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loveroftoomanyfandoms · 8 months

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Cooking Up Love, Chapter 7

Pairing: Chef!Matt Murdock x F!Journalist!Reader

Rating: T

Story Summary: Here

Warnings/Tags: Hallmark levels of fluffy, cheesy goodness (and speed that their relationship develops, lol), no use of Y/N, Matt is not a vigilante, idiots in love, pining... so much pining

Word Count: ~3800

A/N: As promised, here's the 2nd half of Chef Matt & Reader's Sunday afternoon together! Enjoy!

And thank you as always to @theradioactivespidergwen for the super cute divider she made for me!

Tag List: @yarrystyleeza @hailey-murdock @mattkinsella @bellaxgiornata @danzer8705 @chezagnes @shouldbestudying41 @thepunisherfrankcastle @mattmurdocks6thscaleapartment

Where the hell are we going? you wondered as you and Matt headed away from Clinton Church.

It wasn't like you weren't afraid he was taking you off somewhere to murder you -- you truly did feel safe with Matt and hadn't been lying when you had said that you trusted him. "Any hint as to where we're going?"

Matt shook his head. "I know it sounds weird, but I'd rather just show you, if that's okay?"

You nodded. It seemed important to Matt that your destination remain a mystery, so you decided not to push. "Okay."

You continued walking past various shops and storefronts until finally Matt stopped. "Okay, we're here."

You peered at the faded letters on the door.

Fogwell's Gym

You remembered Matt saying that he frequently worked out after service, but couldn't quite understand what was so special about the location that required the need for secrecy. Well, at least that explains the gym bag.

Matt pulled a set of keys out of his pocket and unlocked the door before stepping inside. "Come on in."

You followed him into the darkened gym and waited as he turned the lights on before looking around.

Cubbyholes lined the wall to the left of the door while several punching bags hung to the right. A large boxing ring was situated in the middle of the room, with wooden steps leading up to it.

Matt gestured towards what you assumed was the locker room. "I'm going to go get changed into my workout clothes. Be right back."

You nodded. "Okay."

While Matt was in the locker room, you took the opportunity to look at the flyers advertising various past boxing matches tacked to the wall. Johnson vs Lewis, Conway vs Roberts, Creel vs Murdock…

You sucked in a breath, reaching out to touch the poster. Creel vs Murdock. Now it makes sense.

You heard Matt come out of the locker room and set his bag down.

"This is where your dad trained, isn't it?" you asked, your eyes still on the poster.

You heard Matt sigh. "Yeah. Yeah, it is."

You turned towards him and froze. As handsome as he was while wearing his chef's coat and black slacks or a t-shirt and jeans, he was even more gorgeous in a black tank top, gray sweatpants, and tennis shoes.

Your gaze drifted up to his face. His glasses were gone, revealing beautiful hazel eyes that were fixed in your direction.

Matt must've felt you staring at him, because he ducked his head and began rummaging through his gym bag. "I, uh, I started coming here back when I was in culinary school," he explained. "I was struggling during my first semester and thinking about dropping out, so I came to the one place I knew where I would feel close to my dad to see if I could figure out what he would say."

He took out a small bundle of what looked like Ace bandages and began to wrap his hands. "I was having a particularly bad day that day -- there was this one professor who had been giving me a hard time about my need for certain accommodations -- so I began to take my frustration out on a punching bag."

You had found when people started to open up it was better to just let them keep talking rather than interrupt with questions, so you remained silent.

"With each punch I could hear my dad telling me that he was proud of me," Matt continued as he finished wrapping one hand and started on the other. "And that Murdocks never give up no matter how hard things get. So I decided to stay in culinary school and work my ass off to prove that I have what it takes to be a great chef and make my dad proud of me."

Before you could second-guess yourself, you walked over to Matt and wrapped your arms around him in a hug.

You thought for a split second that you might have crossed a line, but before you could let go and apologize Matt relaxed into your embrace, circling his arms around you and tucking his face into your neck.

You held him briefly, then let go and stepped back.

Matt began to redo the wrap that he had begun, keeping his face turned downward. "I've, uh, I've never actually told anybody about that before. Not even Foggy."

Your heart constricted. You couldn't even begin to imagine the hardship that Matt must have had to go through in order to prove himself as a chef. "Thank you for sharing it with me."

Matt paused. "I don't suppose I can ask you to keep that off the record, can I?"

You nodded. "I will, if that's what you want. It'll stay just between us."

Matt huffed out a breath. "Thank you."

You sat on the bench as Matt moved in front of the punching bag. "So, I suppose you're going to show me some moves, huh?"

Matt chuckled. "If you'd like."

You watched as Matt did a few stretches, appreciating the way his biceps flexed as he moved. And if your eyes drifted southward, well… you were only human. Cake, indeed. One could bounce a quarter off of that ass.

Your eyes snapped back to Matt's face, which bore a small smirk.

He reached out and touched the punching bag, found the center, then adjusted his stance, raising his fists in front of his face.

You watched in fascination as he skillfully maneuvered his way around the bag, landing punches as if he was squaring off against one of the greatest fighters of all time. He certainly doesn't fight like a blind man.

Finally he paused, chest heaving.

He steadied the punching bag. "Would you mind handing me that towel, please?"

You resisted the urge to lick the sweat off of his neck. "Oh, uh, yeah, sure."

You handed the towel to him. "So are you sure you haven't had professional training?"

Matt grinned as he wiped his face and neck down with the towel. "Yeah, I'm sure."

He draped the towel around his neck and picked up his gym bag. "I'm going to go take a quick shower and change, but I'll be back in a minute, if that's okay?"

You nodded. "Yeah, of course."

While you waited for him to return you checked your phone for messages, replying to an email from an artist you had featured a few weeks prior thanking you for your article.

You put your phone away and stood, glancing briefly over at the entrance to the locker room before walking in front of the punching bag.

You closed your eyes, curled your right hand into a fist, and swung, missing the bag completely.

You opened your eyes, frowning. Maybe I wasn't close enough.

You moved a bit closer, then closed your eyes again.

You swung at the bag, this time barely connecting.

"...Your stance is off."

You gasped and whirled around, a hand flying over your chest. "Jesus, Matt, you scared me."

Matt stood next to the boxing ring, this time dressed in a dark blue t-shirt that clearly showed off his muscles and dark blue sweatpants.

He smiled softly at you. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you."

You shook your head, trying to calm your racing heart. "It's alright. I was just… um… just…"

"Trying to figure out how a blind man can hit a punching bag so easily?" Matt nodded in understanding. "I probably should have told you, but I'm not actually completely blind."

"Oh," you replied, feeling slightly embarrassed. "I'm so sorry, I just assumed…"

Matt shook his head. "It's okay. The chemicals that got into my eyes basically fried my synapses, so whatever is directly in front of me looks like a black mass and the rest of my line of vision is what I can best describe as a 'world on fire'."

He tapped the side of his glasses, which you had belatedly realized were back on his face. "The red lenses help neutralize that part."

You huffed out a light laugh. "And here I thought you just wore them because they made you look cool."

Matt grinned. "You think they make me look cool?"

More like slightly mysterious and incredibly hot. Your face heated slightly. "Eh, maybe a little."

Matt shook his head with a chuckle. "Ready to head out?"

You nodded. "Mmhmm."

Matt gestured towards the door. "After you."

"So, where to next?" you asked as the two of you headed outside.

Matt shook his head. "Actually, that was my last errand."

"Oh." You couldn't help but feel a bit disappointed that you had to go your separate ways. "Okay, so I'll see you tomorrow then?"

"Yeah, tomorrow." Matt bit his lip. "Um, that is… unless you'd like to have dinner with me tonight? My place? My apartment's not too far from here."

You nodded, unable to keep a smile off of your face. "Yeah. Yeah, I'd actually really like that."

Matt unfolded his cane. "Great! I mean, it's the least I could do after you helped me out this afternoon at the soup kitchen."

Your heart sank slightly. Of course he meant it as a thank-you, how else would he have meant it? "Oh. Um, it was no problem. I was happy to help."

Matt turned the opposite of the way you were facing. "This way, then."

As you headed down the street, you couldn't help but entertain the thought of Matt having invited you over for dinner not because he felt obligated to as a thank-you, but because he hadn't been ready for your time together to end either.

You mentally shook your head. It's just as a thank-you for helping him out at the church, that's it.

…You just wished it hadn't been.

Why the hell did I say that? Matt thought to himself as the two of you walked towards his apartment. He'd had every intention of asking you to have dinner with him as a (sort-of) date, but the second you had said yes he had second-guessed himself and blurted out the bit about it being as a thank-you for helping him out at Clinton Church.

He mentally shook his head as the two of you stopped at a crosswalk. Maybe I can fix this.

Before he could say anything, you cleared your throat. "You know, I'm sure you're tired and I don't want to be an inconvenience, so I actually think I'll just head ho--"

"No!" Matt shook his head. "I mean, no, it's not an inconvenience. I was going to make something to eat when I got home anyway, so it's not a problem to make an extra serving."

He inwardly cringed. Way to make things worse. "Actually, what I meant was that I've really enjoyed your company today and would like to have dinner with you."

He could feel you relax. "I've enjoyed your company today too," you admitted softly. "If you're sure it's not a big deal…"

Matt nodded. "I'm sure."

"Then okay. I'd love to have dinner with you."

Matt smiled in relief. "Great. And actually now that I think about it, I do have one more stop before we get back to my apartment. I need to harvest some herbs from my plot at the community garden, but it'll only take a minute."

"Okay."

The two of you continued on as the crosswalk signal beeped and changed to walk .

"So what kind of herbs do you grow?" you asked.

"All sorts of culinary varieties," Matt replied. "Rosemary, thyme, basil, lavender, and mint."

"Oh, cool."

Matt nodded. "Unfortunately I have to outsource my herbs for the restaurant since I don't have the space to grow the amount that we would need, but this works for my own personal use."

He slowed as you reached the garden. "Welcome to the Hell's Kitchen Community Garden."

"Oh wow," you said. "I never even knew this was here."

Matt led you down the center path then to the right, following along the fence line to his plot in the back corner. "It hasn't been here too terribly long, maybe six months or so."

"And you said Claire from the farmer's market runs it?"

Matt nodded. "Yeah. She petitioned the council to turn the property into a community space and keeps track of who has which plot and everything."

You hummed. "I might have to talk to my boss about covering the community garden for the paper too. This is really neat."

"That would be great. It definitely would raise more awareness and hopefully bring more funding for upkeep." Matt stopped in front of his plot. "This is mine."

He knelt down and felt his basil plants before picking a few leaves and placing them into a small storage container he kept in the side pocket of his gym bag. "All set."

He led you back out of the garden and down the street towards his apartment building, frowning at the distant rumble of thunder. Well, there goes my plan to have dinner on the roof. "Sounds like it's about to rain."

"Yeah, it does seem like it's getting a bit cloudy," you replied. "Is your place much farther?"

Matt shook his head. "No, it's just up ahead."

"Oh, okay."

You walked the rest of the way in comfortable silence.

"Okay, here we are," Matt said as you reached his apartment building.

He led you to the elevator and pressed the button for his floor, the sound of rain beginning to fall as the elevator began to ascend. "Sounds like we made it just in time."

"Yeah, thank goodness," you replied. "I wasn't expecting it to rain so I didn't bring my umbrella with me."

You can always just stay the night… Matt shook his head. "I have one you can borrow if you need to, or I can call you a cab if it's still raining hard when you leave later."

He took his keys out of his pocket as the elevator stopped and the doors opened. "This way."

He led you down the hall to his apartment and unlocked the door, then opened it and ushered you inside as another roll of thunder rumbled overhead.

He closed the door and dropped his keys into the bowl on the side table in the entryway before folding up his cane and setting it next to the bowl. "Come on in."

He tried to ignore his sudden nervousness. It had been a long time since he'd had someone who wasn't Foggy or Karen in his personal space and hoped you wouldn't judge how barren his apartment was.

He turned on the lights then headed to his refrigerator. "Would you like something to drink?"

"Oh, um, sure," you replied. "Whatever you're having is fine."

He heard you walk over to the large window in his living area as he pulled out 2 bottles of beer along with a block of pecorino cheese and some pancetta. He had gotten an incredible deal on his apartment because of the gigantic neon sign that was situated on the roof of the neighboring building, so he was sure that was what you were looking at.

He quickly washed the fresh basil he had picked and patted it dry, then set the cheese and pancetta down on the kitchen island before popping the tops off of the bottles and walking over to you. "Here you go."

Your fingers brushed his as he handed you the bottle, a now-familiar tingle coursing through Matt's veins. "Thank you."

Matt swallowed and took a sip of his beer. "Quite the view, huh?" he said, gesturing out the window.

You huffed out a laugh. "It's very, um… picturesque."

Matt shook his head with a grin. "Funny, that's exactly how the real estate agent that sold me this place described it." He leaned in conspiratorially. "I have a feeling she might not've been telling me the truth though."

You laughed again. "Okay, it is a bit obnoxious."

Matt chuckled. "I really do keep meaning to get some blackout curtains, but since it's just me it's never really been a bother."

You hummed. "I honestly don't mind it. It gives your apartment an interesting glow."

Matt could imagine the two of you together on his sofa, the glow of the billboard the only light in the darkened room as he gently caressed your cheek, your lips inches from his own--

He mentally shook his head and gestured to his kitchen island. "Have a seat and I'll get started on dinner."

He heard you sit as he began to gather the rest of the ingredients, placing the eggs he had taken out of his refrigerator that morning into a bowl and setting it on the island before washing his hands and filling a pot about halfway with water.

He set the pot on the stove and seasoned it with some salt, then turned the burner on high to let the water boil.

He crossed back to the island and roughly chopped the fresh basil he had picked, then quickly whisked together 3 egg yolks and an entire egg before grating a generous amount of cheese into the mixture, giving it an additional stir before setting it aside.

He could feel you quietly watching him as he unwrapped the pancetta and began cutting it into small cubes, unable to help but wonder what you were thinking. You'd had the same focus the day before when he had made your crepes, but you had been recording your conversation then and had asked questions about his culinary process. This felt… different. More personal, like you were deep in thought.

He cleared his throat. "Penny for your thoughts?"

"What?" You startled slightly. "Oh, sorry, it's nothing. Just trying to figure out what we're having for dinner."

You were lying to him, but Matt couldn't figure out exactly why or what about. "Oh, I'm making spaghetti carbonara. It's traditionally made with guanciale, but my supplier was out, so pancetta will have to suffice for today."

"Your supplier… Oh, right, Frank, wasn't it?"

Matt shook his head then moved back to the stove, dropping the spaghetti into the pot of boiling water before moving the pancetta to the pan. "He doesn't do cured meats. I get those and other specialty items from Nelson's Meats."

You made a curious sound. "Nelson… as in Chef Nelson?"

Matt nodded as he stirred the pancetta around. "Foggy's family owns it. Best capicola in the tri-state area."

He finished cooking the pancetta and turned the skillet off, then scooped some of the pasta water into a measuring cup before draining the pasta and adding it to the pancetta. "Dinner's almost ready if you want to move to the table."

"Okay."

As you moved to Matt's dining table, he gave the egg mixture another stir before pouring it into the pan, adding a bit of the pasta water and using tongs to mix it all together.

Once it was a perfectly smooth consistency, he added some freshly-ground black pepper and separated it into two bowls before adding an extra sprinkle of cheese and some chopped basil on top of each serving.

He placed a fork in each bowl, then brought them over to you, setting yours in front of you and his in front of his spot across from you. "Dinner is served."

You gave a slight gasp. "Oh my goodness, Matt, this looks amazing."

"Thanks." Matt quickly grabbed two wine glasses and gave them a quick rinse before taking a bottle of Pinot Gris out of his refrigerator and pouring you each a glass.

He set your glass down before sitting across from you. "The beer we were drinking doesn't really go with carbonara so I've selected a wine pairing, if that's alright?"

You gave a hum of affirmation. "Of course it's alright."

Matt nodded. "Okay, well, enjoy."

He waited nervously as you took a bite.

You let out a pleased sound. "Oh my goodness, this is so good."

Matt grinned in relief. "Yeah?"

"Yes, absolutely. Everything you've made for me so far has been amazing."

"I'm glad." Matt took a bite of his own carbonara, the silky smoothness of the sauce pairing perfectly with the crispy pancetta and al dente noodles. "It's not quite traditional carbonara but it's very close."

"Right, you said it's traditionally made with guanciale."

Matt nodded. "And no herbs are usually added, but I like the flavor a bit of fresh basil adds to the dish."

"Mmm. Mmhmm. Yeah, I like it too."

You both continued eating and once you were done, Matt stood. "Here, I'll get this for you."

"Thanks."

"I'm afraid I don't have any dessert prepared, but would you like another glass of wine?"

"Yeah, I'd love one."

Matt grabbed the bottle of Pinot Gris and refilled your glasses. "Care to go sit on the couch?"

"Sure."

You took a sip of wine as the two of you sat together on Matt's sofa. "I really like your apartment, by the way. It suits you."

Matt shook his head with a small smile. "It's not much, but it's home."

You huffed out a laugh. "It's not what I originally expected, but to be honest, neither were you."

"Oh?" Matt turned towards you. "And what did you expect?"

"About you or your apartment?"

"Mmm, both, I suppose."

"Well, had I based my idea of what your apartment would be like on my first impression of you it would've been cold and industrial with no heart."

Matt winced. "Ouch."

"However, having gotten to know you over the past few days I would say warm and inviting with a certain charm."

A smile spread across Matt's face. "You think I'm charming?"

"Your apartment? Very. You? Maybe a tiny bit."

Matt smirked at the teasing tone in your voice. "A tiny bit? I guess I'll just have to work harder on charming you then."

You let out a light laugh. "No need, I'll send you a copy of my article before publication anyway."

"Okay, thanks." Although that's not the reason I want to charm you.

You finished your glass of wine. "And speaking of my article, I should probably get going -- I have to be at the Bulletin early tomorrow for our weekly staff meeting."

Matt nodded and stood. "Here, I'll walk you out."

"Thanks for inviting me along today," you said softly as you reached the door. "I had a really great time."

Matt nodded, unable to keep a smile off of his face. "I did too."

"I'll see you tomorrow evening?"

Matt nodded again. "Six o'clock?"

"Yeah, that sounds perfect."

"Okay, great."

The two of you stood there for a moment longer. Finally you reached out and gave Matt a brief hug. "Goodnight, Matt."

Matt hugged you back, committing what he could of you to memory. "Goodnight."

He waited as you let yourself out, an idea forming in his mind.

…He just hoped he was able to pull it off.

#lotmf writes #Cooking Up Love Masterlist #matt murdock x reader #matt murdock x fem!reader #matt murdock x female reader #matt murdock x you

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neonponders · 1 year

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Part 27 for @wrecked-fuse ‘s pocketverse 🍦

Part 26

( pt. 7′s art 🎩 ) ( pt. 9′s art 👀 ) ( pt. 14′s art 💨 ) ( pt. 19′s art 🦇 ) ( pt. 20′s art 🍳)

~ on ao3 ~

• • •

“Since when are you and Eddie Munson friends?”

Steve scratched his patchy stubble. “I wouldn’t say we are, but he’s got little guys too. You saw ‘em.”

“Yeah,” Max answered distractedly, preoccupied with watching the littles riding their bikes through Family Video. “But I figured Dustin finally made you cave for Hellfire.”

Steve opened his mouth, but their heads turned toward the very Eddie Munson in question, wielding the cassette case for Dark Crystal threateningly. “Choose your next words carefully, Harrington. And yes, hi, still here.”

“I see you,” Steve droned from behind the counter. The flood of church-goers had already come and gone from the store, stocking up on their Sunday evening plans and leaving the store mostly devoid of customers; especially since all of Hawkins knew the best movies were gone between Sunday and Tuesday.

Which also meant that they had been given a list of documentaries by the middle and high school faculty to be fulfilled by Monday morning. Robin sat on the confetti-printed carpet with the storage boxes, sorting and piling up the demanded inventory.

Steve finished, “D&D isn’t my thing.”

“And what is your thing?” Eddie challenged, smiling cockily.

“I’m a visual person, not an imagination person,” Steve countered.

Eddie’s smile faded somewhat. “I can’t fault you there, jock star. Even we use figurines and books to help us.”

Steve’s brows furrowed a little, but his, “Thanks,” was sincere. Then he focused on Robin and the littles riding their bikes amongst the piles. “Why doesn’t the school library have these things?”

Robin lifted a video and read aloud, “Childbirth: Richard’s Story. I think some people would burn the school to the ground if they heard about Richard.”

Steve shrugged. “We’ve all seen it. Why is it a surprise?”

Eddie answered, “Because kids are free to rebel before they join the cult comforts of their adult hive minds.”

“Do you always talk like this?”

“I’m not wrong - shit.”

Steve took a deep breath, which paused when headlights refracted off the storefront windows. He squinted in the gloom until he was sure, “Everyone relax, it’s Chris.”

The littles emerged from underneath Robin’s crisscrossed legs - small Eddie on Robin’s shoulder peeked out from underneath her bobbed hair. “Chwissy?”

“Me!” little Chrissy celebrated. “Big me!”

Chrissy stepped into the store and said, “Hey, Steve!” before waving at her parents, who drove away after dropping her off.

Gliding to the floor, small Eddie declared, “Chwissy! Wanna see me wide? I fwy like E.T.!”

Chrissy laughed and sank to the floor, legs bent to the side as she sat next opposite to Robin and watched the littles slalom in figure eights on the carpet. But in the first couple of minutes of arriving, Chrissy couldn’t help but notice little Billy riding a little distantly from the others. Little Eddie used Steve’s bike, since the latter lay within the arms of his otter plushie, watching Billy.

“Are they okay?”

“There was an incident,” Robin filled in. “Billy - like, big Billy - taunted Stevie, which lil B didn’t like. Now they’re both moping.”

Chrissy’s posture wilted empathetically. “Where’s Billy?”

Robin looked up at Max, who took the cue, “He’s at home. Our parents are going out of town for the week, so he has to prove that he’s around.”

Chrissy seemed to understand this since she nodded, but Eddie draped his arms over the shelves as he asked, “And you don’t?”

Chrissy intercepted, “It’s an older sibling thing.”

Eddie slowly picked his jaw up as he nodded, processing. “Baby of the family perks.”

“Except I’m not a baby,” Max said bitterly.

“Oh, you’ll always be the baby,” Eddie taunted, “and Billy will always be your leash.”

Emotion faded from Max’s face as if she might’ve seen a ghost. Still, she fought, “That sounds like hypocritical crap.”

“That’s parenting,” Eddie scoffed indifferently. “My dad told me about it. He was one of seven, and after he left home, he never spoke to his eldest brother again. He always regretted it. He told me it wasn’t even their fault; parents lower the chain of command to the eldest kids, and they hold the leash too tight, but the person on the other end doesn’t feel it. The leash sure does, though. Hence why his trauma led to me being an only child.”

Steve’s eyes wandered, clearly unsure how to moderate the discussion and thankfully didn’t have to. Chrissy offered to Robin, “Do you have siblings?”

“A sister,” Robin shared, “but our age gap is too big. We barely keep track of one another.”

“I’m counting the register,” Steve announced.

Robin glanced back at him and then at her watch. “Sure, I’ll finish early. Hell yeah.”

She set the stack of movies for the schools on the counter and she and Chrissy got the rest back in the boxes before promptly throwing the storage keys at Eddie. “Look like a charmer, Munson. Big and strong.”

He glared at her but couldn’t stop his eyes flicking to Chrissy as he heaved the box up in his arms. Chrissy was busy huddled next to the otter plushie, talking softly to the littles. Billy had dumped his bike to climb into the plushie’s fluff with little Steve. Small Eddie held onto Chrissy’s fingers while he talked animatedly, and little Chrissy sat on the otter’s arm, petting small Billy’s head.

Steve emerged from the break room, having deposited the money bag in the safe, and folded himself onto the floor like Chrissy. “What’re we talkin’ about down here?”

Chrissy lifted her eyes to him. “I’m trying to ask why they’re upset and what would make them feel better.”

Steve didn’t smile so much as press his lips into a sympathetic line. “B didn’t like the joke of Stevie getting hurt. Ever since B took a bite out of Billy, Billy’s been saying he’ll bite back.”

“ ‘S not my fawlt.”

Their eyes sank onto the small voice coming from within the otter fluff. Steve consoled, “I’m not saying it’s anyone’s fault, buddy. I know you were hungry when you did it, but he was trying to keep you from swan diving out of his shirt. And he shouldn’t have taken it so far as to actually scare Stevie. Now we’re all stuck in the middle.”

Small Chrissy reached over the otter’s arms to hold his hands. “You need to be nice, Biwwy. For Stevie and big Biwwy, too. He’s not weally mean. I can tell.”

Small Eddie seconded, “Yeah! Like me! Chwissy sees right thwough me.”

Big Chrissy smiled and tried, “What if Billy were to apologize? Would that help you say sorry too?”

Billy had his face tucked into the otter fur, making his eyes and cheeks look endearingly plump. “He wouldn’t mean it.”

Steve’s eyes felt huge in his own head. “Why do you think so?”

Blue eyes blinked up at him and fake otter fur caught quiet tears. “I wasn’t sowwy when I bit ‘im.”

“You don’t have to apologize for biting him.” All eyes lifted to Chrissy, who elaborated, “You were hungry and frustrated. It makes sense. But you could tell him thank you for making sure you didn’t hurt yourself while you were hungry and reckless.”

Little Chrissy and little Steve raked Billy’s hair off his face, wiping his tears for him. Big Chrissy finished, “I have a feeling you both really like being helpful. Am I right?”

Little Eddie answered, “Biwwy and Stevie made us croissants!”

Chrissy nodded like she had been right about something. “Billy likes helping, too. He acts like he doesn’t, because for some reason boys have a weird idea of what strength looks like. But he does.”

This close to the floor, big Steve noticed Max’s fidgety shuffling, sparing her a glance that made her go still.

Chrissy finished, “If you try to talk to him, I’m sure Billy will reciprocate. He’s that kind of person. He’s not all bad. He just needs to know how he can help.”

Little Billy sniffled and wiped his nose on the otter. “How d’you know he’wll be sowwy? And mean it?”

“Because if he isn’t, then I’ll make him sorry for something,” she smiled with a wink. “But seriously, Billy’s helped me a few times. I’ve got him figured out.”

Steve huffed congenially. “Wish I had him figured out.”

Chrissy inhaled like she might’ve intended to speak, but little Eddie flew up to her eye level and moved a piece of hair that had been hanging over her eyelashes, causing her to blink several times out of rhythm. “Thanks, Eddie.”

Then the larger Eddie said behind them, “Good job, lil dude. We ready to roll?”

Chrissy unfolded herself from the floor with little Eddie and Chrissy in her hands. She answered a chipper, “Yeah.”

Steve picked up the otter over his forearm as he rose to his feet. “What do you two have planned for a Sunday night?”

Eddie countered, “You mind your sleepover and we’ll mind ours.”

Steve started to roll his eyes, but Chrissy brightened, “You’re seeing Billy tonight?”

Robin arrived from the break room, then, slinging her backpack over her shoulder and catching the look Steve gave her. They frowned at each other, eye brows wagging in silent confusion they both failed at communication.

Max scoffed, “Oh, come on. Your littles lick each other. What’s the surprise? Are we going or what?”

Chrissy burst into giggles. “They what?”

Steve dodged, “I gotta lock the doors. Everyone out!”

Chrissy laughed and Eddie smiled as he dropped his jacket onto her shoulders on their way outside. “My van’s heating is out.”

“Thanks,” she said, voice and cheeks warm. Little Chrissy’s excitement over Eddie’s jacket had her nervously lifted a hand to push her hair behind her ear even though it was tied back in a pony tail.

Little Eddie distracted her with, “Chwissy? Can I wide in your hair?”

“Sure. You need to talk up there, though, so I know you’re still there.”

Little Eddie happily sat astride her scrunchie like a saddle. “I’m here! The world is beauwtiful on your head, Chwissy.”

“Tone it down,” big Eddie hissed as he opened the passenger door for them, earning bubbling laughter from both Chrissy and little Eds.

As for Steve’s car, Robin and Max fell into their seats, the latter holding the shoebox bedroom and the former holding the littles and their otter in her lap. Once the engine woke up and Steve got his headlights situated, little Stevie asked, “Are we weally going to Biwwy’s tonight?”

“That’s up to you two,” Steve answered. “We don’t have to, but I’m going to be a selfish asshole and crash there with you, if we go.”

Little Steve laughed and Billy thanked, “I want you therwe, Stevie.”

He let himself smile softly when he glanced at the blond tuft in all the otter’s fur, safely bound in small Steve’s arms. “Have a nap, B. We’re going home first.”

Little Steve looked up at him. “Home? Are we okay?”

“Yeah, we’re okay. But you guys will need an overnight bag...and Stevie, if all else fails, I think I know something that will cheer Honey B up. How’s that sound?”

“Good! Sounds good!”

Steve nodded at the street ahead, but he could feel the silence in the car like a fog. Then simultaneously, Robin and Max said together,

“Do I want to know?”

“Billy and I share a wall.”

Steve grimaced and waved at the air like he were swatting gnats. “It’s not about you! It’s about making a little guy with a big heart feel better. Jesus.”

More silence.

Then Robin asked, “Will you drop me off before you get married or am I handcuffed to this sleepover too?”

Steve didn’t grace that with and answer.

#harringrove #wrecked-fuse #neonponders #pocketverse #pocket!au #like magnets #by the way i have no idea what time of year it is #is it summer? is it spring? is school all year??

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palepinkgoat · 2 months

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Thank you for the tag @jrooc and @samantitheos on the repeat shuffle music game. I couldn’t find the right place to access said list, so I used the new DJ function and it picked repeated songs anyway- of course there’s a Shameless song on there 😂 (The Cold- Exit Music was the closing song of season 4 - the scene with Carl and Frank at Lake Michigan where frank screams at God. Haunting.) So here are my 10!

Turn out the lights - Julien Baker

The cold - exit music

My kink is karma -Chappell Roan

Words - Storefront church (cover of a Low song- one of my fave bands)

Here comes a regular - the replacements

Blush - Wolf Alice

Take me home country roads - mountain man

New magic wand - Tyler, the creator

Arsonist’s Lullaby- Hozier

Collard Greens - ScHoolboy Q and Kendrick Lamar

Allow me to tag @heymacy @gardenerian @francesrose3 @howlinchickhowl and you!

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drunkenlionwrites · 1 year

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This song's fitting this moment from Trimax so perfectly that I wanna die.

#vash the stampede #trigun #trimax #trigun maximum #vash #lion blurbs #Spotify

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starwarmth · 1 year

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Books Read In 2023

Beowulf: A New Translation by Maria Dahvana Headley (1/3/23)

East by Edith Pattou (1/4/23)

Midnight on the Moon by Mary Pope Osbourn (1/16/23)

The Lady or The Tiger?, and The Discourager of Hesitancy by Frank R. Stockton (1/17/23)

The Yellow Wallpaper by Charlotte Perkins Gilman (1/21/23)

Goblin Market by Christina Rossetti (1/22/23)

Tiger Queen by Annie Sullivan (1/22/23)

The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe by C. S. Lewis (1/26/23)

Batgirl, vol. 1: The Silent Knight (1/27/23)

Batgirl, vol. 2: To The Death (1/27/23)

Batgirl, vol. 3: Point Blank (1/28/23)

The Female of the Species by Rudyard Kipling (2/17/23)

Batgirl: Stephanie Brown, vol. 1 by Bryan Q. Miller (2/19/23)

Batgirl, Stephanie Brown, vol. 2 by Bryan Q. Miller (3/4/23)

Christmas in Noisy Village by Astrid Lindgren (3/4/23)

The Queen’s Blade by T C Southwell (3/5/23)

Sacrifice, The Queen’s Blade #2 by T C Southwell (3/9/23)

The Invisible Assassin, The Queen’s Blade #3 by T C Southwell (3/13/23)

Mermaids by Patty Dann (3/14/23) X

The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám translated by Edward FitzGerald (3/19/23)

The Mirror Visitor by Christelle Dabos (3/21/23) X

The Missing of Clairedelune by Christelle Dabos (3/22/23) X

I’m Glad My Mom Died by Jeannette McCurdy (3/24/23) X

Ronia, The Robber’s Daughter by Astrid Lindgren (3/27/23)

Kiki’s Delivery Service by Eiko Kadono (3/30/23)

Brine and Bone by Kate Stradling (4/10/23)

Green Arrow: Quiver by Kevin Smith (4/17/23) X

Eugene Onegin by Alexander Pushkin, translated by Stanley Mitchell (4/22/23)

When Patty Went to College by Jean Webster (4/23/23)

The Princess and The Pea by Hans Christian Anderson (4/23/23)

Deathmark by Kate Stradling (4/25/23)

Without Blood by Alessandro Baricco (5/5/23)

River Secrets by Shannon Hale (5/6/23)

The Fairy’s Return and Other Princess Tales by Gail Carson Levine (5/8/22)

Batman Adventures: Cat Got Your Tongue? by Steve Vance (5/14/23)

Batman Adventures: Batgirl — A League of Her Own by Paul Dini (5/17/23)

The Girl From The Other Side: Siúil a Rún, Vol. 1 by Nagabe (5/19/23)

Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair by Pablo Neruda. Translated by W. S. Merwin (5/26/23)

Other-Wordly: Words Both Strange and Lovely from Around the World by Yee-Lum Mak (6/21/23)

A Bride’s Story, vol. 1 by Kaoru Mori (6/25/23) X

La Dame aux Camélias by Alexandre Dumas fils (7/17/2023)

Storefront Church by William Waring Cuney (7/24/23)

Golden Slippers: An Anthology of Negro Poetry for Young Readers (1941), compiled by Arnas Bontemps (7/28/23)

Because of Winn-Dixie by Kate DiCamillo (7/29/23)

Strawberry’s New Friend (Flower Fairy Friends series) by Pippa Le Quesne (7/29/23)

Clementine by Sara Pennypacker (8/11/23)

The Whipping Boy by Sid Fleischman (8/18/23)

Convent Boarding School by Virginia Arville Kenny (9/05/23)

The Screwtape Letters by C. S. Lewis (09/18/23)

The Betsy Tacy Treasury by Maud Hart Lovelace (09/27/23)

Sarah, Plain and Tall by Patricia MacLachlan (09/27/23)

Skylark (Sarah, Plain and Tall #2) by Patricia MacLachlan (09/27/23)

Caleb’s Story (Sarah, Plain and Tall #3) by Patricia MacLachlan (09/27/23)

Maelyn by Anita Halle (10/06/23)

Imani All Mine by Connie Porter (10/15/23)

The Perilous Gard (10/22/23)

Enemy Brothers by Constance Savery (10/29/23)

Sadako and the 1000 Paper Cranes by Eleanor Coerr (11/19/23)

Gone By Nightfall by Dee Garretson (12/02/23)

The Dragon’s Promise by Elizabeth Lim (12/08/23)

A Lion to Guard Us by Clyde Robert Bulla (12/10/23)

The Thirteenth Princess by Diane Zahler (12/23/23)

The Hollow Kingdom by Clare B. Dunkle (12/26/23

The Wasteland by T. S. Eliot (12/31/23)

#i saw others doing this on tumblr last year and now i want to as well!

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simp-ly-writes · 1 day

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The City

Pairing: Enver Gortash x afab!Reader, Wyll Ravengard x afab!Reader

Summary: You and Enver had grown up together, houses just down the road. Everything was a competition between you both before realizing it was easier to fight alongside one another. Yet as you both age, Gortash forces you away and you find yourself falling into the arms of another.

Warnings: 4200 words, spoilers for bg3 story. Mentions of underage drinking and marriage. Depictions of kissing and children facing blood, gore, abuse, bullying, and anxiety. Overall Angst with moments of Fluff!

A/N: I know Gortash is not a good man, but this is a work of fiction. Hope you all enjoy! :)

Masterlist | Taglist Request | un-edited.

Mere children when you and Gortash first met. Living above the bookstore your family owned just down the street- taking in used books and (often stolen) trinkets you would pickpocket in the bustling lower city streets.

When your small hands were not fiddling through other's pockets or handbags you were found in the stores bay-window, reading with your head leaning against the glass. Your mother shouting at you for smudging the storefront windows once again as she shooed you away and back up the stairs that creaked and groaned with each step you took.

Yet, when the next morning arose, the sun kissed your face through the cracks in the roof-work. You were forced with a bag on your back, what little food your parents could scrape together from last night's dinner for lunch and a heavy weight of books that never got sold as you were pushed to follow a line of other children making their way up to the school placed on the grounds of the church.

The sun was beating down on your neck, your hair a frazzled mess. Huffing through your next steps and almost slipping back down at a loose stone, you fell backwards, eyes closed in a brace for the tumble to come yet it never came. Instead you found you and a few other of your future classmates in a pile, the line snapped before the others walked around you all.

A girl with flowing red hair blushed whipped her head over to you, her hair swatting you in the face- her gaze settling your bone into stone then ash. Standing back up she kicked a piece of that loose stone into your face, you instantly felt the stinging, a train of blood escaping down your cheek to your chin and onto your shirt.

You watched as she walked away, tears fresh in your eyes, palms burning from the fall as small pebbles make imprints on your hands. You picked up a stone, hands shaking in revenge before a book was dropped in your lap. Looking up, a boy with deep set eyes, full cheeks, and a head covered in black hair stared down at you, nose turned upwards as he took in your state.

"Pick yourself up now, you will get the whole class in trouble if you start things," he said, hands placed behind his back- grasping another book of yours. Turning on his heel he ran back up to join the line as you brushed off your pants and resituated your bag on your shoulders. She started it, you replied in your head, knowing that all your peers were out of ear-shot.

You would later realize you were missing a book as you made your way home after your first few days of school. You had vocalized to your parents how much you detested the building that almost killed a child when the door sealed shut to the cellar underneath- filled to the brim with rats carrying disease. Or how that red-haired girl would not stop tormenting you and most of all, from all your readings- the school had refused to allow you to move up grades as you were stuck repeating what you had already known.

Yet your parents had none of it. "You are most fortunate to be given a formal education, I was never given such opportunities at your age," your mother reprimanded you. Your father is swatting the back of your head, hoping to rearrange your thoughts.

Hands shaking and no dinner to be served that night, you made your way out onto the streets- hoping to steal a fortune. Or in reality, a slice of bread to keep yourself for the night. Your bag feeling light as you snuck through the dim alleyways as the red sky painted the wet cobblestone's beneath your feet.

Shivering as a gust comes from underneath a vent you wait atop of to strike on a travelling couple in the towns-square, you keep your other eye trained on the flaming fists marching around to clear the streets for the evening. Their demands ringing in your ears, your eyes trained and hands readied, you are almost un-noticing that a smaller set of hands reach once more into your bag, exchanging the book earlier for the newest stock in your bag.

Sending a kick backwards, you hear a hiss as the body falls to the floor, the metal cover of the vent coming undone as officers come dashing at the sound. You glare down through the emerging darkness, eyes catching a familiar pair of brown that level your look. His eyes snap over your shoulder as he is quick to stand. The hurried footsteps near as you freeze in panic, knees gone straight before you are flung forwards as his hand intertwines with your own.

He runs as you follow, through the alleyways, down by the sea and up towards your houses. You both pant, climbing over the fence, you offer him a hand as the clanging of metal armour haunts your face, eyes widened in fear as he takes your help, you both falling over into the bushes below.

The thorns prickle at your features, cut through the skin on your arms and by your ankles as the laboured breaths and heavy footsteps carry past the garden. Looking over to your side, you find your classmate already looking at you, his hand covers over his mouth as you move to do the same. Eyes crinkling in relief, in a laugh that never comes to be before your parents are shouting your name from inside the house.

You both pick yourselves up, your hand open as he helps himself up. Yet you wiggle your fingers still, head tilted in a silent demand as he rolls his eyes with a huff, throwing both books into your arms before turning his shoulder to you. "Thank you," you tease out lighting, holding out a smile as adrenaline still pumps through your ears like a drum-beat.

"I will get them back," he states, refusing to look you in the eyes. His shoulders stiff as if to reassure his iron will. "Mhm," you hum out, bumping his shoulder with your own before darting off inside. He watches you run away, climbing up the veins and to the second story before hoping back over the fence and down the street.

A voice tickles his ears, a whisper to get those books back, to show you not to tease him. They end as the door rings, singling his return to a silent home- his parents dead asleep as he locks the cobblers door behind him and retreats to his covers for the night.

The next day, you pack an extra book in your bag from your stack underneath your bed. Your parents come to apologize for the prior night, money and sustenance toying with their minds and actions they state as you think nothing of it and accept it without another thought. Mind already focused on getting to the school as your parents wonder where this new desire to go came from.

You are careful to step around the loose rocks of the path. Legs sore from the uphill climb as the church bell rings for the new hour. You pick up your pace, the teacher already yelling at a student as they are forced to the back blackboard, a series of lines already being written as you keep your head down and find a seat near the back.

By the time lunch break signals as you are without food for the afternoon. The extra time has you realizing the lack of a certain raven-haired boy you ran through the alleyways with, your clothes still stinking of the sewer gasses as you wince at how close you both were to getting caught. Your bag is still heavy with the books... you check to make sure, a surprise you find when rocks and a torn page from one of the books greets you. Scratched into the sheet with a piece of charcoal smudged against its surface is the following note, I would get them back - E. G.

His words tease you, remind you, just like you did to him. You smile, a shake of your head as your mind wanders of when he could have gathered them. Your imagination runs wild as you fail to realize your fantasy has become reality as he sits beside you silently in the grass.

You open and close your mouth, trying to start multiple conversations. He never continues without simple yes or no answers before the bell rings and you are being called inside once more. A student screams from the basement as your spine coils, shoulders falling forward as you threaten to spill your last meal. The boy shoves you through the doorway as you turn to glare back at him. Merely shrugging he picks a seat behind you, giving your chair a kick for good measure as you go to sit.

You turn around, hands raised as he leans back in his chair, eyes gleaming with joy at your outburst as the teacher orders you to your seat. Sighing and flipping open your journal, you start your recall once more and you both would soon discover your second clash with one another. Seeing who could get their work done the most accurately and quickest.

Pens flying across the page and flipped onto the next with a swish. You both stood up at the same time, chairs screeching against the wood, a speedy walk up towards the teachers desk where you tapped your foot anxiously for a score. A grin arising in the other's defeat, stepping on his foot for good measure he threatened you to rethink your choices and before you knew it, you were racing your way back home as his shouts only encouraged your smiles and laughs all the way back home.

By the end of the week, you would come to know more about this fellow thief and classmate of yours as your nightly steals were now hangouts for the two of you- bags heavy with various golds and collectables from wizards to warriors alike.

Your parents praised you, business had never been better as your spoils came with gold and sales. One night, you both were not so lucky- having to escape to the lower city sewers below. Fighting off enemies and gang members to the best of your abilities. Your friend had gotten stabbed in the hand, taking his arm around your shoulder, and as much of his weight you could take- you carried him back home and dressed his hand with what little cloth and fresh water you could find.

You cursed the man that had done this to him- making a mission of finding and dealing the same back. You told him so, as the raven-haired boy shook his head at you. So enraptured in your anger you didn't pay mind to the boy's cries of pain when you gripped his bloody hand so tight. He flung you off him, you landed to the ground with an echoing thud as he heaved up and down.

"Apologies," you spoke out lightly, picking yourself back up. The boy nodded once, accepting your apology before you got back to work. Doing your best from what little you remember from health class. As the sun threatened to wake the city once more, you both leaned against the wall of his parents shoe store, watching as the sun kissed every gleaming tile of the roof.

"My name is Enver," he said softly, as if worried about ruining this moment. You look at him, placing your head on his shoulder- your body tired and yet you both had school to attend in a mere couple of hours. "(name)," you replied, checking on his hand once more before allowing your eyes to close.

In the coming months, you and Enver would become inseparable. Taking seats beside one another in class, inviting the other over for dinner by using the money you had both stolen to eat on the rooftops together. You both felt on top of the world in moments like that.

Enver would eventually show you to the basement of his house, albeit with a cold exterior that had you second guessing if you should follow but he insisted nonetheless. Your breath hitched as you looked around the room in awe. Various gadgets and tinkerings were found littered over the shelves alongside the machinery for the store. You looked at Enver with bright eyes, jumping up and down in wonder as he talked you through the designs he had made.

"My parents hate it, but they know it's one of the few things that allows my mind to settle," he explained, taking your hand in his. "Is this why you force me to steal from the factories?" you ask, picking up a small robot that fires to life, its blue eyes staring into your own as its hands twist and turn in circles.

"I never FORCE you to steal, you were already doing that on your own," he teases as you turn to stick your tongue out to him. "Speaking of which- we should get started soon, the streets are starting to empty," Enver comments, looking out the singular small window. You nod your head, putting down the robot that watches as you both leave up the ladder.

In the coming years, you and Enver only grew closer to one another. So much so that your parents forced you away from him, sending you away to a better school as your stealing had allowed your family to move up within society. You refused, yelled and kicked to no end yet they were unrelenting on making sure you both were distanced. "We cannot have you ruining yourself when we are better than them," your father explained in the carriage as you pressed your face against the glass, remembering back to your last moments together.

You and Enver were having lunch, taking the afternoon to skip classes to fit amongst his tinkerings. You ruffled through your bag, reading through his diagram while building a smaller piece to an automatic press. In the clashing of metal, and your laughter as a contraption exploded in his face, sending his hair flying upwards. His parents came crashing down, horror gracing their eyes as they practically threw you out of their house.

"It is you!" his mother spat in your face, "you who has corrupted my boy's mind!" You violently shook your head, tears welling in your eyes as you struggled to come up with words to protest. Anger started to surge as Gortash stood their solid and unmoving beside his father. His face set in stone as he blankly stared through you. Was he ever my friend? you question to yourself, unknowing to the inner turmoil that was coursing through his veins.

It is better this way, Gortash thinks to himself, watching as you leave and bracing for the punch from his father that sends his head reeling back into the live wires and sharp metals beneath. He twists in pain, holding out a sob before standing himself back up. "You are to leave this evening boy, your mother and I can have you no longer."

You find yourself back in the carriage, still a ways to go as your mother reaches forward, you do your best not to flinch away. Her face flashes of Envers' mother for a brief moment. "They were jealous to see your family living a better life," your mother explained, rubbing circles onto the back of your hand as you started to pick at your new clothes.

You knew otherwise, you knew something else had to be happening. Your little active mind searched and wandered endlessly. Combing through every memory and moment with precision yet you always came back empty handed. Why leave so suddenly and with such cruelty? You belittle yourself, and soon those happy memories of you two together as children became tainted in your growing anger for not understanding why he casted you aside.

So, in the upper city you made new friends, found new work and games to play with words instead of knives and fists. Becoming lost in the words of your parents explaining that this was the life you all were deserving of- that you worked so hard towards. You allowed yourself to become lost with the yards of fabric skirts, false smiles and rumours galore.

You kept your grades up, kept your head raised as you walked past the distasteful looks that graced you and into the sights of a boy your age named Wyll. He saw much of himself and his family's history instilled in you as he listened to gossip about you down the halls and city streets. He offered you a chair at his table when coming back home for breaks.

You unloaded your secrets and stories onto one another during your pre-teen years. He allowed you to unload your cooped-up energy from your past fighting life to train with one another. Sword-fighting and forgetting to attend class with each spar. His father, Duke Ravengard even takes you underneath his wing.

As you got older, your school-years ending in a few months time you and Wyll had started courting one another formally. Your parents were anxious, watching as you would come home bruised and tired as you explained the training you both were undertaking- your parents worried that you were trying to turn back to your past self. Yet you assured them, holding Wylls hand in your own, "I fight nobelly now- I have no reason why not to," you explain, Wyll nodding along- agreeing with your statement.

Soon you both were dancing at every ball together, once, twice, sneaking a thrice against the judgement of polite society. Your hand on his shoulder, his on your waist pulling you closer. Eyes shining as the music hummed out, partners around you both bowing as you quickly remember to do the same. Wyll laughed, dipping low as your heads knocked against one another, a blush coating your cheeks as you swore underneath your breath.

Wyll now gripped your arm up to a stand, leading you both outside to laugh fully together. Your stomach twisting and hurting from how hard you were laughing before those tingles became a burning passion in seeing his arms flexing in his uniform as he gripped the banister of the balcony to support himself. The way his eyes crinkled in your direction- a toothy smile he reserved only for you.

"I love you," you blurted out, eyes wide as you covered your mouth- surprised that you admitted to such things. You had only been friends for a few years, lovers a few months and were still considered children to some degree- emerging into your young adult years yet when he paused his laughter, caught his breath and took your hand into his own. Leaning down to press his forehead against your own, "I love you too." Your mind cleared of shaggy black hair and sunrises to take in Wyll’s lips against your own.

Your hands gripped his forearms, pulling the man closer to yourself. His hand tipped your head upwards to deepen the kiss, another placed on your waist as you both walked backwards. Your back hitting the banister. He caged you in between his arms, your skin on fire as your nails dug themselves into the material as your lungs burned from air.

Pulling away, Wyll's cheeks are flushed. He appears breathless, his eyes widened in shock for his own actions as he slowly turns his head back to the ballroom. "We shouldn't have done that," Wyll says in a low voice. Your heart burns, mind still foggy as you take in what just happened. Swallowing the growing lump in your throat, you croak out a why?, setting yourself back upright. "Your standings in society-"

"Wyll," you state his name softy, hands moving up his arms to his shoulders and then his head as you pull his gaze back to you, "I am already an outcast- is that not why we found one another in the first place?"

Wyll pulls you into a hug, relaxing into your arms as you rub up and down his back. Looking over his shoulder you see Duke Ravengard looking at you both, he raises a glass and a smile towards you as you nod your head in reply. Watching as he turns to your parents, a few words exchanged as you hold pleading eyes towards them. Your mother mouths a later as you turn back to your lover- he presses a kiss to your cheek.

Pulling away, you both return to the event arm in arm, walking towards your families while grabbing some drinks and food along the way. "You are both to wed after you return from university," your father demands, eyes glaring at the boy on your arm as Ravengard claps a hand on your fathers shoulder. "They will make a brilliant pair, they have fight in them- leaders, no- protectors of this city they will be," he says with such certainty, clinking your glasses together you feel a great sense of anxious as you claim to be feeling tired, Wyll escorting you toward your carriage with one last kiss to your forehead before sending a few words of warning to your driver, demanding to return you home safely.

While you were getting high off of high society life, Enver found himself the servant to a devil, Raphael to be specific. His parents were at their wits ends, trying to keep up with their sons changing behaviour as soon as they casted you away.

They thought their son to be a horrid creature of need and hate, too clever for his own good but all became worse as you were not near. He stopped attending school, he had already known everything they could have taught them and more. So his parents sold him off and that's how he found himself the messenger of hell itself.

He grew up fighting demons and devils-spawn, tussling in flames and charming those to fall from the world above. He stalked and schemed for his masters, served them as his bones were broken, skin bruised in permanent shades of purple and blue.

He struggled to find sleep amongst the pain, often passing out in the hallowed halls in the House of Hope only to be criticized for his lack of appearances when he awoke once more. Yet as he received more and more jobs on the mainlands, he rediscovered the sewers and lower city life he was forced to leave behind. He explored those factories you both used to infiltrate in your youth and the rooftops you would share cheese and what little bread you could find with one another.

Enver wondered often about you, the life you were living- if you had ended up living. Some part of him grew jealous- bitter that you managed to leave, to have a better family than him when you did all the same actions. He regretted sending you away, forcing you to leave him when you could have joined his suffering, maybe eased it in some way. Yet when his imagination fired of you bleeding and begging towards him, your eyes as he stood there cold and silently demanding you away. He felt what little food he received striking its way up his throat, his stomach curling into itself as he gripped at his hair.

Was this another form of torture? Enver asked himself, stumbling back into the House of Hope, his letter bag filled with various contracts as he dropped his bag on the Devils desk, falling to his knees for his hour of punishment. His mind flashes with memories of you, he feels your head on his shoulder, feels his hand in your own before screams cut through his years, settling him solid and falling forwards into the tired floors.

He hears your voice, asking for him to get up, to run with you as his hand bleeds. He can feel the various holes in himself opening up to the blades that continuously crave into his skin, sending his system into a state of shock- his head light by the pool of blood he chokes in. Your voice becomes louder, screaming, your hands reach out in the darkness that threatens to consume his sights. Your feet kick and scrape against the floor, you cough and then silence.

Silence fills Gortash's remaining days in hell, I will get out, he assured himself albeit quietly as he still wondered if the devils could read his every waking thought. He could not stand another moment of being under someone's boot, of someone speaking him into another depth of this world, of his mind, - no he would get his revenge- he would rule his future.

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french-toast-enjoyer · 3 months

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Black and White— WIP— venom x Eddie fic!

this is a fluffy lil tribute to my venom post about the v and e running away and eloping. hopefully more to come. enjoy!

Eddie was never one for receiving overly sentimental displays. So this plan had been perfect for him. For them.

The neon lights of Reno's own Little White Chapel drowned out the dark of the night, along with all the other lights of the strip. a CBD shop, a videostore, and some branded novelty storefront he'd barely seen out of the corner of their eyes. Seedy and campy as anything that the two lovers touched.

Venom had suggested Vegas, but Eddie was sure as hell not able to swing that on freelance wages, not to mention he hated Vegas. He could go on about his quiet disdain for the disposable everything of sin city, but with Venom wrapped around his fingers, he could only really think about the snap decision they'd made.

Let's get hitched.

It wasn't even clear which of them had pitched the idea. Suppose it'd come from somewhere deep within their bond.

They were passing through on business. Going from state to state, handing out justice as a lethal protector should.

But the mounting time together and the lights and the nightlife and the utter romance of running away through the states hadn't been lost on either of them. Especially in the months after Carnage.

That night, in the church.

They'd bonded, It was beautiful, sure, but tied inextricably to some great violent mess. Their only witnesses being Anne, Dan, and a pre-posthumous Cletus Kasady. It was perfectly them, but not quite what Eddie wanted to call their wedding day. Hell, they hadn't even fucked that night.

Venom smirked at the thought, adjusting Eddie's tie as they looked back to the chapel.

Here they were, signing into the little white guest book. Intimidating the shit out of the clerk as Venom stood fully on display beside Eddie. 7'6" and using their own mass to form a sleek black suit.

It was perfect in its own way.

"You got your vows ready?" Eddie teased, and the symbiote nodded, showing off a bar napkin covered in chicken scratch handwriting. That was his Venom. His partner. the two sat anxiously in a pew, waiting for their turn as an impulsive couple went ahead of them. Two college kids giggling and holding hands and talking about dropping the news on their friends.

It occurred to Eddie briefly that he might be a bit old for something like this, but the thought again dissipated when looking back at Venom. A perfect entity, cocking their head at the thought of an David Bowie impersonator officiating a wedding.

"Thought he was dead?" The symbiote asked, blunt as ever.

"He is. this is just a priest dressed as him."

"Why?"

"Cause we couldn't afford Elvis"

"Not funny."

Eddie laughed a bit at that.

"I dunno man, it's the novelty! Most people have their wedding officiated by some boring religious official. Even at places like this. Some people just want something spontaneous."

"Like us." Venom said, the word us uttered in a smile.

"Like us." Eddie repeats affectionately.

#symbrock #venom #venom x eddie #venom the last dance #fanfic #venom fic #thanks for liking my unhinged original post

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priestessofspiders · 7 months

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Howl's well that ends well

(A very special thank you to @arsonsara for feedback and guidance with writing this story) While it may seem surprising in the age of internet storefronts and online auctions, sometimes you do, in fact, need to physically go somewhere in order to purchase things. There are several auction houses which only host their auctions in person, and sometimes millionaires are just too busy to take time out of their hectic schedules of plastic surgeries and cocaine fueled orgies in order to buy some overpriced trinket themselves. That's where I come in.

My name is Mae, I'm a buyer's agent, think of me as a professional bidder. Something will go up for auction, my client will give me a budget, and I'll go try my very best to acquire the item of their desire and keep it in a secure location for a while until it can be safely shipped off to their McMansion. It's not honest work, but it pays the bills, and I've had a lot of opportunities to see some genuinely weird crap in my line of work.

I received a call from a regular of mine, an A-list actress with a passion for old cartoons. She wanted me to get her an original cel from a short by the name of Howl's well that ends well. Evidently she was away on a cruise trip at the time the auction was being held, and thus needed me to purchase it by proxy. I accepted of course, and like I always do I sat down and did a little bit of research on the item I was to acquire.

The cartoon was made right at the end of the era of black and white cartoons, just before that slightly eerie rubberhose aesthetic fell out of style in favor of the technicolor wonderlands of the 40s and 50s. It was a simple story, as such animations usually are, depicting a wolf attempting to catch and eat a rabbit by any means necessary, with increasingly silly results. The cartoon was animated by the rather short lived Crescent Moon Studios, and was one of only two shorts known to have survived the company's collapse in 1939. The other was a mythological themed cartoon known by the title The Shepherd and the Satyr. Both had fallen into the public domain, but nobody had bothered putting up copies on the internet anywhere, after all, they were pretty obscure.

I was given a maximum budget of fifty grand to purchase the cel, which I honestly thought was a little excessive. Sure, it was a rare find, but in the context of an auction, rarity only matters when it is combined with desirability. Technically every toddler's doodle is a one-of-a-kind original work of art, but nobody is going to shell out a million bucks to put it in the Louvre. Unless there was some massive revival in public interest surrounding failed animation studios from the late 30s, I wasn't anticipating needing to spend the full amount my client had authorized.

The auction house was typical of its kind; an opulent temple to the idle rich who have nothing better to do than spend their hoarded wealth on useless garbage. I've never felt comfortable in those sorts of places. While the cut I get is fairly good, it's not enough for me to feel at home rubbing shoulders with CEOs and movie stars. I have this theory that there is a certain stench exuded by those who only own one house, and I can see the pompous plutocrats wrinkle their noses at me whenever I pass by in my cheaply tailored suit.

I settled into my seat alongside the other auction attendees, fiddling nervously with the ends of my sleeves. The rows of comfortable chairs sat before the stage reminded me of vague memories of attending church as a young girl, not comprehending a single word the man in the funny robe was saying when he read out his sermon. Eventually the auctioneer made her way out onto the stage and the song and dance of acquisition began.

It took a while to get to the cel. There seemed to be no end to the parade of antique junk that was available for purchase by my more financially fortunate companions. Jewelry that would never be worn, paintings that would be used to take up space in otherwise artfully minimalist living rooms, and antique weapons to be drooled over by those who view the statistics of mass murder as fun trivia all graced the auction block, happily snatched up by the horde of the idiot rich.

It was by the time I had almost dozed off following a bidding war over some decrepit old tea set that the auctioneer announced the starting bid for an animation cel from Howl's well that ends well at one thousand dollars. Surprisingly, someone immediately offered to pay the opening bid. I was startled to learn that one of these p-zombie nepo babies even knew what a cel was, much less willing to blow a thousand bucks on it. I raised a counter bid, doubling the offer just to see how badly this other bidder wanted it. In turn, they raised the bid to four thousand dollars.

Thus began one of the most baffling bidding experiences I've ever had. This wasn't supposed to be a difficult item to obtain, it should have been a cakewalk, but this other bidder was fighting tooth and nail to acquire it. It was just a bit of cellulose with eighty year old doodles on it for goodness sake! And it's not like we're talking about Steamboat Willy here, I'd never even heard of Howl's well that ends well before I'd gotten the call from my client. Nevertheless, I had been given quite the budget, and it wasn't like it was my money anyway, so I stuck at it until the bitter end. I didn't get a look at the competing bidder at the time, just heard his voice from somewhere behind me. It was a strange voice, there was something wrong about it, something I couldn't quite place.

Forty seven thousand dollars. That's how much of my client's money I wound up paying for the damned thing. That's more money than some folks make in a year, and here I was blowing it on some picture of a cartoon wolf. I was frankly baffled.

I arranged for the payment with one of the clerks and, after everything went through, picked up the cel and started walking to my car. I planned to drive immediately down the storage unit where I keep the items I am paid to acquire until their rightful owners come calling. Holding the cel in my hands gave me a weird feeling, even though it was protected in a rather fancy looking glass case. The older something is, the creepier it gets. You'll never read a haunted house story about some luxury penthouse suite, for example, they'll always be set somewhere ancient and dilapidated. I don't think we like when things get too old for their own good, it reminds us that there was a time before we existed.

The cel itself depicted just the wolf, walking on comically exaggerated tip-toe. There was no backdrop, obviously, the cel would be overlaid on top of the background in order to save time during the animation process, to keep the overworked artists from needing to render every tree and bush over and over ad nauseum. The wolf itself was a typical example of a cartoon character from that era; impossibly flexible limbs, a somewhat lanky appearance, and large eyes with slices taken out of the pupils. It wouldn't have looked out of place in a Fleischer or Disney short.

I found myself staring into those eyes. There was an odd quality to them that I didn't quite like, a kind of intelligence that felt out of place on the exaggerated features of a cartoon. Normally when one stares at something for long enough, you stop being able to properly process it as a coherent image, like when you say a word too many times and it sounds like gibberish. With the wolf though, it felt as though the longer I stared, the more clarity it possessed, the more defined the edges became, the more-

"Excuse me miss, may I have a word?"

The voice caught me off guard, and I nearly dropped the glass case to the floor. I looked up, finding myself in the indoor parking garage where I'd parked my car. In my distracted state, I had nearly gotten all the way to my car without noticing how far I'd walked. Standing before me was a man dressed all in black, with a long overcoat, a thick scarf wrapped around the lower part of his face, large dark sunglasses, and a wide brimmed fedora. His hands were firmly tucked in his pockets.

"Um, sure, can I help you?" I responded, a tad nervous. Did he follow me here? I found myself wondering.

"My apologies, first allow me to introduce myself, my name is Arnold Harrison, how do you do?" His voice was faintly muffled from his scarf, but even then I could make out that there was something wrong. There was something artificial about it, fake, like the voice a clown puts on when performing for children. Despite all the cordiality he was expressing, I felt almost as though he were mocking me.

It took me a moment, but I did recognize the name Arnold Harrison. He was a collector, a cartoon enthusiast, I'd never been employed by him myself but I'd heard a bit about him. Unlike the horde of hedonistic cretins spending their time wasting daddy's money on expensive toys, I actually had a certain level of respect for Harrison. I was dimly aware that he'd written a book at some point on the history of the early animation industry, and in an instant I knew who I had been competing against in the auction house.

"I'm Mae, a pleasure to meet you Mr. Harrison," I said, extending my arm out for a handshake. Harrison looked down at it for a moment, his hand still pressed firmly in his pockets. He didn't move to accept my handshake, keeping some distance away from me, and so I lowered my arm awkwardly.

After an uncomfortable pause, Harrison broke the silence, stating, "I would like very much to offer you a deal, Mae. As you probably noticed during the auction, I am very interested in getting my hands on that cel of yours. It is of great personal importance to me, you understand. I've been led to believe that you are, in fact, working for a client, are you not?"

I nodded my assent, cocking an eyebrow slightly as I wondered where he was going with this.

"In that case, I would like to present you with a counter offer; if you give me that cel, I shall, within the week, be able to present you with a virtually identical cel, a near exact copy. For all intents and purposes, it would be a perfect duplicate, and your employer need never know the difference. In order to ensure your silence on the matter, I would be more than willing to pay you a sum of forty six thousand dollars, cash, up front."

I blinked. Forty six thousand dollars, and all I had to do was hand this stranger some antique squiggles on a highly flammable bit of transparent plastic. It felt too good to be true. There was a lot I could do with that kind of money. My gut was telling me to say yes.

But it was something about that voice. I didn't trust it, it didn't sound like the voice of someone sincerely telling the truth. It sounded like someone telling the setup to a joke. We put so much value into way words are spoken, rather than the actual words themselves. One would never be able to take a politician seriously if they went on stage having just inhaled a balloon full of helium for example. I felt like I was going to be made a victim of some ridiculous prank.

"'I'm terribly sorry," I said, "but I'm afraid I can't do that. Good day Mr. Harrison." I turned to leave, heading towards my car.

A hand gripped my shoulder abruptly.

I wheeled around, yelping slightly from shock, and the hand was off my shoulder in a flash. Harrison was still standing some distance away from me, much too far away to have grabbed me like that. His arm would have had to have stretched like a rubber band. I caught a glimpse of his hand being stuffed into his coat pocket abruptly as soon as he saw me staring. I could have sworn it only had four fingers.

"I'm sorry, I just-" I heard him start to say, but I was already running full sprint towards my car. I made it there in a flash, slamming the door behind me as I carelessly tossed the cel in the front seat. I fiddled with my keys and turned on the engine, reversing out of the parking space and moving to leave as soon as possible.

As I drove towards the exit, I faintly heard Harrison's voice over the echoing engine, shouting out "Please! You don't know what you're dealing with!"

- - -

I made it to the storage facility right at the end of sunset, the sky a bloody red as night came to silently murder the daylight. I'd spent the entire drive trying to rationalize away what I'd seen. Perhaps Harrison had some birth defect, or had suffered an accident. He was probably much closer than I thought, or maybe he jumped back a little when I turned around. Maybe it all really was some elaborate practical joke. There must be a logical explanation.

By the time I was typing in the combination to the storage unit, I'd mostly convinced myself that everything was fine. The door swung open, and I fully intended to set down the cel within the sealed room and lock it all up again so I could go about the rest of my evening in peace. Instead, I found myself staring at the image of that cartoon wolf again, looking into those drawn-on eyes, gazing steadily into those pupils with the slices taken out of them.

I felt an intense compulsion to take the cel out of its case and hold it. It's not quite so unreasonable a desire as one might think. While I'm somewhat embarrassed to admit it, I'd occasionally carefully taken some of the antiques I'd gotten for my clients "out of the box" so to speak, just so I could touch something someone would spend so much money on. There was no logical reason for me to believe this wasn't just me acting on my own desires.

I clicked open the case gently, sliding open the lid. The faint camphor smell of old film wafted out, and I reached my hand inside, gently running a single finger over the smooth, transparent celluloid. As soon as I did so, a faint chill seemed to trickle down my spine, and I quickly stopped what I was doing and hurriedly put the lid back in place. I set the glass case and the cel within onto the floor and closed the door to the storage unit in a hurry, briskly walking back to my car.

Urban parking being what it is, it was something of a walk to get back to where I had left my car. Night had fully fallen by now, and while the streetlamps still shone their uncomfortably bright glow in a pathetic attempt to keep the shadows at bay, the blackness outside their radiance seemed darker than usual. There was a disturbing feeling of anticipation in the air, and I felt a knot in my stomach like that of an actor who has abruptly realized they were never given a script.

The streets were unusually empty. It is common knowledge that when a city gets large enough, the notion that nighttime is meant for sleep is revealed as a woeful misconception. Drunkards, workers on the graveyard shift, and petty criminals abound as soon as the sun recedes, and yet I found the streets utterly devoid of human life aside from myself. Despite my seeming isolation, it wasn't long before the hairs on the back of my neck were standing on end, and I knew that I was not alone.

It took me a while to notice it, a faint echo to my own footsteps that shouldn't be there. Something was keeping exact pace with me. I altered the rhythm of my stride, abruptly doing a slight skip to switch which leg was coming down, and there was a moment briefly where I heard the sound of someone's own footsteps faltering to try and keep up.

I turned around, shouting out "Alright, come on out Harrison. I know it's you."

I was wrong though. It wasn't Arnold Harrison who was following me.

It stepped into the light of the streetlamp almost sheepishly, hands up in a "you got me" gesture. It stood about six feet tall from head to toe. It was staring at me hungrily with those inky black pupils. Pupils with slices taken out of them.

There's no point in beating around the bush any further, no point in trying to play coy. It was the wolf from the cel. It was a black and white cartoon wolf, standing up on two legs, walking towards me with clearly malicious intent. It wasn't some uncanny abomination, the humorous proportions of the animated world translated with horrific effect upon being brought into this three dimensional existence. It just looked like a goddamn cartoon character had somehow magically stepped out of the screen, and somehow that was more existentially horrifying than if it were some bulging-eyed misbegotten atrocity.

Confronted with this violation of all natural law, this impossible, inherently contradictory being, do you know what I did? I pulled out my pepper spray from my pocket and aimed for its stupid, drooling face.

The damn thing just opened its mouth and stuck out its tongue, tasting the spurt of liquid capsaicin as though I had discharged a can of whipped cream at it. As soon as the spray died down to a dribble, the wolf licked its lips before belching out a burst of monochromatic flame, dabbing its lips with a handkerchief it pulled out from nowhere in particular.

I ran of course. I ran for my goddamn life. I felt myself laughing as I did, a fit of giggles bursting involuntarily from my throat because this whole situation was so stupid. The wolf followed close at my heels, snapping its jaws inches away from me with a sound like a mouse trap closing each time it tried to take a bite.

I took a wrong turn in my haste to escape from my animated pursuer, finding myself in an alleyway blocked off by a chain link fence at the end. I turned around to see the wolf smugly stalking its way towards me, legs like rubber hoses strutting confidently forward. I thought I was going to die an utterly pointless, totally absurd death. I backed up against the fence, looking around for anything that could save me. That's when I spotted it.

A banana peel stuck slightly out of a nearby trash can. It was a stupid idea, it shouldn't have worked, but I grabbed it and tossed it on the ground in front of the rapidly approaching wolf. The instant one of its ink-black feet stepped on the peel, the wolf's legs began spinning like blurry bicycle wheels, its arms stretched out to balance itself as a comical "ooOoOohoohoOOO!" emitted from its slavering jaws. I took my opportunity and ran past the demented cartoon, sprinting as fast as I could towards my car.

Fortunately the alley was quite close to where I had parked, and I managed to hop into the driver's seat and start the ignition fast enough to get out of there. Looking in my rear view mirror, I spotted the wolf hold out its thumb for a taxi cab, but the streets remained empty as ever, and I was luckily saved from the embarrassment of having to indulge in some kind of wacky car chase sequence with my nonsensical pursuer.

I wish that was the end of this story. That my client picked up the cel, I got a good shrink to prescribe me some happy pills, and I got out of this situation with nothing more unpleasant than a lifelong distaste for old cartoons. Unfortunately, the universe is not, despite what some desperate idiots may insist, a kind place. Three things ensured that my life would be far more complicated than I would have otherwise preferred.

Firstly, my client refused to answer my calls. Her voice mail message informed me she was "taking a break from the screens to focus on the important things in life". Good for her I suppose, though I imagine it's rather easy to turn off the screens when you're enjoying a multi-week cruise on a mega yacht the size of Alcatraz.

Secondly, the wolf didn't stop after just one night. No sirree, this was one persistent bastard, and it didn't take long for the canine caricature to figure out where I lived. As for how it discovered my address, I have no idea. Perhaps it checked the yellow pages, that seems to be an appropriately stupid method. Regardless, I rapidly found myself spending each sleepless night fending off the attacks of a cartoon wolf.

The wolf's nocturnal visits were equal parts ridiculous and terrifying. It didn't operate on the same fundamental logic as the universe the rest of us live in, it belonged to a world of falling anvils and comically oversized wooden hammers, a world where the rules of slapstick have more meaning than the laws of physics. The first time it got into the house it hopped down the chimney in a black and white Santa Claus outfit and gestured for me to jump into a similarly colorless leather sack that it held open for me oh-so politely. I fired a taser at it, and I saw its skeleton flash through its unconvincing disguise as the monochromatic menace jolted about spasmodically. Eventually it fell to the ground, inky lines of smoke drifting up from its contorted body, and I ran out the door, hopped into my car, and drove straight down to the police station. I didn't have time to grab my cell phone to dial 911, I didn't want to spend another instant in the house with that stupid wolf.

I didn't tell the police that my home invader was a cartoon character of course, because I'm not a moron and would prefer not to spend the rest of my days in a nice padded room wearing a comfortable straitjacket, thank you very much. Instead I just said there was someone in my house, I thought I had incapacitated them, and I wanted an officer to check it out.

They didn't find the wolf of course, and while they couldn't confirm if anyone had broken into the house, they were at least able to confirm the presence of an intruder by the marks they had left getting out; a cartoon wolf shaped hole in the wall.

I spent two weeks dealing with this wolf. Two. Weeks. Two weeks of desperately trying to contact my client about the cel. Two weeks of fitfully sleeping only during the day. Two weeks of spending my nights in paranoid vigilance against an impossible intruder. I began taking to renting various cheap motels for a single night at a time, out of a desperate hope that maybe it wouldn't be able to find me there. It was a pipe dream of course, it always found me, and I'd always have to find some new ridiculous way to stop it.

The only thing that would even temporarily stop the damn thing was playing by its own rules. Whacking it over the skull with a frying pan would cause it to collapse to the ground with an egg-sized lump on its forehead, chirping birds circling its head as spirals formed in its eyes. Stomping on its toe would make it yowl in exaggerated pain as it hopped up and down on one foot. I once managed to get away from it one night by ducking into a public restroom and pointing at the "Women's" sign on the door, at which the wolf got embarrassed and waited politely for me to finish my business. I stayed there until the sun rose. It never stuck around during the day.

I did say three things changed my life for the worse, and the third is easily the one that has been the most profoundly upsetting. I began to notice... changes. Subtle ones at first. I've always had a faint West Coast accent, but as my encounters with the wolf continued, I found my voice dipping into the tones of stereotypical valley girl more often than not. The pitch changed too, raising from the sightly gravelly vocal fry I was used to into a high pitched squeak.

I used to smoke on occasion, not anything major, maybe a single cigarette a day at the most, but now I was finding myself with one constantly stuck in my mouth. It wasn't a situation of my addiction increasing due to stress, no, I never bought any fresh packs. They would literally seem to appear, already lit, when I wasn't paying attention. My skin began to turn paler too, my hair darker, the dark brown transforming into an inky black.

It was when I looked in the mirror one day and saw my pupils had slices taken out of them that I knew I had to do something drastic. I didn't care if it cost me my damn career, I didn't care if I spent the whole rest of my life flipping burgers on minimum wage, living out of my car; I refused to let myself turn into a goddamn cartoon.

I drove myself down to the storage facility. By this point I had been hopping from hotel to hotel so much that it took me until nightfall to reach it, which meant that the wolf would have a chance to try and stop me. I didn't care, I had a job to do. I wasn't going to let my humanity get stolen just because I was scared of some atrociously abnormal animated asshole.

I parked right in front of the facility next to a red painted curb. They could tow my car away and melt it down for all I cared. All that mattered was getting to that cel. As soon as I began marching towards the front gates, I heard a sharp whistle blow through the nighttime silence, and I turned to see the wolf, dressed in an old fashioned police uniform, writing what looked to be a parking ticket in a notepad. I flipped it the finger and began to run for my storage unit, looking back just in time to see the wolf speeding towards me, the uniform left behind still floating in the air from how quickly it leapt out of it.

But I was faster now, I felt lighter. My every step was bouncier and more energetic, and I found a wild grin growing across my face, perhaps an inch or so wider than it may have been before, a cigarette clenched tight between my pearly white, perfectly straight teeth. I used to have quite the crooked set of chompers, and my dentist always got onto me about how little I flossed, but right now supernaturally enhanced dental hygiene was hardly my biggest concern.

I managed to skid to a stop (with the appropriate sound effect of course) right in front of the storage unit, and rapidly entered the combination. I knew that the wolf was close behind me, because the wolf would always be close behind me. It was in his very nature, as was mine to escape in the very nick of time. Hunter and fox, cat and mouse, wolf and rabbit.

I swung open the heavy steel door and stomped the glass case at my feet to fragments, grabbing the cel with a flourish as the wolf tripped over my extended leg and slid to a stop on the metal floor. Pulling the lit cigarette from my mouth, I touched it to the cellulose image and winked. "That's all folks" I muttered as the translucent image caught fire in an instant.

As soon as the cel began to burn, so too did the wolf, engulfed in white hot flames as it howled in apparent agony. It didn't take long before the howls faded away, and all that was left was a wolf-shaped outline of ash on the floor of the storage unit.

"I'll be honest with ya, I wasn't sure that was going to work!" I said to nobody in particular as I shut the door to the unit once again. I clapped my hands together, partially to clean off the ashes, but more to signify the conclusion of a job well done.

I drove home and collapsed on the couch, exhausted.

And if we lived in a kind and loving universe that is where the story would have ended. But, of course, we do not.

I turned on the TV, desperate to drink in some mindless garbage to distract my brain from the question of how I would explain away the destruction of the cel to my client. Flipping to a random channel, I was greeted with the image of a cartoon wolf sneaking along to a jaunty tune.

Obviously it wasn't the wolf from Howl's well that ends well, that would be ridiculous. No TV channel is broadcasting obscure cartoon shorts from the 30s, not even at that hour. The wolf was in color, the art style was different, it must have been an adaptation of Three Little Pigs or something. But it didn't matter. It reminded me of my wolf, and I felt rage bubble up in my chest. My eyes narrowed, and I felt as though steam was blowing out of my ears. Who knows, maybe it did.

I pulled out a baseball bat and began smashing it into the TV set over and over again, gibbering incoherently and laughing as I did so, sparks flying from the ruined mess of plastic and glass. By the time I finished swinging, the mass of steaming debris was barely recognizable as a television.

As I stood there, hunched over, catching my breath, I looked down at the baseball bat I had used to destroy the TV. I don't own a baseball bat. I never have. Even if I did have one, how could I have gotten it so quickly? It's not like there is room for it in my pockets, and I didn't run off to some closet to grab it, it wasn't leaning against the couch when I came in.

Walking into the bathroom, I confirmed what I already knew.

My skin was still deathly pale, nearly white now, my hair was still black. When I reached up to touch my face, I found that my hand had only four fingers.

As I gazed upon my caricatured reflection in the mirror, a thought clawed at the synapses of my brain, a shock to the system like a firm handshake with a hand-buzzer; I still didn't feel alone. Ever since that freakishly fiendish fleaball had turned my life upside down, I'd felt as though I was being watched, being followed everywhere I went. I just assumed it was the horror of pursuit, the terror of being prey. But I think it's more than that.

The thing about humor is that it's all relative isn't it? If you tell a joke and nobody is around to hear it, well, chances are you aren't going to get any laughs, are you? The whole purpose of a cartoon is to entertain an audience, to make us laugh at the zany antics of those larger than life characters as they go about their impossible, ridiculous existence. Without anyone watching them, they have no purpose, no reason to exist. All of their power comes from the laughs they give their audience.

So I'm asking you now, dear reader; who is watching me, and how do I get them to stop?

#horror #nosleep #horror fiction #writers on tumblr #writeblr #halloween

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