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mandoalorian · 1 year

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Look For The Light [Joel Miller x F!Reader]

Prologue: Part I

Summary: You are a hardened survivor trying to navigate your way in a post-apocolyptic world when you bump into an old friend who goes by the name of Joel Miller.

Warnings: the reader is slightly younger than Joel, say a 10-year age gap? All TLOU relevant warnings such as gore, violence, guns, drugs, and cursing. Joel has an anxiety disorder which parallels his portrayal in the games. Diet talk. Expect smut later on… [Please do not read if you are under the age of 18!]

Author’s Note: I can’t believe it has taken me so long to write a full-blown Joel fic. Those of you who know me well know that I became a fan of TLOU in 2019, just a year before I became a fan of Pedro. I was elated when it was announced he’d been cast as Joel and thus far, I am thrilled with his performance and the many themes of the TV show that have stayed true to the game/s. It is everything I could’ve asked for, and more. I feel as though there is no better person qualified to write a ‘re-write’ per-se of the game/TV show, and I aim to release chapters in time for the new episodes coming out.

Word count: 6,800 words.

Masterlist | Want to support me? | Listen to 'Look For The Light' on Spotify

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Sarah had been sitting on the patio since she finished middle school at noon, waiting for her dad to come home from work. Every school in the US was let out early today for some unknown reason. Government orders. But when Sarah’s dad called her at four-thirty and told her that he’d be home at nine, she thought little of it. This often happened, especially this season. With it just being him and Tommy, working on big contracting jobs often took some time, but Joel often reassured Sarah that it was better that way. Despite their constant brotherly bickering, Joel and Tommy were hard workers and made an excellent team. When Joel heard how disappointed Sarah was that he would be home late, he told her that she could take some money out of his wallet, which was located in his bedside drawer. He told her she could order a pizza and stay up late to watch a movie, and if she got bored waiting up for him, then she could visit their neighbours—the Adlers. They weren’t remarkable company, but they were kind people and they adored Sarah.

Sarah’s mind worked fast as soon as her father hung up the call and it didn’t take long for her to concoct a plan. If she recalled correctly, there was a cheese pizza in the freezer, so instead of ordering take-out, she opted to take her dad’s money and his favourite (yet broken) watch to the jewellers to get fixed. Luckily it wasn’t too far and she managed to get there before five, which was closing time. Sarah was elated that she was able to do this for her father. He always complained about his broken watch, and he was so busy that he was never given the opportunity to get it fixed.

She placed the broken watch on the counter, alongside a twenty-dollar bill, and she offered the gentleman who worked in the store a small wave ‘hello’. He was an older man with white hair and crow’s feet by the corner of his eyes, a sign that he’d smiled a lot during his lifetime.

“Oh, hey Sarah. How’s your dad?” The man, who according by his nametag, went by Eric, enquired while picking up the wristwatch and examining the damage.

“He’s good, thanks. Working late tonight,” Sarah hummed absent-mindedly while she admired the many antiques and trinkets which were dotted around the store. This wasn’t your traditional jeweller—but somewhat of a pawn shop where you could buy the occasional bracelet or diamond ring. “Actually, it’s his birthday tomorrow. Was hoping to get his favourite watch fixed.”

Eric chuckled heartedly. “Well, you’re in luck, kid. Looks like it just needs a new battery. That’ll get it ticking again.” After a few short moments, he returned the repaired watch to Sarah. Eric slid the twenty-dollar bill back over to her.

“No no,” Sarah surrendered her hands. “That’s your payment,” Sarah put the watch in her backpack. “Please take it.”

“Your father is a good man, and you’re a sweet kid—doing this for him. Don’t worry about the payment, I—” Just as he was about to finish his sentence, an older woman came charging into the front of the store, appearing panicked and dishevelled. “Honey, what’s the matter?”

Sarah identified the woman as the shopkeeper’s wife and noted her shaky hands and rapid movements. She was in a frenzy.

“We have to close the store,” the woman said quickly.

“What? Why?”

“We have to close the store!” the woman repeated this time shouting, and switching over the ‘Open’ sign to read ‘Closed’. She then turned to Sarah and grabbed the young girl by her arms. “You need to go home. Now.”

“Wh—is everything—” Sarah couldn’t even finish her sentence when the lady began to push her out the front door. Within seconds, the door to the store slammed shut and locked, and the blinds flew down.

Sarah stood outside the jewellers for a few moments, her brain trying to register everything that had just happened. It wasn’t until an abundance of fire trucks and police cars zoomed past her; their sirens were deafeningly loud. Sarah heard some screams in the distance and took that as her sign to head home. She hoped that her dad would get home at nine as he promised.

The streets were eerily quiet on the walk home, and there wasn’t a soul in sight. Sarah noted the lack of cars on the road. She wanted to take her time to travel back to her neighbourhood—after all, her father wouldn’t be back for hours and she had plenty of time to kill, but the more she began to think about the things she had seen, the more she found her footsteps were speeding up into a fast pace.

When Sarah arrived home, she fumbled with the keys to unlock the front door. The sky was growing dark now and she wondered what she could do with herself to keep occupied while she waited for Joel to return home. Mrs Adler, the Miller’s neighbour, called for her, and Sarah turned to see the nice lady relaxing on the front porch, next to her mother who was much older. Sarah picked up the keys and pondered across the Adlers’ front lawn, and over to their porch, greeting Mrs Adler.

Sarah spent the rest of the evening with the Adler’s and their dog, Mercy. By eight-thirty, Sarah headed home, but not before taking ‘Curtis and Viper 2’ from Mrs Adler’s DVD shelf. Mrs Adler was fine with Sarah taking the movie. She described it as a boyish film, anyway. Sarah watched the movie and cooked her frozen pizza. By midnight, she found herself becoming increasingly worried about why her dad hadn’t returned home at nine like he had promised. Usually, she would be okay with it, knowing the nature of his job-- but with the strange occurrences that had been happening today, something felt off.

The pale crescent moon shone like a silvery claw in the velvet night sky. When Joel finally pulled up into the driveway, he sighed, rubbing his tired eyes. He wasn’t getting enough sleep, and he was beginning to feel the effects of the long laborous hours on the same damn job. Tommy left at nine but Joel stayed back for a few hours to tie up loose ends. At least now he was paid, and he could forget all about it. He remained in his seat for a little while, listening to the end of the radio broadcast.

“—Indonesian minister of health released a statement today stating that the government is doing everything in their power to maintain the spread of the Cordyceps infection in Jakarta.”

Joel turned off the radio and left his truck. His mind was far too preoccupied to understand the severity of what was going on in the world around him. As he sauntered to the front patio, he cursed himself for being home so late knowing that Sarah would have been disappointed in him.

To his surprise, he heard Sarah’s voice the second he opened the front door. She’d stayed up for him.

“You said you’d be home at nine,” Sarah grumbled, her lips pulling into a frown as Joel walked through the front door. Her eyes felt heavy but she had stayed awake this long, anticipating her father’s return. She wasn’t going to fall asleep now. Her determined mind stopped her from doing that. The young girl looked up at the wall clock above the television and her frown deepened. “It’s almost one in the mornin’.”

Joel removed his brown work jacket and brushed down his t-shirt before sliding out of his shoes and shuffling into the living room. The room was illuminated by the amber lantern on the coffee table. His gaze was immediately drawn to a little brown moth, hazily dancing around the lantern before settling down atop it. If he was in his usual teasing mood, he would have pointed the moth out to Sarah, knowing it would scare her, but instead, Joel just ignored the insect and slumped down onto the sofa. Joel spread his legs and leaned back, pulling out a yawn. What a day.

“I’m sorry kid,” Joel finally said, feeling a genuine sense of guilt. “Rough day. Bad traffic.”

At least that wasn’t a lie. The roads had been hectic, with people swerving chaotically and more sirens in the neighbourhood than Joel had ever heard.

Sarah hummed knowingly. She’d been hearing the panic outside too, and the news broadcasts on the television had been secretly terrifying her to the point she couldn’t bear to watch. Something about an infection from Jakarta having sightings in the city. Not much was known about it, but Sarah was just glad she lived on the outskirts of Austin, Texas.

She’d be okay and so would her dad.

That’s all that mattered.

“Sweetie, what are you still doing up? It is way past your bedtime.”

“Oh! But I got you something,” Sarah beamed and reached down the side of the sofa, bringing up a white box. Joel looked at Sarah with surprised eyes and held the weighty box in his hand.

He opened the box, not exactly sure what to expect from his fourteen-year-old daughter, only for it to be revealed that she had gotten his favourite watch fixed. The watch had been broken for quite some time and Joel, being the busy man that he was, never got the chance to fix it.

When Joel didn’t respond to the gift, Sarah interjected, feeling the need to explain herself. “You kept complaining about your broken watch so I figured…”

“I—honey, I love it but I think it’s broken,” Joel tapped the watch face and held it to his ear, checking to hear for its ticks. Sarah, in a panic, grabbed her dad’s wrist to inspect the watch for herself, only to see that it was working in perfect order.

“Oh ha ha.” Sarah mocked as her father snorted a chuckle.

“Where’d you get the money for this?” He inquired, quirking an inquisitive eyebrow.

“Drugs. I sell hardcore drugs.” Sarah joked with a smirk, pleased with herself for getting her dad a present that he truly liked.

“Oh good. You can help out with the mortgage then.” Joel countered and Sarah laughed, snuggling into her dad and resting her head on his lap.

“You wish.”

Joel turned on the television and despite it being late, settled on an old war movie to watch. Sarah hated those old black-and-white films, and it didn’t take her long to fall asleep. Taking his daughter in his arms, Joel picked up Sarah, carried her upstairs, and tucked her into bed. Placing a kiss on her forehead, Joel remembered just how lucky he was to have Sarah in his life. She kept him grounded—she kept him sane—and she gave him reason to keep going.

By the time morning rolled around, Sarah was the first to wake up, as usual. Joel pressed snooze on his alarm three times, before his fourth and final alarm—being Sarah—came into his bedroom, opened up the curtains and let in the blinding golden sunlight which enveloped him. Joel winced as he felt the rays burn his skin, and turned over, putting a pillow over his head in frustration.

“Get up, dad,” Sarah announced. “It’s your birthday and I am making you special birthday pancakes.”

The pancakes were more so for Sarah, but her dad’s birthday was the best excuse to make them. She’d make rainbow funfetti pancakes with cream and syrup and strawberries. They were her all-time favourite breakfast. If he was lucky, she might have even stuck a candle in the top and sung ‘Happy Birthday’ to him.

That got Joel’s attention. “Birthday pancakes?”

“Be downstairs, dressed, in five minutes,” Sarah said before leaving her father’s bedroom.

Joel crawled out of his warm bed, the pancakes being the only motivation he had to actually get up, and pulled over the same navy blue t-shirt that he was wearing the day before. Buckling up the belt of his dark wash denim jeans, he shuffled down the stairs and into the kitchen.

“I don’t smell pancakes,” Joel frowned. “But I do smell coffee.”

Already preparing her father’s daily black espresso, Sarah sighed. “We don’t have any flour,” she replied, just as disappointed as he was. “You must’ve forgotten to pick it up. I guess you forgot the birthday cake too?”

“Damn it,” Joel huffed, realising that hopping to the grocery store yesterday must have completely slipped his mind. “That’s okay baby girl, I’ll make eggs.”

Eggs were fine, but they weren’t part of her convoluted plan to give her dad the best birthday imaginable. Sarah supposed that it would be okay and that the both of them were still able to spend the day together.

Sarah placed her dad’s coffee on the table. “Your shirt is inside out.”

The young girl helped her dad set the table and poured out some orange juice before taking her seat and eating her breakfast. After fixing his shirt, Joel sat down and turned on the television before digging at his eggs.

‘BREAKING NEWS: Cordyceps Brain Infection comes from contaminated food, spokesperson says. Total number of infected rises to 5000.’

“5,000?” Sarah repeated in disbelief. “Where is this infection spreading?”

“Jakarta,” Joel replied, stuffing a mouthful of bacon into his mouth. “Heard about it on the radio yesterday. Those poor people…”

“What kind of food is contaminated?” Sarah asked, to which Joel could only shrug in response.

“I don’t know honey, but don’t worry. We’re fine over here.”

Just as Joel and Sarah were finishing up their eggs and bacon, they overheard the front door swing open.

“Well well well, happy birthday old man,” Tommy Miller strolled into the kitchen with ease ruffling his older brother’s already messy bed hair playfully.

“Old man?” Joel countered, dropping his fork to the plate and acting mockingly offended.

“Old. Degenerate,” Tommy corrected and Sarah stifled a laugh. “Hey, I thought we were having birthday pancakes.”

“No flour.” Joel and Sarah replied simultaneously knowing that those two words offered enough of an explanation.

Tommy grumbled in dismay. “Well, in that case, I’ll see you guys later.”

When Tommy left, Sarah and Joel erupted into a fit of laughter. Tommy lived in the neighbourhood so it was often he would just pop in for a few minutes only to leave again. Now that he had the day off, Tommy would most likely spend his day in a bar playing pool, or hitting on girls that were way out of his league.

“No but seriously, what are we doing today?” Sarah asked, clearing her plate and heading over to the sink to wash her dishes.

“Well I got to pop out to the city for a little while. I promised an old friend I’d help her with a favour. You remember your old nanny?”

Sarah beamed at the memory of her. “Of course! Can I come with you?”

“No darling, I won’t be there long. She just wants me to take a look at her shower. She’s got a place up in Austin now.”

“Nice,” Sarah smiled. “She always did want to move to the city.”

“I should be back in time for dinner, and this time I’ll grab a birthday cake from the grocers,” Joel promised. Sarah offered him a hug.

“Okay daddy, do what you gotta do. I’ll see you later.”

The traffic was even worse than yesterday. The roads that led into the city were filled with people who were seemingly fleeing, all speeding in opposite directions. There was an accident on the quickest route so Joel found that he had to go through back alleys and side streets in order to get there as quickly and safely as possible. He didn’t understand why the roads were so hectic, and his mind was too preoccupied with the thought of seeing you again after so long.

Joel wasn’t sure whether or not he had done the right thing when it came to rejecting the new contracting job that was proposed by a local business, only to take on a free favour for the girl who used to babysit his daughter. You had done more than enough favours for the Miller family; having been there for Sarah ever since she was a little girl. If Joel had to be honest with himself; you were as much of an influence on Sarah as he could’ve hoped for. Being a young, single dad had its difficulties and Joel’s job often meant that he had to work long hours away from his daughter. As Sarah got older she understood why her dad would have to leave so early in the morning and come back so late at night. He was simply doing it to take care of her.

But when he wasn’t around, you were the reliable force that protected Sarah and watched over her during the day. You took her to kindergarten and later elementary school. You sat with her during the late evenings, helped with her homework and even cooked her dinner. Despite the ten-year age gap between you and Sarah, the two of you had become quite close, and according to Joel, you were simply a terrific girl; well-mannered and gentle. Your personality had an influence on Sarah, and Joel certainly couldn’t complain about that. He was so proud of his daughter. That’s why Joel was prepared to do this job as a favour to you, much to Tommy’s dismay.

Tommy being Tommy, always had something to complain about.

“This is un-fucking-believable. You got to earn a living Joel—and I do too. You sacrificed a legitimate job to help fix Sarah’s old nanny’s bathroom plumbing. And shit man, you ain’t even a plumber.” Tommy was midway ranting to Joel on the phone when he pulled up outside your apartment. After moving out of your family home, you found a place in central Austin, where you were living with your boyfriend. The commute to work was much easier now that you lived in the city. You’d scored a secretary job in a corporate office down on Congress Avenue.

“We are doing fine for business,” Joel sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose in annoyance. It was times like this when Joel would wonder about the fine line between love and tolerance. Tommy was never going to let his brother forget about this. “I just owe this girl some favours.”

“You just want to get in her pants.” Tommy snarked back, the vulgar words dripping from his tongue.

“And you better watch your mouth boy,” Joel warned, his tone darkening as he immediately found himself getting ticked off by his brother’s comment. Tommy was always one to jump to accusations. “Just a favour.” Joel reminded before promptly hanging up the call.

Joel slid his cell into his jean pocket and took a deep breath. He hadn’t seen you in months. Not since you moved away. He felt his palms get just a little sweaty with nerves as he approached the front door to your building. Apartment number 13. After a brief moment of coaching himself, Joel pressed the button to buzz into your apartment.

“It’s me—Joel—uh, Miller—Joel Mil—” where were these nerves coming from?

“Come up!” your cheery voice interrupted him and he heard the electronic front door click open. Joel said a silent prayer hoping that you couldn’t sense his anxiety through the intercom. He had forgotten to take his medication that morning.

Noticing the elevator was out of order, Joel had no choice but to take the many flights of stairs that led up to your place. The walls in the hallway were painted a dingy brown and several cracks laced the webbed corners. When he got to your floor, he wiped away the beads of sweat that laced his hairline and noticed that the door to your apartment was already wide open, beckoning him to come in.

He lingered outside for a moment hesitantly, peeking around your front room; but you were nowhere in sight. He scratched the back of his neck before calling your name. It would be rude to just enter your apartment without you knowing.

When there was no response, Joel called your name again. He proceeded to take a step into your apartment and shut the door behind him. It was very small; just a sofa and a small TV and a bookshelf in the corner. Your kitchen was adjoined to your living room, and there were only two rooms towards the back. He assumed one must have been your bedroom, and the other… he heard a rush of water running. The bathroom.

The door was shut and Joel took a few steps, calling your name as he got closer and closer to the bathroom.

“I’m in here!” you called back. “Uh—you can come in—but please don’t laugh.”

Joel quirked his eyebrow as he pondered what could be beyond the door. He slowly reached down to the door handle.

“Are ‘ya… are you decent?” Joel asked awkwardly, noting that the shower was still running.

Another moment of silence before your timid voice responded. “…I suppose…”

Joel pushed down on the bronze door handle and let himself into the bathroom, only to be enveloped by warm, thick, humid air coming from the running shower. His immediate response was to choke back a cough as he squinted his eyes, trying to navigate where exactly you were hiding. You were behind the fogged-up shower glass, on your knees and sopping wet. You made no effort to remove yourself from the running water, even when Joel had already entered the room. You were adamant you could get this fixed yourself.

“Damn it!” you cursed loudly, finally withdrawing yourself from the shower and crawling out of the bathtub. You were never one to give up easily, but meddling with this shower was like fighting a losing battle.

You looked up at Joel whose large hand was covering the smirk that grazed his lips. He was trying so hard not to laugh at you. His broad shoulders were adorned by a brown jacket and his dark locks of hair seemed to be adorned with just a few grey specks—and hell, if he wasn’t staring at you with the utmost judgement—you might have even considered just how attractive he looked.

“You good?” Joel chuckled, the corners of his chocolate eyes creasing with elation. You stood up to meet his level, ignoring the fact your t-shirt was now stuck to your skin and water droplets were falling from your hair.

“Do I look good?” you snarked back, narrowing your eyes.

“Well—” Joel raised an eyebrow, eyeing you up and down. You felt your cheeks heat up under his gaze and you sheepishly looked down at your feet, hoping he wouldn’t catch your earnest reaction. “What happened?”

“Thought I could be all big and clever and try and fix this damn shower by myself,” you admitted, feeling silly for even giving it a try. “Thought that if I fixed it, I wouldn’t have had to waste your time.”

“Ah,” Joel nodded, stepping aside from you and hesitantly approaching the shower. A few stray streams of water jumped out at him. “You ain't ever wasting my time.”

You fiddled with your thumbs as Joel pulled out a wrench from his back pocket. Without hesitating, he stepped under the hot water and began to adjust the shower faucet, tightening the metal valve located under the head of the shower. The wrench kept slipping however and Joel ended up placing it on the side of the tub, opting to use his strength to tighten the valve. You watched as his grip tightened against the faucet controls, his biceps flexing as he let out a quiet grunt. The main flow of water came to a halt and the condensation in the room began to slowly fizzle away. Small drips of water fell from the leaky showerhead, but for the most part, Joel fixed your problem in just a matter of minutes.

Scratching the back of his neck, Joel ran his finger down one of the pipes that joint into the valve. “You might need to get your pipes checked, could be rust or—”

“Fungus,” you cut him off. “It’s gross, I know, but a neighbour was telling me she had the same problem with the faucet in her kitchen. Damn water wouldn’t stop running. She had some guys come around and they found this gross, fungus-type thing growing in the pipes.”

Joel made no effort to hide the disgusted look on his face.

You sighed, knowing you’d have to call a plumber over to investigate your shower further. You really didn’t need the extra expense right now. But then you remembered just how grateful you were that Joel travelled all this way to do you the favour of fixing your shower—even if it was a temporary solution. You walked over to the man and gently interlinked your fingers with his, your cautious movements taking Joel by surprise.

“Come on,” you said softly. “It’s slippery. Let me help you out of the tub.” You noted how your hand fit in his. It was much smaller, and even though you wanted him to hold onto you for support, it felt more like you were holding onto him.

Joel graciously took a step out of the tub, and you realised he didn’t need to hold onto you whatsoever. You took a towel from the radiator and wrapped it around his shoulders; a pathetic attempt at getting him dry.

“I should’ve brought a change of clothes.” he huffed, running his now empty hand through his short hair.

“I have something that might fit,” you smiled. “I mean—not my clothes of course, but my boyfriend, Michael… well, he’s probably the same size as you.”

Boyfriend?

It took a second for Joel to register the word. For some reason, he’d made the assumption you didn’t have a boyfriend. But then again, it had been a while since he last saw you, and now you lived in the city with your corporate job and your brand-new life. Just when Joel thought he knew everything about you, he realised that there was now so much more for him to learn. He followed you into your small, box-shaped bedroom and into the closet.

You searched through a pile of clean laundry that was mixed with both yours and Michael’s clothes.

“If you see anything you like, just take it. Michael won’t mind.” You offered.

Despite your assurance, Joel reluctantly knelt and searched through the pile of clothes. Amongst your many shirts, pants and colourful pyjamas, Joel finally found a light grey sweater and a pair of matching sweatpants to wear. As he pulled them out from under the pile, he couldn’t help but notice a lace lingerie set that was placed delicately underneath. Deliberately, at the bottom of the pile. His eyes were drawn to the piece and his grip on the grey fabric tightened as he imagined you wearing the set. The thoughts invaded his mind without choice and Joel cursed himself for not fighting them away.

He finally stood up and turned to face you, only to immediately retract back when he saw you pull off your t-shirt. Catching a glimpse of your bare back, Joel swallowed the lump in his throat and turned to face the poorly painted wall behind him, not wanting you to feel uncomfortable upon you discovering that he had seen you like that.

You had in fact told him that you were going to change out of your wet clothes too—around about the same time he noticed your lingerie. He was just too distracted to have heard.

Dropping your soaking wet jeans to the floor and letting them pool around your ankles, you pulled up your favourite, fleece-lined black leggings and wrapped your wet hair into a towel. Now dry and cosy, you turned back around to Joel who was staring at the concrete wall, waiting patiently for you to have finished.

“Joel?” you asked.

“Y—yeah?” Joel stuttered, clutching onto the sweats.

“You found something to wear?”

“Yeah.” Joel confirmed, smiling softly and showing you the grey sweats that he had picked out, almost as if he was asking permission—again—as to whether or not he could take them.

He was such a sweetheart.

“Perfect,” you returned his smile. “You can get changed in here. I’m going to head into the kitchen.”

Before Joel could reply, you left your bedroom and gently closed the door behind you, allowing Joel to get changed in privacy.

You opened up the refrigerator and took out a batch of chocolate chip cookies that you’d baked the night before. Heating them up in the microwave, you prepared them neatly on a plate and placed them down atop the small table that segregated your kitchen from your living room. Just as you were finishing up presenting the cookies, Joel exited your bedroom and you felt your heart blossom in your chest when you caught sight of him.

You were so used to seeing Michael wear those same grey sweats all the time, you hadn’t even prepared yourself for how they’d look on Joel. For the same garments, you’d imagine they would look identical—but you couldn’t have been more wrong. They fit on Joel’s body like a glove and tugged on him in all the right places. The light colour highlighted his slender waist and broad shoulders, and the way the waistband around his sweatpants was just ever so slack…

Joel cleared his throat and you felt your cheeks heat up as you snapped out of your daydream.

“Looks good,” You nodded your head with positive affirmation and then your eyes quickly darted to the cookies on the table behind you. “Cookies!” you announced, happy to have found a reason to change the subject. Joel shuffled towards you and eyed up the plate of cookies.

“Oh wow—chocolate chip?” Joel smiled. “Those are my favourite.”

“Sarah’s too,” you beamed. “I remembered. Would you like to try one?”

“I—I would love too,” Joel grinned and extended his arm over to the plate. But then he abruptly stopped himself. “But—ah, I’m on Atkins. And I’m doing so well…”

“What’s that?”

“Oh,” Joel grumbled. “Just this dumb diet thing. I’ve basically been cutting out carbs. Lasted nearly two weeks so far.”

Your frown deepened at his admittance. “That doesn’t sound healthy…”

“No, well, neither is this.” Joel prodded his tummy.

You wanted to tell him not to diet—that he didn’t need to. That his body was damn well gorgeous just the way it was.

But you didn’t want to overstep any boundaries.

“Take them home for Sarah?” you offered.

“She’d love that,” Joel smiled and inched towards you. There was barely any distance separating you both now, and you couldn’t recall a time when you had been this close to one another. “Thank you.” His words were so genuine, so real, that they sparked butterflies in the pit of your tummy and you held back a smile. You held it back because, without any restraint, you’d be grinning like an excited little girl.

“How is Sarah?” you asked, looking up at Joel.

If you took just one step forward, your chest would be touching his.

“She’s good,” his voice had lowered an octave and that Southern twang in his accent became all the more prominent. “I’m sure she’d like to see you. You should come over sometime for movie night.”

“I—I would love that,” you admitted. Movie night with Joel and Sarah… just like the old days.

“She’s really into those horror movies now she’s getting older…”

It was like some kind of mystic energy was pulling you both closer to each other. It wasn’t conscious, and the movements were small, but as your bodies got closer together you noticed the way Joel’s voice trailed off into eventual complete silence. And then, like magic, the curve of his nose bumped into yours and you let out a small giggle. The proximity of each other felt so intimate and yet you couldn’t bear to draw away from him. You wanted him to touch you, hold you, bump noses with you again…

Joel’s eyes became dark and lust-filled as his gaze flicked down towards your mouth. Your eye line followed his and you observed his pretty pink lips that were framed by his moustache, all the same. You both wanted the same thing. He wanted to kiss you, softly and delicately—and he wanted to cradle your face as he relished the moment. And equally, you wondered what it would be like to kiss him, if his light stubble would graze your skin or if it would tickle you and make you erupt into a fit of giggles. You wondered if his hair would be rough and brassy or soft and fluffy.

You cautiously extended your arms and placed both your hands into his still-damp hair, threading your fingers through the roots to the tips. As a response, Joel closed his eyes and hummed in contentment, the vibrations in his chest sending chills through your own body. His own hands swung down to your hips and he bravely pulled you in closer to him.

Joel opened his eyes and brought one hand up to your shoulder and then gently cupped the side of your cheek. You leaned into his palm and he swept his thumb over your bottom lip. Bumping noses with you again, this time he did not draw back. You could feel his breath fan over your lips and you pushed your chest into him and opened your mouth when---

Ring. Ring. Ring.

The alert of Joel’s ringtone made him jolt back from you and stumble even a few steps further. You stood there, as still as could be, your brain desperately trying to piece together what just happened.

You almost kissed Joel Miller.

“Shit, it’s Tommy,” Joel explained. “I should take this.”

Breathlessly, you nodded, and all Joel could do was shoot you an apologetic look before flipping open his phone and holding it to his ear.

“Joel—Joel—I need you to come to pick me up. I’m in jail.” A brief moment of static buzzed through the line but Joel heard Tommy loud and clear. He wished he had misheard.

“You what—” Joel placed a hand on his hip, taking a second to process his little brother’s words. “Why the hell are you in jail, Tommy? What did you do?”

Your eyes widened when you heard what was going on. Tommy in trouble?

“I—it wasn’t my fault—”

“It never is,” Joel grimaced.

“I was at Linkin’s Bar down by the Creek and some guy just started attackin’ Isabella. Grabbed a hold of her and wouldn’t let go… so I smashed a bottle in his face. Knocked him to the ground. That showed the fucker.”

“Jesus Christ Tommy,” Joel sighed.

“You’d do the same,” Tommy called out. “Isabella’s only small, and she couldn’t defend herself. Anyway—I need you to come to the County Jail and bail me out. I’ll pay you back, I promise. I just can’t stand to spend another moment in here.”

“Alright, I’m on my way, but I’m in Austin. Will take me a while to drive back up that way.”

“Just get here quick,” Tommy practically begged. “I—I think there’s something wrong with the officer. He keeps twitchin’ all funny. People have been acting weird, Joel.”

Joel shook his head and let out a deep sigh. “Whatever Tommy, I’m on my way.”

As soon as Joel put his cell back in his pocket, you placed a caring hand on his forearm. “Is Tommy okay?”

“He’s always getting into trouble, that boy.” Joel sighed.

“You take care of your brother. You’re a good guy,” you said softly. “Maybe… maybe we can plan that movie night for tomorrow, huh? I get off work at five.”

Joel smiled. A good guy. That was all he wanted to be. And making plans for movie night with Sarah? Joel felt a buzz in his chest. She would love to see you again. “That sounds good.” He said casually, trying to hide the fact he was beaming inside.

“Alright,” you returned his smile and then nudged his side playfully. “I’ll see you tomorrow then. And I’ll bring the cookies.”

“See ‘ya.”

Joel turned around and left the apartment without another word and you stood there, your heart racing, still reeling from what had happened just minutes prior. You’d hardly lost track of time when Michael came through the front door.

“Hey, who was that guy I just saw leaving? He kinda looked like me.”

Michael wished he looked like Joel, but you assumed that remark was made in reference to the outfit that Joel had ‘borrowed’.

“I—” immediately you felt defensive. Not that you needed to be, because technically, nothing happened. Was there any need to be defensive over mere feelings? “It was the plumber.”

“Oh. He fixed the shower?” Michael asked, stealing a cookie from the batch you had baked.

“Yeah—hey! Don’t eat those. They aren’t for you.” You warned, but Michael was already swallowing his first piece.

“Huh?” Michael chortled. “It’s not like you need to eat them, looks like you’ve eaten enough already.” He said with a snide look.

You felt your jaw slacken slightly at the comment and resisted the urge to tell him exactly just who this ‘plumber’ guy was, and how much you wished you had kissed him in that heat of the moment.

You didn’t respond but instead watched Michael eat two more cookies. Your lips curled into a frown, knowing you’d have to bake another batch, but at least this time they would be fresh for tomorrow’s movie night.

For the first time in weeks, Joel felt he was finally able to relax. He took the drive home slow and steady and turned up the car radio to drown out the ongoing sirens in the distance. The song ‘Future Days’ by Pearl Jam played, and Joel decided he would take up learning it on the guitar when he got home. Now that he had a few days off from work, he could put his feet up and do whatever he wanted. He looked forward to seeing you tomorrow, but now he just had to head on to the grocers, like he had promised Sarah, and pick out a birthday cake.

He found a red velvet one with buttercream icing, knowing it was more Sarah’s favourite than his own. Joel liked fruitcake but he knew that if he brought a fruitcake home for Sarah, she’d just sit there disgusted and pick out the raisins. He’d rather she was satisfied.

Joel brought the red velvet cake to the cashier and opened up his wallet, preparing to pay.

“I’m sorry sir,” the lady behind the desk said. “I can’t sell you this. I’m afraid all wheat-based products are being recalled due to the Cordyceps Brain Infection.”

Joel furrowed his eyebrows together in bewilderment. “The Cordyceps--? I thought that was all the way in Jakarta?”

“You haven’t heard--?”

Just then, alarms began ringing in the grocery store and an automated voice boomed through the speakers. The cashier froze and her eyes widened as soon as she recognised the voice. “This is an automated message. This is a red alert warning from the United States government and the CISA. Please stop what you are doing and return home immediately. Lock your doors. Do not let anyone inside.”

The message repeated repeatedly, and the entire store erupted into a panic; including the cashier standing before Joel.

“What the hell is happening?” Joel asked, his gaze darting around the store. He watched a stampede of people head towards the fire exit, clambering and yelling frantically.

“You have to go.” The cashier replied before running off into the crowd.

Joel headed towards the entrance, thinking he could leave that way where it was less crowded. He had no comprehension of what was happening, but he knew for certain he wouldn’t leave Tommy behind.

-----------------------------------------------------------

Prologue: Part II

#Joel miller #Pedro pascal #Pedro pascal x reader #Joel miller x reader #the last of us #tlou #smut

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wp-blaze · 2 days

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Healing Inergy – inward energy and recovery

Many things vie for my time. There’s not always enough time to turn inward. Inward Home I still have a day job. My “home” work is deeply important to me as well. These inform my inner life constantly. My spouse, our dog, our home, and our neighborhood all receive my daily attention. Whether walking RB, […]

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wytfut · 1 year

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Got Danes?? part 1

Just in.....

We have always had Great Danes as long as we have been married. I suspect it has to do with me in the beginning and a “manly” image. We have had all of them neutered but our first, as we don’t breed for them.

After our first one, we just couldn’t even look at another breed. They are so loyal, fairly intelligent, and their size keeps strangers honest.

I do own guns. Not a lot, but my favorites. Patti will not handle a gun, even if her life depended on it. This may sound possibly more “gun” ambitious than the norm, But you need to realize, we live in a rural area not 200 yards from I80 (a main drug trafficking avenue across America)

Great Danes fit the bill, several times for her. People off the interstate, do not wait for me to come home...... so Danes.

Our first one was Thunder (about 1977). We didn’t have kids yet. He was a Merle (gray based with black spots). Being he was our first we had his ears cropped.

Cropping.... is an ugly thing to do to these wonderful dogs. It took us 2 Danes before we quit. Thunder had his done, and when I picked him up, that vet didn’t even clean him up, and pretty much just tossed him out the door at us. All bloody, weeping and gross. I got to admit though once they healed, they were beautiful.

Thunder being raised with no kids initially, was huge. I pumped him full of vitamins. And extremely smart... lots of time to train with no kids early in his life. I can’t prove it, but pumping him full of vitamins as a pup, he was our largest muscular Dane.... he stood over 36 inches at the shoulder, and weighed in at 225 as an adult. He was a monster to see. He could drag me (at 190 pounds) around the yard, and not breath hard.

I’d go outside to get fire wood, and he’d insist on coming along to bring in his piece of wood too. He always insisted on fire wood missions, helping get cut pieces to the truck. Couldn’t get the chainsaw out without him being a pest.

He was an unsung hero too. One warm winter evening, I took the garbage out, and of course he was with me. Our street (in town Waverly) was dark, one street lamp. Thunder stood at the property line, and kept looking down the street. I ignored him, until it was time to go back in.

I turned and he wasn’t there, but trotting down the street to my neighbors front porch. WTH??

I kept calling him back, to no response. I ended up going down to my neighbors porch where he was... and there was the lady of house laying on the porch. She was elderly, and had taken her garbage out, and had fallen. Thunder had heard her, and came to her aid.... giving her big licks up her face.

Of course I picked her up, got a couple bandages, for scrapes. Thunder came in, also attending to her. She was so grateful, and for ever after loved Thunder. She loved to tell the story of him coming to her aid. Especially reenacting him slurping her face.... i highly suspect before this incident, she probably was terrified of large dogs.

Once we had kids... There was no way, no stranger could get ever close to them .

There are other cool stories about him. He lived the ripe age for a great Dane of 11. Life expectancy on average for a Dane is 8.

With our 7th one now, if you were to average the ages out, 8 is pretty close to factual.

Second one we got when we moved out to the acreage. Gretchen. She adored Josh (my youngest son). She was a bit moody compared to our previous Male Thunder. But good natured. And she was our last for the cropped ears.

She was a Mantle (almost all black except for white chest and toes).

One of my favorite memories of Gretchen was she loved to pull on Josh’s pointed top of his overcoat. Once she pulled on it, she’d back up fast and hard, with Josh’s feet swinging straight out, as she pulled in circles. Josh would just giggle and giggle all the while.

Shortly afterwards we got Gretchen, we got Brutus as a freebie, a mixed Dane. He was the size of a tall Labrador.

Gretchen died while we were on vacation in Colorado. Of a twisted bowel. Our house sitters felt horrible. It was a very sad situation when we got home, as we buried her that same day. House sitters (Bill and Michelle Cita) helped bury her, and crying the whole time. “Dogs die Bill, it wasn’t your fault” Gretchen died so suddenly with that twisted bowel, at less than 4 years old.

Twisted bowels are a possibility with Danes, more so than most dogs. Rule of thumb, larger the animal the greater the chance (cows, horses, etc... included) We found this out the hard way.

Brutus, who was still young, took Gretchens death very hard. Went into mourning hard... something we hadn’t seen before. And became completely out of control.

Once we figured it out what was going on, he became another great dog for us. Lived to 8 or 9. He was brown with long haired tail and a black mask. We just had to figure him out.

Next was Norton. Norton was a Merle and Mantle mix. We got him from a very poorly ran “rescue”. Place was a mess, but we just couldn’t leave him there.

Norton was the best attitude Dane we owned. He was afflicted with every allergy a dog could get. Human dander, cedar trees, beef, corn, you name it he was allergic to it. His paws would turn bright red and swell, his ears would swell up like water balloons. ....

Vet got him on Prednisone, and all his issues went away for some time. BUT he also put on over 50 pounds.... And which was just plain fat. Weighed in also at 225.

Now with a dog in such dire circumstances of health issues, you’d think he just be mean or give up. That dog didn’t have a mean bone in him. Always polite, and distinguished. Easy to train, and handle. Until he passed, you could always count on him being a good dog, no matter what was up.

We also shortly after got Gertie. We had 2 Danes again. Gertie came from a web site, advertising all sorts of noble quotes and accomplishments. The lady wouldn’t let us come down to the “great Dane farm” and insisted on delivering her. At the time we took her, all seemed very good. Gertie was also a Mantle.

Although Gertie turned out to be a pretty good dog, we suspect she had been abused, and was a “runt” of sorts (around 125 pounds as an adult). She couldn’t stand human feet near her, or brooms, which she snapped at.

She also had some sort of Irritable bowel syndrome. Anytime she’d get all worked up over something, you’d have to be prepared.

Another issue she had, that we found out when she died was that she had a hip issue. To this day we aren’t sure if it was hip dysplasia. While she was alive, she hated walking on any slick surfaces. She’d go into a full roaring panic, and you’d have to drag her across the floor.

When we had her put down, her hips were limited movement by I’d guess at least 50%. When she was alive, you really couldn’t tell, as shed run thru the yard like any other dog and fast.

Gertie also got the “twisted bowel” event. But this time we knew what was going on, and she was saved via emergency surgery.

Gertie made it about 5 - 6 years.

These were some great Great Danes. But there is more.... look for Part 2

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collecting-stories · 3 years

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Car Lessons - c. 15 - Georgia

A/N: Fucking finally 😭😭

Georgia Masterlist | The Walking Dead Masterlist

☼ ☼ ☼ ☼

Daryl clenched his fist, trying to calm himself down as he stood at the front of your jeep with you. He had agreed to helping you with your car, had even been the one to suggest it originally, but spending the afternoon with you again, the way he used to, was a lot harder now. Knowing the way you felt for sure and knowing exactly what he felt, it was hard to stop himself from just telling you, giving in to the temptation of letting himself be with you.

“At what point do you think we could take a break?” You asked, turning to look at Daryl, smiling at him with your best attempt at puppy dog eyes.

“Barely even taught ya anything,” Daryl replied though he stepped away from the hood, wiping his hands on the rag from his back pocket.

You had off from work today and a half-day at school as you prepared for spring break. Daryl had kept his word to teach you. Nearly a week of ‘car lessons’, as you had deemed them, had happened so far. Tara joined you on two occasions, picking up the knack much quicker than you were and actually getting along with Daryl, something you were grateful for.

“I know but I’m kinda hungry,” You reasoned, “I think my mom’s trying to starve my dad out of the house.”

“Thought she was happy he was home.” Daryl replied, watching you walk over to the picnic table in front of the camper and take a seat on it, feet stable on the bench beneath it.

“It’s a catch-22,” you shrugged, noting the way Daryl’s eyebrow quirked when he didn’t recognize a phrase and explaining further, “she wants him home for appearances but she doesn’t want him home cause she’s seeing someone else.”

“E’rbody’ll find out anyway...what’s the difference?”

“The difference between my mom leaving my poor, working father or him abandoning his family?” You asked, pulling a face as he sat down beside you. You knocked your shoulder against his and smiled, “come on.”

He just hummed and nodded in return. It always came back around to the same thing, appearances. Your mom cared about the same thing everyone else in King County cared about, how they were perceived by their neighbors. Heaven forbid, anybody thought there was any fault to be had in your mother’s life. You had been living with the grief of that for a long time too but the more you had spent time with Daryl the less you cared what anyone else in town really thought of you.

“You been alright?”

“Do you always worry this much about me and you just don’t say it?” You asked, grinning at him. You’d been trying to drop hints for a week now that you still liked him and that you knew he liked you back, if only he would wise up to it and not pretend this was just some odd sort of friendship.

He pushed himself off the picnic table, patting his jeans for the keys to his truck before holding them out to you, “come on, ain’t got any food here worth eating. Ya wanna drive ta Woodbury?”

“Me drive?” You asked skeptically, reaching for the keys from his outstretched hand. Just as you touched the keychain his pulled his hand away, a close-lipped smile on his face, “stop!” You laughed, hopping off the table and trying for the keys again.

Daryl closed his hand around them, holding tight as you grabbed his wrist, turning so you could put yourself between him and his arm, your back to his chest as you pried his fingers open. “You said I could have the keys.”

“Ya weren’t quick enough,” he nearly laughed, wrapping his other arm around your waist as if he could hold you off that way.

Your fingers interlocked with his as you pulled the keys away, holding them above your head so he couldn’t grab them, looking back at him triumphantly. “Got ‘em.”

He let you go, hand grazing your stomach and then pinching your hip as he stepped away from you, the faintest of pink tinged on his cheeks. Touching you was something he couldn’t resist and he’d gotten bolder about it since the first afternoon he’d spent with you but he still got embarrassed or self-conscious after the moment ended. But you ignored that moment, smiling at him as you shook the keys, showing off your win.

“If I drive do I have to pay too?” You asked, walking to the truck.

“Wouldn’t wanna put ya out.” He replied, pulling himself up into the passenger seat. Once you’d started the truck, he fiddled with the radio dial, turning it to something that he liked.

“I know you never come to stuff that I invite you to but Maggie and I are having a joint graduation party, thought maybe I could extend an invitation.” You mentioned. Annette had sent out the official graduation party invitations a week prior, getting the slot for the second weekend in May before anyone else could try and claim it. “I know you hate people-”

“I don’t hate people.”

“You don’t like them.” You pointed out.

“Ain’t it.” He shrugged, “its the other way around anyway.”

“Well I’ll be there and I like you.” You said, looking over at Daryl and catching his eye for just a second before he turned away, lighting a cigarette to distract himself, “Tara’ll be there too.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Are you saying that cause you will think about it or because you want me to never ask you about it again so you’re humoring me?” You asked.

Daryl grinned around the cigarette in his mouth, “take your pick.”

You bit back a smile as you rolled the truck to a stop, casting your eyes down to the dash, “you’re low on gas,” you mentioned, noticing the dial lulling to the E.

He nodded, a silent agreement that you could pull into Jacqui’s for gas. After your birthday you had stopped hanging around Daryl and it was as if everyone in town had gotten the memo about it. Patricia had even commented that she was glad you seemed to be “back on track” and whether you cared what they thought or not, when you started hanging out with Daryl again you had kept a low profile about it. This was the first time the two of you were going anywhere together during the day, when anyone could see you driving around in his truck.

But you pulled into the gas station without a second thought, truck facing the window of the small store as you parked at a pump. “I’m not paying for this either.”

“Yer unbelievable, ya know that.” Daryl rolled his eyes, pulling his wallet out of his back pocket and handing some cash to you. “Just get $20...get me a pack of marlboro too. Jacqui’s always up my ass when I’m in there.”

“Oh yeah, cause she won’t be up mine?” You asked, taking the cash from him. You popped the door open and got out, turning back around to look at Daryl, “anything else?”

He shook his head.

You shut the door as you stepped passed it, walking between the truck and the gas pump, heading inside the store and ignoring the car two spots down from you. All you were thinking about was the sheer relief you felt stepping inside the door and realizing that it wasn’t Jacqui behind the register. Small miracles, you thought, paying for the gas and asking for a pack of marlboro.

“You front the bill for his drugs too?”

Your eyes practically rolled into the back of your head at the sound of Shane’s voice. You had been avoiding a majority of the people you knew from school since the fight at Shane’s house but he definitely topped the list.

“Shut up Shane.” You mutter, grabbing the cigarettes from the cashier and turning to leave, pushing passed your ex-boyfriend. When you push the door open he follows you outside, stepping in front of you. Just over his shoulder, at the truck, Daryl looks over. He’d gotten out to pump the gas and the sight of Shane blocking your path had sparked his attention. “What?” You were still paying attention to Shane though and hadn’t noticed Daryl, “What do you want?”

“I just wanna talk to you for a minute.” He reached for your arm and you stepped away from him. “I’m just trying to understand where you’re coming from. Hanging around that low-life? Showing up to my party with Aiden? Come on, guys like that don’t give a shit about you.”

“Wow, thank you for that amazing chat, I’ll put you down as concerned and delusional for thinking I give a shit about your opinion.” You started to step around him but he moved to block you again. “Shane...I swear to god, get the fuck away from me.”

“I still have feelings for you.”

“I have to go.” You pushed passed him, walking across the parking lot to Daryl’s truck, stopping just in front of him, “next time, you go inside.”

“He give ya any trouble?” Daryl asked, taking the pack of cigarettes and the receipt from you.

“No, just being a general douche and trying to lecture me. I mean, where does he get off lecturing me?” You complained.

Daryl hung the nozzle back up, closing the gas cap. He placed his hand on your arm as he passed you to walk around the front of the truck, placing a quick and surprising kiss to your head as he did, in full view of Shane. You grinned, sure that Daryl was turning pink from his ears to his chest because of the peck but not wanting to look at him and give Shane any more of your attention. You got in the driver’s side of the truck, finally glancing at Daryl as you pulled the car out of the parking lot.

“You’re pettier than I thought you were.”

“Ain’t petty,” he replied, smacking the new pack of cigarettes against the palm of his hand, “just want that Walsh kid off yer back.”

Daryl showing you any kind of affection or attention would probably have the exact opposite effect if you were honest but you certainly weren’t going to tell him that and discourage him. “I don’t like him but he can’t take a hint.”

“Has he bothered ya before?” Daryl asked.

“Not for a few weeks,” you replied, “he came into the diner after the party but Otis told him to leave. Lori said he’s ‘passionate’ about me.”

“That ain’t passion.”

“I know.” You assured.

Daryl looked over at you as you pulled up to a red light, “be careful if he comes around again.”

“You know, people tell me the same thing about you.” You teased and he scoffed.

“I wouldn’t ever hurt ya.”

“I know.”

You pulled the truck into the parking lot of the diner in Woodbury, parking in the same spot you had when you had driven there the first time. The familiar little diner was a welcomed sign in your life right now, as was Daryl. You knew the chances of him coming to your graduation were slim but you thought that resistance he had to letting himself be with you was slowly breaking, his resolve disappearing. He’d kissed the side of your head, for a split second, quicker than a blink of the eye, but he had done it and you couldn’t shake the feeling it had caused. The way all the annoyance and anger at Shane had just washed right off you when you looked at Daryl and how okay you felt when he touched your arm.

“You should let me drive your truck more often,” you commented, handing the keys over as you walked inside with him.

“I’ll think about it.” He replied.

“Are you just saying that to humor me?”

He looked back at you as the hostess grabbed two menus, the smallest of smiles crossing his face, the smugness of it making you smile back.

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mostlysignssomeportents · 3 years

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Who owns the covid vaccines?

A key idea from sf is “all laws are local, and no law knows how local it is.” Prisoners of our own time and place, it’s hard not to feel like we’re living in the only possible world, is if everything around us is inevitable and natural — and any change is “unnatural.”

But anyone who’s ever dabbled in multi-agent modeling (sims where “individuals” each have their own goals and aversions) knows there are lots of stable configurations that a big, complex system can fall into, and re-rerunning the same sim produces wildly different outcomes.

14 months ago, we hit STOP on our big, complex system and now the US is about to hit START again. It will not be a return to “normalcy,” because the old normal wasn’t inevitable. There are lots of other ways we could get along. And frankly, the old normal sucked.

A key way in which Old Normal sucked was the way that monopolists were able to style themselves as heroic entrepreneurs whose great rewards were commensurate with their great risks — when in reality, the risks were always socialized and only the gains were privatized.

That’s an area where a new normal is long overdue, and that new normal is being born in the controversy over public access to covid vaccines.

Helping the poor world manufacture its own vaccines is the obvious right thing to do.

Not just because vaccine apartheid is slow genocide, but also because the longer billions of people are infected, the greater the chance that one of them will incubate a vaccine-resistant, even more deadly mutation.

MRNA vaccines are wild: compared to conventional vaccines, they can be manufactured with 99.7% less capital and 99.9% less physical plant, and mRNA production facilities can retool to make new vaccines 1,000% faster.

https://coronavirus.medium.com/manufacturing-mrna-vaccines-is-surprisingly-straightforward-despite-what-bill-gates-thinks-222cffb686ee

Moderna’s own assessment is that new mRNA facilities can be built in 3–4 months. There’s no good scientific or humanitarian reason to object to patent- and know-how transfer to the Global South, where vaccination is currently projected for 2023/4 (!).

https://apnews.com/article/drug-companies-called-share-vaccine-info-22d92afbc3ea9ed519be007f8887bcf6

We’ve just experienced the collapse of the racist lie — peddled by Big Pharma, Bill Gates, Howard Dean and other vaccine apartheid apologists — that poor brown people are too primitive to make vaccines.

The new talking point? “CHINA! CHINA! CHINA!”

https://pluralistic.net/2021/05/15/how-to-rob-a-bank/#roll-the-dice

Whether it’s racist lies about the Global South or New Cold War hysteria, the underlying ideological story is the same: exclusive patent rights and the (spectacular) profits they yield are the foundation of lifesaving medical innovation.

That is, fate has placed among us a tiny cohort of collosi, endowed with the superpower of inventing the future. But for all their creative might, these saviors-in-potentia have the fragile temperaments of toddlers, and if they’re denied their due, they’ll abandon us to die.

“Behind every great fortune lies a great crime.” The true mRNA vaccines theft isn’t entrepreneur-inventors who face robbery by the public sector — rather, those “entrepreneurs” have enjoyed billions in public subsidies, and now insist they owe nothing in return.

So much public investment went into the covid vaccines that it’s hard to account for it all. The GAO thinks that Uncle Sam coughed up $18–23b in direct subsidies. BARDA pumped in $19.3b.

https://www.healthaffairs.org/do/10.1377/hblog20210512.191448/full/

The USG picked up the tab for non-clinical studies of new covid vaccines ($900m), and also shelled out for Phase III trials ($2.7b).

Moderna got $53m for production capacity, part of $100m in direct capacity contracts to pharma, backed with $2.7b for contract manufacturers.

J&J got a $1b pre-order from the USG; Moderna got $4.95b, Pfizer (which touts its lack of public subsidy!) got a $5.97b guaranteed order.

That’s just the latest round of investment. BARDA has been backing mRNA vaccine research for years, pumping billions into the project.

Pharma’s claim that it doesn’t owe us anything in return makes no sense, even by the companies’ own logic. They say that markets produce wonders because they reward canny risk-taking with vast fortunes.

By that logic, the public — who assumed the majority of the risk in developing vaccines — are the angel investors in this high-tech unicorn, and the pharma companies are the VCs who came in with some late capital to help scale up a sure thing.

It’s neither good business — nor legal — for early minority investors get squeezed out by latecomers.

But, of course, the government isn’t a business. Our democratic institutions direct our national productive capacity to R&D in service to human thriving, not profit.

Public investment in R&D isn’t a business in the same way that having kids isn’t a retirement plan: we have kids because we love them and want them to thrive. If they care for us in our dotage, that’s great, but if you treat your kid as an ambulatory 401k, you’re a monster.

I first encountered these ideas when serving as an NGO rep at WIPO alongside Jamie Love and Knowledge Ecology International. Love helped create the Access to Medicines Treaty and has been fighting the pharma industry’s self-serving story of fragile genius for decades.

In an interview with Janine Jackson at FAIR, Love lays out the plain case for an IP-waiver to enable poor countries to make their own vaccines, like the undeniable truth that this would “definitely expand the production and supply of vaccines.”

https://fair.org/home/government-money-thats-gone-into-vaccine-development-is-being-privatized-by-a-handful-of-companies/

Love also recounts the kind of public subsidy that went into covid vaccine production (for example, Pfizer’s boasts of free enterprise entrepreneurship omits the €400m from Germany and €100m from the rest of the EU).

Pharma’s claims of philanthropic largesse are wildly overblown. Pfizer told its shareholders it expects $26b from covid vaccines in 2021; Moderna’s projecting $20b (Moderna’s CEO’s personal net worth just hit $5b).

All that before pharma companies jack up the prices for “their” vaccines, in the years to come when we all need annual boosters, when the price will go from $10 to $175/dose, for a vaccine that costs $0.10/dose to manufacture.

The case for public access to vaccines and the case against pharma as a necessary or even laudable force for good is so thin, it’s remarkable that it’s persisted this long.

But as Love points out, the ideology that knowledge-monopolies are moral has some powerful backers.

Bill Gates is a prime example. Gates has been committed to enclosing commonly created knowledge and turning it into a monopoly — in service to coaxing our toddler-genius-collosi into action — since he was a teenager, writing petulant letters to computer hobbyists.

Today, Gates — a convicted monopolist — directs one of the world’s great fortunes (“behind every great fortune…”), and he mobilizes his capital to prop up the story of necessary and benevolent profiteering.

The Gates Foundation, for example, donates millions to “independent” media outlets (as well as partnering with public media like the BBC), and as Love describes, this has a chilling effect on negative reporting on Gates, the Foundation, and its ideology.

Like the time Love got a Washington Monthly reporter interested in a critical story about how the Gates Foundation’s grants influence its media coverage — only to have the reporter’s editor kill the story because they’d just applied for one of those grants (!).

Gates is a true ideologue, a relentless campaigner against any public access to public goods, in every domain, not just software. He’s been at it a long time, leading the charge against Nelson Mandela’s demand that South Africa be allowed to manufacture its own AIDS drugs.

Love: “Gates is a smart guy; he’s not the only smart guy around or smart woman around. I think people need to listen to other views. And, actually, Gates has sort of a mental block about these issues, and so some of his arguments just don’t add up.”

But all laws are local, and multi-agent systems have many stable configurations. On Friday, the New York Times editorial board — long a voice for strong corporate power — published an editorial and accompanying package strongly endorsing vaccine waivers.

https://www.nytimes.com/2021/05/14/opinion/biden-covid-vaccines-world-india.html

The Times notes that the global economy is losing trillions due to lockdown, and that these loses will mount for so long as vaccines aren’t universally available.

But it also makes an ethical case, calling vaccine apartheid a “moral failure.”

It warns of political instability and the potential for states to topple if something isn’t done, pointing to the pitched battles in Colombia (in which death squads are now murdering leftists with impunity and posting snuff videos to social media as a boast — and a warning).

Beyond advocating for vaccine waivers, the Times backs Public Citizen’s plan to spend $25b ramping up domestic, publicly owned vaccine production facilities to make vaccines to be given away free or at cost to poor countries.

https://www.citizen.org/article/25-billion-to-vaccinate-the-world/

That effort will produce 8b vaccine doses, “enough to vaccinate half the planet.” And it will provide booster shots and new anti-variant vaccines into the future.

The future is coming. Lockdowns are lifting. The rich world is inching toward an emergence from emergency. But normalcy isn’t returning — thank goodness. The whole world deserves (and requires) so much better than normal.

Image: Quapan (modified) https://www.flickr.com/photos/hinkelstone/49920420853

CC BY https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/

#pluralistic

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waywardwrestlewritingwaif · 3 years

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Fortune’s Rule, Part 1

So I had a conundrum: wait until this fic was finished and nice and way too long for anyone to read in one sitting, or break it up into parts and hope that readers don’t mind that the “leading man” doesn’t actually appear in the first part. SIGH. So I’ve decided to go with the second one.

If anyone has some pointers for me on how to write stories that are short, concise and don’t require people to fight their way through my word jungle in order to get what they want out of the experience, that’d be swell.

Anyway, here’s the first part of this story. I promise that there will be subsequent parts coming soon.

Pairing: Damian Priest x OFC (I wasn’t joking, he literally doesn’t appear in this first section)

Word count: 2,386 (And it’s just a bloody intro???? Yes, I’m sorry)

Content advisory: violence, criminal behavior, drug use

“What the hell was that?” Cynthia whimpers, sinking into the backseat a little further.

You twist your neck from the passenger seat, although there’s nothing to see from the outside of the house, at least for now. You both heard it, a few sharp cracks that echoed in your brains, if not in reality, like those stupid cherry bomb fireworks people were always setting off when you were kids. The sort of thing boys were always into.

Cynthia clamps a hand over her mouth and shakes her head. This is not her scene. This is way beyond her scene. She’s here because the two of you were supposed to score some mushrooms out of the deal, but more importantly, she’s here because she’s your friend. You were the one who assured her that it was no problem for the two of you to accompany your boyfriend, Johnnie, to actually buy the drugs from his supplier. Yes, you’d known that he was picking up a lot more than mushrooms. And yes, you’d been aware that there was some kind of tension between him and the guys that he was going to buy from. But you’d told yourself that it was no big deal and, just to make yourself feel that much more confident, you’d told Cynthia that as well.

A few seconds later, you see Johnnie come tearing out of the house, a few more loud firecracker-sounds following him. He crashes into the car like a missile, jumping so forcefully into the driver’s seat that he almost ends up in your lap. He drops a worn canvas satchel onto the console between you and as it shifts closer to you, you can see what looks like a lot of bills inside.

“Keys!” he rasps.

You shove your spare set into his hand, not wanting to ask where his keys have gone. He fires up the engine and takes off so fast that the back of the car fishtails and the tires screech.

“Johnnie, what the fuck just happened?” you growl, your heart pumping as you see the sweat pouring from him and a trickle of blood from a cut on his brow.

“Don’t fucking start,” he snaps. “Don’t start with me now. We’re going to go back home and I’ll explain then but until we’re home I don’t want to hear a fucking word, you got that?”

His voice rises threateningly for the last three words and you hear Cynthia sob behind you. You know that there’s a problem, a big problem. You just want to know that those sounds you heard weren’t shots. That’s all you want to know.

“It’s just that we heard… there was something that sounded…” You don’t want to anger him. His eyes are so intently focused on the road ahead that you feel like distracting him will cause some sort of meltdown.

“I said shut the hell up!” he bellows, grabbing something from his pocket and tossing it into your lap.

The weight hits you and you almost scream in shock before you even know what it is. Then, when you see what it is, you want to scream even more. Sitting in your lap is a handgun. You’ve seen them, even held them before when your father used to take you to shoot handmade targets in the field near the trailer park where you’d grown up. But this is different. The metal is warm and the damn thing is much bigger than anything your father used to use. It’s something that would intimidate other people when you whipped it out. It’s the sort of thing that should end a dispute through intimidation alone. But in this case, you’re pretty sure it didn’t.

You’d love to punch Johnnie right in the fucking ear. You want to demand to know what’s going on, but he’s the one who’s managing the vehicle that’s rocketing through the back roads to get to the highway and it feels like anything you say is going to freak him out.

From the backseat, Cynthia whispers your name, wanting to know what’s going on.

“Don’t worry, Cyn,” you reassure her. “It’s no big deal.”

“Shut up,” Johnnie spits, almost under his breath.

You can’t miss the look on Cynthia’s face as she pushes her cherry red hair out of her eyes. She knows that something has gone very wrong as surely as you do.

“Just take it easy, “ you grunt in Johnnie’s direction. “You don’t want to get pulled over for speeding.”

He looks like he’s about to turn and punch you in the face but almost immediately, a wave of calmness passes over him. He takes his foot off the gas just a little and seems to focus on the road and not whatever he’s just seen.

The three of you ride in silence until you hit the offramp to the freeway, at which point it seems like there’s enough distance between you and the place you’ve left for you to speak.

“You need to tell me what the hell happened back there,” you snap.

“I didn’t have anything to do with it,” he mutters, pulling out to pass the car in front of him like the guy owes him money.

“Dude, something went all the fuckin way wrong and you need to tell us because we need to know what to say in case anyone comes asking questions.” You let the emphasis fall on the final word so that he catches your full meaning. The three of you need to get your stories in line.

“It was nothing,” he insists. “I went there to conduct a little business, some other guys showed up and started an argument. I didn’t feel good about the whole situation so I left.”

“Johnnie, no one else came up to the house while you were in there. And it seemed like whatever argument happened involved guns.”

“Why the fuck are you contradicting me? You wanna know what to tell the cops? Tell them exactly what I just said!”

“Oh yeah? And what if there are traffic cameras or neighbourhood watch cameras? What happens if there’s a nosy fucking neighbour? No other car pulled up. No other people walked into that house after you did. So get your shit together and tell us enough of what happened that we can come up with a story that the cops will actually buy.”

“What the hell is going on?” Cynthia groans, staring at you with her almost perfectly round eyes.

You want to grab her hand and reassure her. After all, the two of you have been friends since junior high school. You skipped school together and hitchhiked to the city to go see so many shows. Almost all of your first drug experiences have been together. You’d lost your virginity to the same sleazy guy who always showed up at high school parties even though he was clearly too old to be there.

But for all the time and experience you’ve had together, you feel like you can’t help her right now. Things had been a bit weird since you’d hooked up with Johnnie and since she’d gotten a scholarship to art school. She hadn’t even applied on her own, hadn’t ever considered education beyond high school, but some of her paintings got picked up by a local gallery and a big shot from a nearby college had been awestruck. He’d pushed her until she applied and when she’d gotten accepted, he’d made sure that she was able to get a full scholarship. In a couple of months, she was heading away.

You hadn’t ever considered education beyond high school either but all it meant for you was that you’d spent the last few years working at whatever minimum wage shit job you could find and doing as much as you could to distract yourself when you weren’t on the clock.

She’d found a lifeline. You hadn’t. You tried not to be jealous of that. You liked to think you were keeping her open-minded by doing psychedelics together.

Johnnie is gripping the steering wheel like he’s trying to choke it to death. Although he’s eased off on the speed a little, he’s still going way faster than he should, well over the speed limit, and you don’t know what’s going to happen if you get pulled over. As a precaution, you take the gun off your lap and slide it under the passenger seat. Cynthia notices and gasps when she sees what you’re doing.

You keep your eyes on him as he stares furiously at the freeway ahead, his concentration unbroken until he sees two police cars, sirens blaring, headed in the other direction.

“Fuck,” he gasps, jerking the wheel to the right.

The car swerves violently and both you and Cynthia scream.

“Shut up! They’re headed to the house. I just need to take the next exit and stay off the highways for a while.”

You’re about to ask him how he knows where the police are headed when he slams the car to the right again, lining up to take the next exit.

Another police car, this one followed by an ambulance, rockets by on the far side of the freeway, siren howling and lights flashing.

“Fuck!” Johnnie gasps.

You’re hardly able to process the sound before you hear yourself screaming. The exit is just ahead but he swings the wheel wildly, propelling you off the road entirely and into the thick foliage on your right. The car bounces violently enough that your head slams off the side, the dashboard, and the roof, the howls and yelps of your two companions echoing like something in the distance. You hit a series of hard bumps, like you’re going down a very steep staircase and it feels like every part of your upper body gets banged up in the descent before you finally hit bottom and your skull slams hard into the dashboard.

It’s a long few minutes before you recover enough to realize where you are and realize that the car is quickly filling with murky water. . Instinctively, you unfasten your seatbelt and try to force the car door open, to no avail. It’s then that you become aware that the car has taken a nosedive into the swampy river and that it’s sinking quickly. Your window is down enough that you can, somewhat painfully, pull yourself through it, although being sucked down into the mud and water doesn’t feel much safer on the outside of the car.

You keep a grip on the door and look inside. Johnnie is unconscious over the steering wheel, his neck bent at an ugly angle and a stream of blood slowly falling from his mouth. You hesitate a moment before reaching through the window again and grabbing the satchel from the front seat. At first, Cynthia looks like she’s unconscious and face down in the water but as you’re about to move away, she raises her head and wriggles her body towards the door.

She hisses your name as she pulls herself up to the window, extending her hand for you to pull her out. “Shit,” she moans, “this fucking hurts. Let’s just get out of here.”

You can see her legs, which you hope she can’t. They’re mangled, the bone of one shin ripping through the skin, both obviously fractured in multiple places, trailing after her like strange, jointed snakes.

You back up a step or two. “I’m going to go get help,” you croak. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

She shakes her head violently, a long stream of blood and saliva escaping her bottom lip.

“No way. Come on, get me out of here. We’ll make up some story for the hospital.”

You don’t know what the hell you could tell a hospital, particularly if the police are on the lookout for some people who fled the scene of a crime along the exact same route you’d been taking before you crashed. You need to get away from here. You’re dazed but you’re not broken. No one needs to know that you were ever here.

“I’ll be right back,” you assure Cynthia, backing away from the car and into the river.

“Godammit, don’t you dare leave me here Leeanne!” she screams.

“I’ll be right back,” you repeat.

She’s injured. She’s too injured for you to help. The police will find the car. The police will rescue her. Whatever she tells them, they’re not going to prosecute her because she’s just an innocent bystander. She just went to get some mushrooms with her deadbeat best friend and her wannabe drug kingpin boyfriend. She’ll be fine.

“Don’t worry,” you yell at her as you step back into the river, the current pulling at your legs.

Her screams resonate for what seems like a long time as you let yourself be carried a bit by the current. If the police come with their dogs, they’ll lose your scent in the river. For some reason, this is something that you remember even as you’re fighting to keep your head above water. Finally, feeling that you might be reaching the end of your strength, you grab hold of a low-hanging branch near the far side of the water. You just cling to it for a while, trying to catch your breath and summon the strength to rescue yourself. As you listen to the sound of your laboured breathing, you swear you can still hear Cynthia’s screams.

Finally, you haul yourself up the river bank and crawl onto dry ground. You pull yourself over the forest floor, not trusting your legs, until your lungs simply refuse to give you the oxygen to move any farther. Looking out over the river, you can see the back end of the car, slowly sinking beneath the surface in the distance. There are sirens again and noises, voices, people closing in on the wreckage. You want to watch, to know if Johnnie and Cynthia are alright. But you also need to sleep. Your head is pulsing from the point where it hit the dashboard, so painful it feels like your skull is cracked. You try to keep your eyes open, wanting to know, but the world is growing darker and colder and you’re too exhausted to fight it off any longer.

#Wrestling Fanfic #wrestling imagine #damian priest fanfic #damian priest imagine #nxt imagine #nxt fanfiction #WWE Fanfic #wwe imagine #wayward wrestle writing

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ecoamerica · 2 months

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youtube

Watch the American Climate Leadership Awards 2024 now: https://youtu.be/bWiW4Rp8vF0?feature=shared

The American Climate Leadership Awards 2024 broadcast recording is now available on ecoAmerica's YouTube channel for viewers to be inspired by active climate leaders. Watch to find out which finalist received the $50,000 grand prize! Hosted by Vanessa Hauc and featuring Bill McKibben and Katharine Hayhoe!

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ghostmartyr · 3 years

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how a life can move from the darkness [2/?]

|1|

Brief summary before the cut: Two drug addicts (Eren and Historia) meet in group and decide to be roommates to make their living situation slightly less weird. From there we do the slow burn found family dance mixed in with the struggles and agonies of recovery. Heavy on friendship feels, especially EMA. Eventual yumikuri.

Frieda’s first real visit, where she was actually visiting her sister, not being their babysitter, ended with orders for them to invest in a pet. She didn’t phrase it particularly demandingly. She only said it once, and didn’t bring it up the rest of the night. She barely raised her voice loud enough to be heard over the stove.

She’d walked in on them during one of their mutual wall/ceiling viewing parties.

It was an order.

“No dogs.”

“Okay.”

“Or cats.”

“Okay.”

“Or ferrets.”

“Okay.”

Eren pulled his jacket tighter. The zipper was broken. He should have worn a sweatshirt. He walked down the sidewalk, foot hitting every crack and head wondering if his mom would have preferred a broken back to a broken heart. “Nothing that can get out and crawl around the apartment.”

Historia, behind the personal barrier that used to be the map to the pet store, said, “Eren, we’re getting a fish.”

“Oh,” Eren said. “Okay.” Pause. “Just one?”

“Do you want more than one?”

Eren wasn’t sure he wanted one. He wasn’t sure he wanted one of anything else, either. He mostly wanted Historia’s sister to worry less. He felt like he had two moms these days, and he was letting down both of them. “I… do fish get lonely?”

“Don’t know.”

That made two of them.

An hour, a very talkative employee, and five pamphlets later, Eren still didn’t have an answer to his question, and knew more about nitrate cycles than high school or Armin had ever bothered with. He also found out that the same yearly school field trip to the aquarium each year had taught him nothing about aquariums.

Pumps, vacuums, filters, water treatments, thermometers. Food. Tanks bigger than he could lift.

Armin would have loved this.

One text and he’d probably explain exactly what they wanted and what kind of fish to look for better than the sales guy, and ask if they wanted him to come help out in person with the selections. The trip wouldn’t be giving Eren a headache and he wouldn’t have visions of all the fish they were going to fail dancing in his head.

Armin wasn’t there, and Eren would have to read one of the hundreds of texts from him to find out if there was even a chance of changing that in this reality. Without hating himself so much he couldn’t breathe.

Historia was in the same leaky boat he was, so by the time the sales guy let them go with instructions to look around the store and figure out what kind of aquarium they’d like, Eren really had no idea why they were getting a fish. Besides the merit points from a successful purchase. If they pulled this off without anything dying, it would be like a giant neon sign announcing to the world that they were sort of functional.

The neon sign would not be going near the fish, because that screwed with the lighting, and that, according to the midpoint of their free lecture, would be bad.

“Did you have a breed in mind?” he asked Historia. The damp, weighty smell surrounding them made him feel like he was underwater and drowning. “Or a color?”

“You can pick,” Historia said.

Eren hadn’t met their new fish yet, but he felt sorry for it.

One of them had to put some kind of executive effort into this. Historia was paying for everything. That left him. He could handle walking around and figuring out which fish they were going to try like hell not to kill.

Sometime during their tutorial, they’d ended up in the tropical section. Everything was bright and smelled like the ocean. Eren’s eyes had spent the last ten minutes burning, and now that it was just him and Historia, he was having trouble keeping them from leaking.

Armin and Mikasa should have been there.

They weren’t, and they couldn’t be, and that was his own damn fault, and he didn’t want them there—

“Eren?”

He looked up from the stained concrete floor.

Historia had zoned back in, and was watching his clenched, shaking, fists. He tried to relax them. It didn’t work. He was standing in the middle of a fish store, trying not to cry, and he couldn’t hit anything because then he probably would kill a fish, and Historia being filthy rich wouldn’t fix how awful and pissed that would make him feel, and before he knew it he’d be back behind Zeke’s batting cages, hearing all of the offers the dealer was making and actually listening.

“Eren,” Historia’s voice said, firmly.

“Yeah.” His was too far away, somewhere under the waves of the ocean. But he blinked and he was looking at the bright colors, not the floor, and a quick swipe cleared the damp spots away from under his eyes. “Salt water’s okay, right?”

He could see her nod. Her footsteps followed him down the aisle, and he concentrated on looking at the damn colorful fish. He had no idea what to look for. The sales guy had set them loose with a happy smile, telling them that if they found something they liked, he’d help out with the step-by-step of what to buy first.

There were more steps to this than Eren ever wanted to think about, which probably meant it was healthy to try.

His eyes floated over to a tank on the other side of the aisle. Less colorful, and full of rocks. A lone fish roved back and forth inside, dark spines the size of his fingers swishing along with it. It looked like someone had chopped up a sea urchin and glued its spikes to a large brown goldfish with streaky frills. A lionfish, someone else’s happy voice reminded him, carrying the sound of hurriedly flipped pages.

He didn’t hate the thought of caring for one of those.

He walked over to the tank, crouching down to stare at the thing properly. The card sitting by the tank agreed with his memory. And the fish was too big to mistake for an art fixture. It looked like a real creature; a real pet, not just something to lock away and call personal growth. Alive and fierce. Frieda would approve.

“What do you think?” he asked Historia.

She watched the lionfish swish into one of its rock caves. They both did.

“Okay.”

By the time they were back in their apartment, and the giant tank with all its mixed water and pumps and gravel and sand and rock features was set up, and they were staring at it instead of a blank wall, Eren understood a little better why they were getting a fish.

He doubted it was the upgrade Frieda was aiming for. He also doubted they could do any better.

---

A week into cycling the tank, Eren found the will for the conversation he’d put off since moving in.

Eren wasn’t big on letting people take care of him. His mom could attest to that. To hear her tell it, the day he started crawling, he’d spent all his time crawling away from her. Bandaging his skinned knees as a toddler had taken an hour of convincing before he’d let his—

He didn’t like being kept, or treated like he couldn’t handle his own life. After rehab, he lost the right to that mattering. His mom wasn’t going to accept her grown son’s rent when he needed babying, and he didn’t have the energy to push past the shame and argue.

Things were different now.

He hoped.

Historia was his sponsor, not his mother, and he was hers. He’d seen the bill for their aquarium. Pre-fish (they were giving the tank a month before they picked up its resident). He’d lived in their apartment. He’d seen Historia throw things into their shopping cart without checking prices. She paid for it from a wallet full of holes, but she never cared about the cost or bothered with coupons.

He knew Historia and her family had more money than he would even know what to do with. He knew he couldn’t afford his share if they split it honestly. He didn’t care. He was an adult. He worked. He could help pay for his own sad life.

It was important, Petra had said once, to remember that they were still part of the world. Addiction was what kept them out of it; recovery meant finding their way back in.

That was one of the first meetings he went to. He’d broken a fingernail gripping his chair and acid had boiled up his throat. Petra’s cookies had been too soft, and he ate three to make the taste go away.

Things were better now. He was cutting up carrots for dinner in an apartment that he didn’t share with someone he had hurt.

“I want to start paying rent,” Eren said.

Historia, alternating between reading her textbook and watching a pot boil, briefly added him to the rotation. “I told you, you don’t have to.”

“I want to,” Eren repeated, wincing at the extra volume his voice picked up. “I’m not some helpless little kid who needs handouts. I can pull my own weight.” Even if he’d been happy acting like he couldn’t up until now. What the fuck was wrong with him. He kept talking, trying to skid over that thought before he crashed into it. “I can’t keep taking advantage of people.”

“You’re not,” Historia said. She leaned against the counter, frowning. “I’m the one who asked you to move in so I could stop worrying my sister. You don’t need to pay me for being selfish.”

“That isn’t the point,” Eren said.

Historia continued as if she didn’t hear him. “Besides, I’m not paying for any of this either.”

“That’s—look, Historia, I’d just…” Eren took a deep breath, because breathing exercises were supposed to help. They didn’t, but they were supposed to, and he couldn’t say some of the horrible things his mind came up with if he was inhaling. He screwed what was left of his useless courage and doubled down. “It would help my recovery a lot if I could help out with some of this.”

The words were terrible and lifeless, straight out of the meetings they both hated, and he should have stuck a thank-you somewhere in the middle, because he owed her everything for the help he was squirming out of.

Historia was looking at the ceiling. Her mouth was half-open, and Eren thought she agreed that he was back to saying all of the wrong things.

“My father’s paying for it,” she said quietly.

A block of ice coalesced in Eren’s chest.

“Oh,” Eren said, because even if she wasn’t talking about the dead one, she’d only ever mentioned the dead one before, and they both had dead ones and—he swallowed. Breathed. They’d never really gone over it, but Historia was easy enough to spot, and he’d gone to enough protests and rallies to know that blank silence was the worst thing he could do here, even if they weren’t talking about her. He smiled, jaw creaking with effort and soul cringing. “Your dad was gay?”

Timing meant he was expecting pain to get in the way of any relief. He was sure he was intruding on memories that weren’t any of his business, and even if he was trying to be a supportive friend, he was terrible at it, and they were now back to a place where he knew he’d be making things worse.

What he got was perplexed bewilderment.

“…What?”

He was definitely going to make this worse. “You—you said your dad was dead,” Eren said, slowly enough to be insulting on its own, “but your dad’s paying for the apartment, so that means you have—had, sorry—two?”

Historia stared at him.

She blinked, once, mouth forming a legion of unspoken words.

Eren, realizing he should have just shoved checks under her door each month, stayed standing awkwardly in front of the cutting board, waiting for the axe to fall and fervently regretting the lack of pills nearby.

“Eren,” Historia said at last, words warbling furiously, “my inheritance is paying for all of this. He put me in his will. Frieda wouldn’t let me—she thinks using it is good for my—” She looked across the room at the fishless aquarium.

“I’m supposed to spend it,” she said. Her mouth twitched, a muffled sort of chuckle escaping. Followed by another.

A peal of laughter whimpered from her lungs, ragged and horrified, and Historia was sliding down to the floor, hand pressed to her forehead while the fit of hysteria took over, giggles turning to honest cackles, tearing through the kitchen. Eren watched. He just stood there and watched.

Because she only had one dad, and she’d killed him.

He was dead.

The sob waiting in Eren’s chest came out wrong, not matching the horror and helplessness swirled in it, or the feel of blood warm in his hands as he tried to stop it all from spilling out even though it was too late, and he slipped down to the floor next to Historia, biting down on his thumb to keep from laughing.

By the time Frieda came by, bringing her weekly gift of ice cream, they were both crying.

---

Historia said they could work out splitting the fish costs and groceries, and there really wasn’t a reason to bring it up past that, so they didn’t.

Frieda didn’t, either.

Eren had the disturbing feeling that she understood.

---

Reiner wasn’t outside when Eren showed up for their run.

That was weird to start with. Reiner was as fanatically devoted to taking care of himself as he had been to heroin. Not just physically. He had a day planner. He’d offered to buy Eren one. The guy did not know how to flake.

Standing out in front of the house in Reiner’s usual spot was a woman Eren recognized from some of Reiner’s pictures. He’d flipped through them every single day of rehab, and Eren had wanted him dead.

He didn’t remember the woman’s name. She was scrolling through her phone when he jogged up, and the nod she gave him wasn’t very inviting. Dark circles shaded her freckles, but she was wearing workout clothes. Maybe Eren had missed a text, and he was helping out both of them today.

“Reiner still inside?” he asked.

“Yeah,” the woman said, pocketing her phone. “That’s where he’s staying, too. Bastard’s too sick to be conscious, forget running around the block.”

Too sick to warn Eren, too.

He was paying Eren. They were only sort of friends. Missing out on a run with him still made Eren want to crawl into the nearest hole and not come out. Reiner wasn’t exactly a bright spot to his day, but his day had started with a text from Armin. Reiner never made anything worse. Him and his normalcy had been something to look forward to when Eren woke up and threw his phone through his pillowcase.

World much gloomier than it needed to be at six in the morning, Eren said, “Is there anything I can help with? There’s a drugstore—” he wasn’t going to think about it, he wasn’t going to think about it— “a couple miles out I could hit for him.”

“Thanks, but I think Bert’s got the panicked nursing covered.”

Bertolt, Eren had met. He was usually watering the rosebush outside the house at the end of their morning run. “Great,” Eren said.

That left him… where? Needing to send a get-well text?

He made polite eye contact with Reiner’s friend. Like a person. “I’ll head off, then,” he said. “Let Reiner know today’s on me.”

The woman smirked at him. It might have been meant as a smile, but the glint in her eyes and Eren’s mood said smirk. “You have a side job exercising strangers,” she said. “Don’t volunteer to throw away money.”

Before Eren could point out that he wasn’t a dick, even if she was, she added, “Anyway, that’s what dragged me into this. Reiner thinks routines are part of the ex-junkie bible, and he didn’t want to screw you up just because he forgot to wash his hands. So I’ll be palling around with you this morning to assuage your mutual guilt complexes. You’re welcome.”

Eren had to unclench his jaw before he could speak. He wanted to go back to bed. He also wanted to go inside the house and wring Reiner’s fucking neck. The happy chittering of the birds sounded like cheaply ringing tin in his ears. “Reiner told you?”

Reiner told anyone?

Eren didn’t tell his friends that his client asked for makeup advice he didn’t have to cover up his track marks. He didn’t talk about Reiner’s lifelong fear of needles not holding a fucking candle to his snowballing drug habits. He didn’t breathe a damn word about any of it, not even in group, not even with the names taken out, because why the fuck would he do that to anyone.

“Don’t lose your head about it,” the woman’s voice echoed. “It only came up because he was already wetting himself over missing your appointment.” Her shoes thumped across the concrete, and Eren felt a slap against his shoulder. “He was worried, and hurling too much for his brain to keep a lid on why. He freaked out all over again when he realized what he said. He was trying to be a good friend, not an asshole. He just has a bad habit of mixing the two.”

Eren’s fingernails were digging into his palms. He had to concentrate to make them stop, but they stopped, and without the sting that said he broke the skin.

Deep breaths. The ones that never really worked.

“It’s fine,” he said.

“Right,” said the woman. He could feel her watching him. The scrutiny reminded him of the rehab shrink. Or a more hostile Petra. “Sorry. Usually I only bring up sensitive subjects on purpose.”

Eren didn’t know how much of a joke that was. He decided it didn’t matter. He reeled his head back to a zone where he knew how to handle all of this, even if he didn’t, reminded himself it was too early in the morning for him to shoot Historia a text asking for commiseration, and breathed normally.

“Do you need some time to stretch, or are you good to go now?” Eren asked.

The woman gave a one-armed shrug. “Feel free to run away from me at your leisure. I’m just here to take up space.” She watched him another moment before sticking out her hand. “Ymir, by the way.”

Eren shook it with as much heart as he didn’t have. “Eren.”

Her smile was all teeth. “Nice meeting you.”

----

Reiner wasn’t the only person who was sick, it turned out.

Eren knew he had to do something about the phone problem. This was a marked improvement from not thinking of it as a problem. He didn’t think he could steal credit for that. The outside world was screaming it at him. Armin had taken up regular texts like clockwork, and if that meant something was wrong, Eren didn’t know how to check without losing his mind. Being a fuckup and a coward would do that. Mikasa’s daily texts had never stopped. Hannes had gotten back to him about supervising some free climbers over the weekend. His first since his broken leg.

His pulse hadn’t dropped a beat when that conversation ended and a disaffected buzz announced a message from Zeke.

Zeke had barely spoken to him since the funeral. He’d walked him in and out of the rehab facility doors and left him alone. It wasn’t that different from the way things were before their dad died. The only change was him not dropping by unannounced to take Eren off on some adventure. If he’d tried that recently, no one had mentioned it. Eren wasn’t sure anyone had even bothered giving him his new address.

A text from Zeke out of the blue was a danger sign. Eren couldn’t just ignore it. He also couldn’t click on it.

Pacing the entire length of the apartment back and forth and back again, Eren could admit he had a problem. Step one. The last time that revelation had crept up and slammed him into a gutter, it was one of the worst moments of his life. This didn’t compare, but it left him feeling lopsided and tired. He couldn’t ignore his brother. Zeke had never ignored him. He had every reason in the world to, but he never had. Eren owed him.

He couldn’t open the damn text.

He made another agitated circuit around the apartment. His phone wasn’t set to tick down seconds, but they were playing back in his head fine without the help. He was rounding the couch, checking the aquarium and wishing they already had a fish to stare at—like that had a chance of helping, but maybe it did—when the loud clap of a slamming textbook stopped him in his tracks.

Historia, who he hadn’t noticed, was lying on the floor. Until a millisecond of time passed for her to gather her temper and she stood up from the rug, swept over, and threw out her hand.

Eren, who hadn’t come up with a better plan yet, gave her his phone. She almost took his hand off with it.

“Under Zeke,” he said. In case she mistook him for someone who had decided today was the time to finally go through and acknowledge the hundreds of unread texts Armin and Mikasa had sent him.

Historia scanned the screen in slow motion. “Someone’s sick,” she said, and visions of hospitals gone by and panic started up before she filled in the rest. “He wants to know if you can sub in for the game on Saturday.”

Baseball. No emergency. Baseball.

Eren breathed out, sighing. Relief was missing from it. He didn’t know why he had expected anything else. A quiet, petty hole that rehab hadn’t filled all the way was still waiting for Zeke to say something about what happened. He never would, and he was an ungrateful bastard for wanting more than what he’d got. What he’d got was more than he deserved. If Zeke never talked to him about anything but baseball, Eren would live with that.

That could really happen, too. Zeke loved baseball like he’d never loved anyone in his own damn family—

Eren moved to take back his phone before his head started something his fists couldn’t finish. Historia’s temper flare had vanished, and she dangled the device between them like it was the bomb about to go off instead of them. She made it look as large and unwieldy in her hands as it felt in Eren’s thoughts. He didn’t know why that helped. He wasn’t even sure if it did.

With how the day was going, Eren couldn’t be surprised when it buzzed with another text the second his finger brushed the casing. Historia jumped slightly, and Eren hated his eyes for catching the name on the screen.

Because Armin had started texting him again.

Great.

He was looking at the floor. Historia kept holding the phone. The bomb.

Great, great, great, great.

Eren could feel his breath shortening, his blood pumping faster, and he was supposed to be getting a grip and trying to be better than all of this and he wanted to break something. More things than he had the first time, or the second, or the third, or the twelfth, because all of those times hadn’t made the right impression, Armin was still trying, and so was Mikasa, and he was so sick of it, and himself, and Zeke, and—

“Have you ever been to a batting cage?” Eren blurted out.

Historia took a moment to answer. “What?” she said.

“Batting cage,” Eren said, feeling a tension headache building. “Have you ever been?”

“No?”

Ten minutes later, Eren didn’t think he felt a whole lot better, but nothing was broken, he hadn’t hurt anyone, and Historia wasn’t complaining about the sprinters’ pace they were walking down the sidewalk at. He didn’t think that last one was a point in his favor. She hadn’t given him his phone back. It was still a good thing. Someone was around to keep him from being stupid.

He led the way with a nervous energy that he hated. He knew how his body was supposed to work. It wasn’t a natural like Mikasa’s—and that turned the notch up on his leg speed one more time—but he’d spent time on it, and he knew how he liked to move. Purposefully. With real energy that came from the core. Not nervous sweats and clenched fists.

There were two batting cages within walking distance of their apartment. One, neither of them needed to be anywhere near. The other was fine, and normal, and open until midnight. Glazed lights decking a row of fence were visible from the street. The padded green of the fake grass stapled to every inch of the facility’s floor wasn’t. Two pairs of feet thumped across it to the cashier’s window out front.

Eren forked out the cash from his wallet to the drowsy employee manning the entrance before Historia had a chance to object. They marched on through without a word.

It was cool and dark outside, even with the glare of the lights, and Eren stuffed a helmet on his head from the rack and grabbed a bat before his thoughts slowed down enough to race in coherent circles. He couldn’t hit people anymore, but he sure could hit objects.

Historia was still trailing behind him, and she’d never been and he would help with that in a second after he took care of him, and watching was where it all started anyway it wasn’t like he was that great with words like—

He smacked the start button. His other hand clasped the bat, touching metal where the glue had peeled away from the grip. He raised it over his shoulder, a million lessons from a man who looked too much like his father coursing through his veins, and he was holding a metal pole and watching the blood spurt over it and his hands and

and

He remembered to hit the emergency stop and he made it to the trash can. That was the important part.

Fuck.

He didn’t know where the bat was, but all his hands were holding was the plastic bag around the rim of the trash can. His head was dipped down next to a collection of empty Styrofoam cups, gum, and vomit. The acidic burning in his throat waited for a swallow. The rest of him stayed still, waiting for the next hit.

That hadn’t happened before. He’d thought of it happening, but it never did. He hadn’t thrown up since he bet Jean he could drink an entire case of soda in first grade. He won. His mom still had a special sigh for that stain on the carpet.

Eren pulled himself out of the garbage. His knee was shaking. Badly enough to bring up more problems, so he sat down on the fake grass and let it scratch his fingers. He swallowed through the burning, and pressed a fist to his forehead.

Fuck.

Footsteps approached. Another cup showed up by his head. Not empty. Eren took it and sipped the water, and it was just like any other workout.

The only thing he could think of that would make it any worse was if he started crying, and he felt like he was going to.

Historia sat down next to him.

“Do you… want to talk about it?” she asked. She sounded like she was reading off a script. She was still holding his phone.

Eren hated his fucking phone. He wanted to throw it into a landfill.

He took a breath, and another sip of water. Besides the phone, which could go to hell, the hate felt cooler. Like all the lava out under the sky was turning into something solid. He’d liked Armin’s volcano phase. It’d been his phase, too. Like with the dinosaurs, and that one summer with pelicans.

He’d kill to be talking to Armin about pelicans right now. Instead he was sitting on a batting cage floor, the only support system he was strong enough to bear sitting right next to him instead of studying for her test like she was supposed to, and his lips were covered in drying bile, and he’d killed his dad.

Admitting he had problems wasn’t too hard when they were this obvious.

Eren opened his fist and dragged his hand through his hair.

“Do you have anyone?” Eren asked quietly. “That you have to make amends to?”

The answer was instantaneous, and not much of a surprise. “Frieda.”

Eren twisted his bangs around his fingers. Only a little of him wanted to tug it all out by the roots. “Not family. People you screwed up because they liked you and liking you meant they were around when you fucked up your life. Friends.”

Historia didn’t say anything for a whole minute.

“No,” she said.

That one was more of a surprise. It shouldn’t have been, because she was his roommate, and he had a pretty wide window into her life, but it was, and now Eren felt like even more of a dick. He dropped his hand into his lap and silently added Historia to his list. Maybe she’d be one he could actually cross off.

He didn’t know what to say next, because ‘sorry,’ was more of a distraction than he could deal with while being this useless, but as long as he was sober, he wasn’t the kind of person who wanted to just leave that bombshell alone.

Historia took pity on him and sighed.

“I had a fiancée in juvie.”

Eren blinked. He lifted his head. “You can get engaged in juvie?” he asked.

“You were in juvie?” was close behind, and he felt stupid enough thinking it to avoid saying it, because no matter how tiny she was, saying he had trouble picturing his drug addicted, father-murdering roommate doing time was…

“It’s not something you have to fill out paperwork for,” Historia said, continuing blithely on. “It’s just a promise. Words.” She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. She was older, so she got out before I did, and after that, I never heard from her again. We never even—” Historia stopped herself. Her eyes shut. “She probably didn’t even mean it. It started as a joke.”

It didn’t sound like it came from any sense of humor he’d known. Historia wasn’t laughing. Neither was Eren. He took another sip of the water she’d found him before he crushed the cup and it spilled all over his jeans.

“She doesn’t even know my real name,” Historia said, almost inaudibly. Her blinks sped up. “She was gone before my drug habit could disappoint her. She would have—” Historia snorted and there was something dark and chaotic in her smile.

“She would have killed me.”

This was a joke she got. Eren didn’t.

They sat in silence for a few moments, sitting on the scratchy fake grass. Eren spotted his bat on the floor next to the open cage.

“I have these friends,” he said, “that I don’t know how to…”

Trailing off was as close as he could get to articulating it. Historia could probably figure out the gist by living with him. Tonight wasn’t the first time his phone had caused problems, it was just the first time he’d made them her problem.

“The text before we left looked like some sort of science fact-a-day,” Historia said. “Frieda has a subscription to a few things like that.” He could feel her watching him. Months of feeling like everyone was watching him had honed the sense. “He’s probably copying you on them.”

That sounded like Armin. The perfect way to start talking without saying anything.

He waited for anger to spike with the thought, but he just felt tired.

He looked at the baseball bat. Historia followed his look.

“Zeke’s my half-brother,” he said. “I owe him, but if Saturday’s anything like this I’d be better off not showing up at all.”

Historia said, easily, “I’ll fill in for you.” Like any of his friends would have after he dragged them out of their apartment in the middle of the night to have a panic attack in front of them.

Being too stubborn to admit that he needed help was what had gotten him here. He didn’t want to stay. He didn’t think anyone wanted him to.

“Have you ever played baseball?”

“No.”

Zeke was going to love this.

---

Zeke did.

He’d also shaved.

Eren hadn’t seen him without a beard in years. It was weird, made him look like he belonged at some sort of board meeting, and every time they made eye contact Eren needed a second to find his brother in the face.

What he didn’t find, and what he’d been scared of seeing, was their dad.

He didn’t know if he was allowed to say thank you. They didn’t really do that. Zeke hadn’t said anything about Historia showing up as the sub for his sub. He was grateful, since the tiny adult baseball league was his entire life, and he’d be heartbroken if he missed out on any of it, but he didn’t say it. Not with Eren. There was just this quiet expectation that it would all work out, because they were brothers. No thanks necessary.

Not being the one playing, Eren had too much time to think about that.

Now, after the game, sitting across from his brother at the pizza parlor Zeke had selected instead of the bar he’d taken his team to every game day for at least five years, Eren was still thinking about it.

“Your roommate doesn’t have a bad arm,” Zeke said. “Do you think she’d want to join up?”

“You’d have to ask her.” Historia had gone outside when Colt ordered a beer, and he didn’t know if she’d noticed that Yelena had spent the entire seventh inning stretch and drive over asking too many questions, but it was mostly going okay. She’d caught a fly ball and gotten a hit, and their team won. They’d both had worse days.

“I might, if you can’t play.”

Eren’s hand tensed around his drink.

Zeke wouldn’t ask. Somebody had shown up, so he wouldn’t ask. Eren still couldn’t shake the feeling that he knew. Even if there was no way he could. Zeke was like that. Hide and seek had turned into a banned game the nights Zeke babysat. No matter how hard Eren tried, Zeke always found him, and his mom had gotten sick of coming home to him exploding in frustration.

Eren wanted him to ask. Zeke came to Eren instead of hitting up Mikasa when he needed a sub. He cared. Eren wanted to feel it instead of just knowing it, for once.

He was an ungrateful brat, in a lot of ways.

Zeke paid for the pizza. Historia eventually walked back in and sat with them. Zeke asked about school, and rock climbing, and what they thought about the batting order they’d tried.

He didn’t ask about Eren.

Which was fine. What would he have said, anyway? He was ghosting his best friends in the world while they tried to keep him in their lives. He didn’t get to miss his big brother for having the brains to stay out of it all.

[next]

#drug au #fic #mine #long post

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tabloidtoc · 4 years

Text

National Enquirer, November 9

You can buy a copy of this issue for your very own at my eBay store: https://www.ebay.com/str/bradentonbooks

Cover: Duchess Kate sets the record straight on Prince Harry and Meghan Markle

Page 2: Ben Affleck is wasting away and friends fear he’s taking his new health regimen too far as the six-foot-four star usually weighs 208 pounds but has shriveled to a spindly 165 -- a nutritionist put him on a sensible meal plan but he’s altered it with his own fantastical ideas such as he won’t go near bread and he’s ditched pasta and he’ll eat cantaloupe and blueberries one day and nuts and seeds the next and he’ll only drink boiled water and green tea for 24 hours then break his fast with a small bowl of quinoa -- instead of pumping iron he does exercises using his own body weight like ten-minute planks -- Ben thinks he looks great but his pals fear he’s traded one addiction for another

Page 3: Love-hungry Katie Holmes is thrilled to have a new man in her life but she’s breaking the bank to keep him happy because Katie is picking up the tab wherever she goes with Emilio Vitolo Jr. because it helps her feel she’s in full control of the relationship but Emilio may be taking advantage of Katie’s generosity because Katie has been showering him with designer clothes and jewelry and even paying for a personal trainer to whip him into shape -- Katie enjoys giving her guy things he can appreciate because he’s made her so happy but she may go broke doing it and it’s not like he doesn’t have any money; he’s worth a cool $1.5 million himself

Page 4: CNN rocked by sex scandal -- Jeffrey Toobin’s sleazy sex scandal has rocked CNN but it’s just the latest in a string of scandals at the network

Page 5: Axed Fox News anchor Ed Henry fought back against his co-worker’s rape charges in a blockbuster lawsuit by handing the court explicit selfies and texts in an attempt to prove their tryst was consensual

Page 6: Ryan Seacrest is downplaying his latest shocking absence from Live with Kelly and Ryan but the TV dynamo is battling a mystery illness that may force him to sign off for good -- the co-host who is a well known as a workaholic skipped out on the daytime show for the third time this year and used the coronavirus pandemic as his excuse -- Ryan was suffering badly from flu-like symptoms on the weekend before his absences but came back negative for coronavirus however doctors remain baffled by Ryan’s ongoing battles with exhaustion and weight loss and stroke-like symptoms, disgraced perv Bill Cosby’s latest mug shot shows he’s a shriveled shadow of his former self and the fallen funnyman flashed a maniacal grin while refusing to look into the camera in the picture snapped behind bars in September and he’s unshaven and his hair is ratty

Page 7: Lizzo has embarked on a radical vegan diet and extreme exercise program to save her life -- doctor warned the 350-pound singer that her daily intake of 5000 calories a day was a dangerous path to self-destruction and she needed to change her life or lose it and Lizzo finally got the message and is committed to this program but it’s been a living hell for her

Page 8: After surviving a fiery crash at the Daytona 500 NASCAR hero Ryan Newman is locked in an ugly $50 million divorce showdown with his estranged wife -- Ryan and Kristina Newman split in 2019 after she was caught having an affair with another man and paying her love $450,000 and now Ryan’s lawyers are trying to freeze Kristina who was once referred to as the First Lady of NASCAR out of his fortune -- court papers reveal the two split in July 2019 when Kristina went to live with her boyfriend U.S. Army Captain Joe Schwankhaus who is the Chief Operations Officer of Kristina’s company VRX USA

Page 9: Ellen DeGeneres debuted a high-flying pompadour hairstyle on her new talk show but the makeover still doesn’t get to the root of her recent problems and although her hair may be rising her show’s ratings are falling

Page 10: Hot Shots -- pregnant Kelly Rowland, Andy Cohen took his son Benjamin for a stroll in NYC, Will Smith held court in L.A. while shooting King Richard a biopic about the dad of tennis greats Venus Williams and Serena Williams, Angela Bassett caught a drive-in screening of One Night in Miami in L.A.

Page 11: Grieving Lisa Marie Presley has broken her silence over the suicide of her beloved only son Benjamin Keough saying her heart and soul went with him sharing her heartbreak on what would have been Ben’s 28th birthday and she added she’s dedicating herself to raising Ben’s twin half-sisters and actress sister Riley Keough, Chaka Khan refuses to duo with Ariana Grande again saying she’s not gonna do a song with no heifer -- Chaka and Ariana worked together in 2019 for the Charlie’s Angels soundtrack

Page 12: Straight Shuter -- DWTS pro Emma Slater kept a handle on her coffee while steering her e-bike (picture), it pays to be Brad Pitt’s girlfriend as his new squeeze Nicole Poturalski has doubled her modeling fees, dancing siblings Derek Hough and Julianne Hough are out of step over her sloppy personal life and his hot new judging career because these two were supposed to be the next Donny and Marie Osmond but his solo career is exploding while hers is falling apart, Madonna has always been a big believer in astrology but now she won’t even meet with people if it’s not written in the stars and she’s spending a fortune to have an army of people read her charts

Page 13: Losing his beloved son to cancer has sparked new fears for fragile Robert Redford because Robert has struggled with his own health over the years and losing his son to bile-duct cancer is extremely worrying; he’s already frail and this has friends fearing the worst, Jeff Bridges is confident he’ll win his battle with lymphoma by coupling medical care with a strict vegan diet and chanting and spiritual healing techniques

Page 14: Convicted wife killer Scott Peterson may soon walk out of prison and grisly photos lawyers say could set him free -- following years of appeals California’s Supreme Court overturned Scott’s death penalty and now another appeal is forcing a lower court to reexamine his conviction for murdering seven months pregnant wife Laci Peterson and their unborn son Conner -- if Scott gets a retrial his legal team will be allowed to introduce new evidence including crime scene pictures that Scott’s former defense attorney said suggests Laci’s disappearance was an abduction by a satanic cult

Page 15: Former child star Zachery Ty Bryan of Home Improvement was jailed overnight and released on $8500 bail following his bust for a fight with a galpal at an apartment complex in Eugene in Oregon -- the drama comes on the heels of Zachery’s split from wife Carly Matros the mom of his four kids

Page 16: Ryan Reynolds can’t wait to film a new rom-com with close pal Sandra Bullock but it’s causing tension with wife Blake Lively even though Blake trusts Ryan and would never forbid him from taking this part but the idea of him getting cozy with Sandra again still makes her uneasy -- now Ryan and Sandra are signed up to do The Lost City of D and despite Sandra’s denials they ever had a romance Ryan is gushing about them getting back together

Page 17: Isolated and overlooked Today show host Hoda Kotb is being bullied off the morning show because of tepid ratings and the absence of former sidekick Kathie Lee Gifford and Mean Girls treatment by co-hosts Savannah Guthrie and Jenna Bush Hager have pushed the disillusioned anchor closer to the door -- Hoda recently filled out paperwork to adopt a third child and she’s clearly putting more emphasis on family than her career and it sends the signal she isn’t happy with her role and is not thinking of Today as her top priority, trainwreck Matthew Perry is holed up in his new Pacific Palisades beach pad pounding out an explosive tell-all and his former Friends are quaking about what secrets he may reveal -- Matthew wants to rush the book out while interest in the Friends reunion special which was postponed by the COVID-19 pandemic remains high -- he knows an uncensored account of his time on Friends and his drug issues would be a bestseller and he intends to blow the lid off his on-set romances and address rumors he and Jennifer Aniston were more than friends

Page 18: American Life -- her tall tale: I have the longest legs in the world

Page 19: Jessica Simpson has been flaunting her body after dumping a shocking 100 pounds but buddies worry the drastic drop in size isn’t natural and suspect she’s been taking diet pills again and they’re worried this could escalate into a big issue

Page 20: Devastated Reese Witherspoon was hit with a depressing double whammy -- the death of her dog Pepper from cancer and the delay of her long-awaited sequel Legally Blonde 3, Hollywood Hookups -- John Cena and Shay Shariatzadeh wed, Ashley Hebert and J.P. Rosenbaum split, Cardi B and Offset on again

Page 21: Bruce Willis is back in another Die Hard but this time it’s a commercial for Advance Auto Parts and Die Hard batteries and it’s a clear statement on the state of his career that Bruce has to revisit his amazing past to make a fast buck in the present, Giada De Laurentiis has been given the green light to get married by her 12-year-old daughter Jade -- Giada has dated TV producer Shane Farley for five years and he’s been living with mother and daughter for five months during the pandemic lockdown which gave Jade a firsthand look at what it would be like to have a new daddy and Shane’s passed the test with flying colors

Page 22: Cover Story -- Prince William’s heartsick wife Kate Middleton is breaking her silence about the royal family’s tumultuous bitter break with Prince Harry and Meghan Markle to set the record straight and save Britain’s monarchy and she’s tired of all the rumors and lies and backbiting and after all the drama and negativity she wants to get the truth out there and end this unprecedented crisis that’s endangering the monarchy’s survival -- friends are trying to convince Kate to do an official sit-down TV interview about what really happened between once-inseparable William and Harry and how Harry and Meghan tore the family apart even before they moved to America but Kate is resisting because she fears that could backfire like Princess Diana’s TV tell-all about her marriage to Prince Charles 25 years ago -- Kate had to turn the other cheek often after Meghan joined the family and she offered to help Meghan adjust to royal life from the start but Meghan rebuffed her and Kate in tired of Meghan painting her as the bad guy especially when it was Meghan’s antics that tore the family apart -- Kate also is upset that Harry and Meghan are portraying themselves as victims of a world that’s against them while she and William take on a phenomenal workload to cover the responsibilities the Sussexes left and losing precious time with their own three children and it’s hard not to be bitter but Kate is trying to take the high road and forgive Meghan and move forward

Page 26: With their marriage hanging by a thread Tori Spelling fears Dean McDermott will cheat on her again while filming a new TV show in Canada for six months; Tori wanted to bring their 5 children to Canada with him but Dean put her off saying it would be too distracting -- she’s been a jittery mess and he can’t stand to look at her and he only took this job because they need the money, Melanie Griffith is frustrated with Chris Martin and wants him to put a ring on her daughter Dakota Johnson’s finger -- the couple have been dating since 2017 and Melanie’s fed up with waiting for Chris to pop the question -- Melanie began to lose her patience after the couple reunited following a split last June when Chris won Dakota back with promises to settle down

Page 28: COVID Vaccines: What you need to know

Page 32: Miley Cyrus claimed she once spotted a spaceship over Hollywood and even locked eyes with an alien but she also admits she’d bought weed wax from a guy in a van in front of a taco shop, whiny Kris Jenner is blaming social media for killing off Keeping Up with the Kardashians after it helped the reality TV clan make a mint

Page 34: Ozzy Osbourne is terrified a doll has cursed him -- Ozzy told son Jack Osbourne on their Osbournes Want to Believe show that Robert the doll was responsible for his recent bad luck and failing health, Tom Cruise and his Mission: Impossible 7 team caused chaos at an Italian hospital by filming there during the COVID-19 pandemic -- Tom and his crew including 100 security staffers plus trucks and other equipment descended on the Policlinico Umberto I in Rome for a week and legions of fans also flocked to the filming creating even more commotion in the streets outside the hospital and adding to the bedlam the production commandeered an elevator drawing criticism as hospital staff were treating 140 coronavirus patients with 12 in intensive care -- filming was done in an administrative section of the hospital but still sparked an official protest as well as complaints from trade union members

Page 36: Health Watch

Page 38: Superhero screen pals of Chris Pratt rushed to rescue the actor’s reputation after he was mercilessly dragged into a silly social media meme when a Twitter user posted pictures of Chris Pratt and Chris Pine and Chris Hemsworth and Chris Evans captioned with the instruction one has to go but a flood of responses slammed Pratt as the worst Chris causing his Marvel co-stars to prop him up such as Zoe Saldana and Robert Downey Jr. and Mark Ruffalo and Jeremy Renner and Guardians of the Galaxy director James Gunn and Chris Pratt’s wife Katherine Schwarzenegger also bashed the social media bullies, Matthew McConaughey kept saying alright alright alright to making romantic comedies until the day he was so fed up he turned down $14.5 million to do another one -- Matthew revealed in his memoir that he didn’t mind making a string of mindless rom-coms because their paychecks rented the houses on the beach he ran shirtless on but he eventually wanted to try something else so he turned down a big payday so he could get more serious

Page 42: Red Carpet -- Drew Barrymore

Page 47: Odd List

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lynnchkn · 4 years

Text

Protein, Parrish

Adam Parrish is the newest member of Aglionby University's men's hockey team and for the first time, he feels like he's a part of a family. But Adam's rec league hockey team didn't prepare him for the scariest part of college ice hockey. Checking.

If Adam's going to stay on the team, he's going to need help from the last person he wants to ask, his apathetic captain, Ronan Lynch.

*A TRC Check Please!AU.*

Read it on AO3!

Chapter One

Adam Parrish, a habitual skeptic, believed Cabeswater was magic. As the sun rose past the trees, they cast a haunting shadow over the ice. He’d been awestruck by it when he’d toured the rink, but he still couldn’t believe it was his home.

Technically his home was a 115-square-foot room in Dittley Hall, but he wasn’t interested in splitting hairs.

He hadn’t been on the ice since May, and he hadn’t been at all in his new skates, so he was a little shaky to start. He hovered near the wall to avoid suspicion.

Gansey, who had taken a liking to Adam for some undetermined reason, stuck close to him. It wasn’t that Adam minded. It was just that he was trying to break in new skates without announcing it to the whole team, and Gansey’s persistent hover wasn’t helping.

Gansey trailed off from the story he was telling. “You’re from Virginia too. Right?” Adam nodded. He didn’t want to talk about where he was from, but it wasn’t a secret. “Near Jonesville?”

“Henrietta.” He tried not to spit when he said it.

“Right,” Gansey said. “How could I forget? The cave systems near there are extraordinary. Have you ever had the chance to explore them?”

He could remember a cave on a field trip once when he was a kid, but nothing recreationally. Robert and Sarah Parrish didn’t do family outings.

“Only a little,” he said.

“I haven’t been in probably five or six years.” His enthusiasm was a quiet hum in Adam’s ear. He could see Gansey physically restrain himself from fidgeting. It would have been endearing if the conversation at hand was about anything other than Henrietta. “I’d love to go back sometime. The Welsh influence in the region is fascinating.”

“Gansey,” a voice called from across the ice. Ronan Lynch skated toward them. Adam didn’t let himself flinch, but it was a conscious choice, certainly not what his body’s first instinct would have been. His rigid stance threw off his balance, and he grasped the wall tighter to recover.

Ronan was taller than Adam had imagined, and there was a permanent sneer on his face that warned casual observers off. But after a moment of consideration, the fear relaxed. Not completely. Adam never wholly relaxed, especially not around new people. But Ronan couldn’t be too dangerous if he was going to so much trouble to look it. The people Adam actually feared hid their menace behind layers of polite conversation and neighborly handshakes.

The two fist-bumped casually and what a strange pair the two of them were. Gansey, encased in marble, trapped forever with the face of a teenage scholar, and Ronan, with rough stubble and bags under his eyes that made him look closer to his thirtieth birthday than his twentieth. “Ronan,” Gansey said, turning the attention to him. “This is Adam Parrish.”

Ronan’s stare was unwavering, but Adam was the most stubborn person he knew. He held his chin up and matched the larger, scarier man eye-to-eye. Adam wasn’t scared of some trust-fund legacy player. If he kept thinking that, maybe he could convince himself it was true.

“What’s wrong with your fucking skates?” he asked.

Adam didn’t have a good response. He thought he was hiding his discomfort pretty well.

“Jesus,” Gansey said. “Are those new?”

“Yeah,” he said. There was no point lying when the truth was so obvious.

“You didn’t have time to break them in this summer?” Ronan asked.

“No,” he said. “I promise you my old ones were beyond hope.” Persephone had offered to buy him new ones, but he didn’t feel comfortable with that. He liked his new ones. He could already tell they were going to speed him up. For what they cost him, he sure hoped so. “I’ll be alright. I’ve just gotta break them in.”

Ronan rolled his eyes, an irritating gesture that oozed indifference. Indifference was a privilege Adam had craved his entire life. If Adam didn’t give a shit, he didn’t get shit. He’d only stayed alive as long as he had by caring. By wanting so damn much, it leaked out of his pores. Ambition was a hell of a drug.

“We’ve got ourselves another Virginian on the team,” Gansey said, thumb rubbing anxiously at his lip. “Adam is from Henrietta. That’s near you, right?”

Ronan nodded. “Singer Falls.”

“Really?” Adam said. Another lie, of course. Everyone in the Shenandoah Valley knew the Lynch family.

“Yep,” Ronan said. There was nowhere else for this conversation to go without bringing up Ronan’s background, or worse, Adam’s, so the three of them stood in silence for way too long to be comfortable. Gansey glanced between the two of them like he was waiting for them to make some grand connection, but they continued to stare.

Ronan’s stare was a wild one, meant to scare off opponents. But Adam didn’t shy away from it. He didn’t like conflict, but he was good at it. He’d lived with it since he was born. This was his arena. A little staring competition was nothing.

“Well,” Gansey said, clapping his hands together. He rubbed them anxiously against one another. “Good talk. Ronan, I think Blue wanted to talk to you about something in the equipment room.”

Ronan took a moment to tear his gaze away from Adam, but Adam held it even as he turned to go.

“Sorry about him. He’s not always like this,” Gansey said.

Adam was willing to venture a guess that he probably was.

The first few rounds of warm-ups and drills went better than Adam expected. He was getting more comfortable in his new skates, and while he was struggling to keep up, he wasn’t the worst on the ice like he thought he’d be.

Then they started running plays.

They weren’t overly difficult or complicated. Adam was doing okay for the most part, but there was one thing he’d been dreading since he’d first signed his contract with the team.

Technically, Adam had never been checked before.

In Henrietta, the ice had been the safest place he could be. Persephone used to let him stay for hours after practice, running drills by himself or making penalty shots, or sometimes just sitting around, killing time before he had to go back home.

Here, in Cabeswater, it was going to get violent. He’d known that all along, but he’d hoped it wouldn’t happen during his first practice. He’d hoped he’d have a little time to adjust.

Henry Cheng was not a big guy, no bigger than Adam anyway. It shouldn’t have been scary watching him charge across the ice. But the second their pads collided, Adam went down hard.

His father was leaning over him. He had a tight grip on the front of his sweaty t-shirt. His breath smelled like cheap beer, and Adam couldn’t figure out why that of all things bothered him so much.

“Look at me when I talk to you,” he hissed.

Adam couldn’t get his eyes open. There was dust in them. Dust in his blood, pumping through his veins. It was who he was. It was where he came from, and when he died, he’d turned back to dust. He could only hope it was soon.

“Parrish,” a voice called, softer than his father’s, almost hesitant.

He peeled his eyes open.

He was at center ice. He was lying at center ice at Cabeswater, and the entire Aglionby Men’s Hockey Team was staring at him.

“I promise I didn’t hit him that hard,” Henry said.

“Shut up,” Ronan said. “You gonna survive, Parrish?”

Adam nodded. He pushed himself to his feet. Ronan reached out to help him, but he brushed it off.

“That was impressive,” Noah said. “Do you think we could make a play out of that?”

Adam watched the coaches, gathered at the wall, watching him, expressions concerned. He gathered himself, turning his expression to stone. It was fine. He was fine. He had to show them he was tough enough for this. He couldn’t freak out every time he got checked.

Except once a guy hits the ice in a full-blown panic attack, the team gets a little nervous about hitting him again. He watched them skate around him, slowing down to let him pass. They moved slower, more deliberately. But it wouldn’t work long-term. Other teams weren’t going to leave him alone just because he was scared. He hated them, their pitying looks, their tense smiles. Fuck all of them.

He didn’t stop to talk to anyone when practice was over, not even Gansey.

He let himself take far too long in the shower. He couldn’t remember ever showering without worrying about the water bill, so he let himself enjoy then warmth as it washed over him. Once he was sure everyone else had left, he scrambled for his towel and clothes, changing as quickly as he could before returning to the main part of the locker room. Several of the guys had already left, so it wasn’t hard to avoid stares and questions. He didn’t want to talk to any of them ever again. He’d never been so embarrassed.

In the parking lot, a small crowd had gathered around a shiny, orange Camaro. He wanted to walk away. He wanted to get ahead on the reading for his Sociology class, and he hoped to find time to call Persephone and lie to her about how his first practice went great, and it was going to be a great year. But something drew him in. Whether it be fate or intuition, he wasn’t sure. Persephone used to call him perceptive. Maybe that was it.

Gansey sat in the driver’s seat, hopelessly turning his key in the ignition. A guttural growl came forth, but no signs of actual life. Blue, the team manager, was leaning out the passenger side window, yelling unhelpful instructions at Ronan as he fiddled helpless under the hood. Noah, in the backseat, stretched over the center console, face concerned. “I don’t have a fucking clue, man,” Ronan said. “You’re going to have to call Triple-A.”

“Need any help?” Adam asked.

“That depends,” Gansey said. “Do you happen to know anything about cars?”

“I know a thing or two.”

It turned out to be a faulty spark plug, a stupidly easy fix. Adam finished quickly and soon found himself in the backseat, tucked between Noah and Ronan on his way to Nino’s.

They led Adam straight to a booth at the back of the restaurant. He rushed ahead of Gansey to put his left side against the wall. Gansey slid in beside him, and the other three piled onto the opposite booth.

They ordered a large deep-dish pizza—half avocado and half sausage. Adam didn’t order anything other than water. He had a meal plan and had been taking full advantage of it. But he still couldn’t afford to be blowing what little money he had on pizza.

“You play hockey. You fix cars,” Gansey said. “What can’t you do?”

“Take a hit,” Ronan said.

Blue smacked his shoulder. “Shut the fuck up.” She turned to Adam. “Ignore him. We’re thinking about getting him a shock collar.”

Adam had known this outing was a bad idea. He’d been distracted by the hope of it all, their closeness, the way these guys knew each other better than anyone else. These were uncharted waters for Adam. He’d let them draw him in. But he knew better, and he had to keep reminding himself. He was unknowable. Untouchable. He was a functional machine made of broken pieces, and one day it would all come to a grinding halt. It was better to keep everyone else out of the way of the inevitable crash.

Gansey turned a stern glare to Ronan like he was about to scold a toddler. He opened his mouth to say something, but then shut it in a silent huff. He turned back to Adam. “Any other hobbies?”

Adam knew how to do lots of things, just nothing he’d call a hobby. His father had taught him how to protect his face. His mother had taught him how to lie. But Persephone had taught him how to play hockey. When he’d showed up at the rink, scrawny and hungry, searching for a third job, she’d seen him for what he was. She gave him a job cleaning the stands after games. She’d paid him more than he was worth and bought his equipment. Hockey was his ticket out of Henrietta, but there was one more thing she’d taught him.

“I can bake a mean pie.”

“I beg your pardon?” Gansey’s grin broke through his marble features. It made him look less noble than his previous politician-perfect smile. “Pies?”

He nodded.

“You should come bake at Monmouth,” Noah said. He bounced in his seat, an impatient gesture that shook the whole table.

“That is not a bad idea,” Gansey said. “We never have baked goods.”

“I made brownies last year,” Noah said.

“Those do not count.” Gansey shook a stern finger at Noah. “And you know why.”

When their waitress came back with the pizza, she sat it in the middle of the table and handed plates to each of them. Adam gently pushed his away. He didn’t want to make a big deal out of it.

“I’m sorry, Adam,” Gansey said, eyebrows pulled up in a concerned crease. “We should’ve asked what you wanted. We can order something else if you’d like.” His words said I was wrong, but his eyes said you poor thing. Adam hated pity.

“I’m fine,” he snapped. “I’m just not hungry.”

Ronan leaned over the table, grabbing a slice with sausage on it. It slapped onto the plate, and Ronan slid it forward, just under his face.

“Eat it anyway,” Ronan said. “You could use the fucking protein.”

Fuck Ronan Lynch.

He ate it anyway.

#the raven cycle #trc #Adam Parrish #ronan lynch #pynch

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idesofrevolution · 5 years

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For @baypay5. A very unique story, and as requested: Wrestling Jocks.

Kevin hated Jonas. Most kids who are bullied hate their aggressor, but Jonas was a special type of bully. Kevin had expected as college juniors they’d grow out of the adolescent bullshit, but Jonas had not done so whatsoever. He knew that Kevin was queer, president of the school’s Diversity Club, and very militant around his beliefs; which gave Jonas plenty of material to work with. After coming back from wrestling practice, he’d tease Kevin with his sizable bulge and impressive muscles knowing full well that he was the type of man that Kevin lusted for. It was impossible not to look when they were in the midst of their spats- truly a public spectacle for all to see.

So to all onlookers, it was shocking that Kevin was in the stands at the wrestling meet. To Kevin, money spoke louder than anything, and a crisp $100 bill spoke volumes. After all, he could use a nice injection of funds for his rent. All he had to do was meet up with Jonas after the meet, pick up his key, and watch his dingy apartment for the night while he went out with his dopey friends. Deep down, he felt odd about the entire ordeal, and smelt a stunt. But, the Diversity Club was going to check in with him throughout the night and make sure things were okay, so to him, Jonas’ money was as good as his.

Jonas strutted out to the mat, took his position in his tight white singlet and immediately destroyed his competition. There was a reason he had a full ride scholarship to Sunnmore University, he was their ticket to Nationals. Kevin couldn’t deny it was impressive how he effortlessly defeated each and every opponent within moments. Always finishing his round with a crowd-roaring applause, he knew he was the best.

The meet ended much as it always does: Sunnmore wiped the floor with Unger College’s boys, as if it was a practice round. Jonas walked out of the locker room, and Kevin was ready to take the keys to the apartment. The exchange was stilted and felt off. Jonas didn’t try to irritate him in any way, and instead simply took the key off his lanyard, handed it to Kevin wrapped in the $100 bill, and with a smirk, walked away.

Kevin walked to his dorm, tossing his bag full of Calculus books onto the bed and tried to do his homework. Hours passed, and before Kevin knew it, it was almost midnight. Time flew by too quickly, and he’d forgotten all about his duties that evening. He bolted from the dormitory all the way to the subpar student housing apartments on the south side of campus. He walked to the shitty house, put his key in the lock... nothing. He tried again, twisting the key in any direction- it didn’t budge. He messaged Jonas, the reply was bizarre.

“Dude you gotta disarm the security system. Type ‘bitch’ into the keypad and go in. Fuck.” What an asshole. He must’ve changed the password just to fuck with him. Reluctantly, he typed the word into the keypad, and was met with an immediate ‘ding.’ From the sides of the system, a big puff of mist flew at him. It was odorless and had no crazy sensation, but the moment it hit his face, he felt his body go limp. He was being drugged? He tried to pull his phone from his pocket, but his body disobeyed. Nothing. He stood there like a statue, unable to move. A strange voice emanated from the speaker.

“Unknown user. Enter.” Kevin opened the door against his wishes, and stepped into the apartment, shutting the door behind him. It looked as he expected: clothes littering the floor, stinking of stale beer and man stink. “Remove unauthorized dressings.” He began to strip, tossing his pristine pressed collared shirt and khakis to the side, his white briefs, socks, and shoes being discarded like trash. Standing in this dump in the nude, he did his best to resist. His mind was still intact, and he was mortified at his inability to break whatever hold on him this drug had. “Disinfectant bathing initiated. Proceed to the bathroom.”

Kevin walked to the dingy bathroom, clearly never once cleaned. Used condoms were strewn about, vitamins and supplements lined the shelves of his open medicine cabinet. The shower was already running, but it clearly was not water jettisoning out of the showerhead. The smell was all too familiar. It was unmistakably sweat- Jonas’ sweat. He couldn’t cry, he couldn’t scream for help. His body moved forward, stepping under the lukewarm streams of sweat pouring from the shower. The sensation was a mix between water and a slick lube sliding down his body. “Open your mouth.” The voice commanded, and he obeyed. The taste of Jonas’ rank sweat was salty, yet oddly satisfying. It slid down the throat, coating his entire esophagus with the substance; Kevin drank it down like it was nothing.

He felt his muscles pulsate and spasm. Though he was unable to watch, he felt his body shift and grow. Biceps and triceps ballooned out of his arms, abs popped like bubbles beneath his skin. His feet buckled and stretched, his calves and quads burned from the intense exertion of energy, his face warped like clay in the hands of a sculptor. It was painless, but he felt every ounce of the changes rippling across him. “Disinfection complete. Please proceed to the wardrobe.”

Kevin walked out of the shower, bypassing the used towels and fogged mirror. Entering the bedroom, he walked with an odd swagger, likely caused by the new massive endowment swinging between his legs. The dresser was half open, and though he wanted more than anything to put on clean clothes, he was instead blindsided by the system. “Engage appropriate dressings.” He bent down to the floor, grabbing the closest jockstrap within his reach. It was white at one point, but now had a permanent yellowish-brown stain where Jonas’ musky balls and cum-dripping cock had been nestled throughout many practices and meets. He felt his body slide the strap up his meaty legs, and cup his own package in the well-used pouch. It felt damp. The remaining sweat having either seeped into his open pores, but what remained on his skin from the “disinfection” added to Jonas’ already ample deposit. His hands groped the pouch, making him gasp with a newfound deep voice. He felt himself grab two nasty old socks, slipping them on his feet. The smell was unbearable. Stink was one thing- this was pure testosterone and salty deliciousness. Wait, deliciousness?

A backwards cap eventually graced his head, along with an old lycra compression shirt permanently stained at the pits. His was groping and pumping, enjoying every ounce of his new scent and musculature. Shoving his nose into his ripe pits secured this sensation of pride and arousal. Each inhale clouded his screaming psyche. He heard the slamming of a door, and in walked Jonas, grinning from ear to ear.

“Yeah, that’s better. How’s my bitch?” Kevin couldn’t resist. He was broken, he was his.

“Ready for my ass to be pounded, sir.” Jonas obliged, tossing his shorts to the side, and placing his cock at the rosebud of Kevin’s eager hole. Lubed with his already present sweat and pre, Jonas thrust in. The sharp pain of insertion shocked Kevin, throwing him into a whirlwind of pleasure as Jonas slid in and out of him. He couldn’t deny he’d dreamed of this, but he never could have imagined how it’d come to pass.

“Yeah, Kev. You’re my fuckin’ bitch. You always will be.” The two fucked hard, moaning and growling at every push and pull. By the time Jonas unloaded his load into Kev, there was no going back. He was a passenger. He would enjoy every day being fucked mercilessly by Jonas, killing the competition on the mat, and barely passing his classes. In time he’d learn to love it, but in that moment, he had no mouth, and wanted to scream.

If you liked this, PLEASE consider supporting my work on Patreon. It’s what keeps me going friendos.

#male transformation #male hypnosis #body transformation #jockification #minionization #takeover #body takeover #wrestling transformation #musk #musky #sweaty #gay #original

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mutantsrisingrpg · 4 years

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Congratulations BECKY! You’ve been accepted as VENUS.

Becky’s back, back again. Becky’s back, tell a friend! Now that I got that out of the way, I can make this a serious acceptance note. I can honestly say there was not a moment while reading this app that I didn’t think your Hana was it. Hana is obsessed with power and the way you hit on that through her bio had me on the edge of my seat. You created this storm of a girl that I want to know more about even if I know the danger associated with her. Both of us are beyond excited to see the “human embodiment of pikachu with anger issues” on the dash!

Welcome to Mutants Rising! Please read the checklist and submit your account within 24 hours.

Out of Character Information:

NAME/ALIAS: Becky

PRONOUNS: she / her

AGE: 24

TIMEZONE & ACTIVITY LEVEL: GMT ( but technically GMT +1 currently bc summer! ); online daily, particularly active atm because ya girl is working from home

In Character Information:

DESIRED ROLE: Venus / Hana Mercado

GENDER/PRONOUNS: Female; she/her

DETAILS & ANALYSIS:

Even in a city like Miami, Hana is hard to miss in a crowd. Bubblegum bursts, her lazy chew concealing the switchblade sharp smirk that slides across her mouth a little too late for anyone to be able to avoid the trouble that comes from it. She thinks she’s wired up wrong, like a casino gambling machine full of bullets that just keeps dishing out violence while playing its disjointed electric-warped song of congratulations, bright lights flashing wildly.

To your left, a man walking his pet leopard down the sidewalk; to the right, Hana Mercado paralysing a man with the touch of a fingertip for wolf-whistling her. She fits in well here, Florida born and raised, helping the drug lords keep their territories and the mutants keep their identities and everyone and anyone in between keep what’s left of their slowly unravelling sanity. Despite the bustling sea of tourists that ebbs and flows with the good weather, it’s easy to feel lonely. Hana isn’t great when it comes to other people. Pushing them away is a lot less difficult than making them stay.

Everything is loud. Everything is bright. The electricity is near palpable as she splashes through the remnants of a thunderstorm, rainwater spraying over fresh white sneakers. She’s quiet when the sun sets, bleeding red across the sky, the colour of the popsicles she’d eat for dinner as a kid. It’s hard to fear the consequences of her actions when she’s as close to a young god as anyone’s ever going to get. Mutants? Deities? Same difference if you know how to play to the right narrative.

Fuck you has always been easier to spit than a genuinely spoken I love you and that’s the honest-to-fuck truth.

[ + ] driven / brave / resilient / passionate [ - ] arrogant / reckless / unpredictable / childish

BIO:

Money is power. And power is power. And electricity? The sort that decorates the country like a spiderweb, an interwoven network of wires, all humming, all singing to her, the siren’s call of greatness from above ground and beneath it? Power.

Hana is a vicious formation of blood and desire, with the scent of someone burning from the inside inhaled like a nicotine hit. Interrogation comes naturally to her; smiles that should be sweet on a face like hers turn sharp and deadly. She likes to hear them beg. To watch them shake. People spill their secrets to her whether they like it or not.

It’s been that way since she was nineteen years old, static dancing between her fingertips after getting too riled up in an argument with a neighbour’s son over stealing her family’s gas cylinder. An impromptu lightning strike had left the tarmac lining the trailer park sizzling, black and sticky like summertime ( and don’t worry, the Cheeto-dust-decorated-rude-mouthed-slacker-of-a-punk-ass-brat had survived – getting hit by lightning suddenly made him interesting, too, so if anything she’d been doing him a favour ).

A freak accident, they’d called it. Another one of those unexpected Florida storms. But she knew better than that. As had her mom, smoking a fresh pack of Camel Blues from the other side of the door’s insect screen, fresh foils in her hair, acrylic nails the colour of the algae in the neglected community pool down the street. Thinking back, maybe this all stemmed from swallowing too much of that fucking nuclear-waste-looking water when she’d dared to swim there as a kid, hot and sweaty as a storm breaks on the horizon.

But the point – the point is that, to her mom, having the human embodiment of Pikachu as a daughter was as good as winning a jackpot at one of her weekly bingo sessions. She tries to sell it. Power. The ability to pluck electricity from charged particles in the air makes her daughter useful. A living battery. Studies on mutants at University of Miami dish out hefty paychecks after the right terms and conditions have been signed ( note: if you die, that’s on you, don’t try to sue us ). Hana attempts to protest but even she can’t deny that the allure of getting rich sounds like a dream come true.

So she goes to college. Not in the usual sense, sure, but she gets to live on campus ( in a secure underground testing facility beneath the BioMed building ) and hang out with others ( mostly mutants ) her age. And it’s fine for a while until simple fitness tests and blood sampling turn more extreme. Some days are hazy, pumped full of drugs and hooked up to machines that she doesn’t know the name of, let alone the purpose, beeping their own idle hospital-like symphony. Other days are dark and quiet, plunged into sensory deprivation for the sake of whatever it is the boffins in their lab coats are trying to figure out.

She’ll get rich or die trying and, ironically, neither of those things happens.

When the anti-mutant-testing protestors storm the building, they free Hana from both the confinement and the contract. The money she was supposed to get at the end of all this vanishes, along with the pleased looking humans who pat themselves on the back for doing a good deed and disappear to go and celebrate. None of them ask her if this was what she wanted. None of them stop to think that maybe liberation was never an option for her.

Her mom’s gone too. A new trailer stands where Hana’s home once had. The monthly paychecks from the university never reached her bank account, instead wired directly to Mrs Mercado. She laughs until she cries, the air crackling overhead.

After all that, turning to a life of crime is far easier than it has any right to be. Angry and alone, she fucks a guy in a gang in the back of his drop-top and makes herself useful when it comes to getting money out of those who owe it. She runs from the cops. Has a gun pressed to her temple. Watches an illegal weed farm burn at the flick of a lighter. Nothing phases her because she doesn’t let it. Rules stop meaning anything when you realise just what having powers can get you. Making a living from getting spineless people to open up their mouths and offer the gold that is information makes her feel a little less like a failure. Interrogation has a nice ring to it, after all. And once she makes a name for herself, sought after by those who know that secrets are worth a decent stack of bills – well – who is she to turn a job down?

EXPANDED CONNECTIONS:

YVETTE. It’s more than just the sticky sweet sugar of sisterhood. Hana would fight tooth and nail for Yvette should she say the word; would go to war for her if needed. There are very few people in the world that she cares about more than herself, but her partner ( in crime, in the sport of bringing their enemies down, in a vodka-tasting kiss that she’s managed to take a little too far ) holds the throne to Hana’s adoration. If only Yvette would take another step further into chaos and embrace becoming the seductive sort of danger that people run from.

ANDREAS. He knows how to say the right things, she’ll give him that. Hana wants what is hers. And sure, she may not know what that is exactly but the whispers of power he offers are captivating. After so long of operating alone for anyone with enough money to afford her services, the concept of joining strengths is a tricky one to navigate. She keeps him waiting, keeps him on his toes, avoiding a crystal clear answer for the sake of keeping her cards close to her chest. Better to have multiple options on the table than settling for the first one that comes along.

DEREK. Oh, the joy of knowing she’s the shiny new model; a glossy picture-perfect upgrade; a brand new battery to keep Damien and his clowns energised. The temptation of coaxing out Derek’s anger to watch him slip up and fall further from grace is all too great. She’ll press a cherry red lipstick kiss to the dark shades of the sunglasses he will no doubt need down here in paradise. Her future is bright, can he say the same about his own?

DAMIEN ft. JACKSON. He sends his loyal hound. She can only assume that Jackson is missing a collar because he doesn’t like wearing it in public; his Tiffany heart-shaped dog tag would probably get too warm glinting in the Miami sunshine. Hana knows a mob boss pet when she sees one, sniffing her out amongst the cheap cocktails and plastic palms of a Tiki Bar on Ocean Drive. Who’s a good boy? It’s appealing, the carefully constructed dream Damien offers. Almost a little too good to be true given the circumstances. She knows his gang has chased others out, a fine show of strength and organisation, but how long will it last when he doesn’t even know this city?

EXTRA:

Inspo [ x ] Pinterest board [ x ]

ANYTHING ELSE: ily both

#Accepted #accepted: venus

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illyrianwingspans · 4 years

Text

Do Not Go Gentle: Don’t Know Who I Am

Link to song

Synopsis: An intro to Feyre’s life in the city of Prythian. Check it out on Ao3 here.

Chapter One: Don’t Know Who I Am

One Year Later

I wiped my hands against my apron as the orders kept tumbling through. Though it was still early in the morning, the coffee shop was packed, and would stay packed until morning rush hour subsided and everyone got their caffeine fix. Then the lunch rush would come right back around and I’ll want to curl into a ball behind the counter and yell at people to leave. This is how most shifts went, usually. But that doesn’t mean I don’t love my job.

Nobody wants to make coffee for a living. It’s not some life-long dream that a kid would aspire to. At least, I haven’t encountered anybody in a kindergarten class vehemently wishing to master the art of barista-ism when they grow up. Because making coffee for people is a shitty, shitty job. In some ways, I’m just a glorified drug dealer dispensing everyone’s morning fix.

But it makes the time go by. And it keeps me near Tamlin.

Not long after we moved in together, I wanted to get a job. Though Tamlin had profusely refused anytime I mentioned working, I kept pushing because I couldn’t stay in the house all day. Though I may have given up on schooling, I refused to become a stay at home trophy wife making crockpot dinners and resorting to ‘wine nights with the girls’ as a weekly ritual (because really, that’s just a fancy term for alcoholism to drown out the mind numbing loneliness that would indefinitely plague me). I couldn’t. I needed to stay busy and I needed to stay working, not only to make money, but to feel like I’d earned my place here.

Defining ‘here’ was always the issue. I didn’t know what ‘here’ was.

Here was in our spacious three bedroom apartment in downtown Prythian. Here was designer clothes and weekend galas and two hundred dollar steak dinners. Here was dating Spring Corporation’s newly adorned CEO, Tamlin Ivy, and living the upper 10% life.

Here was…comfortable. Easy. But also completely, awfully wrong.

I’d made no effort to be here, and everyone knew it. Hell, I knew, and nearly saw it written in the mirror’s condensation every morning after my shower. What I’d done, what’d happened… that shouldn’t have lead me to where I was today. No, that should have lead me down, down to the place I really deserved.

Nonetheless, I liked it here. I loved Tamlin and I wanted a future with him, ‘here’ being good or not.

“That’ll be six fifty,” I said hours later as the pale skin man pulled out his credit card in the empty shop. He’d said his order so quietly I had him repeat it twice, and tried to keep my face as neutral as I could when he’d said only a few decibels louder, “Large caramel frappucino, extra pump of hazelnut and double whip.”

He even brought his own cup to hide the monstrosity of an order from his colleagues. I never minded the complicated orders, though. They spiced up the routine.

As the blender sounded off in the shop, and pale frappucino dude moved off to the pickup side of the counter, I turned towards the order station armed with my usual garb. “Good morning, what can I get you today?”

Only instead of blearily listening to another business exec’s daily dose, I paused where I stood as my eyes settled upon the customer behind the counter.

I blinked, as before me stood the most beautiful man I’d ever seen.

I hated saying that—mostly due to my current relationship status—but it was undeniable that the man before me was science’s only known example of perfect genetic combination. With his jet black hair, terra-cotta colouring, strong jawline and eyes so blue they hovered on—on amethyst—I was trying to hide the creeping blush crawling up my neck. Every ounce of him oozed grace and swagger and confidence, from his immaculately fitting suit to his subtle but enticing cologne, and though those things were incredibly sexy—they could also be vile.

And he must’ve seen it, too, because he shot me an easy smirk that’s definitely gotten him laid before. “Good morning, darling. How are you?”

The endearment, the smirk and the swagger, though, are what made me stop short. There were two kinds of beautiful people in this world: the ones who knew they were beautiful, and the ones who didn’t. This guy so obviously fell in the former category, and lucky for him, it was the type of person I tended to not get along with.

Instead of pushing it, though, I merely asked again, “What can I get you?”

Again, that feline smirk. He knew I was avoiding him. “You can get me an answer to my question.”

“I’m fine,” I ground out. “Would you like a coffee or would you like to piss me off?”

The words came out before I could stop them, and for a second I held my breath. I never, ever was rude to customers. Well, at least, I tried not to be, because there was one thing about the placement of Hum’s Coffee: it was on the ground floor of Spring Corp and nearby all of Prythian’s other biggest industries. This meant that the clientele was nearly exclusively office people, high ranking business execs and other prestigious titles—people I really shouldn’t piss off. But there was something about this guy that seemed to set me off today.

Thankfully, the only other person in the shop was frappucino dude, and he was far enough away that the blender faded out the conversation between us.

Except the man before me did not balk. He did not scowl. No, he wasn’t offended at all by my rather aggressive comment. In fact, he… he smiled. A fuller, genuine smile that showed off his white, straight teeth.

“Why not both?” Was what he said, and I fought against the grin that crept to my lips. Instead of answering him, I turned away to get frappucino dude’s frappucino, who was seeming more impatient by the second. Not forgetting his double whip, I handed over the man’s metal mug and he quickly screwed the top on, mumbled a thank you and sped away. Which left me turn begrudgingly to Mc Dreamy who waited patiently behind the counter, a look of feigned innocence on his face.

For the third, and what I decided was my last time, I asked, “What can I get you?”

“Large Americano with almond milk,” he said without thought, as though it rolled off his tongue every day. “And a smile, darling. Dazzling eyes and all.”

My fist clenched at my side while the other punched the order into the computer. Though I didn’t usually asked, my curiosity bit at me and urged the question from my lips. “Name?”

This guy must’ve been a Brad or Chad or Brent. He had that Frat-Boy-Daddy’s-Money look to him.

His perfectly tweezed brow arched in surprise. “Rhysand.”

My head angled to the side, mirroring his shock. Though I guess I shouldn’t really be, because Prythian was full of odd, unique names. Including my own.

“Four ten,” I growled, and he handed over a ten dollar bill. I quickly handed his change back to him and he merely put it in the tip bucket. Though I would’ve normally said thank you and showed my genuine appreciation—nobody tipped baristas anymore—I only turned and dispensed the espresso beans into the group head, thankful that my back was to him and he couldn’t read the seething hateful expression on my face.

Once I put the almond milk away and secured the lid, I grabbed the sharpie out of my apron and scribbled across the top. I usually didn’t take names because of this step, but I figured my shaky block letters didn’t look too embarrassing. And, with the fakest, widest smile I could muster, I slid the coffee across the counter to Rhysand, who merely grinned at me.

Until he looked down to his coffee and read the name I’d spelled out with a shaky hand: PRICK.

Rhysand’s eyes met mine and they blazed with a challenge, shock and… something else I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Lust? Attraction?

“Have a wonderful day, darling,” he said, and began to walk away, until he stop mid-stride and turned on his heel. “I didn’t quite catch your name, though. No tag.”

I crossed my arms. I didn’t wear my name tag because I didn’t want people knowing who I was or searching me up online when they had no business to, like Tamlin mentioned. And it served me well today, because I replied, “Be more polite, next time, and maybe I’ll tell you.”

“Next time? Is that a date?”

That blush came back once more. How could he? “What? No—”

“I just wanted coffee, but I’m open to anything you suggest, darling,” he smirked once more as he pushed the door open.

I glared at him and said, “In your dreams, prick.”

“Yes, you will be there tonight, darling.” With one last wink, he was gone.

I released a breath I didn’t know I was holding. Then, I laughed.

A chest-opening, heart-lightening laugh, something I hadn’t done in a long, long while. Thank God the shop was closed, because people definitely would’ve thought I was hysterical as I clutched the counter and laughed, and laughed, and laughed.

“Medium hot chocolate please, extra whip and chocolate sprinkles.”

“Sir, we’re closed—” I said over my shoulder, but turned when I saw the blonde hair and easy smile. My face, ready to be stern and scowling at whoever saw our closing hours and decided to walk in anyway, melted into a smile as Tamlin leaned onto the counter with a lazy grin on his face.

“Hi,” I said, and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “I’m almost done. Just have to lock up.”

“Take your time,” he said “I ordered us Chinese for supper.”

I resisted the urge to wrinkle my nose. American Chinese food was his favourite, and I tolerated it because I knew he liked it. I didn’t say anything though as I fished the key from the back room and locked the cash box and the front door, the bell sounding out its final ring as night swept across the city leaving streetlights and headlights to illuminate the dark. Tamlin’s elbow hooked into mine as we made our way down the sidewalk to the parking garage where his Beemer stood in the reserved parking spot.

The echo of the doors closing bounced off the wall of the parking garage and I settled back into the leather seat, sighing as the muscles in my neck finally unclenched after standing all day.

“Long day?” Tamlin murmured. He reached over the console and grabbed my hand. I hummed when his thumb brushed along the skin of my palm.

“Yeah,” I said, “asshole customers.” It was my usual excuse, but today it was pointed at one person in particular. Someone whose smirk was burned onto the inside of my eyelids by sheer arrogance.

“Mh,” he grunted in agreement. “Had a few assholes today as well. Seems as though I’ll be dealing with some miscreants for the next little while until the deal finally blows over.”

The thing about Tamlin’s business is that he kept things very vague. I knew he managed real estate and invested in other startup companies, but he always seemed to keep what he did private. Not that I wanted to hear about all the legal jargon and property wars, but it would’ve been nice to be involved in some of it. Only when I’d initially asked him about it, he’d just smiled and said, “Feyre, it bores me to tears most of the time. I don’t want to put you through that.”

True, I’d never had a knack for business, but it did interest me. I was in the arts program and wanted to get a minor in business, but my college days did not last long enough for me to actually learn anything of value.

Our routine was nearly clockwork. Park the car in the garage, go to the entrance to the private elevator and ride up to the fifty ninth floor where our penthouse waited. It was weird to call it ours, because I’d never paid a cent towards it, but it was our home. Either he’d cook or Alis made something before she left for the night or we’d both give up and just order in, which happened most nights. As it did tonight with the Uber-Eats person waiting at the entrance to the elevator. The smell of chicken fried rice wafted through the small space as we rode up floor by floor, curdling my stomach with each increment of elevation.

The elevator opened up to the apartment, and the grandeur of it never failed to make me feel like I’d gotten off on the wrong floor. With the floor to ceiling windows, ambient cool lights and modern decor, I felt like I was walking into an overpriced hotel. Like the furniture was for show, not for living.

Tamlin didn’t echo the feelings, even when I’d voice them to him. He only laughed at how ‘quirky’ I was. I reminded myself that he’d grown up in spaces like this his entire life. This wasn’t the South Side anymore where we’d shared a two bedroom with four people.

No, I’d escaped that life. I’d burned away the moment I left that hospital, and I’d never looked back.

We settled in front of the TV and I curled into Tamlin’s warmth, savouring the feel of his arm around me and the smell of his skin, like rosemary and fresh rain. The food tasted ashen in my mouth but I downed it with a glass of water. Tamlin looked into the container and back up at me. “You not hungry?”

I didn’t have the heart to tell him I hated Chinese food, so I opted for a half truth. “Not really. I’ll take it to work tomorrow.”

He nodded and his eyes waded back to the TV. “Don’t forget, we’ve got that gala tomorrow night.”

I sighed. “Do we really have to go?”

“Yes,” he chuckled into my hair and set his empty container onto the coffee table before us, “I’m kind of hosting it, so it would be appropriate if I made an appearance.”

“You mean Ianthe and Lucien are hosting it.” I deadpanned.

“Well, yes but—” Tamlin stumbled over his words until he saw the smirk on my face, then smiled. “Look, I don’t like these things either but they’re part of the job description. Plus, with everything happening with Night Industries, it’ll be a chance to get them off our scent.”

“You have a scent?” My brows furrowed. “Who are the Night Industries?”

He waved me off. “Doesn’t matter. But,” he hedged, his eyes dimming, “I talked to Ianthe. About what you’re wearing.”

The breath squeezed from my lungs. We didn’t talk about this. Not in the open; not in casual conversation.

“She made sure to get something longer this time. It should be—”

“As long as it covers them, I’m fine,” I muttered—more like bit out. I couldn’t meet his eyes. He shifted next to me, like the proximity between us was no longer a comfortable, familiar thing.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” he murmured, and he pulled me closer to him. Despite the reluctance blossoming in me, I settled into him again and we found bliss in the mindless activity of staring at an information box.

After a while, though, my thoughts reverted back to the conversation and got caught on the words. Covers it, covers it, something longer to cover it—

Cover up the fact that I was crazy. Cover up the fact that I was off the deep end and everyone knew it, cover up the fact that I evidently did not belong amongst them, cover up the fact that I was a fraud and a liar and a murderer and that I didn’t deserve any of this, that I should be gone like the rest of them—

“You okay?” Tamlin asked from the kitchen. I hadn’t even realized he’d left the couch. I hadn’t noticed the absence of his warmth.

The entire space was open and I could see him standing behind the marble counter that could probably pay for many years’ worth of food for my family and I in the past.

I swallowed hard. “I’m gonna go take a shower.”

He didn’t answer as I pushed myself off the couch and padded away down to the narrow hall branching to the rooms and our offices. As I passed Tamlin’s office, I sighed, knowing he’d probably be holed in there for the rest of the night. Then I passed my office.

Office was a loose term. There was a desk somewhere in there beneath the newsprint and old bedsheets and paint cans. Art studio was the better fitting name, but seeing as though I no longer used it, maybe museum was the best way to describe it. Museum of the life I’d left behind.

I left my things in our bedroom and pulled my robe from the back of the door as I settled into the washroom and began to strip.

Looking at myself in the mirror was a draining thing.

Which was why I ignored it and slumped my clothes in the corner before stepping into the boiling stream of water. It burnt my skin red and splotchy but I didn’t care as I rubbed a day’s worth of sweat and grime off of me.

And when I got to my scar covered thighs, I paused. Then scrubbed them furiously anyways.

Like that could ever make it go away. Soap and exfoliation didn’t erase fuck up.

Nonetheless I scrubbed and scrubbed until my thighs were raw, and when the water turned cold I slumped onto the shower floor and closed my eyes as the stream fell onto my shoulders. It was the only time where I felt like I had some sort of hold on myself; when the world wasn’t just a blur, and the silence could reign.

“Feyre?” A voice called. “Is everything alright?”

My eyes opened and I sighed, staring at the water collecting on the tiles. The silence never reigned long before interruption. “Be out in a minute.” I called.

The water still dripped from my body when I stepped out into the dim hall and Tamlin stood there, arms crossed, eyes snaking up my body like he owned every inch of it. There was that familiar hunger in his gaze. The one I let devour me. The one I wore when I wanted to devour him.

His lips found my skin before either of us could say anything, and before I knew it the towel was off of me and we were stumbling towards the bed.

Chills trembled across my skin as his mouth came down on me, and I let out undignified sounds when he plunged his full length within me. Thrust by thrust, the aches went away, the pain fled, the silence was broken—the void took a step back and waited patiently as I got my fill. As my thoughts left my mind, and as my mind left this body, if only for a few passionate, glorious minutes of pleasure.

Tamlin rolled off of me after I’d screamed out my climax. I stared up at the ceiling, catching my breath, counting the flickers of light protruding in from the window’s diluted city glow. His weight shifted next to me, and I felt his lips press a kiss to my shoulder before he got off the bed, pulled his pants on and left the room, presumably to resume work in his study.

I didn’t even have the energy to get up and dry my hair. I only curled further into the sheets and made sure my alarm was on before letting my eyes fall closed, and sit back as the void, along with the thoughts, creeped back in.

“I’ve got to head straight to the gallery after work so I’ll get somebody to pick you up, alright?”

My fingers fumbled as I neared the ends of my hair I was trying to braid. I lost them and shook out the rest of my hair before starting again. “I can just catch a ride with someone. Or walk, it’s honestly not that far.”

Tamlin waved the thought away. “Don’t worry about it, besides I wouldn’t want you to scuff up your dress. I’ll text you the information.”

I licked my lips and nodded once. He pressed a kiss to my cheek and I gave him a grin before we parted ways at our usual location of divide on the ground level of Spring Corporation. He headed for the executive elevator while I headed to Hum’s. The world still slept at five thirty in the morning, but they’d be awake soon and demanding their morning prescription before I knew it.

The day passed in a blur of whirring machines, bills and change and grounds. Sweat beaded on my brow and my feet ached, but I carried on despite the exhaustion wearing on my bones. The fog in my mind seemed to thin out when the rush came in and consumed my focus and attention. But when the lulls came, and I was sweeping around the few tables, my mind wandered. Far. My hands were rope-burnt from trying to reel it back in.

But I did. Because tonight was important for Tamlin, and I couldn’t break down. There was no room for error when your life was centred on appearances. Everything was always good and perfect and lovely, even if it wasn’t.

A familiar face appeared at the door, and I smiled as Lucien’s golden red hair gleaned in the sunlight. He reciprocated the smile as he revealed what he’d been holding behind his back: a hanger supporting what must’ve been a lush gown concealed by black material.

“Is it hideous?” Were the first words out of my mouth. Lucien laughed as I took the hanger from his hands across the counter and set it in the back with the rest of my things. We had a running joke between us about the dresses Ianthe had put me in before that made me look no less than an exotic bird. Some were gorgeous, though, and I loved putting on the lavish materials—but most of the time, they felt like a waste.

“You look gorgeous in anything,” was all he replied with his usual dripping sarcasm. I rolled my eyes and began whipping up his usual: chai latte with oat milk and extra cinnamon on top.

“So what’s this one for tonight?” I wondered aloud. “New partner? Company morale? Charity dinner?”

At the mention of this, Lucien’s face turned neutral, his stance uneasy. One thing about Lucien that I picked up quickly was that you could always read how he felt by his stance. And now, I could tell he was lying, or hiding something, as he did often when discussing company business.

“Something like that,” was all he vaguely answered. In the past, I may have interrogated him until his ears bled, as he put it, but I let it go. Another charity ball wasn’t going to kill me. My feet and knees, maybe, from wearing the heels Tamlin loved, but not the entirety of me.

Over the whirring of the milk steamer, I called, “I don’t get why we have these anyways. He sneaks off half of the time to discuss with people and leaves me with the rest of the sharks.”

“Firstly, we’re under a lot of pressure right now with our competitors. People are trying to snoop where they don’t belong. And before you ask, you know I can’t tell you anything.” I sighed. The one golden rule Tamlin and I kept in our relationship: work stays at work. “And secondly, they are not sharks, Feyre.”

“They damn well might be,” I countered. I removed both tea bags from the piping water and poured the warm milk into it, the spicy scent caressing my senses. “They’re all numbers and business and exponential growth. What am I supposed to say to that?”

“Ianthe will be there,” Lucien supplied, licking his lips as I sprinkled copious amounts of cinnamon atop the foam of his drink. “And Bron and Hart.”

“They have eleven brain cells combined, if that.”

Lucien shot me a pointed look as I slid the drink across the counter to him. “That’s six more than you’ve got, Fey.”

I bit back a grin as I shoved his shoulder from across the counter. “Get out of here.”

“I’ll see you tonight. Clean yourself up a little.”

I didn’t have time to bite back a retort before the door closed behind him. Clean yourself up, I scoffed. I had my makeup kit in my bag. And I showered last night. I looked fine.

Probably not as dashing or pristine as Ianthe will, but my hair’s clean. And I smelled good. That right there was the height of my presentability.

The clock ticked closer and closer to five, the end of my shift. There usually wasn’t many people past five, seeing as though Hum’s wasn’t much of a student-oriented establishment. The last hour was always the longest, watching as every second brought me closer to the gala. My stomach felt like it was crawling. I hated these events.

The door opened along with the chiming bell, and my head snapped up from my phone to see an all-too familiar face already set in a smirk. Only this time, his suit was immaculate, even more so than yesterday’s, and his hair was parted differently, gelled back with little dangling strands around his face that brought out he midnight blue of his eyes.

I swallowed hard. I didn’t want to face this prick again, but damn was he so good to look at.

“I should put your picture up on the board with the rest of the banned customers.” I said as I turned to the espresso machine. I hated that I remembered his order. His eyes even showed surprised as I pulled out the almond milk and boiling water for his Americano.

“Wouldn’t you love to stare at me all day long?” He mused. “They better keep that board near the front so you don’t hide back there all day looking at me. Maybe tape it right here to the cash register.”

“Prick,” I murmured under my breath. I didn’t want to meet his eyes, and I didn’t want to seem like I had any interest in what he did whatsoever, but I couldn’t help myself. “Why the expensive suit today? Hot date?”

“All of my suits are expensive. And unless there was a date and time written on the bottom of my cup yesterday, I don’t recall you asking me out.”

My cheeks heated. “Oh, screw you.”

“You wish.”

My cheeks were probably the colour of traffic lights as I poured the almond milk into his coffee. “Four ten.” I ground out.

“Where’s that dazzling smile today, darling? Really, you must give me your manager’s contact information. I demand better service than this.”

“I’ll read it out to you: 514-829-suck my dick.”

Rhysand stood before me, a startled look on his face, like he couldn’t believe the words I’d just said.

I couldn’t believe the words I’d just said. This man was rich. Probably high, high up in the corporate rank. A phone call from him to anybody’s boss would definitely get them fired.

But he let out a startled laugh. A full, rich laugh that only made me swallow hard.

And bite back a smile.

“Four ten,” I said once again, and he only handed over yet another ten dollar bill. He didn’t even acknowledge my hand when I gave him his change and I begrudgingly put it in the jar.

But he didn’t leave. No, he stood there in front of me sipping his coffee like this was a normal, casual thing we did.

“You make a killer coffee, darling. Really.”

“It’s just an americano,” I scoffed. I turned and began wiping down the espresso machine and milk steamer. But really I was hiding the blush on my cheeks. God, look at me. Gawking over a stranger because they complemented me. An annoying stranger at that. One that knew exactly how to get under my skin.

“Don’t you have better things to do with your time than flirt with baristas?” I threw over my shoulder. He still wouldn’t leave, despite the silence between us.

“Yes of course I do, but flirting with you is by far the most enjoyable.”

My eyes narrowed. “You don’t even know my name.”

“You could easily fix that by just telling me.”

“Not going to happen.”

“Darling, I just don’t think it’s fair. You know my name. All the mystery is demystified. You’ve got the upper hand. Help me out a bit, here.” He shot me a pout and those brooding eyes, but I couldn’t be bothered. Instead, I pointed to the clock.

“We’re officially closed, and I don’t have to put up with you anymore.”

He only smirked and began walking away from the counter with that same graceful swagger. “I’ll be back tomorrow morning bright and early, darling.”

“There’ll be a restraining order by then!” I called back.

The door swung shut with the chiming of the bell, and I sighed.

I told myself the smile on my face wasn’t because of him. But I was never really a good liar.

The gown wasn’t hideous. Hideous was too strong a word.

I was just grateful, though, that my scars stayed out of view. Last time, things got…ugly.

Nonetheless, it sure as hell wasn’t my style. I sighed as I walked up the avenue, chiffon balled tightly in my fists, and tried to calm my nerves as I saw the pillars to the Prythian art gallery crawl into view. The lights they’d set up made the entire white-marble building seem like a dream. The gala tonight was for company morale, a sort of way for all of them to clap themselves on the back for the hard work they’d done. I’d lost count of how many I’d attended since I’d known Tamlin.

Usually I could nose my way out of them. When I was in school, before the accident, it was easier to use that out and have a night to myself in the apartment. Now that I was only working at Hum’s, I didn’t have any excuse anymore.

Every step ached in the heels. This was going to be a long night.

The bouncers didn’t even need to ask for name as I walked in the main front doors. The lobby was teeming with people I didn’t know, most likely all of them employees or people from business circles. Faces swam in and out of view, and I felt like I’d seen many of them before, but without Tamlin at my side I had no reason or courage to approach them.

He could’ve been anywhere. I had no idea where to even start looking.

The dinner was at seven, so I supposed I had a few hours to kill. I glanced over my shoulder for a moment then weaved my way to the back of the room where the museum branched off into different wings. Tamlin did pick the best venues, I had to concede. Always something for me to distract myself with.

This month’s exhibition was Paris’s post-impressionism era in the 1900s. Arguably my favourite period in art, the museum was lucky enough to snag some lesser-known Van Gogh and Monet. There was one piece, an early morning sunrise flecked with pinks and oranges that caught my eye. I stood before it, staring at the brushstrokes and blending of colours and hues, amazed. My fingers itched. I wanted to memorize the colours to memory in hopes that I could ever possibly recreate such a piece.

Before I realized it, I looked down at my fingertips and took a step back from the piece. I wanted to paint. It was a sensation I hadn’t felt in so long.

It’d been months since I’d painted. Tamlin wanted me to keep painting, said it would be good for me, but that studio haunted me. I couldn’t go back. There was nothing left for me in there.

One thought of trying to mix the red and white had me exiting the the showroom. Tears burned behind my eyes, and the last thing I needed right now was to make a scene at Tamlin’s party.

After a while of meandering, drinking alone and making several trips to the washroom to check my half-assed hair and makeup, Tam’s blonde hair came into view and it was seven o’clock.

His arm slid around me, too tight, and the easy grin on his face didn’t reach his eyes. “Where’ve you been? You’re late.”

“I’m late? Where have you been?” I retorted lowly. “I’ve been here looking for you for hours.”

“Have you been talking to people?”

I remained silent. The round tables were amply decorated with flush, exotic flowers that probably cost my yearly salary. Everything was gold-trimmed, pastel and proper, the usual colours of Tamlin’s personal assistant’s palette.

Tamlin ground out, “You can at least try, Feyre. For me.”

“I have been for the past year.” I snapped.

It was all we had time to say to each other before somebody came to shake Tamlin’s hand and bellow some inside stock-trading joke I didn’t understand before bursting into laughter. They followed us until we reached our table, right near the front of the room before the stage. Lucien and Ianthe were already seated, the former looking pale and tense.

He shook his head when I shot him a questioning look. When it came to Ianthe, Lucien was always tense.

The night passed by dreadfully. Making conversation was painful. Ianthe and Tamlin had plenty to talk about, though, with the drama in their elite circles that I didn’t care enough to be a part of. I’m sure most of the people here tonight were kind and interesting and wonderful people, but there was still that innate part of me that clung to the belief that most businesspeople were sucked dry of their souls.

I looked to my boyfriend. Most being the operative term. Not all.

Tamlin, though, began to grow tense. His head kept bouncing to the back of the room to a set of doors. His leg was bouncing beside me. It was so bad I had to put my hand on his thigh to calm him down. He put his hand on top of mine and shot me a grateful look, and I kissed him on the cheek. I knew he hated these things too.

Lucien looked to Tamlin. “Have your friends showed up yet?”

Tamlin shook his head. “Any minute.”

“What friends?” I wondered. I knew most of Tamlin’s friends and business partners. They were all neatly classified under the rich white guy identification part of my memory.

He shook his head, though. “You haven’t met them. You don’t want to meet them. They’re not necessarily good friends.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Are you in trouble? Is something wrong?” Nervousness bloomed in my stomach. We couldn’t repeat last time. We really, really couldn’t repeat everything that happened last time.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” he murmured in my ear. I sighed but leaned into his warmth anyways. Then suddenly he was up, and I scrambled to stay seated without falling out of my chair from the abrupt loss of contact.

“I’ll be right back.” He declared before storming off to the set of doors off to the east wing of the gallery. There were three sets of feet. My stomach grumbled. Everything about this was off.

I looked down to my plate and couldn’t finish it. Too rich. Too buttery. Everything, it was all closing in: the people, the finery, the utter lack decency…it was like being completely and truly alone in a room full of people. At a table filled with friends.

Lucien laid a hand on my shoulder. “Fey? Are you okay?”

“I need some air,” I muttered, before stalking out to the gallery’s main lobby. I stared at the map before throwing myself into the twisting hallways, and cursing myself for wearing high heels as I climbed stair after stair. But finally, I found myself on the gallery’s rooftop, looking out over the water of the Sidra and wishing I was anywhere but here.

Only I wasn’t alone.

I nearly flinched when I saw who it was leaning across the building’s cement lipped edge. The city lights made his face seem older. Deep-set. Like life had dealt him yet another shit hand and he was wondering whether to go all in or just fold.

I mean, I was near the point of folding. I really, really was.

Especially since I thought I was going to finally get some damned peace, yet now I had to face this prick. For the second time today.

“Stalking me, darling?”

“Could say the same for you, creep,” I called across the landing. He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Apparently in the mere hours we’d been apart, life had taken a wrong turn for him. Probably didn’t happen too often judging by the look on his face.

“All dressed up. Tell me, what are you doing here darling? You look like a minnow in a sea of sharks.”

I scoffed. “What are you doing here?”

“Are you going to keep answering my questions with questions?”

“Are you going to keep asking me questions I don’t want to answer?”

Rhysand’s gaze held mine. We were only feet apart, but it was like a current ran between us. My mouth, puckered in a frown, only ignited the ever-lasting amusement in his eyes. That same electric, tension-filled feeling I felt in the coffee shop, like I didn’t know whether to throttle him or run my hands across his chest.

I blinked. I couldn’t believe I’d just thought of that. I brushed it away, telling myself just because I wasn’t ordering didn’t mean I couldn’t look at the menu.

Admitting defeat, my stare broke from his. Instead, I took position leaned against the cement railing, and marvelled at the city, the sea of lights and beauty before us.

Before I knew it, Rhysand was beside me, the arm of his expensive suit nearly brushing mine. The warmth nearly leeched from his toned body. I wanted to press myself into him as the breeze flew over us, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

“I’m not gonna lie, darling, I’ve had a shit day.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“I know. But I’m going to talk anyway. Because I need someone completely objective to discuss with.”

The silence stretched on with my muteness. Half of me wanted to listen, half of me wanted to walk away before I was in too far over my head.

“You know when everything feels like it’s stacked up against you? Like nothing more could possibly go wrong, and then you turn around and it does?” He sighed. “I blink and days go by. I have no idea how I get here; half of the time I have no idea how I even get out of bed. It’s like I’ve made my way here to the top, I’ve got everything I could imagine.” The rush of the city cars filled in the quiet between us as he paused for a moment. “But I’m still fucking empty inside.”

I told myself it was the breeze that sent the shiver down my spine. Not the aching feeling I had as he said those words, as he described everything I’d been feeling over the past year of my life.

Then Rhysand chuckled. “By the Cauldron. I’m sorry. You must think I’m crazy.” His breath fogged as he laughed again. “Guess I’ve got to find myself a new coffee shop.”

“No,” I replied instantly. His eyes flicked to mine, the surprise only presenting itself with the gentle up-flick of his eyebrows. “No. I know how you feel. I get it.” I cleared my throat. “It’s either completely normal to feel this way, or we’re both anomalies.”

“Honestly, I hope it’s the latter. I promised myself I wouldn’t end up like those people milling around downstairs. But here I am, fraternizing among them like we’re old friends.”

I shrugged. “Whatever keeps the roof over your head and food on the table.” I knew too many days with food on the table to deny that the money we had was extremely comforting.

He grinned, but it was sad. Morose. “That’s one way to put it.”

More silence ensued, but it wasn’t awkward. It was…peaceful. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been out on Tamlin and I’s balcony at home just to watch the world spin and move and whirl around me. Most definitely because I couldn’t trust myself on a balcony anymore. My mind was a thing of its own; moving in toxic ways the rest of me balked at.

“How long have you been a barista?” Rhysand wondered softly.

“A year,” I supplied, “can’t go back to sugary drinks now, though. Not after all the shit I see going into them.”

He chuckled, and I asked, “How long have you been empty on the inside?”

This time, the smile was full and bright, and it did reach his eyes. Rhysand said, “My entire life, darling. My entire damned life.”

“Well—”

The sound of metal screeching interrupted me, and a breathless voice called, “Feyre?”

I whipped around to see Lucien there, hand on his knee hunched over, trying to catch his breath. My heels echoed across the rooftop as I jogged towards him without toppling over. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“What are you doing here?” He sneered. “Why are you speaking with him?”

I wrinkled my nose and turned back to Rhysand. “You know him?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Lucien said, but threw a look Rhysand’s way nonetheless. A look about as unfriendly as they go. “We need you downstairs, Fey. Let’s go.” And with that Lucien began pounding down the stairs.

But I looked back at Rhysand. He only waved lazily my way, and called, “Until next time, Feyre darling.”

I bit back my smile as I in turn began thundering down the stairs. Prick.

It appeared as though the banquet went smoothly considering the near empty glasses—being quickly refilled—and the laughter-filled, red-tinted faces that beamed as Tamlin took the stage. Under the lights, his golden hair looked smooth and gleaming where it fell naturally down to his ears, and his tuxedo highlighted his muscled body in all the perfect places. His face was flushed as well, and I knew we’d have to call an Uber tonight by the looks of it. I’d never learned how to drive—never needed to with public transportation and Tamlin—which meant me driving home was out of the question. Better to put Tamlin at the wheel despite the state he was in than to even attempt letting me near the driver’s seat.

“As you all know, tonight is a celebration of the success of this company, of which you’ve all contributed immensely to, thanks to your handwork and dedication to our mission.” Applause erupted, and Tamlin’s smile brought my own grin to my face. To see the pride in his face…I knew despite all the complaints and exhaustion, he still liked what he did.

“Spring Corporations has never seen better days, and for that, you all have my utmost gratitude and admiration.” More applause, to which Tamlin patiently waited to pass before adding, “but tonight is more than just our corporate success.”

My eyebrows raised in surprise. What else could Tamlin have to announce?

“Personally, things have been hectic. It’s been a good, prosperous year, but that doesn’t come without life’s ups and downs.” His eyes wandered through the crowd, until they finally befell me, and his eyes sparkled. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen my boyfriend so content. “Life has thrown a lot of ups and downs at me, and I wouldn’t have been able to handle them without my girlfriend.”

My heart was pounding in my chest. Oh Gods. I had no idea where he was going with this.

Scratch that, I knew exactly where he was going with this, and it made me nearly sick to my stomach.

“Feyre Archeron,” he said, “you are the true one and only love of my life. There’s nobody, no one else on this earth that brings me joy and understands me like you do.”

Tamlin took the microphone, and murmurs began spreading across the crowd as he wandered down the steps right before our table, right before me.

I wasn’t breathing.

Tamlin got down on one knee, and joyful gasps echoed through the room. With one hand, he fished a dark velvet box from his inner suit pocket, and cracked it open to present the largest emerald stone I’d ever seen, set onto a golden band. So typically Tamlin that I grinned.

“Feyre,” he murmured into the mic, his golden eyes brimming with silver as we stared at each other, “will you marry me?”

Fear paralyzed my body, yet I still choked out, “Yes. Yes, a thousand times yes.”

The microphone screeched but I didn’t care as I leaned down and pressed my mouth to his, sealing our lifetime together, with a little voice in my head echoing, There’s no going back now.

#dngg #acotar #acomaf #acowar #acotar fanfic #acotar fanfiction #sjm #feyre #rhys #feysand #feyrhys #feysand fanfic #feysand fanfiction

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justanotherdeadgirlwalking · 4 years

Text

That is Just the Saddest F**king Thing I Have Ever Heard.

TW obviously DEH is about a kid’s suicide, so it has those themes

other parts :)

Part Two.

I wake up to the sound of an obnoxious beeping. Its rhythmic, constant, like a metronome. I feel something tight on my arm, squeezing the shit out of it. I tense up hoping to provide some relief, but it just gets tighter and tighter. There is a long loud beep, and the grip on my arm loosens. I go to feel what it is, but I can’t move arms. I can’t move anything actually. I’m trying to wiggle my body to turn over, but I can’t; I’m stuck the way that I am. Shit, did those pills make me paralyzed? I can hear people talking, but their voices are so low, I can’t make out what they’re saying. I should’ve listened to my headphones at a lower volume. Now, I’m 17 and deaf, among all my other issues.

My eyes feel so heavy, like there are weights hanging from my eyelashes to keep them close. I finally gather enough strength and open my eyes. I grimace as the brightness of the white florescent lights above me momentarily blind me. Where am I? The beeping speeds up to a less constant beat and the voices stop. I hear footsteps walk towards me, and I force my eyes shut. Someone plays with a machine behind me with a symphony of beeps and buzzes. They walk away, and then the voices start up again, louder. I slowly pick up my heavy head, and I glance around. I’m in the hospital. I look down at my body, there are purple Velcro restraints securing each of my limbs to the bed. They think I’m dangerous, cool.

I point my gaze in the direction of the voices, its Mom and Dad talking to some lady in scrubs, a nurse probably. She looks nervous; she’s biting her lip and playing with her hands. I can’t make out what they’re saying. Mom looks like she’s crying, sobbing actually. Dad has his back turned to me, but he’s making large gestures with his arms; he must be mad about something.

Their conversation goes on for what feels like hours. Mom and Dad keep asking questions, and the nurse just keeps saying “I’m so sorry, we don’t have answers.” I stare at them, hoping one of them will notice me. Eventually, the nurse notices my gaze and makes eye contact with me. She makes a surprised gasp and smiles at me. Her smile is larger than any other smile I have ever been greeted with my whole life, and it looks genuine. Though, she’s probably relieved for the conversation to end. The nurse walks over to my side and squats down, so she is eye level with me, “Hi sweetie, I’m Heidi” she says. She has a kind voice, “how do you feel?”

“I’m okay” I barely croak out, almost as a whisper. The nurse, Heidi, just smiles at me.

“I’ll let the doctor know he’s awake,” she says, standing up and hurrying out of the room.

Mom and Dad come and sit in the chairs next to the bed. Mom looks at me with a half-smile as tears fill her eyes; Dad gives me a cold, blank, emotionless stare. “H-hi” I barely let out. Mom motions for me to be quiet, shushing me. “What happened?” I whisper. Mom reaches over the rails of the hospital bed to take my hand; she shoves one of her fingers into the restraints, moving it back and forward as if she was trying to stroke it.

“They found you in the park, slumped over” she chokes out between tears, “you weren’t breathing, you barely had a pulse. No one thought you were going to make it.”

“You really scared us” Dad says, with a flat, emotionless voice, “You can’t keep doing shit like this to prove a point.”

Oh, sorry Larry, I guess I forgot to take your feelings into consideration when I did something brash and stupid. I don’t know what point I was trying to prove, but I’m glad you got the message. I am sincerely sorry; sorry to disappoint you that I am still here; sorry you have to pay for another hospital bill for your freak son. He’s always been so apathetic with any of my struggles. He always thinks I’m faking it or doing it for the attention. Why the fuck would I literally try to kill myself for attention? I’d be dead, and unable to receive the attention. Sure, people would talk about me, pretend to be sad about it, but they would get over it in two weeks. That’s just how it goes. We see tragedy after tragedy. A hurricane in Puerto Rico? How sad, I’ll donate to the Red Cross. A school shooting? They’re in my thoughts and prayers. And then we just move on like there’s more important things to do.

Heidi walks back in with another lady, who I’m assuming is the doctor. “Hi, I’m Dr. Johnson,” the lady says, “How are you feeling Connor?”

“I’m fine, I’m just thirsty and my nose itches” I say, raising my arm to draw attention to the restraints, hoping to get out of them.

“Those are just a precaution,” Dr. Johnson says removing the Velcro from around wrists and ankles. I open and close my hands, wiggling my fingers, relieved to be free again. “We weren’t sure when you were going to wake up, or how you would react when you woke up.” She takes a long pause, “you were out for a very long time, and you had very dangerous levels of fluoxetine in your system when you were found. We just need to run a few tests and observe you for a bit before we can let you go. We also arranged for you to talk with someone from Psych so we can baseline how you are feeling and put in a support system for you.” She smiles at me, and then motions for Mom and Dad to follow her out into the hallway.

Great, that’s all I need, some psychologist to come talk to me and tell me I’m fucked. Trust me, I already know. I’ll have to explain that no I wasn’t feeling depressed or suicidal, I’m just impulsive; I just made a really dumb split decision. That’s what most of the shit I do is anyways, a dumb decision. Like the time I crashed my car. I lied and said there was a deer in the road, and that I swerved to miss it, but really I had a sudden impulse to crash my car for literally no reason. Luckily, I walked away unscratched, but I totaled the car. Larry was pissed. Not only did I wreck a brand-new car, one that he gave to me as a gift, but I also raised the insurance rates. Now, I’m not allowed to drive at all until I can afford to replace the sedan. Considering that I don’t have a job, I am probably never going to get behind the wheel again.

Then, I’m going to talk about all my problems, and this psychologist person is going to write me another prescription to “try to help.” Isn’t a prescription what got us into this mess in the first place? How long are they going to try to pump me full of drugs before they realize that it’s not working.

How long was I out for, a few hours? A few days? What day is it? How much school have I missed? I can only imagine the stories going around to explain my absence. Would Zoe hear them? Would she defend me? Where is she anyways? She probably doesn’t care that her big brother was dying, hell, she probably prayed that I’d stay away this time. It’s not like we’re close, but we’re not enemies either. Surely, she has to care about me, even a little bit.

We were really close when we were younger. She’d want to do everything I did. If I was playing with cars, she wanted to play with cars. If I wore a blue shirt, she wanted to wear blue too. I used to hate it when we were younger, I just wanted to do whatever I wanted without having to worry about having a shadow. Of course, when I misbehaved too I always heard the “you’re a role model” bit, the “she looks up to you” and the “she does everything you do” speeches. How could I expose Zoe to the truth, that her perfect big brother wasn’t actually perfect? That he was actually a fucked-up kid. For years I locked myself in my room and screamed at her to leave me alone. She would sit in the hallway and cry until I would let her in; she fought for me, for my attention. Eventually, Zoe stopped fighting for me, and really lost all interest in me completely. She grew up. She learned to see me the same way that the rest of the world did, as a freak.

Maybe she told everyone to mind their business. Maybe she told them I overdosed in a children’s park. Whatever the rumor is, it’s going change how people see me. It’s an opportunity I’ve been waiting my whole life to have, and I had to almost die to get it. Maybe, I’ll be Connor Murphy the fucking drug addict, who does hard drugs like anti-depressants and mood stabilizers. Maybe I’ll be able to fit in with the stoners. Who knows? I’ll no longer be the freak Connor Murphy. Maybe I’ll be the Connor Murphy, the kid that tried to kill himself, and everyone will pity me. No, I think that’s worse. I’d defiantly much rather be known as a freak than to be pitied by all these fake mother fuckers that didn’t care about me a week ago, or a month ago.

Mom walks back in, “Honey, your friend Evan Hansen is here to see you,” I see him wave from behind her, “I’ll give you two some time alone.” Evan walks in and sits in the chair next to my bed, his cast is gone. He looks so nervous that he is literally shaking.

“M-my, my mom said that you woke up. We didn’t think you were going to. Zoe said I should’ve waited to come see you, so you could readjust, but I feel so guilty that I-I made her drive me here. I had to see you… immediately.” He says, stuttering through every word. Why does he feel guilty? I mean he was the last person I talked to before I passed out in the park. Maybe he feels bad for writing his weird sex letter about Zoe. Zoe? Zoe brought him here.

“Where’s Zoe?” I ask him.

“Sh-she’s in the hallway, she doesn’t want to see you yet,” he says. Of course, she doesn’t want to see me, she doesn’t want to deal with the mess that I am. “She just needs a little more time to process everything that’s happened, and now that you’re awake, none of us know how everything that happened is going to fit in with you in the picture. A lot of stuff happened while you were, while you were,” he jesters at me and the bed, “but, it’s okay and actually you have an apple orchard now.”

“I have an apple orchard?” I ask, Jesus Christ how long was I asleep? “You’re going to explain ‘everything’ to me right now.” I spit at him.

“Yeah uh, it’s a funny story actually,” he continues, “so when you were found you still had my letter in your pocket and everyone thought that it was your suicide note and that you wrote it to me because we were best friends,” he’s talking really fast, “and your parents came to school and told me that you tried to kill yourself and about the note and I didn’t know how to tell them that it was actually a letter I wrote to myself as an assignment from my therapist.” He pauses to breath.

“Okay, that doesn’t explain how I have an apple orchard.” I say, confused.

“Right,” he takes a deep breath before talking really fast again, “well I lied to your parents and said that we had a secret friendship where we sent emails to each other, Jared was in on it, and I gave your parents the fake emails and they took me in as their own, since they were so happy that you had a friend.”

“You did what now?” I ask him, cutting him off.

“It’s a really long story” he sighs, “but please, can you go along with it, please?”

Is this a fucking joke? The same kid that wrote freaky shit about my sister, is asking me to cover him in a big lie he told, and the lie he told was about me. He wrote fake emails? He told my parents we were friends? He still hasn’t explained the apple orchard. If Evan was really desperate for friends, I don’t know if this was the way to go. Did he think, what, I was never going to wake up, and he could go on in his life without getting caught? I must’ve been out for a real long fucking time for something like this to be cooked up. This is crazy. I can tell you that all the times I’ve been high out of my mind, I’ve came up with some pretty wild ideas, but never pretending to be some almost dead kid’s friend with whom we write secret correspondences.

“Sorry to interrupt you two,” it’s the nurse from before, “but Evan honey, we need to do some tests on Connor, so you’ll have to wait in the hall for now with everyone else.”

“Okay mom,” Evan stands as he gets up to leave, basically running out the room. The nurse is his mom. No wonder why she was so happy to see me awake, I’m her kid’s best friend.

#deh #dear evan hansen #connor murphy #dear connor murphy #connor murphy deh #Dear evan hansen fanfic #dear evan hansen fandom #DEH fanfic #deh fandom #trash #musicals #writing #fanfic #mike faist #evan hansen #jared kleinman #ben platt

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i-rove-rock-n-roll · 5 years

Text

Bits of wips

Cause why not?

Icarus (opening lines)

Icarus sneezed. The dust inside the cramped tower swirled, agitated by his constant twitching. He sneezed again and winced as his father laced the leather harness around him tightly, yanking it into place.

“Ow.” He squirmed. “Ow!”

“Stand up straight.” Icarus winced again, this time at the swat. The wings were heavy, almost half the weight of his wiry frame. “They won’t fit properly if you don’t quit squirming.”

“Are you sure this’ll work?” Icarus craned his neck to try and glimpse where the wings met his back, the feathers already itching. They fluttered briefly, and Icarus smiled.

Sequels to Icarus

Ariadne

Ariadne’s throat was raw from screaming. She had cried for a short while, then screamed for as long as she could. After nothing changed, she threw herself down, then picked herself back up, and tried to find something to do some way to make her situation marginally better.

The first thing to do was build a signal fire.

Helen

Paris looked upon her face, eyes searching, gleaming. Hungry. Then he sat back, disappointed.

“I thought she'd be prettier.”

Helen wanted nothing more than to claw his eyes out.

Potential sequels to the above

Medea

Heracles (note: Heracles has cameos in both Icarus and Ariadne)

Other wips

Redemption Day

‘Here comes the cavalry,’ the figure thought, eyes opening to look up hazily at the leaves that would have been green had there been enough light to see by. The nearest light was a streetlamp a few meters away, though the brightest light in town just happened to be the Donaldson house, which always had some sort of decorative lawn ornament or Christmas light that made the neighbors grumble and close their curtains or cut the electric wires.

Fingers fluttered at the beat, and their eyes stayed shut, even as the patrol car drove by, slowing suspiciously at the closed graveyard gate, but moved on to a better lit street. Then the sirens started. Another siren called back in response before a third pierced the not yet quiet air.

Of course, the Donaldson house happened to be the brightest this night because it was on fire.

Wolves and Witches (untitled)

“Turn me back.” The wolf demanded.

The magician blinked. That wasn’t quite what he expected. “But I went through all this trouble! Don’t you at least want to try it?” He had anticipated a joyous response, or at the very least some form of praise for having broken the laws of reality.

“Not really. I’d much rather be a wolf.” Said the woman that used to be a wolf. Then she shook her hair out and bared her teeth, still deadly. “Turn. Me. Back.”

Mayan Hero Twins (untitled--Characters don’t have names yet either)

“I remember her.” Grandmother’s eyes sharpened. “Came to me about ten years ago, saying she was pregnant with Son’s children. Little--”

“Surprise.” X said flatly, cutting off whatever insult she had planned. “She was right.” There was no surprise in the old woman’s face.

“I demand a paternity test.”

“And it was twelve years ago, not ten.”

“Paternity. Test.” H rolled her eyes, thrusting the packet of medical work at her.

“Here. You go.” Grandmother’s eyes narrowed as she read, and narrowed further still when she looked up at the twins, distrustful. A beat of silence, then she said,

“When Son returns, he will be the one to figure out what to do with you. Until then, you stay here, and stay out of my hair, understand?” H swallowed her scowl, and X swallowed his smile.

“Of course.”

Caín

“You got a name?” The man blinked in sunrise that the sudden question.

“Carl.”

“I’ll believe that if you believe I wanted to be a ballet dancer when I was a kid.” Father Turrell snorted, then said seriously. “I actually wanted to be a tap dancer.” He waved a hand dismissively. “Semantics.”

“You don’t believe me.”

“Did you expect me to?” He arched a brow. ‘Carl’ muttered under his breath. “You don’t look like a Carl.” Father Turrell paused thoughtfully. “Does anyone actually look like a Carl?”

“Not anyone you want to meet.” The priest furrowed his brow at the strange sentence, but began to collect dishes, running lukewarm water in the sink.

“Anyway, Carl or not, you’re free to have coffee with me anytime you wish.”

Down We Fall (royal political drama)

It happened slowly. He began to notice the little things, quick flashes of personality he'd never noticed before. A selfishness. A coldness. At first he thought one of the cooks had slipped him something, some sort of paranoia inducing drug. But rifling through the kitchen late at night proved nothing, other than his suspicion that Cook Lafet used more butter than necessary and less pecans than she should. Her nails traced his face and he couldn't help but shiver. “Darling,” she stopped. “What's wrong?” Normally he would've taken her hand in his and kissed it to reassure her. But this time he was the one in need of reassurance.

The Day Pa Crow Died

The truck gave a cough in warning. Pa frowned, checking the dash. It had been full last night, he knew, since he had stopped at the gas station just after giving one of his kids a lift to their PTA meeting (their car had crapped out just before they were supposed to be at the school, leading to a panicked plea interrupting Pa’s nightly television hour). Pa knew he should have more gas that this, but focused instead on finding someplace safe to pull over. The truck died just as he made it to the gas station.

Pa grunted as he got out, his knees rolling a bit, though the drop wasn’t very far. Reaching for the pump, a small pink note greeted him, scribbled in thick marker.

PAY INSIDE.

Pa went inside, ringing the bell above the door. The cashier, buried in a magazine titled: Drought, Is It Aliens Or Aardvarks?, rung him up for gas, as well as a few candy bars.

Pa stopped, one foot from the threshold. His skin prickled, but he pushed it aside, and left the station, the bell dinging behind him. A shadow fell into place beside him.

“Do you have a five? I need a pack of cigarettes.” Pa sighed, slipped a bill out of his beat up wallet, and handed it to the voice’s owner. The man went inside, bought his cigarettes, then returned. He looked at Pa expectantly.

“You need to learn to say no.” Said the stranger. Pa blinked.

“What business is it of yours?” He hoped he didn’t sound rude. He did just buy the man his cigarettes after all.

“None at all,” the other man said amicably. He flicked his lighter, the tip glowing before he said, “You didn’t happen to want change back, did you?”

‘Yes,’ Pa thought, but decided to try something different. “No.”

The man hummed. “D’you happen to be a Capricorn?”

“No,” Pa said, wondering why he thought of that brown cone bursting with produce that decorated Thanksgiving tables in pictures. “I don’t believe so.”

Pa Crow was born on a certain day of a certain year, under a certain astrological sign that may or may not have actually fit personality wise, since he didn’t actually know what day he was born. In short, he didn’t believe in astrology, and he didn’t care much to learn.

“A Virgo then?” The man asked.

“No.”

“Leo?”

Pa smiled.

I’m also debating on turning this really dramatic wip I wrote years ago about Jack the Ripper, theater, and multiple personalities into a musical.

Anyway, these are a few of my wips, I don’t want to flood your blogs with a long post on all of them.

#My writing

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ill-skillsgard · 5 years

Text

Smoke & Money, Part 3 - Bill Skarsgård

Title: Smoke & Money

Warning: 100% NSFW, some drug use, swearing, sex/fetish/kink type situations

Description: A young sex worker gets tangled in the dangerous web of a wealthy entrepreneur whose tastes push her past all of her known limits.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6

There was this guy that I met and he was interested in me. I could tell immediately. He had a fast car and an expensive suit on. He was a little on the shorter side with a buzz cut to hide his receding hairline and a chin-strap to make up for it. By the looks of him, he may have been of Italian descent. Not that I cared all that much when he opened his wallet and showed me a stack of hundreds. He wanted to go out for a night with me as his date. At first, he offered me five hundred but I told him to double it for the night if I was acting as a date. He wanted the full escort services. It had been a long time since I had gone clubbing and even longer since I had escorted. Some guys wanted to strut around like peacocks and not just get their dicks sucked in a parked car. So whatever, I thought, I'll go to a fancy club with this guy and have my drinks paid for and come away with another grand in my pocket, at the very least. Usually, these types wanted to stay up all night hauling rails of cocaine and trying to balance it out by choking down male performance enhancers that you could buy at sex shops. Again, whatever. As long as I got paid. I wasn't personally a fan of getting all wigged out on drugs normally but I did like a drink here and there and I could be a fun time, even without narcotics. I also liked to get dolled up so the whole club scenario felt like a breath of fresh air to me.

As I stood in front of my mirror doing my make up I couldn't help but think about Mr. Skarsgard. I hated that I referred to him like that but I still didn't know his first name and by the way he had growled at me the last time, I was afraid to ever speak out of line with him. He looked so young but he carried himself so proudly that it was hard to pinpoint his age. The plague of questions still swirled in my gut once in a while. If he was so rich and so handsome, why was he paying women to be his little service maids? The man was an enigma to me, so dark and quiet, like the beginning of a storm, when the world seems to stand perfectly still inside a din of impending chaos. What was to come? I could not be sure. All I could do was watch the skies.

The club we went to was obnoxiously upscale in decor but noticeably Spring Break in clientèle. Even though the men were suited and the women all wore stilettos, they were all yelling and dancing and drinking and many pairs of eyes were blown-out dilated. I accompanied my John to different corners and levels of the clubs, drink in hand, swagger in my step and alertness that I did not give way to so that he could find his buddies and most certainly show me off. The dress I wore was a backless, low-cut silky shawl of a drape that only really covered my ass and pussy because it tapered down into a pencil skirt. I too wore stilettos.I had on this little number, impossibly high-heeled shoes and a gold sequined clutch that contained my phone, my ID, and my money. I drank with him and laughed with him and stole glances with his more attractive friend. It was a standard night at the club. Blow was snorted off of inch-long acrylic nails, martini glasses speckled any table surface and the music pumped so loud that it was impossible to have a real conversation. To be honest I was kind of having fun at the club even if my client was a greasy little guido with too much Hugo Boss cologne on. "Hey sweetheart," he yelled into my ear. "Take this and go use those tits to order everyone a shot." "Yeah, sure. How many?" I asked him. "Like ten. Who needs a shot!?" I had been seated at a table with a few guys who all fit the same profile as my client and a few girls. I wasn't sure who was a girlfriend and who was an escort but I didn't really care. He had just put two hundred dollars in the palm of my hand. He must have been really messed up and having too good of a time to care about the money spent. I don't think anybody in the establishment cared how much money they were spending. They were all kids with rich parents. Boy how I loved kids with rich parents. Through all of the writhing bodies and slamming bass, I made my way to a bar and posted up on it for a moment to collect my thoughts. I opened my clutch and put the hundred dollar bills inside for safe-keeping. Most of the night I had been neglecting my cell phone so I figured it a good time to check it. As soon as the screen came on I saw there had been a missed call from a few minutes prior. "Shit..." I said to myself. Oh well, unknown number. The bartender was on the complete opposite end of the bar and I knew it would be a while before she worked her way down to me. After all, straight women bartenders tended to favor serving the men first for better tips. That was alright with me though because I knew that hustle far too well. So I waited for my turn like a proper patron. Then my cell phone started vibrating in my hand. There was no way I could take the call amidst all of the noise but it was the same number that I had just missed. My heart skipped a beat or two.

I shoved my clutch underneath my arm and made for the bathroom, the only semi-quiet place that I could think of to take a call. Luckily for me, the only people occupying the stalls were chicks peeing and doing cocaine together. I took the last stall, shut the door and locked it behind me, cell phone in hand.

There was no way I could wait for the number to call again so I decided to call it back which was something I usually didn't do.

It rang and rang and rang for what felt like forever until finally, somebody picked up. "Hello?" I asked when nobody said a thing. "Yeah." "Hi... Who is this? I have a missed call from this number." "Two missed calls." The voice said. I chuckled nervously, "Oh, yeah. Um, so just returning the call." "I appreciate it." "Sorry, who is this?" "Bill... Skarsgard." "Oh." "I'm sending a car for you." My mouth hung open as I scrabbled for something to say. "No, I... I can't. Not tonight." "J... Don't make me tell you twice." "I'm not..." I paused to grind my teeth. "I'm not at home." "Where are you?" With a sigh, I relented, "The Revive Downtown." "He'll be there soon." "Uh... Okay." I hung up the phone and let out a long breath. Shit. Dropping my phone back into my clutch, I left the bathroom in search of my client whose name I forgot. I had to wiggle my way through troops of people dancing before I reached the table that I'd just left. "Where the drinks at?" He asked. I grabbed his hand and gave him back the two hundred dollars. He looked down at the money with confusion written on his shiny face. "I have to go." "What?" He yelled, unable to hear me above all of the electronic discord. He got the hint when I stood to leave. "Sorry, I have to go!" "Wait what the fuck? You can't leave." He stood up as well, much to the surprise of his friends. I held up the free hand that wasn't clutching my bag tightly to my body. "It's an emergency, I'm so sorry!" "No, no, no! I want my money back, bitch!" "I'm sorry! That's not going to happen! Sorry... I have to go!" With that, I turned to walk away quickly towards the exit. My ditched client had other plans and once I was outside I could finally hear properly. There were people all over the street, cars driving by, pulling up and honking and then someone grabbed my arm tightly. "Hey! Don't you fucking walk away from me." I had been followed outside by my client who was obviously pissed. The exclamation was enough to grab the attention of anyone who was standing in line as well as the bouncer who turned his attention toward us but didn't move from his post. "Give me my money back you fucking whore." I flinched away from him, throwing my arms up in front of my face as my first reaction. What I anticipated was for him to come at me, but that was interrupted immediately. "Step the fuck back right now buddy. You don't want to try it." My savior said rather calmly. It was Mr. Skarsgård's driver who had gotten in between us. The guido stepped away, fists clenched, his buddies had come out too and also didn't know how to react. "Your fucking whore stole my money!" The driver took a step closer, towering over the angry client with a trained poise. There was no way he would attempt to throw down with the driver who had a foot on him and none of his friends seemed up to the challenge either. "You better watch your mouth, kid," the driver warned. "You," he then pointed at me. "Get in the car... now." I didn't wait for him to open the door for me and simply flung it open myself, threw my clutch into the back and got in. There was hardly anymore exchange before the driver shook his jacket and came back to the car. It was strange that I felt safe inside the BMW but I did and that's all I really cared about. My friends had told me I should have a bodyguard for situations like these but I had put it off for the simple fact that I couldn't afford to pay a guy to stave off asshole clients. Also, I hadn't done anything to get myself into violent situations either. This was all sorts of unlike me. I had never bounced on a client before. What I was doing for Skarsgård went against almost everything I had learned. It was just common courtesy to not walk out on a client, especially if you had been paid beforehand. This was going to get me into a lot of trouble. The driver got into the car and quickly pulled away from the scene. I watched his tense face relax gradually the further we drove from the club. After a minute or two of driving, he looked in the rearview mirror, matching my stare. "I'm sorry you had to do that," I said to him. "You don't have any protection?" Ashamed, I shook my head no. "You should, doing what you do." Glancing out the window at the passing streets I sighed, "I know." That was the only exchange we had for the rest of the way there. Each minute that passed I got more and more nervous. My imagination ran wild thinking of all of the possible scenarios that I was potentially putting myself into. I started shivering, perhaps because I was wearing almost nothing or maybe from fear of what I was walking into.

In my ridiculously high heels, I clopped up the steps behind the driver who had left the car running just to let me inside the house. I thought it was appropriate of him and I longed to thank him more for stepping in to defend me but I didn't think he wanted to hear any more of it. Instead, I walked right into the foyer. The lights were on this time and it took me a moment to adjust. A bright light was thrown into all corners of the massive hall by the crystal chandelier that hung down like a glittering, silver jellyfish. The paintings were illuminated enough to make out the finer details. But before I could wander in further a voice cleared at the top of the stairs. "Well... A little under-dressed?" I looked up and saw him leaning against the banister, one leg bent and one straight. His white button-up was open and I could see his deep collarbone. Although he looked a little more disheveled than I was used to, he still had his shirt tucked into his straight-fitting black trousers and shiny brown oxford shoes on. He looked to be a mile away by how tall he stood at the top staring down at me with what I thought could have been a mixture of disdain and surprise. "I was out dancing," I called up to him. He nodded his head and never took his stare off of me even if I shied away from the constant eye contact. "Get upstairs. Now." After his unyielding order, he turned and left down the East Wing hall. The echo of his footfalls beckoned me up the stairs. Before I started I grimaced at having to ascend so many stairs in such ridiculous shoes. However determined I was, I couldn't help but let myself take a short breather after clearing all of them one by meticulous one so as to not stumble on the thick carpet. He hadn't gone into his room, he was waiting right at the door. I tried to compose myself and walked towards him with confidence and not like my knees were about to give in. I wondered if he could tell how terrible I was at walking in stilettos. "Go." His voice was like blunt force trauma to my ears. I entered the room which had come alive by the light of candles and the lamp beside the bed.

Bill closed the door behind us with an antique thud and circled me like a predator, never taking his eyes off of me. I felt naked even though I wasn't. His eyes burned so vehemently but his mouth was relaxed and he could almost undress me with the intensity of that stare. Finally, I could see his face, really see it under the glow of the candles and lamps. He was this hybrid of a boy, innocence was woven into every cell of his pale skin and undeniable confidence of a well-dressed, well-paid man, as sinister as he was striking. He had it all in that moment; money, power, and beauty. Something told me he could get away with anything even without the money and the power. Those good looks alone could make a girl do a lot.

That's precisely how he made me feel as he walked towards me, taking his hands from his trouser pockets to grasp my chin, forcing me to stare back at him. "What you did tonight was wrong and I'm very disappointed." He said. "I'm sorry." "Well... you have the rest of the night to atone for making me angry, isn't that right?" "Yes, sir." His eyes were wide and searching, flicking back and forth as he bore into my own eyes. "I thought we had an understanding?" "We do, sir." Bill stepped back and let his eyes fall down my body, taking in every inch of me. Judging me or simply observing, it was hard to tell. This man was hard to read. "Apparently I didn't make myself clear enough." I swallowed. He continued. "You are mine and only mine. You belong to me. You are my fucking property and I do not share." "You don't have to, sir"" "Oh is that right? Then who are you all dressed up for, hm?" "Nobody." "You mean to tell me this little ensemble wasn't meant for anyone? I find that hard to believe. I don't pay you to traipse around the city looking like a ten-dollar hooker for other people." There were so many things I wanted to say but I chose to remain silent as he continued to circle me. "Go to the bed rail." He pointed towards the prodigious canopy bed that was hampered with pillows. I walked past him and stopped at the foot of the bed. He did not watch me but rather went to the other side of the room and dragged a plush wing-back chair to the center of the carpet. With a look of complete absorption on his face, he approached me from behind as though I were just another object in his room. "Bend over." He murmured. I did as I was told and bent over the wooden rail at the foot of his enormous bed. I wasn't sure what to do with my arms so I splayed my hands out on the soft duvet and waited for what was to come next. His hand touched my lower back and pushed down. "Further," he said. Lower I went, arching my back and the more I did so the more my dress pulled up in the back. He could most certainly see my ass as I could feel cool air touching my skin. That big hand ran down the base of my spine and over my exposed skin. Slowly he inserted a finger underneath the scant little strap of my thong, pulling it up. The sensation of the material pulling taut against my most sensitive parts was enough to make me weak in the knees, or perhaps it was my shoes. Nevertheless, it didn't feel unwelcome, simply disgracious in a way that made me feel dirty. "You never make me wait. I do not wait for you. You wait for me." "Yes." "Yes, what?" "Yes, sir." Without letting go of my underwear he used his other hand to push me down further over the rail so that I was completely on display for him. My fear was that he would penetrate me but in those deliciously sickening moments, I didn't have the courage to bring up my rules. I simply did not allow clients to fuck me without a condom. Even the cleanest of men were no exception. My heart began to race thinking of every possibility that could go down. What would I do if he tried? Did I have it in me to freak out, push him away and end it all? Would I allow him to enter me? My head felt so foggy that I honestly couldn't tell how to react. All I knew was that his long fingers were tickling my skin and I could feel the heat of arousal stirring inside of me. Then he wound up and spanked me so hard a shockwave of sting interrupted my entire thought process. I gasped and looked back at him but he was calm, collected and close to me with his hands on my backside once more, rubbing the skin where he had just laid a fiery handprint. "Don't you ever keep me waiting again, understand?" I sucked in my bottom lip and nodded. "You are mine. You are my fucking property," he repeated himself. "Do not test me." "Yes, sir." "You fuck up and misbehave and now..." He leaned over my body bringing his lips close to my ear, hand never leaving my ass cheek. "Now you need punishment." That was the only warning he gave before spanking me again in the same spot. It stung so bad but I gritted my teeth and handled it not unflinchingly but as best as I could to keep from squealing. The prickling heat made me wince in pain. As if to alleviate the suffering he switched to the other cheek and gave me a whack for balance. Not once did he let go of my thong. He pulled it up, rubbed his hand over where the tiny triangle of fabric covered me and smacked me again. This time I couldn't help but let a sound slip from my mouth. "Oh yes, I know it hurts but this is what happens when you defy me. Isn't that right?" I nodded vigorously in hopes my submission would earn me some sympathy. It did not, and he wound up, cranking me really good on the right so hard that my legs faltered. If he wasn't there to keep me standing I would have buckled to the floor. Sweat broke on my forehead and my muscles clenched tightly. The funny part of it all was that I wasn't even tied up. I could have easily turned around and left. I could have refused this punishment. Hell, I could have refused him back at the club and I would have been well on my way to being drunk on top shelf liquor but instead, I was here, bent over a hand-carved wooden rail getting my ass handed to me by this rich, authoritarian man who I knew nothing about.

The only solace my burning skin took was when he leaned over and spit on my bare ass cheeks and smeared it around with his thumbs. I sighed and I'm sure he noticed my relief by the way my spine relaxed. The sustenance was short-lived though. He lowered himself on one knee, proposing to my backside with both hands squeezing, spreading me open and then giving me a few swift belts using his hands as a paddle. By then my dress had risen far over my hips and I had never been more exposed to him before than I was at that moment. His punishment started to awaken a small, provocative tingle that didn't take long to sprout into something that coveted the rain of his foul play upon me. I soon forgot how my ankles were starting to ache, having been propped up on five inches of poniard for hours. The loud claps of his hand against my rear were enough to mask my tiny, shivering moans. He threaded his fingers through my hair and pulled my head back, allowing me to straighten. His other hand came up my neck and gripped my chin, forcing me to look at him, puppeteering my head to bring his lips to the crest of my cheekbone. His breath was hot, sweetened with bourbon and the scent of the cigarettes he smoked. When he pushed his hips into me I could feel how hard he had gotten and I gasped. What was he planning on doing to me? I knew that if I was subjected to anymore spanking it would cross the threshold into nothing but pain with a tearful lack of any pleasure. I didn't want it again but I did want something from him. What I wanted was so unreal and unwise. "Say you're mine." He hissed at me before licking my cheek all the to my gaping mouth. "Say it." What felt like a venomous snake wrapping around me tightly was really the erection he had pressed against my side. If he hadn't have been fully clothed I would have felt a lot more threatened but there was still this perception of a loaded gun. At the moment I truly felt the words leave my mouth. "I'm yours, I'm yours." "That's right, you are." He squeezed my cheeks between his fingers. "Now... Show me your tongue." I opened my mouth modestly and he gave me a quick nip of a kiss, all tongue-on-tongue contact. He drew back only to spit into my mouth and repeat himself. His nasty little game of sucking face made me long for more intimate contact. If he'd have used that loaded gun on me, I would have dropped to my knees in front of him. Without a second thought, he pushed me back over the wooden rail and left me there which was a better alternative to another round of spanking. But I was curious about where he was going until I heard the dull whine of the chair accepting his weight and the jingle of a belt coming undone. I dared a look behind me to see what he was doing. "Turn back around, now." I snapped back into place facing the expanse of bed before me. The candles cast flickering shadows across the black sea of opulent silk and behind me a man was beginning to jack off, watching my damp and reddened ass from a chair that cost more than most people's whole bedroom sets. I wanted to look back but I didn't, lest I cause him any more reason to lash out at me. Somehow I did feel bad for having denied him for anyone else and as I listened to the sound of him stroking his cock behind me, I wanted even more to please him. His breathing was audible and the jingling of his belt only got louder as he went. His breathing was fragmented into nearly inaudible grunts to sounds of him panting. Fuck, I wanted to watch. It wasn't long until a silence of about two minutes fell before he stood up and walked towards me slowly. Each footstep made my blood pump faster. This time, instead of a smack on my ass I felt a stickiness being spread all over my rosy skin. He smeared me with his cum, rubbing it into my flesh like lotion, over my panties and down the backs of my thighs. He made a real show of it, even going as far as to rub his hand over my clothed pussy just once. "Stay right there." He ordered. He and I both knew that I would not go against his word but once he did up his pants and left the room I chanced a looked around. The chair behind me seemed like a mundane object and not where he had just been sitting, staring at me, running his hand over his cock until he came. I wasn't cemented to the bed rail. I wasn't about to get fucked raw. Everything about this was different to me. It was hard to peg every man but this guy went against anything I had expected. He was nothing like the rest of them. He was unpredictable and that was what scared me about him. Was this play or was this humorless in his eyes? I looked over at the brass plate and bristled at the wad of cash that had been there seemingly all along. Would he take it as a slight if I left it there? Of course, he would, I thought. It wouldn't be there if I wasn't supposed to take it. Minutes passed before I heard him coming up the corridor. I had pulled down the skirt of my dress over the drying mess he had left on me and picked up my clutch once more. When he came back to the door he had a lit cigarette between two fingers. "There will be a cab waiting outside to take you home." I nodded at him, unable to open my mouth to actually say anything. He took a long haul off the end of his cigarette, leaning and swaying against the door. "Did you learn your lesson tonight?" "Yes, sir," I replied, feeling meek. "Good girl."After that, he left me to show myself out.

#bill skarsgård fanfiction #bill skarsgard fanfiction #bill skarsgård smut #bill skarsgard smut #fanfiction

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chloeywoey · 5 years

Text

hi everyone! i’m jay (24, est, she / her) and i’m so excited to be here! this is chloe, my social media obsessed darling who’s faker than a three dollar bill but a good person at heart. underneath the cut is an obnoxiously long intro. i’ll be around tonight to plot, and i’ve got a three day weekend so i’m super pumped to get some good connections going and get active on the dash :)))

BASICS

full name: chloe ann lautsch age: twenty-one birthday & star sign: february 6th, aquarius birthplace: festus, missouri sexuality: heterosexual gender identity & pronouns: cis female, she / her housing: audax occupation: social media influencer + traits: progressive, business-savvy, independent, imaginative, go-getting, determined, kind-hearted, take-charge - traits: inauthentic, dishonest, ashamed of her past, perfectionist, performative, untruthful, closed-off song: sampaguita by navvi

BACKGROUND

— chloe was born in missouri to a mother that was pretty much useless as a parent. her mother, deb, was a bar fly who would go home with almost any man who’d so much as buy her a drink. she inevitably ended up pregnant with chloe, but was woefully unprepared for motherhood. this led to chloe growing up without much structure, forced to be independent. the home was dysfunctional, as the only thing worse than deb’s parenting skills was her taste in men. chloe often found herself having to bandage up her mother’s wounds or with wounds of her own after drunken altercations. — all things considered, chloe did well in school. though socially, she struggled. it was hard making friends when she couldn’t invite them over without fear they’d walk in and find her mother passed out on the couch. or when people made fun of her due to rumors about her mother. chloe never had much money or nice things in general. and though this made it harder to fit in, it also instilled a fiery work ethic in her. by sixteen she was working two jobs, trying to study for her algebra tests while manning a mcdonald’s drive through or babysitting local kids. — with everything going on in her life, chloe barely had time to breathe, let alone eat or sleep. with exhaustion taking its toll and SATs coming up, she began buying adderall to help her get through long days and nights. later, her mother began dating a scummy dealer and chloe would steal from his stash, developing a cocaine habit. but chloe was always good at making herself and her life look like something it wasn’t. she mostly did it on social media, after finally saving up enough to buy an iphone. — at age seventeen, chloe petitioned for early graduation. and with her teachers basically clamouring over themselves to write her letters of recommendation, she was set for college. however, she had no idea what she wanted to do. her instagram had developed a surprisingly decent following for a girl from bumfuck missouri, mostly due to her seemingly “perfect” life. she loved the internet. her instagram followers didn’t know that she lived in a trailer or that her mom was a falling-down drunk. unlike her small town where reputation preceded people, on the internet, people only knew what she wanted them to know. she could make her life be anything. she could reinvent herself. so she’d put together cute outfits, not letting her followers know everything she wore she scoured for at goodwill. or take a carefree selfie, everyone unaware that just an hour before she’d been sobbing due to being pushed over an end table by her mother’s boyfriend. or she’d post food pictures, not saying how she had to drive 45 minutes just to get to the local whole foods and spent her entire paycheck on five items. she was incredibly talented at polishing the turd that was her life and making herself seem like a cool “it-girl” that others would want to be. — in two years, chloe capitalized on her love for social media by starting a YouTube channel and turning her instagram into an aesthetic wet dream. currently, she has 375k instagram followers, 120k YouTube subscribers and an ebook published. she’s reinvented herself as a vegan lifestyle blogger. her aesthetic is cute cafes and green juices, smoothie bowls, selfies, bikini shots, sponsored outfit posts...the usual cringe. — she moved to new york at eighteen. and with the city at her disposal, it became easier to live the lifestyle she had to try so hard to fake back in rural missouri. her pages grew to what they are today during her stay in new york, after which she applied to lockwood at age nineteen to study social media marketing. — however, all that glitters is not gold. chloe isn’t exactly honest with her followers. for example, her skinny body - which she attributes to yoga and veganism - is mostly due to her cocaine addiction which got worse while in new york. she rarely eats. she’s promoting a healthy lifestyle, posting self love quotes and publishing a vegan recipe ebook yet snorting cocaine and stress smoking cigarettes. she’s practically telling people “if you follow my diet, you can look like me”, meanwhile she doesn’t even follow her own diet. she often pretends to use products just to get ad revenue. or buys something, does something or goes somewhere just for a picture opportunity. like posing with a plate of pasta just to throw it away after. so even though she portrays herself as perfect, she’s far from it.

PERSONALITY

— chloe is obsessed with portraying her life as perfection. she’s borderline neurotic about it. she barely sees herself as a person anymore, but instead as a brand...as something to be marketed and for public consumption. social media is her career and it’s what pulled her out of poverty. it’s her only source of income, and the fear of going back to working retail and struggling between multiple jobs is always one hanging over chloe’s head. she’s absolutely not a rich kid who had everything handed to her, though you’d never know it because she refuses to talk about her past, going so far as to say her parents are dead and lie about where she’s from. — she’s definitely fraudulent, and there’s no excusing that. she perpetuates an unattainable perfect life to her followers, which is one of the biggest issues with social media. however, she doesn’t do it out of spite or a desire to deceive, but rather she almost feels as though if her life looks perfect, her real problems don’t exist. — chloe is a go-getter and takes initiative in her endeavors. she’s very business savvy, though that doesn’t mean she’s always been. when first coming to new york and growing her brand, she did do some things that made her uncomfortable. she took advice from predatory people under the guise of caring and only through that, she learned to advocate for herself. it also put another nail in the coffin of her ability to trust others. she’s busy and has little time for bullshit. that coupled with her trust issues lead to most of her relationships not working out well. she also fears abandonment and opening up to people, as she’s ashamed of her past and her imperfections. — if she had a reputation around campus, it’d probably be as little miss perfect, which is a persona that can be grating. she’s generally sweet, though can be blunt and bold. she’s definitely outspoken about things she believes in and can be found handing out flyers to get more vegan options in the dining hall or standing up to a misogynistic frat boy at a kegger. but she’s also performative, not feeling real unless people are watching. doing things to be perceived a certain way instead of just being authentic.

CONNECTIONS

— a genuine friend. someone she can just be herself around. — ex boyfriend(s). she tends to put herself and her career first. she also is obsessed with perfection and most likely trotted her boyfriend and her relationship out on her social media, wanting him to play along with her little games. most of her relationships, therefore, feel inauthentic. — boyfriend or bff for “clout” (i hate that word asdjkdjdl). basically a fake relationship or friendship just to get insta likes lol. fun spin on a fake dating plot. or a frenemies thing, like they don’t actually like each other but pretend to. — enemies. i’m sure she gets on people’s nerves by pretending to be little miss “i do pilates and drink celery juice and shove veganism down everyone’s throats”. — hookups and no strings attached things — her drug dealer, since she’s still very much addicted to cocaine — anything and everything else! <3

#lw:intro #drugs tw #abuse tw #death mention tw #addiction tw #fingers crossed this formatting isn't a hot mess!!!

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