Mr Horrible by Algonquinrt.pdf

Fanfiction Based On Characters From Stephenie Meyer’s Twilight Series

Rated M for Mature. Strong Language, Sexual Situations & Mission to Marzipan Obsession

Mr. Horrible

By Algonquinrt

Summary: They meet at a gallery, from two different worlds. Watch as they learn each other's

language and culture... oh, who am I kidding here? They meet. They are opposites. They attract.

Rated M for serious potty mouth and scenes of the citrus variety. AH/AU

Once you’ve read and enjoyed this story, why not show the author some love, and review

http://www.fanfiction.net/s/4953962/1/Mr_Horrible

Chapter1.There’sABench

BPOV

That motherfucker left me. Stranded.

The nice parts of having a gay best friend mean that you always have someone who will be honest with

you about what you were wearing and whether the new hairstyle looks like shit. Oh, and cuddling

without having to put out first. The bad parts, however, mean that if a pretty boy comes waltzing

through the museum, odds are he is taking off without so much as a buy your fucking leave.

I have no money.

If he had to leave me to go chase tail, the least he could have done was give me bus fare. Or something.

Now I'm stuck here. My cell is dead – again - the victim of an owner who is too lazy/forgetful/stupid

(choose one) to charge it. Once upon a time, weren't there pay phones? Didn't people use coins for

them? I could probably bum a few coins and call Alice that way, but pay phones appear to have become

extinct.

I'm stuck. And I swear, this time I'm going to kill him.

If I have any luck at all, James will be satisfied with a quickie blow job and then remember that I'm here

and stuck, and come back for me. Of course I know that I have no luck at all, which is why I was at a

fucking art gallery on a Saturday afternoon with James in the first place, instead of out getting laid or

going to the movies or having an all-day sex marathon (sexathon? fuckathon? orgasmathon?

Orgasmathon. I like that idea.) of my own.

I'm not helping him tonight.

By god, if James comes back and expects me to help him dress for his stupid fucking drag show later, I'm

putting my foot up his ass. And that might be after I help him with his tuck just for the extra added

discomfort. Pisser. I am not helping him tonight. He can do the show by his damn self without me

helping with his eyelashes or combing out his wigs or waxing his fucking eyebrows. I'm taking a break

from all the catty, gossipy queens and the drama and the goddamn bra-stuffing. Ugh. And if James

makes me loan him my bra one more time, because he forgot his for the show, I'm going to kill him. I

don't care if the club is all gay men and straight tourists who couldn't give a rat's ass about my tits. I

refuse. I pay good money for all the stuffing I can buy. He can buy his own.

And who on earth uses Victoria Secretion as a drag name anyway? So déclassé. He needs to change that

shit if he wants better tips. And to do that pageant. Which I know he's going to ask me to dress him for.

I'm refusing. I'm done with this shit. I'm tired of being his hag. I just want a life.

I head out the front doors, plop myself on the bench that I hope is actually a bench and not yet another

piece of art I'm not supposed to touch, and open my purse/lunch box. There's a damn good reason to

carry a Star Wars lunch box as a purse: you can bring a sandwich along for those times when your

fucking Mary abandons you at the art gallery to get laid. I'm always planning like that. Actually, maybe I

just get left behind an awful lot and I hate being hungry. Too bad I didn't stick a Snickers in here or

something.

I decide on a happy little squiggle before I eat, rubbing my ass all over the art/bench before digging into

the fabulous goat cheese-sprouts-balsamic-vinegar-onion-bagel-sandwich (uh, no wonder I don't get

laid eating this?). Fucker better be back before it's time for dessert, because I did not, in fact, pack a

fucking candy bar. And I'm running low on caffeine.

EPOV

She is the only thing I notice in the entire damn gallery. When she first got there, she was with a tall,

handsome man wearing his hair in a thick blonde ponytail. He looked like he belonged in a gallery: an

artist. I look like a hungover frat boy out for a day of culture, still having no idea why my mother

dragged me along to this exhibit. It is O'Keeffe; everything looks like a dick or a vagina. Talk about an

obvious Freudian subtext.

Most of the people wandering the gallery are dressed like my mother: stuffy slacks and blouses, or dress

pants and button-downs for the men. It's a fucking shame that art in this country is reduced to a must-

be-seen scene for the idle rich and upper middle class who aspire to be the idle rich. It's fucking

embarrassing to have your last name be one of those up on the wall as some Platinum-Star-on-Your-

Forehead-for-Giving-Us-Money homage. The girl most assuredly does not have parents with their

names on the wall.

She is here with the ponytailed man and yet she isn't. Most people go through the gallery like my

mother and I are: a slow and steady walk, not stopping too long or rushing past too fast at any single

piece of artwork. I imagine if there is a god anywhere, he, she or it thinks we look like fucking ants in an

ant farm in our single line maintaining the same pace. Then you see her, criss-crossing across the

gallery, bumping in and out of the line and wrecking the traffic pattern.

I am surprised a Muffy or a Janet or a Hildegard hasn't called for security to escort her out.

She passes by the vagina flowers as if they aren't there, but creates such a traffic jam at one of the desert

paintings that the ant line re-routes around her. The patrons of the arts skip the entire painting, because

a silly girl would have ruined the momentum of the ever-trudging line. I stifle a chuckle as I think of that

Pixar film with the ants where they start yelling when a gap appears in the line. My mother elbows me

and givesmethat‘shutthehellupinpublic’lookIrollmyeyesbutcontinuepretendingtobeanart-

appreciating insect.

After a while I realize she is still flitting back and forth across the gallery fucking with the ants, but the

ponytailed man is nowhere to be seen. I'm not sure that she noticed at first, so caught up was she in the

art she found worth looking at, but I can tell when she realizes he either isn't there, or hasn't returned

as expected. Her arms cross in front of her chest, and her eyebrows furrow together, and her teeth bite

into her lower lip so hard I half-expect her to start bleeding all over the place. Until she crosses her

arms, I don't notice that she isn't even carrying a purse. Instead she's carrying a fucking Star Wars X-

wing lunch box. Is she for real? People sell that shit on eBay to collectors to put on bookshelves and dust

regularly, and she's using it as a purse.

She must have come to some decision then, because I watch her huff and then stalk off toward the exit,

lunch box swinging at her side. It is at this very moment when I watch the glass inner doors swing shut

behind her that I come to my own decision. I leave the ants — and my mother — and follow her.

She hasn't gone far. I see her sitting on a bench donated by some other patron who wanted their name

on a plaque on a bench instead of a plaque on a wall. She is doing the weirdest dance-type thing I've

ever seen, shaking her ass all over the seat like she was polishing it for the gallery. She sets the lunch

box/purse down next to her and opens it, and I watch for her to reach for a cell phone to call the

ponytailed friend, but she doesn't. No, she pulls out a motherfucking sandwich and starts eating it. A

sandwich. In a metal lunch box. At the gallery.

There is no way I am going to be able to hold it back, so I throw my head back and laugh my ass off, the

sound echoing off the brick buildings surrounding the gallery. I probably should care that she can hear

me, but I really don't mind. I have to talk to her.

BPOV

Shit. Busted.

I saw him inside a few minutes ago, the only break in the near-uniform parade of rich, old people, rich,

middle-aged people and just-plain-rich people looking at the big fucking flowers.

He'd looked bored.

I could tell right away he was there with mommy, following her along, too used to being a lamb to break

off from the sheep, no matter how hard his hipster outfit screamed that he wanted to be different. I'd

sort of wanted to tell him that he could dress just like the rest of them, and really being different was all

in how you looked at things, not in how you dressed, but I wasn't entirely sure he would be receptive to

that, seeing as he was so afraid of mommy he wouldn't even change his pace in the line. I could tell,

watching him when I wasn't looking at a painting, when he liked something, because his eyes would

light up. And when he was bored, he'd sort of pinch the bridge of his nose like he was Samantha on

Bewitched and trying hard not to wiggle his nose and wish all these stuck-up motherfuckers away so he

could move right along past it.

Still, he was out here now, and I knew his place in the Bataan Death March of art appreciation couldn't

have reached the end of the exhibit, so I was going to have to give him credit for trying. I know he can

see me looking at him, but he's too afraid to just come on over and say hello and maybe rub his ass all

over this art/bench. Maybe it's his granny's name on the plaque behind me. Shit, that would be

hilarious, and almost worth getting left behind today.

I decide to give him a break today. Maybe walking out here was his first tiny baby step, and he's afraid

to toddle across the room, because he doesn't want to end up on his ass.

“Hey!Richkid!Youlikegoatcheese?”

He's looking confused. Jesus Tapdancing Christ, like there was anyone else under the age of fifty around

here? Just me, him - well, James was off, fucking some pretty boy's mouth right now in all likelihood - so

just me and him. He and I. Shit, I can't ever remember. Just two young people. What was I saying?

Oh, right. I'm inviting him to share my sandwich, and he's almost here now.

“Whatdidyouask?”

“IaskedifyoulikedgoatcheeseImwillingtosharemyfuckingfantabuloussandwichwithyouonone

condition”

“Acondition?”Hecocksoneeyebrowat me and sort of smiles using one side of his mouth more than the

other. How fucking cute is that?

“WellsortoftwoconditionsOneisthatyoucanhelpmegetaSnickersbarWecanshareitbutI

totallydidntpackanydesserttoday”

“Icanmanagea candybarIthinkWhatstheothercondition?”

“Richkidhello?NotjustanycandybarASnickersPackedwithpeanutsandshitImightallowyouto

get me a Snickers Almond which we all know is really just a Mars Bar, but it has to say Snickers”

“Snickersitis”heagrees“Whatstheothercondition?”

“IneedawaytogethomeYoucanloanmeacellphoneorcallyourdriverformebecauseI know you

haveoneorwhateverIjustdontwanttositherealldamnday”

“Youhaveplans?”

Oh my fucking god, he's so adorable. Do I have plans? Yes, I have plans. I have plans to take a fucking

nap and maybe read a few more pages of Chaucer, because I will finish that shit one of these days. I still

feel guilty about cheating and reading those stupid quickie notes freshman year.

“Hmm”Ianswer“ImnotsureDoyouhaveplans?”

He isn't answering, but instead turns and heads back into the gallery. I roll my eyes and shake my head.

Never fails. He could have at least let me use his phone to call Alice for a ride. I'm not that fucking weird,

am I?

I look down. Okay, so maybe the hems of my jeans are a little bit ratty. It's not my fault I have short legs

and they drag on the damn pavement. My Chucks are a little bit dirty, but again, not my fault. It totally

sucks trying to remember to bring a spare pair of shoes to the fucking laundromat to wash them. My t-

shirtforoncedoesnthaveanythingvulgaror‘untoward’onitShitItsaKafkashirtFromPrague

That's culture, isn't it? Fucking Kafka , people. And my hoodie is freshly washed. I just did laundry last

night. It looks fine and smells fine. Shit, even my hair is pretty generic this month. It's a nice, plain wine

color. I didn't highlight it or dye it black with streaks or anything.

Fuck me. James still isn't back. Rich kid is gone. And I'm bored. If my phone was charged, at least I could

have gone online or listened to music. As it is, I have nothing to do. And my nap is not going to get

fucked with if I have anything to say about it.

EPOV

I go back in, ask my mother if she minds me leaving her there with her friend Mindy or Jill or what-the-

fuck-ever and make my way back outside to see her, the Crazy Sandwich Girl, asleep on the bench. She's

wrapped her arms around her lunch box and is using it as a pillow and is taking a nap. Was I seriously

gone that long? The conversation had been so short my mother hadn't even bothered to ask me where I

was going.

She's drooling a bit on her sleeve, and I'm wondering if I should wake her up or just sit down next to

her. I can't imagine being so damn tired I'd sleep on a bench in front of a gallery, but I have no idea what

her circumstances might be. Still, she mentioned candy and a ride, not being tired, so I'm going to go out

on a limb and guess that food and transportation are higher priorities. She said she had goat cheese, so I

doubt that she's starving or homeless. Even if she looks like she is. But how do I wake her up when I

don't even know her name?

Idebateanynumberofwaystowakeherstartingwith‘Heyyou!’andendingwithjustrollingheronto

her back and fucking her on the bench, but I'm pretty sure that this girl would give me a kick in the balls

if she even knew I'd thought it, much less attempted it. I decide on the tried-but-true arm shaking, and

she responds by grumbling in her sleep and smacking my hand away. I laugh and shake her a bit harder,

and she finally rolls to her side, shading her eyes with her hand as she looks at me.

“OhHeyRichKidYoureback”

Apparently she'd thought I'd abandoned her.

“YesIjusthadtoleavemymotherinthecapablehandsofherladies-who-lunch-friends. Can I drive you

whereveryouneedtogo?”

She smiles then, as if I'm Prince Fucking Charming here on my white steed to whisk her off into the

bloody sunset, and sits up.

“YesyoucertainlycanLetsstartwiththeSnickersbarandgofromthereDoyoufeelfavorablyabout

coffeeinlargequantities?”shesasking

I stand and offer her my hand, a gallant move I've only ever seen in movies and sure as shit never

attempted myself. It makes me ecstatic when she accepts it, and we walk off to the stupid silver Volvo

myparentsboughtmefor‘safetyreasons’ImsureshesgoingtomakesnidecommentsaboutitandI

find that I'm looking forward to it. And to having my first Snickers in god only knows how long

apparently with large quantities of coffee.

~*~

Plik z chomika:

Inne pliki z tego folderu:

Inne foldery tego chomika: