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shinebrite97 · 3 years

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A trip to Spirit Halloween - RFA

Precursor: Spirit Halloween is not an international company, so my take is that the MC is American, and is visiting her home for a short time in the fall with her partner and maybe a best friend as their host/guide.

Zen:

He was never big on Halloween, he was invited to one 21 and up Halloween party at Lotte World with some of his co-stars after he was accepted by a theater, and he bought a bag of candy one year but didn’t get many kids at his door. :/

When he joined you in America in October for [insert reason here], he was astounded by the blatant decorum. Pumpkins and spiders and ghouls at every turn.

“And this is why nothing scares you...crazy girl."

You were walking down a shopping street when you happened upon the pop-up horror haven and you gravitated to it like a moth to light.

Zen had no clue what you were so excited about until those sliding doors opened.

He’s not one to deny a dare, so when you dared him to step on the footplate that activated the giant spider prop, he did, not knowing what to expect.

He’s jumpy, but also brave and protective, so when the spider did leap out, he jumped back about nine feet, but then hurried over to you and asked if you were okay.

(Pre-Covid era) he will want to try on masks and take selfies with you, the more grotesque the better. Though when you gave him the white featureless mask it blended with his hair so well that it managed to freak you out a little.

Zen wanted to buy you a sexy costume, maybe the sexy teddy bear or the red riding hood (totes not to unleash the beast on later…) but sticker shock nearly gives him a heart attack.

You two each buy a pair of fangs and while neither of you will say it, it almost feels like picking out wedding rings.

Wants to prove how brave he is by going through the tiny haunted house in the back. It’s literally six steps and one corner with some funky lights and sound effects, but the second he gets inside, he latches onto you until you’re back outside.

As you leave with your meager haul of fangs, and maybe one kitschy little halloween makeup kit, Zen decides that it was fun, but he’d probably not go back.

Yoosung:

He’s so happy to be in America with you!

I headcanon that Yoosung speaks English fairly well, has an accent, but can definitely get by if he lost you for any length of time in town.

He had been to one Halloween party with some classmates as a college thing, just wanted to get home and play video games.

He joined you and your best friend on a trip to “the store” unsure of which store you were going to.

Yoosung loves interactive displays, but when he stepped down on the activator pad, he was not expecting the nine-foot-tall clown to laugh maniacally and lunge at him. Dove for the floor and landed by your feet.

Spends more time in the costumes and props area than the showroom floor.

Reached nirvana when he found a replica of some sword in LOLOL and went on a tangent about it and the upgrades it had and the fact that you had to pay for the diamond patch if you didn’t want to farm for 100 hours.

Tries on a costume just for the fun of it because the price made him want to cry, but you promised to work with him to make an epic LOLOL cosplay for much cheaper.

Wants a souvenir from your favorite store so he buys three matching skull keychains for you two and your friend while you and your friend were playing around with the interactive decor.

Definitely wants to go back once he finds out that the store’s theme changes each year.

Jaehee:

Never had time for Halloween before, and isn’t big on the holiday. Her choice, if she had one, was just to make some tea and watch Zen in Hell Note since it had a darker tone to it.

However, now that she is in America with you for a week in October, you have decided that this trip to some store was absolutely essential.

She almost doesn’t want to go inside, seeing some little kids run out screaming.

Upon first entering, she jumps at the sudden raven or crow noise and doesn’t like that the animatronic demon child on wheels is following her.

Will probably hold your hand until you start playing with the interactive displays.

The animatronic jumping spider is a 0/10, please never step on that again.

Jaehee does like wigs and the animal costumes (may or may not want to see you dressed as a tastefully sexy deer or fox)

At one point you two lose sight of each other and she finds you looking at some 90s movie memorabilia like hocus pocus pillows of Beetlejuice mugs.

You have the plan to spruce up the coffee shop for Halloween, but Jaehee is weary to decorate with anything off putting….(she’s talking about you, bag of eyeballs and plastic amputated human parts)

You suggest a vase for each table with a single purple rose and some white flameless candles, and then a stop of a fabric store in the same plaza comes up with black lace for some pretty curtains.

She’s glad to observe your favorite holiday with you, but probably would not jump on the chance to come back to this store.

Jumin:

Celebrated Halloween once with V as a teenager.

Attended some very boring Halloween parties for his father’s sake.

Was kind of surprised when you showed so much interest in it.

He had business in America anyway, so he flew you two over for a week so you could see your friends and family while he handled his work.

One night after you two had dinner with your childhood best friend, you discovered a spirit Halloween in the same plaza as the restaurant.

Jumin was still at a point where he went on autopilot the moment a woman talked about going shopping.

“Anything you want, dear��”

He had no idea what kind of store Spirit Halloween was, but as you and your bestie bounded inside, he showed a little more decorum...up until a giant clown with spider legs and a red balloon snarled at him.

He actually called out your name first, and it’s something you’d think about for a long time after.

He sought you out when he was startled…

Jumin followed closely behind you for the trip, not scared enough to hold onto you, but kept his hands in his pockets to avoid accidentally activating something or touching the gross looking gauze on the hanging ghost decorations.

He realized you and your friend stayed far away from the Halloween costumes, which he thought was the entire purpose of the store and noticed you stuck to the front end [with the cheaper stock]

While you two geeked over the funko pops figures and the pillows, and the little odds and ends, he admired some of the costumes, wondering which would suit you best.

His eyes fell on a sexy black cat costume, which was basically just a bra with flowing sleeves and a mini skirt. Didn’t even come with ears or a tail….but he found those in the back with the other animal parts.

He asked why you didn’t want a costume and you just silently took down one of the medieval maid costumes and showed him the price. 90 dollars!!!

“That is way too much for anything, especially when I can make a better version for myself for like twenty.”

You explained to him that the quality was bad and the costumes all smelled like plastic and they were way too expensive.

But is that going to stop your conglomerate boyfriend from spoiling you? NOPE

He buys the black cat lingerie with a tail and ears while you and your friend are distracted by the haunted house display and will surprise you later with it in the hotel room.

And hoping that you’ll surprise him while wearing it as well.

Seven:

He’s never celebrated Halloween. Ever.

But to see you so excited about something…

He decided it was time for a vacation anyway, so he decided to go off the Korean grid with you for a week.

On the second day of your trip you spotted your home mecca and begged him to go in with you.

He wasn’t sure what the excitement was for until he got inside.

Tough boy wants to show off. Not to mention, neurodivergence has been met with buttons that say “try me” and “step here” so you know he’s going to.

He loves the effects, loves the demonic dog, and the creepy demon twins beckoning people closer before they show their creepy faces.

Completely wants to buy you a sexy cat costume and also wants to try it on for himself.

Also thinks you two should get a super cheesy couple’s costume...and owo what’s this? A matching cheese and cracker couple’s costume?

You will definitely come here one or two more times before your vacation ends, and on your last visit, he sneakily films the entire experience so he can feel like he’s shopping there next fall, and because you were just so cute browsing beside him.

#mystic messenger #mysticmessenger #mm jaehee #mm yoosung #mm saeyoung #mm jumin #mm zen #headcanon #self-indulgent writings

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writings-of-a-hufflepuff · 3 years

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A Piece of My Soul

Fandom: The Mentalist or rather the Marcus Pike fandom

Collection/Series: N/A

Pairing: Marcus Pike x GN! Artist Reader

Writer: @writings-of-a-hufflepuff aka @hufflepuffing-all-day-long

Rating: G

Warnings: Hurt/Comfort, Lots of fluff, but there’s that undercurrent of angst as the reader has been hurt before and made to feel less than important so if that’s too much right now that’s okay!

Summary: Marcus has always known that you protect your art, that it is a reflection of your soul and something you guard after being hurt one too many times. He never expects you to share your sketchbooks with him, assumes he will never have the honour and he’s okay with that because he’s happy to just have you. Until, one day, you show him just how much you trust him.

Notes: For me, I always feel like when I share my art with people they’re very meh about it or they are backhanded or even mean. I’ve not had the best experiences when sharing my sketchbooks or my work with people in my life and the idea of someone being so wholly awestruck just by the trust and openness of sharing something like that gets me. So here we go back on the Marcus Pike train because if I could ever explain what I want in a husband, he’s the man.

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Marcus had known of your love of drawing from the first date. You had been a little shy when he’d asked about your hobbies and interests, when you’d quietly and cautiously told him you liked to draw. When he asked for more detail, the mediums you used, the style you preferred, it had opened you up just a little more, his interest making you preen a little. Although still cautious, gauging his reaction to your answers. It had been like seeing a part of your soul that you kept hidden from people, it had made him simultaneously proud and angry.

Proud because you trusted him, from that first moment, to take you seriously, to listen to your interests and passions and not dismiss them. Angry because at some point, at some time, it was clear someone had dismissed you, made you feel like you weren’t worth listening to, weren’t worth investing time in. It was maddening to think that anyone could make you feel like that, like anyone couldn’t see your worth.

It was baffling because he found you captivating in all your passions and quirks. The way you ranted and rambled on for minutes, sometimes even hours, about something you were passionate about, never failed to draw him to you like a moth to the proverbial flame. The way you managed to trip over anything and everything, clumsy to a fault, was as endearing as it was concerning and he found himself eager to compensate, to pre-empt you going flying because of a step or a crack in the floor. He found the small things, not just the large things enthralling and enamouring, the concept that anyone might think different was just unfathomable.

So he worked to cultivate that trust, to show you that he was interested in you and all the things that made you up. He listened when you talked, never told you he was bored or showed a shred of disinterest. He remembered things you mentioned or were interested in, brought you books on the subject or sent you a link to an article he’d seen.

Watching the way that trust bloomed, the way you opened your heart and soul up to him in little pieces was nothing short of amazing. Still, he knew your art was precious to you, a piece of your soul. Your interests, desires, thoughts, opinions, and preferences are all laid out in pages and pages of thick white paper and red pencil marks. He never pushed it, never asked to see what you were working on or to show him your art, not because he wasn’t interested but because he respected the intimacy of it. You were not some famous painter who put their work on display for the world to see and scrutinise. You were just you, just someone who used art as a form of stress relief and self-expression, someone who guarded their work like they guarded their heart.

So the little trickles of your soul that you shared with him were enough, it didn’t matter if you showed him it all or only select pieces, anything was enough to tell him you cared, that you trusted him, that you wanted his approval. Not because you needed him to give it, not because he was that fundamental or important, but because recognition from him made you smile, made you feel important. You were important whether he liked your work or not.

He still remembers the excitement you exuded, happiness blinding and bright and so brilliant, when you’d finished a new painting and bounded to show him. You’d bundled it up safe and made the drive to his house, rushing up the steps so quick, he’d heard you trip before he heard you knock.

You’d been bouncing on the balls of your feet, painting kept within a folder, nondescript, the sort you kept your certificates in. The wide grin on your face, the shine of your teeth, and crinkles at your eyes had him smiling the moment he opened the door to you, leaning a shoulder against the door frame to watch you adoringly.

“I finished it! It only took me 20 hours but I finally finished it!” You’d rushed inside, pulling him by the arm so fast he had to laugh as he nearly tripped over his own rug. You’d been so excited and so proud as you’d sat him on his couch and carefully pulled the A4 piece of watercolour paper from the folder, plain back to him.

He’d been patient, watching you with the softest of smiles as your eyes flicked back and forth between him, sat with hands clasped between his thighs, elbows on his knees, and your painting. As you grappled with the gravity of showing him a piece of your soul and not knowing how he’d respond, how he’d behave. Patience was the least he could think to give you, and it had brought the best sort of ache to his chest when you’d shyly turned the painting around to show him.

20 hours of work and you looked away, eyes focusing on a plant he had in the corner of his living room rather than on his expression or what he might think. You’d been so nervous to show him and he’d taken the time to truly look at your painting. The colours, the composition, the subject, it didn’t ultimately matter to him whether he truly liked it or not, although he did, because he’d love it anyway. He’d love it anyway because you’d chosen to share it with him, when you were oh so private and careful with your art.

“Sweetheart…” You’d been prepared for rejection, to face the fact that your boyfriend didn’t like your painting, your art, that it was something you just shouldn’t share with him in the future. “It’s amazing! 20 hours? Can I?” He’d gestured to take it, to hold it and get a better look and you’d let him, a little stunned, but overjoyed that he liked it, that he wanted to look at it.

That had been the starting point for you sharing more little bits of your soul with him. You’d bring him finished paintings to look at, occasionally the odd doodle here or there that you completed at work. Not everything, and never your sketchbooks. Those were off limits, something he’d respected because he knew they were more than just a tiny piece of who you were, but quite a large one. Pages and pages of you sat for perusal and to have that rejected would hurt more than anything. So Marcus had been grateful for what little pieces of your art you did choose to share with him.

He’d always made it a point to show how much he liked your art, to shower you in praise and to make you feel listened to, seen, important. Your art was amazing to him. He was an art history major, he loved art, hence his job, but he wasn’t an artist. He’d never had the patience to sit and develop the skill set and so he focused on the work of others, yours was quickly becoming his favourite. You had your own unique style, something he found hard to describe or explain, but that he’d know if he saw your work. He’s almost certain he’d know if someone tried to pass a fake off as your own and if anyone asked who his favourite artist was he’d probably change his answer to you.

Still, he had hoped that one day you’d share that last bit of yourself with him. He hadn’t expected to actually happen, just a hope, a little dream, something he thought about at night before falling asleep.

Certainly not something he expects on date night.

He’s cooking dinner for the two of you, your favourite main and dessert, because he hasn’t had the chance to see you in a good week due to a hectic case, when he hears the tell tell sound of keys in the front door. He’d long since given you your own, letting you come and go as you please, with the excuse that when he was away on a case it meant you could keep an eye on the place and make sure he didn’t get robbed. In truth he liked having you around, liked that you came over just because you wanted to, that you felt welcome and at home and if he wasn’t so dead set on not scaring you off, he might have already asked you to move in. But, he wanted to take his time, not rush it.

“Marcus?”

“In the kitchen, honey!” He’s wiping down the side quickly, hiding the fact he’s a messy cook, when you walk in a heavy looking tote bag over one shoulder. It peaks his interest and from the little laugh you let out you can see it on his face.

“Are you busy?”

“No, it needs a good half hour before I have to check it again, why?” You watch him wipe his hands with a towel and brush at a small stain on his white t-shirt, the one that clings to his arms just right.

You're nervous, you know he can tell from the way your hands grip the bag straps tight over one shoulder to how you bite your bottom lip. He’s always been able to tell. One of the beautiful things about Marcus was the attention he gave to people, not just people he cared about, but people in general. He learnt everything he could about them, stored it away in his mind, and used it to show them how much he cared, how much he knew them, really knew them.

“I...I want to show you something.”

You grab him by the hand, the same way you always do whenever you want to share something, and begin pulling him towards his living room. It’s cosy in here at this time of night, warm light from a couple of lamps, soft blankets thrown over his couch, the ones he’d brought after realising how much you loved a good blanket. It’s a calming thing, to be in here, with him, somewhere you associate with home.

It often seems so silly to you, just how nervous you get about sharing something with Marcus, but you know it’s not. Know it’s not his fault either. Marcus has never given you any reason to doubt him, but other people have, so you push past the nerves because you do really want to show him and watch his face light up like it always does.

You sit him down in his seat, and curl up next to him, kicking your shoes off and placing the bag on the ground. He’s so warm and for a moment you just lean into his side, enjoying the warmth of his body and the way he nuzzles a kiss into your temple, nose tracing little lines gently for a moment. He brings you peace and it is that, that gives you resolve and has you reaching down for the items in the bag.

It doesn’t go unnoticed by you that Marcus places his hands at your waist, worried you might take a tumble off the couch, something you’re prone to. It warms you inside, that he cares so much, that he’s so casual with his affection and so concerned with you and your safety. Even something as simple as making sure he can catch you if you start to fall.

You come back up with a couple of books in hand, plastered with stickers over the front and a little dogeared at the corners. Marcus doesn’t remove his hands from your waist, just pulls you firmly back against his side and watches as you anxiously smooth your hands over the cover of one of them.

“I..I wanted to show you my sketchbooks, or well...the two most recent ones anyway. I...I don’t really show people them...but I want you to see them.” Your eyes are so wide and earnest when you look up at him, that he can’t help but cup your cheek in his hand and rub his thumb across the apple of it. God, he never thought...he never thought you would. Always thought you’d keep this little part of yourself private, separate, guarding it like a dragon guards a horde of gold. But, here you are, so earnest, so nervous, so open, telling him that you want to share this piece of your soul with him and he can’t stop himself from pressing his forehead against yours. Can’t stop himself from the gentle nudge of his nose with yours or the slow press of his lips against your own.

It’s a surprising reaction from Marcus, the way his nose presses into your cheek as he presses a firm but still tender kiss to your lips, the way his hand slides down to cup underneath your jaw, thumb pressing into the hollow there. It’s so surprising that it distracts you for more than a moment, to the point your eyelids take a little bit of time to flutter open after he breaks away, you leaning further into him.

“What...what was that for?”

“For trusting me.” He’s so warm and earnest, but still, he’s patient. He doesn’t grab for the books or open them himself, instead he waits for you to pull back and pick one up, settling it between the two of you.

He waits as you find the courage to open the cover and turn to the first page and every breath leaves him at what he finds there. It is a sketchbook and so it is messy, that’s the nature of it, it is practice and experimentation and you enjoying yourself, and it’s so clear, as each page turns, that this is you in book form.

Each page is either a confirmation of a fact he already knew about you or a new discovery. It tells him little things like how you prefer to draw certain subjects and the colours you lean towards when you reach for markers or coloured pencils. He’s reverent in the way his fingertips brush the paper and trace over the lines, in awe of the way your hands have worked in tune with your mind to put these things to paper and he can’t actually help the tears that start to well up in his eyes. Because you trust him so much, you’re opening the last part of your soul up to him with only a hope that he will not crush it or throw it back at you, that he will not abuse it.

“Baby, why are you crying?” You’re so concerned for him, hands pawing at his cheeks, brushing the rivulets away and cupping his jaw to make him look at you. Brown eyes watery but so happy, so in love and he hopes that you can see that, see how desperately he loves you. “Are you okay? Did...did I do something wrong?”

It hurts him so much to know you assume that you’re at fault. That his tears are bad or that they are a product of you doing something wrong, when they’re a result of just how much he loves you and just how happy he is at the trust and faith you have in him, the love you have for him, that you’ll bare your soul. It’s those moments that make him angry at the people before him. Family, friends, lovers, people who took your trust and crushed it, bent it out of shape and tossed it back malformed and damaged.

“Nooo, no, no, honey. Sweetheart, I'm crying cause I'm happy,” He covers your hands with his own, pulls you impossibly closer, “I’m happy because you trust me enough to show me this and I...I never thought I'd earn that.”

“Oh...well, I love you.”

“I love you too.” It’s said with a laugh, but not at you, the sort of laugh that’s just a bit of a huff of happiness, that comes from being overwhelmingly happy. It’s enough for him that you come to his house, that you share little bits of yourself with him and that you love him enough to do that at all.

While dinner cooks, you keep an eye on the time more than Marcus, he continues to flick through the pages. He comments, sweet little things. How something looks cool or how he likes the colours on a page. Each comment thrills you, fills you to the brim with pride and joy, to the point your cheeks ache from smiling. Perhaps to some people it seems understated, boring, the sort of date night that some would hate, but to the two of you it’s more than just date night. It’s a bonding experience, a sharing one. He feels impossibly lucky to look at your work, to have you there leaning on his shoulder, pressing kisses to his neck, impossibly lucky to have a piece of your soul right there in front of him.

It’s that moment that he knows; you’re it for him. He’s certain. You’re the person he’s going to grow old with, with your sketchbooks in a dedicated bookshelf and he’ll die saying his favourite artist is you.

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@charradelange @belfry-bat @gabile18 @beccaboo929

Marcus Pike Taglist

@bdavishiddlesbatch

#marcus pike x reader #marcus pike/reader #marcus pike #the mentalist #the mentalist reader insert #readerinsert #reader insert #gender neutral reader #artist reader

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fishyspots · 3 years

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the same magic touch

happiest belated birthday to @patrickbrewsky! one day i’ll finish the AU you deserve but for today i can give you this, inspired by a conversation we had a while back ❤️️(ps: it’s also on ao3)

“Why are you throwing that sweater out?”

Patrick looks up from the bin, fabric in hand. He feels caught out somehow, but he’s not sure why. “It has a hole in it?”

David stares him down from his spot by the bathroom door. “Why are you ripping holes in your best sweater?”

“I didn’t plan for this to happen,” Patrick protests. “It was totally innocent.”

“Hand it over.” David crosses Patrick’s apartment, narrowly missing clipping the bed with his knee, limbs akimbo the way they always are this early in the morning. Patrick lets David take the sweater from him, perhaps to say a fond farewell, and turns to start David’s coffee. He didn’t know David liked this sweater best; David’s peeled it off of him more than once, but that’s true of most of his shirts at this point.

For some reason, David folds the sweater and puts it in his bag instead of the trash where it belongs. “What are you going to do with that?”

David looks at him like he’s being difficult. “Excuse me?”

“If you’re trying to clone me, that sweater got ripped in the wash so you’ll want something less fresh.” Patrick grabs for the cocoa powder he keeps in his cupboard and that David still won’t look directly at.

“Why would I clone you before they let me edit out your sense of humor?”

“You love my sense of humor.”

David is scrolling through something on his phone now, clearly past the sweater conversation, but he looks up and smiles when Patrick slides his coffee across the counter. “I have very intentionally never said that.”

“Just like how you’re not saying what you’re going to do with my—”

“The tear is on the seam.” David shrugs and takes a sip, wrinkling his nose in the way that means he tastes the cocoa but will not be commenting on it at this time. “It’ll take, like, five minutes to fix.”

“And you know someone who’s willing to do that? Because the only person I can think of is Jocelyn, and I know you two have that begrudging acceptance thing going but I don’t think it extends to me.”

“She likes you too, you know. She told me last week that you were the best Emcee they could have cast.”

“That’s very sweet.” Patrick tilts his head. “But I don’t know there were any other contenders, so it probably sounds better than it is.” But they’re getting off topic now. “Wait, no. Who’s fixing this sweater?”

“I’m fixing the sweater.” David grabs his bag and sets the mug in the sink. “Should we go? We’re going to open late otherwise.”

David’s concern for keeping normal opening hours more than anything else tells Patrick that he’s missing something. Still: “You’re going to fix it.”

“That is correct.” David sighs. “Can we please go? If you wait much longer I’ll lose all this energy and then you’ll have to open by yourself.”

Patrick rolls his lips in and bites down. “How many sweaters have you mended, exactly? Because you talked for an hour once about all the cashmere sweaters you lost to moths.”

“Cashmere is different. Anyway, I’m not, like, totally helpless,” David says. “I went to art school.”

Patrick privately thinks that the sentence might be an oxymoron, but he can acknowledge his own bias here. He took a pottery class in college as his “understanding art” elective; he and his fellow business majors had a lot to say about the cost of equipment and the annoyance of waiting around for the clay to bake. And then after all of that, his glaze was cracked and uneven. “Do they teach stitching there? Like, a whole class?”

“Mm.” David’s mouth is a thin line. “Right after the Etch-A-Sketch one.”

Patrick may have overshot it. “That didn’t—”

“Go to the store. I’ll be there in an hour.”

Patrick sets the spare key on the counter and elects to retreat.

***

“This is earlier than I was expecting to see you.”

David makes a beeline for the macchiato Patrick set in a prominent place on the counter in a spot near the door. He didn’t want David to miss it. “I said an hour.”

The teasing is right there; Patrick has to consciously push down countless other times where David has wildly miscalculated his arrival time. Instead, he takes a breath and prepares for a real apology. They’re a new thing for the two of them—after his parents came to town, Patrick’s been making communication a priority. It’s mostly his idea, but it was spurred on by some...gentle suggestion from Stevie. He doesn’t want to keep falling back into old habits, and he’s not going to put the burden on David to keep him accountable.

But David has not been exceptionally amenable to this new strategy. “Stop,” he says once he’s taken a drink and turned to look at Patrick. “Enough. Thank you for the coffee.”

He drops a kiss on Patrick’s cheek and continues on to the back room. Patrick entertains the idea of following him, but the bell above the door chimes again and he pushes down the conversation they need to have. Not forever, he tells himself sternly. Just until closing. Or lunch, if he can rig them a break.

But it’s Ronnie crossing the threshold, so maybe they do need to finish their relationship discussion. Maybe close the store for the day, or something.

“Ronnie!” Patrick winces at the enthusiasm he can hear in his own voice. David keeps saying that he’s forcing it, which might be valid. “What are you looking for today?”

Ronnie lifts her chin but doesn’t make eye contact. “David here?”

Still trying too hard, then. “He’s in the back. I’ll get him.”

Apparently he heard them, because David’s already peeking out. “Sorry about that, Ronnie. Back for that cheese or is it something else?”

Ronnie lets David curate a cheese plate for her next Women in Business meeting and suggest some wine pairings; Patrick bites back his own opinions to the best of his ability. Or, he does after Ronnie pointedly sets the chardonnay back on the shelf after he says it’s his favorite.

David rings her up and sees her off, and Patrick opens his mouth again to take advantage of a lull. Then the phone rings.

“Can you take that?” David asks. “I want to figure out what we need for that greeting card workshop next month. Jo likes it when we order with at least three weeks’ notice, and they gave us that frame for the poster last time as a thank you so I don’t want to—”

Patrick waves him off before the phone goes to voicemail. “I got it.”

Fortunately for their stocking schedule, it’s Brenda. They’ve been running low on the moisturizer she’s trying out recently, and they need to get more on the shelf as soon as she has it ready. Unfortunately for him, Brenda called seeking opinions about her new combination skin formula and the essential oil blend. David informed Patrick early on that he had combination skin, but Patrick senses that Brenda will not find this information useful. He bides his time and lets Brenda talk until David catches on to his frantic gestures.

They don't teach this in business school. He lets his eyes drift from David's face (a struggle, sometimes) to the bag at his boyfriend's feet. They don't teach a lot of things in business school.

Patrick passes off the phone and greets the next customers, who thankfully do not have any qualms about his personality. Then he checks the stock spreadsheet. They’re getting low on sweaters and socks after the cold snap last week, so he flags the vendors for David to email and sets about filling in the blank spots on the shelves after a busy morning.

The sound of David’s voice soothes Patrick’s nerves even more than the playlist he and David made together in a process that started adversarial (“Smooth jazz? Why not just get a Muzak?” “People shop in those stores too, David.”) and turned playful after they decided on a one-for-one system. Patrick’s alt-folk mixes surprisingly seamlessly with the Whitneys and Mariahs David added. Even the Counting Crows Patrick put on the list just to be contrary fits, in a way.

“Everything okay with Brenda?” Patrick asks after David drops the phone back into his holder. “Are you going to put a new cleanser in my bathroom soon?”

“I don’t see why those two things are necessarily related,” David says, “but yes to both.”

“Good to know.” They might be able to flip the sign for lunch if they’re quick; clouds are gathering in the sky outside in a way that spells a dreary afternoon. “Want me to pick us up something?”

Patrick heads for the door at David’s nod of assent. Even though they haven’t talked about it, he still feels like he’s making up for something. Hopefully that will change. He’s jumping into this new talking strategy with both feet, and he just hopes that David will catch him.

Silly, he thinks as he crosses the street. David has never once let him fall.

Twyla greets him with a sunny smile and asks if they want their usual. For him, a burger is pretty standard, but David keeps vacillating between different soups, sandwiches, and salads. It’s a caesar salad day today; though Patrick would love to read into David’s mood from his choice, he knows better than that by now. David just does what he wants sometimes. As for Patrick, he’s mostly just happy that David is limiting the chance that he won’t like his food. He worked through the international section of the menu last week and spent three afternoons in a row cranky due to hunger and the continual failure of the café to meet his admittedly unrealistic expectations. He does add a cookie, because communication is great and all but it’s always good to have an insurance policy if things go south.

Back at the store, David’s handing over a Rose Apothecary tote to Roland and he’s not even grimacing. Much. There’s definite relief in his eyes when Patrick holds the door for Roland, though. It’s quickly replaced by confusion when Patrick flips the sign.

“I thought we could eat lunch together?” Patrick resists the urge to kick at the ground like a teenager, but it’s there. “We haven’t had much time to just...see each other. Today.”

“I saw plenty of you this morning.” David raises an eyebrow suggestively.

Patrick fights his easy blush; that’s beside the point. “That’s not—”

“You know I never complain about seeing you,” David continues. “But Roland said Jocelyn is going to stop by later, so we’ll have to keep an eye out.”

Patrick thinks Jocelyn can probably wait, but he keeps that to himself. He waits until they’re settled on the couch with David’s left thigh pressing against his right and David can’t talk past his mouthful of lettuce before he broaches the topic. “I did want to talk about this morning.”

David’s eyes widen as he chews, but he does look a little less frantic than he would months or even a year ago if Patrick said something similar.

While David can’t cut him off, Patrick presses his advantage. “I didn’t want to make you feel like you’re helpless. I don’t think you’re helpless.”

David rolls his eyes, but there’s something tight around his mouth that tells Patrick he has to do a little more here. He swallows, so Patrick hurries to finish his thought.

“I think you’re...you do a lot that I don’t do.”

“And you do a lot I don’t do.”

“I don’t think—no, I know, I know I don’t think about that enough.”

Something suspicious dissipates from David’s face. “Is this your whole talking thing again?”

“I don’t have a whole talking thing,” Patrick protests.

“You’ve had a whole talking thing for weeks now. Do you want me to run through all of my skills, or is it sufficient to just say that we’re okay?”

Patrick definitely had prepared to run through all of David’s skills, but he elects to save that for another time. Maybe tonight, when he has more ability to keep David in one place until he’s finished saying what he wants to say. “It’s enough. For now.”

“Threatening me with conversation.” David shakes his head. But he doesn’t take another bite, so he’s at least somewhat worried that Patrick will drop all of his feelings right this moment.

“You can eat, David.”

David lifts his fork cautiously.

So Patrick has no choice, really. “I love you.”

Patrick wants to frame the look David gives him, cheeks slightly bulging and eyes furious and generally perfect.

They unlock the front door in time to catch Jocelyn, and Patrick finds himself still cataloguing David’s competencies for the rest of the day. That night, Patrick sees his sweater, repaired and neatly folded in the way that David says limits wrinkles, hidden in his drawer under a college sweatshirt. It looks as good as new. “Thanks for the sweater.”

“Well, the cloning people were unhelpful. Said I’d have to keep all of you if I went for a new one, and I don’t have the constitution to be mocked twice as often.”

Patrick can’t let it go without saying something, though. “David. Thank you.” That should cover his whole talking thing for now. David still looks at him like he’s a too-large shipment that won’t fit in the planned display. Back to teasing, then. “You know, I had a thought.” Patrick affects his most guileless expression as he slides into bed next to his boyfriend. David’s eyes narrow in suspicion. “Since you’re so good at this, and you went to art school and all, maybe you can help with costumes for Cabaret.”

Patrick enjoys the horrified look that blooms across David’s face probably too much. “I’m suddenly feeling very helpless.”

“Could be worse,” Patrick says. “At least there’s only one of me to deal with.”

#patrickbrewsky #this is where i would normally say 'everyone go wish em a happy birthday' but like #it was last week so i hope it already happened #anyway david is very smart and has no common sense pass it on #we love to see it because we love to be it #my fic #schitt's creek fic #schitt's creek fanfiction #schitt's creek fanfic #schitts creek fic #schitts creek fanfic #schitts creek fanfiction #david x patrick

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hermannsthumb · 4 years

Note

The prompt thing: Sailing and lemonade? :)

10. Sailing + 19. Lemonade

from (last year’s) summer prompts meme here

probably takes place in some line of continuity where they’re visiting newt’s childhood haunts or smthin post-movie

——————–

The worst part of it all is that Hermann wouldn’t have half as high expectations if Newton hadn’t spent all week talking the bloody thing up. Hermann’s not all that hard to please when it comes to being romanced, you know–a near complete lack of experience in the matter means his standards are not only low, but practically nonexistent. All Newton need do is brush his teeth and put on a shirt untainted by extraterrestrial gore and Hermann would go anywhere with him, frankly.

They landed in Boston a week ago, in the midst of a nasty thunderstorm that delayed them by at least two hours. Newton held Hermann’s arm and the umbrella while they waited for Newton’s father to pick them up. He was scowling at the sky. “I wanted to take you out on the boat tonight,” he said. “I had a whole thing planned.”

“Boat?” Hermann echoed curiously. He wasn’t aware Newton had a boat, nor that he even knew how to sail. Newton never struck him as much of an outdoorsy type. Or an athletic type.

Newton grinned. “My dad and I used to go out on it all the time when I was a kid. It’s been tied up at the docks for years now, but it should still work.”

“Oh,” Hermann said. How perfectly New England of Newton. Barring a brief stint on the rowing team as an undergraduate, Hermann has been on precisely one boat in his life–a research rig in Hong Kong, on which he hitched a ride for a closer examination of the Breach. He imagined Newton’s ship to be of the more casual variety. “And you wanted to take me out on it?”

At this, Newton gave his arm a small squeeze. “Of course!”

The two of them, alone, on a sailboat together–or perhaps even a small yacht. Yes, a yacht, that was far more likely. How terribly romantic. Hermann squeezed his arm back. “I’d like that very much, Newton.”

The week leading up to their sailing excursion only cemented the romance of the idea for Hermann. Newton certainly provided enough hints between their guest lectures and Geiszler-led city tours: allusions to a romantic dinner by starlight, prepared by Newton himself; a gold foil-top bottle of what was clearly champagne tucked hastily out of sight when Hermann entered the room one night; references to how alone they’d be, how much privacy they’d have, how Newton couldn’t wait to spend that private, alone time with Hermann (and, here, Hermann could only assume Newton wanted to engage in the obvious with him–because they’ve been dancing around it since a rather heated night spent together following the collapse of the Breach–and on a sailboat-yacht at that, how romantic, how terrifically naughty).

Early this morning Newton roused him and told him, excitedly, they would be going out on the boat around noon, and Hermann put on his sailing best (white linen and an oversized sunhat) and sunblock and packed certain necessary supplies into a waist-bag and pretended not to notice Newton slip the champagne into his own bag, and they caught a train, and then a bus, and then walked out to the pier, where Hermann gazed from yacht to sailboat to yacht excitedly and tried to pinpoint the one he and Newton would take for a day of lounging, and sunning, and trysts at sea--

As it turns out, it’s none of them.

“A paddle boat,” Hermann says. “You–you have a paddle boat.”

It’s not a question. He already knows the answer: yes, Newton has a paddle boat. A small paddle boat, in fact. A small, rusted paddle boat, with a sun-faded awning, and barely enough space to fit the large cooler Newton’s brought along with them. Newton hefts it on anyway. “A paddle boat!” he exclaims happily. There’s a sea monster painted on the side.

“Newton,” Hermann says. He raps his cane on the dock. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly–”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Newton cuts in smoothly. “I’m doing all the work! You just need to sit back and relax.”

Hermann gives a loud, skeptical hum.

They get in the boat, Hermann with some assistance. It sways dangerously beneath them. “How long has it been since you’ve, ah, taken this out?” Hermann says. Both sets of pedals are also rusted. To avoid tangling himself up in the ones on his side, Hermann’s had to resort to sitting in a rather awkward splay of limbs, his cane tucked behind them with the cooler.

“I told you,” Newton says. “Years and years! Okay, hold on.”

He begins to pedal them out. The uneven bob of the boat on the waves, along with Newton’s grunts of effort, the squeaking of the gears, and the hot sun beating down on Hermann even through his sunhat and the awning, is not exactly what Hermann would call relaxing. The opposite, in fact. Closing his eyes just makes it worse. “Where are we going?” Hermann finally says.

“There’s a good fishing spot a little bit ahead,” Newton says.

A chill runs down Hermann’s spine. “We’re fishing?”

“There are some old rods stashed in the back compartment,” Newton says, grinning broadly. “Man, I can’t wait. This is going to be so great.”

The first warning sign–Hermann thinks–should’ve been that Newton wore a fishing vest over his Hawaiian shirt. The second should’ve been his ridiculous fish-patterned hat. Hermann debates diving overboard and paddling back to shore, but it’s a long bit away, and he ultimately decides the risk of drowning isn’t worth it. He’s never been the strongest swimmer.

They reach Newton’s quote-unquote good spot. Newton stops pedaling. “Okay, one second,” he says, and begins twisting and turning in his seat. Hermann gets a multicolored elbow to the face twice before Newton finally re-emerges with two fishing rods. He thrusts one at Hermann. “That’s for you. Lemme get the bait.”

Three elbow jabs to the face. “Newton,” Hermann snaps, finally shoving the man off of him. “Mind your bloody step.”

“Sorry, I couldn’t reach!” Newton says.

He drops the cooler between his legs, and, to Hermann’s distress, opens it to reveal not a lovely homemade dinner, but a very large container of worms. Live worms. “Marvelous,” Hermann sighs, as Newton pops the lid and tugs one out.

“Alright, dude,” Newton says, pulling up the end of his fishing line, “so it’s really easy, you just–”

Newton makes to jam the worm down onto his fishing hook. He stops. He tries again. He stops again. He does this two more times, then turns big, sad eyes on Hermann. The worm wriggles between his fingertips. “I can’t do it,” he says.

Hermann takes the worm from him and puts it back in the container. Newton has always had a soft spot for even the most insignificant of creatures, often to his own detriment: he kept a pet snake in the laboratory for a bit (before pawning it off on a somewhat unenthusiastic Mako Mori), and teared up every single time he fed it a mouse, and once cried for ten minutes when a rather pretty-looking moth fried itself to death on his desk lamp. “It’s alright, Newton,” he says. He pats Newton’s hand. “We can try another day, with lures instead. Yes?”

“Yeah,” Newton says, and nods.

The dinner Hermann expected may be nonexistent, but he knows he wasn’t imagining the champagne, and–frankly–he thinks he could use some right about now. Even if it’s that horrid pink kind Newton is obsessed with. “You know,” he says, airily, “I’m a bit thirsty. I don’t suppose you, ah, brought anything I could have? Some water, or…?”

Newton’s face splits into a grin. “I did! I was going to save it for dinner, but we can have both now!”

He reaches into a pocket of his fishing vest and pulls out a plastic bag. Upon closer inspection, Hermann discovers it contains two badly-squished sandwiches leaking…something. “One has Nutella and the other has Fluff,” Newton says. “Take your pick. I forgot where I put–oh!”

The bottle with gold foil is produced from his tote bag beneath his seat. In the daylight, in proper view, it looks markedly less like champagne, and far more like the sparkling lemonade it is. “Lovely,” Hermann sighs, and selects the less squished sandwich of the two.

The lemonade is actually quite good, and the sandwich edible enough, and Hermann finds that if he closes his eyes just right, it sort of feels like they’re on a better boat. Not a yacht by any means, but–perhaps a sailboat. And he really is pleased to have alone time with Newton. Newton, who was so excited about taking Hermann out–who packed them sandwiches, and lemonade, and tried to teach Hermann how to fish–who’s been nothing but sweet and kind to Hermann all day.

“Are you having fun?” Newton says. He sounds anxious. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you it was a paddle boat, I just thought you–”

Hermann cups his jaw and kisses him gently. The tension sags from Newton’s shoulders. “It’s all perfect, Newton,” Hermann tells him, and he finds he actually means it. “Really, perfect.”

“That’s good,” Newton says. “That’s awesome. Ha!”

They smile at each other.

“What did you bring a fanny pack for?” Newton says.

Hermann’s smile falters, only slightly. “Er. I’ll show you tonight.”

#newmann #maria's fanfiction tag #peter-hughes-harmonies

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droleweb-blog · 4 years

Text

Caring For Handbags - How to Keep Your Handbags Looking Their Best

Perhaps the most functional fashion accessory today is the handbag. Most women use their handbags everyday and count on them to hold their precious possessions. Today women's handbags come in a wide array of styles, materials and price ranges. Whether clutch or tote, suede or leather, a steal of a deal or an expensive designer bag it is important to take proper care of your handbag. Doing so will improve the longevity of the handbag, keeping it looking its best.

When you first acquire your bag it is a good idea to treat the surface with a protective treatment such as Scotchguard. This will provide a protective coating that will make the handbag resistant to liquids, spills and stains. Make sure to read the manufacturer's instructions and all warnings prior to use to be sure that your handbag is made from a material that is safe for the product to be applied to. It's probably a good idea to test a small part of the bag that may not be as visible to ensure a good outcome.

A soft cloth is a good choice to dust a handbag. For a smudge or spot a slightly damp towel can be used only if you spot check in a hidden area first to be sure that no discoloration or damage is caused when the area dries. Always allow your handbag to air dry if you have cleaned it or have been caught in the rain. Using a blow dryer or clothes dryer will cause heat damage. Taking the handbag to a professional for cleaning is a good idea for tough stains.

The old saying, an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure holds true when caring for your handbags. Using some common sense strategies, you can keep your handbag from being damaged.

Always use clean hands when handling your handbag. Avoid handling just after applying beauty products or hand cream. If you have to go out in bad weather consider switching from your very expensive leather handbag to one made of a fabric that is more durable such as canvas or nylon.

Avoid setting your purse on the floor in public places such as restaurants, theatres and restrooms. Besides dirt and spills there are germs, microbes and bacteria that could be carried home and transferred to your bed or counter top.

If you will be storing your handbag in a drawer, on a shelf or in a file cabinet while at work be sure that there are no sharp edges that would scratch or otherwise damage it. You might consider slipping it into a pillowcase or handbag storage bag for protection. You could also pad the area by lining it with a towel or soft cloth.

Storing your handbag properly is another way to keep it in tip top shape. When not in use it is important to stuff the bag to help it keep its proper shape. Paper or material can be used but bubble Wholesale handbags wrap is the best option as it does not attract moths or moisture. Many handbags come with their own protective storage bag. If not, handbag storage bags can be found in retail stores both online and in your community. A simple and cost effective alternative are cotton pillowcases. Keeping your handbag covered when not in use will keep dust from sticking to it and damaging the finish.

For long term storage it is a good idea to remove the straps or loosen the buckles in order to keep them from developing permanent indentations. These indentations would be unsightly if you decide to change the length of the strap or the handle in the future. If your purse has a chain handle be sure to store it with the handle tucked inside the handbag to prevent scratches.

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titaniaintheflesh · 5 years

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Wendy 1

Jerome x OC

Warnings: mentions of suicide, joking about dark subjects, basically nililism, abortion

“Seriously? How many times have you seen this movie now?” Wendy rolled her eyes at her younger sister, who always felt the need to stick her nose where it didn’t belong.

“Can you please fuck off Joanne?” Wendy looked at Joanne expectantly until she retreated, hands up in surrender. Wendy rolled her eyes and looked back up to the old boxy TV she had bought for twenty at a garage sale. It came with a box of VHS tapes and Peter Pan was almost constantly playing on it. Wendy would hate to admit it but Joanne was right, she probably had seen this movie too many times. She sighed and clicked off the TV, rummaging around the mess on her floor for her wallet. “Mom! I’m going out!” Wendy shouted as she slipped on her father’s old U.S. Navy jacket, the one thing he had left her before he went to get killed by a rouge pilot. Her mom wanted her daughter’s to follow in her and her husbands footsteps, become civil servants. She herself was a detective at the GCPD, just like her brother-in-law Jim. Wendy’s father was a military man. But it wasn’t going to happen. Joanne had a hidden pregnancy and five potential fathers, and Micaela, the youngest, smoked too much to remember the time of day. As for her, Wendy, the eldest. She was a classic burnout and they all knew it. Her black hair was chopped up weird from getting gum stuck in it so many times, she already had five tattoos at nineteen, and she would rather run naked through the Narrows than try hard in school.

“Where’re you going?” her mother’s head popped out from the kitchen. Her vibrant curls sticking to her forehead from standing before a lit stove for so long. Her black eyes looked at her daughter suspiciously. “Wendy Gabriela, tell me where you’re going. It’s dangerous at night.” Wendy’s hand froze halfway to her keys and turned to halfheartedly assure her mother that she would be careful. “Come back home soon. Jim and Lee are coming for dinner, eles não te vejam muito, meu amor.” Wendy nodded in agreement.

“I just need some air mamãe, I’ll be back soon.” she spun the keys to her old Volkswagen around her finger and sent a tight lipped smile to her mother. The van used to be yellow, back when it was her dad’s. But when Wendy joined her band it slowly but surely got completely covered in graffiti. Logos and curse words scrawled all over what would otherwise be a relatively nice car. On the drivers door there was a crude drawing of a naked woman being engulfed by a snake with two heads, each head eating half of her body. Wendy flicked trough the channels before backing out of her driveway, predictably settling on the rock station. She drove for barely ten minutes before she pulled up to a gas station.

“I’ll take a pack of Camels please.” she told the cashier, pointing at the lock box behind her. The cashier didn’t say anything, only handed her the box.

“Smoking kills you know.” she frowned at the boy leaning against the counter. she hadn’t noticed him until he had spoken. She looked up the cashier, eyes searching for some sympathetic “he’s a fucking asshole” sort of look in her eyes. Her eyes were closed.

“Life kills.” she told him, taking a cigarette out and walking out of the gas station with an unlit cigarette hanging from her chapped lips.

“That was awfully angsty, are you okay? Planning on committing suicide tonight?” she took a moment to get a better look at the boy under the parking lot lights. He looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks, but maybe the purple under his right eye was a bruise. His red hair was tucked neatly around his ears, save a couple stubborn strands that fell into his eyes. They caught on his blonde eyelashes with each blink. He might have been cute if he didn’t pry so much. He was paler, much paler than her. His skin looked like milk, but covered in freckles. His eyes were perhaps the best part of him, she couldn’t tell if they were blue or green, but the abrasive light make them glow. No one on the Portuguese side of her family had light eyes, and that all of the people she really saw. She was always fascinated by colorful eyes, always disappointed to look in the mirror and find dirt colored irises staring back at her. He was also tall, taller than her but that was no surprise as in platforms she barely stood at 5′7.

For a moment all that could be heard were his fading giggles and moths bumping into the florescent light bulbs. She finally lit her cigarette, taking a drag before pulling it away from her lips.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but no. I am not planning on committing suicide tonight. That’s next Thursday and I don’t like to mess with my schedule.” his laughter picked up again.

“Oh, I don’t like an uptight woman, live a little! What’s so important that you have to wait?” she shrugged.

“I’m waiting to see.” he arched one slender eyebrow as she took another puff of her cigarette.

“Okay, I’ll bite, what are you waiting to see?”

“You don’t wanna know, it just some sappy bullshit my dad told me.” she said ashing her cigarette and taking her keys from her tote. “Why do you care anyway?”

“I dunno toots, I feel sorta invested in you now, what’s the harm in telling me? Hm? You’ll probably never see me again.” for the first time in their entire conversation Wendy cracked a smile.

“You never know stranger, the fates work in mysterious ways.” she sighed and collapsed against the side of her van. “I’m turning twenty on Thursday.” she told him without really looking at him, her eyes had drifted off to the distance, watching police cars light up Gotham’s streets.

“And you think that’s as long as people should live...?” he prodded. She giggled and finally met his eyes.

“No. Before my dad was called to duty he told me and my sisters to all come up with one question to ask him before he left, like a last bit of wisdom in case he died.” she sighed and tucked a black curl behind her ear, tugging it out when it got stuck in her snug piercing. “I asked him what the best time for falling in love is, he said twenty.” she shrugged. “I’m waiting.” the stranger hummed and leaned against the van next to her as he pondered over her answer.

“I didn’t expect you to have an actual answer.” he admitted. “So did daddy die on active duty?” she nodded through a cloud of smoke.

“Yep, his body went ka-poosh.” she mimed an explosion with her hands, inciting a giggle from the stranger. “The only thing we got from the military was a shitty pension and this.” she opened her jacket to reveal her father’s purple heart hanging where it always did, against her chest.

“Wow! Ya got a hero dad!”

“Yeah I guess, I’d rather have a dad who’s a gang member and alive than a dad who’s a military hero and dead though.” she watched him for his response, watching the way the light illuminated his cheeks and nose, bouncing around him like he was some kind of angel. She wouldn’t have been surprised if he sprouted wings and flew away from that shitty gas station right then. But he didn’t, he only leaned his head against her van and rolled his head to look at her.

“What’s your name?” she quirked an eyebrow and smirked at him, wondering why he chose to ask her that now. “Well I can’t keep calling you toots.” he said, his head lolling down. He looked up at her from under his eyelashes, giving a tiny eye-roll.

“Why not? I like ‘toots’.” she laughed at his impatience. He pouted at her and waited for her answer. “Wendy, Wendy Gordon.” she held her hand out to him and he took it gladly, the pressure of his hand pressed her rings into both of their palms but neither seemed to mind. “What’s your name? I can’t keep calling you stranger.” he frowned, using her hand to subtly pull himself closer to her.

“Well... that’s obvious isn’t it?” she looked him up and down and frowned to say “no, it fucking isn’t”. “Well,” he rolled his eyes as if her were explaining something to a five year old. “if you’re Wendy Darling then obviously I’m Peter Pan.” Wendy was unimpressed, she withdrew her hand from his. and tried to rub the bite of the cold from her nose that was surely red by now.

“It’s Gordon, and I can’t call you Peter Pan, he’s not real.” she told him sharply.

“Wendy Darling isn’t real either, and yet...” he used his whole body to gesture at her like a magician’s assistant revealing an empty box. She opened her mouth to correct him again but rolled her eyes, giving in.

“Okay fine, Peter, tell me about yourself.” he shrugged and buried his hands in his pockets.

“Not much to tell, toots, y’know. It’s normal stuff. I’m from this tiny island, God, it’s gorgeous! Even more than you!” Wendy wasn’t sure if the rush in her cheeks was a blush or redness from the cold but she was sure he could see it. “It’s called Neverland, and-” she rolled her eyes, jamming her key into her car door and yanking it open “Wait- wait! Wendy! I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’ll be serious.” he could barely speak through his laughter and she was already turning the car on. She looked down at him and laughed at how ridiculous he looked. He had his chin tucked firmly against his chest, eyebrows and lips head taunt so he looked comically serious, which is a contradiction. But it seemed as though he, Peter, was a contradiction in himself.

“Okay, fine. Then tell me, actually tell me about yourself stranger.” he frowned up at her.

“Peter.” he corrected.

“Fine. Peter. Go.” the soft sounds of a fading Janis Joplin song rang through her car as, without her permission, Peter climbed into the passenger seat of her car.

“I have bruises from where my mom hits me.” he said, tugging the bottom of his eye to draw her attention to the purple bruise that she had mistaken for a dark circle. “I’ve never lived anywhere more than a month, and my dad’s gone. Dead, alive? Who knows, who cares.” Wendy wasn’t sure how to respond to that, is there any way to answer to someone spilling themselves open like that? So bluntly and carelessly? She wasn’t sure if she should make a joke or hug him, or maybe call social services.

“Oh.” is what she settled with. He giggled manically, tossing his head back at her short little response.

“Don’t feel bad or anything toots, I’m a big boy.”

“Do you want a hug?” she barely registered who she was saying that to until she said it. It sort of slipped out, like a reflex. She was so used to hugs in her family, her friend group, her entire life, that Wendy had forgotten she was sitting with a complete stranger in an empty gas station parking lot just outside the Narrows. She gulped nervously as all these thoughts stuck her at once, waiting anxiously for his answer.

“Yeah okay.” he said, holding out his arms expectantly. She wrapped her arms under his awkwardly, thinking constantly of ten different escape plans in case he turned out to be a murderer. “You can relax, I promise I won’t kill you.” he said, his voice muffled by her hair. Though she still felt his mouth move against her ear.

“That’s what someone who want’s to kill me would say.” she retorted, though she didn’t leave his embrace, if anything she drew him closer.

“Stop hugging me then.” he whispered mockingly. This time his voice made goosebumps rise all along her neck and arms.

“I don’t wanna do that either.” she admitted. He smelled nice, like grass and cedar wood. It was thrilling, being held by him. The danger, the uncertainty made her want to pull him closer. It made her bury her nose in his shirt, taking deep breaths and trying to remember what he smelled like so she could have it forever.

“Well you can’t hug me forever.�� she loosened her grip on him reluctantly, but before she could leave his embrace completely he hand his hands around her forearms. She looked at him curiously and unafraid, only wanting to see what he would do. One of his hands left her arms and drifted up to her chin, taking it gently in his fingers as he drew her ever closer. Time drug on in those seconds before their lips met. She kept her eyes open long enough to see his smile disappear, then they fluttered closed. He hummed when their lips finally touched. It was the gentlest kiss she had ever had, completely opposite to the kisses she usually received. Late at night in someone’s trashed living room, trading spit with boys who had too much to drink. Those kisses were all teeth and groping, this one was gentle. His hand stayed on her face, one cupping her jaw and the other brushing against her cheek gently. Her hands clasped his shoulders with the desperation of a dying woman, chipped fingernails digging into the flesh beneath his blue flannel like her life depended on holding onto him.

“Not bad for a boy that can’t grow up.” she breathed when he parted from her. He giggled and bobbed his head, his hands falling to his sides.

“I’m glad you think so Wendy, keep that up and maybe I’ll leave Neverland for you.”

It was well past midnight when Wendy got home. She was shuffling around at the door, trying to get her boots off and probably making way too much noise.

“Mom’s pissed.” came a mocking voice from the kitchen. The lighted flickered on to reveal Joanne stood in the kitchen, arms and brows crossed disapprovingly.

“Really? Just wait until you tell her you’re pregnant.” Joanne’s pleased smile fell, her arms collapsing to her sides.

“Don’t joke about that Wendy, I mean it.” Wendy rolled her eyes.

“Oh my God, don’t be such a bitch Joe, you have to tell her eventually. You’re just not gonna tell mom you’re raising a kid? Questions are gonna be raised when you start showing.” Wendy said mockingly, pointing to her stomach. Wendy didn’t expect Joanne to be angry when she looked back up at her younger sister. This is what they did, they bantered and made fun of each other until the dogs came home, but at the end of the day they were sisters, and they both knew the words didn’t mean anything.

“I swear to God Wendy, if you say a fucking word to her I will gut you.” Wendy stepped back slightly, eyebrows flying up in surprise. Her hands wrapped around the strap of her tote. Joanne sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Ugh, look- I’m sorry.” she said. Wendy didn’t think she had ever seen her sister look so broken. Her back had collapsed, like she could barely hold her own weight. It was only when she heard Joanne sob that Wendy took action. She dropped her bag on the floor and rushed to embrace Joanne. Joanne collapsed into her sister’s embrace, tanned arms clutching at the shorter girl as she finally released long withheld sobs.

“Fuck, what happened?! Did Steven hurt you? I swear, if he laid a hand on you I’ll-”

“No, no. Nothing like that Windex. This, this is my own fault.” Joanne hiccuped, rubbing her yes raw as she tried to push her tears back into her skull. Wendy waited patiently for her sister to explain. “I don’t...” she took a breath. “I don’t have a baby anymore. I went to planned parenthood, I was only five weeks, and I was so scared Wendy, you don’t understand how terrifying it is to have something like this happen to you, to be nowhere near ready for it- and mom! God, I can’t disappoint mom again. Not after what happened to Micaela. And dad being gone-!” she was sobbing again, clawing at her arms as she hiccuped desperately, the mascara her makeup wipe hadn’t taken off running down her face in big fat drops. “I couldn’t- I wouldn’t, be the source of any stress for her.” Joanne shook her head and looked to her sister, searching for any sign of understanding, or God forbid, disgust.

“Joe, hey, Joe, look at me.” Wendy was frozen inside, but that didn’t matter. None of the twisting emotion in her mattered because her baby sister was sad and she needed comfort, so she pushed aside any of the ideas she had of being an aunt. Of a little version of Joanne running around, a little girl with black ringlets pulled back in a braid running around and calling her Tia. Joanne mattered. She was crying and desperately searching for someone to share in her burden. “I love you no matter what, you know that right? I don’t give a shit if...” she laughed. “you become a chainsaw murderer, I’ll visit you in your cell and bring you people magazine and new shades of nail polish. Joe I don’t know what you’re going through, or what you went through, but I trust you enough to know you made the best decision you could.” Joanne nodded shakily, standing to her full height and giving her a sister a quick hug before pulling away to wipe her face clean.

“What are you two doing still awake?” the girls both looked up to see their mother and sister looking at them angrily from the hallway. “You,” their mother pointed to Wendy accusingly. “I told you to be home. What was so important that you couldn’t be home to see your uncle, hm? He misses you.” Wendy looked down at her white socks in shame, shuffling her feet as she tried to think of a good response.

“Desculpa mamãe, I got caught in traffic on my way back, you know how it gets on the highway.” her mother frowned suspiciously, but just like always the rough and tough woman had a soft spot for her girls. Her wrinkled skin softened, the angry lines smoothing out.

“Don’t take the highway next time.” she reprimanded. Wendy nodded in agreement. “Well, if you had been here you would already know, but since you weren’t I’ll tell you. Your uncle is taking us to the circus next week, Haly’s Circus is in town.”

Chapter 2

MASTERLIST

#jerome valeska #gotham #jeremiah velaska #peter pan #angst #teens being dumb

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effyeahzimbits · 5 years

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Swawesome Santa 2018 Submission

Title: Five Times Bitty and Jack Allowed Fate to Get the Better of Them…and the One Time They Took Matters into Their Own Hands Rating: T+ Pairings: Jack/Bitty, mentions of Shitty/Lardo, mentions of Holster/Ransom. Very, very brief Jack/OC and Bitty/OC. Warnings: Alcohol use, brief mentions of Jack’s overdose. Summary: Bitty always felt like he was missing a train he was meant to have taken. Jack always let the universe decide which direction he should go in. It took them three New Year's Eves before they got it right.A 5+1 things AU fic created for the Swawesome Santa, gifted to @loveyoutoobits! I hope you like it.

Five Times Bitty and Jack Allowed Fate to Get the Better of Them…and the One Time They Took Matters into Their Own Hands

31st December 2017 Bitty’s first New Year’s Eve in Boston was spent in a bar. He wasn’t a stranger to bars, especially the loud, gaudy one he was in right now. But he had previously rung in the new years with his parents at family parties back in Madison, Georgia, and had been desperate for a change of scenery. When his best friends had suggested a night out on the town, he had jumped at the chance. He never turned down an opportunity to dance and spend the night with his friends. That was also the night he first met Jack Zimmermann.

Now, Bitty didn’t know a great deal about hockey culture. He knew the game and enjoyed it just as much as his friends did, but he never took that much interest in teams’ rosters and star players. But Jack Zimmermann, the Providence Falconers’ current captain, he knew. If only because he scored a hat trick in their last game against the Bruins and Holster was furious for a week. Bitty had been impressed enough to Google him, and had been impressed further by the man’s understated smile and bright blue eyes. Still, he was just another hockey player. Just another hockey player who turned out to be the best friend of Lardo’s new boyfriend. Bitty could see right away he wasn’t the partying type. While Bitty and his friends downed shots and sang at the top of their lungs and danced without a care in the world, Jack simply sat at a booth nursing a single beer and watching them have a good time. When questioned he just said he was perfectly happy as he was, and Shitty (Lardo’s boyfriend) would confirm it. Bitty mostly forgot all about him and continued partying. That was, until he felt Jack’s eyes on him. No one knew how he did it. Hell, even Bitty himself didn’t know how he did it. But one moment he was playfully beckoning Zimmermann from the dance floor, and the next Jack was joining him. He looked just as surprised to find himself there as anyone else, but Bitty wasn’t about to pass up the opportunity. With Shitty, Ransom and Holster all hollering excitedly behind them, Bitty tugged Jack towards him. It turned out that Jack Zimmermann wasn’t a bad dancer. He was a little shy and awkward at first, swaying stiffly beside him. Bitty would later blame it on the alcohol, but at the time he just simply didn’t think and grabbed Jack’s hand and pulled. Jack’s professional athlete build wasn’t fazed by the gesture, but something in him was, and it was enough to encourage him to move. A couple of songs in, and Jack was matching Bitty’s peppy rhythm. Bitty couldn’t put his finger on it, especially with his brain fogged with a haze of Jägermeister and Red Bull, but there was something between them that neither of them expected. It was almost an electricity, thrumming with an energy that made the hair on Bitty’s forearms stand on end. It started at their joined hands and vibrated through them until it resonated in their chests. He’d barely said more than two sentences to Jack Zimmermann all night, but suddenly Bitty wanted to kiss him. He could tell the exact moment Jack became aware of the connection. The easy smile on his face quickly dropped and was replaced with an uneasy confusion. There was a muttered excuse – Bitty couldn’t hear it over the pounding music – and then Jack turned and hurried out of the bar, fighting his way through the crowd. Bitty watched him go, then shrugged carelessly and turned around to dance with his friends again. It wasn’t until he woke up the next morning, slightly hungover but content, did he wonder if the universe had tried to give him something and he let it pass him by. 5th May 2018 Bitty had explicitly said no parties. Every birthday for the last four years his friends had threw a raging kegster to celebrate. For his first birthday out of college, all Bitty wanted was to call his parents, bake some nice food and share it with his friends over a glass of good wine and the Great British Bake-Off reruns (the better ones, before Mary, Mel and Sue had quit the show obviously). Ransom, Holster and Shitty had taken a little more persuading, but had soon agreed after Bitty had promised his signature peach cobbler and black forest brownies. His phone call to his parents lasted nearly an hour. His relationship with them had been a little strained since coming out, but it was slowly getting better, and he hung up with a big smile on his face. Lardo had still been in bed at ten that morning, so he went to the store to fetch baking ingredients on his own. It was cliché, but it was a perfect spring day, like it was the movie of his life. Working as a junior social media and marketing assistant had its perks, like weekends off. Today was a Saturday, so he wandered down to the fresh foods market for his ingredients. The peaches weren’t quite as sweet as the ones back home, but the ones here were a close second. He left an hour later with his tote bag full to the brim with ripened fruit and fresh spices and fingers sticky with pear juice. He stopped by his favourite deli next, the one with the premium butter and organic flour. His budget never usually stretched past Walmart, but he had birthday money burning a hole in his pocket. It was late afternoon by the time he got home. The kitchen smelled strongly of ground coffee, and he found Lardo perching on a chair and trying to hang purple streamers from the lampshade. She had put on her favourite sweatshirt for the occasion, the one with a rubber duck wearing sunglasses, and that alone made Bitty’s chest swell with happiness. They finished putting up the streamers between them and had lunch, squabbling over whose turn it was to use the one decent plate they had. It was Lardo’s, who overruled Bitty’s birthday argument with a smirk and a flick to his forehead. An hour later he was elbow deep in pastry when the buzzer rang. It was Ransom and Holster, bearing wine and beer and takeout menus, though they all knew they’d be too full of pie to eat the Chinese food they’d still order. The wine was shared out and they were put to work, greasing tins and chopping fruit. Shitty appeared not long after, and gave Bitty a slurpy, whiskery kiss on his cheek before handing over more wine. He wore a suspicious grin for a whole hour and sang loudly and out of tune to the radio as he peeled peaches. When the buzzer went a third time, everyone looked around at each other in confusion, except Shitty, who just grinned even wider. Bitty rolled his eyes and wiped his hands on a towel, wondering who on earth Shitty had invited. Maybe a stripper. He didn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved when he found a shy looking Jack Zimmermann in the hallway. He was pleasantly surprised though, especially when Jack sheepishly held out a small bunch of flowers and wished him happy birthday. He’d met Jack a handful of times since New Year’s Eve. He’d learned that Jack wasn’t quite as stoic and robotic in real life as his television interviews would have you believe. He was quiet and reserved, but also thoughtful and could hold his own in an intelligent discussion. His accent was just as endearing though, and Bitty found his awkward shyness adorable. Bitty never denied the attraction to himself, but it was never one he would act on either. Parties and clubs might not have been his thing, but it turned out that quiet gatherings with people he knew were more to Jack’s taste. He threw himself into the baking, listening to Bitty’s instructions with keen ears and following them with enthusiasm. After a glass of wine Bitty would even call him charming, quick to tease or crack a joke. If Bitty didn’t know any better, he’d say Jack was flirting with him when he flicked flour in his face or purposely nudged his pie out of the way when he tried to take a bite. But Bitty did know better. Guys like Jack were never Not Straight. And even if they were, Bitty was never their type. It was probably the best birthday he’d ever had, anyway. By the end of the night, his and Lardo’s apartment was a complete mess. The streamers had fallen, there were plates and takeout cartons all over the living room and the kitchen was filled with dirty pans and covered in a fine layer of flour dust. They’d eaten and drank until they were fit to burst, argued over which Bake-Off contestant would win in a mud fight, and Jack had offended them all by declaring he didn’t find Mary Berry all that great. Come midnight, Ransom and Holster had wandered back to their own apartment and Lardo had dragged a wasted Shitty back to her room. Bitty told Jack he didn’t need to stay and help tidy, but Jack insisted anyway. It was only when they were both alone did Bitty feel it again. That strange electricity that drew Bitty towards Jack like a moth to the flame. He couldn’t blame the alcohol this time, not after only two glasses of wine. Jack either wasn’t aware of it, or was ignoring it, focusing hard on wiping flour from the counter tops. Bitty tried to do the same, humming along to the quiet tune playing on the radio as he filled a trashbag full of rubbish. They worked without a word, moving around almost in tandem, like they had done it a million times before. Bitty didn’t believe in fate, or soul mates, or past lives. At least, he didn’t until their rhythm was suddenly broken and they bumped into one another. Jack had flour on his nose and a dirty cloth in his hand. Bitty had a smudge of cherry sauce on his mouth and was holding a stack of empty plates. They both laughed and then went still. It felt like they were both waiting for something as they looked at each other, taking in lashes and eyes and noses and freckles and dimples and mouths. Waiting for what though, they didn’t know. Jack’s phone pinged. It was loud enough to break the reverie and they both pulled free from the spell. Jack could never leave a text unanswered, and for the briefest of seconds Bitty wished that he would. Ignoring a text would make him not-Jack though, so he couldn’t be too disappointed when Jack took a step back and pulled his phone from his back pocket. Bitty cleared his throat and continued his task like nothing had happened. Jack was still staring at his phone screen a couple of minutes later. His brows were slightly furrowed, but Bitty couldn’t read the expression on his face. He questioned him gently, and Jack almost jumped, like he’d forgotten where he was. He managed an apologetic smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He didn’t explain himself or the text message, and simply announced that he had to leave. With a last ‘happy birthday’ he showed himself to the door and left. Bitty felt like he had just missed a train that he was supposed to take. 31st December 2018 They didn’t go to a bar that year. Ransom and Holster threw a party in their apartment, though it was thankfully not as outrageous as the kegsters they used to host in college. Their work friends were accountants and administrators and fellow consultants so Bitty wasn’t expecting it to get too wild. He’d had a pleasant, sleepy Christmas with plenty of good food and catching up with family, so didn’t mind that this new year was different to the last. Lardo brought Shitty along, who naturally dragged Jack with him. Bitty was over the moon to hear this, hoping that maybe fate would give them both a helping hand this year. However, it appeared that fate had other plans in store. Jack appeared at the party as promised, but Bitty hadn’t expected to see a young, smiley blonde man attached to his hip. Jack introduced him as his boyfriend, and Bitty felt like the floor had abruptly disappeared from beneath him. It was a lot to process all at once. He’d started to have suspicions that Jack was Not Straight as Bitty had originally thought, and to have that confirmed was a little overwhelming. Then to learn that he was also suddenly spoken for left Bitty with a bitter taste in his mouth. He and Jack had grown close over the last few months, and he thought that they shared everything over a glass of wine and a slice of pie. It turned out that was wrong though, and Bitty wasn’t sure what he felt more betrayed about. Still, he plastered on a smile and congratulated them as if it wasn’t a knife through his heart. Jack’s partner was funny and charming and handsome and everyone liked him. Bitty wanted to hate him, but he couldn’t bring himself to. The man had asked for his macaron recipe and talked about his cat for a full twenty minutes for god’s sake. When Bitty had first walked in, he’d eyed the mistletoe hanging over each door with hopeful eyes, but now he just glared at it acrimoniously. It was an ugly way to feel, but Bitty couldn’t help but think the universe was laughing in his face. The worst thing was, Jack looked happy. Bitty was pleased for him, but it was tainted, and he hated that it was marred that way. He spied Jack’s hand casually sitting on the man’s waist or spotted a chaste peck on the cheek between them and wanted to down another shot. He didn’t want to spend the night torturing himself, but he didn’t want to succumb to the jealousy either. He left at eleven, feigning a headache and smiling through the well wishes. He would spend tonight pitying himself, and then starting tomorrow he would get over Jack Zimmermann. August 3rd 2019 Getting over Jack Zimmermann was damned hard. But Greg helped. Bitty had met him at one of Shitty’s law school mixers. He was an ex-college rugby player, dragged along to the event by his friend. Tall, broad, half Greek with a mop of dark, curly hair and an accent that made Bitty’s knees weak. He hadn’t dated seriously since college, and it was hard work. Between working their full-time jobs, Greg’s beer league rugby and Bitty’s figure skating, they barely had enough time to squeeze in dates and time together, but Bitty enjoyed it all the same. Greg wasn’t Jack. They didn’t share the same sense of humour, and Greg’s taste in music and television wasn’t to Bitty’s tastes, and Greg was bossier and more assertive than Jack ever was. But he was also kind and caring and Bitty had a nice time with him. Even if he wasn’t Jack. But that was okay, because nobody could be Jack but Jack. And Bitty had to be fine about it. He could do that. They hadn’t had time to hang out much lately, but tonight was Jack’s birthday, and Shitty was throwing a get together in his honour. Bitty hadn’t originally wanted to bring Greg along, though he wasn’t sure why. Shitty had invited him too though, and Greg seemed to be looking forward to it. Bitty couldn’t exactly tell him no. He had no idea what to get Jack for his birthday. What do you get the man who has everything? And if he didn’t have it, he had more than enough money to buy it anyway. This year, Jack had bought Bitty an entire collection of cookbooks from his favourite baker. Bitty knew it cost more than a whole month’s worth of his wages, though to Jack it was probably nothing. How could Bitty match something like that? He knew Jack wasn’t expecting him to, but it still made him feel inadequate. Whatever it was, it had to be something special. It was almost an apology. I’m sorry we haven’t hung out much and you’ve taken a backseat to my actual Greek god boyfriend. Bitty didn’t think he should feel too guilty though. As far as Bitty knew, Jack was still with his own boyfriend. It was never talked about in the media for obvious reasons, but still, Bitty would know if they’d broken up. No, this get together would be good for the both of them. They could exist in the same room without that stupid electric connection between them. And even if it did appear, their boyfriends would keep it at bay. Right? Wrong. It wasn’t an entire collection of cookbooks, but Bitty turned up on Jack’s swanky Providence doorstep with Jack’s favourite pie and a Barnes and Noble gift card. A feeble attempt, but he’d genuinely been stumped. He knew Jack liked history books, but Bitty was frightened of getting the wrong one. He explained this to Jack in a nervous ramble as he handed them over, but Jack laughed and thanked him sincerely anyway. It was only after Bitty stepped over the threshold did Jack notice who had been standing beside him. Bitty introduced Greg hurriedly, hoping his edgy fluster wasn’t completely obvious to either of them. Jack was polite and smiley and shook Greg’s hand, but something about it seemed fake. Bitty tried to ignore it, heading straight to the wine. His friends were already around, and he greeted them with false enthusiasm. Once he had his glass in hand and looked around the apartment he noticed Jack’s boyfriend was nowhere to be seen. The pictures of them both were gone, as were the cat hairs and various caps and hoodies they used to share. Jack and his boyfriend had broken up. Bitty could’ve kicked himself. He had been so wrapped up in getting over Jack he’d forgotten to be a friend in the meantime. How long had it been since they had last hung out? Or had a lengthy phone call? The only thing Bitty had managed lately was a few quick texts and picture messages every now and again, all of which Jack had promptly replied to. He felt like an idiot. He had to apologise, but he wasn’t sure that this was the right moment. Jack looked like he was enjoying himself. A few glasses of wine later, Bitty managed to push his guilt aside for the time being. He’d always loved Jack’s kitchen, and couldn’t resist baking in his top of the range oven, no matter the occasion. He was pulling out a tray of freshly baked mini tarts when he realised he was being watched. People had popped in and out the whole time he was baking, to fill up drinks or fetch snacks, but this time the body lingered. Bitty turned to tell them they’d have to wait a bit longer for the tarts to cool, but the words disappeared off his tongue when he noticed it was Jack. Jack stood in the doorway, a half-drunk bottle of low alcohol beer in his hand. He had a determined look in his eyes that made Bitty go still, though his heart started to hammer in his chest. He didn’t say anything, waiting for Jack to make the first move. The energy was between them again, throbbing loud and unspoken. The metal tray shook in Bitty’s hands. Jack opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. He closed his mouth again, frowned, thought about it. Jack had never been one to say a lot, but each word was usually carefully thought out and selected. Bitty waited, expecting something insightful and meaningful. Jack opened his mouth, closed it, frowned again and thought some more. Greg made them both jump. He was never quiet or graceful and strode in to the kitchen with a booming voice. He was half drunk, grinning at them and calling back to the others as he filled his glass, stole a mini tart and gave Bitty a swift peck on the cheek. He left almost as quickly as he appeared, but the moment was ruined. Jack gave him a stiff nod and retreated to the living room having clearly lost his nerve. Bitty slammed the hot tray down onto the marble counter, feeling like he’d missed the train again. 31st December 2019 Tonight, Bitty was going to get drunk. He knew it was silly and immature, but these last few months had been stressful and depressing. He felt like he deserved to let loose and get messy and see off the year in style. A lot of things had happened this winter, including a promotion, Shitty and Lardo’s engagement, and his and Greg’s breakup. He hadn’t been angry or surprised, just disappointed. Greg wasn’t Jack, after all. Jack wouldn’t be attending the party. He’d had a string of games and a long roadie over the last couple of days and wouldn’t be making it back to Providence until past eleven pm. Bitty knew that Jack would head straight to bed rather than get changed and drag himself to a loud and crowded bar after all of his travelling, and Bitty couldn’t blame him. The season had started off rough, and Jack hadn’t much time for anything in between practicing, playing, resting and all of his extra-curricular events. Bitty knew this, but couldn’t help feeling frustrated. He’d tried to reach out, especially after his breakup, but Jack felt distant now and Bitty didn’t know how to bridge the gap. He didn’t have the energy anymore. He decided that if Jack was interested in preserving their friendship, it was his turn to make the effort. Bitty wasn’t holding his breath. It was a fun party. It was the same LGBT+ friendly bar they went to two years ago, and Bitty felt an affinity for it. It almost felt like déjà vu, and if Bitty tried hard enough, he could almost imagine Jack sitting in his corner and nursing his beer. He wouldn’t though, he was done with torturing himself over Jack Zimmermann. He threw himself into the moment instead, filing to memory the song that was playing, the way he felt shimmying to the music, the sight of Lardo’s glittery red lipstick, the smell of Holster’s cheap cologne, the taste of Jägermeister on his tongue. His phone buzzed at some point, but he ignored it. It buzzed a couple more times and he ignored it again, wanting to switch off from everything that wasn’t this party and this drink in his hand. Midnight was drawing closer, and he was sober enough to be aware of the heavy feeling in his chest. He watched Shitty and Lardo and Ransom and Holster dancing together and all of the other people surrounding him, and he never felt more alone. He suddenly started to wish he was anywhere but there. He wanted to be wherever Jack was. But Jack wasn’t here. Instead there were dozens of good looking, charming boys dancing around him. A few had tried to catch his eye, and he knew he would have no problem finding someone to dance with. And if they so happened to share a kiss when the clock struck twelve, then where was the crime in that? Just a kiss, on New Year’s Eve, between two consenting adults. No big deal. The man whose arms he fell into just happened to be tall, and dark, and blue eyed. Maybe he had a type. He didn’t look much like Jack, but if he thought hard he could just feel Jack’s hands on his hips. He looked hard at the boy’s face, trying to imagine Jack in the high cheekbones and full lips. He shook his head, wafting away the daze. That was stupid, he couldn’t keep doing this to himself. He looked away, but he was starting to see Jack everywhere. A man by the bar had the same jacket. Another guy on the dance floor had the same awkward dance steps. A boy waiting by the toilets had a similar smile. His eyes drifted toward the door and even saw Jack standing there, a single flower in his hands and watching him. But it wasn’t real. None of these men were Jack. Bitty turned back to the one in his arms and waited for midnight. 31st December 2019 Jack was done waiting. He was tired of letting everything else dictate his life for him. Ever since he was born he felt like the universe had already decided what was going to happen to him. The Q, the overdose, rebuilding his career from the ground up. He couldn’t choose his team. There was only one in the AHL who wanted to set him on after the scandal. He was forever grateful, but it wasn’t something he could choose. He’d worked damn hard to get where he was today. An NHL team, a captaincy and two Stanley Cups under his belt. The last time he made a decision for himself he ended up nearly killing himself. Even now, he was worried that choosing something for himself could ruin everything. So, he waited. He let people walk in and out of his life as they saw fit. He allowed situations to happen to him, never fighting them or questioning them. It was just the universe deciding for him and he was in no position to try and take control. Until now. Jack stood in the doorway of the bar, watching Bitty dancing with another man. He turned the flower around in his hands. It was the same kind he’d bought for Bitty on his birthday a year and a half ago. It was a little cheesy maybe, but he had known Bitty would like it. He’d texted, letting him know he was on his way, but Bitty had never seen the messages. Bitty clearly had different things on his mind. And the old Jack would have turned away, deciding it was just what fate had decided for them, just like always. But not this Jack. This Jack was tired and in love. He strode forward, pushing his way past the various bodies towards the dance floor. Bitty’s eyes had drifted over him like he hadn’t realised Jack was really there. Jack couldn’t really blame him. He hadn’t been there, not recently. He’d been caught up in the start of the season, dealing with his own break up, torn between wanting to give Bitty space or comfort him after his. It had been a hard few months for both of them. Jack figured it was time to make it better. He grabbed Bitty’s arm and pulled him around, ignoring the guy he was dancing with as he protested. Bitty opened his mouth to tell him off, but they were both momentarily stunned as they stared at each other. Bitty was shocked to see him, but Jack was stunned yet again by just how beautiful this boy was. And he was going to have him. He was going to take matters into his own hands. He’d rehearsed a speech in the car, but the words left his brain. He suddenly couldn’t think of anything to say. He didn’t know how to explain what he was thinking or feeling and awkwardly fumbled. Bitty watched and waited with a familiar patience. Bitty never rushed him. Bitty always knew that each word needed time and thought. But still, the words wouldn’t come. Instead, Jack dumbly held out the flower and hoped that would be enough. It was. As the people around them started to chant a countdown, Bitty and Jack stepped forward. No more running away. No more making excuses. No more letting opportunities pass them by. Bitty jumped on the train. Jack took control. They couldn’t help but laugh, gazing at each other like they were the only two people in the world. The clock struck twelve. “Happy New Year, Bits.” “Happy New Year, Jack.” They kissed. The End Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it :) thank you for the notes and the kudos and comments this year - I appreciate every single one of them. For those of you interested - Jack’s mysterious partner was intended to be Kent, but I deliberately left it ambiguous so choose your own!

This was posted for the Swawesome Santa 2018 event and gifted to Loveyoutoobits.

#omgcp #omgcheckplease #checkplease #zimbits #jack zimmermann #eric bittle #zimbits fanfiction #zimbits au #my fic #my writing #my work #new years eve au #five things plus one #5 + 1

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starlingari-a · 5 years

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MOTHER, MAY I ???

[ open starters! / memes! / calls! ] low activity | starlet-hopeful oc | multi-verse {default: 60s/70s} | multi-most

MARIONETTE mar·i·on·ette || noun, thing a puppet worked from above by strings attached to its limbs. see also: DOLL, DUMMY, FIGURINE, MANIKIN, MOPPET

ARIENETTE ar·i·en·ette || noun, thing person! page 22, your favorite cult film starlet, a music video extra 45 seconds in. see also: ARI STARLING, JUST TRYING, MOTHER’S DARLING

! i can be anything you like !

NAME: Arienette Marie Jones // ARI STARLING ! AGE: twenty-two HEIGHT: 5'5" MOTIVE: ubiquity. attention. approval. INTERESTS: the next big thing. piano. theater. celebrities. fame. getting gigs…. OCCUPATION: film extra, pianist, back-up, dancer, model, a pretty face in print. STATUS: trying; too scared busy to mingle, probably…

BETTER AS A CONCEPT : MOTHER DEAREST : IDENTITY CRISIS : AWKWARD WHEN NOT TOLD HOW TO DO OR BE : CAN NEVER AFFORD THE LUXURY OF SOLITUDE OR SELF-REFLECTION : AN UNINTENTIONALLY CONVENIENT SOCIAL CHAMELEON : EAGER TO PLEASE, BECAUSE WHAT ELSE IS THERE REALLY : EXISTENTIALLY INEPT : PERPETUALLY BUSINESS-MINDED : BIG BREAK OR BUST : NOTHING TOO SMALL

OH WHAT A BEAUTIFUL BABY !! indeed.

Her overture came just opposite as faeries do- on the dwindling notes of an infant’s first cry. Ari’s first gig happened as she’d assumed everyone’s would- Mother imprinted the green ghosts of a camera flash into her retina and called her Darling while toting her from Agent to Agent.

Somehow, between babbles and being handed sparkly baubles, the darling landed her part as a precious, chubby-cheeked sweetheart rolling about in diapers, pasted on every cardboard box at any Baby Shower you’d ever go to :: LOOK AT HER! A NATURAL! apparently…

The ARIENETTE SHOW continued on– as Mother knew it would. Chain store baby clothes advertisements, local magazines, a couple spots as a teensy sweetheart in commercials, many crowns ( & cash prizes ) from tiny tot beauty pageants– and Mother decided; nobody would stand in their way.

Especially not Arienette’s father, who dared to protest with all his crazy ideas of children being allowed to play in the dirt and act like children: only took divorce papers and three hours in the car to get rid of that negativity.

The credit companies- who INVESTED in dear Ari whether they wanted to or not- wouldn’t be able to dissuade them either: despite the many times they’d called or sent strongly-worded letters...

Her darling Arienette ARI! was going to be a STAR, she just KNEW IT, just a DARLING STAR !

ARI HAD TO BE A STARLING!

OR ELSE THIS ALL WAS A WASTE!

EXTRA! EXTRA!

PRETTY GIRL WITH A MOTHER HAPPY TO SIGN THE DOTTED LINE!

CUE, STAGE LEFT– the barrage of childhood lessons: tap, ballet, singing, piano (probably the only thing she truly enjoyed out of the whole mix), jazz, guitar, poetry: just enough of each that made it so she could manage, hold her own– but there had never really been any chance for one or the other to last long enough to become a honed skill…SAVE FOR HER TIME AT THE KEYS, Arienette absolutely loves playing piano… at least something good came from it all…

NEXT TRICK: On to classes: etiquette, niceties, literature, the art of conversation: Mother “home schooled” her to keep that impressionable brain free from those vile teachers, who think they know so much!

really, it was just strategically simpler to keep up with possible gigs, travel, and to focus those lessons onto relevant topics… important topics… off the record, don’t mind a thing…

all extracurriculars and lessons would be considering Mother’s discretion, of course.

Thus came her second calling, her re-birth, name chosen by Mother as carefully as every other bit of her was: ARI! STARLING! and watch her Icarus her way right to burnout!

OH, THE TRAGEDY– but the years passed, as they do, and when you’ve grown from a darling blonde baby to just another pretty-enough girl in the midst of talented starlets and performers: all the fun goes from being a DREAM to a method of survival !!

But oh, she tried, and some would argue– at least for the few years that would be remembered as fifteen minutes– ARIENETTE MADE IT! Was even notable for a couple of those months- especially after she was just shy of a Scream Queen title in some low-budget cult horror flick, she got to have her name printed in the paper, Mother kept extra copies, and a couple big name ARTISTS actually ASKED for her! As could, and should, have been expected; those highlights turned dim after the time was up and another pretty girl fell into media favor. Once left in the wake of her own shadow, without the persistent approval of Mother or the calls from well known producers: she struggled.

Thus: when the days of being unable to will herself out of bed took over, the times when she couldn’t even pretend to smile, her SECOND ACT HAD COME AT LAST…

Until that 11′o’clock cue came as a fellow actress who suggested that Therapist. A DOC WHO UNDERSTOOD! IT’S HARD BEING A MOTH SUSTAINED BY SPOTLIGHT!

Who needs a bitch face when you can just give ‘em pure, prescribed, apathy!?

The paparazzi caught on, when they snapped photos including her pouting petulantly at the glare of a camera lens flash during brunch with a singer she’d be modeling with… they loved it: READ ALL ABOUT IT: DARLING ARI STARLING HOLDS MELANCHOLY WITH GRACE– and thank God for that caption, Mother hadn’t been talking to her since she’d gone and gotten pills… but now that even her Depression can be spun into Media Fodder, it’s all just fine!

HELLO! HELLO! IS THERE A GIRL IN THERE?!

She’s not ungrateful, truly. Or even notably unhappy! Easy to say: she’s quite blissfully content with where she is… always chasing after the next role.

Just dancing on the knife’s edge of knowing who she is and who she is to be. But does it matter? Can you have one without the other? Who cares? Where does Identity go when there’s so little of yourself you even truly know?

all she’s so sure about that ARIENETTE is that she loves her books, the theater, and her piano- but is that really enough to substantiate a someone…?

It’s a sweet surrender, but at least: it’s hers.

Thankfully: at 22, mother’s had to loosen her reigns! EVEN IF SHE STILL RIDES ON ARI’S COATTAILS AS A CAREER CHOICE! but her influence remains an omnipresence. Her social circle has expanded, through minor gigs covered in fake blood or sitting in the background as an extra, through miscellaneous commercial jobs and mostly modeling: COME TO FIND OUT, Ari’s pretty cute when she sits on a car while those fellows with more hair than metal traipse about strumming their guitars. Those wide-eyes also make her a devastating addition to those creepy-crawly movies: she’s become a cult film favorite just for being so awkwardly her and so darlingly easy to slaughter: a good lamb for those weird wolves, you know. Sometimes, someone will pay her a pretty penny for promotional gigs: she just has to bother strangers and convince them to do or buy something, easy enough– she’s even made it in some album art before, mostly just an additional face within the crowd. Once, they even let her play the piano, probably her very favorite shoot even though you can hardly see her…

The plentiful small gigs keeps her bill cheap, even lets her venture into the realm of what might vaguely be able to be considered Passion Projects… her very favorite are her stints playing piano, and any chance she can have on stage in theater: but Mother says that’s a waste...

There’s no job too big ; yet, there’s also no job too small ; a gig’s a gig.

she likes this easy stuff, with these funny people, all in their own shows… the perpetual EXTRA, she is !

AND FOR THE RESUME:

> Diaper Box Baby > Toddler Beauty Pageants > Kids Commercial Magazine modeling > The Soup Commercial — (she is very proud of this one- first job she really remembers getting any attention for) > Various TV (mostly various local stations) Commercials > The Puppet Show, for about 4 years, one of the recurring child roles > Background Dancing / Chorus Line Spots > Ambiance Piano; playing in the background at very fancy parties, in hotel lobbies, at casinos, etc. (this, she loved, dearly, because she adores piano and people watching) > Modeling, teen magazines etc. > Extra work in movies, which led to a couple very minor roles. > About now she was permitted to explore theater more — (Mother says it’s a waste of time and money) > Niche found in low-budget / campy / cult-y / independent Horror Movies > Promotional Work, general. > Modeling with / for other performers and musical groups; print, music videos, album art > Dancing, still (chorus line / ensemble; burlesque; showgirl) > Any piano or staged theater gig she can land (her f a v o r i t e s) > Absolutely anything you will pay her to do…

WHERE TO FIND AN ARIENETTE:

> Waiting in line for an audition. > An audition, in general. Always. > At a piano. > In a terrible outfit, peddling shots or cigarettes or windows (THAT WAS ONLY ONCE!) > On set, as an extra or background model. > Covered in fake blood, amidst some weird cult film or… something… > A chorus line / A temporary back-up dancer / A swing performer / Ensemble > Playing piano in a hotel lobby. > With Mother, or someone Mother’s appointed. > On her way to or from lessons of some sort, wishing she were elsewhere. > Networking. Or, trying to.

In general: Arienette’s quite accustomed to being used more as a prop than companion: to be there in hopes of making the main attraction appear ever more magnificent. To being posed, instructed, critiqued, told how to be or how to do. It’s her comfort zone, being theirs.

Considers herself the understudy of her own life– Ari Starling’s the STAR of this show, but sometimes Arienette does take the time to come out for a peek at existence, tends to require some coaxing before that facade breaks down, though: EVERY MISSED OPPORTUNITY IS ONE TOO MANY, AND ANYONE’S ONLY HERE FOR ARI! Doesn’t even take much offense, ever: completely accustomed to critique and criticism: which leads into how the treatment she would accept being steadied on a rather low bar. Hard to offend someone who’s been up for scrutiny since she could walk, even harder to cross boundaries she’d never had the power to set for herself…

that was Mother’s job…

Oh, and our Darling doesn’t mean to come off as pretentious, but she’s had pretention pearled into her bones so long- she can hardly tell where Arienette begins and Ari Starling ends…

can be snooty, life is only a job interview, honesty is the best policy, there’s no point in shinin’ up shit… doesn’t think things through all too much in conversation that’s not being recorded, perfectly content with saying what’s on her mind: tendency to share strange things, never bats an eye. Almost comatose when unsure of what’s expected of her, too quiet when off-script, constantly asking: what do you want me to do?

what do you want from me? how should i be? where do i stand?

Nearly always on the verge of giving a PERFORMANCE, since, as Mother always said:

“ WHO CARES WHO YOU ARE UNLESS YOU’RE EVERYTHING, DARLING!? “

But, the real HORROR SHOW: What About When Mother’s Gone?

what does she have left, but the connections that have been made and the reputation / identity that’s been crafted and constructed for her? Who is she supposed to be without the familiar puppeteer there to pull her strings?

WHO IS ARIENETTE JONES!?

Well… she’s still trying to figure that out for herself…

NEED A PRETTY FACE FOR JUST ABOUT ANYTHING? HAVE WE GOT THE GIRL FOR YOU!

#!! about #!! i'm'a pokin #!! arienette; about #!! arienette; thoughts

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tj-crochets · 2 years

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Crafting update! - knit beanie is about two thirds done! It’s the same sidewinder beanie pattern I always use - llama quilt needs one more line of quilting and then it just needs the binding! so it’s almost done but I have no photos because it’s currently rolled up on the chair in front of my sewing machine - I have not started embroidering the jacket sleeve but I plan on embroidering at least one tree on it, starting at the cuff, and embroidering a bunch of other flowers, mushrooms, ferns, and other plants around it. Further up the sleeve, I want to have the moon and shooting stars and maybe non-shooting stars (and probably also a little hidden ufo, because I think that would be funny) - I have half the fabric cut out for a little quilted tote bag, but I can’t start it until I finish the quilt. It’s green! And has coppery moths and ferns! - I want to make a llama plushie to go with the llama quilt - I need to make some baby beanies to go with the strawberry hearts quilts so I can get all three sets of baby stuff in the mail to my cousins in time for baby showers

#crafting update #I realized it's been a few days since I posted an update #I am still crafting! I just am having trouble focusing #and keep making progress on a bunch of different things #but not finishing any of them #I plan to start the tree and finish the quilt tomorrow #I might also make some little organizer tray things?#I think I could make them out of fabric #there is also something else I want to make but I can't remember #OH #DUCKY MOMO! I want to make ducky momo from Phineas and Ferb

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magdalyna · 5 years

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so im plotting out the next bit of “Flasbang” [which is what ive decided to call the dialectic between the concepts of a time-travelling Maul -- played for humor in ‘Ripples’ and more straight edged in ‘More Like a Flashbang Than a River Stone’ but both Mauls are ready and willing to pan to the 4th wall like in ‘The Office’ and directly @ the Force for whatever situation they feel warrants it.]

and this is the part where Obi Wan is still restrained but Before Maul starts in on his Team Kill Sideous spiel bc Maul would like to get away/travel enough distance where he can find a Force vergence that can mask breaking Kenobi’s training bond with his master and Maul can further disentangle the web of coercion Sideous has left in his head in relative peace. Both things require a subdued Kenobi, not one lit with the zeal of the newly converted and self-righteous. Such ... passion would undoubtedly draw the master to his dear Nemesis like a moth to the flame.

Jango doesnt care about Maul’s Force mumbo jumbo rationale but he does acknowledge the wisdom of a tactical retreat. A tranq’d Jedi padawan is an easily transported Jedi padawan, as far as he’s concerned.

The problem with this plan, Maul finds, is his relying on the resource streams he frequented in his youth, as per Sideous’ dictates: black market networks where a Force suppressant is not liable to raise any eyebrows or other species-appropriate signals of surprise or interest. One can never be sure of the contents of ones’ purchases, if they’ve been somehow adulterated with some scummy admixture.

and then wacky shenanigans ensue where idk, basically Obi Wan’s Jedi version of the Avatar state shows up after Maul manages to Force wrangle the substance Obi Wan was allergic to on a speedrun of the metabolic process.

[sidebar conversation before Things Get Weird

Jango: you were stalking the twink. how did you know what he was allergic to if you werent stalking the twink

Maul(remembering Afterlife Pay-Per-View of bb Padawan Obi having a reaction to Hoi broth and almost causing a Diplomatic Incident): I can see how you would reach that conclusion]

As I see it, this is Obi Wan’s Force sense-as-superego kinda, which is distinct from The Force writ large as the ground matrix of the universe. this involves glowing blue eyes and a creepy echo-y reverb voice that totes does not remind Maul about some of the Sith spirits that Sideous used to conjure up for kicks.

turns out that Obi is a ~~~favorite of The Force bc he innately is The Heart, maintains his compassion, his kindness in his Worst Timeline etc which made the Jedi nervous bc having a boundless capacity to love/care about others just means more chances for Attachment(im going with GL’s hot take where A = boiling down to greed) which Avatar State is cranky about since Obi Wan’s whole deal is the opposite of greed or jealousy.

Jango needs a minute to sit with the Jedi as a group getting in the way of this softboi twink Obi Wan being a good(better version of himself) person. spoiler: he wont get it and his day is just gonna get longer.

Maul is trying to be polite but he has a nerd boner over this which he’ll discover when he stops mentally freaking out. that also isnt gonna be any time soon either.

Avatar State isnt done bc guess what the Jedi were specifically worried about Obi Wan since as far back as he can remember, hes been having Dreams/Visions about two individuals who are going to be important parts of his life, above all others. Obi’s managed to keep it zipped on exactly who but the Jedi know theyre out there and have been making Obi doubt himself about it.

Maul at this point is bluescreening and Jango is probably regretting all his life choices once the Avatar State shakes off the restraints and gets up in their collective grille to gossip about Maul’s OG timeline and boys with them.

anyway, i was just trying to write about Obi Wan being tied up I did not invite Obi’s Subconscious Who Really Likes Sleepover Games to the party but here we are.

#star wars #darth maul #jango fett #obi wan kneobi

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thegrimllama · 6 years

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plot twist

I’m a miserable twerp at the moment, but I managed to wrangle this into being over the last few days. The song that sparked the idea is Plot Twist by Marc E. Bassy.

It wasn’t often that Chloe got home late from the clinic. She usually had a set 9-5, but today had been a field call to the zoo for their three-monthly checkups. It had been a long day. A seven am start and now she was walking through the door at half past six, with aching arches and a wombat bite to the left boob.

She could hear Beca singing loudly in the kitchen.as she unlocked the front door and let herself in.

I always thought it would only be one kiss

One became a hundred

Oh, all of a sudden, I'm saying, "I love you"

Quietly, so as not to startle her housemate, she slid her tote onto the floor and made her way into the kitchen, following the scent of italian herbs and fresh bread. She watched Beca moving around the kitchen, dropping low and swinging her hips as she stirred the simmering pasta sauce, her headphones, hung low around her neck.

Chloe had always thought Beca was attractive. That was not news. Hell, she’d fully considered asking Tom to excuse them, that first day in the Barden showers. Now, she was thankful that she’d gone with her gut and just let their friendship grow at it’s own pace. She smiled into her hand, stifling the giggle that threatened to expose her spying as Beca dropped to the the floor and swung her ass out into a spin.

Beca’s eyes caught Chloe’s and widened, the spoon in her hand flying onto the bench with a shriek.

“What the fuck, Chlo?”

She watched Beca fumbling to pause the song on her phone, “That was the hottest slut drop I’ve seen since Emily had too many tequila shots at Aubrey’s birthday party. I especially loved the little…”

“Okay!”

Chloe took a seat on the counter, completely ignoring the barstools and Beca’s pointed glance. “New song? It’s catchy.”

Beca stuttered slightly, turning back to the pasta sauce on the stove, “Just… New artist at work. We’re working on lyrics to help it flow a little better. We have a chorus and maybe a verse. I dunno.”

Chloe smirked and tugged Beca back by the belt loop. “Sing it for me?”

Beca rolled her eyes, “Why are you like this? I’m cooking you dinner like a good housemate and…” Chloe locked her ankles around Beca’s waist, fixing her with a raised eyebrow. “Beca fuckin Mitchell.”

“Ugh!”

The poppy melodic had Chloe bopping along as Beca laced their fingers together, crooning through the chorus of the song.

Chloe felt the familiar tug of in her chest, that usually made itself known around Beca, or when she heard a song that really just resonated. She watched Beca get into the verse, freeing herself from the trappings of Chloe’s legs.

Since you came into my world

I had to leave that in the past tense

“Oh! I love that…”

Beca smirked, “You love everything I write.”

Chloe fought down the blush fighting its way into her cheeks. “You’re talented. If only you could cook too…”

Beca gasped and shoved the spoon at Chloe’s mouth, “Bitch what’s this?”

Chloe held eye contact, slipping the spoon between her lips, “I’ve had better.”

“Get out of my kitchen.”

***

All my life I've been a player, player, player

But I don't wanna play no more

Beca was blaming this project. This damn song. The damn lyrics springing to mind, reminding her of Chloe. The artist’s ideas for the direction of the song foring a lovely little fantasy in Beca’s mind, twisting her relationship with her housemate until she was powering out lyric after lyric, all about Chloe.

She tossed and turned, watching the clock on her nightstand move from ten, to eleven, to midnight, her brain filled with images and words and rhymes.

One am and Beca picked up her phone, opening the Bella group chat.

Bmitch: @Junkem how the fuck do you sleep when you have a hook in your head…

Junkem: *smirk emoji*

Bmitch: *High five*

She clicked on the call coming through from Emily’s private chat.

“‘Sup lil Junk?”

“I don’t. That’s my answer. Who’s the subject? Or is it just a song?”

Beca stretched out groaning as her back popped, one, two, three times. “Well, here’s the thing… It started as just a song.”

“Oh!”

She could hear the smirk in Emily’s voice, “Yeah. So the artist pitch for the song was a journey from nothing to something. So far it’s gorgeous, but like… I just keep thinking about…”

“Who!?”

Beca rolled her eyes at the shrill whisper, “Jesus Emily, it is one am.”

“Yes, and I’m in a steady relationship with my music so can you please just let me live vicariously through you?”

“Fine. Let me sing you what we’ve got so far.”

Two verses and a chorus later, Emily was cooing into the phone, practically squealing about how cute it was.

“Please tell me it’s Chloe…”

Beca froze. “What?”

“Listen, Beca… I’ve been waiting for you idiots to sort your shit out since Chloe broke up with Boston…”

“Chicago,” Beca chuckled.

“Whatever.”

Beca groaned. “I swear to God, she’s just in here all the damn time. This song just… It’s making me wonder what would happen if I just….”

“Ask her out?”

“Maybe. But… I’m going to get this song finished and maybe these thoughts will just… fade with it.”

“Maybe they will. But what if they don’t?”

Beca was honestly not sure she was ready to find out.

***

The first thing Chloe noticed when she woke the next morning, was Beca and Emily’s interaction in group chat. The second thing, was the sound of the blender buzzing lightly through the thin wall. Beca clearly hadn’t slept.

She rolled out of bed, flipping her hair up into a messy bun as she trudged into the kitchen.

“Hey sleepyhead!”

Yep, Beca hadn’t slept at all.

Chloe leaned on her housemate’s shoulder, “It’s so early.”

“I have an 8am start at the studio this morning,” Beca said, reaching up to scratch the nape of her friends neck.

Chloe groaned contentedly, nuzzling her face into Beca’s neck. “Did you get any sleep last night?”

“I’m fine Chlo. Nothing a few cups of coffee won’t fix.”

“My boob still hurts.”

Beca laughed, “I don’t even know what a fucking wombat is, but it’s still hilarious.”

“I hope your smoothie tastes like kale water.”

“Well, it’s your smoothie, and I have to go,” Beca said. She spun around, catching Chloe completely off guard with a quick kiss on the mouth. It was chaste, the kind of kiss that usually landed on a cheek, or a forehead, but still a kiss. And it still ripped through Chloe, turning her stomach with a flurry of butterflies that really felt like they were probably the size of Hercules Moths. The front door to the apartment had clicked shut, silencing Beca’s melodic humming before Chloe had completely registered what had just happened. A tidal wave of Holy shit and oh my god’s looping through her brain. What the fuck was that?

***

Beca was still humming to herself as she entered the turnstiles to the subway. She’d typed out what she hoped was probably the last verse of the song as she was standing on the platform, and spent the fifteen minute trip playing with the lyrics on her phone. Unfortunately for Beca, not having her mind occupied by words and melodies meant her brain went straight back home. Straight to Chloe.

Chloe.

Who Beca had kissed.

She stopped dead in her tracks, lurching forwards as impatient commuters collided with her back. She started walking, quickly trying to exit the noisy platform so she could gather her thoughts. What the fuck had she been thinking?

Clearly, she hadn’t.

She flipped her sunglasses down, muting the glare filtering through the doorway and opened her contacts.

“Emily, I need help.”

“Beca? It’s like 7:30? Have you even tried to sleep yet?”

“I have an early session at the studio. Look, I know you’re sleeping but I’ve… fucked up.”

She crossed the pavement, well away that the suits around her were ignoring most of her conversation, “Like, really.”

“What’d you do? Kiss Chloe?”

Beca froze again, this time nearly being thrown to the pavement in her stupor. “How did you….?” Beca paused, waiting for the laughter to subside. “You done, Junk?” Another snort from Emily, followed by an apology, “I don’t know why, but it just happened.”

“And why did you call me and not Chloe?”

“I don’t know dude. Probably because I’m freaking the fuck out that I’ve ruined the best damn relat… friendship I’ve ever had.”

“Relax. Go to work. Text Chloe.”

Beca stared at the phone, slightly miffed that Emily had hung up on her. “Rude.”

She felt the phone vibrate in her hand.

New Message from Chloe <3

Plot Twist?

Damn. How could one message give Beca the link to the entire damn song that had kept her up all night.

Becs: I love you

Becs: Don’t be weird, but you literally just finished the song for me.

Chloe <3: See you tonight?

Chloe <3: Amy’s at *not*bumper’s.

Chloe <3: Bring wine.

Becs: Yes, dear.

Chloe <3: I like the sound of that...

Beca wasn’t going to hyperventilate.

Except… She probably was.

#i don't know why this song fits these idiots so well #It just feels like a beca song....#you know what i mean?#anyway #bechloe #grims minis #bechloe fanfic

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mdarwin · 4 years

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’Tis a Gift - Spring 2017

’Tis a Gift

’Tis a gift to be simple, ’tis a gift to be free

’Tis a gift to come down where you want to be

And when you find yourself in the place just right

’Twill be in the valley of love and delight

--Joseph Brackett, 1848

“Hey! Oh my god, it’s so great to see you. How are you? How have you been? You look great!” Tabitha shouted all of this as if through sense memory, and threw her hands up for a hug. Sarah was accustomed to how uncomfortable these questions made her, and steeled herself against Tabitha’s high energy with deliberate, full breathing and a small, consciously fixed smile, just friendly enough to pass without producing a sense of falsehood. She was grateful when the embrace came to an end.

“I’m okay. It’s okay. It’s -- I’m -- things are okay… What have you been up to?”

Tabitha, too, was thrown by the inconvenience of being asked. “Umm…” She stalled with a deep breath and a distracted glance at her phone while Sarah quickly ordered a black-trenta-no-ice.

Sarah took in the Columbus Avenue Starbucks, noticing in small ways that it was one of many settings in which she felt she didn’t quite fit in. It was standardized and digestible, and so were its patrons. Sarah dressed in a normative enough way, if a bit unconcerned with this neighborhood’s value of thinness, and perhaps with a bit more aggression left over from teenage years at Sarah Lawrence than was altogether necessary. Today she was wearing cropped, grey leggings with a soft-black, moth-eaten pullover sweater loose enough to hide the now seventeen pounds of excess belly fat that the waistband of her leggings were cutting into. On her feet were black, flat-soled, cotton mary janes.

By the window sat a very tall, bald man in his seventies at a table with a white tall cup, lid off, and the Times, holding the pages up but falling asleep. A fit blonde with sunglasses kneeled in front of her young son, wiping drips of caramel from the boy’s drink off of his shirt as her own coffee sat, ignored, on the counter. There was a wiry kid in his early twenties whose eyes were glued on Tabitha from above the screen of his gaming laptop, and at the table closest to the restroom was an obese woman in her fifties reading a paperback, making notes both in red pencil on the pages, and under her breath. Sarah felt more confused by her own position in the Starbucks with Tabitha than by the obscure sonder that each customer she laid eyes on might feel the same.

This mid-afternoon meeting with Tabitha was the highlight of Sarah’s social life extending in a few weeks in either direction. She had just come up on the 1 train from her one bedroom on Gramercy Park, which had been passed down to her from her father, Bernard. She had moved into that apartment in September, the day that NASA announced their discovery of water on Mars, and she had spent most of the eight months since going out mostly just to walk Anger, her terrier mix. Sarah felt her psychic floor -- the stability, or, alternatively, the treacherous, shifting instability in the baseline of her thinking -- start to devolve towards a loose netting in her feelings of inadequacy and awareness that spending so much time alone crippled her socially. But Sarah managed to slam her energy at full speed with a thud into radical acceptance: She is only what she is, and she is all that she is. Each moment contains all possibilities, and in its manifestation, is wholly without error. Her psychic floor reformed to a substance both soft and solid, offering the reliance she’d come to depend on of the resolute immovability of own existence, perfect, like all products of reality. She welcomed the relief as her heart rate settled from its brief episode of misbehavior, and she felt the discontentment of the moment before flowing outward from her fingertips, tailbone, and crown, leaving her suspended in reality, and only reality.

This took eight seconds. Then, Tabitha spoke.

“I’m waiting to hear back from this professor whose classes I took a few years ago about a job on a project he’s working on. It’s a documentary on this type of meditation that this woman in Brooklyn teaches, where they do it inside a swimming pool.” Tabitha’s name was called. She picked up the white paper venti from the counter and gave the barista a broad, sweet smile and a “thank you.” That smile shifted back into a straight mouth as she turned to Sarah. “The editing wouldn’t be too tough, but it’s, you know, a real project. It could be a big thing for me. But he keeps saying he doesn’t know, and then, I mean, that won’t pay, so for now I’m doing some editing and design stuff at Mode. You know Mode, right?” She took a tiny sip of her coffee, to gauge its temperature. Sarah nodded. “Mm. So, yeah, Mode is great, but I spend so much time at that office I feel like I haven’t had time to do something like this --” here, Tabitha motioned to the space between Sarah and herself before continuing “ -- in six months. I would rather be putting all of that time into something where I have more creative control.” Sarah got the idea that some of what Tabitha was saying was embarrassing, some was exasperating, and some of it was a humblebrag.

Sarah noticed Tabitha reach into her bag, quickly, twice in a row. “Do you have eggs in baskets right now?” Sarah asked, nodding towards the source of distraction.

“You know it.” Tabitha rolled her eyes. “Kill me.”

The barista called Sarah’s name, and it was he, now, who smiled sweetly, adding a moment of self-conscious eye contact, as they reached towards each other. Sarah catalogued the smile. He had fuzzy hair sticking out a couple of inches from under his cap, and a fleshy, freckled face. He was a moreno with two lip rings and the men’s version of her glasses, the black acrylic in a flatter line across his brow than her subtly angled ones. Sarah was still feeling a bit raw from the onslaught of extroversion since coming inside, but managed to give an economical nod and smile back and allowed the eye contact to linger for a moment, then went to treat her coffee with cream and Splenda.

“Outside, on the bench?” Tabitha asked.

“Yeah, let’s.”

Sarah and Tabitha had gone to Emerson Prep together a few blocks north of this Starbucks. The bench stationed outside had been a favored smoking spot for Emerson students during breaks and after school, but the year that the two girls became close they developed a social authority together, and during afternoons of drama or secrecy would effectively prohibit other students from loitering in the area of the bench, instead using it as a VIP section of 73rd street, inviting only the useful.

They sat down, and Tabitha rearranged a few items in her brown checked Neverfull tote, deliberately placing her phone on top with its screen facing up. The afternoon sun was bright, and the approachable May warmth made Sarah feel carefree.

“Who’s on the docket?” Sarah nodded again to Tabitha’s phone.

“Three major entries to the spreadsheet. One is definitely going to be my husband. That, or I’ll just stab myself in the fucking neck.” Tabitha settled from a mode of unnecessary exuberance into a soft and self-aware fluidity with Sarah, when they sat down on the bench. Their bench. They hadn’t seen each other for a year, but things were starting to feel like they used to.

Sarah noticed that Tabitha had gotten a blowout recently, the dishwater-brown hair that Sarah knew to be quite lank naturally offering Tabitha’s small face a robust frame of volume and waves. Tabitha was wearing a linen shift dress in off-white, which was loose around the neck and in the bust but strategically taut over her midsection -- a luxury Tabitha had always been afforded, but had only discovered three years ago, at 22 -- and she was shod in camel-colored Toms. Tabitha was tiny and groomed; Sarah was lush, syrupy, and spotted. This had worked small miracles in their friendship over the years when it came to dating, but the real difference between the two was that Tabitha’s appetite consisted of a sweet tooth for fleeting ideals, while Sarah seemed to sleep through relationships, rolling over in the dawn throughout the years and squinting to find herself in subsequent, equally comfortable ones.

“What’s the draw with this one?” Sarah asked, reaching into her white canvas tote printed with Well, you better look good doin’ it! for a glasses case and replacing her black frames with larger, tortoiseshell prescription sunglasses. She drew up her right leg on the bench and hugged her knee.

“Just… too charming. Like, criminally charming. The conversation we had in person on the first date might be one of the best I’ve ever had, and the memory of it is… plaguing me.” She drew out these last words with a hint of irony, but Sarah knew how pervasive this condition really was.

“So, is he not present?” Sarah thought that a more realistic question would probably be, is he not interested?

“I mean, it comes in the smallest doses. I’m --” Tabitha jumped because her screen had lit up, then, a moment later, she slumped back in defeat. “Like that. It’s that whole… thing that happens. This time it’s… an aphorism from Poshmark? Torture. Every time an app wants to sell me something, or when it’s some work email alert, or just other texts coming in, I’m convinced it’s going to be him. Because, then, when he does text, I’m fully, balls-out convinced that my life couldn’t possibly be better than it is, and so I’m going wanga-wanga-wanga between these two opposite states, and the rollercoaster feels like I’m taking drugs and it’s not even fun in any way… more just like I’m going to have an actual heart attack. And I know it’s not really even that good to begin with, but my brain doesn’t. My heart doesn’t. I spin out.”

Sarah took a moment to recognize Tabitha’s disconnectedness with her own psychic floor, and to distance herself from it. “What was your last interaction?” she asked, looking down through the clear plastic lid into her coffee. The sight of the friendly beige comforted her, in its reliable promise of small, solitary pleasures.

“I texted him a few days ago.”

“And nothing since?”

“Just my pal, Poshmark.”

“What did you text him?”

Tabitha unlocked her phone and sheepishly handed it to Sarah with the text open.

“So, what you’re actually saying is that you sexted him… at 9 AM… on a Wednesday?”

Tabitha laughed and buried her face in her hand and groaned. “I know… I know.” Then she straightened herself up and shook her head, focusing on Sarah. “But so, okay, distract me from the prison of this pathetic lack of psychological autonomy. Where are you living?”

Sarah poked at her drink with the long, green straw before answering. “My dad’s place.”

“Oh, how is that sweet old coot?”

“Actually, my dad’s gone.”

“What do you mean?”

“Hospice. In New Jersey. His heart’s not good. And… his thinking is going, too.”

“Jesus. Are you okay?”

“You know what? I am.”

“What happened?”

“Well, he is eighty this year. But he got sick a while back, with pneumonia. He wasn’t taking care of himself. He had been really stressed, because of stuff with my brother.”

“Fucking Zev,” Tabitha exhaled passively, shaking her head slowly at the latent memories.

Sarah fidgeted with the buckle on her shoe. “He came back,” she confessed.

“What?” Tabitha shot forward. “What happened?”

“He’s been out of treatment for years,” Sarah said. “I don’t know how long. You know, this place that my parents got to take him, they could only keep him for the maximum sentence he would have gotten here, which is seven years. And even that was legally difficult, I think, because he turned eighteen so soon after he got there. They were, you know⏤” Sarah air-quoted, “‘doing us a favor.’ He came back east, and just showed up one day at my mom’s door in Fort Greene.” Sarah looked up past the awning of the restaurant next door to the left, away from Tabitha. “She… She let him stay.”

“Oh, Sarah… No…”

Sarah felt unsure about going further, remembering all of the responsibility that Tabitha had generously accepted throughout the years of their friendship. Tabitha had been Sarah’s first stringent ally against Zev’s actions⏤the first friend Sarah had even told about what had happened in 1996. Tabitha had criticized Sarah’s parents for their decision to treat what Zev had done as a medical issue instead of a criminal one, quietly sending him to the discreet Irons Center just outside of San Bernardino instead of jail. But formality and convention in the face of such a problem was never what Sarah needed, and the bemoaning and regretting of what had already come to pass hurt more than it helped. Still, Tabitha had always said all of the things that she was supposed to, as a good friend and a good citizen, while holding a restrained resentment for the Katzes. Sarah tolerated all of it, grateful for Tabitha’s tact in skirting around any actual accusations of the risks implied by the strange privacy that Sarah and Zev’s mother, Rachel, had demanded. Bernard had been, at the time, Sarah’s impotent defender, and had devoted his retirement following the divorce to bringing Sarah joy, which often included spoiling Tabitha with attention and support, too.

But Sarah knew Tabitha had wanted to say it: Rachel’s fear and Bernard’s complacency would eventually hurt someone else. She looked up at Tabitha with a slightly broken spirit and said softly, “T… he did it again. Another girl.”

Tabitha’s hand was limp on her phone, its demands on her psyche forgotten, and her whole body deflated. “How -- how old?” Tabitha choked.

“The same. Five.”

Tabitha sat up and studied Sarah closely. After a minute of consideration, she simply asked, “Sarah, are you going to be okay?”

Sarah looked at a spot on the cement a foot away from the bench. Decade-old, blackened gum was attached to the sidewalk in a flattened, near-perfect circle. Surrounding it were smaller specks, and Sarah noticed that they, too, formed near-perfect circles, spiraling out from the gum. “Something happened around then, when he came back home. Well, actually, it wasn’t a thing that happened, per se. It was… all things,” Sarah struggled to explain. She looked at her knee and scratched at a tiny hole in her leggings, avoiding Tabitha’s gaze in apology for how this was going to come out.

“I was at the aquarium and there was just this… this shattering, like the world was glass. And, like, in the glass breaking, all of this new surface area became available. A baby beluga in a tank came at me, in the window where you look at them from. And it scared me, because just a second before, there was nothing there, and then all of a sudden there was this whole whale bouncing its head into the window, right at me.” Sarah looked up sharply at Tabitha, to see how ludicrous she sounded.

Tabitha looked back at her, eyes incredulous, demanding some meaning to the story. Her shoulders were hunched forward, expectant, her mouth hanging open a little bit, as if just punctuation were falling from her lips, the questions themselves not formed.

“And then, there was this dinging. This high-pitched, sweet dinging, coming from some clock, or something. There was a baby in a stroller eating pink ice cream. I felt like the whole world managed to fit inside that clock’s dinging.” Sarah had been practicing how to make this next part clear. She shifted to face Tabitha more fully, and said the words she had rehearsed the day before, with furrowed brow and mounting ferocity. “And it was just like, ‘how can this be?’ How is it that we get to manifest physically? How, through unimaginable unlikelihood, am I so fucking lucky that I get to lay my eyes on this baby and his ice cream?” A deep breath. Sarah checked Tabitha’s face for a reaction, but it was blank. Tabitha’s mouth was closed. She was still hunched, but not forwards. She had shrunk away from the assault of the frenzy that Sarah’s speech was gaining.

“Everything around me started looking so much bigger than it had a few seconds before,” Sarah continued, “but… the shapes had all changed. The baby… he wasn’t necessarily a baby. He was… he was some congregation of matter that did him the service of letting him think and feel, and against all odds, that baby was going to grow, when, really, time is just a -- an accident,” Sarah laughed, then looked away from Tabitha, and started shaking her head back and forth, as if looking to the pieces of this story, like she could reach out and pick up those pieces and hand them to Tabitha. “But in this extreme unlikelihood that we could even be here, why should I be conceptualizing things that aren’t?” Sarah sighed and released some of the physical tension her body had been gaining, and leaned back into the bench. “I got really dizzy. I felt like I might fall, so I went and sat down, and at first I didn’t want to catch any glimpse back at the whale tank, because, you know, it scared me. My heart had jumped so far out of my chest when that whale came at me. But why challenge some less than desirable state? Why question any part of this? It’s unlikely enough that I have the privilege of feeling anything at all, so why play scorekeeper in regards to the quality? The gratitude is almost too much to bear… So I looked back at the whale.

“My dad is dying, T, and the nails in that coffin have busted out of our family into another one. And maybe we’re fucked for having allowed Zev to end up living where the neighbors had kids. But, what, do I spend my time wishing that what was, wasn’t?” Sarah said, looking straight across Columbus. “Since that day at the aquarium, something’s changed. I’ve felt like this congregation of matter that I am has shot in a billion different directions, and the space that that matter travelled through caught all the meaning I had been missing. And I feel so threadbare sometimes, like some rug that’s lived a thousand lives.” Sarah felt like the wind had been knocked out of her, having finally found the words and the audience to say what had been building inside her for so long, and she took breaths so deep that Tabitha could see her chest rise and fall. “There are these open spaces in me -- newly exposed surfaces -- and I’m a sponge… But not for information or experiences in the way that we’re all so intent on valuing them, but for the experiences for their own sake. For the self-perpetuating value of being conscious. I consent that it’s fucked that things are what they are, but how could it be fucked that they are? And they are, aren’t they? They just are.” Sarah let out a small, manic laugh. “I’m here, and every moment is fact, non-negotiable. But… I don’t see it as just the facts. I see it as exquisite.” Sarah looked Tabitha square in the eyes, and with a trembling, desperate smile said, “And how dare we want for anything?”

Sarah and Tabitha agreed to stay in better touch, and made plans for drinks at Sarah’s place for Thursday night. They walked towards Central Park and parted ways at its edge. Tabitha walked from there to the east sixties, where she would dig in her closet for a box full of notebooks that she and Sarah had filled together while at Emerson. She would spend the night looking for clues that Sarah was going to eventually have a breakdown, but all she found was the quick wit, level head, and unending trust that had convinced her, eleven years ago, to commit to this girl with everything she had. She knelt on her floor surrounded by the notebooks for hours, then went to bed early, accidentally leaving her phone unplugged in the kitchen overnight.

When Tabitha left, Sarah took the C from 72nd to 23rd listening to Geggy Tah on her headphones, then walked east on 21st street to the ambient orchestra of passing voices, menus being recited in the outdoor sections of Park Avenue cafés, and a piano being played determinedly, with consternation, from the open window of a brownstone. The sun twinkled through the trees in Gramercy Park as Sarah walked slowly along its fence, dragging her fingers on the black, rusty bars of the outer perimeter. Inside the park, twin boys in uniforms with huge, light brown afros sat with an iPhone and shouted corrections to each other about a video game, and a young mother rocked a large stroller absentmindedly while reading what looked to Sarah like Hesse’s Siddhartha, but she was sitting too far into the park for Sarah to tell for sure. A tall woman with long locks chased a giggling girl with straight blonde hair in circles, singing “there’s a rat in the kitchen/what you gonna do?/I’m gonna GET that rat/that’s what I’m gonna do!” in a deep Bahamian accent.

Sarah remembered, for one of only a few times in her adulthood, how Bernard used to sing to her while they walked around the city, when she was too small to keep up with him. He sung so that she would spin and dance, turning their pace into a game. Flooded suddenly with the memory of one of the few tunes he could get out in his unsure tenor, Sarah realized why he had chosen it.

“’Tis a gift to be simple, ’tis a gift to be free,” Bernard had sung, and Sarah would let go of his hand and fix her eyes on her own feet as they stepped in trepidatious care to avoid tripping. “’Tis a gift to come down where you want to be.” In size 13 patent mary janes and ankle socks with the frills turned down, she found her footing and took bigger, circular leaps. “And when we find ourselves in a place just right/’twill be in the valley of love and delight.” Here, Sarah would look straight up towards Bernard because the rhythm of the song shifted. It was her favorite part. “When true simplicity is gained/to bow and to bend we shan’t be ashamed/to turn and to turn will be our delight,” and Sarah saw the sun through the trees above her and the shoes on her feet below her, and it was the space between the two which was hers, “for by turning and turning we come out right.”

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kiss-shotheart-under-blade · 7 years

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Probably unpopular opinion(?) and a bit of meta discussion:

I know everyone wants Alya and Chloe to get Miraculous, but I’ll honestly prefer neither of them getting any?

Like with Chloe, I don’t think she deserves one. I’m also against an entire redemption arc that strips away everything set up in season 1. Like Chloe knows she is and thrives off of being a bitch. I know one part that no one notes much, besides causing a bunch of people to Akumatise, she was just super racist in the Kung Food episode to Marinette’s uncle. She kept pushing the he’s inferior because he’s Chinese and not doing Japanese cuisine and even remarked like sorry, I no speak Japanese. Like, sorry, but that really bothered me. I don’t want a horrific background for her to explain away that only people with bad upbringing turn out poorly. Like sometimes, people just choose to be awful. I like reinforcing the idea of choice because it’s never stated that Chat Noir totally has typical villain powers? Instead it’s pushing the idea of Yin and Yang, and how you handle the power determines what kind of person you are. Hawk Moth’s ability is meant to create more heroes, but he instead uses it to akumatise people. I think it’s neat. I think a huge redemption arc with a tragic back story is just making excuses for Chloe’s shit behaviour and will strip her of her character. Sorry, but I really don't want to Draco Malfoy her. Maybe at most Severus Snape her with a few redeemable qualities, but still choose to be pretty horrible, but not evil per say.

The reason I don’t want Alya to have one, as cool as she would be as Vulpina, my god, is that I really want her to remain the heroic civilian. I want her to make heroic gestures despite not having a superpower. To show that’s she’s incredible and resourceful without needing to be prove so with a Miraculous. I also, totes get the Cardcaptor Sakura vibes from her Miraculous Ladyblog, tbch, which I absolutely adore. I want her to know Marinette is Ladybug soo badly, but without getting the powers; to be the normal best friend who can help Marinette in her own way. They go to a fashion college (it’s not really a college in the American sense, idk if anyone hasn’t realised this) for fuck’s sake so I want her scheming to make cute outfits for Ladybug which is so Cardcaptors, but it’s so cute. I want them to have normal bonding without worrying about secret identities and stuff. Have this magical girl throwback please in this new magical girl show~! Like if she gets one, I’ll totally be happy about it, but I do like the idea of badass civilian a lot, and she never needed a Miraculous to give her the courage.

#alya cesaire #chloe bourgeois #miraculous ladybug #miraculous #mlb #ml #random ramblings #miraculous meta #mlb meta #ml meta #longish post

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ecotone99 · 5 years

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[HM] Faking a Murder in Moonville Tunnel: A True Story of Teenage Debauchery

I also posted this short story on Medium.

Faking a Murder in Moonville Tunnel

A True Story of Teenage Debauchery

A Quick Preface

During my early teenage years, I was absolutely obsessed with World War Two history. I collected two entire sets of vintage combat fatigues and field gear—complete with M1 Garand rifle and a sidearm revolver—and participated in World War Two battle reenactments whenever possible.

Since I was probably the youngest person in the universe with a desire to take part in historic battle reenactments, I was mostly running around a field with middle-aged guys in American and British military uniforms, shooting blanks at middle-aged guys in German wehrmacht uniforms. (Side note: shooting at Nazis is fun regardless of situational context).

I also wore my fatigues to school on the anniversaries of major battles and events. As one would imagine, donning moth-bitten old army uniforms and constantly spouting-off dates of historical remembrance doesn’t exactly make you the most popular kid in school. When I reached my late teens, my interest in social debauchery began to outweigh the battles of yore. So followed plenty of beer and plenty of trouble. By the time I graduated high school, the old 101st Airborne and 1st Infantry uniforms were packed away in dust-covered rubbermaid totes.

Murder at Moonville Tunnel

On some Friday or Saturday nights during the summer after graduation, my friends and I would make the one-hour drive to an abandoned railway tunnel called Moonville. Deep in the woods by way of an old gravel forest road, it had a local reputation for being haunted.

College kids would drive up from nearby Ohio University in Athens. They came in search of ghosts; and boy did Moonville deliver (at least when my friends and I were around). Those kids are probably telling folks to this day about the paranormal phenomena they witnessed deep in the woods of Ohio in an old abandoned tunnel … In reality it was my friend Dustin making spooky noises and rolling boulders into the creek; or my friend Kyle walking across the far entrance of the tunnel in an old wedding dress; or even just an explosive rustling of bushes and growling noises—enough to send even the most cool and collected frat boys running for the safety of their sedans.

On other occasions, we’d take unsuspecting friends for their first visit and put them through the usual rounds of teenage scare-tactics—yelling BOO, making spooky noises; boilerplate stuff. Teenagers having teenage fun. Until—as teenagers often do—we took it too far…

On a Saturday that could have been any other given Saturday, a bunch of us were hanging around the parking lot of the local Wal-Mart. Someone suggested we drive down to Moonville Tunnel. A group of four or five girls in our little crowd had never been before; so the boys began our usual rite of preparedness, telling them that the tunnel is haunted and that they were likely to run into a few ghoulish entities from beyond our earthly world.

A few of us—Kyle, Dustin, Greg, Dewey, Joey, and myself—went into the Wal-Mart to grab a few supplies for our journey. While we were standing in the checkout line, a terrible, insidious light bulb burned to life inside my brain. I told my three friends about my newly-hatched plan and thus, the cogs began to turn.

Back outside in the parking lot, Greg and I told the rest of the group that we were going to have to sit this one out: We had been called in to do some work early the next morning, we told them. Bummer.

Leaving the Wal-Mart, we turned onto Bridge Street and drove twenty minutes to my house. I dug into my closet and pulled out an old army ammo crate. I grabbed an en-bloc clip filled with .30–06 blanks, a handful of .22 blanks, and loaded my old blank-firing M1 rifle and .22 pistol into the back seat of my friend’s truck.

Operating through a spy network of covert texts sent via Motorola RAZR flip phones, Greg and I timed our arrival in Moonville—down the miles of dusty and unmaintained county roads, deep into the forest, to the makeshift parking area—to precede our group of friends. We drove past the parking area, farther into the woods, until we found a pull-off with enough space to hide the truck.

Carrying our weapons of mass disfunction, we backtracked toward the trailhead to Moonville Tunnel. We crossed a bridge over a wide creek, into and through the regular parking area at which our friends would soon be arriving. It was next to a wide creek with a bridge over it. The entire parking area was a muddy quagmire at the time. We carefully rock-hopped through the sludge until we reached the beaten path of the trailhead. Once we’d hiked the half-mile back to the old creepy tunnel, we took up positions in the heavy underbrush.

Thanks to our two insiders, Dustin and Kyle, our timing was impeccable. We had settled into the leaves not more than ten minutes before we heard familiar voices coming up the trail from the parking lot.

As the caravan of our buddies traveled across the path in front of us, I noticed that Kyle’s mom and dad—Carl and Robbie—had joined the group. Carl had a habit of encouraging (rather than discouraging) these types of activities. I knew he was in on the plan when the group reached the middle of the tunnel and I heard him instruct everyone, amidst protests from some of the girls, to turn off their flashlights and “see if any ghosts come out.”

We took this as our cue. Greg and I crept to the entrance, pointed our blank-loaded guns toward the decrepit ceiling of the tunnel, and I whispered, “One … two … three—” BAM! BAMBAMBAMBAM!

The sound of cannon-fire, screams, and laughter filled the tunnel as friends slipped in the mud, spun in circles, cried for their mothers, and struggled to regain their grip on reality.

Everyone who was in on the joke—Greg and I included—burst into a fit of laughter and the rest of our friends quickly realized they’d been bamboozled.

This is probably where the prank should have ended.

About an hour later we were in the main parking lot. Most of our friends had already left for home, but a few of us were still standing around and talking. I was going to hitch a ride back with Kyle and his parents, and had just loaded my things into the back of their truck. Just as I closed the door, a car pulled into the muddy parking area. My friends and I looked at each other. “College kids,” someone said.

“You outta get out that pistol and fuck with em,” Kyle’s dad suggested to me with a boyish grin.

It took no more cajoling than that for the rest of us to jump onboard with the plan—even though at the current moment there was no more “plan” than the suggestion of “getting out the pistol and fucking with” the college kids.

I discreetly opened the truck and harnessed my little revolver in a shoulder holster underneath my jacket as Carl approached the college kids. He introduced himself and told them we had just arrived as well; that we were getting ready to check out the supposedly haunted tunnel; and that we were first-timers.

I approached the group and took stock of them. There were five total: One big, tall corn-fed fellow who could have been a linebacker, a short guy in glasses who was about as wide as he was tall, and three innocent-looking girls who looked like they had just moved into their freshman dorms.

Of the five of them, I only remember the name of the short guy in the glasses: Dakota. An interesting name, which might be why it stuck with me after all these years. Or it could be because Dakota’s introduction prompted Dustin to spontaneously (and untruthfully, I might add) tell the group of strangers that he happened to live in North Dakota, where he was a professional bull-rider. His name was Mike, by the way, and he was only in Ohio to visit his cousin, Jeremy [Kyle] here. One of the girls went to shake his hand in greeting, but when they reached for it, Dustin held up an empty jacket sleeve (his hand was pulled back inside of it) and told them he had lost the hand in an accident on his family’s ranch as a child. “Kinda messed up of you to try to shake my nub,” he told her. When she issued an embarrassed apology, he accepted.

As the group of college kids were enamored by Dustin’s tall tales of Dakotan bull riding and lopped-off appendages, Carl leaned back and whispered to me, “Act like you’re hammered drunk.”

Thus, I mentally consumed a pint or so of corn whiskey and assumed the name of Sam. “Nice to—hic—meet ya,” I slurred to them.

We started down the trail. Dakota told us that he had been to Moonville Tunnel several times. He knew all kinds of interesting facts about its history. There was an old mining village beyond the tunnel that was abandoned in the late 1850s, he told us. You had to cross a stream to get to it. There have been several recorded deaths, one in 1958 when a brakeman fell onto the tracks. We learned quite a bit from Dakota on our walk back to the tunnel, and in return, we filled his head with as many lies as it could hold.

Finally we made it to the tunnel, walked through it, and approached a stream on the other side. “The mining village is just a little farther, past this creek,” Dakota told us. “Just need to cross on this log.” He pointed to a mossy fallen tree that spanned over frigid, rushing water.

Carl turned to me. “Sam, your drunk ass is liable to fall off that thing and drown yourself.” I took the hint, and after a couple of lines faux-protest, I consented to stay behind with Carl, Kyle, our friend Dewey, and Kyle’s mom Robbie. The college kids, along with Dustin and a few of our other friends, crossed the creek on the log and disappeared into the woods on the other side.

As soon as we figured they were out of earshot, we started to conspire. Of course, Carl was the first to offer a suggestion: “We should wait for them to get halfway across that log and fire the blanks at them so they fall in the creek.”

I imagined news headlines of a tragic accidental drowning, all caused by a group of prankster teenagers who would learn a valuable life lesson by way of spending their twenties and thirties behind bars.

“I have a better idea,” I said.

About fifteen or twenty minutes later, we were back in the tunnel and patiently waiting. As soon as we heard voices coming down the trail, Kyle and I started to argue.

Somehow, despite the fact that we were but a simple troupe of Appalachian hillbillies with zero acting experience, I swear the performance that would follow could have won an Oscar:

“I saw your number in her goddamn phone!” I slurred to Kyle. Dewey was holding him back against the wall of the tunnel and Carl was holding me back on the opposite side.

“Bullshit,” Kyle replied, “you’re fuckin delusional. Every time you get like this you start accusing me of this shit, you paranoid asshole.”

The back-and-forth continued until the group of strangers and friends approached our impromptu stage. Dustin and our other buddies hung around, (not in on the plan at this point themselves); the college kids passed between Kyle and me with confused caution.

Our improv routine escalated.

“Boys, calm the hell down,” Carl told us. Then to me, “Sam, you’re drunk.”

“So what if I’m drunk,” I told him. “He knows what the fuck he did.”

Kyle started to push Dewey away to get to me and Dewey tried to ‘calm him down’ in the same manner as Carl. “Jeremy [Kyle] goddammit, he’s drunk, let it go—”

“I ain’t lettin shit go, get the fuck off of me—”

The college kids hung a few feet away in the tunnel and watched as Kyle tried to get past Dewey.

“This is the last time,” I told Kyle, “the last time I hear about you trying to fuck her behind my back.” I reached into my jacket and started to pull the revolver from its holster.

Carl’s entire demeanor changed from the moment my arm reached in my jacket to produce our primary plot device:

“Jeremy—Jeremy he has a gun—HE HAS A GUN JEREMY, GET BACK—”

Cue collective gasps from the college kids. Carl wrestled with me and pleaded for ‘Jeremy’ to run, but Kyle’s character wasn’t having any of it.

“Oh, you need a fuckin gun huh? Pussy ass little bitch—” he made it past Dewey and halfway across the tunnel with fists raised when suddenly I ‘managed to free my hand from Carl’s grasp’ and aimed the pistol at my faux-foe.

A cacophony of noise erupted in quick succession:

“NOOO!” screamed several of the college kids as they saw the pistol being pointed at their new friend Jeremy.

BANG! went the sound of the first shot as it reverberated through the tunnel like a stick of dynamite exploding in someone’s living room.

And then there were the screams. The most awful, blood-curdling cries of terror that you could ever hear. The kind of screams that stay with you for the rest of your life—even as you write about it over a decade later.

Kyle dropped to the floor of the tunnel. I fired two more shots, and with each of them his ‘lifeless body’ convulsed a half a foot into the air.

Carl’s performance continued. He left me and rushed to Kyle, who was stifling laughs between his best attempts at a dead guy impression. “Robbie, call 911!” Carl yelled. “Robbie, he’s not breathing! Call 911 right now!”

I collapsed against the wall and began to ‘drunkenly weep’ at the sight of what I’d done. The gun fell to the ground.

Carl turned and grabbed the lapels of my jacket, slamming me into the concrete wall. “WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU GONNA DO NOW?!” he asked me. “HE’S DEAD, WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU GOING TO DO?!”

“I don’t know,” I cried. “I don’t know, I can—we can—we’ll put his body in the creek and—oh god, I’m so sorry … I’m so sorry …”

Carl started to laugh. We turned and saw that the college kids had already made it to the other end of the tunnel. They paused at its opening, disoriented and panicking.

“We-we-we need to g-g-get to h-higher ground!” Dakota screamed.

“Run down there and scare ’em,” Carl told me.

Something in me, a little voice, thought for just a fraction of a second that maybe we had already taken things too far … but the laughter of my friends on our end of the tunnel was like an addictive drug. Laughter, which, either didn’t reach the ears or the consciousness of the college kids. When I took off down the tunnel, they saw me and screamed all over again. They pushed each other out of the way and stumbled in the mud trying to turn, and then fled down the trail toward the parking lot. The laugher in my ears waned and with it, its effect. I thought, These people are going to be traumatized for the rest of their lives if they leave here believing someone was murdered.

I holstered the pistol and continued out of the tunnel and down the trail, trying to catch up with them. By the time I reached the parking lot, they were already in their car. Dakota was behind the wheel, and the big linebacker was in the passenger seat.

Their car was stuck in the mud. Wrrrrrr …. wrrrrrrrrrr … The front tires were spinning backwards with the speed of a straight-lane dragster, but the car wasn’t budging from its mire.

As I entered the glow of their headlights, I saw both of their eyes grow to the size of baseballs.

“Stop! Stop, it was just a joke!” I yelled, waving my hands.

From inside the car, they saw the guy who just killed his friend running toward them, shouting nonsense, and waving his arms wildly.

The passenger door opened and the linebacker tumbled out and ran at a full sprint into the opposite tree-line until I heard a SPLASH as he swam across the creek near the main parking area to the other side.

Dakota panicked and put the car in drive, suddenly propelling it forward into a boulder on the edge of the parking area and smashing the front fender.

I finally reached their car and they screamed in unison before I held up my hands. “Guys, this was all a joke. It was all a joke, I’m so sorry. There were just blanks in the gun. My friend Kyle—uhh, Jeremy—is coming out of the woods right now.”

Dakota was sobbing. “I don’t care,” he cried. “I don’t care, I don’t fucking care I just want to go.”

All three girls in the back were sobbing.

My god, what have we done, I thought.

“It was just a joke,” I repeated. “We thought it would be—”

“Just a joke?” I heard a voice behind me. I turned to see the linebacker towering over me, clothes dripping, face covered in briar scratches. “It was just a joke, huh?”

About that time my friends were running back into the parking area from the trail.

“Uhhh, listen man,” I stammered. “I don’t want any trouble, we were just—”

“You don’t want any trouble? Don’t want any TROUBLE?!”

He started to raise his fist but Dewey pushed me out of the way and stepped in front of him. “Get in your fucking car … and go back to Athens.”

Several other friends stood behind Dewey and the linebacker eyed them all.

Dakota called from the bruised Camry … “C-come on, let’s just get out of here.”

The linebacker took a deep breath and pushed past Dewey. He went to the front of the car and pushed, along with a couple of our friends, while Dakota was finally able to back the car into the gravel road.

The linebacker paused at the open car door and turned to look at us one more time. “Just so you know. We’re calling the sheriff when we get back to Athens.”

He got into the car and they sped away, trailed by a contrail of flying gravel and mud.

We were silent; everyone realizing the gravity of what had just happened. Well except maybe for one of us: Carl started laughing his ass off.

“What?” Kyle asked him.

“Hell,” he said once he’d caught a breath. “They’re gonna call the sheriff and tell em they met some guy named Mike, who’s a one-armed bull rider from North Dakota, and saw his drunk friend Sam shoot a guy named Jeremy.”

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