#if you put it that way the blind eye society and the whole bill thing gain double the sour taste because now it was all about heartbreak | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

devisopod · 7 months ago

Text

Levity Creek infodump

It's long, I'm warning you.

╭──────────..★..──────────╮

Brave. Let's see if you regret trying to read my ramblings.

Changing some initial things from the first post, but they're minor. I'm doing this entirely based off what my Little Brain That Could absorbed from the show and Journal 3, so don't @ me if something's off, I'm not bothering to use online sources. As much as my mind gremlin'd love to deep dive this shit again, the whole point of an AU is to distort the canon. And while I'm keeping aspects of it, I'm not going out of my way to make it perfect either.

And who knows? Some of it may be subject to a little tweaking come July. We'll start off with what we know.

╭──────────..★..──────────╮

1975

Not a super big year in terms of the AU. Ford arrives in Gravity Falls, and nothing is different just yet. He begins his research enthusiastically. For six years, this fella gets to run around carefree! He's learning, exploring, and documenting like the ever-curious researcher he is. Then, he gets whacked with the inevitable question of "why?". Gravity Falls is the way it is, but no matter what he does, he can't determine the reason for it. It's eating him up, and so he's desperate to find answers, he'll ignore his better judgment.

Meanwhile, Stan's already been banned in about 30 states. He's hopped from scam to scam, or as he'd probably put it, "business strategy", and getting himself into trouble. He's missing his brother, missing having true connections, but too prideful to admit it yet. During this time, he's living in his car. This lasts for the majority of the year, and perhaps some months afterward, staying at motels on and off when he gets the cash.

1981

Bill.

Love him or hate him, he's crucial, and I'm going to enjoy the hell out of stepping on his toes at every possible opportunity in this AU. What's fun, and frustrating, is having to get into his mindset. He's a mastermind in his own right, but he's also weak to his—you know it, say it with me—ego!

After Bill convinces Ford that a portal is the most effective way to understand Gravity Falls' weirdness, Fiddleford comes into play. We know that Fiddleford works with, and researches the anomalies of Gravity Falls, alongside Ford for a year before the portal incident.

He's goes through a lot of stress and exhibits signs of anxiety during this period, not only from the work and frightening encounters, but because he misses his family. The fear that's instilled in him results in the creation of the memory gun, and soon to follow, The Society of The Blind Eye (we'll get back to that). Moreover, it has him questioning Ford and the portal project.

1982

Here's where we start to diverge!

That month before the portal incident, Stan seeks out Ford rather than facing everything he's going through alone. He's hit so many walls that even his pride takes a beating. It's a daunting task, showing up on the doorstep of someone you've wronged, looking to make that connection again, but he's got nothing left. Our Stan's a trooper, but even his snark and tough outer shell don't save him from his instinct to care, nor his need to be cared for.

His arrival in Gravity Falls is not exactly welcome, but Ford doesn't turn him away either. I really want to give him the benefit of the doubt here. He's kind of a self-righteous asshole during this period of his life, but he also lets small hints of his sentimentality slip from time to time. He was so excited to have someone to share his research and time with again, expressing gratitude and fondness for Fiddleford, much like I think he would have done with Stan. He misses Stan just as much as Stan misses him, but they process their emotions differently. He buries himself in work and strives for a goal that would make him one of The Greats, or whatever. But when his mind isn't as occupied, I'm sure it's on that beach in New Jersey.

So, showing a shred of decency, Ford agrees to try and patch things up with Stan, but on the terms that he doesn't interfere with his work. Stan sets up in a motel in town, visiting Ford on occasion during the month up until the portal is tested.

The Test

Here's where shit hits the fan, right? Everything starts going downhill, but let's think about it differently.

Fiddleford is arguably the balancing factor here. His character is such a great one, and I think it would have served him much better had he not succumbed to his own fear. He deserved a lot better, and it's not hard to determine that based on the details we have. He has an instinctual need to protect and help people, whether he knows them personally or not. He warns and prompts Ford on multiple occasions to express his doubt, even before the incident with the portal, but Ford is much too prideful to accept any of Fiddleford's concerns.

Ford saw himself as a good friend to Fiddleford, and to an extent I would accept that, but ultimately Ford was simply meeting the minimal efforts required of him to keep his research partner afloat.

After one last attempt at dissuading Ford from testing the portal, Fiddleford doesn't have a choice but to carry on with the initial plan—he's going to see it through because he's come this far. So, what's he do when he gets a glimpse of the catastrophic consequences that could result from the portal's use? He gets the hell outta dodge, and naturally so. He's met his limit, and since Ford doesn't want to listen, he's going to take it upon himself to protect himself and others.

Aftermath

Now, at this point in the canon, Fiddleford has already loosely established The Society of The Blind Eye and it's been building in the background. Though, it won't last long.

He shows a lot of common sense throughout his time researching with Ford, and I'd like to tap into that a little more. Frankly, he's too smart to drive himself into insanity. And while he doesn't know if there are side effects, he knows that if he loses himself, he's putting others at risk. So, after he uses the memory gun to forget what he saw in the portal, he elects to retire it. As much as it could be a help, he realizes it poses its own dangers and temptations based on the ways he's used it so far.

The Society of The Blind Eye is disbanded abruptly here. The members collected so far have their memory wiped of the group's existence, and that's that.

Ford's Dilemma

After the mess with the portal, Ford becomes increasingly more paranoid and unstable. As one does when they've become subject to physical and mental torment by a being they can't control.

Stan is immediately concerned, and arguably pissed off by this development. He's come all this way to fix things, and now Ford's changed on a dime, but he doesn't understand why. So, they fight. When it comes down to it though, Ford knows he can trust Stan. His brother, despite everything, has sought to make things right. So, he spills his guts. Flat out breaks down, and it's needed. While it doesn't solve his immediate problem, he's given another path to take.

Ford already knows about the memory gun, and he believes that one of the best ways to keep Bill out of his head is to eliminate what he wants from it: how to operate the portal. It's a reluctant reunion, and perhaps not a very trusting one, but Fiddleford agrees to wipe Ford's memory regarding the portal's operation on the condition that the pages of the journals are burned and the portal is dismantled.

Ford hates that condition, of course. It causes more strain, as he's already been told once that he should destroy the portal. His life's work. But it isn't, though, is it? The portal wasn't his idea. Hell, he put a lot of effort and time into it, but he knows now that it's a danger. Surely he would take the precaution to preserve life as we know it even if it lands a blow to his self-importance.

And here, he does. It's reluctant, but he does it. He burns the pages (allowing him to keep his journals), wipes his memory of said pages/the portal's operation, and dismantles it. Bill torments him for a little while after this, determined to physically and mentally destroy the pawn he no longer has a use for, but Project Mentem becomes the inevitable solution.

Let's Play Nice

When things finally start to settle down, Ford is determined to get back to work and dead set on finding a way to complete his research. This time, though, he has Stan along. They're really doing their darndest to work things out, but it's rocky at best. Doing fine one minute, then pouting in corners the next. While it's slow going, they're making progress a little a time.

Meanwhile, Fiddleford has gotten back to his dream of becoming an inventor. He even travels a bit on and off, returning home to California for a brief time before he's back to Gravity Falls, his family to follow within the next few months. He's taken on a project regarding the creation of a system (hardware and software) for the county's government facilities.

Daphne

Our little self-insert. There she is! Daphne isn't especially important to begin with. She's an old friend of Fiddleford's from back south who had the same types of interests and hobbies. She took a different route, of course, working odd jobs while in college, but eventually drops it altogether when she's offered a position working as a software engineer. She works this job until she gets in contact with Fiddleford again. When he talks about what he's working on, she's interested in helping out, if only to get away from her current job for a little while. Fiddleford accepts, and Daphne makes a road trip out west.

On the way, taking the scenic route obviously, she swings by and picks up Tate to bring him out to Gravity Falls a little early. The first week or so in Gravity Falls, Daphne hates it. The scenery is great, but the place freaks her out. She's not especially superstitious, but there are some things she just doesn't mess with. Weird creatures are on that list of things. Where she comes from, stuff like that is just what you leave alone and don't talk about, but here that rule doesn't even matter. Something's gonna happen regardless.

It takes about a month to completely finish her part of the project, then she's off again. Eager to get the hell away from Oregon, she says her goodbyes and heads out. Not even an hour into the ride, Tate reveals himself, not able to hold in the fact that he's stowed away any longer. Unamused, but unable to get mad at him, she reluctantly turns right back around to bring him back to Fiddleford. Just inside Gravity Falls, a creature runs face first into her van, effectively totaling it.

Ford, naturally, is in hot pursuit of this creature he's been chasing. When he sees the damage it's caused, he's torn between following the creature and helping out. The only reason he stops is because he recognizes Tate.

From there, Daphne has a few choice words for this lunatic that's wrecked her favorite possession, though she's still pretty rattled by seeing something so bizzare. Fiddleford is the one that has to kind of mediate this situation and also explain Gravity Falls to Daphne. He's not especially glad that she's met Ford; he's still having a little trouble trusting him, so he doesn't want her around him, but won't explain why. Effectively, it makes her more wary of Gravity Falls, but now she's stuck there. At least, for now. Fixing her van and staying at a motel, trying her best to avoid contact with the strangest parts of the town.

And that's where I'm gonna leave the rest to my art!

With that all established, Levity Creek as a whole is going to follow a more comedic route than anything, hence the "levity". Which isn't to say that I'll avoid the touchy subjects or heavier themes, but they'll be sparce.

I also wanna kinda make it clear that my intent with Daphne in this AU isn't super traditional in the sense of a self-insert. A lot of focus is gonna be put specifically into the Stan brothers before Daphne's eventual inclusion. If anything, there's very slow character development to begin with for most of the characters. I wanna give them room for growth personally so that they can grow together!

For funsies, this is the model of the van I drive irl! I don't feel comfortable sharing an actual picture of it for privacy reasons, but you get the gist!

TL;DR

I'm a lunatic

#I need text posts to have more options for formatting #text #levity creek #gravity falls au #gravity falls #stanford pines #ford pines #stanley pines #stan pines #fiddleford mcgucket #self insert

34 notes · View notes

zionsuni · 1 year ago

Text

Stop the 'tough on crime' rhetoric in NZ

Kia ora readers, today I'd like to talk about the following social media post:

I stand with ‘People Against Prisons Aotearoa’, in favour of “creating a preventative, restorative, and rehabilitative justice system”. I’ve personally signed this petition, and I’d urge you to do the same.

Here’s why;

The current justice system is incredibly oppressive to the indigenous people of Aotearoa, and will continue to be if nothing changes. Māori people make up 53% of prison populations despite being only 15% of the country’s population. - Justice.govt

I’ve heard many ‘traditional thinking’ individuals suggest that increasing prison sentences, and to “toughen up on crime”, is the best solution to deter criminal activity. To hold this stance is to turn a blind eye to the atrocious treatment of Māori people since the colonisation of their land in 1840.

I’m not here to recount history, but it doesn’t take a deep dive to see how Māori people have been marginalised throughout history. This has led to many negative impacts on their community, and has manifested politically, socially, and economically. “Māori die years younger than non-Māori, have higher rates of illness, infection, and psychiatric disorders, significantly higher mortality rates for stroke, heart disease, and cancer, and are two times more likely than any other New Zealander to forego collecting a prescription due to the cost.” - Stuff.NZ

These are just some of the many ways in which Māori people struggle in comparison to other groups of people. These factors, and more, have led to 17.8% of Maori families living in poverty today. - childpoverty.org

Continuing to put Māori people behind bars further perpetuates these issues, leaving their families and communities in broken homes, struggling to make ends meet.

‘Toughening up on crime’ then fails to address the root of the issue, and may only make it worse.

While we have seen an increase in crime rates, though not as much as some politicians would like you to think, it's important to understand the context of the situation. In a cost of living crisis like we’re currently facing, people of lower socio-economic status always suffer more as a result. While middle-class families may have to make cuts to the grocery list, poor families or individuals struggle to put food on the table or pay the bills, which can make people feel like stealing is the only option. No wonder crime has increased!

So what’s the solution? “Care Not Cages”

Based on the Turuki Turuki report (2019), ‘People Against Prisons Aotearoa’ have started a petition in order to reform the criminal justice system. The report is 74 pages and covers a lot of ground. I’ll summarise the best I can, but I’d highly recommend reading the whole thing.

The report covers these 12 issues in detail, the situation we’re in, and the suggested path moving forward in relation to the judicial system. In essence, the report suggests heavy investment in tackling the challenges faced by Māori communities, addressing these issues at their core in order for their people to thrive and grow.

This type of restorative justice is exactly what the Māori people need in order to overcome the incredible injustice they have and continue to face.

Does this kind of justice system work?

Other countries have adopted this type of judicial system, not just for an oppressed minority, but for everybody - The results are astounding.

I’d like to use Norway as an example.

Norway drastically changed their prison system throughout the 1990’s and has led to great success. Similar to what the Turuki Turuki report recommends, Norway spends far more money on their prison systems in order to effectively rehabilitate criminals and release them back into society safely.

“Before Norway’s prison reforms in the 1990s, the country had a recidivism rate in the range of 60% - 70%. Today, Norway’s recidivism rate based on re-conviction within two years is 20%, the lowest rate in the world.

The rehabilitative aspect of Norway’s prison system is credited as a primary factor in the low recidivism rate. Another contributing factor is that Norway seeks to maintain prisoners’ humanity during their time in incarceration.” - firststepalliance.org

Read full report of Norway’s prison system here

Not just Norway, but many countries like Italy, Germany, The Netherlands, and many more have adopted this rehabilitative approach, and its working, showing lower reoffending rates, and small prison populations.

To conclude, the justice system currently in place perpetuates the oppression of Māori people by putting them behind bars without addressing what really got them there in the first place. The ‘tough on crime’ rhetoric proposed by politicians to stop rising crime rates must be shunned in order to facilitate the creation of a progressive justice system that rehabilitates criminals effectively, and takes into consideration the marginalisation of Māori people when it comes to sentencing. Prison systems like the one the Turiki Turiki report recommend have shown to be effective when implemented around the world, and makes the argument for New Zealand to continue following their path. I urge readers to sign the petition mentioned above, and vote for political parties that fund social welfare programmes to help these communities, not keep them locked up. Care Not Cages!

Nga Mihi

Thanks for reading.

0 notes

finnkalmbach · 2 years ago

Text

THE ILLUSION OF MONEY AND POWER

the higher authority in our world works toward two main goals: money and power. having the most money and having the most power. both of these superficial goals have ruined society. people dont realize that when you die, so does “your” so-called power and money. money is a mental price put into a rectangular piece of paper. its not like the government cant keep printing and printing more money. they use it when they need it in order to not shift the mass value revolving around a specific bills amount.

power is what you give it. anyone has the capacity to do anything. at the end of the day, it is your reality and your choice. people equate their self-worth with the amount of power they have. think of it as a scale. money and power on one side and genuine long-term fulfillment, joy, and happiness on the other. in our democracy, money and power tip the scale. the illusion tips the truth. magic wins.

we are all puppets attached to strings that the unconscious power controls. its time to cut the strings and pull back the curtain. when pulled by strings, the doll doesnt learn how to move itself. it learns to sit back and obey. so, when the strings are cut, it drops and folds. this is what will happen to our society when we reveal the magic trick and the truth shows in its essence and full glory, in its nakedness.

the illusion of money and power will be stripped away and people will learn to move in a more introspective way. people will take time to think about the actions of the whole and if it is bringing them what they truly need. we could move in a much better direction as a mass of billions of people on this earth.

people can learn to love things for how they are. love themselves for how they are. everything will be performed unconditionally. there will be no end desire. no means toward an end. no more human lab-rats and unconscious actions to the strings of the higher power. no more illusions. there are tons of other far more important aspects to our world then money and power.

it takes the conscious push to remove the façade and see things for how they truly are. no filters. nothing the news, social media, and other big corporations can blind you with. the fog and blur will fade, and the color will shine through. clear eyes. the ones that shine when the truth is revealed and you are left fully naked. the ones that allows the birth of beautiful tears when an event shakes your core. the windows to the soul.

the soul is you. it is everyone. its time to make the window one you can sit for hours looking out of.

#money #power #illusion

0 notes

fanficsandfluff · 4 years ago

Text

Lights Out, Nobody Home

Fandom: Marvel’s The Falcon and the Winter Soldier

Characters: Sam Wilson (Falcon), Bucky Barnes (Winter Soldier)

Words: 1,766

Okay here you go lmao. Bc @bigirlgiggles and @ticklingmood showed interest. Unfortunately, loves, I forgot to mention there was zero tickling in it *cries*

The tone is so bad, it’s bordering on offensive hurt/comfort..... I wrote it in a sleepy daze I just needed to write something.

We go deal with that, and when we’re done, we both can go on separate, long vacations and never see each other again.

... and never see each other again.

I like that.

"I like that?" Bucky muttered to himself aloud in the back of a cab that was taking him home. Did Sam... No, he couldn't have known. He can't be feeling the same way as me right now. That's why he said that in the first place. But why did he have to give him that answer? That curt response that he didn't at all mean?

Bucky unlocked his apartment door and stepped inside, the whole place oddly quiet and dark. He left the lights off as he roamed around, getting himself a drink. And drink he did.

Bucky had the news on the television, not often changing channels. He wasn't the sitcom-at-midnight kind of viewer. With no inkling for sleep in mind, Bucky finished the pack of beer he just bought (and dammit was hoping to save and spread out because now he needed more).

Never See Each Other Again.

Bucky's eyes burned. No. No no nonono...

Could Sam see in his eyes how clouded they were in that police interrogation room? As they were forced to stare at each other, legs intertwined. Did Sam pick up on his moment of weakness?

Bucky heard his phone make its ringing sound and he looked down at the coffee table at it. Area code could've been Sam's... He didn't flick the phone open, just put it back down and let it ring.

"And you agreed... You sorry sack of shit--Fuck!" Bucky had shattered the final beer bottle he held in his metal arm, and it surprised him. He whisked off the dripped residue from his arm, brushing off any broken glass from his thighs. Fucking knew it, Buck. You knew to get cans instead of bottles, but they were out of cans, so we settled for bottles and look what the fuck happens.

His eyes were still burning, and he kept them that way for so long his sinuses were starting to get sore. He moved slowly and calculated, cleaning up the glass shards in the dark apartment. The flickering TV didn't illuminate enough, it seems, as a forgotten piece sliced into his palm when he went feeling around between the couch cushions. Without much of a reaction from him, he pulled out the shard and tossed it away like the others.

A ring of his doorbell happened next and Bucky went into full alert mode. "God dammit..." he didn't think he was mentally ready to act as a functioning member of society right now.

Bucky tiptoed to the door and looked out the peephole, actually sighing out loud when he saw Sam and his raised eyebrow. Then he knocked.

Bucky cracked the door open and before he could get a word out, Sam said, "Woah... we living in full darkness over here? I feel like I'm actually entering your physical mind right now. Electricity bills must be cheap."

Bucky moved to close the door but Sam's hand reached in, "Hey! Hey, Buck, I just want--"

"Don't call me that."

"You're right, I forgot. I'm sorry," and Sam meant it, "Can I come in?"

Bucky took a few beats, and Sam let him have them, before he threw open the deadbolt and let Sam inside. Sam immediately flicked the light switch on.

When Sam did that, Bucky went to the windows and shut all the blinds and pulled the curtains fully tight, wincing when the cut in his palm was slid through the rope attached to the blinds.

"I thought we could talk," Sam started speaking again.

"Haven't we done enough of that today?"

"Without Nurse Ratched supervising," Sam looked over stained spots on the couch and all the empty beer bottles on the coffee table. It made him frown. Bucky was staring at him already and he looked back.

"I think we both made our points," Bucky said and he made the move to clear all the bottles out of the room once he picked up on Sam observing them. That's when Sam caught sight of the red palm.

"You good?" he moved forward, instinct taking over to reach for Bucky's hand. Bucky pulled that arm to his chest and took several steps back, "I'm perfect."

Sam's brow furrowed and he scoffed, "Shit, man... did anyone ever tell you you're stubborn?"

"Several people, yes."

Sam let the silence hang after the mild snarky comments, and he gathered up three of the bottles in his hand, taking them to the kitchen recycling. Bucky took the rest and he stayed in the kitchen to wash out his hand. Sam watched him and then he watched Bucky's face as he let the water run over his wound.

"Now who's staring?"

Sam smiled, "You know, you always look like you're one comment away from crying." He said it. He said that and he meant absolutely no teasing or malice from it. Sam tried in the most earnest way to reach out to the ex-Winter Soldier.

Bucky hardened his jaw and he turned the faucet off. He grabbed a paper towel and carefully shredded it from its group, holding it in his human hand. In this instant, he was afraid to stare. He was afraid to meet Sam's eyes for fear of actually breaking down into tears. But then he challenged that thought and shared eyesight with Sam.

"Wh-What do you want?" ah, fuck. He fucking stuttered.

"The comment I made. The closing statement. I said it to get us out of that room and out here so we can help," he paused to think of what to say next, "It worked. Right?"

Wrong way to say things, Wilson. Bucky skirted himself around Sam to walk back towards the living room.

"I've read people's faces for a living, Bucky. Faces like yours. What I said about us never seeing each other again, I saw what it did to you. As hard as you try to hide it," Sam followed him, watching Bucky take a seat on his couch.

"I'm waiting for an apology."

"Well, then you'll be waiting for a while because I'm not giving one. I'm explaining myself, since you didn't want to listen in that room--"

"I listened. I asked questions that I wanted answers to. Steve wanted--"

"Bucky, Steve ain't here anymore," Sam sat down besides Bucky on the couch, facing him, looking at him with a caring intensity, "He's not. I made the choice I thought was right, I don't know how many times I have to say it. I told him it didn't feel like mine, I told him I wasn't ready. Tell me you haven't ever felt like that in your life... unprepared for a burden you knew would be fucking monumental. I donated the shield. I didn't vote to create a new Cap. Bucky..." Sam's voice wavered and dropped to a whisper when he saw tears trickling down Bucky's cheeks.

Bucky scrunched his face up and turned away from Sam. He didn't make much noise. He just sat and let the hot tears run down his face. This had to be a lesson in bottling emotions... don't fucking do it otherwise you'll explode like a fire hydrant with tears all at once.

Sam didn't move, didn't think to make a move. He heard Bucky sniffle once to get an intake of breath and he reached out a hand and placed it on the other man's shoulder.

"I... I'm touched you feel that attached to me. That you want to make this work, and you couldn't live without me, because hey, I don't blame you--"

"Oh, just shut the fuck up," Bucky sniffled again, now wiping at his nose that was threatening to run.

Sam started to laugh and he leaned forward, resting his forehead against Bucky's arm as he let his laugh out. Even Bucky wasn't immune. He was looking anywhere but at Sam, wet eyes darting around, but he was kind of smiling. It was a small one and the tear streaks and red eyes weren't helping him out there. Bucky shoved Sam off his arm after a few seconds, "Get off."

"Are we gonna be able to get to work on this?"

Bucky nodded, now wiping his eyes. Sam quickly got up and retrieved another paper towel for Bucky to use to clean off his face as opposed to swiping his cold metal appendage all over it.

"You still love me?"

Bucky eyed Sam and saw that cheeky bastard revel in what he asked, "No."

"I'm hurt."

"Good."

"Buck."

"I said don't call me--"

"...yyyy. Buckyyyy. Yo, you didn't even let me finish, you're so angry all the time. Oh--oH! Oho, now he's clamming up again! Did I hurt your feelings?"

"You are so rude, did you know that?"

Now Sam was laughing again.

Bucky continued, "I'm over here crying and pouring my heart out and you just keep..." he mimed a stabbing motion in midair, "... keep twisting that knife. You're never satisfied. I'm your asshole punching bag for anything quippy and-- Sam," Bucky was staring at the man nearly losing it from laughing at him so much, "This isn't funny, I'm being serious. I'm opening up to you, you dick. This is what your problem is."

Bucky was frowning, but he knew inside he felt no hate. Was this growth? Maybe. He was just insatiably annoyed by the fucking Falcon.

"You're a dick," Bucky said again, and Sam had quelled his laughter most of the way. Bucky reached out with his metal appendage and tweaked Sam's side.

"Hehey! Don't you try tickling me! You know what you're gonna get?"

"Get out of my house. Time to leave."

Sam was being ushered towards the door.

"Hey, I take back what I said," Sam leaned against the front door with Bucky ready to push him through it, "About the long vacation. I can't leave you alone for long. So, it looks like we're stuck together."

Bucky stared, studied.

"Thanks for coming over. You're so fucking annoying, though," and Bucky even flashed a smile when Sam giggled again.

"I'm glad I came. I watched you go through a whirlwind of emotions I didn't even know your android brain had."

"Goodnight, Sam," Bucky reached across the man and opened the door for him.

"I'll see you tomorrow so we can get to work."

Bucky nodded. He shut the door, clicking the locks back into place. Hmm... couples therapy might be the key.

#the falcon and the winter soldier #tfatws #falcon #winter soldier #winterfalcon #sam wilson #bucky barnes #sam wilson and bucky barnes #hurt/comfort #sam comforting bucky #friendship #partners #crying #emotional #happy ending #marvel #tfatws fanfiction

50 notes · View notes

hadtochangemyurlquick · 4 years ago

Text

here’s 5.7k of the unsinkable 8 during the zombie apocalypse. good for fans of leatin and goodfoe. it’s super unedited and i’m mainly just posting it for fun cause i finished it today. some references to world war z the book for fun, and i used the zombies from that too.

A flash of blonde and Dot’s gun went up, pointed directly at the head of whatever made their way toward her. She had two bullets left, six cigarettes, and the last mini of hard liquor she raided from the motel back in Aquilla.

She’d have to get it in one shot, which would be hard sitting down, with her back to it, half delirious.

She grunted as she pulled herself around, her leg still out in the makeshift splint. The zed crept closer, not going at the usual hobbling pace. It definitely had caught her scent though, maybe it was down a few limbs already.

She cocked her gun, flicking off the safety, keeping her finger off the trigger. She’d wait until she could see the whites of its eyes. Get it in one shot.

The blonde head crept closer and she finally tucked her gun over the rocks, making eye contact with it for the first time.

“Shelby Goodkind?”

“Dot Campbell?”

Shelby stared at her, lowering her own gun and Dot let out a breath of relief.

“Dottie, oh my god, I thought you were one of ‘em.” She put away her gun, Dot doing the same and she ran over. “It’s so good to see ya, what’s wrong?” She looked at the leg, her face paling.

“Ankles broken,” Dottie muttered. “Was gonna treat myself to one last drink,” she gestured at the bottle.

“Oh lord,” Shelby said. “Well that’s no good, I got a place not to far from here I’ve been camping out in. Some first aid stuff too.”

“I can’t give you anything back for it,” Dot said.

“We both know two people are more likely to make it,” Shelby said.

She looked sunburned and hollowed out, a little hungrier than the last time Dot saw her, headed with her family to that military base. She was alone, and desperate, everyone was. Because here was how it went in Texas. You could trust a stranger as far as you could throw ‘em, but you needed people to live. So if you had people, you lived. And Dot was people, or as close to people as Shelby was willing to get. She musta lost a lot to lower her standards so far.

“Alright,” Dot said. “We’re gonna have to go slow and you’re gonna have to carry a lot of shit.”

“No problem,” Shelby beamed.

Back at the camp, an old rusting trailer with some battery Shelby told her she was saving for a rainy day, Shelby re-splinted her, fed and watered her, and they pooled their resources. Twenty-six cigs now, which might get ‘em a few hours in a safe car north, if they wanted it. Or it might get ‘em some food, or a get out of jail free card, depending on the hunger of the people hunting ‘em.

It was late at night when Dot realized she hadn’t even asked yet.

“Family’s gone then?”

“Yeah,” Shelby said. “You?”

“My dad died before this shit show,” Dot said.

“Lucky,” Shelby said. She took a swig from the mini, and passed it over to Dot. “What’s your plan?”

“I heard there was a safer spot near San Antonio,” Dot said. “Running water and shit.”

Shelby shook her head, “Gone, three weeks ago. Heard it on the radio.”

Dot nodded, “What about you?”

“Radio said Hawaii’s better,” Shelby said. “There’s an operation ferrying people there on the west coast. It’s a thousand cigs per person. But there’s work by the dock if you’re willing to do it.”

“Work for you?” Dot asked.

Shelby’s jaw tightened, “I’ll do what I have to do. Lord forgive me.”

Dot sighed, “Sounds like we go west then.”

They hung around in the trailer for three days, pushing the limits of what was safe, and stumbled on to a new place in the area at daybreak on the fourth day. Dot’s ankle wasn’t broken, with the inflatable cast Shelby had in a week or so she’d be something regarding useful, and as long as she didn’t push herself she’d be more than fine.

Spending time with Shelby Goodkind was another story. For one thing, despite the zombie apocalypse, complete destruction of their lives and modern society, the death of her family and everyone in their town, Shelby was still good and kind. She’d clutch at the cross around her neck every time they’d pass a body, and would never touch one, even the ones that were recent and obviously not stripped clean. It made Dot kinda mad, she found five cigs just walking, and she wondered how many Shelby passed off being squeamish.

But Shelby also wasn’t squeamish, wasn’t afraid to take down a zed with a kitchen knife, and with that same hand wipe the gore off Dot all gentle. She called her Dottie, gave her the last blanket, and always volunteered for the first shift so Dot could watch the sunrise. Dot hadn’t been cared for in a long while, hadn’t been around people in even longer. She decided she might love it.

But Shelby was a magnet, always had been, she talked about god’s light long enough that she got Dot believing it all fell on her. It wasn’t a real surprise when she showed up with a stray.

“What the fuck,” Dot said. “Did you kidnap a child?”

“I did not kidnap a child,” Shelby said, picking the girl up with some difficulty and lifting her onto the backseat of the broken down minivan they were holed up in.

“I sent you out to get sunscreen,” Dot said. “How did you come back with a child?”

“She’s our age,” Shelby said. “I think. And listen, I found her barricaded in a utility closet with a bad fever, I knew we had some tablets but I didn’t wanna leave her.”

“Like bite fever?” Dot asked. “We don’t have enough bullets to—”

“No,” Shelby shook her head, “Look,” she gently unwrapped a bandage around the girl’s arm, revealing a bad slice. “It’s infected. Not a bite. We’re okay.”

Dot sighed and nodded. The girl’d probably try and rob ‘em blind but if they watched her hands and got away fast enough they should be fine. They’d be fine.

“You’re more trouble than you’re worth,” Dot muttered. Shelby smiled, all sweet and gentle and bright and Dot rolled her eyes.

The girl took the tablets, they washed and changed the bandages, after about fourteen hours she blinked awake, unfortunately while Dot was on watch.

“Who—who are you?”

“Dot Campbell,” she said.

The girl stared at her.

“My friend saved your ass,” Dot said. “Shelby.”

“Um,” the girl inched back, “Why? Where am I?”

“We’re on the twenty-two, not from from the ten-eighty,” Dot told her. “You got a nasty infection there, got any cigs?”

“No, I don’t smoke.”

Dot blinked at her. “Alright then.”

“My friends will be looking for me,” the girl said. “I should get back to them.” She didn’t have an accent, Dot realized, not even a thin one like her own.

“Shelby found you around Mr. K’s, we can draw you a map if you’d like,” Dot said. “Where you from?”

“Austin,” the girl lied, badly.

“Alright then,” Dot said again. “Well we’ll draw you a map in the mornin and you can leave a day break. It ain’t far.”

“Thank you,” the girl said. “For helping me.”

“Shelby’s idea,” Dot said. Neither of ‘em slept the whole time, the girl smart enough to keep an eye out, and Dot’s whole job to watch out. She woke Shelby up when she was supposed to and easily muddled into a slumber.

A nice thing, about the zombie apocalypse, was Dot had gotten a lot better at sleeping. She used to stay up for hours thinking ‘bout how she’d pay the bills, how much her dad’s meds cost, whether he was coughing more that night than he did most nights, but now she hit whatever soft looking rock she decided to call a pillow and conked out until Shelby woke her. Shelby, on the other hand, barely slept a wink, shooting up at the slightest sign of trouble, even when Dot was on watch. Too much time on her own, Dot’d guess.

Before Shelby Mateo wandered with Dot. He was quiet and sweet and she had took care of him as best she could. Shelby didn’t have nobody before Dot. Just her dead parents, and if Dot remembered eighth grade soccer well enough, a couple of dead siblings too.

So Dot pretty much conked out and missed the way the girl and Shelby giggled all night. But even she wasn’t blind to their bond when she woke, the way the girls smiled easily at one another, laughed with each other, kept up with each other.

“Dottie,” Shelby said. “Martha,” so that was the stranger’s name “said you told her we could draw her a map but Mr. K’s ain’t far, we might as well take her.”

Dot grunted, she didn’t wanna waste a day but it wasn’t like Mr. K’s would take all day and they might as well see if they could find any more cigs. She hadn’t met any non-smokers in a long while. Apocalypse sorta took the fun out of being straight-edge, if Dot had to guess.

Dot took the back, a metal bat out and ready, and Shelby and Martha took the front. Shelby had a makeshift spear made, good for longer range, but worse up close, and she gave Martha the other bat they had. To borrow, Dot had emphasized.

One of the other things that never got old about the apocalypse, was walking up a highway. Walking straight up that middle line, knowing no one would dare drive a car ‘round there. It felt like the world was yours and empty, like you were finding it, rebuilding it, building it. It was as close to a cowboy as she had felt since her daddy let her ride on his back. It was as close to free as she had ever felt.

They got back to Mr. K’s and Dot saw the approaching figures first, aiming her rifle right at ‘em, safety off and gun cocked, but her finger off the trigger. It was Shelby’s hunting rifle, actually, but she had handed it to Dot first chance she had, looking kinda pale. She had Dot’s old handgun now, useless with this kinda range.

“Live ones?” Shelby asked.

“Can’t tell,” Dot said. “Just kinda standing there.”

“They could be waiting for me,” Martha said. Dot glanced at her, hoping the girl wasn’t actually as naive as she seemed. She probably was.

They walked as close as they dared, before Martha was able to confirm that yes it was her friends.

She ran at ‘em and one of ‘em collided with her, slamming her into a hug. There were two more, just kinda watching Dot and Shelby.

“We should go,” Dot said. “We did what we said.”

“Dottie,” Shelby said.

Dot sighed and the two of ‘em trudged up to the happy pair, reuniting like they had been separated for years, decades, instead of a few hours. It was a miracle they were reunited at all, Mateo said he’d meet her back at the camp in an hour and she had to bash his head in six months later with a sledge hammer.

“Who’re your friends, Martha?” One of the other people asked. It was four girls counting Martha, lucky, none of ‘em white, but they all looked around the same age as Dot and Shelby.

“This is Shelby,” Martha grinned, “And Dot.”

Dot nodded at them.

“I am just so pleased to make your acquaintance,” Shelby smiled, holding out her hand to the girl who still had an arm wrapped around Martha.

“This is Toni,” Martha said, squeezing the girl’s side when she didn’t take Shelby’s hand. “And Rachel and Nora.”

“Ah,” Shelby smiled, “Toni your sister right?”

Martha nodded, Toni glared. “Yeah it’s great to meet you or whatever. There a reason you kidnapped Martha?”

“I saw her passed out and worried she was alone,” Shelby explained. “I knew we had some tablets back at the camp but—”

“What do you want?” Rachel asked. “We got about six hundred if that’s—” Martha from Austin, Dot’s ass. Money hadn’t meant shit in Texas for awhile. These kids were from up north, probably pretty far up north too. Maine or some shit. Delaware.

“Got any cigs?” Dot asked.

“Yes,” Nora said. “We have a couple packs.”

“Great,” Dot held out her hands and two packs were dropped into them. Nora didn’t make eye contact the entire time, her hands fidgeting with anything. She was covered in scabs and scars, picking at her own skin probably.

“Where y’all headed?” Shelby asked.

“None of your business,” Toni said.

“Apparently the San Antonio Zone relocated to Tyler,” Martha said. “We heard some people talking about it last week.”

“Y’all got a radio?” Dot asked.

Martha shook her head.

“If you had one you’d know that that’s what they’re pulling now, telling people to go to Tyler, they shoot you as soon as you step foot in Athens.”

“So where are you guys headed?” Rachel demanded.

“West,” Shelby said. “Radio says they’re ferrying clean folks to Hawaii. It’s an island so.”

“Clean how?” Rachel asked, taking a step forward and lifting her jaw.

Dot sighed.

Shelby’s eyes widened, “Clean as in not infected, I mean.”

“Chill,” Rachel smiled, all thin, “I was kidding.”

“Great,” Dot said. “Not that this hasn’t been fun, but we should be going.”

“Wait,” Martha said. “It’s just, we might as well go west too. And we might as well go west together.”

“Marty,” Toni grabbed her by her uninjured arm, “I wanna talk to you for a moment.”

They got into a whispered argument for a few minutes. Rachel joined and it escalated but Martha came out on top, smiling as she approached them.

“We might as well go together,” she repeated.

Shelby’s smile was just as wide, “We would be alighted to have you.”

The new girls were a nightmare. Rachel and Nora, sisters as Dot would learn, hated one another. And by hated Dot meant, had a complicated relationship of love without trust or mutual respect. Nora didn’t trust Rachel, Rachel didn’t respect Nora, and they were constantly going at one another. Toni had some sorta toxic jealousy thing going on, despising Shelby because she was monopolizing Martha. She also tended to fly into these rages, making her wander off for long periods that had Dot itching to grab her gun and demanding the girl strip to check for bites. Mateo’s dad used to do the same thing, wander off to check his bite.

Shelby also was wholly focused on two things now: Martha, and Toni’s hate. Dot ambled along behind all of ‘em, keeping the sisters from killing each other, Toni’s voice down, and everyone else alive.

The worst part was it took Dot nearly three days before she caught sight of it.

“You have one hand,” Dot glared at Rachel. Rachel slung the pack over her shoulder.

“You’re just noticing that now?” Rachel asked. “I must be getting better with it.”

“The fuck happened?” Dot said.

“My hand got bit,” Rachel shrugged. “Cut it off before it spread, didn’t even know it would work.”

Dot whistled, low and quiet, like they were all used to being.

“I cut it off,” Nora corrected, sullenly.

Rachel rolled her eyes.

“I’m still quicker on the draw than you,” Rachel said, the words clunky in her mouth.

Dot set her jaw, “So y’all are sticking with the story that you’re from Austin?”

“We’re from New York,” Nora said. Rachel glared at her. “What? You think some group would waste three days on four teenage girls?”

“New York?” Dot asked. “Everyone knows it’s safer up north, why the hell are you down here?”

“You hear about Yonkers?” Rachel asked.

Dot shook her head.

“It was the last op the US military set up before they fell apart. We’d made it out by then but we watched it happen on the news. Someone in a group we had still had a phone and the whole thing was live streamed. All of the death. The group were supposed to go to some military bases up in Canada but we wanted a wide open space with plenty of guns.”

“Texas,” Dot said.

Rachel nodded.

“Stupid,” Dot told her. “You probably came for San Antonio too.”

Rachel sighed, “Nobody was gonna survive those Canadian winters without a base, and we weren’t sure we were gonna get one. Rather get bit than freeze.”

“How’d you meet Toni and Martha?” Dot asked.

“Toni and I got into a fistfight over some Takis,” Rachel said.

Dot nodded, “Fuego?”

“Fuego.”

And yeah they were a nightmare but quicker than Dot wanted they became her nightmare. Still though, she dragged Shelby away from Martha and Toni’s sides, and muttered, “we can still go. Ditch if you want. Whenever. We don’t know ‘em.”

Shelby, in high school, woulda been scandalized, muttered some bible passage at her. This Shelby was a little more grown and only looked at her all serious.

“You knew what I was when you picked me up,” she said. “And I knew what Martha was. We’ll face our consequences, I reckon.”

Dot nodded.

Walking all day, everyday, wasn’t easy stuff. Especially since they had to strip as many bodies as they could find. Nora figured it out pretty quick, mumbling something to Rachel who recruited Toni to storm over to Dot.

“You don’t smoke them, but you’re hoarding them,” Rachel said. “Why?”

Dot kept her easy pace. “These things are currency now, the value’ll only go up over time.”

“Currency for what?” Toni asked. “What are you trying to buy?”

“You think a ferry to Hawaii is free?” Dot asked. “I’m saving for all of us.”

“Dottie,” Shelby walked over, Martha sticking by Nora, “What’s up?”

“How much?” Toni asked. “Really, how much?”

“A hundred each,” Dot said, too quickly.

“Try again,” Rachel said.

“Dot,” Shelby got between them, looking at Dot. “Thou shalt not lie, right? Tell ‘em the truth.” Dot glared at her and Shelby turned back around to Rachel. “It’s five hundred each. We got about a hundred now, so no one’s going to Hawaii.”

“What if there aren’t enough?” Toni asked. “Who decides then?”

“We’ll draw straws,” Shelby said.

It was as easy a solution as anything but the tenseness started building up, Rachel and Toni viewing Dot with more suspicion. It’d fade, over time, Dot knew. Or they’d all die.

The worst it got, was actually Shelby’s doing, the easy peace maker of it all. They hadn’t bothered building a fire, despite how cold and exposed it got in Texas at night, but they huddled together between three cars they found abandoned along the highway that they pushed into a triangle. Someone got to the seat cushions of all three first, so there was nothing comfortable to lie their heads on. It was easy for Dot though, the asphalt as soft as anything to her now.

They stayed up later than they should’ve talking. Trading stories about their old life that all of them knew weren’t doing any good. Toni played basketball, was pretty good at it too. Rachel had a skill for swimming she’d never have again. Nora did quiz bowl, surprising no one. Dot talked about metal, fishing with her dad, what types of pills sold for what. Martha was a dancer, and a vegetarian once. It was something that made ‘em all crack up. When humans become man eating beasts, and once upon a time there were jokes online about vegans. Shelby talked about the yearbook, mission trips, Andrew.

But then cause Shelby started it by prattling on about Andrew Toni got it in her head to talk about Regan and Shelby was talking about Leviticus.

The next morning, Rachel quietly pulled Dot aside and told her to take all the cigarettes and head out. That they could make their own way west. Dot didn’t ask for an invitation to go with her.

They split off at the twenty-five, Dot and Shelby heading for the forty, Toni, Martha, Rachel, and Nora heading for the sixty.

Shelby was heartbroken for a few days, apologetic too, and grateful. Dot didn’t let her have any of that, only said, “It’s cause we’re from the same town. We might be the only ones from there left.”

They trudged on.

In Arizona Dot found the love of her life, her soulmate, Fatin Jadmani. In a completely straight way too. Fatin matched her tit for tat, spoke a language Dot hadn’t realized she’d been born knowing. Her girlfriend was an anxious woman named Leah, who Shelby got on with. Dot had worried, upon bringing the two back to camp, that Shelby would chase ‘em away again, but she hadn’t. Just smiled at the two of them, easily offering up a couple granola bars.

Whenever tenseness came about Fatin just laughed, and Leah rolled her eyes. It wasn’t perfect, Dot knew, there was too much hate for that, but it would last ‘em long enough. The four of ‘em just worked in this great lovely way.

Only problem was their destination.

“We barely managed to get out of LA,” Leah mumbled, she hugged her legs, her head leaning on Fatin’s shoulder.

“LA?” Shelby asked. “That’s where we’re headed.”

“What the fuck?” Fatin glared at Dot, “Dorthy I thought you had more sense than that.”

“There’s some military guys ferrying people to Hawaii,” Dot said.

“Where’d you hear that, the radio?” Fatin asked. She sighed at their nods, “They’re broadcasting out to whoever will hear it, but there is no ferry to Hawaii. The entire thing is just selling and shipping as many girls out as possible. We have no idea where though.”

“So when you say you barely made it out,” Dot said.

Fatin’s face was grim.

“We have to warn ‘em,” Shelby said.

“Warn who?” Dot asked.

“Toni and the others! They don’t know!” Shelby stood up. “I’ll plot out the course now and we’ll start out fresh tomorrow. We aren’t leaving ‘em to—to—we aren’t leaving ‘em.” She stormed off and Dot watched her go.

“She wants to go towards LA to help some motherfuckers who kicked you out of their group?” Fatin asked.

“Yeah,” Dot said.

“Are you gonna go with her?” Leah asked.

“I knew what she was when I picked her up,” Dot said.

“What do you wanna do?” Leah asked Fatin.

Fatin pressed her cheek to Leah’s head, “I don’t know if I can risk you.” Fatin looked at Dot, “Are you gonna be stupid?”

“No,” Dot said.

“Then we’ll come,” Fatin sighed. “Leah that okay?” Leah nodded.

Neither of ‘em were as good at offing zed as Shelby and Dot. Fatin was decent at finding stuff though, scoping stuff, and Leah had endurance none of the rest of ‘em could match. She was like a zed sometimes, just kept going, could keep going, until her knees wore down to dust and then she’d crawl, crawl until her fingers wore down to nubs and then she’d inch, inch until something put her out of her misery. It terrified Fatin and Shelby, but Dot couldn’t help being impressed.

So Dot ambled after Shelby toward Bethlehem on the forty but they were gonna leap back on the interstate and hopefully head ‘em off. Hopefully Martha, Toni, Rachel, and Nora’d be alive, and they’d find ‘em. And if they didn’t find ‘em, hopefully they’d be dead. And Shelby stopped sleeping about a day or two into trek. Would just keep staring at the maps and keeping watch, and taking inventory and thumbing around her necklace.

When Dot woke up on the third day of their walk, Shelby’s hair was much shorter and Fatin looked real scared. Shelby kept walking and walking and, in a fit of rage that matched Toni’s, launched her necklace off the highway. She looked like she regretted it after but they had no choice but to keep going.

They passed an arm and it looked like Rachel’s.

Shelby walked faster. Leah had that glint in her eye. Fatin took Dot’s hand and looked very very scared.

After two more days Shelby said fuck it, and found a car with some gas in it and told 'em to get in.

Dot stood in front, “Shelby,” Shelby glared at her, “This’ll attract every body in the fucking country. The sound, the smell, I’m not just talking about the dead ones neither.”

Shelby swallowed hard, “You gonna stay behind then?”

“Shelby,” Dot said. “If you leave me here I’ll get caught up in the hoard. That what you want?”

“Get in the damn car, Dottie!” Shelby said.

“If we get to ‘em in time, but there’s a fucking hoard following us, we won’t have anywhere to go but on,” Dot said. “Fucking think!”

“I am thinking,” Shelby spat back. She shoved Dot, “I’m thinking about Toni, and Martha walking from Minnesota to Texas only to die in California. I’m thinking about Nora and Rachel watching Yonkers fall and then getting shipped off to who knows where. That’s what I’m thinking.”

“Shelby we can make it,” Leah said.

“No we can’t!” Shelby said. “I’ve done the math, I keep looking at these maps, there’s no way we’ll make it in time without a mode of transportation. No car and they die.”

“Then what the fuck are we going there?” Dot asked. “If it’s too late—”

“It is not too late!” Shelby said, her throat was all closed and choked sounding. “I can save ‘em! Jesus fuckin Christ we have to help ‘em!”

“Shelby,” Dot said, she put a hand on her shoulder. “We can’t take a car, and we can’t make it by foot,” Shelby’s face crumpled. “They’re gone, alright? We should be planning our next move.”

“No,” Leah said. She shook her head, “We have to help them.”

“You don’t even know ‘em,” Dot said.

“I’m not letting four innocent girls go through what I nearly went through,” Leah said.

“I’m with Leah,” Fatin said. “We’ll take the car and play it by ear.”

“Play the-hoard-that-will-start-coming-after-us-the-second-we-turn-on-the-engine by ear?” Dot asked.

“Let’s vote,” Shelby said. “All in favor of going?”

Fatin, Leah, and Shelby all raised their hands.

“C’mon,” Dot begged. She looked at Fatin, “You told me not to be stupid!”

“So don’t be stupid,” Fatin said. “Get in the car.”

Dot sighed, wanted to punch something, wanted to cry, was too tired to do either, got in the car.

The car attracted so many fucking zed, they wouldn’t be able to stop, and they had to hope there was enough in the fucking tank to get them to wherever the four were. Dot watched the dead bodies creep closer, at their slow hobbling, relentless pace. Fatin drove, Shelby used her pike to spear any who got too close, Dot watched the maps and steadily got herself into a panic.

They were gonna die trying to save the asses of some girls they spent a couple days with.

This was not what Shelby was when Dot picked her up, this was not what she was. Shelby had gone behind Dot’s back and fucking grown as a person, hadn’t she? How the fuck was Dot gonna get away from her? She’d have to pack Fatin in a suitcase and then Leah too and that would mean entirely abandoning Shelby to be on her lonesome oh god.

Dot was stuck, wasn’t she.

As they kept driving Shelby had to keep spearing zed. It started off as one or two, but as the hours wore on they were leaning on five, six, a steady growing mass ambling behind ‘em.

If that had really been Rachel’s arm, they were probably dead. All of ‘em. Or maybe in the mass behind ‘em. And if they weren’t, they’d hear the car coming and head for the hills, assuming it meant a hoard was close behind. Which it was.

This was such a fucking terrible idea.

“So what, we just wait for a sign to say welcome to LA and then give up? We won’t find ‘em like this,” Dot said.

“Shut up!” Shelby said, she speared another.

“At least check you ain’t offing one of ours,” Dot said. “They could all be zed, for all we know.”

“I said shut up,” Shelby turned to glare at her and a zed slammed against the door. She speared it and Dot’s mouth clamped shut. “We just gotta keep going,” she said. “We’ll be fine, we just gotta keep moving.”

“You’re crazy,” Dot said.

Shelby didn’t have anything to say to that.

It was worse at nightfall, with visibility down, and they just had to keep going, to hope their car wasn’t stripped when they went over the bumps of mutilated corpses still hungry for a last meal.

“We’re almost to LA,” Shelby said. “We got nearly a hundred cigs, we might be able to bribe someone if they jump us.”

Leah snorted.

They were driving through an empty enough part of Nevada though, less corpses hurling themselves off the road and towards them. Still the ever growing mass behind ‘em now, maybe fifty, seventy five, but about twenty out.

“I gotta piss,” Dot said.

“Hurry,” Fatin said.

Dot stumbled out, no one noticing her grabbing her pack. The zed would follow the car, she’d make a clean break. She’d survive.

She was only seven minutes south, judging by the north star Shelby taught her to find when someone’s hand grabbed her. She pulled out her hand gun, jamming it into the head and flicking the safety off.

“Dot! Jesus Christ!”

The girl was wide-eyed, tan, hollowed out, empty and desperate. Reminded her of the empty pill bottles around her house after her dad died.

“Toni?”

Toni nodded, “Why are you here? Fuck that I don’t give a shit, you got water?” Dot handed it to her and Toni downed it. “The other’s are close, c’mon.” She stumbled as she got up, clearly dizzy, and Dot grabbed her forearm.

“We’ve been looking everywhere for you guys,” Dot said.

“Don’t tell me it’s you in the fucking car,” Toni said. “We’ve been running from that thing for ages.”

“I fucking told Shelby,” Dot said.

“Shelby?” Toni asked, she was almost too exhausted to sound disgusted, but she managed it.

“Listen, LA isn’t safe, we found out. They’re not taking kids to Hawaii, they’re taking them.”

Toni went pale, “Fuck.” She even sounded choked now. “Shelby’s having a fucking aneurysm worrying about you so I don’t even think she’s that fucking homophobic. I’ll get everyone back to the car, you tell ‘em I’m coming.”

Toni nodded, stumbling towards the street and Dot walked back to the direction Toni pointed to before she left. Rachel, Nora, and Martha were all in various points of disarray. Exhausted, dehydrated, starving, aching and bleeding. Dot had to half carry, half drag Nora with Martha and Rachel had to get a stick to lean on as they stumbled toward the street.

“We got like ten minutes,” Fatin said. “People are gonna have to double buckle, and before anyone else makes a decision, we’re going north.”

Dot strapped everyone in and found herself sitting next to Shelby who met her eyes in a hundred yard stare.

“You took your pack.”

“Yeah.”

“But you came back.”

“Yeah.”

“Fine.”

They started on again. Dot saw Toni keep sneaking glances at Shelby and Shelby kept sneaking ‘em back.

They weren’t far from Mt. Tobin when the two finally stopped dancing around each other.

Dot convinced everyone to ditch the car near LA, walking as quickly as they could once they did, knowing it’d take awhile to ditch the hoard too. Dot watched Toni talk to Shelby in low tones, Shelby full of apologies and panics and Toni keeping her cool longer than Dot had ever seen it.

Martha took to Fatin quickly, everyone did, and Nora and Leah spent long hours walking beside each other mumbling about books or something. Not anything Dot gave two shits about.

Rachel ambled along with Dot most of the time. Whenever Fatin and Leah were all over each other and Dot didn’t feel like third wheeling. Rachel was always listening to the radio and as time passed it became clear that the two of them were the most capable of keeping everyone alive. And not in a more knowledgable way. Because Nora knew what plants were edible, and Shelby was a better shot. Or in an emotional way, because Fatin and Martha handled that. But in a planning sorta way. Because Dot knew how to get them to point B, while Rachel was working on point E.

“We should go to Washington,” Rachel muttered on one of the late nights they spent keeping watch while they poured over maps. “We might be able to find a boat to Victoria.”

“Victoria?” Rachel pointed her out.

“It’s a Canadian island. Canada lasted a little longer than we did, Victoria might not be in such a bad way.”

“Less guns in Canada,” Dot said. “And there might not be a boat that’ll take us there. Plus, we don’t know the currency.”

“We’re eight teenage girls,” Rachel pointed out. “We stick around so close to Cali, we’re asking for trouble. We need to put an ocean between us and whatever the fuck they’re doing there.”

Dot sighed. So they’d go to Washington.

On the way they’d probably run into another group who’d tell them Washington was overrun but there was something decent in Wisconsin. Half way to Wisconsin someone would tell ‘em their information was bad and they need to get south where there were guns and space. They’d almost be in Georgia when someone would tell ‘em there was some real government up in New York again.

They’d follow pipe dream to pipe dream to pipe dream. They’d probably die young.

Toni curled around Shelby, holding Martha’s hand. Fatin and Leah held on for dear life. Rachel didn’t take her eyes off Nora. Dot watched them all.

Yeah they’d probably die young. Better than dying alone.

#gus writes #the wilds #the wilds fanfic #goodfoe fanfic #shoni #leatin fanfic #leatin #dot campbell #leah rilke #fatin jadmani #shelby goodkind #toni shalifoe #rachel reid #nora reid #martha blackburn #the unsinkable 8 #the unsinkable eight

52 notes · View notes

volt-is-insane · 4 years ago

Text

Gravity Falls Characters and Their TMA Entity Alignments

Okay, so I'm sure someone's done this before, but evening convos with @snoopback got my brain gears turning so now I have to subject you all to my madness.

Dipper - Eye

Mabel - Stranger

Stan - Slaughter

Wendy - Hunt

Soos - Lonely

Ford - Eye

Gideon - Spiral/Desolation

Robbie - Corruption

Pacifica - Hunt

McGucket - Former Eye/Spiral, Extinction

Bill - Spiral (fight me)

Explanations under the cut!

Dipper - Eye

Full stop. His endless quest to uncover the Author of the Journals eerily mirrors Jon’s paranoia spiral in season two.

Mabel – Stranger

Okay, hear me out. Of the twins, Mabel is the most ready to just roll with Gravity Falls’ weirdness. She doesn’t need answers, she just wants to have fun. She loves crafting and things that others consider silly, and a lot of her creations end up somewhat off-putting to other characters.

Stan – Slaughter

Do I really have to explain myself with this one? Stanley Pines is ready to throw hands at a moment’s notice.

Wendy – Hunt

This is all about a. how well she did in Weirdmageddon, and b. that sweet sweet lumberjack aesthetic.

Soos – Lonely

Well now I’m sad, but yeah, Soos is probably the most closely aligned with the Lonely, given his experiences with his dad and insecurities about romantic and platonic relationships.

Ford – Eye

Again, really don’t think I should have to explain this one.

Gideon – Spiral/Desolation

First hybrid on the list! Gideon’s whole shtick in season one is manipulation, but not in the Webby way. He uses his onstage persona to ingratiate himself to the public and get what he wants, so when someone sees him for who he is and tries to get help, no one takes them seriously. Throughout season one, he’s mostly Spiral, but there’s a streak of Desolation in there, in his desire to take down Stan in order to gain power.

Once he’s caught at the end of season one and sent to prison, the script flips. The jig is up, so he embraces Desolation and keeps a hint of Spiral (it’s useful for making allies).

Robbie – Corruption

I guarantee you, if the Hive sang to Robbie after his breakup with Wendy, we’d have Jane Prentiss Part Deux. Just watch any Robbie episode and you’ll see what I’m talking about.

His parents are End. Obviously.

Pacifica – Hunt

Gonna be honest, was not expecting this for Pacifica, but it definitely fits. The Hunt encompasses the thrill of the chase, and the fear of becoming prey. Pacifica’s family is obsessed with maintaining their status, and it leads Pacifica to be overly competitive and nasty in a desperate bid for her parents’ affection. She is full of vengeance, and always has a target to direct her ire towards.

McGucket – Former Eye/Spiral, Extinction

McGucket was Eye right alongside Ford, until the accident that Marked him by the Spiral, at which point he quit and founded the Society of the Blind Eye, which itself is Spiral-aligned, by virtue of trying to obfuscate the true nature of Gravity Falls.

Once his memories are damaged to a certain extent, however, he more closely aligns with the Extinction, what with his insane mechanisms, and the world moving on without him. Not to mention he actually manages to create an accurate doomsday clock in the middle of season two as he gets his sanity back.

Bill – Spiral

On first glance, people might think that Bill is Eye. Those people are valid. And they are wrong.

Bill thrives on chaos, distorting truth and trust, and a lack of sleep. He was a false friend to Ford (cough cough, sound familiar, Helen???) and makes tricky deals. He takes a little bit from the Eye for The Aesthetic and the ability to See and Know, but he’s much more bound to the Spiral than the Eye.

Miscellaneous

Pretty much all the Gravity Falls Bullshit can be chalked up to the Stranger. Wax figures? Check. Clones? Check. Weird cryptids, a president no one’s heard of, crystals that make you grow and shrink, the list goes on.

Ford’s research grant came from the Usher Foundation. Change My Mind.

#gravity falls #tma #tma crossover #kind of #tma meta #long post

29 notes · View notes

xyliane · 4 years ago

Text

AUgust 7: HAVE YOU SEEN THIS 12 YEAR OLD

PROMPT THE SEVENTH: CHILDHOOD FRIENDS wait how can you childhood friends au killugon, I asked myself, forgetting that I had a whole-ass idea in my drafts already. this one’s a proper fic, too (minus editing cuz l o l it’s an AU writing challenge, not editing challenge). T, aged-up killugon, modern day au. ft ambiguous descriptions of social media, alluka, kalluto, and leorio in killua’s corner, and zushi and spinner in gon’s, brief discussion of getting plastered and dealing with a hangover. 5000 words.

0o0o0o0o0

The first sign that today is going to be an absolutely terrible day, is when Killua wakes up with a hangover.

This does not happen. Killua can count on one hand the number of times he’s gotten so drunk he’s had a hangover, and most of them are the fault of his little siblings. Little siblings who are now living together, whose couch he is currently painfully existing upon, half too hot and his toes way too cold. And the couch is too soft, an old secondhand thing he’d helped Alluka grapple up the stairs months ago after they found it outside an old dorm. He makes a notch in his very sore brain to blame the current situation on them. Kalluto might be kind enough to let a drunk big brother crash with them, but Alluka has a devious streak a mile wide.

Yeah. This is definitely their fault.

One eye slowly creaks open, surveying his surroundings through blurry vision. Nothing out of the ordinary here. He’s in the pajamas he’s left with Alluka forever ago, curled up under an old blanket he gave her for Nanika’s birthday. It’s covered in the Matrix code, all green letters on black wool. It barely covers him from chest to knees, which explains the cold toes.

Sunlight flickers through the curtains, cheerful and bright, and Killua pulls the blanket over his face. He’ll take cold toes over being blinded by his headache.

The second sign that today is going to be an absolutely terrible day, is when a noise like a chainsaw burrowing through a marshmallow erupts from his phone buzzing on the coffee table, just barely out of reach.

Killua attempts to bury himself under the blanket. He’s not dealing with work today.

And then he remembers: He doesn’t have work. Work can’t bother him today. Not just because it’s a weekend—work never respected the sanctity of weekends, no matter that he was at least partially in charge and used to have a fancy degree hanging on his wall. He doesn’t have work anymore. Killua quit.

Which, well. That explains the hangover.

He’s still blaming his siblings.

His phone buzzes loud enough to break the sound barrier, and Killua decides, fuck it. He doesn’t have anything to lose. If it’s the-place-formerly-known-as-work, he can delete everything. If it’s Mom or Father, he can definitely delete everything. And maybe it’s a friendly person, congratulating him on giving up a job that for anyone else would have been an absolute money-making dream. He’ll delete those too.

It takes a few tries to unlock his phone, and it unfortunately involves opening his eyes, squinting against the glaring light of the screen. But once he does, he frowns. Maybe he’s seeing double. Or a hundredfold. Because he should not have this many notifications.

awwww cute, i hope u 2 find each other! the top one says. It has several hundred likes. Why is it in his notifications?

Scrolling down reveals that it’s not an anomaly.

wtf man how can you find a TWELVE YEAR OLD from FIFTEEN YEARS AGO.

Me and my mom went on a cruise around there once, it was really pretty!

this is so sweet T__T maybe this is him?

And then another hundred photos of brown-skinned men with varying degrees of shirt-wearing, all black haired and most of them buff in very appealing ways and all of them beaming at Killua.

“What the fuck,” Killua croaks as he scrolls through all of the images and messages. Maybe this is a dream. A really weird, hangover-induced dream about how little of a social life he has, that his phone is possessed by someone else’s. A warning of sorts, that he should never have installed any social media on his phone ever, not even for hookups.

The reason for all the notifications lies at the top of his own page. Just a few sentences, all-caps, with an image of an old crinkled photo of two boys on a tropical beach, grinning at the camera. Killua sees himself, white curly hair flying in all directions and pale skin sunburned and ruddy with the briny wind, happier than Killua can ever remember being. Next to him, one arm slung around his shoulders and the other holding a bucket full of seashells, is a brown-skinned boy with freckles dancing across his nose and the tops of his shoulders, brown eyes wide and laughing and black hair thick and spiked from some mix of wind and seawater and natural gravity defiance.

He didn’t know he still had this photo. It had followed him from childhood all the way through grad school, a carefully guarded keepsake hidden away from the watchful eyes of his parents and Illumi, before ending up in a box or a bag at some point in the last few years. Part of Killua thought he’d lost it in the move. He barely remembers much about being twelve, about the cruise he’d been forcibly dragged on. But he remembers…

HAVE YOU SEEN THIS BOY? yells the caption. WE WERE BEST FRIENDS FOR A WEEK WHEN I GOT DRAGGED ON A CRUISE BY MY ASSHOLE PARENTS. HE WAS 12 ON WHALE ISLAND 15 YEARS AGO. IF FOUND, DM IMMEDIATELY.

“Gon,” Killua breathes.

He gathers himself, wrapping the blanket around his head in a feeble protection against the morning, and lurches over to Alluka’s room.

He gets to bang on her door three times, confused spite winning out over his own pounding headache, before Kalluto appears out of their room, blinking blearily at Killua. “Shut up.”

Killua kicks Alluka’s door for good measure, and brandishes his phone in front of him like a weapon. “Not until you explain what the hell this is doing on the internet.”

Kalluto pales, then flushes, then pales again. “Oh. Um.”

At that, Alluka creaks her door open, guilty blue eyes far too awake for how close to noon it is. Killua kind of wants to kill her on principle alone. If he has to be hungover, so does everyone else.

“Explain,” he grinds out through his teeth.

The third and final sign that today is going to be an absolutely terrible day, is when Alluka puts on her most winning smile, the kind she uses to ward off angry customers and idiotic faux-academics on the internet. “Congratulations, Brother! I might have made you go viral.”

Killua throws his phone at her.

—————

Today’s going to be a good day, Gon decides. He’s been in the forests of East Gorteau for the better part of a month, which normally isn’t so bad. But this group has been…They’re nice enough, when Gon’s not spending half of his time explaining that, no, that species of plant does not make a good stew, and no, that species is endangered please don’t hunt them, and yes Gon is sure he doesn’t date his clients even after the hike, and no the reason the tent fell over again is because it wasn’t properly set up in the first place—

All of Aunt Mito’s complaints about tourists on Whale Island make so much more sense, now that Gon’s leading backwoods hikes.

But last night had been fun! Spinner had met the group at a pre-set campsite not far from their pickup so Gon hadn’t had to work the whole night, and he could relax with his friend over good food, more alcohol than he probably should have drunk, and not having to explain to Mrs. Yuldvin the difference between marijuana, buckeye, and poison oak again. Spinner had even taken care of the fire, although she had left him to rescue the Podomos siblings from the ruins of their tent with nothing more than a smirk and a wave. Nevertheless, Gon smiled through his headache all morning, because soon he’ll be home, and he can sleep.

Zushi is waiting in the parking lot once Gon’s done packing up the last of the gear and saying goodbye to Spinner, jeep idling while he flicks through his phone, thick eyebrows drawn together in increasing concern. He doesn’t even look up until Gon drops his pack onto the hood of the car, and he jolts so badly in surprise that he tosses his phone in the air.

“Are you okay?” Gon asks, and tries to peek at the screen.

Zushi pulls it up and away, a frantic look in his eyes. It won’t really keep Gon from seeing what’s happening, not if he wants to, but Zushi’s height is enough of a deterrent to make it hard. “You were gone way too long,” he says.

Gon leans against the hot metal of Zushi’s car. It wasn’t an unusual length for a trip, not really—this backcountry needs the length to be able to see and understand the region. Not to mention the Small Billed Swan preservation society keeping the whole place locked down except to authorized guides and trekkers. Zushi knows this. They’ve been roommates long enough that this isn’t even the longest time Gon’s been gone.

“You knew I’d be gone til today,” Gon says.

“Yeah, but…” Zushi’s eyebrows descend even further, scrunching his whole face up in worry. “You haven’t checked your phone, right?”

“No?” Even if he did have cell service, Gon never brings his own phone. He borrows Kite’s satellite phone, because it is more reliable and doesn’t need to be charged constantly.

“Okay. Well.” Zushi takes a deep breath, then another, one of Wing’s old meditation techniques. Despite his exhaustion and single-minded determination to sink into a real bed and sleep for a week, Gon feels a minor pang of worry. On breath three, he unlocks his phone and turns it towards Gon. “You’re a meme.”

On Zushi’s screen is a photo Gon can’t ever forget about. Backed by Whale Island’s sunbleached white beaches and the humid brilliant colors of summer, Gon sees himself—twelve, smiling from ear to ear, hair a mess from swimming and his shirt practically covered in sand from digging up all the seashells in his bucket. He’s got an arm around another boy, who’s caught mid-laugh so his blue eyes burn the same color as the sky, white curls even messier than Gon’s hair. They look like they’ve known each other their whole lives, like they’d still be best friends even if they haven’t seen or spoken to each other since the photo was taken.

Gon hopes Killua thinks so, too.

He cradles the phone in his hand, carefully zooming in on their faces and the errant crinkles visible through the photo. His own faded copy is in a drawer, having survived a whole trip around the world and countless apartment jumps. This one looks just as well cared for, in its own way.

“That…is you, right?” Zushi asks carefully. “Because Wing was asking, and half of Kite’s guide company is yelling about it on your social media page that you don’t even use, and now people are messaging me, and they’re saying the weirdest things, and the post is from last week, so—”

“It’s Killua,” Gon says. A smile spreads across his face, a mirror to the one he’d had when he was twelve. “That’s Killua!”

“Who?” the others ask, but Gon isn’t listening.

He spins, frantically searching his pockets for his phone. “Spinner, can you do me a favor?”

She narrows her eyes suspiciously.

Gon knew today was going to be a good day.

—————

It’s been a week, and Killua has quit all social media forever.

The steady buzz of his phone informing the apartment of his notifications is not his problem. Alluka’s the one who decided to hack into his phone and post something to his old public account, the one he mostly uses for photos of cats and complaining about terrible business precedents. He hasn’t posted much since school, and if anything, it should have simply vanished into the void of the internet.

He finds the culprit fairly quickly, and for once it’s not his sister’s moderate but dedicated video following.

“Old man, what the fuck is wrong with you?”

Leorio lounges in Alluka and Kalluto’s living room, freshly out of his scrubs and looking pleased as all hell. “I just reblogged a fun post from my friend,” he says somewhat defensively. “You were a cute kid, Killua. What happened?”

Killua feels a growl creep up his throat. “You can’t just do that,” he snaps.

“It’s not my fault the people like my well-coiffed but rugged appearance and dedication to social justice in medicine.”

“You have 500,000 followers because you made a joke post two years ago, and some authorized user reblogged it five times. It has nothing to do with your ugly mug.” If Killua squints and plugs his ears, he can even see why people think Leorio’s attractive or whatever: tan skin, lean but strong as hell, actually takes care of his hair, not to mention a damn good doctor with one of the most prestigious institutions in Yorknew who spends most of his free time running health clinics in impoverished neighborhoods. That’s all swell. But then he starts talking, and Killua has no idea where the off button is.

Leorio spreads a hand out, gesturing vaguely with the glass of iced tea that he’d helped himself to out of Alluka’s stash. “It has everything to do with my ‘ugly mug,’” he says. “Which is why I used my powers for good and spread your post. Don’t you want to find him?”

“Not like this!”

“You were not going to find him at all,” Kalluto’s quiet voice pipes up from the kitchen. They have night classes tonight, but Killua has a feeling that even if they were supposed to be attending their Yorknew Uni lectures, they would still be here making Killua’s life worse. “You’ve had that picture for years, and you did not even try to look.”

Leorio gives him a judgmental look over the tops of his stupid tiny glasses. “You haven’t?”

It would be a losing game to bury his burning face in one of the throw pillows, so Killua does his best to cross his arms over his chest and glower instead. “I…tried.”

“And?”

“I don’t even know his last name!” Killua splutters. “I didn’t have his number or where he was from, other than his mom worked on the ship. And that cruiseline went bankrupt and liquidated everything before I could get out of the house, so I couldn’t even look that up.”

Kalluto crosses over from the kitchen and perches like a sweatshirt-wearing crow on the coffee table, their blue eyes carefully neutral under straight black bangs. “Alluka and Nanika would have helped. Or even Milluki, if you had explained the situation.”

“I was eighteen, okay? I just left home, and our parents were still being…shit, themselves, I guess.” He hadn’t even considered asking for help. Then again, he’d tried the moment he could, that first summer of undergrad where he didn’t have to come home and Illumi couldn’t spend half his time breathing down the back of Killua’s neck. He had a general idea of where they’d gone, maps of islands scurried away in the closet with the old photo and a bag full of seashells Gon had given him as a going-away present.

They’d been friends for a week, in the whirlwind way that only kids can be. The cruise ship was massive, and Killua’s parents were in meetings half the time and playing nice with the other rich people on board the other half. Killua had been bored witless, and Gon was everything he couldn’t have possibly imagined: encouraging Killua to go exploring, to stealing food from the kitchens, making him help clean up the decks, playing cards with the deckhands. Sneaking off the boat to visit an island without Killua’s parents while the ship was docked, scrambling over the burning hot sands and dashing through the jungle, diving into the waves fully clothed and competing to see who could find the biggest prettiest shells. Gon’d been Killua’s first friend, his first crush, his first…a lot of firsts.

Then the cruise had ended, and Killua forgot to give Gon his phone number. His address. Anything. They’d been so swept up in being friends, being best friends, it had seemed impossible that they would never see each other again.

Does Gon even remember? Why should he, when Killua hasn’t contacted him? Would they even be friends anymore?

Maybe he hadn’t searched hard enough. But part of Killua thinks he shouldn’t have tried at all.

The phone buzzes loudly, and Killua tries not to flinch.

“Hey, Killua. It’s okay.” Leorio leans forward, hands clasped over his too-long limbs and expression gentle. “If you want me to delete it, I will. Not sure I can help with the viral part of things, except maybe go through your messages and delete the gross ones, or at least find the weirdest ones for you to laugh at later.”

“Alluka and I have been doing this already,” Kalluto says, their posture a little too protective for Killua’s raw nerves at this point. “But perhaps you have some suggestions for what to do next, Dr. Paladiknight?”

Leorio smiles sympathetically. “Don’t read the comments? That said, most of your comments have been much more positive than anything I usually post. The masses seem to be genuinely rooting for you, kid.”

“I have only had to delete a dozen lewd messages for you this morning,” Kalluto adds, not mentioning the hundred or so that Alluka took care of yesterday.

Killua’s traitorous phone buzzes again, and that’s it. Time to bury himself in a pillow. Killua flops onto the couch, narrowly missing Leorio, and does his best to burrow into the cushions. “That’s just great,” he says into the fabric.

A comforting hand rubs against his hair, messing up the curls for a moment, and Killua refuses to admit that it’s nice, that he has friends like Leorio who even bother to care. “It could be worse. You could be dealing with this while still working a soul-sucking job making more money than most of us will see in our lifetimes, in exchange for giving up all of your morals.”

Killua groans loudly. “I’m not having this conversation with you.”

“You’re gonna need to do something, Killua! And hey, I might be able to set something up with my—”

“I already told you, no.”

“But it’s what you’re good at. And you wouldn’t be fucking people over to do it.”

“No.”

“Just listen for one—”

Killua lifts his head enough to glare as murderously as he can at Leorio. It must work at least a little, because the doctor shuts up.

Meanwhile, Kalluto is scrolling through Killua’s phone, poking at the screen occasionally. In the awkward silence, their sharp gasp is loud enough to shatter a window, and they hurriedly shove the phone in the pocket of their oversized sweatshirt.

Leorio raises an eyebrow. “Everything okay?”

Kalluto squeezes their eyes shut for a moment, then carefully places the phone on the coffee table, screen pointed innocently at the ceiling. “You will want to look at this one, Brother.”

“This isn’t another erotic sandcastle is it?” he says.

Kalluto shakes their head, and Killua’s stomach lurches up his throat. Alluka has been the one excited about this whole thing. But Kalluto, as reserved as they are, is a massive romantic. The whole thing might be Alluka’s fault, but Killua knows it’s Kalluto who almost lets themselves believe it’ll work. Despite all of the false positives, the people who send messages that don’t sound right or photos that have the wrong smile.

Killua doesn’t want to hope. It can’t possibly be Gon. But his hands shake nonetheless as he unlocks his phone and finds a new message in his DMs.

It’s not from Gon.

Instead, someone with the icon of a small-billed white swan in a soft small-billed hat and a handle of @flymypretties has sent a photo of a brown-skinned man with spiky black hair absolutely covered in dirt and grime. He’s waving at the camera, a backpacking bag propped against his shoulder and the widest smile Killua has ever seen beaming straight through the screen and into his chest. Next to him and half out of frame, a tall tanned man with massive black eyebrows and a tank top showing off an impressive amount of muscle has his head in his hands. Killua feels a sharp stab of sympathy, somewhere buried beneath the racing of his heart.

look im sorry about this but this idiot can’t find his phone and we r kind of in the middle of nowhere so reception’s shit. he wants to know if you admit he found the biggest seashell on the beach, whatever that means.

For a long, long moment—seconds? minutes maybe?—Killua can do nothing but stare at the screen of his phone. Leorio and Kalluto both look at him with a mix of curiosity and worry, Kalluto starting to slowly reach for the phone.

In a completely childish protective moment, Killua grabs it against his chest, like the image will vanish if he doesn’t keep it close.

“Is it…?” Leorio asks.

Killua swallows heavily, trying to think around the roaring of the ocean in his ears. “I think so,” he says faintly.

Kalluto’s eyes widen, and they spin on their heels towards their room. “I’m calling Alluka!”

—————

“Has he responded?”

“No!”

“…what about now?”

Spinner throws her hands in the air so violently that her hat falls off. “For god’s sake, Gon, it’s been an hour, you don’t even have your phone, and you still need to go home.”

Gon huffs and pouts. They’re still in the parking lot over an hour after the rest of the trekking group has left, and all the exhaustion that had settled into Gon’s body from the tour has been turned into a jittery energy that keeps trying to leak out from under his skin. He wants to go home immediately and dig out his copy of the photo, rub out the old fingerprints he and Aunt Mito have left on it over the years. He wants to find his phone and message Killua directly. He wants to wait right here until Killua responds, no matter how long it takes.

He knows it’s childish, to be this selfish. Spinner has work to do, work that she already put on hold to help with the last day of the tour. Kite probably will want to know what’s happening, or at least why his lead guide and his chief guide organizer have been stuck in a parking lot. And Gon can practically feel Zushi’s obsessive scrolling through social media, frantically trying to navigate Gon’s feeds without actually having access.

Gon needs to find his phone.

“Spinner, what if—”

It’s not that Spinner’s a large woman. Out of the three people standing in the parking lot, Zushi’s far and away the strongest, even if he is about as threatening as a large, muscular teddy bear. And Gon has only packed on weight and muscle over his years of backpacking around the wilderness, no matter that he’s not super tall. But Spinner goes for longer, harder treks on her own than anyone but Kite, and she packs in her own climbing gear on top of that, so when she tosses Gon into the back of Zushi’s jeep, he flies.

“Zushi,” she says in a low exhausted snarl, and he jumps right off the hood of his car. Gon probably would have felt bad for him, if everything wasn’t spinning. “If you do not take your roommate home, I am not responsible for the consequences.”

“What if you hear back?” Gon groans around the aches in his side.

Spinner rolls her eyes, and Gon knows she’s just tired. “I’ll let you know.”

“But what if my phone’s gone? What will I do if someone stole it, or if I can’t—”

“I’ll call you go home already,” she says, and slams the door shut on his face.

For a long moment, the only sound is Spinner storming away, boots thudding heavily in the dirt until her car door slams.

The jeep shifts slightly as Zushi quietly lowers himself into the driver’s seat and puts the key into the ignition. Gon wants to tell him to follow Spinner, so she can yell out the window as soon as Killua gets back to her. But Zushi looks about ready to bolt. So Gon slumps back in the seat, the rumble of tires crunching through gravel making his already jittery nerves shake.

A small voice that sounds a lot like Kite tells Gon that it’s better to wait, that it will be easier to have a conversation and determine if this really is Killua after a rest and a shower.

Gon doesn’t want that, though. He wants…

It’s been a long time since he was on Whale Island. Longer still since he saw Killua. That doesn’t mean he stopped thinking about either of them, during the quiet moments out under the stars. They’re part of him, like his lungs are part of him—essential and irreplaceable, buried so far inside that removing them would change him irrevocably.

What is Killua like now? Is Gon just as important to him as he is to Gon? He has to be. Right?

They make it home without saying anything else. Gon floats in and out between bone-deep weariness and electric sparks of nervous joy, and Zushi flinches every time Gon jolts himself from one to the other.

“Hey, are you…I mean, maybe not okay, but.”

Gon lifts his chin up sharply at the sound of his roommate’s voice, and notices the familiar apartment complex in front of him. Oh, they’re home. “I’m good,” he says, and grins.

“Sure,” Zushi says like he doesn’t believe Gon.

A dubious silence stretches out between them as they gather the rest of the gear, dropping it in a heap on the sidewalk. “You were kids, though,” Zushi finally says.

Gon shrugs and slams the door shut hard enough to make the vehicle rattle. “I didn’t forget. So I don’t think Killua would, either.”

Zushi’s eyebrows wrinkle on each other, like they can’t decide whether to go up or down and settle on some combination of the two. “What if he did?”

“He didn’t,” Gon says, more sure of that than anything else in his life.

Zushi’s eyebrows dance again, but he doesn’t say anything else.

Between Gon’s camping gear and Zushi’s leftover practice pads, it takes longer than Gon’s excitement can take to get everything settled enough to look for his phone. Well, Gon would have liked to look for his phone, but Zushi makes a pointed look at the shower. There are only so many places the phone could be in the whole apartment, after all.

Gon’s just drying off when Zushi knocks on the door. “I found it, but it’s dead,” he says, voice muffled.

“Then charge it!” Gon shouts. After a moment, he adds, quieter and less snappishly, “Please?”

A faint laugh echoes through the apartment.

By the time Gon can make himself a very early dinner of whatever he could grab out of the cabinets without thinking, the phone is charged enough to turn on. Sure enough, there are a wide variety of messages, mostly from Kite’s groupchat asking about the viral post. A few are from former hikers, people who Gon liked enough to share contact info, offering to see if they can get in touch. There are even a few—okay, how did they get ahold of his old social media page? It’s practically defunct, since Gon’s never had a phone capable of more than the most basic apps. And those are…

It’s flattering in a way, but Gon’s not really into that. Or them.

Zushi catches sight of the grimace, and takes one look over Gon’s shoulder before turning beet red.

By the time he’s gone through and deleted the vast majority of what had been filling up his phone, there’s still no message from Spinner, and nothing at all from Killua. Gon sighs and lies his head down on the table with a heavy thunk.

The other chair scrapes heavily along the tiles as Zushi sits, a mug of coffee in his hands. “What will you do? When he messages you, I mean.”

When, not if, an unexpected certainty coming from Zushi. Gon has the best friends in the world. “Talk to him,” Gon says. “It’s only been fifteen years, right? We promised we’d be friends forever.”

“A lot changes in fifteen years,” Zushi says.

“Not that.”

“Then why didn’t you look for him?”

Gon frowns. It had taken a long, long time, but Aunt Mito managed to track down the cruise captain the last time they were in port, tracing through old charters until the right names came up. But when she’d called them up, she’d been met with stonewall after stonewall, pleasant-sounding voices insisting in no uncertain terms that she would never speak with a member of Killua’s family, let alone let her son speak to his friend. By the time Gon was old enough to look himself, he found nothing but a mansion full of people whose eyes matched Killua’s in everything except for his warmth, who refused to even acknowledge Gon’s presence except to throw him out.

That had been years ago. It’s not that Gon stopped looking. Not exactly.

“I did, but I—” Gon starts to say, but his phone buzzes violently against the table, and they both jump out of their chairs.

“Is it—?” Zushi asks, breath in his throat.

It’s a message from Spinner. you owe me big time, kid, she says, followed by a phone number.

Gon rips his phone off the cable, a wide smile spreading across his face. “It is,” he says, and dials Killua.

—————

bzz bzz—

bzz b—

“H-hello?”

“Killua! Hi!”

“…Gon? Is that—It’s really…?”

“Killua, it’s you, I thought I’d never—”

“I did find the biggest seashell, and you know it.”

A breath, sharp and astonished. “The blue and white one, with green lines.”

“I found it, and I gave it to you.”

“I still have it.”

A snort of amusement, slightly damp. “I know. You promised you’d keep it.”

“I did. And I promised—”

“That we’d be friends forever.”

A laugh, delighted and teary at the same time. “I knew you remembered.”

“I did promise you that I would.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

(AUgust prompts)

#AUgust2020 #hunter x hunter #hxh #killugon #gon freecss #killua zoldyck #alluka zoldyck #kalluto zoldyck #leorio paladiknight #zushi #spinner clow #gone viral au #fluff #and then killua visits gon and they get together and everything is lovely and killua finally takes leorio up on his offer the end #thanks tumblr for fucking up my tag for this whole challenge #my writing

95 notes · View notes

springday-aus · 4 years ago

Text

SVT’s Dino: Just Another Foodie Call

—

Fic Piece Written By: Admin Grandma of @springday-aus

Main Characters: Y/N [fem. reader] and Seventeen’s Dino [Lee Chan]

Other Characters: Seventeen members [Minghao, Seungkwan, Vernon], oddball dates [multi-group + multi-members: ATEEZ’s Hongjoong, GOT7′s Bambam, and NCT’s Jungwoo], and Yeri (Red Velvet)

Genre: romance, comedy, college!au, waiter!Chan

Type: one-shot writing piece

Word Count: approx. 6.5k

Plot Summary: first dates are always awkward, but not for you. In fact, you actually became a master of them. But, what are all of these dates for? Easy answer: free food. Now that you think about it, there’s only one other person who seems to know your real motives—Chan, a waiter from your favorite restaurant.

“—so, the best time to buy stocks is once a pandemic hits.”

“Hmmm…” You nod along, as your date continues to ramble on and on about business. You make an effort to maintain some eye contact, in order to seem as if you were engaged in the conversation. In reality, you were wondering how far along they were making your food. Usually, they would be platting at this moment, but it is a Saturday—meaning the dinner rush was just getting started.

“At that time, they’re lower, therefore cheaper.”

You continue to hum, not really listening to what he says, but trying to seem attentive to his words. You try to remember: look a bit interested in conversation and that’s enough to keep a guy’s attention. You glance up at him, taking in how animated he is as he talks.

But, then again, he seems to be able to maintain this conversation on his own.

You find yourself thinking: what was his name again? You glance down to the table, where his unofficial business card lays. Ah, right—Hongjoong. He’s a year above you. Business major, obviously something you picked up from the conversation alone. On the bright side, you didn’t have to worry about when you ran into him in the future.

Just as he’s diving in further about the importance of stocks and investments, the entree plates finally come out and are set in front of the both of you. You mouth a thank-you to the waiter, who gives you a polite smile in return.

Hongjoong continues to talk. “Then, as things become back to normal, the rates start to go back up and you get more than what you originally paid for. The only issue is time and how long it—”

Jesus, these noodles look so beautiful covered in the sauce. Only God knows what the hell is in it, but it’s delicious nevertheless. The toppings are equal in distribution and the garnish looks perfect, as if the peak of the flavor mountain in front of you. Yes. This. This is why you are here.

For a moment, you think you could cry. You’ve been waiting all week for these noodles. You take a glance at Hongjoong, who continues to ramble on and on about... savings? Did he move on from the other thing? Or was it bonds? Honestly, you’d stopped paying attention after he started promoting about the benefits of a savings account to you.

In your category of first dates, you’d put Hongjoong in the chatterbox section, which means you can catch a break from these weekly dates. Yeah, he’s boring, but he’s a super nice guy—from what you can tell, you know he’ll pay for the meal. You almost feel bad about using him. Almost.

Lifting your fork, you twirl a good amount of the noodles and drown it further into the sauce on the plate. Yes, come to mama. You carefully lift the fork to your mouth, trying not to shove it into your mouth like some goddamned animal. Once that first bite hits, you almost melt on the spot. God, that really makes the wait worth it.

The night continues on and Hongjoong, eventually, starts to eat—after he asks your opinion on how to survive an economic crisis. Frankly, you can’t remember much to what happened on the date so far. You must have tuned out more than you originally thought. But, then again, when do you ever remember what happens on these dates? Except for a special case, a guy named Cameron (aka, he who shall not be named), every other guy tends to be forgotten about.

As normal, you clear your plate—it’s clean of your food and you sigh with content. Your cravings have been satisfied. You wait for Hongjoong to finish eating, chatting him up to give some type of entertainment for the dinner. You use as much small talk as you can, from the weather updates to the different types of food served here.

Near the end of the meal, as he finishes his plate, you smile up at him as politely as you can. “Shall we get the check and head out?”

He returns the smile with one of his own. “Yes, that sounds good. It’s—” He checks his watch. “—about 6:30, which means the traffic shouldn’t be as bad right now. I can accompany you back to your apartment.”

He calls over the waiter, asking for the bill. Once it’s laid on the table, you slowly grab your purse and reach for your wallet, but you don’t really get a grip on your card to actually pay.

“No need (Y/N),” he says. “I got it.”

You give another smile, which seems more genuine than any other smile you’ve had tonight. Trying to hide your satisfaction, you furrow your eyebrows to feign concern. “Are you sure, Hongjoong?”

“Of course,” he says. “Women can pay, but it doesn’t mean they should.” He lays his shiny card on the black tray. “Especially on a first date.”

He gives another smile with his pearly whites and you have to hold back a smirk.

Men are idiots.

The sun shines particularly bright this morning. Now that you’re out, you regret making plans before noon. You open the door to the familiar campus cafe, retreating to your usual corner—where Minghao and Seungkwan are waiting for you.

You take a seat in front of them, ungracefully throwing your bag onto the empty seat next to you. Without a word, you slowly place your head onto the table and into your arms. The two put a halt to their conversation, noting your negative aura. Seungkwan pushes the iced latte towards you—not close enough, in fear of you knocking it over.

Minghao takes an unnecessarily long sip of his iced americano before speaking. “So, how’d the Saturday night date go?” he asks.

Seungkwan nods along and uses his spoon to cut a part of his strawberry cake. “Oh yeah, what was he like? Did you have fun?”

You lift your head and lean against your chair, feeling a migraine start to form from the subject alone. “He was fine. He was just… more boring than I anticipated.”

“So, no second date?” Minghao asks.

“Most likely.”

“Dude,” Seungkwan says. “When has there ever been a second date for (Y/N)?” He sets down the spoon on his plate—looking at you now. “How many dates have you been on now?”

“Enough.” You take a sip of your coffee. “Stop calling me out like this. Y’all are lucky I came.”

Seungkwan scoffs at your statement, going back into his cake.

“We knew you would be easily lured out by free coffee,” Minghao says. He shakes his head, not even trying to hide his disappointment.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“That judgey face—the situation is just..” You purse your lips and try to find your words, but end up lost in another train of thought. “Just, shut up.”

You grumble into your cup, more to yourself than them. “You just don’t understand the situation.”

They both raise an eyebrow at you. “Then make us understand,” Minghao says. He takes another long sip of his drink.

“Listen, in this patriarchal society, I am put at a disadvantage.”

“And this is related... How?” Seungkwan asks.

“I’m a broke college girl, who’s not unattractive,” you say. “What’s wrong with using it a little?”

“You know,” Seungkwan says. “There is a term for it. Instead of a booty call, it’s known as a foodie call.”

“Hm,” you say. “I like that.”

“Foodie calls over booty calls,” Minghao says. “Classy.”

“That’s the goal.”

“So, who’s your next date with?” Seungkwan asks.

You shrug, taking another sip of your coffee. “Right now, I’m still looking. We’ll just have to see.” You pull out your phone, scrolling through your messages. “Most of them are upperclassmen who don’t know what they’re getting into.”

“Update us on that,” Minghao says. “Because we need to know the poor chump your sapping money out of.”

“Hey!” You cross your arms. “Stop making me seem like a gold-digger. It’s just dinner, not a Gucci purse.”

“Do you want a Gucci purse?” Seungkwan asks.

You shrug. “I mean if it comes with the dinner, I’m not complaining.”

“Is that technically gold-digging?”

“I don’t think so…”

You originally started this whole operation because of your favorite noodle dish at your favorite restaurant: Asianly Classics. There was only one problem—you couldn’t afford the dish every week. It’s not because it’s an extremely upscale place; it’s just because the business is local it means the menu is kind of… pricey. It doesn’t help either that it’s located in the city, meaning the prices are constantly rising.

The first time you did it, it was unintentional. Your friend had been set up on a blind date and she couldn’t make it due to a prior engagement. So, she asked you for a favor and you went in her place. You weren’t sure of other places to go to, which led to you meeting him at Asianly Classics. He was super polite about the whole situation, especially since he insisted on paying for your meal because of the ‘inconvenience’ the date might have been—leading to your wonderful idea of the foodie calls.

Deep down somewhere, you know it’s wrong to exploit these simple college boys. But, it’s hard not to because they’re... simple, college boys with two brain cells that are dying from classes and with reality hitting them hard. It’s just easier this way.

It’s not like you’re a sugar baby (no disrespect to those women who are really stepping up their game though) or a booty call (no disrespect to the women who are having healthy, safe sex), so why were the guys making a big deal out of it?

You break from your thoughts. “Even if I was a gold-digger, that’s none of your business.”

Seungkwan playfully rolls his eyes at your words, then pulls out his laptop and opens it. “Well, speaking of business… We do have to work on our presentation for Intro to Investments 101.”

You throw your head back, releasing an unladylike groan. Eventually, you sit back up and begrudgingly pull out your laptop.

Minghao sits up, stretching his arms with his fingers interlocked. “I brought the notecards and pens. We can figure out who presents what once we sort it all out.” He sets out the materials on the table, opening a pen cap, and testing them out on a new notecard.

“Curse uni for making this a required course,” Seungkwan whines. “I haven’t even been paying attention.”

“When do you ever pay attention?” Minghao asks.

“Don’t worry,” you say. You tap your temple twice, before pointing it back to them, as if to share your only brain cells left with them. “Saturday’s date taught me enough to compensate for our lack of attention span. That’s gotta count for something.”

Minghao laughs. “I guess we’ll just have to see exactly how useful that information can be.”

Another Saturday has rolled around and you sit at Asianly Classics once again. But, this time, you sit in front of a different date. Bambam sits with a leg crossing the other, as he talks animatedly about some party from last night. You can only smile at him, nodding along every once in a while to make it look as if you were paying any attention.

“—it was so crazy! Jackson needs to stop making those crazy drinks because mixology is not a strength of his.”

You let out a fake giggle and you prop your chin onto your hands, batting your eyelashes. “So what would be considered his strength?”

“Anyone who knows him would say friendliness or something.” He takes a sip of his water. “But, what they don’t know is that he’s on the way to the Olympics for fencing. That reminds of this one time, where he….”

As he starts up another story, you start to tune out once more. You will admit that this one is more entertaining than the last one. You’d trade fun college stories than financial tips any day—no offense to that other guy though. Bambam is a year older than that other guy, but by the way he’s talking, it’s hard to tell.

Bambam continues to talk—meanwhile, you continue to nod along to his words, smiling and laughing when appropriate.

“... that’s when he fell! One little poke and he just falls into the pool! Some athlete—he can’t even keep his balance! Phew, he’s a real funny guy.”

You let out another fake laugh, glancing back towards the kitchen door. How long has it been since you ordered your food?

Leaning back into your seat, you adjust your purse from behind you. You needed a breather from this one. You could feel your energy getting sapped from him. “Excuse me for a moment,” you say as you stand up. “I need to use the bathroom for just a second.”

“Oh, of course,” he says. He sits himself up, uncrossing his legs as if he suddenly remembered he was in a public space and not some fraternity house. “Go ahead, take your time.”

“Thanks,” you say with a smile. “I’ll be back soon.” You stand up, taking your bag with you. Your feet automatically take you down a familiar hallway where the bathrooms are located. Just as you are approaching the doors, you see a shadow of a figure—who addresses you before you fully acknowledged his presence.

“Just where are you running off to?”

Just outside the men’s bathroom, Chan leans against the wall with his phone in hand. He looks at you with a teasing smile and you can’t resist mirroring it.

You click your tongue as you approach him. “And here I was, just wondering where my favorite waiter was.” You move yourself next to him, close enough to nudge his shoulder with your own. “I didn’t see you last week.”

He chuckles. “I was here last weekend, same time” he says. “And the weekend before that, and the weekend before that. That’s kind of how jobs work. Just because you didn’t see me, doesn’t mean I wasn’t there.”

“Ah, really?” you tease. “I had absolutely no idea.” You both stand there in silence for a second, before he speaks up again.

“So, how’s the date going?” Chan asks. “Is he as bad as last week’s?”

“Actually, he’s not that bad.”

“Oh?”

“He’s not as boring as the last one. That’s all I’m going to say.”

“I don’t think that it’s that hard considering what I overheard from last time—something about investing your stocks.” He tilts his head to the side with a playful glint in his eyes. “Are you investing in your stocks, (Y/N)?”

You let out a little laugh. “I swear. Chan, you make these dates a little less worse.”

“Thanks,” he says, flashing a smile at you. “You better get back out there before he thinks you crawled out the bathroom window.”

“Psh, I would never.”

He gives you a look, which you playfully roll your eyes to. You push yourself off from the wall and start to make your way back to your table. Chan turns his attention back to his phone. Without looking up, he waves as you start to leave. “Bye~”

“I get the hint,” you say with a groan. You turn back to him. “And please let Paul know I would really like more sauce with my noodles?”

He gives you a thumbs up. “As always.”

“Thank youuuu.” You manage to move yourself away from the hallway and back to the dining area, where your date awaits.

You give him a polite smile as you take back your seat. Ah, no food yet. “Sorry, if you waited long.”

“Psh.” He waves off your comment. “I didn’t wait long. I hope you don’t mind though, I ordered some dessert while you were gone.”

“I don’t mind dessert,” you say. You curl a piece of hair behind your ear. “Are we sharing it?”

His mouth curves into an o-shape, realizing your concern. “Oh, we can share if you would like,” he says. “And don’t worry about the bill—since I ordered more, I’ll cover it.”

You have to hide your smile. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” He pushes his rose-lens shades up and you have to resist rolling your eyes at his insistence of keeping them on while indoors. “It’s not fair to split it.” He gently takes your hand on the table. “It’s okay, (Y/N). Don’t worry about it—Oppa’s got the tab.”

Oh, God, he used the o-word. You bite down your tongue and save the words for later.

Looking away from him, you glance towards the other section of the restaurant, where Chan is serving a different table their food. He bows his head as you see him mouth ‘enjoy your meal.’ He makes eye contact with you, mouthing the question: ‘is he paying?’ You give him a discrete thumbs up underneath your table.

Your attention is taken away from him, as your waiter comes over to set your food on the table. It looks just as beautiful as last week’s. Only this time, Paul had added some extra sauce, which drowned the noodles. You could cry from the beauty of this plate.

“Your dessert will be served later,” your waitress says. “Thank you for your patience.”

“Thank you,” you both say.

Bambam immediately digs in. On the other hand, you look up to find Chan—where he’s already smiling at you.

“How’d your date go?” Yeri asks. With a bit of skip in her step, her bookbag bounces along with her footsteps.

You hug your textbooks closer to your chest and you reply with a bit of an exasperated sigh. “God, he was one more the more interesting ones.”

“Who was it?”

“That upperclassman named Bambam.”

“I heard he’s a wild card.”

“He is a wild card. The entire night he was just telling me all these wild stories about his friends, his parties and all that other crap. While he was more interesting than Hongjoong, I was so tired by the time our entrees got to the table.”

Yeri sucks in a breath. “Sucks to suck, bro. You wanted to go on all these dates, so you have to face consequences of that choice.”

You can’t say anything else because she’s right. You don’t really need to go on these dates, but if that means free food, why should you complain?

The both of you continue your walk to the library, taking in the fresh air and atmosphere. You’d forgotten how big the campus is—or at least how long it takes to get from the dorms to the library center. Originally you had just met Yeri for lunch, but the both of you were invited to an impromptu study session with some others in your class and decided to walk there together.

“On the bright side,” you say. “I saw Chan.”

“Chan?” Her eyes narrow at you. “Isn’t that the waiter who likes you?”

“No,” you say with a huff. “We’re just friends—acquaintances at least.”

“Can you guys hurry the process because I made a bet with Doyeon you’d get together in, at least, a month.”

“Yeri, you are such a dedicated friend.”

She perks up, ignoring the sarcasm. “Why, thank you, (Y/N).”

You can only roll your eyes at her, but her smile only widens.

“But seriously,” Yeri says. “You go on all these dates, complain about the guys, and yet, you talk more about Chan than you do about any of those other guys.”

“Dude, I don’t even have his number. If we see one another, we talk and that’s it. I highly doubt it would go anywhere else.”

“I’m just surprised that you two have been doing this dance for nearly four months and yet… nothing.”

“You know, men and women can just be friends, right?”

“Yeah, but you two are a different case,” Yeri says. “Considering how often you mention him. I haven’t even met him and that says something because I’ve met all of your friends.”

“You haven’t met him because I literally don’t have his number. We just run into each other—we don’t plan anything.”

“Well, I think there’s something.”

“You always think there’s something.”

“No, I—”

“(Y/N)?”

You and Yeri turn to see Chan, along with his friend, who holds a skateboard in one hand. You all stand near the entrance of the library; you two were going in and they were just leaving.

Yeri’s clearly confused, but puts two and two together when your eyes light up.

“Hey!” You step a bit closer to him, taking a look at his outfit. “I almost couldn’t spot you for a second. I’m so used to the uniform.”

“Yeah, I am a bit more casual today, in case you haven’t been able to tell.”

“Hmm,” you hum along with a teasing smile. “Were you going for broke student chic?”

“Always.” He mirrors your smile with one of his own. You both stand there for a bit in your own bubble—with you ignoring Yeri’s smug look and Chan ignoring Hansol’s look of disappointment.

“Oh, speaking of being broke,” you say. “You working this weekend?”

“As always. You have another date on Saturday?”

“As always.”

“Who’s the poor sucker this time?”

You roll your eyes at his words. “Maybe you’ll get to meet him this time. He’s really nice so we’ll see how it goes.”

Chan lets out a small laugh, nodding along. “Alright, I got some plans so I’ll see you Saturday?”

“I’ll be there.”

“Bye.”

“Bye.” You give him a little wave with your fingers as you step back next to Yeri. You head into the library, shushing Yeri and her little jabs about Chan.

Meanwhile, Hansol steps next to Chan, coming into his peripheral vision. He doesn’t say anything; he just shakes his head and clicks his tongue.

“What, Hansol?” Chan asks. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Hansol sighs heavily, rubbing his temples. “You’re so whipped and you don’t even know it. I’m so sad for you.” He puts a hand on Chan’s shoulder. “Ignorance is bliss, my friend.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Nothing, nothing.”

Chan gives him a look, before hesitantly speaking further. “It’s not like that, you know.”

“Hmm, I’m sure it isn’t.” Hansol flashes a fake smile. “Now, now—let’s get to the dance studio. We still have to meet the others there.”

“Okay, weirdo.”

Saturday rolls around earlier than you had originally thought. You’d almost forgotten about the date until you had received Jungwoo’s text a couple of hours before. That text gave you enough time to quickly sort out and arrange your outfit (with the help of your roommate). So, by the time he shows up at your door, you easily manage to follow suit and head to the restaurant.

Compared to the other dates you’ve had, you haven’t had one as polite as Jungwoo. He asks about you, along with your interests, when you ask about him. He opens doors for you and he even covered your head when you got in the car. You haven’t even been on the actual date yet, but you’re already having a great time.

Right now, he drives down the familiar road to Asianly Classics. You both agreed on a radio station, which plays a soft melody to go along with the evening mood. He continues to ask you about this and that, the conversation flowing between you.

You hadn’t even noticed you had already arrived. After he successfully parks, you both head out of the car and towards the main entrance. Jungwoo eyes the place, taking in the atmosphere and aroma.

“I haven’t been here,” Jungwoo says. “Is the food good?”

You give him a smile. “I recommend this place to everyone. Trust me, it’s great.”

The both of you head inside, stopping at the podium. The host arrives and grabs two menus. “Table for two?”

Jungwoo smiles at her. “Yes, thank you.”

The both of you follow her through the restaurant and are seated into a comfortable booth in the corner. Jungwoo opens the menu and starts browsing, while you immediately open to the noodles page—already prepared as to what you were going to order.

“Everything here looks good,” he says. “Is it wrong to order two appetizers, an entree and a dessert?” He asks with a playful glint in his eye.

You let out a small laugh. “It would be worth it, trust me.”

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I wouldn’t make you pay for all of that.”

“Aha, well, thanks.”

“Good evening, I’m Chan and I’ll be your server for this evening.”

You look up from Jungwoo, from hearing Chan’s voice. Your jaw drops at his change of demeanor, hiding it behind the menu and away from Jungwoo’s eyes. He raises an eyebrow at you in response, dropping it once Jungwoo’s attention is on him.

“Are there any appetizers you would like to order?” Chan asks.

“Not at the moment,” Jungwoo says with a smile. “Unless I could be convinced?” He looks up from the menu to look at you.

“I think I’m good,” you say. “But, if you want a recommendation, I would say the papaya salad is worth it.”

“Another choice is the crab rangoon,” Chan says. “The chef uses her own secret recipe for the filling and it’s amazing.”

“He’s right,” you say. You look from Chan to Jungwoo. “It is amazing.”

“Well, damn,” Jungwoo says. He sets the menu down and looks at you once more. “I am convinced and will order the crab rangoon, along with the kimchi stew for my entree.”

“Crab rangoon and kimchi stew,” Chan mutters as he writes. You have to stifle your giggles from his concentration on the pen and pad. When he looks up, your lips pressed together, holding back a smile. “The usual for you?”

You nod. “Thank you, Chan.”

“Please let me know if you need anything else,” Chan says with a smile.

“Thank you.”

He takes your menus and gives you both another smile. With that, he walks back to the back to give your orders to the chef. Your eyes linger on his figure. He turns back once more and you give him another smile, before he turns away again.

“So, you’re a regular here?” Jungwoo asks.

Your attention focuses back on him. “Yeah, I come here often.”

“I can tell,” Jungwoo says with a chuckle. “You two are close?”

“Close enough,” you say. “You know, Chan goes to our university too.”

“Really?” Jungwoo pokes his head up and tries to find Chan. “I thought he looked familiar.”

“Yeah, he’s a dance major.”

Jungwoo smiles, but there’s something about it that makes you tilt your head. “You seem to know a lot about him to just ‘come here often.’”

“Well, we do run into each other a lot at the library.” You try to think how often you talk to Chan. “And the dining halls.” Your head tilts. “And the university gym... I see him a lot more than I originally thought.”

“Interesting, isn’t it?” Jungwoo asks.

“Interesting how?”

“Interesting how we start to pay attention to things when others point them out,” he says. He takes a sip of his water before speaking up once more. “Do what you will with that information.”

“Exactly what do you think I should be doing with that information?”

“Something that will get you done with all these fake dates and on one that you’d actually enjoy.”

“I’m enjoying this date though,” you say. “Are you not enjoying this date?”

“No, I’m enjoying it,” he says. “But I just want you to know, you should pay a bit more attention to those around you.”

“What’d you mean?”

“Just…” He shrugs, struggling to find the words.

“Please don’t beat around the bush,” you say.

“Okay, okay,” he says. “I just think you should be spending time on these dates with someone who you want to go on dates with…”

“Like who?”

His eyebrows raise at you and his head is tilting towards the direction of Chan, where he’s currently serving another table.

You sigh, leaning your chin in your hand. “Why does everyone keep saying that? We’re… acquaintances, barely even friends.”

“Really?” he asks. He crosses his arms. “You looked more excited to see him than you did me like twenty minutes ago.”

You were already sick of Yeri talking about it and now, someone you’re on a date with? While you know your relationship with Chan is…. different, it really is just an acquaintanceship (if that’s even a thing). You literally don’t have his number, which means no plans are made—ultimately ruling friendship. On the other hand, you do appreciate the time you get with him, whenever you do run into him. Now that you think about it, your friends do make those weird faces (which you mostly ignore) whenever you talk to, or about, him.

“... Did I?”

He nods. “Look, (Y/N),” he says, leaning on the table. “It’s not my business, but... I wouldn’t mind getting my food to-go to, say, walk my dog.” He gives you a gentle smile, resting his hand on yours, as if for assurance. “Just say the word and I’ll go on a nightly walk with Obok; it’s up to you.”

Your lips press, thinking for a bit. It’s rude to just ask Jungwoo to leave, so you could hang out with someone else. On the other hand….

Your eyes move away from Jungwoo’s and focus on Chan, who’s a couple of tables behind him. His eyes are in little crescents, as he laughs from a joke his co-worker makes. His nose is scrunched up and his decorative glasses are just on the edge of his nose. While his hair is slightly messy, his waiter uniform is nice and orderly, showcasing his legs and fit waist.

Looking back to Jungwoo, you give him a smile, lightly squeezing his hand. You couldn’t think of anything else to say, so you say the only thing that comes to mind. “Thanks, Jungwoo.”

He taps the table and gives you another smile. Wordlessly, he stands up and gives you (what he believes is) a discreet thumbs up. He walks towards the counter and chats with the host there, probably asking for his meal to be boxed. On the other hand, Chan gets back to your table once your date has left.

“What happened to him?” Chan asks with a pout. “He was cool.”

You innocently shrug your shoulders. “He said he has to walk his dog, so…”

“Sorry about your date.” He gives a half smile, as he sits down at the empty seat in front of you. “At least he’s still paying.”

You stifle a laugh. “I feel kind of bad.” You pause, glancing at Jungwoo’s back. “He’s been really nice to me and I was actually having a good time.”

“Well,” Chan says. “I’m assuming you still want your food?”

“Of course,” you say. “I’m not going to decline free food.”

He can’t hold back his smile, shaking his head along with it. “Why would I think so otherwise?” He gets up. “Don’t worry, it’s gonna be out soon.”

You give him another smile and he walks off to check on your meal. On the other hand, Jungwoo walks out with a paper bag in one hand and waves you goodbye with the other.

You think about what Jungwoo’s said… maybe you should just ask Chan out and see how things go. Honestly, there isn’t much for you to lose—considering that you don’t share classes or friends.

As you were mentally trying to weigh your pros and cons, your thoughts are interrupted as your plate is set in front of you. Your head snaps towards Chan, who looks down at you with a soft smile.

“Enjoy your meal, (Y/N).”

“Thanks.”

Just as he turns away, you grab onto his wrist. He turns back.

“Something wrong?”

“Uh.” You blink, not fully processing what you’d just done. “Sorry.” You let go of his arm. “That was kind of aggressive.”

He only smiles. “You’re okay. Did you need something else?”

You let out an awkward chuckle. “Um, when do you get off tonight?”

“You’re lucky,” he says. “I get off around 7:30.” He gives you a questionable look. “Why?”

“You wanna hang out after your shift?”

There’s a light blush on his cheeks and he clears his throat. “Um, sure, if you want to.”

“I’m not trying to pressure you or anything,” you say. “I just thought we could spend some time together…”

He gives a smile that gets bigger and bigger with each second, which you can’t help but to mirror. “Yeah, no. I, uh—I’d like that.”

“Okay.” Your smile grows. “Just let me know, okay?”

“Okay, and don’t worry,” he says. “I’ll pay, especially since I know how much you love men paying for you.”

“Oh my god, shut up. Just because a couple of guys pay for dinner—”

“Uh-huh, a couple. Maybe a couple dozen.”

You close your eyes, trying to manage your breathing. You lean on the table, glancing up at him. “Chan, you’re lucky I like you.”

Chan smiles before turning back around, unable to stop the butterflies fluttering in his stomach.

“This place is so cool,” you say. You spin a bit in your stool, but manage to maintain eye contact with Chan. “How’d you know about this place?”

“I used to work here during high school,” he says, fiddling with his fingers. “It was really fun because it was literally just high schoolers and college kids. Our boss was the only ‘mature adult’ and she didn’t come around often.”

You hum, taking in the old ice cream parlor. It’s designed to look like a diner—almost like Oberweis. A checkered pattern of red and white squares and triangles filled the top half of the walls, which your eyes couldn’t help but to follow around. The corners of the ice cream shop have some faux marble decorations on little white shelves, along with the lining of the walls, making it a bit more old-fashioned.

The burgundy colored booths are placed along the walls, which seated families, couples, and friends. Meanwhile, the larger space is occupied with small, round, white tables with red chairs, on top of a black and white checkered floor. You and Chan sit on stools that are placed along the countertop, waiting for your orders to arrive.

He’s still in his uniform, but the top few buttons are unbuttoned (which you may or may not have stared at as he did it) and his bowtie is completely undone, laying on his shoulders. He keeps his glasses on, even though he told you they’re for decorative purposes.

“I heard that working at an ice cream shop is good for your arms,” you say.

“Yeah,” he says. “Good for your arms, but bad for your wrists and your stomach.”

“Stomach?”

“You have no idea how much ice cream I ate that year.”

You laugh at the look Chan gives you and he smiles.

“It’s all fun and games until you’ve gained like ten pounds,” he adds.

“I think it’d be fun to work in an ice cream shop,” you say. “Obviously, food service is horrible in general, but… it must be fun to work with such people of similar age.”

“Customers for food service are always a pain in the ass,” Chan says. “That’s universal.”

At that time, your server arrives and places your orders down. The both of you thank him. You silently raise your ice cream and he raises his, lightly tapping against yours.

“Cheers,” he says.

“Cheers.”

For a moment, it’s quiet between the two of you. You both eat your ice cream, taking in the lively atmosphere.

“You know,” you say. “I think this is the first time we’ve officially hung out together.”

“I think you’re right,” Chan says with a laugh. “I would’ve remembered if we did.”

“You would’ve?”

“Yeah,” he says softly. “You know, you’re kind of unforgettable.”

Your smile grows. “Really?”

“Yeah.” He exhales, blowing up towards his bangs a bit. For a moment, he hesitates on speaking—biting his lower lip. Your gaze fixates on that a bit longer than you’d like to admit. “If you don’t mind, I want to ask you something.”

“Shoot.”

“What—what happened tonight?” He explains, when your head tilts at the question. “Like, what chased your date away and led you to me?”

You let out a small laugh. “First of all, I love the choice of words.”

“You know what I mean though.”

“Second of all, I didn’t ‘chase him away’ because he chose to leave on his own.” You fiddle with your spoon, splitting your ice cream repeatedly. “We were having a nice conversation.”

“And?”

“I don’t know. We were just talking and he said…” You sigh. “He implied that I needed a push in the right direction to do the things I wanted to do.”

“The right direction of what?”

Your eyes shift and you fully focus on your, now melting, ice cream. “Just… where I should be spending time and who I choose to spend it with.”

Chan gets quiet. “And that’s me?”

“Yeah,” you manage to say.

It’s barely above a whisper and, yet, Chan still managed to hear it. He clears his throat, trying to ignore the blood rushing to his cheeks. He doesn’t hide his smile, even when he looks at you.

“I guess I could say now…” he starts to say. “I liked being behind the scenes for your dates, but.. I didn’t really like the guys you were with.”

“Chan.” You place your hand on his. “They weren’t awful.”

“I know,” he says. “It’s just that they could have been so much better.” He pauses. “I do like that Jungwoo guy though. He’s pretty cool.”

You laugh at that. “Well, I wouldn’t be here if he didn’t give me the push, so… yeah, he’s pretty cool.” You pause. “I’m still surprised though.”

“Surprised about what?”

“Surprised that you’re okay with me and… manipulating men into buying me dinner.”

“The thing is,” he says. “Is that I know you’re not inherently bad.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because.” He tucks a stand of hair behind your ear. “From what I’ve seen behind the facade, you aren’t different, just—you’re just more quiet.” He corrects himself. “Not that you’re loud or anything, just—just that the guys you’re with don’t really get to know you and that’s… that’s not what a date is supposed to be like.”

“What is a date supposed to be like then?”

“Hopefully,” he says. “I can take you on a better one next time?”

“Yeah,” you say, interlocking your fingers with his. “I’d be up for that.”

44 notes · View notes

almasidaliano · 4 years ago

Text

Almasi for President

so in about 12 to 16 years, i am running for president. i do not believe the world will have ended then, though i do believe things will be different. hoping for better, not, not expecting worse. our system is broken. all of the systems are broken. the government is corrupt. the justice system is corrupt. those in charge are turning blind eyes, covering things up, and allowing the fall of our country. i will not be surprised if a civil war commences; although i'm also thinking they are going to really create and push for a purge. we are in real trouble then. that just goes back to what i said, are you standing for something or dying for nothing?

people were excited for biden to win. and i have to say, i was not one of them. biden seems like another puppet to me. obama was a puppet. he was his vp. crazy how biden is president and he has a black female vp now. that sounds like a win huh? wrong, she contributed to the failed prosecution of the officers who murdered Oscar Grant. that went over everyone's head during the election though. trump was just so bad had to get him out. biden is anti LGBTQ+. everyone wanted to put it on trump folks getting rowdy and such however, biden won and nothing changed.

trump's slogan was "make america great again." personally, i think he could have. trump's a businessman and to say the least, entertainment. they gave trump four years, why do you think they didn't renew his contract? because he was playing them. trump is a classist. he doesn't like poor people. personally, i think he just believes hardwork pays off, his did and so he just holds everyone to the standard he held himself. there are circumstances, however i think that's fair. he said all this racist shit everyone got mad. yet, he won by a landslide because the country said they would still rather this "bigoted, racist, sexist, classist asshole" than a woman. then the country complained the whole time. he exposed america and instead of society shining light and doing something they continued to do what we have been doing; pointing blame.

the system has failed us. the system failed us a long time ago. all trump did was present a call to action. the one thing i can give rednecks is they patriotic as fuck. they want the america they invision type shit. i feel like melanated people in general struggle with that because america never felt like home. america never wanted us here. but the fact of the matter is, this all we know. this is home now. there are 3 real options. 1. go back to where your bloodline stems. 2. sit and conform, hope they dont get you. 3. defend your rights, your home, and your people; come out on top or die trying. you have to pick something though. we have to do something because they those set to protect us are out to get us.

we do not have a democratic government not even a representative democracy like we once thought. sorry if you were today years old when you found out. we operate out of a republic; a constitutional federal republic. what's the difference? in a democracy, all that voting that we do, matters. even if it was a representative democracy. we would have representatives to disclose our decisions. the electoral college makes final decisions on elections.

a constitutional federal republic means that the constitution which is the law of the land governs the land. if this is the law of the land, why do we have sub laws? the constitution needs to be amended. want to fix the race and inequality issues? let me tell you how, real easy fix. call a convention. take out any amendment that gives rights to people AND reword the beginning anyway folks see fit so that women and americans from all ethnic backgrounds get the same level of respect and rights. there will always be an unspoken division until things like that are rectified. before black people got rights we were not even counted as complete people, simply 3/5s of a person. life liberty and the pursuit of happiness. these are unalienable rights. my very existence guarantees me these rights.

the judicial system coupled with the criminal law system are hopeful, and still in need of reform. prisons are privately owned institutions, which are supposed to be forms of rehabilitation. instead, they are condemning people and treating them inhumanely; creating the same environment they were in on the outside, on in the inside conditioning them to be stuck in these ways as means of survival and then continue to place blame on them. officers need to take crimes more seriously. people are people, bias, prejudices, and profiling have no place in the workplace. officers are corrupt, arresting kids for selling, who just are trying to help their mother with the bills, then turning around and selling it back out on the streets. officers are wrongfully convictind and killing predominately (as far as the media is broadcasting) though not only melanated people. on top of that, they are walking free. lives are being lost and they arent even losing their jobs. tax dollars are going towards keeping them safe. however, if a civilian shoots a cop. up the river for them.

lawyers aren't fighting hard enough. especially defense attorneys. it is fairly simple to get a conviction with the right information, proving innocence is always a bit more complicated. the problem is that attorneys get too big eyed. they looking at how to get their clients off, accountability is another taboo in this society. there are a multitude of people who are innocent behind bars, as well as those who received heinous outrageous sentences. that is not right.

people factor more than necessary when trying to make a decision, yet they ignore the things that remind them a person is human. its this art contest over who can paint the best picture of the defendant. which story is easy for a jurors bias to sway? how people look matters. and it shouldn't. our government since the building of america, has created dividing markers.

just like with royal kingdoms, the wife couldn't have things of her own. her role was cleaning, cooking, taking care of the kids, and whatever else was asked of her. if there was a divorce, the woman got nothing. they had no rights. imagine being the first born as a female in a royal family and being told you can't have your kingdom, correction you can but you must marry to get it. then if you get married the new king running things not you. what is that? its called patriarchy. our government is run off a patriarchy as well.

so i never really believed there could be like a true separation of church and state because every law and decision made was based on people's morals and beliefs. there is supposed to be a separation of church and state yet, due to people's religious beliefs gay marriage had to get legalized, despite there being no law for heterosexual marriage. would that not make it illegal? since gay marriage had to be legalized though there was not a law for it either? then on top of that, how do you make it a law, and still for religious reasons, ministers and such can refuse? there are always stipulations and hinderances for the rights of those who are not white men.

ABORTION: i really do not know why we are still having this conversation. its literally conversations like this that have me looking at americans like--- seriously? once again there should be a separation of church and state. so religion cannot be a reason to outlaw it. how can you put out a law that dictates what someone can do with their body? all of life, i mean every part of life should be pro-choice. its just that simple. Pro-Choice. i am all for the right to decide for yourself. and men want to feel a way about women making that decision on their own. and while i do stand behind the fact that ultimately it is the womans decision, that does not mean she can't listen to an opinion. it is a part of the woman, literally grows inside of her an entire being. and fathers can just dip out and folks will just look at the mom and suddenly she should just become super woman. the pressure that comes with having a child is enough on its own. like thats a being that is dependent on you. some people are honest with themselves and know they arent ready or dont want it. all they need is support. the mental toll life takes on us is huge as well. still people do not consider that at all.

there is no point of incarcerating people, if they have still lost a chance at a decent life once they get out. jail is for rehabilitation. they go, do their time and then they are supposed to be allowed to try again. our government knows nothing of redemption, that's why all the top leaders go through so much to hide their dirt. they crucify civilians trying to make themselves seem superior, really they are just like you and i. almasi for president. im going to save the world.

-Almasi

#actuality #thetruth #glitch in the matrix #blacklivesmatter

2 notes · View notes

theangrypokemaniac · 4 years ago

Note

its fine if you dont like alola but can you not make incest jokes?

I'm not joking. I'm serious.

Alola, or, as I prefer, La Boca del Infierno, ain't all sunshine and smiles as it pretends. Beneath that plastic exterior lies true darkness.

What am I meant to think when I see this?

There's swimming pools bigger than the gene pools down their way!

Although described as 'twins', it's really triplets, but Lana suffers a prematurely ageing growth abnormality.

Children I expect to bear a similarity to their parents, but the moms 'n' dads ain't meant to look like each other!

Everyone here has blue barnets and Inside-Out Eye, where the pupil's the white and the white's the pupil.

Sight defects are notorious in the 'close-knit' communities.

Each insists on hair decoration, but it's almost part of their heads, which you can call bad animation or deformity resulting from too much intermarriage.

Momma's 'thing' just resembles lumps.

It's them space ticks at it again.

Even the hedgehog is round in this house, which may imply he's an illegitimate offspring of one of 'em.

What about inbreeding suggests practitioners won't stoop to even greater infamy?

Stufful's dad never arrived did he?

Funny that, and a bachelor like Oakie-Dokie residing nearby knew nothing about it.

All that bathing in Cuprenol does terrible things to a man.

Ever wondered what'd go down in the marriage of Tweedledum and Tweedledee? Well here you are, yer deviant.

A pair of pudding-faced, gormless Cabbage Patch Dolls, each with snouts, black button eyes and glandular issues, and they don't share DNA even when they do?

Oh yes, Lusamine met a total stranger also possessing her lime pies and effusive mane of unruly, ice-blonde slats.

Total coincidence there.

He came to Alola, he says. On a prison ship.

It's just one head in triplicate!

Oversized an' all: sure sign of genetic tomfoolery.

Dot Nose, Bridge Nose, Fish Eye: bloody serious case we have on our hands.

Now you understand why she failed to remarry: no other brothers cuts yer options ter nil.

Incest is of course, relative.

Whatever dæmon they worship, some are more pious about it than their fellow perverts.

The more dedicated the believer, the greater insistence on keeping things running in the family.

They'll show off their interwoven connections to the neighbours in a smug game of one-upmanship.

The more lapsed follower will tolerate copulation with distant kin.

These sinners are naturally despised and forced into menial labour, whereas the fanatics just so happen to be rolling in wealth.

Consider:

• Lana's family get by on a fisherman's salary, apparently.

Yeah, yeah, as if the state doesn't have to subsidise their medical bills.

• Sophocles don't go hungry, he has a lab, a giant hamster wheel, a portable hologram in a Pikachu, and he's so rich he not only had the roof fixed, but can move down the road in the meantime.

Oi! The rest of us get by putting a bucket under the leak!

• Lillie has every material possession possible, but no spine or company.

Oh the irony that top sickos should be so resistant to the lure of family obligation.

Hey, yer didn't say that earlier!

• Lusamine is fawned upon for her pwehshush research to the extent she can abandon her children, turning her daughter into a nervous wreck and her son a moody, absent drifter, and it's up to them to understand her work comes first.

• Mohn (by name and nature) fannied about with worm holes until he got sucked off by another dimension.

What did yer think would happen?

Yet on his return, is he knocked on his arse as he deserves?

No, because of incest privileges. The in-group take care of their own, and worse.

Mallow's mater and pater both share hair, thick brows and close-together peepers of murky green.

The contrast in noses suggests something lesser than siblings, but then again other differing aspects are forgivable.

She is of a lighter pallor, being dead, and wanting an open coffin, had a shave beforehand, which is a frightening nod to morality.

Woman, are you ashamed of our love?

Well Abe went along with it, thus is also culpable of this grotesque bristle denial.

Being unclean, he's gotta cook the dinner.

And this lot milk the cows.

On the surface, Kiawe's old 'uns aren't identical. You might think some heretical decency has finally sneaked in under the oppressive Alola regime, but it ain't that simple.

These people pray to a volcano as if an earthbound deity, so are nutters.

One aspect you must remember:

Ol' Granpappy the Island Kakuna, i.e. a dried-up chrysalis.

'Cause Pappy got Momma's tufts...

And Dadda's humourless mouth, oblong head, straight-line nose, rectangular eyes and pin pupils.

Well that's not how it's s'posed to go!

I'm thinking Granpappy, as one of them there Kakunas, is in a position of power high enough that he's able to wilfully flaut the laws he imposes on others, like how popes had kids in the Good Old Days and no one took a blind bit o' notice.

He's a rebel I tells yer.

He don't play by the rules.

No sister-wife for him.

Not when he's got a sexy cousin a-waitin'.

A little bit of new blood's crept in, disgracefully so, that's why the whole lot's punished by living near an active volcano.

Surrender 'em to the flames!

Kiawe makes such a big deal about Pappy, and sod the other three grandparents.

Except he only had two!

What is the explanation?

1. Bone-idle writing team.

Character design is foundational stuff. If yer can't even be arsed to do that properly, nothing you do is worthwhile.

I mean, come on, repeating the same model that blatantly?

Halfwits so limited in imagination shouldn't be working in any creative industries.

I blame modern diets.

A whole generation's grown up timid and risk averse because they were taught to fear E. numbers as kids.

I make it a rule to suspect any sod unaware of the joy of a blue tongue.

They've never lived, man!

Where did you think it'll end when dangerous, pretend edibles like houmous, avocados and quinoa replace the wholesome, nourishing fare of biscuits, cake and crisps?

Stop toying with the fundamental principles of the universe!

The mess of the modern era screams systematic abuse of too much kale and not enough sugar.

2. Incest

Alola is extremely insular.

It's implied to be a tourist destination, but no amount of degenerate outside influence appears to have diluted the weird customs it still upholds.

They didn't even think of starting a League until Ash turned up with all his wild exoticism, and why's that?

A. Inbreeding has destroyed their capability for innovation.

B. Many thousands of years ago, Alola got well annoyed its dirty habits weren't exactly catching on as it strove to spread the Satanic message.

Thoroughly confounded in its plans for world conquest, Alola shut itself off in a purification ritual, which is why later developments popular elsewhere, such as replacing beasts of burden with machines, never caught on.

3. Alola isn't Hawaii, it's a combination of Australia, a penal colony, and Crete, where lived the lepers.

Specifically it's a dumping ground for all the regions' sex offenders to keep their own societies clean.

Of course, the guilty took their nearest and dearest along too, since they were on the receiving end, and loved it.

This explains the large amount of foreign Pokémon, since the owners are also from abroad.

Now I think 'anging's too good for 'em, but these wet-willy countries insist on storing up trouble for themselves, for if cinema has taught us anything, it is that mutants will always escape.

Nature finds a way, however abominable.

Since so many on Tumblr simply love Alola, they aren't about to admit the slightest weakness in the creators' abilities.

Therefore, incest is the acceptable answer to all and sundry.

#pokémon #lana #lana's parents #sophocles #sophocles's parents #lillie #lusamine #mohn #mallow #mallow's mom #abe #kiawe #sima #rango #kiawe's grandfather #alola #inbox

12 notes · View notes

all-hail-the-witcher · 5 years ago

Text

one expensive can of easy cheese

crack head hours my kids

also inspired by a hot guy i saw at walgreens today

the walgreens chaos returns

______

ship: ralbert

genre: crackhead angst

words: who knows, not super long

warnings: mentions of a twine kink, easy cheese, concussions, walgreens, race thinks another guy is hot, uhhh, hot men in scrubs, minor bits of violence, new yorkers been new yorkers, albert is a dumbass, race is more of a dumbass

editing: nah

_____

Race was sat on top of the counter in his and Albert’s apartment, a piece of duct tape over his mouth and his hands tied together with kitchen twine. He sighed against his restraints, resigned to watch his boyfriend make their contribution to this year’s Thanksgiving gathering: mac and cheese.

Now, of course everyone and their mother knew that mac and cheese was not a Traditional Thanksgiving Food. But, Albert had won (best out of three) mario kart yesterday so he had gotten to decide what they would bring to Jack’s house. Had Race known that he had been planning to make mac and fucking cheese, maybe he would have tried a little harder.

Apparently, Albert was not pleased with Race’s reaction to his decision to make mac and cheese, and thought that Race might try to get in the way somehow (which he may or may not have fully intended to do). So he did what any loving boyfriend would: sat him on the counter, put duct tape over his mouth and tied his hands together so he wouldn’t interfere.

Race was beginning to wonder why he had agreed to move in with Albert in the first place.

With a violent shake of his head and one final spat, he was able to dislodge the duct tape.

“Albieeeeee,” he whined, laying down on the counter. “Can you pleaaaaaaaseee let me helllllllllp?”

Albert barely glanced up as he pulled the big wooden spoon out of the pot and gave it a thoughtful lick. “Hmmmmmmm. No.”

“But-!” He wriggled around to give Albert his best puppy dog eyes. “Can I make something else then? Ple-OW!” He glared at the spatula that had been hurled at his arm. “You apologize for that!”

“Nah.” He smirked and went back to stirring his wretched pasta. Well, actually Albert’s mac and cheese was quite good. Race was just salty that he was making it for Thanksgiving when it was very well known that he was the chef of the two and Jack was expecting something good not the mac and cheese Albert famously made at 2am in college when they were all high as hell.

“Can you at least untie me then?”

“No.” Albert even bother considering this time.

“Well.” If logic wasn't going to work on Albert he would have to try another method. “I know you know how to make a guy feel good Albie, but I never expected ropes to be a part of it. What’s next? Handcuffs? Whips? Chains?”

In two seconds flat Race was out of his kitchen twine bonds and flexing his sore wrists.

“Man Albie, who knew you had a twine kink.”

“You know,” Albert began loudly, as if thinking that his loudness would cover up his totally obvious twine kink, “if you want to do something that's actually useful, you could go to Walgreens and buy me another can of Easy Cheese.”

“Is that what you put in your fuckin mac and cheese?” Race swore he actually felt bile rise in the back of his throat when Albert nodded. “That’s it. I’m never eating your mac and cheese again.”

“But-!”

“I’ll eat you though,” Race winked, taking a moment to enjoy the startled, yet somehow pleased look on his boyfriend’s face.

“Not until after we’re done at Jack’s.” Albert said only half jokingly as he dug around in his pocket for a second before throwing a crumpled five at Race. “In the meantime though, be gone thot!”

Race barely managed to catch the bill without falling on the floor, but still blew a kiss to Albert before walking out of the apartment.

Who the fuck puts easy cheese in mac and cheese? He wondered for the millionth time as he stomped the three blocks to Walgreens. Albert claimed that he had chosen his apartment for its proximity to the store, but up until today Race had always assumed that he had been joking. The man did make a lot of mac and cheese and if Easy Cheese was an ingredient well….maybe there was some truth to that story after all.

Race pulled open the door to the Walgreens, pausing briefly to wonder why the absolute fuck it was open on literal Thanksgiving before remembering that it was a fucking Walgreens and why wouldn’t it be open to sell his dumbass boyfriend a can of fucking Easy Cheese.

In order to get to the Easy Cheese, or at least he assumed so because he had never bought a can of Easy Cheese in his whole glorious 25 years of life, Race had to walk past the Pharmacy section of the store. And, it just so happened that there was a guy sitting behind the counter at the Pharmacy. A very attractive guy. With a beard. In scrubs.

Now, of course Race loved Albert and nothing would ever change that, but he could appreciate an attractive man when he saw one. He thanked whatever deity was out there for the bit of man candy that he had been granted and went in search of his Easy Cheese.

“Mac and cheese, velveta cheese, microwaveable mac and cheese, where the fuck is the- oh thank fuck there we go.” He pulled a can of Easy Cheese off of the shelf, tossing it once and catching it before turning to go pay for the horrendous product, happy to finally be done with the whole ordeal when-

“Easy cheese? Really?”

Race whirled around to see Mr. Man Candy himself leaning against the opposite shelf. “Wh- who?”

“Oh,” he dusted his hand off on his scrubbs, “allow me to introduce myself. My name is Brett O’Hare. And you, sir, are a disgrace to society. The very reason why so many Americans are in poor health in this day and age.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“The Easy Cheese!” Brett gestured wildly toward the can in Race’s hand. “Gosh do you even know how many preservatives are in that stuff? And all the cancers that it can cause? It’s terrible. We wouldn’t need free healthcare if people just stopped eating Easy Cheese!”

Race had lived in New York City his whole life, and he had seen some pretty strange things, but never had he seen a pharmacist in a Walgreens lecture anyone about the health benefits of Easy Cheese.

“So let me get this straight,” Race rubbed his head, trying to make sense of the situation. “You go around yelling at people about the ingredients in the things that they are purchasing?”

“Yeah.”

“You do realize that this is a Walgreens, right? Everything in here probably contains some kind of chemical.” New Yorkers never ceased to amaze him.

“All the more reason for me to inform them of their poor eating habits!” Brett pointed a finger at him. “And stop distracting me! You’re the one buying the freaking easy cheese here!”

“It’s not even for me!” Race shouted back. “It’s for my boyfriend’s fucking mac and cheese that he insisted on making for Thanksgiving even though everyone knows that mac and cheese is not a fucking Thanksgiving food and he’s only making it cause he knocked me off the goddamn rainbow road right before the fucking finish line!” Race was fuming but the time that he was done.

“Oh, man I’m so sorry, that's lousy.”

Race looked surprised. Of all the things that he thought he would get out of this Walgreens experience, a therapy session was indeed not on the list. But neither had been hearing a lecture about the preservatives in Easy Cheese from a pharmacist.

“But that doesn’t change the fact that you’re still buying Easy Cheese!” Between one second and the next, Brett had grabbed the can of Easy Cheese out of Race’s hand, wielding it like a brick. “Buy some fucking vegetables!”

And with that, he struck Race over the head with the can of Easy Cheese.

Now, Race had definitely done some questionable things during his life. Once he had slept on the roof of his dorm building in January for a week because he lost his dorm key, and another time he had been tricked into making an entire wedding cake using salt. However, being smacked over the head with a can of Easy Cheese by a health nut in scrubs on Thanksgiving put any and all other situations he had been in to shame.

He opened his eyes, suddenly blinded by the lights, and reached for his phone, muttering curses about man candy and vegetables. Squinting so he didn’t have to look at the screen, he somehow managed to dial Albert.

“Racetrack Higgins, where is my Easy Cheese?”

Race pulled the phone away from his ear and winced at the sound of his boyfriend’s voice. “Um, it may have been used to give me a concussion by a health nut in scrubs?”

Albert let out a loud sigh. “Ah man, did you run into Brett? That guy’s the worst.”

“Wait, you know him?”

“Race, I know every Walgreens employee in Manhattan, of course I know Brett.” There was the jangling of keys in the background. “I thought I told you to go to the one on 4th for this reason, ah, well. I’m on my way. I’ll take you to urgent care. Hang tight.”

Race’s head hurt too much to process what Albert had said except for the words ‘I’m on my way.’ “Okay,” he sighed.

“Love you.”

“Love you too.” Race’s eyes focused on the dented can of Easy Cheese rolling on the floor. “And Al?”

“Yeah?”

“This is going to be one expensive can of Easy Cheese.”

______

that was a ride

feedback is always appreciated hmm if you wanna be on the tag list

tag list

@fairly-awkward-trashcan

@well-the-kids-do-too

@racetrackcook

@ughwaitwhat

@aw-jus-let-em-try

@voice-foundshoe-lost

@stopthe-presses

@ridin-in-style

@pinecovewoods

@i-got-no-clue-what-im-doing

@getchapapes

@be-more-chill-evan-hansen

@stellar-alpaca

@saxoph-ella

@smolcanadiankid

@disney-princess-sized

@the-newsies-justice-for-zas-blog

@insane-tomato

@spot-conlon-king-of-brooklyn

@have-we-got-news-for-you

@thatfancyclam

@myidkwhatmynameisblog

@legoflambwrites

@not-a-scab

@albertdasillvaprotectionsquad

@entschuldigung-bitches

@thebroadwayaesthetic

@tea-and-theater

@seasickdolphin

@auspicioustarantula

@newsies-of-ny

@mrs-higgins

@spot-me50-papes

@papesdontsellthemselves

@deathcast-s

@the-poodles-of-pulitzer

@hopefully-not-the-ghostbusters

@humanracoon

@irondad-spiderson-duo

@albert-eats-cookie-cake

@nico-nat

@localfakeitalian

@carryyourownbanner

@warmwoolysweaters

@spot-the-brooklyn-pirate

@writing-makes-me-antsy

@racetrackyeetgins

#saphie scribbles #newsies #newsies fic #ralbert #racetrack higgins #albert dasilva #walgreens au #i hate my branding thanks #this actually came out good #im surprises #happy thanksgiving my kids

56 notes · View notes

split-n-splice · 5 years ago

Photo

Anon requested an update so I'm doing that in a timely manner for once.

[Chapter Guide]

24. Welfare Check – 6

A little orange bottle of her past had come back to haunt her.

The longer Shilo lay awake staring at the prescription drug, the more it felt as if the bottle was mocking her. That might have been a figment of her imagination, but one thing wasn’t: her family didn’t trust her. Why else would they deliver a suppressant disguised as a sleep aid? They still thought she was a danger to society, didn’t they? They were right, of course, but it still stung.

It had been hours since she’d gone to bed. Eventually she groaned and rolled over to face the wall, skewing her eyes shut – only to throw the blankets back and hurl the damned bottle into the bathroom trash, so she could shut the door to put that much more space between her and the pills.

Only to fish it out in the morning and stow in the medicine cabinet. She changed her mind. Tossed it at the back of her makeup drawer. Stifled a scream and put the bottle back in the cabinet next to the aspirin and generic sleep aid.

She finally dressed and sat on her bed to shovel cereal for breakfast whilst glaring at the news coverage of the bizarro clown jet that had been parked outside her apartment until ten o’clock last night. Of course it had attracted attention yesterday. How could it not? As she glared at the footage showing her residence in the background, her spoon superheated and warped in her hand. She hoped Hugo choked on his breakfast for ruining hers.

Hugo had taken her skateboard yesterday in a failed attempt to slow her down so they could chat. Bold and bullheaded as ever, he’d grabbed it from under her feet and threw it, lacking the forethought to take gravity into account or consider who the board might hit when it came down, or what window it might sail through. Without the wheels under her feet today, she had ample time to notice incognito figures darting in her peripheral.

They didn’t trust her.

They didn’t trust her with powers she’d received from Lady Fate – just as they had – any more than they trusted her to really be busy as she’d said she’d be.

If they were expecting to catch her in a drug bust or underage booze chugging or whatever miscreant activities they were so sure she squandered her days on, they had another thing coming.

As Buckley got the door for her, glaring up and down the street, Shilo couldn’t help ducking her head and hoping desperately that the presence of heroes in the vicinity due to her wouldn’t be grounds to fire her over. She liked Buckley’s Café, most of the time. It smelled nice and there were more tasty treats than she could stomach, which made up for having to fake a smile for the customers. The other gals on Buckley’s crew were starting to warm up to her too, after a sort of initiation ceremony involving dope and the robbery of the 24-Seven.

Though, they were still sour with her for her Friday disappearance. That had been alleviated somewhat thanks to serving a certain blue customer yesterday, but the elbows were starting to be prodded in her ribs in a teasing way more than distinctly passive-aggressive. She’d much rather the “accidental” elbowing though, because she’d nearly lost her cool on Abigail for whispering snide insinuations five minutes into her shift as Shilo watched the storefront waiting for a blue idiot to appear again.

She decided she would have preferred Drakken when someone she was somehow even less happy to see moseyed in.

Shilo served him like she would anyone else. In turn, her pops ordered and left like anyone else would.

The cold but peaceful exchange made her feel dumb for giving her father the stink eye upon his entry. Even if his intentions were good, she didn’t need a helicopter parent.

Aside from a couple petulant customers, that was the extent of confrontations at Buckley’s for the day. It came as little relief when she knew her brothers were out there waiting for her, probably playing up the vigilante act as they kept a lookout.

Well if they wanted to watch her, they could watch her exit out the back door and light up a smoke with her middle finger as she left for the sanctuary of the library once again.

Before she reached the end of the alley, she turned on her heel, opting out of the direct route in favor of a detour. She’d mistakenly told her brothers yesterday that she habitually hit up the library after work. They didn’t have to know exactly when she went. The library was still open for a couple of hours, so there was no rush – and hell, there was no rule she had to go to the library anyway. Plans changed. She could change her plans on a whim.

So Shilo went window shopping around Main Street, walking slow as she clutched her purse, cursing to herself for not bringing more cash than what she needed for Chow.

It was just a little too chilly out to think about ice cream, as tempting as the colorful parlor was, and the competing coffeehouse was going out of business for good reason so something hot to drink was out. Pawnshops, thrift shops, antique shops, and the likes were a dime a dozen. Shilo ventured into a couple anyway, if only because a gnarly bear trap in a window lured her into one and the other displayed fine jewelry. She might have filched a pearl necklace if it weren’t for the antique shop’s owner, an antique herself, in a rocking chair at the back with a cane and seeing-eye dog while a grandson no older than ten tended the counter. It would have been a piece of cake, but she didn’t have the heart to rob her blind or steal from the scruffy little kid. Her family might be watching her, anyway.

Shilo was venturing around one of the side streets when a gaudy purple storefront drew her eye from a block away. As she neared, she spied an equally purple arrangement of amethyst geodes in the window. Other quartz varieties were displayed around the prominent purple centerpiece, and as she cocked her head and peered in, she couldn’t shake the sense the array was familiar.

As she entered the rock shop, she realized why. A boy with fair blond hair like the sun itself sat at the counter, barely looking up from his task of polishing a stone-carved elephant as he issued a mechanical greeting, “Welcome to the Quarter Quartz.” Dazzling aquamarine eyes made up for the dull reception. He blinked as though shaking off his polishing daze and added politely, “Have a look around. Take your time, I’m here all day. Holler if you need something.”

Suddenly Shilo felt especially stupid perusing shops around town with so little cash on hand.

The quaint gift shop had a broad selection, yet was just small enough that she couldn’t hide from the aqua eyes following her. Inoffensive Gospel music played softly from speakers in the corners of the shop, just shy of obnoxious as long as she didn’t pay much attention. Which was easy, given there was so much else to take in that weren’t freakishly picture-perfect blue-eyed blond angel boys.

T-shirts with technicolor graphics, either tigers or religious hype, didn’t hold her attention any longer than bulk bins of tumbled stones and quartz tidbits, to which the shop surely owed its name. It would have been easy to pocket a few of the prettier pebbles, but she knew there were eyes on her back, even when she heard the angel boy flipping pages of a magazine. They were worthless rocks anyway.

Colorful bandanas and artsy jewelry lined the way as she crept closer to the counter, and she paused halfway there to contemplate turning and bolting out of the shop. As naturally as possible, she grabbed the first thing of interest off a shelf of shiny knickknacks made from a wide range of minerals in every color.

She inspected the small glass globe on its little pedestal. As she stared at it in her palm, a wry tune flitted through her head, and she could just hear her bluebird singing it as she mouthed to herself, “He’s got the whole world in his hands.” She grit her teeth then at the distant memory of her mother plucking away at a guitar to the very same tune.

She almost threw the globe, or at least set it down carelessly, but took a deep breath and gave the golf-ball-sized sphere a spin on its functional axis. She checked the bottom for a price tag. Twenty dollars, even. She had twenty-five on hand.

Lips pursed in thought, she cast a sidelong glance to the cheap trinkets at the checkout counter, contemplating the basket of overpriced five-dollar strings of little stone beads that served as bracelets, which she couldn’t help noticing the fidgety boy was making more of now. She looked back to the heavy glass globe in her palm.

It would make a good paperweight, she decided. And it might serve to keep Drakken’s mind on track with his whole world-domination fantasy.

Shilo resigned herself to approaching the angel-turned-cashier. And not just approaching him, doing business with him. Her hands almost glittered as she came forth and set the glass decoration between them.

As she dug into her purse at her hip for her wallet, she almost jumped at the sound of the angel boy clearing his throat.

“Find everything?” he chimed.

She made the mistake of glancing up, but he wasn’t looking at her. He was busy fidgeting away with his string of beads. Her hands were warm again, try as she might to divert it, or stamp it out, or exhale a hot breath to relieve herself of an unpleasant burning not too unlike heartburn. She couldn’t wait for the day she mastered her accursed fire completely. She’d gotten clear through high school with impromptu flare-ups. She could bear to give an angel boy with some of the prettiest blue eyes she’d ever seen her business.

After a moment, she realized she was staring mute, so she nodded and fished out the crumpled twenty dollar bill from her wallet. For a second, she hoped Drakken wouldn’t miss it. She’d meant to return the tip she’d stolen from him yesterday, but she could replace it later, along with the rest of the money she’d been taking from his wallet on a weekly basis now. He hadn’t seemed to miss any of it yet.

Paying should have been uneventful. She didn’t anticipate the boy to catch her by the wrist, swiftly clasping on a bracelet of—

“Obsidian,” he supplied. “And jasper.”

Shilo clamped her jaw shut and yanked her hand back from the boy’s baby-soft touch before she could mistakenly give him a burn that would surely leave a callus. She fumbled with the clasp, trying to get the string of black and green pebbles off, just as competently mumbling, “I-I can’t buy this. I’m only—”

“On the house,” said angel boy, already shaking out a small paper bag and padding it with tissue to cushion the glass knickknack.

As he handed her the purchase, she managed to move her jaw again to utter a simple, “Thank you,” and spun on her heel to make a getaway before he changed his mind about being dull or giving her a shiny trinket.

“God bless,” he called pleasantly after her.

Déjà vu wasn’t complete without nearly running into the door on her way out.

She really wanted to damn him now. If not for getting her flustered just by being pretty, then for the knowing chuckle that followed her out as she escaped. And if not for that – well, he just deserved it. She didn’t know what for, but there had to be something. Everyone had something.

She slowed her pace as she reached the far corner and looked back over her shoulder at the purple Quarter Quartz, then groaned and shook her head to herself as she went on her way.

Once the nauseating butterflies settled and her mind turned to scouting for her brothers scouting for her, Shilo became increasingly aware how long she’d been on her feet and how hungry she was getting. She checked the receipt in the bag for a timestamp to give herself an idea of the hour, as the cloudy sky was growing dim fast, and she had to stomp down the stirring in her belly again as she decided it was late enough to head for Cow-n-Chow.

She counted herself lucky to catch the bus, one of the scarce few in town, even if she had to run for it, relieved to hitch a ride back toward the center of town. She dug out the globe to idly spin it, but try as she might to study tiny engravings on the world map, her eyes gravitated to her wrist instead.

The rocks were pretty. Even if there didn’t seem to be any particular pattern to the tiny pebbles, and they looked a little like glorified aquarium gravel.

She’d take it off, rip it off, something, but it was her stop, so discarding the freebie trinket was put on the back burner.

Cow-n-Chow was a nice enough fast-food chain as any. Specialty burgers and milkshakes were their big sellers, and there was dining with wait staff like any nice restaurant, but there was also an express-service counter for grabbing Chow to go, and a drive-thru, and Shilo’s soles were too achy for takeaway.

She was glad the joint didn’t have much in the way for windows, making watching for her brothers popping in as easy as watching the door. Well, almost as easy. Milo was still an expert in covert infiltration.

She must have been more wiped out than she thought she was, she realized when a familiar voice made her jump.

“Mind if I sit?”

Shilo lolled her head back to cast a tired glare up at Dr. Drakken, dressed in typical civilian wear consisting of a plain black sweater and slacks, as well as his preferred gloves. His hair was loose, veiling his neck and leaving the only remarkably bizarre feature about the man being his blue face, which she was grudgingly reluctant to admit she was happy to see. It meant he hadn’t been hauled off yet.

“It’s your funeral,” she sighed and kicked his shin under the table when he slid into the little booth across from her. She cast a watchful glance around the restaurant, but he dismissed her worries before she could glare too long.

“They’re down the street at the grill,” he informed, a note of resent dripping in his grumble.

“How do you know?” Shilo snipped back at him. She narrowed her eyes on him, anticipating a confession to stalking. Though the thought of her brothers preoccupied elsewhere was comforting, and she almost relaxed.

Drakken snorted, his lip twitched into a sneer. “To tell the truth, I was headed there myself but they beat me, so now I’m here for happy hour.” He took a long sip from a chocolate milkshake he’d brought to the table with him.

Curiosity killed the cat. “There alcohol in that?” she piped, nodding to the tall glass, and he grunted confirmation. “Can I get a sip?”

“No.” He jerked back a bit and pulled it further from her.

Using it as a bargaining chip, Shilo set the sack from the Quarter Quartz on the table beside her. “I’ll let ya know what’s in the bag,” she playfully bribed. “It’s a gift for you. But I guess it can wait until Christmas. Or, I dunno, your birthday, whenever that is.” She shrugged nonchalantly, and watched as the blue man’s curious eyes locked on the bag.

She swore she could see him tensing to spring as three seconds ticked by, and then he cast a quick look around the restaurant himself before pushing the glass across the table to her. “It’s not that strong,” he warned dismissively as she took a taste. “Just enough to give it a kick.” She could only hum in acknowledgment as she pushed the bag his way.

Shilo wanted to blame the spiked drink for warming her as he pulled out the globe. His weary eyes brightened up a little. His mouth quirked into a smile and he gave the tiny planet a spin, watching it rotate for a moment before flicking a glance up to her, and then his smile cracked and crumbled and he dropped his gaze.

“Are you trying to tell me something?” he chuckled, stifling his smirk and taking his milkshake back.

“Whatever do you mean?” Shilo feigned innocence and had to smother a small laugh of her own, composing herself as the waiter came around. She looked across to Drakken, unabashedly wondering, “Since you’re here, you gonna buy me dinner?” She only had five bucks for herself, which was just enough for a basic Chow combo.

He pulled a face, looking ten times more tired in an instant, and drug his hand down his mug. “Fine,” he grumped, and ordered for her before she had the chance. Lucky number 7, extra pepper jack and mushrooms, hold the onions, and large fries – not that she was complaining, but since when did he know exactly what she had in mind? Face warm, she decided it was just a lucky guess. She’d only been ordering the same Chow meal for weeks.

She supposed she could say the same for him, though, because she rolled her eyes as his own predictable order. “Leave it to you to go into Cow -n-Chow and get chicken strips,” she sighed when the waiter left.

“I like the crunch,” he defended.

Shilo reached across for the milkshake to thieve another sip, and he only grunted his objection. “You know you’re really pushing your luck here, right, Doc?”

He only gave a nonchalant shrug, taking his glass back to wipe the straw with a napkin like some kind of germaphobe. “Maybe I like the danger.”

Shilo found herself slumping over the table, holding her head up with cheek in hand. “Live for the thrill, huh?” she guessed, watching for the next opportunity to take the milkshake he now guarded.

“I don’t mind it.”

“We should go skydiving sometime.”

The man’s suave exterior was a sham, and it broke easily as he just about choked on his drink. “W-what?” he sputtered. He almost let go of the glass and gave her a chance to grab it, but then he was holding it closer, stabbing at the milkshake with the straw in an anxious fidget.

Her pinky nail found its way between her teeth as she contemplated negotiations. “Alright, hang-gliding,” she bartered. “Sound better?”

Drakken was still frowning. She decided she’d have to sway him into it eventually. One way or another, she’d bring out his adventurous side. “I was thinking skiing,” he grumbled, and changed his mind when she rolled her eyes. “Snowboarding?”

“That’s more up my alley,” she feigned, though if she were honest, she’d done neither, so she couldn’t say for sure. But she used to surf, so snowboarding couldn’t be much different, could it? She shook her head to dispel fanciful thoughts of a resort vacation, and made a grabbing motion for the drink he was reluctant to surrender. She was bound to catch something if she didn’t break the habit that was forming.

“Alright, you’re cut off,” Drakken declared in a hiss as a waitress swept by, and Shilo reluctantly forfeited the spiked milkshake. He wiped off the straw again, and hummed thoughtfully as he sculpted peaks in the dessert. “You know, if we ever need to skip town, I have a place in Alaska,” he noted. “I imagine the skiing is good there.”

She arched her brow. “Seriously?”

Drakken sighed. “Seriously.”

A minute later, Shilo was drumming her fingers impatiently waiting on the order to arrive when Drakken hummed again. Her sidelong glance cut to him, and she couldn’t shake the feeling he licked his straw from one end of the other to make a point that it was his, like some kind of overgrown child. She didn’t care. If she wanted another sip, she’d take it. It couldn’t be any worse than sharing leftovers with her baby brothers.

The food came at last, hot and fresh.

Drakken was dipping his fries in the chocolate and Shilo was having the damnedest time not watching the display. She tried to eat quickly. They were really pushing their luck, sitting around, shooting the breeze, when her family was out there somewhere, hunting for her like hound dogs.

Yet he didn’t seem to be in any rush when he waved an especially long chicken strip at her like a pointer. “That’s nice. Did you steal it?” he wondered, and Shilo didn’t have to glance to know what he was pointing at.

She all but slammed her soda down as her palm warmed over with an odd fizzling sensation reminiscent of the carbonated beverage she nearly crushed in her grip. “I got it for free,” she answered with a vague lilt. She was that much closer to tearing it off, but hid her hand under the table instead and filled her mouth with fries so she wouldn’t have to speak.

She spoke anyway before she could even swallow. “Some guy gave it to me,” she divulged, and convinced herself she only let it slip to watch the words burrow under his skin.

They really must have, because his innocent curiosity and relaxed stare hardened into a frown as he scoffed and sat back. “Imagine that,” he mumbled into the milkshake glass as he took a swig, not bothering with the straw anymore.

Shilo didn’t zip her lips shut in time. “Jealous?” she quipped.

Drakken hardly bothered to shake his head, preoccupied with dipping a chicken strip in his milkshake as if it were just another condiment.

Lip curled in disgust, Shilo sat back as he took a bite of the abomination. “Can you not be gross?” she snipped. “Cripes, I thought you had good taste.” She thought she had better taste. She told herself even angel boy fanning inexplicable hellfire ready to engulf her was preferable to sitting down to Chow with Drakken. She barely convinced herself, even watching him double-dip chicken in chocolate.

She shuddered. “I’m done,” she announced as she jumped up. “Catch you later.”

Drakken didn’t spare a farewell as she left him with the little glass globe and the bill.

#The Company You Keep fic #drakgo

8 notes · View notes

phoenix43song · 5 years ago

Text

My Reviews and Thoughts on Little Women and the Many Adaptations

To start off I have been reading the Little Women series since I was 8 I think, and I’ve been watching the 1994 version since I was 6. It wasn’t until recently that I finally watched the 1949 and the modern 2018 adaptations ( I watched the BBC/PBS mini series last year, and I do re-watch it every now and then). I still have to watch the 1933 version, which I plan to do when I find the time. I have also been re-reading the books because I am excited for Greta Gerwig’s adaptation even though I am not a fan of some of the stuff she’s been saying about a couple of the characters (but some of my fears have been relieved! Yeah!). In this long post I will post my thoughts on the novel(s) themselves, Louisa, and the adaptations that I have seen.

I will start with the one I am very familiar with: the 1994 version! I have loved this movie since the first time I watched it. It’s a tradition to watch it multiple of times around the Christmas season with my mom, and every now and then I will watch it whenever I feel like it. Since I graduated as a theatre and film student watching films and analyzing characters, their world, decisions, the themes and motifs have been really eye opening. I’ve been devouring books since I was a kid, trying to write my own novels, and I’ve made a couple of short films. When it comes to adapting a screenplay from a book there are a lot of decisions to be made: what to keep, what to cut, what to condense, does the order of things need to be changed, and what original creative content can we put in? 1994 is a really, really good adaptation of the novel, with some minor flaws, a questionable original content decision, and how the screenwriter and director put Louisa into Jo. The cinematography and music is gorgeous, the house looks lived in, and the whole atmosphere screams late American 19h century.

The acting, for the most part, is right on character and Winona did such a great job as Jo! Trini did wonderful a Meg and I liked how we got more of Meg because she’s important too. Claire Danes was a fabulous Beth (though she looks older than 14; I always thought she was 16 or 17...), while Kirsten did a fun, spoiled Amy...but she did ham it up a bit too much at times. Samantha...I did not like one bit as older Amy. Laurie was great in the first 2/3 of the movie but once he hit Europe I didn’t like how they [tried] to develop his character. His romance with Amy fell flat, which I was sad to see. Gabriel was a really good Fritz...I just didn’t like how they made them date while Jo was in New York. I understand it because the proposal at the end of the movie makes it really romantic, but the whole purpose of Jo/Fritz and Jo falling in love was that she was blind to it: she falling in love with a man. They start off as boarding house neighbors, then student/teacher, which quickly turns into friendship of equals, and it’s not until Jo is at home missing Fritz that she begins to realize her feelings. And when Fritz comes to court Jo she blushes! Despite this I’m a sucker for romance and still love Jo/Fritz despite my feelings on the adaptation choices. Marmee and Aunt March were on point and I loved how the actresses were their characters.

Now moving onto the 2017 mini series. I like this adaptation, and have watched it a few times, but there are things that just bug me and drive me crazy, and moments that I love. This is the only adaptation that does not have have Jo’s plays or the Pickwick society. I hate this and it was a poor adaptation choice in my opinion. This series really should have been at least 6 episodes and not the measly 3 that it was. Despite this the series did include moments from the book that either haven’t been adapted before, or it was just mentioned. I love how we see Beth get the courage to go to Mr. Lawerence to play the piano and their relationship. They really should have gotten a young Amy and an older looking Beth: the girls look the same age from episode 1 to 3, which especially doesn’t work for Amy. Maya did a good Jo and it’s actually impressive for her first screen role, but she did lack some of Jo’s qualities (she is way better as Robin in Stranger Things). Emily did a good job as Marmee. Anne was another really great Beth, and I have to say her freckles seem to give the character substance. Kate’s Amy was good but like Elizabeth Taylor in the 1949 version, she was not believable as young Amy. (I’ve heard Florence Pugh is amazing and a scene stealer but even if she can act like young Amy (and based on the clips she can), her womanly body will not let her be believable).

I like how Beth’s kittens made a lot of screen time (I love kittens!) and how they did the Hummel’s house: it was just like how the book described it. All of those little children did a great job at looking hungry, cold, and scared. Makes me wonder about Mrs. Hummel’s husband (I need to find that part and re-read it). I loved how the included Camp Laurie, Cousin Flo, and Laurie trying to kiss Jo. The wedding between Meg and John Brooke was sweet, esp Aunt March giving her the pearls. I crack each time I see Aunt March’s parrot (was that in the book? Man I haven’t gotten far into my re-reading of the whole book; it’s been awhile), and how we got to see how close Jo and Beth are. They tried their best in portraying Amy/Laurie, and Mark Stanley as Fritz: he was Fritz from the book! (He looks a lot younger without that bushy beard though; that’s the one thing about Fritz I can’t stand haha). It’s too bad that Jo/Fritz was so rushed in episode 3: their relationship and Fritz was barely developed. (Though they did include a lot from the book like the Weekly Volcano and Jo’s poem that brought Fritz to her). Laurie in general was not Laurie; maybe in the Laurie who wants to play all the time but that’s it. Not Laurie.

Now onto the 1949 version. I fell in love with this adaptation, flaws and all. It was very charming, had some great acting, however a lot happened off screen, some characters/moments were rushed, and I can’t believe June was 31 years old! And that Elizabeth Taylor was pregnant. It doesn’t bother me that they made Beth the youngest because Margaret did such a fabulous job as Beth. I loved all other scenes, her relationship with Jo and Mr. Lawerence in particular. This is the only version I’ve seen where the sisters buy Marmee gifts with their 1 dollar bill, and I liked how it was a surprise and quite moment. The actress who played Marmee was amazing and Aunt March cracked me up. I didn’t care for Laurie in this version either. And like I said with the 2017 mini series: they really needed to have an actress play young Amy. Elizabeth did a really good job, don’t get me wrong, but she definitely seemed way older. The hot Italian actor as Fritz was sure an interesting choice. I wish they would’ve just made Fritz Italian and just changed his name slightly (I believe Greta made Fritz French in her version since Louis Garrel is French), and I also wish he could’ve been in the movie more! Since he was close in age to June I just wanted to see them on screen more. Yes he doesn’t look one bit like Fritz in the book, and call me shallow, but I honestly don’t care in this version. Back then - and sadly to this day - Hollywood cares about looks. That’s why I love Mark Stanly as Fritz in the 2017 because he physically is Fritz. But still...anyways I am going slightly off topic.

So. The 2018 modern adaptation. This should have either been a Hallmark movie or a Netflix movie. This movie should have never been released theatrically and that’s why it bombed horrible. I mean it bombed horribly in a lot of aspects and areas, but it does have some great scenes! It’s all in the detail. They have their castle’s in the sky for one. All of Jo’s plays and the Pickwick society and how it changed to be of a platoon. I just love the attic scenes in this movie. I also love how Jo is writing fantasy stories and a fantasy novel and it’s sad that she can’t be taken seriously because there are great fantasy novelists! Tolkien, JK Rowling, G RR Martin for example. That really bothered me. I do like how Fritz is an actual professor at a university and becomes Jo’s editor and mentor, how that develops into friendship, but to me the romance aspect of their relationship falls flat somewhat. I like how they had a younger Amy and an older Amy, but I honestly got confused at first because there were younger versions of all the sisters (and it’s unbelievable that three of them would look the same with the 13 year gap). This version did a flashback style so it will be interesting to see how Greta did hers. The editing for this movie was all over the place and chaotic. I didn’t like Lucas as Laurie one bit, I get how they would go to parties but I hated those scenes (it was a good wake up call for Meg though). Beth fell short in this movie and so did Amy to an extent. You don’t really get to know John Brooke, or even their Marmee all that much. And really, Marmee? In a modern adaptation they should’ve just stuck with Mom. I did like how Jo buzzed her hair off in support of Beth (there is a good graphic novel that came out recently that’s set in the modern world and there are few similar choices. There’s also a book called Meg and Jo - Amy and Beth will come out later next year - that makes some interesting choices to say the least when adapting the novel into modern times. Anyways...), and how they had their father over seas in the army. I honestly need to watch this movie again to really critique it, but I honestly think it could’ve been a great movie...the script needed more rewrites, it needed a director who knew what they were doing, a better editor, and honestly some better actors. The potential was there, it has it moments, but it fell.

To conclude this rather blog like post (and kudos to all who have read the whole thing) I will take just a little bit on my views on Louisa herself and Greta’s version. Louisa didn’t want to write a book for children, and when she did she wrote a semi-autobiographical novel that she leaves on a cliff hanger. In my mind she meant to continue the story, but she wanted to see what the reader’s thought. She did put the story out of her mind for awhile, until the book had to go into reprints and she got hounded with fan mail and fans in general. Yes she didn’t want Jo to marry because she herself never did (from what I’ve read she did have one sided crushes and probably a few second romances that didn’t last long, but she also never saw herself as desirable; she comes across to be as maybe being aromatic asexual, demisexual, or bi). She was a bit of Germanophile, along with Europe in general, and that’s why from the first few pages of LW there’s German everywhere. Which this means that Friedrich Bhaer was probably planned in one way or another. Louisa never wanted Jo to be with Laurie because they were close like siblings and loved each other that way. Laurie thought himself in love with Jo, but Jo does bring up good points: they would quarrel and end up being unhappy because he honestly didn’t like her scribbling. Amy makes Laurie grow up and those two match each other perfectly. Fritz is a perfect match for Jo because he treats her like an equal, he helps with her writing, and she gets to be apart of a society she loves.

I have been relieved from my fears (for the most part) about how Fritz will be portrayed and the Jo/Fritz romance. We do meet him right away since we start in the present before going back and forth between past and present until the timelines match up. Greta is the only person to adapt the New Year’s Dance, which I am really excited to see. I haven’t been told if Fritz’s nephews are mentioned or seen. I know he gives her advice, but not if he teaches her his language (which I assume to be French in this version), that they do get into a fight, and that he comes to court her at her house. I was worried the umbrella proposal scene was going to be changed, but I’ve been told it’s in and it’s romantic. And then there’s Amy/Laurie! I am so glad that this relationship seems to be fully developed. I can’t wait to see everyone as their character and how Greta did the back and forth.

I am worried though about a few things: how if one isn’t familiar with the story they get confused at first with the back and forth, some of the costume choices, the acting in certain scenes, some scenes or moment being cut or condensed for time because this is a movie not a mini series, and I just wish that Fritz - Louis - could’ve been in the trailers more with more promotion. I understand why...at least Louis understands his character. Greta mentioned something that Fritz basically had to be a prize to be won and oh boy: no one is a prize to be won. And putting a lot of Louisa into Jo...I’m worried about that. Sure the 1994 version had a Louisa quote that Jo’s says about voting, but this seems like it might be too hammered in. I guess once I see the film I will finally know (and write my review and thoughts), because I can read all the critic reviews, interviews, Q and A’s I want but it’s up to me on whether or not I’ll like it or love, and I sure hope I’ll love it.

The is the end. Thanks for reading. Let me know your thoughts.

#little women

13 notes · View notes

drainflyclub · 5 years ago

Text

The Limp of Corrupted Feet

I’m sitting on a wall. There is birdshit right next to me, cigarettes and gum stains all over the ground. A pigeon is at my feet, ignoring me, pecking for food. It’s feet are covered in yellow, twisting tumours, and it pathetically hops on its stumps, flapping its wings for stability, eyes wide looking for something to eat. I have just been told I didn’t get the job.

There is this warped idealism that cities seem to bring, those big cities, those creative cities. Did we all learn too much from movies and books? Was there ever really a chance your Dreams could come true by simply being somewhere different, or was it a big lie, like Cinderella or spiritual contentment? The idea is basic - live in The City, do things in The City, experience The City, love The City, let The City provide for you. A cultural and economic hub so you can live a life beyond anything your small town friends could ever imagine or comprehend. Funny, how most the people I’ve met have expressed distaste or outright white hot hate for this place. But they still live here, they still live here.

My white shirt is now stained with sweat from sitting in a hot office all day, and from nervousness. I stink of worried energy and adrenaline. “You’ve obviously got talent…” they said. I replied all smiles and confidence and stupid fucking finger guns like some sort of 80’s movie character, moustache and all. I washed this shirt last night, soaking a pasta stain on the front and hoping it would be clean. I woke up and it was creased and damp, I hoped my body heat would unwrinkle the fabric. I can’t afford an iron. “You’ve obviously got talent but…” I was meant to come in for another day, but they made a decision in seven and a half hours and two articles. I’m relieved in a way. I only own one good shirt.

I think my own ego has brought me here, but now I’m older and my head has hardened. If I can’t do something, I hate it. There are many things I can’t do. “You just don’t have enough writing experience.” and I think, ‘I do’, but not your kind of writing. Though maybe I haven’t let my writing be judged before. Maybe I am bad. I want to write an article out of spite. I want to prove to them how wrong they are. I smile and wink and die inside.

I find out that the job would have paid a touch over minimum wage. I factor in food and transport on the ticking calculator that runs in my head, keeping a check on my bank balance. I would probably be on minimum wage before tax and loan repayments. I have trained for 3 years and worked for 3-maybe 4 years in this industry. “You just don’t have the experience.” I think about the value of my education. I think about The City and how it was meant to make my dreams come true. I think about minimum wage. Rent. Food. Bills. Tax. I think about fighting someone, or killing myself, or buying a plane ticket and fleeing. Instead I scratch my sweat covered nose.

I have secured myself a new job. It also pays a touch over minimum wage. I am a freelancer. In theory this means I choose my own pay and choose my own hours. I am told that they pay this rate and this rate only. I get emails at strange hours demanding I come in. I am on a zero-hours contract, but by law I am a freelancer. I earn less than my colleagues, and have less security. There are no benefits to what I do. I consider how I will end it when I reach 55 years old and can bear to work no more with no pension and no house. I consider trying to work out a higher rate of pay, but I know there are a million broken souls queueing behind me to take my place and work more for less. Last time I tried to do so I took a pay cut. I fuck up my own finances and my sanity for the sake of a job I’m told I should be lucky to have. I don’t feel lucky.

As I walk back to my flat, I watch a woman stare at me and smile through my sunglasses. I don’t acknowledge her. She must think that I have my shit together. She doesn’t realise that this shining statuesque version of me is made of cheap marble and wood, that I’m wearing my one good shirt and wondering what it’s like to be evicted or made bankrupt. I wonder how soon I’ll experience it. I wonder how many people here are in the same boat. One has a bag from Whole Foods and steps into a brand new Jaguar. I wonder no more. In my head, I claw around trying to figure out how many days of work I need to do to make rent next month. I start to feel sick so I stop.

I know I have to go to the Benefits Office and ask for help paying my bills, but I don’t want to. I feel like the provider. My mother once told me that what caused my dad to break down was always feeling like he had to provide. I let that thought stick for a while. What did the early tribes do when one of their hunters became lame or blind or deaf? Did they care for them or let them die in the wilderness? My rent has gone up this year. House prices are falling in my area but my landlord has a mortgage and the agency has commission to make so it goes up anyway. I can’t afford another deposit or letting fees so I let them fuck me. My contract says they won’t allow any tenants who use benefits, so I hope I can get the money put directly into my account and hide my shame.

I look at my bank statement and feel like crying when I realise my mental calculations were off. I am poorer than I thought. I go into a shop and buy the cheapest beer I can find there, because I feel like shit and want to feel better. I look at the £1 bottles of piss-quality cider and work out how long it’ll be before I start drinking that. I pick up two four-packs of regular beer. There were times in the early days of The City where I would buy craft beers and bottles of wine like there was a shortage approaching, where I would go to bars on my day off and sit supping cold expensive pints. I’m not sure if I genuinely believed and experienced The Dream then, or if the fun has ruined my memories.

I walk and walk and walk and consider dropping everything and moving elsewhere. Maybe somewhere cheaper? Maybe a foreign country? I know I can’t. I owe the Government so much money in back taxes. I was seduced by a startup who hadn’t been corrupted by ideals like profit who actually paid me a fair wage for The City. I used my money to live like a human being. The company went bust. Now I’m poorer than ever. Now I have the burden of my past sitting forever on my back, my punishment for committing the sin of thinking I could breathe easy. I have to be in The City to earn enough to be poor. I am Prometheus, but the eagle will find no more liver.

I realise how cliche my experience is. We’re all dreamers who got hammered down by society again and again. I’m not clever or creative. I’m average. I walk through my front door and the chain is still on. The cheap door frame buckles and spits plaster everywhere. I would be worried about my deposit if I knew the several tea stains and cracked paint hadn’t already cost me over a thousand pounds of it. If I leave here I know I won’t be able to afford securing another place. I want to tear the rest of the wood off the frame and break something. Instead I work out which white lies to tell my landlord’s agency so they come and fix it without blaming me. I try to work out if I care whether they know or not anymore.

I try to write. “You’re just not good enough.” Maybe they’re right. I’m so full of vinegar and spite and drink, I want to show them they’re wrong. I look at my half finished projects and ideas laying in the gutter. I look at my bank balance. I look at the broken door frame. I look at the dark bags under my eyes. I look at the tea stains. I look at my half empty beer. Maybe they’re right.

I’m sitting on a wall. There is birdshit right next to me, cigarettes and gum stains all over the ground. A pigeon is at my feet. It’s feet are covered in yellow, twisting tumours. It pecks at a plastic bag filled with breadcrumbs. It’s eyes are wide as it tries and tries to get them. The breadcrumbs are inside the bag, teasing the bird through clear plastic. It can’t get to them. It tries again anyway.

- M. M. Sheridan (2017)

#essay #writing #dreamer #adult life #depressing #work #creative industries #freelance #old writing #writer

2 notes · View notes