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georgemackayhey · 4 years

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Worth Fighting For (Part: Two)

summary: You’re entirely certain George is the one. So he hasn’t got to put up much of a fight… but in a way, that’s all he knows to do.

a/n: Now is a good time to mention that I know nothing about boxing. My only refreance is a movie about mma and one nights worth of basic research. But all that matters is I'm having buckets of fun writing this! The angst starts to creep in this chapter. Let me know what yall think!

w/c: 4k

Part 1

───※ ·❆· ※───

It was the end of an exceptionally long weekend. You'd managed to throw together last minute choreography for the kids school play, taught a wedding party how to waltz, and helped a friend nail her audition for a foreign dance company.

It was easy as ever, with a broken hand. But everything else was increasingly difficult. You were still getting used to using your one, lame hand to do laundry and cook dinner. But at least you could still dance.

There was nothing better than pumping the music and moving until it ached. Until all you had to worry about was locking up and racing home to shower, and all the things you'd been anxious about all week had long fled to the very back of your mind.

But the weekend was over, and you didn't have an excuse to stay in the studio now that all the kids who came to learn were long gone. But you had a perfectly sound reason for taking longer to do you post class stretches. As you took your sweet time sliding into your jacket and switching out the lights, you kept your eye on the window to the hallway. You tried not to look too obvious, but there was a silly, desperate hope inside of you; to see George.

The gym door remained shut, raucous music thumbing from somewhere deep inside, as you dragged your feet out in the hall. You tried not to look like you were casting glances over your shoulder, or seem too disappointed when you found no one there. When the door to your studio was locked and your adrenalin from class dwindled away, you went on your way.

And while you tried not to think about the funny feeling you got in your chest at the thought of George, you shoved open the door to the parking lot. The sky was a bleak grey and a chill crept past your layers of brightly colored clothes.

"Took you long enough." A voice crept close over your shoulder, causing you to spin around with a gasp.

George was leaning against the stone of the building, the hood of his pale jacket up over his head, strong arms crossed over his broad chest.

"How's your hand?" He asked, like he really cared to know.

"Oh, I'm managing." You decided with a smile, happening to glance at George's. "How's yours?" You asked, noticing bruises on his knuckles that weren't there the weekend before.

George seemed confused, for a beat, before glimpsing down at his fingers.

"Oh, this is nothing." He said. And before you could choose one the dozens of questions you had, you decidedly moved on.

"What are you waiting on?" You asked in a nervous giggle, glancing to his car a few parking spaces away.

"You, obviously." George rose a brow and reached for his bulky canvas bag that rested near his feet. You watched his lean figure shift as he carried the weight over one shoulder and stepped closer.

"Come on, It's my turn to treat you to DeAngelo's." He explained, walking past you to his sleek vintage car. The familiar screech of the city bus caught your ear, and you looked over to notice it stall to a stop, before you followed George's lead.

The ride was quiet. You spent most of the time pretending to be distracted by your chipping nail polish. Even in his silence George was captivating. You couldn't be sure if he'd noticed you stealing glances at him as he drove; but every time you did, you wouldn't let yourself look long.

You couldn't be sure why stepping foot into the diner to get felt different. Maybe it was because you weren't alone. You were mixed among dozens of other dinner parties and the combined white noise of everyone's collective chatter set you at ease. You weren't as shy to let your gaze linger on George as he studied you across the same booth as before.

And much like then, your conversations started mildly. He asked what you were going to order, and you tried not to feel too embarrassed for listing off the same meal. But he grinned and said he was going to do the same. And right as your conversation opened up to grow ever deeper, you were interrupted.

"Miss y/n!" An excited, drawn out greeting rang from a small boy who was busy bouncing your way. You didn't need to turn to know it was little Louis. He was one of your most loyal students. And though you'd never say it to anyone, the small kid was your favorite budding ballerina. Perhaps because he cared so unabashedly for you, too.

All four feet and fifty pounds of the curly headed boy crashed into your side of the booth, his little arms reaching to wrap you in a hug. You let out a surprised gasp and turned to try and greet the boy as soon as you realized he'd appeared.

"Today was lot's of fun. Can we do more big jumps next week?" The boy broke away from you to peer up, big brown eyes full of hope. You chuckled a little and assured the boy you'd planned on it. That's about the time his mother shuffled over, apologizing for her eight years old interrupting your dinner.

"It's alright." You assured, sheepishly glancing over to George who was sat back watching on with a coy grin. The kind of smile that- if you were younger and less confident, might have made you insecure. But knowing the little you did about George, you read no mocking in his expression. Only something more vulnerable you couldn't quite make out yet. You wondered all of a sudden just how exactly to get him to open up, and wondered hopelessly if you'd ever get the chance.

"I'm always glad to see you, Louis." You grinned at the boy, still glancing up to you in the sweetest way. "He's never missed a class in two years." You bragged to George now, who let his grin stretch a little wider.

Then you got the good sense to introduce the guy across from you. You gave his name away, and mentioned that he taught at the gym at Fit For All. Louis mother seemed to light up at the mention.

"Oh, you're Geogre? You know my oldest son, Danny. He talks about you all the time." The woman whose dark roots were nearly longer than the dyed blonde bits of her hair gleamed, and Geogre seemed to glow, too.

"Oh, yes. He's always at the gym, it seems." George sat up a little, peering to the woman Louis belonged to. The mother explained that her eldest wanted nothing more than to grow up to become a boxer. But a shoulder injury at the tail end of highschool ruined his chances. So Danny traded boxing for running, and had completed several marathons since.

George said the guy was great at encouraging the kids who frequented Fit For All, no matter which lesson they showed up for. It was your turn to smile and watch as George and his friends mother gushed over the guy who wasn't even around.

When Louis was coaxed from your side back to his mothers he gave you one final hug and raced her to a table across the room. A silence fell between you and George once more, but it was more familiar than ever. George was the first to break it.

"He was sweet." George smiled, reaching for his drink.

"Must run in the family." You pointed out. "I didn't realize Louis even had a brother."

"Danny is a good guy. He always knows just what to say. Not only to the kids, but to me too, some days." George let out a little laugh. A nervous, slightly bittered chuckle. And while it made you realize a little something more about him, it added to the complexity of George all the while. This guy was going to drive you nuts in no time. You'd let him.

///

And that's how it started. Every Friday, around the same time, you'd pile into George's ride and one of you would cover the bill for DeAngelo's.

Sometimes you got held up, trying to help a girl learn her steps for the schools annual talent show. You'd find Geogre had lingered in and made himself at home on the folded up mats near the door. You caught his gaze in the wall length mirror and tried to hide your blush while you danced on.

Other times, he'd be running behind. You shuffled outside to find George in the middle of what seemed to be a serious conversation with a familiar guy around your age. It was Danny, and you were introduced for the first time like you'd been friends forever. You found the rumors about the guy were true, even in the first few minutes of meeting. Danny mentioned his little brother mentioning you nonstop, and said how he'd been waiting to put your face to your name. George ended the small talk by reaching over and nudging you toward his car.

The slight touch of his arm against yours made you feel different than the only other time he'd touched you before. The last was when he'd rushed in to monitor your injured hand. And you couldn't feel much of anything. But now, when George leaned into you, pushing you away all the while, your nerves seemed to dance on end. But Danny's pleasant goodbye tore your thoughts away, and you waved your working hand to the guy and hoped out loud to see more of him.

Then George drove you to DeAngelos for another week in a row.

///

You hadn't really realized how much time had passed until snow started to fall. Granted the weather seemed to change much earlier than it ever had years prior. But it changed all the same, and it seemed to draw attention to the tradition you'd made of going to dinner with George.

You sat in the same spot almost everytime. And you talked about the same sorts of things. There were always complaints shared, about the growing cold, and the things that held up your week. There was always some kind of exciting news to share, about a new movie coming to town, or the things you'd accomplished during work. You even spoke about things you hadn't been keen on discussing with most other people. Like your relationship with your family and the scariest parts of highschool. Because George asked. He asked you more about yourself than he ever dared to mention his own stories.

"When are you gonna let me come watch you teach kids how to throw a punch, huh?" You teased. George had lingered in the doorway to catch the tail end of a handful of your lessons, by now. And he was always done for the night, when yours ended early.

As you ate your usual dinner, he kept his demure smile and rolled his dazzling blue eyes your way, before changing the subject. And you wanted nothing more than to listen to him talk, so you let your question go unanswered.

"We've been coming here a lot." He pointed out, plain and simply. But the comment made your heart feel like it had grown a layer of steel , sinking ever so slightly.

"Would you rather us go someplace else?" You wondered in a light manner, trying not to seem let down at the possibility of ending your tradition.

"Course not. I'm saying I like coming here." George smiled, then added, "With you."

You bit back your grin from spreading too widely and let the familiar bout of quiet follow.

///

But the next weekend was different and it was all your fault. Your water heater broke on Tuesday. And your landlord called back Wednesday night to say he couldn't help you fix it till he came back to town next week. You had to postpone Friday's class when you realized you were in too deep trying to fix the issue yourself. And while you fiddled with the matter with your non broken hand, a deep regret flooded your system when you realized George would miss you and you had no way of letting him know.

You worried all evening at the thought of standing him up. You crossed your working fingers that he'd still be keen to see you the next weekend; and tried to accept the fact that since your tradition had been broken, the thin connection you shared with George might now forever be lost, too.

By the end of your next week, your landlord was still off on holiday, and had taken to ignoring your texts asking for help. How hard was it for him to call a local mechanic to send your way before he left to go tanning for the day, or whatever?

And as you bared another cold shower and grumpily hurried to head to the studio, your power went out.

"No, no no!" You whined, flipping a light switch a dozen times in a row and wishing and hoping and praying everything would come back to life. You took a deep breath, rushed to the closet where the panel that held your home's power was, and were disappointed to find flipping a few switches there did absolutely nothing. You didn't have time to worry. You couldn't let your kids down again.

Some of them were already lingering outside of the studio when you rushed in, stomping away snow. Little Louis actually cheered and dashed your way for a hug, like he did. You smiled, set at ease by the child's sweet nature.

Then you taught him and a dozen others to dance, and let your worries fade away for an hour and a half. George hadn't slipped into the studio when the clock ticked past your usual meeting time. You tried not to let yourself feel disappointed when your kids shuffled home. You only wrapped up for the day and started to worry over your situation all over again.

But as you locked the doors to the studio, Danny was making his way out into the hall, and George was trailing close behind.

"Hey kid!" Danny glowed, turning to greet you in the dim hall. You shot him a pleasant smile, despite everything, trying not to catch George's gaze. Because his expression was so familiar, now. And he was looking right at you in a way you realized he so often did. And you'd let him down last week, and you had to do it again, now.

He shouldered past Danny as the bulky fellow seemed to decide to go home. He gave you both a quick goodnight before making his way toward the heavy doors. Then you were left alone with the guy you hadn't stopped thinking of since the time he held an ice pack to your knuckles.

"Where've you been?" He asked, like he was much more concerned than disappointed. And while that was nice, it wasn't enough to stop you from wanting to cry a little. God you hoped you didn't look the way you felt.

"I'm so sorry I missed last weekend." You started, shifting in place, under George's study on you. "My water heater broke. Then my power went out. So, now I've got to go home and figure out what to do. I hate to miss another one of our dinners but-"

"What do you need?" His question interrupted your rambles to a halt. You held your breath and looked to the guy for a curious beat before explaining yourself.

"Well I'm just going to grab some things and find a place to stay. Probably just that Motel on Second Street. My landlord is such a-"

"The Second Street Motel?" George grimaced, like he had memories of the place he wasn't over yet. "That place is a dump. And they'll over charge you. Why don't... if you'd like... well you could stay with me." George's confident speech dwindled into something meek as he spoke on. It made you chuckle a little, the way he'd surprised you when you least expected it. And when a moment of quiet passed as you searched his stunning blues eyes, George spoke up more assuredly.

"Only if you want."

"Only if you're sure." Your smile fell away as dozen of nerves rose to your throat as you responded.

"Come on." He nodded, turning to the door in the same fashion he'd always do when you were headed to the one of the only other places you'd gone together. His ride to the urgent care was courteous. His company at DeAngelos was kind. And his offer for you to spend the night was an all new layer of generosity that made you feel the way you did when he touched you a few weeks ago.

///

He waited in his car while you used the flashlight on your phone to throw a few things in a bag. Between your toothbrush, your night clothes, and some things for the morning, you forced yourself not to think about what was happening. You just urged your feet to move and tried not to seem too excited to settle back into George's car.

He drove to his place in a silence that felt different than all the other times before. And when you stole a glance over to him, you could have sworn he'd just turned away from looking over to you. The thought danced through your mind till his vintage ride pulled to a stop outside a row of townhouses. They were just a few roads away from your own, in a quiet, bleak part of town.

George held open his front door as you stepped in from the cold, a baby blue backpack full of essentials in your clutch. And all of your expectations for what Geogre's home might have looked like were not only unmet, but left you with more questions about the guy than ever.

The home was neatly decorated in pale colors. Plants and picture frames decorated every shelf and corner, and the dish towel in his kitchen matched the tea kettle on the stove. It was reminiscent of a much older person's space, with a vibrant charm of someone much more spry. You padded to the cozy living room as Geogre disappeared around a corner, leaving you to think up a dozen more questions about the fellow you were determined to get to the bottom of.

As you eased onto the navy sofa and abandoned your bag, a light came on in the hall and an old orange cat came prancing toward your feet. You glanced down to the pet as it meowed up to you, and stretched to balance against your knees. You cooed, reaching to pet it, before the animal jumped into your lap.

"That's Sadie." George spoke, stepping into the room, slowly making his way toward the sofa. "I was going to apologize for her disregard for personal space but you don't seem to mind." He chuckled.

"Not at all, she's lovely." You grinned, cradling the cat like a baby as purs rattled her delicate frame. George seemed to watch on as you admired the pretty animal in your arms. And when you dared to look back up to him, he sat up a little, from where he was perched on the edge of the couch.

George said something about ordering take away from a place nearby, and you agreed with the condition that you got to pay for it, too make up for his kindness in letting you stay in his lovely home. And much to your surprise, when you realized it anyhow, you felt perfectly content waiting around with George, for the pizza to be delivered. He stuck to his end of the sofa, while you settled into yours, holding fast to Sadie all the while. You talked about usual things, and even laughed over some others, until there was a knock at the door.

George went to answer, as you trailed toward the kitchen, stopping in the hall to admire some of the photos on the wall. There were plenty of his family, or maybe just friends. And even some of George, dressed in boxing gloves, at who must have been his father's side. The older man who looked so much like George held up an award as his son stood by with a shy smile and messy hair.

George found you gawking at his frames on his mission to set the box of pizza on the table.

"This photo is sweet. Did you win this garish award?" You teased, turning to find George wearing a grin reminecent of the one he sported in the photo.

"I did." He said.

"But you don't really do this sort of thing anymore..." You spoke, halfway asking why in the gentlest way you knew that might pry open his closed off manner.

"No I haven't for a while." George said. He poured you both a strong drink, the kind DeAngelos didn't serve.

"Why is that?" You wondered, easing to one of the wooden paint chipped seats at George's kitchen table. You watched him take a sip of the dark liquid in his glass, as you reached for your own.

"It got to be too much." He said, easier than anytime before. Like he actually wanted to tell you. And you kept a quiet eye on him, hoping if you waited long enough, he'd keep talking.

And much to your patient delight, he did.

"I started going to Fit after school, when I had nothing better to do. I'd stay till close, because I didn't want to go home." George explained. You took small bites of pizza and listened on, eyes softly glued to George's every word. And as he ate, he told you that he didn't have a very easy time growing up. How his father was sick, and his mother was never around. How George never thought of his future because he was busy worrying about each day at a time. You could tell he didn't talk about it. Any of it. So you just kept sipping your drink and offering gentle encouragement for him to keep going. Because you wanted to know. You desperately cared to know.

George told you that on one of Bareny's regular stops in, the gym owner took notice of George. How he'd listen to the distant encouragement some coaches gave to students in the ring. How he didn't have the money to take those lessons and stuck to practicing on the mats in the corner. How Bareny noticed, and asked George if he'd like to be trained. How he took up the owners generous offer, free of charge.

And when you nudged him to keep talking by asking all the right questions, George explained that Barney helped him enter into matches that he won like an old pro. How exhilarating it was at first. But those nights would end and George would go home and he would hate it. You knew better than to ask why, as he moved on. You just hoped this was the beginning of him letting you in bit by bit. The first of many stories. You downed the last of your drink while George finished his pizza.

"Well you might not box anymore but I'd still love to watch you teach kids how." You laughed, watching George crack a smile across the table from you. He thanked you for covering dinner and you thanked him for letting you stay over. Then you launched into a sudden ramble about how stressed out you were about what to do, how it might be better to move than to keep combating your landlord. But how you didn't have the funds to put toward either of those options.

"God sorry I sound like a cry baby." You laughed, resting your glass in George's sink as he stored the left over pizza away.

"No you don't. You sound worried, and I'm sorry to hear it. Letting you stay over is the least I could do, really." George shrugged, shifting to face you. He stood a step away, keeping his intimidating gaze on yours. The kind of glare that might have made you feel small if you didn't know George. But you saw past the way he stood so tall and stoically. You saw more of him tonight than you ever had before. And that's what made you unsure of what to say next.

"I think I'll go get cleaned up now." You spoke with a gentle nod, heading to collect your bag. George showed you to the bathroom at the end of the hall before turning away and saying something about changing, himself.

You were left to bask at your reflection in the harsh golden light as the bathroom fan buzzed overhead. You dug through your backpack to find the nightclothes you'd brought along and thought of George as you stepped into the shower. The water was hot, pelting your shoulder blades with a warmth you hadn't had the luxury of experiencing all week. But you hurried along, mindful not to use up all the hot water.

When you changed and took a deep breath and peered back to the mirror, it was covered in steam. So you zipped up your backpack and made your way back out into George's home. Sadie was waiting patiently outside of the door. She wove between your feet as you took care not to step in her path before she settled to walk at your side. Was this some kind of dream, you wondered? Some kind of idyllic alternate universe, where nothing was the matter and the space you occupied was warm and safe and shared by the boy you hadn't stopped thinking of for months in a row?

At the end of the hall, George's bedroom door was open. A soft amber light shone from the bedside lamp you could see. George appeared into view as you were drawn to the space like a moth to a flame. He wore a tattered t-shirt and a pair of cotton joggers you'd never seen him wear before. His yellow hair appeared slightly damp and he looked happy, somewhere in the depths of his usually guarded expression. He looked at home.

Sadie brushed past your ankle, out of the hall and into the living room, leaving you and George the most alone you'd ever been.

He stalled in the doorway as you halted your floating closer. His eyes were softer than you'd ever seen them, sleepier; maybe.

"Right, well goodnight I suppose." You smiled, trying not to let your eyes rake over his figure. You could practically feel how close he was.

"Right." George seemed to decide, letting his eyes search yours for a beat before his glance drifted over your shoulder.

"I'll find you some blankets." He said, slowly stepping past you. But before he could drift down the hall you stopped him. Somehow, you spoke without even thinking, without even knowing you were brave enough.

All you said was his name, like a question. And that was all it took. George turned on a dime and kissed you. He crashed his lips against yours and tangled his long fingers in your hair as he cradled your head. His grip was the only thing holding you in place as you melted into a puddle, against him. When you started kissing George back, he moved one hand down the length of your side as he made one swift move to pin you against the wall. You couldn't help but let out a surprised breath, a sigh, a laugh of some kind.

George responded by kissing you harder, until you could hardly breath. And when you stopped kissing him back to do just that, you felt George's gentle grip against the exposed skin of your hip; tighten ever so slightly.

"Do I still have to sleep on your sofa?" You asked what felt like one dozen questions in one. Your fear of ruining the one in a million moment disguised by a lithe smile. George responded by letting out a laugh, his eyes nearly closing as he did. And when he was finished, he said;

"Come on."

You followed George to his bed, not daring to hide your excitement. He pulled you in with a smile, perhaps the broadest of smirks you'd seen him sport. There was still so much you longed to know about George. So many questions you were eager to ask, so many things you longed to hear him talk about. But spending the night sharing his pillow was a good place to start, you figured. You hadn't expected it of course. You never knew what was next with George. You'd only, simply, hoped for a next time. And with the way he looked at you now, and held on, you rekonned maybe he didn't want you to stray too far, either.

───※ ·❆· ※─── taglist: @haileymorelikestupid @maria-josefin @imaginesandyeah @queen-bunnyears @okaymackay

#george mackay #george mackay x reader #george mackay imagine #george mackay fanfic #Boxer!George

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alottanothing · 4 years

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Left to Ruin: Chapter Fourteen

Summary: Ahkmemrah prepares for his marriage to Nouke. A week after sending his brother to the cells, the pharaoh’s guilt sees him visiting Kah in search of salvation.

Previous Chapters

Word Count: 2715

Warnings: just some good ole angst

Tag List: @xmxisxforxmaybe, @r-ahh-mi, @theultraviolencefan, @hah0106, @rami-malek-trash, @diasimar, @sherlollydramoine, @flipper-kisses, @ivy-miranda-2390, @txmel, @sunkissedmikky, @concentratedsassandcandy, @babyalienfairy, @edteche2 (Let me know if I missed you, or if you would like to be added to the tag list)

A/N: This is one of the shortest chapters of this whole story, maybe the shortest. However, I feel like there’s still a great deal of importance to the scenes, especially the ones between Kah and Ahk. Also, thanks for all the love last chapter! The comments, and tags and like and reblogs are like candy to me! 🍬 ☺️Again, as a disclaimer, I am not an ancient Egyptian expert and google only knows so much. So yeah, I took so historical liberties while writing this to make my life easier, but tried to keep it as “authentic” as possible.

Over the course of several days, the pharaoh's daily routine was exceedingly more arduous than the one he was accustomed to. Those long hours were a blur of official greetings and ostentatious dinners meant to welcome the important dignitaries who had traveled from afar to partake in the union of their king and soon to be queen. Merenkahre insisted on a week to properly allow all the guest to make their journeys and get settled; then on the seventh day, all of Waset would honor their new queen.

Truthfully, when his father asked for a week's time to prepare for a grand festival, Ahkmenrah agreed readily, entirely too wrapped up in the notion of marrying Nouke to realize how long seven days would actually be. Those days moved so sluggishly. A week was absolutely too long to be away from her, but duty often eclipsed what his heart desired.

However, duty also lent him distraction from his yearning heart. Families began arriving two days after the pharaoh proclaimed his desire to wed the servant girl Anuksumn. Boats lined the shores of the Nile, crowding the market harbor as families—along with their entourage—made their way to the palace with enough fan fair to rival that of the pharaohs.’ Despite their raw pomposity, Ahkmenrah showered them each with unyielding kindness as he welcomed them to stay in his home—as was expected of a king.

The ruse of playing host grew old after only one evening of official dinners and introductions; proving to be all work and no play. The stories his guests told during their feasts lacked zeal. Mostly, everyone spoke of their own accomplishments and their supposed generosity to the cities they governed. A few guests were genuine—able to steer topics away from themselves. Apart from those cherished few, every man, woman and even child invited to celebrate the impending nuptials held themselves above all others. And while no one dared to speak outwardly with such hubris, Ahk could read each of them as clearly as the hieroglyphs scribed onto the walls.

Somehow, he mustered a smile and played his role perfectly all the while wishing to be miles from the noise of the palace, tangled together with Nouke under the stars.

After the second evening of myriad stories of uninspiring nature during dinner, Ahkmenrah snuck beyond the walls of his royal sanctuary and returned to Nouke’s farm with news he’d promised to bring.

“It is all very official and exhausting,” Ahk tutted with a mild scowl. Just thinking about what awaited him at the palace bled into the serenity of laying with Nouke in his arms, nestled among the cushions, their garments left in a forgotten heap nearby.

“Trust that I cannot wait to bring you home once and for all. However, I am also not ready to share you yet.” He smoothed the hair away from her face as she looked at him from where she laid on his chest. “I want to enjoy having you all to myself a while longer.”

Nouke smirked and kissed him softly.

“Mmm, I’ve never thought of you as a greedy man…” she teased as she traced the outline of his lips with her fingertips.

Ahk grinned and kissed the pad of each rough digit before speaking, “You will find that I am exceptionally greedy when it comes to you. I want you to be only mine, now and forever.”

“Now and forever,” she agreed with a breathy murmur.

Her eyes stayed fixated on his until she drew him into an affirming kiss that built lazily in a slow, sensuous expression of worship before passion swept them away for a second time.

What she gave, he took—her name a low hum tumbling from his lips. What he gave, she took—holding him close enough for their hearts to beat in perfect synchronization. They made love in a symphony of wanton expressions whispered into the night air with breathless praise until they reached that glorious peak together. And when morning came with the harsh break of day—golden light pulling them from the depths of their slumber—it was too soon.

He left his bride to be with a kiss and the promise it would only be a few more days until they could spend their lives together.

It was that night he’d spent tangled with the woman he loved—his best friend—that Ahkmenrah held in his mind the days that followed. He clung to images of Nouke like a valuable life source; granting him the energy to masquerade through every dinner and introduction that remained.

***

“I have made the arrangements for you to collect your bride tomorrow at mid-day,” Merenkahre said from his usual seat at the council table.

Ahkmenrah blinked out of his thoughts, suppressing a yawn, doing his best to fend off his exhaustion a while longer, and grinned.

“After which,” his father continued. “You and your desired bride will be wedded with an audience of your advisors and guests of your choosing. Festivities will then commence before twilight.”

The pharaoh's sudden influx of enthusiasm was difficult to keep from his features when he nodded, not wanting his excitement to mar his kingly composure.

“Perfect,” he said.

Idly, his eyes skirted around the table, mentally noting which of his advisors he wanted in attendance until his sweeping glance stopped on the empty chair reserved for the Consul of Montu. A pang of guilt bit into Ahkmenrah with enough potency to taint both his enthusiasm and his resolve the longer he stared at the barren spot.

The presence of the vacant seat was suddenly crushing with guilt, and a frown fought to twist onto his features. Almost a week had passed since banishing Kahmunrah to the cells with only his name and no titles. And not one of those days went by without Ahkmenrah brooding over the punishment he’d bestowed upon his brother.

Even with ample distractions at hand, his mind could not surrender how they parted. The scene in his memory stirred a sense of betrayal—his betrayal to Kahmunrah. Ahkmenrah never wanted to be a ruler who dealt with his problems by burying them in a cell to be forgotten. Or worse yet, a king who executed and silenced his problems. How Kah would have preferred I run things.

The council meeting finished quickly when the pharaoh could find no other topics to discuss suddenly too laden with grief to proceed effectively. With the men gone, the walls of the council chamber became a meditative space for him to ponder.

The day that would follow was to be one of the happiest of his life, and yet, Ahk felt that joy abruptly strangled; his guilt and the anger he held on to, like beasts he needed to slay.

The fury in his soul for what had been done to Nouke and Setshepsut remained deep and unsated, tormenting Ahkmenrah with unease. Wrath could devour a good man if it was left to fester. Already the infection was spreading. Ahk’s torrid heart wanted Kahmunrah to know punishment for the things he’d done, and still, the pharaoh’s mind screamed and begged for him to let the past be covered in sand—forgotten.

With right and wrong poised so precariously in his head; he wasn’t sure which side of the scale to leap onto.

Minutes passed, the oversaturated colors of sunset vanquished by the black of night when Ahkmenrah finally relinquished a slow, weighted breath. He rubbed his temples hoping the added pressure would deter the ache beginning to swell in his skull as his frenzying thoughts became too much to fathom.

Letting go of his anger and forgiving his brother was the only way to ensure growth could come from all that transpired. Holding onto resentment would only permit stagnation. Ahkmenrah had no choice but to face his brother.

***

Of all the buildings located on the palace grounds, the cellblock was not constructed with intricate detail or grandeur of any kind. The stone structure was far from the central palace, a narrow edifice with almost no windows and lit mostly by mounted torches along the length of the corridor. It had been years since the pharaoh found himself in the dismal confines of the cellblock. He’d visited last with his father during one of his lessons, and Ahkmenrah liked those walls even less now than he did then.

The sting of guilt surfaced again as he took in the bleak accommodation once more. How could I have condemned my brother to live in such squaller?

The man on guard, stationed just outside the doorway, greeted the pharaoh with a shocked expression and hasty bow.

“My king!” The man did his best to chase away his shock, but his confusion was still obvious in the glow of the torch he held. “What business brings his majesty here?”

“My brother,” Ahk stated cooly. “I wish to speak to him.”

The man nodded and directed him to which of the long line of cells housed his brother.

Ahkmenrah counted his steps as he went, focusing on the numbers to distract himself from the dismal interior and the shame it all provoked. In the darkness, his brother was only a silhouette, perched on the back half-wall of his cell, and Ahk could feel the tendrils of Kah’s bitterness reaching vengefully through the bars.

“And so, the mighty pharaoh descends from on high to look upon the lowly and condemned.” Kahmunrah’s voice was cold, dripping with resentment. “What do I owe the pleasure of this visit? Surely my sentencing is not through already.”

The urge to recant a snide comment—to fight fire with fire—swelled on the tip of Ahkmenrah’s tongue, but he swallowed it. He refused to let any word passed his lips without having thoroughly thought it over first.

“Or have you come to gloat?” Kah gibed when Ahk struggled to piece a rational sentence together. “I overheard the guards talking about your impending nuptials to that servant girl I exiled. Congratulations."

A frown worked onto the pharaoh’s face taking note of the unabashed hate in his brother’s tone—a knife in his belly.

“It pains me you think I would come and rub my good fortune in your face. Have you ever known me to be so arrogant?”

Kahmunrah stood and moved into the singular beam of torchlight flickering through the bars of his cell. Without his usual golden raiment and accessories, Ahkmenrah had difficulty recognizing the man before him. His threadbare garments were a stark contrast to gold and gems, and they caused another wave of guilt to beat against Ahk.

“No,” Kahmunrah finally responded, looking as though the truth was akin to poison on his tongue. “You are the golden son—kind and humble.”

Kah spat at his brother’s feet, “Weak. You are weak for a king.”

Ahkmenrah closed his eyes and let out a long meditative exhale to carry away the influx of anger. Venom soaked words would only kindle the flame of hate. Not acting on impulse was an arduous task, but Ahk had come to purge the contempt out of his system as calmly as he could.

“If you are attempting to provoke me, brother; I am sorry to disappoint you.”

Kah’s lips curled into a sneer, “Just as I said, weak.”

Ahk shook his head with disbelief, “Is it not tiring to hold onto all of that anger?”

The pharaoh’s own wrath was exhausting to carry day to day. How Kahmunrah managed to live all of his life in a perpetual state of ire was a feat to be admired, or respected at least.

“My anger is all I have thanks to you.”

Something cold and abject worked through Ahk with a chill. The truth of his brother’s words biting into him with such force, Ahkmenrah’s sure footing faltered and he leaned against the stone wall behind him for aid.

“Yes,” the pharaoh husked out. Even his whisper echoed eerily in the long corridor to haunt him.

It took him a minute or two to find his strength again, incrementally able to hold himself with the sturdy wall to brace against. Ahk’s focus was on his brother, looming threateningly just past the bars of his cage. Ahkmenrah found he could not look into his eyes—his guilt beginning to swallow him completely.

“I did not want this for you, my brother. Do you not know that? I gain no pleasure from seeing you like this. In fact, I have felt nothing but guilt for days.”

“Good.”

Ahkmenrah sighed and swallowed the lump in the back of his throat, and willed himself to meet Kahmunrah’s glower.

“I’m sorry..." Ahk said. “I am sorry you were denied what you thought was rightfully yours. I’m sorry for what I have done to you.”

He paused long enough to blink away the tears beginning to brim his eyes before he continued. “But…you left me with little choice. And for that too, I am sorry.”

Kahmunrah’s black eyes never turned away, nor did his expression of cold hatred ebb. It was staggering to see such emptiness behind living eyes, and their piercing leer did little to allay the lingering guilt. Still, Ahkmenrah continued.

“Do you want to know what else?" he sighed. “I forgive you…I must.”

Slowly, the heavy veil of the pharaoh’s anger started to slip away. The gravity of his words would be lost on Kahmunrah, but the salvation Ahk felt releasing years of tension almost made up for his brother’s apathy.

“I do not want to live my life as you have: harboring grudges and wishing ill upon others. And it is my hope, one day, you could do the same. I want that for you.”

Ahkmenrah half shrugged and his eyes dropped their focus to the shadowed void behind Kah as he considered his brother’s previous observation.

“Maybe that does make me weak…” The pharaoh’s voice faded as the remaining pieces of his anger crumbled and drifted away.

All at once, his mind was overrun with a thousand thoughts that made the ache in his head begin to pulse again. The silence that filled the narrow cell block was sullen and heavy, but Ahk used it to sift through the teeming thoughts in his head quietly.

Kahmunrah sulked back to the shadows of his cell, this time sitting on the ground, his back propped against the wall. Ahk sagged against the wall behind him as well, folding under the weight of his thoughts until he sat, mirroring his brother.

“I want so much for us to be brothers…” Ahk confessed softly.

A single, mirthless chuckle cracked Kah’s silence.

“Well,” he stated in a low voice, devoid of sympathy. “Take a lesson from someone who knows all about disappointment, little brother. And learn that we do not always get what we want.”

A sad smile ghosted over Ahk’s lips as a solitary tear spilled down his cheek. It was foolish to hope his brother would ever change, but Ahkmenrah would never give up.

With a deep breath to build his strength, Ahkmenrah stood feeling, more or less, lighter. All the poison was at last purged from his system, but a hint of disappointment remained as he realized how ruthlessly his brother continued to cling to the bitterness inside.

Sleep beckoned the pharaoh with a yawn, the promise of rest alluring for his frenzied mind. However, one thought dug its hooks too deep in the forefront of his mind to go without seeking an answer. The question alone made Ahk’s stomach churn, but he was much too exhausted to fight his curiosity.

“I dread thinking you may have had a hand in what happened all those years ago regarding the disappearance of my tablet. Framing Nouke’s family to be rid of them—to hurt me.”

He paused, feeling his stomach slosh again, “The assassin even….”

That night flashed so vividly in his mind; the man over him with a knife drawn ready to take his life. Ready to kill a boy of fifteen who’d known no enemies apart from one... Ahkmenrah glanced into the black of Kahmunrah’s cage. No response came from its depths, the deafening stillness causing a chill to prickle over the pharaoh’s skin. And as he left, Ahkmenrah could not decide if Kahmunrah’s silence filled him with more confirmation or fear.

Next Chapter-> Chapter Fifteen: Together Again

#Ahkmenrah #Ahkmenrah x Original Character #Ahkmenrah Fanfiction #Night at the Museum #NATM #NATM Fanfiction #Left to Ruin #Rami Malek Character #Rami Malek Character Fanfiction #Rami Malek Fanfiction #Rami Malek

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insomniac-dot-ink · 5 years

Text

The Waitress and the Werewolf

Genre: wlw, urban fantasy, original story

Words: 10k

Summary: A waitress and a werewolf share early morning conversations as the wolf comes in starving from her past transformation and the waitress tries to figure out what this muddy, shoe-less stranger is doing there every month.

Website⭐Ko-Fi ⭐Patreon ⭐ WordPress⭐Twitter

May

Mia walked soberly across scraggly yellow grass, scraping the bottom of her feet and making a sharp crunching sound with each step- like someone chewing on granola cereal.

The early morning smelled of dry earth and a colorless warm breeze. The faint wind itself granted no relief for Mia’s prickling skin, a touch like lukewarm milk being poured over sunburns. Everything always burned the morning after, itching like she was swallowing Pop Rocks in her entire body.

Her vision was boneless and strange, senses coming back to Mia in a fuddled mix of colors and sounds. The reds and greens returned in a slow bloody dawn, her nerves lit up one by one from the depths of numbness, and the scents of the world slowly dried up and left her. The sharpest feeling of all though, was the hunger.

The hunger was inevitable. Perfectly ruthless and all-consuming, distracting her from any thoughts of exhaustion or a shower with soap. Ache gnawed at her insides and rumbled with the force of thunder and stampedes.

Mia pushed forward.

The sun was just a suggestion on the horizon, the faintest brushes of light across the treetops. The trees were thin and closely knit together; their eyes seem to watch her warily, perhaps they had tolerated the wolf, but her human feet were not welcome.

She staggered away from them through a dried field, dark, bleak, and wrung out, her eyes trained on the only light in the whole unfriendly area: a yellow neon sign. It blared in the distance, the color of American cheese that was 50% chemicals and the teeth of evil witches in fairy tales.

The eerie neon reminded her of some desolate cyberpunk world that existed exclusively around a single diner in the middle of nowhere. Mia followed the sign like a beacon to wise men looking for saviors or very drunk men seeking toilets.

An empty road sat next to it, a strip of quiet grey with a faded line in the center and a promise of miles of the same.

When a young woman comes lumbering out of the forest with twigs in her hair, bare skin, and moonlight to her back, poets might write romantic lyrics about the glory of innocent womanhood and nature. Or something. The dried blood and mud coating her skin probably ruined the effect.

Mia had tried to clean herself up as best she could. She scrubbed her face, secured her ragged pants and scraps of shirt, located her wallet still tucked deep in her pockets, and wiped her hands down. She became as person passing as she was going to get that night.

The light of the sign drew closer and closer, Mia steadied herself, her system flooded with thoughts of "hungry" and "aaaaaagh." She was used to both feelings.

Mia faltered into the lit parking lot, crossing the boundary between the world of poets and broken brittle grass and into the glow of a squat, long building. It had giant glass windows peering in at a spotless long counter with fixed stools and overstuffed napkin holders. Red shiny booths sat along the walls, their material sparkly and no doubt squeaky when you sat. Black and white photos cluttered the walls, depicting smiling pictures of famous people in the genre of Marilyn Monroe and Elvis Presley.

The whole place was a clear imitation of classic diners that the 1950’s would have spit out by the dozen.

It was empty at this time except for a single man with a knit cap, slumped back, and wearing a pair of sagging pants that could only be described as “doing their best.” Mia assumed he was a late-night trucker drinking coffee and forgetting the world. The restaurant was bright, alien, and a little cheap looking.

Mia didn’t care how it looked. It was roughly five in the morning and this was the only thing open, the only option really. She tucked her head down and steeled her nerves, hyper aware of her dirty bare feet and the fact she looked like she wrestled the sludge-monster from a Ghibli film to get here.

Her stomach complained again, noisy as a garbage disposal, the transformation took more calories than she liked to count. Bodies demanded payment for their fancy parlor tricks.

Mia took a deep breath, looked down at herself, cringed, and then pushed the door open. A bell dinged gently, and she blinked into the blaring white fluorescent lights. She shuffled inside, feeling the cool tiles against her toes and whole body shrinking down. The room smelled of grease and black coffee, faint bleach and the slightest hint of perfume. The perfume reminded her of sunscreen and sugar.

There was a simple kiosk by the door that Mia approached cautiously, a woman stood there with her back turned. She wore a blue collared shirt, fitted jeans, and a red company apron tied around her waist.

“Booth for one,” Mia said automatically, quick and as pleasant as she could.

The waitress turned.

The young woman had exceptionally wide eyes, owl-like and appearing prone to looks such as shock or confusion. Her cheeks were delicate, chin softly rounded, and fine mouth smeared with splotchy lip-gloss. Long copper hair piled high on her head and freckles speckled across every piece of vacant skin.

She caught sight of Mia and made a face at her that could be summarized as “an atheist meeting God and being deeply unimpressed.”

Mia sighed internally; it might be a long few months in Nolan, West Virginia.

≿————-　❈　————-≾

Lionel was counting down the minutes until the end of her shift, which was unfortunate for her since it began at five am and ended in eight hours and twenty-eight minutes. She usually tried to avoid counting the time until at least five hours in, but sometimes she indulged herself.

The counting did not in fact improve the work experience, but it did manage to amplify her sheer awareness of time itself and the idea she might be stuck in endless loops. Loop after loop of similar faces, usual complaints, and aching feet.

Lionel was waiting for one minute to pass, and then the next, and the next, but they never really seemed to.

The first two hours of a morning shift were the worst, slow, boring, and the chef was often taking a nap in the back. The late-night truckers didn’t even compliment her eye makeup or try to find out her phone number, home address, social security number, and whether she had a boyfriend or not- and if he was big. Though the last part was a perk.

It was the hour for nobodies, people questioning their own place in time and losing their identity to “five am.” Five am wasn’t a time, it was a place, and they were all one person there, similarly weary, adrift, and waiting for the second hand on the clock to tick forward.

Lionel was listening for the chef turning up his podcast from the back, she hoped to God it wasn’t the one she thought it was. But there was a lot of weird noises going on.

She had 8 hours twenty-four minutes left.

The door chimed, bell echoing dimly. “Booth for one.”

Lionel whipped around, preparing herself for at least a little activity and something to keep her busy. And then she stopped, paused, and held herself very still.

She couldn’t stop herself from wrinkling her nose, the monthly weirdos were appearing. The scent of fresh dirt filled the entrance, mud and something distinctly visceral, heady.

A girl looked back at her through short scattered bangs, she had a small mouth and dark olive eyes, meeting Lionel’s gaze with a certain firmness there. Lionel fumbled for her first words.

“Booth for one.” The girl might have said that before, but she repeated it now.

Lionel had a decision to make, and she had to make it quick. She was technically the manager on duty since it was just her and the chef right then, but this felt like something for more of a manager-manager, an adultier-adult.

Lionel cleared her throat and the girl’s eyes darkened, worry lies permeating her sharp face. She pointed down at her tattered clothes, they were streaked in fresh earth and had long tears along the pants cuffs and shirt sleeves. It looked like a war movie where they forgot to add the rest of the set around the actress.

“Construction.” The girl said weakly, pointing down at her neo-grunge appearance. “Hope you all don’t mind.” Lionel pondered on that for a second longer, it was hard to believe. But who hasn’t walked into an establishment completely wrecked and looking for a little bacon? Lionel didn’t have time to judge strangers, she still had twenty minutes left in that hour. She made a snap decision.

“This way,” she turned, spreading a practiced smile across her face like buttering a piece of toast. “Tough morning?” The girl shrugged, “just a bit of a mishap.” Her eyes darted around, “boss gave me the day off after.” Lionel opened her mouth to ask why she didn’t just go home, but it felt a little cruel to poke at her lie.

“Well,” she seated the girl at one of the middle booths, one someone couldn’t see from the front door. “I’ll be your server today.” Lionel placed a menu in front of her and nodded down pleasantly. “Welcome to Millie’s Diner.” “Thanks,” the girl squinted at Lionel’s name tag, “Xena?” Lionel forgot she was wearing one of the other waitress’s name tags, a pastime of sorts. “Like the warrior princess?” Lionel chuckled, touching her hair absently, “Yeah. Exactly like the warrior princess.” The girl’s face lit up for the first time, breaking into something bright and open. “Cool.”

“This job is just my side hustle of course,” she said blithely, “warrior princess gigs don’t pay the bills.” “Naturally,” the girl straightened up in place, a little more life returning to her movements. “Speaking of which,” Lionel flicked her notepad open, “can I get you started with some coffee? Juice?” She shook her head, “just some water.” She went back to mumbling, “and some fried eggs and toast to start with.” “Sounds good,” Lionel started writing.

“Stack of pancakes, do you have those flavored syrup?” “Yeah, blueberry, strawberry, peach,” she kept writing.

“Strawberry then. A plate of bacon, two sausage links, and a, uh, hmm, okay, also a rocky mountain omelet and breakfast burrito. Extra sour cream.” Lionel blinked a couple times, “should I expect anyone else to be joining you?” She asked without missing a beat.

The girl shook her head sheepishly, “nope. Just me.” Lionel looked down at her notes, a silence stretched out a little longer than necessary. “No problem. Yeah.” “Yeah.”

“Well,” Lionel stuffed her pencil back into her apron, “let me put that in for you.” She turned toward the back to prompt Mike to heat up the grill, they were apparently feeding at least three people in one.

“Thanks!”

Lionel slipped away, putting the order in and then watching the strange girl from afar. She was barefoot. She was as muddy as a dust bowl.

When Lionel brought her food over she descended on her breakfast with the fury of a small tractor flattening a field. Lionel surveyed the scene mildly, picking up the empty plates one by one- discarded corpses on a battlefield.

“Are you from around here?” Lionel asked casually as she picked up the third empty plate.

The girl’s eyes rose carefully, she shook her head, “just passing through.” Lionel smiled, “where are you headed?” She shrugged, “I’ll be here for a few months.” She said instead, “and then, um, new construction site after.” She cocked her head to the side, “sounds like an interesting life.” “It’s a life.” The girl smiled slowly, “I don’t suppose you’re from around here, warrior princess?” Lionel’s expression tightened, “trying not to be.” She wasn’t sure why she said something so telling, but it was five am. The sun was barely bleaching the land and everything tasting of faded colors and forgotten things, maybe they were all the same person at that hour- all trying to be from somewhere else right then.

The dirty stranger ate enough for a small army, paid, and disappeared without another word. She tipped 26% on her card and wrote a small note on the receipt: fight some monsters for me, yeah?

There was a sword drawn next to it, and the doodle of a freckly girl with a crown.

≿————-　❈　————-≾

June

Lionel was snapping her mint gum, popping it and then blowing it out as far as she could again. She popped her gum in the same way people shot paint balls after their parent’s divorce, fast, and with a grudge. Something grated just under the surface of her thoughts, digging it's nails in and beckoning with the sweetest fingertips. Just one last one, it said, that’s always the best one.

She popped her gum again.

Lionel had told her mom she could quit anytime she wanted to, but it turned out that addictive smoke filled with chemicals was very much addictive. She tried not to think about taking a cigarette break.

She leaned against the counter and eavesdropped on the cook’s latest podcast; thank the lord he had switched to true crime dramas. Even if they kept making her glance at the windows and think about bolting them shut.

“Alright, this is an interesting case Alice.” Lionel listened with half an ear, “it’s about a woman who swears a mountain lion-man broke into her condo and stole fifty thousand dollars. Can you believe?” The other podcaster made appropriate sounds of alarm.

“She wasn’t even supposed to be home that night, but she walked into her living room only find what she calls a monster. She saw some yellow eyes in the dark, just eyes, and then teeth wi-" Lionel jumped violently when the diner door chimed, startling her out of her contemplation of smoke and eyes in the dark. She looked up jerkily. A hunched, very muddy person stood in the doorway. Her short dusty brown hair was flattened in all directions and eyes downcast.

Lionel’s eyebrows shot into the air, “the dirty girl.” Her eyes snapped up and Lionel covered her mouth quickly. The girl’s shoulders slumped wearily, “I usually prefer Mia.” She rasped dryly, “But I suppose I’m flexible.” Lionel hurried over to the kiosk with the menu’s; the stranger, Mia, was the first customer of Lionel’s shift that day. She stopped in place, opened her mouth, and then closed it again

Lionel straightened up, “Sorry.” She presented her best service-smile, “How are you doing today?” It seemed like a non-question, empty even, but Mia didn't seem bothered.

She gave a slim smile, “hungry.” “I can help with that,” Lionel turned on her heels, “Same booth?” Mia lifted her head, “You remember,” she squinted at Lionel’s nametag, “Hannah?” Her head tilted to the side, “Hannah today?” Lionel shrugged, “Hannah today.” Mia followed her to the booth.

“I’ll be your server this morning,” she said slowly, “did you want to start off with anything to drink?” Mia smiled slowly, “water.” She said hoarsely, “more than one glass if possible.” Lionel nodded briefly and then looked closely at the stranger, “Are…” She frowned slightly, “are you alright?”

Mia looked up at her, something bruised and strange under her expression, “nothing some pancakes can’t fix.” She said easily, “and maybe a name change I suppose, but you seem to have that covered.” Lionel shrugged, “a girl needs a little variety.” “I see,” Mia threaded a hand through her stray hairs, “Hannah and Xena though, claiming all the good ones. What does that leave me with?” Lionel straightened up, “a girl who could use some eggs.” “Yes,” she grinned, “very good. Though a bit of a mouthful, what about Gabrielle? Or Lucy. Short for Lucifer," she chuckled to herself, "now there’s some variety.”

What a strange person, Lionel noted, but she worked at a 24-hour diner close to a highway, she was well aware the world was filled with strange people.

“Even Lucifer needs water.” She said and turned, “I’ll be right back.” Lionel filled up two glasses of water in the kitchen. The cook was still in the middle of his podcast, but he looked up to examine Mia through his kitchen window. “Wait,” Mike squinted, “is that the one that ordered all that food a month ago?” He frowned, “she smelled bad then too.” Lionel rolled her eyes, “this one doesn't smell that bad. Maybe you’re thinking of that egg lady from two months ago, remember? That woman with all those rotten eggs in her purse.” The cook snorted and responded pointedly, “Nanc kicked her out.” “Yeah, yeah,” she turned, “just start up the grill. I have feeling it will be a big order.” “She doesn't even have shoes on!” He grumbled, “do you have a softer heart than I thought or is this some sort of side-effect of you quitting? I told ya, it’ll do stuff to your head.” She used her hip to open the kitchen door, “let’s both quit. I’ll start with smoking, and you start with bitching.” “I swear Li…” He continued grumbling and Lionel walked back over to her table, the girl was stacking sugar pockets on top of each other. She had already eaten three it looked like.

“Here you are,” Lionel placed the water down and took her notepad out of her apron. “Now,” she clicked her pen, “what’ll it be today?” The girl looked up from under her tousled bangs, “I’ll start with the French toast breakfast and a grand slam steak, and then two eggs, and some hash browns. Then add a side of biscuits and gravy and a fruit bowl with yogurt.”

Lionel gave a wry grin, “is that all?” Mia rose to meet the challenge and shook her head, “No.” She looked up, “I’m thinking a banana crepe too or maybe those honey cakes. What do you recommend?” She asked the last part slowly.

“Huh,” Lionel stuck her bottom lip out, “well, I’ve never had either,” she said honestly, “but my dog’s name is Honey Cakes. So, you know.” “Really?” Her eyebrows lifted, “Honey Cakes. What kind of dog is she?” Mia examined her and Lionel shifted in place uncertainly.

“Border collie mix,” she gave a faint smile, “a pain in my ass, but I wouldn’t trade her for the world. Best damn dog this side of the Appalachians.” She looked back to Mia, “do you… like dogs?”

Mia looked off up at the ceiling and high fluorescent lights, “not really.” She said evenly, “but Honey Cakes is a very good name. I’ll have those.” Lionel clicked her pen again, “I’ll get them right out for you.” She felt like she had something more to say, but it didn’t come to her. She retreated into the kitchen.

She handed the order over to the cook, “here.” He looked down at it with a scowl, “oh. Is that all? Three entrees and three sides.” She shrugged, “she implied she might be the devil.” He turned over to the give her a firm look, “then don’t associate with that type, Jesus girl!” Lionel looked away, “I’ll associate with who I like. She tips well.” That was the end of that conversation, just as Mike went back to complaining and a new trucker walked in the front door. Lionel finished the hour.

Mia maintained her tradition, she ate quickly, paid, and slipped out the door without another word. There was a second doodle on the receipt this time, it was simple, a freckled girl holding the leash of dog dripping with something labeled "honey."

“You” it said, “possibly committing identity theft,” and then “Honey Cakes, very likely a good girl.”

Lionel had no other choice but to wander about what drove people to show up at strange hours, call themselves the devil, and draw cute dogs on papers. She guessed it was probably just how the world was and that she shouldn’t linger on it.

She did end up lingering on it though. It danced in between her thoughts of “one last cigarette” and true crime podcasts about break-ins, she wandered about it for a long time.

≿————-　❈　————-≾

July

Heat like hot syrup dripped down Mia’s skin, the sun was barely risen but the oppressive warmth of West Virginia summer was already layering the land with a fanged vengeance. Her reborn body was simmering with its own heat, but Mia’s mind was elsewhere. Something was wrong with her arm.

Sticky fluid ran down her right wrist and she couldn’t help but swallow waves of nausea cutting through her gut as she walked. Mia couldn’t feel the cut yet, not enough of her body was back, but she could tell it wasn’t going to be pleasant.

The trail of hot blood dripped in between her fingertips, the wound wasn’t deep, but it was long- curving elegantly from the soft of her inner elbow to her shoulder. At first, she worried she had been found, that it had been an Arcadian hunters trap, or worse, a pack. She had been so careful, moved around just enough, kept to herself just enough, didn’t linger anywhere.

Mia’s heart thudded painfully in her chest as her mind flew to images of being scented or tracked, gutted or recruited.

Luckily, she retraced the wolf’s steps and found a broken tree branch with some blood and a bit of clothing stuck to it, she exhaled in relief when it all smelled like her own. The dumb dog part of her seemed to have run into a tree; Mia opted to ignore the cut for now.

She turned toward the familiar highway.

Why does the wolf drag me all the way back to this road? All the way back to the neon sign in the dark? She didn’t have an answer for that.

Mia wandered thoughtlessly back toward the 24-hour diner in the middle of nowhere, she was almost relieved to see the same waitress on duty that night. Does she ever take the day off?

She entered the establishment quietly, feet padding soft on the cold tiles and shoulders hunched as she approached sheepishly from behind. Hannah/Xena/mystery-waitress was attending two other customers. Mia found herself sprouting a tiny smile to the other woman’s back, “booth for one.” The waitress was filling up a coffee cup, two older men in jean jackets and frowns sat at the counter, pointedly ignoring Mia. Xena/Hannah turned slowly.

“Oh my God,” the waitresses mouth fell open, her expression blanking quickly. “You’re bleeding.” Mia hadn’t felt it yet, but she looked down anyway, blood spread down her entire forearm the way tree roots seep into dirt. It was much more than she remembered. “Oops.” She said lamely, realizing that she was surely pushing her luck with this latest antic. “Uh,” she scratched the back of her neck with her good hand.

The waitress put her coffee pot down, “are you-” Mia cut her off before she could finish the thought, “let me just go tidy this up.” She put her finger up, “One sec. Promise not to bleed on your nice floors, just,” She hesitated, “save me a booth.” It somehow made her stomach sink to think of being formally kicked out of this place, though she was no stranger to such things.

“That’s gotta hurt,” the waitress frowned, “don’t tell me there was another accident on your construction site.” Mia took a step backward and didn’t meet her eye, “one second. Right.” She tried to slip out the door, but to her dismay someone else was just behind her, the odds were against her that morning in more than one way. She slid into the corner as the door dinged open and a couple walked through, looking exhausted and irritated. “I told you to take 167.” The woman swore at the man.

“Look Julie, I need coffee and then we can discuss your mother’s original directions.” “I told you not to listen to my mother!”

The waitress gave Mia one last forlorn look and then seated the young couple, Mia slipped out the door and into the dark of the parking lot. She hurried over to the side, past two large trucks and one minivan. Mia planted herself on the hard concrete, neon sign to her back and body hunched over, she tried to tear off a section of her already ragged shirt.

Mia heard not all wolves went completely wild during the moon, that they didn’t roll in dirt, run into trees, and do God knows what every time. She heard they had packs though, and den mothers that kept them all in line.

Mia had no interest in staying in line, however much she resented waking up starving with leaves in her hair.

She inhaled sharply through her teeth when she moved her right arm and a stab of pain shot right up into her shoulder. Her body was becoming fully hers again, she whimpered, “come on,” she tried to move so she could bandage herself, “just this one thing.” She fiddled with her strip of shirt, trying to stop-up the wound while cursing at herself for several long minutes. She tensed every muscle in her body when she heard footsteps approach from behind, Mia sat up perfectly straight and tried not to panic. “Hey there,” a voice called, “you might try not getting gangrene out here.” Mia looked over her shoulder, the waitress was holding out a wet rag and what appeared to be Neosporin. Mia looked blankly back at her.

The waitress joined her at the edge of the parking lot, “I won’t pry.” She said simply, “but you’re gonna want to actually clean that up.” Mia just kept looking, her mouth pinched shut. “It’s not what you think.” She said lowly, and then turned her face away.

“You don’t know what I think,” the waitress sounded wary, “mostly I think credit card insurance is a scam, NSYNC was the best band of the last two decades, full stop, and spam gets a worse rep than it deserves.” Mia couldn’t help but grow a small laugh, “is that all?” The waitress knelt to the ground, crouching in her fitted jeans and looking off into the dry yellow fields. “No, I’ve got more.” Mia shifted in place, “spam is disgusting.” The waitress snorted, “have you had it in rice with eggs and cheese? No, and I don’t accept unsourced opinions.”

Mia’s shoulders untensed, she watched her closely, the light of the newborn sun and ancient sign bathed her freckles in a mix of oranges and yellows. The shadows were long and shifting around them and she seemed like the strangest thing of the night.

“Well alright,” Mia reached out, “you sound like you cite your sources, I’ll take your magic germ-killer.” She shifted toward her, “though I don’t usually trust witchcraft or such.”

The waitress handed over the rag first, carefully passing it to Mia’s good hand. “You’re the one that called herself Lucifer.”

Mia shook her head, “Mia is fine too.” She said firmly, “and I was only trying to keep up with...?” Mia leaned over and squinted into the light, “Carol today?” The waitress gave a small smile, “Carol today.” Mia leaned her head back, exposing her neck to the warm air. “Can I choose your next one?” “Absolutely not.” Mia chuckled and lifted the warm rag to her cut, trying to wipe out the grime and clear away the trail of thick dried blood. She flinched and gritted her teeth when she got to her upper forearm, a burn eating its way into her muscle, she wrinkled her nose and exhaled slowly.

“Oh, give it here,” the waitress snapped, “I only have a fifteen minute break and I’m not being accused of stealing company property if I leave this out here with you.” Mia scowled, “I would give it back.” The waitress, Carol today, took the rag and scooted over to start dabbing and clearing it out, she mumbled to herself as she did. “Really.” Mia curled into herself slightly but let her work, the feel of the warm water and soft touch making her squirm slightly. The waitress paused, “this will sting.” That was all the warning the waitress gave before Mia was yelping, a fresh sting bursting over her whole arm as she slathered disinfectant on the area. Mia shifted in place, looking up at the sky and only twitching a little, the waitress had a big grin on her face.

“And here I thought you’d be all brooding and tough.” She whispered to herself.

Mia stuck her bottom lip out, “I’m not immune to Neosporin, thanks.”

The waitress laughed and then got something out of her back pocket, “where are you from again?” “North.” Mia said shortly, “north-north.”

“First time in the states then?” She hummed, “not at all.” The waitress lifted three band aids in the air, “we’re out of big ones.” She explained, “think about home or something while I put them on.” “I’m not that hurt,” Mia and looked away, “and,” she paused, and something subdued, soft, entered her tone, “thank you for this.” She swallowed thickly, “I didn’t even know I tipped this well.” She snorted gently, “don’t mention it. Now… Hold still.” She delicately applied the three band aids, plastering them up the long cut that ran from her elbow to her shoulder. Mia flinched but held herself still as the waitress worked, it was a quick process done by nimble hands.

“Watch that now.” The waitress said with a gentle pat to the band aids. “You’ll want to change them later.” Mia met her gaze briefly- the waitress’s eyes were large, glimmering, hazel. “I will.”

They sat in silence for a long moment after she finished, looking off into the grasses now glowing golden in the light and waiting for something. The waitress scratched her chin, Mia watched her closely. She spoke in a hush, it felt like the moment for such things, “did you need to go in?” She inhaled, long and noisy. “No.” She looked down at her feet, “give me a moment.” They waited once more, hovering over something. The waitress blinked, “I wanna smoke.”

Mia wrinkled her nose, “okay?” She glanced over to her, “I’m trying to quit.” She reached into her pocket and seemed to dig up a slim, nearly broken cigarette. “Do you mind? Last one.” Mia reached out hesitantly, “you just said you’re trying to quit.” “I want to quit,” she looked down at the end of the white stick. “Yeah. I really do.”

She brought the cigarette to her lips and looked visibly upset, Mia plucked it back out of her mouth. “Then do it.” Mia took the cigarette from the waitress and put it into her tattered pocket, the waitress exhaled and nodded, they both stood up together to go back into the restaurant.

≿————-　❈　————-≾

Lionel found an extra forty dollars added to her tip that day, her pride smarted from the display, but her wallet was more than hungry enough for it. There was another picture drawn on the receipt this time.

Thanks for the save :)

Buy yourself some new disinfectant or spam I guess. I’ll see you around, warrior princess Carol-Hannah.

-Mia.

Lionel shouldn’t, but she did. She stuffed the receipt into her apron until she could take pictures of it on her phone and hide that away too.

≿————-　❈　————-≾

August

Mia brought flowers. It was stupid, she knew it was stupid, but flowers were how you thanked people, right? Whenever her mom got mad her dad always brought flowers, got down on one knee and said "thanks for being the honey to my milk" or something just as foolish.

Mia was not going to say that. She was however going to thank the waitress very politely, hand over some flowers, and do it all much more presentably than usual. She’d be ready this time.

She had resigned herself to the fact that the wolf wanted to end up around this highway, dropping Mia off in the middle of the woods somehow always close to the diner. She didn’t question the animal. She was long past that.

Mia set up a box, placed where she could find it with extra clothes, baby wipes, and a pair of good shoes. She made sure she was prepared this time.

It was hid in a part of the woods where wildflower’s grew in bundles, vicious in their pursuit of the sun and unhindered by any walls or roads. Mia looked at them for a long moment, transfixed by their scraggly long stems and purple blossoms. She had grown up in the city and things like them almost made her glad she left.

She gathered up the purple flowers one by one, feeling the grainy stems and watching the sun rise over their silky delicate heads. Fastened together they were unkempt and crooked, but Mia had an odd feeling the waitress might even like that.

After gathering more than a dozen she headed toward the empty dry field and the glow of a silent building. Mia had taken her time gathering the plants and actual cars were driving up the road by then, either having just pulled off the highway or found themselves terribly lost.

Mia didn’t pay them much mind, she couldn’t feel the brittle grass against the soles of her feet for once and she was on high on her own purpose. That purpose certainly involved toast and hash browns first, but something a little more as well.

She strode into the diner, spine upright and chest puffed out, planning the first words she would say to the waitress. She hoped the first words back would be "you clean up nice," but there were only so many moments in life that could be like the movies.

Mia deflated like a popped balloon when a different woman turned around as the door dinged, a different woman with bright blue eye shadow and rose-bud lips. A different woman who wore the apron.

“Oh,” Mia’s flowers fell to her side and her smile fell with it.

The new waitress, Tilda the tag said, didn’t even bat an eye, Mia was wearing shoes this time- she wasn’t the strangest person in the joint anymore.

“Table for one?” Tilda asked as she reached for the menus.

Mia could only look around, somehow hopeful in a small way. “No,” she found herself saying, and then her stomach grumbled. “Yes.” “Alright, this way,” the waitress seemed nonplussed, “gonna be a hot one today.” “Yeah,” Mia could feel her chest concaving, this wasn’t how the scene went in her head. “It’s going to be terrible.” “I hear ya’,” Tilda sat her down and placed the menu gingerly in front of Mia, “my name is Tilda, I’ll be server today. What can I get you started with?” Mia looked down at her flowers, and then back to the woman. “Um.” Tilda glanced at the present now too, “or are you waiting for someone?” Mia just shook her head, “I had… a question.” She said stiltedly, her tongue running away with her.

Tilda raised one very fine eyebrow up into the air, “shoot.” Mia took a deep breath, “I had a waitress here a month ago, and uh, sometime before that. She went by Xena or Hannah or Carol…” Mia realized she really didn’t have a chance. She didn’t even have her real name. “She’s freckly?” Tilda just nodded shortly, “Name changer? I know her, she’s worked here forever. She’s out today though.”

“Oh,” Mia lifted her chin, “Is she… alright?” Mia wasn’t sure if she was crossing a line or not, “a friend told me to give her these.” She indicated the flowers. Both of Tilda’s eyebrows rose like questions marks now, perfectly in tune with each other. “I wouldn’t worry.” Tilda played with her pen, flipping it back and forth in her fingers, “she’s a piece of hardwood that one. Heard she was a bit of a mess on the phone, but she’ll be back soon.” Tilda’s eyes darted to the flowers, “though maybe Li will like those, she’s out in Nolan I think.” Mia sat with that for a long moment, words echoing in her head, was a bit of the mess on the phone.

Mia was reminded she didn’t know anything about this girl, mostly that the woman had bad opinions on things and helped strangers out on their worst nights.

“Should I leave you with the menu?” Mia shook herself out of her thoughts, “No, I’ll start with a bowl of oatmeal, hash browns, and a plate of pancakes with…”

The flowers wilted next to her.

≿————-　❈　————-≾

This is a bad idea. It is definitely, very much, a terrible, bad idea.

Mia Kotsiopoulos moved to the outskirts of Nolan, West Virginia in order to disappear, places like this tended suck the memory out of anything. But this was definitely going to be memorable.

She stood outside a beige building wearing oxford shoes, brown slacks that went to her shins, and a short-sleeve blue button-up. It was much better than her usual "tatters and questionable hygiene" approach.

She had even showered before she showed up.

But nonetheless, she had shown up to a service-workers house in the middle of the day, holding flowers. She never thought the movie she played out in her head would be the "creepy stalker" variety.

Mia was standing outside a mini condo with a beige outside and beige door and a scraggly bush in the front. A house cat peered at her from one of the windows across the street and the sun beat hot against her neck from up above.

She stared at a door with cheap silver numbers on the front and flap for mail, it looked unassuming and quiet. It was in a small neighborhood that was made smaller by the size of the town itself; Mia had followed the scent of sunscreen perfume and grease all the way here.

She tried to deny in her head that she memorized the waitress’s scent, but that would be a bold-faced lie at this point. She kept staring at the door.

The cat hissed at her from across the way and Mia hung her head, “what am I doing?” She turned to leave, she wasn’t this, she promised she wouldn’t be.

She crept back toward her Mitsubishi and slammed her wildflowers in the passenger's seat, trying to suppress any nascent feelings bubbling up. All she did was bandage your arm, Mia reminded herself, it was nothing.

Then she heard a voice calling, “Honey Cakes!” The voice carried, “Honey-Honey!” Mia lifted her chin up and peered down the long sun baked street, a figure stood cupping her hands around her mouth and wearing a fluffy lilac robe. The figure looked left and right, walking frantically in Mia’s direction without looking at her. “Here girl! Honey Cakes.” “Oh,” Mia straightened up, her mouth making a small perfect circle. The waitress looked visibly distraught, her eyes red-rimmed and long hair undone and tumbling lankly down her back. Her robe had a yellow stain on the sleeve and a thin nightshirt peaked out from underneath, crumpled and forgotten.

Mia took a couple uncertain steps forward; the waitress looked every which direction on the ground before she noticed Mia. Her eyes went wide, “you.”

Mia suddenly didn’t know what to do with her hands, or face, or any part of her body. “Are you missing your dog?” She asked quickly. The waitress seemed to take a long second to respond, frowning slightly and probably weighing this all in her head. Maybe she was thinking of calling the police on one of her customers randomly showing up near her house.

Then she nodded hesitantly, “yeah…” “I was just on a walk,” Mia tried to justify her presence, “and I heard you calling out.” The waitress touched her messy hair and looked down at her feet, they were bare. “Cool. Alright. Enjoy your walk.”

Mia straightened up, “also,” she struggled, her face flushing slightly. “I wanted to thank you. Really thank you.”

The waitress seemed to look at her for the first moment, eyes focusing out the depths of their worry. “Don’t mention it,” she said with a familiar breezy note to her voice, “only a dick would leave you out there to bleed out.” “I don’t know about that,” Mia rubbed the back of her neck self-consciously, “most people probably wouldn’t even let me eat there in my state the first time.” The waitress shrugged loosely, “most people suck.” Mia gave a newfound smile, “can I help you look for your dog?”

She paused again, lips puckering and noticeably bare of makeup that day. She gave a tight nod, “you have good eyes?” “No,” Mia said simply, “but I can, uh, I can help.” The waitress gave her a perplexed look, “alright, yeah, this way.” They walked down the sidewalk together and the waitress pointed around. “I lost her a night ago…” She said weakly, “it’s been almost 72 hours.” Her voice sounded strained and fragile.

Mia looked both directions, “I can definitely help. Does she respond to a whistle?” The waitress nodded, “I trained her with my brother, he’s big on dogs. Before she became just mine, he used to do this big wolf whistle to get her to come," she smirked in a private way, "he was such a show-off.” Mia broke into a fond expression, “K.” She wet her lips, put two fingers in her mouth, and let out a truly impressive sound, a ringing golden whistle that echoed down the street like a shot arrow.

The waitress let out a whistle of her own in response, “woah.” “Honey Cakes!” Mia called next, “Honey.” They walked down the cracked sidewalk and toward the center of town, Mia tried not to stare at the other girl, and tried even harder not to bump into her. It was a long walk.

The waitress started slowing down once they passed the post office, ten minutes had passed by then and she had started flagging, her chin drooping down toward her chest and expression cracking like porcelain.

Mia tried to move quick, “we’ll find her.” She reassured softly, “I’m sure she’s looking for you too.” The waitress shook her head, she closed her eyes and took a jerky turn down a narrow alley, walking purposefully ahead, but making no noise or move to call for her dog. Her shoulders sloped into two perfect arched hills, trembling slightly.

“Wait,” Mia chased after her, “it’s only been a night, dogs come back from much longer trips than this.”

The waitress put her face in her hands, “it’s my fault.” She said, voice wobbling, “it’s all my fucking fault. I left the door open.” Mia reached out toward her, suddenly unsure of what to do. “Anyone could do that. We can fix it.” The waitress sniffed and shook her head violently, “I was yelling on the phone. She hates when I yell, and her dinner was late. I should have known this would happen! She deserves better, I can’t even keep one fucking thing right.” Her voice was wet now and heavy.

Mia risked putting her hand on the other woman’s shoulder, “hey, hey now,” she spoke softly, as if to not to spook a frightened deer. “I’m sure she knows you love her, and it was just a bad night. I’m sure she wants to come home.” The waitress made a tiny, hiccuping sound and turned her large hazel eyes on her, watery and full. “I promised her I’d buy a place with a big yard by now. I promised, and,” she wiped at her face, “I lied. And kept lying and forgetting. And now she’s gone.”

Mia took a deep breath, “are carrying her leash? Or any of her things?” The question seemed to surprise the waitress out of her self-pity, “any of her things?” Mia just nodded, the waitress reached into her pocket and produced a yellow collar. “I take her collar off when we’re at home since she hates wearing it.” Misery was apparent in the waitress's tone.

“Okay,” Mia centered herself, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath in through her nose. “Alright.” She also shouldn’t do this; it wasn’t something she allowed herself to do. Mia tolerated the wolf when it forced itself out once a month but tolerating and tapping into were two different things. This was fraternizing with hostile forces.

Mia’s sense of smell was already acute, but this was going take something fantastical.

She couldn’t "turn" in broad daylight like this, but the full moon was simmering just above, barely contained by the blanket of silky blue sky. Mia could feel the cool, surging power latent in her veins. Just a little, she promised herself, just enough for this.

Her sense of smell piqued all at once, sensations rushing in like a floodgate being opened and storming the fort. Everything came into focus, the coffee shop next door brewing bitter smells, the lady down the street lathering her hands with coconut lotion, old meats, rotten fruits, sneakers.

She reeled back, taking a step toward the walls and clutching her chest. Mia quickly collected herself, took the collar in hand, and lifted it to her nose, taking a deep breath.

“This way.” She started walking decisively back toward the street, not sparing a look toward the waitress.

“Wait,” the other woman stumbled after her, “where are you going?” “Follow me,” she said, “we’re going to find your dog.” She glanced over her shoulder and wet her lips, “trust me.”

≿————-　❈　————-≾

Lionel had no idea what she was doing. She had no idea what she was doing last night when she yelled at her credit card company for an hour and no idea what she was doing when she called into work that morning for a "personal day." She never took work off.

She couldn’t lose Honey Cakes though, she just couldn’t.

The "five am woman" was back, Mia, and Lionel was watching her wide shoulders as she strode fixedly down the street. Her short hair was styled now, sides cropped short and bangs smoothed back, she was wearing pressed, clean clothes that flattered her sturdy figure.

Her skin was moon-bright under all the mud Lionel had seen coating her before. She had a mole on her chin and clear blue eyes in the daytime.

She cleaned up nicely.

Lionel, however, did not. She was fully aware that she was in her “lazy day robe” and her nose was no doubt still leaking, it couldn’t have been a worse day.

“No, I’m serious,” she spoke to the other woman’s back as they strode out of town, “where are we going?” Mia didn’t look back, “we’re getting close.”

They left the main street and passed the last few houses in the town of Nolan, population 1,022. The rest of the houses clustered farther back and further out.

They were on bare road soon, where the sidewalk disappeared, and the world stretched out into trees, old tires, and white shacks in the distance that hosted scavengers and drug deals. Lionel followed mutely behind, she didn’t like crying, she liked it less when it was in front of other people.

“So,” Mia spoke up gently, “when did you get Honey Cakes?” Lionel ducked her head down. “When my grandma died.” She said without inflection, “My brother thought it would cheer the family up… and then she just became my dog.” Mia looked over her shoulder and nodded, “what’s she like?” “Terrible,” Lionel rubbed her face, “but she’s so sweet I forgive her for chewing up all my good shoes anyway.” Mia chuckled and looked down at Lionel’s bare feet, her face flushed slightly. “Would you believe me if I said a dog got rid of all my shoes too?” She smoothed her hair back, “twinsies.” Lionel couldn’t help but grow a small smile, “why do you think I let you in? Kindred spirits.”

Mia laughed, a round and full sound. “I’m not sure about that.” She paused, “but I would like to help.” Lionel became somehow even more perplexed, where are we going?

“I’m trusting you,” she said slowly, “I don’t follow just anyone out into uninhabited areas without my phone on me.” Mia’s back muscles bunched together, “it’s not uninhabited,” she pointed ahead, “there, that’s what I thought.” A stray mechanics shop appeared just around the corner, white with two garages and a tiny office attached to the side. It probably serviced the locals and whoever was unlucky enough to break down out here.

“Well I’ll be damned,” Lionel sped up, “and you think she’s…?” Mia just nodded, “see? Trustworthy.” Lionel lit up, heart suddenly lifting for the first time that day. “If she is really here…” She said slowly, “will you trust me too?” Mia frowned, “what do you mean?” Lionel lifted her head, “my name is Lionel by the way. Lionel Campbell.” “Oh,” Mia smiled, her entire face stretching into an enchanting excitable thing. “Oh, that’s a great name.” Lionel shifted in place, “Xena is better.” Mia shook her head, “completely not. I love lions.” “And not dogs?” Mia looked ahead, “Maybe some dogs.”

Lionel looked ahead too as the mechanics shop approached like a mirage, she was about to prompt Mia again, but a stray bark coursed through the air. A familiar high-pitched sound that was equally fussy and warm.

“Honey Cakes?” She called carefully, and then she heard another bark, “Honey-Honey!”

She started running as she saw the face of a floppy-eared brown and yellow dog stick her head up in the office window. “Girl!” Lionel was sprinting toward the door, hands outstretched, another bark followed.

They had found her dog.

—　❈　—

The mechanic had found Honey Cakes wandering by the side of the road the night before, seemingly turned around and confused. He brought her to his shop and gave her some food and water, he had planned to bring her to the nearest shelter the next day. Lionel had gotten there just in time.

Honey Cakes jumped up on her the second the door opened, and she wrapped her arms around the dog, “I missed you too!” She could have cried again.

She thanked the mechanic and put the collar back on her happy, dumb dog. Honey Cakes ran around in circles and barked at her, tongue out. It was a muggy warm day, but it somehow felt lighter than ever.

Afterward, Lionel, Mia, and the dog retreated toward the wild green grass near the shop, sitting down in a field to rub the dog’s belly.

“Thank you,” Lionel gushed again, “I would have never found her if that mechanic had drove her all the way to the shelter in Edward’s Town.” Mia wasn’t looking at her, staring off into the distance instead, “no problem.” She grinned, “Lionel.” Lionel stretched out across the thick grass, still petting her shaggy friend. “Well you’ve got my name now.” She steadied her gaze, “what’s your magic trick?” Mia turned in profile, angling her head slightly toward her, expression blank, “what do you mean?” Lionel leaned forward like it was a secret, “how’d you find my dog?” Her eyes went wide, “are you psychic?” Mia chuckled, but it wasn’t exactly a happy sound. “You got me,” she lay back down in the grass, stretching out spread eagle and bathing in the sheets of sunshine. “I’m psychic.” Lionel turned over on her side to face her, “A psychic who sniffs things and follows their tracks?” She said quietly, “and always shows up during the full moon covered in dirt?” Mia glanced back at her, eyes filling with panic and brow denting inward. “Lionel…” Lionel just shook her head, crawling up closer to her. “I never listened much to rumors and newscasters.” She spoke ever so softly, “it’s not my business.” She gave her a smile, a real one, “all I know is that you found my dog.” Mia shifted away from her, she didn’t seem to be breathing. “It isn’t...I.” Lionel reached out, clamping down around the other woman’s arm, “where are you from, really?” “Ottawa.”

Lionel just nodded, “Good. How do you like Nolan so far?” Mia relaxed, just ever so slightly. “Well.” She said simply, words slow and pointed. “Best service I’ve gotten anywhere so far.” Lionel rolled her eyes spectacularly, “Careful,” she said dangerously, “Honey Cakes could get the wrong idea. She bites people who she thinks are even close to flirting with me. A real puritan like that.” “It’s okay,” Mia scratched the sprawling Honey Cakes behind the ears, “I have a way with dogs.” Lionel ducked her head down, a flush creeping up her neck. This isn’t good, she swallowed. “So, what do you do, Mia? Dog whispering?” “God no,” Mia sniffed, “Freelance coding, but I’m hoping to switch jobs when I, you know, grow up. Past thirty I’m thinking. Maybe forty.” Lionel laughed, spirits lifting, “and what would you like to be when you grow up?"

Mia's eyes gleamed impishly, “I’m thinking tiny foods food blogger or custom shoelace knitter, that sort of thing.”

“Something practical,” she nodded solemnly.

Mia grinned so wide it looked like it might eat her face, “butterfly-dust expert maybe, professional harmonica tuner, wild hamster tamer.”

Lionel giggled, actually giggled, "that's what I was gonna guess! You took mine." They snickered together, and something was so light in the air it felt like it might burst. Honey Cakes didn’t even try and bite the new girl, not that she ever would.

≿————-　❈　————-≾

September

Lionel still didn’t know what she was doing, but something about this had become increasingly right. Increasingly like something she couldn’t escape and didn’t want to. The minute hand had ticked forward.

It was the end of her shift on a Friday, she kept glancing out the windows and checking the streets. Tilda was examining her, “why are you so jittery, Li?” She poked her as they passed each other, “this from the quitting? I’m with you there, Brad won’t even look at me if I sneak one nowadays.”

“No,” Lionel kept her eyes on the window, “it’s nothing." “Nothing,” Tilda just grinned with her bright red knowing smile. Lionel wrinkled her nose, “this is normal.” She looked out the door again, “I’m acting normal.” Her expression softened, the sun was far in the sky and it would only be twenty more minutes, she's coming.

Tilda laughed like aluminum foil being crinkled, “damn. I knew Mikey said you were smiling more, but I’ll have whatever stuff you’re on now.” Lionel rolled her eyes, picking up a stack of dirty plates. “It’s called a good work attitude.” She turned on her heels, “try it.” Tilda laughed again, huge and exuberant, Lionel had a weird notion she would miss that if she ever did manage to leave.

Another fifteen minutes passed, Lionel’s heart had moved into her throat and the world was turning in slow motion. Somehow, she didn’t mind.

She felt like she was giving herself whiplash turning each time the door dinged, she was only finally right the fiftieth time. A woman came through the door wearing a pair of slacks, oxfords, and a clean purple shirt buttoned to her throat, she smiled with all her teeth.

Mia was holding an array of flowers and a small box. “Hey.” She said gently and Lionel hurried over.

“I’ve got five minutes left,” she whispered, “but I don’t think they’ll notice.” Mia tilted her head to the side.

“Take your time,” there was something reserved in Mia's tone, her voice deep and sending a shiver down Lionel’s spine.

“Take a table, anywhere.” She ran to the back room to sign out, proper hours be damned. This was close enough.

“Is that what this was about?” Tilda commented, she still had five hours left in her shift and was a little grumpy for it. She squinted at the young woman seated in a middle booth.

Lionel just shook her head, “no judging. It’s not about anything.” She grinned so widely it felt like it might hurt, she winked. “Yet.”

“I ain’t one to judge," Tilda said loosely, "the lord made girl’s like that to tempt nun’s themselves.” She waved a hand in the air and snorted, “it’s a step-up from Rickey, I’ll give you that. This one actually know their way around a downstairs department store?”

“Oh my God,” Lionel threw her apron into her purse, “I’ll see you later Tilda.” She waved, “Tell Mikey absolutely nothing is happening.”

“He thinks that girl is a demon or something.” “I know!” She ran through the door, “not even close.” Tilda was just laughing again.

Lionel darted up to Mia's table with wings on her heels, “Come on.” She came grabbed for Mia’s left hand, “Let’s get out of here. There’s a farmer’s market in Edward’s today, Edwards! I’ll pay for the gas.” “Wait,” Mia said stiltedly, the reserved tone was back. “Wait. Just a moment. I wanted to… well, I have this for you.” Lionel blinked a couple times, “Ah, Mia,” she grinned, “you know I love flowers, but I’m running out of vases. I’ll be filling the bathtub with them soon.” Mia shook her head, and suddenly Lionel recognized the diving sadness behind her gaze. “Want to sit for a moment?” Lionel frowned and folded into the booth across from her, heart sinking. This was supposed to be the day. After a few dinner’s out at other restaurants and a trip to the fair Lionel had decided it had been long enough, she was ready to kiss a wolf.

But maybe Mia knew that.

“What is it?” She held herself perfectly still.

Mia looked at her hands, tapping her short nails on the table. “Open this.” She passed a present to Lionel, it was elaborately wrapped in shiny blue wrapping paper and the bow on top might as well have been a work of art onto itself. Uh-oh. Lionel hesitantly took the box, she picked at the ribbon on the top tepidly, then she put it down again. “No,” she lifted her chin up, “I won’t.” Mia’s eyes went wide, a half-hearted smile followed, “I promise it’s not a dead bird or something.” She said delicately, “I’m not actually that much like Honey Cakes.” Lionel shook her head, “I know what this is.” She huffed, “and I’m not having it.”

“What is it?” Mia blinked rapidly and then sighed. Lionel made a face, “it’s only been a few months,” she whispered, “passing through should take longer than that I say. A little longer. I have an uncle who’s been passing through here since ‘75.” Mia’s head fell, broken down on the spot, she looked away. “You’re too smart for your own good.” “I know a going-away present when I see one.” Lionel made a face at her, “I suppose you were hoping I was an idiot.” “No!” Mia squirmed in place, “it’s one of those things I really like about you... it just makes this so much harder.” “Then don’t do it,” Lionel swiftly looked toward the road outside. Mia sighed, reaching for Lionel’s hand and taking it. She stroked the top of Lionel's hand with her thumb, “don’t worry.” She whispered, “your life will be better for it. Wolves… are carnivores. They eat everything good whole."

“They’re pack animals too,” Lionel took her hand back and looked down at her lap, “are you just going to keep being alone after this? Is that really better than being with…” She hummed for a long moment, “you know.”

She looked up just in time to see Mia bow her head, “nothing would be better than that.” She reached for her again, “but we can’t.” Lionel’s pulse spiked, I can't do this, it was too much, she couldn’t. She sprang to her feet, hopping up and slipping out of the booth and dashing for the door. She ran out into the parking lot and took deep gasping breaths. “Goddammit.” Mia ran after her, “Lionel.” She called desperately. “Lionel, you know what I am. You already guessed a long time ago; I have a target on my back.” “So?” Lionel looked up at the puffy white clouds and gritted her teeth.

“Wolves are bad news. Lone one’s are even worse…” Mia struggled with her words. “I have to keep moving. There are hunters, and other packs. I didn’t mean for this to happen.” Lionel turned, slowly, carefully, around. “But it happened.” She whispered, “you really want to go back?” Mia shook, barely moving at all. “I can’t do it to you. I can’t, it’s not a stable life.” Lionel’s hair tickled her shoulder tops as she moved, “fuck stable.” She took a bold step toward her, “I let you into my restaurant, all grubby and sad-looking. Let me in now.” Mia didn’t move back, “God, this is hard.” She murmured, “I won’t be able to replace any of it you know.” Her brow dented, “you, arguing with telemarketers, cooking everything with that weird cheese, yelling at the TV. I won’t be able to replace it.” Lionel put her hands out, “then don’t.” Lionel crept closer and Mia didn’t pull away, her expression softened. Lionel slowly rested her arms around Mia’s neck, inhaling her earthy scent and drinking in her clear eyes, Mia let her. It was bright out, bright and heart-pounding, but Lionel found a way forward, moving their faces so close together it stung.

Mia put a hand through Lionel’s hair and her breath tickled her cheek. “You might regret this.” Lionel shrugged, “try me.” And then they came together, golden and impossible. She kissed her, a sugar rush of lips and firm touches, they had been waiting for this. Mia’s fingers pressed into her waist and drew her close, kissing like an undertow with no ground to catch yourself on.

Lionel kissed back, hungry and soft for it, soft with the warm breathy sighs and movements and all the things she hadn’t hoped for. She got lost in the heady world of a girl and something she didn’t know was possible.

She was new again.

≿————-　❈　————-≾

Mia drew one last thing on a receipt for the diner: thanks for everything. I’ll return her in one piece.

Lionel added something as well: I won’t.

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

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#wlw #werewolves #urban fantasy #f/f #original story #sapphic #lesbian romance #femslash #original writing #the waitress and the werewolf #my work #i thought I should finally post this here

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capsized-heart · 4 years

Text

Little Lamb

Pairing: vampire!Wanda Maximoff x Reader, incubus!Quentin Beck x Reader

Summary: Your simple life in the Sokovian countryside is no more. The events of a single night disrupt the natural order of your world. God is silent. He always is.

Word count: 4k+

Warnings: (oh boy..) violence, blood, gore, sacrilegious imagery, explicit smut

A/N: This is my entry for @thewritingdoll‘s freaky500 writing challenge! Congrats on 500 followers! <3 I wish I could have finished this before yesterday’s deadline, especially before Halloween since this shit is so dark aha

I had a lot of fun with this! I honestly wish I could have done more bc I could write about Wanda and Quentin forever..I feel like I had to restrain myself a bit. I really like how both Wanda and Quentin can see someone’s deepest fears and thought that dynamic would be really cool for an au.

I was also inspired to write this after seeing this beautiful moodboard by @tohomorii...you honestly killed it with that Wanda vampire aesthetic.

using the quote prompt, “He’s covered in blood again. Why is it he’s always covered in blood?” -harry potter and the half blood prince

Sokovia, 17th century.

Dawn breaks with rosy hues and warm, vibrant gold. The soft, streaky clouds of early autumn float lazily by, stippling the sky with pinks and baby blues. Your eyes follow a flock of blackbirds as they flicker across a patch of sunlit horizon in a melodious chortle, climbing and climbing beyond to lofty heavens. You smile.

Your purse jingles with the sound of newfound coin. You’ve had a productive morning at market, having left your family homestead yesterday afternoon for the day’s ride. You’d sold your stock of bread and eggs to Ms. Ryba, homemade jams to old Dmitri, trading your other goods for the groceries mother had asked of you. As a surprise, you’d also purchased a small leatherbound book for your papa, a new piece of stitching work and silks for mama. Gifts carefully wrapped in linen and secured in your saddlebag, a small bit of happiness glowing in the crook of your ribs. Your heart feels full. You finger the crucifix around your neck.

Times have been hard for you and your family. This summer’s harvest had been exceptionally low with heat and droughts. Money has never been a luxury and you’ve been broken with the disciplines of how to bargain hard, conserve, safeguard, and how to put the needs of your parents before your own.

These gifts will bring favor and approval to their eyes. A godly daughter. Honor thy father and thy mother.

You tilt your face upwards to the flushed morning, relish the fresh breeze tickling your skin and murmur a quick prayer of thanks.

O God, who hast folded back the mantle of the night to clothe us in the golden glory of the day, chase from our hearts all gloomy thoughts, and make us glad with the brightness of hope, that we may effectively aspire to unwon virtues, through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

You ride atop Iryna, your family’s tender Carpathian pony now weighed down with your spoils, and watch the fields of your homeland ripple in red and honey light. Even Iryna seems to sense your good mood as her head bobs with her quick gait. You balance a basket of apples in your lap, a reward that you had purchased for her (and for yourself) after a long day’s journey.

This is a safe country, not at all uncommon for young peasant girls to ride to market alone. Broad plains and cut mountains, you’d passed your closest neighbors about ten miles back, welcome solitude on each homestead.

You like to spend your time on these rides daydreaming of riding in a royal procession as princess, or as cavalry returning from battle abroad. How you would be welcomed back home to your kingdom!

Smoke curls from your cottage chimney as the edge of your family’s property comes into view. You squeeze your heels against Iryna in encouragement and she trots faster, the promise of a waiting breakfast and the smiles of your mother and father urging you forward.

The smell of hay and manure greets you as you lead Iryna into the barn. You adjust your skirts, woolen tunic, riding cloak, and wimplet before dismounting, careful not to catch anything on your saddle or packages. You slide off Iryna’s bridle and feed her an apple, rubbing soothing circles into her neck as she devours the fruit, snorting happily.

You give her fresh feed, change her water, quickly removing your tack and supplies and turn her out into the pasture, whispering a promise to give her a thorough brushing later. She gallops away with a swish of her tail. With your arms full of supplies and balancing your bushel of apples, you kick through dust and dirt and enter your cottage.

You’re about to call out to your mama when your voice stops in your throat. The nauseating stench of rot fills your nose, familiar and ominous, like when papa slaughters the chickens for winter stock. Only this time it’s inside your home.

Your arms go limp and your packages fall to the floor in a muffled thud of wrapped paper. Apples bounce, scatter, rolling through soot and blood.

Your father lies crumpled, his strong body disfigured in a tangle of limbs. His skull has been crushed into a crown of grey matter and gore, leaking like tears down the planes of his face. His eyes and mouth hang open in a frozen, silent scream, twisted skyward in agony. Protectively draped over your mother in his final moments.

Your mother is spread-eagled with her throat slit open and her veil stuffed into her mouth, rosary beads crudely circled tight around her wrists in manacles. Her skirts have been torn, bunched around her thighs and you see violet bruises in the shape of hands.

You stumble to the hearth and wretch up bile and water. You heave, vomit, tears stinging your eyes and mucus dribbling down your chin until there is nothing left in your stomach but a wriggling pit of nerves. You can’t breathe, can’t think. Strength evaporates from your body and you sink in front of the cooling embers of the fireplace.

You look to the bodies of your parents. You don’t bother trying to feel for a pulse. You are numb.

You stay beside them until the light outside turns bleak and grey, until your legs ache from kneeling on hard wooden floor for countless hours. Slowly, finally, you wipe your mouth, lift yourself up.

You find the scythe used to harvest wheat. It feels good and heavy in your hands, makes you feel strong. You make rounds to the rest of the property with it tight in your grip.

Your homestead has been completely ransacked. What livestock that hasn’t been stolen lies dead, slain and swarmed by flies. You’re left with one cow, six chickens, two goats, and Iryna.

You salvage whatever raw materials you can. You return the scythe back to the shed, unused, the sharp, pristine metal gleaming a cool blue. Part of you had hoped that the intruders still lurked about. Maybe then you could have descended upon them with all the silent wrath of Jael, as she had killed Sisera.

You whistle a low blast. Iryna trots over to you, nuzzles your hand for another treat. It makes you smile and fresh tears to drip down your cheeks. You wonder if she can sense anything awry, sense that your entire world has been violently turned on its head. You don’t think you’ll ever crave apples again.

They’ll only taste of sin.

It takes you well into the night to dig two deep holes. The ground is frigid with frost and your breath clouds, fogging the air as you work the soil in an eerie echo of familiar, mundane times. Instead of the sun, the moon guides your hand. Instead of toiling the fields to lay in crops, you prepare the graves of your mother and father.

Sweat slicks your skin, dirt streaking down your neck and arms. The moon has dipped below the hillside when you finish, plunging you in complete darkness. You thrust the spade into the ground.

You are not strong enough to carry the bodies of your parents. You will have to tie them to Iryna and bring them here to the fields. But you cannot tonight with the last of the moonlight gone.

And tomorrow is the day of the Sabbath, your holy day of rest. You will have to wait to bury them.

You hug yourself tight. From the cold, from the juvenile fear of death and despair.

Did Christ not feel this way upon the cross? Abandoned by his own father? Alone?

And about the ninth hour Jesus cried with a loud voice, saying, "Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?" that is, “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?”

You rise late. Fatigue still sits deep in your bones when you go and collect eggs and milk for your breakfast. You step over your mother and father. Splattered blood, now dry, ring around their heads in crimson halos.

You spend the day idly. You read the book you had bought for your father, practice your stitching with the embroidery hoop and silks meant for your mother. You heat water for a bath and sprinkle in some of the salts and oils she kept tucked away in her bedroom. You wash away tears and dirt and grime.

You relish the hot water as it seeps into your tense muscles, watch the milky surface ripple around your limbs. The cottage is quiet and seems to settle around you.

You were always the last to bathe out of your small family. You would be told to fetch and heat the water, waiting until your father finished, then your mother. By the time it was your turn, the bathwater was always cold and dirty. You were not allowed to change it out as it was costly and a waste of time. You would be quick to rinse.

Now, you sit until your fingers becomes wrinkled and pruny, your skin and hair fragranced with the smell of rose petals and lavender. There is no one to scold you to hurry up.

Iryna watches over you as you pack the last of the dirt over the burials. You’re both exhausted. You finish at midday. You finger the crucifix around your neck.

O God, grant unto us, in this dying life, that peace for which we humbly pray, and hereafter to attain unto everlasting joy in Thy presence; through our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.

You pass your days in solitude and in fear. You wonder if the bandits will return. It makes you pray harder, harder than you have in your entire life. You ask for forgiveness, for protection, for salvation.

The windy autumn nights bring chills and unease. The windows rattle in their frames, the cottage groans, and the goats bleat in the pressing darkness.

Visions of your murdered parents dance behind your eyelids. A crown of gore, blood red tears, suffocating rosary beads. The possibility of specters and demons and Satan’s lurking servants seem to hide behind each darkened corner. The homestead feels too vast, too isolating. You feel yourself slowly going mad, every howl of curling wind making you shudder in your cot.

You ask for companionship. A friend to share company.

A young woman’s voice calls out to you. The day is abnormally warm and you’re hanging laundry to dry in the sun when you first lay eyes on her.

She wears a riding cloak and veil, a pretty woolen dress of fine cardinal fabric. Her hair falls in loose waves down to her chest, catching the sunlight in a gleam of muted copper.

She leads the most magnificent looking horse you’ve ever seen. A towering black Clydesdale that stands eighteen hands high with a glossy coat and tail, powerful muscles moving with every stride. Curiously, you see no saddle or tack, only the leather bridle she uses to guide him.

When you approach her, the young woman asks if you are master of the house. You respond with, yes. She smiles and takes your hands in hers, inquiring if she may stay for a few nights before continuing her journey to the next town. She says she will pay you with coin and labor, with whatever help you may need around the property.

The gesture surprises you. Travelers are few in this stretch of country and your family has never housed one before. But, you think of how turning this woman away would mean another day’s ride for her until she reached the next homestead. As you’ve understood, these trails are no longer safe. Especially for a young woman riding alone.

When you agree to offer her lodging, she blesses you with another radiant smile and kisses your cheeks. It’s enduring, warms your heart and tingles your fingers still laced with her own.

As promised, Wanda helps you with your chores. She does not ask about your family or parents or why a young girl of your age could indeed be master of a homestead all by herself. You do not ask why a beautiful woman is traveling alone. Instead, she carefully listens to your instructions and assists you perfectly.

You’ve just finished gathering firewood when the two of you head to the barn to tend to your few and precious livestock. You muck out stalls, change hay and water. Wanda’s Clydesdale watches you from one of the extra stalls you’ve placed him in.

When Wanda tries to lead out Iryna, she flinches away and flattens her ears in a shrill whinny. It catches you both off guard and you quickly take the rope from Wanda’s hands before Iryna can hurt herself, placating her with a low hush.

“She does not like me.” Wanda frowns. It’s charmingly youthful, makes her look like a pouting child.

“She is not used to strangers,” you soothe, smiling gently. You return Iryna to her stall and slide the door shut. “What is your Clydesdale’s name?” You ask.

Wanda’s mood seems to lift instantly and you catch a glimmer in her hazel eyes. “Paimon,” she tells you. “Paimon is friendly to everyone, especially strangers. But, he loves pretty girls most of all.”

Later, you invite her into your home and the two of you relax your tired bones by the evening fire.

The days grow cold and dark. You and Wanda now share the bed of your late parents, bigger and warmer than your own. You awake each glowing morning with her slender arms wrapped tight around your waist, her face buried into the crook of your neck.

For warmth, you tell yourself.

Her sighs, her moans in sleep stir something in the pit of your stomach.

You’re unsure of what other reason you would prefer.

The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.

Wind and rain whistle against the glass panes of your cottage. It is a dreary, bleak morning of storm, one that has forced you and Wanda to remain inside. A fire crackles in the hearth and throws dancing shadows along the walls. You sit and read while Wanda busies herself with housework. It is the first time you’ve felt peace in months.

She returns from the pantry, setting down her washcloth and bucket with a faint groan. You look up.

Warm, flickering light highlights the skin of her collarbones and cheeks. Wanda has plaited back her hair to keep it out of her eyes, save for a few wispy strands that fall to frame her face.

You swallow, enraptured.

She catches you staring and her irises seem to glow brighter with firelight. She turns slowly, sauntering towards you with measured, delicate steps.

“Little one, didn’t your mother ever tell you that it’s impolite to stare?” she whispers. She walks until she is flush against you and the fabric of her dress brushes your toes. Without looking away, she eases the book out of your hands and sets it facedown on the table. Your father’s bible.

Your mouth dries up, your pulse hammers.

Wanda tilts her head, her expression clouding. Then, she sinks to her knees to straddle you completely, arms winding around your neck.

“Sweet girl, when I ask you a question, I expect a response.”

Her fingers trace your jaw, looking down at you with a stern, flinty gaze. You find your hands holding the swell of her hips, pulling her closer.

“Those who see you will stare and wonder, ‘Is this the man who made the world tremble and shook up kingdoms?’” you recite into the ever closing gap between your mouths. She sighs, high and breathless, feel her overheated body slowly start to move against you.

Your lips and tongue meet in a tangled kiss. Your first. She tastes of myrtle and honeyed milk. You feel yourself falling when you gently cup this young woman’s face in your hands, kissing and touching and her fingers lustfully twisting into the nape of your neck. Dizzy, ashamed. Your skin is on fire.

You think of Lucifer’s wings burning away as He hurtled towards earth.

“I’m so thirsty, my love. Thirsty for you,” Wanda gasps. Her pupils are blown impossibly wide, ringed in red. Her canines glint in the darkness. “Will you let me drink?”

You remember Iryna’s skittishness, Wanda’s beast of a horse, Paimon. No saddle, no luggage. A lone, beautiful woman wandering the countryside with exquisite eyes and sharp, sharp teeth. A devil in masquerade who never intended to leave.

Slowly, you untie the strings of your dress’s blouse and expose your shoulders, the dip of your chest. Wanda’s lips part hungrily, the shadow of her eyelashes fluttering like feathers.

She sets you back and runs her fingers over the thin skin of your neck. Her touch is smooth, gentle. Then, she leans over you, keeping you still with a single hand wrapped deliciously around your throat, pressing you deeper into the wooden chair.

The bite of teeth, then white pleasure. Your vision rolls and you writhe against her in a fit of sighs and otherworldly bliss. Suction, flickering tongue, the obscene sounds of her mouth devouring you whole. You moan, cage her against your body and you hear her chuckle.

Blood trails down her throat and drips between her breasts when she finally sits back, sated. Half-lidded eyes gazing down at you with more love and adoration than you’ve ever known.

You are her blessed wine.

Take this, all of you, and drink from it,

for this is the chalice of my Blood,

the Blood of the new and everlasting covenant,

which will be shed for you and for all

so that sins may be forgiven.

Do this in memory of me.

“Amen.” she murmurs with a kiss.

God is silent. He always is.

Wanda pulls you atop her. She cradles your face, smooths back your hair as she looks up at you in the silvered morning light.

“Little one, would you like to live forever?”

The question takes you by surprise, makes you pause. She takes the opportunity to kiss your fingertips, arch her hips into you. It makes your breath hitch, but your mind is clear.

“As long as it’s with you.”

She grins, gleaming and bright, the first glimpse of sun you’ve seen in this godforsaken autumn.

“Oh, my sweet little bride, my princess of night.” she sighs.

“Yes,” you whimper.

She gazes into your mind and sees what you’ve always wanted.

Wanda prepares for the ritual that very evening. Candles, parchment, a single serrated knife.

She bathes the two of you in the shared tub, washes your hair and cleanses you, a mock baptism with soap and scented oils. Her fingers wander, coaxing pleasure as you lean back against her.

Finally, she guides you to the bed when the world outside stands cold, silent, watching, at the cusp between night and day.

Wanda eases your finger between her lips and pricks the skin with the point of her teeth. Her eyes flutter before reluctantly removing it, a string of saliva following suit. You watch the single bead of blood bloom and sign the parchment with a steady hand.

Cold air brushes your cheeks, skin tingling as if touched, breath in your ear. You feel your vision haze in and out of focus, a foreign sensation overcoming your body.

Then, a young man appears before you. He’s tall and lean and handsomely bearded, dark hair curling against his forehead, down the tufts of his chest and arms. His eyes, green and glimmering, inspect you carefully, tracing every curve of your exposed skin. You feel achingly vulnerable, pinned.

Your eyes trail lower and lower until…

You find that he is completely bare. You flush and turn to hide your face into Wanda’s shoulder. She chuckles, gently takes your chin in her hand and tilts your gaze back onto him.

“This is the flesh of Adam, sweet one,” she murmurs. “It is not shameful to lust. Did God not create man in his own image?”

Wanda reaches out her other hand in offering and the man takes it, lowers himself onto the bed. There is an air of familiarity between the two of them as they share a kiss of greeting.

“Welcome, Quentin.” she hums. She fondly runs her thumb along his cheek and he leans into her touch. Quentin’s eyes then flicker to you.

“Is this my gift?” he asks. His voice is soft, sweet like honey. Wanda hums again. Quentin smiles warmly, looking you up and down. Your blood ignites.

With one hand on both of your faces, she guides you and Quentin together. He kisses you, surprisingly soft and gentle, cradling your jaw with a touch that makes your stomach flutter. You hear Wanda moving, feel her touch.

Some of the tension wound tight in your shoulders evaporates with Wanda beside you. It encourages you to be braver, bolder as you kiss the incubus back more urgently, touch his skin. Quentin responds with a purr and tangles a hand in your hair, mouthing at your neck, tracing your puncture wounds with a soothing, possessive tongue.

He draws you upon his lap, still pulled flush against him and the heat of him so close to the most intimate part of your anatomy makes you timid, afraid.

“Relax, lamb.” he whispers. “Enjoy this, enjoy us.”

The broad touch of his fingers against you makes you mewl in surprise. Wanda hushes you with a soft kiss, takes one of your hands in hers. Quentin’s palm rests on the plane of your stomach, his other easing into where you’re most aching and tight, where a man’s strong touch has never breached.

He slowly guides your hips upon his hand, until his fingers glisten with your slick and your body starts to warm with the glow of angelfire.

“Keep going, little lamb,” Quentin urges into your ear. “You know how, don’t you? Those lonely nights when your parents lay fast asleep abed?”

You moan. Indeed you do. Nights where darkness was most suffocating and you prayed that God would turn a blind eye to your lust.

You shatter with the heat of hell rain. With your body still clenching and fluttering, Quentin lays you out beneath him, his eyes darker, lips turned up into a sly smile. You’re breathless.

He feels cold when he enters you, a sensation you would have least expected from a creature molded by burning sin and Lucifer’s fire. Yet, it pushes your poor, mortal flesh to the thresholds of pleasure and you reach for Wanda, keening. Wanda slinks closer and pushes your hair out of your eyes.

“How does she feel?”

“Like a dream,” Quentin moans, laughing. “You want Wanda and I both, lamb? I can see it in your mind’s eye. So needy, you are. I’ll give you what you want, lamb. You’re doing so good for me.”

You don’t remember waking up. A blood moon hangs in the sky.

You feel the lull of pleasure, of Quentin’s lush curls buried between your thighs. Your fingers catch on horns, his velvety tongue forked as it slips into you.

Your world blurs around you, dreamlike.

Again, you reach for Wanda and she laces your fingers together with a smile, kisses your damp forehead.

“Is this real?” you moan into her neck.

“As real as your God, sweet one. Are you ready to come home?”

You nod, drowsy with euphoria. You see Wanda take up the silver knife and again, you offer your hand.

You wince when she slices open your palm, watch the blood seep over and down your arm in great drops. Quentin lifts his head from between your legs, intoxicatingly beautiful with shining lips and heat in his eyes. He keeps his gaze on you as he drives into you again, as your hand stains his chest and neck with crimson, ravishing you again and again. You feel Wanda’s tongue and then the bite of her fangs.

You arch, reborn with the blessing of immortality and pressed between two demons.

You wonder how many times these two have completed a ritual like this, with Quentin’s powerful body covered in virgin’s blood.

His blessed cup.

And the Lamb will overcome them, because He is Lord of lords and King of kings, and those who are with Him are the called and chosen and faithful.

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poppytheorist · 5 years

Text

Scary Mask

I don’t know what to say when people come apart

The road is long, the road is dark

And these are just the words to somebody else’s song

Before I get into it, I’d like to quickly note that this is not best post to start with. Same goes for the one on “Me Laughing.” My older posts are much friendlier reads and not nearly as dense.

Okay, let’s go.

At first I thought “Scary Mask” was straightforward, i.e. Poppy uses her persona (“I wear my scary mask”) as a defense when she finds herself in uncomfortable situations (“when I’m afraid I don’t belong”). “Well that was anticlimactic.” Indeed. But, of course, this is Poppy we are talking about, and nothing with Poppy is quite so simple.

The problem with basic interpretations that sum up a song with single sentence is that such readings miss all the nuances of the work, i.e., they leave out all the fun little twists in the lyrics, the double-meanings in the lines, etc. Basically, simplistic interpretations of lyrics ignore all the poetry, which is part of what allows music to transcend language. Poetic lyrics also provide us with new pieces of language so that we can better understand the increasingly complex world around us. Nestled in the gaps between our definitions lies the inexpressible that only poetry can render sensible.

Well-written (read: poetic) lyrics are part of what allows songs to completely baffle us; they allow songs to elude simple characterization and slip the shackles of obsessive categorization (e.g., genre). A truly great piece of music leaves us speechless; we cannot simply explain it to someone. Instead, the best we can do is say, “you know what? Just listen to this,” to which they are only able to reply, “wow… you’re right.”

This is why I love metaphors and dualities. Yes, I realize the previous sentence just caused every person who hated English in school to audibly cringe. Look, I’ve been there, I get it. I used to think English was a cruel joke played at everyone’s expense and that it was stupid because ‘there is no right answer.’ Then one day, all of that changed. Almost as though a switch was suddenly flicked ‘on’ in my brain. It wasn’t until I understood English that I finally appreciated it. I’ve never wanted to go back, so hear me out.

Metaphors are essentially a way of controlling the associations formed by your brain when you read or hear a word. They can make you associate simple pieces of language with something extraordinary, and make you see things in a way you would never have previously considered.

If you’d like to get fancy, you can start introducing dualities; that is, setting two concepts on opposing ends of a spectrum. When you do so, you allow the reader to consider new and (seemingly) impossible gradations, all born from the struggle between two relatively ordinary ideas.

Take, for example, Poppy’s ‘poetry-ecstasy’ duality that she introduced in “X.” This was the first thing that made me take a more serious look at her work, i.e., “I think something else is going on here…” We know poetry and ecstasy are meant to be diametrically opposed in “X” because the colors in the music video change in sync with Poppy’s delivery.

If YouTube subtitles weren’t broken, they would read: “poetry, poetry, poetry”

Likewise: “ecstasy, ecstasy, ecstasy”

It’s not obvious that poetry is the opposite of ecstasy unless you’re in Wonderland in which case, you messed up somewhere. Moving on, when you set two concepts against each other like that, you introduce a new interplay between the two ideas. Now the audience is forced to see things from a new perspective, one they would not have otherwise considered. Or, they just ignore it, as is usually the case, but I digress.

With all this in mind, further study into “Scary Mask” reveals that some parts of the more basic reading don’t quite add up. Take, for example, lines like, “M-A-S-K, am I okay?” or “You ain’t gonna see me tonight”; these lines refuse to fit neatly into the obvious interpretation e.g., why spell out ‘mask’? Why are [they] not going to see “you” “tonight?” Most people would choose to ignore these outliers or simply shrug and go about their day. If this post’s existence didn’t clue you in, we won’t be doing much ‘shrugging’ or ‘ignoring.’

You’ve probably noticed this already, but I try to forge readings of Poppy’s work that fit as many different pieces as possible into them. To craft interpretations that capture the interplay between all the elements in a song. Often, this requires approaching the song from multiple angles, some even being right. If this post is good, each interpretation should form its own colored shard of glass, leaving the reader with a beautiful explanative mosaic. If this post is bad, grab a broom and wear shoes for a week.

Hilariously, doing justice to the more abstract bits of art usually means I have to use figurative language to explain other figurative language. “Sounds meta.” Indeed. Some puzzles can only be done justice with other puzzles, which is also why my writing frequently dips into obscurity. Close reading yields wonders, but means interpreting ‘carefully’ and ‘openly.’ “Sounds like a lot of work.” It is, but anybody can come up with a vague idea of what a song is ‘about,’ e.g., “this one’s about love!” How insightful, you should post that on Genius, that’s just what they’re looking for. I mean, really, at that point what are you even getting out of the song? A few minutes of pleasure before you move onto the next one? Is that it? Are you going to just spend your entire life constantly devouring one helping after another, waiting hungrily for your favorite artists to dish up your next meal?

I may be going to hell, but at least I won’t be stuck doing that.

II.

Rise and shine—

get out of bed!

Take my hand,

there’s darkness ahead.

“Scary Mask” is one of Poppy’s best songs. No, I’m not interested in arguing about this. It is also one of Poppy’s most important songs. This, however, I am interested in arguing about.

For the sake of the following discussion, I will be ignoring most of Poppy’s singles. “Metal” and “Immature Couture” and [other singles] are good but they complicate things and I don’t have time to deal with them, despite having the time to tell you how little time I have. Fancy people would probably call such exclusions “exceptionally non-rigorous,” but I’m over it.

I tried to make this section not-boring, dunno if I was successful; my writing takes on the flavor of whoever I read last, hence why the “Me Laughing” post reads like schizophrenia. Lately, I’ve been feeling especially masochistic, so I’ve been reading [redacted]. Expect that to shine through.

Let’s zoom out for a bit: “Scary Mask” is the flagship song of Poppy’s Choke EP, though I am sympathetic to arguments for “Meat.” “Scary Mask” ties the whole EP together and makes it possible. It’s critical to Choke’s ‘flow.’ This isn’t a given, I’ll explain/pretend to explain.

The structure of Choke almost perfectly mimics that of a five-act play. Yeah, like that Shakespeare guy. The EP contains exposition, rising action, a climax, falling action, and a conclusion. The methodically squeezing “Choke” sets the mood and introduces a problem statement to color the rest of the EP. With its pendulum-like bassline and hypnotizing array of voices, “Voicemail” depicts a forsaken mind becoming further and further dissociated from reality. A complete breakdown occurs in “Scary Mask,” the explosive climax of the EP and, at least so far, Poppy's work. Following “Scary Mask” comes the bleak and gruesome “Meat,” which is clearly akin to the falling action. And finally, we are given “The Holy Mountain,” the EP’s pessimistic and wistful send-off.

As for the context in which “Scary Mask” was created, Choke comes after two pop-y records, Bubblebath and poppy.computer, and a half-pop, half-??? disc, Am I A Girl. After AIAG, Poppy had a choice: back off and return to pop or double-down and bring on the metal. Thankfully, she chose the latter and made Choke. Let’s all take a minute to praise AIAG for even allowing Poppy such options, for flowing together so smoothly, etc. Okay, séance over, let’s return: “Scary Mask” carried Choke, without it, the EP would’ve been severely lacking a massive, stand-out song to serve as the EP’s creative apex.

“Scary Mask” is, in a sense, the ‘no turning back’ point for Poppy. Producing “Scary Mask” was like Poppy locking her old style away and throwing out the key; “X” and “Play Destroy” were #wild, but “Scary Mask” was the third strike. Put confusingly, “Scary Mask” was Poppy’s ‘home run’ while also being the ‘final nail in the coffin’ and other idioms. The track is so far removed from the days of Bubblebath and P.C that it actually created a distance, a gap, between nu-Poppy and Pop-y. “X” has pop elements and Poppy cutely ‘ooo-ing’; it was walk back-able. “Scary Mask” has Jason Butler demonically screaming and saying the ‘fuck’ word; fine print says “no refunds.” Or, if you’d prefer analogies that are unlikely to age well: think of a giant iceberg breaking off from the main Arctic glacier and slipping into the cold, dark sea. Once it’s off, it’s not freezing back on. In other words, once Poppy dropped “Scary Mask,” ‘princess with a pistol’ became ‘demonic metal queen.’

I’ll also argue that “Scary Mask” is the least compromising song in Poppy’s current discography. It’s her truest expression of self pre-I Disagree. All artists have to make their music listenable-enough to get bread, just like I need to make my writing readable-enough to get read. Unfortunately, compromise is inevitable, but artists can still create good music. It’s just hard and getting harder. Plus, nobody agrees what ‘good music’ even means because we have no rigorous definition for art so—

When an artist decides to really ‘go for it,’ to make no compromises, and does it well, a beautiful thing happens. That’s what “Scary Mask” is for Poppy; she decided to pull no punches, and the result was, well, “Scary Mask.”

“X” and “Play Destroy” were both successful, but they didn’t guarantee Poppy’s nu-success. “Play Destroy” had Grimes, and “X” could have been an anomaly. If Poppy went back to pop, fans could have passed off her dip into metal as ‘weird’ but ‘kinda cool’ and that would be that. However, Poppy didn’t let up—“Scary Mask” proved she could consistently make quality metal tracks, and now we’re here and Poppy is about to destroy the world or something. Nice.

In summary: “Scary Mask” functions to transition Poppy’s sound, it does a damn good job of it, and I’m definitely looking forward to her new album.

III.

You try to take the best of me

Go away

You try to take the best of me

Go away

Alright, zoom back in. Yes, “Scary Mask” made it possible for Poppy to throw in crazy distorted guitars and for everyone to love it, but it does more than that. “Scary Mask” also transitions Poppy her(?)self, which sounds strange but it will make sense later, probably.

Now time for the fun part.

Sometimes I like to begin my analysis with a song's verses before circling back to the chorus, as was the case with "The Holy Mountain," however, "Scary Mask" is so crazy that it doesn't even matter where I start. It's what I lovingly refer to as “straight-up bonkers,” like some twisted monstrosity tearing its face off as it stumbles around in the dark. Reminds me of the psychos from Borderlands, an analogy that already has not aged well. Basically, “Scary Mask” is all over the place, so I might as well start from the ‘beginning.’ I'm going to have to pick up the pieces and stitch them into some monster that would do Mary Shelley proud anyway.

Let's dive in.

Poppy opens the song with: “I wear my scary mask when I'm afraid I don't belong.” Okay, seems pretty straightforward so far. There isn’t much to work with here, but maybe we can add some color to this line. BUILD series conducted a relatively listenable interview with Poppy earlier this year. One excerpt to note:

Interview: “Well, why wear a mask?”

Poppy: “Sometimes you just have two faces.”

Interview: “And that’s okay?”

Poppy: “Only sometimes.”

This is why I was debating just skipping “Scary Mask”—the opening line was a little cliché, and it seemed like Poppy had taken Batman Forever literally, neither of which are particularly good signs. However, I want to stress that lacking an interesting message wouldn’t necessarily make “Scary Mask” a ‘bad’ song. This idea may seem very strange, especially in modern society where it appears everyone agrees that deep themes=good art. We’ve been raised with the notion that the best art is art that tells a message, and it’s difficult for us to consider otherwise. However, not only does the conception of ‘depth’ quickly fall apart (as I noted in the “Me Laughing” post), but it’s entirely possible that thematic elements have absolutely zero bearing on the aesthetic quality of a work. In other words, ‘themes’ may not be what make art ‘good.’

Yeah, take a minute and think about that.

Anywho, after deciding I could afford to pay attention, I found many interesting things. Note Poppy’s word-choice. She uses the word “scary,” an almost child-like characterization of something fearful. Indeed, in the music video, Poppy’s hair is hidden or pulled back, giving her a youthful appearance. Look, pictures:

Moreover, peppered throughout the song are Poppy’s pouty squeals and she sings with call an almost ‘whimper-y’ tone, the end of her words marked by a spike in pitch. Obviously, we’d like to ask: why is she presenting herself to us this way?

We find answers in the second half of the line: “when I’m afraid I don’t belong.” Okay, so when she finds herself in situations where she is uncomfortable, where she is struck by the feeling of being small, almost child-like, she resorts to the mask as a defense mechanism. Now we’re getting somewhere, though I would like to ask: why is the mask “scary”?

Being two-faced does not necessarily mean the one face has to resemble Harvey Dent post-toasting, it could simply be a different side of your personality. Perhaps the next line will help:

You can’t read my brain until it’s off

Note Poppy says “brain” instead of any other word such as ‘mind’ or ‘thoughts.’ Using the word ‘brain’ signals a sense of invasiveness. Think: Sylar from Heroes cutting open peoples’ skulls and studying their brains for secrets. I’m sure many obsessive fans have tried digging up details on Poppy’s personal life and many interviewers have tried asking her inappropriate questions. It appears that Poppy wears a “scary mask” as a counter to such intrusions, as if she decided that the only appropriate response to these inappropriate behaviors was a face-to-face with the scary mask.

Holy shit, was this entire song written as a response to the AMP Radio interview? That would be hilarious.

Poppy then repeats that the mask is “not coming off.” Hey, wait a minute…

Okay, so after a fairly badass guitar interlude, Poppy begins feverishly chanting the lines: “I'm never gonna take it off, so don't touch me / Never gonna take it off, stop looking at me.” I’m sure some fans hate me because I’m always banging the drum that Poppy’s work is about obsession, and thus, appear to be attacking them, but come on, how clear would you like the message to be? Go watch “Repeat After Me” if you’re not convinced.

Anyway, in a sense, Poppy’s scary mask (read: freaky persona) operates as a shield from foreign bodies who seek to violate her personal space.

I’m going to leave Jason Butler’s lines for the end because, well, you’ll see.

IV.

In the music video for “Scary Mask,” after Poppy first puts the mask on and has a little breakdown, there are many instances where she is no longer wearing the mask, but is still acting like a possessed teen in desperate need of exorcizing. This is weird, here are some possibilities:

1) Poppy takes the mask off in the music video because she’s pretty and people want to see her lip-syncing.

2) The mask was always on.

We’re going with door #2.

Let’s look at some of the weirder lines, like Poppy chanting the incantation: “M-A-S-K, am I okay?” By spelling out ‘mask,’ Poppy signifies that the “am I okay?” question is directly referencing the mask she wears. In other words: is it okay for Poppy to wear a mask?

We already know Poppy came down pretty hard on one side of the fence when she answered “sometimes” in the BUILD series interview. My equally unambiguous answer is: “it depends.” There are many reasons why wearing a ‘mask’ is a terrible thing that slowly renders you psychologically ‘fucked,’ go read TLP or Lasch if you want more info on that (actually, you should just read them anyway). However, we’ve already established “Scary Mask” was an empowering song for Poppy because it served as a truer artistic outlet for her, so any masquerading should be approached with this in mind.

Alright, so when is it a good thing to wear a mask? How can it be a good thing to pretend to be someone you’re not?

Well, when you’re an artist, you typically create art to express something. Often, this ‘something’ is deeply personal to yourself. You put a lot of yourself into your work. This means criticism of your work can really hurt. After all, if someone calls your [song/painting/writing] ‘trash,’ it’s like calling you ‘trash.’ It feels like that criticism is aimed directly at that piece of yourself you put into your work. Yeah, that sucks. Sometimes it’s so difficult to bear that you avoid creating anything so you don’t have to be faced with such attacks. You forgo creating art because the injurious potential of criticism is too daunting. Without a creative outlet, your feelings remain bottled inside, slowly eating away at you from within. It’s a lose-lose game and everyone’s the player.

So, you ask: “what do I do?”

Well, that’s where the mask comes in.

The artist can use a persona to get around these problems. In other words, putting on a mask can actually allow you to finally be yourself, which seems paradoxical, but I’ll explain.

Take, for example, me. After reading enough of the silly words I write, you may start to form a picture of me in your head. To speculate and fantasize about what I actually look like or how I actually act. Without even knowing your thoughts, I can assure you that any such conceptions are completely inaccurate. I know that I’m not actually as [adjective] as you imagine me to be because I work with a protective persona. The persona allows me to write without worrying too much harsh criticism. Hence, with a persona, I can safely express myself through my work.

The same is true for Poppy. As I’ve noted in previous posts, Poppy has a lot to say about the world. She would like to express these messages artistically, but it’s not always easy to face criticism of her work (and Poppy gets a lot of hate). By adopting the ‘Poppy’ persona, Poppy is able to safely express herself. To finally say what she wants to say. To be who she really wants to be. And when she is faced with scathing criticism, she is able to continue her work undeterred because it feels like the criticism is directed toward Poppy (persona) instead of Poppy (person).

An alternate (and hilarious) reading of the lines “M-A-S-K, am I okay?” and “I’m alright, I’m alright, I’m alright” would be to imagine them as part of a demented question-and-answer period with Poppy. Many of her fans have expressed concerns over the effects of living your life pretending to be a [robot/alien/demonic angel], not to mention the section of Poppy’s fan-base who seem to constantly worry about Poppy being Titanic’s so-called ‘puppet’ and that he is abusive towards her. You can interpret Jason Butler screaming “I’m alright, I’m alright, I’m alright” as Poppy’s response to such concerns. Seems like an appropriate answer to me.

You try to take the best of me

GO AWAY

YOU TRY TO TAKE THE BEST OF ME

GO AWAY

YOU TRY TO TAKE THE BEST OF ME

GO AWAY

There are some remarkably odd lines in “Scary Mask” that need some serious groundwork to render sensible, so let’s switch gears for a second and complain about pop music. Yes, I know. It’s not exactly brave (let alone novel) to decry pop music as a vapid and soulless caricature of art, but I find it therapeutic. Plus, I’m clearly writing a narrative here. If these words make you indignant, first ask yourself ‘why?’ and then relax. I listen to pop music too, most of which is terrible. Also, I’m talking about the correlation, not the rule. If you fight me with exceptions, I’ll hit you back with trends.

Pop is the most apologetic music genre out there (though mumble rap and country are giving it a run for its money, literally); pop music’s main purpose is stated by its terminology: it exists to be popular. To be as widely palatable as possible so as to garner as many listeners as possible. The implications associated with a genre revolving entirely around popularity for the sake of commercial success are pretty disgusting. I’d even go so far as to say the existence of ‘pop’ as a musical genre is a strong indicator that culture is no longer treated as an essential component to human society, but is instead only another industry, and has been for a while. People love celebrating the façade or appearance of culture (partially so they can consider themselves ‘cultured’), but the truth is that culture now exists mainly as a commodity to be endlessly repackaged and sold back to people under the guise of ‘art.’ “I blame capitalism!” Sure, and you may not even be wrong, but that’s a discussion for another time. The point here is that to successfully create music with value, music that isn’t just a meaningless product, one needs to escape such a hyper-commoditized regime i.e., the corporatized pop-music industry.

Business-wise, Poppy did this by ditching Mad Decent and signing with Sumerian Records, an independent label which will hopefully make her very happy. Music-wise, she also had to transition. Recall: putting on the mask (read: persona) allowed Poppy to be herself and make the music she wanted to. So, to evolve her music, she had to also evolve the mask. After releasing two and a half pop records, people will generally expect, well, more pop. People don’t like when their favorite artists abruptly change, probably because they don’t wish to face the idea that said artists were never making music for them in the first place. Either way, for Poppy to tell tales of an impending apocalypse or drop an insane metal album like I Disagree, she had to ease fans into it. Musically, this is the second half of AIAG and the entirety of Choke, but it’s also a perfect encapsulation of “Scary Mask.” It’s possible that the bipolar nature of songs like “X,” “Concrete,” and “Scary Mask” is only due to Poppy trying to transition her sound without upsetting too many fans. Hence why these songs incorporate lighter sections to balance out the darkness. Perhaps “I Disagree” is as dark as Poppy’s going to get, but given recent news of her hanging out with Nadya Tolokno from Pussy Riot, I doubt it (“don’t know how long until they see the rest of me”).

This is also where Poppy’s YouTube videos come in. While producing new music, she can quickly put out a few videos and slowly ramp up the darkness, facilitating a comfortable change in artistic tone for the fans. Something, something, frogs and hot water.

Considering all of the above, I agree with something @thatpoppyuk said a while back in regards to people saying “Moriah is coming out!” when Poppy dyed her bangs:

Not only is it potentially insensitive to call Poppy ‘Moriah,’ it’s simply inaccurate. For better or worse, people don’t regress, they progress. Poppy is not doing something so #basic as ‘returning to her roots,’ she is becoming who she’s always wanted to be.

VI.

Now that we have completed the necessary groundwork, we are able finish off the rest of the song. Lyrically, “Scary Mask” is rather focused; we’ve actually covered all of Poppy’s lines, so I’d like to examine the role Jason Butler from Fever 333 plays in the song.

I’ve actually refrained from gushing about how good “Scary Mask” is until now, but I don’t think I can contain myself any longer. Fever 333 was an excellent feature that perfectly meshes with Poppy’s harmonics and the chomping guitar riffs. Not only that, but lyrically, Jason Butler brings an insane performance. He brings scary mask to life.

Fever 333’s role in the song is complicated and will take multiple approaches to flesh out. First, consider the scary mask (Jason Butler’s lines) as an entity speaking for Poppy, as though it were some demonic hype-man:

This would then explain the line, “well you heard the woman, so fucking look away.” It appears that Poppy needs someone telling others to “fucking look away,” betraying a sense of dependency. After all, if Poppy could handle such onlookers on her own, she wouldn’t need someone else telling them to ‘beat it.’ We may interpret this as a sign that Poppy has come to rely on the shielding-nature of the mask. She relies on her persona for protection, but reliance gives way to over-reliance. Naturally, substitution and dependency follow.

However, this isn’t wholly satisfying, nor is it very charitable. Let’s consider another, more empowering, approach, this time as Poppy speaking through the mask. In this case, a synthesis is underway between Poppy and her new persona (read: scary mask). During the violent transformation, she screams and struggles as the darkness of the mask washes through her, until the process is complete and both are one. Or, rather, Poppy is transcending her persona through her persona, a process of metamorphic self-realization.

Approaching the relationship between Poppy and the mask as a symbiotic one will perhaps explain one of the most bizarre lines in all of Poppy’s discography (minus every line in “Voicemail,” of course): “You ain’t gonna see me tonight!” I mean, what the hell. It’s difficult to explain how much this line confuses me, words simply elude me. This is one of those lines that normal people would shrug and come up with a half-hearted explanation such as: “well, Poppy is wearing a mask, and because she is wearing a mask, you aren’t going to see her. You know, because she’s wearing a mask.” Poorly-conceived explanations such as these negate the whole point of studying art. You can’t just jerk responsibility when ‘the going gets tough.’ The reward isn’t merely the end result, and people who believe this are the exact same people who Genius exploits. It is the work, the method, the climb, the struggle that is important because it is while grappling with the piece that one learns the most about oneself. With that being said, this line has haunted me for three weeks now, but I think I can do it some justice.

First, we examine the context in which the line appears in the song. The line first appears near the beginning of the song, wedged between a crushing guitar interlude and the Poppy’s staccato-ed “M-A-S-K, am I okay?” build-up. Then the line comes again at the end of Jason Butler’s insane post-chorus breakdown which is interlaced with Poppy’s disembodied screams. This second appearance follows a punchy chorus from Poppy and directly precedes a charged guitar solo and Poppy’s explosive final meltdown. From all this, we notice that “You ain’t gonna see me tonight!” is always delivered amidst a great deal of turmoil, always sprinkled into the middle of a violent episode.

Next, we look at the line itself. “Ain’t” and “gonna” are very colloquial, like the speaker hasn’t been taught to speak ‘properly’ or has lapsed into a state where they are unable to or simply do not care. I’m also picking up a touch of mentally-disturbed giddiness, as if some deranged killer is frothily barking this at you outside your window while his head jerks around. “Well, I’m definitely glad not to live on the ground-floor.” Likewise.

I must comment, however, that “Tonight” is an odd word choice. “Well, maybe they just needed a word that rhymed with ‘alright’?” Remember what I said about giving up when things get difficult? No, “tonight” relates a sense of shadowy immediacy, like a doom drawing near. Perhaps Poppy is about to descend upon the world, shrouding it in darkness with her black angel wings.

Hence, “You ain’t gonna see me tonight” relates the sense of foreboding violence that comes with Poppy’s new persona. This makes a lot of sense in the context of Poppy’s work because I Disagree is likely going to be her most aggressive album yet. See, for instance, “I Disagree.”

Basically: full dark, no stars; Poppy’s out for blood, time to take cover.

VII.

In summary: the ‘scary mask’ is a protective garment for Poppy as well as an empowering one. The adoption of an artistic persona allows her to cope with criticisms and continue her work. Recently, she has adjusted her work, and thus, her persona, to something truer to herself, and “Scary Mask” was an integral part of her transition.

Well, wasn’t that fun? I know I enjoyed myself.

Wait, what? You have a question? Ah, wait—I know what you’re thinking:

“If Poppy only wears her ‘scary mask’ when she’s ‘afraid she won’t belong,’ then why is she ‘never going to take it off’?”

Well, maybe she feels like she will never belong.

#poppy #scary mask

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creativeashproductions · 7 years

Text

Lamentable // Archie Andrews

Summary: After graduation you move in with Archie to begin your life together when something halts it in a way you didn’t expect. Determined to stay with you Archie cares for you in both bad and good times. Besides it’s always nice to have Fred as another father.

Characters: Archie Andrews x Reader, Fred Andrews, Betty Cooper, Veronica Lodge, Jughead Jones, Hermione Lodge, Kevin Keller and Josie McCoy

Words: 2688

Disclaimer: I do now own Riverdale or the characters. I do not own any gifs that appear in this either or images because they’re probably off google images.

Warnings: Swearing, Angst, puking, cancer, and a little fluff

Author: Caitsy

A/N: I didn’t explicitly say what kind of cancer it was because I’ve never had cancer nor has anyone close to me had it. I’m not a doctor so I entirely researched on it plus I’m Canadian so American health system isn’t something I think about often.

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It was a never ending cycle of hope and disappointment when you first went to the doctor about your medical problem. It hurt more when you were diagnosed with early onset cancer and your chances of kids with your boyfriend Archie were slim to none. It hurt when you were told that and it hurt more when you had to tell Archie. How does one tell their significant other than they were dying?

It was only one year since you graduated high school and got into college. You were interning at a good company while Archie was working with his father to earn more money for school. It was something you had both talked about, while you interned and went to school Archie would work at the family company and still do music.

Compromise. A wonderful thing when you do it right.

Archie noticed that you were being exceptionally quiet during supper leading him to hound you for answers.

“Seriously what’s going on?” Archie demanded placing his fork down beside the meal.

 “Nothing.” You shifted pushing your mashed potatoes around the plate unsure how to tell him.

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I went to the doctor a week ago for blood work because I was feeling sick.”

“I know. I told you to go.” Archie replied leaning back into your chair.

“I was called in yesterday to go over the results. Arch, it’s bad. Really bad.” You bit your lip remember how terrible it was go from seeing a bright future to a bleak unknown black hole of a future.

“We’ll get through it. We’ve gotten through worse babe.”

You pushed your plate back standing up to move towards Archie’s side of the table to sit on his lap. His eyes scanned your face taking note of the slight loss of weight you had ever since you had the flu three weeks ago. You had bags under your eyes peaking through the makeup under each eye.

“No. Archie nothing is worse than this.” You whispered leaning into his touch when his arms circled your waist, “I have cancer Archie.”

“How long have you know.” He whispered taken aback.

“Yesterday afternoon. I’ve been going over the conversation and what’s going to happen. You should leave me Archie, I’m going to be an empty shell of the woman you’ve seen since we were kids.”

“I don’t ever leave you because you’re sick.”

“I’m going to go through hell Archie if I decide to treat it. There will be months maybe ever years of radiation, chemo and pills. I will waste away as it goes on, I will be a hairless ugly mole rat on the cusp of death.” You harshly told him, “I don’t want you to have the image of me. I want you to remember me as healthy.”

“Y/N Y/L/N, nothing you say will make me leave you.” Archie sweetly replied brushing your grown out hair out of the way, “If you lose your hair I will shave mine off.”

“But I love your hair.”

“I love you more than something I can grow back again.” Archie said, “Now eat because I need you to be strong through this.”

You pressed a lingering kiss to his lips before grabbing your plate to sit closer to the man you loved with all your heart. You pushed back the nausea to eat smiling down at you plate when Archie’s foot curled around your leg.

“I’ll do it.”

“Do what?”

“I’ll do treatment for you.” You chirped before slowly making your way through your dinner lost in thought of what would begin soon enough.

You saw countless doctors over the next month at each doctors appointment that Archie would come to with you. Excuse after excuse would be fed to your friends and family in the dark time your were going through even as they got more and more suspicious. Chemo began quickly with firstly using your arm and it sucked.

You took your college classes online via video feed and stopped your interning. You were too tired to leave the apartment. You no longer hung out with your friends in the evenings, you avoided public places in fear of infection. Soon enough people started demanding answers. When your hair began to fall out you decided it was time.

Everyone came to Archie’s childhood home, barring anyone ill, when you requested to see them. You were stationed on the couch under a blanket with a bucket on the ground. The chemo made you vomit multiple times and you had no appetite anymore.

“Babe. Wake up.” Archie whispered kissing your cheek. You shifted coming out of your sleep when he came into view, “They’re here. I saw the vehicles. Dad’s back from work too.”

“Okay.” You yawned slowly moving to sit up against the arm of the couch. People trickled in behind Fred to sit on the open spaced.

“Hey.” You drowsily treated everyone covering your mouth when you yawned.

“Long time no see.” Jughead teased sitting next to Betty on the ground, “Why are we here exactly? Why aren’t we at your place?”

“Larger space here.” Archie replied grabbing your cold hand, “We have some news.”

“Okay?” Veronica trailed off confused.  

“I’m sure you’ve noticed I’ve been skipping hangouts and when I do I tend to fall asleep on Archie’s shoulder or I look tired.” You started, “You’ve noticed I wear sweaters more often and warm clothing. It’s because of this.”

You pushed your sleeve up for them to see the taped down IV in your arm that was unlike anything they had seen. Jughead took note of how skinny you had become, how tired both Archie and you looked like, the paleness of your skin, the bucket beside your side and covered in a blanket. He slowly put the facts together just as you spoke.

“It’s cancer.” Your voice break as tears began to skin over your cheeks.

In sync everyone grabbed someone’s hand pressing a hand to their mouth and cried for you. It was unlike anything you had seen. It was both heartbreaking and beautiful to watch how much you were loved. Archie slowly took your hat off to show the thinning hair you had developed.

“How long have you had it.” Veronica cried reaching out to grab your hand before pulling back unsure if it was okay to do so.

“A little over a month.” You admitted, “I had the flu and I got better for a week before I began throwing up. I thought I was pregnant so I went to the doctor. I wasn’t pregnant and I got the diagnosis.”

“What’s being done?” Betty asked rubbing her cheeks with her blue lightweight sweater sleeve. It was your favourite sweater she owned.

“I’m doing chemotherapy at the moment. We’ll be doing radiation next. My doctor is optimistic about it.” You explained coughing in your sleeve.

 “How much money is it?” Veronica interjected concerned.

“Veronica!” Betty exclaimed, “You don’t ask people that!”

“A lot of money.” Archie sighed, “It’s taking longer than we wanted to find finances for it.”

“Daddy will write you a check. He loves Y/N like another daughter. No arguments.”

“Whatever.” You grunted making a face, “Archie can you help me to the bathroom?”

Archie was pushed to sit back down as Betty urgently brought you towards the bathroom just before collapsed on to the ground in front of the toilet. Veronica back followed behind to lock the door and lean against it. She watched disgusted as you shook from the force of your throw up. It hadn’t hit her until she really took in your appearance.

“You okay?” Betty asked rubbing your back and you heaved yourself against the wall, “Didn’t you have a bucket in the living room?”

“It’s rude to puke in front of so many people.” You groaned as Veronica handed you the spare toothbrush you kept in the bathroom when Archie and you stayed over at his childhood home. You took care to scrub the vomit taste from your mouth before you returned to the living room.

Everyone avoided your eyes as you collapsed onto the couch with a deep sigh and noticed your were sweating from the exertion. Archie retook your hand in his as you settled into your seat. Fred sat on your other side offering his support in your fight.

“I’m sorry you got handed this hand.” Fred softly told you. You smiled in response before Archie pulled you off the couch with your items.

“We should get home. We have to be at the hospital tomorrow for an appointment.” Archie said as he helped you into your jacket, “Also Veronica. Don’t pay for it please, we’ll find out a way.”

“Sure.” Veronica said with a small smirk you didn’t see with you backs to her. The minute you were out the door she turned to everyone, “I’m so paying for the treatment.”

Fred normally would argue but in such a sensitive time he was more than happy to help pay but with the machinery he had to buy in the last year money was tight. It seemed the last few years weren’t going well. Starting with the year that Jason was murdered. It seemed Riverdale was a never ending town of misery.

“Out of everyone she was the one to get cancer. It should have been Cheryl.” Jughead huffed picking up his bag from the ground.

 “Juggie nobody deserves cancer.” Betty soothed rubbing his shoulder.

“I hate the Blossoms just as much as you do Jughead but Betty’s right.” Fred said from his seat.

“Oh I’m sorry did the scum family wrongly get your father imprisoned for murder?” Jughead spat gripping the bag harder, “I have to get to Pops. I have a shift and I’d like to get another chapter in first.”

In a huff of black and angst he fled the house into the afternoon light with Betty on his heels aiming to soothe his emotional wounds once more. Veronica took a glance at the house of the boy she had dated for a year before she shared a smile with Fred.

“It’s nice your doing that.” Fred said, “I know you love Archie.”

“Loved Mr. Andrews.” Veronica smiled, “Archie and I had a wonderful time together but we weren’t meant to be like he and Y/N are.”

“I guess they were startgame.” Fred fondly spoke getting a giggle from the young woman.

“It’s endgame Mr. Andrews.” Veronica chuckled joining Kevin at the door with Josie in tow. She waved before walking into the sunny light mind set on designing a dress for her friend.

Stuck in a hospital bed was not something you wanted around Christmas. You had gotten sick at your parents house when they felt the window open for the frigid air to come in. You were rushed by ambulance to the hospital in the city of Chicago for better treatment. You hands were curled around the warmth in your hands.

“It was getting thin but I didn’t think this would happen.” You cried looking up at Betty and Veronica. Jughead had dragged Archie out for a night together despite protesting leaving you.

“You’re still beautiful.” Veronica whispered rubbing your cheek with her hand.

“I look like a bad cosplayed Professor X!” You exclaimed looking up at them, “I want it gone.”

 “We all want it g-“

“No I want my hair gone.” You sniffled watching as they shared looks before Betty went out to talk to a nurse, “I’m not pretty.”

“You are gorgeous.” Veronica sternly said looking at her watch, “Oh god. I’m late for lunch with Daddy. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

You mumbled a goodbye as Veronica fled the room leaving you alone with your hair in your hands. You were tired of everything. You were tired of causing Archie to not sleep. You were tired of Archie crying when he thought you were sleeping and you hated he only sang sad songs now. You wanted it over.

“Hey.” Betty whispered with a nurse by her side. The nurse holding a closed case in her hands. They helped you into the bathroom where the nurse handed you an electric razor.

It was therapeutic as you shaved off what you should reach before you handed it to Betty with a smile. You trusted Betty and there wasn’t anyone else you would want to finish the job, you both cried together until you were ushered back to bed.

“Knock knock!” Veronica called from the doorway with her mother behind her.

“I thought you had lunch?”  “I may have told a white lie…” Veronica trailed off walking in with things in her hands.

“Ronnie told me you were feeling down on yourself and she came to me.” Hermione said taking a seat next to your bed, “I pulled a few strings and we got some things shipped with a well known friend of ours. Pierce Jacobs is a beauty specialist with a background of celebrity makeup, hair and fashion.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“We didn’t.” Veronica grinned, “Pierce gave Betty and me tips to do so we can make it more personal.”

Together they unpacked a box filled with countless makeup and even head wraps of different designs and colours. A dress cover was situated in the corner before they began to work on you.

“I’ve always loved your eyes.” Betty smiled taking the time to apply primer to your face before putting eye shadow primer on your lids.

Veronica carefully chose the colours for your eye makeup just as Betty finished with a grin. The time was filled with gossip like it was back in high school during sleepovers. It was much different being in a hospital room in Chicago but it worked because you were surrounded by people you loved.

The dress of something you wouldn’t normally wear but you loved it to bits from the design to the colour of choice. It wasn’t incredibly long but it was too short either and it covered the IV from prying eyes. You decided on the head scarf with Hermione’s help before the door to your room was swung open.

The dropping of something made you turn to see Archie standing in the door way with a shock for you. Fred was bald like completely hairless on his head. Your jaw dropped as you saw Archie shifting on his feet.

“I knew you were going to shave your head sometime.” Fred informed you, “I thought we could be cute Sphinx cats together.”

“I was going to but Dad didn’t let me.”

“I love your red hair.” You mumbled stepping forward to run your hands through his hair with a small smile. There was something about Archie that made you feel alive ever since you realized how you really felt about him.

You however didn’t notice when everybody tricked out of the room leaving you two alone in your hospital room. You missed him at nights when visiting hours ended and you were left alone unable to sleep.  “I love you.” Archie mumbled his lips lingering on your forehead. You weren’t sure how late it was but you were tired and not looking forward to tomorrow’s chemo. It was your last before you had an appointment with your oncologist.

Sighing with you eyes closed you danced in your room to the sound of silence, well when someone’s heart monitor wasn’t beeping.

“Someone died this morning.” You whispered.

“Let’s not talk about that.” Archie said slowly twirling you every one in a while until he stopped where he needed to be.

“I can’t help but think when I’m going to be next.”

“Not until we’re grey and old.” Archie whispered removing his hands from your waist. Confused you opened your eyes to see that Archie was now on his knee with a beautiful ring, “Will you marry me?”

“Yes.” You cried jumping into his arms.

“I told you I’m in for the long run.” Archie murmured against your hair, “It’s a plus that I’ll get to stay with you at night also.”

“I love you Archie.”

Forever Tag List

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Riverdale Taglist

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