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sucksahoy · 2 years

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RE . ABOUT

there was a time that hawkins, indiana was normal. just your run of the mill small town in the middle of nowhere. great place to grow up. you could do anything, go anywhere, and everyone knew every move you made. ideal, right? you could stay out in the front yard until well after dark and there wasn’t a damn thing you had to worry about except getting back before the streetlights came on. the hardest thing about growing up was that rush on your bike to get from point a to point b and racing the sunset. it was the best life. why do things have to change when you grow up? why couldn’t that part just stay the same?

growing up was supposed to be fun. sure it would have all those weird things that came with puberty, but being a teenager was supposed to be cool. you were supposed to be the cool kid on the block. no one was supposed to be able to touch you. teenagers ran the world, didn’t they? they played with makeup, had cool hair, dated, stayed out past dark. it was supposed to be fun. it was supposed to be the best time of her life. but thirteen for robin buckley? meant realizing that she was never going to be normal. that she wasn’t going to be the kind of girl hawkins would be quick or easy to accept. it was at a friend’s thirteenth birthday party that she knew she couldn’t go back. a party that she found herself tucking away in a corner so that she didn’t get caught, so that somehow the girls didn’t read her mind.

why couldn’t she have a crush on steve harrington like every other girl in the room did?

robin had always been a tomboy. from the age of five, she threw herself into soccer, playing every season both with school teams and with summer leagues. her parents were ecstatic. it meant that their little girl with way too much energy had an outlet… an outlet that might actually get her somewhere in life, might score her a scholarship. but her future was the last thing on her mind. she just wanted to play, just wanted to kick a ball, run around, and make sure that her entire world revolved around her team and the game. it made it easier as she grew up, easier to pretend that anything weird she felt was just part of the adrenaline of the game.

it was even easier to pretend when she picked up trumpet in elementary school. she fell in love with the sound of dolly jones and begged her parents to let her have a trumpet. it started with a rental, a little rinky dink piece of metal that had been beat to hell and back but god did she love it. after a year of private lessons, she was surprised with her own trumpet, one that she kept all through middle school and high school marching band. she didn’t care that it was a boy’s instrument. she didn’t care what anyone thought of it. all she cared about was playing music.

when all that mattered was music and soccer, she didn’t have time to think about being a teenager and not being one of the cool kids. it’s hard to be a cool kid when you’re the school lesbian. easier to just be the band geek and the soccer player.

something changed her junior year of highschool. it was like a switch flipped and her give a damn broke. her sixteenth birthday brought some kind of coming to terms with who she was. it was… kind of refreshing in a way. she was gay. lesbian. and even if she wasn’t willing to let the world know, she was willing to accept it. she was willing to accept the fact that she had a crush on tammy thompson, that nancy wheeler was only prissy because she was cute and had this little button nose, and that the girl who sat in front of her in english would be nice to hug. even if she kept it to herself, it was nice to just be, nice to exist, good to just be okay with the girl she’d grown into. to cement it? in the comfort of her room with the radio turned up to ten, robin took a needle dipped in ink and gave herself a stick and poke tattoo that was a little better than any sort of home job should be. just a small symbol of venus on her inner left ankle. something no one would notice unless they were looking for it, but something that would remind her to be herself. to be comfortable in her skin. to give up trying to be someone she could never be.

and maybe her life would have continued down that sort of normalcy. if she hadn’t taken a job at scoops ahoy, the most interesting thing about her would have been an obsession with languages, a tattoo no one knew existed, and her gay little secret. but no… she had to take a summer job at scoops ahoy and meet steve harrington and realize that, even if he was a complete idiot, he was best friend status. and he had his own weird shit going on in his life.

weird shit that she would quickly find herself dragged into. a world of russian secret bases, monsters, superpowers, possession, and a million other things that she would have never dreamed could ever exist.

when had hawkins lost its chill?

#「 ♀ 」 » META ↳ нow long wιll ι wander вeғore ι really ĸnow wнaт ι'м нere тo do and wнere ι нave тo go

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donnabroadway · 10 months

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Affirmative Action

Every few years conservatives dog whistle about how they're going to cancel affirmative action and someone, usually a white person, but this time it was an Asian man, who will seemingly was competitive, lacked a few things that set him apart. Also, like the white woman before him, aptly nicknamed Becky with the bad grades, after Black twitter found out she was average, at best, once University of Texas, and the Supreme Court, dropped her stats, he's being dragged on social media. The truth is more people are applying for college and that means college has become more competitive, especially since blacks, who were only being rejected due to race, now had the same opportunity to attend top institutions. The irony is that of all the lawsuits to be brought up against affirmative action, only one was successful and it wasn't because the blacks being let in were not qualified, it was because the man being denied admission was qualified and should have been let in as well. Has anyone stopped to think that maybe a higher percentage of blacks are being accepted because we are actually qualified and if they took away affirmative action and just accepted everyone based on qualifications, and not race or quota, that the same amount of blacks, maybe even more, would still get in because we were being denied due to race and not out lack of qualifications? Black people don't need affirmative action but rich kids need their parents to spend six figures to get them into USC or to buy a library to guarantee admission.

We don't need a special hand out or laws to make us qualify, we've been qualified. Affirmative Action and the civil rights act, Brown Vs. Board, was about getting us the opportunity and protection from angry and jealous white people who purposely impeded our progress with riots, laws, intimidation, suppression, and violence. We have always had the talented tenth, black elite, boule, and upper and middle class but they were tired of getting second hand treatment and their tax dollars going to fund the white institutions, schools, and infrastructure and whatever they had left, went to us or it was trickle down or we had to fund books, school repairs, supplies, and even schools out of pocket. We were tired. We wanted separate but equal to truly be equal. If our tax dollars were going to the bus system, like the white dollars, then we shouldn't have been relegated to a few rinky dink seats in the back or being forced to get off if a white person got on, in spite of the fact we paid our fare just like them and if we were too far from home and wanted to take another bus, we would have to pay again or hope a good Samaritan would pay our fare or let us ride for free. It wasn't fair and the growing black elite was tired. One of the first institutions to be desegregated in Baltimore was Baltimore Polytechnic Institution, an all boys school and because they didn't want to pay to create an equal program at Douglass or Dunbar, they let several black boys apply for admission and do you think the NAACP said "give me a year to find some boys and bring them up to par," no, they had more than enough qualified black students to fill the minimal spots they were given. Same with Little Rock. The students had to apply to get into that mediocre school and trust they were the best of the best. The students were handpicked and forced to go through a selection process by local leaders before their applications were even considered for submission to the school board, so these were the best of the best.

Let's just say we were smart enough to do their work and be in the background while they took credit for what we did but once we wanted to put our face on it and benefit from our accomplishments, we became problematic.

They're trying to send us back to the plantation. They have black faces spewing white talking points trying to convince us that we were better off before integration, that the civil rights movement destroyed our community and that white people aren't the problem. That is true depending on which side you were on. There were many black people, like Booker T Washington, who were able to vote and the black elite, in the north and other places, decided to stay out of "politics." They had a good life, they had good careers, they were educated, and they could go where the white men went. They didn't see the oppression from their high horse. The entire black upper and middle class weren't onboard because they were those who truly believed they pulled themselves up by the bootstraps and they didn't want to disrupt the balance or offend their white brethren.

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kiribakuhappiness · 4 years

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I’m just finding out how much of a rich boy Kirishima is?? Ever since I first joined the BNHA fandom, everyone has been telling me that Bakugou is the rich boy but... not only does Kirishima just nonchalantly spend 20,000~something yen on a new punching bag set in the fifth light novel, he also went to a private middle school???

Like, look at the middle school Bakugou went to:

(Aldera Junior High - where the walls are kind of dirty and stained, the barriers around the building are low, looking like some kind of repurposed parking garage)

Compared to the PRIVATE middle school Kirishima went to:

(Musutafu Private Middle School - looking like a whole ass government funded museum of high class shit and manners. Like this looks like a university??)

Bro, Kirishima is right up there with Todoroki and that fucks with my head a little bit.

#rich boy kirishima #so my kiribaku headcanon stands the canon test #kirishima spends an ungodly amount of money buying bakugou gifts #and bakugou always throws a fit #STOP BUYING ME SHIT I DON'T NEED #and Kirishima just keeps doing it because he is in love and his love language is MONEY #which also shows just how pivotal it was that bakugou paid kirishima back for the goggles #like yeah kirishima spent most if not all of the money he had in his bank account on them #he could afford it #but bakugou still worked his ass off to save up money and pay him back #the boy from the rinky dink middle school #and yeah bakugou's family is obviously well off #we've seen this just from their house #but still #wow look at her ramble #rip my tags #bakugou katsuki #kirishima eijirou #bnha

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ticklishfiend · 4 years

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Spoiled Afternoon

The Disastrous Life of Saiki K - Saiki, Kaidou, Kuboyasu

a/n: alrighty here’s my saiki k fic i promised LMAO it’s not great as i wrote it kinda quickly but maybe it’ll hold me off until i get bored and maybe make another hehe. anyways!! hope you enjoy! :)

. . .

School days like today felt like absolute bliss to Saiki. It was possibly the most boring day imaginable when it comes to PK High, and he was on top of the world. At this point, the only thing that made him feel even more excited was the prospect of being able to go home alone and have an even more boring afternoon. It was a heavenly thought, really.

“Nendo, you’re not even gonna ask to go get ramen?” Kaidou asked the taller boy next to him as they all strolled home together. “I mean, you ask that like every day, is something wrong?”

“Did I not tell you two? I finally got another job!” Nendo exclaimed, smiling brightly at the boys, Kaidou being beside him and Saiki right behind. “I’m actually headed there right now, guess it just slipped my mind to let my best buds know hehe.”

Yeah, that’s not gonna last very long, Saiki thought. I won’t be surprised if he gets fired before he even arrives.

“That’s great man! Where are you working?” Kaidou asked, before Nendo stopped walking and pointed down a road they don’t usually walk.

“Just some rinky-dink stop-n-go shop down that way. I could show you guys the place if you want!” Nendo smiled widely, his hand gesturing towards a shop down the road that looked...less than friendly. Thugs were gathered outside the door, a fog gathering around the entrance that upon further inspection seems to actually be cigarette smoke.

Kaidou’s face turned sour, his brows furrowing awkwardly as his eyes never left the scary store’s front. “Uhm...I’d love to Nendo, really, but I...I have to study! Yeah, so much homework tonight it’s kinda overwhelming!” Kaidou laughed nervously, a hand scratching the back of his head.

Kaidou, we all have the same classes, surely you don’t think Nendo won’t realize-

“Oh, I understand buddy! Well, you’re free to stop by anytime! My hours are from 3 to 8!” Nendo waved as he started making his way down the road opposite to the other boys. “Bye buddies!”

Oh right. How could I forget Nendo’s raging idiocy?

“Jeez, that was a close one,” Kaidou spoke as the two boys began making their way as far from that road as possible. “I hope Nendo will be okay over there, it seems really rough.”

Nendo’s a pretty big guy, he can fight his own battles if he needs to. Honestly, his surprising athleticism might be the only thing that could help him keep that job, Saiki thought. Thanks to Nendo, I don’t even have to worry about getting food with these morons, I can just go straight home with no distractions or obstacles in my w-

“Oh hey, Kuboyasu!” Kaidou shouted happily, waving his hands toward the purple-haired teen in front of them. What a pain, just another thing to slow me down from my goal. “What are you doing in this alley, I thought your house was down the other way?”

“I was actually looking for you guys. Speaking of which, where’s Nendo?” Kuboyasu asked, looking around the other two boys as if Nendo’s huge frame could be hiding behind them somewhere.

“He got himself a job down that creepy road over there, some scary-looking shop surrounded by a bunch of thugs,” Kaidou shivered just thinking about it. Kuboyasu’s eyes widened like he knew the exact place he was talking about. Saiki read his thoughts only to find out he witnessed some crazy shit there once during his bad-boy phase. Yikes. “Anyways, why were you looking for us?”

Kuboyasu was suddenly transported out of his thoughts and back into the real world. “O-Oh, right!” He reached into his backpack and pulled out a game cartridge. “I bought this game a while back and I heard it’s much more fun if you play multiplayer. It only goes up to three people, but now that Nendo’s at work all three of us could totally play together!”

Great. Why today of all days did Nendo have to start a new job?

Kuboyasu handed the game over to Kaidou for him to look at, the blue-haired boy’s eyes going wide with excitement. “Wait, I’ve heard of this game! Oh my god, we have to play this, it was one of the top rated games last year!”

I’ve heard of this one too. It’s some fighting style game much akin to Mortal Kombat. Why would Kuboyasu even buy this kind of game if he didn’t have anyone to play with? Everyone knows fighting computers is never as fun. Still, I’m not going. I’d much rather sleep the afternoon away.

“My mom doesn’t really let me play many games so I didn’t get to buy it when it came out, so this would be the perfect opportunity for me to play!” Kaidou continued.

Oh, so now you’re gonna pull the mean-mom card to try and get me to play with you guys? Well it’s not gonna work, I’ve been looking forward to this afternoon all day and I’m not gonna let some-

“I’ve got snacks at my house too so you guys won’t go hungry while playing. Oh, Saiki, isn’t your favorite coffee jelly? I’ve got plenty of that in my fridge, you’re free to as much of it as you like!” Kuboyasu smiled in Saiki’s direction.

…

Wow, this coffee jelly is really amazing, who knew Kuboyasu’s mom knew how to make it homemade?!

Saiki smiled contently to himself as he happily ate his first coffee jelly of the day. He was sat on the floor in front of Kuboyasu’s bedroom TV, Kaidou on his right with Kuboyasu on Kaidou’s right.

“That’s such a bummer that your mom doesn’t let you play video games,” Kuboyasu remarked, his hands behind him on the floor to prop himself up.

“Well she does let me play some games, she just likes to make sure it won’t interfere with my grades. Basically I’m only allowed to play anything if my grades are good which...they’re rarely anything great,” Kaidou’s face blushed softly, an embarrassed hand coming up to scratch at his shoulder.

“She won’t get mad at you for being at my house, right?”

“Nah, doubt it, as long as I study when I get home I’ll be good,” Kaidou responded sheepishly.

Kuboyasu smiled, reaching his body forward and grabbing the game from off the ground in front of him. “In that case, you guys ready?”

Kaidou nodded excitedly. Jesus, Kaidou, you look like a little kid on Christmas, calm down.

Kuboyasu pushed his glasses upward before placing the game into the console, grabbing the three controllers on his TV stand and handing two of them to the other boys.

What a pain. I’m only here for the coffee jelly, do I really have to play this game with these two? Saiki thought while sitting down his empty bowl beside him on the floor, reaching out to grab the gaming controller offered to him. I guess I might as well. I don't want to be rude and ask for another bowl.

The game loaded up, each of the boys picking their characters (Kaidou picking his with extreme excitement and enthusiasm as if he’d never played a video game in his life).

Saiki decided to go easy on the boys, especially Kaidou. I could win this game with extreme ease if I wanted to, I basically know all the insides and outs of it at this point. But, Kaidou seems really excited about it. I should let him have this.

Saiki died within the first few minutes of the first match at the hands of Kaidou, Kuboyasu dying mere moments later, leaving Kaidou the winner of that round. The blue-haired teen’s hands shot straight in the air at this, an excited “HA!” leaving his lips. Maybe that stroked his ego a bit too much. Kaidou’s arms remained in the air with pride as the next round began to load up. Kuboyasu just rolled his eyes and jabbed two fingers into the boy’s ribs, making him jolt back in surprise with a yelp. Kuboyasu grinned.

Once their new round finally loaded up completely, one of Kuboyasu’s thoughts caught Saiki’s attention. “I know exactly how I’m gonna win this one. Sure, it’s a dirty way to play, but at least I’m not hurting him.”

Again, Saiki decided to die close to the beginning of the match (again at the hands of Kaidou), but this time with different intent. I’m honestly a little intrigued to see how this plays out, but I don’t want to be caught in the middle of it. As long as I die first, they can hash it out between the two of them, leaving me out of it.

Kaidou’s face was contorted in concentration, his eyes never leaving the screen in front of him as determination to win took over. Saiki noticed Kuboyasu’s eyes slowly beginning to glance at Kuboyasu, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Finally, Kuboyasu shot out his left hand to Kaidou’s right side, squeezing with intent as his right hand continued to use the controller, now beating Kaidou. Kaidou nearly jumped out of his skin before letting out a loud laugh.

“Wahahait! Stohohop! That’s not fahahair! This is cheheheating!” Kaidou cackled, his right arm shooting down to protect his side while he continued trying to play the game. It was really no use, though, as his eyes were squeezed shut so he couldn’t even see the screen.

“You got a little too cocky last match, it was annoying. Plus, I’ve played this game dozens of times, so this is wayyy more fun for me,” Kuboyasu grinned, his character on screen finally beating Kaidou’s. He didn’t let up, though, now sitting down his controller to tickle both of Kaidou’s sides.

“Nohoho mohohore! I gihihive! I’m sohohorry!” Kaidou howled, flopping his body completely down on the floor and rolling over on his side. Kuboyasu began moving one hand upwards towards Kaidou’s armpit, and the laughing boy underneath him began kicking his legs out. “Nohoho! Not thehere! Plehehease!”

Can it really be this bad? I mean, I know I’ve never been tickled before but Jesus, Kaidou sounds like he’s being murdered, Saiki thought to himself, his eyes not being able to leave the heaping pile of giggles on the floor before him. It’s true, Saiki had never been tickled before. Sure, his parents definitely tried to when he was little, but he would always just teleport away before they got the chance. Plus, he had never really had friends growing up to tickle him, so he was just completely in confusion at how it could really be that bad that it had his classmate on the floor begging for it to stop like that.

Finally, Kuboyasu let up, backing away from the giggling boy to give him some air. The purple-haired teen had a smirk on his face that wouldn’t disappear, a look of almost endearment plastered on.

“That was so unfair, you totally could’ve killed me!” Kaidou whined, finally sitting up but not moving his arms from his abdomen like he was scared it would all happen again if he moved them.

“Relax, I just tickled you, you big baby,” Kuboyasu rolled his eyes with a grin. “Not my fault you’re so ticklish.”

Kaidou was blushing furiously, his arms crossed and face contorted in a childlike pout. Suddenly, Kuboyasu looked up at Saiki curiously, his head cocked to the side.

“Yknow, Saiki, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you laugh before,” he said with a smirk, his gaze wandering down to meet with Kaidou’s.

Saiki’s eyes went wide, a feeling of dread he’d never felt before pooling in his stomach.

No. No no no, no way this is happening. I have to get out of here. I have to do SOMETHING-

Before Saiki had time to come up with an escape plan, Kaidou pounced on top of him, knocking him down to the floor on his back. Kuboyasu scrambled over to where Saiki’s head was lying, looking in his eyes upside-down.

“Kaidou, don’t,” Saiki telepathically warned the grinning boy propped up on his waist. Kaidou’s fingers were already scribbling in the air above Saiki’s torso, and for once the psychic really didn’t know what to do. Kuboyasu very suddenly grabbed onto Saiki’s wrists, pulling them above his head. I don’t want to use my super strength against them, there’s no way this is the way they find out about my abilities. I’ll just let them have their fun. Who knows? Maybe I’m not even ticklish-

Without warning, ten fingers uickly came down onto Saiki’s sides, pinching up and down the torso like it was nothing. Saiki could felt in instantly, and it was one of the most confusing sensations he had ever felt.

His body started to squirm without him even realizing, twisting from side to side like he was trying to get away. He clamped his mouth shut, not wanting to let real laughs out.

“Cmon, Saiki, you know you wanna laugh~” Kaidou teased, his right hand continuing to pinch his side while his left began lightly scritching at his lower stomach through his unfortunately thin school uniform in the most unbearable way.

Giggles were bouncing around in Saiki’s ribcage, but he still tried so hard not laugh. But, once he felt two new hands begin scratching at his underarms, it was all over. Apparently, while Saiki was too focused on Kaidou, Kuboyasu had pinned Saiki’s hands under his knees, now having full access to Saiki’s recently discovered ticklish body.

“NAHAHAHA! STOHOHOHOP!” Saiki pleaded, his eyes squeezed tightly shut, an unfamiliar large smile contorting his face. His head swung from side to side as his legs kicked out from underneath Kaidou, the blue-haired teen absolutely relishing in his friend’s torment.

“Who knew all this time all we had to do to get you to smile was tickle you?” Kuboyasu teased, his fingers trailing down to Saiki’s ribs. Saiki thrashed at the new spot, his pleas getting more desperate.

“Right? I didn’t expect him to be this ticklish either, it’s honestly a real shock,” Kaidou smiled, pinching Saiki’s hips and making the psychic buck underneath him.

After another moment, the two boys relented, climbing off of Saiki’s heaving body and allowing him a breather.

That was insane. I feel bad for judging Kaidou earlier, that was seriously intense. How is that not used as common torture?!

“You good, Saiki? We didn’t go to far, right?” Kuboyasu asked, looking at Saiki who was now sat slightly up, his head down between his knees so his classmates wouldn’t see his unfortunate blush.

Saiki just gave a thumbs up, making the other two boys chuckle.

“Just so you know, I’m totally gonna use this against you when you’re being grumpy,” Kaidou smiled, his hands coming up to form wiggly claws as a threat. Then the boy let out a sudden yelp, twisting away from Kuboyasu who was sat right behind him. “Hey! You already got to tickle me, no more!”

“What?! Kaidou, I didn’t tickle you,” Kuboyasu said seriously.

“Dude, I literally felt it! You can’t say I didn’t feel something I felt!” Kaidou yelled, yet again pouting like a child.

That’s what you get, Kaidou Saiki thought to himself. Tickle me again and it’ll be much worse.

. . .

a/n: ahh! ok that was definitely not my best but i hope you enjoyed anyways! pls like/rb if you enjoyed it lmao, i know im not gonna get many notes from this cause this isn’t a fandom in demand but any feedback would be lovely :))

#tickling #my fic #tickle fic #tickle community #saiki k #ticklish!saiki #ticklish!kaidou #fanfic #the disastrous life of saiki k.

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empressaryastark · 5 years

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Til There Was You. Rated K. Gendrya. Drabble-shot?

"You're going to work if you stay here, understood?"

Gendry heard his uncle, but that didn't mean he had to say anything in response. Instead, Gendry pulled out the broom and swept the diner floor.

Stan's Diner was a staple in Storm's End, the rinky dink town in the middle of nowhere. At least that's what Uncle Stannis and the diner's lead cook, Davos, said. Gendry didn't even try to act like that fact was remotely interesting to him. Nothing about Storm's End interested him. The seaside town was small, cloudy, and the most boring place that Gendry could ever imagine. Yet, this is where his mom saw fit to send him after a string of fights at school. His Uncle Stannis could sort him out apparently. Gendry thought that was pretty unlikely, but he didn't have any other choice.

So, here he was working in the diner of a wholesome, sleepy town. Oh, and he lived with his Uncle Stannis in an apartment above the shop.

"What happened to your house?" Gendrya asked when he first moved in. Gendry remembered visiting Storm's End once to have Easter.

His uncle scowled at him. "My daughter and ex-wife live there now."

Nothing more was said, and Gendry didn't bother to ask more. His uncle wasn't a very talkative man. That suited Gendry just fine because he wasn't much of a talker either. For a bit, Gendry thought they could make things work. That was until he realized his uncle was a hardass. A hardass who got up every day before the break of dawn to sort out the restaurant before all the morning regulars came in. The work wasn't an issue. Gendry had a work ethic so he worked any and all odd jobs in Brooklyn so that he could make money. But Uncle Stannis had a tendency to run the place with so much rules that it led to clashes between the pair. Davos' presence was the only factor that relieved any tension. Gendry liked Davos' good humor and warmth. They could talk about anything. That was rare for Gendry. He wasn't the friendliest of people so he did not have many people that he immediately connected with in the city or this new town. Though he didn't like to admit it to himself, it was nice to have a friend in a new place.

"You'll get through it, son," Davos told him as they set up for a busy Sunday morning.

Sunday morning was busy with long breakfasts. Coffees and pancakes and eggs went in and out of the kitchen to table all morning. Gendry figured he was doing a good job serving that morning when he managed to not get into one single argument with a customer.

That was until she walked in. An middle aged man with a dark hair, a beautiful girl with brown hair, and smiling grey eyes walked into the diner with a blond pretty boy took a seat at the diner's counters. Gendry didn't say much other than "Morning," when he handed them the menus.

The man narrowed his eyes at him when he took the menu. "I don't think we've met."

Gendry shook his head.

The man continued to speak. "I'm Ned Stark. An old family friend to your uncle and his brother."

When the man reached his hand out for a shake, Gendry tentatively did the same. "I'm Gendry. His brother's son, I guess."

Ned Stark smiled. "I thought that might be the case, but I have not seen you since you were a baby."

Gendry frowned. "How did you know who I am then? I haven't been a baby for seventeen years."

"Fair enough. But you're the spitting image of your father when he was a young man."

Gendry wasn't sure of what to say to that. It was strange to be compared to a man who was barely a part of his life. A man who lived in Manhattan but never bothered to see his son in Brooklyn.

Gendry just sucked in his cheek. "Yeah, well, just let me know when you're ready to order."

The pretty girl plopped her menu on the bar and slid it back to Gendry. She pushed her wavy dark brown hair behind her ear. "I'm ready to order. I want a club sandwich and a root beer with a plate of fries. Oh, and I'm Arya Stark, by the way."

Gendry took the menu. He never knew what to say to pretty girls. He wanted to say something witty or cool to Arya Stark but the only thing that came out was, "Cool. Um, I, I'll get on that."

As he pulled the pen and pad out to write down Arya's order, the blond preppy boy chimed in. "Actually, I'd like to order, too. Could I have a grapefruit and some coffee with oat milk." The blond boy wasn't rude exactly but he was still obviously thick with money. That was enough to rub Gendry the wrong way. What made Gendry immediately dislike this boy more was when Arya laughed and said, "Edric, can you eat an actual breakfast for once?"

Gendry fought off an urgent desire to roll his eyes. It was even a relief when Ned Stark told him that he'd like to order some ham and eggs with hash browns. The man was simple. Gendry liked that much. He liked Ned Stark even more when he saw the tip left on the bill.

-----

Storm's End was small, but it was Arya's home. She moved there with her father when he became a senator. Things weren't working out with her mother in Winterfell, so Arya moved in with her dad for most of the year in their new house.

She loved Storm's End. From the diner to the record shop to all the in between, Arya enjoyed herself. One of her favorite activities was riding her bike along the beach. Sometimes she'd even take a swim or walk along the docks. Though Storm's End could be plagued with stormy weather, Arya lived for the beautiful days.

On a particularly sunny day at the end of summer, Arya was walking along the docks when she saw a tall dark haired boy in black sitting at the edge of his docks. He was smoking. Arya recognized him as Gendry, the server at Stan's Diner.

He seemed surprised when she went and sat next to him. "You're Gendry, right?"

The boy coughed as he took the cigarette out of his mouth. "Yeah, I am. You were at the diner with your dad. Arya, is it?"

Arya smiled. He was terribly handsome. From his cut, square jaw to the thick black hair that fell over his bright blue eyes to his chapped full lips. "You remembered."

Gendry's face blushed. Arya felt an unexpected but strong desire to kiss him, but she refrained, figuring he probably wouldn't want to kiss her in any case. "Are you new to town? I haven't seen you here before. Where are you from?"

Gendry frowned. "You ask a lot of questions."

Arya bit her lip but she responded anyway, "Maybe you're very interesting."

The boy shrugged. "I'm new here, yeah. I was living in Brooklyn with my mom, but, um, she thought it would be better if I lived with my Uncle Stannis."

"Why's that?" Arya asked.

Gendry took a puff from his cigarette. "Got in some fights. Suspended from school. We weren't getting along anyway. So now I'm here working in a diner. What about you? Is this your hometown?"

His blue eyes looked at her briefly before he looked back at the water. Arya sighed. "Actually, no. I'm from Winterfell. It's upstate. I'm here for sort of similar reasons so I guess we have something in common."

She couldn't help but feel strange when Gendry turned his head to look her over. His eyes focused on the diamond wolf earrings that her parents gave her when she turned fourteen. "That's one thing, I suppose."

----

#gendrya #fic #arya x gendry #fanfiction #mine

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cicidarkarts · 4 years

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Entwined, Always - 11: Diving in Deeper

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“All A’s,” Ronald said as he sat in his armchair and read over Persephone’s grades. She stood behind him, resisting the urge to tap her foot. The question was coming at some point this weekend, but she didn’t know exactly when. He fixed his glasses, studying her over them and making her sweat. He continued, “Very good marks in Physics. I expected nothing less. And I see that you’ve been offered scholarships to a couple of medical schools in the area. Which will you be going to?”

This was it: the time she had to give Ronald the truth. She took a deep breath.

“I’m going to Dulvey Community College.” The grimace in his expression said it all, but that didn’t stop him from using his words. “No, you’re not.” “But that’s what I want.” “I will not see my daughter going to some rinky-dink community college.” “It’s not rinky-dink, it has a perfectly valid medical program.” “This is all because of that boy isn’t it?” He carefully stood from his chair, calm and menacing presence towering over her. “He’s not smart enough to get a scholarship of his own, so he’s dragging you down with him.” Persephone was ready for this reaction and shot back. “That’s a completely baseless assumption. The fact of the matter is that we both decided to go to community college together.” “Absolutely not.” “You can’t force me to go to a certain college.”

Her phone’s unique notification went off.

“That boy’s texting you, I see,” Ronald sneered. She glared at him. “His name is Lucas and we’re making plans—” “My daughter will not be dragged down by a hillbilly!”

She bit her tongue, wanting only to scream in his face, defend Lucas, tell Ronald to fuck off. But it would cause a huge argument when all she wanted to do was make her point and answer the message.

She turned on her heel to leave. “I’m going to DCC. You can try to change my mind when I come back.” “I do not think so, young lady!” He shouted.

Rarely did Ronald ever raise his voice but Persephone refused to be shaken. Even as he stepped in front of the front door to block her exit, she kept her cool.

He continued shouting. “You’ve been completely out of line ever since you met this boy and I’m tired of it!” “Maybe I’m just growing up, did y’all ever think of that?”

It took her a moment to comprehend why Ronald held such a shocked expression on his normally cold face: y’all. She tried not to smirk. He seemed utterly speechless at first, but he eventually blurted out his next thoughts.

“I can’t believe you just said that to me. That—that redneck slang. That boy’s going to take you down with him, just you wait.” “Noted. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

She slipped underneath his arm and out the door, slamming it behind her before he could react. Then she checked her phone. Lucas had good timing.

‘How’d it go with your dad?’ She laughed through her nose. ‘Horribly’ ‘Figured as much. You all right?’ ‘Better than ever, I can’t wait for our first semester’ ‘Hell yeah. Never thought I’d be happy to start college’

Persephone giggled at his message, cruising along the sidewalk. How could she even put into words that she felt the same way, that she was excited to start what felt like the rest of their lives together? Before she could text him anything, though, a message popped up. From Oliver.

‘hope ur bf isn’t planning on coming to school monday’ She responded fast. ‘What are you talking about?’ ‘he’ll regret it’

She held her tongue (rather, her fingers), mulling it over. She hoped to have high school end peacefully. The year had been going great and she wanted it to stay that way. All she could think to do to prevent total disaster was dial Oliver’s number and call him.

Oliver’s home seemed relatively normal: an average-sized house, right in the middle of the section of houses, with a perfectly square postage stamp yard. Persephone anxiously surveyed the area, trying to calm down. The neighborhood was a bit woodsy. Oliver had a nice porch, well-decorated with wicker chairs and a glass-top table, a fancy black railing, and a small crack up the middle of the stone stairs. Overall, unimpressive and bland. A tree hung over the top of his small awning, no fence in the front yard — though the backyard had a battered, weather-worn privacy fence.

She breathed easy. This probably wasn’t going to go very well, but she had no choice. She reread her last texts. One of them was to Lucas ‘gtg, talk to you in a bit’, with his response being a simple ‘ok’. The other was Oliver’s address, prior message was her asking for it, and before that… Their call. He’d sounded like he wanted to kick her ass during that call but had graciously accepted her request for a chat. And, by graciously, he’d told her that she was “a dumb cunt” who could try to change his mind even though she “has no idea”. He seemed pretty hellbent on fighting Lucas but she was going to put a stop to that.

She approached the discolored door and knocked. He didn’t make her wait for very long — the door opened and Oliver stood before her, wispy blonde hair bright in the sun. He stepped aside, tone of his next words deadly serious.

“Get in.” She did so, hand in her pocket, grasping her phone.

She stepped into a very cluttered living room; a dirty couch, a rocking chair, a table lined with cigarettes, soda cans, ash and ashtrays, television across the way surrounded by boxes and plastic tubs of crap. It all hit her at once just how messy and unmaintained the house was. Her nose crinkled from the smells of grime and cigarettes as her burning eyes scanned everything they could. Pathways seemed to be the only way around the house, leading to the kitchen, the seats, and the staircase for the upper-story.

“Sit,” he said curtly, disrupting her overwhelmed senses.

She followed a path to the rocking chair and sat on its layer of dust. He chose the couch near her, plopping his socked feet up on the table. Oliver pulled a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it.

“So, go on, gimme one good reason why I shouldn’t kick Baker’s ass.” Persephone took a deep breath, smelling the must, and tried to focus on her task at hand. She spoke calmly. “Because he’s not interested in fucking with you.” “Don’t care.” Oliver took a drag off his cigarette. When he spoke, he let the smoke unfurl from his lips. “He shouldn’t ‘a started it.” “Isn’t that a little childish? He’s been trying to let it go, why can’t you?” Oliver’s feet stomped onto the ground as he leaned toward her, voice low but ferocious. “An’ who are you ta tell me ta let it go? Callin’ me childish. You’re just some stupid bitch, ya don’t even know what happened. Even if that autistic jerk-off told ya, he sure as hell wouldn’t give ya the full story.”

She wondered indeed what the full story was. Lucas said he’d planned on killing Oliver when they were children, but what did that entail? She hadn’t asked about it since then, knowing the subject upset him. For now, however, her entire mission was to talk Oliver out of doing something stupid, so she returned to the present.

“You know, you’ll be free of Lucas after graduation. If you fuck with him now, you’re just making more work for yourself down the line — court hearings, possible incarceration.” “Look,” he said, chin lifted as he observed her through narrowing eyes. “I ain’t gonna let that little shithead get away with what he did to me. This is my last chance—” “For what, prison? If you haven’t noticed by now, idiot, you both can be tried as adults—” “Kiss my ass!” He shouted, shooting up from his seat. “Always defendin’ him an’ shit! Yer just as fuckin’ crazy!”

Another voice rang from upstairs. “OLIVER! Quit all that yellin’! And don’chu dare curse in my house!” Then there was a loud stomp on the ground. “Sorry, Gramma,” Oliver called, with an eye-roll that could give Persephone’s a run for its money. The elderly woman’s shrill voice yelled, “Do I need ta babysit you like yer a toddler?!” “No,” he said to her shortly. “I swear, if ya can’t act like an adult, then how could ya think yer ready ta graduate!?” “Christ…” He swore under his breath.

Well then… Persephone didn’t know how to respond to that, so she stayed quiet. Oliver motioned for Persephone to follow him, with his grandmother shouting the entire time (“yer so immature!” was tossed around, ironically enough). Persephone tread behind him and he led her back to the front door, stepping onto the porch with her. He shut the door behind them, thankfully muffling his grandmother’s incessant yelling.

They sat at the wicker table, Oliver taking a few deep breaths of fresh air.

She tried to bring the conversation back after… Whatever just happened there. “You said I don’t know the full story. Why don’t you tell me?” He interjected with a sharp, brusque laugh. “Suck my dick, then I’ll consider it.” She’d rather rip it off. “C’mon, Oliver, don’t do this. Do you really wanna risk getting expelled right before graduation?”

He paused, leaning back into his seat with his fingers steepled, observing her. The smoke from his still-lit cigarette made her head ache.

“Ya wanna know what happened?” He asked, the cold look in his eye reminding her quite a bit of Ronald. “Wanna know how fucked up yer boyfriend really is? That bastard almost killed me an’ yer askin’ me to just move on. Dumb bitch, ya don’t know shit.”

Her retaliation rose in her throat but she swallowed it back. “Then tell me.”

She remained in her seat, just… Waiting. He said nothing. Not a single damn word. Her mind screamed at her to force the information out of him somehow, but that would get her nowhere. She needed to wait, be patient, figure out how to make him comfortable enough to spill the beans without making things worse. Oliver smoked his cigarette painfully slow as he looked across the way at nothing in particular. Persephone glanced to be sure there wasn’t something important going on over there that would distract him and make her waste her goddamned time.

“If yer that fuckin’ interested,” he said abruptly, still not looking at her, “strap in, ‘cuz this story’s wild.”

He tossed his cigarette near the ashtray on the glass-top table, then he went into his story. “Started a long time ago. We were seven, I think. April som’in’, whenever his birthday is. Invited me over for his party — said he had some hidden presents in the attic an’ we went off to check it out. He made me climb up first, then shut the attic behind me.” Oliver lit a fresh cigarette. He took a long drag off it, hands trembling somewhat, then said, “Hate thinkin’ about it. Swear I was up there for hours, bangin’ on the floor, hopin’ someone could hear me screamin’. Obviously they did. Cops got involved an’ everythin’ — sick fuck was gonna leave me up there to die, he told the cops the whole story. Wrote about it in his creepy little journals, too. Even wrote about how I died an’ decomposed up there — seriously fuckin’ disturbed shit. ‘S why the whole school can’t stand him, we all know he’s fucked in the head. ‘Cept you, ‘pparently.”

Well, that was certainly a story she’d never have gotten from Lucas’s mouth. In a way, she was glad to have satiated her curiosity, but in another more rational way, the story put a pit in her stomach. Lucas hadn’t been lying when he accidentally let slip that he planned on killing Oliver. His journals apparently outlined it. She would’ve given anything to read some of the entries right then and there. Would he have gone through with it? He’d told the cops everything, seemingly without much or any hesitation.

“Nothin’ ta say, I see,” Oliver said, interrupting her thoughts. “Just taking it all in.” Oliver shook his head. “Yer outta yer damn mind.” “So I’ve heard,” she mumbled, laughing through her nose. “Yer playin’ with fire, stickin’ with Crazy. He’s bad news, an’ he belongs locked up in juvie, or prison better yet. Safer for everyone that way.”

It was difficult to argue that Lucas was unhinged. She knew it, the whole school knew it — she could’ve surmised that from the first week at Dulvey High. She knew about the fantasies, of course, but to have them so specified… She tried to look for any sign that Oliver was lying. He had good reason to exaggerate and demonize Lucas, but given his smoking, his shaking hands, and the thousand-yard stare present on his pale face as he’d explained what had happened so long ago, it was all a chilling reminder of what Persephone was getting herself into. Lucas really was one twisted little fuck. Sadistic. The thought of him caused a sneaking warmth to rise in her groin that she had to will away. Maybe she, too, was one twisted little fuck.

“I think that’s it,” Oliver said, standing. She stood, too. “Not really. I’m still trying to talk you out of being a moron.” He shook his head, though it seemed more out of disbelief than anything else as he said, “All right. Tell ya what. Keep Baker outta my sight and I won’t kick his ass. But I see him? It’s fuckin’ over. Got it?”

He made his way to the front door and she trotted closely behind.

She questioned, “You expect me to trust that?” “I’m gonna pretend that twisted fuck doesn’t exist.” He opened his front door and stepped inside, facing her the entire time. “That’s it.” “That’s not convinc—” “Keep ‘im away from me. Take it or leave it, bitch.”

The door slammed shut in her face. She took a deep breath; 3 days where she’d have to keep Lucas away from him. She could manage that, right?

Persephone didn’t tell Lucas about her conversation with Oliver. She wasn’t sure what his reaction would be but didn’t want him to worry or get upset. So she kept it a secret in hopes that he wouldn’t have to find out, that they could move on and be done with it. Throughout Monday, Persephone would see Oliver coming around the corner on occasion and would tear Lucas into the nearest exit — a closet, a corner, even the boy’s room once. She played it off as a bout of excitement; yanking him into her, pressing their bodies together, attacking him with rough kisses.

This time, he’d been ripped into a broom closet and her tongue was in his mouth before the door fully shut. He kissed her back at first but broke their kiss soon after.

“Pers,” he said, softly pushing her back. “Not that I’m not really excited ‘bout all this, but… What is goin’ on?” “What d’you mean?” She asked, fists grabbing his hoodie. “You just turn me on.” “That’s really hot n’ all, but I think yer givin’ me whiplash…” He rubbed the back of his neck. She laughed softly. “Can’t handle me, big guy?”

They skipped Physics that day in favor of a cramped, but fun, lovemaking session in the closet. When they came out, a few of their schoolmates saw them. The rumor that ‘Crazy Lucas’ was no longer a virgin had been spread so far that even the teachers had to know he and Persephone were fucking. But rumors had slowed with graduation upon them, and seniors at least had more important things to worry about. Conversations became more self-centered, all abuzz over graduation.

Persephone didn’t see a reason to care about the actual ceremony, just the fact that now she’d be able to get into medical school and actually have a legitimate, practical education. Even as she stood in her room on graduation day, looking at herself in that dorky-ass cap and gown, it didn’t excite her. She’d be happy when it was over.

Persephone made her way down the steps and past her dead-asleep mother with a roll of her eyes — at least Terry wasn’t coming to embarrass her. Arms crossed, Ronald tapped his foot by the front door. Mr. Patience, she could’ve called him. He opened the door for her, took her to the car, and drove her to the graduation ceremony in silence. Why in the hell Ronald wanted to come to graduation was beyond her. To keep up appearances? No. Probably to ensure that she and Lucas didn’t get into any trouble. Given his hatred of poor Lucas, she wouldn’t be surprised.

At least everyone arrived wearing the same blue dorky cap and gown, with parents having dressed formally, mothers and fathers with cameras and a few with teary eyes. Ronald, by comparison, remained stone-faced and cold. Ugh. Just… Ugh. She couldn’t wait to see Lucas and have an actually pleasant conversation, or simply be in the presence of someone less oppressively grumpy.

Just as she thought of him, the family SUV pulled up and parked across the way. Lucas, Jack, Marguerite, and a plainly dressed Zoe exited the vehicle. Persephone plodded toward them, stomach sinking, knowing that Ronald was coming with her in spite of his last interaction with the family.

Marguerite insisted on snapping pictures of Lucas.

“Ma, all right,” Lucas said, putting his palm on the lens. “That’s enough.” “I’m sorry, hon.” She put the camera away. “You were strugglin' so much at the beginning a’ this year and— Well… That’s neither here nor there.” “Yeah, let’s just enjoy the party,” Persephone scowled.

Marguerite instantly got her camera back out and captured pictures of Persephone as well, gushing about how ‘beautiful’ she looked in her cap and gown. She kept an eye on Ronald who came up beside her, noticing him and Jack exchanging very cold, unneighborly glances.

“Good to see ya, Ronald,” said Jack. “Jack.”

Marguerite shoved her and Lucas together to take pictures of them. Zoe laughed behind her hand.

“Keep laughin’, Zoe,” said Lucas. “You’ll be next, just give it two years.” “Yeah, but I bet I’ll look way cuter than y’all in my gown.” Persephone couldn’t help but chuckle — being around the family lifted her spirits, even just a little. “I know, I know, I look like a dork.” “Nonsense!” Marguerite dismissed. “You two look so lovely in your li’l gowns n’ caps n’— Oh, I can’t wait to see you get your diplomas!” “Ma,” Lucas groaned. “Can we just get t’ the field, please?”

Persephone headed there with the group. The field — which was the back of the schoolyard where she remembered aiming her and Lucas’s giant slingshot into the woods — was stuffed full of seniors, parents, and teachers all mingling together on the freshly cut lawn. Folding chairs lined the roll-out carpets of blue Dulvey High colors, leading to the old, well-worn, white stage propped up in front of everything.

The chorus of the crowd proved already too much for Persephone; all the talking and chatter would give her a headache for sure. She needed a drink, something to quell her thirst-filled throat and ease her tension. Glancing about, she found tables of food and drink had been set-up, blue tablecloths of several different hues making up the school colors; salvation from Ronald, at least she hoped.

Their parents were ushered off by staff, leaving her, Lucas, and Zoe to go to the snack tables (thank god for that, Persephone couldn’t imagine spending the whole day with Ronald breathing down her neck). The tables had all kinds of crap Persephone didn’t care for, so she got a plastic cup and filled it with the least offensive soda. While they stood at the table, a girl came up to them, hugged Zoe tightly, then smiled at Lucas and Persephone.

“Hey guys,” she said casually. “Hey Judith,” Lucas replied, soda in hand.

Persephone hadn’t seen Judith before and had been unaware she would be graduating this year, too. She was much girlier than Zoe — her nails painted pink and baby blue, her strawberry blonde hair long and deliberately curled; she wore natural-looking makeup with bright red lips. Lucas, Zoe, and Judith launched into small-talk, Judith asking about the family and Lucas answering plainly while Zoe took the piss. Persephone couldn’t find words for them, busy thinking about the conversation she’d had with Ronald the weekend prior.

Ever since her admission that she was going to a community college, Ronald had been… Standoffish, colder, quieter, and chose more to glare and grunt than actually use his words. He’d been staying at work more and more. Perhaps he was considering his options. Controlling her now that she was older proved near impossible and she knew it had to be driving him mad. She figured he was going to go off on her that evening after graduation, but she didn’t plan on giving him that opportunity. Her plan — really less of a plan and more of a goal — was to hop in Jack and Marguerite’s SUV and pray that they pulled off without question. She wished herself luck in that endeavor.

For the time, however, graduation was upon them. The late afternoon air filled the schoolyard as preparations went underway for the ceremony. Seats filled fast and Persephone stayed by Lucas, wading through the sea of graduates. Their classmates chatted eagerly around her as she and Lucas made their way to their seats.

However, one stood out from the rest. Trouble drew near in the form of Oliver, encroaching on them from the crowd. Unwavering, fierce gazes met as he marched up to Lucas, chest puffed.

“Baker.” “Jones.”

They stared each other down. Was Oliver looking for a fight? Here? Or maybe he was hoping Lucas would start one. Persephone put her hand on Lucas’s shoulder, waiting for a clash but hoping it wouldn’t happen. It felt like they sized one another up for ages, oddly calm for all the hatred and malice between them. Then, Oliver simply walked away to be seated in the crowd.

“The fuck was that about?” Lucas muttered to her. “No idea.”

Long after the ceremony had ended, Lucas and Persephone laid out atop a crocheted blanket. They’d forgone their gowns and formal attire for more everyday clothes, comfortable and alone along the dirt road leading to the Baker home. Parties surely roared all around, but neither had interest in partying. Persephone was just happy she’d been able to sneak past Ronald and hurry into the SUV with Jack and Marguerite. Now she got to spend the rest of her night with Lucas. Laying side-by-side, they looked up at the blanket of stars.

“Chicago never had stars like this,” Persephone mused, trying not to think of how pissed Ronald was going to be. “Guess I never really noticed how starry it is ‘round here. Didn’ have much reason ta care before now.” He reached over and laced his fingers with hers. Persephone chuckled, thinking back to graduation. “Marguerite was bawling when they announced you were one of the students to graduate with all A’s.” “She’s so dramatic.” “She’s just proud.”

She turned her head to look at Lucas; at his profile looking up to the night sky, aglow with its beautiful sparkling luster, bringing out his amazing blue eyes.

“Lucas.” He looked to her, grunting out a soft, “Hm?” “Thanks for making graduation not shitty.”

Lucas gazed at her, slowly leaning onto his side so he could kiss her lips. He put his hand along the side of her neck and jawline — goddamn was he gorgeous; so fucking handsome. She wanted to look up at him, with the sky illuminating behind him like a masterful painting, for the rest of her fucking life. When he opened his lips to speak, she hung on every word.

“Pers, I love you.”

Her heart fluttered. She heard his voice, his alluring accented voice, say that to her again and again in her mind. It was all she could think about in that instant, all she wanted to think about; him, saying “Pers, I love you”, over and over and over. She shot forward onto her elbows, letting their lips meet in a deep kiss. His hand caressed her jaw during their brief but impassioned, fiery lip-lock. When it finished, she placed her forehead against his.

“I love you, too, Lucas. So fucking much.”

_____

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you-get-to-exhale-now-cyrus · 5 years

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Cyrus’ Dictionary

1 || 2 || 3 || 4 || 5 || 6 || 7 || 8 || 9 || 10 || 11 || 12 || 13 || 14 || 15 || 16 || 17

Summary: Cyrus has always been good with words; there’s a reason English is his favorite subject. But with TJ, he seems to be at a loss for words. When they get paired up for a summer assignment, Cyrus slowly starts to build a new dictionary. One that involves TJ and everything they do together. Along the way, maybe he’ll find the words to tell him how he feels.

Chapter 17: Saudade

Word Count: 2252

Read on AO3

Two weeks. Two weeks.

It might as well have been two years, Cyrus assumed. TJ had been on vacation for two weeks (thirteen days to be more exact), and Cyrus had never missed anyone more. He knew that TJ wasn’t gone, per se, but he missed him; he missed running his hands through his hair, holding hands and falling asleep next to him, kissing him until he felt like he couldn’t breathe.

saudade: missing someone so much that it physically hurts

To try and distract himself, he hung out with Buffy as much as he could, considering he couldn’t go to Andi.

“You have to talk to her,” Buffy mumbled into the phone.

“What if she hates me? It’s been a long time,” he worried, pacing around his small room.

“Cyrus, Andi loves you. You know she wouldn’t stay mad at you forever. She really cares about you,”

“I hate it when you’re right,” he grumbled, hanging up and grabbing a pair of shoes.

It felt oddly chilly outside, considering Cyrus had to rub his biceps furiously as he walked to Andi’s house. The closer he got, it appeared, the harder it was to move his legs forward. It was as if he was being held back by cement.

Step.

Everything was going to be okay, right? Buffy was usually right, so why shouldn’t he believed her now?

Step.

Nope, bad idea, bad idea. Why not just give up now? What’s one less friend.

Step.

No, he could do this. Things were going to be okay; they were going to sort things out.

He knocked twice, albeit shakily, and waited. And waited. And waited. Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe Andi really didn’t want to talk to him and was purposely avoiding him. Or. . .maybe she just wasn’t home. Or maybe-

Before he could finish that thought, the door swung open. And it looked like Andi was almost smiling, but the moment she saw Cyrus, her face fell.

“Hey,” she murmured, staring down at her feet. She dug her toes into the carpet, trying to distract herself.

“Can I come in?”

She nodded weakly, stepping aside for him. Cyrus slipped his shoes off, and she nodded up the stairs, Cyrus following behind her. It felt like he hadn’t been up here in ages. He’d missed having sleepovers with her and Buffy; they had mostly stopped once they’d entered high school because they just didn’t have time anymore.

The moment that they sat on the bed, the words flowed out quickly, as if they were held back by a dam.

“I’m sorry I yelled at you,” he began, “I didn’t mean to be so rude, I’m so sorry, Andi. I just. . .when you were talking about me and TJ, I just thought it was something so outlandish,”

Andi nodded silently, breathing out softly. “Sorry for meddling,”

“You shouldn’t be apologizing, I should. And I’m sorry,” he murmured, putting his hand on Andi’s shoulder. Her lips twitched up into a hesitant smile, the tension in the room easing up a little. She pulled him in for a hug, and there they stayed for a little while.

“Plus you were right,” Cyrus added, an impish grin gracing his face, “about me and TJ,”

Her whole face lit up, clapping her hands in excitement. “Cyrus!”

“Hi,”

“So, how’s it been with you two? Tell me everything,” she insisted, propping her head up with her elbows, and batting her lashes.

Cyrus shrugged, but the smile on his face spoke for itself. “It’s been great,” he admitted, flopping back onto her bed and staring at the ceiling, “I miss him though. He’s been on vacation for almost two weeks. But he comes back in two days,”

“Are you worried? About. . .him spending time with his mom?”

Cyrus nodded, tracing over the seams of Andi’s bedsheets. “Yeah,” he said, his voice timid and nervous, “I just hope he’s okay,”

“He will be. He’s strong,” she reminded him, placing a hand on his head, “okay, no more sad talk. We should do something fun, you, me, and Buffy. I feel like we haven’t hung out all summer,”

“How about a sleepover, like the kind we used to have in middle school?” Cyrus suggested, “I miss those,”

the ghc

[andi: sleepover today? my house]

[buffy: can’t wait, i’ve missed things like this <3]

“Buffy’s in. So. . .movies and junk food until we pass out?”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,”

It was hot. Too hot. There was a reason TJ didn’t like the beach; there was too much sand, the sun was never hidden, and the squacks of seagulls was anything but peaceful. How people could fall asleep, he had no idea. Not even his sunglasses helped him from squinting in order to not be blinded.

Amber seemed to have no problem with the beach; she loved the way the sun lightened her hair, the way the ocean breeze kissed every inch of her skin, the comfort in knowing she could simply lie down and do nothing.

“Do you miss him?” she asked, dragging her fingers through the sand.

Amber really could read his thoughts, couldn’t she. “Yeah,” he mumbled, “a lot. I just wanna go home,” he grumbled, staring off into the distance, where his mom was chatting with a group of ladies.

Amber scooted her chair closer putting a hand on her brother’s arm. “. . .I’m sure she’ll come around, TJ,” she promised, watching as their mother mingled like she was at a party.

“Yeah, well, I’m not so sure,” he huffed, squirming under her touch, “she’s barely said a word to either of us this entire trip. I mean, at least she talks to you a little, but she hasn’t said anything to me,”

Amber forced herself to not be irked by his movement. “Just two more years and then you get to go to college,” she tried, offering a sympathetic smile, “guys like you are gonna be cool in college,”

“Don’t remind me,” he groaned, putting his hands over his face, “Cyrus is going to go to some Ivy League on the other side of the coast, and I’m going to go to some rinky-dink community college ten minutes from here,”

“Hey, don’t say that,” she pressed, pushing her sunglasses further up the bridge of her nose, “you could get a basketball scholarship,”

TJ scoffed, shaking his head at the very idea. Sure, he loved basketball and yeah, he was pretty decent at it, but pretty decent wasn’t going to peak the scouts’ interests. “If I’m lucky. I just don’t want to think about going to college and having to. . .” he trailed, the words unable to come out.

“. . .break up with him?” Amber finished for him.

“Yeah,” he whispered, so softly that Amber nearly didn’t hear him. Ah, the lovely feeling of vulnerability.

Amber felt a little guilty for bringing it up, a gnawing feeling in her stomach. “Hey,” she gave his hand a squeeze, “that’s a while from now. Live in the moment, right? Things are okay now,”

TJ smiled, tilting his head back. “Yeah, things are okay,”

“We’ve already seen Mulan a thousand times,” Cyrus whined, leaning back against the couch and pulling his blanket up to his neck.

“It’s the best Disney movie,” Buffy argued, selecting the movie while ignoring Cyrus’ pleas.

“Hm, I think Beauty and the Beast begs to differ, but whatever,” Andi mumbled, poking Buffy’s side. It was harder now for them all to fit on the couch now that they had grown (now that Buffy and Andi had growth spurts, more specifically), but they didn’t mind being pushed together. It was just like old times; movies, chip crumbs littering the couch cushions, and more blankets than were probably safe.

Cyrus barely paid attention to the movie. He spend most of the time checking his phone for any new texts. Andi and Buffy picked up on this, giving each other knowing looks.

“TJ?” they asked.

Cyrus felt his face burn, tucking his phone in his pocket. “No,” he lied, “not. . .really, at least. He hasn’t texted me,”

Buffy’s face softened, placing a hand on his arm. “I’m sure he’s just busy spending time with his mom and Amber,” she soothed, “he’ll text you when he can,”

“Have you heard from Amber?” Cyrus asked, turning to Andi.

“A little,” she admitted, “she said that their mom is trying to keep them occupied with things to do. She mostly just texts me before bed,”

Cyrus nodded, feeling a bit more relieved. “How are things with you and Marty?”

Buffy smirked, cracking her fingers. “Let’s just say that I haven’t lost an arm wrestle,”

Andi rolled her eyes, shaking her head. “You and only you would say that when someone asks you about your relationship,”

Buffy chuckled, tossing a pillow at her. “Oh, hush, you. You’re just jealous that me and Marty make a cuter couple than you and Amber,”

“I’m not jealous, because that’s completely false,” she countered, crossing her arms.

“I think we’re forgetting the point of this sleepover,” Cyrus mumbled, smiling mischievously, “that TJ and I are the cutest couple,” he insisted, turning up the TV loud enough so that he didn’t hear Andi and Buffy coo over his affection for the other boy.

“. . .previously on Worst Cooks in America,”

Jonah grumbled, grabbing a pillow and holding it to his chest. Maybe trying to binge two seasons of the show within two days was a mistake. His eyes burned every time he blinked, he was fairly certain he hadn’t drank water for two days, and he was still in the same clothes.

Then came a knock at the door, and he tossed his pillow aside. His hands ran down his face; he really needed to wash his hair. Slinging his legs over the couch, he managed to get himself up and to the door. And once he opened it, he felt every part of his body jolt awake.

“Walker!” he cried, reaching forward and pulling him into a hug, “God, I missed you so much,” he whispered into the other boy’s shirt, clutching it tightly.

“I missed you too,” the other boy replied, quick to drop his bags and wrap his arms around Jonah, “how was life here?”

Jonah pulled back, shrugging. “Uneventful. Boring without you,” he admitted, taking his bag and ushering him inside, “how was Florida?”

Walker rubbed his head, melting into the couch with a contented sigh. “It was alright. Nice to see relatives gush about how much I’d grown. And meanwhile I’m here like ‘I’m just going to hug this person I don’t know’,” he chuckled, putting his feet up.

“I know that feeling. That’s what Easter is like when my mom hosts it,” he shuddered, “the great Easter of ‘08 has still not left our minds,” he added, “how was the 4th of July down there?”

Walker nearly rolled his eyes, pulling a pillow into his chest, his eyelids drooping down. “Loud. Bright. A little overwhelming. I kinda wish you were there,”

Jonah smirked, taking the boy’s hand. “Only kinda?”

Walker didn’t have the energy to argue with him, so he just tugged him a little closer. “Shh,” he hummed, “I’m tired, I just wanna sleep,”

Jonah shook his head, his hair gently brushing the other. “Fine. But when you wake up, you better tell me more about all the fun you had without me,”

Walker breathed out a laugh, shutting his eyes. “You mean like all the pretty girls I saw?”

Jonah stuck his tongue out in response. “Dork,” he mumbled, and when no response came, he knew Walker was probably asleep.

“I miss you so much Cyrus,” TJ murmured, leaning against the sink. The bright lights made him squint at the other boy on the other side of the screen, but he wouldn’t have it any other way.

“I miss you too,” he whispered, careful to not wake Andi and Buffy, who had fallen asleep recently, “I just wanna give you a hug. How’s the vacation going?”

“I’m really happy it’s almost over,” he admitted softly, “it’s been really. . .awkward,”

Cyrus frowned; he wanted nothing more than to just reach through the screen and plant a soft kiss on TJ’s forehead. Unfortunately, technology hadn’t advanced that far yet. “How’s your mom been?”

“She’s been ignoring me,” he huffed, pouting, “which I guess it better than her saying hurtful things. But I wish she’d just treat me like she used to,”

“I’ll see you really soon, though. And then we’ll get to hang out, just you and me. I love you,”

“Love you too,” he murmured, shutting off the video chat, and slipping his phone into his pocket. It physically hurt him to be away from Cyrus for such a long time, but it was only for another day. He was getting back tomorrow; and the only people that knew were his mom and Amber, obviously, and Leslie. He’d made sure to tell her to not say a work to Cyrus, and he was fairly certain that his plan had worked. He couldn’t wait to see the look on Cyrus’ face.

Crawling out of the bathroom he snuck into the bed with Amber, trying not to shake her awake.

“Talking to Cyrus?” she whispered, turning to face him.

He nodded, tugging the covers up to his neck. “I miss him,”

“You’ll see him tomorrow,” she reminded him, “good night,” she turned onto her other side, tugging the covers a little closer to her.

“Night,”

Tag List: @shortstackofpeaches || @seanna313 || @geekingbeautytx || @heavenlybyers || @ginnychrises|| @wlwandimack || @giocondasstuff || @lemonboytyrus || @adorejrizzle || @swingsetboys || @ifellintotyrushell || @idk-dude-17 || @rbf-lesbian || @marianara-sauce || @kaptainjinxz || @alex-poster-pizz || @quietmarvel || @blueberry-my-hero-macadamia || @broadwayitbitch || @tjsmuffin || @tjthekippen || @idpleasesir || @hi-hello-hey-there || @bingewatchingenthusiast|| @booklove-2 || @illbeyourreasonwhy || @birdiesandflowers || @whistlepunk || @phinallyjackie || @thedampjofangirl || @tyrus4eva || @tj-is-a-lemony-boy || @tj-goodman-bittersweet-boy || @dis-app-oin-tme-nt || @nessarinthegay || @breadisticks || @typewriter-riz || @gobletofash || @bluemuffinboy || @sofuuh || @cheesystars || @tjmuffin || @multifandom-bxitch || @allylovessadie || @hithatsmyname || @tyrusinarush || @tyrus-lookback || @gaycefulwords || @theobligatedklutz || @bambikippen ||

#andi mack #tyrus #tyrus fic #tj kippen #cyrus goodman #wonah #muffy #ambi #cyrus' dictionary #my fics

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clarketomylexa · 6 years

Text

Laundry

Clexa Week 2018, Day 1, Meet Ugly | read on ao3

A not yet generalised version of Murphy’s Law states that ‘it is found that anything that can go wrong at sea generally does go wrong sooner or later’, though to Clarke, it felt more like ‘anything that can go wrong the day of a job interview’. Regardless of which though – sea or interview – Clarke Griffin had decided that Murphy’s Law, unequivocally, sucked.

As if it hadn’t been bad enough shuffling into the classy, space-grey lobby of the company, her CV hiding the hot coffee stain on her skirt lest the pretentious looking receptionist with a blonde updo and a look decree that she’s a miscreant from the street.��

(Which she wasn’t. Pouring coffee over her meticulously chosen outfit hadn’t been her idea of a good start to the day and she could strangle the smug bastard who couldn’t be bothered look up from his phone as he did so).

But sitting through the interview, ignoring the fact that she seemed to be experiencing second degree burns had her looking unprofessional and desperate to get out of there. She scoffed, smacking her papers on the neighbouring washing machine. Like there was any way she was getting the job now. She might as well go crawling back to her mother and beg for the internship at the hospital back, exchange her portfolios for scrubs for good.

Souring at the thought, she toed her shoes off and peeled the soaked layer of clinging skirt fabric from her thighs, considering her options.

It was twenty-three minutes to home via the subway and she couldn’t think of anything worse than sitting there, coffee soaked and wallowing in the shame of flunking her interview. The laundromat she stood in how – the first one she had seen when she had escaped the office building, tucked down a side street and presentable enough – was empty anyway, save for the person behind the front desk. Clarke was hidden by a row of front loading washing machines from the waist down, the street was relatively unpopulated and, dammit, she was going to do this. Flustered and resolute, she stamped the sodden skirt down her legs and threw it in the machine, inserting her change and adjusting her Calvin Kleins around her backside.

The thing churned to life, sputtering unattractive noises and she folded her arms over her chest – shameless for now, thinking of how Raven would be proud. The dark-haired girl was probably the most audacious person Clarke knew, loud-mouthed and unafraid. Clarke and Octavia had had to pull her off the bar last time they went out and the Latina had downed too many Tequila shots and if she were here now she would be whispering in Clarke’s ear to flirt with the easy going blonde at the front desk.

But she didn’t. Instead, she leaned against the humming washing machine and appraised the woman who walked in, signalled by the ring of the rinky dink bell.

She was dressed prettily, in a navy cable-knit sweater that cut high across her neckline and low over her thighs, the sleeves rolled up to her wrists, dark washed jeans and Chelsea boots. Her dark hair was pulled back and up into a simple ponytail, her cheekbones were high and her jawline cut a

straight border across her face, and, Clarke thought quelling hot embarrassment, she was walking directly towards her.

Clarke adjusted the way her white, coffee splattered button down fell around her hips and wet her lips.

“You’re using my machine.”

Which was not the response she expected to receive from the girl when standing in a rumbled blouse and panties. Affronted, Clarke transferred her weight to her feet and saw – and felt – seafoam green eyes traverse the length of her body. It was gentler than she was used to. Inquisitive in the way the half-drunken guys raked their eyes over her when they went out wasn’t. But whereas at bars she couldn’t care less, now, she felt oddly defensive, and incredibly pantless.

She straightened, claiming the same defensiveness the brunette wore. “There are plenty of machines. Take your pick.”

“Precisely,” the girl pursed her lips, dusky pink, so Clarke could see the freckle on her top one. Deliciously kissable, she thought, but Clarke was here to claim her ground so she dug her heels in and listened to the girl’s rebuttal. “There’s plenty of machines. And this one –” she nodded to the one Clarke’s skirt was soaking in, “– is mine.” She raised a sculpted brow and it almost softened Clarke’s resolve – if Clarke Griffin was anything, it was a sucker for a pretty girl. But she was also stupidly stubborn and this pretty girl was rubbing her the wrong way. She sat back on her heels, the cut of her underwear riding up her backside and watching the brunette studiously avoiding looking anywhere below her neck.

“Yeah. Well,” Clarke swung herself up so she was sitting on the machine, crossing her legs at her ankles and smiling sweetly – a pantless showdown hadn’t been on her agenda for the day, but neither was flunking her interview. Today, Clarke decided, was the day things were going to happen – for better or for worse.

“You’ll cope, I ‘spose,” she shrugged.

The girl’s fists tightened around the string of her canvas laundry bag – who had a laundry bag nowadays, anyway? It felt meticulous, too organised, frustrating in a way Clarke, the artist who ate breakfast out of coffee mugs and borrowed her shirt off Raven for her interview because her own were paint stained, didn’t know how to explain. She watched the girl’s cheeks puff as she made an inarticulate noise, huffing errant strands of brunette hair off of her face, and moving on to the next machine. She set her bag down and pulled items out, garment by garment. Jeans, knitted sweaters, expensive blouses and smart looking top, socks, sweatpants – at which she almost faked keeling over because the idea of this uptight girl owning a pair of sweatpants suddenly seemed laughable. What would she do with them, anyway? Stare at them folded in her drawer, next to designer blouses and blazers and frown them into existence. She giggled obnoxiously.

“Are you finished?”

“You own sweatpants,” Clarke noted with immature glee.

“Yes,” the brunette replied, terse. She looked Clarke reprovingly. “I would say I assume you do too, but in your current state of undress…I’m not actually sure.”

“Hah hah,” Clarke retorted humourlessly, “someone spilt coffee on my skirt this morning – right before an interview, I might add – and now I’m here dealing with the consequences.”

Her antagonist didn’t seem to find that as impressive as Clarke would have liked, so she hummed and smoothed out the sleeve of a silk blouse, fingers feeling over the ridges where the seams joined. “So, you’re like, a lawyer, or something, huh?”

“Assistant District Attorney,” she was corrected irritably as the brunette smear stain remover onto one of her blouses in tight, aggressive movements and Clarke nodded, swinging her feet – that sounded right. She could see this girl in a skirt-suit or a tight, tight dress, examining witnesses with the same kind of concentration and application she used to examine her laundry for dust or stains, narrowed eyes and attentive fingers like the blouse was lying to her. Clarke leaned back on her hands. “So, Miss Hot-Shot-Lawyer –”

“Lexa.”

“What?”

The girl swallowed and dropped her hands to the surface of the machine she was working on, the top she was holding falling with them. She turned to Clarke in a mechanical twist of her upper body so that her sweater rode up her back and a strip of skin was visible. Clarke wet her lips. “My name is Lexa.” The brunette said again.

“Lexa,” Clarke tested the word on her tongue. She liked it, she decided. It was interesting, the emphasis on the ‘x’ and the way it rolled around her tongue was exotic in a way she didn’t expect but knew suited the lawyer, because this girl – this Lexa – was unlike many people she had met before. Many people who would be all over a pretty, pantless blonde in a vacant shop in a heartbeat. She was a hot-mess right now, admittedly, she stunk of caffeine, her hair was working itself free and there were probably circles under her eyes from her late-night agonising over her interview, but she felt offended nevertheless.

“And yours?” Lexa asked.

“Clarke,” she informed her, strangely proud. “With an ‘e’.” It was an important distinction.

“That’s original,” Lexa hummed.

“My parents wanted a boy.”

“And we’re they disappointed?”

Clarke tossed her head. Her hair was freeing itself from her updo by this stage, she saw strands falling soft around her face and could feel where it had loosened into a messy bun in a way she hoped looked good, but she was fast realising the conventional flirting wouldn’t work with Lexa. “Are you?” she challenged.

Lexa’s throat bobbed. “No.”

“Good.”

Lexa was smiling, she thought. It was hard to tell because of the way she wasn’t looking at Clarke god damn it, but the blonde was sure that was amusement turning the right corner of her lips up and it made something hot stir in her stomach, like the butterflies she would get before her art showings in middle school, as infantile as it sounded. Far from the flash-bang heat she felt with Finn when they ended up fumbling over each other at parties, the kind which deep down perhaps, she knew wasn’t sustainable. Either that or Clarke was just embarrassing herself.

“So, you’re an artist.”

“What makes you say that?”

Lexa looked haughty but Clarke found it stupidly attractive, the conflicting feeling of wanting to kiss her and punch in her in the face had her fingers flexing. “You have paint under your nails,” the brunette informed her, she took Clarke’s fingers in her own, an action that Clarke was wholly unprepared for and while Lexa was concentrated on pointing out the flecks of teal oil paint embedded in her cuticles and under the nail of her index finger, Clarke was trying to remember how to breath. “Oh.”

Lexa hummed and went back to separating her laundry.

“I was interviewing for the art department at The Ark, this morning,” the blonde admitted, confirming Lexa’s guess and digging out the paint with her tongue licking at her lips. It was there from the weekend, when, after a tense phone call with Abby, she had retreated to the space room stacked with messy canvases and drop sheets to take her frustrations out. Raven had peered around the doorframe hours later with coffee but Clarke had taken the beverage and wished her away, irritably. It hadn’t been a good day. “Not that I’m going to get in now.”

“Are you any good?”

“Are you good at lawyering,” Clarke countered.

The woman looked somewhat offended – Clarke wondered how few people had called her abilities into question before. The challenge ticked in the muscles of her jaw, “touché.”

“So, Lexa,” Clarke gathered herself. She emphasised the syllables and Lexa laughed, a short sound, hidden behind her teeth so that it sounded like a hiss, but the blonde took it as a personal victory. She wanted to tell Lexa it was pretty, she wanted to tell Lexa she was pretty but it felt like too much so she left the words chewing on her lips where she would keep them until it was safe. “No court today?”

Work, she thought, work was safe. “Would have thought you’d be out scouring for evidence and examining the defence.” She was bluffing, she didn’t know the first thing about how lawyers worked or what an assistant district attorney did other than what she had seen on ‘Suits’ – Raven had had her binge the series with her because ‘Meghan Markle’s hot’ and Clarke had been inclined to agree. She, however, had nothing on ADA Lexa. But with the way she saw the tension leach out of Lexa’s stance, shoulders melting like wax into her shoulder blades, she decided her knowledge-less babble was worth it if Lexa kept shaking her head like that, fond and exasperated so that her hair shifted around the nape of her neck. “Day off,” she closed the door of the front-loading machine and pressed the buttons to make it churn to life, settling her hip on the edge of the machine whilst it filled with sudsy water. She folded her arms to her chest, her sweater shifting around her frame – taut muscles and wry strength, Clarke could see it in the flex of her biceps – and hooked her ankles over each other, tilting her head to look at Clarke.

“Which means laundry day?” the artist asked, unimpressed. She imagined someone like Lexa to be built for the glamour of cleaning ladies and brunching on her days off, peruse court notes in her sleek outfits between sips of a macchiato. But Lexa shook her head. “Plumbing’s broken.”

“Call a plumber.”

“I’m not exactly living the high life, Clarke,” the way her lips wrapped around her name make Clarke weak. “I’m waiting on a friend to fix it. Contrary to popular belief law school isn’t easy on the bank.”

Clarke scoffed. “You should try med school.”

“I assume you have?”

“For a while,” the blonde shrugged, her brows contorted and she puckered her lips. “Wasn’t my thing, I don’t suit hospital scrubs. They’re ill-fitting, not as flattering as my mother made them out to be.” The scrunch of her nose quirked her lips up and Lexa laughed like the melody of rain on the window panes, she wanted to bottle it, keep it on her shelf like fireflies in a childhood bedroom. “Still,” Clarke clacked her heels and faked nonchalance, “surely someone like you isn’t wallowing in laundry on a day off? No big plans?”

Lexa smiled, eyebrow raised suggestively – Clarke wondered how they had gone from barbed comments over washing machines to ill-concealed flirting but it suited her. “Someone like me?”

“Hush,” Clarke demanded.

Lexa watched her sideways through her lashes. “No plans,” she conceded.

“Would you like to rectify the situation?”

Lexa frowned in question.

“Coffee?” Clarke asked boldly. Between them the machines gurgled unattractively, whirring in the stagnant air of the laundromat and Clarke was reminded that she was picking up a girl in her button-down blouse and panties. Score one for Griffin, she thought, grinning.

“You used my machine,” Lexa reminded her, bird-mouthed and arms crossed.

“Wow,” Clarke clucked, taken aback, “okay.” She shrugged. “Apology coffee, then?”

“You’re incorrigible.”

“Is that a yes?”

Lexa nodded and her smile was beautiful, rare and as exotic as her name and the proud arch of her cheekbones and the line of her jaw. “If you’re paying.”

#Clexaweek2018 #Day 1 #Meet Ugly #clexa #fic #aesthetic #clarke isn't wearing pants #lexa isn't impressed

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strngher-archived · 3 years

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ROBIN BUCKLEY

but thirteen for robin buckley? meant realizing that she was never going to be normal. that she wasn’t going to be the kind of girl hawkins would be quick or easy to accept. it was at a friend’s thirteenth birthday party that she knew she couldn’t go back. a party that she found herself tucking away in a corner so that she didn’t get caught, so that somehow the girls didn’t read her mind.

why couldn’t she have a crush on steve harrington like every other girl in the room did?

robin had always been a tomboy. from the age of five, she threw herself into soccer, playing every season both with school teams and with summer leagues. her parents were ecstatic. it meant that their little girl with way too much energy had an outlet... an outlet that might actually get her somewhere in life, might score her a scholarship. but her future was the last thing on her mind. she just wanted to play, just wanted to kick a ball, run around, and make sure that her entire world revolved around her team and the game. it made it easier as she grew up, easier to pretend that anything weird she felt was just part of the adrenaline of the game.

something changed her junior year of highschool. it was like a switch flipped and her give a damn broke. her sixteenth birthday brought some kind of coming to terms with who she was. it was... kind of refreshing in a way. she was gay. lesbian. and even if she wasn’t willing to let the world know, she was willing to accept it. she was willing to accept the fact that she had a crush on tammy thompson, that nancy wheeler was only prissy because she was cute and had this little button nose, and that the girl who sat in front of her in english would be nice to hug. even if she kept it to herself, it was nice to just be, nice to exist, good to just be okay with the girl she’d grown into. to cement it? in the comfort of her room with the radio turned up to ten, robin took a needle dipped in ink and gave herself a stick and poke tattoo that was a little better than any sort of home job should be. just a small symbol of venus on her inner left ankle. something no one would notice unless they were looking for it, but something that would remind her to be herself. to be comfortable in her skin. to give up trying to be someone she could never be.

and maybe her life would have continued down that sort of normalcy. if she hadn’t taken a job at scoops ahoy, the most interesting thing about her would have been an obsession with languages, a tattoo no one knew existed, and her gay little secret. but no... she had to take a summer job at scoops ahoy and meet steve harrington and realize that, even if he was a complete idiot, he was best friend status. and he had his own weird shit going on in his life.

when had hawkins lost its chill?

#♛ ･ﾟ: * ROBIN | META ↳ ι wanтed нer тo looĸ aт мe

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sleepynegress · 7 years

Note

I'd love to hear your opinions on A Wrinkle in Time :)

OH BOY!!!!

*jumps up and down excitedly*

A few sentences and then bullets, because they help organize my scattered thoughts…

Once upon a time around 11 years ago, I ran a rinky-dink blogger blog that was all about fangirling media …mostly films.

I can’t tell you how many posts I wrote about the need for not just basic representation, but expansive representation in entertainment.

In other words, not just limited to comedy, “black niche”, action, side-kicks, villains, and sitcoms… but period projects, where black characters weren’t slaves or servants (I specifically mentioned Dido Elizabeth Belle as a great possible subject and I got to see Belle happen!) and especially genre, LEADING roles in major tentpole projects, with the budget and cross-cultural/international push that has always typically gone to white-lead projects.

…And here I am, alive to see A Wrinkle in Time and Black Panther happen next year. :’)

So, here are my bulleted reasons why this is awesome, and why I shed actual tears just seeing the damn trailer…

Ava DuVernay, has the eye for not only filming resonant emotional intimacy on camera, but also to capture the beauty of color, not just backgrounds and sets, but skin. …And so many so-called pros have failed in that. So, I know I get to see those gorgeous gold/red/brown hues of the skin on people of color actually “glow” on the big screen…I have honestly, never seen Mindy Kaling’s skin look as radiant as those two seconds in the trailer

Meg!!!!! She’s played by an unknown young actor. Storm Reid, who only had one other small, but resonant role in 12 Years a Slave. Storm Reid, a black girl, a black child is being given the same “discovery” opportunity that so many fresh white actors have gotten over the years. And is the first to do so in such a high-budget tentpole fantasy production.

MIXED RACE LEADING FAMILY!! I reblogged a post earlier that asserted the existence of interracial relationships are not innately advancing. And that is absolutely true. We would not have so many Black Americans and Black Latinos of various hues and mixes descended from enslavement if that were the case. And even today, people bring whatever racial baggage they have to ALL of their interactions. However, a mixed family existing in this particular context, being seen all over the world with regular human challenges and just being a family in a major international film is advancing. It exposes people to people; it embodies the idea of film and tv being an “empathy machine”. …Allowing people to identify, possibly even against their will with ‘the other’ (see: the racist fan who ID’d with Uhura in Star Trek TOS who disavowed that hateful life because of it). It also means the world to the growing number of mixed-race families out there, reflecting us more accurately.

The women. I’ve been a fan of Ms. Reese since Legally Blonde, even moreso, now because she has her own production company to specifically seek out works by women to produce. Mindy Kaling, the dark-skinned Indian-American woman who has written her own show, becoming the first woman of her nationality and hue(!) to reach those heights in Hollywood, and Oprah… the epitome of black woman’s power. Directed by Ava DuVernay, the first black woman to gain the kind of power that so many before her have earned, directing this massively funded Disney blockbuster-name brand fantasy (hopefully) franchise.

I remember seeing the TV movie A Wrinkle in Time, and I was assigned the book to read in grade school (I’ll admit, I only checked those SparkNotes). It was a decent watch, but was visually small for the ideas presented. This feels as expansive as the” fantasy science” deserves.

The best Chris is in this… I guarantee Chris Pine begged his agent to do this movie because he was already a fan of Selma and wanted to work with Ava (most of us have seen him crying at the Academy Awards over the Selma presentation). Chris has taste. Also, given the reputation of more than a few self-indulgent and cruel, white male directors who somehow still keep getting work, I bet he was grateful to work with pros who weren’t like that (in Patti Jenkins and Ava Duvernay).

I am a woman who is a “genuine fan” of films in the genre, I’m talking everything from Krull to Howl’s Moving Castle. I was a black girl who always loved these films despite them lacking any semblance of my reflection (hey, that empathy machine!). And now, I’m a middle-aged black woman who finally gets to see that reflection, that child who loved this so much, exist as a lead in her favorite genre. :’)

#a wrinkle in time #meta #ask #also it's small but... reese's hair #it's fishtailed #this is how you do 'exotic' hair on white women in fantasy settings #without appropriating

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what-soul · 7 years

Text

My life story

I was born November 10, 1995 at 2:03 AM in Baltimore, Maryland. From what I can remember from my dad's "birthday story", nothing too significant happened. My parents were in their early 20s and I'm fairly sure they weren't prepared for the financial responsibility, because I've been told they sold my mom's CD collection and we ate PB&J and other filler staple foods. I'm pretty sure that's why I can't stand the idea of a PB&J sandwich - I had too many as a kid. We lived in Ducketts Lane in Elkridge, soon joined by some of my cousins who I grew up with. I remember a nasty, broken toilet in a basement with wood paneling and willow trees off in the corner. There was only 3-story townhouses there.

Ginny was born, and my dad realized that if he wanted to be in the military, he had to join before he had more than 2 kids. So he was at training camp when Katie was born, doing crazy stuff like swimming with 50 lb backpacks and running through chemical fumes without a mask. We moved around during this time, I think to Tennessee and Kentucky? I have no memories beyond a pre-K daycare (where I made a scarecrow with brads for joints) and the neighbors having those electric kid-sized cars.

In Kindergarten I went to Rockburn Elementary at 4, due to Maryland's strange age cutoff at the time. All I remember was that our class was near the entrance, the room was big and empty in the middle, and a caterpillar once pooped on my hand while I was admiring it on the playground. I don't remember anyone from the class. First grade is a blank, but second grade...

The second grade area was a bunch of dynamic classrooms with vibrantly colored sliding walls and a larger central area where we could buy lunch. They offered either a special that day or pizza, but I usually brought a packed lunch. I remember playing mandala with a tomboy of a black girl who scraped her knee once and showed us how it was getting puss. That's where I met Nicholas Eagles, who was my best friend for the year. I'd go over to his house every week or two where we played the pokemon card game and some Nintendo games. He had a pogo stick, but I couldn't figure out how to use it. At one point, we climbed up the big evergreens in his front yard and I fell, getting caught by branches a couple feet below. He once admitted that he thought I was gross when he first met me, though I don't know why.

Then we moved to Pennsylvania for my third year in school. I don't remember our house but I remember the area. It was next to a small pond with cattails and the backyard led to a huge patch of undeveloped land. We found some kids playing there far away, and I became friends with the older brother who enjoyed hacking together weird electronics. There I got into Yugioh. Ginny's hermit crab died and we had a fancy funeral for it, complete with a coffin made of mud bricks molded from legos. Our parents bought a wooden playground, I think?

I don't remember much from school, just some event snippets. Bits of hallways filled with seasonal candles in bags, monthly school events like a Jim Henson style play about how drugs are bad, an uninviting cafeteria... I know I was called "booger boy" for picking my nose, but I've lost the emotional context. According to my parents, I had problems with my teachers because the Pennsylvania 3rd grade curriculum was the same as the Maryland 2nd grade curriculum, and I liked to be the teacher's pet. I'd raise my hand for every question because I always knew the answer and wanted to say it, which annoyed the teachers because they wanted the other kids to have a chance. School was apparently bad enough that we moved at the end of the year to West Virginia.

I had started the gifted program in 2nd grade, but I remember absolutely nothing from then. For 3rd grade, I remember I was called out of class some days of the week to go to a room for a gifted class, but don't remember anything. For 4th grade, all I remember was the room we went to and that I had a very hard time with math and remembering the names of shapes.

It was Shepherdstown Elementary School, and we mostly did stuff in the 4th-5th grade hallway, which I remember very well. The walls were lined with lockers and there were... 6? classes total. In 4th grade I only remember an older teacher I had for English, in which we read Roald Dahl books. I think she was a hardass but I have no especially bad memories of her.

In 5th grade I had M(r)s. Lawrence at least, and Mr. Ebersol for gifted. I remember my friends better for this time than in 4th, even though they're probably the same. They were all in gifted for some reason. There was Levi Spickler, who was more of a rival than a friend. Sam Yates, a girl with bushy brown hair who hated chocolate and loved zucchini bread. Arlo, he was best friends with Levi and a very funny and sociable kid. His hair was perpetually messy, like a big brown afro almost. The only thing I distinctly remember from him was a joke he started saying "je veux une omelette du fromage", which is French for "I want a cheese omelette". No idea why that was funny, if it was. Then there was Merideth, an athletic girl who was a bit of an early bloomer.

Most of my memories were from the gifted class. We once acted out commercials, including one, "Don't be sad, get GLAD for all your kitchen garbage needs!" We would enact plays such as A Midsummer Night's Dream. Or even write our own plays; one Levi wrote included a joke that flew completely over my head about a girl being "rapped on the head", to which everyone started knocking on the table with their knuckles.

In Ms. Lawrence's class we once made our own peanut butter chocolate candies for Halloween... That's all I got.

From 6th to 8th I was in Sheperdstown Middle School, less than a mile away from the Elementary School. I remember the layout of the building fairly well, but there are some fuzzy areas. It was mostly one long hallway going left and right from the entrance with some hallways jutting out from the forward direction. I remember Ms. Carter, a science teacher who adored me. She was a very large red-head who liked to wear excessive make-up and had a Ms. Frizzle vibe to her teaching methods. By this point I loved science, so I relished in raising my hand for every question. She eventually made a running joke out of it, saying she needed to call "1-800 dial a Robert!"

Next to Ms. Carter's room was a ramp down into a secluded area with a few classrooms, one of which was my... history class, and somewhere in that area was my sign language class. Or was it English? Gifted class was in a hallway directly in front of the entrance with Mrs. Wagner across the hall from the touch typing classroom. I mostly remember learning English, particularly the roots of words.

Then there was Mr... Marcin? An older science teacher who had a very dry, even cynical sense of humor but seemed to genuinely care about his job. And Mrs... Tracey? The 8th grade science teacher. I remember the cafeteria very well, as well as the gym - it was burned into my brain by the Pacers, an exercise we did twice a week where we'd run from one side of the gym to the other with increasing frequency.

In the 7th grade, my parents divorced. From what I can gather, my mom had caught my dad cheating multiple times, and then my dad caught her cheating with my stepdad. Of course, these were symptoms and the official explanation. Underlying that were personality incompatibilities, my mom's stress from generalized anxiety disorder without medication and raising 4 kids vs my dad's stress working a billion minimunm wage jobs just to support us. Abandonment issues, personal insecurities, projection, the works.

I know that when they announced it, they sat us all on the couch and told us about it very seriously. I barely remember it, but the memory paints it as feeling like a dream. From there, my mom moved into the basement while she found work (she was laid off) and housing while my dad bought a dog (Zoey) to fill the void. Eventually my mom moved to a rinky-dink apartment and later to a nice townhouse, and we went to each parent's house in shifts over the week.

9th grade... Was at Shepherdstown Highschool. I remember the cafeteria, a taller guy I was friends with, the entrance being near the library. That's all.

At this point my dad was laid off from his job as a professor at some university. In searching for another professor position, he had the option of going to New Mexico or Wyoming; he chose the former. After a few months of convincing, I decided to move out with him over the Summer for the opportunity of going to a good school and good college.

The time I spent from 10-12th grade blurs together. I remember quite a few teachers and classmates, but not when and where I knew them. The teachers I remember are my Spanish teacher (native speaker), Ms. McCoy (art teacher), Mr. B? (Chemistry teacher, very eccentric), Mr. Smith (science and CS teacher), Mr. DeWitt (AP Biology, he had extreme standards), and the dreaded Mr. Evans. Hello, yes? He tried to fail me out of high school by demanding that I not be allowed to take a replacement English class to substitute the grade I got in his.

The people I knew, I knew only some names and the rest were archetypes. Al of course, Ryan Sun (an asian guy who took it upon himself to become my rival, which unintentionally became a kind of bullying as I was too depressed to cope). For some reason I remember Kim Wong, another asian girl who was always near the top of the class. And Stephanie, I think her last name was something like Dijkstra, who I think was even better at programming than I was. Beyond them, the archetypes I remember were * a crazy-fun drug supplier who had some issues with her parents * a larger hispanic guy who had a very negative vibe and introduced me to Johnny the Homicidal Maniac * one girl from art who was like 7 feet tall but had normal proportions, so she looked like a mini-giant

At the same time, I was going to UNM for dual-enrollment, mostly math. My relationship with my dad was deteriorating; teen angst, stress from moving, depression, and lack of mutual understanding. Eventually he relented to getting me a therapist, which ended up being a (late) PhD child psychologist. I stopped seeing her when I turned 18 and went into college. To get away from my dad, I moved into the UNM dorms.

Sometime around here was when I got my first job as a student worker. First a temp job moving boxes, then as an IT admin assistant, and finally data entry and call redirection. Over the Summer I got a job with one of my mom's coworkers helping him research hobby electronics so he could make the most of his free time. All of these were full of shame because I didn't feel like I was working hard enough to justify the pay, and they all ended in ways I took personally. At the time they confirmed to myself all of my personal failings and screamed back that I was a loser who couldn't do anything right.

I think this is around the time my mom married my stepdad, and my dad married Kaya for tax reasons. Eventually they separated and Lindsey came in; they married a couple years later. I liked both stepmoms, and had no problem with remarrying. My stepdad however, I didn't dislike, but I found a very large disconnect with him. He clearly didn't enjoy children, and had a difficult time expressing emotions which made him extremely intimidating. There were even some interactions which unintentionally shattered my confidence, as he was a programmer and I thought I could talk to him about that.

College was a blur. I met up with Al again in a sociology class we shared, and through him and his sister Sarah, I made two more friends: Ariel and Tristan. They were the best friends I remember having, though it was mostly through Al. We shitposted about My Little Pony and Arnold Palmer tea. The first semester I passed, barely. I think I failed the next semester and planned to kill myself at the end because I thought my life was ruined. I exploded and told my dad that I hadn't taken any of my antidepressants. I ended up moving back in with my dad. My sisters had moved in by that time. Our relationship only strained more, and I exploded at him telling him "fuck you", to which he kicked me out. I moved in with Tristan.

There my depression stewed. My eczema got especially bad without my topical steroid, and I isolated more and more. Tristan's dad talked to me often about stoicism, philosophy, and project management. He pursued stoicism as his best virtue, taking on all the burdens of the world. When I talked to him, it always felt like he was a diamond under immense pressure that would shatter if the pressure was relieved. It seemed like he was using my stay as an extra mouth to feed to increase the stress he was under on purpose, so I eventually worked up the courage to go back to college.

I think I did one semester, passing barely again. Then at some point, Al realized I was taking the group's sarcastic jibes personally and was codependent on them. He told me he didn't want to be responsible for giving me pain and that we shouldn't be friends. From there, I avoided everyone from that group, going so far as to make large detours to avoid spotting them. I was too afraid to face them any longer. The next semester, I went to the first few classes, then became a hikikomori for the rest of the semester, only leaving my room for food and the bathroom. I didn't want to live, but I didn't have the will to kill myself either.

That state broke when it was revealed that I had failed all my classes. My dad took me back in, with similar tensions. I visited my mom for the Summer and saw a therapist/psychiatrist named Dr. Goodman. She had my half-sister Marlena.

By sheer luck, I got a job as a administration assistant at a company my cousin Alex worked at, Engage. He presented it in terms of reprogramming their database stack, but I knew I wasn't there for that. Still, I insisted on writing scripts to do the extremely tedious job of pressing buttons in the right sequence to print the mailing labels by the thousands. At some point I accidentally managed to fuck up not once, but twice. The first was caught, but the second made it all the way to the post office where they charged a fee for every incorrectly labeled mail, probably costing thousands of dollars. I was let go soon after for personality conflicts and because I wasn't taking my time, doing things too fast so mistakes were easy to make.

I was offered a replacement job in the data entry department, which I was very reluctant to take because I wanted to run away from the whole thing and forget the wild emotions. I got it, learned the ropes, and did that for a couple months during the 2016 election (which made lots of mail), all the while getting less and less stable as I began to see the job as a symbol of my failure as a person. As I saw it, it was the job I was moved to out of pity because any hobo off the streets could deliver identical work, and yet I was still struggling and felt ashamed because no one else had any problems. I ran out of my medications and that spiral plummeted and I felt the need to quit because what work I did on the clock was terrible and I frequently had to clock out to keep from clawing my eyes out. Every day I went in was sheer agony, which I'd compare to mentally tearing off each fingernail one by one. It was exploding with shame, panic, anxiety, fear, self-hatred, and tedium.

Unfortunately no one in my family saw it that way. Everyone seemed to think I just didn't want to do my job because I "didn't like it". I tried to tell them that I "just couldn't" go in anymore, but all I got back was that I have to. I didn't. More shame. It doubly confirmed the fears I already had, that the job was more important than I was. I suffered this pain every day and yet it was more important that I bear it and lose my mind rather than lose the job. Talk about worthless.

Eventually it came to a point where Goodman seemed to think I wasn't depressed and was manipulating my parents into giving me a free ride. My parents expressed their fear that "if I dropped him off at a shelter, I'd never see him again", which stung. I didn't want to live and everyone around me wanted me to work to live no matter the cost. I would thoughtlessly mention euthanization as a viable option. So, she was right to fear that. More shame from being such a failure as to put such responsibility and pain on my parents. That day I spent an hour seriously thinking about killing myself despite my hesitation, reasoning that I was a parasite on my family and the only way to relieve them of my burden was to relieve them of me. Whatever pain I caused by dying would pale in comparison to the pain I'd cause by living. I wondered if any excuse I had against this plan was a selfish desire to continue living in spite of the pain of others. I never went much farther beyond that, though.

Eventually my parents convinced Goodman to send me to Sierra Tucson. There, I learned about trauma, the distinction between shame and guilt, codependency, and the importance of friendship. I felt awakened, as if from a coma, and first time in my life, I enjoyed living for its own sake. I was transferred to Crownview Co-Occurring Institute for Intensive Out-Patient, where I regressed some due to it being a less supportive environment. Still, I learned how to deal with adversity in reality, particularly overcoming my issues with authority, defensiveness, a need to be right all the time, and how to take criticism without taking it personally.

During recovery, Katie had my niece Aurora. Most of the effect of that was from watching how other people reacted and interpreting the underlying reasons. I believe Katie refused an abortion/adoption because she intended to use Aurora to assert her maturity and capacity to be responsible to my dad and Lindsey, who had a tendency to micromanage her which led to teenage rebellion. What's sad about that is I think she lacks self-care emotionally and mentally, and now she won't ever have an opportunity to work on herself because she'll be working on her kid. In trying to appear more mature, she destroyed any chance of reaching maturity healthily. Now she's still struggling to break free of them, seeing all of their "suggestions" (which, to be fair, are stated more as commands) as personal attacks, saying she isn't capable of taking care of her symbol of adulthood.

And now I'm in R&R. I don't know where I'm going from here.

#life story

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toogaytowrite · 7 years

Text

I Met The Devil

So, I work at this rinky dink hole in the wall bar in Texas. Everyone just calls it the Spur. Even I don't know if it has a real name beyond that. When I say this place is in the middle of nowhere, I mean the middle of the flatlands, where you can drive for an hour and see nothing but pump jacks. Oilfield worker is about the only job you can get out here, so the patronage is comprised of rowdy good ol boys, coveralls stained with black oil and stinking to high heaven. Sometimes they bring their wives, most of them come here to avoid their wives.

It gets busy on the weekends- it's the only place to get a drink for miles after all. Other times its basically empty. Very few people will drive out here on a Tuesday evening to drink alone. I've spent a lot of my shifts just flipping through the channels on the tv above the bar or dumping spare change into the jukebox. Just me and the bright blinking light outside. Thing gives me a headache, but when it goes dark for a few seconds, rotating through the light bulbs, the outside is pitch black. You pretty much rely on the thing to see at night, so you're thankful for it when you're trying to find your car keys.

Anyway, it was a Monday and everything had slowed to a complete crawl, compared to the ruckus of Saturday and Sunday night. Just me, once again, sitting behind the bar, with no one but the late night televangelists to keep me company. Some old guy just reading bible passages and explaining them. It was either that or infomercials, even the television nightlife is non-existent here. Why the owner keeps the place open on weekdays, well, your guess is a good as mine. We barely make enough money to keep that big ass light outside on.

Normally, you hear the cars pull up before the tinkle of the bells on the door. Again, we are in the middle of bumfuck nowhere, and the nearest house is several miles away. Way too far for anyone to walk. The purr of engines and tires on gravel are the warnings I get that a customer is coming in. It gives me a chance to put on my bubbly bar girl face, otherwise I'm thoroughly checked out.

I heard the bells first. I didn't think that was much cause for alarm, just that I must have been having one of my boredom induced out of body experiences and missed the car noises. That, or after three years working here, I'd finally found the man crazy enough to walk ten miles of dirt road to get a stiff drink. The guy that came in was a face I hadn't seen before. Late forties, a little salt in his pepper, he looked like the older men in those commercials for 'enhancement' pills.

Anyway, he wasn't half bad looking. I've never been into the Dukes of Hazzard types that occupied the bar, and having some minor daddy issues has contributed to my major kink in older guys. He took a seat at the bar and I fumbled to look like I wasn't a slob, tuck my hair back into a ponytail, stuff my shirt back into my jeans, casually give myself a sniff to make sure my twelve hour melon scented deodorant was still doing its job. I smelled something weird, but I couldn't tell if it was me or the new guy. Must have been him.

He ordered a scotch half a second before I asked what he'd like. I wasn't even sure if we had any top shelf stuff like that, considering most of our income was made off of shitty watered down beer. We did, and he thanked me when I set his glass on a coaster in front of him. At this point, the preacher on tv had reached the part of his sermon where he demonized “heathen sodomites” and the crowd were shouting amens. I asked if he wanted to watch something else (as if there was anything else to watch), he just smiled and shook his head. Told me it was fine and called me darling. I muted it anyway- the preacher's flapping jowls were getting on my nerves.

“You know he touches kids.” His words caught me a little offguard, but as I possess a notoriously dark sense of humor, I laughed anyway. Partly because I found it funny, mostly out of surprise for the out of the blue statement.

“Yeah, they all do,” I said. He gestured with his glass to an alter boy on the corner of the stage, who the camera never lingered long on.

“He takes that one up to room, has him sit naked on the bed. Thinks as long as he doesn't touch himself then it's not an affront to God.”

I chuckled- I wasn't sure what else to say to that other than, “Yeah. Heh.” and pretend like I had work to do. I ducked behind the bar, acting like I was grabbing a drink so I could let my mouth hang open in shock, mouth “oh my God” to myself, then took a moment to regain my composure before I came back up. How does someone even react to that? That was too dark, even for me. When my head poked back up, he'd set a few bills on the counter, and was smirking at me. Thinking about that look still makes my hair stand on end.

“Share a drink with me.”

I reached for any excuse I could think of, and there were quite a few I could have given. It was against the rules to drink on the job, for one, for two, he had seriously thrown me with the kid diddling anecdote, and for three, I don't share drinks with guys I just met. But he moved his hand a little, and it was then I saw Benjamin Franklin's pursed lip stare looking up at me from the face of a hundred dollar bill. I've done a lot worse for a tip that big. I popped the cap off the least alcoholic beer I could find and our glasses clinked together. He drank deeply from his cup, I only took a cautious sip of mine.

We talked. He seemed nice, a far cry from the types I'm used to around these parts. He didn't once slip into a rant about Muslims, spit chewing tobacco down the neck of my bottle, and I got the impression he didn't have a single Confederate flag bumper sticker on his car or “Pro Life, Pro God, Pro Guns, Palin for VP” shirt in his wardrobe. He was downright charming. I even made him laugh a few times.

I'd almost forgotten about the preacher comment by the time he turned his attention back to the television.

He was still yapping about something, literally thumping his bible as he lectured on the evils of the world. Whenever his gaze ventured off camera, I had to wonder what he was looking at- was it a member of the audience or the little boy, standing motionless as a statue on stage with him?

The next words out of his mouth were, “What do you think is a good punishment for child molesters?” I nearly shot beer out of my nose. I covered my mouth before I sprayed it all over his face and forced myself to swallow. I asked why he wanted to know. He simply shrugged. “Curiosity. Humor me.”

I didn't have to think about it long. “Chemical castration has always been a favorite of mine.”

“Even that's too good for them,” he said. Those were pretty much the exact words I had in mind, but didn't want to say, on the off chance they made me sound bitter or spiteful. Which I'll admit, I am.

“Short of spending their entire lives in prison, getting their salads tossed by someone bigger than them, the only truly fitting punishment I can think of is if they eat a bullet. He could fall off stage right now and break his own neck in front of his flock. My mom used to say they deserve to get a railroad spike driven through their dicks and pushed backwards.”

“Kary must have a colorful imagination.”

Now, my mother's name is Karyn. Everyone calls her Karyn. She's got a hardon for authority and being in control, so she makes sure everyone practices the formality of calling her Karyn. The only people in this world who call my mother Kary are my father and the friends she's had since high school.

Naturally I wanted to know how he knew this.

“Because I'm the Devil.” He said with such casual sincerity, I could only stare blankly at him. When no chuckle or “aha gotcha” moment came, I could only scoff something that almost sounded like a laugh and pull my beer closer to myself. He didn't seem the type to slip something into my drink, but if those kinds of guys looked like the date rapists they were, they would be a hell of a lot easier to avoid. Anyone who just claimed to the Devil had to be some kind of crazy, right? My paranoia was pretty damn merited I think.

“Yeah, and I'm a Mesopotamian death goddess.”

“Well, it's nice to formally make your acquaintance, Nergal.” He downed the rest of his scotch and stood. Let me just say, claiming you're the Devil is not the weirdest thing a drunk guy has told me in that bar. Doesn't even crack the top ten. Of all the drunk sputum I've overheard in my years working there, this, while unsettling, was not that bad in comparison to the time a guy started crying over a bowl of salted pretzels because of something to do with bread yeast. I was fully prepared to brush it off as just him screwing with me, but I don't know. Something in his eyes made me question it. Now, whether I believe in all that fire and brimstone crap, I have to wonder.

He took my hand and shook it. “You're a good kid, Laura. Thanks for indulging me.”

I don't wear a nametag. I hadn't told him my name either. If he knew my mother's nickname, it wasn't that much of a leap to think he might know mine as well, but I instantly prickled. I thought he must have stalked me to learn these things. What other explanation did I have?

As he turned to leave and I opened my mouth to speak, the TV's sound came blaring back into existence, at a much higher volume than when I'd muted it. The sound hit my ears like speakers screeching on either side of my head. I dove for the remote to turn it down as the preacher pounded his bible on the podium with the force of a judge banging his gavel.

“We are all sinners!” He cried. “We are unworthy of God's love, we have not earned it! We do not seek it! On this planet of six billion lives, do you think the almighty cares for you ants? You spineless microbes? There is only one force on this earth that gives a damn whether we live or die, and folks, I would like to introduce you to him tonight.” It sounded, it looked nothing like the man I'd been watching only an hour ago, before the stranger arrived. There was the same feverish passion, but the way he moved. No longer was he strutting the stage with that Man of God swagger, like nothing in the world could harm him because he had God's love protecting him. He sloshed around like a drunk. Like a doll on the strings of a careless puppeteer. And he laughed.

He wouldn't stop laughing- this high pitched, hyena laughter that settled a chill in your bones. I've never heard a man make that sound before or since then. He threw his back in an almost grotesque contortion as his entire body shook with laughter. I heard something that, looking back now, I think might have been his spine popping into the mic. He drew in one long breath at the end of this laughing fit. He exhaled. There was a moment of stillness, where even the crowd's murmurs hushed.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began. It wasn't his voice either. It was no one voice. It was like a dozen speaking in perfect unison. He calmly reached up to his mic stand and with one sharp twist, unscrewed the microphone and the clip holding it in place, leaving the metal exposed. “I'll see you all in Hell.”

He dropped the microphone and drove the pipe straight into his skull. The wet squelch as it skewered through his left eyeball and sunk deep into his skull grew distant when the mic fell and thumped to the floor. It was only there for a millisecond, but its a sound I'll never forget.

The camera twisted off kilter, the crew rushed the stage, the silhouettes of the crowd as they shot out of their seats in a panic obscured most of the scene. And he was laughing. Even as he collapsed to the ground, fingers still white knuckled around the metal, he was laughing. I felt nausea hit me almost instantly. Blood pooled around his head, but I could only see flashes in between all the people flocking to his side to tend to him. Like they could do anything to help. He laughed, he thrashed, he went still. I could no longer hear laughter behind the screaming crowd pleading for God, God help him, oh Lord why. The bells pulled me away from the screen long enough to see the stranger's back vanish through the door. I ran after him, your guess is as good as mine what I could have done if I caught up. Though I was little more than a few feet behind him, by the time I wrenched the door open and threw myself outside, he was halfway across the parking lot. He was near the road. The eyesore lights burned brightly, reaching their peak, then went dark at the single most inopportune time. In that short beat of complete darkness, all I could hear was that gut wrenching off air shriek as the televangelist's channel cut the feed. When the lights flicked back to life, he was gone. There was nothing but miles of flatland and the few distant dots of pump jacks.

The next day I saw the preacher's face gracing a newspaper at the gas station. The local paper had only good things to say about him, calling his death a tragedy, calling him an inspiration of faith, but a cursory search online found several articles citing the discovery of his child pornography ring as the possible reason for his public suicide. Turns out the police found an external hard drive in his office with well over a thousand pictures of kids in compromising positions. Twelve victims, reports said. Obviously they can't release names, but I can't get that alter boy's hollow eyes out of my mind. I'm almost sure he must have been one of them.

Haven't seen Mr Devil since then. No one at the Spur believes me, and my mom just wrote him off a crazy person when I spoke to her about it. Hell, if I didn't have the news clippings to prove at least part of it happened, I would think I nodded off on the job and had some crazy dream. It happened. And sometimes, when I sit and turn over everything I saw that night, (which is often) I can smell that odd scent again. It goes right to my head as if he was standing right in front me. I couldn't place it then, but the more I think about it, the more I start to realize that the stranger in the bar that night smelled like something burning.

I can't say what. I'm not sure I want to know.

#this was supposed to go up on r nosleep but i fucknkmgs chickened out #writers on tumblr #short story #horror #the gay writes stuff #tw child abuse #tw alchohol mention

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