#regular story

[bensonspig]

Uhhh....WIP? Explanation here!! My OC Lizzie and human!Benson in their sentient forms in a different universe. In Regular Story itself. >:)

Lizzie’s a tanuki btw.

I should explain Regular Story’s premise.

[orendastories]

Regular Story

Growing up in the Georgia area with three siblings and a sometime later absentee father was difficult on Chris. His mom was always so busy with his younger sister, and though he loved them dearly, it was sometimes lonely being the middle son.

Chris’s older brother was 5 years older than him. Growing up he tormented Chris, constantly making sure Chris felt like he was less than him. But there were times when they got along. Chris loved camping and several times during the summer his brother would take him out. One time they went to Tennessee and got caught in a huge storm. Chris was 14 and had gone to fill their water bags with their filter. A few rolls of thunder then the bottom dropped open. The rain was so hard Chris couldn’t see his hand in front of him. He stumbled through the trees, hearing lightning crackling above his head, and stood terrified that he would be lost in the woods. Crouching under a rock he huddled for warmth when his brother came running down the side of the mountain.

“Chris! Chris!” He screamed as he tore down to the river. Chris saw the fear in his eyes and crawled out from his hiding place.

“I’m here!” He shouted. His brother froze and looked around, trying to find him. Chris kept screaming as they stumbled towards each other. His brother grabbed him and hugged him tight.

“Don’t ever scare me like that! Are you hurt?” His brother looked him over as Chris shook his head.

“I dropped the bottle,” Chris shouted and his brother shook his head.

They tried to walk to their tent, but the winds were too strong. A cave against the wall provided them shelter for hours as they waited for the storm to subside. To say Chris didn’t much care for thunder, lightning, or rain was an understatement. In spite of it all though he valued the memories of one good weekend.

[orendastories]

Regular Story

Author(s): Di

Character(s) Involved: Elian Espinoza

Word Count: 339

Trigger Warning(s): None

Genre(s): Reflection on the past.

Summary: Overtaken with the urge to contact an old friend for advice, Elian finds himself.

The phone sits heavy in his hands and he tries not to think about. About the weight of it. The…

“Well fuck,” He finds himself muttering, closing out the screen for the millionth as he swallows and breathes and wants and struggles to name just what it is that all of this boils down to because his head is an animal.

His head is an animal and he’s been struggling for longer than he cares to admit. With all of it. The lack of it. The want of it. And now he’s at a crossroads of knowing and not and wanting and not and certainty was never really his strong suit.

Heartless.

The word haunts him more than he’s ever cared to admit. More than he’d ever speak aloud. But he treats it lightly. Treats it all lightly because seriousness could kill him. Sink it’s claws into his head and shred him for shits and giggles like the good old day when sometimes the solution to the hurt was a little more-

His hand clenches into a fist. Nails digging into skin, forming perfect crescents, like moons, and he doesn’t linger on it. Just flicks open the phone, times in a four number password and sits with the contact page open. The light from the screen is bright, almost blinding in this dark corner of the ship and no one will miss him.

For a while. He could call and talk for hours and no one would miss him. And that would be find because he never was good at- Dev would get it. Dev always got him. Dev was a goddamn glorious saint and Dev is single handedly the only human that has ever known him (intimately and with all the wrong crooked, broken parts visible) and still wanted him afterward without being fucking blood related. Dev would /get/ it.

That thought alone almost makes him hit the teeny phone on the screen. Instead he lets the screen go dark and thinks maybe he’s in over his head.

[orendastories]

Regular Story

Title: Burdens in the Dark

Author(s): A

Character(s) Involved: Jamie Latimer, Brandon Gibson

Word Count: 551

Trigger Warning(s): none

Genre(s): Third-person narrative

Summary: Jamie has a hard time sleeping. He worries, but the object of his worry makes things better.

Jamie listened to Brandon’s soft breaths, so quiet yet completely filling his senses. He was never the best of sleepers. His mind would begin working, wake him up, and then the quiet, which would isolate him, would keep him awake. But now, now he had something to fill that silence. He had the sweet sound of his beloved soft breaths. He wanted so much to just reach out and touch: to feel that beautiful face completely at rest. He knew every dip and curve, every laugh line and worry line. During the days those worry lines would dominate…a deep line that ran vertical between his brows with a less distinct one to the side of it running diagonally. Sometimes he would laugh and be so silly and cheeky and he would reach out to catch a feel of the laugh lines around his mouth and at the corners of his eyes. But here, asleep in their bed, his face would be lax and peaceful. But he rarely felt it. Just once or twice, but it would invariably wake him and Jamie didn’t want to disturb the rare moment of absolute peace that Brandon got. His heart broke to think of all the that his beloved carried on his shoulders. He would take it all away if he could. He would take it and cast it out to sea and free Brandon from the burden of fear and self-loathing he never deserved in the first place. But that wasn’t how life worked. We, each of us, have our burdens and how we handle them makes us who we are. He supposed it wasn’t right of him to even want to deny the boy his journey, but to see someone he loved so deeply suffer so profoundly was more than he could bear some days. And it was a vicious cycle because while Brandon suffered and did his best to deal with his burdens he would worry so much about the burden that put on Jamie. Jamie would in turn fear his own feelings were adding to Brandon’s. It was awful and tiring, but what else could they do. All of it was born of their love for each other.

Beside him Brandon breathing suddenly hitched and his body tensed. A small whimper worked its way up from the boy’s chest. Taking absolute care, Jamie tenderly pulled him close, rubbing at his back small circles intended to sooth him. It was the only comfort he could think to give his Dearest in the throes of yet another nightmare. He couldn’t help but feel impotent in these moments. He felt useless and helpless. Except sometimes. Sometimes you didn’t need to solve all the problems. Sometimes you didn’t need to win the case. Sometimes you didn’t need to prove yourself the best. Sometimes you just had to show up. You just needed to be there and…. be. With a snuffle, a held breath, and then a deep sigh, Brandon’s body finally relaxed again. Jamie mirrored the actions – breathe, sigh, relax. He smiled. All of his late night tensions seeped away and he found himself drifting off. He’d soothed Brandon and without even knowing it he’d soothed Jamie right back. They helped carry each other’s burdens. Maybe that was exactly how it was supposed to be. 

[orendastories]

Regular Story

Title: Things Unsaid

Author(s): Harri

Character(s) Involved: Jace Blue

Word Count: 1075

Trigger Warning(s): None

Summary: Jace can’t talk yet, but that doesn’t mean he’s quiet. 

I hate my room. It’s lonely. It’s new and it isn’t home. Bessie is home. I can’t bring her here, but she is my home and she always will be. And my room is empty with just me in it - it feels more like a hospital room with the pots of pills, the bedpans in case I can’t make it in the night, the rail in my bathroom. I hate it.

I feel like I’m broken. Like no-one will see me as anything more than the amusing sidekick. And that’s what I am. I don’t want to be the centre of attention all the time, but I want to be the leading man in my own story. I’m not, though. I’m the funny wingman, who gets into scrapes, who provides the comic relief when things get too dark. I’m broken, I’m something to be cuddled, coddled and tucked back into bed, not a sensual, passionate man. I can’t walk, I can’t talk, I am broken.

I do remember the first time I thought I was in love. Love at first sight. I was sure. He was dancing, on the dirt ground by the end of his caravan, as if gravity and friction and every law of physics just didn’t apply to him. It was as if he was speaking, as if he was singing, and as if he was expressing himself in a way more meaningful than words. I could have watched him for hours and never become tired, and, it seemed, neither would he. He was incredible.

I fell in love again when I saw the second love of my life take an empty beer bottle from under her sleeping friend’s hand. It was selfless, tender, and I thought that no-one with a bad heart could possibly do something so kind. Such a little thing. I fell in love with her again at 4AM the following morning. We were laying together, huddled for warmth, it was so cold, but we had a fire and quilts and we were warm enough. I realised the time, realised how it had flown, and I knew I loved her.

The third time happened so gradually I didn’t notice. She didn’t creep, she didn’t sneak, I just didn’t notice. The moment it started happening, it was as if she had always been there, nothing had changed. She just was. And like the beautiful, fragile, exquisite yellows and blues of my first, like the hot, smoke-heavy reds of my second, my third love was deep and good and so much a part of me with the warm, autumnal shades that didn’t coil as my first had, or blaze as my second, but simply glowed. Each shaped me a different way, creating the tapestry my heart would become.

All the loves that followed, they brought their own beauty to it. A bright green for the spitfire of a girl who we all discovered in our bed, and who never left, in her bright, bold stripes, the rich, dark royal purples and black of a gentle soul, so grounded, and so caring, that he became a fixture in our lives long before we knew him as we would. The golds, for our prince, isolated and lonely before we taught him what it meant to be a living, breathing person, before we breathed our rowdy, loud life into the statue of a man who had never done so in his life.

Each of them left their scars, too. Many of them were ripped out of my tapestry, stitches not cut, just torn, leaving ugly gouges from each stitch in the material, scraps of fabric still hanging there. I will never remove them. I am told not to wear my heart on my sleeve, but that isn’t how it works. It is touched by everyone I love, and I have always loved easily. Even now, new colours weave in, a beautiful silver, red, blue and green technicolor weave, a beautiful yellow, and a deep, dusty blue, wound together, a rough, warm brown shot with aquamarine, a deep, forest green. I will never erase the removed patches, and I will never stop adding colours.

The more that are weaved in, the uglier it will look by the end, with rips and tears. I know that.  But I also know that it has the chance to become even more beautiful, and I would be a fool to allow the bits that haven’t been created yet to remain blank.

Coming here was so terrifying. It meant admitting that my life may not have been the lost cause I had given it up to be. It wasn’t that I wanted to be a slave. No-one wants that. I had just hoped I would be able to stay where I was. To stay comfortable, where I was with people like me, people who knew they were dying, who know we wouldn’t all make it. It was safer. It hurt less. It left me less exposed. Life ran a certain way, and ended more often than usual.

I miss Bessie. I miss all those people that I love so much. I miss home. I miss being able to tell people that. I miss being able to say anything. To walk. To go to the bathroom by myself. It’s lonely.

Sometimes I wish I’d never come here. Even with all the amazing people I’ve met, sometimes I wish. And then I change my mind. Doesn’t mean it isn’t hard, though.

I have always been eloquent, I’ve always been able to create, if not to write music, than to write poetry that can create an image for everyone, that can make them feel what I feel. To explain myself, to understand what others are saying, to read between the lines and tell them what they need to hear, soothe them without patronising, reassure them without making false promises, language has been a weapon for me, as well as a shield. Now it’s gone. I’m the support character, the comedic sidekick - though not the main wingman who gets a girl of his own.

At least the talking dog could talk. I’m an NPC, limited conversation options, none of them romance. I’m an unpaid extra who comes on for a slapstick one-liner and then goes home. Sure, the main cast are friendly, and it isn’t their fault my lines were cut, but there’s nothing any of us can do. The dice rolled, and came up 1. Critical fail. Still part of the quest, but not going to be the champion.

[orendastories]

Regular Story

Title: I Am Legend

Author(s): Harri

Character(s) Involved: Jace Blue

Word Count: 563

Trigger Warning(s): None (zombies?)

Genre(s): Self para

Summary: Jace deals with the zombie apocalypse

Despite the air conditioning humming away quietly, it was hot. He sniffed, and looked around. The nurse wouldn’t be here for another half hour…

That wasn’t humming. That was groaning.

He rolled out of bed, quickly, crouching beneath the windowsill, listening intently, and then risked a peek over the top.

It wasn’t as bad as it could be, but it still wasn’t good. He could see them roaming, idly, no clear focus, but there were more coming. “Alright. No big deal. We can do this.” He grinned, and nodded, crawling to the door, and peering out, carefully. “Clear. None of those… Roamers? Zombies seems kinda… I dunno. Over the top.” He whispered to himself as he ran down the corridor. “Cheesy.” He nodded, and then flinched, as hands battered against a window in the next room. “Shit! People. Fuck.” He held his breath, leaning against the wall, waiting, and then continued down the corridor, before opening the door at the end. Unarmed, he didn’t stand a chance.

Unless…

He pushed the door open, slowly, and peered out. They hadn’t seen or… smelled him yet. However they sensed. 

“Alright. Three. Two. One.”

He streaked across the courtyard, glancing back over his shoulder. “Shit!” They’d certainly locked onto him now. He caught sight of an open window, and dived through it, rolling on the floor, getting to his feet, sweeping the room. 

Clear. He sighed in relief, running a hand through his hair, and then opened his eyes.

Alright. We can do this. Yes we can. Wish me luck, Kevin. The words weren’t there, but the sentiment was, as he glanced over to the massive, glowing dildo on his nightstand, patting it gently, and then folded his left arm underneath himself, taking a breath, and pushed.

The pain blossomed, and he yelped, swearing. It shot through his groin, his ribs, and he couldn’t breathe. He held his breath, and waited for the nausea to pass, swearing in his head. That really fucking hurts. Really really fucking hurts, motherfucking son of a whore, fuck, fuck-

In as smooth a move as he could manage, he swung his legs sideways off the bed, and sobbed, quietly, his entire body screaming in pain. 

He waited a few moments, just getting his breath back. The pain was bad enough to make him dizzy, and he breathed, focusing on the plug socket in the wall. Easy. 

When he could focus through the pain again, he eyed his chair. He was going to get shouted at by the doctors for exerting himself, but he hated being so helpless. He leaned over, pulling it close, and then leaned on the arm, putting the brakes on, and carefully shifted his weight over. A yell of pain left his throat, and he settled himself, his breath hoarse. He was ok. He was alive. He was… in a lot of pain. He grabbed the pills on the side, and then downed two. It was too easy. The sooner he could be off them, the better. It brought back memories. 

He drove the chair over to the window, and looked out. Empty.

It sounded like everyone was having fun in Amsterdam. It would have been stressful to go, he knew, too much temptation, but being alone and basically helpless here… He sighed, softly, checking his phone, and then headed to the cafeteria. They’ll be back soon.

[orendastories]

Regular Story

Title: Letter to My Future Dom

Author(s): Jenna

Character(s) Involved: Skyler Reynolds

Word Count: 208

Trigger Warning(s): None

Summary: Sky writes a cheesy letter. Lots of cuteness.

To whom it may concern,

I love you for loving me. I love you for accepting me as I am, and taking me in as yours. I know I’m far from perfect, but you seem to be able to look past that, and that means everything to me. You laugh when I freak out over the little things, which just makes me grin like a silly little girl. But, you know, considering I can count those silly little grins, that means the world.

I promise to take care of you the best that I can. I promise to do my best to not disappoint you. I want to move forward, forget about my past and build my future. I know things won’t be perfect, but that’s okay. Who wants perfect, anyways? Perfect is boring. I just want there to be something real.

I want passion, adventure, whatever that entails. And, I want you to join me, and I want to make you smile, like you make me smile. I want to take care of you, like you do for me. I want to be your partner in adventure. I want our life to have all of it. The fun, the tension, all of it. I want it all.

[orendastories]

Regular Story

Title: Becoming Jamie (part 2)

Author(s): A

Character(s) Involved: Jamie Latimer, npcs

Word Count: 1042

Trigger Warning(s): none

Genre(s): third person narrative

Summary: there are moments throughout our lives that made us the people we are

There had never been any doubt in his mind as to which college he would choose. His parents had tried to talk him into an ivy league school. Yale where his father had gone or Harvard where his mother had gone or even maybe Columbia for the experience of living in New York. But he’d fallen in love with Berkeley on his first visit. The warm California sun scented with eucalyptus and bay leaf. The laid back attitude but with attention to social justice made him feel like it was a place where he could change the world. Also there was the fact that they were willing to take a younger student and deal with the Academy exemption paperwork. After all, it was only barely legal what he was doing, skipping Academy. He knew his mother had used his ‘disability to anchor the legal argument or maybe just to bully all the parties into agreeing. If he thinks about it too long it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth so, he doesn’t. Instead he thinks about his near perfect SAT scores, his perfect grades, his perfect essays and moves forward. He was there and that was all that mattered. It was perfect.

Except that it wasn’t. Not really. It wasn’t even close. The first day had been a disaster. A legitimate disaster. Though the college had thought it was accessible, it wasn’t. The old buildings were hard to navigate and the text map that he had was woefully wrong. Professors were either frustrated with having a ‘special needs’ student or were so overly solicitous it made his skin itch. “Just treat me like any other student.” didn’t seem to satisfy either category. Everyone seemed to agree that he wasn’t just like any other student. Everyone from the professors to the students to the staff in the cafeteria. None of this was new of course. He’d been blind his whole life and had lived in the sighted world just as long. Somehow he had just thought that college was going to be different. It wasn’t. It was just more of the same.  Just another time he would have to prove himself. Just another time he had to not only meet expectations, but blow them out of the water just to be considered as capable as the next person.

And things didn’t get any better when he went back to his room and the end of the day. UC rules required all first years to share a room with another Freshman of similar designation. Josh Hanson was an outgoing, funny, kind and friendly guy who wore his designation with the kind of ease that seemed like he was born to it. He was just out of Academy in a convenience claim with a childhood friend who was off in New York studying acting at the New School.  Josh was pre-med and a smart and serious student as much as he was a serious partier and philanderer as well. There were many nights that Jamie came back to the room to find a sock on the door and a pillow and blanket on the floor. He’d go stake out the big sofa in the lounge and sleep there. That was when he had time to sleep. Mostly he was just working. A double major would be an effort for anyone, but attempting to get perfect grades in two of the hardest majors at the school while no one believed he was capable of doing it was another thing altogether.

There were too many days and even more nights when he thought about quitting. He didn’t need this. He could go to Academy somewhere near his home. Hell he could go to an Academy for the blind that he knew about back East. It was elite and expensive and he’d be with people who understood. It was like thinking about a bowl of ice cream. He could taste it all on the tip of his tongue. But then what? He’d eat the ice cream and then what? He’d have nothing to show for his time and just a bigger waistline. Yes, he could go to that Academy. He could take the easy way out. But in the end he’d have nothing to show for it. Maybe he’d get a claim out of it, but he didn’t want a claim. He didn’t want to be taken care of by someone. He wanted to be on his own, taking care of himself. So those nights when his brain hurt from too much studying and his heart ached with loneliness, he simply shoved it all down and away and focused on becoming the man who could achieve anything.

And day by day things got better. He learned the campus. He learned it so well that he even began volunteering showing other visually impaired prospective students around on tours. He excelled in all of his classes, impressing each and every one of his professors. He gained the respect of his peers and they began to look past his blindness to get to know the person he was underneath. Josh still left a sock on the door a couple of times a night, but he would send his dalliance of the night packing afterwards and come get Jamie. The two were becoming best friends and if Jamie was beginning to fall in love, well that was ok, he could shove that down too. Jamie settled in at Berkeley and no longer thought about quitting. Why would he. He was succeeding. He was doing everything he set out to do.

Now, if he did that by meeting the sighted world where it was rather than making it try and understand him, what did that matter. It was never going to be a blind world. The sooner he learned how to fit in with it the better as far as he was concerned. He finished out the year a Dean’s Scholar, Vice President of the Student Government Association, LEAD mentor, and steady volunteer at the Gender, Sexuality, and Designation Equity Resource Center.

When his mom calls and says. “I’m proud of you, son.” The smile that spreads across his face is as much about her belief as it is about his achievement.