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rexeipts · 3 years

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Monday Morning Rewatch Thoughts

This episode was disappointing. I think the last episode would have served as a better mid-season finale personally. Thoughts below:

Annie

- The plot of, “I wasn’t Ben,” and Annie being motivated to keep Ben in his current school for that reason is amazing. That is the kind of plot I want, and care about, for Annie. I love that they have included Ben’s transition into the story line in a way that it isn’t the main focus and that Ben has other pieces of characterization and other challenges/points of conflict than just his transition, but that they haven’t shied away from it when it makes sense.

- The financial aid lady is a down.ass.bitch. for telling Annie to just go find some guy she’s slept with the put down on the paperwork. I’m sorry, but that was great of her to be like listen here’s a loophole so you can help your kid and I will not ask questions.

- I did not like the Kevin (name?) storyline at first because it just didn’t make sense? And I did not like his characterization at the auction of being the “trashy homeless guy” who eats way too much food and steals dogs. I felt like he had more to him when he told Annie that he doesn’t want to be a favor to her. I think she has more chemistry with him than any other guy we have seen her with (including Greg, sue me) and I’m actually looking forward to a possible storyline of her and him falling in love via being awkward roommates. I am hoping it has a current of don’t judge a book by it’s cover, and that Kevin is someone who is a good person and has an interesting story that brings Annie to some sort of realization about herself.

Ruby/Stan

- I HATED... yes... HATED Beth in the scene where Stan was going over the game plan. She was so damn condescending. Stan was biting his tongue and being as polite as he could be, but she was fucking rude. Point blank. Rude.

- Because of that, I loved the scene where he called Beth out. And he is fucking right. And you know what? He even threw her a bone that she was ignored in her home for so many years. Which is fucking true, and made the conversation SO much more nuanced than just Stan calling her out. It made it sooo much more complex that he mentions her motivations. He has known this woman like a family member to his own family for decades. It makes sense he would see and understand the nuances of why she is doing what she’s doing. I hope it is foreshadowing for something more to come.

- Sarah and Ruby have the best chemistry of any parent/child relationship in my opinion. I love watching them on screen even for just a few moments.

- Ruby’s, “I did it for me,” at the end was remniscient of Beth telling Dean, “I wanted to,”. Yes, thank you. Ruby is not a yes man. She did this shit for her family, for her kids, for herself. As much as I think Beth might try to be in charge and often is, it was a good reminder that Ruby is still in there and still has a backbone. She has called Beth out with stealing the Tesla, with the sex tape, etc. before and I want that energy back.

- Annie and Ruby having a sweet moment together on the bench was great, I love them together. They’re so fun but also so so sweet.

Beth/Dean

- She’s with fricken Dean again this week.

- Beth’s eyebrows and wig are fucking terrible. Someone CHILL with the eyebrow filler.

- Was Rio just watching Dean and Beth? Like hanging out waiting? He was like RIGHT THERE when Dean got up. Was he behind a tree watching Dean with his arm around Beth just boiling?

- Dean being pitied by the guy he was trying to sell product to was great. He has been knocked down so many pegs. But also, it was a waste of fucking screen time.

- Not so easy to get out from under someone’s thumb, huh Deansie? How’s it feel to be a dumb ass yet again? A year’s supply of skin care? Guessing Beth is gonna have to bail him out which is again a waste of screen time and something no one gives a shit about seeing.

- The fact that Dean thinks he was good at selling cars is just... sad.

- Beth being a “bad bitch” and selling purses to the husbands who went to see strippers is completely undermined by her being a doormat for Dean who is a sexist, condescending pig who cheated, lied about cancer, and has not shown a single ounce of respect for her as a woman outside of her ability to raise children and make cookies.

- I do not want to see a storyline of Beth trying to get money to leave and go to Nevada or wherever. I know the show runners have said Beth will realize she can’t escape Rio if they’re in the same town, so that is what this storyline is going to be. Her trying to escape Rio yet again. This has been drawn out long enough now. This episode was so confusing and weird. Like her and Rio got the trust of the SS just so the agents could leave? Their relationship advancement, her making this choice of him or SS, etc. was for... what? The drama of the last episode was because of... what exactly? What was the entire point of the SS storyline if it literally put us no where? I’m asking sincerely if anyone has thoughts.

- I don’t want to see Beth and Dean anymore. I am fucking exhausted of seeing Beth and Dean. I am over it. I spent almost this entire episode on my phone because I was bored. The Beth being sweet to Dean storyline is so so so far past where it made any logical sense to the plot. There has been no advancement or progress. She’s supposed to be in a love triangle? We have seven episodes left and there has been absolutely zero progress in her and Dean’s situation. I will be looking for some fucking conflict in this next episode with Dean seeing Rio otherwise I have little to no hope for the Brio ship going forward.

Rio/Nick

- Rio is the spider that Dave talked about right? That he couldn’t get and so he never went back in the bed?

- Nick is a pathetic pussy, and so is his bodyguard. Mick is the only ‘muscle’ I want on my screen. Thanks.

- The bullet wounds not being there is unacceptable. Not just because it completely minimizes the fact that this man was shot in the chest three times and left to die, but also just from a plot standpoint. Like this was the entire storyline of season 3. Wtf. I understand Dean’s not being there, because that was treated as a minimal storyline. But Beth shooting Rio was the entire basis of season 3′s conflict. It’s bizarre and completely unacceptable.

- I posted a little while back about stereotypes, guessing that Nick was going to push Rio and Beth together by stereotyping them both and not seeing the deeper connection between them. Tooting my own horn because this is exactly what Nick did. Beth is the soccer mom, Rio the “gangster”.

- Nick and Dean are the same force for Rio and Beth, respectively. They’re both oppressors. They both don’t get it, the draw between the two. Beth and Rio both try to minimize their relationship, admitting only to sex and nothing more, to their oppressors. Beth used to want to get out from Dean’s grasp and Rio currently does with Nick. Both Dean and Nick have put this other person in a box, minimized them to nothing more than a stereotype, taken away their choices, taken away their power and control. How Beth does not realize Dean is her oppressor and not Rio is fucking beyond me.

- Nick doesn't have kids, so who was the kid referring to Rio as his uncle? The female cousin’s child? Let’s see more of her and less of Dean please.

- Rio literally couldn’t cope the second Nick brought up Beth. He walked away like a love-struck teenage idiot not wanting to admit that he made a bad decision over a girl. I’m curious about this. I hope we find out more of why Rio did it. Did he do it just to scare Beth into submission because he knew he couldn’t hurt her? Or was there a layer of thinking Lucy was a threat to Beth? Because Lucy was pissed at Beth. Or a layer of trying to feign still having power in front of his boys but not being able to hurt Beth?

- Rio’s voice is so raspy at the end, he’s so tired and beaten down, literally and figuratively. And I cannot catch the meaning behind “sometimes it’s worth it”, to be yourself? He sounded so... just sad and down when he said it. It sounded so vulnerable.

- It is not, I repeat, not a storyline they should go down of thinking it is cool/fun/sexy/empowering/feminist for this “gangbanger” to be in love with the housewife and for her to not reciprocate and then torment him. It’s not.

Promo/Going Forward:

- I think we have seen confirmation that Rio will lie/keep things from Nick. I think Rio gave Beth the plates, and they will be working together going forward. I hope.

- Rio chilling in the backroom of PP with Beth, so chill, so nonchalant, put me in the ground.

- In the below shot, you can see Rio still sitting there with his hand on his chin as Beth talks to Dean. This scene better be LOADED. Go ahead and mention them banging, Dean. That will be fun. But also I want to see Beth try to talk her way out of it. Go ahead and try to tell Dean you didn’t have a choice Elizabeth. Go ahead and try to minimize what this is when Rio is sitting there listening. That will be golden conflict. I want to see Rio realize the dynamic between Beth and Dean, see him see how submissive and pathetic she is when Dean is around, see how Dean belittles her, and then use that against her to pull her out of her shell. I want to see Beth try to minimize her relationship with Rio, see him call her out on that too. Idk. This scene has been four seasons coming so it better not be a disappointment.

#nbc good girls #gg spoilers #beth boland #annie marks #ruby hill #rio #gg season 4

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moeruhoshi · 5 years

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Tell me what you think pleeeeeease

“Good morning,” Natsu mumbled, quickly slipping on his surgical mask as he turned over to face the creak of the door opening, an older woman with long white hair and a similar mask entering as she balanced a silver tray in her hands. “Pills before breakfast? That’s a new one, Mira.”

“Laxus is just running a bit behind with the breakfast cart, so make sure you––” The younger boy cut her off with a wave of his hand and a curt nod before finishing her sentence.

“Eat before I take my medication, I know, I know. You think I would’ve had it down by now. It’s not like I haven’t lived here for seven years,”

“Mister know it all, telling me that isn’t going to stop me from reminding you. Let it be the one day I don’t remind you to eat first and your stomach doesn’t absorb these properly,”

“To receive a scolding from Mira this early in the morning, you must’ve forgotten to watch your mouth, Dragneel,” Laxus chuckled as he leaned his shoulder against the door, propping it open while he wheeled in the aforementioned breakfast cart.

“Sweet, waffles! My favorite! You always know to get me the good stuff, big guy. I appreciate it.”

“That’ll be the last time I make them too if you don’t learn how to treat my wife,” His eyes spoke with a joking glare, Natsu unable to see what ever twist of his lip was hidden under the white sheet. He felt a nervous shiver crawl up his spine at the sight, nodding rapidly in his submissive response. If not for the terrifying glare, he was afraid of what those overgrown muscles could do to him. Weight training was a frightening hobby.

“Ugh, I got it, I got it! Please don’t pretend to kiss like that in front of me,” Natsu refused to look as they Eskimo-kissed through the thin sheet dividing their noses, both supplying a stream of fake giggles as they dramatized their display of affection.

As they made their way out of his room, Natsu was left with the sound of his air purifying machine and fork scratching against the plate as he cut into his meal were all to keep him company, but he didn’t mind the silence much.

Seven years in this place...it’d been so long since he’d been home, but this was his home too. Magnolia Central Hospital, seventeenth floor, room 702. It reminded him of his street, 72017 Cat Tail Way, what an uncanny coincidence. But it made him feel like this was coming, it wasn’t like people went out of their way to catch tuberculosis afterall. It was a fluke, a total mistake that had to catch him in its ugly clutches.

His family got caught up in a car accident, t-boned by another car speeding through a red light one night. His parents were fine for the most part, but since Natsu was in the back, he took on more force of the crash. He bled a lot, his parents cried a lot, all the way to the hospital as they all sat in the back of the ambulance. A blood transfusion saved his life but ended it all the same; tainted with HIV.

“Why him?! Natsu doesn’t deserve this kind of thing! He’s––he’s a good kid for heaven’s sake! If we had only––if only we’d seen that man!” His mother screamed on the opposite side of his bedroom door. Natsu clutched the red dragon he always slept with tighter in his young arms, clenching his eyes shut tightly as he tried his best to ignore what went on outside of his room.

“This isn’t a bad person’s disease, Grandine, you know that! You need to calm down before we wake Natsu up, please...I know he didn’t deserve this, I know...but we’ll get through it, we always do, don’t we?”

He wasn’t a bad person, what seven-year-old was? But whether he or his parents wanted to keep things as normal as possible for him, schools didn’t want to put the other kids at risk. Home-schooling became normal for him, as well as staying indoors since none of the other parents wanted their kids near him. Kids were kids, germs always seemed to pass around quickly even if parents instructed proper hygiene rules, no one wanted to take that risk. Natsu understood well enough as well, he didn’t want anyone else to get sick.

It became normal for the Dragneel family by the time a year had passed, Grandine now a stay at home mom that taught and took care of their son while Igneel worked and brought home the bacon.

“I’m home!” Igneel called out one day as he made his way through the front door, expecting a call back from his wife and their small son to rush forward and greet him with a hug. The strange silence in response had him confused for a moment, the lights were on and he definitely smelled dinner cooking.

“Alright...you two know I don’t like surprises, what’s going on?” He chuckled and shook his head, walking through the hall to enter the kitchen through the dining room on the left. The stove had been turned off but there was a pot of stew still simmering down from a boil. The mystery took him to the living room where he heard the T.V playing some cartoon or other; maybe they just hadn’t heard him over the show?

“Gotcha!” The Dragneel father grinned as he shouted through the doorway, bouncing in it as he attempted to scare the members of his family surely sitting on the couch. A random kids show was on, but there was still no one to be found. “This...This isn’t funny...you guys know not to––”

As Igneel approached the back of the couch, his voice caught harshly in his throat, the rapid pumping of his heart now loud in his ears. There on the marble flooring was an unsightly puddle of throw-up and blood. It was second before he was out the door and speeding back into his car, why hadn’t he noticed his wife’s car missing before?!

They were found at the hospital, Grandine in hysterics as she finally gathered her senses in the arms of her husband listening to the doctor's words. Tuberculosis. Their son had tuberculosis. And there was no telling when he would be better.

So now he had this room, covered in posters of his favorite bands and random drawings, pictures with his best friend and some with the nurses, others with his parents. He could walk about certain floors freely but had to keep his mask on no matter what and live with that delightful humming of the air purifying machine.

“Gray,” Natsu grinned as he called his friend through a video chat, angering the boy who had yet to wake up naturally. “You up yet?”

“Obviously, otherwise I wouldn't have answered. What did I tell you about waking me up before nine?”

“Just because the nurses are nice and enter your room without waking you up before eight doesn’t mean I have to. So, what did Laxus make for you?”

“Not telling, wouldn’t want you to be jealous of the special treatment I get from him,” The raven-haired boy said with a tired smirk as he pulled himself up from the familiar light blue sheets.

“Shut up, I got waffles too, you’re not the only one that gets the good stuff. But I can’t for the life of me understand why you like your breakfast cold,” Natsu squirmed at the thought of such steamy food going to waste and faltering to the soggy state his best friend liked so much.

“We’ve been over this, it’s just a personal preference. Nothing like you putting tabasco on your eggs.”

“That’s a proven, world-wide agreed, flavor. You’re the weirdo here,”

“Yeah, yeah, sure, keep telling yourself that. Anyways, what’s on our agenda today? Another game of Uno™? Although, I don’t think you can make a comeback after my last triple skip and draw four. Fucking slayed you, my guy.”

“You wanna say that to my face? I’ll take you on, day or night, it doesn’t matter. But we’ve got plans, remember? Juvia wants to play dress-up with us today, and you’ve already canceled on her four times. We’re going.” Natsu said matter of factly as he stuffed his mouth with another forkful of Belgien fluffiness.

“Oh, come on, it wasn’t like I did it on purpose, getting a fever is a totally legit reason to cancel plans. No way Mira would let me leave my room if I told her I got sick. Juvia catches stuff pretty easy too, I don’t need that on my mind.”

“Suuuuure. Definitely has nothing to do with the fact that she wants to marry you, right?”

The call quickly went silent and Natsu cackled with his head thrown back, careful not to choke on the orange juice he’d just taken a swig of.

“Knew it, that liar,” He rolled his eyes and finished off the rest of his meal before taking the daily medications prescribed to him.

It wasn’t long before he was dressed and standing in front of Gray’s room with a thicker mask held on around his ears, repeating a constant knock on the door as he beckoned his friend to come out. Dressed in the sweats he loved more than life, the two made their way to the elevator after checking in with Mira at the front desk.

Gray needed a heart transplant, had had at least three since his parents found out he had a congenital heart condition. The ones he got never seemed to last as long as everyone hoped, but it didn’t keep him down. He was in and out of the hospital, only lasting a span of six months before his body became too weak again and he needed the constant care provided in a hospital.

Their ride was full of silent jabbing as Natsu looked at Gray with a sly and raised brow, nudging him with his elbow as he attempted to tease him.

“I have an eight-year-old in love with me but it’s still not as lame as the guy who dyed his hair pink for fun,” He sneered, poking at the gelled style with dark roots growing back in.

“You’re just mad that you can’t pull off such a nice color, it’s only cool if you wear it right,” Natsu smirked and swatted at him. “Bet you that Juvia’s gonna ask if you brought her ring with you yet.”

“Oh god...please, not again…”

“Gray! Natsu! You came to my tea party!” The young girl lit up as the two walked into the playroom located in the cancer ward, there sat a table in the corner with three cups, a tray of random sliced fruit, and some cubes of bread and poundcake settled on its surface.

“We got your invitations,” Natsu’s grin showed through his eyes as he waved the pink envelope he’d settled in his back pocket ahead of time. “Thank you, it’s been a while since either of us has been anywhere as fancy as this.”

“Y-Yeah, really appreciate it,” Gray let an uneasy smile through as she beamed expectedly at the older boy, her eyes entirely infatuated with his presence. He was never great when it came to talking with kids.

“I’m wearing the scarf you gave me, Gray, isn’t it cute?” She pointed to the blue wrap with snowflakes that hid the loss of her hair, wearing a blue dress to match. Blue, his favorite color, and now hers.

“Really cute, Juvia.” He said and pat her head, Natsu nodding as he accepted the polite behavior of his stoic friend.

“So, what kind of tea are we having today?” The pink-haired boy asked as he took a seat, moving his head for Gray to acknowledge he needed to pull Juvia’s seat out for her.

“U-Um, I’m not sure! I’ll go look in the drees up chest for your hats, so you pour it yourself. And I won’t look if you put something––I mean, pour my tea for me!”

“What’d I tell you! She always does that, isn’t it the cutest?” Natsu laughed as they finally made their way back up to their own floor after a very intense party where the young girl truly waited for her marriage proposal.

“Having fun over there? How would you like it if someone tried to force you into marriage at such a young age? What kind of movies has that girl been watching, I swear…” Gray grumbled with a sigh and crossed his arms.

“Just say yes, where’s the harm? It’ll make her happy.”

“You know where it is. I’m not going to promise something like that, it brings bad luck,”

Bad luck...yeah, it was smart to be careful when it came to personal feelings for them. They were told to be optimistic, but you never really knew what could happen. There was the daunting thought of the day that you finally gave in and let yourself say the thing you were holding back, only for it all to come crashing down around you. Death was always lurking, and Natsu had a personal encounter with it.

“You sure you’re allowed to be walking around like this, Lucy? Doesn’t it break some cosmic rule, letting a mortal see you and all?” Natsu asked as he laid back in his bed, the curtains drawn open and the moonlight shining down on the two as they spoke in the middle of the night. In the chair next to his bed sat a girl with soft blonde locks and solemn brown eyes, wearing her usual black clothes and a scythe resting against the wall behind her.

“I told you, it’s fine. Not much I can do after you saw me by accident.” She sighed, eyes glued to his phone screen as she played Tertris™.

“Don’t you have some kind of mind wipe thing? I figured that was a given. And I’m pretty sure you only wanted an excuse to play that game,” He grinned as his chin rested on his knees, happy he didn’t have to wear that stuffy mask when he was around her, the Grimm Reaper’s daughter.

They met by chance one night after Natsu went on a pudding raid on the senior floor, catching sight of her leading a soul to safety.

It was a pretty magnificent sight, to say the least after he found out it wasn’t some wackjob trying to off the elderly.

“That’s what everyone thinks,” She rolled her eyes, but really, the only thing I do is guide souls to their rightful place.”

“And play on my phone. I’m going to write this in a book one day, I hope you know. ‘Grimm Reaper’s daughter ~ The Saga. The subtitle, she plays Tetris™ on her breaks.” He said, spreding his hands in the air for emphasis.

“No one would read that, I hope you know,”

“What are you talking about? That’s just gonna be the title of my diary, I don’t need the Bigfoot chasers breaking down my door and asking me to confirm their sightings of a weird murdering ax girl who likes to play video games.”

“I’m not weird,” She spat and huffed with a pout, ignoring him as he snickered. “Nice, next level!”

“Don’t you have work to do? Not that I’m rooting for it,” Natsu asked as she finally looked up from his phone, her lips falling into a slight frown.

“I was trying to avoid this,” She sighed, and rolled her head back, tossing his phone onto his bed. “I’ve got to take Gray,”

“Wha––wait, no, you can’t. I mean it Lucy, I know it’s your job but you really can’t.” He shot up quickly, wide eyes in a panic as he tried to plead with the immortal god. “He’s my...he’s my only friend! My best friend! I just saw him, he was fine! And Juvia...Juvia need’s him more than anyone, he’s her first love!”

“I can let you say goodbye, but really, I have to take him.”

#fairy tail #nalu #natsu dragneel #lucy heartfilia #natsu and lucy #natsu x lucy #nalu fanfiction #fairy tail nalu #lucy and natsu #lucy x natsu #nalu angst

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specialmindz · 5 years

Photo

”NYEH!!”

“nope! try again bro,” said Sans, smiling with his arms outstretched.

“WHAT DA’ FRIGGIN’ HELL SNAS?! WHY I CAN’T DO DIS?”

“keeeep practicing pappy, you’ll get it! hee hee hee!” He laughed as Papyrus gave him an angry look, probably thinking he was being made fun of, though that really wasn’t the case. Sans had actually been trying to help Papyrus; help him stay Determined so he’d have a better chance of learning his unique Karma attack, which even his own father gave up on quite some time ago, but unfortunately, it seemed like his taunting wouldn’t be enough, as the baby bone’s frustration was beginning to become more and more apparent with each passing failure.

His brother wasn’t a full Wingdings, but he definitely shared their impatience, which was what caused that particular member of the Dingbat family to multitask. If Papyrus didn’t pick up on something as quickly as he liked, he’d soon put it aside for later and move on to something else, and if he couldn’t master the comedian’s Karma technique with his FULL attention, then, well…

“WHY DIS HAPPENING TO ME? DIS AIN’T RIGHT! I’S THE MASTERPIECE, YOU’S THE ROUGHDRAFT! I’S SUPPOSED TO BE BETTER AT ERYTHING!!”

Gaster stood by the Nursery’s doorway observing the two, clipboard in hand, “I believe it may have something to do with his soul’s value…”

“Nyeh?”

“Sans values Integrity above all else, as represented by his soul’s blue coloring. Integrity itself is defined as doing what one believes is the right thing no matter what,” Gaster flipped through the papers attached to his clipboard.

SHIF SHIF!

“Kay’.”

SHIF SHIF SHIF!

“…”

SCRIBBLE SCRIBBLE!

“pfft! dad…”

Gaster stopped writing and looked up from his clipboard to see his son pointing down at Papyrus, who was staring at him with a smile from the floor. “What?”

“Are you’s gonna finish dat thought, or…?

“Hadn’t planned on it. I figured since you’re sooo much smarter and better than everyone else, you could do it yourself-”

“NYEH!” Papyrus tried the Karma attack on Gaster and failed.

“eeeasy lil’ bro…”

“Hatred is not the key Snas.”

CA-THUNK!

Seeing his father leave the Nursery and shut the door behind him, Papyrus’s whined and plopped down on the floor. “Nyeh-haaaa…Daddy went away…”

“that’s probably cause’ you tried to attack him pap.”

“I’s just trying to learn the Caramel…”

“karma, pappy. it’s called the ‘karma’ attack.”

“Kar-ma…?” Papyrus scratched his skull with a tiny hand, feeling as if he’d heard that word before. “Waz karma Snas? Is popcorn?”

“nope. Those are kernals. ‘karma’ is what happens when you either do good or bad things. If you’re a good person, your karma will be good, but if you’re bad…”

“…”

“it *sigh* it’ll be bad pappy. your karma will be bad.”

Could he really not figure that out on his own?

“OOOOHHH! Is soul-glow!”

“soul-glow…?” Now Sans was confused. He hadn’t expected his baby brother to understand what he meant COMPLETELY, but Papyrus had surprised him before with his impressive intellect and “unique” way of thinking. Maybe he had figured out what Gaster meant when he said his integrity played a key role in his attack; Sans certainly hadn’t.

The ability was discovered on accident actually, when he noticed Papyrus about to do something the infant KNEW he wasn’t supposed to be doing…that being climbing on top of their father’s chair and using their computer while it was still online. They were SUPPOSED to wait in the office quietly while their father completed their checkups and put the new information into the computer as the children were no longer allowed in the Medical Ward, possibly due to it being too crowded and idea of allowing his brother into a room full of sick people being the worst one ever. Unfortunately, being impatient to move on to whatever task he had waiting next in line, Gaster had seemingly forgotten to make sure the boys had left the room before him, but no doubt he’d be back once his mistake was realized to yell at his younger sibling.

Lying on the couch and caught between not giving a crap and caring for his little brother, Sans lazily raised a hand and swiped it to the left, pretending to move Papyrus via the psychokinesis he didn’t have.

He did not expect to actually send the baby flying into a cabinet.

“NYEHAAAAAAAAHHHHH!!!”

CRAH-THUMP!

The sound of the cabinet doors splintering and his tiny brother’s body thudding against the wooden back from inside, made Sans wince. Any other infant would be either dead or sporting more than a few broken bones, but Papyrus’s baby formula had something in it that made him stronger and more durable than other newborns. Kicking a broken piece of door, he stomped out of the cabinet, scanning the room with his eyes for the oh-so-funny, soon-to-be dead mother FUCKER who thought they could throw him around like Scrappy Doo.

“WHO DID DAT?! WHO DA’ FEEGIN’ HELL DID DAT?!”

“holy cra-bro are you all right?”

“DAT YOU BOO BOO? WHOEVER DID DAT BETTER COME OUT RIGHT NOW OR THEY GONNA DIE!!”

“i doubt it was napstablook pappy.”

Undaunted, Papyrus ignored his older brother and waited patiently for the perpetrator to come out and admit their crime…but nobody came. He looked around the room once more, his confusion turning into concern upon seeing his lie ignored.

The Blook family were music lovers like himself, this he knew. If they weren’t listening to it, they were dancing or creating it, meaning not a single soul in their family tree was deaf. By that logic, the Verbal Font’s audio hypnosis should have worked on them…so why didn’t anyone appear? Where there more ghost monsters in the Underground? Ones Papyrus didn’t know about? Ones that liked to throw babies?

“Nyeh? NAH! NOOOOOO! DADDYYYY!”

BLOOSH!

Papyrus fired his gaster blaster below him as he felt himself began to rise into the air once more. He had HOPED to hit the legs of whoever was attempting to pick him up, but it only resulted in a small crater forming in the office tile.

“NYEHHHHHHAAAAAAHHHH!!!! DADDYYYYY, SAVE DA’ BABY!!”

“heh heh heh heh…”

“IS NOT FUNNY SNAS! GO GET THE SLEEPY WATER AND SAVE THE BABY!”

“you want me to throw a whole bottle of chloroform on you just to-”

“GET DA’ SLEEPY WATERRRRR!!” Screeched the panicked infant, swinging his fists and kicking his tiny legs wildly.

“iiiii dunno bro, that doesn’t sound safe. chloroform is metabolized into trichloro methanol, which metabolizes into phosgene, and that’s toxic-”

“I DON’T CARE ABOUT YO’ STINK SCIENCE!!”

“long term effects of inhalation involve cancer, since chloroform is a confirmed carcinogen verified through multiple epidemiological studies, and i know epidemiology is the study of diseases in animals and humans, but our species is hella close baby bro.”

“SNAS!!”

“i don’t really study epidemiology, but you know how dad gets when you get him talking about fonts and science, apparently virus fonts are super dangerous.”

“…”

“i can’t remember what kind of cancer he said you’d get if i gave you too much chloroform, but regardless, i don’t think you should be anywhere near it anyway to be honest. a human baby, possibly even a baby monster would be dead by now if they were in YOUR uh…feet…pajamas. why’re you looking at me like that?”

“…Why your hand up for so long?” asked the baby bones, eyeing his brother suspiciously.

“what? i exercise.”

“Only yo’ mouth. You do dis?”

“nope.”

Sans put his arm down and Papyrus dropped to the floor.

“NYEH!”

“hey! be careful with my little broth-”

“Shut up Snas, I know is you.”

CA-THINK!

“whaaaat? noooo, that was just coincidence baby bro,” said Sans, watching his father walk into the room. The scientist looked once at the broken cabinet and then at the crater Papyrus had made before fixing his glare on the infant.

“I know when you’s lying big Buther.”

“you don’t think it was coincidence? hmm…maybe i’m being framed. what do you think?”

“I think you’s an asshole.”

“i was asking dad.”

Not that he’ll find this impressive, but maybe the mystery will keep him from yelling about the office damage. Though what I REALLY want is to avoid another computer argument. I know he’s gonna accuse Pappy of something, even though HE’S the one who forgot to log off.

…

How DID I do this?

“Sans, what happened?”

“SNAS THROWED THE BABY!”

“SHUT UP PAPYRUS!”

“I highly doubt that.”

“NO, HE DID! HE DID THROW DA’ BABY! SNAS A JEDI!”

“Sans is a what…?”

Speak clearly Papyrus!

“he thinks i threw him into the cabinet even though i didn’t.”

“You really didn’t huh? Well dat’s good big Buther, cause’ if you did, I’d throw you in court! THEN you’d has a reason to raise your hand and lie to eryone…”

“i don’t get it,” said Sans, confused.

“In court they makes you pace yo’ hand on the bib-el and then you raise your other one and-”

“*PFFT!* did you just say ‘bib-el?” He immediately burst out laughing, much to the baby’s annoyance.

“Nyeh? Why you laugh? They not do that no more?”

“It’s pronounced BYE-ble, not ‘bib-el’ Papyrus, and it’s not something you should be reading.”

“Nuh-uh! It’s got the word ‘bib’ in it, so it MUST be for babies! Is the holy book of baes!”

“No.”

“It ’twas written by Jesus and his saints-”

“that part you got right.”

“No, no he didn’t. Moses wrote the Bible Sans. Your brother speaks nonsense as per usual.”

“Nope, it was Jesus all right. Moses made condoms,” said the baby, matter-of-factly.

“Commandments.”

“Condiments.”

“moses invented ketchup?!”

“No child. Papyrus, stop filling your brother’s skull with blather! Our family already has a bad reputation and some people still talk to Sans-”

“Dat’s right big Buther! He turned a whole ocean into ketchup and then made it split apart so he and his peoples could walk across it. Today, is called da’ Red Sea.”

“Shut up Papyrus.”

“cooooool!”

“Yep, he very cool. He from Egypt too, just like da’ baby!”

“Your FONT is from Egypt, YOU are American-”

“Is too bad he not one of Jesus’s saints…least I don’t think he be. I not read the whole bib-el yet and I doesn’t know all the saints. I know there be twelve dough!” The infant tapped his chin thoughtfully as if trying to remember them all.

Not that Sans believed his brother knew a single thing about the Bible or religion in general. Their father said it was a dangerous tool humans used to harm others, including their own species, and that it slowed down scientific progress. Out of curiosity however, Sans paid a visit to the “librarby” to see for himself, having been taught early that taking his family’s word for absolutely anything was usually a poor decision. Pulling it out of the history section, he opened it to find that it was for the most part, unreadable…at least to him, though that word was often used by Sans to describe books he found boring rather than indecipherable.

He could read it all right, but there were too many names and the sentences at times made him feel as if he were having a conversation with Papyrus during one of the baby’s…odd, moments. Those uncomfortable moments where his little brother would cease his baby-talk, sometimes altogether, and suddenly age in personality, speaking to him clearly with an unmistakable air of authority. It made the comedian even more uncomfortable when he spotted the word “Egypt” several times though he was only on page seven of…Genesis 15:2…?

What kind of a name is that for a chapter?

“You don’t know anything about the Bible OR religion!” Gaster’s angry voice pulled Sans from his thoughts. “You live in a place of SCIENCE and I made sure to keep those kinds of books out of here!” exclaimed the scientist.

The Sans Serif, though curious as to what his brother thought of religion, chose not to say anything in this regard. He could understand his father’s concern. He couldn’t read a lot of the book without falling asleep, but what he did read told him that it was a collection of short stories that went either two ways; people obeyed God’s orders and turned out the better for it, or they didn’t and suffered severe consequences. With one of those orders being believe in the book, he could see how people could use the Bible to control others…how people like his brother could use it to control others. All it would take is one dedicated liar to “translate” it for people too lazy to make their own interpretations. His brother could cause a lot of damage and according to Gaster, some people already had.

Were the witch trials real or did Dad make that up?

“The librarby still gots the bib-el! I go there allll the time to get the knowledge, so I be smart when I gets big. I knows more than half the saints now,” replied the baby bones proudly. “There’s St. Nick, also known as Santa…you know him already Snas.”

Sans snickered and turned his attention to Papyrus. “i do? oh yeah! i heard santa clause was called st. nick at one point, i didn’t know he helped write the bible though…”

I don’t think he’s read it.

“bib-el. Yeah, he wrote it with Jesus and even let his widdle buther St. Stephen help too, cause’ he nice like you~”

“santa has a brother?”

“Yep! They twins like us! He born on December twenty-six dough cause’ of com-pli-cations. He liked to hide things in boxes and pay da’ tricks! He take his buther’s toys and when Santa say ‘where my toys be?’ Stephen go, ‘I don’t know big Buther, where DO your toys be?”

RA-CAKCAKCAK!

Sans turned his head to see Gaster pouring a bottle of aspirin onto the office table near the computer. “stephen doesn’t sound very nice bro, ha ha!”

“Nahhh, he just misunderstood. Like da’ baby. You gots to read between the lines Snas! He hide the toys so when Santa forget about them and open a box, he get all surprised and happy! ‘Wowie! I forgot I hads this! Imma pay wit it all day!’ Then sneak Stephen steal the old BORING toys and hide THEM so they seems new in the footure! Is the perfect plan big Buther…”

“is that where santa got the idea of sending gifts to people in boxes pappy?”

“Sure is! All the saints be amazing Snas. St. Patrick the lepperkahn invented the color gween. He wanted the cover of the bib-el to be gween, but Jesus say no cause’ people might drop it in the grass and lose it. Not a lot of roads in the B.C. era ya’ know?”

“b.c?”

“Before Concrete.”

RATTLE!

“you’re not supposed to take that much dad…”

“St. Valentine be the Saint of Sweets. He had fan trouble like Babybop.”

“she’s…she’s not babybop papyrus. i keep telling you, alphys-”

“Unfortunately, they not have pastic surgery in B.C, that came AFTER concrete, A.C.”

“i thought a.c. meant air conditioning?”

“In history it mean After Concrete. They used to use A.D. After Dinosaurs, but lossa stuff came after dinosaurs, so they changed it.”

“ohhh...gotcha.”

Sans smiled at his little brother. Despite how annoying he could be with his constant lying, the comedian did in fact admire his ability to come up with bullshit on the fly. It made him wonder how useful he’d be if Sans ever were to actually get a job as a comedian. Comedians themselves were supposed to tell stories about things that happened to them in life whilst making funny commentary along the way, but HE was stuck under a mountain and had no close friends other than Papyrus and possibly Alphys. What was Sans even supposed to talk about when NOTHING ever happened to him? Being an Insult Comic was out as he only had 1 hp and was stuck seeing the same people probably for the rest of his life, puns were a spur of the moment thing and were meant to amuse the teller rather than the audience, ventriloquism wasn’t fair and wouldn’t work unless he somehow hide his text box…was he really stuck with just talking about his little brother behind his back? It certainly seemed that way.

Unless Papyrus wants to make something up for me. I’m sure he would, he’s so cool. I hope I make enough G to share with him…

“So St. Valentine? He was REAL popular. He create chalk-wit and eryone lost their minds! Too many hunnies for the chalk-wit bunny.”

“he was a rabbit pappy?”

“Nope, he was Aztec. Had a weird name baby can’t say or spell good. Quetzycoat? Quozzy motto? Dunno, but it suck…glad he move away and change it to Valentine. Moved allll the way to Europe where he met St. Peter the soon-to-be Easter Bunny. It was St. Valentine that made it happen big Buther. All the hunnies follow him saying stuff like ‘be mine, Valentine!’ and ‘give me yo’ heart!’ Not good to say to an Aztec Snas, even dough it mean something else in Europe.”

“what does it mean in aztec bro?”

“I want to remove your heart.”

Sans sockets went dark, but he chose not to say anything.

I’ll have to work with Papyrus to make sure his stories aren’t too dark before I use them.

“St. Peter got realll jealous when he saw erybody giving Valentine attention. So what if he made chalk-wit? He not cute like Peter Rabbit! St. Peter was fluffy as hell! Where was Valentine’s fluff? NOWHERE! Where was his cotton ball tail? ABSENT! HE DIDN’T EVEN APPRECIATE!”

“ugh, damn pap chill!” cried the comedian, pressing his hand against one of his earholes, “you’re not auditioning for a movie, take it down a notch…”

“I just wanted you to understand the rabbit Snas…”

“i understand the rabbit baby bro, don’t you worry.”

“Kay’. So you know why St. Peter had to steal his secrets to making chalk-wit and build his own factory in England then.”

“no…?”

“Is cause’ he was JEALOUS Snas! Daz why. Being a rabbit wasn’t good enough anymore, he had to be a CHALK-WIT rabbit. St. Valentine took it the wrong way dough, he see the factory and think ‘ohhhh, I gets it! If people can get chalk-wit at the store, then I won’t be popular no mores and people will go way! Dis rabbit is so nice. Dis rabbit is my friend.’ He told Jesus all about St. Peter and how nice he was and cause’ of him, he got to be a saint! Peter Rabbit was grateful too, he wasn’t a bad bunny. All he wanted was some infection…”

“affection.”

“Yeah that. Defection. He thought Valentine was being forgiving and stuff, so they became best friends. They shared recipes and gotted famous erywhere!”

“aww, well that’s nice-”

“…Then St. Peter died of the Black Plague and erything started all over again.”

“y-yeah that’s pretty much how all of your stories end. i don’t know what i was expecting.”

Need to work on his endings too.

“Don’t worry big Buther, there be a happiness dis time. St. Valentine eventually moved again and changed his name to Willy Wonka and people stopped trying to marry him. No one want the last name Wonka Snas.”

“heh, well when you’re right you’re right. papyrus wonka doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue now does it?”

“…”

“what?”

“Don’t ship the baby Snas.”

“*pfft!*”

“Another saint you might know be St. Michael.”

“And what holiday is he ripped from?” asked Gaster, finishing off the water he’d taken with his aspirin. Sans had forgotten he was even in the room.

“Nyeh?” Papyrus looked confused. “Michael not have a holly-day. You cwazy Daddy, nyeh heh heh!”

“No one here is stupid enough to believe you’re going to just SUDDENLY take this conversation seriously Papyrus. St. Michael might be a real saint, but I know-”

“I’s ALWAYS serious!” exclaimed the infant, interrupting the scientist. “Snas the silly bones, not me! Dis a very serious subject and I’s born to TEACH!”

“That is literally the last thing someone with your font should be doing where religion is concerned.”

“St. Michael and St. Peter were really good friends ya’ know…”

“Don’t you ignore me.”

“They pay basketball together once and saved the world even! He still alive too, even today.”

“is…is he talking about michael jorden?”

“I guarantee you, that’s exactly who he’s talking about.”

“He flies like an eagle.”

“Yep.”

“Yeah! Daddy knows! You watched the docky-mentry right? Where the black human went to da’ center of the earth and-”

“Space Jam was NOT a documentary. It was just a video you happened to find at the Dump. You know, the place I’ve asked you countless times not to go? Admittedly, I didn’t actually watch it as I’m none too fond of guilt films, but the soundtrack alone-”

“th-that wasn’t a ‘guilt film’ dad,” said Sans hiding his face in his hands.

Goddamnit…

“It wasn’t? Are you sure?”

“positive.”

“It wasn’t about a black human attempting to join and fit in with a basketball team comprised of monsters?”

“no.”

“Is about St. Michael helping his rabbit friend ah-scape slavery.”

“So it IS a guilt film.”

“no!”

“Let me guess, the black human was their star player and he was the one to save the day?”

“Yeah!”

“Psh.”

“Erybody wanted to be like Mike, so he gave them some magic water dat made them really good at the basketball.”

“He…gave them something to enhance their performance?”

“it wasn’t drugs dad! it wasn’t even really magic. he was trying to teach them that they had the power to be just as good as him, they just needed to believe in themselves. to put it in a way you’d understand, he used the placebo effect to his advantage.”

“Gazebo?”

“Ah, deceit. Very smart…are you sure Mr. Jordan came up with this? I’m not saying all black humans are unintelligent, but he IS in the sports industry, is he not? You two have amassed quite a collection of discarded sports game videos and upon inspection, I see him playing that particular game a lot. Or at least I think I do.”

Too many shaved heads…why do they have to have shaved heads AND matching uniforms? I may as well be watching my own people…

“maybe…? i don’t actually know. pappy and i usually take the video out as soon as we see it’s another taped sports game,” replied Sans, frowning. It really was disappointing to find a video in good condition, only to realize later that it was just another boring tape of a sport they couldn’t play. Even if the boys knew the rules, the Underground didn’t have many if any big open areas where they could play “basketball” or “football.” Whatever ball they used would just go bouncing off the walls of the caverns or sail into the void/water depending on where they were.

It’s too bad, I bet Undyne would love to play one of these.

Usually when he and his brother found one of these tapes, they’d chuck it into the Boring Corner, a place filled with fitness magazines, letters they had opened that ended up containing junk mail advertising things they didn’t understand, and CDs/records/cassettes Papyrus had SOMEHOW restored and found he didn’t particularly enjoy the content of.

“heh heh heh…”

“What’s so funny big Buther?” asked the baby bones smiling.

“cupcakke.”

The infant’s smile disappeared.

“For once, I’m proud of you two. The sports industry is a money-sucking trash heap of wasted potential. So many of these individuals could have been doctors, teachers, law enforcement, scientists like myself, but they chose a career in playing games that should have been left behind in high school. Disgusting.”

“…I wish to learn how to pay the basketball now.”

“Why, because I specifically asked you not to? Why do you want to intentionally cause trouble?”

“Teach me how to dunkin doughnut.”

Sans giggled, “you wanna learn how to dunk pappy?”

He raised his hand.

“Nyeh?! NO! DADDY, DAAADY! HE DOING IT AGAIN! SNAS USING DA’ FORAAAAAHHHH!!!”

THUNK!

CRISH!

Papyrus sailed into the nearby wall and fell into the wastebin overflowing with papers.

“Excellent control Sans.”

“SCU YOU BABY-ABOOZER! YOU NOT FUNNAAHHHH!!” The enraged baby bones thrashed wildly around in the basket, kicking his legs in an attempt to get out. “IMMA SCRIBBLE IN YO’ BOOKS SNAS! SEE HOW GOOD YOU BE AT WITCHCRAFT THEN!!”

“How DID you manage to do that?”

“IT WAS THE DEVIL! THE DEVIL HELP SNAS!”

“i dunno, i just sorta, did it…i saw pap doing something bad and i accidentally flung him while i was pretending to move him…with my mind,” explained Sans, embarrassed. He knew though, that if he wanted an answer himself, he needed to give as many details as possible.

“Hmm, I see.” Gaster attempted to pull Papyrus out of the wastebin using the same method he’d seen Sans use, but failed. He then tried to use it on the comedian himself, but it also had no result. “Huh, that’s VERY interesting. Moving your brother around as you would an ordinary bone attack, in theory, would mean that almost any skeleton could do the same, but that doesn’t seem to be the case.”

“uhh, we aren’t doing anything wrong dad.”

“You are. Your brother knows he can pull himself out with his wingdings, he’s pretending to be stuck and in turn choosing to be dramatic, attention-seeking, and disruptive. YOU are supposed to be looking after your brother, but instead of helping him out of the wastebin, you’re currently speaking to me. You’re BOTH doing something wrong.” Gaster tried one more time to move both boys. “But it seems even when you’re fully aware of your wrongdoings, this karma-induced attack can’t be done, not by my font at least, or perhaps it has something to do with the soul…PAPYRUS!”

“NYEH!” The baby bones jolted in surprise and tumbled forward, rolling out of the basket in a somersault before coming to a halt at his father’s feet. “Nn…what you want stink Daddy who doesn’t help da’ baby?” asked Papyrus smiling and holding his toes.

“You’re full attention. You are a large part of Sans, so surely you too could perform-”

“IMMA LEARN WITCHCRAFT?!”

“That was NOT your full attention.”

“IMMA LEARN WITCHCRAFT!” The baby bounced up and down excitedly, obviously not hearing his father. “Teach me da’ force big Buther and I will spare yo’ books.”

“*sigh*”

Three hours…that was three hours ago.

“three hours and we didn’t get any answers whatsoever.”

“Hey, dat sounds like me Snas!”

“huh?” Looking down, the young skeleton cringed upon realizing he had spaced out again. “sorry baby bro,” he said, giving his brother an apologetic hug. “i swear i don’t do this on purpose, i really am trying to listen, what’d i miss?”

“You asked about the soul-glow and I say is karma. Karma make your soul really bright and stuff so when you die, God go ‘Ooooh! That’s a pretty soul right there! I wants to add it to my collection’ and then he take you to Heaven and puts you on his shelf.”

“*pfft!* is that right? is that how you get into heaven pappy?”

“Yep! Daz why you gots to be good, so you can be part of the Lord’s house! He gots the coolest house ever big Buther. ERYTHING glow in the dark there! He gots souls floating in lava lamps, he gots souls floating in his waterbed, he even gots souls in his floor Snas! His floor be tiled glass and underneath the glass be a special soul that lights up each widdle square-”

“you’re talking about an LED floor.”

“Yeah-huh.”

“a disco floor.”

“Yep, and If you’re reallll good, like, da’ bestest person ever, you get to be his night light.” The little Horror said this like it was the most amazing thing in the world, then looked around the office in apparent confusion. His daddy slept here all the time, so where was HIS nightlight? Did he use the glow of his computer?

“why are you making him sound like a 70s buff?” asked Sans, interrupting the baby’s train of thought.

“Cause’ he is! I readed it in da’ bib-el.” Crawling towards the bookshelf with the still broken cabinets, Papyrus took out the book, hidden in plain view amongst old tomes Gaster had long since read and forgotten about. The baby would have to remember to hide it again somewhere else later, less his daddy see it while fixing the doors.

“i HIGHLY doubt that’s in there.”

“Nope, it is! Is all true Snas! The Lord all about peace! Hugs not guns, compassion’s in fashion, make love not war, he ALL about the 70s.”

His brother frowned, though he was more worried than annoyed. There were some sensitive people out there and some who were just plain awful when it came to THIS particular topic. He remembered after reading, going to several people to ask for more information and being met with criticism for not reading the whole thing himself, and lectures from monsters about certain passages when all he wanted was a translation. There were even a few who got angry at him for certain questions.

“…a mountain of fire and smoke’ that sounds like a volcano. maybe this really did happen-”

“It did!” said a monster enthusiastically, carrying a bag of groceries from Snowdin. “God stood atop the mountain in the ten commandments story and introduced himself, but it frightened the people down below.”

Suddenly, they jumped upon hearing loud laughter erupt from the child.

“hahahahaha!” The comedian leaned forward, almost spilling the contents of the bag he was helping to carry as the monster gave him an irritated look. “What’s so funny?”

“you probably don’t know what a wrestler is, me and my bro have only seen them on old human videos, but they use pyrotechnics to introduce themselves before a match. it sounds like god was trying to use the volcano to look cool and it backfired, hahaha!”

“GOD WASN’T USING PYROTECHNICS!” shouted the monster, completely offended. “That’s ridiculous! He doesn’t HAVE to try to look cool! HE IS COOL!”

“hey, relax, chill! i’m not saying he isn’t cool, i’m just saying he made a funny mistake. to be honest, it makes him seem more real-”

“GOD DOESN’T MAKE MISTAKES! THAT WASN’T A VOLCANO!”

“then why’d he tell everyone not to come near him? volcanos are deadly, it’d make more sense for him to wanna protect his kids right?”

“Looord, give me the STRENGTH not to smack this skeletal child…!”

Sans had stopped asking questions after that.

It just didn’t seem safe, and it wasn’t safe for Papyrus either.

I can’t let Pappy go around saying the things he’s saying near other people. They aren’t going to CARE that he’s just a baby who doesn’t know any better.

He doesn’t, right?

“you know if some people hear you saying this outside the lab, they’re gonna get upset right, bro?”

“No they won’t!”

“oh no?”

“No. They’s gonna be happy to hear me! People listen and they probly think ‘Wowie! That baby sure is informed about our Lord and savior! If he read the bib-el then he can’t be ALL bad, the bib-el teaches you how to be good! I should be this baby’s friend cause’ they probably a good person.”

“that’s…that’s not what’s going to happen pappy. you’re going to get yelled at.”

“Dat’s why I needs to learn the force big Buther!”

“n-”

“So I can defends myself.”

“…you have enough power papyrus, in fact, you’re OVERpowered, heh heh…”

“…”

“get it? overpowered with pow-”

“I doesn’t get it and I doesn’t WANT to get it. Sides’ Chara say you can never have enough power Snas.”

“isn’t your friend dead though? maybe you shouldn’t be taking life advice from the dead baby bro. just a thought.”

“…”

“…i’m sorry, that was mean-”

Papyrus pushed the Bible towards Sans with his foot. “You need Jesus big Buther.”

The book ended up back at the library.

#Fonttale #Fonttale au #Undertale #Undertale au #Papyrus #baby papyrus #sans #kid sans #gaster #baby bones #undertale fanfiction #religion #funny

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chiseler · 5 years

Text

Rip Torn: A Retrospective

Rip Torn died on July 9th at age 88. That he lived that long is nothing short of miraculous.

In the summer of 1969, Rip Torn was drunkenly screaming through New York’s West Village on his motorcycle when he slammed it into a police cruiser. Torn broke his leg in the accident, but didn’t notice. The next morning he got up, got on a plane, and flew to Paris where he was set to star in Joseph Strick’s film version of Henry Miller’s Tropic of Cancer. He shot the entire film all hopped up on painkillers on an untreated busted leg,. And you know what? He still gives a remarkable performance. It wasn’t the only time he worked with broken bones, either.

For over 60 years, Torn carried on in the proud tradition of John Barrymore, Errol Flynn, Robert Mitchum, Frank Sinatra, and Lawrence Tierney as the last of the great Hollywood hellions. In between insane drunken escapades, he was nominated for Emmys and Tonys and Oscars, he established himself as one of America’s most respected character actors, a man with a knack for making even a small role a pivotal one, and he was in Every Movie and TV Show Ever Made. Next time you watch something take a close look at the credits and you’ll see.

Torn’s given name was Elmore Rual Torn, Jr., but was nicknamed Rip as a boy, as was tradition among all the Torn men. He was born and raised and educated in Texas, studying animal husbandry in college before turning to acting.

The motivation behind the decision was different than most. He hitchhiked to California to break into the movies not because he wanted to be a big star, but because he thought it would be an easy way to raise enough money to buy himself a ranch. Things didn’t work out quite so zip bang as he’d planned, though he did earn small roles on TV and made his feature debut in an uncredited role as a dentist in Elia Kazan’s great and scandalous 1956 film Baby Doll. Kazan hired him again the following year to play another uncredited but extremely important role in the equally great Face in the Crowd.

Although he wasn’t making the kind of money he needed to buy that ranch, he was getting enough acting jobs along the way to start taking the whole enterprise a bit more seriously. He moved to New York to study at the Actor’s studio, worked in theater both on and off Broadway, and from the mid-’50s to the mid-60s established himself on TV in everything from Playhouse 90 to Thriller to Route 66 to The Untouchables. After that things took off. There was just something sinister about Torn, those wicked eyes of his, that crooked-toothed leer, the whole rat-like demeanor, that suited him for villainous roles of all kinds. Plus he was a chameleon who could shift his whole look and stature with the simplest change of accent. He would go on to play Judas in King of Kings, countless presidents, doctors, senators, military officers and judges. He played rednecks and gangsters, cowboys and spies and executives. He played Walt Whitman twice, was in a whole bunch of Tennessee William’s plays (on Broadway, TV and film). Yeah, like I said, between the mid-’50s and the present, he was in every damn thing ever made. Trying to summarize his career is pretty much impossible, but there was a stretch there from the mid-60s to the late 70s when he was top billed when he was turning small supporting roles into leads, when he was moving easily between TV, experimental films, and big budget Hollywood jobs, and when he was starting to earn himself a reputation as a wild man.

Looking back on it now, it’s hard to imagine the kind of talent, both in front of and behind the camera, that came together on the 1965 period gambling picture The Cincinnati Kid. It was originally a Sam Peckinpah film with a script by Ring Lardner. Then Peckinpah was fired (surprise!) and Norman Jewison was brought in to direct. He thought the script was too self important and talky, so he brought in Terry Southern. He also gave Hal Ashby his first big break, bringing him in as editor and assistant director. Steve McQueen stars as a hotshot young poker player in ‘30s-era New Orleans. Karl Malden is a former hotshot on the skids. Jack weston is the loud whiny guy. Ann-Margaret is the bad girl, Tuesday Weld is the good girl, and Edward G. Robinson is the old man, the undisputed champ, the stud poker king feared by everyone.

Ah, then there’s Rip Torn. His name’s deep in the credits but the whole film turns around him. He plays the slick and sleazy Southern Gentleman who will stop at nothing to see the Robinson character toppled. See, Robinson beat him at poker once, and for a Southern Gentleman of his stature there’s nothing in the world worse than losing. There’s one scene in particular, Torn’s showpiece here, in which he tries to blackmail the dealer (Malden) into cheating, and though it doesn’t sound like much nobody can muster up the cool menace like Torn. Oooohhh, he’s such a rotten son of a bitch.

Four years later he starred in Moses Ginsberg’s first film, Coming Apart, an experimental number that’s been called “More a Happening than an actual movie,.” Filmed with a single static camera to recreate the feel of a documentary, Torn stars as an unbalanced psychiatrist who torments and confuses his female patients, eventually going completely batty himself. It all takes place in one small room shot by that one unmoving camera. It’s at turns compelling and unbelievably tedious, and if it weren’t for Torn (thank god for that Actor’s Studio improv training) it would be unwatchable.

Around this same time Dennis Hopper cast Torn to be in Easy Rider. Then at what was either a production meeting or a cocktail party in New York (depending on who’s telling the story), Hopper and Torn got into a bit of a ruckus over whether or not all Texans were rednecks out to kill hippies. A knife was pulled (though Peter Fonda would later claim it was a butter knife, or maybe a fork, or maybe both). Next thing you know, Torn was thrown off the picture, and Hopper cast Jack Nicholson in his place.

About a year later Torn joined the cast of Norman Mailer’s improvisational experiment, Maidstone. Essentially it was a raucous, drunken three-day party out at Grove Press founder Barney Rossett’s Long Island estate around which Mailer tried to film himself as a director trying to shoot a movie. As the story goes, before shooting started each actor was given a card briefly describing his or her character, and that was as close as anyone got to a script. One character, however, was given a card at random informing the holder that his character was in fact a CIA assassin whose job it was to kill Mailer. The card’s recipient was supposed to be kept a secret from everyone in the cast, including Mailer.

Well, according to Rossett there was a little confusion there. Maybe it was the booze, or maybe the card simply wasn’t worded clearly. In any case Torn (naturally) got the card, but instead of thinking his character was supposed to kill Mailer, he somehow got the idea that HE was supposed to kill Mailer. Lucky for Mailer, too, as the confusion resulted in the only scene in the film anyone remembers.

After the shoot was over and most everyone had gone home, Mailer and his family are walking back toward the house when they’re stopped by a grinning and quite mad Torn, who is also clutching a small hatchet. The cameras are rolling and you can tell this was something Mailer was not prepared for. Nor was he prepared when Torn goes after his skull with the hatchet. The two wrestle each other to the ground, Mailer bites Torn’s ear, Torn leaves a deep gash in Mailer’s scalp, and Mailer’s wife and children scream in horror until a couple crew members pull Torn off him.

And that, my friends, is entertainment!

(The next morning Rossett found a drunken midget floating in his swimming pool, but that’s another story.)

Then came the motorcycle accident and shooting Tropic of Cancer on a broken leg. As it happens there were two films based on Henry Miller novels filming simultaneously two blocks apart in Paris. Jens Jorgen Thorsen’s Quiet Days in Clichy starred Paul Valjean, an American dancer who looked an awful lot like Miller, but neither sounded nor acted like him. Torn, meanwhile, looked absolutely nothing like Miller, but somehow by adopting just the slightest hint of a Brooklyn accent (and on all those painkillers) was somehow able to embody him completely. It’s a gritty, funny, poetic film and Torn is great, though to be fair it should be noted that Clichy was dirtier.

Also in 1970, Torn spoke out against the war in Vietnam on a TV show, and a few nights later someone fired a bullet through his window. It was a hell of a year for him.

In ‘73s Darryl Duke film, Payday, Torn gives what he himself would later refer to as his best performance. Or maybe his favorite. In any case he’s really something as Maury Dann, a womanizing, hard-drinking, bastard son of a bitch of a second-rate country singer. Dann and his band are on tour through the South as Dann screws and screws over everyone around him, from band members to family, to pretty much every woman he meets. He never quite hit the top, but insists on acting and being treated like he has. Toward the end he even talks his chauffer into taking a murder rap for him, since he has to get to a show. It’s an extremely dark, cynical, and painfully accurate portrait of the country music business of the early ‘70s, and Torn does all his own singing. It makes for a nice counterpoint to Robert Duvall’s quiet, soft-spoken, and sensitive country singer in Tender Mercies from a decade later.

Although again his name is buried deep in the credits of Larry Cohen’s 1977 biopic The Secret Files of J. Edgar Hoover the entire film revolves around him. He narrates, after all, and gives another memorable performance as a young man who decides to join the Bureau after his father (another agent) is gunned down by a two-bit hood on the street. After seeing what’s going on in the FBI, though, and after being punished himself for a minor indiscretion, he tries to bring Hoover down a notch or two. In what could have been a hamfisted cartoon, both Cohen and Torn (and star Broderick Crawford near the end of his career) manage a shockingly human portrait.

As a flipside to Torn’s tendency to turn minor supporting roles into leads, there was 1978’s Coma, the medical conspiracy thriller directed by Michael Chrichton based on the Robin Cook novel. Torn was fourth-billed behind Genevieve Bujold, MIchael Douglas, and Richard Widmark. And sure, Torn’s character, Dr. George, is the film’s central villain, the man behind a Boston hospital’s fiendish conspiracy to harvest human organs and sell them on the black market, but he only appears in one scene, and speaks roughly four lines. It’s unclear whether this was the plan from the start, an attempt to turn his character into another Harry Lime or Mabuse, or if maybe all his other scenes were cut after Torn went after Crichton with a hatchet (we can only hope). In any case he was missed. He might have livened up what was otherwise a pretty godawful picture.

As Torn grew older and a little larger and his hair started getting thinner, two things happened. He began playing more authority figures, which only makes sense I guess. He had that look and sound about him. He also started doing more comedies and genre films. Sometimes he even combined the two, playing Ronald Reagan in ‘82s Airplane II: The Sequel.

In ‘91 he was Bob Diamond, the charming, sleazy, and utterly ineffective lawyer trying to give Albert Brooks a boost out of Purgatory in Defending Your Life. He was the sinister CEO in the otherwise dreadful Robocop 3. He even began lending his voice to animated features and video games (usually playing a god of some kind).

Then in 1999 Dennis Hopper was a guest on Leno and told a few old Easy Rider stories, including the one about how Torn had pulled a knife on him at a party. Well, Torn, remembering things a bit differently, sued him for defamation.

It’s pretty hilarious if you think about it; these two guys who were both completely out of their heads in the late ‘60s going to court to determine which one of them was behaving badly. I mean, they both had reputations to maintain.

Well, most of the witnesses agreed with Torn that it was Hopper who pulled the knife (except for Peter Fonda, who remembered all kinds of different utensils), and the court ordered Hopper to pay Torn nearly half a million in damages. It was all kind of silly. I mean, it’s not like the story cost him any work. Hell, trying to literally kill Norman Mailer on camera didn’t even cost him any work. But I guess pride’s a funny thing.

After that he continued to work regularly, as Agent Zed in the Men in Black films, in sit-coms, in made-for-TV films, christ, anything that came along. Every director I’ve ever heard talk about Torn can’t praise him highly enough for his talent and professionalism (except maybe Mailer), though given his admitted temper, it’s also possible they’re just scared of him. He was nominated for six Emmys for his role on the Larry Sanders Show, and came to be recognized by a whole new generation as the executive Alec Baldwin worships but wants to replace on 30 Rock.

Along the way he set himself the task of repairing any damage his reputation as a hellraiser might have suffered as a result of that Hopper lawsuit. The DUIs started adding up. Or at least getting noticed, in part thanks to the actor’s tendency to swing on the arresting officers. Along with being the president of the Extreme Dodgeball League (who knew it even existed?) it seems he was also an extreme regular at a bar near his Connecticut home. Every once in awhile the bartender himself would tip off the cops after Torn headed for his car. I’m not sure if that bartender’s still there, but even after being fingered like that Torn remained a regular, though he didn’t always drive. And that in itself might have caused some problems.

After returning home from the bar one night in 2010, Torn found his keys didn’t work in the lock. Seeing no alternative, the 79-year-old was forced to break into his own house. He was probably surprised a few minutes later, just as he got his shoes off and was making himself comfortable, when the cops arrived and informed him that he wasn’t in his house at all, but had broken into a nearby bank. And the cops were probably surprised to find Torn was carrying a loaded handgun. Yeah, he’s not the only one who’s been there, as I think many of us can attest.

Once it was clarified that it was not Torn’s intention to rob the bank, he was given a two and a half year suspended sentence and three years probation.

The arrest prompted the tightassed, no fun creators of Thirty Rock to kill off his character, but he remained as busy as ever, including an uncredited role as an alien in Men in Black Three.

He once proudly noted that he’s never missed a performance. He’s worked with broken legs, broken arms and ankles, and once while doing a play he passed a kidney stone on opening night. He was a rare, tough old bird, a vanishing breed, and one of my heroes. We won’t see his like again.

by Jim Knipfel

#Jim Kinipfel #The Chiseler #Rip Torn

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finaliity · 4 years

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&. 【 sh, do you hear TROUBLEMAKER by BEACH HOUSE playing ? that must mean NEVE CHANNING is coming, the 31 year old CIS FEMALE that goes by SHE/HER, currently employed as an ER NURSE. they’re a BANSHEE in oldgate for eh, i’d say about SIX MONTHS. tough luck, huh ? least they got their SELF-POSSESSED, COMPASSIONATE, ALOOF and SELF-RIGHTEOUS stuff to fall back on. anyway, it’s best to get out of here. their ( a revolver hidden in the nightstand, late night jogs with a canine companion, light blue scrubs beneath a leather jacket, silent screams while dreaming ) vibe gives me the creeps ! - ADELAIDE KANE.

a brief history. trigger/content warnings: murder, death, graphic violence, mental health, postpartum depression, suicide, cancer, drug mention, parent death, medical, euthanasia mention, stalking, guns

THE FOG CREEPS IN ; GIRLHOOD IS A GRAVEYARD

neve channing is born on a cold, grey february sometime around midnight to douglas and paula channing while the heavy oregon fog kisses the modest concrete jungle of portland oregon like a phantom. paula gives her a big name, telling the nurses with heady confidence that she’ll be famous one day, and it’s the biggest gift she ever gives her. baby genevieve is in her arms so often, she hardly touches a cradle, but it’s not long until douglas feels an uneasiness creeping in.

paula is bohemian silk skirts and crushed velvet. she grows restless being trapped in the plain, modest home in northeast. she is a woman that is easy to fall in love with—not meant to sit at home idly with a collicy baby, where she finds herself in tears more than ever. douglas returns from work to find baby neve screaming unattended in her crib while paula cries in the backyard with an ashtray full of cigarettes. she tells him she’s worried she’ll crash the car one day on the way to the grocery store with them both inside. douglas digs his teeth into his bottom lip and tries not to cry. he squeezes her hand and tells her she needs to go to therapy. what he really wants to tell her is that their baby needs her. he leaves paula outside and spends the afternoon tidying the house with neve swaddled against his chest. it’s a warm feeling.

it’s not long after that paula starts disappearing for periods of time and douglas learns she can’t be trusted to watch after the baby on her own. she screams all the time and perseverates on death in the most unhealthy of ways. when she calls from downtown in tears, hyperverbal and desperate, he picks her up in his old chevy truck and brings her home. she agrees to see a doctor and for awhile, they figure out how to live again. some days are even as sweet as the rhubarb pies she starts to make again.

there are only two ways neve later remembers her mother, and the first is lovely–paula is picnics and shakespeare in the parks. she’s dried roses in the window and salmon tacos with mango salsa. she is whirlwind adventures and laughter. she teaches neve to make wishes on stray eyelashes, blowing them into the wind like dandelion seeds. on the good days, paula’s eyes are filled with stars. on the bad days, they are left black as the night sky while she cries the constellations down her cheeks. occasionally, she is cruel. mostly, she is absent.

by the third grade, neve expects this. douglas has never been much of a cook–save hamburger patties with canned green beans and a baked potato. she cooks their dinners from recipes she learns from her grandmas and helps around the house. most nights she’s home alone until the grumbling sound of the chevy breaks through the dark and signals her father’s return. eventually, she stops missing her mother from the everyday–it’s only when the other kids talk about their moms that she feels the pang of loss and wonders where she is. some nights neve finds herself sitting in her bedroom window pulling out eyelashes just to have something left to wish on. some of paula’s friends overdose on heroin or get murdered in the nights when neve is sleeping; she stays up late and hopes that her vigil will keep a distant mother safe.

there aren’t many trees on their street–unlike some of the other neighborhoods. the big weeping birch in their backyard that drives her father crazy as he rakes leaves every fall is neve’s pride and joy. there is comfort in the shade its branches cast every summer. at night it makes her lonely as it blocks the silhouette of the waxing moon. on lazy summer days when her father leaves for work, neve sits with her back curved against its rough trunk and reads the day away.

on a cool april afternoon, just after preparing a plate of cherry poptarts with a thin layer of butter on top of the frosting ( much to her father’s chagrin ), neve ventures out to the modest yard to sit under her tree. the familiar crushed blue velvet of her mother’s favorite dress catches her off guard and she drops her breakfast onto the unkempt lawn as her mind makes sense of the unnatural height of its hem as paula swings–marking the time of neve’s pounding heartbeat. the butter solidifies as it cools in the dirt, the heel of neve’s hand-me-down airwalk sneakers mashing her breakfast. the cherry filling sticks to the sole like bubblegum; she’ll never eat them again, but she can’t help but recall that her mom always preferred the maple and brown sugar.

THE ODDS ARE STACKED AGAINST HER ; A GIRL LEARNS TO COUNT CARDS

portland in the eighties and nineties is less portlandia and more drugstore cowboy. a lot of kids from other neighborhoods don’t go downtown. the ones that do have an air of palpable grit. neve takes the max, rides her skateboard in the dark. douglas has cautioned her a hundred thousand times, but paula’s death has instilled such a great fear of losing his daughter that he lets her get away with more than he knows he probably should. he fears paula’s ghost will someday possess her and she’ll wander off into the ether. most days he insists that the only parts of paula he sees in his cherished daughter are the good ones–neve holds onto the corporeal world with claws. it’s only on the worst nights–paula’s specter cooling the sheets of his bed in the dark–that he wakes up with the fear his daughter is gone.

douglas’s new wife, rosie, does her best to pit them against one another, but sometimes–she’s not so bad, neve thinks. it’s nice to have a mother figure in the house again even if she falls short most days. sometimes she thinks that maybe they could learn to love each other. if nothing else, she’s sure she owes a bit of gratitude to the woman; the nights of her father’s haunting sobs have become fewer and farther between. it isn’t until douglas begins receiving late notices on utilities that he begins to grow suspicious. rosie is quick to throw neve under the bus–a young girl like that? she’s probably stealing their money to spend on drugs and CDs at sam goody. douglas has never bet on anyone like he bets on his daughter; rosie’s gambling debts are news to them both.

the fallout of the relationship leaves douglas and neve in dire financial straits. the father is heartbroken–another love lost, he blames himself for always choosing the wrong lady luck. despite their financial ruin, left in rosie’s wake, douglas has a hard time getting out of bed most days and blows through what little sick time he has available to him. school takes a back burner and neve barely attends it at all–favoring her time on finding work ( legitimate and illegitimate ) to help keep their small family afloat. she attends class when it’s profitable and waits tables or washes dishes when she can. it’s still not enough.

a few kids turn neve onto small crimes to turn a profit. they ride the max to the suburbs and crash parties–stealing pills out of medicine cabinets and turning them over for profit. calculus wasn’t worth a good goddamn, but distribution teaches skills. it’s hard not to get caught up in petty thefts and the occasional break-ins. neve and her friends find it easy to justify in the spirit of class war. a pin on her denim jacket reads ‘eat the rich’ and it doesn’t sound so bad. portland is a cannibal and it eats its children.

neve is a cat with nine lives and despite her friends being caught by the long arm of the law or the stronger arm of revenge, she evades detection. even such cats live with a fear of death, and as consequence catches up to members of the small circle she runs with, neve knows she is living on borrowed time. sooner or later, she knows, her luck will run bone dry. it seems so unfair that death follows her and yet, she is unable to wield it as a weapon. everything she is feels like mourning.

SPRING RETURNS TO PORTLAND ; THE FROST CLINGS TO FRAGILE BONES

neve dropping out of high school is a wake up call for douglas. he sees farther than she does and knows that she deserves a better life than the one he’s scrounged together for her. most days, he blames himself for a life that could have been; some kids like her wore neatly pressed dresses and folded over lace socks on picture day. some kids had piano lessons and summer camps. there’s a lot of insight in hindsight, but neve staunchly opposes his masochistic remorse and becomes determined to prove him wrong. it takes her a couple years of working to figure out what she wants to do–a girl baptised in her mother’s blood is born with the kind of heart that takes on too much. she is meant for saving lives and carrying the world on her shoulders like atlas himself.

it takes time, but as douglas gets their house in order and starts working again. neve is able to start up at portland community college. she takes up a work study job and works a steady flow of odd jobs on the side to support herself. lady luck shines her fortune on the pair for the first time in forever to make up for the steady losses they’ve sustained over the years. life isn’t lavender and gardenias, but somehow waking up becomes little and less painful each day. some days neve wakes up and forgets that she can’t breathe. most days she spends her gratitude in the heap of debt the world owes her–waiting for the other shoe to drop.

the rebirth of their family is a hearty soil; both channings flourish as if made anew. the dew drops that cling to garden spider webs in their window signal the looming anniversary of a mother’s misty breath and neve learns not to fall apart. douglas works hard to do right by her and make up for the years of never knowing what to do and waffling between what is best and what is desirable. he is a man that longs for dreams–feet barely brushing the earth like her mother’s did on that day–but he is learning to make dreams work too. his dreams take root around his daughter once more; he builds them around her and builds her up with them.

the highschool dropout graduates her community college adn bridge program and she can hardly believe it when she’s accepted to ohsu for her bsn. there are no college diplomas with the channing name hanging on walls with peeling wallpaper or tucked away in trunks with paula’s things. douglas has saved his money for months to get her the right graduation gift and neve laughs, downplaying that it’s not a real graduation, but still walks in the ceremony at his insistence.

she returns home to the small party of friends she’ll start to grow apart from when she gets tired of the jeers about how she thinks she’s ‘too good for them’ now. neighborhoods like hers don’t always love to watch you grow if it means you’ll leave them. they’ll still blow up her phone for medical advice, but the invitations dry up like the drought of portland natives in southeast. for now, it’s a pleasant barbecue. the highlight of the evening comes in the small bundle of inky fur that douglas proudly produces after neve’s second burger. peering out from his strong arms are the brown eyes of a young siberian husky. douglas begs her to name the pup murphy over robocop, but loses easily–a hearty chuckle on his lips. they are bonded instantly–girl and dog–robocop becomes neve’s second most stalwart companion next to her father.

nursing school is hard, but it’s not impossible and it is full of new kinds of joys. she makes new friends and they eat lunch from the thai foodcart—nestled within the pod of south waterfront—and lay on the quad drinking smoothies and complaining about the next pharmacology exam. nose in a book and a drink in her hand at happy hour down at cha cha cha !, neve attracts the attention of pa student shane stone. he knows a nursing school classmate of hers from high school and is quickly incorporated to their study groups with a couple of his friends. he is tall with dark hair and kind eyes and just the sort of person a girl dreams of falling in love with. he spends little time worrying about things like rent and bus passes. it’s not even the end of the semester before study dates evolve into movie dates. there’s an entire world between them, but somehow the pair build a bridge.

DEATH RATTLES AND DYING BREATH ; THE GIRL’S OTHER SHOE DROPS

as neve focuses on school, douglas seems to be making steps to keep himself around longer. they go for long walks with robocop around the neighborhood. southeast portland is becoming a different neighborhood and the cost of living is high. restaurants crop up with around the block waits and family friends are forced to move to grayer pastures. it seems, to the channings, that it’s the end of an era. with neve spending most of her time at shane’s apartment on south waterfront, douglas’ weight loss is hardly noticed–everyone assumes it is merely the byproduct of increased activity. it isn’t until his stature becomes gaunt that neve starts to worry. she is having dreams again. she can smell graveyard soil around him.

shane holds neve close when she finally breaks down–sneaking into the single bathroom of the clinic to let her fall apart the way he knows she can’t do in the open. like a wild animal, the girl he loves hides herself away when she feels death’s acrid breath on her neck. he doesn’t know what loss is and he certainly can’t relate to what she’s been through. douglas’ diagnosis is like watching the noose tighten around her mother’s neck all over again. her throat is dry like she’s choking on the fibers of that same rope; the world has a foggy edge—hollow like street lights illuminating an empty suburban neighborhood on a clear, dark night. everything is wooden; everything feels like a dollhouse.

it’s hard to keep up on her studies, but somehow neve muscles through. shane gives up his idyllic apartment and moves into their modest southeast home to help out. he makes a lighthearted joke about finally being a real portlander and moving so near the trendy, revitalized mississippi neighborhood and neve drops and breaks her coffee mug on the unfinished wood floor of the kitchen. it’s just another reminder that he doesn’t belong in her world any more than she does in his. it doesn’t sting as bad as the ink on his mother’s checks that she cashes to keep her father comfortable on his deathbed while she learns to be a better caretaker. life ebbs and flows, but douglas’ drains away until she hardly recognizes the sinewy, pale hands that hold hers so strongly for a man that can’t sit up by himself any longer. she curses her mother once more for leaving and twice for never having been there in the first place.

death isn’t slow or peaceful like the woman from her father’s church will lie about at the funeral. his death rattle lasts for hours and the bellows of his chest quake with weary breath. part of her wishes that the hospice nurse had started an iv on him and a sick, hidden part of her wishes it because a sweet dose of morphine would’ve ended it all sooner for him. she wonders silently if that would do more to ease his pain or hers? he hasn’t been conscious in two days. shane sits with her at the side of his bed with rapt attention and as his breathing slows, neve crawls into the hospice bed next to him. the next several months are a blur and a father misses his only daughter’s graduation. neve is barely present there herself. all she can hear is the sound of her own scream.

shane insists that she’s not an orphan–his parents fly in from denver and treat her like one of their own. it guilts her that she can’t help but resent them for the simple virtue of living while her own father is reduced to a cold dust. she wears his ashes around her neck in a pendant from the funeral home and spreads the rest in every beautiful place she can find. some of them spill into her purse during a hike with robo and shane and she breaks down in tears. there are so many small things that make her sick or numb. a multitude of tiny memories that weigh as much as planets; isn’t dust what helped create the milky way? even around the stone family she feels alone. maybe especially around the stones.

HACKLES RAISED, A GIRL LEARNS THE DANGERS OF BEING FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE

the emergency department attracts all kinds of people in myriad dire straits. people come in at the end of their ropes–infections ignored too long, stabbings and shootings, a broken bone from slipping off the slide, and sometimes when they feel like they can’t live any longer. evan does not fit into any of these categories when he comes in. among the myriad failings of the medical system, lack of access and use of primary care is one of the larger contributions to higher emergency department volumes and evan is another data point in a sea of statistics. he comes back to neve’s room with a sly grin plastered on his face and states that he’s new to the area and can’t get into a new primary care for a few months. his daily asthma inhaler is out and he needs to renew the prescription and get a referral to a clinic.

there’s nothing on the surface that identifies this man as a threat. he’s almost charming and he’s nontoxic appearing–a nice easy patient in a sea of sick people is sometimes a great relief. they make some small talk and it’s the usual stuff she chats about with patients: ‘where’re you from?’ ‘where did you go to school?’ he expresses an interest in nursing and she recommends the program she attended at the hospital she now works. there’s almost a tension there, and when he makes a casual comment about the tan line on her finger she tells him that she doesn’t wear her engagement ring at work because it can tear the gloves. that’s only half right. maybe he can sense the rest of the truth; she’ll wonder that later when she pieces together every scrap of something she can use to blame it on herself.

he sends her a message on facebook, which makes her lips curl downwards in uncertainty. even that isn’t entirely alarming. it opens up reminding her that he’s knew to the area, and that he’s interested in the nursing program she went to. it’s a surprise, but he makes mention of a girlfriend’s wifi and he even asks how shane is doing. he loves her dog and mentions wanting one himself. sure, it’s a little weird–unconventional–but neve has always been interested in helping others find nursing and agrees to meet him for coffee to discuss the program. when they meet, she sees the mistake inherit in it before she even opens the cafe door. he’s disheveled and hyperverbal when he speaks to her and she can barely get a word in edge wise. between the gift he’s brought her and the intensity of his stare, she wonders how she could have read him so wrong. it’s then that he drops the bomb that makes her stomach sink into the trench it detonates in–will they take him in the nursing program with a record? she doesn’t ask, but he provides the details anyway. death threats to some girl he barely knew that wouldn’t leave him alone, he paints the canvas well, but she can read between the lines. evan stevens is dangerous and his lethal eye is trained on her.

she makes an excuse to leave–the first of many excuses, the illusion of being unavailable, unattainable. it’s the advice she’s given to women before, but never had to follow. those words offered to women in distress seem so trite now, so hollow. there is so much fear in cutting ties slowly–the strategic approach to keep an impulsive person like that from escalating. she wishes she could take those clinical offerings of textbook wisdom back from those women and hold their hands. she wonders how many of them still live. he starts blowing up her phone constantly. he comments on all her social media. all day and all night. if she doesn’t respond, he threatens suicide. some days he asks if she’s working and says he brought her lunch. if she says she’s sick, he asks for her address to bring her tom yum takeout from the restaurant she’s posted about on instagram. everything makes her sick now.

A FINAL GIRL IS FORGED ALONE ; THERE IS NO SUBVERTING FATE

god, it’s hard to speak about. she can’t even let the words reach her tongue, lips and teeth to birth them. they shrivel and die in her throat, festering there until she swallows them and they rest in her stomach like great stones. she wonders if evan will cut her stomach open like a wolf and find the rocks there. that’s not how the story goes; she tells herself so many versions as she lies awake in the dark afraid to sleep.

when she finally tells her friends–a smattering of girls and guys from nursing school, the er, and her neighborhood–the response is like the knife she dreams about in her gut. she shows some of the girls at her work his picture, worried that he’ll come in asking about her. she’s chided by these friends, “he’s actually pretty cute, florence nightingale” they joke. “it must be flattering to have the attention.” even shane suspected that there’s some indulgence on her part. that maybe she likes trying to fix people who are broken so much that she gets some sick reward from the experience. he doesn’t speak the words, but neve is fluent in shane stone. he says it in his eyes, the downcurve of his lips, the tense way he sighs when her phone dings over and over again during date nights.

on a cold night in december, neve works on meal prepping alone in the kitchen. evan has been out of town helping his mother remodel her kitchen and neve feels like she can finally breathe in the space he’s left behind. turning on the wireless speaker, she tries to pair her phone to play music as loud as the thin walls of her father’s modest northeast portland home will allow and instead hears, in the cold, robotic voice ‘pairing with neve’s iphone and evan’s iphone.’ robocop doesn’t even lift his head in suspicion the whole night. she calls 911, but they find neither hide nor hair of him. in the morning, neve nails the windows shut and buys a gun–a smith & wesson .357 snub nose revolver. the weight of it is heavy in her hands and she buys a membership to a gun range, calling into work and practicing until shane returns. she doesn’t tell him about the gun and she stops telling him how bad things have gotten with evan. the click of his tongue and disapproval in his eyes is more dooming than a death sentence and she can’t bear to bring further disappointment. neve channing is a strong woman–a smart woman. things like this don’t happen to women like her. the nightmares begin, but they’re different this time. she can’t tell if they’re coming true this time or if it’s only her anxieties, amplified and strange.

somehow, evan is everywhere and he knows all her secret places as if he exists as an extension of her. maybe he even believes he is–sending her voice messages about how they’re connected. they are the same; they are foils of one another. he send her a picture of his ouroboros tattoo from a new number after she finally blocks him. ‘we are the same.’ he is an all-consuming, devouring force, but she is not a serpent’s tail. he is moloch–besmeared with blood, the great, horrid king–but she is not a child and she will not be sacrificed for sins she has not committed. he has not right and there’s only one way she can see this ending as the days grow longer. like life itself begins, this too will end in blood.

LOVE IS A HARD KNIFE ; A GIRL CAN’T STOMACH AMBROSIA

there is a consequence to every action and every inaction. every little thing she chooses not to tell shane fester and boils. the late nights at work and the new passcode on her phone seem more to shane like cheating than a worsening of some creep’s obsession. she hasn’t even mentioned evan to him since the trees started blooming again. when he elects to cheer her up and bring her lunch during a shift she traded so she could practice at the gun range, his suspicions deepen and while she sleeps that morning, he rifles through her work bag and finds alongside her locked cell phone the cold steel of a secret that he cannot abide by.

it’s not his fault either and she means that from the bottom of her heart. every kindness from the stones feels like another debt and neve can’t help but let the resentment fester in the tasteful diamond on her finger. when she looks upon his face now all she can see is death and it’s the world’s cruelest joke, because she’s the one with cemetery dirt underneath her fingernails. she can’t tell which of the two of them she resents more and they both deserve lives where ghosts stay buried and the dead don’t whisper malcontent in her ears while she struggles to fall asleep. nightmares are her own warm milk; she’s sick of the cold metal of a gun as she moves it from her night stand to her purse each morning. she’s tired of being made to feel like she had a stake in any of this.

it’s not the kindest way to leave a man, but she’s not sure she’s ready to face him again after all that’s happened. she leaves her house keys with her cousin paloma and packs up shane’s stuff. paloma has just started nursing school and can use neve’s father’s old house to sublet. the rent’s free and she’s always been gentle hearted. neve can’t think of anyone better to care for her father’s old house. with dear john letters to both shane and the hospital, neve takes robocop and enough of her things to fit into her subaru forester. it’s not goodbye. it’s never goodbye, she thinks as she hugs paloma on the modest porch. it still feels so permanent, but neve tells herself that big decisions always do. she yearns to discover who she is outside of grief and fear and love. a daughter cannot bloom in her parents’ shadows and she is suffocating underneath the gentle love of the mourning glory.

on the road without a real plan–because if she doesn’t know where she’s going, then neither does evan–neve signs on for a travel nursing company. the first assignment she considers is salem hospital an hour south and it’s a great department, but it’s too close to home. he’ll find her there easily. st. charles in bend isn’t far enough away either. it doesn’t feel like enough of a difference and none of them do until she’s cruising down the interstate through blythe, california and she sees a listing for a emergency department in oldgate, louisiana. it feels like it could be the right place to burn and be born again.

A GIRL AND HER DOG; SOMETIMES PEACE IS ITS OWN KIND OF PRISON

the cool steel of the snub nose .357 revolver lies buried beneath her registration and owner’s manual in the glove compartment. she wonders briefly as she pulls out her sunglasses and slips a salty french fry into her mouth. the car stereo fades in and out along the highway, switching between some smooth-talking radio host and the tinny crooning of buddy holly. it makes her think of her father, and she blinks back tears–plugging in her iphone to switch to a tune that doesn’t bring back such painful memories. robocop whines in the backseat and neve discovers that she’s hardly far away from oldgate, but her gps is out of service.

there’s no sense in pulling over and pulling out the map of louisiana she purchased from a disinterested teen in the first gas station she’d come across in the state. there’s only two days before the job starts and, according to her recruiter, they’d already moved the orientation up a day, cutting her time to adjust to her new ( temporary ) place before work in half. taking a long drink of coffee–now as cold as her french fries–she blinks hard to keep awake and just when she thinks she’ll have to pull over and sleep in her car huddled close to robocop’s warm, furry body.

neve has spent three peaceful months in oldgate. the gun no longer lives shoved into the bottom of her work bag or nestled into the glove compartment of her subaru. now it spends its days in solitude in the coffin-like drawer of her bedside table. evan will never find this place, she is almost sure of it. he might be looking for her, but he’s not looking for oldgate. some evenings on her long strolls to work, she smiles and closes her eyes–listening to the soothing sounds of the town. she’s learning more about herself in this town and more still about the hidden world around her. perhaps she’ll renew that travel contract.

wanted connections.

i. friends ! i’d love to see someone who has taken to showing her around oldgate, someone she meets up with regularly for drinks, or goes to the dog park with her. ii. i would really love a relationship where they aren’t enemies to friends / lovers, but there is a certain amount of shit talking between the two of them. maybe they did dislike one another at first, but now they both try not to admit that they actually like one another’s company. iii. someone who is perhaps a regular at the emergency department, either for themselves or a family member. either way, neve and this person see one another often and there’s a budding friendship from it.

#fangfmooc #sorry it's a bit long !

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get-your-fics · 5 years

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Violent Delights - Chapter Seven

Alone in the World

Summary: Bruce Wayne is addicted to a lot of things to distract from his dark urges, but his addiction to you might only increase them.

Pairing: dark!Bruce Wayne x reader

Series warnings: Violence, language, smut, rape/non-con, stalking, kidnapping, underage drinking, drug use, torture, abuse

CHAPTER SIX

Brant Jones’s funeral was beautiful.

It was held at one of the most extravagant cathedrals in Gotham City, though I wouldn’t expect any less from a family of such a high stature as his. Sunlight refracted through the large stained glass windows and cast colored light on the marble archways. Classical music bounced off of the vaulted ceiling and echoed throughout the spacey room. Everything was aged and ornately carved and made out of old, dark oak.

He didn’t deserve any of it.

I sat at the very back pew, dressed in all black so I would fit in. There were so many people here, they hadn’t even noticed that I had slipped inside the building. I watched as people filed in, some with tear-stained cheeks and others with sorrowful expressions. At the very front of the room was a blown up, heavily edited photo of Brant and a sleek, black coffin. It was closed; I guess I had done that much of a job on him.

There had been a few mentions of him on the news right after his death, but they had faded away after a couple of days. The GCPD had tried the best they could, but with no DNA evidence, it was hard to place anyone at the scene of the crime. They had questioned all of the people at the birthday party, but no one had anything valuable to say except Emma, and even then all she had said was that she had last seen him in the alley. It was a pretty open and shut case: multiple stab wounds, bled out in an alley, missing wallet. It was easy to write it off as a mugging and call it a day.

You were upset. I mean, of course you were. He had been your boyfriend after all. I had watched you on the cameras in your penthouse when you had gotten the news. But you don't understand, this all has a purpose. He was in the way, and now that he’s not, we can finally be together.

Eventually, a hush fell over the cathedral, and you stood up. You were seated in the very front pew next to your mom. She stood up with you and wrapped her arms around you in a bone-crushing hug. You hugged her back, and when you pulled away, she took out a handkerchief and wiped away a single tear streaking down her wrinkled cheek.

You walked up to the podium next to the picture of Brant, your shiny black heels clicking against the wooden floor. You wore a knee-length dress that covered your skin but still fit your figure. Your hair was in an updo, and you wore minimal makeup that still accentuated your features. You looked put together even when you were falling apart. Even in mourning, you never failed to look anything less than gorgeous.

“Hi. My name is (Y/N) (Y/L/N).” You shuffled your index cards against the podium and swallowed roughly. I had never heard you sound so insecure or nervous before. “As many of you know, Brant Jones was my stepbrother.”

My heart stopped beating in my chest. Stepbrother? Brant had been your stepbrother? But that didn’t make any sense. He had been your boyfriend. He had to have been.

“My mother passed away from cancer when I was a child. It was really tough on me and my dad. We thought there was always going to be this giant hole in our family. But then, my dad met Maria Jones.” You smiled at your mom in the front pew. “And she welcomed us into her family with open arms. She was everything I could ask for as a mother figure and more.”

Your mom, Maria, beamed up at you in the front pew. So she was actually Brant’s mom? Shit. It all clicked into place. That was why you had said you were an orphan.

Your smile vanished, and you stared down at your hands. “And then my dad died from a heart attack.” You picked at your french manicure. “I thought I had no one. I thought I was alone in the world.” You looked up. “I know Brant wasn’t always a perfect angel. He was constantly struggling with addiction and mental illness. He was in and out of mental hospitals for years, but he was the most determined person I knew. He never let anything get the better of him. He knew how to persevere, and that was something he taught me.” Your chin started to wobble, and your eyes shined with tears. “But now he’s gone. And I once again feel like I’m alone in the world. I once again feel like I have no one.”

You clasped a hand over your mouth as you struggled to maintain your composure. Your face turned red from the sobs you were holding back, and you squeezed your eyes shut to keep in the tears. My pulse was rising, like my blood was replaced with gun powder and I was going to explode at any moment. I didn’t mean to take another family member from you. I didn’t want to scar you for life. I just wanted to protect you from people that wanted to use your kindness against you, to keep you all to myself. What was I thinking? How could I have acted so irrationally?

Maria rose from her seat and started to approach you, but you held up a hand. She backed down, and you smoothed out the fabric of your dress with your hands, sucking in a shaky breath. “I don’t know who killed Brant. I may never who did, but I love him. And I’ll miss him for the rest of my life.” Your cheeks were shiny with tears, and the tip of your nose was red. “Thank you.”

You stepped down from the podium, and Maria immediately rushed to you. She gave you another suffocating hug before moving to the podium herself. You sat down in your pew as she began her speech, but I was too transfixed on you to listen to her words. After Maria, several other friends and family members gave eulogies that ranged from tearful to mournful to sentimental. Even Emma made one, revealing herself to have been his real girlfriend. But all the words swam around me; they never really reached my ears.

After all that was over, everyone started milling about. A good amount of people approached you and offered their condolences. I waited behind them, my hands shoved deep in my pockets and my head hanging low. Finally, they dispersed, and I slowly shuffled over to you, your back facing me.

It took me a second, as if your name got stuck in my throat. “(Y/N).” My voice cracked.

You turned around, and your lips parted in shock. “Bruce.” The skin around your eyes was swollen and puffy. “What are you doing here?”

I lunged forward and wrapped my arms around you, pulling you into my chest. Your body stiffened at first, but eventually you relaxed in my embrace. The feeling of your body against mine and the warmth radiating off of your skin calmed my nerves, set all of my worries at ease. I buried my nose in your hair and inhaled the scent of your shampoo mixed with your body wash and your perfume.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” I whispered into your ear.

“Thanks, Bruce. That means a lot.” You pulled away from me, and I resisted a frown. I wanted to hold you against me for as long as I possibly could and never let go. I felt like I had to be touching you every second or I would burst. “You knew Brant, didn’t you?”

“I did.” I slowly nodded. “We weren’t always on the best of terms.”

“Yeah, he told me.” You let out the slightest laugh, and even though it was forced, it was nice to see you smile.

I raised a brow. “He talked about me? What did he say?”

“Oh, all good things,” you insisted. “He was mainly just remorseful about teasing you when you first met. He felt guilty ‘cause he knew you had been through a lot.” Your countenance shifted as you looked down at your feet.

“It’s okay.” My tone was soft. “I knew he was a good person underneath.”

“He had a really rough childhood. His father abused him and his mom until he left when he was a kid, so it led him down a really bad path.” You wrung your hands together. “He was in such a good place when I last saw him. He had so much going for him. He told me that I shouldn’t work so much and see him more often. Now, I’m wishing I had listened to him and spent more time with him before he...” You trailed off. Your mouth hung open, but no words came out. You emitted a squeak as tears poured from the corners of your eyes and spilled down your cheeks.

“Hey, it’s all right.” I cupped your face in my hands and swiped your tears away with my thumbs. “Don’t cry. Brant knew how much you loved him.” You stared up at me, stunned, but too overcome with emotion to speak. If it wasn’t totally inappropriate in this setting, I would’ve licked your cheeks dry and kissed you where you stood. “Did you really mean it when you said you felt alone, like you had no one?” I tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “Because you have me.”

You came to your senses and stepped back, pushing my hand away gently. “It was probably a little dramatic of me to say that. I didn’t mean to make anyone worry, it was just how I was feeling in the moment.” You rubbed your arm anxiously.

“Well, I can’t help but worry about you.” I flashed you a smile, and you shivered slightly. “How’s the investigation going? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“No leads. It’s a hopeless case. They caught someone on the cameras who looked like he was waiting for Brant to go into the alley, but it’s impossible to identify him. I’m pretty sure the GCPD is just a little short of giving up entirely.” Your shoulders slumped. Of course, I had already known the answer.

“I’m so sorry.” I attempted to sound as sympathetic as possible. “I hope they find whoever did it soon.” “Thanks, Bruce. And thanks for stopping by.” You chewed on your bottom lip. “I’m sure it would mean a lot to Brant, if he was still here...”

“Of course. Anything for you.” I placed my hand on your shoulder, and you glanced at it wearily. I looked over my shoulder to see more people waiting around for you, shooting me impatient glares. “I think some other people want to talk to you. I’ll see you around.” “Okay. Bye, Bruce.” You gave me a shy, little wave, and it made my heart flutter. I walked away and looked back to see you surrounded by a sea of black. People were talking to you and offering you words of comfort. You nodded and tried to smile, but there was no hiding the unhappiness in your eyes. It fueled me with a new fire just seeing it.

There was no reason for me to stick around after talking to you, so I had my town car take me home. The whole ride, my head was spinning. All of the pieces were in front of me, if I had just looked: your mom, saying I love you, Emma. If I had just not acted on my impulses right away, I wouldn’t have made you so heartbroken. I didn’t like seeing you upset, at least not like this. I could handle it before if it was a part of something greater, but now? Now, I didn’t know anymore.

“We’re here, Mr. Wayne.” My chauffeur brought me out of my thoughts, and I turned my head to see the steps leading up to Wayne Manor out of the window.

“Thanks.” I shoved the door open with my shoulder and climbed out of the car. I closed the door with a click behind me and stomped up the steps. I pushed the door open so hard the doorknob rammed into the wall, making an indent in the plaster. I’d get someone to fix that later. I slammed the door shut firmly and stormed into the living room.

Alfred looked up from where he was sitting on the tufted, velvet sofa, reading a book. “Oh, Master Bruce! You’re home early-”

“Why didn’t you tell me Brant Jones was (Y/N) (Y/L/N)’s step brother?” I stood in front of him, back rigid, fists clenched, teeth gritted.

He furrowed his gray brows. “Because I didn’t know? What is this about, Master Bruce?”

“Brant Jones died, Alfred. He was murdered in an alley. The GCPD think it was a mugging.”

“I know. I saw it on the news.” He tilted his head to the side. “You don’t think this has to do with your parents’ death, do you?”

“No, but... but...” I started to pace back and forth in front of the glass coffee table. “You had to have known he was her step brother. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I just told you why, Master Bruce. I had no idea her father remarried.” He slowly rose to his feet.

“Yeah, well her dad died, too. And now Brant’s dead, and she has no one left.” I fell to my knees. “She’s all alone, and it’s all my fault! All because I...” I ran my shaky hand through my curls so hard I thought I would tear my hair out. My breathing came in short, shallow gasps, and I felt like I was hyperventilating.

“Because you what?” I looked up at Alfred to see him staring down at me with concern written all over his face. I could tell by his posture that he felt threatened, but I was too in my own head to do anything about it. “What did you do, Master Bruce?”

“I... I don’t know.” I fell back and hugged my knees to my chest. I felt something hit my cheek, and reached up to wipe away a tear. I hadn’t even realized I had started crying. “I thought I was doing the right thing, but now I’m not so sure. I just don’t know what to do anymore, Alfred.”

“It’s okay, Master Bruce.” He walked around the coffee table to me. “I know you’re going through a tough time right now.” He squatted down so he was on the same level as me. “Why don’t you go back to Wayne Enterprises? I’m sure everyone would be so pleased to have you back there.”

My grief turned to rage in a split second. “You mean you would be pleased to have me back there. Stop seizing the moment to push your fucking agenda on me!” I jumped to my feet. “I know you think you’re doing what my parents would’ve wanted you to, but newsflash, Alfred! You’re my butler, not some guardian angel my parents left to take care of me when they died.”

“You’re wrong, Master Bruce.” He stood up. “I am your legal guardian.”

“You were my legal guardian. Need I remind you, I’m an adult now?” I walked past him, knocking my shoulder into his as I did so. “The only thing keeping you here is that you work for me, and I just don’t think that’s cutting it anymore.”

He whirled around to face me. “What are you saying, Master Bruce?”

“I’m saying you’re fired, Alfred. I thought that would’ve been obvious.” I put my hands on my hips, keeping my anger at bay. “I want you packed and out of the manor within the next hour.”

He cracked a smile, and a laugh escaped his lips. “Master Bruce, you can’t be serious. After everything we’ve been through-”

I brought my fist down on the coffee table, smashing the glass to bits. The sound as the shards clattered to the wooden floor was deafening to my ears, but the sting as some pieces sliced my skin and embedded themselves in my flesh hurt worse. I bit back any yelps that wanted to slip out, and tears stung my eyes. I raised my hand and stared, mesmerized, at the ruby red blood that seeped out of the cuts in my skin. No doubt that was going to leave some scars.

I raised my head to meet Alfred’s gaze. He looked absolutely terrified, but it wasn’t of me. It was for me. “I am serious.” I stared him straight in the eye. “Have your stuff packed, or I’ll call the police.”

He swallowed roughly. “Fine, Master Bruce,” he shook a finger at me, “but if you know what’s good for you, what’s good for everyone else, you’ll stay away from that girl and get yourself some help.”

“I’m done taking advice from you.” I dismissed him with a wave of my bloody hand. “Get out.”

He let out a sigh filled with so much sympathy and so much pity that it physically made me sick before turning around and marching out of the room. My stature slightly relaxed when he was gone, and I walked over to the desk that was previously my father’s but now belonged to me. I pulled out one of the bottom drawers with my good hand and dug out a mini first aid kit. I dropped it onto the desk and sank into the comfy, office chair behind me. I took out a pair of tweezers and, cradling my hand, started to pluck out the shards of glass stuck in my skin. I winced and flinched as each piece came out, but I didn’t stop until there was a pile of bloodstained glass on the desk. I stretched my fingers and let out a low groan as a dull ache ran through my sore muscles.

I grasped for a bottle of whiskey on the desk. I twisted the cap off and poured the dark brown liquid over my hand. It dripped into the open wounds, and it felt like my skin was burning all over. I bit into my lip to keep in my howls so hard I thought it would bleed. I took a swig from the bottle before setting it back down on the desk. I rummaged through the first aid kit and found some white bandages. I started wrapping up my hand when I spotted my iPad resting on the desk. I reached for it, but my hand hovered over it hesitantly for a second. Could Alfred be right? Should I leave you alone?

My curiosity got the better of me, and I gave in, switching on the device. The screen filled with live surveillance footage of each of the rooms in your penthouse. I noticed two figures in the one situated in your living room and clicked on it. It enlarged so I could see you and Maria hugging by the door to your home.

“Are you going to be okay by yourself?” She asked, pushing hair out of your face. “You’re sure you don’t want to come stay with me in the manor? You know you’re always more than welcome.”

“I know, Mom, I know.” You sniffled. “But I’ll be okay. You go home.” “Okay, but get some rest, sweetie.” She placed a kiss on your forehead before moving towards the door. “I better not hear anything about any donations for at least a week.” She pointed at you.

You laughed. “Okay, Mom. Bye!”

She let herself out, and once the door closed shut, your polite demeanor fell. You took some unstable steps towards your couch, but you collapsed to the ground before you could make it there. Your chest wracked with sobs, and tears ran down your red face. You sucked in desperate gasps of air in between cries so much that it sounded like you were choking on your own tears.

My heart broke at seeing you so absolutely devastated, and all at my hand, too. I didn't mean for things to end up this way. This wasn’t what I had planned. But now, I had to make it up to you. I had to make things better. I had to fill the hole in your life and make you feel complete again.

No matter what. I promise, gorgeous. I won’t let you down.

CHAPTER EIGHT

#bruce wayne #bruce wayne x reader #bruce wayne imagine #bruce wayne x you #playboy!bruce wayne #dark!bruce wayne #dark!fic #gotham #gotham imagine #gotham fanfic #gotham fanfiction

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kaywriteswords · 4 years

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The Art of Purging...

There is something liberating about discarding old possessions. A freeing of space within our space and in our minds. I might not have believed it, if it hadn’t worked for me.

My hoarding was bred into me by a family who seems to never throw anything out. The most glaring realizations came when we had to sort through those things left behind by family members who had passed on. The aunt who died with drawers full of brand new items, but who needed frequent runs to the store for this or that. The grandma with several closets full of clothes, but who seemed to only ever have on the same 5 shirts. Then there is a room in a basement with two generations worth of random items from people who haven’t walked this earth in over 20 years and which sits, untouched.

Gramma passed in 2017 and one of the last things she wanted to do together was start pulling out boxes of her stuff to go through. The tiara from her first communion was in one of those boxes. She was 79. Guess where most of it, including that tiara, ended up… donated or in the trash. It was her stuff, she could do whatever she wanted with it. Some items were so old it rendered them useless and others had a sentimental value long since forgotten. Finally accepting the fact that she was dying (cancer is a b*tch!) and not being able to take anything with her, it ended up where it probably should have 50+ years ago. However, those of us who would survive her did keep several sentimental items because there is value in the memories some objects hold.

After almost 30 years of accumulating things and discarding the bare minimum, the amount of stuff I had started to overwhelm me. Faced with the prospect of trashing all my earthly possessions while on my deathbed one day, I decided to part with some of that stuff sooner rather than later. Not only does my home feel more open and organized, I feel a opening of space within myself to focus on what’s actually important to me. Here’s how I did it.

The first and simplest step to begin purging is to have a designated donation bag or box. Something you keep readily available, but also out of sight so as not to create undue stress about adding to it. This should be a liberating experience. Place things into the bag and when the bag is full, donate it. If the thought of parting with some of your possessions in such a way is giving you anxiety from just thinking about it, know that you can also go back through these donation items from time to time. If there’s something that you REALLY REALLY want, pull it back out, put it away. No harm in keeping things you feel like you can still use, but in my experience those things end up right back in that donation bag. There was a reason you put it there in the first place. It can be a vicious cycle of self-doubt and wanting to move on. Each time you fill a bag or box, start a new one.

Deciding what should be purged can be tough. I started with items that had been sitting unused for years. This can be anything for anybody depending on your lifestyle and hobbies. For me, it was accumulated kitchen items rarely or never used, supplies for projects waiting to be done and clothes, so many clothes. A few questions to ask yourself when looking at these items:

Have I ever used this?

When is the last time I used this?

Will I ever use this?

Honesty with yourself is a key component to this decision making process. Whatever you decide to keep will be allowed a space in your home. Decide if each item is worthy of that space. Some items came with a heavy price tag so you may prefer to sell them. Yards sales, garage sales or the internet are good places for that. If you do opt to try to sell, just make sure to set a deadline for yourself to get rid of it anyway. Otherwise, you’ll end up with things you’ve already decided you don’t need cluttering your life.

Deciding which clothes to keep, donate or toss was the most time consuming for me, especially when I had to try something on to make sure I really didn’t want it anymore. There are probably clothes in your closet that you do not wear, I had plenty. Maybe they’ve even made it out of the closet quite a few times for a potential outfit only to be tossed aside and left unworn. A shirt that hugs your arms to tightly or rides a bit higher on your torso than you’d like. A dress in an unflattering cut. Something that fits your body, but doesn’t fit your style. Put the item on, look at it in the mirror, tell yourself what you don’t like about it. Just because you wanted this piece of clothing at some point doesn’t mean you have to keep it now. When we evolve, our bodies and styles change too. If you can’t remember why you bought it in the first place then toss it in the donation bag. If you can’t find anything wrong with it, then and only then should it be granted space in your closet or drawers.

For bulkier items like kitchen appliances and tools, items that take up a lot of space but don’t get much use, weigh the value of having that item against the amount of space you give it. I liked my sewing machine. The idea of altering & repairing my own clothes seemed fun, practical even, thinking of the magic I could make with too large thrift store finds. After some practice, I was certain I was well on my way to becoming a thrifting, altering goddess. With clothes ready and the sewing machine still placed prominently in the middle of my workspace, it was only a matter of time. I altered one romper. One! Then the sewing machine sat there for months collecting dust. After spending a few more months moving it from here to there and there to here, it was relegated to the closet, where it sat untouched. I had to confront myself, Am I ever really going to alter clothes or was it just a nice idea?

The beauty of this life is that we don’t have to be just one thing. We can be anything we want and we can decide to change any time we want. I thought I wanted to be a seamstress, just like I thought I wanted to be a painter or sketch artist, a dog bone peddler. All things I flirted with, distractions from the calling I always felt for writing. Confront yourself. Dig deep. Here’s where that brutal honesty with yourself comes into play. If it doesn’t serve the ideal vision you see for yourself, get rid of it. Create the space you need to pursue that vision.

The painting supplies went first, then the sketchbook, then the dog treat molds and finally the sewing machine. They all went at different times over the course of 2 & a half years. That sounds like a ridiculous amount of time, I know, but getting rid of things is hard and we can only part with them when we are ready. Purging can be a long process depending on how much stuff you have and how long you’ve had it. The longer we’ve held on to something, the harder we can find it to let that something go. Whether it’s because we are holding on to an old piece of ourselves or someone we love or because we aren’t yet ready to change, that thing feels like it is a piece of us.

The painting supplies went to a mother who crafts with her daughters. The sewing machine to an old family friend who will put it to use. The other stuff was donated. Letting go of those things, I felt an unburdening. Those items were no longer distractions because they no longer existed for me. Plus, it felt good knowing that some of it was being appreciated by someone else.

You’ll have to go through everything and I mean EVERYTHING. Storage areas will probably be what takes the longest because this is where hidden memories lie and anything you wanted out of sight, but not out of reach. If you don’t have one cabinet or storage bin with knick-knacks, memorabilia, mementos, etc., then I applaud you, I truly do. But this isn’t the case for most people.

Take a look at what you are storing for future use. Don’t just look at a tote or cabinet as a whole, assuming you know what’s inside and leave it as is. Open all of them. Look at each item. Ask yourself:

What am I saving this for?

What occasion, life circumstance, event?

Is this something that will last over time or will too much time render it useless?

I have a lot of holiday decorations so having space to store all of these is necessary. Stacks on stacks on stacks of old newspapers and magazines, not so much. Keep the things you actually use.

Make your ideal life circumstance more immediate. Think about the reason you are saving a particular item. What do you envision as it’s ideal use? Has the time since passed that an item like that was relevant to your life? I had a black dress, classic girl’s night out LBD, and I was saving that bad boy for the perfect night. After a few years of waiting for that perfect night, I had gained some weight and the dress no longer fit. I kept it as a talisman to my old body and vowed that I would get in that dress one day. For years, I kept that dress hanging where I would see it daily, but that day never came. Even when I got back down to a healthy weight, my body had changed so significantly I was never able to wear it. It was donated with the price tag still on.

It is important to evaluate how much longer something can sit untouched before it’s useless from old age or is no longer relevant to you. Every day is a great to use your best stuff. Celebrate yourself. Try to think back to why you wanted this item in the first place. Have you changed in a way that makes an item useless to you?

Purging isn’t something that you can accomplish in one night or even one week. You’ll likely have to go through this process a few times. There may be some things you need to hold on to now, but in 3 or 6 months, after having saved it from the discard pile originally you might finally accept that the item is not for you. THIS IS OKAY! It is okay to get rid of things and you should. Change is good. Feel the burden lift, feel your space expand. After a lifetime of holding on to things so tightly, I was drowning in possessions that had no longer served a purpose for me. A person can only keep so much stuff. At some point you have to just let it go and trust me, it feels great!

Drop your purged items off periodically, then give yourself a pat on the back. You can even feel good about donating something that somebody else will be able to put to use. While donating is better than just throwing things in the trash, there are some things really do need to go into the trash. Face it, you’re probably not using it/wearing it because it’s raggedy AF. Nobody else wants your junk either. Look at that raggedy, broken, used up item and know it has lived its best life. Thank it, say good bye and drop it in the trash.

I know how hard it is to part with our beloved treasures. When I moved from the one bedroom I occupied in my parents’ house into my own two bedroom apartment, it was like my stuff exploded to fill the space. I still don’t know where I had been keeping it all before. Instead of purging during that move, I found a way to keep it all. For almost 10 years I moved all that stuff around and reorganized it, trying to continue to fit it into my space along with 10 more years’ worth of newly acquired items. It was disorder so apparent that it seemed to be organized. I knew it was time to do something about it when I helped Gramma get rid of things she’d been holding on to for half a century or longer.

It’s in the nature of humans to always want more, like the number of possessions we have somehow defines us. With all that I’ve accomplished in the short time since I’ve finished purging, I try not to be upset with myself for not doing it sooner. With the extra space in my home, I was able to reorganize my kitchen storage, create a functional workspace and give my plants room to flourish. The energy changed because the space had changed. Even though it was the same apartment, it felt brand new. That’s what I needed. What you need is probably different, we’re all unique in our own ways. Figure out what you need and envision your ideal space. Once you have that first encounter with the bliss of eliminating what no longer serves your goals, I promise you’ll like it.

#purging #donate #get rid of it #unburden #moveon #bestlifenow #kaywriteswords

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southboundhq · 4 years

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MEET NEVE,

FULL NAME › Genevieve ‘Neve’ Sloane Channing AGE › thirty one GENDER › Cis female (She/Her/Hers) FROM › Portland, Oregon RESIDENCE › Tangerine Drive (Midtown) OCCUPATION › ER Nurse at the Amen County General Hospital NOW PLAYING › Troublemaker by Beach House

BIOGRAPHY,

trigger/content warnings: murder, death, graphic violence, mental health, postpartum depression, suicide, cancer, drug mention, parent death, medical, euthanasia mention, stalking, guns

THE FOG CREEPS IN ; GIRLHOOD IS A GRAVEYARD

genevieve channing is born on a cold, grey february sometime around midnight to douglas and paula channing while the heavy oregon fog kisses the modest concrete jungle of portland oregon like a phantom. paula gives her a big name, telling the nurses with heady confidence that she’ll be famous one day, and it’s the biggest gift she ever gives her. baby genevieve is in her arms so often, she hardly touches a cradle, but it’s not long until douglas feels an uneasiness creeping in.

paula is bohemian silk skirts and crushed velvet. she grows restless being trapped in the plain, modest home in northeast. she is a woman that is easy to fall in love with—not meant to sit at home idly with a collicy baby, where she finds herself in tears more than ever. douglas returns from work to find baby genevieve screaming unattended in her crib while paula cries in the backyard with an ashtray full of cigarettes. she tells him she’s worried she’ll crash the car one day on the way to the grocery store with them both inside. douglas digs his teeth into his bottom lip and tries not to cry. he squeezes her hand and tells her she needs to go to therapy. what he really wants to tell her is that their baby needs her. he leaves paula outside and spends the afternoon tidying the house with genevieve swaddled against his chest. it’s a warm feeling.

it’s not long after that paula starts disappearing for periods of time and douglas learns she can’t be trusted to watch after the baby on her own. when she calls from downtown in tears, hyperverbal and desperate, he picks her up in his old chevy truck and brings her home. she agrees to see a doctor and for awhile, they figure out how to live again. some days are even as sweet as the rhubarb pies she starts to make again.

THE ODDS ARE STACKED AGAINST HER ; A GIRL LEARNS TO COUNT CARDS

SPRING RETURNS TO PORTLAND ; THE FROST CLINGS TO FRAGILE BONES

DEATH RATTLES AND DYING BREATH ; THE GIRL’S OTHER SHOE DROPS

HACKLES RAISED, A GIRL LEARNS THE DANGERS OF BEING FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE

A FINAL GIRL IS FORGED ALONE ; THERE IS NO SUBVERTING FATE

LOVE IS A HARD KNIFE ; A GIRL CAN’T STOMACH AMBROSIA

on the road without a real plan–because if she doesn’t know where she’s going, then neither does evan–neve signs on for a travel nursing company. the first assignment she considers is salem hospital an hour south and it’s a great department, but it’s too close to home. he’ll find her there easily. st. charles in bend isn’t far enough away either. it doesn’t feel like enough of a difference and none of them do until she’s cruising down the interstate through blythe, california and she sees a listing for a level one trauma center in tuscon, arizona. it feels like it could be the right place to burn and be born again.

A GIRL AND HER DOG; SOMETIMES PEACE IS ITS OWN KIND OF PRISON

the cool steel of the snub nose .357 revolver lies buried beneath her registration and owner’s manual in the glove compartment. she wonders briefly as she pulls out her sunglasses and slips a salty french fry into her mouth. the car stereo fades in and out along the southbound highway, switching between some smooth-talking radio host and the tinny crooning of buddy holly. it makes her think of her father, and she blinks back tears–plugging in her iphone to switch to a tune that doesn’t bring back such painful memories. robocop whines in the backseat and neve discovers that her maps aren’t loading any longer, the gps unable to locate their vehicle.

there’s no sense in pulling over and pulling out the map of arizona she purchased from a disinterested teen in the first gas station she’d come across in the state. there’s only two days before the job starts and, according to her recruiter, they’d already moved the orientation up a day, cutting her time to adjust to her new ( temporary ) place before work in half. taking a long drink of coffee–now as cold as her french fries–she blinks hard to keep awake and just when she thinks she’ll have to pull over and sleep in her car huddled close to robocop’s warm, furry body.

neve passes a hospital on the outskirts of town–lit up all pretty against the dark desert sky. it looks nice enough and the longer she drives, the more she considers that her recruiter might’ve told her they were full up in tuscon. maybe that was why they moved the date up for orientation afterall. in the dark august night, most of the businesses are closed and the lights in the mobile home park neve passes are off. the first place she sees open is bj’s food mart and she stops to get a fresh cup of coffee and stretch her legs. she learns inside that amen county is always hiring and leaves with a smile on her lips.

neve has spent nine peaceful months in boot hill. the gun no longer lives shoved into the bottom of her work bag or nestled into the glove compartment of her subaru. now it spends its days in solitude in the coffin-like drawer of her bedside table. evan will never find this place, she is almost sure of it. he might be looking for her, but he’s not looking for boot hill. some evenings on her long strolls to work, she smiles and closes her eyes–listening to the soothing sounds of the town.

soon enough, neve is sure there really was no travel assignment to reach. or, if there had been, she can’t remember where it’s at. instead, she takes some time to enjoy the small town and the anonymity she feels there. she’s not even living out of the silk bonnet hotel anymore. she hadn’t seen boot hill on any map during her road trip and, if that’s universal, her past can’t find her without a destination to set its sights on. there is more than great comfort in that. by the end of her first month, she can’t imagine living anywhere else.

the emergency department is not the bustling trauma center she was used to, but there is an appeal to the autonomy rural medicine offers an experienced nurse. hell, in some places the doctors only come in if you call them. neve can’t exactly remember the application and interview process anymore. it seems like there are so many things that have become mysteries and she can’t find herself caring enough to investigate them long enough to follow an actual lead. it seems like she’s always worked there–an instantaneous sensation of home. she couldn’t even leave if she wanted to.

❝ how else can i say it but like this? like a fever, i burned and then broke. how else can i say it but like this? like the dawn, i broke and then rose. ❞

CENSUS,

FACECLAIM › Adelaide Kane AUTHOR › Lucia

#adelaide kane #rp #rpg #lsrp #town rp #bio rp #{ all. }#{ local. }#{ f. }#{ over thirty. }#{ lucia. }#stalking tw #death tw #cancer tw #murder tw #suicide tw

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mentalmimosa · 5 years

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never for money, always for love

Prompt: Partners in crime

The job went bad fast. But when didn't they? That’s how the game got played.

Truth be told, things would’ve been fine had Baldr not tried to screw them. Loki had tried to warn Thor repeatedly that the man couldn’t be trusted, no matter how much muscle he brought to the table; Baldr was the type of crook who never made his own work but hitched his wagon to others--a taker, not a giver. He had no imagination, no insight. And he wasn’t even that good in bed.

But Thor hadn’t listened, the stubborn ass that he was, and now Baldr had taken the best of the loot for himself and left the two of them, as it were, high and dry.

“He has kids,” Loki said. “What have I told you, huh? Never trust anyone who has children. It fucks with their decision-making.”

Thor sighed and turned back to look through the windscreen. “What’s done is done, Lo. There’s no use haranguing me about it now.”

“I disagree. There’s every use. Killing time, for instance. How much longer?”

“Another few hours. We’ll be there soon, before morning. You should try and get some sleep.”

Loki dug himself into the passenger’s seat of the Packard, scowling. “I don’t need a nap, Thor. Don’t treat me like a cranky child.”

“Then stop acting like one,” his brother said to the road, to the darkness, to the lonely stretch of road that lay ahead. “Easy, right?”

They were headed for a safe house of sorts up near Erie, a bedraggled little place that their father had bought and as a joke namedValhalla. There was running water and a kitchen, a fireplace; in the corner, a four-poster bed. When they were kids, there’d been cots, three of them, in the same space the bed now swallowed. It was the only accuretrement that Thor had agreed to, the only change to the space he’d allowed Loki to make. He missed their father, Loki’s brother did, and it brought him some sort of comfort, keeping the cabin as it had been. But Odin was dead and they weren’t children now and the pretense of separate cots was long gone, washed away in first their shared grief and then in a common lust and now, after almost five years, Loki couldn’t remember the last night that he’d slept alone.

“I hate this place,” he said when they stood in the first hints of sunlight, staring the closed shutters, the hammered steps, the roof blanketed in pinecones and leave.

“No, you don’t. You’re just tired.” Thor slipped around the hood of the car and laid a hand on Loki’s hip, slid the other through the tangled mess of his hair. “Come inside and wash your face, hmm? I’ll make you breakfast.”

“There’s no good being nice to me. I’m still angry with you.”

“All right,” Thor said mildly. His thumb brushed Loki’s cheek. “Be mad all you want. Doesn’t change the fact that you need to eat.”

Inside, things were dusty. Loki made a show of pulling the sheets from the furniture, a mundane sort of unveiling: Odin’s armchair, the battered settee, a wobbly coffee table that Thor had made when they were kids. The bed. The bed.

While Thor rattled in the pantry, Loki pulled clean linens from a closet and made the bed. There was a fitted sheet, a flat one, a quilt older than both of them. Pillowcases faded from white to ivory, bent with neat creases where Loki had folded them the last time--had long had it been? A year, maybe. A little more.

They were better at the family business than their father had ever been and they didn’t have to hide out here very often anymore; they lived most of their lives out in the open, walking down the sooty streets of Pittsburgh with a confidence borne of success, of establishment, of jobs run not just in the Steel City but in Philadelphia and Baltimore and even, sometimes, New York. They worked only as much as they had to and kept only what they needed; the rest of it they could afford to quietly give away or lose to the Baldrs of the world, the stupid unscrupulous types who, in Loki’s opinion, gave the whole stealing-from-the-rich thing a bad name. Nobody in Pittsburgh remembered their father; he’d worked hard to keep it that way. But Loki and Thor had made a conscious choice to be known, to become respectable members of their community--the last people, Thor liked to say, that the cops on the beat would even think to suspect; it was better to hide in plain sight.

But there was one part of their lives that they had to keep hidden in the city. They couldn’t walk around holding hands or kiss in the street; they couldn’t stand too close on the trolley or make eyes at each other over a drink. They had to be careful, even behind their own locked doors; the walls in their duplex on the South Side sometimes felt paper-thin. It was only out here, where it had all started, that they could be as loud as they wanted, could give in to the feral passion of the old days and make love without fear of somebody watching or hearing or judging and it was the one thing, the one, that made the trip up here palatable for Loki, knowing it would end with him on the bed, crushed between the mattress and his brother’s big, greedy dick, making as much noise as he damn well wanted every time Thor’s cock rocked in and out and brushed that hot, perfect spot.

Loki was still mad at his brother, of course, still furious at his seemingly God-given ability to ignore sage advice. But his hands were kneading the quilt, too, and he was breathing harder, and that had to come first, didn’t it? Before they could eat breakfast or shout at each other about what had gone wrong. His brother. His body. This bed.

The floorboard creaked. He turned his head. Thor was standing there, holding a can of something, his coat gone, his sleeves rolled up, his eyes bright and yet somehow beautifully dark.

“Loki,” he said, burnished silver. “Is there something you want?”

Loki’s voice was a tremor. His arms were, his hands still braced on the bed. “Yes,” he said to the man he loved above everything, the only person in the world whose welfare worried him more than his own. “Thor. I need you.”

When his brother kissed him, can abandoned and his hands in Loki’s hair, holding, the steel in his body pressing Loki’s hips to the bed, Loki felt the fight in him soften, the anger of the last hours, the fear, leaking out like hot air, leached out through Thor’s kisses, the busy slide of his fingers, the warm, perfect press of bared skin.

“I remember the first time we did this,” Thor murmured against Loki’s throat, his palms sliding under Loki’s trousers and into his shorts, swallowing the curves of Loki’s ass. “The first time you asked for me like that. You were so beautiful, brother. So greedy. There were tears all over your face.”

Loki pressed into Thor’s grip. “I wasn’t crying for Father.”

“I know that. I knew even before you told me.”

“I was angry.” Loki licked his brother’s lips. “I was sure you were going to leave me. Go off with Baldr or Frigg or somebody like you always said that you would.”

Thor made a soft, sad sound. His grip on Loki’s ass tightened. “Wouldn’t have left you, Lo. If I’d gone, I’d have taken you with me.”

“Would you?” It was an old question, an old game between them, but now, here, it felt real. “Would you really?”

“Yes, baby. Yes. Yes. ”

The first time had been rough, both of them pulled thin by the pain of their father’s last hours, the terrible cries of pain as the cancer bit at his bones, and then the awful, unending silence. They’d buried him in a little clearing in the woods behind the house, six feet down like he’d taught them and wrapped in an old, white sheet. It was nearly dark by the time that they’d finished and stumbled up the steps back into the house. It had still stunk of the dying. There hadn’t been any morphine left.

But there had been dirt on Loki’s hands when he’d reached for his brother that night, pine needles still sharp in his hair, and when Thor had clutched his wrists and stared at him, stared, he’d been frightened but unwilling to take a step back.

“What the hell are you doing?” Thor had said.

“You must know,” Loki’d said, brittle, “or you wouldn’t be trying to stop me.”

He’d been sure that Thor would push him away--one last rejection before fleeing to find a new life, one free from all ties of the past--but instead, his brother had looked at him again, those blue eyes turning and searching, looking past the gathering shadows to find the outlines of Loki’s face.

Thor said: “Are you sure?”

“Of what?”

“That this is what you want. Me.” Thor’s thumbs had stroked his wrists, all at once gentle. “Are you sure?”

Loki laughed. He’d tried to. But all that came out was a croak. “Gods, yes.”

And then Thor’s grip had shifted, had crawled up his arms past his elbows and crested on the tops of his shoulders, come to rest on the back of his neck. “If you don’t feel the same tomorrow,” he said softly, “if you want to leave here, you can, Lo. You can leave and never look back.”

In the morning, though, Loki had crawled sore and needy from his cot and onto his brother’s and Thor had taken him again with Loki teetering above him, impaled, spunk dried on his belly and his balls drawn up tight and his head thrown back, wailing, clawing at Thor’s chest with one hand as he pumped his cock and Thor had followed him over, groaning, the wet twitch of his dick deep inside of Loki’s body enough to make him cry out again.

Now, years later, they were fucking in their own bed, in a place of their own making, and the troubles of the city, of the business, seemed so small here, so insignificant, with first Thor’s face and then his cock buried between Loki’s thighs.

“You’re brothers,” their father had told them when they were small, first learning the tools of the trade. “Never mind who your mothers were. I’m your father. It’s my blood that binds you, which means you must be loyal to each other, you understand? The rest of the world can go fuck itself but you two, you must always be allied.” He’d bent down and put his heavy hands on their shoulders, his knees kissing the hard cabin floor. “Do you know what the word ‘allied’ means, Thor?”

“No, Father.”

“Hmm. Do you, Loki?”

“No.”

Their father’s fingers had tightened. “It means,” he said fiercely, “that you must always stay together, no matter what happens. You must look out for each other, yes? There will be times, I’m sure, when you don’t like each other, but it doesn’t matter. You must always have each other’s backs because no one else in this damnable world ever will.”

They hadn’t known then, how could they, that he was including himself. He’d betrayed them more times than Loki could count, spent years in their youth pitting them against the other, creating a needless competition, an awful kind of rivalry, that had on more than one occasion nearly gotten them caught--or worse, torn them apart.

But there was something unbreakable between them; that’s what their father had taught them. A bond so firm and so strong that even he couldn’t break it. And his death--long, slow, and indescribably painful--had only solidified it, helped reshape into this thing that kept them tangled always, two vines that could never be disentwined.

“Brother,” Loki panted, his nails biting at Thor’s back. He felt desperate, wild with it, the smell of dust in his nose, the sun cutting into his eyes. “Harder. Fuck me harder. I’m close. I’m so fucking close. I need--”

Thor growled, a deep, hungry sound, and sat up a little. He grabbed at the back of Loki’s knees, spread him wider and shoved in deeper and grinned like a madman. “Like this?” he said. “Is that better, baby? Is that what you want? Oh, gods, Loki, look at you. I love you like this.”

Then there was no more need for speech; there was only noise, pleasure and need and the pound of the four-poster combined.

“I love you,” Loki said when it was quiet again, when Thor’s head was pressed to the sound of his heart.

“Really? I thought you were ready to disown me after yesterday.”

“I still might.”

Thor chuckled. He toyed with the sticky mess on Loki’s stomach. “But not right now, is that it?”

“Not right now.” Loki threaded a hand through his brother’s hair and pulled the great golden head up to his own. “I accept your apology.”

“You do, huh?”

“I do.”

Thor grinned against his mouth, his touch growing bolder, his smirk wider. “Oh, really? How would you feel about accepting another one?”

Around them, the world was waking up, the woods, the far-away cities. The room in which they lay, once dingy and crowded with ghosts, was full of clean air and the sweet sharpness of sunlight. That was their doing, their own legacy, Loki thought hazily as his brother stroked him back to hardness and murmured sweetness in his ear. Now, this was their place.

“Don’t worry,” Thor whispered as he pulled Loki beneath him. “We won’t have to stay here too long.”

Loki arched his back and whimpered as Thor entered him in one swift, needy stroke. “I don’t mind,” he managed, winding his arms around his brother’s neck. “I love it here. This is home.”

#thorki #1930s au #criminals au

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nohcrm · 4 years

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( ADELAIDE KANE / 32 / SHE/HER ) – ( neve channing ) has been spotted in the castle. they said to originally be from ( portland, oregon ) and is often seen to be ( self-possessed ) but seemingly ( resilient ). After being in Wolfenstein for ( time in compound ), they’ve come to ( quietly rebel against ) the council in their own way. They work as ( a nurse ) and are known around these parts as ( the healer ). better watch your back with that one around.

A LIST OF (AT LEAST) 6 AESTHETICS FOR THIS CHARACTER: the soft inky fur of a canine companion, a maroon stethoscope hanging around a neck–partially obscured by a curtain of dark hair, a father’s watch with a black leather band that is faithfully worn and cared for, a worn leather jacket that fits like a second skin, a small pile of books read and re-read–the ones with traditional medical treatments dogeared and the margins written in, restless nights after years of working the nightshift. THE SONG YOU SEE AS THIS CHARACTERS THEME: troublemaker by beach house (AT LEAST) THREE HEADCANON: neve had accepted a job as a nurse on a private european tour group as a way to see europe without having to pay for it herself after having been stalked and wanting to sort of disappear. prior to that she was an er nurse in portland oregon. she’s always been a successful and competent nurse, but her confidence in her skills has undergone some change since the supplies and medications have had to be adapted. neve sees the pragmatic need for making harsh choices; she’s made several of her own before and since the outbreak. still, she’s not always a stringent rule follower and she’ll do things for the good of others even if that doesn’t always gel with the interests of the council. she keeps to herself socially as much as she can, but she’s generally very tender and compassionate with those she treats and likely has a positive reputation despite being a bit reserved.

BIOGRAPHY,

trigger/content warnings: murder, death, graphic violence, mental health, postpartum depression, suicide, cancer, drug mention, parent death, medical, euthanasia mention, stalking, guns.

THE FOG CREEPS IN ; GIRLHOOD IS A GRAVEYARD

paula is bohemian silk skirts and crushed velvet. she grows restless being trapped in the plain, modest home in northeast. she is a woman that is easy to fall in love with—not meant to sit at home idly with a collicy baby, where she finds herself in tears more than ever. douglas returns from work to find baby genevieve screaming unattended in her crib while paula cries in the backyard with an ashtray full of cigarettes. she tells him she’s worried she’ll crash the car one day on the way to the grocery store with them both inside. douglas digs his teeth into his bottom lip and tries not to cry. he squeezes her hand and tells her she needs to go to therapy. what he really wants to tell her is that their baby needs her. he leaves paula outside and spends the afternoon tidying the house with genevieve swaddled against his chest. it’s a warm feeling.

THE ODDS ARE STACKED AGAINST HER ; A GIRL LEARNS TO COUNT CARDS

SPRING RETURNS TO PORTLAND ; THE FROST CLINGS TO FRAGILE BONES

DEATH RATTLES AND DYING BREATH ; THE GIRL’S OTHER SHOE DROPS

HACKLES RAISED, A GIRL LEARNS THE DANGERS OF BEING FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE

A FINAL GIRL IS FORGED ALONE ; THERE IS NO SUBVERTING FATE

LOVE IS A HARD KNIFE ; A GIRL CAN’T STOMACH AMBROSIA

she’s seen the ad on her instagram stories for weeks. some nurse she follows has a few spots open for a trip across europe–international travel nursing. it seems too good to be true; it seems like it could be a nightmare. six weeks with a tour group–neve guesses made up of people living way beyond her means–with room and board paid for. it’s an opportunity to see europe and get away from the grief and fears that wait for her around every corner at home. it doesn’t take much for her to convince herself and when she finds out that she can bring robocop along as a therapy dog? there’s no reason not to go.

DEATH RIDES A PALE HORSE ; THE AXIOM OF AN APOCALYPSE

the first inklings of the outbreak pique neve’s interest–an amateur virulogist and a woman on the front lines, she turns her watchful eye on the reports. they are an obscurity, an oddity. they are a fun hobby that neve debates with her new coworkers and the more interesting patrons of the european tour so that she does not lament the northwest so viscerally. the passing jokes do not end when the mandatory screenings are brought up among the two other nurses on the trip. ‘it’s just like ebola all over again’ her colleagues joke. no one takes threats seriously when they’re far away; sometimes the only protection against the weight of the world is levity. the old nurse adage rings true–if you don’t laugh, you might cry.

the work is easy, but tedious. she misses being an er nurse instead of what feels like a concierge to webmd abroad. most of the people aren’t so bad, but she doesn’t really connect with them either. since evan, she had a hard time connecting with anybody. it’s not just the work she misses from back home. she misses her friends and the distant family she left behind. she misses working at night, so she can feel safe sleeping during the day. an entire ocean separates her from her greatest fear and yet it seems she’s never free. that fear consumes her so entirely, that as the outbreak worsens, she isn’t as vigilant as she might have been.

A GIRL AND HER DOG ; AUSTRIA BECOMES A WASTELAND

their group isn’t built on loyalty. it doesn’t take long for fear to drive a wedge between them and several of them split off–either to reunite themselves with their families or to take shelter with other rich eccentrics. neve is invited by some vaguely cultist woman to what she refers to as her compound, but declines. there is nothing good out there for any of them, but she’s afraid that going as someone’s charity case will rob her of her agency. there’s no way she can offer up her only semblance of control to a woman who thinks essential oils cure cancer.

instead, a small band of the travelers survives together for almost a year. it’s difficult and they lose and gain people among them with fair frequency. neve does her best to care for the others, but even with her background and the supplies she’d brought on the trip, it’s hard to treat traumatic injuries and infections in a foreign country with no infrastructure or reliable power. she loses more patients in that year than she can stand, but there are little victories too. she tries not to weight hem against one another–a feather of successes against a pile of lead losses.

WOLF AND WOMAN PERSIST ; IN THE FACE OF CLUB AND FANG

wolfenstein exists as a curious dream–an atlantis built as salvation. she and her surviving companions can hardly believe it’s real when they hear the transmission on the radio. it’s painful to hope, and part of her worries that it’s part of some nefarious scheme; they’ve run into some untoward survivors before, but at the risk of sounding cliched–no risk, no reward. sure enough, there is a big reward: civilization, no matter how rudimentary. after nearly a year scrounging and fighting to survive, there truly is hope. she worries they won’t accept her with a dog she won’t let go of, but an emergency nurse in the apocalypse has more leverage than a dozen physician specialties. he is well trained. he can help with some work. they’re a packaged deal.

the rules are simple, reasonable. she’s trained for mass casualty incidents where resources have to be given to those who will likely be able to survive outside of the hospital when all is said an done. that kind of choice is difficult for those attracted to careers built on compassion, but neve has always accepted the responsibility of it. still, it’s hard for her to justify turning people away who might not always be able to contribute meaningfully. there’s no longer hipaa or ethics committees; there is only the council, of which she too is a member. still, she keeps records of everyone and holds their health information close to her heart. if she can keep some chronic illnesses a secret, she will. no one wants to feed someone who might not be able to work further down the line.

some people must wonder if her interests are aligned with the greater good or the individual, but she keeps that answer close to her chest: it depends.

#biography #wolfen.intro #it's long and i've tried to put trigger warnings at the top of the bio because they are plentiful

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bitterbetterbun · 5 years

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Umber

[Pt.1/Day 1 of NaNoWriMo]

Klara laughed at the lighthearted response to her question. It wasn’t every night that she met someone still willing to hold fast to their sense of humor. She liked that about Jennifer. The sky began to brighten around them, the Sun calling for dawn over the hills in the distance. The wind that blew Jennifer’s hair into her face and wrapped it around her neck was lost on Klara. She wished she could feel it. Instead, she knowingly turned her attention to the train tracks behind Jennifer’s heels.

“I really enjoyed talking with you tonight.”

Jennifer smiled, the sheen of wet in her eyes showing the sincerity of her momentary happiness. Though Klara knew she was in no danger, she took a step back.

“So, Miss Lingston. How did you die?”

The roaring sound of a train horn came from behind Jennifer just as she stepped back onto the train tracks. Klara closed her eyes when the blaring lights came into sight, turning her head as she heard the all too familiar sound of metal going at 90 miles per hour obliterate flesh and bone within a millisecond.

The soft sound of an alarm came over the loud whoosh of the train. Klara opened her eyes and stared up at her ceiling. She silenced the alarm and sighed.

“Another suicide.”

The wood floor beneath her feet as she got out of bed was a comfort she welcomed. It reminded her that she was awake, and in better cases, that she was real. Klara flicked on the TV as she made her way around her small apartment, readying herself. The newscasters voice came to life.

‘-has not yet been a full 24 hours since forty-seven year old Jennifer Lingston’s tragic accident and yet, hundreds of family members and friends have gathered to make sure she will never be forgotten. City council will be meeting in an hour to discuss the addition of a train track safety class in all school districts...’

Klara started up the shower, happy to drown out the robotic voice coming from her television. She stood under the stream of water, letting in encompass the whole of her body and wash away all of the vivid memories she had from the previous night. The worst part, she thought, was that they were not even her memories to begin with.

After her shower and another fifteen minutes of scrambling around her bedroom to dig out her sweaters, Klara was out the door. The scent of fall was in the air and she was all too ready for it. The beautiful leaves, crisp and nearly weightless, reminded her of an important recurring theme in her life. Death and the beauty within it. The leaves turn, ripen and wisen on their branches until it is their time to let go. Then they float down, like snow flakes, softly kissing the gound at the end of their decent. The allegory of it all was ironic to Klara. Perhaps we all do fly at the end of our lives. But Klara knew better. Flying and falling were two very different things.

Then there were the leaves that were picked off, their lush green lives taken from them prematurely. And the accidents, as well, the leaves blown off by the wind. That was the difference between humans and leaves. Most leaves fall when they were ready and the few rest come to and end of their cycles prematurely.

Humans almost never made it to the grave organically. The gust of wind plucking a healthy leaf from a branch could be the cancerous smoke from cigarettes that entered a man’s lungs. Everything about humanity was nearly inhumane.

Klara took a deep breath of the autumn air. Fall really was the most beautiful time of year. But no matter how she looked at it -- the crunchy leaves, the warm, earthy smells -- Klara couldn’t help but think about the fact that she was surrounded by death.

The bright sound of a bell rang as Klara entered a coffee shop. With a glance, she spotted who she was looking for and moved to join him.

“Morning sunshine,” Talbot welcomced Klara, never breaking eye contact with the newspaper in one of his hands, a coffee cup in the other.

“Morning.”

Klara set her bag and coat down in the chair across from his.

“Want a refill?”

“You know it.”

Klara took Talbot’s cup, returning shortly with it and one of her own.

“Train track safety classes,” Talbot tossed the paper to the side with a humorous grunt as he lifted his freshly filled coffee cup to his lips.

“But of course, using that money to teach kids about important things like, I don’t know, sex-ed maybe? Well, that would be atrocious.”

“No one wants to think about their kids fucking, Talbot, they wanna prevent their deaths.”

“STDs?”

After staring at Talbot with concern, the two friends broke out in laughter. If there was anything they agreed on, it was everything.

“Tal, did you know doctor visits from STDs directly fund the golden toilet seats in the White House?”

“You’re wrong, Klara.”

Talbot took a sip of coffee, lowering lifting his brows.

“They fund the man that wipes the shit off of the President’s ass.”

“Jokes on you!” Klara slammed her hands on the table in victory as she leaned forward.

“His is only doing his country’s duty so he isn’t even getting paid.”

“Did you just say ‘duty’?”

The two laughed again as Klara kicked Talbot from underneath the table. Though the coffee shop was small, its environment seemed to welcome people like Klara and Talbot with its private tables and warm and cozy atmosphere. Talbot smiled at Klara, glad to see the life back in her eyes after a fit of laughter. He could only imagine what she must have gone through last night. He leaned in to speak softly.

“So?”

“Another suicide.”

“How do you know?”

“Like I know every time,” Klara propped her chin up on a fist, “she told me.”

Talbot nodded, sitting back as she assessed the information from his friend. He leaned in again.

“Klara, how long do these dreams usually last?”

“I don’t know. Time is weird in dreams. Sometimes it can feel like I’m there, living their whole life with them. Other times, it goes in a flash. All I know is they all have one thing in common.”

Talbot tapped the front page of the newspaper on the table, “That they all died the day before.”

“Ugh.”

Klara put her hands over her face, rubbing her eyes in tired, circular motions.

“This is all too weird.”

Talbot grabbed hold of one of her hands, pulling it from her face.

“Let’s be fair, klar,” he stroked it while tenderly looking her in the eyes, “you were weird before this phenomenon.”

Klara snatched her hand, giving him a sly ‘whatever’ smile. He knew just how to make her feel better. That’s why he had become the only person she could trust when it came to things she couldn’t understand.

“Think of it as like some sort of power, hm?”

Klara sipped her latte, mulling it over.

“It can’t be a power. It’s not like I can save any of these people. They come into my dreams after they’re already dead.”

“Who said everyone with powers has to be a hero?”

Damn, Klara thought. He had a point.

“Fine.”

She sat back, lifting up her chin.

“Then tell me, oh wise sir, what shall I do with this... spectacular talent?”

“God, I thought you’d never ask.”

Talbot slammed his laptop onto the table, the browser page open and ready. Klara jumped in surprise.

“Did you have that waiting under the table the whole time?”

“Read it.”

Klara rolled her eyes, fixating her gaze upon the screen. She looked from one striking word in the article to the next, pinning phrases in her mind; fortune teller, witch, speaker of the dead.

“You want me to be a wacko physic?”

“I want you to make yourself some money.”

Klara’s brows lifted in curiosity. Talbot took that as a sign to continue.

“You don’t have to tell people their futures, the exact opposite really. Connect with the families that lost a loved one and give them some clarity and closure.”

Talbot clicked to another tab full of information on the topic.

“It won’t be like you’re taking advantage of families that lost someone dear to them because it’s true, you actually do see these people. You charge for your service, that’s all. And-”

Klara gently closed the laptop, abruptly stopping Talbot in the middle of his prepared speech. As if reading her mind, he knowingly rubbed the back of her hand with his.

“I hear you, Tal. It’s a good idea. I mean, I am poor.”

“You are poor, oppressed and a POC which basically screams ‘steal from the rich’ if you ask me.”

Klara sighed out some laughter.

“True. I’m just not sure if I’m ready to let the world know about all of…” she gestured to her head, “this yet.”

“I get that.”

Talbot grabbed both of her hands, looking his friend in the eyes.

“Drinks.”

Klara smiled, “strong drinks.”

She found it silly, being able to find comfort in another person when the thing she feared the most was within them all. Her whole life was turning out to be a contradiction. But perhaps, she thought, she was looking at it wrong. A gust of wind blew a pile of pumpkin stained and maroon leaves around outside. Perhaps it wasn’t a contradiction but that one thing complimented the other. Death was not to be feared, it was a thing to be accepted. It was a thing of beauty. And as brightly as life shone throughout all of them -- the buzzing sounds of a coffee shop, the pitter-patter of people hurrying to work outside -- death was in them all. That wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Perhaps knowing that one day will be your last, it would help a person to live each day as just that -- their last. Or, in contrast, the pressure could make that same person end it all before something else had the chance.

Klara shook her head. She was thinking too much again. Her thoughts were not her own nowadays, and she found herself analyzing every aspect of life as it is and after its course. She was aware she was no philosopher but she sure felt like it, sometimes. But though another may have a different take on the prospect of life and death, one thing would always remain certain.

Death was inevitable.

The two gathered their things, Klara wrapping herself up in a thick knitted scarf as they headed out for their next stop.

#nanowrimo #umber #pt 1 #day 1 #writings #original work

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southboundhqarchive · 5 years

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MEET NEVE,

FULL NAME › Genevieve ‘Neve’ Sloane Channing AGE › thirty GENDER › Cis female (She/Her/Hers) FROM › Portland, Oregon RESIDENCE › Tangerine Street (Midtown) OCCUPATION › ER Nurse at the Amen County General Hospital NOW PLAYING › Troublemaker by Beach House

BIOGRAPHY,

trigger warnings: murder, death, graphic violence, mental health, postpartum depression, suicide, cancer, drug mention, parent death, medical, euthanasia mention, stalking, guns

THE FOG CREEPS IN ; GIRLHOOD IS A GRAVEYARD

paula is bohemian silk skirts and crushed velvet. she grows restless being trapped in the plain, modest home in northeast. she is a woman that is easy to fall in love with—not meant to sit at home idly with a collicy baby, where she finds herself in tears more than ever. douglas returns from work to find baby genevieve screaming unattended in her crib while paula cries in the backyard with an ashtray full of cigarettes. she tells him she’s worried she’ll crash the car one day on the way to the grocery store with them both inside. douglas digs his teeth into his bottom lip and tries not to cry. he squeezes her hand and tells her she needs to go to therapy. what he really wants to tell her is that their baby needs her. he leaves paula outside and spends the afternoon tidying the house with genevieve swaddled against his chest. it’s a warm feeling.

THE ODDS ARE STACKED AGAINST HER ; A GIRL LEARNS TO COUNT CARDS

SPRING RETURNS TO PORTLAND ; THE FROST CLINGS TO FRAGILE BONES

DEATH RATTLES AND DYING BREATH ; THE GIRL’S OTHER SHOE DROPS

HACKLES RAISED, A GIRL LEARNS THE DANGERS OF BEING FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE

A FINAL GIRL IS FORGED ALONE ; THERE IS NO SUBVERTING FATE

LOVE IS A HARD KNIFE ; A GIRL CAN’T STOMACH AMBROSIA

on the road without a real plan–because if she doesn’t know where she’s going, then neither does evan–neve signs on for a travel nursing company. the first assignment she considers is salem hospital an hour south and it’s a great department, but it’s too close to home. he’ll find her there easily. st. charles in bend isn’t far enough away either. it doesn’t feel like enough of a difference and none of them do until she’s cruising down the interstate through blythe, california and she sees a listing for a level one trauma center in tuscon, arizona. it feels like it could be the right place to burn and be born again.

A GIRL AND HER DOG; SOMETIMES PEACE IS ITS OWN KIND OF PRISON

the cool steel of the snub nose .357 revolver lies buried beneath her registration and owner’s manual in the glove compartment. she wonders briefly as she pulls out her sunglasses and slips a salty french fry into her mouth. the car stereo fades in and out along the southbound highway, switching between some smooth-talking radio host and the tinny crooning of buddy holly. it makes her think of her father, and she blinks back tears–plugging in her iphone to switch to a tune that doesn’t bring back such painful memories. robocop whines in the backseat and neve discovers that her maps aren’t loading any longer, the gps unable to locate their vehicle.

❝ sometimes people die and you cannot save them; sometimes people do not die and you cannot save them. ❞

CENSUS,

FACECLAIM › Adelaide Kane AUTHOR › Lucia

#adelaide kane #rp #rpg #town rp #new rp #{ all. }#{ local. }#{ f. }#{ over twenty. }#{ lucia. }#stalking tw #cancer tw #suicide tw #murder tw

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scum-belina · 6 years

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My blood boils every time I see my granny or my aunt boohoo about missing my dad on facebook to gain sympathy points from friends and family. They were hardly there for him for the little more than a year he had cancer and was going through chemo. My granny wouldn’t sit 10 minutes with him because “I need a cigarette” or “it hurts me to sit down too long I get nervous” so she’d go sit in the car and smoke???. Then my aunt literally abandoned my dad in MD Anderson, claiming she was sick with anxiety, then come to find out my granny LIED to us that MD Anderson wanted to do a bone marrow transplant, and if it weren’t for my mom’s sister taking us to MD Anderson too my dad would’ve been abandoned there, paralyzed, and in a state of dementia due to the spine and brain lymphomas being back. We had to drive him back to our town at the physical rehabilitation center, which is 5 hours away from MD Anderson.

Because my granny lied, my dying father was put through the misery and humiliation of multiple firefighters trying to put his overweight, paralyzed body in the car, and then having 7 male and female nurses at MD Anderson put him back in the car after the doctors there all but told us to fuck off and accused US about lying about him having a bone marrow transplant. My granny sat on her fat ass at home popping pain pills this whole time. She said she never wanted to and was NOT going to go to MD Anderson with my dad, but she screeched that me and mom HAD to go, even though we were questioning whether her claim was true about whether he was expected at that hospital, since we had no calls from MDA themselves confirming he did, and my granny INSISTED we had to go on a Sunday, which was the day almost all their information desks were closed, so I couldn’t get a confirmation that he was expected there.

That MD Anderson hell trip still has me traumatized. It was more horrible than you can imagine. A few weeks later, my dad died due to the CNS lymphoma being so aggressive when it came back. His last days were horrific. He laid there paralyzed, one eye permanently open and one eye permanently closed due to one of the brain tumors giving him a stroke, he stared off into nothing and just groaned the most horrible sounds I’ve ever heard constantly. His lips stayed constantly severely chapped due to only being able to breathe through his mouth even though nurses tried to keep them medicated. He wasn’t even 50 so to see someone so young who before cancer was as mentally sharp as a whip and physically capable despite being overweight become like this so quickly was again traumatizing. I have and always will have more bad memories of my father than good ones. I have more feelings of anger, and even hate for him than I do joy and love, but I never, ever wished something like this would have happened to him. But it did, and he’s dead now and therefore not a part of my life anymore, and I want to move on with my life and finally not be under the control of him or any other family.

Despite all my negative feeling towards my father, I still spent more time with him than my granny or his sister ever did, especially in his final days. When I said my last goodbyes to him, I said the typical nice things people say when a family members dies, instead of the words I really wanted to say to him out of years of repressed anger and bitterness over verbal and emotional abuse and keeping me dependent on him so I couldn’t go out of the house. They bailed on him multiple times because seeing him was just “too much” for them. Theyd go get drunk and pop pills and then make excuses for why they couldn't show up. They tried to guilt trip him about having to come to see him because it cost them gas money. They’re scum and anyway that just a few of the reasons why seeing them act like they were soooooo there for him and loved him for everyone to see on social media pisses me off to no end, because I know what they were and are like, and it’s vile.

#tw long post #personal

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cholisan · 6 years

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Bereaved[sasuhina]

To those who lost,

I wish I had something to offer to you guys but I don't. Even now I am trying to come up with something to say but words are failing me. I wish I could tell you that it is going to be okay but I can't. I don't know that. No one does. The only thing I can tell you is to hang in there, that it is okay to be not-okay, that if you want to talk about it or anything then I am here, that even if I don't know you my prayers are with you.

This is for you all.

Disclaimer: Don't own Naruto.

Excuse my errors.

Hinata saw it happen.

...his tiny foot twisting under his weight, inertia throwing him face first into the hard ground, his chin connecting first sending ripples that cracked bones in his skull, his teeth sinking into his tongue to tear his flesh apart, a fountain of blood bursting forth upon which he choked, snatching away precious gulps of air that his punctured lung hadn't already robbed him of, legs bent in an impossible angel, a broken tooth near his chubby hand, mouth parted in a cry that never escaped, skin blue and red in several places, a picture from his disaster of a coloring book but still so precious, like his eyes, his smile ,like him, so beautiful to look at yet so devastating to think of when shattered, tattered, broken.

But he screamed.

And the world was turning again.

"Hinata!?"

She blinked.

"Breathe."

It dawned on her that it was her lungs that were burning, it was her body that was aching and it was she who was dying if not already.

"You're crying."

Her eyes found the boy again, still on the ground, wailing as he clung to his scraped knee. A small crowd had gathered around him, two adults crouched near him, a young man and woman definitely his parents, shaken, worried, loving him, kissing. Thank Kami that they weren't them, that he wasn't him. He wasn't him.

Oh Kami, he wasn't him!

Her heart broke again and it sounded like a sob.

"Hinata, sweetie. Try to breathe or you will faint. Breathe in and out. In and out."

So, she breathed in another day without him.

She was going to hell.

But she had no objections whatsoever. If it were up to her, she'd send herself to the endless pit of flames too. Even that would be too kind on her. She had taken a life, crushed hearts and destroyed hopes. Failure had become a second nature to her whether it was at being a daughter, an heiress, a matriarch, wife or a mother. She was a failure. Disappointment. Father was right to berate her. Her elders' head shakes were all too justified.

So was Sasuke's hate.

Had he not been away that fateful day, Hinata knew that none of it would've occurred. He was the better parent out of the two. More skilled, more equipped and less distracted. But in their traditional setting, he was the breadwinner. He was the one tasked with risking his life to feed his family. It was her job to look after their only child, for which she had left behind her shinobi life.

And a fine job she did.

Now, she came back to their empty house, howling loud on stormy nights. The silence screamed at her, a mocking reminder of the mornings she had wished her son was a little quieter. Go sleep now, she heard, go fucking sleep all you want. If only she could have things she needed to do, chores she needed to attend to. Wash his sheets on chilly mornings that'd swell her toes or prepare his milk in the middle of the night. If only she still could sleep amidst her walls screaming at her.

In the kitchen, Sasuke's food sat on the counter, wasting away like him in a dirty bar downtown with every bottle that burned down his throat. She hated the taste of alcohol. It tasted like funeral and the sick comfort she turned to when Sasuke refused. But how dare she seek comfort when it was because of her that her baby boy was six feet under. She would find none when she went to hell. Better get accustomed to it when she could.

She turned the lights off.

The group was gathering again tomorrow, she thought slipping under the sheets. She didn't know why she even bothered with these support groups but knew why her husband didn't. He loathed her very existence, as he should. They hadn't married for love exactly and had only found it in the form of their son. So, when they lost him, he lost his mind and she both him and herself. This was the only way he knew to cope up with all the hurt. Hate was the only emotion he embraced in its entirety. He would not breathe the same air as her, if he could help it and Hinata didn't blame him. She just hoped she didn't see Mrs. Kasumi again. Mrs. Kasumi with her moist gaze and sad smile and her daughter, little Akane, eight, whom she had lost to cancer - a tumor in her head she was born with but never knew, that grew up with her until it ruptured an artery in her brain. Her last day had been tiring, Kasumi often told, spent throwing up all over the place. But she had died peacefully in her sleep with her mother's words, "it's okay, baby. Mommy gets sick too."

Hinata wished she could've told him something loving like that. Not how bad a boy he had been. She wished she hadn't given him a timeout, that her last memory of him was not of his beautiful face soaked in tears. How he too died peacefully, in sleep. How he didn't die at all. How she still had him by her side in the bed, blowing raspberries on his tiny belly. How he was the one screaming at her and not her walls.

She was going to hell and Kami she knew she deserved it.

In the Hyuuga backyard, she could hear the wooden slab of a lonely swing crying with the willow tree it held on to. Last time, Hanabi had told her that she was taking it off, that it reminded the clan about the loss of their youngest member. He was loved wherever he went. Both houses had mourned his death. It was a painful memory for everyone.

It must have escaped Hanabi's mind, with all the things she was currently dealing with when her father refused to be of any help. He had taken a sudden liking to his room where he remained for the entirety of his day.

She tried to not burden anyone but people didn't make it easy to be around them. Not with their pitying gazes or their half-hearted remarks or their it's going to be okay's. Because it wasn't going to be okay, for a long time at least, if not forever. She wanted them to tell her that it was okay to be not-okay.

But they told her other things. Cruel things. Not all but some. Her clan elders to be more specific. They told her: "It has been too long."

To which Hanabi replied, "She lost a child, you heartless bastard. A child. But you wouldn't know that, would you? When you never had a child of your own."

It would summon several gasps from the table, many plates of food untouched, like hers, before them. A fist would slam on the table with so much force that it would clatter all the chinaware sitting innocently there. "Hanabi. Stay in your place. We do not appreciate insolence directed towards our elders."

"And I do not appreciate you poking your nose where it doesn't belong. Why don't you just take care of your wife so that she doesn't turn to others instead of worrying about my sister and I."

"HANABI!"

"Lower your voice or I'll do it for you."

By then, many seats would be abandoned on both sides, byakugan glaring, threats exchanged, clansmen against clansmen. It looked like beginning of another war, one that would be all her fault. There was so much on her shoulders already. She didn't want more.

And that was why she would call everyone's attention with a loud "t-thank you for t-the meal", turn to the man who started it all and bow so low, as if being weighed down with all that she was made to carry. "I-I'm sorry Hajime-sama for worrying you. Please give me more time. I-I'll try to get better." And she'd be out before he could reply.

To think she would want to return to the safety of her home. It didn't feel safe. It didn't even feel like a home. Sasuke had made a motel out of it. In his defense, she had been the one who had reduced their house to a mere building of bricks and walls. There had once been his pictures all over the Livingroom wall but after a particularly difficult night when her tears wouldn't stop flowing, she had taken them off, packed it in a box and tucked it in one corner of the attic. Those weren't the only things that went and eight months later, their house was barren of his very touch, an empty cradle.

So Sasuke was justified to treat it as such. He came and went and when he did decide to stay, he remained locked up in his library. At one point, Hinata had deduced that out of the two, he was dealing with it better. He still went on missions, hung out with his former team, visited Ichiraku's, smiled and talked in that smooth way of his, bathed and ate (just not her food). But the dark circles under his eyes and his quickly graying hair clashed with her assumption and she felt stupid to be fooled by his masks.

But she could be alone there. Solitude had become her safe heaven. While she could pretend to be fine before Hajime-san and her clan, there she could break over and over again. She could be not-okay there.

Another meeting of the grief support group came and went, new pain to add to her already miserable life. Another day where she merely sat and let time pass her by. How many times had they asked if she wanted to share her story, Hinata had lost count. And even though there was so much she wanted them to know about him, about how much he had filled her life with joy and happiness with the little things he did, she just couldn't. The words failed her even if they just hung at the tip of her tongue.

Thus, the group that was supposed to help grieving parents left her in more anguish. She felt like an even bigger loser. He deserved to have songs written after him after all that he had done for her. Her little savior. But she couldn't even tell them his name because it hurt. How selfish could she get?

She aimlessly strolled through the streets, not wanting to go home just yet. At the same time, she wanted not to run into people she knew. Shino would not know what to say and Kiba tried so hard to not talk about their deceased son that she'd suppress the urge wince. She couldn't look at Sakura without having a panic attack. She had been the one to try put together his broken body. Kurenai was somewhat comfortable to be around. Among them, he wasn't a taboo topic and hearing her talk about him was actually calming. Right now, however, she didn't want to be around her. She just didn't feel like talking her broken sentences that his death had brought back to life.

And although she had decided to skirt the Hyuuga compound that her feet and unconsciously taken her to, she was halted in her path by the screams that rang, the loudest being her father's.

She rushed inside, worried eyes searching the crowd of Hyuugas in her way for her sister, beginning Kami that nothing happened to either her or her father. She found them around her son's swing, Hanabi telling him something animatedly while Hiashi holding on to it for dear life. The crowd parted to make way for her when several white eyes landed on her and she simply trudged to them, confused. "Wha-what's going on?"

"Hinata. Thank goodness you're are here. Talk to him. He won't listen to me." Hiashi simply turned his face away, knowing well that if she insisted, he won't be able to refuse.

"Father. What's going on?"

"He being unreasonable, that's what's goin-."

Hinata raised her hand to silence her and walked up to him. Something about his father holding on to her son's swing made her heart ache. He had loved him, with all his heart. Losing him after Hizashi and Neji had been the final straw. He just wasn't the same. "Father?"

She saw how his grip tightened around the rope, how he squeezed his eyes to will his tears away. "They want to take his swing off. I won't allow it."

"Fathe-"

"Nobody forgets my grandson. Nobody."

She didn't know what happened in that instant but the next moment she was laughing through her tears. "Yes father. No one forgets him." Many concluded that the father-daughter duo had finally lost it and maybe they had but there was something in their broken laughter that had been lost and found. What was and wasn't there, Hinata could make a list but above all she would put forgiveness and hope in bold letters.

The swing stayed.

She went home that day and took out his pictures to put them exactly where they belonged on the wall. A particularly favorite picture of Sasuke and him that had once sat on his table made her sneak into his library in a bold display of happiness, something she avoided in the name of an unannounced rule. Scrolls and books littered the table and the floor she tiptoed across to prevent stepping on one. There was a smile when she placed the framed photograph on the table but it fell when her eyes registered the words stretched across one of the books Sasuke had left open.

"What are you doing?"

She forced her frozen body to turn. Sasuke stood at the door, glaring daggers at her but it was his hair that caught her attention, the bones sticking out on his face, his thin frame and it all made sense now. Once again, she had been fooled by his masks. "Y-you're p-planning on reviving him?"

He marched up to her and snatched the book out of her hands, "get out!"

But she stayed. "You want to re-revive him?"

He was still glowering but it had a touch of vulnerability. "Don't you?"

She breathed out shakily. "A-at what price, Sasuke? Your life?"

"It's not that big of a price. I'd do it in a heartbeat if you offered it. I would choose him over you any day of the week."

Her lips trembled, vision going blurry. I'd do it too. I'd choose him over me too.

"I hate you."

I hate me more.

"I hate you for not letting me a farewell. You had no right to do that. No right!"

He had been in Kiri when the devastating news got to him. By the time he returned, there was a new grave to add to the ever stretching Uchiha cemetery. He had screamed at her. Yelled. This was not her decision to make alone. He was his son too and he wasn't even allowed a final glance.

"I hate you for taking him away from me!"

He was on the floor now, a crying mess while she stood, barely keeping her weight up. Strangely, her eyes were dry. She always knew he blamed her, hated her and yet the declaration had left her numb. She was lost as to what to feel.

"I don't blame you for his death but you took my final moments with him. You had no right. You had no right, none at all. How dare you take that from me! "

His screams rang louder than her crash on the floor beside him. He had his head in his hands, tears hidden away but she cupped his face and made him look up. "I'm sorry I did that to you. I'm so sorry but you wouldn't have been able to take it. It would've killed you." He still had nightmares about the massacre. Many a times, before his death, she had held him to her bosom when he woke up screaming in the middle of the night, sweating but shivering. How could she have let him see the twisted body of the boy that he had loved more than life itself. There were many things Hinata had done that she wanted to undo but this was not among them.

"It didn't kill you."

Not in the literal sense of the word, no. But she died every day. She was messed up in so many ways that even death wouldn't take her. Perhaps that was what they called hell. You burned but you didn't.

"At least tell me he died happy."

"He got into a fight that day and I had scolded him for it so he wasn't happy about it. He said that he liked daddy more."

Sasuke let out a choked laugh, a sleeve pressed to his eyes. "I always was his favorite."

Only when her tears dripped down her face did she realize she had been crying. But she smiled, the kind that ached inside your chest when you finished reading your favorite book. "You were."

There was silence for a while and then there was "He was a happy child, right? He was loved."

Hinata smiled. "He was." And so much more.

They didn't eat lunch together that day (surprisingly or unsurprisingly, Hinata didn't know which) or sleep in the same bed but despite his declarations of hate and all the hurtful things he had said, she was peaceful because silence had been broken and not hearts and she could live with just that.

The next time she went to the support group, Sasuke had been there at the door, waiting. And that she knew was surprising.

It would be a long time before she could look back at their time together and not cry but she had taken a step in that direction and after what had felt like an eternity, she could proudly say "I did it." And when Mrs. Kasumi politely asked if anyone wanted to share their story, she felt Sasuke's hand slip into hers, a silent push, to which she nodded. Our son will not be forgotten, she promised to him and herself before getting up.

And so, for the first time, she spoke.

Tayyabalaraib.

#SasuHina #sasukexhinata #fanfiction #fanfic #angst

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baileymacias · 4 years

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Grow Taller Before 18 Amazing Tips

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Increase Toddler Height

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#Grow Taller Before 18 Amazing Tips #How To Grow Taller Faster In One Week

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