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grapejuicestyless · 7 months

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can you do a conrad fic based off the song i know you by faye webster?? angst to fluff? love youuuuu

I Know You.

Conrad Fisher x fem!reader

flangst

summery: As the years went on, it became more apparent to Conrad of his and Y/n’s two year age gap. As he spends his last summer before college in a downward spiral. His mother, his father. But most important, the inevitable end of summer. Where he will go off to college and she will stay in high school.

Summer was always my favorite time of the year. The sand between your toes, the sunshine warming your scalp. Even in the sweltering heat, the summer temperatures only made the cool ocean water more desirable. More than that, it was the season of Conrad Fisher.

We’d met when I was only seven. He was nine, back when his hair was still shorter and his glasses weren’t collecting dust on his bedside table, but instead sat clean on the bridge of his nose. My parents had decided to finally buy the small beach house that had been on the market for almost a year. It was always my mom’s dream to live down by the water, so my father had been saving for it just so maybe one day, they could retire by the water, like the old couples do in the cheesy movies. The house that they bought that day sat neatly beside the Fishers beach house. Nothing but a wooden fence to separate the two backyards and a line of bushes in the front.

The first summer down, it was cold. Already, I had kicked and cried about leaving my friends for so long. Both new and old, all with the fear that they would leave and find better friends in my absence. Now, on top of my already distaste of the distance from our home, the sky was gloomy and the temperature refused to surpass the high sixties. It rained almost everyday, and when it wasn’t raining, it was about to.

It stayed that way for a week, the same week I spent inside, curled up in my room and looking out the window anxiously. I wanted to swim, at least. I wanted to run in the grass and I wanted to do everything my mother promised. I missed my friends and I missed my bed. Summer wasn’t summer to me.

Then, one morning, the sun came out. The cold front moved out and an intense heat suddenly took over. The mid eighties seemed like a dream. I could feel the sweat on the back of my neck sticking to my hair. My shirt sleeves were rolled up and my cheeks were burned. I spent the whole morning running around and playing pretend. I didn’t need anything in that moment but the surrounding joys of the summertime weather that had finally came. I was so caught up in this that I didn’t see the football go hurling over the fence.

“Hey!” His voice was much higher pitched then, he was just a boy. But it still scared me. It was loud, sudden. It made me jump. When I turned to face where the sound came from, he looked apologetic, but he never apologized. He was gripping onto the fence so hard, it was obvious he was either on his tip toes or not touching the ground at all.

I stared at him like an idiot, stuck in place, piecing together the context clues. I understood now that he was my neighbor. I waved shyly then, not wanting to be rude, and he waved back, still gripping the edge of the fence with one hand.

“I lost my ball, could you throw it over?” I was suddenly aware of the brown football by my foot. He pointed at it until I looked.

Slowly, I picked it up to show him. For some reason I felt nervous, unsure. He nodded, his smile never fading. Even then he had the kindest eyes, the warmest smile.

“I don’t know how.” I confessed. I knew how to paint, I could ride a bike. I was a quick runner and I could out-spell anyone in my second grade class. But I never learned how to throw a football. My dad had never taken the time to toss a ball around with me like he had once promised my mother to do. So, I never bothered to learn either.

“What?” He questioned.

“I don’t know how.” I repeated, unmoving.

“You don’t know how to throw a football?” He laughed, but he wasn’t making fun of me. It was almost like he couldn’t believe someone could lack such a skill!

“Thats what I said.” I held it with both hands, looking at the lacing while I spun in around in my palms.

“I can teach you!” He said, a little too enthusiastically.

“What?” I questioned him this time.

“I can teach you! I play football, let me teach you!” He persisted, adjusting himself on the fence so he could hang there for longer.

When I didn’t move he continued to beg. He begged and begged until finally I walked over the the gate that resided between the sides of our homes. It was rusted and hard to open, but it budged eventually and once I was over, I could see him fully.

He wore a blue baseball tee and athletic shorts. His glasses were fogging up from the heat and his hair was collecting sweat along his hairline.

That day, we didn’t leave the confinements of that yard until his mom, that I now know as Susannah, called for him to come inside for dinner. When he begged both his mom and I to stay for dinner, neither of us put up any fight. He called dibs to sit at the end of the table so he could sit beside me, and when dinner was served he gathered my plate for me so I wouldn’t feel awkward.

That night, he and Belly, who I met at dinner because she was to my right side, and who was also my age, begged again to let me stay over for the night. Susannah was unsure, not wanting to worry my parents too much. The next morning, he was knocking on my front door bright and early. He claimed we still had more to learn, but we spent the entire day down by the beach with his surf board and buckets for sandcastles. Suddenly, with Conrad beside me, I didn’t mind being so far from home anymore. Summer became summer.

Kicking the sand as I went, my footsteps left a trail of divots on the beach, marking where we had already been. The sun was just peaking over the horizon now. The air hadn’t gathered the usual summer humidity levels yet. It was the perfect time to be down here. Yet, today the waves were flat and the tide was too far out to really enjoy it. Regardless, Conrad and I always came down. No matter what.

It was one of the many traditions we’d gathered over the years. The yearly made up games became calming walks. The burning passion and competitiveness between us still burned, but in other ways. Our early morning enthusiasm never dimmed, it simply shinned for something else.

It was silent between us, but not awkward. Usually during this time we would talk about everything we missed. Though we practically slept in the same bed each night during the summer, his home in Boston and my families apartment in New York was much too far apart for us to constantly be together.

We would talk about school, our dreams, our friends and family. We still did all of that, but I couldn’t help but notice how he spoke less and less of his friends and more and more about us, Brown, and his mom.

Part of me worried for him, honestly. He called me just a few months ago. He had decided to quit football. I was shocked. How had Conrad, a boy with more passion for the sport than anyone I knew, somehow lost all the burning desire for it? Not only that, but it was that passion that brought us together in the first place. It was foolish to have been so caught up on the news, it was inevitable that we would’ve met. But part of me wondered if it would have been the same. I couldn’t help but wonder if his sudden disappearance from his clubs and sports made him drift away from them.

I still remember the call, when he told me everything. His deepest secrets, the ones that he kept from his own blood. When I laid down my concerns for him, how blandly he had stated it. I needed to know if there was something that happened. Something had to have happened. Conrad brushed it off then, he told me he had grown up and grew out of it. I knew that was a lie. He was just raving about it last summer. How excited he was to be back on the field. He described the the Friday night lights as the closest feeling to the summer sun he would ever be in the colder months. Something had happened.

So, when the line went silent, I reminded him of how he could run circles around anyone he wanted, but not me.

“Conrad,” I had started, “I know you.” And he knew what I meant. It was like I was watching him crumble beneath my fingers, even if I couldn’t see his face. He told me about his fathers infidelity, his mothers resistance towards freeing herself from their relationship. More than that, now that he was a senior, the reality of moving away for school was a looming storm cloud scaring him. But he never mentioned the loss of his friends.

“Hows Brett and Johnny?” I asked, suddenly aware that the farther we got down the beach, the less we had to say. We already covered it all over the phone, too eager to wait this year. It felt wrong, so I dug in the one blind spot this year.

“Oh…uh, I don’t really talk to them anymore.” He said is so casually, scratching at the back of his head. I expected to be partly right, but not right on the money. I stopped in my tracks, confused.

“What? No! Brett and Johnny?” Drifting away from childhood best friends is inevitable in most cases. The interests you share as children develop into passions and mature hobbies that often differ from one another. You are led down another path, but the kind smile they give you in the hallway during passing period reminds you how close you once were. You chat in the classes you have together and you catch up every so often.

“Yeah.” He took a deep breath like he was going to continue, but he didn’t. He stopped himself, he never stopped himself. Especially when it came to Brett and Johnny. His pals, his buddies!

He used to talk my ear off about them every summer! Begged Susannah to let them come with him. He told me of everything they did during the school year and he taught me their schoolyard games and we made the same stupid bets. It was a boyish love, I was so sure they would be the ones to stick together.

“I’m sorry.” I felt like it was my fault, somehow. When I connected the dots, his fathers affairs, his mothers giving heart, his brothers attitudes, his never ending stresses, I was left with a scribble of nothing. Just lines that resemble something that should mean something, but don’t. His friends wouldn’t leave him for something so small. I was missing something. I knew it.

He stopped himself, he was tense. He couldn’t even look at me. I wanted to slap it in his face that I knew something was missing, something bigger. I knew him. But the look in his eyes he hid almost completely behind his gentle gaze warned me not to push. If I unsurfaced it, he might not survive. So I let him hold back, just this once. I hope the squint in my eyes assured him I still, couldn’t have circles ran around me. I could simply read the room.

The longer summer progressed, the quieter Conrad got. It wasn’t just his friends that lacked in conversation. It was everything. He walked beside me more often than not with his head down and his hands in his pockets. He never talked about school, or his mom. He never asked about me anymore, what we should do. He lacked any ability to care, it seemed.

His eyebrows are forever furrowed. That kind smile replaced with an empty expression. During the day he was uninterested in every way. He never participated, never cared enough to even try. Yet, when night rolls around and I slip in through the window, I’m his again. He doesn’t really speak like he used to. We don’t laugh hardly enough. But he reaches his arms out just the same, and welcomes me into his bed. And when he thinks I’m asleep, I catch him pulling me in just a little bit harder than before.

I can’t help but wonder where it really started. I think back on it, and the first signs were all there. So small it was hard to know if it was really him changing or if he was just growing. Quitting football, losing his friends. Losing his father, in some sense.

But every time I try I always see that same look in his eyes. The one warning me not to push. The one that forced me to listen.

It wasn’t like he was being cold towards me. But there was an obvious difference in our nature. Shorter walks, longer wake ups. He was tired, and now so was I. But not of him, never of him.

“Conrad?” I asked in the silence. His room was darker now that he had ditched his nightlight all those years ago. The moon didn’t quite illuminate it the same as the glowing yellow did. I felt his body next to mine, his arms hovering over my body. His breathing was steady and his body unmoving other than the gentle rise and fall of his chest.

“I wish you would tell me what’s going on with you. I just want to help.” I sighed, under my breath. It was so quiet, even the waves in the distance seemed louder. I spoke this way just incase he was awake, in case he was lying. I never really knew anymore. He might as well have been sleepwalking these past few weeks.

When a silent pause passed, I understood there would be no response. He wouldn’t open up, and there would be no resolve. Conrad was and will always be my best friend. He’ll come around, I knew it. He had to. I doubt myself just a little when I remember his resistant look and unwavering attitude. I begin to think that it’s me. I have lost that special spot in Conrad that made him feel like he could always be as vulnerable as he wanted with me. I am not enough. I begin to think the day he comes back to me will never come, and he will be off to college with his new life and forget all about the girl who learned how to find his favorite constellations by heart just so they could point and laugh all summer about how they drifted quickly across the sky.

“Conrad!” I called out. My feet his the sand harshly. The uneven surface sinking quicker the harder my feet hit only slowed me down. My outstretched arms would never be enough.

He was already up the steep hill. Nearly crossing through the hedges and over the fence to his backyard. He was a storm. Untamed and wild. His fists clenched, not from anger but frustration. The sound of the bonfire faded into the distance, and my lungs were hot and sticky with smoke and the salt air.

“Conrad, stop!” I yelled again, straddling the fence clumsily. With an extra hop I barely cleared it having no time to gain any composure when splitting it.

Finally, the speed of my legs compared to his long strides balanced, and my hand was close enough to grab at him. He didn’t spin, but I could see the bruises on his knuckles and the radiating heat from his clothes. He was hot, worked up too. I just needed to see him, finally pry him open.

“Conrad, whats going on with you?” I begged for him to tell me. I wasn’t at all disgusted with him, I held no judgement. But it would’ve been so much easier to defend him if I had a reason.

“Go home, Y/n.” He was angry, his hands pushing back his hair so much, I thought he might rip it out.

“We used to talk about things, remember that? When we could talk about everything? Why shut me out? Why now!” I expected some sort of sympathy. Anything that would explain his distance and let me back in.

“Go home, Y/n.” His voice was steady, but strict. When he shook his arm, my hand came off so quick it slapped against my thigh. It hurt but I would never tell him. Make myself look more immature than I felt already. Just a dumb girl trying to understand his complex feelings.

Maybe he didn’t expect me to actually do what he said. He didn’t see that I would actually turn on my heals and head for home. He let out a choked breath, and just barely over the gentle breeze I could hear him sniffling.

My parents were out of town until Tuesday. I was so excited for this weekend. I could barely wait for tonight. The first Friday for just us in months. I bought his favorite cookies. I rented our favorite movies, threw our favorite blankets in the dryer.

I sit in my bed thinking about this, about how I did so much for him all summer. Stayed with him, stayed true. Held him like an oath. What was I beginning to become to him? Nothing more than his other friends, it became clear.

“Y/n!” Knuckles hit my window, followed by the soft calling of my name. It was persistent, I was ready to yell at Jeremiah to go home.

The window was Conrad and I’s sacred space, in many ways. When we were younger, my parents were stricter. Too scared to let a boy so immature into my room. So each night, Conrad would climb the railing on the back deck until he was high enough to crawl up the garage roof. It was lower than the rest of the house, and ended just outside my window. He would tap very softly until I would turn on my light and rush over. We’d talk and talk and talk until our parents realized it would be safer to just let us be.

Now, Jeremiah came knocking more than Conrad. Always wanting to sneak out with Belly or Steven. Conrad slept in his bed, and if I didn’t come, he wouldn’t come retrieve me.

But, after all these weeks, there he was. Hair a mess and puffy eyes. He was sitting just outside my window like a dog with a bird at my door. Waiting for some praise.

“Con?” It was pathetic how quickly I unlatched the handle that kept the window stuck shut. So quick to let him in again.

His limbs were long and clumsy clanking through the small window frame. It took longer the more he grew. It was a harder fit. He was breathing heavily, hand on his chest, balled up in a fist. He looked bewildered, panicked.

From the uneven breathing and the rapid pace, along with the paleness growing more and more in his usually rather tanned skin, I knew it was more than fatigue.

“Conrad, hey, Conrad.” I knew him, deep down. Even if distant behavior couldn’t get rid of what I already knew. He could never erase us, or my ability to know him so well.

“Just talk, say anything. I just want…need to hear your voice, please.” He rushed, voice raised but not yet shouting fully. I knew he liked to be talked down from these attacks, he used to have some when he was growing up. I never really knew what to say, though. No matter how well I knew him, it felt different.

“About what?” I asked, my hands guiding him to my bed. The blue stripped sheets wrinkled under our weight, the white duvet tossed lazily at the foot of my bed.

“Anything. The beach.” He blurted out, eyes wide and staring back into mine. I couldn’t help but notice how the moon made them look even more blue. Just as deep and swimming in color. My hands were shaky, and my mind was racing. Suddenly, I was speaking.

“I think I like July the best.” I breathed, trying to remain calm. I let my hand slide off his shoulder and into his lap. My palm that rested on his thigh flipped only to show that he could take it if he wished to. I wouldn’t mind.

“June is great too. I like catching up with you, finally seeing you again. But the sand is the warmest in July. I love being able to know that. I love being able to walk next to you with my hands in my pockets one second and being thrown over your shoulder the next. I love when you race into the water in your nice clothes. How we swear to our parents we won’t do it again and we do. I love our traditions, I love that no matter how old we get we still do them. I love how you teach me everything you love so I can love it too. I love that nobody really knows about them but us.” I feel his hand now. His steady fingers intertwine with mine. His breathing has slowed juristically and his eyes have sunk back into the usual droopy state. But the moon still shines in his eyes the same, they still swim with color. I am still sotting next to Conrad.

“Talk to me.” I whisper in the silence. He squeezes my hand three times.

“What if things are never the same?” He won’t look at me, thats when I realize just how serious he is.

“What do you mean?” My thumb rubs against the back of his hand. His skin is warm and soft. I want to kiss it, make it better. Know him fully again.

“I’m already losing my mom, what if I lose you too?” And suddenly I know him. I see how his mothers obvious illness is affecting him, even if she won’t admit she’s sick again. He had to have known, which meant I did too. I can see how his father’s infidelity makes him blind with rage, and I see how anxiety eats away at his insides until he is nothing more than a once occupied space. Over his family, over me.

We both know he is leaving soon. Only going farther away from me. He’ll be in college and I will be a senior. Its in our nature to see the world differently as we grow. I see him thinking about Johnny and Brett. Wondering if we’ll have the same fate.

“You know me.” I remind him, then. I squeeze his hands three times, I remind him how much I love him. I’m afraid I’ll never stop. “And I’ll never forget you.” My hand leaves his to brush the hair out of his face. I let my palm rest against his wet cheek selfishly.

“How can you be certain?” His weight rested in the palm of my hand, skin being molded under the soft motion of my thumb against his cheek.

I paused, biting my tongue. I knew the answer, but I couldn’t find the words right away.

“When we’re old and have to leave the earth, I’ll still remember all I’ve learned. From you.” I felt him smile. His eyes scrunched up delicately, knocking the stray tears away from his eyes. They pooled around my hand. I let them lay. Still.

“I love you, always know that.” I reassured him, my gaze locked in his eyes. Stuck.

“I love you too. And I know, I know you.” Summer would always be summer as long as I had Conrad, and I knew he felt the same.

I knew him like no other. It was a scary reality, trusting someone with something so delicate, so special. But when that anxiety takes over I get to remind myself that its only Conrad. The boy who tossed a football over the fence and taught me how to be a kid.

I wonder if he threw it over on purpose.

#tsitp conrad #conrad x reader #conrad fisher angst #conrad fisher #conrad fisher fluff #conrad fisher x you #conrad fisher x y/n #conrad x you #conrad fisher x reader #conrad #team conrad

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cordeliasdarling · 1 year

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Birthday (Larissa Weems x Reader)

Notes: This is a random piece about Larissa and reader both being students at nevermore. Reader is popular, Larissa not so. (I know I’m so sorry it’s a bit sad.) I saw a prompt ages ago that inspired this so creds to them idk who.

Let me know if you want a part two! And pls don’t let this flop haha :0

****

To say I was popular.. well yes, you'd be right. I'd worked hard for it, looking perfect, getting high grades. Of course my natural personality was a winner amongst my peers at Nevermore academy. It made me feel good, more than just for my ego. I liked to know that people liked me for me. I wasn't fake, I said things as they were, and luckily it wasn't rejected.

"Hello, earth to (Y/N)!" I jolted out of my personal monologue by my best friend, Cleo. When we'd met for the first time, we clicked instantly. She knew me better than anyone else, and I loved it. And I knew her the same way.

"Sorry, just daydreaming." I chuckled quietly and glanced around at the surroundings. We were sat on the freshly cut green grass in the courtyard. It was a warm day with a refreshing breeze. Perfect for lounging around. Just beyond me and Cleo were the rest of my friend group, who were all talking, laughing. I enjoyed the company.

Then something caught my eye, actually someone.

She had silvery blonde hair, and was much taller than any girl in the school, and not just because we were the oldest in the school (we were all in our last year). The school uniform brought out her deep crystal eyes, in a way that made me smile automatically. Larissa Weems was the most beautiful girl I'd ever seen. Cleo nudged me, a grin on her face.

"I don't know why you don't just ask her out. What's the worst that can happen?"

I rolled my eyes, a sigh escaping my lips. My eyes were still on Larissa, watching as she walked along the open corridor on the side of the grass. Her eyes were on the ground, probably watching where she was going because due to her height, she often bumped into the shorter students, forgetting her stride was bigger than others.

"She most likely will be straight. Then turn me down, laugh in my face, and leave me all alone forever." Groaning, I leaned back, laying down properly on the grass.

"You should invite her to your birthday party." Cleo suggested, taking a sip of her water bottle, which she'd slid in a few ice cubes to keep her cool in the summer heat.

"She doesn't go to parties." Well, that's just what I'd gathered from all the parties I'd been to, she'd never been there, much to my disappointment. Having drinks in our systems may have given me more courage to talk to her.

Before Cleo could reply, one of my friends approached us, causing my eyes to leave Larissa just as she disappeared through a door.

"Hi, Mary." A welcoming smile on my face, as usual. She smiled back, sitting closer, in front of Cleo.

"I was wondering if you could help me with the Math homework? It's totally okay if not." People often asked me for such favours, as it was no secret that I got top grades, and I was always happy to help.

"Yes, of course!"

"Alright everyone, today we're moving to the greenhouse for the lesson." Mrs Faye called out to everyone before they could sit down. A faint groan was heard, because we all knew how hot it would be in there. But we didn't protest, mainly because we all loved Mrs Faye, and she always made our lessons fun.

There were desks already set up in front of tables with a plant pot on all of them. All of the students grouped together in twos, though I hung back, deciding which table I would go to with Cleo. But she nudged me, secretly gesturing to Larissa who hadn't partnered up yet. My eyes widened, knowing what she was suggesting.

"No!" I whispered, but Cleo had walked off with someone else, sending a wink my way. Internally I groaned, knowing I'd have to woman-up. So I approached Larissa, a faint smile on my lips, almost grinning as her eyes met with mine. I was lost for a moment, looking up at the girl I had the biggest crush on. And she had no idea, because I was secretly an awkward lesbian.

"Hey, wanna partner up?" I asked, cursing to myself because my tone didn't sound confident enough. She nodded, her expression softening. I felt a pang of sadness for her, because she was always the last one to be picked. It shouldn't be that way.

We walked to the last available bench and sat down, facing the front.

Mrs Faye talked us through the project, and soon we were left to our own devices, having to dissect a flower to see the roots and whatnot. At the same time, we grabbed the scalpel to start. A blush appeared on my cheeks, whereas Larissa just smiled that beautiful smile.

"Sorry." Mumbling, letting her take it and begin the work. My eyes watched her movements, wondering what her larger hands would feel like linked with mine. I was short, well not short in the grand scheme of things, but just smaller than the average nineteen year old. Did that make me and Larissa Weems less compatible? I hoped not.

The lesson went by in a blur, mostly me letting Larissa do all the work, something that was unlike me, but I was just very busy. By busy, I meant building up the courage to ask Larissa to my birthday party. It couldn't be that hard, just a few simple words. But the feeling of rejection was something I never wanted to feel. I'd always had an easy time when it came to dating. All boys though, much to my distaste, but that was the consequence of not coming out.

"Larissa?" My tone was even, not holding confidence or nervousness. She tilted her head to the side, making eye contact with me. I nearly ran out of oxygen, looking into those deep ocean blue eyes.

"Yes?" Her voice was smooth, velvety even.

"Would you.. would you like to come to my birthday party tomorrow?" Urgh, I hated the way my pathetic voice sounded so hopeful. I hoped she didn't detect it.

She didn't say anything for a full minute, seemingly lost in thought. Eventually she shook her head slowly. "Sorry, I'm busy tomorrow."

My heart sunk, hanging my head in despair. So this is what rejection felt like, a crushing feeling in my gut.

"Oh, that's totally okay." I forced a smile, staring at the now dissected plant as if it was the most interesting thing in the world. Damn this. Of course the prettiest girl in school wouldn't want to come to my party. Literally almost everyone in my year would be there, except for her.

Mrs Faye then called out to the class, dismissing us all as the hour was up. Time flew fast, it seemed.

Larissa left the class before me, grabbing her bag and exiting quickly. I tried not to stare, but I didn't really relax until she'd gone completely. Not in a negative way, but because I was so awkward and down.

"So how did it go?" Cleo grinned, her arm slung around my shoulders as we left the greenhouse. I didn't reply, just groaning in a way that I hoped verbalised the rejected feeling.

"Ah. Playing hard to get. Well, there are plenty more fish in the sea." She slapped my back in what seemed to be a comforting way, but it just added to the pain. Yes, I know I was just a nineteen year old student with a silly little crush, but Larissa seemed like so much more.

As we walked along the corridor, I spotted the very girl I was mooning over, talking to a small group of people. They all seemed to shake their head in response to something she said. Larissa seemed to smile, though it looked superficial, like something had upset her but she was trying to cover it up. They all dispersed, leaving me in a state of curiousness. I was tempted to go over to the people who were naturally my friends, to ask what that was all about, but we needed to get to our lesson.

And by the end of the day, it had slipped my mind.

The next day rolled around, and I was walking out of the changing rooms, having just had track. I was alone, which was unusual, because I had decided to do a couple more laps, insisting my friends should go. They all wanted to get ready for my party anyway.

I slipped on my uniform, not bothering to tuck my shirt into my skirt. Bag on my shoulder, I moved towards the door, but I stopped in my tracks when I heard a muffled sound coming from the toilets. Frowning, I inspected further, walking into joining restroom. The sound happened again, and this time I figured out it was stifled crying. The sound tugged on my heartstrings, because the pain was clear in the tone.

"Hello?" I knocked on the cubicle door softly, and the crying abruptly stopped. The was a long silence before the door opened slowly. It revealed none other than Larissa Weems. My heart sunk further, who hurt my precious girl?

"Oh.. it's you." She mumbled, walking to the tissue dispenser, grabbing a few sheets to dab at her smudged mascara. "I'm fine."

"You don't sound fine." I followed her, about to place a hand on her arm, but stopped myself, in case she didn't like physical contact. She stared into the mirror, at herself, until her gaze shifted to my reflection.

"Don't you have friends to run off with?" She muttered, eyes now lowering to look at her hands.

"They're not important right now. Can you tell me what's wrong?" I tried my best to make my words as gentle as possible, and it seemed to work because fresh tears filled her eyes as she turned around to face me.

"We have the same birthday but everyone goes to your party, not mine." Her voice cracked, looking away in some type of shame.

It all clicked, the reason why she was 'busy', the reason those people were shaking their heads, as they weren't going to her celebration, they were going to mine. I didn't even know her birthday was on the same day as mine.

"Oh, Larissa.." I whispered, my arms opening to embrace her. She didn't move away, instead stiffening up. "I'm sorry." Though those two words didn't do much comfort.

"It's fine." She sounded cold, and suddenly pushed me away gently. Tears were in my eyes now, just like hers, except she had fiercely wiped them away.

"Have fun." She then left, her footsteps quick against the lino flooring, leaving me speechless. I wiped away one tear. I had caused her pain, and that I would never forgive myself for.

I had to make this right, I had to make her feel better, in whatever way possible.

So I furrowed my eyebrows to come up with some sort of plan.

****

#larissa weems #princple weems #larissa weems x reader #gwendoline christie #wednesday the show #lgbt #lesbian #gay longing #gwendolineuniverse #wlw

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almostgenerallyalways · 1 year

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tgm fic recs

@stcverogers tagged one of my fics in a rec list yesterday and i thought it was such a good idea, i wanted to share some of my own favs

in no particular order:

* * *

hangman

one time thing // kiss the sun (fight the fire) // love that’s a real long shot He nods again like that’s exactly what he expected you to say. “I think you’re wrong. Doesn’t matter now though, does it?” i would rec anything by @callsignvalley but this is probably the series that got me most. i also love tailspin and its rooster follow up steady

california coast in your green eyes // i’ll carry my bags just until i can hold you again (2 different series) Bob’s older sister gets the news that his plane went down during a training drill, and shows up at the hospital at the same time as an arrogant pilot. // Six months after they break up, Jake shows up at Julie’s Family thanksgiving. A second chance holiday romance with fake dating, family drama, and fall festivities. @theharddeck these fics, esp carry my bags, feel so so real and human to me, i love julie and the characterisation of jake feels so on point i also love her series out of the clear, blue sky as well as kinda might, sorta like, love you a little bit + its follow ups

i’ve been holdin’ out so long (4 part series) You can’t stand Hangman, but your dreams lately say otherwise. He notices. @steadfastconviction i adore Bluegrass and her sass

do not engage (series) You hate Hangman. Really, you do... Or so you like to think, until it begins to seem like that distaste might not be as strong as you’d prefer to believe. @clints-lucky-arrow the entire f&f universe is great but Duchess especially is a badass

afterburn (series) It had been clear from the moment you got inside a cockpit that you were going to be something special. You certainly weren’t the youngest Naval Aviator to be invited to TOPGUN, but you had been the youngest to graduate at number one in more than thirty years. Which is all the more reason why it was so tragic that you would never, ever, be able to fly again. @top-hhun is a master of setting a scene

the off-season (series) It was supposed to just be one summer. But somehow you found yourself living in your grandparent’s Maine vacation house indefinitely. It was quiet when the summer tourists left, but tolerable. That was, until your brother’s friend from college needed a place to crash and he somehow wound up staying in your guest bedroom. Also indefinitely. @ereardon just started this series but i’m so into this world (au) already

fuck (the universe) (series) You’re a Kazansky–Tom “Iceman” Kazinsky’s youngest daughter–and you’ve taken after your father and become a Naval aviator. You finished at the top of your class at Top Gun and have worked diligently and fruitlessly to get to where you are now: North Island. You don the call-sign Wisteria not only because the beauty of the flower but because of its lethal qualities. i mention @roosterbruiser below bc i read landslide first but holy fuck indeed

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rooster

landslide (series) It’s been almost three years since the accident that took half of her, and Faye “Clover” Ledger seems fine, really. She loves her old house, she has a perpetually expanding vinyl collection, she’s got a job she likes on base, and she is only a short drive from the beach. She’s grounded--literally. @roosterbruiser landslide is one of those fics i have to read in little bits because it’s just too good. beautiful writing that just transports me (and i love faye, she may be the most developed fanfic oc i’ve ever read - and I love her taste in music)

baby let’s play house // pt 2 you got yourself in trouble. bradley has a bit of a savior complex. together, you come up with what could potentially be the worst idea in the longstanding and illustrious history of bad ideas. @seasonsbloom i just really love this fic, it shows all the quietest best parts of bradley

first impressions at the induction day for the newest recruits of the Golden Warriors of VFA 87, rooster assumes you’re a civilian, instead of, you know, a member of his team? you see how far you can push it before he figures it out. @ohcaptains‘s pilot in this fic is the badass bitch i wish i could be. as well as fucking funny.

like i can (series) After yet another bad date and tired of swiping on apps, the Dagger Squad steps in to help you out by setting you up on a series of blind dates. Much to Rooster’s dismay. @sometimesanalice perfect blend of cute, funny and heartmelting

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bob

he’s so pretty (when he goes down on me) // pt 2 things between you and Bob are strictly business: he’s your backseater, and that’s all there is. @seasonsbloom‘s writing is so good it made me want to try writing fic myself

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hangman x rooster

we’re fools to make war In a Walmart at three am, between beef jerky and tortilla chips, with the lights flickering above them like it’s the fucking twilight zone, Bradley wants him more than he’s ever wanted anyone. or: it's a hundred degrees in texas. i can’t find a tumblr link for this but the writer is @baroness-elsa. this is 66k words and i read it in two days which probably says enough. holy shit.

* * *

there are many many more (this fandom is FULL of talented writers, damn) but this already took me an hour so that’ll be part 2 haha

#tgm fic recs #rooster x reader #hangman x reader #bob floyd x reader #hangman x rooster #favs

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the-traveling-poet · 5 months

Text

The R.O.S.E.~ Prologue

Description

The R.O.S.E., or rather the Recovery Operations Squad Experiment put together by Commander Dot Pixis, had so far been a success.

The people of the southern district's desire to have something of their loved ones retrieved from titan territory to bury finally made it to court. Though it had been overruled by Premier Darius Zackly, Pixis found he could not let the issue rest. In an attempt to boost moral for his people, Pixis assigned his top Captain, Aviline Faye, to this new squad. Despite the danger of retrieval, it was decided they must at least try; for the ease of mind for humanity.

But as the walls crumble, Faye and her squad find themselves occupying a new position; under Commander Erwin Smith of the Survey Corps.

Can the two branches learn to get along?

~~~

(This fic will contain potentially sensitive themes, such as; graphic violence, strong language, alcoholism, smoking, general gore, and perhaps some sexual themes later on. I’ll be basing this fic on both the manga and the anime, as well as some added twists and turns added in by yours truly.)

A/N: I’ve decided to post my first fic here as well as on Wattpad, for funsies :p

Taglist: @21aurora @deepzombieyouth @braunsbabe

You can read the rest here, but I’ll continue to post on Tumblr all the same!

Enjoy~

More Chapters

Year 845, Wall Rose, Trost District.

A clear morning sky quickly changed to deep oranges and bright yellows as evening fell across the land of Trost, yet still the many voices of those wandering about the streets below pierced the otherwise still atmosphere around the large city. Summer was only just beginning, and many found the cool air of late spring to be far more favorable weather to stroll about in, over the rains and snows that the month of May had brought them only a couple of weeks prior.

Children ran about as parents watched on in groups with neighbors. Couples sat on benches hand in hand with beverages and pastries bought from their favorite family owned shops, as said shop owners left their stores for the evening to find a drink at their nearest taverns and unwind, before the next day brought them a repeat of the days before.

A typical evening for the city, in all. A city who's only ever known peace through labor and trade.

Yet soon that would change, as a carriage pulled by two chestnut mares made its way up the cobble stone street on its way toward the center of the city.

At its arrival, the coachman climbed down from his seat and started tending to the horses. Behind him, the carriage doors opened on both sides and out climbed three people clad in green cloaks. The tallest of the three approached the coachman and gave him his thanks, then turned and made his way across the stone courtyard, his two accomplices not far behind him.

Just as the sun hit the edge of the horizon over the peak of the walls, they'd crossed the courtyard and stood before a flight of stairs that led them to their destination. And there, at the very top, stood a man flanked by two formally uniformed soldiers posed at attention, with hands clutching at the base of the rifles positioned over their shoulders.

"Commander Erwin!" the man atop the stairs called down. "Wonderful to see you again, my old friend."

Erwin stopped in his tracks before the first step and straightened up to salute to his superior with a polite smile.

"Likewise, Chief Commander Pyxis. May my companions, Captain Hange and Cadet Levi, and I join you the evening?" Erwin returned his friend's greeting, perhaps more formally than he would have. Had this situation not been so dire.

"Of course. You called for this evening to be arranged, did you not?" Pyxis grinned and waved off the guards, before turning his back to the scouts and making for the large wooden doors that led into the city's Main Hall behind him.

"Well? The drinks aren't going to pour themselves. I suggest you make haste and join me, before I change my mind on offering you one," Pyxis chuckled gruffly over his shoulder as the doors opened for him.

Shaking his head with weary smile, Erwin led the way towards the hall before his companions could begin to wonder aloud the nature in which the two Commanders commerced.

Commander Pyxis led the trio into a bright, candle lit room with a weary sigh, his scarred and aging hand coming up to rub at his brow wearily, while his other hand sought out a dark bottle perched on a single stand that was stationed near the door.

The room they now occupied was rustic in nature. Maps from many districts within all three walls were displayed on table tops, pinned alongside stagey boards taking up nearly half of the westward wall. An empty bottle or two accompanied sheathed blades and letter openers on the Commander's wide desk, making it look messy and disarrayed, yet organized all the same somehow.

Pyxis briskly, yet with an ever so slight limp, then made his way to sit behind the large ornate desk sat at the far end of the room, faced back against large windows that overlooked the sprawling city of Trost. Beckoning the trio at the door to come take a seat around a small round table placed just off from the desk, the old man uncorked his bottle with a satisfying 'pop' and grabbed for a clean glass amongst the many that lined a shelf on his left.

As Erwin, Hange, and Levi took their seats, Pyxis began to pour himself a generous amount from the bottle into his glass.

"By chance, should any of you fancy a glass of bourbon?" Pyxis looked to each of them in turn as he spoke. Hange was quick to raise her hand up, but Erwin was even quicker to place her hand back onto the table above her lap.

"A generous offer, thank you, but I'm afraid we will have to decline," Erwin spoke up with a curt smile.

"Ah, I see, more for myself, then," Pyxis mused on, continuing to fill his glass.

Hange watched on with an envious frown.

A moment of silence followed as the Chief Commander easily downed half his glass and took a steady breath before their meeting began.

"So tell me, Erwin; What brings you to Trost this fine evening?" Pyxis began.

"We came to discuss a situation regarding the Scout Regimen with you, sir. I wrote to you about this in brief detail last week," spoke Erwin, his lip slightly downturned.

"Oh? I suppose I recall receiving such a note. Usually you come to me alone for these sorts of things, Commander Erwin," Pyxis raised a curious brow, shooting a quick glance towards the two other scouts sat at the left and right of Erwin. Erwin nodded at this, and quickly explained.

"I had them accompany me to give their opinions on the matters I must discuss with you, and to have them overall observe. They have witnessed firsthand today the issue that has arisen, so I saw their attendance as acceptable. As you know, we returned earlier this evening from the expedition held early this morning. I felt this timing to be adequate."

"Fair enough. Now, tell me," Pyxis briefly paused to take a gulp of his bourbon before continuing,

"What was so urgent you felt the need to reach out to me and plan this meeting just after arriving back within the walls?"

Here Erwin turned to Hange, allowing her to take the lead, to the novice scientist's great surprise. She quickly stood and saluted to Pyxis enthusiastically, who merely raised his hand dismissively, urging her to speak.

"Well, sir," Hange began, "We've begun to notice an increase in enemy numbers outside the walls. More often than not, they merely wander aimlessly until provoked. Lately, they appear to be more...aggressive? Without prompt they have begun to act on aggression, and seek out our troops at a far enough distance that they shouldn't have minded our presence.

Also, their appearance near the outermost wall has become more and more frequent. They gather in groups, behaving frantically."

Here Hange took a pause, unable to uphold formalities any longer as her excitement took over.

"It's nothing I've quite seen before in my years of extensively researching them, which is actually quite fascinating! It's as if they've become motivated to migrate inwards in groups, to act erratically! I've been meaning to capture one or two live ones...or perhaps three live specimens...to examine them closer at hand! And I-"

Hange's increasingly excited rambling was cut short by a scoff from Levi.

"You're rambling, brat." he muttered to himself under his breath. He gave the scientist a pointed look from under his lashes, brows furrowed with crossed arms over his chest as he leaned back in the rickety chair.

"Well, in a way, maybe, but uh, anyways!" Hange continued rather sheepishly, after a look towards her comrade.

"They're becoming so invasive, and so aggressive, we're running lower and lower on experienced soldiers who can safely keep them at bay!"

"There's only so many places the combat veterans can be at one time to save and kick ass," Levi added quietly.

Erwin nodded his agreement to this, but otherwise stayed silent as he observed Pixis's eyes light up with a shine akin to realization. Over what, Erwin couldn't be certain. And thus he spoke once more.

"And that is why we have come; to bring this matter to your attention, and to find a solution. We realize the next batch of soldiers to come from bootcamp won't be ready for another six months, and we're losing veterans left and right through this aggression. I felt it appropriate to alert the higher branches, in case of catastrophe."

Erwin concluded with calloused hands crossing with one another on the table, as he leaned forward to catch the elder's eyes.

Pyxis's brows furrowed in thought.

After a quiet moment, he finally met Erwin's inquisitive stare as a thought entered his mind.

"Nocturnal expeditions." He said simply, offering no further comment.

"Nocturnal?" Hange exclaimed in bewilderment, her nose scrunching up in confusion to such a notion.

"Why yes, Captain Hange. The titans, as we know, aren't active during nocturnal hours. Thus, it's a little easier to dispose of them." The man continued, leaning back in his chair to take another generous gulp of the burning liquid in his glass. For a moment, he seemed to hesitate to speak more, but with a sigh he leaned back to rest his elbows on the polished wood of his desk.

"I personally have my own squad designed for these missions specifically." Pyxis spoke slowly, as though hesitant to share this information.

"You have your own personalized squad?" Erwin's brows shot up in surprise, calluses hands coming up to grip the edge of the table.

"I do. I personally named them the R.O.S.E. or rather, the Recovery Operations Squad Experiment. Currently, they are under my supervision and command. I have since elected to keep this information to myself, as the idea itself is merely an experiment. But, seeing as this mess is spreading, perhaps it needs brought to light."

Pyxis's offhanded comment made Erwin raise a brow, almost in disbelief.

Seeing his hesitation, Pyxis continued.

"They specialize in retrieving the remains of our fallen soldiers an hour after nightfall; to ensure the titans' inactivity for the squad's safety. There was a request from the civilians of the walls; a request to have something retrieved of their lost loved ones after battle. Word of the request made its way up to me, and I acted accordingly. Although, it might have been behind the backs of many."

Pyxis gulped down his remaining whisky, taking a deep breath after the burning liquid quenched his thirst. Yet after a moment of silence, he continued quietly, almost as if to himself.

"This does not mean, in fact, that they remain safe. It gets more intense than one would think." Pyxis commented in thought.

"How so?" Hange asked excitedly, leaning forward on the table, very interested to learn more about these creatures than they already knew.

"Well, my dear." Pyxis trailed off a moment, as if remembering something regretful.

"This issue you have brought to my attention...This is not the first I've heard of it. For weeks now, my squad has recounted similar instances and received injury." He revealed solemnly, staring down at the glass now gripped tightly in his hand.

"Sometimes, these titans...they become active in the dead of night." Pixis solemnly replied.

────────────────────────────────────────

#lynn’s fics #attack on titan fanfiction #aot fanfiction #aot fanfic #shingeki no kyoujin fanfiction #snk fanfiction #snk fanfic #levi ackerman #levi ackerman x reader #levi x reader slow burn #erwin smith #hange zoe

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dullahandyke · 2 months

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yippee yippee yippee yippee eimear con haul!!!!

Hi. It was my birthday recently and I'm bad to shop for so instead of gifts I got money to spend at Kaizokucon. So here's a haul. Under the cut bcos I couldnt fit it nicely in one picture and I wanna ramble

ok we're gonna take it one picture at a time ^_^ the ID in the alt text explains what everything is if u just wanna see what i got without the rambling sure to come with it. links in rambling r to the artists of the fan stuff where i can find em ^_^ only one of them is a direct link to the product tho bcos some ppls shops r down and some ppl dont have all their stuff online. lemons_arent_green youre a real one

Ok the flat stuff!!! black rock shooter poster bcos i already have a figure but i liek her... badass anime girl ily.... was so so sure i saw a reigen keychain but when i went to go get one there weren't any so i got this sticker sheet instead :3 SPEAKING OF KEYCHAINS!!! yippee yippee kaguya i love you youre my special little tiempsy. yue you are a gay anime boy with a cool design. tomoyo ive always felt a kinship with you and its because im a desperate dyke. monokuma is here ig 🙄 i put him on my carabiner and hes fun to stim with. i am not immune to the sdr2 fanboying. also full disclosure ive not watched naruto (its in the spreadsheet) i just thought funko pop sasuke keychain was really really funny. my son who stares into my soul. comparatively i dont have as much to say on the badges!! luka luka fever for real girlie ily. the bandori ones were blind bags and i got himari on my first try <3<3<3<3<3<3 sorry eve i kind of dont care. 🙁 the dr girlies i kinda picked at random based on who i've been vibing w lately.

THE POKEMON DIORAMA!!!! its soooo cool, staff were setting up the trade hall so i was in there all day friday and this shop was one of the first to set up their stands and i was literally staring at it all day... so fucking awesome. the rings n the necklace r from the same shop look at them... im fucking obsessed w the catgirl necklace. literally look at her. i dont thiiink shes supposed to be a specific character but she might be. oh well. cat girl ily. aaaand the arisa stand is actually a little clip for papers n stuff!! she was also a blind box but specifically for popipa so i was gonna b happy w whoever <3

MIIIIKUUUUUU MY PRINCESS MY EVERYTHING!!!!! she was calling to me she beckoned..... shes actually rlly big irl shes the biggest figure i have, replacing my kokoro one... shes the one where i audibly said 'it was my birthday i can buy things' bcos figures spencey... she wasnt too bad actually i just like bitching. 6 euro axel for scale

BOOKS 💥💥💥 i was reading nana a while back and i dropped it but i gotta pick it up again... rlly pretty and awesome... aaaand the summer hikaru died!!! kay if youre seeing this then know you posting abt it convinced me <3 i originally got it bcos i was on door duty in a quiet area and didnt wanna spend my time draining battery life on my phone but after i bought it i realised that that was literally a terrible idea so <3 we'll get around to them soon

FINALLLYYYYYY TSHIRTS!!! the top yellow one was my staff t-shirt, it has 'staff' on the back i was wearing it all weekend and yippee i love it.... emotional bond.... and if this is a safe space can i just say. if kaito was a woman? would. next up FAYE FUCKIN VALENTINEEEE!!! do u remember that post i made going thru all the sellers that were gonna b at the con that started like 'i hate shounen fans. name a woman'? well this is the seller i was talking about but all was forgiven in the name of FAYE ! GODDAMN ! VALENTINE ! ugh i love you girlie. and the last t-shirt was given out free to staff after the closing ceremony!! it was the tenth anniversary of kaizokucon so we got this awesomes design yay.... wore it to classes today hoping somebody would comment on it and nobody did 😌and in the middle i got CLOW CARRRDS BITCHES!!!!!! i saw them and immediately all thought left my fucking brain. i needed them. so important. the seller also recognised the axel in my fanny pack yippee!!!! a few people recognised him over the weekend actually and i was always like yes!! the him

anyway. yippee! yippee! yippee! yippee! yippee! yippee! yippee! yippee! yippee! con con con con con :)

#id just in alt text bcos my rambling p functionally describes it

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thedarkestgreys · 8 months

Note

fexi - you’ve made me the happiest i’ve ever been. ❤

WARNING: SWEETNESS BELOW.

“Whatchu so smiley for?” Fezco asks one evening as Lexi lounges on top of his ice cream freezer, in the same exact spot she met Faye all those months ago and instantly assumed something was going on between the two. Now Lexi would laugh over the thought of those two being anything more than friends - they bicker worse than siblings - but Then Lexi was utterly heartbroken at the prospect. She takes a big bite of her ice cream sandwich in an attempt to conceal her smile as her boyfriend makes his way over to her, grabbing her frozen treat from her hands and biting a chunk off the same spot she just did. Fezco smiles at her, cheeks bulging like a chipmunks as she snorts roughly through her nose while attempting to swallow her own mouthful of ice cream down. “Just happy,” she finally replies, looping her arms around her boyfriends shoulders as he leans in to give her a sweet, cold kiss. “Like, so fucking happy.” Fezco hums. “Like, that school is over for the summer, or sumn else baby?” Of course there’s that - Junior year was hell for a variety of reasons, including but not limited to a mess of her own making with the world premiere of Our Life and the fallout that followed with Cassie. Thankfully the sisters are currently in a ceasefire, slowly but surely working out their relationship with each other - Cassie learning that Lexi’s perspective on their shared life isn’t as rosy a picture as she paints for herself, Lexi learning that airing all her friends dirty laundry, well intentioned or not, isn’t the smartest decision she could possibly make. Summer vacation has been a breath of fresh air, a new found sense of freedom as her mom has handed over the old Honda’s keys after upgrading herself to a fancy new Volvo after a big promotion at work, despite Fezco’s insistence that he’ll take her anywhere she needs to go. And then of course there’s the fact that she and the local drug dealer have settled into some type of domestic bliss after he showed up to her play with a dozen roses and a sweet card expressing his adoration of her. (She’s pretty sure Ashtray helped him with it, but the teen is unwilling to admit to any involvement in their corny shit.) “What’re you hope my answer is?” she teases, punctuating it with a kiss to the tip of Fez’s nose. “That you’re the root of all my happiness?” Pale skin flames red, making his freckles even more prominent. “I mean,” Fez starts, incredibly bashful. “Might be nice to hear I’m the reason my girls so fuckin’ happy, you feel me?” Lexi can’t help the wide smile that takes over her face. “Of course I’m talking about you, Fezco. You’ve made me the happiest I’ve ever been.” The kiss she receives in response is equal parts hot and sweetly sentimental, Fez reaching up to cup her chin gently before slipping his tongue into her mouth and moving it gently against hers. Before either of them want to, they pull away, considering they’re right out in the open at the Dairy and it’s only like, noon on a Tuesday. “I’m the happiest I’ve ever been too Lex,” Fez whispers softly, his forehead bumping against hers. “On fuckin’ God.”

#help i have no self control on these word counts #perfecto timing #fexi #bex writes things

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dollymess · 2 months

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frequent asked questions

honestly no not any of these questions have ever been asked i dont think but just because my account is growing and im making more friends i thought this would be cool !

q: up to new friends & moots?

yes literally of course, i love interacting with people with the same interests as me and i have good communication skills, i cant explain how excited i get when a cute girlblogger follows me like hello i love you

q: who are your favorite celebs?

my favorite celebs are lana del rey, hayden christensen, marilyn monroe, alana champion, kristen dunst, jfk, mia goth, natalie portman, and nina dobrev

q: whats your favorite movies?

my favorite movies are virgin suicides, x, blonde, i believe in unicorns, black swan, cant buy me love, 500 days of summer, marie antionette, pricilla, american beauty, buffalo '66, pearl, and now and then

q: who are your favorite artists?

my favorite artists are lana, led zepplin, sade, rolling stones, guns and roses, slowdive, faye webster, the smiths, tears for fears, piero piccioni, bon jovi, billy idol/joel, the cure, laufey, the cranberries, and on the occasion disney princess music

q: what are your hobbies?

i dont have many hobbies im devoted to but one is girl blogging obviously, i like listening to my music and i love finding new movies and shows to binge, i enjoy collecting precious moments dolls, and i really like unhealthily rotting in my bed

q: your favorite lana songs?

my favorite released songs are off to the races, body electric, guns n roses, fucked my way up to the top, pretty when you cry, tulsa jesus freak, burning desire, blue jeans. my favorite unreleased songs are jfk, for k p2, push me down, ave maria, beautiful player, last girl on earth, starry eyed, paradise, blue velvet, take me to paris

thank you to my gf @yayobabydoll for being a big inspo ᡣ𐭩

extra links: pinterest | spotify | soundcloud

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roosterbruiser · 2 years

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𝐋𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐝𝐞 ☾ ☽ 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞

☾☽ 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐲 "𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫" 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐰 𝐱 𝐅𝐚𝐲𝐞 "𝐂𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫" 𝐋𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐫

☾☽ 𝐃𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧: It’s been almost three years since the accident that took half of her, and Faye “Clover” Ledger seems fine, really. She loves her old house, she has a perpetually expanding vinyl collection, she’s got a job she likes on base, and she is only a short drive from the beach. She’s grounded--literally. Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw feels like he’s been homesick his entire life. He’s always on the move; jumping from one squadron to another, living one mission to the next. Somewhere in between losing both his parents and carving a successful career as a Naval aviator, he’s never found himself a home. When a call to serve on a high-priority mission with an elite squadron brings Rooster back to Miramar, he finds that home. Except it’s not a house that he finds--it’s the former backseater that observes and records the mission for the Official Navy Record.

☾☽ 𝐋𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

☾☽ 𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐛𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

☾☽ 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞 𝐎𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟐𝟖𝐭𝐡, 𝟐𝟎𝟏𝟔

My hands are very, very cold.

It is a frigid October afternoon, the kind that warrants moth-ball scented linens and mulled wine. It’s a deceiving kind of cold, too, because the sky is perfect. If someone looked through a window from the inside of their house, maybe they would think it’s the middle of summer or late spring.

The canopy of the jet is closed tight, sealed impeccably, and my suit is thick. It smells of lye soap and skin. There’s perspiration gathering on my brow underneath my helmet and in the pit of my arms, but my hands are still cold.

My hands are cold every time I get nervous, even if I wear wool mittens, even if I wear our father’s thick leather gloves I’d taken before my first winter in Philly.

“How’re your hands? Cold yet?” Crimson asked on the tarmac, after we finished out walk-around.

Her helmet was tucked beneath her arm, resting on her hip, and our jet was looming behind her. It’s the only time my sister looked small to me.

The sun beat down above us, casting a shadow on the lower part of her face; her docile chin, her China-doll lips, the dimple in her left cheek, the blonde freckles over her nose. She reached out and took my left hand, then dropped it like it burned her. She shook her hand, contorting her face into a look of disbelief.

“Phew, Clover, cold as ice!”

Crimson was rarely nervous, and if she was, it never touched any part of her body. We were the same in the sense that we could command stillness in our limbs and slow our hearts with precise, measured breaths. But my hands got cold and hers never did.

Our F-18 was fragged. She watched them load mounds of ammo to our jet--API, HEI, SAPHEI--unblinking, unmoving.

“You’ll be fine,” she said after a moment, bumping me. I stood sturdy on the tarmac, my lime-colored helmet at my feet.

“I know,” I said, looking up at her.

The sun felt good on my cheeks.

She bit a grin and nodded.

“Couldn’t be a me without a you,” she said.

I zipped her khaki flight suit up so it covered her chest and shoulders. Her skin was warm to the touch, like the surface of a cooling kettle. I flattened out her shoulders and straightened her collar.

“Yeah,” I said, “and there couldn’t be a me without a you.”

Up here, approaching what feels like the top of the world, the sky is the kind of blue that seems endless and soft--like it’s made out of tufts of cotton and seamless flower petals.

We are flying somewhere over Europe, early in the afternoon.

“Approaching angels forty-six,” I say into my mask, “Maneater, you got us?”

When I speak, the scent of my smoothie thickens the air of my mask. It still smells sweet--that sick kind of sweet, the kind that would still taste sweet coming back up as bile.

“Roger, Maneater visual.”

The back of Crimson’s helmet is scuffed and scratched. Some of the scratches are so deep that patches of the baby pink color are flaking off, revealing the eggshell slate beneath it. There is a bright blue peace sign on the back of her helmet, and parts of it are chipping away, too. At the base of her neck, half a dusty blonde bun pokes out. I had twisted it into its place there earlier, after I twisted an identical bun at the base of my own neck.

“Banshee two engaging,” Crimson says, her voice crackling over the comm.

All I can hear besides the crackling comm is the sound of my own breathing. When I first came up in the air, it surprised me that I couldn’t hear the wind rushing past me. I feel it press down on my chest and hug me to my seat, but it never whispers to me.

The thinness of the air this high up is something I cherish--the moment I strain to breathe for the first time, when the cool stream of oxygen bursts through the mask and into my mouth, my nose. I like the feeling of the floor dropping out from under me, when I want to scramble around and find purchase on something to hold me in.

Our F-18 noses to the Northeast, tailing Banshee one, which is Maneater. I crane my neck--Banshee three is engaging, too. Jagger’s bright red helmet is like a blemish in the robin’s-egg sky.

“Banshee three engaged,” Jagger says, “sorry to break up the hen party.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Maneater snarks, “you didn’t.”

I know Crimson is smiling, even if I can’t see her face.

We are flying over a rocky terrain that is broken up by sprawling evergreen trees. There is already snow on the ground, the rocks jutting out from the white powder like jagged teeth. It looks very quiet--so soft, like the snow is just a dusting of powder.

“Radar?” Crimson asks.

The blinking screen is empty.

“Picture clean. Nose hot.”

“Roger. Banshee one engaging firewall.”

Maneater’s jets forward, her throttle maxed.

“Banshee two engaging firewall. Ready, kiddo?”

I reach forward to give Crimson a thumbs up. She nods without looking behind her and I hold tightly to my leather seat. The oxygen is racing inside me, like I’m gulping it down.

I’m forced against my seat like someone is holding me there. I strain to hear the wind whistle, but I don’t. One, two, three, four, five. I count the beats of my heart steadily, blinking rapidly as we approach Maneater’s tail. Crimson’s helmet is pressed against her headrest, too. The sky is so completely monochrome that it looks like we’re flying parallel to an endless screen.

“Banshee three engaging firewall,” Jagger follows closely.

For a moment, all I can hear is the jet slicing through the atmosphere, my own breathing, the oxygen hissing into my mouth. My saliva feels thick. I will my heartbeat to steady and mirror Crimson’s, which I know is cool and collected. I could be Crimson’s heart monitor--no actual connected wires required. It feels like there is a left side of myself and a right side of myself--or maybe a top version of myself and a bottom version of myself--and one part of it is always Crimson. I even know what she thinks.

The radar is still empty, blinking precisely nothing. We are approaching the target rapidly, slyly--a Russian submarine somewhere off the coast of Poland, which has been disregarding every warning to evacuate the area they have not been granted access to.

The Atlantic Ocean glimmers ahead of us, deep blue ahead of our fleet, expanding just as vastly as the perpetual sky we are inside of. The water looks deep, and very dark, almost black.

“Regretting that panini yet, Crimson?”

Crimson laughs over comm, shaking her head.

“Of course not,” Crimson answers, “dreaming about it, in fact.”

“Five ‘til target,” Jagger says, then adds, “aioli or pesto?”

“Roger. Pesto on French,” Crimson laughs.

Each time Crimson laughs, I wonder if my laugh is as melodic and infectious. Even over the crackled radio, Crimson’s laugh sounds like music, or the start of music. My sister’s laugh sounds like the split moment of amplified silence when one puts the needle on a record, when the machine seems to think. Maybe Crimson’s laugh even sounds like the first moments of the music, notes dancing from the record over a crackled speaker.

“Comanche 117,” a new voice crackles over comm, a familiar plain-toned one, “Banshees approaching target. Picture clean.”

“Roger. Banshee permission to standby?”

“Comanche 117, permission granted. Banshee continue.”

With that, each of our jets' nose's angle towards the earth below us as they descend, the terrain thinning expeditiously from snow to sand to ocean. I glance over my shoulder and the swirling waves stare back at me. I swallow hard, facing my sister again. The radar is still clean.

“Two until target. Picture clean,” I say, my voice unwavering.

My palms are sweating, but still cold. Clammy.

“Banshees, assume attack formation,” Maneater says, her voice clear and amplified.

Each maneuver of the stick feels like it's been practiced over and over again by Crimson. She flies fast and smooth, never getting ahead of team leader, never falling past the Banshee behind her. She thinks fast and acts faster. She doesn’t worry about catching her breath until she’s on the ground.

We are only a few hundred feet above the ocean now and the waves are so ominous and dark that I imagine them raising high enough to skim the bottom of our jets, knocking us out of the sky before swallowing us whole.

“Comanche 117. Banshees’ signal is buster to target.”

I fill my lungs, the skin at the base of my neck prickling. The air around me is muggy and nippy at the same time. Radar is still clean.

“Roger. One until target.”

We’ve practiced this assignment a many, dogfighting with Cyclone and Warlock, even though the mission itself is supposed to be routine. Maritime strikes are happening more often than not now. And all of us, even Jagger, have flown fragged jets at least a handful of times.

I feel that I’m on auto-pilot and Crimson does, too. If I close my eyes for the rest of the flight, my fingers would still know how to flip the right switches, my eyes would still know when to glance at the radar, and my heart would still know how to slow its own pace.

We are approaching what feels like the middle of the ocean, radars clear, holding our breaths. The land behind us grows smaller and smaller as we approach the target.

“C and C 293 visual?” Maneaster asks.

“Affirmative, C and C 293 visual,” I say.

“Jagger 692 visual?” Crimson asks.

“Roger. Jagger 692 visual.”

“Approaching target. Missile locked. Comanche 117, Banshee permission to fire away?”

“Comanche 117, your signal is bombs away.”

“Here we go,” Crimson whispers.

I look at the radar once more. Clear. Clear as the sky is blue.

“Bombs away,” Maneater repeats.

Red and yellow flames burst from Maneater’s jet, the heavy missile freefalling towards the ocean with a determined nose pointed downward. I turn and check the air around us, just in case the our nose is unknowingly cold. Jagger is trailing closely behind us. He sallutes me. I return it, then swivel back around.

“Clover, engage missile lock,” Crimson says.

It is easy to take orders from her, the older version of myself, even if it’s only by ten measly minutes.

“Roger,” I say, thumbing the heavy metal stick until the small screen squares in on the water and makes tone, “missile lock engaged. Bombs away, bombs away.”

It feels like the bottom of our plane is falling out, but it is a familiar feeling that makes the pit in my belly grows and grow until it feels like my abdomen is full of thick, dark nothing.

“Banshee three, engage missile lock,” Maneater commands.

With my helmet against the glass canopy, I watch Jagger’s missile nosedive right after ours in a plume of black smoke. I swallow hard--glance at the radar. Still nothing.

“Banshee three engaged missile lock. Bombs away.”

“Comanche 117, Banshees signal RTB. Picture clean. Approach angels 30.”

Maneater cuts through the air like it’s softened butter, jet pointing towards the heavens. Maneater is panting behind her mask, which is what she does each time we drop a missile, even during the drills. She’s like Crimson, though--she isn’t stifled by danger.

Crimson pulls the stick back, probably not even having broken a sweat, and our jet mirrors Maneater’s. I turn over my shoulder and watch Jagger follow suit.

I feel oddly naked flying with no clouds to obscure our jets. I stare at the radar, almost willing something to happen, for a bandit to blink alive.

“Comanche 117, Banshees approach angels 40.”

Below us comes a thunderous rumble and the ocean seems to split in half as our missiles destroy the submarine. The water is so high, so cold, that I shiver watching it reach up towards us, even if we are climbing to 40,000 feet. My lungs are hot and heavy, but the radar is still clear.

“Missile launch success. We have direct impace,” Jagger says gleefully, “bullseye!”

The word bullseye makes my toes curl.

“Comanche 117, Banshees approach angels 50.”

“Roger. Maneater 031 RTB.”

Each of us reaches 50,000 feet and radios to Comanche, letting them know we are en route to base. We are 50 minutes out.

When the jets level out, we are flying high and clear over the snowy terrain once more. I bring my shoulders down from my ears. I have always felt more vulnerable over the ocean--like it is waiting to lick our wings and gobble us up.

“Piece of cake,” Crimson says, sighing, “picture clean?”

“Affirmative,” I return, “piece of pie.”

Maneater chuckles over comm.

“Twins are so grotesque,” she says, “Jagger, you alive back there?”

“Alive and well,” Jagger sighs, then clears his throat, “felt a little too easy.”

Like clockwork, I say, “Radar clean, nose hot.”

“Right, right,” Jagger says, “just feel like we’re missing something.”

“Well,” Crimson starts, “I’m missing a hot, hot shower. And then maybe a drink.”

“And then a hot, hot date?” Maneater asks.

“Maybe so,” Crimson sighs, “someone to share with Clover.”

I can feel Crimson batting her lashes.

“I know a guy,” Jagger says, “a pilot. Graduated top of his class at Top Gun.”

“Jagger, you were number three,” Maneater scoffs.

“Number one in everyone’s hearts, though,” Jagger bites back. I can feel him grinning.

Crimson sighs into the comm.

“Think you can handle us both, big dog?”

I slap her shoulder.

“Maggie,” I hiss softly.

My face is burning. Hers is cool and slack. Jagger groans.

“Crimson, you’re making your sister blush,” Maneater laughs, “Hard Deck after we land?”

“Of course,” Crimson says, “we’ll be there.”

It’s nice sometimes to not have to answer. In the same way that I know the temperature of Crimson’s face, the fluttering of her eyelashes, or when she’s hungry, Crimson knows what I’m thinking. She knows what I’ll say, how I’ll answer. We are connected by an invisible string that was once a cord connecting us to the same womb.

The Hard Deck is somewhere we frequent, three to four times a week if we can swing it. It’s mostly a hangout for the Navy, the bar closest to base. Someone dressed in khaki always at the pool table or playing darts, some other uniforms sharing the expensive brandy.

The radar blinks back at me, still empty.

“What’s that God-awful song you played last time? Something about eating cars?” Jagger says this with a grimace evident in his strained voice.

“Rapture,” my sister and I say at the same time.

“That’s where I draw the line,” Maneater says, “no saying shit at the same time, lieutenants.”

I’m smiling behind my mask, glancing out either side of the jet. The sky is still clear. When I glance back at the ocean, the waves are building momentum as they race to shore, washing everything in white foam and black water.

“Who doesn’t like Rapture? Everyone likes Blondie,” Crimson laughs.

“Not their shitty music,” Maneater follows.

“I draw the line at Blondie slander,” I bite.

Crimson nods. Maneater chuckles. I can almost see her dark face reflecting the sun, the smooth parts of her skin shining blue. Her hair is also twisted into a bun at the bottom of her helmet, which I secured for her, maneuvering bobby pins in her black curls.

“Go out to the parking lot and you get in your car and drive real far,” Crimson sings, her voice raspy and amplified, “and you drive all night and then you see a light and it comes on down and lands on the ground and out comes the man from Mars!”

The sky is so blue through the canopy, the world darting past us at the speed of a fluttering eyelash. Crimson’s helmet is bobbing as she crudely sings, shaking her shoulders. She’s being a brat.

“And you try to run, but he’s got a gun! And he shoots you dead and eats your head,” I sing back.

Maneater and Jagger pretend to be exasperated on the other ends of the comm, but they’re laughing, too. Jagger’s thin chest is probably aching as he laughs because of the iron he pumped before taking flight, which was his own private ritual.

“Why does an alien have a gun? What kind of gun?” Jagger asks.

“Crimson, you’re the devil on your sister’s shoulder,” Maneater laughs.

“You’re making her blush,” Crimson exclaims.

My cheeks, as if on cue, grow pink.

Just as I open my mouth to defend myself, it happens. Two bandits blink to life on the radar. Everyone hears the chime.

“Tally two,” I say clearly.

“Position?” Maneater calls, blinking back into her authority.

“Bandits approaching from Northeast. Bandit one low four o’clock, Jagger. Bandit two high seven o’clock, Jagger,” I relay, “bandits firewalled.”

My fingers are so cold that it hurts to uncurl them. My heart jumps once, twice, then falls back into regular rhythm. Pressing my helmet against the canopy, I narrow my eyes on Jagger’s tail. Two SU-57’s approach Jagger.

“Jagger, engage firewall,” Maneater commands, breaking right suddenly to circle back, “C and C 293 visual?”

“C and C 293 visual,” Crimson bites, “Jagger, don’t let them get tone!”

“They’re gaining fast,” Jagger calls.

Suddenly, just as Maneater is falling behind Jagger, circling around to face the SU-57’s, the tone alerts Jagger. A missile drops from the jet at his four o’clock.

“Jagger, break left!” I yell.

Jagger’s jet suddenly cuts and the missile is hot on his tail.

“Deploying flares,” he calls.

Little bursts of yellow trail behind him, confusing the missile, exploding it.

“Crimson to Comanche 117,” Crimson calls, her voice still steady, “bandits engaging dogfight.”

“Comanche 117 to Banshees,” the voice says, “Banshees signal is to fire away, I repeat, fire away.”

“Hell yeah,” Crimson whispers.

My belly drops as Crimson suddenly angles our jets nose to the ground and falls behind Jagger and Maneater, behind the enemy aircraft. It is all so swift--behind them, I angle the missile lock, narrowing my eyes.

“We’ve got tone!” I yell, even though she can hear it.

“Bombs away,” Crimson yells.

The jet at Jagger’s high seven o’clock breaks left suddenly and our missile falls out from under us, cutting through the sky in a fury. The jet deploys flares, but just a moment too late. I watch it happen with my breath in my throat. Our missile explodes in the air, but close enough to his tail so that a piece of it breaks off, thick smoke swirling around the jet.

“We’ve got impact,” I call, “bandit two, high seven.”

“I’ve got tone,” Maneater calls, “bombs away!”

In just a single moment, Maneater deploys her missile and the jet doesn’t even deploy flares. The sleek, black aircraft bursts into flames instantaneously when the missile hits their engine one. A red parachute shoots into the sky just as the aircraft collides with the lip of a mountain.

“Bullseye,” I call, “what a grape.”

“Shit, bandit one has tone,” Jagger alerts us.

I look over, helmet against the glass. Jagger’s nose is straight and the bandit is behind him, missile dropping out from under.

“Break right, deploy flares,” I command.

“Deploying flares,” Jagger calls, pulling his nose suddenly to the right.

The bandit is hard and fast on him, mirroring his movement. Jagger deploys his flares in just the nick of time, only feet away from where it would really count if the missile made contact.

“C and C, time ‘til base?” Maneater asks.

“20 RTB,” I read.

“Jagger, fall back,” Maneater demands, “C and C 293 visual?”

“Affirmative,” Crimson says, “we’ve got you, Maneater.”

The rumble of our engine vibrates my throat. I gulp the oxygen coming in through my mask, blinking rapidly at the radar.

Maneater falls back behind the bandit and we fall below her, to her three o’clock. Jagger falls back suddenly, suddenly enough to confuse the bandit into following him directly into Maneater’s airspace.

“Tone,” she says quickly, “firing.”

Then I hear it. The tone in our jet screams. I look at our radar and it is clean except for the bandit Maneater’s missile is thundering towards. I look to our left, to our right, and there it is: a third bandit, aircraft so polished that it reflects the blue of the sky. It looms at our nine, vapor spreading beneath it as it zeroes in on us.

“Crimson, nose down, break left! Smoke in the air!”

Crimson smoothly follows my directions. I think I can hear her heart skip a beat, her breathing hitch.

“Deploying flares!” I scream out.

The little pops behind us are replaced with the screaming of a missile that only narrowly misses us. My throat aches.

“We’ve got another bandit hot on our tail,” Crimson yells over comm, “Maneater you got us?”

“I can’t shake bandit two,” Jagger calls desperately, “he keeps getting tone!”

Maneater bites suddenly, “Maneater not visual, Banshee one defending Banshee three.”

“Nose cold,” I call, tapping on the radar that has suddenly blinked off, “we’re naked over here!”

Crimson is throttling us through the sky in an almost zig-zag formation, forcing my head against the seat. She’s gulping her oxygen, but she isn’t picnicking, not yet.

“Comanche 117, C and C 293,” Crimson recites, “bandit inbound from East. C and C 293 flying naked, nose cold. Signal?”

“Comanche 117 to C and C 293,” Comanche answers, “Banshee two your signal is bug.”

The tone interrupts Crimson. I turn around and the bandit is on our six, gaining. A missile deposits under its aircraft and screams toward us.

“Smoke in the air, break left! Deploying flares!”

Maneater screams over the comm too, declaring her tone on bandit two.

“Hold tight, girls,” she yells, “bug!”

“We can’t fucking bug,” Crimson bites, “bandit three has tone again!”

The alarm blinks all around our cockpit. The bandit is on our right wing now, faster, vapor screaming out behind the jet.

“Deploying flares!”

I slam my fist against the button as Crimson cuts sharply down.

“Angels 30,” I tell Crimson, “be careful!”

“Hard Deck is angels 5! Decreasing to angels 10,” Crimson decides.

Our plane is racing towards the earth. I watch us behind us, the radar still naked and blinking nothingness. The bandit is smoothly following us, falling behind as Crimson engages the full speed of our F-18. We rapidly fall, my belly in my throat, my neck against the seat.

“Where’s our wingman?” Crimson howls.

Jagger has bandit one hot on his tail, mirroring each of his movements like they, too, are connected by an invisible string. Maneater is hot on the bandit’s tail, but she’s deployed guns.

I realize, as goosebumps prickle my skin, that Maneater is out of missiles. For the first time, the hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention, my spine tingles like someone is ghosting their finger along my spinal column.

“What?” Crimson shouts and I know that her arms have goosebumps, too.

“Banshee one deployed guns,” I call, “we’re flying naked, Crimson!”

We swallow at the same time, both of us blinking rapidly. No wingman.

“Banshee one defending,” Maneater screams, rapidly firing ammo at the jet, “Banshee two hold tight!”

Crimson levels our nose, breaking right and left, but the bandit is still hot on us, nearing us with an ominous speed.

“Faye,” Crimson calls, “nose cold?”

I knock my gloved fist on the screen. It is black and calm as the ocean before our strike.

“Affirmative,” I say.

Our bellies are full of rocks. I can feel the sweat dripping down Crimson’s face. She’s breathing hard, pulling the stick back and forth. Both our mouths are cold and dry. She’s gripping the stick with the strength of a boar, her fingernails ripping and cracking.

“Banshee two, engage firewall!” Maneater calls, still aiming her guns at the jet that is evading her bullets. It’s like an intricate dance that’s been rehearsed, rehearsed, rehearsed.

“We’re already buster to mother,” I yell, “Comanche 117, C and C 293--standby for signal.”

“Comanche 117, your signal is buster.”

“God dammit,” Crimson screeches harshly, “we’re already bustering! Banshee one engaged in dogfight. We can’t bug!”

“Comanche 117, Banshee three, your signal is defend Banshee two.”

Jagger shakily cries over comm, “Banshee three engaged in combat. Hold tight, Crimson and Clover, hold tight!”

There is a single moment of quiet before we hear tone again. I slam my fist against the button again and the button suddenly feels hollow. Behind us, no flares pop in the sky.

“Out of flares,” I yell, “are you able to move into defensive maneuver?”

“No,” Crimson’s yell lurches from her violently, “this guy knows what he’s doing!”

The missile launches out of the sky and slams into out right wing. We jerk with the force of it, my helmet slamming into the back of Crimson’s seat.

“Right wing ablaze,” I shout, tears starting to pour down my face.

“Climbing,” Crimson says, suddenly pulling the stick back so our jet races upwards, “throttle back.”

There’s another sound, a louder one--the right engine bursts, sparks flying everywhere.

“Engine one on fire!”

“Extinguishing engine one,” Crimson cries, flipping switches haphazardly.

Nothing happens. The engine is still on fire. Something feels loose and I wonder if I am feeling the stick beneath Crimson’s palms. Our plane stalls and then, all at once, we are going down.

Crimson wildly tries to bring our nose out of the downfall, pulling back, turning it. Gravity punches us back into our seats.

“I lost control,” Crimson yells, “fuck, we’re going down fast!”

We are plummeting towards the earth and I hear it, then--the whistling of the wind. Except it is screaming, bursting my eardrums.

“Mayday, mayday!”

I have never spoken these words outside of a controlled stall, a drill; just pretend. And now, as we are falling, that’s what everything before this moment feels like. Pretend--like we were just playing.

“Punch out!” Crimson screams suddenly, “Clover, punch out!”

“What?” I cry.

I feel like I’m frozen in the moment, trapped in hardening molasses. The tone hisses in our cockpit, our radar still sleeping. The back of my sister’s helmet is all I can see as my vision blackens, tunnels. I know she’s crying. I can feel the tears on her cheeks, the lump in her throat. It is an involuntary kind of cry--one that is just the body’s reaction to its surroundings. We have never punched out of our aircraft before.

“Punch out now, Faye!”

I grip the cords and pull with all my might and in perfect unison, Crimson and I shoot from our jet as the missile collides with it. It’s like we are being born again into the sky.

The wind is so piercing that I can hardly hear our plane explode. Its heat rushes at us as our parachutes bloom. I rock harshly as the wind catches under the chute. It is freezing and the oxygen that was flowing into my mask has stopped now.

I feel, suddenly, like I’m falling instead of being suspended in the air.

That’s when I turn and see Maggie, her parachute pathetically being beaten by the wind instead of catching in it. Maggie is the one that’s falling, falling fast and hard, her arms flailing as she reaches around for purchase. She’s falling towards our burning jet, her helmet a dot of pink amidst the flames. I can feel the wind ripping the skin on her cheeks, the bile that’s rising in her throat, her stomach sitting in her chest cavity. Her heart is racing and my throat vibrates with her scream. Her fingers ache with the coolness of my own. My thighs grow warm when her bladder releases.

Our 24th birthday was three days ago. It was a Tuesday. She came to my house and we watched ‘Dirty Dancing’, fielding calls and texts from the same people. She brought a bottle of prosecco that we finished and I made an almond cake--an ugly yellow thing with a murky glaze. She showed me a message from an Army boy on Tinder.

Twins, huh? I have two hands.

I had pushed her shoulder as she laughed, laughed that big laugh that vibrated my couch, my chest. She stayed late, later than she should’ve.

“Will you play with my hair?” She’d asked, already sinking to sit on the floor before me.

I scratched her scalp, ran my fingers through her silky length, pulling out any knots gently. It was something I’d done since childhood; played with my sister’s hair. The sun had faded by then, ‘Dirty Dancing’ long finished, and she’d turned on her favorite record. ‘Landslide’ by Fleetwood Mac whispered through the speakers.

“Stevie Nicks was 27 when she wrote this,” I said.

She scoffed in amazement

“Is this what we'll feel like when we're 27?”

She hummed along quietly and her voice felt sweet in my throat.

I know she is going to die the exact same moment she does, the wind shredding her skin, knotting her hair.

“Maggie!” The scream tears from my raw throat the way her parachute suddenly tears free above her, sending her down harder, faster, cords flying freely in the wind.

Maggie is free-falling somewhere over the jagged, snow-dusted rocks.

☾☽ 𝐚/𝐧: prologue is kind of a doozy bc there's no Rooster but it's important for the setup. let me know what you think!! this is my first fan fiction that isn't about One Direction so I'm a little bit off my game!!

☾☽ 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫

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reflections-in-a-critical-eye · 4 months

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I haven't done lists in a while and there's a lot pilling up just this week so it's time to bring it back.

1. I'm revisting Old Hollywood again now that I've watched most of the films nominated for Oscar this year. The Be Kind Rewind youtube channel has been sort of the trigger for going back to the past and for that I have to thank @shimako for the recommendation 🩷 I've watched the 2 hour and a half video essays on the Valley of The Dolls and the behind the scenes story is far more interesting that the film itself.

Not to say that the themes addressed in the film wouldn't be, like disillusionment in Hollywood, personal grievances, what it means to be an actress and especially not a really succesful one. It reminded me of Didion's Play It As It Lays (which I think it's a better piece of literature although the film adaption seems to have turned into a failure?)

2. Anyway, that made me go down the rabbit hole and watch other essays on Ruth Gordon (amazing woman) and Katharine Hepburn.

3 . Speaking of Hepburn, I realized yesterday that I've only seen her paired on screen with Cary Grant and not with Spencer Tracy (I know!). So I rectified that mistake and I watched Adam's Rib (George Cukor, 1949) and I finally understood what all the fuss was about and I have some sort of theory. Grant and Hepburn together are like this very performative version of a couple in which the constant bickering takes center stage, but even when they do get together, it lacks something. A bit of authenticity. But with the Hepburn-Tracy duo, you can almost feel it. It's right there in the small, natural gestures. Instant chemistry and love. They work so well together. I guess the off screen affair of 26 years helped that as well.

3. I love Mommy Dearest and Faye Dunaway as Joan Crawford. The screaming, the crying, the makeup, "No wire hangers!". Poor baby Christina. It's a shame though that Faye Dunaway distanced herself from it because of how "bad" it turned out, but I understand why she felt she had to do it.

But I also couldn't help but think of DeNiro in Cape Fear and his own campy performance in a very 90s ridiculous film that allowed Scorsese to try his hand at that type of thriller. DeNiro's career didn't suffer because of it, as opposed to Dunaway's version of camp, which I prefer actually. It may have been hated at that time, but Mommie Dearest is a cult classic.

*Bonus: Currently listening to another You Must Remember This podcast series. It's Gossip Girls: Louella Parsons and Hedda Hopper, aka the famous old Hollywood gossip columnists.

Now, for some ridiculous internet & showbiz drama:

4. People going conspiracy mode over Kate Middleton? Some of us lived months without any sign from Jimin. They could learn from that. But love the memes.

5. I feel sorry for those kids in Glasgow. They really experienced the effects of AI used by assholes who wanted to make some money. The lady in green hair has been all over twitter and whilst funny for us, it is shitty to be in her shoes. The Unknown! 🤦‍♀️

6. Who was an ass to Rebecca Ferguson on set? The consensus is that Jake Gyllenhaal was the culprit and I wouldn't be surprised. But it needs more investigating.

7. Over in K-Pop Land Karina gets a boyfriend, her fans are devasted and Koreaboo is pumping "articles" by the minute. What else is new?

8. Stans of all types are stanning and fighting. One day 🐥 girlies, the next day 🐰 girlies and all the other crazies all week long, no break. I do read the stuff in my inbox, but I'm really not in a mood to comment on every shitty thing that happens so often. I know that once I do it, then I just invite more and it's just pointless. There's no actual JM and JK which is frustrating enough and no travel show on the horizon and it's just too bleak at this point.

We're waiting, clock is ticking. At least release a travel show as a summer content, ok?

9. I did see that Billboard kpop 100 top. Yeah, I don't understand the logic of including individual artists if they haven't charted on their own. Don't these people have editors to point out the flaws in the listicles? It's just dumb.

#m thoughts #lists #entertainment #thoughts on old hollywood #stan twitter

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kissandships · 1 month

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Continuing to enjoy your answers! 😊 It's interesting you had trouble thinking of characters for the last Q (you don't have to go into why, lol).

Ok, question-time: What are your Top Ten Favorite TV (or Movie) Friendships?

(I capitalized that like a title. 🙈)

Though they will be numbered, they aren’t in any order. (Like always!)

Donna Pinciotti & Jackie Burkhart, That 70s Show*

Henry Goldblume & Faye Furillo, Hill Street Blues*

Jack Frost & George Toolan, A Touch of Frost

Dawn Summers & Tara Strong, Buffy The Vampire Slayer

Luke Danes & Lorelai Gilmore, Gilmore Girls

Rory Gilmore & Lane Kim, Gilmore Girls

Mary Tyler Moore & Rhoda Morgenstern, Mary Tyler Moore Show & Rhoda

Marley Rose & Unique Adams, Glee

Quinn Fabray & Rachel Berry, Glee (they’re more like Frenemies though)

Cully Barnaby & Gavin Troy, Midsomer Murders

#thank you for the ask!#thanks for asking!#Lisa 💥#that 70s show #hill street blues #a touch of frost #buffy the vampire slayer #Gilmore girls #glee #Mary Tyler Moore show #Rhoda #midsomer murders #tv friendships

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irishhills · 5 months

Text

goose

Chris still remembers the summer of ‘86. He was twelve years old, and all anyone could talk about was Top Gun. His house, in particular, became the Top Gun fan club. Amy wouldn’t stop talking about Rick Rossovich. Jane, still just ten years old but desperate for Amy’s approval, wouldn’t stop talking about him, either. And that’s not even scratching the surface for Luke.

Top Gun changed Luke’s life. At fourteen, it was the greatest thing he’d ever seen. He said it taught him more about life than his parents ever had, which they were justifiably offended by. Said it taught him about heroism and brotherhood. He saw the movie any chance he got. He went on dates with girls he didn’t really like just to see Top Gun another time. He listened to almost nothing but that soundtrack all summer long. Any time you walked past his bedroom, the door was ajar, and he was listening to “Danger Zone.” The worst part was that he insisted that Chris call him “Maverick” whenever possible. And that meant Chris had to be Goose.

“That’s not fair,” Chris would say every time they were on their way to see Top Gun for the umpteenth time. Chris didn’t care about the movie any which way, but he did care about Luke. And if Luke wanted to go, then Chris would follow.

Maybe that’s why he had to be Goose.

“You’re not cool enough to be Maverick,” Luke would say. “I’m the hero here.”

“And I have to be your dead sidekick?”

“You die heroically.”

“Not really.”

“OK, you’re right, not really. But you get to be married to a hot blonde before you die. That’s something.”

Even then, before he knew what he liked in a girl, Chris knew he’d rather marry a brunette. But that was how it was all summer. Luke called himself Maverick, and Chris was his Goose. After a little while, he started to like being Goose. He even drew a fake mustache on his upper lip with Amy’s eyeliner pencil, and he didn’t even mind incurring her wrath. When Luke started high school in the fall and realized it was probably really lame to be obsessed with anything, much less Top Gun, he stopped calling himself Maverick. He stopped calling Chris Goose. And Chris missed it.

He misses it now, as he drives away from the hospital in anger.

Faye is fine. She’s five years old, and she doesn’t know how long she’ll have this cast on her arm. She doesn’t know that the accident could have been worse. Maybe she’ll never realize that if Uncle Luke had been looking out for her, like he promised on the day she was born, her arm would be free right now. But Luke always has to be a hero, even if it means his five-year-old niece breaks an arm. It’s great that he wanted to help that nineteen-year-old kid stranded on the shoulder. It’s not great that he wove through that many lanes of high-speed traffic on an icy day.

Faye said they spun and spun and spun like the Mad Hatter. Like the Mad Hatter. Like it was fun. Like she didn’t know because she’s five, and she expects Luke to take care of her.

As Chris drives back to his mother’s house, he does not look at Blair and Faye in the backseat. He doesn’t want to risk taking his eyes off the road with his girls in the car. He grips the steering wheel tightly, almost wishing it was Luke’s neck instead.

Just had to be fucking Maverick.

Chris doesn’t miss being Goose anymore.

(part of @nosebleedclub february challenge -- day 3! the first of eight days this month dedicated to this blog. i'm still giving the motownfiction characters preferential treatment, but i'm excited for people to discover these guys, too 🥺)

#drabble #writeblr #ch: chris egan #ch: luke egan #ch: faye egan #year: 1986 #year: 2004

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areseebee · 1 year

Note

Ooh, for the micro fic, can you use "Pretty"?

i certainly can! here's a little something grounded in neither space nor time that i imagine is probably set 1-2 years post-smoke break. includes mentions of OCs liam (erin's post-smoke break bf) and faye (james's post-smoke break gf).

[in reference to this writing ask game that i reblogged earlier!]

Erin finds it easy to forget that she’s dating someone else – told him she loved him and everything only a month ago for Christ’s sake – when she watches James. She’s very good at watching James. If there were a sport for it, she’d be professional. She could get a degree in it. Honours for never getting caught. Extra credit for the most sublime affectation of nonchalance that you could imagine, all while her eyes skim across his face, along his hair, his cheek, his neck. Top marks.

He’s pretty. Not in a pretty boy kind of way. Not just in a pleasing to the eye kind of way. In a kind of way that makes her feel totally delusional just to look at him, like really look at him. He’s just so very James – shoulders sometimes a little hunched, hands sometimes stuffed into his pockets, the edges of his mouth sometimes (always) on a downward trend until they are curving up and up and he smiles and it feels like the fucking sun. Like basking in a late summer golden hour, wishing always to live forever in that moment, liking it all the better because she can’t.

She thinks sometimes she’s the only one who notices. No one else thinks he’s pretty. Well – maybe his girlfriend does. But she can’t really imagine Faye thinking it quite like that. Not like Erin thinks it. Not like Erin feels it – overwhelmed sometimes, basking in him in only the kind of way she thinks she can do.

She watches him and wonders – how would his cheek feel under her hand and how would he kiss her again and what words would he say now, after all this time. She sometimes forgets that she ever got to do any of that. Maybe if she remembered she wouldn’t long for it so much. Maybe if she remembered, she wouldn’t watch him.

Or maybe she does remember. Maybe that’s why she can’t stop.

Sometimes she wonders if he watches too – is he thinking about her when he stands across the room, when he looks her way? Does he take the seat across from her, always now, all the better to see her face?

It’s to create distance, that’s all, is what she tells herself. He never sits just next to her. Not anymore. But sometimes she looks up, eyes skimming over him as if it means nothing, as if she’s not thinking about how long since she last did it, as if she’s hoping no one is noticing that she’s looking at him quite so much, and she’ll find that his eyes are skimming too. No, more than skimming; concentrated right on her face.

And when their eyes meet, it’s always look away, look away as fast as you possibly can, all while a zip of embarrassment and something more – adrenaline – finds its way just as fast through her limbs.

Sometimes she thinks she’s gonna lose it, just totally lose it, thinking about him like this. Like he’s hers. Like he is exactly who is meant for her. Like the next time he even comes close to her, she’s going to totally lose it and kiss him. Like she’s going to confuse this absolutely bonkers fantasy, like she’s going to totally fucking embarrass herself thinking that he wants this too. He doesn’t. She would know. She would know for sure, if he did.

If he cared about her at all, she wouldn’t be wondering. Wouldn’t be thinking about it like this, fixated and distracted and biding time until she can next bloom again under his gaze.

Sometimes she wonders what it’s all for – all of this desire. What does she hope for? What does she want? Does she want him to know? The thought sounds humiliating. Does she want him to want her too? Yes. But she doesn’t know where to put it, all this wanting. Because, laid bare, at the end of it all, she’s not quite sure what’s left. Sometimes she thinks she can see the smoke figures of their future, hers and James's, if there ever was going to be one; one slight breeze blows it all away.

And Liam. Liam. He’s not smoke. He’s real. And, with him, she’s never left wondering. She’d be so foolish not to choose that.

It always happens this way – when James visits Derry – Erin gets so tired, feels so run ragged from all of the waiting. Waiting until she can see him again, waiting until she catches his eye again, waiting until she gets a wee, tiny shred of evidence that maybe she’s right for reading so much into it. Waiting for the next hit of a glance like her fucking life depends on it. It’s really feeling like her life depends on it. And when Liam, her sweet fella, asks her how her trip home was – was it good? – she will only say that it was “Fine. You know how it is,” and then slip ever more shoddily, ever less surely back into her usual life, counting down the days until the next time.

#gone are the days where i could churn out a couple of these in a night #going to try to do one a day at least #derry girls #james maguire #erin quinn #jerin #my fic #ask #ask game #cranberries ask game #i am realizing now that i have written on a similar kind of theme before and probably did it better then but here i am again anyway #clearly i like the pining and seemingly unrequited infatuation #fic: someday #fic: maybe someday #maybe someday: faye #maybe someday: liam

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bohemian-rhapsody-in-blue · 1 year

Text

Bebop Crew July Challenge, Day 2: Summer Nights

Thanks to the @bebopcrew community for the prompt list! This one is, of course, inspired by the song “Summer Nights” from Grease. Takes place post-finale.

Summer lovin’, had me a blast…

Summer lovin’, happened so fast…

Faye swore she usually had more sophisticated tastes than the almost-a-century-old film about teenage greasers in the 1950s, peppily singing and dancing their way through high school friendships and romances. Grease, she admitted, was a bit of a guilty pleasure for her, and she knew she’d probably be subject to merciless teasing if any other members of the crew caught her watching it unironically. But she stood by her love of the movie, embarrassing as it may have been.

She knew, of course—she knew very well from experience—that the real world wasn’t like the one portrayed in Grease; it didn’t have musical numbers and dance-offs and perfect happy endings where people’s cars inexplicably took off flying into the sky. (Although she supposed maybe her Red Tail counted…) The real world was filled with hard times, bad luck, scammers and con artists you couldn’t trust. The real world, put simply, sucked. But sometimes it was nice to pretend.

And at the end of a long, crappy day like today—when her bounty heads had all gotten away, her horses had all lost, and to top it all off, there was nothing good to eat anywhere on the ship—it was nice to watch something calming, familiar, silly, that would let her relax and turn off her brain. Particularly when she was in the optimal viewing position: alone, curled up on her bed, with headphones connected to the TV and jammed firmly over her ears. It especially helped if she had a drink or two to go with it, too. (Because of course the ship had that.)

“Damn, Faye,” came a voice, “didn’t realize you were actually twelve years old.” Faye turned in surprise to see Spike standing in the doorway, a sideways grin on his face.

She was going to destroy these headphones.

“Oh, are you talking about this absolute cinematic masterpiece I’m watching?” she said lightly, taking off her headphones so they hung around her neck, but letting the movie continue to play in the background. She knew this whole song by heart anyway, not that she’d readily admit that to Spike. Now that her headphones were off, she could tell they didn’t block out noise very well—stupid cheap things—and the movie’s sounds were quite easily audible through their tinny speakers even when they were plugged in. The T-Birds and the Pink Ladies crooned faintly underneath her words. Tell me more, tell me more….

“This music is giving me diabetes just from listening to it,” Spike complained.

Faye grinned. “Your tastes just aren’t sophisticated enough to appreciate it.” She may have dreaded her crewmates’ teasing, but she could give as good as she got.

Spike made his way to Faye’s bed and leaned over her shoulder to look at the movie. A few minutes passed quietly this way, with Spike furrowing his brow, a vaguely confused expression on his face as he took in the action. Finally, he broke the silence. “There’s no way these actors are high schoolers,” he said, jabbing his finger at Rizzo on the screen. “I mean, how old’s that one? 30?”

“I notice you haven’t stopped watching.”

“I just wanna see how stupid it is,” Spike protested. But, just as Faye said, he didn’t stop watching. He kept looking over Faye’s shoulder, leaning against her bedpost in that casual way of his. He was mostly silent except for the occasional, “Who’s that?” and “What’s with that ridiculous getup?” and “Oh, god dammit, they’re singing again?”

Faye found it strange to watch her designated Movie For Bad Days with Spike in the room, judging it all. But she duly fended off his comments: “That’s Frenchy, she’s one of the Pink Ladies”; “You mean that beautiful getup, and it’s from like 120 years ago anyway”; “It’s a musical, Spike, not a snooze-ical. Now shut up, I wanna hear this.”

At one point, Spike pointed to Danny Zuko and asked, with a sly, joking smile, “You think I could pull off that look?”

“As if there was enough grease in the world to tame your hair like that.”

“Find me a pair of leather pants,” he said, “and I’ll get back to you.”

“The real question is, could you dance like that,” said Faye.

“Could I? Sure,” Spike answered. “Would I? With all those weird-ass pelvic thrusts? You couldn’t pay me.”

Faye smiled; she couldn’t help herself. “That’s kinda what you look like when you’re fighting.”

“Please.” Spike shook his head and turned away. “Zucchini or whatever his name is wishes he could do it like me.”

At another point, he blurted out incredulously, “You have this shit memorized?” and Faye realized she’d been unconsciously mouthing the lyrics to one of the songs, matching it word-for-word. She hadn’t even noticed she was doing it.

“You know the exact order of all those tracks on Jet’s favorite Charlie Parker album,” she rejoined.

“I’d better,” Spike grumbled, “after he’s subjected me to it all those times.” Then he looked at her, his brow furrowed again. “How many times have you watched this?”

“Maybe I’m just a genius,” she said, “with a photographic memory. And I can learn things by heart after only seeing them once.”

Spike snorted. “And that’s why you’re so great at blackjack.”

“Screw you, Spike,” she said, taking another swig of alcohol and turning her attention back to the screen.

A few minutes of silence passed before she spoke again.

“I watched this as a kid,” she said, her voice quieter as she reminisced. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Spike leaning in a tiny bit closer to listen. “My friends and I did a cheerleading routine to Greased Lightning one year, and we performed it at our school’s end-of-year exhibition.” Her face split into a surprisingly soft grin at the memory. “One of my friend’s moms showed us the actual movie, and after that we watched it so many times that we memorized all the songs, not just Greased Lightning, and we’d act them out when we were bored. God, we made up whole dance routines to them.” She gave a small laugh. “We must have looked so ridiculous. There weren’t enough of us for all the roles, so usually one of us was all of the T-Birds at once, and one of us was all the Pink Ladies. It’s one of the memories that came back.”

She wasn’t usually this unguarded, especially not when she talked about herself, and especially not when she recalled another snatch of memory about her past life. It usually just brought back what had been taken from her, what would never be again. It felt like physical pain, like jabbing at a bruise or a gunshot wound that hadn’t fully healed.

She wasn’t sure what had changed today. Maybe it was the alcohol. Or maybe it was as if the wound was finally starting to scar over. Her past memories no longer always came with the sharp pang of the reminder of what she didn’t have. Now, she could recall the happiness of back then, too, and just appreciate it for what it was.

Or maybe it was because she wasn’t entirely friendless anymore. Although she’d never consider doing a choreographed dance routine to Greased Lightning with the friends she had now. (Then again, it did make her laugh to imagine Spike forced into what he’d called “that ridiculous getup,” a deep scowl on his face as he halfheartedly performed the movements.)

What mattered was that her friends were there. In a way, they’d always been there, there on the Bebop—the place she’d flitted into and out of at will, the place she’d refused to ever truly consider a home, the only place left for her after every place she remembered from her childhood was destroyed. After spending so long on the ship with Spike and Jet and Ed and Ein—these people who didn’t abandon her, even if they left for a while—she was just beginning to appreciate that.

Spike appeared to consider her words for a while, looking surprisingly thoughtful, pensive. Faye wondered if he was imagining what she must have looked like as a kid, twirling and dancing around with her friends. She’d only been a year or two younger than when she’d recorded the VHS for her future self, after all.

Then, abruptly, his face snapped back into its usual cool, lazy expression. “So…you’re not a genius with a photographic memory.”

“Maybe I just had to watch it once back then to memorize it,” she said, her light tone returning as well. “And how do you know I’m not a genius? Sixty years is a long time to keep something in your head, you know.”

That was another sign she was recovering from having lost her memories and then gotten them back. She could joke about it. The wound didn’t feel too fresh, too raw. The realization made her heart feel light.

“Now shut up,” she said, a faint smile on her face. “I wanna watch.”

Spike rolled his eyes, but obligingly shut up. But he did elbow Faye, prompting her to scooch over, and then clambered onto her bed next to her, leaning over to see the screen without touching her. Faye didn’t kick him off.

And together—Spike with his knees drawn up to his chest, Faye mouthing and sometimes softly singing all the lyrics she could remember, both of them taking alternating swigs from the bottle between them—they watched.

Summer dreams ripped at the seams,

But oh, those summer nights….

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