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heartofether · 3 years

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Episode 14 - Hungry TRANSCRIPT

[You can listen to the show wherever you get your podcasts, or go to our “Listen” page if you’re on desktop.]

VAL

Hey there. I just wanted to say before the episode that you may notice that Phoebe's voice sounds different than it did before. We now have a new voice actor who will be playing Phoebe Wood. We wish her previous voice actor, Nyx King, all the best on all of their future endeavors. Phoebe's new voice actor is going to be Lark Pelletier, who we are delighted to have on our cast.

I just wanted to let you all know so you didn't get confused when Phoebe's voice sounded different, and it was some sort of plot-related Not!Phoebe thing. Other than that, I hope you enjoy the episode, and stay safe out there.

AUTOMATED VOICE

Please state [THE VOICE GLITCHES] your message.

[THEME SONG BEGINS PLAYING.]

VAL

Three-Eyed Frog Presents: The Heart of Ether.

[THEME MUSIC FADES TO A STOP.]

[PHONE BEEP.]

[INT. THE POPPY GARDEN MOTEL, AGENTS MAY AND JUNES’ ROOM, NIGHT.]

[AGENT MAY IS HEARD FLIPPING THROUGH PAPERS.]

AGENT MAY

This is the audio log of Operation Saturn, phase 1.2. This is day one, part two. Conducted by Agents May and June. All recordings are legal property of the Harper—

[HE STOPS, THEN, FRUSTRATED] Goddammit, where did he put that photo?

[HE CONTINUES TO SORT THROUGH PAPERS, THEN, DISGRUNTLED] After our conversation with Irene Gray, Agent June and I had to re-organize the folders she disturbed. Of course, June had no understanding of how the folders were sorted, so he shoved papers wherever he saw fit. [UNDER HIS BREATH] No mind to the effort I put into labeling each folder.

It must be here somewhere.

[THE DOOR SWINGS OPEN AS AGENT JUNE WALKS IN, ARMS FULL OF SNACKS. HE'S HEARD CLOSING IT BEHIND HIM AS HE TALKS.]

AGENT JUNE

You are not going to believe this, my man. Okay, so, this motel is cheap as hell, right? Super dusty, the wallpaper’s peeling off, kinda smells like someone’s dog died in the lobby. Honestly, lowkey hoped the Foundation would have been a little bit more generous with their funds, but also I’m not surprised they stuck us here. I mean, hey, what do I know? Maybe this motel is haunted and they expect us to Ghostbuster the place up.

[AGENT MAY GROANS LOUDLY.]

AGENT JUNE

[CONT.] But! Here’s the kicker! Vending machines downstairs? Jam-packed. They have king-sized candy bars!

[THERE ARE WRAPPER NOISES AS AGENT JUNE SHOWS OFF HIS FINDS.]

AGENT JUNE

Look at this! Man, I haven’t actually eaten candy in so long. The drink machine is all off-brand soda, though, so, sucks to suck, I guess.

[HE DUMPS THE SNACKS ONTO THE BED.]

AGENT JUNE

Oh, and there is a pool. Hot tub, too. Though there were some stray cats in the bushes who were…well, I’ll leave that up to your imagination. Still, if you packed a swimsuit, maybe we could hit that up later?

AGENT MAY

I did not pack a swimsuit. Unlike some of us, I came here to do my job.

AGENT JUNE

Hey, that’s not fair. Of course I’m doing my job! I just, you know, enjoy having a life outside of work. Know what that’s like?

AGENT MAY

Of course I do. I just don’t intend to do any messing around while we’re here.

AGENT JUNE

Oh, yeah?

[AGENT JUNE CROSSES HIS ARMS.]

AGENT JUNE

What do you do outside of work?

AGENT MAY

I cook. I read, though recently, I haven’t done so as much as I used to. I keep up with the news. I, you know, run errands. [AS THE LIST GOES ON, HE STRUGGLES MORE AND MORE TO COME UP WITH THINGS.]

AGENT JUNE

Okay, only half of those things are potentially fun. Not even guaranteed fun, just the potential for enjoyment.

AGENT MAY

What does it matter to you what I do in my free time, anyways?

AGENT JUNE

Because nobody should be trapped in that miserable cycle where you just do your 9-to-5 until you die, dude! Come on.

Alright, how about this: from here on out, my mission within this mission is to get you to do something fun. Got that? You’re walking away from here with one new hobby or so help me.

AGENT MAY

What about our actual job?

AGENT JUNE

I’ll find time in between! You just watch.

[AGENT JUNE PLOPS DOWN ON HIS BED. HE OPENS THE WRAPPER FOR ONE OF THE CANDY BARS. THERE’S A PAUSE.]

AGENT MAY

Do you think Irene Gray will come back around?

AGENT JUNE

Mm, not sure? She didn’t seem too happy with us.

[AS MAY CONTINUES, JUNE IS HEARD EATING ONE OF HIS CANDY BARS.]

AGENT MAY

I’m just worried she won’t agree to work with us after today. I mean, our mission just started, and we might have just lost what could have been a valuable connection. I mean, you saw how suspicious she was when we entered her house. It’s possible that she knows exactly what it is we’re after—and if she’s familiar with Valencia’s work, well, who knows what she knows?

AGENT JUNE

[THROUGH CHEWING] I get what you mean. [HE SWALLOWS.] Though, to be fair, our method was kind of…

AGENT MAY

[A BEAT.] Pardon?

AGENT JUNE

[HESITANT] Don’t you think it’s kind of cruel? Using Rosemary to lure her in? It’s clearly a sensitive topic for her, and we just kind of, you know, ripped the bandage off a wound that may or may not have healed properly.

AGENT MAY

[STRAINED] You have a point.

[UNCOMFORTABLE] We were following orders, though.

AGENT JUNE

I guess.

[THERE’S A PAUSE, FOLLOWED BY MORE CANDY WRAPPER RUSTLING.]

AGENT JUNE

Speaking of which, what does the Foundation have on the agenda for us next?

AGENT MAY

Plenty to keep us occupied. We are going to be interviewing a woman named Lorelei Foster—

[AGENT JUNE GROANS.]

AGENT MAY

We’re not trying to bait her or anything like that. This is just an interview. She lives on the outskirts of town, but she used to own Moon Cloves, the only metaphysical store in town. She is also one of the only people who was close to Valencia that is still alive.

AGENT JUNE

Gotcha, gotcha.

[AN UNCOMFORTABLE PAUSE AS AGENT JUNE CONTINUES TO EAT HIS CANDY.]

AGENT MAY

Would you mind not eating on the bed?

AGENT JUNE

Mm! Actually, so glad you brought up the uh, singular ‘bed.’

[AGENT JUNE SHIFTS AROUND ON THE SINGULAR BED TO EMPHASIZE HIS POINT.]

AGENT JUNE

What do you plan on doing about that?

AGENT MAY

Haven’t thought about it. Say, do you know what happened to that photo we had of the bicycle?

AGENT JUNE

Oh, no clue.

[AGENT MAY GROANS IN FRUSTRATION.]

AGENT JUNE

[COOING] You’re avoiding the bed situation, aren’t you?

AGENT MAY

[GRUMBLING] You can have it. I’m fine sleeping in the car.

AGENT JUNE

[SURPRISED] Woah, you sure? I mean, I’m used to uncomfortable sleeping arrangements, trust me.

AGENT MAY

I’ll be fine. I prefer the uh, privacy, of the car.

AGENT JUNE

[UNCONVINCED] Sure.

Uh, thank you. For the bed. [HE CHUCKLES.] How did the Foundation manage to mess that one up, anyways?

AGENT MAY

Apparently, there was a mistake in the paperwork.

AGENT JUNE

That sucks.

AGENT MAY

Indeed.

[A PAUSE.]

AGENT MAY

Right. We should probably get some rest soon, anyways.

AGENT JUNE

[HE SCOFFS.] Dude, are you kidding me? It’s like, 8:30! Okay, I refuse to go to bed that early.

AGENT MAY

We have a busy day ahead of us.

AGENT JUNE

Yeah, and I’m used to functioning off of five hours of sleep, so I’ll be fine.

AGENT MAY

My apologies for having a healthy sleep schedule. Anyways, I’m turning this off—

[PHONE BEEP.]

[RECORDING ENDS.]

[ANOTHER PHONE BEEP.]

[INT. “VEIL,” A HIP, MODERN RESTAURANT DOWNTOWN, MIDDAY.]

[THE RESTAURANT IS BUSTLING WITH ACTIVITY. THERE’S FAINT CONVERSATION AND DISH CLANKING IN THE BACKGROUND.]

AVERY

Is it on?

IRENE

[UNEASY] Um, yeah. Say, how did you know I was going to record this?

AVERY

Hm? Oh, it was a lucky guess. I just wanted you to wait until we got done ordering.

IRENE

Right.

[A BEAT.] How long do you think we’ll be here, exactly? I have plans to meet someone back at my house this afternoon.

AVERY

Oh, that’s fine. It shouldn’t be long. You could technically leave whenever you like, since I’m taking the bill.

IRENE

What? No! I’m not letting a teenager pay for my food—

AVERY

How old are you, again? You look college-age. You’re wearing a university t-shirt—say, did you live on campus? Maybe have a meal plan? I mean, you don’t look like your parents have money, but I could be—

IRENE

[CUTTING THEM OFF] Okay, okay, I get it. Thank you for lunch, I guess.

AVERY

Not a problem.

[THERE’S A LONG PAUSE.]

IRENE

[AWKWARDLY] So, are you going to explain it?

AVERY

Explain what?

IRENE

The meat thing.

AVERY

Oh, you want to discuss my eating habits? That’s kinda rude, you know.

IRENE

I mean, you just ordered your burger, quote, “as rare as you’re legally allowed to serve it,” and then offered me your side. Plus, I’ve seen what your mom buys at the store for you.

AVERY

Oh, don’t preach to me about the ethics of eating a living thing or whatever. I’ve heard enough of that. You know, it’s not as black and white as—

IRENE

[OVERLAPPING, WITH A GROAN] Look, I may be vegetarian, but it’s not like that. I’m not talking from a place of judgment or moral high ground, I just—wanna know if there’s a reason for it. Your meat diet.

[SHE TAKES A DRINK OF HER WATER.]

AVERY

I’m not human.

[IRENE PROMPTLY SPITS HER WATER OUT.]

AVERY

Mm, well, I think I’m pretty close to human. And don’t mix this up as some sort of identity thing—I actually had my gender slash identity crisis before my transformation.

[MUTTERS] Actually thought I had myself pretty well figured out before the change. Keyword being ‘thought.’ There was still this part of me that was desperately trying to be something I wasn’t, I think. It led to me becoming something I didn’t want to be in a very literal and permanent sense.

IRENE

So, you weren’t always like this?

AVERY

Nope. I used to be a person just like you. That is, until I got involved with some heavy stuff. Stuff I shouldn’t have messed with, you know?

I did a ritual I shouldn’t have done, and—hey, do you know how it feels for your insides to be rearranged by some otherworldly force? As if your internal organs are a completed puzzle, but somebody decided it didn’t look right, so they just started jamming the pieces together in an attempt to make a new image?

IRENE

[UNCOMFORTABLE] That sounds painful.

AVERY

Obviously! Anyways, I’m doing better now. That was a couple of years ago. The big difference is that now, raw meat is pretty much the only thing my body is good at digesting. I can technically eat other food, but it doesn’t take much before I start getting sick.

IRENE

That sounds…jeez, I’m sorry.

AVERY

Hey, there are perks to it. I mean, my canines are super sharp, so I kinda look like a vampire if you look hard enough. Oh, I’m also super strong. Like, not “pick up your car” strong, but I could probably lift this table up.

IRENE

[SLOWLY BECOMING INCREASINGLY OVERWHELMED] Right.

AVERY

Does that answer your question?

IRENE

Yeah, but it spawned, like, five more, uh—

[IRENE STRUGGLES TO COLLECT HERSELF FOR A MOMENT.]

AVERY

You’re not going to figure this all out in one day, so don’t try to. Seriously. You look really overwhelmed. It’s not about making out the whole bigger picture right away, just focus on like, the upper right-hand corner of it.

IRENE

[CALMING DOWN] Right. Right, okay.

AVERY

I’ll let you ask a couple more questions, though.

IRENE

So, you did a ritual that shifted your organs around and made you something…slightly to the left of human?

AVERY

That’s correct.

IRENE

Where did that power come from? What made that happen to you?

AVERY

[THEY THINK FOR A MOMENT.] That’s a more complicated answer than I think you’re ready for. I mean, if you don’t even know what Ether is—

IRENE

[CUTTING THEM OFF, IN REALIZATION] Ether! God, Valencia had that written somewhere, I think—when I went up to the attic during the—

AVERY

So you do know Valencia.

IRENE

Well, yeah. I’m living in his old house.

AVERY

I know. That house has a reputation, you know. Almost as much as the man himself. [WARNING] People take note of things like that.

IRENE

So, Ether is the source of your power?

AVERY

Mm, sort of? It’s complicated. Ether is the source behind a whole lot of things, but I’m not sure it has any sort of agenda.

IRENE

Is it linked to the mold at all? Or, wait, do you even know what the mold is?

AVERY

You mean the Spread? Yellow, infects people upon touch, kind of has a mind of its own?

IRENE

…the Spread?

AVERY

That’s what Dorothy and Valencia called it. They had all sorts of weird names for things.

IRENE

That explains the Folk.

Did they have a name for what you are?

AVERY

Yeah. [MUTTERS] I don’t like it, though.

IRENE

What is it?

AVERY

[WITH DISTASTE] The Hungry.

[A BEAT.] That’s really the only name there is, though, so, I kinda have to just suck it up.

IRENE

How did you find all of that out? From what I’ve seen of their research, it’s mostly blank—

AVERY

[WHISPERING] Might want to keep your voice down about the research. People could be listening.

[A PAUSE.]

IRENE

[WHISPERING] What the fuck.

AVERY

[AT NORMAL VOLUME, TRYING TO PLAY IT OFF] The naming conventions are the only part of their research that sort of became common knowledge over time. At least, among those who knew what Ether was. I think even that stupid Foundation picked up on the names after a while. Dorothy and Valencia never really agreed on how exactly the names should be determined, and they died before they could finally stop having petty arguments over it.

I knew Dorothy, though, before she died. She helped me figure out my whole [UNSEEN VAGUE GESTURE] situation. She was a much kinder person than Valencia, you know.

IRENE

I’ve gathered that much. Damn, that means you know more about this than even her own granddaughter.

AVERY

Phoebe Wood? I don’t know her that well. I only saw her around the bookstore once or twice—well, and at Dorothy’s funeral, obviously.

IRENE

I see.

AVERY

Any other questions?

[A PAUSE.]

IRENE

Why did you invite me here?

AVERY

…hm?

IRENE

I mean, why did you invite me to lunch? This—whatever you’re involved in—is clearly far bigger than me. Why would you want to talk to me, of all people?

AVERY

[THROUGH A SMILE] You’re clever, Irene. Nosy, too. That might cause you some problems later.

Anyways, this whole lunch was a test.

[A BEAT.] Oh, why do you look so shocked? What did you think this was about, anyways? Leisurely conversation with some random kid who came to your house?

Anyways, I’ve been involved in this business for, mm, two years? After a while, you get really good at reading people, you know? Most people who choose to get involved in this are just flat-out stupid, but you, Irene, are a special breed of stupid.

Like, you’re not pretentious or egotistical like some of them are, but you’re stubborn, you know? You don’t go down easy. Take that as a compliment. Or don’t. I barely know you, what does my word count for?

[IRENE STUTTERS SOMETHING INCOHERENT.]

AVERY

[CONT.] What I’m saying is that you might just be stupid enough to accidentally do something smart. That’s the kind of behavior that can save you from getting killed. Am I making sense?

IRENE

Um, maybe?

AVERY

Great. Anyways, I hate to be the one to break it to you, but you’re in too deep at this point. You were already kind of cursed the moment you were naive enough to move into Valencia’s house. There’s a reason it was empty for so long, you know. Again, reputation, or whatever.

If you’ve already encountered the Spread, however, well, that’s kind of the final nail in the coffin. You’re in this game, whether you like it or not.

IRENE

Calling it a game implies that it’s fun.

AVERY

[THINKING] For some of them, it is.

IRENE

And who are they?

AVERY

If you learn to shut your mouth, you may never have to find out, but you’re not very good at that.

IRENE

[OFFENDED] Hey—!

AVERY

[OVERLAPPING] Anyways, you clearly need some help getting your footing in all of this. Wouldn’t it be nice to have someone on your side who isn’t out of their mind or a murderer? I pride myself in that.

IRENE

[WARILY] You said this was a test.

AVERY

That I did.

IRENE

…did I pass?

AVERY

Yep.

[HESITANT] The test wasn’t to see whether or not I would help you, though. I planned on offering my assistance regardless—well, unless you were a complete jerk, but you’re not.

The test was to see…well, to see if you could help me.

IRENE

You need my help?

AVERY

[TRYING TO HIDE THEIR WORRY] I think the waiter has our food. You should probably turn off the recording.

IRENE

[REALIZING] Oh. Okay.

[PHONE BEEP.]

[RECORDING ENDS.]

[ANOTHER PHONE BEEP.]

[INT. IRENE’S ATTIC, THE SAME DAY, MIDDAY.]

[THERE IS THE SOUND OF PHOEBE AND HOLLY CLIMBING UP THE LADDER AND INTO THE ATTIC.]

IRENE

[TO PHOEBE] Can you climb up over the—

PHOEBE

[OVERLAPPING] Yup, yup, just um, please—

[IRENE HELPS PHOEBE UP ONTO THE ATTIC FLOOR.]

PHOEBE

Sorry. Thank you.

IRENE

It’s not a problem. Will you be able to get down?

PHOEBE

That should be easier, I think. My legs just hurt a lot if I move too much. It’s fine. I’ll be fine.

[HOLLY CLIMBS UP INTO THE ATTIC.]

HOLLY

Here’s your cane.

PHOEBE

Thank you.

HOLLY

Of course.

PHOEBE

Oh, Irene, I hope you don’t mind I brought someone else. Holly is, uh—

HOLLY

[OVERLAPPING] We’re dating.

IRENE

Oh. Oh! Right, I didn’t know you were dating someone, Phoebe.

PHOEBE

[FLUSTERED] We just started recently—I mean, like, very recent.

IRENE

Well, congratulations.

PHOEBE

Thank you.

[FOOTSTEPS AS HOLLY LOOKS AROUND THE ATTIC.]

HOLLY

So, this is it?

IRENE

Unless he has something hidden beneath the floorboards, then, this is all of it.

HOLLY

[SHE CHUCKLES.] At this point, that wouldn’t surprise me.

IRENE

Good point. [A BEAT.] We’re not ripping up my floors, though. This house may have belonged to Valencia, but it’s mine now.

[PHOEBE IS HEARD FLIPPING THROUGH SOME PAPERS.]

PHOEBE

This looks just like what Grandma Doe has.

IRENE

There’s more than just that.

[IRENE HANDS PHOEBE ONE OF THE BOOKS.]

PHOEBE

[READING THE COVER.] Daughtler: The Heart of Ether.

[SHE FANS THROUGH IT.]

PHOEBE

[SURPRISED] None of this is written in code. Irene, have you read any of this?

IRENE

Not yet. I haven’t had the time. We found these books when we got cornered.

[PHOEBE CONTINUES FLIPPING THROUGH PAGES.]

PHOEBE

It never got finished. He must have died before he could get around to it.

[HOLLY'S FOOTSTEPS ARE HEARD IN THE BACKGROUND.]

IRENE

What do you think he planned on doing with these?

PHOEBE

I’m not sure? Maybe he wanted to make the knowledge more accessible?

[HOLLY IS HEARD OPENING A CARDBOARD BOX.]

HOLLY

Hey, have you looked in this box?

IRENE

Um, no. I haven’t sorted through everything yet. Why?

[AS IRENE TALKS, SHE WALKS OVER TO WHERE HOLLY IS.]

HOLLY

There’s a bunch of undeveloped film in here.

IRENE

What do you think is on it?

HOLLY

Hell if I know. Do you have a place to develop film?

IRENE

No. Do you know anyone, Phoebe?

PHOEBE

Um, no. Sorry.

HOLLY

We can try putting an advert out. There’s a bulletin board outside of the Open Eyes Bookstore. Maybe if we post something, someone will reach out?

IRENE

That’s a good idea. I can put my number on it, too.

PHOEBE

[NERVOUS] Are you sure that’s a good idea?

IRENE

We don’t have to say what the film is for, right? It wouldn’t hurt to try. I mean, what if Valencia took a photo of something really important? Until we figure out how to read the other research, this may be the only tangible evidence we have.

[A BEAT.]

PHOEBE

Yeah, um, about that—

HOLLY

We figured out how to read the research. Well, correction, Phoebe did.

IRENE

[SURPRISED] Actually? That’s great news, Phoebe! How are you going to do it?

PHOEBE

[NERVOUS] Well, you see, it’s er, um, complicated. You might want to sit down?

IRENE

Oh, I guarantee you, nothing can surprise me after the conversation I had earlier. Try me.

PHOEBE

Well, the reason why the papers look blank is because they’re written in a way the human eye can’t read. Everything the two of them researched, it all stemmed from this thing called Ether, though I’m not sure entirely what that means yet other than it’s something like a power source.

My grandmother and Valencia had, um, special abilities? That allowed them to read and write in ways nobody else could understand, as well as do other stuff. So, if I want to be able to properly continue their work, I have to do the same thing they did. Acquire those same powers.

IRENE

So, is there, like, a ritual you have to do?

PHOEBE

You’re not freaking out?

IRENE

[DEADPAN] What did I say? I’ll accept anything at this point.

HOLLY

It is a ritual, yeah. We haven’t done it yet, because there’s a specific way to do it, and the consequences of fucking it up can be pretty bad. Dorothy left instructions on how to do it.

Phoebe’s going to be the only one trying to—how do I say this, ascend? Obtain the magic, or whatever it is? I’m going to be there to help in case anything goes wrong, though.

IRENE

That’s your plan, then? You’re gonna try to get supernatural powers to continue your grandmother’s work?

PHOEBE

It sounds kind of surreal when you put it that way, but, yes.

IRENE

Are you sure that’s what you want, Phoebe? I mean, I’m not saying you shouldn’t—it would definitely be helpful to have someone who can understand all this stuff, but… [SHE TRAILS OFF.]

PHOEBE

But?

IRENE

It’s your life. You don’t have to do what your grandmother did. This sounds like a really big deal. I mean, is there any way to reverse it once it’s done?

PHOEBE

Not as far as I know.

HOLLY

Trust me, we had this conversation. [HOLDING SOMETHING BACK] I have my worries too, but—

PHOEBE

But it’s not really a choice. For me, at least. I’ve thought really hard about it, and I’ve decided that if Grandma Doe thought I could handle it, then I trust her. I know there’s no turning back, but, I’m willing to accept the responsibility.

IRENE

Okay, then. That’s good. I hope it didn’t seem like I was trying to scold you, I just—

PHOEBE

No, you’re fine, don’t worry! I know you’re just looking out for me. I appreciate it. [SHE SAYS THIS WITH SLIGHT DISCOMFORT, SINCE SHE ISN’T USED TO PEOPLE CARING.]

IRENE

Of course.

[A BRIEF PAUSE.]

HOLLY

Well, should we get back to the shop and post that ad?

PHOEBE

That would be a good idea, yeah.

[PHOEBE CLOSES THE BOOK.]

PHOEBE

Um, do you mind if I bring this book with me, Irene?

IRENE

Go right ahead.

PHOEBE

Thanks again.

IRENE

Yup. Let me know how it goes.

[HOLLY HELPS PHOEBE GET ONTO THE LADDER.]

HOLLY

Are you good?

PHOEBE

Yup, yup. Thank you.

HOLLY

Unless you need my help, you can head to the car. I’ll be down in a minute.

PHOEBE

I’ll be okay, thanks.

[A LONG PAUSE WHILE PHOEBE CLIMBS DOWN AND LEAVES.]

HOLLY

Irene?

IRENE

Yeah?

HOLLY

What’s your endgame here?

IRENE

[TAKEN ABACK] Um, what?

HOLLY

I mean, why are you doing this?

IRENE

I didn’t have a choice. The mold attacked me first.

HOLLY

But you didn’t just move to a different place. You didn’t try to run away.

[A TENSE PAUSE.]

IRENE

[WARILY] You know what they say. Curiosity killed the cat.

HOLLY

Oh, come on, it’s not just that.

IRENE

[A BEAT.] No. No, it’s not.

HOLLY

Whatever it is, could you promise me one thing?

IRENE

I can try.

HOLLY

Don’t get too close. You’re already in dangerous territory. Not long until you’re gonna get burned.

IRENE

[SHE SCOFFS.] Not the first time I’ve heard that today.

HOLLY

[DEFENSIVE] And no matter what it is, you don’t put Phoebe at risk, in any way. You don’t touch a hair on her head, got that?

IRENE

I’d never dream of it.

HOLLY

Good. Take care.

IRENE

You, too.

[HOLLY LEAVES. THERE’S A LONG MOMENT WHILE IRENE LINGERS, WAITING UNTIL THEY’VE LEFT THE HOUSE.]

IRENE

There’s one more thing I need to tell you, Rose.

When Avery asked me to turn off the recording, it wasn’t just because our food had arrived. They said they needed my help with something.

You know how they said they were part of a wider, I guess, subcategory of weird? The Hungry? They know other people who are like that, and apparently, the Hungry are starting to go missing. It’s been most prevalent in the Washington area over the past month, but it’s been going on across the country for a long time.

Avery thinks someone’s killing them. One by one. Hunting them down.

They asked if I could help figure out what’s happening. I agreed. Not sure why. I have no clue how I’m supposed to catch a killer. Guess I’ll have to figure it out.

I should get going. I have a lot of thinking to do.

Talk to you soon.

[PHONE BEEP.]

[RECORDING ENDS.]

[ANOTHER PHONE BEEP.]

[INT. IRENE’S BEDROOM, NIGHT.]

[THERE IS THE SOUND OF CRICKETS FROM OUTSIDE.]

IRENE

[SOFTLY, TINGED WITH SLEEPINESS] Hey. I know it’s late. Trust me, I’ve tried sleeping, but it just isn’t happening. I have too much on my mind. Avery’s problem, Phoebe’s plan…Ether. Whatever that means.

But, above all of that—above the chaos my life is slowly dissolving into—I’ve realized something: I might see you again. For years, the thought of being with you has been a passive daydream. Now, for the first time in ages, it’s a real and tangible thing in my hands. It’s not just a hope, but a possible future.

I’ve thought about how I might react. Hell, I’ve thought about that ever since you first went missing. Will I start sobbing? Will I scream? I have no idea. I might not do anything. Might just stand there and stare at you, dumbfounded.

[TENDER] I can be sure of one thing: if I find you, I promise not to let go. Whatever is chasing you, whatever tries to hurt you, I won’t let it. You’ve run for so long. You must be so tired.

If—no, when—when I find you, I’ll…I’ll give you anything, okay? A hundred flowers. A thousand paper cranes. Easy mornings, trips to the bakery, that domestic life you used to romanticize so much, but never got. My flesh, my blood, my bones, my whole entire being. I’ll give it all to you. Of course I will.

Goodnight, my dove.

[PHONE BEEP.]

[RECORDING ENDS.]

AUTOMATED VOICE

Today's quote is: “I will take the sun in my mouth

and leap into the ripe air

Alive

with closed eyes

to dash against darkness.”

E.E. Cummings in Crepuscule, 1917.

We are all there is here. That which we harbor will not spoil you with rotten words. There is no cause for concern. There is no cause for concern. [THEN, SLOWER] There is no—

[THE VOICE IS CUT OFF BY A GLITCHING NOISE.]

[OUTRO MUSIC & CREDITS PLAY.]

ELI ESDI

The Station Arcadia podcast tells stories from a dystopian world where dieselpunk, steampunk, cyberpunk and solarpunk societies all exist side by side. These diverse stories are told through a radio station on a shifting island, and given voice by the Station's Host - Kassandra.

KASS

Did that man just try to offer jerky as a consolation prize for someone’s daughter?

ELI

Woven through each stand-alone story are threads that come together to tell the story of a revolution, and hope in the face of a dying world. MEMORIE

I understand enough. The revolution still has hope and I want to help.

ELI Breaks in the narration bring us on-site to each society, where we hear four unique and powerful stories.

[ALICE GRUNTS]

TEDDY

Stop squirming!

ALICE

I can lift myself through the window let me just-!

[DULL THUD FROM BEHIND A WALL.]

ALICE

[MUFFLED] Ow.

ELI

Station Arcadia broadcasts Fridays at 9 am Pacific Time. Transcripts and additional information are available at stationarcadia.com.

Remember listeners; Stay Safe, Stay Moving, and Stick Close. You’ve been listening to Station Arcadia, the promo.

#heart of ether transcripts

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syndianites · 4 years

Text

The After; The Athar: Chapter One

Chapter 1/?

Chapter 1 [Here] - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5

AO3: This Chapter - Full Fic

Summary: Post Season 2, non-Mianitian Compliant. The crew finally land back into the world after the events of Ruxomar. That should be a good thing, right? But Wag is feeling the burden of everything that has happened to him, and he didn’t even get his magic back to boot.

It’s hard to be happy when life has been so shitty.

Relationships: Sparklington (end-game), Marthlington (temporarily), Sparkanite (Spark x Ianite) (past, mentioned), Motanite

Content Warnings: Death Mentions, Implied Depression, Implied PTSD, Self-Deprecation, Breaking up a Relationship (Marthlington)

AN: I’ve been working on this since September? of 2019! I have 5 chapters done and still going. I wanted to wait to post this until I was done with it, but my impatience has gotten the better of me.

@the-moon-pal I’m coming for your crown king >:)

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They’d made it home a couple weeks ago, to the land of Mianite. It’d been such a relief. They got to meet the rest of the alts, got to watch Dianite meet the other gods- and cringe at the tension that crackled between them- got to find all their homes again. For once, in the past-however-long, there was peace. They could relax.

So why did Wag feel like utter shit?

Right. Because he literally got the worst part of the deal.

He thought his powers would come back when they got home. And they did, for a few hours. Not the full range, but a lot of it. It felt good to be full of magic again. It felt like he was himself.

But then things started to fall apart. Martha grew distant. His powers fell away in fits and bursts. He realized that the rest of FyreUK had moved on after they made amends in Ruxomar. They found their way on. Without him.

Nothing was the same, he realized, as he spent more time around the place they had called ‘home.’

Spark had done what he did best: built a city. Well, more like a village. What had once been a place of buildings thrown about at random and mostly open plains was now sparsely populated. Neatly arranged shops and a few houses took up the space next to the beach. New people had even begun to show up.

Everything was changing around him, yet he was stuck holding onto the past. Holding onto his wizardhood, to his brotherhood, to a partner that was farther now than ever, and- worst of all- he was still holding onto the hope that everything would just… go back. To how it was.

To when he was important.

Well, like fuck is he was going to sit around and loathe his existence. He could at least try to do something. Swear to Athar, he wasn’t going to turn into a lump of depression just because he couldn’t handle change! He’d rather be a walking mass of depression! That way he could at least pretend he was being productive.

Potions or spellbooks? A question as old as time. Potions were a staple in his life. If there was one thing that would never leave him, it was his ability to make fucking potions. Like, fucking make potions. Not potions to help people fuck. On the other hand, the more he poured through spellbooks, the more likely he was to get closer to finding out how to get his powers back.

Maybe his powers left when FyreUK left, taking all the glory of Athar with it. But that was too terrible of a thought, so that got chucked in the ‘not-today-bitch’ bin. Which was a handy dandy mental bin that stored all of his worst problems.

He never could fit himself in it, though.

So potions it was.

Now that he was out of the business of magic, most of his money came from his potion making. He had made yet another little wizard- alchemist? Potion master?- tower. Plopped some advertisements in el Pueblo de Spark and took orders to pass the time. He had to fund his botany experiments somehow. Someone had to introduce weed into this world, that might as well be him.

If he was going down in history for something, that wasn’t ‘Word Renowned Wizard Extraordinaire’, then ‘The Guy who Made Weed’ would sure as hell work.

Wag pulled up his log of orders. Luck, luck, dexterity, healing, luck, love- yeah, those didn’t really work but he’d make it anyways-, strength, luck, yadda, yadda, yadda. Lots of luck. He could probably get away with making a batch or two of luck potions, then work through the rest.

He spared a glance outside. Spark’s little hut-square town was beginning to develop into a pleasant little fishing hole. Surprisingly- or not, given how deep the waters were nearby- the place was actually a fairly hot place for single fish to mingle. Warm waters, nice and deep, lots of cover, and not much human interference. Until now, anyway.

Either the fishermen were starting to get a fair amount of revenue going or they really needed help. Luck potions were among his most expensive. The ingredients were hard to acquire regardless of how you made it.

Rabbit’s foot? Morally and physically hard to get a hold of. Rainbow trout? Terribly rare. ‘Star-light Fruit’? Not even confirmed to exist.

His method was a little more straightforward. A butt load of four-leaf clovers, a tiny bit of alcohol, and a fuckton of glitter. Clovers for the magic, glitter for the look, and alcohol for the feeling of being lucky.

It was a very bullshit potion.

It took forever to find the clovers, let alone collect them.

Athar give him strength.

Giving one last look outside, he tucked his log book in his cloak. Then he went and rummaged through his chests.

Monotony here he comes.

~~~

Wag was halfway through his second batch of luck potions when a distant knock came from his door, followed by the sound of bells. If not for the bells he’d have ignored the knocking. With a stretch, he putzed down the stairs. The many flights of stairs.

He missed being able to make elevators.

Opening the door revealed one Mr. Sparklez, hair tousled but otherwise neatly groomed. He was relaxed, if not a little winded from his trek up the hill Wag claimed as his own.

Wag smiled. “Hey Sparklez, what brings you up to my tower of terror today? Here for a chat or a swanky danky potion?”

He gestured for Jordan to head inside and get comfortable, but the man waved him off. “Actually,” Jordan started, “I was wondering if you’d seen Martha? I needed to ask her something and I haven’t seen her all day. Figured she’d be with you.”

Ah, so Jordan wanted to find Martha.

Ouch.

Doing his best to ignore the squeeze in his chest, Wag kept his smile firmly in place. “No, I don’t think I have. She, uh.” He paused, going for a nonchalant shrug. “She doesn’t come around the tower all that often. I’d ask Spark instead. She tends to hang around him more. Her good ole pops and all, y’know. They do have a lot to catch up on.” Wag tried to ignore how weak his words sounded. He didn’t want it to sound weird that Martha wouldn’t come around, but instead he just sounded pathetic.

Great.

Jordan gave Wag an awkward smile, seemingly uncomfortable with the sad display. “Ah, alright. I’ll ask around for Spark.”

He turned to leave but caught himself before he was fully turned away. Jordan chewed on his words. “Are you-” His eyes swept over Wag. “How have you been? We don’t see you as much anymore. Other than Tom, I guess, but it's hard to get rid of Tom once he decides you’re friends, y’know?”

“I’ve been,” Wag wanted to laugh, but pushed through the sentence, “swell, thank you. I would get out more, but I’m always so busy potion making. Gotta pay the bills somehow.” The words tasted bitter on his tongue. It wasn’t the exact truth, but he did spend a lot of time on potions.

Letting his shoulders settle, Jordan gave a small laugh. “Who would press a wizard to pay bills? Someone who wants to catch on fire, I’m sure.” He opted for a friendly smile. “If you ever want to hang out or something, let me know. I’ve been getting kind of bored between Spark telling me how to be a better champion of Ianite and living in an actual, peaceful society.”

Wag waved after Jordan as he began his descent. Yeah, a wizard. A frown tugged at his face while he shut the door.

A real fucking wizard.

~~~

Making potions was rather methodical. Each step took a certain amount of time, each item had certain effects, meshed certain ways with other items. It was like following a recipe, but with bigger consequences for messing up. Cooler results, though.

Wag had just finished melting down the clovers he’d gathered and extracting the essence- which is to say he lit it on fire after sprinkling a generous amount of blaze powder on it- when Jordan had stopped by. Which was convenient, since he needed to wait for the weird half-liquid half-slime to cool off enough to move it. The awkward potions, glitter, and alcohol were already prepped. Now all he needed to do was mix shit together.

Oh joy.

At the very least, it was satisfying to roll the clover essence into little balls to plop into an awkward potion and then watch them dissolve. The clover gave the essence a natural, healthy green color while the blaze powder, which clung to even the most thoroughly washed slime, gave it something of a yellow highlight. Golden glitter gets dumped in to make it feel like you were about to drink something special. Yes, the glitter was edible. No, most people didn’t realize he put glitter in this shit. Then the alcohol was for that background buzz. It was meant to dull the senses just enough to trick people into believing, wholeheartedly, in whatever god-forsaken abomination he just made.

Sorry. What ever divinely crafted, totally safe potion he’d just made.

Sure, he didn’t test it himself, but it seemed to work well enough for the people he gave it to. So where was the harm?

It was fine.

The next part was perhaps the most boring. And he’d spent all day yesterday crawling on the ground looking for four-leaf clovers.

Tagging and packaging. Writing names on slips of paper, tying them to the potion, putting it in a small, padded box to prevent any breaks. Rinse, repeat. It was annoying, wasted money, all that jazz, but it helped the look. Who wants to be handed a regular old potion, by hand, when you can get it in some majestic looking box to really add some sparkle to your magic?

Maybe Ruxomar rubbed off on him in a bad way.

In any case, the look was important, and by Athar was he going to make it look fucking fantastic.

Unfortunately, this task was also terribly, horribly monotonous. Worse yet, it left room for thinking. And thinking was Wag’s least favorite pastime since floating in the Void. Especially since floating in the Void.

It lead to him thinking deeply about himself and Athar knows that most of his life problems could be traced right back to that. His mistakes, his fuck ups, his shortcomings, all of it came back to him thinking way too hard about himself.

Gross.

Instead, he tried to run over potion recipes in his mind. Or any recipe, really. All the different ways to make a fire resistance potion when you don’t have magma cream. Counting how many potions used lemongrass. Figuring out what potions would make it more likely to catch fish. Literally anything. As long as it was potions, it was fine.

Not about himself, not about Athar, not about wizards, and not about… Martha.

Yeah, that last one would be a one hit k-o.

But now that his mind had touched on the subject, it dug in. Sunk it's claws into the delicate stability of his mind. Dramatic, he knows, but that’s how it felt. It was like the more he tried to get the thought out of his mind, the further it burrowed into him. Awful, painful, and not even worth the effort.

Martha… clearly didn’t care about him anymore. Or, well. He winced at the thought. She didn’t love him like she used to. If she, uh. Did in the first place. But this was old news. This was something he pondered after she seemed to avoid him like the plague, seemed to grimace when she looked over and saw him and not him.

Steve.

The name sat heavy in his head. They hadn’t meshed well, ‘specially where Martha was concerned. But they managed, for her, because they loved her.

Wag felt guilty, looking back on it now. For stealing their time together, for messing with their relationship. They hadn’t gotten to be together enough, had lost too much time before-

Yeah, he didn’t like thinking about Steve more than he didn’t like thinking about Martha. Wag didn’t feel like he deserved to think the name, let alone put himself up against his image. Steve was a hero. He rebelled against Helgrind in a cunning, intelligent way, he was selfless in more aspects than any of the heroes that appeared in Ruxomar, and he was the one to sacrifice the most. To sacrifice it all.

Where did Wag stand against that?

Honestly, it was no wonder Martha couldn’t stand to look at him. He was just a reminder of Steve, a reminder that she didn’t have Steve. That she had him instead.

Had she ever loved him?

That wasn’t the point. The point was that Martha was hurting, trying to pick up the pieces of what she left behind in Ruxomar. What she had lost. And Wag wasn’t doing anything to help. He was stuck up in his tower, making potions, trying to forget about everything that he wasn’t.

He should try to look for her.

But the last time he did, he got turned away. She was “catching up with her father.” She was “busy settling into the new world.” She was “trying to get a grip on her new goddesshood.”

Wag was persistent, but even he could get the hint.

By Athar, he got the hint. “I don’t want to see you.” “Don’t come near me.” “You can’t help me.”

He wondered if Spark was doing anything to help her or if he was also caught up in everything that had happened. From what he had learned about the man in Ruxomar, he was devoted to his wife. No, he gave everything for his wife. Learning she was dead after working up everything to see her again?

He had played it well. When he heard the news, Spark kept strong, only letting his tears show. If he had gone home later after parting with Martha, who had her own grief and guilt, crumbling on the inside no one would know. And if he had locked himself away and let everything loose, let himself break, none would be the wiser. But they could guess, they could give him a passing glance, a thoughtful frown.

Wag wondered if he still carried that grief around with him.

Spark had taken to trying to discipline Jordan to be a better champion of Ianite. It had made the man uncomfortable with getting told he could be a better follower and all. Or rather, having it implied that he wasn’t the best follower. Spark was stubborn in ‘training’ the champion of Ianite to be a full fledged follower.

Still, Jordan didn’t appreciate the sentiment.

Wag understood. Having the husband of the very goddess you watched die get on your case about being a better follower? When the crushing weight of guilt hadn’t fully let off your shoulders? He wondered if Spark hadn’t taken to coaching Jordan to make himself feel better, to remind himself that he would have kept Ianite safe, that he would have fixed the world before it broke out from under them.

It sounded like torture.

But it helped settle Wag. Call him selfish, but he felt better knowing other people had real problems, real grief, to deal with. Sure, Wag had his hang up with Martha. Yeah, he had his issues with being-a-wizard-yet-not. But he wasn’t as close to neck deep as Spark was. Like Martha was.

He wished belittling his problems made them feel less suffocating.

Martha. Martha was still pushing him away. And he was letting her. What did that say about him? About their relationship?

A sigh heaved out of his chest. It was like someone stuck a large rock right in his rib cage, tucked neatly between his lungs. Hard, heavy, and an all around burden. Potions. He needed to think about potions.

His hands betrayed him with a subtle shake. How many names did he have left to write? How many boxes did he have left to pack? Fuck if he knew. He had to keep counting, to find a way to wrap up all his issues, his panic, his fear, into a nice little package and tuck it away like a forgotten gift.

Athar help me, Wag tried to control his thoughts, I might drive myself insane by the end of the year.

As if on cue, another knock at his door broke his thoughts. He tried not to feel relieved to rush away from his potion packaging. He was fine, cool as a cucumber.

Throwing open the door, he came face to face with his second visitor of the day. Tom.

Tom was standing in front of his door almost uncertainly, like he wasn’t quite sure why or how he got there. He took one sweep over Wag’s unhidden face and a determined, focus look set in on his own.

“We,” Tom looped his arm around Wag’s in a sudden movement, “are going out somewhere. No if’s, and’s, or but’s.”

Eyebrows shooting up, Wag let himself be dragged from his house with an aborted motion to close the door behind him. He mournfully watched his door stay ajar. Hopefully no one else ventured up the hill today, otherwise he might be down a few potions.

“Why?” Wag turned his attention back to Tom, who was resolute in his intention of pulling Wag away to Athar knows where.

A grin was shot in his direction. “You look like you need to get out of the house. Also, I’m real fuckin’ bored and you’re clearly in need of some company.”

A wry smile snuck on Wag’s face. “Oh lucky me. We should get some tea, live up to our trademark.”

Tom nodded. “Absolutely. Let’s hit town. Fuck it up. Flaunt our hero-ness and get shit faced.”

“Let’s not get shit faced, and especially not get kicked out of town for making a ruckus.” Wag fondly rolled his eyes. “I do quite like living here and it’d be a shame to have to follow you around to make sure you don’t die.”

Tom gave a mocked offended gasp, free hand coming up to his forehead as he leaned away. “How dare you! I’ll have you know I’d never die if I didn’t live in a community. I’m a rogue, don’t you know.” He sniffed. “I can easily hold my own in the dangerous wilds.”

“Without anyone to pester and annoy?”

“I can pester anything!”

Wag bit his lip to stop a laugh. Tom always brought such energy with him. It was refreshing. Maybe he was right, he just needed some company.

He wouldn’t say that to his face, though.

“I suppose so,” Wag continued, “You are rather persistent. I bet you could annoy the sun into setting early.”

“Nah, I’d blow that fucker up instead.” Tom winked, snuggled back up to Wag, effectively trapping his arm. “I still think we should get shit faced. Drink our sorrows into the drain, throw them up another day.”

Wag mock gagged. “I’d rather keep them down the drain, thank you. Besides, what a waste of alcohol. If I’m drinking, I’m drinking to keep it down. Not!” He quickly cut Tom off, “That I want to go out drinking.” He eyed the sky, giving a disapproving look to Tom when he saw that it was still early afternoon. “No one should be getting drunk before the sun touches the horizon.”

With a pout, Tom leaned into Wag’s side. “Lame. I suppose,” he drew out the word, “we could go get some good old fashioned tea. Call it a pre-game without the game.”

Wag rolled his eyes. He wasn’t looking to out game his issues. That wasn’t a solution. It’d just make him turn into a sad drunk and give him a headache in the morning.

This is why he needed weed back.

But also, he didn’t want to develop another problem. Gotta keep it clean. For now.

Tom still had his own plans, alcohol or no alcohol. “I find when I’m feeling down that doing something batshit stupid makes me feel better. We should go fishing with our bare hands- no, with only our teeth- and no shirt on. Attract ladies and gents to us alike. Are they looking at our finely chiseled chests or our daring courage? Who’s to say.”

“You are far from chiseled my friend. Try soft.” Wag poked Tom in the stomach jokingly. “And who said that I’m feeling down?”

“Hey!” Tom swatted his hand away. “I’ll have you know I’m more ripped than you’ll ever be!” He huffed, squeezing Wag’s arm. They walked in silence for a moment, now upon the town. After wandering the street for a second, Tom spoke again, quieter. “I had this feeling.” Wag eyes him. “It was weird. My gut was telling me to check in on you. And then when you opened the door it was written on your face. Even I’m not dumb enough to miss that.”

Wag heard the unspoken I was worried carried in Tom’s words. Talk about soft. He squeezed Tom’s arm back. “Oh wow, a gut feeling?” He teased lightly, “I think it was just you missing my magical presence. It is hard to go too long without seeing me.” If only that were true. “But I’m here now, and we can go do something absolutely stupid, just for you.”

They share a smile, a quiet thank you floating between them.

Tom gets a glint in his eyes. “Does this mean we can go catch fish with our bare hands?”

“I suppose so.” Wag drawled. “How else are we going to show off our toned figures?”

That got him a laugh, one concerningly maniacal, and he was dragged between houses.

Yeah, he might regret this.

Tom turned and gave him a smile that was all teeth and no common sense. He paused next to the shore, a little ways off from the docks. Shucking his clothes, one Tom Syndicate stood proudly in his underwear, unconcerned about the effect of sunlight on zombified skin. People gave them a look of distaste.

Oh, he was definitely going to regret this.

~~~

Soggy was one way to describe how Wag felt. Wet as shit was another. All in all, he was rather pleased with himself and the rather large, shiny fish sitting in his lap. The fish which so happened to be a fair amount larger than Tom’s.

“Oh fuck you.” Tom spluttered around a mouthful of fish, laying down an arm’s length away. He had gathered quite an amount of fish, a solid number for catching something with your mouth alone. None of them were that large. In fact, most were an average, if not slightly below, size.

Wag eyed the pile smugly. He may have only caught two, but damn if he didn’t go big.

“Well, it seems that I’ve caught myself a winner.” He tried not to look too pleased. The look on Tom’s face told him he failed.

Tom scoffed, letting the fish fall to the sandy floor with a wet fwop. “You got lucky! Clearly, quantity wins the game here. Sure, you caught one big, old, dumb motherfucker, but I caught a dozen other dumbass fish! I should get the win.”

“Wasn’t size the goal here?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, I think you do.”

Before Tom could fire back, a voice from behind interrupted him. “I think the two fools sitting in their underwear soaked to the bone are both losers.”

Wag tilted his head back to see Tucker standing with his hands in his pockets, back slouched, and an easy smile on his face, standing just where the sand turned to grass. Next to him was one lovely fox lady, Sonja herself, and one Sparkle butt, Jordan.

Nice to see the gang all here.

Tom sat up. “How dare you! I’ll have you know we are the best fishers on the island!”

Tucker raised a single eyebrow. “Really now? Are all the other fishers out at sea today?”

“Well excuse you, Mr. Boner. I’ll have you know we caught all of this,” Tom sweeps his arm across their score. “And I think that’s quite the haul.”

“How long did it take you?”

“Fuck you.”

Tucker snickered, moving closer to poke his foot into Tom’s side. “That’s what I thought.”

Wag, meanwhile, was carefully moving his prize to the side so he could stand up. Brushing the sand off himself, he exchanged a smile with Sonja and a nod with Jordan. Sonja gave him a good natured headshake. “And here I thought you were smarter than this.”

Jordan’s eyes trailed down Wag’s chest before flittering away. “Right down to your boxers? Tom must have gotten you good.”

“Well, I was fairly set on getting a nice cup of tea and walking across the beach, hand in hand like real lovers, but Tom was far more intent to go all macho and catch fish with his mouth alone.” Wag leaned in with a hand against his mouth to give a stage whisper. “Between you and me, I think he’s trying to step up his oral game.” He winked.

Jordan groaned, giving Wag what he thought to be a rather dramatic eye roll. That wasn’t even the worst he had to offer, and he’d given him such an easy setup! Sonja waggled her eyebrows and giggled when Tom butted in. “It’ll never be as good as yours dear.” He batted his eyelashes mock innocently.

The group burst into laughter. Tucker stepped closer, swinging an arm around his vaguely damp shoulders. “Hey, it’s nice to see you out and about man. It’s been a hot second. Almost thought you’d drank the wrong potion and kicked it or something.”

Wag nodded seriously. “Quite the real possibility. Why, just yesterday I almost drank real glitter! The kind you’re not supposed to eat.”

“Been there,” Sonja added, “I thought I was going to die when I did. Just gave me a very colorful trip to the bathroom.”

Tom grinned as he moved to elbow Jordan in the side. “I bet our good ole Captain here wouldn’t know the difference. How else did he get his namesake, right Mr. Sparkley Butt?”

“Hardy har,” Jordan gave Tom a fondly disgusted look. “The name’s Captain Sparklez, that ‘namesake’ came from you giving me a stupid nickname.”

They fell into more chatter, giving Tom and Wag the time to put their clothes back on, Tom not caring that he was still wet as he put his suit back on, while Wag just slung his cloak over himself. No point in putting pants on over wet underwear.

The group, all now clothed to some extent, began to wander back towards town. Wag was more than content to listen to Tom ramble on. He would get interrupted by Tucker when he said something ‘incredibly stupid’ and, more rarely, by Jordan, who would correct some technical thing that Tom clearly did not give a shit about.

Sonja drifted next to him, giving Wag a conspiratorial smile. “You’re looking mighty fine in just a robe and boxers. Is this the bedroom Wag special? Or is that sans boxers?”

“The bedroom Wag special is whatever you want it to be.” He winked. “It’s magic all around.”

They exchanged a laugh, falling silent again.

Wag knew that wasn’t what Sonja really wanted to talk about.

She looked back at him, a warm look in her eyes. “It’s nice. To see you out. Been a while, y’know?” Sonja stretched her arms out in front of her. “It really has been a bit since we’ve talked. And since you’ve left the house. But honestly?” Her tail swishes behind her. “I could have made a few more treks up that damn mountain myself.”

Shaking his head, Wag elbowed her side lightly. “It is a fairly tall hill, but I think mountain is a bit of an overstatement.” It was, in fact, a bitch of a climb, but Wag didn’t think it was that bad. He’d put the tower just on the other side of the Glowstone Forest, across from the Priest’s house. (What was it called again? Forest of the Void? Abyss Forest? Obsidian Trees? Yeah, he didn’t know or care).

Left unsaid was a ‘That’s okay, you don’t have to go out of your way’.

He received an eye roll. “Please, the only trek worse than that is up to where Tucker’s first house was. I was so happy when we moved it down the mountain. Well, into.”

It’s no trouble, her words left hanging, I don’t mind.

Wag huffed. How dare she be considerate. “You know what’s worse than a trek up a mountain? A trek up a mountain to get some rare flower, only to be spited by the universe and have not a single flower growing up there. Honestly, I could use some help from someone so used to climbing mountains.” A smirk pulled at his face. “Or maybe just send someone up there for me.”

We could always hang out when I’m playing master botanist. If you’d like.

Sonja smiled at him, but couldn’t resist getting a dig in. “Aw, did you skip leg day? Have some chicken legs over there? That’s alright, I’m sure someone,” she tilts her head, eyes sweeping past the buildings around them, “would be willing. Get a nice little lackey so you can rest your old bones at home and complain about how the cold makes your joints stiff.”

“How dare you,” Wag sniffed, hand held up to his heart. “I’ll have you know, my joints are just fine in the cold! Some of us just aren’t made of the cold, little miss fox.”

Sonja, ever so mature, stuck her tongue out at him.

They kept up some conversation, occasionally stopping to listen in to whatever Tom was saying. Wag, for a moment, realized that he had missed this. Missed them. That even though he wanted to avoid all the new things in this world, he’d always have his friends.

A quiet, hopeless voice asked if they’d leave him too.

~~~

There was nothing quite like hiking up a hill, in only your boxers, a little buzzed, during the night time. The pure amount of skeletons that had sniffed around looking for a cheap shot alone was bad enough, but the fact that his legs already hurt from struggling to fish with just his mouth without drowning? Yeah, it felt more like he was climbing up a mountain that was near vertical.

Fuck gravity.

A pit of warmth had settled in his chest a couple hours ago. Whether it was the alcohol that Tucker, of all people, had got the group into drinking or just the effect of being with friends for a while, Wag felt content. Not a common feeling in recent times. It was nice.

Really nice.

Upon reaching his door, his mind scrambled to figure out why it was left slightly open. He shrugged. As long as nothing was missing or stolen, he didn’t really care.

He made his way inside- making sure to actually close the door behind him- and wandered over to the stairs. Ah, his mortal enemy. Between being a wizard way back when and the magic rampant in Ruxomar, he had gotten way too used to avoiding stairs. Now it was a chore to move up and down the tower. But his bed was upstairs and he was not sleeping on the crappy couch he shoved into the lobby for guests or customers again.

So stairs it was.

By the time he got halfway up the stairs, he wanted to quit. Why, in Athar’s name, did he put his room on the third highest level? Stupidity, that’s why. The view was so not worth it.

When he actually made it up to the correct floor, he pushed the door to his room open, chucked his clothes to one side, and collapsed in bed. Now this, this was worth it. Soft, plush, warm, and very much without skeletons.

The less arrows being shot at him the better.

A soft chuckle caught his attention. Or rather, killed the peace he had wrapped around himself mere hours earlier.

He didn’t move. Not because he was scared. No, he knew who was in his room. He just wanted to pretend, for a moment, like this was something he was used to.

Like coming home to his lover being home wouldn’t surprise him.

The bed dipped beside him and his robed and boxer-ed glory. A hand ran through his hair. Wag tried not to tense.

“Seems like you had a good night out.” Her voice was like silk, soft and pleasant on his ears. “Hopefully they didn’t hassle you too much.”

Wag breathed. His chest was tight, emotion punching at his ribs. “Yeah,” he said, “It was nice to have some time with them again.”

All of this felt so forgein, now. To have her here. Was she here? Or did he drink more than he had originally thought. Shit.

Martha scratched his head. “I do have to say, I’m surprised that you actually left the tower. You’ve been holed up here for so long I thought I’d have to drag you out.” He could hear the smile in her voice. Or maybe he was imagining it. His head was a mess and he wasn’t quite sure what he was making up and what was real.

It was kind of pathetic.

He laughed. “Yeah, Tom showed up and dragged me out. Not complaining though, I had a lot of fun. It was nice to take off from work. Making potions gets boring.”

So did sitting in your own depressing thoughts, but that was more exhausting than boring.

“Oh,” Wag turned his head to face Martha, looking up at her. The darkness made her hair stand out. It looked like a halo around her face, bringing out her lovely lilac eyes. She was just as beautiful as the last time he’d seen her. But there was something heavy in her eyes that she tried to wipe away when his own reached her. “Jordan was looking for you earlier. Did he ever find you?”

Martha blinked and the heaviness was gone. Ish. He knew it was there. Somewhere.

“Ah, no.” She frowned. “I’ll have to see what he needs tomorrow.”

He nodded. To be honest, Wag wasn’t convinced Martha was actually sitting here with him. Which was kind of sad. Very sad.

“I can come with, if you’d like,” Wag rushed out, trying not to sound desperate. “We haven’t had much time together, which is understandable with your dad being around and all the stuff you need to do. And, y’know, it’d be nice to walk with you for a bit.”

Oh, he sounded so desperate.

Yikes.

A smile graced Martha’s lips. “Sure, I’d love that.” Wag let out a breath. “We’ll take a stroll, get a nice scenic view of the beach as we go, call it a date-” She cut off. The heaviness came back to her eyes. Wag knew what she was thinking. Who she was thinking about.

It hurt.

“I’m going to go take a shower before getting ready for bed. You can go ahead and sleep, if you’d like. I know you’ve had a long day and you’re probably tired. Don’t force yourself for me.” Martha stood as she said this, fingers trailing in his hair. Then she left.

Reluctantly, Wag got up to do just that. Changed his boxers and hung up his cloak. Buried himself back into bed, under the covers.

Yeah. It’d be a date.

~~~

Martha didn’t like to get up early. Neither did Wag. Normally, this lead to them sleepily cuddling until one felt so inspired as to get up. Normally.

Ever since the group returned to the land of Mianite, Martha didn’t sleep as well. Between nightmares, being a fledgling goddess, and the… absence of certain people, she found herself waking earlier and earlier.

Wag had his fair share of sleep troubles. Where sleep troubles stopped Martha from sleeping as much, it led to Wag sleeping more. The less he slept the more exhausted he was. The more exhausted he was the more he slept. It was a vicious cycle and actually the reason Wag didn’t leave the house as much.

Nonetheless, both found themselves getting ready to leave just after dawn. Martha moved like last night didn’t end awkward and uncomfortable. Bright, cheerful, and painfully affectionate with Wag. Like she hadn’t been avoiding him for the better part of their stay here.

The worst part was that this wasn’t the first time she came back like nothing was wrong. It was almost like she could tell when he was starting to doubt their relationship. Except, he was constantly doubting their relationship. Even when things had been going well. But this time, it was like she knew when he was thinking about how much of a relationship they didn’t have.

Which was concerning if she actually knew what he thought.

Wag, on the other hand, moved like a zombie. Tired, groggy, and barely awake. The picture of early morning beauty. It wasn’t far off from how he used to act, but now it was like someone had chained weights to his feet.

Damn, he was tired as shit.

Martha had set about making some breakfast from the little food he had. Some eggs, some- thankfully not spoiled- fruit, and milk. Wag was pretty sure he didn’t have milk, but he wasn’t going to question it. She was the more magical of the two, now, so it was within reason that she could get milk in the few minutes he’d lagged behind her in getting out of bed.

He, on the other hand, was on the task of making coffee. Coffee was something of a luxury here, since it was so new to the land. It wasn’t grown naturally on the island and Wag wasn’t sure if it was imported from some far off place or if it had been introduced by the earlier dimension hoppers that still hung around. Spark, for sure, seemed to run on the stuff.

That didn’t really matter to Wag, though. He had a plant of it in his garden, for ease of access, but more importantly to see if it could be used to help crossbreed weed into existence. No far off land had procured the plant yet, so he would still strive to be the maker of weed.

Not the best plan in the world, but that wouldn’t matter once he actually made the plant.

He really shouldn’t be encouraging substance abuse.

Surely, coffee would wake him up. Then he could go on a walk with Martha and do that thing they seemed to do where they avoided those topics and pretended like everything was fine. And maybe, just maybe, they’d enjoy the conversation. Maybe they’d feel something again, feel whole for the brief moment where they let themselves forget about the person who was missing, the person that clearly held more place in Martha’s heart for it to have torn so much when he-

Maybe Wag would get his shit together and let things die between them.

Maybe he’d decide that fighting an uphill battle wasn’t worth it.

For now, though, he was content to pretend things were the same. It was better than being entirely, wholly alone. And, deep in his heart, he still loved her. So, so much.

Enough that he knew it would hurt no matter what he did.

They chatted over the food Martha cooked. She complemented his coffee, the beans from the plant he owned, and he told her that the cooking is just as good as it’d always been.

Neither mentioned that it was usually Steve, not either of them, that did the cooking.

They tossed little affections at each other with ease. Like it was second nature. A brush of hands, a quick smile, a peck on the cheek. It was like a dance. As though they were trying to make a show of how much they still cared, how much nothing had changed despite the fact that everything had changed.

Hands loosely held together, they left the house as a unit, holding up a conversation with ease. If either of them tripped up in their speech as they avoided that topic or this word, neither called each other out for it. For all that everything was off and wrong, they made it work. They found a way to shove a cube into a round hole.

Whether it was because they wanted it to work so bad or because the hole was a giant chasm with space for miles was up to debate.

The beach was calm in the early morning. Fishers were stocking up their ships to start up on their daily trip, tightening a rope here, making space there. Few people walked about the town, the kids either asleep or getting hassled to eat breakfast. With so few people out, it felt like they were on the outskirts of life, just the two of them. Like viewing the world through a painting.

That illusion was helped by the sheer height of Jordan’s tree. It was still there, despite the damage it had received when Tom got to it. If he looked closely, Wag could see the remains of burn marks and grooves held in the thick bark. He had heard that, after the heroes had left, Ianite had nursed the tree back to life in honor of her lost champion.

He ignored the fact that Ianite had sent them into the void in the first place.

Wag himself had left before that, called on to help the heroes that he had watched over as a distant wizard. Even now, he wondered if it had been worth it. To lose everything because he was asked to. In his weakest moments, he wondered if it hadn’t been the gods’ way of throwing him out.

That thought hurt the most out of everything in his life and he never let it linger.

It wasn’t long before they made it to the base of the hill that Jordan’s tree- sorry, Jerry’s Tree- sat beside. They weren’t that close to getting inside yet, but it was a milestone.

As they climbed the hill, massive roots stretching out below them, Wag started up some conversation about the different species of trees. He never once mentioned apple trees. It was part of his botany, after all, and important to keep track of. The types of trees, not apple trees. Apple trees were just one of those topics and therefore something they made an unspoken agreement not to talk about.

He pondered, during his ramble, that Martha could have just flown up the tree. She could do that, after all. Wag couldn’t. Not anymore. The worst part was that he’d help build this tree, or, well, make it. Way back then. That was a sore spot to think about, but even still he was in awe of the tree. Not because of the fact that he's contributed to it- no, he had felt a sense of pride for that a long time ago. Rather, because of how it’d regrown.

Ianite’s gentle hand had turned it from merely a large, enchanting tree to a behemoth of divine wonder. Its branches had spread further, with more room between them and the tips reaching towards the heavens. The leaves had shaped up and gotten fuller, surely the size of a full-grown adult by now. Fireflies could be seen lazily hovering about clusters of leaves, giving the tree a pleasant, natural lighting.

Many more platforms and walkways had been built, new buildings having been added on top of that. They stretched from one end to the other. The most daring teased the edge of a branch, hung firmly along the length of it. The walkways were either long rope bridges made of braided vines that shimmered a faint purple or ramps made and reinforced by the same wood the tree was made of, the bottom featuring fancy swirls alongside the support beams.

Other vines, flora, and bushes lined the branches and platforms. Though they looked like they were leeching off the tree at first, a closer inspection- granted you were on the tree to get an inspection- showed they were delicately wrapped around the branches and sneakily planted in hidden pots for a more natural look. The flowers ranged from all sorts of purples- fitting. Buddleias enclosed doorways, Hyacinthus were wound along lanterns strung along pathways, and an abundance of Jacaranda could be found wherever space was made for flora.

The more he looked the more nature there was to see, the more connecting walkways there were strung along, the more everything there was. It felt like the whole world was home under the canopy.

The tree had gone from the house of a solitary man to a city of nature.

It didn’t feel like the same tree.

Wag pushed aside the nagging thought that it was better than anything he could have ever made. Ianite was a full fledged goddess, Wag was- had been- a mere wizard with the idea of godhood in his head. What he made had been incredible for mortal standards, and was still incredible for the standards he had held himself to. It would do no good to compare himself to Ianite, especially when all she had done was repair what was already there.

As they made their way up to the crest of the hill, following the path from the town to the tree as it curled around Jordan’s old home, Wag spared a glance at the birch and quartz house. It was simple, sleek and minimal. It suited Jordan. Of course, Jordan himself had made it, so why wouldn’t it?

Compared to Jerry’s Tree, though, it seemed rather dull and insignificant.

Actually.

Wag spared a closer look at the smaller home. It looked lived in. A frown pulled at his lips. Was someone living there? Who else, other than Jordan, would?

Martha had picked up the conversation now, adding in details about trees that she had seen in her travels long ago, ones he’d never have had the chance to see. There were many interesting species, some magical in the same sense as Silverwoods, some as plain as a simple oak tree, but all more than enough to satiate Wag’s desire to know more. His mind kept getting pulled back to the Casa de Sparklez, though.

A thought struck him, one he’d had just moments before.

Jerry’s Tree looked and felt so different, now that Ianite had tended to it. Like it was a different tree. Did Jordan think the same? Did it feel less like home, after being away for so long and having watched it burn?

Was Jordan living in his older house because the tree felt so forgein?

Martha was going on about a beautiful tree known for the lights its seeds shone, especially during the night hours. It really sounded like a sight to behold. More than that, the gentle, awed look on Martha’s face pulled at Wag’s heart.

Take care of her.

There was a sour taste in his mouth. Wag decided not to mention what he had just noticed. That was Jordan’s business, not his.

Martha was looking at him now, a small, shy smile on her lips. Wag felt like if he said the wrong thing it’d disappear in an instant. Like Martha was used to having her interests pushed aside, or used to pushing them aside herself when people didn’t seem to care about what she was saying.

Take care of her.

He offered a smile back, a genuine one. He really did love her. More than anything, he wanted to keep loving her. But something told him it wouldn’t work. That what they had had started to decay sometime around the end of Ruxomar, around when he left.

No, around when Martha almost became Mrs. a instead of a Ms.

Bitterness clutched at Wag’s heart. For all the love he held for her, he wondered, again and again, if she held the same. If she ever held the same, if she even held something close to the same.

Take care of her.

Looking up at Jerry’s Tree, Wag remembered what it used to be. He remembered watching it burn, the pain he had felt in seeing his hard work get tarnished, in seeing a friend’s home wither away.

Now, though, it was different. Not quite a home, anymore, but reborn. Alive. And maybe, in the future, it’d be a home again, or maybe not. Maybe it needed to burn for it to become what it was now. Jordan would have never built it up to this, but Ianite had.

Maybe that was the secret, Wag pondered. Maybe you had to let things burn to be able to build them up stronger.

He looked at Martha again, at the softness in her face and the hardness in her eyes. His heart pulled in so many directions. Love, anguish, love, despair, love, hurt, love love love.

Yeah, he was going to have to let this relationship burn.

35 notes · View notes

bigskydreaming · 5 years

Text

Imagine the Batkids hanging out at like....the food court of a mall or something, Jason keeping paparazzi at bay with finger guns that manage to be wildly ominous even if the gulping paparazzo have no true idea WHY that particular motion from this particular man has cold beads of sweat breaking out on the backs of their necks. Damian loudly proclaiming he hates everything and everyone even though he only half means it, well at least until Tim asks if he needs them to go get him a booster seat. To which Jason stops long enough to cackle about Tim finally finding someone he can actually literally look down on, it must be like Christmas for him, and meanwhile, Duke idly says to no one in particular that he can never decide if he accidentally got adopted into the Addams family, the Manson family or the Kardashians.

“I would be great at being a Kardashian,” Jason muses.

“Well you’re already 90% ass, so you’ve got that going for you,” Steph chirps brightly.

“Die, but for real this time,” Jason volleys back, equally pleasantly.

“I can’t believe the English major is suggesting I plagiarize him,” Steph says with eyes wide in mock bewilderment. Jason scoffs.

“What English major? In case you’ve forgotten, I never even finished high school, I was busy being de - “

He cuts off as Cass holds out her palm and Dick and Duke both slide ten dollar bills across the table to her, accompanied by groans. Tim jabs a finger at her with a scowl, half rising out of his seat in outrage.

“That doesn’t count, he didn’t even finish saying it!”

“Also, you’re cheating,” Damian adds on hotly, too incensed to notice he’s literally standing in solidarity with his most hated enemy. Though Tim catches it, if the slightly constipated look on his face is anything to go by. “Do you really think us so blind we can’t tell that Brown blatantly set that one up for you?”

“Don’t hate the players, hate the game,” Steph says sagely, as she and Cass split the take.

“What the hell just happened?” Jason asks. No one looks anywhere near the zip code of apologetic.

“Well we definitely didn’t all get together once a majority of us had done the knock knock knocking on death’s door thing ourselves and wound up making a long-standing bet about how long you can go without bringing that up and where the clock restarts each time you do,” Steph says thoughtfully, eyes intent even as she stares off into the distance, like it’s an actual mystery and she’s really trying quite hard to scry out the answer.

“What?” Jason says flatly.

“In my defense, they were doing it long before I came along and they said it was like, a family tradition,” Duke offers.

“I mean, it’s not like we lied,” Tim shrugs. “Besides, it was Cass’ idea and she’s died twice, so it’s allowed.”

Jason redirects his ire on their sister. “Why are you the worst.”

She shrugs. “I died.”

“I used to think having a sister would be cool. I can’t believe you ruined sisters for me.”

“Bite me, little brother,” she says sweetly. His face flames. Detonation imminent.

“I’m older than you!”

“Not if you don’t count the six months you were dead,” she sing-songs. “Besides, Tim’s lying. It was his idea.”

Jason’s head swivels like a turret-mounted missile launcher. Tim chokes on his French fry.

“What the hell! That’s not tr - .” He trails off then, frowning slightly. “Wait, was it? Oh. Right.”

Jason’s eyes narrow, tension on the trigger, but Tim rallies and just shrugs unrepentantly.

“Eh. You’ve tried to kill me like three times. Suck it up.”

“Next time, I’ll be sure to try harder,” Jason growls. Tim smiles serenely and takes an extra obnoxious slurp of his milkshake.

“See? You’ve learned something new today. You’re welcome.”

“Why am I not live-tweeting this,” Steph wonders, yanking out her phone and sending digits swiftly flying across its keys. Dick leans over on her left to view her screen.

“Are you tweeting as Batgirl about her fellow vigilantes, or the random blond stranger always seen out with the Waynes but that no one can determine their connection to?”

“First off, I’m the EXOTIC blond stranger, excuse you. Get it right. And second...idk. Either. Both. Does it really matter?”

“Well, it might if you actually do tweet the same content from both accounts and someone somehow manages to spot some kind of connection,” Tim says dryly. Steph scowls without looking up from her phone.

“Stop oppressing my shenanigans with your logic, Timbleton.”

“Timbleton?”

“It’s my new name for you. For it is both pretentious and douchey, as are you.”

Tim glowers. “Sometimes I honestly can’t remember why I went out with you.”

She shrugs. “You were a fifteen year old virgin and I have a killer rack. It wasn’t that deep.”

“Hey, you are still just the exotic blond stranger seen with us all the time, right?” Dick says suddenly, seemingly lost in thought. “Like, B didn’t adopt you since I last saw you or anything.”

“No, and you know you don’t ACTUALLY have to ask me that every time you see me.”

He shrugs. “I mean I kinda do. You are always here, and it is Bruce. It’s not like he ever tells me when he adopts someone new so like, you could be my sister for four years before I even realized it if I didn’t ask.”

“Ooh. A sighting of Dick angst, spotted in the wild. Those are rare,” Jason snickers. Dick just eyes him.

“FYI, I still have footage of a certain Robin, age fourteen, singing Backstreet Boys. And I have Roy on speed dial. Tread lightly, Little Wing.”

“You said you deleted that!”

“I lied. I do that sometimes. I’m terribly problematic.” Dick beams beatifically.

“Why have I not seen this footage?” Steph shrieks.

“Make me an offer,” Dick says as leans back smugly.

She wastes no time, fingers dancing across her keyboard again, and moments later Dick pulls out his own phone and reads her incoming text. One eyebrow arches significantly.

“That’s an offer, alright.” He frowns. “You came up with that quick. I’m either impressed or disturbed.”

Steph shrugs. “I get bored on stakeouts sometimes.”

“You can be dispressed,” Cass pipes up helpfully. Dick nods solemnly.

“An excellent suggestion, Cassandra, thank you. Just for that, I’ll send it to you too.”

“I will stab you,” Jason says dangerously.

“Just think, Jay, if you didn’t try and stab me all the time already, that might actually be incentive not to....oh whoops, finger slipped, just hit send, how terrible, much regret.”

“I feel like there’s supposed to be a life lesson in there somewhere,” Duke murmurs.

“Stay out of this, new kid on the block.”

“Does that make you Marky Mark or like, Donnie?” Tim wonders idly. He shakes his head at himself then, baffled. “Why do I know the names of the New Kids on the Block?”

Stephanie meanwhile is watching her phone with what can only be described as naked glee. It’s muted - she’s never one to share her spoils freely after all - but apparently that is more than good enough for now as far as she’s concerned. Beside her, Cass intently stares at her own screen, shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

“I will kill you all someday, and when I do the courts will rule it justifiable homicide and I shall be vindicated.”

“Please, Todd. As if I don’t have contingencies in place to ensure you receive my vengeance even from beyond the grave, should I ever perish at your hands.”

Silence falls across the table as they all stare at Damian.

“See, now I’m dispressed,” Tim says. “Sometimes I wonder what it’d be like to take a guided tour of your brain, but then I think why not wait til Halloween and sell tickets too.”

Damian glares at him, but to the surprise of everyone, Tim included, he reacts no further than that. A few seconds later though, Duke bolts upright in his chair across from him, directing his own baleful glare at the smaller boy. Damian just stares at him meaningfully and jerks his head in Tim’s direction. Duke rolls his eyes and sighs.

“Shut your facehole, Drake, you blithering dolt,” Duke says robotically. “Also, you are excessively diminutive for your age and nobody likes you. Allegedly.”

Once more silence reigns supreme.

“Oh fuck, can he possess people now?” Jason asks.

Dick waves them all down, gesturing for quiet before he takes the lead, studying Duke with an intent focus. “I think I speak for all of us here, when I say: no, but seriously, what the actual fuck.”

Cass nods gravely. “What he said.”

Duke shrugs a half-hearted apology. “It’s nothing personal Tim. It’s just that Damian and I have an alliance, and part of the terms are I have to defend his honor, since - and I quote - ‘tt, the very notion I need assistance defending my actual person is laughable, Thomas, don’t be daft.’”

“Wait, we’re doing alliances now?” Steph asks, because of course that would be the part that catches her attention. “I want an alliance. Cass, make an alliance with me.”

“Kay.”

“Whose idea was this alliance, anyway?” Jason asks. Duke just shrugs again, this time defensively.

“Hey don’t look at me, Dick’s the one who apparently thought it was a good idea to introduce Damian to Survivor reruns.”

All eyes turn to the eldest. In a particularly accusatory fashion.

Well, with the exception of Damian, as he has returned to his meal and is quite contentedly dining with a distinct air of smugness about him. (Even more so than usual.)

“What? I couldn’t get him to agree to watching anything else on TV, and then we came across some reruns and I thought it might appeal to him.”

“And you saw no potential drawbacks to him seeing appeal in the basic premise of voting people off the island?” Jason asks skeptically. Dick picks up a fry and studies it with clear deliberation and an equally clear attempt at avoidance. Subtlety, thy name is not Grayson.

“In hindsight, it’s possible mistakes were made.”

“I mean, at least now Dami’s attempts at casting undesirables out of the family are rooted in democracy instead of totalitarianism. That’s progress, right?” Steph asks. Heavy on the uncertainty.

“Right, and I have some beachfront property in Kansas to sell you,” Tim says sardonically.

“Nah, you keep it. I’ll just get it in the divorce when we get back together in ten years, marry, and I abscond with half of your fortune.”

“Wait, what?”

“Shh, just let it happen.”

“Hang on, back to this alliance,” Jason says, turning back to Duke. “So what are you getting out of it?”

“Oh, he has to do my calc homework for the rest of the semester,” Duke replies.

“Duke, you should have just told one of us you needed some help with your homework,” Dick says with an unmistakable note of concern in his voice. Duke shoots him a quizzical look.

“I don’t. I just don’t want to do it.”

“This is why Duke is the most valid,” Steph nods knowingly. Cass nods in agreement.

“Hey, did nobody else notice that in essence, Damian implicitly admitted he needed help protecting his feelings from getting boo-boos,” Tim pipes up oh so casually. The youngest among them narrows his eyes.

“In my spare time, I peruse the occult tomes recommended by Raven and the Zatara brat in search of a ritual that will make it so you never existed in the first place,” he says, matching his tone to Tim’s conversational one. Not deterred in the slightest, Tim just adopts an expression of over the top faux sympathy.

“Sucks you can’t just ask me for help. I already know where one of those is.”

“Dami, no!” Dick speaks up sharply. Their little brother slumps back in his seat and crosses his arms over his chest.

“I wasn’t actually going to do anything, Grayson,” he sulks. Dick snorts.

“You were absolutely about to jump on top of the table and kick Tim in the face. Don’t even try and pretend I don’t know what I’m talking about.”

“I was an only child once,” Jason muses. “I should have appreciated it more.”

“But then you couldn’t form an alliance with me, little brother,” Cass points out, equal parts sweetness and wickedness. He hesitates, visibly torn between wanting to protect his vaunted older brother status and agreeing to an alliance with the most feared of them all.

“You’re evil.”

She shrugs but doesn’t contest the point.

“I’ll form an alliance with you, Cass,” Tim says, smirking at Jason.

“No thanks.”

Tim’s mouth falls open and he looks between her and his now cackling older brother. “What the hell? You’ll form an alliance with Steph and Jason but not with me? Why not?”

“I’m chaotic neutral,” their sister explains sunnily, as she steals some more of Dick’s fries.

#look they all actually so love each other okay #this is just how siblings are #just like #with less actual murder attempts

190 notes · View notes

mere-mortifer-writing · 5 years

Text

Dean Winchester/Reader ❧ Sweet Apology

Rating: Explicit Pairing: Dean Winchester/Reader; Dean Winchester/OFC Word count: 4874 | Chapter 1 of 3 Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content Tags: Fluff & Smut, a smidge of Angst; Misunderstandings; Porn with Feelings; Arguing; Reader has a crush on Dean Summary: The plan was to watch a movie in Dean's room, but without Sam to help her feel less awkward, it's no surprise that she ends up saying something stupid - and make Dean think she dislikes him, of all things, when she has a gigantic crush on the guy. They start yelling at each other, soon enough they're kissing, and then - well, Dean's bed gets put to good use. It kind of sucks, though, that as soon as they're done Dean puts his clothes back on leaves her like nothing happened. Wham, bam, thank you ma'am. Well, not really. He's just absolutely clueless. I swear, if these two don't open their mouths and talk...

Beta’d by @mostly-shawn and @aingealcethlenn - Thank you so much for the help <3

Read on Ao3 | Chapter Two coming soon

❧ Chapter One

So, to summarize: she’s eating Fruity Loops, in an underground bunker, at the same table as two certified living legends in the hunting community. The monster hunting community, may she remind you in case you lost the memo.

She is, apparently, very good at identifying and theoretically killing said monsters – although God forbid they ever ask her to join in on the action. She admires Sam and Dean for what they do, but she's fine staying behind the scenes: rummaging through old lore books and giving herself a headache is as far as she'll go. She has proven herself useful in multiple occasions, so no shame there.

Sam confessed to her, on the one memorable occasion when he had drunk enough to be tipsy, that he was more than happy she has to interest in hunting.

"It's my life and I love it", he said, "but it sucks all the ass and you shouldn't do it. Everyone fucking dies. If you got hurt I'd be sad about it for at least six months straight. I'd grow a beard and all." "What would Dean do?", she asked in morbid curiosity. "'Dunno, drink and throw every chair and lamp he sees on the ground, maybe? He does that a lot. Just - never hunt, okay?" "I'll do it for the sake of your poor furniture", she responded, and she never changed her mind.

Sorry, sometimes the crazy hits her all at once, and she needs to do a recap of the situation. Where was she? Oh, right: she was looking at Dean. (What else is new?)

Dean's sprawled on the wooden chair like a bored king, dead guy's robe at least two sizes too big on his broad shoulders. It's one of those rare instances where he slept well the night before, and he looks cozy and relaxed and roughly fifteen years younger than yesterday.

She's trying so hard not to openly stare at him that her cereal got all mushy in the meantime.

"Are you sure Jody can deal with this on her own?", Dean is saying, oblivious to her thoughts. "Seems to me like she's already got her hands full, with the girls and all."

On the other side of the table, Sam sips his coffee and nods. "Yeah, hopefully, it'll be just the one werewolf. I told Jody to call us if she finds out there's more going on."

"Hopefully there's not. Oh!" Dean slaps a celebratory hand on the table and grins. "That means we've got the day off! We could take advantage of that Netflix subscription we pay for." "Garth is paying – we're just leeching off of him. And I actually wanted to go for a run. Wanna come?" "Ugh." "Yeah, I thought so. You two can start without me, though. I'll join you later."

Oh, the mental image that double-meaning evokes! But it’s more of a private joke with herself that anything – she likes Sam, obviously, if only because she's a straight woman with functioning eyes, but she doesn't have a crush. He’s tall and kind, and objectively attractive but he’s not…

Her eyes fall on his brother's long fingers tapping on the table, his strong wrist peeking out of the robe’s sleeve, and she feels her stomach tie in knots.

He’s not Dean, alright?

She didn’t ask not to have eyes but for him, and yet here she is: all moon-eyed over his wrist, of all things.

Someone shoot her; it’d be a mercy killing at this point.

Dean turns to her, all bright-eyed in his good mood. "What do you say, movie marathon? We could stay in my room, get comfy on the bed." Well, now, that makes her legs clench tight together under the table. She knows she’ll have to answer very quickly because in a second she’ll start overthinking and find some excuse not to join Dean. In his bedroom, on his bed. Something she has never fantasized about, no sir. "Yes? Yeah, why not!", she exclaims, just a tad too loud. Oh my God, at least try to play it cool. Sam smirks from behind his cup, and she wonders for a moment if this "morning run" of his isn't just a ploy to leave her alone with his brother. Then Dean winks at her, and all other thoughts fly out of the window. "Awesome. Come on, I'll even let you choose the movie."

❧ ☙

"I'll let you choose, he says," she huffs to herself. Her reflection in the bathroom mirror looks back at her with mild panic in her eyes. "Like that's not agonizing or anything."

God, she just wishes Dean didn't make her so damn nervous. How long has she known the Winchesters for? A year? She's even living with them, she should be past all – she clenches her fists, trying to calm herself – this. And still, Dean makes her heady and rattled just by looking at her for too long. She needs to get a grip.

While she brushes her teeth and washes her face, she settles on Kill Bill – which a) she knows Dean hasn't seen in years and b) should hopefully keep her attention away from his closeness. On his bed. Where she will also be.

God help her.

She walks out of the bathroom up to Dean's room. He's already propping his laptop on a bunch of pillows at the foot of the bed, humming a Metallica song under his breath. His eyes shoot up to her when she arrives. "Hey! Did you choose the movie?", he says. He's still as carefree as she's ever seen him, but there's something in his voice that was missing during breakfast. A note of – weariness? Hope? She can't decipher it. "Don't tell Sammy I said, but I could sit through a chick–flick without bitching too much if you wanna watch one.” And if that isn’t proof he has a martyr complex... "Actually, I was thinking Kill Bill?" He beams up. "Oh hell yeah, haven't seen that one in ages." He finds the movie and hits play, settling down against the bed frame. She notices that he got rid of the robe and is now sitting in only a t–shirt and grey sweatpants. Oh please, no, she thinks, already feeling desperate. Fucking grey sweatpants, tight and revealing in all the right places, inviting her to look down, down...come on, just take a peek-

She gingerly sits down at the opposite end of the bed, eyes straight ahead. Despite the distance, she can smell Dean’s cologne (and what the fuck did he put cologne on for?), fresh and manly and very attractive – so much so that she forgets to focus on the film. She's acutely aware of his presence beside her – of the warmth radiating from him, of how little space and layers there are between their bodies. She also notices him glancing at her from time to time, even though her gaze stays fixed on the computer screen. Is she acting weird? Is that why he's looking at her? She's literally just sitting there, but maybe there's something on her face, or she's breathing too loud…that has never happened before, but who knows–

"I don't bite, you know?" She's almost startled by Dean's voice interrupting her manic line of thought. He's now openly watching her, the small smile on his lips a mix between tentative and reassuring. "You can come closer if you want to. You're almost off the bed." She laughs nervously – damn, way to put her on the spot. But he’s right: she’s all bunched up on the corner of the bed, shaky hands hidden under her legs. "I, uh, didn't want to make you uncomfortable, that's all." What the fuck does that even mean? One of Dean's eyebrows shot up his forehead, and his smile turns disbelieving. "Me? You're the one that looks like she has a gun pointed at her head." Her whole face heats up in embarrassment. He knows she's timid, and anyone who even glances in her direction knows she's head over heels for him – why does he have to put attention on it? "I'm just out of my depth here, you know I'm shy–" "Shy?" he interrupts her. "We've known each other for a year! And we both know you're not like this with Sam."

Also very true, much to her chagrin – Sam has this puppy-dog aura to himself that makes him look smaller and non-threatening, at least when he’s in the company of friends. Dean...Dean doesn’t seem to have an off-switch, he’s always very unapologetically himself. Even when he’s acting like a total dork, he fills the entire room with his presence.

The mortification of being called out like this is making her eyes water, and Dean's unfaltering eye contact is not helping. "It's different with Sam," she tries to explain. What can she say without giving too much of her feelings away? "Why? Have I done something bad to you?" he asks. “You’re always so – so skittish with me, it’s like you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

Dean has the most expressive eyes she has ever seen, and try as he might his feelings are always starkly clear on his face – like now, settling over the vibrant apple-green like an ugly shadow; disappointment and plain sadness. She really, really doesn't want to hurt him, and trips over her own thoughts in an attempt to say I'm not uncomfortable, I'm just in love and bad with feelings – but how to say it without spelling it out?

"It's nothing you've done,” she tries, “it's just – you."

Oh, God. That came out awfully wrong.

Dean scoffs, breaking the eye contact to look at everything in the room but her. "Yeah, I figured," he snickers, "Could have just said no to watching the movie, then, sweetheart. You shouldn't have to spend time with people you dislike." Dislike? She almost can't believe the irony of the situation. "Dean, I don't dislike you, that's not what I meant." "You just said you have a problem with me as a person! Listen,” – he passes a hand over his mouth, like he does when he needs a second to find the words – “Listen, I don’t know what you heard about me, okay? Sometimes hunters pass through here, and maybe you got wind of some rumours. I’m the first one to admit I can be a douchebag from time to time, but they don’t know me. Hell, half of them I don’t even consider friends! And I thought, you.. well, whatever. You can go back where you came from if living with me is so damn unpleasant! ” Well, ouch. That one hurt. She stands from the bed, raising her voice to hide how close she is to tears. They could have spent a nice day together, watching movies and eating popcorn from the same bowl or something, and then she had to go ahead and ruin everything. And he's being so stubborn, God, but what else is new? "Dean, what – rumours? You think this is about your reputation or something?” “I don’t know! You fucking tell me.” “Why do you wanna argue? You were in such a good mood two minutes ago-" "Yeah, I really was." He jumps off the bed and walks around it until he's face to face with her. "Excuse me if seeing you all – all scared of me kind of killed the mood!" "What? I'm not scared!" "Then why the fuck are you on the verge of tears right now?" "'Cause I'm sorry," she shouts to match his tone. He's standing so close; it's unfair how much it affects her. "I don’t find you scary, okay? I’m sorry I made you think that!" "Yeah, well, I’m sorry, too,” he shouts back. “Then why are we yelling?” “I have no idea!”

They both fall silent. Her mind is trying to process what the fuck just happened, why was she shouting in the first place when Dean is right there, not even five inches away – eyes bright and fiery because of the argument, the hard line of his mouth relaxing as his expression changes. He looks down at her lips. Her breath catches in her throat. She feels paralyzed by how intensely she wants him at that moment, stuck between throwing caution to the wind or fleeing before she makes a fool of herself. But Dean hasn’t moved away, has he? If anything he’s inching closer, and he's looking at her like, like he, too…

Dean leans in and kisses her, a soft sigh leaving his nose when their lips touch. He's so warm, is her first thought. Warm and big and solid against her, so much more substantial than in her fantasies – where he holds her just as tightly, kisses her just as deeply. Her hands tremble slightly as she goes to cup his face. God, it's happening for real. She bites on his full bottom lip with urgency, and he tugs her closer by the hips, pushing his tongue in her mouth. He’s not so much aggressive as he’s ardent, burning fast and bright on her skin like he hasn’t much time left – or like he’s waited too long, and he’s hell-bent on making himself unforgettable.

She isn’t sure she would like the pace, was he anyone else. But oh God, he’s not anyone else, he’s Dean – and she wants, she wants, she wants him and won’t make excuses for liking this. Teeth, bruises, too-sharp nails; warm breaths mixing with hers, his fingers digging in wherever she’s softer and warmer.

She passes a hand on the short hair at the nape of his neck, and she can feel goosebumps rise on his arms at the feeling. Dean gives her one last peck on the lips before hiding his face in the crook of her neck – he releases a shuddering sigh that makes her shiver, and nips at the skin behind her ear. His big hands settle on her legs, squeezing and palming the back of her thighs until she's raised to her tiptoes. "Hold on, baby," he says and picks her up from the ground. Wrapped around his waist, she can feel his erection pressing on her core – and she's never felt emptier and needier than right there with Dean, hard and panting, ready to fuck her against a wall. "Oh God," she moans, and desperately paws at Dean's shirt to get some skin–on–skin contact. He raises his face to watch her and chuckles at her efforts, grinding with more and more insistence against her. "I know, I know," he hums, "I gotcha." He smiles that boyish adorable grin he sometimes does, and she's overwhelmed by both the rush of affection for him and the desire pooling low in her belly.

She's about to say something undoubtedly stupid that would ruin everything – she has the three words already formed on her lips, but they turn into a gasp when Dean twists around and lets her fall on the mattress. The cold sheets underneath her give some clarity back. Not that she keeps it for long, with Dean crawling between her open thighs, hair all fucked up by her hands. He gives her a long caress from her knees up to her waist and smiles again. "Always wanted you in my bed." Is this actually happening?, she thinks, incredulous. "Wh–Yeah?" "Why do you you think I proposed we watch something here?" He winks at her. "Sam wasn't home...I dunno, I felt lucky today." "...and then we ended up yelling at each other a bunch", she adds. Dean huffs a laugh and leans down to kiss her, deep and long enough she forgets what they were even talking about. "Doesn't that just count as foreplay?" "I don't think so, no." Dean beams at her, eyes glinting with something dangerous. "No? How about this, then?", he says, and licks a hot strip on her neck before sucking a mark there. The sharp feeling of his teeth on her sensitive skin makes her back arch closer to his chest. "Or this?" One of his hands sneaks under her shirt, slow and teasing. Dean's fingers splay wide on her stomach on their way up, and she's never hated a piece of clothing more than her bra when it stops the contact. She wants everything off, wants to feel him really touch her. "Oh, fuck," she gasps. "Dean– Dean, take this off." He groans against her collarbone, voice low and rumbly, before leaning back on his knees. "Mmh, yeah. Yes, ma'am. Can you roll over?" The thought of Dean pressed long and wide along her back makes her toes curl, and she gladly turns around.

She realizes Uma Thurman is still swinging her katana on the computer screen, so she takes a second to close the laptop. There's the swishing of fabric behind her, probably Dean shimming out of his sweatpants and shirt while she can't see him. She goes to undress as well, but two warm hands on her hips stop her. "No, wait, I wanna do it," Dean says. “‘Kay?” Oh God, this man is gonna be the death of her. "Yes, please."

Dean scoots closer, his knees on either side of hers, erection pressed on the small of her back. He briefly hugs her to his chest while he leaves a kiss on her hair, squeezing a bit before he lets her go. She swallows back a whimper at the feeling – not because it brings any real pleasure, but because of Dean's unguarded desire behind the gesture. He’s slowed down the pace, maybe for her benefit, maybe for his own. God, she's there, with Dean. Unbelievable. She wants him so much she could cry.

Nuzzling her neck, he helps her take off her shirt, and then – faster, cause he's seductive, yes, but also earnest and enthusiastic – he unclasps her bra, and it falls on the bed. She gets why he asked her to turn around, conscious that her shyness would, at least at first, follow her even in bed: like this, she can't see him watching, and her instinct to hide from him is stifled. Not that she had nothing to worry about: Dean just sighs softly and cups her breasts in his hands, a smile splitting his face at how soft and hot her skin is.

Her leggings go next, tugged down roughly by herself, 'cause suddenly she really, really needs to be naked so he can touch her everywhere. She leans forward on the bed, face pressing on a pillow as she shimmies out of her pants. Dean huffs a laugh behind her. "These are very sexy," he comments, hooking his fingers on the edge of her underwear. Which is ridiculous, cause she has on the most boring pair of black undies ever produced. Goes to show with how little Dean is pleased. Instead of taking the last piece of offending clothing off, he slides two fingers up and down her folds, pushing in a little through the fabric. "So wet already," he says, “and I haven't even touched you yet." His voice has gone low and rumbly and that, coupled with his fingers, makes her that much wetter. “‘Cause I want you,” she mumbles in the pillow, stating the obvious. She rocks backs on his hand, inviting. “You know, I-” “Yeah, baby?” Oh God, he called me baby, she thinks a bit hysterically. She bites back the embarrassment and tries to find somewhere the courage to finish the sentence. “You know, I - I think of you when I touch myself.”

There it is, out in the open. Just how ridiculously attracted to him she is.

His movements stutter; when she angles her head so that she can see his face, she finds him already watching her with such intense, naked longing in his eyes, she has to feel proud. It’s getting to her head, feeling wanted like this. “What?” he asks, finally sliding off her underwear. He’s already naked, and as soon as the panties hit the mattress she pushes back until she’s flush with him – his erection is pressed in the cleft of her ass, getting smeared with her wetness when she starts undulating her hips. “What- fuck,” Dean tries again, distracted by what she’s doing. “Mmh, what do you think about?” God, she’s burning up, and she’s so damn empty without him inside of her. “I don’t know, uh - Your fingers?” Dean circles an arm around her and sneaks his hand down her belly until he can touch her clit, middle and forefinger forming slow circles in time with her hips. “Yes, yes like that, fuck,” she gasps. She decides, there and then, to tell him a secret.

“One time, one time we were at that diner together, Sam and Cas were there as well...And you had that red shirt on, and you must have spent some time on your hair, ‘cause it was – I don’t know, Dean, you were just so beautiful. I was sitting right in front of you. You were flirting with the waitress, and I thought, I thought ‘God, what if I took my shoe off, and slid my foot all the way up his leg and then, when he looks at me, confused, pretend I’m not doing anything?’ And I kept thinking about it, ‘cause you weren’t looking at me anyway. What if I made you hard, there in public, but you had to keep your face straight and not react? And then, what if you grasped my ankle under the table like a warning to stop, but you still pushed back to have more friction, blushing that pretty red when Sam asked you if were okay? And you know what, Dean?” She pauses a second, lost in the fantasy and the feeling of his hands on her. “I would have stopped without a word. I would have left you there, wouldn’t have even acknowledged what I was doing by glancing at you – I would have stood up, with you still hard in your jeans in that cute, family-friendly diner, and I would have said “Sorry, gotta powder my nose” or something just as stupid, to look even more annoyingly innocent – and then I would have gone to the bathroom. And waited for you to follow me, so you could fuck me in one of the stalls, my hand on your mouth to keep you quiet, hoping against hope that no one would come in, or hear us, or interrupt us before you could cum so deep inside me I would have felt you for days-”

Dean moves away from her, one hand to keep her still. “Okay, okay, that’s- that's enough for now." His free hand is at the base of his dick, squeezing a bit as he calms down. He’s breathing fast, lips bitten red and freckles standing out against the flush on his face. He is, quite possibly, the hottest thing she has ever seen. And she did that. “You little- I think I remember that day, fuck. That’s what you were thinking? Jesus.” He briefly rummages in the bedside drawer and comes back to the bed with a condom. “Is like this okay?” he asks, and helps her up from where she was sprawled on the bed. She considers whether or not her legs will hold her up in this position, and figures that after that spiel she deserves to be a bit of a pillow princess – Dean will hold her up if he needs to. With those strong, muscular arms of his. Mmh, God bless his biceps... So she hums “yes,” and hooks her feet around his calves to feel him closer.

She looks back at him as he goes in, and more than the feeling of Dean sliding into her, she'll never forget how his eyes flutter close in a pained frown, like it feels so good it hurts; like he’s somehow surprised by the pleasure. And then he moves, and her eyes just close on their own at the feeling. Everything’s just burning hot – Dean inside her, his hands touching everywhere on her body, his forehead pressed between her shoulders when he leans down. “‘Missed this,” he mumbles on her skin. “I always forget how good it is.”

Which would be, was this a different setting, an unwelcome reminder of how many women have been under him before her. Right now, with him groaning and moaning in her ear? She couldn’t care less.

The pace picks up - and, really, Dean’s a very proportionate man, and, in that position, he goes too deep for comfort. At a particularly hard thrust, she whimpers in pain. “You okay?” he asks, worried fingers moving the hair out of her face. “Yeah, ‘s okay. Just-” “I hurt you,” he interjects, and helps her up. “Get closer to the headboard? Alright, let’s try it like this.” On her knees, with her arms balancing her weight on the wall, the angle changes drastically. Dean slides back into her, this time pressed on her in a long line from shoulders to knees, and hooks his chin on her shoulder. “Better?”

“Way better,” she says, and smiles at his happy sigh.

There’s not much she could tell you about the rest, not without interrupting herself every two seconds by grinning and blushing. It just feels good. It feels amazing. Dean’s experience is evident in his every move, and he doesn’t let her forget for a second exactly who’s she with – in that too-hot bedroom with weapons decorating the wall, giving a memory foam mattress a run for its money. She says his name probably too many times, and some ridiculous praise comes out of her mouth once in a while, but Dean doesn’t seem to mind; he bites her neck too hard, at one point, and it hurts but she loves it, the proof that he has lost himself completely in her body. And Dean builds her up and up, with his voice and his fingers and his cock, until she shudders and cums around him.

She briefly loses sense of time, feeling only Dean thrusting into her faster and deeper and with a faltering rhythm – when she comes back to herself, he’s slipping out of her with a groaned “Jesus Christ.”

She lies down on her back, panting as she watches him throw away the condom in a small bin beside the bed. All those good chemicals that come with an orgasm are making her feel more naked than a simple lack of clothes – Dean turns back to her, and she has the impression that he can see right through her skin and bones; that all the feelings that surely will scare him off are sprawled out on the bed like heavy, uncomfortable blanket.

She feels both amazing and scrubbed raw at the same time. She really needs Dean to take her in his arm before she starts crying, which is becoming more and more probable by the second.

Instead, his attention falls on his phone, bleeping away on the bedside table. “Twelve messages?”, he says when he picks it up. They’re from Sam, which becomes obvious when he reads them instead of chucking the phone at the end of the bed; she watches him frown as he scrolls down. “Ugh, fuck. It’s Sam; Jody apparently needs back up after all. Five werewolves? Well, shit.”

She doesn’t say anything and busies herself by sliding under the blanket.

She doesn’t like to think of Jody in danger, but she likes even less where this is going. Dean is putting his boxers back on, and clean clothes from his drawer. Oh, wow, look at all that flannel. Does he have an endless supply or something? “I gotta go,” he explains. No shit, Sherlock. “Hey, it was awesome,” he tells her as he puts a belt on, nonchalant as if he was talking about a very good burger. “Just- awesome. Shit, I’m so late already, Sam’s gonna bitch all the way to Sioux Falls. See you in a few days?” She nods, a bit jaded by the sudden change in scenario – from one with Dean naked in bed with her to one where he’s leaving as if nothing happened – and he smiles and winks at her.

And then he’s gone.

Maybe she spends the next hour on the verge of tears, hugging his pillow and watching the rest of Kill Bill as a distraction, but that’s not really any of your business. She gets up, eventually, and puts her clothes back on even if the bunker is empty. She does what feels like a walk of shame back to her room and straight to her shower. She washes off, with her favourite lavender-scented soap, all the signs of the past few hours off of her skin. Like it was a random guy. Like it was just a one-off.

Thank you very much, ma’am, it has been fun while it lasted.

“I gotta go.”

Well, alright. Goodbye stranger, then.

❧ ☙

I hope you guys enjoyed it! I cherish every comment and reblog, feedback really motivates me to keep writing <3 I especially appreciate comments on characterization, I tried to keep Dean as IC as possible :) Let me know what you think!

Tags from @spnfanficpond‘s Tag List under the cut - apologies if I tagged someone who’s not interested in Dean/Reader’s by mistake!

If someone wants to be tagged in the next chapter, let me know <3

@aprofoundbondwithdean @manawhaat @thing-you-do-with-that-thing @nichelle-my-belle @leatherwhiskeycoffeeplaid @notnaturalanahi @bkwrm523 @deanscarlett @roxy-davenport @impala-dreamer @samsgoddess @frenchybell @deandoesthingstome @deansleather @curliesallovertheplace @whywhydoyouwantmetosaymyname @waywardjoy @mrswhozeewhatsis @imadeangirl-butimsamcurious @kayteonline @supernatural-jackles @wevegotworktodo @quiddy-writes @supermoonpanda @deanwinchesterforpromqueen @chaos-and-the-calm67 @memariana91 @plaidstiel-wormstache @teamfreewill-imagine @chelsea-winchester @fandommaniacx @castieltrash1 @supernaturalyobessed @ruined-by-destiel @winchester-writes @evilskank-inthemegacoven @clueless-gold @bennyyh @winchestersmolder @maraisabellegrey @faith-in-dean @deanwinchesterxreader @winchester-family-business @winecatsandpizza @there-must-be-a-lock @cas-backwards-tie @emoryhemsworth @just-another-winchester

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marmolita · 5 years

Text

bringing an era to a close (avengers endgame spoilers)

Avengers (2012) was the movie that got me out of a decade-long fandom hiatus and back into fandom and fanfic, and today I went to see Avengers: Endgame, so I feel like I need to make some kind of comment on the Avengers era coming to a close, though clearly the MCU era isn’t done. My thoughts on the movie (WITH SPOILERS) behind the cut. But, in spoiler-free summary, I laughed some, cried a lot, and enjoyed the action. The best movies of the MCU thus far though? Thor: Ragnarok, Spiderman: Homecoming, Iron Man (1), and Captain America: The Winter Soldier. Shout out to Ant Man too, and I haven’t seen Ant Man and Wasp yet. Also I will preface this with: I have not read any other fandom discourse on this movie at all yet.

Okay so first off. The actual plot? Made NO FUCKING SENSE WHATSOEVER GODDAMN IT WHOSE IDEA WAS THIS GARBAGE??!?!

Like okay time travel is always terrible, always, no matter what, because the cases where someone manages to make a time travel closed loop are so rare that they barely exist (shout-out to Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure for that though). My problem really is when shows and movies that SHOULD have logical rules DON’T. I can suspend disbelief for fantasy universes that don’t even attempt to make a scientific explanation, but when they TRY to make it scientific and then they make it garbage, it just really pisses me off.

NAMELY: they didn’t develop the theory of parallel bifurcating timelines enough to actually explain anything, they said they had to return the infinity stones to the moment they were taken from to avoid changing the past because they wanted to preserve the past five years....AND THEN THANOS CAME FROM THE PAST TO THE FUTURE AND NEVER WENT BACK AGAIN, THEREFORE ERASING THE ENTIRE HISTORY OF THIS TIMELINE. Like this is the same level of complete nonsense as why freaking Eobard Thawne looks like Harrison Wells and is also still alive in the Flashpoint future on CW’s Flash.

What about Gamora?? She didn’t go back to the past. She didn’t get dusted (I presume). What the actual fuck happened to her?

The infinity stones can CREATE ENTIRE UNIVERSES FULL OF LIFE but they can’t bring back Natasha and Vision? Why the fuck not? Why are the people who came back after five years via the gauntlet not five years older? Unless all of Peter’s friends were also dusted, why the hell are they still in high school five years later?

If STEVE went back and STAYED in the past then HOW DID HE END UP IN THE SAME FUTURE. He disappeared and then oops there’s an old dude who must have walked there and been wandering around this whole time attending this goddamn funeral and nobody fucking noticed. What the actual fuck.

Like if they hadn’t tried to explain it at all, maybe I could suspend disbelief and be like “okay superhero magic whatever,” but they tried and that makes it worse.

ANYWAY

Let me try to think of what I liked about this. Valkyrie, of course, who was badass as hell and I LOVE that Thor was like “nah I’m not gonna be king, you’re already the king,” and did you notice nobody said the word “queen” in there? She’s fucking awesome and I love her.

I liked Tony’s kid, who was adorable, and also my kids have literally said to me “I love you three thousand” so like, that’s very believable. I liked that Tony didn’t want to erase the past five years because that would erase his own daughter out of existence.

I liked the joking about Steve’s ass, because yes, I appreciate a healthy objectification of men to match the objectification of women, and he does have an amazing ass.

I liked that Steve got to have his happy ending and dance with Peggy on one level, but I also didn’t like the way it happened at all, because the time travel made no fucking sense and also: WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED TO SHARON CARTER. I get that I guess it wasn’t playing well with audiences, and I can only imagine they did the same thing with Bruce/Natasha because hello that romance storyline got NO kind of closure whatsoever in this entire series, but the fact that they just left the thread hanging is really what drives me nuts.

Oh, but I did love the “on your left” callback, so good job there guys.

I liked the story with Nebula a lot, though it also didn’t make much sense at all. I liked Thor’s buddies, though I didn’t like the kind of fat-shaming “Thor’s let himself go” thing? And not just because I was disappointed at not having a shot of Chris Hemsworth looking sexy, but like, I don’t like that Thor was kind of reduced to comic relief.

idk there are so many characters in this and there was so much stuff that I can’t even remember what I liked anymore.

As for Natasha, man, I don’t even know. I liked that Clint went on a murder spree after his family got killed. I like that Natasha wanted him to get back with his family. I didn’t like that she had to die for it to happen, or that she didn’t get any real action at all, or that we never fucking found out ANY OF HER BACKSTORY. Remember how great she was in Avengers 1? What happened to that?

Who fucking knows what happened with Loki, nobody ever explained any of that. Did Steve ever find out that it was Red Skull guarding the Soul Stone?

...........was Thanos right to remove half of the universe’s population? Like, there’s that line about the pod of whales, and I definitely had times in the first infinity war movie where I thought about it, but like . . . yeah there are other solutions besides random killing half of life but randomly bringing them back also doesn’t solve the problem.

Anyway Captain Marvel was awesome and badass and I appreciated the scene with all the ladies teaming up, even though it felt kind of like it was forced in and Extra, just like the huge clash of the armies scene which was basically like “HERE IS A MOVIE POSTER ISN’T THIS DRAMATIC.”

Honestly also though: why didn’t they let Thor wear the gauntlet? He’s Asgardian, he’s not human. If he could handle that ~power of an entire sun~ thing in Ragnarok he can probably handle some infinity stones.

Okay, maybe I will have more to say later but that’s what I’ve got for now. Mostly I think I’m just disappointed that for a movie that made me cry so much, it was largely unsatisfying because of the gaping plot holes?

#lita watches avengers #here are some #filler tags #and antoher #and another #this time spelled right #avengers endgame #avengers endgame spoilers #endgame spoilers #avengers spoilers #lita talks about herself

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surveys-at-your-service · 5 years

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Survey #192

“i’d love to give you wings, but babe, you’ve got to grow them.”

Where have you lived throughout your life? The same general area in North Carolina. Do you find your job rewarding? N/A What kind of cake did you have for your last birthday? I'm sure it was red velvet. To you, which is better: English muffins or bagels? I enjoy both, but bagels. Do you paint your nails? No. What’s the last website you signed up for? Good question... maybe a feral dog RP forum I was considering making a character on? Do you check your email everyday? I'm getting into the habit. Have you created any pages on Facebook? Yeah. Is there a subject that you absolutely suck at? Social studies/history, math. What’s your favorite song by Dave Matthews Band? I have no idea who that is. Are there people you have absolutely nothing in common with, but still enjoy talking to? Maybe? Have you ever wandered around drunk with your friend? No. Are you good at holding back your laughter if needed? Nooo, not at all. Have you ever been so unfortunate to suffer from a hangover? No. Have you ever had a panic attack? Plenty. Are you deathly allergic to anything? No. Have you ever had a mouse in your house? Yeah. In our old one, anyway. Do you know anyone who DOESN’T have an ex? Not personally, I think. Is anyone you know really religious? Welcome to the South. Yes. Are your eyebrows naturally thick? I'd say they're average. Has speaking in front of people ever made you sick? No. I haven't spoken in front of an actual audience since my senior project, though. It was hard, but I think I did well. What was the last movie that made you teary-eyed? I'm not sure. Moana may have gotten me a bit teary? But if no, Coco absolutely did. Have you had two friends that absolutely hated each other? I think "hate" is a strong word for it. Has a laptop ever burned your legs? Yes. I legitimately had dark spots on my right leg for a long while. Do you know anyone who has a scar through their eyebrow? Juan. Who was the last person to flip you off? Idk, but I'm sure it was playfully. Anyone’s birthday coming up soon? Miiiine! And my friend Alyssa's. Would you ever wear fake eyelashes? Sure, in rare circumstances. Are you good at following directions? No. I have zer-O sense of direction. Do you have someone that you can just act a fool with and not care? Sara. From where you’re sitting, can you touch a wall? Yeah, behind me. When at a restaurant, do you put your napkin on your lap? Not unless I'm with my grandmother. She's extremely "proper" about things. Do you prefer electric or manual pencil sharpeners? Electric. Are your biceps at all noticeable? No. Have you ever seen a walrus? Are there any at SeaWorld? Otherwise, no. When it comes to dropping food, do you believe in the 10 second rule? HELL NO. I'm a germaphobe with that stuff. If given the opportunity, would you ride on a camel? Sure? Do you believe that cellphones actually do cause cancer? I don't recall the science behind this theory, so idk. When people you know cry, does it make you feel like crying too? Oh yes, especially if it's someone I'm very close to. Particularly, I can't handle Mom, my sisters, or Sara crying. I've never seen Dad cry, but if he ever did, I know I would bawl. Do you tend to jump to conclusions? Was this written as a direct @me??????? Are you good at remembering your friends’ birthdays? NOPE. I only remember... Sara's, Connie's, Caleb's (just because it's on Halloween), Shaylee's, and that's literally it out of friends/acquaintances. Is there something you need to do, that you’re trying to avoid doing? Actually use WiiFit. I'm doing periodic exercises throughout the day, but I need to dedicate more and be able to see my center of balance. Ever pop someone else’s pimple? NONONONONO IT'S SO GROSS TO ME How long does it take you to fall asleep? No less than 15 minutes, I think usually more. Do you crack your neck often? I can't. Did you have a weird dream last night? OH MY GOD YES. I was awkwardly with one of my acquaintances at his house somehow????? and we both seemed very uncomfortable??????? and I think I was high or some shit???????????????? I don't even know this person well enough to like-like him?????????????? Who do you sometimes compare yourself to? My sisters and successful friends. Are you more worried about doing things right, or doing the right things? Doing the right things. But I aim for both. In what way are you your own worst enemy? I criticize. The. Hell out of everything I do. What activities make you lose track of time? Video games. When you help someone do you ever think, “What’s in it for me?” Full offense, you're an absolute dick if you do that. Who do you tell your secrets to? Nobody really unless there's reason to, and only ever Sara, Mom, or my therapist. Who do you live with? Mom and the pets. When did/will you graduate? '14 for high school. Idk when I will for college, gotta get there first... When are you moving next? Probably when Sara and I are ready for our own place. When is the last time you took a vitamin? I have to twice a week now, so Thursday, because I have an incredible vitamin D deficiency, and that's probably what's causing my knee problems. Why are you stressed? The everlasting weight loss struggle. Do you need to return anyone’s phone call? No. Where do you keep your birth certificate? It's in a safe. How many books are in your room? Uhhh like three? Then one coloring book. Have you ever been IN a wedding? I was the immensely triggered and ugly bridesmaid at my older sister's. Weddings were a very sensitive thing to me at the time, so while I was so happy for Ashley, I had a very difficult time and cried numerous times. What was the last thing you laughed out loud at? I think during a Mark video? Do you have a nickname? Why? "Britt" for obvious reasons, and Mom's called me "Twinkie" since I was a baby. She gave all her children sweets-based nicknames. Fuck out my face if you think that ain't the cutest damn thing. Have you ever had a bad concert experience? No. When was the last time someone told you that you were beautiful/good-looking? Do people often tell you this? I think the last time was when Sara said I looked really pretty with eyeliner on and I just eeeeeeeeeek. I'm not often told it. Are you missing someone of the opposite sex atm? Not romantically. I'd like to see Girt as a bud; I'm gonna invite him to my birthday dinner to hang out. Hopefully he doesn't have work. Want someone back in your life? Yes. Are you currently sad about anything? Weight. Unbelievable difficulty getting my fucking transcript and inability to find my ACT score so I can go back to school. Are you wearing anything shiny? My lip ring has gems on it, and they shine a bit in the right light. How important is a sense of humor in a significant other? I need it. I don't think I could really enjoy a constantly serious person as a partner. How many followers do you have on Twitter? Idk, don't care to check. I only ever use it to be able to like Mark's shit lmao. Do you sleep with the door open or closed? Open so Roman can go in and out. Have you ever been to the beach? Multiple times. Can you handle blood? Doesn't bother me a bit. Do you pay your bills or do your parents? My parents. I have no source of income to. What’s your best friend’s middle name? Jane. Has any place hired you underage for a job? No. Have you ever barely passed a grade/year in school? In college courses when my mental state was at its worst. Have you ever carried a concealed weapon? No. Have you ever tried to sell something overpriced to someone? No, I don't think so. Do you plan to become very wealthy some day? "Very" is unlikely, but I am dead serious about being at least perfectly financially stable one day. I refuse to live how I have my whole life so far, wondering if rent will be paid each month 'n things like that. Do you remember your first time going to the movies? No. Does eating breakfast make you sick? No. Are you dying to say something to someone right this minute? No. Well, not dying to, but after this whole revelation I had, I really want to apologize to Jason. I wasn't without evil in how I responded to and treated him after the breakup. Book series you enjoyed reading recently? I haven't read a series in years. Do you enjoy lying in the grass during the summer, and just existing? Nooo. Summer sucks and lying in grass is super uncomfortable. Do you have a passport? If so, how many stamps do you have in it? No. Are there any keys on your keyboard that have letters fading away? Not fading, but literally gone from the keyboard because this one is horrible, even after being "fixed" or replaced (idr). No joke, 21 are gone. Sooo I have to smash those buttons for the sensor or whatever to understand I'm pressing them, to the point my fingers, especially right pointer, are mildly callused. Do any of your close friends have children? No close ones, but one I'm hoping to reconnect more with it expecting. What do you plan on having for dinner? Probably a sandwich and nutrition shake to get enough calories to take my medicine and get the intended effect. Do you like Chinese food, or do you find it disgusting? The only things I enjoy now are fried rice and eggrolls, but I used to like sweet and sour chicken and bird on a stick or whatever its proper name is. Have the police ever come knocking on your door looking for someone? Once. Know anybody who works in a tattoo parlor? We're not like, "real" friends, but I know a good number of and get along great with the employees at the parlor I'm a regular customer at. I want to work there so badly. Small, environment I feel at home at, great people. Have you ever played flashlight tag? Don't even know what that is. Could you call yourself a movie buff? Not at all. Have you ever had a piercing get infected? A second hole in one of my earlobes, and the first time I got my tongue done, there was an abscess inside that indicated one was likely to form. Thank God that the rollercoaster of The Tongue Piercing Woes has ended. Do you check your fire alarms when you’re supposed to? Mom does occasionally. Are you a shorts wearing kind of person? NOOOOO MY LEGS ARE NOT OKAY. Plus I chafe. Is your grandparents’ house obsessively tidy? Ohhhh I'm sure. I haven't been to her house since I was a kid, but I remember it being like, pristine. Her rooms at her son's is neat as hell too. About how much can you bench press? I have no clue. Have you ever had your phone die on you in the middle of a conversation? Yeah. Is anybody in your family a carpenter? Not to my knowledge. Are you avoiding someone? No. Do you call your boyfriend “Monkey”? I have a gf, and I have never in the least understood how that's a term of endearment. What’s your favorite primary color? Red. What were you for Halloween? Nothing, ugh. I haaave to dress up this year. Do you have any clothes from Walmart? Yeah. When did you get a Facebook? I have no clue. What color are your eyes? Grayish-greenish blue. What motivates you? How far I've already come, wanting a better future than I have now, encouragement from friends, family, my therapist, and psychiatrist, the drive to thoroughly enjoy my one mortal existence. Can you walk in heels? Not well. When was the last time someone asked you your age? Ummm, last time I got something done at the parlor, I think? Do you keep a journal? No. Have you ever tried a weird flavor of vodka? No. Do you wear a ring on your finger? One, my friendship ring with Sara. What are you doing? This, listening to Asking Alexandria's "Closer" NIN cover (no shame), and waiting for Girt to reply on Facebook. What’s the last kind of soup you ate? A bit of vegetable. Do you currently have a sunburn? No. Who did you last text? Mom. Who’d you last call? About what? My old college to find out why I couldn't get my fucking transcript after weeks upon weeks of being directed to different people about it. I regret going there immensely. Complete waste of time and money. Are you currently frustrated with someone? I'm really frustrated at myself. Do you drink water or soda more often? I'm actually not sure... Do you straighten your hair? No. When did you last talk to your brother or sister? One, not since Christmas, and the younger, a few days ago. All my half-siblings have been forever, and one I've never spoken to. What is your least favorite vegetable? Probably asparagus. Or beans. Outside of family, name 3 people that make you smile/laugh often. Sara, Mark, Shane Dawson. In school, what subjects did you achieve your highest grades in? English or art, idr. Was there a subject that you enjoyed, but weren’t too good at? No. When was the last time something didn’t go to plan? What happened? Being into what's called "vulture culture" now (at least to a certain degree), I searched for quite a while for the bones of the very first opossum I photographed (I have a photography "series" focused on exposing the horror of roadkill to hopefully influence people to be more careful and vigilant), but despite thorough searching, I couldn't find it. Gruesome, but Mom speculated the remains were destroyed by whoever mows the grass there. Do you have any children? If not, at what age do you think you’ll feel ready to be a parent? No, and never. When was the last time you bought a new item of clothing? Describe it. Uhhh. I seriously have no clue. Maybe some underwear months ago. Was your last Facebook friend request from a male or female? Idk who the last person was. Do you have an item of clothing that makes you feel especially beautiful? Describe it. No. Think of the last person that betrayed you. If they said they were sorry, would you forgive them? I can literally almost guarantee Colleen shared our whole goddamn conversation and shit on Facebook after our last talk, as she did the first time too. Too many times our business became everyone's. I'd forgive her, but I refuse to ever be friends again. Nastiest thing you've ever done? I hate talking about this, but okay. When I was deep into my suicidal depression phase, I had a hard time brushing my teeth as needed. Like... I wouldn't for days. I avoided brushing my hair as long as I could too. Anyone who doesn't believe in how deeply depression is capable of chaining you down and making vital things almost impossible, go get fucking educated. Have you ever been in a lighthouse? No. What color is your shower? White. Where do you order your pizza from? Ideally Domino's, but sometimes Little Caesar's. When is the last time you had a serious talk with someone? Yesterday. Do you find that you have a certain meal you eat every time you go to certain restaurants? Oh yes. I rarely try something new. What color is your bike? N/A What word can you not stand to hear people say? The “n” word. What room of your house are you in? My bedroom. What is the temperature in your city right now? Apparently 38 F. When did you last use a post-it-note? No idea. Would you ever want to own your own restaurant? No. Do you have a fan in your bedroom? I have three lmao. My room is unbearable in the summer. Who is the last person that you took a picture with? Sara. When is the last time you were stuck in a fairly long traffic jam? A couple months or so back when there was an accident. Do you have certain friends that you hug every time you see them? All my friends. When was your most recent trip to an aquarium? 2016 visit to the beach. We went to the aquarium there and it absolutely sucked. What do you like in your salads and what dressing do you prefer? Just lettuce (but I can also handle cucumbers) and the Olive Garden dressing. If it has one, do you ever use the notepad function in your phone? Occasionally. Rn I have tattoo ideas written in it. Surprised? How good would you say your memory is? Absolutely horrible, lately worse than ever. I worry about it quite a bit. About how many times during the night do you wake up from your sleep? Once or twice. Are there any air fresheners in your house? What kinds? Not currently on or anything. What’s one thing you’re glad you’ve done recently? Improved on picking up the phone when I don't know the number. Have you ever done something sexual that you regret? Well, I've talked about flirting with my friend's bf as a pre-teen, and it wasn't always innocent, if you count that as "sexual." I regret the hell out of it. Do you like to sit in the sun and tan when it’s hot out? NO. Ever had a person who was obsessed with you so much that it scared you? Yes, Tyler. I wasn't like, terrified, but preeeetty uncomfortable. Can you drive, and if you can, do you like it? I can, but I'm not that great, and I absolutely hate it. Have you ever said anything to the last person you kissed that you regret? Yes. Do you like french fries? Hell yeah. Have you ever eaten so much you puked? No. Do you care about what others think of your physical appearance? People whose opinions I care about. Would you rather go to Greece or France? Probably Greece.

#survey #quiz #questions #random #lyrics: ''get up'' by mother mother

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davidfostercomedyblog · 6 years

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Dude in Headlights: Story of when I ran from a deer!

It was a beautiful summer night. I’d just gotten home from completing an unsuccessful 15-year pursuit of stand-up comedy, and for the first time in 20 years was living with my parents.

Believe it or not I wasn’t terribly depressed. The joy of being no longer in Los Angeles and back home in the greatest city in the world actually outweighed the heartbreak of my dreams’ flushing down the shitter, and the humility of that shitter being the same one I sat on as a 4-year old.

I’d spent the evening with one of my oldest, closest friends, “Biz,” aka. “Riz,” aka. “Do-Riz,” aka. “Adam Rochman” – what a treat. One of the sweetest, funniest human beings you could ever meet, as a kid he was known for smelling all present parties’ butts in immediate investigation of any fart odor. As an adult he’d grown to be one of my idols: a happily married, financially successful man who didn’t live with his parents. Suddenly, I had many idols.

Riz treated me to the Mets game (his team), whom I felt I could appreciate that much more, having now personally experienced adult failure and disappointment on a such a grand scale. We had a blast.

I don’t recall whether the Mets won or lost, partially because I didn’t care, but also the only person I know who talks more than me is Riz. In fairness we had infinity to catch up on, not the least of which being he was newly pregnant, and supposedly I got the very first reveal. After the game we’d part ways on the 7-train, Riz to his beautiful midtown apartment, I to Mom’s house, via a transfer to the A-train, and another to a brief bus ride on good ol’ Rockland Coaches, the criminally unreliable, dog shit of an undoubtedly going-to-hell bus company that ironically holds a special place in my heart as my medium between home and the city through my juvenile delinquency.

My hometown is just 14 miles from the Bronx, but its suburban landscape makes the Bronx look like Manhattan. From the bus stop were two options… really three:

1. A two mile walk through the pitch black, deadly silent beyond chirping crickets, a half mile of which is up a huge hill fit only for those just embarking on their first career in life.

2. A half-mile walk along part of the same route culminating with a 20-yard trek through the miniature forest that set the backdrop for my backyard for all of childhood (MOST POPULAR OPTION).

3. Get Mom or Dad to pick me up from the bus stop. On the ride home I spoke to my (Jewish) mother who insisted on coming to get me from the bus.

“No, no, are you crazy?” I responded, in an obvious adoption of the martyr role, desperately grasping at any opportunity to feel like a man with some semblance of integrity. I may live with Mom and Dad and have to use their car daily to seek employment, but I’ll be damned if I need a ride home from the bus stop.

We argued for a few minutes like George Costanza and his mother, until finally she gave in. Mom had to wake up early the next morning to go to work for her customary 12-hour day, which helped yield resistance. I would walk home.

It was a beautiful late, summer walk. New York’s weather compares to Los Angeles’ about as closely as Los Angeles’ personality does to New York’s, but the humidity doesn’t much bother me. I looked forward to a before bed shower to wash off the Mets; otherwise I felt great. I listened to Eric B. and Rakim in my headphones, feeling like I could be Rakim, “the Rakim of acupuncture:” my second lifes’ passion (actually third if you include professional skateboarder, which never could have happened).

The final road before the aforementioned forest was always dark, even relative to the suburbs: One of those barely lit suburban back roads where you could streak naked in the middle of the night and it wouldn’t even really count. No one would see you. How do I know? I’ve done it.

As I approached the final bend I came suddenly face to face with her. She was beautiful. My three years in L.A. had been the least successful romantically (and “romantically”) of my life, and I’d so looked forward to dating human beings again on planet Earth once I returned. Of course that was completely irrelevant in the moment, as “she” was a deer. Not even in my weakest California moments would I have done a deer.

While growing up in Rockland County seeing deer was a rare and special treat, not terribly unusual, nor terribly common, as they had plenty of wood area separate from society to have their own society. Magically, we co-existed. Sadly, in the past ten years I’ve noticed deer sightings to be much more common. I see them every day that I visit my folks, and usually not one at a time, not even always on the periphery of the woods. I see them on the block, often standing in groups on the street corner, as if they’re the ones gentrifying our hood, not vice versa, and instead of trendy restaurants they’re selling drugs. “Anti-gentrification?”

I don’t dislike white people. As a matter of fact I consider the expression, “white privilege” to be a form of prejudice, and neo-Liberals as racist as Republicans, just via a different mechanism. My belief is that all cultures are prone to their own unique flaws, and one of white peoples’, in general, is a short sighted tunnel vision of devaluing culture, nature and community in exchange for commerce and material gain. “We” are doing to the deer exactly what we’ve done to Brooklyn in recent years and the Native Americans 500 years ago.

I digress.

As I looked into the eyes of the lovely beast we both froze, and I realized we both were afraid. The deer wasn’t moving and if I wanted to complete the short cut home I had no choice but to walk in her direction.

“Afraid of a deer?!” said every single fucking person I’ve told this story to.

Yes, afraid of the deer. Why?

Well, for one, I DON’T KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT DEER. THAT GOOD ENOUGH?! I’m not a fuckin’ veterinarian, nor a zoologist. Sure, I grew up in the suburbs, but now I’ve spent the greater (and latter) half of my life in the city and genuinely feel more nervous walking past a deer on a pitch black street than I do through a housing project in the Bronx. Why? Because I’ve seen people successfully do the latter. Conversely, I’ve never observed another human being walk past a deer, or a monkey or ostrich, or any other wild, Goddamn animal that isn’t sold at pet stores as further accessories of gentrification. I’m aware of reputations, and obviously I was 90% sure I’d be fine if I strolled towards the deer. But is 90% good enough when it comes to being attacked by a beast?! I couldn’t rationalize making such a decision based on hearsay alone.

As we stood there on the dark road, I fully clothed with a miniature suitcase in tow, she vulnerably “buck naked” in my direct path I decided to consult the omniscient web. I took out my phone and googled: “Do deer attack people?”

I expected what George Costanza did when he asked the doctor if his skin discoloration could be Cancerous: “What are you crazy? Deer attack people?! You’re nuts! Get outta here! You’ve got a better chance of her walking up to you and whispering ‘I love you’ in you ear and giving you a $100 bill!”

That wasn’t what it said at all. Instead the top links were much more to the tune of: “Although it is rare…” which was more than enough for me. The last thing I wanted to do was turn and walk back the long way home; then again apparently not. The last thing I wanted to do was get mauled to death by some deer bitch in the suburbs. The second to last thing I wanted was compromise my manly martyrdom and call Mom to come get me, and the third to last thing was retrace my steps and take the long way home. I checked out a few more links, desperately seeking comfort that no deer ever attack anyone. When I didn’t find it, without a moment’s hesitation I turned an about face.

It was a long walk, even longer than the original one from the bus stop to home would have been, including up and down two small hills with my fake-ass/big-ass carry-on bag rolling behind me. Still I chose to not get angry. My temperament and frustration comes up when I’m convinced there’s something better either I or someone else could have done to avoid a crisis. Instead there was no one to blame for this inconvenience. I couldn’t blame the dumb, poor beast for standing in the middle of the street, and the consequential bottom line was just an hour later to bed on this non-school night, because there were no “school nights,” because I was unemployed. Besides, it was hard not to find the humor in the situation.

40 minutes later I’d arrived at my block, this time via the Google Maps car path, and I was relieved. By this time the humidity had begun to get to me, not to the same degree as California’s culture and psychology, but still… I was hot.

I walked down the road that I had literally tens of thousands of times and my childhood home was finally in sight. I was just three houses away when suddenly I noticed directly in my path another Goddamn, FUCKING DEER!

Was it the same one?! I had no idea. I didn’t know and I didn’t care. If it wasn’t then what the hell are all these deer doing all over the streets? If it was then what kind of sick, strategic genius of a deer was I dealing with, and also what the hell are these deer doing all over the streets in the middle of the night? Was I being directly targeted? FUCK!

This time was a greater distance between us, maybe 40 yards. I had more space to run if need be, nevertheless the deer was as frozen in the headlights of my crystal blue eyes as the last one, staring me down from afar, immobile and directly planted in my path home. The situation had become that much more humorous, also that much less so in the experience of the moment.

I side-stepped the road onto my neighbor’s front lawn. I figured in case the deer decided to charge me they had a fence I could hop into their backyard that would offer a tangible barrier between the murderous animal and myself.

I had to make a choice: Swallow any ounce of pride left from my time in L.A. and wake Mom up by calling her to come pick me up two houses from our home in a comical exhibition of cowardice, or risk my life. I took out my phone again, this time not for more Google research but for option A.

“What?!” my poor, exhausted mother exclaimed into the phone. “Where did you say you are?”

Long beat before: “I’m two houses down.”

“A deer?!”

“Yes, a deer, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. Obviously I didn’t even want you to pick me up from the bus stop an hour ago, let alone our neighbor’s house now, but I ain’t walking past this deer. I’m just not doing it. I’m sorry.”

“Oh my God, David… really… I’ll be right there.”

It was like I was 17 again and she was picking me up from the police station. It wouldn’t be until the next day, and all of her days to come, that Mom would find the humor in the situation. As if I hadn’t sufficiently disappointed her in life, 38-years old without a girlfriend or dollar to my name, and now I was requesting rides home in the middle of the night out of fear of deer.

The bitch-ass deer scattered as soon as the garage door opened and the engine-fueled car came barreling out. So much for “frozen in headlights.”

Mom picked me up, and the Costanza family dialogue instantly resumed.

“Where’s the deer?! I don’t see any deer!” she demanded.

“What?! It ran when it saw you coming! What do you think I’m lying? I just wanted to wake you up in the middle of the night so I could stand around sweating for ten minutes on the Cahill’s front lawn? You think I’m tellin’ stories about deer?!”

“I think you’re nuts! That’s what I think. A deer?! Really, come on.”

“Well, what the hell do I know about deer?! What am I, a deer expert? I know their behaviors and tendencies?”

“What?”

Mom was tired. She continued though. “Deer do not attack people.”

“That’s not what Google said.”

“Google?!”

“Yes, Google! You know? The world wide web.”

“Oh, God, gimme a break. Deer only attack if you try to attack them.”

“Oh really?! You know that?! What are you, Wildlife Jack--?”

“—Jack?! Why am I a man? … I’d be Jane. Wildlife Janie.”

Finally we were home. By the time I went to my shower and Mom to sleep I got a laugh out of her, and Dad thoroughly enjoyed the story over breakfast. I have no beef with the deer – only sympathy – as we are both simply products of our environment, theirs’ overrun with American commerce, mine without any life necessity of understanding them. Maybe if we spent more time with the deer and understood they have all the same fears and desires as we do we wouldn’t so thoughtlessly displace them out from their homes, all the while avoiding them interpersonally at all costs. Maybe if the deer had access to better education and greater opportunities then their contributions in the long run would pay even greater dividends than the homogeny of more homes and fancy restaurants. Maybe then the world would be different. I would have succeeded at stand-up comedy and Mom would have slept through the night.

#deer in headlights #deer #deer attack #scared of deer #city boy

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zillanewt · 7 years

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What’s In Your Head?

Chapter One // Chapter Two // Chapter Three // Chapter Four // Chapter Five

summary: So, the year is 1999. Eddie is 23 years old, telepathic, and lives with his childhood best friend, Bill, in Portland, Maine. He meets a young musician with a knack for speed named Richie at a bar. More details at 11.

pairing: reddie

words: 1.9k

warnings: mild violence with the Bowers Gang

A/N: this is based off of @trashmouthloser‘s mutant headcanons, so thank you for letting me write this! i hope it’s not too terrible!

EDIT: PLEASE MESSAGE ME IF YOU WOULD LIKE TO BE ADDED TO THE TAGLIST

Growing up with mind-reading powers was pretty cool. Eddie always knew what smartass comeback to make when his peers would say something dumb. He always knew exactly what to say to get on adults’ good sides. When he was about 11, he figured out he could easily cheat on most tests, only fueling his classmates dislike for him. As a child, he made his best attempts to use his mutation responsibly, but children are, by nature, prone to mistakes.

While he used it for good in regards to his best friend, Bill, he tended to use it more selfishly with his classmates, earning him the nickname “Nosy Eddie” by middle school. Occasionally, he would attempt to alter people’s emotions towards him. But, what else was a small, asthmatic germaphobic boy with a desperate need to be at least somewhat liked to do?

Disliked throughout most of middle school and high school, Eddie vowed to restrain his powers and only use them to help Bill. Besides, he had been lectured by plenty of people, such as his mother and teachers, about invading others (especially adults’) privacies. He didn’t like reading adults’ thoughts, anyway. They thought vulgar, violent, and scary things, which young Eddie didn’t even want to comprehend the meaning of, like Mr. Keene repeatedly thinking his wife his a “dumb, lying whore” with the same viciousness of a rabid dog.

But, his mother particularly drilled it into his head ever since he began to develop his power that he was never to read her thoughts. Maybe he should’ve questioned it more, but Mrs. Kaspbrak’s word was law. It just was.

In his opinion, Bill’s mutation was ten times cooler than his. Sure, Eddie could know everybody’s deepest, darkest secrets, but Bill could move things with his mind. Well, it seemed way cooler when they were kids.

When they were 13, Eddie remembers an irritated Bill accidentally using his powers to throw a large rock through Henry Bower’s car window. They ran like hell, while Eddie cursed Bill for not being able to keep his “dumb mind powers” under control. He instantly regretted it after he saw the hurt in Bill’s eyes, because Bill, just like Eddie, was prone to misusing his power. Since then, Eddie has done his best to help Bill keep his powers under control. In return, Bill always lets him know when he’s being too invasive.

Anyhow, Bill thinks his and Eddie’s mutations are the coolest in Derry.

“How can they not be cool?!” Bill had once exclaimed when they were wandering through the barrens and talking about their most recent beating from the Bowers Gang “Mental mutations makeup only one percent of the entire mutation population! Who cares if Belch Huggins has super strength? You can literally read people’s minds, Eddie!”

Eddie never liked this conversation. He’s had it a million times with Bill. Like everything else about him, the Bowers Gang had taken a liking to making fun of Eddie for his mutation, dubbing it a “useless power” and proclaiming that “of course you can only read feelings like a girl.” He understood Bill was only trying to make him feel better, but his friend could do some real lasting damage with his mutation. During junior year of high school, Eddie was receiving one of the worst beatings the Bowers Gang had ever given him, when Bill stumbled on to the scene. Seeing Eddie curled up in a ball desperately trying to protect himself from the blows while his blood spilled onto the gravel, really set something off in Bill. In an instant without moving a muscle, he had broken one of Victor Criss’ hands, flew Patrick Hockstetter backward into a nearby guardrail, knocked Belch Huggins over the head with a piece of debris on the road, and pinned Henry Bowers to the ground.

The smaller boy couldn’t do anything but watch as Bill truly became a force to be reckoned with. Bill became somebody who could defend themselves and didn’t have to fear those stronger than him. Eddie just knew how to get inside people’s heads, and there was still plenty to fear, even more so after knowing the sort of things people thought.

Now, they were adults. They had left Derry behind soon after graduation, moving to Portland as roommates. Though it’s customary for students to leave behind their childhood friends after high school, Eddie knew he couldn’t do it. Bill needed him to keep his powers in balance, just as Eddie felt he needed Bill to “fight his bullies.”

So, the year is 1999. Eddie is 23 years old and lives with his childhood best friend in Portland, Maine. He has discovered the metropolis magic that is gay bars and being gay without fear in general. So far, he’s managed to remain pretty selective about who he uses his powers on.

Being a mind-reader wasn’t half bad when you used in on the right people.

************

Despite it being 7 o’clock in the morning and Eddie not needing to be at work until 10, he still felt pieces of fabric pelting him in the face. Groggily, he groaned and willed whatever it was to stop, but it didn’t. When he opened his eyes, Bill was propped at his door, dressed in a hoodie and sweats, flinging Eddie’s own dirty clothes at him with his mind.

This is definitely not how Eddie wanted to wake up this morning.

“Billiam,” Eddie said in a sleepy haze, glaring at the ceiling, “you better have a good reason for this.”

“Don’t forget you promised to come to the bar with Mike and me tonight,” he replied with enthusiasm, something Eddie was truly lacking this morning. “You need to get out of the house.”

Mike was a co-worker of Bill’s at a local newspaper. They were both just intern’s, but they had writing skills which looked promising. Eddie quite liked Mike, because he was polite and did not patronize Eddie about his germaphobia or hypochondria. In fact, Mike was pretty popular among certain circles in Portland, and Eddie didn’t know why he hung around Bill and him.

*****************

The bar was some hole in the wall downtown, but Mike somehow knew everyone in there. While looking for a table to sit at, he would stop to chat with someone every five seconds. Eventually, they made their way to a semi-dirty table, much to Eddie’s chagrin, near the stage. The place was dimly lit with poolhall overheads, and the red vinyl tables and chairs have definitely seen better days. Around the time the waitress brought out their drinks, a band was preparing to set up on stage. Mike prattled on about how they’ve been gaining popularity rapidly in Portland and how talented they were. Eddie secretly loved rock and roll when he was growing up, but his mom rarely let him listen to it in the house because it was “demonic” and would “corrupt his young mind.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he spied a tall thin man with dark grey hair plugging his guitar into the large amp. He was instantly less annoyed about how Bill woke him up this morning and praised whatever god was listening for bringing him to this bar tonight. Without realizing, he had stared for too long, and eventually, the man turned around to make eye contact with him from the corner of his eye. From the smirk on the man’s face, Eddie concluded he must’ve looked like a lovestruck teenager.

Then after looking around the bar, he realized how out of place he must’ve looked. He was wearing an oversized baby blue sweater that made him look like a kid who was trying on their dad’s clothes for the first time. Picking at the label on his beer, he considered reading this stranger’s mind to know what he thought of Eddie. But, he thought better of it when Bill nudged him in the side.

“Making heart-eyes at the lead singer, are we?” Bill snickered, trying to contain himself at the rampant blush on Eddie’s face.

“No!” Eddie insisted, burying his head in his arms.

Mike giggled, “I think he’s looking at you too, Eddie.”

Despite his friends teasing, he didn’t lift his head from the table until the band’s set began and, boy, Eddie wasn’t disappointed. His head instantly shot up and the gray-haired man was strumming the opening for Zombie by The Cranberries on neon pink guitar. Eddie couldn’t get a good look at him before with everybody’s shuffling about on stage, but he could see him very clearly now. He was wearing a bright pink tank top, a grey leather jacket, tight black jeans with rips along the legs, and silver engineer boots. Everything about him seemed so interesting, and Eddie felt himself quickly sinking in.

His dark curls bobbed back and forth while he sang the lyrics in a raspy voice. Every once and awhile, he’d sneak his attention back to Eddie to make sure he still had his eyes – which, of course, he did, he always did.

The song ended too quickly for Eddie’s liking, but it was followed by another, an original, and yet another one. Eddie knocked back drink after drink, not taking his eyes away from the man. He couldn’t even if he wanted to.

Around midnight the set ended and the band began to dismantle their equipment. Mike and Bill’s teasing be damned! Eddie had just enough of the hooch in his system to have the courage to go onstage and talk to the mystery man, and damn it! He was going to!

Nervously, he approached the edge where the lead singer was working on untangling cords and packing his guitar away. The man instantly noticed Eddie approaching him and broke out into a wide grin.

“I was wondering if you’d get the balls to talk to me,” he says bluntly, still grinning at Eddie.

Normally, Eddie would be offended, but the amount of beer in his system said fuck it.

“I mean with those looks you were giving me, I’d be stupid not to talk to you,” Eddie said with the most confidence he has ever mustered in his entire life.

The man raised one eyebrow and bit his lip, looking entirely amused. “You mean my eye-fucking looks? Yeah. Those were most definitely intentional.”

Eddie felt a hot blush spread from his cheeks to his back at the man’s vulgarity, but the light’s were so dim it would have been difficult to notice if you weren’t paying close attention.

The man was definitely paying close attention.

“I’m Richie,” he said, moving his legs to swing over the edge of the stage.

“Eddie,” the other hiccuped quietly, gravitating closer to Richie and the space between his legs.

Eddie swears he can hear his friends hooting in the distance, but he really doesn’t give a fuck because he never gets hit on.

He and Richie are barely inches from each other’s lips, before there is a voice calling Richie from offstage.

“Shit,” he says, glancing from Eddie’s eyes to his lips, “I gotta go. Will you give me your number?”

Eddie fumbled through his pockets, praying for a pen for a hot minute, until Mike swooped in to save Eddie’s love life with a Sharpie.

Sloppily, he wrote his number on Richie’s hand and then watched Richie disappear with his guitar case in a literally actual flash.

#reddie #my fic #what's in your head?

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unwillingadventurer · 6 years

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Thoughts on Christmas special. Some negativity (obvs) under the cut so if you don’t wanna hear it, don’t read it. Some positives hidden in there too lol

Ok so we decided to watch the Christmas special after wondering whether we should but we got curious about Jodie and our Dad wanted to watch it so we agreed to give it a shot.

As as episode it wasn’t that bad, like it didn’t send us to sleep like last year’s but we also didn’t get much out of it. We couldn’t even remember why Twelve was regenerating despite seeing the last episode so that didn’t help us. The setting was a nice one, all snowy and at the South Pole and at the end of their lives. The death theme was a good idea but has been done ‘to death’ by Moffat so many times so we literally have no idea whether Clara, Bill etc are dead, alive or what they are by this point. We’ll probably get called stupid for not knowing the plots but it’s not our fault these episodes rarely hold our attention and we spend so much time cringing at dialogue that we miss stuff.

Anyway the idea of the two Doctor’s was nice and we love the transition from black and white to colour, like it was beautiful and the whole ‘709 eps earlier’ was cute. We got a kick out of all the black and white bits. But if only it had stayed like that. Ben and Polly weren’t really needed but at least they weren’t being mocked. David Bradley looked good as Hartnell, he has good mannerisms and he does his best but he just doesn’t feel like him. We found his very slow speech pattern slightly irritating and none of the script allowed him in any real humour that we’re used to. He’s at the end of his life but he’s also been through so much, he could make a joke here and there (he had time to be sexist). There was none of his grandfatherly charm, chuckle, hmms, protectiveness, nothing. We could have forgiven it though had the sexist stuff not been there. Also we did chuckle when he was being rude to Twelve i.e sunglasses, screwdriver lines, going on about saving the day because it was true. See why couldn’t this have been it? We could have enjoyed it then? Though we do find the constant need for meta to take us out of the story but what’s new? There was even a line about jokes being cut! If only Moffat could have cut the sexist ones! Anyway we’ll come back to the sexism later.

We loved the Christmas truce bit (we’re actually writing a fic set at the event so not sure whether bother now but anyway...) but so not surprised that Gatiss made an appearance again *snore*. The trenches bit was beautiful and the singing and the football and we’d personally love a whole episode devoted to that instead of constant episodes that switch settings throughout. Anyway that bit was nice and the Twelve and One emotional moments were not bad.

For some reason we used to love Bill but found her annoying here. Maybe it’s because we want her to be a real person not whatever the hell she was in this. And for an episode moaning about 60′s sexism, where were the real women in this episode? Cameos from Clara and Nardole were ok but we’re not fans of them so we didn’t really care.

Twelve’s regeneration speech went on for so long our mum looked at us and said ‘Just die already’ and it just felt so scripted. As usual, Peter’s performance is amazing but it was just too long for us and because we’ve had so many issues with the era, we didn’t feel as sad as we should’ve. Though in general, regeneration's excite us more than anything because we get excited about new Doctor’s. And Jodie looks cool from that brief scene, looking forward to that. Wonder what’s happening there, can’t wait for an entirely new fresh start.

Ok back to the First Doctor which was by far the worst part of the special, let’s face it the rest was a decent enough episode to enjoy. But we couldn’t enjoy it because we were distracted by the insanely out of character One who sounded like a drunk relative insulting everyone at Christmas. Now we read the spoiler lines to prepare ourselves and thank god we did because if we’d heard it without knowing we’d have choked on our twiglets. One line we may have shrugged off but nearly everything he said was sexist and frankly just embarrassing, He said more sexist lines in this one episode than he did in his entire run and he never said anything that bad ever. The worst thing is that Moffat didn’t even do any social commentary anyway. Everyone defending it kept saying ‘don’t bury your head in the sand, we need to comment on it’ like firstly, the One era was never that sexist and secondly, it wasn’t to discuss anything sensitively at all, it was to place crappy chauvinistic lines in One’s mouth for lolz and have 12 look good in comparison as he shouts ‘you can’t say that’ like One is a writer for the Daily Mail. It wasn’t even seen as bad just sort of ‘haha look how old and sexist I used to be’.

And being shocked at Bill being gay is just...ugh. He’s a time travelling alien who respects all life, just piss off, he loved Oliver Harper. And women made of glass? What the hell? He admired all his female companions and who’d describe Barbara, Vicki or Sara Kingdom as fragile? Hated that bit where he and the Captain were laughing, it was so disgusting, One would never do that. And why would he think men can’t be nurses? He had no problem with female astronauts! The whole thing was cringy as hell, we had to keep apologising to our parents. Also the ‘smacked bottom’ line, ugh everyone keeps saying ‘well he said that’ yes to his GRANDDAUGHTER! not to a grown woman stranger. He was treating Susan as a child which is the whole point of her bloody arc and it plays into the ending where he is forced to realise she has grown up without him really paying attention. People say embarrassing comments like that to their grandchildren. They don’t say it to twenty-something year old women, unless they wanna be slapped.

As for the sending the ladies back to the TARDIS. Where does everyone get this idea One did that? Half the time, they all went into the action and he stayed back? In the Reign of Terror, Barbara goes undercover which he allows whilst he waits! He laughs when Vicki runs off to investigate, he never sends any of them back because he believes they’re fragile, and to be honest we’ve seen that happen in other eras more including new who. Remember Eleven sending Clara back without telling her, or Nine with Rose? Also, ironic since Twelve sends Bill back to the TARDIS in the same episode. And One not being able to hug Bill, really, that adorable man who hugs every woman he travels with? Why are they making One out to be so cold, anti-social and pervy? This is The Tenth Planet not An Unearthly Child! The whole special made it seem as though Twelve was everything wonderful and One was useless and didn’t even have heroic moments. But that was the whole point of One’s arc, that he grew and changed and respected everyone.

So all in all, not happy that we’ve already seen people slagging off One, slagging off Hartnell and using this now as an excuse to bash the One era because they can come up with two lines from 130 eps they think are sexist (or racist which has nothing to do with this anyway). And some of our friends have got hate for expressing an opinion which is not on. The First era was progressive in lots of ways which of course was not celebrated because its easier to pretend that it was so horrible back then and that in comparison we’re better than that but really not much tbh and we find this current era much more troubling than any episode in the 60′s.

We hope new fans aren’t put off him because who the hell would want to watch a sexist, homophobic old goat? If you want the real First Doctor, watch any of his episodes and you will learn he is absolutely nothing like portrayed. He is an explorer, a grumpy but lovable rogue, a fighter, a granddad, a friend, standing up for injustice, a citizen of the universe and gentleman to boot. Now who do you believe? two of One’s biggest fans, or the writer who hates One era and has said so many times. The man who felt that Barbara and Ian stole screen time away from the Doctor. Yes that’s right, the female companion had more than the Doctor but he didn’t like that! Sexist huh? Verity Lambert would be so appalled. And all for what? A few jokes that weren’t funny? Sexism on Christmas Day, such fun! Did we really need that because the next Doctor happens to be a woman? Did Twelve only just realise that women are ok? sighs. No thanks, roll on next year! We hope we can love Who again.

#thoughts

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panda-noosh · 7 years

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The Paladins As Your Room Mate {Headcanon}

wa-la.

Shiro:

- the roommate that everybody wanted to be room mates with.

- people saw his name on the list and were immediately like FHCVOkejfjiojk.

- because he's Shiro, and everybody knows that he's a major pushover when it comes to people, so they knew that they could go a few months without paying rent and he just wouldn't give a fuck.

- but then you get chosen to be his room mate, and you see just what he actually is like.

- he has a collection of trophies which you see almost as soon as you walk in the door. like, they're just there. you walk in and you're just blinded by this bitches past success.

- probably reorganises the fridge every other day because he hates it being messy.

- sits down at the table with the bill book in his hand and he just does that Dad Sigh. you hear the Dad Sigh and you just know it's rent time.

- hates take out food. he would much rather cook a meal than order one off somebody else.

- the bad thing about being Shiro's room mate, is that he also hates guests.

- he doesn't mind it the odd time. he's not an old man, guys. but if you're bringing people home every night, he's gonna pull you on it with a stern, “They need to start paying rent if they're gonna be here all the time.”

- absolutely no sex in the house or else he will sue.

- he probably brings Matt home sometimes, thinking you can't hear them laughing in the living room, and when you pull him on it the next day he pretends nothing happened.

- “it's okay if you brought him home, you know?”

- “i don't know who Matt is.”

Keith:

- why do I always imagine Keith as some meme-shit gamer guy???

- idc, it's happening.

- he's the meme-shit gamer guy.

- the room mate that nobody dislikes, but if they had the choice, they'd probably choose somebody else.

- because he's the definition of a hermit. he spends his time sitting cross-legged on the sofa, playing Overwatch and eating the rationed food you can barely afford.

- always misses out on paying rent. like, he'll not pay it until he literally can't not pay it. he'll push it until the last minute and then he'll just pull the rent out of his god damn back pocket and be like, “oh yeah. rent is a thing.”

- stubborn as all hell. he hates cooking, but he hates take out and will only eat if it's something he likes. he hates having the curtains open, but the light can't be on when it's daylight, either. even though the living room is dark due to the lack of sun being let in, he won't turn the light on.

- most likely doesn't even know his room mates name.

- only ever drags himself off the sofa to go and get food or to go to class.

- he always has his homework done, but you never see him move to do it. it's just like it randomly gets completed, and it's always up to shape.

- is actually a pro at decorating.

- will only leave the house with you if it means you're going to Ikea.

- “i'm moving out if you put that lamp on top of that table. the wood and the lampshade will clash, you idiot!”

- has a habit of popping his head around the kitchen door, scowling at the smell and then leaving, even if he loves the smell.

- he always does the grocery shopping but, again, you never see him move to actually do it. the fridge and the cupboards just refill themselves every week.

Lance:

- the most social room mate anybody has ever seen.

- if he could, he would have the entire school as his room mate. he wants as many as he can get.

- but of course, there's a limit. so he's left with one, and he loves that person with all of his heart.

- even if they've just met. you will become his light and his saviour and he will not hold back on showing you love.

- movie nights. every night. if you miss out on a movie date, he will not be happy.

- no joke. you have to cancel plans because you know Lance will be sad if you can't watch a movie with him.

- makes the popcorn and the drinks to perfection.

- always asks you how your day was when you get home.

- also always has dinner ready when you come home, and he's always smiling over it when you walk in because he's lowkey proud of his creation.

- as he should be because his food is always bomb af.

- you often hear him in his room on the phone to his parents. he speaks in Spanish with them, so you never tell him off for being so loud. it's actually quite emotional to hear him speaking so nicely with his parents.

- he knows whenever you're sad almost as soon as you walk in the door. he's the type of room mate to just make you soup and sit you down. you two don't need to speak. he just lets you eat the food in peace.

- surprisingly not much of a partier. I can see him much preferring staying home with a good movie and some decent food instead of going out to get wasted.

- but that doesn't stop him from having the odd drink every now and then, but he very rarely gets drunk.

Hunk:

- shy.

- when you first move in, it's like Hunk doesn't even exist. he very rarely comes out of hiding.

- but then he is basically forced to leave his room because he needs to see this thing called the sun, and he starts to get comfortable around you.

- he wakes you up every morning. he hates hearing alarm clocks, and he's always up anyway, so why not?

- and he wakes you up in the cutest, sweetest way. he never pushes it – he probably just whispers your name over and over until you wake up to the sweet sound of his voice.

- then you two go out for coffee every morning, because that shit is tradition.

- he helps you with school work when you need it, even though he openly admits that he's not that helpful. you still appreciate the gesture.

- always brings his grandparents over to the dorm to eat dinner, so of course, you and his grandparents are best friends.

- always cooking. there's never a time where you dorm just smells like a dorm. it's always got that aroma of cooking food and baked goods.

- he's also very good at cleaning. very good at cleaning. the dorm is always spotless.

- he doesn't mind you having friends over, but it's very rare that he actually associates himself with them. if you tell him you're bringing people over, he'll agree and just stay in his room the entire night, which leads you to not really having people over that often. it makes you feel bad when he hides away.

- but he never really minds. he likes being in his room.

Pidge:

- Pidge???? Having a room mate????

- I can barely see it, but let's assume.

- she'd probably be the room mate who just never shows her face.

- she's always just not there. like, you get home and she's never there. the only sign she was ever actually in that room is the mess of technology she always manages to leave behind.

- as it turns out, she's hiding in her room studying.

- she never says much, either. she literally just comes downstairs for dinner sometimes and then she goes back into her room to continue on with whatever activity she was doing before that.

- pays the rent so easily, and nobody knows where she's getting the money from.

- nobody questions it, either. it's Pidge. she could be running a drug den and nobody would be surprised.

#voltron #voltron headcanon #voltron imagine #voltron scenario #voltron au #takashi shirogane #shiro voltron #keith kogane #keith voltron #lance mcclain #lance voltron #hunk garrett #hunk voltron #pidge gunderson #pidge voltron

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celiocian-blog · 7 years

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And How’s Your Monday Going?

I told you people I would write. Here’s this POS I wrote for a contest for school.

You know, I’m not a fan of people. They can be a real bunch of bastards. Going around killing, stealing, breaking hearts. I know what you’re thinking - one of these things is not like the other. But it is just as serious. When a heart shatters, that’s all a person can think about for at least a solid week. How you want the one that did it to suffer as much as you, how you want them completely obliterated from the face of the planet…

Breakups are hard. Emotions are painful. And people strive to destroy your emotions, every last ounce of humanity a person may have. And yet, it is still a human pastime. Why? We still don’t know. Humans are cruel beings. And I want the heart of the man that did it-

Well. Ain’t that a load of shit. Sure, I agree with the people info, but goddamn, quit listening to the classical music while you type. You’re gonna die of a busted heart from somebody that didn’t even exist. Creepy freak.

I sat up from lounging across my couch, or at least tried my hardest to. Thing was sinking bad, but what can you do? Being a bachelor isn’t a life of glitz and gold. And glitter. I think glitter should be in that sentence too. It’s sparkly and all that jazz. At least I have time to read, if you call that depressing dreck a piece of literature. Either way, I snapped the book shut and tossed it halfway across the room, barely missing the cat.

Sorry, Sinbad. But you shouldn't be in the center of the room. Quit licking your ass while you’re at it.

I hopped up and brought my arms into the air, bending my back backwards in a lackluster attempt to remove the kinks from my spinal column. Nearly freaking snapped my spine at the sudden damn car horn, though. Mofos need to learn to drive in this damned city, don’t want a Buick driving through the front wall.

I tossed my old shirt that I slept in across the room and made a lazy beeline towards my bedroom, in other words, my closet. Not much was bound to be in there, though. Probably needed to do laundry - shit kept popping up all the damn time. The very fact that I had any work-acceptable dress shirts was in and of itself a miracle gracing the face of the planet.

To be honest, dress shirts and khakis with ties are some of the plainest shit known to man. Seriously, at least let us wear jeans or something, goddamn. And the ties, God, the ties, those freaking fashionable nooses. And I have to do this all in the god-forsaken morning, you fucking asshole boss.

Okay, maybe he’s not too big an asshole, but still. He makes us get up in the morning. But he did give me that raise… And the whole living situation thing… But still! Morning!

Okay, scratch that. I just complain about a lot of shit. Mornings included. Goddamn, do I hate mornings.

After a few select curses, I eventually find those ugly ass pants and pull them on, moaning and groaning the entire time that I do. It’s cold in the room, which means these nuthuggers are just as freakin' cold. Then again, it’s New York in late November. What else is to be expected? I guess this means I need to invest in a better trenchcoat for the the winter season. Or a parka. Just something warmer than the piece of cloth I have now.

I feel kinda guilty turning the heat on in the apartment. It’s technically not mine, after all. Then whose is it, you ask? My boss’s. Soooooo… Yeah. Not an asshole. Needed a place to stay post-divorce and he offered up his apartment for when he had late nights. Nice and fully furnished at least, but it’s creepy sleeping in my boss’s bed. Hence the couch.

After a whirlwind of clothes and tripping over random shit, I finally began my trek to work. Pros of being in this apartment: close to work. Cons: close to work. Well, could be worse. Like I said, my boss is nice and my coworkers are the same for the most part. I’m head of IT so I have to deal with stupidity a lot, but most everyone is pretty competent. Mostly.

Grabbing my phone before heading out probably would’ve been a mistake if not for the fact that I desperately needed it. Apparently, some freaking person decided to call and leave a voicemail! Who the fuck does that anymore? Does anyone even remember their voicemail password besides me? I think not!

Popping in the quadruple digit code brought me to the box itself. “You have one new message from Neil.” Neil? Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. If there was anyone’s voice I didn’t want to hear, it was Neil’s. He was probably still aiming to take all my money and my video games and my cat and by god, I was not going to let that happen.

Manning up the best I could, I pressed the button to listen to the message. Maybe he decided to be civil. “Hey, Baxter, I need to talk to you. Just some stuff here that I figured you might like that I think you left by accident. A few books, a picture or two. Your rings are still here, too. Maybe we could meet up for coffee at that place you like and talk about it.”

He was quiet for a moment, probably trying to think of some way to lure me back to him. “Anyway, um, I hope you’re doing well. The flat’s pretty quiet without you and Sinbad.” He laughed softly, in that way that made me melt when I was still naive. “I still love you. If you ever want t0 think about getting back together, I’m here-”

I hung up and quickly deleted the message, giving myself a moment to catch my breath. There was no way in hell that I would be going back to that ass, not after everything he did to me these past three years. I was done with him. I swallowed down what little ounce of a panic attack that was trying to creep its way in and left the apartment.

Having been raised New York, hiking through snow is an easy yet still interesting thing to do. Boots are your friend and you should always hunch forwards to move your center of gravity. Make sure to make a pissed off face, too, to get everyone out of your way. It scares people and makes them more intimated. I’ve since mastered this fine art of resting bitch face-ery, especially today after that fucking moment dealing with fuck his face Neil. At least, I thought I had mastered it, but the guy I bumped into, whoo boy. He really took the cake.

Imagine as pretty a face a man can have - full pouty lips, long eyelashes, dark blue eyes that nearly fucking pierced into your soul… And the most annoyed scowl I had ever seen in my life. Like, parts of the guy’s face looked mid twenties, others looked pushing on thirty. He stood in front of my office building, tip tap typing away on his cell phone like a goddamn teenage girl and scaring people off with the RBF that only the gods could have granted. Bet he was a prick to talk to.

I made very sure to whistle the Kill Bill whistle as I walked into the building. By god, I was going to make Mr. Shit Face aware of his own existence to everyone around him. Only, I guess I didn’t expect him to follow after me inside. Was he gonna kill me? Shit, maybe the whistle really was a bad idea. If I get murdered, I’m gonna be pissed.

I resisted the urge to spin a few times through the revolving doors before being met with the way too fancy lobby. This was supposed to be a charity, right? Especially those fancy-ass elevators which I made a bee-line for, immediately forgetting the whistle… Only for it to be slammed shut in front of me. Stairs it is, but hey, maybe the excruciating pain in my legs will null out the excruciating pain in my heart.

I turned the corner around the elevator and found the rarely used stairs door. I mean, seriously people. Why do stairwells all look the same? All concrete and bland and prison-slash-highschool looking. I scowled to myself and began making my way up, trying desperately to not trip while walking up the stairs.

Okay, he was following me to and up the stairs. Maybe I should’ve taken the elevator today, after all. Still not too skippy of this guy stalking after me as if he was going to kill me. Both of us up two floors, three floors, four floors. What the fuck? The hell is this guy trying to do? I really wasn’t entertained with the idea of the last person’s voice I had listened to being Neil’s.

I scrambled through the door that led to my floor and this FUCK was still following me! Goddammit, time to man up twice in one day! I spun around to him as he walked through and stared him down (awkwardly, yet literally… he was a couple inches shorter than me). “H-Hey! You got a bone to pick with me or something?”

He blinked and tilted his head to the side an inch, causing a dark lock of curly hair to fall. Wait, don’t tell me I jumped to conclusions. Oh shit oh shit oh shit. “Pardon?”

Wait, what? Was he seriously not going after me? Did I really just jump to conclusions? Maybe this divorce was getting to me head… Goddammit, was that a blush coming to my cheeks and I am not a smart man. “You were following me! What do you want from me?!”

He kept on with the owl-eyed stare before slowly shaking his head, his lips curling into a tiny smile. Goddammit, I did jump to conclusions. Fuck me sideways-

Aaaaaaand he’s gone crazy. Interrupting me from my mental scolding was him suddenly bursting out into this weird fit of laughter. And by fit, I mean full on, eyes closed and watering, hand over mouth, practically at a right angle he’s hunched over so much fit. Goddammit, I was not funny. And that was not funny.

Not that I could actually get around to protesting because the moment I came out of my shocked stupor, his laughter was winding down. Stupid little grin still plastered to his stupid little face, he reached up and pat my shoulder. “Thanks for that. I really needed it after what I went through this morning.” And with that, he walked off! That stupid little prick just disappeared into the distance, off to whatever department he worked for!

Wait. What department did he work for? Now that I think about it, I don’t think i had ever seen him around before. And this may be a big company, but I usually recognize people that work here. But nope, this guy was a brand spanking new hire. Obviously not IT, I didn’t have to deal with the interview process.

Whatever, I’d probably be getting an email begging me to fix his new computer. “Help me!” he’d say. “I’m stupid with computers!” Ahhh, aren’t they all? And that, ladies and gents is why I have job security.

I made damn sure to avoid every desk I could see, trying my hardest to not be spotted for some sort of tech help. It was like a weird game of hide and seek. Except being caught would lead to you being miserable for the next hour. Yay work.

Long story short, I made it past the hoards of sheeple to my office and plopped right down in my chair, turning on my computer in hopes of a lack of emails. Apparently, the boss man decided to be nice to everyone because they was only one in the inbox and the subject was “New Hire.” Yay, home team! I get to figure out who bug face is!

I leaned forward into my hand with my elbow on the desk (probably like you are right now) and skimmed through. Blah blah blah, recent hire, blah blah blah, be nice, blah blah blah, oh look, name! Apparently this guy was named “Isidore Elijay.” That was certainly a hell of a name.

Now to check and see where he was working. I don’t remember anyone saying they were looking for new hires recently, maybe he was just an intern. But then again, he looked too old to be one. God, come on, email, enough with this fluff!

Wait.

Does that say what I think it says?

“Isidore has been hired as my new personal assistant. Hence, I certainly expect you to give him the utmost respect.”

Awwww, shit.

#writing #my writng #Baxter #Codename: IDK #first person

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flauntpage · 6 years

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The NBA's Man of Many Faces

On a hot day in early September, three glass revolving doors twirl into the midtown Manhattan high-rise where the most fascinating man in the NBA spent most of his summer. The lobby is palatial, with a dazzling chandelier fixed in the center of the room; a young woman with platinum blonde hair stands directly underneath it, inside a front desk that looks like someone cut a marble egg in half, juggling phone calls and small talk with delivery men as they scurry across the floor.

New York Knicks center Enes Kanter steps out from an elevator behind her, armed for the heat in a white short-sleeve hoodie, dark mesh shorts, and solid teal low-top Nikes. A trimmed beard accentuates his baby-fat-free face, and the thick hair atop his head takes the shape of a Brillo pad that’s been dyed black. A long, red scar runs along his right forearm, memorializing the time he fractured it punching a chair in the middle of a game. A towering, chiseled, bronze sculpture of a man, Kanter’s stride is unexpectedly graceful; it’s unclear if his heels ever touch the ground. If any other first impression can be had, it’s that he’s almost too affable: Over the next two minutes, Kanter asks how I’m doing and/or if I’m good four separate times.

We exit the elevator and pass through a noisy weight room and congested lounge, towards a cafe that’s attached to a broad outdoor terrace. Before we move outside to escape the crowd, Kanter points up at a giant menu populated by fresh pressed juices, açaí bowls, and almond butter shakes. “They have smoothies!” he smiles. I’m not really hungry. “Are you sure you don’t want something? You’re not getting anything? Seriously you have to get something.” We grab two water bottles and make our way outside to sit in the far corner, beneath a giant sun umbrella for the rest of an afternoon that’s already unlike any I’ve ever had. For Kanter, it’s a typical day: A visitor is here to ask questions about his inexplicably complex life.

Over the past two years, Kanter has manifested one of the NBA’s most distinct personas: He’s an activist, one of the world’s hundred best basketball players, a political dissident, gentle humanitarian, and proficient troll. (“I don't know what's wrong with him," LeBron James once said.) He combines mild mischievousness with a big heart, adored by those who know him as he exasperates those who don’t.

“He was a straight enemy,” Kyle O’Quinn, Indiana Pacers center and Kanter’s former New York Knicks teammate, says. “[Now] that’s my boy. Make sure you quote me on that. That’s my boy. That’s my boy. There’s a bunch of o’s and a bunch of y’s. That’s. My. Boooyyy.”

On the court, Kanter is determined but limited in ways that have prevented him from logging heavy minutes on a good team. Off it, he’s an impossibly generous, vulnerable, and self-motivated spirit.

“I think there’s a lot of guys in the NBA who’re blessed with this huge size and huge strength and huge ability, and therefore they act accordingly. They are loud or they are dominant or demonstrative,” 11-year NBA veteran Steve Novak, who played with Kanter in Utah and Oklahoma City, says. “I think Enes has been blessed with so many of those things. He’s this huge dude. But he’s holding kittens at the humane society and going to the children’s hospital. He uses his platform in as amazing a way as I’ve seen a teammate use it.”

“When I look back at my basketball career, I want to say I tried to inspire as much as I could.”

This summer, Kanter organized 14 free basketball camps for children all over the United States, paying for everything—t-shirts, pizza, the gym, water—out of his own pocket. “When I look back at my basketball career, I want to say I tried to inspire as much as I could,” he says. “When I go to those camps, I don’t just talk about basketball. I talk about education, how to become a good person, everything.”

His interests span wider than the average human, let alone your typical NBA player. He still gleams as the boy who used to dream about becoming an astronaut—he follows NASA on instagram, and half-jokingly won’t let the narrow physical dimensions of a spaceship’s cockpit ever impede him from strapping into one. (“I still would love to go to space,” he says.) Kanter also grew up watching David Copperfield and Chris Angel. He can turn a cup of water into ice, bend spoons with his mind, and plunge a tight string into and through his Adam’s apple. “I actually learned a few tricks from him,” Kerem Kanter, his younger brother who plays professional basketball in France, says. “I try to do them every once in a while to impress people.”

Kanter’s most intense obsession is the WWE, and it’s grown ever since he introduced himself as The Undertaker at the University of Kentucky’s Big Blue Madness in 2010. “It was funny as hell, and the fans flipped out,” Kentucky head coach John Calipari says. “There were people falling from the upper deck to the lower deck when he came out.” (When he met the real Undertaker a few months ago, Kanter’s knees shook.) Today, he’s close friends with several professional wrestlers and is dedicated to becoming one after he retires from basketball, which he hopes won’t be until his mid-30’s.

“I’m actually talking to the people over there now. Vince McMahon, he knows me,” Kanter says. “I had dinner with [Paul Heyman] two, three days ago. I asked him how long he’s gonna do this and he said ‘as long as Brock [Lesnar] goes, I go, and then I’m with you.’ I’m like yes! Seriously. I’m really serious about it.”

A few minutes later, as we discuss how Jersey Shore, Spongebob Squarepants, and Home Alone—“You can not beat that. It’s a classic. I watched that when I was growing up and I still watch it when I get bored,” he says—helped him pick up English, Kanter is suddenly adamant about showing me who he’s been exchanging DM’s with on Twitter. He taps his phone: “I’m talking to Mike The Situation! He said ‘let me know when you have some tickets when the season starts, I will bring Vinnie and the wifey.’ That’s my man.”

All this makes Kanter compelling enough, but the intersection between that playfulness and a literal life-or-death fight he’s waged against the Turkish government is where he becomes one of the most fascinating professional athletes in recent memory. With a voice that serves as a tight fist for thousands of imprisoned Turkish citizens who themselves have been silenced by President Recep Tayyip Erdogan’s authoritarian regime, it’s critical that Kanter’s diverse interests and sometimes bizarre behavior do not damage his credibility. Instead, what he represents in public is the natural and masterful interpretation of a benevolent rebel. At 26 years old, Kanter pursues it all in the most admirable, cringeworthy, and immeasurably hilarious ways; he exists without an analog.

“I don’t want to say socially awkward,” Kerem Kanter says. “But Enes used to be shy and he didn’t like to talk to strangers. Now he loves the attention. He talks to the media a lot. He has a ton of friends. He talks to people every day. He actually enjoys doing that.”

So much of this side can be seen every ten minutes on social media, where Kanter floods his feeds with political opinions, videos of himself strolling through Times Square, dressing up like a Marvel character, and, of course, the unprovoked albeit harmless attacks on fellow NBA players and teams.

“This guy doesn’t stop. I don’t know when he sleeps,” O’Quinn says. “He just sits on the internet, and I think there’s somebody helping him, behind closed doors, because I don’t know when he gets any rest. He’s on Twitter and Instagram all day.”

That incessantness translates offline into other areas of his life. The impact Kanter’s energy has in locker rooms, on bus rides, and cross-country flights feels relatively miniscule—to a certain degree it very much is—but so many of his teammates cite his ability to loosen the atmosphere as a professional advantage.

He’s the butt of a trillion jokes, but never gets sensitive about any of them, knowing that A) he brings most of the ridicule upon himself, and B) nobody is actually trying to hurt his feelings. Even when they mock his accent, diet (knowing he avoids pork for religious reasons, Kanter’s teammates would sometimes order bacon just to put it on his plate, or convince him their meals were cooked on the same grill), tight clothing, or not-that-rare refusal to shower after practice, it’s never done with malicious intent. The result is an endless collection of stories that make those who tell them smile.

Indiana Pacers wing Doug McDermott didn’t really talk to Kanter when they were teammates in Oklahoma City, but things changed after they were both traded to New York. “He called me like ‘Doug! Man! We’re going to the best city in the world!” he says. McDermott chuckles at all the different ways Kanter made himself an easy target. “Just how cheap he was. I think he still had an iPhone 4 when that was like four iPhone’s ago.”

A popular topic of conversation at the Thunder practice facility was the house Kanter purchased in Oklahoma City (that he’s since sold, at a loss). He was so excited to furnish it and asked around about hiring an interior decorator. But later, when he saw the bill and noticed that he was charged around $10,000 for curtains alone, he lost it. “It became a joke in the locker room,” Novak says. “Like, ‘Oh God, Enes is bitching about his curtains again.’”

Bring up the curtains with Enes and his smile turns into a sheepish grin. “She didn’t charge me that much but it was very expensive curtains. Very, very expensive curtains. I was like ‘what was I thinking?’”

Now a minimalist, Kanter does not own a car or a house. He refuses to indulge in the same luxuries any person on a $70 million contract is expected to enjoy, and in fact, continuing a life-long habit that began in the small bedroom he once shared with his two younger siblings, Kanter sleeps on the ground. “It’s actually better for your back” he says without the slightest trace of embarrassment. “I’m comfortable!”

This is a tiny exaggeration. A twin XL mattress is plopped in the corner of his otherwise deserted bedroom in White Plains, where he lives during the season. It’s wrapped in dark brown sheets, one matching pillow, and a champagne-colored comforter. But that’s literally it. There is no box spring, headboard, bed frame, nightstand, or lamp. (Kanter laughs out loud for a solid five seconds when I ask if he ever reads before bed.) There are no posters, rugs, or, well, anything. Officially listed at 6’11”, his calves still dangle off the foot of the mattress. “I know it’s weird,” he says. “I just like it that way.”

Photo by Jason Szenes - European Pressphoto Agency

Even though he was born in Switzerland while his father, Mehmet, earned his M.D. at the University of Zurich, Kanter’s earliest memories trace back to kicking a soccer ball through the mundane streets of Van, a small city on the east side of Turkey.

His mother was a nurse, but soon retired to take care of her four children (Kanter’s two younger brothers play basketball—the youngest attends high school in Atlanta—and his sister recently graduated from medical school.) “We were not too wealthy, we were not too poor,” he says. “We were comfortable.”

For the Kanter family, countless weekends trickled by on the beaches of Lake Van, Turkey’s second-largest body of water. “There was a rumor that there was a monster inside,” he says. “I don’t think there is.”

Kanter’s passion for soccer grew—he still thanks it for developing his low-post footwork—until other kids in his apartment building and throughout the neighborhood stuck him in goal. They laughed at his big feet and poked fun at how huge he was. He hated it. Life in the classroom wasn’t any more pleasant.

“I don’t know what happened. I became a very terrible student.”

Kanter can still picture the wood switch his first-grade teacher used to wield at students who fell out of line. “Whenever you did something crazy they’d say ‘open your hand,’” he says. “I still remember, man. My hands would hurt so bad. Oh my God.”

School was everything in his family, but it wasn’t his thing. “I was a really good student, first, second grade, third grade, and then fourth grade a little bit. And then I don’t know what happened. I became a very terrible student. I wish I took it more serious.”

His parents still pushed him up through middle school, until the pressure to succeed conflicted with the cold reality of knowing he wasn’t put on this Earth to master or even enjoy academia. (Years later, when enrolled at Kentucky, Kanter passed all his classes except art, which he eventually dropped. “It was three hours at night. Too long,” he says. “We weren’t drawing either. It was like history, with reading and stuff.”) Whenever organized basketball came up as a possibility, Kanter’s father would rant about poor grades and the money he already paid the school. His mother repeatedly reminded him that millions of kids wanted to do the exact same thing. “I was getting so much shit from my parents, from my family,” he says.

But perspectives began to shift when he was eleven. A competitive game of after-school ping-pong against his dad spilled onto the basketball court. The two played one-on-one, a boy against his athletic, volleyball-keen, 6’5” father. Enes won. In Mehmet’s eyes, stifling this gift was officially foolish.

Fate intervened a couple years later, when, according to Enes, Mehmet attended a conference in Ankara, Turkey’s capital. He walked into a store for school supplies and a man tapped him on the shoulder. “Is your son as tall as you?” It was a local basketball coach who wondered if today might be his lucky day. (It was.) Enes’s family followed him to Ankara, where he spent two years playing at a school called Samanyolu. After that he moved to Istanbul to play for Turkey’s top basketball club, Fenerbahce Ulker. Not even 16, Kanter had already become one of the world’s more alluring big man prospects.

He never stayed up until 4 AM to watch NBA games when they aired at home, but did catch Utah Jazz highlights the following day, so he could see Turkey’s Mehmet Okur in action. Aside from Okur and Hedo Turkoglu, there weren’t many Turkish role models in the NBA for Kanter to look up to. But even then, when he was banging up against grown men literally twice his age in the Euroleague, Kanter’s focus was always on the United States. He desperately wanted to play high-school, college, and professional ball against the best of the best. But leaving Fenerbahce was more complicated than he expected. During his second season with the team, Kanter turned down a six-year contract for one million Turkish lira (which translated to about $785,000 U.S. dollars at the time). “They’re saying ‘don’t go, don’t leave,’” he remembers. “I was scared.”

The relationship grew tense. One day at the gym, an older teammate untied his shoes, took them off his feet, and hurled both right at Kanter. “How can you leave without talking to me?” he shouted. Kanter wanted to scream back “You’re not my dad!” but kept quiet.

Another long-term contract offer was made, this time for six million Turkish lira. But Kanter spurned the club once again, and along with his life coach and eventual agent Max Ergul, flew one way across the Atlantic Ocean for the very first time. The first stop was Chicago, where Kanter worked out with Tim Grover, Michael Jordan’s famous personal trainer. “There was so much free Muscle Milks,” Kanter says. “I was drinking three or four a day. A day! It was free! I was like ‘Oooh, it tastes so good.’”

From there, actually playing high-school basketball wasn’t easy. As a coveted international prospect, prep schools all over the country wanted him on their side, but thanks to a Nike contract his father signed, along with the money Fenerbahce gave his family, they were also weary of his flimsy amateur status. Kanter initially wanted to enroll at Virginia’s Oak Hill Academy—a basketball factory that’s produced an untold number of success stories, including Carmelo Anthony, Kevin Durant, and Rajon Rondo—but the team’s head coach, Steve Smith, preferred to avoid any potential scandal.

Plan 1-A was Nevada’s Findlay Prep. With the hope of joining forces with Tristan Thompson and Cory Joseph, Kanter was a tank with ball skills. “He could step out and put it on the ground,” Mike Peck, Findlay Prep’s former head coach, says. “His movement was fluid, much like a perimeter player. He wasn’t stiff and rigid.”

But Kanter only spent a couple weeks in Las Vegas before the program ended their relationship. (Oak Hill’s Smith had reportedly refused to compete against any team Kanter was on.) “Our understanding was I think there was something with his dad,” Peck says. “His dad may have signed something over in Turkey that, on behalf of Enes, affected his amateurism. So that’s when we had to say ‘Hey, sorry but we can’t jeopardize our program.’”

Enes, understandably, was crushed. “Think about it, man. I came [to the United States], turned down millions,” he says. “Turned down all the big Nike deals. Turned down...I could be like a legend in Europe. I was killing everybody my age.” But he didn’t sulk. In the days after Findlay Prep informed him of their decision, as Ergul tried to figure out their next move, Kanter’s drive didn’t decelerate. “He was in the gym and he was sweating and he was working,” Peck says. “He wasn’t just, shoes unlaced, messing around. His poise and composure was commendable.”

A similarly frustrating pitstop at West Virginia’s Mountain State Prep preceded Kanter finally landing somewhere that was willing to let him play: Stoneridge Prep in Simi Valley, California, a few miles north of Los Angeles. It was nice to have some stability, but Kanter remembers the situation as anything but normal.

“I walked into the classroom and there were spiders everywhere,” he says. “It was like spider webs. It was very weird. There were like fifteen students in the whole school.” Kanter was there seven months, first living in a house with his teammates before he moved into an American family’s home. It was his first uninterrupted taste of a new culture. At first, he didn’t shop for groceries and ate Nutella for lunch. One morning, he grabbed a box off the top of the refrigerator, opened it, then mixed its contents in a bowl with some milk. A teammate strolled into the kitchen and couldn’t stop laughing. “They said ‘You’re not supposed to eat it like that.’ I said ‘Why? It’s cereal!’ They said ‘It’s not cereal. It’s Cheeze-Its.’”

Practices were held at a 24 Hour Fitness, and Kanter still remembers being confused when random gym members shot at the same basket his team used. But he was dominant, and knew he wouldn’t be there forever. “I remember I had one game, I was so tired of scoring,” he says. “I missed a shot on purpose. A free-throw! I don’t want to score anymore. I still remember that game. It was too easy.”

Kanter verbally accepted an offer made by the University of Washington without ever visiting the school or even stepping foot in the same state. He knew a couple coaches there but had no serious ties or desire to attend. Not long after, Calipari flew to Los Angeles to see Kanter in person for the first time. It was a pickup game at 24 Hour Fitness.

“I immediately said ‘Holy cow, this kid is like 18? This is ridiculous,’” Calipari says. “He was really skilled. Obviously he was really big. But he was really skilled for a guy his size, which kind of surprised me.”

Once he realized they were interested, Kanter immediately decommitted from Washington to sign with the Wildcats. He had emerged as a prodigious cult figure, having recently broken Dirk Nowitzki’s single-game scoring record at the barometric Nike Hoop Summit in Oregon, with a 34-point, 13-rebound gem in just 24 minutes off the bench. (Kyrie Irving and Tristan Thompson finished with 29 points combined.)

But Kanter’s alleged impropriety followed him to Lexington. And the fact that Washington’s former athletic director, Mark Emmert, had just been named President of the NCAA probably didn’t help. Weeks before his freshman season began, Fenerbahce went public, alleging that Kanter had received “over $100,000 in cash and benefits.” They also submitted financial documents to the NCAA. Instead of playing basketball, Kanter sat through several interviews with investigators, some lasting six hours.

“His dad didn’t want him to go to a club school [in Turkey]. He wanted him to go to a private school, because his father was a professor,” Calipari says. “The club agreed to pay for it, and instead of paying the [private] school directly, they paid Enes’s father to give the money to the school, which the father did. And he had checks and everything that he wrote and showed. The club was upset that [Enes] didn’t come back and said that they wouldn’t cooperate. In other words ‘we’re not gonna say that’s what it was,’ but the dad showed that’s what it was. The NCAA said he’s not paying. I was appalled.”

Kanter learned about his lifetime ban watching television in his dorm room. Calipari remembers a meeting soon after in his office: Kanter looked at the floor and held back tears. Going back to Istanbul never crossed his mind, though, especially after he received a barrage of texts from his former club that outlined how hopeless his NBA dream truly was. If he wanted to succeed, it had to be in Turkey, they told him. “I knew if I went back, that road would be closed and none of the [Turkish] players would take that risk and come to America again,” he says. “Everybody would be scared.”

Kanter stayed in Kentucky throughout the season. Initially he wasn’t allowed to be in the same gym while the team practiced, so the school assigned Kanter his own coach. “I would practice after or before [the team],” he says. The restrictions extended to weight training, where strength and conditioning coaches wrote instructions on note cards and then taped them all over the room. “He said ‘When you work out, we’re not allowed to talk to you’,” Kanter says.

That was short lived, though. Kentucky quickly made Kanter “a student-assistant coach,” and the NCAA allowed him to practice with the team. “Every day, NBA people came in and watched him. He got Josh Harrellson drafted because every day Josh had to go against him. Josh Harrellson got drafted because of Enes Kanter,” Calipari says. “I told him ‘we have a plan. You’re gonna practice, we’re gonna have pro scouts, and you, my man, you’re getting drafted, son. And you’re getting drafted in the top five.’”

In 2011, Kanter was selected third overall by the Jazz, but the NBA’s lockout robbed him of a formal training camp, leading to an understandably rough adjustment period, on and off the floor. He was hazed by veteran teammates, especially Al Jefferson, and found that the more he tried to fit in, the further he drifted from who he really was.

“Enes partied a lot. Everybody knew that,” Trey Burke, Kanter’s current teammate who also played with him in Utah, says. “That was his rookie season, though. He’ll even tell you that.” Indeed, he does: “I was going out with my teammates and hanging out and stuff, but once you’re in your second year and your third year, you get more smarter and more smarter, you know? And you’re like ‘OK, basketball comes first, so stick to basketball,’” Kanter says.

He was not happy in Salt Lake City, primarily due to limited minutes and a diminishing on-court role. “He was boiling on the inside,” Novak says. Right before the All-Star break in the last year of his rookie-scale contract, Kanter demanded a trade. A couple weeks later, he was dealt to Oklahoma City. Novak was included in the deal, news that prompted his wife to burst into tears. When Kanter heard, he immediately called to apologize. “My wife wanted to kill him,” Novak laughs. “If you’re mad at Enes you’re usually not mad for long. He’s crazy so he does dumb stuff, but it usually comes from a really good place.”

The most meaningful upshot from his departure was Kanter’s own maturation intersecting with a rediscovery of the altruistic Muslim principles he embraced as a child. The need to help others, especially those who can’t help themselves, took on a much larger role in his life, dramatically altering how he viewed his responsibilities as a public figure. Kanter was about to become so much more than a basketball player.

As we sit ten stories above New York City’s rush-hour traffic, a fire truck’s deafening siren pauses our conversation. Kanter stops fiddling with his black matte watch, turns his phone over and raises his eyebrows. “Look at this, man.” He shakes his head and stretches his arm across the table. It’s a clip of Florida senator Marco Rubio dropping Kanter’s name during a senate hearing about political censorship on social media. (Kanter’s Twitter account has been blocked by the Turkish government.)

A few weeks later, outside the Lincoln Center’s Alice Tully Hall, sunlight sifts through a cloudy fall sky and glares off automatic machine guns held by NYPD officers clad in riot gear as they effectively secure the building’s perimeter. We’re at the Oslo Freedom Forum, a conference sponsored by the Human Rights Foundation that’s designed to promote and protect human rights all over the world.

As the conference begins, Kanter stands in the back, watching as a young North Korean defector tells her story in front of a packed, teary-eyed audience. When she’s through, he bends over to give her a hug as organizers latch a microphone over his ear. During their on-stage talk, Thor Halvorssen, the forum’s founder, calls Kanter an accidental activist, someone who didn’t set out to change the world but stepped up once he realized he had enough influence to do so.

Kanter first considered speaking out against Turkey’s backsliding government in 2013, after Erdogan embroiled himself in a corruption scandal. The subsequent power struggle culminated in an attempted coup, allegedly orchestrated by Fethullah Gulen, one of the country’s most popular religious and political figures. Gulen, who denies he was involved, lives in exile in Pennsylvania, where Kanter visits him regularly. Kanter's criticism of Erdogan is well documented, and nearly led to his abduction in Romania while on a worldwide charity tour last year. Since, Kanter has taken every opportunity possible to denounce a regime that’s imprisoning innocent citizens and kidnapping dissenters who live in democratic countries.

“He’s the second-most wanted person in Turkey, after Gulen, and we’re walking aimlessly in Hawaii, in Des Moine, Iowa, not hiding from anyone,” Kanter’s manager Hank Fetic says. “There were a few times this summer where I said ‘Bro, this guy is walking a little close to us. I’m a bit worried.'”

A warrant for Kanter’s arrest was issued by the Turkish government last year, and his father is facing a trial that could put him in jail for years. It’s a neverending nightmare, but Kanter is somehow able to compartmentalize the most psychologically corrosive aspects of his life and stay as upbeat as possible. While with the Thunder, the team’s psychologist tried to speak with him. Kanter politely refused. “Don’t worry about me,” he said he told the doctor. “If I ever need someone to talk to maybe I will. But right now I’m okay.”

The emotional toll is obvious, but Kanter’s sacrifice is evident elsewhere. He can’t leave North America and hasn’t been able to secure any endorsement deals. Nike, the same company that championed Colin Kaepernick’s controversial remonstration by putting him on the frontlines of a recent ad campaign, now refuses to sign Kanter. “I talked to Nike and they said ‘we want to give Enes a contract. We’re watching him. But if we give him a contract they will shut down every store in Turkey, so we cannot give him a contract,’” he says. “I’m an NBA player with no shoe deal. No endorsement deal. And I play in New York!”

He’s curious about the fluidity of American politics, and didn’t initially understand why so many people get upset when he tweets anything negative about Donald Trump—particularly during his time in Oklahoma. Speaking as someone who’s still shocked by what’s happened to Turkey, America’s violent divisiveness and piping hot political climate terrify him. But he still dislikes the idea of protesting in the United States, for fear of turning another country into his enemy. (Don’t expect Kanter to take a knee during the national anthem anytime, ever.)

He wants to be a U.S. citizen—he’s two years from becoming eligible—and has thought about giving himself an American name. (Kanter scratches his chin when I pitch “Michael” as an option.) “I see [America] is going there, to become another Turkey,” he says. “I hope not. I pray not. But right now you see people are getting polarized. When I think about America, I think about freedom. Freedom of speech, freedom of religion. It’s a peaceful country. Now it’s like, for an immigrant, you’re kind of scared.”

Inside the Knicks practice facility, a dozen media members file into a gym that has two full-length basketball courts. New York’s second day of training camp has just ended. As players break up to shoot free throws and work on individual skills, Kanter is the only one who jogs over to the near sideline, where several coaches and front office executives—the team’s president (Steve Mills) and general manager (Scott Perry) included—are seated in a row. He goes down the line, like a the world’s most earnest politician, and shakes everybody’s hand.

Kanter recedes to a far basket and simulates pick-and-rolls with one of his coaches. He steps outside to attempt a few mid-range jumpers and then settles into the corner to hoist some threes. From shoulder to hip, his muscles ripple like a miniature mountain ridge.

“How do you not like Enes?” Knicks head coach David Fizdale says a few minutes later. “For me, he’s like our spirit. He keeps our gym light. He keeps the guys in an upbeat mood, an energetic mood. He doesn’t have bad days. And thinking about what he and his family [are] going through, the fact that he can come in here and still have enough energy to give to us, I love him.”

“How do you not like Enes?”

Kanter began preparing for this, his eighth NBA season, less than a week after his seventh one ended five months ago. Even with a hectic travel schedule, he still spent between three and four hours a day in a gym all summer. The only days he took off were those designated for rest.

“Honestly, he’s the most consistent athlete I’ve been around in a long time, as far as just being on time and punctual and what he demands out of himself,” Mike Atkinson, Kanter’s personal performance coach, says.

Kanter walked into camp with 2.8 percent body fat and 20 more pounds of muscle than he had a year ago. “He’s the healthiest eater of all time,” McDermott says. “I’ve tried multiple times this summer to go to Shake Shack, but he won’t do it. I remember on a plane ride once, I was like ‘Enes, if this plane goes down, what’s the first thing you’d do?’ He said ‘I would eat all the cheeseburgers and cookies on here,’ just because he eats more quinoa and kale and spinach than anyone I’ve ever seen.”

On the court, Kanter is aggravatingly schismatic. At his best—AKA when his team has the ball—he moves like a rhinoceros who could place in the Kentucky Derby. He consistently finishes around the rim at an elite rate and creates second, third, and fourth chances whenever a teammate’s shot (or his own) doesn’t fall. “He’s a walking assist for a lot of us guards,” Burke says. Kanter finished seventh in rebound chances per game last season, averaging at least five fewer minutes than everyone who ranked higher. Since he entered the league, only seven players have grabbed more than 1,400 offensive rebounds. Kanter has tallied at least 2,100 fewer minutes than all of them.

“My thing is to do the dirty work, bang inside, and just be a banger, you know?” he says. “I know my weaknesses. That’s the most important thing. You have to know your weaknesses. I think my [weakness is] defense, of course.” For the past five years, Kanter’s team has been atrocious on defense with him in the game and significantly better when he’s on the bench. Two postseasons ago—after a play in which Kanter was helpless to stop James Harden and Clint Capela from connecting on a lob—that reputation collided with the national spotlight when a camera panned to Thunder head coach Billy Donovan right as he turned to his assistant Maurice Cheeks to seemingly say the words: “Can’t play Kanter.”

“I did see the clip. I could read his mouth. But he said ‘I never said anything like that, I was saying something else’,” Kanter says about Donovan. “He told me he never said anything like that and I go with it. You know what I mean?”

Kanter will never be Rudy Gobert, but he’s spent the offseason building up his legs, training himself to stay in a lateral stance, watching more footage, and conceding that where he is and how he reacts is increasingly critical in a league that goes out of its way to attack him. Physical improvement can only accomplish so much without awareness, zippy instincts, and the capacity to communicate on the fly, though. And big men, like Kanter, who neither protect the rim nor shoot threes—something Washington Wizards coach Scott Brooks first encouraged him to try when both were in Oklahoma City—are an endangered species.

His game is often synonymous with these flaws, but Kanter can still be a devastating weapon if deployed correctly. Size and strength will always have a place in the NBA, particularly when found in someone who’s coordinated, physical, and willing to exert maximum energy.

As a 27-year-old free agent hitting a marketplace that’s flush with cash, so much of his next contract hinges on the progress seen in 2019. “You always think about [free agency],” Kanter says. “Even if people said ‘Oh I don’t think about it, I’m focused on the season’ it’s always in the back of your head. It can not let you affect your game, but you always think about ‘Hey, what am I going to do?’ ‘Where am I going to go?’ ‘Am I going to stay,’ ‘Am I going to leave?’”

Based on everything seen so far, odds are strongly against Kanter ever approaching league average on the defensive end, but marginal improvement is always possible. Even more likely, though, is further growth on offense, where Kanter’s assist rate—normally near the bottom of the league—has ascended over the past couple years. An opportunity to show off his three-point range will be there, too.

“Before I was saying ‘I want to average a double-double. I want to score this much points, this much blocks.’ But how can I make my teammates better? How can I make the young guys better? Because that will take you to the next level. To share the ball, to make an extra pass, to cheer for your teammates. If you’re having a bad game and other big men are having a good game, you clap for them. You stand up and cheer for them. I think those little things add up and you become a better teammate and become a better player.”

Photo by Jason Szenes - European Pressphoto Agency

The most popular example of Kanter’s loyalty—and quite possibly his most relevant on-court moment—happened one year ago, when the Cleveland Cavaliers visited Madison Square Garden. The conflict started hours before the actual game, when LeBron incidentally disrespected New York’s baby-faced French point guard Frank Ntilikina by saying Dennis Smith Jr. should’ve been the Knicks pick instead.

Late in the first quarter, LeBron dunked home a lob, bumped into Ntilikina, and then refused to get out of his way. It was pure intimidation. The rookie responded by shoving James back before Kanter sprinted over to join the fray. “I was like ‘I’m proud of Frank. He’s pushing with LeBron, that’s good!’ But then after that it’s like OK, LeBron is 260 going up against an 18-year-old kid,” Kanter says. “So then I break in and I actually didn’t say nothing crazy. I was like ‘Don’t mess with my man.’ That’s it.”

The Knicks barely lost that game but then won three of their next four. “Our team needed that. Frank needed that. And I think it went a long way in the locker room,” O’Quinn says. “[Enes] got under the skin of somebody who is kinda unfazed by the many different things that people throw at him.”

The moment also cemented a bond between a veteran and a rookie who’s as shy as Kanter used to be. “The first person that I saw who wanted to help me was Enes,” Ntilikina says. “And it’s always like that, in the locker room, on the court, you always know that Enes is going to be there for you.”

This is who he is. Even still with a slight language barrier, Kanter speaks with an intent to ease. At the end of every other sentence, the man he’s talking to is “bro” or “my man.” Back at Lincoln Center, I sat on a yellow couch in the second-floor media room while he conducted an entire day’s worth of on-camera interviews with outlets from all over the world. A little after 4 PM, Kanter met me around the corner at the Empire Hotel. He looked the opposite of exhausted. We sat down on a gray couch in the brisk lobby, and without saying a word, Kanter grabbed my digital recorder and moved it to his side of the table, just to make sure it’d catch his voice. Again, he's almost too well-mannered.

“We’ll be having dinner, and someone will come to the table and ask to take a picture and he’ll stand up and take a picture with them. I’m like ‘Bro, you’ve gotta say ‘No. After dinner.’ But he just doesn’t decline it,” Fetic says. He’s unfailingly polite, but add everything he brings to the table that’s completely disconnected from on-court performance and it’s easy to see why signing him to a long-term deal is risky. So long as he’s on their roster, the Knicks aren’t broadcast in Turkey, no small loss considering a potential market of approximately 80 million people who would certainly tune in to watch.

McDermott believes Kanter is a perfect fit where he is: “I think, not anything bad against anywhere else he’s played, but I just think he’s meant to be in New York or L.A. He just has that presence.”

He’s unpredictable and different, but being unpredictable and different, in this case, is good. Instead of ego, there’s curiosity and compassion. Given all that encompasses his world—a deteriorating homeland and troubled family that's endured so many challenging circumstances—who has time to feel pressure on a basketball court, especially when it’s impossible to prepare any more than he already has? Kanter is unafraid of his own ambition and has long established himself as a productive professional, someone who can unmistakably affect his team’s culture without taking it over.

One day after the loss to Cleveland, Ntilikina sat by himself in a cold tub at the Knicks practice facility. A few minutes later, Kanter walked in and slid into the freezing water. They acknowledged each other and then sat in an awkward, shivery silence before Ntilikina looked up, turned his head, and stared at the teammate who just stood up to one of the world’s best and most famous athletes on his behalf. “Thank you,” Ntilikina said, softly. Kanter nodded back. “No problem, my man. I’ve always got your back.” The room fell quiet once again. “Whatever happens,” Kanter said. “It’s us against the whole world.”

The NBA's Man of Many Faces published first on https://footballhighlightseurope.tumblr.com/

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learnspanishfans · 7 years

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How to Speak English Like the English

Two of my favourite articles on Fluent in 3 Months are Benny's classics How to Speak English Like the Irish and its sequel Advanced Hiberno English. So, being from England, I'd like to share some thoughts on how to speak English like the English. Let's start with a story you might hear from a mate down the pub in any town in the south of England:

Bloody hell mate! A fortnight ago I was down the local having a chin-wag with this fit bird, feeling pretty chuffed with myself, when some dodgy-looking bloke came up and started getting lairy with me. I don't know what he was on about; I thought he was taking the piss, but he wouldn't stop giving me aggro. I reckon he must have been off his tits. Next thing I knew the Old Bill had shown up and nicked this geezer before he could scarper. What a load of bollocks!

If an English learner saw the above paragraph on a language test, they might decide to give up and learn Esperanto instead. If an English person saw it, however, they'd effortlessly understand that the narrator had been talking to a pretty female in a pub two weeks ago when they'd been accosted by an aggressive and possibly drunk man who was then arrested by the police. If you're a native English speaker staring at the above and wondering if I'm just making it up, I assure you, you ain't seen nothing yet. In this article, I’m going to share how to speak English with an English accent. Before I do that, I’d like to clear up a few common myths about England, Great Britain, and the United Kingdom.

Myth 1: The British Accent

I need to clear one thing up. There’s no such thing as a “British accent”. We Brits rarely use that term ourselves, and we tend to roll our eyes when we hear it used in American TV shows. It’s far more common in the UK to be specific and talk about English, Welsh, Scottish, or Northern Irish accents, the four of which are very distinct from each other. These four accents still only represent broad categories that can be subdivided further.

Myth 2: The United Kingdom and England are the Same Thing

To those who don't understand the difference between the United Kingdom, Great Britain and England - or where other places like Scotland fit into all of this… look it up. Seriously, it’s not that hard to understand. (This video does a neat job of explaining.)

Myth 3: English Citizens Speak the Original Version of English

Do English folk really speak the the “original” version of English? It’s actually a dubious claim. Linguists agree that over the last few hundred years, the accents and dialects of Britain have changed more than the American dialects they gave birth to. In other words, modern American speech is closer to the way British people spoke in 1776 than modern British speech is. [caption id="attachment_20244" align="aligncenter" width="1024"] This is how I imagine it sounded.[/caption] Suffice to say that I'm from England (specifically, I grew up in Oxfordshire), and I can tell you a little bit about the way they talk in the other three Home Nations (Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland), but this is an article about English English, one of the oldest dialects of the world’s biggest language, and the one that gave it its name.

English vs. American English - What’s the Difference?

1. The Rhotic Accent

How exactly then have our accents diverged since the Boston Tea Party? Many books have been written about the precise phonetic details of different English dialects, but for now I’ll stick with just one: rhoticity. If you have a “rhotic accent”, that means you pronounce the letter “r” every time it’s written, and most American dialects (along with Irish and Scottish ones) remain fully rhotic. In England, on the other hand, most of us at some point in the last few hundred years stopped pronouncing the letter "r" when it comes before a consonant (or is at the end of a word). For example in my own name, George, which I pronounce like the word "jaw" with an extra "j" sound on the end, no "r" to be found. In most parts of England (the main exception being the West Country), people pronounce "father" identically to "farther", "pawn" identically to "porn", and "panda" identically to "pander", while to most Americans and Canadians those word pairs are all distinct. Non-rhotic accents can be found outside England too, particularly in places that we colonised more recently than North America like Australia and New Zealand. They can be even found in a small number of places in the U.S., most famously in Noo Yawk. But rhoticity remains one of the clearest, most prominent dividing lines between different varieties of English.

2. Vowel Sounds

Vowel sounds have shifted a fair bit over the years. In many cases sounds which used to be pronounced differently are now pronounced the same, or vice versa, but the merger or split only happened on one side of the Atlantic. I pronounce “cot” very differently from “caught”, but to many Americans they’re homophones. Similarly with “merry”, “marry”, and the name “Mary”, which are three distinct words in British speech, but sound the same in most American accents. In the other direction, I’d pronounce “flaw” identically to “floor” (there’s that lack of rhoticity again), but in American English those words are usually separated not just by an “r” but by two noticeably different vowel sounds.

3. Vocabulary

Where things start to get really confusing is with vocabulary, and I’m not just talking about slang. In Britain the Royal Mail delivers the post, while in the U.S.A. the Postal Service delivers the mail. Confusing, huh? Many of our vocabulary differences are totally arbitrary: if I did something on Saturday or Sunday, I'd say that I'd done it at the weekend, whilst an American would talk about having done it on the weekend. Other differences allow for extra shades of meaning: Americans only talk about being "in the hospital", whilst British English retains a distinction between being "in the/a hospital", which just means you're literally inside the hospital building, and "in hospital", which heavily implies that you're in the hospital as a patient. It's like the difference between being "in school" and "in a school"... except Americans use the word "school" slightly differently too. In the U.S., "school" refers to any educational establishment including college, whilst in the U.K. it's only used to refer to primary and secondary education: the school that you do before going to “uni”, a British abbreviation for “university” that Americans don’t use. To add to the confusion, "public school" means something completely different here; for historical reasons a "public school" in the U.K. is a type of very expensive and exclusive private school, whilst a free, government-funded school (what Americans call a public school) is a "state school." Do you follow? If you’re from America, you may have raised an eyebrow at my frequent use of the word "whilst" in this article. This word sounds very archaic and old-timey to American ears, but it lives on in the U.K. as a synonym of "while". The verb "to reckon" is also alive and well in the British Isles, while in the U.S. it’s not really used anymore, except stereotypically by rural moonshine-drinking folks from the South: ”I reckon this here town ain’t big enough for the both of us!” Then again, I find it weird when Americans say “I wish I would have”. This construction sounds just plain wrong to me. In England we say “I wish I had”. Where do you go to buy alcohol? In the U.S. it's probably a liquor store, but in Blighty (that means Britain) it's more likely to be at the off-licence, so named because it's licensed to sell alcohol for consumption off the premises, as opposed to a bar where you can both buy alcohol and drink it in the same building. After a visit to the off-licence (or "offy", where I'm from), a Brit might get pissed, which means "angry" to an American but "drunk" to us. Another American synonym for "angry" is "mad", but in the U.K. that word exclusively means "crazy" - which caused confusion recently when Bill Clinton described British politician Jeremy Corbyn as "the maddest person in the room". In context it was clear that Clinton had meant “angry”, but many British commentators misinterpreted the statement as a comment on Corbyn's mental health.

What About the Different Accents You’ll Find Inside England?

So far we’ve just been looking at the differences between American English and English English. I’ve barely touched on the enormous regional variations that you'll find within England: from the town I live in I could drive two hours in any direction and be somewhere where the people sound completely different. The stereotypical “posh” (upper class) accent (often called “received pronunciation” or RP) is generally only found in the south, but it’s only the most formal form of southern speech; many shades of variation exist. Up north people sound very different not only from southerners but from each other. For some reason - probably the fact that the north historically has had a lower population density and so the towns have been more isolated - there’s much more regional accent variation in the north, and you can generally pinpoint where a northern person is from from their accent with a higher degree of accuracy than you can a southerner. Liverpool and Manchester are 90 minutes’ drive from each other, and yet the people in each city sound completely different.

We're Only at the Tip of the Iceberg, and it's Time to Go Swimming

Remember our discussion a few moments ago about how a Brit who'd been to the offy might end up pissed? If he got too plastered (drunk) last night he might be hanging (hungover) the next morning and have a lie-in (he stayed in bed later than normal). When his friends ask him what he did last night, he'd tell them that he'd gone out on the piss (gone out drinking), or maybe even on the pull, which means that he wasn't just drinking last night but looking for a fit (attractive) girl to take home. Now it's the morning, but maybe today he'll skive school (skip class), or, if he has a job, pull a sickie (call up his boss and pretend to be ill so he can get the day off). If his boss realises that he's talking rubbish (lying, bullshitting), he might give him the sack (fire him). Our British friend isn't really ill (sick), he just can't be bothered to go to work. I've never been able to precisely explain "can't be bothered" to Americans, but it's an extremely common expression in the U.K. used when you don't want to do something because it's too much effort and/or you're lazy. If you want to be more vulgar, you can upgrade to "can't be fucked", a phrase which shouldn’t be taken too literally. A happy halfway point is "can't be arsed": a fine example of the British spelling and pronunciation of the American "ass". (“Bum”, by the way, is another word for "arse" here, unlike in the U.S. where a "bum" is a homeless person, known in the U.K. as a "tramp".) Then you have “sod”. This ubiquitous British insult refers to an unpleasant or disliked person (see also "wanker") and is considered mildly rude on roughly the same level as “crap” or “damn”. It can also be used as an exclamation (“sod it!”) or an intensifier (“that sodding wanker”). To my astonishment, while researching this article I learned that the word "sod" originated as an abbreviation for "sodomite". I've been using this word my entire life, and I apparently never even knew what it meant. Sodding hell! I’ve only scratched the surface here - I could write far more about the many peculiarities of English English, and the above is just a taster. If I’m being honest (another British turn of phrase - Americans more naturally say “to be honest”), I didn’t really think about most of these things until I started travelling, meeting people from all over the world and finding that many of the expressions I thought were international are in fact uniquely English, or vice versa.

What are Your Favourite Local Words?

Do you have any other fine examples of incomprehensible Englishisms? Or do you have any favourite words or turns of phrase that are common where you're from, but that no-one else understands? Let me know in the comments.

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