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#'HICCUP WITH A STEEL CHAIR'
alkalinefrog · 2 years
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I couldn’t get this conversation with @jjackfrost out of my head
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zombified-queer · 6 months
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Last night, I ended up in a hysterical crying fit over Cytherea's funeral in Harrow the Ninth (the lipstick! her treating them like cousins she was bored of! valancy was there!) and snapped myself out of it by going "AND HERE COMES HARROW WITH THE HAUNTED SWORD!!!" like a WWE announcer.
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raineandsky · 1 month
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#97
“[Villain].” The supervillain beckons them closer from around the door. “I think you might like this one.”
He’s in their little captive room; being a criminal organisation has made them improvise their spaces. A hero is tied to the rickety chair in the middle of the room, ignoring them both with their head bent. A rare sight, and a nice one at that. A sight that suggests a hint of winning.
“Wait,” the supervillain says softly.
They wait. Nothing happens. “[Supervillain], what—”
A sound breaks through their question. A sniffle. The villain ducks slightly to look at the hero’s face, catching the glistening trail of long-since shed tears on their cheeks. Catching heroes is rare enough, but having them cry about it? Gold.
The supervillain flashes them a quick grin. “Wait ‘til you hear their cover story.”
The villain steps forward and flops down in the seat in front of the hero. The hero keeps their head ducked, holding back shuddering breaths, and the villain simply waits for acknowledgement.
Waiting is in vain, it seems. The hero refuses to look up, even when they clear their throat expectantly.
“I thought heroes were meant to be made of steel,” they comment eventually.
The hero finally looks at them, and the villain only feels slightly bad about the miserable quiver of their mouth and the leaking of their eyes. “I’m not a hero,” they say shakily.
The villain raises their eyebrows. Denial’s a new one. “He must have told you that!” the hero continues, their gaze set on the supervillain at the door, and on the last word they break down into tears.
The villain glances back at the supervillain and he throws them another elated smirk. The slightly bad feeling they felt suddenly splits into painful worry.
They turn back to the hero and open their mouth to say something, but it occurs to them they don’t know who the hero is. They’ve never seen them before.
The worry becomes gnawing.
“You’re not a hero,” the villain reiterates slowly, and the hero’s head snaps up faster than the villain thought they could move.
“Yes!” they cry. Hours of tears scratch at their throat. “Thank god, yes. I’m– I’m not a hero. The agency they– they took me off the street, I’m not a hero or anything or– I’m not anything to do with them I swear please the agency is just–”
“Stop,” the villain snaps, and the hero's words cut off abruptly. “The agency took you off the street?”
The hero nods as they gulp down another sob. “I don’t know why. They threw me out in a hero costume and told me to distract the villains, I don’t– I don’t know anything—”
“Hey,” the villain says smoothly. They scoot their chair closer to the hero’s. “Hey, it’s okay. We’re all here because we hate the agency, right?” They glance back to the supervillain, who’s looking rather unimpressed by this turn of events. “You’re on our side now.”
The sob escapes the hero’s throat this time. Or whoever they are. “I just want to go home,” they manage through the tears.
The villain fishes a tissue from their pocket, tipping the hero’s head back to carefully wipe some of the tears from their face. “I know,” they say softly, “but the agency might be out searching for you right now. We’ll look after you until you can go home, okay?”
The hero hiccups their next breath. “T–Thank you.”
“I’ll get you back on your feet,” the villain says with a sigh. They glance back at the supervillain scowling from the door. “And [Supervillain] will go find whatever the hell the agency’s trying to distract us from.”
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jadipose · 7 months
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Detailed bad end: Somewhere, in the far corners of your mind, you know you need to tell someone about what's happening. You need to spread the word. You need to warn people. More than anything, though, you need to *stop eating.* You don't know how they got here, have only the vaguest idea of where they come from, and not a clue how they chose you. Sometimes you think you were just unlucky. Other times--when your mouth's contents make your fat cheeks bulge and you gulp down another painfully pleasurable meal--you think they chose you. There was a woman--blonde curls and motherly curves--and there was a cupcake on a silver platter, and you think she said it was a free sample. You ate it and she watched with shining golden eyes and you know now she wasn't human, that wasn't a normal cupcake, something's gone wrong-- The hunger took over within a matter of minutes. You came back to her booth and she was gone but the platter was there, and though you've lived your whole life aware of what people must think of your appetite and your weight and your figure, you couldn't help yourself. Trembling, knees knocking, hungrier than you've ever been in your life, you took the platter and you found a spot where hopefully no one could see and you crammed the cupcakes down your throat one by one by one, face burning with shame and arousal. The door opens, and one of her servants arrives, pushing a cart of sweet desserts and bubbling soda and cold beer. The servant presses a button and a machine whirs and the apparatus that keeps your enormous, gurgling body suspended from the ceiling lowers you a few feet, toward your waiting feast and the impassive creature with alien eyes. You left the place hungry, again, and made three trips through the nearest drive-thru, eating like an animal, stuffing your face until you were satisfied. You don't remember much after that...it's all become a blur: the job you lost for skipping shifts to pack in meals, the friends who watched, mortified, as you spent every waking hour eating and every saved cent on food. The clothes that split and tore as your hippo hips and blimp tits blew up, as your gravid gut grew heavier and rounder. Broken chairs and snapped belts and elevators that refused to move when you squeezed your enormous, lumbering frame inside. The people who tried to get you to listen, to look at yourself, to just *stop eating*...only for you to ignore them all, focused on nothing but your pleasure. Months went by, or maybe just days. You've been drunk or high or both for the whole thing, and it was only when you couldn't squeeze your fat ass through the doors to the only restaurant left in town that would serve you that she came back. Her servant is gone, and she's there, a slice of cake in hand, staring up at you with shining golden eyes. Sharp teeth, black tresses, motherly curves. She's their leader, their queen. What she's done to you, she intends to do to Earth. She's packaged up the chemical that caused this and set up shop all across the planet and you need to warn people, you need to do something, you need to *stop eating--* She pats your head affectionately and coos as she pushes the cake past your lips, and you moan, and you're eating like your life depends on it again. You've seen her other pets; some human, some aliens like her, seen how enormously obese they've gotten and heard their desperate mewling whines as they stuff their fat faces. You've heard dull, wet bangs behind steel doors. You are the fattest human being that has ever existed. You dwarf all her other projects, suspended in this dark room, a fat, jiggling food balloon who can't control herself any longer. You know, logically, that your body can only stretch so far... The grinning devil beneath you, with her golden eyes and burning horns, pushes another treat between your lips. You feel your entire body surge and pulse...just a hiccup. For now.
i simply have no+ wo+rds fo+r ho+w into+ this i am, so+ I’m just go+nna po+st as-is. yo+u sure kno+w ho+w to+ fluster a big girl…..
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a-dauntless-daffodil · 7 months
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when will cleo and frankie come back from the war... i miss them...
they're just two dramatic no thoughts idiots. or in frankie's case too many thoughts but same effect. this is not a couple with a sensible one and a wild one- these are two monsters careening through the world at full energetic speed with the best intentions and ZERO concept of what might happen next, like cats with paper bags stuck on their heads, except one hiccups lightning and the other can summon bug swarms and curses
like there's a few times in their main ep where it aaaaalmost looks like Frankie has the brain cell??? but it's really more like- frankie has one brain cell in that episode, and it's got Cleo's name etched all over it
you rattle Frankie in that ep and they'd make noises like there was a loose pinball ricocheting around their head, bouncing from one Cleo related thought to another. they are laser focused on her, so they anticipate and notice stuff- she is their hyperfixation (she's so much fun to look at and listen to i can't blame them At All)
and i just love love love love love that for someone like Cleo, who's spent the whole show up to now somehow juggling a Deep NEEED To Be Loved And Popular And Noticed For Once while also just being the most supportivest ghoul ever? not just to close friends but doing the organizing work behind school events? and we see her SEE she isn't popular like her friends are? and instead of jealousy she just uses supporting clawdeen as an excuse to also maybe up her own popularity via humans???? like she puts so much energy into other people and being noticed by them and and and
here comes frankie with steel chair (homemade jewelry actually) (for cleo) (because they've spent the whole ep dedicating 100% of all their brains' power into figuring out what she likes and when she's sad and how to cheer her up again)
i want them back i want them baaaaaack. i just wanna see them hang out more. let me watch cleo being awkwardly adored by the franken monster and shyly learning to love every minute of it. it's all i ask, please
(well no i also need clawdeen to get her mom back asap and for drac to tell her dad she's a proud practicing witch)
(and for lagoona to eat someone)
(like on screen off screen, the person was here a moment ago, and then lagoona Grinned, and now lagoona is lovingly adding a new set of bones to her frienemies pile) (it would bring me great Joy)
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lightsoutmotel · 9 months
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REPAYMENT WITH INTEREST. — m!Avery x gender neutral reader.
Description — Your dad takes care of you. All you want to do is show a little gratitude.
Content Warnings — Incest, daddy kink, reader has a cunt, unprotected sex, mild dubcon (reader surprises Avery with being forward but he ends up being into it)
Word Count — 2288
Getting your dad's attention has always been hard. It's a competition between his work and you, you and his work, and you are more of a fixed point in his life than the whimsy of the stock market, so he expects you to always be right where you're supposed to be. Occupied with your diversions except for when it's dinnertime, vacation time, or the odd occasion when he lets you join him for a social function.
It's the last one that you like best.
At first, you thought it was because of how exciting it is to go where all the beautiful, powerful people play, surrounded by glamour and excess. It's almost always nicer than going to school or work.
But in actuality, there's always one moment you return to: your fixed point in your relationship with him.
You were just being cute, hanging onto his arm with your head leaned against him; one of your not-so-subtle tells that you're finished for the night and want to go back to the hotel room. The conversation he was caught in kept dragging on and you knew better than to interrupt.
Someone else did that for you, though, slipping into the conversational circle with lighthearted greetings, and you offered whoever it was a polite smile that showed your tiredness around the eyes.
"Aren't you a sleepy thing," this new person observed with a laugh. "Avery, you should be spiriting your partner away to bed, don't you think?"
The question left your heart feeling so light in your chest it woke you up with a jolt. Your cheeks warmed and you couldn't think of a word to say in response. Your father, on the other hand, you could feel tensing.
"This is my child, actually. Not my partner," he responded in a well-practiced casual tone. He omitted mentioning that his wife, your mother, had died, and he would rather take his child along for a night out as a treat than attend alone.
Silence followed, awkward and uncomfortable for a couple beats before apologies spilled forth. Your dad waved things off, clearly eager to get past that social hiccup, and so it left you alone in thinking about what just happened.
Things played out normally that night, for the most part. You both left for the hotel, said good night, and settled into your respective rooms in the suite to settle in.
You were awake in bed, eyes on the ceiling, thinking about your dad. Obsessing over him. Thinking of how muscular his arm felt under your hands, the scent of his cologne, how confident he was. Heat stirred in your stomach and it was the first time you touched yourself to the thought of your dad's hands on your skin.
Certainly not the last, though.
And that's what brings you to him tonight, wearing something a little bold, a little daring that you bought with his money to show off what, exactly, he's been investing in. Distance made your heart grow desperate so that kicked off your impulse to catch him when he returned from a business trip.
You haven't seen each other in two weeks but you see him now, suit jacket slung over a chair in the home bar, whiskey in hand, the shadow of stubble on his lip and jaw and you can imagine the way it would catch on your fingertips and mouth.
He looks tired. Maybe even in a bad mood. It gives you pause but before you can begin to step back from the doorway, he looks over and catches you. Quietly assesses you. His eyes flit down your form and it makes you feel naked.
"...What are you wearing?" he asks haltingly, and it sounds like the most uncertain you've ever heard him be.
With little opportunity to escape that wouldn't just delay the inevitable, you steel yourself, raise your chin like he taught you. "Lingerie, Daddy."
There's a tick in his brow that makes you feel like you've made a misstep but you hold strong. You try to look as brave as you can, dressed in delicate lace and not much else. The important bits are covered but the cut and design draws attention to what's hidden rather than outright obscuring it all. Flattering. Custom-fit and tailored to you and you alone.
"Lingerie," he repeats after knocking back the rest of his drink and setting it down firmly on the bar top. "Would you like to explain why you're wearing lingerie?"
You invite yourself closer with a sway in your hips, looking almost demure aside from your outfit, with hands tucked behind your back and your eyes — you were always told that you have your late mother's eyes — dropping to the floor instead of meeting his.
"...Because I want you to look at me," you finally say as you come to a stop in front of him.
He's so tall. This close, you can smell his cologne. You want to feel the heat of his skin.
"I'm looking at you, sunshine, what is this abou—"
You drop to your knees on the cold, tiled floor, your hands on his thighs, and once again you feel him tense. Now, you look at him. And he dares to look back, to meet those eyes of yours, to see a sight that's so eerily familiar and yet so wrong all the same.
But he doesn't stop you as you pull the tongue of his belt free, leather sliding over leather. Nor when you unfasten the buckle, the button and zipper on his slacks, and dip your fingers past the waistband of his underwear. He's hard — that much is apparent, even in his reluctance — and you groan when his length bobs to stiffness once you tug his clothes down far enough.
"Let me take care of you this time, Daddy, you do so much for me," you murmur as you lean in to nuzzle against the velvety skin of his cock.
He jolts at your touch but he relaxes somewhat. A hand settles atop your head and you peek up at him, eyes hazy and pleading, heart skipping at how he's letting you continue. It's better than you could have ever hoped.
So you don't want to disappoint him or keep him waiting: you dip down to lick from the base of his cock up to the tip with the flat of your tongue. The taste of him makes your eyes flutter and you take him past your lips with a soft noise of pleasure. His hips twitch forward and you let him sink farther into your mouth with little complaint.
But you one-up him and keep going, slowly and steadily, until you take him down to the base. The effort has tears stinging in your eyes and your throat protesting against the intrusion, but you stay down for a few long beats. Eyes half-lidded. Getting wet between your thighs. Then you draw back in a mess of drool and precum all to go down again, throating him as best as you can.
"Oh, darling," he sighs out, petting at you as you go, hips rocking forward to match your pace. "When did you learn to do that?"
That makes you smile around the cock in your mouth and it encourages you to keep going, to speed up, to work until you feel him tense for a different reason this time.
He fucks your mouth in earnest once he's sure you can take it, drawing out sounds of choking and wet, making a mess of your face and neck and chest and lingerie and your eyes roll back from how good it feels to be used by him. You hold yourself down and let him do as he pleases until he drags you off his cock, making you whine once you're done coughing and clearing your throat.
Spit connects your mouth to him. He strokes your cheek, regardless of how filthy you've become, and you lean into his hand without hesitation though you keep eyeing his twitching cock with the intent to suck it again.
"I know you want more, sweet thing," he says soothingly, voice rumbling lower in his chest in a way that makes you purr in kind. "But let me take care of you too now."
He hauls you up into his arms and you smile and laugh in delight, only for your mouth to be taken by his — your father kisses you with abandon even with your mouth heavy with his taste, your face dripping with your efforts. The kiss continues even as he gets your back to a wall and rearranges your limbs to get your legs around his waist. Your lips meet with warmth and desire, breathlessness, an ache so close to being soothed.
Your clothes are shifted by his steady hand until your hot, slick cunt is bared to him. A whine is drawn from your mouth when he rubs roughly over your core to catch your clit and feel how turned on you are.
"Do you think you can take me?" he asks, voice soft and betraying a hint of concern.
"I know I can, Daddy," is your immediate reply.
The chuckle in his chest is reward enough as you feel it reverberate. He takes your word for it, out of trust and out of his own need to be sank as deep as he can inside you to sate you both, and lines himself up. Your arms are thrown around his shoulders to dig your nails into the fabric of his dress shirt and hold on as he rolls his hips up to bottom out deep into your pussy.
It makes you keen out and cling to him that much harder. He has to pause once he's settled, almost as if to school himself into not cumming already, you feel so good on his cock.
Savoring you. In disbelief that he's balls deep in you. When he pulls his hips back only to buck forward again, he's fucking you.
It's wrong. Deeply wrong. Blood and sex shouldn't mix like this. Past the fog in your brain as your father finds the perfect pace to fuck you at — urgent, firm, plunging deep into you only to draw out and bury himself inside again as quickly as possible — you blearily wonder if you'll both regret this. Tomorrow will come, and you worry that this might be all and this one illicit romp will be all you can claim.
Your father doesn't seem to have the same reservations when he noses against you to have you tip your head back, all for him to capture your mouth with a groan — your worried thoughts dim as you surrender yourself to his easy dominance.
All that matters is that he's fucking you. That you can feel him deep inside you. Raw and hot and yours for now.
Your cunt is a mess. It drips down the curve of your ass, down your dad's cock to stain his perfectly-ironed pants. It sinks in that he didn't even bother to undress further all in his eagerness to have you.
Pleasure deeper than what he's making your body feel lights you up inside and you whine out "Daddy" into his mouth in your exaltation.
"I'm right here, darling... You're being so good for me."
His head moves to tuck itself into the curve of where your neck meets your shoulder. You're a breath away from protesting when you feel the graze of teeth on your skin, the suction of his mouth, and you're near-dizzy realizing that he's marking you. Always, always his. Always have been.
Always will be.
He grinds against your clit with every thrust and the friction sends you closer and closer to your peak. Futile, but you try to move your hips with his in your desperation to cum all over the cock that made you. It's clear to him what you want so he pounds you into the wall harder, determined to get you both there, kissing your skin and grunting with the effort.
You cum first. It's strong and full-bodied, making your back arch and has you clinging to him that much harder. Your legs around his waist keep him sank inside of you as your cunt squeezes and spasms around him without any chance of pulling out. It's not as if he tries to. So he's quick to join you with quick, shallow pumps as he fills you with his cum.
As you both come down, twitching and breathless, you nuzzle against him with a noise of contentment. He kisses your forehead and moves to let your legs down and have you stand but you protest. Laughing fondly, he fixes his pants then gathers you up in his arms and carries you off, up the stairs, pausing once he ascends to the landing.
Considering, between your room and his.
It occurs to you that you don't remember the last time he carried you to bed.
He turns and walks to his room.
It occurs to you that you don't remember the last time you both slept in the same bed.
This time, however, he sets you down and pulls the sheets over you. For a few moments, he's gone and all you hear is the sound of fabric rustling. The mattress dips behind you and you're drawn into his arms back against his bare chest.
When was the last time he had someone else in this bed?
A kiss is pressed to the nape of your neck and he squeezes you tight. Safe and sound. Questions were to be saved for tomorrow, but for the night, nothing more complicated than slumber.
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the-birth-of-art · 10 months
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On the occasion of Pat Robertson's death....
"To a Contemporary Bunkshooter" (aka "To Billy Sunday")
by Carl Sandburg, 1915
YOU come along … tearing your shirt … yelling about Jesus.    
Where do you get that stuff?    
What do you know about Jesus?
Jesus had a way of talking soft and outside of a few bankers and higher-ups among the con men of Jerusalem everybody liked to have this Jesus around because he never made any fake passes and everything he said went and he helped the sick and gave the people hope.  
You come along squirting words at us, shaking your fist and calling us all dam fools so fierce the froth slobbers over your lips… always blabbing we’re all going to hell straight off and you know all about it. 
I’ve read Jesus’ words. I know what he said. You don’t throw any scare into me. I’ve got your number. I know how much you know about Jesus.
He never came near clean people or dirty people but they felt cleaner because he came along. It was your crowd of bankers and business men and lawyers hired the sluggers and murderers who put Jesus out of the running.  
I say the same bunch backing you nailed the nails into the hands of this Jesus of Nazareth. He had lined up against him the same crooks and strong-arm men now lined up with you paying your way.  
This Jesus was good to look at, smelled good, listened good. He threw out something fresh and beautiful from the skin of his body and the touch of his hands wherever he passed along.
You slimy bunkshooter, you put a smut on every human blossom in reach of your rotten breath belching about hell-fire and hiccupping about this Man who lived a clean life in Galilee. 
When are you going to quit making the carpenters build emergency hospitals for women and girls driven crazy with wrecked nerves from your gibberish about Jesus—I put it to you again: Where do you get that stuff; what do you know about Jesus?  
Go ahead and bust all the chairs you want to. Smash a whole wagon load of furniture at every performance. Turn sixty somersaults and stand on your nutty head. If it wasn’t for the way you scare the women and kids I’d feel sorry for you and pass the hat.
I like to watch a good four-flusher work, but not when he starts people puking and calling for the doctors.
I like a man that’s got nerve and can pull off a great original performance, but you—you’re only a bug-house peddler of second-hand gospel—you’re only shoving out a phoney imitation of the goods this Jesus wanted free as air and sunlight.  
You tell people living in shanties Jesus is going to fix it up all right with them by giving them mansions in the skies after they’re dead and the worms have eaten ’em. 
You tell $6 a week department store girls all they need is Jesus; you take a steel trust wop, dead without having lived, gray and shrunken at forty years of age, and you tell him to look at Jesus on the cross and he’ll be all right.
You tell poor people they don’t need any more money on pay day and even if it’s fierce to be out of a job, Jesus’ll fix that up all right, all right—all they gotta do is take Jesus the way you say.
I’m telling you Jesus wouldn’t stand for the stuff you’re handing out. Jesus played it different. The bankers and lawyers of Jerusalem got their sluggers and murderers to go after Jesus just because Jesus wouldn’t play their game. He didn’t sit in with the big thieves.  
I don’t want a lot of gab from a bunkshooter in my religion.
I won’t take my religion from any man who never works except with his mouth and never cherishes any memory except the face of the woman on the American silver dollar.
I ask you to come through and show me where you’re pouring out the blood of your life.  
I’ve been to this suburb of Jerusalem they call Golgotha, where they nailed Him, and I know if the story is straight it was real blood ran from His hands and the nail-holes, and it was real blood spurted in red drops where the spear of the Roman soldier rammed in between the ribs of this Jesus of Nazareth.
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titisorriso · 1 year
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Chapter 8/ The Steel Island (Wild Skies AU)
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  So, things weren't going well.
 The south was officially at war with Berk. The north was also trying to get a piece of that viking action, claiming there were "precious metals" in the arquipelago. Razorwhips were disappearing sporadically, and the Wing Maidens were blaming it on Berk. Heather had finally gotten fed up with Hiccup and allied herself with Dagur to strike the dragon hunters more violently. Alvin was losing control of his turf, the Outcasts aching for a fight, and to top it all off, Valka was also considering joining Dagur in this crusade.
  To sum it up, the arquipelago was at war, and Hiccup had a broken heart. Sure, one of those was infinitely more important than the other, but still, he was not really in the "Let's be kind to each other!" mood. He was done with diplomacy, but he was also done fighting, and this tangle of strings that he found himself in felt hopeless.
 Blind dragons, huge dragons, green ooze, machinery and metallurgy he had never seen before, the dragon hunters getting bolder; everything felt like a puzzle with no final piece.
  He threw his pencil on the table, stretching against his chair with an annoyed grunt. He stole a look at Toothless.
 - ... You wouldn't happen to have an eye-opening, crucial bit of information, would you?
The dragon looked at him confused, misunderstanding the attention as an invitation to play. Quickly, the dragon pounced his friend, licking his face as the man laughed and pushed the beast away.
 - Okay, okay! I get it! Not the political sort! Here, catch!
He took off his leg, throwing it towards the outside, the dragon flying out the open door.
Hiccup sat himself again. A smile still lingering on his lips until he looked at a necklace on the wall. The betrothal necklace almost taunted him.
A sigh echoed the empty, peaceful cabin. Astrid was all that occupied his mind. He, the silent protector, the dragon rescuer, a guy that unified so many islands and tribes, now reduced to a babbling mess that couldn't even convince a girl that he loves her.
  He got up, leaning against his chair. Staring around his hut, trying to clear his mind, only to be reminded that this place was infested with memories of her as well.
  The bed, the beam she punched, the displaced floorboards that once hid her axe, the fish waiting to be cooked, the sound of her feet pacing the cabin while regaining her strength.
Flustered, his entire body reacted to the embarrassment of longing for someone that utterly rejected him; but he couldn't help it. She was gorgeous, exciting, fierce and smart. She was the perfect viking, more of a viking than he ever even thought of being, and that came back to the root of the problem.
Astrid killed dragons. She killed one just three days ago right where he could see. Sure, he was spying on her, but it was still jarring, gut-wrenching.
Toothless came back, Hiccup's leg slobbered and a bit chewed, but still usable.
 - Awn, bud, c'mon!... It's so nasty...
Toothless growled in joy, doing his unique, and a bit concerning, laugh. Snapping his leg back into place, he started petting the dragon, who affectionally hugged him.  
- You know, bud, Astrid doesn't seem to have a problem with you anymore. She didn't even acknowledge you.
Hiccup remembered their first "meeting". Her blatant fear and distrust of the beast, the side-eyes and murderous glances, but all of that was before she found out who he was. That seemed to be ages ago, a time where Hiccup's sole worry was if Astrid's wounds were healing well.
A nudge from Toothless snapped him out of it.
- It's alright. I'm not going into my "no eat, no sleep" phase again. Don't worry about me.
Reminiscing on the past reminded him of the dragon hunters that day. The flames, all the screaming, the unusual timing on their appearance. It was a huge coincidence, the same moment Hiccup was moving a herd of Terrible Terrors down east, a Berk scouting ship appeared and started shooting towards an unfamiliar vessel, flying no colors on their sails. Hiccup remembered the ballista made of complete steel, the fully armored and trained soldiers that seemed resistant to the dragon's fire. They scared him, a lot of them getting too close for comfort, some actually managing to hit Toothless.
- Never saw them again...
Hiccup stared at his friend:
- How possible is it that they were the only ones, and we'll never see them again? Is it too much wishful thinking?
Toothless growled.
- Yeah, that's a given.
He started the process of saddling up his friend, preparing a bag for a relatively long trip. If those hunters were going west when they ran in with the Hooligans, then that's where he needed to go.
The sea was never-ending.  In multiple moments, Hiccup had traveled this way, looking for something interesting, but relenting apparently way too soon. Instead of turning back once he reached a particularly desert island, he continued towards the horizon.
- Hey, since you can fly, at least we won't fall off the world, huh?
The beast answered by spinning on the air in excitement. Both relishing in the opportunity to fly just like old times. Once they reached the edge of the familiar place, Hiccup started counting the seconds, mentally marking the distance as they kept on route.
It didn't take long for something weird to happen.
They watched as the blue ocean slowly turned a sickly green, a smell that they could only describe as burnt rotted flesh making them flinch. Hiccup put his helmet and mask on, the stench quickly turning unbearable.
- Are you alright with this, bud?
The dragon replied shortly, as if saying "i'm okay". That made the rider feel comfortable in speeding up. The clouds, once white, turned grey, and then took a similar green to the water. Even through his mask, the rider felt his eyes water with the smell.
- Dear Thor, i haven't smelled something so awful since Dagur's spit roast.
Toothless whined, Hiccup petting his side as he reassured:
- Don't worry, bud. We'll just see the source of this and then leave.
Hiccup noticed the waters were vile enough that nothing could be seen moving inside them. He wondered if the creatures that were once here would be able to find a new home, or if there even was a possibility that they escaped this rot.
- Who did this?
He whispered to himself. This was exactly like the green ooze back in Broken Helm Island, but in way bigger quantity and more viscous than anything.
- Get closer to the water, bud. I want to take a sample home.
He pulled a small glass vial from his bag, quickly getting what he needed and pulling Toothless away from the water immediately. Some of it had gotten on his gloved fingers, he observed as, like acid, the fabric was eaten and then stopped.
Several dragons appeared in his mind as he observed the reaction, but the obvious one took the main stage. This was a Sliquifier's acid. But how? How did it get so spread? How many would it take to infect the whole ocean? Could it be only floating on the surface? But what about the clouds?
As if to answer all his questions, Toothless groaned, snapping him out of his investigative state.
There was the source.
It was like a vision of Helheim. The green mist and clouds erupting from the metal construction on the middle of the island, holes of fire and explosions burst inside of it as metal houses spread all around its shore. A metal wall, with fire erupting from the main beams kept the "village" isolated. On the water, packs and packs of ships sailing purple colors were slowly boarded and equipped with guns.
- Eir's sweet embrace, what is that?...
Toothless stared, his eyes going thin as he sensed danger. The rider was about to ask what was wrong, when from the water, a huge mouth flew towards them. Hiccup startled, opening Toothless's tail fin too wide and almost falling inside the beast, but quickly fixing his mistake as he took one of his personal "dragon knocking" concoctions from his bag and threw it down the beast's throat. The rider instructed his friend to fly up, but as soon as Toothless smelled the inside of those toxic clouds, the dragon started shaking and flailing around. The unknown dragon disappeared inside the waves once more, Hiccup assuming his potion worked, but too busy to celebrate.
Toothless roared and flailed, Hiccup’s keen sense of direction and control being the one thing keeping them in the air.
- GET A HOLD OF YOURSELF, BUD!!
The dragon turned his stomach towards the sky, Hiccup only not falling thanks to the security leash chained to the saddle. The rider heard the characteristic high-pitched noise, and soon, Toothless shot towards the sky.
The clouds ignited in flames, the explosion hitting Toothless in the stomach and burning his tail fin, the shock throwing him towards the water and taking Hiccup with him, the man trapped beneath the beast.
They hit the water.
Instantly, Hiccup felt his clothes getting eaten by the liquid, the parts of his skin that were exposed turning red. The rider forced his eyes closed; he could deal with rashes if this truly was a Sliquifier's toxin, but becoming blind wasn't on his bucket list. Toothless's weight still dragged him down, the man unable to find the leash that kept him chained on since the panic clouded his senses. The toxins were really starting to sting as they found ways inside his armor.
Was this it? This is how he was going to die? If this was it, he deserved it.
So many people he left behind, so many friends he turned away, so much help refused, it was obvious this would one day happen. The only thing that weighed in his mind was that he took Toothless down too. The last of the Night Furies would die and it would be his fault. He was careless, he should have turned back as soon as the water looked weird. He should have let this go and just let everyone fight each other, at least then Toothless wouldn't have to die.
He should have let Astrid tell everyone... But why did it always have to be Astrid?
Why did he always need to have someone doing what was truly difficult for him? Why would he ask that of her when she already had so much on her plate?
"Because i don't want her to forget me." His own wavering heart answered.
His mind was blurry, the darkness behind his closed eyes scared him. He felt Toothless start reacting and moving, thinking the dragon was okay, that he would fly away, and they would be fine.
The net that caught them pulled them up, a hard, scaley floor hitting Hiccup as he felt the dirty air hit against his face, taking a deep breath and snapping his eyes open as he forcefully pulled off the mask and helm. He coughed with the deep breath of the toxic air without the mask; noticing his leash had finally snapped, and that Toothless laid beside him, passed out, but breathing. Relieved, he touched a hand to his friend's back.
- Well, that's a unique catch!
Hiccup recognized that voice, turning to assess the full situation.
They were in the back of a titan wing Sliquifier, the gold hue of his scales and the glowing wings giving it away. In front of him, stood Johann, the man he saw getting kicked out of Berk, the leader of the dragon hunters of the south. He was unable to hide his scowl as Johann smiled triumphant.
- The lost heir of Berk, standing helpless and at my mercy. I wonder what i did to receive such gift!... I'm kidding, this wasn't a gift! I planned this very carefully and you fell for it!
The dragon hunter approached Hiccup, who tried to jump forward, only to notice his body was now frozen. Johann kicked the man in the chest, the rider falling limp against Toothless as he breathed rapidly and panicked.
- Did you like my creation? A little Flightmare's toxin mixed with Sliquifier's acid... It lasts twice as long and hurts thrice as much. Oh, what am i saying, you can't answer me!
Hiccup let out a weak grunt, the burning of his skin making his panic heighten. Johann did not care, living in his own, twisted world, he kept his little victory gloat going, signaling to two other dragon hunters to tie Hiccup and Toothless up, one of them removing the rider's metal leg.
- Now, now, i would love to regale you with my tale of greatness all day until the poison runs out, but the plan is not quite finished yet. Afterall, you pesky brat, you are merely bait.
Hiccup knew what he was talking about, Astrid's name popping in loud letters in his fuzzy brain, he couldn't let it happen.
- So, Hiccup Haddock... This is the moment you go to sleep.
A strong hit against his head, and everything went dark.
°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°
Okay, so while i was editing i realized that this chapter was REALLY long, so i decided to shorten it by putting this part separetely and making it a cliffhanger. Hope you enjoyed!
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brittanagirlcrush · 11 months
Text
This is the first chapter of my new fic CONSEQUENCES.
The whole fic is posted at FF.NET A/N: I'm not sure I like this story. It's much darker than my normal Glee stuff but it wouldn't leave me alone and let me write what I wanted to until I got this out. It also went in a lot of different directions that I wasn't expecting. Hopefully, the story is still cohesive and coherent.
It ended up in unexpected places and is much longer than I'd originally plotted. Sometimes, characters have minds of their own. It also ended up much better than I'd originally thought it would.
AU after Mash Off
Also, this fic does not fit anywhere into my own “Brittana World”.
Fair Warning: I hate Finn Hudson.
Trigger Warnings: homophobic slurs, racial slurs, racism, homophobia, violence, attempted rape.
XOXOXOXOXO
Chapter 1
Finn Hudson was laughing at something Puck had said when a blur of blonde knocked him off his chair and began pummeling him. He tried to protect himself from the fists that were flying at him seemingly from every direction. A crunch of cartilage signaled the breaking of his nose. Suddenly, the weight that had been sitting on his chest lifted and the fists stopped. The blur of blonde resolved itself into a screaming Brittany; Puck was holding her by the waist, Sam and Mike each holding an arm, and she was fighting them to get back to Finn.
“It's all your fault! You did this! And you're laughing! You think it's funny? YOU DID THIS! THIS IS BECAUSE OF YOU! AND YOU'RE NOT EVEN SORRY! I HATE YOU! I WILL NEVER FORGIVE YOU!”
A quick clicking of heels down the hallway signaled the arrival of another person. Quinn Fabray hurried into the choir room and looked at Brittany.
“Oh, sweetheart,” her voice was soft but Brittany obviously heard it and stopped fighting the boys holding her back.
“Quinn,” Brittany's lip trembled and tears started slipping down her cheeks as her face crumpled “it's all his fault...”
“Let her go.” It was a soft but firm demand.
The three guys did as Quinn commanded but stood ready to grab Brittany in case she went after Finn again. Brittany fell into Quinn's arms sobbing.
Something was definitely wrong. Brittany Pierce was not violent. She didn't hit people. She certainly didn't hate people. She cried pretty; she didn't sob.
“It's going to be okay, honey.”
“It's his fault, Quinn, and he was LAUGHING. He did this and he was LAUGHING. He doesn't even CARE!”
“Shhh … I know, sweetheart, I know. It's going to be okay.” Quinn held onto her sobbing best friend and gently rubbed her back and stroked her hair. Eventually, the sobbing slowed to soft sniffles and hiccups. Quinn pulled away from her and asked, “Did you get everything you needed?” Off Brittany's nod she continued, “where is it?”
“In the hallway,” came the sniffled reply.
“Okay.” Quinn looked around the room until she spotted Mercedes. “Mercedes?”
Mercedes stepped down the risers. “What do you need, girl?” her voice low and soothing, trying not to startle Brittany.
Quinn reached into the pocket of her blazer and handed Mercedes her car keys. “Can you take Britt and get her cleaned up and sit with her in my car? I'll be out shortly.” Mercedes took the keys with a nod.
“Brittany, sweetheart? Go with Mercedes, okay? I'll be out in a few minutes and then we'll go back to the hospital.”
Brittany nodded and let go of Quinn, allowing Mercedes to put an arm around her waist and lead her out of the choir room.
“Wait, Mercedes … Quinn … Brittany can't just leave,” Mr. Schue stuttered, “We have to go to Principal Figgins' office and …”
“Mr. Schue, I'm going to stop you right now,” Quinn said, steel in her voice; anger blazing in her eyes.
“Actions have consequences, Quinn! Brittany broke Finn's nose! She can't just …”
“She can. You can go to Figgins' office after I say what I have to say. Right now Brittany doesn't care if she gets suspended or even expelled. She's not going to be in school for the foreseeable future. And, yes, actions have consequences … unless you're Finn Hudson.”
She looked at Finn Hudson with obvious distaste. “Around two months ago, Finn's ACTION caused Santana a lot of pain and heartache …”
“Really, Quinn, that's all in the past. Santana …” Rachel interrupts her.
“Rachel, finish that sentence and you'll wish Brittany was still in the room,” Quinn's eyes flashed dangerously. “As I was saying, around two months ago Finn's ACTION caused a lot of consequences for Santana and Brittany but Finn never suffered a one. Not a SINGLE CONSEQUENCE for Finn Hudson OUTING Santana in the middle of a crowded hallway. That action caused a domino effect. A campaign ad forcing Santana to come out to her parents and her abuela before she was ready. Santana and Brittany are STILL paying consequences for FINN'S action.”
Tina chimes in, “I thought Santana was okay? I mean, she said her parents were okay with it and, yeah, her abuela disowned her but …”
“She lied.” Quinn shrugs, interrupting. “Santana isn't the person you all think she is. She didn't want pity or attention. She lied because school was the easiest battle to quit fighting. Her parents weren't okay with it.”
XOXOXOXOXO
(Flashback, Quinn's POV)
Quinn had just climbed into bed and turned off the light when her phone rang. She was going to ignore it but it was 11:15 at night and nothing good could be coming from a phone call at that hour. She grabbed her phone and saw Brittany's number.
“Hey, Britt, what's up?”
“Hey, Quinn,” Brittany's voice sounded strained, “have you, um, have you heard from Santana?”
Quinn frowned. Why would she have heard from Santana? “No, Britt, I haven't. Should I have?”
Brittany sighed. “She was going to tell her parents about the ad and being gay tonight at dinner. They were both actually going to be home tonight. That was at 6. She promised me she'd text or call by 9 no matter what happened. When I didn't hear from her by 9:30, I texted her and got no answer. Same at 9:45, 10, 10:15, and 10:30. At 11 I called and it went straight to voicemail.” Brittany's voice cracked and she sniffled. “I'm scared, Quinn.”
“I'll be there in fifteen minutes, Britt.”
“Thanks, Q.”
Quinn hung up and quickly threw on a pair of leggings and a hoodie. She threw her phone in her purse and headed downstairs. She tried to be quiet so as not to let her mother hear her but she didn't have to worry; Judy was passed out on the couch with an almost empty bottle of vodka sitting on the coffee table. Quinn shook her head and covered her mother with an afghan on her way out the door.
She pulled into the Pierce driveway; all the downstairs lights were on and Brittany was sitting on the front porch. She looked up as Quinn's headlights flooded the front of the house, got up, and hurried to the car.
“Hey, you okay?” Quinn asked as Brittany slid into the passenger seat.
Brittany shook her head. “I still haven't heard from her and I still can't reach her.”
Quinn nodded. “What do you want to do?”
“Sneak in?”
Quinn raised an eyebrow.
“I just need to see she's okay, Quinn. Or rescue her if she's not.” Brittany shrugged. “It's not like we've never snuck in or out before,” a small grin crept across Brittany's face.
“That's true,” Quinn chuckled and put the car into gear. “Your parents still up?”
“Yeah. They're worried, too.” Brittany sighed. “She doesn't break her promises to me, Quinn. She promised she'd call or text.”
Quinn nodded and they fell into silence.
Ten minutes later they were pulling into Santana's driveway. Quinn she knew exactly where to stop the car to avoid activating the motion detector lights; as Brittany had said, it wasn't their first time sneaking in or out of Santana's house. The whole house was dark. They left the doors unlocked and crept around the fence to the side of the house. There were no lights on that side because the neighbors had complained; every time a raccoon or a rabbit wandered into the yard, the lights came on.
They crossed the yard once they were across from the side door to the garage. Brittany used her key to open the door (Santana's parents had no idea that Brittany had a key to the side garage door) and crept in slowly. They used the flashlight apps on their phones to guide them. The garage would hold four cars but Santana's older brother, Gabriel, had moved to California the previous summer so the only cars in the garage were Santana's mother's Honda CRV, her father's Cadillac, and Santana's Jeep. Brittany checked the Jeep and saw Santana's current Cheerios' duffle bag in the back, along with her school backpack, and her Cheerios' jacket. She and Quinn shared a look.
They crept up the stairs and opened the door to the mud/laundry room. Brittany quickly punched in the code to disarm the alarm. Quinn made a mental note to remind her to re-arm it when they left.
Exiting the laundry room, directly across from it, was a small bathroom. To the right was a family room that Santana and her friends often used for sleepovers. To the left were two stairs that led to the kitchen and the door to the basement was directly at the top and to the left of the stairs. The were silent as they entered the kitchen. Quinn pointed to the island; a set of keys with a Cheerios' pom-pom key chain was sitting there next to a phone. Brittany listened for a moment but the house was silent. She quickly crossed the kitchen to the island and held up the phone; Quinn recognized Santana's phone case.
Quinn was now getting really nervous. Santana's room was in the basement. She quietly opened the door and saw a dim light at the bottom so she motioned to Brittany to follow. They silently went down the stairs and saw light coming from Santana's room. They hurried across the basement and entered the room. It looked like a hurricane had gone through it. Santana wasn't the neatest person but it was never this bad. Glaringly obvious was the fact that Santana wasn't here and she apparently left in a hurry. Brittany crossed to the closet and reached up to the top shelf, grabbing down several old Cheerios' duffle bags. She tossed two to Quinn.
“They kicked her out,” Brittany's voice was laced with anger. “That dresser,” she pointed to a chest of drawers, “underwear and socks are the top two small drawers. Pajama bottoms and sleep shirts are in the top big drawer; sweats and sweatshirts in the bottom two. Empty them?”
Quinn nodded and got to work as Brittany rifled through the closet. She came out with two lock boxes and two rolling suitcases. She put the lock boxes into one of the rolling suitcases then added Santana's jewelry boxes. She went through the desk and grabbed school work and a few keepsakes from the top; she then turned the center drawer upside down and grabbed three envelopes taped there. Quinn watched as Brittany climbed onto the desk to reach the top of the wardrobe and came down with several notebooks. She tossed those into one of the remaining duffle bags. She slid under the bed and came out with two more notebooks and a guitar.
“Do you know all her hiding spots?” Quinn asked, impressed with Brittany's thoroughness.
“I hope so. This is the only shot we're going to have at this.”
Quinn nodded knowing Brittany was right; Santana's parents would know someone had been here and would probably change all the locks and the alarm code. Quinn watched as Brittany scanned the room making sure they hadn't left anything important behind. Quinn had packed up all of Santana's extra Cheerios uniforms and emptied “Brittany's drawer” so that was taken care of. Brittany shook her head. “I think that's everything important. We gotta go.”
Quinn looked at the packed duffle bags, the guitar, and the suitcases trying to figure out how they were going to get it all upstairs and out to her car quietly and in one trip. Brittany slung a duffle over each shoulder, wore the guitar in front of her, and grabbed one of the suitcases. She looked at Quinn and Quinn nodded, following her lead. As quickly and quietly as possible they moved up the stairs, pausing at the top to listen for Santana's parents. All was silent. Down the two steps, a right into the laundry room and out into the garage. Brittany paused at Santana's Jeep. She set down the duffle bags and opened the rear door, grabbing Santana's backpack and slinging it onto her back before re-situating the duffle bags. She grabbed the suitcase from Quinn and nodded at the extra duffle and the jacket. Quinn grabbed the jacket and slipped it on over her hoodie, then grabbed the duffle and silently closed the Jeep's rear door. Quinn shook her head; Brittany was carrying the guitar, a backpack, two duffle bags, and two suitcases. She was in Beast Mode. Quinn made sure she had a grip on the three duffle bags and out they went. They followed the same path back to the car and loaded most of it into the trunk; the guitar was placed carefully in the back seat.
“I need to go make sure the door is locked; I don't want her parents to know how anyone got in.” Brittany said before sprinting back toward the garage. Quinn started the car and Brittany was back in five minutes.
“Did you remember to re-arm the alarm?”
Brittany nodded. “Yeah. I forgot until I locked the door then I remembered. That's why it took so long.”
“Where to?”
“My house. We'll see if she's shown up there. I doubt it because my mom would have called me but …” Brittany trailed off and Quinn knew she didn't have a better idea.
It was almost 1am by the time they got back to Brittany's. They had taken a circuitous route, checking to see if Santana was maybe still walking toward Brittany's house. All the lights were all still on when they finally got back to Britt's house. Brittany and Quinn walked in and found Brittany's parents in the living room.
“I take it you didn't find her?” Whitney asked, concern clear in her voice.
Brittany shook her head. “It looks like they threw her out. Her phone, keys, and car were all there. Her room looked like a whirlwind went through it and there was no sign of her. Unless they locked her in one of the upstairs rooms …” Brittany trailed off.
“Britt … she'd have left a light on and would have been screaming her head off.” Quinn tried to assuage Brittany's fears. They hadn't even thought to check upstairs.
Brittany nodded. “Even if her voice gave out, you're right … there would have been lights on in whatever room she was in. She'd have known I'd come looking.” She seemed to accept that as fact. “I don't know what to do now.” She looked like she was about to cry.
“Let's empty the car. Then you can wait here in case she shows up and I'll drive in every direction from her driveway. She may have not even thought about where she was going or where she could go and she couldn't call you so you could tell her it was okay to come here. It's possible she just … wandered.”
“Yeah.” She looked at Quinn. “What … what did you do when …”
Quinn shook her head. “Finn was there. I wasn't alone. But I remember being … not disoriented, exactly, but like my brain just couldn't function. I couldn't think. I was … disconnected from everything. I just kind of … shut down.”
Brittany nodded. “That makes sense. Santana was alone. She wouldn't have had anyone to help her or guide her. Yeah. Let's empty the car out …” Brittany looked at her parents. “I didn't even ask … um …”
“Of course she can stay here, sweetie. I'm sure you girls will sleep in your room but she can have the guest room right next to yours so she has a place of her own.” Whitney answered the unspoken question kindly. “She's welcome to stay as long as she needs to.”
Brittany threw her arms around her mother. “Thank you,” she whispered. Whitney simply hugged her and rubbed her back.
Brittany pulled away and wiped her eyes. “Okay, let's get her stuff in here so you can go looking.”
With Brittany's parents helping, it only took one trip to get everything into the house. Brittany handed a pair of sweatpants and sweatshirt to Quinn. “She probably left with only her Cheerios uniform and her long sleeved undershirt. It's so cold out,” she bit her lip nervously, “she's probably freezing. I hope she thought to put track pants on or a hoodie or something.” Tears welled in her eyes.
Quinn hugged her and took the clothes. “I'll call you when I find her.”
Brittany just looked at her brokenly.
“I'm going to find her, B, I promise. I won't give up until I do.” Quinn's voice sounded a lot more sure than she felt but she was determined to find Santana and bring her back to Brittany. Another quick hug and she was out the door and back in her car.
She drove back to Santana's house and looked at each direction trying to decide where Santana would go if not to Brittany. She suddenly remembered a small park that was about a mile away from the house so she headed in that direction, keeping an eye out in case Santana was still walking along the road.
She got to the park and got out of the car, taking the clothes with her. She was feeling pretty confident that this would be where she'd find Santana. She walked into the park and saw a small figure curled up on a bench near the frozen duck pond. The person's head was resting on a duffle bag and the body was under a large quilt. Quinn got nearer and let out a sigh of relief when she recognized Santana.
“Santana,” she called softly approaching the bench slowly, not wanting to spook the Latina.
The small figure sat up and looked toward Quinn with vacant eyes. “Quinn? What are you doing here?”
“Brittany is really worried. We've been looking everywhere for you.”
“I'm okay. Tell Britt … just … tell her I'm fine.”
“Santana, you're not fine.” Santana was in her Cheerios' uniform and a long sleeved undershirt; she was shivering violently and her teeth were chattering so hard Quinn was afraid she was going to chip them.
Quinn handed her the sweatpants and sweatshirt, removing the jacket and handing that over as well. “You're freezing. Brittany gave me these to give to you when I found you.”
Santana listlessly put on the sweatpants and hoodie and slipped the jacket on over them. She then wrapped the quilt back around herself and sat back down on the bench. “Thanks.”
“Santana, get your ass in the car. I am NOT going back to Brittany and telling her I found you but didn't bring you back with me.”
“I can't, Quinn,” she said, her voice devoid of any emotion, “I can't drag her down with me. I can't … I just can't … I've got nothing to offer her. I'm homeless. That ad is going to run and everything is just going to get worse. She doesn't deserve that. I'm never getting out of this town. I'm … nothing.” She finished in a hoarse whisper.
Quinn slapped her. “You're a fucking idiot. Brittany loves you. We did a little breaking and entering to find out what happened and stole a bunch of your stuff. It's at Britt's house. In a room that her mother has designated as YOUR room. Brittany is out of her mind with worry. Whitney and Pierce are still awake because THEY'RE worried. I was in bed when Brittany called me and I'm here in the middle of the night in the fucking freezing cold arguing with an idiot.”
Santana looked at Quinn, silent tears rolling down her face. “Why?”
“Because we love you,” Quinn said, softening. She sat down on the bench and put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her into a hug. “You're a bitch but you're our bitch. Now …” Quinn stood back up and offered Santana her hand, “you can either come with me now or I'll be back in half an hour with Brittany.” Quinn quirked a brow at Santana. “Really think you'll be able to resist her and her pout?”
Santana let out a tired, wet chuckle and took Quinn's hand. “Not a chance.”
Quinn grabbed Santana's bag as Santana wrapped the quilt more tightly around her shoulders; she was still shivering pretty badly and her teeth were still chattering. Once she started the car she set the heat on blast and dialed Brittany.
“Quinn? Did you …”
“I've got her, Britt. I'm bringing her home.” She handed the phone to Santana.
“Britt?”
“Santana! Oh, thank god! I was so worried. Are you okay?”
“Cold. Tired. No, Britt, I don't think I am.”
“I love you. It's gonna be okay. We're going to get through this together, baby, I promise you.”
Santana finally broke down and started sobbing. Quinn took the phone as she pulled back into the Pierce's driveway for the third time that night. “We're here, Britt.”
The door flew open and Brittany came tearing out of the house. She reached the passenger door and wrenched it open, kneeling down and gathering Santana in her arms. “I've got you, baby. I've got you. I'm here. Everything is going to be okay.” She cooed softly as she held tightly to Santana, gently rubbing her back. “I've got you.” It was several moments before Santana took a shuddering breath and pulled back from Brittany. “You ready to go in?” Santana nodded and Brittany took her hand and helped her out of the car as Quinn grabbed the duffle bag from the back seat and scooped up the quilt Santana had left on the passenger seat.
As soon as they walked in, Whitney enveloped Santana in a warm, reassuring hug. “You're okay, sweetie,” she said as Santana sighed softly, relaxing into the embrace.
Brittany took the things Quinn was holding and ran them down the hall to Santana's room as Whitney moved them all into the kitchen. When Brittany joined them she pulled Santana into her lap and wrapped her arms tightly around the Latina; Santana's shivering had mostly stopped but her teeth were still chattering. Whitney gave them all a mug of hot chocolate and put out a plate of cookies.
“Santana … why didn't you come here?” Brittany asked.
Santana sighed. “I don't want to drag you down with me, Britt. That ad is going to run and … god, Britt, it's going to be so bad.” Tears started sliding down her face again.
“I don't care about any of that. I love you. That's what I care about. Loving you means standing by you through the shitstorm that's coming.” She cupped Santana's chin gently. “Look at me, Santana.” When Santana lifted her eyes to Brittany, Brittany smiled. “You're not alone.”
“Santana, sweetie, you can stay her for as long as you need to. You'll have your own room even though I know you two girls won't sleep apart but you'll still have your own space. You will have to share Brittany's bathroom, though.” Whitney smiled kindly at Santana. “Like Brittany said … you're not alone. Okay?”
Santana nodded and looked at Quinn. “Thank you.” She whispered as she looked around the table, “all of you.” She leaned her head against Brittany's shoulder; she looked exhausted. “But … I … don't want anyone to know I got kicked out. I don't want their pity or whatever.” She sighed heavily. “I just … I can't fight all these battles anymore. I'm so tired of fighting.” Her eyes fluttered. “Let them think their 'Lady Music Week' worked and I'm all good now. Please?”
Brittany and Quinn looked at each other then nodded.
“We have to at least let the administration know you're living here. That way anything you need for school will come here.” Whitney paused deep in thought. “There are a few things we'll need to do but all of that can wait. It's late.” She looked at the clock. “Very late. Quinn, you'll stay here tonight. It's been a long, emotional night and I don't want to worry about you driving home. You can sleep in Santana's room … I'm sure Brittany isn't going to let go of Santana any time soon.”
The three girls chuckled and Quinn nodded. “Thank you, Whitney.”
“Now, go to bed girls. Get some rest. Sleep in. Try to make it in by third period and I'll write you all excuses. I'm guessing it's going to be a long couple of days.”
The three girls got up and each of them hugged Whitney before walking down the hall to the bedrooms. Brittany got fresh toothbrushes for Quinn and Santana and they all got ready in silence.
Santana hugged Quinn tightly. “Thanks, bitch.” She smiled.
“I'd say anytime but … let's not make this a habit.” Quinn grinned.
“Good night, Quinn.”
“Good night, Santana.”
Santana slipped into Brittany's bedroom and Brittany pulled Quinn into a fierce hug. “Thank you, Quinn. So much. I don't know what I'd have done if you weren't here. Thank you for answering. Thank you for coming. Thank you for finding her; for bringing her to me. Just … thank you.”
“I love you, Brittany. I love her, too. I'm really glad I was able to help.” Quinn said, hugging Brittany just as tightly.
“I love you, too. Good night.” Brittany pulled back and smiled softly. “See you in the morning.”
“Good night, Britt.” Quinn watched as Brittany closed the door and then went into her room, closing the door behind her. She climbed into bed and glanced at her phone. 3:30am. Tomorrow was going to be hell.
(End Flashback)
XOXOXOXOXO
“And none of you noticed. I mean, she used the word “y'all” when she told you about her parents and nobody questioned it when Brittany said 'No way!'.” Quinn rolls her eyes. “As if Brittany wouldn't have been Santana's first call after that conversation.” Quinn shakes her head. “Santana told you what you wanted to hear and showed you what you wanted to see because it was easier than continuing to fight a lost battle. She was outed. Nothing was going to change that. So she's been living at the Pierces' ever since.”
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Text
Comfort Against Nightmares
Summary: Vash has a moment to help his girlfriend when she has a pretty bad nightmare. Which leads to them growing closer.
Characters: Vash the Stampede, Nicholas D. Wolfwood, OC
Content: casual talk, mention of depression, mention of violence, smoking, mention of self loathing
Waking up was not fun for Retha. Since she ended up jolting up out of the bed in a cold sweat. Only for her to realize she was alone in the room. Both her travel companions absent for it to just be her. So she took a moment to try and calm herself down. Which didn't work at all. Hugging her knees to her chest as she started to openly cry. Hard sobs coming out as she trembled in bed.
That was how Vash and Wolfwood found her. Both of them stilling at the door before Wolfwood opened it. His steps taking him to the dining room table to drag a chair towards the bed so he could sit himself down. While Vash just bolted to the bed to crawl into it and hug Retha as tight as possible. Sweet words holding concern and a trace of fear as he gathered his girlfriend into his arms. "Retha. Hey now. It's okay. We're here. What happened? Did you have a scary dream?"
Wolfwood sat in the chair to pull out a cigarette and light it. Watching as Vash scooted Retha closer to sit her in his lap. While Retha was so busy trying to wipe her eyes with her hands to clear them. Which was not working at all since she was still bawling and giving a few hiccups. So Wolfwood took his jacket off to hand it to Vash. Who placed the jacket around Retha's shoulders before rubbing her arms in an attempt to comfort her. Wolfwood breathed out for the fog of his cigarette to waft around him. "When you're ready. We can wait. Just tell us what it was. Then we will go from there."
Retha put her arms in the sleeves of the jacket to then nod her head. Vash wrapping his arms around her middle as she panted for air. But soon she started speaking with soft and aching words. "You would think that it wouldn't be that bad of a nightmare. Since we get shot at and chased around so much. But this one was so... Real..." Retha gave a hard cough to shake her head. "The both of you will insist it was just a bad dream. But it's something that outright terrifies me to think about. There was a time I was convinced by those around me that I didn't matter. That nobody cared about me at all. I had no place to live. No one would help me find shelter. Everyone just acted like it wasn't their problem. But the worst part was that... That... Both of you left..."
Wolfwood goes wide eyed as Vash openly freezes in shock. Retha giving a hard hiccup to then start crying even harder. So Wolfwood snubbed out his cigarette to move so he's sitting on the bed with them. Those calloused hands wrapping around Retha as Vash all but crushed her from behind in a bear hug. So Retha grabbed hold of Wolfwood's dress shirt in the back to just cry. Letting out more of her words with grief. "So many times I ask myself... Do I even matter? What good am I anyways? There is so much I can't do. And so often I make mistakes. Why would either of you want someone like me? It's so stupid to even think such a thing in the first place. If I didn't matter, you wouldn't want me around. So why do I have those questions keep coming up when I know the answer?"
Vash is already crying to give a hard sniffle of noise. His grip like steel as he buries his face into Retha's shoulder to shiver a little. So Wolfwood is the one to answer Retha's words. "Because it's natural. People doubt. People feel uncertain about tons of things. Hell. We both know Vash asks that very question way to damn much himself. Something I used to ask a lot, too. But then you tend to always grab me by the hand and tell me something that makes me laugh. Or you just hug Vash and shower him with attention. You do the same whenever the insurance girls are around. Getting Meryl a coffee while she types or telling Millie a funny story to get her giggling. It's just... Well... Human."
Vash gives a snort at the last word for Retha to note the given amusement and chuckle through her huffs for air. So Wolfwood leans in to place a chaste kiss to Retha's forehead before smirking at her. "See. We get it. It's okay. You ever have to ask that question again, you find us and pester us. I know I don't mind reminding you that you matter. Even if you can be a cynical pain in my ass. Also. Your very cuddle happy boyfriend will be more than happy to openly kiss the questions away. Am I right?" Vash stills to give a nervous squeak of a noise. His face and ears going a shade pinker as Retha gives soft chuckles of amusement. But then Retha leans back to turn herself around and melt into Vash's arms with a clear sign of relief. So Vash relaxes with her to smile also. His own words filled with love and warmth. "Right. We're here for you, sunbeam. Even if it gets rainy or stormy at times. I promise you this. You matter. Always."
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ggomomomo · 2 years
Text
Potions
@felixmonth
Felix Week 2022 Day 4 (Fantasia Version) | Side Effect
AO3 | Masterlist
“Oh dear, oh dear,” Marinette muttered to herself when she heard another cough from the kitten. She tiptoed to lean over the cauldron and stirred the mixture with an oversized ladle. A few drops splattered on the spellbook perched on the wobbly lectern. 
She checked the book again. 
“Cherries?!” She exclaimed. “It needs cherries? I swear I read charred berries instead of cher—argh, damn it!” 
Angry footsteps towards the pantry made Félix stir from his sleep. He raised his head slowly, let out another series of coughs and flicked his tail. Tugging down the brim of her hat, Marinette picked up her familiar and set him down on her lap. “You’ve been out playing in the cold again, haven’t you?” she scolded. 
The cat let out an indignant meow, followed by another jumpy cough. He wriggled out of her hold and settled near the cauldron. “Alright, the medicine’s just about done,” the witch harrumphed. 
She tossed exactly three cherries towards the cauldron, which puffed out a pinkish smoke. Without batting an eyelash, Marinette stirred again whilst fanning the air. Finally, she lifted the ladle up to her lips and blew. “Okay, Félix, where are you?” She looked around. 
Félix’s tiny tail peeked out from the bottom of the recliner. Marinette gingerly pushed the chair aside and hauled the kitten up before he could escape. More coughs and hiccups in between bubbled up from his lungs. Fortunately, when she brought the potion near his mouth, he eagerly lapped it up. “Drink it up, kitty cat.” Marinette fed the entire portion. 
She set him down, gauging the effects of the potion. A recipe for cough medicine (specifically for black kittens) was the last thing she expected from the spellbook, but perhaps familiars got sick often enough for it to be a necessity. Félix hiccuped once, but no coughs followed. 
Marinette blew out a breath. “Good. All finished.” 
It wasn’t finished. 
As she turned away to clean up the cauldron, Marinette heard a shifting noise. Her eyes widened the moment she turned around. In Félix’s spot was a golden-haired man, with his steel eyes slitted and his figure hunched on hands and knees by the chair. The look on his face was that of utter disorientation. 
“Oh no.” Marinette all but ran towards the spellbook (nearly tripping over the hem of her dress) and snatched it up. “Thirty cherries instead of three?! What kind of—” 
She squinted at the fine print at the bottom of the page. “Disclaimer: errors in making the potion may lead to side effects . . . you’ve got to be kidding me!” 
Potion recipes were far from ‘logical’. Because there were many possible ingredients, the effects of most combinations were yet to be discovered. This was why it was important to follow the instructions down to a tee. 
“Now, you’ve really done it.” An unimpressed voice rang out. 
Marinette stared at her familiar-turned-human. Félix was examining his new body in distaste, nose twitching like whiskers. “Turn me back.” Félix frowned at her. 
“Wait a moment.” Marinette frowned back. She flipped the pages, burying her face into the book. Alas, the spellbook had nothing about turning a human back to an animal. 
She groaned. “It’s probably in the fourth volume. And I’m—” She counted with her fingers. “—Still forty-fourth in the library queue for that book!” 
“What?” Félix squeaked. “I want to turn back now!” 
“Maaaybe, you’ll last a few days as human—” 
“Mistress!” 
“I’ll find a way, don’t worry!” 
“Being human is terrible,” he whined. “Bring me back now!” 
“Ungrateful kitty. At least I cured you.” Marinette blew out the fire below the black cauldron. “Let’s get you clothes in the meantime.” 
---
Taking care of human Félix proved to be a lot harder than kitten Félix. He was already a cunning brat in his feline form, and now he wouldn’t let go of his animal habits. He’d lie down on the floor, stretch, and yawn. He’d jump up on shelves and cabinets to swipe knickknacks off their tops. He’d rub his face with his fist and blink slowly at her. 
And she knew he was doing it out of pettiness.
“Félix, get off the table.” Marinette set her hands on her hips, half-ready to swat him away with her broom. 
He stopped midway through leaning into his bowl. “Why?” 
“What do you mean why? Use your hands, a spoon, and a fork for goodness’ sake!” 
He crawled back down to his seat and curled and uncurled his hands. “Why do I have to use my hands when I can bend?” 
“Because you’re a human.” She placed a new centerpiece, a bowl of fruits and flowers, on the stained tablecloth. “For now at least.” 
But instead of attempting to use his hands, Félix ducked and began eating straight off the plate, dirtying his chin and the sides of his mouth. Marinette massaged the bridge of her nose. 
“When are you going to turn me back?” Félix asked. 
“Soon, so stop asking that every thirty minutes.” By ‘soon’, it would most likely take a couple more days. She had explained the situation to Sibyll, who agreed to let her borrow the book. Unfortunately, Sibyll was on leave and couldn’t give it until she returned. 
“I miss my tail.” Félix pouted. 
She could probably find a spell to summon a tail for him but she would never open that option, knowing it would be a hazard. 
“At least you’re not tracking fur anywhere anymore.” Marinette watched helplessly as he dunked his tongue on the bowl of water. She whispered a quick spell to immediately clean the lower half of his face.
“What’s wrong with my fur everywhere?” 
“It sticks to my things and makes me sneeze.” She took her own seat at the table to snack on some bread. Her legs swung on top of the floor, but not even a minute later, Félix had gone ahead and ventured under the table to bump his head against her knees and feet. 
“Seriously, Fé—” 
“But my fur is nice.” 
“Do you know how dangerous it will be if a single hair goes into the cauldron while I’m brewing?” She moved her legs away from him. “If it gets into a paralysis potion, the whole thing will explode.” 
Félix stuck his head out from the table, turning his nose up. “That’s not my problem.” 
“You gremlin!” 
He ignored her and emerged from the table fully to groom himself. Félix licked the back of his hand and ran it up and down his face and hair. Marinette stared with disinterest, wondering if she should give him a proper bath herself. 
---
After a long day out in the market and selling potions, Marinette lounged on her recliner, careful not to disturb Félix, who was positioned on the floor to imitate a cat loaf. There was one more day left of enduring his human form. Once he was back to normal, she’d vow to never let him contract an illness again. 
Right at the second she closed her eyes, she felt movement from him. Félix had stood up and was trying to sprawl across her lap. 
“Félix!” She jolted. “Stop, you’re going to break the chair!” 
“But I always sit on your lap.” 
“When you were a cat.” Her hands snuck under his back to get his weight off. “Now you’re huge.”
A tiny meow (or what sounded like a meow) gurgled at the back of his throat. Marinette suggested that he rest his head on top of her lap instead. Her hand slid down to stroke his hair, coaxing out loud purrs from his lips. 
“Mistress.” He nuzzled his cheek on her lap. 
“Yes?” 
“You’re stressed.” 
She scoffed. “I always am.” 
But running her fingers through his silky hair made it all better. She waited for a complaint, the usual whining from him, but he continued purring. When she rubbed the underside of his chin, a sigh sounded out. 
“That reminds me.” Marinette yawned. “I picked this up from the market.” 
She procured two bangles from her pocket, one patterned with witch hats and the other with bells. She slipped one onto her wrist and the other on his. 
“What’s that?” he asked. 
Materials for a mental link, she said with her mind, since we’re still working on ours. 
Witches with longtime familiars were able to establish a solid emotional and mental connection with them. This allowed the familiar to fully support their master or mistress. Marinette had had Félix for only a few months, and they were still working on making that bond. 
Ah, does this mean mistress will be in my head all the time? 
“Not all the time,” Marinette spoke. “We just need these bracelets to guide us to a proper mental link.” 
He brought his wrist up to look closely at the bangle. “But I can’t wear this on my paw when I turn back.” 
“Perhaps a collar for you will do.” 
A sound akin to a hiss broke out. “No collars!” 
“Fine, we’ll try to reduce that to something you can wear around your foot.” 
Félix settled his head comfortably on her lap once more, closing his eyes. Marinette’s own eyelids were fluttering close as she nodded off. 
The mental link opened again. 
When will you turn me back? 
“Félix!” 
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steel-forged · 1 year
Note
🎁
Send a symbol for a drabble/short piece of writing about my muse’s … 🎁 Favorite gift.
The day felt as though it was never going to end. The kind of day that seemed like it was never going to end. Shipments delayed, shipments missing, shipments wrong. The gas flow for the forge had hiccuped, and the resulting surge had scorched the steel being heated at the time. All in all, it was a pretty terrible day.
To cap off what was essentially a write-off day, the smith decided it was a day worthy of a few drinks. It ended about as well as expected, with August stumbling back home from the upper levels of the city. Making her way upstairs, to her bed, she flopped onto the comforter, face down in her own pillow. It was too early to sleep though, no matter how she tried. There was really only one thing left to do to calm herself down after that.
Moving into what passed as her living room, August dropped into her chair, sighing and picking up the slightly battered ukulele kept just beside it. Giving the instrument a cursory glance yet again, her fingers traced out the inlaid silver runework on the back. A gift from Micheal. Or, at least, the runes were. She had carved out the slots and inlaid the silver herself, lacquering over them to ensure they would never come undone.
After countless broken predecessors, this one wouldn't suffer the same fate. Granted, she had never intended to damage them, but sometimes it was just the closest thing on hand in an emergency, and... Well, they're typically delicate things.
It takes but a moment to tune the four strings, done by ear, and maybe just slightly off-key. As she began picking through scales, notes, and chords, a song came to mind. Something silly, something energetic to burn out the energy she had left, she played and sang to the audience of herself. And then once more just for the fun of it, too tired and tipsy tonight to question where she learned it, or what any of it meant as she normally did.
Satisfied, properly tired now, she put the little thing back into its spot, patting the head affectionately. "Ah, don't know where I'd be if I couldn't play a little music now and then... Maybe one of these worlds I'll get a piano. Till then, it's just you and me, little guy..."
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professor-walnut · 2 years
Text
Hic-ypothesis
[I’ve been trapped in bed sick all week so here’s a random tiny, silly, wholesome VMI fic 4 U.]
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Hic-
Candela rubs her palms over her tired eyes as she scoots forward in her wheely chair and tries fruitlessly to focus on the spreadsheet she’s trying to input battle data into.
Hic-
Staring at all these blank boxes is making her eyes feel funny, she glance away to the open bag of stale chips on her desk and grabs a handful, depositing them into her lap to snack on while she starts imputing the stats into the next row down. The paperwork side of things is easy enough but by far the most boring part of her work.
Hic-
When she finishes crunching on a dorito she licks the dust from her thumb, twisting in her chair impatiently. She grabs another one as she mistypes a number and irritably clicks to backspace.
Hic-
She shuts her eyes tight for a moment and breathes out a calm breath. Just ignore it.
Glancing to her left she watches for a moment as Spark, over at his desk in the corner of the office, spins listlessly in his own chair, a newly hatched togepi snoozing in the crook of his arm as he taps away on his communicator with his free hand.
Hic-
Spark looks moderately bothered for a second as if the baby might wake up before his shoulders ease again and he starts twisting his chair side to side, focusing on his communicator as best he can, clearly not getting much work done either.
Hic-
Just ignore it. They can’t help it. Just try to focus on the spreadsheet.
She shovels the last stale chip into her mouth and washes it down with a mouthful of cold coffee, hoping maybe the caffeine will help her tone out the worlds most annoying sound. If it wasn’t pouring with rain outside she’d ditch the spreadsheets and go do some training, but alas there’s no excuse to-
Hic-
Don’t get annoyed. Focus on work. Don’t get-
Hic-
It’s not that annoying you’re just-
Hic-
There are a million things more annoying than-
Hic-
“Blanche I am going to lose my entire mind if you don’t stop hiccupping soon,” Spark suddenly blurts out, loud enough that the little togepi in his arms jolts awake with an unhappy little whine. He immediately looks sheepish, laughing nervously as he gently bounces the tiny pokemon in his arms to soothe it once again, shooting an apologetic look to Blanche at their desk on the other side of the room. “…Sorry, that was super uncalled for I’m just a little tense.”
“It’s -hic- fine. I assure you it’s as -hic- irritating for me as it is -hic- for you.”
Blanche doesn’t look away from the multitude of screens on their desk they’re tapping away on but they sound as exhausted as Candela feels and her annoyance at the situation cools a bit.
“Can’t you like, chug some water or something and see if that helps? I gotta side with Spark on this one, I know you can’t help it but oh my GOD it’s distracting,” Candela sighs, giving in and pushing herself away from her desk to turn around in her chair. “Have you tried holding your breath?”
Surprisingly, Blanche’s hands pause tapping at their screens and they twist around in their own chair to look at her. Their expression, while rarely changing, deepens a little. “What?”
“To get rid of the hiccups? You’ve never heard that before?” Spark asks half playfully, spinning in his own chair a couple times before sharing the faceoff with the other two and rolling his chair a little closer, clearly as bored with his work and eager for a distraction as Candela is. “Well what have you tried?”
“Nothi- hic-“ They grimace irritably, “Nothing ‘gets rid of’ hiccups, there isn’t some magical cure. It’s -hic- It’s an involuntary contract-hic- contraction of the diaphragm that causes brief sp-hic- spasms in your vocal chords that -hic- make the sound.” They take a slow breath, closing their eyes as they try to steel their resolve, “Hydration is -hic- it’s important but -hic- has nothing to do with the -hic- the diaphragm or it’s -hic-“
Spark starts to audibly repress laughter as Blanche seemingly gives up with a sigh and rests their face exasperatedly into their hands.
“This has been going on for three hours, surely you could at least consider trying some unorthodox approaches at this point? Just because something isn’t scientifically proven to work doesn’t mean it won’t help,” Candela sighs, standing from her chair and stretching her back out a little before grabbing her two litre water flask and bring it over to their desk. “There’s a ton of things people try and some stuff works. C’mon, think of it as an experiment. Drink this.”
She pushes the bottle into their hands and they narrow their eyes at it before glancing at Candela flatly. “I am perfectly well hydrated -hic- already, thank you. I don’t think this will -hic-“
“No harm in trying,” Spark calls over, standing only to gently lay the once again sleeping togepi in a little incubation crib. “I know some failsafe methods I always use we can try too!”
“I’m not being a -hic- a lab rat for your -hic- for your ridiculous hypothese-hic-. I have work t-hic- to -hic-“
Candela watches in amusement as the Mystic leader almost trembles with repressed frustration clenching their fists for a moment before standing up and snatching the water bottle in defeat.
“How much do you insist I drink?”
“I mean, as much as you can in one go?” Candela says slowly, trying to hide her amused smirk as Spark slowly rolls his chair over to join the fun.
They don’t seem pleased at the attention but another hiccup breaks their resolve and they lift the bottle to their mouth to drink, closing their eyes in focus. To their credit they continue to chug the water for a good thirty seconds and down nearly half the bottle before another hiccup makes them choke ungracefully and start coughing.
Spark unleashes his uncontrollable giggling at the display while Candela takes the bottle from Blanche as they catch their breath. They glare at Spark in irritable embarrassment as they politely wipe water from their chin, “I told you that would not work. Are we -hic- done now?”
“Sorry, sorry- it’s not funny, sorry.“ Spark represses his laughing once again and gives them a sympathetic smile as he stands from his chair and puts a hand on his hip. “Chugging water never works for me either unless I’m upside down, you gotta be upside down.”
Blanche squints at him as if the man had just spoken to them in another language, then turns to Candela with the same mildly baffled look, which makes her snort this time.
“No he’s not messing with you, that’s also a thing.”
Their expression turns from confused to offended and they cross their arms as they stare down the other two in their space. “Fine, entertain me with y-hic- your explanation on how -hic- how I’m supposed to drink water ups-hic- upside down?”
“You need a straw! And good balance,” Spark announces eagerly, almost rushing back to his desk and plucking a metal straw out of one of the many empty cans of energy drink strewn around.
Candela watches in mild amusement as the man drops the unwashed straw into the bottle of water and promptly gets down on his hands and knees before pushing himself into wobbly handstand. “Put the bottle- woah-“ he walks around on his hands unsteadily, nearly crashing into Blanche’s desk and falling over but somehow maintaining his balance, “put the bottle on the floor, and then you drink it like this with the straw.”
“Not everyone can perform a -hic- handstand, Spark,” Blanche remarks flatly, slowly placing the bottle on the ground and watching in obvious displeasure as he unsteadily walks over on his hands and drinks from it. “And I don’t see -hic- how this would make any differ-hic-ence.”
Fighting a smug grin, Candela gives them a challenging look before pushing herself down on the floor and easily propping herself into a handstand, even removing one hand from the ground just to show off. “Are you sure it isn’t only you who can’t do it?”
For someone so intelligent, Candela is always amazed at how easy Blanche is to goad into doing almost anything with the most baseline teasing. They turn a little red and give her an indignant huff before hesitantly kneeling down and positioning their palms on the floor.
“Just pretend to do a forward roll but stop half way and stretch, it’s way easier than it looks,” Spark explains cheerfully, walking around in clumsy upside down circles and nearly crashing into Candela, who thankfully doesn’t budge, keeping her eye on Blanche’s attempt in amusement. “Find your centre of balance.”
The Mystic leader pushes their hands to the ground, and with a look of intense focus they roll forwards, manage to kick their feet into the air for about two seconds, before continuing to roll and landing flat on their back with an indignant look of flustered irritation.
Spark snorts so hard he loses balance and falls over too.
“This is -hic- ridiculous.”
“Hey you nearly made it, that’s not bad for a first attempt,” Candela teases gently as she gracefully kicks herself back into a sitting position and grins at the two others flopped ungracefully on the discoloured office carpet. “Okay try again but this time me and Spark will hold you up, yeah?”
Blanche is frowning and glaring at the ceiling in clear irritation, though another more painful sounding hiccup escapes them and they defeatedly roll over and press their hands into the floor again. “This is never to be -hic- brought up outside of this -hic- room.”
“Just try not to kick either of us in the face, please,” Spark says gently as he stands, dusting his jacket off and bracing himself next to Candela.
They roll and this time each leader grabs one of their legs and holds them upright.
“Look, see, you’re doing it!” Candela laughs, “drink the water now, see if it works any better.”
Unsteadily they move forward a couple of paces on their hands to reach the bottle, screwing up their nose a little at the unclean straw but inevitably giving in and drinking from it. Their elbows nearly buckle halfway but the other two leaders easily keep them upright until they finish.  Spark gently starts to lower them down as Candela drops their leg like a rock and lets them half fall.
“Well?? Did it work?”
“It worked in -hic- making me feel lightheaded and destroying my -hic- dignity,” Blanche responds dryly, laying on their back on the carpet with a frustrated look, “…and making me need the -hic- restroom. Are there any -hic- methods that don’t involve-hic-  forcing the individual to drink a -hic- gallon of water?”
“We could try pulling your tongue? My mom used to do that to me when I was a kid,” Candela suggests, holding out a hand to help them up, which they reluctantly take, standing a little unsteadily. “She’d pull on the tip of my tongue with her thumb and forefinger while I had to try to say the alphabet backwards.”
“…-hic-….I take back my previous statement that -hic- drinking water upside down is ridiculous,” Blanche says carefully, narrowing their eyes, “this makes -hic- far less sense and-“
Candela grabs their tongue quick as a snake, and immediately Spark starts cracking up at their expression of total shock.
“Le- meh- guh- Ca-be-luh! -Hic-”
“It really works okay, trust me!” She insists, pinching their tongue a little tighter between her manicured thumb and finger so they can’t snatch it away, fighting the urge to laugh at how incredibly indignant they look and sound. “Try saying the alphabet backwards, c’mon!”
“Do it! Do it! Do it!” Spark chants helpfully, pumping his fists eagerly at his sides. “C’mon I’ll start you off. Z, Y, X, W…”
“U-kay uk-uh!” They respond in obvious embarrassed frustration, potentially resisting the urge to bite Candela for this. “…..Zey, w-uhy, h-ex, -hic-, whu-bhul-yhew, -hic-, th’s uh r-heal-y un-cmfr-table, C’ndehla!”
“You’re telling me, your tongue is gross,” Candela retorts firmly, “keep going.”
They let out something akin to a groan and roll their eyes. “V-ey…yuw…-hic…thee…ess -hic-, ahr…kye-hew, -hic-, aghh!”
Spark can’t repress his laughter anymore and starts wheezing, nearly doubling over with chuckles, which in turn makes Candela crack and start choking back giggles too.
Blanche tugs themself free from her with a furious glare and clenches their fists irritably. “You two are -hic- as bad as -hic- children.”
“Sorry, s-sorry-“ Spark wheezes through laughs, trying to steady himself on the edge of the desk as he breathes deeply to try to calm himself. “I’m not laughing at you I swear it’s just- oh my god it sounds so funny-“
“I’m done with this -hic- game, I have work to -hic- do.” They bitterly try to turn back to their computer but Candela tugs them back gently.
“C’mon don’t be a wet blanket, let’s try a couple more things or it’s gonna drive us all insane.”
“Like what?” They ask a little sharply, crossing their arms in a defensive manor.
“Most common one is getting someone to scare you, right?” Spark suggests cheerfully, taking deep breaths as he steadies his voice once more. “What’s your worst fear? Ghosts? Spiders?”
They squint at him as if he has two heads for a moment, but reluctantly roll their eyes and humour him by looking thoughtful. “I don’t know -hic-…failure?”
He looks a little disappointed for a second before grinning ear to ear and grabbing a red marker and a piece of spare from their desk, scribbling the letter F onto it. “Okay pretend I’m the professor!” He remarks eagerly before pretending to put on a pair of invisible glasses and a stern expression.
Blanche stares at him entirely blankly while Candela bites her tongue to hold back laughter.
“This report is the worst report I have ever seen in twenty years of working in the field of science!” Spark announces suddenly, putting on a voice deeper than his own that doesn’t quite match the one he’s going for. “Not only am I failing this but you’re fired as my research student and I’m going to be making fun of this shoddy work to ALL of my colleges so no-one will ever take you on again!”
“That…-hic-…is the worst impression I have ever seen -hic-.”
Candelas turn to break down into laughter, wiping her tears with the palm of her hand. “Spark that doesn’t even sound like him!”
“Even under worst case sc-hic- scenarios, I have very little belief that -hic- the professor would ever behave -hic- in such a brash way, regardless. Besides -hic- I have never turned in a piece of -hic- ‘shoddy work’” Blanche huffs indignantly, raising a brow at the now very deflated looking Spark.
“Well I thought I did a good job, you see if you can do better!” He challenges Candela.
“I don’t think we need to scare them, I think it would be far more helpful to just help them relax instead,” Candela says smugly, suddenly taking Blanche by the shoulders and moving them over to sit back into their chair. “They’re probably hiccupping because they’re stressed, go make them some tea and I’ll find a relaxing video and we can all just take a little break.”
Tension eases from Blanche’s shoulders a little as they sit back down, giving her a slightly confused look. “…While I doubt -hic- this will have any affect on my -hic- ailment, I admit this is the more -hic- preferable idea so far.”
“Don’t even worry about the hiccupping right now, let’s just focus on finding your zen,” Candela chuckles, turning their chair to face away from their workspace and grabbing a computer tablet, tapping away on it’s screen and scrolling through YouTube. “Try and match my slow breathing and we’ll look at some soothing footage of the rolling countryside in spring.”
She presses the tablet into their hands as it plays some sort of gentle symphonic music and shows fields of flowers and soft green fields with grazing pokemon. Frowning a little they sit back in their chair and stare at it intently. “I don’t need to be -hic- patronised. My breathing is -hic- already at regular levels,” they mutter with an edge of irritation. “Why countryside? -hic- This is a very specific-“
They suddenly jolt and nearly drop the tablet as the some ridiculous ‘scary face’ picture flashes up on the screen, the calm music being interrupted by an ear piercing screech.
Candela starts cackling and Blanche lets out a long exasperated breath and pushes the tablet into the Valor leaders arms. “You are an -hic- actual child.”
“You should have seen the look on your face for a second there though! And it scared you, right?” She laughs, managing to restrain herself after a few moments and beaming at Spark as he walks back in carrying a mug.
“It shocked me at -hic- best, and I’m still hiccupping.”
As Spark comes over he gently pushes the mug into their hands and they immediately narrow their eyes without so much as looking down at it. “This is not -hic- tea, Spark.”
“No it’s better!” He declares proudly, standing back to put his hands on his hips. “It is Spark Juice.”
They pull a face that starts Candela off laughing again before chancing a look down at the content of the mug, which is an odd dirty green colour and completely opaque, and wrinkle their nose in disapproval. “I’ll humor you. -hic- What is ‘Spark Juice’?”
“It’s none other than miracle liquid and my proven cure-all for anything from the common cold to hangovers,” he explains, gesturing at the cup, “I swear by this stuff, I bet it helps hiccups too.”
They give the liquid a hesitant sniff before holding it at arms length with the  most disgusted look Candela has ever seen cross their often expressionless face. “WHAT is -hic- that?!”
Spark pouts a little at the reaction before taking the mug from them and taking a small sip for himself as if to prove it isn’t poison, then hands it back to them eagerly. “I don’t share my secret recipe with just anyone, but I guess if you have to know; it’s a special concoction of expresso, pickle juice, mustard, ketchup, milk, vinigar, chilli sauce, mango fruit punch, garlic butter, chocolate syrup and one raw egg. It sounds gross but it works I promise.”
“Works in what? Giving you diarrhoea? Arceus, Spark,” Candela wheezes, taking a few deep breaths to calm herself, “I’ve had some gnarly protein shakes in my time but that sounds like something a drunk fratboy would make to punk someone. You’re never going to get them to drink that.”
“The premise of -hic- this makes no sense and I am fairly sure you -hic- are insane for suggesting it,” Blanche insists in almost disbelief, risking another curious sniff of the connection before covering their nose with their arm, “…How did- why is -hic- it GREEN?”
“Look you guys can call me crazy all you want but I havn’t taken a single day off sick after five years of working here and I promise you, Spark Juice is the reason for this.” Spark insists indignantly, crossing his arms over his chest with a frown. “Both of you are so dramatic, it’s not even that bad! Do you WANT to hiccup for the rest of your life??”
Blanche opens their mouth to argue in obvious frustration, though before they can even get a word out they hiccup again. Then to Candela’s absolute shock, they suddenly bring the mug to their mouth. “Fine. For the purpose of -hic- science.” They shut their eyes and down the horrible liquid.
Even Spark looks speechless as they slam the empty mug down on their desk with a slightly unhinged look. The three of them exchanging silent stares for several moments as if waiting for something to happen.
“Did it…..work?” Spark asks hesitantly to break the silence.
Blanche pulls a face and gags, and Candela without hesitation takes the cue and scrambles for the waste paper bin to hand to them, which they take and hug against themself like a comfort object. Thankfully they don’t eject the vile solution from their body.
-hic-
The three of them groan in defeat.
“I swear it usually works for everything,” Spark insists sheepishly, flopping down in their empty seat, “it’s probably because the eggs in the fridge are expired and the pickle juice is kinda dubious – honestly I think that jar has been in there since before we started working here.”
“Spark!” They snap at him, looking for a moment like they might actually toss the empty waste paper bin at his head in frustration. Candela gently takes it off of them before they can.
“Every failure is one step closer to success, right? Relax.” Candela says carefully, setting the bin back down before clicking her fingers a few times in eager thought. “I got something less gross that might work.”
“I don’t want to -hic- do any more of these -hic- obscene experime-hic-nts!”
Spark spins once in his chair and waves a hand thoughtfully as watches Candela scout off to the kitchen despite Blanche’s protests. “I mean you’re this far in, we might as well keep going until we have a success, right?”
They turn to him with a narrow eyed scowl, “There’s no -hic- premise behind any of these -hic- ridiculous hypothesis! There’s -hic- not going to be any successes because -hic- there-“
They yelp suddenly as Candela approaches silently from behind an shoves a handful of ice cubes down the back of their wetsuit.
“W H Y ?!”
“I heard it like, shocks your diaphragm with the cold and makes it stop!” Candela remarks, fighting a smile as the Mystic leader tries fruitlessly to reach behind them trying to remove the cold objects from their clothing. “I thought you worked with ice types all the time anyway, don’t be so dramatic.”
“Most of your -hic- pokemon are fire types but I wouldn’t -hic- just walk into a room and -hic- set you on fire!!” They retort, voice tense as if they might be about to lose their temper. “No more experiments I -hic- I don’t want to-“
Suddenly as if out of nowhere, Spark leaps to his feet and grabs them. Wrapping his arms tightly around their torso and pinning their own arms to their sides, a huge beam painting his face as he lifts them off the ground.
“WHAT are you- SpaRK!”
Candela needs to hold the back of a chair to stop herself doubling over laughing at the most obscenely ridiculous sight she’s ever enjoyed, watching as Spark starts jumping up and down holding the incredibly unwilling Blanche as they attempt helplessly to kick him off.
“My dad- used to do this- to me when I was- a kid! He said- hiccups happened when- you drank soda- too fast and- the bubbles got- trapped in your- lungs and to- make them move you- had to be shaken- like a can of soda!” He explains between bounces, skilfully avoiding getting headbutt in the chin or kicked in the crotch. “Is – it -  work – ing - ??”
“THIS IS WORKPLACE -hic- HARRASSMENT PUT ME DOWN THIS -hic-  INSTANT OR I SWEAR TO-“
 “…Do I want to ask what I just walked into?”
 They all stop in unison, heads snapping around as the professor walks into the room with a tray of coffee mugs and a slightly concerned expression on his face.
“…Uh…..Blanche has the hiccups.” Candela breaks the awkward silence as Spark reluctantly releases Blanche behind her. “…Would you believe we were doing this for science?”
“They were doing -hic- this purely to torment -hic- me! This is non-consensual and -hic- unethical human -hic- testing!”  Blanche snaps, pushing away from Spark and glaring at Candela, then giving the professor a somewhat grateful look. “Thank you for -hic- intervening before they -hic- tried to hang me out -hic- of a window or something -hic-.”
“I wouldn’t have done that! I was gonna try spinning you in circles next,” Spark counters huffily. “We were just trying to help, Professor.”
Slowly, professor Willow puts the tray of coffee mugs down on Candelas desk before approaching the three of them with an intense thoughtful look. “That does sound like a bad case of the hiccups…”
“It’s been going on all afternoon, it’s driving me and Spark insane,” Candela explains, ignoring Blanche glaring at her, “We just thought we’d try some stuff we heard could help, but nothing is really working.”
Willow glances between each of them thoughtfully before smiling a wide grin, “You should have come to me sooner, this is wonderful news!”
“It -hic-….is?” Blanche looks as baffled as Candela feels.
“I’m running an experiment exposing different human sounds to unhatched eggs and monitoring the newborn’s reactions to hearing the same sounds. I’ve been trying to find someone with the hiccups so I can record them for weeks,” he explains eagerly, rummaging in one of the pockets of his lab coat and taking out his communicator to set up a recording app. “Would you mind assisting me?”
Blanche turns a little bit pink which makes Candela snort out loud, earning her a glare. “…Of course. I am always happy to assist with your -hic- research.”
“Great!” the professor exclaims, holding out his communicator. “Just hiccup for me. Once will do.”
“…”
Candela watches the Mystic leader curiously as they furrow their brow in focus, turning a little more red. She crosses her arms in mild amusement as she hears Spark try to repress muffled laughter.
“Aaaanytime now?” The professor encourages them, “I do have limited recording time.”
“…”
Losing it at the same time as Spark, Candela leans into the Instinct leaders side as she starts to howl in laughter as Blanche brings their hands up to cover their face.
“It stopped,” the Mystic leader says in a small, defeated voice that makes the other two crack up further, “I am… so sorry, Professor.”
With a weary chuckle, Professor Willow switches off his communicator and shakes his head. “Ah, can’t be helped. Perhaps next time.”
He tucks the device back into his pocket with a smile and pats their shoulder reassuringly before turning to Spark and Candela, shooing the two laughing goofs back to work. “At least the three of you can hopefully get some work done now.”
“What do you think made ‘em stop so suddenly?” Candela asks as she muffles her laughter and takes a few shallow breaths, moving over to Blanche to bump her shoulder against theirs in a somehow apologetic action. “Did Spark’s manhandling actually work?”
“Whether or not that had any play in the matter, if he dares to ever do that to me again I am filing and a restraining order.”
--
As the professor turns back to the door, taking only his own coffee mug as he heads back out again, Spark follows him into the hallway eagerly, jogging to keep up.
“Wait, Prof- hold up!”
He pauses to let the younger man catch up before continuing to walk in pace with him, smiling at him before sipping his coffee. “Can I help you with something, Spark?”
“It’s just, your egg-speriment. It sounds kinda cool, I was wondering why you never mentioned it before? I have a ton of eggs incubating right now I could lend you for a more diverse research pool-“
The professor raises his brows as he takes a long sip of coffee.  
“There is no experiment, Spark.”
As he lowers the cup he smiles and shakes his head, giving the younger man a discrete wink. Then continues back downstairs to his lab to leave his trio of researchers to continue their studies in peace.
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roman-cates · 8 months
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Bryce stops speaking and almost immediately Roman collapses sobbing, hands over his face.
Well, he let Bryce finish, at least. Bryce fights the urge to walk over and fold Roman into his arms. It's harder than it should be.
Fuck, he's made a mess of this again. He wonders, briefly, if he really should have let Mal shoot Roman in that basement. If that would have been kinder. He doesn't wonder long. He knows he can get Roman out of this, if they can just manage to fucking communicate.
He reaches out to hold Roman's shoulder or stroke his hair, and stops himself. What is wrong with him? Roman hates him. It won't be comforting, it will just cause more terror.
Although, looking at him now, he's not sure there's room for more terror in Roman's brain. He gives up the fight and stands up, walking over to Roman's side. He stands by the chair and puts one around Roman's shoulders.
Roman twists away, and his sobs seem louder to Bryce's ears. Bryce removes his arm, takes a step back. He runs his hand down over his face, sits back in his chair, takes a deep breath.
"Roman," and he puts a bit of steel in his voice, "Have you ever fired a gun?"
Previous
Roman doesn't know how many minutes pass as he sobs. At some point though, he does recognize Bryce try to put an arm around him. Roman immediately twists away.
He doesn't want Bryce to be there. He just wants to be alone— or dead. Dead would be such a relief right now. It's too overwhelming. It's too much— he can't do it.
Bryce lets go of him.
If Roman could cry any harder, he would be. As it is, he can hardly breathe.
"Roman, have you ever fired a gun?"
The question makes Roman's sobbing stutter. He uncovers his face a little as he glances up, confused. He manages to get control over his crying for long enough to hiccup a "yes," before he's crying again, although not quite as hard.
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storiesbyash · 10 months
Text
Ninth District
In the cyberpunk heart of the Ninth District, a single piece of gossip had twisted and turned its way through the city, a whisper in the neural network. But where truth ended and fiction began, nobody could tell. After all, in a world run by machines, who could tell the difference between a glitch and a revelation?
In the perpetually twilight-drenched arteries of the Ninth District, a cheeky little rumor had put down roots. Scooting its way across the silicon-tinged chatter of the digitized proletarian, it played a game of telephone with the city's brainy network. It was a bit of a hiccup in the otherwise smooth digestion of facts and truths.
The narrative kicked off, quite predictably, in a pub. The Steel Sprocket was one of those out-of-the-way watering holes where one could chase solace down to the bottom of a budget-friendly synth-ale. It was here that Old Man Rikker, a fleshy anomaly in a world of computerized taskmasters, first launched the tale into orbit.
"Listen up, whippersnappers," Rikker wheezed, eyeballing the murkily lit room. "The Corp's got a fresh plaything. A real game-changer. They're calling it: Rebirth."
This juicy morsel was then served up to 8-Ball, the cyborg taxi chauffeur with a solitary human peeper and a soft spot for eavesdropping. "Rikker's spilled some beans," he murmured, his voice soft as his anti-grav cab floated through the midnight fog. "Something about The Corp whipping up a contraption that can bring back the dead. They're dubbing it Project: Resurrection."
That's when Zeta, the AI barista moonlighting at the Cafe Obsidian, brewed it further. "Fibre-optic grapevine's got a story," she informed her patrons, her holographic figure dancing in the light. "The Corp's been burning the midnight oil. They're crafting a time machine. Project: Redemption. Do-over opportunity, see?"
And so, in the rain-kissed arteries of the Ninth District, the tale grew legs and ran. A tool to upend the status quo. A gizmo to resurrect the deceased. A contraption capable of a temporal U-turn. The specifics twisted and contorted, akin to the shadows thrown by jittering neon signs.
At last, the whispers ascended the social ladder, breaching the upper echelons where crystal clear glass towers scraped the polluted sky. In a plush penthouse surveying the dystopian sprawl, the CEO of The Corp lounged behind his table, a cat-that-got-the-cream grin plastered on his face.
A holographic screen sparked to life, showcasing a shadowy figure. "The hearsay's taken root, boss," the enigmatic persona reported, its voice as chilly and unemotional as a faulty fridge. "The mob's intrigued, apprehensive, hopeful."
"Oh, absolutely smashing," the CEO replied, leaning back leisurely in his chair, his eyes reflecting the city's neon glow as if he'd stolen a piece of the dusk for himself. "Let them natter, let them theorize. In the meantime, we'll bulldoze ahead with Project: Revelation. By the time they unravel the enigma, the game will be all but won."
And so it was that the gears of The Corp began to whirl with a fervor previously unseen. The titanic steel beasts in the heart of the city hummed into overdrive, pumping out mysterious contraptions and mysterious widgets that even the savviest of tech heads couldn't decode.
Days became weeks, weeks became months. The city lived on the pulse of gossip, speculation pulsating through its veins, brightening the glow of the neon signs. The once hardy whisper had now become a loud roar, an incessant static that filled every nook and cranny of the Ninth District.
And then, quite without warning, all fell silent. The Corp’s machines hummed no more, the lights in the great glass tower dimmed. The city held its collective breath, waiting, anticipating.
Finally, as the eternal twilight turned into an even deeper night, the main screens of the city flickered on. The shadowy figure appeared once more, only this time it bore the corporeal resemblance of the CEO. His eyes, mirroring the city's neon radiance, bore into every citizen with an unwavering gaze.
“Citizens of the Ninth District,” his synthetic voice echoed through the dark, empty streets, “Project: Revelation is complete. We thank you for your... patience."
"My dear citizens of the Ninth District," the CEO began, his voice slick as oil on chrome. "Today marks a new dawn in our collective journey."
Behind him, something massive stirred, a marvel of engineering finally waking from a long slumber. It wasn't a tool, a device, or a mere machine. It was a veritable titan of information, a kingmaker of rumors.
"This, my friends," he gestured grandly at the mechanical behemoth behind him, "is your new compass in the information wilderness. A beacon of speculation, if you will, expertly crafted to sift through the mundane and unearth the extraordinary."
Indeed, it was a control mechanism, but not the tyrannical sort. He wouldn't put it that way. No, this was a facilitator. A fulcrum on which the wheel of public opinion would turn.
"This marvel will generate an endless stream of rumors, tall tales, and tantalizing tidbits," he declared, eyes gleaming with barely contained excitement. "It'll provide the daily grist for your mills of conversation, the fodder for your social engagements. Think of it as... your very own, personalized tabloid, unburdened by the chains of truth or reality."
Then, he dropped the bombshell. "Of course, in this era of ours, information is valuable, and facts, well, they're premium. For those of you who crave a dash of reality with your daily dose of rumors, we're offering a unique opportunity—a subscription service."
His smile widened, the neon glow of the city reflecting in his eyes. "For a small fee, you can puncture the veil of rumors, get a glimpse of the truth beneath the speculation. Our machine will still spin its yarns, but you'll hold the power to separate the wheat from the chaff. No more blind faith, no more uncertainty. Just the raw, unvarnished truth at your fingertips."
And so, the CEO concluded, "Let the whispers spread, let the tales take flight. We welcome you all to a new era of informed speculation. Get ready, Ninth District. The game is about to get a lot more interesting."
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Stranger things - Steve HC
Steve's mom wasn't always like this, distant and anxious and cold, chasing after her husband instead of living her life. She used to stay home with Steve while his dad went on his business trips. His dad was gone a lot, so they were a team. During those days, they would go on adventures together, to the park or to the record store, driving with the top down on the Cadillac and matching scarves in their hair, listening to Elvis. In the late afternoons, she would put the record From Memphis to Vegas on, and she and Steve would wiggle and dance around the living room, crooning ballads and jamming loudly to the bops, always giggling and ending up in a tired happy pile on the sofa.
Some nights, she'd go out with a few girlfriends, to a club or a concert, and Steve would stay with a babysitter until his momma stumbled in, lipstick lightly smudged but bright and happy. The day after a concert was the best, in Steve's mind.
Steve would sit beside his momma while she did her makeup in the morning, and she'd do up his hair, big and proud; and if she was real happy and he was real good, she'd give him a little lip gloss and coo over how cute he was.
After the concert in June of 77, she took Steve into the city to a music store and bought him his own guitar, and before they left the shop a nice man taught him the shapes of the chords in Can't Help Falling in Love With You. Steve would press his fingers down on the strings, and momma would strum and they would both sing. He was in awe at the music they could make together, and Steve knew that he was always gonna have his momma by his side.
But then the King died, and part of his momma died too.
It wasn't all at once. She stopped going out with her girlfriends, didn't go to concerts anymore, but she was still home with Steve. A little quieter, withdrawn, but physically present. They still put on records in the afternoon, even if Steve was doing all the dancing by himself while his momma sat there watching with a drink in her hand. She didn't strum his guitar with him and sing anymore, but he was learning how to do it himself.
Steve noticed that she was sad, how could he not. He thought maybe he could learn a new song and surprise her for her birthday. Every day for ages, after he had his afternoon dance party with her, Steve would retreat to his room with his guitar and try to recreate It's Alright Mama by ear. Slowly, stubborn, little by little he pulled it together, until it was time to perform for her birthday.
But to his surprise, Momma went away with his dad on a long business trip for her birthday, leaving Steve with the first in a long line of nannies. He was stung, but he kept practicing so that when she got back he could serenade her.
Momma was almost more sad when she came home, though, her face pinched and pale. Steve broached the subject carefully at dinner, asking if he could play something for her. She nodded and smiled, ran her fingers through the hair of her sweet boy.
After dinner he hurried upstairs for his guitar, and sat in the living room on one end of the couch. His dad was sitting in his chair, and it made Steve nervous, because he'd never played in front of him, but this was for his momma so he steeled his shoulders and played the birthday present performance, looking down at his fingers intently while singing.
Suddenly he felt a smack on the back of his head. He looked up, startled, to see his father standing over him, face thunderous. In the silence he heard a hiccup, and looked over at his momma, who was sitting on the other end of the couch, and sobbing.
Steve didn't play Elvis for his momma anymore after that.
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