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writefinch · 3 years

Text

Family-Owned Small Business

(CN: incest, sex work, mentions of sexual assault & suicidal ideation)

The worst part of my job is administration. Last-minute rescheduling when a client flakes on us. Chasing up payments. Booking accommodation at short notice. Answering messages! Jesus, every time in the last year when I've slumped, sighed, and thought to myself "fuck working, I need a break from all this" it's been when I've opened my messages and seen thirty different texts that need a reply. Some people are fine with it I guess, but for me it's boring, time consuming, and stressful.

Big deal though, right, I mean nobody loves doing admin, why even bring it up? Well, if I tell someone that for work last night I ate a client's cum out of my mom's pussy, I'd expect that they'd get fixated on the sex work and the incest. I'd expect them to freak out and not pay attention to the specifics of what I'm saying. So, first, I'd like that person to know that the thing I hate about my job is probably the same thing that *they* hate about *their* job. I would rather lick my mom's asshole for five minutes than answer emails for five minutes, and I answer a lot of emails.

Do we have to worry about violence, danger, cops, and legal trouble? Yeah, we do. Am I scared of these things? Yeah, sometimes, but I had to worry about all of those things before I started doing sex work. At least now we've got the money to buy our way out of the worst of it.

I'm not saying that what I do with mom is an objectively healthy relationship, let alone a perfect one. If you took me back in time and told me I could pick a completely different life for me and my mom, I'm sure there's a bunch of choices I'd pick over this one. But I never had that choice. I got hurt a lot growing up. I feel like I've finally escaped the things that hurt me, but I know that I've barely started to recover from them.

That's why I'm writing this. We've saved enough money to afford some therapy and my first session is next week. I want help with the fear, the nightmares, the mood swings and insomnia, I want to stop the rush of rage and terror that flows through me every time I see the word 'dad,' I want help untangling the stuff that came out of being told I was a pansy when I was growing up, then figuring out I'm gay, then figuring out I'm a girl, then figuring out I'm all three of those things while I was living in a place that kept trying to kill me for it. What I don't want is for the psych to pin it all on the two least harmful and least fucked-up things about my life, and worse, I don't want them to make me believe it. This journal is a prophylactic, an assessment of my job, my relationships and my life that I can refer back to if and when someone sticks their fingers in my brain and swirls them around.

I'll start with a problem statement: my dad. The memories that hurt the most are the ones where he almost appeared human, the flickers of joy, curiosity and humor that stood out from the bland cruelty that made up the rest of his personality. I'll remember him buying me ice cream or talking about a book or a movie with me, I'll doubt myself and wonder if I just went crazy and cut him out of my life for no reason, and then my brain will hook onto a random act of sadism he inflicted on me.

The physical abuse was bad all on its own, real psycho shit like driving me out into the woods and making me pick through the brush for a switch he could hit me with and a whole lot more I won't go into, but the emotional abuse was worse. When I was eleven, I forgot to feed my cat one day. He gave her away to my uncle, but told me that she'd developed malnutrition and had to be put down. I didn't find out the truth for another two years, when he just let it slip at Easter. He bragged about it, even, like he'd invented a really smart child-rearing technique. I don't want to write too much down here because I don't need to, if anything I want therapy to *stop* everything he did from running through my head. He's a punishment-obsessed sadist, a Baptist, and he works as a judge. Did he ever sexually abuse me? No. Parent of the year, right? He kicked me out for being a fag the day I turned eighteen, so it's ironic that my biggest fear is that he comes looking for me. He doesn't even know I'm a girl.

On the other hand, my mom has had an interesting life. She's kind of a fuck up. When I was one year old, mom and dad split and dad got full custody--being a judge helped with that--while mom left the state. She spent a decade trying to kick a heroin habit and a year and a half in prison for related stuff, got banned from even entering the state I lived in on account of her parole--again, dad being a judge helped with that--illegally emigrated to Canada for a while, and went to Oregon by mistake, doing a mixture of bartending, delivery driving, MDMA dealing and whoring to stay afloat.

The only reason we met again is that I was in the same city staying with friends, also whoring. I don't remember the first time I saw her, but the first time we talked was in a mutual friend's tiny studio apartment with a few other hooker friends. We ended up comparing our Pest Lists, shared a few drinks, and swapped numbers. A week later we fucked, and a month after *that* we realized that we'd Oedipus'd ourselves. It seems funnier now than it did at the time.

That was an emotional time. We cried with joy that we'd found each other, we started tip-toeing around the ideas of rebuilding our lives together, and we agreed to pretend that the sex had never happened. Of course, we got drunk together a week later and fucked again. She's hot! I have a thing for older women, I have a thing for breaking taboos, and I have a thing for being mommied in bed. Blame dad for raising me like this, I dunno.

We started doing sex work as a team after she got a dental abscess. The bill for the hospital stay and the tooth removal was insane, and the dentist straight-up told her that she'd end up with another in a different tooth within a year if she didn't get two root canals. Even when she was recovering, we could only afford fish antibiotics off of Amazon. We crunched some numbers and made some inquiries, and figured out that we could pull in two week's worth of our combined income with one night of mother-daughter stuff.

Our first joint session was with a real estate pervert I'll call Stan, a chubby balding powerlifter in his fifties who we'd both had as a client before. Mom took me over her knees and switched between spanking me and fingering me while he watched. I sucked him off while mom made out with him, made out with my mom with his cock between our lips, licked his balls as mom licked my ass, then let him fuck my ass while mom sat on my face. That was the first half hour. He came six more times before we passed out in the early hours of the morning, and I drifted off nursing his finally-limp cock in my mouth. He paid us the price of a used Volkswagen for our trouble, and I blew him one last time before we left as a thank-you.

Six months later, mom's teeth were fixed, I was on spiro, and we had just under a dozen clients for our "doubles sessions." Only a few of our appointments are ones with me and mom together, three or four a month, we mostly work alone. That's not out of a deliberate choice, it's just that we've got a strict criteria for who we'll double up on.

Trust is one thing: depending on the lawyers we can afford, what we're doing is either kinda illegal or extremely illegal. Since my dad is presumably still a judge, I don't want him to ever find out about this. He'd put us in a prison or a mental institution. We won't do a double session with a client unless we've both had individual sessions with them.

Money is the other thing. Getting your dick sucked by a hot mom while her daughter sucks your balls costs a week's wages for the average person. Hiring us for the night is more like a month's wages. Even in a city like this, there's only a few thousand people that can drop that kind of money on hookers. Then, they've got to *want* to fuck a trans girl and her mom together. Don't get me wrong, more people are into mother-daughter incest than you'd expect, but it's not a universal thing.

Clients are, on average, annoying. It's a fact of life. The thing that all clients have in common is a ton of disposable income and a fondness for fucking hookers. They're not necessarily bad people, but there’s a heavy ‘What can a banana cost, ten dollars?’ vibe to them. It’s not that they’re adrenochrome-drinkers who don’t see regular people as human, it’s more that they don’t have an intuitive awareness that other people don’t have savings accounts, health insurance, an investment property, and four figures of walking-around money at any given time. I guess I'd feel differently if I was like, a concierge or a PA, but there's a lot more pillow talk in my job.

I've had bad and dangerous clients before, there's been at least two occasions where I was pretty sure I was going to die--one where the hospital afterwards stay wiped out four months of income, not counting the month where I couldn’t work--but they were all before I met mom, when I couldn't be so careful about screening prospective clients and dropping them if they threw up red flags. I'm sure we'll get bad clients in the future, but we're in a better place to deal with them safely.

I also wanna write down what a "normal day" is like. Friday was a good example. I woke up early at 9am and cooked breakfast for mom. She was up already doing the laundry. We entertain some clients in our apartment, so we go through a lot of clothes and a lot of sheets. You can't fuck a guy on top of another guy's cum stains, that's rude. Some of the job is Housework But More. We don't really use the main bedroom or the sitting room because we treat them like bed and breakfast guest rooms. It's annoying but every time we have a session without getting an actual hotel or motel room we save like $50 minimum.

After breakfast I epilated, showered, and went for a run. Personal grooming isn't that big a deal in terms of time, I'm not saying I don't spend a lot of time on it, I do, but I'd be spending that time even if I worked in a bar or an office or something. Look: I'm hot. I might have been a weird-looking spotty nerd when I thought I was a boy, but as a girl I'm a fucking dime. I could get like, 25% uglier before it had any impact on my earnings. The only part of personal grooming that's necessary for sex work and I wouldn't do all the time anyway is power-washing my guts an hour before every session.

After lunch, mom went to see some friends and I played Magic for a few hours. At two pm, the actual work started. I picked up the work phone for the first time that day and began answering texts. An hour later I'd cancelled the 6pm appointment, blocked out all of Sunday evening, checked in with a few regulars, and provisionally moved three guys to the 'Time Wasters' list.

I spent a while sexting with a good prospect. He was a good prospect because he paid up-front for the sexting instead of treating it like a free samples platter at Costco. We scheduled a tentative appointment for next Tuesday, when his wife would be out of town on a business trip. Most of the guys I fuck have kinks, and I swear that 'cheating on your wife with a sex worker' is the most common one there is. Do I feel bad about it? At my hourly rate, absolutely not.

Mom got back at half four, so I took a break. We made tacos for lunch together and ate while watching Billions. She nudged me and told me that I need to do my injection, and, well, we have a little ritual for that. I'm scatterbrained and I'm not great with needles, but mom has been incredibly supportive with my HRT, and when I told her I was having problems taking them on time, she came up with a way to make me as comfortable as possible. As soon as the needle is ready, I laid down in her lap and she cradled my head in her arms, pressing her bare chest against my face. I took a nipple into my mouth and nursed it softly while she stroked my hair. She called me a good girl, telling me how proud she is of her daughter, how much she loves me, and asked if I was going to take my medicine like a big girl. On good days I inject myself while she pets me and coos over me, and on bad days she takes the needle and does it for me. As soon as I dropped the needle in the sharps container, mom pressed a Hitachi against my cock and took one of my nipples into her mouth, called me her big brave girl, and asked if I was gonna cum for mommy.

As usual, the answer was yes.

Late afternoon and early evening is when the messages start flowing in, especially on Fridays, when the kinds of people with hooker money have either left work early and thinking about getting laid, or are still held up at work and are desperately thinking about getting laid. This kind of messaging gets trickier, because it comes down to what I'm providing. Like, setting up a session is the kind of normal administrative stuff that's baked into the price of a session. It's also partly a sales job, so I'm naturally flirty and solicitous, and because I do sex work I talk openly about sex.

However, *sexting* is not normal administrative stuff. If I'm sending you messages for jerking-off purposes, I can charge by the hour or by the text but I will insist on charging for it. Also, it's not just sex that me and mom provide. There's a reason that 'companionship' is an old euphemism for whoring, it's because whores are good company. I'm a good listener and I don't judge, which means I'm like the fun parts of a therapist but without all the homework and self-improvement. I'm (unsurprisingly) friendly with all of my clients, and I have more than a few clients and former clients who I'd consider good friends and vice versa. I talk to a bunch of them outside of a business context, especially the ones I met outside of my job, and that's a normal part of maintaining a pool of clients for any sales job, but on the other hand... it's a demand on my time and it's a part of my services. I can and have bluntly told guys that they're wasting my time when it comes to uncompensated sexting, but the platonic stuff requires a lighter touch.

One of my regulars, Fintech Pete, sent me a message. Two messages later, he sent me $100, and we're off. Describing in gratuitous detail exactly how I'm going to suck his cock, begging him to fuck me until my clit is drooling all over the sheets, sending him feet pics, things of that nature. Pete is great for sexting because he barely jerks off while he's doing it, he saves all the messages and pictures and jerks off to them later, because he's got some biohacking routine where he only cums once a week. He said once that part of the reason he hires sex workers is that he takes each nut a lot more seriously if he's paying three digits minimum for the privilege. He does this teleconferencing report with the board of directors at his company four times a year, and every time he hires me to kneel under the desk in his home office and suck him off while he makes his presentation.

Anyway, while we were going back and forth like that, he mentioned that I'd made a joke one time about doing a joint session with my mom. I told him it wasn't a joke, and to cut a long story short, half an hour later I was asking mom if she was up for an overnight session starting at 9pm. She agreed, Pete confirmed, so we both got ready--think getting dolled up for a night out but with a more thorough enema--and drove to his place. He lived outside of town in a two-bedroom suburban home, alone with his two dogs.

As soon as we were parked in his garage I did the safety call in front of him: I rang a friend of mine, told her we were visiting a friend, told her it was at the address I sent her earlier, and told her we'd call her again tomorrow morning. Was it really necessary to do that with someone like Fintech Pete? No, but practice makes permanent. If you let these things slip when there's no danger, eventually they'll slip when there is danger.

Now, I don't want to imply that I'm in a lot of danger! There's a reason that most of the faces you'll see on the Trans Day of Remembrance are of poor black and brown women, because real danger comes when you can't turn skeevy jobs, when you can't afford to take precautions, when you have to make the choice over and over between maybe starving and maybe getting murdered. I'm white, I've got a good support network, and I've been relatively lucky in that I can do all these things to minimize my risks. I've still got to do them, though! Things like safety calls are a good habit to get into and it helps all sex workers if there's an expectation that they've all got someone looking out for them.

...I get that there is some bravado creeping into this journal. I start off saying that admin is the worst part of the job and a page later I flippantly mention that the job has put me in the hospital. On a day to day basis yeah, the admin is the bit that sucks the most, but if you offered me a deal where the admin is twice as bad but I never took that session, I’d take it in a heartbeat. This job has left me with some scars. Any time something cold touches my wrist I get a vivid flash of the first time I had my hands zip-tied behind my back in a cop car. I've had nightmares all my life, and more than a few of my nightmares are about stuff that's happened since I got into sex work.

If it seems like I’m downplaying it, it’s because the harrowing stuff is where the job has gone wrong, it’s not baked into the everyday stuff, and most importantly it has nothing to do with my mom. The work I've done with her is some of the least stressful and dangerous I've had since I started this job, and whatever wounds I have, she's not the one who caused them.

On a more positive note, a cool thing about doing sessions with my mom is that we can dress pretty conservatively and still have it come off as insanely lewd. Mom wore a black cocktail dress with an imitation pearl necklace and her hair up in a bun, I was in a white blouse under a lambswool sweater, a pleated short skirt, cheap dark tights--Pete has a thing for tearing them--and patent leather shoes. When you're going to suck a guy's world entirely off alongside your mom, the more modestly you're dressed, the more perverted it looks. Out in the suburbs it also means you get to avoid the microskirts and fishnets look which screams to the neighbors 'I've just hired a pair of hookers' or the mid-range raincoat over microskirts and fishnets look which screams 'I've just hired a pair of pricey hookers."

Pete's living room looks like the back room of a Radio Shack, computer guts everywhere, every surface turned into a makeshift workbench. It's not a suitable place for lovemaking; I don't want to have to pull shards of a soundcard out of my perineum. His bedroom is a lot neater, with a king-sized bed to sit on, a ton of pillows to lounge up against, and a TV mounted on the wall. Mom poured out some wine, a mid-range red zinfandel that we'd picked up on the way, Pete brought out some imported dark chocolate that costs like $40/kg, and I swung my legs over his lap and turned on the Food Network. I took a bite of chocolate, mom took a sip of wine, and before either of us swallowed she pulled me into a deep kiss, mixing the wine and the chocolate. It's a good combination, and Pete enjoyed the show.

The night started off with chatting. None of us were in any rush, not with an overnight session, and since Pete has been a client for each of us for a while it was a pretty relaxed atmosphere. Pete's fingers danced over my thighs, absent-mindedly plucking ladders into the fabric as we talked baseball, business, sex work, the difference between the gentrified fag bar downtown and the really gentrified fag bar downtown, programming and other nerd shit, local politics, the contestants on Cutthroat Kitchen, just normal stuff. Mom and Pete started talking about fancy cooking stuff so I started annoying them both by claiming that sardines are just fully-grown anchovies, that DOP labels are all fake, and that instant grits are better than the regular ones until mom jabbed me with a finger and told me that my mouth should be put to better use elsewhere.

You know how some people say "Cilantro tastes like soap, that's why it's good?" Same thing for how weird it feels to go down on my mom. The first time I ever jerked off, watching a 144p clip of Rocco Sifreddi fucking a girl in the ass while flushing her head down a toilet bowl, knowing that this meant I was going to go to Hell unless I begged God for forgiveness and never did it again, I came so hard I passed out. It feels good, it feels wrong that it feels so good, and it feels even better because it feels so wrong.

She was already wet when I got between her legs. I kissed her clit and started licking, her bush tickling my nose and her thighs squeezing my ears. Fabric rasped over my head as she hiked her dress up to run her hand through my hair. Everything was muffled but I could hear kissing and clinking, and I knew that mom was undoing Pete's belt and jeans to give him a Catholic-quality handjob.

I got mom worked up, bucking her hips and getting all breathy, until she asked me to get up here and give her some help. I crawled up to his groin and winked up at him. He blushed and grinned back. Pete's not a bad-looking guy. I mean, I don't care about looks in general, I guess I can look at someone and say that objectively they're ugly, and if someone is beautiful it adds something to the experience, but like... it doesn't really figure into it. Obviously most johns don't look like supermodels but they're not uniformly ugly, as I said before the thing that johns have in common is being horny guys with a lot of disposable income. Still, Pete is towards the better-looking side of that scale.

...Okay there is one thing about him that's weirdly common for my clients, I call it 'John Balding:' where a guy is losing his hair but in a slow, uneven, and kinda weird pattern, so that even when they cross into being more bald than not, they never bite the bullet and shave it all off. Pete is only like 30% of the way through that process so it doesn't look terrible yet, but he's on that track.

Anyway, back to the sex. A fun thing about double blowjobs is that you can take them a whole lot slower than solo blowjobs. Me and mom have had a lot of practice so we go at about 1/4th speed and it feels twice as good. She started off by wrapping her hand around the shaft, slowly stroking it while she softly kissed the tip, and I licked his balls, gently lapping at one, then the other, cleaning away the day's sweat and musk, carefully taking both of them into my mouth at once. Mom swallowed half his length, and I started kissing my way up his shaft as she pulled back up, my lips touching the head as hers reached the very tip. She grabbed me by my hair and pulled me into a deep French kiss with his cock in the middle, precum mixing with spit, moaning as we felt him twitch and grunt, mom's hand on his balls and my hand on his shaft. We broke the kiss and repeated it in reverse, taking his cock in my throat as mom kissed her way down to his balls. He came after five minutes of gentle little schoolgirl kisses on each side of his cock from the pair of us. The first rope caught mom on her cheek, the second hit her hair, but I wrapped my lips tight around the head and sucked him dry before he could spill another drop.

You can't give a client a mother-daughter blowjob and not snowball the cum back and forth in front of him. We've done it enough times to get the timing down: wait until he sits up straight, because if you don't he'll be too dazed from nutting in your mouth to really appreciate it. Make sure he's looking at you, move your hair out of the way so it doesn't obstruct his view, open your lips so that a trickle of jizz almost sloshes out, move in close to your mom so that your noses are touching and it's clear that you're about to kiss, sink a palm into her tits as she grabs your ass, and then you gotta really go for it: wide-mouthed, feral, energetic, like you're trying to reach each other's sinuses. If a little bit of cum spills out because you're being so sloppy, that's a sign that you're doing it right. You're going to lick it up afterwards anyway.

We broke the kiss, I licked mom's face clean, and we took a break. We drank some more wine, he offered us cigarettes--the coolest clients are the ones that let you smoke indoors--and we cuddled and relaxed for a while with Guy's Grocery Games playing on the TV. Pete went to get some water, and returned with three bottles and a strip of Cialis. He downed two pills, we both stripped off--it was sweltering by that point--and got ready for the next round.

Mom played with his nipples and I got between his legs again, this time going lower than his balls to eat his ass out. Rimming is a trusted client privilege like the mom-daughter stuff is, except it's less about trusting them in the legal sense and more about trusting that it won't be grainy down there. I like it when a client is clean enough to rim, because I'm extremely good at it. Mom says she's better, she claims she once made a guy no-touch cum with a rimjob, but I don't fucking believe her.

He got hard after a minute of digging my tongue into his ass, but his cock was still super-sensitive so we figured we'd tease him for a while longer. We swapped places, mom ate his ass while he made out with me, squeezing my tits and playing with my cock. I like it when guys touch my tits, my cock is... fine, I guess? I don't viscerally dislike people touching it but it doesn't do much for me. After a minute of that he reaches around and works a finger into my asshole, which is much more my speed.

By the time he was two knuckles deep I looked down and saw his cock twitching, leaking precum onto his stomach. He seemed pretty worked up. I kissed his neck, nipped at his ear, and whispered, "Do you wanna breed me, Mister?"

He sure did.

I use condoms unless I've got an extremely compelling reason not to, and mom has a cool trick for getting them on. She grasped Pete's cock around the base, placed her lips around the tip, deepthroated the entire thing in a single stroke, and as she slowly lifted her head back up, his cock was neatly fitted with a condom.

As soon as I lubed up he put me on my back, pushed my ankles up to my ears, pressed his cock against my hole and sunk into me inch by inch. He muffled my moans with a kiss and rutted me into the bed. I gotta give it to him, all that biohacking and cardio is doing something right because he railed me at a fast, steady pace until my dick was leaking all over my tummy and I couldn't form sentences in my head any more. Mom made out with him as he finished, and at that point I was just babbling nonsense. He was gentle and cautious as he pulled out of me, stroking my hair as I reached down to take off his condom. I poured the contents out over my tits, slumping back against the headboard as mom licked them clean.

It wasn't yet midnight by then, and we went on like that through the night. Licking his feet, mom-daughter 69, him sucking my cock while mom rode his dick like a Sorority cowgirl champion, more wine, more double-blowjobs, tacking an extra $200 onto the fee for the privilege of pissing in my mouth instead of having to get up to go to the bathroom, a whole buffet of fun whore stuff.

We woke up at around ten in the morning, stayed for breakfast, then said our goodbyes. Me and mom thanked him for his custom, and he thanked us for a good time. By midday we were at home, we both showered, checked our calendars, messaged our evening clients to confirm that they were still on, and then... well, the rest of the day kinda evaporated. I played Demons' Souls until I couldn't keep my eyes open any longer, passed out in bed, and woke up when my alarm went off in the evening.

That's one of the things I don't like about overnight sessions: you're technically only spending like, ten to twelve hours with a client, and for some of that time you're either not fucking or actively asleep, but it kinda feels like it destroys two days. By the time it's scheduled, everything in the rest of the day is either preparing for it or doing it, and when you get back it takes the rest of the day just to recover. I don't like that part of my job, and if I sit down I can probably go through a whole bunch of things I don't like about my job. I still know that my job isn't a *bad* job, because the last time I had a bad job it was at a chicken processing plant. Know how I know that the chicken job was bad? Because I excused myself for a bathroom break four hours into the shift, walked off site, and never came back.

You know what, there's another reason I know that this isn't a bad job and that mom isn't a bad mom, and I guess it's part of the reason I've written all this down in the first place. I was seven years old when I first wanted to die. By the time I got to high school, suicidal thoughts were just the radio static in my brain. I can't remember any point after like, grade school where I didn't daydream about suicide every single day.

Now? I sometimes go for weeks without thinking about killing myself. It hasn't gone away completely, it still pops up when I'm upset or stressed out or tired or really hungry, but what I do is I talk to mom about it, and she talks me out of it. I feel guilty sometimes about putting that pressure on her, and taking that pressure off is part of the reason I'm going to therapy I guess.

I hope it works out.

I really think it will.

#story #stories

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a-solitary-marshmallow · 4 years

Text

Please Don’t See Me - Chapter 1

Ugh. Stan’s whole body felt like lead. The thin layer of straw beneath him was tickling his nose and poking in places he really didn’t like being poked, but he didn’t care enough to move. At least he had space to lay down. He’d spent enough nights crammed into his car, unable to stretch out or move his cramped legs, to appreciate having some actual space. Even if that space was covered in annoying straw.

He let out a heavy sigh and the room suddenly got quieter – he hadn’t noticed the soft, steady scraping of a pen on paper until it paused, and now his ears pricked up to search for it again. (Ears? He hadn’t slept while Shifted in ages). The scraping continued a moment later.

For a moment Stan was transported back to his teenaged years – flopping in his bed, exhausted after a tough boxing match, and being lulled to sleep by the sound of Ford quietly writing into all hours of the night. Except back then Stan wasn’t in the form of an oversized canine, and he’d been well-fed, and it was Ford there instead of some stranger, and Stan could actually remember where he was and how he’d gotten there-

Wait.

Stan cracked open one, a few motes of dust filling his vision before he blinked and they cleared, allowing him to see the stupid hay right next to his face. Hay – why was there hay? Where was he?

He forced his groggy head up to take stock of his surroundings – iron bars every which way. A cage. He was in a cage. It was in the middle of what looked like a dusty shed, smaller cages and other tools hanging on the walls and oh god he hoped they weren’t torture devices. Who would want to torture a wolf anyway? Evening, or maybe early-morning, light streamed through a high window and lit up a small square of floor, where a person was sitting cross-legged a safe distance from the cage.

Person – person, cage, danger. A low growl rumbled through Stan’s chest and he bared his teeth in a warning. The guy had better not get any closer, or he would be down an arm. And maybe a throat.

The person froze at his growl and looked up from writing in some book, glasses flashing in the weak sunlight and making Stan flinch – before he recognised the face behind them and his growl petered off into stunned silence.

Holy shit. Ford?

It couldn’t be Ford, but – but it had to be, with that undisguised curiosity written across his face, unruly brown curls, and – yep, that cinched it – the six-fingered hand holding his pen.

Ford was there, and Ford was staring at him, and Stan was still in wolf form in this stupid cage. He couldn’t help but stare back. It had been years since he’d seen his brother. Ford was less twiggy than he used to be. His shoulders had filled out and his jaw was squarer than it used to be.

Well, Stan reasoned, it had been… what, seven years? They had both changed. Some more than others.

“Morning.” Ford’s voice broke them out of their unintentional staring match. He recommenced writing in his journal – writing or sketching, Stan had no idea. “I suppose you’re a bit sore, which is understandable after the night you had. You’re lucky I convinced Dan not to beat you to death.”

Who the heck was Dan? And why was Ford talking to a wolf? Fuckin’ nerd. Stan opened his mouth to ask some of the questions burning on his tongue, but they came out as a doggish huff. Oh right, the whole wolf situation.

Stan carefully rose, testing out his bruised and battered body. He ached all over but he didn’t think anything was broken. Thanks, luck, for not totally screwing him over. His left shoulder, in particular, was burning – he must have strained something. Now Stan could vaguely remember the events of yesterday; mostly, his car breaking down in the middle of nowhere. He’d been starving, he had to eat something, had to hunt, so he’d Shifted and gone in search of prey. He’d hurt his shoulder making a sharp turn while trying to catch a deer.

He kept chasing it until he’d gotten kicked, ended up somewhere that wasn’t the forest – a barn house maybe, but all he could focus on was the tiny animal in the front yard. That tiny, stupid dog. It had been yapping at him furiously like it could take him in a fight and he’d been so hungry.

And then there was yelling, and steel-capped boots and a heavy stick (holy shit was that a shovel) and he was too weak to put up much of a fight.

Stan’s lip curled in disgust. He hadn’t even managed to take a bite out of that stupid Chihuahua. There was the good old Stanley Pines luck rearing its head again. Well, he wasn’t dead yet. He had that going for him.

Ford was glancing up at him occasionally with calculating eyes. Stan sighed and settled back onto the floor. He didn’t have the energy to force a Shift right now, and there was no use scaring the nerd. Ford blinked at him before mumbling to himself, pen never stilling.

“Hmm. I thought you would have been more… concerned, to be in captivity. Perhaps you’ve had contact with humans before. Of course, it’s illegal to keep wolves as pets, but this is Gravity Falls.”

Gravity what-now?

“And you’re certainly not an ordinary wolf.” Ford continued thoughtfully. “Far too large, and your proportions are off. I wonder if you’ve been affected by the natural weirdness of Gravity Falls? The size-changing crystals may have played a role in… hmm…” He went back to scribbling in his book.

Great. Now Stan was just another science experiment. The sooner he could Shift and tell Ford who he was, the sooner…

What? The sooner Ford could kick him out? Stan had ruined his entire future, there was no way Ford would be happy to see him.

In a twisted way, Stan might be safer as an object of study rather than a potential enemy. Besides, he didn’t think he could face Ford’s ire. And if there was a chance Ford would find out who he was and keep him trapped anyway… a specimen to study… no, he wouldn’t take that risk.

Stan would just have to escape when the chance presented itself. Until then, he could play the part of the wolf.

A nice wolf, obviously – no fucking way was he gonna attack his own brother. No matter how much of a dipshit the guy was being.

Mind made up, Stan went back to napping. Or pretending to nap, because he couldn’t exactly relax with Ford’s eyes constantly on him. He must have drifted off at some point though because he awoke with a start at a very close scrape. Immediately Stan’s fur stood on end.

Ford had slid something into the cage. Stan was resolved not to take any handouts until the scent of raw meat hit his nose and he forgot that he was supposed to be a human at heart.

He snapped up the slab of meat in slavering jaws, shivering when the savoury-salty-metallic-food taste of blood burst across his tongue. He hadn’t eaten in so long.

All too soon the food was gone. Stan licked his chops and couldn’t hold back a pitiful whine.

“Still hungry?” Ford called from across the shed, where he was digging in a fridge Stan had missed before. “No wonder; I can see your ribs from here. You’ll have to wait for me to get more though.”

Ugh, Ford was taking so long. Stan nudged the food bowl with his nose, pushing it out of the cage with the hope that getting the dish back would speed things up. Ford sent him a weird look but Stan didn’t care as long as he got more food.

The creature was certainly not an ordinary wolf.

It didn’t take an expert eye to see, either. Its – his? – shaggy fur was matted and clumped, a far cry from the sleek coats Ford had seen in the wolves native to Oregon. Its claws were a little too long, its fangs a little too jagged, its form too barrel-chested and shoulders too hunched and hulking – and the creature itself was much larger than any wolf Ford had seen. When standing, its back might reach as high as his waist. Ford was sure that the only reason Dan had managed to subdue it was the pitiful state it was currently in. At peak health it would surely be a formidable beast.

And there was something intelligent in the gleam of those amber-yellow eyes. Something… considering.

However, the creature was was much more well-behaved than the usual specimens Ford managed to obtain. It lay quietly in its cage, occasionally getting up to stretch before lying back down. After the first incident it made no attempt to growl at, attack or otherwise threaten him. It had even returned the food dish every time he fed it.

Ford couldn’t make any conclusions until he had more evidence, but the data he currently had strongly suggested that the creature had once been domesticated. An escaped pet, perhaps? He decided to test his hypothesis.

Once Ford finished his sketch he stood by the cage, treats in his pocket (borrowed from Dan). The wolf cracked open one eye to watch him warily, as it had been doing when Ford moved.

Hmm, where to start… probably with the more common commands. If the wolf had been domesticated it would probably have been taught some basic commands at the least. Ford waited until both its eyes were on him before lifting a hand and saying clearly, “Sit.”

The wolf continued to look at him.

“Sit.” Ford tried again, with no luck. The wolf was paying attention to him but it made no attempt to follow his orders. He sighed. “Come on, work with me here.”

The wolf blinked slowly.

Ford reached into his pocket and pulled a treat out of his pocket, rolling it in his palm. The wolf’s gaze seemed to have a lot more weight behind it now. The creature seemed to be considering.

“Sit.” Ford said again and, with, a huff, the wolf picked itself up off the floor and sat on its haunches.

Ford gaped.

“You actually know the command. Oh gosh, you must be domesticated! I wonder how many of your kind there are. A whole new species of wolf? Wolf-mutt? What other commands do you know? Do you lay down too? Lay down!”

The wolf shot him an eerily intelligent look – a look that clearly said ‘you want me to cooperate, you’d better pay up’. Ford sighed and tossed the treat into the cage, where the wolf attempted to catch it, only to have it bounce off its snout and roll out of the cage again.

Ford picked it up and tried again. This time the wolf snapped it out of the air with an audible clack of teeth. Sated, the creature settled back onto its belly.

“Is… is that you obeying the previous command? Or just lying down?”

It put its head down and closed his eyes, so Ford assumed it was the latter. He sat back and picked up his journal, hands buzzing with excitement. So his initial hypothesis had been correct; the creature had belonged to someone. It evidently hadn’t been cared for for a long time though, given its current state. Was it a pet that escaped? But if it had run away from its owners, Ford doubted it would be listening to his commands – however reluctantly – as it was doing now.

A loyal pet, then, but one that had not been taken care of for a while. Had it belonged to one of Gravity Falls’ supernatural inhabitants? That would explain its… abnormalities.

A sudden thought hit Ford suddenly, and he squeezed his pen tight.

“I wonder… there are countless incidents of people adopting young pets, only to abandon them when they get bigger or… odder. Are you one of those?”

The animal’s ear twitched. Apart from that, it gave no sign that it was listening. Ford bit his lip.

“Maybe that’s why you have no home. You were good, and they still tossed you away because you weren’t normal.”

Now the wolf lifted its eyelids to gaze at him; a heavy, thoughtful stare. Ford sighed and chewed on the end of his pen.

“Well, wherever you come from, I can’t keep calling you ‘wolf’. You need a name. I don’t suppose you have any ideas?”

The wolf yawned and stretched.

“I thought not. Let’s see.” Ford hummed to himself. “Something’s wolf-like? Lupus? Lupin? No, that’s silly.” The wolf was watching him judgmentally and Ford frowned. “I don’t see you offering anything better. Well… you are quite the mystery – an enigma, if you will. But that’s a bit too obvious, isn’t it? Not a very good name.”

The wolf snorted. Ford ignored it.

“A… a mystery, a puzzle, a… rebus!” He jumped up excitedly. “A rebus! It’s a puzzle! And it sounds similar to Remus, a figure from Roman mythology who was said to have been nursed by a wolf. See, it has layers!” He pointed out gleefully to the wolf, who did not react, because it was a wolf.

Ford deflated.

“Maybe Fiddleford is right and I should start talking to other people.” But… “I don’t have time right now, I have research to do! I’ll talk to people next week.”

The newly christened Rebus closed his eyes again, apparently content to ignore Ford’s presence when there wasn’t food or shouting involved. That was all right. Ford had plenty of time to win his trust! With the recent roadblock he’d hit in his studies Ford had been planning to hike to the caves in the nearby mountains, to see if they held any clues or answers. But he supposed that could wait until he figured out this new mystery.

#writing #My writing #My fic #fanfiction #gravity falls #the stans #werewolf stan au #werewolf!stan

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madasthesea · 4 years

Text

Bio Dad AU... again

Tony’s knuckles were white against the dark leather of his steering wheel. It was a miracle he hadn’t been drunk when the call had come in: Mary wasn’t supposed to deliver for another three weeks and Tony kept convincing himself that he had time to kick the habit.

It was 5 AM and there were more cars on the road than he would have expected. Early birds trying to beat the morning traffic, he supposed, but he didn’t know. So much of the world was foreign to him, really, so much of the minutiae of normal life, the wonderfully mundane existence that so many people lived, that revolved around work and family and once a month nights out with their friends that always went late cause they were too busy catching up to notice the time.

Tony didn’t get that. He didn’t understand laundry day or stopping in the grocery store to chat with someone you haven’t seen in a while or the laughter filled chaos of getting a kid bathed and put to bed on time.

He would now, if he did this right. If he managed not to screw things up for the first time in his life, he could get a taste of it, that long unattainable balm of normality. If he did this right, he could hold happiness in his arms.

They were going to call him Peter, Mary had told him.

He turned into the hospital parking lot, following the signs to the maternity ward.

He hadn’t even thought to bring a car they could put a car seat in. His first act as a father and he’d already messed up.

Happy had to go buy a five-seater sedan and drive it from the lot to the hospital. He’d even picked green, just to spite Tony. He hated green cars.

Peter was sleepy and grumbly as Tony struggled with the fasteners. The final click of the seat belt felt absurdly monumental for such a tiny thing. After this Tony would be climbing into the driver’s seat of a practical, family car, and he would drive his son home, and he would be a dad.

People told him he would learn as he went. That it came naturally, that soon enough he’d be changing diapers and preparing bottles like he’d been doing it all his life. Tony was a fast learner, but he wondered if there were things he could never learn. Maybe he’d learn to change the kid’s diaper, but never quite understand how to lull him to sleep. He could put him to bed on time, but what if he never stayed to read him a story? Can you learn tenderness from a book?

Tony tossed the keys to the Audi to Happy and climbed into the new car, the smell of the faux-leather seats unfamiliar but pleasant enough. He adjusted the rearview mirror until he could see Peter doubly reflected at him from the mirror on the headrest. The kid’s eyes were barely open, the dark tuft of hair on his head covered by the hat the nurse had put on.

“Alright, Petey,” Tony said, and Peter stirred just enough for Tony to know that he heard him.

Tony took a breath and put the car into drive.

“Here we go.”

“Hurry, hurry, hurry,” Peter chanted, already tugging at the straps of his booster seat, kicking his little sneakers against the leather upholstery.

“Calm down, kiddo, they’re not going to start without you,” Tony said, forcing a smile as he leaned into the backseat and undid the buckles, letting Peter slip off the seat and out of the car. He forgot his tiny little backpack—equipped with nothing but a box of crayons and Peter’s favorite stuffed animal—in his rush, so Tony grabbed it before slamming the door closed, the small dent in the green paint catching the light.

Peter’s face was only slightly apprehensive as Tony crouched down in front of him, helping him shrug the backpack on.

“Ok, buddy,” Tony murmured, his mouth dry. “You excited?”

Peter nodded eagerly. The kid was already a genius, who loved reading and exploring and learning and Tony knew that he’d be fine, he really, really did. But he couldn’t quit convince his heart of that.

“It’s going to be fun, huh? I’m jealous,” Tony teased.

Peter furrowed his eyebrows, his big eyes narrowing.

“But you already know how to read, Daddy,” Peter pointed out. “And count and things.”

Tony smiled again, more naturally this time.

“That’s true. I guess that means I don’t need to come after all.”

“I don’t think the chairs are big enough for you anyway,” Peter giggled. Tony’s heart broke, just a little bit.

“I love you, baby.”

“Love you, Daddy!” Peter chirped, leaning forward for his habitual kiss, which Tony happily gave, plus a few extras.

“I’ll see you later. Stay with the teacher until I come get you, ok?”

“Uh-huh,” Peter agreed, then turned and trotted over to the waiting line of students and teachers, his little feet still slightly pigeon-toed and his hair sticking up in the back.

Tony stood and leaned against the car until Peter was inside, then climbed in and sat for a long, long time.

The sling made it hard to buckle Peter’s booster seat, but he waved away Pepper’s hands and did it himself anyway.

As he sat back, he let his good hand drift up to Peter’s face, cupping his son’s round, tear-stained cheek and wiping away the sticky salt tracks.

Peter watched him like he never wanted to look away, like he was afraid Tony would disappear if he blinked. Tony hated himself for making Peter afraid of anything, hated the three months of separation they had endured with a hot, sparking anger that only mellowed slightly when he met Peter’s gaze.

“I grew an inch and a half, Daddy,” Peter whispered, leaning over as much as he could in his seat and pressing his cheek against Tony’s arm.

Tony shifted closer, too, taking his boy’s little hand in his own calloused one. Was it bigger, or was he imagining it? Three months in the life of a six-year-old was so much. He’d missed four percent of his son’s life, four percent of his laughs and tears and questions and breaths. Someone had made him miss them: had trapped him in a dank cave and tortured him and threatened to make him miss his son’s entire life, make him miss seeing his boy grow up. It was unforgivable.

Tony cleared his throat and shook away thoughts of missiles and metal suits.

“Really? You’ll be taller than me, soon, kiddo.”

Peter hummed happily at that, pleased at the idea. “And I lost a tooth and Pepper gave me a dollar and pretended it was from the tooth fairy.”

Tony looked up and met Pepper’s eyes across the backseat. She was watching them, subtly sniffing and wiping at stray tears, but she huffed a small laugh at Peter’s confession, rolling her eyes.

“Did she now?” Tony asked, smirking at her. Her returning smile was too soft and grateful and happy. Tony swallowed and looked away.

“Daddy,” Peter murmured again, his voice wobbly. “I thought you were going to miss my birthday.”

Peter turned seven in four days. When Rhodey had told him the date Tony had nearly broken down sobbing, either in joy or grief he wasn’t sure.

Tony leaned down and pressed a hard kiss to Peter’s head.

“Nothing in the world could make me miss your birthday, Peter.” Tony promised, his voice hoarse.

Peter’s bottom lip trembled. “I was going to wish for you to come home when I blew out my candles.”

“Yeah?” Tony asked again, fighting the tears burning behind his eyes. “I wished for that, too. Every night.”

Peter lightly kicked the back of the driver seat, his light up sneaker glowing blue as he did. Peter smiled at it, his little hand still wrapped in his dad’s.

“Guess it worked, then.”

“We’ll get you feeling better, ok, buddy?” Tony said, trying to keep the panic out of his voice as his son slumped listlessly in the passenger seat. Tony had had to do up his seat belt for him like he was still a toddler.

Peter had had a headache, he said, when he came back from the field trip to Oscorp. He’d gone to take a nap, but when Tony had woken him up for dinner, his fever was 103 and his words were slurring together. He could barely stand let alone walk in a straight line.

Tony chose his fastest car in an effort to get to the ER sooner, but the traffic was terrible at this time of day and he spent most of his time sitting at red lights, his fingers anxiously tapping against the steering wheel as he watched Peter growing steadily paler in the front seat.

He should have called an ambulance. Heck, he should have flown in the suit. They would be there by now, Peter would already be getting treated.

“Hey, kiddo, talk to me,” Tony softly pleaded, reaching out to brush Peter’s sweaty bangs off his forehead.

“Dad,” Peter panted, his eyes screwed shut, tears beginning to make their way down his cheeks.

“Oh, Pete,” Tony sighed, taking Peter’s hand in his own as the line of cars began creeping forward.

Peter squeezed back with a strength Tony didn’t know he possessed, making the bones in Tony’s fingers ache. And then his hand went completely limp in Tony’s, his head lolling until it hit the window with a thud.

Tony’s stomach dropped, his heart leaping toward his throat.

“Peter?” Tony asked breathlessly, taking his attention completely off the crawling traffic in front of him and turning towards his kid. He jammed two fingers against Peter’s throat, feeling his pulse racing under his skin. His skin was burning hot and slick with sweat.

“Pete, wake up,” Tony ordered, tapping his cheek with one hand and raising his chin with the other. Peter’s eyes were moving rapidly behind his eyelids like he was having a bad dream, but he didn’t respond.

“Come on, wake up.” His voice broke. He shook Peter lightly, in one last effort to rouse him.

Peter’s chest was rising and falling rapidly, each breath shallow and fruitless.

“Ok. Get a grip, Stark,” Tony told himself, the car jerking forward as he finally pressed on the gas. They were four blocks away from the hospital. He only had to make it four blocks.

“Ok, it’s going to be fine, buddy, you’re going to be just fine,” Tony rambled to his unconscious son. “I don’t know what’s wrong with you, but the doctors are going to figure it out and fix you up, just like always.”

They’d had more than one panicked drive to the emergency room throughout Peter’s fourteen years. He’d been only two when he’d had his first asthma attack, Tony holding him as he ran into the lobby with tears streaming down his cheeks as his baby boy fought for every breath, his lips nearly blue. There had been several times since, when Tony would drive with once hand clenched around the wheel to hide its shaking while he rubbed the other along Peter’s knobby spine, coaching him to breathe in and out slowly, baby, go slow. It’s ok, Daddy’s got you.

Tony took the turn into the parking lot too sharply, making the tires squeal and the car jolt. Peter’s head hit the window again, the seat belt biting into his neck where it was supporting his boneless weight.

“Sorry,” Tony gasped as he sped toward the bright lights of the ER. He swerved toward the doors, pulling to a stop right in front of them, turning it off and yanking the keys out on muscle memory alone. He honestly didn’t care if someone stole the thing. Now that help was so close, attainable, now that Tony could do something more than idle in a long line of traffic and chatter uselessly to himself, he needed to get Peter inside now. Every cell was aching with the need for Peter to be alright, for him to be safe and taken care of.

Tony raced around the car, yanking the passenger door open and undoing Peter’s seatbelt, letting him tumble into Tony’s arms.

The boy had long since grown out of being small enough to be carried, but Tony could care less as he shifted his arm under Peter’s knees, holding the kid close to his chest.

“It’s ok, baby,” Tony promised fervently as he straightened and rushed toward the hospital doors. “Dad’s got you.”

“Ok, all you’re going to do is ease off the brake.”

Peter cast him a nervous look, biting his lip, but he took a deep breath and did as he was told, slowly picking his foot up. The car began inching forward.

Peter slammed his foot back down, making Tony jerk against the seatbelt. He gave an unimpressed look at the anxious sixteen-year-old sitting in the front seat of the old 2001 sedan, the faux leather seats now cracking and peeling.

“I wasn’t expecting it to move,” Peter said sheepishly.

“That’s ok,” Tony assured him. “It is going to move forward even if you aren’t pushing the gas. Do it again and let it coast a bit, ok?”

Peter seemed a little more ready this time, fighting the obvious urge to brake again as the car crept forward at a few miles per hour.

“Now press very gently on the gas,” Tony instructed. The car leapt forward a bit as Peter stepped down too hard, but levelled out to a steady ten miles an hour as he adjusted.

Tony leaned his head back against the headrest, grinning over at his son.

“Not bad, Pete. A little faster, ok?”

They drove in circles on the compound driving course for another hour, practicing gradual braking and accelerating, turns and parking.

“Ok, kiddo, let’s take a little trip,” Tony decided as the sun crept toward the horizon.

Peter’s eyes flew open wide, the panic that had left him immediately rushing back.

Tony snorted, reaching over and ruffling his hair. “On a straight, deserted road in the middle of nowhere. You can do it, I have faith in you.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Peter asked, his knuckles turning white around the steering wheel.

“Hey, don’t break the wheel,” Tony chided, reaching over and loosening Peter’s enhanced grip. “If it gets sketchy, I’ll take over, ok? Now take a right out of here.”

Peter took to driving like he took to everything—once the nerves were sorted out, he was intuitive and clever and confident. Tony just sat back and watched him, the red light of the setting sun playing in his hair and eyes, the way he bit his lip every time he checked his speed. Finally, Tony told him to pull over and turn off the car.

Ignoring Peter’s question of what they were doing there, Tony got out and went to the trunk, pulling out a blanket. Then he spread it out on the hood and climbed on.

“Come on, Pete,” Tony said, holding an arm out in invitation for Peter to join him.

Peter raised an eyebrow, but clambered onto the hood as well, settling against Tony’s side.

“You know, I drove you home from the hospital in this car,” Tony said, tucking Peter’s head under his chin.

“Really?” Peter asked, sounding surprised.

Tony hummed a little. “You were three weeks early and I had no idea what I was doing. I’d driven an Audi to the hospital,” Tony snorted. “Not exactly built for driving kiddos to soccer practice. Happy had to go buy a car so that I could buckle your car seat in.”

Peter laughed. “I bet he loved that.”

The stars were starting to come out, already bright against the falling twilight. The country road they were parked on was free from streetlights or other cars, the light pollution from the city far behind them.

“And now you’re learning to drive in it,” Tony murmured, feeling a little bit of melancholy creep over him. He couldn’t believe his kid was sixteen. Not to mention a superhero, but Tony didn’t like to think about that when he was feeling emotional.

Sometimes he looked at Peter and remembered the little kid who couldn’t say his L’s until he was five, who would only take naps in the car, making Tony drive around the city in circles for hours at a time so the kid would get a proper nights sleep.

Peter glanced over at him. “You’re getting sentimental in your old age, Dad,” he said, his smirk a little too soft to be truly teasing.

Tony huffed a small laugh, shrugging. “Well, I’m entitled. It’s a milestone in a kid’s life, to learn how to drive.”

Peter looked up at the sky. “It doesn’t feel that big, compared to things that I’ve seen and done. Things we’ve done together.”

It was true, they’d had more life-and-death situations than most fathers and sons, more scrapes and bruises and hospital visits than they could count. He’d seen his boy in a hospital bed too many times.

“It is big, anyway,” Tony reminded him. “The average things are just as important as the superhuman things. Your life can’t be... battles to save the world all the time. You need the little things to make the big things worth it.”

Peter turned his head and smiled at Tony.

“Like stargazing with my dad?” he asked.

“Like teaching my son to drive,” Tony agreed.

Peter curled a little closer to Tony, laying his head on his shoulder.

“I love you, kid,” Tony whispered, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head.

“Love you, too.”

#Irondad and Spiderson #Tony Stark #Peter Parker #MCU #brotp: speaking of loyalty #my writing #fic #I hated the last one so much I redid it #this was my original idea and I should have just gone with it

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wilwywaylan · 4 years

Text

The Artist above and the Revolutionnary below - Part 4

Fandom : les Misérables

Modern!AU, Enjolras x Grantaire, 3473 words

Last part of the fic for the Same Prompt Challenge ! Finally, it’s done !

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3

Also on AO3 !

Step one : wash self. It would do no good to present himself to Enjolras looking like some kind of cave troll. So Grantaire took a shower, taking great care to wash his hair and untangle the curls. Once mostly dry and dressed in clean clothes, he aimed for the kitchen. Not for the coffee, even if he started by making himself a nice cup, but for something far more ambitious : he was going to cook.

Four hours later, his kitchen was a mess, every horizontal surface was covered in flour and there was even some sticking to some vertical parts, the sink contained more dishes that he believed he owned, and he was in dire need of another shower. But there was a whole plate of cookies in the oven, and it smelled quite good. Not that Grantaire wanted to brag, of course. He didn't have any time for it, anyway, he was way too busy watching the biscuits by the small window. He didn't want...he couldn't mess them up. He didn't have the courage nor the ingredients to start again.

But luckily for him, the cookies got out deliciously golden, and absolutely perfect. He transferred them into a metal box, resisting the urge to eat one himself. After a second shower that got rid of most of the flour, he went to sit at his easel. Now came the third, and most important part. Cookies were a nice touch, but he wouldn't be forgiven just with this, Bahorel's super secret recipe notwithstanding. No, he needed to find the perfect present that would melt Enjolras' anger like a cube of ice during summer. And nothing could be more of a perfect present than something handmade, or in his case, hand-drawn.

The white page was almost intimidating, at first, more than during one of his assignments, even. Assignments, he could bullshit his way through them if inspiration didn't strike. But this.... this was way more important. Okay, no, maybe not. He couldn't claim a cute boy was more important than his studies. It was important in a different way, but he couldn't just pretend he knew what he was doing. He needed to know. He needed to make it perfect.

The first strokes were hesitant, almost shy, barely scratching the surface. But as he went, the picture in his mind grew clearer, his gestures became more assured, and he started working faster.

When he finally moved, the sun had set, his neck was sending jolts of pain up his skull, his fingers hurt, and his hoodie had lost all pretention to be an actual color. He stretched, sending his arms above his head, only realizing now that his stomach was growling. Probably loud enough to wake his neighbors up. But he didn't care. He felt well. The painting on his easel was probably one of his finest works since... oh, several years. Enjolras stood in the middle of it ; Grantaire had painted him dressed in a XIXe century style, with a red jacket with a cockade pinned on the lapel, a black cravat resting undone on a white shirt under a black waistcoat. There was a smudge of blood on the cheek, but he was brandishing a red flag above his head. The whole sky behind him was a brilliant whirlwind of pink, orange and yellow, and a timid sun was stroking Enjolras' face with gold rays. Any critic would have dismissed the piece as "overly pompous" and "pretentious", but Grantaire felt a mix of pride and anxiety watching it. It certainly was fine, but didn't he exaggerate, making Enjolras' face softer than it was ? Maybe his eyes weren't fierce enough, not full of fire enough ? And what if Enjolras didn't enjoy a portrait of himself ? Oh well, too late now, it was done. Tomorrow, he would make his move. But for now, he wanted nothing more than sleep. He made his way to his room, abandoning his clothes on the way, and dropped on the bed. The remnants of Bahorel's impromptu breakfast were still on the nightstand, and he devoured the rest of the croissants. Once sated, he wrapped himself in the blankets and just laid there, content and sated, for the first time in days. Maybe things were looking up, after all.

~*~

Next morning saw Grantaire up earlier than he'd been in months. He'd woken up almost with the sun, and had been since tossing and turning under the blankets, trying to keep himself busy until it was a decent time to put his plan in motion. He didn't know about Enjolras' sleeping habits, and didn't want to wake him up. That wouldn't put him in good dispositions. So he browsed the internet, trying to distract himself until it was time to move.

At around 10 AM, he decided to act. He rolled out of bed and got ready, going through the motions with application, concentrating on each gesture to ignore the way his heart seemed to try to get free from his chest. He took the box of cookies, the painting, and snuck out into the hallway. It was dark and deserted. Perfect. He went down the stairs, his socked feet silent on the tiles. Still no one. He managed to reach door 32 without a hitch, without any nosy neighbor opening their door to see who was playing spies in the hallway. He carefully put the painting down, put the box beside it, with a small message he'd spent at least fifteen minutes writing. Nothing fancy, just a heartfelt "I'm sorry I've been an ass". No need to start babbling on writing. Good.

He rang the bell... and ran away, up the stairs, almost falling down and hitting the ramp in his hast. He had barely reached his story, when he heard a door open. There was a moment of silence. And a thought hit him right between the eyes : what if Enjolras decided to climb here to see who put the presents on his doorstep ? He'd see him crouching behind the railing like an idiot. He dashed inside his apartment, closed the door, then opened it a tiny sliver. No Enjolras materialized on the landing, but there was a rustling. Like things being picked up and carried inside. So he had found the presents. Very good.

Grantaire retreated inside, pondering on the next move for a second. He could start working on his assignments again, clean a bit of his flat, maybe scrub his bathroom. Things would go back to how they were before all these guitar shenanigans. But that wasn't what he wanted, right ? So he needed to follow the plan.

He needed to rummage a little (a lot) through the mess accumulated under his bed and in his cupboard, but he finally unearthed an old, battered case. The guitar inside had lost a bit of its shine, but the intricate patterns on it, flowers and clouds, were still as vivid as always. He took it back to his window and sat as comfortably as possible. It was out of tune, of course, after so much time in storage, but the gestures came back to him easily, and soon, it was fit to play. He stroked the strings, just enjoying the sound for a few seconds, then started to warm up. The notes flew by the window, carried by the wind, soft and round at each vibration of the strings, climbing the scales up and down. His fingers were dancing, almost on their own, modulating the melody almost perfectly.

Under him, a window opened. He didn't hear footsteps, but he imagined them all the same. Time to go to step five. Or six, he didn't remember. He abandoned the scales for real melody. Still no noise coming from under him. Oh well, he could still play for himself, couldn't he ? After all, he did like this song. And so, he started singing softly, almost under his breath.

Lay down in the stars, my bonny lass Lay down in my arms, we'll make it last The senses aspire to this far greater time As the rivers flow your heart will be mine

He played the song from start to finish, enjoying how easily it was all coming back to him, the lyrics and the melody, how delightful it was to play again. The last notes fled outside, fading slowly as the strings stopped singing. Grantaire leaned on the guitar, feeling the vibrations stop under his fingers. The silence after a song always had a special quality, soft and serene, like it was another part, something that completed the song.

- Are you there ?

Enjolras' voice cut the silence, made him jump so hard that he almost dropped the guitar. He did call for him. Enjolras wanted to talk to him ! Do not ruin this, play it cool. He walked to the window and leaned out. Enjolras was peering up at him, and Grantaire's heart gave a little tug at the beautiful eyes fixed on him, so large and so blue that they seemed to hold the whole sky. He also noticed that he didn't look as angry as yesterday. Or perhaps he was very good at hiding his feelings. Grantaire composed himself a friendly smile, and answered :

- I am, yes. Hello, Enjolras.

- Hello. I heard you playing, so I wondered....

- If it was me, or the ghost of Christmas past ?

Enjolras frowned, and Grantaire remembered that he was supposed to be nice and friendly, not rile him up again by making fun of him.

- Sorry, he added. What can I do for you ?

- Someone put a box of cookies and a very nice painting on my doorstep, and I was wondering if you knew something about it.

The urge to roll his eyes was stronger than ever, but he refrained heroically.

- Why yes. Do you enjoy cookies, at least ? Because I didn't really ask...

- Oh, so it was you ?

- Yes ? I mean, I signed the note, so....

Enjolras frowned again, more perplexed that angry this time.

- Yes, but.... you.... didn't really introduce yourself. Your friend called you "R" that time, but I didn't know that it stood for "Grantaire", so...

This time, Grantaire facepalmed. Count on him to be so stupid he forgot to officially introduced himself.

- Sorry. I'm Grantaire. Pleased to meet you.

- Pleased to meet you too.

Grantaire tried not to smile too wildly.

- So, what do I owe the pleasure ?

- I heard the guitar. Were you playing ?

- Ah yes, I felt like getting it out of storage and tickling the strings a little.

- That was really great ! I didn't know you were such a good player !

He really needed to stop complimenting him, because Grantaire wasn't sure he was going to maintain his composure for long.

- It's been a while since I've played, but....

- Do you think you could... come down, and we'll play ?

What ? Did he hear right ? Was he....? This was a dream. This could only be a dream. Did Enjolras really ask him to come back ? But he was watching him with his beautiful eyes, and still looking expectantly up at him, and pinching himself didn't suddenly wake him up. That was reality.

When the information reached his brain, Grantaire grabbed his guitar and, once again, ran all the way to Enjolras' door. As he knocked, he suddenly realized that he had bypassed shoes entirely. Too bad, Enjolras was already opening the door, his cat in his arms. Grantaire scratched the little head between the hair, refrained from doing the same to Enjolras.

- So, he said instead, I heard you wanted to play ?

Enjolras lead him to the balcony again, where two cups of coffee were waiting, smoking quietly. Grantaire was both oddly touched by the welcoming gesture, and impressed at how Enjolras seemed to be sure that he would come done. But then again, maybe Bahorel was right and his crush *was* visible from space.

- Anything you want to play ? Grantaire asked once he’d sat down on the rickety chair.

- Can you play Wonderwall ?

- Of course, I taught you. Together ?

Enjolras picked up his own instrument. He carefully placed his hands as Grantaire had shown him, tuned it a little, then turned to face him. Grantaire counted the rhythm as he had taught it, careful of not going too fast.

It was weird, playing together like this. Enjolras did lack a bit in rhythm, forcing Grantaire to adjust, but nothing he couldn't deal with. He didn't dare sing at first, rather enjoying Enjolras' voice, but after the first verse, he just let himself get carried away. It was great, moving like this, in unison, almost like they were two halves of the same thing. Grantaire didn't want to read too much into the situation, but it was... exhilarating. It felt like flying. Like being, for a few seconds, at the top of the world, with him.

It ended, because of course, it had to end, leaving Grantaire disoriented, and a little breathless. Probably the singing, of course. But Enjolras looked as affected as him, so maybe he hadn't imagined the connexion they shared for a minute or two. He tried to play it cool, picking at the keys to retune the strings. Enjolras watched him do with interest.

- Can you play something else ? he asked suddenly.

- Of course. What do you like ?

- Anything you want.

Anything ? Grantaire didn't have to pick his brain to find a song. Of course, that would be a very daring move, but Fortune favored the bold and all that. What did he risk, except a slap and being thrown over the balcony rail ? (probably not). He started playing the chords, softly at first, then seeing that Enjolras didn't run away, launched into the song.

Wise men say only fools rush in But I can't help falling in love with you...

It was a good thing he knew the words by heart, because Enjolras was so close their knees were brushing, and Grantaire had great trouble stopping himself from jumping each time he touched him. His heart was beating fast, so fast, and he was sure he could hear Enjolras', beating in tune. Or that may just be wishful thinking.

He didn't know how he got to the end of the song without running away or bungling anything. He was ready to jump out of his skin at each light touch. And as he lifted his head, it was to discover the beautiful blue eyes set on him, pinning him in place. He couldn't turn his head, he couldn't say anything, he could just look at him, and hope his eyes would do the talking.

Suddenly, Jude jumped on his master's lap, almost knocking the guitar over, breaking the spell. Enjolras patted him as he kneading his pants, and asked :

- This song...

- Yes.... Did you like it ?

- A lot... It's very pretty.

- Very, yes.

Perfect. When did they land in a potboiler and get turned into shy teenagers ? Grantaire would have slapped himself if he didn't fear looking like an idiot. He'd always hated that genre, so to suddenly find himself like this, babbling and muttering, incapable of speaking his mind... They'd never get there, not like that. Someone needed to take the reins of the conversation for something to happen, anything. He opened his mouth, but Enjolras beat him to it.

- Did you choose it for a reason ?

Ah, short and to the point. Enjolras certainly didn't embarrass himself with subtleties. But now, he was expecting an answer. And this meant Grantaire needed to think very hard about the answer he was going to give, and quick. And Enjolras was still looking at him, so he needed to focus extra hard to not say anything stupid or incriminating. And he needed to think, and to think quickly, instead of being sidetracked like this.

- I....

Great start, Grantaire. Now say something, or he's going to lose his patience, and maybe his temper. But what could he say ? That he really, really wanted to kiss him ? Hold his hand and the rest too ? Set his life at his feet ? Well, yes, this was what he wanted. But he couldn't say it, or Enjolras would run away. But he needed to say something now. Anything.

- I like it.

Oh great. This time, he hit his head against the guitar, lightly, of course.

- Is that the only reason ?

Grantaire took a deep breath, lifted his head. There they were. No going back now.

- I....

It didn't want to come. He was ready to say it, that was the best moment, the only moment, it was perfect, the atmosphere, the guitar, everything, and he couldn't say it. Count on him to be so stupid he couldn't confess his feelings.

A hand closed on his and squeezed gently. He looked down at their fingers, then back at Enjolras' face, who kept his eyes down.

- I don't want your whole life, he said, but I could... take your hand, if you want.

Grantaire was a bit tempted to laugh, but he refrained.

- Would you, really ? He asked, very low.

- I want to try, at least. If you want to.

He was looking at him, now, with such an open expression that Grantaire almost wanted to scream and tackle him. But no. Act like a normal person. He lifted the hand Enjolras wasn't holding, stroked his cheek, very slowly. His movements were measured, to give him all the time he needed to move back. But Enjolras didn't move back. Not when Grantaire bent down, very, very slowly to kiss him. It was soft, almost too much. Clumsy, too, like Enjolras wasn't used to being kissed. They just kept like this for a moment, barely moving. Not enough for Grantaire, he wanted more, way more, he wanted to ravish him, to leave him red, breathless, to hold him tight and never let go. But it was perfect none-the-less.

They parted for breath, and because Grantaire's neck was starting to hurt. Enjolras was looking at him, his cheeks a little red, his smile a little shy. Positively adorable. Without letting go of Grantaire's hand, he moved his chair a little closer, until he could lean against his shoulder. It was not the most comfortable way to sit, but Grantaire wouldn't have let go for anything in the world. Still, he felt compelled to ask :

- Are you sure you want this ? I mean....

Enjolras moved a little, and he wanted to hold him back, but he didn't step aside, not even a little.

- What do you mean ?

- Well... I'm me, and....

This time, Enjolras shifted to be able to look at him without leaving his shoulder.

- Yes, I know.

- Are you sure this is what I want ? Because....

- I am sure, yes. I know what I'm getting, and what I don't know, I will discover. And I'm sure I will like it.

A very large emotion got stuck in Grantaire's throat, effectively cutting all the words he could have used. So he just held Enjolras' hand tighter, and twisted a little to be able to lay a kiss on his forehead.

They sat like this for a moment in silence, watching the sparrows fly by. Grantaire's thumb was stroking the soft skin on Enjolras' hand, very gently. Suddenly, Enjolras asked :

- It wasn't... too awkward, was it ? When I said... (He gestured vaguely with his free hand.) About your life, and....

- It was, Grantaire chuckled, but that was adorable. It's very... you.

Enjolras laughed a little.

- You better get used to it, it seems that I'm very clumsy at speaking my feelings.

- Don't worry, I like it a lot.

- Good. Now would you maybe play that song for me again ?

Grantaire let go of Enjolras' hand with a hint of regret, and took his guitar back. Immediately, Enjolras settled back against his shoulder. Grantaire didn't know if he could play with someone against him like that, but he certainly wasn't going to ask him to move. Certainly not. He stroked the strings again, and started the song a second time. Enjolras was warm and heavy against him, and it was perfect. The notes started to fly above the roof, to tell everyone listening that they had finally found each other.

Songs are True Life Song by Jon Anderson, and Can’t help falling in love with you by Elvis Presley

#les miserables #enjolras #grantaire #enjoltaire #same prompt challenge #dorks #such dorks #they are so dorky #I love them

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justaghostingon · 4 years

Text

Cogs in a Steel Heart

Chapter 3: Complications

Nuru shows up and Hugo has issues. Cyrus never thought he’d have to offer sound life advice to an angsty teenager, especially not this angsty teenager.

Read on ao3 https://archiveofourown.org/works/24331849/chapters/59190397 or below the cut.

The day after the air totem was acquired, Hugo was nearly forty minutes late to his report. He had been so late in fact, that Cyrus had considered going to look for him to make sure he had actually survived the trial and didn’t need Cyrus to scrape him off a trap or something. But just as he’d taken the first step Hugo appeared around a distant tree, stomping his feet and mumbling to himself.

Cyrus felt a bit confused. In their last meet up, Hugo had been begrudgingly pleased with the cleverness of his companions. How badly had the mission gone to make him so angry again?

Hugo kept muttering to himself for a bit, using words like “princess,” and “star-dress” with a vicious tone of voice that Cyrus knew all too well.

“Let me guess,” he sighed as Hugo’s attention snapped to him. “You’ve got a new traveling companion?”

Hugo’s expression went slack with surprise, as if he couldn’t figure out how Cyrus could recognize the very same voice Hugo used whenever someone new was introduced to his life after knowing him for six years. But his frustration won out.

“Who does she think she is?” Hugo threw up his hands. “Princess of the Air Kingdom thinks she can just waltz into our group and schmooze her way in, and everyone was just so willing to take her. She’s just sooo clever with her star-dress and her navigation skills, and oh she’s so fun Hugo!” Can’t you try to be nice?” He held up his hands in a pleading matter and batted his eyes. Cyrus got the distinct impression he was mimicking someone specific.

“And then,” Hugo gave a sharp kick to the trunk of the tree and tried bravely not to wince as his foot collided badly. “Then she has the nerve to turn around and say she doesn’t trust ‘my type’ in her kingdom. My type!” Hugo whirled around at Cyrus. “Exactly what is wrong with my type?”

Cyrus eyed the uniform of steel and spikes. Back home, he would hardly stand out. But in this strange country of light clothes and bright colors he stuck out like a sore thumb. At least he was scrawny so most people didn’t run to the other side of the road when he passed like when they saw Cyrus. He wasn’t sure how to explain it all to Hugo though.

But Hugo seemed to interpret his silence as well as if he’d spoken aloud, raising a hand to subconsciously touch his spiked goggles. “Well, at least I dress practically. No one would jump someone dressed like this.” Cyrus gave a nod, because this was true.

Hugo seemed to brighten up at that. “Yeah, I’m practical! It’s not like I’m Goggles, with a gazillion glass balls with different alchemic reactions all glowing on a sash and bringing out his big blue eyes.” Hugo’s own eyes glazed over. “I wonder if I could persuade him to dress up in green and spikes, it would really look striking against his skin, but it would probably kill him,-” he shook his head like he was trying to clear it, “-and Firecracker has a literal firecracker strapped to his back!” He finished, cheeks slightly redder than normal.

Cyrus blinked. What was that all about?

“The mission!” Hugo squawked. “Let me tell you about the mission!” He waved his hands in the air. “She kept getting in my way, being all suspicious. And Firecracker’s old suspicion came up too, and I think they were considering ditching me.” Hugo bit his lip. “But don’t worry! Goggles stuck up for me, and I proved my worth in that journey was far more than a silly star-dress!” He puffed up his chest, then suddenly sagged back down as if all the air had disappeared. “But she demanded to come so she could “save her people,-” Hugo air quotes and yup, that’s definitely a thing he does now, “-and Goggles is too much of a bleeding heart to turn her away, so I’m stuck with her.”

He glared at the tree like he wanted to kick it again. Cyrus felt like he should speak up to save it from said kick. Not that it hurt the tree, but just on principle. “So she’s a constant now,” he said.

“Yes,” Hugo crossed his arms.

“So you’re going to have to get her to trust you too,” Cyrus pointed out. Hugo’s mouth fell open, outrage written on all his features.

“What?” he yelled.

Cyrus shrugged. “She’s gonna be sticking around. You have to make nice to keep their trust, therefore, you have to be nice to her.”

“Stop trying to be smart. It’s not a good look for you,” Hugo turned away. “Besides,” he added, voice as petulant as a toddlers. “I was in the group first.”

He pouts and wow, Cyrus suddenly has flashbacks to his neighbors’ kid, black eye and the same pout on his lips, complaining about a new kid on the playground who his best friend had befriended. What had Mona said to him?

“You were in the group first, so you’ve got to be extra nice, because it’s hard coming in late.” Hugo opened his mouth to protest but Cyrus held up a hand. Taking a stab in the dark, he added, “And wouldn’t that be what Goggles would want you to do?”

Hugo closed his mouth and looked down, and yup, Cyrus had hit the nail on the head. Looks like Hugo wanted to remain in Goggles’ good graces. Cyrus filed that information away into a box to think about never, and finished with, “just give it a shot.”

“Fine,” Hugo rolled his eyes. “I’ll try to be nice.”

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

“That’s the guy!” Lester pushed Cyrus’s shoulder as they stepped into a dingy, low-lit pub. “Right over there! I told you I’d remember!”

Cyrus struggled to adjust to the lighting as a large grey blob stood up and moved towards them.

“Lester,” the great grey blob said. “Did you come to accept my offer?”

“Naw man,” Lester laughed. “I quit. But Cyrus here, he took my place, he might want it.”

“Oh?” Grey blob turned to look at Cyrus and in the dim light Cyrus could make out a thick grey cloak around his shoulders and a long jagged scar over one eye. “So you’d like my help with the brat?”

“That depends,” Cyrus crossed his arms. “On what exactly your help entails.”

“Nothing fatal, if that’s what you’re worried about,” the grey blob man shrugged his shoulders. “Just a little lesson, to keep the brat in line. Off company time of course.”

Well that didn’t sound suspicious at all. What did this man think he was, some naive lamb from the heights? He frowned.

Grey blob man sighed. “Look,” he said. “I used to have the position you’re in right now. Tried to make nice to the brat. And do you know what he did?” Grey blob man took a seat, arms resting on the table behind him.

“What?” the crowd in the pub asked, in the drunken grumble of people who've heard the story many, many times before.

“He left me this.” Grey blob man raised a finger and gently traced the scar down his face.

The pub erupted in growls and dissent. Grey blob man seemed to be enjoying it, preening under their attention. But Cyrus was not impressed. Something about the way the man would turn towards the angriest voices set his teeth on edge.

“But you know what I did?” he said as he leaned forward. “I didn’t run! I made that kid behave, right up until that crazy lady fired me.”

The crowd wolf-whistles and cackles in agreement. Even Lester seemed taken in. Cyrus felt a sharp niggling in the back of his mind, as the man’s eyes locked on him, cold and grey. He didn’t know why, by all accounts he should be lining up to ask this man his secret. But right now, his instincts were screaming at him to leave.

“So what will it be? Do you want my help?” The grey blob man held out a hand, and the tilt of his smile was sharp as a wolf’s.

Cyrus eyed that smile, then swung a glance at Lester, smiling placid and trusting as a sheep. Idiot wouldn’t be any help here. But then again.

Cyrus shrugged his shoulders. “I’m not in the habit of taking help from someone whose name and guild I don’t know.”

Grey tipped his head back and laughed, a joyous, contagious sound, and that strange feeling is back, screaming in the back of Cyrus’s head. “Of course, of course. I wouldn’t trust a stranger either. I haven’t got a guild, but if you want to get to know me, come by the bar again some time, I’ll be here.”

“And as for the name,” he shot Cyrus a wink. “It’s Grimoire.”

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

Nice it seemed, was far harder for Hugo to put into practice than it was to promise. But hey, what else was new?

Conversations between them involving the new companion Hugo dubbed Princess were usually short and full of complaint and phrases like:

“She wants to know why I’m going off alone all the time, like I don’t know, maybe I’m going off to scream in the woods about how much I don’t like you?”

“And then she and Firecracker went off to some stupid star rocks, but I noped out of that and spent the whole day with Goggles. Alone. He apologized and I nodded along but deep down, I wasn’t sorry.

“My spikes are totally acceptable fashion! Really! She has stars on her dress! Who is she to judge?”

“Stars are always in fashion,” Cyrus pointed out to Hugo’s anguished screams.

At this point, Cyrus was beginning to wonder if Hugo knew the meaning of the word nice. Surely he’d at least heard of the concept. Maybe this whole disaster would work better if he told Hugo to pretend she was an animal instead of a new teammate. Hugo got along with animals. Mechanical ones at least.

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

“Shush,” Hugo crooned to the little mechanical mouse stuck in the barbed wire. It gave a pitiful cry as it struggled. Hugo carefully tugged at the wire with his fingers, easing it open for the contraption to better move. In its fear, it bit his finger, tiny mechanical teeth sinking to the bone.

Cyrus fully expected him to pull back and fling the creature away, but Hugo merely grit his teeth and kept silently working with his other hand to untangle the final wires.

“There you go,” he said as the mechanical mouse finally wiggled free of the trap. “Got a bit of a spring lock on your jaw don’t you.” Hugo carefully lifted it up, jaw still clamped around his finger, and ran a gentle finger down its back. “Don’t you worry. I’ll get you fixed up good as new.”

Cyrus coughed politely into his fist. Hugo froze, then turned to look at him, eyes hard as stone. “Leave,” he snapped, spare hand curled protectively around the little mouse.

Cyrus left.

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

Alas, Cyrus thought as the memory faded. The princess was not made of mechanical parts, and thus very unlikely to ever get on Hugo’s good side. It seems whatever fluke had happened with Goggles and Firecracker did not extend to her.

So when Hugo came back smiling, (honest to god smiling, when was the last time Cyrus had seen him actually smile?) and ecstatic to tell about an adventure at a ball that the Princess had invited him too, to say Cyrus was surprised would be an understatement.

“You went to a ball. You.” he stated as Hugo leaned back against a tree.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Hugo flipped his hair. “I’ll have you know I clean up handsomely.”

“You hate nobles.” Cyrus pointed out. “Why would you ever go and be around them willingly?” Those fat sods were worse than cockroaches in Cyrus’s humble opinion, and he’d always been so glad his large bulk meant Hugo had to take on most of the missions that involved interacting with them.

Hugo sniffed. “Goes to show how uncultured you are Cyrus. A ball isn’t a place you go to be with nobles. It’s a place you go to show nobles you’re far better at all their petty goals than they could ever hope to be.”

Cyrus stared at him, uncomprehending.

Hugo sighed. “The food and drink are really good, is that enough for you?”

Cyrus tilted his head, considering. He still didn’t think it was worth putting up with those over-bloated fools, but each to their own. He shrugged.

Hugo rolled his eyes. “The point is, some friend of Princess’s, I don’t know his name, invited us all to come to the festival of love, or something sappy like that.”

Oh, I see where this is going. Cyrus thought as he tried not to smile. And I suppose you spent the whole day with Goggles?

“Princess was a bit embarrassed about taking us, but I never turn down an opportunity to schmooze, and Firecracker was pretty excited about the stargazing show afterwards, something about a star beast? I don’t know.” Hugo shrugged. “The point was, I was quite the hit, had all the guests convinced I was some kind of young lord or something.”

The smile slipped off his face. “Goggles got stuck in some pointless quarrel with the royal engineer of Equis though, so he couldn’t join me. Dragged Yong in too. But I didn’t care.” Hugo straightened. “I was doing fine.”

Cyrus raised an eyebrow. He seriously doubted that.

“Better than Princess at any rate,” Hugo crossed his arms. “She was sulking in a corner, apparently her friend’s fiancé was poking fun at how she was sixteen and not engaged. Because sixteen is sooo old.” Hugo rolled his eyes.

“She was pretty bummed out that no one would take her actual accomplishments seriously in light of her love life, and well, I decided to do what a “nice teammate” would do,-” Hugo made air quotes yet again and Cyrus considered how to get him to stop. Seriously, where did he pick this up? “- I offered to be her partner in the lovers’ competition!”

“You-what?” Cyrus blinked at Hugo, who looked incredibly smug.

“Brilliant right?” He tucked his hands in his pockets. “We join as “just friends” and expose how completely fake and pointless all their so-called love really is!”

“I don’t think that’s how that works,” Cyrus says, still trying to wrap his head around the absolute stupidity that was Hugo’s plan. He wished Mona was here, she’d know how to put it delicately. Or she’d just laugh. Probably laugh.

“That’s totally how it works,” Hugo waved Cyrus’s protests away. “And we did pretty good too, all the competitions were really ridiculous, like drinking tea or making flower arrangements. It was hilarious how serious everyone else took it, when we could just get by on the power of alchemy and overacting. Why one time in the flower competition -” he doubled over in a laugh.

Cyrus watched him gasping for breath and wished that he had the ability to read minds. Jokes which made the speaker laugh were rarely as funny delivered as they were in the speakers head.

“-she,” Hugo weased as he pulled himself up right, “she gave them a completely black bouquet to represent my soul, and then spouted some nonsense about how the dark of the flowers represents the night and how I help her shine brighter than a star and the judge was nodding along like he actually bought it!” Hugo started giggling again, clutching his arms tight to his chest to try to stop. “We laughed so hard after he gave us first prize!”

Cyrus bit the inside of his lip. Making fun of nobles was like playing with fire. Even if you get away a few times, eventually you slip up and get burned. Hugo, who spent most of his life schmoozing up to them and ripping them off, really, really out to know this.

“Course then the royal snob from earlier decided to end our fun,” Hugo’s expression sobered. “Apparently she found out I wasn’t noble from her dear fiancé, and pulled up some bogus old law that said that commoners couldn’t participate or something like that.” Hugo rolled his eyes. “Like come on, do they really think commoners care about their stupid little competition?”

Cyrus refrained from pointing out that it seemed like Hugo cared about the stupid competition, if for very different reasons than the rest of the participants. Petty revenge still requires investment after all.

“I told Princess to go on without me,” Hugo shrugged. “Because what says ‘I don’t need a relationship like beating all the couples at their own game?’ But Nuru, -” he shook his head, a strange look of wonder on his face, “-Nuru told them that I was her friend, and that if I couldn’t participate, then neither would she.”

He looked so vulnerable then, eyes wide and confused at the memory, like he couldn’t comprehend why anyone would stick up for him like that. Cyrus wondered if he’d ever had anyone call him a friend before, and to spite a noble no less! He guessed being a princess herself probably meant standing up to a noble didn’t carry the same amount of weight, but still...

Hugo’s expression closed off, like a curtain was pulled down behind his eyes, and the vulnerability was hidden under a look of smug pleasure as he crossed his arms behind his head. “We spent the rest of the time helping Goggles and Firecracker make fireworks to perfectly match the constellations and save the star watching competition from the foggy night, like alchemists do. I naturally snagged the spot beside Goggles. No amount of good camaraderie was going to make me give that up.”

Hiding a growing attachment with another, more obvious and dangerous attachment? Hugo you are losing your touch, Cyrus thought. As his stomach churned uncomfortably.

And between you and me,-” He leaned over to give a mock whisper, “-we even threw in a few new ones of ourselves in the sky.” He giggled then, like messing with a noble’s stargazing competition was the most dastardly thing he could think of to do, which given his track record of petty revenge didn’t even grace the top fifty.

And Cyrus sat and listened as he watched the light in Hugo’s eyes grow as he spoke of his friends and the fireworks they sculpted together. Because what else could you call people who would stick up to a noble woman for you and create pictures of you in the sky?

He’s losing sight of the mission, Cyrus thought in despair. Oh Mona, what am I supposed to do now?

#varian and the seven kingdoms #seven kingdoms au #varian #hugo the human #yong #princess nuru #varigo #cogs in a steel heart

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unfortunate-stranger-losers · 5 years

Photo

Six Baudelaires AU, Part Three {AO3} {Masterlist} {Part One} {Part Two}

Chapter Thirty-Three → in which the Baudelaires begin to heal

“Wait.” Friday narrowed her eyes. “Bears don’t live on beaches.”

“I know!” Klaus laughed. “Shakespeare had no geographical knowledge whatsoever.”

“Neither do I!” Friday giggled. “I’m the next Shakespeare!”

Lilac laughed and tossed her a coconut. “Here, Shakespeare, make yourself useful while Klaus infodumps.”

It had been several days, but the Baudelaires were starting to feel more comfortable in their little corner of the island. They had made their tent much larger, so all six of them could fit without squishing. Friday snuck them enough food that they didn’t quickly grow sick of Sunny’s coconut dishes, and it had rained the night before during a light storm, so they finally had water instead of- thankfully non-fermented- coconut milk. Violet had gathered some materials from the beach, and was working on a water filter, but until then, it was mostly the milk for the time being.

But the good news was, Friday was, for the first time in what must have been forever, drinking non-fermented milk, whenever she visited, and it was showing. She was laughing and smiling much more, and she was even more curious than she’d been before she started dropping by. She’d been sneaking away more and more with each passing day, listening intently to all of their stories, or paying with Solitude and Babbitt, or helping Sunny with the cooking.

She’d also managed to sneak them some extra robes, and while the Baudelaires were not fond of them, they also knew they couldn’t stay in one outfit for too long, so every now and again they’d switch into the robes while Lilac and Klaus washed the clothes in the water and then hung them up on a string they tied between two trees. Today was thankfully a ‘clothes day’, and after Klaus spent another few minutes describing the play about the jealous King and lost princess, Friday asked, “Hey, guys?”

“Ye?” Solitude looked up from the tiny tent she’d set up so Babbitt could have a place to chill by themself.

“If more clothes or fabric wash up on the beach, can I have a dress?” Friday asked hesitantly.

“If you want one,” Violet said, sitting beside her and bouncing Sunny on her lap, “We can definitely make you one. Lilac and Nick are very good at sewing.”

“So am I!” Sunny cheered.

Friday’s eyes lit up. “Could you teach me?”

“Of course!” Lilac nodded, beaming. She pushed her braids back, and then said, “How was the storm last night?”

“Real pretty!” Friday said. “I love thunder!”

“You know,” Lilac sat in front of her, smiling, “So do I!”

“It was a bit loud,” Klaus said, waving at Nick as he came out of the trees with a handful of leaves, “But it was nice to get some rain.”

“Should we go storm-scavenging,” Violet asked, “Or wait until your colony’s finished? We don’t want to cause trouble.”

“We could go to the Coastal Shelf.” Friday said. “Usually people don’t go until later. If they do, you can just ignore them. Or pretend you’ve kidnapped me or something so they leave you alone.”

“If we don’t find anything, we’ll at least get some walking in.” Nick said. “Being stuck in one place is a bit frustrating.”

“I like exploring, I think.” Friday admitted, twirling the spyglass in her hands. “Lilac, Violet said you were going to go to the dangerous side of the island soon. Can I go, too?”

Lilac glared at Violet, who shrugged. “She asked.”

“Only if you want to.” Lilac said carefully. “I’ve been walking alright, so we should probably go soon and see if there’s a boat we can use for decision day.”

“You could probably use the outrigger.” Friday said, very hesitantly, as she stared down at the ground.

“I doubt Bitchmael would let us.” Nick shrugged. “We kinda yelled at him for a while.”

“Maybe he’d let us, just to get us the hell out.” Violet suggested.

“That can be our worst-case scenario, if we don’t find a proper boat.” Lilac said. “But first, let’s go check the beach. Violet, I think I can walk on my own.”

“You should at least have a crutch or something. Maybe a walking stick.” Violet said. “We can probably find some driftwood.”

“Stop worrying,” Lilac smiled, holding out a palm to help Friday to her feet, and taking the small girl’s hand, “That’s my job as biggest sister.”

Her smile faltered slightly, as she glanced at Nick. Nick then quickly said, “Yeah, Vi, it’s her job. Worry about me and Klaus, we’re going to throw ourselves into the sea.”

“Don’t do that, we might need you as sharkbait.” Violet said.

“That’s what Olaf’s for.” Solitude said, holding out her hands for Babbitt to leap onto.

“Sharkbait!” Sunny agreed.

“Speaking of sharkbait,” Violet grabbed the knife from their sack of supplies, “We better take this in case he shows up.”

“Good plan, V.” Klaus said.

They all stood, and Friday and Lilac moved to the front, where Friday could point the way. As she did, she said, “Why would you need sharkbait?”

“To catch a shark.” Nick said. “They’re endangered, so we don’t want to kill any, but if we’re desperate for food…”

“We’ve never eaten shark.” Friday said. “There’s lots of things I’ve never eaten. Sherman says that there’s this thing on the mainland called ‘cake,’ but we don’t have desserts here.”

“You’d love cake.” Violet said, as Klaus took Sunny, so Violet could be ready to stab at any opportunity. “You seem to like sweet things.”

“What other sweet things are on land?” Friday asked, jumping over a fallen tree.

“Chocolate.” Nick said. “And other candy.”

“Strawberries.” Sunny said. “Jelly.”

“You.” Violet pocketed her knife and grabbed Friday from behind, causing the girl to burst into laughter. “You’re too sweet and we’re gonna have to eat you!”

“Nooo!” Friday couldn’t stop laughing, “Vi, put me down!”

Lilac laughed and pulled her hair back; her ribbon had been too bloodied to use anymore, so she was using her hands until they could find a replacement. It was getting a bit frustrating, but she didn’t want to complain. They were all doing the best they could.

Friday looked up at Violet as she kicked the air, and she said, “What else is on the mainland?”

“Tons of inventing materials.” Violet said.

“Cars and stoves and boilers and other things to fix.” Lilac said.

“And things to build.”

“I miss the libraries.” Klaus sighed. “We haven’t had a decent library in a while.”

“I miss the roof of Prufrock.” Nick said. “It was fun to drop things on people.”

“I miss Uncle Monty’s snakes.” Solitude sighed, placing Babbitt on her shoulder.

“Fountain.” Sunny said.

“The Fowl Fountain?” Nick shivered. “Why the hell would you miss that?”

Sunny shook her head. “Fountain of Finance. In city.”

The Baudelaires stopped, and stared at her. “You can’t remember that.” Lilac said.

“You weren’t even a year old.” Violet said.

Sunny shook her head. “I remember.”

Friday cocked her head, still held by Violet. “What’s the fountain?”

“The… Fountain of Victorious Finance.” Lilac said. “It was hot and we were waiting for our Mom outside the bank.”

“And then Sunny started crying, so Father dunked her in the fountain.” Violet said. “And she laughed, so he kept splashing her.”

“And then we threw off our shoes and socks and jumped in, too.” Nick sighed.

“And everyone was staring at us.” Klaus laughed. “And Mother came out of the bank, took one look at us, and then ran to join in.”

“We walked home all wet.” Solitude remembered.

They glanced at each other, each feeling a cloud of sadness descending upon them. “That sounds beautiful.” Friday said.

“It was.” Lilac said.

They paused, and then Violet said, “We’re gonna have to dunk you in a fountain someday, Fri-girl. So you know how great it is.”

Friday laughed, and Violet spun a little. Lilac smiled and straightened up again, and said, “Which way, Fri?”

“Jus’ keep goin’ straight.” Friday giggled as Violet swung her around. “We’ll get there in a few minutes- Vi, put me down!”

“Alright.” Violet said, and then she tossed Friday at Nick, who caught her and spun her again. Friday let out a delighted shriek, as Solitude clapped and Sunny leaned against Klaus, asking him to do the same.

Nick managed to lift the little girl onto his shoulders, and she wrapped her hands around his neck and flung back. “Sneak attack!” she said, and Nick let out a mock gasp as he fell. He twirled so that Friday landed on his back, and they burst into laughter again.

“Okay, guys, but we should get to the beach.” Klaus said, smiling as Solitude decided now was a good time to throw herself on top of Nick and Friday to join the pile.

“Join us!” Nick said, looking up at him. “We’re becoming one with the sand!”

“No, no, we-” Friday reached over and pulled on Klaus’s leg, dragging him down with them, and Sunny cheered as they hit the ground.

“Yeet!” Violet shouted, as she threw herself beside her siblings, and after a second, Lilac flopped over, too.

“You know what?” Friday said, as Sunny pushed Klaus’s head into the sand, and he retaliated by dunking her in almost completely, “You guys are cool.”

“Oh, are we?” Lilac rolled onto her stomach, smirking. “Then I guess we won’t shove sand in your hair.”

“No, no, do that!” Friday said. “That sounds like fun!”

“You asked for it, Fri-girl.” Violet said, and she grabbed a handful of sand and dumped it onto her head.

Friday laughed and clapped. “You’re so much more fun than the other kids! They keep telling me-” She sat up straighter, and imitated a deep voice. “‘Don’t rock the boat, Friday, we don’t play school here. School is discouraged.’”

“Well, Prufrock Prep sucked.” Nick said. “But I bet there’s good schools.”

“Didn’t you go to other schools?” Friday asked.

Violet shook her head. “We were homeschooled before the fire.”

“That means our parents taught us, or we taught ourselves.” Klaus said.

Friday sighed. “I wish my mother would teach me things. All she shows me how to do are my chores for the colony, and how to do my hair. She didn’t want me to learn how to read, and she always gets mad when I ask too many questions.”

The Baudelaires shared a cautious look. “That sucks.” Solitude said, sitting beside her. “You should learn everything.”

“Isn’t it dangerous?” Friday asked, glancing over with a frown on her face. “To know everything?”

Nick shuddered. “Yes.” he said. “There are some things you… you don’t want to learn. But that shouldn’t stop you. It shouldn’t keep you from being curious.” He scooted over to her, and poked her stomach, which caused her to giggle again. “Listen to me, Friday… what’s your last name, sweetie?”

“Caliban!”

“Alright. You listen to me, Friday Caliban. You never stop being curious. There’s so much in this world to learn, you hear me?”

“I hear ya, Nicknack.” Friday smiled.

“And,” Nick said, “Also promise me you won’t drink that coconut drug shit anymore.”

Friday grinned. “Keep a secret? I haven’t since I started visiting you, and you gave me actual milk. It tastes better.”

“Okay, but we just wanna make sure you’re not drowsy and forgetful and in danger.” Klaus said. “We don’t want you getting hurt.”

“Poppy,” Sunny said, which meant, “And it’s probably not a good idea for a seven-year-old to be high.”

Friday smiled, and hugged her knees. “Gotcha.” she glanced at Lilac. “And you can promise me a dress?”

“First chance we get.” Lilac ruffled the girl’s hair fondly. “But first, we have to get to the beach. Maybe if we’re lucky, we’ll find fabric first thing.”

“I hope so.” Friday beamed. “I hope we find a ton of interesting stuff.”

“I hope we find books.” Klaus said.

“Or a boat.” said Solitude, practically.

“I hope we find Olaf, dead in a ditch.” Violet said.

“I hope he’s alive so we can stab him.” Nick said.

“Well,” Lilac stood. “We won’t know until we get there. Friday, you’re still our navigator.”

“Okee!” Friday leapt to her feet, happy that she was important in this. “Follow me, Baudelaires!”

#asoue #asoue netflix #asoue movie #a series of unfortunate events #six baudelaires au #six baudelaires official fic #the end #mine #my fanfic

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today-we-will-survive · 5 years

Text

08. Butterfly

A story based on the fictional HYYH world about six boys with unimaginable problems and their friend that can’t do anything to help.

Member: Hoseok

Genre: Angst

Warning: warnings are in the masterlist

Word Count: 7.5K

Parts can be found on my Masterlist under “The Most Beautiful Moment In Life”

A/N: The song Hoseok dances to in the studio is none other than “Intro: Boy Meets Evil”. New parts every Tuesday and Friday

Before the gaps are too wide. Before the whole thing becomes useless.

May.

It had been a week since Hoseok had gotten the call from a distraught Jimin that Jungkook had been hit by a car. He’d rushed to throw his clothes on and swipe his keys off his dresser before tearing out of his house so quickly, the walls trembled with the slam of the door. His poor car could barely keep up with how hard he laid on the gas pedal, the tires protesting loudly around every turn. Luckily, there were no other cars out at this hour because, though he was driving fast, Hoseok couldn’t actually see very clearly through the panicked tears that blurred his vision.

By the time he’d gotten to the hospital, they’d already taken Jungkook back. He saw Jin first. The boy looked like he’d been woken out of a dead sleep, his face all puffy, his hair sticking out every which way, a hoodie thrown on over his white t-shirt and sweatpants. He was bent at an odd angle over the arm of the chair, leaning into the one next to him.

It was only when the younger boy lifted his head that Hoseok saw that it was Jimin crumpled in Jin’s arms. He was trembling, his small hands in his hair, his face so red and puffy that his eyes were just dark slits. He didn’t even have a coat on. Just his light blue, cotton pajamas and a pair of shoes.

“Hobi-hyung?” he cracked, his voice breaking.

Hoseok’s heart dropped at the sound of his voice and he rushed forward falling to his knees in front of him. “What happened? Is Jungkook…did he…?”

“We don’t know,” Jin said as steadily as he could, though Hoseok could still detect a hitch in his voice. The oldest was trying so hard to keep it together for Jimin. “They just took him back a couple minutes ago.”

“He wasn’t breathing well,” Jimin added. “He wasn’t…” His bottom lip quivered and he pulled it into his mouth and shook his head. Then his face twisted in anguish and he fell forward with a sob, his head landing on Hoseok’s shoulder.

Hoseok immediately wrapped his arms around the younger boy’s neck and stroked his hair, whispering gentle reassurances in his ear.

“Where’s Namjoon?” Jin asked quietly. “I texted him. Figured he’d come with you.”

Hoseok looked up to meet his eyes. “He’s working tonight.” Namjoon had been staying at Hoseok’s house now for a couple of weeks and had finally gotten a job doing night shift janitorial work at an office building. “I don’t know if he’ll see your text before—”

The doors to the waiting room burst open as Namjoon—still in his work coveralls—stumbled in. His eyes were wide as they scanned the room before settling on the three boys in the corner.

“What happened?” he asked hurrying toward them. “I got a text from Jin-hyung about Jungkook—”

“He was in an accident, Joonie,” Hoseok whispered.

At the sight of Jimin still limp against Hoseok’s shoulder, Namjoon deflated entirely, his face going pale, his jaw slackening. He looked to Jin. “Is he—”

“We don’t know,” Jin said cutting him off.

“Well, did anyone call Yoongi-hyung?”

“Tae’s trying to get ahold of him right now,” Jin said.

The four were silent for a while. The almost empty waiting room seemed too cold, too bright, too harsh for the situation. Hoseok wished he could turn all the lights off. He just wanted to shield Jimin from everything. From the prying, mock-sympathetic eyes of the few other people sitting in there. From the sounds of reception—the hushed conversations, the joking banter of the staff just trying to make it through their shift. It wasn’t right. Their friend was dying. Why did nobody else care?

Jimin had spent all of his free time at the hospital after that. Though they’d gotten word a few hours after getting there the first night that Jungkook was stable but unconscious and that his condition had stayed pretty much the same all week, Jimin still went. Still sat in the waiting room, asking anyone that came out of the swinging doors if there had been any change. There never was.

Hoseok would accompany him on the days he felt he could drag himself out of bed, which wasn’t often.

It had been eight months since he threw his painkillers in the bonfire on Beach Day and he’d been regretting it every day since then. The first few weeks were spent in his bed, his skin clammy and feverish as he fought through the withdrawals. He’d tried quitting cold turkey before but had never lasted longer than a week before going back to them. He never thought he’d make it this far. Though if the withdrawal symptoms didn’t let up soon, he didn’t know what he’d do. He didn’t know how much more of this pain he could take.

It had been three years since Hoseok’s accident. Only two months of that were supposed to be with the painkillers and then he was supposed to be prescribed something weaker. But the severe pain lasted and the longer Hoseok stayed on his opioids, the further into addiction he fell, until he couldn’t even function in the morning without first popping a few pills.

Three years. Three years of wandering through life in a fog. Of never being able to get his hands to stop quivering, and he could feel it, even if no one else noticed. Of pretending that he wasn’t higher than a kite—especially around his friends. He’d gotten really good at faking normal. It had become the only normal he knew.

Before his accident, Hoseok had been an incredible dancer. He’d been doing it practically since he could walk and he was well on his way to becoming one of the best street dancers to ever come out of South Korea. His path was set. He had performing arts colleges lining up to accept him, scholarships already promised to him while he was still in middle school. A lot rested on his shoulders.

Then the night before his tenth grade showcase, he’d decided to stay late after rehearsal. He’d gone through his routine so many times, he knew every twist, every pop, every step perfectly, but still he just wanted to make sure. Had to make sure he had it positively nailed. That even the nerves over the fact that there were going to be college scouts in the audience watching his every move didn’t distract him.

That night ended his dance career before it even had a chance to start. Hoseok didn’t remember falling. In fact, looking back, he couldn’t really remember anything from that night other than staring up at the ceiling in his hospital bed for literally hours, his head set up in an uncomfortable neck brace, and just letting the tears fall. His dreams were shattered the moment he heard the words “severe spinal injury”. There was no hope for a full recovery.

Hoseok’s mom had been running the dance studio since before Hoseok was born. She used to bring him with her to work when he was just a baby, her students fawning over him, pinching his tiny cheeks and passing him around between them during their down time. As he grew up, he’d join the classes, picking up on the choreography so quickly and so well that when he was finally old enough to be a student at the studio, his mom put him in with the advanced class. Even then, he spent more time helping her come up with the routines and teaching the class rather than being taught. Eventually, she gave him his own weekly slots to teach in. He loved it. He loved creating routines and watching as his students began nailing them, mirroring him and showing his own creation to him. He loved teaching the little, little kids, standing back amusedly watching them completely ignore his direction and do their own thing. More than that, though, he loved in the evenings after the last class had left, when the studio closed for the night and his mom had gone home.

He’d stay there, just him in the empty studio, the lights down and everything washed in blue darkness. He loved dancing in the dark—in the dim light so he could only catch his reflection in the mirror when he was moving. It made him look like he was a part of the air. Like he was moving through water. A spirit, caught up in the slivers of moonlight for just a flash before he melted back into the darkness again. It helped him to feel the music better. To come up with his intricate choreography. It made him well-known in the city for being such a good choreographer. A ray of sunlight that liked to dance in the darkness. A contradiction almost as beautiful as the way he moved.

“Still no change?” Hoseok asked Jimin after the younger boy had slid into the passenger seat of his car. It was Thursday, and Thursday meant group therapy. When Jimin wasn’t at the hospital, Taehyung was. Together, the two of them made sure that there would never be a chance of missing any new information.

Jimin looked down at his phone once he’d settled into his seat, his thumb gliding over the smooth surface of his black screen. “I guess not,” he uttered then looked up at Hoseok. “Tae would tell me right away if there was, right?”

Hoseok nodded quickly, not giving Jimin a chance to doubt it even further. “Of course he would,” he said. “And no news is good news, right? It means Jungkook isn’t getting worse.”

“Or improving.”

Hoseok bit the inside of his cheek. While his youngest friend’s health was staying pretty much the same, Jimin’s was getting worse. Without the protection of Taehyung or Jungkook, Jimin was now fully exposed to relentless tormenting from Jiho. Hoseok himself had called the school and talked to the principal but the man had said that they can’t do anything unless Jiho physically touches the boy. It was like they didn’t care about the fact that this was very obviously affecting Jimin mentally. Had there not been enough stories already on the news and online of kids killing themselves over bullying? Did no one care or even realize that words can do so much more damage?

Every day, Jimin was stepping onto the battle field the moment he entered the school building. Every day he faced an onslaught of mental assault. High school had become a war zone for him and Hoseok noticed every time he saw the boy that he was fighting a losing battle. The scars weren’t visible but they were deep and they’d be there forever. And no one would do a thing about it unless Jiho touched him.

“How are you doing, Jimin?” Hoseok asked knowing full well that the answer was not going to be good.

Jimin didn’t respond at first. He just kept his eyes focused on the phone in his lap. His bottom lip quivered and his thumb continued to trace circles on his phone screen. Finally, he took in a shuddering breath. “I miss him, Hobi-hyung…” he whispered. His breath hitched. “I don’t…don’t know if I can take much more…”

Hoseok’s heart splintered in his chest and he gripped the steering wheel tighter. “What can I do?” he asked. “Tell me what would help and I’ll do it.”

At last, Jimin looked up to meet Hoseok’s eyes.

“Tell me he’s going to make it. Tell me everything will be okay.” Jimin swallowed hard. “Tell me it’ll all go back to normal again.”

Hoseok closed his eyes and thought back to Beach Day. How could so much change in eight months when the group’s friendship had never wavered in five years? Hoseok couldn’t even remember the last time the seven of them had hung out without it somehow ending in an argument. Everything was different. And after Yoongi had gone off on Jin, kicked everyone out and moved, Hoseok didn’t think anything would ever return to normal. At last, he opened his eyes again, turning his head to meet Jimin’s. He could feel the fatigue keeping his eyelids from lifting all the way. His chest felt hollow and his bones felt heavy. But still, he pulled his mouth up into a smile. One not nearly as bright as the smiles he’d produced in the past.

“It’ll all be okay, Jimin,” he said, trying to make his words as convincing as possible. He knew he was lying. He knew nothing would ever go back to the way it was before. But that look on Jimin’s face. That darkness, that dull absence of the spark that always used to light his eyes, that kept him going even though there was so much trying to push him back. It was all so present that Hoseok would say anything to give him just a little bit of hope. Just something to live for. He reached over and gripped the younger boy’s hand. Jimin’s skin was dry and loose, like there was too much of it for his shrinking body. “I promise,” Hoseok added onto the end.

The corner of Jimin’s mouth twitched upward for just a second, as if that was as much of a smile as he could muster and then he nodded and turned away to look out the window at the students that had congregated in front of the school. Hoseok watched him for a moment longer. He could almost feel the longing Jimin felt as he watched the others interact. It looked so easy. So unattainable.

Please God, let things get better, Hoseok pleaded silently, then shifted gears and pulled away from the curb.

“Hoseok?”

“Yeah, Mom,” Hoseok called back. “It’s me.” He kicked his shoes off and tossed his keys onto the console table inside the door.

He heard commotion in the kitchen and followed the sounds until he reached the doorway, then he stopped. His mom leaned back against the counter, a glass of wine in her hand. Just about a foot away, stood a man he’d never met before. The two had obviously been standing closer, doing who knows what—though with the flushed look on Hoseok’s mom’s face, he could take a guess.

“Seoki honey, this is Seojoon. I met him yesterday at the supermarket.”

Hoseok just looked at the man who looked back and raised his hand in an awkward wave. “Hi,” he said and Hoseok gave him a haphazard smile before shuffling over to the fridge.

“Hoseok used to help me at the dance studio,” his mom continued completely ignoring the fact that her son hadn’t given her new friend the warmest greeting, “he was an amazing dancer.”

Is she seriously talking about me as if I’m not even here? Hoseok pulled a bottle of iced tea out of the fridge and closed the door.

“His father and I had pretty high hopes for him before his accident.”

Her words grated on his nerves, feeling like fingernails raking down his spine and he spun to face her. This new man friend of hers just nodded uncomfortably, his eyes barely even sympathetic. Of course he didn’t want to hear about her poor poor son. In fact, he probably had been expecting a lot less talking.

“I’m going to my room,” Hoseok uttered then left the kitchen before his mom could say anything.

By the time he reached his bedroom and closed his door, his head was pounding. Therapy hadn’t been something he’d taken seriously in a long time but he still went for Jimin. And because it kept him out of the house for that much longer.

His mom and dad had split just a year after his accident, saying it had nothing to do with him even though he knew that was a lie. The only thing that had kept them together before that was their determination for their son to become a professional dancer. He’d never even really seen them in the same room together unless it was absolutely necessary. They’d spend dinners talking excitedly about Hoseok’s next show or some new college that wanted him, but then once those conversations came to an end, there was nothing else to say. At least not to each other. They didn’t care about the other’s careers, didn’t care about how the other was doing. It was all about Hoseok. Well, it was all about Hoseok as long as fame and fortune were in his future. Once those dreams went out the window, so did their marriage. It had been a loveless one anyway so what was the point?

Hoseok hadn’t talked to his dad since the split. He’d gotten a couple postcards in the mail from whatever new place his dad had traveled to but he hadn’t gotten one in over a year. And his mom might as well have been absent. She spent some of her time at the studio and most out with strange men. This was the first one she’d brought back to the house, though. A stranger in Hoseok’s home. It made him sick to his stomach.

He lay down on his bed and unscrewed the cap from his drink as he stared up at the ceiling. His shoulders were achy and stiff, as per usual at this time in the evening. He’d been taking much weaker painkillers just to take the edge off while he went through his detox, but he found that the low dosage was no longer doing enough for him. And he just always wanted to sleep. He wished he could sleep, but the pain kept him awake. The pain in his neck, in his shoulders, his spine.

With a sigh, Hoseok reached blindly for the bottle of Tylenol on his bedside table. The pills rattled in the container loudly, almost taunting him. Take as many as you want. It still won’t be enough. He popped the cap off and tipped the bottle toward his mouth. Once he felt four land on his tongue, he recapped the bottle and took a swig of his tea to wash it down. He could feel them scrape all the way down his throat, flowing with the cold liquid to settle into the pit of his stomach like rocks.

He closed his eyes and listened to the familiar sounds of his room. His computer humming softly under his desk, the baseboard heater creaking as it turned on, the muted ticking of his analog alarm clock. These were the sounds that usually kept him awake at night. He could hear the shower turn off in the bathroom—he hadn’t even noticed it until it turned off, the silence becoming more absolute. Namjoon must have been getting ready to go to work. A couple minutes later, he heard the door open and close.

“Hey man,” Namjoon said to him and he opened one eye to see the younger boy coming out in his boxers and using a towel to dry off his pale blonde hair. “How’s Jimin?”

“Don’t you mean Jungkook?” Hoseok asked sleepily.

Namjoon crossed the room to where his stuff was. He always kept his corner neat and tidy. He already didn’t like the fact that he was encroaching on Hoseok’s personal space so keeping his stuff as contained as possible was a must. At least in his eyes. Hoseok had told him time and time again that he didn’t mind him staying. That he, in fact, enjoyed the company, especially, on nights when Namjoon was off and would stay up talking with Hoseok when the pain kept him awake.

“No, I mean, Jimin,” Namjoon said. “I’m sure Jungkook is getting all the care he needs. Jimin however—”

“Not well, Joon,” Hoseok interrupted and closed his eyes again. “He’s not doing well.”

Namjoon was silent for a few seconds then sighed. “What about you?”

Hoseok swiped his tongue over his bottom lip then sat up quickly. “Did you see my mom brought someone home?”

Namjoon let out a chuckle as he grabbed his work coveralls out of his stack of neatly folded clothes beside his pillow and stepped into them. “Yeah,” he said as he tugged them on. “I scared the crap out of him when I came home from the hospital earlier.” He’d been there keeping Taehyung company for a couple of hours.

“Good.”

“You know Tae’s trial is the day after tomorrow?”

“Yeah, I know,” Hoseok said. “How’s he doing?”

“He’s a nervous wreck but that’s to be expected,” Namjoon said as he pulled his work beanie down over his head. “Jin’s dad thinks he’ll be able to get him off with a temporary insanity claim.”

“You were never caught, were you?”

Namjoon looked down at his hands and bit the inside of his cheek. He shook his head. “Tae won’t let me confess. He told the police he did everything himself. If I say anything, it could ruin his trial. They’d throw both of us in jail.”

Neither of them said anything as they both mulled over that last statement. Here Jungkook was in the hospital, Jimin was going through his own personal Hell and Yoongi had ostracized himself from the rest of them, not to mention Jin had basically fallen off the face of the earth having not returned for a weekend from school since going to the hospital that first night. Taehyung and Namjoon going to jail would be the nail in the coffin. The group was so close to breaking, it wouldn’t take much more to completely destroy them.

Namjoon had left a couple hours before and the sounds of Hoseok’s mom’s awful flirting had finally died down, leaving Hoseok alone in the silence. He lay on his back in his bed, the lights off because even though he’d taken that Tylenol, his head was still pounding. With a sigh, he grabbed his phone off the mattress next to him and turned it on. The screen was bright, sending a spike of pain through his eyes and into his skull. He couldn’t dim it fast enough. When the ache subsided a bit, he opened his chat with Jimin.

hows it going?

…

Jimin: at the hospital. Something happened

Wat is it? JK?

Jimin: could you come?

On my way.

Hoseok reached the hospital in record time. Faster than the first night. Jimin was alone in the waiting room, sitting in the chair with his head in his hands. When he looked up, his face was red, his eyes shining. Before Hoseok could take another step, Jimin got up, walking over to him as he wiped his face with the sleeves of his oversized sweatshirt.

“What happened?” Hoseok asked.

Jimin wouldn’t look at him. Instead, he kept his eyes trained on his fidgeting fingers in front of his stomach. “H-he crashed and it took them a long time to get him stable again.”

“Do they know why?” Hoseok asked feeling weak all of a sudden. He reached out to grab Jimin’s arms, more for his own balance than to comfort the younger boy.

Jimin just shook his head. “They have to do some sort of exploratory…thing. I’m not sure.”

“Are his foster parents here?”

“They were here for like an hour, earlier,” Jimin said with a sniff.

The fact that Taehyung and Jimin were basically living at the hospital while Jungkook’s fake parents had barely made any sort of appearance over the past month had his stomach churning with anger.

Finally Jimin lifted his head, a bruise becoming apparent on his cheekbone. “What happened?” Hoseok asked nodding toward it.

Jimin brought a hand up to rub at the bruise. “Jiho hit my locker door while it was open and it hit me in the face.”

“Why didn’t I see this earlier?”

“I covered it up.”

Hoseok raked a hand through his hair. “You didn’t tell anyone?”

“He’d claim it was an accident.”

Hoseok hated Jiho. Hated him more than Jungkook’s fake parents. Hated him more than his dad for abandoning him. Hated him more than his mom for bringing strange men into their home. He used to get his anger out in the studio. It was the only way to help him work through it. Then he relied on his pills. But he didn’t have those anymore.

“You look tired, Hobi-hyung,” Jimin said at last breaking Hoseok out of his thoughts.

Hoseok’s face fell. He was tired. Always tired.

“Go home and try to sleep,” Jimin said and pushed him gently backward toward the exit again. “I’ll call you if I hear anything else.”

“You shouldn’t be alone, Jimin,” Hoseok said.

“Taehyung is on his way.”

Hoseok couldn’t tell if it was a lie or not but his skin was crawling and he needed some fresh air. So with a sharp nod and one last reassuring brush of his hand against Jimin’s arm, he left.

He didn’t want to go home. He didn’t want to stare up at the ceiling, his mind racing, his body aching as he tried to go to sleep. He didn’t really know what he wanted. But somehow, he ended up at the studio. It looked abandoned. His mom had been working there a lot less, letting it fall to the wayside. But still, just the sight of it filled Hoseok’s chest with warmth. He hadn’t been there in years.

The sound of the light switch flipping on echoed through the empty studio. Hoseok stood there in the doorway for several seconds as his eyes adjusted to the suddenly bright room. A wall of mirrors loomed in front of him, his gaze meeting the one reflected back at him. He looked terrified. He felt terrified.

He hadn’t stepped foot in the studio since before his accident. Sure, he’d spent late nights in his room attempting to move the way he used to be able to, but those times always ended in pain and a trickle of angry tears. Those were the nights he’d find himself reaching for his pills, swallowing more than he needed. The high didn’t fill the gaping hole in his chest, though. The place where his passion had once burned bright. As bright as he was.

Everyone that knew him before his accident would say he was sunshine in human form. He always had a smile on his face that glowed almost as brightly as his sparkling eyes and his golden skin. He looked like a child of summer, made of everything that was pure and warm in the world. But that light had died there in his hospital room. He’d felt it leave his body, as if his very soul had floated away, leaving him feeling cold and empty. The only light he’d felt since then was the illusion created by the pills he took. Artificial sunlight. Nothing but fake happiness that faded with the high and left him exhausted and miserable all night long.

His footsteps sounded hollow as he made his way over to the speaker system. He plugged his phone into the stereo and shuffled through his music until he came to the right song. Then he picked the small controller up off the top of the stereo and made his way to the center of the room. For several seconds, he stood there in silence, looking at his reflection. It was too bright in the room.

With a huff, Hoseok went over and shut the lights back off, plunging the room into darkness. Much better. Then he went back and stood in the middle of the floor. With a deep breath, he pushed the play button on the remote and the room suddenly filled with music. The first time he’d heard this song, he’d closed his eyes to listen, his mind immediately conjuring up a stage, he in the middle of it. He’d created a whole routine in his mind, playing the song over and over, using his imagination to move the way his body wasn’t able to. He’d practiced the choreography in his mind hundreds of times and now that he was here, now that his feet were planted firmly on the waxed floor of the dance studio, the music pumping out of the speakers, it seemed that this was the pivotal moment. He couldn’t go back. He couldn’t fail. If he did, this was really it.

He closed his eyes, feeling the music rise in him like the swell of a wave. It filled his chest then overflowed, spilling down his arms and flowing through his veins like electricity. Something ignited in him like a spark to gasoline and he began to move to the music. Immediately, he felt a twinge of pain at the base of his skull and he jerked, catching the back of his neck with a tensed hand. He dug his fingers into his skin, standing motionless until the pain finally began to ebb. Take it slow, Hoseok, he told himself then carefully rolled his neck from side to side, loosening up the muscle.

With a deep breath to calm his nerves, he started the song over. This time, he didn’t try to replicate the choreography he envisioned. Instead, he only barely moved, making small motions with his body as he went over the dance in his mind. When the song ended, he did it again, this time letting his limbs make larger movements, though still smaller than he wanted.

He did this over and over, feeling the music and letting it take control slowly. With every reset, he could feel his movements becoming more fluid, more pronounced. With every roll of his body, he tensed for the pain but since his muscles were having a chance to stretch and warm up, it wasn’t coming.

He moved through the darkness, the light from outside streaming in through the windows lining the wall high above the mirrors and he watched his form in the mirror, slipping in and out of the rays. Like a spirit dancing in shafts of moonlight. Still not perfect but getting closer.

Hoseok had lost count of how many times he played through the song. He just kept hitting the back button, losing himself in the music until finally, he collapsed onto his back, his mouth stretched into the biggest euphoric smile he’d ever felt.

Maybe this was finally the end of his struggle. Maybe he could finally dance again. Finally live his dream. Finally leave the pain and the pills behind.

He was tired and he could hear his bed calling his name. With a groan, he got back to his feet. He was going to be sore the next day. Probably for several days after this but he didn’t care. For once, he welcomed the pain.

When he grabbed his phone and unplugged it, he noticed a notification on his screen. A message from Jimin. It had been sent just a few minutes earlier. Hoseok swiped the message and brought his phone up to read it.

Jimin: I know you tried. I know youve done everything you could. I know I’m letting you down. I’m letting you all down. But I cant do this anymore, hyung. Living hurts too much. Existing hurts too much. Youll be fine without me. All of you.

Hoseok’s heavy breaths echoed through the room as he read the text over and over. At last he started typing out his own message.

What do you mean?

He waited less than a minute before sending another.

Jimin

No response.

Jimin answer me now.

Nothing.

Hoseok’s hands shook as his thumb tapped Jimin’s name. An option came up to call him and he pressed it. As it rang, he sprinted out of the studio, not even bothering to lock it back up before making his way to his car. Voicemail. With a curse, Hoseok hit redial and got into his car. The engine groaned to life and the tires peeled out as he flew out of the parking lot.

He called over and over again as he drove to Jimin’s house, not even wasting a second between calls before hitting redial again.

“Come on, Jimin,” he growled and hit redial again.

Voicemail.

With an angry cry, he threw his phone to the passenger side. It cracked against the window before disappearing down into the space between the seat and the door. Please, let him be okay. Please, let him be okay.

The house was dark when Hoseok pulled up to the curb and jumped out. Jimin’s dad was on a business trip for the next couple of weeks and his mom must have been out because the door was locked when Hoseok tried the handle. He banged on it with his fists, screaming Jimin’s name until his hands hurt and when that got him no response, he grabbed one of the bricks lining the path and smashed it into the window beside the door. Ignoring the jagged glass, he reached in and stretched his arm as far over as he could until he was able to undo the deadbolt. The door rattled as he threw it open and rushed inside.

The place was dark and silent and Hoseok’s panic grew as he went from empty room to empty room.

“Jimin!” he yelled. “Jimin, where are you? Can you hear me?”

Nothing.

“Answer me!” he screamed.

His feet hit the stairs, echoing loudly as he took them two at a time. He flung open Jimin’s bedroom door, eyes roving over the empty space. His shoulders heaved, his breath coming out in ragged wheezes and he whirled around again to face the hallway. The bathroom door was shut at the other end.

Hoseok’s breath caught. “No, Jimin,” he whispered before running to the door. He tried the handle. Locked. He hit his still aching fist against it. “Jimin!” He rattled the handle until he was sure it was going to come loose in his hand. “No no no no please no.”

Finally, he backed up and began ramming against it. Wood splintered with every hit and his shoulder burned but he kept throwing himself against the door until at last, it gave in, swinging open with such force that it banged against the adjacent wall. Hoseok fell in landing hard on his knees. The bathroom was pitch black and he pawed at the wall next to the doorframe, finally finding the light switch and flipping it on.

The bathtub was filled to the brim with water, and there he was, a dark form beneath its surface. Hoseok surged forward and plunged his arms into the water, displacing so much of it that gallons spilled over the edge, drenching him and the bathmat before spreading across the tile floor and toward the carpeted hall.

He clutched Jimin to his chest, the boy’s hair plastered over his eyes, his skin deathly pale, his lips blue from lack of oxygen.

“Jimin,” Hoseok cried shaking the boy. He lay him on the ground and started pushing hard against his chest. He’d never performed CPR before and he hoped to God he was doing it correctly. Though maybe it didn’t even matter anymore.

After a few pushes, he pressed his ear against the boy’s chest. Nothing.

“Come on, Jimin,” he grunted then grabbed the boy by the chin and the top of his head and bent down to try mouth to mouth. Jimin’s lips felt cold and dead against his own but still he tried forcing air into the boy’s lungs. Then he started doing compressions again.

He switched between the two over and over, his hope fading the longer Jimin went without responding. Tears streamed down his face and his own chest was beginning to ache from taking in such deep breaths to give to Jimin, but he couldn’t stop. He couldn’t give up. Jimin had to live. He had to be alright.

What could Hoseok do? He needed to call for help. He needed to find a phone. His own cellphone was still wedged between the seat and the passenger side door in his car, but he knew Jimin’s parents had a phone in their room just next door. Should he stop doing CPR? Should he keep going until Jimin’s mom got home? Who knew how long that would be? It would only take a second. Just two steps out of the bathroom, two down the hall and three to get into the bedroom and grab the phone. Then seven back. Could he make it? Could Jimin make it? He didn’t have any other option.

With a silent plea, Hoseok leaned down to give Jimin one more breath before tearing himself away from the boy. He scrambled across the hall, grabbing the phone off of the nightstand and rushing back to start compressions again. He used one hand to continue to push against Jimin’s chest as hard as he could while his other hand shakily dialed 911. Once the phone was ringing, he dropped it the floor so he could use both hands again.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“Please help,” Hoseok said, his voice breaking on the second word. He dropped his head onto Jimin’s chest as a sob racked through him. “Please come. He’s not breathing…”

Through the anguish, Hoseok lifted his head again and continued pushing on Jimin’s chest. He could barely hear the operator on the other end but he rattled off the address anyway and then went back to alternating between compressions and breathing into Jimin’s mouth.

His strength was diminishing. His vision tunneling. Everything was fading and Hoseok knew. He just knew that it was no use. He should just stop. Just come to terms with the fact that Jimin was gone. That he’d failed the boy. But he couldn’t bring himself to stop. It was almost robotic by this point. His body was long passed exhaustion but he couldn’t quit.

A few minutes later he heard the faint sound of sirens approaching and looked up to see red lights flashing on the ceiling from outside the window. Relief didn’t reach him though as Jimin was still unresponsive.

“Anyone here?”

“Up here!” Hoseok yelled, his voice hoarse.

A couple seconds later, two blurry shapes rushed into the bathroom, one pulling Hoseok away while the other replaced him doing CPR. Hoseok let the paramedic pull him out of the bathroom and collapsed against the carpet in a tired, wet heap. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t see. He could barely think. All he could do was breathe and pray with the last ounce of energy that Jimin would wake up.

By the time Hoseok finally gained enough strength to sit up, the paramedics had already taken Jimin away in the ambulance. Before they had gone, one paramedic had sat at the top of the stairs with him and asked him some questions. If he knew what happened. How long he’d been doing CPR. He couldn’t answer. He had no idea how long he’d been there. Had no idea how long Jimin was underwater. He wished he knew something.

After a few more questions that Hoseok didn’t know the answer to, the paramedic gave him a small card with his contact information on it and then they left. Hoseok sat in the dark at the top of the stairs for a long time debating on if he should stick around and wait for Jimin’s mom to get home or not. He didn’t want to. He didn’t want to be in the house anymore. He was soaking wet and cold and exhausted and he just wanted to sleep forever.

His whole body hurt but somehow he still managed to get to his car and drive home. His mom must have still been out on her date and Namjoon was still at work so the house was silent. Hoseok stumbled into the bathroom, yanking his shirt off over his head and letting it drop to the floor. It hit the tiles with a wet slap.

His reflection stared back at him. His eyes were dull, defeated, unemotional. He felt as hollow as he looked. Every inch of him was tired. His body felt weak. His thoughts muddled. He could feel himself shutting down. He wanted to sleep. Needed to sleep. Needed to just be done with it all.

Hoseok reached up and opened the medicine cabinet. He stood there in silence, his eyes scanning the rows of pill bottles until they settled on the bottle of Benadryl. His mom suffered from seasonal allergies so she took these pretty regularly throughout the spring and summer. They always made her really drowsy. Perfect.

He brought the pill bottle down from its shelf and squinted in the dim light at the writing on the label. Disclaimers jumped out at him. Caution. Warning. Danger. None of those words held a negative meaning for him. They were promises. Promises of sleep.

With unsteady hands, he popped the cap off and tilted the bottle toward his open hand. The pills rained down, some slipping through the cracks between his fingers and disappearing down the drain but most of them collected in his palm. By the time the bottle was empty, he held a pile of small white pills. With one more glance at himself in the mirror, he lifted his hand and poured them into his mouth. It took several painfully dry swallows but he eventually choked them all down. Then he carefully replaced the lid and put the bottle back in its place on the shelf before leaving the bathroom and walking calmly down the hall to his room.

He lay down on his bed and closed his eyes. Images of Jimin’s colorless skin filled his head. The boy’s lips had been so cold and so dead. He didn’t even look like him. Jimin used to be such a warm person. So happy even amidst his struggles. After Hoseok’s accident, he’d thought his life was over. He’d lost all hope. But Jimin had pulled him up out of the darkness. He’d been the last remaining glimmer of sunlight for Hoseok to cling to. His ray of sunlight. His little Jimin.

As he released a tired sigh, Hoseok felt a tear slip from beneath his eyelid, drawing a cold trail down his cheek. Without even realizing it, he’d relied so much on Jimin. Relied on his joy, on his positivity, on the promise Jimin made on Beach Day after Hoseok had dumped his pills into the fire.

We’ll help you through this, hyung.

The boy had hidden his own pain so Hoseok wouldn’t see it.

I’m rooting for you.

Hoseok’s face twisted and he threw his arm across his eyes as the despair crashed over him. He could feel his chest tightening, his lungs seizing as his heart hammered against his ribs. Thoughts of the other boys flooded his mind. Images of Taehyung’s boxy grin and lanky arms slung over Namjoon’s shoulders to his bloody hands and haunted eyes. Of Jungkook’s sparkling eyes and playful jabs to him lying in his hospital bed with wires and tubes sticking out of him. Of Jimin. Jimin. Sweet Jimin, golden-skinned and running on the beach to limp and lifeless, his wet, hair matted to his pale face.

I don’t know if I can take much more.

Another sob clawed its way up Hoseok’s throat, shaking the whole bed and he pushed his palms against his eyes. His breath was coming too fast, his thoughts pounding through his head like strikes from a sledgehammer. He’d clung to that last ray of sunshine, that last hope, with white knuckled fists and then seeing Jimin there in the bathtub, watching his body being toted away by the paramedics, Hoseok felt it slip through his grasp. He could feel the light receding, feel it shrinking back like the tide. The darkness was taking over, creeping in like a slow moving poison. Taking over his mind, tinging his fingers black. His stomach was a churning mess. And at his center, a blackhole.

With one last shuddering breath, Hoseok relaxed completely. The drugs started to take affect and his heartbeat slowed, the ringing in his head, the cacophony of thoughts ebbing until nothing mattered anymore.

Nothing mattered.

He lay there in silence, his eyes still covered by his palms and just listened. Listened to his computer humming under his desk and the baseboard heater creaking as it warmed up and the little analog alarm clock on his nightstand. These sounds used to keep him awake all night, along with his racing thoughts and his sore neck. But now he didn’t feel any pain. He was too exhausted to think. And the sounds became a last comfort that lulled him into a deep, endless sleep.

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sending-the-message · 6 years

Text

The Pumpkin Spice Massacre by xylonex

One thing that I find hilarious about this time of year is that there’s no actual pumpkin in Pumpkin Spice. The spice combination itself is derivative of a pudding known as Pompkin. Pompkin itself does not contain Pumpkin either. Sometime in the 13th century someone called a pudding Pompkin and through eight-hundred years of a telephone game we have gas station coffee being sold for an extra dollar and being called Pumpkin Spice.

I must look like an antisocial prick when I break from the social norm and order a venti caramel macchiato. I��ll stand in line at the local Starbucks and wait to order the same cup of coffee I’ve ordered every weekday morning since I started working this crappy desk job. Everyone in front of me will order some variation of Pumpkin Spice only for the barista to look at me like I just dropped a turd in the coffee pot when I asked for something different. It’s always the same ordeal. Some kid with a liberal arts degree that ended up slinging caffeine to attempt to make a dent in their student debt ends up trying upsell me into a Pumpkin Spice Latte.

This year seems especially bad. Everyone is eating Pumpkin Spice cookies and dipping them in their Pumpkin Spice coffee only to walk around with Pumpkin Spice body spray as they burn Pumpkin Spice incense. It’s reached a point that I honestly can’t help but hope some catastrophic storm would simultaneously hit New Guinea and India leaving the world completely devoid of nutmeg.

I’m getting ahead of myself though.

So fifty years ago some idiot got it in his head that he was going to revitalize downtown by hollowing out some of the buildings that surrounded the old courthouse and turning them into an office complex. If you walk around on the sidewalk you’ll see a bunch of cute little shops and chain restaurants, but upstairs the entire block of buildings has been turned into a cubicle farm where I have ended up assigned to unit 355.

My desk and work area is a five-foot by five-foot box with just enough room for a desk, a few filing cabinets, and an office chair I am convinced was designed by the Marquis De Sade. Every weekday from nine in the morning until five at night I am expected to spend a third of each day sifting through expense reports and customer invoices looking for errors. Sounds boring, right? Wait until you’ve been doing it for ten years. Last year our employer realized my job could literally be handled by software and my job description went from actually looking for errors to making sure the software they dropped an easy million dollars on was actually doing its job.

I literally get paid to sit in my cubicle and watch a computer do the job I was hired to do. Even though I work in a position that could best be described as redundant, I am expected to spend all that time keeping a keen eye on the screen. Managers walk the rows of cubicles like prison guards looking for anyone dumb enough to check their Facebook or browse Reddit on the job. Even if they tried, the corporate firewall is more restrictive than an overprotective mother in a bad neighborhood.

My cubicle is of particular interest to these middle-managers who only exist to drain anything that resembles fun out of our lives. Last week someone sent out an email to the entire floor that said Milo, the manager with a heart of shit, had been using the five minute break he had after doing a walk through the cubicle farm to duck into the manager's bathroom to rub one off while reading a copy of Mein Kampf. As much as I’d like to take credit for the email itself, I had nothing to do with it. Still, seeing as I was the only office worker with a paper pumpkin tacked up to my cubicle, I was the first person they descended on.

If it wasn’t bad enough that I have to sit her and pretend I give a shit about these invoices and reports, I have no less than three failures of human evolution peering over my shoulder at any given time to make sure I’m not sending malicious emails.

It didn’t come out of nowhere.

Last month they opted to replace the half & half creamer in the break room with this off-brand Pumpkin Spice they had bought in bulk. I can’t stand the stuff personally, so I opted to drink my coffee black. Well that didn’t sit well with the overlords so the following week they replaced the coffee itself with Pumpkin Spice. Realizing I couldn’t get an inch of headway with those control freaks, I opted to bring a thermos with me to work. When they finally banned outside food or drink from the office I ended up writing an open letter to management asking if we had recently been sponsored by the Nutmeg industry and if they’d like some actual work to be done alongside their Pumpkin Spice Enemas.

I received my first write-up in ten years and was told another infraction would result in my termination. Even though I didn’t author the email that called out Milo, they made no secret about the fact they wanted me gone after that whole debacle. If that wasn’t bad enough, I had to spent eight hours a day surrounded by an office staff that had started consuming Nutmeg like it was going to enlarge their breasts and grow their dick by three sizes. I had reached the point personally that I was smuggling bottled water in my brief case and refilling it in the bathroom sink.

This all came to a head when Debbie, a senior citizen who may well have been older than the building, decided she was going to have a party in the break room to commemorate her exit from the company after thirty-five years of employment.

I’ll let you guess what flavor the refreshments were.

Attendance was mandatory which meant I couldn’t use my lunch break to buy real food. I had to stand there among a hundred other hungry employees all clamoring to get a piece of pumpkin log or perhaps an orange and black cupcake. If it wasn’t bad enough that I was being forced to sit in this clusterfuck of forced socialization, it was casual Friday. Everyone had come to work dressed in their Halloween costumes. I tried so hard not to snicker when Milo showed up dressed like a soldier. All he was missing was the SS insignia and the armband.

Attendance was mandatory, but that didn’t mean I had to consume any of the junk they had provided. As the rest of the staff filed through the line to get their fix, I stayed to the back of the break room and sipped tap water from a coffee mug in an attempt to blend in. Thankfully, the whole ordeal was over within the hour and I was allowed to return to my desk. Milo goose stepped through the aisles with no appreciation for irony as I pretended to give a shit about the data being splayed across my screen in rapid succession.

Roughly an hour after lunch was when I noticed Sean, a guy who worked three units down the row from me stumbling through the aisle clutching his temples like he’d been kicked in the head. Before long I noticed that even Milo had gone from goose stepping about to standing in the corner clutching his head. I stood up and peered over the walls of my cubicle to see everyone in the office was grabbing their head in some form or fashion as their moans and groans erupted into a chorus of discomfort and pain.

Debbie was the first one to start laughing maniacally at her desk. I looked over to see she was using the stapler on her desk to fire staples into the air while giggling like a child who had just discovered they had toes. Sean stumbled over to the coffee pot and poured himself a drink while Milo staggered over to Debbie and shouted, “That’s enough Debbie!” Debbie kept laughing as she turned her stapler toward Milo and said, “Pew pew pew” as she fired the tiny piece of metal in Milo’s general direction.

Milo responded by ripping the stapler out of her hands and drawing back to slam base of the stapler against her face. A random coworker started to scream as Milo repeatedly bashed the small piece of metal into Debbie’s skull. The screams erupted into a cacophony of fear as Sean turned around to throw his coffee in to Milo’s face. Milo responded by turning around and taking a bite out of Sean’s shoulder before chewing the chunk of flesh he’d torn away and swallowing with an honest to god smile on his face.

I had no desire to stick around for the clusterfuck that was developing and threw any personal belongings I thought important enough to keep into my briefcase before ducking down and moving down the aisle of cubicles. Annie, the girl in the cubicle directly adjacent to mine had taken to writhing around on the floor with a stuffed animal between her legs while repeatedly shouting, “Oh yeah, fuck me Tibbers!” I broke into a jog only to find Kyle, another middle manager who had come in dressed like a pirate, waving his plastic sword around and shouting, “Argh me hearties!”

The exit door was blocked by two coworkers, Jane and Tom, humping each other like teenagers as Jim, the guy who worked the supply closet stood over them pulling his pud. I turned around to see the entire office had devolved into random acts of sex and violence and realized I’d have to wade through a sea of crazy to make it to the main door and out into the street.

There were six rows of cubicles between myself and freedom. Each step consisted of avoiding some different co-worker losing their shit like someone spiked the punch bowl at the loony bin with acid. Star, a twenty-year-old temp worker filling in for Sharon while she was out on maternity leave was using an exacto-knife to carve words into the back of a very dead Andre while saying, “Dear Diary, today I found out that Andre was planning on asking me to marry him!” As I tried to shuffle past her she swung the small knife toward my ankles and shouted, “Go get your own pen!”

I looked down to see the blood from the exacto-knife had splashed onto my Khakis and tried to step over Megan the intern as she crawled on the floor picking nits of debris out of the carpet and shoving them into her mouth. With one row down I realized I was only going deeper into the abyss as I peered over to see the path was blocked by the mail cart and that Kevin the mail guy was using his scan gun to bash in Mark the manager’s skull while screaming incoherently.

I made it three cubicles down the aisle before I felt someone latch onto my shoulder and tackle me to the ground. Leslie, a woman I had talked to once or twice around the water cooler had jumped on top of me and said, “Do you think I’m pretty William?” Her gums were bloody and she was missing her front teeth. Blood and saliva dripped onto my face as I threw her off of me and stumbled to my feet shouting, “Fuck off!” Leslie curled up into a ball and screeched like a howler monkey.

At the end of the aisle I found Jessica cowering in her cubicle. Unlike the rest of the crazies she seemed to be genuinely scared. I reached over to tap her on the shoulder and she jerked away. I attempted to speak over the roaring chaos that surrounded us and said, “Come with me. I’m getting out of here!” Jessica grabbed my outstretched hand and we moved down the row a few paces before Kyle came running toward us with the blade from the paper trimmer in his hand. I jumped to the side as Jessica attempted to move around him only to meet the blade as Kyle brought it down hard into her skull. With the blade stuck he tried in vain to pull it from her skull as I pushed past him and toward the exit. No sooner than I had passed him he shouted, “I’ll have yer head William!”

I rounded the corner of the last row and found Milo stripped down to his boxers and sitting cross-legged on the floor surrounded by the bodies of our co-workers as he slapped his hands repeatedly against the bloody corpses and shouted, “Look Mommy! I’m a drummer!” I made it to the exit door and pushed against it only to find someone had chained it shut from the outside. I kicked the door as Kyle rounded the corner with Jessica’s head still attached to the blade. Milo smiled at Kyle who proceeded to bash Milo’s face in with Jessica’s severed head until it dislodged from the blade.

Faced with no exit and nowhere to go, I threw my briefcase at Kyle and broke into a sprint down the aisle and around the corner into the row along the far wall. With nothing else to lose I took the last few steps knowing I was about to collide with the window I jumped through the metal and glass to fall down onto the sidewalk below.

I landed on my back but thankfully my fall had been broken for the most part by a folding table one of the vendors had set outside. I peered up to see Kyle standing at the window. He threw his blade down at me and it bounced off of the concrete before clattering to a stop beside me. I did a double-take and he had disappeared back into the chaos.

It wasn’t long before the court square was packed to the brim with police cars and ambulances. I sat with a paramedic as they prepped me for a trip to the emergency room. I peered out the window as I was taken to the hospital and noticed that several of my coworkers had started charging the police. I heard gunshots in the distance as the paramedic in the driver’s seat turned on the siren and drove off into the city.

#reddit #nosleep #scary #story

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abiik · 4 years

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LET'S DO THIS! [rubs my little hands together gleefully] what was the best day of zoe's life (to date)? what about the worst day? how did she become close(r) with the batfam? any heroes she Doesn't get along with? where's the strangest place she's ever been? the farthest from home she's ever been? which villains does she have particular grudges against, if any? does she have a history with any specific villains/criminals? favorite animal? what music does she listen to? any tats/piercings?

my!! heart!! is!! soaring!! im so excited to gush!!

- what was the best day of zoe's life?

hmmm. this one's kind of hard. she's had plenty of amazing days in her life: the twins being born, beating donna in a fight for the first time, the day she remembered jason and realized he was alive. i think one particular best day was the first time she ever managed to fly without crashing.

- worst day?

zoe's had a few bad days in her life. probably about four or five have been the worst days of her life: the day her younger brothers died, the day her mother disappeared, the day she found out jason died, the day kai disappearee, and the day she returned to gotham to tell everyone she was back - but most importantly, dick. the first two happened within about a year or two of each other. her baby brothers - twins and the absolute lights of her life - were murdered by the joker before zoe officially moved to gotham. her mother left soon after, fucking distraught over their deaths, and then z was left with her older brother, her uncle, and her gran-gran. then life just went on. and then jason's death happened and it hurt even worse bc one) once again, that fucking CLOWN was taking away someone she cared about so much, and two) bruce didn't tell her when it first happened. she found out after the funeral and fucking blew up. needless to say, that began her downward spiral before her own 'death.' then, she found out, that kai had disappeared. just up and left where he was going to school and was never seen again. zoe didn't know about it soonet bc someone was posing as him, sending her messages as kai, posting pictures, pretending to be kai. and then she found out it wasn't kai. this too kind of led to zoe's own disappearance.

and then the day she returned to announce she was back. zoe probably dreaded this day the most. she knew what she'd done, that she'd just up and left - yeah, sure, it was to save the people of her home planet and to stop her father's reign - but then she'd started drinking to forget. she didn't die from the fight with her father like they said she did, but she was pretty injured, and one of the worst injuries was her head. drinking to forget the people she loved, willingly, instead of letting it all come back, no matter how painful, emotionally and physically, was a dick move. and then to come back to people who thought she was dead, who mourned her, and hope that everything could go back to a semblance of what was before? dick, most specifically, was pissed. not only at zoe, but bruce and diana and everyone involved in the cover up of zoe's 'death.' it hurt zoe to have hurt dick like that and then he said he needed space to think it over and reality kind of hit zoe then, that things wouldn't be the same between them.

- how did she become close(r) with the batfam?

she became closer to the batfam through diana - and by becoming a vigilante herself! zoe's great grandfather is chief who diana was close with in my verse, and diana has always just kind of been present in zoe's family history ever since. so when z's mom left and her uncle took her and kai in, diana was also there to help. diana was the one who got her uncle a job in gotham and enrolled them in school. diana also started training zoe more closely and thus, zoe grew closer to donna, who knew dick, as robin.

zoe became a vigilante on her own when she moved to gotham and it mostly started with protecting sex workers on the streets or people walking home. it's easy for a grown man to underestimate a tiny 12 year old girl and all of them were in for a pretty big surprise when she manages to knock them out with a single punch. diana started training zoe more exclusively then and during breaks, zoe would usually go to themyscira while kai would go home to the ranch. she kind of got on bruce's radar through both diana and her own chaotic antics around gotham. we all know bruce's anti-meta rule that he had before duke and we all know how territorial he is, so and when he decided to test her and she passed, only to say "you're not the boss of me!" and run off to continue doing her own thing, bruce was...kinda peeved but also definitely intrigued.

her main link to the batfam before jason, was dick, through donna, through the titans. z wasn't an official member of the og titans -- she didn't necessarily have a mentor/boss/parent figure as a superhero -- but she tagged along on some missions. she became friends with dick, started hanging out with him outside of vigilante work, and then because bruce was a little annoyed by ALL OF IT, decided to stick around to watch the old man squirm.

and then jason came around and they didn't necessarily hit it off right away, but eventually they both came around. z cracked enough jokes and they finally had a heart to heart about some shit, and then it was like they were connected at the hip. and THEN jason got his own titans group - it wasn't very long, but they all formed a close bond very quickly - and zoe just got more tied up in everything.

after his death, zoe stuck around for dick and alfred and bc even tho bruce kept it from her and refused to do anything about the joker, she respected his code and that he too was mourning. tim was robin almost directly after jason and z liked him well enough, they got along. she wasn't around for tim's run as robin for very long, however, after snapping and killing the joker (who for the sake of the story, did NOT atay dead), zoe wasn't really around bruce a lot. she mostly did her own thing like looking for kai and her mother.

and then her dad arrived. zoe sacrificed herself to protect the earth, ended up 'dying' to the rest of the world, and then wandered in space as a drunken amnesiac for like,,, six years fighting off her dad's attempts at fucking with the universe before she ended up back on earth tracking down info about her dad and kai. that's when jason, as red hood, alongside rose wilson (bc i fucks with her and eddie as jason's outlaws moreso than roy and kory) runs into her. there's a whole lot of other shit that happens; the reason z and jason run into each other again has to do with a missing ex-titans member and then z, being z, offers to help them find this ex-member and they all kind of help her get her memories back.

shit is kind of tough after coming back when everyone thinks you've been dead but really you've just been drinking away all of your thoughts of the people you loved ans who loved you and you left behind so that they cant be used against you. like zoe def thinks ACTUALLY DYING and coming back would be so much better than what she did.

dick is....reasonably upset when she comes back and explains what happened, even if he does understand what kind of shit head her dad is. and damian takes dick's side on it and kind of shuns zoe. so z ends up hanging out with jason and tim's horde of friends where she ends up adopting conner as her brother and becoming good friends with cass and steph.

damian comes around much later and it's only because he found out she could talk to animals and spent like his whole afternoon having her translate what each of his pets thinks of him and the rest of the family. and when duke comes around, he and zoe hit it off pretty quickly and he, jason, cass, and zoe all hang out often.

- any heroes she doesn't get along with?

bruce. kind of. they've got like a love hate relationship. she doesn't tolerate his bullshit and she's very protective of all of his kids when he starts isolating himself.

barbara at times bc zoe has a tendency to go off track and do what she thinks needs to be done and that can piss barbara off. other than that, though, they're cool with each other.

rose, at first. but then both of them were like "...cool girl....with a cool fucking sword....okay....i can fuck with that."

zoe gets along with a lot of people in general. there are probably a few that im missing but usually zoe's only got a problem with you if you've done something to hurt her, her family/friends, or you're a downright dick. she looks for the good in people and once you've lost her trust, it's really hard to win it back. so any hero that's done any of those things, zoe probably doesn't even acknowledge they exist.

- where's the strangest place she's ever been?

hmmm. def some far away planet in the galaxy. i do have a hc that she ends up going to a certain planet, gets jumped by bounty hunters while in the middle of a one night stand, fights them off, and her one night stand STILL wanted to have sex with her, covered in blood and guts. it was a strange night for sure.

(also i havent mapped out a lot of zoe's off world adventures so i cant give you more! sorry!)

- the farthest from home she's ever been?

zoe's made it to the edge of the galaxy.

- which villains does she have particular grudges against, if any?

THE JOKER. zoe hates that bitch with a burning passion.

harley. zoe is sympathetic towards her for the shit she went through with the joker but zoe also can't forgive that she did nothing when it came to her brothers' deaths.

her father.

ra's al ghul. just kind of in general with this guy.

lex luthor! bc of the shit that conner's been through with that dude

oh! and like trigon. fuck that guy!

scarecrow. the fear gas has worked on her once and she still has nightmares about it.

- does she have any history with any specific villians/criminals?

those mentioned above. her dad's associates.

selina kyle. but... in a good way. they're friends.

kai.

slade wilson.

ares.

she broke the penguin's nose once and it made jason lose his composure and giggle snort which led to zoe falling over laughing for like five minutes.

black mask.

- favorite animal?

zoe, honestly, would probably not be able to choose just one! i'm gonna choose three and say horses, bears, and eagles.

- what music does she listen to?

honestly tbh, anything! her playlists are full of a whole bunch of shit across the board. sometimes she'll listen to classics, sometimes she'll listen to obscure sea shanties, other times she'll dance around to the 2000s top hundred on repeat for three days straight. it's mostly just about what she's feeling.

- any tats/piercings?

yes!! she has a few ear piercings - two in the lobe and two in the cartilage on both sides - and a septum piercing!

she also has a tattoo along her left shoulder blade and down her back. it's of a chinese dragon with floral designs, particularly lillies and a cherry blossom tree. the design is mixed with chinese and navajo influence to represent both cultures.

send asks about zoe!

#enckeeksken this got so long and im on mobile #so sorry about the lack of a read more #imma tag this #long post #oc: zoe huang #i basicslly did like a run down of zoe's background for you!#im so excited to do more bc i love talking about her #h talks.#oc ramblings #oc asks #mutuals

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shercockadoodledoo · 7 years

Text

ballet shoes and ice skates (9)

part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8, part 9

also on ao3

On the day before Shion’s birthday, Nezumi signed a contract releasing him from the major motion feature film, Hearts of Ice. He did not owe the production company any money as compensation and was not liable to be sued, largely thanks to Kiyoko, who argued that the money spent hiring Shion to garner publicity had not been wasted – Shion had indeed accumulated a vast amount of publicity and press for the film, largely anticipated in not only the figure skating community, but the LGBT community and supporters throughout the country.

Nezumi had not shot enough scenes for them to be included in the film, but he signed over the few videos that Shion had taken of Nezumi during his own lessons. They’d been meant as tools for Nezumi to look back on and see where his forms and positions needed improvement, but the director said they might be useful in the film as flashbacks to the lead’s past.

Auditions were being held for Nezumi’s replacement. While there were not many actors who looked like Nezumi, a few had similar features that with hair-dye and colored contacts could be cast and still allow Nezumi’s actual footage from his lessons to be used.

“Why do they even want that footage?” Nezumi asked, while Kiyoko pointed to places on different documents for him to sign and date.

“Because you’re a beautiful skater. It’s good footage. Any actor they get isn’t going to skate like that. Using those recordings as flashbacks in the film is a genius move.”

“Was it your idea?” Nezumi asked dryly, signing the bottom of another page, letting Kiyoko flip it over and point to another blank line.

“Of course it was. They ate it up, loved the idea. Helps publicity too – this is actual footage from your lessons under the world’s greatest figure skater. Shion’s voice might even be in some of the clips, the director will be ecstatic. Figure skating fans will go nuts to hear Shion tell you your camel pose is sexy. The videos might be more valuable than you are, kid, and that’s why you’re not being sued. You should be on your hands and knees thanking me for saving your ass.”

“It’s called a camel position spin,” Nezumi said.

“That’s what I said. Initial this one, and last signature here – Good, done. Happy now?”

Nezumi peered up at his agent. They were in his apartment, Nezumi sitting at his kitchen counter with Kiyoko hovering energetically over him. “What happens to you?”

“I get paid a mighty sum for my hard work dealing with your difficult ass.”

“So you should be thanking me,” Nezumi proposed, and Kiyoko smiled, picked up the documents and tapped them lightly on Nezumi’s counter to straighten them into a neat pile.

“That sense of humor of yours never does get old,” she said cheerfully, opening her briefcase that sat on the stool beside Nezumi.

“Have you got a new client?”

“No, but you shouldn’t worry about me. The drama with you is quite famous in the film agency world. I’m a celebrity of my own now.”

Nezumi pushed his bangs from his forehead. “Actors quit all the time, I’m hardly the only one.”

“Actors quit with grace, unlike you. You skipped rehearsals and line readings, made no attempt to understand the plight of your director and cast mates, and I turned your selfish quitting into a glorious win for the film. That’s big news, not that you would know a thing about it.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Nezumi said, standing up and stretching his arms over his head, then dropping them and extending a hand to his ex-agent. “Guess this is our tearful goodbye?”

Kiyoko smiled and took Nezumi’s hand. “I don’t think I’ll miss you.”

“Shouldn’t you lie and pretend to like me now that we’re parting ways?” Nezumi asked dryly, shaking the woman’s hand. Her grip was firm, tighter than his.

“To you? I didn’t peg you as someone to want fake flattery. Will you be going back to the New National Theatre?”

Nezumi shrugged, slipping his hand into his pocket when Kiyoko released it. “I’m too late for the current production, and The Nutcracker is already in rehearsal stage, but I’m heading there this afternoon to see if they’ve got room for an understudy. They’ve got auditions for Don Quixote in a few weeks.”

“So everything will go back to normal for you.”

“Looks like it.”

“Doesn’t that seem like a step back?” Kiyoko asked.

Nezumi offered her a wry smile. “Are you done commenting on my life choices? I thought by signing those things I didn’t have to put up with you anymore.”

Kiyoko waved her hand dismissively, picked up her briefcase, and turned from Nezumi, walking to his front door. “All right, I can take a hint. Maybe I’ll go to one of your shows.”

“Maybe I’ll sign your playbook backstage if you ask nicely enough,” Nezumi said, while Kiyoko opened the door.

She laughed, waved her briefcase. “I’ve got enough of your autographs. Goodbye, Nezumi. Good luck with your life.”

She was gone before Nezumi could tell her he’d never believed in luck a day of his life.

For Shion’s birthday, he was sent a total of fourteen succulents.

He, his mother, and Safu opened the packages in Karan’s bakery, which had been closed early for the afternoon. A half-eaten cake still sat on the counter beside the register.

“This one’s so cute,” Safu gushed, holding up a green plant whose leaves were thick with pink tips.

“You can have it,” Shion offered, and Safu quickly placed it on the table beside her plate of crumbs.

“I told you I don’t want your plants, Shion. I’ve watered enough of them in my lifetime.”

“There’s more this year than usual, isn’t there?” Karan asked, holding a plant with a tiny rainbow flag sticking out of the soil beside the long spiky leaves.

Safu plucked out the flag and examined it. “Who knew you’d be a gay icon,” she commented, while Shion blushed.

“I’m not,” he replied, stealing the flag from her and hiding it under one of the packages that another succulent had been shipped in.

“Sure you are. They talk about you at the clinic all the time,” Safu said, a smile tugging at her lips that Shion worked hard to ignore, painfully aware of his mother sitting beside him.

He pushed back his chair, stood up, grabbing the plates off the table as an excuse to escape and hide his embarrassment. He didn’t even know why he was embarrassed. He was twenty-six today – shouldn’t he have outgrown embarrassment by now?

“I’ll just wash these up. Should I put on more tea?”

“I can get it, hon,” Karan said, looking up at him, but Shion squeezed her shoulder.

“I got it,” he said, and walked away before she could object, listening to Safu discuss where they could give away the new succulents as he headed back to the kitchen.

In the kitchen, Shion washed the dishes slowly, reveling in the feeling of the warm water over his hands. He dried the dishes, put on the kettle, and stood looking down at it, not thinking too much about what he was doing when he pulled his phone out from his pocket and typed out a quick text.

Guess how many succulents I got for my birthday.

He reread the text, hovered his finger over the arrow to backspace it all, then sent it instead.

A flash of heat fell through him in a wash, and Shion quickly pocketed his phone, not wanting to stare at the screen as he waited for a reply. He wished the water was already boiled so he could return to his mother and Safu, let them distract him from the regret that hit him all at once, strong and unsteadying.

Guess how many succulents I got for my birthday.

Nezumi drummed his fingers on the counter beside the stovetop, waiting for the water in his kettle to boil. The shock of the text was wearing off, and he found himself trying to guess.

Five, he thought. Ten was far too many. Seven at most.

He glanced away from the text to his own cactus, sitting on the windowsill in his living room. He had spent the entirety of his train ride back to Tokyo on that last day in June setting alarms every ten days to remind him to water this plant. He’d gotten up to seven months in the future by the time the train pulled into Tokyo’s station. In seven months, he assumed, it would probably be instinct to water the thing. He didn’t really know how long they lived, but when he thought about it, he figured it could be forever. Plants didn’t really die of old age, at least, not that Nezumi knew of.

It was later, while Nezumi sat on his couch reading the script for The Nutcracker that he’d gotten from the show’s producer at The New National Theatre – he’d been hired the day before as an understudy after his impromptu audition, much in part because he’d done several productions under the same producer previously – that his phone screen lit up again.

He glanced at the notification. Another text from Shion.

Nezumi sat up. Tucked his thumb inside his script and picked up his phone with his other hand, sliding his fingertip over Shion’s name on the screen.

If Nezumi left it unopened, it could say anything.

Maybe it was the answer to Shion’s challenge – Guess how many succulents I got for my birthday. The text had been sent over four hours previously. It was past midnight now. Maybe Shion didn’t want to wait for Nezumi to guess. He just wanted to tell him.

It could have been something else entirely. Nezumi imagined Shion was in bed, but it was his birthday, after all. He might have been out. Getting drinks with Safu.

That wouldn’t be right. He was in-season, it was unlikely he’d be getting drunk. Still, his next competition wasn’t for another month and a half. He could sacrifice a night.

It could be a drunk text, then. Some senseless rambling. Might not even have been meant for Nezumi at all – Shion certainly hadn’t contacted him since Nezumi left at the end of June, over two months before. Why now? Very likely he was drunk.

But maybe it was meant for him. People did things they regretted when they were drunk. Shion would wake the next morning, hungover, maybe on Safu’s couch. He would look at his phone and remember he’d texted Nezumi something nonsensical, or worse, something sane. Something that couldn’t be passed off as nonsense, something Nezumi would read and know it was true because he felt it too, he had those words too, he just knew better than to get drunk and text them.

Shion might not have been drunk. Might have texted Nezumi sober, but it was middle-of-the-night sober, which was a different kind of sober. Not really sober at all.

Nezumi set his script down beside his leg. Turned his phone over in his hands. Considered what the text might say, what it probably didn’t say, what he’d hate if it said and what he wanted it to say.

He didn’t know what he wanted it to say. The number of succulents, he thought. That would be the best scenario. The safest information, the easiest truth he could take – how many plants Shion had now.

Nezumi put his phone down without opening the text. He picked up his script again, read half a page before he was just looking at the words, not understanding any of it. He kept at it, pretending to read until a little after two in the morning, and then he took his phone and went to his bed, plugging it into his charger. He brushed his teeth, peed, returned to bed, laid down, closed his eyes, and turned over twice before flipping over, grabbing his phone, and opening the text.

Sorry. I know I shouldn’t have texted you. Hope you’re doing all right.

Nezumi rolled over onto his back. Held the phone still, and with his other hand he covered his eyes. He wished he hadn’t opened the text and that in his head, he could have imagined that Shion had said anything to him, anything Nezumi might have wanted.

Shion had gotten to the point where he could land his quad axel about fifty percent of the time within his free skate as the final jump.

He was always left completely out of breath afterward, but it was progress. He increased his work-out regime, hitting the local gym so often he was offered his own pass to use it even after it closed. Shion knew his town supported his figure skating. He was honored to receive the support that they gave him.

By October nineteenth, Shion was on a plane to Moscow with Karan. Safu, who usually came with Shion to his competitions, couldn’t get off work. Shion would be skating his short program in the Rostelecom Cup in two days and his free skate the day after that. He slept for the entire plane ride.

After every competitor at the event had skated their short program, Shion’s scores put him in first. He sat with his mother at the hotel breakfast bar on the morning he was to do his free skate, poking at his blueberry pancake and not thinking of anything until his mother spoke to him.

“Shion.”

Shion glanced up at her.

“Are you going to do the quad axel this afternoon?” she asked.

Shion stared back at his pancake. He’d eaten only half of one. He wasn’t nervous so much as tired. He hadn’t slept much the night before, but then, he hadn’t been sleeping much for months.

“I don’t know,” he answered truthfully.

“I don’t want you to.”

“I know.”

“Shion.”

Shion looked up again. His mother’s eyebrows were creased in concern.

“Maybe you should take a nap before the competition,” she offered, and Shion chose not to argue.

He’d been planning to practice his quad axel at the rink until his free skate, but maybe it’d be better not to tax his body before his program. He stood up, left the table, and returned to his hotel room, where he laid on his bed and stared up at the off-white ceiling.

After a minute or so, he closed his eyes and let himself daydream about Nezumi, the way he sometimes allowed himself – not often, but occasionally. He pretended in his head that they were at the rink, and he was showing Nezumi a scratch spin, the first spin Shion had taught him.

The tighter you keep your arms to your body, the more speed you’ll give yourself.

When Nezumi spun, his bangs, free from their clips, had covered his eyes. Shion had watched him, a blur of pale skin in sweats. Nezumi fell out of it after several seconds of rotations, laughing on the ice, and Shion had stared at him, unsure why Nezumi was laughing but not minding one bit, not telling him to get up and try it again, not wanting him to ever get up at all.

Shion still didn’t know why Nezumi had laughed when he’d fallen. He’d never asked, and in his daydream, he didn’t ask either.

He just listened to Nezumi laugh, a mess of long limbs on the ice, of scattered bangs and the rest of his hair half out of his messy bun.

Sometimes, Shion hated that he had so many memories of Nezumi. It would take him so much longer to get tired of them, of running them through his head, of reliving them. It would take him too long to get over his man, and Shion hated that but loved it too, was so grateful for it too.

When his alarm went off, his cue to get dressed and head to the competition rink, Shion felt as though no time had passed at all. In his head, Nezumi had only just fallen out of his scratch spin and was still laughing, and Shion still felt amazed at the sound.

Nezumi had rehearsal during the free skate portion of the Rostelecom Cup. The competition in Moscow was in the afternoon, but in Tokyo it was still morning, and Nezumi had only been at rehearsal for an hour.

They’d only just begun rehearsals for Don Quixote a few days before after a week of auditions. Nezumi had been cast as the title character himself. The alarm he’d previously set on his phone went off mid-pirouette.

“Whose phone was that?” the producer demanded, while Nezumi stopped his spin and glanced at his wrist before remembering he didn’t wear a watch and never had.

“Sorry, mine,” he said, jumping off the stage and grabbing his phone from the pocket of his jacket, slung over an audience chair.

“Nezumi, I know I don’t have to remind you of our phone policy.”

“It’s the Moscow skating thing, isn’t it?”

Nezumi glanced up at his cast member. Akihiko, a guy Nezumi had been in several productions with.

“What skating thing?” the producer asked.

“Shion’s in it. The world’s greatest figure skater, you know, from here. Japan. He just taught Nezumi to figure skate for that film. You’ve never heard of Shion? He’s like, the country’s pride and joy,” Akihiko continued.

Nezumi silenced his phone.

“Oh, yeah, white hair. You kissed that guy,” the producer said, looking at Nezumi in a sharp way Nezumi didn’t care to read.

“We can pick up at the top of the act,” Nezumi said, pulling himself back onto the stage.

“What, he’s got a skating thing right now?”

“In Moscow,” Akihiko confirmed.

“It doesn’t matter,” Nezumi said.

“You follow this stuff?” the producer asked Akihiko, who shrugged.

“Sure, my wife’s in love with the guy. Shion. She’s all excited that he might do some impossible quad something.”

“Axel,” Nezumi said quietly, unintentionally.

“That’s it. Quad axel. That’s the one.”

“We can take a break,” another dancer in the cast said, while Nezumi strung his fingers through his bangs. “They only skate for like, five minutes, right? Isn’t that your boyfriend?”

“He’s not,” Nezumi said, looking away from the other dancers and his producer. His hand was still in his hair, and he tightened his fingers.

“Let’s take five,” the producer said, while Nezumi exhaled through his teeth.

“I don’t need to – ”

“Take five, I don’t need everyone distracted during rehearsal. Go on, get off my stage.”

The rest of the dancers left the stage, so Nezumi had no choice but to follow. He grabbed his phone from his jacket and made to leave the auditorium, but his cast mates were surrounding him.

“Well? You gotta get to the live feed, right?” Akihiko asked.

“Are you serious?” Nezumi demanded.

Akihiko smiled. “Come on, let us watch too. We all like the guy, he’s a good skater.” Nezumi shook his head, but Shion would be on soon, and arguing would just take up time. He had the website bookmarked, went straight to the live feed and caught the announcer’s last commentary on the previous skater before Shion was skating onto the rink.

Nezumi was acutely aware of the rest of his cast mates huddled around his back, and then Akihiko was grabbing his phone from his hand, holding it out further.

“So everyone can see,” he said, and Nezumi couldn’t glare at Akihiko because Shion’s music had started, and Shion was starting his routine, and Nezumi couldn’t look away from him.

Shion’s short program has him in first amongst the other skaters at the Rostelecom Cup, but the Grand Prix is just getting underway. He’ll have to retain the same excellent performance throughout his free skate, and then he’ll be moving on to Skate America in November where we’ll get to see him impress us again in New York. Moscow seems to have its own set of fans just for Shion – his popularity hardly seems any less here than it was in Manila during the Asian Open just a few months ago. And there’s his second quad of the program, the quad Salchow, gorgeously done, no surprise there, moving into a perfect crossfoot spin.

“This guy taught you to do stuff like that?” the producer asked Nezumi from somewhere to Nezumi’s left, but Nezumi paid him no attention.

Shion continued to skate gracefully, but Nezumi thought his breathing looked more labored than usual, and it was only the start of the second half of his program. He landed another quad, then a back-to-back jump, and Nezumi found himself wishing Shion would stop jumping altogether.

He had too many jumps in his program. He didn’t need them. He could just skate over the ice, no spins or jumps at all, and he’d get the gold. He didn’t need to do anything, and he’d be the most incredible skater to watch.

There was a double Lutz, and then a step sequence, and then Shion was slowing, skating in a long curve around the edge of the rink, and the last quad was next but Nezumi hoped he wouldn’t do it.

A triple instead, like at the Asian Open. Even a double. Just a spin to end the program.

Here comes his last jump. We saw a breathtaking triple Lutz at the end of his Asian Open performance, but we’re all still hoping for that quad axel. There he goes, a forward lift into an axel, and that’s – four rotations! Was that four rotations? I swear, that looked like four rotations to me! The crowd seems to think so too, they’re screaming so loud, and Shion landed it perfectly, is coming to the end now – A quad axel? Did we just witness the very first quad axel of figure skating competition history? But hold on, Shion doesn’t look so – Oh my goodness.

When Shion fell to the ice, Nezumi shouted his name. He reached out, grabbed his phone. Held it closer to his face, stared at Shion’s limp body on the ice and waited for the man to get up, couldn’t hear a thing but his pulse, watched the video pan closer to Shion’s body, and then there were medical personnel skating into the camera’s view, bending over Shion, blocking the camera’s view of him.

“Guys, shut up, we need to hear what they’re saying!” Akihiko snapped, and Nezumi realized everyone around him was talking, but then they weren’t, and Nezumi could finally make out what the announcer was saying.

– just crumbled right in front of our eyes, still no update from the medics, but he doesn’t seem to be stirring, though of course it’s hard to see. There’s his coach and mother Karan skating onto the ice now, the medics are paying her no mind. A stretcher being brought in – Oh dear, this is not looking good, they’re skating off the ice with him – Folks, I wish I had more information to offer, but for now we’re going to ask you to standby and switch over to –

“Nezumi.”

Nezumi wanted to throw his phone when the feed switched to a set of commentators outside the rink. “Fuck, fuck.”

“Nezumi.”

“Don’t fucking touch me,” Nezumi snapped, ripping his arm away from the cast mate whose hand was on his shoulder.

“You can leave,” the producer said, and Nezumi stared at him, tried to focus.

“Hey, come on now,” Akihiko started, but the producer cut him off.

“Go on, do what you have to do. We’ll resume rehearsal tomorrow. If you can’t make it, you call and let us know, and that’ll be fine.”

Nezumi continued to stare. He was aware he was breathing hard. He didn’t know what he had to do. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do. He looked back at his phone and couldn’t see anything. His hand was in his hair and he was aware that he was cursing, made himself stop.

He shook his head. “I’m not – I’m not even – I don’t – ”

Nezumi’s producer’s hand was on Nezumi’s arm, and Nezumi couldn’t jerk away. “I don’t care if the guy’s not your boyfriend, I don’t care if he is. I’ve known you a long time, Nezumi, and I’ve never seen you so scared shitless. So you go do what you have to do, and you’ll have your place here whenever you get back. You’ve done good for this theater, and for me, personally, in all the productions we’ve done together. I’m thanking you now by telling you to get out of here. Understand?”

The producer let go of Nezumi’s arm to push him gently, and Nezumi stepped back, then kept stepping back, then was leaving the theater, feeling numb, unsure what to do when he was outside the building, but there was Akihiko beside him, and Nezumi didn’t realized he’d been following him.

Akihiko was on the phone, and Nezumi stared at him, unable to make out what his cast mate was saying.

He gave up. Looked back down at his phone. Watched the commentator’s lips move. Waited for the cameras to return to Shion.

He was still waiting when a car pulled up, and then Akihiko was pushing him gently. “It’s taking you to the airport, I’ve got one of my buddies heading to your place to grab your passport, he’ll meet you there,” Akihiko said, and Nezumi had no idea what he was talking about, didn’t think, couldn’t think, got in the car and Akihiko closed the door on him and the driver of the car pulled away from the theater.

Nezumi closed his eyes. He felt nauseous, and the darkness didn’t help, but he was certain to open his eyes wouldn’t help either.

Nothing would help, and Nezumi knew that more than anything.

When Shion opened his eyes, Nezumi was staring intently at him, so Shion figured he was dreaming.

An odd dream, because he realized quickly that he was in a hospital room.

“You’re up,” Nezumi said, which was wrong.

“I’m dreaming,” Shion corrected, and Nezumi squinted at him.

“Does your head hurt?”

“I don’t think people can feel pain in dreams. Although there is research disputing that idea, I’ve read about it,” Shion said.

Nezumi continued to stare.

“It’s nice to see you,” Shion offered. “Even if I’ll wake up. I don’t usually dream about you, which is strange, seeing as you take up so much of my conscious thoughts. I daydream about you, though.”

“I think you hit your head,” Nezumi finally said, speaking slowly.

He was holding Shion’s hand, Shion realized. He looked down at it. There was an IV protruding from the back of it. Nezumi’s fingers were long and loosely curled around his own.

“It doesn’t hurt,” Shion said gently, because Nezumi seemed concerned for him, and Shion didn’t want him to worry.

Nezumi’s hand that wasn’t holding Shion’s reached up, touched Shion’s face only briefly before sliding around to the back of Shion’s head. Shion leant into the touch, felt Nezumi’s long fingers drifting through his hair, probing softly as if searching.

“What are you doing?” Shion whispered. Nezumi’s touch felt incredibly real, the way it did when he was awake.

It was occurring to Shion that he was awake after all, but he couldn’t piece together how this could be possible. He was meant to be at the Rostelecom Cup. Nezumi was meant to be gone from his life – or at the very least, in Japan.

“You don’t feel any pain?” Nezumi asked, not answering Shion’s question, but Shion had already forgotten he’d asked one.

“Where are we?” he asked, and Nezumi dropped his hand.

“The hospital,” Nezumi said carefully, and Shion thought the word sounded clumsy on Nezumi’s lips, as if he wasn’t sure how to speak it.

Shion tried to look more closely at the man. Noted that his eyes were a little wider than usual. His skin paler. He looked, to Shion, a little scared, and Shion’s heart beat faster.

He wondered if he were not in a dream at all, but a nightmare. He had a strong suspicion that Nezumi’s nightmares often took place in hospitals.

“Are we awake?” Shion asked, and he watched Nezumi breathe through his open lips, a quick breath, audible.

“Yeah,” he finally said, his voice a little shaky.

“Nezumi.”

“Yeah.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” Nezumi’s hand was in his dark hair, pushing his bangs back.

Shion decided he was awake. They were both awake. Nezumi was scared of hospitals, or maybe scared for Shion, who was in the hospital, or maybe it was both.

He tried to work out how he could be awake. The last thing he remembered was the Rostelecom Cup. His free skate. Exhaustion. Gasping through his skate. Not thinking he’d make it to the end, just wanting it to end, his body searing for it to end. He’d landed his quad axel, he’d finished his free skate, he’d stood still to face the crowd and smile and bow, and then everything was black.

He’d fainted, he supposed. This made sense. The only other option was that he’d been attacked, shot maybe, but that was such a bizarre option that Shion eliminated it.

There was still Nezumi’s presence to figure out.

“Are we in Moscow?” Shion asked. He spoke gently. He wanted to distract Nezumi from whatever Nezumi was scared of.

Nezumi nodded. His fingers moved over Shion’s hand, and Shion looked down at it, watched Nezumi’s thumb rub over the back of his hand, then lift up, touch the tape that held down the IV.

Shion followed the line of his IV. It was connected to a bag on an IV stand filled with clear liquid. Shion pointed at it with his IV-free hand.

“Do you know what’s in there?” he asked. He liked asking Nezumi questions. He loved talking to this man. If he kept asking, then Nezumi would have to answer, and he could never leave.

Nezumi didn’t even look at the bag. His eyes were drifting over Shion’s body and face and never left him. “No,” Nezumi said, while he seemed to be looking at Shion’s neck, then his hair, then his lips. “They told me. I couldn’t understand them.”

“Were they speaking Russian?” Shion asked, tilting his head.

“No. They spoke English and your mother translated for me,” Nezumi said.

Shion looked around the room for his mother, but it was a small room, easy to see that he and Nezumi were alone.

“Why couldn’t you understand my mom?”

Nezumi just shook his head. Exhaled hard. “It sounded like she was talking from a long way away,” he finally managed, his voice a little shaky, and Shion sat up, was glad to find that it was painless to do so, easy to do so.

He reached out, thinking to touch Nezumi’s face, but then he settled on Nezumi’s wrist instead, wrapped his fingers loosely around the pale skin there. He could see Nezumi’s veins beneath his skin, rivers of light green, a map he’d traced before to see where it might lead him.

“I’m okay,” Shion insisted, even though he didn’t know why he was at the hospital in the first place. He didn’t need to know. He felt okay. Even if he wasn’t okay, he wanted Nezumi to believe he was. He wanted Nezumi to feel better. “Everything is going to be okay.”

Nezumi didn’t say anything. His eyes were flickering between Shion’s now, fast and wide.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” Shion pressed. He didn’t understand how Nezumi was in Moscow. A plane, he rationalized. That was the way to get to Moscow from Tokyo. Nezumi must have gotten on a plane. Found the hospital where Shion was. Probably used the stairs to get to whatever floor Shion was, Shion knew he preferred stairs to elevators, preferred moving to standing still.

There was still the matter of how Nezumi knew Shion was in the hospital. He must have been watching the Rostelecom Cup. He must have seen Shion black out.

Shion felt better having pieced it together. He did not have to be dreaming. This could be real. There was a way it could all be real, and Nezumi could be sitting beside him, holding his hand with incredibly loose fingers.

“I don’t like hospitals,” Nezumi whispered, only once Shion forgot he’d even asked Nezumi a question.

“Why did you come?” Shion asked, even though he didn’t want to ask it.

He wanted it to be obvious. He wanted it to be expected, that Nezumi would come, but it wasn’t, it didn’t make sense even though Shion wanted it to.

It had been nearly four months since Shion had seen Nezumi. He couldn’t pretend it was normal to see this man no matter how much he wished it was.

“I didn’t want you to wake up alone,” Nezumi said.

Shion didn’t remind Nezumi that he had his mother, that there were other figure skaters at the competition Shion knew and liked who would have accompanied him to the hospital if his mother couldn’t, that Safu might even have flown from Tokyo as well if no one else could be beside him.

Shion did not remind Nezumi that he had so many people who could have been by his side because Shion felt selfish having so many people, and besides, he didn’t want any of them.

He wanted Nezumi.

“I haven’t stopped missing you yet,” Shion admitted, because Nezumi had admitted that he didn’t like hospitals, and even though Shion had already guessed that, he felt it was only fair that he admitted a secret of his own.

He thought Nezumi probably already knew his secret too, anyway.

Nezumi didn’t say anything, but his loose fingers tightened just a little around Shion’s hand.

Shion felt, from where they fell against his palm and the back of his hand, that Nezumi’s fingers were shaking just the smallest bit.

#nezushi #no.6 #no. 6 #if you're wondering how long this fic is gonna be #i can tell you i have no idea #it could go on forever #i could die before it's done #i probably will #it seems likely and also i'm living in gator-land now so it's likely i'll be eaten trying to save my dog from a swamp monster

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fckfrannie-blog · 7 years

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about frannie;

born in the dead of winter, frannie was unwanted from the start. a few weeks before she was due, frannie’s mother tried performing an at-home abortion, which ended up doing the opposite of what she’d intended--inducing early labor. frannie weighed only 3 pounds at birth, and was whisked off the the NICU while her mother was simultaneously carted to a mental institution.

frannie’s father--while only a teenager himself--stepped up to the plate. he only found out about his daughter’s existence weeks after she was born, when he was contacted as a last resort by the mother’s family. at seventeen, he dropped out of high school, picked up frannie, and took them both cross-country on his motorcycle, in search of a job.

a steady job never came. frannie spent the first seven years of her life being driven around with her father, who performed odd jobs in small neighborhoods in exchange for a couch to sleep on, and an occasional a drink to take the edge off. for those few short years, frannie knew nothing but change. she spent her evenings learning how to play cards with the other bikers at the bar before falling asleep in the sidecar of her father’s motorcycle. others regarded her as a feral child.

frannie’s mother and father had kept in occasional contact, but it wasn’t until she got remarried that her mother showed any interest in her daughter. frannie met her mother for the first time when she was seven, when she pulled up in front of the motel they were staying at and coaxed the small girl into her car. hours later, they were in chicago. and, unbeknownst to frannie, her small face was being broadcast all over local television stations as a victim of kidnapping.

the case was ended quickly. mothers almost always won custody in court. frannie’s father paled in comparison to her mother, who was now married and had a daughter of her own. with his inability to hold a stable job and lack of permanent housing, her father was deemed an unfit parent and frannie’s world was changed instantly.

it soon became obvious that frannie was only wanted to serve as a surrogate mother for her newfound sister--which had been her new step-father’s idea. not soon after, another custody battle was won and seven-year-old frannie met her half-brother for the first time. without a loving parent of her own, frannie’s energy focused on becoming one for her siblings.

"they brought me home when nette was almost three. they still had her in a crib and her legs were so weak that she couldn't even pull herself to stand up. i guess they wanted me to serve as some kind of fucked-up nanny. she never cried at first and i didn't really know what to do. sometimes i used to pinch her legs until she’d make some sorta' noise to let me know i was hurtin' her. or that she felt anything."

"enzo showed up a little later. him an’ nette used to fight like cats and dogs. he'd pull her hair but she’d draw her nails and scratch him so hard she’d draw blood. but i never saw those two stick together as much as i did when the dick went to lay his hands on either one of em’. 'twas like no one was allowed to hurt them except each other."

but change had become pretty much inevitable in frannie’s life. the four years spent watching over her siblings was brought to an abrupt halt when another letter showed up on their doorstep. her father had done some changing of his own over the years--landing himself a wife, steady job, and two newborn twin daughters. and now he wanted what was rightfully his.

it took a little persuading in the form of monthly checks on her mother's doorstep, but custody was finally granted to her father and frannie was ripped from her desk at school and sent on a plane back to california, without a chance to even say goodbye.

"she'd done something really fucked up by letting me get attached to nette n’ enzo. she knew i'd come back. she said it to my face before they took me away. they'd already fucked me up past the point of redemption. i was determined to prove her wrong for a while."

frannie was hit with a mix of conflicting emotions when she was reunited with her father. for one, he'd never stopped fighting for her. his home was a dream, his new wife adored her, and frannie was suddenly faced with all the normalcy she could have ever wished for. they went out of their way to accommodate her and make her feel welcome--but she wasn't happy.

no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't forget the past four years and everything she'd been introduced to. she couldn’t pretend that enzo and nette had never existed. she tried--she really did--but she couldn’t force herself to be a kid again. she’d been forced to grow up in those four short years, and her father suddenly felt like a stranger to her. she couldn’t fit in with these people who hadn’t seen the things she had seen. she couldn’t convince herself that this was a life she deserved.

"he loved me so much. even after all those years. and i felt like such a jerk for not knowing how to respond to it. still do. they both tried to hard to bring me into their little picture perfect family. it should've been so easy, right? they gave me no reason to be afraid and yet i tortured myself with the idea that i was damaged goods."

she did her best to fake it for a year before she left. on the eve of her thirteenth birthday, she stole a handful of her father’s money and got herself a train ticket back to chicago. it was less than a warm welcome when she showed back up at her mother’s doorstep. but it felt more normal than she’d hoped.

“i left when i was eleven. nette was seven and enzo was six. they took me while we were in school so i never knew how those two reacted when they got home an' all my stuff was gone. i still don't really know much of what happened to them over the year i was gone. all i know is when i came home they both had hardened like stone. it took a while for them to stop treating me like a stranger. s'pose they saw a hardening in me, too."

“they were what brought me back. i was tortured by the thought that i’d abandoned them. his daughters--my half sisters, i guess--were so much different than nette and enzo had been at that age. they were lively bear cubs compared to the pair of timid mice those two turned into. i comforted the twins when they cried over a broken toy. with nette and enz’, it was broken skin. sometimes bones. i didn’t want to leave the twins, either, but i realized that my leaving would leave a much smaller hole than the one i created when i’d left nette and enz.’”

and something new was waiting for her when she arrived home--a new baby sister.

"it was terrifying. her tiny face looked so much like my own mother's that i threw up immediately after seeing her for the first time. i saw the endless spiral of babies laid out in front of me, one after the other, and me being left to raise them. i had nightmares about our house becoming filled with so many children--more than i could hold with two hands--and would wake up still thinking it was real. i resented her. and i hated my parents for bringing another infant into such a cruel, fucked-up world, without equipping her with an arsenal."

"i tried so hard to leave the parenting to them. i prayed that because she was their first child together, maybe things would change. i held a pillow over my head to shut out her crying at night, when no one else would go to comfort her. but i succumbed slowly. i don't think i will ever become a person who would let a child cry themselves to sleep. my siblings watched as my resolve crumbled, until eventually addie's crib wound up in the corner of my room. all three of us exhausted our efforts to convince our father that addie's first word had been 'dada,' not 'f'annie.'"

"out of all of us, i think she's got the best chance. she's got someone there since the beginning, y'know? an' three human shields standin' between her and our parents. i'm tryin' to keep her soft, keep her child for as long as i can."

while devoting her attention to her siblings and new baby sister, she walked on eggshells--waiting for someone to show up and cart her off to juvie for stealing from her father. or for a social worker to send her straight back to california. it was two months before she heard from him. he sent a card and belated birthday present to their door.

“he let me go. it was like he knew if he forced me back i'd just pull away harder. he still sends me a birthday present each year. christmas cards, too. but i can't bear to look at those and see them all happy. and normal. it might be bad, but it gives me satisfaction knowing he feels guilty about how things turned out. makes me sad, though, too."

"i had him all to myself for those first seven years. back when it was simple. he changed after they took me. (suppose i did, too). the twins had comfort and stability where i had uncertainty and makeshift beds in dive-bar booths. they had two parents while i had an adrenaline junkie who was still only a kid himself. maybe those seven years were a grand adventure. but it set me up for a lifetime of restlessness--a pair of flighty bird wings and a longing to run away. i never had a taste of that normalcy. and by the time it was offered to me, it was far too late. i’d become a foreigner."

now, frannie is 22, and still trapped in southside. she could leave--she knows that--but she has her siblings to take care of. abandoning them again isn’t an option. plus, her grades tanked in favor of getting a job at the tattoo parlor, and colleges never gave her a second glance. she picked up motorcycles to feel close to her father without having to interact with him. the guys at the bike shop remind her of the men she met as a girl, on the road with her father.

but even after 8 years in the southside, she’s still eternally bracing for the next big tragedy to come along and uproot her. it’s all she knows.

#muse #bio #about #this is way too long jesus god #anyway #here's frannie

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forceyourway · 7 years

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Tree of Life Shadow Work Challenge

Day Three: “What aspect of my home life might I benefit from taking into consideration?”

(Using Loki’s tarot deck, “The Raven’s Prophecy Tarot”)

I’m loathe to take a picture of the entire tree again, because it’s a pain to assemble. I totally took one and then realized I set it up wrong and sigh. I might edit this with the tree picture later.

Six of Cups - I thought this was a weird card to be here, because it’s literally about considering your childhood. Like he’s just saying the question back at me, y’know? It might be that I need to acknowledge positive memories, because I’m so overwhelmed by negative ones. It might just be talking about evaluating my childhood self, and who I was then. There is a sort of implication of innocence? I think with this. Like, all of this stuff happened, and I was a child.

Home Life - Security, Belonging, Self-Worth

Reflect on what your home life was like growing up. Consider things like household income, inter-family relationship dynamics, overall lifestyle, etc. Was financial stability a source of stress? Was the relationship between your parents conflicted? Did you feel accepted by your family? Did you feel safe at home? Did you live a life in a suburban setting, in the boonies, in an orphanage?

Security My childhood was comfortable, financially-speaking. My dad has a very high-paying job. We moved out of our townhouse, and into a house-house when I was in 3rd-ish grade, and we rented out the townhouse. Every now and then, my dad would need to go there to fix something or what have you, as the owner, and my sister and I were always very excited to tag along. We wanted to go back and see where we grew up, and see if our old babysitter was available to play with, or go to the park. The park behind our house was pretty much always changing, so that was neat. One time, my sister and I were wandering around the Big Park. We heard they had a splash pad, but when we went there, the water was off, and we couldn’t figure out how to turn it on. Some other kids were there, older kids, probably 16+. About 5 of them, I think. We followed them through a path in the woods that led to a park we’d never been to before. Along the way, I picked up a big stick and was using it like a walking staff, as kids do. I kept trying to talk to the other kids, oblivious that they did not want to play with me, and they took offense to being followed around by an annoying white girl with a big stick. It came to a point where they were demanding I put the stick down, and I stood my ground, because wtf this is my stick, I found it, I’m keeping it. I didn’t understand the connotation. They beat the shit out of me. All of them. I remember hitting the ground hard, and pain. My sister ran. I was in middle school at the time, and she was even younger, but it stuck with me that she ran. When I told my dad what happened, he at first acted like he didn’t believe me, and then said he’d go investigate and tell the other kids off. That was a lie. I really thought he was gonna do it, and was really hurt when he didn’t. He ended up hardly acknowledging what happened to me at all. This is why I have abandonment issues. I grew up feeling like I couldn’t rely on my family to protect me when I needed it. Later, toward the end of middle school, I got into a fight with a girl at her sleepover party. She’d been pushing me around all night, and when she tried to pour body spray down my back, that was the last straw. I grabbed the closest thing and chucked it at her. I think I meant to grab my pillow - it was right there - but ended up grabbing a tiny (as in, could fit in your hand) wire earring-case or whatever. I remember being shocked when I saw what I did. It hit her in the head/face. She started screaming “You hurt me!” and started kicking me repeatedly in the stomach. Pain. Chaos. I couldn’t so much breathe. Her mother looked at me like I was dirt after that, because I must have deserved it. Her father wasn’t so sure, but I still needed to get out of their house immediately. My dad picked me up. He remembered what happened at the park, and said I must have deserved it. I didn’t tell him what happened. None of the girls stood up for me, either. They were kind of complicit, in that they let her - or joined in on - pushing me around the whole night, before the fight...

We grew up in a small town in a suburb-ish area. No crime to speak of. There were a couple of kids our age on the street, most notably two sisters who were me and my sister’s best friends. Their mother hated us and was very vocal about it with our parents, telling them we had “A Serious Problem.” All the damn time. She and her friend (another neighbor) kept calling me a Smartass. I...didn’t know what that meant. Ever oblivious and ever self-incriminating, I took it as a compliment and said thank you. That hardly helped matters. It took me a long time to realize that the girls pretty much didn’t give a shit about us; they played with us when it was convenient, but not when others were around. The younger one and my sister got physical a lot. They made fun of us all the time, and mostly it went over our heads. My mom was very irresponsible with money, eating out all the time, shopping all the time, etc. And frequently she was out of work; most of her jobs were as a temp, and there was a lot of in-between time. This was a huge point of tension with her and my dad, and eventually we ended up very deep in debt, though it hardly showed. My dad started gambling to compensate; sometimes he won big, but mostly it was just a huge money drain, and it became an addiction for him. When my mom finally left my dad for good, he got stuck with the debt, and essentially went bankrupt. He’s now living in my decrepit childhood home, eating ramen noodles, and god only knows how far behind he is on the bills. He’s still got that good job, but it’s not enough, and he's still gambling. My parents were always fighting, and my dad got so loud that I was always expecting something physical to go down. Always expecting I was gonna get hit. My mom got physical with me. My sister got physical with me. My dad got physical with me (after I provoked him). Home was not a safe place for me. I didn’t feel I could rely on my family. My mother was always late, very late, when picking me up from school, like I was an afterthought. They abandoned me when I needed them, and they sure as hell didn’t protect me. I used to pretend that maybe I wasn’t really their child, maybe I was secretly adopted. I’d convince myself that to help me get by. Unfortunately, I saw too much of them in me - and me in them - to keep acting as if they weren’t my “real” parents.

Belonging My parents really, really wanted me to be someone else. I hated shopping with my mom, because she was always trying to play dress up with me. Put stuff on me I didn’t like, because that’s how she wanted me to be. And she’d get aggressive if I refused to go with her, or told her I didn’t like the clothes. To this day, she thinks I’m still in some “goth” phase, despite constantly wearing varied and multicolored outfits around her for many years. A few years ago, when I was looking for a job, she told me she found an opening at whatever-store-or-other...which she immediately followed with “as if you could ever work there; you have no fashion sense!” I have excellent fashion sense, thank you. My dad actually forced me to go to a tanning booth when I was...14? 15? because I was pale and I had acne, and he was trying to “fix” it. I was super, super opposed to this, but he forced me into it, telling me I should be grateful and all that shit. I was supposed to get naked and lay in this freaky light machine. I remember being super uncomfortable, and I refused to strip all the way down. He was so, so angry with me. We didn’t go again.

To this day, my dad constantly remarks on what a weird kid I am. How it’s not “normal” that I don’t drink or smoke (or that I never have), and he started smoking when he was 12, or whatever, and used to steal beer all the time. It seemed like he wanted me to do all that stuff, because it was “part of growing up???” I am wondering now if this might be one of his weird as hell attempts at humor; the problem with that is, no one ever knows when he’s kidding...

Self-worth I suck at math. I have dyscalclia. I just don’t brain it right. My dad is obsessed with math. I went through workbook after workbook as a child, in some attempt to make me good at it. I hated them. I snuck calculators when calculators weren’t allowed. Never learned my times tables; to this day, he’ll throw a random multiplication question at me every now and then. I was forced to go to Math Camp, which I hated. I think I might have cried one day, on the way. Nothing helped. When I went to the second Catholic school, the one with the Hive Mentality, my math teacher did a thing where we had to do warm-up problems before we could do anything else. Everyone brought up their notebooks and she’d check them, and then they’d go on to the next thing. I spent the whole class going up. I had no idea what I was doing wrong, and she refused to help me. I was in tears by the end, just writing down random answers after going through every possible way I could have gotten it wrong.

I was really good at school, once I hit public school. Always on Honor Roll. In high school, I came close to having straight A’s a few times, but math always held me back. It was pretty solidly at a C. I had one geometry teacher who refused to help me - or anyone - when we were struggling. I think I got a D. First time ever. Of course, a huge deal was made about this. The next semester, I got a new geometry teacher, and instantly shot up to an A. He was very kind and helpful, and he used colored chalk so you could see the different elements of a problem. I had like a 103%, and was super, super proud that I shot from a D to an A, and I had straight A’s. My dad just said “We’ll see how long that lasts.” When my sister got straight A’s, he gave her $100, because she was the “dumb” one, and I was the “smart” one, and I should have had straight A’s all the time???

#Tree of Life Shadow Work Challenge #Tarot #Divination #Divination Challenges #@unmaskingthedivine #Abuse #Physical Abuse #Child Abuse #Bullying #Assault #Emotional Abuse #Mental Abuse #Psychological Abuse

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elizabethrobertajones · 7 years

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12x16 watching notes

confession: I really like Mick

Also if he makes it out the season alive and comes back to England I’m finding him myself to kill him.

Maybe the show is running behind time and that’s why Cas’s car was parked in my town

----

I'm barely taking off my shoes and sitting down with some tea and I'm getting a faceful of the werewolf lore

(Claire continues to be linked to Dean and hunting, not Cas and angels)

they're stressing the detail about the werewolves not being like the ones in Heart, still, with Robbie's helpful change in 8x04 to make werewolves easier to write. That's interesting to me just because we've spent so much time remixing everything lately that stressing that something isn't how it was in season 2 is more of a meta point than normal. There's also, I think, an assumption people know the show very very well by now, and it's written like you'd know all the random tiny plot details, or at least, the remixes and re-dos are all easter eggs for if you are well-versed enough in the show to spot them. Telling us it's not like it was in the old days has got more important than season 8 - which attempted to soft reboot the show TWICE. (in 8x01 and 8x12) ... Season 12 is the hard reboot where you hold down the power key for 10 seconds and then let it shut off before you try again :P

season 12 recap stuff, condenses down Dean vs Ketch interestingly with several more reaction shots than I'd have expected, including one from I think 12x08 while Ketch was showing off his toys - a real focus on Dean's conflict with them but NOT reminding us as a recent previous episode about stuff like Toni and Ms Watt or Sam getting tortured. Short term memory, or there's always the queer-coded stuff between Dean and Ketch and I do think it's going to be between them at the end whatever happens to Ketch just because they've been shoved together so many times now so it makes sense to make Dean's emotional focus here suddenly switch to hating Ketch, and Ketch making a play for him etc and Dean saying about that they've worked with people they don't trust, overlaid with a little clip of him and Crowley hanging out in glasses, which, of course, again parallels that his lack of TRUST in Crowley is oooh so layered with maybe not trust but reliance, familiarity, and a weird sense of even friendship or family if he'd dare admit it... to DEAN Crowley is much more than he might be to Sam or Cas - THEY would easily be like "uh we don't trust Crowley and hate working with him" while Dean's probably like "Okay so he turned me into a demon that one time and we're not making any excuses but - "

there's also speculation some people have about the fight coming down to the line about Crowley and Dean having to face if he really would save Crowley or not (even if he can pretend it's just repaying the favour for Cas or whatever)

also blah blah interpersonal drama with Sam and Dean, we know how that goes

The sign we start on says "cold beer and wine to go" - what kind of a bar is this :P

I hope it doesn't have wine out of a vending machine but this is the sort of establishment my brain has decided to expect. (It's called the Lucky Badger so who knows)

Oh dear the cold open girl is lying blatantly to whoever Ben is, saying she's studying (with her friend Angela, so... I have no idea yet but using a name with "angel" in it probably is an easy way to get in character mirrors >.>) - he's right behind her and turns out to have been watching her as she texted, so probably spotted her in the Lucky Badger or had been creepy stalking her

He seems to think it's a joke though so I guess he's either a werewolf so no wonder he's not taking it personally outwardly - if he's pissed off with her he's way more dangerous in other ways than just having a fight, or they're friends, and this actually is a joke to him. Either way, she didn't seem to like him texting her like that and wanted to lie in the first place.

Nice shot of the moon.

Oh, they're siblings. That explains the entire dynamic as a normal human interaction :P He's 100% allowed to teasingly be concerned about her getting into trouble, and the "busted" comment is because they both answer to the same higher power aka their parents. And if you saw your sibling at a bar they weren't supposed to be at, that's immediately within your right to jokingly freak them out via text message, because the whole level of interpersonal drama changes... if it was some bloke she knows being over-protective or over-interested in her life, then yeah. brrr. Of course the show has all the stuff about Sam and Dean policing each other and taking it too far with that and their overprotectiveness, but for now this all seems normal enough for writing siblings, as long as we stick a pin in that thought in case that's a meta thing later >.>

They also have mom drama. She won't let them get a car, aka a sign of being grown up and personal freedom - the girl teases her brother for not having a car but he speaks about it as "us". The mom is deciding when they get to grow up and on what terms. (In 12x01 it seemed like Mary might get possessive over the Impala and we were speculating/wondering if that would happen. So far she hasn't driven it or been given a reason to. Wherever they stashed the Impala between 12x08 and 12x10, Mary never got hold of it in the weeks they were gone. I'm now reminded I'm waiting for Mary to drive Baby for some reason.)

I'm tentatively labelling yellow plaid guy as Sam because tall, and girl in short shorts Dean because... she's shorter.

Kudos to the actress for doing all this in the snow

Anyway the brother tells the girl to act her age (they're now pinging my Twin radar which would be fascinating to have MORE fraternal twins in one season especially in the aftermath of God and Amara - Alicia and Max are interesting but I guess they aren't reliable data until there's more sets to measure them against), and doesn't want/need the car/personal freedom, or to be sneaked into a bar to get a Moscow Mule, while the sister is acting out and trying to get that freedom/do things beyond her expected age.

The brother says the mom is doing the best she can, which of course has been Sam's role mediating between Dean and Mary and wouldn't be weird for him to say

Also more teenagers/young adults thinking about leaving home/growing up - Gwen last episode leaving to go to vet school, these guys 2 years from whenever Actual Personal Freedom hits them (what age does that happen for Americans? I'd just assume 18 if they were British meaning they could be 16, which looks way too young for these guys, but American drinking laws are weird so they could be 19 and still 2 years off bar hopping as a way of life :P - anyway Claire should be coming up to 20, if she hit 18 in season 10, so I'll have to assume these guys are 19 and therefore a year older than when I'd assume teenagers get personal freedom >.>)

(they’re TV teenagers and therefore the actors are probably 25 with youthful faces)

Sam and Dean have regressed or never managed to "leave home" in the sense they never had a home to leave from and fell out of the nest aged Way Too Young, and there's been meta I'd seen about at least Dean and Cas (separately) having adolescence or childhood arcs, and of course in season 12 with Mary back, Sam and Dean are metaphorically zapped right back down to aged six months and four, respectively, with a need to reconcile Mary back into their adult lives, and for her to reconcile adult Dean and Sam back into hers. It's nice if the subtext is moving them up to adolescence in this respect because it means they're nearly adult and ready to fly the next properly and to be their own people. If they don't get mauled by hellhounds or werewolves first, like the poor sucker from last episode who never made it out of his hometown or married the girl... Bit worried one or both of these kids are about to die, because, well, cold open.

They are the right sort of age that the boy could get eaten, the girl turned, and then she's a new BFF for Claire as werewolf friends :3

Yay she's genre savvy - she knows not to go into the woods when it's dark and full moon :P Come on you have to survive this...

Dean was being genre savvy last episode. Also Ben is not listening to his sister's concerns (and it seems fairly obvious speculation that Sam might not listen at first to Dean's concerns about the BMoL)

Oh AND he calls her a drama queen, after Sam said Dean was "dramatic"

I feel almost bad for making the call about this parallel entirely from the short shorts.

"It's fine I'll prove it"

You are so going to get eaten by werewolves.

LOL she has a "Bae" in her phone that she's coming right back to

I hope it's Angela

Nooooo she got attacked

she still looks, like, not devoured. She is presumably just turned. (Is she called Eden or Eve? I can't make out the dialogue at all here)

Heh called it, Ben gets his heart ripped out by the corny mask-wearing monster (a monster playing up being a monster - I'm on Monster Movie red alert because that's like a fave episode ever and we never refer back to it when we really should because it was Edlund at his best :P) - I mean obviously updated from the Nosferatu generation to the Scream generation.

I'm also gonna assume this lame teenage werewolf in a mask (come on, he's wearing a mask and a hoodie) is a peer they know, and like the shapeshifter had a thing for Jamie, kinda wants the girl for himself here.

I'm gonna assume Claire is our "Mr Harker" because she is, after all, a Dean parallel.

Anyway that's a grim sibling parallel - the one who didn't believe/listen to the concerns gets his heart ripped out just for playing around not treating it as seriously as he should, and the genre savvy short-shorts wearing sibling who just wanted to drink in peace with the bae has presumably had as far as we know for now irrevocable damage done to her life...

I hope someone's written a lot about Sam being trapped in this triangle:

because that's fascinating. He's definitely separated from Dean and encased/caged in it; whether it's technically a halo because it's glowing or not is a thought for later. But that's not an accidental shot and it's definitely singling Sam out

Oh good, Dean's temper is doing well.

I thought he'd taken his jacket off for the first shot and was about to comment on that because Sam's in a bulky jacket, but it turns out they're just trying to kill me with the wardrobe because that IS Dean's jacket painted onto his back and shoulders there.

Dean's chafing at having to "report for duty" with them - the getting cases was fun (especially when he didn't know where they were coming from, or at least, may have suspected but didn't ask questions)... but now he's being treated like a soldier, and he has issues with the big picture - it's staring at the map looking at the scope of their organisation that's got his mind on this, and that comes with the fact they're being used for the big picture stuff. Last time he felt like this, I think, was in season 6 between 6x07>6x10 where he's resenting working for Crowley doing pretty much this exact same thing with taking out monsters - of course 12x14 had aaaall the parallels and callbacks to season 6 and the Campbells.

Mick's actually still upset about the poor dead people from last time we saw him - nice to see emotional continuity and that this really is part of his arc.

"Wow that is some world class repression, you really are British" - You know if there was an olympics for it, Dean would have taken home the gold medal pretty much every year until now. Shh Dean. Just because you're the Honesty Hour character NOW

I love Dean's look at Mick after "stiff upper lip" - not sure if it's understanding, or intimidation, or a bit of both. Or the old "he said a weird phrase in a British accent, is that meant to be an innuendo" double check.

(Everything said in a British accent is an innuendo)

Oh the girl's called Hayden, I think. Thank you, Mick, for speaking in an accent I actually understand :D

Ahaha Mick did EXTENSIVE research. He's an EXPERT you guys. I really headcanoned hard he's always been a hit the library hard kind of guy, which is probably how he got as far as he did in the ranks of a top secret HEREDITARY order while having a coded in media as lower class accent. Kinda nice to find out he was top of his class in "hunter hogwarts" to quote whoever said that... For some reason I'm convinced it's Bobby but I think that was because he made a joke about phoning Hogwarts when they were hunting dragons.. hang on, I need to look this up.

OH Crowley in 9x11. Of course.

I wonder if he knows there's actual schools for this. We don't actually have much Crowley and BMoL interaction to go off.

I'd assume it's higher education style, sort of like going to law school or whatever, but instead you go to some country house with a big lore library... I can't imagine there are many students.

Dean has come to learn that people around him will incessantly reference whatever a Hogwarts is, while Sam, a Nerd, references it and Mick, a British Person Alive Since 1997, is just like yeah that place. This is almost no indication of nerd cred whatsoever.

Sam's like "COOL" and Dean's like "Oh god shut up" with his glare. Like, he KNOWS he's watching Sam get suckered in with everything Sam would love (lore, Harry Potter references being acknowledged) so it's like, OBVIOUSLY you are not being critical and careful here, you just said "COOL" and looked at me with that enthusiastic smirk just like that guy who got eaten by a werewolf in a silly mask in the cold open.

Also Sam WAS critical in 12x14 and ready to leave, but changed his mind after events; of course Dean didn't see that and doesn't know that Sam gave Mick the exact same wariness that Dean is giving him now.

However Dean always tends to be right (and it's blatantly obvious the BMoL are a bad idea to US) so clearly Sam didn't vet them hard enough...

I love that Mick wants to come along for said personal development reasons and NOT because he's Umbridge-ing them like I had been speculating. (that's a verb, I'm British, let it happen :P)

He and Sam seem pretty good at talking each other up about 12x14 - Sam credits them wholly with killing the alpha vamp, like he might have just been the trigger finger but they did everything (and he and Mick did pretty much tag team it all, from making the bullets to getting one TO Sam to shoot the Alpha so I can see how circumstantially, ignoring the bigger picture of why the Alpha was even there, Sam can see that it was all their work and he just happened to be the one who picked up the gun - of course symbolic for how hunters work with the BMoL anyway, like Ketch seeing himself as their razor blade for slitting throats and nothing more) but of course Mick now credits Sam and "his mum" with saving HIM and sorting out the mess by being competent, and he has learned from them far more than we've seen Sam develop as a result of working with them.

He's got the dangled bait of the world without monsters to look forward to, and knows he just has to be the trigger finger however many more times, and it'll be done. MICK has to think about it in many more directions, and has come to realise he's on the front line, and it's DANGEROUS, so he needs to be more adaptable and trained in ways other than extensive research. Sam and Dean are the best hunters in the world because they combine research and fighting, and have access to MoL research and a smaller library of their own to help them, which means they'd probably have held their own at Hunter Hogwarts as Mick's classmates, and yet because of the specialisation, Mick comes out miles behind them.

(Actual Hogwarts taught practical skills right alongside the theoretical and academic, meaning the BMoL have a long way to go :P)

I don't think this is going to go spectacularly well for Mick, BUT whether he survives the season or not, or ends up helping them or not, it's interesting that he is developing and learning and wants to be more like them. They have a sort of siren call to other creatures/people - I mean just look at Cas and Crowley transforming after being in their presence. Mick being the character who is now obviously changing while Ketch is as bloodthirsty and awful as ever at this point says a lot more than anything else that Mick is being earmarked for positive development/change and realising the error of his ways because he wants to be more like a Winchester. (It could also be sort of sad/pathetic for him if he becomes a groupie but for now it looks like positive, because he still is very self-assured and in a position of power and not yet changing his overall goals for them, and also sees them as a resource)

(also if you were ever going to go on a hunt, you'd want Sam and Dean, top shelf hunters, to come with you and protect you :P)

Anyway Mick does sound a shade scared/frantic as he makes his request so we'll see how that goes for him

Dean immediately like "He's dead weight"

ominious :P

"These people have some serious knowledge" shown over Mick attempting to fit a very large box into a very small bag

I'm cackling

"You can't learn this in a book: you put on a flannel, you pick up a gun..."

I'M CACKLING HARDER. Dean is made even more clearly the genre savvy character, aka parallel to Hayden in her short shorts.

Dean's got a brightly lit door behind him, Sam a dark staircase heading up. The bright yellow railings remind me of 9x23

ominous pt 3 (pt 1 was the parallel in the opening)

"The better they are the better we are" - yeah, that's definitely that speculation Sam was won over because he thought he could improve and change them for the better and make use of their resources and plans and not just surface level what he SAW but what he thought he could DO with what he saw. It's earnest but it is also somewhat assuming he's going to be a positive force of change and mould them, which when they're so untrustworthy and all, makes me really nervous about hubris coming for Sam. Especially when he's the last character to need an arc with hubris, except perhaps below Cas. :P

Again - "Mick held his own against the Alpha" - Sam crediting him with staying alive and maybe out-sneaking the Alpha but not exactly out-fighting him. Mick got thrown around and ended up not dying because the Alpha was more distracted with Sam as a known and more dangerous enemy in the room... Overselling Mick to make it sound like if he survived that... but he has no practical fighting skills and the whole point is cleverness won't get you so far, and you need to learn to fight, which is what MICK is saying, so Sam's misunderstanding there on a matter relating to Mick's safety and skill level...

Mick heard Dean saying he could be killed and Dean saying "Good" about him complaining about hearing that - because no sugar coating and if you're terrified for your life maybe you won't be an idiot, and listen to them :P

He then tells Sam he's babysitting Mick, which immediately makes me very worried for Mick because it puts Sam in a position of responsibility and of course narratively Mick is a very acceptable loss to demonstrate Sam's playing with fire with this decision.

Of course Claire is around so she's also going to be an innocent in the line of fire, again, for a decision that Sam and the BMoL will entirely get them involved in.

PFFT Mick is listening to that podcast that Sam mentioned in 12x07... Did Sam share it with him or do they have the same tastes? Obviously back in 12x07 Sam was lying and using the snobby intellectual content as a way to deflect Dean's interest, not expecting in a million years Dean would want to listen, even just to have some noise in the car - obviously there's always the chance Dean knew Sam was lying from the start (like when he knew Sam was working with the BMoL probably and was challenging him in the start of 12x15 about where his cases came from, again for content on Sam's phone he was lying about) - anyway this time they apparently are listening to the very thing Sam used as his deflection and cover, which is pretty bloody ominous

So Dean complaining about the podcast has all its own connotations about lying and Dean complaining about it because it was something used to hold up a cover once - at HIS expense of being the dumb hunter who doesn't care about history. So I'm guessing if he bitches about the history lesson Mick starts giving here about hunting monks (awesome) it's not because he's being portrayed as stupid by the writing, but he's portraying HIMSELF as stupid in rebellion and anger at all this.

"In Europe everything's old" pfft

Ohh dear, Sam's been working with them how long and NOW he finally has to ask, wait, even the monsters who aren't hurting anyone?

As it suddenly occurs to him, maybe they don't have any harmless vampire buddies (since Benny is dead) but wait, the BMoL are turning their attention to werewolves, and there's no werewolves in Britain because they killed them all, but GARTH.

Mick just raises his eyebrows like, okay, I'll believe that when I see it. He's been taught too much to give a monster the benefit of the doubt just because Sam and Dean said so.

So we had the Badger pub earlier, now the Wild Elk lodge - of course it's a werewolf episode, so there's a theme of the wildlife in the woods... *pauses to google the distrubution of badgers and laughs at how the American badger is all thin and fluffy instead of built like a terrifying tank on little tiny skittering legs like the badgers that make living here a bit interesting, if by interesting you mean terrifying* (Yes I know they're not even knee high, have you ever been charged by one on a dark night?) Anyway, whatever badger they were thinking of, not as bad as a werewolf - the badger is lucky, and the elk is wild, with a pretty majestic picture, and of course it's a super fancy hotel

Dean tosses the keys to Sam, and Sam fumbles them while trying to hold onto all the books from Mick. Probably not symbolic (filed under: "ominous" (pt.5))

Last night me and Mittens were laughing about how Mick wows them with the fanciest hotel in the area and was in a crappy motel when he was on his own.

This episode is now going down in infamy as the one where Dean was skinny dipping and we'd never see it in a million years

I like how he says they've "ruined" him - it's not like they've never stayed in (suspiciously) fancy places before, but Dean's in a sort of culture war here with their lifestyle vs being pampered by a rich sponsor. Of course he steals everything, and doesn't play by the rules when taking a swim, and obviously is being unnecessary gross, still (I mean who knows, he probably DID pack more than enough boxers this time and went swimming in a spare pair, but when it's time to tell Sam, he has to gross him out...)

Also 2 Glynn episodes in a row where Sam is openly revolted at the idea of Dean's naked body.

better informed meta than I could ever write has already been written about how that frames Sam in relation to Dean as a sort of parental figure rather than peers (e.g. I'm pretty sure it's a trope that groups of boys who are peers, either brothers & cousins etc, and/or friends, would skinny dip together in a totally non-sexual way in the sort of hazy summy nostalgia stories I generally associate skinny dipping with rather than "fancy hotel pool" where obviously it's rude and transgressive no matter who you do it with or even if you're alone, as Dean clearly was, to not get them kicked out :P)

Ooh werewolf cure. Plasma therapy - changing the bit that carries the blood, not the blood itself. I have no idea why I associate the lymphatic system with werewolves - if it was some pseudo science article speculating how it might work I read many moons ago, or if it's just because it's an "ly" word like "lycanthrope" :P

"Not going to give him the satisfaction" - Sam caught between both sides, knowing Dean's secrets, but having clearly had a more Mick-aligned experience yet again, staying up reading, and of course Mick finishing Sam's sentence about what the potential werewolf cure would have been.

LOL Mick uses "Buckingham" as an alias. Wow. Are you worried people won't notice you're British?

His methods get them access, which I think is really just an early victory for him - he IS very smart and quick thinking and obviously 12x14 showed he could keep up with Sam in that way... Beginner's luck worries me :P Obviously whenever Cas starts hunting he has a ton of bad luck starting out - this is probably an 8x08 parallel in that way, with the "You were being bad everything" parallel right now of gaining information in an interview and dealing with grieving family.

LOL the mom apologises to them and Sam's like "You have no reason to apologise after what you've been through" parallels to Mary and Sam much? I mean she was a parallel in regards to to Hayden and Ben anyway but now Sam's borrowing her too

Oh no the mom thinks it's a nightmare about what happened to her kids and she might just wake up and it'll all be better... I'm sure Mary's handling being dumped in a dystopian post-apocalyptic nightmare world just fine :P

*Sam and Dean recognise that Claire is Claire-ing via "smol, bad attitude"* - nice.

Wondering what the "big foot truthers" are and if they have a real part in this - obviously a guy in the mask parallels Thinman, too, as well as of course the original internet episode, Hell House, with the ghostfacers and Tulpa instead of ghostfacers and ANOTHER monster of their own creation that got out of control on the internet :P I also immediately remembered 11x16 for some reason and how the mom felt like her story was being discredited that it got picked up and reported by hokey paranormal websites - which was how Sam and Dean found the case, but was seriously upsetting her.

"Oh, NO" Mick realising he's going to have to set Sam and Dean on the girl to kill her, or at least, if this was the Great Mick n Ketch Roadtrip episode with no Sam n Dean it would be open and closed "welp she's bitten, now you go kill her" - Sam, Mick's way IN to this, has been like "the ones who don't hurt anyone!!" already so Mick knows he's reluctant. His own faith has been challenged by WAY more experienced hunters pointing out that not all werewolves are monsters in the metaphorical sense, and she's also like, 18 and a girl with a grieving mother hovering around her, so this is going to be MESSY.

Oh he hated telling the mother that. Compassion despite... all this. A CHANCE.

And yeah, he lies about her being bitten - most likely he decides Sam and Dean will be too sensitive to deal with her because they are terrible at finishing the job (see also: Magda, and does THAT come out this episode, because it's pretty likely Ketch was on the phone with Mick when describing how they couldn't finish the job)... He can't really DOUBT his "programming" so much he'd give her a chance, and anyway he knows Sam and Dean would approve of that method so it would be fine to bring it up.

Sam then failed to pick up the cue that it was Claire, that Dean immediately knew. Not sure if Sam's just not got his head in the game, or if it's obviously a point about Dean's greater closeness to Claire and probably a deep dread of her hunting and getting hurt even though it's what she wants to do and they've had to deal with that already before. If you're always running worst case scenarios for her, then eventually you'll be right :P

Heeey it's a Gas n Sip! I hurt inside!!

(Have... Have Biggersons been gone since Edlund left? I can't recall seeing more than a sign for one once... I can't believe he took Biggersons with him in the divorce)

Claaaaire

She has the red Gas n Sip logo (there's variations) and Cas is more likely to be associated with the blue... But it IS a Cas thing in GENERAL after his huge associations to it, so it's nice he's... sort of... watching over her, I guess.

She's got a beat up car with fast food rubbish in it, and a shoebox full of cheap phones. Oh, you are well settled in.

Like Hayden, she's lying to family about where she is and what she's doing.

Okay Dean making fun of Claire with a fake call to wildlife services is the best thing since his impression of Rowena :P

He should do more weird voices. I love when he has fun.

I'm laughing so hard because I forgot in the last hour that I already reminded myself of the alcohol thing and then not only did I forget but MICK forgot and bought Claire a drink, and then Dean's like DUDE THIS IS AMERICA WE DON'T LET GROWN ADULTS DRINK UNTIL THEY'RE LIKE NEARLY 30 and I was like what the hell she was EIGHTEEN TWO YEARS AGO

I'm with Mick here, let Claire have a beer. She's surrounded by responsible adults who'd never let her hurt herself >.> Bah, I suppose they'd never let it happen on American TV... We already had Hayden underage drinking...

Can't believe Dean watches Downton Abbey and loves it

Claire dealing with the downsides of being a smol blonde hunter on her own - grabby bartenders. Dean looks ready to kill a guy.

"Foreign exchange student" I do love outside beloved characters trying to figure out the plot from being back in the Winchesters' orbit for the first time that year. For example Jody trying to deal with all the times Dean and now Mary come back from the dead.

(Jody, off-screen, still not over it since 12x06: "WOW")

"Sam's best friend. They're like nerd soulmates" - just read Harry Potter already, you'll love it. Even BOBBY read Harry Potter, sheesh.

I don't think he's jealous of the BFF angle - at least not in the way Sam gets jealous, mostly because Dean has been able to make actual BFFs all over the place, and there's Cas and all... He's way more balanced about this particular thing, and would probably love Sam to have actual BFFs of his own if they were GOOD BFFs and not really sketchy operatives from some weird secret organisation that once tortured Sam :P Which is the angle he's playing up with his snarky criticism

Claire lying to THEM about Jody knowing and then deflecting about calling her, especially now she's with professionals who will keep her safe so OBVIOUSLY Jody wouldn't worry and be fine with it because c'mon, WINCHESTERS

yes I am aware this is the same reason Mick is happy going with them as I said earlier :p

Anyway Sam complains about road food, Dean defends it; again, mentions the Gas n Sip directly despite them not strictly knowing they "found" Claire at the Gas n Sip this time.

Claire and Cas parallels but also Dean defending living out of a Gas n Sip - metaphorically, but Cas LITERALLY did it.

"Not that there's anything wrong with that"

Pfft also Dean defending lifestyle choices connected to him and Cas... metaphoooor

"Go nuts, it's on Harry Potter"

Oh dear, Harry Potter is going to go kill Hayden. Surpriiise.

Except I assume this goes terribly wrong.

the lethal injection imagery is particularly unsettling - she's in hospital with a "condition" that's changed her life dramatically and this ~doctor~ is coming in and deciding for her to kill her with an injection because he decides her quality of life is not worth living/that she's a burden on society (because she will eat people's hearts but shh metaphor) and so he's just gonna kill her without even informing her about her ~condition~ or giving her any choices about it.

So yeah, he's only resembling some of the worst and most prolific serial killers ever - those "angel of death" doctors, who can often get away with it for a LONG TIME because people don't notice or don't value the people they kill.

"I'm sorry" well he feels a little bad about it at least.

Oooh moon activating a werewolf. I FORGOT HOW FUN THAT IS. This show seriously hates the moon :P it's such a classic image but it's so hard to structure a procedural monster hunt around it apparently. It's the sort of horror that's intensely personal to the one transforming or else the people in close proximity to them, depending on the metaphor. I suppose Bitten is the only other werewolf episode that could have realistically played with that because of the unusual framing, but it was expressly about CHANGING the werewolf lore to make it EASIER to write, so had to ditch this imagery anyway.

Also - new wolf eyes instead of the old contacts, these are more obviously CG and glowing and yellow, which is brilliant, and I approve.

I guess the moon touching her and her transforming is also the age old coming of age/puberty image for a female character (and female werewolves and the moon should be such a bigger thing but I suppose that would freak men out so no wonder I can't think of mainstream female werewolves :P)

Buuut then Mick immediately injects her and oh no, life cut short just as it began :<

At least she scratched him up a bit in the process.. never managed to bite him. Boo. Give him a REAL reason to re-think all this

Nooo she died.

Pfft I guess Mick's redemption will be via death then because that's put narrative karma firmly against him, no matter how much he may change his mind as he's being hinted to do.

THIS is great framing to make him look tiny, by putting Claire in the foreground:

"Hobbits" pfft

So now all the PROFESSIONAL HUNTERS know she was a werewolf because the doctor points out she's completely healed, so Mick just... missed her bite? BAD INTEL

"... Right Mick?"

Dean doing exactly what he threatened to do and actually being directly and instantly skeptical of their benefactor.

And Mick puts it down to a mistake, just like all the other bad intel they had... Awfully blurry what WAS a mistake and what wasn't

Like, they almost certainly knew about Ramiel, with this much hindsight of ~mistakes~ and bad intel.

Dean says he'll take Mick and Sam will take Claire, but he and Claire storm out together because they're, well, peas in a pod. It's adorable. I love them. Also it leaves Sam and Mick to stare ruefully at dead Hayden.

But then Claire is in Sam's trust now.

I think the bar is going to be a dead end and it will be someone Hayden knew, because of the silly teenage werewolf in a mask from the cold open :P Also Claire needs to be in peril, but Dean going fruitlessly to bars with someone he needs to talk to/suss out is a Thing

Claire is Dean - she said "awesome" and "dude" in the same breath, while telling Sam how she is. She also drove Sam there, and has her own plan and is telling him to stay behind.

He is firmly NOT in the fatherhood bracket to her.

Anyway Claire plays to her age, with her hair like that, and her headphones she puts on just as an accessory. Sam gets told he's old to his face, which is something Dean passed through in the last couple of years, but now Sam's there :P I already reblogged the gifset of this paralleled to the similar moment of Dean dealing with hunting with Charlie in 8x20 and her music and getting told he was old, and basically doing this 4 years ago, which, conveniently, is his and Sam's age gap.

Mick struggling to open the door with the American flag in the corner, mostly because he fucked up. LOL. He's been struggling to get through that door all season.

Oh great, the grabby tribal tat guy is the "Bae" that Hayden was seeing - obviously older than her, was gross to Claire, the same age as her, and this reminds me of 10x20 and how Dean smacked that guy's head into the table for calling Claire a bitch and TO BE HONEST I get the feeling we're about to find out that was not exactly Mark of Cain behaviour but protective Dad Dean behaviour :P

Dean is being super rude to Connor and defensive of Hayden aka the parallel to his daughter, Claire... heh

Dean accidentally-deliberately interrogates Mick at the exact same time as Connor and I am overwhelmed with love for him because he is brilliant okay

*Dean smiles until Mick admits to watching The Great British Bake Off*

Mary Berry would be ASHAMED of you, sir. Using her to lie like that! TUT TUT

*Sue and Mel closing in with various baking implements to enact their revenge on Mick's treachery*

... see now I just want this to end with Sue Perkins showing up in a swish suit and kicking the snot out of Mick and I know there's some wish fulfilment you just have to let go but it's still going to hurt not to get

Oh my god Dean now following up the Claire thing

"what are you, her dad?"

Uh, well.

Basically yeah, I would assume, after that threat :P

God I love how Dean and Cas are just her dads and that's a thing.

Mick wandering around in his beige coat just lampshades how WRONG this all is

I can not BELIEVE right after typing that Dean clamped his hand down on Mick's shoulder and gripped it tight

(to make him say "ow ow ow ow ow ow ow" and reveal his lies and falseness)

I can't WAIT to reblog a gifset of that and just tag it with "Dean's elbow fetish for ts" with no explanation on the reblog.

I mean DAMN that's a dark and horrible mirror... I suppose also Cas has a mercy-related story this season with Kelly and the nephilim, and he already learned his first lesson about mercy in 12x10, and took it with better grace (snerk) than Mick has here. I mean Mick has narratively fucked up into not coming back from this land, but Cas obviously has a longer game and has already softened and changed his position WITHOUT fucking up to learn it, or at least, only being tangentially connected to a historical fuck up, where it was very very easy to blame Ishim for everything :P

But yeah, Dean and Cas keep each other in check and the shoulder grab is their thing - now Dean uses it to expose lies and treachery on a dark Cas mirror, with that ~sacred~ touch of theirs being used to reveal the truth. Dean is like, on the side of Truth and Justice this season...

I don't think this necessarily means anything bad for Cas because he and Dean are in such a good place - rather it's using the example of Cas as a perfect GOOD person to show how terrible Mick is... Like I said about the Gas n Sip sign looking down on Claire, Cas is sort of all over the place here, and right now it's in Dean's use of that goodness in his life to expose the badness.

"I did what needed to be done" Oh hello thing people say when they done fucked up and know it. Last said by the guy in Red Meat who thought he'd killed Sam for the greater good of saving his own ass and his girlfriend's ass.

I think werewolf episodes are still connected to that same thread of thematic stuff that turned up the Mark of Cain arc, because 8x04 set up so much thematic imagery for it, it's ridiculous, and of course that "did what had to be done" was a key phrase of season 9 - said so often in some episodes you'd die on the drinking game of it :P

"she attacked me" PFFT BECAUSE YOU WERE A STRANGE MAN IN HER ROOM WHO WANTED TO KILL HER

"I had orders!" "You had a choice!"

Hello there Cas mirror from season 4 just like we all predicted back at the start of the season (okay, in some cases, about Toni, before she was shipped off and Mick replaced her - but SOMEONE in this organisation was gonna get to this point at some point this season :P)

But he made a bad choice and chose to lie and go behind their backs instead of questioning, thinking and talking. Obviously Mick has a ton of missing footage compared to Cas in season 4 - 4x16 is where HE began SERIOUSLY questioning and following his doubts through and Mick’s just not put in the same effort, and already fucked up where Cas had not.

Ooooh low blow then Mick brings up how Dean pals around with witches and demons - a witch who has saved their butts several times now, WILLINGLY, most recently in Glynn's last episode... And a demon who, well.

Mick tells Dean to do his job, Dean explains how it's not black and white - and how Magda is an example, and Mick is like... yeah we have a code... and doesn't tell Dean what Ketch did.

I hurt inside :P

VENGEANCE FOR MAGDA

Also this has abruptly made me wonder if Mick is even part-way redeemable despite his interest in learning just because of his stance in the argument and not telling Dean about Magda... There COULD be a more nuanced sort of thing where he's judged for being the passive evil that authorises such killings as Magda's, like the people in government positions who do the evil of the government in a way where the blood is never on their hands literally, only figuratively... it really depends on if Mick REALISES what this ideology will do in the end, but he's keeping this secret for now and it's been made clear where he is in relation not just to killing Hayden, but all the awful the BMoL do

like if he killed Hayden but then immediately regretted it instead of sticking his ground, then he could have had a teachable moment (pfft) and because of regretting the blood spilled of his OWN people he was at least somewhat potentially sympathetic at the start of this >.>

Claire goes and gets basically the same info as Dean did so I'm assuming creepy Connor is the werewolf just because he's the only character left with any connection to the MotW stuff :P

The parallel from the cold open switches around though - now Hayden is in too deep getting let into the bar on the down low by a guy who likes her and I guess wants to add her to his collection in the same creepy way the BMoL want to collect top shelf hunters... Got Sam on the hook, but the older brother is concerned and goes along to check on her and save her, and she's only doing this because she's bored and stifled and wants another life from the one she has... Her brother gets his heart ripped out for the trouble of protecting her >.>

(I think both the readings work it's just the episode does swap it around with this reveal that Ben went to protect her specifically, but he had no idea it was a werewolf, he just wanted to take her home away from the creepy older guy)

Oops, now Claire's lying is caught out. By Sam! Who is NOT ratting her out to Jody but letting her maintain that lie I guess while he feels Claire is under his protection so he doesn't need to worry Jody about it.

... Although makes you wonder from Jody's POV what exactly is going on when Sam phones her out of the blue to ask about Claire.

"... just wondering ... for no reason..."

Oh no Claire :< She just wants to be alone because no one gets hurt and everyone's happy if she's not a burden on the-e-emmmmm *beats fists on the floor*

Do you think that you can catch the morbs from having been possessed by someone with them :P She sounds like Cas, at least, last year, although who knows, maybe this is a parallel to how he feels about why he popped back to Heaven, because he's depressed and it doesn't always make sense why he would feel like a burden or that people want him to be something he's not (Dean just wants him to be THERE) but Cas probably still feels bad he fucked up that vampire hunt, and now Claire is alone and hunting and miserable, and... She's probably paralleling Mary and Cas tbh.

Owie ow ow.

Because Mary also feels like her family wants her to be something she doesn't feel like she can be. And also they were very precious with her to start with (12x03 she had a lot of better reasons to leave but I think she felt enormously stifled on the hunt)... Argh.

Sam sucks at talking to The Youth btw.

I find it quite ironic I watched 8x18 at some point in the middle of this and Victor makes a point of asking if Sam had kids or wanted them, and Sam's a bit like, no and eeeh in response, because, well, it's post-Amelia break up for him and it hurts and normal life is for people who shut the gates of hell and survive to tell the tale, really. But anyway. Yeah. Dean is effortlessly fatherly to Krissy or Claire; Sam struggles, and is surprised to be considered old, I think because he's still somehow got the backpack he had in season 1 that makes him look like a 10 year old schoolboy when he shoulders it, and in some ways he's never managed to get to the mature adult stage. Like, he needs to have genuinely lived it to absorb it into his personality, and he got as far as wanting to propose to a college girlfriend, or wanting to move in with Amelia and have a dog... He's never had a kid forced on him or someone he adopted... Magda was the first kid he'd potentially adopt HIMSELF for the entire show I think, and he still related to her directly; some part of him still resonates with the lost hurt child phase of life... I mean, watching season 8 and 12 concurrent, as I'm accidentally doing, we've got Sam wanting to shut the gates of hell and go live a normal life, and Sam wanting to rid the world of monsters and live a normal life. In both cases he's got this big hurdle before he grows up and completes any life stages I suppose.

Dean's sort of unintentionally matured on the fly, so he's still got an adorable childlike layer of his personality, but he also falls into being a father more naturally, and at the very least, something awoken by thinking Ben might be his back in season 3 for an episode, and having to think of him that way may have... idk flipped some levers or something. Sam's busy having it all ripped away and putting up big walls that need to be overcome before he can rebuild. Dean lost everything so young he's re-made his life within the framework of being who he is, and endgoals that fix everything don't mean as much to him - which goes right back to that conversation in 1x16 where Dean thought killing Azazel would bring the family back together to hunt, and Sam thought it meant he could go back to college and be a person again.

*Claire stomping off listening to music and shutting out the world* I bet she's not going to get grabbed when she walks through this patch of trees or anything

Wow she got attacked while walking through the patch of trees wow

(this is a totally muted reaction because I screamed "CLAAAAAAAAAAIRE" into Mittens' chat box with barely any context :P)

She did seem like she has learned to fight a little, but the werewolf just totally overpowered her :<

TBH I think she's probably close to normal hunter level - I mean Garth got bitten, and most hunters aren't crazily OP and used to fighting demons with nothing but a tea towel like Dean

I hope no one's complaining about her being useless or deserving that... I think we're spoiled by Sam and Dean

SAM HUGGING CLAAAAAAAAAIRE

SAM BEING DONE WITH MIIIICK

I'm glad it was that easy after all and they didn't keep a load of secrets or make it hard. Killing kids is the line and Mick crossed it, and Dean told Sam, and Sam is like, yep, okay, bye bye Mick.

Google: How to extract mom from BMoL now

Google: How to un-werewolf my ward before my angel finds out

I am not handling Dean's face in this scene

Dean's trying so hard. He looks.. argh

"Maybe some people can control this. But I can barely keep it together on a good day." Aka she already is angry and lashes out and runs off etc and that's not exactly got better from having a sort of stable life with Jody... So now she's a werewolf she's terrified of what she'd do to them with extra violence in her, and she loves Alex and Jody so much she doesn't WANT to be near them...

So yep, now we have the Madison dilemma back >.> "I'd rather die."

But this time Mick mentioned an old cure that doesn't work

Google: how has werewolf medical knowledge improved since the 1920s?

Ouch, 1/9 test subjects was cured. That's considerably worse odds than Dean had with the vampire cure - the Campbell recipe clearly described of the test subjects, one died and one lived.

It seems to work every time now so I assume they've refined the recipe a bit. Like, longer fever, but less chance of puking your guts up to death, because in 6x05 it happened quick and horrible but by 9x19 Alex is moaning and feverish and says she's been throwing up but is obviously having a slower recovery than Dean, but in a sense a long fever is much less violent and therefore easier to bear.

Oh, nope, that was mice (WEREWOLF MICE AAW) - we have one dead human, and Claire saying "second time's the charm" - same odds, with ominous test data behind it.

"It's my life. I get all the votes."

"It's her life"

Sam might not be great at the truth but he's always there for bodily autonomy.

Dean puts the fear of God into Mick and by that I mean fear of himself :P

Pfft the Lucky Badger has a huge "No under 21s" sign on the door which I don't think has been clear until now.

I find it somewhat surreal that a 20 year old is being treated as a minor and child but I suppose it's the law over there >.>

I suppose Mick buying her a beer was a real sign of the culture clash which also is symbolic of him just not getting how it works.

I LOVE they use a shot of the lurking Impala before they stalk Connor

OH NO He was just a jerk... who totally deserved that.

Now what???

There's like no leads to follow??? Maybe lurk in the woods and see if a weird man in a mask is around??

Meanwhile: high drama with Claire transforming and challenging Mick to kill her

AAAAAAH

Oh good he didn't kill her. >.> well if he learned his lesson it's too late for both him and the Winchesters and the whole mission.

And they'd better phone Mary as soon as this is over, like, get the hell over here and never answer your phone to them again

Pfft sedating and restraining her for his protection. Mick's really not very brave, and his methods are repeatedly showing his weaknesses, mostly because of his priorities.

Like, he thinks, I'm not as bad as Ketch but I'm still a coward and you're a scary monster

Oh no Claire being sad about not telling Jodyyyy and she's going to be so maaad

She loves Jody and Alex so much... this is killing me :(

AAAH MASK GUY

AAAH is that the OTHER douchey bartender? :P

"You can kill me later, after we find Claire" in a way, knowing you've fucked up THIS badly is somehow liberating :P

Ahaha, "Eat me, Teen Wolf" has that show ever been referenced here before?

LOL it's the "the apocalypse made me do it" excuse for an episode - same as the ghoulpires in 11x04 being like "welp the Darkness is coming we're all doomed" draws attention. Now this dick is like "Mary and Ketch murdered everyone I love and so I'm hurting people" which means the BMoL are the bad guys on BOTH sides of the equation.

"We weren't meant to live like this. A werewolf needs its pack" family stronger together message again, if very dark here

Sometimes monsters have a weird line on the truth - the vamps in 1x20 who talked about how revenge wasn’t worth it

Hahaha Claire calling out "nice guys"

Nooo, don't eat, Claire

"I have a family and they love me" AAH CLAIRE

It's like Cas's declaration in 12x12!! except no one hears it but here come Sam and Dean to save her!

(And Mick)

Uhoh Dean's got to fight Claire... this is not going to look good on his fight resume

oh nope, he did just knock her out via throwing her into the fridge

sometimes you have just got to deal with a problem, apologise, and move on :P

Yay Mick killed himself a monster

Now fix Claire pls.

She's very snarly still *looks dubious*

Oh noooo

OH YAY

I hope Dean went out to pray to Cas btw

She would make waking up with a face covered in blood look like a disney princess awakening

Why are they giving Mick a second chaaaance? Is this because he helped Claire? This is because they don't know about Magda because that was the second chance and this episode has made it suuuuper clear >.>

I mean THEY give him a second chance but to us and the story I think it's pretty clear Mick might help them at some point but he's on borrowed time and about the only way he could survive this now is if he, like, personally murders Ketch for them, although I'm not sure that will happen because Ketch and Dean seem destined for a reckoning, which to me means that Mick will probably get killed by Ketch and then Dean will kill Ketch and *invokes the entire Hmmmm whatcha say meme*

ANYWAY EVERYONE LOVES CLAIRE AND CLAIRE LOVES EVERYONE AND SHE CALLED JODY HER MOTHER AND THAT'S IT I'M DONE

*lies on the floor and weeps*

#12x16 #season 12 spoilers #my stuff

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grapescoffeeandcaprisun · 5 years

Text

Truer Truths

Recently my wife and I have been reading up on Narrative Therapy. In its most condensed form, narrative therapy states that though the events of our past are fixed, the interpretation of those events are not—that our internal narrative, the story we tell ourselves about our life, can be changed. As a former psychology major and as a writing teacher, this concept is very exciting.

And yet, the more I study, the more frustrated I get. I’m frustrated because in my own life, there are two people whom I love very much who don’t believe I love them. In their story, I am one of the bad guys. If I could rewrite the story, I might be a little more honest. I don’t know if I’ll ever get to tell them how I feel, so I’ll tell you instead and it will be our little secret.

The first story is about someone whom I considered to be an adopted brother. We had many adventures together and lots of laughs. When he came around, we always had to make sure to have extra food. I still remember the time he polished off my dad’s fresh watermelon all by himself. Because of him, I met and married the love of my life, but that’s where our story takes a turn.

Ages ago, before I had even met the woman who would later be my wife, my friend (we’ll call him Didi) was the one who told me about her. I had gone for a visit, but it had been a long trip. I was nearly dead on my feet, but we got to talking. As we chatted, I began to talk less and less, and eventually found myself saying, “Mmm,” to everything Didi was saying. (I didn’t realize it at the time, but “Mmm,” in his culture was the same as saying “Yes!”, as opposed to “I’m hearing that you’re talking.”)

I still cannot recall the details of that conversation as I was dozing toward the end of it, but I have a hazy recollection of some comment like, “If you guys get married, I can be the best man!” “Mmm.”

Fast forward a couple years, and I AM getting married, but my bride-to-be is dead set on a minimalist wedding. Immediate family only. I manage to cajole her into a guest list of 30, but then comes time to choose the bridal party. “What about Didi for best man?” “No way.”

We go back and forth on it, but she’s known Didi longer than I have and in her eyes, he is a little brother, not a best man. I tried to ease the blow by including him in the private meal with family after the ceremony, but I know it still stings. And of course I’m the one stuck holding the bag.

Fast forward two years, and Didi is coming for a visit. My wife has just had a baby, but she’s had complications with breast-feeding and undergone an operation resulting in a tube sticking out of her breast connected to a bottle filled with milk, blood and pus. I trek the two-hour commute to meet him and smile and take him out for his favorite snacks, but for my wife’s privacy, I downplay her condition by just saying that she’s not feeling well.

Fast forward six months, and Didi is coming for another visit. This time, my wife is in full-swing postpartum depression. Lack of sleep, medical complications, and a colicky baby have pushed her right up to the edge of sanity. Still, I make time to trek out to meet Didi, smile and pretend that everything is as good as it looks in the facebook pictures.

Fast forward two more years. My three-year-old son had just been diagnosed with leukemia. I am sleeping at the hospital, correcting finals, and running a summer camp. I see my wife for about twenty minutes a day in which she briefs me on our son’s condition and medications before going home to crash. I get a message from Didi saying he’s concerned and he’d like to come see us. I’m like, “Look, I don’t even have time to see my wife at this point. It’s not really the best time for a visit.”

Then it all comes up. I don’t appreciate our friendship. I don’t have any gratitude. I don’t know how to respect him. He’s glad this friendship is over. And then I get blocked.

See, the thing is, I do appreciate Didi’s friendship, and I am grateful for the fun and love he has brought into my life, and I still respect him. Just because I said no, doesn’t mean I’m not grateful for the offer. My “No” was not about Didi at all—it was about me. I knew I couldn’t handle anything else at that moment—not even somebody’s help. He may be glad our friendship is over, but I’m not. If I could go back, I think I would try to be more honest with what I was up against. I’m not as strong as I pretended to be. I wish I had respected his maturity enough to be vulnerable. I’m sorry.

The next story is about someone I’ve know for a lifetime. We’ll call her Meimei. I will try to avoid projecting my story into her motivations, but I will probably make a few slips as I am still processing my emotions on this one.

Meimei and I have always been on good terms. Growing up, we only saw each other once or twice a year, but we always got along. Our families were always pretty close. Over the years, Meimei and her family have been very supportive even when others weren’t. When I got married, Meimei accepted my wife into the family and made her feel welcome and safe. When my son got sick, Meimei’s family did massive amounts of research to make sure he got the best care. When a therapist suggested he might have some emotional difficulties, Meimei provided valuable professional advice and strategies that proved really helpful. Not to mention that Meimei always gives great gifts. So when Meimei asked to come for a visit, we said yes.

Now, for the most part, I stayed out of the planning process. I work two jobs and don’t do well with numbers so when my wife and Meimei were talking about dates, all I heard was, “Number? Number? Blahblahblah.” Looking at the calendar, I did comment that that was finals time, and I would be extremely busy. “I’m coming to help.” “Great!”

I don’t think it fully hit me until I was carting Meimei’s luggage into the house that we had agreed to host for three weeks. Our apartment is about the size of a large shoe box, and my Asian wife is the kind of person who had a breakdown the first (and only) time we went tent camping because, “There are no doors!” Well guess what, we had five people in our tiny apartment and only one working AC. This was not going to end well.

I’ve been living abroad since 2006 so there are a lot of things about American culture that I’ve forgotten. The first week was an intensive case of mutual culture shock culminating in my offering to book a hotel room on the ground floor of our building at our expense.

This was the last straw for Meimei, and she chose to handle her own lodging arrangements. When I suggested that she might want to bump up her return flight rather than paying for two weeks stay in one of the most expensive areas of our city, she heard, “We don’t want you here.” She didn’t change her flight, but we didn’t see much of her after that. When the time finally came for her to head home, I got a long letter detailing how horrible I had been. Blocked. Blocked. Blocked.

There are so many things about our situation that I wish I could say. I know Meimei deserved much better treatment than she got from us. She came with the best of intentions and got kicked to the curb. I know how much it sucks, and I’ve tried to apologize. But the truth is, we are barely keeping our heads above water. We really wanted to be good hosts, but we couldn’t. Whenever we push harder than we already are, we go down. Our sleep schedule, daily routines and eating habits are what keep us in balance. Disrupting them, even for fun stuff, has serious consequences. My wife and younger son were sick for a week. My son with leukemia was in the hospital for three. For us, time is the only resource. Whenever we give it, even just a little of it, it is love. And we did give it. My wife spent hours on booking travel tickets and dealing with flight cancellations. I put my work aside during busiest time of the year to find a lens cap and a Segway dealership. We didn’t do it out of obligation; we did it out of love. When we stopped, it wasn’t because we stopped loving; it was because we couldn’t keep the pace. We do love Meimei, and we really appreciate her willingness to cross the world to try to help us. If I could speak into her heart, this is what I would say:

It’s okay to make mistakes.

You don’t have to be perfect to be loved.

I have faults, and you have wounds;

but you are not your wounds—

and I am not my faults.

I love you.

Not the expert.

Not the victim.

You.

I love you.

I just wish she could hear me—the real me— instead of the horrible monster who has taken my place.

By the way, if you think you know who I’m talking about, I and you’re thinking, “Oh, I can solve this! I’ll just go talk to...” Please stop. I’m not sharing this to gain support or to prove who is right. If you know who I’m talking about, and you want to do something to help, here’s what you can do: Close your eyes. Imagine the person. Say to their image, “You are loved.” Do this whenever you get the urge to try to fix my problem, and if enough of us begin to see Didi and Meimei in this way, maybe they will begin to see it too.

It takes great courage to believe you are loved even when you don’t understand. When it comes to our life’s narrative, we can argue facts till Kingdom come, and it will only reinforce the story we already believe. Maybe the person who hurt you is toxic and meant to do so, but maybe there is more to the story than you can see. Maybe they are as cruel as you imagine, but even so, you do not have to be defined by their actions. What matters is not what happened to you; what matters is the narrative you choose to believe. Your story is not over. You hold the pen. You are loved, my friend.

You are loved.

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mysteryshelf · 6 years

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BLOG TOUR - Bones to Pick

Welcome to

THE PULP AND MYSTERY SHELF!

DISCLAIMER: This content has been provided to THE PULP AND MYSTERY SHELF by Partners in Crime Book Tours. No compensation was received. This information required by the Federal Trade Commission.

Bones To Pick

by Linda Lovely

on Tour October 16 – December 16, 2017

Synopsis:

Living on a farm with four hundred goats and a cantankerous carnivore isn’t among vegan chef Brie Hooker’s list of lifetime ambitions. But she can’t walk away from her Aunt Eva, who needs help operating her dairy.

Once she calls her aunt’s goat farm home, grisly discoveries offer ample inducements for Brie to employ her entire vocabulary of cheese-and-meat curses. The troubles begin when the farm’s pot-bellied pig unearths the skull of Eva’s husband, who disappeared years back. The sheriff, kin to the deceased, sets out to pin the murder on Eva. He doesn’t reckon on Brie’s resolve to prove her aunt’s innocence. Death threats, ruinous pedicures, psychic shenanigans, and biker bar fisticuffs won’t stop Brie from unmasking the killer, even when romantic befuddlement throws her a curve.

Book Details:

Genre: Humorous Cozy Mystery Published by: Henery Press Publication Date: Oct. 24, 2017 Number of Pages: 266 ISBN: 9781635112597 Series: Brie Hooker Mystery, #1 Get Your Copy of Bones To Pick by Linda Lovely at: Amazon Barnes & Noble Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

ONE

Hello, I’m Brie, and I’m a vegan.

It sounds like I’m introducing myself at a Vegetarians Anonymous meeting. But, trust me, there aren’t enough vegetarians in Ardon County, South Carolina, to make a circle much less hold a meeting.

Give yourself ten points if you already know vegans are even pickier than vegetarians. We forgo meat, fish, eggs, and dairy. But we’re big on cashews, walnuts, and almonds. All nuts are good nuts. Appropriate with my family.

Family. That’s why I put my career as a vegan chef on hold to live and work in Ardon, a strong contender for the South’s carnivore-and- grease capital. My current job? I help tend four hundred goats, make verboten cheese, and gather eggs I’ll never poach. Most mornings when Aunt Eva rousts me before the roosters, I roll my eyes and mutter.

Still, I can’t complain. I had a choice. Sort of. Blame it on the pig—Tammy the Pig—for sticking her snout in our family business.

I’d consorted with vegans and vegetarians for too long. I seriously underestimated how much cholesterol meat eaters could snarf down at a good old-fashioned wake. Actually, I wasn’t sure this wake was “old fashioned,” but it was exactly how Aunt Lilly would have planned her own send-off—if she’d had the chance. Ten days ago, the feisty sixty- two-year-old had a toddler’s curiosity and a twenty-year-old’s appetite for adventure. Her death was a total shock.

I glanced at Aunt Lilly’s epitaph hanging behind the picnic buffet. She’d penned it years back. Her twin, Aunt Eva, found it in Lilly’s desk and reprinted it in eighty-point type.

“There once was a farmer named Lilly

Who never liked anything frilly,

She tended her goats,

Sowed a few wild oats,

And said grieving her death would be silly.”

In a nod to Lilly’s spirit, Aunt Eva planned today’s wake complete with fiddling, hooch, goo-gogs of goat cheese, and the whole panoply of Southern fixins—mounds of country ham, fried chicken, barbecue, and mac-and-cheese awash in butter. Every veggie dish came dressed with bacon crumbles, drippings, or cream of mushroom soup.

Not a morsel fit for a vegan. Eva’s revenge. I’d made the mistake of saying I didn’t want to lose her, too, and hinted she’d live longer if she cut back on cholesterol. Not my smartest move. The name of her farm? Udderly Kidding Dairy. Cheese and eggs had been Eva’s meal ticket for decades.

My innocent observation launched a war. Whenever I opened the refrigerator, I’d find a new message. This morning a Post-it on my dish of blueberries advised: The choline in eggs may enhance brain development and memory—as a vegan you probably forgot.

Smoke from the barbeque pit permeated the air as I replenished another platter of shredded pork on the buffet. My mouth watered and I teetered on the verge of drooling. While I was a dedicated vegan, my olfactory senses were still programmed “Genus Carnivorous.” My stomach growled—loudly. Time to thwart its betrayal with the veggies and hummus dip I’d stashed in self-defense.

I’d just stuck a juicy carrot in my mouth when a large hand squeezed my shoulder.

“Brie, honey, you’ve been working nonstop,” Dad said. “Take a break. Mom’s on her way. We can play caterers. The food’s prepared. No risks associated with our cooking.”

I choked on my carrot and sputtered. “Good thing. Do you even remember the last time Mom turned on an oven?”

Dad smiled. “Can’t recall. Maybe when you were a baby? But, hey, we’re wizards at takeout and microwaves.”

His smile faltered. I caught him staring at Aunt Lilly’s epitaph. “Still can’t believe Lilly’s gone.” He attempted a smile. “Knowing her sense of humor, we’re lucky she didn’t open that epitaph with ‘There once was a lass from Nantucket.’”

I’d never seen Dad so sad. Lilly’s unexpected death stunned him to his core. He adored his older sisters.

Mom appeared at his side and wrapped an arm around his waist. She loved her sisters-in-law, too, though she complained my childless aunts spoiled me beyond repair.

Of course, Lilly’s passing hit Eva the hardest. A fresh boatload of tears threatened as I thought about the aunt left behind. I figured my tear reservoir had dried up after days of crying. Wrong. The tragedy—a texting teenager smashing head-on into Lilly’s car—provoked a week- long family weep-a-thon. It ended when Eva ordered us to cease and desist.

“This isn’t what Lilly would want,” she declared. “We’re gonna throw a wake. One big, honking party.”

Which explained the fifty-plus crowd of friends and neighbors milling about the farm, tapping their feet to fiddlin’, and consuming enough calories to sustain the populace of a small principality for a week.

I hugged Dad. “Thanks. I could use a break. I’ll find Eva. See how she’s doing.”

I spotted her near a flower garden filled with cheery jonquils. It looked like a spring painting. Unfortunately, the cold March wind that billowed Eva’s scarlet poncho argued the blooms were false advertising. The weatherman predicted the thermometer would struggle to reach the mid-forties today.

My aunt’s build was what I’d call sturdy, yet Eva seemed to sway in the gusty breeze as she chatted with Billy Jackson, the good ol’ boy farrier who shod her mule. Though my parents pretended otherwise, we all knew Billy slept under Eva’s crazy quilt at least two nights a week.

I nodded at the couple. Well, actually, the foursome. Brenda, the farm’s spoiled pet goat, and Kai, Udderly’s lead Border collie, were competing with Billy for my aunt’s attention.

“Mom and Dad are watching the buffet,” I said. “Thought I’d see if you need me to do anything. Are you expecting more folks?”

“No.” Eva reached down and tickled the tiny black goat’s shaggy head. “Imagine everyone who’s coming is here by now. They’ll start clearing out soon. Chow down and run. Can’t blame ’em. Especially the idiot women who thought they ought to wear dresses. That biting wind’s gotta be whistling up their drawers.”

Billy grinned as he looked Eva up and down. Her choice of wake attire—poncho, black pants, and work boots—surprised no one, and would have delighted Lilly.

“Do you even own a dress?” Billy laughed. “You’re one to talk.” Eva gave his baggy plaid suit and clip-on bowtie the stink eye. “I suppose you claim that gristle on your chin is needed to steady your fiddle.”

He kissed Eva’s cheek. “Yep, that’s it. Time to rejoin my fellow fiddlers, but first I have a hankering to take a turn at the Magic Moonshine tent.”

“You do that. Maybe the ’shine will improve your playing. It’ll definitely make you sound better to your listening audience. After enough of that corn liquor even my singing could win applause.”

A dark-haired stranger usurped Billy’s place, bending low to plant a kiss on the white curls that sprang from my aunt’s head like wood shavings. Wow.

They stacked handsome tall when they built him. Had to be at least six-four.

Even minus an introduction, I figured this tall glass of sweet tea had to be Paint, the legendary owner of Magic Moonshine. Sunlight glinted off hair the blue-black of expensive velvet. Deep dimples. Rakish smile.

I’d spent days sobbing, and my libido apparently was saying “enough”—time to rejoin the living. If this bad boy were any more alive, he’d be required to wear a “Danger High Voltage” sign. Of course, Aunt Lilly wouldn’t mind. She’d probably rent us a room.

I ventured a glance and found him smiling at me. My boots were suddenly fascinating. Never stare at shiny objects with the potential to hypnotize. I refused to fall under another playboy’s spell.

“How’s my best gal?” he asked, hugging Eva. “Best for this minute, right?” my aunt challenged. “I bet my niece will be your best gal before I finish the introductions.” Eva put a hand on my shoulder. “Paint, this young whippersnapper is Brie Hooker, my favorite niece. ’Course, she’s my only niece. Brie, it’s with great trepidation that I introduce you to David Paynter, better known as Paint, unrepentant moonshiner and heartbreaker.”

Eva subjected Paint to her pretend badass stare, a sure sign he was one of her favorite sparring partners. “Don’t you go messing with Brie, or I’ll bury you down yonder with Mark, once I nail his hide.”

Paint laughed, a deep, rumbling chuckle. He turned toward me and bowed like Rhett Butler reincarnated.

“Pleased to meet you, Brie. That puzzled look tells me you haven’t met Mark, the wily coyote that harasses Eva’s goats. She’s wasted at least six boxes of buckshot trying to scare him off. Me? I’ll gladly risk her shotgun to make your acquaintance. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Eva gave Paint a shove. “Well, if that’s the case, go on. Give Brie a shot of your peach moonshine. It’s pretty good.”

“Peach moonshine it is,” he said and took my arm. A second later, he tightened his grip and pulled me to the right. “Better watch your step. You almost messed up those pretty boots.”

He pointed at a fresh pile of fragrant poop, steaming in the brisk air inches from my suede boots. “Thanks,” I mumbled. Still holding my arm, he steered me over uneven ground to a clear path. “Eva says you’re staying with her. Hope you don’t have to leave for a while. Your aunt’s a fine lady, and it’s going to be mighty hard on her once this flock of well-wishers flies off.”

His baritone sent vibrations rippling through my body. My brain ordered me to ignore the tingling that remained in places it didn’t belong.

He smiled. “Eva and Lilly spoke about you so often I feel like we’re already friends. ’Course head-shaking accompanied some of their comments. They said you’d need to serve plenty of my moonshine if you ever opened a vegan B&B in Ardon County. Here abouts it’s considered unpatriotic to serve eats that haven’t been baptized in a vat of lard. Vegetables are optional; meat, mandatory.”

Uh, oh. I always gave relatives and friends a free pass on good- natured kidding. But a stranger? This man was poking fun at my profession, yet my hackles—smoothed by the hunk’s lopsided grin— managed only a faint bristle.

Back away. Pronto.

Discovering my ex-fiancé, Jack, was boffing not one, but two co-workers the entire two years we were engaged made me highly allergic to lady-killers. Paint was most definitely a member of that tribe.

“What can I say? I’m a rebel,” I replied. “It’s my life’s ambition to convince finger-lickin’, fried-chicken lovers that life without meat, butter, eggs, and cheese does not involve a descent into the nine circles of hell.”

Paint released me, then raised his hand to brush a wayward curl from my forehead. His flirting seemed to be congenital.

“If you’re as feisty as your aunt claims, why don’t you take me on as a challenge? I do eat tomatoes—fried green ones, anyway—and I’m open to sampling other members of the vegetable kingdom. So long as they don’t get between me and my meat. Anyway, welcome to the Carolina foothills. Time to pour some white lightning. It’s smoother than you might expect.”

And so are you. Too smooth for me.

That’s when we heard the screams.

TWO

Paint zoomed off like a Clemson running back, hurtling toward the screams—human, not goat. I managed to stay within a few yards of him, slipping and sliding as my suede boots unwittingly smooshed a doggie deposit. Udderly’s guardian dogs, five Great Pyrenees, were large enough to saddle, and their poop piles rivaled cow paddies.

I reached the barn, panting, with a stitch in my right side. I stopped to catch my breath. Hallelujah. I braced my palm against the weathered barn siding.

Ouch. Harpooned by a jagged splinter. Blood oozed from the sensitive pad below my right thumb. I stared at the inch-plus spear. Paint had kept running. He was no longer in sight.

The screams stopped. An accident? A heart attack? I hustled around the corner of the barn. A little girl sobbed in the cleared area behind Udderly’s retail sales cabin. I recognized Jenny, a rambunctious five-year-old from a nearby farm. Her mother knelt beside her, stroking her hair.

No child had produced the operatic screams we’d heard. Maybe Jenny’s mother was the screamer. But the farm wife didn’t seem the hysterical type. On prior visits to Udderly, I’d stopped at the roadside stand where she sold her family’s produce. Right now the woman’s face looked redder than one of her Early Girl tomatoes. Was the flush brought on by some danger—a goat butting her daughter, a snake slithering near the little girl?

I walked closer. Then I saw it. A skull poked through the red clay. Soil had tinted the bone an absurd pink.

I gasped. The sizeable cranium looked human. I spotted the grave digger, or should I say re-digger. Udderly’s newest addition, a Vietnamese potbellied pig named Tammy, hunkered in a nearby puddle. Tiny cloven hoof marks led to and from the excavation. Tell-tale red mud dappled her dainty twitching snout. The pig’s hundred-pound body quivered as her porcine gaze roved the audience she’d attracted.

A man squatted beside Tammy, speaking to the swine in soothing, almost musical tones. Pigs were dang smart and sensitive. Aunt Eva told me it was easy to hurt their feelings. The fellow stroking Tammy’s grimy head must’ve been convinced she was one sensitive swine.

“It’s okay,” he repeated. “The lady wasn’t screaming at you, Tammy.”

Tammy snorted, lowered her head, and squeezed her eyes shut. The pig-whisperer gave the swine a final scratch and stood, freeing gangly limbs from his pretzel-like crouch. Mud caked the cuffs and knees of his khaki pants. Didn’t seem to bother him one iota.

The mother shepherded her little girl away from the disturbing scene, and Paint knelt to examine the skeletal remains. “Looks like piggy uncovered more than she bargained for.” He glanced at Muddy Cuffs. “Andy, you’re a vet. Animal or human?”

“Human.” Andy didn’t hesitate. “But all that’s left is bone. Had to have been buried a good while. Yet Tammy’s rooting scratched only inches below the surface. If a settler dug this grave, it was mighty shallow.”

“Probably didn’t start that way.” I pointed to a depression that began uphill near the retail cabin. “This wash has deepened a lot since my aunts built their store and the excavation diverted water away from the cabin. The runoff’s been nibbling away at the ground.”

Mom, Dad, and Aunt Eva joined the group eyeballing the skull. Eva looked peaked, almost ill. I felt a slight panic at the shift in her normally jolly appearance. I thought of my aunts as forces of nature. Unflappable. Indestructible. I’d lost one, and the other suddenly looked fragile. Finding a corpse on her property the same day she bid her twin goodbye had hit her hard.

Dad cocked his head. “Could be a Cherokee burial site. Or maybe a previous farmer buried a loved one and the grave marker got lost. Homestead burials have always been legal in South Carolina. Still are.”

For once, the idea of finding a corpse in an unexpected location didn’t prompt a gleeful chuckle from my dad, Dr. Howard Hooker. Though he was a professor of horticulture at Clemson University by day, he was an aspiring murder mystery author by night. Every time we went for a car ride, Dad made a game of searching the landscape for spots “just perfect” for disposing of bodies. So far, a dense patch of kudzu in a deep ravine topped his picks. “Kudzu grows so fast any flesh peeking through would disappear in a day.”

Good thing Dad confined his commentary to family outings. We knew the corpses in question weren’t real.

Mom whipped out her smartphone. “I’ll call Judge Glenn. It’s Sunday, but he always answers his cell. He’ll know who to call. I’m assuming the Ardon County Sheriff’s Department.”

Dad nodded. “Probably, but I bet SLED—the South Carolina Law Enforcement Division—will take over. The locals don’t have forensic specialists.”

Mom rolled her eyes. “You spend way too much time with your Sisters in Crime.”

It amused Mom that Dad’s enthusiasm for his literary genre earned him the presidency of the Upstate South Carolina Chapter of Sisters in Crime.

Mom didn’t fool with fictional crime. Too busy with the real thing. As the City of Clemson’s attorney, she kept a bevy of lawyers, judges, and city and university cops on speed dial. However, Udderly Kidding wasn’t in the same county as Clemson so it sat outside her domain.

“Judge Glenn, this is Iris Hooker. I’m at the Udderly Kidding Dairy in Ardon. An animal here unearthed a skull. We think it’s human, but not recent. Should we call the sheriff?”

Mom nodded and made occasional I-get-it noises while she clamped the cell to her ear.

“Could you ask them to keep their arrival quiet? Better yet, could they wait until after four? About fifty folks are here for my sister-in- law’s wake. I don’t want to turn her farewell into a circus.”

A minute later, Mom murmured her thanks and pocketed her cell. “The judge agrees an old skull doesn’t warrant sirens or flashing lights. He’ll ask the Ardon County Sheriff, Robbie Jones, to come by after four. Since I’m an officer of the court, his honor just requested that I keep people and animals clear of the area until the sheriff arrives.”

Andy stood. “Paint, help me bring some hay bales from the barn. We can stack them to cordon off the area.”

“Good idea.” Paint stood, and the two men strode off. No needless chitchat. They appeared to be best buds.

I tugged Dad’s sleeve, nodded toward his sister, and whispered, “I think Aunt Eva should sit down. Let’s get her to one of the front porch rockers.”

Dad walked over and draped an arm around his sister’s shoulders. “Eva, let’s sit a while so folks can find you to pay their respects. This skeleton is old news. Not our worry.”

Eva’s lips trembled. “No, Brother. I feel it in my own bones. It’s that son-of-a-bitch Jed Watson come back to haunt me.”

THREE

Jed Watson? The man Eva married in college? The man who vanished a few years later?

Dad’s eyebrows shot up. “Eva, that’s nonsense. That dirtbag ran off forty years back. You’re letting your imagination run wild.”

Eva straightened. “Some crime novelist you are. You know darn well any skeleton unearthed on my property would have something to do with that nasty worm. Nobody wished that sorry excuse for a man dead more than me.”

“Calm down. Don’t spout off and give the sheriff some harebrained notion that pile of bones is Jed,” Dad said. “No profit in fueling gossip or dredging up ancient history. Authorities may have ruled Jed dead, but I always figured that no-good varmint was still alive five states over, most likely beating the stuffing out of some other poor woman.”

Wow. I knew Eva took her maiden name back after they declared her husband dead, but I’d never heard a speck of the unsavory backstory. Dad liked to tell family tales, including ones about long- dead scoundrels. Guess this history wasn’t ancient enough.

Curiosity made me eager to ask a whole passel of none-of-my- business questions, though I felt some justification about poking my nose here. I’d known Eva my entire life. So how come this was the first I’d heard of a mystery surrounding Jed’s disappearance? Was Dad truly worried the sheriff might suspect Eva?

I was dying to play twenty questions. Too bad it wasn’t the time or place.

I smiled at my aunt. “Why don’t I get some of Paint’s brew to settle our nerves? Eva, you like that apple pie flavor, right?”

“Yes, thanks, dear.”

“Good idea, Brie,” Dad added. “I’ll take a toot of Paint’s blackberry hooch. Eva’s not the only one who could use a belt. We’ll greet folks from those rockers. Better than standing like mannequins in a receiving line. And there’s a lot less risk of falling down if we get a little tipsy.”

Aunt Eva ignored Dad’s jest. She looked haunted, lost in memory. A very bad memory.

I hurried to the small tent where Magic Moonshine dispensed free libations. A buxom young lass smiled as she poured shine into miniature Mason jars lined up behind four flavor signs: Apple Pie, Blackberry, Peach, and White Lightnin’.

“What can I do you for, honey?” the busty server purred. I’m still an Iowa girl at heart, but, like my transplanted aunts and parents, I’ve learned not to take offense when strangers of both sexes and all ages call me honey, darlin’, and sweetie. My high school social studies teacher urged us to appreciate foreign customs and cultures. I may not be in Rome, but I’m definitely in Ardon County.

I smiled at Miss Sugarmouth. The top four buttons of her blouse were undone. The way her bosoms oozed over the top, I seriously doubted those buttons had ever met their respective buttonholes. No mystery why Paint hired her. Couldn’t blame him or her. Today’s male mourners would enjoy a dash of cleavage with their shine, and she’d rake in lots more tips.

“Sweetie, do you have a tray I can use to take drinks to the folks on the porch?”

The devil still made me add the “sweetie” when I addressed Miss Sugarmouth. She didn’t bat an eyelash. Probably too weighed down with mascara.

“Sure thing, honey.” I winced when the tray slid over the wood sliver firmly embedded in my palm. Suck it up. No time for minor surgery.

As I walked toward Eva’s cabin, crunching noises advertised some late arrivals ambling down the gravel road. On the porch, Dad and Eva had settled into a rhythm, shaking hands with friends and neighbors and accepting sympathy pats. Hard to hug someone in a rocker.

I handed miniature glass jars to Eva and Dad before offering drinks to the folks who’d already run the gauntlet of the sit-down receiving line. Then I tiptoed behind Dad’s rocker.

“I’ll see if Mom wants anything and check back later to see how you and Eva are doing.”

“Thanks, honey.” He kissed my cheek. I returned to Paint’s moonshine stand and picked up a second drink tray, gingerly hoisting it to avoid bumping my skewered palm. Balancing the drinks, I picked my way across the rutted ground to what I worried might be a crime scene.

Mom perched between Paint and Andy atop the double row of hay bales stacked to keep the grisly discovery out of sight. The five-foot-two height on Mom’s driver’s license was a stretch. At five-four, I had her by at least three, maybe four, inches. My mother’s build was tiny as well as short—a flat-chested size two. I couldn’t recall ever being able to squeeze into her doll-size clothes. My build came courtesy of the females on Dad’s side of the family. Compact but curvy. No possibility of going braless in polite society.

Mom’s delicate appearance often confounded the troublemakers she prosecuted for the city. Too often the accused took one look at Iris Hooker and figured they’d hire some hulking male lawyer to walk all over the little lady in court.

Big mistake. The bullies often reaped unexpected rewards—a costly mélange of jail time, fines, and community service.

Mom spotted my tray-wobbling approach. “Are these Paint’s concoctions?”

I nodded. “Well, Daughter, sip nice and slow. Someday I may file charges against Magic Moonshine. Paint’s shine is often an accomplice when Clemson tailgaters pull stunts that land them in front of a judge.”

Paint lifted his glass in a salute. “Can I help it if all our flavors go down easy?”

Mom turned back to me. “Have you met these, ahem, gentlemen?”

I suddenly felt shy as my gaze flicked between the two males. “I met Paint earlier. This is my first chance to say hi to Andy. I’m Brie Hooker. You must be the veterinarian Aunt Eva’s always talking about.”

Andy rose to his feet. “Andy Green. Pleased to meet you, ma’am. Your aunts were my very first customers when I opened my practice.”

He waved a hand at Tammy, the now demure pig, wallowing a goodly distance away. “I’m really sorry Tammy picked today to root up these bones. I feel partly to blame. Talked your aunts into adopting Miss Piggy. It aggravates me how folks can’t resist buying potbellied pigs as pets when they’re adorable babies, but have no qualms about abandoning them once they start to grow.”

Andy’s outstretched hand awaited my handshake. I held up my palm to display my injury. “Gotta take a rain check on a handshake. Unfortunately, I already shook hands with the barn.”

Andy gently turned up my palm. “I’ll fix you right up, if you don’t mind a vet doing surgery. Give me a minute to wash up and meet me at my truck. Can’t miss it. A double-cab GMC that kinda looks like aliens crash landed an aluminum spaceship in the truck bed. I’m parked by the milking barn.”

As Andy loped off toward the retail shop’s comfort station, Paint called after him. “Sneaky way to hold hands with a pretty lady.”

Andy glanced over his shoulder and grinned. “You’re just mad you didn’t think of it first.”

Paint chuckled and focused his hundred-watt grin on me. “Bet my white lightning could disinfect that sliver. Sure you don’t want me to do the honors?”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “Somehow I doubt honor has anything to do with it.”

The moonshiner faked an injured look. Mom rolled her eyes. “Heaven help me—and you, Brie. Not sure you’re safe with the wildlife that frequents this farm. Forget those coyotes that worry Eva, I’m talking wolves.” She looked toward the porch. “How’s Eva holding up?”

“Better.” I wanted to grill Mom about Jed Watson, but I needed to do so in private. “Guess I should steel myself for surgery.” I took a Mason jar from the tray I’d set on a hay bale. “Down the hatch.” My healthy swallow blazed a burning trail from throat to belly. Before I could stop myself, I sputtered.

“Shut your mouth,” Paint said. Yowzer. My eyes watered, and my throat spasmed. I coughed. “What?”

“Shut your mouth. Oxygen fuels the burn. You need to take a swallow then close your mouth. None of this sipping stuff.”

“Now you tell me.” I choked. Mom laughed. “That’s the best strategy I’ve heard yet to shut Brie up.”

I wiped at the tears running down my cheeks. “Your moonshine packs more punch than my five-alarm Thai stir fry.”

Paint’s eyebrows rose. “My shine is smooth, once you get used to it. You want a little fire in your gut. Keeps life interesting.”

A little too interesting. I’d been at Udderly Kidding Dairy just over a week, and I already felt like a spinning top with a dangerous wobble.

***

Author Bio:

Over the past five years, hundreds of mystery/thriller writers have met Linda Lovely at check-in for the annual Writers’ Police Academy, which she helps organize. Lovely finds writing pure fiction isn’t a huge stretch given the years she’s spent penning PR and ad copy. She writes a blend of mystery and humor, chuckling as she plots to “disappear” the types of characters who most annoy her. Quite satisfying plus there’s no need to pester relatives for bail. Her newest series offers good-natured salutes to both her vegan family doctor and her cheese-addicted kin. She served as president of her local Sisters in Crime chapter for five years and belongs to International Thriller Writers and Romance Writers of America.

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Tour Participants:

Stop by these awesome hosts to learn more about Linda Lovely & her amazing book, Bones To Pick. Plus, there are some great reviews, interviews, and giveaways!!

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BLOG TOUR – Bones to Pick was originally published on the Wordpress version of The Pulp and Mystery Shelf with Shannon Muir

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