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welllpthisishappening · 4 years

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Drew Stars Around My Scars

Hello, hey, hi there. It’s raining, I’ve already lost track of the number of times I’ve listened to Taylor Swift’s new album and haven’t written anything in weeks. Until now! Thanks, Taylor Swift. And @optomisticgirl who reblogged this post a few days ago from @initiala about how Killian holding Emma in 3x22 isn’t just that he’s trying to comfort her, but he’s trying to make sure she didn’t disappear.

Which, like...ok, cool. Anyway, I have thought about this for far too long now and started slamming on keys when the kittens weren’t sitting on my laptop and here’s like 4.1K that may or may not make sense, but at least includes some scathing opinions of Back to the Future. Also, thanks to @shireness-says for always being like...yeah, I want to read that.

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She sniffles.

She can’t seem to stop.

Tears stream down Emma’s face without much thought because thinking too much is a daunting obstacle that she can’t even begin to consider yet. Or ever. Definitely ever. Another sniffle, this one actually making her cough somehow, which is a bodily reaction she was not aware she was capable of.

Until right now.

When everything seems to be falling apart around her.

God, she hates time travel. And magic. And evil queens. And parents who can’t recognize her. She supposes she should give them a pass. For a variety of reasons, least of all the magic that’s cloaking both her and Kill—no, that’s not right. Hook. Captain Hook. He’s Captain Hook and she’s still not a princess, but the dancing was almost nice and he hadn’t even slowed down before he was drawing his sword and the jacket spin was something even her muddled thoughts have been able to cling to, so—

He’d held onto her while her mother burned. Tightly. Almost too much.

Emma nearly trips over a tree root.

“Shit,” she breathes, pressing the pads of her fingers into damp cheeks. Her dress is too long. Maybe she’ll mention that to Rumplestilskin later.

Once they get home.

Back to Storybrooke. Those are not interchangeable words. None of this is interchangeable.

Even the trees around Emma look different than the ones she only vaguely remembers from her last jaunt through the Enchanted Forest, taller and a little more imposing, like they’re also aware that she’s one good sniffle away from falling off the metaphorical edge.

Directly into a chasm without magic or parents and she didn’t even get to talk to Mary—

“Nope,” Emma says entirely to herself. So, it seems insanity is looming just a bit closer than she realized. “Not here.”

Or ever. There’s that phrase again. Two words, technically.

Two words probably don’t constitute a phrase.

What does she know, she didn’t graduate college. Or high school, technically.

“Literally,” Emma mumbles, and it’s almost impressive how that one word still manages to sound as loud as it does. As if it’s bouncing off the sides of those same tall and decidedly imposing trees. “Literally didn't graduate high school.”

Something snaps behind her.

There are far too many twigs on this forest floor.

Spinning on the balls of her feet, Emma’s hands fly up, only one of her wrists cracking in the process, and it’s difficult to make out the face moving towards her, but the set of his shoulders is exactly the same as always and that cannot possibly have any deeper meaning.

“Swan?” “God, fuck what are you—” Emma is out of breath. That’s absurd. And a rather unfair commentary on her lungs ability to function. She’s had something of a day, after all. Running a hand over her face, she does her best to retain her higher brain functions, but that’s admittedly difficult when there’s moonlight gleaming from the point of Killian’s sword.

Captain Hook.

Captain. Hook.

Maybe the state of her lungs is partially his fault. He really held on very tightly.

“What are you doing out here?” Emma manages to get out, once she’s taken another pitiful breath. She hopes her lips don’t start to chap. There’s probably not an easy remedy for that in the goddamn Enchanted Forest.

Hook gapes at her.

She grits her teeth. And regrets the state of her knees. They keep wobbling under her, traitors to her emotional cause and the state of several body parts aside from her obviously failing lungs. Whatever’s happening in the general vicinity of her heart seems unstable.

Erratic, even.

“Making sure you’re alright,” Hook says like it’s obvious, and it almost is. Almost. What another piece of garbage word. “You’ve been—” Shaking his head once, the ends of his hair don’t move as much as normal, and Emma flinches when he sheaths his sword. “I just wanted to make sure you were alright, that’s all.” Emma is going to lie. She is. Has every intention of letting the word fine pass through her lips, but those lips open without any sound coming out at all and Hook’s eyebrows jump.

“Thank you.” “Excuse me?” “Thank you,” Emma repeats, finally giving into the urge of her knees and, if nothing else, the length of this dress makes it easier to sit on one of these overly large tree roots. Hook’s eyebrows don’t move. “Should have, uh—should have mentioned that before, probably.” “Thanking me?” “What part of this is confusing for you?” “Quite a bit, in fact,” he admits, and he doesn’t sit, but he also doesn’t look away from her and Emma is pleasantly surprised to find she almost sort of likes it. Almost. Again.

Letting out a breath that she wishes sounded more like a laugh than it does, Emma’s tongue darts out. “Shit, that..well, that sucks, doesn’t it?” His eyes widen. “That’s not a euphemism,” Emma adds. “Just out of place slang.” “You might have to be more specific, love.”

“That’s fair. I—ok, stuff sucking is...well, it just means that stuff is...not great. Like right now, you know...things are—” She shrugs. And tries to smile. It fails spectacularly.

Emma sniffles again.

“Not great?” Hook ventures, and he has to readjust his sword to sit next to her.

“Less than ideal.”

“You’ve been gone for nearly half an hour. I was worried something had happened.” “Hence the sword.” “Never want to be too careful. And you’re—” “—At least capable of still punching people,” Emma argues, not sure why she’s doing that exactly, but it feels like a matter of pride at this point. She exhales loudly. “But, uh...it’s nice that you came out here. I’m sorry that you had to do that too.” They both hear the words for what they aren’t — vast and a little overwhelming, and time travel is so overrated. Emma can’t believe what a popular fictional trope it is. Snow White was never supposed to die. The ends of Hook’s lips twitch, but he doesn’t actually smile, and that’s actually nice and maybe that’s her biggest issue.

Everything about him has been so goddamn nice.

He was much better at dancing than she expected him to be.

And he keeps following her. She doesn’t mind that.

Might even—

No. Not now. Not yet. Or ever. Again. God.

“It’s not a problem, love.”

Emma swallows. Nods. Tries not to fall over that ledge. “I just...needed some time to think, I guess. Is that dramatic?” “No. And suggesting it sucks does have a certain charm to it.” “And you know all about charming, don’t you?” His left eyebrow arches. Some things never change, she supposes. Emma focuses on that. And not how she’s fairly certain she can feel waves of heat rolling off him, even with the few inches between them. Possibly a foot. She’s not great at estimating measurements.

Or much else, it seems.

That’s a far too depressing thought, though.

“I believe I’ll leave that particular moniker to others in the party,” Hook says softly, sitting down. “Would you like to talk about it?” “Which part?” “Dealer’s choice.” “That one crossed realms, huh?”

“Some sayings know no bounds,” Hook smirks, and whatever sound Emma makes at that is even closer to a laugh than the last one. She takes that as a positive. “None of this is your fault.” “Practice that a few more times and it might sound more legitimate.” “Swan, that’s—” “—No, no, no,” Emma objects, not standing up, but she shakes her head quickly enough that strands of hair slap at either one of her cheeks. A few of them stick there. Probably because of the tears she can’t seem to stop. “All of this is my fault. I—I should have waited for help with the portal and everything I’ve done here has only made it worse and—” Another sigh, dragging her hand over her cheek. “—Fuck Marty McFly. And Doc Brown. It was so weird that they were friends, why didn’t anyone ever explain that?” “Did they not?” “No, not once. We were just supposed to accept that Marty met some senior citizen inventor guy who was more than willing to steal dangerous chemicals—” “—And he wasn’t a wizard?” “No, he wasn’t a wizard. No magic in the real world.” Or me, Emma thinks bitterly, but that’s not going to help the situation anymore than her current rambling, and she can’t seem to stop rambling. “But Marty and Doc hung out all the time. And Jennifer didn’t even think it was weird.” “Who is Jennifer, exactly?” “Marty’s girlfriend, I guess, but it always seemed like they were just starting to date at the beginning of the movie and then they got married. Just like that. You think they went to the same college or something? Like once Marty left—shit I can’t remember the name of the town.” Hook hums, a sound Emma can’t actually cling to any more than she can hold the one positive thing that has happened to her in the last twenty-four hours in her hands. It is not lost on her that both of them have to do with the man sitting next to her.

Or how quickly his fingers keep fluttering over the hilt of his sword.

“How far do you think we are from Aurora and Philip’s...land?” Emma asks. “Is that the right way to say that? Did they have a land?” “I believe the word you’re looking for is kingdom.” “Oh, yeah, that makes sense. Should have known that.” “That’s not your fault either.” “You’re really harping.” “Playing a symphony, it seems.” She laughs. She does. It’s not that loud, and there’s a distinctly watery edge to it, the muscles in Emma’s face aching when she manages to smile, but she’s having a difficult time coming to terms with the dexterity of Killian’s eyebrows and her hand moves before she thinks about it.

The metal is cool under her skin, a smooth surface that she can drag her thumb across. Which is exactly what she does, an attempt to ground herself and remind her that she’s still here when she isn’t entirely positive she’s supposed to be.

Hook doesn’t move. Might not breathe, if the state state of his shoulders is any indication and Emma hadn’t realized she was in possession of so many opinions regarding Captain Hook’s shoulders. Or her ability to recognize them.

No matter what, it seems.

“While it may appear that I know everything—” “—Ok, I never said that.” Hook’s smirk grows more pronounced. “I was in Neverland for quite some time, and the boundaries of some of the Enchanted Forest kingdoms changed in the last hundred or so years. But,” he adds when Emma opens her mouth again, “we’re more than a stone’s throw from the land Aurora should be ruling. At least several days' travel.” “God, that’s confusing. And did all these kingdoms have separate laws and everything? Who came up with that? Seems like a garbage way to rule.” “I believe you’d have to file a complaint with several different monarchies for that, love.”

Emma scoffs. “It’s quieter here than it was in Neverland, though.” “Most places are.” “Colder too. I hate the cold. I’m always—can’t ever seem to get warm and my toes are always freezing, it’s...I’m a notorious blanket thief.” “Pirate of sorts, huh?” He grins as he says it and part of Emma wants to scream. Stand up and run, as fast as her feet and far-too-long hem allow. But that part is also smaller than usual, and she’s all too aware of the state her knees are in. “Something like that,” Emma agrees. “When I was a kid I used to live in this place. Snowed for months at a time and I—I hated it. Wanted to be anywhere else. Kept trying to find somewhere that was warm, sunny. Like that would chase away the shadows.” Hook is disarmingly quiet.

And Emma can’t shut up.

“But then I got some place where it never snows and it wasn’t what I thought it’d be. Dry heat, you know?” He shakes his head. That’s fair. Pirates with several-hundred years of experience under their belts should not be expected to understand meteorological cliches.

“Anyway,” Emma mumbles, “it wasn’t what I expected or thought was supposed to happen and—” She scrunches her nose. Hook waits. Presumably for the rest of the sentence, but it doesn’t come and she finds it difficult to breathe again when he starts talking.

“Sunlight always seemed better on the sea. Would reflect off the surf. Could see the entire horizon if you wanted to.” “And did you?” Hook nods. “As often as I could. Even when I was lad. My father used to bring my brother and I—” This might be their best and least organized conversation. Gritting his teeth, his shoulders shift when he inhales sharply. “These stars are different from Neverland’s.” “Really? Weird.” “Mmhm, made navigating something of a challenge.”

“But you’re here now, right?” “Presently, you mean?” Another head shake. More moving hair and unmoving fingers. Emma’s knuckles are white around the hook, holding it like a lifeline and she might have to spend the rest of her life thanking him for this.

It’s not as daunting a prospect as it should be.

“I mean past you is here,” Emma says, “in the Enchanted Forest. Doing pirate type things and offering Mary—” Her tongue gets in the way. As disgusting a thought as that is, Emma knows it’s better than thinking about what is actually happening, feeling as if her throat is collapsing in on itself while her heart does its best to beat its way out of her chest. “Shit.” Killian shuffles closer, not stopping until his knee bumps hers. “That happened from time to time. Leaving Neverland, doing jobs for—” “—Pan?” “Sometimes. He couldn't leave the island, you see. Not without losing the magic as well. Jolly’s crew was his only option. Although we always managed to stay here longer than he wanted us to.” “Well, pirates hate rules, don’t they?” “I believe that’s in the bylaws, aye.” She’s got absolutely no idea what sound that one is. Shaky and a little wobbly and some dark, half-forgotten part of Emma’s brain believes it’s drifting close to giggle territory. That can’t be right. She can’t giggle while she’s still crying.

The bylaws of the Universe probably frown on that.

“Is that how you wound up with Cora, then? Stuck around longer and got a good deal?” Nothing.

No answer. No jokes. Certainly nothing even remotely resembling a giggle.

Just the muscle in Hook’s temple, jumping rhythmically and consistently and Emma really does try to stay patient. Her sniffling makes that difficult.

“Something like that,” Killian repeats evasively, staring straight ahead like he can see through the trees. Maybe he can. What does Emma know. Some pirates probably have to have good eyesight. Make up for the eye patches and whatnot.

She nods. No one asked a question. “Ok.” “Ok?” “Ok,” Emma echoes, “you’re a real shit liar and I’m real great at telling when you’re lying, but—” “—Me specifically?” Yes. The answer is yes, but she doesn’t give voice to that either and maybe she should be writing all these things down. The things she’s not saying.

Should say.

Emma can’t believe she time traveled and didn’t even get to talk to her mother.

And that’s the first time she’s really allowed herself to think of Snow White as her mother.

“Super power,” Emma continues, waving her free hand towards her temple. Her other one is still clinging to his hook. “But that’s fine. You didn’t pry, so I won’t pry, I just—” Collapsing throats, she imagines, are supposed to hurt more than this does. This doesn’t hurt, per se, just feels passably uncomfortable, like there’s a wad of cotton in her mouth, making it difficult to say anything and Emma is so bad at saying anything, but Killian is staring at her and—

Killian.

She lets herself call him Killian. In her head, at least .

“I can’t come up with anything else to say except thank you,” Emma whispers.

“You don’t have to.” “Still.” “You’re welcome,” Killian says, and maybe words carry more weight in the past. By default.

“Can I ask you something, though?” He tenses. Noticeably. It’s another round of fair and understandable, Emma’s teeth finding her lower lip until she tastes blood. Another reminder that she’s still here. With her fingers wrapped around Captain Hook’s—

No, that’s not right. Captain Hook did not follow her into a time vortex. Or ask her to dance. Or wear the fuck out of that jacket. Although that last one could use a bit more work, at least when it comes to sentence structure.

The point still stands.

Captain Hook didn’t do any of that. Killian Jones did.

And he—

“When we were watching everything in the castle and Regina was you know…” Killian lips go thin. Emma might be staring at his lips. Past him had been a very good kisser as well. Maybe she’ll mention that at some point. After this. “Well, I just,” she stammers, “I was terrified, for my mom and my dad and even Ruby—God, is that her name here?” “Introduced herself as Red when Snow White sent her.” “Weird.” “Perhaps the best word for the entire situation.” “Or shitty.” “Aye that too,” he smiles, which is not weird. At least not as weird as it should be. “I wasn’t sure what was going to happen.” “Yeah, me neither,” Emma breathes, not exactly the explicit truth, but at least several steps without moving. “I—you have very strong arms.” “A compliment?” “An observation.” Killian chuckles, and this hair really is unfortunate. Normally, that one bit that Emma has come to regard as her own personal torture device would artfully fall across his forehead, a metaphorical arrow towards eyes that always seem to get brighter when they’re looking at her.

As they often are.

But while the hair is different, the distracting tendencies of his tongue are the same. The tip of it finds the corner of his mouth, a soft push on the inside of his cheek, and Emma’s not keeping a list — at least not acknowledging her want of a list — but the tongue thing is definitely one of Killian’s most telling tells.

Seriously, her sentence structure sucks.

“Although,” Emma adds, “it wasn’t that bad.” HIs tongue goes back in his mouth. She’s got to stop thinking about his tongue.

“No?” “No,” she says. “It was...nice.” So, off the top of her head, she needs to fix — sentences, her grasp of the English language, her tendency to repeat herself, and finding better adjectives for emotionally charged moments.

Possibly.

Emma still hasn’t called him Killian to his face, after all.

“What did you think was going to happen?” No tongue, but an obviously tight jaw makes Emma’s stomach jump into her still-collapsed throat. “Like I said, love. I wasn’t sure. Just wanted to make sure you’re alright.” The lie feels like it reaches out, smacks her across the face and then backhands her for good measure. It leaves Emma’s cheeks tingling and something tugs at the base of her spine. Not magic, because she still doesn’t have magic, but maybe magic adjacent, like a memory or hints of a dream that keep lingering at the edges of everything, and she promised.

She doesn’t push. She doesn’t prod.

She doesn’t pry.

And Killian has to move his sword again when he gets back to his feet. “We’ve got a fire going, if you’d like to warm up.” “Yeah, ok. Thanks.” Emma doesn’t let go of the hook, keeps her fingers curled around it as they move back through the trees and neither one of them stumble, a very small, but much needed victory because—

Well, everything kind of continues to suck.

At least for a little while.

Snow White isn’t dead, but she’s a bug, and then she’s not a bug and Emma has no idea where Ruby goes. She’s too busy worried about this nameless woman and wielding a branch gets her another laugh and a smile she’s going to think about for at least seventy-two hours straight. Then there are trolls, and tears of the less-pained variety. Rumplestilskin continues to be any forest’s biggest asshole, and there’s magic and another round of crying and—

Emma runs.

Sprinting across Storybrooke, she ignores the ringing phone in her pocket, determined to hug her parents and hold her kid with her own display of impressive upper body strength.

And it gets better, less suck-like, at least. Food and smiles and the way her mother’s hand feels when it rests on top of Emma’s.

Until she’s sitting — tucked into the corner of a booth with her own face staring at her from the pages of Henry’s storybook and Emma can’t quite recognize the person there. The happiness on her face feels like...well, a story. A good one, but something that she can’t believe was hers or is hers or could be hers and she’s got to add tenses to that list she only kind of remembers.

Glancing around, the muscles in her neck object to the stress she’s putting them under, because time travel is awful and exhaustion is starting to creep its way up her spine.

“Looking for someone?” her mother asks, and Emma’s lips pop.

That’s it.

She understands. Fucking goddamn finally.

Emma might nod. Or shake her head. It doesn’t really matter.

There are no words. No explanations. Just clamoring back to her feet, the bottoms of her boots sticking to the linoleum near the door because one of the dwarves definitely spilled punch at some point and—

His head snaps up as soon as the door closes behind her.

“So, do you think Rumplestilskin is right?” Emma asks, dropping into one of the wrought-iron chairs at the table Killian has commandeered. Pirate term. “I’m in the book now. He said everything, besides our little adventure, would go back to normal. Do you think that it is?”

“He’s right. Otherwise I’d remember that damned bar wench I kissed.” She smiles. Wide and honest and easier than anything has ever been. And Killian doesn’t flinch when she teases him, like that’s something Emma is allowed to do, but she figures once she uses his name and once they start making out like teenagers it’s fine, and this is her favorite kiss.

By far.

No sounds, no rum, nothing except the feel of his fingers in her hair and her knees bumping against his and she tries to claw her way into his space, a burst of colors behind her closed eyes that she knows is magic and him and them, a collective unit that—

“You came out here,” Killian murmurs, the words barely making their way through the haze of Emma’s post-makeout brain.

She bumps her nose against his. “Turnabout and all that. I...I didn’t want you to be by yourself. And I had a thought.” “Which was?” “Did you think I was going to disappear? When Regina tried to kill my mom. I—you said you didn’t know what would happen, but that wasn’t—” “—Super power, huh?” “Not cool to interrupt when I’m theorizing.” “Well, you don’t like being cool, do you, Swan?” Her smile is going to get stuck on her face. That’s...nice. “Was that what it was?” “The thought had crossed my mind, aye.” “Smart guy.” “High praise.” “I’m an official princess now. In the book and everything, so favors from me hold a certain weight, don’t you think?” He smirks. She tries to memorize it. Every shift of his mouth, the spark in his eye and slight scrunch of his nose, what might be a few freckles there or a trick of the dim lights above them.

Emma’s skin feels like it’s vibrating.

“Thank you.” “You don’t have to keep saying that, Swan.” “Yeah, I know, but—I didn’t think about disappearing, but I did think about wanting something to hold onto and that’s...thank you.”

It’s not enough. Not really, but even the concept of holding her tight enough to ensure that she didn’t disappear in some fairy tale realm is a lot for Emma to wrap her mind around, so she’s going to give herself a pass on this one.

And kiss him instead. Kissing Killian is quickly climbing to the top of a brand-new list of Emma’s favorite things. In every known realm. His tongue swipes her lips and she opens her mouth at the same time her eyes fall shut again, a tilt of her head and bump of their chins, and it’s not easy to deal with all of their assorted limbs at this angle, but that just ensures that this is a bit slower and softer and something that is, quite obviously, the start.

Because she came after him this time.

#cs ff #captain swan #cs fic #captain swan fic #captain swan ff #THANKS TAYLOR SWIFT

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normal-thoughts-official · 3 years

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i'm not trans but i want to write trans magnus, what are ig the dos and don'ts? (only if you dont mind <3)

i don't mind! happy to reply to those. altho i'll be real, there's a lot of stuff, so it's a bit hard, which is why i'd say that my first tip is to have a sensitivity reader (even better if it's multiple). i even offer to do that, more trans magnus content is what i want! so i'd tell you to consider that

i'm going to make a list, but i ask you that first of all, you try to understand the reasons why i'm saying what i'm saying (i'm trying to outline them as clearly as possible) instead of just taking it as a checklist of what you're supposed to write or not. the most important thing is that you understand why certain things are/can be harmful, and approach them accordingly. there is rarely ever going to be a rule like "EVERY SINGLE TIME YOU DO THIS THAT'S TRANSPHOBIC". it depends a lot on the story and how you do it

(sidenote: of course there are things that ARE always transphobic, like using men in dresses as the butt of a joke. but that's not the case for most things, and I hope this kind of very obviously transphobic trope is already understood to not be a good thing doiajdsoija)

other than that, i think the first things that come to mind are the following (i'll try to have more do's than don't's cuz i feel like giving you a path to follow is more helpful than paths NOT to):

DO research about transphobic tropes in media and make sure you understand why they are harmful. that's a great way to avoid the most glaringly obvious Bad Takes™

DO try to understand your character's identity as much as you can. are they a trans man/woman? are they nonbinary? if they are nonbinary, what do they identify with? you don't have to have a fully fleshed out identity, but at least know whether they lean more towards neutral, fluid, multiple gendered, outside of the gender binary, etc. if you want a culturally specific gender, KNOW WHICH ONE. have details. and do your research on that. i don't recommend doing that if you don't know exactly what you're talking about

DO try to incorporate the character being trans into your understanding of their backstory. did they have help from their community? what was that like? how did that influence other parts of their story? when did they realize and when did they come out? being trans is going to have an impact on a person's story, so the more you know about that, the more you can build a character that feels real, not a cis person with "trans" slapped on their forehead

however, DON'T have their entire backstory and life be about them being trans. that's not how it works with anyone. you want to understand how being trans intersects with their life, not reduce everything about them to being trans. your goal here should be to incorporate the aspects that are related to that person being trans and the ones that are not into one thing that feels cohesive, because that how it works

DO wait until it's pertinent to mention the fact that your character is trans. it's kind of *sigh* when the fic starts like "Magnus Bane (who is trans) was buying groceries". that feels like what i just mentioned in the last don't: everything revolves around him being trans. you don't want that. if it only comes up halfway through the fic, then it only comes up halfway through the fic. i actually think that's kinda rad because it really normalizes a character being trans, but it all depends on what the rest of the story is like

DO approach their transness like any other element in the story. if it's a light-hearted story, you don't have to approach their transness from an angsty perspective. that doesn't even necessarily mean u can't approach transphobia as a topic, but it's just weird when the whole fic is happy and upbeat and then suddenly there's an on-screen transphobic microaggression and the person is very sad, and then back to upbeat. if you really want to broach this topic on your light-hearted fic, you can do it in ways such as "*flops down on the couch* god, i'm exhausted. some asshat tried to pick up a fight with me today" you know? again, i'm not saying "don't talk about X or Y subject", you just don't want the tone to be completely different from the rest of your story. it feels not only like his transness is out of place (which alienates the reader) but also like just... bad writing, i guess you don't have to take that as an absolute rule, just... as with anything else you're writing, make sure that it fits the story you're telling. if it's gonna have a different tone when u mention something, know why and how you want to do it

DON'T feel obligated to approach every aspect of their identity/backstory/everything they face as a trans person. it's good that you, the author, know it, so you can even know what is or isn't important to mention. but you don't have to give the reader a whole exposé on his transness. approach what's relevant

DO include them making jokes, puns about being trans, having other trans friends, etc. it just feels more real and we do all that all the time. it's just unrealistic for a trans person to hear the word "transparent" and not crack a joke (with people they feel safe with, of course)

when you do mention them being trans, please DON'T treat it like a big deal. when the whole narrative stops so you can mention that a character is trans, it just feels like their transness is a spectacle for a cis reader. similarly, if the reader can tell that their reaction is supposed to be like "*gasp!*" it just feels like trans people aren't supposed to be seen as normal. i'm talking specifically about how the narrative treats it here, not necessarily what happens in the story. you could have a scene where the character comes out, for example, and then of course this is going to be a big deal for them. but there's that, and then there is "magnus bane put on his binder. that's right, hE IS TRANS!". a trope i wouldn't call harmful but that i particularly hate and turns me immediatelly off any story, particularly, is the thing where the character is like "I put on my binder, getting ready for school. I am trans, and anyone who has a problem with it can fight me". no one thinks about how they are trans every time they do anything that's related to their transition. that'd be exhausting. you don't brush your teeth and are like "that's right. MY TEETH NEED CLEANING! i want to avoid caries, because i am human and that might happen"

DO try to think of every element of how they express their transness in relation to that character. you don't have to outline the reasons in the story (that'd be exhausting) but don't just go "well, magnus is trans, therefore he wears a binder and a packer, wants surgery, and [list of Transmasculine Traits™]". WOULD magnus want a binder? WOULD he want a packer? remember that those things are all choices, not a checklist that determine whether or not you're trans. each trans person is an individual, and thus each trans person's relationship with their transness and how they express it is different. so treat your character as such

DON'T make him being trans something that is only used for sad things!!!!!! again, i'm not saying "you can't approach transphobia", but if him being trans only comes up when it's to bring Bad Things His Way, it just feels like being trans = bad for you. know what i mean? try to mention it in neutral or positive ways more than you do in negative ways. a few things that i think are positive: you get to choose your own name, you get to rethink every bit of how you want to express yourself instead of just following a script, you get a lot of friends who Get It, you have the jokes about all the guys named Skylar, the flag is cute, transitioning feels so good! every new thing is a discovery. coming out as trans and transitioning is very liberating, it feels like you are so much more real. sex feels a lot less like a scripted ordeal when you have a completely different relationship with your body, i feel like trans ppl naturally communicate a lot more about sex and explore a lot more of different ways to touch their bodies even when they don't necessarily have genital dysphoria. the puns and jokes are also a nice bonus. the slang is so fucking funny. you learn a lot about your body and hormones and the such just from having friends who hormonize and looked up every detail. as for neutral things, just being like "magnus put on his binder" is a neutral thing. it's just a part of his life! when you only remember that a character is trans because they are going through violence, it just makes people scared of being trans

and i guess those are the most important pointers? just, don't make trans identity a whump thing and remember that not every trans person is the same, build that character just like you do any other. if anyone wants to add more stuff, feel free to! i have a tendency to forget to mention or explain certain things (like "don't make trans ppl the butt of a joke") because to me they are obvious and i forget that they aren't obvious outside of trans circles. i have very few cis friends (that's something that makes a difference too) so ya know. diajsda

another tip i think can be helpful is, if you're uncertain whether or not something sounds natural, try to imagine that instead of talking about a trans character, you're talking about a person who wants to be a mechanic. when you're building a character who wants to be a mechanic, that can be part of a super angsty backstory about how they lost their parents in a car crash due to a car malfuction... or not. it can have relevance to a certain point of the story, or not. it can fit naturally into this part, or it can feel like you just really want the reader to know that the person wants to be a mechanic. it can be integral to the plot, or it can be just another thing about that character. you know? that sounds kinda lame, but i think it's a good way to try to think about what you're writing without all the pre-conceptions and pressure not to Fuck Up Your Representation. idk, something to try out and consider whether or not works for you

if you have any questions, let me know! and ask other trans ppl about their perspectives too, i'm just one person. if you want a sensitivity reader, i'd really be super happy to help :) just DM me, or whatever you feel more comfortable with

#ask #anonymous #societal issues #idk how to tag this lol #sh #trans magnus bane #long post

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xbladekitkat85 · 4 years

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One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Where’s Morgan? An Irondad Oneshot

To say that everyone was excited to go to Disneyland was an understatement. It was a very big understatement.

Tony had planned every detail of the trip, making sure that they had bought the right amount of the correct passes to get everyone in and the hotels reservation, and rental car.

When he had finalized the plans, he gathered everyone in the living room.

"Ok, what is this about?" Harley asked suspiciously. "Is this a set up to a prank?"

Tony gasped in indignation.

"Why would you ever say that? Would I really do that to you?"

"You've been acting weird." Peter pointed out. "You keep on minimizing the internet tabs every time we would enter your lab."

"That doesn't mean anything. I could be trying to find you all your Christmas presents early." Tony replied immediately.

"But since when do you shop for us on the Disneyland website?" Morgan asked slyly.

Then there was a moment of silence.

"WAIT, WE'RE GOING TO DISNEYLAND?!" The boys asked in disbelief.

Tony let out a laugh that only showed itself with his family.

"That's right. Oh, and I also invited Shuri because last time she was here in the states, she didn't get to go."

All of the kids smiled at each other in excitement.

"The fact that Shuri is coming too is amazing dad!" Harley said.

"This is going to be so fun. Oh I've been wanting to go to Batuu so bad!" Peter gushed.

"Make sure to buy me some shoes with inserts so I'm tall enough for all the rides, dad." Morgan said.

"Wait, when are we going?" Harley asked suddenly.

"Tomorrow. Mom already made a packing list of all the essential items we need to pack." Tony said with a thankful smile to Pepper. "You should be receiving the lists any second now."

Everyone's phones vibrated with the notification of a list. As soon as the kids felt it, they ran to their respective rooms to start packing.

*The next morning*

"All right, do we have everybody on the jet?" Tony asked.

Pepper looked around and thought for a moment.

"Okay, I'll give each of you a number and whenever we do a head count, when I say your number, wave or something. That way we know we're all here. Ok, Tony, you'll be 1, Rhodey, you'll be 2, Harley, 3, Shuri, 4, Peter, 5, and Morgan, you will be 6. Everybody got that?"

Everyone nodded.

"We'll try it a few times on the way so we can get the hang of it."

After a long flight, and a few practices of number counting, they arrived in Anaheim and made their way to Disney's Grand Californian Hotel and Spa. They checked in, unpacked ate dinner and went to bed early to get enough rest for the next day.

*7:00 the next morning*

"All right, everybody up!" Morgan sang as she jumped from bed to bed, effectively waking everyone in the room.

"My love language is quality time together, but not like this, Morguna." Tony groaned as he finally sat up.

Peter was the next to get up.

"Ok, we have to get dressed and get our phones ready to reserve our boarding groups for Rise of The Resistance! I already have the app ready to go!"

"Hold on kiddo, we need breakfast before we go. What do you all want?" Tony asked.

Everyone listed off what they wanted from the room service booklet and soon everyone had eaten and were ready to start the day at Disneyland.

"Ok, let's do our headcount before getting in line. to enter" Pepper called out.

"One."

Tony flashed a peace sign.

"Two."

Rhodey waved.

"Three."

Harley casually dabbed as he sneezed.

"Four."

"FRE SHA VACA DO!" Shuri said gleefully, making Peter and Harley laugh.

"Five."

"It is Wednesday my dudes." Peter began.

Then all the kids joined in, "uuuuuuuUUUUUUAAAAAHHHHHHH!"

"Kids, you can't do that kind of shit here." Tony interrupted. "Ok, six?"

"Watch yo profanity." Morgan said with a grin.

"We have taught her so well." Peter said, wiping away a fake tear.

"Well, we're all here, so lets go." Pepper said, beckoning everyone towards the gate.

As soon as the gates opened and everyone was inside, Peter reserved their boarding group for Rise of the Resistance.

"Sweet, we're boarding group 15, we can go on a couple of rides while we wait for our turn!" He exclaimed excitedly.

"All right, where do we find a map?" Pepper asked.

"We don't need one. I recruited someone to help us around the park." Tony said.

"Wait, who?" Harley asked.

"Well I did some research on who would be the best tour guide for our trip." Tony explained. "I had Fri do a background check before hiring her to help us. She's known for being a encyclopedia of knowledge on the parks and their history. She knows her stuff and was more than willing to help us. Also, she's the granddaughter of one of the original Imagineers, X Atencio, who did the script for the Haunted Mansion and Pirates of the Caribbean as well as the music that plays through both rides."

"So, a legacy of the Imagineers is going to show us around? How cool is that?" Peter asked.

"So when is she coming?" Shuri asked.

"I'm here already." A new voice said.

Everybody turned to look at the new person who had entered the group. It was a young woman who looked to be in her early twenties. She was dressed in the color scheme of Snow White's outfit but in the style of 1950's clothing. Her makeup was also reminiscent of the era of clothing she dressed in.

"Nice to meet you all in person!" She said with a smile. "The name's Sarah Atencio."

She shook everyone's hand and when she got to Morgan, she crouched down to her height so she was at eye level with the young girl.

"I like your outfit miss." Morgan said politely. "Is it supposed to look like Snow White?"

Sarah smiled at her question.

"It is indeed. The outfit I'm wearing is called a Disneybound. Do you know what that is?"

Morgan shook her head no, but still seemed to be interested in what it was.

"No, but it sounds cool." She replied.

"I can teach you all about it later while we wait in line. How does that sound?" She asked.

Morgan smiled shyly and nodded.

Sarah stood up straight and smoothed out her skirt.

"All right, let's get this trip started! Did anyone have a preference in where we go first?"

"Well, I know that Peter would be very interested to go to Batuu. I myself am curious to see what it looks like in person." Shuri piped up. "I also wanted to see the lightsabers they sell here and compare them to the ones I have at home."

"Are we all in agreement?" Sarah asked.

Everyone voiced their agreement or nodded their heads.

"All right, on to Batuu!" Sarah proclaimed.

*Time skip*

"Peter, since you wanted to go to Batuu, do you have your story planned out? Or are you going to improvise?" Sarah asked.

"I already have planned some aspects of my character but I'm still not sure about a couple of things. So I guess both?" He answered.

"Whoa, what do you mean, character? What story?" Harley asked.

Peter turned to look at Harley in disbelief.

"Do you not remember when we had this conversation?" He asked.

"No, why else would I ask?" Harley retorted.

"Ok, basically, Batuu is a trading post and a secret base for the Rebellion and the First Order is looking for them. Everybody who goes there has the possible chance of being stopped by Stormtroopers who are looking for Rebel spies. It's also possible to be stopped and interrogated by Kylo Ren. So if you wanted to be more immersed in the experience, you could come up with a backstory for why you are in Batuu and what side of the war you're on. As for my backstory, I'm a con artist born on Yavin-4 posing as a merchant looking for a place to trade my fake rare materials on the planet. I sell to the First Order and report to the Rebellion with what the First Order is interested in buying and how much of the item. But the thing is, my so called rare materials are so realistic looking, that they fool the First Order. What they are buying is useless and they won't know it until they try actually using it."

"That's more thought out than what I would come up with." Harley said. "I probably would have come up with some idiotic backstory like, 'Oh, I'm the secret child of Luke Skywalker and I have come to take down my cousin and his stupid army of bucket heads.' Something that wouldn't make sense."

"Well, I'll give you points for using SW slang." Peter remarked playfully.

"We're about to arrive at Rise of the Resistance since it is around the time your group should be called. Are we all here?"

"I'll check, we have a system." Pepper said. "One... Two... Three... Four... Five.... WHERE'S MORGAN?!"

Everyone in the group instantly looked around to see where she could have wandered off to.

"Oh no, Fri, please activate the 'Little Feetsies' protocol." Tony said tapping the side of his sun glasses.

"Activating 'Little Feetsies' protocol."She responded.

"Activating what now?" Harley asked.

Instantly, Tony could see the footprints of everyone in their group on the ground. The smallest pair of feet had diverted from the group way back towards the bazaar.

"Everyone follow me." Tony said.

"Is nobody else going to ask why there is a protocol with that name?" Harley asked as everyone else followed Tony.

Everyone in the group followed Tony as he walked the path of Morgan's shoe prints, making sure he didn't accidentally crash into a person in the process.

Eventually, Tony stopped and everyone saw why.

Morgan was standing with Kylo Ren and his Stormtroopers. And she was smiling as she talked with him.

"Well, I guess Morgan has connections to the First Order now." Shuri said, grinning at Peter, who looked slightly jealous. "How does your character feel after seeing a tiny 5 year old with the Supreme Leader wrapped around her little finger?"

Everyone laughed as they watched the duo, who seemed to be devising a way to end the Resistance once and for all.

"Ok, so that's a good way to help your troopers train and be better at ambushing the Resistance. And also try feeding them yummy food so they will be more hardworking. Give them something like, like.... Spaghetti! Or cheeseburgers!" Morgan told the tall and scary looking man.

"The First Order thanks you for your information and loyalty. You will be rewarded." One of the Stormtroopers told her.

"If only my military strategists had ideas as well thought out as yours." Kylo Ren said with interest. "How would you like to become my apprentice? Learn how to fight properly?"

Peter chose that moment to run to Morgan and scoop her up, making her squeal in surprise.

"AIIIIE, Peter, don't do that!" She giggled.

"I'm so sorry if she was bothering you Supreme Leader, she tends to run off and show off her intellect whenever she gets the chance to." Peter said with more confidence than he felt.

"I had hoped that she would become my apprentice. I could train her well, she would live a successful life as my right hand."

Peter laughed a bit nervously before replying.

"She's a bit too young right now. Maybe when she's at least 16 I would let her decide if she still wants to or not."

"How unfortunate. I insist you reconsider." The deep voice of Kylo Ren replied.

"I apologize Supreme Leader, but I must decline. Well, we have somewhere to be very soon, so I believe this is farewell for now."

Peter carried Morgan back to the rest of the group and Morgan waved goodbye to Kylo Ren.

“Morguna, why did you run off without telling us?” Tony asked the young girl.

“We were worried you might have gotten lost, honey.” Pepper added.

“I’m sorry mommy, Kylo Ren asked me to be his right hand!" Morgan said, right off the bat.

Pepper's facial expression was a mix of horrified amusement and Tony was trying very hard not to laugh. Shuri and Harley looked very proud of Morgan for charming Kylo Ren himself. Sarah was just laughing at the whole situation.

"And I told her no, because she is too young." Peter interjected "Besides, you are supposed to be with the Resistance Morgs, what happened to that?"

"She double crossed you is what happened."Harley replied "Betrayed her own brother, who is supposed to be a con artist."

Everyone burst out laughing at that comment and after it died down, they all went to Rise of the Resistance.

NOTE: This is my first fic on Tumblr, and I think I might do more? It depends on if I have time to write, hahaha! Also if you have seen this on Wattpad, don’t panic, this is the same person who has it on there, I am not stealing someone else’s work. I am taking my own writing and putting it on Tumblr. Also, I know that Disneyland is literally on the opposite side of the country for them, but for the sake of me never having gone to Disney World, I used Disneyland instead. Because I know nothing about the parks layout in Florida.

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gilded-green · 3 years

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In celebration of the 10th anniversary, I’ll probably reread GG and send updates/highlight areas and as for commentary. Probably XD

But first. What aspect of Gilded Green was your favorite? What was something you put in a lot of world building for but never got to show either in fic or on tumblr. Who is your favorite character and why, what makes them special in your eyes? Which character has turned into a completely different one as soon as you started writing them? Which part of the fic did you like most when you finished it, do you still like it? Similarly, which part do you dislike most?

Lasty, anything about gg2’s story you want to share/talk about/rant?

-love, the dai li fangirl

Haha, no pressure! But at the same time yes if you do feel free to send me passages for commentary here! <3

What aspect was my favorite? Hmmm. *thinking face* I think, when I first came up with it, I was just thrilled to have these two small things - minor character Lu Ten, overlooked villain organization Dai Li - that I was able to combine into something so big. That was pretty nifty!

As I started developing the story, I think what really caught my attention was the fact that “Wow, all these characters are awful people!” Like. The Dai Li aren’t good.The Fire Nation aren’t good. Lu Ten is a victim but also an oppressor. All off these people have extremely different beliefs and worldviews - Fire supremacist, police state enforcers, classist academic gatekeepers - and all of them think THEY’RE in the right here and none of them are. I think Tien and Hoang might be the only people with a decent, non-oppressive worldview in the story so far. XD I was growing out of the storytelling trope of black-and-white morality at the time, so it was really fun to start experimenting with writing awful people as enjoyable, sympathetic characters.

World building? Hmm. I was just learning how to use my worldbuilding muscles back then. I seem to remember reading up a lot on how brainwashing actually works in the real world and going “I don’t think this is compatible with what we have in ATLA” and just kinda tossing that whole thing out. XD I also recall looking up a lot of stuff for the bits about Jouin, some of which - kalua pig! - has since shown up again in WFFD. I also recall someone on FFdotnet at the time saying “All this chapter did was tell us more about a dead character than the living one” and I was just kinda like -_- yes because he is DEAD and this is your chance to feel sorry about that, we’ll get plenty more of the living one later on account of him still being, y’know, alive. XD

Oh, and Shirong’s personal side projects. I finally got into that a bit in A Meeting of Minds, but the dude DOES have his own stuff going on, which Delun so rudely interrupted to drag him off to see Long Feng about brainwashing a Firebender.

I also did a bunch of research for the birthday party interlude, I think. Mostly appropriate alcohol for such an occasion? And....okay, this’ll sound funny, but.....food containers. I wanted Fen to pack up leftovers for Suyin and Shirong. That’s what my Italian family does after get-togethers, and I assumed that a Chinese family/friend group would do the same! But I also had, like, zero exposure to everyday Chinese life, let alone everyday Chinese life in the 1800s, and I just didn’t have the...idk, cultural osmosis? to figure it out. Like, if you asked me how Victorians would transfer food I’d probably come up with “Idk, wrap it in cloth and stuff it in a basket?” and I assumed people living in modern China would also be able to explain what their people did for food storage/transport 150 years ago but I didn’t have that cultural background, now, did I??? Also this was 10-12 years ago I was looking this up, mind you, the internet was still very different, there was plenty of information on Chinese historical events but not on everyday life objects, CDramas weren’t easy to find if they were translated at all and I certainly didn’t know they existed, and no one was posting beautiful aesthetic videos of life in a rural Chinese mountain village to youtube yet. Eventually I learned that bamboo baskets were a thing, but there wasn’t much info on THOSE either and I wasn’t sure how to describe them, so I just tentatively typed “basket” and called it a day. XD

YOU CANNOT ASK ME TO CHOOSE MY FAVORITE CHARACTER THAT’S LIKE ASKING ME TO CHOOSE BETWEEN MY CHILDREN!!! *shoves Yong off a cliff*

I’m very fond of the Dai family, along with the Trungs and Sais. I’m very proud of how Tuan turned out. I adore Yuan, who you’ve barely met, and Xun, who you haven’t. Huang and Wu Sheng are also definite faves and I can’t wait for y’all to get to know them better.

Characters do usually behave for me in terms of personality development. They surprise me, but they never really turn out to be the complete OPPOSITE of what I was expecting? They just kinda develop organically. Huang and Wu Sheng surprised me, tho, those boys got deep. I knew they had the potential, but developing their backstory actually caused Stingrae and I to develop Ba Sing Se’s socio-political backstory and Long Feng’s rise to power, all because of an inkling I had. That was a very satisfying few years of worldbuilding and story development.

Um, favorite part of the fic....idk, I’m very fond of the final scene, with Azula and her wall chunk from Lu Ten. I’m doubly fond of it because of how it always resonates with readers. Heck, during Azula week last year, I used that chunk of rock as an ongoing theme in Sandstone, and someone commented like “I DIDN’T REALIZE YOU’RE THE ONE WHO WROTE GILDED GREEN” and that made me really happy!

Lu Ten’s time stuck underground - I used the seven stages of grief to get through that one and it was very helpful in structuring that part of the story, and I figured it was deep or something because PSYCHOLOGY.

I’m also proud of myself for getting through the dark brainwashing scenes. So, like, FYI, fanfiction could get...very dark, back in the 00s. People love to play purity police these days and complain about how nasty people get can, but listen. Listen. Do you have any idea how dark FFdotnet got back in the day? Legolas And Aragorn Get Captured By Orcs And Brutally Tortured was an entire genre. I feel like torture fic was actually a lot more common back then, and darkfic in general - I’m sure someone could write a whole thesis on why it’s not so prevalent anymore, I’m gonna guess the fact that fandom is less-insulated and more public now could be part of it, maybe also the fact that the internet is more social media/influencer culture based so people care about their image, and also the purity police which is its own kettle of worms, but I also think that the Bush Administration had something to do with it? You have all these kids who were pre-teens when 9/11 happened, growing up during the Iraq War with an awful presidential administration while everyone was scared and conservative Christianity started to realize that their control over the nation’s “morality” might be slipping and reacted accordingly......yeah there was a lot of darkfic back then.

And I read a lot of darkfic too, but, uh....well, statistically speaking, a lot of writing is bad, okay? A lot of those fics were just weird; you could see where the writer had this idea, and also where they failed to execute it in a way that resonated or made sense. And whatever, writers were young and just wanted to pound out some catharsis, it’s cool, but it still just felt narratively awkward when you could tell how the writer was more focused on LET’S MAKE THIS AS DARK AS POSSIBLE instead of “Let’s tell this as well as possible.”

So the first several attempts at writing the brainwashing scenes, I was nervous because I didn’t want to get TOO dark, and when I finally decided “eff it” and said to Stingrae “I think I need to let this be as dark as it needs to be” I was still nervous because I didn’t want it to end up WEIRD. Idk if that makes sense, but anyway I seem to have done a decent job at it!

As for parts I dislike the most, uhhhhh Iroh’s retreat (I didn’t care, I just wanted to get it over with), Enlai might’ve been promoted too fast? idk, the fact that I came up with Nanyue AFTER I finished publishing GG so I couldn’t work that into the Quy bits, the fact that I was young and innocent and didn’t understand sexual slang or innuendo and randomly chose Dong as the name of the court physician which could lead to some awful puns except no one ever seemed to pick up on that and maybe I’ll regret pointing it out but the man IS going to appear again so I might as well get the first shot in myself. XD

I might have GG2 stuff to talk about but not sure, if I do I’ll make another post on that!

#GG tumblr escapades #GG 10th anniversary

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gayenerd · 3 years

Text

Green Day Deals with the "Rock Star" Dookie

by Tom Lanham

(First appeared in BAM Magazine, March 10, 1995)

Young, loud, and snotty equals beaucoup bucks? What pencil-pushing, graph-charting trend spotter could've predicted it? But the facts speak for themselves: As of late February, Dookie--the brattish, snap 'n' snarl Reprise salvo from Berkeley's sloppy punk trio, Green Day--has sold six million copies. Six million. Chances are, somebody on your block is jumping up and down in his living room at this very moment to the scrap-metal power chords and ardent apathy of "Longview," "Burnout," "Basket Case," or "When I Come Around" and getting lost in the teen abandon of these testy 22-year-olds--weasel-voiced, Montgomery-Clift-like charismatic singer/guitarist Billie Joe; tom-tom tribal percussionist Tre Cool (of the ever-morphing hair-color fame); and bassist Mike Dirnt (who survived Green Day's appearance at Woodstock '94, although several of his teeth did not).

Yes, punk rock is a marketable phenomenon these days, leaving many involved with the music's initial late-'70s, early-'80s wave scratching their heads, wondering why it didn't take the first time around. Public reaction started as curiosity ("Hey, honey, c'mere and lookit these goofy, green-haired little whippersnappers in an insane asylum on MTV!"), but spiraled up to rock-diet necessity (Green Day just won Grammy and they're nominated for quite a few Bammies as well, including such categories as Outstanding Group, Outstanding Album, and Outstanding Song--"Longview" and "Basket Case"). The fact that they've been nominated at all probably sends a shiver up the old dinosaur backbones of Eddie Money, Huey Lewis, and Boz Scaggs, a time-creepy feeling of "Gee, what the hell do we do now?" Because this isn't just some flash-in-the-pan punk movement, folks--this is a youth movement; Green Day are, as they hiply term it, "bored in the 'burbs," and reaching out, through TV and radio, like some prodigal preachers to other American kids who sense the same slacker ennui. Obviously, we're talking truckloads of kids.

Ironically, the more fame edges into the Green Day ruffians' lives, the more mature they seem to become. They've turned down all interview requests as of late, even People magazine, preferring to lay low until this tide of interest recedes. Billie Joe got married last autumn, and spent his honeymoon--not in any exotic, expensive locale--but in Berkeley's grand old Claremont Hotel. Cool recently became a father, and Billie Joe's child is due any day now. It's a responsibility they've both eagerly undertaken. Rob Cavallo, the boys' coproducer and A&R man at Reprise, swears they're "old souls, the smartest young kids I've ever met." It rings true.

The first time I spoke with Green Day, in January of '94, Cool, Dirnt, and Billie Joe were lazing around their dingy basement apartment in Berkeley, sitting on chairs and couches with potentially painful springs poking through. Rock 'n' roll bubblegum cards were scattered across a coffee table, along with several bongs of various sizes, plus a four-and-a-half foot red plastic pipe dubbed "Bongzilla" leaned against a doorway. The only wall decoration, besides a Ren & Stimpy poster, was a Twister game mat nailed up in its entirety, presumably for high-schoolish humor's sake.

When I'd met Billie Joe a few months earlier at a campus concert, his hair was dyed lime-green and featured squidlike tufts. Now it was dark brown, with only two tufts remaining, and both his ears and nose had piercings. Periodically during the interview, he'd ram a finger into that pierced nostril, rummage around, then stare idly at the resultant booger before flicking it on to the carpet. Cool wandered out of the rec room for several minutes, but returned, red-eyed, to proudly proclaim, "Lookit me! I'm stoned, dude!" Dirnt--when he wasn't strumming an acoustic guitar--kept watching their windowsill Sea Monkey tank, finally noting, "Hey, these Sea Monkeys look just like sperm!"

Despite all these schoolboy, poo-poo wit trappings (dookie, after all, is kiddie slang for excrement), there was a sense of seasoned wisdom about them, a feeling that they were, as Cavallo postulated, truly old souls. Like the class clown who frustrates all of his teachers by also maintaining a 4.0 grade average, Green Day can afford to play because their work--brilliantly skewed three-minute pop songs, delivered with such vehemence and vitriol you don't dare doubt them--certainly speaks for itself. But, sooner or later, of course, the band has to speak for itself, too, so what follows is a set of excerpts from that first ratty-digs meeting, as well as a later chat with Billie Joe, sans sidekicks. How did Green Day take over the rock world in less than a year? That's the six-million-copy question, and hopefully we'll provide a few answers.

* * *

So punk is back, whether America likes it or not?

BILLIE JOE: It's always been around, and everyone has their own interpretation of it. It's weird to actually call it "punk" again, when it's been there all the time.

MIKE DIRNT: It's been springing up in little suburban areas, where people grab it and express themselves.

TRE COOL: It's people who make a point of setting aside all responsibilities and just playing music. And doing fat joint after fat joint--you have to let go of things like paying rent, going to school, having a job.

BJ: And, if you can't tell by my house, we don't have a very high standard of living.

How does today's punk rock differ from its late-'70s cousin?

BJ: I think it was all about art and fashion back then, really, because everyone who was a punk in England was in art school. I read an early interview with Dee Dee Ramone, where he said he wished the Ramones had more of a glamorous appeal, too, instead of playing in jeans and leather jackets. But it was definitely about fashion, until the Clash really brought out the political side. Our music came from being bored in the 'burbs. You get put in this high school situation, where you're learning someone else's rules in a room with 30 other people that you don't really like. There's nothing interesting about it whatsoever, so you pick up a guitar instead.

But you all tried college, at least for awhile, right?

MD: And then we started touring. Constantly.

TC: So most of our reading now comes from highway signs.

MD: It's the old grasshopper and the ant story. The thought of actually working is just so...

TC: Sickening!

MD: Yeah. So we put everything we had into not working. This is what I do best, and I was always told, "If you're gonna do something, do it the best you can." So why not do the best thing you can, too?

You guys--at least Mike and Billie Joe--have known each other since you were 10?

BJ: And the first conversation we ever had was about writing songs. And then we just started playing music.

A lot of the stuff on your early Lookout! records shows what was on your mind at the time--namely, girls.

BJ: That was pretty much the viewpoint of a 16-year-old kid. I don't write stuff like that anymore. The new songs are more about coming of age and being apathetic and neurotic.

Where were your parents when you were touring [at age 16]?

MD: At work, doing their own thing.

BJ: My mom's worked a waitress job for like the past 40 years or something, and whatever I was doing was OK with her.

MD: I moved out when I was 15, and I worked all the way through high school.

BJ: And me, I've never held a job longer than two weeks. I tried to flip pizzas--it didn't work. I tried cleaning toilets in the Red Onion in El Sobrante. Me and TrŽ, we used to work for the SF Chronicle, selling papers. I sold three the first day, and the next day we just smoked pot, and we smoked pot the next day after that. So we had hella extra papers lying around. Our ultimate goal wasn't to get rich or famous or anything like that. It was to not have a regular job and not be miserable.

MD: And I've lived in every city around here, except for Albany. Literally. And one thing we want to establish about ourselves is that we're just a bunch of geeks from the suburbs.

Well, one of the first times I saw you, you guys were closing your set with Survivor's "Eye of the Tiger." That's pretty geeky.

MD: I grew up on radio--that's all I had. When I was a little kid, I couldn't afford records. I'll tell you, I've been down to a dollar in my pocket a lot of times. I've even lived in my truck. I can remember shooting rats with a BB gun in the flat we used to live in, before they'd make it to our food.

BJ: I've always been really good about saving. If I got some money, I'd put it away instead of spending it, and I'd buy ramen.

Why name your disc Dookie?

TC: Warner's said we could do anything we want, as long as we didn't say "Cop Killer."

BJ: Somebody told our manager that the ad for it was the most tasteless thing they'd ever seen in Billboard magazine.

What exactly do you mean on Dookie by "Welcome to Paradise"?

BJ, MD, TC [in unison]: West Oakland!

MD: Living in West Oakland, and going out to parties every night.

So it cost, what, around $100,000 to make Dookie?

MD: Yeah. We kept the advances low, because you gotta pay all that shit back. Everyone knows you can't become an instant millionaire just by signing, because there are so many people that want a piece of you.

BJ: We hang out with mostly punks though, and they don't want anything we have. They could care less. And a lot of our friends don't even agree with us being on a major label.

Is Green Day angry?

BJ: No, I'm not angry, like, walking around all the time with a frown on my face. But the way my music is interpreted is very angry.

MD: When you feel really strongly about something, you want to let it out in the most powerful way possible.

Like the way you baited your old high school principal from the Warfield stage recently?

MD: I think he was an asshole. He treated me with no respect. And for high school initiation, we got our heads shaved--that's the kind of small-town shit we had to deal with! Sometimes they made you push a penny up the street with your nose. But that's life, and anywhere you go, you're gonna hate a lot of shit in your life. You'll be handed

Dookie?

MD: Yeah. Yeah, you'll be handed dookie through all parts of your life. And see, what you need to do is just deal with the dookie, build upon what you have, and make something out of the dookie, you know? Like an adobe dookie building!

* * *

Several months later, and Dookie is oozing its gooey way into the public consciousness big time. The fading summer heat sticks crackling to the Berkeley sidewalks as punks--many sporting monstrous green or fuchsia mohawks--zing by on skateboards by day, and huddle in Telegraph Avenue doorways by night, conserving feral body heat the whole time. It feels like another world here, a throwback to the Bay Area's DIY/hardcore scene of the early '80s, when squatters reigned supreme and burlesque Broadway--fueled by all-ages shows at the Mabuhay Gardens, On Broadway, and even an occasional GBH or UK Subs booking at the Stone--made weekend conversions to "Punk Playground, USA." It was the best of times; it was the worst of times--despite relentless touring, most of these bands sold bupkus in the way of records, and few, save Metallica, ever held pen in shaky hand over a major-label contract.

Billie Joe saunters into the Berkeley coffeehouse in rumpled jeans and a grease-spattered flannel shirt; his once-green-and-tufty tresses have grown out into Wally Cleaver waves and been dyed a Rod Stewarty blond. He looks like one of those feisty punks of yore; like he could hold his own through sheer physical endurance in the wildest of thrash pits. There's a new authority about him, the way he strides confidently to the counter, orders a pint-size glass of coffee, then swims through a sea of late-lunching yuppies to grab a table. The singer doesn't seem to notice them at all. Or maybe he's just too tired from nonstop touring to really give a shit. He smiles a goofy grin, revealing a set of generally crooked or chipped choppers, with an entire half of one front tooth missing. But there's such charisma behind it, the same kind of "Who, me?" innocence that little kids use. Billie Joe, you might say, has quickly become the Bart Simpson of the alternative set.

How else could you explain his uncensored performance at a certain outdoor arena where--in a hyperspeed set lasting only 30 minutes before management threatened to pull the plug--he a) unzipped his fly and paraded his privates around for all to see; b) handed a stunned fan his beat-up, sticker-plastered guitar and urged him to play it; c) destroyed a $600 microphone by smashing it into the stage, then destroyed a second mike he was handed as well; and d) encouraged half the venue to chant, "Rock 'n' roll!" and the other half to respond with, "Shut the fuck up!" He then closed the show with a proposition--"They'll be really angry with us, but what we could do is rip out the seats!" he told the audience, which promptly gave Green Day a standing ovation. Billie Joe not only shrugs off such shenanigans as artistic license, he gets away with them! He's even encouraged to continue by fans who empathize with his uppity "fuck authority" attitude.

But the facts were all on the table as Billie Joe sipped his house blend that afternoon, and it didn't take a fortune teller to read 'em. Green Day was hitting big time. Fast. And the sheer enormity of the undertaking, the weight of all its accordant responsibility, was just beginning to hit him. He looked older, wiser, and spoke in more grownup tones about his future, which then included a pending marriage to longtime girlfriend Adrienne. You could practically feel this new maturity encircling him like some protective aura.

* * *

=Where do all these punks on Telegraph come from? They can't all be local and homeless.

I think Telegraph has just become this cultural mecca for punk rockers, because most of 'em who are on the Avenue aren't even from here. They're from Arizona, Minneapolis, New York, Florida. They just come out and end up squatting in houses in Berkeley. Why here? It's the climate, and the scene itself--Gilman Street and Maximum Rock 'n' Roll are in this area, and have a link to each other. But at the same time, it's separated, because there are so many different factions of punk now. There are the squatters, the pop-cores, the mods, the crusties. And all these types of people come out just to check it out. Plus, there's the best coffee in Berkeley, and a lot of 'em are real super coffee-drinkers, just pounding cup after cup all the time. It's pretty rare to come across a punk who doesn't drink coffee. I can't drink too much coffee myself--it gives me the shakes at night, so I just have a little bit during the day. Then I can smoke dope and go to bed.

=What's the attraction in squatting or homelessness for these kids?

For a lot of 'em, it's the first sense of freedom that they've had. It's like, "You mean I don't have to be home by midnight?" They've pretty much told their families and schools to go fuck themselves, so they go off and do their own thing. When I was 17, I did the same thing. And I had this total sense of freedom, where no one's telling you what to do, you don't have a clock to punch in on, you don't have people breathing down your neck; you don't have any deadlines to meet. You have this endless schedule where you can stay up all night drinking with your friends, or do anything you want.

=But isn't "Coming Clean" about leaving behind your wilder ways?

It's also about coming to grips with your sexuality. There's one line, "Skeletons come to life in my closet." And it's like, "Am I homosexual or heterosexual?" You go through this adolescent stage in your life where you don't really know what you are, and one side is taboo because your parents brought you up to think being gay was wrong. And if you come to grips with yourself, that you happen to be gay or bi or whatever, well, that was one thing about punk that was so accepting--all creeds were welcome, all sexualities, everything.

=Was this something you went through personally?

Yeah, to a certain extent. But I don't want to go around waving a gay flag or anything.

=Well, you had a beautiful girl on your arm backstage at the last Green Day show.

That's Adrienne. She's cool. Actually, we're engaged. That's why it took me so long getting here today--I had to get this! [Rolls sleeve up on tattooed arm, points to a bandaged-on cotton swab] Blood test, dude! We're getting married next week!

=Has anybody tried to tell you you're too young for such a serious move?

Of course. There are a lot of people who've said stuff. My parents have been a little more understanding than her parents. I just called my mom yesterday and said, "Mom, I'm gettin' married," and she said, "That's fine, son. Have fun!" I can hardly surprise my mother nowadays. But [this relationship] has been a recurring thing for the past four years, and we just decided to get serious about it. She's coming out here, and we're moving in together, so it's like, "Why not?" I don't really have any wild oats to sow, or anything like that. I'm not into the "Gettin' chicks all the time" thing.

=I know a lot of girls who'll be really bummed that you're gittin' hitched. They all seem to have developed a crush on you...

Me?! It must be the teeth [grins again].

=OK, so maybe you didn't brush often enough when you were young. But you were busy developing a direction...

I wouldn't necessarily say I had a direction or anything. I just knew I wanted to write songs. It comes from...uh...I don't know. I have no idea. It wasn't any kind of cosmic force or anything like that; it was just a matter of having a guitar around and wanting to play it all the time. I've had the same guitar since I was 11--I bought it off this guy at a guitar store. And I still play it--you know, the blue one with stickers all over it? That's my blue guitar, and, for some reason, things come to life, and everyone calls it "Blue" now--"Where's Blue? Can I pick up Blue and play it?"

=And you let just anybody touch it?

Oh yeah! Blue's not prejudiced.

=It's interesting to note that the general public seems to think Dookie is your debut.

Yeah, but that's just the general public. There are people who've been with us since the beginning, who know how long we've been around, since our first 7-inch came out back in '89.

=And now you can afford to trash pricey microphones.

Actually, Warner Brothers paid for those. It was pretty nice of 'em. They looked really nice--I remember looking at 'em and thinking, "Nice microphones!" They gave me one mike and I took it and threw it down, and they gave me another, and at the end of the set I creamed it pretty hard, I guess. We toured Europe with this band Die Toten Hosen--we played nine dates with 'em--and we got charged for a microphone every night. I dunno, for some reason we just started smashing shit. We'd start throwing equipment around at the end of each set, and these kids would start grabbing Tre's drum set and throwing it, and then they started smashing the microphones too. And the bouncers just couldn't do anything about it.

=And you actually yanked your dick out onstage too?

I did. Totally. It was the real thing. I dunno. The bands that we were playing with were just boring. It was more like making a mockery of the whole thing. The big arena rock thing is just so dated now, like Journey or Queen. Which is why I think punk rock started to begin with--it was this reaction to all the dinosaur bands. So for me, that show was, "How can we make a complete mockery of this but at the same time have fun with it?" I like to leave people guessing, "Did he hate that or did he like that?" It's not that I don't care--it's more that I'm careless. I try to be as happy-go-lucky as I can, but you can become apathetic at the same time.

=Do you feel like Green Day is a part of, or represents, the so-called "slacker generation"?

There's one side of me that doesn't mind it, because it's a generational thing, and another side of me that says, "Fuck that!" The reason I wrote the songs is, I ended up going back to Rodeo, where I'm from, for a week. And then I said, "Fuck it," and left. But I managed to get several good songs out of it. A lot of my friends had just turned into complete burnouts. And these are kids I've known since kindergarten, because it's a small town and you know everybody. And it was all fixing cars, staying up all night on methamphetamines, smoking dope, and finding out all these rumors about people I haven't heard of in 10 years. Like, "Oh, did you hear about so-and-so, who got married, had three kids, and ended up shooting everybody in his family?" And it happened! It was a true story! You're there for one week, and you get caught up in it. You get so bored, all you wanna do is watch television. And there are no record stores, nothing around, so you end up hanging out with all these delinquents who aren't punkers at all, just cultural idiots. So I was watching all these people rot and rotting with them until I realized, "Shit! I gotta get the fuck outta here!"

=As they say, you can never go home again.

Oh yeah, definitely. Unless you get pregnant, like my sister did. Then you have to go. But I quit school my senior year--I just wasn't getting anything out of it. I was taking nine periods a day, plus night classes, which left me no time to smoke dope whatsoever. And my mom even suggested I drop out, because she was a dropout, too. I come from a long line of dropouts. I still have nightmares about being late with my homework assignments. When I finally went in to sign out of high school, the teacher went, "Now, who are you again?"

=And if that teacher could see you now!

A lot of people think you get this big connection with a corporate label, and you make millions of dollars, but they don't understand that you just don't make that much money. And when you do, it's easy to piss it away. I mean, every cent that I've made, I've pissed away. I'm not gonna say how I did it, but I don't have it But I don't think you necessarily have to be a punk to decide to say, "Fuck it." You don't even have to have a direction. It's just a matter of getting the fuck out and exploring things for yourself.

=But didn't you feel abject terror when you first set out on your own?

Nah, I didn't. Because, for some reason, I knew things were gonna be all right. You can create your own future as long as karma's on your side. And I'm a strong believer in karma. I think things can come back to you if you're just willing to give.

* * *

True enough. At least six million times over!

1995 Tom Lanham

#article #interview #articles #billie joe armstrong

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popculturebuffet · 3 years

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Top 10 Sealab 2021 Episodes (Comission)

Happy 2021 Everyone! After an utterly AWFUL fucking year, it’s nice to be in a brand new year with brand new possiblities, new projects you’ll see soon, finsihing the old.. and all that good stuff. And good friend of the blog and only patron and contributer kev had a great suggestion to comission to kick off the year. Since it’s 2021 it’s only fair ot honor one of the very first adult swim shows, one taking place in the same year and still one of it’s funniest and fucking weirdest, and as we’ve seen that threshold is vast: Sealab 2021 Sealab was created by the wonder twins of Adam Reed and Matt Thomspon, and if those names sound familiar.. that’s because their the guys who created Frisky Dingo, a cult classic i’ll defintely have to write about someday soon, and more famously and in Matt’s case still to this day, Archer. Yup, after adult swim jerking them around lead to the closing of their initial studio, the two moved to FX and here they are. So yeah this is where the roots of a lot of archers workplace shenanigans and petty dickery come from. But even ignoring what it’d lead to, Sealab on it’s own is pretty damn good and holds up pretty well. Some jokes.. have not aged well, especially the treatment of Debbie as the villiage bicycle, but on the whole most of the humor is just really funny, really weird and really insane and I still love it after this revisit even if some episodes didn’t hold up so good, most of them held up good or even better than I remembered. The show was THE first abriged series, taking bits of old forgotten and seemingl really damn boring hannah barbara show sealab 2021, and using the footage to tell the tale of a bunch of assholes, weirdos and what have you running an underwater research station.. and being so bad at it or getting into such other insane bollocks it often blew up. Continuity was loose, jokes were the priority, and dialouge was key since the animation was not great in any way shape or form, but the cheapness was enough of a charm and improved enough with time that it didn’t really matter. The show was good and set the bar for adult swim shows for better or worse alongside other greats like Home Movies, Aqua Teen Hunger Force and others. It also had a unique cast of mostly small time actors, and bafflingly one respected news pundit as local asshole idiot head Stormy, and broadway legend Henry Goz as series MVP Captain Murphy. It was good, it was part of my childhood and teen years, and I love it so. I bought the dvds, quoted it decently and will again now Kev’s brought my fire for the series back. So naturally for a series like this since regular reviews just don’t.. work on something this insane sometimes, i’m instead counting down my top. 10 . episodes. Yes top 10 lists are comissionable, 5 bucks a pop. As long as I know the series well enough i’d be glad to and here I ws more than honored to. I also uped my game this time and rewatched every cantidate and thus I feel this may be one of my best lists yet. So without further adeu... grab your grizzlbees oninon burst , your bebop cola and your pitcher of whale cancer. this is the top 10 episodes of sealab 2021!

10. Tinfins This one’s a classsic just for it’s uniquness, taking the piss out of glitzy and vapid hollywood insider shows and their annoying hosts, while also being delightfully weird, from mocking the show’s own animation by having detailed cgi used to map the limited animation, to Erik Estrada’s interview where his fictional self is clearly having none of toni and is also clearly getting wasted, to the utter bizzarity of Kid N Play being the films directors.. it’s just a good time.

But what REALLY makes the episode are two things: The first is a series of increasingly bizzare commericals for Grizzlebees, a fictional restraunt that would become a staple of the show: From a simple commerical showing off their onion bursts, to their kids meals with tonic water, to Henry Goz’s utterly bizzare farm based commerical for it, to finally a commerical about depression being okay because grizzlebee delivers that’s pitch black as it is utterly hilarious, it’s just one hit after the other. The crown jewel of the episode of course is the trailer ofr tinfins itself, which is insane and includes great bit after great bit, the best being the titular mecha shark cutting the power “How the hell can it cut the power? It’s a shark. “ Holy Crap indeed.

9. In the Closet A bottle episode, which Sealab really excelled at and not the last on this list by a mile, as the show’s key was it’s dialouge the episode had a simple premise it quickly managed to have make some pretty insane turns. Marco, played by the glorious Eric Estrada and Muprhy, played by the late and very game Harry Goz, have been trapped in the suply closet for a few days, with Muprhy, being muprhy, having already married a bucket who has a history as a “Hookermop” named wendy. Soon other sealabians get caught inside too, and it results in plenty of hilarious gags, From muprhy sucker punching the hell out of everyone, to Sparks panicking under claustrophiba, to the repair guy getting sucker punched and no one caring much about his well being. This one lives off of Muprhy as while the others are good, Goz as he usually did during his time on this earh and on this series before his untimely passing, steals the whole damn show, and the ending, where it turns out Muprhy adopted and starved a bunch of fighting dogs, is a nice twist on everything. And the punchilne to it is utterly fantastic “It could be worse” “How in the hell could it possibly worse?!” “We could be out there.. with Stormy”.

8. The Legend of Baggy Pants Speaking of Bottle Episodes and Captain Murphy being awesome.... this one narrowly beat out the episode it’s a spirtual sequel too, the classsic all that jazz, but this one is easily better. Like that one it’s a bottle episode that’s almost entirely just Captain Muprhy on some sort of shenanigan, with only abit of other cast, in this case Hesh, Eggers, and an unfortunate phone operator. In this case the premise is simple, kind of nuts, and utterly hilarious and utterly captian murphy: Captain Muprhy is having a round of Golf in Sealab, which is weird but fits the character but what ratchets it up to funny is apparently this underwater research station, for no reason, has a pro shop. So after loosing his last ball in a reactor, and sending poor hesh in to get it leading to the advent of the glorious Monster Hesh, Muprhy spends the entire episode tooling around in his “Muprh Mobile” trying to find the pro shop. As a result it’s basically 11 glorious minutes of Harry Goz going absolutely mental as muprhy, and it is as great as that sounds. From Muprhy’s sudden hatred of pod 6, to his bullying of Eggers, a hapless sealabian he runs into and then tries to run over, his bullying of dolphin boy and then trying to run him over, to his compuance as eggers steals his stuff and then his muprh mobile, it’s just glorious riffing from one of the best in the buisness and Harry is still deeply fucking missed by yours truly. RIP you magificent stalion.

7. Cavemen One of the series final episodes, and easily one of it’s best. While the later Seasons get some flack. While season 3 is a bit weak,a s Goz’ tragic passing left them stumbling, Season 4/5... it’s complicated, is REALLY damn good and has some of the series finest episodes which many probably never saw. Case in point, Cavemen. Cavemen is another spirtual sequel this time to lost in time, which also didn’t make the list, but this one is also better. Like LIT, it focuses on one of the series best dynamics: Brainy super scientest and often only sane man Dr. Quinn and all around idiot, moron and bane of everyone’s existance, Stormy, played by Brett Butler and Ellis Henican, both of who nail the two and this episode. The two are trapped in a cave after Stormy’s stupidity blew up sealab, and his trail of dead rabbits lead a shark to him and quinn. The result is a TON of great back and forth as Stormy tries to make Quinn see him as his best friend, Quinn rightfully shouts at Stormy for... everything, and Stormy tries to show off some ancient cave painting she himself made, that quinn quickly figures out because he left his paint around, and shows that off in a very clever gag I can’t convey correctly here. We also get knife fights and Quinn beating stormy over the head with a dead rabbit, an da surprisingly solem ending where the two hold hands as they die before heading up to heaven for a happy and weird ending. Overall an episode that’s really hard to dive into as it’s just relaly damn good and all in the performances, gags and pacing, as it’s done entirely in real time. Easily worth a watch.

6. Shrabster Another great late season episode and another really experimental one. This one’s told from back to front, then we’re given the ending. It ends up working really well as it not only jacks up interest but the story itself is great. Asj it ends up turning out over the episode Dr. Quinn’s created the solution to world hunger: The shrabster, a hybrid of crab, shrimp and lobster. Grizzlebees, naturally wants it and after finding out Sparks didn’t actually own the rights, have Shanks, muprhy’s replacement, try and steal it, only for him to fall in love with the creature and spirit it away to give it a better life.. before shooting it in the end and eating it himself. We also get some good runners as Sparks starts speaking in slang and gets his neck rightfully snapped for it by Quinn, Stormy keeps eating shellfish despite being allergic, and we get the glory that is dan and don, two grizzlebees reperceives played by reed and thompson who are just an utter delight. I also ALMOST forgot the fucking announcer whose just fucking hilaroius the whole damn time with his various segways.

5. HappyCake An early classic and damn worthy with a simple, batshit premise, which as should be clear by now was Sealab’s Bread and Butter. Muprhy’s happycake oven has been stolen, so he sends Stormy (who knows about the captain’s bedwetting and thus must be silenced) Quinn and a fishman out to find it in the ocean. Turns out it’s Sparks, in a character defining episode, fault as he’s working on world domination, and thus is working on driving murphy insane and thus stole it. He and marco discuss Marco becoming his henchman and getting metal teeth, Muprhy goes nuts, it’s a damn good time. Also a lot of talk of Michael Cain so that’s always a plus now I know who he is. And of course it has one of the series best lines period “Pudding can’t help the void inside” but it’ll help. Only this low because i’ts a bit structually messy compared to what’s to come and given it beat out two really damn good structurally episodes for this slot, that should say something.

4. Hail Squishface! No best of list would be complete without this one. Once again the show banks itself on a simple premise: Captain Muprhy buys a white blob, a gloop, from a vendor and gives it liquor and gremlins style his little buddy multiplies and he soon gives them out to the crew. Everyon’es on board except Quinn.. whos naturally proven right ot be suspicious as the gloops methane output will doom them all and only muprhy, whose gone insane and is wearing squishface like a fez as you’d expect, wants them alive leading to what you’d expect: a flamethrower battle between muprhy and the crew with murphy decked out like a transformer. This one’s just endlessly creative, from the various glooptransformations to the finale to the gags, i’ts just great. The fart gags are also.. actually pretty funny, which given i’m not a fart gag guy most of the ttime, speaks to how well executed they are and use the gags of htem being fart machines. Also we get muprhy in a fez and that alone cements it as top 5 matieral.. but as for the top 3.

3. Moby Sick

Our last late season entry and the third to last episode of the show ever, this is top 3 for a reason, even above a classic like Hail Squishface. This one just has so many insane jokes packed in I forget quite a few despite them all being pretty damn great. The premise is dour: A whale named Avalard shows up in Sealab wanting to die, as he has whale cancer. Stormy recognizes him as the star of the show “Gotta Have that Dick”, even saying “I gotta have that dick!”.. which of course they have a loop of ellis saying in the credits he correctly assumes will haunt him for the rest of his days. And if a whale starring in a cheesy 90′s tgif sitcom wasn’t enough we get the best gag of the episode as Marco eats some of avalard’s whale cancer leading to an insnae kool aid style add

youtube

And of course Marco later puts on a Mayor F Whale outfit and eats the cancer.. and his way out of avalard. But before that we get fights over wether the whale should die or not, including the guy on the pro whale side stabbing him, Debby’s rambling nosense and Shanks, who first builds a wooden whale to put his brain in .. that promptly sinks “and all my puppies were in there!” and then goes on a far right pundit show and gets into a giant robot phsyical challenge.. which frankly we need more of. Tucker Carlson would be .0001 percent more tolerbale if he were getting his ass kicked in a gundam is what i’m saying.

2. Feast of Alvis I’ll be brief here, which in an article where i’m already trying to be brief says a lot but since I JUST covered this one a few weeks ago for my best holiday special lists: Feast of Alvis is, like most of sealab, deeply creative, deeply batshit and deply fun as Muprhy pushes his violent frontier version of jesus on everyone, with predicably great results. I watch it every year for damn good reason, it has some of the series best gags, including “Cram a penny o nthere” And great satire about the supposed “War on christmas”. I’m only being so breif as I said pretty much all I had to say last time. Exxcept this: Adam Reed is a DAMN talented voice actor both as virjay (though in hindishgt he REALLY shoudln’t of been playing a hindu man, especially since otherwise the series actually cast poc), and in various rolls and kills it as alvis here. So what could top one of my faviorites? Wellll.

1. Chickmate Another early one and as should be clear the best. It incapsulates the series the best, has the funniest jokes packed into it’s 11 minutes and in general is just an outstanding episode that throughly defined the cast and their rolls and chemistry. Debbie’s biological clock is ticking and she wants to have a baby, and after mothering a dolphin dosen’t help decides one of the sealab men will be the father and auditions them. It goes as well as you’d expect: Muprhy thought she’d become his mommy, and not in a kinky way, Sparks provides one of the series best gags by giving her a modest proposal by jonathan twist and giving us the utter black comedy joy of him describing “ribs dripping off the bone”, Stormy’s tape gets interrupted by Hesh who clasically screams “Hesh wants some sex”, Marco freaks her out with his muscles and quinn seems sucessful before ultimately botching it and Debbie decides none of htem are worth it. We also get stormy’s untieontally racist and throughly stupid use of the term “Black debbie” to describe the other debbie, which he gets rightfully called out on. We also get this exchange as a result Quinn: What if everyone started calling you white stormy? Stormy: You mean there’s a .. black stormy Quinn: (Beat to take in the stupidity) no.

It’s funny, it’s clever, and it’s just damn fun. Easily the series best outing and the reason it became what it became. And overall.. the series is just really good. it’s on HBO Max if your curious, and if you haven’t vistied that lab underneath the sea. maybe i’ts time to. Goodbye, Goodbye, goodbye for now, until then.. play us out marco and debbie.

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#adam reed #sealab 2021 #archer #cartoon network #adult swim #captain murphy #harry goz #tornado shanks #debbie #stormy waters #sparks #marco #dr quinn #new years

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souljaems · 4 years

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↬ “let me let you go” greekgod!au 2 — huang renjun

— “Athena is destined to always win this not ending war, but this time some things are different. You and Renjun are the humans destined to be the reincarnation of the Greek gods and Athena already has awakened inside of you, not completely, but that’s how she can feel that some things are weird. (…) You have too many feelings for Renjun, way too many.”

1st chapter — Blurb intermission 1 — Blurb intermission 2

PAIRING | Hades!Renjun x Athena!reader, w/ mention of Mark as your brother. GENRE | Action - Drama - Angst. AU | greekgod!au WORD COUNT | 5.4K WARNINGS | Aggressive behaviour, violence, reincarnation, mention of death, bruises. DISCLAIMER | I don’t know any of the NCT members personally, I’m writing this based only in my opinions and greek mythology.

↬ PLAYLIST HERE

“Milady?” Aioros asks before knocking on the door.

“Come in.” You answer, knowing that your friend won’t be satisfied after he sees that you didn’t eat as much as he wanted you to.

“As I can see, you’re still not hungry.” Aioros takes a deep breath before doing something with his eyebrow that brings you a memory from your brother, he used to do that all the time when he was worried.

Seeing your brother’s body in front of you wasn't easy, but seeing your brother’s body doing things that your brother used to do? That is a low punch.

“Is there anything that I can do to help you? You look pale.” Aioros asks, with concern all over his face. “You really should have eaten more, miss Y/N.”

For hours, you’ve been missing Renjun like crazy. It isn’t usual for you to be in control of your body for an entire day, but Athena doesn’t seem to be coming back any time soon, and you hate it. You hate how your entire body hurts. You hate the feeling that you’re constantly grasping for air, craving for a way out of that pain. Your heart aches. Your mind spins. Your hands are trembling. Your eyes hurt. Your body can’t seem to move probably. You want it to stop.

But you just miss Renjun.

Oh God, you miss your husband so fucking much.

When the two of you decided to get married, both of your families thought you were insane. You two were young adults, how would you be ready for marriage? What did you know about falling in love in the first place? Easy, you didn’t. However, you and Renjun still loved each other like crazy.

You learned how to cook with him. You learned how to clean the house with him. You learned how living felt like with him. Everything you thought you knew, you relearned it having Renjun by your side. Back then, Mark was the only one who supported your decision. He even walked down the aisle with you, since your father wasn’t Renjun’s biggest fan. Those two were your foundation, the ones you could always count on. You’ve always thought that you could always rely on them, that they would always be by your side. Today, you’ve been proven wrong. Neither of them is with you.

“I’m not hungry, just freezing.” You force your lips to move without thinking properly about the actual answer. But seconds after you did, you start to notice how cold your “room” is truly getting.

“Freezing?” Aioros furrows his brows in confusion. “But, we have a good temperature here and...” Aioros stops his sentence when he notices your hands shaking, which seems to be impossible since you have a thick blanket around your figure.

In a matter of seconds, Aioros finally starts to feel the freezing pressure coming from everywhere and smashing onto his body. That feeling, so unknown, but also very familiar, crashes into Aioros’ bones, causing his body to ache at the sudden pressure that it’s making it hard to breathe. It’s already dark outside, but something tells him that the dark blue sky has just turned into a dark deep black. Aioros knows pretty well what could make that happen, being more specific, who.

“Y/N.” You hear Aioros calling your name with a deep voice that you’ve known your entire life. That is Mark’s worried voice. “How long have you been feeling this cold sensation?” He questions in a quieter voice, as he inhales and exhales. The air feels heavier, you’re starting to feel it too.

“Aioros, what’s going on?” You ask, feeling a bunch of shivering going through your body and bristling your hair. “Why am I feeling this? What does this mean?”

“Answer me, please. I need to know how much time we have.” Aioros insists, forcing his body to move through that resistant force as he walks closer to you. “I don’t know, around an hour, maybe?” You answer, with your lips shaking as talking starts to become even harder.

“Damn it! If I’m feeling this just now, it means that he’s close, too much close. I don’t know if we can hide anymore at this point.” Aioros silently curses at the situation, looking around as he begins to think about any possible solutions to avoid a direct conflict. Without Athena in control, it’s too dangerous to risk your life in combat.

“Aioros? Him?” You question, not daring to say Hades name, feeling too afraid of the answer.

Aioros looks at you silently, still. He doesn’t wanna say the words. He doesn’t want to be the one who scares you with bad news. He doesn’t want to see you so sad again. But Hades is close, and as much as either of you want to say it out loud, you both know it.

“But you said that it would still take a while for him to come for us!” You state in a louder scared pitch, only to be quickly shushed by Aioros. “Apparently, he’s way earlier.” Aioros returns, as he starts to look for something in his pocket as if his life depends on it. And it does. “Athena was supposed to be awake in a situation like this. Why isn’t she in control?” He wonders more to himself than to you, not understanding why everything is so different from other past wars. “Can you hear her inside your head?”

“N-no, I can’t contact her.” You shake your head helplessly.

“It’s not here. Shit, I think I left it downstairs. Listen, I need you to stay here, sit on the floor and wait till I come back. We'll have to fight if we want a chance to escape.” Aioros tells you with a sudden light appearing on his eyes. He's ready to die for you if he has to, you can feel it. Somehow you know it.

Aioros is saying a lot of slang, Mark's personal problem when he's nervous. That's how you know things are a lot more serious than it sounds like. A lot more serious than the time allows to explain.

“Fight? Hold on, wait a minute, Aioros, I know nothing about fighting!” You contest in widened eyes. “Trust me, you do. Just wait here.” Aioros looks deep into your eyes for a few seconds before running out of the room, not giving you any chance to debate.

As you're left alone inside the room again, you sit on the cold floor with your head full of worries and for a second, you want to truly believe that it will be enough to keep you away from the hard truth, but when your eyes slip from your focus and shift to stare at your own hands, some forming tears start to appear. The cold Hades' pressure is not the only thing crashing into your heart right now, the fear is also burning you alive.

How can you even think about hurting the body of the man you decided to marry? The man your heart chose to be the one? Your head is not thinking straight in the middle of this situation; however, your heart would never be willing to make him go through any kind of pain.

The hard truth isn’t the fact that Hades is here. The hard truth isn’t the fact that you can barely move your body. The hard truth isn’t the fact that you know nothing about fighting.

Hard Truth time? If a miracle happens and you suddenly remember how to fight as much as Aioros says you do, you won't be able to hurt Hades if the opportunity appears.

“Athena, please, if you’re listening to me, I want you to take control, I mean, I need you to take control right now more than ever... Athena, these hands can’t hurt him. I can’t hurt him.” You let a small cry leave your lips as you stare at both of your opened hands. The same hands Renjun used to hold only a few weeks ago. “I know he’s Hades now and that he won’t hesitate if he has the chance to kill us, but I just can’t. I still love him with all of my heart.” You finish your quiet request with tears dropping off of your face directly to your hands.

Your sobbing is filling the entire room and the fear of Hades hearing you is no longer a problem. You wish you could scream and let the whole world know how miserable you’re feeling without him.

“Even if deep down I know how to fight as Aioros said, I can’t do this, and I can't lose my brother for good as well, so please, take control. Just take control. Do something. Anything." You whisper, putting all of your hopes in that next request. “Don't let me be the one to see the love of my life dying right in front of me.”

“Milady, I need you to let me put this on your neck.” Aioros quickly enters the door and whispers next to you. The second he notices the tears falling down your cheeks, a part of him breaks.

That is exactly what he wanted to avoid so bad. He failed. He wants to dry all of those tears away, take you somewhere safe and just tell you that everything will be okay. But as the pressure starts to crash onto his heart, he knows that possibility could only be reached in a dream.

“This is your armor, perhaps if you have it around your neck, it will help you to remember that you can fight.” Aioros explains as he gently pushes your hair to your neck, putting the gold necklace on you. “We just need some minutes, it will be enough to…”

“Athena! Where are you hiding, my dear old goddess friend? Don't be so rude. That is not the proper way to treat a guest.” Hades' tone is calm, but it also sounds too loud and noisy in your ears almost like he is right next to you, it's so loud that you have to contain yourself not to let a small cry leave your lips. “Especially, when we have some background history together, don't you agree?”

Even if you try to cover your ears, you know nothing will stop Hades' voice to sound loud and clear inside of you, that's the worst part of being somehow connected to the devil himself, you can't get away from him. Aioros puts his finger on his lips, indicating you to stay silent, although he knows nothing can mislead Hades now since your goddess presence attracts him. All he knows is that you need a plan, fast.

“You cannot hide her forever, Aioros.” Hades addresses as he finally stops at the front of the warehouse where you're hiding with Aioros. “Why don't you come out here? We have some unfinished business.”

“He's here.” You mouth with no sound.

At this moment, you know you have no other choice, but to rise, despite not knowing exactly how to do that.

“I don't think your unfinished business involves Aioros, Hades.” You warn him, as you finally stand up close to the open window, letting the thick blanket slip off of your figure.

You can feel Aioros' eyes burning you in the second after you've done it and when your eyes finally meet with Hades', part of you immediately regrets your bold and unthinkable decision.

“Finally! I thought I would have to order my army to burn down all of this place just to find you. Thank you for avoiding such a waste of my time!” Hades states, still in a calm tone as a half-smile takes over his face.

For a second, your whole body petrifies. You know you're looking at Hades, the lord of the dead and the king of the underworld, however, it's extremely weird how angelic he looks and how soothing his voice is, it still sounds like Renjun's voice, but is also deeper, colder and has kind of authority to it. His eyes also burn yours. As much as Hades looks like Renjun, his eyes are nothing your husband’s. Renjun’s eyes used to give you comfort and warmth. Hades’ eyes give you nothing but fear and cold.

The whole look paired with the black hair makes you forget for a second that what you’re seeing it's Renjun's body. However, it doesn't have the appearance of what you pictured Hades to look like either, which is good since you would never be capable of holding that firm posture if the vision ahead of you instantly related Hades to Renjun.

What can you say? It's hard to match an angelic appearance to the greek god who wants you dead. And as absurd as it may sound, you're thankful for it considering that it seems to be the only advantage you have against him.

In a blink of an eye, Hades opens his hands and a flash of cold black lightning hits the warehouse, obliging Aioros to quickly hold you close and jump out of the place before its explosion.

“Milady, I understand that he looks like the man you have loved your entire life, but this is Hades and I won't let him hurt you, even if you ask me to do so.” Aioros warns you as he carefully puts you on your feet again, his eyes never leaving Hades’ figure. “I will have to hurt him, you know that, right?” He stares at Hades, feeling his mythological sword finally physically appearing on his right hand.

“I know.” You lament as one of your hands moves to your necklace, avoiding to look at Hades as you try to pick what’s left of your broken heart. What you feared the most is about to happen. “What's the plan?”

“What about not letting ourselves get killed? How does that sound?” Aioros asks in a fun tone, trying to ease your nervousness as he nimbly moves his sword in circles, stopping it only to point at Hades' direction.

“That sounds like Mark.” You smile at Aioros, hoping that Mark can sometimes talk to you through Aioros, even if his body is now fully reincarnated Aioros.

“That sounds insane, even for you Aioros. You should know that such a plan won't work, especially when I have an army by my side and there are just two of you.” Hades mocks Aioros’ suggestion, motioning with his head to all the army who’s behind him, just waiting till he says the words.

“Really? Allow me then to demonstrate why I'm the strongest Athena knight." Aioros snaps and faster than your eyes could see, he punches the floor, causing the ground to crack and open up, making dozens of Hades' soldiers fall into it before it magically closes.

You gasp, not really believing what your eyes have just seen. But since you have discovered that you have reincarnated Athena, nothing can deeply surprise you anymore. And as far as you can read Hades' unbothered expression, Aioros' attack didn't cause much surprise to him either.

“Your strength abilities remain in good shape, Aioros. If I was truly a human, I would say I'm impressed, but that's not why I'm here. Shall we end this?” Hades sarcastically chuckles while he starts to slowly walk towards Aioros' direction.

You're right behind Aioros and finally, for the first time, you feel something that is not burning fear. You feel your necklace burning around your neck and a golden light starts to surround your figure. Your first impulse is to think that Athena is finally taking the lead of your body, but the feeling rushing through your veins is different: YOU are taking the power. Your power. Part of you wants to believe it's just a crazy impulse, but when your body naturally reacts to Hades moving his hand to throw his dark power at you and Aioros, you know that's not just instinct, that's you.

You rapidly move to the front of Aioros, and before Hades could complete his strike, you move your arm and throw gold energy in the shape of a staff, Athena's mythological staff, right in Hades' direction.

Hades looks incredulous for a second. But then, he recovers from his momentaneous shock fast enough to dodge your attack, regaining his imposing posture right after.

“So, you truly are the reincarnated Athena. I have to admit, I had my doubts about it since your aura didn't fit goddess greatness when I first saw you.” Hades admits as his calm and cold expression comes back to his face.

“How dare you to say that?” Aioros hisses with his eyes full of anger as he closes his fist, aiming to attack Hades to show him a piece of his mind, but you gracefully put your arm in front of him, stopping Aioros from doing so.

"Aioros, don't." Your voice sounds powerful, yet peaceful.

Aioros has been fighting by Athena's side since the age of mythology; and even if he wanted to, he could never confound her with anyone else. He knows her aura or in better words: Your aura.

“Y/N?” Aioros calls for your name in furrowed brows. Your eyes remain still locked in Hades. Aioros recognizes that fierce, yet elegantly look on your face. When seconds later, the mythological staff physically appears on your hand and by that, no doubts are required anymore. You’re somehow her. “Athena.” He states, finally letting a smile come to his lips when you nod with a side smile on your face.

Hades strikes another attack towards you, which you retaliate throwing an arrow made of your golden power that left the tip of your staff, on the direction of his attack, destroying Hades' attempt, however, the greek god manages to stop it with his open palm, crashing the arrow with his power that was centimeters of touching his skin.

“I see you’re weaker than I thought you were. As I can see, I’m not the only one going through a strange situation at this age with my usual body. However, I’m not a fool who's willing to fight a war without my full power capacity.” He smirks, making the golden arrow you throw at him turn to ashes as he closes his palm effortlessly, rubbing his hands together as if he’s cleaning them. “Don’t worry, I’m not here for you yet, I’m only here for Mark’s body.”

Something is different about you, and as much as Aioros tries to figure out what is it, nothing makes him so sure about the fact that somehow you have remained yourself, even with Athena's essence over you, like the next words you say:

“You will have to run over my dead body if that's what you wish.” You threaten him, taking a step forward and putting your body in front of your brother's body. You are not losing your brother. Not today.

“Oh, it will be my pleasure.” Hades smirks, striking another attack at you, but before it could hit your body, you position your mythological staff in front of your body, repelling his dark power back at him, causing one of his soldiers to jump in front of him to receive the attack instead of Hades. “It doesn't matter if my powers are not in their greatest moment in this age, I still am the goddess of strategy, have you forgotten about this?” You state, using the leverage of Hades' lack of attention to hit the floor with your staff, making thousands of Hades' soldiers fall on his feet.

He's standing still, staring at you almost like he is surprised at your last choices. Unlike the other times, you're being bold and not cold and calculating as usual. You are not acting like the old Athena he knows.

“So predictable. Not a good characteristic for someone who claims to be the goddess of strategy, war, and wisdom.” Hades ponders, trying to diminish your strange confidence while he raises his left hand, making all of his fallen soldiers get up on their feet again. “You can't kill the soldiers of the King of the underworld. I decide when they die.”

“But I can take down their leader, just like I've done before.” You chuckle, feeling your whole body being involved in a golden light as your suit armor finally gets out of your necklace to take place on your figure. The gold helmet, the shield on your left arm, your staff still on your right hand, all of them weighing nothing in comparison to the sparkle that has taken place in your now greyish eyes. That is what being a goddess feels like, it's like fire rushing and burning through your veins with nothing being more intense than that. Not even the glory of gold.

When you stare at Aioros', seeing him also with his armor on, you just know what you have to do. You start to run towards Hades with Aioros following and mirroring every single one of your moves from behind, like your own shadow, and before Hades could think about striking any other attack, you throw your staff towards him, causing Hades to again dodge your attack, exactly as you predicted. He just couldn't predict Aioros' sword flying right in his direction. Again, the greek god managed to get away from Aioros' attack, but not without a bleeding cut on his left arm.

Suddenly, you remember one of the most important leverages from other eras: Hades has a blind spot, one he doesn't know about.

“You dare to try to hurt me?” Hades scoffs at the sight of his bleeding arm, staring back at you like you have profaned a sacred territory. “I will take your precious big brother’s body with me, I will leave you alone at this age, and I WILL KILL YOU and every single person you have ever loved in this life, human!” He points at you, feeling his hatred consume his figure and turning the whole place around him colored in a true black.

When silver bolts of lightning and thunders start to surround you and Aioros, you position your left arm with the shield as a way to protect the both of you from the bolts of lightning; but before you can even turn around to ask Aioros for a plan, you feel your knight's hand on your right arm, forcing you to run behind him towards another empty storehouse just like the one you two were hiding earlier.

“What are you doing?!” You question, trying to break off from his grip as he drags you into another abandoned place. “Saving your life. We need to come up with a plan that doesn't involve facing Hades and his army at the same time. We are still weaker than usual and facing a furious Hades without a strategy will get us both killed or too hurt to fight back.” Aioros answers, without looking back at you as he pulls you away from any visible spots.

“I have it under control!” You contest, pulling your hand off of his grasp as you stare at Aioros with a twisted expression on your face.

“Y/N, I know you have emerged with Athena's goddess essence without losing your own essence. And no, I don't have the answer to why this is happening, but you need to get yourself together and understand that you are still the goddess of strategy. We are not gonna win this war with irrational attacks.” Aioros grabs both of your shoulders, shaking you slightly as if that can somehow make you pay attention to him.

“Aioros, I demand you to stop this nonsense!” You force his hands off of your body aggressively. “Hades is outside with his whole army with him, we do not have the time to come up with anything. We need to trust our instincts. This isn’t the time to argue whether a strategy will win the war or not.”

“I’m trying to save your-” “She's right, Aioros.” You again hear Hades' voice loud and clear in your ears. The difference? Now, he truly is inside the empty place, right behind you. “Oh Aioros, tell me you didn't think I couldn't see through my own darkness.” He addresses with nothing but pure irony on his voice, laughing while you slowly turn around to face him.

“I could have killed you right now, Athena, and it would have been so easy. Guess this age has taken your usual keen senses away as much as it has taken your rationality.” Hades opens his arms, and his whole body cracks as a pure form of darkness get out of his body, flying straight to Mark's direction.

You were about to jump in front of Aioros to protect him with your shield, when you hear Renjun's soft and confused voice, calling for your name. There is no way Hades could replicate that. And the fact you looked away from the dark form flying towards Aioros to face your Renjun on his knees for a second, is the leverage Hades needs to enter in Mark's eyes.

All you hear next is the sound of Aioros' body falling on the floor.

“AIOROS!” You outcry, throwing yourself to the floor as you try to hold the now aggressively shaking body of your brother. He’s cold. “Aioros, talk to me, what's going on?” You try to get him to look at you, but Mark's eyes are distant, almost like he's facing his own battle inside of him, which is confirmed when groans and screams of suffering start to leave his mouth. “Aioros! What is happening? What is he doing?” You shake his body, trying to get his attention as you stare helplessly at your brother's body reacting at the evil soul of Hades.

“H-he's trying to kill Aioros, so he can take control of Mark's body.” You hear Renjun's voice by your side, making you stare at him in pure desperation. Not really believing that voice belongs to your husband, not until your eyes finally met again.

For a second, you just sit there still. Your vision is blurred from the remaining darkness that continued on the air after Hades' fast movements, but deep down in your heart, you know that the person next to you is not an illusion. You were so caught up in trying to contact Hades, that you didn’t notice Renjun crawling over the floor till you. The young man next to you still has the black hair falling onto his forehead, but his eyes? Those are the eyes of the man you’re married to. Nothing could replicate those eyes, not even Hades.

A small part of you is relieved to see the love of your life alive, but the other one can't process the fact that you are on the verge of losing your brother.

“How are you alive?” You question him, more to yourself than to him, to be honest. “It doesn't matter right now. But what it does matter is that whatever made my soul continue alive when Hades inside of me, is not going to work in Mark's body if Hades manages to take control. He's going to kill them both.”

“What? No! No, there has to be another way!” You argue, shaking your head aggressively as you refuse to believe in what’s happening. This has to be a lie. A hallucination.

“You’re half Athena now, so if you don't know a solution…” Renjun holds onto his bleeding arm, trying hard to remember about everything Hades had thought when he was inside him, but finding no useful information. “Then I don't think there's one.”

“NO. I refuse to let this happen, Renjun. He is my big brother, my partner in crime, my ride or die best friend. I can't lose my brother to an evil psycho!” You exclaim in fear, staring at Renjun's eyes as if you’re looking for any type of answer they can provide you.

“You won't.” You hear Aioros' voice, followed by the cold sound of the knife he usually keeps close to his waist going through his chest.

And just like that, all the sounds of suffering cease.

You've always heard about those stories where people go through almost a death experience, and how their whole lives go through their heads in a blink of an eye, with tons of memories like flashes. Now you know they aren't true. You're not the one who's about to bleed till death, but you still see all those memories going through your head like a bullet.

The pain and sadness drain through you, taking away all the strength and power that you so firmly and believed that could save you and your brother out of this mess. The only thing left is the ocean of tears that you were trying so much to hold back previously. You have no reason to stop them from falling now.

“MARK!” You screech in pain, gently placing your brother's body on your arms with forming tears on your eyes as his eyes finally meet with yours. “Hey, little sister.” Mark gives you the best smile he could in that position, making your heart feel like it is physically breaking.

“What- Why? Why are you doing this? Have you lost your mind?! Huh?!” You let a loud cry leave your lips, watching as your brother's mouth starts to get filled with his blood. The blood with your genetics. The blood that so deeply connected the two of you. One of the greatest bond you could ever have with someone on earth.

“This-” Mark coughs his own blood, staining your trembling hand that is currently caressing his cheek tenderly. “Hades won't have enough power to hurt you in his abstract form of darkness. He'll have to go back to the underworld, and this will give you enough time to run.”

“Mark, I can't-” You choke on your tears, feeling like all the air inside of your lungs has left you alone. Your sobbing is so loud that for a second you’re scared that the words just won’t leave your mouth. “Goddammit, Mark. I can't lose you. Who is gonna secretly give candy to my future children before dinner? Who is going to show them all the pictures of me with that terrible short cut hair? You can't leave me. Why in this world would Aioros give you this terrible idea?” You hold his head next to your chest, almost like you could stop him from leaving you if only you hold him tight enough.

“He didn't, I came up with the genius plan, he just agreed with me.” He let a weak laugh leave his lips, staring at the person he loves the most in this entire world.

You.

“I'm your ride or die, remember? I have the feeling that Aioros is the same thing for Athena. And because of that, we are more than glad to sacrifice ourselves if that means that both of you will have the chance to stay alive.” Mark coughs on his blood again, getting harder and harder to speak. “Besides, Nike is by your side this time. You're finally going to break this curse and end this war.” Mark elucidates, causing you to shake your head at his statement.

“Nike? The goddess of victory? What are you talking about?” You ask, with all of your tears dropping off of your face and landing on Mark’s face. “Baby, look at your arm.” Renjun touches your right arm, making you look at it for a second, noticing for the first time a drawing of Nike glowing from the inside of your arm.

“Aioros knew something was different about you when you finally fully awakened. It is her… she has come to help us.” Mark finishes his sentence with a hopeful smile on his face, reuniting all of his left strength to cover your hand on his cheek with his own, whispering the last words you would ever hear him say to you: “I love you.”

The only thing that can be heard after that is the loud scream of pure agony that leaves your mouth, filling in the entire empty room.

You have the arms of the man you love around your figure, which was everything you could ask for some minutes ago. But at the same time, your own arms are holding close to your heart the lifeless body of the one person you thought that would never leave your side. The one you love with your whole soul. The one who left you behind with a missing piece of your heart. Your only brother. Your big brother.

Your Mark.

#nct #nct dream #huang renjun #renjun timestamps #renjun imagines #nct imagines #nct series #nct greek gods #nct dream greek gods #nct dream timestamps #nct timestamps #nct blurbs #renjun drabbles #renjun angst #renjun angst hours #nct dream blurbs #nct drabbles #nct dream drabbles

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demivampirew · 4 years

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Don’t judge a book by its cover chapter 2.

A Cap. Syverson story.

Triggers: talking about xenophobia, white privilege, crying; cursing; slang words; stalking, panic; metion of assault

Synopsis: Rebeca is an Argentinian girl who a few months ago moved to the USA (Washington D.C) to study in university thanks to a scholarship that she was granted. She’s lonely. People don’t treat her well. Some could be understood but most of them just hate her for being a foreigner. She meets Syverson because he’s a man from the South and she has not had a good experience with people from there, but she may find out at the end that she shouldn’t judge a book by its cover.

Chapter 1

Tag: lunedelorient

- So, what does a man from the South do in Washington? You're far away from home, cowboy. - Rebeca joked after asking the question as she handed him a cup of hot black coffee as he requested.

- Cowboy? Do I look like a cowboy to you? - he asked, amused.

- You certainly sound like one to me.- she replied

- You haven't been to the South, have you?

- Nope.- she said as she took a sip of coffee with milk.

- I must say, for someone who's pre-judge for being an outsider, you're pretty judgy yourself, have you notice that? - he pointed out as he raised an eyebrow

- Maybe, but you have to admit that I do have my reasons to be judgemental.- she reasoned. Then she sighed and continued- I was a really nice girl, truly. I was just a young woman living her dream of studying abroad, in the land in which dreams come true. I was given once in a lifetime opportunity based on my high grades in my university in Argentina. I heard about the programme that the embassy offered to students with high grades and decided to apply without even believing I would get it, but luckily I did. I couldn't freaking believe it. I came here excited to have the experience of a lifetime and found that life here is not like in the movies. The sweet lady I used to be had to be replaced by a living zombie. What I'm trying to say is, that I had to be tough to resist a lot of shitty things that happened to me here, but in the same time had to be as nice as I could to anyone, because even if I'm the "privileged Latina", I'm still a Latina, meaning I'm part of a minority and my actions count. It's hard, I won't lie. I'm still trying to adapt to this life in which I matter my own business...I work every day, weeks on the grocery store and weekends as a Spanish tutor; I study hard so I keep my high grades, the main reason I have my scholarship. I try not to bother anyone, so anyone will bother me. They still do it, though. - she sighed again.- The hardest part of all of this, and this is going to sound pathetic, is that I'm all by myself. My family is far away. I call them as much as I can, but in the same time I try to avoid them a little bit so they won't find out about everything that's going on, they would not be ok with staying here if they knew how things really are. And, on top of that, I have no friends. Being a "smart ass" wasn't much of a problem at my university. On the contrary, everyone wanted you around so you could help them if they had troubles understanding something. I think is mostly because people in the UBA - University of Buenos Aires - are mostly adults. There are people of all ages, but there's a lot of people in there who study and work, so you know that they take things seriously. Here, I came to find out, it's exactly like high school, just full of rich kids that only want to party. Most of the people at my classes never worked a day in their lives. The parents pay for everything, so they party all night, sleep all day. Then, the day of the exams come and they remember that they need high grades or their daddies will cut off their allowance or, in cases like Trevor, who's the captain of the football team, they could prevent him from continue playing. Is in those days that all the sudden, I became someone worthy of their attention for other things than scream "go back to your country" or "in this country we speak English" when they hear me speak to someone in my native language over the phone.

- Is that why he was bothering you today? - Syverson asked

- I assume so, yes. Every time there's an important test, he comes to me and tries hard to make me do his exam for him. I always tell him no, of course, I don't want to risk getting caught and losing my scholarship because of that.

- Has he ever tried to hurt you before? - he asked the was anger on his voice.

- No. He's always more into pranks than punches. He broke my window twice. I found dog's shit on my doorstep many times and one time I found a dead mouse on my bag. But he never went that far, probably because I always act nice. But today I was tired of his crap, so I defied him. He said something stupid like "Isn't weird that your parents named you Rebeca being Latina?" and I replied " Isn't weird that you have a brain a never use it?" and he got angry. As I said, I usually play nice, because I know he's bad news; but this time, I was fed up. And I almost ended with a black eye or a broken nose if it wasn't for you. So thank you for saving my ass.- she concluded with a smile.

- You have nothing to thank for. - he replied smiling back at her. - Do you have a pen and a piece of paper? - he asked.

- Ye...yeah, sure. - she said confused by the odd request and looked for what was asked for in her bag and then handed them to him. He wrote a number in the paper and gave it to her.

- That's my number. You call me next time someone messes with you or you're in trouble.- he told her. It sounded more like an order rather than a suggestion. He was clearly someone used to command; the authority in his voice was undeniable.

- I don't want to bother you. Don't worry about me. I'll be fine.

- You won't bother me. This is the reason why I joined the forces. I didn't only want to fight for my country, I wanted to help and protect people. Believe it or not, the second being the main one. And you are clearly someone that needs to be looked after and since you don't have anyone else, I'm glad to take that job.- he said and smiled.

- Tha..thanks -she finally accepted. Rebeca wasn't used to asking for help. She always tried to manage everything by her own, as well as she could, but she had to admit that it was nice to know that someone was willing to help her if she needs it to. - So... - she said, returning to the beginning of their conversation - You never told me what are you doing in Washington?

- I live here- he replied

- Have you lived here for long? - she asked, curious.

- A few years. I used to live in Georgia, but after my mother passed away so I didn't have anything else for me back there and, at the time, I was seeing a woman and she wanted to move here, so that's what we did.

- So you are married. - she pointed out and he laughed.

- No, ma'am. I'm not. We were together for some time, but then duty called again and she didn't want me to go, but I had to go. I had to. They needed me there. She couldn't quite get that so she left. It's been only me since then.- he explained.

- Sorry to hear that.

- Don't worry, I had time to get over it. - he assured her and finished his coffee and got up from the couch - Well, I better get going. You probably need to rest.

Rebeca walked him to the door and he reminded her to call him if she needed him and then left.

The next few days were quite normal. Everyone in college heard about what happened with Trevor, which make some people hate her more, others started to like her a little bit and others were scared of her - well, they were scared that "Rebeca's boyfriend" would beat the shit outta them if they messed with her. She barely knew Syverson, but she didn't bother correcting them. If that helped her get some peace, so be it, let them believe she's Sy's girlfriend. She surprised herself more than once thinking about him and using Sy instead of his full surname.

On Friday, she had to work until late to cover for the hours that they allowed at work to take the test that she missed because of the incident with Trevor. Luckily, the people at the university received a note sign by a high range officer at the police station to use as proof that she spend the day testifying about the intent of assault, so she was able to take the exam another day. She left the grocery store and started to walk towards her place. It was twenty blocks away. She usually worked until 8 pm, but that day she worked until 11 pm - the store was always open until midnight. After her shift, the owners would take her place. Rebeca knew well the way back home and there was usually some people on the streets when she went to her place after work, but this time the streets were completely empty. Not a single soul was there and it was completely dark. She started to walk at a really fast pace, wishing to get to the house as soon as possible.

After walking for a few minutes, she noticed two men, both around 25-30 years old. They were walking in the street across her but then crossed to her street. They were at a block away distance from her. She tried not to panic. Maybe those guys just needed to be on that block, that's all. When she reached the corner of the street, she turned and continue walking for another street. She knew it was risky because she didn't know the place well and she could get lost, but she needed to know for sure that was just imagination. At the corner, she saw in a car's mirror that the two guys had also turned in the same street that she did. It wasn't her imagination. She was indeed being followed. Trembling, she grabbed her phone from her coat pocket, trying to maintain calm so they wouldn't notice that she knew they were following her. Without even thinking, she searched for a number in her contacts and presses the dial button.

- Hello? Who is it? - Syverson answered with his thick Southern accent

- It's me, Rebeca. - she mumbled; she didn't want them to hear her speak

- Rebeca? I can barely hear you. Are you ok? - he asked worriedly

- I'm being followed.- she said fighting the tears of fear.

- What?! - he questioned even worrier- Tell me where you are? Who's following you?

- I don't know. There are two men around 30 following me. I was on my way home after work and I saw them and I suspected but then changed my route to see if the still followed me and yes, they are still walking behind me, a block away distance. - she explained as well as she could, almost whispering and he could hear the terror on her voice.

- Ok. Keep walking, don't stop walking. I'm on my way.- he said as he grabbed the car keys and left his house- Tell me, what street are you on?

- I don't know the name.

- Look for a street sign or something I can use to track you down. - he ordered her and she started to look, as nonchalant as possible, for any clue.

- I see a coffee shop in the next block, next to a flower store. - she informed

- Is there a house with pink roses on the entrance on the corner of the street? - he questioned

- Yes.- she replied.

- I know exactly where you are, sweetheart. Continue walking, I'll be there soon. I have to hang out now. Be brave, you're gonna be ok, you heard me?

- Ok.-she try to sound calm by she was in full panic. She continued walking as fast as she could, even though her legs felt like jelly.

Syverson put back the phone on his pocket and turned on the car and went to her rescue. He ignored several red lights and over speeded, but he didn't have the time to care about that, he needed to make it on time. He had his gun with him. He hoped he didn't have to use it, but he was no going to let anyone hurt her.

Rebeca peeked at the men trough another's car's mirror and to her horror, they were even closer. Her legs were starting to give in. She was so afraid that her body was shaken and she was starting to feel paralyzed. It was only her survival instinct what was keep her going. Moments later, she saw a car light coming from the opposite direction in which she was walking. The car started to slow down the fast pace and then she could finally see it. It was him. It was Sy. He stopped the car and she started running. He got out of the car as fast as he could. She ran directly into his arms and hugged him as tight as she could and the started to cry because of the fear and because she was happy that he was there. She was safe now. The two men started to run back in the direction that they came off as soon as they saw Syverson and his gun. He wanted to run after them, if they were predators, they could look for another victim, but his priority at the moment was Rebeca. She was trembling and crying and he needed to make her feel safe and ok. He hugged her and caress the back of her head while telling over and over "It's ok, I'm here now. You're safe. I promise".

#henry cavill #captain syverson #cap sy #captain syverson fanfic #fanfiction #demivampirew

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trulymadlysydney · 5 years

Text

Somewhere In Time: Five

“And once the storm is over, you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm, you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.”

-Haruki Murakami

Previous Chapters HERE

tw: Death, Loss of Parent, Harassment

***Please Do Not Repost Without Permission***

7:25am, January 3rd, 1925

Roni did the right thing.

She knows she did the right thing, and yet she cannot shake the guilt hanging over her head and the anxious twisting of her stomach every time she thinks about what happened last night.

It isn’t guilt for Oliver, it’s guilt for Harry. And for some reason, that is the hardest part.

It’s raining in New York today, which seems fitting given Roni’s current state of distress. She’d hardly slept at all through the night. Harry’s room had felt particularly freezing last night, and Roni couldn’t seem to bury herself far enough under the blankets. She isn’t a crier usually, but she’d finally drifted off around midnight when her emotions had gotten the best of her. It had been a restless sleep during which she’d woken up several times, and each time came with a painful new reminder of why her heart felt so unhappy.

It isn’t fair that she’s here. It isn’t fair that she’s here with him, and he’s so beautiful and kind and generous, and it isn’t fair that for the first time in her entire life she’s feeling something completely unexplainable and new. She almost wishes she didn’t even come here to begin with-- almost-- because everything feels so twisted and weird. It isn’t right, but it isn’t wrong either.

And above all else, Roni really misses her mom.

There had been several instances throughout the night in which Roni had considered opening the door just to go talk to Harry, but what would she even say? Especially the later it got, she didn’t want to wake him-- if he was even sleeping at all.

After Roni had told Harry that she couldn’t kiss him-- despite everything in her screaming at her to do it-- he’d sighed. She wasn’t sure what she was expecting from him, but she figured that no matter the reaction, it would’ve hurt just as much. He hadn’t backed away immediately, and Roni could feel his lashes flutter against her skin.

“You can’t.” He’d repeated, and it wasn’t a question.

“Harry, I’m sorry--”

He held up his hand to stop her as he took a step back. “Don’t. Don’t do that. Don’t apologize.”

“I really want to, it’s just--”

“You can’t,” Harry repeated, a sad and almost bitter smile creeping across his face. “I get it. You don’t need to tell me twice.”

Roni felt completely at a loss for words as she watched him back away from her. “Harry, don’t do this.”

“Don’t do what? I’m not doing anything.”

Tears welled in Roni’s eyes at the same alarming rate that Harry’s smile grew sadder. She gave him a sad shrug, shaking her head as she tried to come up with any words.

“I’m so sorry,” she’d whispered.

“Stop.” Harry had prayed Roni didn’t hear the crack in his voice, but of course she had. So he cleared his throat and tried again. “Veronica,” he said, slowly and pointedly. “Don’t.”

It was too late, however, when the first tear rolled down Roni’s cheek. Despite how desperately she’d wanted to run to Harry and, at the very least just hold him for comfort’s sake, she knew that wasn’t a possibility. Not now. Not when he looked so hurt and dejected. Not when he was begging her not to make this any worse than it already was.

So she’d only nodded her head. “Okay.”

They’d stood there like that for the next few moments, just eyeing one another and daring the other to move. In the end, it was Harry who broke the stillness first-- walking to the couch to unfold the blanket he’d been using. “I’m going to bed now.”

“Do you want to take your bed tonight?” It was a pitiful offering, and Roni had known that the moment it had escaped her lips. Even Harry shot her a look, as if that were the most absurd thing he’d ever heard in his life.

“Absolutely not.”

“Okay.” Roni had felt like an idiot the entire time they were speaking, but for some reason that seemed to be the final nail in the coffin. So she’d swallowed down a sob threatening to bubble out, wiped at her runny nose, and croaked out a soft, “Goodnight then.”

He hadn’t reciprocated the well wishes.

Now, here Roni lies. Her body physically refuses to sleep any longer, but she knows it must not be any later than seven. She’s usually an early riser, yes, but this feels ridiculous.

Her ears prick when she hears a stirring in the kitchen. Is Harry awake, too? Had he gotten just as little sleep as she had? Is he feeling the same?

Roni weighs her options for a moment, going back and forth over whether she should leave him alone or go talk this out with him. She hears the kitchen sink begin running, and ultimately her curiosity gets the better of her. So she slides out of bed and makes her way over to the door.

When she opens it, she’s surprised by the sight of Harry fully dressed down to the shoes, washing a glass. He glances over his shoulder when he hears her, and only offers her an unbothered, “Morning.”

“Good morning.” Roni steps timidly out into the living room, wrapping her arms around her chest. “You look nice.”

“Thank you.” Harry finishes washing the glass and places it on a mat beside the sink. He turns to face Roni with a polite smile as he begins shimmying into his coat.

“It’s early.” Excellent conversation starter.

Harry nods. “It is, yeah.” He stops suddenly and looks at her somewhat worriedly. “Didn’t wake you, did I?”

The fact that Harry still seems concerned about such a small thing as that warms Roni’s heart just the tiniest bit, and she smiles weakly back at him. “No, I was awake. I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“Mm.” Harry begins doing up the buttons of his coat. “Neither did I, I’m afraid.”

Roni wants to mention the elephant in the room just to get it over with, but Harry seems in a bit of a hurry, so she tries again with the casual conversation.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m going into town,” Harry replies nonchalantly.

“For what? The bookshop is--”

“--is closed today. I know that.” Now he is looking at her, and she wishes he wasn’t. He softens just a touch when he sees her looking sadly back at him, and he sighs. “I think I just need to clear my head a bit.”

Roni wants so badly to say something, but she knows that this is for the best. They do need some time apart from each other after last night, even though every fiber of her being is screaming at her to do the opposite. She wants to make use of the time she has left here-- however long that may be-- and spend as much of it with him as she can. But he needs a moment away, and so does she. So all she can manage is a soft mutter of, “Take your umbrella. It’s raining.”

Harry nods in somber agreeance, and begins walking, only to stop moments later as if he’s just remembered something. “Oh, by the way.” He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a folded up flyer. He gently tosses it onto the table and nods towards it. “Found this this morning as I was taking the bins out. I figured you would be interested. I’m not sure if it’s useful or not, but it may be a start in the right direction to find you a way back home.”

His words make Roni’s heart both sink and flutter with excitement, and it’s the most bizarre feeling she’s ever experienced. She walks over to the table to get a better look at the discarded paper.

It’s a flyer with a black background, and a yellow crystal ball smack in the middle of it. In a strange yellow font the name “Miss Violet LaRue” crosses the top half of the paper while words like “love,” “future” and “destiny” float ominously around the ball. There’s a short description at the bottom of the flyer, describing Miss LaRue’s practices of fortune telling, palm reading, tarot, and “answering some of your deepest life questions.” Roni beams up at Harry as the puzzle pieces begin connecting in her brain. “Harry, you’re a genius!”

He smiles back at her and offers a humble shrug. “Like I said, it may be something. But it may also be nothing. But at the very least, you’ll have a better sense of direction when you see her. Oh and,” he nods towards the flyer again, “you’ve got to go see her this afternoon. She isn’t open tomorrow.”

Roni frowns as Harry makes his way through the room. “You aren’t going with me?”

He speaks over his shoulder at her as he opens the door. “Think you need to go alone, Veronica. It’s what’s best.” He pauses, then adds. “The address is on the flyer. You’ll have no trouble finding it. Take the spare key under the mat.”

His words feel like another blow to the chest, but again she understands his reasoning. So she smiles and gives him a nod. “Alright. See you tonight for dinner?”

For a brief moment, Harry seems almost completely himself again. He shoots her his beautiful dimpled smirk and nods. “See you tonight. Don’t take any wooden dimes, yeah?”

Roni has no idea what that means, but she figures with the amount of slang she’s thrown over Harry’s head, she can let this slide. Harry begins leaving, but just as the door is almost fully closed behind him, he swings it open again. “Oh, Veronica?”

“Yes?”

“Your breakfast is in the refrigerator.”

----

It doesn’t take Roni very long to get ready for the day, but what does take a while is working up the courage to leave the apartment. Harry had made it feel so easy the past few days, and being by his side had made the entire ordeal painless. Of course she knows her way around the city but not like this. Things are different now. People are different. She’s wandered the streets solo plenty of times in the 90s, but now just the thought alone makes her feel like she’s drowning, and if she thinks about it too long she knows she’s going to send herself into a panic attack.

It’s one of those situations where she knows she just has to go for it. Planning and overthinking are her specialties of course, but on the other hand she can recall several instances of spontaneity that had ended up as some of her favorite memories. Granted, she doesn’t necessarily expect roaming the streets of 1925 New York to become a fond memory passed down through the ages, but still-- what a story.

So with a final look in the mirror to ensure that she looks the part and a deep, shaky breath that she prolongs to stall time, Roni takes the flyer and Harry’s spare key and makes her way out into the damp, cold afternoon.

It’s no longer raining, but the sky is still full and threatening. The moisture in the air clings to Roni the moment the door closes behind her, and she tries her best not to become overwhelmed already at the differences in the world around her.

Everything smells more of wet pavement than of the cigarette smoke and motor oil she’s used to in the 90s, and instead of honking horns and screeching tires against the wet ground, she hears people in the distance actually talking and laughing with one another. Nearby, a radio plays through an open window.

As Roni descends the steps, her legs feel like jello. She knows she shouldn’t be nervous, and she attributes these nerves partly to her whole situation with Harry. Nothing about that situation feels right, but she isn’t sure how on earth to fix it. All she knows is that last night, laughing with him, being close to him, being around him in general-- that was the most right she’s felt in a long while.

She reaches ground level and picks up the pace with her walking. Harry had told her she wouldn’t have too much of an issue finding the place, and she trusts him. The layout of the city is exactly the same, so if she goes by landmarks rather than business names, she should be alright.

No one seems to pay Roni any mind when she turns onto a busier street. Not that she was expecting them to, of course, but it’s comforting to know that she blends right in. Aside from the occasional muttered greeting from a few passersby, Roni goes almost completely unnoticed.

Until she doesn’t.

It’s ten minutes later when Roni begins to suspect she’s taken a wrong turn. It’s twenty minutes later when she realizes she definitely has.

The buildings no longer look familiar, and it’s making her increasingly more flustered with herself. She could have sworn the building for Ms. La Rue was on the corner of Seventy-Second and Hall, but now that she’s here she knows she’s made a big mistake. The block is empty-- more of an alleyway than a block anyway. Laundry hangs forgotten on lines between brick buildings, and it feels like nearly every house has been abandoned. It’s so strange to her how one street over, the city seemed so full of life and joy. Now it just feels desolate and cold.

“Hey doll.” A deep voice brings Roni out of her thoughts, and she turns to see a man staring back at her. She doesn’t like the look in his eyes, and she tenses when he removes the cigarette from his mouth. “What’s a pretty gal like you doin’ on this side of town, huh?”

He’s an ugly man through and through. He’s in a white tank-top, with a beer belly suspended over his dress pants. A thin mustache lines his upper lip, and his eyebrows are peppered with white hairs. When he smiles, his teeth are yellow. He seems the perfect caricature of a sinister man, and Roni’s gut tells her he is not to be trusted.

He takes a step towards her, and Roni instinctively takes a step back. “Sorry, I--I think I’m lost,” she says, and she hates how timid her voice sounds. Why did she even apologize?

The man fake coos, closing the space between him and Roni completely and eyeing her like a hawk. “You sound scared, baby doll. You scared?”

He reeks of cigarette smoke, and Roni can’t stop the involuntary cough from escaping her lips. “No,” she lies. She doesn’t get it, if she were home she knows she’d be able to stand her ground with no problem. But now, in a place where she feels small enough as it is, she isn’t sure what to do.

“Can tell you’re lost though,” he says, after another long drag from his cigarette. “You smoke?”

“No, I--”

“That was a joke,” he chuckles, flicking ash onto the pavement. “Can I help you find where you’re going?”

Roni gulps down a lump in her throat. “I mean… maybe.”

“Maybe,” he repeats through another laugh. “You’re cute, baby. Got a name?”

“Tanya.” It’s the first thing Roni can think of, and she doesn’t like the smirk on his face when he hears it.

“Well, ain’t that pretty. Almost exotic, huh?”

“No, it’s not.” Roni’s growing increasingly more impatient, and slightly more brave. “Look, if you’re not gonna help me--”

“Woah woah woah, slow your roll, baby doll.” He tosses the cigarette onto the ground and stomps on it with his shoe. “If you behave yourself we’ll get you out of here no problem, yeah?”

He puts his hand on her lower back, but she pulls away immediately. He only chuckles, closing the gap again. He nods his head towards the flyer in her hand. “What’s that?”

“Oh, uh--” Roni isn’t sure if this is information she should divulge or not. On the one hand she knows he could help her, or at the very least point her in the right direction. But on the other, does she really trust this man to know where she’s planning on going?

He takes the flyer from her hands before she even has time to finish contemplating, and he squints as he holds it close to his face. “This where you’re headed?”

Roni only looks up at him with wide eyes and clenched jaw. She’s clearly afraid, but if he sees her apprehension he pays it no mind. He instead barks out a laugh. “You believe in this junk? Magic and all that?”

“I don’t know,” Roni says, mustering up as much courage as she can. “That’s what I was going to find out.”

“Well, aren’t you the cutest little thing.” The man tosses the poster with a chuckle and it lands pathetically into a puddle. Roni winces, and he wraps an arm around her-- tighter this time. “Tanya, what do you say I show you some real magic? Think you’d like that?”

“No.” Roni tries to make her voice firm as she tears herself out of his grasp. She isn’t this girl. She’s not the type to cower, especially not in front of a man like this. She clenches her fists at her sides. “Don’t touch me. Leave me alone.”

“Ooh, you’re a feisty one aren’t you?” He’s got a smirk on his face that terrifies Roni, and he saunters slowly towards her. “Come on, doll. What’s the matter, you got a boyfriend or somethin’?”

Roni begins walking backwards, too afraid to turn her back on him. “I said leave me alone.”

Of course he doesn’t listen to her. She wasn’t exactly expecting him to one way or another, but the fact that he’s still advancing towards her makes her feel smaller and smaller with every step. “Does your boyfriend know you’re out here all alone?” He taunts. “Hm? Pretty little thing like you shouldn’t be alone out here.” His smirk deepens and his eyebrows twitch with his words. “You know there’s bad guys out here.”

Roni stumbles a bit over a loose piece of cobblestone and nearly loses her footing. The man only chuckles. “Oh!” he says with a grin. “Careful now.”

Roni feels a thud, and she’s worried that she’s got herself backed into a wall-- only the wall is warm and pliable. She whirls around and comes face to face with someone she is instantly thankful to see.

“Harry, I--”

Harry gently cuts her off, nudging her to stand behind him. He looks straight at the man who was bothering her. “What seems to be the trouble here?” His voice is cool and firm, but light all at the same time.

From her spot behind Harry, Roni realizes that this man isn’t all that big after all. Maybe it’s because she was so afraid and already feeling small to begin with, but now she can see that he stands no taller than Harry. Behind Harry, she feels small in a good way, and it’s immediately comforting.

The man frowns. “You know her?”

“Howard,” Harry says, with a tight lipped smile, “I see you’ve met my girlfriend.”

So many questions are running through Roni’s head. How long had he been here, and how did he know this man?

The man-- Howard-- shakes his head in confusion. “Girlfriend? Styles, you sly dog.” He chuckles, as if he and Harry have been friends for ages. Harry, however, doesn’t so much as crack a smile.

“I believe she told you to leave her alone. Did she not?”

Howard rolls his eyes. “We were just having a bit of fun, weren’t we baby? You knew I wasn’t really gonna hurt ya.”

“No!” Roni speaks up, feeling a bit braver from behind Harry. “I didn’t, fucker!”

Harry holds out his hand to quiet her, exhaling through his nose. Howard smirks. “Got quite the mouth on her, hasn’t she? If she were my girl, I’d take her over my knee and show her who’s in charge, eh? Bet you have some fun with that one.”

Even from behind, Roni can see Harry’s jaw clench. He closes and opens his fist several times, as if contemplating his move, before simply taking a step closer. In the blink of an eye, he’s got Howard’s shirt collar in his fist, and he’s yanking Howard so close to him their heads nearly collide. HIs voice is low when he speaks, but Roni can hear him crystal clear, and it makes even her own blood run cold.

“I swear to God, if you so much as fucking look at her one more time I’m going to kill you. Do you understand me?”

Howard doesn’t answer, and there’s a moment of tension in which Roni thinks Harry might actually kill him right then and there. If looks could kill, Howard would already be dust by now. His look is unreadable, but Harry’s is pure anger, and Roni almost feels she should intervene.

Harry shoves Howard backwards, letting go of his shirt and causing Howard to stumble with a curse word, before reaching for Roni’s hand. He doesn’t look back, interlacing his fingers with hers as he walks. “Let’s go, love.”

Part of Roni wants to look back at Howard, to make sure he isn’t going to do anything else. But the more dominant part of her wants to keep going until this place is far behind her. Harry’s strides are wide, and Roni has to take uncomfortable double strides just to keep up with him, but it’s comforting being with him nonetheless.

Out of nowhere, Harry lets go of Roni’s hand and whirls around, catching Howard’s flying fist just in time before it would have hit him. Roni shrieks involuntarily but Harry doesn’t so much as flinch.

For the first time, Harry actually smiles a slow smile that scares even Roni. “I wouldn’t if I were you, mate.”

With one more shove, he pushes Howard back, this time effectively causing him to lose his balance and stumble onto the ground. Harry doesn’t even wait to see him land; instead he resumes his spot beside Roni, places his hand on her back, and continues walking.

This time, Roni does look back over her shoulder, and Howard curses up a storm. He damns Harry to hell, he calls Roni a bimbo, he throws all kinds of insults at them just to try and get a reaction from Harry. It makes Roni’s blood boil, but Harry keeps a steady composure-- the only thing giving away his anger is the way his jaw flexes.

They round the corner onto the busier street Roni had been on earlier, and Harry finally speaks.

“You can stop looking now. He’s not going to bother us anymore.”

“What the hell was that?!” Roni turns to face Harry.

“Could ask you the same thing, love.” He finally stops walking, turning to face her and brushing her hair off of her forehead. “Are you hurt?” He’s scanning her for any cuts or bruises, and his touch is so gentle that Roni could melt.

“I’m fine,” she says, “He didn’t hurt me.” Harry seems unconvinced as he continues to scan her, but Roni can’t wait any longer for clarification. “So, I’m sorry, you know him?”

“Knew. Unfortunately.” Harry steps back, holding Roni’s shoulders in his hands and eyeing her closely. “You’re sure he didn’t hurt you?”

“I’m sure!” Roni insists impatiently. “And what were you even doing over here anyway? How did you manage to be there right on time?” Roni narrows her eyes. “Are you stalking me?”

Harry snorts, the same familiar smirk that Roni has grown so fond of spreading across his cheeks. “Don’t flatter yourself. I used to work over here.”

“What?”

Harry points just beyond Roni’s shoulder. “That building there? That’s Milton’s. Our good friend Howard works there. He’s only been there for a year but he and Milton are all buddy-buddy. Thinks he runs the bloody place, but he’s so far up Milton’s arse he can see out of his mouth. Pardon my language.”

“So he’s a scumbag.”

“To put it lightly, yeah. We had it out a few times at work. Right dickhead he was. Never liked the guy.”

“I can see why,” Roni says. “But that still doesn’t explain why you happened to show up at the perfect time like something out of a cheesy rom-com.”

Harry gives Roni the smile reserved for when she says something that goes well above his head. “A what?”

Roni shakes her head. “Nevermind. Just tell me what you were doing here. Please.”

Looking over Roni’s shoulder at the brick building that houses Miltons, Harry shrugs. “Left a couple of things there the night they sacked me. I mean, I wasn’t exactly expecting to get sacked, you know what I mean? So I forgot about ‘em. Figured I should come collect my things today, only the pricks sold them.”

Roni frowns. “You’re kidding.”

“Wish I was. It’s been, what, three days since I left and they managed to sell everything I had in there? You’d think they’d have the decency to keep them for me, after I spent so many years there. But hell, what do I know.”

“That’s awful.” Roni has a mind to storm into the building and give everyone a piece of her mind, including Milton himself-- but considering the way she just handled things with Howard, she figures that isn’t one of her better ideas. “What did you leave there?”

“Pair of shoes I was custom making for my father. Gold watch from my grandfather that I’d forgotten to take off before work that day.” Harry pouts. “And my favorite hat.”

“What?” Roni is outraged on his behalf. “They can’t do that!”

“They can. They did.” Harry seems lost in thought for a moment before he shrugs and changes his tune. “At any rate, what’s done is done. When I was leaving the building, I saw you turning down seventy-second street. I knew Howard was down there on his fourth smoke break of the day, and I also knew that any outcome of you running into him would not be a good one. So, I’m glad I caught you when I did.”

Roni smiles gratefully up at Harry. “Me too,” she says softly. “Thank you, by the way”

“It’s what I do best,” Harry says, with a dismissive shrug and a cocky grin. “Just a block over is where I ran into you for the very first time.”

This throws Roni for a loop, and it takes her a moment to process what he’s just said. “Wait, seriously?”

“Why are you so surprised?”

“Because I… the walk to your apartment that night wasn’t that long.”

Harry seems amused. “I only live about eight minutes down Baker Street.”

“Eight minutes?” Now Roni feels more disoriented than she’s felt all day. “It took me twenty to get here!”

Harry snorts. “Twenty? Bloody hell, Veronica, what streets did you take?”

“I don’t know, but--” Roni pauses when she hears Harry laughing, and she becomes defensive. “Don’t laugh at me! You try finding your way around a city like, fifty years before you’re actually born!”

“I know, darling, I know.” Harry tries to get his giggles under control, and he smiles almost sadly down at her. “I shouldn’t have left you this morning. This was my fault, and I apologize.”

Roni lets out an injured little sniff. “Thank you. Apology accepted.”

They look at each other, wordlessly trying to decipher if the air between them is clear or not. Roni wants to reach out and hug him, at the very least for her own comfort after her encounter with Howard, but she isn’t sure that’s the right thing to do in this situation.

To think, Harry had first found her so near here, she could have ended up with anybody else. Howard could have been the one to find her that night, and she shudders at that realization.

Harry breaks the tension by changing the subject. “So, I’m assuming you haven’t gone to see Miss La Rue then?”

“Haven’t quite made it that far, no. And now that Howard ruined the flyer I’m even more lost than before.”

Harry smiles. “Well, luckily for you, I happen to know my way around quite well. I remember where it was.”

“You do?” Roni sounds like a hopeful little child, and it makes Harry beam.

“I do, yeah. This way.”

Harry turns to begin walking, but Roni grabs his arm and stops him without thinking. “Wait.”

“Hm?” Harry glances over his shoulder at her, and she’s biting her lip as if nervous.

“I hate to ask this. Like, really hate to ask this. And you can say no, but I… I mean, would you mind if… we held hands?”

Harry smirks as if she just revealed some deep, juicy secret, and Roni launches into her reasoning. “It’s just that, I don’t know, I would feel better if we did. Especially after what just happened, I’m not really in the mood for someone else to be creepy like that, you know?”

Harry nods, reaching out and interlacing their fingers. He gives her hand a reassuring squeeze. “It’s alright, love. I know. And I don’t mind.”

Roni visibly relaxes when they begin walking hand in hand. It doesn’t feel uncomfortable or strange or forced like it does sometimes the first time you purposely hold hands with a person. Harry naturally allows Roni’s thumb to be on the inside (something that’s oddly very important to her) and every now and then he brushes the back of her hand with his own thumb while they walk and talk.

Harry doesn’t hesitate telling Roni about his day, and she’s thankful for the fact that whatever happened between them last night seems to be behind them. At least for now. Without thinking, she squeezes Harry’s hand, and without breaking his story, he squeezes back.

Violet La Rue’s shop is located about six minutes east, and when they arrive Roni is pleased to note that it’s in a much nicer part of town. The shop is located on the upper floor of a smaller building that Roni is pretty sure is abandoned in the 90s. If the shop has a name, Roni has completely missed it, because all she sees is a small neon sign propped in the window, reading “Psychic, $5” beside a yellow neon moon.

As Roni and Harry ascend the steps, Roni feels all of her nerves returning. She takes Harry’s forearm in her free hand, clinging to him and feeling far more skittish than before. Of course, true to Harry fashion, he simpers down at her. “What’s gotten into you? You should be excited. Are you not?”

“I don’t know,” Roni admits. “Now that I’m here it’s just-- it all feels real. I’m...scared. What if she doesn’t have the answer?”

Harry stops at the top of the steps, just before the entrance, and turns to face Roni. “Then we keep looking. It’s that simple.” He moves to open the door, but Roni reaches out and stops him.

“But what if--” She blurts, fidgeting nervously with her mood-ring and looking up at Harry timidly. “What if she does have the answer… and I don’t like it?”

Harry lets her words sink in, letting out an audible sigh that weighs heavily on Roni’s heart. “Then,” he says slowly, “you get your life back. You go back to the way things were, just like you’ve wanted since you got here.” He says the last bit with a pointed look, and Roni deflates.

Is that what she wants?

Roni doesn’t know the answer, and Harry seems to understand, because he softens and gives her shoulder a squeeze. “It’s going to be okay, Veronica. One way or another. We’re going to get you sorted out, yeah? I promise you.”

With a deep breath, Roni allows herself to smile, reaching again for Harry’s hand, She mutters a soft, “okay,” and nods to signal that she’s ready to enter.

The inside of the shop is almost identical to what Roni had been picturing in her mind. It’s quite small, and the walls are purple, giving the illusion that it’s much darker than it is. The air is thick with the smell of patchouli and other spices. There’s a front desk area, where a young woman sits flipping through a fashion magazine. Along the walls are a few chairs for customers to sit, and in the back corner, a hallway with curtains of beads and shells in the place of a door. Roni assumes the hallway leads to Violet’s room, and she chews her lip nervously as she waits for someone to appear.

“May I help you?” The girl at the desk finally acknowledges their presence and rises to her feet. She’s much shorter than Roni was anticipating.

Roni glances nervously from Harry to the girl-- Mary, as her nametag states. “We were wondering if Ms. La Rue was in today?”

“She is.”

Harry and Roni exchange excited glances, but they are short lived when Mary speaks again. “But she’s not in a state to see customers this afternoon.”

“What?!” It’s Harry who asks, almost more upset than Roni is.

“The weather is troubling her,” Mary replies, completely unbothered. “The spirits are incredibly active with the storm, and it is terribly overwhelming. She’s got quite the headache, you see, and she’s lying down in the back. She asks that you respect this.”

“You should have turned off the sign then!” Now Harry sounds angry.

“I couldn’t.” Mary shrugs. “We are open until six.”

Roni steps forward and speaks. “Do you know when she’s going to be available again? I mean, if you’re staying open till six I’m willing to sit here and wait.”

“I do not.” Mary takes her seat again and begins flipping through her magazine to find where she’d left off. “The last time the spirits troubled her this way she had to lie down for three whole days. She spoke to no one.”

Harry scoffs. “And I bet you kept the bloody sign on still.”

“Of course.”

Roni stomps her foot impatiently, her anger finally getting the best of her. “That’s bullshit! You can’t do that to people!”

Now Mary drops the magazine out of shock. “I beg your pardon--”

“No, don’t beg my pardon! We came all the way here because we trusted you. I’m lost, and I’m stuck, and I’m confused, and-- and at least if the sign was off or the door was locked, I wouldn’t have gotten my hopes up so high! But what you’re doing is wack! It’s shitty! This whole day has been shitty and now you’re just gonna shit all over it some more because your friend doesn’t feel like working?”

Mary looks as if she’s seen a ghost, and as much as Harry agrees with Roni’s words-- however blunt or vulgar they may be-- he knows that this isn’t the place for this. People don’t speak like this here-- not women at least, and he knows he needs to stop Roni while she’s ahead.

So Harry puts his hand on Roni’s shoulder and turns her towards the door. “Let’s get out of here. We’ll find somewhere worth our time.”

Roni allows Harry to guide her away, but she’s still fuming. In her heart, she knows she’s being a bit melodramatic. But fuck it, she’s had a long and emotionally exhausting day, and if this is how her emotions choose to manifest themselves, so be it.

She reaches for the door, with every intention of slamming it behind her once she’s outside, but stops suddenly in her tracks.

Something about the energy in the room has shifted dramatically. Not in a bad or unsettling way, more in a calming and peaceful way. And when Roni turns to figure out why, she sees both Harry and Mary staring at the reason.

Between the now parted bead and seashell curtains stands Violet La Rue. She stands about the same height as Roni, and she appears to be only a few years older than everyone in this room. She wears a long purple dress that seems to be from a much older time period, and her presence commands attention. The only word Roni can come up with to describe her is ‘ethereal,’ and her unreadable expression that seems both amused and disinterested has Roni immediately captivated. By far, she is the most beautiful woman Roni has ever seen.

“You’ve traveled from very far away to see me, haven’t you?”

Her voice is melodic and powerful yet soothing in the strangest way possible. Somehow, Roni gets the feeling that Violet already knows why she’s here. So she takes a nervous step forward, forgetting momentarily that anyone else is even near her. “Yes ma’am.” She isn’t even sure why she’s just called her ma’am. This girl isn’t that old, but her soul seems so beyond her years.

Violet nods slowly, eyeing Roni and Harry with both unwavering curiosity and a face of stone. No one dares to breathe, and Roni completely regrets her whole outburst earlier.

After a long silence, Violet nods. “Come with me, please. Both of you.”

Roni and Harry exchange nervous glances before making their way quickly to Violet’s side. She doesn’t seem like someone to be kept waiting, and the excitement of it all sends tingles through Roni’s bones.

Violet begins to turn to lead them down the hallway, then pauses, calling over her shoulder. “Mary? Would you be so kind as to turn the sign outside off? You may go home for the night.”

Mary says nothing, but her cheeks visibly redden as she hastens to do what she’s told. Violet grins, then gestures for Harry and Roni to follow. “This way.”

It’s a slow and silent walk down the long hallway, which, to Roni’s surprise, has multiple doors. It almost looks like a house, and Roni wonders briefly if Violet lives here. It wouldn’t be such a bad setup by any means, and Violet would never have to leave the house.

Violet turns into a room with an actual door, and it’s even more beautiful than the front room. The walls are purple in here as well, but a lighter shade than the color outside, and they are mostly covered with trinkets and small tapestries. It smells even stronger in here, although Roni can’t quite put her finger on the scent. Against the back wall sits an elaborately cushioned chair facing a small table covered in purple cloth, and two less ornate looking chairs. In the center of the table sits a crystal ball unlike anything Roni has ever seen, and a few decks of cards and other various crystals lined up along the edge.

Overall, the room has a very calming energy, and Roni feels right at home.

“Won’t you sit down?” Violet gestures to the two seats as she makes her way over to the most gorgeous teapot Roni has ever seen in the corner of the room.

Harry hesitates, and it’s Roni who takes the lead. She takes her seat and Harry follows suit, although he doesn’t look comfortable at all. He sits on the edge of his seat with his hands folded in his lap. Roni almost wants to giggle.

“Would either of you like some tea?” Violet pours herself a cup, not looking up as she waits for them to answer.

Harry and Roni look at each other nervously, completely lost as to what to do in this situation and waiting for the other to respond first. Harry clears his throat. “None for me, thank you.”

Roni feels completely stuck, unsure of whether it would be rude to turn down the tea or rude to ask for some, so she panics and blurts out, “Me neither. Thank you.”

Violet smiles and says nothing, taking her tea and moving to sit down in the cushioned seat before them. She takes a long sip, and Roni and Harry watch with bated breath.

Finally, she puts the cup down on the table and eyes them both with intrigue. After a while, her eyes fall on Roni and she speaks. “As I said earlier, you’ve come here from very far away, haven’t you?”

Roni gulps. “Yes.”

“How far?” Violet smirks.

Twisting the mood-ring around her finger, Roni can’t even look Violet in the eye. “I’m not sure you would believe me if I told you.”

“You underestimate me, dear. But it’s understandable.” Violet turns her gaze to Harry. “And you. What is your story?”

“I’m just here for support,” Harry answers quickly.

This only deepens Violet’s smirk. “I see.” She leans forward, adjusting a pack of cards on the table. “So what is it that I can help you with?”

“Well, I--” Roni begins, then cuts herself off. What exactly is she looking for from Violet? She sighs and starts again. “I’m sort of…. Stuck here.” Violet says nothing but she nods knowingly, urging Roni to go on. “And I need to figure out how to get back… to where I came from.”

“Which is where?” Violet seems to already know the answer but she presses Roni with a quirk of her eyebrow.

Roni looks to Harry for encouragement, but he seems just as uneasy as she does. He gives her a quick nod, and Roni turns back. “The future.”

She says it so quietly that she’s almost worried Violet didn’t hear her. But she did, and she doesn’t even flinch. Roni is afraid that Violet is going to press her for further information, but she only nods again. “How long have you been here for?”

“Three days.”

Now Violet glances back at Harry. “And you’ve been staying where?”

“With--” Harry clears his throat, “With me.”

“I see,” Violet says again, and it’s beginning to frustrate Roni just how vague she’s being. “And you’d like me to help you find a way back home.”

“That’s right.”

“Wonderful.”

Violet closes her eyes and takes a deep, slow breath in through her nose, and Roni isn’t sure if she should follow suit. She doesn’t dare look at Harry or even move for that matter, and she only realizes she’s holding her breath when she hears Violet exhale. The witchy girl doesn’t open her eyes for what feels like ages, but she does reach forward after a tick to begin touching her crystal ball.

Harry and Roni watch the movements very carefully, and Violet slowly opens her eyes. She seems lost in the sphere, staring deeply into it. Roni looks too, trying to make out any sort of shape, but she gives up when the only thing she can see is an inverted reflection of herself.

After a while, Violet begins to smirk, slowing the movements of her hands until they’re completely still. The moment she looks up at Roni, thunder rolls outside.

“You have a gift, Miss Eliot.”

Roni’s jaw drops, and she goes completely rigid in her seat. “How did you know my--”

“It is not a gift that many possess, but there are more who possess it than most would imagine. It cannot be taught, but rather inherited.”

So many questions are swimming around in Roni’s head right now, and she doesn’t even know where to begin.

“Did my mom have the gift?” She doesn’t know how she expects Violet to know anything about her mother, but then again there’s also no logical explanation as to how Violet even knew her name.

Violet shakes her head. “No. She didn’t. Neither did you grandmother. Gifts like these are in the blood, but they skip generations as many times as they please. You were the chosen one.”

Harry chuckles in disbelief, and it’s the first time that Roni remembers he’s there. She exchanges a look of pure confusion with him before turning back to Violet. “Okay so, now what? Is this some type of Glinda the Good Witch “the power was in you all along” thing? Are you going to tell me that all I have to do is click my heels three times?”

Violet is unphased by Roni’s words, and she shakes her head. “I’m afraid that returning home is not going to be as easy as it was getting here.”

“Great.” Roni shrinks in her seat.

“But it is possible, if you are willing to wait.”

“How long?”

“Until the ninth of this month.”

Harry speaks up now, but he sounds like he’s mostly talking to himself. “That’s only six days from now.”

Roni doesn’t even acknowledge him. “What’s on the ninth?”

“The full moon.” Violet smiles, tenderly rubbing her hands along the smooth crystal sphere. “You must be outside, directly in the moonlight. Perhaps near the water if you can manage, although that isn’t necessary.”

“But I wasn’t outside when I came here!”

“The laws of traveling back to your time are far different than those that brought you here. Do you follow?”

Roni hardly follows at all, so she only gives Violet an apologetic shrug, urging her to continue.

“Your lifetime-- what is real and true and current for you--those with the gift are able to leave there at any given point. That is your home base, the timeline you are tethered to. Traveling from there is never the problem. The problem is getting back.”

“So,” Roni says slowly, trying to make sense of the information overload she’s being given. “All I have to do is lay outside in the moonlight?”

“There is much more to it. You must protect yourself,” Violet nods subtly to her crystal ball. “Crystals are an excellent way to do that.”

Harry leans forward in his seat. “Do you have any you’d recommend?”

Violet smiles at Harry, as if she’d known he would ask that. “Black tourmaline to repel harmful energies. Ruby to ground yourself. And lodestone for manifesting your deepest desires. They are easy to find. Lay them around yourself the night you leave.”

“And then what?” Roni asks. “Just… lay there?”

“Meditate,” Violet answers. “Clear your mind. Picture yourself where you were when you came here. Tell yourself you are ready, and ask the moon to lend you some of her energy. Continuously remind yourself of where you are going. Be humble, but be firm. By morning, you’ll be home.”

Roni frowns. “But what if I fall asleep?”

“That is fine. Most do. As long as you’ve done everything I’ve mentioned beforehand, you will return home safe and sound come morning, as if nothing in your life has changed.”

Roni isn’t sure she likes the sound of that.

She glances over at Harry, who stares somberly down at his shoes. He bounces his leg nervously up and down and he twiddles his thumbs absentmindedly. It takes him a while to realize Roni is staring at him, and when he does he looks up at her with the most encouraging smile he can muster.

“That’s great!” he says. “You’ll be home before you know it.”

Violet clears her throat, drawing the attention back to her. “Are either of you familiar with the term ‘twin flames?’”

Harry seems confused, but Roni knows it sounds familiar. It’s definitely something she’s heard before, but not something she’d paid enough attention to remember. So when neither Harry nor Roni answer her, Violet continues. “One soul in two bodies. A celestial connection defying gravity itself in bringing two together. A mirror of your own soul.”

“So like a soulmate?” Harry asks.

“No, something far greater than that.” Violet drums her fingers on the table. “Something that exists within the two of you.”

Roni nearly chokes on her own spit, and Harry actually does. As he sputters and coughs, Roni can’t help but to fall slack-jawed. “What?! No no, that’s not--”

“It is someone that your soul recognizes as home. Some say you’ve met them in a past life. And this,” she gestures vaguely with her hands, “Would have to be the most interesting case I’ve ever seen.”

Harry’s face has gone beet red, and Roni stammers through her words. “I don’t think… I mean--”

Harry cuts her off. “What does that have to do with getting her back home?”

Violet leans forward in her seat, gazing at Roni and suddenly looking far more serious than before. “The trouble with your gift,” she says, her voice now soft, “is that once you leave a timeline, you can never revisit it again.”

Roni hesitates, shaking her head slowly. “I’m not sure I follow.”

Thunder rolls again outside, much louder than before. “This means,” Violet glances from Roni to Harry and back again, “That you will neve meet this boy purposely again. You will never be able to travel back to him. The only chance of you two reuniting is if your timelines overlap organically, and even then--” Violet sighs, “He’ll be much older than you.”

Pressure builds behind Roni’s eyes as the weight of Violet’s words sink into her skin. As much as she knows she needs to go home, the thought of never seeing Harry again breaks her heart. After everything he’s done for her, after the friendship they’ve established, and the feelings she’s tried to ignore-- having it all disappear feels like the hardest decision she’s ever had to make.

“But she can’t just stay here!” Harry says, somewhat defensively.

“She could,” Violet says with a shrug, “But she runs the risk of multiple changes being made to her previous timeline; which includes irreversible changes that could impact others.”

“Such as?”

Violet grows completely serious now. “Potentially erasing some of the lives she loves the most.”

The thought of her mother no longer existing at all strikes Roni’s heart so strongly that she almost becomes angry. “Why are you telling me this?”

Violet smiles sadly at her. “I just want you to be prepared,” she says softly. “That’s all.”

The conversation wraps up at that, and Harry pays Violet as she walks them to the door. She peppers in a few reminders about how to get back, and urges Roni to be cautious one more time. (She also advises them to get home safely because the storm rolling in is expected to be a vicious one.)

Harry exits first, wandering down the hallway and making his way to the front door. Roni is about to follow, but she stops and turns to face Violet one more time. “Miss La Rue?”

Violet smiles warmly. “Call me Violet.”

“Okay… Violet. How did you know my last name?”

Violet doesn’t answer immediately, and once again Roni gets the feeling that the witchy girl knows something she doesn’t. Violet looks Roni up and down as if reading her one final time, before shrugging and offering her the simple answer of, “Magic, I guess.”

Roni can’t help but to laugh at this, knowing full well that Violet isn’t going to reveal her secrets any time soon. So she smiles, any tension she was feeling now completely broken. “Well,” she says, “thank you anyway. Seriously.”

“My pleasure, dear.”

“Have a good rest of your evening!”

Roni exits the room, feeling both optimistic and heavy all at once, and she feels a chill run up her spine when she hears Violet call out, “Get home safe, Roni!”

Harry is already waiting outside when Roni reaches the front room, and she shrieks when she opens the front door to a heavy gust of wind and a sheet of rain slapping against her.

“Fuck!” She can’t stop the curse word from escaping as she blinks against the storm.

Harry stands pressed against the bricks of the building, looking at Roni as if waiting for direction. She quickly rushes to huddle beside him, thankful for the make-shift shield that she knows isn’t going to last very long.

They stand in the protection of the brick building, still feeling the occasional rain drop bouncing against the roof and onto their skin. “Where’s your umbrella?” Roni calls over the rain.

“I didn’t bring it!”

“What?!”

“I was going to leave it for you!”

“Great, that really helps us out now doesn’t it?”

Harry chuckles, his damp hair already beginning to cling to his skin. “Right, what do you suggest we do then?”

Roni takes her bottom lip between her teeth and looks out at the street before her. A few unlucky vendors work to unpack their carts while the wind knocks everything over and the rain pelts their faces. People scurry with their coats above their heads, but a lot of people were smart enough to bring their umbrellas. The streets are clearing out quickly, and Roni isn’t too keen on the idea of standing here much longer.

So she smirks up at Harry.

“I suggest we run for it.”

She doesn’t even give Harry a chance to respond before she’s taking his hand and pulling him out into the thick of it. He shrieks at the feeling of the rain against his skin, and Roni is giggling as she tugs him along. He can’t help but to laugh with her.

“Jesus, Veronica, you could have warned me!”

“A little water never hurt anybody!”

Harry stumbles on an uneven stone, nearly sending him and Roni both tumbling to the ground. Roni squeals as she regains her footing, and now Harry’s in the lead. He lets go of her hand and picks up the pace, and Roni almost stops running.

“That’s not fair!” She calls now sprinting to keep up with him.

Harry doesn’t answer her, focusing all of his attention on beating her home while also trying not to slip and fall. Occasionally they find themselves wiping the rain from their eyes or their stringy and soaking hair from their foreheads, and every now and then Harry will tease her over his shoulder. Sometimes Roni will catch up to him and poke at his sides as she passes, but that never lasts long because Harry always catches up to her, grabs her around the waist and sets her down behind him again.

By the time they reach Harry’s apartment, they’re soaked to the bone. Harry fumbles with his keys, out of breath and giggly, and they both stumble into his place dripping water along the hard wood floor.

“You totally cheated!” Roni says, wigging her finger in Harry’s face while he locks his front door behind him.

“I cheated? You didn’t even warn me we were going out into the rain!”

“You turned it into a race!”

“So then I suppose that means I’m allowed to make the rules, aren’t I?”

Roni rolls her eyes as kicks her shoes off and beelines for the kitchen sink to ring her hair out. “You’re full of it.”

“If you mean full of water, then yes.”

Everything feels the way it should once again, albeit a little darker now that she knows the end is somewhat near. But Roni refuses to think about that, and she realizes as she squeezes her hair out into the sink that she’s had a permanent smile on her face for at least the past ten minutes. Her cheeks heat up at the realization, and she changes the subject to keep from lingering too long. “Why don’t you go grab some of your clothes from the bedroom so you can change out here? And also…” She stands up straight when she feels her hair is less sopping and turns to face Harry. “Do you think I could borrow some clothes again?”

Harry shakes his head as if she’s just asked the stupidest question. “I thought it was implied that you could.”

“No, I know! It’s just, I’ve been wearing the same pajamas every night, and now I’m freezing and I don’t think that boxers and a t-shirt are going to cover it, you know?”

Harry smiles at her like he knows something she doesn’t know. “Take whatever you’d like, love. I should have told you from the beginning. Anything in there is yours to use.”

Roni beams, very much looking forward to getting out of her wet clothes and into something warm and oversized of Harry’s. “God, thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.” Harry kicks off his squeaking shoes and heads into his bedroom. “I do think I’ll go get my things now. I’ll be out of your way in a jiffy.”

True to his word, Harry is practically in and out of his room, carrying with him an armful of clothes. “Think I’m going to change in the bathroom,” he explains. “Might take a hot shower while I’m at it.”

A hot shower sounds incredibly nice, but Roni doesn’t dare mention it because, of course, sweet Harry would completely give up his shower for her. Roni knows from her shower yesterday that the hot water here only lasts so long, and Harry has done so much for her already that she figures she can let him have this one. So she smiles at him. “Alright, don’t slip.”

With a snort Harry disappears into the bathroom, and Roni tries her best not to think about him naked.

-----

About fifteen minutes later, Harry returns looking refreshed and rejuvenated. He smiles when he finds Roni in a pair of his blue and white striped pajama pants and a plain brown jumper that he wears on the occasional Sunday outing. It doesn’t match at all, and neither article of clothing even belongs to the same family, but she makes it look adorable, and Harry has to resist the urge to go over to her and wrap his arms around her from behind.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

Roni stands barefoot at the stove, stirring something in a pot as thunder rolls softly in the distance. “Hope you don’t mind. I figured we should have dinner. So I kinda just helped myself. We’re having soup by the way.”

Harry grins, making his way into the kitchen “No, I don’t mind at all.”

“Cool. I also hope you don’t mind that these are the clothes I picked. If they’re like, for fancy occasions or something it’s not a big deal. I can change if--”

“Veronica, why the formality?” Harry hip checks her before reaching into the cupboard for a matchbox. “Of course I don’t mind.”

Roni smiles like a nervous little girl, and Harry isn’t sure why. “Okay,” she mumbles, turning back to the stove.

Harry sets to work gathering all the candles he can find and setting them around the room.

He wordlessly lights each candle, one by one, and his actions do not go unnoticed.

“That’s a lot of candles,” Roni muses. “Are you planning on doing something weird and sacrificial? Should I be scared?”

“I don’t know, let’s see how the night progresses.” Harry smirks as he lights another candle. “No, I’m just getting prepared in case the electricity goes out.”

This pricks Roni’s ears. “You think that’s gonna to happen?”

Harry shrugs. “I don’t know. But if it does, at least we’ll be able to see.”

Roni sighs, tapping the wooden spoon against the side of the pot before placing it on a dish and letting the soup simmer on its own. “I don’t really like thunderstorms,” she says.

Harry continues scuttling around to light the candles. “No? But you seemed fine all day.”

“Yeah, because it was light out.” She turns to face Harry. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’ll be fine. I’m not gonna like, cry or anything. I’ve just always been kinda… unsettled by them I guess.” She glances down at her mood ring, seeing that its color is somewhere between pink and brown. She chuckles softly to herself.

“Don’t worry,” Harry says, shaking out the match after the last candle is lit. “I’ve gotcha. Nothing unsettling is going to happen here.”

Roni smiles, and she doesn’t know why but his words make her sad. Violet’s words cling to her memory and serve as cruel reminders of her situation. She hasn’t got much time left here, and she doesn’t know whether to be upset or to be thankful that Harry seems to be ignoring that. She lets out a half exhale, half hum and changes the subject.

“You know, when I was a little girl and it would storm like this, my mom and I would sit on her bed, or sometimes the couch, and we’d get under blankets and watch the lightning. She told me if I looked hard enough I would see shapes People, and animals-- sometimes colors, but that was rare.”

“Really?” Harry seems genuinely interested. “Did it work?”

Roni shrugs. “As much as any other five-year-old kid’s imagination would work.” Harry laughs and she continues. “But yeah. Now any time there’s lightning, to this day I swear I can still kind of see horses. And I like to think…” Roni trails off, realizing she’s getting lost in her own little world.

“Yes, love?”

Roni swallows a lump in her throat and distracts herself by stirring the soup again. “I just… like to think that she’s up there making the lightning look like horses for me. It’s stupid.”

“That’s not stupid.” Harry doesn’t move towards her, and she’s thankful for that. She’s sure that if he touched her right now she’d burst into tears, especially after the taxing twenty-four hours she’s just experienced. Still, Harry’s voice is gentle and bright, and it warms her heart. “I’d bet my bottom dollar she’s doing that for you right now.”

Roni doesn’t turn around, but she smiles softly to herself. “Yeah. Maybe.”

Dinner is simple but filling, and they talk about any and everything under the sun. Roni suspects that they’re doing it to get their minds off of the heaviness of today, and she can’t say she totally minds it. After they eat, they wash the dishes side by side, and Roni suggests that Harry turn on some music. He promises he will, but he says he won’t do it until after the dishes are done because he refuses to leave them all to her. His promise, however, does not have the chance to be fulfilled when, after a particularly harsh lightning strike, the apartment goes dark.

It startles Roni at first, although she doesn’t want to show it, and when her eyes adjust to the candle-lit room she sees that Harry is grinning like a little boy.

“What did I tell you!” he says. “Bet you’re glad I lit all those candles now, aren’t you?”

The pure excitement on his face is almost too much to handle, and Roni giggles. “I am, yeah. Thanks.”

Ten minutes later they find themselves facing each other on opposite ends of the couch and sharing a blanket. It couldn’t be considered cuddling by any means, but it’s definitely something.

Roni smiles, propping her elbow up on the back of the couch. “So tell me more about you.”

Harry grins sleepily back at her. “What would you like to know?”

“Where did you come from? Like, you’re obviously British.”

Harry chuckles. “Obviously.”

“So I want your backstory.”

“Hmm.” Harry seems to really think about this, and he looks impossibly more beautiful in the candle light. “Well, I was born in England. Moved here when I was sixteen because I thought I would find better job opportunities. Seemed promising, you know?”

“And was it?”

He smiles his dimpled smile. “In some ways, I suppose. Anyway, worked a few odd jobs here and there. Milton’s opened when I was twenty-two, so I started working there. Stayed there for almost three years, but obviously you know how that worked out.”

Roni frowns. “They’re assholes. They didn’t deserve you.”

“They were kind of wet-blankets, if I’m being honest.”

His terminology makes Roni laugh again. “But we’re not dwelling on them because you have a rad new job!”

“Assuming ‘rad’ means ‘swell’ then I do, yeah! All thanks to you.”

Roni waves her hand in mock humility. “Oh stop. I did nothing. Tell me more about your home life. Are you close with your parents?”

Harry nods slowly, as if considering his answer. “I am. But more so with my mum, really. And my sister.”

“You have a sister? I love that!” Roni shivers, trying to snuggle further under the blanket without stealing any of it off of Harry.

“I do. She’s my best mate. Always has been, even when I used to piss her off.” Harry chuckles at the memory. He nudges Roni with his socked foot. “What about you then? Any siblings?”

Roni tries to control her shivers, wrapping her arms around her middle. “Nope. Just me and my mom till I was eleven. I moved in with my grandma when she passed.”

“I see.”

There’s a comforting silence that follows their words, and if it weren’t for how cold she is, Roni would be able to enjoy it further. The noise of the rain on the roof mixed with the gentle wood-wick candles crackling all around her is definitely making her sleepy, and just as she has that thought, Harry yawns softly.

Another shiver ripples up Roni’s back, and she’s unable to hide this one. Harry notices instantly, watching her with an amused grin. “Cold?”

“A little,” Roni admits.

Harry sits up. “Would you like me to grab you another jumper? Some socks? Or I could get you another blanket if you’d like!”

“No, no don’t do that.” Roni doesn’t know if it’s the darkness of the room, or the sobering realization that she doesn’t have much time left here, but in any case she’s feeling far more brave than she was before now. “Can we.. just… sit closer?”

Her words seem to take Harry aback, because his lips part in surprise. He’s still smiling though, which tells Roni that he’s pleased with her request. “You want to cuddle me?” He teases.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Roni says. She rolls her eyes, but she’s already moving towards him. “I’m just trying to stay warm.”

“So Veronica is a cuddlebug.” Harry raises his arm up and uses his other hand to pat his chest, gently inviting her to lay on him. “That’s an interesting fact.”

“Shut up.” Roni pouts, snuggling comfortably between him and the couch cushions. She settles herself with her head on his chest, and relaxes when his arm falls comfortably onto her back. “Tell me more about your sister.”

Harry begins tracing soothing little circles into her back, and she grows sleepier by the minute His voice is slow and deep, and with her ear pressed to his chest she can feel it rumbling in her own body. He talks so fondly of his sister, and Roni giggles when he tells her that she would love her. He trails off every now and then, speaking slower and slower as if he’s purposely trying to put Roni to sleep, until he stops altogether for a minute straight just to listen to the rain.

“Veronica?”

“Hm?” Roni doesn’t even lift her head from his shoulder.

“I swear on my life I am not even trying to be a wise guy or anything-- but I just saw a horse in the lightning.”

Roni giggles and lightly slaps at his chest. “You’re stupid.”

“Honest!” Harry sits up more, careful not to jostle her too much. “I really did! You pointed it out earlier, and now it’s all I can think about!”

Roni smiles to herself at the genuine giddiness in his voice. “It’s cool isn’t it?” She says softly.

“It is, yeah. Can’t even imagine the types of things you would’ve seen as a little girl.”

Roni doesn’t answer. She fidgets with her mood-ring and mentally compares the size of her hand to Harry’s. He’s quiet, his head now turned to stare out the window as the next bout of thunder rolls through. His breaths are slow and steady and comforting, and Roni wishes she could stay like this forever.

“Harry?”

“Mm?”

It’s hard to say, and Roni closes her eyes before letting the words escape her lips. “I’m really going to miss you.”

Although she can’t see his face, she can picture exactly what it looks like just from the sound of his exhale. He waits a moment to respond. “I’m really going to miss you too, bunny.”

Harry has never called her ‘bunny’ before, and she doesn’t know why it makes her so happy. She glances up at him with an amused expression, causing him to giggle. “What?” he asks.

“Bunny?” Roni half teases, half questions.

“Yeah,” Harry says. “Do you not use that in your time? For the people you care about?”

Roni smiles. “Not really. I mean I’ve heard it before, but never been called it.” She relaxes back down onto Harry’s chest. “I like it.”

She can hear Harry laugh softly to himself as he absentmindedly taps his fingers along the skin of his thigh. After a moment, he speaks again. “I care about you a lot, Veronica. And I really am going to miss you.”

This tugs hard on Roni’s heart strings, and she almost wishes she hadn’t shared her sad thought. She takes her free arm (the one that isn’t trapped between her body and Harry’s) and uses it to shamelessly cuddle closer to him. She gives him an affectionate little squeeze and takes a deep inhale, logging his smell in the back of her mind for some day in the future when she won’t have it so easily accessible.

“But!” As if reading her mind, Harry reaches down and squeezes her hip. “The full moon isn’t until the ninth! That’s six days away, we’ve got plenty of time. Believe me, by the end of it, you’ll be so sick of me you’ll be ready to go.”

That couldn’t be further from the truth, and both Roni and Harry know it. Still, she manages a soft giggle and a roll of her eyes. “I was sick of you from the beginning,” she teases.

Harry chuckles, turning his head so that his cheek rests against the top of her head. “I knew it.”

His lips ghost the skin of her forehead, and Roni tries not to think about how easy it would be to kiss him right now.

They stay like that for at least five more minutes, wordlessly communicating through gentle strokes and longing sighs. The rain is incredibly soothing, and Roni is exhausted, but she wants this moment to last as long as possible.

“Love,” Harry says, his voice just above a whisper. He nudges her softly. “Hey. Love. Why don’t you get some sleep, hm?”

As much as Roni doesn’t want to leave him, she knows she should. Otherwise she’ll be here all night, drowning in the “what if’s” and the anxiety that comes with the fact that she only has six days left with him. So with a deep breath, she untangles herself from him, arching her back and spreading her arms out in a deep, spine cracking stretch.

Maybe the stretch is actually needed. Or maybe it’s just a cheap way to stall time. Either way, she feels good after it’s over. She glances at Harry, who’s watching her with an amused grin.

“Alright,” she says softy, and both she and Harry rise to their feet.

His bedroom door is no more than six feet away, and yet he still insists on walking her to it. He shoves his hands into his pockets. “If you get scared,” he says, “Or unsettled, or whatever the word you used was, I’m right outside, alright? Don’t be afraid to wake me.”

Roni smiles at him. “Thanks Harry,” she says softly. “I should be okay.”

Harry nods, smiling at her with a closed mouth. “Alright.”

There’s so much more that they both want to say, but neither can seem to find the voice to say it. So with a cough, Roni runs a hand nervously through her hair and backs fully into the bedroom. “Goodnight,” she says. “Thank you for… everything today.”

Harry remains right where he is, fidgeting nervously with his fingers. “Of course. Anything you need.”

They stare at each other a few moments longer, urging the other to speak up and say what’s on both of their minds.

But when neither of them do, Roni nods. “Goodnight,” she repeats.

Roni turns into the bedroom and closes the door behind her, immediately met with the near pitch blackness of his room. The rain sounds louder in here, and she doesn’t move a muscle as she listens to it pelt the small window.

Roni swallows thickly, her stomach twisting as a new wave of anxiety washes over her. She replays the past hour over in her head, then the past twenty four hours. It’s been terrifying and exciting, and she’s so proud of herself for facing her fears head on, but then there’s Harry.

Harry, who has been so ridiculously gracious, so impossibly kind, and so forgiving of every mistake she’s made. Harry, who taught her to dance, and didn’t have a job but still used his last dollar to make sure she had fun while in his time period. Harry, who comforted her without question every second of the last few days in which she’s felt so lost and confused and scared.

Harry, who ignites her soul in ways she’s never dreamed of and makes her feel more alive than she’s felt in twenty six years.

She shakes her head as the realization strikes her like the lightning outside.

It’s Harry. It will always be Harry for her, until the end of time.

Roni whirls around and yanks the door open so hard it nearly slams into the wall. She’s relieved to find Harry still standing there, a hand out in front of him as if he was just about to knock on the door. He smiles a surprised smile the second he sees her, and he shakes his head.

“Veronica--”

In a flash she’s falling into him, hands around his cheeks as she fastens their lips together hungrily. Immediately his arms are around her, and he’s pulling her as if he can’t get close enough. She hums when he gives her a squeeze, tilting his head and taking her bottom lip between his teeth.

It’s everything she hoped it would be and more. Roni has only seen kisses like this in films, especially older ones. Never once in her life has she been kissed like this, and it all but knocks the wind out of her. She traces his bottom lip with her tongue as if to ask permission, but she’s hardly even made contact when he opens his mouth to grant her access.

There’s a stumble backwards and Harry tightens his grip around Roni to keep her upright. His right hand dips lower onto her back in the gentlest way, and Roni almost wishes he would just go for it-- reach down and take a handful of her. At the same time, though, this is the most romantic kiss she’s ever experienced-- and that in itself is turning her on.

With his right hand remaining on her lower back, his left hand trails up the back of her neck and into her hair. He holds the back of her head so delicately, finally removing his lips from hers to pepper sweet kisses along her jaw.

Roni hums, relaxing her head in the palm of his hand and granting him easier access to her neck. Her fingers curl into the hair at the nape of his neck, and just as his lips reach the spot just before her ear, he pulls his lips away breathlessly.

Roni flutters her eyelashes open, blinking confusedly up at him. Their faces are still a few mere inches apart, and she wants to stay in this tension forever. “Why’d you stop?” She whispers.

“Veronica,” Harry says slowly, the hand that rested on her lower back creeping higher up.

“What?”

“Don’t do this… unless you mean it.”

Roni sees the earnestness in his eyes, and she’s never been more sure of anything in her life. She brushes the tip of her nose against his before licking her lips and pulling him in for another kiss. This kiss isn’t as elaborate as it had been moments ago, but it’s sweet, and she feels all tension in his shoulders release.

When she pulls away, she smiles, reaching up to brush a wild strand of hair off of his forehead. She nods her head.

“I mean it.”

#WOOOOO SHE'S OUT #Harry Styles #Harry #One Direction #Harry Styles fanfiction #Harry fanfiction #One Direction fanfiction #fanfiction #Harry Styles AU #Harry AU #One Direction AU #AU #Harry Styles fluff #Harry fluff #one direction fluff #fluff

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toxoiddiamond · 4 years

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T H E B A S I C S Given Name: Joel Porter Nycroft Nicknames: No nicknames, but he goes by the name Joel Winters professionally. Age: 40 Birthday: May 25th Zodiac Sign: Gemini Birthplace: Liverpool, England Current Location: He is constantly touring, but he has two homes– one just outside of London, and one in LA. His London-ish (as he calls it) home is where he spends his time off, and his LA home (which is a condo) is where he lives while the band works on recording new albums, since that is where their current label is based. Speaks: English and French (not fluently, but decently well). Dominant Hand: Ambidextrous Education: High school dropout, never bothered to get his GED or anything since he never really needed to. No college education, obviously. He is very smart though, and reasonably well-educated. Occupation: Lead singer and guitarist of internationally famous band No Rest for the Londoners, often shortened to simply The Londoners. Vehicle: It’s been a very long time since he’s had to drive himself anywhere– and that’s probably for the best, given the fact that he is under the influence more often than not. He has drivers that take him anywhere he needs to go, or, if the place is within walking distance, he’ll just walk over. Worldly Possessions: Though he’s quite wealthy, he doesn’t live too ostentatiously. He does tend to buy expensive/high quality things that will last him a long time, especially if it’s an instrument or anything to do with music, but he doesn’t spend excessively. He has some artwork on his walls that he splurged on, a shelf for his various awards (which he keeps hidden in a closet in his home studio because he feels weird having them out on display for all to see), nice (but not ridiculously expensive) clothes and bedding and such, furniture he had custom made by a local carpenter, etc. Then he has all his instruments and music equipment, which make up the majority of his possessions. Pet(s): He can barely take care of himself, so he has never even considered owning a pet, but he does like animals a lot. In the future, once he has his shit together, he would be totally open to having pets.

A P P E A R A N C E Height: 6’0” Hair: Dark with a few flecks of grey. Long-ish and usually a bit of a mess unless he’s going somewhere fancy, in which case he will slick it back. Facial Hair: He usually keeps his beard quite full. He trims it now and then, but it’s rare for him to actually shave it all off. Eye Colour: Brown Skin Tone: He doesn’t spend a lot of time outdoors, so he’s pasty. Clothing: For the most part, he looks pulled together– jeans and t-shirts, the occasional cardigan, peacoats in colder weather, classic black suits when he attends special events. He doesn’t exactly dress like a “rock star” and has never cared to try and be edgy or fit a certain persona. Distinguishing Marks: Faded track marks on both his arms from his past heroin abuse– he makes no effort to hide or cover them, since he figures everyone knows about his drug problem anyway. Face Claim: Jim Sturgess

H E A L T H Physical Health: It could be better. What with the fact that he’s constantly high or drunk (or both), his health is not great. He is constantly exhausted, often feels sick, has a weak immune system, and is pretty much just a mess. There’s been more than one occasion throughout his career when he’s passed out from sheer exhaustion, or had to reschedule shows due to illness (though he considers that a last resort). Physical Abilities/Limitations: Joel is an extremely talented musician. On top of the fact that he has a lovely singing voice, he can play guitar, piano, drums, and bass. He can’t read music at all, but has a knack for playing by ear, which drives the rest of his band absolutely nuts because anytime they try to ask Joel what key he’s singing/playing in, he just shrugs. Addictions: It would be faster to list the things he’s not addicted to. But mainly, he’s addicted to alcohol and cocaine. He used to have a serious heroin addiction, but hasn’t touched heroin since his late twenties. He also abuses Xanax, though he doesn’t realize that’s what he’s doing– he figures that since his doctor prescribed it, it’s fine to use it on a regular basis, but it’s really doing more harm than good. Allergies: None Mental Health: Terrible. Like, catastrophically bad. Joel is pretty much always on the verge of a mental breakdown– he has had several over the past few years, but has not gotten the help he so desperately needs in order to get his mental health back in order. He has gone to rehab many times, but wasn’t really given much help in the mental health department; he was just told he needed to relax and that once he was off the drugs he would feel much better. Turned out that wasn’t true, so he has always gone back to the drugs after leaving rehab. He is constantly considering suicide, and has attempted it twice; once when he was fourteen, and once when he was thirty-two. The second attempt was passed off as an accidental drug overdose to the media, though it was not accidental at all.

H I S T O R Y Summary: Joel was born and raised in Liverpool. His father left when he was just a baby, so Joel never knew him. Unfortunately, his mother was neglectful and uncaring– she was addicted to drugs and ran with a bad crowd, and her only real concern was where her next fix would come from. Joel was often left with neighbors or other family members for long periods of time before his mother would remember to come and get him. More than once, authorities were alerted to the fact that Joel’s mother was not taking care of him, but nothing ever really came of it. From an early age, Joel was interested in music, and began teaching himself to play guitar when he was ten years old. He always had a knack for playing by ear, so he never bothered to learn to read music. He spent a lot of time in a local music shop playing around with various instruments, and the staff let him hang around since he didn’t bother anyone and they kind of felt sorry for him. It was there that Joel taught himself to play both piano and bass. At the age of 14, Joel was pressured by some of his mom’s friends into getting high with them. Although Joel didn’t want to, he was made to feel that saying no wasn’t an option, so he did heroin with them. He doesn’t remember much of what happened that night– just that he went with them somewhere, Joel was absolutely scared out of his mind, and then he woke up the next morning on a park bench. From then on, Joel began to get high regularly, and did favors for his mom’s “friends,” mostly running drugs and bringing back money. It was around this time that he attempted suicide by purposely overdosing, but he woke up the next morning– still in his bedroom, intensely sick and much worse for wear, but alive. Joel dropped out of high school at 16– he would have failed his classes anyway since he’d been skipping school so much and his grades had plummeted. At 17, his friend Michael invited him to London– Michael was moving there and saw an opportunity to get Joel away from all the bad influences in his life. They moved in with Michael’s aunt for a while, and Joel took a job in a record shop to save up money. Eventually they struck out on their own and decided to put a band together, something they had talked about for years. After finding the perfect band members (something they still insist was fate), they began writing songs and recorded an EP in Joel and Michael’s basement. After playing a few local shows, word of mouth begin to spread, and before they knew it, they were approached by a manager offering them a contract with a major label. They took the deal, and the rest is history. Job History: His first “job” was as an errand boy for a shady group of drug dealers. He then worked in a record store for almost three years, and during that time, helped form the band and started playing the occasional show. Obviously that worked out because he is a very famous, successful musician now. Fondest Memories: His first rock concert when he was ten years old. Running away from Liverpool– he’ll never forget the feeling of freedom as they drove past the city limits. Performing in small venues and getting such an unexpectedly good response. And, of course, the first time they ever performed in a sold-out arena; the first time he heard the audience singing his own lyrics back at him, Joel almost cried. Worst Experiences: The majority of his childhood. And… a lot of his adulthood, actually.

C O M M U N I C A T I O N Speech Pace/Style: Though Joel can be very charming, he’s not exactly smooth. He’s kind of a dork, and most of his charm comes from the fact that people find it endearing how weird and awkward he can be. Depending on whatever drugs are in his system, he can either talk a mile a minute, or he might speak slowly, possibly slurring his words (though the slurring isn’t always noticeable with his accent). Accent: Very, very English with a distinctive Scouse accent. When he speaks, there is absolutely no doubt about where he’s from. Favorite Phrases or Words: He uses a lot of typical Scouse slang, such as “made up” for “happy,” or “cob on” for “bad mood.” His bandmates tease him about his weird accent/dialect all the time, though it’s all in good fun, of course. Usual Curse Words: Fuck, and any of its derivatives.

P E R S O N A L I T Y, M I N D S E T, A N D B E L I E F S Personality Type: ENFP-T Sense of Humor: Joel is charismatic and funny– he loves to make people laugh and can be quite a goofball when the mood strikes him. He often uses humor as a way to deflect or distract from his issues, so a lot of people who don’t know him well are surprised to find out that he’s as depressed as he is. When it comes to entertaining people, he will do just about anything to get a laugh, as long as it’s not offensive in some way– self-deprecating humor is his go-to, though. Habits: He tends to fidget a lot– wringing his hands, scratching at his arms, bouncing his leg when he’s sitting, especially during interviews or before a performance. Fears/Phobias: His biggest fear is ending up alone. He doesn’t even like being alone in his house, so the idea of being abandoned or rejected by the people he cares about is what really scares him. Loneliness is his worst enemy, and honestly, anytime when Joel is left alone with his own thoughts is just not going to end well. Strengths: Joel is a creative, kind, and thoughtful person who genuinely likes being around others and getting to know them. He loves doing nice things for people, making people laugh, and is charismatic as hell. People seem to naturally flock to him and enjoy his company– he’s kind of the life of the party. Joel always does his best to be kind to his fans as well, especially kids, and would never deny anyone a picture or autograph, even if he secretly would rather be doing anything else. Flaws: As lovely as Joel can be, when he’s deep under the influence of drugs, it’s like he’s a completely different person. Selfish, combative, and a chronic liar. When he starts spiralling into depression, it’s impossible for him to pull himself out of that tailspin, and that is how he’s ended up in this vicious cycle of getting depressed, doing drugs, getting more depressed, drinking the pain away, getting even more depressed, etc, etc. Hopes/Desires: He really, really wants to get clean and sober, but doesn’t know if it’s really possible for him. He hates that he’s so reliant on drugs and alcohol to even get through the day, but he’s felt so awful and depressed (more than usual) every time he’s gotten clean that he doesn’t see how he can live like that. Self-Esteem: It could not possibly be any lower. Joel considers himself to be a burden on everyone he knows and pretty much thinks he’s a waste of space. It would only take the tiniest nudge for him to attempt suicide (again). Religion: He doesn’t believe in any kind of god or higher power. In fact, he really hopes there isn’t any such thing, because he’s pretty sure that if there is a god or any kind of afterlife, he won’t end up going anywhere pleasant when he dies.

R A N D O M Sleeping Position: Curled up in a ball on his side. Boxers or Briefs?: Boxers Day or Night?: He doesn’t have a preference– it really just depends on whether he has something to do or not. Top or Bottom?: He can go either way. Partying or Relaxing?: Usually partying, unless he has someone to relax with.

R E L A T I O N S H I P S Closest Friend: He is close to all of his bandmates: Michael (Joe Anderson), Dawn (Sofia Boutella), Holly (Devon Aoki), and their newest/youngest bandmate who replaced their former rhythm guitarist, Ryan (Justin Nozuka). Out of all of them, he is definitely closest with Michael since they grew up together. Relationship History: Not a lot of long-term relationships. He briefly dated Dawn back when they first met, before the band blew up, but they quickly decided they weren’t compatible. He has dated around a bit, some men and some women, mostly people who are also in the public eye (actors, models, musicians, etc), but none of those relationships lasted longer than a few months. Sexual Partners: A lot. He was definitely promiscuous when he was younger, lots of flings and one-night stands. As he got older, he lost interest in having a new partner every night and started getting into more actual relationships, though none of them lasted longer than a year. Thoughts About Sex: He enjoys it. He especially enjoys it when his partner doesn’t leave immediately afterward. Joel really likes to cuddle after sex, so it’s always disappointing to him when it turns out his partner isn’t interested in cuddling.

P A R E N T S Name(s): Donna Nycroft Age(s): She died at the age of 57 Social Standing: Not good. She was widely known to be an addict, and ran with a shady crowd to help fuel her addiction. Occupation(s): Drug dealer, occasionally traded sex for drugs or money, occasionally took part-time jobs if she was really desperate, though she could never hold down a legitimate job for very long. Religion: Nope. Quality of Relationship With His Children: Horrible. She never cared much for Joel, and only kept him because she got child support money from his father every month. She paid as little attention to him as possible and didn’t care at all what he did or where he went. When he first got famous, she tried to sell her “story” to a bunch of tabloids and started trashing him in the media, but the drama died down quickly because Joel refused to address anything she said and pretended he didn’t know who she was. Joel was honestly not sad at all when he got the news about her death. He pretty much said “oh… okay” and moved on immediately. Living/Deceased: Dead

D A I L Y L I F E Living Arrangements: Joel has two homes– one moderately large home on the outskirts of London, and a condo in LA. His London home is a bit secluded and private, and is where he likes to go during his off times, as he can escape the press for the most part. His band mates will often come and stay with him as well, partly because they don’t want him to be alone, and partly because they all have a great time together, especially when there’s not the pressure of recording or a tour. His LA home is where he lives while they work on recording, since their label is based in LA. The house in London is fairly large, but not a mansion by any means– it has four bedrooms, one of which Joel has converted into a music studio where he can practice, write songs, mess around with instruments, etc. Two bedrooms are currently guest rooms, and then there is the master bedroom, of course. The place is decorated with custom furniture Joel had designed and made by a local carpenter, and it is all very nice-looking and comfortable. His condo is decorated in a very minimalist, functional way, which suits Joel just fine. Lots of open space and windows, furniture with clean, modern lines, a few splashes of color here and there, and not much else.

#character: joel nycroft #ship: joley #character sheet

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clansayeed · 4 years

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Bound by Circumstance ― Chapter 3: Of Monsters and Men

PAIRING: Nik Ryder x trans*M!MC (Taylor Hunter) RATING: Mature

⥼ MASTERLIST ⥽

⥼ Bound by Circumstance ⥽

Taylor Hunter (MC) has made it good for himself in New Orleans; turns out moving to a new city fresh out of college to reinvent yourself isn’t as hard as people make it out to be. Things only start to get confusing when he finds himself the target of a malevolent wraith. Good thing someone’s looking out for him though — because without Nighthunter Nik Ryder as his bodyguard he definitely won’t survive long in the twisting darkness of the supernatural underworld he’s tripped into.

Bound by Circumstance and the rest of the Oblivion Bound series is an ongoing dramatic retelling project of the book Nightbound and the rest of the Bloodbound series. Find out more [HERE].

Note: Circumstance only loosely follows the events and plotline of Nightbound, and features a separate antagonist, different character motivations, and further worldbuilding.

*Let me know if you would like to be added to the Circumstance/series tag list!

⥼ Chapter Summary ⥽

Taylor meets his new bodyguard, debates casual necromancy, and learns the truth behind his hallucinations. All while a fae makes him cream soda.

[READ IT ON AO3]

Taylor doesn’t remember waking up — one second he’s asleep and the next he just isn’t.

Despite the things he’s seen (not really seen, but thought he’s seen) he’s not a fan of these kinds of wakings. Would rather emerge slowly as if from a cocoon. With enough time between breaths and heartbeats to let the dreams that plagued him fade away into fuzzy oblivion — forgotten despite all efforts to bring them back to recent memory.

He prefers it because when he wakes all at once there’s no helping remembering his dreams.

And all of that — the cemetery, Vera’s gloves, Kristin’s tears, the moon and moldy flowers — definitely isn’t something he wants to linger on.

“Are you gonna freak out now? Because these walls ain’t soundproofed.”

The voice resists its accent; clips sounds the Louisiana slang wants to let hang. He’s never heard it before but doesn’t need to.

It does the trick. Reminds Taylor how easily the world of dreams can blend with reality.

He takes in his surroundings with eyes still shut. The scratchy pilling on the cushions underneath, the stale air that’s made his shirt stick sweaty to his body, the repetitive squeak of a portable fan that should have retired a lifetime ago.

If he keeps his eyes shut will it all go away? Can it really be that easy?

Of course it isn’t. He knows it, the stranger knows it… but still a guy can dream.

“I know you’re awake, kid,” the stranger continues, “sleepin’ people don’t breathe like that.”

Taylor’s nose scrunches. “Don’t watch me breathe.”

“Then don’t breathe weird.”

The fact I‘m not hyperventilating right now is a fucking miracle, Taylor wants to say back — doesn’t in favor of inhaling so hard his nostrils burn before letting it out in a whistle on his dry lips.

Instead he snaps his eyes open and stares at the bald patches of peeling paint on the popcorn ceiling.

Something shifts behind him; the squeak of leather on pleather.

“You’re handlin’ this awful well.”

No, he’s really not. “I’m not unfamiliar with waking up on strange couches.”

“Is that so?”

Taylor doesn’t like the way the voice drops into a suggestive purr. It’s enough to get him to sit up on his elbows and try to shake the fog from his head. The familiar words, “how much did I drink last night?” are on the tip of his tongue but without the pounding headache there to accompany them they just don’t feel right.

A hand appears out of the corner of his eye. He watches scarred knuckles on tanned skin flex silvery as a nondescript flask is placed on one of the coffee table’s few bare spots.

“Here — this’ll help. Trust me.”

Taylor takes it. Can smell the familiar simmering honey and spice of whiskey. But he isn’t even tempted — screws the cap back on and sets it pack with a little too much purpose.

The stranger gives a ‘huh’ of surprise. “You sure? It’s not top shelf, but —”

“I’m gonna say this once;” as he does Taylor sits up and digs his knuckles into his eyes to quell the dizzy rush, “don’t ever offer me alcohol again. Please.”

As bright and inconsistent colors flash before his sight there’s silence.

Then, “fair enough,” and takes back the flask.

He can’t immediately tell if the stranger is just prone to dramatics or if the positioning of the lamp-sans-shade is purposefully there to shroud his rescuer (or kidnapper) in all the shadows the apartment can offer.

But it’s definitely him: the guy from the dive bar. Where his memory ends his eyes pick up the slack and fill in the sharp face like a puzzle. Dark eyes — almost black — and evidence of a five o-clock shadow. A little bit of a greying sheen to the hairs at his temples. And a strange scar like an inverted triangle brushed flippantly from left temple to eyebrow to the top of his cheekbone.

So he’s the quintessential ‘rugged, grizzled, don’t-play-by-the-rules’ type. Which, in Taylor’s opinion, just makes the worn leather trench coat overkill.

And his very presence makes things very very complicated.

Makes his head incite a full-on civil war between the things he knows and the things he’s seen — not to speak of the independent faction trying to resist both.

The man grabs something small off of the stand beside him and a glass of water — takes one of Taylor’s hands off of his jeans and pushes it into his palm in a very non-negotiable style.

“At least take this. That headache looks real fierce. Won’t work as fast as the booze, though.”

Oh, he knows. But he’s glad for something to help no matter how little and washes down the aspirin tablet with the entire water glass.

Judging by the awkward silence that follows neither Taylor nor the man know how to actually… begin. Because there needs to be a beginning — maybe not right now but there was earlier and if he thinks about it too much, if he lets his imagination run wild and spiral, he’ll start to panic.

Last time he checked panic wouldn’t bring Kristin back from the dead.

Kristin. Oh god. He needs to find her body.

“Can I…?” He raises the glass. The stranger slaps his knees and hauls himself up with possibly too-much dramatic effort and takes it to refill. “Thanks.”

“Sure.”

It’s a small apartment with only as many walls as needed. Ideally Taylor would prefer a room between him and the man to make his escape (which will be the exact opposite of stealthy) a little bit easier, but…

He waits until the leather-clad back is turned before slowly starting to stand. Not one step and the fucking floor creaks underfoot.

Shit. “Uh — can I get some ice?” Taylor asks; louder than necessary to cover it up.

The man (probably) rolls his eyes. “Want a straw while I’m at it? Maybe a little pink umbrella?”

“I’d prefer yellow.”

“I bet you would.”

Taylor waits, poised like a viper, and strikes when the ice maker on the fridge door begins to rumble to life. Dashes as fast as he can — though it isn’t until he moves more than an inch that he realizes just how sore everything is — to what looks like every closed front door he’s ever seen.

Aaaand it’s locked.

There’s a deep rich laughter behind him as Taylor yanks on the brass handle; twists the lock this way and that in his growing panic and previously undiscovered claustrophobia.

When he looks back the man is behind him, glass in hand — with ice, too.

“Stop laughing!” Taylor’s voice cracks — makes him wince.

With a shake of his head the man approaches. Taylor tenses for some sort of assault but instead watches dumbly while his personal space is invaded. Damn this guy is tall.

“Stop being so funny.”

“What kind of fucking sicko locks an apartment from the outside?!”

Bemusement falls into a slight frown. He flinches, feels the stranger reach around…

The door unlocks with a click.

“Dunno, but I’ll let you know when I meet one.”

Not a second into looking up and up into the man’s face does Taylor push him back. Keeps his back pressed against the door and blindly searches for the knob but forces distance between them.

It doesn’t take a psychic to know he’s wary. The stranger sighs and scratches the back of his head.

“Listen — I ain’t holdin’ you hostage, or anything. You’re free to go.” But before Taylor can even twist his wrist he adds; “Not that I’d really wanna run the risk of facing Casper’s Cannibal Cousin again but that’s just me. You seem like a strong, capable guy. Lemme know how it goes.”

Fuck.

Taylor gives him a wary eye. “Are we — I mean… am I actually safe here?”

“With the wards on this place you’d have a hard time being stung by a really pissed-off mosquito.”

“Not funny.”

“Who’s laughing?”

Somehow they end up back in the same positions they were a minute earlier; Taylor’s fingers wet and numb from the glass and the other, well, he couldn’t look more like a middle-aged drunk if he tried; especially now with the coat off and thrown over the back of his chair.

“Do you have a name?” Taylor tries — and fails — not to let it get to him when he gets only a nod. “Wanna share?”

“Just call me Ryder.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“It’s not your name.”

“Yes it is.”

“It’s dumb.”

“You’re dumb.”

A tense and silent stand-off follows. This is why he doesn’t spend much one-on-one time with cis-men, not that Taylor would say that out loud.

Finally ‘Ryder’ relents; “My first name’s Nik. Nobody calls me Nik — they just call me Ryder. That means you’ll call me Ryder, too.”

Well he won’t, but that’s beside the point. “And where are we? Are we still in New Orleans?”

The question catches Ryder by surprise.

“‘Course we are. Just a couple’a blocks over from Bourbon.”

“Oh, good.”

“Yeah.”

He tries not to feel peeled back into layers by the scrutiny of Ryder’s gaze but with eyes like that it’s kind of impossible. Makes him freeze up — words forgotten.

“Is that really all you wanna ask?”

His face flushes hot. “No, of course not.”

“Then ask.”

“Ask what?”

“You know what.”

“No I don’t,” again his voice cracks — makes him focus on the wet spot the glass leaves on his jeans rather than the look on Ryder’s face, “like — I really don’t. Because… because my head is telling me to ask ‘what happened’ but when I think about it I automatically default back to the fact that nothing about it makes sense — nothing about it could have been real.”

Ryder takes too long to respond.

“Just because it doesn’t make sense doesn’t mean it wasn’t real, Taylor.”

And doesn’t that just fire off a spark in his brain. Makes him turn and slam the glass down and give Ryder the hardest, worst, and most rueful look he can.

“Fine — you want me to ask questions? We’ll start with — with that. How d’you know my name?”

The man shrugs. “Because I’m being paid to.”

“You’re being…” —oh the headache— “so you were stalking me in the bar?”

“No.”

“Uh, you just admitted it.”

“Uh, no I didn’t.” Taylor must’ve hit a nerve judging by the tick in Ryder’s scarred brow. “Strange as it may seem — and we really ain’t short on strange with all this — I wasn’t hired until after I left the Touristy Unicorn.”

That doesn’t help. “Hired for what?”

“For protection detail; bodyguard stuff. For you, kid.”

Does he look like his brain is short-circuiting, because that’s definitely how he feels. And in his silence Ryder takes the opportunity to keep talking without being harassed. “I wouldn’t’ve taken it on a normal day but, shit, you ain’t normal. Not even taking into account that you saw me in my booth —”

“— No shit I saw you. You were just sitting there.”

Ryder shakes his head. “Sure was but I was glamoured up to the nines. Nothing under a century or without some heavy magical aid should have been able to see me.”

Taylor disregards his crazy talk — he has proof. “My friend saw you first.”

“Who, the tipsy co-ed?” he barks a laugh, “Nah, she was more focused on the two mashing mouths to my side. Was too hard to enjoy my drink with the sound of sloppy spit-swappin’ for me to forget.

“She may have been seeing the world a little liquored-up but she definitely didn’t know I was there. But you? You looked right at me; saw right through my glamour and with no small amount of effort judgin’ by how sick you looked after.”

His headache. And wasn’t that what had started all of… of whatever this was? His headache and wanting to go home, getting lost with no signal, and then…

There’s no resisting the permafrost that blankets over his bones. When Taylor looks at Ryder he doesn’t see him; just sees the outline of him and that awful haunting thing in his mind’s eye.

Ryder continues; “You can turn the paranoia down a notch. I was content to mind my own business until I got a call on a damn payphone nearby.”

“A… payphone?”

“Well they don’t ring on their own. And in this town if someone in the know crosses by a phone ringin’ on its lonesome then that means its for them.” He sniffs; brushes something off like it’s no big deal and Taylor’s the fool for not just knowing. “Picked it up and there it was in my head: your face, your name, and the message. That’s how you know there’s something heavy hangin’ in the air… the kind of spellwork that can dig into your head without a trace.”

Magic. Spellwork. This is too fucking nuts.

Still, he has to ask. “What was the message?”

“‘Protect him.’”

How foreboding and creepy that is — well he’ll deal with that later. Because up until shit went down he didn’t need protecting. Had done a fair job of protecting himself all his life. But how can you protect yourself from things you don’t know about?

“What was it?” When there’s no quirky quip Taylor knows he’s starting to ask the right things. “What was that thing in the cemetery?”

“I…”

“Come on, Mister Answers. Where’d your answers go?”

“Hey, now you just —”

“What was it?”

“I don’t know!” Ryder growls through gritted teeth. It’s the first time his posturing slips — shoulders slumped and instinctively seeking comfort in the contents of the flask. “I don’t… I don’t know. I’ve seen a lot of crazy shit; the dead, undead, the undead-dead. But I’ve never seen anything even remotely close to whatever the hell that was.”

Some bodyguard, he wants to say — doesn’t. Strange as it is Taylor finds himself comforted by the fact that he’s not the only one completely ignorant.

Not that it lasts long. Because when his brain finally puts everything together — shadows and skeletal killers and spellwork and the fact that the thing he’s been thinking was a flagpole leaning against the wall has a bright crystal atop it and is most likely something ridiculous like a wizard’s staff — it shuts off.

At least he’s got his answers.

Ryder knocks back the rest of the flask and tucks it between the cushions in his chair. Leans forward elbows-on-knees and studies Taylor’s face.

“I’ve been waitin’ for you to ask me what happened before you keeled over,” he says finally, “but now I’m not so sure you wanna know.”

“I do,” he answers on autopilot.

“You sure?”

He’s sure.

The story Taylor expects goes something like…

“I drew a circle around the creature, sated from its kill. Using the blood of my ancestors and sacred herbs I’ve been cultivating for this exact moment, I conjured magical holy fire and banished the demon back to the depths of Hell.”

But that’s not what he gets.

“I thought I had a shot when you went into hiding — you know how damn hard it is to chase something chasin’ somethin’ else through that shit? — but lost it again. Finally found you at the entryway and used the thing’s distraction to get a few arrows lodged in its, uh, well I think it was its back.

“Thing is those were holy light arrows I used. Blessed by every priest in every religion you’ve heard of and some you ain’t. I’ve used those things to take down malformed conjurings, hundred year-old revenants, the works. But it was about as effective as throwing a rock at its head.”

“I’m guessing that’s a bad thing.”

“You’d be guessin’ correctly.”

Taylor runs his hands over his face. Shoves down the thickness that wants to consume his lungs and keep him there; solid, immobile.

“Okay, okay —” talking more to himself than Ryder, “— okay. This is good. Crazy, but good.”

The look he’s given really shouldn’t be a surprise. “Did I break ya?”

“No — I mean, maybe, but not with that — no you… actually you saved me. So I’m grateful for that. Thank you.”

Ryder snorts. “Finally…”

“But you didn’t save Kristin. So I’m going to push down every… every problem I have with everything you said and pretend with all this crazy that conjurings and holy arrows and whatever-the-fuck-else is real —”

“It is. But, kid —”

“— And you’re gonna help me find some voodoo or hoo-doo or whatever kind of spell you can that’ll bring her back.”

The fact that Ryder doesn’t look the least bit remorseful is an issue he’ll deal with later — though that plate is starting to get a little crowded. But if the universe seems intent on throwing him into this fucking insanity with no warning or even a tutorial mode then he’s going to meet it head-on and screw the rest.

He leans forward and starts rifling through the leather-bound books, tomes, and sheets of paper scattered on the coffee table. “So what here can help us? Do we need a lock of hair, or a personal item, or —”

“She ain’t dead, kid.”

Taylor nods but doesn’t really register what he hears. “Got it. Dead meaning, what, her soul hasn’t crossed over yet? Is she still on the, uh, the mortal plane or something?” He looks around wildly; lifts up his feet like he’ll find her hiding there in miniature.

“Shit — is she here with us? Can you see her? Kristin? Krissy?”

“Whoa — okay, yep, you’ve cracked.”

Then Ryder’s hands are on his shoulders and oh hell no. His body reacts before the brain can catch up and he’s pushing Ryder away — giving himself breathing space.

“Don’t touch me.”

Much like the flask it’s an issue Ryder doesn’t push. Holds his hands up and gives a curt nod but that doesn’t make him look any less concerned. Now he’ll start to argue with the man, because technically it’s his fault Kristin died in the first place.

“There’s gotta be something —”

“To get you to chill out and listen to me? Yeah I doubt it.”

“— No. To help us contact her.”

“Could try a phone.”

Taylor snaps. “This isn’t a joke! I don’t know this crazy stuff like you do. So stop making jokes and — and help me!”

“Christ,” Ryder rubs his head — leans forward but doesn’t make a move to put his hands on Taylor again, “if you’d listen you’d not sound so damn stupid! She’s not dead, Taylor. The thing didn’t kill her.”

No, no… he saw…

“I won’t say it didn’t get close but she wasn’t the target. I don’t know if that limits it’s powers or… or hell, maybe it was feeling merciful or malicious. But your friend ain’t dead. — In a bad way… but not dead.”

It’s not even in the realm of good news — what did that mean, ‘in a bad way’ — but it’s the best news he’s heard yet so yeah he fucking runs with it. Leaps to his feet and doesn’t even bother trying to misdirect Ryder this time because not only is the door unlocked but he’s going to see Kristin alive.

And, really, with the zeal in which he was ready to pursue some form of necromancy to bring her back he’s kind of disappointed in how surprised Ryder sounds behind him.

“Kid — where d’you think you’re goin’ exactly?”

Still walking to the door, only backwards now. “Where do you think? Is she at the hospital, which one? Come on — take me there.”

“Well that ain’t happening but regardless how about we stay up here instead?”

“How about we don’t?”

“Kid —”

“First I need you to stop calling me that. Second I’ll grab a cab if I need to. Thanks, Nik—Ryder—whatever for saving me but I need to go see her.”

Ryder doesn’t stop him from slamming the apartment door behind him and finding his way out. That must mean he’s not entirely devoted to this bodyguard job, right? If that’s even really the case. Not like he has any proof.

It’s probably guilt at not saving her in time, rationalizes Taylor as he looks around the crowded hallway only to spot a winding, iron-wrought staircase almost hidden in the corner.

That makes the most sense. He feels guilty and there was nothing he could have even done in the first place.

Though, finding out where Ryder gets those hallelujah arrows might help.

He’s at the bottom of the steps when he remembers Vera had his phone last — is halfway through entertaining the idea of going back up to ask Ryder if he could borrow his when he takes in the ground level.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

It’s still dark outside but dawn has to be on the approach — last call having already been there, done that.

The bar is small and he can only think of it as oaken. Wood floors on wooden-panel walls with a wooden bartop in the corner decorated in carvings so small and detailed they could only have been done by hand. Even the booths are wooden on the outside with what look like rich mossy-green velvet lining.

But the place doesn’t smell like a woodshop — not how one would expect what has to be a quarter of the population of Louisiana’s deforestation, has to be — rather a forest. Like all the wood is still growing and alive. Pine needles and sap and mulchy earth digging into his bare toes and proving life continues to live underfoot.

Though when he wiggles his toes Taylor is almost surprised to discover he’s got his shoes on.

The place is empty save for two patrons and a lanky young man behind the counter.

One man, hulking in stature no doubt even if he’s bent over the table before him, scribbles diligently in a notebook with a glass of something bright at his side. Must have one of those cheesy lite-cubes within because he could swear the drink is pulsing color.

The other is a woman mostly obscured by the bar and her ombre violet sheen of hair. She’s gotta be decorated for Mardi Gras though the bone-white hand she twirls a lock of hair around would be more suited for a Día de Muertos party.

She notices him first — offers a flawless grin of black lipstick and white teeth before she learns forward and whispers something to the bartender.

He rounds on a practically choreographed flourish of his heel. Beams wide and unabashed as though he’s greeting an old friend and not a complete stranger.

“Taylor, my mortal! Good to see you again. You look famished. Are you famished? You look famished. I should get you something. Are you a vodka-type or a gin-type? You know what — I’ll fix a couple options up. Variety is the spice of life!”

Before Taylor can even process the English language enough to turn him down the bartender disappears in a shock of his albino-white hair. Leaves him staring at the silvery fabric of the partition.

“Garrus is a hoot, isn’t he?” asks the goth girl — she waves over a hand and pats a stool beside her in invitation. “Come, come! I wanna see what he whips up and you will too.”

He casts a longing look to what has to be the front door of the place — the only thing that isn’t wood, as he notes the iron decor with irony. But can’t even step in that direction before she clears her throat in a way that says she won’t take no for an answer.

So… he sits? He sits.

“I’m surprised Ryder didn’t come down with you. Or did you let him drink himself asleep?”

Taylor shakes his head. “No, he’s… he let me go.”

“Huh, funky.” She taps long dark nails against her cheek and stares at him with wonder. Underneath the strange combination of lights she looks even more pale than he thought — almost translucent. It must be her makeup that makes it look like her veins run black under her skin.

There’s a throbbing in his temples so Taylor looks away out of habit.

“You should call your friend back.”

“Why? It’ll be a good show — and even if it’s not your fancy you’ll still get free booze out of it.”

“Well I don’t drink.”

“Drink what, vodka, gin? I knew I called you for a tequila man.”

“No,” and headache aside he looks grim into her purple color-contacts, “like at all. I’m sober.”

Just as the girl’s expression falls into embarrassed horror the curtain brushes back as if by a gust of wind. The bartender Garrus barrels forward with an actual cauldron in his arms and every nook and twiggy-armed cranny filled with various corked bottles and vials.

“Not for lo~ong!” he sing-songs. Drops his things carelessly on the bar surface and starts picking through them intently. “Now I could have sworn I had more cane root than this, but maybe if I sub in —”

Taylor goes to speak but the gaunt hand on his arm stops him short.

“Garrus, he’s sober.”

“I know, Ivy my love, I heard. Honestly what was Ryder thinking trying to unload all this on the poor man without even offering him a drink?”

Ivy gives a sigh of honestly and precariously balances on thick-sole heels to reach over and grab Garrus’ next glassy victim out of reach.

“H-Hey,” he practically whines, “that’s not in the spirit of things!”

“Listen to me,” and Taylor’s grateful she’s going through all the trouble but can’t not laugh when she sandwiches her friend’s face in both hands, “sweetheart — he is sober; dry, straight-laced, whatever you want to call it — go for it. But this human no drinkey.”

If that’s what it would have taken for Taylor to get the man to stop he isn’t entirely sure he’d have had the guts to do it.

As it is Garrus looks like he’s taking it personally before their eyes meet and his face goes flushed pink all the way to the tips of his rather pointy ears.

“Oh.”

Ivy resumes her seat cheerily. “My work here is done.”

“S-Sorry,” Taylor tries to offer, “I’ll take a coke if you’re really, uh, insistent.”

Garrus is interrupted before he can answer. And by a voice that rings startlingly familiar, too.

“Why not whip up one of those old cream colas for him, Garrus? You were just talking about how much you missed making them.”

It’s enough to put the pep back in his leather-booted step. Has Garrus clapping in delight and pointing between them to the only occupied booth with a wink.

“Darling, you’re a genius!”

Garrus gathers up his cauldron and brews; dashes back behind the curtain. Taylor meanwhile whirls around on the stool cushion to the vaguely recognizable face previously ducked in concentration.

Krum — that was his name, right? The more-mountain-than-man he had bumped into heading home from rehearsal earlier that day.

Who gave Taylor the early triggers of a panic attack in how his skin seemed to turn to a literal mountain under the company lights.

Who pushes up an almost comically tiny pair of spectacles and gazes back at Taylor with similar vague recognition.

“Understudy-boy?” He pulls off his glasses and wipes the lenses with the hem of his sweater — as if he’s the one hallucinating things and not the other way around. “Well I’ll be, it’s you!”

Ivy joins the conversation while sipping her margarita through a stirring straw. “You know this guy, Krom?”

“K-Krum.” corrects Taylor.

“Well actually,” says the man in question sheepishly as he slides out of his seat and comes to join them, “it is Krom. It’s a family name, too, and I’m very proud of it. But mortals never hear it right and I just sort of stopped correcting them.”

Ivy croons. “You gotta get thicker skin you big lug.”

When Krom tries to take the stool next to him, though, Taylor flinches back violently. Practically falls off his seat in his haste to get back. His ‘little throbbing’ is a full-on migraine now; the lights too bright and the smells too weird and he has to back up and steady himself on the nearest support column to keep from vomiting all over the nice shiny floors.

Like most concerned samaritans Ivy and Krom are on him in an instant. Their voices blurring together with the ringing in his ears; “Honey are you okay? — what happened — oh no did I hurt him — go get Ryder!”

“NO!”

He’s startled when he realizes it’s him yelling — not them. Blinks through teary eyes to look into the expressions of two ordinary people warped and twisted by his traitorous mind.

Ivy’s makeup looks melded to her face — like if she catches the light a certain way he’ll see her skeleton and the lines above are the tension of her muscles. And Krom is still a literal mountain man but in high-granite definition; he swears he even hears stone grind with every movement.

“Oh god…” he wails and covers his eyes. Scratches at them like maybe he can claw off the tears instead of just wiping them away.

In the bright darkness there’s muttered, muffled noises. Footsteps echoing on wood, then metal.

Then the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He knows there’s a hand hovering just above the surface of him.

“The more you go on fightin’ it, kid, the more it’ll hurt.”

He doesn’t have to open his eyes to imagine the look on Ryder’s face.

Words seem impossible but he finally manages to grit it out. “I won’t.”

“Won’t what?”

“I won’t give in. I’m sober. I’m sober!”

He manages two good smacks to his skull before Ryder snatches his wrist ironclad. “Hey—Hey! Stop that!”

“I’m sober fuck’s sakes! This should have stopped! I’m sober and I’m not. crazy!”

They struggle over his hand but Ryder’s strength beats out Taylor’s fright and panic. Just lets it hang limp in midair in the calloused grip.

“You were up there with me fully ready to take on some high-level necromancy bullshit and this is what sets you off?”

“You were gonna let him do what?!”

“Relax, Iv’, relax,” Ryder sighs, “I wasn’t gonna let him do it. But still he believed. You did believe, didn’t you?”

Did he? He doesn’t know. Can’t even tell if he’s still awake right now or if this is all some awful feverish nightmare he can only hope to never have again with the help of his sponsor.

Ryder tries again. Closer, this time — almost a whisper.

“Didn’t you?”

“I —” the whole bar hangs on his every word, “— I think so.”

“So believe me now when I say this: you aren’t crazy. Weird I guess, and maybe a bit gutsy. But not crazy.”

It isn’t much. But it’s enough for him to pry his eyes open and look at the man above him through the tears.

“You don’t get it. I… they look like…”

“Like what?”

He shudders the words out; “Like monsters.”

“HA!”

The cackle — or shriek — is so loud and so close it startles both of them out of their closeness; out of the intimacy of his admission. Makes them both look at where Ivy sits cross-legged on the floor with them sucking on a lollipop.

“Well I should sure hope so,” she teases, “because my glamour looks like a cheap imitation of the real thing! That’s what I get for skimping with B-O-G-O spell goods.”

Glamour. He knows that word. And Ryder knows he knows too judging by the wry little smile he gets. “Yeah, them too.”

“But —”

“Glamours are for all kinds’a things, kid. Here, c’mon up ya get,” with both hands Ryder helps him stand, “that particular one of mine was for secrecy. Most common ones you’ll run into though are harmless little shifts — ways to make the not-so-human look a little bit more that way.”

There’s a gasp and all eyes fall on Krom, now fully stone. His hairline replaced by filed-off pointed edges and skin rippling with crystalline sediment.

“You can see through glamours?” He asks, mortified.

Ivy’s black lips peel back with her grin. “Wicked.”

Garrus appears from around the bar with interest. Still pale but there’s no denying the actual point and tilt of his ears or the way his skin seems to almost shimmer. His eyes pale but reflective like bright diamonds.

“I wondered what set off my wards when Ryder here dragged you in. Seeing through glamours is some high-level magic. What’ve you charmed?” He looks Taylor over with interest.

“What have I… what?”

Ryder answers for him. “Already did my due diligence, guys. He’s not wearing anything charmed — he is charmed. Can see through the veil au natural.”

“Wicked.” repeats Ivy.

“Guess you’re my not-so-mortal, huh?”

Krom shakes his head with hands clasped together. “No wonder you were so frightened at the company. I’m so sorry, Taylor. I had no idea.”

Taylor swallows but manages a smile. “It’s… it’s okay. Not your fault, right?”

And the more he looks at them — really looks instead of seeing passing glimpses and resisting their existence — the less everything hurts. The ringing in his ears fades and like a drum at the end of a song his head abruptly clears. Along with the clouds that seem to hang invisible over his head every time he has one of his hallucinations.

But they aren’t hallucinations. They’re real.

It’s all real.

There’s a hesitation before Ryder lightly touches his shoulder. Taylor doesn’t flinch away — in fact a little human (maybe?) warmth is kinda comforting.

“You good?”

“Y-Yeah, I think so,” he inhales shakily, “I just can’t believe it’s all… I mean that it’s not in my head. It’s real. Everything I’ve seen is… is real.”

But everything means everything. Makes his heart settle down somewhere in the region his stomach ought to be occupying.

Makes him look Ryder head-on.

“So why does it want me dead?”

#nightbound #playchoices #choices nb #nik ryder #choices nightbound #garrus #ivy #krom #nightbound mc #mc: taylor hunter #nik ryder x mc #oblv: bound by circumstance #oblv: new chapter #; my fics #tw: hallucinations

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rendiggitydog · 5 years

Text

Blast From the Past

The start of a mini-series!

-Chapter 1/7-

The blast from town center sent a shockwave across the whole world, sending the hermits into a frenzy. Almost instantly, the group chat was flooded with messages, and hermits flew from all corners to the scene.

A large crater had appeared in the shopping district, in front of the statues of Tango and Cub. The smoke was still clearing as everyone peered over the edges of the hole.

Xisuma, feeling confident his armor could protect him from possible foreign substances, slid down the sides of the pit, hopping over rocks as he made his way to the center. The smoke began clearing, and a figure could be seen lying in the rubble.

"Hello?" X called cautiously. "Are you alive?"

"I'm real knackered..." The figure sat up slowly, revealing himself to the onlooking group. He sported a big black moustache, with messy back hair that brushed the tops of his ears. His shirt evidently used to be blue, but wasn't anymore, and his jeans weren't much better. His shoes looked nearly worn through on the soles. With wide eyes, he observed the large group watching, and then turned to X. "Where did- how- who are you?"

"My name is Xisuma, what's yours? Where do you hail from?"

"Name's MJ. I think I got too buzzed, this is a wild fever dream..." He glanced at the group peering over the side of the hole, and examined X's armor with skepticism. "You'd think I was a swigger, the things I'm imagining..."

"You aren't imagining anything. This is Hermitcraft! We all live together and have fun. Shall we climb out of this hole, then?"

The pair made their way out of the crater, where Joe met them with a glint in his eye, but a worried expression. "Howdy MJ. It sounds like you're from the 1950's, am I right?"

"Yeah, '51. Ya make it sound like it isn't '51?" MJ wrung his hands.

"No, it's 2019. How bizarre..." X mused.

MJ ran jittery fingers through his hair. "Man, this blows. I don't- and there's- colors everywhere, and- and you're all just like me-"

"I mean, I don't exactly look like you," Doc chuckled.

"Nah, you don't get it. Where I'm from, I'm it. Sometimes ya run into a pig- a creeper if you're unlucky, but that's it. The whole world is grass and trees, as far as the Farlands. It's quiet, being the only one... aware." MJ went quiet, rubbing his arm.

"So you live in a Classic world... How interesting..." X began pacing unconsciously.

"Are you sure it's Classic? He knows creepers, weren't they added in Indev?" Joe quizzed.

"Nope, Classic. Depends on the version, but he probably knows pigs, sheep, zombies, skeletons, spiders and creepers."

MJ nodded at the only words he understood in their conversation. He was still fairly certain he was dreaming.

"Also, he's using 1950's American slang in a British accent- that error was removed in early Indev."

X nodded quickly. "You're right, I forgot about that."

"Can we all get to bed? We don't want phantoms killing MJ, who knows where he would respawn." Scar pulled out a couple beds, which hermits promptly hopped into.

"Phantoms? Why we gotta sleep? Are The Phantoms a gang?" MJ asked quickly as the rest of the hermits led him to the Stax-4-Stax Tavern.

"The longer you go without sleep, the more phantoms spawn, and they're deadly." Grian explained. "When was the last time you slept?"

"....never?" MJ watched the dark sky anxiously.

"Oh yeah... Let's get inside, quick!" Grian shoved him inside. The phantoms screeched, making Grian chuckle and MJ shudder.

—

The next morning, MJ was full of chaos and concern. Now fully rested for the first time in his life, he began to realize his situation. He anxiously danced around the small room of sleeping hermits for a few minutes, before he mustered enough courage to creep out the front door.

There was so much color in this strange world- even the grass looked different from what he knew. His head spun on a swivel as he took in everything he possibly could.

He started low, running his fingers through the long grass and smelling the colorful flowers scattered across the ground in front of the building. A chicken wandered across his path, so he decided to follow it wherever it went.

The chicken, followed by an intent MJ, meandered to the shore by the ocean, which MJ noted, was filled with seaweed and assorted swimming creatures.

As they wandered further inland, MJ drifted away from his chicken guide, stunned by the variety of blocks in the buildings towering around him. He poked his head into a red striped building, but ducked out just as quickly when he couldn't name the shiny blue rocks or cylinders in the wooden boxes.

As he stepped out, however, something shot over his head with a loud explosion, sending him to the floor in a panic. The creepers were in the air, too?

"Heya! Enjoying my store?" A man fell out of the sky holding one of the striped cylinders. His hair was golden and shimmered in the light, along with his bright red eyes. His ears and teeth were pointy, and his combat boots completed the intimidating look. "What are you doing on the ground?"

MJ glanced around carefully, motioning the man to crouch down next to him. "There are creepers flying around here!"

The man gave him a blank stare, then laughed, standing up again. "Oh man, that's priceless! You mean me? Using a rocket to fly?" He pulled out a so-called rocket, and it exploded in his face, sending MJ into another fit of shakes. "It's okay, they're harmless!"

"You can fly?" MJ asked cautiously, afraid the answer might include more explosions.

"Let me show you!" The man crouched down, preparing another rocket, but stopped when he saw MJ's petrified expression. "Well, maybe we should start smaller. How about the Cherry Store?"

The man, who MJ learned was named Tango, lead him patiently to another store, this one made of wood. Wood was more familiar to MJ, although this wood looked entirely different to what he was used to.

"Look, this stuff is called redstone," Tango explained, displaying a nicely packaged bag of redstone, ready to be purchased. "You can make lots of hardware with it, which you can use to make machines!"

MJ opened the bag, running his finger through the red dust. Some of it sparked, glowing slightly. "What can you make with the parts?"

"Well, you can start small with an automatic fish farm, or you can build an iron titan, or you can make something like Sahara! Let me show you, it's super cool!"

Excited again, Tango led the way to Sahara, a large building in the side of the hill. After showing MJ the interface, they staircased up to the second level to get a look at the modules.

"Iskall made all of these himself- crazy, right? Grian tried to help, but he's definitely the builder of the Architechs," Tango laughed.

MJ walked down an aisle, marveling at the large machines. They were made of small parts MJ couldn't name, but he knew they were made of redstone. It was all incredible, but MJ didn't understand a bit of it- he considered himself more of a builder anyway.

"Oi! Trespassers!" Grian, as MJ remembered from yesterday, soared through a broken window. He smoothed his wild sandy-blond hair, a wide grin across his face.

"Don't mind us! I'm just showing MJ around!" Tango waved.

"Oh! You should come see my base, MJ! It's super cool!" Grian bounced excitedly. He had a lot of energy, MJ gave him that. Not usually his cup of tea in friendships, but beggars can't be choosers.

"I'll leave you two to it then! Xisuma wanted me to work on some code with him today anyway. See ya!" Tango flew away with another explosion, causing MJ to jump.

"Hm, I suppose you're not much of a flyer, huh?" Grian observed. MJ simply shook his head. "Guess we'll boat over!"

MJ carefully stepped into the boat Grian made, with Grian clambering in after him. They rowed out into the bay, MJ watching as the shore faded into a shimmer at the horizon. "Here we are!"

MJ turned around and was stunned by the white building towering over them. Grian hopped out of the boat onto a glass bridge, motioning MJ to follow. He carefully did so, being sure his shoes were dry enough that he wouldn't slip.

"This is my base! Sorry it's kind of a mess, I have a chest monster problem," Grian giggled and soared down into the center of the tower. He rifled through a couple of the chests (as MJ had just learned they were called) and flew back to MJ with arms full of mysterious items. "Here's a starter kit!"

Grian tossed the items on the floor and sorted through them, giving MJ a run-down. "So that's full iron tools and armor, a stack of golden carrots, a stack of torches, and an elytra with rockets to get you started! Does that look alright to you?"

MJ nodded, entranced by the items- especially the strange golden carrots.

"...You don't talk much, do you?" Grian stared into his eyes. Despite his brown eyes being almost black, they sparkled with love and innocence.

MJ cleared his throat. "Ah, I guess I'm still feeling a lil buzzed from... however I got here." He shrugged, carefully picking up the gifted items.

Grian opened and closed his mouth several times, and then settled with a confused smile. It looked strange on his usually-energetic face. "Feel free to set up your base anywhere that's open. If you have any questions, don't be afraid to text anyone." He handed a small black box to MJ, which he held with reverence. "It's a phone- just press the name of who ever you wanna talk to."

"Thanks," MJ hesitated. "By chance are you a greaser? You don't have any beef, do ya?"

Grian cocked an eyebrow. "Maybe? You won't need any beef though, the golden carrots are way better for your health."

"...are you booted, dog?"

Grian blinked. "I think you have different slang in Classic, because I don't know what that means..."

"My bad. Just, nevermind. I'll leave ya to it. Thanks for the setup!" MJ, embarrassed, hopped in his boat and paddled off, avoiding eye contact with Grian. The guy was weird to say the least- MJ wondered if that was why he lived in the ocean alone. Hopefully he hadn't killed his reputation by talking to Grian, and he could find a more helpful person tomorrow...

#rae writes #blast from the past #grian #xisuma #hermitcraft #joe hills #docm #goodtimeswithscar #tangotek #mumbo jumbo #dont worry the 50's slang eases up a couple chapters in #lol

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unto-myself-together · 4 years

Text

Of Stories and Songs: Ch 8

A lot of author notes, I know, but there’s no avoiding that. A TON of stuff happens in this chapter.

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Author notes: I really REALLY need to stop making long chapters. 22 pages! Like I never get them out and I get “fatigued” or something when I make them super long like this. I also wouldn’t have to make such long author notes.

Inb4 my family thinks I’m creepy for breathing into my phone while recording.

I actually couldn’t figure out how to get the audio files off my phone, but you’re really not missing much anyways. Just when you get to the part of the story, take a deep breath in and listen to how it sounds when you take a deep breath in. Change it up by changing how fast you breath the air in, and listen. Yes, that was exactly what I was going for.

Character names and the Imagineers they were named after:

Claude = Claude Coates Michael Davis = Mark Davis Karen Anderson = Ken Anderson Solomon Gracey= Yale Gracey Rolly Mortimer= Rolly Crump The Atencio company = X Atencio Nell is named after the main character of the Haunting of Hill House *(as well as named after the author of that story). And Galloway isn’t anything important or a reference; it just sounded cool at the time.

Yes, I did indeed try to draw that creepy hand that passes over the grandfather clock. I’m sad it didn’t turn out quite right, but I dislike the act of drawing too much to actually bother fixing that piece up.

“Closing your eyes” : When I was young, my mother would always close my eyes when the Ghost Host would show his body hanging from the rafters. I thought she did it because I was afraid of the thunder and lightning, and she was known to hold my eyes whenever something I found scary happened on other rides. Even though thunder is a SOUND and not a sight, it did feel comforting to have her put her hands over my eyes anyways. It took me a long, long time to figure out the real reason she closed my eyes was because she didn’t want me to see the hanged man. Part of that was because I didn’t know it was a hanged man, even when I had a chance to look at it. It just looked like a weird clump of clothes hanging from the ceiling. So I guess in some ways, she didn’t even need to hold my eyes close to begin with (because I would not have known even if I looked at it); but I still appreciated that she went through the effort.

The idea of three people creepily coming closer and closer to you after having cornered you is kind of what I imagined the Cast Members would totally do to guests that don’t listen and leave the ride vehicles without permission. You know...if security didn’t have to be involved and they were allowed to be theatrical.

So in the actual ride, there are TWO stretching rooms for all Haunted Mansion locations. In WDW, they exist on either side of the Aging Man portrait. They are exactly identical, and I always thought it would be fun to imagine that they are the EXACT same room, and that the house just moves rooms around.

The door hidden in the darkness of the foyer is an actual door in WDW that I’ve been through. It connects to the small pet cemetery area right outside the exit doors of the ride. I’ve been through it before and it was totally awesome; might talk about it in another post.

There are actually two versions of Nell; the one in this story and the one that I roleplay. For all intents and purposes, they have the exact same personality, likes, and etc, but they just have different backstories and reasons for being at the mansion. In case anyone was confused.

I struggled, for a long time, to figure out what year this story ought to take in (as in, what year the two teens come to the mansion). There are benefits and downsides to both “modern era” and 1960s, the two time periods I considered. On the one hand, the 1960s could avoid the idea of under age drinking because the age was 18 back then (in the state of Virginia). The reason why I mention this is because there was a plot point that I...really don’t want to have to avoid all because the main characters don’t drink. I think I pretty much solved this dilemma in this chapter though, without underage drinking (even if I had to do so in a bit of an unrealistic way, sorry about that). Additionally, there would be no cell phones 1960s to ruin the story (as they call for help). On the other hand, it also means I cannot use modern day slang, ideas, memes, and etc....I think I’ve decided to kind of....let this story be in the modern day....possibly. I don’t know, I just might change my mind later. The struggle is real.

I may have forgotten a few author notes, in which case I apologize beforehand.

FINALLY, I dedicate this chapter to my dear friend, @asktheghosthost . Thank you for always listening, thank you for all the good times and good stories we’ve made together, thank you for reblogging these story chapters, thank you for pulling me back in the Haunted Mansion fandom...and thank you for helping to inspire this story.

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Trigger warnings: ghosts, death concepts/discussions, murder, suicide, abuse, blood, lots of scary stuff (horror), implied sexual abuse, cursing (damn and hell), drug abuse, domestic violence, attempted rape (never completed; in a later chapter).

This chapter: underage drinking (except not really. You’ll understand when you get to it)

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Prologue, Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3 , Chapter 4 , Chapter 5 ,

Chapter 6 , Chapter 7

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CH 8: Dust and Ashes

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All of my life I spent searching the words of poets and saints and prophets and kings

~ Now at the end all I know that I've learned is that all that I know is I don't know a thing

~Dust and Ashes, from Natasha, Pierre, and the Great Comet of 1812.

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Karen pulled the blanket closer to her as they descended downward. It was warmer in the stairway, but only just so; the more they descended, the closer the temperature got to the frigid room she’d woken up in previously.

“…Mr. Mortimer…I’m confused.”

“I can’t blame you none for that. I’d probably be the same, were I in your shoes.”

He kept pace beside her, his cane ticking with every step.

“What I meant was: Why are we going down? Shouldn’t we be going up?”

“We’re already up as high as we can get, young’un. Nowhere for us to go but down.”

“Wha--?”

She stopped, and Mr. Mortimer’s cane clicked to a halt as he, too, stopped a little ways in front of her.

“Where was that? The place we were before with all the junk?”

“That would be the attic.”

Karen considered this.

“Mr. Mortimer…why…did you go through all the trouble of carrying me up to the attic? What was the point if we just have to climb all the way down again?”

Mr. Mortimer chuckled, his gold teeth glistening in the act. The warmth of his tone, however, hardly made the sight terrifying.

“I certainly would not have gone through the trouble of gettin’ a living body all the way to the attic…You were already nearby.”

She gaped at him, trying to keep up with his logic.

“But I fell down a chasm of staircases…”

“No, you fell up a chasm of staircases.”

“That’s not even physically possible!”

“Talking about the physical in a house of ghosts, hmm? Trust me, young’un. Those sets of staircases you’ve been hanging about in are the very opposite of possible. Don’t think too hard about it, as it doesn’t make much sense even to us.”

He gestured for the two of them to continue, and she numbly caught up to his pace.

“If I…” She adjusted the blanket as they walked side by side. “…If I had fallen all the way…”

He frowned. “…Best not think of things like that. Won’t do nothing but worry yourself.”

She gave him a startled look, and he returned it with solemn nod.

She went quiet again for a bit, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. This stairway, at least, seemed to be relatively normal. Contained on all sides by walls, yet the rickety nature of it still threatened to trip her should she neglect to watch her step. Tiny spiders crawled along one of the walls. Tiny red spots on their backs that made them look like drops of blood circulating around them.

“…I’m sorry I didn’t say it before but…Thank you for saving me, Mr. Mortimer…”

“I’m afraid I can’t take all the thanks, young’un. Because I’m not the one who stopped yer fall.”

“Then who did?”

Mr. Mortimer paused again, and his gaze followed the trail of spiders.

All of them, the exact same appearance. All of them, traveling the exact same lines. Single Filed. Mindless and unnatural.

“Are those really spiders?” Instantly, she regretted the question, just as she was sure she’d regret the answer.

He sighed. “No. They aren’t. But that’s a right hard topic to talk about, and I ain’t too sure it’s my place to say. We better press on.”

His tone suggested that he’d prefer a change in subject, and his cane clacked as he continued forward again.

But Karen lingered a while by the spiders, watching them go from one end of the wall to the other. Black beady bodies with bright red spots each. A larger one was lingering above the traveling group with the same shade on its hairy exoskeleton as all the rest.

She looked from the tiny creatures lining the wall to the little bites that still lined her hand. These had to have been the same sort of spiders that fixed the window…and the floor…and attacked her for trying to interfere with their work.

The spiders stopped. Unanimously and simultaneously, they all turned towards her and lifted up their front two legs.

She took a startled step backwards.

“I’m sorry!” She said, wondering if they actually understood her. Her legs compelled her on to catch up to Mr. Mortimer, and a quick glance behind her told her that the spiders resumed their mindless trek once again.

“They’re so creepy…” She muttered as she was once again beside him.

“That they are,” The skeletal Mr. Mortimer said.

“Have they always been part of the house?”

“As far as I’m aware. Mr. Gracey told me he remembered seeing some of them back when he was alive, though it’s difficult to say whether they’d been upkeepin’ the house back then the way they do now.”

“How could he…not remember whether there were strange spiders rebuilding the house from underneath his feet?”

Mr. Mortimer gave a snorted laugh. “If you ever meet Mr. Gracey, I think you’d do well to keep that comment to yerself.”

“I already have, and I already think he doesn’t like me.”

Mr. Mortimer raised an eyebrow at her. “Oh? Why do you say that?”

“He was just…”

She thought back to all the memories she had of Solomon Gracey, and the contrast it stood to her own personal experience meeting him. The resulting earthquake he seemed to summon right then and there in the hallway.

“…Really grumpy.” She settled on that, although it seemed a severe understatement.

“Likely was just angry with that Mr. Claude. He assumes all mortals that come this way are the result of that man luring them here. And he’s usually right.”

“Mr. Claude?”

“Ah...” He tutted to himself. “Sorry. Tried to remember not to call him that around you; I don’t think he likes the mortals using that name. But you would know him to be the self-proclaimed ‘Ghost Host’.”

Karen tightened the blanket around herself. “He has a name?”

“Just the one. No surname, no title names, no family names. Just Claude. Doubt it’s even his real name, the wretch does like his little nicknames, but it’s the only one he’s ever given us to address him.”

The Ghost Host, imagined as a once real and living person. Even in the one memory where she saw him as a mortal, it was hard to think of him as human. Having something of a name attached to him did almost nothing to wave away the inherent ethereal nature of his existence. In fact, it almost felt…discomforting that he should have a name at all.

“Him and Mr. Gracey didn’t much like each other even way back when,” Mr. Mortimer continued, “And their fightin’ didn’t get any better in death either. If anything, it got worse. Sometimes see them go at each other’s throats like starving bears maulin’ each other over a fresh kill.”

They stopped at a landing, and Mr. Mortimer opened up the door into another hallway.

“As it happens, Mr. Claude is the one who likes to lure in unsuspectin’ mortals, and occasionally shows them off to Mr. Gracey because the ol’ wretch knows it will get the master of the house right and proper pissed at him. Mr. Gracey doesn’t approve o’ tricking mortals into the house, you see. It’s all a lot o’ prime entertainment for Claude. ”

“So Mr. Gracey isn’t really angry at me, then?”

“I’m sure he’s a bit peeved. Mortals shouldn’t hang about here. They can get themselves hurt, and there ain’t much of a good reason for them to be fraternizing with the dead. Leads to all sorts of things, like ghost hunters and….not so good expectations about what it means to die. So I can’t say he’s much happy that you’re here. But he’s a right sort, a good man, and even though he’s a little, as you say,…”

He gave her an aside, his sea green eyes glittering at her as he smiled.

“…Grumpy, he won’t hesitate to help you if you’re in need of it.”

They wandered down a hallway that she could only describe as splattered with crimson; red carpets all across the floor, red wallpaper with a strange floral design, and even the lights seem to glow a bit red. Or maybe that last was simply a trick of the eye.

Mr. Mortimer suddenly slowed his pace, and as she peered at him she could see his ghostly brow furrowed in concentration.

“Speaking of, young ‘un…”

The sound of the wind drifted through the halls; strange as it was since there were no apparent windows about.

“….If anything should happen to me, you’ll need to go and find Solomon. The wretch Claude will try to stop you, he’ll try to throw illusions to make you go his way, and you’ll need to swallow your fear and go down the scariest looking path to find Solomon. Solomon will help you.”

She was staring at him. “What….do you mean….?”

His eyes squinted; they looked off into the hallway and did not pay her heed “…It seems the wretch is about…Might be comin’ our way…”

“You can tell?” She tried to look down the hallway as well, but could see nothing out of place. It got colder; the wind shifted to breeze past her.

He shifted the hatbox to his cane hand so that he could grab her arm.

“Quickly now, young’un.” He said, pulling her along back the way they came. “We best be making our way back to the attic.”

“But why?”

“He never goes into the attic.”

And Mr. Mortimer left it at that, a note of finality in his tone that assured her he was not going to give her any other explanation.

They made their way, at a much quicker pace, down the red rimmed hallway again and back into the stairwell. He urged her to go up the stairs two at a time, a frantic pace that she was sure she wouldn’t have managed if he had not kindly helped pull up her weight with him. But even as they made it up their way up floors, the stairs seemed dauntingly and sadistically too tall.

“Can’t understand why he’s this dogged insistent… Plenty o’ mortals, psychic and not, have come by before and he never seemed this obsessed…What’s different here…? If I had known…if I had known…Ah, what a fool ya are, Rolly…” Mr. Mortimer muttered to himself. “Should have kept her in the attic, ya should…”

They made it to their third landing, before she suddenly buckled; an eerie, freezing sensation traced her spine and filled her with dread. And almost immediately as the feeling came, Mr. Mortimer spun her behind him and….

…And he was thrown against the wall.

She never saw it coming, for there was nothing to see. The invisible entity rammed the greenish hued Mortimer up against the wood of the stairwell; she could see Mr. Mortimer struggling against it, his “body” glowing and misaligning and fading a bit as he fought. She clenched her ears at the horrifying sound it seemed to produce, a cross between a woman screaming, a metal screw turning, and a set of nails rippling down a dry chalkboard. It penetrated her head.

Mr. Mortimer seemed to throw his attacker off him, as his feet were then on the floor. His glow sputtered as he slammed his cane onto the floor in an effortful movement; the screaming chalkboard sound returned again and she stumbled against the wall to hold herself up.

But it did not seem to last long. Mr. Mortimer was back and pinned against the wall again, his glowing form turning to glowing fog, and the glowing fog obscuring her from seeing him properly.

Until the fog cleared, but there was no sign of Mr. Mortimer.

There was a painting of him instead.

“Mr…” She gulped his name back down, afraid of what she was seeing. Her hand shakily reached up to touch the elaborate frame of the perfectly painted portrait of the man who had just been beside her.

“Crying for the dead is encouraged in this house.”

There was a twinge of anger that she couldn’t just brush away as she turned to the empty air.

“What did you do to him?!”

“Don’t feel so bad. It isn’t as though I killed him. Merely punished for trying to kidnap you away from me.”

“He wasn’t kidnapping me!”

“Oh but that is precisely why I have to frame him for it… Ahmmh mhmm hmmm ha ha haaaa HA!”

She went back to the portrait. Mr. Mortimer’s jaw seemed clenched in anger, his eyes glowering.

“Young….un….” She was surprised to hear a whisper coming from it, barely audible over Claude laughing over his own stupid joke.

“Solomon…..find….run….harder….to….catch….moving target…”

“But….what about you?” She whispered back.

The edged colors around his face seemed to soften a bit. “I…am...fine…”

She looked back at the open air; the damnable voice was still laughing as though his greatest enjoyment was to hear himself.

A quick adjustment of the blanket…Karen took a deep breath….then charged right through the nearby landing’s doorway.

The Ghost Host stopped laughing. “Oh? Are we playing the running game now? A bit of cat and mouse? What fun.”

She spun around the corner of the doorway, but was pulled back for a moment by an invisible force of vice-like cold. She struggled a moment, trying to twist it off her, before finally shoving off the blanket towards her attacker.

A tall figure.

The blanket outlined against a tall figure, where there had previously been nothing before. Its head was bent in a sickening angle, like the neck had been broken.

But she did not give herself a pause to absorb this; the grip on her had loosened and she took the opportunity to bolt down the hallway.

Red carpet, red walls, and as she propelled herself forward, her lungs drinking air, little spider spots came pouring down from the corner edges of the hall. First in a sprinkling, then in buckets as she traveled onwards.

Mostly, they spilled over the walls themselves, but a few occasionally dropped down from the middle of the ceiling and landed on her head. She brushed them off, again and again.

Her feet came to a halt at the junction, and her heart skipped a beat to see that one of her optional paths involved statues. A LOT of statues. The same kind of statue that had chased her before. But this path had a whole horde of them, scattered all the way into the darkness of the furthest she could see.

The other path looked clear.

He’ll try to throw illusions to make you go his way.

Mr. Mortimer’s words rang in the back of her head and she balked. How was she to know whether this were an illusion or a genuine herd of statue ghosts?

The shadow of a clawed hand, The Ghost Host’s distinctive chuckle phased in around her. The shadow claw circled her like a shark, twitching its fingers in anticipation of a single mistake on her part.

Karen cursed under her breath; not just directed at the Ghost Host, but herself. For the next thing she knew her adrenaline had already made the choice to charge. Straight into the hallway of statues.

It took a few ticks for her mind to catch up with her; the moment she thought this choice wasn’t a bad one after all was on the heels of the moment she noticed the statues were turning to face her. Grinding sounds of stone on wood and fifty pairs of stone weary eyes straight on her. She dipped and dodged around them, too scared to look back to see if claw hand or statue was following.

But she could feel them all pressing in around her. The sounds of scraping surrounding her...then one of her arms got caught. She managed to wretch it away.

But it happened again….and again…And until the other arm was snagged…and then her waist….her legs…stone hands grabbing her neck…her head….pulling her down with them….the restraints too strong…

She turned to look down the hallway to a vanishing freedom…took a deep breath as much as the stone arms would allow…And yelled:

“SOLOMON GRACEY!”

The statues froze in their grasp of her. No longer did they push to pull her to the ground.

And she swore she heard, to her great satisfaction, a grunt of annoyance coming from her long-standing invisible tormentor. Anything that annoyed the Ghost Host couldn’t possibly be a bad idea.

Sure enough, the walls began to shake. Vases on nearby corner tables toppled over, specks of dust trickled down from the ceiling. That sickening, cold spine feeling that she was beginning to associate with the Ghost Host began to dissipate…..and the statues started dissipating with it. One by one, as the earthquake rippled across the hall their forms smudged like a blurry photograph, before disappearing altogether.

Her body was released and she fell to the floor with a thud. The feel of rough stone was replaced….with a distinct taste of licorice. She swallowed to try and get the strange, sudden taste from her mouth, but it persisted. And the earthquake slowly died down.

She was alone and it was fantastically quiet.

“You…” A whisper on the air breathed. She looked up, only to distressingly find a pair of vivid, blue glints glaring down at her from the darkness of the far hall.

“You shouldn’t be here…” It continued, blue eyes moving towards her.

It sounded like someone taking in a long, deep breath.

And there was dust and ash.

Dust and ash….

It was like dust and ash….

Swirling together….coalescing….combining….until she could make out a face….a mouth….a nose….from the dust and ash came also the sleeves of a suit….a hand formed from the particles….legs….a person….

An angry person. A furious person.

The breath sound that lingered on the wind exhaled just as he was fully realized.

Though she had been rooted in the spot, in awe of watching a ghost forming himself in front of her, her adrenaline was still strongly beating in her veins. And it was this drive that caused her to stumble back, a frantic yearning to run screaming in her head.

As he advanced even closer to her, that internal screaming fueled her into dashing down the other hallway.

A candelabra blocked her way. A floating candelabra.

Another sound like someone taking a deep breath in….Dust and ash swirled around the candlesticks, the smell of roses, the wax dripping alongside the specks, until the figure of a woman appeared. Grey eyes, black hair, green dress; the head maid from the memories.

The breath exhaled.

She, too, advanced towards Karen, candelabra in her now mostly formed, dust dripping hand.

“P-please…” Karen stammered. But she herself wasn’t quite sure what she wanted to ask for.

Her feet took her down the last hallway, only to be cut off by a third figure.

Deep breath.

Dust and ash…

Dust and ash swirled once more, and a man in a green suite formed. Birds chirping. The breath exhaling…The dust settling off his shoulders as he guarded her final escape route and proceeded forward towards her.

Trapped on all sides. The master from the left, the head maid from the front, and the head butler from the right all converging on to her location, one step after another. A marked pace that noted they had all the time in the world to reach her.

And what would they do once they’ve accomplished this? She pressed her back against the wall, sliding gradually down to the ground as her head whipped from one of the trio to the other and the other. Her breath heaving in her ears. From Mr. Mortimer’s descriptions, she had imagined something much friendlier. Than again, she also had never imagined Mr. Mortimer was dead.

“No more running,” Mr. Gracey said with a sneer.

Right as she could see the hem of the maid’s dress a few feet from her eyes, she shut them tight. Waiting for…something to happen. The uncomfortable nothing that followed made her squint her eyes open once more.

They were just standing there. Waiting.

“You...really don’t need to do that….” Mr. Gracey said, frowning down at her.

“Do….what?” She breathed, finally releasing the breath she’d been holding in.

He raised an eyebrow at her. “Act as though you’re about to face your own execution.”

“Well how am I supposed to react then?! You make a show of…of forming yourself all angry like that and just…” She stammered. Her nerves were too frazzled for this. “I only just avoided a bunch of statues grabbing me and…! And that Ghost Host taunting me and….and the running and…and earthquakes…”

She looked up at him again with the strongest glare she could muster. Solomon looked unimpressed.

“I don’t care what Mr. Mortimer says about you. You could have at least told me what you’re going to do to me after you finish chasing me! I don’t know what you want!”

“What I want is for you to leave my house.”

She gave a side glance to his posse before turning back to him. “Alive or dead?” She said, with no small amount of sarcasm in it.

“Considering that dead would result in you NOT leaving my house, I would assume you already have your answer,” he said, the sarcasm almost as equally strong.

She exhaled through her nose. “Then you could have just told me that like a normal person!”

“Honestly, all of you dead people don’t even remember how to act nicely…” she muttered under her breath as an aside to herself.

He must have heard that, because he stiffened considerably and looked more than a bit miffed.

“It’s done on purpose, child,” his eyes narrowed at her, “Just a little intimidation to scare you from any ideas about ever coming back. I will admit, though, you reacted a bit stronger than I anticipated...”

“Well yeah! Because you’ve just wasted your time! I’ve already seen PLENTY to convince me to never come back to this horrible place ever again! Evil murderous invisible men, statues that chase you, people coming out of the walls, falling down giant chasms full of staircases-“

“You fell down that infinite stairway?” The woman interrupted, looking more than a little bit concerned.

“Yes. Not long after I met you back in that other hallway,” she said, jutting out her chin accusingly at Mr. Gracey.

To Solomon’s credit, he looked downright horrified. Which was a nice change from his usual sour demeanor.

“Good lord, is that where you went previously? Are you all right?” He asked.

“Yes….No…I mean. I don’t know! I’m alive and everything seems to work…”

He gave a sigh that suggested both relief and frustration. “This is exactly the reason you need to leave. It’s too dangerous for the living to go skipping about these halls without a care in the world. Now child, if you wo-“

“Karen.”

“I beg your pardon?”

She stared him down, unflinching even as she held the gaze of those eerily, glow-y blues. At this point, she was beyond tired of getting pushed around by ghosts.

“My name is Karen. Karen Anderson. And I’m eighteen.”

“How good for you,” he said with a wry smile. “And I am well over a hundred. So you’ll have to forgive me if I cannot help but see you as a child, Miss Anderson. Nonetheless, I do apologize if I have caused you any offense. I meant it merely as a descriptor, and not as any indication that you are somehow lesser.”

One hand folded behind his back and the other hand over his heart, he gave her a short incline of his head.

“Allow us, further, a chance for introductions. I am Solomon Gracey, and this is my family estate. Primary estate, that is.”

He gestured to the other two spirits. “My associates….”

“Abigail Galloway,” The maid said, giving her a polite smile that would feel friendly if it didn’t seem a little too polite.

“Edgar Galloway,” The butler said, making neither a bow nor a smile. For all the world, he seemed straight up bored. After regarding her carefully with a quick glance, he went right back to stand there with a distant gaze.

By the shapes of their faces, and their matching names, eyes, and hair, the two were most definitely related.

Solomon coughed, and her attention returned to him. He offered a hand. She stared at it blankly.

His lips twisted a bit into a mischievous, almost boyish smirk. “To help you to your feet. Which I know are still working…because I just saw you use them.”

She opened her mouth to give a smart aleck retort, but realized she had nothing. So she begrudgingly took his hand instead. Freezing cold, like ice. Something she had already come to expect by now.

“Come along, then,” he said, releasing her as soon as she was steady on her feet to turn and walk down the way he originally came.

She could feel the two servants pressing closer to her; they weren’t going to give her an opportunity to disobey.

They walked silently and casually. Karen couldn’t shake off the feeling that their pace was measured and set specifically for her, because any hesitance on her part was met and matched by them. Even Solomon, who was facing forward, seemed to eerily slow-down whenever she did. That did more to evidence the fact that this was a supernatural situation than even their appearance; unlike Mr. Mortimer, who had a skeletal, glowing visage to him, these three people seemed to make every effort to give off the illusion they were alive.

“Um…” she started, looking at the back of Mr. Gracey’s head.

When he did not pay her heed, she turned to the maid beside her instead. Abigail smiled with a strange mixture of motherly affection, strict politeness, and a tinge of pity.

“Something wrong?” She asked.

“What about Mr. Mortimer?”

Abigail frowned. “What about him?”

Karen looked nervously towards the back of Solomon’s head and then back to Abigail.

“The Ghost Host trapped him in a portrait in a stairwell.”

Solomon spun quickly to face her, forcing the party to halt.

“Claude did what?”

Rumbling in the walls nearest to her made her ease a step back. The boards shook, but it wasn’t nearly as disorienting or terrifying as before.

She could see his hand shaking, fingers slowly furling into a fist then releasing. The walls seem to respond to that, working up in a frenzy with each tremble of his hand, getting stronger with every moment they closed in on themselves. And finally settling down, when his fingers gently unfurled themselves to a relaxed state.

“Miss Anderson…” he said, his voice struggling towards calm, “Would you…be so kind as to describe what this stairwell looked like?”

“Um…” her body tensed a moment, regardless of the fact that he was clearly not angry at her. “Narrow...creaky old wood steps…thin railings… and it was all enclosed by purple striped pattern on the walls. It was down that way…”

She gestured vaguely the way she came.

Mr. Gracey listened intently to her, face as expressionless as he could obviously muster.

“Edgar,” he said.

“Sir,” Edgar replied.

But when Karen turned to look at the butler, he was gone. She turned to look towards Abigail, who smiled politely back at her.

“He’s gone to help Mr. Mortimer,” she said.

“More of a courtesy to him,” Mr. Gracey said, and already he had turned to continue on. “Mr. Mortimer is powerful; he’s likely already freed himself by now. Something like this could only ever hold him temporarily, where lesser souls would be forced to spend weeks. Which means Edgar is mostly only going to inform Mr. Mortimer that you’re safely with us.”

“So…he’ll be okay?” At the maid’s non-verbal urging, she followed Solomon.

“He’ll be just fine. Don’t worry,” Abigail said.

They walked in silence after that; Karen was given time to think things over as they passed oak doors and flickering electric lights caked in cobwebs.

The taste of licorice. The smell of roses. These were sensations that had been clinging to her from the moment the spirits appeared. The soft sigh of birds singing disappeared when Edgar vanished.

Claude too. It dawned on her that whenever the Ghost Host was around, she’d feel a tingling down her spine. Mr. Mortimer always seemed to carry the smell of the sea. And the statue had that horrible burnt smell.

Spirits, it seemed, came with some sort of identifying sense.

She broke out of her reverie when they stepped into a room bathed in a familiar dull blue-green light. A slight panic bubbled up within her at the sight of stairways going any which way possible.

“Wait…why are we here? What are we doing??” The panic snuck into her voice too.

“This is the fastest way back to the foyer,” Mr. Gracey replied, before taking a stairway straight down.

As in, the stairway was literally going vertically down, with the ghost before her now walking with his form completely horizontal.

The maid seemed prepared to press her towards the same path, but she balked and backed up.

“I thought you said you wouldn’t kill me!” she accused, looking back and forth between Abigail and Solomon.

“We aren’t trying to,” Solomon said, already having turned to look up at her. Neither his tone nor his face suggested maliciousness.

“Then what do you call this?!” She gestured to the sheer drop.

“Looks can be deceiving,” he walked towards her, his hands clasped neatly behind his back. “It’s ironic that mortals, so grounded in reality, would fall prey so easily to the illusions of the dead. You trust your eyes too much; not all believing comes from seeing.”

On that advice, Karen took an experimental step. She could feel her weight shifting, her stomach dropping with the gravity, her body threatening to fall forward, and every nerve in her body screaming at her that this was suicide. Her mind “helpfully” played out for her the fresh memory of her fall in her head.

“No…No I can’t do this. I can’t do this!” She made to back away several steps, but Abigail kept her in place.

Karen turned to her. “Please, I can’t do this! I ca-”

“It’s all right.”

“Don’t make me do this, please! Don-“

“Miss Anderson,” Mr. Gracey said, and he was already back on their stairway. The stairway with the CORRECT stairway orientation.

“Please, I just had a fall, I can’t—“

“You won’t fall. And if you do, I’ll catch you.” Mr. Gracey said.

“I can’t! I know gravity when I feel it! That isn’t just a trick of the eyes!”

“Miss Anderson, please. You won’t fall. I give you my word: As long as you remain with me, I won’t let you die.”

She looked from the maid still holding her to Gracey, who gave her a small smile of reassurance.

That did not make her feel better. She turned to Abigail, and there must have been pleading in her eyes because Karen could see her slowly relent.

“Here,” Abigail said kindly, turning her around. The feeling of cold fingers on her eyes. Karen’s sight went dark.

“Wha-?”

“Just step to the edge,” Abigail whispered at her ear. It was a bit unnerving to know that ghosts had frigid cold fingers, yet somehow (someway) managed to have hot breath. As if ‘breathing’ was even a thing with them.

“But I ca-“

“Just relax and step towards the edge. I’ll let you know when you’ve arrived there. If you cannot stand to go further than the edge, then we’ll find another way,” her voice had hints of softness despite the formal tone, “But try this first.”

“And if you’re just leading me straight off…?” It was a doubtful statement, but one that still managed to worm into the back of her mind.

“She’s not,” Mr. Gracey said.

She took a few experimental steps forward, completely blind. Solid wood met her feet each time.

“It’s all right; go a little further,” Abigail encouraged.

So she took a few more steps, larger steps this time, and still met solid wood. She also met with the realization that her ghostly companions made no footsteps; only HER steps rang against the chasm-like walls.

And yet, they HAD to still be there; she could still feel ice fingers covering her eyes. Her eyelids, in fact, were getting a little numb from it.

She took a few steps further, smaller this time because she was quite sure the edge would be there, and yet once again met with solid wood. Perhaps the direction change was farther along the path than it originally looked. Dimensions really were difficult to discern when you couldn’t see a thing.

“Where’s the drop? Is it much farther?”

“Keep going; we aren’t quite there yet. Take a few more full steps.”

She did as she was told, her shoulders heaving as her anxiety calmed down. And she continued to walk (tapping her foot experimentally in front of her before putting all her weight into it), until Abigail suddenly tugged her back a bit to stop her.

She could hear a door slam shut behind her, and she twisted to escape Abigail’s grasp. The maid let her go without a fight.

…Karen blinked. She stared at the sight long enough for Mr. Gracey to delicately raise an eyebrow at her.

“Are you all right?” He questioned, and there was a tug at the very corner of his lips that threatened to tease over into slight amusement.

Gobsmacked, she stared at him, then back to the scene in front of her.

She was in the first hallway. The very FIRST hallway. The hallway where the Ghost Host took Michael away from her.

“But…the stairway…” She looked around and spotted a door in the dark corner of the hall, across the way from the stretching room. She was sure she had tried that same door much earlier that night; it had been locked before then.

“You already made it through. Alive, no less. I guess we’re not very good at killing people, are we?”

His voice was dripping in sarcasm, and it both irked and amused her to the point where she, again, tried to find a clever response.

But her mental exercise was interrupted as the aforementioned door banged back open with much enthusiasm.

Nell Jackson, green pinstripe dress and all, stood in the doorframe, excitement frozen on her face at the sight of Karen as if she weren’t quite expecting her. Karen was sure the ghosts would remark on this, but they stood still and said nothing.

“Oh is it a party?” Nell cheerfully said, bounding into the room and shutting the door behind her. Karen caught a glimpse of twisted staircases encased in green light.

“Nell, what’s that all over your dress?” Abigail sternly said.

“Hm?” Nell picked a speck of dull grey from her apron. “Oh. It’s just a bit of sand.”

She did a twirl with gleeful grin on her face, and the sand fell off all in a circle around her.

“NELL!” Abigail cried, looking insulted.

“What??”

“The carpet!”

Nell looked down at the ground, faux inspecting the carpet.

Karen did a double take. Had there ALWAYS been carpet in this hallway? She thought there had only been floorboards before.

“Good news! The carpet doesn’t seem harmed by it.” Nell said.

“You’re still going to pick that up, young lady,” Abigail seethed through her teeth.

“I can do that later.”

“Nell.”

“What? It isn’t like the sand is going anywhere. Sand isn’t sentient…” a beat, “…I think.”

Abigail gave a pointed look at Solomon, who in turn looked a little uncomfortable.

“It’s just sand, Abigail. It won’t stain,” he said.

Abigail gave him a hard stare akin to betrayal, and he coughed before venturing into the stretching room.

“Come along chil- erm, Miss Anderson.”

She made to follow him, but dust and ash swept across the floor, and as she stood to watch she saw Edgar appear from the flurry.

“Edgar! Perfect timing. Help me clean up this sand,” Nell said, smiling.

Edgar gave one, long, bored stare at the mess on the ground before returning to a flurry of dust and ashes, particles picking up particles and the sand coalescing right into him.

“What? No! Edgar, stop that!” Abigail said.

Edgar half formed himself, just enough so that his face was showing. Eyebrows raised at Abigail in quiet confusion.

“Thank you, Edgar. You’re the best!” Nell smiled cheerfully at him.

“Nell, you needed to clean up the mess.” Abigail said.

“As long as it’s clean, why does it matter? And really, I wouldn’t have ever been able to do it that fast. Besides, Edgar doesn’t mind. Do you, Edgar?”

“I don’t care.” Edgar said, glassy bored look already returning to his features as he reformed himself.

“You see? It all works out!” Nell gestured towards Edgar.

Abigail gave a long-suffering sigh. “You disappoint me, Nell.”

“Well that isn’t unusual.”

“Nell…” Abigail sighed again, before finally turning to Karen and gestured her to enter the next room.

Karen gulped away her questions under the gaze of the still-irritated Abigail and went inside; the silly little drama of what she just saw was in stark contrast to the life threatening fear the Ghost Host had constantly subjected her to.

Solomon Gracey was waiting for them in the center of the room. He nodded in acknowledgement as the rest of the party joined him.

And what a stark contrast that was here as well. The room had changed since she’d last seen it; the differences were minor, yet remarkable in how they affected the mood. The gargoyles looked less threatening due to the fact that the room was lit up brighter, and the portraits had reverted back to their original, un-stretched appearance. It was just as cold as earlier, but infinitely less creepy. She couldn’t feel the gaze of the hanging man hidden above them, and the general air didn’t feel nearly as oppressive as a result.

As strange as it was, she felt safer, in spite of the fact that this time she walked alongside practical strangers.

They came back to the foyer, and as she turned to look behind her she paused.

“….Wasn’t the portrait room on the other side?”

It was true. She distinctly remembered Michael and herself being forced by the Ghost Host into a room to the left of Solomon Gracey’s portrait. Yet as they exited this very same room, they came out to the right of the portrait.

She checked; nothing but a blank wall to the left of Solomon’s painted visage.

“Ah. Well you see…” Abigail said, hesitant.

“The house moves rooms,” Nell interjected, grinning excitedly as she hoisted herself up one of the cabinets, “Isn’t it cool?”

“The house does what?” Mouth open and eyes wide, Karen stared back at her. The word ‘cool’ was the furthest thing from her mind.

“What the house does or does not do is of no concern to you. You’ll be on your way back to town shortly…as soon as we find your friend,” The actual Solomon turned towards her, “There is another mortal roaming around the house, correct?”

“Y-yeah… My boyfriend, Michael. We were separated when that Ghost Host dragged him underneath the floorboards.”

A flick of anger on his face sprung up before fading into sympathy.

“I am sorry about that. That filth is known to do things like that,” his stare towards her hardened just a tad, “I do hope this act as a lesson to you both not to intrude upon old houses, even if you think they’re abandoned.”

Now it was her turn to get a little angry. “We weren’t intruding!! We were just….we were just lost! And it was raining! And…”

She caught sight of Nell, happily sitting on the counter and eating from a jar of cookies. The sight irritated her a little more.

“And she!” Karen pointed an accusing finger at Nell. “She said we could come visit her if it ever started raining!”

All three ghosts slowly turned to look at Nell, who suddenly stopped mid bite. Both Abigail and Solomon had their eyebrows raised in the same exasperated expression. Edgar just continued to look bored.

Nell, still mid bite, looked from both Karen to the spirits and back again, before raising her head solemnly.

“Well I never said you could come in.” Nell said, quickly eating the remainders of her cookie as defiantly looking as she could.

“Wha—“ Karen began to protest, but Nell cut her off by wagging her finger towards her.

“Ah ah ah! I never said you both could come in! Now did I, Edgar? Edgar was there; what did I say to them, Edgar?”

The other two ghosts now turned their exasperated sights on Edgar, who took it in stride by looking especially bored.

“’If you’re ever in an unfortunate rainstorm, you’re more than welcome to hide underneath our awning.’” Edgar quoted.

Nell was triumphant as she turned back to Karen. “There, you see? I never gave you permission to use the front door, now did I?”

Karen glared at her.

Abigail, meanwhile, glared at Edgar

“You never thought to inform us of this?”

Edgar, with an utterly neutral expression, simply replied, “It did not seem important.”

“Edgar,” Abigail seethed.

“Nell,” Solomon groaned, rubbing his forehead.

“Master Gracey,” Nell said, tone treating the name-calling like a game.

“None of this ‘Master Gracey’. We talked about this,” Solomon said, looking a little more irritated, “You are not my servant and I am not your employer.”

“As you say, sir.”

Solomon grumbled on his way to a cabinet that looked like it had a wooden, intricate box built on top of its surface. When he took out a glass with a bulge in it and a strange, ornate decanter filled with eerie green liquid, Karen assumed it to be some sort of cubby hole for drinks.

“Abigail, Edgar,” he gestured to them aimlessly as he set up some extravagant drink that involved a strainer, what looked like a cube of sugar, water, and that sickly green stuff. “Could one of you be so kind as to find that other wayward mortal?”

“As you wish, sir,” Edgar stated, and he faded nearly instantly into whispy ash before vanishing completely.

“I could go too,” Nell offered.

“No, Nell. If I know you, you’d only hinder any effort to actually retrieve him.”

Solomon settled into an armchair that Karen swore hadn’t been there a moment ago. It was only a handful of feet away from the fireplace, and so faded that you only just barely make out its deep red color.

“What you could do, instead,” Solomon continued, “Is to get rid of that uniform and wear....well whatever it is modern mortals wear these days. Jeans and t-shirts, if I recall the words correctly.”

“You let Abigail go around in the uniform, even though she’s not your servant anymore either…”

Nell crossed her arms, but the ghost of a smile on her lips suggested that this had been brought up before. And her eyes occasionally darting towards Karen brought with it the implication that she was only mentioning it for the benefit of their guest.

Sure enough, Solomon stiffed in his chair, and Abigail looked just as equally uncomfortable as she busied herself with straightening papers on a nearby shelf.

“Nell,” Solomon warned, his tone deeper now.

“Alright, alright. I see how it is.”

Nell made to cross the room, but lingered out of Solomon’s sight. Karen caught sight of her gesturing to get her attention before pointing to the two ghosts, bringing her two fists to gently bump into each other while making a kissy face and giving a wink.

Karen stared hard back. What the hell did the girl expect her to do with this information?

Her staring morphed to horror when Nell took off her maid’s headpiece and made a sign as if to throw it at Solomon. Before Karen even had a chance to vocalize a sound, the headpiece went flying, phased straight through the middle of Solomon’s forehead, and landed quite obviously in front of him.

“Head shot! Yes!” Nell said while she fist pumped the air.

Solomon angrily shot out of the chair and spun to face Nell.

“Going, going, gone!” Nell said, grinning in that guiltless nervous way people get when they’re caught doing something they shouldn’t.

She quickly exited out a door so hidden by the darkness that it was a wonder if it had itself materialized like these ghosts were known to do.

Solomon sighed, his anger abating as he settled back down in the chair and stared wistfully at his drink.

“God, I wish alcohol still affected me,” he muttered as he took a sip.

As he lowered his drink, he seemed to notice Karen was still standing. He motioned to the faded couch next to him.

“You’re allowed to sit, you know,” he said, smirking a little, “I imagine you’d need it after that self-induced workout you gave yourself while trying to evade us earlier.”

Karen clamped her mouth shut, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of a response even as her face burned a little out of embarrassment. She officially hated ghosts.

She instead focused her complete attention to the dead embers lying in the fire, her hands absentmindedly rubbing against her arms.

“Are you cold?” Abigail asked, coming back towards them.

“A little…”

“I imagine any mortal would feel quite cold around here,” Solomon said, getting up to move towards the fireplace.

“I’ve got that, sir,” Abigail curtly interrupted.

Solomon moved back to his chair, palms raised in surrender with a slightly amused smile on his face, “As you say, Abigail. Thank you.”

The fireplace roared up in a flicker of odd green flames, and the room began to grow wonderfully warmer. The remnants of anxiety faded as she sank into the couch, relaxation causing her mind to drift a bit. She felt the weight of exhaustion start to consume her, and she idly wondered what time it was. Her eyes wandered about, but were no apparent clocks anywhere on the walls.

She considered Solomon’s drink on the table near her. It didn’t have its greenish hue; it was more of a milky white with only a hint of green, and already halfway gone.

“How do ghosts even drink?” She asked in her absentminded state.

“Very carefully,” Solomon replied, with both sarcasm and a smile.

“But you can’t get drunk…”

“Such is the tragic nature of not having a body to intoxicate.”

“So what’s the point?”

Solomon took a sip, and made a show of smacking his lips as he stared into the pale liquid.

“Nostalgia,” He said, putting the glass back on the table.

She stared at the drink. “What even is that?”

“Absinthe,” he said, “Or the Green Fairy, as it was once known.”

He seemed to regard her as she remained transfixed by the glass.

“…Would you care for some?”

Her eyes grew wide at the offer.

“I’m only eighteen! Also, doesn’t...that stuff...cause hallucinations?”

Solomon’s smile bent at the edges a bit, and he looked towards Abigail. She was neatly standing near the other end of the couch from them both; she had been so silent that Karen had temporarily forgot she was even there.

“While I won’t lie; there were plenty of things we consumed back then that probably caused hallucinations,” Abigail stood with her hands clasped behind her back, a small quirk to the side of her lips, “But absinthe was not one of them.”

“At least, it’s not possible to get that effect with any amount you could feasibly drink,” he smiled bitterly, “Trust me on this.”

“This may be one of your only chances to try it,” Abigail added, “Since, currently, it’s very much misunderstood in America. That’s where your hallucination idea comes from.”

Karen looked back at the drink, her stomach queasy just staring at it.

“I…” she started. Solomon held up a hand to stop her.

“Please don’t feel like you have to drink it. You will not be missing much, I promise. It’s just another alcoholic drink, and you can get plenty of those once you’re older. I personally find it rather ridiculous that they increased the drinking age, but I respect that you aren’t comfortable with this. And if it will make you feel better…”

He made to get up, but Abigail was already on her way back to the drink cabinet. So he sat back down with a nearly unreadable (but distinctly defeated) expression.

The maid returned with something that looked just like Solomon’s glass; milky white. She offered it to Karen, but Karen hesitated to take it.

“This one isn’t alcoholic,” Abigail explained, “It’s made by a brewery in France, on special request and using the same kind of anise. As a result, it doesn’t taste exactly the same, but it has some of the same notes…”

Karen stared at it, wondering if she could not find shapes within the milky white liquid. The inkling of an idea had begun to gather at the edges of her mind, but the hazy warm room and the fact that it was likely the dead of night made it difficult to properly think. She kind of wanted to just sleep.

“Pomegranates...” She said.

The ghosts both looked perplexed, briefly side glancing each other before resting their eyes back on her.

She tried to gather her thoughts a little better so she could spit them out.

“In the story, there was a girl who had been kidnapped to the underworld and was tricked into eating the seeds of a pomegranate, forcing her to-“

“-To remain there, trapped, for several months every year. The story of Persephone.” Abigail smiled, “It is good to hear that present day mortals are still taught classic Greek mythology.”

“But your concern is a little misplaced,” Solomon added, a glint in his eerie blue eyes akin to an adult humoring a young child, “The food and drink here is not somehow magical.”

“And that would also be a little counterproductive to our goal of getting you to leave…”

“Oh yeah…” Karen said, trying to frown away her exhaustion. She partially wished she was still in that bed in the attic.

“Besides, this is not the underworld and I am not Lord Hades.” Solomon said, stealing another sip from his drink before setting it aside.

“This is nothing more than a mansion,” he said, gesturing around him, “which, for better or for worse…just happens to be haunted.”

She nodded to him; it was a bit of a foolish idea. If she had a little coffee, perhaps she would have thought things through a little clearer. Carefully, unwilling to trust herself, she used both of her hands to take the cup from Abigail and brought it to her lips.

….

It tasted of licorice.

#fanfiction #the haunted mansion fanfiction #haunted mansion fanfiction #fanfics #my fanfiction

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