#but she put it in storage in the basement and it flooded so bad they had to have a company come and just

[queeriboh]

if I could go back in time and tell my younger self 2 things they would be:

you're going to be hot some day, but like, when youre 30. yeah, I don't get it either

and

KEEP YOUR FUCKING YUGIOH SHIT

[omegaremix]

Lindenhurst.

I lived in Brentwood for much of my timeline; mostly at my childhood home and later moved down the road not too far away post-Stony Brook. The latter move was a result of me refusing to move down to Myrtle Beach with my parents. I never had any desire to leave New York State and I never had enough of visiting New York City. Around the time, the economy plundered. I went broke and applied for the first job opportunity that was open in order to survive. I had no idea that place would ruin me. For most of the time at the second Brentwood residency, I wasn’t feeling 100% because of constant targeting of management and their crony co-workers. It took me a while to get back on track and eventually whatever I lost I gained back and more. I discovered a few key artists that made me see the light. I got back into broadcasting with a new radio show, and I finally re-united with Cath- whom I haven’t seen in a few years due to her addiction and sordid history.

But, some things turn sour that’s not your fault. Ma’ commits suicide and your dad ends up moving back in with you. You end up working two jobs without a day-off in near vicinity. Cath-’s #1 dies of a heroin overdose and she cuts off all ties from you with absolutely no reason given. Your unemployed gamer landlord doesn’t put in his fair share of rent and utilities, so you end up with no internet and you’re literally freezing because there’s no running heat or hot water for all of winter. Of all the major events going on, that final one had my bro- take notice. He was living with his lady and their first-born in Lindenhurst. He felt so bad learning I was living with no utilities that he not only offered me to move in with him to Lindenhurst but also into a new house. I shouldn’t say ‘offered’. He told me so. Sure. I wasn’t complaining.

I had about a week to pack up all the loose ends and was told to take out all my records, discs, cassettes, VHS tapes, and DVDs from the drawers and throw them in giant bins. Him and his friends managed to lift all the furniture up out of the old Brentwood residency and into the new one in Lindenhurst. It was my duty to take some of the smaller boxes of personals to stuff in the trunk, back seat, and passengers’ seat of my car.

I’d be leaving behind the un-mopped dingy floors, the eventual basement floods, and the other disused soot-ridden rooms which the former random inhabitants lived in. One ‘neighbor’ who lived in the adjacent room from me came home on the weekends totally wasted that he collapsed face first on the floor as soon as he walked in. He almost caused a house fire by forgetting the bag of popcorn he was cooking in the microwave. And the best one – get ready for this - was when a fully nude lady almost walked into my room. It was his prostitute looking for him. Jesus Fucking Christ.

I went to work and was told by my bro- that everything would be moved in the same day, so just come to the new house in Lindenhurst. I had no idea how good I had it. My new room was up on the second floor and triple the size of my previous one. Carpeted floors. Windows that faced the peeking sun. Low-flying passenger jets. A wider, larger closet space, and a pair of smaller doors revealing an attic for storage. Plus, being in Lindenhurst meant that three record stores were in near vicinity: West Babylon’s Looney Tunes, Amityville’s High Fidelity, and Massapequa’s Infinity Records. Lindenhurst had quickly become a favorite place to live in.

I arrived from work on a sunny 70* Sunday. June 1st to be exact. Most of what I kept from my childhood home and the previous residency came with me to Lindenhurst such as a gumball machine, my gramma’s Lafayette LR-810 receiver, and a massive Philips 24” CRT TV that would paralyze anyone attempting to lift it. All of it was there and a few boxes of my audio / video library. I wasn’t interested in unpacking. Not just yet. Our wi-fi network was set-up. That was the most important thing to me. I haven’t had consistent wi-fi in six months. The first thing I looked up was to see how Cath- was doing despite her taking everything we had and throwing out the trash as if it was nothing. Good news: she’s started a new life solo in Arizona and has been clean for one month.

The first finds to mark my new stay in Lindenhurst? Someone had posted Pharmakon’s “Xia Xinfeng” where her murderous screams break through a fully-running frigidly cold hum. I was sold instantly. The vinyl-finds groups lead me to Mass Production and Peter Brown; soul-jazz and pop respectively. I stuck with the L.I.E.S. label after fully enjoying Ron Morelli’s solos for a quite a while, all released through Dominick Fernow’s Hospital Productions. His label compilation, Music For Shut-Ins, supplied Samantha’s Vacation, Svengalisghost, and Legowelt. Omar Souleyman started gaining a name for himself in the states. Experiencing “Kell Il Banat Inkhatban (All The Girls Are Engaged)“ is truly something. I never heard keyboards go that crazy. Then we have WUSB’s own Alice, dee-jay of Nightmare Aquarium. Without her, I wouldn’t have known who Ariel Pink and William Onyeabor were. I credit her for introducing me to the magically sublime Black Marble.

Nary did I have a day off during that Summer I moved in. I could only count four…maybe six total. The electronics place finally gave me full time, double-dealing between that and part-time at the Italian market. The only stand-out moment I had during the hotter months was getting lost somewhere in the sunny woodsy section of Mastic looking for Nicole’s residency which I did find an hour late. Nowadays, one listen to A Different Arrangement instantly takes me back to those June Sundays.

Autumn came. The days were getting cooler and darker. Driving past Argyle Pond coming home from work became a staple memory with synthwave vibes of “Fright Night” from Ariel Pink’s Haunted Graffiti forever attached to it. Hospital Productions gave me another artist to savor in the Italian-based Ninos Du Brasil  with their dying-hot exotic techno sounds. Suicideyear would be distinct to the season and to Lindenhurst alone which makes their sound personal in my book. Another neighborhood memory, Dual Action’s “NC-17 Drive In”, is forever intertwined to the Autumn soul. Our WUSB hip-hop dee-jay Dr. Ceus played me SpaceGhostPurrp’s “Mystical Maze” adding another bookmark in this asterisk time. Mono/Poly’s “Alpha Omega”, Lussuria’s “Mondo Narcotico” and “Keys To Unlock Paradise (Roman Showers)” from American Babylon,Function & Vatican Shadow’s Games Have Rules, the obscure Axxa/Abraxas’ “Waiting Daze”, and selections from The Bug’s Angels & Devils left their imprints on another feel-good season at Lindenhurst.

Before I knew it, my streak of 83 straight days of work was finally broken a few days before Thanksgiving. I came to visit the market for my hours to see that I was written out of the grid. Week after week it became a normal occurrence. I’ve been giving them my other hours in time without fail but now no more results. No discussion, no rhyme or reason why. I was let go without any notice. It was a blessing, however. A soft end to six years of non-stop belittling, boys-club behavior, and endless soul-torturing has finally been put down to die.

Winter was where things started to get fucked for discoveries; like the ‘parenthesis’ in an equation. My ex- Yenny is leaving for Lima and she’s asked me to house-sit for her in Hauppauge. A two-week stay meant all music discoveries default there. A residency inside a residency. Before and after, XXYYXX’s only full-length and two finds from the Ze label Xmas Record, Suicide’s “Hey Lord” and Alan Vega’s “No More Christmas Blues” are embedded in those frosty, chilly Winter days back in Lindy-. The latter two would be put on pause as I walked a couple of blocks to the bagel place for a heavy baked breaded breakfast.

Then came a March announcement from my bro-: we’re moving to Ronkonkoma. This was unexpected. He was excited to start a new point in his life. His lady was expecting their second child and wanted something even nicer than what we have. There was no issue with where we lived. I had none and truly wanted to stay longer. But, what my bro- was selling us on that we’d upgrade from the slightly crowded residential streets, noise-polluting airplanes, and highways across every direction for a gentler, calmer, at-peace setting of historical context, well-manicured lawns, trails, veteran’s parks, and a 4.5 square-mile scenic lake. To me, Ronkonkoma was Record Stop on Portion Road, punk luminary Jimi LaLumia’s Record Connection on Hawkins Road, and what used to be Lakeside’s bar where I’d go for some small-scale but breakout-violent local hardcore shows. Other than LaLumia, none are still standing. It’s a new decade now; far away from the community-college shows and record-buying jaunts from the Stony Brook era. We had up until May 1st   to get everything together. The Lindenhurst finds dwindled down to nothing, and all the discoveries found that Spring ended up at the current residency we’re at now. It was time to say goodbye to my old furniture: the twin-sized bed, the old bookshelves, dressers, drawers, the gumball machine, and the Lafayette that was losing its functionality. We left all the small stuff in front of the gate and left the furniture behind. Goodbye Lindenhurst and hello Ronkonkoma.

**********

I can tell you that my very first experience in the new neighborhood was delightful and exotic. We were only a few blocks away from the new house. My dad had me pull up to our neighborhood 7-11 for his daily coffee. I grab a pack of Hostess chocolate cupcakes and behind the counter I see the perfect ginger. Bright long copper hair, brown eyes, freckles, and all of pale skin. Jackpot. She was a sight to be seen.

There was a line of five people in front of us with two registers open. Dad was more than ready to sip his coffee but was getting restless as the scalding hot was wearing off. Lucky for me, the young Indian kid took care of him. I put my Hostess on the counter for the ginger to ring up. She was quiet, expressionless. Tired, bored, introverted? Who knows. Who cares. She made quick work of my purchase and I was two more cupcakes happier. The day was off to a great start. I didn’t believe people like her existed.

She was my very first memory at the new neighborhood. I still remember her to this very day. There’s some faces you never forget.

Pharmakon “Xia Xinfeng”

Mass Production “Slow Bump”

Atari Teenage Riot “Modern Liars”

Peter Brown “For Your Love”

Black Marble A Different Arrangement

Ariel Pink’s Haunted Graffiti “Schnitzel Boogie”

Purling Hiss “Don’t Even Try It”

Omar Souleyman “Kell Il Banat Inkhatban (All The Girls Are Engaged)“

Poly Styrene (as Mari Elliott) “Silly Billy”

L.I.E.S. label Music For Shut-Ins (2013)

Carbonas “September Gurls”

Predator “Honest Man”

Run The Jewels “Blockbuster Night Pt. 1”

Arca “Thievery”

Broadcast “Goodbye Girls”

Ariel Pink “Put Your Number In My Phone”

Ninos Du Brasil “Pandiero Sinchinsa”

NeruvianDOOM “Disastrous”

Thomas Jefferson Slave Apartments “Please Hear My Plea”

Suicideyear “Hope Building A”

Hussy, The “EZ-PZ”

Carbonas “Frothing At The Mouth”

Krewe Of 77 “Three’s A Crowd”

Ekoplekz “Robert Rental”

Wara From The NBHD “Squeal (Peel Off)”

Ariel Pink’s Haunted Graffiti “Fright Night (Never More)”

Mono/Poly “Alpha & Omega”

Casket Girls, The “Chemical Dizzy”

Bug, The “Void”

Suicideyear “Rememberance”

Standish / Carlyon “2 5 1 1”

Vereker “Rosite”

Ninos Du Brazil “Tuppelo”

SpaceGhostPurrp “Mystikal Maze”

Dual Action “NC-17 Drive In”

Thomas Jefferson Slave Apartments ”Turntable Battlefield”

Bug, The “Swarm”

Suicideyear “I Don’t Care About Death Because I Smoke”

Travis Porter “Do A Trick” (Suicideyear RMX)

Ninos Du Brasil “Rebanho Espetacular”

Lussuria “Mondo Narcotico”

Function & Vatican Shadow Games Have Rules

Axxa/Abraxas “Waiting Daze”

Lussuria “Keys To Unlock Paradise (Roman Showers)”

Blossom Dearie “Sunday Afternoon”

XXYYXX “Witching Hour”

Alan Vega “No More Christmas Blues”

Suicide “Hey Lord”

XXYYXX “Fields”

[lemonnbug]

Little Red Riding Hood pt 2

Warnings: mentions of choking, drugging, Minors DNI, it's John so he's a warning in and of himself lol, one scene has a gun in it, I'll proofread when Hell freezes over.

This takes place the next day!

They're sure to lure someone bad

His eyelids feel heavy as he opens them, unfocused as they take in his surroundings. How did I get here? John thinks to himself, a stuffed up feeling in his head, mouth dry as the desert. Taking a deep breath, the realization that his arms are tied behind his back causes his memories to come flooding back. The woman, her house, the fucking tea. Dread creeps up John's spine as he pulls against the binds keeping him secured tightly to a metal folding chair, ankles tied against the chair legs. A panicked gasp escapes him as the fear sets in, just now noticing that he's in a basement, remodeled into some dingy little bedroom with unfinished wooden shelves lining the walls and storage boxes piled in the corners. He swivels his head around until it lands on an air mattress to his right, made up with a fuzzy pink duvet and pillows. The woman sits on the edge of the mattress, knees pulled to her chest, smiling up at him like she just won the lottery. Oh god. "I was wondering when you'd wake up," she leans forward, crawling until she sits beside him, ignoring the way he jerks when she places a hand on his knee, "are you thirsty? Hungry? Dinners not for a little while, but I could make you a snack if you'd like?" John can't do anything but stare at her, unable to fully comprehend what's going on, feeling uneasy with this role-reversal. She's looking up at him with her brows raised, awaiting his reply with a patient smile. "I.." He croaks out, stopping to clear his throat. The woman quickly stands up and walks towards a small foldout table where a pitcher of ice water sits. She pours water into a cup, ice chips rattling against the plastic, and walks back to John. "Here," she says, raising the cup to his lips, "it's ok." John thinks for a minute, unsure whether she could've put something in the water. I'm already down here. He leans forward, letting her place the lip of the cup against his mouth, slowly raising it until he could take a sip. "There," the woman smiles, sitting down, this time in between his legs, the cup clasped with both hands, "are you hungry?"

"Why are you doing this?" She lets out a dramatic sigh, rolling her eyes playfully at his inquiry. "You can't answer a question with a question, silly. But, to answer yours," she looks up at him adoringingly, "I couldn't help myself. You're just so...god, pretty doesn't describe it. You're beautiful, from the first time I saw you, I knew. I just had to have you." Oh god. Looking around the room, with its bed and table, small dresser pushed against the wall and shelves lined with clutter, it all dawns on him. "Oh dear God, how long have you been following me?" Confusion clouds the woman's face, following his line of sight to where it landed on the door, fitted with a key lock on either side. "Oh, oh no, no no," she starts, placing a hand on his leg, "I didn't plan this, the people who lived here before remodeled the basement, the lock is just good luck. I only thought of it yesterday. If I had had more time I would've made it nicer for you. Soft carpet, warm lighting, and a big fluffy bed with as many pillows as you could possibly want. All I could manage in time were the sheets and blanket. But it's okay, you won't be staying down here very long."

"How...how long?" John asks, trying to keep his voice even. The woman hums and stands up, cocking her head to the side, eyes boring into his. "Until I'm sure that you'll be good."

¤

She sits on the mattress, arms resting on her crossed legs, leaning over a paperback. John lets his eyes roam over her, taking in the folds of her stomach as she leans forward, pink sundress snug against her, the soft outline of her jaw and the way her brows furrow, engrossed by whatever it is she's reading. She'd be easy for him to overpower, if he could find a way to get untied. Think. Think. Think.

"What are you reading?"

His sudden interest surprises and delights her, a smile quickly adorning her face. She lifts up the book towards him, a woman in a torn dress is embraced by a mysterious man in black, his mouth on her neck, hers open in either ecstasy or pain.

"Carnal Creatures," says the woman on the mattress, suddenly avoiding his eyes as a blush creeps its way to her chubby cheeks, "kind of like...sexy Dracula."

"Is it..is it any good?" He asks, he can pretend to be interested, to care about her interests, he knows how to do that.

"Yeah," she nods, looking down at the book in her hands, "it's a bit too, you know." John tilts his head in feign curiosity, the way he knows women like. "You know…" she continues, seeming embarrassed, "too smutty. Not enough romance." He lets out a breathy laugh and nods, getting the swing of things. "That's how it all is, these days." The woman looks up at him, hanging on his every word like a line from her book. "Books, movies, even music," he smiles, trying to seem boyishly uncomfortable at the subject, "they all focus on the physical, on..on the sex, and less on - Well, sometimes even completely leaving out - the romance. The softness, which, personally," she's eating it up "I think is the best part." He looks at her for one second, two seconds, three seconds so it seems like he's lingering and then.. BEEP BEEP BEEP

A timer goes off somewhere upstairs, interrupting John's play, and the woman stands up, discarding the book on the mattress. "Dinners ready," she says, smoothing her dress down, "I'll be right back." She walks up the few steps and disappears into the house, leaving John alone with his thoughts.

If I can hear something in the house, then someone in the house would be able to hear me. The hope that thought springs up is quickly subdued when he remembers something she'd said earlier, "I never get guests," and he believes her.

She comes back carrying two platters of food and sets them on the foldout table, before going back and forth bringing plates, glasses, and silverware. She lays it all out and takes hold of the table, pulling it close to John before setting a chair on the other side, across from him. She pours them both water before serving, scooping mashed potatoes and green beans onto his plate, and placing a slice of meatloaf last.

"Here," she says, leaning down behind him. He feels the bonds loosen around his wrists as her fingers make quick work of them, before walking back to her chair and sitting down, watching as he brings his hands forward and rubs them with a wince. "Sorry," she says quietly, a look of remorse on her usually smiling face, "there's really no way around it." She reaches both her hands towards him, palms up, expectantly. Slowly, he obliges her, feeling uneasy as she closes her eyes.

"Dear Lord, we thank you for this meal,"

You've got to be kidding me

"may it sustain and nourish us."

She's insane

"Thank you for all of the ways you provide for us, housing and health, and kind friends."

She's fucking insane

"Help us to always be grateful for Your many blessings. In the name of Your son, Jesus Christ,"

Jesus Christ

"Amen."

……………..

She's looking at him, a kind smile tugging at her lips, "John?"

"Hm? Oh, A..Amen." He stutters out, hands growing sweaty in hers before she lets go, picking up her fork and starting to eat. He does the same.

They eat in uncomfortable silence for a few minutes, her eyes occasionally flickering up to his as he pretends not to notice, figuring out if he'd have a chance to get free now that his hands were, but the ropes around his legs are still just as tight, and he fears angering her. "So," her voice startles him more than he'd like to admit, "tell me about yourself." I am most definitely not going to do that. "Any family close by?" Swallowing slowly, John tries to decide on a direction to take, "Yes, a brother...who lives nearby." He lies, wanting her to think people would miss him, notice his absence and do something about it. When in reality, John knew that no one would know, no one would worry about him, try to find him. He was easy prey. Just like the women he used to play predator to.

"We were..we were actually supposed to meet today, get together and…" He trails off, watches as a grin spreads across her face, eyes crinkling.

"You, John Tyler, are a bad liar." She laughs, thankfully finding his lies endearing more than angering. No, I'm not. He knew how to lie, he was GOOD at it, at making women believe whatever he wanted them to believe, and if this were any other situation, she'd be nodding along to every little thread he weaved for her. But she unnerved him, she took away that thing that made him able to perform, to string people along. She took away his ability to lie, making him feel exposed.

"That's okay though," she says after a pause, taking a sip of water before pushing her plate away, "we have plenty of time to get to know each other. Do you like music?" She pulls out her phone and taps away at it, locking the screen and tossing it on the mattress after it begins playing, soft pop ballads floating through the speaker. She stands up and clears their plates, taking them in the house and returning with two saucers and a round platter, setting it down in front of him.

My cheesecake.

"My cheesecake." John eyes it, remembering how good that day had been, how good he had felt, how normal. Right up until she came along.

"I didn't want it to go bad," she says, cutting him a slice, "so I brought it in. You don't mind, do you?" She looks at his blank face, genuinely asking if he minded, as if that's more impolite than, say, kidnapping someone. "No, no I just..thank you." He replies, picking at it with his fork while a love song wails on her phone, watching as she raises her fork, the tines sliding between her plump lips. Stop it, John tells himself, now is not the time.

"Ugh," the woman suddenly exclaims with a look of disgust, "I hate this song." John didn't recognize it, some irritating beat with a guy talking about a woman (presumably his girlfriend?) stripping "that down" for him. "It's gross. Hey Siri," her phone chimes as the digital assistant powers up, and as much as he hates it, he has to agree with her, it was gross. "skip this song."

A slower, more romantic one plays instead, "That's better."

The lyrics strike John as darkly ironic,

I will follow you,

follow you wherever you may go.

There isn't an ocean too deep,

a mountain so high it can keep me away.

¤

"I need to use the bathroom."

John was done playing her game, sitting captive and helpless, she had no idea who he was, what he was capable of. He just needed out of these binds.

The woman stands behind him untying his hands, and John notices she's taking longer than she had before. Arms finally free, he brings them forward, massaging his wrists when she places her hands softly on his shoulders,

"I need you to not try anything, okay?" Her words are steady and sure, like she'd been going over them in her head. John nods, knowing she won't be able to stop him. Fingers dig into his shoulders painfully as her grip tightens. "I mean it, John. I've worked very hard on this."

"I promise." His thoughts race, he needs to run as soon as he's able to, but part of him wants to stay, watch as she realizes how big of a mistake she's made, trapping herself in here with him instead of the other way around. That small part of him he has tried so very hard to bury wants to crawl out of the grave, wants to grab hold of her arms and shove her against the wall, wrap his fingers around her pretty neck and watch as her supple chest heaves, gasping for air. He wants to see the fear in her eyes when she's thrown onto the mattress, wants to hear her scream apologies and futile promises as he holds her down.

He wants her to regret letting him into her house.

I am in control of my thoughts, they do not control me. I am in control of my thoughts, they do not control me. I am in control of my thoughts, they do not control me.

She kneels down to untie his legs, hands pausing at the last knot before she eventually relents. John had already made up his mind by then, unwilling to fall back into the man he used to be, so as soon as he feels the rope go slack he's up, bolting towards the door. A click stops him dead in his tracks, hand midair as he had been reaching for the door, holding his breath as he looks over his shoulder, shit. The woman holds a small revolver in her hands, pointed directly at his back as she looks at him disappointedly.

"You promised, John." She sighs, motioning with her head for him to make his way back to the chair, and for a moment he wonders if he could make it to the door before she pulls the trigger, and who knows if she's ever shot the damn thing before. She might miss me completely.

"Since I was ten," the woman says, somehow seeming to guess what he was thinking, "twice a week at the range. Daddy thought a girl should be able to protect herself." And does daddy know what you're using those skills for now? Nevertheless, John slowly walks back over to the chair and sits down. "Tie your legs, we'll leave your arms for now." Begrudgingly he complies, trying to make them less tight than before, but she notices and makes him do it again.

He sits up once he's finished, watching as the woman lowers the gun, looking at him with a displeased pout.

"I...I still have to use the bathroom," he mutters. The woman turns and walks up the steps, returning a few minutes later with a metal bucket. Oh come on.

"You'll have to use this since you wouldn't be good for me."

Authors Note: HI! Sorry it took me so long, I got distracted by the pretty blond men on HOTD lol. Anyways. I really like the concept of John being unnerved when faced with someone who's like him, like seeing his crazy-ness mirrored in her freaks him out, not realizing they're the same lol. Like its okay for him, but not others. ALSO i love this insane woman so much.

Divider credit goes to the lovely @v6que !!

[omegaplus]

# 4,415

Lindenhurst.

I lived in Brentwood for much of my timeline; mostly at my childhood home and later moved down the road not too far away post-Stony Brook. The latter move was a result of me refusing to move down to Myrtle Beach with my parents. I never had any desire to leave New York State and I never had enough of visiting New York City. Around the time, the economy plundered. I went broke and applied for the first job opportunity that was open in order to survive. I had no idea that place would ruin me. For most of the time at the second Brentwood residency, I wasn’t feeling 100% because of constant targeting of management and their crony co-workers. It took me a while to get back on track and eventually whatever I lost I gained back and more. I discovered a few key artists that made me see the light. I got back into broadcasting with a new radio show, and I finally re-united with Cath- whom I haven’t seen in a few years due to her addiction and sordid history.

But, some things turn sour that’s not your fault. Ma’ commits suicide and your dad ends up moving back in with you. You end up working two jobs without a day-off in near vicinity. Cath-’s #1 dies of a heroin overdose and she cuts off all ties from you with absolutely no reason given. Your unemployed gamer landlord doesn’t put in his fair share of rent and utilities, so you end up with no internet and you’re literally freezing because there’s no running heat or hot water for all of winter. Of all the major events going on, that final one had my bro- take notice. He was living with his lady and their first-born in Lindenhurst. He felt so bad learning I was living with no utilities that he not only offered me to move in with him to Lindenhurst but also into a new house. I shouldn’t say ‘offered’. He told me so. Sure. I wasn’t complaining.

I had about a week to pack up all the loose ends and was told to take out all my records, discs, cassettes, VHS tapes, and DVDs from the drawers and throw them in giant bins. Him and his friends managed to lift all the furniture up out of the old Brentwood residency and into the new one in Lindenhurst. It was my duty to take some of the smaller boxes of personals to stuff in the trunk, back seat, and passengers' seat of my car.

I’d be leaving behind the un-mopped dingy floors, the eventual basement floods, and the other disused soot-ridden rooms which the former random inhabitants lived in. One ‘neighbor’ who lived in the adjacent room from me came home on the weekends totally wasted that he collapsed face first on the floor as soon as he walked in. He almost caused a house fire by forgetting the bag of popcorn he was cooking in the microwave. And the best one – get ready for this - was when a fully nude lady almost walked into my room. It was his prostitute looking for him. Jesus Fucking Christ.

I went to work and was told by my bro- that everything would be moved in the same day, so just come to the new house in Lindenhurst. I had no idea how good I had it. My new room was up on the second floor and triple the size of my previous one. Carpeted floors. Windows that faced the peeking sun. Low-flying passenger jets. A wider, larger closet space, and a pair of smaller doors revealing an attic for storage. Plus, being in Lindenhurst meant that three record stores were in near vicinity: West Babylon’s Looney Tunes, Amityville’s High Fidelity, and Massapequa’s Infinity Records. Lindenhurst had quickly become a favorite place to live in.

I arrived from work on a sunny 70* Sunday. June 1st to be exact. Most of what I kept from my childhood home and the previous residency came with me to Lindenhurst such as a gumball machine, my gramma’s Lafayette LR-810 receiver, and a massive Philips 24” CRT TV that would paralyze anyone attempting to lift it. All of it was there and a few boxes of my audio / video library. I wasn’t interested in unpacking. Not just yet. Our wi-fi network was set-up. That was the most important thing to me. I haven’t had consistent wi-fi in six months. The first thing I looked up was to see how Cath- was doing despite her taking everything we had and throwing out the trash as if it was nothing. Good news: she’s started a new life solo in Arizona and has been clean for one month.

The first finds to mark my new stay in Lindenhurst? Someone had posted Pharmakon’s “Xia Xinfeng” where her murderous screams break through a fully-running frigidly cold hum. I was sold instantly. The vinyl-finds groups lead me to Mass Production and Peter Brown; soul-jazz and pop respectively. I stuck with the L.I.E.S. label after fully enjoying Ron Morelli’s solos for a quite a while, all released through Dominick Fernow’s Hospital Productions. His label compilation, Music For Shut-Ins, supplied Samantha’s Vacation, Svengalisghost, and Legowelt. Omar Souleyman started gaining a name for himself in the states. Experiencing “Kell Il Banat Inkhatban (All The Girls Are Engaged)“ is truly something. I never heard keyboards go that crazy. Then we have WUSB’s own Alice, dee-jay of Nightmare Aquarium. Without her, I wouldn’t have known who Ariel Pink and William Onyeabor were. I credit her for introducing me to the magically sublime Black Marble.

Nary did I have a day off during that Summer I moved in. I could only count four…maybe six total. The electronics place finally gave me full time, double-dealing between that and part-time at the Italian market. The only stand-out moment I had during the hotter months was getting lost somewhere in the sunny woodsy section of Mastic looking for Nicole’s residency which I did find an hour late. Nowadays, one listen to A Different Arrangement instantly takes me back to those June Sundays.

Autumn came. The days were getting cooler and darker. Driving past Argyle Pond coming home from work became a staple memory with synthwave vibes of “Fright Night” from Ariel Pink’s Haunted Graffiti forever attached to it. Hospital Productions gave me another artist to savor in the Italian-based Ninos Du Brasil  with their dying-hot exotic techno sounds. Suicideyear would be distinct to the season and to Lindenhurst alone which makes their sound personal in my book. Another neighborhood memory, Dual Action’s “NC-17 Drive In”, is forever intertwined to the Autumn soul. Our WUSB hip-hop dee-jay Dr. Ceus played me SpaceGhostPurrp’s “Mystical Maze” adding another bookmark in this asterisk time. Mono/Poly’s “Alpha Omega”, Lussuria’s “Mondo Narcotico” and “Keys To Unlock Paradise (Roman Showers)” from American Babylon, Function & Vatican Shadow’s Games Have Rules, the obscure Axxa/Abraxas’ “Waiting Daze”, and selections from The Bug’s Angels & Devils left their imprints on another feel-good season at Lindenhurst.

Before I knew it, my streak of 83 straight days of work was finally broken a few days before Thanksgiving. I came to visit the market for my hours to see that I was written out of the grid. Week after week it became a normal occurrence. I’ve been giving them my other hours in time without fail but now no more results. No discussion, no rhyme or reason why. I was let go without any notice. It was a blessing, however. A soft end to six years of non-stop belittling, boys-club behavior, and endless soul-torturing has finally been put down to die.

Winter was where things started to get fucked for discoveries; like the ‘parenthesis’ in an equation. My ex- Yenny is leaving for Lima and she’s asked me to house-sit for her in Hauppauge. A two-week stay meant all music discoveries default there. A residency inside a residency. Before and after, XXYYXX’s only full-length and two finds from the Ze label Xmas Record, Suicide’s “Hey Lord” and Alan Vega’s “No More Christmas Blues” are embedded in those frosty, chilly Winter days back in Lindy-. The latter two would be put on pause as I walked a couple of blocks to the bagel place for a heavy baked breaded breakfast.

Then came a March announcement from my bro-: we’re moving to Ronkonkoma. This was unexpected. He was excited to start a new point in his life. His lady was expecting their second child and wanted something even nicer than what we have. There was no issue with where we lived. I had none and truly wanted to stay longer. But, what my bro- was selling us on that we’d upgrade from the slightly crowded residential streets, noise-polluting airplanes, and highways across every direction for a gentler, calmer, at-peace setting of historical context, well-manicured lawns, trails, veteran’s parks, and a 4.5 square-mile scenic lake. To me, Ronkonkoma was Record Stop on Portion Road, punk luminary Jimi LaLumia’s Record Connection on Hawkins Road, and what used to be Lakeside’s bar where I’d go for some small-scale but breakout-violent local hardcore shows. Other than LaLumia, none are still standing. It’s a new decade now; far away from the community-college shows and record-buying jaunts from the Stony Brook era. We had up until May 1st   to get everything together. The Lindenhurst finds dwindled down to nothing, and all the discoveries found that Spring ended up at the current residency we’re at now. It was time to say goodbye to my old furniture: the twin-sized bed, the old bookshelves, dressers, drawers, the gumball machine, and the Lafayette that was losing its functionality. We left all the small stuff in front of the gate and left the furniture behind. Goodbye Lindenhurst and hello Ronkonkoma.

**********

I can tell you that my very first experience in the new neighborhood was delightful and exotic. We were only a few blocks away from the new house. My dad had me pull up to our neighborhood 7-11 for his daily coffee. I grab a pack of Hostess chocolate cupcakes and behind the counter I see the perfect ginger. Bright long copper hair, brown eyes, freckles, and all of pale skin. Jackpot. She was a sight to be seen.

There was a line of five people in front of us with two registers open. Dad was more than ready to sip his coffee but was getting restless as the scalding hot was wearing off. Lucky for me, the young Indian kid took care of him. I put my Hostess on the counter for the ginger to ring up. She was quiet, expressionless. Tired, bored, introverted? Who knows. Who cares. She made quick work of my purchase and I was two more cupcakes happier. The day was off to a great start. I didn’t believe people like her existed.

She was my very first memory at the new neighborhood. I still remember her to this very day. There’s some faces you never forget.

Pharmakon “Xia Xinfeng”

Mass Production “Slow Bump”

Atari Teenage Riot “Modern Liars”

Peter Brown “For Your Love”

Black Marble A Different Arrangement

Ariel Pink’s Haunted Graffiti “Schnitzel Boogie”

Purling Hiss “Don’t Even Try It”

Omar Souleyman “Kell Il Banat Inkhatban (All The Girls Are Engaged)“

Poly Styrene (as Mari Elliott) “Silly Billy”

L.I.E.S. label Music For Shut-Ins (2013)

Carbonas “September Gurls”

Predator “Honest Man”

Run The Jewels “Blockbuster Night Pt. 1”

Arca “Thievery”

Broadcast “Goodbye Girls”

Ariel Pink “Put Your Number In My Phone”

Ninos Du Brasil “Pandiero Sinchinsa”

NeruvianDOOM “Disastrous”

Thomas Jefferson Slave Apartments “Please Hear My Plea”

Suicideyear “Hope Building A”

Hussy, The “EZ-PZ”

Carbonas “Frothing At The Mouth”

Krewe Of 77 “Three’s A Crowd”

Ekoplekz “Robert Rental”

Wara From The NBHD “Squeal (Peel Off)”

Ariel Pink’s Haunted Graffiti “Fright Night (Never More)”

Mono/Poly “Alpha & Omega”

Casket Girls, The “Chemical Dizzy”

Bug, The “Void”

Suicideyear “Rememberance”

Standish / Carlyon “2 5 1 1”

Vereker “Rosite”

Ninos Du Brazil “Tuppelo”

SpaceGhostPurrp “Mystikal Maze”

Dual Action “NC-17 Drive In”

Thomas Jefferson Slave Apartments ”Turntable Battlefield”

Bug, The “Swarm”

Suicideyear “I Don’t Care About Death Because I Smoke”

Travis Porter “Do A Trick” (Suicideyear RMX)

Ninos Du Brasil “Rebanho Espetacular”

Lussuria “Mondo Narcotico”

Function & Vatican Shadow Games Have Rules

Axxa/Abraxas “Waiting Daze”

Lussuria “Keys To Unlock Paradise (Roman Showers)”

Blossom Dearie “Sunday Afternoon”

XXYYXX “Witching Hour”

Alan Vega “No More Christmas Blues”

Suicide “Hey Lord”

XXYYXX “Fields”

[sharkneto]

The floor still has its ratty carpet, impossibly worn now and full of holes. She thinks it might have been green, once. In one corner, there’s a massive chalk board, filled with equations in Five’s familiar lefty-scrawl. The walls are covered in more math. A heavy wooden desk has been pushed against the wall and plastic bins full of clothes are stacked on top of it, off the ground and carefully taped where they’ve cracked to keep bugs out of them. In the far corner, there’s two honestly disgusting cushions, stained with stuffing sticking out. Another bin of what looks to be blankets sits next to it. That must be where Five sleeps, she realizes with a start.

I want to know everything about Five's little den at the end of the world. Gimme all those feels, Shark! *Jaws theme begins to play* (Crueler to Remember, chp 2)

I had so much fun thinking about Five's apocalypse set up in Crueler to Remember. The glimpse of his camp we get in S1 drives me nuts because it's so fucking impractical. Just a tent? And all those books sitting out in the open? It's been 45 years! They'd be little piles of mush. So, I had to figure out what I thought would be a practical camp for Five.

An important factor is that I think Five was insane enough (and sentimental enough) to stay in the same city for the entire time, so his base needs to be something that can last that long (aka: not a fucking tent). The destruction of the city seems rather absolute from the glimpses we get, so an already standing structure is out. He could build one, but probably not until he was older, so what did he find until that point (and then stick with because it worked and he's insane). He needs something sturdy and protected from the elements, somewhere cool in the summer and warm in the winter.

Enter idea: Underground! Yes, delving underground in a city obviously ravaged by the equivalent of an earthquake is usually a terrible idea! But this is my fic, so Five gets to find a sturdy basement to turn into his survival bunker, at the library as a treat.

There are further logistical problems to living underground that I tried to think of, whether or not my solutions are actually practical. He's saved from getting snowed in and buried alive by the fact I have him down a hallway from exposed stairs, so snow tapers off in accumulation before it can reach his door. He can make a sandbag wall to block it off when it rains and save himself from bad flooding. The hall with an opening also gives him a place to have a fire near his door without giving himself carbon monoxide poisoning. There is no light, because underground, so he gets creative with mirrors to reflect some light back, and then there is a careful maintenance of solar lanterns for light as he needs it inside.

No light means that the space is for Survival, and his actual work happens outside (weather permitting). It is where he keeps food and supplies, where he can sleep, where he can keep Important Things safe from the elements (like physics books and notes and Umbrella Academy merchandise). He keeps his clothes and blankets in bins so bugs can't eat them. Food goes in a closet-turned-pantry that he's sealed as best he can against bugs. His bed is disgusting because I think all mattresses that survived the blast would be disgusting from bugs almost immediately and we're a decade in when we visit Five in this fic. Delores is a well-established habit (and newly wedded!) at this point in the fic, so she has her own bin of clothes and Spots Five puts her inside and outside.

Speaking of outside, that's more traditional. He's got his fire pit, he's got his wood storage, he's got his miscellaneous piles of shit that are weather-hardy. He's got his soon-to-be garden now that the sun is out consistently enough for plants to start growing, which is good timing because at a decade in, we're hitting the end of canned food being reliably edible (absolutely disgusting by this point, but only just starting to turn dangerous). Five has a diet of veggies and cockroaches for his foreseeable future.

I love thinking about Five's time in the apocalypse so much - the angst of it, of course, but also the logistics of it all. It's such a terrible, incredible puzzle. One day I'll share my fic on that - maybe before it's finished, even, because I love it so much and it feels a shame it just sits in my WIP folder. Five's life is just so goddamn tragic.

send me ~500 words from one of my fics for director's commentary

[enchantcdstories]

For the prompt list (again) Inhale with Steven?

(so sorry if I am asking for too many/you don't want to do them!)

As promised, here you go! I hope you like it

You despised inventory nights. Not only did it mean having to stay later than normal, taking the bus home in the dark, and a day on the job that was always incredibly boring; It also meant having to be stuck in the basement, a dark and scary museum basement where there was *probably* a dead thing in storage down there. Donna was there too, though you were positive she was a living thing– despite how dead on the inside she was. 

Donna greeted you with the same displeased smile as you walked into work that evening, wordlessly shoving a cart of inventory to be taken downstairs before you had even set your bag down. Donna glanced down to her watch, huffing in annoyance before turning on her heel. 

“Right then, Steven’s late. Whatever. When he gets here, tell him he’s on inventory and both of you take the stock lift down to do your sorting there, got it?” She walked off without another word, leaving your heart racing in both fear and anticipation. Anticipation becuase Steven was the one coworker that you had a crush on, and getting to work with him would make this suddenly boring task so much better, but fear because you were also intensely scared of the stock lift. 

Swallowing, you nodded, keeping your gaze fixed on the front doors for a solid few minutes. Steven burst through them awkwardly, jogging and struggling to hold onto his bag as he went. You held up an awkward hand to wave to him, beckoning him over as you had your other hand still resting on the inventory cart. 

“I am…so sorry I’m late, bloody bus was running behind and I couldn’t find my shoe and–” Steven sounded out of breath, his hair all tousled and his skin lightly shining with sweat. His eyes roamed over the cart at your hands, as if piecing together what you were about to tell him.

“Donna put you on inventory…with me. Tonight. If that’s okay.” You asked, timidly. You were a bit scared to see if his reaction was going to be negative because of inventory, or because of you. “She wants us down in the basement doing stock..” You winced when your own voice faltered a bit, nervous at the thought of the lift. 

Steven closed his eyes and took a breath, as if centering himself before nodding. 

“Right then. Inventory. Okay, not too bad, yeah? That’ll be right fun.” He said, taking a box off the top of the cart and heading towards the lift. You pushed the cart behind him, heart racing the closer you got to the doors. 

“Yeah. Fun.” You mumbled, pushing the cart so it was lined up with the lift. You anticipated a long wait for the lift to arrive, but the tiny ‘ding’ sent your heart back down to your feet. Steven glanced at you from over the box, walking into the elevator awkwardly. 

“Bit of a tight fit..” He mumbled as you pushed the cart in. The floor of the lift rattled a bit, your grip on the cart tightening. You were suddenly *very* aware of how close you were standing to Steven, even with a box and cart in the way. You could feel the blush flooding your cheeks. As the lift shuddered downwards, you felt a gasp escape your lungs, eyes scrunching up to prevent the panic from bubbling up. 

“You alright, love?” Steven asked, setting the box aside as best as he could. You swallowed, offering him a meager smile. 

“Yeah, just get a bit nervous in here is all.” You mumble, keeping you grip on the cart tight. Steven grinned, holding his box a bit more awkwardly to reach over and put a hand on your lower back. 

“It’s nothing, yeah? Been takin’ this a million times now, Donna puts me on inventory a lot. Just a bit noisy, innit?” You felt his hand gently rub your back, the blush planted firmly on your face as you looked at him. His face had the effect that made you instantly want to confess your love for him. 

“Yeah well, I have good company I guess.” You smile softly at him. Steven smiled back, watching as the doors finally opened. 

“Ladies first, but you first because solid ground is probably more comfortable for you.” He hummed, gesturing out the door to you. Smiling in relief, you led the cart out, looking back to Steven as he followed you. 

“I think I’ll have to ask Donna to put me on inventory with you more often,” you said, as casually as you could. It was Steven’s turn to blush, nearly dropping the box in response. 

“Oh yeah? So you can get stuck in the elevator with me more often?” You nod, laughing. 

“Just another excuse to get you to touch me, maybe.” You said, a bold move from you as you turned to wheel the cart to the stock room. You didnt see his reaction, but you heard the box fall to the floor with a soft ‘thud’.

[celosiaa]

you can talk to me

Summary: Jon may or may not be questioning his gender.  Either way, Martin is there to listen.

CW: dysphoria, periods, panic, self-deprecating thoughts, food mention

for a prompt from @transcendentalbf! <3 hope you all enjoy!

Sasha: you wanted channa masala, right?

Martin: yes! got it in one!

Sasha: of course I did! be back in 15

Martin: <33

Setting his phone back on the desk, Martin tips back in his chair and lets out a sigh, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes.  Though it’s been nearly three weeks since he’s started living in the archives, that doesn’t mean that he’s gotten used to it—if anything, the long hours of being constantly on the lookout for anything creeping or crawling across the floor has only served to heighten his pre-existing anxiety.  It’s so lonely here. The low ceiling of the basement seems so vast when you wander beneath it in the dark—and even now, with his friends promising to return with lunch for him shortly, he can’t help but feel the weight of their absence.

Christ, Martin.  You’re pathetic.

Can’t even handle a bit of pain.

As if the thought alone had caused it to happen, the aching roar of his cramps flares up once more, causing him to bend over the desk to breathe through it yet again. It’s just so embarrassing—he’s been on T for years now, surely the bleeding would have stopped—but alas, no such luck to be had.  Of course he would be one of the people for whom it gets worse.  Of course.

I’ve got to text her.

Martin: hey, do you have ibuprofen? didn’t want to look through your desk without asking!

Sasha: course! middle drawer. you okay?

He wants so badly to lie to her, say it’s fine—but he can’t really do that after asking for pain relievers, can he?

Martin: fine!! just having some cramps is all, it’s okay!

Sasha: aw, I’m sorry, Martin :/ need anything else? I can stop by the store later if you need

Martin: not yet. might soon though

Martin: I’m sorry.

Martin: please don’t tell Tim

Sasha: I would never. and don’t worry about it! it’s no trouble. I’ll get you some stuff later, alright?

You’re a burden you’re a burden you’re nothing but a burden

Martin: thanks, sash. you’re the best!

Sasha: <3

Returning his phone to its place on his desk, Martin has to stop to take a few deep breaths—heart pounding with embarrassment over the entire discussion.  He knows it’s alright, knows Sasha means it when she says she doesn’t mind…right?

Jesus, stop it.

Just…take a walk, and  you’ll feel better afterwards.

Standing a bit painfully on swollen legs, Martin swallows a few of Sasha’s ibuprofen before he makes his way toward the stairs, hoping for a chat with Rosie while waiting on lunch.  At the very least, he could get some sunlight, escape from the windowless basement for a while.  He could only hope that the worms aren’t too bad up there.  

The lift dings its arrival to the main floor, where Rosie immediately turns to greet him with a warm smile.

“Ah, Martin! How are you, my dear?” she says as he approaches, looking genuinely glad to see him.

“Can’t complain!” he beams, leaning against her desk with one elbow.  “You doing alright?  Staying out of trouble?”

“You know I’m not,” she laughs, swatting playfully at his arm.  “But neither are you, I’m sure.”

“Got me there.”

Martin can’t help but smile back, pleased at the thought of bringing happiness to someone’s day, satisfied to listen to her stories of cats and knitting circles and whatever soaps she’s been watching on telly.  It reminds him of his mum, a bit—the nicer parts of her, anyway.

“Oh, that reminds me—“ she bends down beneath her desk to pull out a thin package, handing it over to him.  “This was delivered for Jon this morning.  Probably listed the Institute on the order form by accident again. Would you be so kind as to take it to him when you go back down?”

Holding it in his hands, Martin can feel the shape of the thing within it—some sort of soft fabric, stamped on top with a return label indicating a very nice clothing brand.

Date clothes.

He’s got a date.

Even as his heart sinks, Martin curses himself for it—it’s none of his business, Jon wants nothing to do with him, has no interest at all—after all, how could he? How could he when he’s…well, him?

“Stop making this about you, Martin,” he hears his mother say, closing his eyes against the memory.  “You’ve always got to spoil everything, don’t you?”

“Martin? You alright, love?” Rosie asks quietly, and Martin looks up to see her worried face—hand coming to rest lightly on his arm.

Damn it.

“Oh, ha, of course, Rosie!  S-sorry, it’s just—“

He backs away from the desk, pressing the call button for the lift.

“I’d better get back downstairs, then.  Don’t—don’t want to keep Jon waiting.  For his package, I mean.”

The lines of Rosie’s face only deepen, staring concernedly at him as he steps into the lift.

“Oh—alright, dear,” she says, a bit surprised at his sudden retreat.  “Come back and visit sometime, alright?  I’ll make us tea on your next break.”

“That sounds lovely,” he replies, forcing a wide grin to his face, flooded with guilt that she feels the need to make tea for him, when that’s supposed to be his responsibility.

“Nasty child, always making things about yourself.”

God, stop it.

“I’ll see you later then,” he continues with a wave, begging the lift doors to close quickly and hide his face.

—

Breathing deeply a few times before Jon’s office door, Martin finally gathers the courage to knock.

“Come in,” comes Jon’s baritone from behind the door, and he swings it open with a gentle creak.

“Hey, sorry to interrupt—Rosie had a package for you at the desk,” Martin says in as cheery a tone as he can manage, holding out the floppy package to Jon.

At once, Jon’s eyes go wide—he snatches it from Martin’s hands, setting it quickly out of sight with a blush rising to color his cheeks.

“Oh, th-thank you, Martin, erm—must have, must have accidentally sent it here,” he stammers, hand reaching up to rub at the back of his neck, no longer meeting Martin’s eyes.

Just get out just get out

“It’s no trouble,” he replies, and it’s far too happy, too sharp, too loud to be natural. “Sorry!  Sorry.  I’ll just be going, then.”

He closes the door on Jon’s shocked face, clearly surprised that Martin had not kept trying to make conversation, as usual.  Stepping away from the door, he tilts his head back against the tears springing to his eyes—Jon was so clearly flustered by the package, confirming what he already knew: he’s seeing someone else.

Stop it stop it stop it

Furious with himself, at the hollow cavern of his chest, he turns toward the break room—determined to at least make this lunch normal and pleasant.  

Just be normal.

For once, just do it right.

—

Though the hour is just barely approaching 8pm, Martin is more than ready to settle in for what he hopes might be some half-decent sleep.  He’d been on the lookout for worms all day, as usual, but had really found very few—and certainly none within the sealed doors of document storage.  Even if the air feels a bit stuffy, it’s nice to have a bit of added security that those things couldn’t possibly reach him in here.  Or so he hopes.

It’s as if the cot has its own gravitational pull, beckoning him to just tip to the side, to let it all wash away into sleep—the only problem being that he cannot yet bring himself to take off his binder.  To put it mildly, it’s been a day, even with the lovely lunch Tim and Sasha had brought him, even with the warming cup of tea he and Rosie had shared. The idea of kicking his dysphoria into an even higher gear  is enough to set his heart pounding again, so much that every time he tries to just take it off, your lungs will thank you—he can’t get past even touching the hem sitting tightly against his ribcage.

Leaning back against the concrete wall, he smacks the back of his head against it a few times in frustration, before ceasing at the pain reverberating through his skull.

Just take it off just take it off just—

He pulls it up just a little higher.

Nononononono I can’t I can’t I can’t—

Bringing it back down against his pounding pulse, he forces himself to take deep, grounding breaths, shuddering and hitching a bit as his frustration builds up to form a lump in his throat.

Pathetic pathetic pathetic—

His thoughts are interrupted by the buzz of his phone against his thigh.

Sasha: hey, Martin—I popped some tampons and pads into your desk drawer.  saw your door closed and thought you might not want company right now.

Sasha: and I got you some ice cream.  double chocolate fudge.  I’ve left it on the top shelf of the break room freezer.

Sasha: hope you’re alright—love you <3

Oh god.

Martin feels his eyes welling up as soon as he starts reading, the tears causing the words to swim almost too badly to see.  God, Sasha��she always knows what to say, just what he needs—and he barely had to say a word about it.

Martin: love you too, Sash.  you’re unbelievable.  I can’t wait to tuck in!  love love love you <3

Sasha: good man!  I don’t want to see any left by the time I get in tomorrow.  goodnight, handsome <3

Oh god oh god oh god

He can’t help but clutch the phone tightly to his chest, allowing a tear or two slip down the side of his cheeks with a soft smile.  “Good man,” “goodnight handsome—“ even if he knows she’s saying it because of the dysphoria, it means everything to him that she would even think about it. That she would even notice it.

That she cares enough to want to make him feel better.

Dizzy with happiness, Martin slips out from under the covers and heads into the archives to retrieve his ice cream.  

—

Spoon and his wonderful frozen gift in his hands, he makes his way back to document storage—knowing that if Jon were there, he’d be livid to see him take any sort of food or drink into a place where such precious pieces of spooky history are kept.  In spite of himself, he lets the corners of his mouth turn up at the thought, imagining how terribly cross he would be, hands on his hips, shouting up at Martin, who stands a foot taller than him—

There’s a light on in Jon’s office.

Surely he’s…not…

Worry pooling in his stomach, Martin pads as silently as possible over to the partially-open door, peering inside just in case, hoping against hope that he’s not going to find more worms, or someone covered in worms, or Prentiss herself—

His heart leaps into his throat at once.

Inside the room, he finds Jon—with no worms in sight, no injuries—staring at the full length mirror on the wall.  Hanging from his frame is a loose and flowing dress, thin shoulder straps drooping down into a dark navy ‘v’ across his chest, blue and white striped skirt falling graciously around his hips and to the floor.  Slits in the fabric run from the hem up to his knees, giving the entire piece such a feeling of freedom—and the look on Jon’s face says he feels just the same.  His eyes sparkle as he moves about in the skirt, feeling the fabric against his legs, reaching up to let his hair hang loosely over his bare shoulders.  It’s lovely, it’s soaring, it’s—

Intensely private.

Oh god, I shouldn’t be here.

Desperate to leave as silently as he came, Martin takes a step back—right onto a worm wriggling beneath his foot.

“AAGH!” he yells, dropping the ice cream and spoon at once, scrambling backwards to grab a book from the desk behind him, smashing into the horrible little thing until it is well past dead.

“God, sorry,” he pants, swiping a hand across the sweat of his brow, setting the other to rest over his chest as he bends over to catch his breath.  “Sorry, I must have scared you, I just saw the light on, and I—“

When he looks up, he’s greeted with the sight of a man frozen in place—eyes wide with shock, and…fear?  He stands with his back pressed against the opposite wall, no breath visible in the movement of his shoulders as he stares back into Martin’s eyes.

“A-are you alright?  Jon?” he asks carefully, taking a cautious step forward.

He receives no reply in return—the only movement visible to him the shakiness of his legs.

“You don’t look w—oh, Christ,” Martin yelps, rushing forward to catch Jon as he starts to slip to the ground.

It strikes Martin suddenly that he still hasn’t seen Jon take a breath—and he begins heaving at once, lungs gasping for oxygen.

“God—that’s it, just take a breath, just--just take a breath,” Martin encourages nervously, sweeping his eyes over him for some sort of injury.  “Are you alright?”

Jon does not reply for a few moments, eyes still blown wide and wild, before at last turning them up to meet Martin’s gaze as his breaths begin to slow.

“Y-you—“ he begins, before his eyes sweep downwards for just a sliver of a moment. “You’re wearing…a binder.”

Oh, Christ.

With a start, Martin looks down at himself—only just realizing that he’s crouching in his boss’s office, wearing nothing but his boxers and a skin-tone binder.

“O-oh, God, I—“ he instinctively brings up his arms to cover himself.  “S-sorry, I just—I didn’t mean—“

“N-no, Martin—that’s not—that’s not what I meant,” Jon assures in a anxious rush, reaching out to touch his arm—before hurriedly jerking it back.

“No?”

“No, I—“ he cuts off again, pressing a hand over his chest as he takes another grounding breath.  “I’m really—I’m actually…relieved.”

Now Martin is properly confused.

“You’re…relieved?”

“Yes, I—“ he looks up, laughing a bit wetly before continuing.  “I suppose you…you wouldn’t…I suppose you would understand. Perhaps.”

“Understand…”

It hits Martin like a train, now that the panic of a possible crisis has been averted: the dress.

“OH!  Oh, I—I’m so sorry I burst in on you, Jon, I didn’t…I wouldn’t…I wouldn’t do that.  On purpose.  I can leave you alone?  Or to change, if you feel uncomfortable.”

“I—I think I would like that.  To change, I mean.  You can—“

He drops his gaze to the floor.

“You can come back.  If you want.”

For a moment, Martin allows hope to swell in his chest—before quashing it rather forcefully.

“O-Okay! Sure, I’ll just—I’ll be back in a mome, I’ll just…put some clothes on.  Right.”

Elegant exit made, Martin briefly allows the shock to wash over him before dashing back to document storage—popping on a pair of pyjama trousers and a band t-shirt, sure to grab a canister of CO2 for proper protection this time.  On his journey back, he spots the ice cream he’d flung to the floor at the sight of the worm—a bit melted now, perhaps—but if anything warrants some slightly-melty ice cream, it’s the conversation that he thinks Jon wants to have now.  Turning on his heel, he grabs two spoons from the kitchen, and by the time he gets back, Jon’s office door has been propped back open.  He knocks against it lightly all the same.

“Jon? Alright if I come in?”

“Y-yes—erm, have a seat, if you’d like,” he says from his desk chair,  now back in his typical work-day cardigan, hair pulled into a bit of a messy bun.

“Right, sure,” Martin replies, settling in the chair opposite him and offering a smile. “Feels like I’m about to give a statement or something.”

To his complete surprise, the corners of Jon’s mouth actually turn up a bit at this—and though he still will not meet Martin’s eyes, something about the openness of his expression tells Martin to mark this moment as one to remember.

“I suppose it must feel rather like that,” he agrees, beginning to fiddle with a pen on his desk, staring intently at it.

They sit like this for quite a while—letting the silence settle, as Martin tries to intuit whether or not he ought to say something.  Worrying at his bottom lip to keep himself from speaking, he tries not to stare at Jon, wanting him to feel comfortable, just wanting him to know that he’s there for whatever he needs to say.

It’s the most unnatural thing in the world for him to do—but it appears to have been the right decision, as Jon at last begins to speak.

“I haven’t,” he begins, before clearing his throat.  “I’ve never worn a dress before.”

Ah. So it is what I thought.

Leaning forward against the table, Martin tilts his head in an effort to let Jon know that it’s okay, you can look at me, you’re safe here—but he’s not quite ready yet, and Martin is certainly armed with patience.

“I think that’s great, Jon!  I think that’s really great that you tried it,” he begins, hoping that this is what Jon needs to hear in this moment.  “Do you want to—I mean you don’t have to, but—do you want to talk about it?”

Brows furrowing, Jon stops twiddling the pen long enough to glance up at him.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, I just…I mean…how did it make you—feel?” Martin clarifies, and Jon nods in response.

“Ah, I see. I—erm—“ and away he looks again, back to staring at the pen, perhaps more nervous than Martin has ever seen him. “It’s…difficult to say, I suppose. I’m not quite sure yet.”

“That’s okay, that’s perfectly natural,” Martin is quick to assure, running a hand over the bits of stubble that have crept up over his chin.  

He remembers this, remembers the doubt, the exploration of what he did and did not want, what he did and did not feel—it was far from easy to do, and he’s starting to think it’s much the same for Jon.  

Perhaps I ought to start at the beginning

“Are you—and you don’t have to answer this, but—are you…thinking about your gender identity?” he asks, watching Jon’s body language carefully.

He seems to curl up further into his seat, shoulders hunching in a way that makes Martin’s own hurt just looking at them.

“I don’t—I don’t know,” Jon mutters, hugging his arms tightly across his chest. “I’m…hesitant to say, really, I just…”

He sighs, leaning back into his chair and closing his eyes, arms braced against each arm rest.

“I happened to see that dress a few months ago, and it wouldn’t leave my mind, and I had some extra money to spare, and…and I bought it.  I don’t know why.”

All of this spills from Jon in such a rush that it winds him, still not opening his eyes.

“That’s okay, Jon.  Really. You don’t need to know why right now, okay?  This kind of stuff can be complicated,” Martin soothes, letting out a little huff of laughter.  “Believe me, I understand.”

At this, Jon opens his eyes again, bringing them up to meet his ever-so-slowly.  Once they land there, though…Martin has a feeling that they will be fixed on him for the rest of this conversation, though he cannot put a finger on why.

“Would you tell me?” Jon asks in a near whisper, leaning against arms which he’s propped up on his desk.  “I mean—I would like to know how you found out, if you don’t mind.”

“Ah. Right.  Erm…well, I suppose I was pretty young when I started to figure it out. I’d never…I’d never really felt like me in my body, you know?  The long hair, the school uniforms, just…it wasn’t right.  At least not for me.”

He pauses for a moment, half expecting Jon to interrupt, to tell him he’s heard enough—but Jon still appears transfixed, as if he’s drinking in every word he has to say.

“But I didn’t really understand what that meant until secondary school.  I was…well, let’s just say it was an upsetting time for me all around, right?  One day I felt upset enough to chop off my own hair in the bathroom.  And it was long by that time—nearly down to my waist.”

He laughs briefly at the remembrance, running a hair through his now-shorn locks.

“I cut it off—and it was like some small part of me started to understand.  I couldn’t stop thinking about it.  I tried to dress in what I thought boys should wear, walked around dressed like that to see what would happen—and the first time that someone called me “Mister Blackwood,” I just…it’s was like a great big wave of relief. It was like someone finally saw me. Like I finally saw me.”

Pausing there, he looks back up at Jon’s face—still reverently focused on his own. It sends a chill up his spine, in not an entirely unpleasant way.

“Thank you, Martin,” he murmurs at last, lowering his hands away from his face to stretch out across the table.  “Thank you for telling me.  That’s very…insightful.”

“Is it?” he replies, leaning towards him once again.  “Can you tell me why?”

He can almost hear the gears turning in Jon’s head—the lines of deep-seated thought clear on his face.  After a rather long silence, he begins to speak again, voice more certain than it has sounded all evening.

“The feeling of it.  What you said about not being able to get it out of your mind, I just—” he breaks off to sigh, frustrated with the way the words are stringing together.  “I’m not saying I understand completely, because it’s obviously your experience and not mine, but…”

He swallows, setting his face with such strength of intention that Martin finds himself bracing for the impact.

“I liked it. The dress.  I liked the fabric, I liked the way it…the way it looked on me. I…I liked feeling…feminine, I suppose you could say.”

In this moment, Martin is not sure he has ever felt such a surge of affection for the person before him—which is saying quite a lot, all things considered.

“I’m really happy for you, Jon!  Thank you for sharing that with me, I know that’s not always easy.”

Jon’s only response is a curt nod, his penchant for decorum and professionalism shining through even in this moment of relative vulnerability.

“Could I ask you—have you thought about pronouns?  Or names? I mean—I’m happy to call you however you want to be called.  Or perhaps even to try something new out, if you want.  Just to see,” he quirks up a little smile at him, pleased that Jon feels comfortable enough to look back at him.

“Erm—I suppose I had thought about it a bit,” he says as he wraps his arms around his middle again, a gesture that Martin knows to be one of self-comfort.  “I…I don’t think I would want to change my name. Not now, anyway.  I rather like how it sounds.”

“That’s alright!  I…I think your name is lovely, if that matters,” Martin replies—flushing as he realizes what he’s just said.  “Erm—anyway, what about pronouns?  Do you want to keep using he/him?  Or do you want to try something else?”

Again, Jon seems perfectly at ease to think about this in silence for a bit—turning away and twirling a loose strand of his hair with his right index finger.  That all-too-familiar twinge in his chest returns with a vengeance at the sight, endlessly endeared to everything about him.

God, stay focused for one moment, Martin.

“I—would you mind to try they/them?  I don’t—I don’t think I want to try it around the office yet or, but…would you?  Try it?”

“Of course!” Martin breathes at once, hand reaching out instinctively to cover Jon’s own where it rests on the table—and to his utter shock, Jon does not even flinch at the contact, nor try to pull away.  “Of course I will, Jon.  Do you want me to try it now?  I can say some sentences so you can feel it out.”

“I…yes. Yes, that would be lovely, Martin,” Jon replies softly, still not moving his hand away.

“Right. Erm…okay.  This is Jon. They work at the Magnus Institute. They’re the Head Archivist, and their work is very important.  I like to bring them cups of tea in the afternoon, and they wear cardigans almost every day,” he pauses there, reading the smile creeping up on Jon’s face like the sun breaking through the clouds—and knowing in that moment, that they must have gotten it right.

“So?  How did it feel?”

The smile takes on a full-bodied appearance now—eyes sparkling dark and gentle across the table, boring into his own with such depth of meaning that Martin is not sure he could ever fully take in.

“Yes,” they reply simply, smile spreading even wider.  “Yes, I—I rather liked that.”

“I’m really glad, Jon!  I mean—I would have been glad even if you didn’t like it, of course—the important thing is that you tried it out,” Martin stammers, nervousness somehow creeping back into his words.

“Thank you, Martin.  I’ve…greatly enjoyed this talk,” Jon says, at last pulling their hand away from beneath Martin’s to point it at the forgotten tub of ice cream, currently sweating a circle of moisture on the wood of their desk.  “I think you might want to get back to this before it melts, however.”

“Oh!  Oh, right—I forgot I sat it there!” Martin replies, grabbing it quickly and rubbing a sleeve over the damp spot it created on the wood.  “I actually—“

No no no, stop.

Don’t make it awkward

Don’t ruin it don’t ruin it don’t—

“Would you like some?” Martin presses on, against every voice that tells him to do the contrary.  “I—I actually brought two spoons, I thought…I thought maybe you could use a pick-me-up. After I barged in on you like that.”

The expression Jon gives back to him now is a mixture of things—incomprehension, confusion, disbelief—and perhaps, just perhaps, a small bit of delight.

“You don’t—you don’t need to do that, I—“

“I insist, Jon. Please have some with me,” he interrupts, handing him one of the spoons.  “Sasha told me to have it gone by morning, and there’s no way I can do that myself.”

“Well,” Jon replies, taking the spoon from him with just a whisper of a grin.  “I suppose we’d better get to work, then.”

“Let’s.”

[pleasespellchimerical]

You know, as boring and dreadful as this winter has been so far, it really cannot top Christmas 2015.

In 2015, I was working at a regional theatre as an electrician and lighting op. We had five shows over the course of a season, but the Christmas show was the big one. The monster. The month-long endeavor that paid the bills for the rest of the year. 

(Small theatres are always hurting for money. Oftentimes, artistic integrity needs to be sacrificed to keep the lights on.)

Anyway, the big moneymaker for that year? A Christmas Story: The Musical. The worst part was? I kinda liked it. I’m not a fan of the film, but the musical had a real energy to its cheesy nostalgia. The songs are catchy as fuck. It seemed tasteless to me to do a show about a boy and his gun during a year that the US was averaging one mass shooting per day. But what do I know? The show paid our bills, and that was what counted.

I was shunted onto wardrobe crew for that show. The show was massive, we had a shortage of crew, and they figured it was easier to train a new lights op than it was to train a new wardrobe person. So instead of sitting back, pressing buttons, and doing the usual troubleshooting (the theatre’s lighting system and equipment was older than I was), I was thrust right into the thick of things. Getting hands on, running around, and working all the extra hours.

I wasn’t prepared for all the shit that would go down that month. None of us were.

This show was huge. We had nearly thirty cast members, including twelve kids. Each cast member had around three to five different costumes. Santa suits. Trick pants. Long thick wool coats that these poor actors would be sweating into for two hours. 

We started previews right after Thanksgiving, and my day would go something like this:

45 minute commute. Get to the theatre at 3 pm. Take two hours to check over everything and steam the garments. This was the most relaxing part of the day. No actors yet, just me, my fellow wardrobe tech, and the steamer gurgling away and occasionally spraying boiling water at me. 

After steaming, we’d lay out clean undergarments, make any repairs, and do our presets. At this point, the actors would start arriving, and after slapping wigs onto kids, my fellow crew and I would take a breather in the greenroom before go time.

The show was crazy. Multiple costume changes that we only had a minute to do. Ripping garments off of actors and stuffing them into new ones. I had to swap between wardrobe duties and moving the set, because the set was huge, and again, we had a shortage of crew. During intermission, I had to fight through all the actors to collect pieces for the second act, and set those up. After the show, I would start fixing the trick pants, deodorizing all the garments, retrieve the wigs before the kids started getting squirmy and tearing them off, and cleaning up.

I’d leave the theatre around midnight, and get home at 1 in the morning.

This was exhausting enough. But we were also pulling double duty some days - we had matinees twice a week, which brought us up to nine shows a week (for reference, Broadway only does eight). I took to napping on the greenroom couch during my breaks. And this went on for a solid month. Thanksgiving until New Years.

I would’ve been dead beat by this show if everything had gone perfectly.

Everything did not go perfectly.

There were the little things. The fact that the theatre building was falling apart, and the literal holes in the walls made sure that backstage was freezing. Everyone huddling around gas heaters. Kid actors being homophobic (half your colleagues right now are queer and you need to Stop). Kid actors (rich kid actors, mind you, who had fucking maids at home) not cleaning up their dressing stations. Grown actors being snooty. Grown actors deciding to deodorize their own costumes to the point where we had to hide the spray bottles (dry rot is a thing if you overdo it). The lights and dimmers deciding to catch fire, and me having to bolt from my tasks to help fix it. 

You know. The usual. 

Then there were the big things.

The drummer who couldn’t stop sexually harassing the women on the crew. The tap soloist tearing a thing in her foot, necessitating new costumes to fit her understudy. The Cold From Hell that got my fellow wardrobe person and I. The stage manager told us that she could hear us coughing from the audience.

We sounded like we should’ve been in a TB ward. I was living on coughdrops at that point.

Everyone was pretty much running on fumes after Christmas. The stage manager put in to skip the next show. I was still sick as a dog. We were also busy trying to get the drummer blacklisted.

And then, on closing day, a pump in the basement broke and flooded the entire basement with sewage water.

...the basement, which was our costume storage.

We had to herd the patrons to the restaurants next door and across the street, who had graciously opened their bathrooms for us to use. We roped off the basement and called an emergency plumber in. The only saving grace was that we wound up not being able to strike the costumes properly, instead sorting them into piles in the green room, which meant that we spent a lot less time on strike than we would’ve otherwise.

Exhibit A: Three thousand dollars worth of dry cleaning. 

The other saving grace was that I was no longer wardrobe crew after that day. I didn’t have to worry about the cleanup, or rescuing costumes for the next show. I got to go back to my lighting, dealing with my usual safety hazards of crumbling cables, bad wiring, and fiberglass dust.

The next show was a very small production, with a cast of seven adults. They were all lovely. It was quiet and uneventful, which was exactly what I needed.

Anyway. The real moral to this story is that it could always be worse, and it usually is for people in live entertainment during the holidays. 

I do miss working in the theatre, but I don’t miss shitshows like that. 

[v8pontiacgirl]

04July2021

I’m still in shock that issues are likely caused by horrible allergies that are likely caused by mold in my house. Due to memory issues, I decided to make a timeline of the last six years, when this started.

September 2015–moved into the house. I was working full time, going to school full time and experiencing allergy issues, such as a sore throat, headaches, and very dry eyes (to the point that I was no longer able to wear my contacts). I actually kept getting allergic conjunctivitis, so I switched to my glasses full time. I’d been able to wear contacts for about 15 years without issues prior to this.

February 2016–injured my knee and found out I had a discoid lateral meniscus with a tear that was hanging up in my knee joint. It took months to get any kind of relief for my knee because the tear didn’t initially show up on the MRI, and because discoid meniscus issues usually show up earlier in life if they are going to be a problem, I wasn’t taken seriously. During this time, I was having issues working because of pain and inability to walk. Also started having more issues with being harassed at work by coworkers. I began to work less and less until I finally quit in September. I had already finished out school in June. I would have had to transfer to a community college two hours away to continue my degree in the fall, and since my knee was being problematic, I decided to hold off.

October 2016–Had my knee surgery. About a week or two afterwards, I got my first vertigo spell (although I didn’t realize it was vertigo at the time). This would become the first of many instances that I would deal with “flares” that would make functioning very difficult for me.

October 2016-March 2017–Some days were better than others. I went to the doctor and blood work and many tests were done. My thyroid levels fluctuated a little, but ultimately seemed ok eventually. Everything else looked normal, except my white blood cell count was always elevated. I was told I was perfectly healthy. The dizziness? It was POTS (Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome), a chronic illness that I had been diagnosed with in 2005 that honestly had never given me too many issues in the past, as long as I stayed hydrated and ate salty foods. I was given some common POTS meds to help me retain water, but, as medications typically do not agree with me, I had too many side effects and was unable to take them.

April 2017-August 2017–I’d been feeling better for about a month (since March), and I was anxious to be back in school. Culinary school had caught my eye a few months prior, so I signed up for the spring cohort. I was in the evening cohort, and I was realizing that my allergies were being aggravated by *something*, so my mornings from 7am to noon were spent cleaning, and from noon to about 8pm, were spent at school. I was able to complete two terms of culinary school. There was to be about a little over a month break from the middle of August to the end of September before fall term began. I went to California in August after finishing Summer term for a few days to visit friends. After returning, I started to feel like I was going into another “flare”. Gradually, my health got worse and worse.

September 2017-February 2018–by the end of September, when it was time to go back to culinary school, I was bedridden. The vertigo was so bad that I was unable to do anything except remain horizontal. For about six months again, my health was unbearable and I was unable to function.

March-April 2018–I finally began to feel a little better in March and April (also around the time when I started to get outside to do more garden things), and decided that I would try to go back to culinary school for summer term (the cohorts had changed because of a new director, and so there were classes I could take toward my degree). It’s really interesting that my heath was generally better the more I was able to get out of the house.

June 2018-August 2018—I was doing a lot of outdoor garden things in the afternoons and going to school for several hours every morning. I was even hired to help cater a wedding in August. My health seemed mostly under control, with only minor symptoms.

September 2018-December 2018—The end of September, I began my fourth term of culinary school. I also joined the culinary team, so pretty much all of my time was spent at school, even most of December, when the other students went home for break, I stayed at school trying to perfect my dish for competition. I was fatigued, but my health was mostly stable.

January 2019–After a *very* brief break, I was back in school for one whole day of winter term. I was definitely feeling fatigued because I hadn’t really gotten a break (and probably, in hindsight, because my allergies had really worn me down, too), and I was told by the coach that he was kicking me off the team because he was concerned my health problems would hold the team back, and he wanted to win. My health had not been an issue that he had seen at all, but he just thought it was too much of a risk to keep me. If I wouldn’t have disclosed that I had health problems when I tried out for team, I don’t think this would have happened. Anyway, I was pretty angry, especially after all the time I’d put in. Since the coach was also the director of the school, and there had also been an issue with the instructor quitting and a new instructor having to take over at the end of the last term, I decided that this culinary school really wasn’t worth my time or money any longer, so I quit. Immediately after, I bought the rest of the books that I would have needed for school and began to teach myself techniques with sugar and chocolate. I decided I was going to start focusing more seriously on Spoon Life Bakery, my cottage bakery business that I had started in July 2017.

February 2019-March 2020—I was the most busy I’d been in a while. Garden projects, baking projects, and painting projects took up all my time. From August 2019 to the beginning of March 2020, I was more busy than I wanted to be with my short lived restaurant project. The restaurant actually opened in October, but there was a lot of prep work prior. All of this kept me out of the house for most of the day. I was exhausted, but not symptomatic. Basically, during this time period, I was either outside, or at another location for the majority of the time. During the rainy months (December 2019-March 2020), the basement of the house flooded. It had always been musty and damp down there, but it had never flooded like that.

March-May 2020—I closed the restaurant in March, and began to be at home a lot more often. I started going hard with Spoon Life Bakery again, baking out of my home kitchen. I got back into Jiu Jitsu. I was doing ok, but by May, I started to feel like something wasn’t right again.

May-December 2020—My health “flared” a little during this time. It wasn’t as bad overall as it had been, but some days were better than others. Some days the vertigo made me bedridden. It was unpredictable. In May, I had to quit Jiu Jitsu again because I wasn’t feeling well and didn’t have the stamina to keep doing it.

January-May 2021–I’d had enough descent days that I decided to try to try to go back to Jiu Jitsu, or rather, a self defense class based on Jiu Jitsu. This class ran twice a week through March, and I was able to keep up and not miss a class. The basement flooded again, so we moved the dehumidifier into the storage room where the majority of the water was coming in. After self defense was over, I started regular jiu jitsu again in April, but felt much more exhausted than usual. My vertigo was getting worse to the point that it was always present. I took a break from Jiu Jitsu again in May.

May-June 2021—My throat was so sore, that I thought I had tonsillitis. My left ear was plugged. I felt like I was getting sick with some sort of virus, except it went on for weeks without getting better. I saw an ENT in mid June. He thought maybe I had Meniere’s, but didn’t officially diagnose me, since I needed to get a hearing test, which is scheduled for this month, and at the time of writing this has not happened yet. Other than that, he didn’t see anything else that alerted him. Soon after, I began to get very sick with horrible vertigo. I was bedridden again.

July 2021–Until the 2nd, I was in an absolutely horrible flare that had lasted without relief for about two weeks. I was convinced that this was just my life now, and in desperation, I called the doctor. She told me to come in that same day. Normally, I don’t leave the house when I’m feeling my worst. I had to keep laying down at the doctor’s because my vertigo was so bad. The doctor performed her usual tests, and looked in my nose. She informed me that it was very inflamed and swollen and she wasn’t sure how I was able to breathe out of it. I admitted that every morning, my nose is stuffed up pretty badly. She prescribed the Montelukast, that I’m unable to take because of side effects, and told me that she really thinks that allergies are causing my vertigo because the ear nose and throat are all connected. At first, I was discouraged with this diagnosis, because I felt like she was brushing off my symptoms. *Just* allergies?! I couldn’t believe allergies could cause such severe symptoms.

We made a few more stops after visiting the doctor, and when I’d been out of the house for about an hour and a half, I miraculously started feeling a little better. What?? Was the doctor right? I knew my house was probably triggering my allergies, but I didn’t think it was *that* bad.

Getting out of the house for two hours brought me out of one of my worst flairs. I’m now about 99.9% that mold in my house, specifically the basement, is making me sick. I’m going to keep testing this to be sure, but I’m now filled with some hope that I may be able to lead a much less depressing life. Time will tell.

[antiquechampagne]

Antique Champagne - Chapter 34 - Shoots and Ladders

Payne nursed a third, and last, blood bag. Her whole limb ached. The tissues were painfully slow to knit and heal from the second degree burns marring most of her flesh. She had slept most of the day away, letting shock mixed with stimpak sickness whisk her away to a dreamless sleep. It would still be a few more hours until she could venture outside, her bare leg safe from the sun as night set in.

Hancock putzed around after starting a small campfire. Every so often, he would try and start a conversation or launch a few jokes, but Payne didn’t feel much like talking. Why make things more awkward and painful than they already had to be? She wasn’t sure why Hancock had stayed. She wasn’t in any real danger and he would be safer without her. Besides, in her experience, every monster got ran out of town at some point. Why prolong the inevitable?

He handed her some warmed 200-year-old mac and cheese in a cracked plastic bowl. “Ya know, I’ve been thinking… about that DC story you told me.” Payne tried to cover her scowl with a forkful of food. “What if that cockup was because someone slipped you a super mutant flavored mickey?”

Payne shook her head. “Why would anyone do that?” She tried to cross her legs out of habit, but the shooting pain immediately reminded her why that was a bad idea. “I never heard of them drinking the stuff.”

“Maybe there was a mix up? Just enough to…” Hancock tapped a finger on his bowl in though. “ya know.”

Payne thought back to the Capital Wasteland. Her old alcohol-impaired memories faltered. She found the whole situation a muddy mess. She shrugged. “Maybe? Doesn’t really make a difference, though, does it. I still tore’em apart.” They spent the rest of the meal in silence.

Once the sun was down, the pair set out, their pace slowed by Payne's injury. The scabs pulled painfully as they picked their way through the decomposing streets of the city. Payne was starting to recognize some of the buildings when she asked Hancock for a short rest. Sitting on the bed of a rusted pick up, they examined her leg. Several areas were red and irritated, others bled, but most were holding fast. Payne was glad that she didn’t see any new blisters. Her whole leg throbbed angrily, but as she sat, it became bearable again.

“You gonna make it?” Hancock asked.

“Yeah, just give me a minute,” she flexed her leg. They had happened to stop by a Nuka-Cola vending machine. Hancock soon returned with a pair of bottles, handing one to Payne. He popped the top off his with a satisfying hiss. Payne gratefully drank hers down, perking up with a quick caffeine rush. As Hancock finished off his, he playfully sent the bottle sailing through the air down the road. It shattered several yards down the street.

“Huh? What’s that?” a distant voice called.

Instinctually, Payne and Hancock ducked behind the pick up as a pair of raiders cautiously poked out of an alleyway, guns drawn.

After a quick look around one raider chided, “Lay off the jet, you moron,” smacking the other. "You're jumping at fucking shadows." Turning, they returned down the alley.

Hunched behind the truck, Payne’s leg ached as she crouched. They didn’t have much in the way of supplies left. If a confrontation with these raiders went sideways, it could get really rough and she wasn’t quite back up to 100% yet. The smell blood rose to Payne's nostrils. Looking down, she realized that as she cowered, several of her scabs had ripped, fresh blood dripping down her leg.

Looking up at Hancock, she whispered, “I can sneak up and…” she could feel the hunger building behind her words, clouding her eyes. She tried to push the rush away. “quickly take them out. You’ll be safer back here. If I need back up, you aren't that far away.” Hancock nodded.

Swift and silently, Payne made her way to the corner of the alley. Carefully peering around, she spotted three raiders. Two sat on boxes around a tiny fire while the third lay dozing on a tattered mat several feet away.

“And that’s when the new guy decided to drop a grenade down the fucking pipe!” one raider chortled and slapped their knee. “BLAM! Those farmers never saw it coming!” They both laughed.

Payne used the shadows and conversation to creep next to the sleeping raider, slitting their throat without a sound. The growing crimson puddle nearly overwhelmed her senses, but she held back, using the rush of adrenaline to focus over the crush of hunger. With a bust of speed, she checked the joking raider hard into the brick wall, his head bouncing off the bricks with a sick thud before crumpling to the ground.

“What the h…?” the last raider tried to stand, she found a hand wrapped around her throat. Payne used her own momentum to pin her victem to the other side of the alley. As Payne brought up her knife for a quick slice, the raider managed to kick it, sending it skittered across the pavement. Payne squeezed, digging her fingers in around the raider’s lanky neck. Desperately, the woman tried to fumble for own weapon. Payne launched a lightning quick punch, disorienting the struggling raider. Payne pinned her shoulder with one hand, simultaneously shifting the hand holding her throat to push her cheek into the bricks, exposing her thin neck. The raider’s scream muffled by her hand, Payne tore into her throat.

Time slowed as warm and deliciously metallic blood flooded her mouth, spreading through every in of her as she swallowed greedily. The raider squirmed under her deadly grip, trying frantically to free herself as her life slowly dripped away. The rush slowly subsided; Payne drew back, ready to drop the body, when she heard a shuffle.

“Crystal?!” The unconscious raider across the alley had woken as Payne fed. Now he stood unsteadily, holding his bloody head with one hand, a rifle clutched in the other.

Before Payne could turn, a shotgun blast exploded through his torso. The dying raider dropped his gun, staggered back a step before toppling over like a sack of potatoes. Framed by the narrow brick walls Hancock stood in the street, shotgun smoking and red coat ruffling in the breeze. His eyes reflected the flames of the camp fire, piercing and steady.

Payne slowly wiped the corners of her mouth as she finally released the lifeless raider. She felt suddenly self-conscious. How long had he been standing there? How much had he seen?

Hancock stepped into the alley, slinging the gun over his shoulder. “Hope you don’t mind a hand. Looks like you could've used it.”

“I thought we agreed it would be safer for you behind the truck?”

He stooped down and started to rummage through the pockets and pouches of the nearest raider as he spoke. “I totally agreed it'd be safer.” He pocketed some ammo and chems. “But don’t ya know, safe is hella boring."

Soon they were both back on the road, Goodneighbor’s neon lights guiding their steps. As they neared the steel door, Payne stopped.

Hancock noticed her apprehension and gave her a friendly pat on the back for encouragement. “Fahr can’t stay mad forever. Besides, she’ll probably be more pissed at me for not tossing you out like a bad tato.”

The guards greeted their Mayor warmly. Payne stayed back and watched. She had the perfect vantage point to see Fahr get up from her seat on the steps of the Old State House and stomp into the Old State House, slamming the door behind her. If glares were bullets, Payne was sure she would be Swiss cheese. Once Hancock was safely behind the Old State House's door, she returned to her room, her bed beckoning like a siren's call.

Hancock let her take a few days off to recuperate, which not only let her heal, but made sure she could avoid Fahrenheit that much longer. When she did return to work, Fahr barely communicated with grunts, preferring to send messages along with either Watchmen or Hancock. While not idea Payne was more than happy to oblige, if only to avoided a confrontation.

Weeks passed and tensions started to ease, until one afternoon. Payne reported to the Old State House, and walked straight into an argument between Hancock and Fahr. Fahr stood straight as a board, rooted to her spot in the middle of the stairs.

“Are you out of your mind?” Fahr huffed. “You can’t possibly think…”

Hancock cut her off. “I’ve made up my mind, Fahr. It's done.” Hancock noticed Payne by the door. Fahr's stony face fumed as he walked passed her, heading in Payne's direction. "Hey, I've got a surprise for you." Hancock snaked his arm around Payne's shoulders, leading her to the basement stairs. Payne stood at the bottom of the stairs, confused at the jail cell before her.

"Why did you bring me down here?" Payne's mind raced, trying to figure out any logical reason why Hancock would want to show her the rarely used cell.

"I know it doesnt look like much, but I've got a line on a decent mattress and dresser."

"WHAT?" Payne couldn't believe what she was hearing. "I'm not sleeping in a freaking jail cell, Hancock!"

"Huh?" Bewildered, he turned to her before abruptly breaking into a laughing fit. "You think... the jail cell..." he could hardly spit out the words between chuckles. "No! The storage room!" Putting his hands on either shoulder, he physically turned Payne to face an open wooden door. "With a little work, it could make a half way decent apartment, don't you think?"

Hancock ushered her into the moderately sized room.

"See!" he moved a metal bucket and mop out into the hallway, shoving boxes aside as he went. "Plenty of room for a bed and stuff. Nice and cozy..." He looked up. "Well... say something! Yao guai got your tongue?"

"You want me to move in?" Payne couldn't quite believe what she was saying. "Here? In the State House?"

"Yah, I guess... I mean if you want too. Marowski's being an ass with all those extra fees and shit. That's not right. I got the room... with a lock even! And no windows. You won't have to worry about working on your tan if you fall asleep with a window open." Payne must have made a sour face because Hancock continued his hard sell. "I'd just take the rent out of your pay, no worries... and just think of the short commute to work!"

"This is why you and Fahr were arguing, wasn't it?"

"Maybe..." His roguish smile belayed a bit of nervousness in his answer. "But it makes sense to have the two of you so close at hand... for emergencies and such."

Payne thought the arrangement over. Parts of it made some logical sense. The thought of being able to save some caps for a rainy day was mighty tempting.

"Fine, I'll bite. I'll give it a test run. A month." She pointed a finger at her employer. "If it doesn't work out, you need to get my old room back from Marowski."

Hancock stuck out his hand for a shake. "Great! It's a deal! Now, Daisy should know which warehouse has a bed and stuff."

Payne eyed Hancock. "Seriously, that's it? What if I'd said no?" He shrugged. Payne rolled her eyes. "Let me guess... I get to move all this old shit out myself."

"Yeah, well... my schedule's booked full." Payne crossed her arms. "What? I've got some very important papers to look over. You could always ask Fahr for some help..."

"Very funny." After a second, an impish grin spread over Payne's lips as she slipped out of the room and back up the stairs. "Enjoy breaking the news to Fahr. I'm off to go furniture shopping!" she called over her shoulder.

Over the next few days, Payne gathered all the necessities to furnish her new room. It was strangely exciting, nearly reminiscent of the pre-war ritual of moving into a new apartment. Along with the bed, she found a small bedside table along with a cheesy, but working, Nuka-Cola lamp. She passed on the busted dresser Hancock had mentioned, opting for a more functional bookshelf and small lockable safe.

It took longer than she liked to arrange all of her new things just as she wanted. As she relaxed on her bed after moving, Payne heard a timid knock on her door. Behind it stooped Kent, his wrinkly tan trilby hat in his hand. Payne couldn’t stop a warm but surprised smile.

“Hi-a Payne. I heard you'd moved. Hope you don’t mind that I stopped over." He absentmindedly fidgeted with his hat brim.

“Not at all, Kent! You are always welcome! It’s not much, but it’s a start.” She stepped aside so he could shuffle into the room. Payne quickly realized she would have to save up for one more piece of furniture, a chair. “Sorry, but I don’t have anywhere for you to sit…”

“Oh, don’t worry yourself about it. It looks real nice, very cozy… but you are missing something special!” From behind his back, Kent produced a large rolled up piece of paper and handed it to Payne.

“What’s this?” Payne asked.

Kent’s eyes sparkled. “Open it!” He was nearly prancing with excitement as Payne carefully pulled open the thick old poster.

“Oh Kent!” Payne gasped in surprise. “How did you get this?” Between her fingers she held a grand Mistress of Mystery poster. The heroine stood front and center, pointing her revolver at a group of cowering thugs.

“Oh this? I’ve had it for a while. Think of it as a house warming gift, of sorts... to add some color to your walls.”

“Are you sure?” Kent nodded sheepishly, prompting Payne to give Kent a heartfelt hug. “I’ll make sure to put this up right away, but first… why don’t I treat you to a nice lunch? So we can catch up. I’m itching to know more about the Shrouds current quests… more than you can safely say on the radio!”

[sqoiler]

Haunted

When we returned from the honeymoon, and I finished all my unpacking, my wife sat me down at the kitchen table because she had to tell me something.

She sat across from me, and her face was serious. Her expression was what made me nervous, because she was always laughing. She had laughed when I proposed to her. But she was sitting across from me, the wide oak of the table seemingly stretching miles between us, and her face was unsmiling.

Before the wedding, I might have thought she was breaking up with me, but we had been married for a week, and as far as I knew there was no trouble between us. The honeymoon had been nothing but happy. The only thing I could think of that would make her so serious was that either she or her daughter were sick, seriously sick. I had never dealt with serious illness before and fear curdled in the pit of my stomach.

“Will,” my wife said. “Will, I need to tell you something.” I didn’t want to assume that whatever she was telling me was bad. Maybe it was good, whatever it was that made her so serious. I tried to clear my mind of all expectation and nodded, letting her continue, not trusting my voice to sound normal. “Please don’t freak out. There’s a ghost in our basement.”

“What?” I asked, the first sparks of panic flickering in my heart. “What are you talking about?”

“We heard lots of noises, when May and I first moved here. It always sounded like it was coming from the basement. May was convinced the house was haunted.”

“Because of noises?” I asked.

“No,” she said. “There was other stuff, too. The lights would always flicker. May heard tapping at her windows at night. One day, during a storm, May went to get water and she heard screaming from the basement. She went to get me and we went down there. We’d been down there before, of course, but only during the day. The ghost was down there. He’s kind of greenish, and very tall, with chains all over and he drips--what do they call it? Ectoplasm? But he’s dressed like a Victorian gentleman. Me and him made a deal--he stays in the basement, doesn’t tap on the windows. He doesn’t rattle anymore, but sometimes during storms he can’t help making noises. We mostly just ignore him, and we don’t go in the basement at night.”

“Carol….” I started to say, trying to work out the rest of my sentence. “Are you joking?” I refused to believe there was a ghost in my house. I pushed down the steadily growing panic, deciding it had to be a joke. My wife loved jokes.

“No,” she said, her eyes wide and genuine. “I’m telling you the truth."

Carol may have been a self-described prankster, but she always knew when to let something go. And besides--she wasn’t smiling. She looked completely serious and entirely earnest, and I couldn’t believe her.

I stood up from my seat, pushing my chair back as I stood.

“I need a moment,” I said, ignoring the anguished look on Carol’s face, and I left the kitchen, crossed the hall, and went upstairs. My intent was to go to my room, but I paused outside of May’s closed door.

My stepdaughter was a bright, intelligent girl. She and I got along pretty well, and I had known her for a few years before I married her mother. Although she didn’t always care for rules, she always told me the truth.

I knocked and pushed open her door. She was laying on her bed, reading a book. When I came in her room, she turned and took an earbud out of her ear, closing her book.

“Everything okay in here?” I asked, trying to be casual.

“Fine,” she said. “Did Mom tell you about the ghost yet?”

I nodded slowly and excused myself. May’s question had been too casual to not be the truth, or at least something she believed. I turned around and went back downstairs. I stopped in the hall, across from the basement door. It loomed ominously, and I felt like a little kid again, curled in my bed, staring at the blurry green shape across from me.

I pushed the memory from my mind. I thought of what Carol said about the ghost. Don’t go in the basement at night. I looked to the window, where sunlight streamed into the room in bright stripes. I looked back at the door.

It was really just a regular old door, I thought, and I began to pace the hall, keeping the location of the basement door in my mind. I had never been in the basement before, I realized. I hadn’t needed to.

If it was just Carol saying that there was a ghost, it could easily be a prank. But if May was saying it too….either she was in on it, or she really, truly believed it. And if they both believed it, it must be--no. No, it couldn’t be true.

Unbidden, images of green light came back into my mind. Memories surfaced--my heart thudding so loud it was the only sound I could hear, sweaty palms, shaky arms. Panic rose in my chest and I shoved the memories back, trying to think of something happier. My wedding.

My hand was on the doorknob. How did that get there? I relaxed my hand and drew it close to my chest. This was so silly.

I grabbed the doorknob again and twisted it before I could debate the matter further. The stairway descended into endless darkness, and briefly the walls seemed to close in on me.

I found the lightswitch and flipped it; the staircase was just that, a staircase. I went down. Was I imagining the stairs creaking? The room below was still dark, and I put my hand on the wall, feeling for a lightswitch, telling myself that if I turned on the lights, I would see that it was a normal room, with nothing but storage in it, but then a chill filled the air.

Green light flooded the room, and a shape formed within it. My heartbeat performed a slow crescendo, the only sound in the room. The ghost floated a foot off the floor, tall and thin and wrapped in chains. His top hat went through the ceiling. His face was blank, his eyes staring out unseeingly above my head.

I froze.

It all came rushing back--the figure looming over my bed, night after night, my terrified screams and the ghost’s unnerving smile. Her shrieks and my cries. I wanted to run, but just like when I was a kid--I was rooted to the spot, unable to move even to open my mouth to scream.

This was different, I reminded myself, my heartbeat thudding in my ears. I was a grown man now, not a little kid afraid of his own shadow and the ghost that haunted his room at night. Carol had said the ghost was safe, that it would leave us alone. I forced myself to move, one foot after the other, and as my speed built I was a little ashamed for running from the ghost. But regardless of how old I was, and how unthreatening Carol said this ghost was--when I made it upstairs I told myself to wait a while before I went back down there, and I closed the basement door firmly behind me.

[fanfic-from-a-67-impala]

Locked Away

Characters: Dean x reader, Sam

Word Count: 2247

Summary: Requested by @jesssuperwholock03: I request a imagine about a badass short reader where she loves Dean and she thinks that she isn’t good enough for him, but he secretly feels the same way and is too scared to admit it, and Dean locks himself in his room and she finally breaks in and he admits everything and she sings “Locked Away” by R. City and she admits that she feels like she isn’t good enough for him and they admit their feelings and get together?

Warnings: a little angst, not a lot of plot outside the slightly cliché romantic storyline

A/N: I didn't do the song thing because (I'm sorry, but) I think it's kind of cheesy. It's cute, just not the kind of thing I personally like reading or writing. I used the title, though.

Sam sits at the kitchen table when you stumble into the room.

“We got something,” he says over his computer screen.

“Good morning to you, too,” you sigh, sloshing liquid from the half-full coffee pot into your mug. “I slept well, thanks for asking. And yes, the weather is looking lovely today.”

“We live in a windowless bunker,” he says.

You blink at him. “Sam, you’re my best friend in the world, but I haven’t had enough coffee to deal with you yet.”

The two of you chuckle at each other as you raise the cup to your lips.

Dean ambles through the doorway, and you glance in his direction before you can stop yourself.

“Morning,” he mumbles.

“Hey,” Sam greets, eyes drifting back to his laptop.

Dean watches you glance away too quickly for him to catch your eye. It doesn’t surprise him, though.

“Uh, hey,” you mutter.

He shuffles toward where you stand near the coffee pot, but you practically leap out of the way, heading to the table to sit across from Sam.

He can’t remember when he first noticed you’d been distancing yourself from him. It’s been long enough for him to know he hates it. Long enough to know you’re not just having a bad morning. You were laughing with Sam when he came in, after all.

Dean rubs a hand over his sleep-strained eyes and pours his coffee.

“You said you got something?” you say to Sam.

The words light a spark in Sam’s eyes, and he turns his computer so the screen faces you and Dean. “We’ve got three accidental deaths in a town in Idaho in the past two weeks.”

Dean roams to the table and sips his coffee, burning his throat. “And you think it’s our kind of thing?”

Sam smirks at him. “They were all accidentally decapitated.”

“Sounds like us,” you say, sliding out of your chair. “I’ll go pack.”

You leave your mug on the tabletop, still full, tendrils of steam floating above it.

Dean watches your back, feeling like he scared you away, before turning back to Sam.

“What’s up with her?”

Sam raises his eyebrows, eyes grazing the end of the sentence he was reading, Dean imagines, before glancing up at him. “Huh?”

Dean tilts the screen backward so he can glimpse the monitor, but it only displays an email account and a couple news articles – not even ones with pictures.

“Come on, man,” he says. “It’s not even porn.”

Sam rolls his eyes.

“Dude, seriously. Something’s going on with (Y/N),” Dean says.

Sam’s gaze drifts back to his screen. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”

“Or it’s something,” Dean counters. “She’s been dodging me for weeks.”

“Are you sure you’re not being paranoid because you’ve got a thing for her?”

Dean opens his mouth to speak, to argue, but shock swallows his words. Not so much at what his brother stated, but how casually he did. As if Dean’s “thing” for you isn’t what his mind drifts to in its spare time, or even when he’s had a bad day. As if it doesn’t keep him up at night.

All he can do is give his brother a hard stare and gulp down another swig of coffee. “Shut up, Sam.”

A hand rattles your shoulder, shaking you awake. Your head throbs, and the ache jabs at the back of your eyes when you pry them open. When did you fall asleep?

You recoil from the cold concrete beneath you, panic flooding in with unanswered questions.

“…(Y/N). Hey, take it easy.”

The pounding in your ears fades enough to hear a familiar voice urging you back to consciousness.

Dean.

You relax slightly when you hear him, feeling safer with the company. Or maybe you know nothing truly bad can happen as long as Dean is with you.

A light bulb hangs over your head, casting a dim yellow light on the nearer parts of the room – a bare concrete wall, a small table, and the first few steps of a wooden staircase. And Dean.

“Where are we?” you mumble, voice still slurred.

“I think we're in the wicked witch’s basement.”

“Oh.” You take the hand up he offers. “Lovely.”

You reach for your phone, but your fingers only meet the fabric of your jacket pocket.

“She took mine, too,” Dean says.

He has moved to the bottom of the staircase and begins to climb.

“She probably had us pegged the minute we drove into town.” You follow him up the stairs. “And if we’re here…”

He throws his shoulder into the panel of the steel door with a grunt, but it remains planted in the frame.

“Dean, don’t.”

He rams into the door again, to no avail.

You grasp his shoulder, jerking it to the side. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”

“Sam’s still out there,” he says. “He’s got no idea what he’s dealing with here. We’ve got to warn him.”

He shrugs out of your grip and moves to crash into the door again, but you stand in front of it.

“Dean, there’s magic on this door. We can’t knock it down.”

He balls his hand into a fist, and you hear the thump as he leans it against the door behind your shoulder.

Slowly, the angry lines on his face uncrease, the fire in his eyes fades. You feel his rigid breaths against your chest even out. Before you can step backward, he blinks away.

“Come on,” you hum, leading him down the staircase. “Let’s think about this. What do we know about this place?”

He rubs his temples with his fingertips. “Okay, uh… it’s one of those old-style houses – the kind with the red brick and the ivy, right?”

“Well, kind of,” you say. “Same smell. Which means we’re in some kind of storage vault.”

“That thing looks pretty airtight, doesn’t it?” He nods to the door at the top of the steps.

“These places were supposed to be bomb shelters, meant to house people for weeks,” you note.

“And people need air.”

“Which would come from…” You run your hands and eyes along the brick wall.

Dean starts on the other side, but when you’ve almost met in the middle, you start to doubt your theory.

“Hey,” he calls, inspecting a bookshelf mounted to the wall, around your eye level. He grabs the books, handful at a time, and sets them on the nearby table.

Above the empty shelf is an air vent, a reddish brown rusted through the cast iron.

You both slide your fingers through the grates, grasping the criss-crossed bars. You brace your feet against the wall and pull at the vent. When it has still not budged and you begin to lose hope, the metal creaks.

“Aah!” you exclaim as the iron clangs to the ground.

Dusting your hands on your jeans, you peer into the darkened expanse behind the vent.

“It’s too narrow,” Dean says. “We’ll never make it through.”

“Speak for yourself,” you remark, gripping the edges of the shelf.

“You can’t go alone.” He catches your arm with his hand.

You glance down at the confirmation of what you already knew – that he doesn’t think you’re good enough to do this one thing. It shouldn’t hurt so much, really, because you know he’s right. You’ve always known it.

Maybe that’s why you could never admit why you’d rather hear it from anyone but him.

It doesn’t quell your frustration. You yank your arm out of his hold. “I can, and I will.”

“(Y/N), it’s too dangerous,” he pleads.

“And staying here isn’t? I can handle it, Dean.”

“I’m not saying you can’t–”

“That’s exactly what you’re saying!” you shout. “You don’t think I can do it.”

“No, I…” he begins to say, but cuts himself off, drawing back. Instead of continuing, he links his fingers and angles his palms upward.

You raise your eyebrows in question.

“Unless you want to scale the damn wall,” he says, not meeting your eyes.

You bite your lip, regretting your tone, but you step into his hands and latch onto the shelf. You can apologize later, when the danger has passed.

With his help, you hoist yourself into the dark, musty air shaft. You climb out into a storm cellar and break into the house, where you find Sam, who fights the witch with you. By the time you unlock the basement door, he’s put a witch-killing bullet through her brain.

Instead of the collective breath of relief that usually follows the slamming of the bunker door once you have all returned from a hunt, the air between you and Dean hangs heavy with tension.

While he plows straight down the hallway, you trudge more heavily through the war room. Sam gives you a questioning glance, but you dismiss it with a shrug before moving on.

You hear Dean's door closing before you round the corner, the soft thump of wood hitting wood, panel hitting frame. You pause at his door, but only for a moment, not long enough to turn and knock.

The thump echoes in your mind as you drop your bag on the ground and shrug off your jacket.

Wood hitting wood, panel hitting frame, mocking your cowardice now that the danger has passed and you don't have the nerve to talk to him.

It's no wonder he thinks you're incompetent.

The wood-hitting-wood thump echoes one too many times. You march out of your room and down the hall.

The wood-paneled Everest greets you again. You knock.

“Dean?”

More tense silence meets your call, though you can practically feel him behind the door, an answer on the tip of his tongue.

“Dean, can we talk?” you try again.

You hear shuffling, feet padding, but he doesn’t answer. Every fiber of your being longs to turn back, to cut your losses and concede to live through the night without making this right.

But Dean’s a loss you can’t cut.

“Come on. Don’t make me break the door down,” you say, your words joking but your tone heavy.

You crouch to sit on the floor, your back against his wall.

“All right, then, I’ll talk,” you mutter. “I didn’t mean to go off on you like that earlier. You didn’t deserve it.”

You thumb the hem of your jeans, a wave of uncertainty washing over you. “You definitely don’t deserve me and my psychoses. I know it’s been rough lately – the two of us.”

You wait for some kind of nod or noise of confirmation, but the door doesn’t give you one, and if he does, you can’t hear it.

“I don’t know how to do this,” you admit. “I’m not used to being the weak link, you know? The one who can’t hold her crap together like everyone else.”

The admissions come pouring out of you when you can pretend only a slab of wood hears you.

“I’ve always known my place here, and I know I’m good. I’m just not God-defeating, devil-killing Winchester good. I’m okay with it, usually. But lately, with you, it’s been a harder pill to swallow because…”

You run a hand through your hair, your energy draining with your hope. “It just is.”

When he doesn’t respond, you sigh. So much for that.

You pull yourself off the ground and pause to wonder if you should wait a few moments longer. After deciding you couldn’t take another minute of rejection, you turn to leave.

The doorknob creaks, and the door swings open.

“You’re not,” Dean says.

You peer into the room, where he waits, half behind the door.

“I mean, you’re not the weak link,” he clarifies. “I don’t think that.”

You lean against the wall. “I appreciate you saying that, but you don’t have to. I know where I stand here.”

“No, you don’t.” He steps outside to meet you.

“It doesn’t take a genius to figure out you don’t think I’m good enough to do the job,” you say.

“That’s not what I think.”

“Then, why do you–”

“Because I care about you,” he says. “Because I don’t want to see you get hurt, and if trying to keep you from that is selfish, then fine! But that’s what you do for the people you love.”

“What about the people I love?” you demand. “Am I supposed to let you go and hunt these things and get into trouble because I wasn’t there to back you up?”

The last exchange of words hangs in the air between you two, waiting patiently for the realization to pass over your eyes as it does his.

He takes a step closer, then another, until you can feel his breath skating softly across the top of your head.

“Do you…?” he begins.

You want to look away, but his eyes, the captivating green, won’t let you. “Love you?”

He nods.

“Yeah.” The pounding of your heart shakes the word, and your throat closes in terror. “But, um, you don’t have to,” you add. “I know you were just saying it to make a point.”

You step backward, but he catches your arm with his hand.

“I’m not saying it,” he whispers, bringing his other hand to your cheek.

Your eyes drift back to him. “Really?”

He nods again and pulls you closer by the small of your back, angling his neck so your noses brush. His eyes graze over your lips.

You lean in eagerly.

[filmfanatic82]

The Long Game - Chapter 14: Making Amends

AO3 Link (HERE)

Chapter 14: Making Amends

Kimberly doesn’t expect it to start this way.

Then again, she never really gave it too much thought to begin with. Call it self-prelevation. Or just not wanting to fully deal. But either way, Kimberly has never spent a great deal of time nor energy thinking about it.

In the rare moments that the thought has crossed her mind, she has always envisioned it to be something predictable. Like an inevitable train crash that can be spotted from miles and miles away.  

But this…

This feels too out of nowhere. No warning. Not even a strange, gut churning sense of danger.

One minute, the five of them are waiting in line at the Krispy Kreme, picking up the typical pre-training Sunday breakfast and the next…

It’s chaos.

The ground shakes for what seems like an eternity, splitting open at the seams, while screaming hoards of people scatter in every direction. Chunks of debris start to rain down from above as the Krispy Kreme falls apart.

Kimberly’s eyes instinctively dart over to Trini as the singular thought flashes through her mind--

No. Not now. I need more time. Please just five more minutes…

And then, as abruptly as it started, the shaking stops.  

“Whoa…,” Zack exclaims, trying to get his bearings. “Couldn’t the big bad of the week wait until after our donuts?”

“We need to get out of here and figure out what’s going on,” Jason responds, surveying the now deserted Krispy Kreme. He starts to make a beeline for the front door, followed closely by Zack.

Trini starts to move as well, but notices that both Kimberly and Billy are somewhat frozen in their spots with a strange and ominous look of dread amongst their faces. “Babe? You coming?”

Kimberly manages to give an ever so slight nod towards Trini. “Yeah. Be there in a minute.”

And for the briefest of moments, Trini hesitates to leave, as if almost sensing something is wrong. But then the moment passes and she follow suit, out of the store.

Kimberly waits until Trini is out of sight and then--

“I’m not ready.”

Those three words hang between the two of them as Kimberly locks eyes with Billy. A small, conflicted smile spreads across Billy’s face providing what little comfort he can. “You are.”

Before Kimberly can even respond, she feels Billy’s arms wrap around her, engulfing her in an almost bone-crushing hug. It’s startling and yet, exactly what she needs in this very moment.

“You hugged me?” Kimberly can’t help but ask as the two quickly pull apart.

“I thought you might need one. I would need one if I were in your shoes, and I don’t even like them,” Billy offers up with a slight shrug of his shoulders. “You’re the bravest person I know, Kimberly.”

A sudden tidal wave of emotions spill out of Kimberly already fragile heart, flooding her body with a much needed sense of confidence and determination. She reaches out, take hold of Billy’s hand, and gives it a light squeeze. “I need you to promise me something.”

“Of course.”

“Whatever happens out there. I need you to keep her away from me.”

“But--”

“Promise me. I don’t care what you need to do. Just make sure she’s nowhere near me.”

Billy goes to open his mouth again, but abruptly shuts it and gives a firm nod in response. “I promise.”

“Good.” Kimberly does her best to match Billy’s smile and then with a harsh, sobering breath of air, turns towards the front door and puts one foot in front of another.

/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

“How’s it going?” Kim quietly asks as she makes her way into Billy’s old workshop. Even after all of these years, nothing -- not even the complex mechanical sketches littering the walls -- has changed. Every inch of the once storage room turned tinkerer’s paradise, screams Billy Cranston, just like the boy’s basement once did.

Billy glances up from the mass of wires and electrical parts and gives Kim a tired but warm smile. “Not the best. I think I might’ve fried the motherboard. Thought I grabbed my normal screwdriver, but it was the magnetic one instead.”

Kim gives a slight nod in response as she approaches Billy’s workstation. She grabs a stool and takes a seat nearby, making sure not to crowd his personal space.

After having sat alone for the last 30 or so minutes in the morphing grid, Kim needs to be around someone. Someone who won’t judge nor push her to rehash the past.

Someone like Billy.

They sit in silence for a few minutes, Billy continuing to tinker away and Kim just watching him do so, neither feeling the urge to talk. They simply exist in each other’s presence. Something, that although they’ve been in contact throughout the years, haven’t been able to do in what feels like an eternity.

“Jason’s pretty upset with me,” Billy quietly states, never once pulling his eyes off of the task before him. His words break through the silence and hit Kim square in the gut, like a runaway freight train.

“B, I’m so sorry.”

Billy stops tinkering once again and looks up at Kim with a level of raw honestly that’s simply unnerving. “Why? I’m not.”

Kim shuts her eyes and deeply inhale as she attempts to keep the flood of tears at bay. She can feel Billy’s words sweep into her body and begin the tedious task of repairing the thousands of pieces of her heart.

“But…” Kim trails off, not sure how to finish her thought.

“Jason will come around. He always does.” A reassuring smile crosses Billy’s lips as he gives a slight, matter of fact, shrug of his shoulders. “Zack and Trini will too. They just need some time. That’s all. We’re family. And family doesn’t give up on one another. Especially when it comes to the end of the world.”

Kim can’t help but let a small chuckle slip out at this. “God, I hope you’re right.”

“Well, there’s a high probability that I am. Jason and I have gotten into five major fights over the last seven years of our relationship. And every single one has followed the same exact pattern. First, he has an outburst of emotions which is sometimes accompanied by a physical expelling of frustration. Usually, in the form of kicking a tire on his car or punching a spare piece of scrap metal. But that did result in him breaking a knuckle one time, so he’s cut back on it. Then, he goes and cools off. And finally, he comes to his senses and wants to figure out a way to fix the issue.”

“Sounds like Jase.”

“Yup. Highly predictable. Even in the most unorthodox of situations,” Billy responds with loving tone to his voice.

The silence seeps back in between the two of them once again as Kim runs her hands through her wild raven locks and then starts to fidget with one of her bulky silver rings.

“I’m scared, B.” The words come tumbling out of Kim’s lips before she can stop them with a hint of a quiver to her voice.

“Me too.” Billy matches her tone as the two share a silent understanding of the massive underlying fear of what’s to come. “But if anyone can pull it off, it’s you.”

And with those words, Billy goes back to tinkering, leaving Kim to sit there, lost in her own thoughts.

//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

“Fuck! Get outta my way.”

Kim hears Trini’s voice well before spotting the small latina and Zack. She rounds the corner of the corridor that leads to the the entrance pool area, already with a good hunch as to the scene she’s about to walk in on.

Zack stands in between Trini and the entrance pool area, intentionally blocking her path. Trini tries to push by him, but Zack counters her move, only infuriating her even more.

“Zachary Taylor! Move your fuckin’ ass right now or you’re gonna wish you were never born,” Trini yells at Zack, giving him a harsh, two handed shove. Zack stumbles a bit, but manages to hold his ground. He isn’t backing down.

“No can do.”

“MOVE!”

“It’s not happenin’, Tiny.”

“You can’t fuckin’ hold me here against my will!”

“Wanna bet?”

In a sudden burst of rage, Trini charges at Zack, plowing into his chest at full force. The taller boy, takes the blow in stride, allowing Trini to throw random punches into him.

“Let… Me… Go…” Trini yells into Zack’s chest, fists raining down against flesh with each and every word.

“I can’t,” Zack simply responds with a odd calmness to his voice as if to say that he gets it.

“Zack’s right.” Kim steps out of the corridor shadows, making her presence fully known.

At the sound of Kim’s voice, Trini instantly freezes up and backs away from Zack. She locks eyes with Kim with an emotionless stare that beyond unnerving.

It’s as if the last few days haven’t happened at all.

“Do mind giving us a moment?” Kim asks Zack, shooting him a somewhat pleading look.

Zack hesitates for a moment but then lets out a sigh. “Sure.”

“Thanks.”

Zack gives Kim a small nod in response and then disappears down the corridor.

A heavy silence falls between Kim and Trini as they simply stand there, staring at one another. Kim itches with the desire to let her words come flooding out. Spill every last thought. Every emotion. So maybe Trini can start to understand and piece together the unknown holes that have tainted their memories for almost a decade now.

But Kim knows better.

She knows that the woman standing in front of her doesn’t want to hear elaborate explanation or cold, hard facts. Not Trini. Those things hold little to no value to her.

What Trini wants is something that Kim’s not sure she can even put words to.

Kim lets out a long, exhale of breath and shoves her hands into her back pockets, ever so slightly rocking on her heels as she does. “T, I--”

“Why?”

And there it is. The one and only thing that Trini wants.

A reason.

“You,” Kim whispers in response. “I did it to protect you.”

“We protect each other. That was our deal, Hart. Or did you forget that?”

“No. But--”

“I can’t do this,” Trini cuts Kim off, eyes glancing back towards the entrance pool. There’s an all too familiar deer caught in headlights look buried beneath Trini’s emotionless mask.

Kim knows what that look means. Trini’s only seconds away from running.

“T, please,” Kim says as she reaches out and gently grabs hold of Trini’s forearm. It’s a gamble. But one worth taking. They can’t afford to lose Trini. Not now.

Trini stiffens at Kim’s touch, but doesn’t pull away. She takes a moment to swallow down the growing lump of emotions bubbling up in her throat and then--

“You could’ve told me.”

“I know.”

“No. You don’t. You have no fuckin’ clue. All those years. I thought… All those fucking years, Kimberly. And you knew. You knew all along what was wrong with you.” Cracks start to form in Trini’s emotionless facade as tears slowly snake their way down her cheeks. She reaches up and pulls away the collar of her oversized sweatshirt, revealing the predominate scar across her neck. “Did you know you were gonna do this? Huh? Or how about Jason’s arm? Did you fuckin’ know that you were gonna almost kill me?”

A matching set of tears trail down Kim’s face. She shakes her head, unable to fully look Trini in the eyes. “I didn’t know.”

Trini lets out a harsh, condescending laugh. “I don’t believe you.”

“It’s the truth. I swear. I would’ve never--”

“Never what? Huh? Lied to us?”

“I would’ve never had agreed to do it. The last thing I wanted was to hurt you. You’ve gotta believe me. I’m so, so sorry, T.”

“A little too late for that now.” Trini does a quick wipe of her eyes and quickly pulls herself back together, putting back on her tough as nails facade. “Too late for everything.”

With that Trini turns to head towards the entrance pool once again, this time with more determination than ever more to leave.

“I’ll double it!” Kim calls out in a sudden desperation.

“Double what?” Trini stops in her tracks as a look of slight confusion sweeps across her face.

“The money. I’ll give you $6 million if you stay. Just until we battle the First.”

“The money…” Trini quietly responds, suddenly realizing what Kim is referring to.

“Once it’s all over, the money’s all yours. No questions asked. And you’ll never have to see me again. Promise.”

Trini takes a moment, letting Kim’s words fully sink and then lets out a much needed sigh. “Fine. Just stay away from me, Hart.”

Kim gives a subtle nod in understanding and then watches in silence as Trini walks back towards the corridor without even giving Kim a second look.

//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

“Is there anything else? Anything that we haven’t considered? Any other scenarios? What if I--”

“Kimberly,” Zordon gently interrupts her with a slight tiredness to his voice. “There’s nothing more.”

Kim runs her hands through her hair as she exhales a breath of air that she didn’t even realize that she was holding onto. She plops herself down on the steps of the morphing grid, briefly giving in to the overwhelming feeling of utter exhaustion.

After convincing Trini to stay, Kim had made her way back to the morphing grid and decided to run through plans with Zordon. Over and over again. For two hours straight. Until there was nothing more to discuss.

No more possibilities. No rogue scenarios that don’t involve being forced to make the ultimate sacrifice.

“There’s gotta be something,” Kim quietly says under her breath.

She’s not willing to accept her fate. Not yet.

“Something?”

Kim snaps out of her thoughts and looks back to see Jason making his way into the morphing grid. He casually walks over to Kim, and without saying a word, takes a seat besides her on the steps.

It’s a small gesture, but a gesture nonetheless.

“It’s nothing.”

“Kim…” Jason reaches over and ever so gently places his hand on top of Kim’s, giving an apologetic squeeze as he does. “No more secrets.”

“No more secrets,” Kim repeats back with an underlying tone of acceptance.

“Good. So let’s try this again. What’s the something?”

“We were just walking through the game plan again.”

“Game plan?”

Kim nods as she starts to fidget with one of her bulky silver rings. “Yeah. For how we’re supposed to defeat the First.”

“And does this plan involve my husband?”

“Beyond the normal Ranger combat stuff, no. Not really. It just mainly involves me.”

A moment of silence seeps in between the two of them as they sit there side by side. Then--

“All right. Let’s hear it.”

“Huh?” Kim responds not fully following Jason’s train of thought.

“The plan. I want to hear it. All of it. From the beginning. No detail left behind.”

A slight chuckle escapes from Kim’s lips as a hint of a smile starts to make it’s way across her face. “You sure?”

“150%. You’re not going at this alone. Not this time.”

“Okay. But we might need a drink… Or two.”

“Hold that thought.” Jason springs up off of the step and jogs over towards one of the control panels. He reaches down, pops open a hidden compartment to reveal a half empty bottle of Jack Daniels. “Zack and I stashed a few of these around the ship late one night after our weekly bonfire. Figured it might come in handy one day. Should be still good, right?”

Jason makes his way back over to Kim, bottle in hand, and hands it over to her. Kim opens it and without a moment of hesitation, take a much needed swig.

“Still good,” Kim replies as she slightly grimaces from the post-shot burn.

“Good.” Jason sits back down next to Kim and takes a quick shot as well. “Now. Tell me everything.”

[ajuimaginary]

Spy Universe - Woozi

Sequel to Hacker! Woozi in which he deals with the aftermath of messing up the job for you. Note: requests are open for other members in the spy universe right now.

You sit very nervously at the table that Woozi indicates to you as soon as you two enter the apartment. He hammers on a door in the corner, and then pushes it open without waiting for a response.

“Wait here,” he tells you right before he disappears inside. You get a glimpse of a room with several computer screens, and a second surprised boy looking back at you through the door before it shuts. 

You glance around the room, and find it to be fairly ordinary. You’re sitting at a chair by the dining table, but there are also a few couches pointed toward a TV, and behind you is the door into a kitchen. There’s even a vase of flowers on the table, and the usual clutter you would associate with a family home is scattered around the place.

 The door swings open again, and Woozi is followed by the boy you saw with him before, who gives you an awkward smile and a half bow in greeting.

“I’m V-Han-Ver- Woozi, am I undercover right now?” he asks Woozi. He looks embarrassed. 

“Just tell her your name,” Woozi allows, waving a hand as he takes the seat opposite you at the table. 

“I’m Hansol then,” Hansol says. He also takes a chair, looking between the two of you like he’s praying that Woozi will do all of the talking. 

“Nice to meet you?” you say like a question, because you still have no idea what’s going on.

“I’m so sorry about this,” Woozi says again. You look back to him, thrown off by how easily he looks like a sweet embarrassed guy even though earlier he held a knife to your throat. “Let me explain.”

“Coups will be back soon,” Hansol says nervously. “Don’t you think we could wait-”

“No.” Woozi says. “She deserves an explanation. Coups will understand. Sorry, I never asked you name?”

“I’m Y/N,” you say hesitantly.

“Y/N, I honestly never meant to get you involved like this.” Woozi shakes his head. “Unfortunately my work situation right now is a little... unorthodox. You’re currently sitting in the Headquarters of our... spy crew?”

He pauses in case you have a reaction, but you can only laugh a little, almost uncertainly, too stunned to react properly. 

“Okay,” you say. “Seems... normal.”

Hansol laughs.

“She’s cool,” he tells Woozi, and Woozi shushes him.

“You see, there’s a huge plot going on right now among some of the rich families in the city, and we’ve been working to uncover it before they do too much damage to too many lives lives. Most of us have... good reason to want to take them down. Personal investment in the case. The whole thing is high stakes, but it’s worth it. I don’t- I can’t tell you everything,” he sighs, rubs the bridge of his nose, and looks up at you. “But that’s why I was so on edge. That’s why I attacked you like that. You didn’t deserve it, and I’m sorry, but I’ve made you a part of this now, and that can’t be retracted.”

“Made me a part of this?” you ask nervously.

“You know too much now, I’m afraid.” Woozi admits. “I told you the name of the plot and everything.”

“But I- I don’t even remember-” you’re panicking, and definitely lying to him. You do remember. When he was holding the knife to your throat he asked you if you knew of the Pledis Plot. 

Like he did earlier, Woozi seems amazingly good at spotting your level of truthfulness. He raises an eyebrow, and you shut up.

“You remember.” he says firmly. “And even knowing so little as you do, it’s a risk... We need to deal with it...”

“Woozi, you can’t mean we’re going to-” Hansol looks worried, eyes wide.

“We’re going to look after Y/N. Protect Y/N.” Woozi interrupts, and his young teammate looks relieved. He turns to you. “I owe you that after pulling you into the situation in the first place.”

It’s touching. There’s a very sincere determination in his eyes. You know the look well. You’ve admired it through the coffee shop window before when you see him walking past with his friends. He gets a very serious sort of focus that contrasts so sweetly with the softness of his features. 

You shake yourself out of the thoughts quickly though. He isn’t protecting you for cute reasons. He’s protecting you from something terrifying. 

Why does the threat not feel real?

You notice you’ve held eye contact with Woozi too long, and break away quickly, catching a curious expression on Hansol’s face at the way you two were staring.

And then the door opens, and the room is suddenly flooded with people. They rush inside, shutting and locking the door instantly, pulling off jackets and hanging them in a jumble of voices and bodies. Then, one by one, they turn, see you, and freeze.

You notice the tallest of them shrink to the back as soon as he makes eye contact with Woozi, and turn in time to catch the very dark look that Woozi is giving him. Then one of the teammates steps forward to the front of the crowd, black leather jacket still in his hands, very round lips parted and frown on his face. There’s a leader quality to the way the rest part way to let him through, deferring to him to take control of the situation. 

“Jihoon, who is this?” he asks.

“It’s a long story.” Woozi says.

Behind the leader, a kid with round cheeks is trying to mouth questions at Hansol. The rest of the group are glancing between everyone in the room in bewilderment. 

“Hansol, can you look after Y/N for a moment? Make a cup of tea or something. I’m going to take the guys and explain what I already told you...”

“Oh, okay,” Hansol says, looking more panicked than he has so far. 

Woozi stands and starts leading everyone through another door, into what looks like a storage room from where you’re sitting, and they follow him. You notice for the first time, now their jackets are all hung up, that most have small guns tucked into their outfits somewhere. It makes sense, considering what Woozi told you about their work, but it still shakes you a bit to see.

“Hansol,” the boy who was looking at Hansol before stops just before leaving the room. “What the hell happened?”

“Jihoon will tell you, Seungkwan,” Hansol says, patting his friend’s arm. “It’s okay.”

So Seungkwan goes, the last of them, and the door shuts. 

“I’m sorry,” Hansol says, turning to you. “I actually don’t know how to make tea.”

In the other room, Seungcheol, now jacket-less, has his arms folded, glaring at Jihoon. Many people might be intimidated when he gives them that face, but Jihoon is one of the people in the team who is less affected by it. He holds his own power.

The boys all put their guns away since they’re in there. Seungcheol is so busy glaring that Joshua has to unhook his gun and put it away for him.

“What’s going on?” Seungcheol demands when they’re done. Everyone in the room can hear the concern in his voice though. “Are you okay? What happened?”

“I’m sorry,” Jihoon says. “After Mingyu made that mistake and-”

“I’m sorry,” Mingyu says, pouting a little. “I didn’t mean to-”

Wonwoo wacks him on the shoulder.

“We get it,” he snaps. “What’s done is done. Stop apologizing, you were bad enough on the drive over.”

“Ah! Leave me alone!” Mingyu whines at him, rubbing his shoulder. “I didn’t get a chance to say to Jihoon yet, okay?”

Woozi waves a hand.

“Just don’t do it again,” he says to Mingyu. “But anyway, you aren’t the only one that fucked up today. I could have fixed it in time, but something... got in the way. Vernon says the pull out plan went smoothly?”

“Yeah, it did,” says Jeonghan, nodding. “Jun did a great job.”

“Thanks,” Jun mutters, looking pleased with himself. After the tricky nature of his part in the pull out plan, he really will be the hero of the day. 

Jihoon smiles at him.

“Knew we could rely on you. Thank you,” he says. 

“So what happened on your end?” Seungcheol asks. “Why is Coffee Shop crush sitting in our-”

“Shh, don’t use that nickname!” Jihoon snaps. “No one needs to hear it!”

“Don’t be embarrassed, Jihoon,” Jeonghan sighs. “We all know about the crush.”

“Yeah, and the way your ears always turn red!” Soonyoung says cheerfully, of course snapping to a teasing mode even in this serious moment. 

Jihoon knows his ears are turning red again. He huffs.

“Well I ran right into Y/N on the way to the security company basement,” he continues the story to hide his flush. “And they said a few things that seemed really suspicious to me in the moment, so I pinned them with a knife to question them and - um- turns out they knew nothing about the whole scheme.”

“Are you sure?” Wonwoo asks, always the one to be suspicious.

“They were terrified. And certainly knew nothing about the Pledis Plot.”

“You know Woozi can pick a liar anywhere,” Joshua says before anyone can ask anymore questions. 

They all nod, knowing he’s right. 

“So, wait,” Chan scrunches his nose. “Does that mean you told them about the Pledis plot?”

Jihoon winces.

“Yeah,” he says. Everyone reacts strongly, and he winces. “I’m sorry. I said the words, and that’s when I could tell that they really did know nothing. But it’s too late now. Even just knowing the name, they know too much. We owe Y/N our protection.”

He looks across the group. Some look a little annoyed, most look concerned. It was so much easier earlier, when he told this all quickly to Vernon in the hacking room when he returned. That boy doesn’t have an ounce of judgement in him, but some of the others in the group make Jihoon feel more nervous. 

He needs them to agree with him. He needs them to understand. And it’s hard, when he has the reputation as the one who never messes up, to have messed up so badly.

Wonwoo especially is gritting his teeth. Chan looks let down. Seungkwan and Minghao exchange an unreadable half frown.

“You’re right, Jihoon” Seungcheol says at last, letting out a tired breath and squaring his shoulders. “We do owe Y/N that now. I’ll admit I’m... surprised that this happened. And disappointed the plan didn’t work out. But we aren’t here to lay any blame. We’re a team.”

“Yeah,” Jeonghan agrees, taking his place as Seungcheol’s second and easily completing the sentiment. “This set back is not Jihoon’s fault. And it’s not Mingyu’s.”

Jihoon reluctantly nods his agreement at that, and he can see Mingyu’s shoulders drop their tension. 

“What we need to do now is make a plan for moving ahead.” Seungcheol finishes. “Always a team, right?”

“Always a team,” everyone recites. They looks very serious. 

So they file back out into the room to meet the new person who will, apparently, become a part of their lives now. 

[cattlegroup0-blog]

Take the Gun, leave the Swedish Meatballs

Sometimes I'm funny

by Jenn P.  |   on November 28th, 2018  | 

It started with me whining about not having enough storage space for all my shit because I’m an American person and have way too many of everything. I’d surveyed several options for extending our clothing storage beyond two small closets, and came upon a narrow shelving unit from the compressed cardboard knitting factory formerly known as Ikea. I say formerly because I can no longer bring myself to call this place anything but The Nefarious Swede. My mother always told me it wasn’t nice to hate people– and I don’t. But this is a company, and it feels less offensive to hate them and share my contempt publicly–here, to my loyal fourteen followers who always nurse my wounds and have my back.

Actually, I should clear this up– my beef is not with the store itself. I’ve never really had a bad experience shopping in one of their massive warehouses. It’s hard not to succumb to the allure of Ikea when you live in a city, because as nice and sturdy and reliable as genuine hardwood furniture is, if you live in a small NYC apartment, actual grown-up furniture doesn’t always fit, and if you happen to move, hauling heavy wood is a huge burden. Aside from the assembly part, buying from Ikea has always been easy and affordable. In fact, I’ve always considered a trip to Ikea an hypnotic experience, running through pre-assembled rooms like a kid in a fun house, one filled with artificial wood in bleached out colors and unyielding, under-stuffed sofas. They have a great selection of fresh plants and practical storage options. I’ve never bought a toilet brush anywhere else. I don’t love their frozen meatballs, but I can respect a place that sells them.

My complaint today (and perhaps forevermore, as I’m feeling particularly embittered about this) is with the customer service hotline associated with their online store. If that sounds super specific, it’s because it is. Apparently the online service is run by a completely different company than the original store-based Ikea. That’s what the robotic customer service rep at the store told us anyway. I think she was trained in evasiveness, and she was remarkably effective.

I’m taking this to the blog not just to bitch, but to pass along the word to others, because we had an incredibly frustrating experience but it’s nothing compared to the seemingly endless roster of complaints  other desperately raging consumers have posted online.

Without further ado and without sounding completely melodramatic…

THIS IS MY STORY.

I rush home on Saturday afternoon to wait for BILLY. Billy is tall, white and slender, with four long doors and a flexible cardboard back. The automated message predicted his arrival for sometime between 2 and 6, and much to my delight (TM), he arrived at exactly 2:20. Two sincerely unhappy, possibly mute young men carried him in, piece by piece in long cardboard boxes, plopping them in a pile on the living room floor. They seemed to understand my verbal and non-verbal cues, but refused to utter a word or even crack a vaguely pleasant smile. When I reflect back, I imagine it’s because they respond to so many complaints they’ve likely been advised to just drop things off and get the hell out of dodge.

Vin immediately gets to work building BILLY. In my imagination, he’s looked forward to this moment all week, as he is able to fulfill his life’s purpose putting the pieces of his wife’s poor financial decisions together. There are about six boxes to go through, all filled with long planks of compressed wood chips sandwiched between a thin layer of plastic. He builds one half of the cabinet. Unfinished, it tips forward and shakes slightly, because Ikea pieces must be drilled into the wall to ensure they don’t tip over and kill your children. Vin moves to open the next set of boxes to complete the build, and realizes that one of the most critical pieces is chopped in three sections like the sad leftovers from a $10 karate lesson.

A feeling of dread washes over me, as a simple online order just became a complicated problem. I move to my computer to look up the number for their customer service line.

For a truly miserable time, call

“Thanks for calling IKEA. Your call is important to us (LIES! ALL LIES!!). The approximate wait time is 60 minutes.”

I don’t know what’s worse, being told up front that the wait time is 60 minutes, or just hanging on and learning as you go. I put the phone on speaker, and do a few quiet household tasks. I couldn’t vacuum like I really needed to, so instead make some infused artisanal butter with rehydrated, pureed porcinis and a pinch of sea salt. It had been on my to-do list for a few weeks. This is what middle-aged people without children do on Saturdays– wait for shitty furniture deliveries and make homemade mushroom butter.

A rep finally picked up my call and couldn’t have been more apologetic. She kept saying she was sorry, and she really nailed an earnest, authentic tone. She validated my frustration and disappointment, which helped me manage both better. By the end of our 30-minute conversation, she’d let me know that my complaint had been registered, and that someone should be dropping off a new piece in the next two weeks.

“The next two weeks? Can I at least schedule a day for that to happen?” I ask.

“Noooooo, you can’t schedule it. What’ll happen is, the day before they drop it off, we’ll notify you by phone that it’s coming.”

“So I might get a call on Wednesday alerting me that the delivery is happening Thursday when I have to be at work?”

“Exactly. Thanks for calling, and thank you for shopping Ikea!” CLICK.

I live the rest of my life that week like I normally do. I prep food, go to my job, avoid the gym and tip-toe around a hulking half-constructed wardrobe cabinet while trying to get dressed and undressed every day, hoping its untethered base doesn’t tip over and give me a concussion.

On Tuesday afternoon, I get a voicemail from Ikea customer service letting me know that my replacement piece will be arriving between the hours of 2:00 and 6:00 the next day. Well that’s just super, I think to myself, before picking up the phone to see if my retired in-laws feel like hanging out on my couch for a few hours the next afternoon. They’re like the best parent people in the world– we never leave their house without a paper plate of leftover lasagna and every time our basement flooded while we were stuck at work, they came over to mop it up. But they weren’t available the next day, so I knew I’d have to get back on the horn with Ikea customer service. Expecting to be put on hold, I waited until I got home from work, changed into loose clothing, took a good nice pee, then parked myself on a cushiony chair purchased from a steadfast, reputable competitor.

CB2…You da real MVP

I dial the number and, as expected, am told the hold time will be 65 minutes. I have had a long, draining day at work and am having a hard time managing my own frustration about spending my evening this way. I feel cheated out of my recovery time and the longer this hold time runs over the appointed 65 minutes, the angrier I feel. By the time the rep pics up the call (at 75 minutes), I am close to tears.

“Hello, thank you for calling Ikea customer service. How can I help you?”

Right out the gate, this rep’s tone is different than the initial lady. She sounds like someone who’s been shoveling other peoples’ shit all day, and no longer has the strength to lift a shovel. Her tone was flat, to the point and if I may say so, a bit curt.

I will have a hard time proceeding with the business end of this call until I am able to express my feelings, so I just go right for it.

“First thing first, I have to say, I am very, very upset with Ikea right now. I know it’s not you personally, it’s more of a systemic problem, but this is the second time in a week I’ve been on hold over an hour with you guys and it just seems like there has to be a better way. I mean seriously, you must get complaints about this all day long.”

“Yes, I do. What is yours?” Some people are born to do what they do for a living. This lady was clearly one of those people.

I tell her that I need to reschedule a delivery, with an actual firm delivery date because I have a job and have not yet reached the stage of life where I can afford Ethan Allen furniture or spontaneously call out the next day for a shitty IKEA delivery. She says FINE, we’ll schedule a pick-up this Saturday.

“Pick up? No, I need a drop off. I need you to replace a broken piece so we can finishing building this half-built cabinet.”

“Yes, Ma’am–I understand that. But first we need to schedule a pick-up for the broken piece.” she says.

“So you’ll schedule a time to drop off the new piece while picking up the broken one. That’s fine. Let’s do it.”

“No, first we’ll schedule a time to pick up the broken piece. After we do that, you’ll call us back and we’ll give you another date to drop off the new one.” I start to feel a heat at the base of my earlobes.

“Are you telling me this requires two separate delivery dates, and that you’re prioritizing picking up your broken piece over giving me the new one?” I just wanted to make sure I was hearing her correctly so that my head didn’t set itself on fire and launch itself into orbit for no good reason.

“Yes, that’s right.” She actually sounded giddy telling me this.

“Listen, again, I understand you’re not the one making big decisions about the way your company is run, but this is just terrible. I’ve now been on the phone with Ikea for three hours this week, and this problem won’t be resolved until I schedule two more deliveries with you. This is ridiculous. Can I just take this thing to the store and get a new one?”

“Yes you can do that.”

“Alright, fine. That’s easier. But let me just add that the whole reason I ordered online was so I wouldn’t have the hassle of going to the store. I’m very disappointed with Ikea. Can I get a refund or something? How about you return my shipping charges?”

“Well, ma’am we want you to leave your Ikea experience with a good taste in your mouth, so I’d be delighted to give you some food coupons to use in our store.”

I have sampled Ikea’s frozen salmon fillet with lemon-dill sauce and seasonal mush vegetables, and while it wasn’t the worst thing I’ve ever put in my mouth, I wouldn’t voluntarily sign up to brunch at the Red Hook Ikea unless the situation were truly dire, meaning all 25,000 of New York City’s restaurants spontaneously went out of business and their 50-cent hot dogs and limp pancakes were the last remaining food sources.

“Yeah, no offense, but your food costs like three dollars. I don’t really want food coupons. I would like some actual money returned.” I say. This whole thing is starting to offend me, and I don’t even offend that easily.

“Okay, well you can discuss that with the customer service reps at the store when you make the return. Is there anything else I can help you with today?”

“Got a time machine?” I considered asking. Instead, I answered no, put my head down on the table and let out a soft, defeated whimper.

***

Saturday we drive to Ikea and Vinny is ready to throw down. He’s the nicest person in the world but when it comes to customer service or business problems, watch out, cause that long-haired devil ain’t afraid to bite with fangs. He preps me in the car.

“Listen, Jenn. Don’t do that thing where you just give in. You’re too nice. We’re getting our money back.” The man is on a mission and I’m still sorta fired up too, but am gradually losing steam with this project. We park the car and make our way to the downstairs area, where half the people are sitting around with grim faces and deconstructed cribs.

I tell myself… Do not be distracted by the healthy looking plants everyone has in their carts! No lingonberry jam! You don’t need more cheap glassware!! Don’t go upstairs! If you go upstairs, they win! I see a few people walk by with soft-serve cones. They’re only a dollar but I can’t buy one since I turned down those stupid food coupons out of fucking principle.

They finally call our number and we stride up to the counter. I am silent, and let my husband do the talking. I am done defending my case with Ikea and just want this shit behind me. Vin ain’t mucking around though, and neither is this customer service rep. My husband explains the situation firmly, directly, and somewhat dramatically. A real injustice has been made here and we want to see some corrective action. The customer service rep says nothing, walks back to the loading dock and brings us a new piece.

“Well, what about the refund on the shipping charges?” Vin asks. “The lady on the phone said you could handle that for me.”

“No, I can’t do that. Ikea store is run by a totally different company than Ikea online. You’ll have to call their customer service line to get that taken care of.” So Ikea-online and Ikea-store just ping-pong their complaints back and forth to one another? If so, that’s Machiavellian but brilliant.

“I’d rather take one of your lukewarm, under-seasoned meatballs and shove it in my eye socket than call that line again.” I didn’t say this, but I wish I had. What a visual! Instead I shrug my shoulders and thank her for her time. She places the new box of shelves on our flat cart, and we slowly roll away– defeated.

“Man, what happened to you?” asked Vin. He had a look of complete disgust on his face. “You totally wilted.”

“You know what, Vin. We’ve got the piece we need, and now I want to put this behind me. It’s Saturday. And on Saturday, I choose happiness.”

He rolled his eyes so far in his head I didn’t see them again until the next weekend. We went home, and like a phoenix rising from the ashes, BILLY was finally standing tall, in one piece. We’ll see how long he lasts.

****

A few weeks later, I received an envelope in the mail from Ikea. My name and address were hand-written for a personal, yet completely unprofessional touch.

I opened it up, expecting a check for $30 to cover the shipping charges. Inside were five fucking food coupons.

The first five people to write a comment on this post will receive one of these golden tickets, but with a caveat. If you use them in your local Ikea store, you must go loaded with a strong hand gesture and a flaming bag of poop. Tell ‘em Jenn said Glada Helgdagar*.

*Happy Holidays, in Swedish

Jenn P.

30-something psychotherapist. Loves cooking, hosting parties, exploring new places. Texan by birth. New Yorker by choice. Likes to tell little stories. Pull up a chair; I'll tell you one.

Source: http://muchtomydelight.com/2018/11/take-the-gun-leave-the-swedish-meatballs.html

[crazyartdad]

A New Home: Welcome TO L.A

“But I liked our house” Noodle says grudgingly as she stares out the window of their packed car.

“I know you did, I'm sorry..But look at the bright side! The house is huge and you'll have such a great room to move around!” says father number one enthusiastically as he untangles a particularly nasty knot of blue locks.

The jeep roared as it made its way down the highway, Noodle cautiously holding onto Katsu to distract herself from the dreaded mood she was about to face.

“....We have our own pool, Won't that be fun?” Murdoc adds to the conversation, hoping to turn the attitude around.

“I gotta pee”

“Don't really know where ya want me to stop kid” Murdoc grunted as he fixated his eyes back to the road.

“I don't understand why you guys couldn't work out your problems at home..”She whispered objectively messing with the tag around Katsu’s studded collar.

The car became quiet save for the rumble of engine life and running pavement beneath the wheels that Stuart spoke up to change the subject.

“Hey California! Fresh air, clean out all our lungs hu? Even better new school~” He says looking back at her, ruined eyes peering over sunglasses to save him from the blinding sun.

“FUN” She shouts sarcastically

“Thank Satan we named you Noodle then the other one” Murder speaks groggily.

“ANd that is? Noodle taunted

“Sunny side up” Stuart said with a smirk looking over to the smile forming on Mudz face.

“...I hate both of you”

Murdoc then gives a laugh of approval before reaching for the others hand. Stuart lingers a second before slipping his away, giving him an apologetic look till he gazes at the window to the new view of the city. ***************************************************

“Beautiful American Victorian!, six bedrooms four baths! all original fixtures kindly restored by the late owner's”

“How the hell are we affording this?” Stuart mutters to Murdoc as the sales woman jabbers on

“Don't worry your pretty self luv~” He whispers back in approval

“Real Tiffany fixtures and rose wood flooring!, the late owners were such dashing types. They remind me alot of the lot of you, course minus the child!” she boasts on

“Gay?” Stuart asks questions

‘Oh! Yes yes!, you get a lot of that down here in L.A, um where were you from again?” The realtor probes noisy

“West London, tryin out a few things”Murdoc pipes up with charisma.

“London! How Nice!”

Rolling Her eyes Noodle releases Katsu to the new home to do a bit of exploring herself leaving her anxiety ridden dad to fend for himself against this new conversation stand off. The floors creaked as she strutted along the hallway judging the green vintage wallpaper wondering if she could really call this her home. It smelled, off. Not bad, just something she would smell when she visited grandma's house back in Crokey, listing to the records plays as the smell of peppermint tea flooded the house.

Maybe I could pick out a room She thought before Katsu interrupted her thoughts with repetitive meowing.

“Noodle, Luv? Look what hes yelling at please?” Murdoc asks from the kitchen She gives a sigh of annoyance before following order, trudging down the hallway till she finds katsu clawing at a door under the stairs. She cocks her head to the side lifting the dual colored lenses from her face before stepping to the door. It took a few hard tugs before the handle broke free, earning a curse from the other. Yet before she turns away to leave the problem be the door opens slowly with a breath stalling creak.

Is it colder or is it just me? She questions, staring into the black pit of the basement stairwell. It felt staticky, like the time Murdoc rubbed a balloon along her hair during a carnival or when she touched one of those electric balls in a Spencer's shop.

“Hey! Katsu!” She yelps suddenly, while her cat descended the steps, quickly following after the furry beast.

She stalls midway, looking to the brick wall molded from years of neglect till she eyes the water heater in all it's rusted glory. She made note of all the possibilities of it giving out. Along with other problems the house might hold before she hears another distinctive meow further into the clutter filled level below.

“Baby, what ya doin?” Noodle bellows into the darkness.

Searching around she finds a switch to better search for her missing cat. She spots a heavily aided wine cabinet she suspects Murdoc would be happy to find, along with piles of junk she could barely take note of. She takes tentative steps along the cement, mindful of the cracks she could trip over before something else catches her eye.

A Studebaker turntable, a stunning record player left to rot in a black pit covered in a layer of dust.

“How awful..”she quips running her fingers along the dusted mess, creating marks along the smooth wood. Looking to the side she notices vintage classics in all genres leaving abandoned as much as everything else in the storage lot. Mostly jazz, but she figures with this thing. She could put good use to her record collection.

Crash!

“Ugh Katsu!” She shouts startled at the glass shattered from the bolting feline. Promising to come back later she gives the Player a few pats before returning upstairs to see how the standoff went. ******************************************************

“You said something about there being a study for me to work at home?”

“Yes! You're a Psychologist?” “Psychiatrist, go big or go home right?” he says earning a jab from the Bluenette.

“Fascinating, yes yes, How nice. Spending some time with the family” she says sipping from her cup of tea the male prepared

“I ...I'm sorry, I just don't understand why this house is so cheap, Mudz?” He says looking to the Satanist with worry.

“Well,...according to law, I do have to tell you history of the house, the last owners?”

“God they didn't die did they?” Stuart says jokingly.

‘Yes both of them, Murder suicide,Sold them the house myself. Such a travesty those two, they seemed so nice”

While she looked to her cup sadly the others stared at her in disbelief silently questioning themselves and each other if this really seemed like the right idea.

‘There..there is a nice ranch house an hour out of town , but it's doubled the price of this”

“Where did it happen?” Noodle ask suddenly appearing out of nowhere, Katsu lying lazily in her arms.

“Basement, both of them”

“We’ll take it” She says giving a smile to her repairing family.