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rancidpancakebatter · 1 year

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Drop In-Chapter 4 [P.P.]

Pairings: Peter Parker x AFAB Reader

Summary: You like Peter, and Peter likes you. This should be simple, so why isn’t it? Well, maybe it’s because you were already friends? Maybe it’s the stress of senior year? Maybe it’s because someone had to get bit by a spider? Who’s to say?

Word Count: 3k words

Content: MINORS DNI: 18+ Swearing, Marijuana Use, Underage Drinking, Bullying,

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Chapter Summary: Homecoming is coming up, but who cares?

A/n: When describing Peter’s friends I felt like I was making a dating sim Also, the texting isn’t very 2013 but like, I wasn’t really texting in 2013 so you get this

You had made it three weeks into your senior year, and so far, you couldn’t complain. Your course load wasn’t too insane, almost as if your teachers knew you were practically out the door. This gave you an unfortunate amount of free time, however. You’ve been trying to get into new hobbies: writing, painting, and most excitingly to Aunt May, crocheting.

Making friends had always been a little harder for you. Your father raised you to be unabashedly yourself. You didn’t know how to be anyone else. Peter was much better at camouflage. You had seen him start to come out of his shell a bit and you were very excited for him. He had made a few friends in his new classes.

That is what brought the both of you into a very interesting predicament on this Wednesday afternoon. Since getting these new friends, he no longer walks you to your classes.

You can’t say you mind all too much. You see him almost all day so to be upset over missing five minutes between classes was ridiculous. You did miss the proximity though.

A gaggle of boys came through the door to Mr Stringer’s class with boisterous laughter. Only one grabbed your attention, it’s airy and its raised pitch cuts through the air.

You give Peter a small wave as he makes his way to his desk, which he returns with a small smile. You continue working on your bellringer, feeling grateful that you wrote down the question as Peter has now blocked your vision of the board as he continues talking to his friends. He had introduced you to them before.

Silas was a stringy boy, similar to Peter in a lot of ways. Much to Peter’s dissatisfaction, Sy had a few inches on him, standing at a solid 6’2”. He also had curly blond hair that often fell into his kind blue eyes and a grand smile. He was pretty chill all things considered.

Nicholas was a bit shorter than his friends, closer to your height. He had black hair, pin-straight and short. You could see evidence of gell pushing his hair into a point on his forehead, a common style that he wore well. Peter had met both of them in his advanced calculus class.

Michael was a kind boy with wavy brown hair he wore long, grazing his shoulders. He had mesmerising green eyes, flecks of gold sprinkled throughout his irises. He was just as tall as Silas, with a much stockier build. He was a junior and friends with Silas though you weren’t sure how.

You’re favourite was Miles. He was a freshman, full of energy and hope that you were slightly jealous of. You were also unsure of his connection to this group but never questioned it.

You tried your best to give Peter space with his friends, letting them talk and sticking to your task, but something was said that caught your attention.

“No, but really are you asking anyone?” Michael was leaning against Peter’s desk, arms crossed, while the rest of the boys crowded around him. Peter only shrugged in response but Silas refused to let it slide.

“Oh, come on Parker. You can’t say you ‘might go to the dance’ and then say you’re not taking a date. What? You gonna show up solo?”

Now that was interesting. Peter had never said anything about wanting to go to homecoming but here his friends were saying he did.

Michael gives him that winky nudge thing before asking “Well, are you talking to anyone?”

Peter sounds confused, “Talking?”

Miles cuts in then, “Yeah, ya know, talking”

You watch as Peter blushes and you wish you could save him but you don’t know how to do that without forcing him into a narrative. You felt eyes on you as you continued your work.

“Yeah, I’m talking to (Y/N) (Y/L/N)” You look up when he says your name. Peter then turns in his seat to face you with a hand extended. You grasp it and he shakes viciously, it’s jerky and his grip is too rough.

“How are you (Y/N)?” You look at him confused

“I’m…doing well…uh how- how are you?” You fumbled out the response not knowing what else to say. Peter claimed he was talking with you and as much as you wanted that to be true you knew it was just a panic response. His awkwardness could simply be written off as anxiety and not him being awkward, so much, to or about you.

“Good. Good to hear.” His smile was tight but there was a softness in his eyes that kept you level.

His friends all laughed and started nudging each other saying things like ‘called it’ and ‘atta boy, Parker’. You felt your own flush start and let go of his hand, the handshake lasting much too long now.

You brought your head down and continued to do your work wanting to remove yourself from the conversation, but the implication remained heavy on your mind. Maybe he had meant it. You raised your head to see he was already looking at you, he gave you a small smile and you returned it.

Like many other things that happen between you and Peter, neither one of you mentioned it again. You had work tonight but offered Peter a ride home after school. As you clocked in you couldn’t get Peter off your mind.

You tried busying yourself with tasks and that worked for two hours but Wednesday nights are dead. You wanted to address what he said though the idea of him rejecting you to your face was brutal and you couldn’t imagine a situation where it wouldn’t thoroughly decimate your heart.

You pulled out your phone. You had gone back and forth over how to handle what Peter said. You had decided to help him get a date, so his friends would get off his back. You typed and deleted characters for what felt like aeons. This was going to be harder than you thought.

(Y/N): Hey! If you need help getting a date for the dance I can help!

You cringed at the excessive punctuation and the formality of your texting. You hoped he wouldn’t think much of it. You sat there staring at your messages for five minutes before you saw the typing bubble.

Oh god, he was responding! Of course, this was the logical next thing but you hadn’t prepared yourself as much as you thought you had. You watched the bubble come and leave with no message coming through. You wondered what it was he was typing.

Pete: Thanks! Did you have anyone in mind?

You felt your heart hammering in your chest. Of course, you had someone in mind but you weren’t sure if that was who he had in mind. You wanted to scream, shake him aggressively until he came to his senses. Instead, you bit back tears.

(Y/N): I didn’t have anyone in mind but if you tell me who you like I can be a sort of wingman for you

You heard someone clear their throat and looked up to see an older man with an empty popcorn bucket. He asked for a refill and you shovelled the over-buttered kernels hastily into the paper bucket before pushing it toward the man. He frowned but walked away. Your nerves were too fried for good customer service. You looked back at your phone to see Peter had responded.

Pete: A wing man huh?

Your fingers were shaking as you typed back. You felt embarrassed that this was so important to you.

(Y/N): Yeah like you tell me who you wanna ask and I go in and talk to them. Hype you up ya know?

You watched once again as the bubble danced in and out of the chat. You hadn’t noticed your fingers drifting to your mouth as you chewed on your nail bed.

Pete: Well I was going to ask you to the dance

You laughed. Your brain went fuzzy and it felt like you were floating. Peter wanted to ask you to the dance. It’s just a school dance but still. He wanted to ask you. Last year when prom came around you mentioned that you wanted to go but Peter showed no interest.

Instead, he offered to spend the night with you and you were so infatuated with him that you agreed. You spent the night watching horror movies, smoking, and gorging out on Pizza. You were so wrapped up in thought that you almost forgot to respond.

(Y/N): I would love to go to the dance with you :))

He responded quickly this time

Pete: Cool :))

Since then nothing had really changed. Not in private or in front of his friends. You have to keep reminding yourself that he asked you because you’re really the only girl he knows and he felt pressured to ask someone.

It was ten days later now, Saturday, and you sat on his rooftop. Your shirt was bunched up against the rough shingles as you gazed at the afternoon clouds. Peter was nearby, his warmth was felt though you ignored it. You focused instead on the sun’s rays soaking into your bones.

Peter had other plans. He threw his arm across your stomach, his elbow pressing lightly into your skin, to grab your attention. You wanted to take a flamethrower to the butterflies that dared to erupt in your gut from such a simple, absurd action.

“Did you hear this year’s homecoming theme?” You said nothing, trying to calm the subtle anger that had been culminating throughout the week.

“It’s fairytale themed,” Peter continued, “but like ‘modern’ fairytale. I think they were really inspired by that ‘Beastly’ movie.”

You gave a non-commital “Hmm” and Peter was much too high to notice that you were upset.

Which you were glad for, because how would you explain to him why you’re upset? How would you tell him that you wanted nothing more than for him to ask you to the dance, but now that he had you were just more upset that it didn’t mean anything to him? It wasn’t exactly rational, and you were trying not to take it out on Peter.

“Who should we go as?” You paused for a moment in your spiral of self-deprecation, turning your head, looking at Peter confused.

“I know that most of the time people just ignore the theme but like, this one could be fun. Un-unless you don’t think it would be fun and then we can just figure out something else.” You took a deep breath, gathering your thoughts.

“Well…what would you wanna go as?” Peter’s face held mild hesitation, he chewed on his lip before answering.

“Well, I always thought Flynn Rider was kinda cool and you remind me a lot of Rapunzel.” He said with a shrug, looking back up to the sky.

“I remind you of Rapunzel?” You couldn’t fight the smile on your face, nor the wings starting to sprout from your heart.

“Yeah, you’re kinda spunky. You’re really smart and also a bit of an introvert. Like, I imagine little (Y/n) was kinda jealous of Rapunzel's tower full of books. You’re very determined and creative. You’re loyal and kind. Oh! And you know the scene where they end up in that tavern full of, like, thugs? And Rapunzel ends up, like, charming everyone and getting everyone to sing and dance? I feel like you could do that. Like, you just are so…sweet and you- you just…”

Peter turns his head once again to look into your eyes. In his you see honey-dipped crystals, gleaming at you.

“You have this ability to light up any space you occupy. Every room wishes you were in it, because every room is dull without you.” He spoke softly, his sweet praise floating off his tongue and gently flitting through the air. Your mind was spinning as you tried to think of something, anything to say.

His arm on your stomach felt heavy now. You moved one of your arms from behind your head and intertwined your fingers with his, giving them a soft squeeze as you mumbled out a “Thank you.”

Peter pulled his gaze away once more, hoping you didn’t see the blush start to creep its way onto his face. “No problem.”

He wondered for a moment if you had somehow disguised a nine-volt battery as your hand. That was the only explanation he could imagine for why it seems every nerve in his body is responding to your touch. He can feel every cutaneous sensory receptor announcing, screaming your presence. As if he didn’t already know that you were holding his hand.

“We should rent that movie. For research of course.” You snickered at Peter.

“It’s okay to admit you wanna watch a princess movie, Pete. No one here is gonna think poorly of you.” He lets out a dramatic fake laugh and you can’t help the genuine one that bubbles up.

You make plans to rent it, encouraging Peter to hold movie night at your place, after all, you always watch movies at your place. The dance is next Friday and you don’t have much time to plan.

Peter laughs as you explain to him the pain of finding a dress. You consider arson when he tells you he can pretty much go anywhere and find a tie to match whatever colour dress you chose.

The following Monday you text Heidi and ask if she can cover one of your shifts this week. She says no but tells you to ask Mags. You beg him and he says he can cover your Tuesday shift, but in return, you owe him a shift and his food court dinner tonight.

After work, you made your way to the Family Video and found a copy of Tangled. You texted Peter a picture and told him movie night was tomorrow and that he was responsible for snacks. You didn’t really expect him to pull through but you knew he would want to participate in the preparation.

Your father welcomes you home with a warm hug and your comfort meal. You’ve noticed he’s been trying to be around more. You chalked it up to his baby bird growing up, leaving the nest at the end of the year. You couldn’t say it upset you. You had missed your dad in these past few months, neglecting him for the shiny, new guy in your life.

Your father was finishing up a funny ER story, the both of you were chortling and snorting as he regales the tale. “And this poor nurse was running around the room with some tupperware chasing this frog, while the kid and his whole family is screaming.”

Your father was a remarkable storyteller, something you realized at a young age. The way he speaks, his cadence carrying the tone, draws you in, places you in the room.

“But the kid wasn’t screaming when the frog was up his nose!” Your lungs hurt, and tears threatened to spill. Your father was in a similar state and it felt like years before you could both breathe again.

“Well, that’s enough about me. What’s going on with you, honey?” The food in your mouth suddenly felt tough. You felt a weight in your chest, a twinge of guilt, that he didn’t already know. Had it really been that long since you guys caught up?

“Life is good. My classes are going well. I um, Peter and I are going to homecoming together, so I’m looking forward to that.” You could have fooled him.

The way you were pushing your food around with your fork and speaking in a low flat voice was not very indicative of joy or excitement. Your father tried to swallow his concern and shock, instead trying to focus on being level-headed, being the adult you needed.

“Oh? When did this happen?” You could see your dad playfully smirking from your peripheral.

“Peter and I were talking- texting last Wednesday and he said he wanted to go with me.” You shrugged putting more food in your mouth. Much to your dismay, your pops sat quietly waiting to see what else you would say.

“He’s coming over tomorrow to watch Tangled with me. The dance is ‘Modern Fairytale’ themed and Pete wants to go as Rapunzel and Flynn.” Your father nodded his head in thought and you wanted to evaporate from existence.

You hate talking about Peter with your father, not because of anything he’s done, but rather, because you used to tell him (almost) everything. You would gush over every phone call and text, every sweet word and kiss.

Your father was well aware of how much you liked this boy and he was completely aware of how badly he had broken your heart. Your father was so excited for you and you almost feel like you’re letting him down being stuck in…whatever this is with Peter.

“Are you guys doing a full costume or what? When’s the dance? Do you have enough time?” You almost giggled at your dad’s rising concern in his questioning.

“We’re probably just gonna match the colours, kinda like Disney Bounding. I’m not sure how Pete’s gonna pull off the blue vest and brown pants but he’ll figure something out, I’m sure.” Your father seemed a little more relaxed now that he didn’t have to panic-stitch a costume together with you.

“Have you got a dress yet?” You told him you hadn’t had the chance yet and he grins.

“Good, we can go shopping together! Unless…you’d rather go with your friends.” His smile tightened and you felt grateful that your dad was willing to make such sacrifices, to let you do things on your own and come to him on your own. You grabbed his hand resting on the table and gave it a short squeeze.

“No chance. Besides, a friend wouldn’t foot the bill.” You and your father chuckled and it felt nice. Talking to your pops is one of your favourite things and you really have missed this.

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sxvxrxssnape · 3 years

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Snolidays/Snapemas Day 3+4

Gift Shopping & Ornaments & Smile & Snow // pre-PS/the years between. Minerva and Severus friendship aka Minerva McGonagall’s personal mission to make Severus love Christmas part 3 aka min and sev’s shopping adventures: diagon alley edition ft. emotional disaster sev

“Don’t forget, final essays are due next week!” Severus reminded his classroom of sixth year students as they cleaned up their work tables. “You’ve had three weeks to write them and I expect them all to be turned in.” He attempted to glare at the class, but no one paid him any mind.

Students exited his classroom in small groups of two and three, huddled together and laughing over meaningless jokes and plans for the afternoon.

“Hold up, this classroom is still a mess! You’re NEWT students, for Merlin’s sake, you should know better than to leave things like this!” He tried to call them back, but he was speaking to an empty classroom.

He sighed.

Being a professor at twenty-five was a fucking joke when no one took him seriously enough to respect him as an authority figure. It happened primarily with the older students, but even some of the other professors treated him as if he were still a student. Minerva seemed to be the only one who really saw him as a colleague and even she had her moments.

What was he supposed to do? Practice making scary faces in the mirror until he perfected the disappointed eyebrow raise and scowl? Assign more detentions? He’d thought dressing the part would make him look more authoritative, but now he wondered if he simply looked like a child playing dress-up when he walked around in the stupid teaching robes Narcissa Malfoy had helped him purchase.

Another sigh, but this one was shaky.

He surveyed the room and got to work, shutting drawers and cabinet doors. He double-checked the supply closet before locking it and levitated the abandoned cauldrons to the wash basin with the others, where they would wait for whichever unfortunate student had managed to get a detention from him that day. Idly, he wondered if he should ask Argus to monitor the night’s detention or if they would return in time.

He shook his head; he was running late.

Locking his classroom, he hurried into his office and shrugged out of his ridiculous teaching robes. They were nice and he loved the black stitch detailing, but he felt out of place when he wore them. He felt like, well, like a swot. He had other robes as well, namely faded grey work robes that he wore when he brewed potions for the infirmary, but they didn’t make him feel powerful or deserving of respect. These did, at least, so pretentious purple teaching robes it was.

He hung them up and took in the small room that had become his safe haven between classes over the years. It was a bit off a mess, but aside from his personal quarters, this was the only other place in the castle that really belonged to him. It was his space, from the still-steaming teacup of darjeeling - courtesy of a modified warming charm - waiting on his desk to the old copies of The Potioneer’s Journal stacked on the floor. There were four different books on his desk, two splayed out, hidden underneath a pile of assignments that still needed to be graded and about two dozen more scattered throughout the stone room.

He considered tidying up a little before he left, maybe watering his rather sad looking peppermint plant and organizing the scrolls of parchment. The mantle and bookshelf looked as if it needed a good dusting as well. This office was an extension of himself, was it not?

Minerva was waiting for him, he reminded himself.

But what if a student came calling, hoping for assistance? For Merlin’s sake, he was the head of Slytherin (and how the bloody hell that happened, he still had no idea), he couldn’t just leave and traipse around the wizarding world as if he had no other responsibilities! What if something happened to one of his snakes and they needed him? He had a job! What part of in loco parentis was he not -

He was stalling.

He was absolutely stalling.

(And it had nothing with his position and everything to do with going to Diagon Alley).

He forced himself to take a deep breath. His Slytherins would be fine and even if something happened, they still wouldn’t come to him for help because he still looked like a seventh year - and a socially uncomfortable, paranoia-fueled mess of one, at that. Merlin give him strength if the day ever came where he actually needed to take charge.

At least he hadn’t stuttered anymore after his very first class. That had been a right disaster and he hated that the second years who got to experience that moment would still be attending Hogwarts for another bloody year.

It took a few more deep breaths before he could convince himself to leave. He glanced down, decided that the black trousers and black jumper he’d pulled on from the pile of clothing that resided on his bedroom floor were clean enough for public wear, and grabbed his scarf. It was hand knitted and pale blue and alright a little wonky, but one of his snakes had given it to him and maybe he was a little sentimental over the physical proof that some of them liked him.

He summoned his winter cloak (and he had to rummage around his desk for the silver cloak pin he might have used to stab through a particularly abysmal homework assignment) and the dragonhide satchel he knew some of the students found him hilarious for carrying around, but what was he supposed to use? His robe pockets? Then it would be obvious he was casting unsanctioned extension charms on his things.

Definitely running late now, he headed upstairs and ran into Minerva on the stairs, who’d clearly been en route to retrieve him.

“Well, it’s about time.” she huffed. “I wouldn’t be surprised if it was dark out already.” The words didn’t match her tone - gentle, and maybe a little concerned - and it turned his anxiety brittle. He didn’t need to be coddled.

“I was talking to a student.” he lied smoothly, adjusting his cloak so it felt more secure - made him feel more secure - and opened the front door.

“How was your class?”she asked mildly, as they stepped over the remnants of dirty, half-melted snow and made their way to the wrought iron gate.

He scowled and stared up at the sky, noting how overcast it was. “Frustrating.” he admitted, because Minerva was the only person he would ever admit that to. “It’s hard to believe they’re sixth years, for all they pay attention and listen to me.”

“They’re probably just excited for the coming break.”

“The first years are excited for the break and they behave far better than my NEWT students.” Severus’ scowl deepened. “I hate their class.”

“Just their class?” Minerva asked, glancing at him with a raised eyebrow.

He took a moment to contemplate that. “No, but theirs especially.” he decided. “The fourth years and under take me seriously, but the others - I’ve got seventh year Slytherins who will go to you before they come to me!”

“So the ones who’ve only known you to be their professor?”

Severus stopped. “You have a point.”

“Look at it this way,” Minerva smirked, “just three more years and they’ll all take you seriously. Besides, you are young. I’m sure you still have a little more growing to do, dear.”

“Don’t make me hex you.”

“You’ll lose.” Minerva replied simply.

They apparated directly into Diagon Alley once they cleared the wards, appearing in the courtyard between Gringotts and The Leaky Cauldron. Daylight was beginning to dim, the late afternoon sky fading languidly into the cool tones of winter’s night, and the shopping district was quiet.

There were only a handful of wizards walking about, making their way between the brightly colored shops and market stalls. The Alley had prepared for the holidays as well, with their decorated storefronts and the oversized Christmas tree standing tall in the center of the plaza, adorned with hundreds of ornaments and a dizzying amount of silver tinsel. There was no snow on this side of the United Kingdom though, and against the bare, wet cobblestone streets, Diagon Alley didn’t look like rows of icing-coated gingerbread houses.

“Let’s get this over with, then.”

Minerva was watching him carefully and he offered a smile that felt more like a grimace. He didn’t hate shopping for others, but that rebellious part of him was - once again - determined to complain and make a scene. He hated that part of him, felt like he was pushing away the only person who made an effort to see him as a person and not, well, everything else he was. Traumatized child, former student, former Death Eater, child professor, take your bloody pick.

He tried for genuine excitement, for her sake.

Their first stop was a nearby coffee stall and once again, they purchased paper cups of hot coffee with peppermint and chocolate sauce. His mood brightened when he noticed these came with whipped cream and chocolate curls. They spent nearly an hour browsing through the nearby shops and market stalls before he finally relaxed enough to stop looking over his shoulder - there was no one around but very few harried shoppers and the occasional bellringer.

They were inside of Wiseacre’s, fiddling with the selection of crystal balls and reading their futures, when Severus laughed - genuinely laughed - for the first time since they had arrived in London.

Minerva cracked a grin at that before she schooled her face into something more severe. “Don’t laugh!” she admonished, rubbing her hands over the glass sphere. “I’m only telling you what it said: you will get everything you’ve ever wanted, through your looks and charm.”

“I’m sure you will.”

She huffed and tried a different one. “A new voyage will fill your life with untold memories.”

“Now that one sounds like a fortune cookie.”

“You try then.”

Severus shrugged and took the proffered ball. He ran his hands over the joke of a crystal ball and watched as it filled with smoke, turning warm and tingly beneath his fingertips. Tiny print appeared in a golden, curling font: “Your shoes will make you very happy today.”

He looked up and made eye contact with Minerva, exhaling the barest hint of another laugh as he thought of the puddles of slush they had walked through to leave Hogwarts and the impervious charm casted on his boots. He supposed it wasn’t too far off.

Another crystal ball caught his eye and he reached for it. It was clearly another counterfeit, but the stand it rested on seemed genuine enough - heavy and silver-plated. Three crescent moons gather to keep the crystal ball in place, the empty spaces between them interlaced with deep blue sapphires and hand carved runes.

He studied the runes for a moment, fairly certain they were a protection spell. “I think I’ll get this.” he announced, holding up the stand. He took the faux ball in his other hand, getting distracted when it filled with smoke and offered him another fortune: an unexpected acquaintance will resurface.

“For Sybill?” Minerva asked, half-paying attention as she thumbed through a collection of star charts. She looked up when she didn’t receive an answer. “Severus?”

Severus was scowling down at the fortune (although it felt more like a warning) and set it down amongst the others. He didn’t put merit in fortune-telling, let alone crystal balls that sold for less than six galleons and were meant for children. “For Sybill.” he nodded, walking away from the merchandise. He absolutely wasn’t thinking about boots and his paranoia of running into old friends that increased tenfold whenever he left the castle’s wards and how fortune-telling was the only reason he’d made rank within the Death Eaters in the first place.

The stand ended up costing him three galleons, which was more than he’d hope to spend on all of his gifts, but there’s a guilt that gnawed at him whenever he thought about Sybill Trewlaney and his time as a Death Eater at the same time; namely, how a conversation he’d had with the Dark Lord had nearly gotten her killed and it was enough to override his desire to shop frugally.

Minerva purchased a pendant for Aurora: frail lines of silver connected to tiny stars, making up constellations that changed with the position of the planets. It was beautiful and he wished he had seen it first, but he also knew Aurora liked reading romantic murder mysteries and he could think of a few titles she’d likely enjoy.

Not that he read romantic murder mysteries.

At all.

They left the wizarding equipment shop and continued with their browsing. The outdoor stalls were being illuminated by floating orbs now and warming charms had been cast over the next huddle of tables they approached.

Severus was studying a display of cloak pins when Minerva called his name.

He glanced over at her and found her holding up a box full of ornaments - red, green, and silver baubles with gold flakes that changed color - and a tiny, but determined-looking pewter witch mounted on a broomstick that was meant to fly around the tree.

“We’re getting these.”

“We are?” Severus asked, moving closer to rifle through the table she had grabbed them from. He grinned as he found a box of potion phials, brightly painted and stoppered to keep the glitter water inside from spilling out. “This is entirely inaccurate.” he sniffed, but he was still smiling like an idiot because of course he was nerdy enough to find potion bottle ornaments delightful. “Amortentia is definitely not pink and if someone ever hands you a Sleeping Draught that sparkles, they need to be arrested for attempted murder.”

Minerva laughed and they paid for the three boxes of ornaments and two white-fur trimmed stockings because Min had insisted they were a decorating requirement, but that they would need to purchase two because hers matched Elphinstone’s and she wasn’t quite ready to hang it up when she knew they were meant to be a pair.

The mood dampened a little after that admission and Severus found himself floundering. He didn’t know if he was meant to comfort her or how to even do it, so he grabbed the cloak pin he had been watching, a little bronze frog that leapt from its post and perched on your shoulder - absolutely useless as a fastener, but perfect for a distraction and invoking a smile - and claimed it was the ideal gift for Albus.

“It even looks like a chocolate frog.” he finished, handing the vendor fifteen sickles in exchange for the now-boxed-up pin. “He’s going to love it.”

Minerva’s faint smile was soft. “He will.”

They parted ways for the first time when they reached the bookshop. Minerva had something she wanted to get at Twilfit and Tattings and Severus waved her off, eager to finally enter Flourish and Blotts.

“Be good.”

He scowled at ordinance and mockingly saluted her as he headed inside. The bookstore was warm and softly lit, smelled of fresh parchment and chamomile tea. The shelves reached all the way up to the ceiling, wall-to-wall displays only broken by the burning fireplace and the collection of squishy, comfy-looking chairs gathered in front of it.

The shopkeeper waved at him as she organized a stack of new releases next to the shelf where the school textbooks were kept. There’s a beverage cart near the fireplace, holding a teapot and an assortment of mismatched mugs. He helped himself to a spot of chamomile and started to wander around, using his wand to summon books that seemed interesting enough to add to the growing pile floating behind him.

In the end, he decided on six books - two for Aurora, one for Argus, and three for himself.

The newly purchased stack fit easily inside his satchel, barely taking up any room beside the crystal ball stand, the stuffed kneazle - plush toy, not taxidermy - he had found at the Magical Menagerie for Hagrid, and all the other knick-knacks he had decided on. Not to mention everything else that already resided in there.

It wasn’t technically illegal.

Besides, it wasn’t his fault that undetectable extension charms were so advanced that not many wizards were able to do it properly. Furthermore, both Albus and Minerva were aware of it, and if anyone were to get in trouble here, his money was on the headmaster. He was confident in his spell-casting abilities and the worst that could happen was accidentally falling in and unable to find his way out - which wasn’t even that bad, considering he always carried around a medley of potions and snacks and even a blanket because he was that paranoid of being left out in the cold with no one to turn to.

He blinked.

Alright, maybe his abandonment issues were starting to make themselves known, but in his defense, Minerva had been gone for a good forty minutes now.

The point was, casting the charm was heavily frowned upon by the Ministry, but it wasn’t going to get him arrested either. He had worse things on his resume to choose from - and thank Merlin the Ministry of Magic never found out about the...unsavory potions he had been experimenting with around the time of his trial a few years back.

“Severus?”

He stiffened, flashes of smoke filled spheres and curling script flashing in his mind as he heard a voice that did not belong to Minerva. Tension coiled in his shoulders and he carefully secured the buckle on his satchel before he turned around and greeted the man who had decided to approach him.

“Severus Snape.” the man grinned wolfishly, blue eyes twinkling with delight. “As I live and breathe.”

“Corban Yaxley.” Severus greeted, taking in the other’s appearance. His hair had grown out since the last time he’d seen him and his honey-colored locks were pulled back in a low ponytail, accentuating his squared jaw and arched eyebrows. “What a pleasure to run into you.”

“Quite.” Yaxley grinned, the edges sharp. “How is Hogwarts? I heard you were made Head of House for Slytherin.” He took a step closer and leaned forward, his voice dropping as if they were conspiring next to the biographies. “An excellent opportunity to shape the minds of the future, don’t you think?”

Severus kept his face blank. “As well as one could expect,” he answered airily, as if he weren’t gripping his wand beneath the folds of his cloak tight enough to turn his knuckles white, “considering how brainless they all seem to be.”

Yaxley chuckled and leaned back, his posture appearing relaxed and friendly now, but Severus knew better than to trust a former Death Eater who had avoided going to Azkaban simply because he was that good of a liar.

“I don’t get paid enough to deal with their unruliness.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ve picked up a trick or two to deal with that.” Yaxley winked and then raised an eyebrow at him. “Don’t tell me you’ve gone soft, Severus?” He stepped closer again. “You used to be so impressive.”

“All of that is irrelevant now.”

“Shame.”

The man was still smiling though and his eyes glinted with something that looked an awful lot like triumph when Severus broke and took a step backwards. He composed himself, but the fingers on his visible hand still clenched around the empty teacup he’d all but forgotten about. “How are things faring at the Ministry?” he deflected, proud when his words didn’t falter.

“Excellent, ever since I got this promotion.” Yaxley smirked. “Karkaroff might have turned traitor - and I can’t say I blame him, for all he’s accomplished: headmaster of Durmstrang, I hear - dropping names left and right in an attempt to hightail it out of Azkaban, but he really did me a solid by getting Rookwood sacked.”

“Glad to hear of it.”

Yaxley stepped closer again and murmured, “Glad to hear he didn’t take you down with him, though. I heard he named you, but I was in America on Ministry business during the Death Eater trials.” Severus could feel the man’s breath on his face and it caused his facade to falter as an awful feeling crept down his spine. “I’ve missed seeing you around, Sev. You’re not hiding out in that fancy castle of yours, are you?”

Severus shook his head, unable to speak.

“Good.” Yaxley’s smile turned saccharine as he put a hand on Severus’ shoulder.

The small bell over the door chimed as it opened, letting in a gust of cold air as someone entered, and it broke the spell. Corban Yaxley dropped his hand and headed for the door. “Don’t be a stranger, yeah?”

Minerva was standing in front of him now, her eyes narrowed as she studied him carefully. “Alright?” she asked, and this time, Severus jumped - and for a split second, he wondered the psychology behind his body staying absolutely still some of the times he was surprised versus the times when he flinched - and pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders. He couldn’t find the words to answer her, his mind heavily focused on the unpleasant weight he still felt on his arm, as if Yaxley were still touching him.

“Let’s get a bite to eat.” Min led him outside and he followed as if on autopilot. “We won’t make it back to Hogwarts in time for dinner.”

He didn’t know the time, didn’t know if she was telling the truth or not, but he also didn’t feel like returning to the bustle of students just yet, so he let her guide him through the white dusted streets of Diagon Alley. Snow had begun to fall, but he barely paid it any mind. He was still reeling, lost in his head as Minerva walked them through The Leaky Cauldron and right into muggle London.

He flinched when she put a hand on his arm, still thinking of Yaxley’s unwelcome touch, and her lips thinned as he choked out an apology. She shook her head and gestured to his cloak before transforming her own into a cream-colored coat. He understood then and raised his wand - still gripped tightly between very numb fingers - and fumbled his way through the spell, changing his wizarding apparel into a winter coat.

“Did you find something for everyone?” Minerva asked gently, as she led them down the street.

He tried to think of everything he bought, frowning when he realized he’d forgotten the one person whose gift mattered the most: hers. “Just about.” he mumbled, hating the way his voice betrayed his weakness. It was no wonder his students didn’t listen; he was pathetic. How he’d ever been able to lie to the Dark Lord and not get killed was beyond him. Perhaps Yaxley had a point: he used to be so impressive.

They entered the first open establishment they saw, a hole-in-the-wall pub with yellow paint and wooden paneling that had once seen better days, but the imperfections were overshadowed by the dozens of framed photographs that dated the place back to the fifties. The lights were hazy, casting an ambient glow onto the green vinyl seats, and soft music - jazzy Christmas songs, from the sound of it- was playing over the speakers, a strange contrast to the clinking of glasses and stifled laughter coming from the patrons at the bar.

Minerva requested a corner booth and took the side that kept her back to the door, wordlessly yet pointedly, and Severus exhaled with a relief he didn’t wish to admit to. They were offered a laminated menu, but Min ordered the special for them without enquiring anything about it - and Severus was beginning to see a pattern there - and two pints of the house ale, and he wasn’t sure whether he was grateful or embarrassed for her help.

“I believe I found the perfect gift for Albus.” Minerva started talking, once they were alone again, and reached into a bright pink shopping bag from Gambol and Japes, pulling out a six inch slab of what looked like granite.

He stared at the object for a solid minute before he gave in and reached for it, taking the smooth square of white-speckled stone and examining it. It had no divots, no fault lines, no imperfections of any kind and he idly wondered if this was a very simplistic paperweight or an attempt to distract him from his impending anxiety attack. “I don’t get it.” he finally conceded.

“It’s a puzzle box.” Minerva took it back and turned it over a few times. “Only the most advanced spellcaster could ever dream of solving it.”

That piqued his attention and he reached for it again. “Hold on, I want to try.” He glanced around the pub before tucking his wand into the sleeve of his jumper and began casting a number of spells, starting with the most basic he could think of - it came from the joke shop, right? There was humor to be found in unexpected simplicity - and even casting a few that he definitely hadn’t learned at Hogwarts.

He gave up, frustrated.

Minerva, on the other hand, was grinning. “This will keep him entertained, don’t you think?” she asked, putting it away.

“It’s going to keep me up for the rest of my life.” Severus replied.

Their food arrived then, burgers on pretzel buns with grilled mushrooms and swiss cheese, and Severus was quick to reach for the chips. Whether it was her intention or not, the distraction had worked and now he worried that she would ask about his run-in with Corban Yaxley. Given the look on her face, it felt inevitable, so with a stifled sigh, Severus cast a whispered muffliato and a muggle repelling charm over them.

“Just say it, then.” he mumbled.

“Say what?”

He glared at her. “I ruined our outing with my overreaction, there at the end. I can tell you’re thinking it, so don’t bother lying to me.”

Minerva blinked and reached for her ale. “Actually, I was wondering if it would be in poor taste to gift Hagrid with a cookbook.”

“What?”

“Surely you’ve tried his rock cakes?” Min asked, biting into a chip. “I just feel he could benefit from a proper recipe. I’m sure he would be an excellent baker, if he just measured the flour correctly.”

He took the out for what it was. “You’d need to find a big enough copy of The Joy of Baking.”

They were nearly done with their meal, their glasses long empty - downsides to the repelling charm, he supposed - when Minerva asked quietly, “Are you alright?”

He nodded.

“Had fun?”

Again, he nodded, because he did have a good time. His chance encounter at the end hadn’t even gone badly - he always worried what would happen if he ran into an ex-Death Eater in public, worried he would choose his words wrong and give himself away. The Dark Lord might be gone, but his cover needed to remain intact, Merlin forbid, the worst ever happened. He just wished he had kept it together better.

He had to learn to keep it together better.

Minerva didn’t pry any further. He cancelled the spells while she talked about Filius’ plan to form a carolling group separate from the Frog Choir and then glared at her when she mentioned it was open to the staff as well, because he could tell where that conversation was going. They were interrupted by their server - small mercies - with their bill, and Severus rifled through his satchel for the muggle money he always carried.

They were standing just outside the door, shrugging back into their coats, when his attention was caught by a colorful flyer for a christmas lights festival.

“We should go.” he told Minerva and bit back a smirk at her surprise that he was suggesting an activity for them to do, instead of her.

“Really?”

“I recall you mentioning it was something you did with Elphinstone.” Severus kept his voice casual, shrugging the weight of what he was offering away. “I think we should go. This weekend.”

Minerva was still staring at the flyer, but when she finally replied, her voice was warm. “This weekend, then.”

-- a/n: maybe i got carried away again?? where’s the actual plot?? there isn’t one baby!! just 4.7k of general chaos

#snapemas2020 #snolidays2020 #snapedom #pro snape #severus snape #professor snape #snapcember #holiday writing challenge #snapemas

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definegodliness · 4 years

Text

The Amish Brothel

When I was young and wild, well, not that much wilder, but definitely plagued by the hormonal discharges that come with adolescence, it happened. No less than five years into my professional masturbation career (I was a natural), I suddenly found myself fed up with the sport.

Now, you're probably thinking, he did not try hard enough to be a professional jerk-off, but I had tried and brought to fruition the Norwegian Numb Strangler; the Alabama Twister; the Nubian Knob Flopper; the Spanish Sprinkler; yes, the Venezuelan Semi-Flaccid Fold 'n Toss, and even the Japanese Zen Garden Hose, but after five long and hard years none of them could give me the much sought after release of my all-overwhelming horny fornicorny sex on the brain-ness. I believe that is the medical term. But let it go without saying that it was plain and clear to me, I needed to get laid.

Now, how hard could it be for a sixteen year old to get laid; certainly in these days of moral decay? Very hard. You see, I was shy. Very shy. I was so shy that in the presence of the opposite sex I would freeze on the spot. And, as is well known, humans have a basic amphibian visual system: it's attuned to movement. They don't see unmoving things well at all. That's probably the reason why girls never noticed me.

So what I decided then was, that in order to keep my sanity, I needed to lose my virginity. And because I was so shy I realized that the only possible way of reaching this goal was to find a hooker. Which in these days of moral decay seems easy enough. However, it was important to me that she did not live in my home town. You see, I come from a very small town. And in small towns you can't have secrets.

So. Not willing to take any risks, I decided to start my Quest for the Whory Va-jay on the exact opposite side of the globe. But after a couple of days treading water in the Pacific Ocean, just off the New Zealand shore, it started to dawn on me that whores, much like me, were terrestrial beings.

So I swam back home to once again grab my globe, and now, making a concession, find the place that was exactly halfway between me and the exact opposite of the globe. I spun it 'round and blindly stopped it with my finger. It had landed on Pennsylvania, Ohio. I booked a flight immediately.

Long story short, I soon arrived in an Amish town by horse carriage.

Short story long again:

Now this might come as a surprise, but The Amish Brothel was surprisingly easy to find. Not because of any brightly red glowing neon lettering, of course, but because I had arrived in a very small town. Furthermore, the brothel was secret. And in small towns you can't have secrets.

The Amish Brothel was at the back of a bar facing the town’s church, as bars are often situated facing a church, and semi-legal brothels are often situated at the back of bars. In this we might see the duality of man. But that’s food for philosophers. Not for horny sixteen year olds who’ve traveled a quarter across the globe trying to covertly get sum.

Anyway, I went inside with a fistful of sweaty dollars, and let my eyes adjust to the dimly lit quarters. Inside, there was a strange atmosphere. First of all it was dead silent, and the people inside seemed to roam about aimlessly trying not to come in contact with each other. The way they moved through the room reminded me of a wind up waddling penguin toy I once had. Strange. However, I swiftly deducted the only logical explanation would be that they were shunning each other.

As by now you might have guessed, I am a man of logic.

There were three women standing in the center of the room, holding a candle. I reckoned these were the nightly ladies I had come for.

So I made my way through the waddling crowd, and, believe it or not, the first thing I noticed about my potential defloweration candidates were their wrists. Wrists, that I've later been told were called the perfect 'butter churning wrists'. They were big. Very big. They were so big that one of them actually wore a belt as a bracelet. I knew it was a belt, because I had bought the exact same belt in the tax-free shop at the airport.

It had a big ol' buckle with the inscription: Big Ol' Buckle.

I knew very little of America at the time. I was just trying to fit in. And when I thought of America I thought of blue jeans, belt buckles, boots, and cowboy hats. You can blame TV for that if the image isn’t fitting.

Anyway, while I was sizing up my potential defloweration candidates I noticed the Amish prefer different qualities in women than I, modern day degenerate, do. The three women did not expose much skin, but the skin that was exposed was rough and calloused. Never before had I seen backs of hands that were calloused. I didn't know it was possible. Suppose it shows how much you can actually achieve when you work hard.

To continue the description of the hookers, it appeared to me they had broad shoulders, in any case much broader than mine. And their large, painstakingly developed trapezius muscles made them hunch over a little like France's most famous bellringer. Each of the three stood little under five feet tall, with hips little under five feet wide, and on sturdy, stubby legs with large all-terrain feet.

Indeed, these were women at peak Amish performance.

I could see that much, despite our cultural differences. And though I personally did not see the appeal, I could understand it.

Initially their faces, locked in that typical deep creased crinkled frown you see developed in people who are convinced we are here on earth to suffer, came across a little hostile to me. And for a second I doubted the good of my whole endeavor. But I had come all this way with a mission. Surely a couple of minutes of eyes closed defloweration was worth my salvation. It was settled.

I took a deep breath and walked up to the middle hooker, the one with the Big Ol' Buckle bracelet, seeing the two of us at least had some common ground to start off with. Yet as I, in my best English, complimented her on her smashing bracelet, and then nervously, half under my breath, muttered: "How much to fuck?", all I got was a vacant stare.

I reckoned I didn't speak loudly enough. Too nervous. So I took another deep breath, and then, admittedly a bit brash and far too loudly, repeated the question: "How much to fuck?!"

What happened then I can only describe as a Hive Minded Synchronized Telekinetic Charge on my person. As all the waddling penguins in the room instantly and simultaneously turned to face me in intense disapproval. I could not move or resist as I felt myself slowly getting pushed to the exit. It was like a barraging conjoined aura. An invisible force field shooing me.

Later I learned that what I experienced that night in the Amish brothel was nothing other than The Full Power of Shun.

(Source: The Art Of Chores, by Pennsylvanian writer Shun Shoo. A good book, you should read it. Once you take the knowledge in that book metaphorically, its wisdom is still very much applicable today.)

After feeling The Full Power of Shun, I realized that Amish brothels don't work the same way as ordinary brothels do. The kick they get out of it lies in the test of will they subject themselves too. To come eye to eye with the greatest sinful seduction, and persevere, yet in that perseverance feel no pride. To stay unmoved in most rousing circumstances. The Amish find it important to stay unmoved, and soon I'd find out why. Not all too soon though.

First, I made my way out of town, disillusioned, feeling frustrated and lonely, and only guided by the light of the stars and the full moon, but that was also when it happened:

I heard a sharp 'pssst!' coming from within the shades in between two houses. Then, as I turned my head inquiringly, I saw the flashing pale of a bare ankle's skin. I don't know if it was due to me in my depraved deprivedness witnessing a woman's bare skin, or rather because of my body's instinctive preparation in anticipation of sex, but hot blood surged to my loins, so much that I could only follow the boner. I had found her. The town harlot.

Now, if you're from the city you probably don't know this, but it's a well known secret that every small town has one (1) town harlot. These mystical beings do not appear to the locals, who in fact haven't the slightest idea of any aphrodisiacal apparition living among them, but on full moon nights, when the timing is just right, they present their physical manifestation to other small town folk, visiting. So goes the legend.

She took me inside via the back door, then floated upstairs to her bedroom. And I, dragged forward by the tent in my pants, followed after in ascension. Bumpily gliding over the stairs with just the tips of my two shoes. When I entered her room she was already lying on the bed, half-sunken in the soft mattress. Fully clothed and thereby covered, except for her ankles.

Oh, great seductress.

Without moving much, or even looking at me, she curved her index finger to beckon me on the bed. And without any hesitation, I jumped on. Like a wild animal. Like a being of pure instinct, heart thumping in my throat. I might have even growled when I started attacking the layers of fabric that still hid the soppy pink treasure trove of lovin' that would change the boy I was in the man I would be. It went as follows:

Apron, dress, skirt, underskirt, underskirt, underskirt, underskirt, skirt, dress, cape, fuck there's the mattress, cape, dress, skirt, underskirt, underskirt.

Long-johns!

Hers were tied up with a thick beige string, laced in a bow tie, which I fumblingly undid with trembling hands. Then, spreading the two now loosened pieces of fabric open. Finally. The plain white slip.

Carefully, I pulled it aside with two fingers and witnessed the fiery red version of what I had grown to do The Japanese Zen Garden Hose. It all seemed so long ago. 'Let bygones be bygones', I thought to myself, as I lunged forward into my very first woman, and thereby into the bright star spangled future.

Or so I thought.

Cause at the very second of my second thrust, she gasped and exclaimed:

"No, no, no, stop! What are you doing? Haven't you ever had sex before?"

I, frozen in position, stuttered that I hadn't.

"We need to lie perfectly still, else God will see us. You got that? Lie perfectly still."

And I, greener than the grass of the English Royal Garden on the first bright spring day in May after many many showers, complied. Lying perfectly still upon and within the harlot of whom I did not even have a name.

Lucky for me, she was very soft. And, also lucky for me, I had frozen up in a very comfortable position. In fact, I was so comfortable that it took only a couple of seconds for me to fall into a deep sleep.

That night I dreamt of God.

I was sitting on a stool in the bar that in its back hid the Amish brothel, when I heard a deep echoing voice resonating through my brain.

"Do you want a handjob?"

Surprised, I looked over to the side, inspecting the silvery haired man sitting next to me. There was no one else at the bar, so I just said:

"Excuse me?"

"Do you want a handjob?” He smiled comfortingly. “I noticed you are lonely. I get lonely too sometimes. Handjobs help then. If it’s any consolation, it isn’t all that different from a Norwegian Numb Strangler."

He was right, of course. I was lonely. And, in all honesty, a Slipside-reversed Numb Strangler didn’t seem so bad. Even if it wasn’t a proper Norwegian one. But in the end I did politely decline, and silence fell for a short while, until I cleared my throat to ask the big question:

"Are you God?"

"It's you that say I am."

"Then you are. How peculiar, I was just thinking about you today. Is it true you can't see people... ya know..."

Here, I made a gesture by repetitively penetrating a circle made by the thumb and index finger of my left hand with the outstretched index finger of my right hand. In some cultures this gesture is considered vulgar.

"Fucking", God interrupted.

"Yes... fucking... when those people lie perfectly still?", I completed my question.

"Ah, my child, yes. That is true. You see I have a basic amphibian visual system: it's attuned to movement. I don't see unmoving things well at all."

"Ah, like humans."

"Made in my image."

I don't know about you, but everything started making incredible sense to me at that point. Even more so, I started to like the guy. He seemed like a pretty honest and straightforward chap. That's why I empathized, remembering the little sentence he dropped priorly. Which I had so rudely ignored.

"You said you get lonely too sometimes."

"That is true. These days it happens oh, so rarely that people see me. In fact, you are the first one in hundreds of years. To be honest, it really makes me doubt myself. I worry..."

"Hey now, come on, God. You seem like a good guy. There must be a logical explanation for all of this. Something we're just not seeing."

At that time the irony of my statement still eluded me.

I took a big gulp of the whisky that had been standing in front of me, and looked to the side observing the still, silvery figure next to me. He looked absolutely dejected. But then it hit me:

"Do you move around all that much?"

"I am omnipresent."

"Well there's your problem. If your everything is everywhere at any given time, how can you create the movement needed for our basic amphibian visual system to see you.” I gulped down the rest of the whisky. “Can't you be less present? Like, semi-omnipresent. Half... omni... present?"

"Alas, no. That I cannot be. For if I'd be anything other than omnipresent, I'd be subject to the laws of relativity. Then, there is always a bigger fish. Probably by my own making, but, you know, it's like Greek Mythology states: 'The son always overthrows his father'.

He paused. Then started jabbering:

“T- that's always been the rule. I mean, I found a loophole, but..."

God stared in his glass pensively. Then, as awoken from a daydream, suddenly sat upright, speaking clear again:

"No, any other existence cannot be. I cannot allow myself to get in such a predicament."

"Aren't you all-powerful as well; how can anything that is created by you, and therefore is you, be more powerful than you?"

"I am a man of many paradoxes."

"Same."

I tapped on the rim of my empty whisky glass for a while, thinking about omnipresence. Trying to find an easy fix. But all I could think about is how omnipresence and non-existence are two different words used to describe the exact same phenomenon, limited by the vocabulary containing our understanding of the world and the ever-expanding universe around us.

I thought about our amphibian visual system, and wondered what else we can’t really see that is there. Or could be. Or...

“Hey, wait a minute, why can I see you?

I looked at God inquiringly. God, with his kind smile. He nodded at me.

"It's time for you to wake up."

With that I opened my eyes. It was morning, and never had I awoken so well rested. I pulled my shriveled, flaccid penis out of the now cork dry crevice of once meat marinating mind-boggling pleasure, and heard the harlot whisper: "Best sex I ever had." I took her word for it, after all, she was a harlot, and harlots are like experienced pros when it comes to the game of fleshy be-bop-a-lula.

As a matter of fact, I am proud to say that I have become quite an MVP in this game as well. No one lies stiller than I, and these days I can stay awake for a solid two minutes. I leave girls in such ecstasy they do not dare to lay with me twice, afraid to be maddened by the mind, body, and soul shattering sensation of unrivaled pleasure.

I promise I am wielding this power responsibly.

Of course, at the time I had no clue what a stud I had become that day. All that mattered was that I lost my virginity (does it count when you don't cum? It does count, doesn't it? Anyway), I was a man now. And as a man I strutted back into my small town village. Straight back, head upright. All would behold my manly stride. And all did, until Hank the bicycle repair guy cupped his hands in front of his mouth like a makeshift megaphone and shouted:

"Hey Bozo, how was the Amish brothel?!"

I hate living in a small village. You can't have any secrets.

---

21-12-2019, M.A. Tempels ©

#short story #write #absurdism #prose #long read #story #fiction #creative writing #writers on tumblr #writer #alt lit #literature #spilled ink #spilled writing #spilled thoughts #spilled words #words

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artificialqueens · 4 years

Text

nobody knows where we might end up, chapter fifteen (branjie) - holtzmanns

(read on ao3) | (tumblr: plastiquetiaras) | word count: 4476

AN: Thank you so, so much for all the continued sweet response to this fic. It makes me so, so happy and makes me wish I could write it forever. Writ is a great beta <3

(then)

It’s around seven p.m., so Vanessa has approximately four hours before her brain shuts down for the night, and she can probably finish at least a little bit more of her pathology paper, and study for the midterm for the same class, and practice for the anatomy bellringer next week, before-

“Another email! This one about orientation week. Can you believe that med school’s going to have an o-week, too? As if we didn’t already do that in undergrad, right?”

Ugh.

Vanessa’s happy for Brooke, she truly is. There’s no one who deserves success the way that she does.

But if Vanessa has to hear another damn detail about the upcoming year, she’s going to lose it.

Vanessa still has to study. She’s taking a couple of courses right now during the summer semester before her fourth year along with volunteering, balancing those with more time in the lab so that her name will be featured on her supervisor’s paper once it gets published. Her summer is packed because she’s still trying, damn it, she has to go through the application process for med school all over again once the fall gets here and she has to be better, more experienced, more worthy.

Unlike the last application cycle, where she didn’t get in anywhere. Didn’t even get off any waitlists.

So, here Vanessa is. Working herself to the bone because she has to. One would think that three and a half years of pushing herself would make it easier to do with time, but she’s still had it. She wants to just camp out and watch some movies for a night without thinking about all the shit that she needs to get done.

It’s what’s made seeing Brooke, blissfully happy and free of responsibilities, so difficult to watch the last two months.

Brooke gets to enjoy a relaxing summer because she’s going to start the MD program at U of T come September, and so she gets a clean slate. She doesn’t need to do anything to prepare, because she’s already in. No need to get any extra courses done, no more volunteering if she doesn’t want to. No finishing her fourth year of undergrad. Not when she gets to enter med school after completing her junior year.

Vanessa doesn’t want to see it as unfair, but it kind of is. Just a little bit. Especially when Brooke gets to sit on the couch and cuddle with the cats while Vanessa’s at the kitchen table and reviewing from her textbook. Or when Brooke gets to come back late from nights out with Detox and Alaska because she doesn’t need to study or work hard until September, so of course she can go out and have fun. Because who cares that Vanessa has to get up early the next morning for class, when Brooke stumbles into bed so late? Why should it even matter?

Okay, so maybe Vanessa’s a little pissed. Sure, the anger and unfairness of it all is a bit misplaced, but she’s allowed to have her feelings, dang it.

Brooke’s switched to raving about the neuroanatomy course that the U of T med school students get to take (in first year, can you believe it, they go so in depth!’), and Vanessa really just doesn’t fucking care. She’s tired, real tired, and she can’t find the words to finish this analysis paragraph in her paper because Brooke is still going on about how great her program is going to be.

“Can you just. Shut up for a bit? Five minutes. That’s all I fucking need. Five minutes.” It comes out snappier than Vanessa intends but she doesn’t even care, because if she doesn’t make good progress on this paper tonight she’s going to run out of time to finish it, along with the rest of the things that she needs to get done before the deadlines hit her square in the face.

“Sorry. Geez.” Brooke’s voice is a huff but Vanessa can still hear the hurt in it, she always does. Can always tell. It makes Vanessa want to roll her eyes because even if she does feel a little bad for snapping it’s not fair, having to listen to everything.

“While I want my schedule was as empty as yours, I need to get this shit done tonight ‘cause I won’t have time tomorrow. Wish I had time to talk all about how great the program is going to be for you like we usually do every fucking night, but I can’t. Not tonight.” Not any night, but this is the first time Vanessa’s actually said something. Maybe not the smartest thing to do, but she’s fucking tired of it.

“Fine. I’ll go check my email somewhere else.” Brooke’s already rolling off of the couch, Henry in her arms and of course she’s making Vanessa feel like the bad guy right now.

Vanessa rubs at her temples, the glare of her computer screen a harsh glow that only makes her headache that much worse. “I get you wanna spend time together and shit before you get busy in September, which is real nice, but some of us have actual work to do.” Vanessa wishes she could have Brooke’s free time, she really does. But she can’t always get what she wants, now can she?

“I’m-” Brooke lets out a frustrated sigh as she stands in the doorway of their room. “I feel like I can’t even be happy or excited around you anymore for anything, like I’m already trying to keep from talking about it too much but sometimes I just want to share things, you know?”

“Great. Love it for you, I really do. Supporting you all the way.” So Vanessa sounds a bit dry while she says it. She doesn’t care. “You’ll have a great time.”

“Thanks for the sincerity.” Brooke crosses her arms and it only makes Vanessa want to roll her eyes more.

“It’s just a bit hard to be happy for you when I’m still stuck in undergrad, still working my ass off right now, unlike you.” Vanessa snaps because she’s had it, she really has, she doesn’t care. “Go celebrate with Becky or Tiffany or whomever fucking else got into med school with you. I’m sure they’ll be more than happy to listen to you talk while you braid each others’ hair and plan where you’ll sit in class together.”

Vanessa sees the hurt flash in Brooke’s eyes before she slams the front door, leaving to go who knows where, but who cares? Especially when Vanessa’s damn paper isn’t writing itself the way that it should. She has too much to do to even give a shit anymore.

Vanessa can’t sleep, because all she can think about is the fact that she has to be up in five hours to be at the hospital for volunteering, and she still needs to study more before her pathology midterm, which she’ll have to fit in at lunch time, and god, she wishes she could shut her brain off sometimes.

The door opens and closes quietly and Vanessa feels trepidation roll over her. Brooke’s back. Not that she cares.

Not really.

They’ll be fine. She just needs sleep and a bit of rest and she can listen to Brooke’s excited rambling about med school. It’s fine.

Except no matter how much she tries to convince herself, Vanessa’s still kind of annoyed by it.

Brooke climbs in beside her and turns over, facing the opposite wall. Their bed’s not even that big, just a double, but it feels like there’s an ocean between them, one too big to cross because the waters that they’d have to swim through would drown them in the waves first.

Vanessa’s glad for it, really. She doesn’t want to talk things out right now. Or cuddle. Not in this state.

She just needs some fucking sleep.

Of course Brooke manages to doze off first, her breaths evening out and becoming deeper and deeper while Vanessa has to listen. Seems like being rested and having free time is also useful for falling asleep quickly, too.

Lucky.

Vanessa will just have to drink an extra coffee or two tomorrow morning if she wants to get through the day.

(now)

“Nothing at all?”

“Nothing in his past medical history. No coronary artery disease, no hypertension, no type two diabetes, nothing! All that this guy’s file said is that he was allergic to cats. That’s it!” Vanessa nearly knocks her glass of wine over in her enthusiasm.

Brooke’s eyes are wide as she listens to Vanessa’s recap. “And then?”

“Needed a quadruple bypass. His arteries were more blocked than the 401 during rush hour.”

Brooke lets out a whistle. “How did all of that build up without being noticed?”

“I have no sweet clue.” Vanessa nearly dances in her seat, recalling the way her and her team had nearly lost their shit in the operating room upon seeing the guy’s arteries. “But it was wild. Like, he was a marathon runner and shit. Lord knows how he didn’t straight collapse while tap tapping those feet on the pavement.”

“Wow.” Brooke takes a bite of her pasta, wiggling her fork around after. “So he just had all of that the whole time?”

“Yeah! Do y’know how long it took us to clean those arteries? Forever! Though those grafts were a damn work of art.” Vanessa thinks back to the neatness of that surgery, and has to resist giving herself a pat on the back. It had been an extraordinarily good job, even for her.

Brooke snorts. “You’re the only person who would ever describe arterial grafts as a work of art.”

“Hey, it’s fun. ” Vanessa pouts, and if the soft look that Brooke is giving her makes her heart feel a certain type of way, she’s not going to think about it.

“It’s cute.” Brooke’s look at her as she smiles is unwavering, and it nearly makes Vanessa want to blush, hide her face.

No ones looked at her like that since, well-

Brooke herself.

“You’re cute.” The words slip out before Vanessa has a chance to stop them, and she doesn’t even care because then Brooke’s the one flushing, and proving Vanessa’s words completely correct.

“It is nice, though. Being able to talk about this shit with someone else who gets it.” Vanessa’s missed this. She doesn’t want to admit it, but being able to talk to Brooke, to talk about the things that she’s seen that excite her, feels so right. Like home.

Brooke still shows enthusiasm for everything she’s saying despite not being in cardiology, just like she used to when they were younger. Her cheek rests on her hand as she listens in the same way too, and for a second they could almost be back in that apartment so many years ago.

“Yeah. It is.” Brooke murmurs, before her eyes take on a mischievous sparkle that Vanessa knows is solely reserved for teasing her. “Wanna hear about this gross brain abscess I got to remove yester-”

“Nasty. We’re eating dinner, no talk of brain abscesses while we eat-”

“It was almost rotting away-”

“I will call the police-”

Brooke’s peal of laughter cuts off her protest, and Vanessa can’t help but giggle along with her.

Being able to lapse back into conversation like this, the way they used to be able to talk for hours and hours feels surreal. Like it shouldn’t be allowed, like they’re breaking some sort of law of the universe by being able to get along, actually enjoy each other’s company once more.

But then again, the past couple weeks have put them through the wringer. At least, on Vanessa’s side.

And by the dark circles underneath Brooke’s eyes (the ones that are slowly, slowly beginning to fade), she doesn’t seem to be far off, either.

Maybe they deserve this. Not being caught in the winds of a storm, for once, but instead getting to float in calmer waters. Ones that will let them tread and stay afloat and actually catch their breaths, not drowning in unspoken words and feelings.

They finish their shared dessert too soon, and Vanessa can’t resist reaching a finger out to swipe at the chocolate at the corner of Brooke’s mouth from the lava cake. She can’t help but notice the way Brooke’s eyes darken when she licks her finger, either.

Vanessa doesn’t know why she grabs Brooke’s hand as they leave the restaurant. Maybe it’s force of habit from way back when, maybe it’s the way Brooke’s like a magnet, making Vanessa want to just get closer and closer and never let go.

But Brooke squeezes her hand back, tugs her along to the car, and the slight thread of worry, of being rejected that had been running through her heart begins to vanish.

“Can I tell you a secret?” Vanessa whispers it to Brooke, standing on her tippy toes as they wait at a crosswalk.

“What?” Brooke tilts her head in curiosity, reluctantly pulling her gaze away as they begin to cross.

“I’m still kinda hungry.” Vanessa’s sentence is punctuated by a growl of her stomach, and she gives Brooke a sheepish grin when her eyebrows raise in surprise.

“How do you eat so much yet remain only a hundred pounds max, soaking wet?”

“Hey.” Vanessa shoves Brooke’s side, huffing when it makes Brooke crack up. “I am tall . And intimidating.”

“Intimidating? I can see that. Tall? Nope.”

Vanessa pouts. “I’m still growing. I gotta eat.”

“What are you, a teenage boy?” Vanessa’s about to protest, talk about how she’s finally going to have her growth spurt, damn it, when Brooke points to a sign across the street reading Lino’s Pizza.

“Open 24 hours, apparently. Want some?”

“Damn. The waterfront is pretty at night.” Vanessa looks across the water, then up at the stars that are shining through despite the glow of the city. The hood of Brooke’s car is a perfect vantage point for watching the soft waves of the lake, the gentle breeze making Vanessa button up her jacket to the very top.

Brooke reaches in between them, grabbing another slice of the pizza they’ve bought, and Vanessa can’t resist doing the same. They’ve already demolished half of it, and while the cardiac surgeon part of Vanessa’s brain is tutting at her about the way it’ll clog up her arteries, the rest of her can’t seem to care.

“I used to come here when I was stressed as an intern and resident, after shifts. Got away from the hospitals to just sit in quiet and watch the water.” Brooke’s voice is soft, and Vanessa catches the slight look over towards her. “Kind of helped to calm my brain down, y’know?”

“I feel that.” Vanessa can almost picture a twenty something Brooke, still in her scrubs and counting her breaths with the way the water brushed up against the rocks on the shoreline. “You still come here from time to time, huh?”

“Yeah.” Brooke nods, eyes scanning the horizon. “Still helps, here and there.”

“Real nice of you to bring me here.” Vanessa looks up at Brooke, still in her fancy dress and jacket draped over her shoulders, almost comically contrasting from the slice of pizza in her hand.

Brooke’s cheeks turn slightly pink. “Can’t think of any place better to devour some pizza like this.”

Vanessa’s brain is still stuck on a younger Brooke - not as young as when they were in undergrad, but a fresher doctor, a less experienced one. “What was it like?”

Brooke’s brow furrows. “What was what like?”

“Internship. Residency. All of that.” Despite the fact that they haven’t been in each other’s lives for years and years, it still feels strange to think that there’s so much of Brooke that Vanessa doesn’t know. So many of her memories, her experiences.

So much that she wants to know.

“Well, I did them both right here. In the city.” Brooke points behind them, back towards the amalgamation of hospitals that take up an entire block in the downtown core. “It was like most internships and residencies - incredibly traumatic.”

Vanessa lets out a snort. If that didn’t sum up the complete truth of the early years of being a doctor.

“A lot of sleepless nights, doubting myself. All of that. But made it through. How was yours?” Brooke asks the last bit with her eyes pulling back to look out towards the water.

“LA was-” Vanessa pauses on her words, remembering the fact that her and Brooke haven’t actually talked about it.

Vanessa moving away, across the continent. Leaving Brooke behind.

But do they really need to talk about it now?

Vanessa doesn’t want to, not really.

So, she’s not going to. She’s gonna keep it light, because they don’t need to go anywhere near that topic. “The LA hospitals I did it at were chill. ‘Cept for the resident that supervised me as an intern. She was like a damn military sergeant. Kept us all in a line and everything.”

Brooke looks back towards her at that, curiosity covering the trepidation that had been previously written on her face. “Like, a literal line?”

“A literal line, we followed her like ducklings!” Vanessa thinks back to being an intern in scrubs that were too big for her, ones that she had to roll up at the cuffs so that she wouldn’t trip in them. When the hospital felt vast and endless, not quite her domain just yet.

“Though we got to do a lot of cardiac shit. I got to stay on that unit more than others, I liked that.”

“How’d you manage that?”

Vanessa grins. “Needled the attending surgeon until he was so annoyed by my unending questions that he had to take me on to get me to stop. Annoyance is a great strategy.”

Even Brooke can’t resist a grin back at Vanessa’s statement. “Why can I picture that so clearly?”

Vanessa flips her hair over her shoulder. “Because I go after what I want, that’s why.”

“You sure got it.” Brooke’s smile is still on her face, but the mirth doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Back when they were in university, Vanessa used to be able to tell exactly what Brooke was thinking. What the little changes in her face meant, what exactly she was holding back from saying. She used to be so proud of it back then, knowing her girlfriend so well. Now, though, Vanessa feels like she’s behind a glass wall, like she’s going to have to work hard all over again to break through it and tune into Brooke the way she should be.

“Mostly. Mostly got it. The job part, sure.” Vanessa closes the pizza box that they’ve polished off between the two of them, leans back against the windshield of Brooke’s car.

“Yeah. We got the jobs.” Brooke’s voice is soft. They’ve both reached what undergrad them had been striving for, trying to work so hard towards. They’re at the top of their games in their respective fields, having both gotten what they had wanted.

But they both had to leave things behind in the process to get there. Sacrifices left at the altar of their hopes and dreams and aspirations. Sacrifices such as each other.

Brooke lifts up the empty pizza box, sliding herself off of the hood of the car before holding a hand out for Vanessa. She grabs it and yelps when Brooke pulls her off of the car right after, landing on her feet with an oof.

Vanessa holds back a yawn, the long day catching up with her; and of course Brooke notices. “C’mon. Let me take you home. You’re dead on your feet.”

“M’not tired.” Vanessa’s not. She’s having fun with Brooke for the first time in so long and she doesn’t want it to end, because then what if they won’t have any time like this ever again?

“Yeah, you are. It’s like, almost 1 a.m.” Brooke checks her watch. Vanessa’s about to put up a half hearted protest to Brooke’s words before she continues. “We can do this again, you know.”

Vanessa perks up. “Yeah?”

The smile is reaching Brooke’s eyes now, making them sparkle and it’s a sight that Vanessa’s missed, one that she never wants to let go of ever again. “If you want to.”

“I want to.” The words come out more forceful than Vanessa intends them to, but it’s true, she wants this. Wants more. More time with Brooke, more time outside of consultation meetings and seeing each other in the hallways and sex in offices. She wants to know Brooke again, make her laugh more until she gets those cute little crinkles by her eyes when she giggles.

“Good. Me too.” Brooke reaches her hand out, linking their pinkies together and if Vanessa didn’t know any better, the smile on Brooke’s face right now would look almost shy. Flushed. As if they’re two teenagers with their first crushes all over again. As if they don’t have volumes and volumes of baggage and history that are already propping them up.

Vanessa can’t help herself from casting glances over at Brooke as she drives, watching the way she’s blinking away sleep as her hand grips the steering wheel. Her mind is made up when Brooke pulls up to her apartment building. “You’re dead on your feet now too, B. It’s nearly two.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll head home now, don’t worry.” Brooke yawns, rolling out her neck as she shifts her car into ‘park’.

“In this state? We work in five hours, you can’t drive like this.” Vanessa’s not going to let Brooke back on the road when she’s practically snoozing already. Especially not on the ever so busy downtown Toronto streets, where it would probably take her another twenty minutes or more to get home, anyway.

“I’ve been called in to the hospital for emergencies at three in the morning before. And so have you, I bet. I’ll be fine.” Vanessa would believe Brooke right now, she would, if she didn’t remember the way she’s driven in for those kinds of late night calls herself, nearly falling asleep at the wheel.

“Still. Don’t want my ass to get sued if you crashed your fancy Lexus into a pole or something while driving home and they blamed it on me. You’re sleeping here.”

Brooke raises an eyebrow at her, but doesn’t argue. A win.

It’s certainly not how Vanessa’s imagined bringing a girl home, much less Brooke. Though pulling out some spare pyjamas, a baggy shirt and shorts because she knows that Brooke is much taller than her gives Vanessa a strange sense of déjà vu, as if the action is the most familiar thing to her in the world. As if Brooke sleeps over at her place all the time, as if her bed has actually held Brooke rather than just the thoughts of her that invade Vanessa’s mind when she’s had too much to drink or feels too lonely.

“Take my bed. Imma camp out on the couch.” Vanessa’s brain is too tired to think about the ramifications of them sharing a bed, of what it could mean. A topic saved for a later time, when she really wants to delve deep and put herself through it.

“I’m not gonna take your bed away from you, especially because we work so soon. Go sleep. I’ll take the couch.” Of course tonight happens to be the night that Brooke feels like arguing with her over a damn bed.

“Just take the bed-”

Brooke wiggles her car keys, the jingle interrupting Vanessa. “I’m taking the couch or I’m driving right now.”

“So pushy. Fine.” Vanessa mumbles the words because she’s tired and doesn’t care that much, really, when it’s so late. If Brooke wants the couch that bad, she can take it.

Sleep doesn’t come to Vanessa as fast as she wants it to, though, once she’s washed her face and changed into her pyjamas and climbed into bed. Not when Brooke’s on the other side of Vanessa’s bedroom door, camped out on her couch under her spare blanket and in her pyjamas, as if this is perfectly normal for the two of them to do. As if Vanessa isn’t about to lose her mind thinking about it.

Vanessa turns over to lie on her side for what feels like the millionth time that night, no position seemingly comfy enough to let her brain drift off and rest as the numbers on her clock creep closer and closer to the morning.

She’s still awake when she hears the soft pad of footsteps outside her room, and her door creaking open tentatively, letting the tiniest crack of light in and casting shadows along the walls. There’s no way Vanessa can sleep now, not even when the light dims as the door closes once more because Brooke is right there, standing by her door. Vanessa can feel it, even if she’s turned away and facing the wall and her eyes are squeezed shut tight because she’s still pretending to be sleeping.

Vanessa can feel her heart pound as Brooke shifts her weight as she stands, making the floor squeak underneath her feet. She seems to be debating what to do and Vanessa just wants to tell her to hurry up already, to put her out of her misery. But then Brooke seems to make a decision as takes a step closer and she’s climbing in, pulling the covers over herself too and she’s in Vanessa’s bed and right beside her and how can Vanessa still pretend to be asleep now?

Brooke tentatively reaches out and all pretenses are gone because Vanessa snuggles closer, burying herself against her. The feeling nearly bowls her over, as if she isn’t already lying down in bed because being in Brooke’s arms like this is something that she hasn’t felt in years. The way Vanessa’s heart twists when Brooke lets out a soft little sigh and kisses her head makes her realize that she’s missed being like this more than anything in the world. Missed feeling like she’s complete, all protected and safe and as if the problems that could trouble her suddenly don’t matter anymore. Not when she has Brooke with her like this, limbs tangled and all warm and holding onto her tight and it’s okay, really, because Brooke’s holding her the same way too. As if she doesn’t want to lose her, to let her go. To break the delicate spell between them.

The soft pictures of her dreams come to her quick after that, as her breaths even out and begin to sync with Brooke’s, because everything is okay when they’re like this. Vanessa is convinced of that fact.

#rpdr fanfiction #branjie #brooke lynn hytes #vanessa vanjie mateo #lesbian au #hospital au #nobody knows where we might end up #holtzmanns

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kekepuaa · 7 years

Text

Ladyblogging, part three

Summary: in which marinette realizes that the internet is a lot smarter than she thought and that the only way to protect her identity is to join the ranks. identity reveal. adrienette.

Notes: Here’s a list of blogs/twitter accounts; they’ll be updated regularly as I go along c:

Mari: @littlestutterbug/Ladybug Alya: @theladyblogger/The Ladyblog Adrien: @adrienagreste/chatblanc (AHA!) Nino: @djxbubbler Chloe: @queenbee Sabrina: @pastelprincess

part three: theory [Previous][AO3]

Saturday had been a rather peaceful and uneventful day for the most part. The weather was lovely and Marinette had woken up bright and early to help her parents out in the bakery. Since costumers usually didn’t start coming in until 11 or noon, Marinette was allowed to man the register while her parents caught up on some work out back.

Marinette spent about half an hour doodling in her sketchpad before taking her phone out: No new news.

Looking over her shoulder to see if the coast was clear, she opened up her internet browser and went to her blog, which was at this point more popular than the Ladyblog. Marinette knew what to expect from creating a blog under her superhero alias and she was somewhat aware of the risks it came with, but never had she ever imagined how much closer her blog had brought her to the people who frequented it.

She talked about her favorite movie yesterday, of all things.

No Hawkmoth, no akumas--just one lonely Parisian bellringer and some friendly banter with a few commenters, one of which who spoke like Chat Noir.

She shook her head: Ladybugs seemed to attract eccentric cat-themed characters where she went. Nevertheless, despite the risk she was taking, blogging was proving to be a very interesting pastime that she had invested in.

It wasn’t until early evening when Marinette was relieved from register duty, the young teen skipping up to her bedroom, two steps at a time. She was expecting Alya any minute, and her room was still a disaster from the stroke of inspiration that had struck the girl the night before.

As Marinette ran around her room, quickly picking up discarded slips of fabric haphazardly scattered across her bedroom floor, Tikki zipped up to Marinette’s bed, snuggling deep into the warm sheets.

“You gonna sleep, Tikki?”

“Mmhmm,” the kwami sleepily replied, “Just for a bit. Wake me up if there are akumas.”

Marinette climbed the loft and found Tikki, dozing on her pillow. Smiling softly, she learned forward and pressed her lips against Tikki’s forehead, who hummed and burrowed herself deeper into Marinette’s bed.

With Hawkmoth’s Akumas attacking more frequently, Ladybug’s kwami had been exerting more energy than usual, which left Tikki fatigued and often dozing away in Marinette’s purse, a half-eaten cookie by her side.

Marinette wondered if Chat Noir’s kwami was the same too.

If his kwami was anything like her overdramatic, pun-loving kitty cat, then she was more than positive that he had his hands full right now.

Marinette had just finished putting everything away when her bedroom door swung open. Alya hopped into her room, her curly, dark and red ombre locks looking slightly disheveled.

“Hey!” Marinette greeted her best friend and gestured for her to take a seat, “I was wondering when you were gonna get here.”

“Sorry,” Alya said, “I had some stuff to go over. I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“I figured,” Marinette replied, eyeing her friend’s appearance, “What kept you up? Have you been stalking Ladybug’s blog again?” she added playfully. Alya stuck her tongue out at Marinette and huffed indignantly.

“I’ll have you know that I was doing research, not stalking.”

“Okay, yeah, sure. Did you find anything?”

To be honest, Marinette wasn’t exactly expecting any groundbreaking theorizes from her best friend other than the fact that she and Ladybug had the same favorite film. In the past, there had been a few close calls, but now Marinette could proudly say that there was no way that anyone was gonna find her out while she was still alive.

“I’m, like, 99% sure Ladybug goes to our school.”

...or, Marinette thought, I could just go into hiding until people forgot who Ladybug was. She knew that option was out, but Alya was already on her trail and drawing closer.

Okay.

There was no need for her to panic yet, Alya didn’t exactly have proof that Ladybug went to their school.

“Check out this list I compiled of Ladybug sightings and why I think she’s a student at Collège Françoise Dupont.” Marinette willed her hands to remain steady as she gently accepted a worn notebook from Alya.

Tikki was going to kill her when she woke up. (Well, not really, she corrected herself, but this could be disastrous for her.)

Marinette opened the book.

Theory: Ladybug is a student at Collège Françoise Dupont (A compilation of pieces of evidence that I literally just remembered and probably should fact check but will do that later)

Ladybug knew my name when Stoneheart was around (Source: ME, she called my name after she activated her Lucky Charm.)

Ladybug has a history textbook that is only used by our school in all of France (Source: ME, see the Ladyblog for video footage of LB dropping the textbook.)

Ladybug appeared at school with the Horrificator had sealed up all entrances and exits. (Source: ME, and everyone else in class.)

Ladybug’s interactions with Adrien Agreste are reason for me to believe that she either knows the boy or is in love with him. Or maybe both. Most likely both. (See page 3 for details. Note to self: Ask Marinette for her opinion.)

Wordlessly, Marinette handed Alya the damning log, trying her best to not scream. Was this what criminals felt like when the police were just about to bust them? Marinette considered transforming and leaping off her balcony, but she knew that wasn’t even a logical option.

Okay, calm down, calm down. She wasn’t found you out yet, she told herself, she’s just put together some things in the past, so as long as I don’t slip up while I’m in the suit, I think it’ll be okay.

“So?”

Marinette jumped, “S-So what?”

Alya didn’t seem to notice the nervous energy unraveling from within Marinette, as her attention seemed to be focused on her phone.

“So do you think Ladybug likes Adrien?” Marinette stifled a squeak, “This is really important for my research.”

“I-I don’t know,” Marinette answered as calmly as she could, “I mean, s-surely she has a crush on him because he’s a m-model and she must have seen him somewhere before. H-His face is all over Paris.”

Calm down, Marinette thought, You’ve got this. You can totally do this!

To Marinette’s relief, Alya seemed to take in her response, nodding sagely. Feeling encouraged, Marinette continued, “And Ladybug is aided with magic, so I wouldn’t rule it out that things like knowing people’s names and even appearing in the school when Mylene was akumatized--maybe all of that was a result of magical influence?”

Of course, Marinette knew what she was saying was total garbage, but Alya didn’t need to know that. She could only hope that Alya would listen to her and keep her eyes off the school.

“Maybe...” Alya muttered after a few beats of silence, “...besides the only girls Adrien’s spoken to are the girls in the class, and as far as I know, every girl has been akumatized--” Marinette flushed pink, “--so Ladybug definitely couldn’t be in our class.”

“R-Right!” Marinette was quick to agree, “Remember when you thought Chloe was Ladybug?”

“Oh God,” Alya rolled her eyes, “Don’t remind me.”

It seemed that luck was on Marinette’s side today.

Ladybug Posted: 2016-04-30

Subject: DON’T YOU WORRY ‘BOUT A THING MAMA

Let’s just say that I am one lucky son of a bug. I won’t go into it, but phew. Talk about a nail biter.

You know when you get so anxious, your blood seems to feel cold?

Yeah, I had the pleasure of experiencing that this afternoon. The feeling passed quickly enough, but I had to drink, like, six cups of tea to recover.

God.

Worrying about little things will be the death of me. I’m pretty sure my life span was reduced by 2 years.

I need a croissant or something. Maybe I should just go to sleep. Excuse me.

-LB

Comments:

Response to DON’T YOU WORRY ‘BOUT A THING MAMA Posted: 2016-04-30 Subject: Just start breathing into a paper bag.

Chop Suey: Girl, you’re a superhero. Just knock out before someone gets akumatized again.

Response to Just start breathing into a paper bag. Posted: 2016-04-30 Subject: Hopefully it won’t get to that omg

Ladybug: T R U E.

Response to DON’T YOU WORRY ‘BOUT A THING MAMA Posted: 2016-04-30 Subject: Lavender & Chamomile tea should do the trick ;)

The Ladyblog: You act like someone was close to uncovering your secret identity ;)

Response to Lavender & Chamomile tea should do the trick ;) Posted: 2016-04-30 Subject: ALREADY BREWING IT.

Ladybug: Wouldn’t you like that, Mlle Ladyblog?

Response to ALREADY BREWING IT. IT’S GOD’S GIFT TO THE WORLD. Posted: 2016-04-30 Subject: It’s God’s gift to this world. The Ladyblog: DANG IT. SHE’S ON TO ME. ABORT! ABORT!

Response to DON’T YOU WORRY ‘BOUT A THING MAMA Posted: 2016-04-30 Subject: COZ I’LL BE STANDING ON THE SIDE WHEN YOU CHECK IT OUUUUTTTTT

chatblanc: If you’re looking for a good bakery, I definitely recommend the Tom & Sabine Boulangerie Patisserie on Rue Gotlib? I happen to be friends with the daughter of the owners; their food is to die for. You’ll definitely gain back the two years you lost, especially if you try the salmon and spinach quiche.

Marinette frowned at chatblanc’s comment. She knew them? There was a possibility they could be lying to her (CATFISHING IS A REAL PROBLEM, FOLKS), but why would they lie about such a minuscule detail?

Maybe Marinette was just paranoid, but it was better for her to check to see who the mystery person was than to be surprised when said mystery person showed up at her bakery, screaming “hey Ladybug!” in front of all their customers.

She felt a headache coming on at the thought.

A click on chatblanc’s URL led Marinette to a locked blog. Well, that didn’t seem sketchy at all. The only lead Marinette had on this person was that they created their blog the day after the Ladyblog was created and that they had a whopping total of 3 journal entires.

Other than that: Marinette had nothing, left in the dust by a mysterious cat who had questionable taste in Disney movies, knew exactly what Stevie Wonder song she was referring to in her subject line of her last post, and who apparently loved her dad’s quiche.

She made a mental list of who it could possibly be, but came up empty every time.

Frustrated, the young girl exited out of her browser and switched her monitor off. Sleep seemed like an attractive alternative to the headache pounding in her ears.

Curling up next to Tikki on her bed, Marinette rolled over and shut her eyes, clearing her mind of her overly-curious best friend and the stranger-not-stranger on the internet.

Alya C. @theladyblogger #AKUMAALERT: There is a child transforming cars into giant wooden trains...

Alya C. in reply to Alya C. #AKUMAALERT: [LINK TO LADYBLOG STREAM]

Alya C. in reply to Alya C. #AKUMAALERT: The Eiffel Tower is falling!

Alya C. in reply to Alya C. #AKUMAALERT: #Ladybug and #ChatNoir are on the scene!

Alya C. in reply to Alya C. #AKUMAALERT: #Ladybug has been taken and tied down to railroad tracks!

Alya C. in reply to Alya C. #AKUMAALERT: #ChatNoir’s cataclysm has destroyed the track and the incoming toy train

Alya C. in reply to Alya C. #AKUMAALERT: Akuma cured. #Ladybug and #ChatNoir saves the day!

Alya C. in reply to Alya C. Livestream will be on the site with a follow up article.

Ladybug Posted: 2016-05-01

Subject: Hawkmoth is literally the Most Inconsiderate person Ever.

LOL guess who was taken and strapped down to some railroad tracks like a Damsel in Distress in one of those classic American Westerns?

It’s all good though since Chat’s cataclysm saved me :’) (sends virtual fist bump to my kitty cat)

WHO AKUMATIZES A 5-YEAR-OLD CHILD ON A SUNDAY MORNING? Sundays are for sleeping. 5am?! You should be A S L E E P.

I had a bunch of things due this week, so I would have appreciated an extra five hours of sleep. Ugh.

What a jerk.

It was a quick fix (insert insincere ‘Better luck next time’ here), but still. By the time I got back to my house, my papa was already making noise in the kitchen and my maman was checking my room to see if I was awake.

I need some green tea, like pronto.

And possibly 53 waffles to gorge on to make up for this morning.

-LB

Comments:

Response to Hawkmoth is literally the Most Inconsiderate person Ever. Posted: 2016-05-01 Subject: Rise and Shine, LB!

chatblanc: 53 is a pretty exact number, Ladybug...

Response to Rise and Shine, LB! Posted: 2016-05-01 Subject: Don’t tell me what to do.

Ladybug: For your information, 53 is the perfect number for waffles. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some waffles to be devouring and some sleep to be catching up on. PS: Your friend’s bakery is 10/10. I may or may not have helped myself to 3 additional croissants on top of the first one I wanted. #carbqueen

Response to NO. Posted: 2016-05-01 Subject: Don’t be like that :(

chatblanc: !!!! My friend will be ecstatic when she hears that her food has Ladybug’s approval.

“So, I see you’ve developed an interest for blogging,” Chat Noir casually mentioned that evening. The duo had just completed a rather uneventful patrol around the city and decided to stop for a break, sitting side by side on top of an old brick building, a little ways away from the bakery.

Ladybug shrugged, keeping her eyes trained on her feet, which she swung back and forth.

“It’s a good pastime,” Ladybug admitted, “Sometimes I get so wound up from my day-to-day life that I just need some kind of outlet to let my brain decompress.”

He nodded, and stretched out beside her, his glowing green eyes trained at the dark sky above him.

“Hawkmoth’s been so active lately,” Ladybug continued, laying back beside Chat, “I hardly have time to sleep, everything is picking up around me, I’m getting behind on my school work--”

“I thought you were 5,000 years old?” Chat joked and Ladybug slapped his arm, effectively shushing her partner.

“--it’s like he’s trying to wear us down or he’s getting desperate and is really trying to go for our Miraculouses,” Ladybug knew for a fact that Hawkmoth didn’t exactly work like her or Chat. He didn’t fight his own battles and could summon multiple akumas without needing to recharge his kwami. At this point in the game, Ladybug found it miraculous that he hadn’t sent out multiple akumas at once.

“Well, Buginette,” Chat sighed and turned onto his side, facing her, “It’s not like we can do anything to prepare for it. We just have to keep provisions on us at all times in case our kwamis have to recharge.”

“I guess so...” Ladybug agreed, “...but you have to admit it, Chaton. Haven’t you been feeling a bit worn from all these akumas?”

“Not really,” Chat Noir confessed quietly, “I see this life as an escape for me, and if I have to fight some cranky old man sending off evil butterflies to keep it, then I will.”

For the first time, Ladybug found herself wondering about Chat Noir’s other life. Never before had she expressed an interest (it was more one-sided on his part), but if chasing down akumas was something her chaton considered liberating from his day to day routine, she couldn’t help but wonder.

“And besides,” Chat Noir said, suddenly playful again, “I get to spend time with my lovely Buginette, so I’m more grateful to Hawkmoth for being so persistent.”

Ladybug rolled her eyes and sat up, Chat quickly following her example.

“We should turn in for tonight.”

“Man, I would kill for a pastry right now,” Chat Noir grumbled, rubbing a clawed hand on his rumbling stomach.

“Well, I heard from a little kitty that there’s a good one on Gottlieb.” Ladybug casually replied, “I’ve had some of their stuff before; I think you’d like the salmon and spinach quiche.”

Ladybug didn’t see the strange look Chat Noir gave her, turning in time only to catch the wide grin stretched across his face. He stepped closer to her, swiped up her hand, and lifted it to his lips, pressing a kiss against it.

Ladybug pulled her hand away from Chat’s with a small chuckle and pushed him gently against his chest.

“I’ll try it out tomorrow then,” Chat Noir declared, “I’ll see you soon, Buginette.”

It wasn’t until Chat had vaulted off the roof that his words had fully registered in Ladybug’s mind. I’ll try it out tomorrow then.

“Wait. What?”

Ladybug Posted: 2016-05-02

Subject: Foot, meet mouth.

You know how you get yourself tangled in compromising situations because of your big mouth?

Yeah, this seems to be a running theme this week. And it’s Monday.

Stay tuned, all!

-LB

No comments have been posted.

When Marinette walked into the classroom Monday morning, she wasn’t surprised to find everyone congregated around Alya as her best friend read her theory to their classmates; however, the words still made her rather anxious.

Here she was, here Ladybug was, overhearing her best friend openly talk about Ladybug’s secret identity with all their other classmates. She felt like she was on the edge of a cliff and the only thing keeping her from toppling over the fact that nobody had seen her transform.

Nor had anyone noticed the fact that she and Ladybug had never been seen in the same place and the same time, save for the one time when Alix was akumatized.

From the door, Marinette strained to listen to her conspiring classmates.

“Well, if Ladybug goes to our school and is in our grade, then who could she be?” Alix asked, “We already know that she isn’t in our class since everyone here’s been akumatized.”

“Well,” Alya said, “There are only two other classes in our grade level, and according to my research, none of those girls match Ladybug’s body type, nor do they have black hair and blue eyes--”

“Hey, remember when Alya thought Chloe was Ladybug?!”

“--shaddup Nino. The point is, it’s unlikely that she’s there too. We already know that she’s in this school and in our grade because of the history book. We just need to think of someone who hasn’t been akumatized...”

Marinette’s heart pounded wildly in her chest.

She thought of things that could possibly save her: sneaking out of the classroom before they noticed she was there, dying her hair, changing her hairstyle, but everything was impractical. Illogical. She had been far too careless in the past to cover this up.

“Wait a second,” Max said, “Marinette hadn’t been akumatized yet!”

Soft murmurs grew in the circle. Ice settled in Marinette’s stomach and sweat began to bead at her temples.

“This is it, Tikki,” Marinette whispered, “They’re going to find me out and then Hawkmoth’s gonna find out and we’re all gonna be doomed--”

“Marinette, that isn’t true!” Tikki squeaked from Marinette’s side, “Just stay calm!”

“What’s the point? They’re already right there.”

“Marinette--” Tikki began to say, but clammed up with a yelp. Marinette watched from the corner of her eye as Tikki ducked back into her bag.

“Tikki?” she whispered, “Tikki!”

She didn’t get to investigate any further, as her sight had been obscured by one blonde-haired, green-eyed angel who smiled softly at her. The ice she had previous felt in her stomach melted, quickly forgotten, and, like second nature, a pretty pink flush rose in her cheeks.

Adrien grinned.

“Hey, Marinette!”

And Marinette slipped, not noticing the class observing the exchange, now aware of their recent suspect’s arrival: Adrien caught her before she could sink any lower, prompting the girl to squeak, flail, slip and proceed to fall again, her descent towards the ground quickly halted as Adrien wrapped his arms more securely around Marinette.

“Woah, you okay?” he asked, “No bones broken?”

“Y-Y-Yeah,” she stammered, “You thank, Adrien! I mean, I love you! I mean, thank you, Adrien!”

Marinette scrambled away from her crush, nearly tripping over her own feet as she stumbled into the classroom. She overheard Alix whisper to the crowd, “There’s no way she could be Ladybug.”

In that moment, Marinette had never felt so lucky before.

#ml #ml fic #adrienette #ml fanfic #miraculous ladybug #marinette dupain-cheng #adrien agreste #my fic

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mysteryfanfictheatre3000 · 7 years

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Back to the Frollo, Chapter 12

Warning: Frollo cries again.

Chapter Twelve

Several days passed before I ventured outside. I barricaded myself in the house, cried all the time, and could not stop thinking about Claude Frollo. I never quite got over that kiss -- that spontaneous, wildly passionate, oh-so wonderful kiss.

She’s sure freaked out by five minutes of a yelling and a short kiss. She seems very emotionally unstable.

Oh Claude! I didn't want things to get this crazy; I really loved you! But I didn't care if I ever laid eyes on Claude again.

Is she talking to modern-day Frollo? Is he reading this story? What?

I made arrangements with a young man who was organizing a trip to the East, a trade expedition in search of spices and fine fabrics. I was a little nervous about going to medieval Persia and Arabia, but I didn't care.

Dude. You’re going to die. You are going to get attacked by robbers at the very least, and probably pick up smallpox, plague, cholera or some other ancient disease along the way. The possibilities of the various horrors that will kill you are endless!

Besides, Fern was still in Texas and wouldn't be back for several weeks; I decided not to wait. I had to get out of Paris as soon as possible.

Just abandon everything about your previous life like that. Not an issue.

I knew good-byes were in order, and I didn't have the heart to tell the children I was leaving. I gathered them in the square those last few days and played games with them as if nothing was wrong. Looking into those little faces made me re-think my decision, but no, I wouldn't give Claude Frollo the satisfaction of thinking he'd "won". Saying good-bye to a certain bellringer, however, would be even more difficult.

No, don’t drag poor Quasimodo into this mess even more! He’s innocent, leave him alone!

******

"Oh Nisha, do you have to leave?", Quasi asked as we packed the now-finished Civil War battle set. "I'm sorry, Quasi, but let's just say your master and I don't exactly see eye-to-eye", I said, admiring the amazing accuracy of Quasi's work, even though the events depicted would not happen for almost 400 years. Although I never told him of my latest stormy encounter with Frollo, Quasimodo became strangely defensive of his guardian.

It’s called Stockholm Syndrome.

"Look, just because he said some things that rubbed you the wrong way....", he said with a sigh, "Frollo's not the easiest man to get along with, but I'm grateful to him...I mean...Don't leave because he got on your nerves." Quasi then gave me a big hug. "You've been a wonderful friend, brightening up my days. You don't know what it's like up here, all alone with no one to talk to."

Did Phoebus and Esmeralda just disappear? Danisha seems to indicate this took place after the movie and Frollo somehow survived, so either Esmeralda died like in the musical and Phoebus just ran off someplace and abandoned Quasi, or they both just left Paris and never came back. I guess it makes sense for them to run away if Frollo was in charge, but if so, why not take Quasimodo with them?

He then grinned broadly, saying, "Thanks for reading to me and telling me those wonderful stories. You know, I sometimes recite those poems to my gargoyle friends." He nodded to the three funny-looking stone figures nearby.

Yes, let’s add in the most irritating characters by far just to stretch out this awful story a little bit longer.

I mulled over his words, then told him, "Quasi, how can I leave such a good friend. I promised I'd stay the rest of the summer, and...well...I not the type to break promises." We hugged each other again, and, just before Quasi headed downstairs, he said, "Just say you'll stay." When I told him I'd stay for the rest of the summer, Quasimodo was elated. "Great! I KNEW you wouldn't go! I've got chores to do downstairs. When I'm finished, could we read some more of those poems?"

So she changed her just mind like that? Really?

"Sure, Quas, take your time. I'm not going anywhere", I replied with a smile. He was right, I just couldn't leave; Claude and I will just have to keep our distances. After Quasi left, I settled down with a delightful little volume of James Whitcomb Riley's poetry. I got lost in the words; Riley's Hoosier homespun rhymes, written in that wonderful Indiana dialect, made me so oblivious to my surroundings that I almost didn't feel the tap on my shoulder. Quasi finished his chores already? I turned around and looked dead into the eyes of Claude Frollo.

And so we get more terrible, sappy “romance” between two people I hate. Oh joy.

I immediately got up and headed for the steps, but he caught me by the arm, and tenderly said, "Please, Nisha. Don't leave, my dear. There is so much we need to say to each other." I was getting ready to slap him, but his manner was so unusually gentle this time, I sat down again and listened. Claude sat across from me, took my hands into his, and began what sounded like an apology. "I did not come here in search of a fight, but forgiveness. What happened those few days ago..." His voice began trembling with emotion. "I shouldn't have let things get so completely..."

Since when has he been gentle, understanding and respectful of women? He’s a horrible human being, and he doesn’t care about Danisha’s feelings or forgiveness! If any of this was even half true he’d be off commanding soldiers to murder some innocents because he can’t deal with a crush!

I finished his sentence, "So completely out of hand, Claude?...No, Claude. I was the guilty party. I said terrible things to you, not to mention causing all that mess in the first place...." The words came tumbling out of my mouth. Claude sweetly kissed my hands, his voice still quavering. "Don't put all the blame on yourself, darling." He then got up and knelt in front of me. What was to come out of Claude Frollo's mouth would change my life forever. Claude's graceful hand gently caressed my face as he gazed into my eyes. "My dear Danisha," he began, his voice breaking with emotion, "you know I've grown quite fond of you..."

So their relationship began with sexual assault, weird pet names and drama? i’m not sure why I expected anything different.

He stopped himself, rose to his feet and paced the room. His turned and covered his face as if he didn't want me to see the depth of his emotion. Then Claude wheeled around to face me. His eyes were hot with passion, tears streamed down his finely chisled cheekbones.

Why is he such a crybaby? He breaks down in tears over things that normal people don’t even bat an eyelash at. I think he’s crying in half his screentime here!

"Why don't I just come out and say it!", Claude bellowed in a voice choked with anguish, "For the past few days I have thought of nothing but you!" I felt as if shot a hundred times. I sat riveted to my chair, unable to move or speak. He continued, "Night and day, I longed to feel your silky honeyed skin, gaze into those enchanting brown eyes. Oh, to hear your voice, that gloriously musical voice, saying you love me." Claude then knelt before me again, caressed my hands, face, and hair, then finally confessed, "I love you, dear sweet Nisha, I love you." My eyes were still locked into his; I had to say something.

This is when you should call the police and/or get the hall out of here, because he’s quite obviously some sort of stalker weirdo.

"Claude...did you say...what I think you said...You love me?" "Darling, what more is there to say?", Claude gently replied, as he drew closer to me and tenderly, yet passionately, kissed my mouth. My arms enfolded him and I, without hesitation, responded to him with equal passion. It was a long, slow kiss that rivaled the sultriest and steamiest of Indiana summers; it was that intense. Afterwards, Claude said to me, "There, my love. Now...how can you leave Paris? I was so looking forward to spending the remainder of summer with you." "Ooh Claude", I cooed back, "I'm so glad I decided not to..." I suddenly stopped myself.

The fact that she even considered abandoning her entire life because she was mad at one dude should be enough to give her pause.

Hold on! Time out! HOW did he know I was leaving town? I told no one except Quasi, and even then I didn't reveal any details. Claude looked at me half-amusedly. "Quasimodo is not the..what is that phrase your friend uses...'tell-all'?...sort, my dearest. But you really should be more careful with whom you make travel arrangements." Claude Frollo, his mood now changed to full-tilt hilarity, continued laughingly, "My dear! The young "organizer" of that little expedition is one of my best spies!"

Fern? Was this entire thing a ruse to get Danisha and Frollo together? I don’t understand anything that’s going on here!

He was now on his back, rolling and convulsing with uproarious laughter. I was livid! The man who just poured out his heart and soul to me, with whom I shared the sweetest and hottest of kisses, was getting a kick out my naivete. "How'd I know that dude was a spy?", I spoke sistah-style. "It's not funny, Claude."

Oh, are they referring to the guy Nisha made arrangements to go to Asia with? This author really has to be more clear as to what she’s talking about. And she has to stop talking in “sistah-style.” It isn’t sexy, funny, cute or likable, just weird and vaguely racist sounding.

"Oh, yes it is, dear heart. And it's not just with WHOM you are travelling but to WHERE!" He sported a wide, evil grin as he continued his digs at me. "Honestly, darling, for the life of me...I can just visualize you in the wilds of Arabia." Claude words were punctuated with his deep, throaty laughter as he continued, "You, ending up in some sultan's harem, and the poor man putting up with your ever-changing moods and saucy tongue!" Still grinning, he sat in the chair across from me and looked at me in earnest.

This reminds me of Darth Vader from Splinter of the Mind’s Eye, calling Leia a “steel kitten,” in that it tried to sound villainous but just comes across as OOC and weird.

"I'm sorry, darling, but I needed the laugh after...If I offended you...I'm sorry, but...it's all so funny." He was still amused, and I was still smarting from the levity enjoyed at my expense. Out of some sense of false, wounded pride, I immediately got up and headed for the steps.

They are so incredibly on and off again, and I feel like they go from making out to hating each other in seconds. It’s just oddly paced and confusing.

Claude, his amusement now turned to serious concern, caught me from behind. "Don't tell me you're still leaving, after all that was confessed here tonight." I pulled away from him, gave him the look that I reserved only for men who did me wrong, and told him, "It appears YOU did all the talking, confessing your 'love'. And I really wanted to believe you." Claude looked at me in disbelief, but I kept on, "Then you have a laugh at my expense, poke fun of my...What did you mean my 'changing moods and saucy tongue'? Never mind, I'm out of here."

But… you did change your mood every five minutes, and you do sound saucy, intentionally nonetheless!

As I turned to descend the steps, Claude came after me, pleading, "Please, Danisha, don't leave me. I love you!" "What do you want from me, Claude?", I asked. Claude Frollo gave me that same little-boy look I beheld after our first encounter. "Just tell me you love me, and that you will stay." He reached out for me, but I stepped back.

“Or I’ll murder you with fire.”

"Claude, there're only two things that'll keep me here", I began, "and that's Quasi and the kids, but I think they can get along without me." "And what about ME?", Claude emotionally asked. I sneered back, "What about you? You say you love me, but what'll happen down the road? You'll just turn around and treat me like yesterday's garbage." Claude's eyes were bright with emotion.

That’s actually very true. They could never have a healthy relationship because he’s him and she’s her and they’re both too awful for that.

"I'd never do that, my dear. I'd never mistreat my sweet precious..."

Why is he suddenly Gollum? “My precious….”

He had his arms around me, and began kissing me again. Oooh, how I loved the way his lips caressed my face and neck. Mmmm...this feels so wonderful! I was really enjoying this, so much I wanted to melt with him, be his woman forever and ever... But something inside me snapped. I withdrew from his embrace, faced him with hellfire and fury. "No! I don't want this! I'm sorry, Claude, but I got to get out of here."

She’s in love with him, and then hates him, and then she loves him again- these constant heel-face turns are just weird and confusing to read. Stop doing that.

Claude again pleaded with me, "Why can't I make you understand? Don"t you want to be with me, to love me?" I edged my way to the steps. "Save your sob story for someone else, baby. I'm outta here! And for what it's worth, I may not end up in Arabia, but I'd rather slog through the Louisana swamps, take my chances with the 'gators and snakes, than be stuck in Paris with the likes of you!" And with that, I stormed down the steps.

She changed her mind again?!

He didn't even try to follow me. Good! I don't need him, don't want him, don't love... I was halfway down the steps and Claude still made no attempts to pursue me. I stopped, sat down on the step, and couldn't believe what I just did. I threw it away! A once-in-a-lifetime chance, a golden opportunity at happiness was handed to me, and I blew it!

And now she regrets it. Reading this chick’s internal monologue is so weird. I thinks he has some personality issues at the very least from what I’ve read thus far.

All at once, Claude's words of love finally seeped through thick layers of my stubborn pride. I actually loved him! I wanted him, needed him... Maybe it's not too late!

Because he’d want you back after that? He probably wants to burn you to death! Why are you manipulating and messing with the one person Fern specifically told you not to mess with?

Tears rolled down my face as I raced back up the steps. It's now or never, girlfriend, if he changes his mind, you'll know who to blame. I stopped in the doorway and saw Claude Frollo, the esteemed Minister of Justice, a man of power and control, huddled on the floor, sobbing softly. I tip-toed up to him and lightly stroked his now-disheveled gray hair. "Claude", I said sobbingly, "I'm...I'm sorry." Claude raised his eyes to me, and stretched out his hand.

And now they’re both crying again. I should start a counter for every time someone starts sobbing unnecessarily because of “feels.”

Without hesitation, I fell to my knees and embraced him. I felt his arms around me and heard him say to me over and over, "It's all right, my love. I understand, my sweet Nisha. You are forgiven, darling."

Darling, honey, love… these nicknames are forever ruined for me.

We kissed again and again, sweet, passionate kisses that would be exchanged countless times to come. "I love you, Claude Frollo, I love you. I didn't mean to hurt you", I tearfully confessed. There! I finally told Claude I loved him, something I should have done days before, but did not have the courage. We kissed again and held each other a long time.

Is this happening in the middle of Notre Dame? are they just crying and making out on the floor of the church in front of other people? I think that would raise some alarm in the parishioners.

At last, Claude stood up, and helped me to my feet. He neatened his hair and donned the famous triangular hat. He then embraced me again and tenderly kissed my a41 face as if to erase my tears. "Come along, my love, I'll take you home."

Her a41 face? What does that even mean?

****** Claude and I walked arm-in-arm down the long corridor of Notre Dame. Our eyes were locked on each other; we almost didn't notice Quasimodo, who was heading for the belltower steps. "Master...Mlle. Nisha...I thought...What's going on here?", he asked confusedly.

“Oh, we’re just making out and changing our opinions of each other every six seconds. Just because, y’know?”

Claude Frollo turned to his young charge. "I am seeing this young lady home, Quasimodo. I will visit you tomorrow. Good night, dear boy." "Good night, Quasi", I echoed. "Good night", replied Quasimodo as he scratched his head in puzzlement.

I feel you, Quasi. I’m equally as confused by this mess of a story.

Outside, Claude boosted me up into the saddle. I never rode such a fine horse! Claude settled himself behind me, and, with the reins in his right hand and his left arm around me, guided Snowball towards the little house Fern and I shared.

I thought Fern had that chateau she didn’t let you in because she was “doing business,” but then again, nothing else in this godforsaken thing does either.

I softly sang that old Etta James song, "At Last, my love has come along..." "What are you singing, sweet darling?", Claude chuckled in my ear. "Oh, just a love song that was popular when I was a child." I then grinned and said playfully, "I'se Min'ster Frollo's woman now."

STOP USING THAT VOICE. IT’S WEIRD, JUST WEIRD.

Claude chuckled again, his lips grazing the back of my neck, "You certainly are, my dear. You are finally mine, and I am yours." He softly sang a sweet French love song in as we neared my Parisian home. Claude saw me to my door. He kissed me good-night,saying, "Pleasant dreams, my love". I was a little disappointed. "Oh Claude, I'd thought you'd come inside for a few moments."

NO. DO NOT.

Claude just laughed and said, "Now, my dear, we both know we had a very emotional evening..." He flashed a broad smile. Oh, he has the sexiest smile! "All right, honey", I said, "I'll get some rest. Will I see you tomorow?" Claude kissed me again and playfully replied, "Oh, my dear Danisha, you'll see me in the morning, in the afternoon, in the evening, and the next day, and the next..." I joined in Claude's hearty laughter and kissed him again. "This is definitely turning into a summer to remember", I said.

Oh my god, I want to vomit. The cheesiness, the awfulness, I just can’t.

We finally said good-night and I watched him ride away. I was right; Claude was right. We finally found each other. But the summer was not over and the fireworks were just beginning.

Please let it end, please let it end-

#danisha #Claude frollo #back to the frollo #The Hunchback of Notre Dame

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patriciaanderson357-blog · 7 years

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3 Fast, Free Lesson Plans to Fight Fake News

Example Fake News Digital Citizenship Lesson Plans and Bellringers

From the Cool Cat Teacher Blog by Vicki Davis

Follow @coolcatteacher on Twitter

The fake news epidemic is disturbing. How do we fight it? Well, we can take a hint from how the medical community fights the flu or any other virus. We inoculate ourselves. In this post, I’ll teach you how I teach about fake news.

This blog post is part of the CM Rubin World Global Search for Education which poses a question each month to leading educators for reflection and sharing. This month’s question is “how do we fight the fake news epidemic?”

Just as the flu shot exposes a person to enough of the dead “harmless” virus to cause immunity, we can also expose students to things that have already been verified or shown to be fake. By exposing our students to things that look very real, we can help them notice and understand that many things that look real, are lies. We can also help them understand why shady companies and organizations actually benefit from fake news (like a movie coming out this month in one of these examples.)

How does a “fake news” lesson flow?

First, you ask students to research to see if something is true or not. Second, ask students to recommend what a person should do about the information. These mini-lessons can take from 8-15 minutes and so, they are perfect for short, beginning of class “bellringers.”

When students come to class, they get a copy of the bellringer and have a timer (usually 4-5 minutes — there should be some time pressure) set for them to give their recommendations.

I’m including screenshots in this post, but if you fill out the form at the bottom, I’ll email you the PDF copy of these three lesson plans.

Example #1: Breaking News Bellringer

In this case, we share a tweet and some “news sources.” When selecting topics, I like them to be recent enough as to feel real to students and also so that Google search results aren’t “full” of the answer.

TIP: After students examine and discuss their answers, I’ll often give them a “clue” if they aren’t close and have them go back and look again. I like them to find pieces of the answer before unveiling the answer slide on the board.

Breaking News Bellringer Answer

I like this example because it hits on several current topics:

Fake news websites often use similar names to existing news outlets “Houston Leader” (fake news) instead of “The Leader” (a real newspaper in Houston.)

This example also has some motivation behind it and an emerging scandal that an emerging Fox movie “A Cure for Wellness” is now linked from the original news stories which have been taken down. This sort of redirect happens all the time. The website gets lots of links and then has the original content replaced with something new and totally unrelated. Redirects are why you should always click before resharing.

Finally, point out to your students that many times when something is fake and just comes out, that Snopes may not have the answer. Fake news outlets are good at what they do. Click-baiting is a billion dollar business. So, the best way to figure this out is by determining that these fake news sources are truly false. Learn to find out the legitimate newspapers for cities. The Sacramento newspaper is the “Sacramento Bee, ” and you can’t find anything about the Sacramento Dispatch. If it were legitimate, you’d see a lot more about it.

See how using examples demonstrates to students how fake news works. No lecture in the world can teach like this sort of virus killing fake-news inoculation method. Onto the next one!

Example #2 Viral Video News Story

This example has a video released just a week ago that has gone viral. Now, don’t go sharing this yet. Wait until you verify the source.

The Video

So you can play this video in my blog post, here it is. Again, DO NOT SHARE before you research this one!!

Viral News Video Story Answer

Again, give students just 3-4 minutes to find their answer. (I like shortening the time for each of these until students have to make a call within a minute because that is how quickly they have to make this sort of snap judgment in real life.) Don’t “give” them the answer but if they are not on the right track, give them clues before revealing the answer. If you’re not careful, some students will share videos like this via social media if you don’t warn them to do research.

Bellringer #3: To Share or Not To Share

This post has gone around dozens of times; I have to include this reshare Facebook example.

This example is a difficult one. Also, note that I give this information to students so they have to type it into a search engine.

While you could post these online, somehow having students have to type in the information helps them understand how they research. For example, if this text above was posted, most students will copy all of it and paste into Google. It is easy to mix up the spacing and a few words so that such a search won’t turn up and students mistakenly think they are in the clear.

Again, let them discuss and give them hints before unveiling the final answer.

To Share or Not To Share Answer

In Summary

Once I’ve done these with students, I often mix in true things (that sound a bit crazy just to make it interesting.) I also have students make their bellringers to share with the class. Notice how I include sources of information at the bottom to know where the information was retrieved.

I hope these examples inspire and help you to fight fake news in a way that works. The biggest mistakes many educators make:

the “fake news” lessons are lecture based (doesn’t work)

the “fake news” lessons use irrelevant examples that are easy to detect as fake

the “fake news” lessons use old stories that have so many search results that it doesn’t represent the real world. They’re just easy to spot that they are fake. You want more challenging, current topics. If it was on the news last night, those are the best! I’ll often type one of these up and do it the next day!

they DON’T TEACH IT AT ALL!!!

So, I’ve given you three examples for use in your classroom tomorrow. So, get out there and FIGHT FAKE NEWS!

The post 3 Fast, Free Lesson Plans to Fight Fake News appeared first on Cool Cat Teacher Blog by Vicki Davis @coolcatteacher helping educators be excellent every day. Meow!

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aira26soonas · 7 years

Text

3 Fast, Free Lesson Plans to Fight Fake News

Example Fake News Digital Citizenship Lesson Plans and Bellringers

From the Cool Cat Teacher Blog by Vicki Davis

Follow @coolcatteacher on Twitter

How does a “fake news” lesson flow?

When students come to class, they get a copy of the bellringer and have a timer (usually 4-5 minutes — there should be some time pressure) set for them to give their recommendations.

I’m including screenshots in this post, but if you fill out the form at the bottom, I’ll email you the PDF copy of these three lesson plans.

Example #1: Breaking News Bellringer

Breaking News Bellringer Answer

I like this example because it hits on several current topics:

Fake news websites often use similar names to existing news outlets “Houston Leader” (fake news) instead of “The Leader” (a real newspaper in Houston.)

See how using examples demonstrates to students how fake news works. No lecture in the world can teach like this sort of virus killing fake-news inoculation method. Onto the next one!

Example #2 Viral Video News Story

This example has a video released just a week ago that has gone viral. Now, don’t go sharing this yet. Wait until you verify the source.

The Video

So you can play this video in my blog post, here it is. Again, DO NOT SHARE before you research this one!!

Viral News Video Story Answer

Bellringer #3: To Share or Not To Share

This post has gone around dozens of times; I have to include this reshare Facebook example.

This example is a difficult one. Also, note that I give this information to students so they have to type it into a search engine.

Again, let them discuss and give them hints before unveiling the final answer.

To Share or Not To Share Answer

In Summary

I hope these examples inspire and help you to fight fake news in a way that works. The biggest mistakes many educators make:

the “fake news” lessons are lecture based (doesn’t work)

the “fake news” lessons use irrelevant examples that are easy to detect as fake

they DON’T TEACH IT AT ALL!!!

So, I’ve given you three examples for use in your classroom tomorrow. So, get out there and FIGHT FAKE NEWS!

The post 3 Fast, Free Lesson Plans to Fight Fake News appeared first on Cool Cat Teacher Blog by Vicki Davis @coolcatteacher helping educators be excellent every day. Meow!

from Cool Cat Teacher BlogCool Cat Teacher Blog http://www.coolcatteacher.com/3-fast-free-lesson-plans-fight-fake-news/

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athena29stone · 7 years

Text

3 Fast, Free Lesson Plans to Fight Fake News

Example Fake News Digital Citizenship Lesson Plans and Bellringers

From the Cool Cat Teacher Blog by Vicki Davis

Follow @coolcatteacher on Twitter

How does a “fake news” lesson flow?

When students come to class, they get a copy of the bellringer and have a timer (usually 4-5 minutes — there should be some time pressure) set for them to give their recommendations.

I’m including screenshots in this post, but if you fill out the form at the bottom, I’ll email you the PDF copy of these three lesson plans.

Example #1: Breaking News Bellringer

Breaking News Bellringer Answer

I like this example because it hits on several current topics:

Fake news websites often use similar names to existing news outlets “Houston Leader” (fake news) instead of “The Leader” (a real newspaper in Houston.)

See how using examples demonstrates to students how fake news works. No lecture in the world can teach like this sort of virus killing fake-news inoculation method. Onto the next one!

Example #2 Viral Video News Story

This example has a video released just a week ago that has gone viral. Now, don’t go sharing this yet. Wait until you verify the source.

The Video

So you can play this video in my blog post, here it is. Again, DO NOT SHARE before you research this one!!

Viral News Video Story Answer

Bellringer #3: To Share or Not To Share

This post has gone around dozens of times; I have to include this reshare Facebook example.

This example is a difficult one. Also, note that I give this information to students so they have to type it into a search engine.

Again, let them discuss and give them hints before unveiling the final answer.

To Share or Not To Share Answer

In Summary

I hope these examples inspire and help you to fight fake news in a way that works. The biggest mistakes many educators make:

the “fake news” lessons are lecture based (doesn’t work)

the “fake news” lessons use irrelevant examples that are easy to detect as fake

they DON’T TEACH IT AT ALL!!!

So, I’ve given you three examples for use in your classroom tomorrow. So, get out there and FIGHT FAKE NEWS!

The post 3 Fast, Free Lesson Plans to Fight Fake News appeared first on Cool Cat Teacher Blog by Vicki Davis @coolcatteacher helping educators be excellent every day. Meow!

from Cool Cat Teacher BlogCool Cat Teacher Blog http://www.coolcatteacher.com/3-fast-free-lesson-plans-fight-fake-news/

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ralph31ortiz · 7 years

Text

3 Fast, Free Lesson Plans to Fight Fake News

Example Fake News Digital Citizenship Lesson Plans and Bellringers

From the Cool Cat Teacher Blog by Vicki Davis

Follow @coolcatteacher on Twitter

How does a “fake news” lesson flow?

When students come to class, they get a copy of the bellringer and have a timer (usually 4-5 minutes — there should be some time pressure) set for them to give their recommendations.

I’m including screenshots in this post, but if you fill out the form at the bottom, I’ll email you the PDF copy of these three lesson plans.

Example #1: Breaking News Bellringer

Breaking News Bellringer Answer

I like this example because it hits on several current topics:

Fake news websites often use similar names to existing news outlets “Houston Leader” (fake news) instead of “The Leader” (a real newspaper in Houston.)

See how using examples demonstrates to students how fake news works. No lecture in the world can teach like this sort of virus killing fake-news inoculation method. Onto the next one!

Example #2 Viral Video News Story

This example has a video released just a week ago that has gone viral. Now, don’t go sharing this yet. Wait until you verify the source.

The Video

So you can play this video in my blog post, here it is. Again, DO NOT SHARE before you research this one!!

Viral News Video Story Answer

Bellringer #3: To Share or Not To Share

This post has gone around dozens of times; I have to include this reshare Facebook example.

This example is a difficult one. Also, note that I give this information to students so they have to type it into a search engine.

Again, let them discuss and give them hints before unveiling the final answer.

To Share or Not To Share Answer

In Summary

I hope these examples inspire and help you to fight fake news in a way that works. The biggest mistakes many educators make:

the “fake news” lessons are lecture based (doesn’t work)

the “fake news” lessons use irrelevant examples that are easy to detect as fake

they DON’T TEACH IT AT ALL!!!

So, I’ve given you three examples for use in your classroom tomorrow. So, get out there and FIGHT FAKE NEWS!

The post 3 Fast, Free Lesson Plans to Fight Fake News appeared first on Cool Cat Teacher Blog by Vicki Davis @coolcatteacher helping educators be excellent every day. Meow!

from Cool Cat Teacher BlogCool Cat Teacher Blog http://www.coolcatteacher.com/3-fast-free-lesson-plans-fight-fake-news/

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mysteryfanfictheatre3000 · 7 years

Text

Back to the Frollo, Chapter 9

Warning: Poor Quasimodo gets dragged into this now.

"Hey, Quasi", as I reached for the little hand-carved wooden figure of what looked like General Grant. "Grant's beard's a little too bushy. He's starting to look like Gabby Hayes." "Gabby Who?" replied Quasimodo blankly. "Never mind. Here, look at the picture. Are you sure you want to do this? It's a lot of work", I said as I handed Quasi a picture book of the Civil War.

Why does Quasimodo care about a war that hasn’t happened yet in a country that hasn’t been founded yet on the other side of the world that in no way affects him?

I had been spending a lot of time in the belltower of Notre Dame ever since that first, botched encounter with Claude Frollo. I felt really bad about going off on him those few days ago, and I never told a soul about our meeting. I just figured that if I stayed out of his way and kept my mouth shut, things would cool off and maybe we could try to be friends. I went to Notre Dame the day after my encounter with Frollo. It was there I met Quasimodo, the cathedral's bellringer. I was immediately struck by his sweetness and gentleness; I was not put off by his deformities. Quasi showed me his belltower home, and the miniature city and townspeople he carved himself. I complimented him on his talent and he seemed fascinated by my interests as he noted seeing me in the square with the kids.

Awww, it’s just like his first meeting with Esmeralda! Except Esmeralda was actually a decent human being and not a racist bigot with a Frollo fetish. The opposite, actually.

I soon found myself lugging American literature and history books up the steps leading to the belltower. For several days, I enthralled Quasi with stories of the Civil War, American folk heroes, the Underground Railroad. He especially liked the African American folktales of John Henry and High John the Conqueror. He decided he wanted, as a gift to me, to carve a Civil War battle scene, complete with Lee, Grant, and Union and Confederate troops.I thought this was weird but I indulged Quasi.

He’s just using his artistic talent to carve you a present. That’s just sweet, not weird. Your crush on Frollo is weird. Also, is Quasimodo the one reading those books? Because seeing as he was still learning the alphabet in his 20s, and its set in a time when most were illiterate anyway, I doubt he can read. Phoebus probably did- he was a male in a position of power. Esmeralda seems to be pretty smart and knew lots of stuff that wasn’t common knowledge at the time (after all, she could swim and give stitches) so she probably could too (if not she probably picked it up fast from Phoebus.) I’d say they might have taught Quasi, but they seem to have vanished off the face of the earth, so who knows?

"I don't mind doing things for people I care about", Quasi said, as he painted a newly carved figure of Abe Lincoln, "When you're stuck up here alone, you have nothing but a lot of time, so might as well do something to keep yourself occupied...and happy." He smiled as we wrapped another day's activities. I didn't want to stay too long as Quasi expected Claude Frollo any time. My visits with Quasimodo always ended with me hastily exiting as soon as Frollo entered the cathedral. I hated doing this and so did Quasi. He told me how Frollo 'adopted' him when Quasi's momma didn't want him.

…no, he brutally murdered his mother and then tried to drown him in a well.

"Frollo took me in when no one else would. But he's very strict about me leaving the belltower, or having visitors." "Well, Quasi, maybe it's best that I don't hang around when he comes to see you. I surely don't want to get us into trouble." I packed up some books, hugged Quasi goodbye, and started down the tower steps. Whew! Frollo's not expected for a least another hour, and this time I didn't have to rush. My thoughts were then focused on Quasi's mini-battleground. I suppressed a giggle as I wondered what Frollo would think of all those tiny cannons and rifles, and little soldiers in blue and gray. I told Quasi to keep it hidden where Frollo wouldn't discover it.

Hide an entire model battleground? How?

I had to take my shoes off because all those steps and high heels were a dangerous combination. Just a few more steps and you're home-free, I thought as I juggled shoes and books. I was within three steps of the ground floor when I dropped my shoe and a couple of books. I made it to the bottom and, as I sat down to put on my shoes, a tall figure approached me. He picked up my books and looked at the titles. "Interesting. 'The Speeches of Abraham Lincoln', 'The Civil War'". He knew enough English to pronounce the words exactly. "Such intellectual pursuits for one so beautiful."

How can he read modern English? Even if he could read it then, the language has vastly evolved in 600 years. And this is set in France.

I looked up and found myself staring into the eyes of Judge Claude Frollo. Oh no, I thought, he's going to arrest me for sure, probably for visiting Quasimodo. "I like reading New World history", I hastily explained as I took back my books and placed them in my bag. I expected him to laugh and tell me that my country was too young to have any kind of history, but he didn't; instead, Claude Frollo knelt down and assisted me with my shoes. I tried to protest but he smiled at me so sweetly, his hands cradled my foot so gently, I couldn't say a word.

Oh my god. And so the immense OOC-ness begins…

He spoke softly, "You should be careful wearing such shoes as these." He looked me squarely in the eyes and said, "We don't want you seriously injured. By the way, Mlle. Wood, if I offended you..." "Offended me?", I wondered. "Oh, you mean what happened a few days ago...No, Minister Frollo, I'm the one who should apologize. I had no business going off on you like that."

And you had no business going off on Romani people like that, either.

Claude Frollo smiled again as he helped me to my feet. "Well, no matter. What's done is done. I still watch you at play with the children. I'm still intrigued by you. Now that I've espied some of your reading material, you arouse my curiosity even more..."

Because he cares so much about Abraham Lincoln.

Then Frollo's voice trailed off as he drew closer to me. He still looked me straight in the eyes as if he were searching for something inside me. "You were up in the belltower, visiting Quasimodo", he said, at last with certainty, his eyes never wavering from mine. "Quasi is my friend. He likes me to read to him. He's fascinated by New World history and literature. He likes poetry and folktales the best. I hope you don't mind me coming to see him." I wondered if Claude Frollo would suddenly become angry that Quasi and I had become such close friends. What was to come next proved me right, for Claude Frollo continued to gaze into my eyes and coolly said, "Quasimodo is 'different'. I don't want his head filled with ideas that may give him false hopes."

“You are deformed. And you are ugly.” -Frollo to Quasimodo

How can he do this? How can he stand there, be so sweet and attentive one moment and then turn into the Ice King the next? I was beginning to believe all the rumors about Claude Frollo's cruel coldness, that he was too wrapped up in himself to even notice what people actually think of him. I shot him a long, hard look and, in my best 'sistah-with-a-tude' voice said, "I don't think Quasi is as 'different', as you make him out to be. You're selling the poor kid too short. I'm just trying to make his day a little brighter, that's all. As for 'filling his head with ideas', so what? New ideas aren't going to hurt him! If you ask me, reading a little Lincoln or Frederick Douglass is not going to turn Quasi into a raving radical overnight! I don't see why you're so fired-up mad about me spending a little time with him."

A.) sistah-with-a-tude, really? and B.) Quasi’s like 20-something. Probably your age. He’s not a kid.

Claude Frollo immediately lashed out at me. "Have you forgotten my warnings? You shall pay dearly for your insolence. How I rear Quasimodo is no concern of yours!" He reached out as if to grab my arm but I quickly stepped back. "Minister Frollo, is it true you can't arrest me here?", I announced in a raised voice. Some of the priests and parishioners heard me as I continued my little routine. "Yes, that's right! I heard the Archdeacon tell someone that once they're granted sanctuary, you can't touch them. So you know what? I'm going to sit right here and there's nothing you can do about it."

“I’m a whiny child who will continue to taunt powerful figures of authority for no reason regardless of the consequences on myself or others.”

Minister Frollo glared hard at me and started to say something, but I quickly continued my tirade, "And where you get off being so nice just to cut me down. I don't know what your problem is but it's just not right. I thought we could be friends but I guess I was wrong." I sat down on the stone floor and glared up at him. Claude Frollo stared right back at me, his eyes registered a curious mixture of anger and - pain. Yes, pain. It was more than just humiliation - I think I actually hurt him with my words. I did it again! I let my mouth get the best of me, and now I just may have lost a potential friend. Momma always told me my mouth would get me in trouble, and it did. Just before Frollo turned to ascend the belltower steps, he knelt down before me and said in a surprisingly calm voice, "I don't believe in 'second chances'. If I had my way I'd arrest you here and now. Unfortunately I have no authority here." He gently stroked my cheek. "But somehow I cannot see your glorious honey-brown skin spoiled by whip marks, or that beautiful neck snapped in a hangman's noose."

Funny, because it sounds to me like Frollo actually enjoys imaging women he likes but can’t have being hung, murdered or mutilated. Evidenced by him cornering Esmeralda, groping her, sniffing her hair and telling her he’s imagining a rope around her pretty neck. And praying to Mary to let him burn her alive. And crushing her leg in a vice. And trying to rape her.

His voice softened to a whisper. "Oh...Danisha, my dear, you have the most beautiful brown eyes." I didn't know what to think of this sudden change in mood. I looked at him with surprise and confusion. "Minister Frollo...what are you saying?" Claude Frollo gently held my hand and fingered a lock of my hair. "I am saying that I am letting you go. I can't believe I said those words, but there's something about you..." He stood up, quickly composed himself and, in a commanding voice, said, "You have been warned, my dear. Those who disregard my authority will clearly pay. Now, get out of my sight!" I blinked as he left, but I wasn't mistaken; Claude Frollo had given me a quick wink before heading up the belltower steps. And was that a slight smile I detected? I didn't know what came over him but it got me off the hook. Of course, I still had the rest of June and all of July in Paris: was this town big enough for the both of us?

If you quit being an awful, stupid person, it would be.

As I walked out of the cathedral, I lifted my eyes heavenward. Oh please, I prayed, let the rest of my vacation be without mishaps...and please don't let Claude Frollo be mad at me any more.

* * * * * * * Claude Frollo stood on the parking deck and stared out across the canal. "I was very angry with you and I had every intention of punishing you", he said as I unlocked the car door. "But I couldn't bring myself to..." His voice quavered as he embraced me; I could feel what I thought were tears. "Claude," I whispered softly. "Are you OK, baby?" Claude looked into my eyes, almost the same way he looked at me that day in the cathedral. "Danisha, my dear, I fell in love with you the moment I saw you. And even though you maddened me with all your...sassiness... I like that word." Claude sweetly kissed my lips and continued. "At any rate, we managed to forgive each other and become friends...and much more." He kissed me again.

And an annoying flash-forward to their cheesy modern-day relationship!

"Claude, you forget that I almost left Paris for good because...", I started to clarify a few key things when Claude Frollo interrupted me. "Now, my love", he laughingly said, as we got in the car, "the entire 'incident' wasn't all that disastrous. You admitted your guilt and I reacted. That is all." "You 'reacted' all right, sugar", I said while starting the engine. Then, in a quieter voice, "I didn't know what to think. I was confused, angry. All I wanted to do was get out of Paris and forget we ever met."

If I came across Claude Frollo, I’d probably try to get out of there too. Mostly because I’d be worried about being raped and/or murdered.

Claude leaned over and kissed my cheek. "I'm glad you stayed. I don't know what I would have done without you..." He kissed me again, then leaned back, smiled broadly. "Well...no matter. We're together now." He pursed his lips in an imaginary kiss and in his deepest, sultriest voice, asked, "Now, my sweet darling Nisha, where to next?" I smiled back at him, returned the 'air kiss' and said, "Do you like spiced apple cider and gingerbread?" Claude Frollo grinned and ran his tongue over his lips saying, "So much spice in one weekend. Sounds oh-so delicious." I giggled softly and kissed his lips.

Does he even gave a concept of what gingerbread is?!

As we travelled northward towards Lilly Orchard, Claude once again reminded me of an unforgettable incident that nearly ended a special relationship.

Was it the murder and the genocidal tendencies and the rapey undertones of every interaction he has with Esmeralda? Probably not, it’ll probably just be another stupid, mundane thing made up by the author for no reason other than to drag this thing on longer and make me want to jump off a bridge more.

#The Hunchback of Notre Dame #Claude frollo #danisha #back to the frollo

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