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clairenatural · 4 years

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destiel, 2k. dean’s self loathing but it ends up fluffy so it’s ok. pining. destiel finally becoming canon because sam just wants to drink smoothies in peace (this is a repost because the original got deleted!)

It’s a few weeks into all of them being back in the bunker, Sam and Dean and Jack and a rapidly humanizing Castiel, when Sam decides he’s had enough. It had been bad enough the past decade, when Castiel was always leaving and there was always another apocalypse to distract them, but the past few weeks have become damn near domestic and the mutual pining is driving him up the wall.

Sam finally snaps at a small bar in Lebanon. Cas is caught up by a pretty girl at the bar and Dean has barely touched his beer, instead watching the interaction with a mixture of longing and heartbreak, and Sam can’t take it anymore.

“Dude,” he starts, and when that fails, “Dean.” Dean looks at him. He frowns.

“What, Sam?”

“Just go talk to him. Or drag him back to the bunker and talk to him there. I’ll go stay with Eileen this weekend, I’ll even take Jack with me—just please, Dean. For me.”

Dean blinks at him, glowers a bit, and takes a sip of his beer. “Dunno what you’re talking about.”

Sam gives him a look, unimpressed. “It’s been ten years. And—” he puts up a hand to stop the protests. “And listen, I know it’s been…rough, but by some miracle things are calm right now. So just tell Cas you’re in love with him so I can stop feeling like I’m interrupting something every time I walk into the kitchen.”

He shudders a bit, remembering the day before when he walked into the bunker’s kitchen to see Dean and Cas just staring at each other over two mugs of coffee, hands still touching where Castiel had handed the mug to Dean. Sam had cleared his throat and Castiel had jumped, spilling the coffee, and Dean had glared at his brother as he reached for a towel.

Sam had just wanted a smoothie.

He glances back across the bar table to where Dean is staring at him, open mouthed, and watches as his expression shifts to a glower as he apparently gives up on trying to deny it. Sam counts that as a small victory in itself.

“Why? So he can freak out and leave again? Dude’s just starting to get comfortable, Sam, I’m not about to chase him away.” Dean’s tone is angry, but Sam knows him well enough to see through the facade. There’s no real anger there. Just fear.

His heart hurts a bit, for both his brother and their best friend. “Dean,” he starts, gently, leaning forward in his chair. “He’s an angel. He’s been here since the beginning of humanity. He put your soul back together. Do you really think he doesn’t already know?”

Dean’s staring at him again, as if he’s never considered that before. He looks apprehensive, and mildly terrified, but before he can respond Castiel appears back at their table. He slides a beer across the table to Sam, then to Dean, who doesn’t look at him, before settling down himself. There’s a half second of awkward silence before Dean changes the subject, and Sam sighs. Nobody could say he hadn’t tried.

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

Dean can’t sleep.

He’s staring up at the ceiling of his bedroom, replaying the last few things Sam had said. He’s an angel, Sam had said, as if that wasn’t obvious. And it was, it is, but—it’s too easy to forget sometimes, especially the many times he’s ended up more human than angel, that Castiel is thousands of years old. Dean never forgets that he’s an angel, of course. That’s one of the staples of the voice in his head, the one constantly telling him to keep his feelings for Castiel a secret to the grave. Over the past ten years Angel of the Lord has become nearly synonymous with too good for you and better than you would ever deserve.

It's what being an angel means that Dean doesn’t think about. That Castiel has spent millennia as nothing more than a wavelength of light and celestial intent before giving it all up to drag Dean out of Hell. That he was a soldier, a seraph, a term that Dean thinks he knows but also doesn’t fully understand the weight of. Castiel misses a pop culture reference and Dean forgets that he understands the physics of the cosmos on a level his human brain could never comprehend. Or, not forget—he could never forget. Dean just doesn’t like to look too closely at it, because staring everything that Castiel really is in the face just makes the voice louder. Makes him feel like just a speck of dust in comparison, unworthy of the angel’s presence or time or attention. Makes him wonder why Castiel has given up everything that he is and was, everything he had since the beginning of time, for that one speck of dust.

So maybe Sam is right. And Dean hates that. Because maybe Sam is right, but Castiel has only stayed over the years because he has nowhere else to go. And he has nowhere to go because of Dean. Because the very touch of you corrupts. When Castiel first laid a hand on you in Hell, he was lost, Hester said. Because too much heart was always Castiel’s problem, Samandriel said. Because I’m hunted, I rebelled, and I did it - all of it - for you, Castiel himself told him, once upon a time. I’m doing this for you, Dean. I’m doing this because of you.

And Dean had reacted in anger, like he always did. Like he always does. And Cas keeps coming back anyway.

He needs a drink.

He sighs as he hauls himself off his bed, creeping silently through the bunker on the way to the kitchen, but pauses when he hears the murmuring of the television coming from Castiel’s room. It’s a bad decision but he turns towards Castiel’s bedroom door and pauses for a moment, listening to the soft sounds of a nature documentary through the wood. What are you doing? The voice scolds. Sure, Dean. Creep outside his bedroom at midnight, that’ll make him feel real comfortable.

The television clicks off. Dean assumes he’s going to sleep, something he needs to do more and more lately, and is about to keep going to the kitchen when—

“Dean?” Cas calls. Dean freezes. He could leave quietly, and they’d both pretend it had never happened. They were good at that. He could also make some sort of excuse and continue on his merry way. He doesn’t do either.

“Can I come in?” He asks instead, and Castiel says “yes,” and then Dean is pushing open the bedroom door.

Castiel is sitting on his bed, cross-legged, wearing a pair of sweatpants they’d picked up from the local thrift store and a t-shirt that is (was?) definitely Dean’s. The sight makes his heart clench. He hadn’t considered the potential consequences when he’d dumped a bunch of his old clothing on Castiel’s bed, and it sure isn’t making anything easier.

“You sleeping tonight?” Dean asks, and Castiel shakes his head.

“I don’t need to.” He pauses. “You should be, though. Is everything alright?”

Dean shifts on his feet. He shoves his hands deep in his pockets. He looks back at Castiel, meeting his gaze. There's something so uniquely deep about it—it wasn’t there in Jimmy, and even now, nearly human, his blue eyes feel centuries old. But not like the ocean. The blue eyes/ocean metaphor is overplayed, and when Dean looks into Castiel’s eyes he doesn’t feel like he’s swimming in an endless azure ocean. He feels like he’s drowning in the Marianas Trench.

“Do you know?” Dean asks. He doesn’t mean to, but he isn’t surprised when the words come out of his mouth.

Cas blinks at him, then frowns. “Know what?”

“You know.” Eloquent as always.

Cas quirks an eyebrow. “I know many things, Dean, but even with my full grace I can’t read your thoughts.”

Dean blushes. He hopes the darkness of the room, illuminated only by Castiel’s bedside lamp, obscures it. “I guess prayers aren’t quite the same, huh.”

There’s a loaded pause. Cas shifts, moving away from the headboard to sit at the edge of his bed, facing Dean. “Praying is more abstract than humans think it is,” he starts. “Gratitude is often close enough. Longing can come through as prayer. Love… when love gets close enough to worship, it’s the loudest of all.” He pauses there, searching for a reaction. Dean isn’t sure what he’s looking for, but he doesn’t even think he’s breathing—he’d stopped as soon as Castiel said love.

After an excruciating moment, Castiel continues. “So if that’s what you mean…”

Dean braces for impact.

“Then yes, Dean. I think I knew before you did.”

And, well. There it is. For some reason, Dean isn’t running away. He thinks it’s probably because Cas isn’t running away this time—and because he’d come back. He still comes back. Regardless of the many, many times Dean had been the one to push him away.

So “I love you,” Dean says, quietly, voice rough, because there’s really no point in not saying it anymore. Then, “I mean…I love you.” He clarifies, even as saying it twice sets off alarm bells, because if there’s one thing they’re good at it’s miscommunication.

Castiel blinks at him. “I know,” he replies, puzzled. ��Is that not what we were just talking about?”

Dean stares at him. “You’re still here.”

The confusion on the angel’s face deepens. “Yes, because I love you too. I thought that was obvious.” In another lifetime he would’ve used air quotes.

What.

Dean pauses for a minute, reeling, trying to figure out if he misheard.

“Obvious,” he clarifies, as if that’s the word he’s struggling with.

“Yes.”

Dean is still staring, feeling something akin to shock. Obvious?

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I have. Multiple times, in multiple ways.”

Dean thinks back to profound bond and I always come when you call and I’ll watch over you and I could go with you and hundreds of moments in between.

Oh.

“You didn’t care that I never got the message?”

“I’m thousands of years old, Dean. Ten years is nothing. I was willing to wait.”

“Jesus Christ,” Dean replies, because that is a whole bunch he doesn’t have the energy to unpack, and his brain still isn’t completely caught up to what’s happening.

“No, I’m Castiel.”

It’s an old joke, said with a smile, and that combined with the absurdity of the situation means Dean can’t help but laugh. He looks up and makes eye contact with Castiel, who grins back, and suddenly there’s way too much space between them.

Dean crosses the bedroom in a few strides, and Cas stands to meet him, and then they’re kissing, and Dean isn’t even sure who started it but they’ve both been waiting long enough that he isn’t sure it matters. He has his arms wrapped around Castiel’s waist, clinging to the soft fabric of the t-shirt that was once his own, when something in the back of his head starts screaming that this is a bad idea and he’s just going to leave tomorrow and are you dumb enough to think you can actually have this?

But then Castiel makes a soft noise in the back of his throat and deepens the kiss, pulling them impossibly closer together, and for all its years of practice Dean’s self-loathing can’t come up with a response to that.

Castiel pulls back first, flushed and breathing heavily, and Dean chases his lips for a moment before Cas catches him in his gaze, in endless blue. Suddenly, Dean isn’t drowning anymore. He’s on a lifeboat, and the trench is impossibly deep beneath him but he feels safer than he has in a long time. Home, his brain supplies, helpful for the first time in years, and Dean smiles.

Cas smiles back, bringing a hand up to Dean’s face to trace his thumb along his cheekbone. “Will you stay here tonight?” he asks, soft, and Dean leans in to press an equally soft kiss to his forehead.

Tonight and every night, he thinks. “’Course,” he says, and then leans in to kiss him again.

Two mornings later, Sam walks into the bunker’s kitchen to find Castiel pushed up against a counter, Dean kissing his way down his neck. He yelps and retreats around the corner.

“Come on, guys,” he yells, from safety, and the two have the audacity to laugh.

“You did this, Sammy,” Dean reminds.

“I said I wanted to stop interrupting things in my own kitchen,” Sam counters, but he can’t find it in his heart to be angry. He sighs. “Whatever. You know I’m happy for you. I just—” he pauses. “Can I at least come get my smoothie?”

#destiel fic #spn fic #my words #this is a repost!!! i haven't reposted most of my fic bc I wasn't sure if people wanted me to but if you want it lmk :)#i still have all the word docs #over 1k words

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shotgun--rider · 4 years

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One Digit Off

A Jared x Reader Oneshot

After a hard day at work, Y/N just wants some peace and quiet. Instead, an accidental phone call might just change the whole evening.

Word Count: 2300

Warnings: Brief discussion of suicide attempt (not a main character), bad t-shirt puns, cat Rowena, useless fluff

*Reader gender/pronouns: any

A/N: Some silly apology fluff because I’ve been a useless rat about posting.

The couch in your living room was an overstuffed monstrosity that liked to consume anyone that sat on it, slowly but surely. It had been a thrift-store purchase in college years ago that somehow left anyone who sat on it pulled so far into the cushions that there was almost no leverage to stand back up. Nevertheless, it made the perfect place to hide at the end of a long week.

After the exhausting and entirely depressing shift you’d had at work, you wanted nothing more than to give in and let the couch eat you. You were wearing your favorite old, worn novelty t-shirt, the completely stupid one that read ‘SQUIRRELS JUST WANNA HAVE FUN’, and an equally embarrassing pair of shorts with tie-dyed handprints on your butt. Armed with a plate of haphazard snacks, you settled in on the hungry hippo couch, laying sprawled sideways and accepting your fate. You’d already taken a shower and jammed your hair behind a messy bandana, solidifying your look of “disaster got run over by a truck”. It was classy.

You just wanted to get cozy, watch some TV that you knew well enough not to have to think about anymore, and try to forget the sounds of a hysterical ten year old in your headset, screaming that Mommy was killing herself.

Working as a 911 dispatcher meant that you heard people in the worst moments of their lives all the time, and most of the time, they hung up without you ever hearing the ending. You were trained to talk down panicked callers, to get the most important information out of them in the quickest and safest way possible, to keep everyone calm and everyone alive until the first responders got there. And you were good at what you did, good at compartmentalizing what you listened to so that it didn’t follow you home, so that it didn’t distract you. And most of the time that worked.

You blew out your breath and refocused on the TV, having put on one of your old favorite Supernatural episodes as a distraction. Your black cat was huddled up kneading her paws on your feet, the couch was slowly swallowing you between the cushions and the backrest, and the hollowness in your chest eased bit by bit as you listened to Sam and Dean bicker.

On the coffee table in front of you, just past your snack plate and out of reach, your phone lit up, buzzing with a FaceTime call. You lifted your head halfheartedly to peer at the screen, unable to make out the caller at the angle you were at. It didn’t matter anyway; you weren’t in the mood to talk to anyone. Besides, it wasn’t like you really had anyone in your contacts who would be especially put out if you waited until tomorrow to talk to them. Your friends were all very casual people.

Stuffing a ranch-dipped cucumber slice into your mouth while you were sitting up, you proceeded to flop back down onto the couch, earning a death look from Rowena for moving your feet.

“Yeah, yeah,” you muttered to the cat. “You’re the one sitting on my feet, you know what you signed up for,”

And now you were talking to your cat. Great. This was probably the sort of thing that kept you perpetually single, you reflected absently. There weren’t a lot of people out there in the market for a put-crazy-cat-ladies-to-shame introvert who worked weird hours and was more awkward than entertaining. Not that it mattered, though. You weren’t really relationship material in general, you’d found, and after realizing how many boyfriends you just seemed to inevitably disappoint, you’d decided you were fine being single.

Ten minutes later, just as Sam was losing his shoe down a storm drain, your phone buzzed again. There was no contact photo coming up, which probably meant it was a wrong number, and you ignored it once more. Until it rang again, and again, followed by a flurry of pinging text messages.

Cursing to yourself as you fought your way upright (dislodging Rowena, who hissed at you), you flailed for the phone, not bothering to read the texts as you picked it up. If a wrong number was going to call you that many times, they either had an emergency or really needed to be set straight. Pushing your bandana higher off of your forehead carelessly, you swiped to answer the FaceTime call, setting it on the couch next to you without even looking at the video loading on the screen as you fumbled to pause the TV. “God, what!” you snapped in the vague direction of your phone. “Stop hissing at me, cat,” you added irritably for Rowena’s benefit.

There was a long pause, and then a man’s voice. “Um,” he said inelegantly. “I’m sorry?”

Rowena prowled over to the phone, then, batting at it with one paw and nosing the screen inquisitively. “Rowena, you menace!” You reached over, trying to pry the phone out from where she was currently sitting on half of it, sighing heavily.

“Hey, look, I think you called the wrong number, and I’m really sorry my cat’s sitting on you right now--” you started, just barely able to make out the bottom half of a man’s torso in a loose gray shirt from underneath Rowena’s black fur.

A laugh, then, “No, it’s a cute cat. Well, as far as I can tell,”

Your phone’s speaker was muffled by Rowena’s tail, but there was something about that voice that almost sounded familiar. “Jesus Christ, Ro, let me apologize to this guy properly,” you huffed, failing once more to pull your phone free when she batted her paws at you defensively, claws out.

“Wait, your cat’s name is Rowena?”

“Uh, yeah,” you frowned, trying to figure out why hearing your cat’s name in a stranger’s voice bothered you so much. “Yeah, I--Rowena give me the phone!” you snapped suddenly, making a dive between her paws. Finally, your cat relinquished the phone, fixing you with an Oscar-worthy dramatic look of anger befitting her namesake before flouncing off the couch. “Damn cat,” you grumbled, finally lifting the phone to get a look at who’d been calling you. At least being virtually sat on by a cat meant he got a little payback for harassing you with calls for the past half hour.

As soon as you brought the phone up to your face, you froze, your slow blinking the only proof that the screen hadn’t just frozen up on you. “Uh.”

He was several years older than the one currently paused on your TV, wearing a black beanie and looking mostly ready for bed, but no, that was definitely Jared freaking Padalecki staring back at you. And you were wearing a squirrel shirt and had a rat’s nest for hair. Clearly, the universe had just built this entire day to laugh at you, because what the fuck.

He was smiling at you, eyes crinkled up at the corners and looking unfairly put together compared to your gremlin-impersonation in the corner screen. “So, are the squirrels having fun?”

“What--oh!” you looked down at your shirt, embarrassment flooding through you, and decided on the spot to go with it. It wasn’t like this could get any weirder. “They were,” you returned, “until somebody called them six times in twenty minutes,”

Jared’s expression turned sheepish. “Yeah...sorry about that. My buddy got a new phone number and I obviously saved it wrong. I wouldn’t have bothered you if I didn’t think it was just Jensen ignoring me,”

A slightly incredulous sounding laugh burst from your lips, and you shifted on the couch, still trying to wrap your head around the fact that you were casually carrying on a conversation with Jared Padalecki. After your cat had sat on him. “You didn’t bother me that much,” you conceded. “Sorry I snapped at you. Rough day.”

“Oh yeah?” Jared tucked one arm behind his head, shifting around but never taking his eyes away from your face. “Wanna talk about it?”

“Um,” you faltered, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. You didn’t need to spill your guts to a random wrong number who also happened to be one of your favorite actors. What you did need to do was get out of this with some decency, hang up the phone, and forget about it.

“You don’t have to,” Jared was saying softly, his forehead pinched like he was concerned about you. (Which was laughable).

“No…” you shook your head, wrinkling your nose. “I don’t know, I just...isn’t this weird?”

“What do you mean?”

“Uh, talking to a stranger because of a misdial?”

Jared pouted, his eyes turning dangerously puppy-looking. “And here I thought you liked me,”

“Wishful thinking, Padalecki,” you shot back without thinking, only realizing after the words were already out that you’d just confirmed that you knew who he was.

Meanwhile, Jared’s eyes had lit up triumphantly. “If you know who I am, then you’re not talking to a total stranger,” he pointed out, smiling easily at you.

He didn’t seem like he minded, but that did little to put you at ease. Pinching the bridge of your nose to stave off a stress headache, you sighed. “I’m sorry, that’s got to be so awkward, I--”

“What? No,” Jared just looked genuinely confused. “You’ve got a cat named Rowena, I kind of figured you’d know who I was,”

You groaned, covering your entire face with your hand now as embarrassment burned through your cheeks. “You probably think I’m some crazed wild fan, naming my cat after a character,”

“I don’t,” Jared reassured you firmly. “I think you’re funny, and I like the squirrel shirt,”

You peeked out from between your fingers. Jared Padalecki liked your dumb squirrel shirt. “You’re just saying that,”

He laughed, shaking his head. “No, I’m not! This is the best thing to happen to me all week,”

“You must have had a pretty lame week,” you observed sarcastically, leaning toward your phone to better examine your own image in the corner. “I look like a gremlin,”

“You do not!” Jared was laughing at you now, shaking his head emphatically. “You look cute,”

“I look--and feel--like I crawled out of a trash can, but thank you,” you deadpanned, a yawn distracting you from Jared’s further counterargument. You heard the smile in his voice before you opened your eyes to see it, and something caught in your chest at his soft expression.

“Tired?” he asked gently, shifting onto his stomach on the screen, face propped up on a pillow to look at you. Vaguely, in the back of your mind, that surrealness of being on a FaceTime call with Jared Padalecki was still there, but mostly, it just felt unbelievably normal.

“Twelve hour shift,” you confirmed with a nod, one hand moving beside you to lazily pet Rowena, who had apparently decided to forgive you. At the look of puzzlement on Jared’s face, you elaborated, “I’m a 911 dispatcher,”

“So when you say you had a rough day…” Jared’s face cleared in understanding, his expression patient. “You don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want,” he reminded you softly, falling silent after that as if just content to watch your gremlin face on his screen. (Which would be ridiculous).

Your mind flickered back to the sound of the panicked girl on your headset, and you sighed. “No, it’s fine. I, uh, picked up a call from a girl today. Moriah. She was ten. She, uh, she found her mom in the bathtub with a knife,”

Jared sucked in a breath. “I’m so sorry you had to listen to that. Did she...uh, is she okay?”

Your mouth twisted wryly. “That’s the thing. Everybody hangs up as soon as the ambulance gets there. I hope so, though. Kid said she had vitals,”

Jared was shaking his head at you. “And you do that every day,”

“I mean, not every day, it depends on shifts. But yeah.” you shrugged. “I try to help,”

“That’s incredible. You’re incredible.” he murmured softly.

Squirming at the praise, you scowled playfully at him. “You don’t even know me,”

“I’m not taking it back,”

“Yeah, okay,” you feigned annoyance like there wasn’t a blush all over your face. Then you winced, suddenly noting the little red battery symbol on top of your screen. “Crap, my phone’s gonna die,”

That seemed to shake Jared out of just staring vaguely at the phone screen, and you watched him sit up cross legged on his bed, still with that same heart-stopping smile. “Yeah, we should both probably go to bed anyway,”

You sighed with a nod, strangely reluctant to hang up. “I’m still sorry Rowena sat on you,”

Jared laughed, throwing back his head. “I’m not,” he told you brightly. “You probably woulda hung up on me if she hadn’t. Tell her she’s a good cat,”

“I will not, it’ll make her head bigger,” you retorted easily. “Goodnight, Jared,”

Jared touched his fingers briefly to his lips, covering the camera with them a second later. “Goodnight,” he whispered, ending the call before you had any time to process what that meant.

It only took a few minutes for your phone to buzz with a new text, and you opened it with a laugh, scrolling briefly back through Jared’s pestering of “Jensen” before focusing on what he’d sent you this time.

So since you turned out not to be Jensen, I need a name for my contacts

Are you sure you’re keeping my contact? You shot back, smirking at your phone screen.

Yes??? Jared sent back carefully, and you could almost imagine his hesitantly sheepish expression.

Jensen 2. Not-Jensen. Crazy cat lady.

He sent back a sad emoji. C’mon.

Y/N L/N

Goodnight, Y/N.

You tossed your phone back onto the coffee table, falling back into the couch with what was probably a vaguely stunned expression on your face. Jared freaking Padalecki. You fell asleep with a little smile still playing on your lips.

#supernatural fanfiction #supernatural rpf #jared padalecki x reader #jared x reader #spn #rpf #x reader #reader insert #oneshot

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ruffboijuliaburnsides · 3 years

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have you ever dressed up for halloween or for like a costume party? what's your favorite thing you've worn? do you like wearing jewelry? do you listen to podcasts?what's an interesting historical event you know a little about? when do you feel the most comfortable? do you have any piercings or tattoos? Are there any you'd like to get? what's one thing you're proud of?

Wow, All in huh??? SO MANY QUESTIONS.

1) Have I ever dressed up for halloween or for a costume party? NNNNNNNNOT REALLY. I wasn’t allowed to do Halloween after the age of like. Five? Because my parents got MORE religious than they’d already been and they decided halloween was evil. And then as an adult I didn’t have a lot of local friends or money so... not really most of the time. BUT! There was ONE YEAR when I was in my mid-20s, that my wife and I went to a Halloween party with some local friends. She was Death of the Endless, we dyed her hair black, I did her eye makeup, there was a cardboard-covered-in-tinfoil ankh necklace and everything. I that year dressed up as Delirium to go with her. I bought fishnets that I tore a couple holes in, had some clompy boots, bought a skirt and shirt at the thrift store, and dyed my hair... like Half of it was red, half of it was just random spots of bleached, blue, and green. (I actually went to a job interview the next day and frantically reassured the interviewer that I was bleaching my hair and dying it a more natural color later that week) It was very fun as a costume tho. OH tho last year for halloween I loaned my wife a purple dress I sewed for myself and we got her some white tights and a white scarf, and I dug out my purple henley and and jeans some bandaids for my face and fingers, and we went as Hawkeye for Halloween. She was Kate Bishop and I was Clint Barton. That was probably my favorite even tho it was so low-effort. 1.5) On its own line, I think this “what’s the fave you’ve worn” was meant to be about the costumes, which I answered above, but IN GENERAL the thing I’ve worn that’s my favorite has been

Do I like wearing jewelry? I do like wearing jewelry! I need to get new earrings bc the ones I had got lost, but I used to always wear like, small gauge horseshoe earrings with the balls that screw onto the ends? I just lost the balls on the ends. I also wear a necklace every day. And I used to have a wedding band but I don’t have one that fits currently and it drives me NUTS bc even years without it I feel like I should have a ring on that finger.

Do I listen to podcasts? I listen to podcasts off and on! Mostly MBMBAM, The Magnus Archives, The Penumbra Podcast, and Faculty of Horror. We relisten to early WtNV to sleep sometimes, and I keep meaning to catch up on TAZ, but that’s not active yet.

What’s an interesting historical event I know something about? ...Gosh that’s hard. Like, I know some stuff about historical eras or cultures but EVENTS??? Hmmm... I. Fuck. I abruptly cannot think of ANY HISTORICAL EVENT AT ALL. I’m a fucking History Major this is embarrassing. Uh okay so... I can’t think of anything. I’m so sorry. XD

When do I feel most comfortable? When I’m curled up in bed and have Birdie pressed against my back with her arm around my waist. Bonus points for literally any of our other partners in bed as well, but that happens so rarely. :(

Do I have any piercings or tattoos? I DO! Piercings are easiest. I have my left lobe pierced 3 times (though all but the first might be closed) and my right 2 times (tho ditto), and the upper shell of my left ear once (but again, closed). TATTOOS gosh, ok I have, in chronological order: a) a sort of cross between a cross and a peace sign on the inside of my left ankle. I got it when I was 18 and still a Good Christian Girl, my church bff designed it, it stood for peace in Christ, and the only thing stopping me from trying to get a coverup is the fact that it’s REALLY heavy/thick black work, and the location which was really painful. b) the kanji 天使 (which translates to “angel”) on my right inner forearm, over self harm scars specifically. I got this when I was 19 and back living with my bigoted conservative family and suicidal and trying to remind myself that I was loved. I also picked it out of a book and was lucky that book had the right kanji tbh, but I picked it bc my parents wouldn’t be able to read it, and it meant “angel” which was Birdie’s pet name for me at the time, and she was living across the country from me. If I could go back, I would get a different angel-themed tattoo in the same place, but at least I have the proper kanji for it if I’m going to have an ill-advised Japanese tattoo. c) a little curled ivy tramp stamp I picked out of a book in a little tattoo shop on St. Mark’s Place in NYC at like 2am, do NOT ask, it was dumb. Thankfully easier to work into a larger piece if I ever have the money for a back piece. d) text that is now near-illegible (due to the delicate nature of the script and the time since I got it) on the back of my left shoulder. It says “the universe has been waiting for me” in Birdie’s handwriting. It’s a line from Donna Noble’s last episode of Doctor Who, and I had FEELINGS. e) text on the inside of my left wrist that says “alive or dead, the truth won’t rest.” specifically in courier new. It’s a quote from @seananmcguire‘s book FEED, and Birdie has a matching tattoo on her wrist as well. f) A tattoo of Coyote and the Sun, with color, on the outer side of my right calf. It’s the only colored Tattoo I have. I plan to get a semi-matching tattoo on my left calf that is El-Ahrairah and the Black Rabbit of Inle doing sort of a yin-yang esque circle chasing each other. it’s a Trickster thing, tying animals commonly considered to be Tricksters with stuff that is meaningful to me. Coyotes have always been important to me, I grew up in Arizona there were always coyotes about and I always loved them, and then Watership Down was a surprise true love of a book when I was a teen.

Are there any piercings/tattoos I’d like to get? Piercings not so much. Maybe an eyebrow one day idk. Tattoos tho, goddamn, I’ve got SO MANY PLANS. I want to get text tattoos - either part of a larger text-heavy design or separately - of “It’s chaos, be kind”, “You are not obligated to complete the work, neither are you free to abandon it”, and “Do good recklessly”. Other quotes I’m sure but those three specifically. Obviously the Watership Down/Rabbit the Trickster tattoo I mentioned. Also a design from one of the tattoos on one of the guards of the Pazyriyk ice maiden. Also ngl I kinda want to get the sigils for witcher signs on the backs of my fingers. Some people get “THUG LYFE” or “FUCK YOU”, I get “I WILL FUCK YOU UP (in symbolic form)” XD

What’s one thing I’m proud of? The fact that I’m alive. ...Seriously, I’m quite proud of that, I’ve had some shit years in my life, and I’ve nearly not made it more than once. I’m proud as HELL that I’m here. I’m proud that I’m in college. I’m proud that I’m writing again.

Thank you for all these questions! So many, lmao, but I loved it, thank you. ^_^

#askbox meme #ASK ME ANYTHING ON ANON!#Anonymous #audience with the gods

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thetriggeredhappy · 4 years

Note

imagine,,, wholesome platonic pyro x team,,, -🦂

i’ll admit, this one is a longie. (no warnings)

The second the end-of-day klaxon fired off, Pyro was jumping to their feet and bolting back towards base. Maybe this should worry the team, but they could hear giddy laughter bubbling up from somewhere within the suit, so they weren’t all that worried.

When everyone else got back to base, there was a sign pinned to the swinging doors into the common area, done in five colors of crayon with various smiley faces dotting the empty spaces. “Everyone come back at 7 o’clock please!” it said cheerfully. There was some mild grumbling from Medic, who’d wanted to get something to eat before he headed to go set to work on a project. Heavy clapped him on the shoulder gently and assured him that he could have a sandwich from Heavy’s little fridge.

At a few minutes to 7, nearly all of the mercs had turned up outside the doors of the common area. Scout ended up darting off to find Heavy and Medic, and was dragging them both back down the hall to the place when the doors swung open and Pyro hopped forth brandishing a balloon sword and wearing a party hat.

They gave some incomprehensible cheer, and gestured for the team to go inside.

The vision before them as they filed in was met mostly with wide eyes and complete surprise. The entire common area and kitchen were transformed into a bright, technicolor scene, balloons and streamers and banners hung aloft and across the walls. The chairs, usually in dull, age-worn greys and greens and blacks, were draped in bright new fabric, and every table had a polka-dotted tablecloth. The harsh overheads were dimmed as their beams were inturrupted with dozens of balloons of various colors, and the large table they all so often sat and ate at was absolutely covered with food. A record was spinning away, volume low but immediately working as a wonderful final touch to transform the room, so often home to tiredness and bickering and infighting during their time off, instead making it a place full of light and life.

Everyone ended up investigating something different. Scout, for one, immediately bounded over to the table of food. “Jesus H. fuckin’ Christ, Mumbles, this must’a taken you all night!” he exclaimed, shocked and enthusiastic all at the same time. He zeroed in on a massive stack of chocolate chip cookies, picking one up off the pile and eating it practically in one bite and talking through it. “I’m fuckin’ starving here though, thanks for—“

Then he stopped. Kept chewing, eyebrows furrowing together for a moment, energy freezing in its tracks as he did so, staring off into space like trying to remember something.

Suddenly, a very different energy. He looked at Pyro, who had their hands clasped together and was watching his reaction carefully. For maybe the first time in his life, he was entirely lost for words, for five, ten, fifteen seconds.

“Mumbles, this is... this why you asked me to get that recipe for you? For cookies?” he asked, quiet now, taken aback. Pyro nodded, asked him a question. He took a second or two to sort out what they asked, and then he nodded distractedly. “No, yeah, you nailed it, it’s perfect. Exactly right. It’s...”

He swallowed hard, swiped hard at his eyes with his forearm, laughed a little. Pyro opened their arms, and he accepted the hug immediately, pulling them into a tight embrace, lifting them up off the ground a little with it.

“Yeah. Tastes just like back home. My Ma would be real proud of you, ain’t anybody that ever gets it this right.” A harder squeeze for a minute. “Thank you. I... seriously, there’s not even words. Thank you. You’re the best, pal.”

Pyro squeezed him right back, and then released, moving away as he turned back to the table again, picking up another cookie and starting to eat it much more studiously.

They picked up a plate they’d set aside in the kitchen, hurrying over to present it to Heavy, who was investigating the balloons with some amount of amusement. He laughed the second he laid eyes on it, taking it from Pyro and looking more closely.

“Leetle Pyro, what is this?” he asked, clearly amused and pleased. “How did you make such leetle sandviches? Why is this?”

Pyro’s reply was cheerful, gesturing first to the sandwiches, then holding their finger and thumb close together, then gesturing over towards the rest of the team. Heavy gave a hearty laugh.

“Baby sandviches for baby team?” he asked, still laughing. Pyro nodded. “Oh, Doktor will love this. I go now to show him. Thank you, Pyro. Perhaps I make these and give to team more. Is very good joke.”

Pyro nodded, and Heavy wandered away, still laughing. They watched as he recounted the joke to Medic, clearly very proud of himself, laughing just as hard as the first time even as Medic fought down a grin and rolled his eyes. Heavy then moved on to the next teammate and repeated it.

Demo appeared to be talking Soldier down from popping every balloon on the same side of the color spectrum as the other team. Pyro moved over, jumping to grab hold of one of the strings, and handed one to Demo, who raised an eyebrow, already entertained by whatever they were on about. They grabbed another balloon and held it up to their own face, and inhaled exaggeratedly.

Demo’s expression lit up. “Och, now there’s an idea!” he said, and turned to Soldier. “Look here, watch this one!”

He pinched near the tail of the balloon, nipping a hole in the rubber and taking a deep inhale of it before pinching it back off again. He then turned back to Soldier and grinned.

“Aye, how do I—“ he started to ask, but promptly broke down in laughter at how high-pitched his voice had gone, only redoubling as he heard how ridiculous it was. Soldier and Pyro laughed as well, and within moments Engie had wandered over to see what the commotion was and was laughing as well. Pyro handed their balloon over to Soldier, who immediately moved to do the same thing, and soon the three of them were fully occupied with joking around with each other.

Pyro looked around and noted Spy looking at the sleeve that the record on the player belonged to, clearly trying very hard to seem bored. They moved over and took hold of the sleeve of his jacket, ignoring his protests and pulling him over to the table.

They promptly lifted a wine bottle from the wide selection of alcohol there at the end. They handed it to him, and he took it with a frown and started looking over the label.

His eyebrows shot up, and then he promptly narrowed his eyes at Pyro, a series of questions there in his eyes. The first was vocalized within a few seconds. “Not a particularly old selection, not to mention from some little local winery in France that I am quite sure very few people have ever even heard of,” he said pointedly. “And I’m sure very difficult to track down, even if you knew such an assuredly small backwater nowhere of a town existed. What would cause you to place a specialty order from anywhere like that?”

Pyro just looked at him, hands clasped behind their back.

Spy glanced around at their teammates for a few moments before he spoke again, his voice low. “I’m not entirely sure how you came into knowledge of my place of birth, but I assume I can trust you to make sure nobody else learns it,” he said, a weight to the word that implied it might not be trust, but instead a threat.

Pyro nodded without even needing to think about it, though, and Spy’s shoulders sagged momentarily. He then straightened, looking over the label for a few more moments, expression softening ever so slightly with each passing moment.

“And I’m sure there is not anyone who would be able to tell you this, but I do prefer red wine when given the opportunity of a choice,” he finally deigned to say, much lighter than before. He looked over at Pyro. “So thank you.”

Pyro nodded cheerfully, and edged a glass from the rest and towards him, then bounded off again.

Sniper was stood off away from the bustle to one side of the room, looking vaguely uncomfortable from his body language, even as his face was an impassive mask, revealing nothing. He visibly jumped as a balloon was popped by Medic on accident, frowning hard at it. Pyro moved over and greeted him, and he just nodded at them distractedly, gaze continuing to move between the record player and the table of food and the chaos of Soldier and Demo laughing themselves half to death over the helium and the bright, multicolored light filtering through the balloons. Pyro gingerly took hold of his sleeve where it was rolled up to his elbow and gently tugged on it, leading him through the door into the kitchen.

There were three overheads, but two had been blocked out almost entirely by a mass of black balloons, the final having a white sheet pinned over it to dull the light. Once through the door, the majority of the noise and commotion faded into the background. Pyro then prompted Sniper to look at a bag of coffee that was next to the coffee machine, which apparently already held a full pot of the stuff. Sniper investigated without fanfare, reading over the label.

“Some fancy fair-trade nonsense,” he said, even as his expression betrayed him being impressed, and somewhat surprised. “Leagues better than that tea nonsense our Europeans drinks, at least, and the bulk store buggery we’ve usually got.”

Pyro gestured enthusiastically towards the pot that had already been brewed. Sniper scratched awkwardly at the back of his neck.

“Don’t exactly have a mug for it, mate,” he said carefully. “Mine broke at breakfast a week or so ago, remember? Planned on headed out to a... thrift shop, or flea market or the like, sometime this weekend. Then I can give it a try. If, er... if there’s any left by then.”

Pyro put their hands on their hips, tapping their foot impatiently.

Sniper sighed, moving over to the cabinet where they kept cups. “I’ll just knick one from the other blokes, sure they won’t mind,” he finally agreed, pulling the doors open.

He froze for a few seconds, then gingerly pulled out a mug with a little ribbon bow affixed to the handle.

Sniper was at a loss for words for a moment, then laughed incredulously. “Mate, this was... in pieces, probably two dozen shards, this was long gone,” he marveled, looking over the tiny little cracks that showed up along the surface of it, just barely marring the surface that then read “#1 Sniper” bold and clear. “How bloody long did this take you?”

Pyro shrugged, a little bashful. Sniper appeared to be at a loss for what to do, and ended up putting the mug down, reaching over and giving them an awkward clap on the shoulder.

“Thanks, mate. I appreciate it,” he said, and maybe it would’ve been an underwhelming reaction for most people, but it was an awful lot more than Sniper generally gave to anyone, and so Pyro brightened immediately, bopping him right back.

Engie called them before they could even make it around to him. “Firebug!”

They left the kitchen right away, leaving Sniper behind to the relative quiet and dark and peace. Engie was by the table, looking over a bottle. They greeted him cheerfully.

“Now, this here says it’s sweet tea,” he said, holding up the bottle in question. “Now does that mean it’s some, uh, northern sweet tea that’s not much sweet of anything, or real sweet tea?”

“Maybe it’s Long Island iced tea,” Scout quipped from down the table. “You should chug it and see.”

Pyro waved Scout off and assured him it was real. They explained that they’d gone through all the steps to make the sweet tea the proper way, the same way he’d bemoaned to them every time they were stationed anywhere but in the heart of the United States’ South. Heating the tea up, adding tons of sugar while it was hot, and chilling it again. Engie nodded, apparently satisfied.

They then gestured him over a ways down the table, and directed his attention towards the center. He needed to lean up on his toes and crane his neck a little to see it over the mass of food there, but when his eyes landed on the centerpiece, he absolutely lit up, laughing a little.

“Firebug, where in Sam Hill did you manage to find bluebonnets?” he asked, absolutely delighted. “Those are a full month or so outta season. And those are fresh—bless your heart, did you grow these?”

Pyro nodded, and Engie laughed, drew them into a hug, clapping them on the back as he did so.

“You’re too sweet for your own good, honest you are,” Engie said, and Pyro laughed. “Doin’ all of this for everyone.”

Pyro shrugged, assured him it wasn’t any trouble, and drew back enough to point out to him that they’d made some food that he in particular would probably be excited about, and moved away as he picked up a plate and started digging right in.

They moved over to Soldier, and ended up tugging on his jacket until he finally abandoned where he and Demo were attempting to peer pressure Heavy into inhaling some helium. Pyro dragged him out the back door, making sure to prop it open behind them and saving a balloon from escaping and flying off into the stratosphere. They led him to the dumpster they’d dragged a few meters closer to the door, and flipped open the lid, quickly reaching inside and coming up with two armfuls.

Soldier could not have possibly looked any more excited than he did in that exact moment as he processed the sight of Lieutenant Bites and Lance Corporal Chompers wearing little party hats and covered in little pieces of paper confetti. He promptly set about informing those two—and the several other raccoons rapidly starting to escape from the dumpster—about just how goddamn adorable they looked in their tiny hats and rainbow confetti. He ended up seizing the Lieutenant and holding him tight to his chest, bringing him inside to show to Demo for the five minutes he managed to keep hold of him for before he darted right back out the door and joined his raccoon friends in tearing their cute little hats into shreds. Soldier brought the entire container of sour cream off of the table to give to them outside, and nobody stopped him.

Inside, he picked up one of the records and moved over to Medic, who was busy watching Heavy and Demo go lightheaded from inhaling helium, rolling his eyes the entire time even as he didn’t stop them. Pyro tapped him on the shoulder to get his attention, and handed over the record.

Medic looked pleased, glancing over the record, flipping it over to look at the specific music on it. “I was not aware that we owned any records of classical music,” he mused, visibly cheered up. “I thought that our Soldier had shattered most of them last time we attempted to play board games as a team bonding exercise.”

Pyro nodded, and Medic looked over the album again.

“Ja, this is new. Did you buy this specifically for this, er... occassion?” Medic asked, eyebrows drawn together.

Pyro shook their head, gesturing fro the record to Medic.

“It’s for me then?” Medic asked, starting to grin, and Pyro for one didn’t comment on how worrying he looked when he was pleased with something. “Danke, how very kind of you! It is very much appreciated, my friend. Might I play it now?”

Pyro nodded, and he did. The first swells of a symphony filled the room, and Scout and Demo briefly bemoaned listening to “boring fancy-pants music”, but the tunes were so lighthearted and cheerful that they quickly forgot about it, letting it fade into background noise.

The change of music to something more calm and the general mood of the room settling down were enough to coax Sniper out from the kitchen, and soon Soldier had returned, his and Scout’s moods significantly mellowed out following what they’d been given by Pyro. Soon enough, they were all sat around the table, digging in and talking cheerfully. It was an eclectic assortment of options, and everyone was surprised to find foods specific to their own tastes, and all talked excitedly about their own meals, the stories surrounding the times when they’d eaten them. Heavy, for one, wouldn’t stop repeating his new favorite joke about baby sandwiches for baby teammates.

And then plates were being passed around. Spy was trying brisket, and the Engineer was trying clam chowder, and Scout was trying brautwurst, and Medic was trying crocodile jerky. Some of them collectively bemoaned the favorite food of the others—only Sniper seemed to enjoy the stew Heavy so much liked, saying it had some weird spice combinations, and the corn on the cob that Soldier was ripping through had far too much salt and butter on it according to the entire Support team as well as Demo and Heavy. And only Scout was brave enough (or rather, dared) to try the family recipe venison pie, but upon him saying it actually wasn’t that bad, Medic and Soldier we’re inclined to try, the reception lukewarm and positive respectively. Others were enthusiastic, Scout in particular being surprised that the quiche was something that “Mister hoity-toity” Spy himself claimed to be a favorite, and there being a unanimous consensus at the table that the chocolate chip cookies were downright delicious. Pyro assured Scout that they would make more for him when he seemed a little worried that everyone else would clear that plate and not leave any left over.

For hours, they sat, they ate, they talked, they told stories. Some from their childhoods, and growing up, and traveling, others simply the product of their going on tangents of tangents.

There was only a cake left on the table at the end of the night, luckily a very small one, most of them two steps past full. They agreed that everyone would at least attempt one slice of it, and Pyro stood up and fetched a cake knife and some fresh plates from the kitchen.

“Hey, hey Mumbles,” Scout said upon their return before they could even sit down. “How come you did all this, anyways? Like, seriously, this—this had to be like, days of work.”

“Weeks, even,” Spy chimed a few chairs down.

“Entire weekends,” Engie agreed.

“Awful lot of work to go to, aye?” Demo asked, blinking curiously at them.

Pyro shifted, a little nervous, set the knife down to fidget with their hands for a few seconds. Their reply was so mumbled that nobody could pick up on it.

“I beg your pardon?” Medic asked, leaning in a little, brows furrowed.

Pyro repeated themselves slightly louder.

“Afraid I didn’t catch that,” Engie said from their right.

Pyro repeated themselves slightly louder.

In an instant, Scout was on his feet, openly shocked. “Woah, hold on, are you fuckin’ serious?!” he all but shouted, absolutely aghast.

Questioning noises from around the table.

“They said it’s their fuckin’ birthday.”

An amount of chaos. Some were incredulous, some shocked, others apologetic, others mostly just confused.

“Jesus H. fucking Christ, Mumbles, how come you didn’t tell nobody?!” Scout demanded, voice rising over most of the others and cutting through the noise. “I mean, shit, I don’t even have a gift or nothin’!”

Pyro’s response was drowned out by the rest of the team carrying on, and Scout gestured wildly at them to make them shut up, and silence fell again. He gestured at them, then, and they repeated themselves, speaking slowly and clearly and loudly to be understood through the mask.

“Well, maybe the only gift I really wanted was to give something to all the rest of you guys. To thank you for being my friend.”

Silence, and then chaos again.

A few voices could be picked out. Heavy, exclaiming “Of course leetle Pyro is friend, is credit to team!”. Sniper exclaiming, “Look, we don’t—no need to thank us, we like being mates with you, you lunatic!”. Demo exclaiming, “Cut it with the thanks lark, all these gifts, you know we love ya to death, lad!”. Soldier exclaiming, “We aren’t friends, we are brothers! Metaphorically!”. Similar sentiments echoed, mercs pointing at each other end agreeing heartily, and they carried on for quite some time before they all started falling quiet again, apparently noticing the sound coming from within Pyro’s suit, hands clasped across the bottommost part of their mask.

The crying sound.

“Hey, hey, c’mon now Firebug, what’re the tears for?” Engie urged gently, hand on their shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” they assured, sniffling. “I just love you guys.”

Scout stood up again, apparently making a decision. “Okay, that’s it. Stand up,” he said, and Pyro did. “Alright, group hug. Everyone get in here.”

The team started rising from their own seats within a moment, for once not arguing with the unusual show of affection and camaraderie.

“Hey, that means you, Legs,” Scout said, pointing an accusatory finger towards Sniper as the man stood up. “Get the fuck in here. You too Spy, don’t be a dick.”

“I’m just moving to get around the table, don’t be an animal,” Spy deadpanned, and Sniper murmured an agreement, and then the whole team was there. All just stood, practically crushing Pyro under the weight of eight men’s worth of embraces, and they returned it as best they could, still a bit sniffly.

But then, “Happy birthday to Leetle Pyro,” Heavy said decisively, and the sentiment was immediately echoed by the rest of the team, and then the waterworks were back in full effect. This apparently prompted Soldier to decide they weren’t hugging Pyro tightly enough, at which point he started hugging at maximum strength, surprising several mercs and almost sending them toppling into the table. Once they decided the sappiness was over, and Demo asked if anyone actually had any room left for the cake and largely got a chorus of “no”s in response, Scout picked it up and shoved it directly into Spy’s face, and the mood was back to a cheerful version of normal as Medic reminded them idly that they still had plenty of alcohol left to consume.

Pyro wouldn’t be hard pressed to call it the best birthday ever, especially since their being the one celebrating it meant they were informed that they didn’t have to help with the cleanup afterwards.

#tf2 #team fortress 2 #shut up me #my fanfiction #the fiendship tag

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theunboundmeg · 5 years

Text

Nefarious (Chapter One)

Summary: It wasn’t a year ago and Y/N can still remember being the new girl in school. Now it’s a new year, SENIOR year...and there’s another new kid at Hawkins High School. Billy Hargrove is a jerk, headstrong, and extremely presumptuous. And yet...he still manages to find his way in Y/N’s path...and it’s really starting to cause some “problems.”

Pairing: Billy Hargrove X Y/N (Reader)

Word Count: 2,973 Words

Rating: 18+ (For the Future)

Warnings: Cussing, insinuation, angsty angst! And some other stuff!

Other: Please note, this story takes place at the beginning of Season Two and actually follows to the storyline. I thought it would be interesting to write from a different perspective of the main story and see what happened to one of our favorite characters while the others were off fighting the demodogs! Enjoy this and if you guys like this chapter, I’ll probably write more! <3 Also note that there is no planned amount of chapters for this yet. I will write this story until it just naturally folds up. So...look forward to MANY more to come!

________________________________________________________________

Chapter One: Tell Your Friends It Was Nice to Meet Them

The first day was always supposedly the worst day, right? Well, this wasn’t exactly the first day...but still. I looked in the mirror at myself, cringing slightly. What in the world was with my sense of fashion today? Seriously? And why was it that no matter what I put on, I felt as though I was an imposter? It just felt...different. That day did, anyway.

“Y/N! YOU’RE GOING TO BE LATE!”

My mother’s voice echoed up the stairs and floated about the space in my room. She wasn’t wrong. And it wouldn’t be the first time either. One more tardy mark in homeroom and I’d be serving detention for a week. That was just how “serious” Mrs. Perkins had become with me. I didn’t exactly have a great relationship with my homeroom teacher, but we still managed to coexist...for the most part.

“Coming!” I screamed, grabbing up my backpack and taking one last look in the mirror. Out of control hair, high rise skinnies and a tank. Fine. It would do.

___

Just as the last bell sounded off, so did my footsteps on the tile of my classroom.

“Ah, Y/N! You did manage to make it on time! How gracious of you!”

Mrs. Perkins, along with the twenty or so other students in the classroom all gazed at me, causing my face to flush even more than it already was.

“Yeah, sorry. Just...tough morning” Not much to really say on the matter, I just shrugged and made my way to the back of the classroom.

Nancy and Jonathan were both there, seemingly lost in a hushed conversation that was only becoming more hurried and hushed the closer I got. I let my backpack hit the tabletop of my desk, causing Nancy to nearly jump out of her skin, which in turn brought a snort from Jonathan.

“You guys talking about creepy monsters again? Or am I actually going to understand the conversation you’re having this time around?” I asked.

Their adventures from before weren’t exactly a mystery to me. In fact, Nancy and I had become so close, she’d disclosed nearly everything that had happened before our friendship had blossomed. She’d told me all of it: from the Upside Down to how some small chick named Eleven or Elle or...Ellen...(I honestly couldn’t recall half of the time) had saved everyone in Hawkins. And while I’d be forever grateful to the girl I’d never meet for saving the small town I’d only just recently moved to with my mother, it was just difficult for me to buy...most days. Naturally, the thought of such a story intrigued me, it even drove my imagination on the dullest of my days. But still...monsters? Right here in this place? Come on now.

“Nooo...I was just telling Jonathan that he should reconsider the Halloween party. They’ll eventually be handing out flyers, but I already heard something about it.” Nancy replied, shrugging her shoulders and leaning back slightly.

I perked a brow and looked to Jonathan, who began to shake his head immediately.

“No.”

“Come on.”

“Nooooo.”

“Seriously?”

“No.” he hissed, clearly firm on the answer.

I glanced to Nancy then and shrugged again.

“I’d tell him to come but, he’s clearly made up his mind.”

“We’ll see.” Nancy huffed, crossing her arms over her chest.

She wasn’t really in the wrong for wanting him to come. Jonathan hardly got out much lately. Ever since the incident with his brother Will, he’d always made a point of trying to be home with him as often as possible. Then again, who could blame him? If I’d almost lost my mother, I’d be the same way. She was the only person I had left in the world, after all. It was then my attention was yanked back to the present by the door creaking open. The male walking in seemed to attract the attention of pretty much everyone in the room, even Mrs. Perkins. A mullet well kept, jean jacket and tight fighting jeans to boot and one would almost assume they were looking at a model.

“Mrs. Perkins! Sorry for the interruption! I’ve got a Mister Hargrove for you.”

The Principal pressed his lips together firmly as Billy moved past him, looking around for a chair. Something about him already seemed to pick at me. Not a word had escaped from between his lips and there was just something that was off about him. Cockiness? Or maybe he was an asshole.

“Mister Hargrove, are you-”

“We probably won’t be here for long, so maybe it would be worthwhile to just skip over my introduction and move on to better things...Mrs. Perkins, was it?”

While Billy had pretty much insulted Mrs. Perkins and talked over her, he’d done so in a way that oozed charisma. Asshole. Definitely asshole. I frowned and glanced downwards.

“Please...find a seat then.”

It wasn’t long and Billy was making his way between the desks, girls giggling and whispering about him as he passed them. Nancy leaned over towards me, lowering her voice.

“Steve and I saw him pull up outside earlier. Think he’s got a sister too.”

She tilted her head, her tone holding that of a curious nature. Other than that, she didn’t really seem to have much more to offer. The scrape of a chair caused me to jerk my gaze away and look to my left. Billy had apparently decided to make himself at home in the empty desk next to mine. Just my luck...a whole fucking classroom full of other people and he’d chosen to sit by me. Great.I made a point of looking away from him and back over towards Nancy.

“So about this Halloween party? I’ve got nothing to wear, but I thought I might go out today and see if I can find something at one of the thrift stores in town. Think there might be something good?”

Jonathan scoffed.

“Could always go looking like a goddess or a cat? Like most other girls do.” he replied.

I shrugged. “I happen to like cats, Jonathan.”

The chair scraped again, this time forcing my attention away once more and back over towards Billy as he leaned back, seemingly considering whether or not he could balance himself in his chair with his feet up on the desk. The look on my face must have said enough, because he took the time to actually stare back, inquiring now.

“You got a problem?” he asked, eyebrows shooting up.

“Not yet.” I replied, sniffing.

“Not. Yet?” he repeated, furrowing his brow.

“Did I stutter?” I asked.

Okay, perhaps that’d been a bit too forward or rude. After all, I’d been the new kid once as well...and I’d known how hard it was to acclimate to a new setting and new people. Just as I opened my mouth to apologize, he began to laugh. Billy actually began to laugh and just shook his head.

“My first day at this place and I thought I was going to run in with a bunch of airheads. Instead, I only run into a few airheads and one smartass. Might even be too smart for her own good!” he barked.

I could feel my face going hot as his chair finally sat back on all fours and he leaned over towards me.

“Sweetheart, lighten up. I’m not going to bite you. Unless you’re into that sort of thing.”

His gaze roamed downwards slowly, then back up, causing the heat in my face to travel to my ears and neck. Finally catching hold of myself, I inhaled sharply and shook my head.

“You know...I WAS going to apologize for being an asshole, but I feel like you feed into that sort of thing.” I retorted.

“I feed into whatever feeds me.”

It suddenly felt like a sparring match of sorts. The more I threw at this guy, the more willing he became to throw it right back at me. Dealing with my mom and her various boyfriends had always caused me to become a bit more straight edged...perhaps even cold. I’d never really been able to flirt well and guys tended to stray away. Usually. So, this encounter was different. He was flirting...but he was also being a dick about it. THAT was what made me feel more irritated.

“By the way, cat ears would look good on you. Don’t let the guy who’s clearly never been laid tell you otherwise.” Billy said, jerking his chin in Jonathan’s direction.

“God. Welcome to Hawkins.” I grumbled, looking away.

Nancy had managed to keep herself quiet during the small exchange. Her gaze darted between me and Billy, and then back again. Jonathan seemed to be struggling with something to say, perhaps even something towards Billy for his comment about the cat ears.

“Christ...” I mumbled, glad to hear the bell ringing to signal the beginning of classes.

Chairs were pushed and shoved and the stampede of feet began towards the door. I grabbed up my things and nodded to my two friends. “I’ll see you guys in second. Going to head to Chem and hope I don’t die from boredom.” And I’m also in desperate need to get away from this jerk.

I glanced towards Billy one last time, who seemed to be in no rush to get to his first class of the day and shook my head. He was going to end up being one of those. You know the one. He gets in good with the Kings and Queens of the school. Cool guy, cool hair...cool car probably too. And they’d suck him dry. Or perhaps it would be the other way around. Of course, that crowd didn’t exactly exclude me either. I’d been very lucky my mother had the money she did. And because of that, I’d earned a free ticket into the club as well. And while I never really partook in any of the “cool” kid activities, I made myself known there ever so often with Nancy and Steve.

“Come and get sheet faced?” I heard Jonathan say to Nancy as they left the classroom.

If I’d been paying any sort of attention, I would have seen the flyer that had been waved in my face before the girl had given up and given it to the person behind me. The flyers they were talking about were the Halloween party ones everyone had been buzzing about. Well, perhaps cat ears would end up being a thing after all. I shrugged, my backpack shifting weight on my back, and began heading off to class.

___

The day hadn’t really been anything to write home about. Classes had dragged and by the time sixth period had rolled around, my brain was fried. Chemistry test in first period, and countless amounts of note copying in the classes after had made me wish I’d stayed home. The only thing that had pretty much gotten me through the day were my friends and trying to figure out what costume I’d be wearing to the party. I pushed open the door to the front building and began making my way around. The courtyard was empty, save for a few students rushing from the back building to the front. I had my last class of the day in the detached building and like most, enjoyed the possibility of skipping. Such was the freedom of being able to actually...you know...go outside between classes.

“Hey! Cat Ears!”

I stopped and looked around. Cat Ears? I furrowed my brow and searched until my gaze fell on Hargrove. He stood there, just out of sight enough of the common passerby so that he could sneak his cigarettes under the stairwell on the side of the building.

“You going to class or you actually doing what I think you’re doing?”

I moved over towards him, nose wrinkling at the smoke curling upwards into the air. I’d only ever smoked once in my life. While I didn’t really complain about it, I’d heard from my mother it was probably something I shouldn’t pick up. The smell was just something she didn’t enjoy...therefore I shouldn’t either.

“We have a back building. I’ve got my last class of the day there.” I huffed. “I do have a name, you know?”

“Cat Ears just fits you so much better though. Makes you seem...more...crafty.”

“Crafty?”

“Did I stutter?”

There it was...he was throwing it back at me again. Then again, I’d probably deserved it. Especially since I’d said it to him earlier.

“Don’t you have somewhere to be? Like class?” I asked, shifting the weight of my backpack again.

Billy’s eyes roamed over my face and he reached up, plucking the cig from between his lips.

“Sure, I’ve got class.” he replied, “But I figured I’d take in the scenery first.”

He motioned towards me, causing me to feel that hot feeling creeping up my neck again. He wasn’t terrible to look at. But he also seemed like the sort of guy that had a shit personality...and enjoyed collecting women like he collected trophies. And I wasn’t about to fall for THAT sort of type. He stepped forward and circled around me, causing me to turn and watch him. Now, my back was near the wall and he stood out in the open.

“What’s your name?” he asked, finishing off the cigarette and flicking it away.

“Y/N.” I replied, curtly as possible.

“You don’t seem like the other Hawkins girls. Sure, you dress like the royalty, but you don’t seem like them.”

“I’m not from here.” I replied, “ My mother and I just moved here this past year.”

“Ohhhh, so we DO have something in common.” he jested, grinning that wolflike grin.

“We have NOTHING in common,” I said, stepping forward to try and pass him.

Billy sidestepped and put himself directly in between me and my route to freedom. It wasn’t long and he was stalking forward, causing me to back up until my back was firmly planted against the wall. He paused...eventually. He stood close enough that I could smell the mix of cigarettes and cologne on his jacket. He was clean and the way his jaw worked, it almost made me hold my breath.

“Here’s the thing Y/N. Usually, I get what I want. And right now, I’m wanting to know more about you...a lot more. Want to skip class with me and find out more about me to?”

Was he actually asking what I think he was asking? For fuck’s sake.

“Listen...buddy...” I reached forward and gave him a small push, causing him to blink in surprise.

“You might not be used to being turned down by girls, so let me go ahead and educate you. I’m not some prize to be won. I don’t just randomly go off with guys and explore with them. You seem like the type that enjoys an easy catch, so how about I point you in the direction of Carol and her flock of bitches.”

If Carol had heard me talking about her like that, she’d probably have ousted me from the “group” then and there. But she hadn’t...and this guy knew nothing about the social system at Hawkins High. Yet. Billy stood there, taken aback, before letting out another round of that barking laughter.

“You’re actually-?”

“Yes. I’m actually turning you down. A nice looking guy who is acting vile and quite frankly looks like he enjoys the feeling of being on top.”

“Well, you got one of those things right for sure.” he affirmed, nodding slowly.

He watched me, like a predator hunting his prey. But I wasn’t about to become his prey. Not today. Not ever. And yet? Some part of me...deep down...I felt that feeling. I felt it. He ENJOYED that about me. And perhaps that was why we were in the situation we were in now. He held his hands up and backed up.

“Pretty girl like you...I just couldn’t NOT ask. Was worth a shot.”

The smell of his cologne lingered on my jacket and in my nose. That’s how close he’d been to me...and it was going to haunt me for the rest of the day, I just knew it. I let out a breath and perked a brow.

“Maybe if you didn’t put off that asshole vibe, I would be more inclined to be curious about you.” I said, stepping back further.

“What can I say? People just seem to love that about me.” he replied, opening his arms wide.

It was sarcasm, but I understood what he was saying. I swallowed the lump in my throat and tried not to think about the way he’d looked at me. It was a look that had made me feel something I almost wished I’d never felt. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t the least bit curious about him. But I knew Billy’s type. I knew we’d only destroy each other if we got close enough.

“I hope I see you at the party!” he called after me as I turned and began to walk away.

I shook my head and looked to the ground, feet carrying me as quickly as I could. I only just made it to class and sat down, clearly looking as though I’d run a marathon.

“What’s wrong with you?” hissed Nancy.

Yeah, having class with her this many times in the day had brought about a great friendship. And an open one at that. Though, part of me didn’t want to tell her about running into Billy. News was already spreading around the school about the hot, new guy...and I really didn’t want to get THAT look from my friend.

“We’re going to that stupid Halloween party.” I replied, “And need to find some fucking cat ears.”

_______________________________________________________________________

Chapter Two>

Author’s Note:

Hey guys! So, it’s been a while since I’ve written anything and I’m super sorry! I apologize if this chapter seems a bit short, but I’m rusty and finally starting to get back into writing again. This story idea came to me while I was lying in bed one night and I just couldn’t help but get started on it. I really love the idea of seeing a more thoroughly explored story for Billy during the events of season two and even season three...so I’ve decided to give us one! I hope you liked this and stay tuned for Chapter Two! Let me know if you guys have ANY suggestions!

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erintoknow · 4 years

Text

so unfamiliar now

Spiraling - A Fallen Hero: Rebirth Fan-fiction

Unless you want Ortega hounding you to the end of your days, you’re going to have to put on a show and convince her she doesn’t need to keep worrying about you. You’re fine. Everything’s fine. She’s fine. Wait – [Horseshoe Crab]

It’s my birthday today so have a second update this week!!!!!

[Read on AO3]

If you’re going to get Ortega to lay off of you, you need to start thinking about your appearance again. Dressing in hoodies to look inconspicuous doesn’t do you any good if it actually ends up drawing more attention to yourself. So… What do you dress like?

Once upon a time Ariadne fancied anything and everything from skirts and the femmest outfits she could get her hands on all the way to shrugging on a leather jacket and gloves as part of her roller derby get-up. What could possibly be a logical progression from that?

Don’t want to look too affluent. A waste of resources. But you don’t want to look destitute either. So… Clean, some color. Mostly greens, some purples and black for variety. Cloth and cotton, things you can layer. Mix in some new items with thrift store purchases to fill out the rest.

One day at the mall, you stumble across a cute pair of shoes with a 1” heel and add them to the pile. The old Ariadne would never have worn something like that, but fuck her. She’s dead.

Should you start doing make-up again? Stare yourself down in the mirror in the morning and make a face. Bad enough you have to see that wretched thing as much as you do already. The concealer work is enough. Leave the eyeshadow and lipstick in the past. Anyone misgenders you, you can just beat the shit out of them. It’s 2020 now, you’re totally allowed to do that, super villain or no.

God. Do you look human yet? You don’t feel it. What is Ariadne like? How do you play this? Do you play up the stutter or tamp it down? Does she find it cu– Fuck. Fucking hell. No. No you are not thinking about that. Jesus fucking christ.

You pull fabric around your shoulders, frowning in disapproval at the mirror. Once upon a time, Ortega’s mother gave you a serape like this for Christmas. That one was a rainbow of color. This shawl is a duller green, with a white geometric pattern along the edges. Still, it’s long enough, draping down to your waist. You could hide your arms completely underneath, maybe a few other things if there was a call for it. Kind of like the cape for your villain suit.

So is this you, now? Or at least, if not you; is it Ariadne? You’re allowed to change, right? Will she even buy it? You’re not sure that you do.

When you get the phone call from Ortega one evening you go along and let her make plans. You’ve got time to kill before your next big operation anyway. And you can field test your new wardrobe.

–––

“Ariadne! Hola!” Ortega raises her arm, a bright smile on her face. Looks like the last of the stitches are gone. Thank god. She’s got jeans on, another flannel shirt. No jacket today? If it wasn’t for the gave-away glint of metal embedded in her arms and hands she’d look like a textbook middle-age butch lesbian.

Did she always dress like that? Is it because she’s seeing Jane now? Swear she flirted a little more femme when she was with men. Not that you were paying attention at the time. Of course not.

Shut up.

You raise your hand back, “Hola yourself. Y–you look happy today.”

“I like the new look.”

You blink, glance down at yourself. Doubt creeping back into your head. “Uh. Well. It’s uh, it’s just stuff I had… laying around… you know.”

“Uh-huh. I’m sure.” She doesn’t believe you at all, damn her.

“D–don’t think it’s for your benefit!” You hiss back, you reach up and grab the edges of your shawl, pulling the green fabric closed over your body. “B–because it’s not!”

Her smile broadens. “I didn’t say anything, Ariadne.”

“F–fuck you.”

“I like the shawl, it’s cute.”

Oh god. You can’t look at her. Face warm. Ortega has a girlfriend, what the hell is she doing? “G–good for you. You um, you want to – to get on with w–whatever the fuck we’re doing today?”

“Alright, alright.” She laughs, turning and beckoning you to follow. “We’re already here actually.” Ortega gets about halfway to the front doors before she realizes (acknowledges?) that you aren’t following her. She turns her head, flaps her arms in a ‘what?’ gesture.

Pulling your shawl tight around you, there’s newfound gratitude for how your sunglasses help to mask your eyes.

You stare up at the front facade of the Los Diablos Children’s Hospital, white tiling and red brickwork and dozens of little panes of glass like too many eyes. “Ortega…” you try to keep the panic out of your voice. “I thought you said we were doing something fun.”

She walks back to you, tight frown on her face. “We used to do this all the time, remember?”

You stare at her, “Do what?”

“Visits? Readings? You know?”

Bite your lip, is that true? Ortega seems so sure of it, but… Thinking back to hospitals all your memory coughs up is a very different kind of picture. One that makes your stomach roil and your head dizzy. True or not there’s still one problem: “Ortega… I’m trying to keep a low profile, remember?”

Ortega sighs and pats you on the shoulder. “Look, there’s no PR crew, no cameras, I haven’t even told Chen. The only person who knows we’re coming is the lady in charge of managing volunteers, Sue, and as far she knows you’re just a friend I’m dragging along.” She steps beside you, hooking her arm in yours. “So, you’ve got nothing to worry about, okay?”

You tense up as Ortega half-walks, half-drags you to the doors. “If – if, um – ninjas descend from the ceiling and kidnap me, I want you to know…”

“Yeah?”

“I f–f–fucking hate you.”

Ortega laughs, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Bright lights and white walls, men and women in scrubs, medical masks. You keep your shades on, damn politeness. Mercifully, hardly anyone spares you a thought, eyes sliding off. Fewer people than you'd believe recognize Ortega out of her Ranger’s outfit. At the same time, you do get the sense she’s a known quantity here, this isn’t her first rodeo. You’ll just have to trust her; there’s an uncomfortable thought.

You wish you had the Rat-King handy, you can wrap a song tight around your head but you could stand to have a little help filtering out the background noise. Maybe it’s your own baggage, but the chatter of hospital thoughts always has this tension to it – forced cheeriness.

Hang back and let Ortega talk to the front desk, a few minutes of waiting and the woman, she mentioned, Sue? –Susan?– comes out frowning behind the too-thick fireproof doors. Straight brown hair, dressed in white, stud earrings.

It makes an interesting contrast between her and Ortega. Ortega’s sporting her Ranger-branded sports jacket today. Ranger-blue indigo shirt underneath. Her bronzed skin a touch darker in shade than her conversation partner. It’s a good look for her – the outfit that is.

You guess.

Not that you’re an expert on Ortega’s style choices or anything.

What do you care what she looks like?

You don’t.

Shut up.

Sue and Ortega make small talk, and Ortega keeps glancing your way. Expecting you to join in? You’d rather hang back. Not talking to any doctors today, thanks.

You worry the sleeves of your shirt, pulled down to the wrists. Rub the fabric between your fingers, trace patterns over your thigh, anything to do that isn’t further chewing up the inside of your cheek.

It’s been weeks now and neither one of you have discussed the kiss in the Hospital. Maybe Ortega doesn’t even remember. Some drug-fueled fever dream.

Or…

Or maybe she hated it? Is politely letting you pretend it never happened. She’s with Jane, you have to remember. Ortega is a lot of things, but she’s not a cheater.

And now Ortega’s beckoning you over. Welp.

Take a breath, in – hold – out. You’re not scared. What are you scared of? You are Ghost, the mysterious plight of Los Diablos. They ought to be scared of you. Ortega taps the side of her head. No shades? You make a face and she gives you a serious look. You huff and pull them off, fold up and tuck them in your purse. White walls. White lights. Can feel your heart jump. Fuck. Ortega smiles at you, you fake a smile back.

You’ve got this. Everything’s under control.

Here we go.

Sue hands the two of you off to a nurse who in turn acts as your guide. You trail behind, not paying much attention to his and Ortega’s conversation. What you bother to pick up confirms that Ortega’s made a habit of these low-key visits apparently, to different hospitals across the city. Ever since returning to the Rangers.

Did Ortega used to drag you along to official Ranger PR events? You can almost remember. The memory of remembering. Try to think too hard about hospitals though, and you get panicky. Short breath. Little dizzy. A hospital is the last place you want to pass out at, thanks but go fuck yourself.

–––

A pair of tiny arms clings to your leg and a jolt of panic shoots through you. “Uh… H–h–hello?”

A girl with cropped brown hair stares back up at you. “HI LADY! I like your hair!!”

You glance at Ortega, she’s got her back to you, teaching a boy how to do some fancy handshake. You catch the eye of the nurse, hanging back by the doorway. He gives a small smile. No help there. Look back down at the kid, “T–th–thanks? Um– Don’t you want to talk to Charge over there?”

She remains undeterred. “What’s your name?”

“Ari?” You glance towards Ortega again. Help. She remains utterly unaware of your plight.

“Are you a boy or a girl?”

You choke. “W–w–what? I’m uh– I’m a girl.” Fuck. What did she pick up on? You usually pass just fine these days. Could just die right now, that would be great, thanks.

“Oh. Okay!�� There is absolutely no hint of embarrassment in this girl’s mind. “Are you Ms. Charge’s girlfriend?”

You hunch down and very gently try to pry her arms off your leg. “What um, what gives you that idea?”

She tilts her head, staring you down with full intensity. “‘cause you keep looking at Ms. Charge AND everyone knows the hero’s girlfriend ALWAYS has red hair!!”

You smile to hide the panic. “W–what uh, what makes you say that?”

She gives you a doubtful look, can’t believe an adult doesn’t know this. “‘cause it’s in all the movies!! Duh!!”

“Ari!’ Oh thank god. You breathe a sigh of relief as Ortega walks over, the other kids curiously watching behind her. “Making friends?”

“Hi Ms. Charge!!” The little girl fixes her full attention to Ortega.

“Hello!” She smiles widely, “Introduce me to your friend, Ari?”

“Uh–”

“My name is Casey!” The little terror cuts in. “SHE never asked!” Casey huffs. “Your girlfriend is RUDE Ms. Charge.”

“Girlfriend?” Ortega raises her eyebrows at you.

You shake your head wildly, suddenly way too warm. “S–s–she came up with that one herself!”

An hour and a half later of helping Ortega handle the meet and greet and you’re free again.

You slip your shades back on as the two of you exit the hospital. Run a hand through your purse to find the chocolate bar, peel off the wrapper at one end with shaking hands. “That was… that was something.”

Ortega claps you on the back and you stumble forward a step. “See? I told you you’d be fine.”

“Y–yeah, well…” You frown, “If you d–don’t hear from me in a week, you only have yourself to blame.” You break off a piece of chocolate, “Want any?”

“I’m good.” Ortega smiles, you shrug and pop the candy into your mouth “So…” Her smile fades as she glances towards you, “what did you think?” The two of you leave the parking lot, walk the sidewalk, you follow her lead through the streets.

“What d–did I think?”

“Want to come with me the next time I go?”

You give her a wry smile, “Y–You’re not gonna just, uh, just spring it on me again?”

She smirks back at you, “Me? Spring something on you? Never.”

“F–f–fucking smug-ass liar.” You punch her in the shoulder, and Ortega overplays it, comically swinging to the side. “W–why do I keep letting you do this to me?” You keep asking yourself that, and the answer hasn’t gotten any less terrifying.

“Do you remember the last time we did one of those visits?” Ortega glances at you as the two of you hurry across the street.

“When was that?”

“It must have been… well, right before–” She grimaces.

“Oh.” You chew your cheek, trying to think back. Can feel your stomach lurch as the world tilts under you. You have to stop and steady yourself. Cover it up by shaking your head. “I… kind of do? I–I–I haven’t thought about this in years, sorry.” You furrow your eyebrows, “I…”

“You were–” Ortega stops herself, “Oh, sorry, go ahead.”

“It’s okay.”

“No, finish your thought, it’s fine.”

Damn.

“I… think this might be… um, the first positive experience I’ve had with a hospital in… in years.” You grimace, keenly aware of the line you’re skirting. “Between uh… you in the hospital and…”

“And…?” Ortega slows down to match your pace.

Shake your head, “No, it’s – it’s nothing. Sorry. I don’t want to talk about it.” You try to smile even though it feels fake. “What were you going to say?”

“Oh, well–” Ortega rubs the back of her neck, “I was just going to say; I had to step outside to handle a phone call. And–” She laughs, “You were on the verge of panicking, all ‘Charge! Don’t leave me alone with these kids!”

You come to a stop, and groan, run a hand over your face. “Oh my god.”

“You remember now.”

You bite your lip, nod your head. “Uh-huh.”

“How did you get into teaching them about taxonomy? You never told me.”

You can feel the heat on your face now. “Okay. Look. It–it–it made sense at the time okay!? I thought it’d be easiest to keep them from going crazy if I r–r–read them a story?”

“Okay?” Ortega stops walking, leans her shoulder against a boutique storefront’s window, watching you with a smile. You cross your arms under your shawl to try and keep your hands from shaking.

“Okay. So. I just – just grabbed the first children’s book I saw. It–It–it was this animal book? I think? But it was all cutesy and inaccurate.” You bite your lip. “And when I pointed out a mistake, they all laughed so… I just… kept… doing… that…?”

She laughs at you.

You cover your face in your hands, heat going straight to your ears. “D–don’t laugh!”

Ortega covers her mouth, “Okay, okay. Sorry, you’re just so–”

You drop your hands to your sides, “I’m just so what?” You narrow your eyes at her.

She doesn’t miss a beat. “We’ll have to get you a book to read, the next time we go.”

Oh god.

“You’re going to – to kill me Ortega…”

Her smile falters, “I hope not.”

The two of you walk the next block in silence. Is it as awkward for her as it is for you?

Finally Ortega stretches her arms over her head and says, “I don’t do these hospital visits often enough these days.”

Watch her face from the corner of your eye, trying to get a read on her. “How come?”

Ortega sags, shoulders slumped forward. “Too easy to get caught up in work. Especially lately.”

Ah.

You have to keep your face blank, don’t let your heart race. “S–still obsessed with trying to figure out Ghost?”

She gives you a grim smile. “You know it.”

#fallen hero: rebirth #fallen hero fanfic #fanfiction #fhr/Ariadne

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artificialqueens · 5 years

Text

The Silent Land (multi-ship) - Grey Darling

a/n: So it turns out that leaving this community behind was rather an impulsive decision that I am currently regretting. This is such a lovely community to be a part of and I missed you guys!!! So here I am, back back back again, ready to write some fic and have a good time with it. Anyway, this is just a sneaky wee paranormal au I thought up last night and got really enthusiastic about, hope you all enjoy <3 <3

Fic under the cut!

There was something very strange about that lonesome figure on the sand, sitting in her white day dress staring at the roaring sea, the expression in her eyes hidden by shadow. No quirk of her lips revealed her thoughts, her statue stillness an aid in her ambiguity. Her features rendered her a creature of beauty - silvery hair shining in the dull sunset light, milky white skin bathed in its tangerine glow. And yet it felt as though she wasn’t quite real, like if one was to rest their hand on her shoulder, she’d simply fall away into dust or smoke or sand.

She didn’t notice her observer approaching, the crunch of her bare feet in the sand falling on deaf ears. Not so much as a glance of recognition when her observer sat beside her, and for a moment her faculties of sight and sound were called into question. Speech was a remedy to that, however.

“Who are you?”

The woman neither smiled not frowned, merely batted her long eyelashes over arctic eyes. “You should know. You dreamed me up.”

“This is a dream?”

“Yes. Didn’t you realise?”

“No.”

“When was the last time you saw a beach this empty in summer?”

The observer glanced around - they were alone, and the beach ran on for miles.

“I… I don’t think I have.”

“Would you call that reality, then?”

“You’re not making much sense…”

“Dreams seldom do.”

“Right.”

“Do you think you’ll wake up soon?”

“Maybe. I don’t know.”

“It would be a shame if you woke up. I’d miss you. But then again, we wouldn’t be parted forever.”

“Wouldn’t we?”

“You’ll fall asleep again, won’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Then we’ll meet again.”

She fell into a song, humming the mournful tune, so sweet and uncomplicated and quiet. The observer listened in silence, the slow tune weighing her eyelids down and down and down until she couldn’t keep them open any longer.

And, like dust or smoke or sand, the singer vanished.

***

“Pearl? Pearl! Wake up, you lazy ass!”

No, waking up to a pillow bashed into her face was not the ideal way to start her morning, but Violet was giving her no choice. Groaning, Pearl pushed the pillow away and scrubbed her hand over her face, groaning. “Would it kill you to do that nicely…?”

“Yes, it would, now get up.”

“Why are you in such a rush, anyway?”

“Because it’s eight-thirty! We’ve got class at nine!”

“Oh, Jesus Christ…”

Pearl scrambled out of bed, almost falling to the wooden floor in her haste. Violet rolled her eyes at her - her usual response to just about anything Pearl did - and resumed applying her mascara with precision. Bloody Violet, always getting her makeup perfect… Why couldn’t she be like everyone else and go into class looking like she just got dragged through a bush? It worked for Pearl all through high school. But she supposed university actually had standards, and besides - there were boys to impress. Since when had Pearl ever cared about impressing boys?

Clearly, she wasn’t about to start today. Throwing on yesterday’s jeans, a bra that she’d worn a record five days in a row, and the first band t-shirt she happened to grab from her dresser, Pearl considered that good enough for a day on campus. But given Violet’s icy stare as she laced up her battered sneakers, it wasn’t.

“You’re seriously going out like that?” Violet asked, eyebrow cocked.

“What’s wrong with this? I’m not naked, right?”

“Yeah, but you look like you just got out of bed.”

“Because I did!”

Violet scoffed. She looked as though she’d been up since five am putting together her outfit - a short-sleeved blouse, plaid mini skirt, cute cardigan, the whole preppy she-bang. But the thing was, there was no wrinkle in her blouse, no sign of her knee-high socks falling down any time soon even without anything to hold them up, and her black pumps were so shiny Pearl could just about see her face in them. Not to mention her dark hair, which was sleek and shiny and pulled into an immaculate ponytail. How Violet managed to look so well put together so soon after getting out of bed was a mystery to Pearl - perhaps it was witchcraft.

But then again, basically everything about Violet was a mystery to Pearl. They barely knew each other, having only moved into their shared flat last Monday, a week before the first semester of the year started. The only thing she knew about Violet was her university timetable, but that was only because it was identical to her own. For all she knew, Violet was a serial killer or a drug lord - that’d teach her to flat with strangers - but so far the only dangerous thing she knew about Violet was how hot she liked her hair straighteners.

“Whatever… We can’t all be goddesses like you.”

“Yeah, and don’t forget it.”

As Violet started applying her lip liner (Seriously? Lip liner on a Monday morning?) Pearl let out an unladylike yawn and checked her phone, frowning at the sight of Instagram feed as it was flooded with photos of her old high school friends starting their first day at college. Pearl could’ve been one of those girls, doing a BA or a BCom or some other normal person degree. But no, she had to be the weirdo who not only applied to the one performing arts school in the country but got accepted too. So it was goodbye spending time with normal people, hello wasting hours on end with theatre kids. She could only blame herself (and her high school drama teacher, but that was beside the point).

“Get off your damn phone! We’re gonna miss the bus!” Violet, who had somehow finished doing her lipstick in the short time it took for Pearl to check her phone, was already dragging her out the door.

“Jesus, let me get my shit together first!” Pearl protested, not exactly sure what she meant by ‘getting her shit together’ but knowing it was very important that she did so and not get forcefully removed from her flat by Violet Chachki.

She’d forgotten about her dream by the time she was out the door.

***

“I am literally going to kill you.”

“What? My timetable said it was a nine o’clock start, I swear!”

“I could’ve slept in for a whole. Other. Hour.”

Violet scoffed. “Or you could’ve spent that time making yourself look, y’know, actually presentable.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Pearl grumbled, folding her arms and scuffing her already destroyed sneakers along the concrete. Ok, maybe she could do with some new sneakers. “Don’t make me look like the bad one here, you’re the one who got our timetable wrong.”

“I didn’t have to wake you up, y’know. I could’ve just let you sleep in and miss class - I’m your flatmate, not your friend.”

Scrubbing her hand over her face, Pearl let out a sigh. She was not awake enough for this. “Whatever, I’m gonna go get a coffee.”

Violet waved a dismissive goodbye before reaching a manicured hand into the pocket of her blazer and drawing out her cellphone, wandering off in the opposite direction to god knows where. At the very least, Pearl knew where she was going - the only thing she remembered from the uni’s orientation week last year was the damn good cup of coffee she’d got from a hole in the wall cafe in the hub. She could only hope the quality hadn’t dipped since then.

The hub was a place for congregation, for students to meet and chat before, between, and after classes, to make new friends and get acquainted with the people they’d be finishing their performing arts education with. The students, however, hadn’t got the memo, for if they weren’t mingling with their tight group of pre-made friends, they were on their phones or waiting for whatever they’d ordered from the cafe, not interacting with a soul. Pearl figured that her own experience would mimic that - she’d get her coffee and silently kill time before her first class.

It seemed that wasn’t to be the case at all.

After ordering her long black, Pearl stared at her receipt, obsessively memorising her order number until it was called out, wanting to get her coffee and go as quickly as possible. But then her dreams of a quick exit were dashed when someone with a voice that could only be described as goose-like felt that now was the right time to sidle up to her and strike up a conversation.

“Gee, your receipt must be way more interesting than mine.”

Pearl looked up and did her best to smile at the large-nosed, chipped tooth redhead who had just started talking to her. “Yeah. It’s fascinating.”

“I’m Jinkx, Jinkx Monsoon,” they said, their shirt sleeves riding up and revealing the single tattoo on their wrist as they extended their hand. The last time Pearl had shaken someone’s hand in a casual conversation she’d been meeting her uptight, stiff-upper-lipped, homophobic uncle Remus for the first time. Jinkx, with their wild red hair and ragged thrift-store wardrobe, was the very antithesis of that detestable uncle.

A little weirded out, but not wanting to be rude, Pearl took the extended hand and shook it. “Pearl.”

“You doing the acting program?” Jinkx asked, tipping their head in curiosity.

“Uh, yeah. Guessing you are too?”

“Yeah! Got my next class in an hour.”

So this was another classmate. Well, Jinkx certainly looked like a theatre kid, that was for sure - no other breed could wear a sweater that large or a skirt that long without shame. “Same, actually.”

“Oh, that’s fantastic! I’m kind of excited, y’know? Meeting a whole new bunch of people, learning new skills… It’ll be fun, right?”

You sound like a promotional brochure. “Yeah, it’s gonna be great.”

“And this is, like, a really small school, so it’ll be super easy to meet people.”

Jinkx carried on waxing lyrical about the greatest qualities of the Ginsberg University of Performing Arts for the entire duration of their short acquaintance. By the time Pearl got her coffee, it was like she’d just been through orientation week again - listening to someone promote the school while she waited for a long black from the hole in the wall cafe wasn’t an event she’d expected to repeat.

“Listen, it was nice meeting you, but I gotta go-”

“Class doesn’t start for ages! You could come hang out with me and my friends if you wanted?”

Pearl took a moment to picture Jinkx’s friends in her head - hippies, weirdos, and nutjobs. No thanks. “I, uh, got somewhere to be. Uh, course adviser.”

Dashing off before Jinkx could enquire any further, Pearl strolled back out into the open air, hot coffee in hand, and peace of mind restored. Course adviser her ass.

***

Ginsberg campus wasn’t exactly huge - there was the hub, two big theatres, a few workshops and sewing rooms, and… that was about it. There was the hall of residence too, where the kids who were too rich to live at home but too poor to flat went to stay, but Pearl wasn’t sure if that counted as part of campus. It’s not like it mattered, anyway.

Killing time for an hour in such a small place was not exactly easy, as Pearl soon discovered. Long blacks didn’t last forever, and neither did one’s Instagram feed, so Pearl soon found herself with half an hour to spare and nothing to do. Three options presented themselves to her - one: sit around where she was and do nothing, two: go back to the hub and dare to interact with Jinkx again, and three: just go to class ridiculously early.

Option number three sounded like her best bet, especially since she didn’t actually know which theatre she had to go to for class. She’d hoped it’d take her at least twenty minutes to find the right building, but alas, it was not to be, for the first door she poked her head through lead to an empty theatre with none other than Violet Chachki sitting in the middle of the dusty floor.

Looks like she’d found the right theatre.

“Oh, Pearl. Hi.”

“You got bored too?”

“What do you think?”

“Whatever.”

Pearl made her way over to the tiered seats overlooking the flat black floor known as a stage, the material it was made out of so non-descript that Pearl couldn’t name it even if there was a gun to her head. Good thing there wasn’t one, because otherwise there’d be brains all over the place.

“The other theatre has a proper stage, y’know.”

“Huh?”

“The other theatre, there’s two of them.” Violet looked up at her through heavy makeup, still seated in the middle of the stage. Pearl would’ve thought she’d want to sit in the seats to save her skirt - that floor looked like it hadn’t been cleaned since last semester. “We got the shit one.”

“A shitty theatre for shitty actors. Sounds great,” Pearl remarked, lifting her legs and resting her feet on the chair in front of her. Violet gave a little huff of response before returning to her phone. Did the damn thing ever turn off? But then again, who was Pearl to talk?

About twenty minutes later, the rest of the class started to arrive, and Pearl had never felt more underdressed in her life. Everybody seemed to have their own unique, individual style, so well put together in a so quirky it was cool kind of way. Even Violet, in her black and white tribute to Cher Horowitz, didn’t look out of place - at least her outfit showcased her identity. Did a band t-shirt and jeans really count as a personality?

Jinkx was there, of course, followed by two goons who couldn’t be more different in height, and their face lit up like a… a… a thing that lights up, at the sight of their new acquaintance.

“Oh hey, Pearl!” they said with a smile, before jogging up the stairs either side of the seats and plonking down beside her, their two friends following behind them. One was tall, blonde, skinny and gawky as hell, wearing denim dungarees with trousers that were way too short, odd, colourful socks, and platform sneakers that lit up whenever she took a step. The other was her polar opposite - short, dark-skinned, black hair in tiny little braids, and an outfit reminiscent of Violet’s but a tad more… yellow. Did everyone in California just worship the fashions of Clueless or something? “I thought I’d see you here.”

“That’s because I told you we’re in the same class,” Pearl replied, her solemn monotone a stark contrast to Jinkx’s goose honk of a voice.

“Well, duh! Anyway, this is Jaidynn-” the short one gave a cheery wave “-and this is Milk.”

“…Milk?”

The aforementioned dairy product could only grin, a wonky expression that matched her overall presentation. “Don’t wear it out.”

“Wasn’t planning on it…”

“So, you from here?” Jaidynn asked, her tone as friendly as her smile. She seemed the most normal out of the bunch, which Pearl could only thank her lucky stars for. If everyone was going to show up looking like Jinkx and… Milk… then Pearl needed at least someone to hold onto. She would’ve gone for Violet in any other situation, but given that Violet, was, well, Violet, there was very little chance of that happening.

“Uh, no. I just moved here. From New York.”

Jaidynn nodded, her braids bouncing with her. “Damn, girl, that’s a big move! Think it was worth it?”

Debatable. “Yeah, totally worth it.”

“It’s really great here. I mean, LA does take a bit of getting used to, but hey, we all managed it!”

Milk shot her a sideways glance. “We were all born here.”

“Still got used to it, didn’t we?” Jaidynn asked, glancing up at her (much) taller friend. “We were just babies when we did, that’s all!”

“You’re such a dingus.”

‘Dingus’… Who the hell said ‘dingus’ in earnest anymore? Still, coming from someone with a name like Milk, Pearl couldn’t be surprised. The three stooges went about trying to engage Pearl in conversation, but she just couldn’t bring herself to be invested in anything they were saying. Did that make her a bitch? Probably, but that hardly came as a shock.

Maybe going to a performing arts college hadn’t been such a good idea after all… Oh well. It was too late now. She’d already paid for it, may as well get her money’s worth.

Eventually, the three stooges got the message and just went to chatting amongst themselves, and, with nothing but droning static buzzing through her vacant mind, she found herself listening in on what they were saying. Funny - when they wanted her to listen, she didn’t, and when they didn’t want her to listen, she did.

“You’d think Max would be here by now,” Jinkx remarked, fiddling with one of the many feathers hanging from the end of their pendant. “She left the hall at the same time we did.”

Jaidynn shrugged. “Let the girl live a little. She’s never been late to anything before in her life, this is a big step for her.”

Pearl couldn’t tell if they were being jokey friendship mean, or just regular, nasty mean. Milk only made it more ambiguous. “Jaidynn, she’s taller than me. I don’t think she can take bigger steps.”

It took another group of students entering the sparse theatre to draw Pearl’s attention away from the possible bullying. Yet another giantess, this one so skinny you could snap her like a twig, and the massive pile of straggly blonde hair atop her head only accentuated her height. Next came what looked like the winner of the annual Dolly Parton lookalike contest, all decked out in pink plaid and denim, with another blonde hanging onto her arm who was all red lipstick, taxidermy hats, and horrendously dated patterned maxi dresses. Following them was a shorter, rounder woman, with big red hair pulled into an updo and an outfit that would better suit a pastors wife than a youthful performing arts student.

Judging by the fact that there was no cry of recognition from the three stooges, the mysterious Max was yet to make her appearance.

Last to enter was an older woman, marked immediately as a teacher by the pile of papers she carried in her skinny, cardigan clad arms. A mess of obviously dyed red curls sat on her head, and her makeup made her look just a little bit crazy - razor-thin eyebrows, big eyelashes, lipstick that made her top lip look just that little bit too wide. At the sight of Violet on the floor, the woman greeted her with a peculiar smile.

“Now, what’re you doing on the floor there, missy?”

Violet looked at her with an incredulous stare before hopping to her feet and walking back to the seats with the rest of the students. All eight of them, nine in total, plus Violet. Was this a really small class, or was everyone else just late?

All eyes were on their assumed teacher. “Well, welcome to our acting course everybody, one of the finest in the state.” Her voice had a strange lilt to it, southern but Spanish at the same time. “I think we’ve got everyone here…”

Pearl glanced around the tiny class as the woman tried to navigate her pile of documents, struggling with the one-handed job. Taxidermy-maxi dress caught Pearl’s eye and grinned at her, and she couldn’t help but notice how her arm was lovingly slung around Dolly Parton’s shoulder.

“Looks like we’re just missing one…”

Blonde Amy Winehouse’s eyes went wide - surely this couldn’t be everyone? Pearl had to mirror that thought - ten students was not many, even for a class of this nature. Pearl had joined high school clubs with more numbers.

“Alright, ladies and… uh, ladies, my name’s Miss Brown, but you can call me Tammie.” There went that peculiar smile again. Pearl supposed it was meant to be comforting, but it had quite the opposite effect. “Now, we can get into the fun stuff in a quick tick, but I just gotta call the roll first, alright? Violet Chachki?”

“Here.” (Said with characteristic enthusiasm.)

“Jaidynn Diore?”

“Yup!” (Much too happy to be here.)

“Daniel Donnigan?”

“It’s, uh, Milk, thanks.” (Trans? NB? More like none of Pearl’s business.)

“Oopsie! Just mark that down… Ginger Eads?”

“Present.” (Southern, no doubt about it.)

“Alaska Honard?”

“Hiiiieee!” (Nails down a chalkboard.)

“Pearl Liaison?”

“Sup.” (Did that make her sound lame?)

“Maxine Malanaphy?”

“…”

“Maxine? Have we got a Maxine in here?”

“…”

“Alright, guess we’ll move on then. Trix-”

Just as the name was called, the door burst open, cutting off poor Miss Brown with a bang. All eyes went to the giantess standing in the door (was there just something in the Californian water that made everyone taller?), looking like a new-born deer caught in the headlights, her wide, watery eyes glancing around the room, and her alabaster cheeks flushed like a cherry and only getting redder.

“I’m guessing you’re our missing Maxine?”

“Yes… I’m so, so sorry…” She’d clearly ran here, because she could barely get her words out for how puffed she was, chest heaving as she panted.

Everybody was staring Maxine down for her lateness, for arriving so conspicuously, or maybe just because she looked like a character plucked straight out of a Tim Burton movie. But she’d caught Pearl’s attention for a completely different reason, a reason that, quite frankly, shocked her more than almost anything else in her uneventful life.

She knew that voice. She knew that face. She knew this girl.

“It would be a shame if you woke up. I’d miss you. But then again, we wouldn’t be parted forever.”

“Wouldn’t we?”

“You’ll fall asleep again, won’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Then we’ll meet again.”

Maxine was literally the girl of her dreams.

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curious-minx · 4 years

Text

Lost Treasures

Short story based around the recently shut down Fletcher, NC thrift store called Lost Treasures.

Memorabilia store owner Trent Darcy is heaving himself ontop of his store’s rooftop all while carrying his plastic tortoise shell strapped to his back. Upon reaching the roof Trent begins lolling towards his store sign Lost Treasures snuggling up inside of the Old English script letter O, which for a man of Trent’s capacity proved a valiant challenge. Down below, a clearly plagiarized mascot from the Nintendo corporation appears stenciled across the store’s feeble shopping display. This spritely maintenance man with a goatee and Medterrenan swarthiness is waving out while holding a large gold Button behind his back like a smoking gun. His eyes crossed out and replaced with large crude Xs. The city of Hendo pleaded with the memorabilia store owner that his store could be left empty wearing a graceful expanding sticker declaring Foreclosure, For Sale! A man wearing a typical outfit most associated with the death of the working class American’s ambitions, a full khaki suit and denim jacket, is shouting through his cupped hands heavenwards, his man is a walking ambonation declares Trent with all of his might, which considering the strains of his orthopedic shell his declarations are only audible to Trent’s own inner ear. Trent begins pacing.

“Mr. Trent Darcy, I beg of you to please come down! I am here on the behalf of te town of Hendo to let you know that you are well within your rights to resist this demolition. A full on demolition crew is pricey business. I get that. Once they start demolishing your former building they are then likely to spread their bulldozing onwards and outwards towards just anywhere. They are insatiable and unreasonable degenerates, but at least they’re not the government.. Put that samurai sword down Trent. You’re making me nervous!” as soon as the khaki denim man mentions his nerves, Marfa Poonce wirls her rifle around and fires off several rounds, all shots missing around Trent.

Officer Poonce wipes her gun down with an offensive cloth and keeps staring down up at Trent as she says as loudly as anyone would call across a cubicle,“I’m gonna go get me some okra fried donuts do you want anything?” Trent hears each word crystal clear.

“No Marfa! Get the fuck out of here you dirty rotten cop!” spittles the demolition Crew representative, a sinewy and scarred body wearing black out goggles with a tube running from his nose to a device inside his pocket. The rest of his clothes are the same color as his flesh, a gray and chalky. He sizes up the billowing armored cop wielding fetid destruction in all of her puffy and padded horror. Marfa Poonce turns her body camera off and scratches at her badge. She evaporates into a bile and donut soaked pit of charred organs, billowing around the shopping center, the sound of one thunderhead clapping.

“You understand that I won’t back down. I’m putting the sword away it’s way too sentimental of a sword to be used against a nobody like you. Now me, my enfeebled struggling botanist wife, and our clefted son are going to be gathered right here. Not inside this lettering but somewhere else nice inside the store, and then you’re going to demolish my store and only then” Trent waddles down from the rooftop and pokes inside the emptied out Lost Treasures, a lone copy of a VHS of that one movie that emotionally scarred you in your childhood that is different for everybody remains in a dust covered box. The demolition representative follows Trent inside, clicking on his head lamp calculating every movement to avoid accumulation of as much of the stench of failed capitalism as possible. The demolition representative had to go home to his partner who said they could smell him before he’s even thinking about turning into the driveway. He will have to sleep in the underground isolation chamber and constantly hose himself off for hours, steam, rinse, eco-bleach, and then maybe even inject hair dye.

“This is ridiculous. Me and the wrecking crew can’t come swinging blaze a glory while you and your whole brood sit and munching on pocky sticks.”

“Then you’ll construct us an opera box or some sort of observation deck in which me and my brood can sit and watch the demolition safely and out of harms way. This is not a negotiation.” Trent begins the slow and careful descent into his car, shaped and designed after an electrical rodent that he always admired since birth but refused to say the name of the creature. The name held too much weight in Trent’s mouth.

“The demolition team build a structure?” The demolition expert is banging on the roof of Trent’s Pickachu car. The Pickachu car alarm begins off which is a recreation of the actual soundbite of the electrical rat being hit with a rock type attack. Trent heaves himself out of the car, holding back the tears being produced from the shredding and the shocking of his muscles. The demolition representative immediately backs off of the vehicle and leans up against the storefront glass he turns around and then shouts, “Hey isn’t that a copy of Gremlins 3: Rude Awakenings? Christ alive that movie scared the shit out of me! My ma and pa got into so many fights over trying to remember who was the one to blame for exposing me to this curious nightmare. Looks like it's in pretty good condition. Can-can-I have it?” The demolition representative before spitting out the request was already tucking it away in his rubber flesh colored suit.

“Do we have a deal?” Trent scowls and turns his tough guy Doosan Bears baseball cap around and lets the folds of his face meld into one sour pucker.

“Sure sure sure, now get out of here! I will personally see to making sure that You’ll have your safety box,but I can’t say for sure it will be able to fit you and what is sure to be your beastly family. That said the Demolition Experts of Hendo are bonded to their word.” The demolition representative pushes Trent out of the store and locks him out. Trent stumbles backwards and catches himself his flip flops sticking to the pavement releasing a squelching hiss with every heavy step taken back into his Pickachu car and then drives across the street to an opposite parking lot for a different shopping center and gets into his actual vehicle of choice the Nerd Van. All of the action figures from franchises big and small, bobble heads, hula hoopers, and even one Black Buddha all precariously cluttered in salute on his dashboard were shaking with anticipation for his return. Trent tried his best to ignore his icon gang whose only crime was thinking the world of him.

Trent drives the eight miles back to his unspectacular open faced neighborhood comprised with rambling shacks, mcmansions, anonymous trailer parlors and Trent’s squat one story home. The yard, much to the annoyance of his neighbors, was utterly barren rough silty clay and sand except for one proud purple cactus that towered above the Trent residence sharing a blooming bushel’s worth of shade.

Inside the house was devoid of Trent’s wife Delia and son Agnus “The Flex” were nowhere to be seen. Trent flings his shoes off his feet without bending down and collapses into his easy chair. Before allowing himself the grace of a hard earned slumber he made sure to program an alarm on his phone in the morning. He knew he wouldn’t need the alarm because Delia would wake him up anway tending to her screaming mottled plants in the master bathroom she turned into a greenhouse. Agnus would be sizzling up some kind of different egg, he made sure to have a different type of egg for every day of the week, Trent kept getting mysterious charges for parrot eggs and want to bruise Agnus’ ego black and rude, but he always managed to dodge Trent’s questioning. Sometimes he would just stuff money in Flint’s cup of chalky morning Jose.

Trent woke up to his phone’s alarm feebly wheezing as if the phone was mocking Trent’s condition. Trent plugs the phone in and blearily searches the house for Delia and Agnus who remain elusive. They probably beat him there. Knowing how much they wanted to see all of his hopes and dreams get flattened out was the kind of bonding time each was hoping was going to fix all of their internal familial strife. How much longer was Agnus planning on sticking around? Will his mid life crisis be moving out of his parents house? Trent hoped not and then he found himself openly weeping, calling out for Agnus and Delia resigning to their absent responses and getting himself dressed and ready for the big day. A triple XL tuxedo print t shirt and respectable camouflage khaki trousers with a lot of zippers and pockets, all mostly functioning. He puts on a pair of black dress socks and slips them into his black flip flops and goes outside and sighs at the sight of the Nerd Van missing. He reaches into his apps and summons up a ride share. The ride should only cost $5.99 plus a tip depending on the smell of the car. Trent was willing to pay any price for demolition day.

A ragtag ragoo racer pulls up the driver, a gaunt Mexican woman that looks like a stren vampiric boarding school teacher in a telenovela with a touch of calibrated goth. Her pouting lips said “hop in and let’s ride,” but her smoky eyes said, “but you’ll not leave the same person.” Fine by Trent who sloshed himself into the back of her sleek and shiny new car that smelled like a Tuscan Leather gimp’s kiss. Trent begins calculating an exorbitant tip.

“You know you can ride in front if you like. Especially if you’re all beat up.” the driver says in a clear and distant voice, a gossamer transmission. How could someone with such striking features, whose expressive face takes up your eyeballs’ entire attention, could have such a feeble and creaky voice/ Trent remains silent and tries to stare out the window covered in pyramid stickers. She manages to get Trent to Lost Treasure in five less minutes than it takes Trent to drive. He wishes he could just get one good glimpse outside to figure out what her route looked like. Four stars, and he tips her five dollars. The powder iceberg blue bullet of a car peels out of the shopping center and drives up into the opposing side of traffic, thankfully there are no oncoming cars and disappears from view.

“Watchu you looking at Trent?” asks Agnus who is wearing a domed helmet and heavy goggles that make his eyes look depthless.

“I think the lady who drove me here may be some kind of famous person. I missed you this morning, and last night too. Where were you and mama bear?” Trent says as he begins the ascent up into the observatory box suspended from a crane. Trent and Agnus squeeze inside the box gasping with air with Delia. Agnus is desperately trying to avoid touching either of his parents by closing his eyes and shaking back and forth.

Lost Treasures is torn down, each pillar and column displaced into rubble, the ceiling scrapped and dismantled, glass raining down in sheets, the whole enterprise is now a dust cloud and debris. The demolition crew makes sure to go about the whole process as solemnly as possible. Turns out having spectators made the whole crew uneasy and where they normally would have triumphed and gone ahead and committed acts of inevitable far reaching destruction on other doomed businesses. The exposed wall of the connecting empty for sale building was covered up with a thick fresh wall of concrete and the demolition crew slinked away without even destroying the observation box. Trent tries calling out “You’re forgetting the platinum rule of demolition: Make some smash em’ up fun!” the demolition representative shrugs and silently responds that they would come back for it some other time. With no one to operate the crane Flint, Agnus and Delia were left stranded and suspended, or they would have been if not for Delia being wise enough to bring along her pocket ivy tucked in her bra. Delia produces thick and stable roping strands of ivy that provide the trapped family with a means of returning to soil.

#short story #short fiction #north carolina #thrift store #vintage #surrealism

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thenovl · 7 years

Photo

NOVL Excerpt: Seven Days of You

07:00:00:00 DAYS HOURS MINS SECS

AT THE BEGINNING OF THE SUMMER, I tried to get on top of the whole moving-continents thing by reminding myself I still had time. Days and hours and seconds all piled on top of one another, stretching out in front of me as expansive as a galaxy. And the stuff I couldn’t deal with—packing my room and saying good-bye to my friends and leaving Tokyo—all that hovered at some indistinct point in the indistinct future.

So I ignored it. Every morning, I’d meet Mika and David in Shibuya, and we’d spend our days eating in ramen shops or browsing tiny boutiques that smelled like incense. Or, when it rained, we’d run down umbrella-crowded streets and watch anime I couldn’t understand on Mika’s couch. Some nights, we’d dance in strobe-lit clubs and go to karaoke at four in the morning. Then, the next day, we’d sit at train-station donut shops for hours, drinking milky coffee and watching the sea of commuters come and go and come and go again.

Once, I stayed home and tried dragging boxes up the stairs, but it stressed me out so much, I had to leave. I walked around Yoyogi-Uehara until the sight of the same cramped streets made me dizzy. Until I had to stop and fold myself into an alcove between buildings, trying to memorize the kanji on street signs. Trying to count my breaths.

And then it was August fourteenth. And I only had one week left, and it was hot, and I wasn’t even close to being packed. But the thing was, I should have known how to do this. I’d spent my whole life ping-ponging across the globe, moving to new cities, leaving people and places drifting in my wake.

Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this good-bye—to Tokyo, to the first friends I’d ever had, to the only life that felt like it even remotely belonged to me—was the kind that would swallow me whole. That would collapse around me like a star imploding.

And the only thing I knew how to do was to hold on as tightly as possible and count every single second until I reached the last one. The one I dreaded most.

Sudden, violent, final.

The end.

Chapter 1

Sunday: 06:19:04:25 DAYS HOURS MINS SECS

I WAS LYING ON THE LIVING-ROOM floor reading Death by Black Hole: And Other Cosmic Quandaries when our air‐conditioning made a sputtering sound and died. Swampy heat spread through the room as I held my hand over the box by the window. Nothing. Not even a gasp of cold air. I pressed a couple of buttons and hoped for the best. Still nothing.

“Mom,” I said. She was sitting in the doorway to the kitchen, wrapping metal pots in sheets of newspaper. “Not to freak you out or anything, but the air-conditioning just broke.”

She dropped some newspaper shreds on the ground, and our cat—Dorothea Brooks—came over to sniff them. “It’s been doing that. Just press the big orange button and hold it.”

“I did. But I think it’s serious this time. I think I felt its spirit passing.”

Mom unhooked a panel from the back of the air‐ conditioning unit and poked around. “Damn. The landlord said this system might go soon. It’s so old, they’ll have to replace it for the next tenant.”

August was always hot in Tokyo, but this summer was approaching unbearable. A grand total of five minutes without air-conditioning and all my bodily fluids were evaporating from my skin. Mom and I opened some windows, plugged in a bunch of fans, and stood in front of the open refrigerator.

“We should call a repairman,” I said, “or it’s possible we’ll die here.”

Mom shook her head, going into full-on Professor Wachowski mode. Even though we’re both short, she looks a lot more intimidating than I do, with her square jaw and serious eyes. She looks like the type of person who won’t lose an argument, who can’t take a joke.

I look like my dad.

“No,” Mom said. “I’m not dealing with this the week before we leave. The movers are coming on Friday.” She turned and leaned into the fridge door. “Why don’t you go out? See your friends. Come back tonight when it’s cooled down.”

I twisted my watch around my wrist. “Nah, that’s okay.”

“You don’t want to?” she asked. “Did something happen with Mika and David?”

“Of course not,” I said. “I just don’t feel like going out. I feel like staying home, and helping, and being the good daughter.”

God, I sounded suspicious, even to myself.

But Mom didn’t notice. She held out a few one-hundred-yen coins. “In that case, go to the konbini and buy some of those towels you put in the freezer and wrap around your neck.”

I contemplated the money in her hand, but the heat made it swim across my vision. Going outside meant walking into the boiling air. It meant walking down the little streets I knew so well, past humming vending machines and stray cats stretched out in apartment-building entrances. Every time I did that, I was reminded of all the little things I loved about this city and how they were about to slip away forever. And today, of all days, I really didn’t need that reminder.

“Or,” I said, trying to sound upbeat, “I could pack.”

Packing was, of course, a terrible idea.

Even the thought of it was oppressive. Like if I stood in my room too long, the walls would start tightening around me, trash-compacting me in. I stood in the doorway and focused on how familiar it all was. Our house was small and semi-dilapidated, and my room was predictably small to match, with only a twin bed, a desk pushed against the window, and a few red bookshelves running along the walls. But the problem wasn’t the size—it was the stuff. The physics books I’d bought and the ones Dad had sent me cluttering up the shelves, patterned headbands and tangled necklaces hanging from tacks in the wall, towers of unfolded laundry built precariously all over the floor. Even the ceiling was crowded, crisscrossed with string after string of star-shaped twinkly lights.

There was a WET PAIN! sign (it was supposed to say WET PAINT!) propped against my closet that Mika had stolen from outside her apartment building, a Rutgers University flag pinned above my bed, Totoro stuffed toys on my pillow, and boxes and boxes of platinum-blond hair dye everywhere. (Those, I needed to get rid of. I’d stopped dyeing my hair blond since the last touch-up had turned it an attractive shade of Fanta orange.) It was so much—too much—to have to deal with. And I might have stayed there for hours, paralyzed in the doorway, if Alison hadn’t come up behind me.

“Packed already?”

I spun around. My older sister had on the same clothes she’d been wearing all weekend--black T‐shirt, black leggings--and she was holding an empty coffee mug.

I crossed my arms and tried to block her view of the room. “It’s getting there.”

“Clearly.”

“And what have you been doing?” I asked. “Sulking? Scowling? Both at the same time?”

She narrowed her eyes but didn’t say anything. Alison was in Tokyo for the summer after her first year at Sarah Lawrence. She’d spent the past three months staying up all night and drinking coffee and barely leaving her bedroom during sunlight hours. The unspoken reason for this was that she’d broken up with her girlfriend at the end of last year. Something no one was allowed to mention.

“You have so much crap,” Alison said, stepping over a pile of thrift‐store dresses and sitting on my unmade bed. She balanced the coffee mug between her knees. “I think you might be a hoarder.”

“I’m not a hoarder,” I said. “This is not hoarding.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Lest you forget, little sister, I’ve been by your side for many a move. I’ve witnessed the hoarder’s struggle.”

It was true. My sister had been by my side for most of our moves, avoiding her packing just as much as I’d been avoiding mine. This year, though, she only had the one suitcase she’d brought with her from the States—no doubt full of sad, sad poetry books and sad, sad scarves.

“You’re one to talk,” I said. “You threw approximately nine thousand tantrums when you were packing last summer.”

“I was going to college.” Alison shrugged. “I knew it would suck.”

“And look at you now,” I said. “You’re a walking endorsement for the college experience.”

The corners of her lips moved like she was deciding whether to laugh or not. But she decided not to. (Of course she decided not to.)

I climbed onto my desk, pushing aside an oversize paper‐ back called Unlocking the MIT Application! and a stuffed koala with a small Australian flag clasped between its paws. Through the window behind me, I could see directly into someone else’s living room. Our house wasn’t just small lit was surrounded on three sides by apartment buildings. Like a way less interesting version of Rear Window.

Alison reached over and grabbed the pile of photos and postcards sitting on my nightstand. “Hey!” I said. “Enough with the stuff-touching.”

But she was already flipping through them, examining each picture one at a time. “Christ,” she said. “I can’t believe you kept these.”

“Of course I kept them,” I said, grabbing my watch. “Dad sent them to me. He sent the same ones to you, in case that important fact slipped your mind.”

She held up a photo of the Eiffel Tower, Dad standing in front of it and looking pretty touristy for someone who actually lived in Paris. “A letter a year does not a father make.”

“You’re so unfair,” I said. “He sends tons of e‐mails. Like, twice a week.”

“Oh my God!” She waved another photo at me, this one of a woman sitting on a wood-framed couch holding twin babies on her lap. “The Wife and Kids? Really? Please don’t tell me you still daydream about going to live with them.”

“Aren’t you late for sitting in your room all day?” I asked.

“Seriously,” she said. “You’re one creepy step away from Photoshopping yourself in here.”

I kept the face of my watch covered with my hand, hoping she wouldn’t start on that as well.

She didn’t. She moved on to another picture: me and Alison in green and yellow raincoats, standing on a balcony messy with cracked clay flowerpots. In the picture, I am clutching a kokeshi—a wooden Japanese doll—and Alison is pointing at the camera. My dad stands next to her, pulling a goofy face.

“God,” she muttered. “That shitty old apartment.”

“It wasn’t shitty. It was—palatial.” Maybe. We’d moved from that apartment when I was five, after my parents split, so honestly, I barely remembered it. Although I did still like the idea of it. Of one country and one place and one family living there. Of home.

Alison threw the pictures back on the nightstand and stood up, all her dark hair spilling over her shoulders.

“Whatever,” she said. “I don’t have the energy to argue with you right now. You have fun with all your”—she gestured around the room—“stuff.”

And then she was gone, and I was hurling a pen at my bed, angry because this just confirmed everything she thought. She was the Adult; I was still the Little Kid.

Dorothea Brooks padded into the room and curled up on a pile of clean laundry in a big gray heap.

“Fine,” I said. “Ignore me. Pretend I’m not even here.”

Her ears didn’t so much as twitch. I reached up to yank open the window, letting the sounds of Tokyo waft in: a train squealing into Yoyogi‐Uehara Station, children shouting as they ran through alleyways, cicadas croaking a tired song like something from a rusted music box.

Since our house was surrounded by apartment buildings, I had to crane my neck to look above them at this bright blue strip of sky. There was an object about the size of a fingernail moving through the clouds, leaving a streak of white in its wake that grew longer and then broke apart.

I watched the plane until there was no trace of it left. Then I held up my hand to blot out the sliver of sky where it had been—but wasn’t anymore.

Thanks for reading the prologue and first chapter of Cecilia Debut’s smart and swoony debut! Seven Days of You releases on March 7, 2017.

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