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adorerdraco · 4 years

Text

Malfoy’s Gone Soft! ✧ Draco x Reader

Summary: Draco, your boyfriend, is mean to everyone until you call him out for it.

Warnings: mentions of bullying :( and a couple profanities :0

Words: 2K

A/N: omg i wrote this on a whim while listening to the euphoria score soundtrack in like an hour idk if its all that but i have no idea what i’m going to do next for Healing Heart so for now i’m just going to write other things for Draco until i get inspired ! & feel free to send me requests ! also thank you for 100 followers you guys are amazingggg !!!!!!!!!!! *insert pouty emojy*

The sound of arrogant and boisterous laughter filled the courtyard, the Slytherin Prince and his minions were tossing around a book bag that a helpless 2nd year Hufflepuff was chasing around every time it was thrown to another boy. One of the boys yelled a foul, “mudblood!” that made the boy tear up as he reached and jumped up for his bag that was in the air every few seconds. It was nothing new to the school, Draco and his band of bullies would bother anyone who they found as an easy target just for the fun of it.

Unfortunately for Draco, you had been passing by through one of the corridors with a group of friends when you had seen the fiasco. As much as you adored your boyfriend, you couldn’t deny the sometimes nasty persona that he had and how much it bothered you. He would always swear up and down that he would stop his antics, but you often encountered him or heard from other people of him being in the same situations that he had promised would stop.

You marched your way over to the group, a fire in your step and your eyes fixated on Draco who was laughing like a fool. You watched as Goyle rushed to elbow Draco’s side, earning him a look until he had pointed in your direction. All joy in the blond’s face quickly drained once he saw your vexed expression heading towards him.

The book bag had dropped from his hands onto the stoned courtyard ground, the young Hufflepuff hastily grabbed it and ran off in tears back into the castle. You stomped up to Draco, noticing how he had visibly swallowed in fear at what your reaction would be.

“What happened to, ‘I swear I’ll stop being a git to everyone!’” You asked him incredulously, mocking his voice as you quoted him.

“Malfoy said that?” Blaise chuckled as if it were a joke. Both you and Draco turned to give him a frenzied look.

“Y/N, I...” Draco trailed off, looking around at his friends who were awaiting his response with smug smiles on their faces. Then he looked towards you, a hope glittering in your eyes that he would reassure you and be the sensitive boy you knew behind closed doors and away from his every day reputation. “I...”

“So you have nothing to say for yourself?” you deadpan, a scowl making its way onto your face when you realized he wasn’t going to apologize.

“Why do you care what I do to a stupid little Hufflepuff?” He snickers. Whatever hope you had left went up in flames, he had chosen his reputation.

“Because it’s mean,” you sneered. “Why would I want to be with an arse like that?”

With that, you turned on your heel, walking out of the courtyard and back to your friends where you walked to your next class without turning back to look at the group of shocked boys.

“I think you just got dumped, mate.”

“Merlin’s sake, do you ever shut up Zabini?” Draco fumed, his heart breaking at the question and his mind running a million miles per minute. He began walking towards the entrance of the castle to head into the common room, bumping shoulders aggressively with Blaise as he did.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

You weren’t sure whether or not you and the Slytherin Prince were broken up. Of course, it was the last thing you wanted but you were sick of the endless excuses and empty promises. You knew of the package deal Draco Malfoy came with when you started dating him, but there was a point when it all became too much. You were hoping in a last ditch effort, that if he genuinely really cared for you and respected your wishes, this would be the final push he needed to change.

It’s not like you were asking him to completely stop being himself. You were only asking for him to stop with the unprovoked teasing and pushing around of innocent bystanders. His friends especially, were a big reason why he continued to do it as he loved being the leader of the group and all that came with his positions as; the funniest, the most attractive and charming, the smartest, the wealthiest, the strongest. It was all just a game to him but he never saw the aftermath of his tormenting and how it could really affect someone or their day. You were like a broken record, repeating to him over and over again the same wish you had for him but he never absorbed it.

So now here you were, furiously writing your Potions essay in the library as your mind ran with thoughts of the aggravating platinum blond and nothing having to do with Calming Draught.

“Write any harder and you’ll break your quill,” a certain timid voice said from in front of your table. You didn’t look up, already knowing it was Draco. You didn’t want to give in so easily to his intoxicating nature because the second his scared gray eyes were to meet yours, you’d melt. “Y/N, I’m sorry. For what happened in the courtyard.”

You sighed, setting down your quill and shaking your head, eyes still trained on your parchment. “It’s not just what happened in the courtyard, Draco. It’s that you do this to someone new every single day.”

“I’ve been this way all my life, I can’t just change who I am,” he argues. You finally look at him, the both of you silently seething at each other.

“That’s not an excuse!”

“Shh! Quiet down, the two of you or you will be asked to leave,” Madam Pince exclaims angrily from her desk. You turned back to Draco, hard eyes trained on him as he glared back at you with the same irritated look.

“I would just like to know why my girlfriend feels the need to suck the life out of all my fun,” he says lowly to you. Your face goes scarlet as you try to contain your wrath from being let out on the whole library, and on Draco who wouldn’t even know where to begin to handle it. But as angry as you were, it was quickly replaced with anguish and pooling tears as you thought of the main reason why you had wanted him to be nicer.

“Because your ex-girlfriend knows how it feels like to get bullied and targeted every day for no reason,” you spit sorrowfully. “I know what it’s like to live on the opposite end of what you think is fun and I promise you it’s nothing near that.”

You hurriedly grabbed all your things and rushed out of the library with tears streaming down your face as Draco only stood there feeling like the biggest most insensitive idiot and asshole in the world.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

It had been a week since the incident at the library and the both of you couldn’t be any more miserable. It had gotten to the point where Draco felt ashamed and gross if he was even accidentally rude to someone, let alone on purpose. The blond boy watched you intently from his Slytherin table in the Great Hall, his friends and their conversation sounding like a distant incoherent buzzing as he focused onto your sad and defeated face and figure from afar.

He had tried everything he could think of to get your attention, to get you to hear his apologies, but you wouldn’t give him the time of day; you refused to. You were beyond hurt. Not only because of Draco, but also because of the painful memories that had resurfaced that you spent so long trying to get over. It was all just a mess and Draco regretted everything he had said to you and everything he didn’t do for you.

“Just give it a rest, Draco,” Pansy sighs exasperated at the boy’s longing stares. “She broke up with you, stop pouting about it and move on.”

“Shut up, Pansy,” Draco sneers. “Mind your business why don’t you.”

“I’m just saying, if I was her, I would never do or say anything to ruin our relationship,” she shrugs, peering up at the frowning Slytherin through her eyelashes.

“You’re not her though, are you?” Draco snarks, his eyes squinting at her as he shoots the mean remark her way. All the surrounding boys give an “oooh” at the interaction, cackling as they watch Pansy go red in the face before abruptly standing up and leaving the table in a rush.

Draco did the same and removed himself from the table to dart out of the Great Hall and towards an empty corridor near the courtyard where he liked to hide on an large windowsill. He had enough of his despair and enough of sitting around and doing nothing to win you back, so he got to work on something that would be his last and this time big gesture, to get you to listen.

A few hours had gone by, it was sunny and there was a nice breeze that was perfect for Draco’s plan on winning you back. He especially knew that when the weather was like this, you enjoyed sitting on a bench in the courtyard, the sun caressing your face with warmth as you read a book.

He walked out of the corridor and towards the courtyard, and just like he knew, he spotted you sitting at your favorite bench angled towards the sun and deeply entranced in whatever book was in your lap. He took a deep breath before nearing you, stopping a few feet away to where you didn’t notice his presence just yet. His hand reached into the pocket of his robes, picking out the small and large variety of origami birds notes he had written and charmed to fly over to you and around you in a pretty and gentle circle. A bouquet of red and y/h colored flowers had appeared in his hands behind his back, all he was waiting for was for you to accept him.

You looked up from your book, eyeing all the paper birds that were fluttering around you and across the way was a frantic looking Draco with his hands hiding something behind his back. You let out a deep exhale, reaching out to grab one of the birds and unfolding the note to read his perfect cursive.

I’m sorry.

Then you grabbed another.

Please forgive me.

Then another.

You are everything to me.

And another.

I promise to change my habits.

And then the final one, the biggest bird of the bunch.

I should have listened to you from the beginning and I’m sorry I haven’t been more sympathetic. I’m also sorry that you had to go through that in your past. You are so beautiful and strong and deserve everything good in this world.

You placed your book to the side and stood up, opening your arms in a hug for Draco before he bolted towards you and enveloped you into his arms with a sigh of relief.

“I’m so sorry, darling,” he apologizes again into your hair as he nuzzled into you. He pulled back, handing you the large bouquet of flowers that made you blush as red as the roses that were mixed into the assortment. “I can’t promise you I’ll be perfect, but I swear on everything I love, I’ll try.”

“You don’t have to be perfect, Dray,” you chortle. “All I’m asking is for you not to be such a terrorizing little git.”

“Done,” he grins, throwing himself into your arms again as you giggled and ran your hands through his hair.

The two of you plop onto the bench below you, Draco peppering kisses all over your face in glee and gratefulness that you gave him another chance to prove himself. He didn’t even dare remove himself from you when he saw his friends strolling by, snickering and pointing to the nearly snogging couple.

“Malfoy’s gone soft!” Blaise yells across the yard, the rest of the boys laughing in response as usual like the mindless bozo’s that they were. Draco rolled his eyes, throwing them the middle finger before nuzzling himself back into your embrace.

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sassy-stupid · 4 years

Text

honest mistake

pairing: Satan x Reader

Smut

Wordcount: somewhere around 3.7k

Summary: Belphegor is a little shit, satan is a big shit.

First of all, sorry guys for not posting this when I said I would. I do everything I do on whims and impulses so my schedules aren't reliable at all :( I tried my best for y’all but this was the soonest I could do it. Hope you enjoy it.

and lets just ignore that my follower count more than doubled in the time it took me to write this

"You know what would really spice up your life?" You knew you shouldn't listen to Belphegor, the demon was a straight up shit stirrer, there's no way this could end up being a good idea.

"Strike up a conversation with Satan," you knew you shouldn't listen to Belphegor, ever really but especially concerning his brothers. And yet, here you were in front of Satan's door, an essay regarding his latest drama in your hand.

"Then 'accidentally' call him Lucifer, over and over" it was a bad idea, a terrible idea. Provoking the avatar of wrath like this, it wasn't just a bad idea, it was downright dangerous. And yet, as the door opened you felt a surge of excitement.

You'd had a crush on the blond ever since you first talked to him but him being a demon, one of the student council demons no less, intimidated you. Now that all that family business between the brothers went down, you felt genuinely closer to all of them.

Close enough for Belphegor to feel comfortable meddling in your daily life it seemed. You'd texted Satan with the devious twin still leaning his head on your shoulder. "If I do this, you don't get to call me a puny human anymore, got it?".

The texting went smoothly and before you even knew it Satan invited you to his room to discuss the drama he'd been watching. Of course he also told you to be prepared for it, hence the essay you held in your hand.

"Hey (y/n)" Satan smiled as he greeted you, that oh so polite smile that held a lot more depth once you actually got to know him. "Oh do mind those books. I'm cleaning the shelves, Mammon got his grubby hands all over them again" he sounded calm but the clench of his jaw betrayed that he was starting to boil deep down just thinking about it.

"Ah, would you like some help? I'm pretty okay at dusting shelves, and I'd love to get a look at the kind of books you've got in your collection" you offered, momentarily forgetting your entire plan.

Satan's smile pulled up into a smirk for a split second before dropping back into that polite smile you're so familiar with. "Maybe another time, I wouldn't mind showing you what I got here but I'm rather excited to discuss the happenings of 'oh dear my roommate sent a booty call to god and actually got a response but I've been seeing the devil and they've been trying to kill each other in our house '.

Despite the long and ridiculous title, that seemed to be a reoccurring theme in devildom's tv series, it was quite interesting. You'd genuinely like discussing it with Satan if it weren't for your plan, the plan you were about to set in motion.

You pushed yourself back against the couch a bit further. Satan was sitting next to you, he had been close enough for your knees to touch before you pressed your legs closer together.

"But honestly though that moment where god threw the devil through the window, really opened my eyes. Like I'd been rooting for god up until that point but I realized just because he's god doesn't necessarily mean he's the good guy." you barely stopped to breathe, it was showtime and you wouldn't let your nerves stop you. "It kind of reminded me of your situation, Lucifer".

The effect was immediate. He clenched his jaw, his shoulders squared and despite the ever present smile, his eyes were on fire. "What did you just call me?" You pretended you didn't notice what you did.

"Hmm?" You questioned, tilting your head. The look in his eyes almost sent shivers down you spine, belphie was right this was at the very least exhilarating.

"Nothing, I must've misheard" despite his words you could still see the tension in his shoulders. You almost felt bad for the demon. That was shortlived though as he continued his detailed opinion on the show you had been talking about.

The second time you got the opportunity was during the show's finale, Satan had recorded it and saved it to watch it together with you after your discussion. "Oh, Lucifer, could you hand me my DDD?".

"Ugh" you actually got a sound out of him this time, the frown on his face quickly turned into his same old smile. Yet it was different this time, you could almost sense the heat coming off of him and the second your eyes met you got shivers.

"(Y/n), you just called me lucifer" he almost hissed as he spoke his brother's name, he might have gotten over his deep running hatred but there was still some anger there.

"Oh, did I? Sorry, I've been a little distracted" you tried to play it cool, you were enjoying riling him up like this but you didn't want to get him actually angry, you weren't that interested in death yet.

He seemed to be thinking for a second, the warmth still pulsing off of him. Before he moved a bit closer, leaning in "you might want to pay a bit more attention then, before you cross a line you don't want to cross" His voice dropped so low that the vibrations of it went straight to your core.

A nervous laugh escaped you as you looked up at him, his eyes were so intense. You felt the burn of his look on your skin and just when you thought he was going to do something, anything, he handed you your DDD and backed off. His smirk back on his face. "Ah, but I guess humans make mistakes all the time, huh. I'll let it slide for now".

The tension wasn't just him now, you were on edge too. Was he doing this on purpose, did the heated looks he'd been sending you mean anything?

You didn't want to piss him off to much, but the tension was killing you, your fight or flight was kicking in and at this point your mind was shouting at you to bolt. So you decided politely taking your leave might be the best course of action.

"This was fun, I had a great time but I think I'm gonna head back to my room" you said, getting up off the couch and stepping towards the door. Satan got up too, his gentlemanly side taking over again as he walked you to the door. "Goodnight Lucifer" it had slipped out, not even on purpose this time. You'd been so caught up in calling him lucifer all night that you'd gotten used to the idea of it.

His reaction was instantaneous. He grabbed your wrist and pushed you against the door he'd kicked closed in the same movement. He grabbed your other wrist too, pressing them together before moving one of his hands down. His face was inches away from yours, and his body was pressing yours into the door. His knee was pushed up in between your legs and a whimper escaped you at the movement.

"You've been saying that a lot tonight, one would almost think you're doing it on purpose" he was almost growling, his voice deep in anger. "Are you? Or would you rather be with Lucifer right now?" He pushed himself further into you, his knee rubbing up against you making the heat of his rage hit you hard as you started getting turned on.

You looked up at him like a deer caught in headlights, you knew this was where your playing was leading and yet, caught in the moment you didn't think ahead far enough to know what to do now. "I uhm, I'm no-" you started, barely managing to utter out the words but Satan interrupted you.

"But that doesn't matter now. You've been egging on the avatar of wrath and you're going to pay for it, you're mine now" his last words were hissed against your skin before his lips were searing it. You knew Satan's anger could get him heated but you never though it would be this literal.

His teeth buried themselves into your collarbone, and he sucked on your skin harshly. "I won't let you think about Lucifer when you're with me" he spoke, he had left your collarbone and was now leaving open mouthed kisses along your neck. "And I'm going to make you pay for even comparing me to him" the words were spoken as he looked you right in the eyes.

The hand that wasn't holding your wrists wrapped around your back and pushed your hips against his, making them grind against him. You'd never expected anger to arouse Satan as much as it appeared to do, but the hard bulge that was grinding against you didn't lie.

A moan bubbled up in your chest and when it escaped Satan growled. He pulled you off the wall and threw you down onto the coach, looming over you. He frowned, his teeth grinding together again. "If you want to run, you're going to do it now. If you don't, I'll make you take responsibility".

He was giving you a way out, the avatar of wrath, that you royally pissed off, was letting you leave. God you loved him.

You ran your hand over his face, and despite the anger still radiating off of him, he leaned into it. "Satan..." you trailed off, not too certain about your next move but you got this far, might as well go for it. You leaned in to whisper in his ear "I did do it on purpose".

The softness left his eyes and the look he sent you did things to you. You didn't get time to do anything else before his lips pressed against yours aggressively. He kissed you roughly, his hands running over your body only stopping at times to squeeze you.

He pushed his tongue past your lips and you whimpered at the feel of him. Everything about him was so hot, you were practically melting against him.

He started grinding against you as he broke the kiss but not before biting down on your lower lip. "You shouldn't be enjoying this as much as you are" he leant down towards your neck again, biting down harshly. Your moans seemed to fuel him as he kept biting you. Moving down even when he reached your collarbone.

His arms flexed as he pulled your shirt open, the buttons popping off your uniform . He didn't waste a second before pulling your bra down. His hands were pushing you against him again when his lips wrapped around your nipple. Though he didn't stay there long, he leaned back to blow against it.

His hands moved back up, his thumbs now rubbing your nipples as his mouth made it's way back to yours.

"You know what? Enjoy it for now, I need you wet for what I'm about to do to you" his words sent a wave of arousal straight to your core, and for a second you were relieved he didn't know just how wet you already were.

His hands slid back down to your hips after a while, gripping them tight enough to bruise you. "You tested my patience enough today" he said, as he pushed your legs apart. For a second you wondered how he was ever going to get your pants off like this, but he just ripped them apart as if it was as easy as your blouse.

He pressed your legs even further apart as he moved down the couch. He ran his hands down your thighs before pushing them up and he leaned back, looking down at your flustered face. The position you were in, the wet spot that was very clear on your underwear and the way he was looking at you made you squirm.

A smirk was on his face as he spoke again "I like you like this, so submissive. The only sounds coming out of you, the sounds I'm forcing out of you" he leaned back in, his face nearing your inner thigh before he bit down on it.

"I'll make you mine, I'll make it so that anyone who sees you knows to back off the second they lay their eyes on you" he spoke against your leg before pressing his nose against your underwear. Breathing in deeply then curling his hand around the strap of your underwear and tearing it off.

His face pressed against your folds and you practically mewled as he slipped his tongue in. It might have been a demon thing, but his tongue reached deep, very deep. You rolled your hips subconsciously and Satan's grip on your legs tightened, pushing them further up. His tongue was still moving around roughly inside of you, rubbing up against all the spots you want him to be, as he let his hand run up your leg.

Pulling back for a second, he ran his finger along your slit, making you shiver, collecting your wetness on his finger before diving right back in. Your eyebrows furrowed as his tongue reached even deeper than before. His now wet fingers slowly started rubbing circles on your clit.

He was so good at this, your back arched and you desperately tried to move your hips closer to him but he held you down tight. His fingers sped up and any coherent thought left you. You moaned out his name again and again as his tongue pushed you closer and closer to the edge.

"You're being so loud kitten, aren't you worried my brothers will hear you" he tried to tease you but his words didn't reach you. He chuckled deeply as he replaced his tongue with two of his slender fingers. Moving them fast to push you ever closer to your impending orgasm. He rubbed up against a sweet spot, making you cry out.

"You're liking this so much aren't you kitten? I'll let you have this, but you'll pay me back after" his fingers stretched you out so nicely. He smirked up at you and the state you were in, he let his tongue poke out before he dived back in. You would've been shocked at how long his tongue was if it hadn't been rubbing up against your clit as his fingers roughly fucked into you.

Your eyes rolled back into your skull as your high crashed into you. You weren't even sure what you were saying anymore but Satan seemed to like every second of it, he was moaning against your pussy as it convulsed around his tongue.

Satan kept eating you out even as your high died down, you were starting to get oversensitive but he didn't stop. You looked down, right into his eyes and you knew right away that he was doing this on purpose. He might have been fingering you, but he hadn't forgiven you yet.

You moaned again, you weren't even sure if it was in pain or pleasure but you were sure you'd come on his tongue again if he kept this up. "Satan" you barely managed to get the name over your tongue without drooling. Satan pulled his tongue out of you, but he didn't relent, his fingers were inside you again in seconds.

"That's right, say the name of the man that's doing this to you. Do you think you could still call me lucifer now, huh?" The smile on his face was so arrogant but you could sense his anger coming up again, his fingers rubbed inside you hard and fast. "Tell me kitten, tell me you're going to cum all over me again" his words lit a fire inside you and if anyone asked you what happened in the next few seconds you wouldn't be able to answer it.

Your orgasm hit you so hard that all you could see was white, and when you came down again satan had his fingers that were dripping with your essence in his mouth. "You're being so good" he spoke as he crawled over you, somehow unbuckleing his belt in the process. "But you still haven't redeemed yourself" he hissed it in you ear as he spread your legs again.

Your eyes landed on his cock, and even though you could barely see it from this angle you could see the sheer size of it. Maybe the demon average was bigger than the human average, but even then Satan must've been above average. It made you nervous but oh so excited.

"Please" you didn't even really know why you were begging, or what exactly you were begging for, but you knew he wasn't giving in yet.

The head of his cock ran along your slit before he pushed it up. Rubbing it up against your clit in short, heated motions. "Look at you begging for me without any prompts" his hands were running all over you again. "Do you know how lucky you are?" A moan escaped you as he pushed the head of his length past your folds. "Anyone else would get killed for calling me Lucifer" his lips brushed against your ear as he spoke surprisingly softly. "But you might just survive".

You wanted to say something, tell him why you did it or just tell him you loved him. But any words you had started to form died on your lips when he pushed the rest of himself into you. A shout of his name was all you could muster as you were stretched around him. He hummed as he moved his hips slowly "my brothers are bound to have heard you by now but I kind of like the idea of that".

"Let them know that even if they ever get to you, I was your first" the word was accentuated by a rough thrust. He didn't speak after that, the only sounds leaving him were low grunts at the rough and fast pace he set up. You would have spoken if you still knew how to, but his dick felt so good that nothing else seemed to matter anymore.

Nothing else except for the hand that squeezed itself in between your bodies, landing right above the place that connected the two of you. His fingers brushed your clit, coaxing a needy moan out of you. Before he moved his hand up a bit, pushing it down on your lower stomach instead. The pressure made you feel his cock inside you feel even better and judging by the moan he let out it felt good for him too.

"Do you feel me inside of you kitten? Do you like the feeling of my cock hitting you so deep?" His words pulled you closer to the edge. "Sa-" you tried to answer him but you interrupted yourself with a moan as he slammed his hips against yours again. "Satan, it feels so good" the ‘good’ came out more as a whine but that only urged Satan to go harder.

Your eyes rolled back into your head once again as it almost felt like he was rearranging your guts. He saw how close you were and brought the hand back down to your clit, immediately setting up an unforgiving pace as he rubbed it. "Cum around my cock then kitten, show me how good it feels".

You could barely control yourself, your hips pushed up to meets his and your head rolled back again. The words you mumbled were completely incomprehensible but Satan seemed to get what you meant nonetheless.

His tip hit your sweet spot and you were screaming, toes curling as your wetness dripped down his long hard dick.

He didn't stop, couldn't bring himself to stop. This was your punishment and even though you looked like you couldn't take much more he wouldn't stop until he got his fill.

"Baby, hold on. We're almost there" he started getting desperate, he wanted you, all of you but he didn't want to take too much. He was groaning as he started getting closer.

"Satan please" your voice sounded weak, and you looked so fucked underneath him. "(Y/n) please I'm so close" he was the one begging you now, when had you started getting this power over him? It didn't matter, you didn't need it.

"Satan please" your voice trailed off into another moan before you finished your sentence, your legs wrapping around his back "please fill me up". You'd been embarrassed, but no amount of embarrassment could hold you back from this. You wanted it so bad, and he was happy to oblige.

His rough thrust sped up even more, and you nails were scratching down his back at the feel of it. "Then take it (y/n), take all of me" his low growl was accompanied by the hot spurts of his cum inside you. It was so much, maybe the average here was higher for demons as well. You felt so full, so warm, and all of it was him.

A couple of seconds after the two of you rode out your highs, you were spun around to lay on top of him. His hand gently rubbing your cheek as he smiled at you. "That was dangerous (y/n)" his voice was stern but his soft face betrayed his intentions "but I'm glad you did it". He hugged you to his chest the second the words left him, making sure you didn't see the blush creeping onto his face.

"I'm glad too Satan, this was really," you bit your lip, deciding on what word to use "amazing". Satan's chest shook you as he laughed. "Don't go looking at me like that now (y/n), provoking me now won't do you any good". You bit your lip again and smiled at him mischievously and you could see the heat rising in his eyes again.

This was far from over.

Bonus:

Belphegor had never quite felt regret like this, most things he'd done wrong in his life were easily fixed. But now he was losing sleep as his friend was getting fucked by his brother that he'd only been trying to annoy. And they were loud. Another groan left him as he shoved the pillow down on his head harder. He'd make them pay for this.

#obey me satan #obey me satan x reader #obey me satan smut #obey me satan x reader smut #obey me reader insert #obey me smut #obey me #i am a beacon of sin #obey me x reader #thats enough tags #tagging is more difficult than actually writing lmao #although i suck at both but ya know yeet #smut #reader insert

2K notes · View notes

something-very-special · 3 years

Note

i found your blog at 2am and scrolled through every post on a whim, and i just wanted to say it makes me really happy to know that fans of the original nier are still here and active. and thanks for posting an original replicant playthrough, i hadn't heard weiss's voice at all and it was nice to check the differences

lastly, i saw one of your posts about how love is the central theme of nier and i think that pov makes a lot of sense, even more than the others about justice and revenge.

you get to see how the main four grow closer, and how each of them sacrifice so much in their quest, because all of them so badly need a family, people to depend on

nier fights for his friends, and yonah. he said it best himself; he fights to protect them, and if someone puts them in danger, they must stand aside or be cut down. papa nier lost his wife, and bro nier lost both of his parents, losing yonah is not an option.

weiss chooses to fight with the others and abandon the gestalt project, because even if he didn't remember rubrum, some small part of him knows that he doesn't want that to happen again, he doesn't want to lose those precious to him.

kaine originally only fights because she needs somewhere to belong, and along the way she discovers that this is where she belongs, being nier's sword, bickering with weiss, camping with emil.

and emil... poor emil. an ultimate weapon, made only to destroy. he fights so his sister's sacrifice won't be in vain, because he hates his body, because at least he could be useful that way. after all his adventures with the party, and having a kindred spirit in kaine, his last act is to sacrifice himself, to protect them.

so in summary these four are all severely damaged people and deserve to be happy as a found family. sorry for the mini essay i had a lot to say on this. might also be a bit weirdly structured cause i wrote this on only three hours of sleep. thanks for readin, have a good day-

No worries, Anon, thank you so much for taking the time to write this!

Ending E also drives the point home, both in its original prose version and the playable version added to Replicant. Kaine hasn't spent her new life fighting for revenge and justice; it's to protect. Even if she doesn't remember exactly who she pledged herself to, she's going to protect what's important. That's love.

#Nier #Love #Themes #Themes of Love in Nier #Nier in Love of Themes #Love of Themes in Nier

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matildashoney · 4 years

Text

London Town

Loving You’s the Antidote Extra

MASTERLIST // MOODBOARD // TAG LIST // TAGS // PLAYLIST

TAG LIST: @ihearthemcallingforyou, @goldenfeelin, @detroitkiwis

talk to me about it!

thank you miss @berrynarrybanana for creating the sex bucket list fic challenge! i wanted to write something with the mile high club for harry and ames a while ago and this gave me every opportunity to do so. this is pure filth about harry and amelie getting back to london recently after being stuck in malibu during the quarantine.

warning: this is literally 4.4k of filth. i can’t be sorry for what my brain has done. i take no responsibility.

Harry is guarded, to say the least. There was too much happening for him not to be.

One of the security guards that was driving them to the airport got out with Amelie first, making sure that there weren’t any photographers waiting outside for them (which there shouldn’t be, all things considered) and having her get inside to wait for Harry when he was able to get all their luggage and out of the car. Harry was nervous, his hoodie tugged over his head and his passport and identification all sitting in his hoodie pocket. Amelie was wearing the hoodie they bought at a Spice Girls concert the year before, but it was beginning to fit a big snuggly around her tummy and they knew that anyone that saw them would start pregnancy speculations before they could even begin trying to have a baby themselves. Her hand grabs his as soon as he walks beside her, interlocking their fingers and hiding her face in his chest, the exhaustion beginning to set in and the bruising on her hips from the needles beginning to ache as she stands for much too long without rest.

Harry guides them through security, his heart breaking as Amelie knuckles her eyes and desperately clings to her last bit of energy and pouts as his bag gets checked once more and she isn’t able to sink into his embrace as she wants. Considering the amount of time Harry and Amelie have spent together in quarantine, it would have made more sense that they need space, when in fact, Amelie has never been clingier. Not that Harry pays any mind to it. He knows that it’s with the best intentions, all because she loves him and is happy to be with him. Her hormones are messy with the new birth control she was trying, as well, with all intentions to perhaps make her body ready to be pregnant later in the year. All Amelie wanted was a good snuggle a very hefty amount of the day. Harry was happy to give that to her.

Los Angeles International Airport is surprisingly empty, Harry thought there would have been more celebrities trying to get back to wherever they’re from now that flights are slowly beginning to depart again – not that they really should be. Harry is excited to get back to England, London particularly. Amelie, although her heart is in love with California, misses London, misses home. All of the exhibition pieces that she was working on were left there, and for nearly four months her creativity was dry and there was nothing she could think of. Harry misses his family, his home. He even misses Tigger, especially now that he’s been staying with Anne for nearly six months. Harry misses their routine. Amelie misses the comfort of being home.

Malibu is home in a lot of ways.

Malibu is where they said the three words for the first time. Malibu is where they got engaged. Malibu is where they got married on a whim. All of Amelie’s family is nearby and their best friends and godchildren are only a fifteen-minute drive away. Mostly, it’s being together that makes it feel like home. Home is so subjective. To Harry, after travelling for so many years, unsteady relationships, the media overwhelming him with labels and rumours and the way his mental health suffered, Amelie really became the one thing that made the most sense, that made him feel safe. To Amelie, with all that she went through, the idea that someone could make you feel like home was absolutely mad, and there was a nagging voice that always told her she wouldn’t find it, and then Harry waltzed into her life and simply knocked every single thought she had about her life into another world; Harry made her feel as though there was nothing that she couldn’t do, and maybe he was right about that. Home was with each other, no matter where they are or where they go.

Harry squeezes Amelie’s hand, the engagement ring and wedding band ice on his skin. He smiles though, the feeling that the symbol gives him making his eyes sting with tears. He sniffles, drawing her attention and her eyebrows furrowing together in confusion. He shakes his head, kissing her hairline and nodding to the near-empty terminal that was about to board their flight.

“’ey,” Amelie whispers, brushing her thumb under his eye and moving the mask slightly to kiss his cheek, “you okay?”

“Thought about how we’re married and got all,” Harry mutters, his nose in her hair and laughing to himself. “Don’t know, guess m’heart is softer, now.”

“Always has been, baby,” she smiles, laying her thighs over his legs and cuddling into his chest, her eyes falling shut as he gently rubs her back. “Think they’ll yell at us for laying in the same bed, again?”

“Don’t think so since everyone has to stay away,” he mumbles, taking in the way the ten other passengers for the flight are wearing masks and gloves. “Can’t wait to be home and don’t have to wear this thing.”

“Meaning you’re gon’a be naked in the garden most days and dragging me out with you.”

Harry snickers, meeting Amelie’s knowing stare and shrugging his shoulders, “As long as you’re naked, too.”

“Don’t try your luck, Mr Styles,” Amelie sighs, squeezing his hips as his thumb dips beneath the waistband of her leggings. “Harry.”

“Didn’t wear any knickers.”

“Je ne voulais pas qu'ils me montent au cul pendant douze heures,” she whispers under her breath, trying to avoid the entire terminal hearing that her decision this morning was to go without any knickers on an eleven-hour flight.

Harry smirks, tugging his mask to his chin and pressing his lips to the shell of her ear, “Tu essaies d'entrer dans le club du mile high, chérie?” For a man that slept maybe three hours, Harry is awfully horny at barely four in the afternoon.

Amelie lightly smacks his hand as his fingers inch towards her inner thigh, coming dangerously close to her centre. “Harry, I swear to God.”

“Oh, it could be fun, Ames.”

“Ah, yes, because you,” Amelie’s voice lowers to a whisper that even Harry can barely hear, “fucking me in our seats in first-class sounds like so much fun when we could get caught.”

“’s the thrill of it all, baby.”

“Don’t do that. Don’t use the baby card,” she says warningly, her eyes narrowing at the man she loves with her whole heart, trying to convey her seriousness. Her thighs clench around his hand, a near-death grip to break his movements where his fingertips would brush over her heat.

“Need those fingers, Cherry.”

“Don’t stick your hands in my leggings, then.” Harry smirks at Amelie. “That doesn’t mean you find a loophole and stick your hand over my fanny either, thank you.”

“Mean, technically I’m not over your fanny.” Harry laughs so loudly, the entire terminal turns to face him. “Need you to tell me when the hell you started calling it that, though. Taking to all the slang now that you’re half a Brit, huh.”

“Much less aggressive than calling it my,” Amelie whispers, “cunt. Don’t you think?”

“Quite like calling it that,” he shrugs, weaselling his hand further up her thigh, nearly holding her heat in his palm. “’s mine to call anything, you know.”

“Oh,” she snorts, shaking her head and lightly pushing his shoulder and smirking when he grabs her hand with his other hand, kissing her palm with a smirk. “Is that how marriage works? Don’t think that was on the document we signed.”

“Mean, as far as I’m aware. Got like,” Harry hums, pretending to count on his fingers the number of months since they’d gotten married in March, “three months under m’belt. ‘s kinda like how you say you want my cock in your mouth.”

“Harry, quit it. There are people around.”

“Half of them would need a hearing aid to hear me, honey.”

Amelie shakes her head, “Whipping your best terms of endearment isn’t making me any more inclined to have sex on the plane.”

“Hate to break it to you, angel, but you saying, fanny, doesn’t really give me an inclination to stick my hand in your pants, anyways.”

“Good,” she says, wrapping her hand around his wrist and moving it away, interlocking their fingers and grabbing their bags to walk to the desk to board. “Not to mention, it’s barely four in the afternoon.”

“Oh, time is a social construct, baby. Isn’t that what you say when you’re begging for it in the morning before I have get on a flight out somewhere?” Harry whispers in her ear, smiling at the flight attendant and handing his phone for the boarding passes.

Amelie releases Harry’s hand, tugging her sweatshirt sleeves over her fingers and crossing her arms over her chest. “I hate you.”

Harry smirks, wrapping his arm around her shoulder and kissing her head, his phone stuck in the front of his The Face sweatshirt that Amelie threw onto the bed for him to wear while he was sleeping. “No, you really don’t.”

“Welcome,” one flight attendant says through their mask, oblivious to the sexual tension spurring in between the freshly married couple and the way her hand was holding his simply to ensure that he wouldn’t squeeze her breast with his hand hanging limply over her shoulder.

Harry steps inside the row first, and Amelie knows why he’s hiding in the seat that would be the least likely to be seen by the flight attendants. Her head shakes with a sigh, heaving a breath and settling into the chair, giving a warning glance to him as his lips toy with a mischievous grin.

“Garder les mains pour soi.”

“Can’t keep m’hands to m’self for eleven hours,” Harry stresses, his cheek laying on her shoulder as he stares at her through hooded eyelids, the separator pushed away to allow him to cuddle into her, the way her nails are scratching at his scalp making him want her more.

“Harry, yes, you can,” Amelie says, knowing that Harry is trying to wear her down with the dramatic nature of the conversation. Her thighs are warm thinking about the adrenaline that would course through her veins by having sex where they very well shouldn’t be, but with the environment being heavily closed away from interaction, maybe this was just the right time to do so.

Amelie wouldn’t admit that to Harry, though. No. Because that means he won.

“Haven’t touched you in like, three days.”

“Because we had to get all of our things together, see our godchildren, and see my family. Not because I didn’t want to.”

“Alright, well, now we have eleven hours.”

Amelie sighs, carding her fingers through her hair and gently pulling out the tie in her curls and letting the baby pink fall over her shoulders. Through her peripheral vision, she can see Harry roll his eyes, trying to look away as she tugs on the sleeves on the sweatshirt, gently pulling the material away and leaving his eyes to bask over the loose-fitting shirt from his closet and her chest free from any restrictions.

“For fuck’s sake, Amelie,” Harry groans, sitting up and beginning to pull his mask away from his mouth, all the passengers boarded and the flight attendants beginning to go through the safety measures as he’s heard a million times before. “Did you not wear a bra, either?”

“Like you said, eleven hours,” she shrugs, a smirk playing at her lips as she set the sweatshirt over her thighs, dragging the blanket over her body, locking his hand between her legs.

“Know just how to get what you want, huh?”

“Maybe,” she hums, spreading her thighs the slightly amount to give him the ability to roam further across her skin. “Have had quite a few years of practice.”

Harry smirks, taking Amelie by surprise and sliding his hand beneath the waistband of her leggings, her thighs unable to be held together as his fingers drag slowly and teasingly across her mound. “About, five years, huh, baby?” Amelie gulps. “Don’t go quiet on me, now. Have had the wittiest comebacks for an hour and now you’re quiet?”

“Harry,” she says through a clenched jaw, trying her swallow back a moan as his fingers delicately trace along her core, arousal collecting on his fingertips as his finger draws over her clit lightly, barely touching her skin. “Either you do it or you don’t.”

“Do you want me to?” Harry smirks, lips ghosting across the shell of her ear and making her sink further into her seat, her thumb between her teeth as she nods shamelessly. “Amelie Fay, tell me what you want or I’m going to take my hand back.”

Harry rarely uses Amelie’s whole name. And by rarely, Amelie means that Harry only uses her whole name – first and middle – when they’re arguing and she won’t listen (which is most of the time) or they’re about to do something filthy and she won’t give verbal consent (which is most of the time they’re taking to exhibitionism). But whenever Harry uses it, fuck, it’s another type of sexy. His accent draws out every syllable, especially when he’s trying to use an accent that her mother has or it’s deeply his own.

Amelie sucks in a deep breath, trying to steady her breathing and not melt into the chair with the barely-there movements of his fingertips, his middle finger teasing her warmth by dipping in to collect more arousal over her clit. “Okay, okay.”

“Okay, what.”

“Need you to use your fingers,” she sighs, his fingers beginning to ease into her warmth and brush against the velvet that squeezes him in. “Fuck.”

“Be quiet,” Harry says strictly, his cheek laying on her shoulder and his lips touching the cut of her jaw. “Have barely touched you and you’re already squeezing me, doll. Maybe I should’ve tried a bit harder to get you into bed, hm? Have I been neglecting you? Horrible husband, you have.”

Harry and Amelie never could describe their sex life as neglected – certainly not that – but it definitely was not what it was when they first got married at the beginning of March. Harry and Amelie tiptoed around the subject because there were days when there was too much frustration to even think about getting naked and sharing their thoughts with the other person. That definitely isn’t what want they wanted, what they promised each other. And so, here they were, three months into the isolation and just being able to go home, and there was a desperation lingering between them that neither really knew was there. Getting comfortable was something they didn’t want, and that’s exactly what they did.

His fingers work at a speed that could only be described as desperate and longing. His thumb pressed against her clit with patterns that have her hips longing to writhe beneath him, his middle and third finger curling inside of her with every thrust, taking a second to ghost across the spot that would have her screaming inside their bedroom.

“Baby, please,” Amelie whimpers, tucking her face into his hair and breathing out through parted lips, squeezing her eyes shut as the flight attendant walks through the aisle, completely unsuspecting of what is happening beneath the linen. “Harry.”

“All over me, honey. Gi’ me all of it.”

Amelie tugs on Harry’s curls, earning a smirk and a grateful kiss, swallowing her moans as the orgasm ripples through her body. Her hands shaking as she grasps onto the blanket and her hot breaths hitting his neck. His hand is coated with her orgasm, his mouth watering at the thought of her taste on his tongue.

If Harry couldn’t go down on her, right now, this is the next best option.

“Get out the fruit and water from your bag.”

“Huh?” Amelie whispers, her eyes barely opening to try and read Harry’s expression. “For what?”

“For you to drink,” Harry smiles, kissing her hairline sweetly. “And so, I can stick my fingers in m’mouth and it won’t look like I just fucked you under the blanket.”

“Christ, Harry,” she mutters, rolling her eyes as he chuckles under his breath. “Do you realise you still have your fingers in me?”

“And?”

“Can’t lean over and grab everything with you puncturing my cervix.”

“Don’t flatter me that much, baby,” Harry quips, nodding towards the bag laying at her feet and gently tapping his thumb against her clit once more. “Already have a big head.”

“Hate you,” Amelie swallows, trying to control her breathing as she leans forward and reaches for her bag, Harry’s fingers wiggling inside her warmth. He is just as needy as she is, at the moment, except, Amelie would rather wait until they are home and can’t be caught. “Here.”

“But, baby, I know you don’t.” He chastely kisses her cheek, gently taking his fingers from her warmth and slowly removing his hand from her pants, pouting his lips, “My hand is cold, now.”

“Unfortunate,” she shrugs, taking a long sip from her water as his tongue licks along his palm, his two fingers suckled between his lips and tasting all that he’s missed in nearly four days. He isn’t used to going that long. Maybe, he’s a bit spoiled in that regard. Harry and Amelie are running on the same sex drive at all times. Call it inspirational in some respects. Amelie has found it quite useful in the exhibitions recently. Harry finds that flattering.

“Quit being a brat,” Harry teases, squeezing her knee over the blanket and standing on his feet, nodding towards the bathroom a few feet away. “Have to wash my hands. Got a bit messy.”

Amelie shakes her head, wiggling around in her seat and shrugging her sweatshirt over her torso, settling under the blanket and laying over the chair, waiting for Harry to get back and cuddle into. Harry smiles at the sight, wiping his hands over his sweatpants and manoeuvring around her legs and settling into his seat. His arms open wide, graciously accepting Amelie as she climbs over into his seat and lays in the reclined bed with him, tucking her face into his neck. “Hi.”

“Hi, Cherry.”

“Can’t wait to go home,” she whispers, yawning as his fingertips drag through her hair. “Miss home.”

“Know you do,” he says, kissing her temple and bringing the blanket tighter over her body. “Me too.”

“Need a really good night of sex, too. Or day. I’m not picky.”

Harry snorts, “Have our other nights not been satisfactory to you?”

“Always the best with you. Don’t worry,” Amelie smirks, kissing his jaw and breathing in his cologne. “Different when we’re home, though. Don’t care about anything or anyone. Can just do it wherever, whenever. Don’t have to worry about my parents or sister, or our friends coming and knocking on our door.”

“Love your sister,” Harry says, his voice hanging on the last word, “but she is the biggest cock block in the entire world.”

Amelie laughs so loudly into Harry’s chest that the flight attendant peers over his novel. “God, you’re right.”

“Need to just be alone with m’missus for a while.”

Her voice is quiet, once again, barely above a whisper as she begins to fall asleep nuzzled into his warmth. “Alright.”

His eyebrows furrow together in confusion. “No argument? No rebuttal?”

“Not today.”

Harry laughs breathily, shaking his head and kissing her hair, his hands dragging along her spine as she drifts asleep. He stays awake until nearly eleven, waking her to eat and watching a film on his phone until they’ve fallen back asleep together, only waking to the sound telling them to buckle their seatbelts and settle into landing. Harry can see the relief on Amelie’s face, the smile that sits permanently on her lips as the pilot welcomes them to England and Heathrow Airport.

Amelie nearly forgets their luggage when Harry pulls into the garage, rushing inside to see Tigger and breathe in the scent that is permanently a mark of their London home. He tugs in their bags, setting the mickey mouse printed luggage in the foyer and wrapping his arms around her waist, kissing her neck sweetly and nosing her hair away from her skin.

“Fuck, ’m happy to be home.”

“Know you are,” Harry smiles, gently biting her neck and licking over the red mark lingering on her skin. His hands squeeze her thighs, lifting her onto his hips and wrapping his arms under her ass, his eyes rolling as their cat begins to rub along his legs. “Not the time, Tigger.”

“He missed you.”

“Flattered, but not really the time. Quite missed shagging m’wife, so that’s the priority at the minute.”

“That sounds really sexy coming from your mouth,” Amelie hums, dragging her thumb over his plump lips.

“Hm?” Harry asks, carefully making his way up the stairs and shoving their bedroom door open, careful to make sure that their cat would not be in the way when the door closed behind him. He became way too good at carrying her up the stairs when they moved in two years ago.

“My wife.”

Harry snickers, walking straight into the bathroom and turning on the light with his elbow, setting Amelie on the counter and harshly pressing his lips to hers. “’s what you are, m’wife.”

“Can’t wait to have this on me,” Amelie smirks against his cheeks, her fingertips dragging along his beard as Harry tugs their sweatshirts and shirt off their bodies. “First place you’re going to have sex with me in our house is the shower.”

“Know you better than that to think you’ll let me on the clean sheets after we were just on a plane for twelve hours.”

Amelie giggles, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and tugging him into her, his arms circling her waist and his tongue tasting her lips, her tongue, her. “Know me well.”

“Hope so after five bloody years.”

“Go turn the water on.”

Harry nods eagerly, walking away and turning the water in the shower, the waterfall faucet sprinkling water over him as he tugs on his sweatpants tie. His head rolls back as two hands skirt along his naked torso, dancing dangerously close to where he wants them most, his cock already painfully hard between his thighs.

“Don’t tease me, now.”

“Am I not allowed to have a taste, either? ‘s been four days, remember?”

“For fuck’s sake,” Harry moans, squeezing his eyes shut as Amelie’s hands bring his sweatpants over his ass and thighs, her gently hand tugging teasingly over his shaft. “Get in the bloody shower, woman.”

Amelie laughs, taking Harry’s hand and stepping inside the shower, the steam already beginning to fog over the glass doors. His back hits the tile wall, a gasp leaving his lips as she sinks to the ground, her knees printed with the tile, her tongue dragging over the arousal wetting his tip. He moans, the sound spurring her on, his hand running through her hair as she wraps her fingers around his base and begins sucking on his cock, all of him surrounded by her tongue and her wet lips and her warmth.

His stomach tightens, nearly spilling his entire orgasm down her throat. His whimpers as she pulls away makes her laugh, his eyes barely open before he’s helping her stand and grabbing her thigh to wrap around his waist, his cock sliding deep inside her warmth without warning. Her forehead falls to his collarbone, the sensation overwhelming and deeply missed. Her nails dig into his shoulders, their kisses messy and sloppy as his thrust reaches every inch into her core, his thumb drawing shapes around her clit the way he knows she loves.

“Missed this so much,” Amelie moans, her fingers tugging at his curls and bringing his mouth to hers. “Can’t go that long again.”

“Fucking swear on m’life,” Harry grunts, the way his cock is driving into her making her lift onto her toes. “Gi’ me your leg.”

“Do you want to fall over?”

“Trust me.”

Amelie wraps her legs around Harry’s waist, sighing when her back hits the cold tile that is out of the water’s reach, a gasp leaving her lips as his shaft sits deeper inside her warmth.

Harry is grunting mercilessly into her neck, Amelie’s moans echoing inside the bathroom, and to anyone that doesn’t know them, they might have thought that they’d not seen each other for a month, maybe two, with how intense their orgasms spill onto each other. Her thighs shake around his waist, their orgasms dripping out of her and onto his legs as he holds her, making sure that she wouldn’t fall.

And their shower isn’t devoid of more touching and kissing, in fact, the water goes cold before they’re fully finished washing up and rinsing the shampoo and conditioner from their hair.

Harry watches Amelie change intensely, soaking in the way she’s never changed the way she looks in their time together – except for the new three tattoos – the way she’s never felt the need to. Harry adores every curve and tattoo and mark and dimple, especially when she’s naked and he’s touching her skin.

“Can you look away for maybe two seconds?”

“No,” Harry deadpans, laying his hands behind him on the bed, the towel still loosely covering his waist.

“Are you going to eat lunch with me?” Amelie wonders, tugging one of Harry’s old shirts on and sliding briefs onto her hips – he never wears them anyways.

“Think I need to go for a run, and then I’ll shower and come back and eat.”

“You want to go for a run? After a twelve-hour flight?”

“Need to otherwise you and me will be in that bed for the next twelve hours,” Harry says surely, taking a deep breath and nodding his already semi-hard cock between his thighs.

“For fuck’s sake,” Amelie breathes, shaking her head and walking to him on the bed. Her lips press against his chastely, once, then twice, smiling when he tugs her onto his chest, and they fall against the mattress.

“Love you.”

“Love you more. Go for your run. Think I can take, like, six hours in bed, with breaks, alright? I’m not a machine.”

“Ooh, a compromise.”

“Married men get three compromises a year, this is one.”

“Deal.”

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gumnut-logic · 3 years

Photo

Callisto

Okay, you may have heard me rambling on about this project...alot. Poor @tsarinatorment @janetm74 @scribbles97 and @onereyofstarlight have suffered extensively so far because it has been them I have been harrassing the most.

The reason why it is such a big deal to me at the moment, is because I’m trying something new. You may have noticed I have a bit of a scatterbrained muse that likes to jump from one shiny to another at a breakneck pace - I am soooo sorry for the trail of unfinished fics over the last few months ::groans at the mess on my archives:: I had sworn to not upload unfinished stuff, but there are some fun moments in those wips, aaargh.

But anyway, finishing the Kermadec fic was a big thing for me. VERY BIG. The previous year I had managed to, with so much support from you guys, finish Gentle Rain, which, while not everyone’s cup of tea because it is a ship fic, had a major impact on my writing and proved to me that I could finish a longer project.

When I started the Kermadec fic, I realised it was going to be quite a long one, but not as long as it actually was. The muse did what it liked with those whales and, well, sorry Virg. That fic had some planned structure. I had a solid skeleton of initially four days (which became five). I knew they were going to camp on Macauley, I knew they were going to encounter the whales, and Mel was planned from the start. Sam popped up halfway and all the Raoul scenes did whatever the hell they wanted, but I knew I had to get the boys home for Christmas (I just didn’t specify which Christmas, oops). But the key was I had a structure to hang the boys on and contain the muse just a little so it didn’t suddenly slap a space rescue in there or something stupid like it is prone to do.

Leading up to, and while I was writing/procrastinating the Kermadec fic, (like a good chunk of last year), I started a new writing regime (stolen from Terry Pratchett, apparently) where I only require myself to write 400 words a day. This number is achievable and I started writing every day, something fairly consistent. Considering how erratic I can be, this was a great achievement. I ended up creating the Anna Kent series, Dirt, Flannel, Reactions, When the World Goes Boom (I will finish this!), The Dentist, The Joker and the Hero (I’ll finish this one too!) and Who do you save, John?. All of these are decent sized fics, but all of them were started on a whim and slapped together in odd moments. The muse did whatever the hell it wanted and I often ended up in places unexpected. While they were a lot of fun and I am really happy in some cases, I feel that the plots sometimes suffered for lack of planning. There were definite instances of me writing myself into a corner and then having to bend the fabric of space and time to get myself out of it. There was some planning...I have scribbled notes, but most of it was on the fly and a thread tying exercise at the end.

So, I want to improve that plotting and planning. However, as with everything to do with my stupid brain, there is a problem. If I plan too much, the writing gets boring and I lose interest - this has happened in the past. So I need to find a balance.

But I’m learning. Year one was Gentle Rain, year two was We’ll Be Home For Christmas. This year it is Callisto.

Callisto is a planned novel length fic. Screw it, I’m calling it a novel :P Look I have a storyboard to prove it.

And, yes, I made sure it was blurry enough to not offer spoilers.

I literally spent all day Wednesday nutting out the science behind this story and world building and in the evening spent another few hours ironing out the plot. Many thanks to those who helped so much, you know who you are and I appreciate it ever so much ::hugs you lots::

So I have a plot skeleton on which to hang our boys (poor buggers, they’re all in this one). The word count it already over 16,500 words and I have no idea how high it is going to get.

One of the things I really enjoyed with the Kermadec fic was exploring the Kermadecs, a place I have never been and will likely never go. It was fascinating and the process was like actually being there.

This time around I want to take the boys out of their familiar surroundings, I want challenges, I want mystery, I want to learn and I want to see if I can do this.

So, long story short, this is a big thing for me and while sometimes it may seem I’m not writing much, it’s because unlike previous exercises, I’m not posting immediately. I’m leaving a gap between writing and posting, leaving room for alterations. The first half of Kermadec was written this way and it was pure luxury to be able to go back and add foreshadowing when I needed to. This is better practise for me and will hopefully result in a better fic.

All in all, I’m hoping to control my crazy brain in order to make a quality end product. But it will be challenging. There will be whining and down moments. Screaming matches with myself and times where I will need a prod or a poke. This is me facing me, always a scary thing. I am my own nemesis.

So, I would like to thank all of you who have been so supportive so far and put up with my whining and oddities. There will be other fics along the way, no doubt. The challenge is to stop them from getting out of control and taking my attention from Callisto. It will be a juggle. I know myself too well to think I won’t wander off on another fic (the whole reason both The Hero and When the World Goes Boom aren’t finished is literally because of the Kermadec fic - I slammed them shut and made myself focus on the big fic - unfortunately, picking them up again is hard and in turn screwed with just about every other fic I attempted towards the end of last year, which is why I cracked earlier this year and desperately needed to dump the load of WIPs in order to get writing again - I sometimes get lost in my own brain).

So, this essay, wow, oops.

Next Tuesday, I will be posting the new Prologue (the original prologue was only 700-odd words long and proved to be not enough so I went back and expanded it to the full length I had originally planned - it is now nearly 5000 words long and pretty much a story by itself). Once that is posted, I can start uploading the fic to the archives so peeps there can see I am actually writing.

I’m currently hip deep in Chapter Three, where that storyboard starts.

Wish me luck :D

::hugs::

Nutty

(nuts)

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds fanfiction #thunderbirds #callisto

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artificialqueens · 3 years

Text

Girls in Love, Chapter 1 (Viopearlax) - Grey Darling

A/N: Hello friends! It's been a while lol. Anyway, here's the first chapter of my new Viopearlax fic, in which useless lesbian Pearl must navigate the perilous landscape of polyamorous romance while trying desperately not to lose it altogether. This is mostly just setting the scene - things are gonna get shippy in the next chapter. Special thanks to @dollalpaca for beta-ing this literal centuries ago. Hope you all enjoy!

“I’m getting married.”

Pearl almost choked on her water. “I’m sorry. You’re what?”

When Scarlet had asked Pearl out to dinner that night, Pearl had assumed it was just for a catch up. She hadn’t seen her little sister for ages, so of course she’d jumped at the opportunity when Scarlet had messaged her that morning. All she’d expected was banter, a good laugh at all the stupid shit they used to do when they were kids; the last thing Pearl anticipated was for her baby sister to tell her she was getting married, while Pearl herself was struggling to get someone to go out with her on more than one date. Wasn’t the older sister supposed to find their soulmate first?

But Scarlet was beaming. “I’m getting married!”

“Since when? Jesus, Scarlet, I didn’t even know you were dating anyone.”

“You so do!” Scarlet retorted, pouting. “You literally met her last year.”

“I did? Who the hell was it?” At this point, Pearl had no idea whether to be angry or just confused. “I mean, seriously, Scarlet, you’re what, twenty? Twenty one? You’ve got shitloads of time before you need to make any big decisions like that. This isn’t the kind of thing you can just decide to do on a whim.”

Scarlet stared down at her half-empty plate, tugging at her bottom lip with her teeth. When she spoke, she was quiet. “I thought you’d be happy for me…”

“I am- I mean- I don’t know.” Pearl slumped back in her chair. “I just… I think you’re a little young, that’s all. Give it a bit longer with this guy, maybe a year or two. If you’re still into him by then, then by all means, tie the knot. But-”

“She isn’t a guy, Pearl. She’s a she.” Clearly upset, she stabbed into a piece of pasta with force. “I thought you knew I liked girls?”

“I do.”

“So why’d you assume she was a guy?”

“I don’t know! I’m not exactly in the greatest headspace right now, Scarlet. Fine, you’re engaged to a girl you barely know-”

“I do know her! And I’m in love with her!”

By now, it felt as though the entire restaurant was staring at them. Pearl shot Scarlet a narrow eyed look. “Can you keep it down?”

“No! I thought you’d be happy for me, but I guess that’s just too fucking much for you. I was gonna ask you to be one of my bridesmaids, but if you’re gonna be such a bitch about it I’ll ask someone else!”

Pearl sighed heavily, squeezing her eyes shut. By the time she opened them again, Scarlet was pushing her chair out from the table, the harsh scraping of wood against wood just making everything feel worse. “Wait, Scarlet-”

“I’m done. Good fucking night.”

Pearl just watched as her little sister stormed out of the restaurant, clearly not intending to pay for their meal judging by the way she breezed past the counter without so much as a glance. Well, this wasn’t how she wanted this meal to end.

Pearl knew she was right. She knew that Scarlet was way too young to be getting married, and she highly doubted Scarlet had known this girl long enough to make a serious commitment. If Pearl couldn’t even guess who this fiance was, it was a bad sign—if something important happened to Scarlet, Pearl was always the first to know about it. Surely if she’d met the girl of her dreams, Pearl would’ve received at least five essay length texts about her by now. But she hadn’t, and that made Pearl incredibly suspicious.

At the same time, she absolutely hated the idea of her little sister being mad at her. From the moment Scarlet was born, she and Pearl were as thick as thieves, and any argument they ever had was always resolved ten minutes later, both of them sobbing and apologising profusely to each other. But somehow, Pearl knew she’d overstepped the line this time, and that it would take a lot longer than ten minutes to win Scarlet’s forgiveness. And frankly, that made her feel sick.

Sighing, Pearl hailed the waiter, deciding that a stiff drink was in order.

***

“She still hasn’t texted you back?”

“Nope.”

“Shit. You must have really pissed her off.”

Pearl groaned, turning around to softly bang her head against the metal surface of Katya’s all American Russian food truck. It was a place Pearl would often go to for wise counsel and sage advice, although often the hardest part was figuring out where Katya had parked the damn thing. Katya herself, who’d been one of Pearl’s best friends since she moved to the city, reached through the window of her truck to pat Pearl on the head.

“There, there.”

Pearl glanced up at her with a glare, not in the mood for half-assed comfort. Katya raised her hands in mock surrender.

“Sorry! What do you want me to say?”

Letting out yet another groan, Pearl turned back around to lean with her back against the truck. “I don’t know. Can you tell me I’m not a massive bitch?”

“Ok. You’re not a massive bitch.”

Somehow, it didn’t sound as comforting as Pearl thought it would. But then again, she’d imagined it coming out of Scarlet’s mouth, not Katya’s. “Thanks, I guess.”

“You’re just a bit of a sour puss today, aren’t you?” Katya started rearranging the various condiments she had adorning the window of the truck, not having much else to do since the lunch rush had come and gone. “Or are you just having an existential crisis?”

“Probably the last one. I just feel conflicted, Kat.”

“Right.”

“I want to feel happy for her, but I’m also worried about her. Does that make sense?”

“Yep.”

“Good. So I’m not going crazy.”

Katya thought for a moment before responding. “I don’t think anyone would think you’re going crazy. You’re worried about your sister getting married when she’s like, still at college. Why wouldn’t you be?”

“But you should’ve seen her last night. She looked like I murdered her puppy or something.”

“I mean, by the sounds of it you did stomp all over her romantic dreams.”

“Oh, fuck off, I did not.”

Katya chuckled, bringing out that bright, toothy grin of hers. It was usually infectious, but not today. Pearl was inoculated with guilt. “Well, would it make you feel better if you met the person she’s getting hitched to?”

“I mean, I’m trying to convince her to meet up with me again, and I’ve told her she can bring her girlfriend - uh, fiance. But she isn’t replying. I’m literally blowing up her phone and getting fuck all in return.”

“Hmm. It’s a tricky one. Maybe she just needs time to cool off?”

“Maybe. I just don’t want to wait - I want to be friends with her again.”

Katya pursed her lips before reaching her hand out. “Gimme your phone, I wanna see what you said.”

“Katya, I’m not giving you my phone.”

“Come on! I wanna see if you’re being apologetic enough.” When it was clear Pearl wasn’t going to relent, Katya pushed harder. “Trix says I’m really great at being a warm and friendly person, y’know. Maybe I could write you a really good apology.”

Pearl shook her head. “That’s not happening.”

“Aw, why not?”

“Because I’ve fucked up enough as it is. I’m not going to be that disingenuous to let someone else apologise for me. If Scarlet finds out about that, it’ll just make things worse.”

“You’ve got a point. Well, I guess you’re just doomed to wait it out.”

“Fuck…”

Just as the curse left her mouth, Pearl’s phone pinged. Katya’s eyes widened as Pearl scrambled to grab her phone out from the pocket of her jeans. It had to be a reply from Scarlet, it couldn’t be anything else. Somehow, she must have subconsciously known how much Pearl was beating herself up over their disastrous dinner the night before and felt the need to text her and reconcile. That was how the universe worked, right?

Pearl grabbed her phone, Katya leaning out of the window so she could see the screen. Almost nervous, Pearl tapped on the home button, lighting up the screen and revealing the text she was so desperate to see.

SHEA: Can you fill in for my shift tonight? Not feeling too hot. Thanks!!

*** Being the good friend that she was, Pearl did fill in for Shea’s shift that night. No, spending an extra seven hours at the dodgy bar she worked at wasn’t exactly what Pearl wanted to be doing, but at the very least it would take her mind off of Scarlet.

Or at least, she thought it would.

No matter how many cluttered trays of drinks she was made to serve, she kept on replaying her and Scarlet’s argument in her head again and again, the sense of guilt almost too much for her. Every single female customer she served had her wondering - is that the girl my sister’s getting married to? She knew it was a ridiculous thought. Scarlet would rather die than spend a second with the lowlifes that frequented the bar, but that didn’t stop Pearl from worrying about it.

Maybe she should’ve just been a good sister and supported Scarlet’s idea to get married. It wouldn’t have been that hard, right? She didn’t have to go all responsible, killjoy big sister on her and crush her romantic dreams. Scarlet was old enough to make her own mistakes, right? And who even knew whether or not this marriage would be a mistake? Maybe Pearl was just being paranoid?

These were the kind of thoughts that plagued her the entire night. She’d arrived at work at 8pm, all decked out in her skanky waitress uniform, hoping that work would take her mind off of her current crisis. But there she was, three hours later, hiding out in the break room because she just couldn’t calm down about it. Did that make her a bad worker? Yes - her break wasn’t for another hour. But she’d be no good to anyone if she spilled a tray of drinks all over a customer because she was too distracted by the image of Scarlet crying her eyes out to look where she was going.

Scrolling through all the text messages she’d sent to Scarlet, Pearl began to second guess what she thought had been perfectly acceptable apologies.

PEARL: I’m sorry about last night. Can we meet up and talk about it?

PEARL: I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m just worried. Sorry again - let me know if you’re free to meet up?

PEARL: I’m sorry, Scarlet. Please text back.

PEARL: I could shout dinner? We could get Indian takeout and talk this over. Like adults.

PEARL: You could bring your girlfriend? I want to meet her.

PEARL: Sorry. I was a bitch last night. Please text me back?

And still no reply. Maybe Pearl would be able to get by on the theory that Scarlet had lost her phone, or was out of credit or something. But she didn’t believe any of that for a second - she knew perfectly well Scarlet was pissed at her and not answering her texts for that very reason. It was silly to try and assume otherwise.

“Pearl? Pearl, where the- Oh my god, could you please go back upstairs?” Pearl looked up as one of the other waitresses poked her head into the break room, her full lips shaped into a defined frown. “We’re dying out there, there’s so many people.”

“Sorry, Aja, I’ve just got a lot on my mind.”

“Yeah, and I’m probably gonna get my assed handed to me by dozens of impatient customers. Get your ass up here already!” With that, Aja was gone, her summons impossible to ignore.

Sighing, Pearl quickly checked her makeup in the mirror, straightened her dress, and stepped back out into the bar.

***

It should be illegal to make people work past two am. Pearl trudged into her tiny, cupboard sized apartment, head pounding from an unpleasant mix of not enough water and not enough sleep. At the very least, her daydreams (nightdreams?) about her bed and a nice, cool glass of water had distracted her from the Scarlet issue. So that was a small blessing.

Pearl flicked the light on as she arrived, wincing as the brightness made her headache even worse. She didn’t hate her apartment - it was tiny and under heated, sure, but there was space for a bed, a little kitchenette, a small bathroom off to the side, and her favourite bean bag chair. Plus, it had an amazing view of the city, something Pearl wasn’t planning on complaining about. Her artistic sensibilities had told her that if she didn’t get that view, she’d never forgive herself. She had to constantly remind herself about how great the view was when she was freezing her ass off in winter and would kill for a well heated apartment.

Making a beeline for the kitchenette, Pearl turned on the tap and poured herself a glass of water. It felt like magic as the water passed through her lips; the sticky, dry feeling in her throat vanishing in an instant. It even made her head feel a little better, although the brightness of the light cancelled out any progress on remedying it completely. You win some, you lose some, Pearl supposed.

After a second glass of water, Pearl didn’t even bother getting out of her uniform before collapsing into bed, dragging the duvet covers up to her chin and snuggling down into comfort. She was more than ready to drift off when she realised that she still needed to plug her phone in to charge. So, without making any effort to get out of bed, Pearl reached for her bag and pulled it towards her, digging her phone out from amongst the other items that cluttered it - wallet, pack of tissues, a worrying amount of receipts from Katya’s food truck. It was as she stuck the charger into her phone that the screen lit up, revealing a notification that made Pearl’s heart skip a beat.

It was a text from Scarlet.

Thoroughly jolted awake, Pearl scrambled to sit up and open the text, her thumbs impatiently tapping the screen as she waited for it to open. She bit her lip once it did, her wide eyes reading the text with more concentration than she’d ever read anything before.

SCARLET: Starbucks at 12. I’m bringing Yvie.

#rpdr fanfiction #pearl liaison #scarlet envy #katya zamolodchikova #shea coulee #aja #scyvie #lesbian au #poly #viopearlax #s7 #girls in love #grey darling

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gluku-pikron · 3 years

Note

Also! I've meant to ask you about your favorite books since you asked about mine! If you're comfortable sharing them that is. :) Any genre, just whatever happens to be your faves for any reason. :)

ohhhhhhhhh you can’t just ask me about my favorite books and not expect me to write you a 10-page list of recommendations i WILL go feral and i will NOT shut up*

*I started writing massive essays but then I realized that would be a pain in the ass to read and I got self-conscious so this starts out with me rhapsodizing about Anne Carson and then devolves into a simple list with brief paragraphs. Sorry.

1) I’ve already talked about how much I love Anne Carson’s Autobiography of Red and Red Doc>. It’s one of those stories that clutched my heart in its fist, dug its sharp little nails in, and refused to let go. It hurts, but in such a potent, perfect way. Autobiography dances its way through a few different formats, starting out as a lovely essay about Stesichorus’ Geryoneis (what is left of it is scraps and fragments) before darting off into a modern-day love story told in verse about a boy who may or may not be a monster (Geryon) who falls in love with Herakles who is Herakles but also not really.

The prose in both of them destroys me, and if I could write half as prettily, half as evocatively, I would be truly at peace with my work.

His wings were struggling. They tore against each other on his shoulders

like the little mindless red animals they were.

With a piece of wooden plank he’d found in the basement Geryon made a back brace

and lashed the wings tight.

Then put his jacket back on. You seem moody today Geryon anything wrong?

said Herakles when he saw Geryon

coming up the basement stairs. His voice had an edge. He liked to see Geryon happy.

Geryon felt his wings turn in, and in, and in.

and from Red Doc>, which is formatted completely differently and also tells a rather different story about Geryon and Herakles...

Guns. Fire. Animals. You know the Carthaginians liked to use oxen for night fighting. I'm talking about Hannibal I'm talking about the battle of Ager Falernus 217 BC. Like tanks but more frightening. They'd tie lit torches to the horns and stampede them toward the enemy. The Romans panicked some ran into the herd some got knocked off the path to the crags below others tried to retreat and were lost in the tundra never seen again. But what about I'm asking what happens when the torches burn down to the horn to the hair to the head to the bone beneath. So much human cruelty is simply incidental is simply brainless. Simply no common sense. You could take the entirety of the common sense of humans and put it in the palm of your hand and still have room for your dick.

2) Brideshead Revisited by Evelyn Waugh

Waugh was a conservative jerk, but I imprinted heavily on this book when I read it in college and I still feel very fondly of Sebastian Flyte and Charles Ryder (how many characters named Charles do I love? I can count at least three off the top of my head). Anyways the undercurrent of Longing (which is a theme I will crawl along the ground scrabbling for scraps of in any narrative I can) and the themes of nobility and theology (even as someone who is pretty resolutely irreligious) press all the happy little rat levers in my soul and if this book were a person I’d probably have an irredeemable crush on them even though I’d never, ever, ever date them.

3) Lincoln in the Bardo by George Saunders

I have felt mixed-to-positive on Saunders’ short stories, but I picked up Lincoln in the Bardo on a whim a few years back and it sucker-punched me in the soul. An astounding mix of humor and grief. Nasty book snob opinion ahoy: anyone who doesn’t like this book is wrong and doesn’t appreciate its unconventional structure. If you’d like a treat and don’t have a hellish amount of auditory processing disorder like I do, the audiobook is a real treat with 100+ very talented folks narrating and playing individual characters.

4) The Angel of History by Rabih Alameddine

Alameddine’s underappreciated gem, likely because it delves into some very dark, desperate topics. A conversation between Satan, Death, and a variety of saints all witnessing the life of a gay Arab man suffering a mental breakdown during the AIDs crisis in San Francisco. I want to tenderly cup Jacob’s face in my hands and comfort him but also I realize I cannot and that fucks me up more than many other things I’ve read ever.

5) The Strange Bird by Jeff VanderMeer

This is technically a sequel to another VanderMeer novel which I liked but didn’t sit with me the way The Strange Bird did. A biotechnological nightmare world destroyed by human hubris, the Strange Bird is part human, part bird, part biotech creation. She’s flying in search of something, someone, and she encounters the remnants of this destroyed world bit by bit. A marvelous piece of worldbuilding and use of “setting as character” and the end made me sob openly, crawl into m agaricales’ arms, and tell them over and over how much I loved them.

6) The Secret History by Donna Tartt

The novel that started my Dark Academia fascination. Irredeemable assholes, all of them, but boy does Tartt write it deliciously. I’ve read other Dark Academia but, y’know, it’s like drinking Dr. Pepper all your life and then going to the dollar store and buying up five different kinds of “Dr Spicy”. The core is there, but the original 23 flavors are not. (Also, more snooty book opinions, but this is Tartt’s best book, followed by The Goldfinch, and I’m very sad that the miserable film adaptation of The Goldfinch made it look so boring. If The Secret History ever gets a film adaptation, I pray someone capable handles it.)

7) The Heart is a Lonely Hunter by Carson McCullers

A lot of my Carson McCullers feelings are tied up in how I feel about her as a person (not actually having known her, of course, but what I’ve read of her biography and history). The Heart is a Lonely Hunter has to do with a deaf-mute man, John Singer, who loses his best friend to mental illness and moves to a small town in Georgia. Effectively a found-family story about a group of social outcasts and lonely people. The other characters’ stories are interwoven through their relationship with Singer. A well-deserved reputation as a classic. McCullers is one of the first people I would name, without hesitation, if someone asked me “what famous person, alive or dead, would you like to have dinner with?”

8) The Broken Earth Trilogy by N. K. Jemisin

I’m cheating in that this is three books, not one, but they encapsulate one story so I’m going to count it. Jemisin does some incredible things with POV and world building here, and the twist in the first book wasn’t a “gotcha” in the way that you expect twists to be but something that feels so very natural and delightful once you figure it out that you want to go back and re-read it just to gather up all those little details. I wish I could talk more about these books but I would spoil so much about the characters and their relationships and never even be able to do it justice so... just read it!!!!!!

9) How to Write an Autobiographical Novel by Alexander Chee

The only nonfiction book on my list (not because I don’t like nonfiction but because most of the other nonfiction I read is about, like, animal behavior and training and therefore of interest only to people who want to hear about my rabid fascination with clicker training and canine nutrition). But anyways: -Stefon voice- This essay collection has it all: queer identity, being mixed race in America, the current and past political climates, menial jobs, and a lovely essay about rose gardens. Chee’s writing is gorgeous, gorgeous, gorgeous, and I want to pick his brain about like five million different things.

10) Kafka on the Shore by Haruki Murakami

I know Murakami is... polarizing, and for good reason, but this was one of my first introductions to Japanese magical realism. Most people are more familiar with Murakami’s other magical realism spectacle, The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, but I found Kafka, by its sheer refusal to be understandable to be the superior novel.

Someone: shows me an inscrutable book

Me, already slavering: yes, please, i want to be thrown into a morass of confusion and alarm please give me something indecipherable and full of miserable content (see also, Ryu Murakami’s (no relation) Coin Locker Babies).

In another instance of snotty book opinions ahoy, Murakami’s latest stuff has suffered from some of the same issues as Stephen King’s, in that they’re both big enough writers now that their editors have forgotten how to tell them “no, we don’t need this book to be 1000 pages” (see, Killing Commendatore & 1Q84) but early Murakami still makes me clap my hands like a dumb circus seal.

Some runners-up who didn’t make the list but that I still feel deep fondness and affection for and would recommend quite reverently:

-The Children’s Hospital by Chris Adrian

-Something That May Shock and Discredit You by Daniel Lavery

-not simple by Natsume Ono

-A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens

-Trainspotting by Irvine Welsh

-The Tsar of Love and Techno by Anthony Marra

-Mona in the Promised Land by Gish Jen

-The Elementals by Michael McDowell

-The Overstory by Richard Powers

-The Sailor Who Fell from Grace with the Sea by Yukio Mishima

-Cenzontle by Marcelo Hernandez Castillo

-Ghostwrittten by David Mitchell

-Night Sky with Exit Wounds by Ocean Vuong

-The Fall of Language in the Age of English by Minae Mizamura

-The Boy Detective Fails by Joe Meno

-The Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller

(...there’s more but this is already obscenely long. God I’m so sorry.)

Anyways, thank you for asking and sorry for not being able to shut up, I hope I didn’t show my ass too much with this, but I understand if I need to be ostracized. I love you all very much.

#thejollybeardcollection

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365days365movies · 3 years

Text

February 26, 2021: Love Story (Part 2)

I get the feeling that we’re getting to the sad part, now.

Well, let’s get this one over with, yeah? Part one of the Recap is right here! Let’s go!

Recap (2/2)

So, our lovebirds move into a BIG-ASS HOUSE for, like, NO MONEY. To be fair, they are renting, but rent is VERY cheap at this place, for what they’re getting. They both work to pay for Harvard Law School, with Jenny babysitting and working to become a teacher.

Soon after, surprisingly, they get a letter - from Oliver’s dad, inviting them to his 60th birthday party. Jenny’s been trying to get Oliver to reconcile with him, but the angry and stubborn Oliver refuses, and tells her to refuse the invitation. On a whim, she calls instead, and when she attempts to apologize for Oliver, he gets fuckin’ PISSED, and tells Jenny to fuck off. And she does. Oh boy.

Sorry for how he’s treated her, Oliver searches the neighborhood to find her. When that fails, he goes to Harvard and Radcliffe to look for her as well, but she’s still missing by nightfall. The musical score booms, and it’s been playing the theme, souped-up to increase the tension.

But finally, when she returns home, she’s sitting there on the steps, crying. Which is when Oliver attempts to apologize, leading to one of the most classic moments and quotes in film history.

And THAT is why I did this movie! Yeah, this is a famous quote, and I feel like it’s...misunderstood. A lot of people say that you still need to say sorry when you’re in a loving relationship, and that this film is too sappy as a result. But that’s not...really the point. The point is that the two are in love, and that’s not changed. Jenny knows that, and probably knows that Oliver’s going to say a lot on unnecessary folderol. Look, Oliver does need to apologize, and he does, but Jenny already knew that he was sorry and didn’t mean what he said.

Obviously, if you hurt your partner in a relationship, apologize. Duh. But in a relationship like this (emotionally-speaking), sorry should be at least somewhat implicit in the emotional connection between the two people. Not as cut-and-dry as that, of course, but I think this movie’s been labeled too sappy on this line alone. Just sayin’.

Christmastime! Oliver’s working at a tree lot to make ends meet, while Jenny’s teaching a boy’s choir at a local church. Which is, of course, ironic, based on their joint stance on religion. Oliver visits her after work, where he asks what she’s doing on New Year’s Eve, and they both reply that they’ll be sleeping, as they’re clearly quite exhausted.

Winter gives way to spring and summer, and Barrett is able to graduate third in his class at Harvard Law School. With the sizeable sum that he gets from winning an essay-writing contest, they plan to have a child and move from their place to - OF COURSE - New York City! Yup, it’s fate for all of these romance movies to inevitably end up in NYC, huh? I love New York, but goddamn.

Now working at a successful law firm there, the two are doing pretty well. Except for one major problem - Jenny’s dying.

At a doctor’s, trying to find out why they’re having so much trouble conceiving, Oliver (alone) learns that Jenny is dying of a blood-related cancer (they never specify), and only at 24. Shit. The doctor says not to tell her, as this would not be good for her help. Which, by the way, is AMAZINGLY UNETHICAL! FUCK OFF, DR. SHAPELEY (Sydney Walker)!

Still, Oliver agrees to be normal, but it’s obviously a massive strain on his psyche. In trying to spend a lot of time with her, he turns down career opportunities and spending time with friends, and he can’t tell anybody why. Again, there’s no way this happens...right? Like, doctors would tell someone with an immense disease like that, they wouldn’t hide it like this...right?

Well, Oliver buys two tickets to Paris, as that’s where Jenny’s always wanted to go, but Jenny already knows that she doesn’t have that much time. Dr. Shapeley’s FINALLY told her, and she’s begun chemotherapy to give her a better prognosis. But she seems resigned to her fate, and the two spend as much time together as they’ve got.

It’s at this point that the GF, pictured above, starts to genuinely cry, as Jenny watches Oliver ice-skating in a local rink. And as she watches, we get some fantastic shots of Oliver super-imposed on Jenny’s image. They get hot chocolate together, and Jenny asks if they can take a taxi...to the hospital.

But the therapy is expensive as hell, and they still don’t have that much money. And so, a desperate Oliver goes to the biggest source of money he knows: his father. He asks him for money, but refuses to tell his father the reason. After some brief confrontation, Oliver leads his father to believe that he “got some girl in trouble”, and he provides the check without any further questions. And Oliver thanks his father and leaves...and his father seems genuinely saddened by their shattered relationship.

Oliver comes back with the check, but Jenny’s gotten far, FAR worse by the time Oliver returns. Phil also arrives to say his own goodbyes, and make funeral arrangements for her. Jenny says it doesn’t hurt...and this is probably a good time to define the term “Ali MacGraw disease.” The term, named after Jenny’s actress, describes film diseases that have only symptom: the patient stays or gets more beautiful as they’re dying. And...yeah, that applies here, that’s for sure.

But nonetheless, Jenny’s also apparently experiencing cognitive decay, forgetting plays and music facts that she used to know. When he understandably cries at her bed, she tells him not to blame herself for her death or illness, or for “holding her back” from Paris or her musical dreams, because she doesn’t feel that way. He agrees, and she asks him to do one last thing: hold her, like they would be in bed together. He obliges. And off-screen, Jenny dies.

Outside, Oliver and Phil connect. Phil says he wishes he hadn’t promised Jenny to be strong, AND THATS WHEN I START CRYING. And then, AFTER ALL OF THAT, Oliver’s surprised by the appearance of his father, who’s just found out about everything. He tells Oliver that he wants to help, and Oliver tells him that Jenny is dead. He tries to apologize, but...

And he leaves. He goes back to the ice rink where she was sitting the last time outside outside of the hospital, and the credits roll.

And that’s Love Story. Hold on, gonna get some tissues. See you in the Review.

#love story #love story 1970 #erich segal #arthur hiller #ryan o'neal #ali macgraw #john marley #ray milland #tommy lee jones #romance february #romance movie #love story film #love story movie #user365 #365 movie challenge #365 movies 365 days #365 Days 365 Movies #365 movies a year #ritahayworrth

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larkfox · 3 years

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june 25, 2016 // solo

A cute(?) little solo para meandering on Lark’s circumstances on June 25, 2016 and what came after. The scene is set at a four bedroom rental house somewhere in Birmingham, UK. Lark is twenty-two years old (a month from twenty-three) here if I haven’t completely destroyed the calendar at this point. Some mentions of Steffi Müller.

Lark went by her full name on paper. As silly as she thought her name was, it always seemed a little more professional and formal to be ‘Larkspur Fox’ rather than just Lark. She was just Lark in her personal life and in her activism, so when she received mail to Larkspur, it was either solicitations, junk or a notification of something good. Besides, Lark enjoyed reading through terrible advertisements.

Throughout her years in university (it was called Universität in Germany, which often meant a fight not to giggle to Steffi’s annoyance when they both had lived there), she had been published numerous times. She wrote about all sorts of subtopics- usually music, but her interest in history usually overlapped with that significantly. Her works had found their way into ethnomusicology student publications, history journals (although those were sometimes a pain), popular music online publications, and so much more. She kept a little folder on her desktop with archived PDFs or scans of every time she was published. It wasn’t like she was famous or anything, but her prolific writing had been enough for her application into her Masters program considered.

There was no real way for Lark to know that she would stop writing so much in just a couple of years- that everything fun about writing for its own sake would fade away in the wake of procrastination. But for today, she had a nice email in her inbox for Larkspur.

Lark turned her head up from the laptop and beamed at Amy from across the bedroom. “Got another essay accepted for publication. I’m going to have to celebrate by doing some more reviews.”

Amy responded by glancing up from her seat, and giving an exaggerated thumbs up and grin. “Of course you did! I think you’re on a roll.”

Amy was Lark’s housemate and first-ever girlfriend. They had met last year after conspiring on Facebook with two other (then-prospective) students in their postgrad program to live in this very house. The others had moved out after the year was out, but Amy and Lark had both stuck around Birmingham with new housemates to help with the rent. It had taken this long of song and dance for a relationship to come out of this, but Lark was still overjoyed even after over a month together. Not much had changed, really. They still hung out when Amy wasn’t running music outreach programs and Lark wasn’t writing or copyediting up a storm. Now their sleepovers in each other’s rooms were on purpose instead of because someone was too tired to leave after gushing about Sarah McLachlan until four AM.

When Lark was in universität (such a funny word), Lark had harbored an odd sort of crush on her friend Steffi. She’d admitted as much in an awkward, roundabout way, but it had always straddled the line bordering intense feelings of friendship. Now and again by fate or coincidence, Lark bumped into Steffi, but their lives weren’t terribly intertwined at the moment. She didn’t think about Steffi very much nowadays, actually. Lark could definitively say that her feelings for Amy were very different but certainly very extreme.

“I hope so. Hey, do you want to, you know, cuddle or something in a little while?” Lark bit down on her lip, reminding herself that she did not need to be so self-conscious. It was something that she had been working on implementing in herself over the last few years- not caring so much about what others thought of her. It was easier and more satisfying than the alternative (caring about opinions that didn’t matter), but Amy didn’t make that easy. If Amy asked her to hang out, Lark might rearrange her schedule just to make it happen.

With a smile that made Lark feel like the rest of the world wasn’t there, Amy nodded in response, and started to fold up her laptop. “Now’s good with me if it is for you.”

Lark shut her laptop immediately, and slid it under the bed. “Yes. Yes, please. That would be so good with me.”

“You’re so cute.” Amy laughed at her, but Lark didn’t really care because today was a good day. It had been a good couple of weeks, actually, and it being Saturday meant that they both had the day off. Well, Amy officially had the day off. Lark just didn’t do any freelance gigs on Saturday as a personal principle. They both snuggled up under Lark’s immense pile of blankets, and everything felt good.

Amy ran her hand through Lark’s hair, which was her (mostly) natural brunette. Lark had been coloring her hair on and off since her teens, but had dyed it back to dark earlier in 2015. It as reductive to say that brown was her happy hair color, but she did feel the whim to go back to it when she was in a more serene place with herself.

Fidgeting with Amy’s other hand, Lark mumbled, “This might sound out of nowhere, but thanks for saying something. About liking me. I feel less like a complete mess now that we’re together after liking you for ages.”

“You’re fine, babe, I promise.” It was only okay when Amy called her ‘babe’, and only occasionally. In private. “I thought I was being pretty obvious with the hints, but you were serious when you said you didn’t have a lot of experience.”

“Ah, yep. Virginity is a social construct, but there are a whole lot of twenty-two year old virgin jokes that I can still get some mileage out of,” Lark said, laughing nervously.

“You’re not, uh, trying to hint at...”

Lark shook her head, and buried her face in Amy’s neck. Muffled, she stammered out, “Sorry. Sorry, I mean- I’d like to soon, but not today. I want to- Close. Today I want to be close to you, Amy.” For someone so outspoken, sometimes Lark felt like she couldn’t speak at all when it came to her girlfriend. “I love you.” It was the first time that she had said that out loud to someone else with quite that connotation, and she had to remind herself that it was going to be okay.

She was filled with so many warm feelings when Amy responded by kissing her soundly. Later, Lark would note that Amy didn’t quite say the words back.

Lark didn’t have any real way of knowing on June 25th that this relationship wasn’t going to last- that Amy would tell her that they were probably better as just friends (seriously?!?) a few days after they slept together for the second time (oh, you know, just a few days after her twenty-third birthday). On June 25th, she was at the very least aware that the lease on the house would be up for renewal soon. However, she did not know on that day that she would not renew her part of the lease.

She did not know that she would move to Icaria in the very near future without a plan. That... she would bump into Steffi again, which was the world’s weirdest coincidence. That she’d make more than three friends (this was huge progress). That she would genuinely grow to stop caring so much about what others thought of her.

And she had no idea that she would go back to blonde after moving. It didn’t really matter where she worked, after all as a freelancer. Lark couldn’t have predicted that she would find herself without direction, and launch herself into a PhD program that would basically kill all of her drive to write anything else scholarly unrelated to her activism.

#//i was thinking of listing out headcanons #but i decided to embed them in this instead for the full show don't tell experience #solo para #i don't like Love this but i'm proud of a few parts so i'm gonna just post

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thefledglingdm · 4 years

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7, 37 & 38, please! 💕

aaaaaaaaaaa thank you!!!!! these are SO POSITIVE, thank you for sending this after a v stressful day bc i am an anxious child. this got a little (very) long so the answer is below the cut!!!! thank you again!!!!!! 💖💖💖💖

7. Share a snippet from one of your favorite pieces of prose you’ve written and explain why you’re proud of it.

oh there are SO MANY parts of once that i am incredibly proud of???? like that’s one of the best pieces i’ve written in a long time. it was hard to pick, but i think the moment riza realizes she’s truly in love with roy is my favorite in that work:

She inhaled, breath shaky. She needed to get herself back under control. “But you are about to do something reckless. Something wrong. I swore to protect you the day I agreed to work with you. That’s why I’m here. That’s why I’m pointing a gun at your head.” Damn it, damn it, her hand was starting to shake and her voice crack and she needed to be stronger than this. Every breath was agony when she said, “This is pure hatred, and I will not let it take you.”

You will not, Riza vowed. She spoke it to the universe. She would spit in God’s face if They came down to try and argue with her.

You will not have him. You cannot take him. You will not take the man I love.

And of course, of course that’s the moment she knew what this was. That she gave in and stopped denying and pretending. Riza Hawkeye loved Roy Mustang with every fiber of her being, with everything that she was, and that knowledge settled over her like a blanket and yet changed nothing because she had loved him for years. It was as if she had been looking at all of her memories through a filter, and now with the haze gone she can see the sharpness of the lines and brilliance of the colors and she loved him, she loved him, she loved him.

i just. *jenny slate scream.* the pain. the love. the drama and angst of realizing that she loved him and didn’t want to live without him at the exact moment she was closest to losing him forever (literally and metaphorically), which is then mirrored by roy in the next scene???? i’m weak.

37. Talk about your current wips.

ok there are 2 big ones. the flame-witch and deadshot, my role-reversal FMAB fic, which is just. i’m sorry i haven't updated it i’m at this really frustrating writer’s block where i KNOW what happens next, i just don’t know how we GET there exactly. there are so many things i can’t wait to SHOW YOU ALL because there were some questions that i had after watching the series that weren’t answered, that we are going to dive into and answer together. also the what-ifs spiraled out and i just. what would a riza raised by a lone berthold look like? how would that affect how she saw the world? what if roy was a sniper wouldn’t that be sexy? how would riza react to ishval? how would she build her team, what would happen? how would she and roy build this incredible trust and friendship and fall in love if they don’t have the history of growing up together? because they WILL fall in love have no fear.

i also can’t write about the flame-witch without giving a shout-out to @royaidaydreams, who is the editor and the wall i bounce ideas off of who usually bounces better things back at me. she is so awesome and amazing and i really really appreciate all the work she’s done in making that fic what it is!!!! (she’s also just really sweet & cool)

and THEN there’s the blood runs stale, which is a hunter x hunter vigilante au. which is just pouring out of me rn because i am at the whims of my muse, sorry. sweet, sexy, pining kurapika who is a badass with a heart of gold who turns into a marshmallow when he sees the tall glass of water that is dr. leorio paladiknight. it’s fun and cheesy and campy and the found family is real. i also want to write another leopika that is straight-up the opposite and is the long-winded, mutual-pining, slow-burn, enemies-to-friends-to-lovers campy smut fest. so look out for that bullshit.

what i’m learning is i love writing about trauma? ok that sounds weird and shitty but like. i think stories and writing can be a cathartic release and a means for people to see themselves in a story, and by reading about/watching someone else heal, they can begin to do so, too. (though that’s not for everyone and that’s super valid/important!) i work in a really high-emotional-octane field, and i think the ways that people heal and move on from trauma - in the good, bad, messy, “weird,” complicated, ugly ways - are endlessly fascinating to read about and discuss because trauma is not pretty and i don’t want to romanticize it, but i want to write stories for whom people can see that anyone can heal from what they’ve been through and find something a bit better at the end of it? a fic i once read had a line that read “isn’t the point of working so things get better that they actually get better?” and that literally changed my life. griftings if you’re out there i love you. but yeah those are my wips

38. Talk about a review that made your day.

truly? all of them. any of them. if you so much as breathed on my fics i lost my mind. thank you so much.

but ummmm. yours, miss firewood-figs, are always lovely!!!! and so sweet!!!!! as is @kallutozoldyck whose reviews are always highly anticipated and just so very nice and aaaaaaa? aaaa!!!!

but also the user MissSteph22 sent me a gif (YOU CAN ADD GIFS TO AO3 REVIEWS!!!!!) in their very essay review for and i’ve been so lost without you (are you lost without me, too?) which made me cry???

honestly tho if you’ve ever clicked on something i wrote i face-planted into my pillow and yelled thank you ALL. sorry again this was so long i hope this doesn’t come across as self-absorbed thank you for reading and this ask and aaaaaaa!!!!!

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greenninjagal-blog · 5 years

Text

Idle Threats

Wow, this was not supposed to be this long, but hopefully it makes up for all the not writing I’ve done for the past month :)

Word Count: 8041

Pairings: Platonic Deceit and Logan. (With background LAMP)

Summary: No one has ever stood up for Dee so he decides to do it himself, in front of the class, in front of the brand new substitute teacher. And he almost regrets it.

Quick Taglist: @felicianoromano @jemthebookworm @holliberries @stricken-with-clairvoyancy

Read on AO3 || Master List

Dante Ethan Ekans hates every single teacher in his school. Three years into his high school career and he had come across every single teacher—every single one of them—and he hated them all. He had sat through every lecture, done every assignment, battled in every single class discussion. He had done everything the school system had asked him to do.

And he is still staring at a low D average in all his classes.

It should have been impossible: the grading system was set up so that as long as students just showed up they were receiving a C grade.

And well, Dante had always been proving the impossible, possible. He had survived his own birth, survived the car crash that killed his father, and survived the worst of his mother’s psychotic tantrums. He had dragged himself to school with bruises on his wrists and broken fingers wrapped messily in old bandages that made his handwriting into an atrocious disgrace just so that he could at least get an education, get a chance at a scholarship, get a chance to leave town.

And he is in his third year of high school, the year most colleges start to look at prospective students, and he is getting a low D average and he couldn’t do a single thing about it.

It’s like the entire teaching staff had unanimously decided “hey, you know that kid whose face is all messed up with the burn marks from the car crash at age six? Let’s just ruin his entire life by grading him unnecessarily harder than everyone else in the school, turning a blind eye to when the other students mess with him, and loudly announcing how he needs to do better on his essays if he wants to get better grades in front of the whole class.”

Dante—and fuck if he hated that name. No one was called Dante anymore—had done everything he could to get his grades up. He studied twice as hard and twice as long as everyone else. He had swallowed his pride and asked the teachers for help (and been told to pay more attention in class) and for extra credit (and been denied). He had tried to argue grades and been sent to the Detention room for vulgar language and an attempted assault on a teacher (which was a blatant lie).

Not to mention that one asshole of a teacher, Mr. Walker, who had told him that not only was make up for females, but his use of cosmetics was an unacceptable cry for attention. Dante then had to stand there in front of the class with his cheeks burning red and his peers snickering as he told the teacher that he wasn’t wearing any make up, and that the burns on his face were the real deal, and that he couldn’t wash it off even if he wanted to.

So Dante Ethan Ekans—Dee for short; Dee was what his friends would call him, if he had any—has no hard feelings when he heard that Mr. Walker had been in a bad car accident and would not be back for the rest of the school year. What a complete shame that would be. How would they ever move on?

Apparently, there’s a substitute coming, one of those long-term ones that only ever dropped by for times of emergency. Dee had overheard the head of nutrition (a sweet, mother-like man that all the lunch ladies adore named Patton Hart) and school resource officer (who Dee doesn’t know the name of and kept far enough away from. He doesn’t need to be any closer to any law enforcers than he already was) talking about the teacher: about how strict he was, about how the kids had no clue what was coming, about how Mr. Hart should redesign the menu with the majority of the student’s favorites because this week was going to be rough with a capital R. They both had laughed after that, and Patton had caught sight of Dee and asked him if he needed anything in the kindest tone Dee had ever heard.

(He had run after that, had run as fast as he could without making it seem like he was running away. The last thing he needs is anymore people to look at him with pity, with cruelty, with smug better-than-you expressions that appeared the second Dee dared act vulnerable. The last thing he needs is to open his mouth and tell the truth.)

Dee isn’t expecting anything amazing to come out of the substitute teacher. He expects it to be another beanpole old lady who snaps anytime someone made a noise and confiscates phones on whim and assigns them all worksheets that were to be done and handed in by the end of the class period, no exceptions.

He’s usually one of the first into the science room because the class he has before it is Math which just down the hall, but he’s barely out of the room when Mrs. Johnston’s shrill voice slices through the student chatter.

“Ekans!” She screeches, “Ekans! A moment!”

It’s not a moment. It’s never just a moment with her. The bell rings and the halls empty and Dee stands in front of the math teacher for another three minutes listening to her tell him that he’s been doing his math the wrong way and if he doesn’t start doing it the way she taught in class she’s going to have to dock him more points (like there’s more to dock him in the first place), regardless of the fact he doesn’t understand the way she’s been teaching and his way is actually based on how a college professor explained it on the YouTube series he looked up for help.

He can see into her classroom, the one that’s filled with obnoxious freshman who are lounging around while they wait for their teacher to be done berating Dee. He can see the way they all point and snicker and make fun of the half of his face he can’t do anything about.

“And now you’ve made me waste time for my next class, Mr. Ekans.” Mrs. Johnston says, “What do you have to say for yourself?”

“I’m sorry,” Dee says robotically, and his hands tighten around the strap of his backpack. “It won’t happen again, Ma’am.”

But it’s a lie, because it always happens again.

But it’s a lie, because he’s not really sorry at all.

Because she might have missed the first few minutes of class, but she controlled the rate the students learned. Dee felt his own nails tear into his palm as he opened the door to the classroom where the new substitute was-- the one who’s voice was already droning on about what they were learning, already through the roll call, already letting the whole class know he was not going to tolerate any monkey business at all.

Dee glances at the teacher, who in turn does not break his lecture, but nods to him and to one of the several empty desks in the room. He’s young, nerdy looking, but Dee can’t think of anyone he knows who would have the guts to say it to the man’s face. He had a cold look about him, like he didn’t know how to smile and wasn’t in the mood to learn.

Dee throws himself into the closest empty chair, keeping his head down and tries not to make too much noise when he picks through his backpack for his notebook for the science class.

He’s so focused on not disrupting the teacher, not causing anymore eyes to fall on him, not helping the already terrible opinion the man has of him, that he wasn’t even paying attention to who he was sitting next to until it’s far too late to change seats.

And he finds out when sees another body drape over the desk to his left out of the corner of his eye and Dee freezes on the spot. He’s not hearing a single thing the new teacher says, not hearing whatever he’s mentioning about the quick technical drawing he has on the board, and definitely not hearing the notes he should be taking down. His tongue grates against his teeth as Kyle slides his chair an inch his direction with a weasel-ish expression on his face.

“Hey, Ekans,” Kyle murmurs just loud enough for Dee to hear.

Dee refuses to look at him, but it’s not like he’s seeing anything in front of him either. His fingers squeeze his pencil, and the soles of his feet rest firmly on the ground, like it can keep him from moving at all.

“Ekans,” Kyle says again louder, but not enough to stop the teacher. “The boys and I took some notes for you.”

They aren’t notes. Dee can see the header so neatly written on the top of the paper, so innocently telling him it’s a list of reasons no one likes him and what to do about it (and worse). It’s not original, its not new, and Dee stubbornly refuses to give him the satisfaction of taking it.

Dee can hear the rest of his friends, the idiots, the dicks, and those two girls who never had anything nice to say, snickering behind them and further left. He can see a motion that looks like one of them nudging each other, and he feels the familiar kick of someone’s foot against his chair.

He wants to say he’s used to it.

He doesn’t think lying to himself is healthy.

Lying to everyone else? Yeah, sure, he’s been doing that since middle school. He’s drowned in his fake apologies for things that weren’t his fault and his torn himself apart to appease people who need to feel like they’re better than others just to keep his own mind sane.

Honestly, he’s a little sick of it—all of it. He didn’t ask for his face to be the discolored mess that it was, didn’t ask for his mother to sometimes lose her mind, didn’t ask for everyone around him to be assholes. He remembers, vaguely, the doctor who had treated his burns (one of them?). At six years old, he can’t even put a face or a name to the form, but he can still hear the voice in the back of his mind telling him he’s lucky, so very lucky.

He could have lost an eye. His arm. His life.

Dee hasn’t felt lucky since then.

The foot kicks his chair again, Dee jerks. Someone laughs. The teacher says something about a test with a pointed clip to his tone. They settle down long enough that the teacher turns away and rambles on about the schedule he’s going to keep them on, blah, blah, blah.

Kyle leans over again. “Ekans—”

“Shut up,” Dee hisses. He regrets it a second later. Because there was a metaphorical door there and Dee had just flung it open and allowed Kyle to walk on in.

“Damn Ekans,” Kyle snickers, “You don’t have to be such a little bitch about it. Does your brother know your such a little bitch?”

Dee’s hand tightens on his pencil.

“Maybe we should tell him,” Kyle muses. Dee doesn’t have to look to know the expression on the other’s face. “He goes to Mind Elementary, right? Just down the road?”

Dee counts backwards from Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven.

“It would be super easy just to sit down and have a chat with him. I wonder if he knows how big of a freak his brother is? I bet he’s too stupid to—”

Dee does not make it to six.

“If you so much as look at my brother, I’ll put you in the goddamn hospital,” Dee says.

The room seems to breathe for a second. Dee glares at Kyle and his stupidly pleased weasel face and beady green eyes that look like forest moss eating the carcass of some animal. The room seems to breathe for a second and Dee realizes with a fiery anger it was because no one was speaking.

The teacher had stopped. Which meant that everyone’s attention is on him.

“Mr. Ekans,” The substitute says a hand reaching up to adjust his glasses, and Dee flinches. “Is there something you would like to add to my lecture?”

It wasn’t even fifteen minutes into the class, and the man already knew his name. Kyle grins sharply, smugly. Two of his friends do an underhand five in the seats behind them. Dee thinks he hates everyone in the room at that very moment.

“No,” Dee says, through gritted teeth, “sir.”

The teacher hums. “Interesting, could that be because Mr. Phillips was providing an ample distraction in the middle of my class time?”

That was the moment that Dee realizes he had gone to school with Kyle for three years and had never heard his last name before.

After all, Kyle was every teacher’s favorite. If they didn’t know him from his numerous club activities (drama, art, debate, every honor club you could think of), he often brought them presents on the first day of class and was invited over for dinner every Saturday evening within the first week of class. No one addressed him by his last name.

The substitute teacher didn’t look pleased to be the first. Neither did Kyle.

And frankly, neither did Dee. (Because it wasn’t like it would last. It wasn’t like by tomorrow all of Kyle’s misdeeds would be forgotten and this teacher--this temporary teacher--wouldn’t be wrapped around Kyle’s finger like all the others.) Dee’s stomach clenched at the thought, a bit of envy, jealousy, anger clawing up his throat and making the burns from so long ago itch.

“Well?” The teacher says—and no, Dee checked, he had not written his name on the board. “Mr. Phillips?”

“I was just offering him the notes.” Kyle says, “He came in late. I was trying to be a help and he threatened me!” He looks at his friends who all nod earnestly like Kyle isn’t lying through the skin of his teeth.

“Curious how I do not believe that,” The teacher counters. “This is my classroom, Mr. Phillips. If I thought Mr. Ekans needed notes, I would have provided them to him. Additionally, your actions have caused more harm than good as I am now wasting more of this class’s time, and seeing how this is the last class of the day, I only have your attentions for approximately an hour and fifteen minutes.” He stops for a moment, his eyes darting between Dee and Kyle in a way that Dee does not like.

“Perhaps this is for the best.” He says suddenly, “It would do well to get this out of the way now. Both of you, up here.”

Dee freezes.

Kyle hisses under his breath and heaves himself out of the chair with false gusto. He makes a gesture to his friends that carries a round of giggling up to the front of the room.

“Mr. Ekans,” The teacher says. “That means you, too.”

In no way shape or form is Dee at fault here. He knows he’s not. Kyle and his friends have been picking on him for years and getting away with it and leaving charcoal rocks in Dee’s stomach from every encounter. Standing up feels a lot like striking a match and the entire trek up to the front of the room feels like lowering it to the rocks.

Dee’s face is already burning by the time he side by side with Kyle again. He stares stiffly at the whiteboard, glaring at a smudge of black marker from the last class.

“I am not your normal teacher,” The substitute says. “A lot of the things that were condoned in his class will not be in mine. You will not talk when I talk. You will not be on your phones unless I tell you to. You will not pass notes. You will not make idle threats—”

Dee isn’t sure what comes over him, but that charcoal fire in his stomach explodes outward and engulfs his entire body. For a split second everything turns red, every noise of all the twenty-two other students in the class fades to nothingness, and Dee turns sharply to the side.

Maybe its because Dee had a little bit of hope buries somewhere deep in his mind. Maybe its because he knew that teachers weren’t supposed to pick sides or hold prejudices. Maybe its because Dee spent a whole ten years being “lucky” enough that he survived everything thrown his way just to let another teacher turn a blind eye to the students’ interactions.

Maybe its because Dee was just so very tired of the smug look on Kyle’s face.

His fist connects before anyone realizes he even moved. Kyle yells, and he goes crashing to the floor. Dee’s knuckles pulsate with pain, and he pretty sure he tore the skin off on when it scraped Kyles stupid teeth. Several kids scream.

Dee looks back at the teacher, meeting his somewhat surprised gaze with his own angry one.

“There,” Dee spits, “It’s not an “idle” threat anymore.”

So he finds himself sitting in the front office hands jammed in his pockets and shoulders up to his ears. Part of him wonders if he can fold into himself until nothing exists. The secretary running the phone and letting parents in to pick up their kids, keeps side eyeing him, as if he’s a circus attraction she can’t quite believe is real.

Dee’s head is still ringing with the teachers voice telling him to take the quickly scribbled note and go to the Vice Principal’s office, but the edges of his adrenaline and his anger keep him from feeling the paper cut and the bruising on his knuckles that surely was coming.

He tries to convince himself he’s sorry for doing it, but if Vice Principal Joan tells him to apologize to Kyle in person Dee might have to take a short walk off the roof.

It had felt…good. It had felt great. It had felt a lot like a mistake too.

There was no way he was getting out of this one, no empty promises to do better could make up for assaulting another student. Not to mention that substitute teacher most definitely hated him now, and rightfully was about to join ranks with ever other teacher in the school.

VP Joan was going to suspend him, and then they’ll call Dee’s mother, and then Dee was never going to get into college, and he was never going to leave this town, and he was never going to overcome the scarring on his face that he had been so damn lucky to survive in the first place.

“Dante Ekans,” A voice calls from the hall of offices where all the staff had desks. Dee only recognizes VP Joan because of their face in the school newsletter and sometimes on the papers. They did a lot of fundraisers like kissing a pig if the students raised “X” amount of money, or one dollar to buy a strip of duct tape to tape them to the wall.

Dee goes with them into their office. It feels cluttered, but there is enough space for Dee to sit down and VP Joan to look stressed. Papers, mugs, several action figures Dee vaguely recognizes rest on the desk. There were awards on the walls and teaching certificates along with superhero posters Dee thinks probably aren’t the most professional until he sees it was signed by the cast of the movies.

“So,” The VP says, “Want to tell me what happened?”

The answer is no, Dee does not want to tell them what happened. Because even when Dee tells the truth, even when he lays down his words barren in front of the judges, even when he cries or yells or shows any validating emotion, his scarred face makes him appear less trustworthy. It happened before where Kyle said what he wanted and the teachers decided that must have been what happened and that Dee had lied and made everything up in yet another desperate cry for attention.

So, no, Dee doesn’t want to tell the VP what happened, because he’s so sick of being turned into the bad guy when he’s not. (Okay maybe punching the guy was a bad example here. Maybe Dee just wants to keep himself from digging a bigger grave with this one).

Dee stares at the wood grain in the VP’s desk and lets the silence hold out. It’s comforting in a way.

VP Joan taps their fingers on their side of the desk. If Dee shifts a little he can see the little blue unfolded note that the teacher had sent him with, and although he doesn’t know what it says, Dee knows it probably bad.

Like “Student Ekans interrupted class with a threat against unarmed peer and then acted upon said threat. Suggested course of action is immediate expulsion” bad. Or something worse.

“Mr. Ekans,” VP Joan says, followed by a sigh, “Fuck this shit.”

Dee blinks at the sudden language—language he’s pretty sure is not allowed in the school. Most of his teachers get after him for that (especially the ones who can’t get him with anything else. His last English teacher was a fan of cutting him off mid book discussion whenever he used a swear, until Dee just began to hold his tongue completely.)

“Look, I don’t know what you did that Logan needed you out of the classroom.” VP Joan says, “And I don’t really have any work that a student can do, uh, legally. Why don’t you go see if Patton—uh Mr. Hart to you—needs any help.”

Dee stills, “What?”

VP Joan holds up the blue paper, and the black scrawl that reads “Please entertain Mr. Ekans for the rest of the block” makes Dee’s eyes cross slightly.

“I’m not…in trouble?” Dee says. It sounds like a dream, like saying the words out loud will make the reality crack and fall apart.

“Should you be?” VP Joan asks, “Don’t answer that. Dr. Ackroyd and I go way back, but I’m still surprised he agreed to fill in here for the rest of the year. We need a competent science teacher, so I’ll turn my head to whatever complex puzzle he’s solving.”

Dee doesn’t understand what that means. He really doesn’t care either.

“Don’t forget your bag,” VP Joan says as they usher Dee out of the office and towards the cafeteria where Patton Hart might be found. “I’m sure I’ll see more of you, Mr. Ekans, but until then have a good day.”

It’s ridiculous, Dee thinks, like its part of a dream. Maybe it is? Maybe Dee punched Kyle and Kyle hit him back and he hit his head on the white board marker tray and now he’s hallucinating.

But he doesn’t think hallucinations were this real: he can hear the sound of each teacher teaching, laughter from some of the rooms, and the muttered conversation between two teachers who have a free period this block and don’t spare him a glance. He can hear the sound of the tape ripping as a couple of students hang posters on the walls for Cheerleading tryouts, can feel the sturdiness of the tile floor under his feet as he tries to catch the reflection of the artificial lights on the polish, can smell the lemon cleaner from the trolley outside the bathrooms that signifies they’re being cleaned at the moment.

He finds Patton Hart sitting at the only table left set up in the cafeteria. He’s laughing leaning forward with a bottle of Windex and a rag at his elbows, but it looks like he’s already cleaned everything that needs to be cleaned. Standing next to him is the resource officer, and Dee still doesn’t know the man’s name. It wasn’t like they talked very often. Still, the man looks smug and happy, and absolutely thrilled that he managed to get a laugh from the nutritionist.

Dee slows his pace, a half step for every real step he could be taking when he realizes that he doesn’t have a clue what he’s supposed to say. At best? Mr. Hart would set him up with some busy work to do, like cleaning lunch trays maybe (where there any of those left?). At worse? He’d demand to know why Dee wasn’t in class, and then drag him to said class and Dee would get to be the middle of a commotion all over again. Perhaps it would be better if he ran for the bathrooms and hid there until the end of the day. Then he’d sneak out with the rest of the students, avoid Kyle, pick up his brother, and make it all the way home before anyone stopped him.

His shoe scuffed the ground when he goes to turn around. His heart jumps to his throat, when both the staff members pause to look at him.

“Hey, kiddo!” Mr. Hart says, “You need something?”

The Resource Officer shifts to put his hands on his belt. Dee tries not to watch too intensely. His mouth dries up again, and he tries figure out what combination of English words isn’t going to ruin this chance to walk free of consequences. He hates that he remembers a time when he wasn’t afraid to talk to people, hates that he has to swallow the lump in his throat and fight the urge to stare at his shoes while his fingers tear at his bag’s straps.

“VP Joan,” Dee says finally, “sent me to you.”

“Me?” Mr. Hart blinks, pointing to himself. “Hmm, that’s not normal. Did they say why?”

Answering the question is a straight forward thing: VP Joan said that he had nothing for Dee to do, so he sent him to Mr. Hart. But Dee also knows that will lead the conversation to why he was sent to VP Joan in the first place and he really doesn’t want to tell anyone else how he managed to dodge the repercussions of decking another kid by some type of miracle and have that change.

The silence holds on a second, two, three, too long. Dee’s head drops to stare at his scuffed up converse (an ugly yellow pair that he had stolen from a GoodWill bin in the outer parking lot of a shopping complex late one night two years ago, which he had worn until they were a dusted brown).

“Kiddo?” Mr. Hart asks

The Resource Officer shifts again, “Wait, I know you!” He raises a hand casually turning back to Mr. Hart, and hopefully missing the way Dee’s shoulders tense. “He’s got Walker for last block.”

Mr. Hart claps his hands and turns back to Dee. His eyes sparkle behind his black framed glasses. “Oh, that means you were in Logan’s class! That’s amazing! He’s a great teacher!”

“Hardly!” The Resource Officer scoffs. “Logan probably scared them all out of their minds! He’s the worst!”

“Roman!” Mr. Hart hits him on the arm, “You take that back! Logan is the sweetest teacher this school is ever going to see!”

“Of course, you’d say that, Pat!” The Resource Officer- Roman?- says, “You never had to be tutored by him!” For a man who could probably bench press three “Logan’s”, Dee thought it was a little weird how he shuddered unpleasantly. Although that was not as weird as trying to make sense of what the two adults were talking about.

Honestly he wasn’t sure they were talking about the same person at all: The teacher-- Logan, Dr. Ackroyd (that’s was VP Joan had said right?)-- was stern and stiff and, sure, a little scary, but then again Dee didn’t exactly have stellar experiences with any other adult either. Still he couldn’t see what about him was “the sweetest teacher in this school”.

And the fact that Dee had been in his class for about ten minutes before he was sent right back out. He still wasn’t convinced the teacher wasn’t planning some big, huge, insurmountable class project to give to Dee as a punishment for punching such a nice kid like Kyle.

Mr. Hart stood up from his seat looking directly at Dee, “Come sit down, kiddo! Are you hungry? There’s some left ice cream sandwiches from lunch this week that I’m going to need to throw out before the weekend.”

Dee very much doesn’t know what to do. He’s not sure he nods, but Mr. Hart disappears into the cafeteria kitchen anyway so that Dee and the Resource Officer are left alone. Dee’s fingers ache whenever he moves them, so he takes extra special care to use his non-dominant hand to shrug off his backpack. The burn scars on his forearm and on his shoulder blade work in tandem to make him as uncomfortable as possible.

When he looks up, Resource Officer Roman is staring at him. His brain whirls with something to say, something defensive that will get the adult to keep his comments to himself, and please, please, don’t ask about them. But everything that comes to mind is nasty and ugly and he can’t say it to someone with a taser on their belt.

For a room that could fit upwards three hundred students for lunch, Dee feels trapped and claustrophobic.

“So,” The adult says, “What’s your name?”

“Ekans,” Dee says immediately. He stares down at the table.

“That’s…that’s a terrible name, kid.” The Resource Officer says. “Did your parents pick that one out or--?”

“Dante Ekans,” Dee says sharply, and squeezes his aching fingers tightly because the pressure overrides the pain even if its just for a second.

“Ah! Dante! Like the Poet! Writer of The Divine Comedy!”

Dee sinks lower in his seat, “Yep.” The centuries old text of a guy traveling through hell and purgatory and idolizing a guy that had been dead even longer than him. Like he hadn’t heard that one before. It was just another reason to hate his name.

Mr. Hart chooses that moment to come back, bouncing on the balls of his feet, sliding on the freshly polished floor, and those curls of his dancing. Resource Officer Roman immediately forgets all about Dee and Dante’s Inferno and all those things that adults like to think when they saw him. It’s a relief.

Kinda.

Mr. Hart sits down right next to Dee, ignoring his previous seat completely. Dee’s shoulders bunch up to his ears, he’s sure, and the way his mouth dries out is far from expected. But the man just hands him an ice cream sandwich that the cafeteria sold for a dollar during lunch shifts, and Dee takes it.

(He’s had one before, like once. For his birthday last year where he borrowed a single dollar from his mother’s and bought himself one birthday gift. It had been sticky and too sweet and the chocolate had clung to his fingers and he had thrown half of it out, but Dee had loved it. His mother had screamed when she found the money missing, screamed and tore his hair and Dee hadn’t said a word.)

Dee takes his time unwrapping the treat, part of him upset that if Mr. Hart knew why Dee was there, he wouldn’t be giving him a free ice cream sandwich, part of him wishing desperately he could save it and share it with his brother, part of him wanting to shove the entire thing in his mouth because he deserved it for having put up with this stupid shit for ten years.

“What nothing for me?” Resource Officer Roman asks petulantly.

Mr. Hart smiles at him innocently. “Oh, I have something else for you Ro! It’s just gonna have to wait until after work!”

“Oh yeah?” The Officer smiles, leaning in closer, “And why is that, my dear Pat?”

“Because you can’t eat and work, silly!” Mr. Hart laughs, “What if there’s an emergency? You’d show up all covered in ice cream…!”

Dee takes a large bite of the ice cream sandwich and silently presses “f” to pay respects for the resource officer. The obvious flirting seemed to have absolutely no effect on the man between them, and Dee wasn’t sure if it was the innocent nature of him or if he was trying to let the officer down nicely.

“Ah, my dear Pat,” The Officer says, “Always looking out for me. What would I do without you? Die, surely!”

Mr. Hart laughs, the freckles on his cheeks glow. Dee glances at Resource Officer Roman’s face and is not surprised to see the blatant “smitten” expression. He looks like some anime character seconds before the “heart eyes” started. It’s almost embarrassing. Dee takes another bite of the sandwich.

“Ah, I thought I’d find the three of you here.”

Dee chokes on the bite of the sandwich.

Resource Officer Roman jumps, letting out a yelp that was surprisingly high pitched for a man of his stature. Dee coughs to dislodge a glob of chocolate breading that got stuck when his throat closed suddenly in a panic. The only one who doesn’t seem a little bit startled by Dr. Logan Ackroyd’s appearance is Patton, who jumps up from his seat and leans forward on the table with literal stars in his eyes.

“Logan!” He cries happily, “It’s been so long!”

“Too Long,” the Substitute teacher agrees, and Dee is uncomfortable with the amount of warmth in his expression—its a stark contrast to how he had looked in the classroom, to how he had looked at Dee. His hand pulses again, his fingers twitching in the pocket he had refused to take it out of since he had sat down.

“Logan,” Resource Officer Roman says, with a sniff of distaste that’s clearly artificial. “I can’t believe they let you back into the country.”

“Roman,” The teacher responds, the warmth sizzling in the air. “Your mother says hello.”

“When did you see my mother?”

“Yesterday, I helped her grocery shop. She called me the son she wished she had.”

The Officer flaps his hands, with a noise that sounds stuck between offended and flabbergasted. Dee feels a bit of the ice cream drip down his palm.

There’s a bizarre feeling in the air, a tension? No that wasn’t right. Dee can’t place the reason for the electricity in the air that the teacher had brought, buzzing and sparking between the three of them. Mr. Hart doesn’t seem to have a bad thing to say which meant that Resource Officer Roman had every right to hate the man at the other end of the table (since he was obviously hitting on Mr. Hart, ugh). But somehow the words and the tone don’t match at all. There’s no jealousy, no thinly vailed hatred that Dee was so adept at noticing.

(If he’s honest, he thinks the Resource Officer is eye fucking the substitute Teacher right there in front of him and that even more terrifying than the alternative.)

“I see you have both entertained Mr. Ekans, here.” The teacher says turning to Dee with a sharp piercing gaze. Dee stomach drops out.

Here it is. End times. Dee finds himself sinking backwards like he can hide in from the words that are coming. The burns on his shoulders sting with a phantom pain that’s all too familiar, and not at all real. He stares at the half melted ice cream mess in his hand because it’s easier than meeting the accusatory look of his teacher who was going to hold him accountable for injuring the “perfect” student.

“Don’t you have a class to teach, Calculator Watch?” Resource Officer Roman says, “Unless you murdered them all already. Bored them to death at fourteen! Tragic!”

“Your snide comments have no equal, Prince.” The Teacher shoots back, “They are sixteen and seventeen, and I left them for a mere moment to talk to Mr. Ekans. They believe I am picking up more worksheets for them to do in the coming weeks.”

No one says anything for a second, and Dee feels it in his bones the way the attention shifts. All three adults are looking at him, and he feels the need to defend himself in any way that’s possible. What could he say? That Kyle was a douche? A bully? Like any of them would believe that. Dee was the one who had threatened and then assaulted the other. Not to mention he looked like the bad guy in everyone’s stories. Short of the fangs, he was the monster that hid under kids’ beds.

(And he wasn’t thinking that just because once he had seen several of his brother’s friends run off screaming as he approached him in the pick up area of the elementary school, because he couldn’t blame a couple eight-year-olds for being scared.)

Dee’s mouth is halfway open with some half baked, insincere apology he doesn’t mean and hates to say when Dr. Ackroyd speaks.

“I came to ask how your hand was fairing.”

Mr. Hart’s head tilts to the side. Dee glares at the other side of the room and wishes he had slid into the restroom when he had the chance to. Cowardly? Maybe. But he’s never met anyone who liked facing consequences either.

“Kiddo?” Mr. Hart says. “What happened?” He sits back down, causing the table to shake and Dee to squeeze the rest of the ice cream from between the chocolate breading and onto the table.

“There was an altercation in my class,” Dr. Ackroyd says. “Mr. Ekans ended up punching another student.”

“Oh dear!” Mr. Hart cries, and Dee for the life of him can’t figure out why he suddenly grabs the rag at his elbows and gently cups the ice cream mess that is his out-reached hand. It’s the wrong hand, but Dee’s brain short circuits in the second their hands touch. (He’s not sure why that happened either and refuses to give a second to think about it.) Why was Mr. Hart trying to help him? Didn’t he see that Dee was the villain making threats and acting on them?

“I didn’t even notice! Are you alright? Do you need ice? A bandaid?”

“Am I gonna have to write a report for this one?” Resource Officer Roman groans, “Why are you trying to give me extra homework again, Logan? We graduated years ago!”

“If I remember correctly, you got off a minute and a half ago, Roman,” the Teacher says, placing himself in the seat directly across from Dee, “So therefore, no, you will not have to write an incident report for this event. Additionally, those extra homeworks were the reason you graduated at all.”

Dee glances at the clock in the corner, surprised to see there’s still twenty minutes of class left. Did the Resource Officer really get off early? Dee had never heard of that, but then again, he had never cared before either.

“It’s the other hand, Patton.” The teacher continues.

Dee gets the feeling he’s being analyzed. Mr. Hart coaxes Dee’s other arm from his pocket, and it stings where the lip of his jean pocket rips over his knuckles. He has to turn so that Mr. Hart can look at his fingers and the black nail polish on his nails where his mother hadn’t been able to scrub it off. But it’s turning away from Dr. Ackroyd and his calculated stare and for that Dee is grateful. He hides in his shoulder.

“Mr. Ekans,” The teacher says, “Might I inquire what possessed you to acquaint Mr. Phillips with your fist in the middle of my class?”

The word “no” is at the top of Dee’s tongue, clicking against his front teeth valiantly, although the silence is preferable. Somehow, he doesn’t think he could win a game of silence against the gaze of the teacher. Somehow the silence seems much more dangerous than speaking the truth.

But before it gets out, the Resource officer is suddenly right next to them, “Did you just say he punched Phillips? Like Kyle Phillips?”

Dee doesn’t have time to even panic.

The man is already turning to him a grin lighting up three-fourths of his face. “It’s Official, Dante Ekans! You’re my new favorite student!”

“Roman!” Mr. Hart says, “You can’t pick favorites! Kyle is--”

The Officer leans back with a scoff, “I’ll stop you there, my beloved baker! I had to hold you back from physically fighting his mom at the last PTA meeting!”

“Yeah but—”

“You wanted to burn their house down!”

Mr. Hart sticks his tongue in his cheek and bites it. “Their entire family is just so awful to everyone.”

Dee imagines what it would be like if Mr. Hart had burned down their house, if Kyle had lost his dad, if Kyle had been just as disfigured at Dee was. He hates it, he hates the smug feeling in his stomach, because he knew better than anyone how much life sucked and he wouldn’t wish it on anyone. Shouldn’t wish it on anyone.

Dee hisses where Mr. Hart’s rag rubs over his knuckles. The scraps were red, but at least it didn’t look like they were bleeding. He must have ripped the first couple layers of skin off, but that’s all.

Dee stares off in a direction where no one else was. It was easier than looking at the adults. The words caught in his throat, warbled and stuttered and barely more than a mumble.

“He started it.”

Did he sound like a five year old? Yes. Most definitely. Absolutely.

“I see,” the teacher says. He folds his hands deliberately in front of himself, in a fluid motion that Dee watches like a hawk without turning his head back. The tone gives him pause, because Dee can’t find any amusement in it, any hint that this new teacher is just humoring him because he wants a laugh or why-ever any of the teachers that ever listen to him do.

“I assumed as much from his attitude during my class. I’ve already set aside time to speak to him and his mother about his inexcusable behavior.”

Dee freezes as the teacher goes on to talk about proper class etiquette. He doesn’t hear a word after “inexcusable”. It makes his chest hurt, his eyes burn, and his scars itch. Its uncomfortable, its wrong, its different. Because no one has ever called Kyle’s behavior bad. The floaty feeling from earlier comes back (without him realizing it had been gone) and Dee is certain that this is somehow a twisted dream.

A twisted dream he wants so bad to be reality. A dream that Dee doesn’t want to wake from.

“—of course. If instances continue at this pace I would be obligated to—”

“You’re serious.”

The words plop out of Dee’s mouth and land on the table between him and the teacher in some type of ugly blob. He hadn’t meant for it to be so weak, so pathetic, but his tone to wobble somewhere between the four syllables just so much that the teacher’s mouth snapped shut and Mr. Hart’s gentle hands paused from examining his knuckles. Dee wants to take it back, wants to yank the words from the air and pretend they were never there.

Dr. Ackroyd adjusts his glasses and their eyes meet for the first time. Dee thinks it’s a lot like staring into the galaxy, into the great expanse, and knowing that it was also staring back at him.

“I’m very serious. I wear a necktie.”

It sounds like a joke when he says it, and maybe there’s a flicker of his lips that tells Dee is alright to laugh at it.

Dee feels like crying instead.

“I think you’ll find I’m not like your other teachers, Mr. Ekans.”

Mr. Hart smiles at that, smiles the whole conversation, smiles like the sun is shining and the birds are singing and global warming isn’t gonna end all life on Earth by the time Dee is thirty. He lets go of Dee’s injured hand and Dee finds he misses the warmth and the gentle touch. “I have some bandages in the back. Ro, can you help me?”

The Resource Officer makes some noise but the nutritionist takes him by the wrist and drags him into the kitchens. Dee thinks the man is too gay to have really protested anyway.

The teacher and him sit silently as the echoes of their voices, of Mr. Hart’s laughter fades until its just them in their own little untouchable bubble.

“Mr. Walker, your previous science teacher, left me several notes about his classes.” Dr. Ackroyd says, “As well as the grades.”

Dee itches the burns on his neck, a little angrily. He doesn’t say anything because there’s nothing to say. It’s midway through the year and there’s very little he can do to bring his grade up as far as it needs to go for science alone. Not to mention English, Mathematics, and History.

“He mentioned that I might find you to be a difficult student, but I disagree with that assessment.” Dr. Ackroyd prompts Dee to look at him again, “I get the impression you are a very bright student, Mr. Ekans, and very few people choose to see that part of you. I’ve met a lot of students in my time teaching in the United States and abroad. Most of them get by with less than a fourth of the effort than you’ve most likely put in. However, I can’t change the grades that your teacher has already declared for you.”

He pauses, “I can however enter a grade that hasn’t been posted yet.”

Dee dares to let his chest fill with that unfamiliar feeling, that whimsy mystical emotion everyone called hope.

“As it happens, you have a 62.45 percentage in this class as of right now. Mr. Walker was notoriously slacking when he entered any of your grades, so many of your grades are resulting zeroes from missing work, including the midterm from last week.”

The midterm that Dee had finished five whole minutes before everyone else and handed into to Mr. Walker directly. The one that he’s sure the teacher had finished grading before the end of school bells had rung.

Dee hangs on the teacher’s words, too desperate for the chance Dr. Ackroyd was offering to be embarrassed about how pathetic he was acting. He was starving and this ridiculous teacher was dropping him breadcrumbs.

“So, if you are open to recreating the work that has gone missing and putting time aside to retake a midterm I will provide, I would be more than happy to enter in the missing grades.”

“You’d…you’d do that?”

Dr. Ackroyd seems surprise that Dee would even have to ask.

“Of course. I see no reason to withhold grades as long as you put in the effort, Mr. Ekans.”

Dee doesn’t care if it’s a dream. If its fake. His knuckles hurt, his chest constricts, he’s not sure he can make words even if his life depended on it. A lump forms in his throat, thick and heavy and dangerous. Because that’s all he’s wanted, all he’s needed since he was six: just someone to treat him like everyone else.

Not Lucky. Not pitiful. Just Dee, by himself, putting in the effort for the education he needed.

“Just please, if you could refrain from making anymore, ah, serious threats against the rest of the student populace.”

And that’s all it takes for him to break.

Mr. Hart comes back hand in hand with Resource Officer Roman and they find Dee attempting to forcibly remove an onslaught of tears from his face before the bell rings to release the students, and Dr. Ackroyd appearing as incredibly uncomfortable as possible as a slew of confused apologies tumble from his mouth.

And all either of them do is smile.

Dante Ethan Ekans hated every single teacher in his high school.

(Except one. And a Resource Officer. And a Nutritionist.)

[Sequel]

#Teacher!Logan #Student!Dee #deceit sanders #logan sanders #roman sanders #patton sanders #LAMP #bullying #burns #Friends on the Other Side (Your Side) au #possibility of more? maybe #who knows #symapthetic deceit #sanders sides

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affectionatehannibal · 5 years

Link

Bill Denbrough is a story-teller.

Need somebody to tell you what happened on last night’s showing of Saturday Night Live? Richie Tozier’ll do the job just fine, sure, but if you find him chances are good you’ll find Denbrough too, and he’ll make you feel as though you’re in the audience, staring right at the actors and actresses themselves. Didn’t feel like reading a book, but have to turn in an essay about it in an hour? Bill won’t write the essay for you, but he’ll tell the story as though he lived it himself and make it come alive clearer than any movie or SparkNotes article ever could. Words are both his home and weapon of choice- they are where he goes to rest and what he uses to look the world squarely in the eye, accept it for the shit-show it is, and continue on. It is because of all this, and because of their love and reverence for him, that Richie and Stan so easily believe his story about Georgie’s reappearance. And it is because of this that Bill manages to convince both of them to spend their Saturday locked inside the Derry City Library, scouring book after book for an explanation to their situation.

The table they’ve occupied for the better part of two hours now is completely filled with books. There are some on psychology and mental health, others on poltergeists and demons, ESP and clairvoyance, ley-lines, mediums, spirits, psychics, religions of all kinds, and all other things paranormal or strange. Every now and then, Stan looks up from his notes and glares at the mess before him, as though willing it to disappear. His side of the table is neatly arranged, with a hefty stack of books on his left and pages of notes on his right. Periodically, Richie stands up quietly and takes a stroll through the shelves, shaking excess energy out through his hands and making idle chatter with disgruntled library-goers who would much rather be left alone. His side of the table is busy but not particularly messy, with a few books open at once and a page filled with messy handwriting and scribbled doodles sitting off to the side. Every few minutes, Bill glances to his right to see how Georgie is fairing in their new surroundings and his stomach drops, like he’s seeing his dead brother’s figure for the first time. His side of the table is empty save for one book, opened to one of the earlier pages, his chair angled as far to the left as possible.

All three (living) boys jump as a large pile of books are dropped on the table. Mr. Cunningham, Derry’s only librarian, dusts his hands off and sighs. He stares daggers at the dozens of books already scattered across the table, imagining all the shelving he’ll be doing once the boys leave. Stan coughs to grab his attention and offers a slow, easy smile. “Thanks a lot, Mr. Cunningham. We really appreciate your help.”

Mr. Cunningham smiles back, previous displeasure forgotten. Bill and Richie share a glance, and Bill doesn’t try to hide his grin when Richie sticks a finger down his throat. If Bill’s talent is storying telling, Stan’s is kiss-assery. “My pleasure, Mr. Uris. Let me know if you need anything else,” he turns to Bill and Richie. Richie opens his mouth to say something, but Bill gives his foot a good warning kick before anything can come out. “You boys make sure to clean up after yourselves.”

Richie, lounging in the chair on Bill’s other side, pretends to shoot the librarian with double finger guns as he walks away. “God,” he groans. “Why do adults always look at you like they want you to suck their dicks?”

Stan smirks as he sorts through the new books, distributing an even amount to each of them. “Someone should warn them they’ll have to get in line.”

“Wowza wowza,” Richie grins. “Who gets to go first, me or Billy boy here?”

Stan absentmindedly flips through the pages of a book. “Who said you would be taking turns?”

Richie considers that for a moment. He leans forward in his seat, his eyes following Stan’s long, graceful fingers as they turn page after page. His face turns a splotchy, excited red, like he wishes Stan’s fingers were busy doing something else. He coughs. “Is it weird to get a hard-on in a library?”

Stanley doesn’t look up as he neatly writes something onto a sheet of paper. “No. I’m sure Mr. Cunningham will be very flattered to know you think so much of him.”

Bill clears his throat.

“Sorry,” Stan offers Bill a small, guilty smile. He shoots a glare in Richie’s direction. “Let’s get back to work.”

“Wuh-wuh-well,” Bill starts, looking down at the single book in front of him. He’d picked it from the pile on a whim, its plain, weathered cover certainly not making it the most interesting book of the bunch. Nonetheless, the first page had caught his attention and managed to hold it for a good two hours. He places it in the middle of the table, and Richie and Stan lean forward to get a better look at it. “I duh-duh-duh-oh-oh-n’t think w-w-we n-need to luh-luh-ook a-anymore.”

Stan raises an eyebrow. “This is a book about ghosts, Bill.”

“Har de har har,” Richie mimes a laugh, but his face is pale. “That’s real funny, Denbrough. You know, I’m pretty sure I saw the ghost of Stan’s virginity in the back of my mom’s Honda Accord. Should we be worrying about that, too, ‘cause I think the warranty is about to-”

“Wuh-wuh-why,” Bill interrupts.“d-did we even geh-geh-get b-books about th-th-this sah-sah-stuff if you guh-guys th-think it’s suh-suh-something eh-eh-else?”

Stan looks at Bill, eyes full of pity and exhaustion. “Come on. You can’t really think George-, a ghost is following you around.”

“Wuh-wuh-ood y-you rather him b-be here b-b-because of Pah-Pah-Pah-Pah-”

“Uh,” now it’s Richie’s turn to interrupt. “I’d like to take a minute to remind the audience that we killed that son of a bitch, like, a long time ago.

Stan slowly sits back in his seat, staring off into the distance, past Richie’s head. He shudders, like he sees something there that has no resemblance to the quiet rows of books that surround them. “We don’t know for sure he’s dead.”

Richie lets out a strangled laugh. His face is a sickly white, like he’s going to need to know the quickest way to the bathroom in a minute or two. “Do you remember what he looked like before he fell down that stinkin’ hole in the earth? If that motherfucker’s alive, I’m-”

“S-s-so you th-think it’s a guh-guh-ghost, t-too?”

Richie frowns. “Now, listen, I never said that.”

“Th-th-then wuh-wuh- what ?”

“I mean,” Richie shifts anxiously in his seat. He places two of his books in the middle of the table, on top of Bill’s and flips through them for a moment, looking for specific pages. “take a look at this. It could be somethin’ like high levels of mold in your house or, hell, I don’t know, stress-induced hallucinations or some shit. But it’s not ghosts and it’s not the fucking clown.”

“I’m nuh-nuh-nuh-not kuh-kuh-razy.”

“That’s not what he’s saying, Bill.” Stan takes one of Richie’s books, eyes scanning it hopefully.

“Of course not,” Richie worriedly runs a hand through his hair. It falls over his eyes and, for a moment, he looks just like he did five years ago. Scared and small and not at all ready to face the ugly truth that lives under Derry. He takes a deep, steadying breath, and the resemblance is gone.“I just- if it is a ghost, and I’m not saying I think it is, what next? We get a cool van and a talking dog, buy Bev a purple dress and call ourselves the Mystery Gang?”

Bill sits up straight in his chair and puts on the face he used to get them all to follow him into Neibolt all those years ago. “Wuh-wuh-we’re nah-nah-not t-telling th-the uh-uh-others about Juh-Juh-Georgie.”

Stan and Richie stare at Bill for a moment, eyes wide with shock (in Richie’s case) and frustration (in Stan’s). Stan closes his eyes and rubs his temples.

Richie’s shock quickly simmers into hurt and quiet indignation. Bill might be the leader of this operation, but they were a team of seven members, no matter what. “Now, wait just a minute-”

A small, quiet cough from the end of the table reminds the three of them that they are not alone. They aren’t in the clubhouse or the Barrens, or even crammed together, knees overlapping, on Bill’s bed. They’re just three boys with voices that are filled with too much fear and unspoken anger for a library, speaking too loudly about things better discussed in private.

They looked up to see a girl, about their age, glancing uncomfortably at each of their faces. For a moment, Bill thinks she stares right past him, right at Georgie, but then her eyes reach Stan’s and her face visibly brightens, like she’s found a lifeboat amongst a storm of angsty teenagers and sad, invisible, dead boys. “Stan! Sorry. For interrupting, I mean. I just, uh. Do you guys have,” she holds out a tiny slip of paper to Stan. “that?”

Stan takes a deep breath, pushing down the stress and worry their conversation had created enough to force his mouth into a tight smile. “I don’t think so,” he stands, eager to leave. “I can help you look for it though, if you want.”

Relief floods her face. “Would you really?”

“Of course,” Stan turns to face Richie and Bill. He opens his mouth as if to say something, then closes it again. He shoots them both a frustrated glare. “I’ll be back.”

Richie slumps in his chair and watches Stan and the girl walk away. He can tell by the tightness in Stan’s shoulders that he hasn’t forgotten what they’ve been talking about, but his face is light and he says something that makes the girl laugh. A few steps later they’re out of sight and Richie slumps even further down into his chair, so that Bill can only see the top of his head. “Who was that?”

Bill crosses his arms on the table and puts his head down on top of them. Georgie watches him do so. “S-s-some new guh-guh-irl in one of S-s-stan’s c-c-classes. Puh-puh-atty, I th-think.”

Richie glares moodily at his corner of the table. Fucking ghosts, messing everything up. Fucking clowns. Fucking Derry. He waits for his stomach to calm down before speaking again. “This fucking sucks, man.”

Bill glances at Georgie and fights the urge to cry. “T-t-tell muh-muh-me a-about it.”

#u know what to do :')#stozier #bichie #stenbrough #stenbrozier #stanpat #richie tozier #bill denbrough #stan uris #patricia blum #georgie denbrough #it #poly losers #mine

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