#MISTY GEE

[demento-mori]

it actually makes me so goddamn angry when i remember how much hate iris gets.

[babacontainsmultitudes]

AHOY! AT LAST CHAPTER 2 OF ME GLENNRY PIRATE FIC HAS ARRIVED! :] Thank you for your patience lovely people who read and enjoyed the first chapter. And if you haven’t read the first chapter, well, it’s never too late to set sail and join in on the adventure!

[blossyossyossy]

You know a song is truly iconic when it reminds you of several ships

[oncewhenalongtimeago]

Moss Clause and Tawny Hause

Pairing: Lycanwing!Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III x Werewolf!Reader

Words: 2,561

He is sick. He runs away and never comes back.

Tags: flashback, runaway Hiccup, ship metaphor, shifter metaphor, suggestive content, Hiccup’s POV

He coughed, something wet and thick catching in his throat and ripping against its soft lining, blinking tiredly between hot fevers and cold flashes.

His vision was hazy as he reached up, fighting to see past dark shadows, cast by heavy shelves and closed wood-shutter windows. 

As he stretched, something in his chest tickled against his ribcage, where his body felt the most hot.

He fought against it.

The smell of smoke was thick all around him as he clutched at the edge of one, grasping upwards with blunt fingers, just barely able to get a hold of a thin, straight body, cool against his fingers.

The back of his hand ached- pulsed. 

It was sore. Stinging, almost.

He had to fight against tensing muscles, pulling the metal slip towards him just as the feeling in his chest became unbearable, his vision completely blurred, something sharp behind his eyes spearing an ache through whatever soft stuff must have been cradled between both sides of his head.

He coughed again, harder this time.

“Hiccup-”

Hiccup’s shoulders jumped, looking up at the man bashfully. He couldn’t remember his name- something with a ‘Gee,’ something to do with burps.

There is a man at the edge of the woods. You recognize that much past a half snarl, face distorted and bent into a million different, odd shapes, animal brain clouding human-like eye.

It smells like sea and distant ores, a flavor of taste you hardly recognize in portions that are unusual to you.

Your shoulders are hunched and your arms bristling with coarse fur, muscles contracting like the final throes of a new corpse, all memory and living spirit.

He stands just before the sea at the edge of a cliff. You can’t make out much besides the moon shining down on him, bouncing off tufty hairs and thick, stitched armors. 

Thick underbrush and mossy trees frame your way, though you don’t make any more to step forwards, not even as the man lets out a thick breath. You are filled with the urge to dance through firs and over moss, misty forests and dark night, to run under violent moon and whistle bloody ritual, wind whipping past scarred cheeks as you bluster your way through the woods.

You cannot understand him but you think there might be something in the slit of his eye. You wonder if he knows-these things tend to lie deep in wait for long times.

You dance.

“It was just the smoke,” He said quietly, voice high and nervous, nearly imperceptible but no less insistent. His father had said so last night- he’d said so while he had Hiccup laying over one large arm, blocking out the fires and carrying him away from the smoke and the screams and the scares, and then he’s brought Hiccup home and taken off his coat and shoes and put him to bed.

His father had gotten him away from it- but he didn’t think he’d seen it bite.

His father was larger than any mountain and stronger than any river current, of which Hiccup had fallen victim to about three times before, so he knew those well.

 Hiccup trusted him more than he trusted himself, despite having felt the way that something sharp found its way past thick gums and scratched at his hand and how smaller claws had pierced through his shirt and poked at his soft stomach, so he had thought he was fine despite the tiny, wiggling, tingly doubt teasing at dirt and hairs dusting the back of his neck.

He hid his hand behind his back, shuffling bashfully, clutching a straight, thin metal body tightly to his palm, his small thumb pressing against a thick nail’s head.

“Well, alright, boy, jus’ be careful… You don’t look too good.”

Was he allowed to show it? 

He doesn’t think as he flies. Time makes it mindless. 

He is far, far away now. At the realization, in his chest, some tension suddenly pulls and splits, almost gently, like a poorly spun line of yarn, thick and tuft-y.

 The town is new to him and very simple. All the woods are thatched and wood is interspersed with tangled weeds, weakening the border between wall and dirt floor. There is a fourth that seems more rubble than building. It has long since been abandoned.

 This place can hardly be called a town, with merely a set of maybe three huts set a number of uneven lengths away from each other.

This land, far away from the one he’d been born in, is a place made of wide plains and uneven hills, long grasses and very packed, dense forests scattered between in small patches. 

He falls ill-he is forced to stay, head fogged and stuffed to a pressure so deep he feels his head might burst, eyes closed and writhing, too hot under thin blankets and over a shallow bed frame and in an open hay shed.

Immobile, stuck, paused, this is the first time he is forced to look around in a long while- to truly look around.

He finds he can’t remember anywhere else- places and times blur together, it seems, when one is always in motion.

There is hardly any time to think of the beast- the one with scales or the one without, it hardly makes a difference. It will be a while before he can run again.

He dreams. Fear makes him see.

His dragon is missing. 

In the trees, there are eyes. It prickles the hairs on the back of his neck. It is dark, he runs. He is bitten.

There is a girl in the village.

She scurried past the others.

 Sometimes, when no one else is willing to touch, he’s blessed by the feel of a cool towel against his forehead, his neck.

Eventually, the fever clears enough for him to sit up- to see, for the first time, the crummy shed he’s been propped up in, with some real focus, at least.

He waits and stares at his hands, his knees under an old, patchy rag, shaped like it’s just been a small part ripped from a larger piece, then, called by the sound of skittering pebbles, his eyes are drawn back to the doorless doorway.

He thinks he's seen you, he knows he recognizes you. 

You hold a shallow basket in two hands, water dripping from the bottom and turning packed dirt darker with the threat of mud.

“Hello,” He says.

You speak in a language much different than his own. He doesn’t need to know what the words mean.

That is all that is needed. He will remember you for a long time.

The man was missing an arm and a leg and he was much taller than Hiccup, though who were near as tall as his father, with his crooked jaw- he wasn’t that neat, but he was loud and his father had liked him and he hadn’t found a reason to ever doubt his father.

His name was Gobber. It had to be.

They’d only just met, and his father had said to be on his best behavior.

“Uh-huh,” Hiccup said, feeling quite hot. The skin around his eyes felt sore as if he’d just cried, but he hadn’t. They wanted to shut.

This is the first time he has been out since he has been sick. 

Over your arm, with shaky legs, he looks into a puddle. It is a sunny day, the sky is blue, the winds are temperate, and he sees his reflection.

He doesn’t recognize himself.

His eyes are bagged and he is running a hand through his hair. He looks sick and he is pale. He’d grown much older than he realized, running.

His cheekbones have grown into themselves, his jaw is sleek. He’s already noticed the hair, the way his calves seem thicker, the new toughness of his muscles, lean and hardly visible still, though not so lanky anymore.

He is a man. Tall.

He finds that his troubles can’t reach him here. It’s peaceful. 

He finds that he likes it.

Despite what he knows of his great-grandad, language does not come easy to him. He doesn’t want it, either. It’s easier, sometimes, when there is less to say. 

He knows no words of yours, though you try to learn his.

He doesn’t see the point, so he doesn’t speak.

It makes him a silent man, standing at your back. He follows you, confused and aimless as a small duck.

His next words were lost between one sound and another, too quiet and too loud and all smooth, rising too much all at once. 

Hiccup thought he heard something about his father, about getting, though he wasn’t too worried. It sounded very normal.

Like wet paper, beneath him, the ground seemed to rise and mix and curl into the table’s legs and walls as Gobber marched away, in tune with the tempo of his peg leg.

He lifted up his hand, looking at the place where the flesh had raised nearly over the whole plane of the back of his hand and had grown discolored, split from over raw insides like plates of very, very dry mud. It was frightening- unusual-looking. Monstrous. 

You share a shed, bring him cooked food that he hunts and sometimes you brush his hair.

It is an empty place.

Besides you, there are two families left. In one of them, there is a young man.

Hiccup notices him in passing. 

 He is still outgrowing his lanky colt’s limbs, but he is obviously of a marriageable age. He has slightly tan skin. He works in the grasses, trousers bagged up to his knees, vest threaded shut. Children laugh and twirl around him. 

There is a younger girl- his sister. An older woman and an older man.

One night, when he is alone, Toothless is there. He snuck in the window -a new thing, one Hiccup’s put in himself- and it’s just him and his dragon and the hut.

He’s been looking for his dragon in between trees and when he is alone, over sprawling hills. It couldn’t have been too long, but then again, this is a timeless place. It has its own sort of magic.

The days never seem to change, even if the shifting seasons makes the air a temperature or two cooler. 

You are a timeless girl.

He wouldn’t mind spending the rest of his own time here.

While he isn’t paying attention, as he is scrubbing deeply at the nook where a scaled jaw becomes a twitching nub, you walk in.

He looks and you and you look at him and no words are ever spoken about it.

It’s something.

He’s never felt a thing like this before.

He feels lively.

Later, you sit beside him with one leg draped over his lap, fingers tracing the line of his jaw. He leans back with you, his arm around your waist, and feels something stirring in his lower stomach as you settle against his side. 

Toothless is laying on the ground nearby, panting, at ease.

He can feel the scruff at his chin brushing against your forehead. 

In this quiet town where nothing happens, he wondered if it is his difference -his newness- that draws you? Maybe you crave it. He doesn’t think he minds.

When you are alone, his dragon off to hunt in the seas, his saddle shed, he beds you for the first time.

He hopes he is quiet, which is enough consideration as he can muster for either of the families around you.

Had he been cursed? He thought back to tall tales and small tales and bedtime stories and grandpas of grandpas and he worried. 

Hiccup blinked rapidly.

Tears pricked at the corner of his eyes as he stared at the bent nail hanging between his fingers.

More than the way his father looked at him before, more than any of his failures and past all of his smallnessess, there was something wrong.

The smallest gives way to the mighty. 

An old scar on his arm splits and sores and grows all day until it is hard and full of puss. At night, it slits, tearing open skin and ripping flesh and bone, turning you inside out.

Like a hurricane, you burst from the shed.

He is both in the back of his mind, separate, and driving the hunt, just behind you.

The tan boy, wandering out at night- he chases him down, running, running, feeling moonlight on his back, nearly as hot as the sun, and a fire burning in his guts.

No dragon has ever sought man. Not for meat, and yet, in this taste of forms, he isn’t opposed. In a way, he wonders if the battle has been between man and dragon or if it had always been between man and man.

Pulling meat from bone, it is nauseating, the first time.

There is a creature there, shaped slightly smaller with a long snout and poised ears, swiveling eyes; it is a kindred spirit, a shared desperation.

It dips its head and pulls meat from bone easily. It is practiced, bloody. He is messier. newer.

He has heard you, seen you. He wonders why you left him be. He was a sitting duck, alone.

He ate a man that night. He ate himself, too. 

It happens again and again. 

It gets easier. 

It doesn’t always happen. It was just that once. Now, by the moon, there is time for wandering- for rolling through ferns and playing among trees, for less violence, and for once, his racing mind feels still.

One morning, he turns over, eyes glancing past scales sprouting from his arm in studded lumps like the beginnings of baby bird’s feathers.

In this state, you understand each other better than he’s ever understood anyone in his life. 

There is a beast- maybe it had always been in him, deep and boiling. It is, perhaps, evil. He comes to peace with it.

He is free. now.

He is naked, in bed, and you are there besides him. 

He sees, now, that you are two of a kind.

He thinks you are beautiful.

If you had met sooner, or if you had been born on Berk, and had he known you that night, would he have climbed through your window in the night and begged you to come with him?

He runs his hand along bristling furs, pulling you in closer by the back for a searing kiss, waking already spent pieces of him, of you.

Man, Viking, dragon- they are the wolves of his past, now you are the woman of his future. It would only make sense that you reflect one another.

He’s not sure if it binds you closer.

As it stands, he will stay with you for eternity, or for the rest of it, whatever this is.

His dragon grumbles off to the side. He snuck in again during the early morning, and now he is here, protesting against your mindless shifting. With one hand, Hiccup shoos him away. With only mild complaints, he gives you your privacy.

Like a vulture, with the morning light as your blanket and your sheets covering you like a mist, you descend on each other.

Yes, something is wrong with him. 

Finally, too, there is something right.

He is happy.

[wishmaker1028]

Karaoke - Pokeshipping Week Day 6

"This is the worst idea for a date, ever." Misty complained.

"Not my idea to be, like, totally fair." Daisy told her sister.

Misty groaned, "I know it was Tracey's idea to come here but he's made a really bad choice..."

Daisy admitted, "Yeah but like it should be over soon?"

Misty had eyed Ash and Tracey. Tracey had finished his bit and he wasn't really all that terrible. A little flat in some areas but he was pretty decent. A few people in the crowd gave him applause.

Tracey came over to Daisy and Misty as he asked, "Well, how'd I do?"

Daisy admitted, "You, like, have done better than a lot of these people."

Tracey blushed at his fiance, "Gee thanks."

Misty turned to Ash and asked, "Is he actually going to sing?"

Before Tracey could confirm, Ash was already at the mic. He started to sing the next song way off key. Misty cringed. Oh Arceus...why did she love him again?

...

Wishmaker1028: Sorry this is a bit short but I do like this. Hope you all enjoy!

[angeart]

With interest, Grian watches Scar heave breaths and clutch at his chest. The surrounding caves full of lava pops and hissing mobs fall away, bringing them somewhere dark and misty instead. The ground is smooth and pitch black, some blocks of it gently floating away in a way that’s entirely disturbing; a picture of a quiet and broken world. Glancing appraisingly around, Grian takes a step away from Scar, swishing his tail impatiently as he waits for him to calm down.

“Gee, Grian. Can’t you bring us somewhere nice for once?” Scar huffs out breathlessly, still slightly bent forward. His messy brown hair falls into his eyes, partially covering up his expression.

Grian itches to step closer and push Scar’s hair away, so he can see his face in full. “I can’t,” he lies, a hint of sulkiness in his voice. His nose scrunches up a little as he wrangles the strange urges nestled in his heart, and he takes one more step decidedly away from Scar.

 Taking a final deep breath, Scar straightens up. “Can’t or won’t?” he presses.

“Can’t,” Grian insists, even though the words feel like gravel in his throat under the scrutiny of Scar’s gaze. There’s something in Scar’s eyes as he looks back at Grian, and Grian can’t quite identify it—something veering on expectant. Something hopeful, maybe. Something strange. His tail sharply swishes again, agitated, and he blurts out: “What are you the most afraid of?”

“What?” Scar startles, visibly flinching under the abrupt ambush.

“What are you the most afraid of?” Grian repeats, pinning him down with his gaze. “We went through plenty things. You scare easily. But what is The Big Bad Scary Thing for you? I can’t quite figure it out.”

Scar feels his heartbeat in his throat. He purses his lips and stays silent.

They stare at each other.

Swish, swish, swish. Grian’s tail flicks from side to side as he waits.

Scar thinks Grian might explode if he won’t give him something. He releases a breath, wilfully loses the staring match and stammers out: “I—I’m not telling you that!”

Grian’s tail droops, suddenly weighted as he pouts. “Aw, why not?”

It’s a display of innocence, but Scar knows he’d be barking up the wrong tree if he wanted to find a shred of innocence in the demon that stands in front of him. (And yet a part of him wants him to willingly let himself get deceived. A part of him wants to think that it’s not as impossible as the rest of him makes it out to be.) Gritting his teeth, he pulls up every defence he can muster; unease sings in his veins, ready to be called upon once again in this dreamscape, always so, so very close to surface here. “You’ll use it! You’ll use it against me!” he accuses.

“I’d never,” Grian says simply, his lips twitching into a toothy grin.

“Pfhshs, you would, you absolutely would, you menace!” Scar protests, taking a stumbling half-a-step back, as if having physical distance ever helped him in here. (It never helps. Sometimes he feels like closer is the only right place to be. Like the further he runs, the more danger he’s in.)

The familiar sound of giggles bubbles out of Grian; his eyes are bright when they meet Scar’s again.

Running on some faulty setting, Scar’s heart skips a beat at the sight. He blames it on adrenaline—on the constant looming feeling of awaiting terror; on the lingering fear that so stickily clings to him whenever he dreams—but somewhere deep down in the pit of his stomach he knows that’s not it.

He watches Grian quiet down again, eyes grazing the surrounding dreamscape almost contemplatively. There’s a small tilt to Grian’s head as he thinks, a curve to his throat and jaw that makes Scar’s fingers twitch. He pries his gaze away and forces himself still, instead watching the world slowly float away around him and get swallowed by the void.

Is that what’s going to happen to him if he keeps standing here?

Dread curls through the spaces between his ribs at the thought, even though he’s aware it’s better than most alternatives.

Grian’s hum interrupts his thoughts, and the dread in Scar’s chest grows thicker and more insistent.

“I noticed,” Grian starts musingly, “that you don’t usually dream about other people.”

Scar blinks, trying to regain his footing in the seeming randomness of the topic. “So?”

“Well, most people dream about other people in their lives now and then,” Grian notes. His dark eyes hold Scar hostage. “Bad dreams, you know. Them getting hurt? Or getting hurt by them? Things like that.” His tail swishes. There’s something both grim and intrigued in his expression as he continues hungrily watching Scar. “But you don’t.”

There’s a flash image rushing through Scar at those words: Mumbo, drenched in blood, sobbing helplessly as he collapses on the floor and curls up on himself. Scar, hovering around him, not knowing how to help.

He tries to cover up the shakiness of his breath with false bravado. He isn’t going to let Grian have that.  “I don’t see anything wrong with that,” he retorts, his voice carrying only a hint of his fraying nerves. He doesn’t think he could bear that kind of nightmares.

Grian cocks his head, eyes still lingering on him in that scrutinising way. “Is it because you don’t have anyone? Is that what you’re secretly afraid of? That you’ll die completely alone?”

Scar’s brows pull into a bemused frown. “Are you insulting me?”

“What?” A genuine confusion disrupts the intensity of Grian’s gaze.

“I have friends!” Scar huffs out defensively.

“Wait,” Grian shakes his head, feeling like he’s suddenly two steps behind Scar in this conversation. “Why would that be an insult?”

This whole time, Grian thought there’s simplicity in fears. Everyone was scared of something. And Grian did so very much enjoy putting his hands in that particular jar of honey, so tantalising and rich and sweet. There was fascination in watching it all unfold, so raw and terrible. Seeing the frantic urgency, the rising swell of overwhelming emotions ready to consume. Yet at the end of it, there was nothing. Always, always. Inevitably, it’d end. They’d all wake up.

All but him.

They’d wake up and none of it would ever be real.

He was just playing. It didn’t mean anything.

Scar is looking at him as if maybe it meant something.

“Well, you’re—” Scar starts, a baffled edge to his voice. Wasn’t it obvious? He thought it was obvious. But Grian keeps looking at him with that same confusion etched into his features, and so Scar fumbles for a way to put his knee-jerk thought into coherent words. “You’re saying I might die alone. Isn’t that kind of like suggesting that I’m unlovable?”

There’s a beat of silence when Grian parses through his words, slots them somewhere within himself.

Scar can’t tell where Grian’s slotting them. He just wants to be understood, and for them to move on.

But Grian doesn’t swiftly move from it quite like Scar hopes.

His tail once again gravitates straight down; his wings droop and his bat-like ears twitch and pull back. “Oh.” It’s a small sound, timid and fractured and just a little bit guarded.

Scar watches Grian’s face scrunch up again, in a way that’d be completely endearing if it wasn’t so alarming. Because Grian doesn’t usually make a face like this. He’s sulky, sure, and he’s chaotic. He cackles and sighs and swishes his damn tail and—

He shouldn’t look timid. He shouldn’t look like he’s about to get hurt.

“Grian…?”

When Grian speaks, his voice is even quieter, cracking with something unsure. “I didn’t know it’s…” He stops, the words hitting some dam within him. I didn’t know it’s bad, is what he almost says. His frown deepens, and he’s not looking at Scar anymore; he’s staring at the ground, as if it held the answers he so desperately needed. “I didn’t…” He trails off again, sheepish. I didn’t mean that you’re unlovable hovers on the tip of his tongue, but he bites at it until it dies in his throat.

A sharp urge to step closer and lift Grian’s chin sears through Scar.

Before he can do anything, Grian lifts his head on his own accord and meets Scar’s gaze.

Grian’s dark eyes are full of some deep pitfall, a ravaging emotion that Scar fails to identify.

“Am I?” Grian asks, words imbued with painful desperation. Am I unlovable? echoes through him, thrums through every part of him with the wild force of his heartbeat.

He shouldn’t be asking this. Why is he asking this?

It shouldn’t matter.

Why does it hurt to think it?

He should be coating the words in sharp edges. He should be using them as knives. He should be digging his claws into Scar, mocking him that yes, maybe Scar is unlovable. He should be trying to see if that scares him. If it hurts.

Isn’t that what nightmares should be about?

But instead, Grian’s the one in pain.

And yet.

And yet it looks like Scar is hurt too, somehow, anyway. There’s a faint fragrance of fear in the air, an unfamiliar tinge to it that Grian can’t quite pinpoint.

A part of Grian wants to stay and figure it out. It wants to indulge in the way Scar looks right now; it wants to step closer, to put his sharp, clawed fingers against Scar’s pulse point and find out what makes it beat like that.

The other part of him is cacophonic and loud, ringing alarm bells and frantically trying to get him to run away.

Run away from what? Run where?

This is his world. This is his place.

He isn’t supposed to hurt here.

He isn’t supposed to hurt here.

He doesn’t realise his breaths are turning rapid and shallow; his heart is throwing a tantrum, causing havoc within him. All he knows is that he has a strong urge to hide. To protect himself. To stay safe. Deeper, deeper in the dreamscape. That’s where he should be. That’s where he needs to go.

He steps away from Scar and with wide eyes and too-loud heartbeat, he watches Scar follow.

“I’m done playing for today,” he lets him know, the words raspy and wrong as they barely make it past the lump in his throat. He doesn’t wait, doesn’t give out any more chances; he turns around and runs.

The ground rumbles in the wake of his footsteps, walls pulling up behind him, blocking Scar’s path to him and rendering him unable to follow.

[vintage-tech]

If you're of a certain age, you remember the ads for the compilation albums by Ronco and K-Tel -- "20 original hits by the original stars" was always the tagline -- but there were other companies out there putting out mixtapes on vinyl, like Sessions, and then there is this two-record collections by a company called I & M Teleproducts which has 23 releases listed in Discogs.com -- several of which are Lawrence Welk, but many of which are contemporary collections.

Dreamin' is from 1979 and I approve of the tracklist. While Ronco was putting Wild Cherry's "Play That Funky Music" and Barry Manilow on the same record, or K-Tel was mining the latter half of the Top 100 with Forgotten Charting Singles By Major Artists, I & M was attempting to stay a bit more on-topic and contained mostly music that neither of the bigger names had tapped but you knew. And being a two-record set, you felt like you got twice as much tunage when actually you didn't (21 songs) but there was a better chance of higher quality sound due to the uncompressed groove on the vinyl. It's up to personal opinion whether the line "21 original hits by 18 original artists" sounds impressive, especially since the songs by those repeated artists have been pretty much forgotten.

Here's the track list and you do know many of them:

A1 Samantha Sang– Emotion A2 Dan Hill– Sometimes When We Touch A3 Gladys Knight & The Pips– Best Thing That Ever Happened To Me A4 David Soul– Don't Give Up On Us A5 Paul Anka– The Times Of Your Life B1 Kenny Nolan– I Like Dreamin' B2 Gladys Knight & The Pips– The Way We Were B3 Atlanta Rhythm Section– So Into You B4 Mary MacGregor– Torn Between Two Lovers B5 Jessi Colter– I'm Not Lisa C1 Peter McCann– Do You Wanna Make Love C2 Eric Carmen– All By Myself C3 Jennifer Warnes– Right Time Of The Night C4 LeBlanc & Carr– Falling C5 England Dan & John Ford Coley– Nights Are Forever Without You C6 Daryl Hall & John Oates– She's Gone D1 Roberta Flack– The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face D2 Paul Anka– There's Nothing Stronger Than Our Love D3 Dorothy Moore– Misty Blue D4 The Spinners– They Just Can't Stop It (The Games People Play) D5 Gladys Knight & The Pips– So Sad The Song

Trivia: The Bee Gees wrote "Emotion" though didn't record it themselves for many years. David Soul was Hutch on the TV show Starsky & Hutch. Many of us can't help but think of Kodak film ads in regard to "The Times Of Your Life". Peter McCann technically makes two appearances on this list because he also wrote "Right Time Of The Night". "The Way We Were" is a Barbra Streisand cover from a 1973 movie by the same name, and the spoken introduction to the Gladys Knight song is "Try To Remember" from the long-running 1960 Broadway musical The Fantasticks.

[ultrone]

⨳﹙🎧 brainrot ★﹚–– yjs favourite artists/bands in the 90s

SHAUNA : billy idol, jeff buckley, weezer, backstreet boys, elton john, blur, chris isaak, hole, kurt cobain, siouxsie and the banshees, morrissey, the la’s, new radicals, savage garden

JACKIE : no doubt, *nsync, mazzy star, wham!, tracy chapman, cyndi lauper, shania twain, outkast, abba, blondie, inxs, sixpence none the richer, donna lewis, fleetwood mac, britney spears, savage garden, spice girls

LOTTIE : the cranberries, mazzy star, the cure, alanis morissette, stevie nicks, madonna, queen, sade, spice girls, gwen stefani

NAT : nirvana, radiohead, slowdive, deftones, pixies, the cure, hole

TAI : pj harvey, billy joel, tears for fears, george michael, queen, morissey, simply red, bee gees, aerosmith

VAN : the smiths, foo fighters, the clash, pet shop boys, guns n' roses

MARI : christina aguilera, aaliyah, keyshia cole, tlc

MISTY : tiffany, cyndi lauper

[sykilik101]

If they are going to have Ash marry someone at this point of time, it’s going to be Serena. If they intended for Ash to eventually come around and go for any other pokegirl then good storywriting says they should never have made a Serena-type character - they should have kept on their path of writing girls that can be interpreted as platonic relationship. Otherwise they’ll have to face the extra complication of having to sort out a Bad End for one (and just one) of the characters, as opposed to just Normal ends for everyone but the winner. So like it or not amourshipping is going to be canon.

One, Ash is no longer in the show. No ship will be canon, and it wouldn't even if he was still still in the show.

Two:

[good storywriting says they should never have made a Serena-type character - they should have kept on their path of writing girls that can be interpreted as platonic relationship. Otherwise they’ll have to face the extra complication of having to sort out a Bad End for one (and just one) of the characters, as opposed to just Normal ends for everyone but the winner.]

Gee, it's almost as if she's a product of bad writing. :P (I haven't seen the show with her involved, so I couldn't actually say with certainty, but I've certainly not heard good things about her from purely a writing standpoint.)

Three, even if Amour became canon, so what? Trust me, canon has never stopped fans from shipping their ship. Look at the Naruto/Sakura fans, or the Harry/Hermione fans, or the Ichigo/Rukia fans. If Ash and Serena became a couple, you bet your rotund ass I'd still be reading/writing Pokeshipping fics, looking at the artwork, and blasting Misty's Song through my car speakers.

And four:

[uchidachi]

The Veilguard Mixtape: Neve

A fanmix based on pure vibes, while we wait for the game to release

❄ 10cc - I'm Not in Love ❄ Into Each Life Some Rain Must Fall - The Ink Spots & Ella Fitzgerald ❄ Love Me as Though There Were No Tomorrow - Nat King Cole ❄ You Don't Have to Say You Love Me - Dusty Springfield ❄ You Always Hurt the One You Love - Connie Francis ❄ Don't It Make My Brown Eyes Blue - Crystal Gayle ❄ I'll Never Fall in Love Again - Dionne Warwick ❄ The Long Black Veil - Johnny Cash ❄ The End of the World - Skeeter Davis ❄ Smoke Gets in Your Eyes - The Platters ❄ It's Been a Long, Long Time - Kitty Kallen & Harry James ❄ Misty - Johnny Mathis ❄ I Only Have Eyes for You - The Flamingos ❄ The Shadow of Your Smile - Nancy Sinatra ❄ Stormy Weather - Etta James ❄ How Can You Mend a Broken Heart - Bee Gees ❄ If - Bread ❄ The Girl from Ipanema - Stan Getz & Astrud Gilberto ❄ Midnight Train to Georgia - Gladys Knight & The Pips ❄ For Once in My Life - Stevie Wonder ❄ Mack the Knife - Bobby Darin ❄ She - Elvis Costello ❄ Bridge Over Troubled Water - Simon & Garfunkel ❄ I'll Be Seeing You - Billie Holiday ❄ My Baby Just Cares for Me - Nina Simone

[ifanfictiondreamerworld]

The Ultimate Story the Beginnings Chapter 16-The Birth of the Friendly 5

Within the next several days, Misty, Bubbles, Ribbon and Peach got to know their new friend, Bow. They spent a lot of hours talking to her about each other as she talked about herself. They had a lot of fun talking to each other and spent a great deal of time getting to know each other better. They talked about everything that they have been through, including finding Misty and awakening her dormant powers, as well as telling her about Misty’s fairy and princess training. She was also comfortable enough to show Bow her secret transformation powers and told her to keep them a secret, with Bow gladly obliged. The 5 of them were soon becoming very close friends.

As Fox watched Misty and the girls mingle with one another, he felt happy for her. He continued watching them day by day. One day, they approached him. Misty: “Hi, Fox.” Fox: “Hey, Misty. What’s up?” Misty: “Well, the 5 of us have so much in common. We’re sweet.” Bubbles: “We’re friendly.” Ribbon: “We’re fun-loving.” Peach: “We’re courteous.” Bow: “And we’re full of surprises.” Misty: “We enjoy our time together so much that we decided to form a group together.” Fox: “Sounds great. So what are you going to call your group?” Misty: “Well, we have been trying to find a name that would confirm our common qualities. Since we all have friendly personalities, we have decided that we would call ourselves (with Bubbles, Ribbon, Peach and Bow) The Friendly 5.” Fox: “That’s great. I’m so glad to see that you girls are having so much fun.” Bubbles: “We are.” Ribbon: “We were able to find out so much about each other.” Peach: “Each of us have been through so much and we all want an opportunity to have some fun.” Fox: “You know what? I will support you girls with anything that you want to do.” Bubbles: “Sounds great.” Peach: “We knew that you would say that, so we want you to be the first ever Friendly 5 supporter.” Fox: “Really?” Misty: “Sure, you have been so encouraging towards me during my fairy and princess trainings. I would love it if you would become our supporter. You mean so much to me.” Fox: “Gee, thanks, Misty. But nothing would make me happier than to see you surround yourself with things that bring you so much joy.” Misty: “Aw, Fox.”

As they smiled at each other, Peach definitely began to notice something.

Later on, they talked to Fox about all of the wonderful things that they wanted to do together. They told him that they want to make people happy with their cheerfulness. They also loved to throw parties, which is something Fox thought was a wonderful idea. As they continued on, they showed him some dance moves they did together. They also planned on singing as a group, which he was all for. He felt that the girls deserved to have some fun, especially Misty, who has been very busy with her training. He knew very little about singing and dancing, but is more than willing to help them out however he could. He helped a lot with building their confidence, telling them that what they are doing is great. He feels that one day, they will become great crowd pleasers.

However, not everyone is impressed by the Friendly 5. Buttercup stood by and watched all of it, sick to her stomach. She was not a huge fan of everything that they represent. Buttercup: “Ugh, how corny.”

Falco wasn’t completely thrilled by it, either. Falco: “I know, I can’t believe Fox is actually into this.” Buttercup: “Looks as if your “fearless leader” is all over her and everything that she does.” Falco: “I know, ever since they first met, he’s been following her, like some sort of…” Buttercup: “Lovesick lapdog?” Falco: “I…wouldn’t use those words but I see where you’re going on this.” Blossom: “I don’t know.”

Blossom and Peppy appeared right next to them. Blossom: “They seem pretty happy.” Peppy: “Yes, in fact, this is the happiest I have ever seen Fox.” Buttercup: “He’s hardly ever this happy?” Falco: “Not since he parted with that friend of his. He hardly ever talks about who this friend of his is.”

Lisa and Maggie also observed them. She felt sad for what Fox has been going through and guilty that she still could not find the friend of Fox’s they were talking about. Maggie: “Lisa?” Lisa: “I hope we’re able to find her. I know Misty will succeed in ways I have failed.” Maggie: “You still don’t know where she?”

Lisa paused for a minute. Lisa: “All I know is she can be found on Earth.”

[yantao-enthusiast]

Put 5 songs you listen to, post it, then send this ask to 10 of your favorite followers :]

oh em gee….. i’m so honored to be one of your favorite followers my moot

thank god i have a million playlists to remember i like songs so here’s my special little favorites as of late

close to you - gracie abrams (i listened about 70 times following its debut week, thank you airbuds for telling me that)

dixie boy - april smith and the great picture show (i’m putting this one out into the world because it’s woefully underrated. and also because it reminds me of misty)

pink pony club - chappell roan (my fav off of the rise and fall of a midwest princess !!! probably gonna be on my spotify wrapped top 5 at this rate)

imgonnagetyouback - taylor swift (was stuck in my head for like a solid week. will probably get stuck in there again now that i’ve mentioned it. oh well)

ya’aburnee - halsey (what can i say…. i think we could live forever. a very bittersweet song that i love <333 )

thank you again for the ask babe i always live for your posts !!!

[lemonlilactea]

I don't tbink I've posted this so! Have it I guess

And yeah I'll tuck all my writing under the cut bc I don't want to spam a wall of text onto the tag

“I'll miss you, V.”

“You too, Johnny.”

It isn't time yet, but it does feel like they're on the edge of it now. They're alone like usual, together. V sits with one leg off the bed, the other tucked under them, a cigarette dangling from their hand and smoke curling in the air. “D'you think…..we really did anything? Really left a mark in the city, in a way that meant something?” Their eyes glance from him to the window, the neon shining like impossible stars.

“Fuck, I hope so. Don't think I'd like to die again without at least a scratch on this place.” Johnny, of course, is in one of his usual moods. Sitting on the couch, head leaned back, staring at the ceiling. “Did a lot of fuckin' work to be remembered.”

“Yeah, that's one way to put it.” V snorts a laugh, before taking a few puffs of the cigarette before putting it out in the ashtray. “But really, I mean…..hell, what if it's all for nothing? World keeps spinning, Night City paves over the graffiti of our names, we go back to bein’....nothing, I guess.”

“What's with you? Been talkin’ spiritual shit with Misty again?”

“Nah, just thinking out loud, maybe. Dunno.” They drag a hand down their face, sighing, and falling back onto the bed with their arms out. “Can I blame the migraine?”

“Sure, fuck it.” Johnny snorts a laugh from the couch, and in a moment, him image flickers to stand beside the bed. “Look like shit, by the way.”

“Gee, thanks. You say that almost daily, yknow.” They sling an arm across their eyes, blocking the artificial light from the window. “Almost like I'm dying, or something.” There's a beat, longer than usual, and they're tempted to look at him. Not enough to risk the light causing a swell of pain, though, so they keep their arm in place over their eyelids.

“Right, well, bet I've seen a prettier corpse than you.” It's his usual, that easy automatic joking, but there's something in his voice these days. Anytime V brings up the imminent demise, even while they're both fighting it, Johnny seems taken aback, somehow. Like he doesn't expect to hear about it, again and again. Like it isn't going to happen. “Low bar.”

“Obviously.” By this point, their banter is practically rehearsed, a daily occurrence, even if it's grown less aggressive over time. All their interactions have slowly but surely grown softer, as much as is possible for either of them. Johnny is still a dick, and V is still stubborn, but they've grown to respect, and maybe even care for one another. “Not gonna shower til the headache goes away, though. Hell, moving hurts at all. Talking, too.”

“So why you keep yapping, idiot?” Not that they can tell, but Johnny sits on the edge of the bed, no weight to shift the mattress. “It's like you wanna flare that shit up.”

“Well, there's this voice in my head…”

“Yeah, yeah, shut it.”

“You first.” They grin, and would laugh if not for the throb of pain in their head. Days like these are harder by far, but even now, even with Johnny they can't help but keep up the mask. That facade that they're alright, they'll be alright, they'll handle shit just like always, no matter the odds. When someone lives in your head, though, it gets hard to hide the cracks. Under the banter and the chaos, both of them know just how scared V truly is. Both of them, frankly. They've both died before, come back different, trapped with someone they didn't know and hated at first. It's insane, impossible, terrifying. But it's also shifted over the time they spent together. Adapted from begrudging allies to almost friends, now. Probably closer than anyone has been, since Jackie. Shitty run of luck with friends for V.

Fear feels different when it's two different people. It comes from different places, expressed differently. Where Johnny wants to rage and scream, V might just observe silently, might negotiate where Johnny would shoot first. It leads to frustration, mostly, but sometimes to connection. The knowledge that even if they're different, deep down, fear is at least somewhat the same. Fear of pain, of death, these human things that line the path to understanding one another. A slow process, made slower by host and parasite both being more stubborn than imaginable, but one that they've made it through, mostly. Johnny is still a douchebag, V is still shockingly gullible at times, but they're together, at least. Never alone for a choice or consequence, always someone there to listen and assist as best he can, when they need it.

“....hey, Johnny? When you were alive, did you ever…I dunno, get scared of shit? Your memories, the way it feels, you always felt…confident to a fault, kinda unaware how bad you were, but fearless about it.” Their voice breaks the silence, softer than intended, not quite a whisper. The connection hasn't exactly been simple, and memories are muddled enough without the warped minds they both have, and both have learned asking is the best way to get anywhere.

[passivenovember]

Billy tugs his phone out of his pocket, clumsy fingers swiping notifications from the home page. 

He’s got four emails from Cosmo, a missed call from Maxine, and a message from Joyce that lights up his screen with the same sprawling, letter-esque type that all people born before 1983 seem to use. 

Billy, Joyce says, and Billy imagines her index finger tapping furiously, glasses perched on the tip of her nose, Hop ate some bad seafood. Won’t make the party. I’m sorry, kid. Love you so much. Breathe in, have fun, breathe out. Love, Joyce Byers.

Billy hadn’t noticed the time.

“This is fun,” Eddie says, suddenly. 

Billy looks up, startled out of his swirling little daydream. “Sure,” he says distantly. Things have settled in the dust. Soft, intimate conversations flutter around the room like butterfly wings, brushing Billy’s skin and sticking to the sweat on his brow. 

He’s relieved to be out of the spotlight. A good meal can take the edge off of things, sending people into a heady, comfortable space where nothing matters as much as it did before. 

Scarecrow is asleep on the couch. Everyone else is gone.

Billy considers the clock on his home screen and the prickly meaning of 10:23 shining over the last picture he took with his mom before boarding the plane last Christmas. His feet hurt, his throat’s dry, and really what would it matter if he took off?

It’s not like Steve would toss a rock through his living room window. He might send someone after him, like. Chrissy or Eddie or Dustin, who Billy learned spent every summer at a camp not far from Mammoth Lakes. He’s been gathering information all evening, building his arsenal. No matter the case or the friend or the scenario, Billy could take them–

“Should we go check on Steve?” 

Billy looks up from the empty pit of his cell phone screen. It’s gone dark. The room has cleared out, with art majors and registered nurses running back to whatever warehouse Steve keeps them in, and it’s down the the bare bones.

Billy. Scarecrow, asleep on the couch. Robin and Chris, probably, sitting on a bathroom floor somewhere misty-eyed like El and Max are when they’ve had too much to drink, doing each other’s hair and throwing compliments at each other like confetti. And Munson. 

Always Munson. 

Eddie wags an eyebrow, patting at his shirt pocket for a packet of cigarettes. “Want?”

“No,” Billy says, wrinkling his nose at the bright orange package, “Thanks.”

Apparently, people still smoke Dosal’s. 

Apparently, this is 1982. 

“Suit yourself, Blondie,” Eddie fishes a pale slim between two fingers and pinches the butt with his teeth, patting around all over again for a lighter. Billy wants to play the Hypocrite, insisting that smoking real cigarettes is bad, even though his lips are lightning pricks of jealousy. 

“They’re having a moment,” Billy says finally.

“Who?”

“Nancy and Steve.”

“Awful long moment, if you ask me.”

“Nobody did.”

“Gee, thanks,” Eddie quips back. He gets a flame started. Smoke pouring from his nose like a dragon, “You should go up there,” Eddie says, eyes bright with mischief.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I can’t just go up there–”

“Don’t wanna cause a scene?” Eddie blows smoke through his nose, the flat, sweaty face of his palm lining circles through the air, “Dude. Party’s dead. It’s not like anyone’s around to see and even if they did, they won’t remember or care once the hangover kicks in.”

“Oh, and you don’t count?”

“‘Course not, Blondie, I’m just stirring the shit. Besides,” Eddie smirks, “You go up there and find out what’s keeping him, and I swear I’ll punt the Wheeler kid over my shoulder and we’ll be gone in time for Nancy to storm, broomstick flying, out the front door.”

The edge of Billy’s cell cuts into his palm, its corner pressing deep enough that Billy feels his pulse thumping through centimeters of metal and plastic. “Where’s Chris?”

“Went for a sleepover with Robin and the baby. Chrissy loves kids.”

Billy doesn’t remember that. He doesn’t remember much of anything–

“Are you serious?” Eddie rolls his eyes, “That’s what you get for staring at your phone for twenty minutes, Hargrove.”

Billy starts. “Twenty minutes?”

“It’s true what they say about radio signals and microwaves and cell phones frying your frontal lobe, you know–”

The ceiling starts thumping overhead. “Wait,” Eddie says to himself. To Billy. He holds his palm upward, cigarette smoke curling up through his fingers like fog from a sewer grate.

Someone slams a door. 

And then someone else comes thundering down the stairs, their footfall so heavy that Billy glances at the knick-knack shelf with mirth.

He holds his breath, terrified and suddenly, heart-wrenchingly sober–

And then Nancy rounds on him.

She’s crying.

Eddie says, “Wheeler,” like he knows something they don’t know.

Nancy ignores him. Her eyes somehow catch and tear open on Billy’s smooth, concerned gaze. He wants to say something to her. He wants to apologize and scrub the thundering sound of her footsteps from the stairwell.

She stalks to the foyer, snatching her purse off the now bare antique table that had bags and jackets piled high not even twenty minutes ago. “Mike,” Nancy says, her eyes glued to the floor as she digs around for her keys.

Scarecrow doesn’t rouse from his spot on the sofa. He’s drooling, a little.

Billy clears his throat, “Is everything–”

“Michael Wheeler,” Nancy says, with all the pissed-off, righteous terror of a girl who spent too long at her mother’s knee.

Mike sits with a startled sound, “What, what happened? Is everything–”

“Get up so I can drive you home.”

Mike stares wildly around the room, dimly lit like all rooms are at the end of a monumental evening. “Where is everybody?” Mike’s wide, nervous eyes land on Billy. “Hey, do you have any more of that tater-tot casserole?”

“I–”

Nancy grabs her brother by the scruff of his neck, “You don’t need more casserole, I can get you McDonald's on the way home.”

“Home,” Mike repeats, scrubbing sleep from his eyes, “What happened to you and Steve–”

Nancy hauls Mike to the front door, shoves him through, and slams it shut behind them.

The house falls silent like someone hit the mute button. Like Nancy ripped the button out of the wall and they’re stuck in this weird, floating space between alive and. Something else. Radio silent.

Eddie clears his throat, “Anyway–”

“Mike told me he doesn’t like tater-tot casserole,” Billy says thickly. Feeling. A little bit like a tiny ceramic figurine in the center of a snow globe, full of wonder as emotions swirl brightly all around him. 

Maybe he’s just drunk. “He said he wouldn’t eat it.”

“Right.”

“But he did,” Billy tries heavily. “Mike was the first person I met when I got here and he made me feel like shit, but then. He ate the casserole.”

Eddie nods, taking a languid drag from his still-lit cigarette. Billy thinks that Steve is going to throw a fit when he comes down here and finds his vintage, 1970s furniture smelling exactly like the decade they were manufactured in.

Billy shakes his head, willing it to clear. “It doesn’t make sense. Nothing makes sense anymore.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“I just mean that. Why would Mike eat the casserole if he hates it?”

Eddie shrugs, “Maybe he was lying?”

“But why would he eat my casserole if he hates me?”

“Maybe he was lying,” Eddie says again, flatter this time. He puffs on his cigarette, studying the drunken flush on Billy’s cheeks. It goes on forever and forever and then he ashes his cigarette in the tray Steve uses to keep loose change in, leaning forward on his elbows. 

Eddie’s head gets huge and wobbly like a bobbledummy. “Can I be honest with you, Billiam?”

“--Billiam–”

“Can I, though?”

“Sure?”

“You’re a great guy,” Eddie says lightly, full of feeling, and Billy starts to shake. “I’m being serious. You’re the best guy Steve’s been with in longer than I can remember, you just. I think you judge people too harshly.”

“Me?”

“You.” Eddie determines. He leans back, cool as a frizzy-haired cucumber. “I just think, like. You’re getting all misty-eyed over the drunken realization that maybe Mike didn’t hate you as much as you thought he did, and earlier you seemed surprised that Nancy didn’t try to kill you with a paring knife, and you’re attributing it all to some garlic bread and a fucking tater-tot casserole.”

Billy’s ears feel hot. Red hot and sunburned, under the weight of Eddie’s scrutiny. Maybe he’s right, maybe he’s wrong– “What should I attribute it to, then?”

“You,” Eddie says, lighting another cigarette. “I’ve known you for half a day, Hargrove, and I can tell. You’re cool. Way cooler than you give yourself credit for.”

–

Eddie makes up some bullshit lie about needing to go home. I work in the morning, he says, so Billy lets him go.

And then he climbs the stairs, two at a time while flickering memories of the party-set-up dance just out of reach. He’s never actually been anywhere beyond the landing on the second level of Steve’s house. The attic drawstring dangles in a lazy, barely-there breeze, and Billy’s surprised to find more doors than he anticipated, stamped along the hallway in calm, quiet darkness.

He imagines them leading to spare bathrooms. Closets that span the entire floor. Libraries and knicks that lead to the unpolished servant’s quarters. 

It’s magical like the Brothers Grimm stories his mom used to read to him, and Billy has the foreign, intense urge to open every single door and peer into the darkness like Nancy Drew.

Nancy Wheeler.

But the door on the farthest end of the hallway spills gold onto the carpet from a tiny, amber sliver, and Billy’s heart thumps wildly, battering against his ribs at the thought that Steve’s in there, Steve’s just down the hall–

Billy knocks twice with the hardest part of his knuckle. Just like his mother used to before Neil went missing and before Susan made her laugh at the grocery store, back when Billy had huge feelings but couldn’t put a name to them. Back when his bedroom was a fortress. 

“Steve?” Billy says. Someone shuffles behind the door, their shadow casting long enough to reach like phantom fingers into the hallway. “I think I’m gonna head out–”

The door swings open.

Steve’s been crying. 

Right away, Billy’s heart skips a beat and starts thumping backward, eager to turn back time and retrace every step until things start to make sense again. “Oh, you didn’t have to open the door,” Billy says, shyly, “Sorry. I didn’t want to bother you.”

Steve shrugs. He won’t meet Billy’s eyes when he says, “Is everyone else gone?” Like he hopes they’ll come thundering up the stairs, one right after the other, to save him from this.

Billy tries to push the thought away and fails. “No, they’re all gone.”

“Did you have an alright time?”

“Yeah,” Billy says softly, surprised to feel his heart opening like a flower in the light of that truth. “Your friends are really great, Steve. Chrissy was a doll and Robins–”

“Robin.”

“Yeah. Dustin actually knew where Mammoth Lakes is on a map, like. I was so surprised. And he’s been hiking near the mountains at that nerdy little summer camp–”

“--Camp Knowhere–”

“Right. Science camp,” Billy smiles, feeling hot all over from the booze, “And Eddie was great, too, y’know. For a nosy piece of shit.”

Steve starts at that, his spine going ramrod straight like maybe Billy’s words electrocuted him. “You. You spent most of the night with Eddie?” 

“Yeah, he’s cool,” Billy chuckles, and. Steve makes a face, like. A trademark, Big-eyed-terrified-jealous-asshole kind of face. It’s adorable. “Steve. Are you jealous?” Billy asks, amused.

Steve turns beet-red. “No.”

“Oh my god, you are.”

“I’m not jealous of Eddie Munson,” Steve spits, rolling his eyes so far back Billy thinks they may never be brown again, “He’s a nice guy, I just. Can’t believe you found anything he said so interesting that it took you an hour and a half to come up here.”

Billy falters. “I thought he was one of your friends.”

“He’s a work friend,” Steve says sharply, “That’s not the same thing. Nancy said he was making eyes at you all night.”

And. 

For the first time since Steve started turning Billy’s heart on its head with the sound of a shovel on his driveway, Billy wants to knock Steve’s teeth in. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Steve looks bashful, staring at the floor. “I don’t know. Nancy said that–”

“Fucking Nancy,” Billy spits. His arms burn, and his muscles pull tense. “She has no right to run up here and tell you that anything was going on, Steve, because she’s full of shit. Eddie’s a cool person. He was just being nice.”

“Like how he’s been ‘nice,’ to every other guy I’ve–”

Billy tries to put a lid on the fire that sentiment starts, burning through his stomach. That Billy’s not special. He’s just like every other guy Steve’s ever brought home. “Eddie loves his girlfriend,” Billy reasons, “Chrissy, remember her?”

“Yeah.”

“Good,” Billy says, crossing his arms over his chest. “What does it matter who I spent the night with, anyway.” 

“Billy–”

“I still had a good time. I thought that’s what you wanted?” 

“It is what I wanted.”

“Then why are you acting so weird?” Billy's jaw aches. He wants to hinge it shut. Yearns to fold himself into Steve’s arms and forget everything. Nancy and the kitchen, Nancy and the Hallway–

But. 

He’s drunk. And when Billy’s drunk, his mouth runs away with him. Steve’s hurt him, whether or not he meant to is inconsequential, and Billy’s suddenly pissed off. Furious. He bares his teeth. “It’s not like I could’ve spent any time with you.”

Steve picks up on it immediately, his eyes blowing wide with regret. “Bill–”

“When you weren’t saddled up in the next room, smoking until your eyes dried out and ditching me so I could bake bread in the kitchen like your little kept boy, you were locked up in here with Nancy.”

Steve’s baby browns flash red with anger. “Like you were, with Munson?”

“What are we talking about?” Billy snaps. “Where is this coming from?”

“Nancy just said–”

“You’re throwing a fucking fit because I was spending time with one of your friends?” 

“To be fair,” Stee quips, smiling softly, “Eddie’s pretty cute.”

“I’m not in the mood for this,” Billy shakes his head, driven crazy with sorrow, “That’s bullshit, Steve. You don’t get to be mad at me.”

“I’m not mad at you, baby.”

“Don’t call me that,” Billy says, “I’m pissed at you.”

“Alright, Jesus–”

Billy feels his fuze stop, ready to detonate. “Why are you rolling your eyes and acting like this isn’t a big deal? It is.”

“I know.”

“I come up here and you start bitching at me about Eddie Munson. I’m not the bad guy, here. I wasn’t the one who disappeared for an hour to talk to a girl I once called ‘baby,’ on the phone.”

Steve doesn’t say anything. 

His mouth opens and closes, working around a comeback, but Billy isn’t in the mood to give him that chance. 

“For months, Nancy’s been this huge thing hanging over my head. Ever since we got snowed in that last time, and. Steve, I didn’t ask to be a bigger part of your life. I didn’t ask you to scrape my driveway, or bring me ice melt, or grow flowers to decorate my classroom with. I didn’t want any of it. I don’t deserve–”

What Nancy said to me. Robin’s kindness. 

This.  

Love.

You. 

Billy takes a deep, steadying breath. “I’m sorry,” He says, tugging a hand through his hair. When their eyes meet, Steve’s are warm. Sad. Billy wets his lips, “I don’t want to bitch back and forth. Tonight was really fun. Really. I loved it.”

I love you.

Billy turns, grateful that the world is less of a dreamscape, now. He’s ready to go home, ready to disappear, But then–

“Nancy said she overstepped, tonight.”

Billy stops. His hand clutches the banister.

“She told me she opened her mouth and ruined what we had, and. To be honest, I’m not really surprised. I should’ve expected that she would say something fucked to you because she does that. Always has. It’s one of the reasons we broke up in High School and never got back together again, even though–”

“--Steve–”

“I just. We’ve never really stopped caring about each other, and it’s unhealthy. I was living in denial because it’s always been platonic on my end. But I think in some weird, step-ford wives kinda way, maybe Nance–”

Billy whirls, his body catching on fire, “I don’t want to hear that she’s in love with you, Steve.” 

Steve watches him like a bear caught in a trap. 

Billy’s voice cracks right down the middle. He hates it. He’s going to drown. “I swear to god. If you tell me that she’s in love with you and after all this time, all this shit you’ve done to make me like you. Steve, if you stand there and say you love her–”

“I’m not in love with Nancy Wheeler, Billy, I’m in love with you.”

Billy blinks, shocked when tears cling to his lashes. 

He’s grateful that Steve isn’t close enough to see them, poised and ready to break like waves over his freckles. “No,” Billy says, not. Believing it. He can’t. He won’t. Billy shakes his head, “No–”

“Look–”

“--This is insane,” Billy says, “We’re fighting. We’re having our first fight.”

“Yeah,” Steve says sheepishly, “It sucks, but. It’s kinda nice, too. Refreshing to have it all out there.”

“Stop,” Billy says, breathless. “This isn’t right. I’m supposed to call you an asshole, and you’re supposed to kick me out and I’m supposed to not sleep, and. Cry to my sister on the phone. I’m supposed to realize I fucked up big time, and come back tomorrow with flowers and apologize for getting so drunk and ruining our lives–”

“You don’t have anything to apologize for,” Steve says. He tucks his hands into his pockets, gaze steady on what he wants. “What’s happening is my fault.”

“It’s not,” Billy says thickly. He wants to stand on the stairway banister and say it’s his fault. All of it. His insecurity, his depression, his brain bullshit, making everything difficult since that first January day–

“It is, though,” Steve says, taking one step closer. “I shouldn’t have invited Nancy tonight. I should’ve done more to make you comfortable, and even though I knew all the shit with her was tearing you up inside, I didn’t do anything to stop it. I should have.”

“It’s okay–”

“It’s not okay, Billy, you’re supposed to throw shit and call me an asshole because I deserve it,” Steve says. “We’re having our first fight, remember?”

He’s on the verge of smiling, but. 

Billy can feel heartache like an incoming rainstorm, emotions like clouds gathering somewhere neither of them can see but when the rains come and wash away everything that was there before, they can start over, bathed in the light of the dawn.

“I don’t know what she said, exactly, but Bill,” Steve looms closer, his eyes swamped with emotion, “You’ve gotta believe me. It’s not true.” When his hands cup Billy’s neck, they’re warm. His thumbs brush lightly over Billy’s jaw. “I’m so in love with you, Billy.”

Billy presses into them, like a cat, “Okay.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t say it earlier. I’m sorry–”

“That’s the thing about a first fight,” Billy says, grinning softly, “I think we get to have makeup sex, now.”

Steve holds terrifyingly, shockingly still, and then. 

He moves.

Billy kisses him. He presses all his weight into Steve, pushing and pulling until their bodies meld into something new. 

Steve sucks on his tongue, hands scrambling to touch every part of Billy he can find. They stumble, unsure on love-drunk legs, knees knocking along the hallway and into the bedroom. 

Billy hums low in his throat. Steve’s tugging on his shirt, pulling the starched fabric downdown down until the blood stops pulsing up through his brain. 

“Off,” Steve says, panting into his mouth, “Off, baby, please–”

“Buttons,” Billy grunts, and they go flying, a handful of tiny stars that leave scratch marks on the wallpaper.

This is the shirt Steve picked out for him. So they could match. They’re matching right now, two halves of a whole, and Steve gets him on his back, says, “Let me eat you out, baby. Please–”

“Yes.” Billy’s mouth chokes around a half-baked thought, that. Good boy. Steve, Billy, both of them. 

“Thank you,” Steve says, like a prayer, and it’s ridiculous. 

Billy wonders if it’s the start of something. Of love. Fifty more years draped button-downs and pressed khakis and Steve, salt-and-pepper gray around the temples and everywhere else. 

He gets Billy’s pants off.

Billy moans because he wants to see it. The room is cold, and Steve is warm, and Billy tucks into it like an animal fending off the winter, and then he’s hot.

On fire.

Steve gets his mouth on Billy. Licks up his balls and swallows his cock down to the root, nose buried in the curly blond husk that pillows him. Steve gives head like someone’s told him he’s got ten minutes left to live. It’s break-neck. Harsh. The world is drowning and the sky has been torn open, and this is Steve’s dying wish. 

“Shit,” Billy says to the ceiling, “Shit, Steve, I’m gonna–”

Steve pulls off with a wet, satisfying pop. “I’ve got lube in the drawer,” He says, voice hoarse through the fog of pleasure surrounding them. 

He doesn’t ask. 

He licks a stripe from Billy’s balls to his swollen, pink head, and says, “Open it for me.”

Billy doesn’t have the wherewithal to think so he gets on his knees and crawls, starving, to the beside table. 

“Jesus Christ,” Steve says. He follows Billy up the mattress. Steve’s cupping his ass, petting it, spreading it open. 

He spits on Billy’s pucker, and.

There are fingers, pressing lightly at his rim. Steve says, “I’ve wanted this for years,”

Billy drops the lube, says, “Years?” But then he’s being split open. Fucked open on Steve’s tongue, strong and sure and slick, in all his most tender places.

His face hits the mattress. He’s suffocating, and death smells like cedarwood and vanilla. Billy’s dripping a puddle onto it, ruining the duvet and the sheets too, probably, but.

It feels amazing. It’s amazing–

Billy’s radioactive. Steve’s got him by the kneecaps, keeping him open and receptive, and Billy’s cock hangs heavy and swollen when Steve pressed two fingers in alongside his tongue.

Billy’s makes a noise, like. 

His lungs are giving out. His heart has grown lips to speak, after all these years, and–

“Is it okay if I–”

“Want you,” Billy gasps, tasting cotton on his tongue. He can’t manage more than that.

Steve pulls away, pressing a soft, sweet kiss to the base of Billy’s spine. “Lay on your back, okay?”

Bily does as he’s told. 

His shirt is tangled frustratingly around his elbows. Billy twists onto his back, anyway, watching as Steve tugs his own pants down just far enough for his cock to bounce free.

It’s perfect.

It’s long and thick, pink at the tip next to a pretty brown freckle, and Billy wants to get his mouth on it. He tries to sit, obeying when Steve keeps him pinned to the mattress with a strong, gentle arm across his chest. 

His pupils are blown wide, eating up all the honey-brown Billy loves so much. “I want,” Steve starts, gasping when Billy’s fingers tug at his length. “Fuck–”

“Where’s the lube?” Billy demands. 

Steve fumbles for it. When his fingers close around the bottle, he squirts a generous amount onto Billy’s waiting palm and sits back, watching through eyes half-lidded as Billy’s fingers tease and play with him. 

“You’re big,” Billy says softly.

“Jesus, you’re gonna give me a complex.”

“It’s a fact,” Billy twists his fingers and Steve lights up like Times Square. He wants to do it again, “You’re gonna feel so good, Stevie.”

Steve drops his forehead to Billy’s chest, tongue laving hot over his collarbone. “You talk way too much,”

Billy tugs on his cock a little harder, relishing the little ah ah ah’s Steve can’t hold back. He’s got Steve where he wants him, that pretty pink head bumping softly against his hole, and Billy needs this.

Steve’s heart and body and love, more than he’s ever wanted anything in his life.

It’s terrifying.

It hurts and it really, really doesn’t when Steve slides home. Kisses all over Billy’s face and says, “I love you,” like he’s a virgin who’s just seen God for the first time.

Then he moves, sliding out and back in, out and back in.

Thrusting and then pounding, folding Billy in half until Steve is all he can feel inside of himself, all he can see staring down from above.

“I love you,” Steve says. Keeps saying, when Billy whimpers that he’s going to come. Steve quickens his thrusts, “You’re gorgeous. You’re so tight, baby, so perfect. Come for me, alright? C’mon, let me see you–”

It’s all the gentle reverence Billy could never, ever deserve. 

He has no choice but to lie there and take it.

–

“I like your ears.”

It’s hot, under the duvet cover. Billy’s covered in sticky, warm sweat. It’s Steve’s and it’s his and it’s theirs, making it difficult to stay put but impossible to pull away. 

Steve’s got a leg thrown over Billy’s waist. 

He’s propped on his elbow, gazing down at the soft, rounded shell of Billy's ear, fingertips tracing up and around until he tugs on the lobe.

“Ow,” Billy swats his hand away. “Dick.”

“You’ve got Dumbo ears.”

“Is this the best you can come up with in terms of pillow talk?”

“Freckles and pink cheeks and perfect lips. Long eyelashes and wonderful hair and now the ears, took?” Steve ignores him, leaning down to ghost the shell with his lips, “You’re like a cartoon character. It’s like God wanted to make everyone else feel bad about themselves because of how detailed you are.” 

His breath tickles.

Billy laughs, high and bright, “God, you’re insane.”

“What do you expect? You’re the main character and I’m just a supporting role–”

“--shit, what time is it–”

“--I’m not even a supporting role, I’m a cameo. An NPC–”

Billy pats around under the covers for his phone, realizing that it’s probably still lying face-down on the coffee table. 

“--It’s really only a matter of time before you find some other person who’s as perfect and detailed as you are, and then you can have perfectly detailed babies and live in your perfectly detailed house–”

Billy sits, drooping his legs over the side of the mattress, “I live in an IKEA showroom, I don’t think you’ll need to worry about that.”

“Hey, where are you going?” Steve demands. “I thought we were gonna have a sleepover?”

Billy’s stomach swoops. 

His brain kickstarts, trying to think of a reason he can’t sleep over tonight, but his synapses fumble the ball and he sits there, starched button down dangling between two fingers. 

Suddenly, he can’t breathe.

The walls are closing in, and Steve says, “Billy, what’s wrong?” And Billy thinks no one should ever want anything from him. No one should ever get this far–

“Hey, why are you breathing like that?” Steve sits, palms spreading warmly over Billy’s stomach where he slots in behind him. “Where’d you go?” 

Billy’s mouth dries up. Outside the window, the sky is starting to gray, a little, dawn slowly and softly approaching. Billy has no idea how long they’ve been here, lying like this together, but he knows he never wants to leave.

Won’t survive it ever ending. 

But it will.

It will–

Steve presses a kiss to the back of Billy’s neck. “Talk to me, Billy. Please.”

Billy shakes his head.

“Let’s lay down,” Steve tells him, and before Billy knows it he’s tucked under the covers again, folded in and around the soft, supple places Steve has made for him. 

Billy counts to one hundred, then.

Listens to Steve’s breathing for as long as it takes his own to go calm. Finally, he sits with his back to the headboard. Steve watches him, patient.

Always patient. 

Billy takes a deep breath. “When you were up here with Nance–”

“--Billy–”

“What did she tell you?”

Steve’s fingers play with the knobs of thread on his duvet. Like the rest of his house, it’s old. Quilted. Probably a hand me down from his mother, and her mother, and hers before that. “She told me you were afraid of me.”

Billy waits. Listens.

“You know you don’t have to be, right?” Steve looks up at him, eyes thick with worry, “You know I would never do anything–”

“It’s more than that,” Billy says. “My mom. She wasn’t always gay. Or, maybe she was, but she wasn’t always married to Susan.” His knuckles turn white on the lip of the duvet cover. This is stupid. This is so fucking stupid. “Before our family was like it is now, there was. My dad.”

Steve nods. Waits.

“He was an angry man,” Billy swallows and his throat clicks. “He liked. Blood.”

“Baby, if it’s hurting you, we don’t have to talk about this.”

“I have a lot of problems, Steve,” Billy says. “Something’s wrong with me.”

Steve shakes his head, “You struggle with mental illness. That doesn’t mean something is wrong with you, Billy.”

And.

Steve’s shaking. His jaw is set, strong and resolute, ready to argue Billy’s case for him. Ready to lay these things to rest because they’re in love.

Steve says he loves Billy. He really believes it, and.

Billy toes the edge of a cliff. “I’m gonna tell you something I never say out loud,” He whispers, “Is that alright?”

“Of course, you can tell me anything.”

“I know, but,” Billy sits up straighter, tugging a hand through his hair, “I need to say it because. Look, Steve, I.”

Billy’s going to throw up.

He closes his eyes. “I love you, okay? I fucking love you, too, and I can’t. Goddamn do this, if you don’t know the whole story–”

“Alright.” Steve sits, taking Billy’s hands in his own. “Tell me. Go slow.”

Billy opens his eyes, and all he can see is Steve. 

Beauty. 

Kindness. 

He realizes, then, that he’s shaking. That he would do anything to keep this. 

It makes him brave.

“Okay,” Billy starts, staring down at their hands because that’s easier. “I moved out here because I knew there were kids that needed someone to care about them, but I miss my family. I haven’t unpacked my house because I can’t see myself fitting in here, but. I never really fit anywhere, except for with my sister.” He stares out, to the foot of the bed. He counts the shadows, seeing his father’s face in every single one. “Steve, I. I didn’t expect to fall in love with you.”

Steve laughs, “Same, you’re way too cool for me.”

“No, I’m serious. I didn’t expect to fall in love. Not with anyone,” Billy says, “Ever.”

Steve’s smile falls away. “That’s not possible,” He says valiantly, “Someone would’ve come along and loved you. You’re a beacon for it.”

Billy gasps, “I don’t deserve you.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Steve, I used to be a piece of shit–”

“--So did I–”

“--I have panic attacks,” Billy admits in a rush, like he’s ever been good at hiding them. “I overthink things, and I spiral–”

“--I love you, Billy–”

“--I have to go to therapy two times a week. My favorite color is gray. Well, blue and gray, but–”

“--I love you, Billy,” Steve says, again. He rubs his thumb across the back of Billy’s hand, smiling softly. “We were neighbors before this. I know you.”

Billy watches Steve’s thumb, timing his breaths to its careful, loving swipe. “There was something else Nancy said,”

“What?”

“That I can’t keep stringing you along if fear is what I feel.”

Billy realizes, half a second too late, that he’s dropped a bomb. Steve pulls away from him, brow furrowing. “Stringing me along?”

“No, not, like, in the literal sense–”

Steve gets out of bed. He’s naked, and it feels wrong to look when the roof is caving in, but Billy can’t help it. 

“Nancy said that? I can’t believe Nancy said that, that’s so–” Steve’s eyes close like doors. “I don’t understand why you’re afraid of me.”

“Not you,” Billy says sharply. “She got that part wrong.”

“Then what? Tell me what I can do–”

“You can’t do anything!” Billy snaps. The room is silent. Outside, there are crickets. Night birds. Billy’s chest aches, pain springing fresh in his voice. “The fear is mine. It’s inside me. Ever since I was a kid, and. With my dad, I just.”

Steve watches him. 

Billy shakes his head. “I feel like I have a lot of work to do before I can love somebody.” 

A dam breaks. 

Billy doesn’t realize he’s crying until Steve crosses to him, pulling Billy to his chest. “Love isn’t something you have to work for, alright? You don’t have to spend years working on yourself until you think you’re perfect enough to love someone, you’re perfect now.”

Billy hiccups, his throat closing just a little. 

“Billy, please believe me,” Steve says. 

Billy wants to. More than anything, but.

He pulls away, scrubbing at his face with the back of one hand. It takes everything in him to say it, but he has to. He owes it to himself and to Steve and to this brand new, perfect, fragile thing growing between them.

“I love you,” Billy says gently, “I do. I’ve loved you so much for so long but I feel like I don’t know who I am. I haven’t known since the second I moved to Hawkins, and I just. Need to see my mom. And my sister. I need to go home and be with my family before I can–”

“When does your spring break start?”

“I don’t know,” Billy says, “What day is it?”

“If I knew, I’d tell you,” Steve smiles in spite of himself, thumb lifting to wipe the tear tracks from Billy’s face. “I could’ve guessed, you know? You’ve never really been happy, here. I thought I was helping.”

“You are.”

Steve nods, threading their fingers together. He watches their hands for a moment, and then sighs, his neck rolling his eyes to the ceiling. “I think you should go home early.”

Billy frowns. “But–”

“If you need space, I can give it to you,” Steve looks at him, smiling small and sad, “It hurts that you don’t see yourself here and I’ll miss you like hell for those two weeks, but. If that’s what you need to feel sure about this–”

“--I’m sure about you, Steve–”

“--Then yourself. Take care of you first,” Steve grows serious, eyes tracking the curves of Billy’s face, “I want you to feel okay. That’s the most important thing.”

Steve presses a kiss to their hands, and Billy loves him. It rumbles down through his bones, spreading like wildfire until his skin catches aflame. 

It hurts.

It hurts, and it really, really doesn’t when Billy lets out a deep, trapped breath. “Okay. I’ll miss you,”

“I’ll miss you, too.”

“You won’t run away from me when I get back?”

Steve leans forward, his breath ghosting the shell of Billy’s ear. “Where else am I gonna go?”

–

Billy sleeps in Steve’s bed that night.

When he wakes and the room is empty, his phone charging on the nightstand, he opens his Southwest App and buys a ticket. 

One way, home.

--

from the new chapter of if snow loves the trees and fields

[fromthedeskofmuffin]

Far Out

Chapter 10: Orientation

It turns out, the Frontier isn't entirely made up of independent stations and civilizations. Over the centuries of interstellar travel, three workers unions in particular earned and took a lot of power and influence in the Frontier. While there still isn't any sort of centralized government, the Hauler's Union, Doctor's Trust, and Spacer's Collective had become de facto peace keepers in unincorporated space. When Helga asked how I wanted the explanation, I hadn't realized that her 'short version' would still take a half hour.

The Haulers are those who carry freight from station to station, and planet to planet. It was easy to see why they were so important. Couriers and freighters were the lifeblood of the Frontier, since you couldn't just warp trade goods from one place to another. Before they had organized, it had been far easier for them to be picked off by pirates and competing shipping companies. This also allowed them to maintain fair pricing, or, as Helga put it, keep themselves from getting ripped off. However, working with them could apparently be a bit of a pain for station owners, since if you didn't play by their rules, you got blacklisted. Anyone caught trying to break a station picket line would either be turned into debris, or beaten within an inch of their lives. They were a net good for the Frontier, but any self governing body has problems.

The Doctors were, simply put, doctors. It was easy to see the benefits in unifying the medical profession in the Frontier. Sharing knowledge is the biggest strength that science has, and ever since the formation of the Trust, the quality in medicine across the entire Frontier skyrocketed. You didn't have a proper station without a Trust Doctor in your medbay. You weren't trusted as a doctor if you didn't have Trust certification. Of course, non-Trust doctors were still plentiful, and certification could always be forged, but those tended to only be in the fringes of space, and on pirate-owned stations. I was assured that Dr. Skisk was genuine.

Last was the union I would be joining. The Spacers used to a bit more nebulous at first, though over a few years and a lot of arguing, they were able to define what counted as a 'spacer' more effectively. Essentially, anyone who had a high enough level of zero gee work in their field was considered a spacer. Station engineers, ship mechanics, flux technicians, and non-Hauler space ship crews all fell under that umbrella. That last one was important. While the Spacer's Collective was certainly a good thing for any spacer, as it helped them get fair wages and enforce regulations that kept them safe in zero gee, mercenaries and bounty hunters were also quietly accepted under that same umbrella. This turned the Spacers into something of a private military, and a few wars ended up being fought over how much power any one organization should have over the Frontier.

"That explains all these forms," I said, when Helga had finally finished. The tablet I had been given was full of legal jargon and things to sign. "It feels like home."

"Don't get misty-eyed on me now," Helga said with a smirk. "You can read all that if you want, or not. The simple version is that the Spacers will have your back if I ask you to do anything unsafe, and you tell me no."

"Are you going to ask me to do unsafe things?" I asked, raising an eyebrow at her.

Helga snorted. "No. But as much of a pain these guys can be, they're important. You have to pay dues, of course, but if you take a Spacer job anywhere else but here, you'll be thankful you signed up."

I nodded, then turned my attention back to the tablet. We had some protections against unsafe practices in Ulthea, but it all felt like lip service. If we didn't have the budget for new zero gee harnesses, we had to use the old, frayed ones. We would load lifts above their capacity to get things done before deadlines, because failure just wasn't an option. Speaking up just got you retrained. There wasn't much reason to believe these unions were any different, but I signed the agreements regardless. Not like I had a choice in the matter. 

By the time I was done, it was nearly lunch time. Helga reviewed the forms to make sure I hadn't missed anything, then nodded, and extended a hand across the desk to me with a smile. "Looks like you're all set! Welcome to the crew."

I shook her hand, mirroring her smile. It was a bit of a relief to have a job title again. "Do I have to call you 'Boss' now?"

Helga made a disgusted face. "Ugh, 'Boss'? Is that what that sounds like in Ulthean?" 

That was the first time I realized that she hadn't been speaking Ulthean. When she repeated the word 'Boss', she had said the Ulthean word, but the rest of what she said was in yet another language. I had already grown so used to the Intra-Lingua that it hadn't registered until she made the juxtaposition clear.

"Wait, you're not Ulthean?" I asked, flabbergasted. "You spoke it so fluently!"

"No offense, but that's the last place I'd like to be from," Helga said. She stood up and crossed the office to the door, gesturing for me to follow. "Where I was born isn't something I tell people, but yes, I prefer to speak my own native language. Many do. I picked up Ulthean from an old buddy of mine who never got an Intra-Lingua, before I bought Brock Station. From there, picking up the rest wasn't difficult."

Now that I was paying attention, I could hear her language under the Intra-Lingua's processing. It was both musical and guttural, and sounded much more natural than when she had been speaking my language. I got up to follow her out of the office, where she was looking up at where it said 'Boss' over the door.

"Boss," she scoffed, in Ulthean. 

"So... It doesn't say that?" I asked, squinting at the word. Something seemed odd about the edges of the letters.

"No, it says Boss," Helga said.

My mind twisted itself into a knot to hear both words at the same time. "...Cuennasht?"

"I appreciate the attempt," Helga said with a faint smile. "Stick to Helga."

"Is this the Intra-Lingua again?" I asked.

Helga nodded. "Speech and script. Anyhow, we'd better get going. It's the crew's lunch time, and I'd like you to meet them before you start."

We set off down the maze of corridors again, Helga leading the way. Brock Station definitely felt bigger than a lot of the orbital stations I had been on before, but with each step, it also felt more familiar. By now, I had lived on orbital stations for most of my life. The echoes down the corridors, the smell of recycled air, was just like in Ulthea. Of course, there was the occasional spike of anxiety upon seeing anyone in an armored suit, but didn't that happen to everyone? Even that felt like home, in a way.

Eventually we came to a large double door, labelled 'Canteen'. It opened to a fairly large room, where what appeared to be station employees were hard at work relaxing. Almost all of them wore a similar white jumpsuit, though I noticed differently colored trims in each group. I looked at my own sleeve. The trim on my jumpsuit was black, and looking around, I saw a group of similarly colored jumpsuits in the far corner of the room, seated around a table.

"Figured it out already?" Helga asked.

I looked up at her. There was that small smirk again. Was she teasing me, or did she like that I was observant? "Black and white is engineering?" I asked.

Helga tapped her long snout. "You got it. I won't bore you with the others, you'll figure it out."

Heading towards the table, I noticed I was getting a lot less attention here. Most of it seemed to be focused on Helga, though I still got the occasional nod or half wave. They were a far cry from the leering Frontier folk in the corridors, feeling much more like the familiar acknowledgment of a new coworker. I hoped that would be a trend.

"Everyone, this is Jessie," Helga announced to the twenty-odd engineers when we reached the table. "She's your new ship wrench."

I gave a shy wave. Half of the crew had been in the middle of taking a bite, while the others stared owlishly at me. In fairness, that was a pretty standard greeting. There were a few mumbled hellos and returned waves — save for Listher, who gave me a three-eyed wink before returning to his sandwich — but one of them jumped out of her seat and offered a hand. 

"Nice to meet you, Jessie! Digging the eyepatch, very rugged. I see Listher set up your braces well!"

I blinked in surprise at the enthusiasm, but remembered myself just in time and returned the handshake. She was a race I recognized, a Priman, with their characteristic bald face and hands, and flat snout. Her long, thin tail shifted with her balance as she gave me a once over.

"Um, yeah, they've been interesting to get used to," I said. "Sorry, you're—"

"Oh! Excuse me," she interrupted. "I didn't introduce myself. My name is Reggie, I'm the Head of Engineering here."

"I've told Reggie a bit about you already," Helga said. "You ought to fit in just fine."

"Yes, but she hasn't told me how long you've been working ships," Reggie said, giving Helga a playful glare. She leaned towards me conspiratorially. "She told me you're pretty experienced, but I like to know a little more than that about my mechanics."

"That can come—"

"Oh, just about eleven—"

Helga and I cut each other off. Looking up at her, I saw her eyes were shut in a grimace. That wasn't a good sign.

"Eleven? Months?" Reggie asked. "Tell me you don't mean days."

"No, years," I said, turning my head back to her with a confused expression.

Listher spit out his drink. The murmured conversations at the table stopped as everyone turned to stare at me. Reggie appeared shocked. "Eleven years?"

This was far from the reaction I was expecting, but I nodded.

"But you seem so young. I thought Ovians had pretty standard life cycles." Reggie said. 

I could feel my temper rising, but I tried to keep a lid on it in front of my new coworkers. Apparently, every little bit of my past had to be litigated. "Yes, we do. I'm twenty one. Why is everyone so surprised?"

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[foreveranevilregal]

Okay, Misty should definitely not have done That, but what exactly was she expecting Crystal’s response to be to her confession? “Gee, thanks for stranding us out here, I’m loving this extended wilderness survival experience”?