harsh and annoyed. “I’ll get George to take care of it when he gets here. He’s supposed to be taking care of the sidewalk.” Then she gestures with one arm. “C’mon, you two. I’ve got you on Christmas decorating duty—”

Winter holiday, Eve corrects but doesn’t say. It’s the sort of thing that’ll just get Mrs. Rafferty to glare at her and say something about not being one of those politically correct sort of people and also next thing she’ll know Eve’ll want her to say Happy Holidays instead of Merry Christmas, and it’s….

It would just be a whole thing, and Eve doesn’t want to cause a stir.

Instead, Eve gives Christopher a look, hoping to meet his eyes for a little encouragement, but notes how focused he is on their supervisor. She sighs and then follows along with them to whichever room it is Mrs. Rafferty wants them to decorate this time.

There are three rooms to be decorated: the main community room, which has all sorts of group meetings from yoga to book club to that one club Mrs. Rafferty won’t mention to them by name but is apparently very sketchy; the secondary community room, which is mainly for sitting and chatting with other people who simply want to be there (and which has a nice little coffee bar and tends to be where the caterers set up while the actual eating takes place across both community rooms); and the theater, which doesn’t get used too much during the rest of the year, other than a monthly movie double feature, but which has Christmas (and yes, Eve does mean Christmas) movies and shows playing near constantly through the holiday season.

Including while Eve and Christopher are hanging the decorations.

The Who song from the cartoon Grinch sings so loudly in the background that even when Eve tries to talk to Christopher, he can’t hear her. He stares at her blankly, and her cheeks flush a bright red again when his gaze drops to her lips, even though she knows he’s just trying to read them. Other boyfriends, seeing the empty theater (literally empty – most of the seniors won’t come to the Christmas movies until much later, nearer the last few days leading up to the holiday itself, and then they’ll bring their extended families with them because the senior center theater has more seating than their own houses) and noticing how dark it is and how their supervisor has left them for who knows how long, would do…something. Something. Especially since the movie’s so loud; it’s not like anyone would hear them in here.

Not that they’ve ever gotten far enough for being heard to be a problem.

When Christopher’s gaze returns to her eyes, his own narrowed in clear confusion, Eve gives a little shake of her head. It’s not important, she tries to tell him, hoping he’ll at least be able to understand that. She looks over the decorations and sighs. Points to herself, points out the door. I’ll be right back.

Christopher nods. He gets it. Maybe. It’s always hard to tell when you can’t hear each other speak.

Eve makes it out of the theater, glances over her shoulder to make sure Christopher isn’t paying her any attention, quickly checks down the hallway to make sure no one is coming, and then leans against the wall with another sigh, one that causes her to sink until she’s crouching near the tiled floor. It’s sparkling clean, which means the nearby bathroom must have flooded before they got here – that’s the only reason Mrs. Rafferty would have it this spotless at this time of day. Still, it’s not like being at home, when she can lean her head down between her knees and open her mouth in a silent scream. She doesn’t want her hair to touch the tile, no matter how clean it might be right now. So instead of doing either of those, she presses her lips together as tightly as she can, teeth biting on the inside of her mouth.

It…doesn’t help. But it’s something.

(Before she goes back into the theater, Eve imagines that while she was gone, Christopher found a remote to mute the movie. Then they can at least talk while the show is playing – Rafferty probably wouldn’t notice as long as she can look through the windows and see it still going – and that would be. nice.

Somehow, that fantasy feels just as outlandish as some of the other things she’s thought about Christopher doing with her. That’s the disappointing part.)

It’s while they’re decorating the secondary community room that Eve notices. At first, she isn’t sure she wants to say anything – mostly because she doesn’t want to be a tremendous bother to anyone, let alone Christopher or Mrs. Rafferty – but the longer they decorate and the more it becomes obvious to her, the more uncomfortable she gets. Eventually, she pauses in her decorating and bites her lower lip.

Christopher notices immediately. “Eve?” he asks. “Is something wrong?”

“It’s all Christmas decorations.”

The words sound weird when she says them, but Eve can’t think of any better way to say it. She glances around at the nativities – multiple nativities – and the Christmas trees and the angels, and she presses her lips together again.

Christopher looks over the decorations they’ve placed around the room. “I think the snowflakes are much more carefully neutral,” he says, as though sharing a secret, but his eyes don’t hold that light they normally do. He moves closer to her. “What do you mean?”

“Well. Um.” Eve runs her fingers through her hair – an odd nervous habit she’d picked up from her mother – and gazes around the room. “There are…there are more holidays than just Christmas. My grandparents, for instance, they celebrate Hanukkah, and it would be nice….” Her gaze drops. “We should have some decorations for that, too, not just…not just Christmas.” Her fingers fidget together. “I think…I think Ms. Eisenhardt would really appreciate it, and, um—”

Christopher reaches over, places his hand over Eve’s, and stills her fidgeting. She glances up and searches his eyes, finding nothing there but a gentle calm. “Okay.” He gives her a soft smile. “What should we do?”

His hand feels warm on hers.

Eve bites her lower lip. Her gaze flicks away and then back again, and she looks up at him through her lashes. “We should talk to Mrs. Rafferty first,” she says. “I’m sure she’ll have an idea.”

“Okay.” Christopher nods but doesn’t drop her gaze. “Let’s go ask.”

“Absolutely not.”

Eve stares, dumbfounded, at Mrs. Rafferty, where she sits behind her messy desk. She blinks twice, uncertain that she’s really heard what she just heard. “What?”

“I said no,” Mrs. Rafferty repeats. There’s nothing intentionally menacing in her tone, just a firm sort of firmness to it. “The senior center simply does not have the extra funds to cover buying any new holiday decorations at this time.” For all that there might not be anything menacing in her tone, there’s something off in the way she says holiday, as though it’s a naughty word that shouldn’t be said at all. “We’ll keep using the decorations we already have. Nothing more, nothing less.”

Christopher takes Eve’s hand in his and gives it a gentle squeeze. “What if Eve and I made more decorations? That should help with the problem.”

Mrs. Rafferty shakes her head. “Cut-out decorations are for the craft room, not for the rest of the center. If we start putting up everyone’s artwork all over the building, then we would have to put up everyone’s artwork all over the building, and you understand why that would be a bad idea.”

Eve does understand. For all that she loves the seniors, some of them are…a little stuck in some…views that would be more harmful to some of the others than not putting up inclusive decorations would be. Still. “What if…what if I brought something from home? Or bought something on my own to bring in? Then it wouldn’t cost the center anything.”

“The center can’t be held liable for items you leave lying around, Eve, you know that.” Mrs. Rafferty stares down at them. “The answer is no.”

Eve is too shocked – too upset – to say anything else. Her gaze drops, and she can feel tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. That’s not the worst part of this. It isn’t. But she can hear every bully she’s ever had laughing at her, making fun of her for crying, just because they said something that’s definitely not that harmful at all. She can’t help it. If she tries even harder not to cry, it just makes her cry harder. So it’s better to let the tears prick at her eyes. If she tries to stop them, she’ll end up weeping, and nobody wants that – least of all her.

But where Eve falls silent, Christopher speaks. “If we can’t add more inclusive decorations,” he says, “then we should take down the decorations specific to Christmas. It isn’t right to let a government building lean so completely in one direction. What would the voters think?”

Rafferty takes a deep breath in and leans forward. “Look. The voters will be more upset if we aren’t decorated for Christmas. I’m not voted into this position. And none of the seniors have ever complained about any of this.” Her gaze hardens. “Now you will drop this, or you will need to rethink where you want to volunteer next semester.” She lifts a hand and waggles it at them dismissively, her chipped nail polish a dull red in the overhead light. “Now go on. Back to your decorating.”

When Eve stands, Rafferty continues, “Sorry, dear, but your tears don’t work on me.”

Eve takes a sharp breath in and hurries out of the room. She doesn’t stop in the hallway – more than almost anything, she wants to be out of the center, away from Rafferty, away from the center, somewhere she can feel safe. Normally, she feels safe here, but right now…right now she’s not sure she’ll feel safe here again, and maybe that’s the worst part of all.

Christopher races after her, catches her, places his hand on her shoulder. “Eve—”

She wants to shrug him off. She wants to keep running. She wants to go home.

Eve turns into her boyfriend and crumbles against his chest.

At first, Christopher tenses, but then he wraps his arms around her and holds her close to him. He runs his fingers through her hair – she finds it soothing, maybe more so because it’s him, because it’s so odd for him to do this somewhere so public, and she curls closer against him. Still, he gently leads her away from the main hallway and sits with her on the floor – not as sparkling clean, but maybe it’s just harder to tell because she’s crying and her sight is all blurry, and honestly she hates this – and then, a few minutes later, pulls away just enough to brush the tears from her cheeks. He hesitates and then says, soft, “Maybe it would be good to take the rest of the day off.”

Eve flinches away from his touch. “What…what do you mean?”

“I mean, I can take care of everything else. You’re, um. You’re kind of a mess, Eve.” Christopher’s lips curl up in a gentle, soft smile, but it feels patronizing. He reaches as though to brush his fingers through her hair again.

“I…I guess,” Eve says, but she still flinches away from his touch. She looks up at him, searches his eyes, finds only warmth and comfort there. He doesn’t mean anything by it, by saying she’s a mess. He’s right. She’s certain she is a mess, what with the crying and everything, and honestly, she should have.... She should have kept her mouth shut. She doesn’t know anything about running one of these places anyway, and she never would’ve thought about the money issues or the liability, and Mrs. Rafferty is…she’s right about all of that, she is, really.

Still, Eve can’t help but sigh. “I just thought….” Her head tilts to one side. “Ms. Eisenhardt would be so happy.” She rubs her hand across her eyes. It doesn’t matter. “Um, I’ll…I’ll come back tomorrow. Thank….” She takes a deep breath in and gives Christopher the warmest smile she can right now. “Thank you. For going to talk to her with me. And for…for covering for me.”

Christopher pauses – and for a moment, Eve imagines him leaning forward and kissing her – but instead, he takes her hand in his and gives it a squeeze. “Of course. Whenever you need me.”

Eve needs him now, but she won’t say that. She’ll just keep thinking it to herself all the way to her borrowed car. On the drive home, she’ll be just as preoccupied, but she won’t say anything about that either.

Two things happen at the Haddington Senior Center the next day.

Eve’s a little later than normal – her mom needed the car back, which is fine because Eve can just get a ride back with Christopher, as long as she isn’t a mess again today, but did mean that she took the bus there instead of riding with Christopher because he’d said something about having something else to do and that he would meet her there. But she’d seen his car in the parking lot outside, so even with whatever else he’d needed to do, he’d still gotten it done and gotten there faster than the bus. Which…really means that he’ll be waiting on her to finish up her hours before they can leave, but. But.

Almost immediately, Ms. Eisenhardt finds Eve, takes both of her hands in both of her own, and looks up at her with a broad, bright grin. “Come see,” she says, eyes growing brighter as she speaks. “Come see.”

Eve doesn’t even have time to respond before the little old lady pulls her down the hallway to the main community room – the one Eve hadn’t helped decorate the day before. Of course, the first thing she sees are all of the winter and Christmas decorations, but then Ms. Eisenhardt pulls her to one side and gestures, saying, “Look.”

It’s a little haphazard, of course, but Eve starts to see them through everything else – a menorah here and there, a few dreidels on one of the tables with a printed out guide on how to play, and some of what she’d thought were snowflakes or Christmas stars are now much clearly stars of David. Her eyes widen. “Where did they come from?”

But Ms. Eisenhardt doesn’t say anything about that, only goes to her normal chair, just next to one of the menorahs. She drums her fingers on her leg and then pulls out her glasses, perches them on the edge of her nose, and starts to read her book.

It’s then that there’s a sound at the door behind her, and Eve turns to see Christopher carrying a large plastic bag filled almost to the brim with more of them. He holds a finger up to his lips before Eve can say anything, then he leans forward conspiratorially, “Mrs. Rafferty always takes Tuesdays off. So I thought, if I could get everything set up while she wasn’t here, then she wouldn’t have anyone to blame. Then the center could keep everything for next year.”

Eve wants to kiss him. She wants to grab his collar and pull him to her so strongly that he drops the plastic bag and kisses her. (Although she really, really doesn’t want to make him drop the bag because she doesn’t want to make him break anything.) Still, that impulse doesn’t pass when he places the large bag on the floor and opens it with a bright smile, gesturing for her to take some of the new decorations to put them wherever she wants.

Her heart feels so full.

(She doesn’t question how Christopher got the money to pay for all of this. She would never have been able to do it on her own. She would never have fought Mrs. Rafferty like this.)

The second thing – and perhaps the one that isn’t the most important overall but that feels the most important to her – is when they’ve almost finished getting everything out of the bag and Ms. Eisenhardt clears her throat and points at the ceiling. “Mistletoe,” she says, nodding upwards.

Eve glances up, and her eyes widen again. “Christopher, you didn’t—”

“No.” Christopher shakes his head.

Ms. Eisenhardt just cackles. “Just kiss each other, you lovebirds!”

Eve bites her lower lip. She meets Christopher’s eyes, trying not to look hopeful or excited. She catches the hesitation in his gaze and says, her voice soft, “You don’t have to kiss me, if you don’t want. I know you don’t…. You don’t really want to—”

Before she can finish what she’s trying to say, Christopher leans across and kisses her. He cups her face with one hand, and she leans gentle into his touch. “I always,” he starts to say as they part, then flushes a bright scarlet, gaze dropping. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“You could never,” Eve responds, near breathless, and leans up to kiss the tip of his nose. Christopher just smiles. “Excellent.”

#bandit fic #december banditnanza 2023 fic #eve fletcher #claire debella #mrs. fletcher #glass onion #the valentines #the valentines collection

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deadmomjokes · 4 years ago

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So my husband is back on his medieval warfare and tactics special interest lately, and he was telling me about how so many battles were lost because the knights would just disobey orders and break ranks because they got too excited and just went full Leroy Jenkins. Prey drive switches on and they see somebody running and they just blank out and go.

Which seemed really dumb to me, like people couldn’t be that stupid, until I got walloped in the face by a memory from freshman year of college.

It’s almost 10pm in the dead of winter right before Finals, I’m out at college in a high altitude desert in the biggest city I’ve ever been in during my life. My dorm is on the second floor of one of the newest buildings, which are still surrounded by construction zones for the other new buildings going up. Just past the construction zones is one of the city’s major roads. There is still snow on the ground outside, the sidewalks are ice and rock salt, and the parking lot is a slush pile. (All of this is relevant in a minute I swear, stay with me here.)

We get a knock at the door. One of my roomies answers it. There’s 2 creepy looking muscle dudes asking for another roommate, E. E is creeped out and doesn’t want to go see them, but they won’t leave, insisting they see her and talk to her out in the hall. My spider senses are tingling, the social anxiety override kicks in, and I go full Mom Friend and ask them who they are and how they know her. And dudes just take off for the stairwell.

And I took off after them.

I need y’all to understand that I was an asthmatic at altitude in a mountain city in winter at night in shorts and a t-shirt and no shoes whatsoever, and I somehow made it down two flights of stairs, out the door, down the sidewalk, across a construction zone, across the parking lot, and halfway to the road screaming at two beardy dudebros twice my size to “get back here you little creeps”, all before I had consciously realized that I had left my apartment. Something about watching two creepy guys run for it triggered something in me, some latent instinct to Search and Destroy. Like Fight or Flight but I wasn’t the one being threatened, they were the ones doing the Flight, and I had this deep, ferocious need to FIGHT.

I full on blanked out, y’all. I literally have no memory of getting down the stairs or across the parking lot or anything at all until I was watching the headlights on the road thinking “wait, where are my shoes?” It’s a little black hole. I was in the apartment, they took off running, and then bam, there I was. It was like an out of body experience, I was hearing myself shout at them and thinking “I sound like such an idiot right now omg,” and then I realized What I Had Done.

Not only was it stupid, it was super dangerous. Even aside from all the environmental dangers, if they were some kind of kidnappers they could totally have snatched me. And yet there I was, barefoot in the snow and road salt with no phone, no inhaler, and I was still hollering after them like a dog on a chain when one of my roommates came down in boots and a coat to drag me back inside.

And honestly? I’m still miffed I never caught the guys. That was my takeaway from that incident.

So yes, I believe it now. People are so unbelievably dumb and the prey drive instinct is absolutely real.

#history #story time #i'm super embarrassed about that incident tbh #a little proud that my first instinct was Protec #but like #how many people saw me?#how many people know me only as 'that one weird girl who chased a couple guys screaming'#although at the same time #i have never felt more in tune with my scottish and pictish ancestors #and i'd totally forgotten it until we were talking about how utterly idiotic people get in battle

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 3 years ago

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Do Us Part

Warnings: nonconsent and rape; oral, fingering, marital discord, cheating, spousal arguments and mental/emotional abuse, age gap (Peter is 24/25 and reader is 35/36)

This is dark!Peter Parker x 30s/’older’ reader and explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You find it hard to accept that not all good things last as you face the changes in your marriage, yourself, and your marriage.

Note: I wanted to write Peter again but also I’ve seen this nonsense about how 30+ writers are too old for fanfic which is dumb af. And I wanted to turn the age gap trope a little so that it wasn’t the reader being the younger one in the relationship. I label it older reader but I don’t think being in your 30s is old tbh (my bf is 36 so pfft). It was all just a conglomeration of circumstances that inspired a deceivingly sweet dark Peter and I hope you like it. Also it’s 7.4k so a bit of a longer read.

Thank you. Love you guys!

Please leave some feedback, like and reblog <3

You walked slowly along the transparent shelves set into the pristine white walls of the cosmetics section. The department store was a haze of distant voices and the chirp of scanners as customers milled the aisles and waited their turn to check out. You whiled away your time looking at things you’d never buy as you waited for your husband to return from the men’s department.

You thought of the sparse make-up bag under your sink and the liners and shades you hadn’t used in years. They were likely expired and better tossed in the bin. You hovered along the crystal bottle of designer scents and stopped to test a particular blush-tinted fragrance.

You set the bottle back and peered over at the dark cubbies that housed the men’s scent. Even from there, you could catch a whiff of the heady scents as a younger man with reddish brown hair examined an angular vial of Dior Men. You suddenly felt out of place; a mid-thirties woman in her out-of-season clothes fantasizing about overpriced perfume.

Your husband's voice further cemented your reality as you fingered the golden cap of the Coach eau du parfum. Wesley rolled his eyes and flipped up the little plastic panel that hid the bold prices and huffed.

“I hope you don’t think I’m gonna pay for that shit,” he sneered, “what have you been doing? I was waiting for you.”

He waved a plastic bag as his lip curled and you pressed your mouth shut tightly and swallowed. The day began with another argument as he discovered the seared hole in his shirt and instead of blaming the crappy old dryer, he blamed you. Most of your clothes had been chewed up by the thing but you never complained.

“No, I was just… looking,” you teetered in your flats and glanced around. The young man at the corner display quickly turned to hide his nosy observation, “did you find some new shirts?”

“No thanks to you,” he sniffed.

“Oh,” you played with the hem of your tee and tucked your hands into your pockets nervously. You’d left him to look alone as you only seemed to irritate him and rarely took your advice on matters of clothing, “well, I thought I’d give you some space--”

“Stop acting so pathetic. Start taking responsibility for yourself. For god’s sake, you're almost thirty-six and you don’t know how to hang a shirt to dry?” He spun on his heel and snapped over his shoulder, “let’s go.”

You flinched but followed behind him as he strode away and you stumbled out behind him through the automatic doors. He tossed the bag into the back seat and slammed the door before flopping angrily into the driver’s side. You mirrored him daintily and squeezed your legs together as you tried to make yourself as small as you could.

“I told you about the dryer,” you said.

“And?” he started the engine and slapped his hand around the wheel, “call a fucking electrician or some shit.”

“Alright,” you shrugged as he stopped at the exit of the parking lot and checked his phone quickly.

“Benny wants to do a round of golf,” he peeled out and you grasped the door as your heart raced. You hated how reckless he was when he was angry. You hated how easily he got angry these days.

“Okay,” you picked at the fraying stitching of your purse.

“Don’t start moping,” he sneered, “I fucking work all week and I can’t go out and have a few rounds?”

“I never-- I didn’t say anything,” you murmured.

“You don’t need to,” he turned the wheel sharply as he cut off another car, “you sit at home all day and do what?”

“I work too,” you said.

“Uh huh, sure, if that’s what you call it.”

You ran your fingertip over the bleach stain on the knee of your jeans and said nothing. When he was in a mood, he would latch on anything until he outright exploded. You tried to think of when he changed, when he had stopped being the chill guy you met back in college. It felt like a slow trickle, small things you ignored until it was a mountain you could not see past.

You felt like crying but you’d stopped that a while ago. You existed in a purgatory of acceptance and helplessness. You wanted him to love you again, wanted to believe you could fix things. So you would keep trying. You would do better.

💍

You picked out a large flank of steak and winced at the price. You had a special dinner in mind. It was Friday and the work week was done. You wanted a weekend without a fight and Wesley was always one for a nice big cut of beef. You hadn’t made him one in a while, your dinners were the usual repetitive drumsticks and rice or your homemade mac and cheese.

You continued onto the fish section and grabbed some salmon for yourself. You’d gained some weight and decided to cut out dairy and red meat if you could help it. The pile of produce in your cart reminded you of the extra jiggle around your stomach and thighs. You also grabbed one of those women’s magazines that advertised a regimen to help slim your figure. You only hoped you could stick to it this time.

With your weekly haul in tow, you wheeled up to the check-out and waited behind a young man who looked oddly familiar to you. Maybe that was the passing years. You always felt a vague glimmer of deja vu, more often a sense of forlorn nostalgia of what you would never have again.

As you stared thoughtlessly, he looked over and smiled. He bent in front of your cart and picked up a thin packet of seasoning.

“You dropped this,” he said as he held it out and you thanked him before quickly snatching it and looking away.

He paid for his large bags of chips and over salted pre-packaged meals and packed up at the end as you loaded up your own goods, the cashier sending them down the parallel belt. You swiped your card and tried to calculate the chunk of money from your last check. You thanked the clerk and sidled past the young man as he finished up.

You rounded the counter as he lifted his three bags. You looked up without thinking, the sleeve of his shirt tight around his bicep. You caught yourself staring and looked back down as you packed in the cans.

It reminded you of Wesley; he’d also started being more mindful, he hit the gym after work and you noticed the little pudge that started just after he turned thirty was slimming out. It was that exact reason that made you notice the extra pounds on your own frame, not that you didn’t realise before.

The man left and you unfolded the little buggy you slid under the cart. You loaded your bags into it and dragged the cart behind you as you made an awkward exit with both wheeled trolleys. The compact fabric buggy was easy enough to fit on the bus if you stood.

You pushed the cart into the row of empty ones and continued across the parking lot. You rolled up to the bus shelter and checked the bus times on your phone. You dug out your strip of tickets and ripped one away. You leaned on the thin handle of your trolley and looked over your shoulder as you heard someone approach.

The man who checked out ahead of you put his bags on the metal bench inside the shelter as he sipped on a bright drink from the place just beside the grocery shop. He sent you a smile over his straw and you spun back to crane your head and search for the bus.

When the metal beast barreled up and cranked to a stop at the curb, the man waited behind you and as your wheels caught on the edge of the ramp, he reached around you and helped push it over the lip. You thanked him shyly and continued up. Usually you tried to keep the shop light on weekdays but you hadn’t really been paying attention.

You pushed your cart against the small barrier just behind the accessible seating and stood beside it, conscious not to take up too much space. The man stood just behind you two bags on one shoulder and the other dangling from the opposite elbow as he sucked on his straw. You grabbed the upright bar as the bus took off and watched the electronic banner for your stop.

A sharp stop had you veering back and you were caught by the young man as he chucked, “oop, you okay?”

“Yes, thank you,” you muttered and gave a sheepish smile over your shoulder.

“There’s a seat,” he gestured just behind you, “I’ll watch your stuff.”

“Um, no it’s… fine,” you gripped the bar tighter as the bus shuttled forward, “my stop is soon.”

You looked ahead of you and three stops passed before yours. You exited through the front with your buggy and headed down the sidewalk as the bus pulled away. You were exhausted just from your little sojourn and it wasn’t even two o’clock. God, you felt old.

💍

You had a salad chopped and tossed and the steak and fish laid out and seasoned. As you listened to your old Spotify list, the music dipped and the notification blipped over the screen. You washed your hands and grabbed the phone. You frowned as you read the lone message from Wesley, the only one you got from him all day.

‘Just finished at the gym, getting drinks with Andrew,’ you read and re-read the message as your heart fell.

You typed out a whole angry response and backspaced it all. You replaced it with ‘ok, have fun’ and blacked the screen. You shoved the meat back in the fridge and stretched saran wrap over the bowl of salad. You placed it on a lower shelf and closed the door, quickly swiping a can of the craft beer Wesley kept around.

You shut the light off in the kitchen and ignored the pang in your stomach as you cracked the can. You climbed the stairs as you sipped the hoppy foam. You put it on the night table and changed into the old butterfly pajamas you wore most nights and turned on the tv mounted against the wall.

You turned on Netflix but hardly paid attention to the carelessly chosen movie. You sat against the headboard and down the bitter beer until the can was hollow and your eyelids were heavy. You slumped down so that your shoulders were at your ears and dozed off in the stiff position as the room moved with the colours of the television.

The anger and alcohol shaded your shallow sleep and you hardly heard Wesley when he came in, only waking when your bladder was ready to burst and his snores rumbled in your head. You went to the bathroom and returned, wide awake, and stared at the shape of him in the dark.

You remembered when he used to kiss you when he came home, even when you were asleep, he’d wake you with the little pecks. You remembered when he was happy to come home. You remembered when you were happy.

You swallowed the acrid aftertaste of beer and left him to snore. You went downstairs and curled up on the couch but didn’t sleep. You just stared at the shadows of the furniture until the sun rose.

💍

The next day, Wesley didn’t wake until after noon and when he did, he didn’t say a word to you. He took his coffee and sat at the patio table in the back as you stewed and cleaned the kitchen. You had nothing to say to him even if you felt stupid for being mad.

“Gotta head down to the dealership,” he said as he interrupted your scouring of the stove.

“The dealership?” you said after a moment, deciding whether or not to break your vow of silence.

“I told you on Wednesday, I’m picking up the car--”

“We talked about this. We should wait a little longer--”

“It’s my money and I got a great price,” he sighed, “just because you have to pinch your pennies--”

“We’re married,” you squeezed the foam sponge, “it’s our money. Don’t act like I don’t pay for anything around here.”

“Oh thanks, honey, so wonderful you paid for a five dollar steak,” he scoffed, “I’ll be impressed when you can make a mortgage payment on your own.”

“How dare you!” you turned your back to him and kept scrubbing, “fine, but not a penny of my money is going to that thing.”

“That’s fine, I’m selling the old one, that should cover most of it--”

“What?” you slammed your hand between the burner, “you said we would hold onto it so I had something to--”

“Then you can buy it from me,” he said venomously.

“I’m your wife,” you spun to scowl at him again, “I-- what is wrong with you?”

He tilted his head and squinted as he poked his tongue out along his lip. “Nothing wrong with me,” he shrugged, “what’s wrong with you?”

“Don’t--” you warned as you pointed a finger at him through the bright yellow gloves, “don’t do that… I’ve been trying and you just keep pushing me away.”

“Me pushing you away?” he rolled his eyes, “you were passed out last night when I got home. Maybe if you didn’t fall asleep before nine I could actually fuck you… or at least get it up if you worked on losing some of that cellulite on your ass.”

Your lip quivered and you sucked in a breath. You shook your head and turned around again. You ignored him as your hand shook and you continued your work, scratching at the dried-on food around the burner. His empty mug clinked onto the counter and you listened to his exit.

Fuck him and his new car. You were done trying with him.

💍

Wesley’s new car was shrouded in the shade of the garage as the old black Hyundai sat out on the driveway with a red and white “For Sale” sign on the windshield. Right after he got back from his extravagant purchase, he made the listing online and several perusers stopped by Saturday night but Sunday morning saw the car still there.

You sat by the border of stones around the garden as he drank beer in the garage and approached any interested buyers who appeared; although so far he’d only had two before noon.

You tucked your clippers into your apron pocket and dusted off your gloves as you stood. You were a little dizzy from sitting out in the sun and a glass of water was the perfect excuse to drown out the annoying sound of your husband’s voice.

You ignored Wesley as you trod through the garage and kicked your sneakers off on the mat right before the three steps up to the house. You went to the kitchen and put your gloves on the counter as you filled a glass from the dispenser on the front of the fridge. You’d given up everything but water and the slices of lemon were the only flavour you had.

You took the glass and your gloves and headed back. Wesley waited just at the bottom of the stairs as he glared up at you with arms crossed. You sighed and descended but he didn’t let you pass.

“What is your problem?”

“Are you really asking me that?” you hissed.

“You giving me the silent treatment isn’t gonna fix this,” he snarled.

“You know what you said so… I shouldn’t have to tell you to apologize,” you retorted and he stayed put.

“Is this about the car?”

“The car is just another thing,” you cross an arm around your stomach, “you think I couldn’t use it to get around, to get the groceries maybe? Or, I don’t know, maybe since you have such a problem with my home office, I could go out and get a ‘big girl’ job as you put it so many times--”

“Your mother has a car she never drives. You can just take her with you, two birds, one stone. I need to sell this to pay for the new one--”

“The one I begged you not to buy,” you huffed, “you could’ve waited a few more years until we were a little more comfortable--”

“Oh, wait? Until we have a kid and all my money goes to it,” he snapped, “yeah, I’m sure we’d have the money then--”

“You’d have to fuck to do that,” you stepped down the last step and pushed past him.

As you came into the sunlight and shielded your eyes, a figure stood by the garden, knelt just by your tulips as he felt the soft petals. You narrowed your eyes. You recognized him for sure. It was the stranger from the bus.

“Um, hi?” you croaked as you swallowed the lump in your throat.

“Hey, it’s… you again,” he chuckled softly as he stood, “I saw an ad for a car and… well, I’m getting tired of the bus.”

“Oh, uh, my husband,” you pointed over your shoulder, “you’ll have to talk to him.”

“Okay,” he smiled, “Peter,” he held out his hand and you stared at it. You introduced yourself and shook his firm grip.

“Like I said, it’s my husband selling the car,” you brushed by him and got to your knees by the flowerbed. “Unless you’re looking to buy some wilting pansies.”

“Hmm, I like the tulips better,” he said as he slowly inched away, “thanks.”

You sat back on your heels and he strode over to the open garage. You heard Wesley greet him and didn’t bother paying attention to the same pitch you’d heard all morning. You pulled on your gloves and wiggled your nose as it tingled. You really just wanted to keel over and bawl.

“Sold,” Wesley announced and you heard a clap, “all yours!”

“I’ll just transfer the deposit,” Peter said and a minute passed before he emerged again, the keys hanging from his finger, “Thanks, Wes.”

You hid your distaste. It used to be that Wesley hated being called ‘Wes’ but lately, he introduced himself to everyone as just ‘Wes’. He really had changed. You must have too.

“Hey,” you looked up and blinked as the sun made your eyes water as it shone around Peter.

“You bought it?” you asked as you yanked free a weed.

“Yep, but uh,” he glanced over his shoulder as the old car stereo Wesley used blared out a classic rock tune, “I… wasn’t eavesdropping but I heard some of it and… if you ever need a ride to the grocery store, I usually try for Wednesdays,” he tucked his hand in his pocket, “I don’t live too far and since we go to the same one--”

“No, no, you don’t have to do that,” you looked back to the soil, embarrassed.

“Well, if you change your mind,” he kept the keys dangling from one finger and reached into his pocket. He pulled out his wallet and slid out a card with some effort, “I’m supposed to have these handy but I never really use them.”

He offered the business card and you read his name above the title, ‘senior photographer’. You gave a half-hearted smile and put it in your apron pocket.

“Thanks,” you said, “I can manage.”

“You don’t have to though,” he said kindly, “but I’ll, uh, leave you to your gardening. Sorry if I bugged you.”

“You didn’t,” you assured without looking up, flattered that anyone cared enough to even offer help.

“Hey, Pete,” Wesley stopped Peter as he neared the car, “you can have one before you go.”

“Oh, no, I’m gonna be driving,” Peter argued.

“Pfft, it’s a celebration and one won’t put you over the limit,” Wesley insisted and handed him a dark bottle of craft brew, “come on.”

“I really should go--”

“It’s a Sunday, where do you need to be?” Wesley patted his shoulder and looked over at you, “hey, honey, you wanna see if we have any snacks for our guest?”

“I’m not hungry,” Peter said curtly, “really. Just the beer is fine.”

They disappeared back into the garage and you cringed. You hated that. Wesley only every acted like a husband when others were around.

💍

You waited a whole week before returning to the grocery store. You were short on everything and it was a reason to get out of the house. Your husband had made both your home and your workplace hostile.

It irked you that Wesley resented you working from home when a couple years ago he was so happy about it. Then, he’d been so enthusiastic about starting a family but when it didn’t happen right away, he grew disillusioned and bitter. Now, he seemed to have no interest in being a husband let alone a father.

As you packed up your spinach and bottles of Perrier, your cart rolled just a little as someone nudged it from the other end. You raised your head and hid your surprise and discomfort as Peter smiled back at you.

“I thought you said Wednesdays,” you murmured as you dropped a bag in your cart.

“I forgot eggs,” he held up the carton, “I guess I have good timing.”

“You do?” you asked as you pulled your cart forward and maneuvered around to push it out of the way of fellow shoppers. You bent to grab your trolley from beneath and he caught it as you unfolded it.

“I’ll drive you,” he said.

“I told you--”

“I’m here so why not? Save the ticket for next time,” he urged.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why does it matter? Why do I matter to you?” you asked.

“I don’t know, I… like helping people,” he shrugged, “what if I told you you were helping me? I have this horrible need to be the hero.”

“That will go away,” you muttered under your breath and he lifted a brow, “sorry, I… thank you.”

“Alright, let’s go then,” he collapsed the trolley and carried it easily under his arm as he cradled his eggs in the other, “I got the A/C fixed on the car too.”

“Mmm,” you hummed and walked with him out of the store.

You crossed the parking lot and helped you load up the bags in the trunk. That car should have been yours; you’d made enough payments on it yourself but Wesley was such a stubborn ass.

You sat in the front seat as he slid into the other and started the car. He drove cautiously through the lot and you read the store signs as he came to the exit.

“How long have you and… the old man been together?”

“Um,” you glanced over at him and chewed your lip, “since college so… almost fifteen years now.”

“Fifteen?” he turned out onto the street, “really? I thought he was older than you.”

“Christ,” you scoffed, “don’t flatter me.”

“Really, I woulda said twenty-eight at most,” he said coolly, “wow, I feel so young now.”

“And I feel so old,” you grumbled as you crossed your legs, hoping he didn’t notice the wrinkle in the pink capris.

“Whatever, you’re not even forty,” he said, “and time has treated you well so I can only think in a few years… oh jeez, sorry, that came off weirder than I intended. Not that I meant for it to be weird at all--”

You giggled at his rambling as he rolled to a stop at the sign and peeked over at you in the rearview. You caught his eye and quickly looked away, “what?”

“Just… you have a nice smile,” he said as he turned down a side street, “and a nice laugh.”

“Thank you,” your voice was brittle at the genuine compliment, “you’re funny.”

“Am I? I wasn’t trying to be,” he took the same short cut you took when you walked home from the convenience store which was closer than the plaza.

“And nice,” you said as he came onto your street, “you really didn’t have to drive me. You could’ve dropped me at the corner--”

“No way, I was raised better than that, and if you think I’m letting you carry that all in by yourself--”

“Raised to help little old ladies?” you mused.

“Raised to treat ladies properly,” he corrected, “especially pretty ones.”

“I’m married,” your heart pattered as you dared to flirt back, almost in disbelief that he was humouring you, “and your lies don’t work on me, young man.”

“Not that young,” he insisted as he pulled into the driveway.

You got out and went around to the trunk. He handed you the bag with the bread and other light products, and loaded up with the other bags.

“You get the doors, let me do the heavy work,” he said and nodded you towards the house.

You went ahead of him and unlocked the door. You let him inside and pointed him into the kitchen. He placed the bags on the counter and stretched his arms and hands as you set yours on the other side. The muscles of his arms moved under his skin and you could trace the lines of his torso through his grey tee.

“So,” he took out the bottle of Perrier, “this going in the fridge?”

“What-- you’ve done enough.”

“Fridge?” he ignored you and pulled out the other.

You gave a long blink and threw up your hands in surrender, “yes, please,” you came around and reached in to grab the whole grain buns, “bottom shelf.”

You finished unpacking your groceries and took the empty bags from Peter and shoved them under the counter. You stood and looked at him nervously as he watched you, his fingers tapping on the granite.

“Do you want a snack? Something to drink? Water?”

“I’ll have a water,” he said and moved to leaned his elbow on the countertop, his side snug to the edge.

“Sparkling or--”

“Regular’s fine,” he answered

“Ice? Lemon?” you pulled out a tall glass.

“Just ice is fine… then I’ll be out of your hair,” he said.

Ice clinked into the glass and you covered it with the distilled water from the fridge. You slid it onto the counter and stepped back.

“Oh, I… actually, it’s a good thing I ran into you,” he said and took a sip, “my aunt, she likes to garden too but she got some bulbs she’s not gonna use, I thought maybe… maybe you would like some to fill in the holes?”

“What kind?” you asked.

“Some daffodils and some crocuses, I think,” he said, “I could bring them over next week after work?”

“That sounds like a lot of work,” you scrunched your lips, “you could probably just give them to a neighbour.”

“It’s not out of the way,” he said, “you want them?”

You stared at him and thought. He was nice. Too nice.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing, I… I’m sure you have a girlfriend you could be spending time with--”

“I don’t. Not anymore,” he interrupted.

“Oh, sorry,” you said, “I didn’t--”

“Like I said, I always wanna be the good guy,” he finished his water and the last of the cubes settled at the bottom, “thanks.”

“No, thank you,” you said as he set his glass in the sink and backed away, “really, you made my day so much easier.”

“I hope your weekend is better,” he said, “but…”

He didn’t finished and you folded your hands together as he hesitated by the hallway.

“But what?” you prodded.

“Nothing,” he shook his head, “nothing. I should go.”

“Okay,” you rubbed the back of your neck, “see ya.”

“Monday,” he confirmed as he turned to the doorframe, “I’ll bring the bulbs. Just after seven.”

“Right,” you slanted your lips and watched him go.

The door marked his departure and you turned to exhale and lean against the counter. You could still smell his rich cologne. Then you felt guilty. It was stupid to think he was doing anything more than being nice, that the flirting was anything but a joke, but still, you missed feeling that way and it should’ve been Wesley making you feel that.

💍

You squeezed the phone as you clenched your jaw so tight it hurt. Your eyes were wet and finally the tears were ready to start falling. The smell of steak filled the kitchen, another meal you wouldn’t eat. At the last minute, Wesley texted to tell you he was hitting the gym. Again. He was already late after a long meeting but promised he’d be home to eat.

So you waited for him to answer your furious phone call but got his voicemail instead. Your eyes narrowed at the bottle of wine and your chest knotted as the tone sounded.

“Wesley, this is it. I can’t do this anymore! I’m your wife. Do you even want to be with me? I can’t go on like this and now you won’t even answer my calls,” you snarled. You knew he had his phone on him as he no doubt had his Spotify work-out list on shuffle, “when you come home, you can sleep on the couch.”

You hung up and grabbed a stemmed glass from the cupboard. You filled it to the brim with Pinot Grigio but before you could taste it, the doorbell made you jump. You set down the glass and walked up the hallway. Just on the other side of the frosted glass was a silhouette. You opened the door and touched your forehead as you faced Peter.

“I totally forgot you were coming,” you breathed, “I’m so sorry. But thank you, you really didn’t have to--”

“Are you okay?” he asked as the paper bag in his hand crinkled.

“Yeah, I’m fine, I… thank you for the flowers,” you looked at the brown paper bag and he handed it over, another bag on his wrist; white with ribbon handles, “what’s that? You headed out for a date?”

“Um, no,” he said, “actually, I was just…” he pushed his fingers through his hairs, the reddish brown locks slightly curled with sweat, “I wanted to talk to you.” He looked past you and his warm eyes returned to yours, “Wesley isn’t home yet?”

“No, he won’t be for a while,” you backed up, “so you might as well come in. I have a steak no one’s gonna eat.”

“Yeah, he wouldn’t be,” Peter said glumly, “and steak sounds good.”

He closed the door behind him and followed you into the kitchen. You put the bulbs at the back of the counter and grabbed the bottle, “wine?”

“No thank you,” he said.

You plunked down the bottle and took a gulp of your wine before you turned to plate the steak and your chicken breast alongside the fried asparagus and roasted potatoes. You set the filet before him as he sat on the stool and climbed up across from him at the long island.

“Thank you,” he watched you slide a steak knife and fork towards him and his gaze lingered on your lips as you took another thirsty mouthful, “this is for you, actually.”

He pushed the white bag over to you and you smelled the subtle floral scent rising from it. You put your glass down and pushed open the top of the bag and peeked inside. You shook your head and rescinded your hand as if you were slapped. It was the same perfume from that day weeks ago.

“You… how?”

“You don’t remember?” he asked.

You thought back on the day you wanted to forget. He was the other shopper in the perfume section, the one who sent you that sympathetic look as Wesley reproached you. You winced and grabbed your utensils. You cut into the chicken and shoved it in your mouth. You swallowed loudly.

“Take it back,” you sniffed, “I don’t want it. I don’t deserve it.”

“You do. He doesn’t deserve you,” he carefully sliced into the medium rare steak.

“Is that what this is? Some perverted joke? A challenge?” you dropped your fork and knife, “you think you can seduce the sad housewife and then laugh at it? Sow your wild oats?”

“No, it’s nothing like that,” he calmly put down the silverware, “I… what I didn’t say when I showed up is I just came from the gym.”

You frowned in confusion and wrinkled your nose. You took another drink of wine as you tried to understand.

“I saw Wesley,” he said as he leaned on his elbow and pulled out his phone with his other hand, “I didn’t wanna say anything but… you’re here beating yourself up over him and-- just look.”

He slid his phone across the counter and you looked at the screen. Your entire body felt heavy and your veins filled with ice. You dropped your head into your hands as you tried to wipe the sight from your eyes; the image of your husband groping a woman in yoga pants, an act she wasn’t deterring.

“I knew it,” you sobbed as the tears burst forth and leaked down your palms, “I knew it. And why wouldn’t he? I’m old, ugly--” you sniffed and pulled your hands away to wipe them on your pants. Peter held out a paper towel and you took it as you avoided his eyes, “thank you but I think you should go. I’m humiliated enough.”

“You shouldn’t be alone,” he said as he climbed down from the stool and rounded the island, “he’s an asshole. He’s blind.”

“Please, Peter, just leave me alone,” you slid off the stool and he caught your shoulders. You looked up at him as you dabbed away the streaks of sadness with the paper towel, “Peter--”

“I’m not leaving,” he said firmly, “he’s out there having his fun, so why don’t you have some of your own?”

“Peter, that’s-- that’s wrong. I’m too old for you. And… I’m fat and--”

“You’re perfect,” he reached up to frame your chin with his hand, “you’re gorgeous,” his other hand trailed down your arm and to your hip, “that’s the first thing I noticed about you…” he pulled you closer and tapped your ass lightly.

“No, I can’t-- I just want to be alone,” you pushed on his arms and felt the thick biceps as he flexed and kept you close.

“Well, baby, what I want,” he turned you so that you were pinned between him and the island, “is for you to put on that perfume… I want you wearing nothing but that.”

“Peter,” you pushed on his chest that time and the hard muscle wall didn’t budge, “Peter, go--”

“Baby,” he bent and scooped you up suddenly.

His hands spread over your ass as he lifted you and crushed his lips against yours. You murmured in surprise and he placed you on the granite countertop. He parted from your lips as you sat up and he shoved your legs apart, inserting himself between your knees. He played with the bottom of the dress you’d worn in hopes of rekindling your dying marriage.

“We can go slow,” he tickled along your thighs and pulled back suddenly, “just a little at a time.”

He leaned in as he reached around you and grabbed the small white bag. He pulled out the perfume and snaked his hand around your neck. He pulled you to bend over him and he kissed your neck just before he sprayed a puff of perfume across your throat. He stood back and took a deep breath. He put the bottle on the counter and his hands went back to your skirt.

“Peter,” you caught his hands as they crept under the fabric, “please.”

You tried to slide forward and he stopped you as he grasped your hips and held you in place. He bit his lip as his eyes glimmered up at you. He drew a hand away and took the glass of wine and held it before your mouth.

“Drink, relax,” he cooed, “forget about him.”

You stared at him and he brought your hand up with his and wrapped it around the full body of the glass. He nudged it to your lips and watched you until you drank from the crystal rim. He smirked and lifted your skirt as he bent to bury his head beneath the folds.

You gulped and choked on the wine as your skirt fluttered down over his shoulders. You felt his finger on the lace trim of your panties and winced. He squeezed your thighs with his other hand and nuzzled the crotch of your underwear. You tried to close your legs but he kept them apart easily.

He curled his fingers under the elastic of your panties and tugged. He pulled until you lifted your ass just enough for him to get them free and he guided them down your legs before quickly parting them again.

You set down the glass and almost overturned it, the last mouthful splashing up the side. You pressed your hands to the granite and peered down at the shape of his head beneath your skirt. You gasped as his cool tongue grazed your warm folds and delved deeper.

“Peter…” you wisped and closed your eyes as you tried to hide from your own shame.

He purred as his tongue flicked over your clit and you twitched. He caressed the crease of your thigh with his fingers as he lapped at your, his other hand pressed against your stomach until you fell back across the counter. You arched your back instinctively and his hand cupped your tit through your dress.

He blindly pulled until your chest slipped out and pushed the cup of your bra as he teased your clit with his tongue. He felt along your cunt with his fingers and shoved his index inside of you. You moaned as he pushed another inside and curled them as he suckled on your bud.

Your core burned to life. Your entire being was set alight after months without affection. You quivered in delight and fear. Your nerves stormed both out of guilt and hunger. It felt so good but you knew it was wrong. The scent of the perfume filled your nose as your skin grew hot.

He moved his hand in time with his mouth as he doted on you. His touch intensified as your legs bent around the side of the island and your fingernails dragged along the granite, your voice rising without thought. He pinched your nipple and you cried out as you came in a wave of sheer pleasure and grabbed his wrist as you tried to steady yourself.

He eased off slowly as you trembled in the afterglow, his lingering touch tickled along your legs as he pushed your dress up. He pulled you to sit up and lifted the fabric over your head and ripped your sleeves free from your arms. He tossed as side the garment and swiftly covered your mouth with his so you tasted your own arousal on his tongue.

He unhooked your bra blindly and slid it off your arms. You were intensely aware of your nakedness and as you brought your arms up to cover yourself, he forced them down and ran his hands over your bare torso.

“Beautiful,” he said as he laid a trail of gentle pecks along your throat and chest, pausing to take a nipple in his mouth as he rolled the other between his fingers and sent a shiver through you.

He kneaded your sides and hips, his fingers danced along your thighs and he followed the path with his mouth, kissing and nipping your flesh. He lifted his head again as he took your hands and twined his fingers through yours. He tugged you gently until you slid off the counter and landed on your feet shakily.

“Baby, you’re so amazing,” he placed your hands on his chest and pushed them down his muscled torso and brought them back up beneath his tee shirt, “go on.”

He let you go and you continued to roll up his tee. He dipped his head and raised his arms to help you and you clung to the tee as it fell limp in your grasp. Dazed, he snatched the shirt from your hands and flung it. He once more pressed your hands to his chest and guided you in feeling the lines of his toned flesh.

He pushed your hands against the top of his jeans and leaned into you. He kissed your temple and whispered along your hairline, “turn around, baby.” He squeezed your ass and purred, “mmmm, please, I wanna see that ass.”

You blinked, dazed, and spun slowly. You caught yourself on the edge of the counter as your legs trembled and you heard the subtle zip. He kicked his foot between yours and pushed your legs apart as he led you back so that you were slightly bent against the island. He ran his nails down your back and gripped your hip with one hand as his other drew away from your skin.

You flinched as you felt his smooth tip against your ass and he rubbed it between your cheeks. You inhaled and held in your breath as his hold on your tightened and he angled his dick under your ass and grazed your cunt. He poked your entrance and pressed his chest to your back as his hand covered yours on the granite.

He slid into you and your voice fizzled in the air as he forced the air from your lungs. You pushed your head back and it met his shoulder as his other hand crawled down your front. He spread your folds with his fingers and swirled another around your clit as he tilted his hips and thrust into you slowly.

“Ah, Peter,” you slapped the counter and he shushed you as his hand left yours cold and his fingers stretched over your throat.

His motion picked up as the noise of him crashing into you echoed around the kitchen. Your eyes rolled back as he rammed into you even harder. You were on tiptoes as he was driven by the weak moans that leaked from your lips and your wet pleasure squelched around him. He pressed two fingers to your bud and rubbed until you squeaked and your thighs quaked around him.

“That’s it, baby,” he growled, “I bet you never cum like that for him.”

You whined and he sped up again. He pinned you against the counter so that the lip pressed into your stomach. He took his hand from your cunt and pushed your head down as he kept his other hand around your neck. He didn’t waver once as he fucked you.

“Touch yourself, baby,” he commanded, “I want you to cum again for me. I know you want to too.”

His thick breath warmed the air and grazed your back as he held you down and his hold on your neck tightened until silver stars rose in your vision. Your feet dangled against the tile and you reached down to play with your clit as it buzzed. It was only seconds before you were murmuring in ecstasy once more.

“Fuck, baby, can you feel that? The way your clinging to me,” he puffed as he slammed into you over and over, “he can hardly fill you, can he? Hmmm? Little man.”

You wheezed as he choked you and his other hand kept your head pinned. You heard a distant creak but could barely do more than keep your fingers moving as your heartbeat deafened you. You came again and croaked as your cunt squeezed him hungrily.

“What the fuck?” the voice broke your lusty trance and suddenly you were pulled away from the counter.

Your head lulled as Peter held it up and turned you around, his pelvis slapping against your ass as you faced your husband. Your mouth hung open as your blurred vision barely registered the scene and the deep grunts only got louder behind you.

“Look who’s here,” Peter rasped as he snaked his arm around you.

“The fuck are you doing?” Wesley sneered as your eyes closed and your ass rang with each thrust.

“What you can’t,” Peter snickered, “doesn’t she look so happy?” He grasped your chin and pushed his fingers into your mouth as he held your head up, “well, you into watching or you gonna let us finish, old man?”

#peter parker #dark peter parker #dark!peter parker #fic #peter parker x reader #dark fic #one shot #dark!fic #do us part #marvel #mcu #spider-man #avengers

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hopeamarsu · 3 years ago

Text

Of potions and myths - Chapter 2

William “Ironhead” Miller x f!reader

Word count 3,1k

Warnings: This one is pretty mild, but there is tiny amount of angst sprinkled in. Reference to an attempt at drugging ones date (nothing happened!), mythical creatures and potions. This chapter is from WIll’s POV

A/N: I just couldn’t let this one go and it’s turned into a bit of a gremlin to be honest. I have to thank my love Thia @clydesducktape for encouraging me to explore this and Will, the man has honestly swept into my mind from completely left field. Not that I’m complaining!

Chapter 1 - Chapter 3

The morning dawns and as the pale light of the sun hits Will’s car bonnet he stretches out, feeling his spine pop loudly as it protests the long hours sitting in the front seat. Despite the back ache, he does not regret spending the night watching over you. He would never regret it and the feeling both thrills and surprises him.

As he waits for the world to wake up with him, Will’s mind turns back to the previous evening and everything that happened. He’d been out alone, a rarity given how close his pack normally is, and originally had only thought of grabbing a single pint before heading home. But something had drawn him in, made him sit in that corner booth and watch the people milling around him, before his eye set upon you and your date.

It had looked normal enough, two people talking and seemingly on a date, but he hadn’t been able to look away. Had he felt the mysterious pull even then? Maybe, maybe not. As he watched, you had turned sideways to dig through your bag for something and that’s when it had happened. With shaky but quick hands, the man had produced a tiny vial from his pocket and emptied it into the drink closest to you.

Anger, white-hot and blazing, surged in his veins immediately and before Will had even fully realised what he was doing, he had walked over and opened his mouth. He had watched with pride as you had confronted the man and then with worry as you hurried out of the pub. He knew he had to follow you, to check that you were alright.

He turns the memories in his mind, trying to pinpoint the moment when the magnetic connection came into play. He knows it was sudden, the warmth of it all creeping up his back and enveloping him completely as he felt all your emotions jumbling around in the aftermath of your date.

He knows that in that moment and the ones that followed that he desperately wanted to crush you into his arms, snarl and growl at anyone trying to approach you and rip the throat of the man trying to hurt you. His inner wolf was in full-on attack mode. It had taken every single bit of training Will had gone through to keep the wolf in check. But the connection still persisted and he was powerless to stop what it wanted of him.

Which leads him here, sitting in a parked car on the sidewalk of your apartment, his wolf alert and ready to jump into action. He doesn’t feel tired or weary at all. There is this need inside of him to be close to you, to protect you. It’s almost desperate at this point, how every nerve ending inside him wants to be close and make sure everything is perfect.

As Will runs his eyes across the street, scanning for anything that might be a threat, the front door opens and you step out. Immediately his eyes snap into your form as you pad across the front yard and into the street, your steps bringing you closer and closer by the second. You look beautiful in your sleepwear and an oversized hoodie wrapped around your body to shield you from the morning chill. You’d look so pretty wearing his hoodie, Will thinks absentmindedly as he tracks your movements. He steps out of his truck just as you reach him.

“Good morning.”

“Morning. Did you sleep well?” He doesn’t even try to hide the fact that he’s been here all night, Will knows you know. The air around you hums again but it’s more muted than last night and as Will tries to reach out mentally, he finds himself blocked. Your shields are back up, full force, and he hides his approval in a barely-there smirk.

“Pretty okay. Would you want to come in? I think we have a lot to discuss. I have fresh coffee,” You offer with a small smile. He agrees quickly, the hum between your bodies elated that you invite him in, and follows you inside, hand hovering near your back as you lead the way. When you open your front door, Will is hit with a smell of jasmine, salt, candle wax and thyme and he recognizes the small display next to your door. Protection spells. His pride swells even more as he knows you’ve done this to protect yourself better.

The second the door closes, the hum ramps up and Will can feel the tendrils from last night appear again, stronger than it was when you were standing outside. He wants to touch you, hold you, bite you, claim you. But he doesn’t make a move, planting his feet firmly into the floor and clenches his fist to keep his hand steady and by his side. It’s not his place yet, you need to talk first.

Will watches as you close your eyes, taking a moment to ground yourself too, before you open them and look straight at him. He likes it, how forward and confident you are as you do not try to hide or cower away from him. With another small smile, you gesture for him to follow you into the kitchen. It’s difficult to move when everything in him calls for you and your body, but somehow he makes it and as he sits on a kitchen chair and watches you move in your domain, Will finds himself enjoying the view and domesticity of it all.

It tugs him deep inside, the mere idea that he could get to watch this morning after morning. Is it too fast to hope for these things? Possibly, but for Will, it doesn’t seem to matter as his mind keeps refueling the dreams with mental images of you in his own kitchen, padding around the hardwood floors with bare feet and dressed only in his flannel.

The flashes move to images of you in his bed, your head on his pillow or chest as the morning light dances on your skin. Evenings spend on the couch, cuddling under a throw blanket and nights in his kitchen when he spoon-feeds you something he’s cooked for a date night. You with his brothers, sitting around a campfire as you trade jokes with them and they with you.

Will is jostled into the present as you hand him a steaming cup, careful not to touch him in the process much to his approval and dismay, and take a seat opposite him. The first sip of the hot liquid feels like heaven on Will’s tongue, the notes hitting just right and he hums in approval. Keen eyes follow you copying his movements and for a while, it’s silent and comfortable as you sip from your respective cups.

The connection tingles in your sternum and you place the cup on the desk, hands flat on the surface. Your eyes reach for his and Will finds himself entranced by the hue in them. He would love to catalogue the flecks within those orbs.

“I, uh… I spent some time last night looking into this. Us. The hum and connection.” You stumble a little in your words and there is an urge to hold your hand in comfort but he refrains. This is important, he reminds himself, more important than his carnal desires and his inner wolf huffs in displeasure.

“I don’t have a lot of books at home, so I’ll need to continue this at the museum later on, but… this seems rare. Really rare. I don’t have a name for it or an explanation yet though and I would need more information from you as well before I, we, can venture deeper. Would it be alright with you? Are you comfortable sharing things with me?”

His immediate reaction is yes, ask what you want and he’ll tell you everything and that stops him in his tracks. This could lead to dangerous territory quite fast. It’s within his training and pack rules that his status, what he is and what he has done in the past are not to be discussed with outsiders. “What kind of things?” Will asks instead.

“Well… For starters, what type of mythical are you? I know it’s invasive to ask but given that you are with Delta, you are clearly not a mundane. I’m hoping that will give us a clue on where to start looking.” It’s a reasonable question and it does give you both a starting place. Will relaxes his shoulders and releases the breath he’s holding before answering. No point in hiding after all.

“I’m a werewolf. But I haven’t heard of this type of connection between two wolves before. May I ask, what type are you?”

“I’m a… I don’t know exactly. I’ve always been interested in potions and history and spells but my family isn’t witches nor do I belong into a coven. I was raised as a mundane. As far as I know, there are no mythicals or supernaturals in my family lineage.”

He hoped the question would be easy for you, to give another clue, but instead it seems to have had an opposite effect as Will watches you drop your smile. You seem conflicted and embarrassed at the confession, hunching your shoulders a little as you shrink into yourself. The connection between tugs at Will’s heartstrings loudly and he’s unable to deny himself or it anymore. He reaches over the table and takes your hand in his, feeling oddly pleased as his hand engulfs yours.

The second skin meets skin, golden and silver tendrils burst out of your skin and a gasp leaves your lips. You both watch with curiosity as they snake up his arm and under his Henley and under your shirt as well. Will can sense how warm they are, filling him up completely. He tracks their movement based on their warmth as they dance on his skin until they go still but remain tingling when they cover his entire body. He looks at you and sees the lines glow faintly all over your body. You look ethereal to him and he feels himself falling for you even more.

“It feels so warm…” You whisper, awe in your voice as you look at your connected hands. “It does. It’s not hurting you, right?” Will questions, running his thumb across your knuckle. He knows it doesn’t hurt him but he needs to be sure, his wolf poised to take away any discomfort you might feel. For all he knows it’s different for you than it is for him and he can’t help himself, the need to protect is far too strong now that you are touching each other.

You shake your head, biting your lower lip as you catalogue the feeling. It calms him immediately but at the same time arousal courses in his veins as he witnesses just how alluring your mouth looks. He wants to surge forward, kiss you until your lips are swollen and bruised and your mind is filled with only him. His eyes are honed in on the sight, how the lip disappears and reappears plumper and plumper. He can practically hear his own blood rush in his ears as your eyes track the golden lines in his forearms.

“Please stop that,” Will is unable to hold in the groan as he watches you chew on the flesh in concentration. “Huh?” Your eyes snap into his face, wide with surprise and you try to tug your hand free, but he only squeezes it tighter. Will knows his eyes have grown darker again as his wolf is howling to be let free. It wants to break free, tug you into its embrace and never let go.

“Please stop biting your lip. It makes me want to bite it,” He growls and watches with delight as you shiver at his tone. You release your lip but the tender flesh, plush with blood pumping rapidly inside, calls to him. And once again he is unable to deny it, his resolve truly broken when you are this close and a harsh tug at your hand lifts you up from your seat and into his lap.

You look at him, studying his face as Will raises one hand to your cheek. Another burst of tendrils escape once his calloused hand connects with the soft flesh and he shivers with the sensation. Fascinated, he watches as the small tendrils wrap around his large fingers and bleed into your cheekbones and up your forehead and hairline, creating patterns that make you glow again.

Will searches for your eyes again before speaking in low tone, your faces close to one another. His eyes drop to your lips and all he can think of is pressing his mouth to them, finally having a taste of what the connection teases him of.

“Do you want this?”

Do you want me?

“You need to say the words, sweetheart, before we go any further.”

I will not be able to stop once you give me permission. Tell me no and this all stops now. It will break me, but I will honor your wishes.

“Kiss me, Will.”

Your words have barely left your lips when Will claims them. It feels like something bursts out of his chest as he tastes the coffee, the cherries you must’ve had earlier and something uniquely yours. You taste of heaven and all the good things in the world and he never wants to stop tasting you and identifying the notes hitting his palette just right. He deepens the kiss by running his tongue on your lower lip, begging you to grant him access to nirvana. Once you do, opening up shyly, he feels he’s ready to burst into flames when he gets the first real flavor of you.

The wolf howls in joy as Will continues to explore your mouth, dipping his tongue inside it to battle with yours. He feels your hand on the back of his neck, tugging at the hair as you pull him closer and closer. The hand that was holding yours releases its hold before pressing against your lower back to push your chests together. He wants you close, closer than you are now and his wolf agrees. The clothes separating your skin from his feel itchy and constricting but Will is grateful because it keeps him somewhat coherent. As much as he wants to, needs you, craves you, he needs to tread carefully and not lose himself.

All too soon the need for air is too much and you pull back, ending the kiss. “Is this… Umm, is this normal?” You sound winded, out of breath and the wolf preens, happy to have made you like this. Will shakes his head minutely, pressing his forehead into yours. He needs to feel his skin connected to yours, can’t let it slip even for a moment. He traces your neck with one finger, enjoying how you tremble again in his hold.

“No, I don’t think so. I haven’t felt like this before.”

“Me either. But this feels big.” He nods.

You breathe in sync for a minute, matching each other as the tingling of the tendrils flickers. Will rubs his thumb on your lower back, lazy circles that make you quiver minutely, a sensation that he eagerly abrobs in his own body.

“What does this mean?”

“I don’t know, but I want to keep exploring this, us, and this connection.”

“Me too.”

You speak in whispered tones, within your own bubble, even if you are alone together in your apartment. Tentative hands move across the planes and curves of bodies as you trade a few more kisses, each one accompanied by the hum and tendrils that skip from one patch of skin to the other, bathing the room in luminescence.

Will agrees with your assessment earlier, there needs to be more research into whatever this is. And he knows of only one place to look for answers. “We need to visit the pack elders.” He tells you quietly as you pull away from the latest kiss, still stroking your neck and shoulder in a calming manner.

“Are they willing to help?” You question softly, knowing how strict some packs are, not allowing any outsiders to enter the area deemed for pack members only. It’s the same for some of the witch covens you’ve tried to approach, hoping to learn more and explore your skills only to be turned away because you are mundane. It has broken some of your spirit, being turned away one too many times, even if you’ve come to terms with it and understand their reasoning. But as the sadness of it all breaks through your shields, Will is almost pushed back by its magnitude.

He wants to take away all the pain you've ever felt, the hurt you feel almost too much for him and his wolf to handle. But he can’t do that, Will reminds himself ruefully, he doesn’t know how. So he gathers you close, placing his hand on your neck as he guides you to rest sideways against his torso, his other hand resting on your hip, offering comfort this way. You breathe in his scent, calming cedarwood and juniper berry tones, and close your eyes to rest for a moment.

It takes a lot out of you to hold up the shields and they slip whenever your feelings become too much and often they are projected outwards, letting others feel them too. Lack of training and lack of skill, you think but don’t voice it out loud. But you are glad he’s not running from you because of that and burrow in a bit deeper, a pleased sound leaving his chest as Will feels you get closer. He kisses your forehead gently before speaking, the vibration of his chest low and comforting.

“They are. The Miller-Morales pack might not be the biggest out there, but we are tight and welcoming. The elders will help us figure all this out. I promise you.”

Of potions and myths taglist: @mylifeisactuallyamess @luxmundee @innerpaperexpertcloud

Everything taglist (I fully understand if you want to skip this one, please let me know and I’ll remove you!) @clydesducktape @wayward-rose @themuseic @miraclesabound @clydesfavoritegirl @a-true-janian-reply @10blurredsmoke10 @caillea @mariesackler

#william miller #will miller #will ironhead miller #will miller x f!reader #tw: drugging #cw: mythical creatures #cw: werewolves #will miller fanfiction #triple frontier fanfiction #charlie hunnam fanfiction #my writing

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fridayfirefly · 4 years ago

Text

Virtual Sleepover

Read Virtual Sleepover on AO3

Masterlist

Written for Maribat March Day 4 - Internet Friends

Quarantine had been rough at Wayne Manor, but for Tim Drake, Marinette Dupain-Cheng was a bright light through it all. Tim was getting ahead of himself, though. The story of Marinette Dupain-Cheng started on March 20th, 2020. Panic over coronavirus was sweeping the nation. Bruce had gathered all of the members of the Wayne family into the dining room to explain the new rules of the house. No one was to go in or out. Groceries would be delivered to the house. There would be no superhero outings for at least two weeks. Tim didn't think his family would be able to survive, trapped in a house together.

So to preserve his sanity, Tim turned to the internet. There were hundreds of cold cases that he had put on the backburner and hundreds of forums and websites dedicated to solving cold cases. Tim turned to the most popular website and started dumping information, hoping for someone to show up and work through it with him. That's how Tim met Marinette. @MarinetteDC showed up on his page with a friend request, a wide range of technical knowledge about textiles and designs, and about seven different theories on a murder case Tim considered all but unsolvable. Her sleep schedule was just as chaotic as Tim's and she also drank a near-inhuman amount of coffee. Marinette Dupain-Cheng enthralled Tim. And when the chaos of his house threatened to make Tim lose his mind, Marinette became his lifeline.

"Can you hear me?"

Tim nodded. "Yep!"

"Nice!" cheered Marinette. Tim relished the opportunity to see her face, even if it was through a zoom call. "So what do we want to do first? I don't have class until Monday, so we have the whole weekend ahead of us."

"I think we should start with the iconic sleepover classic: truth or dare," suggested Tim.

"Alright. Truth or dare, Tim?"

"Dare." Tim was confident in his abilities to pull off any stunt she might come up with. However, his confidence started to fade as he watched a devious look grow on her face.

"I dare you to bake a batch of cookies - any kind of cookies you want - without using a recipe."

Tim blinked, trying to recall the last time he had baked. Besides a few times helping Alfred out in the kitchen, Tim wasn't certain that he had ever used the Wayne Manor kitchen for anything other than brewing coffee and heating frozen pizzas. "Could I have a new dare?"

Marinette shook her head, the grin on her face demonstrating exactly how much fun she was having, watching the panic in Tim's eyes. "I'll give you one hint on how to make them, but only one, so use it wisely."

Tim groaned, unplugging his laptop from its charger so he could move it to the kitchen. "I'm not actually certain I know all of the ingredients in cookies. Or how long you bake them for. I feel like an hour is probably too long, but I feel like half an hour might not be enough time."

On the other side of the screen, Marinette tried to stifle her giggles but was unable to keep them all in. "No offense Tim, but this is going to be a disaster. I can't wait."

Tim let out another groan. "Must you torture me?"

"How about you keep the laptop camera pointed towards the oven, that way I can tell you once something starts to burn?" Marinette joked.

Tim knew that she was teasing, but honestly, he knew he could use all the help he could get. Still, he wanted to preserve at least a little of his dignity. "Very funny," Tim said sarcastically, setting the laptop down on the kitchen counter.

"Start with ingredients," Marinette advised.

"What all goes into a chocolate chip cookie..?" mused Tim. He got out the flour, white and brown sugar, eggs, butter, vanilla extract, and three different types of chocolate chips that Alfred kept stocked.

Marinette raised an eyebrow. "Is that all?"

Tim cast a wary gaze upon his ingredients. It didn't seem like enough, but at the same time he couldn't figure out what he was missing. Tim sighed. "I'm ready to use my hint. Tell me what I forgot."

"You forgot to get out the salt, and more importantly, the baking soda," advised Marinette.

"Can I have a second hint?" asked Tim as he gathered his two missing ingredients.

"That depends on what you're asking," teased Marinette.

"I'm going to start listing measurements, and you tell me if it's too much or not enough."

Marinette pretended to think it over before replying, "I'll do it, but only because I want the cookies to come out edible, not because we're friends or anything like that. There are no friends in the Dupain-Cheng kitchen," said Marinette, her voice filled with faux seriousness.

"Lucky for me, these cookies are being made in the Wayne kitchen, and we're all very nice here, and we don't let Tim burn his cookies."

Marinette giggled. "You have a point there," she acquiesced. "Start listing your measurements."

Tim grabbed the measuring cup and starting approximating. "Two cups flour?"

"That will make about five dozen cookies."

"One cup of each type of sugar?"

Marinette shook her head. "You'll want a 3/4 cup of each."

The rest of the measuring process proceeded smoothly, with Tim guessing measurements of fluctuating accuracy (he correctly guessed that he would need two eggs, but his guess of a half-cup of baking soda led to Marinette questioning whether he had ever been in a kitchen before). Once Tim got the cookie dough mixed, spooned out onto a tray, and put in the oven, they resumed their game of truth-or-dare.

"Your turn, Marinette. Truth or dare?"

"Truth."

Tim tried to think of a good question to ask. "Since you've now seen how abysmal I am in the kitchen, I want to know one thing that you're terrible at."

Marinette scrunched up her brow. "It's nowhere near as bad as you're inability to crack an egg-"

Tim winced a little, remembering the painstaking process of digging out fragments of eggshell after he completely shattered it in his attempts to crack it.

"-But I have really bad depth perception. I trip over every little crack in the sidewalk. I'm probably the clumsiest person you'll ever meet."

Tim chuckled. "And here I thought you were perfect."

Marinette grinned. "Almost perfect. Truth or dare?"

"I'll pick truth this time, and hopefully avoid being humiliated again."

"I'll go easy on you this round. When was the last time you lied, and what was it about?"

Tim combed back through his memory of the past week, trying to pick out the last time he lied. "I think it was yesterday morning. Dick asked me if the coffee I was drinking was my first coffee of the day. I said yes, but really I hadn't slept that night so I just decided to arbitrarily count my start of the day at the time I would have woken up had I actually gone to sleep."

"So how many coffee's had you had yesterday?"

Tim shrugged. "Since midnight? Probably three or four. I've gotten away with a lot more coffee since I modified the Keurig in my room to stop making so much noise."

"I'm lucky," said Marinette. "My parents sleep so far away from me that they can't hear my Keurig."

"Truth or dare?" asked Tim, continuing the game.

"Truth."

"What's the most embarrassing thing you've ever done because you had a crush on someone?"

Marinette flushed red, and Tim immediately knew that this was going to be a good story. "Once I accidentally sent a text to my crush so I stolehisphoneanddeletedthetext." Marinette rushed the last few words, so fast that Tim couldn't quite make them out.

"What was that?"

"I stole his phone and deleted the text before he could read it. In my defense, I made a lot of questionable decisions at that age."

Tim burst out laughing. "How old were you?"

"I was thirteen," admitted Marinette.

Tim couldn't stop laughing at the absurdity of her claims. "You couldn't have asked him to borrow his phone and deleted it then?"

"I was in panic mode. It was between steal his phone or destroy his phone."

"Those were your two options?!" exclaimed Tim.

Marinette blushed even more furiously. "It's your turn. Don't expect me to go easy on you this round. Truth or dare?"

Tim kept up the trend. "Truth."

"What was the worst thing you did at thirteen?"

Tim thought back to his days as Robin, and the many, many stories he could tell. In the end, he settled on one that Jason still brought up when he needed leverage over Tim. "It's not as bad as phone thievery, but it's still a pretty funny story, looking back on it. You know how I have two older brothers, right?"

"Dick and Jason," Marinette confirmed.

"Well, one night I managed to convince Dick to let me drive Bruce's favorite car. Now, keep in mind, I had never actually driven a car before. Surprisingly, I wasn't that bad at driving. I made it home without incident - that is, until I tried to park the car back in the garage and accidentally crashed into Jason's motorcycle. For years after that, Jason used the threat of telling Bruce about my little car crash to keep me in line."

Marinette snorted. "You think that borrowing a phone to delete a text message is worse than borrowing and crashing a car?"

Tim shrugged. "It's a matter of opinion. Truth or dare?"

With a roll of her eyes, Marinette said, "Truth."

"What's one thing you would never tell me?" It was the sort of question that could only be asked during a game of truth or dare. In Tim's opinion, it was this sort of question that made the game worth playing.

Marinette pouted. "I don't like that question."

"Too bad. The rules of truth or dare state that you have to answer it."

"Fine." Marinette looked up at the ceiling, deep in thought. Just as she turned back to face her laptop, her face lit up. It was evident that she had an answer. "Usually I let people learn from their mistakes in the kitchen. However, I will now tell you - because I have to - that your cookies have been in the oven for too long. They're going to start burning if you don't take them out soon."

Tim jumped up to get his cookies out of the oven. They looked a little burnt, brown rather than the golden-brown that Alfred would make, but they still looked edible. "I'll accept your answer, but only because you saved my cookies."

"Now that your cookies are done, do you want to finish up our game of truth or dare?"

"One last question," decided Tim. "And I'll pick truth, to make it easy for you."

"What's the biggest secret that you've currently keeping from your family?"

After Tim's last question, he had expected Marinette to follow it up with an invasive question. Luckily, her question had a very simple answer.

"Easy question - my friendship with you."

Marinette looked confused. "What do you mean?"

"Most of my friendships begin through the connections they have to my family. Because of that, I've never really had serious friendships that my family wasn't actively involved in."

"It's not because you're ashamed of me, right?" Marinette sounded unsure of herself. Insecurity was a side of her that Tim had never seen before.

"Of course not," Tim assured her. "You're the best friend I could have ever asked for, Marinette."

"Good, because you're not getting rid of me that easy. I still have a lot to teach you about baking. I think we might try cupcakes at our next sleepover."

Tim laughed. "We'll see about that." He had no doubts that there would be sleepovers to come, and shenanigans involving baked goods to go along with them.

@maribatmarch-2k21

#maribat #MaribatMarch2021 #timari #Marinette Dupain-Cheng #Tim Drake #miraculous ladybug fic #my work

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gravelgirty · 3 years ago

Text

Malicious Compliance

Somewhere

Stuck between a pinch and common sense,

A man in a government office was forced to say yes to Tiny Houses

Because the homeless were somehow their own fault, and yet they were paradoxically a problem he had to suffer, because the very sight of ragged tents and crazy vets wrapped in newspapers was an offense to his very eye.

And he thought of problems like fleas, I guess,

Or lice

Things that, if ignored, would eventually grow in numbers,

Overwhelm,

And eat him.

I like to imagine his fear of being devoured,

A bloated bureaucrat

Buried under a carpet of fleas or ticks;

Vermin chattering in human speech

He didn’t want to be eaten

But there was the ethical conundrum of letting the Homeless live.

What a stumper.

I don’t know his name,

Or where he lives,

But how I wish I did.

Because I’m watching kids here,

Building a tiny house for training hours

They aren’t allowed to use it

Or sell it

Or give it away

Just a Tiny House To look at.

Because the government has a specific number

Of planks

And screws

And nails

And specific shingles and brand of paint

(You can’t buy the window on sale

Or substitute a latch)

And if a Tiny House is missing any of these written-down items

The government will pull its funding.

Malicious Compliance.

I wonder whose job it is to count the nails

Tenpenny [nail] pincher.

Or do they tow the Tiny Houses on a freight scale when it’s all finished to make sure the weight is within the correct paradigm?

The whole thing was designed by the spiritual descendants of George Washington, who was dedicated enough to count the number of clover seeds on his plantation’s teaspoon, and just as thriftily starve his slaves to the grave.

But malicious compliance works both ways, and there are students here, so young, their grandfathers remember the day they, the tiny shrimps, learned to whistle and abandon Soviet Rule.

A student works at a nursing home, driving the carless to a barber shop or salon

It takes him all day to serve six people.

He talked to his instructor

And they found a brute of a camper, Frame solid, floor rotted out.

(Because moss will grow even on your sideview mirrors in the Pacific North Wet)

He bought it for a song,

And it sits in the back, growing a hardwood floor

And instead of a bed and kitchen,

The camper is collecting a row of salon chairs,

Sinks,

And a place to sit and drink a cup of coffee.

We have food trucks, he reasons. Why not a traveling hair salon?

When they’re finished,

It will be up to code

And the volunteers are standing by

Because there are beauticians and barbers and cosmetologists taking night classes on the other side of the parking lot here.

Malicious Compliance

Is a seasoning both full of salt and sugar

bittersweet, not bitter.

And best of all,

What they’re doing

Counts towards their college credit.

Which has got to gall the bureaucrat, to think that his government (re: HIS) money is paying for the new generation to admit there is a problem with serving the elderly, the infirm, and unable.

This thought, this quiet need to cheat the numbers of the game, seems to be everywhere.

I take the bus, watching the new trolley lines carve into the asphalt through Hospital Avenue, and stop by the bicycle shop. A young woman runs the joint on odd days, one of the few fully certified female mechanics for Tacoma. She’s never owned a driver’s license or car.

The shop she works for opens to all, and the colder the weather, the more the doors are open.

Passing out tools and spare parts

For people to fix their bikes, or mobility scooters, or however they get by,

Or just sit in a chair in the corner, between the bin of free clothes and bottomless coffeepot,

Eating instant soup and drinking tea,

Absorbing the ambient humanity,

Recharging,

So when they walk back outside,

They will be able to remember they are human

And not invisible.

They will briefly have the strength to make eye contact,

And remind the human on the other side of the sidewalk,

That they exist, too.

Malicious compliance

Can be served with a smile.

If this spoke to you, feel free to buy me a coffee. I drink a lot of coffee as I juggle multiple jobs, college, caretaking, cat-sitting and basically trying to head off the Crazy by being too busy for Crazy to come calling.

#Malicious Compliance #poetry #fighting back quietly

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schoenerboner · 2 years ago

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A Gen-X "Great American Short-Story"

Note: i did not write, edit, submit, reject. accept, mothball, publish, translate, read aloud for Books on Tape. disseminate and\or suppress any of the following story. Science Fiction, Time Travel and Despair. In few other works have I seen such an intriguing and honest interpretation of the quiet diss[aor

The Pure Product

by John Kessel

I arrived in Kansas City at one o’clock on the afternoon of the thirteenth of August. A Tuesday. I was driving the beige 1983 Chevrolet Citation that I had stolen two days earlier in Pocatello, Idaho. The Kansas plates on the car I’d taken from a different car in a parking lot in Salt Lake City. Salt Lake City was founded by the Mormons, whose god tells them that in the future Jesus Christ will come again.

I drove through Kansas City with the windows open and the sun beating down through the windshield. The car had no air conditioning, and my shirt was stuck to my back from seven hours behind the wheel. Finally I found a hardware store, “Hector’s” on Wornall. I pulled into the lot. The Citation’s engine dieseled after I turned off the ignition; I pumped the accelerator once and it coughed and died. The heat was like syrup. The sun drove shadows deep into corners, left them flattened at the feet of the people on the sidewalk. It made the plate glass of the store window into a dark negative of the positive print that was Wornall Road. August.

The man behind the counter in the hardware store I took to be Hector himself. He looked like Hector, slain in vengeance beneath the walls of paintbrushes—the kind of semi-friendly, publicly optimistic man who would tell you about his crazy wife and his ten-penny nails. I bought a gallon of kerosene and a plastic paint funnel, put them into the trunk of the Citation, then walked down the block to the Mark Twain Bank. Mark Twain died at the age of seventy-five with a heart full of bitter accusations against the Calvinist god and no hope for the future of humanity. Inside the bank I went to one of the desks, at which sat a Nice Young Lady. I asked about starting a business checking account. She gave me a form to fill out, then sent me to the office of Mr. Graves.

Mr. Graves wielded a formidable handshake. “What can I do for you, Mr . . . ?”

“Tillotsen, Gerald Tillotsen,” I said. Gerald Tillotsen, of Tacoma, Washington, died of diphtheria at the age of four weeks—on September 24, 1938. I have a copy of his birth certificate.

“I’m new to Kansas City. I’d like to open a business account here, and perhaps take out a loan. I trust this is a reputable bank? What’s your exposure in Brazil?” I looked around the office as if Graves were hiding a woman behind the hat stand, then flashed him my most ingratiating smile.

Mr. Graves did his best. He tried smiling back, then looked as if he had decided to ignore my little joke. “We’re very sound, Mr. Tillotsen.”

I continued smiling.

“What kind of business do you own?”

“I’m in insurance. Mutual Assurance of Hartford. Our regional office is in Oklahoma City, and I’m setting up an agency here, at 103rd and State Line.” Just off the interstate.

He examined the form. His absorption was too tempting.

“Maybe I can fix you up with a policy? You look like dead meat.”

Graves’ head snapped up, his mouth half-open. He closed it and watched me guardedly. The dullness of it all! How I tire. He was like some cow, like most of the rest of you in this silly age, unwilling to break the rules in order to take offense. “Did he really say that?” he was thinking. “Was that his idea of a joke? He looks normal enough.” I did look normal, exactly like an insurance agent. I was the right kind of person, and I could do anything. If at times I grate, if at times I fall a little short of or go a little beyond convention, there is not one of you who can call me to account.

Graves was coming around. All business.

“Ah—yes, Mr. Tillotsen. If you’ll wait a moment, I’m sure we can take care of this checking account. As for the loan—”

“Forget it.”

That should have stopped him. He should have asked after my credentials, he should have done a dozen things. He looked at me, and I stared calmly back at him. And I knew that, looking into my honest blue eyes, he could not think of a thing.

“I’ll just start the checking account with this money order,” I said, reaching into my pocket. “That will be acceptable, won’t it?”

“It will be fine,” he said. He took the form and the order over to one of the secretaries while I sat at the desk. I lit a cigar and blew some smoke rings. I’d purchased the money order the day before in a post office in Denver. Thirty dollars. I didn’t intend to use the account very long. Graves returned with my sample checks, shook hands earnestly, and wished me a good day. Have a good day, he said. I will, I said.

Outside, the heat was still stifling. I took off my sports coat. I was sweating so much I had to check my hair in the side view mirror of my car. I walked down the street to a liquor store and bought a bottle of chardonnay and a bottle of Chivas Regal. I got some paper cups from a nearby grocery. One final errand, then I could relax for a few hours.

In the shopping center that I had told Graves would be the location for my nonexistent insurance office, I had noticed a sporting goods store. It was about three o’clock when I parked in the lot and ambled into the shop. I looked at various golf clubs: irons, woods, even one set with fiberglass shafts. Finally I selected a set of eight Spalding irons with matching woods, a large bag, and several boxes of Top Flites. The salesman, who had been occupied with another customer at the rear of the store, hustled up, his eyes full of commission money. I gave him little time to think. The total cost was $612.32. I paid with a check drawn on my new account, cordially thanked the man, and had him carry all the equipment out to the trunk of the car.

I drove to a park near the bank; Loose Park, they called it. I felt loose. Cut loose, drifting free, like one of the kites people were flying that had broken its string and was ascending into the sun. Beneath the trees it was still hot, though the sunlight was reduced to a shuffling of light and shadow on the brown grass. Kids ran, jumped, swung on playground equipment. I uncorked my bottle of wine, filled one of the paper cups, and lay down beneath a tree, enjoying the children, watching young men and women walking along the footpaths.

A girl approached. She didn’t look any older than seventeen. Short, slender, with clean blond hair cut to her shoulders. Her shorts were very tight. I watched her unabashedly; she saw me watching and left the path to come over to me. She stopped a few feet away, hands on her hips. “What are you looking at?” she asked.

“Your legs,” I said. “Would you like some wine?”

“No thanks. My mother told me never to accept wine from strangers.” She looked right through me.

“I take what I can get from strangers,” I said. “Because I’m a stranger, too.”

I guess she liked that. She was different. She sat down and we chatted for a while. There was something wrong about her imitation of a seventeen-year-old; I began to wonder whether hookers worked the park. She crossed her legs and her shorts got tighter. “Where are you from?” she asked.

“San Francisco. But I’ve just moved here to stay. I have a part interest in the sporting goods store at the Eastridge Plaza.”

“You live near here?”

“On West Eighty-ninth.” I had driven down Eighty-ninth on my way to the bank.

“I live on Eighty-ninth! We’re neighbors.”

It was exactly what one of my own might have said to test me. I took a drink of wine and changed the subject. “Would you like to visit San Francisco someday?”

She brushed her hair back behind one ear. She pursed her lips, showing off her fine cheekbones. “Have you got something going?” she asked, in queerly accented English.

“Excuse me?”

“I said, have you got something going?” she repeated, still with the accent—the accent of my own time.

I took another sip. “A bottle of wine,” I replied in good mid-western 1980s.

She wasn’t having any of it. “No artwork, please. I don’t like artwork.”

I had to laugh: my life was devoted to artwork. I had not met anyone real in a long time. At the beginning I hadn’t wanted to, and in the ensuing years I had given up expecting it. If there’s anything more boring than you people it’s us people. But that was an old attitude. When she came to me in K.C., I was lonely and she was something new.

“Okay,” I said. “It’s not much, but you can come for the ride. Do you want to?”

She smiled and said yes.

As we walked to my car, she brushed her hip against my leg. I switched the bottle to my left hand and put my arm around her shoulders in a fatherly way. We got into the front seat, beneath the trees on a street at the edge of the park. It was quiet. I reached over, grabbed her hair at the nape of her neck, and jerked her face toward me, covering her little mouth with mine. Surprise: she threw her arms around my neck and slid across the seat into my lap. We did not talk. I yanked at the shorts; she thrust her hand into my pants. St. Augustine asked the Lord for chastity, but not right away.

At the end she slipped off me, calmly buttoned her blouse, brushed her hair back from her forehead. “How about a push?” she asked. She had a nail file out and was filing her index fingernail to a point.

I shook my head and looked at her. She resembled my grandmother. I had never run into my grandmother, but she had a hellish reputation. “No thanks. What’s your name?”

“Call me Ruth.” She scratched the inside of her left elbow with her nail. She leaned back in her seat, sighed deeply. Her eyes became a very bright, very hard blue.

While she was aloft I got out, opened the trunk, emptied the rest of the chardonnay into the gutter, and used the funnel to fill the bottle with kerosene. I plugged it with a kerosene-soaked rag. Afternoon was sliding into evening as I started the car and cruised down one of the residential streets. The houses were like those of any city or town of that era of the Midwest USA: white frame, forty or fifty years old, with large porches and small front yards. Dying elms hung over the street. Shadows stretched across the sidewalks. Ruth’s nose wrinkled; she turned her face lazily toward me, saw the kerosene bottle, and smiled.

Ahead on the left-hand sidewalk I saw a man walking leisurely. He was an average sort of man, middle-aged, probably just returning from work, enjoying the quiet pause dusk was bringing to the hot day. It might have been Hector; it might have been Graves. It might have been any one of you. I punched the cigarette lighter, readied the bottle in my right hand, steering with my leg as the car moved slowly forward.

“Let me help,” Ruth said. She reached out and steadied the wheel with her slender fingertips. The lighter popped out. I touched it to the rag; it smoldered and caught. Greasy smoke stung my eyes. By now the man had noticed us. I hung my arm, holding the bottle, out the window. As we passed him, I tossed the bottle at the sidewalk like a newsboy tossing a rolled-up newspaper. The rag flamed brighter as it whipped through the air; the bottle landed at his feet and exploded, dousing him with burning kerosene. I floored the accelerator; the motor coughed, then roared, the tires and Ruth both squealing in delight. I could see the flaming man in the rearview mirror as we sped away.

On the Great American Plains, the summer nights are not silent. The fields sing the summer songs of insects—not individual sounds, but a high-pitched drone of locusts, crickets, cicadas, small chirping things for which I have no names. You drive along the superhighway and that sound blends with the sound of wind rushing through your opened windows, hiding the thrum of the automobile, conveying the impression of incredible velocity. Wheels vibrate, tires beat against the pavement, the steering wheel shudders, alive in your hands, droning insects alive in your ears. Reflecting posts at the roadside leap from the darkness with metronomic regularity, glowing amber in the headlights, only to vanish abruptly into the ready night when you pass. You lose track of time, how long you have been on the road, where you are going. The fields scream in your ears like a thousand lost, mechanical souls, and you press your foot to the accelerator, hurrying away.

When we left Kansas City that evening we were indeed hurrying. Our direction was in one sense precise: Interstate 70, more or less due east, through Missouri in a dream. They might remember me in Kansas City, at the same time wondering who and why. Mr. Graves scans the morning paper over his grapefruit: MAN BURNED BY GASOLINE BOMB. The clerk wonders why he ever accepted an unverified counter check, without a name or address printed on it, for six hundred dollars. The check bounces. They discover it was a bottle of chardonnay. The story is pieced together. They would eventually figure out how—I wouldn’t lie to myself about that (I never lie to myself)—but the why would always escape them. Organized crime, they would say. A plot that misfired.

Of course, they still might have caught me. The car became more of a liability the longer I held on to it. But Ruth, humming to herself, did not seem to care, and neither did I. You have to improvise those things; that’s what gives them whatever interest they have.

Just shy of Columbia, Missouri, Ruth stopped humming and asked me, “Do you know why Helen Keller can’t have any children?”

“No.”

“Because she’s dead.”

I rolled up the window so I could hear her better. “That’s pretty funny,” I said.

“Yes. I overheard it in a restaurant.” After a minute she asked, “Who’s Helen Keller?”

“A dead woman.” An insect splattered itself against the windshield. The lights of the oncoming cars glinted against the smear it left.

“She must be famous,” said Ruth. “I like famous people. Have you met any? Was that man you burned famous?”

“Probably not. I don’t care about famous people anymore.” The last time I had anything to do, even peripherally, with anyone famous was when I changed the direction of the tape over the lock in the Watergate so Frank Wills would see it. Ruth did not look like the kind who would know about that. “I was there for the Kennedy assassination,” I said, “but I had nothing to do with it.”

“Who was Kennedy?”

That made me smile. “How long have you been here?” I pointed at her tiny purse. “That’s all you’ve got with you?”

She slid across the seat and leaned her head against my shoulder. “I don’t need anything else.”

“No clothes?”

“I left them in Kansas City. We can get more.”

“Sure,” I said.

She opened the purse and took out a plastic Bayer aspirin case. From it she selected two blue-and-yellow caps. She shoved her palm up under my nose. “Serometh?”

“No thanks.”

She put one of the caps back into the box and popped the other under her nose. She sighed and snuggled tighter against me. We had reached Columbia and I was hungry. When I pulled in at a McDonald’s she ran across the lot into the shopping mall before I could stop her. I was a little nervous about the car and sat watching it as I ate (Big Mac, small Dr. Pepper). She did not come back. I crossed the lot to the mall, found a drugstore, and bought some cigars. When I strolled back to the car she was waiting for me, hopping from one foot to another and tugging at the door handle. Serometh makes you impatient. She was wearing a pair of shiny black pants, pink-and-white-checked sneakers, and a hot pink blouse.

“ ’s go!” she hissed.

I moved even slower. She looked like she was about to wet herself, biting her soft lower lip with a line of perfect white teeth. I dawdled over my keys. A security guard and a young man in a shirt and tie hurried out of the mall entrance and scanned the lot. “Nice outfit,” I said. “Must have cost you something.”

She looked over her shoulder, saw the security guard, who saw her. “Hey!” he called, running toward us. I slid into the car, opened the passenger door. Ruth had snapped open her purse and pulled out a small gun. I grabbed her arm and yanked her into the car; she squawked and her shot went wide. The guard fell down anyway, scared shitless. For the second time that day I tested the Citation’s acceleration; Ruth’s door slammed shut and we were gone.

“You scut,” she said as we hit the entrance ramp of the interstate. “You’re a scut-pumping Conservative. You made me miss.” But she was smiling, running her hand up the inside of my thigh. I could tell she hadn’t ever had so much fun in the twentieth century.

For some reason I was shaking. “Give me one of those seromeths,” I said.

Around midnight we stopped in St. Louis at a Holiday Inn. We registered as Mr. and Mrs. Gerald Bruno (an old acquaintance) and paid in advance. No one remarked on the apparent difference in our ages. So discreet. I bought a copy of the Post-Dispatch, and we went to the room. Ruth flopped down on the bed, looking bored, but thanks to her gunplay I had a few more things to take care of. I poured myself a glass of Chivas, went into the bathroom, removed the toupee and flushed it down the toilet, showered, put a new blade in my old razor, and shaved the rest of the hair from my head. The Lex Luthor look. I cut my scalp. That got me laughing, and I could not stop. Ruth peeked through the doorway to find me dabbing the crown of my head with a bloody Kleenex.

“You’re a wreck,” she said.

I almost fell off the toilet laughing. She was absolutely right. Between giggles I managed to say, “You must not stay anywhere too long, if you’re as careless as you were tonight.”

She shrugged. “I bet I’ve been at it longer than you.” She stripped and got into the shower. I got into bed.

The room enfolded me in its gold-carpet green-bedspread mediocrity. Sometimes it’s hard to remember that things were ever different. In 1596 I rode to court with Essex; I slept in a chamber of supreme garishness (gilt escutcheons in the corners of the ceiling, pink cupids romping on the walls), in a bed warmed by any of the trollops of the city I might want. And there in the Holiday Inn I sat with my drink, in my pastel blue pajama bottoms, reading a late-twentieth-century newspaper, smoking a cigar. An earthquake in Peru estimated to have killed eight thousand in Lima alone. Nope. A steel worker in Gary, Indiana, discovered to be the murderer of six prepubescent children, bodies found buried in his basement. Perhaps. The president refuses to enforce the ruling of his Supreme Court because it “subverts the will of the American people.” Probably not.

We are everywhere. But not everywhere.

Ruth came out of the bathroom, saw me, did a double take. “You look—perfect!” she said. She slid in the bed beside me, naked, and sniffed at my glass of Chivas. Her lip curled. She looked over my shoulder at the paper. “You can understand that stuff?”

“Don’t kid me. Reading is a survival skill. You couldn’t last here without it.”

“Wrong.”

I drained the scotch. Took a puff on the cigar. Dropped the paper to the floor beside the bed. I looked her over. Even relaxed, the muscles in her arms and along the tops of her thighs were well defined.

“You even smell like one of them,” she said.

“How did you get the clothes past their store security? They have those beeper tags clipped to them.”

“Easy. I tried on the shoes and walked out when they weren’t looking. In the second store I took the pants into a dressing room, cut the alarm tag out of the waistband, and put them on. I held the alarm tag that was clipped to the blouse in my armpit and walked out of that store, too. I put the blouse on in the mall women’s room.”

“If you can’t read, how did you know which was the women’s room?”

“There’s a picture on the door.”

I felt tired and old. Ruth moved close. She rubbed her foot up my leg, drawing the pajama leg up with it. Her thigh slid across my groin. I started to get hard. “Cut it out,” I said. She licked my nipple.

I could not stand it. I got off the bed. “I don’t like you.”

She looked at me with true innocence. “I don’t like you, either.”

Although he was repulsed by the human body, Jonathan Swift was passionately in love with a woman named Esther Johnson. “What you did at the mall was stupid,” I said. “You would have killed that guard.”

“Which would have made us even for the day.”

“Kansas City was different.”

“We should ask the cops there what they think.”

“You don’t understand. That had some grace to it. But what you did was inelegant. Worst of all it was not gratuitous. You stole those clothes for yourself, and I hate that.” I was shaking.

“Who made all these laws?”

“I did.”

She looked at me with amazement. “You’re not just a Conservative. You’ve gone native!”

I wanted her so much I ached. “No I haven’t,” I said, but even to me my voice sounded frightened.

Ruth got out of the bed. She glided over, reached one hand around to the small of my back, pulled herself close. She looked up at me with a face that held nothing but avidity. “You can do whatever you want,” she whispered. With a feeling that I was losing everything, I kissed her. You don’t need to know what happened then.

I woke when she displaced herself: there was a sound like the sweep of an arm across fabric, a stirring of air to fill the place where she had been. I looked around the still brightly lit room. It was not yet morning. The chain was across the door; her clothes lay on the dresser. She had left the aspirin box beside my bottle of scotch.

She was gone. Good, I thought, now I can go on. But I found that I couldn’t sleep, could not keep from thinking. Ruth must be very good at that, or perhaps her thought is a different kind of thought from mine. I got out of the bed, resolved to try again but still fearing the inevitable. I filled the tub with hot water. I got in, breathing heavily. I took the blade from my razor. Holding my arm just beneath the surface of the water, hesitating only a moment, I cut deeply one, two, three times along the veins in my left wrist. The shock was still there, as great as ever. With blood streaming from me I cut the right wrist. Quickly, smoothly. My heart beat fast and light, the blood flowed frighteningly; already the water was stained. I felt faint—yes—it was going to work this time, yes. My vision began to fade—but in the last moments before consciousness fell away I saw, with sick despair, the futile wounds closing themselves once again, as they had so many times before. For in the future the practice of medicine may progress to the point where men need have little fear of death.

The dawn’s rosy fingers found me still unconscious. I came to myself about eleven, my head throbbing, so weak I could hardly rise from the cold bloody water. There were no scars. I stumbled into the other room and washed down one of Ruth’s megamphetamines with two fingers of scotch. I felt better immediately. It’s funny how that works sometimes, isn’t it? The maid knocked as I was cleaning the bathroom. I shouted for her to come back later, finished as quickly as possible, and left the hotel immediately. I ate Shredded Wheat with milk and strawberries for breakfast. I was full of ideas. A phone book gave me the location of a likely country club.

The Oak Hill Country Club of Florissant, Missouri, is not a spectacularly wealthy institution, or at least it does not give that impression. I’ll bet you that the membership is not as purely white as the stucco clubhouse. That was all right with me. I parked the Citation in the mostly empty parking lot, hauled my new equipment from the trunk, and set off for the locker room, trying hard to look like a dentist. I successfully ran the gauntlet of the pro shop, where the proprietor was telling a bored caddy why the Cardinals would fade in the stretch. I could hear running water from the showers as I shuffled into the locker room and slung the bag into a corner. Someone was singing the “Ode to Joy,” abominably.

I began to rifle through the lockers, hoping to find an open one with someone’s clothes in it. I would take the keys from my benefactor’s pocket and proceed along my merry way. Ruth would have accused me of self-interest; there was a moment in which I accused myself. Such hesitation is the seed of failure: as I paused before a locker containing a likely set of clothes, another golfer entered the room along with the locker-room attendant. I immediately began undressing, lowering my head so that the locker door hid my face. The golfer was soon gone, but the attendant sat down and began to leaf through a worn copy of Penthouse. I could come up with no better plan than to strip and enter the showers. Amphetamine daze. Perhaps the kid would develop a hard-on and go to the john to take care of it.

There was only one other man in the shower, the symphonic soloist, a somewhat portly gentleman who mercifully shut up as soon as I entered. He worked hard at ignoring me. I ignored him in return: alle Menschen werden Brüder. I waited a long five minutes after he left; two more men came into the showers, and I walked out with what composure I could muster. The locker-room boy was stacking towels on a table. I fished a five from my jacket in the locker and walked up behind him. Casually I took a towel.

“Son, get me a pack of Marlboros, will you?”

He took the money and left.

In the second locker I found a pair of pants that contained the keys to some sort of Audi. I was not choosy. Dressed in record time, I left the new clubs beside the rifled locker. My note read, “The pure products of America go crazy.” There were three eligible cars in the lot, two 4000s and a Fox. The key would not open the door of the Fox. I was jumpy, but almost home free, coming around the front of a big Chrysler . . .

“Hey!”

My knee gave way and I ran into the fender of the car. The keys slipped out of my hand and skittered across the hood to the ground, jingling. Grimacing, I hopped toward them, plucked them up, glancing over my shoulder at my pursuer as I stooped. It was the locker-room attendant.

“Your cigarettes.” He looked at me the way a sixteen-year-old looks at his father; that is, with bored skepticism. All our gods in the end become pitiful. It was time for me to be abruptly courteous. As it was, he would remember me too well.

“Thanks,” I said. I limped over, put the pack into my shirt pocket. He started to go, but I couldn’t help myself. “What about my change?”

Oh, such an insolent silence! I wonder what you told them when they asked you about me, boy. He handed over the money. I tipped him a quarter, gave him a piece of Mr. Graves’ professional smile. He studied me. I turned and inserted the key into the lock of the Audi. A fifty-percent chance. Had I been the praying kind I might have prayed to one of those pitiful gods. The key turned without resistance; the door opened. The kid slouched back toward the clubhouse, pissed at me and his lackey’s job. Or perhaps he found it in his heart to smile. Laughter—the Best Medicine.

A bit of a racing shift, then back to Interstate 70. My hip twinged all the way across Illinois.

I had originally intended to work my way east to Buffalo, New York, but after the Oak Hill business I wanted to cut it short. If I stayed on the interstate I was sure to get caught; I had been lucky to get as far as I had. Just outside of Indianapolis I turned onto Route 37 north to Fort Wayne and Detroit.

I was not, however, entirely cowed. Twenty-five years in one time had given me the right instincts, and with the coming of the evening and the friendly insects to sing me along, the boredom of the road became a new recklessness. Hadn’t I already been seen by too many people in those twenty-five years? Thousands had looked into my honest face—and where were they? Ruth had reminded me that I was not stuck here. I would soon make an end to this latest adventure one way or another, and once I had done so, there would be no reason in God’s green world to suspect me.

And so: north of Fort Wayne, on Highway 6 east, a deserted country road (what was he doing there?), I pulled over to pick up a young hitchhiker. He wore a battered black leather jacket. His hair was short on the sides, stuck up in spikes on top, hung over his collar in back; one side was carrot-orange, the other brown with a white streak. His sign, pinned to a knapsack, said “?” He threw the pack into the backseat and climbed into the front.

“Thanks for picking me up.” He did not sound like he meant it. “Where you going?”

“Flint. How about you?”

“Flint’s as good as anywhere.”

“Suit yourself.” We got up to speed. I was completely calm. “You should fasten your seat belt,” I said.

“Why?”

The surly type. “It’s not just a good idea. It’s the law.”

He ignored me. He pulled a crossword puzzle book and a pencil from his jacket pocket. “How about turning on the light?”

I flicked on the dome light for him. “I like to see a young man improve himself,” I said.

His look was an almost audible sigh. “What’s a five-letter word for ‘the lowest point’?”

“Nadir,” I replied.

“That’s right. How about ‘widespread’; four letters?”

“Rife.”

“You’re pretty good.” He stared at the crossword for a minute, then rolled down his window and threw the book, and the pencil, out of the car. He rolled up the window and stared at his reflection in it. I couldn’t let him get off that easily. I turned off the interior light, and the darkness leapt inside.

“What’s your name, son? What are you so mad about?”

“Milo. Look, are you queer? If you are, it doesn’t matter to me but it will cost you . . . if you want to do anything about it.”

I smiled and adjusted the rearview mirror so I could watch him—and he could watch me. “No, I’m not queer. The name’s Loki.” I extended my right hand, keeping my eyes on the road.

He looked at the hand. “Loki?”

As good a name as any. “Yes. Same as the Norse god.”

He laughed. “Sure, Loki. Anything you like. Fuck you.”

Such a musical voice. “Now there you go. Seems to me, Milo—if you don’t mind my giving you my unsolicited opinion—that you have something of an attitude problem.” I punched the cigarette lighter, reached back and pulled a cigar from my jacket on the backseat, in the process weaving the car all over Highway 6. I bit the end off the cigar and spat it out the window, stoked it up. My insects wailed. I cannot explain to you how good I felt.

“Take, for instance, this crossword puzzle book. Why did you throw it out the window?”

I could see Milo watching me in the mirror, wondering whether he should take me seriously. The headlights fanned out ahead of us, the white lines at the center of the road pulsing by like a rapid heartbeat. Take a chance, Milo. What have you got to lose?

“I was pissed,” he said. “It’s a waste of time. I don’t care about stupid games.”

“Exactly. It’s just a game, a way to pass the time. Nobody ever really learns anything from a crossword puzzle. Corporation lawyers don’t get their Porsches by building their word power with crosswords, right?”

“I don’t care about Porsches.”

“Neither do I, Milo. I drive an Audi.”

Milo sighed.

“I know, Milo. That’s not the point. The point is that it’s all a game, crosswords or corporate law. Some people devote their lives to Jesus; some devote their lives to artwork. It all comes to pretty much the same thing. You get old. You die.”

“Tell me something I don’t already know.”

“Why do you think I picked you up, Milo? I saw your question mark and it spoke to me. You probably think I’m some pervert out to take advantage of you. I have a funny name. I don’t talk like your average middle-aged businessman. Forget about that.” The old excitement was upon me; I was talking louder and louder, leaning on the accelerator. The car sped along. “I think you’re as troubled by the materialism and cant of life in America as I am. Young people like you, with orange hair, are trying to find some values in a world that offers them nothing but crap for ideas. But too many of you are turning to extremes in response. Drugs, violence, religious fanaticism, hedonism. Some, like you I suspect, to suicide. Don’t do it, Milo. Your life is too valuable.” The speedometer touched eighty, eighty-five. Milo fumbled for his seat belt but couldn’t find it.

I waved my hand, holding the cigar, at him. “What’s the matter, Milo? Can’t find the belt?” Ninety now. A pickup went by us going the other way, the wind of its passing beating at my head and shoulder. Ninety-five.

“Think, Milo! If you’re upset with the present, with your parents and the schools, think about the future. What will the future be like if this trend toward valuelessness continues in the next hundred years? Think of the impact of the new technologies! Gene splicing, gerontology, artificial intelligence, space exploration, biological weapons, nuclear proliferation! All accelerating this process! Think of the violent reactionary movements that could arise—are arising already, Milo, as we speak—from people’s desire to find something to hold on to. Paint yourself a picture, Milo, of the kind of man or woman another hundred years of this process might produce!”

“What are you talking about?” He was terrified.

“I’m talking about the survival of values in America! Simply that.” Cigar smoke swirled in front of the dashboard lights, and my voice had reached a shout. Milo was gripping the sides of his seat. The speedometer read 105. “And you, Milo, are at the heart of this process! If people continue to think the way you do, Milo, throwing their crossword puzzle books out the windows of their Audis all across America, the future will be full of absolutely valueless people! Right, MILO?” I leaned over, taking my eyes off the road, and blew smoke into his face, screaming, “ARE YOU LISTENING, MILO? MARK MY WORDS!”

“Y-yes.”

“GOO, GOO, GA-GA-GAA!”

I put my foot all the way to the floor. The wind howled through the window, the gray highway flew beneath us,

“Mark my words, Milo,” I whispered. He never heard me. “Twenty-five across. Eight letters. N-i-h-i-l—”

My pulse roared in my ears, there joining the drowned choir of the fields and the roar of the engine. Body slimy with sweat, fingers clenched through the cigar, fists clamped on the wheel, smoke stinging my eyes. I slammed on the brakes, downshifting immediately, sending the transmission into a painful whine as the car slewed and skidded off the pavement, clipping a reflecting marker and throwing Milo against the windshield. The car stopped with a jerk in the gravel at the side of the road, just shy of a sign announcing, WELCOME TO OHIO.

There were no other lights on the road, I shut off my own and sat behind the wheel, trembling, the night air cool on my skin. The insects wailed. The boy was slumped against the dashboard. There was a star fracture in the glass above his head, and warm blood came away on my fingers when I touched his hair. I got out of the car, circled around to the passenger’s side, and dragged him from the seat into the field adjoining the road. He was surprisingly light. I left him there, in a field of Ohio soybeans on the evening of a summer’s day.

The city of Detroit was founded by the French adventurer Antoine de la Mothe, sieur de Cadillac, a supporter of Comte de Pontchartrain, minister of state to the Sun King, Louis XIV. All of these men worshiped the Roman Catholic god, protected their political positions, and let the future go hang. Cadillac, after whom an American automobile was named, was seeking a favorable location to advance his own economic interests. He came ashore on July 24,1701, with fifty soldiers, an equal number of settlers, and about one hundred friendly Indians near the present site of the Veterans Memorial Building, within easy walking distance of the Greyhound Bus Terminal.

The car did not run well after the accident, developing a reluctance to go into fourth, but I didn’t care. The encounter with Milo had gone exactly as such things should go, and was especially pleasing because it had been totally unplanned. An accident—no order, one would guess—but exactly as if I had laid it all out beforehand. I came into Detroit late at night via Route 12, which eventually turned into Michigan Avenue. The air was hot and sticky. I remember driving past the Cadillac plant; multitudes of red, yellow, and green lights glinting off dull masonry and the smell of auto exhaust along the city streets. I found the sort of neighborhood I wanted not far from Tiger Stadium: pawnshops, an all-night deli, laundromats, dimly lit bars with red Stroh’s signs in the windows. Men on street corners walked casually from noplace to noplace.

I parked on a side street just around the corner from a 7-Eleven. I left the motor running. In the store I dawdled over a magazine rack until at last I heard the racing of an engine and saw the Audi flash by the window. I bought a copy of Time and caught a downtown bus at the corner. At the Greyhound station I purchased a ticket for the next bus to Toronto and sat reading my magazine until departure time.

We got onto the bus. Across the river we stopped at customs and got off again. “Name?” they asked me.

“Gerald Spotsworth.”

“Place of birth?”

“Calgary.” I gave them my credentials. The passport photo showed me with hair. They looked me over. They let me go.

I work in the library of the University of Toronto. I am well-read, a student of history, a solid Canadian citizen. There I lead a sedentary life. The subways are clean, the people are friendly, the restaurants are excellent. The sky is blue. The cat is on the mat.

We got back on the bus. There were few other passengers, and most of them were soon asleep; the only light in the darkened interior was that which shone above my head. I was very tired, but I did not want to sleep. Then I remembered that I had Ruth’s pills in my jacket pocket. I smiled, thinking of the customs people. All that was left in the box were a couple of tiny pink tabs. I did not know what they were, but I broke one down the middle with my fingernail and took it anyway. It perked me up immediately. Everything I could see seemed sharply defined. The dark green plastic of the seats. The rubber mat in the aisle. My fingernails. All details were separate and distinct, all interdependent. I must have been focused on the threads in the weave of my pants leg for ten minutes when I was surprised by someone sitting down next to me. It was Ruth. “You’re back!” I exclaimed.

“We’re all back,” she said. I looked around and it was true: on the opposite side of the aisle, two seats ahead, Milo sat watching me over his shoulder, a trickle of blood running down his forehead. One corner of his mouth pulled tighter in a rueful smile. Mr. Graves came back from the front seat and shook my hand. I saw the fat singer from the country club, still naked. The locker-room boy. A flickering light from the back of the bus: when I turned around there stood the burning man, his eye sockets two dark hollows behind the wavering flames. The shopping-mall guard. Hector from the hardware store. They all looked at me.

“What are you doing here?” I asked Ruth.

“We couldn’t let you go on thinking like you do. You act like I’m some monster. I’m just a person.”

“A rather nice-looking young lady,” Graves added.

“People are monsters,” I said.

“Like you, huh?” Ruth said. “But they can be saints, too.”

That made me laugh. “Don’t feed me platitudes. You can’t even read.”

“You make such a big deal out of reading. Yeah, well, times change. I get along fine, don’t I?”

The mall guard broke in. “Actually, miss, the reason we caught on to you is that someone saw you walk into the men’s room.” He looked embarrassed.

“But you didn’t catch me, did you?” Ruth snapped back. She turned to me. “You’re afraid of change. No wonder you live back here.”

“This is all in my imagination,” I said. “It’s because of your drugs.”

“It is all in your imagination,” the burning man repeated. His voice was a whisper. “What you see in the future is what you are able to see. You have no faith in God or your fellow man.”

“He’s right,” said Ruth.

“Bull. Psychobabble.”

“Speaking of babble,” Milo said, “I figured out where you got that goo-goo-goo stuff. Talk—”

“Never mind that,” Ruth broke in. “Here’s the truth. The future is just a place. The people there are just people. They live differently. So what? People make what they want of the world. You can’t escape human failings by running into the past.” She rested her hand on my leg. “I’ll tell you what you’ll find when you get to Toronto,” she said. “Another city full of human beings.”

This was crazy. I knew it was crazy. I knew it was all unreal, but somehow I was getting more and more afraid. “So the future is just the present writ large,” I said bitterly. “More bull.”

“You tell her, pal,” the locker-room boy said.

Hector, who had been listening quietly, broke in. “For a man from the future, you talk a lot like a native.”

“You’re the king of bullshit, man,” Milo said. “ ‘Some people devote themselves to artwork’! Jesus!”

I felt dizzy. “Scut down, Milo. That means ‘Fuck you too.’ ” I shook my head to try to make them go away. That was a mistake: the bus began to pitch like a sailboat. I grabbed for Ruth’s arm but missed. “Who’s driving this thing?” I asked, trying to get out of the seat.

“Don’t worry,” said Graves. “He knows what he’s doing.”

“He’s brain-dead,” Milo said.

“You couldn’t do any better,” said Ruth, pulling me back down.

“No one is driving,” said the burning man.

“We’ll crash!” I was so dizzy now that I could hardly keep from being sick. I closed my eyes and swallowed. That seemed to help. A long time passed; eventually I must have fallen asleep.

When I woke it was late morning and we were entering the city, cruising down Eglinton Avenue. The bus had a driver after all—a slender black man with neatly trimmed sideburns who wore his uniform hat at a rakish angle. A sign above the windshield said, YOUR DRIVER—SAFE, COURTEOUS, and below that, on the slide-in nameplate, WILBERT CAUL. I felt like I was coming out of a nightmare. I felt happy. I stretched some of the knots out of my back. A young soldier seated across the aisle from me looked my way; I smiled, and he returned it briefly.

“You were mumbling to yourself in your sleep last night,” he said.

“Sorry. Sometimes I have bad dreams.”

“It’s okay. I do too, sometimes.” He had a round open face, an apologetic grin. He was twenty, maybe. Who knew where his dreams came from? We chatted until the bus reached the station; he shook my hand and said he was pleased to meet me. He called me “sir.”

I was not due back at the library until Monday, so I walked over to Yonge Street. The stores were busy, the tourists were out in droves, the adult theaters were doing a brisk business. Policemen in sharply creased trousers, white gloves, sauntered along among the pedestrians. It was a bright, cloudless day, but the breeze coming up the street from the lake was cool. I stood on the sidewalk outside one of the strip joints and watched the videotaped come-on over the closed circuit. The Princess Laya. Sondra Nieve, the Human Operator. Technology replaces the traditional barker, but the bodies are more or less the same. The persistence of your faith in sex and machines is evidence of your capacity to hope.

Francis Bacon, in his masterwork The New Atlantis, foresaw the utopian world that would arise through the application of experimental science to social problems. Bacon, however, could not solve the problems of his own time and was eventually accused of accepting bribes, fined £40,000, and imprisoned in the Tower of London. He made no appeal to God, but instead applied himself to the development of the virtues of patience and acceptance. Eventually he was freed. Soon after, on a freezing day in late March, we were driving near Highgate when I suggested to him that cold might delay the process of decay. He was excited by the idea. On impulse he stopped the carriage, purchased a hen, wrung its neck, and stuffed it with snow. He eagerly looked forward to the results of his experiment. Unfortunately, in haggling with the street vendor he had exposed himself thoroughly to the cold and was seized by a chill that rapidly led to pneumonia, of which he died on April 9, 1626.

There’s no way to predict these things.

When the videotape started repeating itself I got bored, crossed the street, and lost myself in the crowd.

#science ficti

#nihilism #suicudal #ohne dich #short story #spun alone

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q-gorgeous · 3 years ago

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Nature

fanfiction

ao3

i am tired

“Now, you guys need to behave while you’re here. I may be apprehensive about ghosts, but not all of them are inherently evil by nature. Most of them are just still here living with their families, it’d be rude to bother them.”

Vlad stared sternly at his two friends, who looked way too excited to be visiting his hometown. It probably didn’t help that his hometown was haunted and riddled with ghosts, but they knew ghosts existed, so why did they have to get so obnoxious about it?

“Oh, boy, Vladdy! This is gonna be great! I’ve never seen a real live ghost before. Well, not a live ghost, but you know what I mean. I-”

Vlad stopped listening and he paused in his walk from their car to his front door, disbelief filling his mind.

“Jack you’ve never seen a ghost? How?”

Jack shrugged. “I think they always just wanted to talk to my parents or something. Because, you know, they were also ghost hunters and researchers! Or maybe those dastardly creatures were too afraid of the old Jack Fenton charm.” He smiled.

Vlad rolled his eyes. “I wouldn’t believe that.” He continued walking to the front door, pulling his keys out. “But if you’ve never seen a ghost how do you actually know they’re real? Why study something you’ve never seen before?”

“Of course ghosts are real! My parents studied them all the time, it’s been a career passed down through the generations.”

“Of course ghosts are real, Jack, but-”

“Vlad, are you going to open the door soon or are we going to have to camp in your front yard?” Maddie said, lifting an eyebrow at him with a smile.

He grumbled and made the rest of the way to the door and unlocked it. As soon as he got the door open he was almost barreled over by his sister, Anastasia.

“Hi, Vlad! It feels like it’s been so long! Are these your friends that you were telling me about?” She looked behind him at Jack and Maddie.

“Yes, this is Jack and Maddie.” He gestured at them. “They’re studying ectobiology with me at school.”

“Ectobiology huh?” Anastasia said. “Never heard that one before, but I bet they’ll enjoy staying here for a little bit then, won’t you guys?”

“Oh absolutely!” Maddie said, pulling a small notebook out of the breast pocket on her flannel shirt. “Jack and I have a list of things we want to study while we’re here, but Vlad said we must keep it humane because ‘not all ghosts are evil’.”

“That’s right. Some of the ghosts here are quite lovely. I’m gonna start on dinner, would you mind picking up a few things for me from the store, Vlad? Mom said we’re all out of salt or some wacky thing like that. She made a list.”

“Sure, sure. I bet Jack will be excited to go into town.”

Jack’s face lit up. “Is that where all the ghosts are?”

Vlad nodded. “A lot of them hang out in town during the day, doing shopping or gardening. Some of them are street performers.”

“Okay, well hurry back soon.” Anastasia called as she pulled a pan out of the cupboard.

Vlad, Jack, and Maddie headed back out to the car and pulled out of the driveway and into the street. Once they made it into town, Vlad found a parking spot near the grocery store and they got out and started walking.

They passed many people, both humans and ghosts, and while Maddie was looking around in fascination, Jack still looked like he was waiting in anticipation. Vlad’s brows furrowed. Surely he should have noticed the ghosts by now?

Heading inside, Vlad grabbed a basket and went about gathering the ingredients on the list.

Salt, garlic, incense, rosemary, eggs, wood, and… silver?

What kind of shopping list was his mom making?

As they walked around the store, Vlad noticed that Jack kept looking up front towards the register. He looked and saw that one of the ghosts was on the register today. But instead of being excited about finally seeing a ghost, Jack just looked very confused.

Vlad was looking at a bag of oranges when Jack walked up to him.

“Hey, Vladdy, do you know what’s happening at the register? There’s no one there but everyone’s still getting their groceries.”

“What do you mean there’s no one at the register?” Vlad asked.

“There’s no one there. It’s like the groceries are ringing themselves up. How- Look, that apple is floating into the bag!”

Vlad felt a sad feeling sink into his stomach. “Can you not see them Jack?”

“See who?”

“The ghosts.”

Jack’s face fell. “I must not be able to. I’ve been wondering why everyone looked so normal, it hadn’t looked like I’d seen a single ghost. I just… I’m gonna go wait outside.”

Vlad watched as Jack sadly walked through the store and left through the front entrance. Maddie came up beside him.

“Where’s Jack going?” She asked.

“He can’t see the ghosts.”

“Oh..” She whispered.

“Yeah.” Vlad said quietly.

Together he and Maddie quickly met up with Jack outside and they headed back to the car together, but this time Jack just stared at the sidewalk.

As soon as they got home and Vlad showed Jack to the room he’d be staying in, he quietly excused himself and holed himself up in the room.

Anastasia was almost done with dinner when she finally asked Vlad.

“So what’s up with Jack? He seemed pretty down when you guys came home today.”

Vlad sighed. “He found out that he can’t see ghosts while we were at the store. He wasn’t able to see any of the ones in town. It explains why he never saw any of the ghosts his family studied when he was younger.”

“Hm.” Anastasia hums. “That must be pretty weird not being able to see ghosts. But you should go see if he’s ready to come back downstairs, dinner’s ready.”

“Yeah, I’ll go see if he’s up for it.”

Vlad stood up and headed up the stairs towards the room Jack was staying in. He knocked once and opened the door.

“Listen, Jack, I know you might still feeling down, but-”

Vlad paused when he looked up. Instead of a disappointed Jack, he looked like he was vibrating with excitement on the desk chair he was sitting on.

“What’s going on?” Vlad asked.

Jack stood up and thrust some blueprints in his face. “Ghost sight goggles! I figured there must be some way for me to be able to see them and if I want to be a ghost hunter then I gotta be able to see them, right?”

“I still think we should change that to ghost researcher but-”

“With this!” Jack held the blueprints up again. “I’ll be able to see all those spooks! It’ll take a couple days to put them together, but it’ll be worth it.”

Vlad chuckled, smiling at his friend. “Well, I think you should take a break now. Dinner’s done. You can tell the others about it while we eat.”

Jack beamed at him and together they walked down the hall and back downstairs.

#gorgi writes #danny phantom #dannymay2021 #dannymay21 #dannymay #fanfiction #fanfic #fic #phic #vlad masters #jack fenton #maddie fenton #anastasia masters

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vannahfanfics · 3 years ago

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ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ NYOOMS IN hellooo i would really love to request a sokai fic with the lollipop prompt!! personal anecdote: lollipops were the first sweet i ever hand-made for valentine's day because i wanted them to last longer than chocolates, bahaha :D thank you so much for all your wonderful work!!! ♡

Hi, liesles! Thank you for waiting patiently for your request! I thought it would go really well with a prompt from @sokaiweek, “Be Mine,” so I hope you enjoy what I’ve come up with!

Sweet on You

“Ahh, it feels like forever since I’ve been to Twilight Town!” Kairi cried jubilantly as she ran down the forest path, eager to escape the woods where they’d hidden the Gummi ship and reach the town proper. She stopped to spin on her heel in the dirt, flashing Sora a brilliant smile. “Of course, the last time I was here, I was hiding from the Organization,” she joked, twirling a lock of her short auburn hair around her finger. Sora snorted at her cheekiness, amazed at her ability to reconcile with what was probably a pretty harrowing experience. But, that boundless optimism was one of the many things he appreciated about Kairi.

“Well, now we don’t have to worry about them,” he smiled back, leaves crunching under his feet as he followed after her. She waited for him to join her on the path, standing there with her hands clasped behind her back in that adorable way that never failed to make his heart flutter. He was glad to see that even after everything they’d been through, some things still hadn’t changed.

“So? What do you want to do while we’re in town?” he asked when he reached her, sliding his hands in his pockets. Kairi walked along beside him, a spring in her step.

“I want to visit Olette, Pence, and Hayner, of course! Oh— and Xion, Roxas, Isa, and Lea, too. I want to try those pretzels and sea salt they brag about so much!” she giggled. He loved her giggle, he realized dreamily. It was the sweetest of sounds, sweeter than even the bells of Scala ad Caelum ringing in the dawn blush light. “But you know,” she said suddenly, snapping him out of his daze, “I didn’t really get to enjoy the town much last time, since I was hiding away. Before we do that, can we explore a little bit, Sora?”

“Absolutely! Anything you want, Kairi!” he agreed immediately.

Ugh. He could hear Riku laughing now, calling him “whipped.” How was he supposed to refuse, though, when she was asking him so cutely with that excited shine in her eyes and that pretty smile on her lips? Saying no would be downright criminal!

Giggling with delight, she scampered down the path again towards the triangular gap in the brick wall that served as the entrance to the woods. Yeah, Sora reconciled with a soft smile as he watched her skirt swish around her thighs and her hair bounce around her shoulders. He was definitely whipped for Kairi. He’d always been, really. She was his light.

The sunlight enveloped them as they stepped out into the city, warm and welcoming. The tram was trundling by, rocking gently on the tracks with its metal gleaming in the sunset haze. Sora had always liked Twilight Town, not just because Roxas’ heart lay dormant inside of him. It reminded him a bit of Destiny Islands— the warm sun coating his skin, the breeze carrying the scent of trees, the atmosphere of peace and tranquility. He paused at the edge of the ledge to close his eyes and savor the sunbeams playing over his face. He cracked an eye open when he felt Kairi stand next to him.

“I can see why they love this place so much,” she hummed, observing the honeyed skyline with lidded eyes. “It really is beautiful…”

He could sense the “but” lingering on her tongue.

“But… It’s not home?” he guessed, and she looked at him with a wan smirk.

“Yeah. But it’s home to them, so I suppose that’s all that matters,” she shrugged, her look turning cheery, and he couldn’t help but grin. She always found the bright side of things— she always found the light. “But, you could definitely pick a worse home to have.”

“Yeah, that’s true.”

Kairi took another moment to scan the horizon, watching the golden light play across the oranges and browns of the buildings. Then she cocked her head to the side with a girlish laugh. Her smile was nearly blinding as she declared, “All right, enough sightseeing! I wanna go shopping!”

“Yes ma’am!” he said with a salute, and Kairi laughed again. Gosh, if he could only hear one sound for the rest of his life, it would be Kairi’s laugh, no question. Her giggles floated in the air as she hurried down the steps to the causeway. If Sora tried hard enough, he could see them floating around like bubbles, little iridescent, rainbow films of her beautiful laugh. He reached up to touch them, but they skipped just beyond the edges of his fingertips to float up, up, up into the honey-colored sky and red-tinged clouds. That was okay, though, because there were always more where that came from.

“You know, I’m surprised to see so much green here,” Kairi commented as she looked at all the small planters and flower boxes adorning the city. They perched on windowsills, rested on tables, sat on porch steps, or were positioned along the sidewalk. Flowers, ferns, herbs— everything and more could be found in the myriad of little pots littering the city streets, and their bright green fronds and stalks almost glowed against the background of autumn colors. “It really does make everything a little bit homier,” she hummed in contentment.

“Yeah, and gives Little Chef a lot of ingredients to gather!” he added with a bright grin.

“Oh, right, of course. That’s very important!” she giggled, prompting Sora to raise an eyebrow challengingly.

“What? Are you making fun of me?”

“No, it’s just nice to see that your love for food hasn’t changed,” she chuckled. “You either think with your heart or your stomach!”

Sora opened his mouth to object, then closed it because it was true. It still felt like he was being made fun of, but darn it, she just looked too cute with that teasing smirk and the tip of her tongue sticking out between her teeth! Oh, he was whipped all right, more than Little Chef’s best frosting. He looked out to the road, and a smile played over his lips as he considered just how much Kairi had him wrapped around her finger.

It was then that he spied something resting beside the main shopping complex, and he started thinking with his stomach again.

“Speaking of love for food…”

A cute little cart was parked beside the complex. Pink and white heart-shaped balloons that were tied to the handle bobbed in the breeze, their metallic surfaces gleaming. Red, white, and pink streamers adorned the white cart’s side, and inside, an assortment of candies rested on a soft bed of baby-pink faux grass. Sora’s mouth began to salivate immediately upon clapping eyes on it, and Kairi laughed at him. For the first time that day, he was too absorbed in the promise of sweets to fixate on how much he loved her laugh.

“What’s this? This is new!” he exclaimed as he pranced up to it. The young woman chuckled at his excited approach, flicking her bangs out of her face and primly resting her hands against her chocolate-smeared apron.

“Hi there! This is a special promotion that the local chocolatier is doing for Valentine’s Day.”

“Valentine’s Day?” he echoed. Was it really February? Time sure flew when you were running around saving the world.

“What’s the promotion?” Kairi asked, peering around his shoulder to admire the assortment of candied goods nestled in the plastic stringy faux grass.

“We’re giving away free samples today!” the attendant chirped. “Please, pick whatever you like— for yourself, for someone special.” She gave Sora a playful wink, which made his cheeks turn as pink as the decorations on the cart.

Thankfully, Kairi had become too engrossed in the heart-shaped cake pops to catch the candy seller’s jibe. After carefully studying one for a moment, she plucked it out of the display and promptly took a chomp out of it. She hummed exultantly as she chewed the red velvet and red icing, then opened her eyes to smile at the attendant.

“This is delicious! Oh, we should bring everyone something, don’t you think, Sora?”

“Totally, as long as the attendant doesn’t mind. We don’t want to run off with all her stock.”

“Please do!” she smiled pleasantly. “We want everyone to be able to enjoy these sweet treats. All I ask is that you check out the chocolatier sometime soon to look at our complete stock!”

After promising to follow through, Kairi and Sora began picking out free samples to bring to their friends. They tried to choose a variety while still choosing things they thought they would each enjoy. While Kairi was debating between a mini strawberry shortcake and a chocolate eclair, Sora discreetly stowed a wrapped heart-shaped lollipop in his shorts pocket.

Of course, it didn’t go unnoticed by the candy attendant.

Someone special? She mouthed with a smirk playing over her lips. With a sidelong glance at Kairi that melted into a loving smile, he nodded. Someone special, indeed.

After making their decisions, Sora and Kairi headed off to rendezvous with their friends. They were delighted to find the treats well-received (though comments of pretzels and sea salt ice cream were made… and comments turned into procuration, but Sora was never going to complain about more food!). They watched the sunset from the clock tower, all of them squashed together on the ledge so tightly that poor Pence almost fell off, but it worked out all right and they had a good laugh about it.

Just as the last red rays of the setting sun were spearing across the sky in their last goodbye, they said their farewells and headed back to the Gummi ship. Kairi pranced along the path, cooing at the fireflies flitting through the trees and underbrush to fill the gloomy forest with an earthy green glow. It was a town of sunset and greenery, two things so at odds with each other yet complimented one another so well here. And at the center of all that beautiful color was Kairi.

She danced in a circle, laughing jubilantly as she whirled her arms around to scatter the fireflies like a thousand leaves. Her hair flowed around her face like an autumn breeze, and her skirt swished around her legs like florets on the wind. The green flickering lights and puddles of moonlight illuminated her form, and in that moment, she looked like an angel descended to earth.

“I love you,” he whispered in reverence. He found his throat closed up with emotion, but he kept going in his head. I love you. I love you so much it hurts. I can’t imagine life without you, because I love you, I love you, I love you, and I always have. He wasn’t sure when he started crying, but Kairi saw them gleaming in the moonlight, and that’s when she stopped dancing to look at him in concern.

“Sora? Sora, what’s wrong?” she gasped and ran up to him. He just looked down at her while she raised her hands to his cheeks, sweeping away his tears with soft, gentle brushes of her thumbs. “Talk to me,” she whispered, oh-so-sweetly that his heart broke with happiness.

“Kairi… There was something from the candy cart that I didn’t share with anyone else,” he whispered, his voice hoarse with emotion. She knitted her eyebrows together in confusion as he procured the lollipop from his pocket and held it out to her. She looked up at him, then down at the lollipop. She took it, turning it over to peer through the plastic film at the simple words etched in white icing on the front of the pink lollipop.

BE MINE.

“Sora…” she murmured, looking up at him. He smiled sweetly even through the tears that still spilled from his eyes. She looked beautiful even in the way she kaleidoscoped in his watery vision. He reached up to cup her face in his hands, and he marveled at the way her cheeks nestled so perfectly against his palms, like they were made to be held by him and only him. Her eyelashes fluttered as she stared up at him in bewilderment, surprise, and hope.

“I love you,” he whispered again, but so she could hear this time. “I love you, Kairi. You are the light of my life, you know that?”

“Yeah,” she said, her voice breaking as her own tears broke through the dam to flow down her face. They beaded against his palms, roughened by his years of wielding the Keyblade, but still soft enough for her to cuddle into his touch. “You’re the light of my life, too. I’m yours, Sora, I always have been.”

He smiled at that, a broken smile because his mouth just simply couldn’t display the sheer amount of joy welling up inside of him. He petted her cheeks, wiping away her tears as she hiccuped sobby little giggles that just made her cheeks warm with embarrassment. He leaned forward to press his forehead to hers, unable to stop himself from whispering, “You’re so cute.”

“Stop… You’re gonna embarrass me,” she complained, even though she laughed.

“I can’t help myself. You are.”

“Can… Can you just… Can you kiss me already, please?” she sniffed, her cheeks shining like pink opals in the moonlight.

How could he ever refuse, especially whipped for her as he was?

He immediately rushed in to do as she said, but he let his zeal get the best of him, because his nose collided with hers. Nervous apologies tumbled from his mouth but Kairi just giggled and guided his face back down, nosing his cheek to prompt him to try again. He took it slower this time, easing himself in to experimentally brush his lips over hers. Kairi waited for her to find his rhythm, but he could feel her excitement in the way her mouth trembled. After a few tentative pecks, he smoothed his lips over hers in a full, sweet, passionate kiss, and she melted against him.

Forget the candy cart— Kairi’s lips were the sweetest thing he would ever taste, period.

He kissed her again, and again, and again, until Kairi was fleeing his advances with giddy, bubbly laughter. His lips still fluttered over the places he could reach— her cheeks, her nose, her forehead, her jawline, even her eyelids. He was just drowning in love and he didn’t know how else to get it out besides showering her in affection.

“Sora,” she insisted as she ran from his lips again, and this time, he just pouted at her. She placated him with a little peck to his pursed lips, which did make him feel a little better. “We have all the time in the world now,” she reminded him with a sweet smile. “I would like to go home at some point.”

Right. Home— the home he shared with his friends, with his family, with Kairi. He pulled away to link his hand with hers, while she peeled the plastic off the lollipop to pop it into her mouth. The BE MINE flashed in the moonlight, making Sora’s heart swell with adoration. Kairi didn’t mean for it to be a question, but he answered it in his heart anyway.

Always, Kairi. Always and forever.

Enjoy this oneshot? Feel free to peruse my Table of Contents!

#sokai #sokaiweek #sokaiweek2021 #sora x kairi #kairi x sora #kingdom hearts #kingdom hearts iii #kingdom hearts 3

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hood-ex · 4 years ago

Note

for prompt: dick + jason (+ maybe cass?) doing Peak Older Sibling thing of getting tipsy together and complaining about Kids These Days even though they're like in their twenties

Read on AO3

Dick knows it’s time to leave the art show when he’s nearly finished his third glass of champagne. He feels all the warm and bubbly effects from it, and he’s sure that Cass—wherever she is—is probably feeling the same way.

His only problem now is that he’s got to figure out where Cass went. He thinks the last time he saw her is when she disappeared upstairs to the second floor. There’s a projector up there playing a video about god knows what, and Dick has a feeling Cass went up there to watch it to take a people break.

He downs the last of his drink and hands the empty glass off to one of the passing by staff workers before he sets off on his search. He wanders past the wall of paintings he already looked at earlier in the night and heads for the stairs.

A few socialites he’s familiar with from past Wayne galas come up to him and try to stop him for a chat. Dick quickly shakes their hands and schmoozes with them a little for appearance’s sake. He tries to keep things short and polite because he really doesn’t want to get caught up in a thirty-minute conversation.

Thankfully, most people seem to be just as tired and hungry as he is, and they easily let him go when he offhandedly mentions needing to find his sister.

Dick’s halfway up the stairs when he sees Cass appear at the top with slightly flushed cheeks. Her glittery black dress catches in the light and makes her look like a pretty jewel. She smiles at him when their eyes meet, and Dick has to hold back a laugh at the way she throws a hand up and waves at him. He can tell he was right about her being just as tipsy as him.

“Hey!” Dick says excitedly as he finishes walking up to her. He holds up his hand and she high fives him hard enough to make his hand sting. “Ready to go?” he asks, and this time he holds his arm out for her to grab on to so she won’t trip down the stairs in her heels. Not that he can imagine Cass doing something so clumsy, but, well, better to be safe than sorry.

“I’ve been ready,” Cass says a little too loudly, making Dick wince. She links her arm with his, and they slowly make it back to the ground floor without incident.

Dick’s hand brushes Cass’s wrist when they let go of each other, and he frowns at how cold she is. He knows that even though it’s pretty chilly outside, Cass had decided to just wear her sweater inside the art show. She had left her heavier jacket in his car, not wanting to carry it around the show for hours. He wishes she would’ve said something about it so she could’ve grabbed her jacket from his car instead of silently freezing throughout the night.

He shrugs out of his blazer and drapes it around her shoulders. “One warm jacket for the tiny dancer. Need anything else, Miss?”

Cass smiles and slides her arms through the sleeves. She hugs herself close like she’s trying to absorb as much of his leftover body heat as possible.

“I could go for some burgers and fries,” she says as she grabs him by the wrist and tugs him towards the exit.

“Sounds like we’re singing the same tune,” Dick grins and pushes open the door for her to walk through first. “Let’s stop by my car and get your jacket first. We can find somewhere around here to walk to.”

Cass’s brow furrows. “Singing the... what?” She takes the lead and walks alongside the part of the sidewalk that’s not lit up by the street lights. Dick ignores the goosebumps that appear on his arms from the sudden breeze. He follows close behind her and subtly scans the parking lot where his car is parked for any potential danger.

“It means we have the same idea. Like we’re on the same page.”

“Oh!” she says, and Dick quickly realizes that tipsy Cass has a volume control problem, which is a little ironic when he thinks about it. “Yes, we’re totally singing the same tune!” Dick laughs and holds his hand out for another high five. Cass eyes it for a second before smacking his hand even harder.

“You thinking Bat Burger or somewhere else?”

Cass hums. “You ever been to the Bluehouse Bar?”

“No,” Dick says. “Have you?”

“Yeah, once. It was pretty good!”

Dick nods and tries not to look too judgy about her choice. The bar he used to bartend at in Bludhaven ruined his perception of bar food, but maybe this place in Gotham won’t be so bad. Plus, Cass is rarely wrong, and Dick’s willing to trust her opinion on it.

“Is that where you want to go then?” Dick asks right as they make it to his car.

“Yup, I feel like it’s the place to be tonight,” Cass says, and Dick unlocks the door for her.

Dick laughs and lightly whacks her shoulder with the back of his hand. “Are you quoting Harry Potter at me? Is that what’s happening right now?”

“Maybe,” Cass says, voice muffled while she dips inside the car and fishes for her jacket in the back seat.

Dick patiently waits as she switches out his suit jacket for her own jacket, and once she’s properly zipped herself up, she tosses his jacket back to him. Dick easily slides into it, feeling much better now that he’s not as cold.

This time Cass is the one that offers her arm to him and smirks as she says, “One warm jacket for the rocket man. Need anything else, Sir?”

“Yeah,” Dick says and hooks his arm under hers. “Directions on how to get there.”

Cass tugs him forward and says, “Follow me.”

The walk to the bar only ends up being about two blocks away, which isn’t too bad. Dick’s nose is feeling a little frozen. He can tell by Cass’s pink cheeks that she’s feeling chilled as well, but they’ve both dealt with way worse conditions while on patrol to actually complain about it.

Dick can tell why this place is called the Bluehouse Bar as soon as they step inside. The whole place is lit up by blue lights that reflect off the black chairs and tabletops. Even the white napkins and plates on the tables look like they’re glowing with a blue tint.

The lights combined with the loud music and chatter makes everything a little disorienting. Dick’s still trying to get his eyes to adjust to the room when Cass suddenly grips his shoulder and leans close to his ear and says, “Look, it’s Jason!”

Dick whips his head around to where Cass is staring, and sure enough, Jason’s sitting at a table of four by himself, browsing through the menu in his hands. There’s an empty glass of beer in front of him that suggests he’s been here for a while. The Gotham Knights are playing ball on one of the TVs, and Dick has a suspicion that Jason probably came here to watch the game before patrol.

Jason’s wearing his cargo pants and boots. His signature leather jacket is zipped up all the way up to cover the bat emblem on his chest. Dick imagines Jason’s motorcycle is probably parked nearby and has the rest of his Red Hood gear in it.

Cass seems a little tense next to him, and Dick knows it’s because she really doesn’t like Jason that much. They’ve never gotten along for obvious reasons, and Cass only tolerates him when she has to. Dick can hardly remember them even having a conversation beyond “Can you pass the salt?” when they’re all eating breakfast together at the manor once a week.

He’s just about to ask Cass if she wants to go when Jason suddenly looks up and stares right at them. A look of surprise flashes across Jason’s face, and he blinks a few times as if making sure that Dick and Cass are the real deal.

Dick waves without really thinking about it, and Jason responds by motioning for them to come sit at his table.

Cass’s eyes widen slightly like she wants to do anything but that, and Dick flashes her an apologetic look before gently placing his hand on her back and steering her towards Jason’s table. It’s not like they can just ignore Jason and expect him not to take offense to it. Dick’s not willing to make weekly breakfast more awkward than it already is.

“Hey Jay,” Dick says once he’s close enough to the table. He holds his hand up expectantly. Jason eyes it like it’s a rat on fire before he slowly high fives Dick back.

“Hey,” Jason says, and his eyes jump from Cass’s dress to Dick’s suit. “Where the hell did you two just come from?”

Dick lets Cass have the seat between himself and Jason so that she can watch the door more easily, and he takes the seat across from Jason that puts his own back against the door.

“Went to an art show for B and bought some new paintings for the children’s hospital,” Dick says, snagging the menu from Jason and putting it on the table between him and Cass so they can figure out what they want to eat.

“I guess my invite got lost in the mail as per usual,” Jason says.

“You wouldn’t have gone anyway,” Cass says, and Jason recoils at her loud tone.

“Still, I’d like to be asked,” Jason huffs, eyeing Cass warily.

“Will you guys eat the mozzarella sticks if I get them as an appetizer?” Dick asks. The picture of the gooey cheese sticks on the menu makes Dick’s mouth water, and while he’s definitely going to get a burger, he thinks he can make enough room in his stomach for a few mozzarella sticks.

Cass signs “yes” with her fist at the same time that Jason says, “Fuck yeah I will as long as you’re paying.”

“If I’m paying then I get first dibs,” Dick declares.

“Fine.” Jason rolls his eyes and slumps in his seat. “You two better be ready to order as soon as the waitress gets back. She doesn’t come around much.”

“You’re telling me,” Dick says while enviously eyeing the waiter who’s taking people’s orders at the table across from theirs.

All of a sudden, Dick feels a finger tapping against his shoulder. He tenses and turns in his seat. A young looking woman with blonde hair is standing behind him. The silver bangles around her wrist jingle as she nervously pushes her long hair out of her face. Dick can see that she’s looking back and forth between him and Cass.

“Hi! Sorry for interrupting!” she says. “But are you Dick Wayne and Cassandra Wayne?”

Jason snorts so loud that Dick’s surprised he doesn’t give himself an aneurysm.

“Dick Wayne,” Jason wheezes quietly, and the girl blushes furiously as if realizing her mistake.

“Don’t mind him,” Dick says. He places his hand on the girl’s shoulder and gives it a little squeeze to soothe her embarrassment. “Trust me, I’ve been called worse,” he smiles. She blushes again for a whole different reason this time. Dick ignores it and eyes her phone in her hand. “Did you want a picture?”

“Oh my god, yeah, if you wouldn’t mind that would be great!”

“Sure thing,” Dick says, taking her phone from her. “What’s your name?”

“Brooke,” the girl says.

“Hi, Brooke! I love your dress,” Cass says in that cool way of hers, and Brooke stutters out her thanks.

“Don’t forget to turn on the flash,” Dick says as he tosses the phone to Jason, who catches it with a squawk.

Dick drapes his arm around Brooke’s shoulders while Cass wraps her arm around Brooke’s waist. They all smile, and Jason begrudgingly takes a few pictures of them. Dick’s pretty sure he hears Jason making a comment under his breath about being happy he’s considered dead to the world so he doesn’t have to go through this shit, and then the pictures are done.

Jason hands the phone back over and Brooke thanks him. Dick expects her to go back to her table, but instead, she asks, “Hey, would you guys want to be in my TikTok?”

“What’s TikTok?” Cass signs to Jason.

Jason starts to explain it to her in ASL, clearly leaving Dick to deal with Brooke.

“Sorry, we’re not allowed to,” Dick lies. “I hope you understand.”

“Oh totally, yeah,” Brooke says with a nod of her head. She looks a little confused about why they’re apparently not allowed to do TikToks, but she doesn’t question it. “No worries! Just thought I’d ask!” She smiles and Dick smiles back at her. “Thanks for the pictures! I love you guys!”

“No problem,” Dick says, holding his hand up to her. Brooke high fives him back, her touch gentle like she’s scared of hurting him. “Bye!”

Brooke waves to them all and then finally leaves their table. As soon as she’s out of earshot, Jason crosses his arms over his chest and says, “What’s up with kids and TikTok these days? Do you know how many people have cosplayed as me and made me do dumb shit like the renegade dance? Or worse... the whip! The whip, Dick! The whip!”

“Poor you,” Dick laughs. “Forced to do trendy dances that sully your reputation.”

“Shut up,” Jason huffs. “Pretty sure I saw one of Nightwing doing the WAP challenge.”

Dick raises a brow and says, “I have no idea what that means.”

He sees Cass perk up out of the corner of his eye and realizes why as soon as he sees a waitress coming towards them.

“Finally,” Cass mutters.

Dick grabs her hand excitedly and shakes it back and forth.

“Mozzarella sticks here we come!”

#Dick Grayson #Cassandra Cain #Jason Todd #cass is the drunk who talks too loud and dg is the drunk who can't stop high fiving people #also Also big thanks to youngjustus for giving me the idea for this prompt #i was seriously floundering trying to figure out how to incorporate alcohol without making this super fanon-y #and my boy tim ^ pulled through and helped me out w the art show and bar thing so everyone say thanks tim lmao #my fic #batfam prompt #anon

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silverwhiteraven · 4 years ago

Text

Wings of Broken White - Ch. 4

Tag List: @marichatmay

[ Posted on Ao3 ] [ Chapter 1 ] [ Chapter 3 ] [ Chapter 5 ]

[ Summary: Alya takes Marinette somewhere, and it turns cute. ]

Alya decided that Marinette wasn’t getting out enough despite the fact that they shouldn't be going anywhere when it was still late winter.

“Girl, you hardly go anywhere anyways unless it’s for someone else!” Alya argues as she dragged a snugly bundled Marinette down snow and salt dusted sidewalks.

“Hey, I went to the school’s Valentine’s party last month, that should count for something!”

Allya scoffed at the weak defense. “You were, like, a ninth-wheel, Marinette. Rose and Juleka, Nathaniel and Marc, Mylène and Ivan, Nino and I, we were the wheels on that bus. You on the other hand…” She trailed off to emphasize her point.

Marinette scoffed. “I think you missed a set of wheels, Als. Max and Kim were there. Chloé and Adrien showed up, too.”

“Max was there sporting an Aro-pride flag pin and keeping Kim company,” Alya shot back. “They were just being single-wheels, together. And Adrien, with Chloé? More like she had kidnapped him to a secondary location! Adrien clearly wasn't the one to decide to show up. And remember the color coded cups? He was using the one for the ‘Single, just here to support my friends’ category. Just like Max, just like you. So my point still stands: You need to get out more often, just for yourself.”

Marinette sighed, relenting. “Fine, but next time, I get to decide where I go, so no more surprise trips.”

“Yesss,” Alya pumped her fist in the air victoriously, her wings spreading out, too. Marinette laughed and pushed her hand back down to her side while she dodged out of the way of one fairly the overexcited wing.

“Anyways, where are we going? You said something about, ‘You’re going to love it, my treat!’” Marinette quoted in an exaggerated mimic of Alya’s voice, causing both girls to burst into giggles.

“Just a café,” Alya says coyly, almost teasingly. It made Marinette squint in suspicion.

“It wouldn’t happen to be the same café you mentioned two weeks ago on the Ladyblog, right? The one they planned to theme after Paris’s new heroes?” Marinette asked, teasing her friend right back with her confident guess.

“You remembered! Yep, that’s the place! And it’s not just any regular themed café, either. It’s a cat café,”Alya revealed dramatically, while spreading her wings again to wrap them both in a mock cocoon of unnecessary but playful secrecy. Marinette balked.

“Wait, so you’re basically taking me to a ‘Chat Blanc emphasis-on-the-Chat’ Café?”

Alya snorted, pulling her wings back. “Yes, but it’s actually called ‘Hero Rescue Café’. They work together with the animal shelters around Paris, most of the cats they have are available for adoption. The profits are even donated back to those shelters to help keep the animals cared for. Isn’t that cool?”

“Mhm,” Marinette nodded along as Alya continued to rave excitedly and lead the way to their destination. I wonder if they’ll have any cats that look like Blanc? Probably not. Blue-eyed white cats were already popular, and no doubt are even more so now. Not that I could adopt a cat anyways, but it’s a niche thought. Wait, why is it a nice thought? It’s not like I like Chat Blanc or anything, no way! I don’t do crushes! Oh, who am I kidding? Marinette groaned in defeat to her own thoughts, making Alya stop talking and look at her.

“Something wrong, Marinette?”

“Oh! Sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you, I was just thinking about how sad I’m going to be if I see a cat I really want to keep but can’t?”

Alya nodded in acceptance of the awkward excuse, and Marinette sighed in relief. I can never tell her about my crush- I’m scared to find out what kind of match-maker she would try to be. Or even worse, tell me I have no chance! I mean, I know I have no chance, but still, ow. Would Ladybug have a chance? Wait, she and I are the same person! If I don’t have a chance, neither does Ladybug! Hold on, why am I even thinking about this!?

“We’re here~!” Alya announced, breaking Marinette free once more from her internal chaos.

“Is that a cat in the window? There’s a cat in the window!” Marinette let herself get distracted by the café and Alya laughed.

“Duh there's a cat in the window, it’s a cat café, what else would be in the window?” She teased, but Marinette only laughed.

“Well I know that, but I can still be excited over a cat, can’t I?”

“Save it for when we go inside,” Alya winked, opening the door for them both. There was a second set of doors past the first, and Marinette realized that they did the smart thing and made an enclosed entryway.

“Oh, this is to keep the cats from dashing outside, like at a dog park,” she mused, making Alya chuckle.

“Yeah, and gives people a fur-free place to hang up their coats. Oh, look!” She added excitedly, pointing to the opposite wall from the hanger rod. There was something that almost looked like a long shawl or a barber cape. Marinette recognized it easily. “They have wing-covers for patrons to borrow, in case we don’t want the cat’s playing with our feathers. That’s so thoughtful. They really went all-out on this place.”

Marinette smiled and nodded in agreement as she slid off her jacket and hung it up. “It really is sweet of them. Are you going to use one?” Alya shook her head.

“Nope. My wing’s are tough, I can handle a few clingy kitties,” she declared with a proud smile, and Marinette only chuckled as she opened the next set of doors for them both.

Unsurprisingly, Marinette enjoyed the café. She spent a lot of time admiring their logo that was embedded in the resin coating of their tables. The stylized lettering was inspired by some of the animal-themed Akumas. Then the entire name was encircled by the white belt of Chat Blanc and the red and black yo-yo of Ladybug. Symbolic of two heroes saving those in need. They really thought this out. Maybe Ladybug should show her respect here some time.

Surprisingly, the café’s cats also enjoyed Marinette. Alya was convinced they had met every single cat in the building before they even got their drinks. Marinette was just embarrassed and spent a lot of time spreading her attention between each feline before shooing them all off towards other guests. One of the cats, sleek black with yellow-flecked green eyes, was too stubborn to leave, so she let him claim her lap indefinitely.

But, completely unbelievably, the café got a surprise guest. Chat Blanc himself showed up out of the blue. Alya had spotted him running across a rooftop across the street, and proceeded to book it out the door, fly after him, and then shamelessly ask to take a photo of him with the cats that were inside the café inspired by him and his partner. He was stunned at first, but agreed, soon enough beaming happily as he surrounded himself with cats.

“Is he crying?” Marinette whispered to Alya as she recorded the feline hero sitting on the floor with at least five different cats climbing his back, shoulders, and into his lap.

“The happiest tears I’ve ever seen,” Alya confirmed.

Once Alya was satisfied she had taken enough pictures and video footage for the blog, she turned her focus to getting a few personal memorabilias.

“Mari! Come here! Take a pic of me with Chat, please? I want something for my desktop background, this would be perfect!”

Marinette agreed, to the annoyance of the cat in her lap. She managed to get the photo, a cute scene of Alya, her nerdy school friend, and Chat Blanc, her dorky friend-but-only-because-she’s-secretly-Ladybug, doing a silly pose with their arms linked, wings flared out, and several cats surrounding them.

She gave a thumbs up, and Alya whooped, standing to take back the phone. Marinette stepped forward, only for the clingy black cat from earlier to entangle himself with her ankles.

With a squawk, she went tumbling, but was deftly caught in the arms of Chat before she could meet an untimely end via a floor of cats.

Marinette flushed scarlet. Chat Blanc smiled shyly. The black cat jumped up on them, getting his lap-seat back. Alya, of course, got another photo.

All three of them managed to laugh it off, but not without Alya demanding another picture of the two and the cats before she would let them stand up.

“Marinette, I’m texting you copies to keep for yourself. Sorry, Chat, I’d send you some but-”

“No worries,” he chuckled and rubbed his neck, waving her concern away with his other hand. “Secret identity means secret number. You’ll be using your own pictures on your computer, though, right? Consider me honored by that,” he bowed dramatically and the two laughed as he straightened. “And Marinette, I’d be more than happy to let you do the same if you wanted, too,” he played the comment off with a wink.

“Time for me to go,” Chat Blanc continued before either girl could respond. “Chat out!”

They watched him dash out the doors and off over the rooftops.

“Girl...Did he just flirt with you?” Alya looked at Marinette, awestruck.

“What? No! There’s no way! Nope!” Marinette flustered and started walking out in a feeble attempt to escape the accusation.

“Uh-huh, because feeling ‘honored’ to be a screensaver for one girl and being ‘happy’ in case it were to happen by a second girl, is totally the same thing,” Alya followed after, determined to tease the life out of Marinette.

“Yes, exactly! Completely the same! It would have just been awkward to say the same line twice, so he just reworded himself, that's all! He was just giving permission to use his picture for personal use, nothing more, nope!”

Alya laughed before winking playfully. “Yeah, girl, sure. That was all, nothing more, nothing less. Whatever you say.”

“Thank you,” Marinette nodded in finality, ignoring the teasing sarcasm from her friend.

Later that day, Marinette saved one of the café photos as her phone’s background, making sure to put a completely different photo as her lockscreen to avoid any further notice or teasing about her and Chat Blanc.

#marichatmay2021 #marinette dupain cheng #adrien agreste #ml wing au #chat blanc #wing-binding #willowbendt

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