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from-the-clouds · 3 years

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Kiss Me More (Part IIII) - Zemo/Reader

Masterlist | Part One | Part Two | Part Three |

Summary: Reader ponders the decision they made after meeting Zemo in Riga. Series now complete!

Words: 5.2k

Warnings: Kissing, marijuana & alcohol abuse, heavy angst & depression, small reference to suicide, implied casual sex, yearning

A/N (also check out A/N at end when finished reading): This is it, everyone! I was going to end this completely differently originally, but after some thinking -- and some light peer pressure from ya’ll, I did something a little different. I did fight with this part the most out of all of them, so I hope it’s still good. Please enjoy. And thank you for all the love on this series, it’s been so fun to write! Also I was listening to this song while writing this.

---

The incessant buzz of her alarm clock jolted her out of her dreamless sleep. Fumbling in the dark, she slapped the top of it, hitting the snooze button and looking at the interface with bleary eyes.

4:00 A.M. It stared, indifferent, back at her tired face.

She groaned, squeezing her eyes shut and lamenting, bargaining, half expecting the clock to turn back time when she opened her eyes again. Unfortunately, it did not. With a huff, she threw back the covers and stretched, disturbing the orange cat that slept in the empty spot next to her where her husband used to lay.

Snorting, the cat lifted its head to look at her as she climbed out of bed before curling back up in a ball where her feet had been.

“Don’t mind me, just getting ready for work so I can feed us,” she said, grumpily, then in a moment of repentance, affectionately scratching her behind the ears.

She had always been a night owl, so she didn’t think it would be possible to ever get used to waking this early. No human was meant to function at this time. It was the one part of the job she hated most. The rest of it was manageable, though it was still work.

Setting about her morning routine, she showered, made coffee, and donned her uniform. Eating a day-old bagel and nursing her coffee on her tiny balcony, she looked out over the darkened horizon. It was far too early to even enjoy a sunrise.

There was a saying, time heals all wounds. After her husband died, she’d heard it a lot. It was a saying she had come to find true. But it’d been well over a year since she’d left Helmut, alone in that swanky hotel room, and it still hurt like it was yesterday.

“I understand,” he’d murmured, and she felt the ghost of his kiss on her forehead, arms around her waist, even now. She shivered, not from the chill of the morning air.

She’d left her old life behind, all of it. Sam and Bucky, too, about a month after their time in Riga. She couldn’t look them in the eyes after what she’d done.

But, she was proud of what they’d accomplished. They’d defeated the Flag Smashers. Bucky seemed happier, more at peace. Sam had accepted his role as the new Captain America. John Walker seemed to have faded into irrelevancy. All the loose ends had been tied up in a pretty little bow.

Except for hers.

Which is why she moved, sold all the stuff in her tiny NYC apartment, and packed her car full with what she couldn’t bear to part with, some photos and momentos from a different lifetime. Her car didn’t stop until she hit the Atlantic Ocean, on an island just south of Charleston. All but undiscovered by tourists, the residents in the sleepy beach town kept to themselves, and she could go about her life in peace, undisturbed.

She couldn’t just run away from her problems, that was why she’d left Zemo. It seemed counterintuitive, but in her mind, it made sense. The problems would catch up to her, like they always had. The dissatisfaction she had with her life, with herself, was always going to return. And she knew she had to be alone to deal to face it head on. Like a wounded animal, crawling into the woods, there were only two ways things could end here; either she’d heal and come out stronger, or eventually she’d die. And so far, the healing part wasn’t going great.

Each day was a matter of convincing herself that she’d made the right choice. Especially now, as her eyes burned, fighting to stay open against the inviting embrace of sleep.

Despite it being dark outside, the bakery was bustling already when she walked in the service entrance. It smelled amazing, as always. Sweet and warm, a cacophony of aromas, baking bread, fresh coffee, sugar.

She set about the usual preparations to open up, packaging orders for the regulars, sweeping the floor, wiping down countertops. Once the place was open, she didn’t have to work the register, as she prepared batches of dough in the back for proofing, to be baked the next day.

Before, she’d been a terrible cook, but she’d grown comfortable in the kitchen after learning to bake. There was something satisfying about working with her hands, at this point she’d memorized all the recipes and the work became second nature to her. Now, she always had fresh bread and pastries in her kitchen, although they were the slightly disformed, ones the shop owners deemed too ugly for the glass display cases. Daylight was cherished, even if she barely saw it inside the shop. Because while she was awake, busy with work, her thoughts remained pleasant.

At night it was the hardest. Things got quiet, lonely. When she got home, she poured herself a drink. Cheap whiskey, the kind that came in a plastic bottle and burned on it’s way down. She had never been much of a drinker before, she was now. Her thoughts were more manageable after a drink. Especially because she was usually thinking of Helmut.

It was often that she wondered what he may be doing, and those thoughts usually ended with the image of him lying in the sun, poolside, on some island in the Pacific Ocean, drinking expensive champagne with a supermodel. It wasn’t a particularly comforting thought to her, and yet she was plagued by some variation of it every night.

Sometimes, she’d humor herself, and imagine what they might be doing had she decided to stay with him. Unfortunately, thinking of that was more upsetting. She wanted it, selfishly, though she wasn’t willing to admit it.

When she was younger, it had been so easy to block out the pain, to just press forward, no matter what. Much to her dismay, it didn’t get easier as she got older. Years of watching those she loved in pain, years of being in pain had taken a toll on her resilience. She wasn’t the strong woman she once was, she was weak.

That night, one drink had turned into two, into three. Wallowing in her own self-pity had become second-nature, she felt like Hamlet, lamenting her circumstances, a constant turmoil monologuing in her brain. But this night felt particularly worse, for some reason.

For the record, she had been doing better. But she was all-too-familiar with how grief worked, pulling her back down the dark side of the mountain, where she was forced to fight her demons over and over again. At some point, they were going to win.

It was a funny thing. Despite the loss of her husband, who she had loved dearly, his death had been easier to accept. Final. She couldn’t bring him back. Helmut on the other hand, was still out there, an open wound that could never fully heal.

Before she knew it, she was four drinks in, at her bedside table, fumbling through the bottom drawer, until she found what she was looking for.

Back on her couch, she stared at the card in her hand, the hastily written phone number on it, an international line. Helmut had given it to her, the day she left, stuck it in her purse while she wasn’t looking. She didn’t discover it until she had returned home.

It had been months since she last did this, pulled the card out of its hidden place in her drawer, placed it on the coffee table in front of her next to her phone, and considered dialing it. It had been a frequent occurrence when she first moved here, when she couldn’t find a job and spent most of her mornings either hungover, or stumbling home from rendezvous with men whose names she wouldn’t remember, and she wouldn’t care to, because there was only one man she really wanted. She could only hope he’d be as close as one call away. But she never called.

I mean really, he’d probably moved on by this point. If she was going to call, she should have done it months ago, when there was more of a chance that he’d give a fuck.

She considered this a setback. But she’d made her way halfway through the cheap bottle of whiskey, it was the drunkest she’d been in ages and she was curious. She didn’t know whose number it was, who’d be on the other end of the line, and never knew why Helmut would want her to have it to begin with.

At this point, she wasn’t capable of good decision making. In general, it hadn’t always been her strong suit. So why did doing the right thing matter now? It didn’t, she decided.

Taking a swig of whiskey straight from the bottle, she ensured she wouldn’t remember what happened next, at least not clearly.

The phone rang twice before someone picked up. “Hello?” she didn’t recognize the sound of the man on the other end of the line immediately, so she didn’t answer. All she had wanted to do was maybe hear Helmut’s voice, he didn’t even need to know it was her that was calling.

“Hello?” the man repeated, and she realized it wasn’t completely unfamiliar. The grandfatherly, comforting tone wasn’t her former lover, but someone close to him. And she supposed that wasn’t terrible.

“Is this Oeznik?” she asked.

“It is,” he said after some hesitation. “May I ask who’s speaking?”

Truthfully, she was shocked she’d allowed herself to go this far. This was a bad idea. If she stopped now she could get off without doing any real damage. But just as she was about to hang up, she heard her name, muffled, on the other end of the line.

“H-How do you know it’s me?” She raised the phone back to her ear.

“I thought you sounded familiar,” Oeznik chuckled, low and soft. “Helmut told me you might call.”

“He did?” she squeaked. “Yes, although it was awhile ago. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I uh….I….well….” she managed. “I guess I just….I guess I wanted to see how he was doing.” Her words flowed together like the liquor she was drinking, she knew she sounded drunk.

“Good, since we last spoke,” he said. “I don’t hear from him much these days...maybe every couple months. As you might imagine, he’s trying to keep a low profile for the time being.”

She nodded. Perhaps Zemo was as lonely as she was, hidden away in some cabin in the middle of nowhere. Though she had to imagine it looked much nicer than her current place, and maybe he had better company than a portly orange cat that begrudgingly liked him. “I understand.”

“How have you been?” he asked.

It sounded stupid, but she realized it was the first time someone had asked her that. Sincerely. Checked up on her. Even if she was the one who had dialed the number in the first place.

“I’m good,” her voice cracked. “Just keeping busy.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” he said. “Helmut always had such nice things to say about you.”

“Really?” she couldn’t stop herself.

“Of course, would you like me to let him know you called?”

“No, no...I wouldn’t want to bother him,” she choked on her words, something catching in her throat.

“Are you sure you’re alright, dear?”

“I’m okay, I just….” she felt tears prick at the back of her eyes, lowering her voice, since she didn’t think her normal register would come out as anything other than a whine. “I think I made a horrible mistake.”

“What’s the matter? What did you do?”

She shook her head, shaking the tears loose and now they were lining her lashes, threatening to spill over. However, she managed to make the next words she spoke come out clearly. “Nothing, I just...it’s really stupid, I really shouldn’t have called.”

He sighed on the other end of the line, and she felt like, despite her attempt at staying calm, he could still see that she wasn’t somehow. “It seemed Helmut was awfully sweet on you,” Oeznik’s words next came hesitantly, calculated. “I shouldn’t be telling you this, but he told me if you ever called, to help you with whatever you might need, no matter the ask.”

Oh God, what had she done? A sob left her, one she couldn’t control, and she clapped her hand over her mouth to stifle any more. Her tears were flowing freely now, tracking down her cheeks and along her chin. She wiped at them clumsily, clearing her throat.

“That’s very kind of him, but you can’t help me. I’m so sorry to bother you, please just forget I even called,” she forced a smile on her face so that hopefully he could hear it. “Goodbye.”

She hung up, horrified, and within seconds had deleted the call log from her phone. She’d been thoughtful enough not to memorize the number, and the lighter she used whenever she smoked sat in front of her. Without a second though, she burned the card, watching the paper blacken and disintegrate, until it was all but a pile of soot on her Wal-Mart coffee table. It was a fair punishment, and ensured she’d never get the chance to embarrass herself like that again.

And then she cried, sobbed into a pillow next to her, until her tears ran dry and she wore herself out, falling asleep on the couch alone. When she’d wake the next morning, the only evidence of her actions would be a throbbing headache and a dead phone.

She wouldn’t remember the call.

----

Life went on, as it always did. It had been about a month, and since that night she grew more indifferent, remembered how to ignore heartbreak. For now, she was stuck in her purgatory, waking up before the sun and falling asleep before it set, smoking joints, drinking cheap liquor, and going on the occasional date with people who she didn’t really like, tourists who would leave after a week and wanted temporary company.

Despite everything, she partly believed things were getting better. Maybe they weren’t, but the possibility that someday they would seemed feasible. And that was enough, for now.

On her days off, she’d walk to the beach and lay on a blanket, reading a book until the sun dipped below the horizon and lit up the sky in hues of pinks and purples. She found a record player at an antique store and began collecting vinyls, listening to obscure artists whose albums she found in the $1 bin. It wasn’t so bad. Life wasn’t so bad.

She took a shower after work. Tomorrow was her off day, and she wasn’t sure what she had planned besides maybe watching a movie and getting stoned. Maybe she’d try going to the beach. The weather was getting warmer, and she could even go swimming if the water wasn’t too cold.

Exhausted from her day of work, she laid down in her bed, still in her robe, her hair wrapped in a towel around her head. The sun was setting outside, the windchimes she’d hung outside slowly clanging together, birds singing in the warm spring air. Her cat hopped on the bed, offered an affectionate trill and curled up at her side, purring, in a rare display of affection. A cool breeze drifted through the open window. And for the first time in over a year, she felt content. Closing her eyes, she savored the moment, committed it to memory, so she could recall it the next time she was drunk-crying in front of her TV.

She fell asleep slowly, so slowly that when she woke, startled by something in her kitchen clattering to the floor, it felt like she hadn’t even been sleeping at all. The clock next to her red 11:31 p.m. and it was pitch dark outside, the cool breeze from before had grown stronger and her bedroom curtains were billowing, wind whistling loudly through the apartment. Her cat had left her side, and she frowned, shivering in the sudden cold.

Pulling the towel off her head, she made her way over to the window with the intention to close it, sleepily, lazily, until she heard something else. A creak in the floorboard. A heavy footstep in her kitchen. That wasn’t just her cat.

Some kind of muscle memory was ignited then, an ancient instinct that called to her from a different lifetime. Darting across the room, the gun she kept was in her hand, stealthily pulled from its hiding spot beneath her mattress. Truth be told, she never thought she would’ve needed it. Anyone looking for her would be smart enough to kill her in her sleep, not be so foolish as to wake her first with their heavy footsteps.

A dark silhouette stalked through her kitchen, moving slowly. It was a man, she assumed, based on his broader figure, and lack of coordination. In her experience, women were often stealthier without trying. He took another step, the floor creaking below him, shuffling on bargain linoleum.

Staying low, she crept forward, ducking stealthily behind furniture, avoiding the spots on the floor she knew made noise. It didn’t appear the intruder had a weapon, in fact, it seemed he was bumbling about, searching for something. A burglar, and a bad one at that. An island full of vacation homes owned by rich doctors and they thought they’d find valuables in her shitty apartment?

It wasn’t until she was standing directly behind him, gun aimed at his head, that she finally spoke up.

“I believe you’ve come to the wrong place,” she said flatly. “Whatever you’re looking for, it’d be in your best interest to leave empty-handed.”

Her eyes were still adjusting to the dark, but the intruder froze, arms slowly raising in defeat, empty-handed, as he turned around to face her. In the dingy room, she couldn’t make out any of his features, could only see that he was clad in all black.

“Unfortunately, liebling, that wasn’t my intention.”

She would’ve recognized that voice anywhere, though the endearment he’d used was enough to clue her in. Hitting the lightswitch with her free hand, she was face to face with the man she’d spent the past year trying to purge from her memory, Helmut Zemo.

Her gut twisted, her mind raced, but the only thing currently bubbling up, over the surface of every other emotion was the pure, seething rage left behind in the wake of fearing for her life.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” she stepped towards him, gun still raised, fuming.

“Hey, hey!” he staggered backwards, hands raised, eyes averted.

“I thought you were a fucking robber!” she hissed. “I thought you were here to kill me!”

“Lower your voice,” he scolded. “You’re going to wake your neighbors.”

Taking a deep breath, she realized she still had her gun trained on him and she lowered it, clicking the safety and discarding the weapon on the countertop. “What the fuck?” she asked. “What the hell is wrong with you? What the fuck are you doing here?”

“I didn’t know you had such a mouth on you,” he smirked, but she wasn’t finished, and she glowered at him.

“You broke into my apartment!” she growled.

“I had to be sure I was in the right place.”

“Yeah? You couldn’t have knocked first?”

He nodded, eyes trailing down to her hands, which were trembling, she hadn’t even realized. He seemed to understand what he’d done then, and she flexed her fingers, eyes locking with his. “I suppose...you may be right,” he said, surrendering.

She felt the rage subsiding as she took in his appearance. He looked not so different from the last time she’d seen him, except a fair amount of stubble covered his jawline in a short beard. He was still devastatingly handsome. Zemo’s dark eyes, filled with longing, drank her in, tilting his head as his gaze shifted to her lips. It was like she could read his mind, she knew what he wanted, what he was thinking. And her body was going to betray her if he kept it up.

Despite everything, she was still upset. Upset and embarrassed, as the light was doing an unflattering expose of her tiny, cluttered apartment, full of mismatched furniture and water-damaged wallpaper that her landlord refused to replace. It probably gave the prison cells that Helmut had spent years in a run for their money, and was in stark contrast to every other aspect of his life.

“What’s this?” he asked, gesturing to the empty liquor bottles on her countertop, stowed in her trash can. “Have you been drinking?”

“Not tonight,” she quipped, on guard. Had to be. As much as some old instinct told her to throw herself into his arms, press her lips to the underside of his jaw, and let him envelope her in the comfort of his embrace, she knew she couldn’t.

“Hmm,” he brushed past her, frowning, looking disappointed, as he made his way to her living room.

“How did you find me?” she asked, eyeing him wearily.

“I’m a wanted man, I trace every call that comes into my estate,” he said over his shoulder.

Helmut was taking inventory of the cramped space, staring at the photos she’d hung in a collage on the wall behind her couch, with a few watercolors painted by her late husband. One in particular, that he was focused on now, was from her wedding. Of all the memories she chose to hang, this one was her fondest, her former partner was all dark curly hair falling into deep blue eyes, and she was the portrait of a blushing bride, wearing a dopey love-drunk smile, gazing at him, ignoring the camera.

“You looked so beautiful on your wedding day,” he said, turning over his shoulder to look at her. He was so out of place here, standing in her living room, for a moment she thought he might be a hallucination, some physical manifestation of the heartbreak she’d experienced. “Although that doesn’t surprise me.”

She flushed, suddenly self-conscious in her thin black robe and still-damp hair. It occurred to her that she wasn’t looking her best, which made this whole situation that much more disconcerting. However, the compliment disarmed her slightly, and the anger she felt began to dissipate, slowly. She was going to offer him something to drink until her cat, who had been absent through the chaos, suddenly jumped up on the back of the couch and promptly hissed at him in an attempt to defend her territory.

“Pumpkin, be nice,” she said, although it was mostly to placate Helmut. Pumpkin never listened to her.

Helmut let her sniff his hand, and she was stunned when the cat rubbed her face against it. Of course, Pumpkin would like him of all people. That made sense. Then again, she supposed it made them not so different. He turned away to look at the rest of the room. “I see you haven’t kicked that bad habit you told me about,” he gestured at the ashtray full of roaches on the coffee table.

“Did you just come to my place to insult me?” she asked, putting her hands on her lips and feigning confidence. She could’ve rolled over and cried and told him how much she missed him, how many nights she’d spent crying over him, and while all of it was true, she felt indignation was the better option for her self-preservation.

“That’s a good question,” Helmut turned to face her now, hands in the pockets of the leather jacket he was wearing. Completely inappropriate for the weather here, but he didn’t seem to notice, or care. “Why do you think I’m here?” he asked.

She shrugged, feigning indifference. “I don’t know, but you shouldn’t be.”

He snorted, his frustration evident, and she saw a glimpse of the man that so many feared, the side that had earned him his dangerous reputation, that had him locked away in a high-security prison for nearly a decade. “I didn’t come all this way for nothing, draga, we’re going to have it out.”

“Fine,” she said, lacing as much venom as she could into her words to prepare herself. “Then get on with it.”

He stared her down, and the expression her wore startled her, something sparkled in his eyes, mischief, relief maybe? It was insulting. Like he didn’t take her seriously. But there was something else there, too, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on, but it was wiped from his visage before it registered.

The tension in the room dissipated slightly when Zemo sat on the arm of the worn couch she’d bought from a yard sale, and she winced. “I spoke to Oeznik the other day,” he said flatly, snorting, eyes focused on a stain on one of the rugs she owned. “He told me he had the pleasure of speaking to a friend of mine about a month ago.”

Frowning, she tilted her head, her eyes meeting Helmut’s. Something in her brain sparked a memory she’d once dismissed as a dream after a particularly bad night of drinking.

“He was concerned, you see, because this friend didn’t seem to be in the best state of mind,” Helmut rose from the arm of the couch, stalking forward slowly, and she couldn’t move backwards, not even if she wanted to, as he could pin her easily against the front door. His voice grew louder, faster as he went on. “He said she was crying, slurring her words, he told me he thought maybe she might be-” Helmut cut himself off abruptly and closed his eyes, clenching one of his fists, a look of distress on his face as he took in a terse breath. “I won’t finish that thought, but you’re a smart girl, you can imagine what I’m getting at.”

Swallowing hard, the phone call came back to her in pieces, the tears, sobbing on the phone to a man she hardly knew. It was the night she finally admitted to herself she’d made a mistake, even though she’d already known it, deep down when she left him in the hotel room.

“Please forgive me for breaking in tonight,” Helmut said. “But I couldn’t bear the thought of you not answering the door, I needed to see with my own eyes that you were okay.”

Exhaling through her nose, she looked at the floor. “It’s not like that. I had too much to drink.” she said, keeping her voice as steady as possible. “It was just a bad night.”

“Then tell me, what was the horrible mistake you made?” he asked, stepping closer. He was close to her, now. So close. And his proximity made everything more difficult.

God, if only she could remember exactly what she’d said, the only thing that came to her were the emotions, desperation, sadness, grief. It was all too much, and he was threatening to bring them all back to destroy her again.

“I shouldn’t have called,” she said, shaking her head. “And I’m sorry. What do you want me to say? What do you want from me?”

“What do I want from you?” He asked, tilting his head, his eyebrows pulling together. “Do you have any idea how worried I was? How hard it was to sit on a plane when all I wanted to do was be here? With you?” His hand rose to cup her cheek, stopping just short of her face when she flinched away from his touch.

“Please stop,” she managed, the burn of tears behind her eyes almost menacing. The last thing she needed was to cry in front of him. “You’re undoing everything.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” he asked.

“You’re….you’re here,” she murmured weakly, wetness seeping, glossing over her pupils. “I only have so much capacity for pain right now, if you touch me now, you’ll ruin everything.”

No one ever had this kind of hold on her, she’d never bent her rules to appease anyone else, and she’d gone toe to toe with super soldiers. He was just a man, and yet, he terrified her.

“You really want me to leave?”

She couldn’t answer, but one tear escaped, sliding down her cheekbone, and she sniffled.

“I’m not the one who did this to you,” his thumb, swiped along her face gently, wiping it away. He’d touched her, just barely, and she was reeling.

“I know,” she stuttered, gasping. “I know it was me, but I thought I was doing the right thing.”

“You are so stubborn.” His expression softened as he looked upon her, his thumb tracing underneath her jaw, tilting her head upwards to look at him. Malleable, she obliged. “I’ve thought about you everyday since the night we spent together. You’ve plagued me. That can’t be a coincidence. Are you really happier this way? You must be honest with me.”

She shook her head, blinking out fresh tears. “No, I’m not. I just thought...by the time I realized I made the wrong choice, you’d have moved on. People like us don’t get to be happy.”

“Says who?”

How could she refuse him anymore? This would continue to go on until she gave in. And from the beginning, she wanted to give in. There was no use in fighting the inevitable. The small point of contact -- his hand on her chin -- radiated impressive warmth, and she could feel every part of herself being attracted to him, quelling some ache deep within her.

Reaching up, she clutched at Helmut’s palm, which didn’t last long, because he pulled her into his arms, nestling her head underneath his chin. She melted into his embrace, finding solace in the warmth of his solid frame.

“Come home with me,” he coaxed softly.

“I will,” she murmured, surrendering to the comfort of his presence. “But you have to let me bring Pumpkin.”

He chuckled, warm and amiable, the vibration of his chest echoing in her own. “Of course, you’ll bring Pumpkin,” he murmured into her hair. Oh, how she had missed hearing him laugh. They could’ve stayed that way for hours, and she would’ve been content, but he pulled away, hands on either side of her face as he studied her.

Unable to hold back any longer, she leaned in to kiss him. It was chaste at first, all the memories of her last night with him came flooding back quickly when he parted his lips to deepen the kiss, but she didn’t want that quite yet, just needed a moment to process this. The simple comfort of being held by him, kissed by him, was more than enough for now. He’d been waiting for this, she could assume in the way that he responded, pulling her impossibly close so she was engulfed in him.

Her stomach flipped, a warmth blossoming in her chest as he pulled away, their foreheads touching. “Oh, I missed you,” she sighed, shivering as his beard tickled her neck, his mouth on her sensitive skin.

“And I, you,” he murmured. His eyes studied her, carefully, up close, and for the first time since meeting him, she really let him see her, teary-eyed and vulnerable.

She would never let him go again.

---

A/N: So here we are! I know it’s been a ride, but I’m really excited for these two. However, I don’t feel like I’m done writing for Zemo yet. If ya’ll have any headcanons, thoughts, questions, requests, etc, feel free to drop them in my ask box or shoot me a DM. I’d love to talk more about him. I also would be down to write more oneshots based around this series, because I am sort of like….okay, they obviously have a connection, but they don’t know that much about each other, and I may or may not have a light future already mapped out for them. I might do an epilogue at some point even. But if you have anything you’d like to add, let me know!

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valkyriegoddesses · 3 years

Text

Thoughts on ACOSF

⚠️ SPOILERY, SO DON’T READ IF YOU HAVEN’T READ THE BOOK ⚠️

⚔️ the good and the bad, I’ll try to get rid of the bad thoughts first and keep the positive ones for the end but idk where my line of thought would go as I recall and type so here we go

• Nesta’s journey of healing is hers and hers alone. She owes no one in the inner circle anything, they didn’t do her any favors. (Now before I delve into this, I just want to say that I see they (Feyre and Elain only) had good intentions, but I’m going to point out everywhere it went wrong, probably against what they planned, but still it went horribly wrong) She was still suffering all the same after she got her free will stripped from her, the decision made for her by packing her things without informing her or listening to her opinion or trying to have a more lenient approach to the matter, being threatened that her second option is being thrown to the human lands where she could die, being lied to about the consequences of her actions in law, being told she “belongs in the Hewn City”, being told she’s “a pathetic waste of life”, and choosing the place everyone admits they hate going to aka the House of Wind, as her destination to heal. Knowing full well she can’t make the descent down these stairs and would be imprisoned without the power to winnow. And instead of being given her space and time, they push her to talk and interact when all she’s trying to do is have some distance from everyone. Some time to herself, to not feel anything, to control the storm of thoughts raging on the inside. And she’s pushed time and time again to face her trauma and heal RIGHT NOW because apparently, they’re timing her. And she shouldn’t have her emotions on display, when she tells them she doesn’t feel like talking yet she’s forced to interact and socialize. Anyone who’s been forced to interact against their will knows how draining it is. Now imagine this coupled with being triggered by water, and being triggered by fire, which are a daily necessity. And imagine everyone got a decade or more to deal with their trauma and are still not entirely healed, yet your time is up after little over a year. It sucks. And I hate how what triggered them to action wasn’t that she was wasting away to nothing, but the bill. When the bill was high, they drew the line. And I hate how in the narrative, the “conversation” -even though I wouldn’t call it that because only one side was allowed to talk and the other side wasn’t allowed to object- was written in a way that made it about THEIR image, when she’s frequenting taverns. THEIR image, when she doesn’t show up to their parties. THEIR image when the bill for her drinking is high. (They say it’s too much money, as if they don’t have all the riches and they all spend money on things that are absolutely not necessary, and THEY drowned her with gifts, LOADS of gifts, after she sacrificed her power to save her sister, which she didn’t do for payment, but anyway the thought is, they had the money and just like they thought Amren deserves payment for what she did in the war, they should’ve kept the same energy for Nesta because she had no small role in that either). I just think they handled it badly. Not exactly how you’d talk to someone suffering from PTSD, depression and survivor’s guilt. For one, threatening a worse alternative isn’t helpful. Secondly, There were way too many people in that room. More than necessary. Feyre and Elain would’ve been enough AS HER FAMILY (and I’ll get to details on this in a moment). And Feyre was the only decent one handling it as someone who actually was looking for a better outcome and really had the intention to help, someone who wasn’t there just to humiliate. Amren and Rhys were only there to land jabs and poke at her insecurities and bad coping mechanisms. Rhys used his power on her to force her to obey him and we all know how it’s a big NO among them. Many of those in the IC had worse coping mechanisms. But what she was doing was too much for them to handle? She was self-destructing. And she kept her distance. If I told someone I needed my space and they kept poking their head in my business, I sure as hell would lash out. When someone needs space, their privacy should be respected. No matter how long it takes them.

And I don’t see where the problem with her drinking was. She never showed up to events drunk. We never saw her hungover the day after. She was spending some money on drinking yes, but it did not get out of hand. She was also spending money on food and gambling. All in all, not the worst coping mechanism among those who were criticizing her. Not to mention that everyone who criticized her were drinkers as well, and they all slept around during some part of their lives.

Now the problem with the presence of other people in that room, other than Feyre (if Elain didn’t wish to attend and preferred to have some space between her and and Nesta, it’s her choice) anyway, only Feyre’s presence was required. Everyone else there was just an accessory, only adding stress to the atmosphere, forcing Nesta to get on the defensive with the way they slut shamed her, shamed her for drinking, shamed her for not being able to take a bath even though she told Feyre how the water still scares her, etc. I can see Sarah wanted it to look like a “family” intervening. Like some tough love sort of thing. But she failed. Simply because, the IC might be Feyre’s found family and she might take such a talk from them because it would really be tough love. As for Nesta, she doesn’t view them as family. She barely knows them. So for a group of strangers, or let’s say newly acquainted people, to sit around her and point out her every flaw and shame her for every misstep, who wouldn’t lash out at that? It’s enough she’s forced to spend time among them, on holidays she doesn’t really believe in, where they force her to attend but actively ignore her presence and treat her like a ghost. Why make her come if they don’t enjoy her company? It’s just ridiculous. Then when she gets angry from all the pushing and lashes out and it’s entirely her fault. they’re all like “come to our gatherings where we will insult you, nitpick all your unhealthy coping mechanisms, but don’t be offended and seclude yourself, we all took decades to deal with our trauma and killed people while doing it but your coping mechanisms are unhealthy. And your actions are unforgivable because you lash out at us when we shove ourselves down your throat. How can you not like us? Everyone has to like us.” Then she gets thrown away to a war camp, a FUCKING WAR CAMP, while a big part of her trauma is because of war. And instead of dealing with her face-to-face, while being gentle and showing her they’re on her side WITHOUT JUDGEMENT, WITHOUT WINCING AND GLANCES AT EACH OTHER AND INNER CONVERSATIONS ABOUT HER WHERE SHE’S EXCLUDED, they’re like “we’re tired of your shit so here’s a house you can stay in while you sort this out away from our merry little circle, which has its nose up your business anyway. But still, sort it out away from us.” And in that house she became more and more closed off and her healing - and I will die on this hill - her healing DID NOT start until the house came into play which was her own doing. And it kicked off because of Emerie and Gwyn, who both didn’t judge her, didn’t demonize her, didn’t only see the bad in her, but accepted her as she was and loved every part of her. Showed her that she was not a waste of life and there are things to live for. As for the beloved inner circle? Beyond insulting her and her coping mechanisms, They don’t tell her about the weapons SHE made, because pro-colonization Amren doesn’t think it’s wise, that Nesta would use it against the world. (Amren do you hear how stupid you sound?) they always villianize her, assuming she’d be out to take the world and take revenge on everyone who ever glanced her way. They assumed she was bad, they assumed because she was angry, that she would use her power for killing and terrorizing and building an Empire like they all do. When all she wanted to do was listen to music and be around good company who passed her no judgement.

Anyway, getting into some details with each character:

Feyre: I hated Feyre’s “crying over scrambled eggs because my image is destroyed my sister spent so much money on drinking”. And the fact that when telling Nesta she was doing this for her own good, she told her she was embarrassed for her own image in the same breath. But beyond that I was fine with her. I loved her reconcilation with Nesta. I loved that she was one who wanted to give Nesta more time, recognized that she needed her own time. I love them together. I think without everyone’s interference, their reconcilation would’ve happened much faster. They were already making progress before ~some people~ ruined everything and caused Nesta to be closed off again. I don’t hate that Nesta sacrificed her power to save Feyre in the end. She’s her sister and she loves her and this is not the first time she proved this. She would do anything to protect her sisters and she hates herself for the times she misstepped. Even though it wasn’t her fault and there was a full grown man sitting there who conveniently got a redemption arc. What angers me though, is that it was only after this, that the inner circle viewed her as someone who is worth their respect. And made the sacrifice materialistic by drowning Nesta with gifts. She didn’t do it for their acceptance or for their love, or for payment. She did it because her sister needed help. Period. (Sidenote: I’m writing a post where I delve deep into their relationship, which I will eventually post, because I think I reached an understanding about their relationship)

Elain: let me get something out of the way, she has power. She has free will, she’s not a baby. She’s a grown woman who doesn’t need coddling. I hate how the fandom views her as a baby. And she’s constantly infantilized, preventing her from reaching her full potential. Now that that’s out of the way, here are my 2 cents on her, since she wasn’t in this book much: Nesta’s wording was very clear, yet I’ve seen this scene misread all over the timeline. Nesta said “I sat by your side for weeks. Weeks, while you wasted away, refusing food and drink. While you appeared to hope you’d just wither and die. No one suggested you either shape up or be shipped back to the human lands.” Nesta’s problem is NOT that Elain wasn’t “there” as in “by her side”. She explicitly stated she needed space. Nesta’s problem was that she stood between Elain and anyone who might tell her to snap out of it and lock her trauma in some dark room in the back of her head. She made sure Elain had her time. While Elain agreed to pack her bags and didn’t prevent them from shipping her away, deciding her time was up. All she wants is time, and Elain didn’t have her back on this. Then we have the fact that Elain slut-shamed Nesta. And then when Nesta comes to the party this time, Elain meets her at the door and her reaction instead of saying hi and leaving it at that or simply ignoring her, is “did Feyre pay you this time?” I’m torn on where to stand on the Elain-Nesta situation, a part of me is disappointed in Elain. I think she should’ve handled this better than anyone else because she was there, she witnessed the trauma happen, Nesta was there for her, they grew up being inseparable the entire time. If anyone should understand her better than anyone else, it’s Elain. So why did she abandon her to everyone’s judgement? And a part of me is like maybe she knew whatever she voted wouldn’t matter because the IC were taking the step anyway, and didn’t want to be there when it happened. Or maybe she’s still dealing with her own trauma in her own way and doesn’t want a confrontation. But I always circle back to the sl*t-shaming and the shaming about the drinking, and then I think about the Solstice scene where as soon as she saw her she was like “did Feyre pay you this time?” And a part of me is angry about the shaming undertone of that too, while some part of me thinks that maybe Elain felt unwanted along with everyone else and that in order for Nesta to meet them, she has to be paid, but we will never know unless we hear it from her.

Rhysand: that piece of shit, misogynist, who used his powers to compel Nesta to obey his orders, pulled rank on her, taunted and threatened her every step of the way and utilized her for his own agenda, and was *surprised* to learn the woman has trauma. Took him being inside her head and unable to wake her up from the nightmare, because the behavior she was exhibiting wasn’t enough. [insert shocked pickatchu meme]. I also would like to add that him playing the protective love interest from his mate’s own sister, WHO COULD’VE HARMED HER IF SHE WANTED TO, but never wanted to because she’s not a bad person, is so cheap. Like- you, the guy who drugged her and made her give you lap dances, are afraid for her sake… from her sister? Who only ever used words as jabs and is generally rude? Or do you feel like you’re overpowered and are trying to fill the void in your toxic masculinity and reassert dominance ?

Cassian: He was patient with her, and probably the healthiest person in the inner circle who dealt with her until she was okay, but he still silently agreed with all the shit that was said about her. Shit she didn’t deserve to be said about her as someone going through trauma. He mocked whatever progress she made on the stairs calling it pathetic in the beginning. He stayed silent when Nesta was stripped of her will, when she was told she belongs in the Court of Nightmares, when her fate was decided for her, when she was being lied to, when she was threatened to be thrown to the humans who would kill her. He made some progress and understood her better with time, but it doesn’t excuse how he stayed silent when she was being mistreated. Specially since he claims her loves her. He also stayed silent as the Inner Circle despised her presence but still used her to reach what they’re plotting for. He progressed, and he got better, I’ll give him that. But still, as someone who claims he loves her the way he does, he shouldn’t have allowed his friends to manipulate and use her in their schemes but then exclude her from everything else, even knowledge about her own power. But I love that he was patient, that he worked to understand her, that he grew to stand up for her. I would argue that they are the healthiest ship written by SJM this far.

Mor: fucking Mor, who experienced trauma, told Nesta she belongs in the court of Nightmares. Where she was abused herself. Knowing women are viewed as objects there, knowing Nesta would recieve abuse there. She said that, wishing abuse on someone who she simply didn’t like and had some quarrels with. They never saw eye to eye and that’s fine. They always had sharp tongues when talking to each other and that’s fine. What’s not fine though, is that THIS of all things, seemed so out of character for Mor. Now, she never knew Nesta was a survivor of SA. But as someone who helps SA victims, she’s the last person I expected such a comment from. It felt very out of character. I hate that this is the Bi character in all of this mess. Of all people, a hypocrite is the Bi person. The LGBTQ community deserves better. I thought about it, and maybe Mor, being like a stranger to Nesta, and seeing her ignore Cassian in front of the Illyrians who already look down on him, made her angry to the point where she just wanted to land a jab and didn’t think her words would mean anything. Maybe all she wanted to do was stand up for Cassian, but what she said was definitely not true and not okay. I wanted her and Nesta to have a talk about it, but also she grew to have decent conversations with her and she helped her when she and Cassian had that fight. So I don’t know, maybe it’s a silent progress between them.

Amren: this one told her she was a waste of life. What a great way to deal with someone who’s suffering from PTSD and depression and having suicidal thoughts, Amren. Tell them they’re a waste of life, enforce every thought they are having as fact, push them to the point where they doubt they should be breathing, and when they’re told they could tumble down a mountain and break their bones while hiking, their first thought would be “good”. Amren deserves a medal, a badge of honor for being the 500+ old woman who has healthy ways of dealing with traumatized people telling them they don’t deserve to live because the thoughts of their power and dealing with controlling that power right now is so overwhelming. Amren, who decided that because Nesta was always angry, she had no right to know that she used her power unknowingly and forged powerful weapons. Amren, who was pushing for colonization throughout this book, was afraid of Nesta misusing her power. Villainizing Nesta’s every thought, as if Nesta wasn’t overwhelmed from the thought of possessing so much power, as if Nesta doesn’t refuse to use her powers and train. As if Nesta is out there hiding as she masters her power to reemerge and turn the world upside down. You’re the one who’s pushing Rhys to colonize other territories and become high king, Amren. Maybe *you* should be locked up in the house of wind for therapy. What hurts most in this is Amren was her friend. She trusted Amren. Amren said that shitty line to her and then lied to her and manipulated her and used her to further Rhys’s agenda. She flopped from telling Feyre that Nesta is immortal and a few years are nothing, and she should be given time. She would not betray her trust, to whatever she turned into in ACOSF. And everyone give SJM a round of pats on the back and an applause for making Amren the wise one here and making Nesta, the traumatized one who was wronged, get on her knees and apologize. I mean- if you thought this apology scene was necessary, then clarification about the fight between them was just as necessary. Or you include neither scene. But deeming the apology important and not the incident? This is some victim blaming on a whole other level.

The House of Wind: The house of wind was honestly one of the best parts of this book. It was Nesta, “Lady Death” as they call her, breathing life into something, and it was gentle, and it was patient, and it was understanding, and it pushed her to be healthier without judging, without throwing insults or slut-shaming. It hated that she didn’t eat? It kept waiting for her until her body gave out and she had to eat. It didn’t like her drinking? It gave her water when she asked for wine. It showed her its darkest part where she found the greatest warmth as well, as if saying don’t be ashamed of your darkness because in it you’ll find light, and it didn’t abandon her or stop responding to her when she was angry. It was actively by her side, without any judgement, only support and pushing her to fix the behaviours without dissing her. and it was everything those people around her weren’t. It was family.

Gwyn: their first meeting wasn’t at all what you would call “friendly”, to a fault by Nesta. Gwyn didn’t even know anything about Nesta, yet she didn’t react with even more anger as ~others~ did, she didn’t fear Nesta, or give a retort, or get angry and lash out at her. She took the blow and was, with all the calm in the world, like fine, you want to tell on me, go tell. And Nesta did go tell on her, then realized by herself how she acted rashly. And later helped Gwyn without being asked to, by swapping the book so Merrill doesn’t scold her. And their friendship grew to the point where Gwyn, a traumatized person who couldn’t dare leave the library, started training with her, was her friend and had conversations with her that didn’t center her trauma or her coping mechanisms being analyzed. She went out of the library for the first time in 2 years when she knew Nesta needed her by her side. She occupied her mind with stories of Valkyries, women being strong and unyielding in a society which didn’t allow it. She took her hand and gave her a purpose in life to work for. Gave her a friend who didn’t judge, a kind face in the maelstorm of judgemental faces. Until she felt like a safe space to Nesta to the point where she spilled all her thoughts, the ones she could only admit to herself, to Gwyn, letting her inside those walls. And when she braced for judgement, she didn’t receive it. Gwyn dealing with someone’s trauma, as someone who’s been through trauma herself, is one of the beautiful corners of this book

Emerie: Another woman with trauma. She sees Nesta enter her store, of course she knows who she is, yet she doesn’t judge her. Nesta asks about making the fatigues warmer, Emerie says she’ll ask, but it’s costly. Nesta says then she can’t afford it, admits that she was cut off, Emerie, as a stranger, doesn’t judge her. She says she could make them anyway and she can pay her as she can. Because no one should feel cold. It’s simple, irrelevant. Nesta wouldn’t freeze to death, she as a stranger has no obligation to help, it’s a simple reasoning. “You shouldn’t feel cold”. It’s enough for her to help Nesta. Something as mundane as feeling cold. She asks her to join her for a meal. And Nesta asks her if she would join the training, which Emerie refuses. and Nesta blurts out that she didn’t take her for a coward. And later, Nesta sends her the herbs she wishes to get which she can’t get often because of her location, and it’s a message of “you too deserve to see what’s best in the world, to go out and experience the beautiful parts and live, not just exist”. So Emerie goes to training with her as well, and they bond over romance novels. Emerie also reaches a point where she opens up about her own trauma, and tells the truth about what she faced and her survival. This girl who is 50-something at least, who has never had friends, living a lonely secluded life, finally found someone who was trustworthy enough to be around and form a bond with. As for the fact that she is a PoC, and the illyrians are portrayed as this group of savages who abuse their women and their women have no say in their lives and futures and how they clip their women’s wings, when wings, wingspan and wingplay heavily imply that wings are erogenous parts of the body and wing clipping seems to be the equivalent of Circumcision, which again so happens to be done by the “PoC savages who abuse their women”, hits a whole lot as fucking racist and xenophobic. PoC deserve a storyline where they’re not viewed as the villains.

Azriel: I loved his relationship with Nesta. He was the best chaperon™️, he never spoke in judgement toward her. There was a silent understanding between them. However, I’m not against him showing his feelings toward Elain or her toward him. It’s fine, if that’s what they both want. I don’t think Lucien is the type to call for a blood duel. He simply brings her presents and attends when invited, he doesn’t force himself on her and keeps his distance. However I did hate that Azriel took the necklace and gave it to Gwyn, as a secondhand. I know his only intention was to make her smile but the necklace wasn’t meant for her. It’s not a trial by error, he can’t just keep trying out with different women every time he fails with one. And I’ll just leave this here.

The elephant in the room: the entire IC is involved in this, them all blaming Nesta, framing her as the wrong person, when she told Feyre about the dangers of her pregnancy? I don’t care if she did it while she was angry, her heart was in the right place. She got hurt from them deciding her fate without her involvement, voting on her, not once, but twice, about her fate because she wasn’t fast enough to deal with her trauma, then again when deciding if she should know about what she did with her own power and the weapons. and she showed Feyre what was really at play. Protecting her from what she faced with the Inner Circle. Just because she was angry while doing it does not mean she did it out of spite. She did it to expose them, specially Amren at that point. But I don’t get how it was twisted to “because she wanted to hurt Feyre”. She wasn’t even angry at Feyre. But you all would rather suck up to the Inner Circle than confront the fact that they’re hypocrites and liars with a propaganda. They’re evil. They fear Nesta using her power to seize control of everyone because it’s how THEY are. With all this High King crap. Basically colonization dreams. With how they press rank whenever it suits them, and lie about the law to win arguments. It’s because those who are inherently bad think everyone is bad just like them.

Other Elephants in the room which have been here a long time: the thing with blaming Nesta for not being the breadwinner… I could never get it. Some have money-earning skills, others don’t. She, at the point of her life when she was human, was only trained in dancing and appealing to men socially so she could uplift the family’s social status. She couldn’t hunt. Feyre could. And NEITHER, should’ve been the breadwinner. Nesta was willing to starve to death if it would push her father to do something. Feyre wasn’t willing to wait and starve or watch anyone starve. But it doesn’t mean Nesta was at fault. She was only 3 years older than Feyre. Let’s leave the “the oldest child has to step in for the parents when the parents fail” mentality in the past. It’s ridiculous. Nesta was under no obligation to be the breadwinner. And she suffered self-flagellation regularly for letting Feyre walk out there and hunt. But she literally had no skills that when she thought of something to do, she could only think of selling herself on the streets. The parents were abusive, both of them. Favoring one child over the other and planting rivalry between the siblings. “i love you” means nothing. NOTHING, when there is no action to prove it. And if anything, this book made me realize that Nesta was never okay. She was never in a good place mentally. I mean, I knew, but this book just proved it. Her mother favored her alright, but it was not in a loving way. She simply exploited her to climb the social ladder. She didn’t give her love, she gave her instructions. She enabled the grandmother to beat her, and instill some “harsher punishments” one of which Nesta still holds the scars for. She was called worthless, as a child. Why? Because she made a wrong step in a dance. She was physically and verbally abused, and her mother let it happen. Yet she was the only one who would give Nesta the time of day so Nesta still loved her. As a child, her mother was the only person who showed interest in her and she clung to. However twisted it was, it’s the only love she ever got. The only love she knew. Then she lost her. and later the family also lost their wealth. So all she was taught to do her entire life suddenly became meaningless because she can’t achieve what her mother “trained” her to do. And we know the rest of the story. She never felt at home, not even when her mother lived and she still had that wealth. She admitted as much. She was never fine. She might’ve appeared the part, but it was never true. And since she was so good at masking her emotions, nobody was the wiser.

side note: As for her power being the “bare minimum” now, there better not be a plothole, since Rhysand couldn’t contain merely the “surface of her power” because it was too much. and if that’s all she retained, then it’s good enough for me.

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mischiefandi · 4 years

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My Home - Drake Walker

A/N: hi everyone! This is the fic I wrote for @riseandshinelittleblossom ‘s Quote Me On This writing challenge! Thank you Steph for organizing this and for letting me participate on such short notice <33 I hope you guys enjoy it. (the quote I had to use is in bold). I always wished MC got a backstory in TRR, so here is a potential one

Warnings: mentions of gun violence, theft, crime, alcoholism, foster care, jail, etc. I would like to disclaim that I know these themes are very difficult for a lot of people so I want to make it clear that I mean absolutely no disrespect to anyone who can somehow relate to this story. This is a dark and angsty fic and I don’t mean to offend or hurt anyone who reads this. Reader discretion is advised.

Word Count: 3.1K

Pairing: Drake Walker & Iris Jones (MC TRR)

Ringing. Dozens of cellphones buzzing in luxurious purses and warm pockets, an array of ring tones echoing throughout the ballroom, and shocked gasps and quiet curses followed suit, a great number of nobles turning their heads to gawk at Iris. Her face was pale with worry as she nudged Maxwell in the ribs, her eyes darting from duke to duchess.

“What’s going on?” she asked in a hushed tone and her question was answered with a big gulp, a cell phone being pushed in her direction.

Time stopped when she laid her eyes on the article on the screen, the earth shattering words hitting her in the face like a pack of bricks.

NY Thief Turned Duchess of Valtoria, the shocking details of Duchess Iris Jones’ past:

The ballroom started to spin, the faces surrounding her all blending into one big cloud of color and the whispers tripled in volume. Iris couldn’t believe what she had just read, the memories flooding back to her. Somehow, her past had caught up with her, just like she had always known it would.

Her eyes desperately searched the crowd for her friends, the ones she had hoped would never find out about her deepest and darkest secret. Hana’s brow was furrowed in confusion and Maxwell’s face turned paler than the Lythikos snow. Iris’ eyes met Liam’s hurt and bewildered stare and her heart shattered, the darkness of the situation settling in. She had broken his trust, as well the others’. Now, they all knew who she really was. And what an unfortunate reality it was.

Her initial shock slowly turned to anger as she bit back her tears, her blood boiling. Someone had uncovered her past life and had tried to use it against her, sabotaging her reputation once again, publicly humiliating her in front of the court. Someone was still out to get her, after all of this time and all of her hard work. And this time, maybe that someone had finally won.

“Iris,” a voice called out, and her head snapped in its direction, lips parted in anticipation as she finally met Drake’s gaze. He stood a few feet away from her, eyes completely focused on hers. His arms rested along his sides, fists clenched but his expression utterly unreadable. She kept looking at him, tears finally spilling over her lids, unable to control her anguish as she faced her lover. She didn’t care about the court, not really. All she cared about was him, and she had lied to him about it all. The man she loved more than anything in the world, her everything.

The moment was abruptly interrupted when a pair of gruff hands wrapped themselves around her upper arms, gripping tightly at her gentle skin as she was dragged off by members of the Royal Guard, and her first instinct was to fight them off, trying to push them away but in vain.

“Stop. I can explain, let me go!” she grunted, emotion tainting her words as she tried to get out of the guards’ custody.

The crowd gasped as they dragged her away from where she had been standing, walking over to the grand ornate doors of the ballroom.

Iris’ eyes met Liam’s again and she mouthed the words: “I’m sorry” before looking back at Drake. He was pushing people out of the way, cursing and shouting at the other guards trying to keep him away from his fiancée.

“Let me through. Goddamnit, let me pass!” he exclaimed gruffly, almost shoving a guard to the ground.

A series of shouts and voices calling out Iris’ name were swallowed by darkness as the doors closed in front of her. She let out a strangled sob, unable to contain the panic building up inside of her. She couldn’t believe what had just occurred. It had all happened so fast. The moment had been over in a flash, but she kept reliving it, over and over again as the guards dragged her to her palace bedroom.

“What am I going to do?” she thought to herself.

Iris had spent hours in her room, the guards standing behind the door. She had paced up and down the room for what now seemed like an eternity, time ticking by so slowly she could’ve sworn it was the next day if it weren’t for the pitch black sky behind the tall glass windows of the bedroom. She had also curled up into a ball on her bed and sobbed, face hidden away in the palm of her hands, unable to control the waves of distraught that had washed over her at the ball. Now, she sat on her bed, bloodshot eyes fixated on the floor as she bit through four of her fingernails, foot anxiously tapping against the floor while her anxiety levels rose higher.

No one had come to talk to her yet, and she couldn’t even tell if that was a good thing. Maybe she was staying at court, maybe she’d be stripped from her newly given title, maybe she’d be shipped back to New York where she belonged. Maybe.

She was terrified.

What scared her most wasn’t losing Cordonia. It was losing Drake. She had never imagined she would ever find someone like him to protect her and love her the way he did. She had always just thought she’d end up unloved and alone, but he had seen something in her no one else had ever even noticed, something even she couldn’t see, and she thanked the universe every day for it. She had found a home in him, but now, maybe she was going to lose that too. And it was all her fault.

Her thoughts were suddenly interrupted by an angry voice and the sounds of footsteps tapping against the marble floor of the palace, volume increasing as it got closer and closer to the bedroom door.

“Move aside and let me in. Now.” Iris heard and her heart throbbed as she recognized Drake.

A polite “no” could be heard, followed by a quiet but stern voice speaking.

“You will let him pass. This man should be granted the opportunity to speak to his fiancée.”

Liam.

Finally, the door opened and Iris shot up in a flash, hands curled up into fists, furious but anguished, ready to defend herself if need be.

Her heart swelled at the sight of her fiancé standing in the doorway. He seemed to be shaking in his wrinkled suit, either from anger or fear, and the look on his face turned the blood in her veins to ice, her lungs clenching as she tried to speak.

“Drake, I-“ she tried to say when he bolted towards her, closing the distance between them and throwing his arms around her, pulling her into a warm and desperate embrace.

“-I don’t care. Whatever it is, it doesn’t matter,” he declared intensely as he tightened his hold on her, heart beating uncontrollably and she broke down in sobs.

“It does matter. I have to tell you-“

“-No, you don’t,” he insisted as he looked at her. His heart broke a little at the sight of the fat tears rolling down her cheeks and he placed a comforting kiss on her forehead. Iris let out a shaky breath before finally breaking the embrace. She took a step back and avoided his gaze, instead staring at the floor in embarrassment. She did have to explain, if only to make sure he knew the whole truth and not just the story the tabloids were trying to sell.

“You might wanna sit down for this,” she said, gesturing to the bed. Drake followed her hand and frowned as he placed himself on the edge of the mattress.

“Jones, I don’t need to hear this.”

“Maybe, but I need to know I told you everything.”

She sat next to him, still avoiding his stare and fidgeted with her dress, her long trembling fingers twisting the silk fabric into a small ball just above her knees. This was it. After all this time, she was finally going to open up about her past. This disturbing reality shook her to her core.

“What is it?” Drake asked, watching her fingers shake.

“I’m afraid that when I tell you, you won’t see me the same way anymore.”

Drake reached out to hold her hands in his, tentatively caressing them with his thumb in soothing circles.

“Don’t say that,” he whispered and she squeezed her eyes shut, a single tear rolling down her cheek and landing on her burgundy-colored dress.

“Okay,” she simply said before turning to him.

“My mom got pregnant with me when she was really young, around 19 years old. I didn’t grow up with a dad because he left her when he found out. It was just the two of us in a crappy apartment in the Bronx. My mom was really depressed and she started drinking a lot. She barely even seemed to notice that I was around,” Iris said before sucking in a breath, pausing for a few seconds before resuming her story.

“She left when I was 14. I got home from school one day and she wasn’t home. I waited but she never came back. I tried to hide it but it didn’t take long before I was put in the system and I became a foster kid. I kept running away from my foster homes ‘cus they all sucked. Half of my foster families couldn’t remember my name and they were all assholes anyway.”

“I’m sorry,” Drake muttered, the frown on his face intensifying. No one should have to endure those things, least of all her.

“I-,” she started, before inhaling slowly. “It is what it is. But growing up alone and afraid all the time, I just had a lot of unresolved issues. I ended up meeting a boy. He was good to me at first, made me feel like I was special, like I was the most important thing in his life. I thought I loved him, because I had never known anything else. He was a drinker, just like my mom, and he knew all sorts of people, all involved in shady business. He never really gave me any details about what his friends did, but I knew that something wasn’t right.”

“What was his name?” Drake croaked, heart pumping steadily like the calm before a storm.

“His name was Ty. One day, we were talking and he told me he wanted us to get married. We were gonna run away together and start a life somewhere new, far away from New York. We just needed to some money to get started. I trusted him, so when he told me his plan, I was naïve enough to believe him. I never should’ve.

“The plan was simple enough. We were gonna steal liquor from the bar he and his friends used to go to. The bottles were pretty expensive so we were gonna sell them and use the money to leave before we could even get caught. But something went wrong,” Iris said, her voice wobbling slightly.

Her pulse was quickening by the minute as she remembered the scene, memories flooding back in her mind. She was sweating and trembling, voice completely clouded by a veil of emotion. It was getting harder and harder to keep her cool. This was the part that was going to change everything, the part that would destroy all the things she had worked so hard to get.

“The bar was closed. He used a crowbar to smash the window of the back door and opened the lock from the inside. It was just me and him. We grabbed the most expensive bottles and put them in big duffel bags. But then he told me he was gonna empty the register. I told him it wasn’t a good idea but he didn’t listen, and he started to shout at me, telling me to wait in the storage room with all of the bar supplies. I was terrified, so I did what he told me and I stayed in the back room with the bags full of the stuff we had stolen when I heard a shout and the sound of something smashing.”

Iris’ breathing became erratic and she almost wheezed as she tried to continue telling her story.

“I dropped the bags and ran inside of the barroom, and he was there, holding a gun to the owner’s head. I don’t know when the owner got there or what happened before I came in the room but he was screaming, pleading for his life. I couldn’t believe what was going on, I didn’t even know Ty owned a gun. The owner’s face was bloody, like he had just been beaten up. I couldn’t recognize the look on Ty’s face. Like he was proud of what he had done. It scared me to my core.

“Then I heard sirens coming from a distance and I knew that if we didn’t leave straight away, the police would catch us and we’d never be able to leave and do what he had promised me we would do together. He looked at me and smiled, and suddenly I felt like maybe It was going to be okay.

“He raised his arm towards the ceiling and shot at it. The sound of the gunshot completely blindsided me and I covered my head with my arms. Bits of the ceiling started to come down on us. I thought Ty had done it to distract the owner or something so we could get away. But when I opened my eyes, he was gone and the gun was at my feet.”

Iris exhaled a shaky breath before looking back down at her feet, tears cascading down her flushed cheeks as she cried out.

“The police came in and arrested me on the spot for armed robbery. I quickly realized Ty had used me. He didn’t care about the liquor bottles, all he wanted was the cash from the register. He took all of it. And he left me there to take the fall so he could get out. He didn’t care about me. I was just a stupid teenage girl who’d been naïve enough to trust him.”

Drake’s eyes were wide with shock and he let go of Iris’ hands, passing his fingers through his hair as he tried to process what he had just heard. This made her heart break.

“What happened next,” he inquired, voice steady but quiet.

“I don’t know why but the owner didn’t press charges against me. I still had a court date but apparently there wasn’t enough evidence to suggest that I had had a big enough part in the burglary to go to an actual juvenile detention center. Instead they sent me to some sort of group home for young delinquents which was basically juvie but I didn’t have a record at least. It was hell.

“I did my best to fly under the radar and eventually when I turned 18, I had another court date. They decided I wouldn’t have to go to jail and I was free to go. I left the group home and tried to look for a job. I just wanted to get as far away from that part of my life as possible. I worked as a waitress in a tiny bar and I eventually made enough money to move to Queens in a small apartment just for me. I changed my name and got a new job at another bar, made a few friends, moved on. I became tough, but at least I had gotten out of that place. Ended up working at this new bar for 6 years, until you came in, and my entire world was turned upside down.”

Drake grunted approvingly, eyes locked on the floor beneath his feet. Everything he had just learned was unbelievable. Iris had never told him about her past, only small details, things that seemed normal without the context he had just been granted.

He knew she loved her mom’s mac & cheese as a kid, but he hadn’t known it was because her mom never made anything else. He knew Iris was an avid fan of Queens, but he had never realized it was because it had been her first real home. He knew she was tough as nails, but he had never understood where her immense strength came from.

A sudden urge to hold her washed over him and he instantly pulled her into a warm and protective embrace, the act taking Iris by surprise. Her eyes were wide with shock and she gasped, her heart rapidly beating against her ribs.

“You don’t hate me?” she cried, unable to contain the emotions bubbling beneath the surface.

“Hate you?” Drake asked. He pulled away just enough to look her deep in the eyes, sending her a warm look as he smiled softly.

“I saw that you were perfect and so I loved you. Then I saw that you were not perfect and I loved you even more,” he said softly.

Iris’ heart throbbed and she cried in her lover’s arms, relief spreading over her in an overwhelming wave.

Never in a million years had she thought she would find someone who could love her unconditionally the way he did. She had just told him about her entire past, every sordid little thing about the person she had once been, the person she had despised for so long. But if he could find a way to forgive her, maybe she could learn to forgive herself too. Iris held him tightly, thanking her lucky stars for giving her a home like this one.

After a few minutes of peace and quiet in each other’s arms, Iris looked up at Drake, a frown spreading on her beautiful face.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do. How do I fix this?” she asked.

Her lover look down at her and smiled.

“I don’t know, but we’ll find a way…together.”

And eventually, they did.

A/N: I hope you enjoyed my fic! ty for reading :) feedback is always appreciated!!

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make-it-mavis · 4 years

Text

Homesick (Entry #22)

(cw: alcohol, drug reference) ----------

01/09/88 2:06 AM

Hey.

I think I’m gonna have to go into some stuff I’d rather not talk about. At least I’m the only one who will ever read this.

Just bear with me.

Even after being hidden away for just a week, Game Central felt eerily foreign to me when we stepped out into it. It felt like seeing it for the first time all over again, but in a bad way. Five years ago, I was awestruck by the bright, bustling energy of a golden hall filled with a rainbow of total strangers. That didn’t happen, this time around. I didn’t step out into adventure, I stepped out into a train station. It was nothing more than what it was. Just a cold, sterile, point A to point B train station. And this time, there wasn’t a single sprite who didn’t know who I was.

I made a beeline for Tapper’s and hurried along, but made sure Wreck-it was still relatively close behind me. Passersby slowed, stared, gasped and whispered to their friends. None of them seemed outwardly hostile, but I wasn’t about to dawdle and give them a chance to be. I was on high alert, higher than I’d ever been in my life.

I even had a thought, once we got off the train at Tapper’s, that this whole rendezvous might have been a trap. That Wreck-it had baited me into it, and I’d be fighting for my life again in minutes. Yeah. All kinds of ridiculous, right? Still, I planted my feet, and had to be nudged along into the bar, against my insistence that I’d changed my mind and wanted to turn back.

We sat at the counter furthest from the bathrooms, and I sat side-saddle with my back to Wreck-it. I couldn’t leave my back to open space. It just sent chills down my spine. Really, the eerily off-key atmosphere of the bar wasn’t helping.

Like GCS, it was different. My stage had long since been disassembled, probably for good. I remembered the way the room used to look from up there, all full of red-cheeked sprites lifting their glasses and swaying to my music. Now, all I saw were sprites minding their own business, keeping their heads down, only looking up now and then to stare at me. That social, cheery, rough-and-tumble atmosphere was gone. That warm, dim light wasn’t cozy and inviting anymore. It just felt like a dark, dreary hiding hole.

It just felt like a bar.

At least Tapper was still making an effort to be more than just some bartender.

When he saw me, his face lit up just a shade. He came up to us on the other side of the counter and spoke in a tone hushed enough to avoid drawing too much attention, a favor I was thankful for.

“There she is, just the gal I wanted to see! Where have you been, Fireball? You had me worried, y’know.”

I didn’t appreciate his supposed concern. It just spoke to me on how blatantly obvious my rapid downward spiral was to everyone around me. They all thought I didn’t have a handle on it. I didn’t, but I didn’t want them to think that.

“Worried? About me? Pfft. Someone’s obsessed,” I weakly deflected.

Wreck-it elbowed me, nearly knocking me off my stool. I added, “And hello.”

“I mean it,” he continued. “Last I heard of anyone seein’ you, the SP was helping you limp across Game Central, and from what sprites been sayin’, you looked rough. Rough enough to make you disappear for a week, I mean, c’mon, that’s just unheard of. Seriously, Mavis, what happened? Are you… Are you really okay?”

Wreck-it cleared his throat. He thought he was helping, but he wasn’t. He just alerted Tapper that it was bad enough for me to not like being asked about it.

I sighed, and tried to pull something he would believe out of my ass. “Look, I went a little too hard on the buffs, alright? I got hooked. I admit it, I got hooked. Things got intense. I don’t remember most of it, but it was intense. The SP bled my credits dry and let me off with a heavy warning. I just… needed to take a step back for a while.”

They were quiet for a minute. I think Tapper believed me, but I’m certain Wreck-it didn’t.

Tapper nodded in a very tired, thoughtful sort of way. “Well… smart move, my friend. You may be onto somethin’. I think a whole lotta sprites could stand to step back a few paces right now.”

I rubbed my eyes. “Don’t… don’t patronize me, man.”

“Am I wrong?”

I hoped dearly for a conversation topic that wasn’t about how crappy things were going, but at the same time, I really doubted I could carry on that conversation. I was so stuck in my own head. With another deep sigh, I said, “No. You’re right. Everyone sucks. They should all try to be even half as self-aware as me. On that note, I’d love to be a little less aware right now, so, gimme a pint of the sweet stuff.”

Tapper clicked his tongue. “Yeaaah, here’s the thing. I can’t serve you.”

“Sure you can. Fill a glass with liquid and let me drink it. Easy.”

“No, Mavis,” he shook his head. “I can’t let you drink.”

“Wait, WHAT?”

“Not ‘til I know you’re back on your feet.”

“I’M--” I caught myself starting to shout, and heads were turning. Lowering my volume, I hissed, “I’m on my feet. I was never off my feet. Didn’t I just tell you I recognized my own buff problem and dealt with it? Could I do that if I was off my feet?”

He remained unswayed. “Look, girl, you know I wish you all the best. What kind of well-wisher would I be if I let you drink, knowing very well you’ve been having trouble staying sober? Knowing very well that you’re not exactly a light, casual drinker? Nah. I’m not gonna enable that.”

“Why am I even here, then?”

“‘Cause you can be. Ain’t that reason enough?”

I stared at him. That man is way too steadfast. I knew I couldn’t change his mind. “Fine, whatever. Not like I could afford it, anyway.”

“But,” he said, “I can get you some snacks if you want. On the house.”

“...Okay.”

Tapper puttered off to fetch said snacks, and got caught in a chain of sprites flagging him down for drinks. I stewed in frustration over Tapper cutting me off before I could even start, until I was rudely interrupted by Wreck-it’s massive tree-trunk of an elbow once again jutting into my back. That time, I actually did fall off.

I hissed many curses of his name and demanded to know what the hell his problem was as I got back on my stool. He glared at me and said something, but I don’t remember what. I didn’t hear him. My eyes had caught the condensation on his mug full of sweet, cold root beer dripping slowly down onto the counter. It was positively taunting me. I found it so unfair that he could have it and I couldn’t -- I wanted it more than he did. I needed to forget way more than he did. How was I supposed to just sit there while he rubbed it in my face?

His voice came back into focus. “--even listening to me?”

I lunged for his mug.

“Hey!”

He caught me by the back of my smock and slammed me back onto my stool. “You little gremlin, did you hear a word I just said? Tapper welcomes you in here, and this is how you repay him? By being rude and trying to steal what he doesn’t want to serve you? Don’t you know he’s risking a lot letting you in here?”

“Hey, the fact that I’m out here at all is monumentally more risky for me. Don’t start with me on who’s ‘risking a lot.’”

“Wow. You really are that ungrateful, huh. Golly, kid.” He shook his head in disbelief and exercised his drinking privilege.

I groaned. “Obviously I’m grateful he let me in here.”

“How-- How is that obvious?!”

“But I don’t have to fall to my knees and kiss his shoes. Tapper knows I’m grateful. He can tell.”

“Yeah, maybe,” he sighed. “But, geez, would it kill you to say so?”

“No.” I pulled out a sketchbook to busy myself with. “I just don’t want to.”

“Unbelievable.”

Tapper returned with a bowl of pretzels. The next little while is a bit blurry to remember, but I think that’s because nothing interesting happened for some time. I munched on the pretzels, Tapper and Wreck-it had a long, broken conversation going between Tapper’s… tapping, and the other bar patrons still kept to themselves, apart from the standard stares and whispers. The next thing I remember, and the next thing worth noting, happened once there were barely a handful of pretzels left. I’d been drawing things around me in my sketchbook to keep distracted, and ended up drawing a portrait of Tapper himself. He noticed.

“Hey, wait a minute,” I heard him say. “Is that me?”

He looked so delighted and surprised when I looked over, it kind of caught me off-guard. I didn’t draw it as a gift or gesture or anything, it was just automatic. “...Yes?”

He laughed incredulously and asked to see it, so I turned and held it out for him. He was clearly enamored. I don’t think anyone had drawn him before. But, come to think of it, there aren’t that many artists around, I don’t think. Certainly no portrait artists. I had half a mind to just give it to him, and let that serve as a gesture of gratitude.

But then, now that I was fully facing him, his eyes inevitably fell to my neck. I’d forgotten I was even wearing your things, and was horribly alarmed when I realized I was. If a sprite who hated my guts and thought I was a murderer in the making saw me wearing those? They’d have turned it into a statement, just like the fireworks. I could hardly have waved a bigger red flag -- or in this case, scarf -- than by wearing your clothes out in the open.

Tapper, however, took no offense. The twinkle in his eyes just faded, and his moustache drooped a bit. Just like Wreck-it had, he looked like he’d just heard the most depressing news ever. And, in the same way as before, I felt naked and insulted and wanted to hide under the counter.

I did not do that. I pretended not to notice, and waited for him to give me my sketchbook back. But, instead, he looked at the portrait for a minute, and popped a question that just made my stomach roll.

“Let me buy it off ya.”

“The picture?”

“Yeah,” he smiled, “I wanna put it up somewhere.”

I thought about it.

“...No.”

“What?” He seemed genuinely perplexed. I guess he wasn’t used to me turning down credits from him. “Why not?”

I took my sketchbook back and started putting it away. I was ready to leave. I’d grown a sudden distaste for sitting there with an outrageously incriminating beacon around my neck while my trusted bartender pitied me like some helpless charity case.

“Save your pity credits, Tap, I don’t need ‘em. I get what you’re trying to do, and, yeah, you’re a real good person and all. But I’m not gonna do business with you just ‘cause you feel sorry for me.”

He rolled his huge eyes. “Mavis, for Pong’s sake. I’m not trying to jeopardize your pride, here. That drawing gave me a great idea.”

“...What?”

“I told you I want to put it up on my wall. Tell you the truth, I’ve been thinkin’ lately that the walls look pretty bare. They could stand a bit of decor. So, why don’t we fill ‘em up with some portraits?”

“...Portraits of who?”

“Eh,” he rolled his hand, “y’know, big names at first. Mario, Dig Dug, Mrs. Pac Man, and all that. But there’s lots of wall space, so I’m sure we could include a whole bunch of folks. Especially all my best customers.”

You and I used to be among his best customers. Relatively. I think my thoughts ended up clear on my face, because he gave a small sigh and lowered his tone.

“Look, Mavis. I don’t need to tell you how rough it’s been all around since the day he left us. I won’t say business has been bad, no, it’s been booming, but… for all the wrong reasons.” He gestured to the dismal, depressing atmosphere. “I don’t want my bar to just be some musty box where sprites come to drink their misery. So I’m asking you to help me out, again. It’s not going to fix anything right away, but… you know, I… can’t exactly let you play music here anymore--”

I knew that already, but hearing it out loud still stung.

“--but you could still help me make this place a bit more homey and inviting. Sprites see pictures of themselves and their friends up on the walls, they’ll feel a sense of community, I think. This is not pity. I’m genuinely askin’ if you’ll work with me on this.”

I had to admit, it was so disheartening to see Tapper’s reduced to what it was. He was right, the walls did look bare. I wasn’t sure what good my drawings would really do, but putting something up would at least make the joint look more inhabitable. I chewed my lip for a minute and stared at him.

“...How much?”

He smiled. “I’ll give you 20 for this one, and 30 a piece moving forward.”

I glanced at Wreck-it. He was looking at me expectantly, with this look in his eyes that told me just how pissed he’d be if I said no.

Eventually, I figured there were far worse ways that someone in my situation could make a few easy credits.

“Alright, Tap. Deal.”

I stuck my hand out, but Tapper hesitated. His voice turned serious all of a sudden, and a little sad.

“But, listen, Mavis. Before we make a deal, you gotta promise me something.”

I paused, and rolled my eyes. Everyone loves promises. “Oh boy. What?”

“These credits are to help you look after yourself. Safely. I find you’ve been getting high with creds I gave you, the deal’s off. I need you to look me in the eye and promise me that you won’t spend these credits on buffs.”

I didn’t very much like his tone. “Tap, it’s okay, I had some time to get clean. After… the way things went, I’m steering clear of buffs for a while. It just doesn’t feel worth it anymore.”

He squinted. “I need to hear a promise.”

Of course he did. Without hesitation, I gave it to him. I looked him right in those big blue eyes swimming with misplaced trust, and lied.

“I promise.”

He held my gaze for another few seconds, presumably looking for any trace of deceit. Apparently, he found none. He grinned and said, “Alright then! It’s a deal!”

We had a no-contact handshake, and that was that.

I decided to stick around a little while longer after all, since Tapper had stopped treating me like a sob-story. We chatted a bit more about our business plans, and he and Wreck-it talked for a while. Customers kept hailing Tapper for drinks, of course, leaving me to sit with many an awkward silence with the hulking trash gorilla. It wasn’t the most pleasant time in the world, for obvious reasons. I still felt like everyone was thinking about tying me up and taking their misplaced revenge whenever they glanced my way. But at the same time, there was a part of me just glad to be out of my game, having relatively normal conversations with Tapper. I’ll admit, I missed the guy. He doesn’t treat me like everyone else does.

But, as they so often do, the evening took a sharp turn. I’d managed to zone out for some time, the world marred by this miserable fog in my brain. I was taking a grossly inappropriate amount of time to eat a single pretzel when Tapper’s voice snapped me out of it.

“It’s gonna feel so quiet in here from now on.”

I let out a bit of a questioning noise when I jolted. Seeing him clearly, I noticed that his eyes were hovering over my neck again, sort of peering over while he quietly cleaned a glass. I also noticed that, without realizing, I had taken my glove off and started rubbing your scarf between my fingers.

So, that was mortifying.

I stopped immediately and stuffed my face with another pretzel. I just mumbled, “Yeah.”

Tapper continued, his voice just about as morose as I’d ever heard it. “It already does. Even when it’s loud, it feels quiet. All the good sounds just aren’t playing anymore. I miss the old lively spirit. I miss your music, Fireball. I miss the ruckus you two would always stir up,” he paused. “Hell, I even miss him.”

I remember suddenly feeling like I’d swallowed a rock the size of my fist. My brain was screaming to abort, to get away from the conversation before it landed somewhere I couldn’t stand to hear. But, against all logic, I stayed. I wanted to hear him out. It was the first I’d heard anyone sincerely grieve you since you left. Somehow, I felt like I’d been needing to hear it. I just hoped I could handle it.

He said, “I know that’s not exactly the most popular stance to have right now, but I do. Yeah, he was all kinds of trouble, but he was quite a character. We need big personalities like him around here. Like you, too. Makes life a little less boring. And when you two were together? Forget about it. Never a dull moment. You guys really were just… somethin’ else. Like you shared two halves of the same--”

“Tapper.”

I couldn’t handle it. I’d made a mistake. I just pushed the heel of my palm into my brow, eyes closed, trying to keep steady. Every word he said just weighed me further down.

He went quiet. I could still hear the squeak of his cloth on the mug that had been clean for the past five minutes, and I heard Wreck-it slurp his drink, emanating waves of severe discomfort. It was definitely time to go. I thought that I couldn’t stand to be there a moment longer. But I had to level out so that I wouldn’t break down on the way out. Memories were trying to worm into my head, and I was trying desperately to block them out. I wanted a freakin’ drink.

But then Tapper, the sentimental bastard, just had to say something more. Very softly, he said something that would put a second rock in my gut.

“You should have heard the way he talked about you, y’know.”

It took me a second to register what he said. I opened my eyes and stared at him, suddenly hit with a conflict that I never saw coming. Part of me didn’t want to know. Part of me wanted to crack open one of the kegs and give a second attempt to the memory purge. But the most dominant, stupidest part of me wanted to know more. Needed to know more.

“What… did you say?”

Tapper looked up from his mug to meet my stare, and gave one of the saddest, fondest looks I’ve ever seen on another sprite. We held a silence for a moment, but it was quickly broken by Wreck-it.

He put his glass down and hastily got to his feet. “O-kay, you guys keep talking, I’m just gonna…” he made vague hand gestures. “Gonna go to the bathroom.”

After he hurried off, Tapper set to wiping the counter and continued, “Yeah. I mean, on the rare occasion he wasn’t talking about himself.”

I hated how much I was trembling. “What would he say?”

“Well…” he paused in his cleaning to think for a second. “It’s not really so much… what he said, as it was the way he said it, coming from a guy like him. To the untrained ear, it wouldn’t seem like anything much. But I knew him. You knew him. He wasn’t one to hand out any kind of praise. There was certainly no one else he talked about the way he talked about you.”

Rock after rock after rock in my gut. “Why… Why are you telling me this?”

He stood straight, brows furrowed in a thoughtful way, completely oblivious to the rusty axe he was about to drop on my head.

“I dunno, I feel like you just deserve to know. I’m just sorry I gotta be the one to tell you this, rather than him. He may have had an ego bigger than the arcade will ever see again, but… if there was one sprite he cared about other than himself, it was you.”

I can’t tell you how much it hurts to write that, even now.

For a second, a split-second, there was a burst of warmth in my chest. I sort of hate to admit it, but I didn’t realize how badly I’d wanted to hear something like that. You didn’t exactly leave behind much proof that we had anything real, not that I could see. I had to rely on the rest of the arcade to show me that -- they certainly saw something worth remembering. Enough to carve your name into my skin, for Devs’ sake. For a while, that was all I had. Otherwise, everything pointed to you just ditching me without a thought. To you really not giving a crit about me in the end.

Yet here was Tapper telling me that just wasn’t the case, and that man doesn’t lie.

At first, I could barely believe it. But then, I thought, of course I could believe it. How could I have thought you never cared at all, after all we’d done together?

That’s when I turned cold. That warmth was snuffed out by ice creeping down into my guts. Those memories I’d been trying to barricade out all burst into me at once. The good things, the great things, the laughs, the thrills, the slow nights, all the reasons I hung out with you at all. It was too much. It was way, way too much.

After a brief, stunned silence, I realized I had to get out of there. But there was no way I was going to make it back to my game before coming apart. I told Tapper I’d be right back, went straight to the bathrooms, locked myself in a stall in the blessedly empty ladies’ room, and just… well...

Broke.

#fanfiction #fanfic #wreck it ralph #tapper #make it mavis #turbo #original character #homesick #i also love writing tapper

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cloudbattrolls · 4 years

Text

The Tithe

TW: bugs, worms, mild body horror (nothing heavily described).

Wasps buzzed along the winding rock path.

A solitary figure trudged along it, surrounded on both sides by thick clouds of yellow and black. The insects darted among the yarrow and monkshood, the bluebells and sego lilies, antennae and eyes alert as a stranger to their land passed by.

Nestled in a valley between two peaks, the path led to a town so old it was almost part of the land itself. All its signs were weathered and worn with sun and rain, replaced only when they began to crumble.

The traveler paid the fluttering wasps no mind. They didn’t see the few white ones hidden among the yellow, black, and gold. The white ones saw them instead, faceted gazes following them without pause. These few creatures waited, buzzing among the flowers that braved the growing alpine chill.

The traveler looked over the town before they walked down into it - even the buildings were shaped like wasp nests, roundish wooden structures with hexagonal windows.

Someone certainly had picked a theme and run with it. Maybe the place belonged to some wacky entomologist.

People in the town spoke with accents the traveler hadn’t ever heard, and they had traveled quite a while. The townsfolk said it was because few of them ever left. They never felt the need; they were well taken care of, anything they could want brought to them.

By who? The traveler asked.

The people only smiled. Stay, and you’ll meet her, they assured them.

Golden wasps adorned the doors, gleaming under the light of old-fashioned street lamps. The traveler didn’t ask, hoping to figure it out themself. It was more fun that way. Perhaps this caretaker kept the living ones to defend the place from the rest of the world.

Everyone in town always seemed to have as much food and comforts as they wanted, lacking for very little. Everyone seemed to have someone for company, and as much as they needed without excess. No trash blew in the wind, no houses were abandoned.

Everyone wouldn’t answer any further questions about their caretaker. It was waved away with a smile, with an indifferent shrug. She’d come eventually. End of the month at the latest. No rush.

The traveler was pretty sure something really weird was going on by this point, because they weren’t a complete idiot.

They also felt bad after discreetly drinking blood from a lot of these people (it wasn’t like there was anyone else for miles, and they preferred that to going feral from hunger, thanks). It would be nice to maybe see if there was anything they could do in return for using them as snacks (assuming they weren’t all in some kind of evil bug cult).

If everyone turned out to be too cuckoo to bother with, well, they could always leave.

So, what do you folks most enjoy?

They’d asked one night, feet up on the table. They leaned back in their chair, arms bent and hands cupped behind their head.

Getting piss drunk, one man had said. Another person elbowed him, and a few people laughed. Then a young woman piped up, fingers running over a beautiful amber necklace she wore.

It’s always nice after the tithe. We celebrate, and she brings us presents. It’s a little festival.

A few older townsfolk sighed at that.

It’s not about presents! One scolded. Yes, she’s very kind about it, but it’s our most important duty.

Yeah, yeah, grumbled the young woman good-naturedly. You see how righteous you are when she brings your new stuff.

Their ears pricked, the traveler said nothing, hoping to hear more about the tithe. But no one spoke of it further, the conversation turning to other things.

Well, that didn’t bode well, yet they were morbidly curious to see how this would all play out.

There was a big fountain in the center of town (guess what lived there? More wasps) that they liked to sit on the benches near and work on repairing or designing clothing at. They’d mended some things for the people who kindly let them stay, baffling in of itself that they were so trusting. How did they survive, honestly.

When a fleet recruiter came to town trying to drum up soldiers and did not even get to open his mouth a second time before wasps ate him alive, shedding a bit of light on that particular question.

The bones were picked clean so white there wasn’t a scrap of meat left, collected by townspeople who acted as if they were merely picking up some trash blown in the wind. Townspeople who merely shrugged and rolled their eyes as if it was all quite routine.

Which left the traveler with a fairly obvious question: why hadn’t they been attacked?

Not that they could bleed, of course, their skin and outer appearance a facade for their parasitic insides. Did the predatory wasps recognize something they couldn’t eat, and thus let them pass? Were they intelligent enough to be security guards? They certainly didn’t seem to harm the locals.

Though they certainly followed them everywhere. No one walked without a wasp or two trailing them, and they’d seen them crawling in the buildings. No one ever commented on this. Flowers grew in abundance, treated reverently, and people polished their little door wasps as reverently as if they were being paid to do it.

Okay, so the town was there to serve the wasps, probably. But why? Who put them here, what were they protecting? Was there something worse than them around, demanding some sort of tribute for their services in the form of this ‘tithe’? That’d be depressing. On the upside, the ensuing fight would be fun and guilt-free.

It was a cool, brisk night with the starlight sparkling off the fountain stone when the whole town gathered around it.

Only the stone. The water had been drained.

The traveler was really not looking forward to what that meant or why everyone was holding a small knife engraved with a wasp in their hands, looking eager.

Hey, so, what happens for the tithe? They said, trying to sound casual and like they didn’t have a loaded gun, smoke bombs, and explosives hidden in case they needed them.

You’ll see. It’s such a small thing, really, our way to give back to her.

Her. Doesn’t she have a name?

She’ll introduce herself when she comes. She’s very nice.

The traveler was placing their bets on just who and what she was when people started slitting their arms and bleeding into the fountain, blithely lining up and walking away when done, chattering about nothing in the meantime.

One by one by one.

Even as a parasitic blood drinker, the traveler was alarmed as the fountain filled with drops from obediently slit veins, bandaged up afterward by those who had already gone, or were waiting.

Why did they do this willingly? What could possibly make this worth it?

It had to be another vampire; they hissed in anger at the thought. Definitely worth fighting, at least. If they could kill them, even better - one less was better for everyone, and this one was clearly far worse than they were.

This tempting smell was almost overwhelming despite their own feeds -

Oh god. Had they weakened their victims too much to bear the cost of the tithe? Out to lunch as these people might be, the traveler didn’t want them dead. They’d probably been brainwashed their whole lives.

One fell over and was caught by their fellows. Another fell as well. A third.

The traveler felt a tug of guilt at their writhing insides, no matter how useless and contradictory that feeling was. There was no changing what they were, and they’d had no idea this was coming.

The blood in the fountain steadily rose, lapping and staining the fountain’s edges, and a hot wind cut through the cold air.

A low buzzing surrounded the gathering as the last local made their cut.

Everyone fell silent, and every person that could turned and bowed.

The traveler crossed their arms, annoyed.

A woman stepped up to the edge of the crowd, who parted for her like water, moving back from the stranger in their midst so that they stood alone. She wore an old scuffed hat in the style of a cowherd. Her long legs were half-covered by boots with silver spurs, a poncho over her shoulders and dust on her worn jeans.

Her eyes were covered by a faded tan bandanna, but she seemed to stare straight at them as she put her hands on her hips.

“I see you’ve been swipin’ at my supply, sugar cube. That’s just plum rude. How would you feel if I did that to you?”

They threw a smoke bomb at her and went for her throat. If they could just -

Wasps covered them mid-leap, stingers poised around every inch of their body, a great buzzing prison surrounding everything but their face.

The woman waved her hand, and more wasps came to fan the smoke away with their wings.

“I don’t need to see you, honey. I can feel you. I’ve felt you since you rolled in here, and I know something ain’t right. Something’s different about you, even for your kind.”

The traveler snarled, as they'd about had it with all this idiocy.

“Face me like an adult and stop hiding behind your pets.”

The smoke fully cleared, and the woman stood with hands on her hips, smiling.

She opened her mouth and white wasps poured out.

The traveler stared.

“No.” They whispered. “No. It can’t be.”

All throughout the shell of their body, their own white worms shuddered. They had always thought - always hoped - they were the only one of their particular type of blood drinker. The only thing of such wretchedness in the entire world.

Bugger to that, apparently.

They watched, immobilized, as the woman’s swarm flew to the blood-filled fountain, drinking much of it, but not all. After they went back into the woman, townspeople came and collected the rest, reverently placing it in refrigerated coolers.

The traveler looked at their fellow monster.

“Who are you?”

“Name’s Rhyssa. Now who are you?”

“Tuuya.”

“Well, Tuuya, how’re you gonna pay me back for that blood you nabbed? Don’t be a pill, we can still settle this proper like gentlefolk. Hell, I’ll even let you stay for the festival! It don’t gotta be like this.”

The vampire stared, still suspended by the buzzing swarm.

“How are you going to pay these people back for deceiving them into being your willing smoothies for their entire lives? I don’t owe you anything.”

Her face twisted into a scowl.

“Y’don’t get it. I take care of them. They’re my people, I protect them, Protect them from the likes of you.”

They rolled their eyes.

“Oh, how absolutely genial of you to - ”

All their limbs were ripped from their body at once and they screamed, worms flailing as they were exposed to the air without warning and stung by the pitiless insects. The squirming white invertebrates died by the dozens, helpless against the scourge.

Then it stopped.

Nearly blind from pain, they looked up blearily to see Rhyssa putting her hands over her mouth, rigid in what they could only assume was shock.

“I’m - I’m so sorry - no, no, how can this - no, you’ve gotta be a fake - ”

Tuuya wasn’t in a state to do much more than groan.

The wasp drinker pulled on her long hair in agitation, walking up to them and kneeling down on the grass.

She whispered a word, a name they barely heard as their worms struggled to repair themselves from the onslaught. Hlayos. Who or what was that? It probably didn’t matter. They were going to die here, to some obnoxious wasp woman who didn’t have the right.

Then...they felt themself healing. The wasps crawled over their body, somehow mending the worms they’d stung, helping them regrow or fuse back together.

They saw more wasps healing those townsfolk who’d fallen from blood loss and injured themselves, but that didn’t make sense. It couldn’t be. They had to be hallucinating from pain. Parasites couldn’t mend. Theirs couldn’t.

The townsfolk retreated, taking the coolers of blood with them. The yellow and black wasps departed as well, none left buzzing around the fountain.

Its water began to flow again, washing away the stains. In the deep quiet broken only by the trickle of liquid, it was as if nothing had happened at all.

The worm drinker couldn’t see the woman’s eyes behind the bandanna, but her shoulders shook as she held herself, rocking gently.

“It’s you. It’s really you...except...no. You died.”

Her words were empty nonsense. Tuuya waited until they healed further, their limbs re-attached as worms knitted together, and they pushed themself up.

They couldn’t fight her. They knew they had been spared for some reason beyond their comprehension, and didn’t feel like pushing it. Something about being ripped apart and stung repeatedly made a person a little tender.

Rhyssa’s head tilted, seeming to look up at the other vampire.

“Don’t go.”

A quiet, desperate plea. Tuuya turned, ignoring it, walking away quickly before breaking into a run.

“Don’t go!”

A desperate cry, followed by a word they fled from, a word that spurred their strides into leaps, scrambling away in such desperation they nearly fell on the rocky path leading out of town and back down, as far away as they could get.

A single, terrifying word that couldn’t be true, but settled in their head and wouldn’t leave. It sunk into their every thought, dragging them down, tearing apart the truth of their life.

A word that must have been what saved them, yet damned them in the same breath.

Sibling.

#cloud writes #etuuya vannyn #rhyssa #and so we kick off #the children of ozyrel

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waltzofevil · 4 years

Text

AkunoP Question and Answer

Waltz of Evil, page 144-147

Q: You have the Deadly Sins of Evil novel series where many unique characters show up. How did you come up with the names for these characters?

A: I had several patterns I followed.

There are some where I made a pun on the name of the VOCALOID they’re based on.

Such as “Kagamine Len” --> “Allen”

I also coined names that were a blending of various words that had special meanings to them.

“Sateriasis Venomania”-->”Satyriasis”, which means “sex mania”, alongside “Nymphomania”. And then onto that I also added in the English word “Venom” which means “poison”.

I also made puns on demons and gods from mythology.

“Arte” and “Pollo” --> From “Artemis” and “Apollo” that show up in Greek mythology.

After that, there are a lot of characters where I gave them a name based on the sound of the word, without any particular meaning.

Q: The “Deadly Sins of Evil” series has had two publications at this point—please tell us if you have any stories to share about these two works.

The Madness of Duke Venomania

A lot of women show up in this work, so in order to better learn the feelings of women I went to a lot of group parties. In the end I still didn’t really understand.

Evil Food Eater Conchita

A lot of food shows up in this work, so in order to better learn the feelings of food, I went to a lot of dinners. They were delicious. Of course one can’t understand the feelings of food.

Q: The last “Vessel of Deadly Sin” that has yet to be made clear. Is that the “Golden Key” that showed up in Venomania, and the “Golden Powder (Golden Key)” from Conchita…? The “Vessel of Wrath” apparently also debuted in the “Daughter of Evil” series, but which scene was that actually in?

A: There’s only one that’s called the “Vessel of Wrath”. Whatever the era, its owner seeks to kill the holder of another “Vessel of Deadly Sin”.

Q: Venomania used the power of the demon to transform like Kyle and Ney in the “Daughter of Evil” series. Is this transformation of varying degrees for each demon, and is it different depending on the individual?

A: The transformation of a contractor is something that all demons are capable of, but their abilities and power levels depend on the demon. “Lust” is able to fly and use brainwashing, but in terms of physical attack ability it’s not that strong.

“Gluttony” is able to enslave dead bodies, so it has no need to transform the contractor in order to use its power. It has physical strength that is second only to “Pride”, but perhaps due to its whimsical nature it seldom grants its contractor full use of its power. In the climax of the fourth installment of “Daughter of Evil” Ney was, in actuality, fighting almost entirely with just her own natural power, though she didn’t realize that fact.

“Pride” is able to grant their contractor an extremely high amount of fighting power, but unlike the other demons it has no other particular abilities.

Q: The sorceress Elluka Clockworker did some wandering; can you tell us about her acts of mercy?

A: In all of the places that she went, Elluka would use her magic to save the people she met there without regard for whether they were rich or poor. Elluka would always say that she was just doing it “on a whim” or “to gain favors from influential people”. Even after several centuries had passed she’s never realized that she’s a softie at heart.

Q: Who exactly is the historian Will Jaakko?

A: Will Jaakko (EC 353-405) is a Beelzenian historian. His grandfather was the minstrel Xenos Jaakko. As a result of all the anecdotes that he heard when he was young from his grandfather, he came to develop an interest “Vessel of Deadly Sin” that the Conchita family and Banica were said to have possessed. In 388 he married the author of the fairytale “Vampiress Vanika”, Sanan Neu. In his later years he published several works that advanced several personal theories relating to Beelzenian history and the “Vessels of Deadly Sin”, but these were not very well regarded publicly, judged to be absurd tales that were heavily influenced by his wife’s fairytales.

Q: Ma shows up at the end of the Daughter of Evil, Venomania, and Conchita. She goes by the title of playwright, but as for her (?) true identity…?

A: She seems to have lived for a very long time. Other similarly long-lived beings have shown up in the story up to this point, so if you’re asking if Ma’s true identity is one of those…?

It doesn’t seem to be that simple.

Q: (Venomania) Is the dress that Karchess used to disguise as a woman based on Elluka’s preferences?

A: Karchess’ dress for his woman disguise is something that he picked out himself at a clothing store in Lasaland. It’s different from the outfit that Elluka was wearing, so it’s probably based on Karchess’ preferences.

Q: (Venomania) Did Gumina love Cherubim?

A: “She merely gave a lonely smile.”

Q: (Conchita) Please tell us the story of the time that Arte and Pollo met Conchita.

A: After losing her mother, in her depression Banica would often stay shut up in the food storage in the basement. For Banica, as isolated as she was, her own room was too wide to be comfortable. That was around the time that she met Arte and Pollo. At some point the three of them had become good friends. However, bizarrely enough no in the mansion, not even Banica, can remember why the twins were there or when they started working there as servants.

Q: (Conchita) How did the waiter of the “Graveyard” restaurant gather the Deadly Sins?

A: I honestly don’t know anything about how the waiter had the “Vessels of Deadly Sin” there. Perhaps you should be more suspicious of the run-away Chef.

Q: (Conchita) So you said that you originally had plans for Conchita to be a “kaiju girl”. Please tell us about the original story that wound up getting discarded.

A: A certain family finds a peculiar creature. They name it “Conchita”, and come to keep it as a pet. Conchita eats all of the feed they give her, and grows up rapidly. …Or rather, she gets too big.

They are unable to keep Conchita, as she has grown larger than the house that they live in. Having been abandoned, Conchita continues to eat things she finds on the wayside, and steadily grows bigger. The government decides to repel her, and fires missiles at her, but Conchita eats them.

At that time, an enormous meteorite is confirmed to be heading towards Earth. At this rate the Earth is destroyed. In order to protect the family that raised her, Conchita flies into the air alone and headed for space…

Q: (Conchita) Lady Conchita’s name might have ended up being “Muraramurajakotasupopopo”. What is the basis for that name?

A: Ask Mr. Muzuri.

Q: (Conchita) Tell us what Conchita’s daily life is like.

A: Outside of eating meals, a lot of the time Lady Banica works hard at her hobby garden in the backyard. The plants that she raises there ultimately get put into her meals. She hardly ever goes outside the mansion.

As for Pollo’s everyday work, he cleans inside the mansion, weeds the garden, feeds the livestock, washes his clothes, does athletic meets for the undead soldiers, and harassing Joseph.

Arte’s job is arranging for supplies and price discussions with merchants, management of the money, shopping for any daily supplies they’re low on, washing her and Banica’s clothes, running head counts of the livestock and dead soldiers, pulling pranks on Pollo, acting as Joseph’s assistant and also harassing him.

Outside of cooking and preparations for it, Joseph generally just rambles about aimlessly. As Arte and Pollo are always getting in his way and harassing him, he often goes down to hang around at the bar in the village at the base of the hill. But he’s a non-drinker.

Q: (Conchita) Out of all the unique dishes that Conchita has eaten, which do you think she liked the most?

A: I would think it’s the one that made her cry with joy, don’t you think?

Q: If you were going to contract, which demon would you pick? And please tell us your reasons.

A: I am a serious, just, and virtuous person, and so I have no desire to contract with a demon. I would prefer an angel with large boobs.

Q: If you gathered all seven vessels of Deadly Sin, what would you wish for?

A: I’d wish for either eternal life, to revive everyone on earth, or girl panties.

Q: What kind of story will the third installment of the Deadly Sins of Evil series be like?

A: I plan to depict KAITO as an even bigger scuzbag than ever before.

Q: Tell us what you plan to do after this.

A: I’d like to get married.

Q: Please give us one message to your readers.

A: Please marry me.

About the “Daughter of Evil” Comic Adaptation

Q: What did you think when discussion came up of making the “Daughter of Evil” into a comic?

A: When the novel came out there was a decent amount of people who were “interested in it but couldn’t read very well…”, so I guess I thought that such people would be pleased?

Q: Please share the thoughts you had when you saw the finished manga.

A: Basically the story was something that I came up with myself, but when I saw it in the manga format it was like I was reading it with the fresh emotions of being an outsider. And it also did things like supplement scenes that weren’t shown in the main piece, so I was able to simply enjoy reading it.

Q: Please say one thing to the readers enjoying the comic adaptation of the “Daughter of Evil”.

A: I think this is a work that is enjoyable to read for both those who have already read the light novel and those who haven’t. I’d really like you to read it, at any rate!

directory

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cilliansaccent · 4 years

Text

Class of Temptation - CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Leave a like, reblog or comment below to show your support and love! Enjoy…

PLEASE READ:

No mention of Cillian’s true family or relatives. All names are made up.

This is a TEACHER x STUDENT fanfiction, it’s going to be kinky and very taboo!

I will write whenever the mood grabs me, so I apologise if there are long breaks between chapters :)

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Background: Tessa is a twenty-three-year-old model from a broken-up family, living in London with her best friend and starting a course on Drama and Theatre. Though, when she gets closer to the super hot Mr Murphy who is her much older teacher, there is a battle of lust and love between them. They’ll have to figure out what to do with their tight relationship as other issues begin to rise and nip at their heels…

Word Count: 4,608

!!Warnings!!: Sex scene at the end/

Chapter Name: Love with A Dash of... GET OUT!

Brief Chapter Outline: Tessa feels much better after a good talk with Elijah, there is a heart to heart then Tessa returns home to find her apartment trashed. She spends the next few days with Elijah cleaning up and giving Esther a good wake-up call...

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Last night was emotional for Tessa. She had spoken about the divorce her parents had gone through, the pain and fear she felt at that time despite not remembering much. Though her father had explained to her years later why they had left Sydney. Her mother was a heavy drinker and was putting her father into debt from her gambling and drinking. He had tried to get her help but she became aggressive and abusive and even threatened to kill Tessa and her two sisters. She told Elijah how her mother had gotten to that point, she became depressed after she had Tessa and did not like how her father was becoming successful at that point as she had only a lowly retail job. Her father supposedly said she refused to work for his company as her mother wanted to do her own thing. But still, the whole moving bit was intense and she had to integrate quickly to her new school life as well as try to learn a new language. Eventually, she was homeschooled before she reached seventeen, and when Grace had come into the spotlight. There Tessa struggled to talk and could not speak about those few years as they were too painful and she was not ready to let Elijah know what happened to her in her very own home. But she figured he had a hunch as to why she reacted the way she did that morning she went down on him and with the whole holding her head there.

But now? Tessa felt a little... Lighter, a bit of weight being taken off. Elijah had been nothing but supportive and listened to her talk, he wiped her tears away and let her take her time. Then after it all, he made her hot chocolate and made one hell of a ham and cheese toast at two in the morning. Then he held her till they both fell asleep.

Now awake and curled up on her side, she cuddled his pillow close and wore his shirt. She could hear him chatting with his flatmate in the kitchen as he cooked breakfast for her, music from some rock band played lightly from Jamie's bedroom which was much louder before and it woke them up.

Elijah came into his room not too long after with two plates of steaming scrambled eggs, Nutella toast, baked beans and bacon. "Thought you might need a good boost for this fine morning." He grinned.

Tess laughed as she rolled over and pushed herself up and took the plate for him, "Thanks, Eli." She looked down and groaned, "Looks freaking amazing."

"Thanks. Pro of having a mother who loved cooking and passed it down to me." He said as he sat down beside her and crossed his legs. He had no shirt, hence why it was on her.

"Mm, might have to come here more often." She mused as she dug in.

"Please do. Jamie can be such a bore." Elijah whined.

"Heard that asshole," Jamie said as he walked by in just his shorts which did nothing to hide his junk.

"Hey! Be decent! A pretty lady is here!" Elijah grumbled.

Tessa giggled, "I'm pretty?"

"Indeed you are! So pretty, prettier than Scarlett Johansson." He admitted.

Tessa gasped. She knew how much of a fan he was for her, "Wow! Elijah! This is like... Groundbreaking! You love her!"

"I did." He whispered his cheeks suddenly going red.

"You did? What changed?" She set her empty plate aside as she used a tissue to wipe her lips and her hands.

"You." He said with no hesitation as he met her eyes.

She frowned a little, "What...?"

"You did, Tessa. I've found my little fighter." He smiled as he set his own plate aside and came close to her, taking her hands, "I am falling for you and I would love to call you my girlfriend."

Tessa stared at him, no emotions on her face. She was shocked.

"Tess? Have... Have I come on too strong...? Oh, fuck. Tessa I-" He stuttered.

Tessa pounced on him and he fell back with her on top, she peppered his face with kisses and was grinning like an idiot, "You are such a sweetheart, Elijah. I am honoured to be your girlfriend."

"So you're okay with this? Us being a thing?" He placed his hands on her hips.

"More than okay." She leaned down and kissed him deeply, "Boyfie." She giggled and his arms wrapped around her more. They kissed for some time, exchanging plenty of cute and heartfelt words.

But Elijah had to get ready for work but he would make it up to her later today with something special to celebrate this day.

"You're welcome to stay here as long as needed, Jamie will behave and be in his room smoking pot." Elijah was dressed nicely for his job which he worked for three days a week. She had yet to see him at Calvin Kleins.

"I'd love to, but I really gotta go home. Have things to work on." She got up and fixed up his tie and pulled on his jacket.

"Okay. I'll come by after work and then we can head out." He said as he pressed his lips to hers.

She felt her butterflies in her stomach flutter as she gripped the lapels of his jacket, "Okay. I'll be home all day." She smiled.

"Wonderful." He pulled away and pulled on his shoes, grabbed his wallet, phone and keys for his car, "I'll see you later, princess. I'll give you a call when it's my lunch break." He came back over and kissed her deeply and squeezed her ass.

"Have fun." She said and patted his chest and he left for work. She cleaned up his room a little bit and made the bed, took the dirty plates to the kitchen and found the place to be like a bomb had hit it. She sighed and felt her inner perfectionist of cleaning come out and cleaned it all up until there was not a single dirty dish out. Then headed back to Elijah's room to pull on her pants and shoes, she would keep his sweater on.

Tessa heard Jamie and decided to leave him to do his... Thing and not bother him. She left the apartment with the spare key Elijah had given to her and locked the door. She had a bit of a bounce to her walk as she returned to her own apartment. Hearing Elijah telling her he was falling for her made her extremely happy and that she was able to talk to him about her past. That was a big plus. She was excited to tell Esther the news, she'd be happy that she had found someone. She pulled out her keys and unlocked the door.

The scene was absolutely shocking when she entered the apartment.

The place was trashed. The kitchen was ruined from stacked dirty plates and half-eaten food and alcoholic bottles were scattered on the countertops and floor. The living room was pretty much the same but there was clothing all over the place and naked people all curled up among each other asleep. There were some on the dining table, two guys on top of each other, a few chairs were broken.

Tessa walked in further into the middle of the room and almost slipped on something on the floor. She looked down and was disgusted she stepped on bodily fluids. She wiped her foot on someone's shirt as she stalked to Esther's bedroom, and saw the bathroom had people in it too. She kicked the door open and Esther was sucking some guy off.

"What the fuck happened here!?" Tessa snarled.

Esther jumped back as the guy quickly hid himself, "Oh," She laughed hesitantly. "Hi, Tess. I uh... I had a bit of a party." She said.

"I can fucking see that. You," She looked at the guy, "Get the fuck out. Fucking hell Esther!" Tessa was so mad as she stalked back out and let out a holler, "EVERY FUCKING PERSON WAKE THE FUCKING UP AND GET. OUT. OF. MY HOME!" She went around hitting the naked people awake and threatened anyone that she would cut off their cocks and tits if they ever stepped back into this home. "GET OUT!" She screamed as people struggled to dress, "Get the fuck out! OUT!" She ordered and soon enough the house was totally empty.

"What the fuck? Why are you acting like this, Tess?" Esther pulled her robe around her.

"Look at the state of this place! There are condoms all over the place, there's literal shit on the walls and there's a fucking crack! The couches are soiled to the point we need to throw them out!" Tessa walked around, disbelief as she stared at the things she worked hard to get. "Holy fuck... Is that my fucking toys?!" She looked closer. "Jesus fucking Christ!" Tessa headed to her room and holy hell it was a mess. Her bed was clearly used, her clothing torn and strewn across the floor... And her laptop! Snapped in half. She felt hot tears fall from her eyes as she just stood there. In shock. She felt numb all over.

"Oh... Fuck. I... Shit, Tess." Esther had come in to see the carnage.

"Get out," Tessa whispered.

"I can help you clean up." Esther offered, trying to smooth this over, "I didn't know they would be in here."

Tessa could see her harnesses and all her bondage things had been used and abused.

"I said get out, Esther." Tessa shook her head, she was shaking.

"Do you mean from your room-"

"Out of the apartment. Go fucking stay somewhere else." Tessa turned to her. "You are so fucking unbelievable! You know the damn house rules! No parties unless I know of it, No fucking orgies, and especially no fucking drugs! How could you do this?! I worked so hard! I used every fucking penny for this shit! Now it's ruined because of your damn immaturity!"

Esther had paled and looked away, "I didn't think it would get this out of hand..."

"Of course it would when you have over thirty people here! God- Just get out of my sight. Pack your shit and get out. I'll deal with this shit on my own."

Esther didn't seem to interject the idea and left. Sometime later the door opened and was shut when she left. Tessa ran a hand over her face and went to the kitchen and pulled out garbage bags and rubber gloves. And began to clean the apartment. It was nasty as hell but it had to be done. She picked up the waste then cracked out the mop and bucket, this part took ages as she had to empty the bucket a few times before the floors were cleaned. Then she set to cleaning the dishes, putting whatever she could in the dishwasher than washing the rest. She scrubbed the walls, steamed the carpets which she was thankful got actually clean but fuck... The couches were trashed with wine and other fluids.

In the middle of the apartment, she had stacked her sheets, whatever clothing that wasn't ripped, towels and whatnot. She had to throw out all her toys and items she had bought over the many months. She checked her room and found her safe untouched and was glad, she had some money she had put aside and would use it to buy the necessities first then whatever remained would be her stuff. Esther can go fuck herself and get her own things. But she still cleaned up her sheets to.

By the time she finished Elijah had called her, she quickly pulled her gloves off and answered, "Elijah!" She was happy to hear him.

"Hi, Princess. May I come up?" He asked.

"Uh. Yeah sure. I got something to tell you." She said and hung up to let him up. It wasn't long when she opened the door and let him in.

"Holy... What happened?" His eyes were wide as he saw the garbage bags lined up, the cleaning products everywhere and the mountain of material in the middle.

"Well, Esther decided it was a good idea to have a huge orgy here. Not realising with thirty drunk fucks they trashed the place. Her room, the bathroom and my own fucking bedroom. The only things I need to rebuy is the couches, a new dining table and chairs, new sheets for myself and mattress and some clothing but I got just enough. Half of the dishes and glasses in the kitchen need to be bought too. Just all these things." She ran a hand through her hair as she shook her head.

"Jeez. I'm so sorry, Tess." He frowned, "Let me help." He set his stuff on the clean dining table.

She didn't decline as he began to take the bags out. They made sure it was secured and left at the right spot for the trucks to come by.

"I'll need to call up the council to come down to remove the couches and the mattress and the other heavier things. This weekend I'll have to go out shopping for the new stuff." She explained to Elijah who was helping her pack the remaining dishes away.

"I'll join you and we can buy things together." He said with a smile.

"Oh Elijah, I could not let you do that. I think I've got enough for the things I need." She shook her head.

"No. Tess, please let me help you. I want to do things together and this is something I'd like to help you with." He took her hand, "I can't imagine how this place looked before and I can see how much you love this place."

Tessa pressed her lips together as she glanced around the apartment. There was still so much she had to clean and move around, the damn plants were the worst to clean up. "We go halves then. I don't want you dedicating every penny to it."

"Okay. Deal." He smiled.

The pair ended up spending their time cleaning up the rest of the apartment. Tess organised a council pick up for tomorrow as well. Once it was all done she headed back with Elijah to his home and they watched a movie with Jamie, had Chinese takeaway and smoked some of his weed. They both made sure to make Tessa feel happy and content, she was cuddled up with Elijah and Jamie on Tessa. The three fell asleep like that.

The Next Few Days...

The council had come and taken away the useless furniture, and Tessa spent the day cleaning up her clothing. She ended up throwing out her sheets, not wanting a reminder. She threw her clothes in the wash and hung them out before she set to the shops with Elijah. They found a good mattress she liked after a lot of searching and her being a pain in the ass. Tess explained to Elijah that she needed new... Toys and items and he was eager to join her in a shop.

Elijah made the day fun despite being in a sex shop, they mucked about but she settled on some items. They did go into a lingerie store but she wanted to leave the money for the main things for the apartment. So they set off to do that for the rest of the few days.

Everything was delivered by Sunday luckily and Elijah had helped the men bring the things up. Tessa was redecorating the place as Elijah sorted the furniture out. She kept it reasonably same, with the hanging pot plants and all that. Though her main concern was her books, luckily after all that shit they ended up safe.

She walked over to the bookshelf and touched the spines, smiling softly. Elijah came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her and kissed her shoulder, "Everything is done, Princess." He murmured.

"Thank you, babe. I appreciate you putting so much of your time these past few days. I am in debt to you." She turned and placed her hands on his shoulders as she smiled up at him.

Elijah tugged her close, "You do not owe me anything. Just your presence is what I need." He said as he kissed her softly. "Just you. Being you."

"Oh, Elijah..." She giggled, squeezing his shoulders, "You really are the best."

"I know." He kissed her again and this time held it. His tongue swept into her mouth as he overtook the kissing. Tessa groaned softly her fingers sliding up his neck and tangle into his hair. He walked back to the couch and sat down, Tessa standing between his legs as he glanced up at her.

"I get so turned on by your kisses." She giggled as she pulled off her jumper slowly. She had a lacy bralette on.

"I simply get turned on by you." He slid his hands up to cup her breasts and squeezed them before he pulled her into his lap. He leaned forward and sucked on her nipple through the lace, reaching behind to undo the clasp and pull it entirely off. He continued to pleasure her nipples, tugging on the piercings with his teeth.

Tessa gripped the hem of his shirt and he paused his attacks on her breasts and pulled his shirt off, then ran her hands down his defined pecs and stomach and groaned, "So fucking hot."

He let out a low laugh before he wasted no time in stripping them both before she was laid back on the couch, "Before we continue, permission to do it on the couch?" He kissed her neck, his hips flushed against hers and ground against her core with his cock.

"Take me anywhere, I trust you to not dirty it." She laughed before it turned into a moan when his cock slipped into her, stretching her. Her hands latched on to his back, her nails digging into his skin.

Elijah liked how she marked his back, even though he had odd looks and Jamie teasing him constantly when they went to exercise at the gym together. His thrusts were hard and fast which was exactly how she liked it. Her cries were wonderful to listen and her desperate pleas for him to go faster which ultimately he did as fast as he could. With one hand planted beside her and the other gripping the armrest, he had a good view of her expressions that changed between furrowed brows and pure surprised or both.

Tessa's body was alight with the pumping pleasure his cock gave her, the electric feeling rattling right through her limbs and then back to her tight core and throbbing clit. She glanced down where his hips slammed into hers, she could just see how much his cock was coated in her. She loved it. "Ah! God! Yes!" She gasped.

Elijah gritted his teeth, totally lost in the feeling and the need to fuck her. He would make it up to her from all these days of not having her in this way.

They did not switch positions and Tessa was more than happy to stay under him, she loved it when the man took control and went as hard as he could. And Elijah... God, he was amazing. His hard body against hers, pinning her to the couch and she had no escape. She could feel the tense muscle in his shoulders, an indication that he was close. She was too and she pulled him down so they were body to body.

Elijah did not stop as his head was buried into her neck, his thrusting got a little more powerful before he felt that knot in his lower abdomen snap and he climaxed hard. He let out a loud groan against her skin as he let out audible pants.

Tessa screamed out his name as she came with him and clutched him close as if he was her very life support as he aided her through her high. When it all came down she heard him whisper...

"I love you." His breath was warm against her flushed skin.

Her smile was instant as she stroked his hair and turned her head to kiss his temple, "How much?" She murmured.

"So much." He lifted himself up to look at her.

"Well, I love you just as much. Maybe even more than you love me." She bit her bottom lip a little.

"Do you now? Will you show me how much more?" Elijah kissed her softly.

"Sit up, then." She said against his lips.

Elijah sat up and pulled her up when he did so. He let out a moan when she pushed him back inside her, "Mmm oh, this is nice." He murmured.

"It's my time to take over, darling." She said as she began to roll her hips and move up and down. "I'm gonna show you how much exactly I love you." She gasped.

Tessa rode him until he came twice inside her and then he was back on her with her bent over the couch and was pounding hard into her. When they had finished their three hour fuck session which ended them being in her bed and blessing the new mattress with his scent. They were both curled up close and the sheets pulled up to their chins.

Elijah was stroking her side, his forefinger moving gently along the section of ribcage then up to her shoulder and down her arm to her elbow then back up and repeat. The silence between them was good and no words needed to be spoken to how good that session was, or how much they were in love with each other. Actions spoke louder than words.

The pair stayed liked that before Tessa was the one to move, "I'll make us coffee and some two-minute noodles, yeah?"

"Sounds fantastic. Need quick energy." Elijah gave her a lazy smile as he watched her pull on his jumper and cute boxer shorts with bananas on them.

"Okay. I'll bring it over to you." She kissed him and he touched her cheek before she headed to the kitchen and prepare the things.

Just then, the door unlocked and opened and Esther walked in slowly as if she was worried something might come out.

Tessa leaned against the counter with her arms folded and watched her turn and realise she wasn't alone.

"Uh... Hi. Um wow, you... What did you do to the place?" Esther was shocked to see all the colourful things gone and replaced with gentler tones of blues, greens and greys and browns.

"Cleaned the shit up," Tessa said without a hint of regret. The shit looked ugly anyway, she only bought it for Esther.

"Without, like, getting my permission?" Esther frowned as she came to the living room and scowled.

"I mean, why should I? This is my home and you went against the rules. You ruined the place, I spent four days cleaning and rearranging the place." Tessa poured two cups of coffee.

Esther came up beside her, "You threw out everything!" She exclaimed in anger.

"Yeah. Had shit stains, cum, wine and I think Coke and whatever other crap were on it. Not even that carpet was saved, ended up throwing it to when I couldn't get some dried up clump out of it." Tessa turned to her, a hand braced on the countertop, the other at her hip.

"I don't give a shit! You didn't ask, it was my-"

"Ah!" She held up a hand to shut her up, "Yours? The only thing that belonged to you was whatever is in your room, the pot plants and the cushions you bought. Be fucking grateful I got the same plants!" Tessa restrained her yelling, she wasn't gonna get into this.

"You really are unbelievable! How could you do this! God!" Esther threw up her hands and turned to see Elijah there in his boxers. "Who the fuck are you!?"

"My boyfriend." Tessa set the cups on a tray with the steaming bowls of noodles and set them on the dining table.

"Hi," Elijah gave Esther a smile and a wave.

"You have two options, Esther," Tessa said as she came over to stand beside Elijah. "Since you broke my trust and acted so foolishly, you can, one; stay and live here but you must repay me three thousand pounds for my effort in buying all of this, my clothing, my personal items and technology that had been ruined from your party. Also another two thousand pounds for Elijah who had helped me buy all this and moved things for me. Or you still repay me no matter what and... Move out."

"Damn," Elijah muttered but they had sat and counted the costs. It was a lot of damage done. The cracks and holes were not yet fixed either.

Esther paled and seemed like she was really regretting it, "I- I'll pay half I can't-"

"You pay everything, not upfront but you will do it fortnightly. For however long until I see those five thousand pounds in my bank account." Tessa did not back down. She had put up with Esther's immaturity long enough, this was not the first wild party she had, a first orgy though. The last one was earlier this year for New Year's Eve which got out of control despite Tessa telling Esther to have a limit of people. Many things broke, a fight broke out from to much alcohol use and drugs. "I think it is fair after all that I did for you. You're lucky I'm not the asshole that can easily count up all the damages you've done to this place before."

Esther was looking around and was clearly thinking over her options. "I will stay and I will pay for the costs. I will no longer throw parties unless you approve and I won't bring randoms back here either."

Tessa nodded, "You are welcome to bring your one night stands home, but the parties... They will be done elsewhere from now on. You know we cannot afford another hit. Especially for me."

Esther nodded quickly, "Okay. Do you forgive me though?" She frowned.

"Not yet. Might take some time. I've cleaned your sheets but I left everything else in a box for you to go through what you want or not." With that, Tessa picked up the tray and headed with Elijah back into her room with him and he shut the door.

"That was hot as fuck." Elijah came behind her as she set the tray on a little table and hugged her close.

She laughed softly, "She needed a wake-up call." She said as she felt his lips press against her neck.

"Good girl. But you did not need to get her to pay for me. I did it out of kindness in my heart." He said as they fell back on the bed, snuggled and eating their noodles.

"I know but you worked hard these few days with me and you deserve it. You really didn't need to help me." She smiled.

"I guess so... Still. I spent time with you and it was fun. Just not cleaning cum stains was so not appealing." He laughed.

"You did get plenty of ass shots." She nudged him.

"I did indeed." He grinned like a wolf and they spent the rest of the evening cuddled up and watching YouTube videos on her surviving iPad.

#cillian murphy #peaky blinders #teacher x student #thomas shelby #fanfiction

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bostonstone · 4 years

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「 chicago’s very own boston ‘boss’ stone has been spotted on madison avenue driving a koenigsegg ccxr trevita, welcome ! your resemblance to kja apa is unreal. according to tmz , you just had your twenty third birthday bash. your chance of surviving new york is uncertain because you’re jealous, but being flirtatious might help you. i think being a scorpio explains that. 3 things that would paint a better picture of you would be endless workouts & post of them on the ‘gram, drinking top shelf liquor always and rolling the best blunts . ( cismale, he/him ) + ( a, 26, she/her, est ) 」

TRAITS:

Recognizable Traits: Red Hair, Abs, Tatted, Tall, in shape, Workout Fein

Personality Traits: Musician, Workout Model, Pothead & Heavy drinker, does other drugs as well, skate boards for fun, still plays football whenever he can, makes sex puns, dad jokes and lowkey loves crime documentaries?

Closet: dresses usually in a lazy casual look when not in workout clothes, only dresses up to the nines for girls he’s into once comfortable. Really into girls, sex and sandwiches.

STATS

Name: Boston Stone

Nick Names: Boss, BS, Stoned

Age & Birthday – 23 years old - November 3rd, 1996

Siblings – 6

Parents – Mike & Jess

Birthplace – Chicago, IL

Current Residence – New York

Occupation – Musician & Fitness Guru/Model

Sexual Orientation – Straight

PHYSICAL ATTRIBUTES

Body type – Athletic

Height – 6′1

Hair color – Red

Eye color – Honeycomb

Scars – Boston has one scar between his eyebrows and one on the back of his calf

Piercings – used to have both ears pierced like he thought he was cool, but hasn’t worn them since high school

Tattoos - both shoulders, chest, arm tattoos, wrist tattoo and back tattoo - 8 in total

ABOUT

Boston Michael Stone was named after the street in Chicago where his parents conceived him. Gross, yes we all know and Boston hates it - hence the nickname Boss. He’s the boss of his own life and that’s how he wants to keep it.

Boss’ dad left him and his mom when he found out she was pregnant. Since they both were only 18, he high tailed outta there. He was never fully in love with Boston’s mom but thought a child would possibly fix things? Then he realized a child cost money and with only his GED in life, he decided to book it for a while. Boston’s dad’s was known to run the streets on the south side of Chicago, selling drugs, stolen goods, etc.

But then things changed. Once he got his shit together, an actual job, and with a little force from Boston’s grandmother, Mike stepped up. Somewhat. He was in and out of their lives, pissed when Boston’s mother didn’t want to always be with him and had a life of her own outside of serving tables to make ends meet. He didn’t like to be the guy stuck watching his kid while she went out on dates.

He doesn’t know how or why his dad was so obsessed with being with his mom? Especially when he was constantly bringing other women around Boston and home when Boss was with him on weekends. But thankfully, whatever was going on behind the scenes, it helped his mom find love eventually, but with an older, richer man. It is awkward as hell, but he’d rather be with his mom than with his bitch of a dad. Like, he abandoned them countless times, never showed up to important events, had 4 kids that he knows of and Boss hates his guts for it.

When he was in high school, he was a mess. It was a hard ass time dealing with his anxiety, depression and abandonment/emotional issues all while being a teen, so he didn’t. He hasn’t dealt with it fully and really needs to. It wasn’t cool to cry as a guy or at least that’s how he felt. He went to therapy to make his mom happy, but did it mostly for the medications. That’s when he started turning to drugs and alcohol to numb the pain.

Boston was super into sports, always wanting to play football for the rest of his life and since he was so serious about it, he dedicated his entire high school career to making it into a D1 school. (outside of the drugs of course but shhh). Once he finally picked a school, he started and thought he didn’t have to worry about academics. He never worried about them in high school, everything was just handed to him. That’s what you get when you’re the quarterback, right? Starting QB at a top university on scholarship. Hell yeah, he could literally do no wrong, right?

Once he was arrested for underage drinking, caught with pills, then put on academic probation once they looked deeper into his file at school, his pride got the best of him and he dropped out. But he kept the money from the scholarship to fund the drugs and his future going forward.

Girls are something that Boss has always used to take his mind off of things. From the time he was a freshman in high school, he lost his virginity to an older woman and the thought that it was supposed to be something special, but it wasn’t So now he just sleeps and flirts around because what is commitment? Everyone always leaves anyways.

Bro-friendships and close girls that are friends really mean the most to him, he doesn’t get close to many people out of his fear of letting people in. ‘Too good at good byes’ would lowkey be his theme song but he would cut you if you called him out on listening to Sam Smith.

Boss thinks eating is a personality trait, he loves to tease people, be flirty and be chill. He loves to watch funny videos, tweet, think he’s punny and like, make the sexual innuendos and the worst dad jokes but he’s super sweet under his tall walls but if you get to see that side of him, consider yourself important in his books.

As for becoming famous, his abs were his ticket. Doing live’s on instagram was how he got started and noticed. He was immediately booked for magazines, with fitness companies, and even signed a record label? But he isn’t quite sure what to do. They have him constantly walking runways with his shirt off, doing underwear campaigns and pay him big bucks just to be himself, so he’s really digging this lifestyle. A little too much. He is shit at handling/managing his money.

Growing up living pay check to pay check, he was like a kid in a candy store that was told you could get whatever you want once the checks started to come and flow in. His biggest splurge was his batman-esque car which his mom almost killed him over, but she’s living the rich life now too and was just recently signed for Chicago Real Housewives so she can pipe tf down.

He’s loyal as hell to things and those he loves, he’s super hard headed when it comes to arguments but above all things, he doesn’t take himself too seriously and just wants to make you laugh/smile because he knows what it’s like to live a life where there’s not much to look forward to as a kid.

#tw: drugs #tw: alcohol #wealthyhq:intro #intro #hiiii everyone meet boss

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recalibr8 · 5 years

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The mEtOHd in my madness

I’d been out with my teen lads on a Friday. We got off the train and there was a young, crumpled woman sat on the platform, fat tears splashing into a puddle of sick on her trench coated lap. I offered her some tissues; I’m a mum, it come with the membership card. After a few sorries she asked “where did you stop?”. It took us a while to realise she meant, ‘where are we?’ She was out by 2 stations which on the face of it wasn’t bad. We pointed her onto the next train, gave her a mint (gold membership benefits) and my youngest shouted “take care of yourself” as we trudged up the platform. We agreed it was probably work drinks getting out of bounds and she’d be ok now she had tissues. But I kept thinking, “where did you stop?”. Where did I stop? Because I’m now AF af.

AF af. That’s alcohol free and doing pretty darn ruddy brilliant. Three months ago I upgraded my BrewDog to NannyState, went Becks Blue and am thinking in an offhand way about brewing Kombucha. I’ve teamed this up with going plasticlite, veganish and kimchi curious. So far, so middle class virtual signalling. But where did I stop?

I’ve been drinking since I was 5. I’d adorably finish up the beer in my parents’ guests glasses and well, kept going. Not in a Drew, Carrie or Liza rehab by 13 sense but I think I’ve probably had my fair share. I’m well aware that I knew, know and don’t know but suspect people who I love who have significant alcohol use problems and this is blog is in no way trying to say my needs are greater than theirs. I know a lot of highly creative endeavours and friendships were found in a gin bottle but also unforgivable abuses. And I know friends whose acts are based around the camaraderie of drinking. And I’d never tell anyone what they *should* do. But like all ex anybodies, I’m annoying about my sobriety journey right now. Bear with me.

But it’s not just me though. I see booze everywhere. For a dose related lethal toxin that’s very effective marketing. There’s a giant ad on Toots Broadway station entreating me to Go Bottomless and every other Facebook ad is for a spirit that promises to make evenings round the back of Catford Lidl magical. And many of these are aimed at women. A recent industry survey found ‘only’ 17% of women drank beer and this needed sorting out. Look out for more lady drinking adverts, they’re coming.

But I wasn’t alcoholic. Was I? Are you? You’re only an alcoholic if you have one more drink than you doctor. I’m

a doctor ... so let’s take a look.

*I’m really low on the alcoholic check list*

I’ve never drank alcohol in the morning, blacked out, been told by others I have a problem, had to apologise...

Ah, I have had to apologise once or twice. Nothing major, just ‘sorry, I was a bit wobbly/silly/rude/loud/insulting/gave you my shoes as a gift’. I once lost my credit and oyster card at the bar of a immersive theatre event though. I don’t know how I got home. I had to find the site manager the next day and he definitely had other things to do. Not long after my bag was stolen in SoHo because I was distracted. Not sure how I got home then either. Friends put me in an Uber after my MA showcase because I wasn’t walking very straight. Or being very nice. So I definitely remember getting home then.

These were all Thursdays or weekends. I’ve always been careful not to have any chance of affecting my work. But yeah, how clear headed was I for my family, myself? And much of this was stress drinking after a week of being a clever doctor. Just loosened up the joints a bit. Particularly if your slightly socially awkward. But I wasn’t a drunk, no. Maybe just a binge drinker. And that’s ok, isn’t it?

*Hangovers are just a thing*.

With only drinking at the end of the week, I was careful not to be hungover at work. But I had a Friday at home hangover where I didn’t get out of bed for the day. I claimed I’d been poisoned. I’d just had one too many Jaegerbombs. I vomited in the taxi. I’ve vomited in several taxis. That’s not a good look at any age. Hangovers are a funny meme, a cartoon of a dog in sunglasses, office banter. It’s your liver crying and your brain folding it’s arms in judgment. It’s not bad wine, it’s bad choices.

*Get kids used to drinking. Like the French. Then they won’t binge*.

My 13 year old buys old vodka bottles from charity shops. Wearing a furry hat, his comedy drunk Russian is not bad I used to have the deepest voice of my friends at 14 so it was my job to buy the booze for house parties. My mother always told me drink a pint of milk before you go out to soak up the booze. At 14. I had a few sexual assaults along the way but if I blame myself that’s victim blaming and I don’t want to be a bad feminist on top of everything. Med school in the 80’s/90’s was all over the drink. Freshers’ week was a booze insurance test. The circle line pub crawl, the Clint Eastwood Appreciation Society, the Med School pub crawl...end at Barts because Smithfield’s liscence meant you’d keep going all night.

*Booze always cheers you up*.

I’ve got to confess, my life has got a lot quieter. I’m going out much less, I leave early, I’m not champagne Charlie any more. I’m always, well, me. My dad was a depressed alcoholic, so was his dad (he ran a tobacconist and offie so that didn’t help) and his dad before him. And I have depression and PTSD. My moods are now not so high, but they are also not so low. This is very strange. I’m hoping this is a good thing. I’ve heard it is. This, this is the mEtOHd in my madness. The mood stabilisation. That’s the plan.

*Being a doctor is just one of those boozey jobs*

Fun quiz! Who do you think drinks the most? Enough to have a problem. Oooh, were good at guessing this in ED. Writers must be bad, farmers, journalists! yes, they’re always drunk, private invsestigators (?), airline pilots (like my dad, I saw what those guys put away). Ok...it’s.

Lawyers - reporting 33% with problematic drinking

Construction workers- 16.5%

Miners -17.5%

Then it’s Healthcare workers, especially doctors (oh no). A. 2012 study of American surgeons published in JAMA Surgery found 15.4 percent had an alcohol use disorder. Female surgeons (25.6 percent) were more likely than male surgeons (13.9 percent) to exhibit symptoms of alcohol addiction. Healthcare professionals in general it’s 10%

https://www.drugrehab.com/addiction/common-professions/

Performing artists and writers - 11.5%

Catering/hospitality -11%

So no pilots then? I think there’s something they’re not telling us or things are much better since the 80’s.  

A 1998 study of junior doctors in Newcastle-upon-Tyne reported that:

* 60% exceeded the recommended safe limits for alcohol consumption

* 36% of males and 20% of females used cannabis

The Sick Doctors Trust says “Since our working lives are spent helping others, it is easy to push aside our own problems, in addition to which, denial is quite common in medical staff. This is not deliberate, but a part of the whole illness of addiction. That addiction is a chronic illness which therefore requires treatment as for any other condition, is now well-established but there is still a tendency to feel that it is a sign of weakness, and that maybe things aren't 'that bad'.’

That some individuals are more prone to developing addiction is generally agreed. There is no single determining factor, but usually a combination of biological, psychosocial and environmental factors - a mixture of nature and nurture. There is now much evidence implicating dysfunction in the Dopamine transmitter system & it’s involvement in craving. There is also evidence to suggest that the effect alcohol has on an individual’s brain is genetically determined. A family history is present in many alcoholics- those having direct family affected being more at risk...

*Its a family affair*

I went to Adult Children of Alcoholics once. It wasn’t for me but what they said made total sense. I take responsibility for everyone, I’m primed for betrayal and disaster and I totally thrive in emotional drama. My dad wasn’t a nice drunk. He made my mum drink when pregnant ‘to keep him company’. She in turn gave babies a tot of brandy to keep them quiet as a stewardess and I can’t imagine my permanently shouting parents wouldn’t have liked us to be quiet babies too. So I’ve got pre and postnatal form. But I don’t have to fix them now. Particularly dad. It’s quite hard to fix dead people.

https://adultchildren.org/

*Booze: the solution AND cause of all of life’s difficulties*

Sick Doctors again “ Alcohol is the commonest substance of abuse in all doctors. Drinking will surprisingly continue despite negative consequences such as job difficulties, relationship breakdowns, financial problems, loss of driving licence; the alcoholic is driven by an irrational compulsion to continue, and frequently results in despair to the point of suicide. Fortunately, the depression associated with active alcoholism often abates when sober.”

http://sick-doctors-trust.co.uk/page/addiction

*I’m not an alcoholic*

and you probably aren’t either. But you might have problematic drinking. I did a survey as part of an UCLH research project. You can too. I lied a bit on it and still came out drinking more than 97% of women my age. Now an icon opens up on my phone every day to that says ‘DRINK LESS’. I stopped leaving my phone on meetings tables.

Drink Less. by Robert West

https://apps.apple.com/gb/app/drink-less/id1020579244

If you are thinking about getting help for problematic drinking or any other addictions including workaholism or have any burnout symptoms for more than 3 weeks, you can of course get staff support and occupational health. But/And there is the amazing NHS Practitioner Health Programme where doctors with any addictions are supported https://php.nhs.uk/ DocHealth is another equally good programme https://www.dochealth.org.uk/. I used the latter when it was MedNet.

So, do I feel amazing? Had I got amazing skin, lost weight, feel energised and hopeful. Urg, not really. I feel a bit scared actually. I’ve lost my social crutch and I’ve stopped going out. I’m worried I’m boring and people will think I’m weird. But....I can get up earlier to walk the dog, I’m moderately less tired and although I’m not skipping down the road happy, the depressive moment I had in spring could have been a lot worse. I think that’s actually amazing. And that’s why I’m doing this. I want to face the world honestly and openly. I want to enjoy my kids before they leave home which is frighteningly soon and weirdly, I want to know my liver replaced itself in a year so I’m literally a new person (don’t google Theseus’ Boat Paradox, life is complicated enough). Oddly compelling, that. So where did I stop? I stopped here. In a weird waiting room in my head. But with the promise of a new adventure through the next door.

But don’t stop doing you, babes. Keep telling me your booze bantz. They are hilarious. Any story that starts or ends with Baileys is only going one way. This clearly isn’t a lecture. Most people can do moderation. And do could I, mostly. And it’s the mostly that’s not good enough. Not for me. Not any more.

Online support - https://www.facebook.com/groups/joinclubsoda/?ref=share

Samaritans- https://www.samaritans.org/

BMA wellbeing including 24 hour support - https://www.bma.org.uk/advice/work-life-support/your-wellbeing

Tea and Empathy for doctors’ online support - https://www.facebook.com/groups/1215686978446877/?ref=share

Al Anon for children of alcoholics https://adultchildren.org/

https://www.alcoholics-anonymous.org.uk/

Dedicated to my husband who gave up the wine w*nker 6 years ago without any of this mid life crisis fuss. But I gave up meat and caffeine first so I still win.

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taiblogcomics · 5 years

Text

Daddy Issues

Hey there, leg boots. Well, let's keep going! Keep going until the storyline's over! Trust me, I'll know when we're there~

Another issue, another cover:

Man, this Shovel Knight DLC really lost focus after the last couple. I still love this gang's motif of "blank white cube" on their shirts. I think it's supposed to be an ice cube and they're the Penguin's henches, but it's not very well conveyed. Lastly, "Rage is my Revenge" is the name of Jason Todd's first album for his generic-ass metal band. It's a very stupid-sounding phrase, isn't it? The worst revenge is living angry~

So we open on a full-page splash that's probably just a few moments before the cover. Still raining, lightning still raking the sky, but Jason's firmly on the ground holding his shovel in a ready stance, and none of the Featureless Squares Gang have started shooting yet. Turning the page, and the scene depicted on the cover plays out. Well, kudos for this comic for actually showing something that happens in the comic on the cover for once. It's a two-page splash this time, and Jason beats up all the goons with his shovel. I think it's implied he's there to dig someone up, and apparently the Penguin doesn't abide graverobbing. I mean, even a criminal has some standards, yeah?

The comic then jumps backwards one hour, showing Jason opening that package he got from Ma Gunn finally. They teased us with that thing for, like, two issues. As you might have guessed anyway, it's a bunch of letters. All of these are technically silent panels, with the only text being the content of the letters. The first is from Ma Gunn, essentially explaining that the rest are letters from his father, which she held to keep control over him, and apologising for doing so. After opening the first of the letters from his father, the scene setting changes to actually show said father writing said letter(s) and his own flashbacks on the material.

Jason's dad (the Dad Hood, if you will) opens by saying he's writing because he doesn't want Jason to end up like him. He's always been a bum and used to be a drug dealer. Eventually he met a girl, and that girl eventually became his mom. And those parents grew up to be the worst parents ever. And that's all just the first letter of six. The second one lasts about three panels, and essentally all it says is that naturally, Jason's mom's parents didn't want their daughter dating a retired drug dealer. So she ran away with him anyway. That's the whole letter!

Letter three is all about Dad feeling a bit guilty about pulling her from her comfortable life out to living in a rundown shithole, but that's how these things go. "Addicts are good at adjusting" he says, which is both depressing and I think the opposite of true? He then mistakes her being pregnant with her being dead. That's... quite the mistake to make. He's scared to death by the prospect, which I think in this case is less him being shitty and just a common sort of thought. Can't hold that one against him, honestly. Onto letter four!

Letter four is a bit better, which opens with him getting a job washing cars. He even attends pregnancy classes with Mom at the Gotham YMCA, which is definitely him not being shitty. This then segues into them getting kicked out of the classes because Mom is a pregnant drinker. Insert expected joke about "this explains a lot about Jason" here, even though I'm not sure it does. Anyway, after getting kicked out, she just gives birth to Jason at home in their bathtub. Shortly after birth, Dad takes Jason out on a balcony and shows him the sunset, declaring that he'll be a "prince of Gotham", and he'll be a dad to be proud of. And both the letter and Jason in the present comment on the "guess we know how that turned out" nature of that remark.

So it turns out that perhaps the "mom drinking while pregnant" thing did go poorly for Jason, and he has to be hospitalised. Car wash money ain't gonna cover it, and at the very least, Dad has realised drug-dealing's too dangerous. So, next best idea? Well, he's in Gotham. So he becomes a professional hench. Two-Face, Riddler, Mr. Freeze... He worked for them all. And hey, it worked. Jason grew up and got out of the hospital. They even had money left over sometimes. Unfortunately, Dad takes a job with Penguin--even getting one of the white cube shirts as seen earlier in the comic--who it turns out to want a fall guy rather than a hench, and that's how Dad ends up in prison.

The last couple letters wrap up that Mom died at some point, which I also probably covered in some previous issue. Like, I specifically remember it (if not the issue). But it'll be fine. He's made a deal: be a guinea pig for some experiements, and they'll let him out early--if he survives. He promises that he'll see him soon, hoping that Jason has a son himself someday so he'll know what it's like to love someone so much you'll do anything to see them again. That's his last letter, and Jason's understandably in tears after that. This is further amplified with a surprising find also in the envelope: photographs of the two of them together.

We return to the present where, after knocking out all the mooks, Jason finds the grave he was looking for and digs it up. Penguin calls off his last mook, the sniper, and just wants to watch. The coffin, it turns out, is empty. Jason's father's not in there. He didn't die in prison. Penguin walks away, satisfied. He doesn't know who Jason was looking for, but seeing him find it empty looks like it's causing him more anguish than Penguin himself could work up. And indeed it is. Jason, you see, hated his dad for many years for leaving them, blaming him for what happened to his mom. He celebrated the day he heard he died in prison. But if he's not dead... Jason doesn't want to care what happened to his dad. But he does. And that's the worst pain of all.

This is a good issue. I’m not gonna bullshit around about it. I give this series a hard time a lot, and a lot of the time it deserves it. But likewise, this issue’s actually pretty well-written and has heart to it. And I’m not gonna snark that away from it. This is probably the closest any issue of Red Hood has come to making me feel something genuine. Give this issue a go, it really does come across like a down-on-his-luck dad trying to reach out to his kid. Basically, Jason desperately wants closure, and he doesn’t get it. It’s really good, and I recommend this one.

Future issues are probably going to ruin this moment, but let’s let it stand as a high point for the series for now~

#comics #reviews #Red Hood and the Outlaws #Taiblog

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thebluelemontree · 5 years

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hello! we all agree that The Elder Brother is actually at the Vale with Sandor and Lord Howland posing as the hedge knights in service of Littlefinger. But who was he before he become The Elder Brother? I read a theory that he is Prince Lewyn Martell from Aerys' Kingsguard. What do you think? It would be interesting because Lyn Corbray believes he killed Prince Lewyn at the Trident. I hope you stay sober until your last day. Greetings from Poland

Thank you for your support! Well, you and I agree on that first part. Not everyone is convinced, which of course I understand, but I am quite pleased that the reception to that essay has been overall very positive from the feedback.

So I googled “Elder Brother is Lewyn Martell” so I could get a feel from where people are coming from with that. I’m not going to do a Reddit deep dive, but I read the one big essay that came up in the results. I’m not sure if that’s the one you read. Let me just start off by saying, there are parts of it that I am not going to touch. This person obviously gets a lot of enjoyment from tinfoil as part of their fandom experience and I don’t have a problem with that. It’s not my cup of tea personally, but I see no harm in it any more than people’s tastes in fanfic. So I don’t want to say anything that could be construed as being a critical jerk toward someone unless it was a theory that was disgusting or unfairly disparaging toward a character, which it isn’t in this case. I’m just going to focus on the Lewyn Martell bit.

From what I can see, they made a comparison between EB’s appearance and the closest relatives of Lewyn (mainly Quentyn Martell) to get a composite of what he may have looked like based on that. This is just their guess. There is no description of Lewyn in canon. Basically, it comes down to a stocky build, being possibly dark-haired, and possibly drinking too much alcohol. But Lewyn doesn’t necessarily have to resemble any of his living relatives or share their habits. There is not one mention of Lewyn being a serious drinker. In her childhood memories, Arianne remembers Lewyn as “tall as a tower;” however, she was very young when she saw him, she’s clearly romanticizing her kingsguard uncle, and pretty much any grown man would be super tall to a small child. If you’re making a secret identity theory, I think you need a lot more evidence than a vague, unverifiable physical description. If GRRM wanted us to draw a connection between EB and LM, meaning this was going to be a very important plot point later on, he would have given us way more specific information on the latter.

There are other reasons too why EB is not LM or has anything to do with LM. Jon Arryn returned Lewyn’s bones to Dorne, so his body was recovered from the battlefield. There’s a reason why important people wear their sigils and highly recognizable armor on a battlefield. A) You don’t want your own men attacking you by mistake because your face is hidden by a helm. You want them to know who they should be following and taking orders from. B) If you are captured, you want to be identified, so you’re more likely to be taken as a valuable hostage to be traded/ransomed. Kingsguard armor is pretty distinctive, and he’s the only KG on the Trident. Lewyn was also leading ten thousand Dornishmen. So supposedly not one of his own men fighting beside him actually saw Lyn Corbay slay their commander and they also somehow lost his body on the Trident? If so, are they saying that Jon Arryn took some rando’s bones to Dorne and passed them off as LM’s? Is everyone who was there on the Trident or later involved in handling Lewyn’s body just straight up lying or inexplicably mistaken about all this? Even with Lyn Corbay taking issue with the fact that Lewyn was already mortally wounded before he dealt the final blow with Lady Forlorn (because it cheapens the victory that earned him his spurs), not one person has a differing account of how LM died and what happened to his body to cause us to doubt. Again, is literally everyone involved lying, conspiring or being bamboozled here? For what purpose and by what motivation? There’s just no mystery here, or smell of conspiracy, or any good reason to believe he washed up on the QI. It’s really just resting on this person’s say so that it must have happened because of reasons. Furthermore, it’s nothing like EB’s account of how he “died” and washed up on the shore:

I took an arrow through the thigh and another through the foot, and my horse was killed from under me, yet I fought on. I can still remember how desperate I was to find another horse, for I had no coin to buy one, and without a horse I would no longer be a knight. That was all that I was thinking of, if truth be told. I never saw the blow that felled me. I heard hooves behind my back and thought, a horse! but before I could turn something slammed into my head and knocked me back into the river, where by rights I should have drowned."Instead I woke here, upon the Quiet Isle. The Elder Brother told me I had washed up on the tide, naked as my name day. I can only think that someone found me in the shallows, stripped me of my armor, boots, and breeches, and pushed me back out into the deeper water. The river did the rest.

EB was hit in the head by a blunt weapon by a man on horseback. Not a sword and definitely not Lady Forlorn. There was no final sword battle between two men on foot. Nothing else in EB’s backstory matches anything we know about Lewyn except that they both fought on the side on Prince Rhaegar at the Trident. EB was from a family of knights. Lewyn was a prince of Dorne and a kingsguard. He’s the brother of the ruling unnamed princess of Dorne and there is no mention of him having brothers like EB. EB had a girl he wanted to marry, but couldn’t because he had nothing to offer her. That they couldn’t have a relationship is a major cause of EB’s spiraling into violence and self-destruction. It was an open secret that LM kept a longtime paramour even while he was a kingsguard, feeling no shame about it. There’s no sense that LM had the same sad, depressed life that EB had. That he is LM completely undermines EB as a character and his relatability to Sandor Clegane. So I suppose EB is just lying to Brienne about every single detail of his backstory too for some reason? This doesn’t make any sense especially since he decided to bring it up his past completely unprompted by Brienne. What would be the point of lying? Brienne couldn’t ID him or Lewyn by any of those details. She couldn’t even ID the gravedigger who was right in front of her face twice, and that was the guy she was actually looking for. :/

Elder Brother has a past, but he does not need to have a secret past to make his character work. There’s a big difference. There were tens of thousands of people that fought on the Targaryen side, including a huge host from the Reach. That point comes from a So Spake Martin where he says some of Mace Tyrell’s strength was with Rhaegar, while he was at the siege of Storm’s End. If you want my thoughts on where EB might have been from, I’m going with House Vyrwel sworn to House Tyrell as my best guess. The Vyrwel’s are of Darkdell of the Reach. If you recall from my essay, Shadrich says he’s from the “Shady Glen,” which is also a play on the meaning of Duskendale. They both mean a shaded or darkened valley. Well, “Darkdell” means precisely the same thing. Lord and Lady Vyrwell were also present at the tourney at Whitewalls, which I’ve also discussed has striking parallels to the tourney of the Winged Knights. The only known Vyrwel we have in the current series is Igon Vyrwel, captain of the guards at Highgarden. He’s only mentioned in the appendix, so there’s no way to speculate further on how or if they are related. All I’m saying is that EB being from a smaller vassal house is nothing special in itself and that’s the point. He was just one of those bannerman that happened to be called to whatever side of the battle his lord was on. Being from a smaller house fits better with being dealt a shitty hand in life, having severely limited options, and having a sense of hopelessness about it. It fits better with his being able to connect with Sandor Clegane so that the latter can bear his soul to him. Aside from all the facts, Sandor Clegane is not going to be able to relate to a prince of Dorne who lived it up with a super hot girlfriend for years while he’s wearing the white cloak. Sorry, just no.

#Anonymous #Elder Brother #lewyn martell #the quiet isle #the trident #prince rhaegar #asoiaf tinfoil #crack theories #house vyrwel #bluelemons speculates #I have nothing against anyone that enjoys tinfoil and crack theories for fun #unless it's a theory that is being gross about any character #I have certain specific theories of my own #but on the whole I'm not into secret identity theories #I'm not trying to be mean to anyone and they way they choose to fandom #but most of those theories suck because they're so easy to debunk #long post

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justasmalltowngirl-posts-blog · 5 years

Text

CHAPTER ONE.

It was a very busy night in Dallas. The Stars are beating the Nashville Predators to enter the second round of the Stanley cup and I’m entering on my fourth hour of tattooing this big master piece on the back on my client. I’ve enjoyed every single minute with client who didn’t even move and not even a single complaint came out of my client mouth. The thing that I’ve enjoyed the most with him is all the stories that he was telling me. It’s nice to have this connection with a client and feel that the trust is there at 100%. It’s we known each other since ever and sometimes, it’s like he really knows me. A lot of memories are coming back with his stories and at some point, I wanted to let out some tears out because just like him, family is very important. I’ve gave up on so many people when I decided to go on my own way and try to found out who I really am. When I started to shadow around in tattoo shops, I’ve never in life knew that being a tattoo artist would’ve been my future. It’s not easy to found success when you constantly moving around. To be honest, I didn’t know in what I was going into. The fear of being homeless and always feel of regretting those bad choices was always a nightmare. I eventually found my way and got back on track with a mentor who found me on Instagram. Social media was my only hope. Posting new content everyday so I’d make sure that people are getting my attention, it was exhausting. I’m grateful to work for my mentor. Learning from him was all the stars in the sky. It was a blessing and a life saver for me. I even can’t believe that I also won on Ink Master last year. Seeing my face on the cover of Ink Magazine was like a rush in my veins. It was like I was hit by lightning. There’s so many positive things who is coming in my way and all of that makes me happy.

I was almost at the end of the session. It’s a good thing we are closing late because even if we started early, I wanted to make sure that this master piece has all the right detail in it to impress who ever will notice this massive back tattoo. I’ve always love the Greek mythology, the Egyptians and my favorite of all are the Vikings. My origins are from Russia with my great grandfather who ran from the World War II. My grandmother always had a pleasure to tell us stories about him and sometimes she will speak Russian just for us to feel how important it was for us to know where we come from. I’ve learn to speak this foreign language with her teachings. I was pretty much the only one in the family who had the determination to learn Russian and the people around me are surprise to hear that actually. I think it’s important to speak more than one or 2 languages because now a days, everything we know is needed to save our asses. I miss my grandmother very much. In a few weeks I will surprise her for her birthday and I just wish that she will be happy to see me. I know that I being here in Dallas didn’t quite make my family happy and especially my friends, but I was not happy where I was. I was not being myself what so ever and also starting to be very depress. The only person who understood that was my best friend Lindsay. We know each other since were in kinder garden and we are pretty much like sisters. Nothing can pull us a part and even if I’m not in Ottawa anymore, we always found a way to see each other and spend some good quality time with one another and the fact that no one know that I’m coming for my grandmother 80th birthday, that’s will be very special.

I led back on my chair and looked at this amazing tattoo that I’ve spend almost 2 weeks to make. My client didn’t wanted to have anyone else then me to work on that project. I was very happy to see how good this tattoo was and I’ve took numerous pictures of it after cleaning the excess of blood on his back. Seeing the joy and the excitement of client was my biggest reword of all, but what surprised me the most was how generous he was. I was almost speechless to see all the money he gave me for my work. I didn’t even realize that he gave me is phone number under 2 100 dollar bills. This guy is the most unpredictable and he always has something different every single day. I might call him cuz’ he’s kinda cute, but he’s a little bit too much and what I mean by too much is that he looks like a douche bag. I kept that thought for me because I don’t wanna desrecptful in regards my clients. I some tattoo artist who doesn’t give a shit sometimes and that’s just too much for me to handle when I’m hearing them swearing against the clients and sometimes for them sky is the limit and I will never tolerate bullies. I wrap up my client to make sure that he doesn’t get stuck on is shirt. I almost went through the half of my Vaseline jar with that back tattoo. I got surprise with a little kiss on my cheek before he when out of the tattoo shop. This job will always surprise me.

I was finally out of the shop. I set up the alarm so we don’t have any surprises in the middle of night and I decide to go take a drink at the bar to relax a little. I’m not a drinker, but a beer doesn’t hurt once in a while. I went home to change first. My apartment was at 5 minutes max from the shop and this place was perfect for me. I enjoy those big windows who brings the natural lights inside. I enjoy the high ceilings who make the place bigger and I also love the fact that it’s a big open space who regroups my living room, my kitchen and dining room. The only rooms who are closed are my bedroom and my bathroom, but other than that, everything is great here. I took a quick shower and change clothes before I when out. I was wearing a long black shirt with high white socks with 2 black strips on the top with Vans shoes on feet. The stop at the half of my thigh so everyone can see my big tattoo on my right thigh. I put my hair in a big flashy red pony tail and added just a bit of makeup to not look to zombie. I decided to go to the most popular bar downtown in Dallas where usually we can see big popular names hanging around there. I’ve been twice to this bar and there’s a very good vibe over there. The music and liquor is quite good so it’s a must to go hangout there. I took a Uber to go to the bar. I need to be at least responsible for myself and not being a stupid brat and make an accident. I gave him a good tip before I went in the bar. It was crowded with so many people and I heard that the Dallas Stars are supposed to come by tonight for a little party. I wanted to take only one drink and leave, but I think I will stay for a little bit longer and have some fun.

I’ve stop counting all the drinks I had received over the past 15 minutes and I needed to refuse some of them because I didn’t wanted to be wasted if by any chance I met a celebrity or a hockey player. I’ve probably hurt somebodies feelings by rejection, but to be honest I needed to say NO. Some people doesn’t take NO for an answer but hey, I’m not interested to have childish people around me in a grown ass man body. I order a Perrier water battle to change a little bit. That will also help with my headache who is slowly starting to take effect on me, but it’s not this annoying little pressure on my forehead who will stop me to have some fun. I was surprise to see my boss here tonight. I caught his eye at the end of the bar with a girl who was totally on to him. He notice me with a little smirk on is lips and I roll my eyes while shaking my head with a smile on my face. Well damn, he is such a womanizer and I hope his wife is not around tonight. Farrah is a real pain in the ass to be honest. When I started to work with Alain, she was pretty much accusing me of pushing her away from her husband. Since I told her what I was really thinking about her behavior, now she totally respect’s me and also respect’s the engagement I have with Alain in our work space environment. I still think that she’s a lot to handle tho’ but I think with good communication and respect, we can work something out without a cat fight. The crowd started to be more agitated. The arrival of the Dallas Stars with the cheers of the crowd broth an enormous vibe of good energy here and it was nice to see how everyone cares about that team. My heart will always be with the Ottawa Senators, but it’s awesome to see this wave of love for them. I’ve joined the crowd and cheer with them to encourage the team. This night will be promising and with the awesome job I did at the shop earlier, I think I will spoil myself tonight.

#hockey #hockeystory #lovestory #inspiration #dallasstars #tylerseguin

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alphawave-writes · 5 years

Text

Spray and Pray: prologue

Anastasia Bloodworth is a socialite focused on partying and improving her reputation amongst her upper-class friends, which is why when her husband John is found dead-cause: accidental autoerotic asphyxiation-she brings it upon herself to investigate his death and save herself from the shame. With the help of a private detective, Sirius Li, they delve deep into the mystery of John's death, encountering along the way a criminal empire, migraine sprays, and a secret plot that could bring the end of the world as we know it. Will Anastasia and Sirius discover the cause of John's death, or will the forces against them stop them from discovering the truth?

Read it at wattpad and AO3.

Hey guys, this is my first original story. If you like murder-mystery-comedy-romances, this is the story for you. If you like the story and have a wattpad account, maybe also leave a comment or a vote? Thanks

Anastasia Bloodworth might have been a little drunk. On the scale of drunkenness—1 being ‘just a sip’ and 10 being ‘dead’—she was somewhere around a 4: unfit for driving but still lucid. Just tipsy enough for the bubbles to settle comfortably in her veins and spread their warm sunlight throughout her body. Anastasia was by every definition a social drinker, which meant that she had the common sense to call an Uber to and from the party venue unlike her more alcoholic friends, who relied on their husbands to chauffeur them around like they were the second coming of Princess Diana.

Her Uber driver, an older Caucasian man who was trying to get a glimpse of the more prominent aspects of Anastasia’s body with his pitifully tiny mirrors, rolled his Toyota to a stop in front of her mansion. She exited swiftly and produced her phone. His eyes take their time travelling up from her body to the mansion behind her, and then to the gem-covered jelly phone case. He rolled the window down and fished around his pockets for his phone.

“It’s 16 bucks, 60 cents, roight?” he drawled.

“Yes,” she said in a perfectly American accent. “16 dollars and 60 cents.”

He blinked rapidly. The automatic lights for the front yard had finally flickered on, illuminating her silhouette in a cold blue-white glow. He saw the dark ebony of her skin and let out a silent “oh” in realization. Anastasia sighed internally. He probably thought she was an aboriginal woman. This wouldn’t be the first time someone had made that assumption.

He tapped something in his phone, humming to himself a tuneless tune. The money was transferred. Transaction complete. Anastasia was about to walk away when the driver called out to her.

“Hey, madam, before you go, gonna give you a little something.”

Before she could open her mouth, the Uber driver grabbed her hand and placed a cheap, thin card on her palm. It had the driver’s name and number on it, as well as a picture of his face. The photo was either taken years ago (not likely) or was heavily edited (more likely) because the man in front of her and the man on the card looked like two different people. She looked up to see the man, apparently named “Luke” according to his ill-made card, wink at her surreptitiously.

Anastasia grimaced at his thinly veiled attempts of flirting. Ignorant of the face she was making, or perhaps because he was as blind as he was ugly, the driver smiled widely.

“Call me on my number next time and I’ll take you anywhere for free, beautiful.”

He gave another ill-suited wink. Anastasia nodded stiffly and opened the gates as the driver pulled the old Toyota out of park and drove quietly through the streets. When she’s sure he was gone, she opened up her phone.

For a second, she thought about Uber and its practice of letting employees live and die by the reviews they received. Anastasia was pretty sure it was the plot of some depressing sci-fi show she watched once and completely forgot about until now. She wondered about her creepy driver and ruminated about the circumstances that led to him becoming an Uber driver. Perhaps he was desperate for cash. Perhaps this was the only job he could do, a pitiful cab job at minimum wage in his clean but old car in the Applecross suburbs.

Anastasia felt a small pang of pity, and perhaps compassion, for this Uber driver. His career could very well be in the palm of her hands. With one review, she could make or break his career.

She opened up the Uber app and gave a 2-star review.

Car’s clean, drive was fine, but the driver is a creep. AVOID THIS GUY

She put her phone back into her purse, walked the far-too-many steps to the front door, and stepped inside.

The first thing she noticed was how dark it was. At least the street had the excuse of being dark because the council didn’t want to install too many lights to ‘disturb the wildlife’, whatever that meant. It was barely past 11pm and she was sure her husband should be up. She fumbled around the right wall for the light switches, flicking them all on with a swipe of her hand. She squinted at the sudden assault of bright light on her eyes.

“Joooohn, I’m hooome.”

No response. Anastasia just shook her head lightly, sat down at the staircase and took off her beautiful fake Prada heels. She admired the shoes as the fake stones glitter and glisten in the light before chucking them in a corner with the rest of her shoes. They’ll be fine, she thought. She’ll sort the mess out tomorrow.

“John?” Anastasia called. “I’m back early! John?”

Still no response. That was weird. John couldn’t be out. There was nothing to do in Perth at this time of night except sleep, drink, party, and have sex. John wasn’t a fan of any of those four things.

A small part of her, confined to a tiny corner of her mind, was concerned for her husband’s lack of response but she was just tipsy enough to not care. The Anastasia of tomorrow could deal with that crap. With that out of the way, she crawled up the staircase, retreated into her bedroom’s en-suite bathroom and got a well-earned shower.

As the water poured over her head and shoulders, Anastasia felt her body groan in exhaustion. It was only yesterday that she got invited to go partying at Rachel’s house in Waterford. As always, the people present exceeded the house’s generous capacity, and she had to do a lot of shoving and pushing just to get into the next room. As one of the hostess’s bestie, Anastasia had the 'honour' of talking to every single guest, half of which were over the blood alcohol limit long before they even arrived at the party. It was a mess, but that was how the girls liked it. Anastasia never had fun playing the mom friend but she reached her limit when Rachel began doing random body shots with men ten years her junior all while her husband was gaping in the next room. Anastasia made the prompt decision to bolt out of there, using her dear husband John as an excuse, before quickly calling an Uber home. She didn’t want to be there for the ensuing argument and she definitely didn’t want to be there to comfort Rachel for something she rightfully brought upon herself (again).

She exited the bedroom in her ugly but comfortable pyjamas when she spied light spilling out of the door to John’s bedroom. Slanted rectangles of white dyed the Italian stone tiles and Persian-style rug with an ethereal glow.

“John?” She called again. Still no response.

The niggling tendrils of doubt and worry creep into her mind. It was perfectly normal for John to spend all night working in his bedroom but he always had the decency to respond on at least the third attempt. Her brain conjured pictures of burglars and thieves, of John cowering in the corner while one balaclava-clad burglar bunged him on the head with a baton.

She laughed nervously to herself. “I’m just imagining things,” she stared at the light filtering out of John’s room, “…aren’t I?”

A peek into his bedroom would be alright, right? They were husband and wife after all. Marriage gave you the right to snoop on your partner, she convinced herself, that was why it was invented. She stared through the keyhole. She expected a pristine and clean tidy bedroom with John typing away on his computer in the corner wearing headphones, ignorant of the scolding he will soon get.

Instead, the bedroom was in complete disarray, with furniture toppled over and random objects strewn across the carpeted floor. Something went past the keyhole, blocking the light for a second. It looked remarkably like a man’s hairy arm.

Anastasia stepped back, holding her hand over her mouth to hide a gasp. OK, there’s burglars. Fuck fuck fuck, what do I do? She couldn’t fight them off, could she? She had no training in the martial arts, not unless those Jackie Chan films count. She scanned the hallway, looking for a weapon and her eyes catch on a bag on the floor. She quickly checked inside. It’s John’s, and it had a whole bunch of papers in them, which made it heavy. Did a bag count as a weapon? Anastasia didn’t know but she grabbed it as silently as she could. Her free hand went onto the door handle and turned, but it didn't open. It wasn’t locked, but no matter how hard she pushed, the door would not budge. It was almost as if someone had blockaded the door.

She briefly wondered about any alternative entry points into John’s bedroom. It was on the second floor with its own en-suite bathroom and no other connecting rooms, so unless Anastasia felt like scaling the walls from the outside, she was going to have to break the door down. There was no way Anastasia was going to risk her nails for her husband. A bruised shoulder would be less expensive than a chipped nail.

She braced herself, knowing it was going to hurt, and shoved her body at the door. The first two times did nothing, but on the third time, she was able to force her way through, nearly stumbling to the other side of the room as the door hit the wall with a whack.

“F-freeze, bitches,” she yelled, raising her bag threateningly, only to find that there was no one there. No burglars, no would-be murderers. No John.

With knitted brows, she looked at the messy bedroom. There was no way there hadn’t been a struggle here. John’s pharmacology textbooks had been thrown to the ground, the vase at his deck lying in pieces on the floor. Maybe John was hiding, she thought. She checked John’s spacious closet and she checked the bathroom. She even checked under the bed and behind the curtain and the locked windowsill. Nothing. No sign of him.

“But I could’ve sworn I saw an arm…” That’s when she saw it, a black strap hanging from the door. Tentatively, she pulled the door closed.

And there she found John, unconscious and naked, hanging from a noose with a travel pillow over his neck.

Anastasia groaned, dropping the bag at her feet. “Oh come on, not again, John.” She rolled her eyes as she began to loosen the noose over his neck. “Over and over again, I tell you, wait for me to be a spotter, and what do you do? You go and hang yourself alone. Again!” She’d tell him off good and proper if she wasn’t so exhausted and if he wasn’t unconscious. What good was arguing at him when he couldn’t even hear her? She grumbled insults under her breath, her lips pressed into a thin line. As she moved to pull John down, her hand brushed against his skin and abruptly stopped in place.

He wasn’t warm or clammy. In fact, he was cold. A bit too cold. Frantically, Anastasia tried to find a pulse on his wrist. Was it two fingers, or three? Near the bone or towards the side? She couldn’t remember at all. She tried everywhere on his wrist, but she could feel nothing and he was still very very cold. She waved her hand over his mouth and his nose, hoping to maybe feel the breath escape his lungs but she couldn’t even feel that. He wasn’t breathing at all.

Anastasia stepped backwards into the wall and stared at his body in shock. John was dead. John had actually gone and autoasphyxiated himself to death. He had to go and die the most embarrassing, reputation-breaking way possible. Her friends were going to find out, she’ll become the laughing stock of her friends, and everything she had worked hard to cultivate in Australia will crumble to dust.

“Fucking hell, John,” she sighed.

She went back to her bedroom and grabbed her phone. She dialled 000 and said, in as calm a voice that she could, that her husband was dead and that she needed police. When the call was done, she flung the phone onto her bed and changed out of her comfy pyjamas into a sexy pink, sheer nightgown. If the police were going to come to her house, no way was she going to greet them in those ugly pyjamas.

#fiction #alphawave-writes #novel #writers on tumblr #Original story #This is my first original story and I'm excited!#This isn't going to be like any of my other writing #In a good way hopefully #I'm channeling my inner Tom Sharper and Douglas Adams for this book #I hope I get to finish this #I think I will eventually

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pass3rby · 6 years

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Caught By Your Past

25th Part

Fandom: Assassin’s Creed Pairing: Altair x Malik Warnings: modern AU, mature, OOC, original female character; unbetaed.

A/N: Good morning, San Francisco (or any other city of your choice for that matter)! Let's kick the day up, shall we?

She was on her way back home from campus when her phone went off. Having to fish it out of the tangle in her bag – USB cable, flash disc, second one, tissues, earbuds, lipstick – almost made her regret her habit of towing around the whole tech station and then some. Almost. She stumbled across her phone soon enough and the thoughts of getting rid of all those things first thing after stepping over the flat's threshold, disappeared again.

Checking the display, she gave a dejected sigh before accepting the call.

“Yeah?” So maybe her tone held a bit of a fake cheer, but there was no need to ruin someone else's mood, was there.

“There's this place I've heard is pretty rad!”

She figured as much; an eagerness to check out new places was a well-known trait of her friend. Trademark, barely restrained excitement in Mary's voice hit her full blast and really, was she ever void of energy? Gie was yet to see her anywhere near depleted. It would feel so good to talk with someone of a similar exhaustion level to her own. Maybe she could call Evie... Jacob's a pain in his sister's ass, too. That might work.

“Enjoy,” keeping up with the current conversation, she went with a sudden spur of a moment and entered a convenience store she was about to pass by. Time to treat herself; who knows how it'll look at home when she gets there. While choosing a thoroughly inappropriate late snack, she might as well listen to Mary, gushing over this new hot spot.

With luck, she only wanted to spill the beans and details about the new place and that would be the end of it. Gie was out for count as it was, just happy to drag herself to bed. Normally, she would welcome an opportunity to go out, but the constant hot & cold vibes coming from an unnamed pair of lost cases was starting to take its toll on her. Just as she was leaving for today's lessons, she heard them yelling again. And although staying out would keep her away from that for a little bit, she was ripe for a generous hibernation, not an evening out.

“You have to come with us!”

So, Mary was gathering a crew for the night out. Gie went with a neutral response, while absentmindedly checking one of the apples on sale:

“Sounds amazing-”

“I thought so, too! Pretty sweet. It's in a nice part of the city, too. Kinda dingy street, but it's not like we're gonna get jumped there.” True social life enthusiast that her classmate was, her mouth went two hundred miles per hour already, not even waiting for the explanative part of Gie's negative response. Also, no to that apple. Neither unhealthy, nor with enough chocolate percentage in it.

Tough luck today, buddy.

Skirting the whole fruit & vegetables section, she dived further to the more sin enabling and supplying section of the store.

“Altair and Malik are at each other's throat again.” There. At least she could make use of Mary knowing about the situation. Saves loads of time otherwise spent by a lengthy explanation. Maybe she won't even need to ring Evie up, after all.

Her friend, being a trooper, jumped promptly over onto the new topic like a pro.

“Thought you said neither of them is Spanish. Or French.”

“They're not, smartass,” and that chocolate looked tempting. She wasn't going to lower herself to buying an ice cream bucket, but that extra large hazelnut milk chocolate bar had her name on its wrapping. “You met them both to know that yourself.”

“So what's the deal?” Mary's voice was intent on the topic, fully focused like she always was with everything she decided to participate in. A good friend although and at the same time because of her brazen attitude, right there.

Okay, chocolate. You're coming with me. Do not resist and I won't be forced to use handcuffs on you.

Apprehending the criminal, she turned on her heel to go fetch something to drink, too – before re-turning around to grab a second bar. Just in case.

“I don't know. I mean, they are sorta... all-or-nothing kind of deal?”

“So, they either fuck or hate each other.” The words coming from the phone stayed true to its owner's spirit – no beating around the bush, they mowed the topic right over.

A vivid memory of mum threatening to wash her mouth with soap whenever she 'slipped', popped up in her mind. Mary wouldn't've last one day visit at their house without frothing at the mouth – one way or another. Funny thought right there.

“Pretty much. Without the-”

“-fucking. Yadda yadda yadda. I don't know if I should laugh at your brother or rethink my gender and step between them and wait which one would grab my ass first.”

“Mary!”

“What? They're attractive! Ten out of ten would tap that.”

Most of her friends did not miss the opportunity to tell her how dumb she was to let Altair go when their pack of she wolves was out last Friday. Mary'd just shrugged. 'Well at least you're out of competition if the guys ever changed their mind' – that're her exact words. While at least one of the girls would mean them, the free-spirited drinker had been quite obviously taking the piss. Like right now. Tough empathy – that's what Gie called it; Mary was the best.

Mood getting back on its feet, having shaken off the gloom, Georgie chuckled wryly and joined in the game.

“You'd stand no chance anyway. They wouldn't even notice you there.”

“That bad?”

“Their eyes are boning each other constantly, only their bodies resist the pull.” Now, that was a relief to say it out loud. Gie picked up a flavored green iced tea out of a refrigerator before making a bee-line to the cashier.

“Mindfucked too much?” It was hard to tell whether Mary was home already or not. While such generous use of foul language would usually point you somewhere 'safe to express yourself' if not in the home base direction outright, Mary was known to drop an F-bombs on a daily basis wherever. In the middle of the class wouldn't be her first time either. She lived closer to the campus, though.

“More like not enough.” Putting the handpicked items onto an empty space next to the register, she greeted the employee before refocusing back on Mary. Her answer must've betray a part of her previous dejected mood, because the response was instant and spot on.

“Damn. You're not coming, are you.”

“Not feeling it, I'm sorry.” There was no denying that she felt better now, but she'd still prefer to stay home tonight.

“Alright,” Her phone transported a heavily put-upon sigh right to her ear, “You're excused this once. If they drag you into their depressive circle of hell, though, I'm gonna come haunt their asses.” Fierce friends had certain perks.

“Or hunt.” Gie shot back good naturedly as she was getting through the payment procedure. That going off without a hitch, she was out of the store in no time.

“What do you know. It could bring the same results.”

“Despair?” It would be hard to miss her snicker. The door of the store closed behind her and she got back on her track leading home with renewed vigor, failsafe mechanism safely tucked in her bag.

“Ha ha. That's what I get for caring about you.”

But when the phone call ended ten minutes later, she wondered whether Mary will have to be taken up on her offer, if it'll really come to that. Will there be silence when she gets home? What sort of scene will greet her?[P1] To make the suddenly reinstated warzone even worse, the pair of undecisive fools was getting along pretty fine as of late.

Did Thor hit them with his hammer over their heads or something?

Now, arguments and bickering were a part of any relationship. Clashes were either handled or not and that was it; a 'make it or break it' sort of deal basically and again, a pretty standard one at that. These two? They had brought the art of disputes to a whole another level by the sheer amount of practice in pair. What was left there to argue about, though? She could swear that they've argued even about the water pressure in the shower already.

Taking a step back, maybe there was no need for them to make it official at all. They fought like a couple already, so there was a good chance that they had the partner software for encouraging staying together installed, too. But maybe not.

Them being as they are? Holding onto the remnants of their wild card statuses while also leaning over toward the other? It could bring literally anything. As of now, chaos and strangling of one another would be her bet on the most probable outcome, no matter what she really hoped for.

What truly boggled her mind was that the 'wild card' issue was more of Malik's signature there than Altair's. Sounding strange? Maybe because it was. If anything, you could always count on Malik being solid. As on him being a silent snide sniper. His words got the kill while his face might as well been cut from marble. That was his nature and it came with an objectively calm demeanor. All of that, her brother might rightfully pride himself for, because he perfected every single part of it to a state of art. Throwing him off, not to mention making his wall of tranquility crumble to dust wasn't an easy achievement.

Then Altair entered – or re-entered – the picture, turning out to be an equivalent to the proverbial fairy with a magical wand. 'Unusual' wouldn't even make the cut for an appropriate description of how out of character this was for her brother and still, the facts stood.

Not that she hadn't wondered about the strange enigma before; it only wasn't as important then as many other aspects that needed to be accounted for. But maybe it should have been. Altair's presence was undeniably toying with Malik on a full scale, so it was safe to assume that their whole relationship must've been even more complicated, elaborate or not, than she anticipated – and she gave a lot of room to possible variations of their history.

What was so bad about Altair that kept Malik doubtful?

Their personalities clashing could hardly be the reason – it obviously didn't matter even back in their heydays. Was he still hung up on the fact that she and Altair together were the plan A and the reason why the guy was here in the first place? Her brother could, indeed, hold a grudge. Was it the job? If so, then... Okay, it wasn't a traditional nine-to-five job where you are safely tucked in an office, she'd give Malik that. But Gie saw them together; this hesitating and dancing around each other would make sense only if they did not feel as strongly about each other anymore. To that, she called bullshit. She'd probably do the best to ask Altair about that when the soonest opportunity arises.

Using the key to their flat, she unlocked the door and nudged it ajar.

No sound.

Promising enough. Entering the flat, she put her bag on the bench right by the door.

Altair was passed out, half-lying behind the living room's low table, half-propped up on her beanbag in a position that suggested something was missing in the picture. The flat screen was still on, although only some commercial nonsense on low volume was taking up the screen there.

Before she could investigate the crime scene any further, different kind of muted noises caught her attention. They were coming from the direction corresponding with only one room in the apartment. That answered the question of where Malik disappeared to. Taking one deep breath for courage, she walked over to the kitchen.

“Hey.” Her greeting was on a cautious side of the spectrum, but nobody could blame her.

“Hey yourself,” Malik answered in kind readily enough if a bit distracted. Scanning what must've been instructions on a box of something presumably eventually edible, his attention taking its sweet time to shift onto her. Not that she minded; this wasn't bad compared to any kind of confrontation. She'd had it up to here of that.

“Coffee?” The offhand offer made its way to her, while Malik's eyes flicked back and forth between her and what appeared to be an instant version of Rubik's cube to him. An already made batch of coffee was the current main star of the kitchen counter. Steam coming from it declared that the beverage was fresh, too.

“Uh... I'll probably go with just tea? Thanks, though.” Perking up at that, he decidedly put the package back in the pantry, obviously finding the required amount of effort overly too much to bother with. It would also be Malik's attitude to food in general in a nutshell.

She was about to go over and set necessary things up to fix herself a cup, but Malik was one step ahead of her.

“The tests weren't bad then?” She watched as her brother proceeded to put water in the electric kettle before switching the thing on.

Oh.

“They were fine.” Since she had to wait for the water to boil, it was only sound logic to plop down on a chair – which was exactly what she did.

“Were they.”

“Stop it, you moron, you're not my parent.” Reminding him her adult status was a moot point now, but she did it anyway. Meanwhile, Malik poured himself a mugful of the steamy, tar black liquid, completely unperturbed.

“Look at the good news. The day's just gotten better for the both of us.” For all intents and purposes, his expectant look was interchangeable with the one of a hawk stalking its prey. She grudgingly conceded only because there was no other easy way of getting from under that type of scrutiny.

“I may not ace them both, but it wasn't as terrible as I expected. Professor de Sable took ill and our tests will be marked by a substitute teacher, so there's no way I'll get a bad mark on that one either.”

The nightmarish teacher had been picking on her ever since her first year of taking the course. She couldn't help but secretly think of his illness as a gift from above.

“I though you said you got a different lecturer already?” If Gie was ten years younger, she'd probably appreciate his brotherly frown much more. As it was, she could handle one numskull without any additional help.

“False alarm. That would be that substitute I've mentioned. Looks like the baldhead doesn't know when to-” Sensing warning in the air, she promptly changed the intended ending of her sentence:

“-leave the scene,” which was closely followed by a quietly mumbled “or kick the bucket” original version.

“You were saying?”

“I said that he apparently must've dig his heels in somehow.” Gie blatantly lied without an ounce of shame in her body.

The good thing about being raised into adulthood by a strict brother? He was still way more lenient than their parents would be. She held no hope of her brother believing that's what she really said, but he let her be anyway, because Malik himself thought that the guy was an asshole. But even better than that; any 'tight spots' like this one trained her in the façade game that Malik was a master of, too.

When he wanted to be, that is. Looking at him taking the box full of teabags in his hand, nose wrinkling in disgust, one wouldn't believe such a claim. If Malik could, he would hold that box like a bag full of dog presents, no doubt. Dork.

“Sheesh, you're a riot. Give me that,” Getting back on her feet, she stole the box which was offending her brother's sensibilities out of his grasp and fished out one teabag before storing the rest back in the cupboard. Right on time, the kettle switched off, too, so she threw the teabag inside an empty mug that Malik had left on the counter for that purpose exactly and poured hot over it straight away. Brimming with satisfaction, she looked over at Malik, who still did not bother to regain his stony decorum. As much as he was furrowing his brows, though, he was in a casual, laid-back mood.

“You should stop.” Still, his voice was as gruff as always. His nod towards her drink said all there was needed to decipher what he was referring to. She nonchalantly ignored the clue, pretending ignorance.

“With what?” She intentionally gave Malik an innocent look.

“Drinking that garbage.” As if she did not see that coming. The deadpan nag made her snicker for its utter uselessness. They had gone over this one thousand times already and yet, somehow, Malik never seemed to tire of it.

“You should stop,” she shot back to exact her revenge.

“With what?” Humoring her, he went along with the game, striking the familiar pose which included folded arms on his chest. His eyes were soft, though; contrary to their hard shine whenever adapting the posture in a serious conflict.

He probably expected her to say something along the lines of “nagging me about the tea” and to be fair, nobody could blame him for it since that was exactly what she wanted to go with. Initially. But a single, no matter how short, moment to rethink the opportunity was all it took to decide on a change. Biting on her lower lip, she went for it.

“Being so stubborn.” And she might as well ask for a sky to lean down and hand over some of its stars to her while she was at it. Honestly, Gie was well-aware of how her words sounded. But demanding an all-out annihilation of the character trait wasn't the point here. Therefore, she clarified:

“Why do you guys argue so much – really?”

Fully prepared to see him withdrawing into himself and closing off again, she faced a distinctly different reaction. While Malik was fast to catch onto what she was talking about, he showed no sign of being displeased with the topic.

“I argue with idiots in general. That's my job. I thought you already knew that.” Even busy with removing the teabag out of her mug after taking a careful, evaluating sip, it didn't stop her from pointing the obvious, encouraged by his response:

“Yeah, but not like you do with Altair...” It was much easier to continue pursuing the matter with his open attitude and his trademark scowl on vacation.

At last noticing that the issue was really troubling her, his blasé vibe evaporated out of the room. Sh- shrooms in a meadow. Counting her chickens way too soon.

“Geor-”

“I know I have no right to stick my nose into it, but what happened so wrong that you feel the constant need to butt heads?”

Silence and him clenching his jaw didn't look much promising in regard to her hopes of getting an answer when-

“We just do.” While his tone was even, and Malik obviously managed to reign whatever had made him grit his teeth in, all she got for her trouble was less than a bare minimum one would be able to work with. Before she could even let out a put-upon exhale at the cryptic reply, though, he gave in and elaborated further:

“It's the way we deal with stuff.” Now it was his turn to mumble something. What, Gie didn't manage to catch, “We've solved the... issue already, though.”

“So you'll argue less now?”

“Not likely,�� if that wasn't a definitive statement right there. Splendid. She was starting to think that Mary was right. In one-year time, Italian mafia will pale in comparison. Relationship preferences...

Thinking back a bit, this was the first time Malik also openly addressed his relationship with Altair in her company. And what a fanfare did he chose to play it with. Speaking of that, on a closer look, Malik seemed this close to ask a question of its own, but he swiftly buried it expertly, shoving his attention into the caffeinated drink of his choice, he was holding. She could guess what this was about, though. Her brother was truly hopeless.

Ask who needs it spelled out for them again, brother.

“Hey.” Unphased, she walked over and started to unload stuff from the fridge that would make for a solid, good meal when rightly prepared. Chicken, vegetables and rice will do it.

“Hm?”

“I really don't mind, okay?” Malik took some time to react other than pin her with an intense gaze.

“Why?”

She smiled. For once, he was the dumb one.

“Because you're my brother.” Good and done with that, she pulled out a cutting board, issuing a challenge:

“Wanna cook together?”

“You'll tell me to get out in five minutes flat.” Was the gruff answer.

“That's not an answer.”

Keeping an eye on her with undisguised suspicion, he cautiously went to get a knife.

“The kitchen counter is not long enough for both of us.”

“I was here first!” Immediately calling dibs on the piece of furniture, she laughed as he swore.

#cbyp #assassin's creed #altmal

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tatastreehouse · 3 years

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Watch "The Wethouse" on YouTube

Penny Woolcock

THE WET HOUSE (2000)

I hate walking past homeless people on the street as most of us do. I feel embarrassed, ashamed and helpless. So I decided to close the distance between us, look people in the eye and have them look in mine. Initially my idea was to make a documentary about rough sleepers (which I did 10 years later – see On the Streets). My assistant Rachel Das and I did wander around the streets and parks for a couple of weeks and I can’t remember how we heard about Providence Row, a wet house in Bethnal Green. A wet house is a hostel that does not require residents to stop drinking, offering safe accommodation and meals to those who can’t or won’t stop. Most of the residents at Providence Row were fragile and would have died quickly if they were left outside but there is a school of thought that by allowing the residents to drink all day they will die sooner than if they are on the streets. I don’t know what the answer is.

Our first visit was unforgettable. Rachel and I were taken towards to the main communal area but as we approached the door a tall skinny man with badly fitting false teeth and a crooked toupee – we later knew him as Willy the Wig - staggered up to the doorway declaimed, “Bah bah bah bah bah,” as his trousers dropped down to his ankles.

Willy lurched off and we emerged into the large communal room to see Jimmy unsuccessfully trying to stand up, Belfast Tommy yelling abuse, Jamie Blue sucking at her blue glue bag with her sweet face and doleful eyes and Michael Chandler a man with a hideously charred face and hands burnt to black claws stumbled up gently took my hand. His nose was dribbling. I can’t remember anything he said because I was in shock. I looked to one side and saw Rachel frozen, staring into space next to me.

A residents meeting was called a few days later to see whether in principle they were interested in being filmed.

Chairs had been laid out in rows for about thirty residents. I had prepared a speech but with the men yelling at each other and falling off their chairs I stuffed it in my pocket and kept it simple. “I would like to make a film about you for Channel 4. If you don’t want to be in it I promise not to film you. Rachel and I want to spend some time getting to know you first. Does anybody have any questions?” There was a rumble of agreement and Rob’s hand shot up with a question. He stood up. “Yes I have a question. I like the cunt and not the arse!” There was a wave of disapproval and demands that he sit down. “But I do!” Rob protested but sat down. There was a unanimous show of hands and we were on.

We spent the next two months at the Wet House, getting to know people and making sure they understood what we were doing while Providence Row went through a lengthy process to see whether they would give us official permission to film. The a challenge was getting informed consent from people who were always paralytically drunk.

Rachel and I took the Central Line to Bethnal Green every day and then a five minute walk up the road. By the time we caught the tube in the evening we could clear a tube carriage, even at rush hour. The chairs that lined the big room where we spent most of our time had soft cushioned seats that soaked up piss. We’d sit down and slowly our trousers would get damp and then very wet. People who are very, very drunk tend to fall over a lot which means they have no front teeth and that means they spit a lot when they speak. And there’s a lot of snot flying around too. Personal hygiene is not high up the list of anybody’s priorities. So by the end of every day Rachel and I were liberally coated in spit and snot and reeking of piss . I remember saying to Rachel early on, “I must tell you that you stink.” “So do you”, she retorted. At the beginning we had to overcome our instinct to recoil but as time went on we both moved through those scarred, injured faces into a recognition of our common humanity. I looked forward to going in every day.

Our standards dropped. In the tube one night I asked Rachel, “What’s that green line on your fleece?” “Nothing, Willy the Wig licked my back”, she said airily. I nodded and we continued talking about something else. Others were not so understanding. When I visited my son I was banished straight into the garden and not allowed to hold the baby. So I’d go home, straight into the bathroom, drop my clothes and stepped into the shower.

I loved my two months at the Wet House and formed close relationships. Michael Chandler was a lovely man – his story is in the film so I won’t tell it here but he was haunted by a set of photographs. Jamie Blue the glue sniffer was destroyed by her habit but there was a sweetness about her that was irresistible. Uncle Tony, the Brickie, Belfast Tommy and Carpark George all live on inside me and in the film. They are all dead now. We left Annette on a high note, sober and shiny but years later I was told that when she watched the film she fell off the wagon, went back to the booze and died. I had made a special extra filming trip to film Annette clean when the film was almost edited so she could be proud of seeing the change she had achieved. If it was the film that destroyed her, what was it about seeing herself as chaotic as she had been that drew her back? There is a stone in my heart. And Annette is dead.

I don’t know. I don’t know. I thought I had been careful and fair.

As I said the issue of how to secure informed agreement from people who were paralytically drunk was crucial and I trusted that people were capable of making that decision. We spoke to people individually and eventually I decided to ask everyone to sign a release form – something I rarely do as when you film over a long period consent is clearly implied. But I wanted to be sure that the residents thought about it properly. I explained that although they might not care whether strangers saw them on television their families, children or brothers and sisters might see the film and be shocked to see the state they were in. I remember Big Sean replying, “It doesn’t matter to me. I’m a tramp and I don’t care who knows it.” We learnt that his sister really wanted him to move in with her but he wanted to be free to keep drinking Tenants Super with his friends. A few weeks later Sean turned bright yellow and died while we were still filming.

A couple of men were clear they didn’t want to feature from the start and we made sure that we continued socializing with them. But Jock, a former soldier, had a think after signing his form and said he had changed his mind because he didn’t want his sister to seeing him like this. I ceremoniously tore up his form in front of everyone and then made a point of continuing to talk to him so people would know there were no consequences to making that choice. Jock turned yellow and died before we started filming. Like many of them Jock had been in the army, a heavy drinking culture with all your needs catered for that doesn’t prepare people for life outside. Men like Belfast Tommy and the Brickie had been in the UDA, loyalist paramilitaries from Northern Island and they drank to deal with the PTSD – late at night Tommy would punch the air, fight invisible enemies and talk about bodies and guns he had buried. I later realised that boys who are in care often go into the army because they are not equipped to deal with civilian life. And when that’s over they have nothing. War. What is it good for?

We shot the Wet House on super 16mm film over five consecutive days (apart from the extra day we filmed Annette in her rehab). After five days I knew I had a film and I didn't just want to keep filming people dying. I think it’s my only film that came in under budget and we gave some money back to Channel 4.

Brand Thumim and I edited it over 8 weeks. (Or six, I can’t remember exactly.) We started off with some of the quieter, moving scenes but it was unwatchable and depressing. The key was found by Brand who suggested we start with a cheerfully chaotic scene, less shocking than my first visit to the Wet House but still with a voyeuristic allure, a kind of car crash. And once we had reeled in the audience, lured them in with disaster porn, we were able to humanize those they were gawping at.

One of the big revelations of this film was that far from being a danger to anybody else street drinkers and homeless people are attacked by others, those they call members of the public. We often flip things around – seeing those we persecute as a danger to us so we don’t have to feel guilty about what we are doing to them.

The film was chucked out with no previews at 11.30pm but still managed to gather massive viewing figures and scored very high with young audiences, in the top ten that year. It was referenced in a Ben Elton novel and Damien Hirst gave away 100 dvds to his friends. I mention this because there is still a prevailing belief among schedulers that young people only want to watch other scantily clad young people cavorting around.

They don’t.

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